a treatise of human nature by david hume contents volume i introduction by the author. book i of the understanding part i of ideas, their origin, composition, connexion, abstraction, etc. sect. i of the origin of our ideas. sect. ii. division of the subject. sect. iii. of the ideas of the memory and imagination. sect. iv. of the connection or association of ideas. sect. v. of relations. sect. vi. of modes and substances sect. vii. of abstract ideas. part ii. of the ideas of space and time. sect. i. of the infinite divisibility of our ideas of space and time. sect. ii. of the infinite divisibility of space and time. sect. iii. of the other qualities of our idea of space and time. sect. iv. objections answered. sect. v. the same subject continued. sect. vi. of the idea of existence, and of external existence. part iii. of knowledge and probability. sect. i. of knowledge. sect. ii. of probability, and of the idea of cause and effect. sect. iii. why a cause is always necessary. sect. iv. of the component parts of our reasonings concerning cause and effect. sect. v. of the impressions of the senses and memory. sect. vi. of the inference from the impression to the idea. sect. vii. of the nature of the idea or belief. sect. viii. of the causes of belief. sect. ix. of the effects of other relations and other habits. sect. x. of the influence of belief. sect. xi. of the probability of chances. sect. xii. of the probability of causes. sect. xiii. of unphilosophical probability. sect. xiv. of the idea of necessary connection. sect. xv. rules by which to judge of causes and effects. sect. xvi of the reason of animals part iv. of the sceptical and other systems of philosophy. sect. i. of scepticism with regard to reason. sect. ii. of scepticism with regard to the senses. sect. iii. of the antient philosophy. sect. iv. of the modern philosophy. sect. v. of the immateriality of the soul. sect. vi. of personal identity sect. vii. conclusion of this book. volume ii book ii of the passions part i of pride and humility sect. i division of the subject sect. ii of pride and humility, their objects and causes sect. iii whence these objects and causes are derived sect. iv of the relations of impressions and ideas sect. v of the influence of these relations on pride and humility sect. vi limitations of this system sect. vii of vice and virtue sect. viii of beauty and deformity sect. ix of external advantages and disadvantages sect. x of property and riches sect. xi of the love of fame sect. xii of the pride and humility of animals part ii of love and hatred sect. i of the object and causes of love and hatred sect. ii experiments to confirm this system sect. iii difficulties solved sect. iv of the love of relations sect. v of our esteem for the rich and powerful sect. vi of benevolence and anger sect. vii of compassion sect. viii of malice and envy sect. ix of the mixture of benevolence and anger with compassion and malice sect. x of respect and contempt sect. xi of the amorous passion, or love betwixt the sexes sect. xii of the love and hatred of animals part iii of the will and direct passions sect. i of liberty and necessity sect. ii the same subject continued sect. iii of the influencing motives of the will sect. iv of the causes of the violent passions sect. v of the effects of custom sect. vi of the influence of the imagination on the passions sect. vii of contiguity and distance in space and time sect. viii the same subject continued sect. ix of the direct passions sect. x of curiosity, or the love of truth book iii of morals part i of virtue and vice in general sect. i moral distinctions not derived from reason sect. ii moral distinctions derived from a moral sense part ii of justice and injustice sect. i justice, whether a natural or artificial virtue? sect. ii of the origin of justice and property sect. iii of the rules which determine property sect. iv of the transference of property by consent sect. v of the obligation of promises sect. vi some farther reflections concerning justice and injustice sect. vii of the origin of government sect. viii of the source of allegiance sect. ix of the measures of allegiance sect. x of the objects of allegiance sect. xi of the laws of nations sect. xii of chastity and modesty part iii of the other virtues and vices sect. i of the origin of the natural virtues and vices sect. ii of greatness of mind sect. iii of goodness and benevolence sect. iv of natural abilities sect. v some farther reflections concerning the natural virtues sect. vi conclusion of this book appendix to the treatise of human nature * * * * * vol. i of the understanding. advertisement. my design in the present work is sufficiently explained in the introduction. the reader must only observe, that all the subjects i have there planned out to myself, are not treated of in these two volumes. the subjects of the understanding and passions make a compleat chain of reasoning by themselves; and i was willing to take advantage of this natural division, in order to try the taste of the public. if i have the good fortune to meet with success, i shall proceed to the examination of morals, politics, and criticism; which will compleat this treatise of human nature. the approbation of the public i consider as the greatest reward of my labours; but am determined to regard its judgment, whatever it be, as my best instruction. introduction. nothing is more usual and more natural for those, who pretend to discover anything new to the world in philosophy and the sciences, than to insinuate the praises of their own systems, by decrying all those, which have been advanced before them. and indeed were they content with lamenting that ignorance, which we still lie under in the most important questions, that can come before the tribunal of human reason, there are few, who have an acquaintance with the sciences, that would not readily agree with them. it is easy for one of judgment and learning, to perceive the weak foundation even of those systems, which have obtained the greatest credit, and have carried their pretensions highest to accurate and profound reasoning. principles taken upon trust, consequences lamely deduced from them, want of coherence in the parts, and of evidence in the whole, these are every where to be met with in the systems of the most eminent philosophers, and seem to have drawn disgrace upon philosophy itself. nor is there required such profound knowledge to discover the present imperfect condition of the sciences, but even the rabble without doors may, judge from the noise and clamour, which they hear, that all goes not well within. there is nothing which is not the subject of debate, and in which men of learning are not of contrary opinions. the most trivial question escapes not our controversy, and in the most momentous we are not able to give any certain decision. disputes are multiplied, as if every thing was uncertain; and these disputes are managed with the greatest warmth, as if every thing was certain. amidst all this bustle it is not reason, which carries the prize, but eloquence; and no man needs ever despair of gaining proselytes to the most extravagant hypothesis, who has art enough to represent it in any favourable colours. the victory is not gained by the men at arms, who manage the pike and the sword; but by the trumpeters, drummers, and musicians of the army. from hence in my opinion arises that common prejudice against metaphysical reasonings of all kinds, even amongst those, who profess themselves scholars, and have a just value for every other part of literature. by metaphysical reasonings, they do not understand those on any particular branch of science, but every kind of argument, which is any way abstruse, and requires some attention to be comprehended. we have so often lost our labour in such researches, that we commonly reject them without hesitation, and resolve, if we must for ever be a prey to errors and delusions, that they shall at least be natural and entertaining. and indeed nothing but the most determined scepticism, along with a great degree of indolence, can justify this aversion to metaphysics. for if truth be at all within the reach of human capacity, it is certain it must lie very deep and abstruse: and to hope we shall arrive at it without pains, while the greatest geniuses have failed with the utmost pains, must certainly be esteemed sufficiently vain and presumptuous. i pretend to no such advantage in the philosophy i am going to unfold, and would esteem it a strong presumption against it, were it so very easy and obvious. it is evident, that all the sciences have a relation, greater or less, to human nature: and that however wide any of them may seem to run from it, they still return back by one passage or another. even. mathematics, natural philosophy, and natural religion, are in some measure dependent on the science of man; since the lie under the cognizance of men, and are judged of by their powers and faculties. it is impossible to tell what changes and improvements we might make in these sciences were we thoroughly acquainted with the extent and force of human understanding, and could explain the nature of the ideas we employ, and of the operations we perform in our reasonings. and these improvements are the more to be hoped for in natural religion, as it is not content with instructing us in the nature of superior powers, but carries its views farther, to their disposition towards us, and our duties towards them; and consequently we ourselves are not only the beings, that reason, but also one of the objects, concerning which we reason. if therefore the sciences of mathematics, natural philosophy, and natural religion, have such a dependence on the knowledge of man, what may be expected in the other sciences, whose connexion with human nature is more close and intimate? the sole end of logic is to explain the principles and operations of our reasoning faculty, and the nature of our ideas: morals and criticism regard our tastes and sentiments: and politics consider men as united in society, and dependent on each other. in these four sciences of logic, morals, criticism, and politics, is comprehended almost everything, which it can any way import us to be acquainted with, or which can tend either to the improvement or ornament of the human mind. here then is the only expedient, from which we can hope for success in our philosophical researches, to leave the tedious lingering method, which we have hitherto followed, and instead of taking now and then a castle or village on the frontier, to march up directly to the capital or center of these sciences, to human nature itself; which being once masters of, we may every where else hope for an easy victory. from this station we may extend our conquests over all those sciences, which more intimately concern human life, and may afterwards proceed at leisure to discover more fully those, which are the objects of pore curiosity. there is no question of importance, whose decision is not comprised in the science of man; and there is none, which can be decided with any certainty, before we become acquainted with that science. in pretending, therefore, to explain the principles of human nature, we in effect propose a compleat system of the sciences, built on a foundation almost entirely new, and the only one upon which they can stand with any security. and as the science of man is the-only solid foundation for the other sciences, so the only solid foundation we can give to this science itself must be laid on experience and observation. it is no astonishing reflection to consider, that the application of experimental philosophy to moral subjects should come after that to natural at the distance of above a whole century; since we find in fact, that there was about the same interval betwixt the origins of these sciences; and that reckoning from thales to socrates, the space of time is nearly equal to that betwixt, my lord bacon and some late philosophers [mr. locke, my lord shaftesbury, dr. mandeville, mr. hutchinson, dr. butler, etc.] in england, who have begun to put the science of man on a new footing, and have engaged the attention, and excited the curiosity of the public. so true it is, that however other nations may rival us in poetry, and excel us in some other agreeable arts, the improvements in reason and philosophy can only be owing to a land of toleration and of liberty. nor ought we to think, that this latter improvement in the science of man will do less honour to our native country than the former in natural philosophy, but ought rather to esteem it a greater glory, upon account of the greater importance of that science, as well as the necessity it lay under of such a reformation. for to me it seems evident, that the essence of the mind being equally unknown to us with that of external bodies, it must be equally impossible to form any notion of its powers and qualities otherwise than from careful and exact experiments, and the observation of those particular effects, which result from its different circumstances and situations. and though we must endeavour to render all our principles as universal as possible, by tracing up our experiments to the utmost, and explaining all effects from the simplest and fewest causes, it is still certain we cannot go beyond experience; and any hypothesis, that pretends to discover the ultimate original qualities of human nature, ought at first to be rejected as presumptuous and chimerical. i do not think a philosopher, who would apply himself so earnestly to the explaining the ultimate principles of the soul, would show himself a great master in that very science of human nature, which he pretends to explain, or very knowing in what is naturally satisfactory to the mind of man. for nothing is more certain, than that despair has almost the same effect upon us with enjoyment, and that we are no sooner acquainted with the impossibility of satisfying any desire, than the desire itself vanishes. when we see, that we have arrived at the utmost extent of human reason, we sit down contented, though we be perfectly satisfied in the main of our ignorance, and perceive that we can give no reason for our most general and most refined principles, beside our experience of their reality; which is the reason of the mere vulgar, and what it required no study at first to have discovered for the most particular and most extraordinary phaenomenon. and as this impossibility of making any farther progress is enough to satisfy the reader, so the writer may derive a more delicate satisfaction from the free confession of his ignorance, and from his prudence in avoiding that error, into which so many have fallen, of imposing their conjectures and hypotheses on the world for the most certain principles. when this mutual contentment and satisfaction can be obtained betwixt the master and scholar, i know not what more we can require of our philosophy. but if this impossibility of explaining ultimate principles should be esteemed a defect in the science of man, i will venture to affirm, that it is a defect common to it with all the sciences, and all the arts, in which we can employ ourselves, whether they be such as are cultivated in the schools of the philosophers, or practised in the shops of the meanest artizans. none of them can go beyond experience, or establish any principles which are not founded on that authority. moral philosophy has, indeed, this peculiar disadvantage, which is not found in natural, that in collecting its experiments, it cannot make them purposely, with premeditation, and after such a manner as to satisfy itself concerning every particular difficulty which may be. when i am at a loss to know the effects of one body upon another in any situation, i need only put them in that situation, and observe what results from it. but should i endeavour to clear up after the same manner any doubt in moral philosophy, by placing myself in the same case with that which i consider, it is evident this reflection and premeditation would so disturb the operation of my natural principles, as must render it impossible to form any just conclusion from the phenomenon. we must therefore glean up our experiments in this science from a cautious observation of human life, and take them as they appear in the common course of the world, by men's behaviour in company, in affairs, and in their pleasures. where experiments of this kind are judiciously collected and compared, we may hope to establish on them a science which will not be inferior in certainty, and will be much superior in utility to any other of human comprehension. book i. of the understanding part i. of ideas, their origin, composition, connexion, abstraction, etc. sect. i. of the origin of our ideas. all the perceptions of the human mind resolve themselves into two distinct kinds, which i shall call impressions and ideas. the difference betwixt these consists in the degrees of force and liveliness, with which they strike upon the mind, and make their way into our thought or consciousness. those perceptions, which enter with most force and violence, we may name impressions: and under this name i comprehend all our sensations, passions and emotions, as they make their first appearance in the soul. by ideas i mean the faint images of these in thinking and reasoning; such as, for instance, are all the perceptions excited by the present discourse, excepting only those which arise from the sight and touch, and excepting the immediate pleasure or uneasiness it may occasion. i believe it will not be very necessary to employ many words in explaining this distinction. every one of himself will readily perceive the difference betwixt feeling and thinking. the common degrees of these are easily distinguished; though it is not impossible but in particular instances they may very nearly approach to each other. thus in sleep, in a fever, in madness, or in any very violent emotions of soul, our ideas may approach to our impressions, as on the other hand it sometimes happens, that our impressions are so faint and low, that we cannot distinguish them from our ideas. but notwithstanding this near resemblance in a few instances, they are in general so very different, that no-one can make a scruple to rank them under distinct heads, and assign to each a peculiar name to mark the difference [footnote .]. [footnote . i here make use of these terms, impression and idea, in a sense different from what is usual, and i hope this liberty will be allowed me. perhaps i rather restore the word, idea, to its original sense, from which mr locke had perverted it, in making it stand for all our perceptions. by the terms of impression i would not be understood to express the manner, in which our lively perceptions are produced in the soul, but merely the perceptions themselves; for which there is no particular name either in the english or any other language, that i know of.] there is another division of our perceptions, which it will be convenient to observe, and which extends itself both to our impressions and ideas. this division is into simple and complex. simple perceptions or impressions and ideas are such as admit of no distinction nor separation. the complex are the contrary to these, and may be distinguished into parts. though a particular colour, taste, and smell, are qualities all united together in this apple, it is easy to perceive they are not the same, but are at least distinguishable from each other. having by these divisions given an order and arrangement to our objects, we may now apply ourselves to consider with the more accuracy their qualities and relations. the first circumstance, that strikes my eye, is the great resemblance betwixt our impressions and ideas in every other particular, except their degree of force and vivacity. the one seem to be in a manner the reflexion of the other; so that all the perceptions of the mind are double, and appear both as impressions and ideas. when i shut my eyes and think of my chamber, the ideas i form are exact representations of the impressions i felt; nor is there any circumstance of the one, which is not to be found in the other. in running over my other perceptions, i find still the same resemblance and representation. ideas and impressions appear always to correspond to each other. this circumstance seems to me remarkable, and engages my attention for a moment. upon a more accurate survey i find i have been carried away too far by the first appearance, and that i must make use of the distinction of perceptions into simple and complex, to limit this general decision, that all our ideas and impressions are resembling. i observe, that many of our complex ideas never had impressions, that corresponded to them, and that many of our complex impressions never are exactly copied in ideas. i can imagine to myself such a city as the new jerusalem, whose pavement is gold and walls are rubies, though i never saw any such. i have seen paris; but shall i affirm i can form such an idea of that city, as will perfectly represent all its streets and houses in their real and just proportions? i perceive, therefore, that though there is in general a great, resemblance betwixt our complex impressions and ideas, yet the rule is not universally true, that they are exact copies of each other. we may next consider how the case stands with our simple, perceptions. after the most accurate examination, of which i am capable, i venture to affirm, that the rule here holds without any exception, and that every simple idea has a simple impression, which resembles it, and every simple impression a correspondent idea. that idea of red, which we form in the dark, and that impression which strikes our eyes in sun-shine, differ only in degree, not in nature. that the case is the same with all our simple impressions and ideas, it is impossible to prove by a particular enumeration of them. every one may satisfy himself in this point by running over as many as he pleases. but if any one should deny this universal resemblance, i know no way of convincing him, but by desiring him to shew a simple impression, that has not a correspondent idea, or a simple idea, that has not a correspondent impression. if he does not answer this challenge, as it is certain he cannot, we may from his silence and our own observation establish our conclusion. thus we find, that all simple ideas and impressions resemble each other; and as the complex are formed from them, we may affirm in general, that these two species of perception are exactly correspondent. having discovered this relation, which requires no farther examination, i am curious to find some other of their qualities. let us consider how they stand with regard to their existence, and which of the impressions and ideas are causes, and which effects. the full examination of this question is the subject of the present treatise; and therefore we shall here content ourselves with establishing one general proposition, that all our simple ideas in their first appearance are derived from simple impressions, which are correspondent to them, and which they exactly represent. in seeking for phenomena to prove this proposition, i find only those of two kinds; but in each kind the phenomena are obvious, numerous, and conclusive. i first make myself certain, by a new, review, of what i have already asserted, that every simple impression is attended with a correspondent idea, and every simple idea with a correspondent impression. from this constant conjunction of resembling perceptions i immediately conclude, that there is a great connexion betwixt our correspondent impressions and ideas, and that the existence of the one has a considerable influence upon that of the other. such a constant conjunction, in such an infinite number of instances, can never arise from chance; but clearly proves a dependence of the impressions on the ideas, or of the ideas on the impressions. that i may know on which side this dependence lies, i consider the order of their first appearance; and find by constant experience, that the simple impressions always take the precedence of their correspondent ideas, but never appear in the contrary order. to give a child an idea of scarlet or orange, of sweet or bitter, i present the objects, or in other words, convey to him these impressions; but proceed not so absurdly, as to endeavour to produce the impressions by exciting the ideas. our ideas upon their appearance produce not their correspondent impressions, nor do we perceive any colour, or feel any sensation merely upon thinking of them. on the other hand we find, that any impression either of the mind or body is constantly followed by an idea, which resembles it, and is only different in the degrees of force and liveliness, the constant conjunction of our resembling perceptions, is a convincing proof, that the one are the causes of the other; and this priority of the impressions is an equal proof, that our impressions are the causes of our ideas, not our ideas of our impressions. to confirm this i consider another plain and convincing phaenomenon; which is, that, where-ever by any accident the faculties, which give rise to any impressions, are obstructed in their operations, as when one is born blind or deaf; not only the impressions are lost, but also their correspondent ideas; so that there never appear in the mind the least traces of either of them. nor is this only true, where the organs of sensation are entirely destroyed, but likewise where they have never been put in action to produce a particular impression. we cannot form to ourselves a just idea of the taste of a pine apple, without having actually tasted it. there is however one contradictory phaenomenon, which may prove, that it is not absolutely impossible for ideas to go before their correspondent impressions. i believe it will readily be allowed that the several distinct ideas of colours, which enter by the eyes, or those of sounds, which are conveyed by the hearing, are really different from each other, though at the same time resembling. now if this be true of different colours, it must be no less so of the different shades of the same colour, that each of them produces a distinct idea, independent of the rest. for if this should be denied, it is possible, by the continual gradation of shades, to run a colour insensibly into what is most remote from it; and if you will not allow any of the means to be different, you cannot without absurdity deny the extremes to be the same. suppose therefore a person to have enjoyed his sight for thirty years, and to have become perfectly well acquainted with colours of all kinds, excepting one particular shade of blue, for instance, which it never has been his fortune to meet with. let all the different shades of that colour, except that single one, be placed before him, descending gradually from the deepest to the lightest; it is plain, that he will perceive a blank, where that shade is wanting, said will be sensible, that there is a greater distance in that place betwixt the contiguous colours, than in any other. now i ask, whether it is possible for him, from his own imagination, to supply this deficiency, and raise up to himself the idea of that particular shade, though it had never been conveyed to him by his senses? i believe there are few but will be of opinion that he can; and this may serve as a proof, that the simple ideas are not always derived from the correspondent impressions; though the instance is so particular and singular, that it is scarce worth our observing, and does not merit that for it alone we should alter our general maxim. but besides this exception, it may not be amiss to remark on this head, that the principle of the priority of impressions to ideas must be understood with another limitation, viz., that as our ideas are images of our impressions, so we can form secondary ideas, which are images of the primary; as appears from this very reasoning concerning them. this is not, properly speaking, an exception to the rule so much as an explanation of it. ideas produce the images of themselves in new ideas; but as the first ideas are supposed to be derived from impressions, it still remains true, that all our simple ideas proceed either mediately or immediately, from their correspondent impressions. this then is the first principle i establish in the science of human nature; nor ought we to despise it because of the simplicity of its appearance. for it is remarkable, that the present question concerning the precedency of our impressions or ideas, is the same with what has made so much noise in other terms, when it has been disputed whether there be any innate ideas, or whether all ideas be derived from sensation and reflexion. we may observe, that in order to prove the ideas of extension and colour not to be innate, philosophers do nothing but shew that they are conveyed by our senses. to prove the ideas of passion and desire not to be innate, they observe that we have a preceding experience of these emotions in ourselves. now if we carefully examine these arguments, we shall find that they prove nothing but that ideas are preceded by other more lively perceptions, from which the are derived, and which they represent. i hope this clear stating of the question will remove all disputes concerning it, and win render this principle of more use in our reasonings, than it seems hitherto to have been. sect. ii. division of the subject. since it appears, that our simple impressions are prior to their correspondent ideas, and that the exceptions are very rare, method seems to require we should examine our impressions, before we consider our ideas. impressions way be divided into two kinds, those of sensation and those of reflexion. the first kind arises in the soul originally, from unknown causes. the second is derived in a great measure from our ideas, and that in the following order. an impression first strikes upon the senses, and makes us perceive heat or cold, thirst or hunger, pleasure or pain of some kind or other. of this impression there is a copy taken by the mind, which remains after the impression ceases; and this we call an idea. this idea of pleasure or pain, when it returns upon the soul, produces the new impressions of desire and aversion, hope and fear, which may properly be called impressions of reflexion, because derived from it. these again are copied by the memory and imagination, and become ideas; which perhaps in their turn give rise to other impressions and ideas. so that the impressions of reflexion are only antecedent to their correspondent ideas; but posterior to those of sensation, and derived from them. the examination of our sensations belongs more to anatomists and natural philosophers than to moral; and therefore shall not at present be entered upon. and as the impressions of reflexion, viz. passions, desires, and emotions, which principally deserve our attention, arise mostly from ideas, it will be necessary to reverse that method, which at first sight seems most natural; and in order to explain the nature and principles of the human mind, give a particular account of ideas, before we proceed to impressions. for this reason i have here chosen to begin with ideas. sect. iii. of the ideas of the memory and imagination. we find by experience, that when any impression has been present with the mind, it again makes its appearance there as an idea; and this it may do after two different ways: either when in its new appearance it retains a considerable degree of its first vivacity, and is somewhat intermediate betwixt an impression and an idea: or when it entirely loses that vivacity, and is a perfect idea. the faculty, by which we repeat our impressions in the first manner, is called the memory, and the other the imagination. it is evident at first sight, that the ideas of the memory are much more lively and strong than those of the imagination, and that the former faculty paints its objects in more distinct colours, than any which are employed by the latter. when we remember any past event, the idea of it flows in upon the mind in a forcible manner; whereas in the imagination the perception is faint and languid, and cannot without difficulty be preserved by the mind steddy and uniform for any considerable time. here then is a sensible difference betwixt one species of ideas and another. but of this more fully hereafter.[part ii, sect. .] there is another difference betwixt these two kinds of ideas, which is no less evident, namely that though neither the ideas, of the memory nor imagination, neither the lively nor faint ideas can make their appearance in the mind, unless their correspondent impressions have gone before to prepare the way for them, yet the imagination is not restrained to the same order and form with the original impressions; while the memory is in a manner tied down in that respect, without any power of variation. it is evident, that the memory preserves the original form, in which its objects were presented, and that where-ever we depart from it in recollecting any thing, it proceeds from some defect or imperfection in that faculty. an historian may, perhaps, for the more convenient carrying on of his narration, relate an event before another, to which it was in fact posterior; but then he takes notice of this disorder, if he be exact; and by that means replaces the idea in its due position. it is the same case in our recollection of those places and persons, with which we were formerly acquainted. the chief exercise of the memory is not to preserve the simple ideas, but their order and position. in short, this principle is supported by such a number of common and vulgar phaenomena, that we may spare ourselves the trouble of insisting on it any farther. the same evidence follows us in our second principle, of the liberty of the imagination to transpose and change its ideas. the fables we meet with in poems and romances put this entirely out of the question. nature there is totally confounded, and nothing mentioned but winged horses, fiery dragons, and monstrous giants. nor will this liberty of the fancy appear strange, when we consider, that all our ideas are copyed from our impressions, and that there are not any two impressions which are perfectly inseparable. not to mention, that this is an evident consequence of the division of ideas into simple and complex. where-ever the imagination perceives a difference among ideas, it can easily produce a separation. sect. iv. of the connexion or association of ideas. as all simple ideas may be separated by the imagination, and may be united again in what form it pleases, nothing would be more unaccountable than the operations of that faculty, were it not guided by some universal principles, which render it, in some measure, uniform with itself in all times and places. were ideas entirely loose and unconnected, chance alone would join them; and it is impossible the same simple ideas should fall regularly into complex ones (as they commonly do) without some bond of union among them, some associating quality, by which one idea naturally introduces another. this uniting principle among ideas is not to be considered as an inseparable connexion; for that has been already excluded from the imagination: nor yet are we to conclude, that without it the mind cannot join two ideas; for nothing is more free than that faculty: but we are only to regard it as a gentle force, which commonly prevails, and is the cause why, among other things, languages so nearly correspond to each other; nature in a manner pointing out to every one those simple ideas, which are most proper to be united in a complex one. the qualities, from which this association arises, and by which the mind is after this manner conveyed from one idea to another, are three, viz. resemblance, contiguity in time or place, and cause and effect. i believe it will not be very necessary to prove, that these qualities produce an association among ideas, and upon the appearance of one idea naturally introduce another. it is plain, that in the course of our thinking, and in the constant revolution of our ideas, our imagination runs easily from one idea to any other that resembles it, and that this quality alone is to the fancy a sufficient bond and association. it is likewise evident that as the senses, in changing their objects, are necessitated to change them regularly, and take them as they lie contiguous to each other, the imagination must by long custom acquire the same method of thinking, and run along the parts of space and time in conceiving its objects. as to the connexion, that is made by the relation of cause and effect, we shall have occasion afterwards to examine it to the bottom, and therefore shall not at present insist upon it. it is sufficient to observe, that there is no relation, which produces a stronger connexion in the fancy, and makes one idea more readily recall another, than the relation of cause and effect betwixt their objects. that we may understand the full extent of these relations, we must consider, that two objects are connected together in the imagination, not only when the one is immediately resembling, contiguous to, or the cause of the other, but also when there is interposed betwixt them a third object, which bears to both of them any of these relations. this may be carried on to a great length; though at the same time we may observe, that each remove considerably weakens the relation. cousins in the fourth degree are connected by causation, if i may be allowed to use that term; but not so closely as brothers, much less as child and parent. in general we may observe, that all the relations of blood depend upon cause and effect, and are esteemed near or remote, according to the number of connecting causes interposed betwixt the persons. of the three relations above-mentioned this of causation is the most extensive. two objects may be considered as placed in this relation, as well when one is the cause of any of the actions or motions of the other, as when the former is the cause of the existence of the latter. for as that action or motion is nothing but the object itself, considered in a certain light, and as the object continues the same in all its different situations, it is easy to imagine how such an influence of objects upon one another may connect them in the imagination. we may carry this farther, and remark, not only that two objects are connected by the relation of cause and effect, when the one produces a motion or any action in the other, but also when it has a power of producing it. and this we may observe to be the source of all the relation, of interest and duty, by which men influence each other in society, and are placed in the ties of government and subordination. a master is such-a-one as by his situation, arising either from force or agreement, has a power of directing in certain particulars the actions of another, whom we call servant. a judge is one, who in all disputed cases can fix by his opinion the possession or property of any thing betwixt any members of the society. when a person is possessed of any power, there is no more required to convert it into action, but the exertion of the will; and that in every case is considered as possible, and in many as probable; especially in the case of authority, where the obedience of the subject is a pleasure and advantage to the superior. these are therefore the principles of union or cohesion among our simple ideas, and in the imagination supply the place of that inseparable connexion, by which they are united in our memory. here is a kind of attraction, which in the mental world will be found to have as extraordinary effects as in the natural, and to shew itself in as many and as various forms. its effects are every where conspicuous; but as to its causes, they are mostly unknown, and must be resolved into original qualities of human nature, which i pretend not to explain. nothing is more requisite for a true philosopher, than to restrain the intemperate desire of searching into causes, and having established any doctrine upon a sufficient number of experiments, rest contented with that, when he sees a farther examination would lead him into obscure and uncertain speculations. in that case his enquiry would be much better employed in examining the effects than the causes of his principle. amongst the effects of this union or association of ideas, there are none more remarkable, than those complex ideas, which are the common subjects of our thoughts and reasoning, and generally arise from some principle of union among our simple ideas. these complex ideas may be divided into relations, modes, and substances. we shall briefly examine each of these in order, and shall subjoin some considerations concerning our general and particular ideas, before we leave the present subject, which may be considered as the elements of this philosophy. sect. v. of relations. the word relation is commonly used in two senses considerably different from each other. either for that quality, by which two ideas are connected together in the imagination, and the one naturally introduces the other, after the manner above-explained: or for that particular circumstance, in which, even upon the arbitrary union of two ideas in the fancy, we may think proper to compare them. in common language the former is always the sense, in which we use the word, relation; and it is only in philosophy, that we extend it to mean any particular subject of comparison, without a connecting principle. thus distance will be allowed by philosophers to be a true relation, because we acquire an idea of it by the comparing of objects: but in a common way we say, that nothing can be more distant than such or such things from each other, nothing can have less relation: as if distance and relation were incompatible. it may perhaps be esteemed an endless task to enumerate all those qualities, which make objects admit of comparison, and by which the ideas of philosophical relation are produced. but if we diligently consider them, we shall find that without difficulty they may be comprised under seven general heads, which may be considered as the sources of all philosophical relation. ( ) the first is resemblance: and this is a relation, without which no philosophical relation can exist; since no objects will admit of comparison, but what have some degree of resemblance. but though resemblance be necessary to all philosophical relation, it does not follow, that it always produces a connexion or association of ideas. when a quality becomes very general, and is common to a great many individuals, it leads not the mind directly to any one of them; but by presenting at once too great a choice, does thereby prevent the imagination from fixing on any single object. ( ) identity may be esteemed a second species of relation. this relation i here consider as applied in its strictest sense to constant and unchangeable objects; without examining the nature and foundation of personal identity, which shall find its place afterwards. of all relations the most universal is that of identity, being common to every being whose existence has any duration. ( ) after identity the most universal and comprehensive relations are those of space and time, which are the sources of an infinite number of comparisons, such as distant, contiguous, above, below, before, after, etc. ( ) all those objects, which admit of quantity, or number, may be compared in that particular; which is another very fertile source of relation. ( ) when any two objects possess the same quality in common, the degrees, in which they possess it, form a fifth species of relation. thus of two objects, which are both heavy, the one may be either of greater, or less weight than the other. two colours, that are of the same kind, may yet be of different shades, and in that respect admit of comparison. ( ) the relation of contrariety may at first sight be regarded as an exception to the rule, that no relation of any kind can subsist without some degree of resemblance. but let us consider, that no two ideas are in themselves contrary, except those of existence and non-existence, which are plainly resembling, as implying both of them an idea of the object; though the latter excludes the object from all times and places, in which it is supposed not to exist. ( ) all other objects, such as fire and water, heat and cold, are only found to be contrary from experience, and from the contrariety of their causes or effects; which relation of cause and effect is a seventh philosophical relation, as well as a natural one. the resemblance implied in this relation, shall be explained afterwards. it might naturally be expected, that i should join difference to the other relations. but that i consider rather as a negation of relation, than as anything real or positive. difference is of two kinds as opposed either to identity or resemblance. the first is called a difference of number; the other of kind. sect. vi. of modes and substances i would fain ask those philosophers, who found so much of their reasonings on the distinction of substance and accident, and imagine we have clear ideas of each, whether the idea of substance be derived from the impressions of sensation or of reflection? if it be conveyed to us by our senses, i ask, which of them; and after what manner? if it be perceived by the eyes, it must be a colour; if by the ears, a sound; if by the palate, a taste; and so of the other senses. but i believe none will assert, that substance is either a colour, or sound, or a taste. the idea, of substance must therefore be derived from an impression of reflection, if it really exist. but the impressions of reflection resolve themselves into our passions and emotions: none of which can possibly represent a substance. we have therefore no idea of substance, distinct from that of a collection of particular qualities, nor have we any other meaning when we either talk or reason concerning it. the idea of a substance as well as that of a mode, is nothing but a collection of simple ideas, that are united by the imagination, and have a particular name assigned them, by which we are able to recall, either to ourselves or others, that collection. but the difference betwixt these ideas consists in this, that the particular qualities, which form a substance, are commonly referred to an unknown something, in which they are supposed to inhere; or granting this fiction should not take place, are at least supposed to be closely and inseparably connected by the relations of contiguity and causation. the effect of this is, that whatever new simple quality we discover to have the same connexion with the rest, we immediately comprehend it among them, even though it did not enter into the first conception of the substance. thus our idea of gold may at first be a yellow colour, weight, malleableness, fusibility; but upon the discovery of its dissolubility in aqua regia, we join that to the other qualities, and suppose it to belong to the substance as much as if its idea had from the beginning made a part of the compound one. the principal of union being regarded as the chief part of the complex idea, gives entrance to whatever quality afterwards occurs, and is equally comprehended by it, as are the others, which first presented themselves. that this cannot take place in modes, is evident from considering their mature. the simple ideas of which modes are formed, either represent qualities, which are not united by contiguity and causation, but are dispersed in different subjects; or if they be all united together, the uniting principle is not regarded as the foundation of the complex idea. the idea of a dance is an instance of the first kind of modes; that of beauty of the second. the reason is obvious, why such complex ideas cannot receive any new idea, without changing the name, which distinguishes the mode. sect. vii. of abstract ideas. a very material question has been started concerning abstract or general ideas, whether they be general or particular in the mind's conception of them. a great philosopher [dr. berkeley.] has disputed the received opinion in this particular, and has asserted, that all general ideas are nothing but particular ones, annexed to a certain term, which gives them a more extensive signification, and makes them recall upon occasion other individuals, which are similar to them. as i look upon this to be one of the greatest and most valuable discoveries that has been made of late years in the republic of letters, i shall here endeavour to confirm it by some arguments, which i hope will put it beyond all doubt and controversy. it is evident, that in forming most of our general ideas, if not all of them, we abstract from every particular degree of quantity and quality, and that an object ceases not to be of any particular species on account of every small alteration in its extension, duration and other properties. it may therefore be thought, that here is a plain dilemma, that decides concerning the nature of those abstract ideas, which have afforded so much speculation to philosophers. the abstract idea of a man represents men of all sizes and all qualities; which it is concluded it cannot do, but either by representing at once all possible sizes and all possible qualities, or by, representing no particular one at all. now it having been esteemed absurd to defend the former proposition, as implying an infinite capacity in the mind, it has been commonly inferred in favour of the latter: and our abstract ideas have been supposed to represent no particular degree either of quantity or quality. but that this inference is erroneous, i shall endeavour to make appear, first, by proving, that it is utterly impossible to conceive any quantity or quality, without forming a precise notion of its degrees: and secondly by showing, that though the capacity of the mind be not infinite, yet we can at once form a notion of all possible degrees of quantity and quality, in such a manner at least, as, however imperfect, may serve all the purposes of reflection and conversation. to begin with the first proposition, that the mind cannot form any notion of quantity or quality without forming a precise notion of degrees of each; we may prove this by the three following arguments. first, we have observed, that whatever objects are different are distinguishable, and that whatever objects are distinguishable are separable by the thought and imagination. and we may here add, that these propositions are equally true in the inverse, and that whatever objects are separable are also distinguishable, and that whatever objects are distinguishable, are also different. for how is it possible we can separate what is not distinguishable, or distinguish what is not different? in order therefore to know, whether abstraction implies a separation, we need only consider it in this view, and examine, whether all the circumstances, which we abstract from in our general ideas, be such as are distinguishable and different from those, which we retain as essential parts of them. but it is evident at first sight, that the precise length of a line is not different nor distinguishable from the line itself nor the precise degree of any quality from the quality. these ideas, therefore, admit no more of separation than they do of distinction and difference. they are consequently conjoined with each other in the conception; and the general idea of a line, notwithstanding all our abstractions and refinements, has in its appearance in the mind a precise degree of quantity and quality; however it may be made to represent others, which have different degrees of both. secondly, it is contest, that no object can appear to the senses; or in other words, that no impression can become present to the mind, without being determined in its degrees both of quantity and quality. the confusion, in which impressions are sometimes involved, proceeds only from their faintness and unsteadiness, not from any capacity in the mind to receive any impression, which in its real existence has no particular degree nor proportion. that is a contradiction in terms; and even implies the flattest of all contradictions, viz. that it is possible for the same thing both to be and not to be. now since all ideas are derived from impressions, and are nothing but copies and representations of them, whatever is true of the one must be acknowledged concerning the other. impressions and ideas differ only in their strength and vivacity. the foregoing conclusion is not founded on any particular degree of vivacity. it cannot therefore be affected by any variation in that particular. an idea is a weaker impression; and as a strong impression must necessarily have a determinate quantity and quality, the case must be the same with its copy or representative. thirdly, it is a principle generally received in philosophy that everything in nature is individual, and that it is utterly absurd to suppose a triangle really existent, which has no precise proportion of sides and angles. if this therefore be absurd in fact and reality, it must also be absurd in idea; since nothing of which we can form a clear and distinct idea is absurd and impossible. but to form the idea of an object, and to form an idea simply, is the same thing; the reference of the idea to an object being an extraneous denomination, of which in itself it bears no mark or character. now as it is impossible to form an idea of an object, that is possest of quantity and quality, and yet is possest of no precise degree of either; it follows that there is an equal impossibility of forming an idea, that is not limited and confined in both these particulars. abstract ideas are therefore in themselves individual, however they may become general in their representation. the image in the mind is only that of a particular object, though the application of it in our reasoning be the same, as if it were universal. this application of ideas beyond their nature proceeds from our collecting all their possible degrees of quantity and quality in such an imperfect manner as may serve the purposes of life, which is the second proposition i proposed to explain. when we have found a resemblance [footnote .] among several objects, that often occur to us, we apply the same name to all of them, whatever differences we may observe in the degrees of their quantity and quality, and whatever other differences may appear among them. after we have acquired a custom of this kind, the hearing of that name revives the idea of one of these objects, and makes the imagination conceive it with all its particular circumstances and proportions. but as the same word is supposed to have been frequently applied to other individuals, that are different in many respects from that idea, which is immediately present to the mind; the word not being able to revive the idea of all these individuals, but only touches the soul, if i may be allowed so to speak, and revives that custom, which we have acquired by surveying them. they are not really and in fact present to the mind, but only in power; nor do we draw them all out distinctly in the imagination, but keep ourselves in a readiness to survey any of them, as we may be prompted by a present design or necessity. the word raises up an individual idea, along with a certain custom; and that custom produces any other individual one, for which we may have occasion. but as the production of all the ideas, to which the name may be applied, is in most eases impossible, we abridge that work by a more partial consideration, and find but few inconveniences to arise in our reasoning from that abridgment. [footnote . it is evident, that even different simple ideas may have a similarity or resemblance to each other; nor is it necessary, that the point or circumstance of resemblance shoud be distinct or separable from that in which they differ. blue and green are different simple ideas, but are more resembling than blue and scarlet; tho their perfect simplicity excludes all possibility of separation or distinction. it is the same case with particular sounds, and tastes and smells. these admit of infinite resemblances upon the general appearance and comparison, without having any common circumstance the same. and of this we may be certain, even from the very abstract terms simple idea. they comprehend all simple ideas under them. these resemble each other in their simplicity. and yet from their very nature, which excludes all composition, this circumstance, in which they resemble, is not distinguishable nor separable from the rest. it is the same case with all the degrees in any quality. they are all resembling and yet the quality, in any individual, is not distinct from the degree.] for this is one of the most extraordinary circumstances in the present affair, that after the mind has produced an individual idea, upon which we reason, the attendant custom, revived by the general or abstract term, readily suggests any other individual, if by chance we form any reasoning, that agrees not with it. thus should we mention the word triangle, and form the idea of a particular equilateral one to correspond to it, and should we afterwards assert, that the three angles of a triangle are equal to each other, the other individuals of a scalenum and isosceles, which we overlooked at first, immediately crowd in upon us, and make us perceive the falshood of this proposition, though it be true with relation to that idea, which we had formed. if the mind suggests not always these ideas upon occasion, it proceeds from some imperfection in its faculties; and such a one as is often the source of false reasoning and sophistry. but this is principally the case with those ideas which are abstruse and compounded. on other occasions the custom is more entire, and it is seldom we run into such errors. nay so entire is the custom, that the very same idea may be annext to several different words, and may be employed in different reasonings, without any danger of mistake. thus the idea of an equilateral triangle of an inch perpendicular may serve us in talking of a figure, of a rectilinear figure, of a regular figure, of a triangle, and of an equilateral triangle. all these terms, therefore, are in this case attended with the same idea; but as they are wont to be applied in a greater or lesser compass, they excite their particular habits, and thereby keep the mind in a readiness to observe, that no conclusion be formed contrary to any ideas, which are usually comprized under them. before those habits have become entirely perfect, perhaps the mind may not be content with forming the idea of only one individual, but may run over several, in order to make itself comprehend its own meaning, and the compass of that collection, which it intends to express by the general term. that we may fix the meaning of the word, figure, we may revolve in our mind the ideas of circles, squares, parallelograms, triangles of different sizes and proportions, and may not rest on one image or idea. however this may be, it is certain that we form the idea of individuals, whenever we use any general term; that we seldom or never can exhaust these individuals; and that those, which remain, are only represented by means of that habit, by which we recall them, whenever any present occasion requires it. this then is the nature of our abstract ideas and general terms; and it is after this manner we account for the foregoing paradox, that some ideas are particular in their nature, but general in their representation. a particular idea becomes general by being annexed to a general term; that is, to a term, which from a customary conjunction has a relation to many other particular ideas, and readily recalls them in the imagination. the only difficulty, that can remain on this subject, must be with regard to that custom, which so readily recalls every particular idea, for which we may have occasion, and is excited by any word or sound, to which we commonly annex it. the most proper method, in my opinion, of giving a satisfactory explication of this act of the mind, is by producing other instances, which are analogous to it, and other principles, which facilitate its operation. to explain the ultimate causes of our mental actions is impossible. it is sufficient, if we can give any satisfactory account of them from experience and analogy. first then i observe, that when we mention any great number, such as a thousand, the mind has generally no adequate idea of it, but only a power of producing such an idea, by its adequate idea of the decimals, under which the number is comprehended. this imperfection, however, in our ideas, is never felt in our reasonings; which seems to be an instance parallel to the present one of universal ideas. secondly, we have several instances of habits, which may be revived by one single word; as when a person, who has by rote any periods of a discourse, or any number of verses, will be put in remembrance of the whole, which he is at a loss to recollect, by that single word or expression, with which they begin. thirdly, i believe every one, who examines the situation of his mind in reasoning will agree with me, that we do not annex distinct and compleat ideas to every term we make use of, and that in talking of government, church, negotiation, conquest, we seldom spread out in our minds all the simple ideas, of which these complex ones are composed. it is however observable, that notwithstanding this imperfection we may avoid talking nonsense on these subjects, and may perceive any repugnance among the ideas, as well as if we had a fall comprehension of them. thus if instead of saying, that in war the weaker have always recourse to negotiation, we should say, that they have always recourse to conquest, the custom, which we have acquired of attributing certain relations to ideas, still follows the words, and makes us immediately perceive the absurdity of that proposition; in the same manner as one particular idea may serve us in reasoning concerning other ideas, however different from it in several circumstances. fourthly, as the individuals are collected together, said placed under a general term with a view to that resemblance, which they bear to each other, this relation must facilitate their entrance in the imagination, and make them be suggested more readily upon occasion. and indeed if we consider the common progress of the thought, either in reflection or conversation, we shall find great reason to be satisfyed in this particular. nothing is more admirable, than the readiness, with which the imagination suggests its ideas, and presents them at the very instant, in which they become necessary or useful. the fancy runs from one end of the universe to the other in collecting those ideas, which belong to any subject. one would think the whole intellectual world of ideas was at once subjected to our view, and that we did nothing but pick out such as were most proper for our purpose. there may not, however, be any present, beside those very ideas, that are thus collected by a kind of magical faculty in the soul, which, though it be always most perfect in the greatest geniuses, and is properly what we call a genius, is however inexplicable by the utmost efforts of human understanding. perhaps these four reflections may help to remove an difficulties to the hypothesis i have proposed concerning abstract ideas, so contrary to that, which has hitherto prevailed in philosophy, but, to tell the truth i place my chief confidence in what i have already proved concerning the impossibility of general ideas, according to the common method of explaining them. we must certainly seek some new system on this head, and there plainly is none beside what i have proposed. if ideas be particular in their nature, and at the same time finite in their number, it is only by custom they can become general in their representation, and contain an infinite number of other ideas under them. before i leave this subject i shall employ the same principles to explain that distinction of reason, which is so much talked of, and is so little understood, in the schools. of this kind is the distinction betwixt figure and the body figured; motion and the body moved. the difficulty of explaining this distinction arises from the principle above explained, that all ideas, which are different, are separable. for it follows from thence, that if the figure be different from the body, their ideas must be separable as well as distinguishable: if they be not different, their ideas can neither be separable nor distinguishable. what then is meant by a distinction of reason, since it implies neither a difference nor separation. to remove this difficulty we must have recourse to the foregoing explication of abstract ideas. it is certain that the mind would never have dreamed of distinguishing a figure from the body figured, as being in reality neither distinguishable, nor different, nor separable; did it not observe, that even in this simplicity there might be contained many different resemblances and relations. thus when a globe of white marble is presented, we receive only the impression of a white colour disposed in a certain form, nor are we able to separate and distinguish the colour from the form. but observing afterwards a globe of black marble and a cube of white, and comparing them with our former object, we find two separate resemblances, in what formerly seemed, and really is, perfectly inseparable. after a little more practice of this kind, we begin to distinguish the figure from the colour by a distinction of reason; that is, we consider the figure and colour together, since they are in effect the same and undistinguishable; but still view them in different aspects, according to the resemblances, of which they are susceptible. when we would consider only the figure of the globe of white marble, we form in reality an idea both of the figure and colour, but tacitly carry our eye to its resemblance with the globe of black marble: and in the same manner, when we would consider its colour only, we turn our view to its resemblance with the cube of white marble. by this means we accompany our ideas with a kind of reflection, of which custom renders us, in a great measure, insensible. a person, who desires us to consider the figure of a globe of white marble without thinking on its colour, desires an impossibility but his meaning is, that we should consider the figure and colour together, but still keep in our eye the resemblance to the globe of black marble, or that to any other globe of whatever colour or substance. part ii. of the ideas of space and time. sect. i. of the infinite divisibility of our ideas of space and time. whatever has the air of a paradox, and is contrary to the first and most unprejudiced notions of mankind, is often greedily embraced by philosophers, as shewing the superiority of their science, which coued discover opinions so remote from vulgar conception. on the other hand, anything proposed to us, which causes surprize and admiration, gives such a satisfaction to the mind, that it indulges itself in those agreeable emotions, and will never be persuaded that its pleasure is entirely without foundation. from these dispositions in philosophers and their disciples arises that mutual complaisance betwixt them; while the former furnish such plenty of strange and unaccountable opinions, and the latter so readily believe them. of this mutual complaisance i cannot give a more evident instance than in the doctrine of infinite divisibility, with the examination of which i shall begin this subject of the ideas of space and time. it is universally allowed, that the capacity of the mind is limited, and can never attain a full and adequate conception of infinity: and though it were not allowed, it would be sufficiently evident from the plainest observation and experience. it is also obvious, that whatever is capable of being divided in infinitum, must consist of an infinite number of parts, and that it is impossible to set any bounds to the number of parts, without setting bounds at the same time to the division. it requires scarce any, induction to conclude from hence, that the idea, which we form of any finite quality, is not infinitely divisible, but that by proper distinctions and separations we may run up this idea to inferior ones, which will be perfectly simple and indivisible. in rejecting the infinite capacity of the mind, we suppose it may arrive at an end in the division of its ideas; nor are there any possible means of evading the evidence of this conclusion. it is therefore certain, that the imagination reaches a minimum, and may raise up to itself an idea, of which it cannot conceive any sub-division, and which cannot be diminished without a total annihilation. when you tell me of the thousandth and ten thousandth part of a grain of sand, i have a distinct idea of these numbers and of their different proportions; but the images, which i form in my mind to represent the things themselves, are nothing different from each other, nor inferior to that image, by which i represent the grain of sand itself, which is supposed so vastly to exceed them. what consists of parts is distinguishable into them, and what is distinguishable is separable. but whatever we may imagine of the thing, the idea of a grain of sand is not distinguishable, nor separable into twenty, much less into a thousand, ten thousand, or an infinite number of different ideas. it is the same case with the impressions of the senses as with the ideas of the imagination. put a spot of ink upon paper, fix your eye upon that spot, and retire to such a distance, that, at last you lose sight of it; it is plain, that the moment before it vanished the image or impression was perfectly indivisible. it is not for want of rays of light striking on our eyes, that the minute parts of distant bodies convey not any sensible impression; but because they are removed beyond that distance, at which their impressions were reduced to a minimum, and were incapable of any farther diminution. a microscope or telescope, which renders them visible, produces not any new rays of light, but only spreads those, which always flowed from them; and by that means both gives parts to impressions, which to the naked eye appear simple and uncompounded, and advances to a minimum, what was formerly imperceptible. we may hence discover the error of the common opinion, that the capacity of the mind is limited on both sides, and that it is impossible for the imagination to form an adequate idea, of what goes beyond a certain degree of minuteness as well as of greatness. nothing can be more minute, than some ideas, which we form in the fancy; and images, which appear to the senses; since there are ideas and images perfectly simple and indivisible. the only defect of our senses is, that they give us disproportioned images of things, and represent as minute and uncompounded what is really great and composed of a vast number of parts. this mistake we are not sensible of: but taking the impressions of those minute objects, which appear to the senses, to be equal or nearly equal to the objects, and finding by reason, that there are other objects vastly more minute, we too hastily conclude, that these are inferior to any idea of our imagination or impression of our senses. this however is certain, that we can form ideas, which shall be no greater than the smallest atom of the animal spirits of an insect a thousand times less than a mite: and we ought rather to conclude, that the difficulty lies in enlarging our conceptions so much as to form a just notion of a mite, or even of an insect a thousand times less than a mite. for in order to form a just notion of these animals, we must have a distinct idea representing every part of them, which, according to the system of infinite divisibility, is utterly impossible, and, recording to that of indivisible parts or atoms, is extremely difficult, by reason of the vast number and multiplicity of these parts. sect. ii. of the infinite divisibility of space and time. wherever ideas are adequate representations of objects, the relations, contradictions and agreements of the ideas are all applicable to the objects; and this we may in general observe to be the foundation of all human knowledge. but our ideas are adequate representations of the most minute parts of extension; and through whatever divisions and subdivisions we may suppose these parts to be arrived at, they can never become inferior to some ideas, which we form. the plain consequence is, that whatever appears impossible and contradictory upon the comparison of these ideas, must be really impossible and contradictory, without any farther excuse or evasion. every thing capable of being infinitely divided contains an infinite number of parts; otherwise the division would be stopt short by the indivisible parts, which we should immediately arrive at. if therefore any finite extension be infinitely divisible, it can be no contradiction to suppose, that a finite extension contains an infinite number of parts: and vice versa, if it be a contradiction to suppose, that a finite extension contains an infinite number of parts, no finite extension can be infinitely divisible. but that this latter supposition is absurd, i easily convince myself by the consideration of my clear ideas. i first take the least idea i can form of a part of extension, and being certain that there is nothing more minute than this idea, i conclude, that whatever i discover by its means must be a real quality of extension. i then repeat this idea once, twice, thrice, &c., and find the compound idea of extension, arising from its repetition, always to augment, and become double, triple, quadruple, &c., till at last it swells up to a considerable bulk, greater or smaller, in proportion as i repeat more or less the same idea. when i stop in the addition of parts, the idea of extension ceases to augment; and were i to carry on the addition in infinitum, i clearly perceive, that the idea of extension must also become infinite. upon the whole, i conclude, that the idea of all infinite number of parts is individually the same idea with that of an infinite extension; that no finite extension is capable of containing an infinite number of parts; and consequently that no finite extension is infinitely divisible [footnote .]. [footnote . it has been objected to me, that infinite divisibility supposes only an infinite number of proportional not of aliqiot parts, and that an infinite number of proportional parts does not form an infinite extension. but this distinction is entirely frivolous. whether these parts be calld aliquot or proportional, they cannot be inferior to those minute parts we conceive; and therefore cannot form a less extension by their conjunction.] i may subjoin another argument proposed by a noted author [mons. malezieu], which seems to me very strong and beautiful. it is evident, that existence in itself belongs only to unity, and is never applicable to number, but on account of the unites, of which the number is composed. twenty men may be said to exist; but it is only because one, two, three, four, &c. are existent, and if you deny the existence of the latter, that of the former falls of course. it is therefore utterly absurd to suppose any number to exist, and yet deny the existence of unites; and as extension is always a number, according to the common sentiment of metaphysicians, and never resolves itself into any unite or indivisible quantity, it follows, that extension can never at all exist. it is in vain to reply, that any determinate quantity of extension is an unite; but such-a-one as admits of an infinite number of fractions, and is inexhaustible in its sub-divisions. for by the same rule these twenty men may be considered as a unit. the whole globe of the earth, nay the whole universe, may be considered as a unit. that term of unity is merely a fictitious denomination, which the mind may apply to any quantity of objects it collects together; nor can such an unity any more exist alone than number can, as being in reality a true number. but the unity, which can exist alone, and whose existence is necessary to that of all number, is of another kind, and must be perfectly indivisible, and incapable of being resolved into any lesser unity. all this reasoning takes place with regard to time; along with an additional argument, which it may be proper to take notice of. it is a property inseparable from time, and which in a manner constitutes its essence, that each of its parts succeeds another, and that none of them, however contiguous, can ever be co-existent. for the same reason, that the year cannot concur with the present year every moment must be distinct from, and posterior or antecedent to another. it is certain then, that time, as it exists, must be composed of indivisible moments. for if in time we could never arrive at an end of division, and if each moment, as it succeeds another, were not perfectly single and indivisible, there would be an infinite number of co-existent moments, or parts of time; which i believe will be allowed to be an arrant contradiction. the infinite divisibility of space implies that of time, as is evident from the nature of motion. if the latter, therefore, be impossible, the former must be equally so. i doubt not but, it will readily be allowed by the most obstinate defender of the doctrine of infinite divisibility, that these arguments are difficulties, and that it is impossible to give any answer to them which will be perfectly clear and satisfactory. but here we may observe, that nothing can be more absurd, than this custom of calling a difficulty what pretends to be a demonstration, and endeavouring by that means to elude its force and evidence. it is not in demonstrations as in probabilities, that difficulties can take place, and one argument counter-ballance another, and diminish its authority. a demonstration, if just, admits of no opposite difficulty; and if not just, it is a mere sophism, and consequently can never be a difficulty. it is either irresistible, or has no manner of force. to talk therefore of objections and replies, and ballancing of arguments in such a question as this, is to confess, either that human reason is nothing but a play of words, or that the person himself, who talks so, has not a capacity equal to such subjects. demonstrations may be difficult to be comprehended, because of abstractedness of the subject; but can never have such difficulties as will weaken their authority, when once they are comprehended. it is true, mathematicians are wont to say, that there are here equally strong arguments on the other side of the question, and that the doctrine of indivisible points is also liable to unanswerable objections. before i examine these arguments and objections in detail, i will here take them in a body, and endeavour by a short and decisive reason to prove at once, that it is utterly impossible they can have any just foundation. it is an established maxim in metaphysics, that whatever the mind clearly conceives, includes the idea of possible existence, or in other words, that nothing we imagine is absolutely impossible. we can form the idea of a golden mountain, and from thence conclude that such a mountain may actually exist. we can form no idea of a mountain without a valley, and therefore regard it as impossible. now it is certain we have an idea of extension; for otherwise why do we talk and reason concerning it? it is likewise certain that this idea, as conceived by the imagination, though divisible into parts or inferior ideas, is not infinitely divisible, nor consists of an infinite number of parts: for that exceeds the comprehension of our limited capacities. here then is an idea of extension, which consists of parts or inferior ideas, that are perfectly, indivisible: consequently this idea implies no contradiction: consequently it is possible for extension really to exist conformable to it: and consequently all the arguments employed against the possibility of mathematical points are mere scholastick quibbles, and unworthy of our attention. these consequences we may carry one step farther, and conclude that all the pretended demonstrations for the infinite divisibility of extension are equally sophistical; since it is certain these demonstrations cannot be just without proving the impossibility of mathematical points; which it is an evident absurdity to pretend to. sect. iii. of the other qualities of our idea of space and time. no discovery coued have been made more happily for deciding all controversies concerning ideas, than that abovementioned, that impressions always take the precedency of them, and that every idea, with which the imagination is furnished, first makes its appearance in a correspondent impression. these latter perceptions are all so clear and evident, that they admit of no controversy; though many of our ideas are so obscure, that it is almost impossible even for the mind, which forms them, to tell exactly their nature and composition. let us apply this principle, in order to discover farther the nature of our ideas of space and time. upon opening my eyes, and turning them to the surrounding objects, i perceive many visible bodies; and upon shutting them again, and considering the distance betwixt these bodies, i acquire the idea of extension. as every idea is derived from some impression, which is exactly similar to it, the impressions similar to this idea of extension, must either be some sensations derived from the sight, or some internal impressions arising from these sensations. our internal impressions are our passions, emotions, desires and aversions; none of which, i believe, will ever be asserted to be the model, from which the idea of space is derived. there remains therefore nothing but the senses, which can convey to us this original impression. now what impression do oar senses here convey to us? this is the principal question, and decides without appeal concerning the nature of the idea. the table before me is alone sufficient by its view to give me the idea of extension. this idea, then, is borrowed from, and represents some impression, which this moment appears to the senses. but my senses convey to me only the impressions of coloured points, disposed in a certain manner. if the eye is sensible of any thing farther, i desire it may be pointed out to me. but if it be impossible to shew any thing farther, we may conclude with certainty, that the idea of extension is nothing but a copy of these coloured points, and of the manner of their appearance. suppose that in the extended object, or composition of coloured points, from which we first received the idea of extension, the points were of a purple colour; it follows, that in every repetition of that idea we would not only place the points in the same order with respect to each other, but also bestow on them that precise colour, with which alone we are acquainted. but afterwards having experience of the other colours of violet, green, red, white, black, and of all the different compositions of these, and finding a resemblance in the disposition of coloured points, of which they are composed, we omit the peculiarities of colour, as far as possible, and found an abstract idea merely on that disposition of points, or manner of appearance, in which they agree. nay even when the resemblance is carryed beyond the objects of one sense, and the impressions of touch are found to be similar to those of sight in the disposition of their parts; this does not hinder the abstract idea from representing both, upon account of their resemblance. all abstract ideas are really nothing but particular ones, considered in a certain light; but being annexed to general terms, they are able to represent a vast variety, and to comprehend objects, which, as they are alike in some particulars, are in others vastly wide of each other. the idea of time, being derived from the succession of our perceptions of every kind, ideas as well as impressions, and impressions of reflection as well as of sensations will afford us an instance of an abstract idea, which comprehends a still greater variety than that of space, and yet is represented in the fancy by some particular individual idea of a determinate quantity and quality. as it is from the disposition of visible and tangible objects we receive the idea of space, so from the succession of ideas and impressions we form the idea of time, nor is it possible for time alone ever to make its appearance, or be taken notice of by the mind. a man in a sound sleep, or strongly occupyed with one thought, is insensible of time; and according as his perceptions succeed each other with greater or less rapidity, the same duration appears longer or shorter to his imagination. it has been remarked by a great philosopher, that our perceptions have certain bounds in this particular, which are fixed by the original nature and constitution of the mind, and beyond which no influence of external objects on the senses is ever able to hasten or retard our thought. if you wheel about a burning coal with rapidity, it will present to the senses an image of a circle of fire; nor will there seem to be any interval of time betwixt its revolutions; meerly because it is impossible for our perceptions to succeed each other with the same rapidity, that motion may be communicated to external objects. wherever we have no successive perceptions, we have no notion of time, even though there be a real succession in the objects. from these phenomena, as well as from many others, we may conclude, that time cannot make its appearance to the mind, either alone, or attended with a steady unchangeable object, but is always discovered some perceivable succession of changeable objects. to confirm this we may add the following argument, which to me seems perfectly decisive and convincing. it is evident, that time or duration consists of different parts: for otherwise we coued not conceive a longer or shorter duration. it is also evident, that these parts are not co-existent: for that quality of the co-existence of parts belongs to extension, and is what distinguishes it from duration. now as time is composed of parts, that are not coexistent: an unchangeable object, since it produces none but coexistent impressions, produces none that can give us the idea of time; and consequently that idea must be derived from a succession of changeable objects, and time in its first appearance can never be severed from such a succession. having therefore found, that time in its first appearance to the mind is always conjoined with a succession of changeable objects, and that otherwise it can never fall under our notice, we must now examine whether it can be conceived without our conceiving any succession of objects, and whether it can alone form a distinct idea in the imagination. in order to know whether any objects, which are joined in impression, be inseparable in idea, we need only consider, if they be different from each other; in which case, it is plain they may be conceived apart. every thing, that is different is distinguishable: and everything, that is distinguishable, may be separated, according to the maxims above-explained. if on the contrary they be not different, they are not distinguishable: and if they be not distinguishable, they cannot be separated. but this is precisely the case with respect to time, compared with our successive perceptions. the idea of time is not derived from a particular impression mixed up with others, and plainly distinguishable from them; but arises altogether from the manner, in which impressions appear to the mind, without making one of the number. five notes played on a flute give us the impression and idea of time; though time be not a sixth impression, which presents itself to the hearing or any other of the senses. nor is it a sixth impression, which the mind by reflection finds in itself. these five sounds making their appearance in this particular manner, excite no emotion in the mind, nor produce an affection of any kind, which being observed by it can give rise to a new idea. for that is necessary to produce a new idea of reflection, nor can the mind, by revolving over a thousand times all its ideas of sensation, ever extract from them any new original idea, unless nature has so framed its faculties, that it feels some new original impression arise from such a contemplation. but here it only takes notice of the manner, in which the different sounds make their appearance; and that it may afterwards consider without considering these particular sounds, but may conjoin it with any other objects. the ideas of some objects it certainly must have, nor is it possible for it without these ideas ever to arrive at any conception of time; which since it, appears not as any primary distinct impression, can plainly be nothing but different ideas, or impressions, or objects disposed in a certain manner, that is, succeeding each other. i know there are some who pretend, that the idea of duration is applicable in a proper sense to objects, which are perfectly unchangeable; and this i take to be the common opinion of philosophers as well as of the vulgar. but to be convinced of its falsehood we need but reflect on the foregoing conclusion, that the idea of duration is always derived from a succession of changeable objects, and can never be conveyed to the mind by any thing stedfast and unchangeable. for it inevitably follows from thence, that since the idea of duration cannot be derived from such an object, it can never-in any propriety or exactness be applied to it, nor can any thing unchangeable be ever said to have duration. ideas always represent the objects or impressions, from which they are derived, and can never without a fiction represent or be applied to any other. by what fiction we apply the idea of time, even to what is unchangeable, and suppose, as is common, that duration is a measure of rest as well as of motion, we shall consider [sect .] afterwards. there is another very decisive argument, which establishes the present doctrine concerning our ideas of space and time, and is founded only on that simple principle, that our ideas of them are compounded of parts, which are indivisible. this argument may be worth the examining. every idea, that is distinguishable, being also separable, let us take one of those simple indivisible ideas, of which the compound one of extension is formed, and separating it from all others, and considering it apart, let us form a judgment of its nature and qualities. it is plain it is not the idea of extension. for the idea of extension consists of parts; and this idea, according to t-he supposition, is perfectly simple and indivisible. is it therefore nothing? that is absolutely impossible. for as the compound idea of extension, which is real, is composed of such ideas; were these so many non-entities, there would be a real existence composed of non-entities; which is absurd. here therefore i must ask, what is our idea of a simple and indivisible point? no wonder if my answer appear somewhat new, since the question itself has scarce ever yet been thought of. we are wont to dispute concerning the nature of mathematical points, but seldom concerning the nature of their ideas. the idea of space is conveyed to the mind by two senses, the sight and touch; nor does anything ever appear extended, that is not either visible or tangible. that compound impression, which represents extension, consists of several lesser impressions, that are indivisible to the eye or feeling, and may be called impressions of atoms or corpuscles endowed with colour and solidity. but this is not all. it is not only requisite, that these atoms should be coloured or tangible, in order to discover themselves to our senses; it is also necessary we should preserve the idea of their colour or tangibility in order to comprehend them by our imagination. there is nothing but the idea of their colour or tangibility, which can render them conceivable by the mind. upon the removal of the ideas of these sensible qualities, they are utterly annihilated to the thought or imagination. now such as the parts are, such is the whole. if a point be not considered as coloured or tangible, it can convey to us no idea; and consequently the idea of extension, which is composed of the ideas of these points, can never possibly exist. but if the idea of extension really can exist, as we are conscious it does, its parts must also exist; and in order to that, must be considered as coloured or tangible. we have therefore no idea of space or extension, but when we regard it as an object either of our sight or feeling. the same reasoning will prove, that the indivisible moments of time must be filled with some real object or existence, whose succession forms the duration, and makes it be conceivable by the mind. sect. iv. objections answered. our system concerning space and time consists of two parts, which are intimately connected together. the first depends on this chain of reasoning. the capacity of the mind is not infinite; consequently no idea of extension or duration consists of an infinite number of parts or inferior ideas, but of a finite number, and these simple and indivisible: it is therefore possible for space and time to exist conformable to this idea: and if it be possible, it is certain they actually do exist conformable to it; since their infinite divisibility is utterly impossible and contradictory. the other part of our system is a consequence of this. the parts, into which the ideas of space and time resolve themselves, become at last indivisible; and these indivisible parts, being nothing in themselves, are inconceivable when not filled with something real and existent. the ideas of space and time are therefore no separate or distinct ideas, but merely those of the manner or order, in which objects exist: or in other words, it is impossible to conceive either a vacuum and extension without matter, or a time, when there was no succession or change in any real existence. the intimate connexion betwixt these parts of our system is the reason why we shall examine together the objections, which have been urged against both of them, beginning with those against the finite divisibility of extension. i. the first of these objections, which i shall take notice of, is more proper to prove this connexion and dependence of the one part upon the other, than to destroy either of them. it has often been maintained in the schools, that extension must be divisible, in infinitum, because the system of mathematical points is absurd; and that system is absurd, because a mathematical point is a non-entity, and consequently can never by its conjunction with others form a real existence. this would be perfectly decisive, were there no medium betwixt the infinite divisibility of matter, and the non-entity of mathematical points. but there is evidently a medium, viz. the bestowing a colour or solidity on these points; and the absurdity of both the extremes is a demonstration of the truth and reality of this medium. the system of physical points, which is another medium, is too absurd to need a refutation. a real extension, such as a physical point is supposed to be, can never exist without parts, different from each other; and wherever objects are different, they are distinguishable and separable by the imagination. ii. the second objection is derived from the necessity there would be of penetration, if extension consisted of mathematical points. a simple and indivisible atom, that touches another, must necessarily penetrate it; for it is impossible it can touch it by its external parts, from the very supposition of its perfect simplicity, which excludes all parts. it must therefore touch it intimately, and in its whole essence, secundum se, tota, et totaliter; which is the very definition of penetration. but penetration is impossible: mathematical points are of consequence equally impossible. i answer this objection by substituting a juster idea of penetration. suppose two bodies containing no void within their circumference, to approach each other, and to unite in such a manner that the body, which results from their union, is no more extended than either of them; it is this we must mean when we talk of penetration. but it is evident this penetration is nothing but the annihilation of one of these bodies, and the preservation of the other, without our being able to distinguish particularly which is preserved and which annihilated. before the approach we have the idea of two bodies. after it we have the idea only of one. it is impossible for the mind to preserve any notion of difference betwixt two bodies of the same nature existing in the same place at the same time. taking then penetration in this sense, for the annihilation of one body upon its approach to another, i ask any one, if he sees a necessity, that a coloured or tangible point should be annihilated upon the approach of another coloured or tangible point? on the contrary, does he not evidently perceive, that from the union of these points there results an object, which is compounded and divisible, and may be distinguished into two parts, of which each preserves its existence distinct and separate, notwithstanding its contiguity to the other? let him aid his fancy by conceiving these points to be of different colours, the better to prevent their coalition and confusion. a blue and a red point may surely lie contiguous without any penetration or annihilation. for if they cannot, what possibly can become of them? whether shall the red or the blue be annihilated? or if these colours unite into one, what new colour will they produce by their union? what chiefly gives rise to these objections, and at the same time renders it so difficult to give a satisfactory answer to them, is the natural infirmity and unsteadiness both of our imagination and senses, when employed on such minute objects. put a spot of ink upon paper, and retire to such a distance, that the spot becomes altogether invisible; you will find, that upon your return and nearer approach the spot first becomes visible by short intervals; and afterwards becomes always visible; and afterwards acquires only a new force in its colouring without augmenting its bulk; and afterwards, when it has encreased to such a degree as to be really extended, it is still difficult for the imagination to break it into its component parts, because of the uneasiness it finds in the conception of such a minute object as a single point. this infirmity affects most of our reasonings on the present subject, and makes it almost impossible to answer in an intelligible manner, and in proper expressions, many questions which may arise concerning it. iii. there have been many objections drawn from the mathematics against the indivisibility of the parts of extension: though at first sight that science seems rather favourable to the present doctrine; and if it be contrary in its demonstrations, it is perfectly conformable in its definitions. my present business then must be to defend the definitions, and refute the demonstrations. a surface is defined to be length and breadth without depth: a line to be length without breadth or depth: a point to be what has neither length, breadth nor depth. it is evident that all this is perfectly unintelligible upon any other supposition than that of the composition of extension by indivisible points or atoms. how else coued any thing exist without length, without breadth, or without depth? two different answers, i find, have been made to this argument; neither of which is in my opinion satisfactory. the first is, that the objects of geometry, those surfaces, lines and points, whose proportions and positions it examines, are mere ideas in the mind; i and not only never did, but never can exist in nature. they never did exist; for no one will pretend to draw a line or make a surface entirely conformable to the definition: they never can exist; for we may produce demonstrations from these very ideas to prove, that they are impossible. but can anything be imagined more absurd and contradictory than this reasoning? whatever can be conceived by a clear and distinct idea necessarily implies the possibility of existence; and he who pretends to prove the impossibility of its existence by any argument derived from the clear idea, in reality asserts, that we have no clear idea of it, because we have a clear idea. it is in vain to search for a contradiction in any thing that is distinctly conceived by the mind. did it imply any contradiction, it is impossible it coued ever be conceived. there is therefore no medium betwixt allowing at least the possibility of indivisible points, and denying their idea; and it is on this latter principle, that the second answer to the foregoing argument is founded. it has been pretended [l'art de penser.], that though it be impossible to conceive a length without any breadth, yet by an abstraction without a separation, we can consider the one without regarding the other; in the same manner as we may think of the length of the way betwixt two towns, and overlook its breadth. the length is inseparable from the breadth both in nature and in our minds; but this excludes not a partial consideration, and a distinction of reason, after the manner above explained. in refuting this answer i shall not insist on the argument, which i have already sufficiently explained, that if it be impossible for the mind to arrive at a minimum in its ideas, its capacity must be infinite, in order to comprehend the infinite number of parts, of which its idea of any extension would be composed. i shall here endeavour to find some new absurdities in this reasoning. a surface terminates a solid; a line terminates a surface; a point terminates a line; but i assert, that if the ideas of a point, line or surface were not indivisible, it is impossible we should ever conceive these terminations: for let these ideas be supposed infinitely divisible; and then let the fancy endeavour to fix itself on the idea of the last surface, line or point; it immediately finds this idea to break into parts; and upon its seizing the last of these parts, it loses its hold by a new division, and so on in infinitum, without any possibility of its arriving at a concluding idea. the number of fractions bring it no nearer the last division, than the first idea it formed. every particle eludes the grasp by a new fraction; like quicksilver, when we endeavour to seize it. but as in fact there must be something, which terminates the idea of every finite quantity; and as this terminating idea cannot itself consist of parts or inferior ideas; otherwise it would be the last of its parts, which finished the idea, and so on; this is a clear proof, that the ideas of surfaces, lines and points admit not of any division; those of surfaces in depth; of lines in breadth and depth; and of points in any dimension. the school were so sensible of the force of this argument, that some of them maintained, that nature has mixed among those particles of matter, which are divisible in infinitum, a number of mathematical points, in order to give a termination to bodies; and others eluded the force of this reasoning by a heap of unintelligible cavils and distinctions. both these adversaries equally yield the victory. a man who hides himself, confesses as evidently the superiority of his enemy, as another, who fairly delivers his arms. thus it appears, that the definitions of mathematics destroy the pretended demonstrations; and that if we have the idea of indivisible points, lines and surfaces conformable to the definition, their existence is certainly possible: but if we have no such idea, it is impossible we can ever conceive the termination of any figure; without which conception there can be no geometrical demonstration. but i go farther, and maintain, that none of these demonstrations can have sufficient weight to establish such a principle, as this of infinite divisibility; and that because with regard to such minute objects, they are not properly demonstrations, being built on ideas, which are not exact, and maxims, which are not precisely true. when geometry decides anything concerning the proportions of quantity, we ought not to look for the utmost precision and exactness. none of its proofs extend so far. it takes the dimensions and proportions of figures justly; but roughly, and with some liberty. its errors are never considerable; nor would it err at all, did it not aspire to such an absolute perfection. i first ask mathematicians, what they mean when they say one line or surface is equal to, or greater or less than another? let any of them give an answer, to whatever sect he belongs, and whether he maintains the composition of extension by indivisible points, or by quantities divisible in infinitum. this question will embarrass both of them. there are few or no mathematicians, who defend the hypothesis of indivisible points; and yet these have the readiest and justest answer to the present question. they need only reply, that lines or surfaces are equal, when the numbers of points in each are equal; and that as the proportion of the numbers varies, the proportion of the lines and surfaces is also varyed. but though this answer be just, as well as obvious; yet i may affirm, that this standard of equality is entirely useless, and that it never is from such a comparison we determine objects to be equal or unequal with respect to each other. for as the points, which enter into the composition of any line or surface, whether perceived by the sight or touch, are so minute and so confounded with each other, that it is utterly impossible for the mind to compute their number, such a computation will never afford us a standard by which we may judge of proportions. no one will ever be able to determine by an exact numeration, that an inch has fewer points than a foot, or a foot fewer than an ell or any greater measure: for which reason we seldom or never consider this as the standard of equality or inequality. as to those, who imagine, that extension is divisible in infinitum, it is impossible they can make use of this answer, or fix the equality of any line or surface by a numeration of its component parts. for since, according to their hypothesis, the least as well as greatest figures contain an infinite number of parts; and since infinite numbers, properly speaking, can neither be equal nor unequal with respect to each other; the equality or inequality of any portions of space can never depend on any proportion in the number of their parts. it is true, it may be said, that the inequality of an ell and a yard consists in the different numbers of the feet, of which they are composed; and that of a foot and a yard in the number of the inches. but as that quantity we call an inch in the one is supposed equal to what we call an inch in the other, and as it is impossible for the mind to find this equality by proceeding in infinitum with these references to inferior quantities: it is evident, that at last we must fix some standard of equality different from an enumeration of the parts. there are some [see dr. barrow's mathematical lectures.], who pretend, that equality is best defined by congruity, and that any two figures are equal, when upon the placing of one upon the other, all their parts correspond to and touch each other. in order to judge of this definition let us consider, that since equality is a relation, it is not, strictly speaking, a property in the figures themselves, but arises merely from the comparison, which the mind makes betwixt them. if it consists, therefore, in this imaginary application and mutual contact of parts, we must at least have a distinct notion of these parts, and must conceive their contact. now it is plain, that in this conception we would run up these parts to the greatest minuteness, which can possibly be conceived; since the contact of large parts would never render the figures equal. but the minutest parts we can conceive are mathematical points; and consequently this standard of equality is the same with that derived from the equality of the number of points; which we have already determined to be a just but an useless standard. we must therefore look to some other quarter for a solution of the present difficulty. there are many philosophers, who refuse to assign any standard of equality, but assert, that it is sufficient to present two objects, that are equal, in order to give us a just notion of this proportion. all definitions, say they, are fruitless, without the perception of such objects; and where we perceive such objects, we no longer stand in need of any definition. to this reasoning, i entirely agree; and assert, that the only useful notion of equality, or inequality, is derived from the whole united appearance and the comparison of particular objects. it is evident, that the eye, or rather the mind is often able at one view to determine the proportions of bodies, and pronounce them equal to, or greater or less than each other, without examining or comparing the number of their minute parts. such judgments are not only common, but in many cases certain and infallible. when the measure of a yard and that of a foot are presented, the mind can no more question, that the first is longer than the second, than it can doubt of those principles, which are the most clear and self-evident. there are therefore three proportions, which the mind distinguishes in the general appearance of its objects, and calls by the names of greater, less and equal. but though its decisions concerning these proportions be sometimes infallible, they are not always so; nor are our judgments of this kind more exempt from doubt and error than those on any other subject. we frequently correct our first opinion by a review and reflection; and pronounce those objects to be equal, which at first we esteemed unequal; and regard an object as less, though before it appeared greater than another. nor is this the only correction, which these judgments of our senses undergo; but we often discover our error by a juxtaposition of the objects; or where that is impracticable, by the use of some common and invariable measure, which being successively applied to each, informs us of their different proportions. and even this correction is susceptible of a new correction, and of different degrees of exactness, according to the nature of the instrument, by which we measure the bodies, and the care which we employ in the comparison. when therefore the mind is accustomed to these judgments and their corrections, and finds that the same proportion which makes two figures have in the eye that appearance, which we call equality, makes them also correspond to each other, and to any common measure, with which they are compared, we form a mixed notion of equality derived both from the looser and stricter methods of comparison. but we are not content with this. for as sound reason convinces us that there are bodies vastly more minute than those, which appear to the senses; and as a false reason would perswade us, that there are bodies infinitely more minute; we clearly perceive, that we are not possessed of any instrument or art of measuring, which can secure us from ill error and uncertainty. we are sensible, that the addition or removal of one of these minute parts, is not discernible either in the appearance or measuring; and as we imagine, that two figures, which were equal before, cannot be equal after this removal or addition, we therefore suppose some imaginary standard of equality, by which the appearances and measuring are exactly corrected, and the figures reduced entirely to that proportion. this standard is plainly imaginary. for as the very idea of equality is that of such a particular appearance corrected by juxtaposition or a common measure. the notion of any correction beyond what we have instruments and art to make, is a mere fiction of the mind, and useless as well as incomprehensible. but though this standard be only imaginary, the fiction however is very natural; nor is anything more usual, than for the mind to proceed after this manner with any action, even after the reason has ceased, which first determined it to begin. this appears very conspicuously with regard to time; where though it is evident we have no exact method of determining the proportions of parts, not even so exact as in extension, yet the various corrections of our measures, and their different degrees of exactness, have given as an obscure and implicit notion of a perfect and entire equality. the case is the same in many other subjects. a musician finding his ear becoming every day more delicate, and correcting himself by reflection and attention, proceeds with the same act of the mind, even when the subject fails him, and entertains a notion of a compleat tierce or octave, without being able to tell whence he derives his standard. a painter forms the same fiction with regard to colours. a mechanic with regard to motion. to the one light and shade; to the other swift and slow are imagined to be capable of an exact comparison and equality beyond the judgments of the senses. we may apply the same reasoning to curve and right lines. nothing is more apparent to the senses, than the distinction betwixt a curve and a right line; nor are there any ideas we more easily form than the ideas of these objects. but however easily we may form these ideas, it is impossible to produce any definition of them, which will fix the precise boundaries betwixt them. when we draw lines upon paper, or any continued surface, there is a certain order, by which the lines run along from one point to another, that they may produce the entire impression of a curve or right line; but this order is perfectly unknown, and nothing is observed but the united appearance. thus even upon the system of indivisible points, we can only form a distant notion of some unknown standard to these objects. upon that of infinite divisibility we cannot go even this length; but are reduced meerly to the general appearance, as the rule by which we determine lines to be either curve or right ones. but though we can give no perfect definition of these lines, nor produce any very exact method of distinguishing the one from the other; yet this hinders us not from correcting the first appearance by a more accurate consideration, and by a comparison with some rule, of whose rectitude from repeated trials we have a greater assurance. and it is from these corrections, and by carrying on the same action of the mind, even when its reason fails us, that we form the loose idea of a perfect standard to these figures, without being able to explain or comprehend it. it is true, mathematicians pretend they give an exact definition of a right line, when they say, it is the shortest way betwixt two points. but in the first place i observe, that this is more properly the discovery of one of the properties of a right line, than a just deflation of it. for i ask any one, if upon mention of a right line he thinks not immediately on such a particular appearance, and if it is not by accident only that he considers this property? a right line can be comprehended alone; but this definition is unintelligible without a comparison with other lines, which we conceive to be more extended. in common life it is established as a maxim, that the straightest way is always the shortest; which would be as absurd as to say, the shortest way is always the shortest, if our idea of a right line was not different from that of the shortest way betwixt two points. secondly, i repeat what i have already established, that we have no precise idea of equality and inequality, shorter and longer, more than of a right line or a curve; and consequently that the one can never afford us a perfect standard for the other. an exact idea can never be built on such as are loose and undetermined. the idea of a plain surface is as little susceptible of a precise standard as that of a right line; nor have we any other means of distinguishing such a surface, than its general appearance. it is in vain, that mathematicians represent a plain surface as produced by the flowing of a right line. it will immediately be objected, that our idea of a surface is as independent of this method of forming a surface, as our idea of an ellipse is of that of a cone; that the idea of a right line is no more precise than that of a plain surface; that a right line may flow irregularly, and by that means form a figure quite different from a plane; and that therefore we must suppose it to flow along two right lines, parallel to each other, and on the same plane; which is a description, that explains a thing by itself, and returns in a circle. it appears, then, that the ideas which are most essential to geometry, viz. those of equality and inequality, of a right line and a plain surface, are far from being exact and determinate, according to our common method of conceiving them. not only we are incapable of telling, if the case be in any degree doubtful, when such particular figures are equal; when such a line is a right one, and such a surface a plain one; but we can form no idea of that proportion, or of these figures, which is firm and invariable. our appeal is still to the weak and fallible judgment, which we make from the appearance of the objects, and correct by a compass or common measure; and if we join the supposition of any farther correction, it is of such-a-one as is either useless or imaginary. in vain should we have recourse to the common topic, and employ the supposition of a deity, whose omnipotence may enable him to form a perfect geometrical figure, and describe a right line without any curve or inflexion. as the ultimate standard of these figures is derived from nothing but the senses and imagination, it is absurd to talk of any perfection beyond what these faculties can judge of; since the true perfection of any thing consists in its conformity to its standard. now since these ideas are so loose and uncertain, i would fain ask any mathematician what infallible assurance he has, not only of the more intricate, and obscure propositions of his science, but of the most vulgar and obvious principles? how can he prove to me, for instance, that two right lines cannot have one common segment? or that it is impossible to draw more than one right line betwixt any two points? should he tell me, that these opinions are obviously absurd, and repugnant to our clear ideas; i would answer, that i do not deny, where two right lines incline upon each other with a sensible angle, but it is absurd to imagine them to have a common segment. but supposing these two lines to approach at the rate of an inch in twenty leagues, i perceive no absurdity in asserting, that upon their contact they become one. for, i beseech you, by what rule or standard do you judge, when you assert, that the line, in which i have supposed them to concur, cannot make the same right line with those two, that form so small an angle betwixt them? you must surely have some idea of a right line, to which this line does not agree. do you therefore mean that it takes not the points in the same order and by the same rule, as is peculiar and essential to a right line? if so, i must inform you, that besides that in judging after this manner you allow, that extension is composed of indivisible points (which, perhaps, is more than you intend) besides this, i say, i must inform you, that neither is this the standard from which we form the idea of a right line; nor, if it were, is there any such firmness in our senses or imagination, as to determine when such an order is violated or preserved. the original standard of a right line is in reality nothing but a certain general appearance; and it is evident right lines may be made to concur with each other, and yet correspond to this standard, though corrected by all the means either practicable or imaginable. to whatever side mathematicians turn, this dilemma still meets them. if they judge of equality, or any other proportion, by the accurate and exact standard, viz. the enumeration of the minute indivisible parts, they both employ a standard, which is useless in practice, and actually establish the indivisibility of extension, which they endeavour to explode. or if they employ, as is usual, the inaccurate standard, derived from a comparison of objects, upon their general appearance, corrected by measuring and juxtaposition; their first principles, though certain and infallible, are too coarse to afford any such subtile inferences as they commonly draw from them. the first principles are founded on the imagination and senses: the conclusion, therefore, can never go beyond, much less contradict these faculties. this may open our eyes a little, and let us see, that no geometrical demonstration for the infinite divisibility of extension can have so much force as what we naturally attribute to every argument, which is supported by such magnificent pretensions. at the same time we may learn the reason, why geometry falls of evidence in this single point, while all its other reasonings command our fullest assent and approbation. and indeed it seems more requisite to give the reason of this exception, than to shew, that we really must make such an exception, and regard all the mathematical arguments for infinite divisibility as utterly sophistical. for it is evident, that as no idea of quantity is infinitely divisible, there cannot be imagined a more glaring absurdity, than to endeavour to prove, that quantity itself admits of such a division; and to prove this by means of ideas, which are directly opposite in that particular. and as this absurdity is very glaring in itself, so there is no argument founded on it which is not attended with a new absurdity, and involves not an evident contradiction. i might give as instances those arguments for infinite divisibility, which are derived from the point of contact. i know there is no mathematician, who will not refuse to be judged by the diagrams he describes upon paper, these being loose draughts, as he will tell us, and serving only to convey with greater facility certain ideas, which are the true foundation of all our reasoning. this i am satisfyed with, and am willing to rest the controversy merely upon these ideas. i desire therefore our mathematician to form, as accurately as possible, the ideas of a circle and a right line; and i then ask, if upon the conception of their contact he can conceive them as touching in a mathematical point, or if he must necessarily imagine them to concur for some space. whichever side he chuses, he runs himself into equal difficulties. if he affirms, that in tracing these figures in his imagination, he can imagine them to touch only in a point, he allows the possibility of that idea, and consequently of the thing. if he says, that in his conception of the contact of those lines he must make them concur, he thereby acknowledges the fallacy of geometrical demonstrations, when carryed beyond a certain degree of minuteness; since it is certain he has such demonstrations against the concurrence of a circle and a right line; that is, in other words, he can prove an idea, viz. that of concurrence, to be incompatible with two other ideas, those of a circle and right line; though at the same time he acknowledges these ideas to be inseparable. sect. v. the same subject continued. if the second part of my system be true, that the idea of space or extension is nothing but the idea of visible or tangible points distributed in a certain order; it follows, that we can form no idea of a vacuum, or space, where there is nothing visible or tangible. this gives rise to three objections, which i shall examine together, because the answer i shall give to one is a consequence of that which i shall make use of for the others. first, it may be said, that men have disputed for many ages concerning a vacuum and a plenum, without being able to bring the affair to a final decision; and philosophers, even at this day, think themselves at liberty to take part on either side, as their fancy leads them. but whatever foundation there may be for a controversy concerning the things themselves, it may be pretended, that the very dispute is decisive concerning the idea, and that it is impossible men coued so long reason about a vacuum, and either refute or defend it, without having a notion of what they refuted or defended. secondly, if this argument should be contested, the reality or at least the possibility of the idea of a vacuum may be proved by the following reasoning. every idea is possible, which is a necessary and infallible consequence of such as are possible. now though we allow the world to be at present a plenum, we may easily conceive it to be deprived of motion; and this idea will certainly be allowed possible. it must also be allowed possible, to conceive the annihilation of any part of matter by the omnipotence of the deity, while the other parts remain at rest. for as every idea, that is distinguishable, is separable by the imagination; and as every idea, that is separable by the imagination, may be conceived to be separately existent; it is evident, that the existence of one particle of matter, no more implies the existence of another, than a square figure in one body implies a square figure in every one. this being granted, i now demand what results from the concurrence of these two possible ideas of rest and annihilation, and what must we conceive to follow upon the annihilation of all the air and subtile matter in the chamber, supposing the walls to remain the same, without any motion or alteration? there are some metaphysicians, who answer, that since matter and extension are the same, the annihilation of one necessarily implies that of the other; and there being now no distance betwixt the walls of the chamber, they touch each other; in the same manner as my hand touches the paper, which is immediately before me. but though this answer be very common, i defy these metaphysicians to conceive the matter according to their hypothesis, or imagine the floor and roof, with all the opposite sides of the chamber, to touch each other, while they continue in rest, and preserve the same position. for how can the two walls, that run from south to north, touch each other, while they touch the opposite ends of two walls, that run from east to west? and how can the floor and roof ever meet, while they are separated by the four walls, that lie in a contrary position? if you change their position, you suppose a motion. if you conceive any thing betwixt them, you suppose a new creation. but keeping strictly to the two ideas of rest and annihilation, it is evident, that the idea, which results from them, is not that of a contact of parts, but something else; which is concluded to be the idea of a vacuum. the third objection carries the matter still farther, and not only asserts, that the idea of a vacuum is real and possible, but also necessary and unavoidable. this assertion is founded on the motion we observe in bodies, which, it is maintained, would be impossible and inconceivable without a vacuum, into which one body must move in order to make way for another.. i shall not enlarge upon this objection, because it principally belongs to natural philosophy, which lies without our present sphere. in order to answer these objections, we must take the matter pretty deep, and consider the nature and origin of several ideas, lest we dispute without understanding perfectly the subject of the controversy. it is evident the idea of darkness is no positive idea, but merely the negation of light, or more properly speaking, of coloured and visible objects. a man, who enjoys his sight, receives no other perception from turning his eyes on every side, when entirely deprived of light, than what is common to him with one born blind; and it is certain such-a-one has no idea either of light or darkness. the consequence of this is, that it is not from the mere removal of visible objects we receive the impression of extension without matter; and that the idea of utter darkness can never be the same with that of vacuum. suppose again a man to be supported in the air, and to be softly conveyed along by some invisible power; it is evident he is sensible of nothing, and never receives the idea of extension, nor indeed any idea, from this invariable motion. even supposing he moves his limbs to and fro, this cannot convey to him that idea. he feels in that case a certain sensation or impression, the parts of which are successive to each other, and may give him the idea of time: but certainly are not disposed in such a manner, as is necessary to convey the idea of space or the idea of space or extension. since then it appears, that darkness and motion, with the utter removal of every thing visible and tangible, can never give us the idea of extension without matter, or of a vacuum; the next question is, whether they can convey this idea, when mixed with something visible and tangible? it is commonly allowed by philosophers, that all bodies, which discover themselves to the eye, appear as if painted on a plain surface, and that their different degrees of remoteness from ourselves are discovered more by reason than by the senses. when i hold up my hand before me, and spread my fingers, they are separated as perfectly by the blue colour of the firmament, as they coued be by any visible object, which i coued place betwixt them. in order, therefore, to know whether the sight can convey the impression and idea of a vacuum, we must suppose, that amidst an entire darkness, there are luminous bodies presented to us, whose light discovers only these bodies themselves, without giving us any impression of the surrounding objects. we must form a parallel supposition concerning the objects of our feeling. it is not proper to suppose a perfect removal of all tangible objects: we must allow something to be perceived by the feeling; and after an interval and motion of the hand or other organ of sensation, another object of the touch to be met with; and upon leaving that, another; and so on, as often as we please. the question is, whether these intervals do not afford us the idea of extension without body? to begin with the first case; it is evident, that when only two luminous bodies appear to the eye, we can perceive, whether they be conjoined or separate: whether they be separated by a great or small distance; and if this distance varies, we can perceive its increase or diminution, with the motion of the bodies. but as the distance is not in this case any thing coloured or visible, it may be thought that there is here a vacuum or pure extension, not only intelligible to the mind, but obvious to the very senses. this is our natural and most familiar way of thinking; but which we shall learn to correct by a little reflection. we may observe, that when two bodies present themselves, where there was formerly an entire darkness, the only change, that is discoverable, is in the appearance of these two objects, and that all the rest continues to be as before, a perfect negation of light, and of every coloured or visible object. this is not only true of what may be said to be remote from these bodies, but also of the very distance; which is interposed betwixt them; that being nothing but darkness, or the negation of light; without parts, without composition, invariable and indivisible. now since this distance causes no perception different from what a blind man receives from his eyes, or what is conveyed to us in the darkest night, it must partake of the same properties: and as blindness and darkness afford us no ideas of extension, it is impossible that the dark and undistinguishable distance betwixt two bodies can ever produce that idea. the sole difference betwixt an absolute darkness and the appearance of two or more visible luminous objects consists, as i said, in the objects themselves, and in the manner they affect our senses. the angles, which the rays of light flowing from them, form with each other; the motion that is required in the eye, in its passage from one to the other; and the different parts of the organs, which are affected by them; these produce the only perceptions, from which we can judge of the distance. but as these perceptions are each of them simple and indivisible, they can never give us the idea of extension. we may illustrate this by considering the sense of feeling, and the imaginary distance or interval interposed betwixt tangible or solid objects. i suppose two cases, viz. that of a man supported in the air, and moving his limbs to and fro, without meeting any thing tangible; and that of a man, who feeling something tangible, leaves it, and after a motion, of which he is sensible, perceives another tangible object; and i then ask, wherein consists the difference betwixt these two cases? no one will make any scruple to affirm, that it consists meerly in the perceiving those objects, and that the sensation, which arises from the motion, is in both cases the same: and as that sensation is not capable of conveying to us an idea of extension, when unaccompanyed with some other perception, it can no more give us that idea, when mixed with the impressions of tangible objects; since that mixture produces no alteration upon it. but though motion and darkness, either alone, or attended with tangible and visible objects, convey no idea of a vacuum or extension without matter, yet they are the causes why we falsly imagine we can form such an idea. for there is a close relation betwixt that motion and darkness, and a real extension, or composition of visible and tangible objects. first, we may observe, that two visible objects appearing in the midst of utter darkness, affect the senses in the same manner, and form the same angle by the rays, which flow from them, and meet in the eye, as if the distance betwixt them were find with visible objects, that give us a true idea of extension. the sensation of motion is likewise the same, when there is nothing tangible interposed betwixt two bodies, as when we feel a compounded body, whose different parts are placed beyond each other. secondly, we find by experience, that two bodies, which are so placed as to affect the senses in the same manner with two others, that have a certain extent of visible objects interposed betwixt them, are capable of receiving the same extent, without any sensible impulse or penetration, and without any change on that angle, under which they appear to the senses. in like manner, where there is one object, which we cannot feel after another without an interval, and the perceiving of that sensation we call motion in our hand or organ of sensation; experience shews us, that it is possible the same object may be felt with the same sensation of motion, along with the interposed impression of solid and tangible objects, attending the sensation. that is, in other words, an invisible and intangible distance may be converted into a visible and tangible one, without any change on the distant objects. thirdly, we may observe, as another relation betwixt these two kinds of distance, that they have nearly the same effects on every natural phaenomenon. for as all qualities, such as heat, cold, light, attraction, &c. diminish in proportion to the distance; there is but little difference observed, whether this distance be marled out by compounded and sensible objects, or be known only by the manner, in which the distant objects affect the senses. here then are three relations betwixt that distance, which conveys the idea of extension, and that other, which is not filled with any coloured or solid object. the distant objects affect the senses in the same manner, whether separated by the one distance or the other; the second species of distance is found capable of receiving the first; and they both equally diminish the force of every quality. these relations betwixt the two kinds of distance will afford us an easy reason, why the one has so often been taken for the other, and why we imagine we have an idea of extension without the idea of any object either of the sight or feeling. for we may establish it as a general maxim in this science of human nature, that wherever there is a close relation betwixt two ideas, the mind is very apt to mistake them, and in all its discourses and reasonings to use the one for the other. this phaenomenon occurs on so many occasions, and is of such consequence, that i cannot forbear stopping a moment to examine its causes. i shall only premise, that we must distinguish exactly betwixt the phaenomenon itself, and the causes, which i shall assign for it; and must not imagine from any uncertainty in the latter, that the former is also uncertain. the phaenomenon may be real, though my explication be chimerical. the falshood of the one is no consequence of that of the other; though at the same time we may observe, that it is very natural for us to draw such a consequence; which is an evident instance of that very principle, which i endeavour to explain. when i received the relations of resemblance, contiguity and causation, as principles of union among ideas, without examining into their causes, it was more in prosecution of my first maxim, that we must in the end rest contented with experience, than for want of something specious and plausible, which i might have displayed on that subject. it would have been easy to have made an imaginary dissection of the brain, and have shewn, why upon our conception of any idea, the animal spirits run into all the contiguous traces, and rouze up the other ideas, that are related to it. but though i have neglected any advantage, which i might have drawn from this topic in explaining the relations of ideas, i am afraid i must here have recourse to it, in order to account for the mistakes that arise from these relations. i shall therefore observe, that as the mind is endowed with a power of exciting any idea it pleases; whenever it dispatches the spirits into that region of the brain, in which the idea is placed; these spirits always excite the idea, when they run precisely into the proper traces, and rummage that cell, which belongs to the idea. but as their motion is seldom direct, and naturally turns a little to the one side or the other; for this reason the animal spirits, falling into the contiguous traces, present other related ideas in lieu of that, which the mind desired at first to survey. this change we are not always sensible of; but continuing still the same train of thought, make use of the related idea, which is presented to us, and employ it in our reasoning, as if it were the same with what we demanded. this is the cause of many mistakes and sophisms in philosophy; as will naturally be imagined, and as it would be easy to show, if there was occasion. of the three relations above-mentioned that of resemblance is the most fertile source of error; and indeed there are few mistakes in reasoning, which do not borrow largely from that origin. resembling ideas are not only related together, but the actions of the mind, which we employ in considering them, are so little different, that we are not able to distinguish them. this last circumstance is of great consequence, and we may in general observe, that wherever the actions of the mind in forming any two ideas are the same or resembling, we are very apt to confound these ideas, and take the one for the other. of this we shall see many instances in the progress of this treatise. but though resemblance be the relation, which most readily produces a mistake in ideas, yet the others of causation and contiguity may also concur in the same influence. we might produce the figures of poets and orators, as sufficient proofs of this, were it as usual, as it is reasonable, in metaphysical subjects to draw our arguments from that quarter. but lest metaphysicians should esteem this below their dignity, i shall borrow a proof from an observation, which may be made on most of their own discourses, viz. that it is usual for men to use words for ideas, and to talk instead of thinking in their reasonings. we use words for ideas, because they are commonly so closely connected that the mind easily mistakes them. and this likewise is the reason, why we substitute the idea of a distance, which is not considered either as visible or tangible, in the room of extension, which is nothing but a composition of visible or tangible points disposed in a certain order. in causing this mistake there concur both the relations of causation and resemblance. as the first species of distance is found to be convertible into the second, it is in this respect a kind of cause; and the similarity of their manner of affecting the senses, and diminishing every quality, forms the relation of resemblance. after this chain of reasoning and explication of my principles, i am now prepared to answer all the objections that have been offered, whether derived from metaphysics or mechanics. the frequent disputes concerning a vacuum, or extension without matter prove not the reality of the idea, upon which the dispute turns; there being nothing more common, than to see men deceive themselves in this particular; especially when by means of any close relation, there is another idea presented, which may be the occasion of their mistake. we may make almost the same answer to the second objection, derived from the conjunction of the ideas of rest and annihilation. when every thing is annihilated in the chamber, and the walls continue immoveable, the chamber must be conceived much in the same manner as at present, when the air that fills it, is not an object of the senses. this annihilation leaves to the eye, that fictitious distance, which is discovered by the different parts of the organ, that are affected, and by the degrees of light and shade;--and to the feeling, that which consists in a sensation of motion in the hand, or other member of the body. in vain should we. search any farther. on whichever side we turn this subject, we shall find that these are the only impressions such an object can produce after the supposed annihilation; and it has already been remarked, that impressions can give rise to no ideas, but to such as resemble them. since a body interposed betwixt two others may be supposed to be annihilated, without producing any change upon such as lie on each hand of it, it is easily conceived, how it may be created anew, and yet produce as little alteration. now the motion of a body has much the same effect as its creation. the distant bodies are no more affected in the one case, than in the other. this suffices to satisfy the imagination, and proves there is no repugnance in such a motion. afterwards experience comes in play to persuade us that two bodies, situated in the manner above-described, have really such a capacity of receiving body betwixt them, and that there is no obstacle to the conversion of the invisible and intangible distance into one that is visible and tangible. however natural that conversion may seem, we cannot be sure it is practicable, before we have had experience of it. thus i seem to have answered the three objections above-mentioned; though at the same time i am sensible, that few will be satisfyed with these answers, but will immediately propose new objections and difficulties. it will probably be said, that my reasoning makes nothing to the matter in hands and that i explain only the manner in which objects affect the senses, without endeavouring to account for their real nature and operations. though there be nothing visible or tangible interposed betwixt two bodies, yet we find by experience, that the bodies may be placed in the same manner, with regard to the eye, and require the same motion of the hand in passing from one to the other, as if divided by something visible and tangible. this invisible and intangible distance is also found by experience to contain a capacity of receiving body, or of becoming visible and tangible. here is the whole of my system; and in no part of it have i endeavoured to explain the cause, which separates bodies after this manner, and gives them a capacity of receiving others betwixt them, without any impulse or penetration. i answer this objection, by pleading guilty, and by confessing that my intention never was to penetrate into the nature of bodies, or explain the secret causes of their operations. for besides that this belongs not to my present purpose, i am afraid, that such an enterprise is beyond the reach of human understanding, and that we can never pretend to know body otherwise than by those external properties, which discover themselves to the senses. as to those who attempt any thing farther, i cannot approve of their ambition, till i see, in some one instance at least, that they have met with success. but at present i content myself with knowing perfectly the manner in which objects affect my senses, and their connections with each other, as far as experience informs me of them. this suffices for the conduct of life; and this also suffices for my philosophy, which pretends only to explain the nature and causes of our perceptions, or impressions and ideas [footnote .]. [footnote . as long as we confine our speculations to the appearances of objects to our senses, without entering into disquisitions concerning their real nature and operations, we are safe from all difficulties, and can never be embarrassed by any question. thus, if it be asked, if the invisible and intangible distance, interposed betwixt two objects, be something or nothing: it is easy to answer, that it is something, viz. a property of the objects, which affect the senses after such a particular manner. if it be asked whether two objects, having such a distance betwixt them, touch or not: it may be answered, that this depends upon the definition of the word, touch. if objects be said to touch, when there is nothing sensible interposed betwixt them, these objects touch: it objects be said to touch, when their images strike contiguous parts of the eye, and when the hand feels both objects successively, without any interposed motion, these objects do not touch. the appearances of objects to our senses are all consistent; and no difficulties can ever arise, but from the obscurity of the terms we make use of. if we carry our enquiry beyond the appearances of objects to the senses, i am afraid, that most of our conclusions will be full of scepticism and uncertainty. thus if it be asked, whether or not the invisible and intangible distance be always full of body, or of something that by an improvement of our organs might become visible or tangible, i must acknowledge, that i find no very decisive arguments on either side; though i am inclined to the contrary opinion, as being more suitable to vulgar and popular notions. if the newtonian philosophy be rightly understood, it will be found to mean no more. a vacuum is asserted: that is, bodies are said to be placed after such a manner, is to receive bodies betwixt them, without impulsion or penetration. the real nature of this position of bodies is unknown. we are only acquainted with its effects on the senses, and its power of receiving body. nothing is more suitable to that philosophy, than a modest scepticism to a certain degree, and a fair confession of ignorance in subjects, that exceed all human capacity.] i shall conclude this subject of extension with a paradox, which will easily be explained from the foregoing reasoning. this paradox is, that if you are pleased to give to the in-visible and intangible distance, or in other words, to the capacity of becoming a visible and tangible distance, the name of a vacuum, extension and matter are the same, and yet there is a vacuum. if you will not give it that name, motion is possible in a plenum, without any impulse in infinitum, without returning in a circle, and without penetration. but however we may express ourselves, we must always confess, that we have no idea of any real extension without filling it with sensible objects, and conceiving its parts as visible or tangible. as to the doctrine, that time is nothing but the manner, in which some real objects exist; we may observe, that it is liable to the same objections as the similar doctrine with regard to extension. if it be a sufficient proof, that we have the idea of a vacuum, because we dispute and reason concerning it; we must for the same reason have the idea of time without any changeable existence; since there is no subject of dispute more frequent and common. but that we really have no such idea, is certain. for whence should it be derived? does it arise from an impression of sensation or of reflection? point it out distinctly to us, that we may know its nature and qualities. but if you cannot point out any such impression, you may be certain you are mistaken, when you imagine you have any such idea. but though it be impossible to shew the impression, from which the idea of time without a changeable existence is derived; yet we can easily point out those appearances, which make us fancy we have that idea. for we may observe, that there is a continual succession of perceptions in our mind; so that the idea of time being for ever present with us; when we consider a stedfast object at five-a-clock, and regard the same at six; we are apt to apply to it that idea in the same manner as if every moment were distinguished by a different position, or an alteration of the object. the first and second appearances of the object, being compared with the succession of our perceptions, seem equally removed as if the object had really changed. to which we may add, what experience shews us, that the object was susceptible of such a number of changes betwixt these appearances; as also that the unchangeable or rather fictitious duration has the same effect upon every quality, by encreasing or diminishing it, as that succession, which is obvious to the senses. from these three relations we are apt to confound our ideas, and imagine we can form the idea of a time and duration, without any change or succession. sect. vi. of the idea of existence, and of external existence. it may not be amiss, before we leave this subject, to explain the ideas of existence and of external existence; which have their difficulties, as well as the ideas of space and time. by this means we shall be the better prepared for the examination of knowledge and probability, when we understand perfectly all those particular ideas, which may enter into our reasoning. there is no impression nor idea of any kind, of which we have any consciousness or memory, that is not conceived as existent; and it is evident, that from this consciousness the most perfect idea and assurance of being is derived. from hence we may form a dilemma, the most clear and conclusive that can be imagined, viz. that since we never remember any idea or impression without attributing existence to it, the idea of existence must either be derived from a distinct impression, conjoined with every perception or object of our thought, or must be the very same with the idea of the perception or object. as this dilemma is an evident consequence of the principle, that every idea arises from a similar impression, so our decision betwixt the propositions of the dilemma is no more doubtful. so far from there being any distinct impression, attending every impression and every idea, that i do not think there are any two distinct impressions, which are inseparably conjoined. though certain sensations may at one time be united, we quickly find they admit of a separation, and may be presented apart. and thus, though every impression and idea we remember be considered as existent, the idea of existence is not derived from any particular impression. the idea of existence, then, is the very same with the idea of what we conceive to be existent. to reflect on any thing simply, and to reflect on it as existent, are nothing different from each other. that idea, when conjoined with the idea of any object, makes no addition to it. whatever we conceive, we conceive to be existent. any idea we please to form is the idea of a being; and the idea of a being is any idea we please to form. whoever opposes this, must necessarily point out that distinct impression, from which the idea of entity is derived, and must prove, that this impression is inseparable from every perception we believe to be existent. this we may without hesitation conclude to be impossible. our foregoing reasoning [part i. sect. .] concerning the distinction of ideas without any real difference will not here serve us in any stead. that kind of distinction is founded on the different resemblances, which the same simple idea may have to several different ideas. but no object can be presented resembling some object with respect to its existence, and different from others in the same particular; since every object, that is presented, must necessarily be existent. a like reasoning will account for the idea of external existence. we may observe, that it is universally allowed by philosophers, and is besides pretty obvious of itself, that nothing is ever really present with the mind but its perceptions or impressions and ideas, and that external objects become known to us only by those perceptions they occasion. to hate, to love, to think, to feel, to see; all this is nothing but to perceive. now since nothing is ever present to the mind but perceptions, and since all ideas are derived from something antecedently present to the mind; it follows, that it is impossible for us so much as to conceive or form an idea of any thing specifically different from ideas and impressions. let us fix our attention out of ourselves as much as possible: let us chase our imagination to the heavens, or to the utmost limits of the universe; we never really advance a step beyond ourselves, nor can conceive any kind of existence, but those perceptions, which have appeared in that narrow compass. this is the universe of the imagination, nor have we any idea but what is there produced. the farthest we can go towards a conception of external objects, when supposed specifically different from our perceptions, is to form a relative idea of them, without pretending to comprehend the related objects. generally speaking we do not suppose them specifically different; but only attribute to them different relations, connections and durations. but of this more fully hereafter.[part iv, sect. .] part iii. of knowledge and probability. sect. i. of knowledge. there are seven [part i. sect. .] different kinds of philosophical relation, viz. resemblance, identity, relations of time and place, proportion in quantity or number, degrees in any quality, contrariety and causation. these relations may be divided into two classes; into such as depend entirely on the ideas, which we compare together, and such as may be changed without any change in the ideas. it is from the idea of a triangle, that we discover the relation of equality, which its three angles bear to two right ones; and this relation is invariable, as long as our idea remains the same. on the contrary, the relations of contiguity and distance betwixt two objects may be changed merely by an alteration of their place, without any change on the objects themselves or on their ideas; and the place depends on a hundred different accidents, which cannot be foreseen by the mind. it is the same case with identity and causation. two objects, though perfectly resembling each other, and even appearing in the same place at different times, may be numerically different: and as the power, by which one object produces another, is never discoverable merely from their idea, it is evident cause and effect are relations, of which we receive information from experience, and not from any abstract reasoning or reflection. there is no single phaenomenon, even the most simple, which can be accounted for from the qualities of the objects, as they appear to us; or which we coued foresee without the help of our memory and experience. it appears, therefore, that of these seven philosophical relations, there remain only four, which depending solely upon ideas, can be the objects of knowledge and certainty. these four are resemblance, contrariety, degrees in quality, and proportions in quantity or number. three of these relations are discoverable at first sight, and fall more properly under the province of intuition than demonstration. when any objects resemble each other, the resemblance will at first strike the eye, or rather the mind; and seldom requires a second examination. the case is the same with contrariety, and with the degrees of any quality. no one can once doubt but existence and non-existence destroy each other, and are perfectly incompatible and contrary. and though it be impossible to judge exactly of the degrees of any quality, such as colour, taste, heat, cold, when the difference betwixt them is very small: yet it is easy to decide, that any of them is superior or inferior to another, when their difference is considerable. and this decision we always pronounce at first sight, without any enquiry or reasoning. we might proceed, after the same manner, in fixing the proportions of quantity or number, and might at one view observe a superiority or inferiority betwixt any numbers, or figures; especially where the difference is very great and remarkable. as to equality or any exact proportion, we can only guess at it from a single consideration; except in very short numbers, or very limited portions of extension; which are comprehended in an instant, and where we perceive an impossibility of falling into any considerable error. in all other cases we must settle the proportions with some liberty, or proceed in a more artificial manner. i have already observed, that geometry, or the art, by which we fix the proportions of figures; though it much excels both in universality and exactness, the loose judgments of the senses and imagination; yet never attains a perfect precision and exactness. it's first principles are still drawn from the general appearance of the objects; and that appearance can never afford us any security, when we examine, the prodigious minuteness of which nature is susceptible. our ideas seem to give a perfect assurance, that no two right lines can have a common segment; but if we consider these ideas, we shall find, that they always suppose a sensible inclination of the two lines, and that where the angle they form is extremely small, we have no standard of a i @ right line so precise as to assure us of the truth of this proposition. it is the same case with most of the primary decisions of the mathematics. there remain, therefore, algebra and arithmetic as the only sciences, in which we can carry on a chain of reasoning to any degree of intricacy, and yet preserve a perfect exactness and certainty. we are possest of a precise standard, by which we can judge of the equality and proportion of numbers; and according as they correspond or not to that standard, we determine their relations, without any possibility of error. when two numbers are so combined, as that the one has always an unite answering to every unite of the other, we pronounce them equal; and it is for want of such a standard of equality in extension, that geometry can scarce be esteemed a perfect and infallible science. but here it may not be amiss to obviate a difficulty, which may arise from my asserting, that though geometry falls short of that perfect precision and certainty, which are peculiar to arithmetic and algebra, yet it excels the imperfect judgments of our senses and imagination. the reason why i impute any defect to geometry, is, because its original and fundamental principles are derived merely from appearances; and it may perhaps be imagined, that this defect must always attend it, and keep it from ever reaching a greater exactness in the comparison of objects or ideas, than what our eye or imagination alone is able to attain. i own that this defect so far attends it, as to keep it from ever aspiring to a full certainty: but since these fundamental principles depend on the easiest and least deceitful appearances, they bestow on their consequences a degree of exactness, of which these consequences are singly incapable. it is impossible for the eye to determine the angles of a chiliagon to be equal to right angles, or make any conjecture, that approaches this proportion; but when it determines, that right lines cannot concur; that we cannot draw more than one right line between two given points; it's mistakes can never be of any consequence. and this is the nature and use of geometry, to run us up to such appearances, as, by reason of their simplicity, cannot lead us into any considerable error. i shall here take occasion to propose a second observation concerning our demonstrative reasonings, which is suggested by the same subject of the mathematics. it is usual with mathematicians, to pretend, that those ideas, which are their objects, are of so refined and spiritual a nature, that they fall not under the conception of the fancy, but must be comprehended by a pure and intellectual view, of which the superior faculties of the soul are alone capable. the same notion runs through most parts of philosophy, and is principally made use of to explain oar abstract ideas, and to shew how we can form an idea of a triangle, for instance, which shall neither be an isoceles nor scalenum, nor be confined to any particular length and proportion of sides. it is easy to see, why philosophers are so fond of this notion of some spiritual and refined perceptions; since by that means they cover many of their absurdities, and may refuse to submit to the decisions of clear ideas, by appealing to such as are obscure and uncertain. but to destroy this artifice, we need but reflect on that principle so oft insisted on, that all our ideas are copyed from our impressions. for from thence we may immediately conclude, that since all impressions are clear and precise, the ideas, which are copyed from them, must be of the same nature, and can never, but from our fault, contain any thing so dark and intricate. an idea is by its very nature weaker and fainter than an impression; but being in every other respect the same, cannot imply any very great mystery. if its weakness render it obscure, it is our business to remedy that defect, as much as possible, by keeping the idea steady and precise; and till we have done so, it is in vain to pretend to reasoning and philosophy. sect. ii. of probability, and of the idea of cause and effect. this is all i think necessary to observe concerning those four relations, which are the foundation of science; but as to the other three, which depend not upon the idea, and may be absent or present even while that remains the same, it will be proper to explain them more particularly. these three relations are identity, the situations in time and place, and causation. all kinds of reasoning consist in nothing but a comparison, and a discovery of those relations, either constant or inconstant, which two or more objects bear to each other. this comparison we may make, either when both the objects are present to the senses, or when neither of them is present, or when only one. when both the objects are present to the senses along with the relation, we call this perception rather than reasoning; nor is there in this case any exercise of the thought, or any action, properly speaking, but a mere passive admission of the impressions through the organs of sensation. according to this way of thinking, we ought not to receive as reasoning any of the observations we may make concerning identity, and the relations of time and place; since in none of them the mind can go beyond what is immediately present to the senses, either to discover the real existence or the relations of objects. it is only causation, which produces such a connexion, as to give us assurance from the existence or action of one object, that it was followed or preceded by any other existence or action; nor can the other two relations be ever made use of in reasoning, except so far as they either affect or are affected by it. there is nothing in any objects to perswade us, that they are either always remote or always contiguous; and when from experience and observation we discover, that their relation in this particular is invariable, we, always conclude there is some secret cause, which separates or unites them. the same reasoning extends to identity. we readily suppose an object may continue individually the same, though several times absent from and present to the senses; and ascribe to it an identity, notwithstanding the interruption of the perception, whenever we conclude, that if we had kept our eye or hand constantly upon it, it would have conveyed an invariable and uninterrupted perception. but this conclusion beyond the impressions of our senses can be founded only on the connexion of cause and effect; nor can we otherwise have any security, that the object is not changed upon us, however much the new object may resemble that which was formerly present to the senses. whenever we discover such a perfect resemblance, we consider, whether it be common in that species of objects; whether possibly or probably any cause coued operate in producing the change and resemblance; and according as we determine concerning these causes and effects, we form our judgment concerning the identity of the object. here then it appears, that of those three relations, which depend not upon the mere ideas, the only one, that can be traced beyond our senses and informs us of existences and objects, which we do not see or feel, is causation. this relation, therefore, we shall endeavour to explain fully before we leave the subject of the understanding. to begin regularly, we must consider the idea of causation, and see from what origin it is derived. it is impossible to reason justly, without understanding perfectly the idea concerning which we reason; and it is impossible perfectly to understand any idea, without tracing it up to its origin, and examining that primary impression, from which it arises. the examination of the impression bestows a clearness on the idea; and the examination of the idea bestows a like clearness on all our reasoning. let us therefore cast our eye on any two objects, which we call cause and effect, and turn them on all sides, in order to find that impression, which produces an idea, of such prodigious consequence. at first sight i perceive, that i must not search for it in any of the particular qualities of the objects; since which-ever of these qualities i pitch on, i find some object, that is not possessed of it, and yet falls under the denomination of cause or effect. and indeed there is nothing existent, either externally or internally, which is not to be considered either as a cause or an effect; though it is plain there is no one quality, which universally belongs to all beings, and gives them a title to that denomination. the idea, then, of causation must be derived from some relation among objects; and that relation we must now endeavour to discover. i find in the first place, that whatever objects are considered as causes or effects, are contiguous; and that nothing can operate in a time or place, which is ever so little removed from those of its existence. though distant objects may sometimes seem productive of each other, they are commonly found upon examination to be linked by a chain of causes, which are contiguous among themselves, and to the distant objects; and when in any particular instance we cannot discover this connexion, we still presume it to exist. we may therefore consider the relation of contiguity as essential to that of causation; at least may suppose it such, according to the general opinion, till we can find a more [part iv. sect. .] proper occasion to clear up this matter, by examining what objects are or are not susceptible of juxtaposition and conjunction. the second relation i shall observe as essential to causes and effects, is not so universally acknowledged, but is liable to some controversy. it is that of priority of time in the cause before the effect. some pretend that it is not absolutely necessary a cause should precede its effect; but that any object or action, in the very first moment of its existence, may exert its productive quality, and give rise to another object or action, perfectly co-temporary with itself. but beside that experience in most instances seems to contradict this opinion, we may establish the relation of priority by a kind of inference or reasoning. it is an established maxim both in natural and moral philosophy, that an object, which exists for any time in its full perfection without producing another, is not its sole cause; but is assisted by some other principle, which pushes it from its state of inactivity, and makes it exert that energy, of which it was secretly possest. now if any cause may be perfectly co-temporary with its effect, it is certain, according to this maxim, that they must all of them be so; since any one of them, which retards its operation for a single moment, exerts not itself at that very individual time, in which it might have operated; and therefore is no proper cause. the consequence of this would be no less than the destruction of that succession of causes, which we observe in the world; and indeed, the utter annihilation of time. for if one cause were co-temporary with its effect, and this effect with its effect, and so on, it is plain there would be no such thing as succession, and all objects must be co-existent. if this argument appear satisfactory, it is well. if not, i beg the reader to allow me the same liberty, which i have used in the preceding case, of supposing it such. for he shall find, that the affair is of no great importance. having thus discovered or supposed the two relations of contiguity and succession to be essential to causes and effects, i find i am stopt short, and can proceed no farther in considering any single instance of cause and effect. motion in one body is regarded upon impulse as the cause of motion in another. when we consider these objects with utmost attention, we find only that the one body approaches the other; and that the motion of it precedes that of the other, but without any, sensible interval. it is in vain to rack ourselves with farther thought and reflection upon this subject. we can go no farther in considering this particular instance. should any one leave this instance, and pretend to define a cause, by saying it is something productive of another, it is evident he would say nothing. for what does he mean by production? can he give any definition of it, that will not be the same with that of causation? if he can; i desire it may be produced. if he cannot; he here runs in a circle, and gives a synonimous term instead of a definition. shall we then rest contented with these two relations of contiguity and succession, as affording a complete idea of causation? by, no means. an object may be contiguous and prior to another, without being considered as its cause. there is a necessary connexion to be taken into consideration; and that relation is of much greater importance, than any of the other two above-mentioned. here again i turn the object on all sides, in order to discover the nature of this necessary connexion, and find the impression, or impressions, from which its idea may be derived. when i cast my eye on the known qualities of objects, i immediately discover that the relation of cause and effect depends not in the least on them. when i consider their relations, i can find none but those of contiguity and succession; which i have already regarded as imperfect and unsatisfactory. shall the despair of success make me assert, that i am here possest of an idea, which is not preceded by any similar impression? this would be too strong a proof of levity and inconstancy; since the contrary principle has been already so firmly established, as to admit of no farther doubt; at least, till we have more fully examined the present difficulty. we must, therefore, proceed like those, who being in search of any thing, that lies concealed from them, and not finding it in the place they expected, beat about all the neighbouring fields, without any certain view or design, in hopes their good fortune will at last guide them to what they search for. it is necessary for us to leave the direct survey of this question concerning the nature of that necessary connexion, which enters into our idea of cause and effect; and endeavour to find some other questions, the examination of which will perhaps afford a hint, that may serve to clear up the present difficulty. of these questions there occur two, which i shall proceed to examine, viz. first, for what reason we pronounce it necessary, that every thing whose existence has a beginning, should also have a cause. secondly, why we conclude, that such particular causes must necessarily have such particular effects; and what is the nature of that inference we draw from the one to the other, and of the belief we repose in it? i shall only observe before i proceed any farther, that though the ideas of cause and effect be derived from the impressions of reflection as well as from those of sensation, yet for brevity's sake, i commonly mention only the latter as the origin of these ideas; though i desire that whatever i say of them may also extend to the former. passions are connected with their objects and with one another; no less than external bodies are connected together. the same relation, then, of cause and effect, which belongs to one, must be common to all of them. sect. iii. why a cause is always necessary. to begin with the first question concerning the necessity of a cause: it is a general maxim in philosophy, that whatever begins to exist, must have a cause of existence. this is commonly taken for granted in all reasonings, without any proof given or demanded. it is supposed to be founded on intuition, and to be one of those maxims, which though they may be denyed with the lips, it is impossible for men in their hearts really to doubt of. but if we examine this maxim by the idea of knowledge above-explained, we shall discover in it no mark of any such intuitive certainty; but on the contrary shall find, that it is of a nature quite foreign to that species of conviction. all certainty arises from the comparison of ideas, and from the discovery of such relations as are unalterable, so long as the ideas continue the same. these relations are resemblance, proportions in quantity and number, degrees of any quality, and contrariety; none of which are implyed in this proposition, whatever has a beginning has also a cause of existence. that proposition therefore is not intuitively certain. at least any one, who would assert it to be intuitively certain, must deny these to be the only infallible relations, and must find some other relation of that kind to be implyed in it; which it will then be time enough to examine. but here is an argument, which proves at once, that the foregoing proposition is neither intuitively nor demonstrably certain. we can never demonstrate the necessity of a cause to every new existence, or new modification of existence, without shewing at the same time the impossibility there is, that any thing can ever begin to exist without some productive principle; and where the latter proposition cannot be proved, we must despair of ever being able to prove the former. now that the latter proposition is utterly incapable of a demonstrative proof, we may satisfy ourselves by considering that as all distinct ideas are separable from each other, and as the ideas of cause and effect are evidently distinct, it will be easy for us to conceive any object to be non-existent this moment, and existent the next, without conjoining to it the distinct idea of a cause or productive principle. the separation, therefore, of the idea of a cause from that of a beginning of existence, is plainly possible for the imagination; and consequently the actual separation of these objects is so far possible, that it implies no contradiction nor absurdity; and is therefore incapable of being refuted by any reasoning from mere ideas; without which it is impossible to demonstrate the necessity of a cause. accordingly we shall find upon examination, that every demonstration, which has been produced for the necessity of a cause, is fallacious and sophistical. all the points of time and place, say some philosophers [mr. hobbes.], in which we can suppose any object to begin to exist, are in themselves equal; and unless there be some cause, which is peculiar to one time and to one place, and which by that means determines and fixes the existence, it must remain in eternal suspence; and the object can never begin to be, for want of something to fix its beginning. but i ask; is there any more difficulty in supposing the time and place to be fixed without a cause, than to suppose the existence to be determined in that manner? the first question that occurs on this subject is always, whether the object shall exist or not: the next, when and where it shall begin to exist. if the removal of a cause be intuitively absurd in the one case, it must be so in the other: and if that absurdity be not clear without a proof in the one case, it will equally require one in the other. the absurdity, then, of the one supposition can never be a proof of that of the other; since they are both upon the same footing, and must stand or fall by the same reasoning. the second argument [dr. clarke and others.], which i find used on this head, labours under an equal difficulty. every thing, it is said, must have a cause; for if any thing wanted a cause, it would produce itself; that is, exist before it existed; which is impossible. but this reasoning is plainly unconclusive; because it supposes, that in our denial of a cause we still grant what we expressly deny, viz. that there must be a cause; which therefore is taken to be the object itself; and that, no doubt, is an evident contradiction. but to say that any thing is produced, or to express myself more properly, comes into existence, without a cause, is not to affirm, that it is itself its own cause; but on the contrary in excluding all external causes, excludes a fortiori the thing itself, which is created. an object, that exists absolutely without any cause, certainly is not its own cause; and when you assert, that the one follows from the other, you suppose the very point in questions and take it for granted, that it is utterly impossible any thing can ever begin to exist without a cause, but that, upon the exclusion of one productive principle, we must still have recourse to another. it is exactly the same case with the third argument [mr. locke.], which has been employed to demonstrate the necessity of a cause. whatever is produced without any cause, is produced by nothing; or in other words, has nothing for its cause. but nothing can never be a cause, no more than it can be something, or equal to two right angles. by the same intuition, that we perceive nothing not to be equal to two right angles, or not to be something, we perceive, that it can never be a cause; and consequently must perceive, that every object has a real cause of its existence. i believe it will not be necessary to employ many words in shewing the weakness of this argument, after what i have said of the foregoing. they are all of them founded on the same fallacy, and are derived from the same turn of thought. it is sufficient only to observe, that when we exclude all causes we really do exclude them, and neither suppose nothing nor the object itself to be the causes of the existence; and consequently can draw no argument from the absurdity of these suppositions to prove the absurdity of that exclusion. if every thing must have a cause, it follows, that upon the exclusion of other causes we must accept of the object itself or of nothing as causes. but it is the very point in question, whether every thing must have a cause or not; and therefore, according to all just reasoning, it ought never to be taken for granted. they are still more frivolous, who say, that every effect must have a cause, because it is implyed in the very idea of effect. every effect necessarily pre-supposes a cause; effect being a relative term, of which cause is the correlative. but this does not prove, that every being must be preceded by a cause; no more than it follows, because every husband must have a wife, that therefore every man must be marryed. the true state of the question is, whether every object, which begins to exist, must owe its existence to a cause: and this i assert neither to be intuitively nor demonstratively certain, and hope to have proved it sufficiently by the foregoing arguments. since it is not from knowledge or any scientific reasoning, that we derive the opinion of the necessity of a cause to every new production, that opinion must necessarily arise from observation and experience. the next question, then, should naturally be, how experience gives rise to such a principle? but as i find it will be more convenient to sink this question in the following, why we conclude, that such particular causes must necessarily have such particular erects, and why we form an inference from one to another? we shall make that the subject of our future enquiry. it will, perhaps, be found in the end, that the same answer will serve for both questions. sect. iv. of the component parts of our reasonings concerning cause and effect. though the mind in its reasonings from causes or effects carries its view beyond those objects, which it sees or remembers, it must never lose sight of them entirely, nor reason merely upon its own ideas, without some mixture of impressions, or at least of ideas of the memory, which are equivalent to impressions. when we infer effects from causes, we must establish the existence of these causes; which we have only two ways of doing, either by an immediate perception of our memory or senses, or by an inference from other causes; which causes again we must ascertain in the same manner, either by a present impression, or by an inference from their causes, and so on, till we arrive at some object, which we see or remember. it is impossible for us to carry on our inferences in infinitum; and the only thing, that can stop them, is an impression of the memory or senses, beyond which there is no room for doubt or enquiry. to give an instance of this, we may chuse any point of history, and consider for what reason we either believe or reject it. thus we believe that caesar was killed in the senate-house on the ides of march; and that because this fact is established on the unanimous testimony of historians, who agree to assign this precise time and place to that event. here are certain characters and letters present either to our memory or senses; which characters we likewise remember to have been used as the signs of certain ideas; and these ideas were either in the minds of such as were immediately present at that action, and received the ideas directly from its existence; or they were derived from the testimony of others, and that again from another testimony, by a visible gradation, it will we arrive at those who were eyewitnesses and spectators of the event. it is obvious all this chain of argument or connexion of causes and effects, is at first founded on those characters or letters, which are seen or remembered, and that without the authority either of the memory or senses our whole reasoning would be chimerical and without foundation. every link of the chain would in that case hang upon another; but there would not be any thing fixed to one end of it, capable of sustaining the whole; and consequently there would be no belief nor evidence. and this actually is the case with all hypothetical arguments, or reasonings upon a supposition; there being in them, neither any present impression, nor belief of a real existence. i need not observe, that it is no just objection to the present doctrine, that we can reason upon our past conclusions or principles, without having recourse to those impressions, from which they first arose. for even supposing these impressions should be entirely effaced from the memory, the conviction they produced may still remain; and it is equally true, that all reasonings concerning causes and effects are originally derived from some impression; in the same manner, as the assurance of a demonstration proceeds always from a comparison of ideas, though it may continue after the comparison is forgot. sect. v. of the impressions of the senses and memory. in this kind of reasoning, then, from causation, we employ materials, which are of a mixed and heterogeneous nature, and which, however connected, are yet essentially different from each other. all our arguments concerning causes and effects consist both of an impression of the memory or, senses, and of the idea of that existence, which produces the object of the impression, or is produced by it. here therefore we have three things to explain, viz. first, the original impression. secondly, the transition to the idea of the connected cause or effect. thirdly, the nature and qualities of that idea. as to those impressions, which arise from the senses, their ultimate cause is, in my opinion, perfectly inexplicable by human reason, and it will always be impossible to decide with certainty, whether they arise immediately from the object, or are produced by the creative power of the mind, or are derived from the author of our being. nor is such a question any way material to our present purpose. we may draw inferences from the coherence of our perceptions, whether they be true or false; whether they represent nature justly, or be mere illusions of the senses. when we search for the characteristic, which distinguishes the memory from the imagination, we must immediately perceive, that it cannot lie in the simple ideas it presents to us; since both these faculties borrow their simple ideas from the impressions, and can never go beyond these original perceptions. these faculties are as little distinguished from each other by the arrangement of their complex ideas. for though it be a peculiar property of the memory to preserve the original order and position of its ideas, while the imagination transposes and changes them, as it pleases; yet this difference is not sufficient to distinguish them in their operation, or make us know the one from the other; it being impossible to recal the past impressions, in order to compare them with our present ideas, and see whether their arrangement be exactly similar. since therefore the memory, is known, neither by the order of its complex ideas, nor the nature of its simple ones; it follows, that the difference betwixt it and the imagination lies in its superior force and vivacity. a man may indulge his fancy in feigning any past scene of adventures; nor would there be any possibility of distinguishing this from a remembrance of a like kind, were not the ideas of the imagination fainter and more obscure. it frequently happens, that when two men have been engaged in any scene of action, the one shall remember it much better than the other, and shall have all the difficulty in the world to make his companion recollect it. he runs over several circumstances in vain; mentions the time, the place, the company, what was said, what was done on all sides; till at last he hits on some lucky circumstance, that revives the whole, and gives his friend a perfect memory of every thing. here the person that forgets receives at first all the ideas from the discourse of the other, with the same circumstances of time and place; though he considers them as mere fictions of the imagination. but as soon as the circumstance is mentioned, that touches the memory, the very same ideas now appear in a new light, and have, in a manner, a different feeling from what they had before. without any other alteration, beside that of the feeling, they become immediately ideas of the memory, and are assented to. since, therefore, the imagination can represent all the same objects that the memory can offer to us, and since those faculties are only distinguished by the different feeling of the ideas they present, it may be proper to consider what is the nature of that feeling. and here i believe every one will readily agree with me, that the ideas of the memory are more strong and lively than those of the fancy. a painter, who intended to represent a passion or emotion of any kind, would endeavour to get a sight of a person actuated by a like emotion, in order to enliven his ideas, and give them a force and vivacity superior to what is found in those, which are mere fictions of the imagination. the more recent this memory is, the clearer is the idea; and when after a long interval he would return to the contemplation of his object, he always finds its idea to be much decayed, if not wholly obliterated. we are frequently in doubt concerning the ideas of the memory, as they become very weak and feeble; and are at a loss to determine whether any image proceeds from the fancy or the memory, when it is not drawn in such lively colours as distinguish that latter faculty. i think, i remember such an event, says one; but am not sure. a long tract of time has almost worn it out of my memory, and leaves me uncertain whether or not it be the pure offspring of my fancy. and as an idea of the memory, by losing its force and vivacity, may degenerate to such a degree, as to be taken for an idea of the imagination; so on the other hand an idea of the imagination may acquire such a force and vivacity, as to pass for an idea of the memory, and counterfeit its effects on the belief and judgment. this is noted in the case of liars; who by the frequent repetition of their lies, come at last to believe and remember them, as realities; custom and habit having in this case, as in many others, the same influence on the mind as nature, and infixing the idea with equal force and vigour. thus it appears, that the belief or assent, which always attends the memory and senses, is nothing but the vivacity of those perceptions they present; and that this alone distinguishes them from the imagination. to believe is in this case to feel an immediate impression of the senses, or a repetition of that impression in the memory. it is merely the force and liveliness of the perception, which constitutes the first act of the judgment, and lays the foundation of that reasoning, which we build upon it, when we trace the relation of cause and effect. sect. vi. of the inference from the impression to the idea. it is easy to observe, that in tracing this relation, the inference we draw from cause to effect, is not derived merely from a survey of these particular objects, and from such a penetration into their essences as may discover the dependance of the one upon the other. there is no object, which implies the existence of any other if we consider these objects in themselves, and never look beyond the ideas which we form of them. such an inference would amount to knowledge, and would imply the absolute contradiction and impossibility of conceiving any thing different. but as all distinct ideas are separable, it is evident there can be no impossibility of that kind. when we pass from a present impression to the idea of any object, we might possibly have separated the idea from the impression, and have substituted any other idea in its room. it is therefore by experience only, that we can infer the existence of one object from that of another. the nature of experience is this. we remember to have had frequent instances of the existence of one species of objects; and also remember, that the individuals of another species of objects have always attended them, and have existed in a regular order of contiguity and succession with regard to them. thus we remember, to have seen that species of object we call flame, and to have felt that species of sensation we call heat. we likewise call to mind their constant conjunction in all past instances. without any farther ceremony, we call the one cause and the other effect, and infer the existence of the one from that of the other. in all those instances, from which we learn the conjunction of particular causes and effects, both the causes and effects have been perceived by the senses, and are remembered but in all cases, wherein we reason concerning them, there is only one perceived or remembered, and the other is supplyed in conformity to our past experience. thus in advancing we have insensibly discovered a new relation betwixt cause and effect, when we least expected it, and were entirely employed upon another subject. this relation is their constant conjunction. contiguity and succession are not sufficient to make us pronounce any two objects to be cause and effect, unless we perceive, that these two relations are preserved in several instances. we may now see the advantage of quitting the direct survey of this relation, in order to discover the nature of that necessary connexion, which makes so essential a part of it. there are hopes, that by this means we may at last arrive at our proposed end; though to tell the truth, this new-discovered relation of a constant conjunction seems to advance us but very little in our way. for it implies no more than this, that like objects have always been placed in like relations of contiguity and succession; and it seems evident, at least at first sight, that by this means we can never discover any new idea, and can only multiply, but not enlarge the objects of our mind. it may be thought, that what we learn not from one object, we can never learn from a hundred, which are all of the same kind, and are perfectly resembling in every circumstance. as our senses shew us in one instance two bodies, or motions, or qualities in certain relations of success and contiguity; so our memory presents us only with a multitude of instances, wherein we always find like bodies, motions, or qualities in like relations. from the mere repetition of any past impression, even to infinity, there never will arise any new original idea, such as that of a necessary connexion; and the number of impressions has in this case no more effect than if we confined ourselves to one only. but though this reasoning seems just and obvious; yet as it would be folly to despair too soon, we shall continue the thread of our discourse; and having found, that after the discovery of the constant conjunction of any objects, we always draw an inference from one object to another, we shall now examine the nature of that inference, and of the transition from the impression to the idea. perhaps it will appear in the end, that the necessary connexion depends on the inference, instead of the inference's depending on the necessary connexion. since it appears, that the transition from an impression present to the memory or senses to the idea of an object, which we call cause or effect, is founded on past experience, and on our remembrance of their constant conjunction, the next question is, whether experience produces the idea by means of the understanding or imagination; whether we are determined by reason to make the transition, or by a certain association and relation of perceptions. if reason determined us, it would proceed upon that principle, that instances, of which we have had no experience, must resemble those, of which we have had experience, and that the course of nature continues always uniformly the same. in order therefore to clear up this matter, let us consider all the arguments, upon which such a proposition may be supposed to be founded; and as these must be derived either from knowledge or probability, let us cast our eye on each of these degrees of evidence, and see whether they afford any just conclusion of this nature. our foregoing method of reasoning will easily convince us, that there can be no demonstrative arguments to prove, that those instances, of which we have, had no experience, resemble those, of which we have had experience. we can at least conceive a change in the course of nature; which sufficiently proves, that such a change is not absolutely impossible. to form a clear idea of any thing, is an undeniable argument for its possibility, and is alone a refutation of any pretended demonstration against it. probability, as it discovers not the relations of ideas, considered as such, but only those of objects, must in some respects be founded on the impressions of our memory and senses, and in some respects on our ideas. were there no mixture of any impression in our probable reasonings, the conclusion would be entirely chimerical: and were there no mixture of ideas, the action of the mind, in observing the relation, would, properly speaking, be sensation, not reasoning. it is therefore necessary, that in all probable reasonings there be something present to the mind, either seen or remembered; and that from this we infer something connected with it, which is not seen nor remembered. the only connexion or relation of objects, which can lead us beyond the immediate impressions of our memory and senses, is that of cause and effect; and that because it is the only one, on which we can found a just inference from one object to another. the idea of cause and effect is derived from experience, which informs us, that such particular objects, in all past instances, have been constantly conjoined with each other: and as an object similar to one of these is supposed to be immediately present in its impression, we thence presume on the existence of one similar to its usual attendant. according to this account of things, which is, i think, in every point unquestionable, probability is founded on the presumption of a resemblance betwixt those objects, of which we have had experience, and those, of which we have had none; and therefore it is impossible this presumption can arise from probability. the same principle cannot be both the cause and effect of another; and this is, perhaps, the only proposition concerning that relation, which is either intuitively or demonstratively certain. should any one think to elude this argument; and without determining whether our reasoning on this subject be derived from demonstration or probability, pretend that all conclusions from causes and effects are built on solid reasoning: i can only desire, that this reasoning may be produced, in order to be exposed to our examination. it may, perhaps, be said, that after experience of the constant conjunction of certain objects, we reason in the following manner. such an object is always found to produce another. it is impossible it coued have this effect, if it was not endowed with a power of production. the power necessarily implies the effect; and therefore there is a just foundation for drawing a conclusion from the existence of one object to that of its usual attendant. the past production implies a power: the power implies a new production: and the new production is what we infer from the power and the past production. it were easy for me to shew the weakness of this reasoning, were i willing to make use of those observations, i have already made, that the idea of production is the same with that of causation, and that no existence certainly and demonstratively implies a power in any other object; or were it proper to anticipate what i shall have occasion to remark afterwards concerning the idea we form of power and efficacy. but as such a method of proceeding may seem either to weaken my system, by resting one part of it on another, or to breed a confusion in my reasoning, i shall endeavour to maintain my present assertion without any such assistance. it shall therefore be allowed for a moment, that the production of one object by another in any one instance implies a power; and that this power is connected with its effect. but it having been already proved, that the power lies not in the sensible qualities of the cause; and there being nothing but the sensible qualities present to us; i ask, why in other instances you presume that the same power still exists, merely upon the appearance of these qualities? your appeal to past experience decides nothing in the present case; and at the utmost can only prove, that that very object, which produced any other, was at that very instant endowed with such a power; but can never prove, that the same power must continue in the same object or collection of sensible qualities; much less, that a like power is always conjoined with like sensible qualities, should it be said, that we have experience, that the same power continues united with the same object, and that like objects are endowed with like powers, i would renew my question, why from this experience we form any conclusion beyond those past instances, of which we have had experience. if you answer this question in, the same manner as the preceding, your answer gives still occasion to a new question of the same kind, even in infinitum; which clearly proves, that the foregoing reasoning had no just foundation. thus not only our reason fails us in the discovery of the ultimate connexion of causes and effects, but even after experience has informed us of their constant conjunction, it is impossible for us to satisfy ourselves by our reason, why we should extend that experience beyond those particular instances, which have fallen under our observation. we suppose, but are never able to prove, that there must be a resemblance betwixt those objects, of which we have had experience, and those which lie beyond the reach of our discovery. we have already taken notice of certain relations, which make us pass from one object to another, even though there be no reason to determine us to that transition; and this we may establish for a general rule, that wherever the mind constantly and uniformly makes a transition without any reason, it is influenced by these relations. now this is exactly the present case. reason can never shew us the connexion of one object with another, though aided by experience, and the observation of their constant conjunction in all past instances. when the mind, therefore, passes from the idea or impression of one object to the idea or belief of another, it is not determined by reason, but by certain principles, which associate together the ideas of these objects, and unite them in the imagination. had ideas no more union in the fancy than objects seem to have to the understanding, we coued never draw any inference from causes to effects, nor repose belief in any matter of fact. the inference, therefore, depends solely on the union of ideas. the principles of union among ideas, i have reduced to three general ones, and have asserted, that the idea or impression of any object naturally introduces the idea of any other object, that is resembling, contiguous to, or connected with it. these principles i allow to be neither the infallible nor the sole causes of an union among ideas. they are not the infallible causes. for one may fix his attention during sometime on any one object without looking farther. they are not the sole causes. for the thought has evidently a very irregular motion in running along its objects, and may leap from the heavens to the earth, from one end of the creation to the other, without any certain method or order. but though i allow this weakness in these three relations, and this irregularity in the imagination; yet i assert that the only general principles, which associate ideas, are resemblance, contiguity and causation. there is indeed a principle of union among ideas, which at first sight may be esteemed different from any of these, but will be found at the bottom to depend on the same origin. when every individual of any species of objects is found by experience to be constantly united with an individual of another species, the appearance of any new individual of either species naturally conveys the thought to its usual attendant. thus because such a particular idea is commonly annexed to such a particular word, nothing is required but the hearing of that word to produce the correspondent idea; and it will scarce be possible for the mind, by its utmost efforts, to prevent that transition. in this case it is not absolutely necessary, that upon hearing such a particular sound we should reflect on any past experience, and consider what idea has been usually connected with the sound. the imagination of itself supplies the place of this reflection, and is so accustomed to pass from the word to the idea, that it interposes not a moment's delay betwixt the hearing of the one, and the conception of the other. but though i acknowledge this to be a true principle of association among ideas, i assert it to be the very same with that betwixt the ideas of cause and effects and to be an essential part in all our reasonings from that relation. we have no other notion of cause and effect, but that of certain objects, which have been always conjoined together, and which in all past instances have been found inseparable. we cannot penetrate into the reason of the conjunction. we only observe the thing itself, and always find that from the constant conjunction the objects acquire an union in the imagination. when the impression of one becomes present to us, we immediately form an idea of its usual attendant; and consequently we may establish this as one part of the definition of an opinion or belief, that it is an idea related to or associated with a present impression. thus though causation be a philosophical relation, as implying contiguity, succession, and constant conjunction, yet it is only so far as it is a natural relation, and produces an union among our ideas, that we are able to reason upon it, or draw any inference from it. sect. vii. of the nature of the idea or belief. the idea of an object is an essential part of the belief of it, but not the whole. we conceive many things, which we do not believe. in order then to discover more fully the nature of belief, or the qualities of those ideas we assent to, let us weigh the following considerations. it is evident, that all reasonings from causes or effects terminate in conclusions, concerning matter of fact; that is, concerning the existence of objects or of their qualities. it is also evident, that the idea, of existence is nothing different from the idea of any object, and that when after the simple conception of any thing we would conceive it as existent, we in reality make no addition to or alteration on our first idea. thus when we affirm, that god is existent, we simply form the idea of such a being, as he is represented to us; nor is the existence, which we attribute to him, conceived by a particular idea, which we join to the idea of his other qualities, and can again separate and distinguish from them. but i go farther; and not content with asserting, that the conception of the existence of any object is no addition to the simple conception of it, i likewise maintain, that the belief of the existence joins no new ideas to those which compose the idea of the object. when i think of god, when i think of him as existent, and when i believe him to be existent, my idea of him neither encreases nor diminishes. but as it is certain there is a great difference betwixt the simple conception of the existence of an object, and the belief of it, and as this difference lies not in the parts or composition of the idea, which we conceive; it follows, that it must lie in the manner, in which we conceive it. suppose a person present with me, who advances propositions, to which i do not assent, that caesar dyed in his bed, that silver is more fusible, than lead, or mercury heavier than gold; it is evident, that notwithstanding my incredulity, i clearly understand his meaning, and form all the same ideas, which he forms. my imagination is endowed with the same powers as his; nor is it possible for him to conceive any idea, which i cannot conceive; nor conjoin any, which i cannot conjoin. i therefore ask, wherein consists the difference betwixt believing and disbelieving any proposition? the answer is easy with regard to propositions, that are proved by intuition or demonstration. in that case, the person, who assents, not only conceives the ideas according to the proposition, but is necessarily determined to conceive them in that particular manner, either immediately or by the interposition of other ideas. whatever is absurd is unintelligible; nor is it possible for the imagination to conceive any thing contrary to a demonstration. but as in reasonings from causation, and concerning matters of fact, this absolute necessity cannot take place, and the imagination is free to conceive both sides of the question, i still ask, wherein consists the deference betwixt incredulity and belief? since in both cases the conception of the idea is equally possible and requisite. it will not be a satisfactory answer to say, that a person, who does not assent to a proposition you advance; after having conceived the object in the same manner with you; immediately conceives it in a different manner, and has different ideas of it. this answer is unsatisfactory; not because it contains any falshood, but because it discovers not all the truth. it is contest, that in all cases, wherein we dissent from any person, we conceive both sides of the question; but as we can believe only one, it evidently follows, that the belief must make some difference betwixt that conception to which we assent, and that from which we dissent. we may mingle, and unite, and separate, and confound, and vary our ideas in a hundred different ways; but until there appears some principle, which fixes one of these different situations, we have in reality no opinion: and this principle, as it plainly makes no addition to our precedent ideas, can only change the manner of our conceiving them. all the perceptions of the mind are of two kinds, viz. impressions and ideas, which differ from each other only in their different degrees of force and vivacity. our ideas are copyed from our impressions, and represent them in all their parts. when you would any way vary the idea of a particular object, you can only encrease or diminish its force and vivacity. if you make any other change on it, it represents a different object or impression. the case is the same as in colours. a particular shade of any colour may acquire a new degree of liveliness or brightness without any other variation. but when you produce any other variation, it is no longer the same shade or colour. so that as belief does nothing but vary the manner, in which we conceive any object, it can only bestow on our ideas an additional force and vivacity. an opinion, therefore, or belief may be most accurately defined, a lively idea related to or associated with a present impression. we may here take occasion to observe a very remarkable error, which being frequently inculcated in the schools, has become a kind of establishd maxim, and is universally received by all logicians. this error consists in the vulgar division of the acts of the understanding, into conception, judgment and reasoning, and in the definitions we give of them. conception is defind to be the simple survey of one or more ideas: judgment to be the separating or uniting of different ideas: reasoning to be the separating or uniting of different ideas by the interposition of others, which show the relation they bear to each other. but these distinctions and definitions are faulty in very considerable articles. for first, it is far from being true, that in every judgment, which we form, we unite two different ideas; since in that proposition, god is, or indeed any other, which regards existence, the idea of existence is no distinct idea, which we unite with that of the object, and which is capable of forming a compound idea by the union. secondly, as we can thus form a proposition, which contains only one idea, so we may exert our reason without employing more than two ideas, and without having recourse to a third to serve as a medium betwixt them. we infer a cause immediately from its effect; and this inference is not only a true species of reasoning, but the strongest of all others, and more convincing than when we interpose another idea to connect the two extremes. what we may in general affirm concerning these three acts of the understanding is, that taking them in a proper light, they all resolve themselves into the first, and are nothing but particular ways of conceiving our objects. whether we consider a single object, or several; whether we dwell on these objects, or run from them to others; and in whatever form or order we survey them, the act of the mind exceeds not a simple conception; and the only remarkable difference, which occurs on this occasion, is, when we join belief to the conception, and are persuaded of the truth of what we conceive. this act of the mind has never yet been explaind by any philosopher; and therefore i am at liberty to propose my hypothesis concerning it; which is, that it is only a strong and steady conception of any idea, and such as approaches in some measure to an immediate impression. [footnote .] [footnote . here are the heads of those arguments, which lead us to this conclusion. when we infer the existence of an object from that of others, some object must always be present either to the memory or senses, in order to be the foundation of our reasoning; since the mind cannot run up with its inferences in infinitum. reason can never satisfy us that the existence of any one object does ever imply that of another; so that when we pass from the impression of one to the idea or belief of another, we are not determined by reason, but by custom or a principle of association. but belief is somewhat more than a simple idea. it is a particular manner of forming an idea: and as the same idea can only be varyed by a variation of its degrees of force and vivacity; it follows upon the whole, that belief is a lively idea produced by a relation to a present impression, according to the foregoing definition.] this operation of the mind, which forms the belief of any matter of fact, seems hitherto to have been one of the greatest mysteries of philosophy; though no one has so much as suspected, that there was any difficulty in explaining it. for my part i must own, that i find a considerable difficulty in the case; and that even when i think i understand the subject perfectly, i am at a loss for terms to express my meaning. i conclude, by an induction which seems to me very evident, that an opinion or belief is nothing but an idea, that is different from a fiction, not in the nature or the order of its parts, but in the manner of its being conceived. but when i would explain this manner, i scarce find any word that fully answers the case, but am obliged to have recourse to every one's feeling, in order to give him a perfect notion of this operation of the mind. an idea assented to feels different from a fictitious idea, that the fancy alone presents to us: and this different feeling i endeavour to explain by calling it a superior force, or vivacity, or solidity, or firmness, or steadiness. this variety of terms, which may seem so unphilosophical, is intended only to express that act of the mind, which renders realities more present to us than fictions, causes them to weigh more in the thought, and gives them a superior influence on the passions and imagination. provided we agree about the thing, it is needless to dispute about the terms. the imagination has the command over all its ideas, and can join, and mix, and vary them in all the ways possible. it may conceive objects with all the circumstances of place and time. it may set them, in a manner, before our eyes in their true colours, just as they might have existed. but as it is impossible, that that faculty can ever, of itself, reach belief, it is evident, that belief consists not in the nature and order of our ideas, but in the manner of their conception, and in their feeling to the mind. t confess, that it is impossible to explain perfectly this feeling or manner of conception. we may make use of words, that express something near it. but its true and proper name is belief, which is a term that every one sufficiently understands in common life. and in philosophy we can go no farther, than assert, that it is something felt by the mind, which distinguishes the ideas of the judgment from the fictions of the imagination. it gives them more force and influence; makes them appear of greater importance; infixes them in the mind; and renders them the governing principles of all our actions. this definition will also be found to be entirely conformable to every one's feeling and experience. nothing is more evident, than that those ideas, to which we assent, are more strong, firm and vivid, than the loose reveries of a castle-builder. if one person sits down to read a book as a romance, and another as a true history, they plainly receive the same ideas, and in the same order; nor does the incredulity of the one, and the belief of the other hinder them from putting the very same sense upon their author. his words produce the same ideas in both; though his testimony has not the same influence on them. the latter has a more lively conception of all the incidents. he enters deeper into the concerns of the persons: represents to himself their actions, and characters, and friendships, and enmities: he even goes so far as to form a notion of their features, and air, and person. while the former, who gives no credit to the testimony of the author, has a more faint and languid conception of all these particulars; and except on account of the style and ingenuity of the composition, can receive little entertainment from it. sect. viii. of the causes of belief. having thus explained the nature of belief, and shewn that it consists in a lively idea related to a present impression; let us now proceed to examine from what principles it is derived, and what bestows the vivacity on the idea. i would willingly establish it as a general maxim in the science of human nature, that when any impression becomes present to us, it not only transports the mind to such ideas as are related to it, but likewise communicates to them a share of its force and vivacity. all the operations of the mind depend in a great measure on its disposition, when it performs them; and according as the spirits are more or less elevated, and the attention more or less fixed, the action will always have more or less vigour and vivacity. when therefore any object is presented, which elevates and enlivens the thought, every action, to which the mind applies itself, will be more strong and vivid, as tong as that disposition continues, now it is evident the continuance of the disposition depends entirely on the objects, about which the mind is employed; and that any new object naturally gives a new direction to the spirits, and changes the disposition; as on the contrary, when the mind fixes constantly on the same object, or passes easily and insensibly along related objects, the disposition has a much longer duration. hence it happens, that when the mind is once inlivened by a present impression, it proceeds to form a more lively idea of the related objects, by a natural transition of the disposition from the one to the other. the change of the objects is so easy, that the mind is scarce sensible of it, but applies itself to the conception of the related idea with all the force and vivacity it acquired from the present impression. if in considering the nature of relation, and that facility of transition, which is essential to it, we can satisfy ourselves concerning the reality of this phaenomenon, it is well: but i must confess i place my chief confidence in experience to prove so material a principle. we may, therefore, observe, as the first experiment to our present purpose, that upon the appearance of the picture of an absent friend, our idea of him is evidently inlivened by the resemblance, and that every passion, which that idea occasions, whether of joy or sorrow, acquires new force and vigour. in producing this effect there concur both a relation and a present impression. where the picture bears him no resemblance, or at least was not intended for him, it never so much as conveys our thought to him: and where it is absent, as well as the person; though the mind may pass from the thought of the one to that of the other; it feels its idea to be rather weekend than inlivened by that transition. we take a pleasure in viewing the picture of a friend, when it is set before us; but when it is removed, rather choose to consider him directly, than by reflexion in an image, which is equally distinct and obscure. the ceremonies of the roman catholic religion may be considered as experiments of the same nature. the devotees of that strange superstition usually plead in excuse of the mummeries, with which they are upbraided, that they feel the good effect of those external motions, and postures, and actions, in enlivening their devotion, and quickening their fervour, which otherwise would decay away, if directed entirely to distant and immaterial objects. we shadow out the objects of our faith, say they, in sensible types and images, and render them more present to us by the immediate presence of these types, than it is possible for us to do, merely by an intellectual view and contemplation. sensible objects have always a greater influence on the fancy than any other; and this influence they readily convey to those ideas, to which they are related, and which they resemble. i shall only infer from these practices, and this reasoning, that the effect of resemblance in inlivening the idea is very common; and as in every case a resemblance and a present impression must concur, we are abundantly supplyed with experiments to prove the reality of the foregoing principle. we may add force to these experiments by others of a different kind, in considering the effects of contiguity, as well as of resemblance. it is certain, that distance diminishes the force of every idea, and that upon our approach to any object; though it does not discover itself to our senses; it operates upon the mind with an influence that imitates an immediate impression. the thinking on any object readily transports the mind to what is contiguous; but it is only the actual presence of an object, that transports it with a superior vivacity. when i am a few miles from home, whatever relates to it touches me more nearly than when i am two hundred leagues distant; though even at that distance the reflecting on any thing in the neighbourhood of my friends and family naturally produces an idea of them. but as in this latter case, both the objects of the mind are ideas; notwithstanding there is an easy transition betwixt them; that transition alone is not able to give a superior vivacity to any of the ideas, for want of some immediate impression. [footnote .] [footnote . naturane nobis, in quit, datum dicam, an errore quodam, ut, cum ea loca videamus, in quibus memoria dignos viros acceperimus multurn esse versatos, magis moveamur, quam siquando eorum ipsorum aut jacta audiamus, aut scriptum aliquod legamus? velut ego nunc moveor. venit enim mihi platonis in mentem: quem accipimus primurn hic disputare solitum: cujus etiam illi hortuli propinqui non memoriam solum mihi afferunt, sed ipsum videntur in conspectu meo hic ponere. hic speusippus, hic xenocrates, hic ejus auditor polemo; cujus ipsa illa sessio fuit, quam videamus. equidem etiam curiam nostram, hostiliam dico, non hanc novam, quae mihi minor esse videtur post quam est major, sole barn intuens scipionem, catonem, laclium, nostrum vero in primis avum cogitare. tanta vis admonitionis inest in locis; ut non sine causa ex his memoriae ducta sit disciplina. cicero de finibus, lib. . {"should i, he said, "attribute to instinct or to some kind of illusion the fact that when we see those places in which we are told notable men spent much of their time, we are more powerfully affected than when we hear of the exploits of the men themselves or read something written? this is just what is happening to me now; for i am reminded of plato who, we are told, was the first to make a practice of holding discussions here. those gardens of his near by do not merely put me in mind of him; they seem to set the man himself before my very eyes. speusippus was here; so was xenocrates; so was his pupil, polemo, and that very seat which we may view was his. "then again, when i looked at our senate-house (i mean the old building of hostilius, not this new one; when it was enlarged, it diminished in my estimation), i used to think of scipio, cato, laelius and in particular of my own grandfather. "such is the power of places to evoke associations; so it is with good reason that they are used as a basis for memory training."}] no one can doubt but causation has the same influence as the other two relations; of resemblance and contiguity. superstitious people are fond of the relicks of saints and holy men, for the same reason that they seek after types and images, in order to enliven their devotion, and give them a more intimate and strong conception of those exemplary lives, which they desire to imitate. now it is evident, one of the best relicks a devotee coued procure, would be the handywork of a saint; and if his cloaths and furniture are ever to be considered in this light, it is because they were once at his disposal, and were moved and affected by him; in which respect they are to be considered as imperfect effects, and as connected with him by a shorter chain of consequences than any of those, from which we learn the reality of his existence. this phaenomenon clearly proves, that a present impression with a relation of causation may, inliven any idea, and consequently produce belief or assent, according to the precedent definition of it. but why need we seek for other arguments to prove, that a present impression with a relation or transition of the fancy may inliven any idea, when this very instance of our reasonings from cause and effect will alone suffice to that purpose? it is certain we must have an idea of every matter of fact, which we believe. it is certain, that this idea arises only from a relation to a present impression. it is certain, that the belief super-adds nothing to the idea, but only changes our manner of conceiving it, and renders it more strong and lively. the present conclusion concerning the influence of relation is the immediate consequence of all these steps; and every step appears to me sure end infallible. there enters nothing into this operation of the mind but a present impression, a lively idea, and a relation or association in the fancy betwixt the impression and idea; so that there can be no suspicion of mistake. in order to put this whole affair in a fuller light, let us consider it as a question in natural philosophy, which we must determine by experience and observation. i suppose there is an object presented, from which i draw a certain conclusion, and form to myself ideas, which i am said to believe or assent to. here it is evident, that however that object, which is present to my senses, and that other, whose existence i infer by reasoning, may be thought to influence each other by their particular powers or qualities; yet as the phenomenon of belief, which we at present examine, is merely internal, these powers and qualities, being entirely unknown, can have no hand in producing it. it is the present impression, which is to be considered as the true and real cause of the idea, and of the belief which attends it. we must therefore endeavour to discover by experiments the particular qualities, by which it is enabled to produce so extraordinary an effect. first then i observe, that the present impression has not this effect by its own proper power and efficacy, and when considered alone, as a single perception, limited to the present moment. i find, that an impression, from which, on its first appearance, i can draw no conclusion, may afterwards become the foundation of belief, when i have had experience of its usual consequences. we must in every case have observed the same impression in past instances, and have found it to be constantly conjoined with some other impression. this is confirmed by such a multitude of experiments, that it admits not of the smallest doubt. from a second observation i conclude, that the belief, which attends the present impression, and is produced by a number of past impressions and conjunctions; that this belief, i say, arises immediately, without any new operation of the reason or imagination. of this i can be certain, because i never am conscious of any such operation, and find nothing in the subject, on which it can be founded. now as we call every thing custom, which proceeds from a past repetition, without any new reasoning or conclusion, we-may establish it as a certain truth, that all the belief, which follows upon any present impression, is derived solely from that origin. when we are accustomed to see two impressions conjoined together, the appearance or idea of the one immediately carries us to the idea of the other. being fully satisfyed on this head, i make a third set of experiments, in order to know, whether any thing be requisite, beside the customary transition, towards the production of this phaenomenon of belief. i therefore change the first impression into an idea; and observe, that though the customary transition to the correlative idea still remains, yet there is in reality no belief nor perswasion. a present impression, then, is absolutely requisite to this whole operation; and when after this i compare an impression with an idea, and find that their only difference consists in their different degrees of force and vivacity, i conclude upon the whole, that belief is a more vivid and intense conception of an idea, proceeding from its relation to a present impression. thus all probable reasoning is nothing but a species of sensation. it is not solely in poetry and music, we must follow our taste and sentiment, but likewise in philosophy. when i am convinced of any principle, it is only an idea, which strikes more strongly upon me. when i give the preference to one set of arguments above another, i do nothing but decide from my feeling concerning the superiority of their influence. objects have no discoverable connexion together; nor is it from any other principle but custom operating upon the imagination, that we can draw any inference from the appearance of one to the existence of another. it will here be worth our observation, that the past experience, on which all our judgments concerning cause and effect depend, may operate on our mind in such an insensible manner as never to be taken notice of, and may even in some measure be unknown to us. a person, who stops short in his journey upon meeting a river in his way, foresees the consequences of his proceeding forward; and his knowledge of these consequences is conveyed to him by past experience, which informs him of such certain conjunctions of causes and effects. but can we think, that on this occasion he reflects on any past experience, and calls to remembrance instances, that he has seen or heard of, in order to discover the effects of water on animal bodies? no surely; this is not the method, in which he proceeds in his reasoning. the idea of sinking is so closely connected with that of water, and the idea of suffocating with that of sinking, that the mind makes the transition without the assistance of the memory. the custom operates before we have time for reflection. the objects seem so inseparable, that we interpose not a moment's delay in passing from the one to the other. but as this transition proceeds from experience, and not from any primary connexion betwixt the ideas, we must necessarily acknowledge, that experience may produce a belief and a judgment of causes and effects by a secret operation, and without being once thought of. this removes all pretext, if there yet remains any, for asserting that the mind is convinced by reasoning of that principle, that instances of which we have no experience, must necessarily resemble those, of which we have. for we here find, that the understanding or imagination can draw inferences from past experience, without reflecting on it; much more without forming any principle concerning it, or reasoning upon that principle. in general we may observe, that in all the most established and uniform conjunctions of causes and effects, such as those of gravity, impulse, solidity, &c. the mind never carries its view expressly to consider any past experience: though in other associations of objects, which are more rare and unusual, it may assist the custom and transition of ideas by this reflection. nay we find in some cases, that the reflection produces the belief without the custom; or more properly speaking, that the reflection produces the custom in an oblique and artificial manner. i explain myself. it is certain, that not only in philosophy, but even in common life, we may attain the knowledge of a particular cause merely by one experiment, provided it be made with judgment, and after a careful removal of all foreign and superfluous circumstances. now as after one experiment of this kind, the mind, upon the appearance either of the cause or the effect, can draw an inference concerning the existence of its correlative; and as a habit can never be acquired merely by one instance; it may be thought, that belief cannot in this case be esteemed the effect of custom. but this difficulty will vanish, if we consider, that though we are here supposed to have had only one experiment of a particular effect, yet we have many millions to convince us of this principle; that like objects placed in like circumstances, will always produce like effects; and as this principle has established itself by a sufficient custom, it bestows an evidence and firmness on any opinion, to which it can be applied. the connexion of the ideas is not habitual after one experiment: but this connexion is comprehended under another principle, that is habitual; which brings us back to our hypothesis. in all cases we transfer our experience to instances, of which we have no experience, either expressly or tacitly, either directly or indirectly. i must not conclude this subject without observing, that it is very difficult to talk of the operations of the mind with perfect propriety and exactness; because common language has seldom made any very nice distinctions among them, but has generally called by the same term all such as nearly resemble each other. and as this is a source almost inevitable of obscurity and confusion in the author; so it may frequently give rise to doubts and objections in the reader, which otherwise he would never have dreamed of. thus my general position, that an opinion or belief is nothing but a strong and lively idea derived from a present impression related to it, maybe liable to the following objection, by reason of a little ambiguity in those words strong and lively. it may be said, that not only an impression may give rise to reasoning, but that an idea may also have the same influence; especially upon my principle, that all our ideas are derived from correspondent impressions. for suppose i form at present an idea, of which i have forgot the correspondent impression, i am able to conclude from this idea, that such an impression did once exist; and as this conclusion is attended with belief, it may be asked, from whence are the qualities of force and vivacity derived, which constitute this belief? and to this i answer very readily, from the present idea. for as this idea is not here considered, as the representation of any absent object, but as a real perception in the mind, of which we are intimately conscious, it must be able to bestow on whatever is related to it the same quality, call it firmness, or solidity, or force, or vivacity, with which the mind reflects upon it, and is assured of its present existence. the idea here supplies the place of an impression, and is entirely the same, so far as regards our present purpose. upon the same principles we need not be surprized to hear of the remembrance of an idea: that is, of the idea of an idea, and of its force and vivacity superior to the loose conceptions of the imagination. in thinking of our past thoughts we not only delineate out the objects, of which we were thinking, but also conceive the action of the mind in the meditation, that certain je-ne-scai-quoi, of which it is impossible to give any definition or description, but which every one sufficiently understands. when the memory offers an idea of this, and represents it as past, it is easily conceived how that idea may have more vigour and firmness, than when we think of a past thought, of which we have no remembrance. after this any one will understand how we may form the idea of an impression and of an idea, and how we way believe the existence of an impression and of an idea. sect. ix. of the effects of other relations and other habits. however convincing the foregoing arguments may appear, we must not rest contented with them, but must turn the subject on every side, in order to find some new points of view, from which we may illustrate and confirm such extraordinary, and such fundamental principles. a scrupulous hesitation to receive any new hypothesis is so laudable a disposition in philosophers, and so necessary to the examination of truth, that it deserves to be complyed with, and requires that every argument be produced, which may tend to their satisfaction, and every objection removed, which may stop them in their reasoning. i have often observed, that, beside cause and effect, the two relations of resemblance and contiguity, are to be considered as associating principles of thought, and as capable of conveying the imagination from one idea to another. i have also observed, that when of two objects connected to-ether by any of these relations, one is immediately present to the memory or senses, not only the mind is conveyed to its co-relative by means of the associating principle; but likewise conceives it with an additional force and vigour, by the united operation of that principle, and of the present impression. all this i have observed, in order to confirm by analogy, my explication of our judgments concerning cause and effect. but this very argument may, perhaps, be turned against me, and instead of a confirmation of my hypothesis, may become an objection to it. for it may be said, that if all the parts of that hypothesis be true, viz. that these three species of relation are derived from the same principles; that their effects in informing and enlivening our ideas are the same; and that belief is nothing but a more forcible and vivid conception of an idea; it should follow, that that action of the mind may not only be derived from the relation of cause and effect, but also from those of contiguity and resemblance. but as we find by experience, that belief arises only from causation, and that we can draw no inference from one object to another, except they be connected by this relation, we may conclude, that there is some error in that reasoning, which leads us into such difficulties. this is the objection; let us now consider its solution. it is evident, that whatever is present to the memory, striking upon the mind with a vivacity, which resembles an immediate impression, must become of considerable moment in all the operations of the mind, and must easily distinguish itself above the mere fictions of the imagination. of these impressions or ideas of the memory we form a kind of system, comprehending whatever we remember to have been present, either to our internal perception or senses; and every particular of that system, joined to the present impressions, we are pleased to call a reality. but the mind stops not here. for finding, that with this system of perceptions, there is another connected by custom, or if you will, by the relation of cause or effect, it proceeds to the consideration of their ideas; and as it feels that it is in a manner necessarily determined to view these particular ideas, and that the custom or relation, by which it is determined, admits not of the least change, it forms them into a new system, which it likewise dignifies with the title of realities. the first of these systems is the object of the memory and senses; the second of the judgment. it is this latter principle, which peoples the world, and brings us acquainted with such existences, as by their removal in time and place, lie beyond the reach of the senses and memory. by means of it i paint the universe in my imagination, and fix my attention on any part of it i please. i form an idea of rome, which i neither see nor remember; but which is connected with such impressions as i remember to have received from the conversation and books of travellers and historians. this idea of rome i place in a certain situation on the idea of an object, which i call the globe. i join to it the conception of a particular government, and religion, and manners. i look backward and consider its first foundation; its several revolutions, successes, and misfortunes. all this, and everything else, which i believe, are nothing but ideas; though by their force and settled order, arising from custom and the relation of cause and effect, they distinguish themselves from the other ideas, which are merely the offspring of the imagination. as to the influence of contiguity and resemblance, we may observe, that if the contiguous and resembling object be comprehended in this system of realities, there is no doubt but these two relations will assist that of cause and effect, and infix the related idea with more force in the imagination. this i shall enlarge upon presently. mean while i shall carry my observation a step farther, and assert, that even where the related object is but feigned, the relation will serve to enliven the idea, and encrease its influence. a poet, no doubt, will be the better able to form a strong description of the elysian fields, that he prompts his imagination by the view of a beautiful meadow or garden; as at another time he may by his fancy place himself in the midst of these fabulous regions, that by the feigned contiguity he may enliven his imagination. but though i cannot altogether exclude the relations of resemblance and contiguity from operating on the fancy in this manner, it is observable that, when single, their influence is very feeble and uncertain. as the relation of cause and effect is requisite to persuade us of any real existence, so is this persuasion requisite to give force to these other relations. for where upon the appearance of an impression we not only feign another object, but likewise arbitrarily, and of our mere good-will and pleasure give it a particular relation to the impression, this can have but a small effect upon the mind; nor is there any reason, why, upon the return of the same impression, we should be determined to place the same object in the same relation to it. there is no manner of necessity for the mind to feign any resembling and contiguous objects; and if it feigns such, there is as little necessity for it always to confine itself to the same, without any difference or variation. and indeed such a fiction is founded on so little reason, that nothing but pure caprice can determine the mind to form it; and that principle being fluctuating and uncertain, it is impossible it can ever operate with any considerable degree of force and constancy. the mind forsees and anticipates the change; and even from the very first instant feels the looseness of its actions, and the weak hold it has of its objects. and as this imperfection is very sensible in every single instance, it still encreases by experience and observation, when we compare the several instances we may remember, and form a general rule against the reposing any assurance in those momentary glimpses of light, which arise in the imagination from a feigned resemblance and contiguity. the relation of cause and effect has all the opposite advantages. the objects it presents are fixt and unalterable. the impressions of the memory never change in any considerable degree; and each impression draws along with it a precise idea, which takes its place in the imagination as something solid and real, certain and invariable. the thought is always determined to pass from the impression to the idea, and from that particular impression to that particular idea, without any choice or hesitation. but not content with removing this objection, i shall endeavour to extract from it a proof of the present doctrine. contiguity and resemblance have an effect much inferior to causation; but still have some effect, and augment the conviction of any opinion, and the vivacity of any conception. if this can be proved in several new instances, beside what we have already observed, it will be allowed no inconsiderable argument, that belief is nothing but a lively idea related to a present impression. to begin with contiguity; it has been remarked among the mahometans as well as christians, that those pilgrims, who have seen mecca or the holy land, are ever after more faithful and zealous believers, than those who have not had that advantage. a man, whose memory presents him with a lively image of the red-sea, and the desert, and jerusalem, and galilee, can never doubt of any miraculous events, which are related either by moses or the evangelists. the lively idea of the places passes by an easy transition to the facts, which are supposed to have been related to them by contiguity, and encreases the belief by encreasing the vivacity of the conception. the remembrance of these fields and rivers has the same influence on the vulgar as a new argument; and from the same causes. we may form a like observation concerning resemblance. we have remarked, that the conclusion, which we draw from a present object to its absent cause or effect, is never founded on any qualities, which we observe in that object, considered in itself, or, in other words, that it is impossible to determine, otherwise than by experience, what will result from any phenomenon, or what has preceded it. but though this be so evident in itself, that it seemed not to require any, proof; yet some philosophers have imagined that there is an apparent cause for the communication of motion, and that a reasonable man might immediately infer the motion of one body from the impulse of another, without having recourse to any past observation. that this opinion is false will admit of an easy proof. for if such an inference may be drawn merely from the ideas of body, of motion, and of impulse, it must amount to a demonstration, and must imply the absolute impossibility of any contrary supposition. every effect, then, beside the communication of motion, implies a formal contradiction; and it is impossible not only that it can exist, but also that it can be conceived. but we may soon satisfy ourselves of the contrary, by forming a clear and consistent idea of one body's moving upon another, and of its rest immediately upon the contact, or of its returning back in the same line in which it came; or of its annihilation; or circular or elliptical motion: and in short, of an infinite number of other changes, which we may suppose it to undergo. these suppositions are all consistent and natural; and the reason, why we imagine the communication of motion to be more consistent and natural not only than those suppositions, but also than any other natural effect, is founded on the relation of resemblance betwixt the cause and effect, which is here united to experience, and binds the objects in the closest and most intimate manner to each other, so as to make us imagine them to be absolutely inseparable. resemblance, then, has the same or a parallel influence with experience; and as the only immediate effect of experience is to associate our ideas together, it follows, that all belief arises from the association of ideas, according to my hypothesis. it is universally allowed by the writers on optics, that the eye at all times sees an equal number of physical points, and that a man on the top of a mountain has no larger an image presented to his senses, than when he is cooped up in the narrowest court or chamber. it is only by experience that he infers the greatness of the object from some peculiar qualities of the image; and this inference of the judgment he confounds with sensation, as is common on other occasions. now it is evident, that the inference of the judgment is here much more lively than what is usual in our common reasonings, and that a man has a more vivid conception of the vast extent of the ocean from the image he receives by the eye, when he stands on the top of the high promontory, than merely from hearing the roaring of the waters. he feels a more sensible pleasure from its magnificence; which is a proof of a more lively idea: and he confounds his judgment with sensation, which is another proof of it. but as the inference is equally certain and immediate in both cases, this superior vivacity of our conception in one case can proceed from nothing but this, that in drawing an inference from the sight, beside the customary conjunction, there is also a resemblance betwixt the image and the object we infer; which strengthens the relation, and conveys the vivacity of the impression to the related idea with an easier and more natural movement. no weakness of human nature is more universal and conspicuous than what we commonly call credulity, or a too easy faith in the testimony of others; and this weakness is also very naturally accounted for from the influence of resemblance. when we receive any matter of fact upon human testimony, our faith arises from the very same origin as our inferences from causes to effects, and from effects to causes; nor is there anything but our experience of the governing principles of human nature, which can give us any assurance of the veracity of men. but though experience be the true standard of this, as well as of all other judgments, we seldom regulate ourselves entirely by it; but have a remarkable propensity to believe whatever is reported, even concerning apparitions, enchantments, and prodigies, however contrary to daily experience and observation. the words or discourses of others have an intimate connexion with certain ideas in their mind; and these ideas have also a connexion with the facts or objects, which they represent. this latter connexion is generally much over-rated, and commands our assent beyond what experience will justify; which can proceed from nothing beside the resemblance betwixt the ideas and the facts. other effects only point out their causes in an oblique manner; but the testimony of men does it directly, and is to be considered as an image as well as an effect. no wonder, therefore, we are so rash in drawing our inferences from it, and are less guided by experience in our judgments concerning it, than in those upon any other subject. as resemblance, when conjoined with causation, fortifies our reasonings; so the want of it in any very great degree is able almost entirely to destroy them. of this there is a remarkable instance in the universal carelessness and stupidity of men with regard to a future state, where they show as obstinate an incredulity, as they do a blind credulity on other occasions. there is not indeed a more ample matter of wonder to the studious, and of regret to the pious man, than to observe the negligence of the bulk of mankind concerning their approaching condition; and it is with reason, that many eminent theologians have not scrupled to affirm, that though the vulgar have no formal principles of infidelity, yet they are really infidels in their hearts, and have nothing like what we can call a belief of the eternal duration of their souls. for let us consider on the one hand what divines have displayed with such eloquence concerning the importance of eternity; and at the same time reflect, that though in matters of rhetoric we ought to lay our account with some exaggeration, we must in this case allow, that the strongest figures are infinitely inferior to the subject: and after this let us view on the other hand, the prodigious security of men in this particular: i ask, if these people really believe what is inculcated on them, and what they pretend to affirm; and the answer is obviously in the negative. as belief is an act of the mind arising from custom, it is not strange the want of resemblance should overthrow what custom has established, and diminish the force of the idea, as much as that latter principle encreases it. a future state is so far removed from our comprehension, and we have so obscure an idea of the manner, in which we shall exist after the dissolution of the body, that all the reasons we can invent, however strong in themselves, and however much assisted by education, are never able with slow imaginations to surmount this difficulty, or bestow a sufficient authority and force on the idea. i rather choose to ascribe this incredulity to the faint idea we form of our future condition, derived from its want of resemblance to the present life, than to that derived from its remoteness. for i observe, that men are everywhere concerned about what may happen after their death, provided it regard this world; and that there are few to whom their name, their family, their friends, and their country are in any period of time entirely indifferent. and indeed the want of resemblance in this case so entirely destroys belief, that except those few, who upon cool reflection on the importance of the subject, have taken care by repeated meditation to imprint in their minds the arguments for a future state, there scarce are any, who believe the immortality of the soul with a true and established judgment; such as is derived from the testimony of travellers and historians. this appears very conspicuously wherever men have occasion to compare the pleasures and pains, the rewards and punishments of this life with those of a future; even though the case does not concern themselves, and there is no violent passion to disturb their judgment. the roman clatholicks are certainly the most zealous of any sect in the christian world; and yet you'll find few among the more sensible people of that communion who do not blame the gunpowder-treason, and the massacre of st. bartholomew, as cruel and barbarous, though projected or executed against those very people, whom without any scruple they condemn to eternal and infinite punishments. all we can say in excuse for this inconsistency is, that they really do not believe what they affirm concerning a future state; nor is there any better proof of it than the very inconsistency. we may add to this a remark; that in matters of religion men take a pleasure in being terrifyed, and that no preachers are so popular, as those who excite the most dismal and gloomy passions. in the common affairs of life, where we feel and are penetrated with the solidity of the subject, nothing can be more disagreeable than fear and terror; and it is only in dramatic performances and in religious discourses, that they ever give pleasure. in these latter cases the imagination reposes itself indolently on the idea; and the passion, being softened by the want of belief in the subject, has no more than the agreeable effect of enlivening the mind, and fixing the attention. the present hypothesis will receive additional confirmation, if we examine the effects of other kinds of custom, as well as of other relations. to understand this we must consider, that custom, to which i attribute all belief and reasoning, may operate upon the mind in invigorating an idea after two several ways. for supposing that in all past experience we have found two objects to have been always conjoined together, it is evident, that upon the appearance of one of these objects in an impression, we must from custom make an easy transition to the idea of that object, which usually attends it; and by means of the present impression and easy transition must conceive that idea in a stronger and more lively manner, than we do any loose floating image of the fancy. but let us next suppose, that a mere idea alone, without any of this curious and almost artificial preparation, should frequently make its appearance in the mind, this idea must by degrees acquire a facility and force; and both by its firm hold and easy introduction distinguish itself from any new and unusual idea. this is the only particular, in which these two kinds of custom agree; and if it appear, that their effects on the judgment, are similar and proportionable, we may certainly conclude, that the foregoing explication of that faculty is satisfactory. but can we doubt of this agreement in their influence on the judgment, when we consider the nature and effects of education? all those opinions and notions of things, to which we have been accustomed from our infancy, take such deep root, that it is impossible for us, by all the powers of reason and experience, to eradicate them; and this habit not only approaches in its influence, but even on many occasions prevails over that which a-rises from the constant and inseparable union of causes and effects. here we most not be contented with saying, that the vividness of the idea produces the belief: we must maintain that they are individually the same. the frequent repetition of any idea infixes it in the imagination; but coued never possibly of itself produce belief, if that act of the mind was, by the original constitution of our natures, annexed only to a reasoning and comparison of ideas. custom may lead us into some false comparison of ideas. this is the utmost effect we can conceive of it. but it is certain it coued never supply the place of that comparison, nor produce any act of the mind, which naturally belonged to that principle. a person, that has lost a leg or an arm by amputation, endeavours for a long time afterwards to serve himself with them. after the death of any one, it is a common remark of the whole family, but especially of the servants, that they can scarce believe him to be dead, but still imagine him to be in his chamber or in any other place, where they were accustomed to find him. i have often heard in conversation, after talking of a person, that is any way celebrated, that one, who has no acquaintance with him, will say, i have never seen such-a-one, but almost fancy i have; so often have i heard talk of him. all these are parallel instances. if we consider this argument from education in a proper light, it will appear very convincing; and the more so, that it is founded on one of the most common phaenomena, that is any where to be met with. i am persuaded, that upon examination we shall find more than one half of those opinions, that prevail among mankind, to be owing to education, and that the principles, which are thus implicitely embraced, overballance those, which are owing either to abstract reasoning or experience. as liars, by the frequent repetition of their lies, come at last to remember them; so the judgment, or rather the imagination, by the like means, may have ideas so strongly imprinted on it, and conceive them in so full a light, that they may operate upon the mind in the same manner with those, which the senses, memory or reason present to us. but as education is an artificial and not a natural cause, and as its maxims are frequently contrary to reason, and even to themselves in different times and places, it is never upon that account recognized by philosophers; though in reality it be built almost on the same foundation of custom and repetition as our reasonings from causes and effects. [footnote . in general we may observe, that as our assent to all probable reasonings is founded on the vivacity of ideas, it resembles many of those whimsies and prejudices, which are rejected under the opprobrious character of being the offspring of the imagination. by this expression it appears that the word, imagination, is commonly usd in two different senses; and tho nothing be more contrary to true philosophy, than this inaccuracy, yet in the following reasonings i have often been obligd to fall into it. when i oppose the imagination to the memory, i mean the faculty, by which we form our fainter ideas. when i oppose it to reason, i mean the same faculty, excluding only our demonstrative and probable reasonings. when i oppose it to neither, it is indifferent whether it be taken in the larger or more limited sense, or at least the context will sufficiently explain the meaning.] sect. x. of the influence of belief. but though education be disclaimed by philosophy, as a fallacious ground of assent to any opinion, it prevails nevertheless in the world, and is the cause why all systems are apt to be rejected at first as new and unusual. this perhaps will be the fate of what i have here advanced concerning belief, and though the proofs i have produced appear to me perfectly conclusive, i expect not to make many proselytes to my opinion. men will scarce ever be persuaded, that effects of such consequence can flow from principles, which are seemingly so inconsiderable, and that the far greatest part of our reasonings with all our actions and passions, can be derived from nothing but custom and habit. to obviate this objection, i shall here anticipate a little what would more properly fall under our consideration afterwards, when we come to treat of the passions and the sense of beauty. there is implanted in the human mind a perception of pain and pleasure, as the chief spring and moving principle of all its actions. but pain and pleasure have two ways of making their appearance in the mind; of which the one has effects very different from the other. they may either appear in impression to the actual feeling, or only in idea, as at present when i mention them. it is evident the influence of these upon our actions is far from being equal. impressions always actuate the soul, and that in the highest degree; but it is not every idea which has the same effect. nature has proceeded with caution in this came, and seems to have carefully avoided the inconveniences of two extremes. did impressions alone influence the will, we should every moment of our lives be subject to the greatest calamities; because, though we foresaw their approach, we should not be provided by nature with any principle of action, which might impel us to avoid them. on the other hand, did every idea influence our actions, our condition would not be much mended. for such is the unsteadiness and activity of thought, that the images of every thing, especially of goods and evils, are always wandering in the mind; and were it moved by every idle conception of this kind, it would never enjoy a moment's peace and tranquillity. nature has, therefore, chosen a medium, and has neither bestowed on every idea of good and evil the power of actuating the will, nor yet has entirely excluded them from this influence. though an idle fiction has no efficacy, yet we find by experience, that the ideas of those objects, which we believe either are or will be existent, produce in a lesser degree the same effect with those impressions, which are immediately present to the senses and perception. the effect, then, of belief is to raise up a simple idea to an equality with our impressions, and bestow on it a like influence on the passions. this effect it can only have by making an idea approach an impression in force and vivacity. for as the different degrees of force make all the original difference betwixt an impression and an idea, they must of consequence be the source of all the differences in the effects of these perceptions, and their removal, in whole or in part, the cause of every new resemblance they acquire. wherever we can make an idea approach the impressions in force and vivacity, it will likewise imitate them in its influence on the mind; and vice versa, where it imitates them in that influence, as in the present case, this must proceed from its approaching them in force and vivacity. belief, therefore, since it causes an idea to imitate the effects of the impressions, must make it resemble them in these qualities, and is nothing but a more vivid and intense conception of any idea. this, then, may both serve as an additional argument for the present system, and may give us a notion after what manner our reasonings from causation are able to operate on the will and passions. as belief is almost absolutely requisite to the exciting our passions, so the passions in their turn are very favourable to belief; and not only such facts as convey agreeable emotions, but very often such as give pain, do upon that account become more readily the objects of faith and opinion. a coward, whose fears are easily awakened, readily assents to every account of danger he meets with; as a person of a sorrowful and melancholy disposition is very credulous of every thing, that nourishes his prevailing passion. when any affecting object is presented, it gives the alarm, and excites immediately a degree of its proper passion; especially in persons who are naturally inclined to that passion. this emotion passes by an easy transition to the imagination; and diffusing itself over our idea of the affecting object, makes us form that idea with greater force and vivacity, and consequently assent to it, according to the precedent system. admiration and surprize have the same effect as the other passions; and accordingly we may observe, that among the vulgar, quacks and projectors meet with a more easy faith upon account of their magnificent pretensions, than if they kept themselves within the bounds of moderation. the first astonishment, which naturally attends their miraculous relations, spreads itself over the whole soul, and so vivifies and enlivens the idea, that it resembles the inferences we draw from experience. this is a mystery, with which we may be already a little acquainted, and which we shall have farther occasion to be let into in the progress of this treatise. after this account of the influence of belief on the passions, we shall find less difficulty in explaining its effects on the imagination, however extraordinary they may appear. it is certain we cannot take pleasure in any discourse, where our judgment gives no assent to those images which are presented to our fancy. the conversation of those who have acquired a habit of lying, though in affairs of no moment, never gives any satisfaction; and that because those ideas they present to us, not being attended with belief, make no impression upon the mind. poets themselves, though liars by profession, always endeavour to give an air of truth to their fictions; and where that is totally neglected, their performances, however ingenious, will never be able to afford much pleasure. in short, we may observe, that even when ideas have no manner of influence on the will and passions, truth and reality are still requisite, in order to make them entertaining to the imagination. but if we compare together all the phenomena that occur on this head, we shall find, that truth, however necessary it may seem in all works of genius, has no other effect than to procure an easy reception for the ideas, and to make the mind acquiesce in them with satisfaction, or at least without reluctance. but as this is an effect, which may easily be supposed to flow from that solidity and force, which, according to my system, attend those ideas that are established by reasonings from causation; it follows, that all the influence of belief upon the fancy may be explained from that system. accordingly we may observe, that wherever that influence arises from any other principles beside truth or reality, they supply its place, and give an equal entertainment to the imagination. poets have formed what they call a poetical system of things, which though it be believed neither by themselves nor readers, is commonly esteemed a sufficient foundation for any fiction. we have been so much accustomed to the names of mars, jupiter, venus, that in the same manner as education infixes any opinion, the constant repetition of these ideas makes them enter into the mind with facility, and prevail upon the fancy, without influencing the judgment. in like manner tragedians always borrow their fable, or at least the names of their principal actors, from some known passage in history; and that not in order to deceive the spectators; for they will frankly confess, that truth is not in any circumstance inviolably observed: but in order to procure a more easy reception into the imagination for those extraordinary events, which they represent. but this is a precaution, which is not required of comic poets, whose personages and incidents, being of a more familiar kind, enter easily into the conception, and are received without any such formality, even though at first night they be known to be fictitious, and the pure offspring of the fancy. this mixture of truth and falshood in the fables of tragic poets not only serves our present purpose, by shewing, that the imagination can be satisfyed without any absolute belief or assurance; but may in another view be regarded as a very strong confirmation of this system. it is evident, that poets make use of this artifice of borrowing the names of their persons, and the chief events of their poems, from history, in order to procure a more easy reception for the whole, and cause it to make a deeper impression on the fancy and affections. the several incidents of the piece acquire a kind of relation by being united into one poem or representation; and if any of these incidents be an object of belief, it bestows a force and vivacity on the others, which are related to it. the vividness of the first conception diffuses itself along the relations, and is conveyed, as by so many pipes or canals, to every idea that has any communication with the primary one. this, indeed, can never amount to a perfect assurance; and that because the union among the ideas is, in a manner, accidental: but still it approaches so near, in its influence, as may convince us, that they are derived from the same origin. belief must please the imagination by means of the force and vivacity which attends it; since every idea, which has force and vivacity, is found to be agreeable to that faculty. to confirm this we may observe, that the assistance is mutual betwixt the judgment and fancy, as well as betwixt the judgment and passion; and that belief not only gives vigour to the imagination, but that a vigorous and strong imagination is of all talents the most proper to procure belief and authority. it is difficult for us to withhold our assent from what is painted out to us in all the colours of eloquence; and the vivacity produced by the fancy is in many cases greater than that which arises from custom and experience. we are hurried away by the lively imagination of our author or companion; and even he himself is often a victim to his own fire and genius. nor will it be amiss to remark, that as a lively imagination very often degenerates into madness or folly, and bears it a great resemblance in its operations; so they influence the judgment after the same manner, and produce belief from the very same principles. when the imagination, from any extraordinary ferment of the blood and spirits, acquires such a vivacity as disorders all its powers and faculties, there is no means of distinguishing betwixt truth and falshood; but every loose fiction or idea, having the same influence as the impressions of the memory, or the conclusions of the judgment, is received on the same footing, and operates with equal force on the passions. a present impression and a customary transition are now no longer necessary to enliven our ideas. every chimera of the brain is as vivid and intense as any of those inferences, which we formerly dignifyed with the name of conclusions concerning matters of fact, and sometimes as the present impressions of the senses. we may observe the same effect of poetry in a lesser degree; and this is common both to poetry and madness, that the vivacity they bestow on the ideas is not derived from the particular situations or connexions of the objects of these ideas, but from the present temper and disposition of the person. but how great soever the pitch may be, to which this vivacity rises, it is evident, that in poetry it never has the same feeling with that which arises in the mind, when we reason, though even upon the lowest species of probability. the mind can easily distinguish betwixt the one and the other; and whatever emotion the poetical enthusiasm may give to the spirits, it is still the mere phantom of belief or persuasion. the case is the same with the idea, as with the passion it occasions. there is no passion of the human mind but what may arise from poetry; though at the same time the feelings of the passions are very different when excited by poetical fictions, from what they are when they are from belief and reality. a passion, which is disagreeable in real life, may afford the highest entertainment in a tragedy, or epic poem. in the latter case, it lies not with that weight upon us: it feels less firm and solid: and has no other than the agreeable effect of exciting the spirits, and rouzing the attention. the difference in the passions is a clear proof of a like difference in those ideas, from which the passions are derived. where the vivacity arises from a customary conjunction with a present impression; though the imagination may not, in appearance, be so much moved; yet there is always something more forcible and real in its actions, than in the fervors of poetry and eloquence. the force of our mental actions in this case, no more than in any other, is not to be measured by the apparent agitation of the mind. a poetical description may have a more sensible effect on the fancy, than an historical narration. it may collect more of those circumstances, that form a compleat image or picture. it may seem to set the object before us in more lively colours. but still the ideas it presents are different to the feeling from those, which arise from the memory and the judgment. there is something weak and imperfect amidst all that seeming vehemence of thought and sentiment, which attends the fictions of poetry. we shall afterwards have occasion to remark both the resemblance and differences betwixt a poetical enthusiasm, and a serious conviction. in the mean time i cannot forbear observing, that the great difference in their feeling proceeds in some measure from reflection and general rules. we observe, that the vigour of conception, which fictions receive from poetry and eloquence, is a circumstance merely accidental, of which every idea is equally susceptible; and that such fictions are connected with nothing that is real. this observation makes us only lend ourselves, so to speak, to the fiction: but causes the idea to feel very different from the eternal established persuasions founded on memory and custom. they are somewhat of the same kind: but the one is much inferior to the other, both in its causes and effects. a like reflection on general rules keeps us from augmenting our belief upon every encrease of the force and vivacity of our ideas. where an opinion admits of no doubt, or opposite probability, we attribute to it a full conviction: though the want of resemblance, or contiguity, may render its force inferior to that of other opinions. it is thus the understanding corrects the appearances of the senses, and makes us imagine, that an object at twenty foot distance seems even to the eye as large as one of the same dimensions at ten. we may observe the same effect of poetry in a lesser degree; only with this difference, that the least reflection dissipates the illusions of poetry, and places the objects in their proper light. it is however certain, that in the warmth of a poetical enthusiasm, a poet has a counterfeit belief, and even a kind of vision of his objects: and if there be any shadow of argument to support this belief, nothing contributes more to his full conviction than a blaze of poetical figures and images, which have their effect upon the poet himself, as well as upon his readers. sect. xi. of the probability of chances. but in order to bestow on this system its full force and evidence, we must carry our eye from it a moment to consider its consequences, and explain from the same principles some other species of reasoning, which are derived from the same origin. those philosophers, who have divided human reason into knowledge and probability, and have defined the first to be that evidence, which arises from the comparison of ideas, are obliged to comprehend all our arguments from causes or effects under the general term of probability. but though every one be free to use his terms in what sense he pleases; and accordingly in the precedent part of this discourse, i have followed this method of expression; it is however certain, that in common discourse we readily affirm, that many arguments from causation exceed probability, and may be received as a superior kind of evidence. one would appear ridiculous, who would say, that it is only probable the sun will rise to-morrow, or that all men must dye; though it is plain we have no further assurance of these facts, than what experience affords us. for this reason, it would perhaps be more convenient, in order at once to preserve the common signification of words, and mark the several degrees of evidence, to distinguish human reason into three kinds, viz. that from knowledge, from proofs, and from probabilities. by knowledge, i mean the assurance arising from the comparison of ideas. by proofs, those arguments, which are derived from the relation of cause and effect, and which are entirely free from doubt and uncertainty. by probability, that evidence, which is still attended with uncertainty. it is this last species of reasoning, i proceed to examine. probability or reasoning from conjecture may be divided into two kinds, viz. that which is founded on chance, and that which arises from causes. we shall consider each of these in order. the idea of cause and effect is derived from experience, which presenting us with certain objects constantly conjoined with each other, produces such a habit of surveying them in that relation, that we cannot without a sensible violence survey them iii any other. on the other hand, as chance is nothing real in itself, and, properly speaking, is merely the negation of a cause, its influence on the mind is contrary to that of causation; and it is essential to it, to leave the imagination perfectly indifferent, either to consider the existence or non-existence of that object, which is regarded as contingent. a cause traces the way to our thought, and in a manner forces us to survey such certain objects, in such certain relations. chance can only destroy this determination of the thought, and leave the mind in its native situation of indifference; in which, upon the absence of a cause, it is instantly re-instated. since therefore an entire indifference is essential to chance, no one chance can possibly be superior to another, otherwise than as it is composed of a superior number of equal chances. for if we affirm that one chance can, after any other manner, be superior to another, we must at the same time affirm, that there is something, which gives it the superiority, and determines the event rather to that side than the other: that is, in other words, we must allow of a cause, and destroy the supposition of chance; which we had before established. a perfect and total indifference is essential to chance, and one total indifference can never in itself be either superior or inferior to another. this truth is not peculiar to my system, but is acknowledged by every one, that forms calculations concerning chances. and here it is remarkable, that though chance and causation be directly contrary, yet it is impossible for us to conceive this combination of chances, which is requisite to render one hazard superior to another, without supposing a mixture of causes among the chances, and a conjunction of necessity in some particulars, with a total indifference in others. where nothing limits the chances, every notion, that the most extravagant fancy can form, is upon a footing of equality; nor can there be any circumstance to give one the advantage above another. thus unless we allow, that there are some causes to make the dice fall, and preserve their form in their fall, and lie upon some one of their sides, we can form no calculation concerning the laws of hazard. but supposing these causes to operate, and supposing likewise all the rest to be indifferent and to be determined by chance, it is easy to arrive at a notion of a superior combination of chances. a dye that has four sides marked with a certain number of spots, and only two with another, affords us an obvious and easy instance of this superiority. the mind is here limited by the causes to such a precise number and quality of the events; and at the same time is undetermined in its choice of any particular event. proceeding then in that reasoning, wherein we have advanced three steps; that chance is merely the negation of a cause, and produces a total indifference in the mind; that one negation of a cause and one total indifference can never be superior or inferior to another; and that there must always be a mixture of causes among the chances, in order to be the foundation of any reasoning: we are next to consider what effect a superior combination of chances can have upon the mind, and after what manner it influences our judgment and opinion. here we may repeat all the same arguments we employed in examining that belief, which arises from causes; and may prove, after the same manner, that a superior number of chances produces our assent neither by demonstration nor probability. it is indeed evident that we can never by the comparison of mere ideas make any discovery, which can be of consequence in this affairs and that it is impossible to prove with certainty, that any event must fall on that side where there is a superior number of chances. to, suppose in this case any certainty, were to overthrow what we have established concerning the opposition of chances, and their perfect equality and indifference. should it be said, that though in an opposition of chances it is impossible to determine with certainty, on which side the event will fall, yet we can pronounce with certainty, that it is more likely and probable, it will be on that side where there is a superior number of chances, than where there is an inferior: should this be said, i would ask, what is here meant by likelihood and probability? the likelihood and probability of chances is a superior number of equal chances; and consequently when we say it is likely the event win fall on the side, which is superior, rather than on the inferior, we do no more than affirm, that where there is a superior number of chances there is actually a superior, and where there is an inferior there is an inferior; which are identical propositions, and of no consequence. the question is, by what means a superior number of equal chances operates upon the mind, and produces belief or assent; since it appears, that it is neither by arguments derived from demonstration, nor from probability. in order to clear up this difficulty, we shall suppose a person to take a dye, formed after such a manner as that four of its sides are marked with one figure, or one number of spots, and two with another; and to put this dye into the box with an intention of throwing it: it is plain, he must conclude the one figure to be more probable than the other, and give the preference to that which is inscribed on the greatest number of sides. he in a manner believes, that this will lie uppermost; though still with hesitation and doubt, in proportion to the number of chances, which are contrary: and according as these contrary chances diminish, and the superiority encreases on the other side, his belief acquires new degrees of stability and assurance. this belief arises from an operation of the mind upon the simple and limited object before us; and therefore its nature will be the more easily discovered and explained. we have nothing but one single dye to contemplate, in order to comprehend one of the most curious operations of the understanding. this dye, formed as above, contains three circumstances worthy of our attention. first, certain causes, such as gravity, solidity, a cubical figure, &c. which determine it to fall, to preserve its form in its fall, and to turn up one of its sides. secondly, a certain number of sides, which are supposed indifferent. thirdly, a certain figure inscribed on each side. these three particulars form the whole nature of the dye, so far as relates to our present purpose; and consequently are the only circumstances regarded by the mind in its forming a judgment concerning the result of such a throw. let us, therefore, consider gradually and carefully what must be the influence of these circumstances on the thought and imagination. first, we have already observed, that the mind is determined by custom to pass from any cause to its effect, and that upon the appearance of the one, it is almost impossible for it not to form an idea of the other. their constant conjunction in past instances has produced such a habit in the mind, that it always conjoins them in its thought, and infers the existence of the one from that of its usual attendant. when it considers the dye as no longer supported by the box, it can not without violence regard it as suspended in the air; but naturally places it on the table, and views it as turning up one of its sides. this is the effect of the intermingled causes, which are requisite to our forming any calculation concerning chances. secondly, it is supposed, that though the dye be necessarily determined to fall, and turn up one of its sides, yet there is nothing to fix the particular side, but that this is determined entirely by chance. the very nature and essence of chance is a negation of causes, and the leaving the mind in a perfect indifference among those events, which are supposed contingent. when therefore the thought is determined by the causes to consider the dye as falling and turning up one of its sides, the chances present all these sides as equal, and make us consider every one of them, one after another, as alike probable and possible. the imagination passes from the cause, viz. the throwing of the dye, to the effect, viz. the turning up one of the six sides; and feels a kind of impossibility both of stopping short in the way, and of forming any other idea. but as all these six sides are incompatible, and the dye cannot turn up above one at once, this principle directs us not to consider all of them at once as lying uppermost; which we look upon as impossible: neither does it direct us with its entire force to any particular side; for in that case this side would be considered as certain and inevitable; but it directs us to the whole six sides after such a manner as to divide its force equally among them. we conclude in general, that some one of them must result from the throw: we run all of them over in our minds: the determination of the thought is common to all; but no more of its force falls to the share of any one, than what is suitable to its proportion with the rest. it is after this manner the original impulse, and consequently the vivacity of thought, arising from the causes, is divided and split in pieces by the intermingled chances. we have already seen the influence of the two first qualities of the dye, viz. the causes, and the number and indifference of the sides, and have learned how they give an impulse to the thought, and divide that impulse into as many parts as there are unites in the number of sides. we must now consider the effects of the third particular, viz. the figures inscribed on each side. it is evident that where several sides have the same figure inscribe on them, they must concur in their influence on the mind, and must unite upon one image or idea of a figure all those divided impulses, that were dispersed over the several sides, upon which that figure is inscribed. were the question only what side will be turned up, these are all perfectly equal, and no one coued ever have any advantage above another. but as the question is concerning the figure, and as the same figure is presented by more than one side: it is evident, that the impulses belonging to all these sides must re-unite in that one figure, and become stronger and more forcible by the union. four sides are supposed in the present case to have the same figure inscribed on them, and two to have another figure. the impulses of the former are, therefore, superior to those of the latter. but as the events are contrary, and it is impossible both these figures can be turned up; the impulses likewise become contrary, and the inferior destroys the superior, as far as its strength goes. the vivacity of the idea is always proportionable to the degrees of the impulse or tendency to the transition; and belief is the same with the vivacity of the idea, according to the precedent doctrine. sect. xii. of the probability of causes. what i have said concerning the probability of chances can serve to no other purpose, than to assist us in explaining the probability of causes; since it is commonly allowed by philosophers, that what the vulgar call chance is nothing but a secret and concealed cause. that species of probability, therefore, is what we must chiefly examine. the probabilities of causes are of several kinds; but are all derived from the same origin, viz. the association of ideas to a present impression. as the habit, which produces the association, arises from the frequent conjunction of objects, it must arrive at its perfection by degrees, and must acquire new force from each instance, that falls under our observation. the first instance has little or no force: the second makes some addition to it: the third becomes still more sensible; and it is by these slow steps, that our judgment arrives at a full assurance. but before it attains this pitch of perfection, it passes through several inferior degrees, and in all of them is only to be esteemed a presumption or probability. the gradation, therefore, from probabilities to proofs is in many cases insensible; and the difference betwixt these kinds of evidence is more easily perceived in the remote degrees, than in the near and contiguous. it is worthy of remark on this occasion, that though the species of probability here explained be the first in order, and naturally takes place before any entire proof can exist, yet no one, who is arrived at the age of maturity, can any longer be acquainted with it. it is true, nothing is more common than for people of the most advanced knowledge to have attained only an imperfect experience of many particular events; which naturally produces only an imperfect habit and transition: but then we must consider, that the mind, having formed another observation concerning the connexion of causes and effects, gives new force to its reasoning from that observation; and by means of it can build an argument on one single experiment, when duly prepared and examined. what we have found once to follow from any object, we conclude will for ever follow from it; and if this maxim be not always built upon as certain, it is not for want of a sufficient number of experiments, but because we frequently meet with instances to the contrary; which leads us to the second species of probability, where there is a contrariety in our experience and observation. it would be very happy for men in the conduct of their lives and actions, were the same objects always conjoined together, and, we had nothing to fear but the mistakes of our own judgment, without having any reason to apprehend the uncertainty of nature. but as it is frequently found, that one observation is contrary to another, and that causes and effects follow not in the same order, of which we have i had experience, we are obliged to vary our reasoning on, account of this uncertainty, and take into consideration the contrariety of events. the first question, that occurs on this head, is concerning the nature and causes of the contrariety. the vulgar, who take things according to their first appearance, attribute the uncertainty of events to such an uncertainty in the causes, as makes them often fail of their usual influence, though they meet with no obstacle nor impediment in their operation. but philosophers observing, that almost in every part of nature there is contained a vast variety of springs and principles, which are hid, by reason of their minuteness or remoteness, find that it is at least possible the contrariety of events may not proceed from any contingency in the cause, but from the secret operation of contrary causes. this possibility is converted into certainty by farther observation, when they remark, that upon an exact scrutiny, a contrariety of effects always betrays a contrariety of causes, and proceeds from their mutual hindrance and opposition. a peasant can give no better reason for the stopping of any clock or watch than to say, that commonly it does not go right: but an artizan easily perceives, that the same force in the spring or pendulum has always the same influence on the wheels; but fails of its usual effect, perhaps by reason of a grain of dust, which puts a stop to the whole movement. from the observation of several parallel instances, philosophers form a maxim, that the connexion betwixt all causes and effects is equally necessary, and that its seeming uncertainty in some instances proceeds from the secret opposition of contrary causes. but however philosophers and the vulgar may differ in their explication of the contrariety of events, their inferences from it are always of the same kind, and founded on the same principles. a contrariety of events in the past may give us a kind of hesitating belief for the future after two several ways. first, by producing an imperfect habit and transition from the present impression to the related idea. when the conjunction of any two objects is frequent, without being entirely constant, the mind is determined to pass from one object to the other; but not with so entire a habit, as when the union is uninterrupted, and all the instances we have ever met with are uniform and of a piece-.. we find from common experience, in our actions as well as reasonings, that a constant perseverance in any course of life produces a strong inclination and tendency to continue for the future; though there are habits of inferior degrees of force, proportioned to the inferior degrees of steadiness and uniformity in our conduct. there is no doubt but this principle sometimes takes place, and produces those inferences we draw from contrary phaenomena: though i am perswaded, that upon examination we shall not find it to be the principle, that most commonly influences the mind in this species of reasoning. when we follow only the habitual determination of the mind, we make the transition without any reflection, and interpose not a moment's delay betwixt the view of one object and the belief of that, which is often found to attend it. as the custom depends not upon any deliberation, it operates immediately, without allowing any time for reflection. but this method of proceeding we have but few instances of in our probable reasonings; and even fewer than in those, which are derived from the uninterrupted conjunction of objects. in the former species of reasoning we commonly take knowingly into consideration the contrariety of past events; we compare the different sides of the contrariety, and carefully weigh the experiments, which we have on each side: whence we may conclude, that our reasonings of this kind arise not directly from the habit, but in an oblique manner; which we must now endeavour to explain. it is evident, that when an object is attended with contrary effects, we judge of them only by our past experience, and always consider those as possible, which we have observed to follow from it. and as past experience regulates our judgment concerning the possibility of these effects, so it does that concerning their probability; and that effect, which has been the most common, we always esteem the most likely. here then are two things to be considered, viz. the reasons which determine us to make the past a standard for the future, and the manner how we extract a single judgment from a contrariety of past events. first we may observe, that the supposition, that the future resembles the past, is not founded on arguments of any kind, but is derived entirely from habit, by which we are determined to expect for the future the same train of objects, to which we have been accustomed. this habit or determination to transfer the past to the future is full and perfect; and consequently the first impulse of the imagination in this species of reasoning is endowed with the same qualities. but, secondly, when in considering past experiments we find them of a contrary nature, this determination, though full and perfect in itself, presents us with no steady object, but offers us a number of disagreeing images in a certain order and proportion. the first impulse, therefore, is here broke into pieces, and diffuses itself over all those images, of which each partakes an equal share of that force and vivacity, that is derived from the impulse. any of these past events may again happen; and we judge, that when they do happen, they will be mixed in the same proportion as in the past. if our intention, therefore, be to consider the proportions of contrary events in a great number of instances, the images presented by our past experience must remain in their first form, and preserve their first proportions. suppose, for instance, i have found by long observation, that of twenty ships, which go to sea, only nineteen return. suppose i see at present twenty ships that leave the port: i transfer my past experience to the future, and represent to myself nineteen of these ships as returning in safety, and one as perishing. concerning this there can be no difficulty. but as we frequently run over those several ideas of past events, in order to form a judgment concerning one single event, which appears uncertain; this consideration must change the first form of our ideas, and draw together the divided images presented by experience; since it is to it we refer the determination of that particular event, upon which we reason. many of these images are supposed to concur, and a superior number to concur on one side. these agreeing images unite together, and render the idea more strong and lively, not only than a mere fiction of the imagination, but also than any idea, which is supported by a lesser number of experiments. each new experiment is as a new stroke of the pencil, which bestows an additional vivacity on the colours without either multiplying or enlarging the figure. this operation of the mind has been so fully explained in treating of the probability of chance, that i need not here endeavour to render it more intelligible. every past experiment may be considered as a kind of chance; i it being uncertain to us, whether the object will exist conformable to one experiment or another. and for this reason every thing that has been said on the one subject is applicable to both. thus upon the whole, contrary experiments produce an imperfect belief, either by weakening the habit, or by dividing and afterwards joining in different parts, that perfect habit, which makes us conclude in general, that instances, of which we have no experience, must necessarily resemble those of which we have. to justify still farther this account of the second species of probability, where we reason with knowledge and reflection from a contrariety of past experiments, i shall propose the following considerations, without fearing to give offence by that air of subtilty, which attends them. just reasoning ought still, perhaps, to retain its force, however subtile; in the same manner as matter preserves its solidity in the air, and fire, and animal spirits, as well as in the grosser and more sensible forms. first, we may observe, that there is no probability so great as not to allow of a contrary possibility; because otherwise it would cease to be a probability, and would become a certainty. that probability of causes, which is most extensive, and which we at present examine, depends on a contrariety of experiments: and it is evident an experiment in the past proves at least a possibility for the future. secondly, the component parts of this possibility and probability are of the same nature, and differ in number only, but not in kind. it has been observed, that all single chances are entirely equal, and that the only circumstance, which can give any event, that is contingent, a superiority over another is a superior number of chances. in like manner, as the uncertainty of causes is discovery by experience, which presents us with a view of contrary events, it is plain, that when we transfer the past to the future, the known to the unknown, every past experiment has the same weight, and that it is only a superior number of them, which can throw the ballance on any side. the possibility, therefore, which enters into every reasoning of this kind, is composed of parts, which are of the same nature both among themselves, and with those, that compose the opposite probability. thirdly, we may establish it as a certain maxim, that in all moral as well as natural phaenomena, wherever any cause consists of a number of parts, and the effect encreases or diminishes, according to the variation of that number, the effects properly speaking, is a compounded one, and arises from the union of the several effects, that proceed from each part of the cause. thus, because the gravity of a body encreases or diminishes by the encrease or diminution of its parts, we conclude that each part contains this quality and contributes to the gravity of the whole. the absence or presence of a part of the cause is attended with that of a proportionable part of the effect. this connexion or constant conjunction sufficiently proves the one part to be the cause of the other. as the belief which we have of any event, encreases or diminishes according to the number of chances or past experiments, it is to be considered as a compounded effect, of which each part arises from a proportionable number of chances or experiments. let us now join these three observations, and see what conclusion we can draw from them. to every probability there is an opposite possibility. this possibility is composed of parts, that are entirely of the same nature with those of the probability; and consequently have the same influence on the mind and understanding. the belief, which attends the probability, is a compounded effect, and is formed by the concurrence of the several effects, which proceed from each part of the probability. since therefore each part of the probability contributes to the production of the belief, each part of the possibility must have the same influence on the opposite side; the nature of these parts being entirely the same. the contrary belief, attending the possibility, implies a view of a certain object, as well as the probability does an opposite view. in this particular both these degrees of belief are alike. the only manner then, in which the superior number of similar component parts in the one can exert its influence, and prevail above the inferior in the other, is by producing a stronger and more lively view of its object. each part presents a particular view; and all these views uniting together produce one general view, which is fuller and more distinct by the greater number of causes or principles, from which it is derived. the component parts of the probability and possibility, being alike in their nature, must produce like effects; and the likeness of their effects consists in this, that each of them presents a view of a particular object. but though these parts be alike in their nature, they are very different in their quantity and number; and this difference must appear in the effect as well as the similarity. now as the view they present is in both cases full and entire, and comprehends the object in all its parts, it is impossible that in this particular there can be any difference; nor is there any thing but a superior vivacity in the probability, arising from the concurrence of a superior number of views, which can distinguish these effects. here is almost the same argument in a different light. all our reasonings concerning the probability of causes are founded on the transferring of past to future. the transferring of any past experiment to the future is sufficient to give us a view of the object; whether that experiment be single or combined with others of the same kind; whether it be entire, or opposed by others of a contrary kind. suppose, then, it acquires both these qualities of combination and opposition, it loses not upon that account its former power of presenting a view of the object, but only concurs with and opposes other experiments, that have a like influence. a question, therefore, may arise concerning the manner both of the concurrence and opposition. as to the concurrence, there is only the choice left betwixt these two hypotheses. first, that the view of the object, occasioned by the transference of each past experiment, preserves itself entire, and only multiplies the number of views. or, secondly, that it runs into the other similar and correspondent views, and gives them a superior degree of force and vivacity. but that the first hypothesis is erroneous, is evident from experience, which informs us, that the belief, attending any reasoning, consists in one conclusion, not in a multitude of similar ones, which would only distract the mind, and in many cases would be too numerous to be comprehended distinctly by any finite capacity. it remains, therefore, as the only reasonable opinion, that these similar views run into each other, and unite their forces; so as to produce a stronger and clearer view, than what arises from any one alone. this is the manner, in which past experiments concur, when they are transfered to any future event. as to the manner of their opposition, it is evident, that as the contrary views are incompatible with each other, and it is impossible the object can at once exist conformable to both of them, their influence becomes mutually destructive, and the mind is determined to the superior only with that force, which remains, after subtracting the inferior. i am sensible how abstruse all this reasoning must appear to the generality of readers, who not being accustomed to such profound reflections on the intellectual faculties of the mind, will be apt to reject as chimerical whatever strikes not in with the common received notions, and with the easiest and most obvious principles of philosophy. and no doubt there are some pains required to enter into these arguments; though perhaps very little are necessary to perceive the imperfection of every vulgar hypothesis on this subject, and the little light, which philosophy can yet afford us in such sublime and such curious speculations. let men be once fully perswaded of these two principles, that there, is nothing in any object, considered in itself, which can afford us a reason for drawing a conclusion beyond it; and, that even after the observation of the frequent or constant conjunction of objects, we have no reason to draw any inference concerning any object beyond those of which we have had experience; i say, let men be once fully convinced of these two principles, and this will throw them so loose from all common systems, that they will make no difficulty of receiving any, which may appear the most extraordinary. these principles we have found to be sufficiently convincing, even with regard to our most certain reasonings from causation: but i shall venture to affirm, that with regard to these conjectural or probable reasonings they still acquire a new degree of evidence. first, it is obvious, that in reasonings of this kind, it is not the object presented to us, which, considered in itself, affords us any reason to draw a conclusion concerning any other object or event. for as this latter object is supposed uncertain, and as the uncertainty is derived from a concealed contrariety of causes in the former, were any of the causes placed in the known qualities of that object, they would no longer be concealed, nor would our conclusion be uncertain. but, secondly, it is equally obvious in this species of reasoning, that if the transference of the past to the future were founded merely on a conclusion of the understanding, it coued never occasion any belief or assurance. when we transfer contrary experiments to the future, we can only repeat these contrary experiments with their particular proportions; which coued not produce assurance in any single event, upon which we reason, unless the fancy melted together all those images that concur, and extracted from them one single idea or image, which is intense and lively in proportion to the number of experiments from which it is derived, and their superiority above their antagonists. our past experience presents no determinate object; and as our belief, however faint, fixes itself on a determinate object, it is evident that the belief arises not merely from the transference of past to future, but from some operation of the fancy conjoined with it. this may lead us to conceive the manner, in which that faculty enters into all our reasonings. i shall conclude this subject with two reflections, which may deserve our attention. the first may be explained after this manner. when the mind forms a reasoning concerning any matter of fact, which is only probable, it casts its eye backward upon past experience, and transferring it to the future, is presented with so many contrary views of its object, of which those that are of the same kind uniting together, and running into one act of the mind, serve to fortify and inliven it. but suppose that this multitude of views or glimpses of an object proceeds not from experience, but from a voluntary act of the imagination; this effect does not follow, or at least, follows not in the same degree. for though custom and education produce belief by such a repetition, as is not derived from experience, yet this requires a long tract of time, along with a very frequent and undesigned repetition. in general we may pronounce, that a person who would voluntarily repeat any idea in his mind, though supported by one past experience, would be no more inclined to believe the existence of its object, than if he had contented himself with one survey of it. beside the effect of design; each act of the mind, being separate and independent, has a separate influence, and joins not its force with that of its fellows. not being united by any common object, producing them, they have no relation to each other; and consequently make no transition or union of forces. this phaenomenon we shall understand better afterwards. my second reflection is founded on those large probabilities, which the mind can judge of, and the minute differences it can observe betwixt them. when the chances or experiments on one side amount to ten thousand, and on the other to ten thousand and one, the judgment gives the preference to the latter, upon account of that superiority; though it is plainly impossible for the mind to run over every particular view, and distinguish the superior vivacity of the image arising from the superior number, where the difference is so inconsiderable. we have a parallel instance in the affections. it is evident, according to the principles above-mentioned, that when an object produces any passion in us, which varies according to the different quantity of the object; i say, it is evident, that the passion, properly speaking, is not a simple emotion, but a compounded one, of a great number of weaker passions, derived from a view of each part of the object. for otherwise it were impossible the passion should encrease by the encrease of these parts. thus a man, who desires a thousand pound, has in reality a thousand or more desires which uniting together, seem to make only one passion; though the composition evidently betrays itself upon every alteration of the object, by the preference he gives to the larger number, if superior only by an unite. yet nothing can be more certain, than that so small a difference would not be discernible in the passions, nor coued render them distinguishable from each other. the difference, therefore, of our conduct in preferring the greater number depends not upon our passions, but upon custom, and general rules. we have found in a multitude of instances, that the augmenting the numbers of any sum augments the passion, where the numbers are precise and the difference sensible. the mind can perceive from its immediate feeling, that three guineas produce a greater passion than two; and this it transfers to larger numbers, because of the resemblance; and by a general rule assigns to a thousand guineas, a stronger passion than to nine hundred and ninety nine. these general rules we shall explain presently. but beside these two species of probability, which a-re derived from an imperfect experience and from contrary causes, there is a third arising from analogy, which differs from them in some material circumstances. according to the hypothesis above explained all kinds of reasoning from causes or effects are founded on two particulars, viz., the constant conjunction of any two objects in all past experience, and the resemblance of a present object to any one of them. the effect of these two particulars is, that the present object invigorates and inlivens the imagination; and the resemblance, along with the constant union, conveys this force and vivacity to the related idea; which we are therefore said to believe, or assent to. if you weaken either the union or resemblance, you weaken the principle of transition, and of consequence that belief, which arises from it. the vivacity of the first impression cannot be fully conveyed to the related idea, either where the conjunction of their objects is not constant, or where the present impression does not perfectly resemble any of those, whose union we are accustomed to observe. in those probabilities of chance and causes above-explained, it is the constancy of the union, which is diminished; and in the probability derived from analogy, it is the resemblance only, which is affected. without some degree of resemblance, as well as union, it is impossible there can be any reasoning: but as this resemblance admits of many different degrees, the reasoning becomes proportionably more or less firm and certain. an experiment loses of its force, when transferred to instances, which are not exactly resembling; though it is evident it may still retain as much as may be the foundation of probability, as long as there is any resemblance remaining. sect. xiii. of unphilosophical probability. all these kinds of probability are received by philosophers, and allowed to be reasonable foundations of belief and opinion. but there are others, that are derived from the same principles, though they have not had the good fortune to obtain the same sanction. the first probability of this kind may be accounted for thus. the diminution of the union, and of the resemblance, as above explained, diminishes the facility of the transition, and by that means weakens the evidence; and we may farther observe, that the same diminution of the evidence will follow from a diminution of the impression, and from the shading of those colours, under which it appears to the memory or senses. the argument, which we found on any matter of fact we remember, is more or less convincing according as the fact is recent or remote; and though the difference in these degrees of evidence be not received by philosophy as solid and legitimate; because in that case an argument must have a different force to day, from what it shall have a month hence; yet notwithstanding the opposition of philosophy, it is certain, this circumstance has a considerable influence on the understanding, and secretly changes the authority of the same argument, according to the different times, in which it is proposed to us. a greater force and vivacity in the impression naturally conveys a greater to the related idea; and it is on the degrees of force and vivacity, that the belief depends, according to the foregoing system. there is a second difference, which we may frequently observe in our degrees of belief and assurance, and which never fails to take place, though disclaimed by philosophers. an experiment, that is recent and fresh in the memory, affects us more than one that is in some measure obliterated; and has a superior influence on the judgment, as well as on the passions. a lively impression produces more assurance than a faint one; because it has more original force to communicate to the related idea, which thereby acquires a greater force and vivacity. a recent observation has a like effect; because the custom and transition is there more entire, and preserves better the original force in the communication. thus a drunkard, who has seen his companion die of a debauch, is struck with that instance for some time, and dreads a like accident for himself: but as the memory of it decays away by degrees, his former security returns, and the danger seems less certain and real. i add, as a third instance of this kind, that though our reasonings from proofs and from probabilities be considerably different from each other, yet the former species of reasoning often degenerates insensibly into the latter, by nothing but the multitude of connected arguments. it is certain, that when an inference is drawn immediately from an object, without any intermediate cause or effect, the conviction is much stronger, and the persuasion more lively, than when the imagination is carryed through a long chain of connected arguments, however infallible the connexion of each link may be esteemed. it is from the original impression, that the vivacity of all the ideas is derived, by means of the customary transition of the imagination; and it is evident this vivacity must gradually decay in proportion to the distance, and must lose somewhat in each transition. sometimes this distance has a greater influence than even contrary experiments would have; and a man may receive a more lively conviction from a probable reasoning, which is close and immediate, than from a long chain of consequences, though just and conclusive in each part. nay it is seldom such reasonings produce any conviction; and one must have a very strong and firm imagination to preserve the evidence to the end, where it passes through so many, stages. but here it may not be amiss to remark a very curious phaenomenon, which the present subject suggests to us. it is evident there is no point of ancient history, of which we can have any assurance, but by passing through many millions of causes and effects, and through a chain of arguments of almost an immeasurable length. before the knowledge of the fact coued come to the first historian, it must be conveyed through many mouths; and after it is committed to writing, each new copy is a new object, of which the connexion with the foregoing is known only by experience and observation. perhaps, therefore, it may be concluded from the precedent reasoning, that the evidence of all ancient history must now be lost; or at least, will be lost in time, as the chain of causes encreases, and runs on to a greater length. but as it seems contrary to common sense to think, that if the republic of letters, and the art of printing continue on the same footing as at present, our posterity, even after a thousand ages, can ever doubt if there has been such a man as julius caesar; this may be considered as an objection to the present system. if belief consisted only in a certain vivacity, conveyed from an original impression, it would decay by the length of the transition, and must at last be utterly extinguished: and vice versa, if belief on some occasions be not capable of such an extinction; it must be something different from that vivacity. before i answer this objection i shall observe, that from this topic there has been borrowed a very celebrated argument against the christian religion; but with this difference, that the connexion betwixt each link of the chain in human testimony has been there supposed not to go beyond probability, and to be liable to a degree of doubt and uncertainty. and indeed it must be confest, that in this manner of considering the subject, (which however is not a true one) there is no history or tradition, but what must in the end lose all its force and evidence. every new probability diminishes the original conviction; and however great that conviction may be supposed, it is impossible it can subsist under such re-iterated diminutions. this is true in general; though we shall find [part iv. sect. .] afterwards, that there is one very memorable exception, which is of vast consequence in the present subject of the understanding. mean while to give a solution of the preceding objection upon the supposition, that historical evidence amounts at first to an entire proof; let us consider, that though the links are innumerable, that connect any original fact with the present impression, which is the foundation of belief; yet they are all of the same kind, and depend on the fidelity of printers and copyists. one edition passes into another, and that into a third, and so on, till we come to that volume we peruse at present. there is no variation in the steps. after we know one we know all of them; and after we have made one, we can have no scruple as to the rest. this circumstance alone preserves the evidence of history, and will perpetuate the memory of the present age to the latest posterity. if all the long chain of causes and effects, which connect any past event with any volume of history, were composed of parts different from each other, and which it were necessary for the mind distinctly to conceive, it is impossible we should preserve to the end any belief or evidence. but as most of these proofs are perfectly resembling, the mind runs easily along them, jumps from one part to another with facility, and forms but a confused and general notion of each link. by this means a long chain of argument, has as little effect in diminishing the original vivacity, as a much shorter would have, if composed of parts, which were different from each other, and of which each required a distinct consideration. a fourth unphilosophical species of probability is that derived from general rules, which we rashly form to ourselves, and which are the source of what we properly call prejudice. an irishman cannot have wit, and a frenchman cannot have solidity; for which reason, though the conversation of the former in any instance be visibly very agreeable, and of the latter very judicious, we have entertained such a prejudice against them, that they must be dunces or fops in spite of sense and reason. human nature is very subject to errors of this kind; and perhaps this nation as much as any other. should it be demanded why men form general rules, and allow them to influence their judgment, even contrary to present observation and experience, i should reply, that in my opinion it proceeds from those very principles, on which all judgments concerning causes and effects depend. our judgments concerning cause and effect are derived from habit and experience; and when we have been accustomed to see one object united to another, our imagination passes from the first to the second, by a natural transition, which precedes reflection, and which cannot be prevented by it. now it is the nature of custom not only to operate with its full force, when objects are presented, that are exactly the same with those to which we have been accustomed; but also to operate in an inferior degree, when we discover such as are similar; and though the habit loses somewhat of its force by every difference, yet it is seldom entirely destroyed, where any considerable circumstances remain the same. a man, who has contracted a custom of eating fruit by the use of pears or peaches, will satisfy himself with melons, where he cannot find his favourite fruit; as one, who has become a drunkard by the use of red wines, will be carried almost with the same violence to white, if presented to him. from this principle i have accounted for that species of probability, derived from analogy, where we transfer our experience in past instances to objects which are resembling, but are not exactly the same with those concerning which we have had experience. in proportion as the resemblance decays, the probability diminishes; but still has some force as long as there remain any traces of the resemblance. this observation we may carry farther; and may remark, that though custom be the foundation of all our judgments, yet sometimes it has an effect on the imagination in opposition to the judgment, and produces a contrariety in our sentiments concerning the same object. i explain myself. in almost all kinds of causes there is a complication of circumstances, of which some are essential, and others superfluous; some are absolutely requisite to the production of the effect, and others are only conjoined by accident. now we may observe, that when these superfluous circumstances are numerous, and remarkable, and frequently conjoined with the essential, they have such an influence on the imagination, that even in the absence of the latter they carry us on to t-he conception of the usual effect, and give to that conception a force and vivacity, which make it superior to the mere fictions of the fancy. we may correct this propensity by a reflection on the nature of those circumstances: but it is still certain, that custom takes the start, and gives a biass to the imagination. to illustrate this by a familiar instance, let us consider the case of a man, who, being hung out from a high tower in a cage of iron cannot forbear trembling, when he surveys the precipice below him, though he knows himself to be perfectly secure from falling, by his experience of the solidity of the iron, which supports him; and though the ideas of fall and descent, and harm and death, be derived solely from custom and experience. the same custom goes beyond the instances, from which it is derived, and to which it perfectly corresponds; and influences his ideas of such objects as are in some respect resembling, but fall not precisely under the same rule. the circumstances of depth and descent strike so strongly upon him, that their influence can-not be destroyed by the contrary circumstances of support and solidity, which ought to give him a perfect security. his imagination runs away with its object, and excites a passion proportioned to it. that passion returns back upon the imagination and inlivens the idea; which lively idea has a new influence on the passion, and in its turn augments its force and violence; and both his fancy and affections, thus mutually supporting each other, cause the whole to have a very great influence upon him. but why need we seek for other instances, while the present subject of philosophical probabilities offers us so obvious an one, in the opposition betwixt the judgment and imagination arising from these effects of custom? according to my system, all reasonings are nothing but the effects of custom; and custom has no influence, but by inlivening the imagination, and giving us a strong conception of any object. it may, therefore, be concluded, that our judgment and imagination can never be contrary, and that custom cannot operate on the latter faculty after such a manner, as to render it opposite to the former. this difficulty we can remove after no other manner, than by supposing the influence of general rules. we shall afterwards take [sect. .] notice of some general rules, by which we ought to regulate our judgment concerning causes and effects; and these rules are formed on the nature of our understanding, and on our experience of its operations in the judgments we form concerning objects. by them we learn to distinguish the accidental circumstances from the efficacious causes; and when we find that an effect can be produced without the concurrence of any particular circumstance, we conclude that that circumstance makes not a part of the efficacious cause, however frequently conjoined with it. but as this frequent conjunction necessity makes it have some effect on the imagination, in spite of the opposite conclusion from general rules, the opposition of these two principles produces a contrariety in our thoughts, and causes us to ascribe the one inference to our judgment, and the other to our imagination. the general rule is attributed to our judgment; as being more extensive and constant. the exception to the imagination, as being more capricious and uncertain. thus our general rules are in a manner set in opposition to each other. when an object appears, that resembles any cause in very considerable circumstances, the imagination naturally carries us to a lively conception of the usual effect, though the object be different in the most material and most efficacious circumstances from that cause. here is the first influence of general rules. but when we take a review of this act of the mind, and compare it with the more general and authentic operations of the understanding, we find it to be of an irregular nature, and destructive of all the most established principles of reasonings; which is the cause of our rejecting it. this is a second influence of general rules, and implies the condemnation of the former. sometimes the one, sometimes the other prevails, according to the disposition and character of the person. the vulgar are commonly guided by the first, and wise men by the second. mean while the sceptics may here have the pleasure of observing a new and signal contradiction in our reason, and of seeing all philosophy ready to be subverted by a principle of human nature, and again saved by a new direction of the very same principle. the following of general rules is a very unphilosophical species of probability; and yet it is only by following them that we can correct this, and all other unphilosophical probabilities. since we have instances, where general rules operate on the imagination even contrary to the judgment, we need not be surprized to see their effects encrease, when conjoined with that latter faculty, and to observe that they bestow on the ideas they present to us a force superior to what attends any other. every one knows, there is an indirect manner of insinuating praise or blame, which is much less shocking than the open flattery or censure of any person. however he may communicate his sentiments by such secret insinuations, and make them known with equal certainty as by the open discovery of them, it is certain that their influence is not equally strong and powerful. one who lashes me with concealed strokes of satire, moves not my indignation to such a degree, as if he flatly told me i was a fool and coxcomb; though i equally understand his meaning, as if he did. this difference is to be attributed to the influence of general rules. whether a person openly, abuses me, or slyly intimates his contempt, in neither case do i immediately perceive his sentiment or opinion; and it is only by signs, that is, by its effects, i become sensible of it. the only difference, then, betwixt these two cases consists in this, that in the open discovery of his sentiments he makes use of signs, which are general and universal; and in the secret intimation employs such as are more singular and uncommon. the effect of this circumstance is, that the imagination, in running from the present impression to the absent idea, makes the transition with greater facility, and consequently conceives the object with greater force, where the connexion is common and universal, than where it is more rare and particular. accordingly we may observe, that the open declaration of our sentiments is called the taking off the mask, as the secret intimation of our opinions is said to be the veiling of them. the difference betwixt an idea produced by a general connexion, and that arising from a particular one is here compared to the difference betwixt an impression and an idea. this difference in the imagination has a suitable effect on the passions; and this effect is augmented by another circumstance. a secret intimation of anger or contempt shews that we still have some consideration for the person, and avoid the directly abusing him. this makes a concealed satire less disagreeable; but still this depends on the same principle. for if an idea were not more feeble, when only intimated, it would never be esteemed a mark of greater respect to proceed in this method than in the other. sometimes scurrility is less displeasing than delicate satire, because it revenges us in a manner for the injury at the very time it is committed, by affording us a just reason to blame and contemn the person, who injures us. but this phaenomenon likewise depends upon the same principle. for why do we blame all gross and injurious language, unless it be, because we esteem it contrary to good breeding and humanity? and why is it contrary, unless it be more shocking than any delicate satire? the rules of good breeding condemn whatever is openly disobliging, and gives a sensible pain and confusion to those, with whom we converse. after this is once established, abusive language is universally blamed, and gives less pain upon account of its coarseness and incivility, which render the person despicable, that employs it. it becomes less disagreeable, merely because originally it is more so; and it is more disagreeable, because it affords an inference by general and common rules, that are palpable and undeniable. to this explication of the different influence of open and concealed flattery or satire, i shall add the consideration of another phenomenon, which is analogous to it. there are many particulars in the point of honour both of men and women, whose violations, when open and avowed, the world never excuses, but which it is more apt to overlook, when the appearances are saved, and the transgression is secret and concealed. even those, who know with equal certainty, that the fault is committed, pardon it more easily, when the proofs seem in some measure oblique and equivocal, than when they are direct and undeniable. the same idea is presented in both cases, and, properly speaking, is equally assented to by the judgment; and yet its influence is different, because of the different manner, in which it is presented. now if we compare these two cases, of the open and concealed violations of the laws of honour, we shall find, that the difference betwixt them consists in this, that in the first ease the sign, from which we infer the blameable action, is single, and suffices alone to be the foundation of our reasoning and judgment; whereas in the latter the signs are numerous, and decide little or nothing when alone and unaccompanyed with many minute circumstances, which are almost imperceptible. but it is certainly true, that any reasoning is always the more convincing, the more single and united it is to the eye, and the less exercise it gives to the imagination to collect all its parts, and run from them to the correlative idea, which forms the conclusion. the labour of the thought disturbs the regular progress of the sentiments, as we shall observe presently.[part iv. sect. .] the idea strikes not on us with ouch vivacity; and consequently has no such influence on the passion and imagination. from the same principles we may account for those observations of the cardinal de retz, that there are many things, in which the world wishes to be deceived; and that it more easily excuses a person in acting than in talking contrary to the decorum of his profession and character. a fault in words is commonly more open and distinct than one in actions, which admit of many palliating excuses, and decide not so clearly concerning the intention and views of the actor. thus it appears upon the whole, that every kind of opinion or judgment, which amounts not to knowledge, is derived entirely from the force and vivacity of the perception, and that these qualities constitute in the mind, what we call the belief of the existence of any object. this force and this vivacity are most conspicuous in the memory; and therefore our confidence in the veracity of that faculty is the greatest imaginable, and equals in many respects the assurance of a demonstration. the next degree of these qualities is that derived from the relation of cause and effect; and this too is very great, especially when the conjunction is found by experience to be perfectly constant, and when the object, which is present to us, exactly resembles those, of which we have had experience. but below this degree of evidence there are many others, which have an influence on the passions and imagination, proportioned to that degree of force and vivacity, which they communicate to the ideas. it is by habit we make the transition from cause to effect; and it is from some present impression we borrow that vivacity, which we diffuse over the correlative idea. but when we have not observed a sufficient number of instances, to produce a strong habit; or when these instances are contrary to each other; or when the resemblance is not exact; or the present impression is faint and obscure; or the experience in some measure obliterated from the memory; or the connexion dependent on a long chain of objects; or the inference derived from general rules, and yet not conformable to them: in all these cases the evidence diminishes by the diminution of the force and intenseness of the idea. this therefore is the nature of the judgment and probability. what principally gives authority to this system is, beside the undoubted arguments, upon which each part is founded, the agreement of these parts, and the necessity of one to explain another. the belief, which attends our memory, is of the same nature with that, which is derived from our judgments: nor is there any difference betwixt that judgment, which is derived from a constant and uniform connexion of causes and effects, and that which depends upon an interrupted and uncertain. it is indeed evident, that in all determinations, where the mind decides from contrary experiments, it is first divided within itself, and has an inclination to either side in proportion to the number of experiments we have seen and remember. this contest is at last determined to the advantage of that side, where we observe a superior number of these experiments; but still with a diminution of force in the evidence correspondent to the number of the opposite experiments. each possibility, of which the probability is composed, operates separately upon the imagination; and it is the larger collection of possibilities, which at last prevails, and that with a force proportionable to its superiority. all these phenomena lead directly to the precedent system; nor will it ever be possible upon any other principles to give a satisfactory and consistent explication of them. without considering these judgments as the effects of custom on the imagination, we shall lose ourselves in perpetual contradiction and absurdity. sect. xiv. of the idea of necessary connexion. having thus explained the manner, in which we reason beyond our immediate impressions, and conclude that such particular causes must have such particular effects; we must now return upon our footsteps to examine that question, which [sect. .] first occured to us, and which we dropt in our way, viz. what is our idea of necessity, when we say that two objects are necessarily connected together. upon this head i repeat what i have often had occasion to observe, that as we have no idea, that is not derived from an impression, we must find some impression, that gives rise to this idea of necessity, if we assert we have really such an idea. in order to this i consider, in what objects necessity is commonly supposed to lie; and finding that it is always ascribed to causes and effects, i turn my eye to two objects supposed to be placed in that relation; and examine them in all the situations, of which they are susceptible. i immediately perceive, that they are contiguous in time and place, and that the object we call cause precedes the other we call effect. in no one instance can i go any farther, nor is it possible for me to discover any third relation betwixt these objects. i therefore enlarge my view to comprehend several instances; where i find like objects always existing in like relations of contiguity and succession. at first sight this seems to serve but little to my purpose. the reflection on several instances only repeats the same objects; and therefore can never give rise to a new idea. but upon farther enquiry i find, that the repetition is not in every particular the same, but produces a new impression, and by that means the idea, which i at present examine. for after a frequent repetition, i find, that upon the appearance of one of the objects, the mind is determined by custom to consider its usual attendant, and to consider it in a stronger light upon account of its relation to the first object. it is this impression, then, or determination, which affords me the idea of necessity. i doubt not but these consequences will at first sight be received without difficulty, as being evident deductions from principles, which we have already established, and which we have often employed in our reasonings. this evidence both in the first principles, and in the deductions, may seduce us unwarily into the conclusion, and make us imagine it contains nothing extraordinary, nor worthy of our curiosity. but though such an inadvertence may facilitate the reception of this reasoning, it will make it be the more easily forgot; for which reason i think it proper to give warning, that i have just now examined one of the most sublime questions in philosophy, viz. that concerning the power and efficacy of causes; where all the sciences seem so much interested. such a warning will naturally rouze up the attention of the reader, and make him desire a more full account of my doctrine, as well as of the arguments, on which it is founded. this request is so reasonable, that i cannot refuse complying with it; especially as i am hopeful that these principles, the more they are examined, will acquire the more force and evidence. there is no question, which on account of its importance, as well as difficulty, has caused more disputes both among antient and modern philosophers, than this concerning the efficacy of causes, or that quality which makes them be followed by their effects. but before they entered upon these disputes, methinks it would not have been improper to have examined what idea we have of that efficacy, which is the subject of the controversy. this is what i find principally wanting in their reasonings, and what i shall here endeavour to supply. i begin with observing that the terms of efficacy, agency, power, force, energy, necessity, connexion, and productive quality, are all nearly synonymous; and therefore it is an absurdity to employ any of them in defining the rest. by this observation we reject at once all the vulgar definitions, which philosophers have given of power and efficacy; and instead of searching for the idea in these definitions, must look for it in the impressions, from which it is originally derived. if it be a compound idea, it must arise from compound impressions. if simple, from simple impressions. i believe the most general and most popular explication of this matter, is to say [see mr. locke, chapter of power.], that finding from experience, that there are several new productions in matter, such as the motions and variations of body, and concluding that there must somewhere be a power capable of producing them, we arrive at last by this reasoning at the idea of power and efficacy. but to be convinced that this explication is more popular than philosophical, we need but reflect on two very obvious principles. first, that reason alone can never give rise to any original idea, and secondly, that reason, as distinguished from experience, can never make us conclude, that a cause or productive quality is absolutely requisite to every beginning of existence. both these considerations have been sufficiently explained: and therefore shall not at present be any farther insisted on. i shall only infer from them, that since reason can never give rise to the idea of efficacy, that idea must be derived from experience, and from some particular instances of this efficacy, which make their passage into the mind by the common channels of sensation or reflection. ideas always represent their objects or impressions; and vice versa, there are some objects necessary to give rise to every idea. if we pretend, therefore, to have any just idea of this efficacy, we must produce some instance, wherein the efficacy is plainly discoverable to the mind, and its operations obvious to our consciousness or sensation. by the refusal of this, we acknowledge, that the idea is impossible and imaginary, since the principle of innate ideas, which alone can save us from this dilemma, has been already refuted, and is now almost universally rejected in the learned world. our present business, then, must be to find some natural production, where the operation and efficacy of a cause can be clearly conceived and comprehended by the mind, without any danger of obscurity or mistake. in this research we meet with very little encouragement from that prodigious diversity, which is found in the opinions of those philosophers, who have pretended to explain the secret force and energy of causes. [see father malbranche, book vi. part , chap. . and the illustrations upon it.] there are some, who maintain, that bodies operate by their substantial form; others, by their accidents or qualities; several, by their matter and form; some, by their form and accidents; others, by certain virtues and faculties distinct from all this. all these sentiments again are mixed and varyed in a thousand different ways; and form a strong presumption, that none of them have any solidity or evidence, and that the supposition of an efficacy in any of the known qualities of matter is entirely without foundation. this presumption must encrease upon us, when we consider, that these principles of substantial forms, and accidents, and faculties, are not in reality any of the known properties of bodies, but are perfectly unintelligible and inexplicable. for it is evident philosophers would never have had recourse to such obscure and uncertain principles, had they met with any satisfaction in such as are clear and intelligible; especially in such an affair as this, which must be an object of the simplest understanding, if not of the senses. upon the whole, we may conclude, that it is impossible in any one instance to shew the principle, in which the force and agency of a cause is placed; and that the most refined and most vulgar understandings are equally at a loss in this particular. if any one think proper to refute this assertion, he need not put himself to the trouble of inventing any long reasonings: but may at once shew us an instance of a cause, where we discover the power or operating principle. this defiance we are obliged frequently to make use of, as being almost the only means of proving a negative in philosophy. the small success, which has been met with in all the attempts to fix this power, has at last obliged philosophers to conclude, that the ultimate force and efficacy of nature is perfectly unknown to us, and that it is in vain we search for it in all the known qualities of matter. in this opinion they are almost unanimous; and it is only in the inference they draw from it, that they discover any difference in their sentiments. for some of them, as the cartesians in particular, having established it as a principle, that we are perfectly acquainted with the essence of matter, have very naturally inferred, that it is endowed with no efficacy, and that it is impossible for it of itself to communicate motion, or produce any of those effects, which we ascribe to it. as the essence of matter consists in extension, and as extension implies not actual motion, but only mobility; they conclude, that the energy, which produces the motion, cannot lie in the extension. this conclusion leads them into another, which they regard as perfectly unavoidable. matter, say they, is in itself entirely unactive, and deprived of any power, by which it may produce, or continue, or communicate motion: but since these effects are evident to our senses, and since the power, that produces them, must be placed somewhere, it must lie in the deity, or that divine being, who contains in his nature all excellency and perfection. it is the deity, therefore, who is the prime mover of the universe, and who not only first created matter, and gave it it's original impulse, but likewise by a continued exertion of omnipotence, supports its existence, and successively bestows on it all those motions, and configurations, and qualities, with which it is endowed. this opinion is certainly very curious, and well worth our attention; but it will appear superfluous to examine it in this place, if we reflect a moment on our present purpose in taking notice of it. we have established it as a principle, that as all ideas are derived from impressions, or some precedent perceptions, it is impossible we can have any idea of power and efficacy, unless some instances can be produced, wherein this power is perceived to exert itself. now, as these instances can never be discovered in body, the cartesians, proceeding upon their principle of innate ideas, have had recourse to a supreme spirit or deity, whom they consider as the only active being in the universe, and as the immediate cause of every alteration in matter. but the principle of innate ideas being allowed to be false, it follows, that the supposition of a deity can serve us in no stead, in accounting for that idea of agency, which we search for in vain in all the objects, which are presented to our senses, or which we are internally conscious of in our own minds. for if every idea be derived from an impression, the idea of a deity proceeds from the same origin; and if no impression, either of sensation or reflection, implies any force or efficacy, it is equally impossible to discover or even imagine any such active principle in the deity. since these philosophers, therefore, have concluded, that matter cannot be endowed with any efficacious principle, because it is impossible to discover in it such a principle; the same course of reasoning should determine them to exclude it from the supreme being. or if they esteem that opinion absurd and impious, as it really is, i shall tell them how they may avoid it; and that is, by concluding from the very first, that they have no adequate idea of power or efficacy in any object; since neither in body nor spirit, neither in superior nor inferior natures, are they able to discover one single instance of it. the same conclusion is unavoidable upon the hypothesis of those, who maintain the efficacy of second causes, and attribute a derivative, but a real power and energy to matter. for as they confess, that this energy lies not in any of the known qualities of matter, the difficulty still remains concerning the origin of its idea. if we have really an idea of power, we may attribute power to an unknown quality: but as it is impossible, that that idea can be derived from such a quality, and as there is nothing in known qualities, which can produce it; it follows that we deceive ourselves, when we imagine we are possest of any idea of this kind, after the manner we commonly understand it. all ideas are derived from, and represent impressions. we never have any impression, that contains any power or efficacy. we never therefore have any idea of power. some have asserted, that we feel an energy, or power, in our own mind; and that having in this manner acquired the idea of power, we transfer that quality to matter, where we are not able immediately to discover it. the motions of our body, and the thoughts and sentiments of our mind, (say they) obey the will; nor do we seek any farther to acquire a just notion of force or power. but to convince us how fallacious this reasoning is, we need only consider, that the will being here considered as a cause, has no more a discoverable connexion with its effects, than any material cause has with its proper effect. so far from perceiving the connexion betwixt an act of volition, and a motion of the body; it is allowed that no effect is more inexplicable from the powers and essence of thought and matter. nor is the empire of the will over our mind more intelligible. the effect is there distinguishable and separable from the cause, and coued not be foreseen without the experience of their constant conjunction. we have command over our mind to a certain degree, but beyond that, lose all empire over it: and it is evidently impossible to fix any precise bounds to our authority, where we consult not experience. in short, the actions of the mind are, in this respect, the same with those of matter. we perceive only their constant conjunction; nor can we ever reason beyond it. no internal impression has an apparent energy, more than external objects have. since, therefore, matter is confessed by philosophers to operate by an unknown force, we should in vain hope to attain an idea of force by consulting our own minds. [footnote .] [footnote . the same imperfection attends our ideas of the deity; but this can have no effect either on religion or morals. the order of the universe proves an omnipotent mind; that is, a mind whose wili is constantly attended with the obedience of every creature and being. nothing more is requisite to give a foundation to all the articles of religion, nor is it necessary we shoud form a distinct idea of the force and energy of the supreme being.] it has been established as a certain principle, that general or abstract ideas are nothing but individual ones taken in a certain light, and that, in reflecting on any object, it is as impossible to exclude from our thought all particular degrees of quantity and quality as from the real nature of things. if we be possest, therefore, of any idea of power in general, we must also be able to conceive some particular species of it; and as power cannot subsist alone, but is always regarded as an attribute of some being or existence, we must be able to place this power in some particular being, and conceive that being as endowed with a real force and energy, by which such a particular effect necessarily results from its operation. we must distinctly and particularly conceive the connexion betwixt the cause and effect, and be able to pronounce, from a simple view of the one, that it must be followed or preceded by the other. this is the true manner of conceiving a particular power in a particular body: and a general idea being impossible without an individual; where the latter is impossible, it is certain the former can never exist. now nothing is more evident, than that the human mind cannot form such an idea of two objects, as to conceive any connexion betwixt them, or comprehend distinctly that power or efficacy, by which they are united. such a connexion would amount to a demonstration, and would imply the absolute impossibility for the one object not to follow, or to be conceived not to follow upon the other: which kind of connexion has already been rejected in all cases. if any one is of a contrary opinion, and thinks he has attained a notion of power in any particular object, i desire he may point out to me that object. but till i meet with such-a-one, which i despair of, i cannot forbear concluding, that since we can never distinctly conceive how any particular power can possibly reside in any particular object, we deceive ourselves in imagining we can form any such general idea. thus upon the whole we may infer, that when we talk of any being, whether of a superior or inferior nature, as endowed with a power or force, proportioned to any effect; when we speak of a necessary connexion betwixt objects, and suppose, that this connexion depends upon an efficacy or energy, with which any of these objects are endowed; in all these expressions, so applied, we have really no distinct meaning, and make use only of common words, without any clear and determinate ideas. but as it is more probable, that these expressions do here lose their true meaning by being wrong applied, than that they never have any meaning; it will be proper to bestow another consideration on this subject, to see if possibly we can discover the nature and origin of those ideas, we annex to them. suppose two objects to be presented to us, of which the one is the cause and the other the effect; it is plain, that from the simple consideration of one, or both these objects we never shall perceive the tie by which they are united, or be able certainly to pronounce, that there is a connexion betwixt them. it is not, therefore, from any one instance, that we arrive at the idea of cause and effect, of a necessary connexion of power, of force, of energy, and of efficacy. did we never see any but particular conjunctions of objects, entirely different from each other, we should never be able to form any such ideas. but again; suppose we observe several instances, in which the same objects are always conjoined together, we immediately conceive a connexion betwixt them, and begin to draw an inference from one to another. this multiplicity of resembling instances, therefore, constitutes the very essence of power or connexion, and is the source from which the idea of it arises. in order, then, to understand the idea of power, we must consider that multiplicity; nor do i ask more to give a solution of that difficulty, which has so long perplexed us. for thus i reason. the repetition of perfectly similar instances can never alone give rise to an original idea, different from what is to be found in any particular instance, as has been observed, and as evidently follows from our fundamental principle, that all ideas are copyed from impressions. since therefore the idea of power is a new original idea, not to be found in any one instance, and which yet arises from the repetition of several instances, it follows, that the repetition alone has not that effect, but must either discover or produce something new, which is the source of that idea. did the repetition neither discover nor produce anything new, our ideas might be multiplyed by it, but would not be enlarged above what they are upon the observation of one single instance. every enlargement, therefore, (such as the idea of power or connexion) which arises from the multiplicity of similar instances, is copyed from some effects of the multiplicity, and will be perfectly understood by understanding these effects. wherever we find anything new to be discovered or produced by the repetition, there we must place the power, and must never look for it in any other object. but it is evident, in the first place, that the repetition of like objects in like relations of succession and contiguity discovers nothing new in any one of them: since we can draw no inference from it, nor make it a subject either of our demonstrative or probable reasonings;[sect. .] as has been already proved. nay suppose we coued draw an inference, it would be of no consequence in the present case; since no kind of reasoning can give rise to a new idea, such as this of power is; but wherever we reason, we must antecedently be possest of clear ideas, which may be the objects of our reasoning. the conception always precedes the understanding; and where the one is obscure, the other is uncertain; where the one fails, the other must fail also. secondly, it is certain that this repetition of similar objects in similar situations produces nothing new either in these objects, or in any external body. for it will readily be allowed, that the several instances we have of the conjunction of resembling causes and effects are in themselves entirely independent, and that the communication of motion, which i see result at present from the shock of two billiard-balls, is totally distinct from that which i saw result from such an impulse a twelve-month ago. these impulses have no influence on each other. they are entirely divided by time and place; and the one might have existed and communicated motion, though the other never had been in being. there is, then, nothing new either discovered or produced in any objects by their constant conjunction, and by the uninterrupted resemblance of their relations of succession and contiguity. but it is from this resemblance, that the ideas of necessity, of power, and of efficacy, are derived. these ideas, therefore, represent not anything, that does or can belong to the objects, which are constantly conjoined. this is an argument, which, in every view we can examine it, will be found perfectly unanswerable. similar instances are still the first source of our idea of power or necessity; at the same time that they have no influence by their similarity either on each other, or on any external object. we must, therefore, turn ourselves to some other quarter to seek the origin of that idea. though the several resembling instances, which give rise to the idea of power, have no influence on each other, and can never produce any new quality in the object, which can be the model of that idea, yet the observation of this resemblance produces a new impression in the mind, which is its real model. for after we have observed the resemblance in a sufficient number of instances, we immediately feel a determination of the mind to pass from one object to its usual attendant, and to conceive it in a stronger light upon account of that relation. this determination is the only effect of the resemblance; and therefore must be the same with power or efficacy, whose idea is derived from the resemblance. the several instances of resembling conjunctions lead us into the notion of power and necessity. these instances are in themselves totally distinct from each other, and have no union but in the mind, which observes them, and collects their ideas. necessity, then, is the effect of this observation, and is nothing but an internal impression of the mind, or a determination to carry our thoughts from one object to another. without considering it in this view, we can never arrive at the most distant notion of it, or be able to attribute it either to external or internal objects, to spirit or body, to causes or effects. the necessary connexion betwixt causes and effects is the foundation of our inference from one to the other. the foundation of our inference is the transition arising from the accustomed union. these are, therefore, the same. the idea of necessity arises from some impression. there is no impression conveyed by our senses, which can give rise to that idea. it must, therefore, be derived from some internal impression, or impression of reflection. there is no internal impression, which has any relation to the present business, but that propensity, which custom produces, to pass from an object to the idea of its usual attendant. this therefore is the essence of necessity. upon the whole, necessity is something, that exists in the mind, not in objects; nor is it possible for us ever to form the most distant idea of it, considered as a quality in bodies. either we have no idea of necessity, or necessity is nothing but that determination of the thought to pass from causes to effects, and from effects to causes, according to their experienced union. thus as the necessity, which makes two times two equal to four, or three angles of a triangle equal to two right ones, lies only in the act of the understanding, by which we consider and compare these ideas; in like manner the necessity or power, which unites causes and effects, lies in the determination of the mind to pass from the one to the other. the efficacy or energy of causes is neither placed in the causes themselves, nor in the deity, nor in the concurrence of these two principles; but belongs entirely to the soul, which considers the union of two or more objects in all past instances. it is here that the real power of causes is placed along with their connexion and necessity. i am sensible, that of all the paradoxes, which i, have had, or shall hereafter have occasion to advance in the course of this treatise, the present one is the most violent, and that it is merely by dint of solid proof and reasoning i can ever hope it will have admission, and overcome the inveterate prejudices of mankind. before we are reconciled to this doctrine, how often must we repeat to ourselves, that the simple view of any two objects or actions, however related, can never give us any idea, of power, or of a connexion betwixt them: that this idea arises from the repetition of their union: that the repetition neither discovers nor causes any thing in the objects, but has an influence only on the mind, by that customary transition it produces: that this customary transition is, therefore, the same with the power and necessity; which are consequently qualities of perceptions, not of objects, and are internally felt by the soul, and not perceivd externally in bodies? there is commonly an astonishment attending every thing extraordinary; and this astonishment changes immediately into the highest degree of esteem or contempt, according as we approve or disapprove of the subject. i am much afraid, that though the foregoing reasoning appears to me the shortest and most decisive imaginable; yet with the generality of readers the biass of the mind will prevail, and give them a prejudice against the present doctrine. this contrary biass is easily accounted for. it is a common observation, that the mind has a great propensity to spread itself on external objects, and to conjoin with them any internal impressions, which they occasion, and which always make their appearance at the same time that these objects discover themselves to the senses. thus as certain sounds and smells are always found to attend certain visible objects, we naturally imagine a conjunction, even in place, betwixt the objects and qualities, though the qualities be of such a nature as to admit of no such conjunction, and really exist no where. but of this more fully hereafter [part iv, sect. .]. mean while it is sufficient to observe, that the same propensity is the reason, why we suppose necessity and power to lie in the objects we consider, not in our mind that considers them; notwithstanding it is not possible for us to form the most distant idea of that quality, when it is not taken for the determination of the mind, to pass from the idea of an object to that of its usual attendant. but though this be the only reasonable account we can give of necessity, the contrary notion if; so riveted in the mind from the principles above-mentioned, that i doubt not but my sentiments will be treated by many as extravagant and ridiculous. what! the efficacy of causes lie in the determination of the mind! as if causes did not operate entirely independent of the mind, and would not continue their operation, even though there was no mind existent to contemplate them, or reason concerning them. thought may well depend on causes for its operation, but not causes on thought. this is to reverse the order of nature, and make that secondary, which is really primary, to every operation there is a power proportioned; and this power must be placed on the body, that operates. if we remove the power from one cause, we must ascribe it to another: but to remove it from all causes, and bestow it on a being, that is no ways related to the cause or effect, but by perceiving them, is a gross absurdity, and contrary to the most certain principles of human reason. i can only reply to all these arguments, that the case is here much the same, as if a blind man should pretend to find a great many absurdities in the supposition, that the colour of scarlet is not the same with the sound of a trumpet, nor light the same with solidity. if we have really no idea of a power or efficacy in any object, or of any real connexion betwixt causes and effects, it will be to little purpose to prove, that an efficacy is necessary in all operations. we do not understand our own meaning in talking so, but ignorantly confound ideas, which are entirely distinct from each other. i am, indeed, ready to allow, that there may be several qualities both in material and immaterial objects, with which we are utterly unacquainted; and if we please to call these power or efficacy, it will be of little consequence to the world. but when, instead of meaning these unknown qualities, we make the terms of power and efficacy signify something, of which we have a clear idea, and which is incompatible with those objects, to which we apply it, obscurity and error begin then to take place, and we are led astray by a false philosophy. this is the case, when we transfer the determination of the thought to external objects, and suppose any real intelligible connexion betwixt them; that being a quality, which can only belong to the mind that considers them. as to what may be said, that the operations of nature are independent of our thought and reasoning, i allow it; and accordingly have observed, that objects bear to each other the relations of contiguity and succession: that like objects may be observed in several instances to have like relations; and that all this is independent of, and antecedent to the operations of the understanding. but if we go any farther, and ascribe a power or necessary connexion to these objects; this is what we can never observe in them, but must draw the idea of it from what we feel internally in contemplating them. and this i carry so far, that i am ready to convert my present reasoning into an instance of it, by a subtility, which it will not be difficult to comprehend. when any object is presented to us, it immediately conveys to the mind a lively idea of that object, which is usually found to attend it; and this determination of the mind forms the necessary connexion of these objects. but when we change the point of view, from the objects to the perceptions; in that case the impression is to be considered as the cause, and the lively idea as the effect; and their necessary connexion is that new determination, which we feel to pass from the idea of the one to that of the other. the uniting principle among our internal perceptions is as unintelligible as that among external objects, and is not known to us any other way than by experience. now the nature and effects of experience have been already sufficiently examined and explained. it never gives us any insight into the internal structure or operating principle of objects, but only accustoms the mind to pass from one to another. it is now time to collect all the different parts of this reasoning, and by joining them together form an exact definition of the relation of cause and effect, which makes the subject of the present enquiry. this order would not have been excusable, of first examining our inference from the relation before we had explained the relation itself, had it been possible to proceed in a different method. but as the nature of the relation depends so much on that of the inference, we have been obliged to advance in this seemingly preposterous manner, and make use of terms before we were able exactly to define them, or fix their meaning. we shall now correct this fault by giving a precise definition of cause and effect. there may two definitions be given of this relation, which are only different, by their presenting a different view of the same object, and making us consider it either as a philosophical or as a natural relation; either as a comparison of two ideas, or as an association betwixt them. we may define a cause to be an object precedent and contiguous to another, and where all the objects resembling the former are placed in like relations of precedency and contiguity to those objects that resemble the latter. i if this definition be esteemed defective, because drawn from objects foreign to the cause, we may substitute this other definition in its place, viz. a cause is an object precedent and contiguous to another, and so united with it, that the idea, of the one determines the mind to form the idea of the other, and the impression of the one to form a more lively idea of the other. should this definition also be rejected for the same reason, i know no other remedy, than that the persons, who express this delicacy, should substitute a juster definition in its place. but for my part i must own my incapacity for such an undertaking. when i examine with the utmost accuracy those objects, which are commonly denominated causes and effects, i find, in considering a single instance, that the one object is precedent and contiguous to the other; and in inlarging my view to consider several instances, i find only, that like objects are constantly placed in like relations of succession and contiguity. again, when i consider the influence of this constant conjunction, i perceive, that such a relation can never be an object of reasoning, and can never operate upon the mind, but by means of custom, which determines the imagination to make a transition from the idea of one object to that of its usual attendant, and from the impression of one to a more lively idea of the other. however extraordinary these sentiments may appear, i think it fruitless to trouble myself with any farther enquiry or reasoning upon the subject, but shall repose myself on them as on established maxims. it will only be proper, before we leave this subject, to draw some corrollaries from it, by which we may remove several prejudices and popular errors, that have very much prevailed in philosophy. first, we may learn from the foregoing, doctrine, that all causes are of the same kind, and that in particular there is no foundation for that distinction, which we sometimes make betwixt efficient causes and causes sine qua non; or betwixt efficient causes, and formal, and material, and exemplary, and final causes. for as our idea of efficiency is derived from the constant conjunction of two objects, wherever this is observed, the cause is efficient; and where it is not, there can never be a cause of any kind. for the same reason we must reject the distinction betwixt cause and occasion, when supposed to signify any thing essentially different from each other. if constant conjunction be implyed in what we call occasion, it is a real cause. if not, it is no relation at all, and cannot give rise to any argument or reasoning. secondly, the same course of reasoning will make us conclude, that there is but one kind of necessity, as there is but one kind of cause, and that the common distinction betwixt moral and physical necessity is without any foundation in nature. this clearly appears from the precedent explication of necessity. it is the constant conjunction of objects, along with the determination of the mind, which constitutes a physical necessity: and the removal of these is the same thing with chance. as objects must either be conjoined or not, and as the mind must either be determined or not to pass from one object to another, it is impossible to admit of any medium betwixt chance and an absolute necessity. in weakening this conjunction and determination you do not change the nature of the necessity; since even in the operation of bodies, these have different degrees of constancy and force, without producing a different species of that relation. the distinction, which we often make betwixt power and the exercise of it, is equally without foundation. thirdly, we may now be able fully to overcome all that repugnance, which it is so natural for us to entertain against the foregoing reasoning, by which we endeavoured to prove, that the necessity of a cause to every beginning of existence is not founded on any arguments either demonstrative or intuitive. such an opinion will not appear strange after the foregoing definitions. if we define a cause to be an object precedent and contiguous to another, and where all the objects resembling the farmer are placed in a like relation of priority and contiguity to those objects, that resemble the latter; we may easily conceive, that there is no absolute nor metaphysical necessity, that every beginning of existence should be attended with such an object. if we define a cause to be, an object precedent and contiguous to another, and so united with it in the imagination, that the idea of the one determines the mind to form the idea of the other, and the impression of the one to form a more lively idea of the other; we shall make still less difficulty of assenting to this opinion. such an influence on the mind is in itself perfectly extraordinary and incomprehensible; nor can we be certain of its reality, but from experience and observation. i shall add as a fourth corrollary that we can never have reason to believe that any object exists, of which we cannot form an idea. for as all our reasonings concerning existence are derived from causation, and as all our reasonings concerning causation are derived from the experienced conjunction of objects, not from any reasoning or reflection, the same experience must give us a notion of these objects, and must remove all mystery from our conclusions. this is so evident, that it would scarce have merited our attention, were it not to obviate certain objections of this kind, which might arise against the following reasonings concerning matter and substance. i need not observe, that a full knowledge of the object is not requisite, but only of those qualities of it, which we believe to exist. sect. xv. rules by which to judge of causes and effects. according to the precedent doctrine, there are no objects which by the mere survey, without consulting experience, we can determine to be the causes of any other; and no objects, which we can certainly determine in the same manner not to be the causes. any thing may produce any thing. creation, annihilation, motion, reason, volition; all these may arise from one another, or from any other object we can imagine. nor will this appear strange, if we compare two principles explained above, that the constant conjunction of objects determines their causation, and [part i. sect. .] that, property speaking, no objects are contrary to each other but existence and non-existence. where objects are not contrary, nothing hinders them from having that constant conjunction, on which the relation of cause and effect totally depends. since therefore it is possible for all objects to become causes or effects to each other, it may be proper to fix some general rules, by which we may know when they really are so. ( ) the cause and effect must be contiguous in space and time. ( ) the cause must be prior to the effect. ( ) there must be a constant union betwixt the cause and effect. it is chiefly this quality, that constitutes the relation. ( ) the same cause always produces the same effect, and the same effect never arises but from the same cause. this principle we derive from experience, and is the source of most of our philosophical reasonings. for when by any clear experiment we have discovered the causes or effects of any phaenomenon, we immediately extend our observation to every phenomenon of the same kind, without waiting for that constant repetition, from which the first idea of this relation is derived. ( ) there is another principle, which hangs upon this, viz. that where several different objects produce the same effect, it must be by means of some quality, which we discover to be common amongst them. for as like effects imply like causes, we must always ascribe the causation to the circumstance, wherein we discover the resemblance. ( ) the following principle is founded on the same reason. the difference in the effects of two resembling objects must proceed from that particular, in which they differ. for as like causes always produce like effects, when in any instance we find our expectation to be disappointed, we must conclude that this irregularity proceeds from some difference in the causes. ( ) when any object encreases or diminishes with the encrease or diminution of its cause, it is to be regarded as a compounded effect, derived from the union of the several different effects, which arise from the several different parts of the cause. the absence or presence of one part of the cause is here supposed to be always attended with the absence or presence of a proportionable part of the effect. this constant conjunction sufficiently proves, that the one part is the cause of the other. we must, however, beware not to draw such a conclusion from a few experiments. a certain degree of heat gives pleasure; if you diminish that heat, the pleasure diminishes; but it does not follow, that if you augment it beyond a certain degree, the pleasure will likewise augment; for we find that it degenerates into pain. ( ) the eighth and last rule i shall take notice of is, that an object, which exists for any time in its full perfection without any effect, is not the sole cause of that effect, but requires to be assisted by some other principle, which may forward its influence and operation. for as like effects necessarily follow from like causes, and in a contiguous time and place, their separation for a moment shews, that these causes are not compleat ones. here is all the logic i think proper to employ in my reasoning; and perhaps even this was not very necessary, but might have been supplyd by the natural principles of our understanding. our scholastic head-pieces and logicians shew no such superiority above the mere vulgar in their reason and ability, as to give us any inclination to imitate them in delivering a long system of rules and precepts to direct our judgment, in philosophy. all the rules of this nature are very easy in their invention, but extremely difficult in their application; and even experimental philosophy, which seems the most natural and simple of any, requires the utmost stretch of human judgment. there is no phaenomenon in nature, but what is compounded and modifyd by so many different circumstances, that in order to arrive at the decisive point, we must carefully separate whatever is superfluous, and enquire by new experiments, if every particular circumstance of the first experiment was essential to it. these new experiments are liable to a discussion of the same kind; so that the utmost constancy is requird to make us persevere in our enquiry, and the utmost sagacity to choose the right way among so many that present themselves. if this be the case even in natural philosophy, how much more in moral, where there is a much greater complication of circumstances, and where those views and sentiments, which are essential to any action of the mind, are so implicit and obscure, that they often escape our strictest attention, and are not only unaccountable in their causes, but even unknown in their existence? i am much afraid lest the small success i meet with in my enquiries will make this observation bear the air of an apology rather than of boasting. if any thing can give me security in this particular, it will be the enlarging of the sphere of my experiments as much as possible; for which reason it may be proper in this place to examine the reasoning faculty of brutes, as well as that of human creatures. sect. xvi of the reason of animals next to the ridicule of denying an evident truth, is that of taking much pains to defend it; and no truth appears to me more evident, than that beasts are endowd with thought and reason as well as men. the arguments are in this case so obvious, that they never escape the most stupid and ignorant. we are conscious, that we ourselves, in adapting means to ends, are guided by reason and design, and that it is not ignorantly nor casually we perform those actions, which tend to self-preservation, to the obtaining pleasure, and avoiding pain. when therefore we see other creatures, in millions of instances, perform like actions, and direct them to the ends, all our principles of reason and probability carry us with an invincible force to believe the existence of a like cause. it is needless in my opinion to illustrate this argument by the enumeration of particulars. the smallest attention will supply us with more than are requisite. the resemblance betwixt the actions of animals and those of men is so entire in this respect, that the very first action of the first animal we shall please to pitch on, will afford us an incontestable argument for the present doctrine. this doctrine is as useful as it is obvious, and furnishes us with a kind of touchstone, by which we may try every system in this species of philosophy. it is from the resemblance of the external actions of animals to those we ourselves perform, that we judge their internal likewise to resemble ours; and the same principle of reasoning, carryd one step farther, will make us conclude that since our internal actions resemble each other, the causes, from which they are derivd, must also be resembling. when any hypothesis, therefore, is advancd to explain a mental operation, which is common to men and beasts, we must apply the same hypothesis to both; and as every true hypothesis will abide this trial, so i may venture to affirm, that no false one will ever be able to endure it. the common defect of those systems, which philosophers have employd to account for the actions of the mind, is, that they suppose such a subtility and refinement of thought, as not only exceeds the capacity of mere animals, but even of children and the common people in our own species; who are notwithstanding susceptible of the same emotions and affections as persons of the most accomplishd genius and understanding. such a subtility is a dear proof of the falshood, as the contrary simplicity of the truth, of any system. let us therefore put our present system concerning the nature of the understanding to this decisive trial, and see whether it will equally account for the reasonings of beasts as for these of the human species. here we must make a distinction betwixt those actions of animals, which are of a vulgar nature, and seem to be on a level with their common capacities, and those more extraordinary instances of sagacity, which they sometimes discover for their own preservation, and the propagation of their species. a dog, that avoids fire and precipices, that shuns strangers, and caresses his master, affords us an instance of the first kind. a bird, that chooses with such care and nicety the place and materials of her nest, and sits upon her eggs for a due time, and in suitable season, with all the precaution that a chymist is capable of in the most delicate projection, furnishes us with a lively instance of the second. as to the former actions, i assert they proceed from a reasoning, that is not in itself different, nor founded on different principles, from that which appears in human nature. it is necessary in the first place, that there be some impression immediately present to their memory or senses, in order to be the foundation of their judgment. from the tone of voice the dog infers his masters anger, and foresees his own punishment. from a certain sensation affecting his smell, he judges his game not to be far distant from him. secondly, the inference he draws from the present impression is built on experience, and on his observation of the conjunction of objects in past instances. as you vary this experience, he varies his reasoning. make a beating follow upon one sign or motion for some time, and afterwards upon another; and he will successively draw different conclusions, according to his most recent experience. now let any philosopher make a trial, and endeavour to explain that act of the mind, which we call belief, and give an account of the principles, from which it is derivd, independent of the influence of custom on the imagination, and let his hypothesis be equally applicable to beasts as to the human species; and after he has done this, i promise to embrace his opinion. but at the same time i demand as an equitable condition, that if my system be the only one, which can answer to all these terms, it may be receivd as entirely satisfactory and convincing. and that it is the only one, is evident almost without any reasoning. beasts certainly never perceive any real connexion among objects. it is therefore by experience they infer one from another. they can never by any arguments form a general conclusion, that those objects, of which they have had no experience, resemble those of which they have. it is therefore by means of custom alone, that experience operates upon them. all this was sufficiently evident with respect to man. but with respect to beasts there cannot be the least suspicion of mistake; which must be ownd to be a strong confirmation, or rather an invincible proof of my system. nothing shews more the force of habit in reconciling us to any phaenomenoun, than this, that men are not astonished at the operations of their own reason, at the same time, that they admire the instinct of animals, and find a difficulty in explaining it, merely because it cannot be reducd tothe very same principles. to consider the matter aright, reason is nothing but a wonderful and unintelligible instinct in our souls, which carries us along a certain train of ideas, and endows them with particular qualities, according to their particular situations and relations. this instinct, it is true, arises from past observation and experience; but can any one give the ultimate reason, why past experience and observation produces such an effect, any more than why nature alone shoud produce it? nature may certainly produce whatever can arise from habit: nay, habit is nothing but one of the principles of nature, and derives all its force from that origin. part iv. of the sceptical and other systems of philosophy. sect. i. of scepticism with regard to reason. in all demonstrative sciences the rules are certain and infallible; but when we apply them, our fallible said uncertain faculties are very apt to depart from them, and fall into error. we must, therefore, in every reasoning form a new judgment, as a check or controul on our first judgment or belief; and must enlarge our view to comprehend a kind of history of all the instances, wherein our understanding has deceived us, compared with those, wherein its testimony was just and true. our reason must be considered as a kind of cause, of which truth is the natural effect; but such-a-one as by the irruption of other causes, and by the inconstancy of our mental powers, may frequently be prevented. by this means all knowledge degenerates into probability; and this probability is greater or less, according to our experience of the veracity or deceitfulness of our understanding, and according to the simplicity or intricacy of the question. there is no algebraist nor mathematician so expert in his science, as to place entire confidence in any truth immediately upon his discovery of it, or regard it as any thing, but a mere probability. every time he runs over his proofs, his confidence encreases; but still more by the approbation of his friends; and is raised to its utmost perfection by the universal assent and applauses of the learned world. now it is evident, that this gradual encrease of assurance is nothing but the addition of new probabilities, and is derived from the constant union of causes and effects, according to past experience and observation. in accompts of any length or importance, merchants seldom trust to the infallible certainty of numbers for their security; but by the artificial structure of the accompts, produce a probability beyond what is derived from the skill and experience of the accomptant. for that is plainly of itself some degree of probability; though uncertain and variable, according to the degrees of his experience and length of the accompt. now as none will maintain, that our assurance in a long numeration exceeds probability, i may safely affirm, that there scarce is any proposition concerning numbers, of which we can have a fuller security. for it is easily possible, by gradually diminishing the numbers, to reduce the longest series of addition to the most simple question, which can be formed, to an addition of two single numbers; and upon this supposition we shall find it impracticable to shew the precise limits of knowledge and of probability, or discover that particular number, at which the one ends and the other begins. but knowledge and probability are of such contrary and disagreeing natures, that they cannot well run insensibly into each other, and that because they will not divide, but must be either entirely present, or entirely absent. besides, if any single addition were certain, every one would be so, and consequently the whole or total sum; unless the whole can be different from all its parts. i had almost said, that this was certain; but i reflect that it must reduce itself, as well as every other reasoning, and from knowledge degenerate into probability. since therefore all knowledge resolves itself into probability, and becomes at last of the same nature with that evidence, which we employ in common life, we must now examine this latter species of reasoning, and see on what foundation it stands. in every judgment, which we can form concerning probability, as well as concerning knowledge, we ought always to correct the first judgment, derived from the nature of the object, by another judgment, derived from the nature of the understanding. it is certain a man of solid sense and long experience ought to have, and usually has, a greater assurance in his opinions, than one that is foolish and ignorant, and that our sentiments have different degrees of authority, even with ourselves, in proportion to the degrees of our reason and experience. in the man of the best sense and longest experience, this authority is never entire; since even such-a-one must be conscious of many errors in the past, and must still dread the like for the future. here then arises a new species of probability to correct and regulate the first, and fix its just standard and proportion. as demonstration is subject to the controul of probability, so is probability liable to a new correction by a reflex act of the mind, wherein the nature of our understanding, and our reasoning from the first probability become our objects. having thus found in every probability, beside the original uncertainty inherent in the subject, a new uncertainty derived from the weakness of that faculty, which judges, and having adjusted these two together, we are obliged by our reason to add a new doubt derived from the possibility of error in the estimation we make of the truth and fidelity of our faculties. this is a doubt, which immediately occurs to us, and of which, if we would closely pursue our reason, we cannot avoid giving a decision. but this decision, though it should be favourable to our preceding judgment, being founded only on probability, must weaken still further our first evidence, and must itself be weakened by a fourth doubt of the same kind, and so on in infinitum: till at last there remain nothing of the original probability, however great we may suppose it to have been, and however small the diminution by every new uncertainty. no finite object can subsist under a decrease repeated in infinitum; and even the vastest quantity, which can enter into human imagination, must in this manner be reduced to nothing. let our first belief be never so strong, it must infallibly perish by passing through so many new examinations, of which each diminishes somewhat of its force and vigour. when i reflect on the natural fallibility of my judgment, i have less confidence in my opinions, than when i only consider the objects concerning which i reason; and when i proceed still farther, to turn the scrutiny against every successive estimation i make of my faculties, all the rules of logic require a continual diminution, and at last a total extinction of belief and evidence. should it here be asked me, whether i sincerely assent to this argument, which i seem to take such pains to inculcate, and whether i be really one of those sceptics, who hold that all is uncertain, and that our judgment is not in any thing possest of any measures of truth and falshood; i should reply, that this question is entirely superfluous, and that neither i, nor any other person was ever sincerely and constantly of that opinion. nature, by an absolute and uncontroulable necessity has determined us to judge as well as to breathe and feel; nor can we any more forbear viewing certain objects in a stronger and fuller light, upon account of their customary connexion with a present impression, than we can hinder ourselves from thinking as long, as we are awake, or seeing the surrounding bodies, when we turn our eyes towards them in broad sunshine. whoever has taken the pains to refute the cavils of this total scepticism, has really disputed without an antagonist, and endeavoured by arguments to establish a faculty, which nature has antecedently implanted in the mind, and rendered unavoidable. my intention then in displaying so carefully the arguments of that fantastic sect, is only to make the reader sensible of the truth of my hypothesis, that all our reasonings concerning causes and effects are derived from nothing but custom; and that belief is more properly an act of the sensitive, than of the cogitative part of our natures. i have here proved, that the very same principles, which make us form a decision upon any subject, and correct that decision by the consideration of our genius and capacity, and of the situation of our mind, when we examined that subject; i say, i have proved, that these same principles, when carryed farther, and applied to every new reflex judgment, must, by continually diminishing the original evidence, at last reduce it to nothing, and utterly subvert all belief and opinion. if belief, therefore, were a simple act of the thought, without any peculiar manner of conception, or the addition of a force and vivacity, it must infallibly destroy itself, and in every case terminate in a total suspense of judgment. but as experience will sufficiently convince any one, who thinks it worth while to try, that though he can find no error in the foregoing arguments, yet he still continues to believe, and think, and reason as usual, he may safely conclude, that his reasoning and belief is some sensation or peculiar manner of conception, which it is impossible for mere ideas and reflections to destroy. but here, perhaps, it may be demanded, how it happens, even upon my hypothesis, that these arguments above-explained produce not a total suspense of judgment, and after what manner the mind ever retains a degree of assurance in any subject? for as these new probabilities, which by their repetition perpetually diminish the original evidence, are founded on the very same principles, whether of thought or sensation, as the primary judgment, it may seem unavoidable, that in either case they must equally subvert it, and by the opposition, either of contrary thoughts or sensations, reduce the mind to a total uncertainty. i suppose, there is some question proposed to me, and that after revolving over the impressions of my memory and senses, and carrying my thoughts from them to such objects, as are commonly conjoined with them, i feel a stronger and more forcible conception on the one side, than on the other. this strong conception forms my first decision. i suppose, that afterwards i examine my judgment itself, and observing from experience, that it is sometimes just and sometimes erroneous, i consider it as regulated by contrary principles or causes, of which some lead to truth, and some to error; and in ballancing these contrary causes, i diminish by a new probability the assurance of my first decision. this new probability is liable to the same diminution as the foregoing, and so on, in infinitum. it is therefore demanded, how it happens, that even after all we retain a degree of belief, which is sufficient for our purpose, either in philosophy or common life. i answer, that after the first and second decision; as the action of the mind becomes forced and unnatural, and the ideas faint and obscure; though the principles of judgment, and the ballancing of opposite causes be the same as at the very beginning; yet their influence on the imagination, and the vigour they add to, or diminish from the thought, is by no means equal. where the mind reaches not its objects with easiness and facility, the same principles have not the same effect as in a more natural conception of the ideas; nor does the imagination feel a sensation, which holds any proportion with that which arises from its common judgments and opinions. the attention is on the stretch: the posture of the mind is uneasy; and the spirits being diverted from their natural course, are not governed in their movements by the same laws, at least not to the same degree, as when they flow in their usual channel. if we desire similar instances, it will not be very difficult to find them. the present subject of metaphysics will supply us abundantly. the same argument, which would have been esteemed convincing in a reasoning concerning history or politics, has little or no influence in these abstruser subjects, even though it be perfectly comprehended; and that because there is required a study and an effort of thought, in order to its being comprehended: and this effort of thought disturbs the operation of our sentiments, on which the belief depends. the case is the same in other subjects. the straining of the imagination always hinders the regular flowing of the passions and sentiments. a tragic poet, that would represent his heroes as very ingenious and witty in their misfortunes, would never touch the passions. as the emotions of the soul prevent any subtile reasoning and reflection, so these latter actions of the mind are equally prejudicial to the former. the mind, as well as the body, seems to be endowed with a certain precise degree of force and activity, which it never employs in one action, but at the expense of all the rest. this is more evidently true, where the actions are of quite different natures; since in that case the force of the mind is not only diverted, but even the disposition changed, so as to render us incapable of a sudden transition from one action to the other, and still more of performing both at once. no wonder, then, the conviction, which arises from a subtile reasoning, diminishes in proportion to the efforts, which the imagination makes to enter into the reasoning, and to conceive it in all its parts. belief, being a lively conception, can never be entire, where it is not founded on something natural and easy. this i take to be the true state of the question, and cannot approve of that expeditious way, which some take with the sceptics, to reject at once all their arguments without enquiry or examination. if the sceptical reasonings be strong, say they, it is a proof, that reason may have some force and authority: if weak, they can never be sufficient to invalidate all the conclusions of our understanding. this argument is not just; because the sceptical reasonings, were it possible for them to exist, and were they not destroyed by their subtility, would be successively both strong and weak, according to the successive dispositions of the mind. reason first appears in possession of the throne, prescribing laws, and imposing maxims, with an absolute sway and authority. her enemy, therefore, is obliged to take shelter under her protection, and by making use of rational arguments to prove the fallaciousness and imbecility of reason, produces, in a manner, a patent under her hand and seal. this patent has at first an authority, proportioned to the present and immediate authority of reason, from which it is derived. but as it is supposed to be contradictory to reason, it gradually diminishes the force of that governing power and its own at the same time; till at last they both vanish away into nothing, by a regulax and just diminution. the sceptical and dogmatical reasons are of the same kind, though contrary in their operation and tendency; so that where the latter is strong, it has an enemy of equal force in the former to encounter; and as their forces were at first equal, they still continue so, as long as either of them subsists; nor does one of them lose any force in the contest, without taking as much from its antagonist. it is happy, therefore, that nature breaks the force of all sceptical arguments in time, and keeps them from having any considerable influence on the understanding. were we to trust entirely to their self-destruction, that can never take place, until they have first subverted all conviction, and have totally destroyed human reason. sect. ii. of scepticism with regard to the senses. thus the sceptic still continues to reason and believe, even though be asserts, that he cannot defend his reason by reason; and by the same rule he must assent to the principle concerning the existence of body, though he cannot pretend by any arguments of philosophy to maintain its veracity. nature has not left this to his choice, and has doubtless, esteemed it an affair of too great importance to be trusted to our uncertain reasonings and speculations. we may well ask, what causes induce us to believe in the existence of body? but it is in vain to ask, whether there be body or not? that is a point, which we must take for granted in all our reasonings. the subject, then, of our present enquiry is concerning the causes which induce us to believe in the existence of body: and my reasonings on this head i shall begin with a distinction, which at first sight may seem superfluous, but which will contribute very much to the perfect understanding of what follows. we ought to examine apart those two questions, which are commonly confounded together, viz. why we attribute a continued existence to objects, even when they are not present to the senses; and why we suppose them to have an existence distinct from the mind and perception. under this last head i comprehend their situation as well as relations, their external position as well as the independence of their existence and operation. these two questions concerning the continued and distinct existence of body are intimately connected together. for if the objects of our senses continue to exist, even when they are not perceived, their existence is of course independent of and distinct from the perception: and vice versa, if their existence be independent of the perception and distinct from it, they must continue to exist, even though they be not perceived. but though the decision of the one question decides the other; yet that we may the more easily discover the principles of human nature, from whence the decision arises, we shall carry along with us this distinction, and shall consider, whether it be the senses, reason, or the imagination, that produces the opinion of a continued or of a distinct existence. these are the only questions, that are intelligible on the present subject. for as to the notion of external existence, when taken for something specially different from our perceptions [part. ii. sect. .], we have already shewn its absurdity. to begin with the senses, it is evident these faculties are incapable of giving rise to the notion of the continued existence of their objects, after they no longer appear to the senses. for that is a contradiction in terms, and suppose that the senses continue to operate, even after they have ceased all manner of operation. these faculties, therefore, if they have any influence in the present case, must produce the opinion of a distinct, not of a continued existence; and in order to that, must present their impressions either as images and representations, or as these very distinct and external existences. that our senses offer not their impressions as the images of something distinct, or independent, and external, is evident; because they convey to us nothing but a single perception, and never give us the least intimation of any thing beyond. a single perception can never produce the idea of a double existence, but by some inference either of the reason or imagination. when the mind looks farther than what immediately appears to it, its conclusions can never be put to the account of the senses; and it certainly looks farther, when from a single perception it infers a double existence, and supposes the relations of resemblance and causation betwixt them. if our senses, therefore, suggest any idea of distinct existences, they must convey the impressions as those very existences, by a kind of fallacy and illusion. upon this bead we may observe, that all sensations are felt by the mind, such as they really are, and that when we doubt, whether they present themselves as distinct objects, or as mere impressions, the difficulty is not concerning their nature, but concerning their relations and situation. now if the senses presented our impressions as external to, and independent of ourselves, both the objects and ourselves must be obvious to our senses, otherwise they coued not be compared by these faculties. the difficulty, then, is how fax we are ourselves the objects of our senses. it is certain there is no question in philosophy more abstruse than that concerning identity, and the nature of the uniting principle, which constitutes a person. so far from being able by our senses merely to determine this question, we must have recourse to the most profound metaphysics to give a satisfactory answer to it; and in common life it is evident these ideas of self and person are never very fixed nor determinate. it is absurd, therefore, to imagine the senses can ever distinguish betwixt ourselves and external objects. add to this, that every impression, external and internal, passions, affections, sensations, pains and pleasures, are originally on the same footing; and that whatever other differences we may observe among them, they appear, all of them, in their true colours, as impressions or perceptions. and indeed, if we consider the matter aright, it is scarce possible it should be otherwise, nor is it conceivable that our senses should be more capable of deceiving us in the situation and relations, than in the nature of our impressions. for since all actions and sensations of the mind are known to us by consciousness, they must necessarily appear in every particular what they are, and be what they appear. every thing that enters the mind, being in reality a perception, it is impossible any thing should to feeling appear different. this were to suppose, that even where we are most intimately conscious, we might be mistaken. but not to lose time in examining, whether it is possible for our senses to deceive us, and represent our perceptions as distinct from ourselves, that is as external to and independent of us; let us consider whether they really do so, and whether this error proceeds from an immediate sensation, or from some other causes. to begin with the question concerning external existence, it may perhaps be said, that setting aside the metaphysical question of the identity of a thinking substance, our own body evidently belongs to us; and as several impressions appear exterior to the body, we suppose them also exterior to ourselves. the paper, on which i write at present, is beyond my hand. the table is beyond the paper. the walls of the chamber beyond the table. and in casting my eye towards the window, i perceive a great extent of fields and buildings beyond my chamber. from all this it may be infered, that no other faculty is required, beside the senses, to convince us of the external existence of body. but to prevent this inference, we need only weigh the three following considerations. first, that, properly speaking, it is not our body we perceive, when we regard our limbs and members, but certain impressions, which enter by the senses; so that the ascribing a real and corporeal existence to these impressions, or to their objects, is an act of the mind as difficult to explain, as that which we examine at present. secondly, sounds, and tastes, and smelts, though commonly regarded by the mind as continued independent qualities, appear not to have any existence in extension, and consequently cannot appear to the senses as situated externally to the body. the reason, why we ascribe a place to them, shall be: considered afterwards. thirdly, even our sight informs us not of distance or outness (so to speak) immediately and without a certain reasoning and experience, as is acknowledged by the most rational philosophers. as to the independency of our perceptions on ourselves, this can never be an object of the senses; but any opinion we form concerning it, must be derived from experience and observation: and we shall see afterwards, that our conclusions from experience are far from being favourable to the doctrine of the independency of our perceptions. mean while we may observe that when we talk of real distinct existences, we have commonly more in our eye their independency than external situation in place, and think an object has a sufficient reality, when its being is uninterrupted, and independent of the incessant revolutions, which we are conscious of in ourselves. thus to resume what i have said concerning the senses; they give us no notion of continued existence, because they cannot operate beyond the extent, in which they really operate. they as little produce the opinion of a distinct existence, because they neither can offer it to the mind as represented, nor as original. to offer it as represented, they must present both an object and an image. to make it appear as original, they must convey a falshood; and this falshood must lie in the relations and situation: in order to which they must be able to compare the object with ourselves; and even in that case they do not, nor is it possible they should, deceive us. we may, therefore, conclude with certainty, that the opinion of a continued and of a distinct existence never arises from the senses. to confirm this we may observe, that there are three different kinds of impressions conveyed by the senses. the first are those of the figure, bulk, motion and solidity of bodies. the second those of colours, tastes, smells, sounds, heat and cold. the third are the pains and pleasures, that arise from the application of objects to our bodies, as by the cutting of our flesh with steel, and such like. both philosophers and the vulgar suppose the first of these to have a distinct continued existence. the vulgar only regard the second as on the same footing. both philosophers and the vulgar, again, esteem the third to be merely perceptions and consequently interrupted and dependent beings. now it is evident, that, whatever may be our philosophical opinion, colours, sounds, heat and cold, as far as appears to the senses, exist after the same manner with motion and solidity, and that the difference we make betwixt them in this respect, arises not from the mere perception. so strong the prejudice for the distinct continued existence of the former qualities, that when the contrary opinion is advanced by modern philosophers, people imagine they can almost refute it from their feeling and experience, and that their very senses contradict this philosophy. it is also evident, that colours, sounds, &c. are originally on the same footing with the pain that arises from steel, and pleasure that proceeds from a fire; and that the difference betwixt them is founded neither on perception nor reason, but on the imagination. for as they are confest to be, both of them, nothing but perceptions arising from the particular configurations and motions of the parts of body, wherein possibly can their difference consist? upon the whole, then, we may conclude, that as far as the senses are judges, all perceptions are the same in the manner of their existence. we may also observe in this instance of sounds and colours, that we can attribute a distinct continued existence to objects without ever consulting reason, or weighing our opinions by any philosophical principles. and indeed, whatever convincing arguments philosophers may fancy they can produce to establish the belief of objects independent of the mind, it is obvious these arguments are known but to very few, and that it is not by them, that children, peasants, and the greatest part of mankind are induced to attribute objects to some impressions, and deny them to others. accordingly we find, that all the conclusions, which the vulgar form on this head, are directly contrary to those, which are confirmed by philosophy. for philosophy informs us, that every thing, which appears to the mind, is nothing but a perception, and is interrupted, and dependent on the mind: whereas the vulgar confound perceptions and objects, and attribute a distinct continued existence to the very things they feel or see. this sentiment, then, as it is entirely unreasonable, must proceed from some other faculty than the understanding. to which we may add, that as long as we take our perceptions and objects to be the same, we can never infer the existence of the one from that of the other, nor form any argument from the relation of cause and effect; which is the only one that earl assure us of matter of fact. even after we distinguish our perceptions from our objects, it will appear presently, that we are still incapable of reasoning from the existence of one to that of the other: so that upon the whole our reason neither does, nor is it possible it ever should, upon any supposition, give us an assurance of the continued and distinct existence of body. that opinion must be entirely owing to the imagination: which must now be the subject of our enquiry. since all impressions are internal and perishing existences, and appear as such, the notion of their distinct and continued existence must arise from a concurrence of some of their qualities with the qualities of the imagination, and since this notion does not extend to all of them, it must arise from certain qualities peculiar to some impressions. it will therefore be easy for us to discover these qualities by a comparison of the impressions, to which we attribute a distinct and continued existence, with those, which we regard as internal and perishing. we may observe, then, that it is neither upon account of the involuntariness of certain impressions, as is commonly supposed, nor of their superior force and violence, that we attribute to them a reality, and continued existence, which we refuse to others, that are voluntary or feeble. for it is evident our pains and pleasures, our passions and affections, which we never suppose to have any existence beyond our perception, operate with greater violence, and are equally involuntary, as the impressions of figure and extension, colour and sound, which we suppose to be permanent beings. the heat of a fire, when moderate, is supposed to exist in the fire; but the pain, which it causes upon a near approach, is not taken to have any being, except in the perception. these vulgar opinions, then, being rejected, we must search for some other hypothesis, by which we may discover those peculiar qualities in our impressions, which makes us attribute to them a distinct and continued existence. after a little examination, we shall find, that all those objects, to which we attribute a continued existence, have a peculiar constancy, which distinguishes them from the impressions, whose existence depends upon our perception. those mountains, and houses, and trees, which lie at present under my eye, have always appeared to me in the same order; and when i lose sight of them by shutting my eyes or turning my head, i soon after find them return upon me without the least alteration. my bed and table, my books and papers, present themselves in the same uniform manner, and change not upon account of any interruption in my seeing or perceivilng them. this is the case with all the impressions, whose objects are supposed to have an external existence; and is the case with no other impressions, whether gentle or violent, voluntary or involuntary. this constancy, however, is not so perfect as not to admit of very considerable exceptions. bodies often change their position and qualities, and after a little absence or interruption may become hardly knowable. but here it is observable, that even in these changes they preserve a coherence, and have a regular dependence on each other; which is the foundation of a kind of reasoning from causation, and produces the opinion of their continued existence. when i return to my chamber after an hour's absence, i find not my fire in the same situation, in which i left it: but then i am accustomed in other instances to see a like alteration produced in a like time, whether i am present or absent, near or remote. this coherence, therefore, in their changes is one of the characteristics of external objects, as well as their constancy. having found that the opinion of the continued existence of body depends on the coherence, and constancy of certain impressions, i now proceed to examine after what manner these qualities give rise to so extraordinary an opinion. to begin with the coherence; we may observe, that though those internal impressions, which we regard as fleeting and perishing, have also a certain coherence or regularity in their appearances, yet it is of somewhat a different nature, from that which we discover in bodies. our passions are found by experience to have a mutual connexion with and dependence on each other; but on no occasion is it necessary to suppose, that they have existed and operated, when they were not perceived, in order to preserve the same dependence and connexion, of which we have had experience. the case is not the same with relation to external objects. those require a continued existence, or otherwise lose, in a great measure, the regularity of their operation. i am here seated in my chamber with my face to the fire; and all the objects, that strike my senses, are contained in a few yards around me. my memory, indeed, informs me of the existence of many objects; but then this information extends not beyond their past existence, nor do either my senses or memory give any testimony to the continuance of their being. when therefore i am thus seated, and revolve over these thoughts, i hear on a sudden a noise as of a door turning upon its hinges; and a little after see a porter, who advances towards me. this gives occasion to many new reflections and reasonings. first, i never have observed, that this noise coued proceed from any thing but the motion of a door; and therefore conclude, that the present phaenomenon is a contradiction to all past experience, unless the door, which i remember on the other side the chamber, be still in being. again, i have always found, that a human body was possest of a quality, which i call gravity, and which hinders it from mounting in the air, as this porter must have done to arrive at my chamber, unless the stairs i remember be not annihilated by my absence. but this is not all. i receive a letter, which upon, opening it i perceive by the hand-writing and subscription to have come from a friend, who says he is two hundred leagues distant. it is evident i can never account for this phenomenon, conformable to my experience in other instances, without spreading out in my mind the whole sea and continent between us, and supposing the effects and continued existence of posts and ferries, according to my memory and observation. to consider these phaenomena of the porter and letter in a certain light, they are contradictions to common experience, and may be regarded as objections to those maxims, which we form concerning the connexions of causes and effects. i am accustomed to hear such a sound, and see such an object in motion at the same time. i have not received in this particular instance both these perceptions. these observations are contrary, unless i suppose that the door still remains, and that it was opened without my perceiving it: and this supposition, which was at first entirely arbitrary and hypothetical, acquires a force and evidence by its being the only one, upon which i can reconcile these contradictions. there is scarce a moment of my life, wherein there is not a similar instance presented to me, and i have not occasion to suppose the continued existence of objects, in order to connect their past and present appearances, and give them such an union with each other, as i have found by experience to be suitable to their particular natures and circumstances. here then i am naturally led to regard the world, as something real and durable, and as preserving its existence, even when it is no longer present to my perception. but though this conclusion from the coherence of appearances may seem to be of the same nature with our reasonings concerning causes and effects; as being derived from custom, and regulated by past experience; we shall find upon examination, that they are at the bottom considerably different from each other, and that this inference arises from the understanding, and from custom in an indirect and oblique manner. for it will readily be allowed, that since nothing is ever really present to the mind, besides its own perceptions, it is not only impossible, that any habit should ever be acquired otherwise than by the regular succession of these perceptions, but also that any habit should ever exceed that degree of regularity. any degree, therefore, of regularity in our perceptions, can never be a foundation for us to infer a greater degree of regularity in some objects, which are not perceived; since this supposes a contradiction, viz. a habit acquired by what was never present to the mind. but it is evident, that whenever we infer the continued existence of the objects of sense from their coherence, and the frequency of their union, it is in order to bestow on the objects a greater regularity than what is observed in our mere perceptions. we remark a connexion betwixt two kinds of objects in their past appearance to the senses, but are not able to observe this connexion to be perfectly constant, since the turning about of our head or the shutting of our eyes is able to break it. what then do we suppose in this case, but that these objects still continue their usual connexion, notwithstanding their apparent interruption, and that the irregular appearances are joined by something, of which we are insensible? but as all reasoning concerning matters of fact arises only from custom, and custom can only be the effect of repeated perceptions, the extending of custom and reasoning beyond the perceptions can never be the direct and natural effect of the constant repetition and connexion, but must arise from the co-operation of some other principles. i have already observed [part ii, sect. .], in examining the foundation of mathematics, that the imagination, when set into any train of thinking, is apt to continue, even when its object fails it, and like a galley put in motion by the oars, carries on its course without any new impulse. this i have assigned for the reason, why, after considering several loose standards of equality, and correcting them by each other, we proceed to imagine so correct and exact a standard of that relation, as is not liable to the least error or variation. the same principle makes us easily entertain this opinion of the continued existence of body. objects have a certain coherence even as they appear to our senses; but this coherence is much greater and more uniform, if we suppose the object.% to have a continued existence; and as the mind is once in the train of observing an uniformity among objects, it naturally continues, till it renders the uniformity as compleat as possible. the simple supposition of their continued existence suffices for this purpose, and gives us a notion of a much greater regularity among objects, than what they have when we look no farther than our senses. but whatever force we may ascribe to this principle, i am afraid it is too weak to support alone so vast an edifice, as is that of the continued existence of all external bodies; and that we must join the constancy of their appearance to the coherence, in order to give a satisfactory account of that opinion. as the explication of this will lead me into a considerable compass of very profound reasoning; i think it proper, in order to avoid confusion, to give a short sketch or abridgment of my system, and afterwards draw out all its parts in their full compass. this inference from the constancy of our perceptions, like the precedent from their coherence, gives rise to the opinion of the continued existence of body, which is prior to that of its distinct existence, and produces that latter principle. when we have been accustomed to observe a constancy in certain impressions, and have found, that the perception of the sun or ocean, for instance, returns upon us after an absence or annihilation with like parts and in a like order, as at its first appearance, we are not apt to regard these interrupted perceptions as different, (which they really are) but on the contrary consider them as individually the same, upon account of their resemblance. but as this interruption of their existence is contrary to their perfect identity, and makes us regard the first impression as annihilated, and the second as newly created, we find ourselves somewhat at a loss, and are involved in a kind of contradiction. in order to free ourselves from this difficulty, we disguise, as much as possible, the interruption, or rather remove it entirely, by supposing that these interrupted perceptions are connected by a real existence, of which we are insensible. this supposition, or idea of continued existence, acquires a force and vivacity from the memory of these broken impressions, and from that propensity, which they give us, to suppose them the same; and according to the precedent reasoning, the very essence of belief consists in the force and vivacity of the conception. in order to justify this system, there are four things requisite. first, to explain the principium individuationis, or principle of identity. secondly, give a reason, why the resemblance of our broken and interrupted perceptions induces us to attribute an identity to them. thirdly, account for that propensity, which this illusion gives, to unite these broken appearances by a continued existence. fourthly and lastly, explain that force and vivacity of conception, which arises from the propensity. first, as to the principle of individuation; we may observe, that the view of any one object is not sufficient to convey the idea of identity. for in that proposition, an object is the same with itself, if the idea expressed by the word, object, were no ways distinguished from that meant by itself; we really should mean nothing, nor would the proposition contain a predicate and a subject, which however are implyed in this affirmation. one single object conveys the idea of unity, not that of identity. on the other hand, a multiplicity of objects can never convey this idea, however resembling they may be supposed. the mind always pronounces the one not to be the other, and considers them as forming two, three, or any determinate number of objects, whose existences are entirely distinct and independent. since then both number and unity are incompatible with the relation of identity, it must lie in something that is neither of them. but to tell the truth, at first sight this seems utterly impossible. betwixt unity and number there can be no medium; no more than betwixt existence and nonexistence. after one object is supposed to exist, we must either suppose another also to exist; in which case we have the idea of number: or we must suppose it not to exist; in which case the first object remains at unity. to remove this difficulty, let us have recourse to the idea of time or duration. i have already observd [part ii, sect. .], that time, in a strict sense, implies succession, and that when we apply its idea to any unchangeable object, it is only by a fiction of the imagination, by which the unchangeable object is supposd to participate of the changes of the co-existent objects, and in particular of that of our perceptions. this fiction of the imagination almost universally takes place; and it is by means of it, that a single object, placd before us, and surveyd for any time without our discovering in it any interruption or variation, is able to give us a notion of identity. for when we consider any two points of this time, we may place them in different lights: we may either survey them at the very same instant; in which case they give us the idea of number, both by themselves and by the object; which must be multiplyd, in order to be conceivd at once, as existent in these two different points of time: or on the other hand, we may trace the succession of time by a like succession of ideas, and conceiving first one moment, along with the object then existent, imagine afterwards a change in the time without any variation or interruption in the object; in which case it gives us the idea of unity. here then is an idea, which is a medium betwixt unity and number; or more properly speaking, is either of them, according to the view, in which we take it: and this idea we call that of identity. we cannot, in any propriety of speech, say, that an object is the same with itself, unless we mean, that the object existent at one time is the same with itself existent at another. by this means we make a difference, betwixt the idea meant by the word, object, and that meant by itself, without going the length of number, and at the same time without restraining ourselves to a strict and absolute unity. thus the principle of individuation is nothing but the invariableness and uninterruptedness of any object, thro a supposd variation of time, by which the mind can trace it in the different periods of its existence, without any break of the view, and without being obligd to form the idea of multiplicity or number. i now proceed to explain the second part of my system, and shew why the constancy of our perceptions makes us ascribe to them a perfect numerical identity, tho there be very long intervals betwixt their appearance, and they have only one of the essential qualities of identity, viz, invariableness. that i may avoid all ambiguity and confusion on this head, i shall observe, that i here account for the opinions and belief of the vulgar with regard to the existence of body; and therefore must entirely conform myself to their manner of thinking and of expressing themselves. now we have already observd, that however philosophers may distinguish betwixt the objects and perceptions of the senses; which they suppose co-existent and resembling; yet this is a distinction, which is not comprehended by the generality of mankind, who as they perceive only one being, can never assent to the opinion of a double existence and representation. those very sensations, which enter by the eye or ear, are with them the true objects, nor can they readily conceive that this pen or paper, which is immediately perceivd, represents another, which is different from, but resembling it. in order, therefore, to accommodate myself to their notions, i shall at first suppose; that there is only a single existence, which i shall call indifferently object or perception, according as it shall seem best to suit my purpose, understanding by both of them what any common man means by a hat, or shoe, or stone, or any other impression, conveyd to him by his senses. i shall be sure to give warning, when i return to a more philosophical way of speaking and thinking. to enter, therefore, upon the question concerning the source of the error and deception with regard to identity, when we attribute it to our resembling perceptions, notwithstanding their interruption; i must here recal an observation, which i have already provd and explaind [part ii. sect. .]. nothing is more apt to make us mistake one idea for another, than any relation betwixt them, which associates them together in the imagination, and makes it pass with facility from one to the other. of all relations, that of resemblance is in this respect the most efficacious; and that because it not only causes an association of ideas, but also of dispositions, and makes us conceive the one idea by an act or operation of the mind, similar to that by which we conceive the other. this circumstance i have observd to be of great moment; and we may establish it for a general rule, that whatever ideas place the mind in the same disposition or in similar ones, are very apt to be confounded. the mind readily passes from one to the other, and perceives not the change without a strict attention, of which, generally speaking, it is wholly incapable. in order to apply this general maxim, we must first examine the disposition of the mind in viewing any object which preserves a perfect identity, and then find some other object, that is confounded with it, by causing a similar disposition. when we fix our thought on any object, and suppose it to continue the same for some time; it is evident we suppose the change to lie only in the time, and never exert ourselves to produce any new image or idea of the object. the faculties of the mind repose themselves in a manner, and take no more exercise, than what is necessary to continue that idea, of which we were formerly possest, and which subsists without variation or interruption. the passage from one moment to another is scarce felt, and distinguishes not itself by a different perception or idea, which may require a different direction of the spirits, in order to its conception. now what other objects, beside identical ones, are capable of placing the mind in the same disposition, when it considers them, and of causing the same uninterrupted passage of the imagination from one idea to another? this question is of the last importance. for if we can find any such objects, we may certainly conclude, from the foregoing principle, that they are very naturally confounded with identical ones, and are taken for them in most of our reasonings. but though this question be very important, it is not very difficult nor doubtful. for i immediately reply, that a succession of related objects places the mind in this disposition, and is considered with the same smooth and uninterrupted progress of the imagination, as attends the view of the same invariable object. the very nature and essence of relation is to connect our ideas with each other, and upon the appearance of one, to facilitate the transition to its correlative. the passage betwixt related ideas is, therefore, so smooth and easy, that it produces little alteration on the mind, and seems like the continuation of the same action; and as the continuation of the same action is an effect of the continued view of the same object, it is for this reason we attribute sameness to every succession of related objects. the thought slides along the succession with equal facility, as if it considered only one object; and therefore confounds the succession with the identity. we shall afterwards see many instances of this tendency of relation to make us ascribe an identity to different objects; but shall here confine ourselves to the present subject. we find by experience, that there is such a constancy in almost all the impressions of the senses, that their interruption produces no alteration on them, and hinders them not from returning the same in appearance and in situation as at their first existence. i survey the furniture of my chamber; i shut my eyes, and afterwards open them; and find the new perceptions to resemble perfectly those, which formerly struck my senses. this resemblance is observed in a thousand instances, and naturally connects together our ideas of these interrupted perceptions by the strongest relation, and conveys the mind with an easy transition from one to another. an easy transition or passage of the imagination, along the ideas of these different and interrupted perceptions, is almost the same disposition of mind with that in which we consider one constant and uninterrupted perception. it is therefore very natural for us to mistake the one for the other. [footnote this reasoning, it must be confest, is somewhat abstruse, and difficult to be comprehended; but it is remarkable, that this very difficulty may be converted into a proof of the reasoning. we may observe, that there are two relations, and both of them resemblances, which contribute to our mistaking the succession of our interrupted perceptions for an identical object. the first is, the resemblance of the perceptions: the second is the resemblance, which the act of the mind in surveying a succession of resembling objects bears to that in surveying an identical object. now these resemblances we are apt to confound with each other; and it is natural we shoud, according to this very reasoning. but let us keep them distinct, and we shall find no difficulty in conceiving the precedent argument.] the persons, who entertain this opinion concerning the identity of our resembling perceptions, are in general an the unthinking and unphilosophical part of mankind, (that is, all of us, at one time or other) and consequently such as suppose their perceptions to be their only objects, and never think of a double existence internal and external, representing and represented. the very image, which is present to the senses, is with us the real body; and it is to these interrupted images we ascribe a perfect identity. but as the interruption of the appearance seems contrary to the identity, and naturally leads us to regard these resembling perceptions as different from each other, we here find ourselves at a loss how to reconcile such opposite opinions. the smooth passage of the imagination along the ideas of the resembling perceptions makes us ascribe to them a perfect identity. the interrupted manner of their appearance makes us consider them as so many resembling, but still distinct beings, which appear after certain intervals. the perplexity arising from this contradiction produces a propension to unite these broken appearances by the fiction of a continued existence, which is the third part of that hypothesis i proposed to explain. nothing is more certain from experience, than that any contradiction either to the sentiments or passions gives a sensible uneasiness, whether it proceeds from without or from within; from the opposition of external objects, or from the combat of internal principles. on the contrary, whatever strikes in with the natural propensities, and either externally forwards their satisfaction, or internally concurs with their movements, is sure to give a sensible pleasure. now there being here an opposition betwixt the notion of the identity of resembling perceptions, and the interruption of their appearance, the mind must be uneasy in that situation, and will naturally seek relief from the uneasiness. since the uneasiness arises from the opposition of two contrary principles, it must look for relief by sacrificing the one to the other. but as the smooth passage of our thought along our resembling perceptions makes us ascribe to them an identity, we can never without reluctance yield up that opinion. we must, therefore, turn to the other side, and suppose that our perceptions are no longer interrupted, but preserve a continued as well as an invariable existence, and are by that means entirely the same. but here the interruptions in the appearance of these perceptions are so long and frequent, that it is impossible to overlook them; and as the appearance of a perception in the mind and its existence seem at first sight entirely the same, it may be doubted, whether we can ever assent to so palpable a contradiction, and suppose a perception to exist without being present to the mind. in order to clear up this matter, and learn how the interruption in the appearance of a perception implies not necessarily an interruption in its existence, it will be proper to touch upon some principles, which we shall have occasion to explain more fully afterwards. [sect. .] we may begin with observing, that the difficulty in the present case is not concerning the matter of fact, or whether the mind forms such a conclusion concerning the continued existence of its perceptions, but only concerning the manner in which the conclusion is formed, and principles from which it is derived. it is certain, that almost all mankind, and even philosophers themselves, for the greatest part of their lives, take their perceptions to be their only objects, and suppose, that the very being, which is intimately present to the mind, is the real body or material existence. it is also certain, that this very perception or object is supposed to have a continued uninterrupted being, and neither to be annihilated by our absence, nor to be brought into existence by our presence. when we are absent from it, we say it still exists, but that we do not feel, we do not see it. when we are present, we say we feel, or see it. here then may arise two questions; first, how we can satisfy ourselves in supposing a perception to be absent from the mind without being annihilated. secondly, after what manner we conceive an object to become present to the mind, without some new creation of a perception or image; and what we mean by this seeing, and feeling, and perceiving. as to the first question; we may observe, that what we call a mind, is nothing but a heap or collection of different perceptions, united together by certain relations, and supposed, though falsely, to be endowed with a perfect simplicity and identity. now as every perception is distinguishable from another, and may be considered as separately existent; it evidently follows, that there is no absurdity in separating any particular perception from the mind; that is, in breaking off all its relations, with that connected mass of perceptions, which constitute a thinking being. the same reasoning affords us an answer to the second question. if the name of perception renders not this separation from a mind absurd and contradictory, the name of object, standing for the very same thing, can never render their conjunction impossible. external objects are seen, and felt, and become present to the mind; that is, they acquire such a relation to a connected heap of perceptions, as to influence them very considerably in augmenting their number by present reflections and passions, and in storing the memory with ideas. the same continued and uninterrupted being may, therefore, be sometimes present to the mind, and sometimes absent from it, without any real or essential change in the being itself. an interrupted appearance to the senses implies not necessarily an interruption in the existence. the supposition of the continued existence of sensible objects or perceptions involves no contradiction. we may easily indulge our inclination to that supposition. when the exact resemblance of our perceptions makes us ascribe to them an identity, we may remove the seeming interruption by feigning a continued being, which may fill those intervals, and preserve a perfect and entire identity to our perceptions. but as we here not only feign but believe this continued existence, the question is, from whence arises such a belief; and this question leads us to the fourth member of this system. it has been proved already, that belief in general consists in nothing, but the vivacity of an idea; and that an idea may acquire this vivacity by its relation to some present impression. impressions are naturally the most vivid perceptions of the mind; and this quality is in part conveyed by the relation to every connected idea. the relation causes a smooth passage from the impression to the idea, and even gives a propensity to that passage. the mind falls so easily from the one perception to the other, that it scarce perceives the change, but retains in the second a considerable share of the vivacity of the first. it is excited by the lively impression; and this vivacity is conveyed to the related idea, without any great diminution in the passage, by reason of the smooth transition and the propensity of the imagination. but suppose, that this propensity arises from some other principle, besides that of relation; it is evident it must still have the same effect, and convey the vivacity from the impression to the idea. now this is exactly the present case. our memory presents us with a vast number of instances of perceptions perfectly resembling each other, that return at different distances of time, and after considerable interruptions. this resemblance gives us a propension to consider these interrupted perceptions as the same; and also a propension to connect them by a continued existence, in order to justify this identity, and avoid the contradiction, in which the interrupted appearance of these perceptions seems necessarily to involve us. here then we have a propensity to feign the continued existence of all sensible objects; and as this propensity arises from some lively impressions of the memory, it bestows a vivacity on that fiction: or in other words, makes us believe the continued existence of body. if sometimes we ascribe a continued existence to objects, which are perfectly new to us, and of whose constancy and coherence we have no experience, it is because the manner, in which they present themselves to our senses, resembles that of constant and coherent objects; and this resemblance is a source of reasoning and analogy, and leads us to attribute the same qualities to similar objects. i believe an intelligent reader will find less difficulty to assent to this system, than to comprehend it fully and distinctly, and will allow, after a little reflection, that every part carries its own proof along with it. it is indeed evident, that as the vulgar suppose their perceptions to be their only objects, and at the same time believe the continued existence of matter, we must account for the origin of the belief upon that supposition. now upon that supposition, it is a false opinion that any of our objects, or perceptions, are identically the same after an interruption; and consequently the opinion of their identity can never arise from reason, but must arise from the imagination. the imagination is seduced into such an opinion only by means of the resemblance of certain perceptions; since we find they are only our resembling perceptions, which we have a propension to suppose the same. this propension to bestow an identity on our resembling perceptions, produces the fiction of a continued existence; since that fiction, as well as the identity, is really false, as is acknowledged by all philosophers, and has no other effect than to remedy the interruption of our perceptions, which is the only circumstance that is contrary to their identity. in the last place this propension causes belief by means of the present impressions of the memory; since without the remembrance of former sensations, it is plain we never should have any belief of the continued existence of body. thus in examining all these parts, we find that each of them is supported by the strongest proofs: and that all of them together form a consistent system, which is perfectly convincing. a strong propensity or inclination alone, without any present impression, will sometimes cause a belief or opinion. how much more when aided by that circumstance? but though we are led after this manner, by the natural propensity of the imagination, to ascribe a continued existence to those sensible objects or perceptions, which we find to resemble each other in their interrupted appearance; yet a very little reflection and philosophy is sufficient to make us perceive the fallacy of that opinion. i have already observed, that there is an intimate connexion betwixt those two principles, of a continued and of a distinct or independent existence, and that we no sooner establish the one than the other follows, as a necessary consequence. it is the opinion of a continued existence, which first takes place, and without much study or reflection draws the other along with it, wherever the mind follows its first and most natural tendency. but when we compare experiments, and reason a little upon them, we quickly perceive, that the doctrine of the independent existence of our sensible perceptions is contrary to the plainest experience. this leads us backward upon our footsteps to perceive our error in attributing a continued existence to our perceptions, and is the origin of many very curious opinions, which we shall here endeavour to account for. it will first be proper to observe a few of those experiments, which convince us, that our perceptions are not possest of any independent existence. when we press one eye with a finger, we immediately perceive all the objects to become double, and one half of them to be removed from their common and natural position. but as we do not attribute to continued existence to both these perceptions, and as they are both of the same nature, we clearly perceive, that all our perceptions are dependent on our organs, and the disposition of our nerves and animal spirits. this opinion is confirmed by the seeming encrease and diminution of objects, according to their distance; by the apparent alterations in their figure; by the changes in their colour and other qualities from our sickness and distempers: and by an infinite number of other experiments of the same kind; from all which we learn, that our sensible perceptions are not possest of any distinct or independent existence. the natural consequence of this reasoning should be, that our perceptions have no more a continued than an independent existence; and indeed philosophers have so far run into this opinion, that they change their system, and distinguish, (as we shall do for the future) betwixt perceptions and objects, of which the former are supposed to be interrupted, and perishing, and different at every different return; the latter to be uninterrupted, and to preserve a continued existence and identity. but however philosophical this new system may be esteemed, i assert that it is only a palliative remedy, and that it contains all the difficulties of the vulgar system, with some others, that are peculiar to itself. there are no principles either of the understanding or fancy, which lead us directly to embrace this opinion of the double existence of perceptions and objects, nor can we arrive at it but by passing through the common hypothesis of the identity and continuance of our interrupted perceptions. were we not first perswaded, that our perceptions are our only objects, and continue to exist even when they no longer make their appearance to the senses, we should never be led to think, that our perceptions and objects are different, and that our objects alone preserve a continued existence. the latter hypothesis has no primary recommendation either to reason or the imagination, but acquires all its influence on the imagination from the former. this proposition contains two parts, which we shall endeavour to prove as distinctly and clearly, as such abstruse subjects will permit. as to the first part of the proposition, that this philosophical hypothesis has no primary recommendation, either to reason, or the imagination, we may soon satisfy ourselves with regard to reason by the following reflections. the only existences, of which we are certain, are perceptions, which being immediately present to us by consciousness, command our strongest assent, and are the first foundation of all our conclusions. the only conclusion we can draw from the existence of one thing to that of another, is by means of the relation of cause and effect, which shews, that there is a connexion betwixt them, and that the existence of one is dependent on that of the other. the idea of this relation is derived from past experience, by which we find, that two beings are constantly conjoined together, and are always present at once to the mind. but as no beings are ever present to the mind but perceptions; it follows that we may observe a conjunction or a relation of cause and effect between different perceptions, but can never observe it between perceptions and objects. it is impossible, therefore, that from the existence or any of the qualities of the former, we can ever form any conclusion concerning the existence of the latter, or ever satisfy our reason in this particular. it is no less certain, that this philosophical system has no primary recommendation to the imagination, and that that faculty would never, of itself, and by its original tendency, have fallen upon such a principle. i confess it will be somewhat difficult to prove this to the fall satisfaction of the reader; because it implies a negative, which in many cases will not admit of any positive proof. if any one would take the pains to examine this question, and would invent a system, to account for the direct origin of this opinion from the imagination, we should be able, by the examination of that system, to pronounce a certain judgment in the present subject. let it be taken for granted, that our perceptions are broken, and interrupted, and however like, are still different from each other; and let any one upon this supposition shew why the fancy, directly and immediately, proceeds to the belief of another existence, resembling these perceptions in their nature, but yet continued, and uninterrupted, and identical; and after he has done this to my satisfaction, i promise to renounce my present opinion. mean while i cannot forbear concluding, from the very abstractedness and difficulty of the first supposition, that it is an improper subject for the fancy to work upon. whoever would explain the origin of the common opinion concerning the continued and distinct existence of body, must take the mind in its common situation, and must proceed upon the supposition, that our perceptions are our only objects, and continue to exist even when they are not perceived. though this opinion be false, it is the most natural of any, and has alone any primary recommendation to the fancy. as to the second part of the proposition, that the philosophical system acquires all its influence on the imagination from the vulgar one; we may observe, that this is a natural and unavoidable consequence of the foregoing conclusion, that it has no primary recommendation to reason or the imagination. for as the philosophical system is found by experience to take hold of many minds, and in particular of all those, who reflect ever so little on this subject, it must derive all its authority from the vulgar system; since it has no original authority of its own. the manner, in which these two systems, though directly contrary, are connected together, may be explains, as follows. the imagination naturally runs on in this train of thinking. our perceptions are our only objects: resembling perceptions are the same, however broken or uninterrupted in their appearance: this appealing interruption is contrary to the identity: the interruption consequently extends not beyond the appearance, and the perception or object really continues to exist, even when absent from us: our sensible perception s have, therefore, a continued and uninterrupted existence. but as a little reflection destroys this conclusion, that our perceptions have a continued existence, by shewing that they have a dependent one, it would naturally be expected, that we must altogether reject the opinion, that there is such a thing in nature as a continued existence, which is preserved even when it no longer appears to the senses. the case, however, is otherwise. philosophers are so far from rejecting the opinion of a continued existence upon rejecting that of the independence and continuance of our sensible perceptions, that though all sects agree in the latter sentiment, the former, which is, in a manner, its necessary consequence, has been peculiar to a few extravagant sceptics; who after all maintained that opinion in words only, and were never able to bring themselves sincerely to believe it. there is a great difference betwixt such opinions as we form after a calm and profound reflection, and such as we embrace by a kind of instinct or natural impulse, on account of their suitableness and conformity to the mind. if these opinions become contrary, it is not difficult to foresee which of them will have the advantage. as long as our attention is bent upon the subject, the philosophical and studyed principle may prevail; but the moment we relax our thoughts, nature will display herself, and draw us back to our former opinion. nay she has sometimes such an influence, that she can stop our progress, even in the midst of our most profound reflections, and keep us from running on with all the consequences of any philosophical opinion. thus though we clearly perceive the dependence and interruption of our perceptions, we stop short in our career, and never upon that account reject the notion of an independent and continued existence. that opinion has taken such deep root in the imagination, that it is impossible ever to eradicate it, nor will any strained metaphysical conviction of the dependence of our perceptions be sufficient for that purpose. but though our natural and obvious principles here prevail above our studied reflections, it is certain there must be sonic struggle and opposition in the case: at least so long as these rejections retain any force or vivacity. in order to set ourselves at ease in this particular, we contrive a new hypothesis, which seems to comprehend both these principles of reason and imagination. this hypothesis is the philosophical, one of the double existence of perceptions and objects; which pleases our reason, in allowing, that our dependent perceptions are interrupted and different; and at the same time is agreeable to the imagination, in attributing a continued existence to something else, which we call objects. this philosophical system, therefore, is the monstrous offspring of two principles, which are contrary to each other, which are both at once embraced by the mind, and which are unable mutually to destroy each other. the imagination tells us, that our resembling perceptions have a continued and uninterrupted existence, and are not annihilated by their absence. reflection tells us, that even our resembling perceptions are interrupted in their existence, and different from each other. the contradiction betwixt these opinions we elude by a new fiction, which is conformable to the hypotheses both of reflection and fancy, by ascribing these contrary qualities to different existences; the interruption to perceptions, and the continuance to objects. nature is obstinate, and will not quit the field, however strongly attacked by reason; and at the same time reason is so clear in the point, that there is no possibility of disguising her. not being able to reconcile these two enemies, we endeavour to set ourselves at ease as much as possible, by successively granting to each whatever it demands, and by feigning a double existence, where each may find something, that has all the conditions it desires. were we fully convinced, that our resembling perceptions are continued, and identical, and independent, we should never run into this opinion of a double existence, since we should find satisfaction in our first supposition, and would not look beyond. again, were we fully convinced, that our perceptions are dependent, and interrupted, and different, we should be as little inclined to embrace the opinion of a double existence; since in that case we should clearly perceive the error of our first supposition of a continued existence, and would never regard it any farther. it is therefore from the intermediate situation of the mind, that this opinion arises, and from such an adherence to these two contrary principles, as makes us seek some pretext to justify our receiving both; which happily at last is found in the system of a double existence. another advantage of this philosophical system is its similarity to the vulgar one; by which means we can humour our reason for a moment, when it becomes troublesome and sollicitous; and yet upon its least negligence or inattention, can easily return to our vulgar and natural notions. accordingly we find, that philosophers neglect not this advantage; but immediately upon leaving their closets, mingle with the rest of mankind in those exploded opinions, that our perceptions are our only objects, and continue identically and uninterruptedly the same in all their interrupted appearances. there are other particulars of this system, wherein we may remark its dependence on the fancy, in a very conspicuous manner. of these, i shall observe the two following. first, we suppose external objects to resemble internal perceptions. i have already shewn, that the relation of cause and effect can never afford us any just conclusion from the existence or qualities of our perceptions to the existence of external continued objects: and i shall farther add, that even though they coued afford such a conclusion, we should never have any reason to infer, that our objects resemble our perceptions. that opinion, therefore, is derived from nothing but the quality of the fancy above-explained, <that it borrows all its ideas from some precedent perception>. we never can conceive any thing but perceptions, and therefore must make every thing resemble them. secondly, as we suppose our objects in general to resemble our perceptions, so we take it for granted, that every particular object resembles that perception, which it causes. the relation of cause and effect determines us to join the other of resemblance; and the ideas of these existences being already united together in the fancy by the former relation, we naturally add the latter to compleat the union. we have a strong propensity to compleat every union by joining new relations to those which we have before observed betwixt any ideas, as we shall have occasion to observe presently. [sect. .] having thus given an account of all the systems both popular and philosophical, with regard to external existences, i cannot forbear giving vent to a certain sentiment, which arises upon reviewing those systems. i begun this subject with premising, that we ought to have an implicit faith in our senses, and that this would be the conclusion, i should draw from the whole of my reasoning. but to be ingenuous, i feel myself at present of a quite contrary sentiment, and am more inclined to repose no faith at all in my senses, or rather imagination, than to place in it such an implicit confidence. i cannot conceive how such trivial qualities of the fancy, conducted by such false suppositions, can ever lead to any solid and rational system. they are the coherence and constancy of our perceptions, which produce the opinion of their continued existence; though these qualities of perceptions have no perceivable connexion with such an existence. the constancy of our perceptions has the most considerable effect, and yet is attended with the greatest difficulties. it is a gross illusion to suppose, that our resembling perceptions are numerically the same; and it is this illusion, which leads us into the opinion, that these perceptions are uninterrupted, and are still existent, even when they are not present to the senses. this is the case with our popular system. and as to our philosophical one, it is liable to the same difficulties; and is over-and-above loaded with this absurdity, that it at once denies and establishes the vulgar supposition. philosophers deny our resembling perceptions to be identically the same, and uninterrupted; and yet have so great a propensity to believe them such, that they arbitrarily invent a new set of perceptions, to which they attribute these qualities. i say, a new set of perceptions: for we may well suppose in general, but it is impossible for us distinctly to conceive, objects to be in their nature any thing but exactly the same with perceptions. what then can we look for from this confusion of groundless and extraordinary opinions but error and falshood? and how can we justify to ourselves any belief we repose in them? this sceptical doubt, both with respect to reason and the senses, is a malady, which can never be radically cured, but must return upon us every moment, however we may chace it away, and sometimes may seem entirely free from it. it is impossible upon any system to defend either our understanding or senses; and we but expose them farther when we endeavour to justify them in that manner. as the sceptical doubt arises naturally from a profound and intense reflection on those subjects, it always encreases, the farther we carry our reflections, whether in opposition or conformity to it. carelessness and in-attention alone can afford us any remedy. for this reason i rely entirely upon them; and take it for granted, whatever may be the reader's opinion at this present moment, that an hour hence he will be persuaded there is both an external and internal world; and going upon that supposition, i intend to examine some general systems both ancient and modern, which have been proposed of both, before i proceed to a more particular enquiry concerning our impressions. this will not, perhaps, in the end be found foreign to our present purpose. sect. iii. of the antient philosophy. several moralists have recommended it as an excellent method of becoming acquainted with our own hearts, and knowing our progress in virtue, to recollect our dreams in a morning, and examine them with the same rigour, that we would our most serious and most deliberate actions. our character is the same throughout, say they, and appears best where artifice, fear, and policy have no place, and men can neither be hypocrites with themselves nor others. the generosity, or baseness of our temper, our meekness or cruelty, our courage or pusilanimity, influence the fictions of the imagination with the most unbounded liberty, and discover themselves in the most glaring colours. in like manner, i am persuaded, there might be several useful discoveries made from a criticism of the fictions of the antient philosophy, concerning substances, and substantial form, and accidents, and occult qualities; which, however unreasonable and capricious, have a very intimate connexion with the principles of human nature. it is confest by the most judicious philosophers, that our ideas of bodies are nothing but collections formed by the mind of the ideas of the several distinct sensible qualities, of which objects are composed, and which we find to have a constant union with each other. but however these qualities may in themselves be entirely distinct, it is certain we commonly regard the compound, which they form, as one thing, and as continuing the same under very considerable alterations. the acknowledged composition is evidently contrary to this supposed simplicity, and the variation to the identity. it may, therefore, be worth while to consider the causes, which make us almost universally fall into such evident contradictions, as well as the means by which we endeavour to conceal them. it is evident, that as the ideas of the several distinct, successive qualities of objects are united together by a very close relation, the mind, in looking along the succession, must be carryed from one part of it to another by an easy transition, and will no more perceive the change, than if it contemplated the same unchangeable object. this easy transition is the effect, or rather essence of relation; i and as the imagination readily takes one idea for another, where their influence on the mind is similar; hence it proceeds, that any such succession of related qualities is readily considered as one continued object, existing without any variation. the smooth and uninterrupted progress of the thought, being alike in both cases, readily deceives the mind, and makes us ascribe an identity to the changeable succession of connected qualities. but when we alter our method of considering the succession, and instead of traceing it gradually through the successive points of time, survey at once any two distinct periods of its duration, and compare the different conditions of the successive qualities; in that case the variations, which were insensible when they arose gradually, do now appear of consequence, and seem entirely to destroy the identity. by this means there arises a kind of contrariety in our method of thinking, from the different points of view, in which we survey the object, and from the nearness or remoteness of those instants of time, which we compare together. when we gradually follow an object in its successive changes, the smooth progress of the thought makes us ascribe an identity to the succession; because it is by a similar act of the mind we consider an unchangeable object. when we compare its situation after a considerable change the progress of the thought is broke; and consequently we are presented with the idea of diversity: in order to reconcile which contradictions the imagination is apt to feign something unknown and invisible, which it supposes to continue the same under all these variations; and this unintelligible something it calls a substance, or original and first matter. we entertain a like notion with regard to the simplicity of substances, and from like causes. suppose an object perfectly simple and indivisible to be presented, along with another object, whose co-existent parts are connected together by a strong relation, it is evident the actions of the mind, in considering these two objects, are not very different. the imagination conceives the simple object at once, with facility, by a single effort of thought, without change or variation. the connexion of parts in the compound object has almost the same effect, and so unites the object within itself, that the fancy feels not the transition in passing from one part to another. hence the colour, taste, figure, solidity, and other qualities, combined in a peach or melon, are conceived to form one thing; and that on account of their close relation, which makes them affect the thought in the same manner, as if perfectly uncompounded. but the mind rests not here. whenever it views the object in another light, it finds that all these qualities are different, and distinguishable, and separable from each other; which view of things being destructive of its primary and more natural notions, obliges the imagination to feign an unknown something, or original substance and matter, as a principle of union or cohesion among these qualities, and as what may give the compound object a title to be called one thing, notwithstanding its diversity and composition. the peripatetic philosophy asserts the original matter to be perfectly homogeneous in all bodies, and considers fire, water, earth, and air, as of the very same substance; on account of their gradual revolutions and changes into each other. at the same time it assigns to each of these species of objects a distinct substantial form, which it supposes to be the source of all those different qualities they possess, and to be a new foundation of simplicity and identity to each particular species. all depends on our manner of viewing the objects. when we look along the insensible changes of bodies, we suppose all of them to be of the same substance or essence. when we consider their sensible differences, we attribute to each of them a substantial and essential difference. and in order to indulge ourselves in both these ways of considering our objects, we suppose all bodies to have at once a substance and a substantial form. the notion of accidents is an unavoidable consequence of this method of thinking with regard to substances and substantial forms; nor can we forbear looking upon colours, sounds, tastes, figures, and other properties of bodies, as existences, which cannot subsist apart, but require a subject of inhesion to sustain and support them. for having never discovered any of these sensible qualities, where, for the reasons above-mentioned, we did not likewise fancy a substance to exist; the same habit, which makes us infer a connexion betwixt cause and effect, makes us here infer a dependence of every quality on the unknown substance. the custom of imagining a dependence has the same effect as the custom of observing it would have. this conceit, however, is no more reasonable than any of the foregoing. every quality being a distinct thing from another, may be conceived to exist apart, and may exist apart, not only from every other quality, but from that unintelligible chimera of a substance. but these philosophers carry their fictions still farther in their sentiments concerning occult qualities, and both suppose a substance supporting, which they do not understand, and an accident supported, of which they have as imperfect an idea. the whole system, therefore, is entirely incomprehensible, and yet is derived from principles as natural as any of these above-explained. in considering this subject we may observe a gradation of three opinions, that rise above each other, according as the persons, who form them, acquire new degrees of reason and knowledge. these opinions are that of the vulgar, that of a false philosophy, and that of the true; where we shall find upon enquiry, that the true philosophy approaches nearer to the sentiments of the vulgar, than to those of a mistaken knowledge. it is natural for men, in their common and care, less way of thinking, to imagine they perceive a connexion betwixt such objects as they have constantly found united together; and because custom has rendered it difficult to separate the ideas, they are apt to fancy such a separation to be in itself impossible and absurd. but philosophers, who abstract from the effects of custom, and compare the ideas of objects, immediately perceive the falshood of these vulgar sentiments, and discover that there is no known connexion among objects. every different object appears to them entirely distinct and separate; and they perceive, that it is not from a view of the nature and qualities of objects we infer one from another, but only when in several instances we observe them to have been constantly conjoined. but these philosophers, instead of drawing a just inference from this observation, and concluding, that we have no idea of power or agency, separate from the mind, and belonging to causes; i say, instead of drawing this conclusion, they frequently search for the qualities, in which this agency consists, and are displeased with every system, which their reason suggests to them, in order to explain it. they have sufficient force of genius to free them from the vulgar error, that there is a natural and perceivable connexion betwixt the several sensible qualities and actions of matter; but not sufficient to keep them from ever seeking for this connexion in matter, or causes. had they fallen upon the just conclusion, they would have returned back to the situation of the vulgar, and would have regarded all these disquisitions with indolence and indifference. at present they seem to be in a very lamentable condition, and such as the poets have given us but a faint notion of in their descriptions of the punishment of sisyphus and tantalus. for what can be imagined more tormenting, than to seek with eagerness, what for ever flies us; and seek for it in a place, where it is impossible it can ever exist? but as nature seems to have observed a kind of justice and compensation in every thing, she has not neglected philosophers more than the rest of the creation; but has reserved them a consolation amid all their disappointments and afflictions. this consolation principally consists in their invention of the words: faculty and occult quality. for it being usual, after the frequent use of terms, which are really significant and intelligible, to omit the idea, which we would express by them, and to preserve only the custom, by which we recal the idea at pleasure; so it naturally happens, that after the frequent use of terms, which are wholly insignificant and unintelligible, we fancy them to be on the same footing with the precedent, and to have a secret meaning, which we might discover by reflection. the resemblance of their appearance deceives the mind, as is usual, and makes us imagine a thorough resemblance and conformity. by this means these philosophers set themselves at ease, and arrive at last, by an illusion, at the same indifference, which the people attain by their stupidity, and true philosophers by their moderate scepticism. they need only say, that any phenomenon, which puzzles them, arises from a faculty or an occult quality, and there is an end of all dispute and enquiry upon the matter. but among all the instances, wherein the peripatetics have shewn they were guided by every trivial propensity of the imagination, no one is more-remarkable than their sympathies, antipathies, and horrors of a vacuum. there is a very remarkable inclination in human nature, to bestow on external objects the same emotions, which it observes in itself; and to find every where those ideas, which are most present to it. this inclination, it is true, is suppressed by a little reflection, and only takes place in children, poets, and the antient philosophers. it appears in children, by their desire of beating the stones, which hurt them: in poets, by their readiness to personify every thing: and in the antient philosophers, by these fictions of sympathy and antipathy. we must pardon children, because of their age; poets, because they profess to follow implicitly the suggestions of their fancy: but what excuse shall we find to justify our philosophers in so signal a weakness? sect. iv. of the modern philosophy. but here it may be objected, that the imagination, according to my own confession, being the ultimate judge of all systems of philosophy, i am unjust in blaming the antient philosophers for making use of that faculty, and allowing themselves to be entirely guided by it in their reasonings. in order to justify myself, i must distinguish in the imagination betwixt the principles which are permanent, irresistible, and universal; such as the customary transition from causes to effects, and from effects to causes: and the principles, which are changeable, weak, and irregular; such as those i have just now taken notice of. the former are the foundation of all our thoughts and actions, so that upon their removal human nature must immediately perish and go to ruin. the latter are neither unavoidable to mankind, nor necessary, or so much as useful in the conduct of life; but on the contrary are observed only to take place in weak minds, and being opposite to the other principles of custom and reasoning, may easily be subverted by a due contrast and opposition. for this reason the former are received by philosophy, and the latter rejected. one who concludes somebody to be near him, when he hears an articulate voice in the dark, reasons justly and naturally; though that conclusion be derived from nothing but custom, which infixes and inlivens the idea of a human creature, on account of his usual conjunction with the present impression. but one, who is tormented he knows not why, with the apprehension of spectres in the dark, may, perhaps, be said to reason, and to reason naturally too: but then it must be in the same sense, that a malady is said to be natural; as arising from natural causes, though it be contrary to health, the most agreeable and most natural situation of man. the opinions of the antient philosophers, their fictions of substance and accident, and their reasonings concerning substantial forms and occult qualities, are like the spectres in the dark, and are derived from principles, which, however common, are neither universal nor unavoidable in human nature. the modern philosophy pretends to be entirely free from this defect, and to arise only from the solid, permanent, and consistent principles of the imagination. upon what grounds this pretension is founded must now be the subject of our enquiry. the fundamental principle of that philosophy is the opinion concerning colours, sounds, tastes, smells, heat and cold; which it asserts to be nothing but impressions in the mind, derived from the operation of external objects, and without any resemblance to the qualities of the objects. upon examination, i find only one of the reasons commonly produced for this opinion to be satisfactory, viz. that derived from the variations of those impressions, even while the external object, to all appearance, continues the same. these variations depend upon several circumstances. upon the different situations of our health: a man in a malady feels a disagreeable taste in meats, which before pleased him the most. upon the different complexions and constitutions of men that seems bitter to one, which is sweet to another. upon the difference of their external situation and position: colours reflected from the clouds change according to the distance of the clouds, and according to the angle they make with the eye and luminous body. fire also communicates the sensation of pleasure at one distance, and that of pain at another. instances of this kind are very numerous and frequent. the conclusion drawn from them, is likewise as satisfactory as can possibly be imagined. it is certain, that when different impressions of the same sense arise from any object, every one of these impressions has not a resembling quality existent in the object. for as the same object cannot, at the same time, be endowed with different qualities of the same sense, and as the same quality cannot resemble impressions entirely different; it evidently follows, that many of our impressions have no external model or archetype. now from like effects we presume like causes. many of the impressions of colour, sound, &c. are confest to be nothing but internal existences, and to arise from causes, which no ways resemble them. these impressions are in appearance nothing different from the other impressions of colour, sound, &c. we conclude, therefore, that they are, all of them, derived from a like origin. this principle being once admitted, all the other doctrines of that philosophy seem to follow by an easy consequence. for upon the removal of sounds, colours, beat, cold, and other sensible qualities, from the rank of continued independent existences, we are reduced merely to what are called primary qualities, as the only real ones, of which we have any adequate notion. these primary qualities are extension and solidity, with their different mixtures and modifications; figure, motion, gravity, and cohesion. the generation, encrease, decay, and corruption of animals and vegetables, are nothing but changes of figure and motion; as also the operations of all bodies on each other; of fire, of light, water, air, earth, and of all the elements and powers of nature. one figure and motion produces another figure and motion; nor does there remain in the material universe any other principle, either active or passive, of which we can form the most distant idea. i believe many objections might be made to this system but at present i shall confine myself to one, which is in my opinion very decisive. i assert, that instead of explaining the operations of external objects by its means, we utterly annihilate all these objects, and reduce ourselves to the opinions of the most extravagant scepticism concerning them. if colours, sounds, tastes, and smells be merely perceptions, nothing we can conceive is possest of a real, continued, and independent existence; not even motion, extension and solidity, which are the primary qualities chiefly insisted on. to begin with the examination of motion; it is evident this is a quality altogether inconceivable alone, and without a reference to some other object. the idea of motion necessarily supposes that of a body moving. now what is our idea of the moving body, without which motion is incomprehensible? it must resolve itself into the idea of extension or of solidity; and consequently the reality of motion depends upon that of these other qualities. this opinion, which is universally acknowledged concerning motion, i have proved to be true with regard to extension; and have shewn that it is impossible to conceive extension, but as composed of parts, endowed with colour or solidity. the idea of extension is a compound idea; but as it is not compounded of an infinite number of parts or inferior ideas, it must at last resolve itself into such as are perfectly simple and indivisible. these simple and indivisible parts, not being ideas of extension, must be non entities, unless conceived as coloured or solid. colour is excluded from any real existence. the reality, therefore, of our idea of extension depends upon the reality of that of solidity, nor can the former be just while the latter is chimerical. let us, then, lend our attention to the examination of the idea of solidity. the idea of solidity is that of two objects, which being impelled by the utmost force, cannot penetrate each other; but still maintain a separate and distinct existence. solidity, therefore, is perfectly incomprehensible alone, and without the conception of some bodies, which are solid, and maintain this separate and distinct existence. now what idea have we of these bodies? the ideas of colours, sounds, and other secondary qualities are excluded. the idea of motion depends on that of extension, and the idea of extension on that of solidity. it is impossible, therefore, that the idea of solidity can depend on either of them. for that would be to run in a circle, and make one idea depend on another, while at the same time the latter depends on the former. our modern philosophy, therefore, leaves us no just nor satisfactory idea of solidity; nor consequently of matter. this argument will appear entirely conclusive to every one that comprehends it; but because it may seem abstruse and intricate to the generality of readers, i hope to be excused, if i endeavour to render it more obvious by some variation of the expression. in order to form an idea of solidity, we must conceive two bodies pressing on each other without any penetration; and it is impossible to arrive at this idea, when we confine ourselves to one object, much more without conceiving any. two non-entities cannot exclude each other from their places; because they never possess any place, nor can be endowed with any quality. now i ask, what idea do we form of these bodies or objects, to which we suppose solidity to belong? to say, that we conceive them merely as solid, is to run on in infinitum. to affirm, that we paint them out to ourselves as extended, either resolves all into a false idea, or returns in a circle. extension must necessarily be considered either as coloured, which is a false idea; i or as solid, which brings us back to the first question. we may make the same observation concerning mobility and figure; and upon the whole must conclude, that after the exclusion of colours, sounds, heat and cold from the rank of external existences, there remains nothing, which can afford us a just and constituent idea of body. add to this, that, properly speaking, solidity or impenetrability is nothing, but an impossibility of annihilation, as [part ii. sect. .] has been already observed: for which reason it is the more necessary for us to form some distinct idea of that object, whose annihilation we suppose impossible. an impossibility of being annihilated cannot exist, and can never be conceived to exist, by itself: but necessarily requires some object or real existence, to which it may belong. now the difficulty still remains, how to form an idea of this object or existence, without having recourse to the secondary and sensible qualities. nor must we omit on this occasion our accustomed method of examining ideas by considering those impressions, from which they are derived. the impressions, which enter by the sight and hearing, the smell and taste, are affirmed by modern philosophy to be without any resembling objects; and consequently the idea of solidity, which is supposed to be real, can never be derived from any of these senses. there remains, therefore, the feeling as the only sense, that can convey the impression, which is original to the idea of solidity; and indeed we naturally imagine, that we feel the solidity of bodies, and need but touch any object in order to perceive this quality. but this method of thinking is more popular than philosophical; as will appear from the following reflections. first, it is easy to observe, that though bodies are felt by means of their solidity, yet the feeling is a quite different thing from the solidity; and that they have not the least resemblance to each other. a man, who has the palsey in one hand, has as perfect an idea of impenetrability, when he observes that hand to be supported by the table, as when he feels the same table with the other hand. an object, that presses upon any of our members, meets with resistance; and that resistance, by the motion it gives to the nerves and animal spirits, conveys a certain sensation to the mind; but it does not follow, that the sensation, motion, and resistance are any ways resembling. secondly, the impressions of touch are simple impressions, except when considered with regard to their extension; which makes nothing to the present purpose: and from this simplicity i infer, that they neither represent solidity, nor any real object. for let us put two cases, viz. that of a man, who presses a stone, or any solid body, with his hand, and that of two stones, which press each other; it will readily be allowed, that these two cases are not in every respect alike, but that in the former there is conjoined with the solidity, a feeling or sensation, of which there is no appearance in the latter. in order, therefore, to make these two cases alike, it is necessary to remove some part of the impression, which the man feels by his hand, or organ of sensation; and that being impossible in a simple impression, obliges us to remove the whole, and proves that this whole impression has no archetype or model in external objects. to which we may add, that solidity necessarily supposes two bodies, along with contiguity and impulse; which being a compound object, can never be represented by a simple impression. not to mention, that though solidity continues always invariably the same, the impressions of touch change every moment upon us; which is a clear proof that the latter are not representations of the former. thus there is a direct and total opposition betwixt our reason and our senses; or more properly speaking, betwixt those conclusions we form from cause and effect, and those that persuade us of the continued and independent existence of body. when we reason from cause and effect, we conclude, that neither colour, sound, taste, nor smell have a continued and independent existence. when we exclude these sensible qualities there remains nothing in the universe, which has such an existence. sect. v. of the immateriality of the soul. having found such contradictions and difficulties in every system concerning external objects, and in the idea of matter, which we fancy so clear and determinate, we shall naturally expect still greater difficulties and contradictions in every hypothesis concerning our internal perceptions, and the nature of the mind, which we are apt to imagine so much more obscure, and uncertain. but in this we should deceive ourselves. the intellectual world, though involved in infinite obscurities, is not perplexed with any such contradictions, as those we have discovered in the natural. what is known concerning it, agrees with itself; and what is unknown, we must be contented to leave so. it is true, would we hearken to certain philosophers, they promise to diminish our ignorance; but i am afraid it is at the hazard of running us into contradictions, from which the subject is of itself exempted. these philosophers are the curious reasoners concerning the material or immaterial substances, in which they suppose our perceptions to inhere. in order to put a stop to these endless cavils on both sides, i know no better method, than to ask these philosophers in a few words, what they mean by substance and inhesion? and after they have answered this question, it will then be reasonable, and not till then, to enter seriously into the dispute. this question we have found impossible to be answered with regard to matter and body: but besides that in the case of the mind, it labours under all the same difficulties, it is burthened with some additional ones, which are peculiar to that subject. as every idea is derived from a precedent impression, had we any idea of the substance of our minds, we must also have an impression of it; which is very difficult, if not impossible, to be conceived. for how can an impression represent a substance, otherwise than by resembling it? and how can an impression resemble a substance, since, according to this philosophy, it is not a substance, and has none of the peculiar qualities or characteristics of a substance? but leaving the question of what may or may not be, for that other what actually is, i desire those philosophers, who pretend that we have an idea of the substance of our minds, to point out the impression that produces it, and tell distinctly after what manner that impression operates, and from what object it is derived. is it an impression of sensation or of reflection? is it pleasant, or painful, or indifferent? i does it attend us at all times, or does it only return at intervals? if at intervals, at what times principally does it return, and by what causes is it produced? if instead of answering these questions, any one should evade the difficulty, by saying, that the definition of a substance is something which may exist by itself; and that this definition ought to satisfy us: should this be said, i should observe, that this definition agrees to every thing, that can possibly be conceived; and never will serve to distinguish substance from accident, or the soul from its perceptions. for thus i reason. whatever is clearly conceived may exist; and whatever is clearly conceived, after any manner, may exist after the same manner. this is one principle, which has been already acknowledged. again, every thing, which is different, is distinguishable, and every thing which is distinguishable, is separable by the imagination. this is another principle. my conclusion from both is, that since all our perceptions are different from each other, and from every thing else in the universe, they are also distinct and separable, and may be considered as separately existent, and may exist separately, and have no need of any thing else to support their existence. they are, therefore, substances, as far as this definition explains a substance. thus neither by considering the first origin of ideas, nor by means of a definition are we able to arrive at any satisfactory notion of substance; which seems to me a sufficient reason for abandoning utterly that dispute concerning the materiality and immateriality of the soul, and makes me absolutely condemn even the question itself. we have no perfect idea of any thing but of a perception. a substance is entirely different from a perception. we have, therefore, no idea of a substance. inhesion in something is supposed to be requisite to support the existence of our perceptions. nothing appears requisite to support the existence of a perception. we have, therefore, no idea of inhesion. what possibility then of answering that question, whether perceptions inhere in a material or immaterial substance, when we do not so much as understand the meaning of the question? there is one argument commonly employed for the immateriality of the soul, which seems to me remarkable. whatever is extended consists of parts; and whatever consists of parts is divisible, if not in reality, at least in the imagination. but it is impossible anything divisible can be conjoined to a thought or perception, which is a being altogether inseparable and indivisible. for supposing such a conjunction, would the indivisible thought exist on the left or on the right hand of this extended divisible body? on the surface or in the middle? on the back or fore side of it? if it be conjoined with the extension, it must exist somewhere within its dimensions. if it exist within its dimensions, it must either exist in one particular part; and then that particular part is indivisible, and the perception is conjoined only with it, not with the extension: or if the thought exists in every part, it must also be extended, and separable, and divisible, as well as the body; which is utterly absurd and contradictory. for can any one conceive a passion of a yard in length, a foot in breadth, and an inch in thickness? thought, therefore, and extension are qualities wholly incompatible, and never can incorporate together into one subject. this argument affects not the question concerning the substance of the soul, but only that concerning its local conjunction with matter; and therefore it may not be improper to consider in general what objects are, or are not susceptible of a local conjunction. this is a curious question, and may lead us to some discoveries of considerable moment. the first notion of space and extension is derived solely from the senses of sight and feeling; nor is there any thing, but what is coloured or tangible, that has parts disposed after such a manner, as to convey that idea. when we diminish or encrease a relish, it is not after the same manner that we diminish or encrease any visible object; and when several sounds strike our hearing at once, custom and reflection alone make us form an idea of the degrees of the distance and contiguity of those bodies, from which they are derived. whatever marks the place of its existence either must be extended, or must be a mathematical point, without parts or composition. what is extended must have a particular figure, as square, round, triangular; none of which will agree to a desire, or indeed to any impression or idea, except to these two senses above-mentioned. neither ought a desire, though indivisible, to be considered as a mathematical point. for in that case it would be possible, by the addition of others, to make two, three, four desires, and these disposed and situated in such a manner, as to have a determinate length, breadth and thickness; which is evidently absurd. it will not be surprising after this, if i deliver a maxim, which is condemned by several metaphysicians, and is esteemed contrary to the most certain principles of hum reason. this maxim is that an object may exist, and yet be no where: and i assert, that this is not only possible, but that the greatest part of beings do and must exist after this manner. an object may be said to be no where, when its parts are not so situated with respect to each other, as to form any figure or quantity; nor the whole with respect to other bodies so as to answer to our notions of contiguity or distance. now this is evidently the case with all our perceptions and objects, except those of the sight and feeling. a moral reflection cannot be placed on the right or on the left hand of a passion, nor can a smell or sound be either of a circular or a square figure. these objects and perceptions, so far from requiring any particular place, are absolutely incompatible with it, and even the imagination cannot attribute it to them. and as to the absurdity of supposing them to be no where, we may consider, that if the passions and sentiments appear to the perception to have any particular place, the idea of extension might be derived from them, as well as from the sight and touch; contrary to what we have already established. if they appear not to have any particular place, they may possibly exist in the same manner; since whatever we conceive is possible. it will not now be necessary to prove, that those perceptions, which are simple, and exist no where, are incapable of any conjunction in place with matter or body, which is extended and divisible; since it is impossible to found a relation but on some common quality. it may be better worth our while to remark, that this question of the local conjunction of objects does not only occur in metaphysical disputes concerning the nature of the soul, but that even in common life we have every moment occasion to examine it. thus supposing we consider a fig at one end of the table, and an olive at the other, it is evident, that in forming the complex ideas of these substances, one of the most obvious is that of their different relishes; and it is as evident, that we incorporate and conjoin these qualities with such as are coloured and tangible. the bitter taste of the one, and sweet of the other are supposed to lie in the very visible body, and to be separated from each other by the whole length of the table. this is so notable and so natural an illusion, that it may be proper to consider the principles, from which it is derived. though an extended object be incapable of a conjunction in place with another, that exists without any place or extension, yet are they susceptible of many other relations. thus the taste and smell of any fruit are inseparable from its other qualities of colour and tangibility; and whichever of them be the cause or effect, it is certain they are always co-existent. nor are they only co-existent in general, but also co-temporary in their appearance in the mind; and it is upon the application of the extended body to our senses we perceive its particular taste and smell. these relations, then, of causation, and contiguity in the time of their appearance, betwixt the extended object and the quality, which exists without any particular place, must have such an effect on the mind, that upon the appearance of one it will immediately turn its thought to the conception of the other. nor is this all. we not only turn our thought from one to the other upon account of their relation, but likewise endeavour to give them a new relation, viz. that of a conjunction in place, that we may render the transition more easy and natural. for it is a quality, which i shall often have occasion to remark in human nature, and shall explain more fully in its proper place, that when objects are united by any relation, we have a strong propensity to add some new relation to them, in order to compleat the union. in our arrangement of bodies we never fail to place such as are resembling, in contiguity to each other, or at least in correspondent points of view: why? but because we feel a satisfaction in joining the relation of contiguity to that of resemblance, or the resemblance of situation to that of qualities. the effects this propensity have been [sect. , towards the end.] already observed in that resemblance, which we so readily suppose betwixt particular impressions and their external causes. but we shall not find a more evident effect of it, than in the present instance, where from the relations of causation and contiguity in time betwixt two objects, we feign likewise that of a conjunction in place, in order to strengthen the connexion. but whatever confused notions we may form of an union in place betwixt an extended body, as a fig, and its particular taste, it is certain that upon reflection we must observe this union something altogether unintelligible and contradictory. for should we ask ourselves one obvious question, viz. if the taste, which we conceive to be contained in the circumference of the body, is in every part of it or in one only, we must quickly find ourselves at a loss, and perceive the impossibility of ever giving a satisfactory answer. we cannot rely, that it is only in one part: for experience convinces us, that every part has the same relish. we can as little reply, that it exists in every part: for then we must suppose it figured and extended; which is absurd and incomprehensible. here then we are influenced by two principles directly contrary to each other, viz. that inclination of our fancy by which we are determined to incorporate the taste with the extended object, and our reason, which shows us the impossibility of such an union. being divided betwixt these opposite principles, we renounce neither one nor the other, but involve the subject in such confusion and obscurity, that we no longer perceive the opposition. we suppose, that the taste exists within the circumference of the body, but in such a manner, that it fills the whole without extension, and exists entire in every part without separation. in short, we use in our most familiar way of thinking, that scholastic principle, which, when crudely proposed, appears so shocking, of totum in toto & tolum in qualibet parte: which is much the same, as if we should say, that a thing is in a certain place, and yet is not there. all this absurdity proceeds from our endeavouring to bestow a place on what is utterly incapable of it; and that endeavour again arises from our inclination to compleat an union, which is founded on causation, and a contiguity of time, by attributing to the objects a conjunction in place. but if ever reason be of sufficient force to overcome prejudice, it is certain, that in the present case it must prevail. for we have only this choice left, either to suppose that some beings exist without any place; or that they are figured and extended; or that when they are incorporated with extended objects, the whole is in the whole, and the whole in every part. the absurdity of the two last suppositions proves sufficiently the veracity of the first. nor is there any fourth opinion. for as to the supposition of their existence in the manner of mathematical points, it resolves itself into the second opinion, and supposes, that several passions may be placed in a circular figure, and that a certain number of smells, conjoined with a certain number of sounds, may make a body of twelve cubic inches; which appears ridiculous upon the bare mentioning of it. but though in this view of things we cannot refuse to condemn the materialists, who conjoin all thought with extension; yet a little reflection will show us equal reason for blaming their antagonists, who conjoin all thought with a simple and indivisible substance. the most vulgar philosophy informs us, that no external object can make itself known to the mind immediately, and without the interposition of an image or perception. that table, which just now appears to me, is only a perception, and all its qualities are qualities of a perception. now the most obvious of all its qualities is extension. the perception consists of parts. these parts are so situated, as to afford us the notion of distance and contiguity; of length, breadth, and thickness. the termination of these three dimensions is what we call figure. this figure is moveable, separable, and divisible. mobility, and separability are the distinguishing properties of extended objects. and to cut short all disputes, the very idea of extension is copyed from nothing but an impression, and consequently must perfectly agree to it. to say the idea of extension agrees to any thing, is to say it is extended. the free-thinker may now triumph in his turn; and having found there are impressions and ideas really extended, may ask his antagonists, how they can incorporate a simple and indivisible subject with an extended perception? all the arguments of theologians may here be retorted upon them. is the indivisible subject, or immaterial substance, if you will, on the left or on the right hand of the perception? is it in this particular part, or in that other? is it in every part without being extended? or is it entire in any one part without deserting the rest? it is impossible to give any answer to these questions, but what will both be absurd in itself, and will account for the union of our indivisible perceptions with an extended substance. this gives me an occasion to take a-new into consideration the question concerning the substance of the soul; and though i have condemned that question as utterly unintelligible, yet i cannot forbear proposing some farther reflections concerning it. i assert, that the doctrine of the immateriality, simplicity, and indivisibility of a thinking substance is a true atheism, and will serve to justify all those sentiments, for which spinoza is so universally infamous. from this topic, i hope at least to reap one advantage, that my adversaries will not have any pretext to render the present doctrine odious by their declamations, when they see that they can be so easily retorted on them. the fundamental principle of the atheism of spinoza is the doctrine of the simplicity of the universe, and the unity of that substance, in which he supposes both thought and matter to inhere. there is only one substance, says he, in the world; and that substance is perfectly simple and indivisible, and exists every where, without any local presence. whatever we discover externally by sensation; whatever we feel internally by reflection; all these are nothing but modifications of that one, simple, and necessarily existent being, and are not possest of any separate or distinct existence. every passion of the soul; every configuration of matter, however different and various, inhere in the same substance, and preserve in themselves their characters of distinction, without communicating them to that subject, in which they inhere. the same substratum, if i may so speak, supports the most different modifications, without any difference in itself; and varies them, without any variation. neither time, nor place, nor all the diversity of nature are able to produce any composition or change in its perfect simplicity and identity. i believe this brief exposition of the principles of that famous atheist will be sufficient for the present purpose, and that without entering farther into these gloomy and obscure regions, i shall be able to shew, that this hideous hypothesis is almost the same with that of the immateriality of the soul, which has become so popular. to make this evident, let us [part ii, sect. .] remember, that as every idea is derived from a preceding perception, it is impossible our idea of a perception, and that of an object or external existence can ever represent what are specifically different from each other. whatever difference we may suppose betwixt them, it is still incomprehensible to us; and we are obliged either to conceive an external object merely as a relation without a relative, or to make it the very same with a perception or impression. the consequence i shall draw from this may, at first sight, appear a mere sophism; but upon the least examination will be found solid and satisfactory. i say then, that since we may suppose, but never can conceive a specific deference betwixt an object and impression; any conclusion we form concerning the connexion and repugnance of impressions, will not be known certainly to be applicable to objects; but that on the other hand, whatever conclusions of this kind we form concerning objects, will most certainly be applicable to impressions. the reason is not difficult. as an object is supposed to be different from an impression, we cannot be sure, that the circumstance, upon which we found our reasoning, is common to both, supposing we form the reasoning upon the impression. it is still possible, that the object may differ from it in that particular. but when we first form our reasoning concerning the object, it is beyond doubt, that the same reasoning must extend to the impression: and that because the quality of the object, upon which the argument is founded, must at least be conceived by the mind; and coued not be conceived, unless it were common to an impression; since we have no idea but what is derived from that origin. thus we may establish it as a certain maxim, that we can never, by any principle, but by an irregular kind [such as that of sect. , form the coherence of our perceptions.] of reasoning from experience, discover a connexion or repugnance betwixt objects, which extends not to impressions; though the inverse proposition may not be equally true, that all the discoverable relations of impressions are common to objects. to apply this to the present case; there are two different systems of being presented, to which i suppose myself under necessity of assigning some substance, or ground of inhesion. i observe first the universe of objects or of body: the sun, moon and stars; the earth, seas, plants, animals, men, ships, houses, and other productions either of art or nature. here spinoza appears, and tells me, that these are only modifications; and that the subject, in which they inhere, is simple, incompounded, and indivisible. after this i consider the other system of beings, viz. the universe of thought, or my impressions and ideas. there i observe another sun, moon and stars; an earth, and seas, covered and inhabited by plants and animals; towns, houses, mountains, rivers; and in short every thing i can discover or conceive in the first system. upon my enquiring concerning these, theologians present themselves, and tell me, that these also are modifications, and modifications of one simple, uncompounded, and indivisible substance. immediately upon which i am deafened with the noise of a hundred voices, that treat the first hypothesis with detestation and scorn, and the second with applause and veneration. i turn my attention to these hypotheses to see what may be the reason of so great a partiality; and find that they have the same fault of being unintelligible, and that as far as we can understand them, they are so much alike, that it is impossible to discover any absurdity in one, which is not common to both of them. we have no idea of any quality in an object, which does not agree to, and may not represent a quality in an impression; and that because all our ideas are derived from our impressions. we can never, therefore, find any repugnance betwixt an extended object as a modification, and a simple uncompounded essence, as its substance, unless that repugnance takes place equally betwixt the perception or impression of that extended object, and the same uncompounded essence. every idea of a quality in an object passes through an impression; and therefore every perceivable relation, whether of connexion or repugnance, must be common both to objects and impressions. but though this argument, considered in general, seems evident beyond all doubt and contradiction, yet to make it more clear and sensible, let us survey it in detail; and see whether all the absurdities, which have been found in the system of spinoza, may not likewise be discovered in that of theologians. [see bayle's dictionary, article of spinoza.] first, it has been said against spinoza, according to the scholastic way of talking, rather than thinking, that a mode, not being any distinct or separate existence, must be the very same with its substance, and consequently the extension of the universe, must be in a manner identifyed with that, simple, uncompounded essence, in which the universe is supposed to inhere. but this, it may be pretended, is utterly impossible and inconceivable unless the indivisible substance expand itself, so as to correspond to the extension, or the extension contract itself, so as to answer to the indivisible substance. this argument seems just, as far as we can understand it; and it is plain nothing is required, but a change in the terms, to apply the same argument to our extended perceptions, and the simple essence of the soul; the ideas of objects and perceptions being in every respect the same, only attended with the supposition of a difference, that is unknown and incomprehensible. secondly, it has been said, that we have no idea of substance, which is not applicable to matter; nor any idea of a distinct substance, which is not applicable to every distinct portion of matter. matter, therefore, is not a mode but a substance, and each part of matter is not a distinct mode, but a distinct substance. i have already proved, that we have no perfect idea of substance; but that taking it for something, that can exist by itself, it is evident every perception is a substance, and every distinct part of a perception a distinct substance: and consequently the one hypothesis labours under the same difficulties in this respect with the other. thirdly, it has been objected to the system of one simple substance in the universe, that this substance being the support or substratum of every thing, must at the very same instant be modifyed into forms, which are contrary and incompatible. the round and square figures are incompatible in the same substance at the same time. how then is it possible, that the same substance can at once be modifyed into that square table, and into this round one? i ask the same question concerning the impressions of these tables; and find that the answer is no more satisfactory in one case than in the other. it appears, then, that to whatever side we turn, the same difficulties follow us, and that we cannot advance one step towards the establishing the simplicity and immateriality o the soul, without preparing the way for a dangerous and irrecoverable atheism. it is the same case, if instead o calling thought a modification of the soul, we should give it the more antient, and yet more modish name of an action. by an action we mean much the same thing, as what is commonly called an abstract mode; that is, something, which, properly speaking, is neither distinguishable, nor separable from its substance, and is only conceived by a distinction of reason, or an abstraction. but nothing is gained by this change of the term of modification, for that of action; nor do we free ourselves from one single difficulty by its means; as will appear from the two following reflexions. first, i observe, that the word, action, according to this explication of it, can never justly be applied to any perception, as derived from a mind or thinking substance. our perceptions are all really different, and separable, and distinguishable from each other, and from everything else, which we can imagine: and therefore it is impossible to conceive, how they can be the action or abstract mode of any substance. the instance of motion, which is commonly made use of to shew after what manner perception depends, as an action, upon its substance, rather confounds than instructs us. motion to all appearance induces no real nor essential change on the body, but only varies its relation to other objects. but betwixt a person in the morning walking a garden with company, agreeable to him; and a person in the afternoon inclosed in a dungeon, and full of terror, despair, and resentment, there seems to be a radical difference, and of quite another kind, than what is produced on a body by the change of its situation. as we conclude from the distinction and separability of their ideas, that external objects have a separate existence from each other; so when we make these ideas themselves our objects, we must draw the same conclusion concerning them, according to the precedent reasoning. at least it must be confest, that having idea of the substance of the soul, it is impossible for us to tell how it can admit of such differences, and even contrarieties of perception without any fundamental change; and consequently can never tell in what sense perceptions are actions of that substance. the use, therefore, of the word, action, unaccompanyed with any meaning, instead of that of modification, makes no addition to our knowledge, nor is of any advantage to the doctrine of the immateriality of the soul. i add in the second place, that if it brings any advantage to that cause, it must bring an equal to the cause of atheism. for do our theologians pretend to make a monopoly of the word, action, and may not the atheists likewise take possession of it, and affirm that plants, animals, men, &c. are nothing but particular actions of one simple universal substance, which exerts itself from a blind and absolute necessity? this you'll say is utterly absurd. i own it is unintelligible; but at the same time assert, according to the principles above-explained, that it is impossible to discover any absurdity in the supposition, that all the various objects in nature are actions of one simple substance, which absurdity will not be applicable to a like supposition concerning impressions and ideas. from these hypotheses concerning the substance and local conjunction of our perceptions, we may pass to another, which is more intelligible than the former, and more important than the latter, viz. concerning the cause of our perceptions. matter and motion, it is commonly said in the schools, however varyed, are still matter and motion, and produce only a difference in the position and situation of objects. divide a body as often as you please, it is still body. place it in any figure, nothing ever results but figure, or the relation of parts. move it in any manner, you still find motion or a change of relation. it is absurd to imagine, that motion in a circle, for instance, should be nothing but merely motion in a circle; while motion in another direction, as in an ellipse, should also be a passion or moral reflection: that the shocking of two globular particles should become a sensation of pain, and that the meeting of two triangular ones should afford a pleasure. now as these different shocks, and variations, and mixtures are the only changes, of which matter is susceptible, and as these never afford us any idea of thought or perception, it is concluded to be impossible, that thought can ever be caused by matter. few have been able to withstand the seeming evidence of this argument; and yet nothing in the world is more easy than to refute it. we need only reflect on what has been proved at large, that we are never sensible of any connexion betwixt causes and effects, and that it is only by our experience of their constant conjunction, we can arrive at any knowledge of this relation. now as all objects, which are not contrary, are susceptible of a constant conjunction, and as no real objects are contrary [part iii. sect. .]; i have inferred from these principles, that to consider the matter a priori, any thing may produce any thing, and that we shall never discover a reason, why any object may or may not be the cause of any other, however great, or however little the resemblance may be betwixt them. this evidently destroys the precedent reasoning concerning the cause of thought or perception. for though there appear no manner of connexion betwixt motion or thought, the case is the same with all other causes and effects. place one body of a pound weight on one end of a lever, and another body of the same weight on another end; you will never find in these bodies any principle of motion dependent on their distances from the center, more than of thought and perception. if you pretend, therefore, to prove a priori, that such a position of bodies can never cause thought; because turn it which way you will, it is nothing but a position of bodies; you must by the same course of reasoning conclude, that it can never produce motion; since there is no more apparent connexion in the one case than in the other. but as this latter conclusion is contrary to evident experience, and as it is possible we may have a like experience in the operations of the mind, and may perceive a constant conjunction of thought and motion; you reason too hastily, when from the mere consideration of the ideas, you conclude that it is impossible motion can ever produce thought, or a different position of parts give rise to a different passion or reflection. nay it is not only possible we may have such an experience, but it is certain we have it; since every one may perceive, that the different dispositions of his body change his thoughts and sentiments. and should it be said, that this depends on the union of soul and body; i would answer, that we must separate the question concerning the substance of the mind from that concerning the cause of its thought; and that confining ourselves to the latter question we find by the comparing their ideas, that thought and motion are different from each other, and by experience, that they are constantly united; which being all the circumstances, that enter into the idea of cause and effect, when applied to the operations of matter, we may certainly conclude, that motion may be, and actually is, the cause of thought and perception. there seems only this dilemma left us in the present case; either to assert, that nothing can be the cause of another, but where the mind can perceive the connexion in its idea of the objects: or to maintain, that all objects, which we find constantly conjoined, are upon that account to be regarded as causes and effects. if we choose the first part of the dilemma, these are the consequences. first, we in reality affirm, that there is no such thing in the universe as a cause or productive principle, not even the deity himself; since our idea of that supreme being is derived from particular impressions, none of which contain any efficacy, nor seem to have any connexion with any other existence. as to what may be said, that the connexion betwixt the idea of an infinitely powerful being, and that of any effect, which he wills, is necessary and unavoidable; i answer, that we have no idea of a being endowed with any power, much less of one endowed with infinite power. but if we will change expressions, we can only define power by connexion; and then in saying, that the idea, of an infinitely powerful being is connected with that of every effect, which he wills, we really do no more than assert, that a being, whose volition is connected with every effect, is connected with every effect: which is an identical proposition, and gives us no insight into the nature of this power or connexion. but, secondly, supposing, that the deity were the great and efficacious principle, which supplies the deficiency of all causes, this leads us into the grossest impieties and absurdities. for upon the same account, that we have recourse to him in natural operations, and assert that matter cannot of itself communicate motion, or produce thought, viz. because there is no apparent connexion betwixt these objects; i say, upon the very same account, we must acknowledge that the deity is the author of all our volitions and perceptions; since they have no more apparent connexion either with one another, or with the supposed but unknown substance of the soul. this agency of the supreme being we know to have been asserted by [as father malebranche and other cartesians.] several philosophers with relation to all the actions of the mind, except volition, or rather an inconsiderable part of volition; though it is easy to perceive, that this exception is a mere pretext, to avoid the dangerous consequences of that doctrine. if nothing be active but what has an apparent power, thought is in no case any more active than matter; and if this inactivity must make us have recourse to a deity, the supreme being is the real cause of all our actions, bad as well as good, vicious as well as virtuous. thus we are necessarily reduced to the other side of the dilemma, viz.. that all objects, which are found to be constantly conjoined, are upon that account only to be regarded as causes and effects. now as all objects, which are not contrary, are susceptible of a constant conjunction, and as no real objects are contrary: it follows, that for ought we can determine by the mere ideas, any thing may be the cause or effect of any thing; which evidently gives the advantage to the materialists above their antagonists. to pronounce, then, the final decision upon the whole; the question concerning the substance of the soul is absolutely unintelligible: all our perceptions are not susceptible of a local union, either with what is extended or unextended: there being some of them of the one kind, and some of the other: and as the constant conjunction of objects constitutes the very essence of cause and effect, matter and motion may often be regarded as the causes of thought, as far as we have any notion of that relation. it is certainly a kind of indignity to philosophy, whose sovereign authority ought every where to be acknowledged, to oblige her on every occasion to make apologies for her conclusions, and justify herself to every particular art and science, which may be offended at her. this puts one in mind of a king arrainged for high-treason against his subjects. there is only one occasion, when philosophy will think it necessary and even honourable to justify herself, and that is, when religion may seem to be in the least offended; whose rights are as dear to her as her own, and are indeed the same. if any one, therefore, should imagine that the foregoing arguments are any ways dangerous to religion, i hope the following apology will remove his apprehensions. there is no foundation for any conclusion a priori, either concerning the operations or duration of any object, of which it is possible for the human mind to form a conception. any object may be imagined to become entirely inactive, or to be annihilated in a moment; and it is an evident principle, that whatever we can imagine, is possible. now this is no more true of matter, than of spirit; of an extended compounded substance, than of a simple and unextended. in both cases the metaphysical arguments for the immortality of the soul are equally inconclusive: and in both cases the moral arguments and those derived from the analogy of nature are equally strong and convincing. if my philosophy, therefore, makes no addition to the arguments for religion, i have at least the satisfaction to think it takes nothing from them, but that every thing remains precisely as before. sect. vi. of personal identity there are some philosophers who imagine we are every moment intimately conscious of what we call our self; that we feel its existence and its continuance in existence; and are certain, beyond the evidence of a demonstration, both o its perfect identity and simplicity. the strongest sensation, the most violent passion, say they, instead of distracting us from this view, only fix it the more intensely, and make us consider their influence on self either by their pain or pleasure. to attempt a farther proof of this were to weaken its evidence; since no proof can be derived from any fact, of which we are so intimately conscious; nor is there any thing, of which we can be certain, if we doubt of this. unluckily all these positive assertions are contrary to that very experience, which is pleaded for them, nor have we any idea of self, after the manner it is here explained. for from what impression coued this idea be derived? this question it is impossible to answer without a manifest contradiction and absurdity; and yet it is a question, which must necessarily be answered, if we would have the idea of self pass for clear and intelligible, it must be some one impression, that gives rise to every real idea. but self or person is not any one impression, but that to which our several impressions and ideas are supposed to have a reference. if any impression gives rise to the idea of self, that impression must continue invariably the same, through the whole course of our lives; since self is supposed to exist after that manner. but there is no impression constant and invariable. pain and pleasure, grief and joy, passions and sensations succeed each other, and never all exist at the same time. it cannot, therefore, be from any of these impressions, or from any other, that the idea of self is derived; and consequently there is no such idea. but farther, what must become of all our particular perceptions upon this hypothesis? all these are different, and distinguishable, and separable from each other, and may be separately considered, and may exist separately, and have no deed of tiny thing to support their existence. after what manner, therefore, do they belong to self; and how are they connected with it? for my part, when i enter most intimately into what i call myself, i always stumble on some particular perception or other, of heat or cold, light or shade, love or hatred, pain or pleasure. i never can catch myself at any time without a perception, and never can observe any thing but the perception. when my perceptions are removed for any time, as by sound sleep; so long am i insensible of myself, and may truly be said not to exist. and were all my perceptions removed by death, and coued i neither think, nor feel, nor see, nor love, nor hate after the dissolution of my body, i should be entirely annihilated, nor do i conceive what is farther requisite to make me a perfect non-entity. if any one, upon serious and unprejudiced reflection thinks he has a different notion of himself, i must confess i call reason no longer with him. all i can allow him is, that he may be in the right as well as i, and that we are essentially different in this particular. he may, perhaps, perceive something simple and continued, which he calls himself; though i am certain there is no such principle in me. but setting aside some metaphysicians of this kind, i may venture to affirm of the rest of mankind, that they are nothing but a bundle or collection of different perceptions, which succeed each other with an inconceivable rapidity, and are in a perpetual flux and movement. our eyes cannot turn in their sockets without varying our perceptions. our thought is still more variable than our sight; and all our other senses and faculties contribute to this change; nor is there any single power of the soul, which remains unalterably the same, perhaps for one moment. the mind is a kind of theatre, where several perceptions successively make their appearance; pass, re-pass, glide away, and mingle in an infinite variety of postures and situations. there is properly no simplicity in it at one time, nor identity in different; whatever natural propension we may have to imagine that simplicity and identity. the comparison of the theatre must not mislead us. they are the successive perceptions only, that constitute the mind; nor have we the most distant notion of the place, where these scenes are represented, or of the materials, of which it is composed. what then gives us so great a propension to ascribe an identity to these successive perceptions, and to suppose ourselves possest of an invariable and uninterrupted existence through the whole course of our lives? in order to answer this question, we must distinguish betwixt personal identity, as it regards our thought or imagination, and as it regards our passions or the concern we take in ourselves. the first is our present subject; and to explain it perfectly we must take the matter pretty deep, and account for that identity, which we attribute to plants and animals; there being a great analogy betwixt it, and the identity of a self or person. we have a distinct idea of an object, that remains invariable and uninterrupted through a supposed variation of time; and this idea we call that of identity or sameness. we have also a distinct idea of several different objects existing in succession, and connected together by a close relation; and this to an accurate view affords as perfect a notion of diversity, as if there was no manner of relation among the objects. but though these two ideas of identity, and a succession of related objects be in themselves perfectly distinct, and even contrary, yet it is certain, that in our common way of thinking they are generally confounded with each other. that action of the imagination, by which we consider the uninterrupted and invariable object, and that by which we reflect on the succession of related objects, are almost the same to the feeling, nor is there much more effort of thought required in the latter case than in the former. the relation facilitates the transition of the mind from one object to another, and renders its passage as smooth as if it contemplated one continued object. this resemblance is the cause of the confusion and mistake, and makes us substitute the notion of identity, instead of that of related objects. however at one instant we may consider the related succession as variable or interrupted, we are sure the next to ascribe to it a perfect identity, and regard it as enviable and uninterrupted. our propensity to this mistake is so great from the resemblance above-mentioned, that we fall into it before we are aware; and though we incessantly correct ourselves by reflection, and return to a more accurate method of thinking, yet we cannot long sustain our philosophy, or take off this biass from the imagination. our last resource is to yield to it, and boldly assert that these different related objects are in effect the same, however interrupted and variable. in order to justify to ourselves this absurdity, we often feign some new and unintelligible principle, that connects the objects together, and prevents their interruption or variation. thus we feign the continued existence of the perceptions of our senses, to remove the interruption: and run into the notion of a soul, and self, and substance, to disguise the variation. but we may farther observe, that where we do not give rise to such a fiction, our propension to confound identity with relation is so great, that we are apt to imagine [footnote ] something unknown and mysterious, connecting the parts, beside their relation; and this i take to be the case with regard to the identity we ascribe to plants and vegetables. and even when this does not take place, we still feel a propensity to confound these ideas, though we a-re not able fully to satisfy ourselves in that particular, nor find any thing invariable and uninterrupted to justify our notion of identity. [footnote if the reader is desirous to see how a great genius may be influencd by these seemingly trivial principles of the imagination, as well as the mere vulgar, let him read my lord shaftsburys reasonings concerning the uniting principle of the universe, and the identity of plants and animals. see his moralists: or, philosophical rhapsody.] thus the controversy concerning identity is not merely a dispute of words. for when we attribute identity, in an improper sense, to variable or interrupted objects, our mistake is not confined to the expression, but is commonly attended with a fiction, either of something invariable and uninterrupted, or of something mysterious and inexplicable, or at least with a propensity to such fictions. what will suffice to prove this hypothesis to the satisfaction of every fair enquirer, is to shew from daily experience and observation, that the objects, which are variable or interrupted, and yet are supposed to continue the same, are such only as consist of a succession of parts, connected together by resemblance, contiguity, or causation. for as such a succession answers evidently to our notion of diversity, it can only be by mistake we ascribe to it an identity; and as the relation of parts, which leads us into this mistake, is really nothing but a quality, which produces an association of ideas, and an easy transition of the imagination from one to another, it can only be from the resemblance, which this act of the mind bears to that, by which we contemplate one continued object, that the error arises. our chief business, then, must be to prove, that all objects, to which we ascribe identity, without observing their invariableness and uninterruptedness, are such as consist of a succession of related objects. in order to this, suppose any mass of matter, of which the parts are contiguous and connected, to be placed before us; it is plain we must attribute a perfect identity to this mass, provided all the parts continue uninterruptedly and invariably the same, whatever motion or change of place we may observe either in the whole or in any of the parts. but supposing some very small or inconsiderable part to be added to the mass, or subtracted from it; though this absolutely destroys the identity of the whole, strictly speaking; yet as we seldom think so accurately, we scruple not to pronounce a mass of matter the same, where we find so trivial an alteration. the passage of the thought from the object before the change to the object after it, is so smooth and easy, that we scarce perceive the transition, and are apt to imagine, that it is nothing but a continued survey of the same object. there is a very remarkable circumstance, that attends this experiment; which is, that though the change of any considerable part in a mass of matter destroys the identity of the whole, let we must measure the greatness of the part, not absolutely, but by its proportion to the whole. the addition or diminution of a mountain would not be sufficient to produce a diversity in a planet: though the change of a very few inches would be able to destroy the identity of some bodies. it will be impossible to account for this, but by reflecting that objects operate upon the mind, and break or interrupt the continuity of its actions not according to their real greatness, but according to their proportion to each other: and therefore, since this interruption makes an object cease to appear the same, it must be the uninterrupted progress o the thought, which constitutes the imperfect identity. this may be confirmed by another phenomenon. a change in any considerable part of a body destroys its identity; but it is remarkable, that where the change is produced gradually and insensibly we are less apt to ascribe to it the same effect. the reason can plainly be no other, than that the mind, in following the successive changes of the body, feels an easy passage from the surveying its condition in one moment to the viewing of it in another, and at no particular time perceives any interruption in its actions. from which continued perception, it ascribes a continued existence and identity to the object. but whatever precaution we may use in introducing the changes gradually, and making them proportionable to the whole, it is certain, that where the changes are at last observed to become considerable, we make a scruple of ascribing identity to such different objects. there is, however, another artifice, by which we may induce the imagination to advance a step farther; and that is, by producing a reference of the parts to each other, and a combination to some common end or purpose. a ship, of which a considerable part has been changed by frequent reparations, is still considered as the same; nor does the difference of the materials hinder us from ascribing an identity to it. the common end, in which the parts conspire, is the same under all their variations, and affords an easy transition of the imagination from one situation of the body to another. but this is still more remarkable, when we add a sympathy of parts to their common end, and suppose that they bear to each other, the reciprocal relation of cause and effect in all their actions and operations. this is the case with all animals and vegetables; where not only the several parts have a reference to some general purpose, but also a mutual dependence on, and connexion with each other. the effect of so strong a relation is, that though every one must allow, that in a very few years both vegetables and animals endure a total change, yet we still attribute identity to them, while their form, size, and substance are entirely altered. an oak, that grows from a small plant to a large tree, is still the same oak; though there be not one particle of matter, or figure of its parts the same. an infant becomes a man-, and is sometimes fat, sometimes lean, without any change in his identity. we may also consider the two following phaenomena, which are remarkable in their kind. the first is, that though we commonly be able to distinguish pretty exactly betwixt numerical and specific identity, yet it sometimes happens, that we confound them, and in our thinking and reasoning employ the one for the other. thus a man, who bears a noise, that is frequently interrupted and renewed, says, it is still the same noise; though it is evident the sounds have only a specific identity or resemblance, and there is nothing numerically the same, but the cause, which produced them. in like manner it may be said without breach of the propriety of language, that such a church, which was formerly of brick, fell to ruin, and that the parish rebuilt the same church of free-stone, and according to modern architecture. here neither the form nor materials are the same, nor is there any thing common to the two objects, but their relation to the inhabitants of the parish; and yet this alone is sufficient to make us denominate them the same. but we must observe, that in these cases the first object is in a manner annihilated before the second comes into existence; by which means, we are never presented in any one point of time with the idea of difference and multiplicity: and for that reason are less scrupulous in calling them the same. secondly, we may remark, that though in a succession of related objects, it be in a manner requisite, that the change of parts be not sudden nor entire, in order to preserve the identity, yet where the objects are in their nature changeable and inconstant, we admit of a more sudden transition, than would otherwise be consistent with that relation. thus as the nature of a river consists in the motion and change of parts; though in less than four and twenty hours these be totally altered; this hinders not the river from continuing the same during several ages. what is natural and essential to any thing is, in a manner, expected; and what is expected makes less impression, and appears of less moment, than what is unusual and extraordinary. a considerable change of the former kind seems really less to the imagination, than the most trivial alteration of the latter; and by breaking less the continuity of the thought, has less influence in destroying the identity. we now proceed to explain the nature of personal identity, which has become so great a question ill philosophy, especially of late years in england, where all the abstruser sciences are studyed with a peculiar ardour and application. and here it is evident, the same method of reasoning must be continued which has so successfully explained the identity of plants, and animals, and ships, and houses, and of all the compounded and changeable productions either of art or nature. the identity, which we ascribe to the mind of man, is only a fictitious one, and of a like kind with that which we ascribe to vegetables and animal bodies. it cannot, therefore, have a different origin, but must proceed from a like operation of the imagination upon like objects. but lest this argument should not convince the reader; though in my opinion perfectly decisive; let him weigh the following reasoning, which is still closer and more immediate. it is evident, that the identity, which we attribute to the human mind, however perfect we may imagine it to be, is not able to run the several different perceptions into one, and make them lose their characters of distinction and difference, which are essential to them. it is still true, that every distinct perception, which enters into the composition of the mind, is a distinct existence, and is different, and distinguishable, and separable from every other perception, either contemporary or successive. but, as, notwithstanding this distinction and separability, we suppose the whole train of perceptions to be united by identity, a question naturally arises concerning this relation of identity; whether it be something that really binds our several perceptions together, or only associates their ideas in the imagination. that is, in other words, whether in pronouncing concerning the identity of a person, we observe some real bond among his perceptions, or only feel one among the ideas we form of them. this question we might easily decide, if we would recollect what has been already proud at large, that the understanding never observes any real connexion among objects, and that even the union of cause and effect, when strictly examined, resolves itself into a customary association of ideas. for from thence it evidently follows, that identity is nothing really belonging to these different perceptions, and uniting them together; but is merely a quality, which we attribute to them, because of the union of their ideas in the imagination, when we reflect upon them. now the only qualities, which can give ideas an union in the imagination, are these three relations above-mentioned. there are the uniting principles in the ideal world, and without them every distinct object is separable by the mind, and may be separately considered, and appears not to have any more connexion with any other object, than if disjoined by the greatest difference and remoteness. it is, therefore, on some of these three relations of resemblance, contiguity and causation, that identity depends; and as the very essence of these relations consists in their producing an easy transition of ideas; it follows, that our notions of personal identity, proceed entirely from the smooth and uninterrupted progress of the thought along a train of connected ideas, according to the principles above-explained. the only question, therefore, which remains, is, by what relations this uninterrupted progress of our thought is produced, when we consider the successive existence of a mind or thinking person. and here it is evident we must confine ourselves to resemblance and causation, and must drop contiguity, which has little or no influence in the present case. to begin with resemblance; suppose we coued see clearly into the breast of another, and observe that succession of perceptions, which constitutes his mind or thinking principle, and suppose that he always preserves the memory of a considerable part of past perceptions; it is evident that nothing coued more contribute to the bestowing a relation on this succession amidst all its variations. for what is the memory but a faculty, by which we raise up the images of past perceptions? and as an image necessarily resembles its object, must not. the frequent placing of these resembling perceptions in the chain of thought, convey the imagination more easily from one link to another, and make the whole seem like the continuance of one object? in this particular, then, the memory not only discovers the identity, but also contributes to its production, by producing the relation of resemblance among the perceptions. the case is the same whether we consider ourselves or others. as to causation; we may observe, that the true idea of the human mind, is to consider it as a system of different perceptions or different existences, which are linked together by the relation of cause and effect, and mutually produce, destroy, influence, and modify each other. our impressions give rise to their correspondent ideas; said these ideas in their turn produce other impressions. one thought chaces another, and draws after it a third, by which it is expelled in its turn. in this respect, i cannot compare the soul more properly to any thing than to a republic or commonwealth, in which the several members are united by the reciprocal ties of government and subordination, and give rise to other persons, who propagate the same republic in the incessant changes of its parts. and as the same individual republic may not only change its members, but also its laws and constitutions; in like manner the same person may vary his character and disposition, as well as his impressions and ideas, without losing his identity. whatever changes he endures, his several parts are still connected by the relation of causation. and in this view our identity with regard to the passions serves to corroborate that with regard to the imagination, by the making our distant perceptions influence each other, and by giving us a present concern for our past or future pains or pleasures. as a memory alone acquaints us with the continuance and extent of this succession of perceptions, it is to be considered, upon that account chiefly, as the source of personal identity. had we no memory, we never should have any notion of causation, nor consequently of that chain of causes and effects, which constitute our self or person. but having once acquired this notion of causation from the memory, we can extend the same chain of causes, and consequently the identity of car persons beyond our memory, and can comprehend times, and circumstances, and actions, which we have entirely forgot, but suppose in general to have existed. for how few of our past actions are there, of which we have any memory? who can tell me, for instance, what were his thoughts and actions on the st of january , the th of march , and the rd of august ? or will he affirm, because he has entirely forgot the incidents of these days, that the present self is not the same person with the self of that time; and by that means overturn all the most established notions of personal identity? in this view, therefore, memory does not so much produce as discover personal identity, by shewing us the relation of cause and effect among our different perceptions. it will be incumbent on those, who affirm that memory produces entirely our personal identity, to give a reason why we cm thus extend our identity beyond our memory. the whole of this doctrine leads us to a conclusion, which is of great importance in the present affair, viz. that all the nice and subtile questions concerning personal identity can never possibly be decided, and are to be regarded rather as gramatical than as philosophical difficulties. identity depends on the relations of ideas; and these relations produce identity, by means of that easy transition they occasion. but as the relations, and the easiness of the transition may diminish by insensible degrees, we have no just standard, by which we can decide any dispute concerning the time, when they acquire or lose a title to the name of identity. all the disputes concerning the identity of connected objects are merely verbal, except so fax as the relation of parts gives rise to some fiction or imaginary principle of union, as we have already observed. what i have said concerning the first origin and uncertainty of our notion of identity, as applied to the human mind, may be extended with little or no variation to that of simplicity. an object, whose different co-existent parts are bound together by a close relation, operates upon the imagination after much the same manner as one perfectly simple and indivisible and requires not a much greater stretch of thought in order to its conception. from this similarity of operation we attribute a simplicity to it, and feign a principle of union as the support of this simplicity, and the center of all the different parts and qualities of the object. thus we have finished our examination of the several systems of philosophy, both of the intellectual and natural world; and in our miscellaneous way of reasoning have been led into several topics; which will either illustrate and confirm some preceding part of this discourse, or prepare the way for our following opinions. it is now time to return to a more close examination of our subject, and to proceed in the accurate anatomy of human nature, having fully explained the nature of our judgment and understandings. sect. vii. conclusion of this book. but before i launch out into those immense depths of philosophy, which lie before me, i find myself inclined to stop a moment in my present station, and to ponder that voyage, which i have undertaken, and which undoubtedly requires the utmost art and industry to be brought to a happy conclusion. methinks i am like a man, who having struck on many shoals, and having narrowly escaped shipwreck in passing a small frith, has yet the temerity to put out to sea in the same leaky weather-beaten vessel, and even carries his ambition so far as to think of compassing the globe under these disadvantageous circumstances. my memory of past errors and perplexities, makes me diffident for the future. the wretched condition, weakness, and disorder of the faculties, i must employ in my enquiries, encrease my apprehensions. and the impossibility of amending or correcting these faculties, reduces me almost to despair, and makes me resolve to perish on the barren rock, on which i am at present, rather than venture myself upon that boundless ocean, which runs out into immensity. this sudden view of my danger strikes me with melancholy; and as it is usual for that passion, above all others, to indulge itself; i cannot forbear feeding my despair, with all those desponding reflections, which the present subject furnishes me with in such abundance. i am first affrighted and confounded with that forelorn solitude, in which i am placed in my philosophy, and fancy myself some strange uncouth monster, who not being able to mingle and unite in society, has been expelled all human commerce, and left utterly abandoned and disconsolate. fain would i run into the crowd for shelter and warmth; but cannot prevail with myself to mix with such deformity. i call upon others to join me, in order to make a company apart; but no one will hearken to me. every one keeps at a distance, and dreads that storm, which beats upon me from every side. i have exposed myself to the enmity of all metaphysicians, logicians, mathematicians, and even theologians; and can i wonder at the insults i must suffer? i have declared my disapprobation of their systems; and can i be surprized, if they should express a hatred of mine and of my person? when i look abroad, i foresee on every side, dispute, contradiction, anger, calumny and detraction. when i turn my eye inward, i find nothing but doubt and ignorance. all the world conspires to oppose and contradict me; though such is my weakness, that i feel all my opinions loosen and fall of themselves, when unsupported by the approbation of others. every step i take is with hesitation, and every new reflection makes me dread an error and absurdity in my reasoning. for with what confidence can i venture upon such bold enterprises, when beside those numberless infirmities peculiar to myself, i find so many which are common to human nature? can i be sure, that in leaving all established opinions i am following truth; and by what criterion shall i distinguish her, even if fortune should at last guide me on her foot-steps? after the most accurate and exact of my reasonings, i can give no reason why i should assent to it; and feel nothing but a strong propensity to consider objects strongly in that view, under which they appear to me. experience is a principle, which instructs me in the several conjunctions of objects for the past. habit is another principle, which determines me to expect the same for the future; and both of them conspiring to operate upon the imagination, make me form certain ideas in a more intense and lively manner, than others, which are not attended with the same advantages. without this quality, by which the mind enlivens some ideas beyond others (which seemingly is so trivial, and so little founded on reason) we coued never assent to any argument, nor carry our view beyond those few objects, which are present to our senses. nay, even to these objects we coued never attribute any existence, but what was dependent on the senses; and must comprehend them entirely in that succession of perceptions, which constitutes our self or person. nay farther, even with relation to that succession, we coued only admit of those perceptions, which are immediately present to our consciousness, nor coued those lively images, with which the memory presents us, be ever received as true pictures of past perceptions. the memory, senses, and understanding are, therefore, all of them founded on the imagination, or the vivacity of our ideas. no wonder a principle so inconstant and fallacious should lead us into errors, when implicitly followed (as it must be) in all its variations. it is this principle, which makes us reason from causes and effects; and it is the same principle, which convinces us of the continued existence of external objects, when absent from the senses. but though these two operations be equally natural and necessary in the human mind, yet in some circumstances they are [sect. .] directly contrary, nor is it possible for us to reason justly and regularly from causes and effects, and at the same time believe the continued existence of matter. how then shall we adjust those principles together? which of them shall we prefer? or in case we prefer neither of them, but successively assent to both, as is usual among philosophers, with what confidence can we afterwards usurp that glorious title, when we thus knowingly embrace a manifest contradiction? this contradiction [part iii. sect. .] would be more excusable, were it compensated by any degree of solidity and satisfaction in the other parts of our reasoning. but the case is quite contrary. when we trace up the human understanding to its first principles, we find it to lead us into such sentiments, as seem to turn into ridicule all our past pains and industry, and to discourage us from future enquiries. nothing is more curiously enquired after by the mind of man, than the causes of every phenomenon; nor are we content with knowing the immediate causes, but push on our enquiries, till we arrive at the original and ultimate principle. we would not willingly stop before we are acquainted with that energy in the cause, by which it operates on its effect; that tie, which connects them together; and that efficacious quality, on which the tie depends. this is our aim in all our studies and reflections: and how must we be disappointed, when we learn, that this connexion, tie, or energy lies merely in ourselves, and is nothing but that determination of the mind, which is acquired by custom, and causes us to make a transition from an object to its usual attendant, and from the impression of one to the lively idea of the other? such a discovery not only cuts off all hope of ever attaining satisfaction, but even prevents our very wishes; since it appears, that when we say we desire to know the ultimate and operating principle, as something, which resides in the external object, we either contradict ourselves, or talk without a meaning. this deficiency in our ideas is not, indeed, perceived in common life, nor are we sensible, that in the most usual conjunctions of cause and effect we are as ignorant of the ultimate principle, which binds them together, as in the most unusual and extraordinary. but this proceeds merely from an illusion of the imagination; and the question is, how far we ought to yield to these illusions. this question is very difficult, and reduces us to a very dangerous dilemma, whichever way we answer it. for if we assent to every trivial suggestion of the fancy; beside that these suggestions are often contrary to each other; they lead us into such errors, absurdities, and obscurities, that we must at last become ashamed of our credulity. nothing is more dangerous to reason than the flights of the imagination, and nothing has been the occasion of more mistakes among philosophers. men of bright fancies may in this respect be compared to those angels, whom the scripture represents as covering their eyes with their wings. this has already appeared in so many instances, that we may spare ourselves the trouble of enlarging upon it any farther. but on the other hand, if the consideration of these instances makes us take a resolution to reject all the trivial suggestions of the fancy, and adhere to the understanding, that is, to the general and more established properties of the imagination; even this resolution, if steadily executed, would be dangerous, and attended with the most fatal consequences. for i have already shewn [sect. .], that the understanding, when it acts alone, and according to its most general principles, entirely subverts itself, and leaves not the lowest degree of evidence in any proposition, either in philosophy or common life. we save ourselves from this total scepticism only by means of that singular and seemingly trivial property of the fancy, by which we enter with difficulty into remote views of things, and are not able to accompany them with so sensible an impression, as we do those, which are more easy and natural. shall we, then, establish it for a general maxim, that no refined or elaborate reasoning is ever to be received? consider well the consequences of such a principle. by this means you cut off entirely all science and philosophy: you proceed upon one singular quality of the imagination, and by a parity of reason must embrace all of them: and you expressly contradict yourself; since this maxim must be built on the preceding reasoning, which will be allowed to be sufficiently refined and metaphysical. what party, then, shall we choose among these difficulties? if we embrace this principle, and condemn all refined reasoning, we run into the most manifest absurdities. if we reject it in favour of these reasonings, we subvert entirely the human understanding. we have, therefore, no choice left but betwixt a false reason and none at all. for my part, know not what ought to be done in the present case. i can only observe what is commonly done; which is, that this difficulty is seldom or never thought of; and even where it has once been present to the mind, is quickly forgot, and leaves but a small impression behind it. very refined reflections have little or no influence upon us; and yet we do not, and cannot establish it for a rule, that they ought not to have any influence; which implies a manifest contradiction. but what have i here said, that reflections very refined and metaphysical have little or no influence upon us? this opinion i can scarce forbear retracting, and condemning from my present feeling and experience. the intense view of these manifold contradictions and imperfections in human reason has so wrought upon me, and heated my brain, that i am ready to reject all belief and reasoning, and can look upon no opinion even as more probable or likely than another. where am i, or what? from what causes do i derive my existence, and to what condition shall i return? whose favour shall i court, and whose anger must i dread? what beings surround me? and on whom have, i any influence, or who have any influence on me? i am confounded with all these questions, and begin to fancy myself in the most deplorable condition imaginable, invironed with the deepest darkness, and utterly deprived of the use of every member and faculty. most fortunately it happens, that since reason is incapable of dispelling these clouds, nature herself suffices to that purpose, and cures me of this philosophical melancholy and delirium, either by relaxing this bent of mind, or by some avocation, and lively impression of my senses, which obliterate all these chimeras. i dine, i play a game of backgammon, i converse, and am merry with my friends; and when after three or four hours' amusement, i would return to these speculations, they appear so cold, and strained, and ridiculous, that i cannot find in my heart to enter into them any farther. here then i find myself absolutely and necessarily determined to live, and talk, and act like other people in the common affairs of life. but notwithstanding that my natural propensity, and the course of my animal spirits and passions reduce me to this indolent belief in the general maxims of the world, i still feel such remains of my former disposition, that i am ready to throw all my books and papers into the fire, and resolve never more to renounce the pleasures of life for the sake of reasoning and philosophy. for those are my sentiments in that splenetic humour, which governs me at present. i may, nay i must yield to the current of nature, in submitting to my senses and understanding; and in this blind submission i shew most perfectly my sceptical disposition and principles. but does it follow, that i must strive against the current of nature, which leads me to indolence and pleasure; that i must seclude myself, in some measure, from the commerce and society of men, which is so agreeable; and that i must torture my brains with subtilities and sophistries, at the very time that i cannot satisfy myself concerning the reasonableness of so painful an application, nor have any tolerable prospect of arriving by its means at truth and certainty. under what obligation do i lie of making such an abuse of time? and to what end can it serve either for the service of mankind, or for my own private interest? no: if i must be a fool, as all those who reason or believe any thing certainly are, my follies shall at least be natural and agreeable. where i strive against my inclination, i shall have a good reason for my resistance; and will no more be led a wandering into such dreary solitudes, and rough passages, as i have hitherto met with. these are the sentiments of my spleen and indolence; and indeed i must confess, that philosophy has nothing to oppose to them, and expects a victory more from the returns of a serious good-humoured disposition, than from the force of reason and conviction. in all the incidents of life we ought still to preserve our scepticism. if we believe, that fire warms, or water refreshes, it is only because it costs us too much pains to think otherwise. nay if we are philosophers, it ought only to be upon sceptical principles, and from an inclination, which we feel to the employing ourselves after that manner. where reason is lively, and mixes itself with some propensity, it ought to be assented to. where it does not, it never can have any title to operate upon us. at the time, therefore, that i am tired with amusement and company, and have indulged a reverie in my chamber, or in a solitary walk by a river-side, i feel my mind all collected within itself, and am naturally inclined to carry my view into all those subjects, about which i have met with so many disputes in the course of my reading and conversation. i cannot forbear having a curiosity to be acquainted with the principles of moral good and evil, the nature and foundation of government, and the cause of those several passions and inclinations, which actuate and govern me. i am uneasy to think i approve of one object, and disapprove of another; call one thing beautiful, and another deformed; decide concerning truth and falshood, reason and folly, without knowing upon what principles i proceed. i am concerned for the condition of the learned world, which lies under such t deplorable ignorance in all these particulars. i feel an ambition to arise in me of contributing to the instruction of mankind, and of acquiring a name by my inventions and discoveries. these sentiments spring up naturally in my present disposition; and should i endeavour to banish them, by attaching myself to any other business or diversion, i feel i should be a loser in point of pleasure; and this is the origin of my philosophy. but even suppose this curiosity and ambition should not transport me into speculations without the sphere of common life, it would necessarily happen, that from my very weakness i must be led into such enquiries. it is certain, that superstition is much more bold in its systems and hypotheses than philosophy; and while the latter contents itself with assigning new causes and principles to the phaenomena, which appear in the visible world, the former opens a world of its own, and presents us with scenes, and beings, and objects, which are altogether new. since therefore it is almost impossible for the mind of man to rest, like those of beasts, in that narrow circle of objects, which are the subject of daily conversation and action, we ought only to deliberate concerning the choice of our guide, and ought to prefer that which is safest and most agreeable. and in this respect i make bold to recommend philosophy, and shall not scruple to give it the preference to superstition of every kind or denomination. for as superstition arises naturally and easily from the popular opinions of mankind, it seizes more strongly on the mind, and is often able to disturb us in the conduct of our lives and actions. philosophy on the contrary, if just, can present us only with mild and moderate sentiments; and if false and extravagant, its opinions are merely the objects of a cold and general speculation, and seldom go so far as to interrupt the course of our natural propensities. the cynics are an extraordinary instance of philosophers, who from reasonings purely philosophical ran into as great extravagancies of conduct as any monk or dervise that ever was in the world. generally speaking, the errors in religion are dangerous; those in philosophy only ridiculous. i am sensible, that these two cases of the strength and weakness of the mind will not comprehend all mankind, and that there are in england, in particular, many honest gentlemen, who being always employed in their domestic affairs, or amusing themselves in common recreations, have carried their thoughts very little beyond those objects, which are every day exposed to their senses. and indeed, of such as these i pretend not to make philosophers, nor do i expect them either to be associates in these researches or auditors of these discoveries. they do well to keep themselves in their present situation; and instead of refining them into philosophers, i wish we coued communicate to our founders of systems, a share of this gross earthy mixture, as an ingredient, which they commonly stand much in need of, and which would serve to temper those fiery particles, of which they are composed. while a warm imagination is allowed to enter into philosophy, and hypotheses embraced merely for being specious and agreeable, we can never have any steady principles, nor any sentiments, which will suit with common practice and experience. but were these hypotheses once removed, we might hope to establish a system or set of opinions, which if not true (for that, perhaps, is too much to be hoped for) might at least be satisfactory to the human mind, and might stand the test of the most critical examination. nor should we despair of attaining this end, because of the many chimerical systems, which have successively arisen and decayed away among men, would we consider the shortness of that period, wherein these questions have been the subjects of enquiry and reasoning. two thousand years with such long interruptions, and under such mighty discouragements are a small space of time to give any tolerable perfection to the sciences; and perhaps we are still in too early an age of the world to discover any principles, which will bear the examination of the latest posterity. for my part, my only hope is, that i may contribute a little to the advancement of knowledge, by giving in some particulars a different turn to the speculations of philosophers, and pointing out to them more distinctly those subjects, where alone they can expect assurance and conviction. human nature is the only science of man; and yet has been hitherto the most neglected. it will be sufficient for me, if i can bring it a little more into fashion; and the hope of this serves to compose my temper from that spleen, and invigorate it from that indolence, which sometimes prevail upon me. if the reader finds himself in the same easy disposition, let him follow me in my future speculations. if not, let him follow his inclination, and wait the returns of application and good humour. the conduct of a man, who studies philosophy in this careless manner, is more truly sceptical than that of one, who feeling in himself an inclination to it, is yet so overwhelmed with doubts and scruples, as totally to reject it. a true sceptic will be diffident of his philosophical doubts, as well as of his philosophical conviction; and will never refuse any innocent satisfaction, which offers itself, upon account of either of them. nor is it only proper we should in general indulge our inclination in the most elaborate philosophical researches, notwithstanding our sceptical principles, but also that we should yield to that propensity, which inclines us to be positive and certain in particular points, according to the light, in which we survey them in any particular instant. it is easier to forbear all examination and enquiry, than to check ourselves in so natural a propensity, and guard against that assurance, which always arises from an exact and full survey of an object. on such an occasion we are apt not only to forget our scepticism, but even our modesty too; and make use of such terms as these, it is evident, it is certain, it is undeniable; which a due deference to the public ought, perhaps, to prevent. i may have fallen into this fault after the example of others; but i here enter a caveat against any objections, which may be offered on that head; and declare that such expressions were extorted from me by the present view of the object, and imply no dogmatical spirit, nor conceited idea of my own judgment, which are sentiments that i am sensible can become no body, and a sceptic still less than any other. book ii of the passions part i of pride and humility sect. i division of the subject as all the perceptions of the mind may be divided into impressions and ideas, so the impressions admit of another division into original and secondary. this division of the impressions is the same with that which i formerly made use of [book i. part i. sect. .] when i distinguished them into impressions of sensation and reflection. original impressions or impressions of sensation are such as without any antecedent perception arise in the soul, from the constitution of the body, from the animal spirits, or from the application of objects to the external organs. secondary, or reflective impressions are such as proceed from some of these original ones, either immediately or by the interposition of its idea. of the first kind are all the impressions of the senses, and all bodily pains and pleasures: of the second are the passions, and other emotions resembling them. it is certain, that the mind, in its perceptions, must begin somewhere; and that since the impressions precede their correspondent ideas, there must be some impressions, which without any introduction make their appearance in the soul. as these depend upon natural and physical causes, the examination of them would lead me too far from my present subject, into the sciences of anatomy and natural philosophy. for this reason i shall here confine myself to those other impressions, which i have called secondary and reflective, as arising either from the original impressions, or from their ideas. bodily pains and pleasures are the source of many passions, both when felt and considered by the mind; but arise originally in the soul, or in the body, whichever you please to call it, without any preceding thought or perception. a fit of the gout produces a long train of passions, as grief, hope, fear; but is not derived immediately from any affection or idea. the reflective impressions may be divided into two kinds, viz. the calm and the violent. of the first kind is the sense of beauty and deformity in action, composition, and external objects. of the second are the passions of love and hatred, grief and joy, pride and humility. this division is far from being exact. the raptures of poetry and music frequently rise to the greatest height; while those other impressions, properly called passions, may decay into so soft an emotion, as to become, in a manner, imperceptible. but as in general the passions are more violent than the emotions arising from beauty and deformity, these impressions have been commonly distinguished from each other. the subject of the human mind being so copious and various, i shall here take advantage of this vulgar and spacious division, that i may proceed with the greater order; and having said ali i thought necessary concerning our ideas, shall now explain those violent emotions or passions, their nature, origin, causes, and effects. when we take a survey of the passions, there occurs a division of them into direct and indirect. by direct passions i understand such as arise immediately from good or evil, from pain or pleasure. by indirect such as proceed from the same principles, but by the conjunction of other qualities. this distinction i cannot at present justify or explain any farther. i can only observe in general, that under the indirect passions i comprehend pride, humility, ambition, vanity, love, hatred, envy, pity, malice, generosity, with their dependants. and under the direct passions, desire, aversion, grief, joy, hope, fear, despair and security. i shall begin with the former. sect. ii of pride and humility, their objects and causes the passions of pride and humility being simple and uniform impressions, it is impossible we can ever, by a multitude of words, give a just definition of them, or indeed of any of the passions. the utmost we can pretend to is a description of them, by an enumeration of such circumstances, as attend them: but as these words, pride and humility, are of general use, and the impressions they represent the most common of any, every one, of himself, will be able to form a just idea of them, without any danger of mistake. for which reason, not to lose time upon preliminaries, i shall immediately enter upon the examination of these passions. it is evident, that pride and humility, though directly contrary, have yet the same object. this object is self, or that succession of related ideas and impressions, of which we have an intimate memory and consciousness. here the view always fixes when we are actuated by either of these passions. according as our idea of ourself is more or less advantageous, we feel either of those opposite affections, and are elated by pride, or dejected with humility. whatever other objects may be comprehended by the mind, they are always considered with a view to ourselves; otherwise they would never be able either to excite these passions, or produce the smallest encrease or diminution of them. when self enters not into the consideration, there is no room either for pride or humility. but though that connected succession of perceptions, which we call self, be always the object of these two passions, it is impossible it can be their cause, or be sufficient alone to excite them. for as these passions are directly contrary, and have the same object in common; were their object also their cause; it coued never produce any degree of the one passion, but at the same time it must excite an equal degree of the other; which opposition and contrariety must destroy both. it is impossible a man can at the same time be both proud and humble; and where he has different reasons for these passions, as frequently happens, the passions either take place alternately; or if they encounter, the one annihilates the other, as far as its strength goes, and the remainder only of that, which is superior, continues to operate upon the mind. but in the present case neither of the passions coued ever become superior; because supposing it to be the view only of ourself, which excited them, that being perfectly indifferent to either, must produce both in the very same proportion; or in other words, can produce neither. to excite any passion, and at the same time raise an equal share of its antagonist, is immediately to undo what was done, and must leave the mind at last perfectly calm and indifferent. we must therefore, make a distinction betwixt the cause and the object of these passions; betwixt that idea, which excites them, and that to which they direct their view, when excited. pride and humility, being once raised, immediately turn our attention to ourself, and regard that as their ultimate and final object; but there is something farther requisite in order to raise them: something, which is peculiar to one of the passions, and produces not both in the very same degree. the first idea, that is presented to the mind, is that of the cause or productive principle. this excites the passion, connected with it; and that passion, when excited, turns our view to another idea, which is that of self. here then is a passion placed betwixt two ideas, of which the one produces it, and the other is produced by it. the first idea, therefore, represents the cause, the second the object of the passion. to begin with the causes of pride and humility; we may observe, that their most obvious and remarkable property is the vast variety of subjects, on which they may be placed. every valuable quality of the mind, whether of the imagination, judgment, memory or disposition; wit, good-sense, learning, courage, justice, integrity; all these are the cause of pride; and their opposites of humility. nor are these passions confined to the mind but extend their view to the body likewise. a man may be proud of his beauty, strength, agility, good mein, address in dancing, riding, and of his dexterity in any manual business or manufacture. but this is not all. the passions looking farther, comprehend whatever objects are in the least allyed or related to us. our country, family, children, relations, riches, houses, gardens, horses, dogs, cloaths; any of these may become a cause either of pride or of humility. from the consideration of these causes, it appears necessary we shoud make a new distinction in the causes of the passion, betwixt that quality, which operates, and the subject, on which it is placed. a man, for instance, is vain of a beautiful house, which belongs to him, or which he has himself built and contrived. here the object of the passion is himself, and the cause is the beautiful house: which cause again is sub-divided into two parts, viz. the quality, which operates upon the passion, and the subject in which the quality inheres. the quality is the beauty, and the subject is the house, considered as his property or contrivance. both these parts are essential, nor is the distinction vain and chimerical. beauty, considered merely as such, unless placed upon something related to us, never produces any pride or vanity; and the strongest relation alone, without beauty, or something else in its place, has as little influence on that passion. since, therefore, these two particulars are easily separated and there is a necessity for their conjunction, in order to produce the passion, we ought to consider them as component parts of the cause; and infix in our minds an exact idea of this distinction. sect. iii whence these objects and causes are derived being so far advanced as to observe a difference betwixt the object of the passions and their cause, and to distinguish in the cause the quality, which operates on the passions, from the subject, in which it inheres; we now proceed to examine what determines each of them to be what it is, and assigns such a particular object, and quality, and subject to these affections. by this means we shall fully understand the origin of pride and humility. it is evident in the first place, that these passions are derermined to have self for their object, not only by a natural but also by an original property. no one can doubt but this property is natural from the constancy and steadiness of its operations. it is always self, which is the object of pride and humility; and whenever the passions look beyond, it is still with a view to ourselves, nor can any person or object otherwise have any influence upon us. that this proceeds from an original quality or primary impulse, will likewise appear evident, if we consider that it is the distinguishing characteristic of these passions unless nature had given some original qualities to the mind, it coued never have any secondary ones; because in that case it would have no foundation for action, nor coued ever begin to exert itself. now these qualities, which we must consider as original, are such as are most inseparable from the soul, and can be resolved into no other: and such is the quality, which determines the object of pride and humility. we may, perhaps, make it a greater question, whether the causes, that produce the passion, be as natural as the object, to which it is directed, and whether all that vast variety proceeds from caprice or from the constitution of the mind. this doubt we shall soon remove, if we cast our eye upon human nature, and consider that in all nations and ages, the same objects still give rise to pride and humility; and that upon the view even of a stranger, we can know pretty nearly, what will either encrease or diminish his passions of this kind. if there be any variation in this particular, it proceeds from nothing but a difference in the tempers and complexions of men; and is besides very inconsiderable. can we imagine it possible, that while human nature remains the same, men will ever become entirely indifferent to their power, riches, beauty or personal merit, and that their pride and vanity will not be affected by these advantages? but though the causes of pride and humility be plainly natural, we shall find upon examination, that they are not original, and that it is utterly impossible they should each of them be adapted to these passions by a particular provision, and primary constitution of nature, beside their prodigious number, many of them are the effects of art, and arise partly from the industry, partly from the caprice, and partly from the good fortune of men, industry produces houses, furniture, cloaths. caprice determines their particular kinds and qualities. and good fortune frequently contributes to all this, by discovering the effects that result from the different mixtures and combinations of bodies. it is absurd, therefore, to imagine, that each of these was foreseen and provided for by nature, and that every new production of art, which causes pride or humility; instead of adapting itself to the passion by partaking of some general quality, that naturally operates on the mind; is itself the object of an original principle, which till then lay concealed in the soul, and is only by accident at last brought to light. thus the first mechanic, that invented a fine scritoire, produced pride in him, who became possest of it, by principles different from those, which made him proud of handsome chairs and tables. as this appears evidently ridiculous, we must conclude, that each cause of pride and humility is not adapted to the passions by a distinct original quality; but that there are some one or more circumstances common to all of them, on which their efficacy depends. besides, we find in the course of nature, that though the effects be many, the principles, from which they arise, are commonly but few and simple, and that it is the sign of an unskilful naturalist to have recourse to a different quality, in order to explain every different operation. how much more must this be true with regard to the human mind, which being so confined a subject may justly be thought incapable of containing such a monstrous heap of principles, as would be necessary to excite the passions of pride and humility, were each distinct cause adapted to the passion by a distinct set of principles? here, therefore, moral philosophy is in the same condition as natural, with regard to astronomy before the time of copernicus. the antients, though sensible of that maxim, that nature does nothing in vain, contrived such intricate systems of the heavens, as seemed inconsistent with true philosophy, and gave place at last to something more simple and natural. to invent without scruple a new principle to every new phaenomenon, instead of adapting it to the old; to overload our hypotheses with a variety of this kind; are certain proofs, that none of these principles is the just one, and that we only desire, by a number of falsehoods, to cover our ignorance of the truth. sect. iv of the relations of impressions and ideas thus we have established two truths without any obstacle or difficulty, that it is from natural principles this variety of causes excites pride and humility, and that it is not by a different principle each different cause is adapted to its passion. we shall now proceed to enquire how we may reduce these principles to a lesser number, and find among the causes something common, on which their influence depends. in order to this we must reflect on certain properties of human nature, which though they have a mighty influence on every operation both of the understanding and passions, are not commonly much insisted on by philosophers. the first of these is the association of ideas, which i have so often observed and explained. it is impossible for the mind to fix itself steadily upon one idea for any considerable time; nor can it by its utmost efforts ever arrive at such a constancy. but however changeable our thoughts may be, they are not entirely without rule and method in their changes. the rule, by which they proceed, is to pass from one object to what is resembling, contiguous to, or produced by it. when one idea is present to the imagination, any other, united by these relations, naturally follows it, and enters with more facility by means of that introduction. the second property i shall observe in the human mind is a like association of impressions. all resembling impressions are connected together, and no sooner one arises than the rest immediately follow. grief and disappointment give rise to anger, anger to envy, envy to malice, and malice to grief again, till the whole circle be compleated. in like manner our temper, when elevated with joy, naturally throws itself into love, generosity, pity, courage, pride, and the other resembling affections. it is difficult for the mind, when actuated by any passion, to confine itself to that passion alone, without any change or variation. human nature is too inconstant to admit of any such regularity. changeableness is essential to it. and to what can it so naturally change as to affections or emotions, which are suitable to the temper, and agree with that set of passions, which then prevail? it is evident, then, there is an attraction or association among impressions, as well as among ideas; though with this remarkable difference, that ideas are associated by resemblance, contiguity, and causation; and impressions only by resemblance. in the third place, it is observable of these two kinds of association, that they very much assist and forward each other, and that the transition is more easily made where they both concur in the same object. thus a man, who, by any injury from another, is very much discomposed and ruffled in his temper, is apt to find a hundred subjects of discontent, impatience, fear, and other uneasy passions; especially if he can discover these subjects in or near the person, who was the cause of his first passion. those principles, which forward the transition of ideas, here concur with those, which operate on the passions; and both uniting in one action, bestow on the mind a double impulse. the new passion, therefore, must arise with so much greater violence, and the transition to it must be rendered so much more easy and natural. upon this occasion i may cite the authority of an elegant writer, who expresses himself in the following manner. "as the fancy delights in every thing that is great, strange, or beautiful, and is still more pleased the more it finds of these perfections in the same object, so it is capable of receiving a new satisfaction by the assistance of another sense. thus any continued sound, as the music of birds, or a fall of waters, awakens every moment the mind of the beholder, and makes him more attentive to the several beauties of the place, that lie before him. thus if there arises a fragrancy of smells or perfumes, they heighten the pleasure of the imagination, and make even the colours and verdure of the landschape appear more agreeable; for the ideas of both senses recommend each other, and are pleasanter together than when they enter the mind separately: as the different colours of a picture, when they are well disposed, set off one another, and receive an additional beauty from the advantage of the situation." [addison, spectator , final paragraph.] in this phaenomenon we may remark the association both of impressions and ideas, as well as the mutual assistance they lend each other. sect. v of the influence of these relations on pride and humility these principles being established on unquestionable experience, i begin to consider how we shall apply them, by revolving over all the causes of pride and humility, whether these causes be regarded, as the qualities, that operate, or as the subjects, on which the qualities are placed. in examining these qualities i immediately find many of them to concur in producing the sensation of pain and pleasure, independent of those affections, which i here endeavour to explain. thus the beauty of our person, of itself, and by its very appearance, gives pleasure, as well as pride; and its deformity, pain as well as humility. a magnificent feast delights us, and a sordid one displeases. what i discover to be true in some instances, i suppose to be so in all; and take it for granted at present, without any farther proof, that every cause of pride, by its peculiar qualities, produces a separate pleasure, and of humility a separate uneasiness. again, in considering the subjects, to which these qualities adhere, i make a new supposition, which also appears probable from many obvious instances, viz, that these subjects are either parts of ourselves, or something nearly related to us. thus the good and bad qualities of our actions and manners constitute virtue and vice, and determine our personal character, than which nothing operates more strongly on these passions. in like manner, it is the beauty or deformity of our person, houses, equipage, or furniture, by which we are rendered either vain or humble. the same qualities, when transfered to subjects, which bear us no relation, influence not in the smallest degree either of these affections. having thus in a manner supposed two properties of the causes of these affections, viz, that the qualities produce a separate pain or pleasure, and that the subjects, on which the qualities are placed, are related to self; i proceed to examine the passions themselves, in order to find something in them, correspondent to the supposed properties of their causes. first, i find, that the peculiar object of pride and humility is determined by an original and natural instinct, and that it is absolutely impossible, from the primary constitution of the mind, that these passions should ever look beyond self, or that individual person. of whose actions and sentiments each of us is intimately conscious. here at last the view always rests, when we are actuated by either of these passions; nor can we, in that situation of mind, ever lose sight of this object. for this i pretend not to give any reason; but consider such a peculiar direction of the thought as an original quality. the second quality, which i discover in these passions, and which i likewise consider an an original quality, is their sensations, or the peculiar emotions they excite in the soul, and which constitute their very being and essence. thus pride is a pleasant sensation, and humility a painful; and upon the removal of the pleasure and pain, there is in reality no pride nor humility. of this our very feeling convinces us; and beyond our feeling, it is here in vain to reason or dispute. if i compare, therefore, these two established properties of the passions, viz, their object, which is self, and their sensation, which is either pleasant or painful, to the two supposed properties of the causes, viz, their relation to self, and their tendency to produce a pain or pleasure, independent of the passion; i immediately find, that taking these suppositions to be just, the true system breaks in upon me with an irresistible evidence. that cause, which excites the passion, is related to the object, which nature has attributed to the passion; the sensation, which the cause separately produces, is related to the sensation of the passion: from this double relation of ideas and impressions, the passion is derived. the one idea is easily converted into its correlative; and the one impression into that, which resembles and corresponds to it: with how much greater facility must this transition be made, where these movements mutually assist each other, and the mind receives a double impulse from the relations both of its impressions and ideas? that we may comprehend this the better, we must suppose, that nature has given to the organs of the human mind, a certain disposition fitted to produce a peculiar impression or emotion, which we call pride: to this emotion she has assigned a certain idea, viz, that of self, which it never fails to produce. this contrivance of nature is easily conceived. we have many instances of such a situation of affairs. the nerves of the nose and palate are so disposed, as in certain circumstances to convey such peculiar sensations to the mind: the sensations of lust and hunger always produce in us the idea of those peculiar objects, which are suitable to each appetite. these two circumstances are united in pride. the organs are so disposed as to produce the passion; and the passion, after its production, naturally produces a certain idea. all this needs no proof. it is evident we never should be possest of that passion, were there not a disposition of mind proper for it; and it is as evident, that the passion always turns our view to ourselves, and makes us think of our own qualities and circumstances. this being fully comprehended, it may now be asked, whether nature produces the passion immediately, of herself; or whether she must be assisted by the co-operation of other causes? for it is observable, that in this particular her conduct is different in the different passions and sensations. the palate must be excited by an external object, in order to produce any relish: but hunger arises internally, without the concurrence of any external object. but however the case may stand with other passions and impressions, it is certain, that pride requires the assistance of some foreign object, and that the organs, which produce it, exert not themselves like the heart and arteries, by an original internal movement. for first, daily experience convinces us, that pride requires certain causes to excite it, and languishes when unsupported by some excellency in the character, in bodily accomplishments, in cloaths, equipage or fortune. secondly, it is evident pride would be perpetual, if it arose immediately from nature; since the object is always the same, and there is no disposition of body peculiar to pride, as there is to thirst and hunger. thirdly, humility is in the very same situation with pride; and therefore, either must, upon this supposition, be perpetual likewise, or must destroy the contrary passion from, the very first moment; so that none of them coued ever make its appearance. upon the whole, we may rest satisfyed with the foregoing conclusion, that pride must have a cause, as well as an object, and that the one has no influence without the other. the difficulty, then, is only to discover this cause, and find what it is that gives the first motion to pride, and sets those organs in action, which are naturally fitted to produce that emotion. upon my consulting experience, in order to resolve this difficulty, i immediately find a hundred different causes, that produce pride; and upon examining these causes, i suppose, what at first i perceive to be probable, that all of them concur in two circumstances; which are, that of themselves they produce an impression, allyed to the passion, and are placed on a subject, allyed to the object of the passion. when i consider after this the nature of relation, and its effects both on the passions and ideas, i can no longer doubt, upon these suppositions, that it is the very principle, which gives rise to pride, and bestows motion on those organs, which being naturally disposed to produce that affection, require only a first impulse or beginning to their action. any thing, that gives a pleasant sensation, and is related to self, excites the passion of pride, which is also agreeable, and has self for its object. what i have said of pride is equally true of humility. the sensation of humility is uneasy, as that of pride is agreeable; for which reason the separate sensation, arising from the causes, must be reversed, while the relation to self continues the same. though pride and humility are directly contrary in their effects, and in their sensations, they have notwithstanding the same object; so that it is requisite only to change the relation of impressions, without making any change upon that of ideas. accordingly we find, that a beautiful house, belonging to ourselves, produces pride; and that the same house, still belonging to ourselves, produces humility, when by any accident its beauty is changed into deformity, and thereby the sensation of pleasure, which corresponded to pride, is transformed into pain, which is related to humility. the double relation between the ideas and impressions subsists in both cases, and produces an easy transition from the one emotion to the other. in a word, nature has bestowed a kind of attraction on certain impressions and ideas, by which one of them, upon its appearance, naturally introduces its correlative. if these two attractions or associations of impressions and ideas concur on the same object, they mutually assist each other, and the transition of the affections and of the imagination is made with the greatest ease and facility. when an idea produces an impression, related to an impression, which is connected with an idea, related to the first idea, these two impressions must be in a manner inseparable, nor will the one in any case be unattended with the other. it is after this manner, that the particular causes of pride and humility are determined. the quality, which operates on the passion, produces separately an impression resembling it; the subject, to which the quality adheres, is related to self, the object of the passion: no wonder the whole cause, consisting of a quality and of a subject, does so unavoidably give rise to the pass on. to illustrate this hypothesis we may compare it to that, by which i have already explained the belief attending the judgments, which we form from causation. i have observed, that in all judgments of this kind, there is always a present impression and a related idea; and that the present impression gives a vivacity to the fancy, and the relation conveys this vivacity, by an easy transition, to the related idea. without the present impression, the attention is not fixed, nor the spirits excited. without the relation, this attention rests on its first object, and has no farther consequence. there is evidently a great analogy betwixt that hypothesis and our present one of an impression and idea, that transfuse themselves into another impression and idea by means of their double relation: which analogy must be allowed to be no despicable proof of both hypotheses. sect. vi limitations of this system but before we proceed farther in this subject, and examine particularly all the causes of pride and humility, it will be proper to make some limitations to the general system, that all agreeable objects, related to ourselves, by an association of ideas and of impressions, produce pride, and disagreeable ones, humility: and these limitations are derived from the very nature of the subject. i. suppose an agreeable object to acquire a relation to self, the first passion, that appears on this occasion, is joy; and this passion discovers itself upon a slighter relation than pride and vain-glory. we may feel joy upon being present at a feast, where our senses are regard with delicacies of every kind: but it is only the master of the feast, who, beside the same joy, has the additional passion of self-applause and vanity. it is true, men sometimes boast of a great entertainment, at which they have only been present; and by so small a relation convert their pleasure into pride: but however, this must in general be owned, that joy arises from a more inconsiderable relation than vanity, and that many things, which are too foreign to produce pride, are yet able to give us a delight and pleasure, the reason of the difference may be explained thus. a relation is requisite to joy, in order to approach the object to us, and make it give us any satisfaction. but beside this, which is common to both passions, it is requisite to pride, in order to produce a transition from one passion to another, and convert the falsification into vanity. as it has a double task to perform, it must be endowed with double force and energy. to which we may add, that where agreeable objects bear not a very close relation to ourselves, they commonly do to some other person; and this latter relation not only excels, but even diminishes, and sometimes destroys the former, as we shall see afterwards. [part ii. sec. .] here then is the first limitation, we must make to our general position, that every thing related to us, which produces pleasure or pain, produces likewise pride or humility. there is not only a relation required, but a close one, and a closer than is required to joy. ii. the second limitation is, that the agreeable or disagreeable object be not only closely related, but also peculiar to ourselves, or at least common to us with a few persons. it is a quality observable in human nature, and which we shall endeavour to explain afterwards, that every thing, which is often presented and to which we have been long accustomed, loses its value in our eyes, and is in a little time despised and neglected. we likewise judge of objects more from comparison than from their real and intrinsic merit; and where we cannot by some contrast enhance their value, we are apt to overlook even what is essentially good in them. these qualities of the mind have an effect upon joy as well as pride; and it is remarkable, that goods which are common to all mankind, and have become familiar to us by custom, give us little satisfaction; though perhaps of a more excellent kind, than those on which, for their singularity, we set a much higher value. but though this circumstance operates on both these passions, it has a much greater influence on vanity. we are rejoiced for many goods, which, on account of their frequency, give us no pride. health, when it returns after a long absence, affords us a very sensible satisfaction; but is seldom regarded as a subject of vanity, because it is shared with such vast numbers. the reason, why pride is so much more delicate in this particular than joy, i take to be, as follows. in order to excite pride, there are always two objects we must contemplate, viz. the cause or that object which produces pleasure; and self, which is the real object of the passion. but joy has only one object necessary to its production, viz. that which gives pleasure; and though it be requisite, that this bear some relation to self, yet that is only requisite in order to render it agreeable; nor is self, properly speaking, the object of this passion. since, therefore, pride has in a manner two objects, to which it directs our view; it follows, that where neither of them have any singularity, the passion must be more weakened upon that account, than a passion, which has only one object. upon comparing ourselves with others, as we are every moment apt to do, we find we are not in the least distinguished; and upon comparing the object we possess, we discover still the same unlucky circumstance. by two comparisons so disadvantageous the passion must be entirely destroyed. iii the third limitation is, that the pleasant or painful object be very discernible and obvious, and that not only to ourselves, but to others also. this circumstance, like the two foregoing, has an effect upon joy, as well as pride. we fancy ourselves more happy, as well as more virtuous or beautiful, when we appear so to others; but are still more ostentatious of our virtues than of our pleasures. this proceeds from causes, which i shall endeavour to explain afterwards. iv. the fourth limitation is derived from the inconstancy of the cause of these passions, and from the short duration of its connexion with ourselves. what is casual and inconstant gives but little joy, and less pride. we are not much satisfyed with the thing itself; and are still less apt to feel any new degrees of self-satisfaction upon its account. we foresee and anticipate its change by the imagination; which makes us little satisfyed with the thing: we compare it to ourselves, whose existence is more durable; by which means its inconstancy appears still greater. it seems ridiculous to infer an excellency in ourselves from an object, which is of so much shorter duration, and attends us during so small a part of our existence. it will be easy to comprehend the reason, why this cause operates not with the same force in joy as in pride; since the idea of self is not so essential to the former passion as to the latter. v. i may add as a fifth limitation, or rather enlargement of this system, that general rules have a great influence upon pride and humility, as well as on all the other passions. hence we form a notion of different ranks of men, suitable to the power of riches they are possest of; and this notion we change not upon account of any peculiarities of the health or temper of the persons, which may deprive them of all enjoyment in their possessions. this may be accounted for from the same principles, that explained the influence of general rules on the understanding. custom readily carries us beyond the just bounds in our passions, as well as in our reasonings. it may not be amiss to observe on this occasion, that the influence of general rules and maxims on the passions very much contributes to facilitate the effects of all the principles, which we shall explain in the progress of this treatise. for it is evident, that if a person full-grown, and of the same nature with ourselves, were on a sudden-transported into our world, he would be very much embarrased with every object, and would not readily find what degree of love or hatred, pride or humility, or any other passion he ought to attribute to it. the passions are often varyed by very inconsiderable principles; and these do not always play with a perfect regularity, especially on the first trial. but as custom and practice have brought to light all these principles, and have settled the just value of every thing; this must certainly contribute to the easy production of the passions, and guide us, by means of general established maxims, in the proportions we ought to observe in preferring one object to another. this remark may, perhaps, serve to obviate difficulties, that mayarise concerning some causes, which i shall hereafter ascribe to particular passions, and which may be esteemed too refined to operate so universally and certainly, as they are found to do. i shall close this subject with a reflection derived from these five limitations. this reflection is, that the persons, who are proudest, and who in the eye of the world have most reason for their pride, are not always the happiest; nor the most humble always the most miserable, as may at first sight be imagined from this system. an evil may be real. though its cause has no relation to us: it may be real, without being peculiar: it may be real, without shewing itself to others: it may be real, without being constant: and it may be real, without falling under the general rules. such evils as these will not fail to render us miserable, though they have little tendency to diminish pride: and perhaps the most real and the most solid evils of life will be found of this nature. sect. vii of vice and virtue taking these limitations along with us, let us proceed to examine the causes of pride and humility; and see, whether in every case we can discover the double relations, by which they operate on the passions. if we find that all these causes are related to self, and produce a pleasure or uneasiness separate from the passion, there will remain no farther scruple with regard to the present system. we shall principally endeavour to prove the latter point; the former being in a manner self-evident. to begin, with vice and virtue; which are the most obvious causes of these passions; it would be entirely foreign to my present purpose to enter upon the controversy, which of late years has so much excited the curiosity of the publick. whether these moral distinctions be founded on natural and original principles, or arise from interest and education. the examination of this i reserve for the following book; and in the mean time i shall endeavour to show, that my system maintains its ground upon either of these hypotheses; which will be a strong proof of its solidity. for granting that morality had no foundation in nature, it must still be allowed, that vice and virtue, either from self-interest or the prejudices of education, produce in us a real pain and pleasure; and this we may observe to be strenuously asserted by the defenders of that hypothesis. every passion, habit, or turn of character (say they) which has a tendency to our advantage or prejudice, gives a delight or uneasiness; and it is from thence the approbation or disapprobation arises. we easily gain from the liberality of others, but are always in danger of losing by their avarice: courage defends us, but cowardice lays us open to every attack: justice is the support of society, but injustice, unless checked would quickly prove its ruin: humility exalts; but pride mortifies us. for these reasons the former qualities are esteemed virtues, and the latter regarded as vices. now since it is granted there is a delight or uneasiness still attending merit or demerit of every kind, this is all that is requisite for my purpose. but i go farther, and observe, that this moral hypothesis and my present system not only agree together, but also that, allowing the former to be just, it is an absolute and invincible proof of the latter. for if all morality be founded on the pain or pleasure, which arises from the prospect of any loss or advantage, that may result from our own characters, or from those of others, all the effects of morality must-be derived from the same pain or pleasure, and among the rest, the passions of pride and humility. the very essence of virtue, according to this hypothesis, is to produce pleasure and that of vice to give pain. the virtue and vice must be part of our character in order to excite pride or humility. what farther proof can we desire for the double relation of impressions and ideas? the same unquestionable argument may be derived from the opinion of those, who maintain that morality is something real, essential, and founded on nature. the most probable hypothesis, which has been advanced to explain the distinction betwixt vice and virtue, and the origin of moral rights and obligations, is, that from a primary constitution of nature certain characters and passions, by the very view and contemplation, produce a pain, and others in like manner excite a pleasure. the uneasiness and satisfaction are not only inseparable from vice and virtue, but constitute their very nature and essence. to approve of a character is to feel an original delight upon its appearance. to disapprove of it is to be sensible of an uneasiness. the pain and pleasure, therefore, being the primary causes of vice and virtue, must also be the causes of all their effects, and consequently of pride and humility, which are the unavoidable attendants of that distinction. but supposing this hypothesis of moral philosophy should be allowed to be false, it is still evident, that pain and pleasure, if not the causes of vice and virtue, are at least inseparable from them. a generous and noble character affords a satisfaction even in the survey; and when presented to us, though only in a poem or fable, never fails to charm and delight us. on the other hand cruelty and treachery displease from their very nature; nor is it possible ever to reconcile us to these qualities, either in ourselves or others. thus one hypothesis of morality is an undeniable proof of the foregoing system, and the other at worst agrees with it. but pride and humility arise not from these qualities alone of the mind, which, according to the vulgar systems of ethicks, have been comprehended as parts of moral duty, but from any other that has a connexion with pleasure and uneasiness. nothing flatters our vanity more than the talent of pleasing by our wit, good humour, or any other accomplishment; and nothing gives us a more sensible mortification than a disappointment in any attempt of that nature. no one has ever been able to tell what wit is, and to-shew why such a system of thought must be received under that denomination, and such another rejected. it is only by taste we can decide concerning it, nor are we possest of any other standard, upon which we can form a judgment of this kind. now what is this taste, from which true and false wit in a manner receive their being, and without which no thought can have a title to either of these denominations? it is plainly nothing but a sensation of pleasure from true wit, and of uneasiness from false, without oar being able to tell the reasons of that pleasure or uneasiness. the power of bestowing these opposite sensations is. therefore, the very essence of true and false wit; and consequently the cause of that pride or humility, which arises from them. there may, perhaps, be some, who being accustomed to the style of the schools and pulpit, and having never considered human nature in any other light, than that in which they place it, may here be surprized to hear me talk of virtue as exciting pride, which they look upon as a vice; and of vice as producing humility, which they have been taught to consider as a virtue. but not to dispute about words, i observe, that by pride i understand that agreeable impression, which arises in the mind, when the view either of our virtue, beauty, riches or power makes us satisfyed with ourselves: and that by humility i mean the opposite impression. it is evident the former impression is not always vicious, nor the latter virtuous. the most rigid morality allows us to receive a pleasure from reflecting on a generous action; and it is by none esteemed a virtue to feel any fruitless remorses upon the thoughts of past villainy and baseness. let us, therefore, examine these impressions, considered in themselves; and enquire into their causes, whether placed on the mind or body, without troubling ourselves at present with that merit or blame, which may attend them. sect. viii of beauty and deformity whether we consider the body as a part of ourselves, or assent to those philosophers, who regard it as something external, it must still be allowed to be near enough connected with us to form one of these double relations, which i have asserted to be necessary to the causes of pride and humility. wherever, therefore, we can find the other relation of impressions to join to this of ideas, we may expect with assurance either of these passions, according as the impression is pleasant or uneasy. but beauty of all kinds gives us a peculiar delight and satisfaction; as deformity produces pain, upon whatever subject it may be placed, and whether surveyed in an animate or inanimate object. if the beauty or deformity, therefore, be placed upon our own bodies, this pleasure or uneasiness must be converted into pride or humility, as having in this case all the circumstances requisite to produce a perfect transition of impressions and ideas. these opposite sensations are related to the opposite passions. the beauty or deformity is closely related to self, the object of both these passions. no wonder, then our own beauty becomes an object of pride, and deformity of humility. but this effect of personal and bodily qualities is not only a proof of. the present system, by shewing that the passions arise not in this case without all the circumstances i have required, but may be employed as a stronger and more convincing argument. if we consider all the hypotheses, which have been formed either by philosophy or common reason, to explain the difference betwixt beauty and deformity, we shall find that all of them resolve into this, that beauty is such an order and construction of parts, as either by the primary constitution of our nature, by custom, or by caprice, is fitted to give a pleasure and satisfaction to the soul. this is the distinguishing character of beauty, and forms all the difference betwixt it and deformity, whose natural tendency is to produce uneasiness. pleasure and pain, therefore, are not only necessary attendants of beauty and deformity, but constitute their very essence. and indeed, if we consider, that a great part of the beauty, which we admire either in animals or in other objects, is derived from the idea of convenience and utility, we shall make no scruple to assent to this opinion. that shape, which produces strength, is beautiful in one animal; and that which is a sign of agility in another. the order and convenience of a palace are no less essential to its beauty, than its mere figure and appearance. in like manner the rules of architecture require, that the top of a pillar should be more slender than its base, and that because such a figure conveys to us the idea of security, which is pleasant; whereas the contrary form gives us the apprehension of danger, which is uneasy. from innumerable instances of this kind, as well as from considering that beauty like wit, cannot be defined, but is discerned only by a taste or sensation, we may conclude, that beauty is nothing but a form, which produces pleasure, as deformity is a structure of parts, which conveys pain; and since the power of producing pain and pleasure make in this manner the essence of beauty and deformity, all the effects of these qualities must be derived from the sensation; and among the rest pride and humility, which of all their effects are the most common and remarkable. this argument i esteem just and decisive; but in order to give greater authority to the present reasoning, let us suppose it false for a moment, and see what will follow. it is certain, then, that if the power of producing pleasure and pain forms not the essence of beauty and deformity, the sensations are at least inseparable from the qualities, and it is even difficult to consider them apart. now there is nothing common to natural and moral beauty, (both of which are the causes of pride) but this power of producing pleasure; and as a common effect supposes always a common cause, it is plain the pleasure must in both cases be the real and influencing cause of the passion. again; there is nothing originally different betwixt the beauty of our bodies and the beauty of external and foreign objects, but that the one has a near relation to ourselves, which is wanting in the other. this original difference, therefore, must be the cause of all their other differences, and among the rest, of their different influence upon the passion of pride, which is excited by the beauty of our person, but is not affected in the lcast by that of foreign and external objects. placing, then, these two conclusions together, we find they compose the preceding system betwixt them, viz, that pleasure, as a related or resembling impression, when placed on a related object by a natural transition, produces pride; and its contrary, humility. this system, then, seems already sufficiently confirmed by experience; that we have not yet exhausted all our arguments. it is not the beauty of the body alone that produces pride, but also its strength and force. strength is a kind of power; and therefore the desire to excel in strength is to be considered as an inferior species of ambition. for this reason the present phaenomenon will be sufficiently accounted for, in explaining that passion. concerning all other bodily accomplishments we may observe in general, that whatever in ourselves is either useful, beautiful, or surprising, is an object of pride; and it's contrary, of humility. now it is obvious, that every thing useful, beautiful or surprising, agrees in producing a separate pleasure and agrees in nothing else. the pleasure, therefore, with the relation to self must be the cause of the passion. though it should be questioned, whether beauty be not something real, and different from the power of producing pleasure, it can never be disputed, that as surprize is nothing but a pleasure arising from novelty, it is not, properly speaking, a quality in any object, but merely a passion or impression in the soul. it must, therefore, be from that impression, that pride by a natural transition arises. and it arises so naturally, that there is nothing in us or belonging to us, which produces surprize, that does not at the same time excite that other passion. thus we are vain of the surprising adventures we have met with, the escapes we have made, and dangers we have been exposed to. hence the origin of vulgar lying; where men without any interest, and merely out of vanity, heap up a number of extraordinary events, which are either the fictions of their brain, or if true, have at least no connexion with themselves. their fruitful invention supplies them with a variety of adventures; and where that talent is wanting, they appropriate such as belong to others, in order to satisfy their vanity. in this phaenomenon are contained two curious experiments, which if we compare them together, according to the known rules, by which we judge of cause and effect in anatomy, natural philosophy, and other sciences, will be an undeniable argument for that influence of the double relations above-mentioned. by one of these experiments we find, that an object produces pride merely by the interposition of pleasure; and that because the quality, by which it produces pride, is in reality nothing but the power of producing pleasure. by the other experiment we find, that the pleasure produces the pride by a transition along related ideas; because when we cut off that relation the passion is immediately destroyed.. a surprising adventure, in which we have been ourselves engaged, is related to us, and by that means produces pride: but the adventures of others, though they may cause pleasure, yet for want of this relation of ideas, never excite that passion. what farther proof can be desired for the present system? there is only one objection to this system with regard to our body: which is, that though nothing be more agreeable than health, and more painful than sickness, yet commonly men are neither proud of the one, nor mortifyed with the other. this will easily be accounted for, if we consider the second and fourth limitations, proposed to our general system. it was observed, that no object ever produces pride or humility, if it has not something peculiar to ourself; as also, that every cause of that passion must be in some measure constant, and hold some proportion to the duration of our self, which, is its object. now as health and sickness vary incessantly to all men, and there is none, who is solely or certainly fixed in either, these accidental blessings and calamities are in a manner separated from us, and are never considered as connected with our being and existence. and that this account is just appears hence, that wherever a malady of any kind is so rooted in our constitution, that we no longer entertain any hopes of recovery, from that moment it becomes an object of humility; as is evident in old men, whom nothing mortifies more than the consideration of their age and infirmities. they endeavour, as long as possible, to conceal their blindness and deafness, their rheums and gouts; nor do they ever confess them without reluctance and uneasiness. and though young men are not ashamed of every head-ach or cold they fall into, yet no topic is so proper to mortify human pride, and make us entertain a mean opinion of our nature, than this, that we are every moment of our lives subject to such infirmities. this sufficiently proves that bodily pain and sickness are in themselves proper causes of humility; though the custom of estimating every thing by comparison more than by its intrinsic worth and value, makes us overlook these calamities, which we find to be incident to every one, and causes us to form an idea of our merit and character independent of them. we are ashamed of such maladies as affect others, and are either dangerous or disagreeable to them. of the epilepsy; because it gives a horror to every one present: of the itch; because it is infectious: of the king's-evil; because it commonly goes to posterity. men always consider the sentiments of others in their judgment of themselves. this has evidently appeared in some of the foregoing reasonings; and will appear still more evidently, and be more fully explained afterwards. sect. ix of external advantages and disadvantages but though pride and humility have the qualities of our mind and body that is self, for their natural and more immediate causes, we find by experience, that there are many other objects, which produce these affections, and that the primary one is, in some measure, obscured and lost by the multiplicity of foreign and extrinsic. we found a vanity upon houses, gardens, equipages, as well as upon personal merit and accomplishments; and though these external advantages be in themselves widely distant from thought or a person, yet they considerably influence even a passion, which is directed to that as its ultimate object, this, happens when external objects acquire any particular relation to ourselves, and are associated or connected with us. a beautiful fish in the ocean, an animal in a desart, and indeed any thing that neither belongs, nor is related to us, has no manner of influence on our vanity, whatever extraordinary qualities it may be endowed with, and whatever degree of surprize and admiration it may naturally occasion. it must be some way associated with us in order to touch our pride. its idea must hang in a manner, upon that of ourselves and the transition from the one to the other must be easy and natural. but here it is remarkable, that though the relation of resemblance operates upon the mind in the same manner as contiguity and causation, in conveying us from one idea to another, yet it is seldom a foundation either of pride or of humility. if we resemble a person in any of the valuable parts of his character, we must, in some degree, possess the quality, in which we resemble him; and this quality we always chuse to survey directly in ourselves rather than by reflexion in another person, when we would found upon it any degree of vanity. so that though a likeness may occasionally produce that passion by suggesting a more advantageous idea of ourselves, it is there the view fixes at last, and the passion finds its ultimate and final cause. there are instances, indeed, wherein men shew a vanity in resembling a great man in his countenance, shape, air, or other minute circumstances, that contribute not in any degree to his reputation; but it must be confessed that this extends not very far, nor is of any considerable moment in these affections. for this i assign the following reason. we can never have a vanity of resembling in trifles any person, unless he be possessed of very shining qualities, which give us a respect and veneration for him. these qualities, then, are, properly speaking, the causes of our vanity, by means of their relation to ourselves. now after what manner are they related to ourselves? they are parts of the person we value, and consequently connected with these trifles; which are also supposed to be parts of him. these trifles are connected with the resembling qualities in us; and these qualities in us, being parts, are connected with the whole; and by that means form a chain of several links of the person we resemble. but besides that this multitude of relations must weaken the connexion; it is evident the mind, in passing from the shining qualities to the trivial ones, must by that contrast the better perceive the minuteness of the latter, and be in some measure ashamed of the comparison and resemblance. the relation, therefore, of contiguity, or that of causation, betwixt the cause and object of pride and humility, is alone requisite to give rise to these passions; and these relations are nothing else but qualities, by which the imagination is conveyed from one idea to another. now let us consider what effect these can possibly have upon the mind, and by what means they become so requisite to the production of the passions. it is evident, that the association of ideas operates in so silent and imperceptible a manner, that we are scarce sensible of it, and discover it more by its effects than by any immediate feeling or perception. it produces no emotion, and gives rise to no new impression of any kind, but only modifies those ideas, of which the mind was formerly possessed, and which it coued recal upon occasion. from this reasoning, as well as from undoubted experience, we may conclude, that an association of ideas, however necessary, is not alone sufficient to give rise to any passion. it is evident, then, that when the mind feels the passion either of pride or humility upon the appearance of related object, there is, beside the relation or transition of thought, an emotion or original impression produced by some other principle. the question is, whether the emotion first produced be the passion itself, or some other impression related to it. this question we cannot be long in deciding, for besides all the other arguments, with which this subject abounds, it must evidently appear, that the relation of ideas, which experience shews to be so requisite a circumstance to the production of the passion, would be entirely superfluous, were it not to second a relation of affections, and facilitate the transition from one impression to another. if nature produced immediately the passion of pride or humility, it would be compleated in itself, and would require no farther addition or encrease from any other affection. but supposing the first emotion to be only related to pride or humility, it is easily conceived to what purpose the relation of objects may serve, and how the two different associations, of impressions and ideas, by uniting their forces, may assist each other's operation. this is not only easily conceived, but i will venture to affirm it is the only manner, in which we can conceive this subject. an easy transition of ideas, which, of itself, causes no emotion, can never be necessary, or even useful to the passions, but by forwarding the transition betwixt some related impressions. not to mention, that the same object causes a greater or smaller degree of pride, not only in proportion to the encrease or decrease of its qualities, but also to the distance or nearness of the relation; which is a clear argument for the transition of affections along the relation of ideas; since every change in the relation produces a proportionable change in the passion. thus one part of the preceding system, concerning the relations of ideas is a sufficient proof of the other, concerning that of impressions; and is itself so evidently founded on experience, that it would be lost time to endeavour farther to prove it. this will appear still more evidently in particular instances. men are vain of the beauty of their country, of their county, of their parish. here the idea of beauty plainly produces a pleasure. this pleasure is related to pride. the object or cause of this pleasure is, by the supposition, related to self, or the object of pride. by this double relation of impressions and ideas, a transition is made from the one impression to the other. men are also vain of the temperature of the climate, in which they were born; of the fertility of their native soil; of the goodness of the wines, fruits or victuals, produced by it; of the softness or force of their language; with other particulars of that kind. these objects have plainly a reference to the pleasures of the senses, and are originally considered as agreeable to the feeling, taste or hearing. how is it possible they coued ever become objects of pride, except by means of that transition above-explained? there are some, that discover a vanity of an opposite kind, and affect to depreciate their own country, in comparison of those, to which they have travelled. these persons find, when they are at home, and surrounded with their countrymen, that the strong relation betwixt them and their own nation is shared with so many, that it is in a manner lost to them; whereas their distant relation to a foreign country, which is formed by their having seen it and lived in it, is augmented by their considering how few there are who have done the same. for this reason they always admire the beauty, utility and rarity of what is abroad, above what is at home. since we can be vain of a country, climate or any inanimate object, which bears a relation to us, it is no wonder we are vain of the qualities of those, who are connected with us by blood or friendship. accordingly we find, that the very same qualities, which in ourselves produce pride, produce also in a lesser degree the same affection, when discovered in persons related to us. the beauty, address, merit, credit and honours of their kindred are carefully displayed by the proud, as some of their most considerable sources of their vanity. as we are proud of riches in ourselves, so to satisfy our vanity we desire that every one, who has any connexion with us, should likewise be possest of them, and are ashamed of any one, that is mean or poor, among our friends and relations. for this reason we remove the poor as far from us as possible; and as we cannot prevent poverty in some distant collaterals, and our forefathers are taken to be our nearest relations; upon this account every one affects to be of a good family, and to be descended from a long succession of rich and honourable ancestors. i have frequently observed, that those, who boast of the antiquity of their families, are glad when they can join this circumstance, that their ancestors for many generations have been uninterrupted proprietors of the same portion of land, and that their family has never changed its possessions, or been transplanted into any other county or province. i have also observed, that it is an additional subject of vanity, when they can boast, that these possessions have been transmitted through a descent composed entirely of males, and that the honour, and fortune have never past through any female. let us endeavour to explain these phaenomena by the foregoing system. it is evident, that when any one boasts of the antiquity of his family, the subjects of his vanity are not merely the extent of time and number of ancestors, but also their riches and credit, which are supposed to reflect a lustre on himself on account of his relation to them. he first considers these objects; is affected by them in an agreeable manner; and then returning back to himself, through the relation of parent and child, is elevated with the passion of pride, by means of the double relation, of impressions and ideas. since therefore the passion depends on these relations, whatever strengthens any of the relations must also encrease the passion, and whatever weakens the relations must diminish the passion. now it is certain the identity of the possesion strengthens the relation of ideas arising from blood and kindred, and conveys the fancy with greater facility from one generation to another, from the remote ancestors to their posterity, who are both their heirs and their descendants. by this facility the impression is transmitted more entire, and excites a greater degree of pride and vanity. the case is the same with the transmission of the honours and fortune through a succession of males without their passing through any female. it is a quality of human nature, which we shall consider [part ii. sect, .] afterwards, that the imagination naturally turns to whatever is important and considerable; and where two objects are presented to it, a small and a great one, usually leaves the former, and dwells entirely upon the latter. as in the society of marriage, the male sex has the advantage above the female, the husband first engages our attention; and whether we consider him directly, or reach him by passing through related objects, the thought both rests upon him with greater satisfaction, and arrives at him with greater facility than his consort. it is easy to see, that this property must strengthen the child's relation to the father, and weaken that to the mother. for as all relations are nothing hut a propensity to pass from one idea ma another, whatever strengthens the propensity strengthens the relation; and as we have a stronger propensity to pass from the idea of the children to that of the father, than from the same idea to that of the mother, we ought to regard the former relation as the closer and more considerable. this is the reason why children commonly bear their father's name, and are esteemed to be of nobler or baser birth, according to his family. and though the mother should be possest of a superior spirit and genius to the father, as often happens, the general rule prevails, notwithstanding the exceprion, according to the doctrine above-explained. nay even when a superiority of any kind is so great, or when any other reasons have such an effect, as to make the children rather represent: the mother's family than the father's, the general rule still retains such an efficacy that it weakens the relation, and makes a kind of break in the line of ancestors. the imagination runs not along them with facility, nor is able to transfer the honour and credit of the ancestors to their posterity of the same name and family so readily, as when the transition is conformable to the general rules, and passes from father to son, or from brother to brother. sect. x of property and riches but the relation, which is esteemed the closest, and which of all others produces most commonly the passion of pride, is that of property. this relation it will be impossible for me fully to explain before i come to treat of justice and the other moral virtues. it is sufficient to observe on this occasion, that property may be defined, such a relation betwixt a person and an object as permits him, but forbids any other, the free use and possession of it, without violating the laws of justice and moral equity. if justice, therefore, be a virtue, which has a natural and original influence on the human mind, property may be looked upon as a particular species of causation; whether we consider the liberty it gives the proprietor to operate as he please upon the object or the advantages, which he reaps from it. it is the same case, if justice, according to the system of certain philosophers, should be esteemed an artificial and not a natural virtue. for then honour, and custom, and civil laws supply the place of natural conscience, and produce, in some degree, the same effects. this in the mean time is certain, that the mention of the property naturally carries our thought to the proprietor, and of the proprietor to the property; which being a proof of a perfect relation of ideas is all that is requisite to our present purpose. a relation of ideas, joined to that of impressions, always produces a transition of affections; and therefore, whenever any pleasure or pain arises from an object, connected with us by property. we may be certain, that either pride or humility must arise from this conjunction of relations; if the foregoing system be solid and satisfactory. and whether it be so or not, we may soon satisfy ourselves by the most cursory view of human life. every thing belonging to a vain man is the best that is any where to be found. his houses, equipage, furniture, doaths, horses, hounds, excel all others in his conceit; and it is easy to observe, that from the least advantage in any of these, he draws a new subject of pride and vanity. his wine, if you'll believe him, has a finer flavour than any other; his cookery is more exquisite; his table more orderly; his servants more expert; the air, in which he lives, more healthful; the soil he cultivates more fertile; his fruits ripen earlier and to greater perfection: such a thing is remarkable for its novelty; such another for its antiquity: this is the workmanship of a famous artist; that belonged once to such a prince or great man: all objects, in a word, that are useful, beautiful or surprising, or are related to such, may, by means of property, give rise to this passion. these agree in giving pleasure, and agree in nothing else. this alone is common to them; and therefore must be the quality that produces the passion, which is their common effect. as every new instance is a new argument, and as the instances are here without number, i may venture to affirm, that scarce any system was ever so fully proved by experience, as that which i have here advanced. if the property of any thing, that gives pleasure either by its utility, beauty or novelty, produces also pride by a double relation of impressions and ideas; we need not be surprized, that the power of acquiring this property, should have the same effect. now riches are to be considered as the power of acquiring the property of what pleases; and it is only in this view they have any influence on the passions. paper will, on many occasions, be considered as riches, and that because it may convey the power of acquiring money: and money is not riches, as it is a metal endowed with certain qualities of solidity, weight and fusibility; but only as it has a relation to the pleasures and conveniences of life. taking then this for granted, which is in itself so evident, we may draw from it one of the strongest arguments i have yet employed to prove the influence of the double relations on pride and humility. it has been observed in treating of the understanding, that the distinction, which we sometimes make betwixt a power and the exercise of it, is entirely frivolous, and that neither man nor any other being ought ever to be thought possest of any ability, unless it be exerted and put in action. but though this be strictly true in a just and philosophical way of thinking, it is certain it is not the philosophy of our passions; but that many things operate upon them by means of the idea and supposition of power, independent of its actual exercise. we are pleased when we acquire an ability of procuring pleasure, and are displeased when another acquires a power of giving pain. this is evident from experience; but in order to give a just explication of the matter, and account for this satisfaction and uneasiness, we must weigh the following reflections. it is evident the error of distinguishing power from its exercise proceeds not entirely from the scholastic doctrine of free-will, which, indeed, enters very little into common life, and has but small influence on our vulgar and popular ways of thinking. according to that doctrine, motives deprive us not of free-will, nor take away our power of performing or forbearing any action. but according to common notions a man has no power, where very considerable motives lie betwixt him and the satisfaction of his desires, and determine him to forbear what he wishes to perform. i do not think i have fallen into my enemy's power, when i see him pass me in the streets with a sword by his side, while i am unprovided of any weapon. i know that the fear of the civil magistrate is as strong a restraint as any of iron, and that i am in as perfect safety as if he were chained or imprisoned. but when a person acquires such an authority over me, that not only there is no external obstacle to his actions; but also that he may punish or reward me as he pleases, without any dread of punishment in his turn, i then attribute a full power to him, and consider myself as his subject or vassal. now if we compare these two cases, that of a person, who has very strong motives of interest or safety to forbear any action, and that of another, who lies under no such obligation, we shall find, according to the philosophy explained in the foregoing book, that the only known difference betwixt them lies in this, that in the former case we conclude from past experience, that the person never will perform that action, and in the latter, that he possibly or probably will perform it. nothing is more fluctuating and inconstant on many occasions, than the will of man; nor is there any thing but strong motives, which can give us an absolute certainty in pronouncing concerning any of his future actions. when we see a person free from these motives, we suppose a possibility either of his acting or forbearing; and though in general we may conclude him to be determined by motives and causes, yet this removes not the uncertainty of our judgment concerning these causes, nor the influence of that uncertainty on the passions. since therefore we ascribe a power of performing an action to every one, who has no very powerful motive to forbear it, and refuse it to such as have; it may justly be concluded, that power has always a reference to its exercise, either actual or probable, and that we consider a person as endowed with any ability when we find from past experience, that it is probable, or at least possible he may exert it. and indeed, as our passions always regard the real existence of objects, and we always judge of this reality from past instances; nothing can be more likely of itself, without any farther reasoning, than that power consists in the possibility or probability of any action, as discovered by experience and the practice of the world. now it is evident, that wherever a person is in such a situadon with regard to me, that there is no very powerful motive to deter him from injuring me, and consequently it is uncertain whether he will injure me or not, i must be uneasy in such a situation, and cannot consider the possibility or probability of that injury without a sensible concern. the passions are not only affected by such events as are certain and infallible, but also in an inferior degree by such as are possible and contingent. and though perhaps i never really feel any harm, and discover by the event, that, philosophically speaking, the person never had any power of harming me; since he did not exert any; this prevents not my uneasiness from the preceding uncertainty. the agreeable passions may here operate as well as the uneasy, and convey a pleasure when i perceive a good to become either possible or probable by the possibility or probability of another's bestowing it on me, upon the removal of any strong motives, which might formerly have hindered him. but we may farther observe, that this satisfaction encreases, when any good approaches in such a manner that it it in one's own power to take or leave it, and there neither is any physical impediment, nor any very strong motive to hinder our enjoyment. as all men desire pleasure, nothing can be more probable, than its existence when there is no external obstacle to the producing it, and men perceive no danger in following their inclinations. in that case their imagination easily anticipates the satisfaction, and conveys the same joy, as if they were persuaded of its real and actual existence. but this accounts not sufficiently for the satisfaction, which attends riches. a miser receives delight from his money; that is, from the power it affords him of procuring all the pleasures and conveniences of life, though he knows he has enjoyed his riches for forty years without ever employing them; and consequently cannot conclude by any species of reasoning, that the real existence of these pleasures is nearer, than if he were entirely deprived of all his possessions. but though he cannot form any such conclusion in a way of reasoning concerning she nearer approach of the pleasure, it is certain he imagines it to approach nearer, whenever all external obstacles are removed, along with the more powerful motives of interest and danger, which oppose it. for farther satisfaction on this head i must refer to my account of the will, where i shall [part iii. sect. .] explain that false sensation of liberty, which make, us imagine we can perform any thing, that is not very dangerous or destructive. whenever any other person is under no strong obligations of interest to forbear any pleasure, we judge from experience, that the pleasure will exist, and that he will probably obtain it. but when ourselves are in that situation, we judge from an illusion of the fancy, that the pleasure is still closer and more immediate. the will seems to move easily every way, and casts a shadow or image of itself, even to that side, on which it did not settle. by means of this image the enjoyment seems to approach nearer to us, and gives us the same lively satisfaction, as if it were perfectly certain and unavoidable. it will now be easy to draw this whole reasoning to a paint, and to prove, that when riches produce any pride or vanity in their possessors, as they never fail so do, it is only by means of a double relation of impressions and ideas. the very essence of riches consists in the power of procuring the pleasures and conveniences of life. the very essence of this consists in the probability of its exercise, and in its causing us to anticipate, by a true or false reasoning, the real existence of the pleasure. this anticipation of pleasure is, in itself, a very considerable pleasure; and as its cause is some possession or property, which we enjoy, and which is thereby related to us, we here dearly see all the parts of the foregoing system most exactly and distinctly drawn out before us. for the same reason, that riches cause pleasure and pride, and poverty excites uneasiness and humility, power must produce the former emotions, and slavery the latter. power or an authority over others makes us capable of satisfying all our desires; as slavery, by subjecting us to the will of others, exposes us to a thousand wants, and mortifications. it is here worth observing, that the vanity of power, or shame of slavery, are much augmented by the consideration of the persons, over whom we exercise our authority, or who exercise it over us. for supposing it possible to frame statues of such an admirable mechanism, that they coued move and act in obedience to the will; it is evident the possession of them would give pleasure and pride, but not to such a degree, as the same authority, when exerted over sensible and rational creatures, whose condition, being compared to our own, makes it seem more agreeable and honourable. comparison is in every case a sure method of augmenting our esteem of any thing. a rich man feels the felicity of his condition better by opposing it to that of a beggar. but there is a peculiar advantage in power, by the contrast, which is, in a manner, presented to us, betwixt ourselves and the person we command. the comparison is obvious and natural: the imagination finds it in the very subject: the passage of the thought to its conception is smooth and easy. and that this circumstance has a considerable effect in augmenting its influence, will appear afterwards in examining the nature of malice and envy. sect. xi of the love of fame but beside these original causes of pride and humility, there is a secondary one in the opinions of others, which has an equal influence on the affections. our reputation, our character, our name are considerations of vast weight and importance; and even the other causes of pride; virtue, beauty and riches; have little influence, when not seconded by the opinions and sentiments of others. in order to account for this phaenomenon it will be necessary to take some compass, and first explain the nature of sympathy. no quality of human nature is more remarkable, both in itself and in its consequences, than that propensity we have to sympathize with others, and to receive by communication their inclinations and sentiments, however different from, or even contrary to our own. this is not only conspicuous in children, who implicitly embrace every opinion proposed to them; but also in men of the greatest judgment and understanding, who find it very difficult to follow their own reason or inclination, in opposition to that of their friends and daily companions. to this principle we ought to ascribe the great uniformity we may observe in the humours and turn of thinking of those of the same nation; and it is much more probable, that this resemblance arises from sympathy, than from any influence of the soil and climate, which, though they continue invariably the same, are not able to preserve the character of a nation the same for a century together. a good-natured man finds himself in an instant of the same humour with his company; and even the proudest and most surly take a tincture from their countrymen and acquaintance. a chearful countenance infuses a sensible complacency and serenity into my mind; as an angry or sorrowful one throws a sudden dump upon me. hatred, resentment, esteem, love, courage, mirth and melancholy; all these passions i feel more from communication than from my own natural temper and disposition. so remarkable a phaenomenon merits our attention, and must be traced up to its first principles. when any affection is infused by sympathy, it is at first known only by its effects, and by those external signs in the countenance and conversation, which convey an idea of it. this idea is presently converted into an impression, and acquires such a degree of force and vivacity, as to become the very passion itself, and produce an equal emotion, as any original affection. however instantaneous this change of the idea into an impression may be, it proceeds from certain views and reflections, which will not escape the strict scrutiny of a. philosopher, though they may the person himself, who makes them. it is evident, that the idea, or rather impression of ourselves is always intimately present with us, and that our consciousness gives us so lively a conception of our own person, that it is not possible to imagine, that any thing can in this particular go beyond it. whatever object, therefore, is related to ourselves must be conceived with a little vivacity of conception, according to the foregoing principles; and though this relation should not be so strong as that of causation, it must still have a considerable influence. resemblance and contiguity are relations not to be neglected; especially when by an inference from cause and effect, and by the observation of external signs, we are informed of the real existence of the object, which is resembling or contiguous. now it is obvious, that nature has preserved a great resemblance among all human creatures, and that we never remark any passion or principle in others, of which, in some degree or other, we may not find a parallel in ourselves. the case is the same with the fabric of the mind, as with that of the body. however the parts may differ in shape or size, their structure and composition are in general the same. there is a very remarkable resemblance, which preserves itself amidst all their variety; and this resemblance must very much contribute to make us enter into the sentiments of others; and embrace them with facility and pleasure. accordingly we find, that where, beside the general resemblance of our natures, there is any peculiar similarity in our manners, or character, or country, or language, it facilitates the sympathy. the stronger the relation is betwixt ourselves and any object, the more easily does the imagination make the transition, and convey to the related idea the vivacity of conception, with which we always form the idea of our own person. nor is resemblance the only relation, which has this effect, but receives new force from other relations, that may accompany it. the sentiments of others have little influence, when far removed from us, and require the relation of contiguity, to make them communicate themselves entirely. the relations of blood, being a species of causation, may sometimes contribute to the same effect; as also acquaintance, which operates in the same manner with education and custom; as we shall see more fully [part ii. sect. .] afterwards. all these relations, when united together, convey the impression or consciousness of our own person to the idea of the sentiments or passions of others, and makes us conceive them in the strongest and most lively manner. it has been remarked in the beginning of this treatise, that all ideas are borrowed from impressions, and that these two kinds of perceptions differ only in the degrees of force and vivacity, with which they strike upon the soul. the component part of ideas and impressions are precisely alike. the manner and order of their appearance may be the same. the different degrees of their force and vivacity are, therefore, the only particulars, that distinguish them: and as this difference may be removed, in some measure, by a relation betwixt the impressions and ideas, it is no wonder an idea of a sentiment or passion, may by this means be inlivened as to become the very sentiment or passion. the lively idea of any object always approaches is impression; and it is certain we may feel sickness and pain from the mere force of imagination, and make a malady real by often thinking of it. but this is most remarkable in the opinions and affections; and it is there principally that a lively idea is converted into an impression. our affections depend more upon ourselves, and the internal operations of the mind, than any other impressions; for which reason they arise more naturally from the imagination, and from every lively idea we form of them. this is the nature and cause of sympathy; and it is after this manner we enter so deep into the opinions and affections of others, whenever we discover them. what is principally remarkable in this whole affair is the strong confirmation these phaenomena give to the foregoing system concerning the understanding, and consequently to the present one concerning the passions; since these are analogous to each other. it is indeed evident, that when we sympathize with the passions and sentiments of others, these movements appear at first in our mind as mere ideas, and are conceived to belong to another person, as we conceive any other matter of fact. it is also evident, that the ideas of the affections of others are converted into the very impressions they represent, and that the passions arise in conformity to the images we form of them. all this is an object of the plainest experience, and depends not on any hypothesis of philosophy. that science can only be admitted to explain the phaenomena; though at the same time it must be confest, they are so clear of themselves, that there is but little occasion to employ it. for besides the relation of cause and effect, by which we are convinced of the reality of the passion, with which we sympathize; besides this, i say, we must be assisted by the relations of resemblance and contiguity, in order to feel the sympathy in its full perfection. and since these relations can entirely convert an idea into an impression, and convey the vivacity of the latter into the former, so perfectly as to lose nothing of it in the transition, we may easily conceive how the relation of cause and effect alone, may serve to strengthen and inliven an idea. in sympathy there is an evident conversion of an idea into an impression. this conversion arises from the relation of objects to ourself. ourself is always intimately present to us. let us compare all these circumstances, and we shall find, that sympathy is exactly correspondent to the operations of our understanding; and even contains something more surprizing and extraordinary. it is now time to turn our view from the general consideration of sympathy, to its influence on pride and humility, when these passions arise from praise and blame, from reputation and infamy. we may observe, that no person is ever praised by another for any quality, which would not, if real, produce, of itself, a pride in the person possest of it. the elogiums either turn upon his power, or riches, or family, or virtue; all of which are subjects of vanity, that we have already explained and accounted for. it is certain, then, that if a person considered himself in the same light, in which he appears to his admirer, he would first receive a separate pleasure, and afterwards a pride or self-satisfaction, according to the hypothesis above explained. now nothing is more natural than for us to embrace the opinions of others in this particular; both from sympathy, which renders all their sentiments intimately present to us; and from reasoning, which makes us regard their judgment, as a kind of argument for what they affirm. these two principles of authority and sympathy influence almost all our opinions; but must have a peculiar influence, when we judge of our own worth and character. such judgments are always attended with passion [book i, part iii. sect. .]; and nothing tends more to disturb our understanding, and precipitate us into any opinions, however unreasonable, than their connexion with passion; which diffuses itself over the imagination, and gives an additional force to every related idea. to which we may add, that being conscious of great partiality in our own favour, we are peculiarly pleased with any thing, that confirms the good opinion we have of ourselves, and are easily shocked with whatever opposes it. all this appears very probable in theory; but in order to bestow a full certainty on this reasoning, we must examine the phaenonena of the passions, and see if they agree with it. among these phaenomena we may esteem it a very favourable one to our present purposes that though fame in general be agreeable, yet we receive a much greater satisfaction from the approbation of those, whom we ourselves esteem and approve of, than of those, whom we hate and despise. in like measure we are principally mortifyed with the contempt of persons, upon whose judgment we set some value, and are, in a peat measure, indifferent about the opinions of the rest of mankind. but if the mind received from any original instinct a desire of fame and aversion to infamy, fame and infamy would influence us without distinction; and every opinion, according as it were favourabk or unfavourable, would equally excite that desire or aversion. the judgment of a fool is the judgment of another person, as well as that of a wise man, and is only inferior in its influence on our own judgment. we are not only better pleased with the approbation of a wise man than with that of a fool, but receive an additional satisfaction from the former, when it is obtained after a long and intimate acquaintance. this is accounted for after the same manner. the praises of others never give us much pleasure, unless they concur with our own opinion, and extol us for those qualities, in which we chiefly excel. a mere soldier little values the character of eloquence: a gownman of courage: a bishop of humour: or a merchant of learning. whatever esteem a man may have for any quality, abstractedly considered; when he is conscious he is not possest of it; the opinions of the whole world will give him little pleasure in that particular, and that because they never will be able to draw his own opinion after them. nothing is more usual than for men of good families, but narrow circumstances, to leave their friends and country, and rather seek their livelihood by mean and mechanical employments among strangers, than among those, who are acquainted with their birth and education. we shall be unknown, say they, where we go. no body will suspect from what family we are sprung. we shall be removed from all our friends and acquaintance, and our poverty and meanness will by that means sit more easy upon us. in examining these sentiments, i find they afford many very convincing arguments for my present purpose. first, we may infer from them, that the uneasiness of being contemned depends on sympathy, and that sympathy depends on the relation of objects to ourselves; since we are most uneasy under the contempt of persons, who are both related to us by blood, and contiguous in place. hence we-seek to diminish this sympathy and uneasiness by separating these relations, and placing ourselves in a contiguity to strangers, and at a distance from relations. secondly, we may conclude, that relations are requisite to sympathy, not absolutely considered as relations, but by their influence in converting our ideas of the sentiments of others into the very sentiments, by means of the association betwixt the idea of their persons, and that of our own. for here the relations of kindred and contiguity both subsist; but not being united in the same persons, they contribute in a less degree to the sympathy. thirdly, this very circumstance of the diminution of sympathy by the separation of relations is worthy of our attention. suppose i am placed in a poor condition among strangers, and consequently am but lightly treated; i yet find myself easier in that situation, than when i was every day exposed to the contempt of my kindred and countrymen. here i feel a double contempt; from my relations, but they are absent; from those about me, but they are strangers. this double contempt is likewise strengthened by the two relations of kindred and contiguity. but as the persons are not the same, who are connected with me by those two relations, this difference of ideas separates the impressions arising from the contempt, and keeps them from running into each other. the contempt of my neighbours has a certain influence; as has also that of my kindred: but these influences are distinct, and never unite; as when the contempt proceeds from persons who are at once both my neighbours and kindred. this phaenomenon is analogous to the system of pride and humility above-explained, which may seem so extraordinary to vulgar apprehensions. fourthly, a person in these circumstances naturally conceals his birth from those among whom he lives, and is very uneasy, if any one suspects him to be of a family, much superior to his present fortune and way of living. every thing in this world is judged of by comparison. what is an immense fortune for a private gentleman is beggary for a prince. a peasant would think himself happy in what cannot afford necessaries for a gentleman. when a man has either been acustomed to a more splendid way of living, or thinks himself intitled to it by his birth and quality, every thing below is disagreeable and even shameful; and it is with she greatest industry he conceals his pretensions to a better fortune. here he himself knows his misfortunes; but as those, with whom he lives. are ignorant of them, he has the disagreeable reflection and comparison suggested only by his own thoughts, and never receives it by a sympathy with others; which must contribute very much so his ease and satisfaction. if there be any objections to this hypothesis, that the pleasure, which we receive from praise, arises from a communication of sentiments, we shall find, uponexamination, that these objections, when taken in a properlight, will serve to confirm it. popular fame may be agreeable even to a man, who despises the vulgar; but it is because their multitude gives them additional weight and authority. plagiaries are delighted with praises, which they are conscious they do not deserve; but this is a kind of castle-building, where the imagination amuses itself with its own fictions, and strives to render them firm and stable by a sympathy with the sentiments of others. proud men are most shocked with contempt, should they do not most readily assent to it; but it is because of the opposition betwixt the passion, which is natural so them, and that received by sympathy. a violent lover in like manner is very much disp pleased when you blame and condemn his love; though it is evident your opposition can have no influence, but by the hold it takes of himself, and by his sympathy with you. if he despises you, or perceives you are in jest, whatever you say has no effect upon him. sect. xii of the pride and humility of animals thus in whatever light we consider this subject, we may still observe, that die causes of pride and humility correspond exactly to our hypothesis, and that nothing can excite either of these passions, unless it be both related to ourselves, and produces a pleasure or pain independent of the passion. we have not only proved, that a tendency to produce pleasure or pain is common to all the causes of pride or humility, but also that it is the only thing, which is common; and consequently is the quality, by which they operate. we have farther proved, that the most considerable causes of these passions are really nothing but the power of producing either agreeable or uneasy sensations; and therefore that all their effects, and amongst the rest, pride and humility, are derived solely from that origin. such simple and natural principles, founded on such solid proofs, cannot fail to be received by philosophers, unless opposed by some objections, that have escaped me. it is usual with anatomists to join their observations and experiments on human bodies to those on beasts, and from the agreement of these experiments to derive an additional argument for any particular hypothesis. it is indeed certain, that where the structure of parts in brutes is the same as in men, and the operation of these parts also the same, the causes of that operation cannot be different, and that whatever we discover to be true of the one species, may be concluded without hesitation to be certain of the other. thus though the mixture of humours and the composition of minute parts may justly be presumed so be somewhat different in men from what it is in mere animals; and therefore any experiment we make upon the one concerning the effects of medicines will not always apply to the other; yet as the structure of the veins and muscles, the fabric and situation of the heart, of the lungs, the stomach, the liver and other parts, are the same or nearly the same in all animals, the very same hypothesis, which in one species explains muscular motion, the progress of the chyle, the circulation of the blood, must be applicable to every one; and according as it agrees or disagrees with the experiments we may make in any species of creatures, we may draw a proof of its truth or falshood on the whole. let us, therefore, apply this method of enquiry, which is found so just and useful in reasonings concerning the body, to our present anatomy of the mind, and see what discoveries we can make by it. in order to this we must first shew the correspondence of passions in men and animals, and afterwards compare the causes, which produce these passions. it is plain, that almost in every species of creatures, but especially of the nobler kind, there are many evident marks of pride and humility. the very port and gait of a swan, or turkey, or peacock show the high idea he has entertained of himself, and his contempt of all others. this is the more remarkable, that in the two last species of animals, the pride always attends the beauty, and is discovered in the male only. the vanity and emulation of nightingales in singing have been commonly remarked; as likewise that of horses in swiftness, of hounds in sagacity and smell, of the bull and cock in strength, and of every other animal in his particular excellency. add to this, that every species of creatures, which approach so often to man, as to familiarize themselves with him, show an evident pride in his approbation, and are pleased with his praises and caresses, independent of every other consideration. nor are they the caresses of every one without distinction, which give them this vanity, but those principally of the persons they know and love; in the same manner as that passion is excited in mankind. all these are evident proofs, that pride and humility are not merely human passions, but extend themselves over the whole animal creation. the causes of these passions are likewise much the same in beasts as in us, making a just allowance for our superior knowledge and understanding. thus animals have little or no sense of virtue or vice; they quickly lose sight of the relations of blood; and are incapable of that of right and property: for which reason the causes of their pride and humility must lie solely in the body, and can never be placed either in the mind or external objects. but so far as regards the body, the same qualities cause pride in the animal as in the human kind; and it is on beauty, strength, swiftness or some other useful or agreeable quality that this passion is always founded. the next question is, whether, since those passions are the same, and arise from the same causes through the whole creation, the manner, in which the causes operate, be also the same. according to all rules of analogy, this is justly to be expected; and if we find upon trial, that the explication of these phaenomena, which we make use of in one species, will not apply to the rest, we may presume that that explication, however specious, is in reality without foundation. in order to decide this question, let us consider, that there is evidently the same relation of ideas, and derived from the same causes, in the minds of animals as in those of men. a dog, that has hid a bone, often forgets the place; but when brought to it, his thought passes easily to what he formerly concealed, by means of the contiguity, which produces a relation among his ideas. in like manner, when he has been heartily beat in any place, he will tremble on his approach to it, even though he discover no signs of any present danger. the effects of resemblance are not so remarkable; but as that relation makes a considerable ingredient in causation, of which all animals shew so evident a judgment, we may conclude that the three relations of resemblance, contiguity and causation operate in the same manner upon beasts as upon human creatures. there are also instances of the relation of impressions, sufficient to convince us, that there is an union of certain affections with each other in the inferior species of creatures as well as in the superior, and that their minds are frequently conveyed through a series of connected emotions. a dog, when elevated with joy, runs naturally into love and kindness, whether of his master or of the sex. in like manner, when full of pain and sorrow, he becomes quarrelsome and illnatured; and that passion; which at first was grief, is by the smallest occasion converted into anger. thus all the internal principles, that are necessary in us to produce either pride or humility, are commcm to all creaturn; and since the causes, which excite these passions, are likewise the same, we may justly conclude, that these causes operate after the same manner through the whole animal creation. my hypothesis is so simple, and supposes so little reflection and judgment, that it is applicable to every sensible creature; which must not only be allowed to be a convincing proof of its veracity, but, i am confident, will be found an objection to every other system. part ii of love and hatred sect. i of the object and causes of love and hatred it is altogether impossible to give any definition of the passions of love and hatred; and that because they produce merely a simple impression, without any mixture or composition. twould be as unnecessary to attempt any description of them, drawn from their nature, origin, causes and objects; and that both because these are the subjects of our present enquiry, and because these passions of themselves are sufficiently known from our common feeling and experience. this we have already observed concerning pride and humility, and here repeat it concerning love and hatred; and indeed there is so great a resemblance betwixt these two sets of passions, that we shall be obliged to begin with a kind of abridgment of our reasonings concerning the former, in order to explain the latter. as the immediate object of pride and humility is self or that identical person, of whose thoughts, actions, and sensations we are intimately conscious; so the object of love and hatred is some other person, of whose thoughts, actions, and sensations we are not conscious. this is sufficiently evident from experience. our love and hatred are always directed to some sensible being external to us; and when we talk of self-love, it is not in a proper sense, nor has the sensation it produces any thing in common with that tender emotion which is excited by a friend or mistress. it is the same case with hatred. we may be mortified by our own faults and follies; but never feel any anger or hatred except from the injuries of others. but though the object of love and hatred be always some other person, it is plain that the object is not, properly speaking, the cause of these passions, or alone sufficient to excite them. for since love and hatred are directly contrary in their sensation, and have the same object in common, if that object were also their cause, it would produce these opposite passions in an equal degree; and as they must, from the very first moment, destroy each other, none of them would ever be able to make its appearance. there must, therefore, be some cause different from the object. if we consider the causes of love and hatred, we shall find they are very much diversifyed, and have not many things in common. the virtue, knowledge, wit, good sense, good humour of any person, produce love and esteem; as the opposite qualities, hatred and contempt. the same passions arise from bodily accomplishments, such as beauty, force, swiftness, dexterity; and from their contraries; as likewise from the external advantages and disadvantages of family, possession, cloaths, nation and climate. there is not one of these objects, but what by its different qualities may produce love and esteem, or hatred and contempt. from the view of these causes we may derive a new distinction betwixt the quality that operates, and the subject on which it is placed. a prince, that is possessed of a stately palace, commands the esteem of the people upon that account; and that first, by the beauty of the palace, and secondly, by the relation of property, which connects it with him. the removal of either of these destroys the passion; which evidently proves that the cause is a compounded one. twould be tedious to trace the passions of love and hatred, through all the observations which we have formed concerning pride and humility, and which are equally applicable to both sets of passions. twill be sufficient to remark in general, that the object of love and hatred is evidently some thinking person; and that the sensation of the former passion is always agreeable, and of the latter uneasy. we may also suppose with some shew of probability, that the cause of both these passions is always related to a thinking being, and that the cause of the former produce a separate pleasure, and of the latter a separate uneasiness. one of these suppositions, viz, that the cause of love and hatred must be related to a person or thinking being, in order to produce these passions, is not only probable, but too evident to be contested. virtue and vice, when considered in the abstract; beauty and deformity, when placed on inanimate objects; poverty and riches when belonging to a third person, excite no degree of love or hatred, esteem or contempt towards those, who have no relation to them. a person looking out at a window, sees me in the street, and beyond me a beautiful palace, with which i have no concern: i believe none will pretend, that this person will pay me the same respect, as if i were owner of the palace. it is not so evident at first sight, that a relation of impressions is requisite to these passions, and that because in the transition the one impression is so much confounded with the other, that they become in a manner undistinguishable. but as in pride and humility, we have easily been able to make the separation, and to prove, that every cause of these passions, produces a separate pain or pleasure, i might here observe the same method with the same success, in examining particularly the several causes of love and hatred. but as i hasten a full and decisive proof of these systems, i delay this examination for a moment: and in the mean time shall endeavour to convert to my present purpose all my reaaonings concerning pride and humility, by an argument that is founded on unquestionable examination. there are few persons, that are satisfyed with their own character, or genius, or fortune, who are nor desirous of shewing themselves to the world, and of acquiring the love and approbation of mankind. now it is evident, that the very same qualities and circumstances, which are the causes of pride or self-esteem, are also the causes of vanity or the desire of reputation; and that we always put to view those particulars with which in ourselves we are best satisfyed. but if love and esteem were not produced by the same qualities as pride, according as these qualities are related to ourselves or others, this method of proceeding would be very absurd, nor coued men expect a correspondence in the sentiments of every other person, with those themselves have entertained. it is true, few can form exact systems of the passions, or make reflections on their general nature and resemblances. but without such a progress in philosophy, we are not subject to many mistakes in this particular, but are sufficiently guided by common experience, as well as by a kind of presentation; which tells us what will operate on others, by what we feel immediately in ourselves. since then the same qualities that produce pride or humility, cause love or hatred; all the arguments that have been employed to prove, that the causes of the former passions excite a pain or pleasure independent of the passion, will be applicable with equal evidence to the causes of the latter. sect. ii experiments to confirm this system upon duly weighing these arguments, no one will make any scruple to assent to that condusion i draw from them, concerning the transition along related impressions and ideas, especially as it is a principle, in itself, so easy and natural. but that we may place this system beyond doubt both with regard to love and hatred, pride and humility, it will be proper to make some new experiments upon all these passions, as well as to recal a few of these observations, which i have formerly touched upon. in order to make these experiments, let us suppose i am in company with a person, whom i formerly regarded without any sentiments either of friendship or enmity. here i have the natural and ultimate object of all these four passions placed before me. myself am the proper object of pride or humility; the other person of love or hatred. regard now with attention the nature of these passions, and their situation with respect to each other. it is evident here are four affections, placed, as it were, in a square or regular connexion with, and distance from each other. the passions of pride and humility, as well as those of love and hatred, are connected together by the identity of their object, which to the first set of passions is self, to the second some other person. these two lines of communication or connexion form two opposite sides of the square. again, pride and love are agreeable passions; hatred and humility uneasy. this similitude of sensation betwixt pride and love, and that betwixt humility and hatred form a new connexion, and may be considered as the other two sides of the square. upon the whole, pride is connected with humility, love with hatred, by their objects or ideas: pride with love, humility with hatred, by their sensations or impressions. i say then, that nothing can produce any of these passions without bearing it a double relation, viz, of ideas to the object of the passion, and of sensation to the passion itself. this we must prove by our experiments. first experiment. to proceed with the greater order in these experiments, let us first suppose, that being placed in the situation above-mentioned, viz, in company with some other person, there is an object presented, that has no relation either of impressions or ideas to any of these passions. thus suppose we regard together an ordinary stone, or other common object, belonging to neither of us, and causing of itself no emotion, or independent pain and pleasure: it is evident such an object will produce none of these four passions. let us try it upon each of them successively. let us apply it to love, to hatred, to humility, to pride; none of them ever arises in the smallest degree imaginable. let us change the object, as oft as we please; provided still we choose one, that has neither of these two relations. let us repeat the experiment in all the dispositions, of which the mind is susceptible. no object, in the vast variety of nature, will, in any disposition, produce any passion without these relations. second experiment. since an object, that wants both these relations can never produce any passion, let us bestow on it only one of these relations; and see what will follow. thus suppose, i regard a stone or any common object, that belongs either to me or my companion, and by that means acquires a relation of ideas to the object of the passions: it is plain, that to consider the matter a priori, no emotion of any kind can reasonably be expected. for besides, that a relation of ideas operates secretly and calmly on the mind, it bestows an equal impulse towards the opposite passions of pride and humility, love and hatred, according as the object belongs to ourselves or others; which opposition of the passions must destroy both, and leave the mind perfectly free from any affection or emotion. this reasoning a priori is confirmed by experience. no trivial or vulgar object, that causes not a pain or pleasure, independent of the passion, will ever, by its property or other relations either to ourselves or others, be able to produce the affections of pride or humility, love or hatred. third experiment. it is evident, therefore, that a relation of ideas is not able alone to give rise to these affections. let us now remove this relation, and in its stead place a relation of impressions, by presenting an object, which is agreeable or disagreeable, but has no relation either to ourself or companion; and let us observe the consequences. to consider the matter first a priori, as in the preceding experiment; we may conclude, that the object will have a small, but an uncertain connexion with these passions. for besides, that this relation is not a cold and imperceptible one, it has not the inconvenience of the relation of ideas, nor directs us with equal force to two contrary passions, which by their opposition destroy each other. but if we consider, on the other hand, that this transition from the sensation to the affection is not forwarded by any principle, that produces a transition of ideas; but, on the contrary, that though the one impression be easily transfused into the other, yet the change of objects is supposed contrary to all the principles, that cause a transition of that kind; we may from thence infer, that nothing will ever be a steady or durable cause of any passion, that is connected with the passion merely by a relation of impressions. what our reason would conclude from analogy, after balancing these arguments, would be, that an object, which produces pleasure or uneasiness, but has no manner of connexion either with ourselves or others, may give such a turn to the disposition, as that may naturally fall into pride or love, humility or hatred, and search for other objects, upon which by a double relation, it can found these affections; but that an object, which has only one of these relations, though the most advantageous one, can never give rise to any constant and established passion. most fortunately all this reasoning is found to be exactly conformable to experience, and the phaenomena of the passions. suppose i were travelling with a companion through a country, to which we are both utter strangers; it is evident, that if the prospects be beautiful, the roads agreeable, and the inns commodious, this may put me into good humour both with myself and fellow-traveller. but as we suppose, that this country has no relation either to myself or friend it can never be the immediate cause of pride or love; and therefore if i found not the passion on some other object, that bears either of us a closer relation, my emotions are rather to be considerd as the overflowings of an elevate or humane disposition, than as an established passion. the case is the same where the object produces uneasiness. fourth experiment. having found, that neither an object without any relation of ideas or impressions, nor an object, that has only one relation, can ever cause pride or humility, love or hatred; reason alone may convince us, without any farther experiment, that whatever has a double relation must necessarily excite these passions; since it is evident they must have some cause. but to leave as little room for doubt as possible, let us renew our experiments, and see whether the event in this case answers our expectation. i choose an object, such as virtue, that causes a separate satisfaction: on this object i bestow a relation to self; and find, that from this disposition of affairs, there immediately arises a passion. but what passion? that very one of pride, to which this object bears a double relation. its idea is related to that of self, the object of the passion: the sensation it causes resembles the sensation of the passion. that i may be sure i am not mistaken in this experiment, i remove first one relation; then another; and find, that each removal destroys the passion, and leaves the object perfectly indifferent. but i am not content with this. i make a still farther trial; and instead of removing the relation, i only change it for one of a different kind. i suppose the virtue to belong to my companion, not to myself; and observe what follows from this alteration. i immediately perceive the affections wheel to about, and leaving pride, where there is only one relation, viz, of impressions, fall to the side of love, where they are attracted by a double relation of impressions and ideas. by repeating the same experiment, in changing anew the relation of ideas, i bring the affections back to pride; and by a new repetition i again place them at love or kindness. being fully convinced of the influence of this relation, i try the effects of the other; and by changing virtue for vice, convert the pleasant impression, which arises from the former, into the disagreeable one, which proceeds from the latter. the effect still answers expectation. vice, when placed on another, excites, by means of its double relations, the passion of hatred, instead of love, which for the same reason arises from virtue. to continue the experiment, i change anew the relation of ideas, and suppose the vice to belong to myself. what follows? what is usual. a subsequent change of the passion from hatred to humility. this humility i convert into pride by a new change of the impression; and find after all that i have compleated the round, and have by these changes brought back the passion to that very situation, in which i first found it. but to make the matter still more certain, i alter the object; and instead of vice and virtue, make the trial upon beauty and deformity, riches and poverty, power and servitude. each of these objects runs the circle of the passions in the same manner, by a change of their relations: and in whatever order we proceed, whether through pride, love, hatred, humility, or through humility, hatred, love, pride, the experiment is not in the least diversifyed. esteem and contempt, indeed, arise on some occasions instead of love and hatred; but these are at the bottom the same passions, only diversifyed by some causes, which we shall explain afterwards. fifth experiment. to give greater authority to these experiments, let us change the situation of affairs as much as possible, and place the passions and objects in all the different positions, of which they are susceptible. let us suppose, beside the relations above-mentioned, that the person, along with whom i make all these experiments, is closely connected with me either by blood or friendship. he is, we shall suppose, my son or brother, or is united to me by a long and familiar acquaintance. let us next suppose, that the cause of the passion acquires a double relation of impressions and ideas to this person; and let us see what the effects are of all these complicated attractions and relations. before we consider what they are in fact, let us determine what they ought to be, conformable to my hypothesis. it is plain, that, according as the impression is either pleasant or uneasy, the passion of love or hatred must arise towards the person, who is thus connected to the cause of the impression by these double relations, which i have all along required. the virtue of a brother must make me love him; as his vice or infamy must excite the contrary passion. but to judge only from the situation of affairs, i should not expect, that the affections would rest there, and never transfuse themselves into any other impression. as there is here a person, who by means of a double relation is the object of my passion, the very same reasoning leads me to think the passion will be carryed farther. the person has a relation of ideas to myself, according to the supposition; the passion, of which he is the object, by being either agreeable or uneasy, has a relation of impressions to pride or humility. it is evident, then, that one of these passions must arise from the love or hatred. this is the reasoning i form in conformity to my hypothesis; and am pleased to find upon trial that every thing answers exactly to my expectation. the virtue or vice of a son or brother not only excites love or hatred, but by a new transition, from similar causes, gives rise to pride or humility. nothing causes greater vanity than any shining quality in our relations; as nothing mortifies us more than their vice or infamy. this exact conformity of experience to our reasoning is a convincing proof of the solidity of that hypothesis, upon which we reason. sixth experiment. this evidence will be still augmented, if we reverse the experiment, and preserving still the same relations, begin only with a different passion. suppose, that instead of the virtue or vice of a son or brother, which causes first love or hatred, and afterwards pride or humility, we place these good or bad qualities on ourselves, without any immediate connexion with the person, who is related to us: experience shews us, that by this change of situation the whole chain is broke, and that the mind is not conveyed from one passion to another, as in the preceding instance. we never love or hate a son or brother for the virtue or vice we discern in ourselves; though it is evident the same qualities in him give us a very sensible pride or humility. the transition from pride or humility to love or hatred is not so natural as from love or hatred to pride or humility. this may at first sight be esteemed contrary to my hypothesis; since the relations of impressions and ideas are in both cases precisely the same. pride and humility are impressions related to love and hatred. myself am related to the person. it should, therefore, be expected, that like causes must produce like effects, and a perfect transition arise from the double relation, as in all other cases. this difficulty we may easily solve by the following reflections. it is evident, that as we are at all times intimately conscious of ourselves, our sentiments and passions, their ideas must strike upon us with greater vivacity than the ideas of the sentiments and passions of any other person. but every thing, that strikes upon us with vivacity, and appears in a full and strong light, forces itself, in a manner, into our consideration, and becomes present to the mind on the smallest hint and most trivial relation. for the same reason, when it is once present, it engages the attention, and keeps it from wandering to other objects, however strong may be their relation to our first object. the imagination passes easily from obscure to lively ideas, but with difficulty from lively to obscure. in the one case the relation is aided by another principle: in the other case, it is opposed by it. now i have observed, that those two faculties of the mind, the imagination and passions, assist each other in their operations when their propensities are similar, and when they act upon the same object. the mind has always a propensity to pass from a passion to any other related to it; and this propensity is forwarded when the object of the one passion is related to that of the other. the two impulses concur with each other, and render the whole transition more smooth and easy. but if it should happen, that while the relation of ideas, strictly speaking, continues the same, its influence, in causing a transition of the imagination, should no longer take place, it is evident its influence on the passions must also cease, as being dependent entirely on that transition. this is the reason why pride or humility is not transfused into love or hatred with the same ease, that the latter passions are changed into the former. if a person be my brother i am his likewise: but though the relations be reciprocal they have very different effects on the imagination. the passage is smooth and open from the consideration of any person related to us to that of ourself, of whom we are every moment conscious. but when the affections are once directed to ourself, the fancy passes not with the same facility from that object to any other person, how closely so ever connected with us. this easy or difficult transition of the imagination operates upon the passions, and facilitates or retards their transition, which is a clear proof, that these two faculties of the passions and imagination are connected together, and that the relations of ideas have an influence upon the affections. besides innumerable experiments that prove this, we here find, that even when the relation remains; if by any particular circumstance its usual effect upon the fancy in producing an association or transition of ideas, is prevented; its usual effect upon the passions, in conveying us from one to another, is in like manner prevented. some may, perhaps, find a contradiction betwixt this phaenomenon and that of sympathy, where the mind passes easily from the idea of ourselves to that of any other object related to us. but this difficulty will vanish, if we consider that in sympathy our own person is not the object of any passion, nor is there any thing, that fixes our attention on ourselves; as in the present case, where we are supposed to be actuated with pride or humility. ourself, independent of the perception of every other object, is in reality nothing: for which reason we must turn our view to external objects; and it is natural for us to consider with most attention such as lie contiguous to us, or resemble us. but when self is the object of a passion, it is not natural to quit the consideration of it, till the passion be exhausted: in which case the double relations of impressions and ideas can no longer operate. seventh experiment. to put this whole reasoning to a farther trial, let us make a new experiment; and as we have already seen the effects of related passions and ideas, let us here suppose an identity of passions along with a relation of ideas; and let us consider the effects of this new situation. it is evident a transition of the passions from the one object to the other is here in all reason to be expected; since the relation of ideas is supposed still to continue, and identity of impressions must produce a stronger connexion, than the most perfect resemblance, that can be imagined. if a double relation, therefore, of impressions and ideas is able to produce a transition from one to the other, much more an identity of impressions with a relation of ideas. accordingly we find, that when we either love or hate any person, the passions seldom continue within their first bounds; but extend themselves towards all the contiguous objects, and comprehend the friends and relations of him we love or hate. nothing is more natural than to bear a kindness to one brother on account of our friendship for another, without any farther examination of his character. a quarrel with one person gives us a hatred for the whole family, though entirely innocent of that, which displeases us. instances of this kind are every where to be met with. there is only one difficulty in this experiment, which it will be necessary to account for, before we proceed any farther. it is evident, that though all passions pass easily from one object to another related to it, yet this transition is made with greater facility, where the more considerable object is first presented, and the lesser follows it, than where this order is reversed, and the lesser takes the precedence. thus it is more natural for us to love the son upon account of the father, than the father upon account of the son; the servant for the master, than the master for the servant; the subject for the prince, than the prince for the subject. in like manner we more readily contract a hatred against a whole family, where our first quarrel is with the head of it, than where we are displeased with a son, or servant, or some inferior member. in short, our passions, like other objects, descend with greater facility than they ascend. that we may comprehend, wherein consists the difficulty of explaining this phaenomenon, we must consider, that the very same reason, which determines the imagination to pass from remote to contiguous objects, with more facility than from contiguous to remote, causes it likewise to change with more ease, the less for the greater, than the greater for the less. whatever has the greatest influence is most taken notice of; and whatever is most taken notice of, presents itself most readily to the imagination. we are more apt to over-look in any subject, what is trivial, than what appears of considerable moment; but especially if the latter takes the precedence, and first engages our attention. thus if any accident makes us consider the satellites of jupiter, our fancy is naturally determined to form the idea of that planet; but if we first reflect on the principal planet, it is more natural for us to overlook its attendants. the mention of the provinces of any empire conveys our thought to the seat of the empire; but the fancy returns not with the same facility to the consideration of the provinces. the idea of the servant makes us think of the master; that of the subject carries our view to the prince. but the same relation has not an equal influence in conveying us back again. and on this is founded that reproach of cornelia to her sons, that they ought to be ashamed she should be more known by the title of the daughter of scipio than by that of the mother of the gracchi. this was, in other words, exhorting them to render themselves as illustrious and famous as their grandfather, otherwise the imagination of the people, passing from her who was intermediate, and placed in an equal relation to both, would always leave them, and denominate her by what was more considerable and of greater moment. on the same principle is founded that common custom of making wives bear the name of their husbands, rather than husbands that of their wives; as also the ceremony of giving the precedency to those, whom we honour and respect. we might find many other instances to confirm this principle, were it not already sufficiently evident. now since the fancy finds the same facility in passing from the lesser to the greater, as from remote to contiguous, why does not this easy transition of ideas assist the transition of passions in the former case, as well as in the latter? the virtues of a friend or brother produce first love, and then pride; because in that case the imagination passes from remote to contiguous, according to its propensity. our own virtues produce not first pride, and then love to a friend or brother; because the passage in that case would be from contiguous to remote, contrary to its propensity. but the love or hatred of an inferior causes not readily any passion to the superior, though that be the natural propensity of the imagination: while the love or hatred of a superior, causes a passion to the inferior, contrary to its propensity. in short, the same facility of transition operates not in the same manner upon superior and inferior as upon contiguous and remote. these two phaenomena appear contradictory, and require some attention to be reconciled. as the transition of ideas is here made contrary to the natural propensity of the imagination, that faculty must be overpowered by some stronger principle of another kind; and as there is nothing ever present to the mind but impressions and ideas, this principle must necessarily lie in the impressions. now it has been observed, that impressions or passions are connected only by their resemblance, and that where any two passions place the mind in the same or in similar dispositions, it very naturally passes from the one to the other: as on the contrary, a repugnance in the dispositions produces a difficulty in the transition of the passions. but it is observable, that this repugnance may arise from a difference of degree as well as of kind; nor do we experience a greater difficulty in passing suddenly from a small degree of love to a small degree of hatred, than from a small to a great degree of either of these affections. a man, when calm or only moderately agitated, is so different, in every respect, from himself, when disturbed with a violent passion, that no two persons can be more unlike; nor is it easy to pass from the one extreme to the other, without a considerable interval betwixt them. the difficulty is not less, if it be not rather greater, in passing from the strong passion to the weak, than in passing from the weak to the strong, provided the one passion upon its appearance destroys the other, and they do not both of them exist at once. but the case is entirely altered, when the passions unite together, and actuate the mind at the same time. a weak passion, when added to a strong, makes not so considerable a change in the disposition, as a strong when added to a weak; for which reason there is a closer connexion betwixt the great degree and the small, than betwixt the small degree and the great. the degree of any passion depends upon the nature of its object; and an affection directed to a person, who is considerable in our eyes, fills and possesses the mind much more than one, which has for its object a person we esteem of less consequence. here then the contradiction betwixt the propensities of the imagination and passion displays itself. when we turn our thought to a great and a small object, the imagination finds more facility in passing from the small to the great, than from the great to the small; but the affections find a greater difficulty: and as the affections are a more powerful principle than the imagination, no wonder they prevail over it, and draw the mind to their side. in spite of the difficulty of passing from the idea of great to that of little, a passion directed to the former, produces always a similar passion towards the latter; when the great and little are related together. the idea of the servant conveys our thought most readily to the master; but the hatred or love of the master produces with greater facility anger or good-will to the servant. the strongest passion in this case takes the precedence; and the addition of the weaker making no considerable change on the disposition, the passage is by that means rendered more easy and natural betwixt them. as in the foregoing experiment we found, that a relation of ideas, which, by any particular circumstance, ceases to produce its usual effect of facilitating the transition of ideas, ceases likewise to operate on the passions; so in the present experiment we find the same property of the impressions. two different degrees of the same passion are surely related together; but if the smaller be first present, it has little or no tendency to introduce the greater; and that because the addition of the great to the little, produces a more sensible alteration on the temper, than the addition of the little to the great. these phaenomena, when duly weighed, will be found convincing proofs of this hypothesis. and these proofs will be confirmed, if we consider the manner in which the mind here reconciles the contradiction, i have observed betwixt the passions and the imagination. the fancy passes with more facility from the less to the greater, than from the greater to the less: but on the contrary a violent passion produces more easily a feeble, than that does a violent. in this opposition the passion in the end prevails over the imagination; but it is commonly by complying with it, and by seeking another quality, which may counter-ballance that principle, from whence the opposition arises. when we love the father or master of a family, we little think of his children or servants. but when these are present with us, or when it lies any ways in our power to serve them, the nearness and contiguity in this case encreases their magnitude, or at least removes that opposition, which the fancy makes to the transition of the affections. if the imagination finds a difficulty in passing from greater to less, it finds an equal facility in passing from remote to contiguous, which brings the matter to an equality, and leaves the way open from the one passion to the other. eighth experiment. i have observed that the transition from love or hatred to pride or humility, is more easy than from pride or humility to love or hatred; and that the difficulty, which the imagination finds in passing from contiguous to remote, is the cause why we scarce have any instance of the latter transition of the affections. i must, however, make one exception, viz, when the very cause of the pride and humility is placed in some other person. for in that case the imagination is necessitated to consider the person, nor can it possibly confine its view to ourselves. thus nothing more readily produces kindness and affection to any person, than his approbation of our conduct and character: as on the other hand, nothing inspires us with a stronger hatred, than his blame or contempt. here it is evident, that the original passion is pride or humility, whose object is self; and that this passion is transfused into love or hatred, whose object is some other person, notwithstanding the rule i have already established, that the imagination passes with difficulty from contiguous to remote. but the transition in this case is not made merely on account of the relation betwixt ourselves and the person; but because that very person is the real cause of our first passion, and of consequence is intimately connected with it. it is his approbation that produces pride; and disapprobation, humility. no wonder, then, the imagination returns back again attended with the related passions of love and hatred. this is not a contradiction, but an exception to the rule; and an exception that arises from the same reason with the rule itself. such an exception as this is, therefore, rather a confirmation of the rule. and indeed, if we consider all the eight experiments i have explained, we shall find that the same principle appears in all of them, and that it is by means of a transition arising from a double relation of impressions and ideas, pride and humility, love and hatred are produced. an object without [first experiment.] a relation, or [second and third experiments] with but one, never produces either of these passions; and it is [fourth experiment.] found that the passion always varies in conformity to the relation. nay we may observe, that where the relation, by any particular circumstance, has not its usual effect of producing a transition either of [sixth experiment.] ideas or of impressions, it ceases to operate upon the passions, and gives rise neither to pride nor love, humility nor hatred. this rule we find still to hold good [seventh and eighth experiments.] even under the appearance of its contrary; and as relation is frequently experienced to have no effect; which upon examination is found to proceed from some particular circumstance, that prevents the transition; so even in instances, where that circumstance, though present, prevents not the transition, it is found to arise from some other circumstance, which counter-balances it. thus not only the variations resolve themselves into the general principle, but even the variations of these variations. sect. iii difficulties solved after so many and such undeniable proofs drawn from daily experience and observation, it may seem superfluous to enter into a particular examination of all the causes of love and hatred. i shall, therefore, employ the sequel of this part, first, in removing some difficulties, concerning particular causes of these passions. secondly, in examining the compound affections, which arise from the mixture of love and hatred with other emotions. nothing is more evident, than that any person acquires our kindness, or is exposed to our ill-will, in proportion to the pleasure or uneasiness we receive from him, and that the passions keep pace exactly with the sensations in all their changes and variations. whoever can find the means either by his services, his beauty, or his flattery, to render himself useful or agreeable to us, is sure of our affections: as on the other hand, whoever harms or displeases us never fails to excite our anger or hatred. when our own nation is at war with any other, we detest them under the character of cruel, perfidious, unjust and violent: but always esteem ourselves and allies equitable, moderate, and merciful. if the general of our enemies be successful, it is with difficulty we allow him the figure and character of a man. he is a sorcerer: he has a communication with daemons; as is reported of oliver cromwell, and the duke of luxembourg: he is bloody-minded, and takes a pleasure in death and destruction. but if the success be on our side, our commander has all the opposite good qualities, and is a pattern of virtue, as well as of courage and conduct. his treachery we call policy: his cruelty is an evil inseparable from war. in short, every one of his faults we either endeavour to extenuate, or dignify it with the name of that virtue, which approaches it. it is evident the same method of thinking runs through common life. there are some, who add another condition, and require not only that the pain and pleasure arise from the person, but likewise that it arise knowingly, and with a particular design and intention. a man, who wounds and harms us by accident, becomes not our enemy upon that account, nor do we think ourselves bound by any ties of gratitude to one, who does us any service after the same manner. by the intention we judge of the actions, and according as that is good or bad, they become causes of love or hatred. but here we must make a distinction. if that quality in another, which pleases or displeases, be constant and inherent in his person and character, it will cause love or hatred independent of the intention: but otherwise a knowledge and design is requisite, in order to give rise to these passions. one that is disagreeable by his deformity or folly is the object of our aversion, though nothing be more certain, than that he has not the least intention of displeasing us by these qualities. but if the uneasiness proceed not from a quality, but an action, which is produced and annihilated in a moment, it is necessary, in order to produce some relation, and connect this action sufficiently with the person, that it be derived from a particular fore-thought and design. it is not enough, that the action arise from the person, and have him for its immediate cause and author. this relation alone is too feeble and inconstant to be a foundation for these passions. it reaches not the sensible and thinking part, and neither proceeds from any thing durable in him, nor leaves any thing behind it; but passes in a moment, and is as if it had never been. on the other hand, an intention shews certain qualities, which remaining after the action is performed, connect it with the person, and facilitate the transition of ideas from one to the other. we can never think of him without reflecting on these qualities; unless repentance and a change of life have produced an alteration in that respect: in which case the passion is likewise altered. this therefore is one reason, why an intention is requisite to excite either love or hatred. but we must farther consider, that an intention, besides its strengthening the relation of ideas, is often necessary to produce a relation of impressions, and give rise to pleasure and uneasiness. for it is observable, that the principal part of an injury is the contempt and hatred, which it shews in the person, that injures us; and without that, the mere harm gives us a less sensible uneasiness. in like manner, a good office is agreeable, chiefly because it flatters our vanity, and is a proof of the kindness and esteem of the person, who performs it. the removal of the intention, removes the mortification in the one case, and vanity in the other, and must of course cause a remarkable diminution in the passions of love and hatred. i grant, that these effects of the removal of design, in diminishing the relations of impressions and ideas, are not entire, nor able to remove every degree of these relations. but then i ask, if the removal of design be able entirely to remove the passion of love and hatred? experience, i am sure, informs us of the contrary, nor is there any thing more certain, than that men often fall into a violent anger for injuries, which they themselves must own to be entirely involuntary and accidental. this emotion, indeed, cannot be of long continuance; but still is sufficient to shew, that there is a natural connexion betwixt uneasiness and anger, and that the relation of impressions will operate upon a very small relation of ideas. but when the violence of the impression is once a little abated, the defect of the relation begins to be better felt; and as the character of a person is no wise interested in such injuries as are casual and involuntary, it seldom happens that on their account, we entertain a lasting enmity. to illustrate this doctrine by a parallel instance, we may observe, that not only the uneasiness, which proceeds from another by accident, has but little force to excite our passion, but also that which arises from an acknowledged necessity and duty. one that has a real design of harming us, proceeding not from hatred and ill-will, but from justice and equity, draws not upon him our anger, if we be in any degree reasonable; notwithstanding he is both the cause, and the knowing cause of our sufferings. let us examine a little this phaenomenon. it is evident in the first place, that this circumstance is not decisive; and though it may be able to diminish the passions, it is seldom it can entirely remove them. how few criminals are there, who have no ill-will to the person, that accuses them, or to the judge, that condemns them, even though they be conscious of their own deserts? in like manner our antagonist in a law-suit, and our competitor for any office, are commonly regarded as our enemies; though we must acknowledge, if we would but reflect a moment, that their motive is entirely as justifiable as our own. besides we may consider, that when we receive harm from any person, we are apt to imagine him criminal, and it is with extreme difficulty we allow of his justice and innocence. this is a clear proof, that, independent of the opinion of iniquity, any harm or uneasiness has a natural tendency to excite our hatred, and that afterwards we seek for reasons upon which we may justify and establish the passion. here the idea of injury produces not the passion, but arises from it. nor is it any wonder that passion should produce the opinion of injury; since otherwise it must suffer a considerable diminution, which all the passions avoid as much as possible. the removal of injury may remove the anger, without proving that the anger arises only from the injury. the harm and the justice are two contrary objects, of which the one has a tendency to produce hatred, and the other love; and it is according to their different degrees, and our particular turn of thinking, that either of the objects prevails, and excites its proper passion. sect. iv of the love of relations having given a reason, why several actions, that cause a real pleasure or uneasiness, excite not any degree, or but a small one, of the passion of love or hatred towards the actors; it will be necessary to shew, wherein consists the pleasure or uneasiness of many objects, which we find by experience to produce these passions. according to the preceding system there is always required a double relation of impressions and ideas betwixt the cause and effect, in order to produce either love or hatred. but though this be universally true, it is remarkable that the passion of love may be excited by only one relation of a different kind, viz, betwixt ourselves and the object; or more properly speaking, that this relation is always attended with both the others. whoever is united to us by any connexion is always sure of a share of our love, proportioned to the connexion, without enquiring into his other qualities. thus the relation of blood produces the strongest tie the mind is capable of in the love of parents to their children, and a lesser degree of the same affection, as the relation lessens. nor has consanguinity alone this effect, but any other relation without exception. we love our country-men, our neighbours, those of the same trade, profession, and even name with ourselves. every one of these relations is esteemed some tie, and gives a title to a share of our affection. there is another phaenomenon, which is parallel to this, viz, that acquaintance, without any kind of relation, gives rise to love and kindness. when we have contracted a habitude and intimacy with any person; though in frequenting his company we have not been able to discover any very valuable quality, of which he is possessed; yet we cannot forebear preferring him to strangers, of whose superior merit we are fully convinced. these two phaenomena of the effects of relation and acquaintance will give mutual light to each other, and may be both explained from the same principle. those, who take a pleasure in declaiming against human nature, have observed, that man is altogether insufficient to support himself; and that when you loosen all the holds, which he has of external objects, he immediately drops down into the deepest melancholy and despair. from this, say they, proceeds that continual search after amusement in gaming, in hunting, in business; by which we endeavour to forget ourselves, and excite our spirits from the languid state, into which they fall, when not sustained by some brisk and lively emotion. to this method of thinking i so far agree, that i own the mind to be insufficient, of itself, to its own entertainment, and that it naturally seeks after foreign objects, which may produce a lively sensation, and agitate the spirits. on the appearance of such an object it awakes, as it were, from a dream: the blood flows with a new tide: the heart is elevated: and the whole man acquires a vigour, which he cannot command in his solitary and calm moments. hence company is naturally so rejoicing, as presenting the liveliest of all objects, viz, a rational and thinking being like ourselves, who communicates to us all the actions of his mind; makes us privy to his inmost sentiments and affections; and lets us see, in the very instant of their production, all the emotions, which are caused by any object. every lively idea is agreeable, but especially that of a passion, because such an idea becomes a kind of passion, and gives a more sensible agitation to the mind, than any other image or conception. this being once admitted, all the rest is easy. for as the company of strangers is agreeable to us for a short time, by inlivening our thought; so the company of our relations and acquaintance must be peculiarly agreeable, because it has this effect in a greater degree, and is of more durable influence. whatever is related to us is conceived in a lively manner by the easy transition from ourselves to the related object. custom also, or acquaintance facilitates the entrance, and strengthens the conception of any object. the first case is parallel to our reasonings from cause and effect; the second to education. and as reasoning and education concur only in producing a lively and strong idea of any object; so is this the only particular, which is common to relation and acquaintance. this must, therefore, be the influencing quality, by which they produce all their common effects; and love or kindness being one of these effects, it must be from the force and liveliness of conception, that the passion is derived. such a conception is peculiarly agreeable, and makes us have an affectionate regard for every thing, that produces it, when the proper object of kindness and goodwill. it is obvious, that people associate together according to their particular tempers and dispositions, and that men of gay tempers naturally love the gay; as the serious bear an affection to the serious. this not only happens, where they remark this resemblance betwixt themselves and others, but also by the natural course of the disposition, and by a certain sympathy, which always arises betwixt similar characters. where they remark the resemblance, it operates after the manner of a relation, by producing a connexion of ideas. where they do not remark it, it operates by some other principle; and if this latter principle be similar to the former, it must be received as a confirmation of the foregoing reasoning. the idea of ourselves is always intimately present to us, and conveys a sensible degree of vivacity to the idea of any other object, to which we are related. this lively idea changes by degrees into a real impression; these two kinds of perception being in a great measure the same, and differing only in their degrees of force and vivacity. but this change must be produced with the greater ease, that our natural temper gives us a propensity to the same impression, which we observe in others, and makes it arise upon any slight occasion. in that case resemblance converts the idea into an impression, not only by means of the relation, and by transfusing the original vivacity into the related idea; but also by presenting such materials as take fire from the least spark. and as in both cases a love or affection arises from the resemblance, we may learn that a sympathy with others is agreeable only by giving an emotion to the spirits, since an easy sympathy and correspondent emotions are alone common to relation, acquaintance, and resemblance. the great propensity men have to pride may be considered as another similar phaenomenon. it often happens, that after we have lived a considerable time in any city; however at first it might be disagreeable to us; yet as we become familiar with the objects, and contact an acquaintance, though merely with the streets and buildings, the aversion diminishes by degrees, and at last changes into the opposite passion. the mind finds a satisfaction and ease in the view of objects, to which it is accustomed, and naturally prefers them to others, which, though, perhaps, in themselves more valuable, are less known to it. by the same quality of the mind we are seduced into a good opinion of ourselves, and of all objects, that belong to us. they appear in a stronger light; are more agreeable; and consequently fitter subjects of pride and vanity, than any other. it may not be amiss, in treating of the affection we bear our acquaintance and relations, to observe some pretty curious phaenomena, which attend it. it is easy to remark in common life, that children esteem their relation to their mother to be weakened, in a great measure, by her second marriage, and no longer regard her with the same eye, as if she had continued in her state of widow-hood. nor does this happen only, when they have felt any inconveniences from her second marriage, or when her husband is much her inferior; but even without any of these considerations, and merely because she has become part of another family. this also takes place with regard to the second marriage of a father; but in a much less degree: and it is certain the ties of blood are not so much loosened in the latter case as by the marriage of a mother. these two phaenomena are remarkable in themselves, but much more so when compared. in order to produce a perfect relation betwixt two objects, it is requisite, not only that the imagination be conveyed from one to the other by resemblance, contiguity or causation, but also that it return back from the second to the first with the same ease and facility. at first sight this may seem a necessary and unavoidable consequence. if one object resemble another, the latter object must necessarily resemble the former. if one object be the cause of another, the second object is effect to its cause. it is the same case with contiguity: and therefore the relation being always reciprocal, it may be thought, that the return of the imagination from the second to the first must also, in every case, be equally natural as its passage from the first to the second. but upon farther examination we shall easily discover our mistake. for supposing the second object, beside its reciprocal relation to the first, to have also a strong relation to a third object; in that case the thought, passing from the first object to the second, returns not back with the same facility, though the relation continues the same; but is readily carryed on to the third object, by means of the new relation, which presents itself, and gives a new impulse to the imagination. this new relation, therefore, weakens the tie betwixt the first and second objects. the fancy is by its very nature wavering and inconstant; and considers always two objects as more strongly related together, where it finds the passage equally easy both in going and returning, than where the transition is easy only in one of these motions. the double motion is a kind of a double tie, and binds the objects together in the closest and most intimate manner. the second marriage of a mother breaks not the relation of child and parent; and that relation suffices to convey my imagination from myself to her with the greatest ease and facility. but after the imagination is arrived at this point of view, it finds its object to be surrounded with so many other relations, which challenge its regard, that it knows not which to prefer, and is at a loss what new object to pitch upon. the ties of interest and duty bind her to another family, and prevent that return of the fancy from her to myself, which is necessary to support the union. the thought has no longer the vibration, requisite to set it perfectly at ease, and indulge its inclination to change. it goes with facility, but returns with difficulty; and by that interruption finds the relation much weakened from what it would be were the passage open and easy on both sides. now to give a reason, why this effect follows not in the same degree upon the second marriage of a father: we may reflect on what has been proved already, that though the imagination goes easily from the view of a lesser object to that of a greater, yet it returns not with the same facility from the greater to the less. when my imagination goes from myself to my father, it passes not so readily from him to his second wife, nor considers him as entering into a different family, but as continuing the head of that family, of which i am myself a part. his superiority prevents the easy transition of the thought from him to his spouse, but keeps the passage still open for a return to myself along the same relation of child and parent. he is not sunk in the new relation he acquires; so that the double motion or vibration of thought is still easy and natural. by this indulgence of the fancy in its inconstancy, the tie of child and parent still preserves its full force and influence. a mother thinks not her tie to a son weakened, because it is shared with her husband: nor a son his with a parent, because it is shared with a brother. the third object is here related to the first, as well as to the second; so that the imagination goes and comes along all of them with the greatest facility. sect. v of our esteem for the rich and powerful nothing has a greater tendency to give us an esteem for any person, than his power and riches; or a contempt, than his poverty and meanness: and as esteem and contempt are to be considered as species of love and hatred, it will be proper in this place to explain these phaenomena. here it happens most fortunately, that the greatest difficulty is not to discover a principle capable of producing such an effect, but to choose the chief and predominant among several, that present themselves. the satisfaction we take in the riches of others, and the esteem we have for the possessors may be ascribed to three different causes. first, to the objects they possess; such as houses, gardens, equipages; which, being agreeable in themselves, necessarily produce a sentiment of pleasure in every one; that either considers or surveys them. secondly, to the expectation of advantage from the rich and powerful by our sharing their possessions. thirdly, to sympathy, which makes us partake of the satisfaction of every one, that approaches us. all these principles may concur in producing the present phaenomenon. the question is, to which of them we ought principally to ascribe it. it is certain, that the first principle, viz, the reflection on agreeable objects, has a greater influence, than what, at first sight, we may be apt to imagine. we seldom reflect on what is beautiful or ugly, agreeable or disagreeable, without an emotion of pleasure or uneasiness; and though these sensations appear not much in our common indolent way of thinking, it is easy, either in reading or conversation, to discover them. men of wit always turn the discourse on subjects that are entertaining to the imagination; and poets never present any objects but such as are of the same nature. mr philips has chosen cyder for the subject of an excellent poem. beer would not have been so proper, as being neither so agreeable to the taste nor eye. but he would certainly have preferred wine to either of them, coued his native country have afforded him so agreeable a liquor. we may learn from thence, that every thing, which is agreeable to the senses, is also in some measure agreeable to the fancy, and conveys to the thought an image of that satisfaction, which it gives by its real application to the bodily organs. but though these reasons may induce us to comprehend this delicacy of the imagination among the causes of the respect, which we pay the rich and powerful, there are many other reasons, that may keep us from regarding it as the sole or principal. for as the ideas of pleasure can have an influence only by means of their vivacity, which makes them approach impressions, it is most natural those ideas should have that influence, which are favoured by most circumstances, and have a natural tendency to become strong and lively; such as our ideas of the passions and sensations of any human creature. every human creature resembles ourselves, and by that means has an advantage above any other object, in operating on the imagination. besides, if we consider the nature of that faculty, and the great influence which all relations have upon it, we shall easily be persuaded, that however the ideas of the pleasant wines, music, or gardens, which the rich man enjoys, may become lively and agreeable, the fancy will not confine itself to them, but will carry its view to the related objects; and in particular, to the person, who possesses them. and this is the more natural, that the pleasant idea or image produces here a passion towards the person, by means of his relation to the object; so that it is unavoidable but he must enter into the original conception, since he makes the object of the derivative passion: but if he enters into the original conception, and is considered as enjoying these agreeable objects, it is sympathy, which is properly the cause of the affection; and the third principle is more powerful and universal than the first. add to this, that riches and power alone, even though unemployed, naturally cause esteem and respect: and consequently these passions arise not from the idea of any beautiful or agreeable objects. it is true; money implies a kind of representation of such objects, by the power it affords of obtaining them; and for that reason may still be esteemed proper to convey those agreeable images, which may give rise to the passion. but as this prospect is very distant, it is more natural for us to take a contiguous object, viz, the satisfaction, which this power affords the person, who is possest of it. and of this we shall be farther satisfyed, if we consider, that riches represent the goods of life, only by means of the will; which employs them; and therefore imply in their very nature an idea of the person, and cannot be considered without a kind of sympathy with his sensations and enjoyments. this we may confirm by a reflection, which to some will, perhaps, appear too subtile and refined. i have already observed, that power, as distinguished from its exercise, has either no meaning at all, or is nothing but a possibility or probability of existence; by which any object approaches to reality, and has a sensible influence on the mind. i have also observed, that this approach, by an illusion of the fancy, appears much greater, when we ourselves are possest of the power, than when it is enjoyed by another; and that in the former case the objects seem to touch upon the very verge of reality, and convey almost an equal satisfaction, as if actually in our possession. now i assert, that where we esteem a person upon account of his riches, we must enter into this sentiment of the proprietor, and that without such a sympathy the idea of the agreeable objects, which they give him the power to produce, would have but a feeble influence upon us. an avaritious man is respected for his money, though he scarce is possest of a power; that is, there scarce is a probability or even possibility of his employing it in the acquisition of the pleasures and conveniences of life. to himself alone this power seems perfect and entire; and therefore we must receive his sentiments by sympathy, before we can have a strong intense idea of these enjoyments, or esteem him upon account of them. thus we have found, that the first principle, viz, the agreeable idea of those objects, which riches afford the enjoyment of; resolves itself in a great measure into the third, and becomes a sympathy with the person we esteem or love. let us now examine the second principle, viz, the agreeable expectation of advantage, and see what force we may justly attribute to it. it is obvious, that though riches and authority undoubtedly give their owner a power of doing us service, yet this power is not to be considered as on the same footing with that, which they afford him, of pleasing himself, and satisfying his own appetites. self-love approaches the power and exercise very near each other in the latter case; but in order to produce a similar effect in the former, we must suppose a friendship and good-will to be conjoined with the riches. without that circumstance it is difficult to conceive on what we can found our hope of advantage from the riches of others, though there is nothing more certain, than that we naturally esteem and respect the rich, even before we discover in them any such favourable disposition towards us. but i carry this farther, and observe, not only that we respect the rich and powerful, where they shew no inclination to serve us, but also when we lie so much out of the sphere of their activity, that they cannot even be supposed to be endowed with that power. prisoners of war are always treated with a respect suitable to their condition; and it is certain riches go very far towards fixing the condition of any person. if birth and quality enter for a share, this still affords us an argument of the same kind. for what is it we call a man of birth, but one who is descended from a long succession of rich and powerful ancestors, and who acquires our esteem by his relation to persons whom we esteem? his ancestors, therefore, though dead, are respected, in some measure, on account of their riches, and consequently without any kind of expectation. but not to go so far as prisoners of war and the dead to find instances of this disinterested esteem for riches, let us observe with a little attention those phaenomena that occur to us in common life and conversation. a man, who is himself of a competent fortune, upon coming into a company of strangers, naturally treats them with different degrees of respect and deference, as he is informed of their different fortunes and conditions; though it is impossible he can ever propose, and perhaps would not accept of any advantage from them. a traveller is always admitted into company, and meets with civility, in proportion as his train and equipage speak him a man of great or moderate fortune. in short, the different ranks of men are, in a great measure, regulated by riches, and that with regard to superiors as well as inferiors, strangers as well as acquaintance. there is, indeed, an answer to these arguments, drawn from the influence of general rules. it may be pretended, that being accustomed to expect succour and protection from the rich and powerful, and to esteem them upon that account, we extend the same sentiments to those, who resemble them in their fortune, but from whom we can never hope for any advantage. the general rule still prevails, and by giving a bent to the imagination draws along the passion, in the same manner as if its proper object were real and existent. but that this principle does not here take place, will easily appear, if we consider, that in order to establish a general rule, and extend it beyond its proper bounds, there is required a certain uniformity in our experience, and a great superiority of those instances, which are conformable to the rule, above the contrary. but here the case is quite otherwise. of a hundred men of credit and fortune i meet with, there is not, perhaps, one from whom i can expect advantage; so that it is impossible any custom can ever prevail in the present case. upon the whole, there remains nothing, which can give us an esteem for power and riches, and a contempt for meanness and poverty, except the principle of sympathy, by which we enter into the sentiments of the rich and poor, and partake of their pleasure and uneasiness. riches give satisfaction to their possessor; and this satisfaction is conveyed to the beholder by the imagination, which produces an idea resembling the original impression in force and vivacity. this agreeable idea or impression is connected with love, which is an agreeable passion. it proceeds from a thinking conscious being, which is the very object of love. from this relation of impressions, and identity of ideas, the passion arises, according to my hypothesis. the best method of reconciling us to this opinion is to take a general survey of the universe, and observe the force of sympathy through the whole animal creation, and the easy communication of sentiments from one thinking being to another. in all creatures, that prey not upon others, and are not agitated with violent passions, there appears a remarkable desire of company, which associates them together, without any advantages they can ever propose to reap from their union. this is still more conspicuous in man, as being the creature of the universe, who has the most ardent desire of society, and is fitted for it by the most advantages. we can form no wish, which has not a reference to society. a perfect solitude is, perhaps, the greatest punishment we can suffer. every pleasure languishes when enjoyed a-part from company, and every pain becomes more cruel and intolerable. whatever other passions we may be actuated by; pride, ambition, avarice, curiosity, revenge or lust; the soul or animating principle of them all is sympathy; nor would they have any force, were we to abstract entirely from the thoughts and sentiments of others. let all the powers and elements of nature conspire to serve and obey one man: let the sun rise and set at his command: the sea and rivers roll as he pleases, and the earth furnish spontaneously whatever may be useful or agreeable to him: he will still be miserable, till you give him some one person at least, with whom he may share his happiness, and whose esteem and friendship he may enjoy. this conclusion from a general view of human nature, we may confirm by particular instances, wherein the force of sympathy is very remarkable. most kinds of beauty are derived from this origin; and though our first object be some senseless inanimate piece of matter, it is seldom we rest there, and carry not our view to its influence on sensible and rational creatures. a man, who shews us any house or building, takes particular care among other things to point out the convenience of the apartments, the advantages of their situation, and the little room lost in the stairs, antichambers and passages; and indeed it is evident, the chief part of the beauty consists in these particulars. the observation of convenience gives pleasure, since convenience is a beauty. but after what manner does it give pleasure? it is certain our own interest is not in the least concerned; and as this is a beauty of interest, not of form, so to speak, it must delight us merely by communication, and by our sympathizing with the proprietor of the lodging. we enter into his interest by the force of imagination, and feel the same satisfaction, that the objects naturally occasion in him. this observation extends to tables, chairs, scritoires, chimneys, coaches, sadles, ploughs, and indeed to every work of art; it being an universal rule, that their beauty is chiefly derived from their utility, and from their fitness for that purpose, to which they are destined. but this is an advantage, that concerns only the owner, nor is there any thing but sympathy, which can interest the spectator. it is evident, that nothing renders a field more agreeable than its fertility, and that scarce any advantages of ornament or situation will be able to equal this beauty. it is the same case with particular trees and plants, as with the field on which they grow. i know not but a plain, overgrown with furze and broom, may be, in itself, as beautiful as a hill covered with vines or olive-trees; though it will never appear so to one, who is acquainted with the value of each. but this is a beauty merely of imagination, and has no foundation in what appears to the senses. fertility and value have a plain reference to use; and that to riches, joy, and plenty; in which though we have no hope of partaking, yet we enter into them by the vivacity of the fancy, and share them, in some measure, with the proprietor. there is no rule in painting more reasonable than that of ballancing the figures, and placing them with the greatest exactness on their proper centers of gravity. a figure, which is not justly ballanced, is disagreeable; and that because it conveys the ideas of its fall, of harm, and of pain: which ideas are painful, when by sympathy they acquire any degree of force and vivacity. add to this, that the principal part of personal beauty is an air of health and vigour, and such a construction of members as promises strength and activity. this idea of beauty cannot be accounted for but by sympathy. in general we may remark, that the minds of men are mirrors to one another, not only because they reflect each others emotions, but also because those rays of passions, sentiments and opinions may be often reverberated, and may decay away by insensible degrees. thus the pleasure, which a rich man receives from his possessions, being thrown upon the beholder, causes a pleasure and esteem; which sentiments again, being perceived and sympathized with, encrease the pleasure of the possessor; and being once more reflected, become a new foundation for pleasure and esteem in the beholder. there is certainly an original satisfaction in riches derived from that power, which they bestow, of enjoying all the pleasures of life; and as this is their very nature and essence, it must be the first source of all the passions, which arise from them. one of the most considerable of these passions is that of love or esteem in others, which therefore proceeds from a sympathy with the pleasure of the possessor. but the possessor has also a secondary satisfaction in riches arising from the love and esteem he acquires by them, and this satisfaction is nothing but a second reflexion of that original pleasure, which proceeded from himself. this secondary satisfaction or vanity becomes one of the principal recommendations of riches, and is the chief reason, why we either desire them for ourselves, or esteem them in others. here then is a third rebound of the original pleasure; after which it is difficult to distinguish the images and reflexions, by reason of their faintness and confusion. sect. vi of benevolence and anger ideas may be compared to the extension and solidity of matter, and impressions, especially reflective ones, to colours, tastes, smells and other sensible qualities. ideas never admit of a total union, but are endowed with a kind of impenetrability, by which they exclude each other, and are capable of forming a compound by their conjunction, not by their mixture. on the other hand, impressions and passions are susceptible of an entire union; and like colours, may be blended so perfectly together, that each of them may lose itself, and contribute only to vary that uniform impression, which arises from the whole. some of the most curious phaenomena of the human mind are derived from this property of the passions. in examining those ingredients, which are capable of uniting with love and hatred, i begin to be sensible, in some measure, of a misfortune, that has attended every system of philosophy, with which the world has been yet acquainted. it is commonly found, that in accounting for the operations of nature by any particular hypothesis; among a number of experiments, that quadrate exactly with the principles we would endeavour to establish; there is always some phaenomenon, which is more stubborn, and will not so easily bend to our purpose. we need not be surprized, that this should happen in natural philosophy. the essence and composition of external bodies are so obscure, that we must necessarily, in our reasonings, or rather conjectures concerning them, involve ourselves in contradictions and absurdities. but as the perceptions of the mind are perfectly known, and i have used all imaginable caution in forming conclusions concerning them, i have always hoped to keep clear of those contradictions, which have attended every other system. accordingly the difficulty, which i have at present in my eye, is nowise contrary to my system; but only departs a little from that simplicity, which has been hitherto its principal force and beauty. the passions of love and hatred are always followed by, or rather conjoined with benevolence and anger. it is this conjunction, which chiefly distinguishes these affections from pride and humility. for pride and humility are pure emotions in the soul, unattended with any desire, and not immediately exciting us to action. but love and hatred are not compleated within themselves, nor rest in that emotion, which they produce, but carry the mind to something farther. love is always followed by a desire of the happiness of the person beloved, and an aversion to his misery: as hatred produces a desire of the misery and an aversion to the happiness of the person hated. so remarkable a difference betwixt these two sets of passions of pride and humility, love and hatred, which in so many other particulars correspond to each other, merits our attention. the conjunction of this desire and aversion with love and hatred may be accounted for by two different hypotheses. the first is, that love and hatred have not only a cause, which excites them, viz, pleasure and pain; and an object, to which they are directed, viz, a person or thinking being; but likewise an end, which they endeavour to attain, viz, the happiness or misery of the person beloved or hated; all which views, mixing together, make only one passion. according to this system, love is nothing but the desire of happiness to another person, and hatred that of misery. the desire and aversion constitute the very nature of love and hatred. they are not only inseparable but the same. but this is evidently contrary to experience. for though it is certain we never love any person without desiring his happiness, nor hate any without wishing his misery, yet these desires arise only upon the ideas of the happiness or misery of our friend or enemy being presented by the imagination, and are not absolutely essential to love and hatred. they are the most obvious and natural sentiments of these affections, but not the only ones. the passions may express themselves in a hundred ways, and may subsist a considerable time, without our reflecting on the happiness or misery of their objects; which clearly proves, that these desires are not the same with love and hatred, nor make any essential part of them. we may, therefore, infer, that benevolence and anger are passions different from love and hatred, and only conjoined with them, by the original constitution of the mind. as nature has given to the body certain appetites and inclinations, which she encreases, diminishes, or changes according to the situation of the fluids or solids; she has proceeded in the same manner with the mind. according as we are possessed with love or hatred, the correspondent desire of the happiness or misery of the person, who is the object of these passions, arises in the mind, and varies with each variation of these opposite passions. this order of things, abstractedly considered, is not necessary. love and hatred might have been unattended with any such desires, or their particular connexion might have been entirely reversed. if nature had so pleased, love might have had the same effect as hatred, and hatred as love. i see no contradiction in supposing a desire of producing misery annexed to love, and of happiness to hatred. if the sensation of the passion and desire be opposite, nature coued have altered the sensation without altering the tendency of the desire, and by that means made them compatible with each other. sect. vii of compassion but though the desire of the happiness or misery of others, according to the love or hatred we bear them, be an arbitrary and original instinct implanted in our nature, we find it may be counterfeited on many occasions, and may arise from secondary principles. pity is a concern for, and malice a joy in the misery of others, without any friendship or enmity to occasion this concern or joy. we pity even strangers, and such as are perfectly indifferent to us: and if our ill-will to another proceed from any harm or injury, it is not, properly speaking, malice, but revenge. but if we examine these affections of pity and malice we shall find them to be secondary ones, arising from original affections, which are varied by some particular turn of thought and imagination. it will be easy to explain the passion of pity, from the precedent reasoning concerning sympathy. we have a lively idea of every thing related to us. all human creatures are related to us by resemblance. their persons, therefore, their interests, their passions, their pains and pleasures must strike upon us in a lively manner, and produce an emotion similar to the original one; since a lively idea is easily converted into an impression. if this be true in general, it must be more so of affliction and sorrow. these have always a stronger and more lasting influence than any pleasure or enjoyment. a spectator of a tragedy passes through a long train of grief, terror, indignation, and other affections, which the poet represents in the persons he introduces. as many tragedies end happily, and no excellent one can be composed without some reverses of fortune, the spectator must sympathize with all these changes, and receive the fictitious joy as well as every other passion. unless, therefore, it be asserted, that every distinct passion is communicated by a distinct original quality, and is not derived from the general principle of sympathy above-explained, it must be allowed, that all of them arise from that principle. to except any one in particular must appear highly unreasonable. as they are all first present in the mind of one person, and afterwards appear in the mind of another; and as the manner of their appearance, first as an idea, then as an impression, is in every case the same, the transition must arise from the same principle. i am at least sure, that this method of reasoning would be considered as certain, either in natural philosophy or common life. add to this, that pity depends, in a great measure, on the contiguity, and even sight of the object; which is a proof, that it is derived from the imagination. not to mention that women and children are most subject to pity, as being most guided by that faculty. the same infirmity, which makes them faint at the sight of a naked sword, though in the hands of their best friend, makes them pity extremely those, whom they find in any grief or affliction. those philosophers, who derive this passion from i know not what subtile reflections on the instability of fortune, and our being liable to the same miseries we behold, will find this observation contrary to them among a great many others, which it were easy to produce. there remains only to take notice of a pretty remarkable phaenomenon of this passion; which is, that the communicated passion of sympathy sometimes acquires strength from the weakness of its original, and even arises by a transition from affections, which have no existence. thus when a person obtains any honourable office, or inherits a great fortune, we are always the more rejoiced for his prosperity, the less sense he seems to have of it, and the greater equanimity and indifference he shews in its enjoyment. in like manner a man, who is not dejected by misfortunes, is the more lamented on account of his patience; and if that virtue extends so far as utterly to remove all sense of uneasiness, it still farther encreases our compassion. when a person of merit falls into what is vulgarly esteemed a great misfortune, we form a notion of his condition; and carrying our fancy from the cause to the usual effect, first conceive a lively idea of his sorrow, and then feel an impression of it, entirely over-looking that greatness of mind, which elevates him above such emotions, or only considering it so far as to encrease our admiration, love and tenderness for him. we find from experience, that such a degree of passion is usually connected with such a misfortune; and though there be an exception in the present case, yet the imagination is affected by the general rule, and makes us conceive a lively idea of the passion, or rather feel the passion itself, in the same manner, as if the person were really actuated by it. from the same principles we blush for the conduct of those, who behave themselves foolishly before us; and that though they shew no sense of shame, nor seem in the least conscious of their folly. all this proceeds from sympathy; but it is of a partial kind, and views its objects only on one side, without considering the other, which has a contrary effect, and would entirely destroy that emotion, which arises from the first appearance. we have also instances, wherein an indifference and insensibility under misfortune encreases our concern for the misfortunate, even though the indifference proceed not from any virtue and magnanimity. it is an aggravation of a murder, that it was committed upon persons asleep and in perfect security; as historians readily observe of any infant prince, who is captive in the hands of his enemies, that he is the more worthy of compassion the less sensible he is of his miserable condition. as we ourselves are here acquainted with the wretched situation of the person, it gives us a lively idea and sensation of sorrow, which is the passion that generally attends it; and this idea becomes still more lively, and the sensation more violent by a contrast with that security and indifference, which we observe in the person himself. a contrast of any kind never fails to affect the imagination, especially when presented by the subject; and it is on the imagination that pity entirely depends. [footnote . to prevent all ambiguity, i must observe, that where i oppose the imagination to the memory, i mean in general the faculty that presents our fainter ideas. in all other places, and particularly when it is opposed to the understanding, i understand the same faculty, excluding only our demonstrative and probable reasonings.] sect. viii of malice and envy we must now proceed to account for the passion of malice, which imitates the effects of hatred, as pity does those of love; and gives us a joy in the sufferings and miseries of others, without any offence or injury on their part. so little are men governed by reason in their sentiments and opinions, that they always judge more of objects by comparison than from their intrinsic worth and value. when the mind considers, or is accustomed to, any degree of perfection, whatever falls short of it, though really esteemable, has notwithstanding the same effect upon the passions; as what is defective and ill. this is an original quality of the soul, and similar to what we have every day experience of in our bodies. let a man heat one hand and cool the other; the same water will, at the same time, seem both hot and cold, according to the disposition of the different organs. a small degree of any quality, succeeding a greater, produces the same sensation, as if less than it really is, and even sometimes as the opposite quality. any gentle pain, that follows a violent one, seems as nothing, or rather becomes a pleasure; as on the other hand a violent pain, succeeding a gentle one, is doubly grievous and uneasy. this no one can doubt of with regard to our passions and sensations. but there may arise some difficulty with regard to our ideas and objects. when an object augments or diminishes to the eye or imagination from a comparison with others, the image and idea of the object are still the same, and are equally extended in the retina, and in the brain or organ of perception. the eyes refract the rays of light, and the optic nerves convey the images to the brain in the very same manner, whether a great or small object has preceded; nor does even the imagination alter the dimensions of its object on account of a comparison with others. the question then is, how from the same impression and the same idea we can form such different judgments concerning the same object, and at one time admire its bulk, and at another despise its littleness. this variation in our judgments must certainly proceed from a variation in some perception; but as the variation lies not in the immediate impression or idea of the object, it must lie in some other impression, that accompanies it. in order to explain this matter, i shall just touch upon two principles, one of which shall be more fully explained in the progress of this treatise; the other has been already accounted for. i believe it may safely be established for a general maxim, that no object is presented to the senses, nor image formed in the fancy, but what is accompanyed with some emotion or movement of spirits proportioned to it; and however custom may make us insensible of this sensation and cause us to confound it with the object or idea, it will be easy, by careful and exact experiments, to separate and distinguish them. for to instance only in the cases of extension and number; it is evident, that any very bulky object, such as the ocean, an extended plain, a vast chain of mountains, a wide forest: or any very numerous collection of objects, such as an army, a fleet, a crowd, excite in the mind a sensible emotion; and that the admiration, which arises on the appearance of such objects, is one of the most lively pleasures, which human nature is capable of enjoying. now as this admiration encreases or diminishes by the encrease or diminution of the objects, we may conclude, according to our foregoing [book i. part iii. sect. .] principles, that it is a compound effect, proceeding from the conjunction of the several effects, which arise from each part of the cause. every part, then, of extension, and every unite of number has a separate emotion attending it; and though that emotion be not always agreeable, yet by its conjunction with others, and by its agitating the spirits to a just pitch, it contributes to the production of admiration, which is always agreeable. if this be allowed with respect to extension and number, we can make no difficulty with respect to virtue and vice, wit and folly, riches and poverty, happiness and misery, and other objects of that kind, which are always attended with an evident emotion. the second principle i shall take notice of is that of our adherence to general rules; which has such a mighty influence on the actions and understanding, and is able to impose on the very senses. when an object is found by-experience to be always accompanyed with another; whenever the first object appears, though changed in very material circumstances; we naturally fly to the conception of the second, and form an idea of it in as lively and strong a manner, as if we had infered its existence by the justest and most authentic conclusion of our understanding. nothing can undeceive us, not even our senses, which, instead of correcting this false judgment, are often perverted by it, and seem to authorize its errors. the conclusion i draw from these two principles, joined to the influence of comparison above-mentioned, is very short and decisive. every object is attended with some emotion proportioned to it; a great object with a great emotion, a small object with a small emotion. a great object, therefore, succeeding a small one makes a great emotion succeed a small one. now a great emotion succeeding a small one becomes still greater, and rises beyond its ordinary proportion. but as there is a certain degree of an emotion, which commonly attends every magnitude of an object; when the emotion encreases, we naturally imagine that the object has likewise encreased. the effect conveys our view to its usual cause, a certain degree of emotion to a certain magnitude of the object; nor do we consider, that comparison may change the emotion without changing anything in the object. those who are acquainted with the metaphysical part of optics and know how we transfer the judgments and conclusions of the understanding to the senses, will easily conceive this whole operation. but leaving this new discovery of an impression, that secretly attends every idea; we must at least allow of that principle, from whence the discovery arose, that objects appear greater or less by a comparison with others. we have so many instances of this, that it is impossible we can dispute its veracity; and it is from this principle i derive the passions of malice and envy. it is evident we must receive a greater or less satisfaction or uneasiness from reflecting on our own condition and circumstances, in proportion as they appear more or less fortunate or unhappy, in proportion to the degrees of riches, and power, and merit, and reputation, which we think ourselves possest of. now as we seldom judge of objects from their intrinsic value, but form our notions of them from a comparison with other objects; it follows, that according as we observe a greater or less share of happiness or misery in others, we must make an estimate of our own, and feel a consequent pain or pleasure. the misery of another gives us a more lively idea of our happiness, and his happiness of our misery. the former, therefore, produces delight; and the latter uneasiness. here then is a kind of pity reverst, or contrary sensations arising in the beholder, from those which are felt by the person, whom he considers. in general we may observe, that in all kinds of comparison an object makes us always receive from another, to which it is compared, a sensation contrary to what arises from itself in its direct and immediate survey. a small object makes a great one appear still greater. a great object makes a little one appear less. deformity of itself produces uneasiness; but makes us receive new pleasure by its contrast with a beautiful object, whose beauty is augmented by it; as on the other hand, beauty, which of itself produces pleasure, makes us receive a new pain by the contrast with any thing ugly, whose deformity it augments. the case, therefore, must be the same with happiness and misery. the direct survey of another's pleasure naturally gives us plcasure, and therefore produces pain when compared with our own. his pain, considered in itself, is painful to us, but augments the idea of our own happiness, and gives us pleasure. nor will it appear strange, that we may feel a reverst sensation from the happiness and misery of others; since we find the same comparison may give us a kind of malice against ourselves, and make us rejoice for our pains, and grieve for our pleasures. thus the prospect of past pain is agreeable, when we are satisfyed with our present condition; as on the other hand our past pleasures give us uneasiness, when we enjoy nothing at present equal to them. the comparison being the same, as when we reflect on the sentiments of others, must be attended with the same effects. nay a person may extend this malice against himself, even to his present fortune, and carry it so far as designedly to seek affliction, and encrease his pains and sorrows. this may happen upon two occasions. first, upon the distress and misfortune of a friend, or person dear to him. secondly, upon the feeling any remorses for a crime, of which he has been guilty. it is from the principle of comparison that both these irregular appetites for evil arise. a person, who indulges himself in any pleasure, while his friend lies under affliction, feels the reflected uneasiness from his friend more sensibly by a comparison with the original pleasure, which he himself enjoys. this contrast, indeed, ought also to inliven the present pleasure. but as grief is here supposed to be the predominant passion, every addition falls to that side, and is swallowed up in it, without operating in the least upon the contrary affection. it is the same case with those penances, which men inflict on themselves for their past sins and failings. when a criminal reflects on the punishment he deserves, the idea of it is magnifyed by a comparison with his present ease and satisfaction; which forces him, in a manner, to seek uneasiness, in order to avoid so disagreeable a contrast. this reasoning will account for the origin of envy as well as of malice. the only difference betwixt these passions lies in this, that envy is excited by some present enjoyment of another, which by comparison diminishes our idea of our own: whereas malice is the unprovoked desire of producing evil to another, in order to reap a pleasure from the comparison. the enjoyment, which is the object of envy, is commonly superior to our own. a superiority naturally seems to overshade us, and presents a disagreeable comparison. but even in the case of an inferiority, we still desire a greater distance, in order to augment, still more the idea of ourself. when this distance diminishes, the comparison is less to our advantage; and consequently gives us less pleasure, and is even disagreeable. hence arises that species of envy, which men feel, when they perceive their inferiors approaching or overtaking them in the pursuits of glory or happiness. in this envy we may see the effects of comparison twice repeated. a man, who compares himself to his inferior, receives a pleasure from the comparison: and when the inferiority decreases by the elevation of the inferior, what should only have been a decrease of pleasure, becomes a real pain, by a new comparison with its preceding condition. it is worthy of observation concerning that envy, which arises from a superiority in others, that it is not the great disproportion betwixt ourself and another, which produces it; but on the contrary, our proximity. a common soldier bears no such envy to his general as to his sergeant or corporal; nor does an eminent writer meet with so great jealousy in common hackney scriblers, as in authors, that more nearly approach him. it may, indeed, be thought, that the greater the disproportion is, the greater must be the uneasiness from the comparison. but we may consider on the other hand, that the great disproportion cuts off the relation, and either keeps us from comparing ourselves with what is remote from us, or diminishes the effects of the comparison. resemblance and proximity always produce a relation of ideas; and where you destroy these ties, however other accidents may bring two ideas together; as they have no bond or connecting quality to join them in the imagination; it is impossible they can remain long united, or have any considerable influence on each other. i have observed in considering the nature of ambition, that the great feel a double pleasure in authority from the comparison of their own condition with that of their slaves; and that this comparison has a double influence, because it is natural, and presented by the subject. when the fancy, in the comparison of objects, passes not easily from the one object to the other, the action of the mind is, in a great measure, broke, and the fancy, in considering the second object, begins, as it were, upon a new footing. the impression, which attends every object, seems not greater in that case by succeeding a less of the same kind; but these two impressions are distinct, and produce their distinct effects, without any communication together. the want of relation in the ideas breaks the relation of the impressions, and by such a separation prevents their mutual operation and influence. to confirm this we may observe, that the proximity in the degree of merit is not alone sufficient to give rise to envy, but must be assisted by other relations. a poet is not apt to envy a philosopher, or a poet of a different kind, of a different nation, or of a different age. all these differences prevent or weaken the comparison, and consequently the passion. this too is the reason, why all objects appear great or little, merely by a comparison with those of the same species. a mountain neither magnifies nor diminishes a horse in our eyes; but when a flemish and a welsh horse are seen together, the one appears greater and the other less, than when viewed apart. from the same principle we may account for that remark of historians, that any party in a civil war always choose to call in a foreign enemy at any hazard rather than submit to their fellow-citizens. guicciardin applies this remark to the wars in italy, where the relations betwixt the different states are, properly speaking, nothing but of name, language, and contiguity. yet even these relations, when joined with superiority, by making the comparison more natural, make it likewise more grievous, and cause men to search for some other superiority, which may be attended with no relation, and by that means may have a less sensible influence on the imagination. the mind quickly perceives its several advantages and disadvantages; and finding its situation to be most uneasy, where superiority is conjoined with other relations, seeks its repose as much as possible, by their separation, and by breaking that association of ideas, which renders the comparison so much more natural and efficacious. when it cannot break the association, it feels a stronger desire to remove the superiority; and this is the reason why travellers are commonly so lavish of their praises to the chinese and persians, at the same time, that they depreciate those neighbouring nations, which may stand upon a foot of rivalship with their native country. these examples from history and common experience are rich and curious; but we may find parallel ones in the arts, which are no less remarkable. should an author compose a treatise, of which one part was serious and profound, another light and humorous, every one would condemn so strange a mixture, and would accuse him of the neglect of all rules of art and criticism. these rules of art are founded on the qualities of human nature; and the quality of human nature, which requires a consistency in every performance is that which renders the mind incapable of passing in a moment from one passion and disposition to a quite different one. yet this makes us not blame mr prior for joining his alma and his solomon in the same volume; though that admirable poet has succeeded perfectly well in the gaiety of the one, as well as in the melancholy of the other. even supposing the reader should peruse these two compositions without any interval, he would feel little or no difficulty in the change of passions: why, but because he considers these performances as entirely different, and by this break in the ideas, breaks the progress of the affections, and hinders the one from influencing or contradicting the other? an heroic and burlesque design, united in one picture, would be monstrous; though we place two pictures of so opposite a character in the same chamber, and even close by each other, without any scruple or difficulty. in a word, no ideas can affect each other, either by comparison, or by the passions they separately produce, unless they be united together by some relation, which may cause an easy transition of the ideas, and consequently of the emotions or impressions, attending the ideas; and may preserve the one impression in the passage of the imagination to the object of the other. this principle is very remarkable, because it is analogous to what we have observed both concerning the understanding and the passions. suppose two objects to be presented to me, which are not connected by any kind of relation. suppose that each of these objects separately produces a passion; and that these two passions are in themselves contrary: we find from experience, that the want of relation in the objects or ideas hinders the natural contrariety of the passions, and that the break in the transition of the thought removes the affections from each other, and prevents their opposition. it is the same case with comparison; and from both these phaenomena we may safely conclude, that the relation of ideas must forward the transition of impressions; since its absence alone is able to prevent it, and to separate what naturally should have operated upon each other. when the absence of an object or quality removes any usual or natural effect, we may certalnly conclude that its presence contributes to the production of the effect. sect. ix of the mixture of benevolence and anger with compassion and malice thus we have endeavoured to account for pity and malice. both these affections arise from the imagination, according to the light, in which it places its object. when our fancy considers directly the sentiments of others, and enters deep into them, it makes us sensible of all the passions it surveys, but in a particular manner of grief or sorrow. on the contrary, when we compare the sentiments of others to our own, we feel a sensation directly opposite to the original one, viz. a joy from the grief of others, and a grief from their joy. but these are only the first foundations of the affections of pity and malice. other passions are afterwards confounded with them. there is always a mixture of love or tenderness with pity, and of hatred or anger with malice. but it must be confessed, that this mixture seems at first sight to be contradictory to my system. for as pity is an uneasiness, and malice a joy, arising from the misery of others, pity should naturally, as in all other cases, produce hatred; and malice, love. this contradiction i endeavour to reconcile, after the following manner. in order to cause a transition of passions, there is required a double relation of impressions and ideas, nor is one relation sufficient to produce this effect. but that we may understand the full force of this double relation, we must consider, that it is not the present sensation alone or momentary pain or pleasure, which determines the character of any passion, but the whole bent or tendency of it from the beginning to the end. one impression may be related to another, not only when their sensations are resembling, as we have all along supposed in the preceding cases; but also when their impulses or directions are similar and correspondent. this cannot take place with regard to pride and humility; because these are only pure sensations, without any direction or tendency to action. we are, therefore, to look for instances of this peculiar relation of impressions only in such affections, as are attended with a certain appetite or desire; such as those of love and hatred. benevolence or the appetite, which attends love, is a desire of the happiness of the person beloved, and an aversion to his misery; as anger or the appetite, which attends hatred, is a desire of the misery of the person hated, and an aversion to his happiness. a desire, therefore, of the happiness of another, and aversion to his misery, are similar to benevolence; and a desire of his misery and aversion to his happiness are correspondent to anger. now pity is a desire of happiness to another, and aversion to his misery; as malice is the contrary appetite. pity, then, is related to benevolence; and malice to anger: and as benevolence has been already found to be connected with love, by a natural and original quality, and anger with hatred; it is by this chain the passions of pity and malice are connected with love and hatred. this hypothesis is founded on sufficient experience. a man, who from any motives has entertained a resolution of performing an action, naturally runs into every other view or motive, which may fortify that resolution, and give it authority and influence on the mind. to confirm us in any design, we search for motives drawn from interest, from honour, from duty. what wonder, then, that pity and benevolence, malice, and anger, being the same desires arising from different principles, should so totally mix together as to be undistinguishable? as to the connexion betwixt benevolence and love, anger and hatred, being original and primary, it admits of no difficulty. we may add to this another experiment, viz, that benevolence and anger, and consequently love and hatred, arise when our happiness or misery have any dependance on the happiness or misery of another person, without any farther relation. i doubt not but this experiment will appear so singular as to excuse us for stopping a moment to consider it. suppose, that two persons of the same trade should seek employment in a town, that is not able to maintain both, it is plain the success of one is perfectly incompatible with that of the other, and that whatever is for the interest of either is contrary to that of his rival, and so vice versa. suppose again, that two merchants, though living in different parts of the world, should enter into co-partnership together, the advantage or loss of one becomes immediately the advantage or loss of his partner, and the same fortune necessarily attends both. now it is evident, that in the first case, hatred always follows upon the contrariety of interests; as in the second, love arises from their union. let us consider to what principle we can ascribe these passions. it is plain they arise not from the double relations of impressions and ideas, if we regard only the present sensation. for takeing the first case of rivalship; though the pleasure and advantage of an antagonist necessarily causes my pain and loss, yet to counter-ballance this, his pain and loss causes my pleasure and advantage; and supposing him to be unsuccessful, i may by this means receive from him a superior degree of satisfaction. in the same manner the success of a partner rejoices me, but then his misfortunes afflict me in an equal proportion; and it is easy to imagine, that the latter sentiment may in many cases preponderate. but whether the fortune of a rival or partner be good or bad, i always hate the former and love the latter. this love of a partner cannot proceed from the relation or connexion betwixt us; in the same manner as i love a brother or countryman. a rival has almost as close a relation to me as a partner. for as the pleasure of the latter causes my pleasure, and his pain my pain; so the pleasure of the former causes my pain, and his pain my pleasure. the connexion, then, of cause and effect is the same in both cases; and if in the one case, the cause and effect have a farther relation of resemblance, they have that of contrariety in the other; which, being also a species of resemblance, leaves the matter pretty equal. the only explication, then, we can give of this phaenomenon is derived from that principle of a parallel direction above-mentioned. our concern for our own interest gives us a pleasure in the pleasure, and a pain in the pain of a partner, after the same manner as by sympathy we feel a sensation correspondent to those, which appear in any person, who is present with us. on the other hand, the same concern for our interest makes us feel a pain in the pleasure, and a pleasure in the pain of a rival; and in short the same contrariety of sentiments as arises from comparison and malice. since, therefore, a parallel direction of the affections, proceeding from interest, can give rise to benevolence or anger, no wonder the same parallel direction, derived from sympathy and from comparison, should have the same effect. in general we may observe, that it is impossible to do good to others, from whatever motive, without feeling some touches of kindness and good-will towards them; as the injuries we do, not only cause hatred in the person, who suffers them, but even in ourselves. these phaenomena, indeed, may in part be accounted for from other principles. but here there occurs a considerable objection, which it will be necessary to examine before we proceed any farther. i have endeavoured to prove, that power and riches, or poverty and meanness; which give rise to love or hatred, without producing any original pleasure or uneasiness; operate upon us by means of a secondary sensation derived from a sympathy with that pain or satisfaction, which they produce in the person, who possesses them. from a sympathy with his pleasure there arises love; from that with his uneasiness, hatred. but it is a maxim, which i have just now established, and which is absolutely necessary to the explication of the phaenomena of pity and malice, that it is not the present sensation or momentary pain or pleasure, which determines the character of any passion, but the general bent or tendency of it from the beginning to the end. for this reason, pity or a sympathy with pain produces love, and that because it interests us in the fortunes of others, good or bad, and gives us a secondary sensation correspondent to the primary; in which it has the same influence with love and benevolence. since then this rule holds good in one case, why does it not prevail throughout, and why does sympathy in uneasiness ever produce any passion beside good-will and kindness? is it becoming a philosopher to alter his method of reasoning, and run from one principle to its contrary, according to the particular phaenomenon, which he would explain? i have mentioned two different causes, from which a transition of passion may arise, viz, a double relation of ideas and impressions, and what is similar to it, a conformity in the tendency and direction of any two desires, which arise from different principles. now i assert, that when a sympathy with uneasiness is weak, it produces hatred or contempt by the former cause; when strong, it produces love or tenderness by the latter. this is the solution of the foregoing difficulty, which seems so urgent; and this is a principle founded on such evident arguments, that we ought to have established it, even though it were not necessary to the explication of any phaenomenon. it is certain, that sympathy is not always limited to the present moment, but that we often feel by communication the pains and pleasures of others, which are not in being, and which we only anticipate by the force of imagination. for supposing i saw a person perfectly unknown to me, who, while asleep in the fields, was in danger of being trod under foot by horses, i should immediately run to his assistance; and in this i should be actuated by the same principle of sympathy, which makes me concerned for the present sorrows of a stranger. the bare mention of this is sufficient. sympathy being nothing but a lively idea converted into an impression, it is evident, that, in considering the future possible or probable condition of any person, we may enter into it with so vivid a conception as to make it our own concern; and by that means be sensible of pains and pleasures, which neither belong to ourselves, nor at the present instant have any real existence. but however we may look forward to the future in sympathizing with any person, the extending of our sympathy depends in a great measure upon our sense of his present condition. it is a great effort of imagination, to form such lively ideas even of the present sentiments of others as to feel these very sentiments; but it is impossible we coued extend this sympathy to the future, without being aided by some circumstance in the present, which strikes upon us in a lively manner. when the present misery of another has any strong influence upon me, the vivacity of the conception is not confined merely to its immediate object, but diffuses its influence over all the related ideas, and gives me a lively notion of all the circumstances of that person, whether past, present, or future; possible, probable or certain. by means of this lively notion i am interested in them; take part with them; and feel a sympathetic motion in my breast, conformable to whatever i imagine in his. if i diminish the vivacity of the first conception, i diminish that of the related ideas; as pipes can convey no more water than what arises at the fountain. by this diminution i destroy the future prospect, which is necessary to interest me perfectly in the fortune of another. i may feel the present impression, but carry my sympathy no farther, and never transfuse the force of the first conception into my ideas of the related objects. if it be another's misery, which is presented in this feeble manner, i receive it by communication, and am affected with all the passions related to it: but as i am not so much interested as to concern myself in his good fortune, as well as his bad, i never feel the extensive sympathy, nor the passions related to it. now in order to know what passions are related to these different kinds of sympathy, we must consider, that benevolence is an original pleasure arising from the pleasure of the person beloved, and a pain proceeding from his pain: from which correspondence of impressions there arises a subsequent desire of his pleasure, and aversion to his pain. in order, then, to make a passion run parallel with benevolence, it is requisite we should feel these double impressions, correspondent to those of the person, whom we consider; nor is any one of them alone sufficient for that purpose. when we sympathize only with one impression, and that a painful one, this sympathy is related to anger and to hatred, upon account of the uneasiness it conveys to us. but as the extensive or limited sympathy depends upon the force of the first sympathy; it follows, that the passion of love or hatred depends upon the same principle. a strong impression, when communicated, gives a double tendency of the passions; which is related to benevolence and love by a similarity of direction; however painful the first impression might have been. a weak impression, that is painful, is related to anger and hatred by the resemblance of sensations. benevolence, therefore, arises from a great degree of misery, or any degree strongly sympathized with: hatred or contempt from a small degree, or one weakly sympathized with; which is the principle i intended to prove and explain. nor have we only our reason to trust to for this principle, but also experience. a certain degree of poverty produces contempt; but a degree beyond causes compassion and good-will. we may under-value a peasant or servant; but when the misery of a beggar appears very great, or is painted in very lively colours, we sympathize with him in his afflictions; and feel in our heart evident touches of pity and benevolence. the same object causes contrary passions according to its different degrees. the passions, therefore, must depend upon principles, that operate in such certain degrees, according to my hypothesis. the encrease of the sympathy has evidently the same effect as the encrease of the misery. a barren or desolate country always seems ugly and disagreeable, and commonly inspires us with contempt for the inhabitants. this deformity, however, proceeds in a great measure from a sympathy with the inhabitants, as has been already observed; but it is only a weak one, and reaches no farther than the immediate sensation, which is disagreeable. the view of a city in ashes conveys benevolent sentiments; because we there enter so deep into the interests of the miserable inhabitants, as to wish for their prosperity, as well as feel their adversity. but though the force of the impression generally produces pity and benevolence, it is certain, that by being carryed too far it ceases to have that effect. this, perhaps, may be worth our notice. when the uneasiness is either small in itself, or remote from us, it engages not the imagination, nor is able to convey an equal concern for the future and contingent good, as for the present and real evil upon its acquiring greater force, we become so interested in the concerns of the person, as to be sensible both of his good and had fortune; and from that compleat sympathy there arises pity and benevolence. but it will easily be imagined, that where the present evil strikes with more than ordinary force, it may entirely engage our attention, and prevent that double sympathy, above-mentioned. thus we find, that though every one, but especially women, are apt to contract a kindness for criminals, who go to the scaffold, and readily imagine them to be uncommonly handsome and wellshaped; yet one, who is present at the cruel execution of the rack, feels no such tender emotions; but is in a manner overcome with horror, and has no leisure to temper this uneasy sensation by any opposite sympathy. but the instance, which makes the most clearly for my hypothesis, is that wherein by a change of the objects we separate the double sympathy even from a midling degree of the passion; in which case we find, that pity, instead of producing love and tenderness as usual, always gives rise to the contrary affection. when we observe a person in misfortunes, we are affected with pity and love; but the author of that misfortune becomes the object of our strongest hatred, and is the more detested in proportion to the degree of our compassion. now for what reason should the same passion of pity produce love to the person, who suffers the misfortune, and hatred to the person, who causes it; unless it be because in the latter case the author bears a relation only to the misfortune; whereas in considering the sufferer we carry our view on every side, and wish for his prosperity, as well as are sensible of his affliction? i. shall just observe, before i leave the present subject, that this phaenomenon of the double sympathy, and its tendency to cause love, may contribute to the production of the kindness, which we naturally bear our relations and acquaintance. custom and relation make us enter deeply into the sentiments of others; and whatever fortune we suppose to attend them, is rendered present to us by the imagination, and operates as if originally our own. we rejoice in their pleasures, and grieve for their sorrows, merely from the force of sympathy. nothing that concerns them is indifferent to us; and as this correspondence of sentiments is the natural attendant of love, it readily produces that affection. sect. x of respect and contempt there now remains only to explain the passion of respect and contempt, along with the amorous affection, in order to understand all the passions which have any mixture of love or hatred. let us begin with respect and contempt. in considering the qualities and circumstances of others, we may either regard them as they really are in themselves; or may make a comparison betwixt them and our own qualities and circumstances; or may join these two methods of consideration. the good qualities of others, from the first point of view, produce love; from the second, humility; and from the third, respect; which is a mixture of these two passions. their bad qualities, after the same manner, cause either hatred, or pride, or contempt, according to the light in which we survey them. that there is a mixture of pride in contempt, and of humility in respect, is, i think, too evident, from their very feeling or appearance, to require any particular proof. that this mixture arises from a tacit comparison of the person contemned or respected with ourselves is no less evident. the same man may cause either respect, love, or contempt by his condition and talents, according as the person, who considers him, from his inferior becomes his equal or superior. in changing the point of view, though the object may remain the same, its proportion to ourselves entirely alters; which is the cause of an alteration in the passions. these passions, therefore, arise from our observing the proportion; that is, from a comparison. i have already observed, that the mind has a much stronger propensity to pride than to humility, and have endeavoured, from the principles of human nature, to assign a cause for this phaenomenon. whether my reasoning be received or not, the phaenomenon is undisputed, and appears in many instances. among the rest, it is the reason why there is a much greater mixture of pride in contempt, than of humility in respect, and why we are more elevated with the view of one below us, than mortifyed with the presence of one above us. contempt or scorn has so strong a tincture of pride, that there scarce is any other passion discernable: whereas in esteem or respect, love makes a more considerable ingredient than humility. the passion of vanity is so prompt, that it rouzes at the least call; while humility requires a stronger impulse to make it exert itself. but here it may reasonably be asked, why this mixture takes place only in some cases, and appears not on every occasion. all those objects, which cause love, when placed on another person, are the causes of pride, when transfered to ourselves; and consequently ought to be causes of humility, as well as love, while they belong to others, and are only compared to those, which we ourselves possess. in like manner every quality, which, by being directly considered, produces hatred, ought always to give rise to pride by comparison, and by a mixture of these passions of hatred and pride ought to excite contempt or scorn. the difficulty then is, why any objects ever cause pure love or hatred, and produce not always the mixt passions of respect and contempt. i have supposed all along, that the passions of love and pride, and those of humility and hatred are similar in their sensations, and that the two former are always agreeable, and the two latter painful. but though this be universally true, it is observable, that the two agreeable, as well as the two painful passions, have some difference, and even contrarieties, which distinguish them. nothing invigorates and exalts the mind equally with pride and vanity; though at the same time love or tenderness is rather found to weaken and infeeble it. the same difference is observable betwixt the uneasy passions. anger and hatred bestow a new force on all our thoughts and actions; while humility and shame deject and discourage us. of these qualities of the passions, it will be necessary to form a distinct idea. let us remember, that pride and hatred invigorate the soul; and love and humility infeeble it. from this it follows, that though the conformity betwixt love and hatred in the agreeableness of their sensation makes them always be excited by the same objects, yet this other contrariety is the reason, why they are excited in very different degrees. genius and learning are pleasant and magnificent objects, and by both these circumstances are adapted to pride and vanity; but have a relation to love by their pleasure only. ignorance and simplicity are disagreeable and mean, which in the same manner gives them a double connexion with humility, and a single one with hatred. we may, therefore, consider it as certain, that though the same object always produces love and pride, humility and hatred, according to its different situations, yet it seldom produces either the two former or the two latter passions, in the same proportion. it is here we must seek for a solution of the difficulty above-mentioned, why any object ever excites pure love or hatred, and does not always produce respect or contempt, by a mixture of humility or pride. no quality in another gives rise to humility by comparison, unless it would have produced pride by being placed in ourselves; and vice versa no object excites pride by comparison, unless it would have produced humility by the direct survey. this is evident, objects always produce by comparison a sensation directly contrary to their original one. suppose, therefore, an object to be presented, which is peculiarly fitted to produce love, but imperfectly to excite pride; this object, belonging to another, gives rise directly to a great degree of love, but to a small one of humility by comparison; and consequently that latter passion is scarce felt in the compound, nor is able to convert the love into respect. this is the case with good nature, good humour, facility, generosity, beauty, and many other qualities. these have a peculiar aptitude to produce love in others; but not so great a tendency to excite pride in ourselves: for which reason the view of them, as belonging to another person, produces pure love, with but a small mixture of humility and respect. it is easy to extend the same reasoning to the opposite passions. before we leave this subject, it may not be amiss to account for a pretty curious phaenomenon, viz, why we commonly keep at a distance such as we contemn, and allow not our inferiors to approach too near even in place and situation. it has already been observed, that almost every kind of idea is attended with some emotion, even the ideas of number and extension, much more those of such objects as are esteemed of consequence in life, and fix our attention. it is not with entire indifference we can survey either a rich man or a poor one, but must feel some faint touches at least, of respect in the former case, and of contempt in the latter. these two passions are contrary to each other; but in order to make this contrariety be felt, the objects must be someway related; otherwise the affections are totally separate and distinct, and never encounter. the relation takes place wherever the persons become contiguous; which is a general reason why we are uneasy at seeing such disproportioned objects, as a rich man and a poor one, a nobleman and a porter, in that situation. this uneasiness, which is common to every spectator, must be more sensible to the superior; and that because the near approach of the inferior is regarded as a piece of ill-breeding, and shews that he is not sensible of the disproportion, and is no way affected by it. a sense of superiority in another breeds in all men an inclination to keep themselves at a distance from him, and determines them to redouble the marks of respect and reverence, when they are obliged to approach him; and where they do not observe that conduct, it is a proof they are not sensible of his superiority. from hence too it proceeds, that any great difference in the degrees of any quality is called a distance by a common metaphor, which, however trivial it may appear, is founded on natural principles of the imagination. a great difference inclines us to produce a distance. the ideas of distance and difference are, therefore, connected together. connected ideas are readily taken for each other; and this is in general the source of the metaphor, as we shall have occasion to observe afterwards. sect. xi of the amorous passion, or love betwixt the sexes of all the compound passions, which proceed from a mixture of love and hatred with other affections, no one better deserves our attention, than that love, which arises betwixt the sexes, as well on account of its force and violence, as those curious principles of philosophy, for which it affords us an uncontestable argument. it is plain, that this affection, in its most natural state, is derived from the conjunction of three different impressions or passions, viz. the pleasing sensation arising from beauty; the bodily appetite for generation; and a generous kindness or good-will. the origin of kindness from beauty may be explained from the foregoing reasoning. the question is how the bodily appetite is excited by it. the appetite of generation, when confined to a certain degree, is evidently of the pleasant kind, and has a strong connexion with, all the agreeable emotions. joy, mirth, vanity, and kindness are all incentives to this desire; as well as music, dancing, wine, and good cheer. on the other hand, sorrow, melancholy, poverty, humility are destructive of it. from this quality it is easily conceived why it should be connected with the sense of beauty. but there is another principle that contributes to the same effect. i have observed that the parallel direction of the desires is a real relation, and no less than a resemblance in their sensation, produces a connexion among them. that we may fully comprehend the extent of this relation, we must consider, that any principal desire may be attended with subordinate ones, which are connected with it, and to which if other desires are parallel, they are by that means related to the principal one. thus hunger may oft be considered as the primary inclination of the soul, and the desire of approaching the meat as the secondary one; since it is absolutely necessary to the satisfying that appetite. if an object, therefore, by any separate qualities, inclines us to approach the meat, it naturally encreases our appetite; as on the contrary, whatever inclines us to set our victuals at a distance, is contradictory to hunger, and diminishes our inclination to them. now it is plain that beauty has the first effect, and deformity the second: which is the reason why the former gives us a keener appetite for our victuals, and the latter is sufficient to disgust us at the most savoury dish that cookery has invented. all this is easily applicable to the appetite for generation. from these two relations, viz, resemblance and a parallel desire, there arises such a connexion betwixt the sense of beauty, the bodily appetite, and benevolence, that they become in a manner inseparable: and we find from experience that it is indifferent which of them advances first; since any of them is almost sure to be attended with the related affections. one, who is inflamed with lust, feels at least a momentary kindness towards the object of it, and at the same time fancies her more beautiful than ordinary; as there are many, who begin with kindness and esteem for the wit and merit of the person, and advance from that to the other passions. but the most common species of love is that which first arises from beauty, and afterwards diffuses itself into kindness and into the bodily appetite. kindness or esteem, and the appetite to generation, are too remote to unite easily together. the one is, perhaps, the most refined passion of the soul; the other the most gross and vulgar. the love of beauty is placed in a just medium betwixt them, and partakes of both their natures: from whence it proceeds, that it is so singularly fitted to produce both. this account of love is not peculiar to my system, but is unavoidable on any hypothesis. the three affections, which compose this passion, are evidently distinct, and has each of them its distinct object. it is certain, therefore, that it is only by their relation they produce each other. but the relation of passions is not alone sufficient. it is likewise necessary, there should be a relation of ideas. the beauty of one person never inspires us with love for another. this then is a sensible proof of the double relation of impressions and ideas. from one instance so evident as this we may form a judgment of the rest. this may also serve in another view to illustrate what i have insisted on concerning the origin of pride and humility, love and hatred. i have observed, that though self be the object of the first set of passions, and some other person of the second, yet these objects cannot alone be the causes of the passions; as having each of them a relation to two contrary affections, which must from the very first moment destroy each other. here then is the situation of the mind, as i have already described it. it has certain organs naturally fitted to produce a passion; that passion, when produced, naturally turns the view to a certain object. but this not being sufficient to produce the passion, there is required some other emotion, which by a double relation of impressions and ideas may set these principles in action, and bestow on them their first impulse. this situation is still more remarkable with regard to the appetite of generation. sex is not only the object, but also the cause of the appetite. we not only turn our view to it, when actuated by that appetite; but the reflecting on it suffices to excite the appetite. but as this cause loses its force by too great frequency, it is necessary it should be quickened by some new impulse; and that impulse we find to arise from the beauty of the person; that is, from a double relation of impressions and ideas. since this double relation is necessary where an affection has both a distinct cause, and object, how much more so, where it has only a distinct object, without any determinate cause? sect. xii of the love and hatred of animals but to pass from the passions of love and hatred, and from their mixtures and compositions, as they appear m man, to the same affections, as they display themselves in brutes; we may observe, not only that love and hatred are common to the whole sensitive creation, but likewise that their causes, as above-explained, are of so simple a nature, that they may easily be supposed to operate on mere animals. there is no force of reflection or penetration required. every thing is conducted by springs and principles, which are not peculiar to man, or any one species of animals. the conclusion from this is obvious in favour of the foregoing system. love in animals, has not for its only object animals of the same species, but extends itself farther, and comprehends almost every sensible and thinking being. a dog naturally loves a man above his own species, and very commonly meets with a return of affection. as animals are but little susceptible either of the pleasures or pains of the imagination, they can judge of objects only by the sensible good or evil, which they produce, and from that must regulate their affections towards them. accordingly we find, that by benefits or injuries we produce their love or hatred; and that by feeding and cherishing any animal, we quickly acquire his affections; as by beating and abusing him we never fail to draw on us his enmity and ill-will. love in beasts is not caused so much by relation, as in our species; and that because their thoughts are not so active as to trace relations, except in very obvious instances. yet it is easy to remark, that on some occasions it has a considerable influence upon them. thus acquaintance, which has the same effect as relation, always produces love in animals either to men or to each other. for the same reason any likeness among them is the source of affection. an ox confined to a park with horses, will naturally join their company, if i may so speak, but always leaves it to enjoy that of his own species, where he has the choice of both. the affection of parents to their young proceeds from a peculiar instinct in animals, as well as in our species. it is evident, that sympathy, or the communication of passions, takes place among animals, no less than among men. fear, anger, courage, and other affections are frequently communicated from one animal to another, without their knowledge of that cause, which produced the original passion. grief likewise is received by sympathy; and produces almost all the same consequences, and excites the same emotions as in our species. the howlings and lamentations of a dog produce a sensible concern in his fellows. and it is remarkable, that though almost all animals use in play the same member, and nearly the same action as in fighting; a lion, a tyger, a cat their paws; an ox his horns; a dog his teeth; a horse his heels: yet they most carefully avoid harming their companion, even though they have nothing to fear from his resentment; which is an evident proof of the sense brutes have of each other's pain and pleasure. every one has observed how much more dogs are animated when they hunt in a pack, than when they pursue their game apart; and it is evident this can proceed from nothing but from sympathy. it is also well known to hunters, that this effect follows in a greater degree, and even in too great a degree, where two packs, that are strangers to each other, are joined together. we might, perhaps, be at a loss to explain this phaenomenon, if we had not experience of a similar in ourselves. envy and malice are passions very remarkable in animals. they are perhaps more common than pity; as requiring less effort of thought and imagination. part iii of the will and direct passions sect. i of liberty and necessity we come now to explain the direct passions, or the impressions, which arise immediately from good or evil, from pain or pleasure. of this kind are, desire and aversion, grief and joy, hope and fear. of all the immediate effects of pain and pleasure, there is none more remarkable than the will; and though properly speaking, it be not comprehended among the passions, yet as the full understanding of its nature and properties, is necessary to the explanation of them, we shall here make it the subject of our enquiry. i desire it may be observed, that by the will, i mean nothing but the internal impression we feel and are conscious of, when we knowingly give rise to any new motion of our body, or new perception of our mind. this impression, like the preceding ones of pride and humility, love and hatred, it is impossible to define, and needless to describe any farther; for which reason we shall cut off all those definitions and distinctions, with which philosophers are wont to perplex rather than dear up this question; and entering at first upon the subject, shall examine that long disputed question concerning liberty and necessity; which occurs so naturally in treating of the will. it is universally acknowledged, that the operations of external bodies are necessary, and that in the communication of their motion, in their attraction, and mutual cohesion, there are nor the least traces of indifference or liberty. every object is determined by an absolute fate toa certain degree and direction of irs motion, and can no more depart from that precise line, in which it moves, than it can convert itself into an angel, or spirit, or any superior substance. the actions, therefore, of matter are to be regarded as instances of necessary actions; and whatever is in this respect on the same footing with matter, must be acknowledged to be necessary. that we may know whether this be the case with the actions of the mind, we shall begin with examining matter, and considering on what the idea of a necessity in its operations are founded, and why we conclude one body or action to be the infallible cause of another. it has been observed already, that in no single instance the ultimate connexion of any objects is discoverable, either by our senses or reason, and that we can never penetrate so far into the essence and construction of bodies, as to perceive the principle, on which their mutual influence depends. it is their constant union alone, with which we are acquainted; and it is from the constant union the necessity arises. if objects had nor an uniform and regular conjunction with each other, we should never arrive at any idea of cause and effect; and even after all, the necessity, which enters into that idea, is nothing but a determination of the mind to pass from one object to its usual attendant, and infer the existence of one from that of the other. here then are two particulars, which we are to consider as essential to necessity, viz, the constant union and the inference of the mind; and wherever we discover these we must acknowledge a necessity. as the actions of matter have no necessity, but what is derived from these circumstances, and it is not by any insight into the essence of bodies we discover their connexion, the absence of this insight, while the union and inference remain, will never, in any case, remove the necessity. it is the observation of the union, which produces the inference; for which reason it might be thought sufficient, if we prove a constant union in the actions of the mind, in order to establish the inference, along with the necessity of these actions. but that i may bestow a greater force on my reasoning, i shall examine these particulars apart, and shall first prove from experience that our actions have a constant union with our motives, tempers, and circumstances, before i consider the inferences we draw from it. to this end a very slight and general view of the common course of human affairs will be sufficient. there is no light, in which we can take them, that does nor confirm this principle. whether we consider mankind according to the difference of sexes, ages, governments, conditions, or methods of education; the same uniformity and regular operation of natural principles are discernible. uke causes still produce like effects; in the same manner as in the mutual action of the elements and powers of nature. there are different trees, which regularly produce fruit, whose relish is different from each other; and this regularity will be admitted as an instance of necessity and causes in external bodies. but are the products of guienne and of champagne more regularly different than the sentiments, actions, and passions of the two sexes, of which the one are distinguished by their force and maturity, the other by their delicacy and softness? are the changes of our body from infancy to old age more regular and certain than those of our mind and conduct? and would a man be more ridiculous, who would expect that an infant of four years old will raise a weight of three hundred pound, than one, who from a person of the same age would look for a philosophical reasoning, or a prudent and well-concerted action? we must certainly allow, that the cohesion of the parts of matter arises from natural and necessary principles, whatever difficulty we may find in explaining them: and for a reason we must allow, that human society is founded on like principles; and our reason in the latter case, is better than even that in the former; because we not only observe, that men always seek society, but can also explain the principles, on which this universal propensity is founded. for is it more certain, that two flat pieces of marble will unite together, than that two young savages of different sexes will copulate? do the children arise from this copulation more uniformly, than does the parents care for their safety and preservation? and after they have arrived at years of discretion by the care of their parents, are the inconveniencies attending their separation more certain than their foresight of these inconveniencies and their care of avoiding them by a close union and confederacy? the skin, pores, muscles, and nerves of a day-labourer are different from those of a man of quality: so are his sentiments, actions and manners. the different stations of life influence the whole fabric, external and internal; and different stations arise necessarily, because uniformly, from the necessary and uniform principles of human nature. men cannot live without society, and cannot be associated without government. government makes a distinction of property, and establishes the different ranks of men. this produces industry, traffic, manufactures, law-suits, war, leagues, alliances, voyages, travels, cities, fleets, ports, and all those other actions and objects, which cause such a diversity, and at the same time maintain such an uniformity in human life. should a traveller, returning from a far country, tell us, that he had seen a climate in the fiftieth degree of northern latitude, where all the fruits ripen and come to perfection in the winter, and decay in the summer, after the same manner as in england they are produced and decay in the contrary seasons, he would find few so credulous as to believe him. i am apt to think a travellar would meet with as little credit, who should inform us of people exactly of the same character with those in plato's republic on the one hand, or those in hobbes's leviathan on the other. there is a general course of nature in human actions, as well as in the operations of the sun and the climate. there are also characters peculiar to different nations and particular persons, as well as common to mankind. the knowledge of these characters is founded on the observation of an uniformity in the actions, that flow from them; and this uniformity forms the very essence of necessity. i can imagine only one way of eluding this argument, which is by denying that uniformity of human actions, on which it is founded. as long as actions have a constant union and connexion with the situation and temper of the agent, however we may in words refuse to acknowledge the necessity, we really allow the thing. now some may, perhaps, find a pretext to deny this regular union and connexion. for what is more capricious than human actions? what more inconstant than the desires of man? and what creature departs more widely, not only from right reason, but from his own character and disposition? an hour, a moment is sufficient to make him change from one extreme to another, and overturn what cost the greatest pain and labour to establish. necessity is regular and certain. human conduct is irregular and uncertain. the one, therefore, proceeds not from the other. to this i reply, that in judging of the actions of men we must proceed upon the same maxims, as when we reason concerning external objects. when any phaenomena are constantly and invariably conjoined together, they acquire such a connexion in the imagination, that it passes from one to the other, without any doubt or hesitation. but below this there are many inferior degrees of evidence and probability, nor does one single contrariety of experiment entirely destroy all our reasoning. the mind ballances the contrary experiments, and deducting the inferior from the superior, proceeds with that degree of assurance or evidence, which remains. even when these contrary experiments are entirely equal, we remove not the notion of causes and necessity; but supposing that the usual contrariety proceeds from the operation of contrary and concealed causes, we conclude, that the chance or indifference lies only in our judgment on account of our imperfect knowledge, not in the things themselves, which are in every case equally necessary, though to appearance not equally constant or certain. no union can be more constant and certain, than that of some actions with some motives and characters; and if in other cases the union is uncertain, it is no more than what happens in the operations of body, nor can we conclude any thing from the one irregularity, which will not follow equally from the other. it is commonly allowed that mad-men have no liberty. but were we to judge by their actions, these have less regularity and constancy than the actions of wise-men, and consequently are farther removed from necessity. our way of thinking in this particular is, therefore, absolutely inconsistent; but is a natural consequence of these confused ideas and undefined terms, which we so commonly make use of in our reasonings, especially on the present subject. we must now shew, that as the union betwixt motives and actions has the same constancy, as that in any natural operations, so its influence on the understanding is also the same, in determining us to infer the existence of one from that of another. if this shall appear, there is no known circumstance, that enters into the connexion and production of the actions of matter, that is not to be found in all the operations of the mind; and consequently we cannot, without a manifest absurdity, attribute necessity to the one, and refuse into the other. there is no philosopher, whose judgment is so riveted to this fantastical system of liberty, as not to acknowledge the force of moral evidence, and both in speculation and practice proceed upon it, as upon a reasonable foundation. now moral evidence is nothing but a conclusion concerning the actions of men, derived from the consideration of their motives, temper and situation. thus when we see certain characters or figures described upon paper, we infer that the person, who produced them, would affirm such facts, the death of caesar, the success of augustus, the cruelty of nero; and remembering many other concurrent testimonies we conclude, that those facts were once really existant, and that so many men, without any interest, would never conspire to deceive us; especially since they must, in the attempt, expose themselves to the derision of all their contemporaries, when these facts were asserted to be recent and universally known. the same kind of reasoning runs through politics, war, commerce, economy, and indeed mixes itself so entirely in human life, that it is impossible to act or subsist a moment without having recourse to it. a prince, who imposes a tax upon his subjects, expects their compliance. a general, who conducts an army, makes account of a certain degree of courage. a merchant looks for fidelity and skill in his factor or super-cargo. a man, who gives orders for his dinner, doubts not of the obedience of his servants. in short, as nothing more nearly interests us than our own actions and those of others, the greatest part of our reasonings is employed in judgments concerning them. now i assert, that whoever reasons after this manner, does ipso facto believe the actions of the will to arise from necessity, and that he knows not what he means, when he denies it. all those objects, of which we call the one cause and the other effect, considered in themselves, are as distinct and separate from each other, as any two things in nature, nor can we ever, by the most accurate survey of them, infer the existence of the one from that of the other. it is only from experience and the observation of their constant union, that we are able to form this inference; and even after all, the inference is nothing but the effects of custom on the imagination. we must not here be content with saying, that the idea of cause and effect arises from objects constantly united; but must affirm, that it is the very same with the idea of those objects, and that the necessary connexion is not discovered by a conclusion of the understanding, but is merely a perception of the mind. wherever, therefore, we observe the same union, and wherever the union operates in the same manner upon the belief and opinion, we have the idea of causes and necessity, though perhaps we may avoid those expressions. motion in one body in all past instances, that have fallen under our observation, is followed upon impulse by motion in another. it is impossible for the mind to penetrate farther. from this constant union it forms the idea of cause and effect, and by its influence feels the necessity. as there is the same constancy, and the same influence in what we call moral evidence, i ask no more. what remains can only be a dispute of words. and indeed, when we consider how aptly natural and moral evidence cement together, and form only one chain of argument betwixt them, we shall make no scruple to allow, that they are of the same nature, and derived from the same principles. a prisoner, who has neither money nor interest, discovers the impossibility of his escape, as well from the obstinacy of the goaler, as from the walls and bars with which he is surrounded; and in all attempts for his freedom chuses rather to work upon the stone and iron of the one, than upon the inflexible nature of the other. the same prisoner, when conducted to the scaffold, foresees his death as certainly from the constancy and fidelity of his guards as from the operation of the ax or wheel. his mind runs along a certain train of ideas: the refusal of the soldiers to consent to his escape, the action of the executioner; the separation of the head and body; bleeding, convulsive motions, and death. here is a connected chain of natural causes and voluntary actions; but the mind feels no difference betwixt them in passing from one link to another; nor is less certain of the future event than if it were connected with the present impressions of the memory and senses by a train of causes cemented together by what we are pleased to call a physical necessity. the same experienced union has the same effect on the mind, whether the united objects be motives, volitions and actions; or figure and motion. we may change the names of things; but their nature and their operation on the understanding never change. i dare be positive no one will ever endeavour to refute these reasonings otherwise than by altering my definitions, and assigning a different meaning to the terms of cause, and effect, and necessity, and liberty, and chance. according to my definitions, necessity makes an essential part of causation; and consequently liberty, by removing necessity, removes also causes, and is the very same thing with chance. as chance is commonly thought to imply a contradiction, and is at least directly contrary to experience, there are always the same arguments against liberty or free-will. if any one alters the definitions, i cannot pretend to argue with him, until i know the meaning he assigns to these terms. sect. ii the same subject continued i believe we may assign the three following reasons for the prevalance of the doctrine of liberty, however absurd it may be in one sense, and unintelligible in any other. first, after we have performed any action; though we confess we were influenced by particular views and motives; it is difficult for us to persuade ourselves we were governed by necessity, and that it was utterly impossible for us to have acted otherwise; the idea of necessity seeming to imply something of force, and violence, and constraint, of which we are not sensible. few are capable of distinguishing betwixt the liberty of spontaniety, as it is called in the schools, and the liberty of indifference; betwixt that which is opposed to violence, and that which means a negation of necessity and causes. the first is even the most common sense of the word; and as it is only that species of liberty, which it concerns us to preserve, our thoughts have been principally turned towards it, and have almost universally confounded it with the other. secondly, there is a false sensation or experience even of the liberty of indifference; which is regarded as an argument for its real existence. the necessity of any action, whether of matter or of the mind, is not properly a quality in the agent, but in any thinking or intelligent being, who may consider the action, and consists in the determination of his thought to infer its existence from some preceding objects: as liberty or chance, on the other hand, is nothing but the want of that determination, and a certain looseness, which we feel in passing or not passing from the idea of one to that of the other. now we may observe, that though in reflecting on human actions we seldom feel such a looseness or indifference, yet it very commonly happens, that in performing the actions themselves we are sensible of something like it: and as all related or resembling objects are readily taken for each other, this has been employed as a demonstrative or even an intuitive proof of human liberty. we feel that our actions are subject to our will on most occasions, and imagine we feel that the will itself is subject to nothing; because when by a denial of it we are provoked to try, we feel that it moves easily every way, and produces an image of itself even on that side, on which it did not settle. this image or faint motion, we persuade ourselves, coued have been compleated into the thing itself; because, should that be denyed, we find, upon a second trial, that it can. but these efforts are all in vain; and whatever capricious and irregular actions we may perform; as the desire of showing our liberty is the sole motive of our actions; we can never free ourselves from the bonds of necessity. we may imagine we feel a liberty within ourselves; but a spectator can commonly infer our actions from our motives and character; and even where he cannot, he concludes in general, that he might, were he perfectly acquainted with every circumstance of our situation and temper, and the most secret springs of our complexion and disposition. now this is the very essence of necessity, according to the foregoing doctrine. a third reason why the doctrine of liberty has generally been better received in the world, than its antagonist, proceeds from religion, which has been very unnecessarily interested in this question. there is no method of reasoning more common, and yet none more blameable, than in philosophical debates to endeavour to refute any hypothesis by a pretext of its dangerous consequences to religion and morality. when any opinion leads us into absurdities, it is certainly false; but it is not certain an opinion is false, because it is of dangerous consequence. such topics, therefore, ought entirely to be foreborn, as serving nothing to the discovery of truth, but only to make the person of an antagonist odious. this i observe in general, without pretending to draw any advantage from it. i submit myself frankly to an examination of this kind, and dare venture to affirm, that the doctrine of necessity, according to my explication of it, is not only innocent, but even advantageous to religion and morality. i define necessity two ways, conformable to the two definitions of cause, of which it makes an essential part. i place it either in the constant union and conjunction of like objects, or in the inference of the mind from the one to the other. now necessity, in both these senses, has universally, though tacitely, in the schools, in the pulpit, and in common life, been allowed to belong to the will of man, and no one has ever pretended to deny, that we can draw inferences concerning human actions, and that those inferences are founded on the experienced union of like actions with like motives and circumstances. the only particular in which any one can differ from me, is either, that perhaps he will refuse to call this necessity. but as long as the meaning is understood, i hope the word can do no harm. or that he will maintain there is something else in the operations of matter. now whether it be so or not is of no consequence to religion, whatever it may be to natural philosophy. i may be mistaken in asserting, that we have no idea of any other connexion in the actions of body, and shall be glad to be farther instructed on that head: but sure i am, i ascribe nothing to the actions of the mind, but what must readily be allowed of. let no one, therefore, put an invidious construction on my words, by saying simply, that i assert the necessity of human actions, and place them on the same footing with the operations of senseless matter. i do not ascribe to the will that unintelligible necessity, which is supposed to lie in matter. but i ascribe to matter, that intelligible quality, call it necessity or not, which the most rigorous orthodoxy does or must allow to belong to the will. i change, therefore, nothing in the received systems, with regard to the will, but only with regard to material objects. nay i shall go farther, and assert, that this kind of necessity is so essential to religion and morality, that without it there must ensue an absolute subversion of both, and that every other supposition is entirely destructive to all laws both divine and human. it is indeed certain, that as all human laws are founded on rewards and punishments, it is supposed as a fundamental principle, that these motives have an influence on the mind, and both produce the good and prevent the evil actions. we may give to this influence what name we please; but as it is usually conjoined with the action, common sense requires it should be esteemed a cause, and be booked upon as an instance of that necessity, which i would establish. this reasoning is equally solid, when applied to divine laws, so far as the deity is considered as a legislator, and is supposed to inflict punishment and bestow rewards with a design to produce obedience. but i also maintain, that even where he acts not in his magisterial capacity, but is regarded as the avenger of crimes merely on account of their odiousness and deformity, not only it is impossible, without the necessary connexion of cause and effect in human actions, that punishments coued be inflicted compatible with justice and moral equity; but also that it coued ever enter into the thoughts of any reasonable being to inflict them. the constant and universal object of hatred or anger is a person or creature endowed with thought and consciousness; and when any criminal or injurious actions excite that passion, it is only by their relation to the person or connexion with him. but according to the doctrine of liberty or chance, this connexion is reduced to nothing, nor are men more accountable for those actions, which are designed and premeditated, than for such as are the most casual and accidental. actions are by their very nature temporary and perishing; and where they proceed not from some cause in the characters and disposition of the person, who performed them, they infix not themselves upon him, and can neither redound to his honour, if good, nor infamy, if evil. the action itself may be blameable; it may be contrary to all the rules of morality and religion: but the person is not responsible for it; and as it proceeded from nothing in him, that is durable or constant, and leaves nothing of that nature behind it, it is impossible he can, upon its account, become the object of punishment or vengeance. according to the hypothesis of liberty, therefore, a man is as pure and untainted, after having committed the most horrid crimes, as at the first moment of his birth, nor is his character any way concerned in his actions; since they are not derived from it, and the wickedness of the one can never be used as a proof of the depravity of the other. it is only upon the principles of necessity, that a person acquires any merit or demerit from his actions, however the common opinion may incline to the contrary. but so inconsistent are men with themselves, that though they often assert, that necessity utterly destroys all merit and demerit either towards mankind or superior powers, yet they continue still to reason upon these very principles of necessity in all their judgments concerning this matter. men are not blamed for such evil actions as they perform ignorantly and casually, whatever may be their consequences. why? but because the causes of these actions are only momentary, and terminate in them alone. men are less blamed for such evil actions, as they perform hastily and unpremeditately, than for such as proceed from thought and deliberation. for what reason? but because a hasty temper, though a constant cause in the mind, operates only by intervals, and infects not the whole character. again, repentance wipes off every crime, especially if attended with an evident reformation of life and manners. how is this to be accounted for? but by asserting that actions render a person criminal, merely as they are proofs of criminal passions or principles in the mind; and when by any alteration of these principles they cease to be just proofs, they likewise cease to be criminal. but according to the doctrine of liberty or chance they never were just proofs, and consequently never were criminal. here then i turn to my adversary, and desire him to free his own system from these odious consequences before he charge them upon others. or if he rather chuses, that this question should be decided by fair arguments before philosophers, than by declamations before the people, let him return to what i have advanced to prove that liberty and chance are synonimous; and concerning the nature of moral evidence and the regularity of human actions. upon a review of these reasonings, i cannot doubt of an entire victory; and therefore having proved, that all actions of the will have particular causes, i proceed to explain what these causes are, and how they operate. sect. iii of the influencing motives of the will nothing is more usual in philosophy, and even in common life, than to talk of the combat of passion and reason, to give the preference to reason, and assert that men are only so far virtuous as they conform themselves to its dictates. every rational creature, it is said, is obliged to regulate his actions by reason; and if any other motive or principle challenge the direction of his conduct, he ought to oppose it, till it be entirely subdued, or at least brought to a conformity with that superior principle. on this method of thinking the greatest part of moral philosophy, antient and modern, seems to be founded; nor is there an ampler field, as well for metaphysical arguments, as popular declamations, than this supposed pre-eminence of reason above passion. the eternity, invariableness, and divine origin of the former have been displayed to the best advantage: the blindness, unconstancy, and deceitfulness of the latter have been as strongly insisted on. in order to shew the fallacy of all this philosophy, i shall endeavour to prove first, that reason alone can never be a motive to any action of the will; and secondly, that it can never oppose passion in the direction of the will. the understanding exerts itself after two different ways, as it judges from demonstration or probability; as it regards the abstract relations of our ideas, or those relations of objects, of which experience only gives us information. i believe it scarce will be asserted, that the first species of reasoning alone is ever the cause of any action. as its proper province is the world of ideas, and as the will always places us in that of realities, demonstration and volition seem, upon that account, to be totally removed, from each other. mathematics, indeed, are useful in all mechanical operations, and arithmetic in almost every art and profession: but it is not of themselves they have any influence: mechanics are the art of regulating the motions of bodies to some designed end or purpose; and the reason why we employ arithmetic in fixing the proportions of numbers, is only that we may discover the proportions of their influence and operation. a merchant is desirous of knowing the sum total of his accounts with any person: why? but that he may learn what sum will have the same effects in paying his debt, and going to market, as all the particular articles taken together. abstract or demonstrative reasoning, therefore, never influences any of our actions, but only as it directs our judgment concerning causes and effects; which leads us to the second operation of the understanding. it is obvious, that when we have the prospect of pain or pleasure from any object, we feel a consequent emotion of aversion or propensity, and are carryed to avoid or embrace what will give us this uneasines or satisfaction. it is also obvious, that this emotion rests not here, but making us cast our view on every side, comprehends whatever objects are connected with its original one by the relation of cause and effect. here then reasoning takes place to discover this relation; and according as our reasoning varies, our actions receive a subsequent variation. but it is evident in this case that the impulse arises not from reason, but is only directed by it. it is from the prospect of pain or pleasure that the aversion or propensity arises towards any object: and these emotions extend themselves to the causes and effects of that object, as they are pointed out to us by reason and experience. it can never in the least concern us to know, that such objects are causes, and such others effects, if both the causes and effects be indifferent to us. where the objects themselves do not affect us, their connexion can never give them any influence; and it is plain, that as reason is nothing but the discovery of this connexion, it cannot be by its means that the objects are able to affect us. since reason alone can never produce any action, or give rise to volition, i infer, that the same faculty is as incapable of preventing volition, or of disputing the preference with any passion or emotion. this consequence is necessary. it is impossible reason coued have the latter effect of preventing volition, but by giving an impulse in a contrary direction to our passion; and that impulse, had it operated alone, would have been able to produce volition. nothing can oppose or retard the impulse of passion, but a contrary impulse; and if this contrary impulse ever arises from reason, that latter faculty must have an original influence on the will, and must be able to cause, as well as hinder any act of volition. but if reason has no original influence, it is impossible it can withstand any principle, which has such an efficacy, or ever keep the mind in suspence a moment. thus it appears, that the principle, which opposes our passion, cannot be the same with reason, and is only called so in an improper sense. we speak not strictly and philosophically when we talk of the combat of passion and of reason. reason is, and ought only to be the slave of the passions, and can never pretend to any other office than to serve and obey them. as this opinion may appear somewhat extraordinary, it may not be improper to confirm it by some other considerations. a passion is an original existence, or, if you will, modification of existence, and contains not any representative quality, which renders it a copy of any other existence or modification. when i am angry, i am actually possest with the passion, and in that emotion have no more a reference to any other object, than when i am thirsty, or sick, or more than five foot high. it is impossible, therefore, that this passion can be opposed by, or be contradictory to truth and reason; since this contradiction consists in the disagreement of ideas, considered as copies, with those objects, which they represent. what may at first occur on this head, is, that as nothing can be contrary to truth or reason, except what has a reference to it, and as the judgments of our understanding only have this reference, it must follow, that passions can be contrary to reason only so far as they are accompanyed with some judgment or opinion. according to this principle, which is so obvious and natural, it is only in two senses, that any affection can be called unreasonable. first, when a passion, such as hope or fear, grief or joy, despair or security, is founded on the supposition or the existence of objects, which really do not exist. secondly, when in exerting any passion in action, we chuse means insufficient for the designed end, and deceive ourselves in our judgment of causes and effects. where a passion is neither founded on false suppositions, nor chuses means insufficient for the end, the understanding can neither justify nor condemn it. it is not contrary to reason to prefer the destruction of the whole world to the scratching of my finger. it is not contrary to reason for me to chuse my total ruin, to prevent the least uneasiness of an indian or person wholly unknown to me. it is as little contrary to reason to prefer even my own acknowledgeed lesser good to my greater, and have a more ardent affection for the former than the latter. a trivial good may, from certain circumstances, produce a desire superior to what arises from the greatest and most valuable enjoyment; nor is there any thing more extraordinary in this, than in mechanics to see one pound weight raise up a hundred by the advantage of its situation. in short, a passion must be accompanyed with some false judgment in order to its being unreasonable; and even then it is not the passion, properly speaking, which is unreasonable, but the judgment. the consequences are evident. since a passion can never, in any sense, be called unreasonable, but when founded on a false supposition or when it chuses means insufficient for the designed end, it is impossible, that reason and passion can ever oppose each other, or dispute for the government of the will and actions. the moment we perceive the falshood of any supposition, or the insufficiency of any means our passions yield to our reason without any opposition. i may desire any fruit as of an excellent relish; but whenever you convince me of my mistake, my longing ceases. i may will the performance of certain actions as means of obtaining any desired good; but as my willing of these actions is only secondary, and founded on the supposition, that they are causes of the proposed effect; as soon as i discover the falshood of that supposition, they must become indifferent to me. it is natural for one, that does not examine objects with a strict philosophic eye, to imagine, that those actions of the mind are entirely the same, which produce not a different sensation, and are not immediately distinguishable to the feeling and perception. reason, for instance, exerts itself without producing any sensible emotion; and except in the more sublime disquisitions of philosophy, or in the frivolous subtilties of the school, scarce ever conveys any pleasure or uneasiness. hence it proceeds, that every action of the mind, which operates with the same calmness and tranquillity, is confounded with reason by all those, who judge of things from the first view and appearance. now it is certain, there are certain calm desires and tendencies, which, though they be real passions, produce little emotion in the mind, and are more known by their effects than by the immediate feeling or sensation. these desires are of two kinds; either certain instincts originally implanted in our natures, such as benevolence and resentment, the love of life, and kindness to children; or the general appetite to good, and aversion to evil, considered merely as such. when any of these passions are calm, and cause no disorder in the soul, they are very readily taken for the determinations of reason, and are supposed to proceed from the same faculty, with that, which judges of truth and falshood. their nature and principles have been supposed the same, because their sensations are not evidently different. beside these calm passions, which often determine the will, there are certain violent emotions of the same kind, which have likewise a great influence on that faculty. when i receive any injury from another, i often feel a violent passion of resentment, which makes me desire his evil and punishment, independent of all considerations of pleasure and advantage to myself. when i am immediately threatened with any grievous ill, my fears, apprehensions, and aversions rise to a great height, and produce a sensible emotion. the common error of metaphysicians has lain in ascribing the direction of the will entirely to one of these principles, and supposing the other to have no influence. men often act knowingly against their interest: for which reason the view of the greatest possible good does not always influence them. men often counter-act a violent passion in prosecution of their interests and designs: it is not therefore the present uneasiness alone, which determines them. in general we may observe, that both these principles operate on the will; and where they are contrary, that either of them prevails, according to the general character or present disposition of the person. what we call strength of mind, implies the prevalence of the calm passions above the violent; though we may easily observe, there is no man so constantly possessed of this virtue, as never on any occasion to yield to the sollicitations of passion and desire. from these variations of temper proceeds the great difficulty of deciding concerning the actions and resolutions of men, where there is any contrariety of motives and passions. sect. iv of the causes of the violent passions there is not-in philosophy a subject of more nice speculation than this of the different causes and effects of the calm and violent passions. it is evident passions influence not the will in proportion to their violence, or the disorder they occasion in the temper; but on the contrary, that when a passion has once become a settled principle of action, and is the predominant inclination of the soul, it commonly produces no longer any sensible agitation. as repeated custom and its own force have made every thing yield to it, it directs the actions and conduct without that opposition and emotion, which so naturally attend every momentary gust of passion. we must, therefore, distinguish betwixt a calm and a weak passion; betwixt a violent and a strong one. but notwithstanding this, it is certain, that when we would govern a man, and push him to any action, it will commonly be better policy to work upon the violent than the calm passions, and rather take him by his inclination, than what is vulgarly called his reason. we ought to place the object in such particular situations as are proper to encrease the violence of the passion. for we may observe, that all depends upon the situation of the object, and that a variation in this particular will be able to change the calm and the violent passions into each other. both these kinds of passions pursue good, and avoid evil; and both of them are encreased or diminished by the encrease or diminution of the good or evil. but herein lies the difference betwixt them: the same good, when near, will cause a violent passion, which, when remote, produces only a calm one. as this subject belongs very properly to the present question concerning the will, we shall here examine it to the bottom, and shall consider some of those circumstances and situations of objects, which render a passion either calm or violent. it is a remarkable property of human nature, that any emotion, which attends a passion, is easily converted into it, though in their natures they be originally different from, and even contrary to each other. it is true; in order to make a perfect union among passions, there is always required a double relation of impressions and ideas; nor is one relation sufficient for that purpose. but though this be confirmed by undoubted experience, we must understand it with its proper limitations, and must regard the double relation, as requisite only to make one passion produce another. when two passions are already produced by their separate causes, and are both present in the mind, they readily mingle and unite, though they have but one relation, and sometimes without any. the predominant passion swallows up the inferior, and converts it into itself. the spirits, when once excited, easily receive a change in their direction; and it is natural to imagine this change will come from the prevailing affection. the connexion is in many respects closer betwixt any two passions, than betwixt any passion and indifference. when a person is once heartily in love, the little faults and caprices of his mistress, the jealousies and quarrels, to which that commerce is so subject; however unpleasant and related to anger and hatred; are yet found to give additional force to the prevailing passion. it is a common artifice of politicians, when they would affect any person very much by a matter of fact, of which they intend to inform him, first to excite his curiosity; delay as long as possible the satisfying it; and by that means raise his anxiety and impatience to the utmost, before they give him a full insight into the business. they know that his curiosity will precipitate him into the passion they design to raise, and assist the object in its influence on the mind. a soldier advancing to the battle, is naturally inspired with courage and confidence, when he thinks on his friends and fellow-soldiers; and is struck with fear and terror, when he reflects on the enemy. whatever new emotion, therefore, proceeds from the former naturally encreases the courage; as the same emotion, proceeding from the latter, augments the fear; by the relation of ideas, and the conversion of the inferior emotion into the predominant. hence it is that in martial discipline, the uniformity and lustre of our habit, the regularity of our figures and motions, with all the pomp and majesty of war, encourage ourselves and allies; while the same objects in the enemy strike terror into us, though agreeable and beautiful in themselves. since passions, however independent, are naturally transfused into each other, if they are both present at the same time; it follows, that when good or evil is placed in such a situation, as to cause any particular emotion, beside its direct passion of desire or aversion, that latter passion must acquire new force and violence. this happens, among other cases, whenever any object excites contrary passions. for it is observable that an opposition of passions commonly causes a new emotion in the spirits, and produces more disorder, than the concurrence of any two affections of equal force. this new emotion is easily converted into the predominant passion, and encreases its violence, beyond the pitch it would have arrived at had it met with no opposition. hence we naturally desire what is forbid, and take a pleasure in performing actions, merely because they are unlawful. the notion of duty, when opposite to the passions, is seldom able to overcome them; and when it fails of that effect, is apt rather to encrease them, by producing an opposition in our motives and principles. the same effect follows whether the opposition arises from internal motives or external obstacles. the passion commonly acquires new force and violence in both cases. the efforts, which the mind makes to surmount the obstacle, excite the spirits and inliven the passion. uncertainty has the same influence as opposition. the agitation of the thought; the quick turns it makes from one view to another; the variety of passions, which succeed each other, according to the different views; all these produce an agitation in the mind, and transfuse themselves into the predominant passion. there is not in my opinion any other natural cause, why security diminishes the passions, than because it removes that uncertainty, which encreases them. the mind, when left to itself, immediately languishes; and in order to preserve its ardour, must be every moment supported by a new flow of passion. for the same reason, despair, though contrary to security, has a like influence. it is certain nothing more powerfully animates any affection, than to conceal some part of its object by throwing it into a kind of shade, which at the same time that it chews enough to pre-possess us in favour of the object, leaves still some work for the imagination. besides that obscurity is always attended with a kind of uncertainty; the effort, which the fancy makes to compleat the idea, rouzes the spirits, and gives an additional force to the passion. as despair and security, though contrary to each other, produce the same effects; so absence is observed to have contrary effects, and in different circumstances either encreases or diminishes our affections. the duc de la rochefoucault has very well observed, that absence destroys weak passions, but encreases strong; as the wind extinguishes a candle, but blows up a fire. long absence naturally weakens our idea, and diminishes the passion: but where the idea is so strong and lively as to support itself, the uneasiness, arising from absence, encreases the passion and gives it new force and violence. sect. v of the effects of custom but nothing has a greater effect both to encrease and diminish our passions, to convert pleasure into pain, and pain into pleasure, than custom and repetition. custom has two original effects upon the mind, in bestowing a facility in the performance of any action or the conception of any object; and afterwards a tendency or inclination towards it; and from these we may account for all its other effects, however extraordinary. when the soul applies itself to the performance of any action, or the conception of any object, to which it is not accustomed, there is a certain unpliableness in the faculties, and a difficulty of the spirit's moving in their new direction. as this difficulty excites the spirits, it is the source of wonder, surprize, and of all the emotions, which arise from novelty; and is in itself very agreeable, like every thing, which inlivens the mind to a moderate degree. but though surprize be agreeable in itself, yet as it puts the spirits in agitation, it not only augments our agreeable affections, but also our painful, according to the foregoing principle, that every emotion, which precedes or attends a passion, is easily converted into it. hence every thing, that is new, is most affecting, and gives us either more pleasure or pain, than what, strictly speaking, naturally belongs to it. when it often returns upon us, the novelty wears off; the passions subside; the hurry of the spirits is over; and we survey the objects with greater tranquillity. by degrees the repetition produces a facility of the human mind, and an infallible source of pleasure, where the facility goes not beyond a certain degree. and here it is remarkable that the pleasure, which arises from a moderate facility, has not the same tendency with that which arises from novelty, to augment the painful, as well as the agreeable affections. the pleasure of facility does not so much consist in any ferment of the spirits, as in their orderly motion; which will sometimes be so powerful as even to convert pain into pleasure, and give us a relish in time what at first was most harsh and disagreeable. but again, as facility converts pain into pleasure, so it often converts pleasure into pain, when it is too great, and renders the actions of the mind so faint and languid, that they are no longer able to interest and support it. and indeed, scarce any other objects become disagreeable through custom; but such as are naturally attended with some emotion or affection, which is destroyed by the too frequent repetition. one can consider the clouds, and heavens, and trees, and stones, however frequently repeated, without ever feeling any aversion. but when the fair sex, or music, or good cheer, or any thing, that naturally ought to be agreeable, becomes indifferent, it easily produces the opposite affection. but custom not only gives a facility to perform any action, but likewise an inclination and tendency towards it, where it is not entirely disagreeable, and can never be the object of inclination. and this is the reason why custom encreases all active habits, but diminishes passive, according to the observation of a late eminent philosopher. the facility takes off from the force of the passive habits by rendering the motion of the spirits faint and languid. but as in the active, the spirits are sufficiently supported of themselves, the tendency of the mind gives them new force, and bends them more strongly to the action. sect. vi of the influence of the imagination on the passions it is remarkable, that the imagination and affections have close union together, and that nothing, which affects the former, can be entirely indifferent to the latter. wherever our ideas of good or evil acquire a new vivacity, the passions become more violent; and keep pace with the imagination in all its variations. whether this proceeds from the principle above-mentioned, that any attendant emotion is easily converted into the predominant, i shall not determine. it is sufficient for my present purpose, that we have many instances to confirm this influence of the imagination upon the passions. any pleasure, with which we are acquainted, affects us more than any other, which we own to be superior, but of whose nature we are wholly ignorant. of the one we can form a particular and determinate idea: the other we conceive under the general notion of pleasure; and it is certain, that the more general and universal any of our ideas are, the less influence they have upon the imagination. a general idea, though it be nothing but a particular one considered in a certain view, is commonly more obscure; and that because no particular idea, by which we represent a general one, is ever fixed or determinate, but may easily be changed for other particular ones, which will serve equally in the representation. there is a noted passage in the history of greece, which may serve for our present purpose. themistocles told the athenians, that he had formed a design, which would be highly useful to the public, but which it was impossible for him to communicate to them without ruining the execution, since its success depended entirely on the secrecy with which it should be conducted. the athenians, instead of granting him full power to act as he thought fitting, ordered him to communicate his design to aristides, in whose prudence they had an entire confidence, and whose opinion they were resolved blindly to submit to. the design of themistocles was secretly to set fire to the fleet of all the grecian commonwealths, which was assembled in a neighbouring port, and which being once destroyed would give the athenians the empire of the sea without any rival aristides returned to the assembly, and told them, that nothing coued be more advantageous than the design of themistocles but at the same time that nothing coued be more unjust: upon which the people unanimously rejected the project. a late celebrated historian [mons. rollin {charles rollin, histoire ancienne.(paris - )}.] admires this passage of antient history, as one of the most singular that is any where to be met. "here," says he, "they are not philosophers, to whom it is easy in their schools to establish the finest maxims and most sublime rules of morality, who decide that interest ought never to prevail above justice. it is a whole people interested in the proposal which is made to them, who consider it as of importance to the public good, and who notwithstanding reject it unanimously, and without hesitation, merely because it is contrary to justice." for my part i see nothing so extraordinary in this proceeding of the athenians. the same reasons, which render it so easy for philosophers to establish these sublime maxims, tend, in part, to diminish the merit of such a conduct in that people. philosophers never ballance betwixt profit and honesty, because their decisions are general, and neither their passions nor imaginations are interested in the objects. and though in the present case the advantage was immediate to the athenians, yet as it was known only under the general notion of advantage, without being conceived by any particular idea, it must have had a less considerable influence on their imaginations, and have been a less violent temptation, than if they had been acquainted with all its circumstances: otherwise it is difficult to conceive, that a whole people, unjust and violent as men commonly are, should so unanimously have adhered to justice, and rejected any considerable advantage. any satisfaction, which we lately enjoyed, and of which the memory is fresh and recent, operates on the will with more violence, than another of which the traces are decayed, and almost obliterated. from whence does this proceed, but that the memory in the first case assists the fancy and gives an additional force and vigour to its conceptions? the image of the past pleasure being strong and violent, bestows these qualities on the idea of the future pleasure, which is connected with it by the relation of resemblance. a pleasure, which is suitable to the way of life, in which we are engaged, excites more our desires and appetites than another, which is foreign to it. this phaenomenon may be explained from the same principle. nothing is more capable of infusing any passion into the mind, than eloquence, by which objects are represented in their strongest and most lively colours. we may of ourselves acknowledge, that such an object is valuable, and such another odious; but until an orator excites the imagination, and gives force to these ideas, they may have but a feeble influence either on the will or the affections. but eloquence is not always necessary. the bare opinion of another, especially when inforced with passion, will cause an idea of good or evil to have an influence upon us, which would otherwise have been entirely neglected. this proceeds from the principle of sympathy or communication; and sympathy, as i have already observed, is nothing but the conversion of an idea into an impression by the force of imagination. it is remarkable, that lively passions commonly attend a lively imagination. in this respect, as well as others, the force of the passion depends as much on the temper of the person, as the nature or situation of the object. i have already observed, that belief is nothing but a lively idea related to a present impression. this vivacity is a requisite circumstance to the exciting all our passions, the calm as well as the violent; nor has a mere fiction of the imagination any considerable influence upon either of them. it is too weak to take hold of the mind, or be attended with emotion. sect. vii of contiguity and distance in space and time there is an easy reason, why every thing contiguous to us, either in space or time, should be conceived with a peculiar force and vivacity, and excel every other object, in its influence on the imagination. ourself is intimately present to us, and whatever is related to self must partake of that quality. but where an object is so far removed as to have lost the advantage of this relation, why, as it is farther removed, its idea becomes still fainter and more obscure, would, perhaps, require a more particular examination. it is obvious, that the imagination can never totally forget the points of space and time, in which we are existent; but receives such frequent advertisements of them from the passions and senses, that however it may turn its attention to foreign and remote objects, it is necessitated every moment to reflect on the present. iot is also remarkable, that in the conception of those objects, which we regard as real and existent, we take them in their proper order and situation, and never leap from one object to another, which is distant from it, without running over, at least in a cursory manner, all those objects, which are interposed betwixt them. when we reflect, therefore, on any object distant from ourselves, we are obliged not only to reach it at first by passing through all the intermediate space betwixt ourselves and the object, but also to renew our progress every moment; being every moment recalled to the consideration of ourselves and our present situation. it is easily conceived, that this interruption must weaken the idea by breaking the action of the mind, and hindering the conception from being so intense and continued, as when we reflect on a nearer object. the fewer steps we make to arrive at the object, and the smoother the road is, this diminution of vivacity is less sensibly felt, but still may be observed more or less in proportion to the degrees of distance and difficulty. here then we are to consider two kinds of objects, the contiguous and remote; of which the former, by means of their relation to ourselves, approach an impression in force and vivacity; the latter by reason of the interruption in our manner of conceiving them, appear in a weaker and more imperfect light. this is their effect on the imagination. if my reasoning be just, they must have a proportionable effect on the will and passions. contiguous objects must have an influence much superior to the distant and remote. accordingly we find in common life, that men are principally concerned about those objects, which are not much removed either in space or time, enjoying the present, and leaving what is afar off to the care of chance and fortune. talk to a man of his condition thirty years hence, and he will not regard you. speak of what is to happen tomorrow, and he will lend you attention. the breaking of a mirror gives us more concern when at home, than the burning of a house, when abroad, and some hundred leagues distant. but farther; though distance both in space and time has a considerable effect on the imagination, and by that means on the will and passions, yet the consequence of a removal in space are much inferior to those of a removal in time. twenty years are certainly but a small distance of time in comparison of what history and even the memory of some may inform them of, and yet i doubt if a thousand leagues, or even the greatest distance of place this globe can admit of, will so remarkably weaken our ideas, and diminish our passions. a west-indian merchant will tell you, that he is not without concern about what passes in jamaica; though few extend their views so far into futurity, as to dread very remote accidents. the cause of this phaenomenon must evidently lie in the different properties of space and time. without having recourse to metaphysics, any one may easily observe, that space or extension consists of a number of co-existent parts disposed in a certain order, and capable of being at once present to the sight or feeling. on the contrary, time or succession, though it consists likewise of parts, never presents to us more than one at once; nor is it possible for any two of them ever to be co-existent. these qualities of the objects have a suitable effect on the imagination. the parts of extension being susceptible of an union to the senses, acquire an union in the fancy; and as the appearance of one part excludes not another, the transition or passage of the thought through the contiguous parts is by that means rendered more smooth and easy. on the other hand, the incompatibility of the parts of time in their real existence separates them in the imagination, and makes it more difficult for that faculty to trace any long succession or series of events. every part must appear single and alone, nor can regularly have entrance into the fancy without banishing what is supposed to have been immediately precedent. by this means any distance in time causes a greater interruption in the thought than an equal distance in space, and consequently weakens more considerably the idea, and consequently the passions; which depend in a great measure, on the imagination, according to my system. there is another phaenomenon of a like nature with the foregoing, viz, the superior effects of the same distance in futurity above that in the past. this difference with respect to the will is easily accounted for. as none of our actions can alter the past, it is not strange it should never determine the will. but with respect to the passions the question is yet entire, and well worth the examining. besides the propensity to a gradual progression through the points of space and time, we have another peculiarity in our method of thinking, which concurs in producing this phaenomenon. we always follow the succession of time in placing our ideas, and from the consideration of any object pass more easily to that, which follows immediately after it, than to that which went before it. we may learn this, among other instances, from the order, which is always observed in historical narrations. nothing but an absolute necessity can oblige an historian to break the order of time, and in his narration give the precedence to an event, which was in reality posterior to another. this will easily be applied to the question in hand, if we reflect on what i have before observed, that the present situation of the person is always that of the imagination, and that it is from thence we proceed to the conception of any distant object. when the object is past, the progression of the thought in passing to it from the present is contrary to nature, as proceeding from one point of time to that which is preceding, and from that to another preceding, in opposition to the natural course of the succession. on the other hand, when we turn our thought to a future object, our fancy flows along the stream of time, and arrives at the object by an order, which seems most natural, passing always from one point of time to that which is immediately posterior to it. this easy progression of ideas favours the imagination, and makes it conceive its object in a stronger and fuller light, than when we are continually opposed in our passage, and are obliged to overcome the difficulties arising from the natural propensity of the fancy. a small degree of distance in the past has, therefore, a greater effect, in interupting and weakening the conception, than a much greater in the future. from this effect of it on the imagination is derived its influence on the will and passions. there is another cause, which both contributes to the same effect, and proceeds from the same quality of the fancy, by which we are determined to trace the succession of time by a similar succession of ideas. when from the present instant we consider two points of time equally distant in the future and in the past, it is evident, that, abstractedly considered, their relation to the present is almost equal. for as the future will sometime be present, so the past was once present. if we coued, therefore, remove this quality of the imagination, an equal distance in the past and in the future, would have a similar influence. nor is this only true, when the fancy remains fixed, and from the present instant surveys the future and the past; but also when it changes its situation, and places us in different periods of time. for as on the one hand, in supposing ourselves existent in a point of time interposed betwixt the present instant and the future object, we find the future object approach to us, and the past retire, and become more distant: so on the other hand, in supposing ourselves existent in a point of time interposed betwixt the present and the past, the past approaches to us, and the future becomes more distant. but from the property of the fancy above-mentioned we rather chuse to fix our thought on the point of time interposed betwixt the present and the future, than on that betwixt the present and the past. we advance, rather than retard our existence; and following what seems the natural succession of time, proceed from past to present, and from present to future. by which means we conceive the future as flowing every moment nearer us, and the past as retiring. an equal distance, therefore, in the past and in the future, has not the same effect on the imagination; and that because we consider the one as continually encreasing, and the other as continually diminishing. the fancy anticipates the course of things, and surveys the object in that condition, to which it tends, as well as in that, which is regarded as the present. sect. viii the same subject continued thus we have accounted for three phaenomena, which seem pretty remarkable. why distance weakens the conception and passion: why distance in time has a greater effect than that in space: and why distance in past time has still a greater effect than that in future. we must now consider three phaenomena, which seem to be, in a manner, the reverse of these: why a very great distance encreases our esteem and admiration for an object; why such a distance in time encreases it more than that in space: and a distance in past time more than that in future. the curiousness of the subject will, i hope, excuse my dwelling on it for some time. to begin with the first phaenomenon, why a great distance encreases our esteem and admiration for an object; it is evident that the mere view and contemplation of any greatness, whether successive or extended, enlarges the soul, and give it a sensible delight and pleasure. a wide plain, the ocean, eternity, a succession of several ages; all these are entertaining objects, and excel every thing, however beautiful, which accompanies not its beauty with a suitable greatness. now when any very distant object is presented to the imagination, we naturally reflect on the interposed distance, and by that means, conceiving something great and magnificent, receive the usual satisfaction. but as the fancy passes easily from one idea to another related to it, and transports to the second all the passions excited by the first, the admiration, which is directed to the distance, naturally diffuses itself over the distant object. accordingly we find, that it is not necessary the object should be actually distant from us, in order to cause our admiration; but that it is sufficient, if, by the natural association of ideas, it conveys our view to any considerable distance. a great traveller, though in the same chamber, will pass for a very extraordinary person; as a greek medal, even in our cabinet, is always esteemed a valuable curiosity. here the object, by a natural transition, conveys our views to the distance; and the admiration, which arises from that distance, by another natural transition, returns back to the object. but though every great distance produces an admiration for the distant object, a distance in time has a more considerable effect than that in space. antient busts and inscriptions are more valued than japan tables: and not to mention the greeks and romans, it is certain we regard with more veneration the old chaldeans and egyptians, than the modern chinese and persians, and bestow more fruitless pains to dear up the history and chronology of the former, than it would cost us to make a voyage, and be certainly informed of the character, learning and government of the latter. i shall be obliged to make a digression in order to explain this phaenomenon. it is a quality very observable in human nature, that any opposition, which does not entirely discourage and intimidate us, has rather a contrary effect, and inspires us with a more than ordinary grandeur and magnanimity. in collecting our force to overcome the opposition, we invigorate the soul, and give it an elevation with which otherwise it would never have been acquainted. compliance, by rendering our strength useless, makes us insensible of it: but opposition awakens and employs it. this is also true in the universe. opposition not only enlarges the soul; but the soul, when full of courage and magnanimity, in a manner seeks opposition. spumantemque dari pecora inter inertia votis optat aprum, aut fulvum descendere monte leonem. [and, among the tamer beasts, [he] longs to be granted, in answer to his prayers, a slavering boar, or to have a tawny lion come down from the mountain.] whatever supports and fills the passions is agreeable to us; as on the contrary, what weakens and infeebles them is uneasy. as opposition has the first effect, and facility the second, no wonder the mind, in certain dispositions, desires the former, and is averse to the latter. these principles have an effect on the imagination as well as on the passions. to be convinced of this we need only consider the influence of heights and depths on that faculty. any great elevation of place communicates a kind of pride or sublimity of imagination, and gives a fancyed superiority over those that lie below; and, vice versa, a sublime and strong imagination conveys the idea of ascent and elevation. hence it proceeds, that we associate, in a manner, the idea of whatever is good with that of height, and evil with lowness. heaven is supposed to be above, and hell below. a noble genius is called an elevate and sublime one. atque udam spernit humum fugiente penna. [spurns the dank soil in winged flight.] on the contrary, a vulgar and trivial conception is stiled indifferently low or mean. prosperity is denominated ascent, and adversity descent. kings and princes are supposed to be placed at the top of human affairs; as peasants and day-labourers are said to be in the lowest stations. these methods of thinking, and of expressing ourselves, are not of so little consequence as they may appear at first sight. it is evident to common sense, as well as philosophy, that there is no natural nor essential difference betwixt high and low, and that this distinction arises only from the gravitation of matter, which produces a motion from the one to the other. the very same direction, which in this part of the globe is called ascent, is denominated descent in our antipodes; which can proceed from nothing but the contrary tendency of bodies. now it is certain, that the tendency of bodies, continually operating upon our senses, must produce, from custom, a like tendency in the fancy, and that when we consider any object situated in an ascent, the idea of its weight gives us a propensity to transport it from the place, in which it is situated, to the place immediately below it, and so on, until we come to the ground, which equally stops the body and our imagination. for a like reason we feel a difficulty in mounting, and pass not without a kind of reluctance from the inferior to that which is situated above it; as if our ideas acquired a kind of gravity from their objects. as a proof of this, do we not find, that the facility, which is so much studyed in music and poetry, is called the fail or cadency of the harmony or period; the idea of facility communicating to us that of descent, in the same manner as descent produces a facility? since the imagination, therefore, in running from low to high, finds an opposition in its internal qualities and principles, and since the soul, when elevated with joy and courage, in a manner seeks opposition, and throws itself with alacrity into any scene of thought or action, where its courage meets with matter to nourish and employ it; it follows, that everything, which invigorates and inlivens the soul, whether by touching the passions or imagination naturally conveys to the fancy this inclination for ascent, and determines it to run against the natural stream of its thoughts and conceptions. this aspiring progress of the imagination suits the present disposition of the mind; and the difficulty, instead of extinguishing its vigour and alacrity, has the contrary affect, of sustaining and encreasing it. virtue, genius, power, and riches are for this reason associated with height and sublimity; as poverty, slavery, and folly are conjoined with descent and lowness. were the case the same with us as milton represents it to be with the angels, to whom descent is adverse, and who cannot sink without labour and compulsion, this order of things would be entirely inverted; as appears hence, that the very nature of ascent and descent is derived from the difficulty and propensity, and consequently every one of their effects proceeds from that origin. all this is easily applied to the present question, why a considerable distance in time produces a greater veneration for the distant objects than a like removal in space. the imagination moves with more difficulty in passing from one portion of time to another, than in a transition through the parts of space; and that because space or extension appears united to our senses, while time or succession is always broken and divided. this difficulty, when joined with a small distance, interrupts and weakens the fancy: but has a contrary effect in a great removal. the mind, elevated by the vastness of its object, is still farther elevated by the difficulty of the conception; and being obliged every moment to renew its efforts in the transition from one part of time to another, feels a more vigorous and sublime disposition, than in a transition through the parts of space, where the ideas flow along with easiness and facility. in this disposition, the imagination, passing, as is usual, from the consideration of the distance to the view of the distant objects, gives us a proportionable veneration for it; and this is the reason why all the relicts of antiquity are so precious in our eyes, and appear more valuable than what is brought even from the remotest parts of the world. the third phaenomenon i have remarked will be a full confirmation of this. it is not every removal in time, which has the effect of producing veneration and esteem. we are not apt to imagine our posterity will excel us, or equal our ancestors. this phaenomenon is the more remarkable, because any distance in futurity weakens not our ideas so much as an equal removal in the past. though a removal in the past, when very great, encreases our passions beyond a like removal in the future, yet a small removal has a greater influence in diminishing them. in our common way of thinking we are placed in a kind of middle station betwixt the past and future; and as our imagination finds a kind of difficulty in running along the former, and a facility in following the course of the latter, the difficulty conveys the notion of ascent, and the facility of the contrary. hence we imagine our ancestors to be, in a manner, mounted above us, and our posterity to lie below us. our fancy arrives not at the one without effort, but easily reaches the other: which effort weakens the conception, where the distance is small; but enlarges and elevates the imagination, when attended with a suitable object. as on the other hand, the facility assists the fancy in a small removal, but takes off from its force when it contemplates any considerable distance. it may not be improper, before we leave this subject of the will, to resume, in a few words, all that has been said concerning it, in order to set the whole more distinctly before the eyes of the reader. what we commonly understand by passion is a violent and sensible emotion of mind, when any good or evil is presented, or any object, which, by the original formation of our faculties, is fitted to excite an appetite. by reason we mean affections of the very same kind with the former; but such as operate more calmly, and cause no disorder in the temper: which tranquillity leads us into a mistake concerning them, and causes us to regard them as conclusions only of our intellectual faculties. both the causes and effects of these violent and calm passions are pretty variable, and depend, in a great measure, on the peculiar temper and disposition of every individual. generally speaking, the violent passions have a more powerful influence on the will; though it is often found, that the calm ones, when corroborated by reflection, and seconded by resolution, are able to controul them in their most furious movements. what makes this whole affair more uncertain, is, that a calm passion may easily be changed into a violent one, either by a change of temper, or of the circumstances and situation of the object, as by the borrowing of force from any attendant passion, by custom, or by exciting the imagination. upon the whole, this struggle of passion and of reason, as it is called, diversifies human life, and makes men so different not only from each other, but also from themselves in different times. philosophy can only account for a few of the greater and more sensible events of this war; but must leave all the smaller and more delicate revolutions, as dependent on principles too fine and minute for her comprehension. sect. ix of the direct passions it is easy to observe, that the passions, both direct and indirect, are founded on pain and pleasure, and that in order to produce an affection of any kind, it is only requisite to present some good or evil. upon the removal of pain and pleasure there immediately follows a removal of love and hatred, pride and humility, desire and aversion, and of most of our reflective or secondary impressions. the impressions, which arise from good and evil most naturally, and with the least preparation are the direct passions of desire and aversion, grief and joy, hope and fear, along with volition. the mind by an original instinct tends to unite itself with the good, and to avoid the evil, though they be conceived merely in idea, and be considered as to exist in any future period of time. but supposing that there is an immediate impression of pain or pleasure, and that arising from an object related to ourselves or others, this does not prevent the propensity or aversion, with the consequent emotions, but by concurring with certain dormant principles of the human mind, excites the new impressions of pride or humility, love or hatred. that propensity, which unites us to the object, or separates us from it, still continues to operate, but in conjunction with the indirect passions, which arise from a double relation of impressions and ideas. these indirect passions, being always agreeable or uneasy, give in their turn additional force to the direct passions, and encrease our desire and aversion to the object. thus a suit of fine cloaths produces pleasure from their beauty; and this pleasure produces the direct passions, or the impressions of volition and desire. again, when these cloaths are considered as belonging to ourself, the double relation conveys to us the sentiment of pride, which is an indirect passion; and the pleasure, which attends that passion, returns back to the direct affections, and gives new force to our desire or volition, joy or hope. when good is certain or probable, it produces joy. when evil is in the same situation there arises grief or sorrow. when either good or evil is uncertain, it gives rise to fear or hope, according to the degrees of uncertainty on the one side or the other. desire arises from good considered simply, and aversion is derived from evil. the will exerts itself, when either the good or the absence of the evil may be attained by any action of the mind or body. beside good and evil, or in other words, pain and pleasure, the direct passions frequently arise from a natural impulse or instinct, which is perfectly unaccountable. of this kind is the desire of punishment to our enemies, and of happiness to our friends; hunger, lust, and a few other bodily appetites. these passions, properly speaking, produce good and evil, and proceed not from them, like the other affections. none of the direct affections seem to merit our particular attention, except hope and fear, which we shall here endeavour to account for. it is evident that the very same event, which by its certainty would produce grief or joy, gives always rise to fear or hope, when only probable and uncertain. in order, therefore, to understand the reason why this circumstance makes such a considerable difference, we must reflect on what i have already advanced in the preceding book concerning the nature of probability. probability arises from an opposition of contrary chances or causes, by which the mind is not allowed to fix on either side, but is incessantly tost from one to another, and at one moment is determined to consider an object as existent, and at another moment as the contrary. the imagination or understanding, call it which you please, fluctuates betwixt the opposite views; and though perhaps it may be oftener turned to the one side than the other, it is impossible for it, by reason of the opposition of causes or chances, to rest on either. the pro and con of the question alternately prevail; and the mind, surveying the object in its opposite principles, finds such a contrariety as utterly destroys all certainty and established opinion. suppose, then, that the object, concerning whose reality we are doubtful, is an object either of desire or aversion, it is evident, that, according as the mind turns itself either to the one side or the other, it must feel a momentary impression of joy or sorrow. an object, whose existence we desire, gives satisfaction, when we reflect on those causes, which produce it; and for the same reason excites grief or uneasiness from the opposite consideration: so that as the understanding, in all probable questions, is divided betwixt the contrary points of view, the affections must in the same manner be divided betwixt opposite emotions. now if we consider the human mind, we shall find, that with regard to the passions, it is not the nature of a wind-instrument of music, which in running over all the notes immediately loses the sound after the breath ceases; but rather resembles a string-instrument, where after each stroke the vibrations still retain some sound, which gradually and insensibly decays. the imagination is extreme quick and agile; but the passions are slow and restive: for which reason, when any object is presented, that affords a variety of views to the one, and emotions to the other; though the fancy may change its views with great celerity; each stroke will not produce a clear and distinct note of passion, but the one passion will always be mixt and confounded with the other. according as the probability inclines to good or evil, the passion of joy or sorrow predominates in the composition: because the nature of probability is to cast a superior number of views or chances on one side; or, which is the same thing, a superior number of returns of one passion; or since the dispersed passions are collected into one, a superior degree of that passion. that is, in other words, the grief and joy being intermingled with each other, by means of the contrary views of the imagination, produce by their union the passions of hope and fear. upon this head there may be started a very curious question concerning that contrariety of passions, which is our present subject. it is observable, that where the objects of contrary passions are presented at once, beside the encrease of the predominant passion (which has been already explained, and commonly arises at their first shock or rencounter) it sometimes happens, that both the passions exist successively, and by short intervals; sometimes, that they destroy each other, and neither of them takes place; and sometimes that both of them remain united in the mind. it may, therefore, be asked, by what theory we can explain these variations, and to what general principle we can reduce them. when the contrary passions arise from objects entirely different, they take place alternately, the want of relation in the ideas separating the impressions from each other, and preventing their opposition. thus when a man is afflicted for the loss of a law-suit, and joyful for the birth of a son, the mind running from the agreeable to the calamitous object, with whatever celerity it may perform this motion, can scarcely temper the one affection with the other, and remain betwixt them in a state of indifference. it more easily attains that calm situation, when the same event is of a mixt nature, and contains something adverse and something prosperous in its different circumstances. for in that case, both the passions, mingling with each other by means of the relation, become mutually destructive, and leave the mind in perfect tranquility. but suppose, in the third place, that the object is not a compound of good or evil, but is considered as probable or improbable in any degree; in that case i assert, that the contrary passions will both of them be present at once in the soul, and instead of destroying and tempering each other, will subsist together, and produce a third impression or affection by their union. contrary passions are not capable of destroying each other, except when their contrary movements exactly rencounter, and are opposite in their direction, as well as in the sensation they produce. this exact rencounter depends upon the relations of those ideas, from which they are derived, and is more or less perfect, according to the degrees of the relation. in the case of probability the contrary chances are so far related, that they determine concerning the existence or non-existence of the same object. but this relation is far from being perfect; since some of the chances lie on the side of existence, and others on that of non-existence; which are objects altogether incompatible. it is impossible by one steady view to survey the opposite chances, and the events dependent on them; but it is necessary, that the imagination should run alternately from the one to the other. each view of the imagination produces its peculiar passion, which decays away by degrees, and is followed by a sensible vibration after the stroke. the incompatibility of the views keeps the passions from shocking in a direct line, if that expression may be allowed; and yet their relation is sufficient to mingle their fainter emotions. it is after this manner that hope and fear arise from the different mixture of these opposite passions of grief and joy, and from their imperfect union and conjunction. upon the whole, contrary passions succeed each other alternately, when they arise from different objects: they mutually destroy each other, when they proceed from different parts of the same: and they subsist both of them and mingle together, when they are derived from the contrary and incompatible chances or possibilities, on which any one object depends. the influence of the relations of ideas is plainly seen in this whole affair. if the objects of the contrary passions be totally different, the passions are like two opposite liquors in different bottles, which have no influence on each other. if the objects be intimately connected, the passions are like an alcali and an acid, which, being mingled, destroy each other. if the relation be more imperfect, and consists in the contradictory views of the same object, the passions are like oil and vinegar, which, however mingled, never perfectly unite and incorporate. as the hypothesis concerning hope and fear carries its own evidence along with it, we shall be the more concise in our proofs. a few strong arguments are better than many weak ones. the passions of fear and hope may arise when the chances are equal on both sides, and no superiority can be discovered in the one above the other. nay, in this situation the passions are rather the strongest, as the mind has then the least foundation to rest upon, and is tossed with the greatest uncertainty. throw in a superior degree of probability to the side of grief, you immediately see that passion diffuse itself over the composition, and tincture it into fear. encrease the probability, and by that means the grief, the fear prevails still more and more, till at last it runs insensibly, as the joy continually diminishes, into pure grief. after you have brought it to this situation, diminish the grief, after the same manner that you encreased it; by diminishing the probability on that side, and you'll see the passion clear every moment, until it changes insensibly into hope; which again runs, after the same manner, by slow degrees, into joy, as you encrease that part of the composition by the encrease of the probability. are not these as plain proofs, that the passions of fear and hope are mixtures of grief and joy, as in optics it is a proof, that a coloured ray of the sun passing through a prism, is a composition of two others, when, as you diminish or encrease the quantity of either, you find it prevail proportionably more or less in the composition? i am sure neither natural nor moral philosophy admits of stronger proofs. probability is of two kinds, either when the object is really in itself uncertain, and to be determined by chance; or when, though the object be already certain, yet it is uncertain to our judgment, which finds a number of proofs on each side of the question. both these kinds of probabilities cause fear and hope; which can only proceed from that property, in which they agree, viz, the uncertainty and fluctuation they bestow on the imagination by that contrariety of views, which is common to both. it is a probable good or evil, that commonly produces hope or fear; because probability, being a wavering and unconstant method of surveying an object, causes naturally a like mixture and uncertainty of passion. but we may observe, that wherever from other causes this mixture can be produced, the passions of fear and hope will arise, even though there be no probability; which must be allowed to be a convincing proof of the present hypothesis. we find that an evil, barely conceived as possible, does sometimes produce fear; especially if the evil be very great. a man cannot think of excessive pains and tortures without trembling, if he be in the least danger of suffering them. the smallness of the probability is compensated by the greatness of the evil; and the sensation is equally lively, as if the evil were more probable. one view or glimpse of the former, has the same effect as several of the latter. but they are not only possible evils, that cause fear, but even some allowed to be impossible; as when we tremble on the brink of a precipice, though we know ourselves to be in perfect security, and have it in our choice whether we wili advance a step farther. this proceeds from the immediate presence of the evil, which influences the imagination in the same manner as the certainty of it would do; but being encountered by the reflection on our security, is immediately retracted, and causes the same kind of passion, as when from a contrariety of chances contrary passions are produced. evils, that are certain, have sometimes the same effect in producing fear, as the possible or impossible. thus a man in a strong prison well-guarded, without the least means of escape, trembles at the thought of the rack, to which he is sentenced. this happens only when the certain evil is terrible and confounding; in which case the mind continually rejects it with horror, while it continually presses in upon the thought. the evil is there flxed and established, but the mind cannot endure to fix upon it; from which fluctuation and uncertainty there arises a passion of much the same appearance with fear. but it is not only where good or evil is uncertain, as to its existence, but also as to its kind, that fear or hope arises. let one be told by a person, whose veracity he cannot doubt of, that one of his sons is suddenly killed, it is evident the passion this event would occasion, would not settle into pure grief, till he got certain information, which of his sons he had lost. here there is an evil certain, but the kind of it uncertain. consequently the fear we feel on this occasion is without the least mixture of joy, and arises merely from the fluctuation of the fancy betwixt its objects. and though each side of the question produces here the same passion, yet that passion cannot settle, but receives from the imagination a tremulous and unsteady motion, resembling in its cause, as well as in its sensation, the mixture and contention of grief and joy. from these principles we may account for a phaenomenon in the passions, which at first sight seems very extraordinary, viz, that surprize is apt to change into fear, and every thing that is unexpected affrights us. the most obvious conclusion from this is, that human nature is in general pusillanimous; since upon the sudden appearance of any object. we immediately conclude it to be an evil, and without waiting till we can examine its nature, whether it be good or bad, are at first affected with fear. this i say is the most obvious conclusion; but upon farther examination we shall find that the phaenomenon is otherwise to be accounted for. the suddenness and strangeness of an appearance naturally excite a commotion in the mind, like every thing for which we are not prepared, and to which we are not accustomed. this commotion, again, naturally produces a curiosity or inquisitiveness, which being very violent, from the strong and sudden impulse of the object, becomes uneasy, and resembles in its fluctuation and uncertainty, the sensation of fear or the mixed passions of grief and joy. this image of fear naturally converts into the thing itself, and gives us a real apprehension of evil, as the mind always forms its judgments more from its present disposition than from the nature of its objects. thus all kinds of uncertainty have a strong connexion with fear, even though they do not cause any opposition of passions by the opposite views and considerations they present to us. a person, who has left his friend in any malady, will feel more anxiety upon his account, than if he were present, though perhaps he is not only incapable of giving him assistance, but likewise of judging of the event of his sickness. in this case, though the principal object of the passion, viz, the life or death of his friend, be to him equally uncertain when present as when absent; yet there are a thousand little circumstances of his friend's situation and condition, the knowledge of which fixes the idea, and prevents that fluctuation and uncertainty so near allyed to fear. uncertainty is, indeed, in one respect as near allyed to hope as to fear, since it makes an essential part in the composition of the former passion; but the reason, why it inclines not to that side, is, that uncertainty alone is uneasy, and has a reladon of impressions to the uneasy passions. it is thus our uncertainty concerning any minute circumstance relating to a person encreases our apprehensions of his death or misfortune. horace has remarked this phaenomenon. ut assidens implumi bus pullus avis serpentium allapsus tirnet, magis relictis; non, ut adsit, auxili latura plus presentibus. [as a bird, watching over her fledgelings, is more afraid of their being attacked by snakes if she were to leave them even though, were she to stay, she would not be any more capable of helping them, when they were with her.] but this principle of the connexion of fear with uncertainty i carry farther, and observe that any doubt produces that passion, even though it presents nothing to us on any side but what is good and desireable. a virgin, on her bridalnight goes to bed full of fears and apprehensions, though she expects nothing but pleasure of the highest kind, and what she has long wished for. the newness and greatness of the event, the confusion of wishes and joys so embarrass the mind, that it knows not on what passion to fix itself; from whence arises a fluttering or unsettledness of the spirits which being, in some degree, uneasy, very naturally degenerates into fear. thus we still find, that whatever causes any fluctuation or mixture of passions, with any degree of uneasiness, always produces fear, or at least a passion so like it, that they are scarcely to be distinguished. i have here confined myself to the examination of hope and fear in their most simple and natural situation, without considering all the variations they may receive from the mixture of different views and reflections. terror, consternation, astonishment, anxiety, and other passions of that kind, are nothing but different species and degrees of fear. it is easy to imagine how a different situation of the object, or a different turn of thought, may change even the sensation of a passion; and this may in general account for all the particular sub-divisions of the other affections, as well as of fear. love may shew itself in the shape of tenderness, friendship, intimacy, esteem, good-will, and in many other appearances; which at the bottom are the same affections; and arise from the same causes, though with a small variation, which it is not necessary to give any particular account of. it is for this reason i have all along confined myself to the principal passion. the same care of avoiding prolixity is the reason why i wave the examination of the will and direct passions, as they appear in animals; since nothing is more evident, than that they are of the same nature, and excited by the same causes as in human creatures. i leave this to the reader's own observation; desiring him at the same time to consider the additional force this bestows on the present system. sect. x of curiosity, or the love of truth but methinks we have been not a little inattentive to run over so many different parts of the human mind, and examine so many passions, without taking once into the consideration that love of truth, which was the first source of all our enquiries. twill therefore be proper, before we leave this subject, to bestow a few reflections on that passion, and shew its origin in human nature. it is an affection of so peculiar a kind, that it would have been impossible to have treated of it under any of those heads, which we have examined, without danger of obscurity and confusion. truth is of two kinds, consisting either in the discovery of the proportions of ideas, considered as such, or in the conformity of our ideas of objects to their real existence. it is certain, that the former species of truth, is not desired merely as truth, and that it is not the justness of our conclusions, which alone gives the pleasure. for these conclusions are equally just, when we discover the equality of two bodies by a pair of compasses, as when we learn it by a mathematical demonstration; and though in the one case the proofs be demonstrative, and in the other only sensible, yet generally speaking, the mind acquiesces with equal assurance in the one as in the other. and in an arithmetical operation, where both the truth and the assurance are of the same nature, as in the most profound algebraical problem, the pleasure is very inconsiderable, if rather it does not degenerate into pain: which is an evident proof, that the satisfaction, which we sometimes receive from the discovery of truth, proceeds not from it, merely as such, but only as endowed with certain qualities. the first and most considerable circumstance requisite to render truth agreeable, is the genius and capacity, which is employed in its invention and discovery. what is easy and obvious is never valued; and even what is in itself difficult, if we come to the knowledge of it without difficulty, and without any stretch of thought or judgment, is but little regarded. we love to trace the demonstrations of mathematicians; but should receive small entertainment from a person, who should barely inform us of the proportions of lines and angles, though we reposed the utmost confidence both in his judgment and veracity. in this case it is sufficient to have ears to learn the truth. we never are obliged to fix our attention or exert our genius; which of all other exercises of the mind is the most pleasant and agreeable. but though the exercise of genius be the principal source of that satisfaction we receive from the sciences, yet i doubt, if it be alone sufficient to give us any considerable enjoyment. the truth we discover must also be of some importance. it is easy to multiply algebraical problems to infinity, nor is there any end in the discovery of the proportions of conic sections; though few mathematicians take any pleasure in these researches, but turn their thoughts to what is more useful and important. now the question is, after what manner this utility and importance operate upon us? the difficulty on this head arises from hence, that many philosophers have consumed their time, have destroyed their health, and neglected their fortune, in the search of such truths, as they esteemed important and useful to the world, though it appeared from their whole conduct and behaviour, that they were not endowed with any share of public spirit, nor had any concern for the interests of mankind. were they convinced, that their discoveries were of no consequence, they would entirely lose all relish for their studies, and that though the consequences be entirely indifferent to them; which seems to be a contradiction. to remove this contradiction, we must consider, that there are certain desires and inclinations, which go no farther than the imagination, and are rather the faint shadows and images of passions, than any real affections. thus, suppose a man, who takes a survey of the fortifications of any city; considers their strength and advantages, natural or acquired; observes the disposition and contrivance of the bastions, ramparts, mines, and other military works; it is plain, that in proportion as all these are fitted to attain their ends he will receive a suitable pleasure and satisfaction. this pleasure, as it arises from the utility, not the form of the objects, can be no other than a sympathy with the inhabitants, for whose security all this art is employed; though it is possible, that this person, as a stranger or an enemy, may in his heart have no kindness for them, or may even entertain a hatred against them. it may indeed be objected, that such a remote sympathy is a very slight foundation for a passion, and that so much industry and application, as we frequently observe in philosophers, can never be derived from so inconsiderable an original. but here i return to what i have already remarked, that the pleasure of study conflicts chiefly in the action of the mind, and the exercise of the genius and understanding in the discovery or comprehension of any truth. if the importance of the truth be requisite to compleat the pleasure, it is not on account of any considerable addition, which of itself it brings to our enjoyment, but only because it is, in some measure, requisite to fix our attention. when we are careless and inattentive, the same action of the understanding has no effect upon us, nor is able to convey any of that satisfaction, which arises from it, when we are in another disposition. but beside the action of the mind, which is the principal foundation of the pleasure, there is likewise required a degree of success in the attainment of the end, or the discovery of that truth we examine. upon this head i shall make a general remark, which may be useful on many occasions, viz, that where the mind pursues any end with passion; though that passion be not derived originally from the end, but merely from the action and pursuit; yet by the natural course of the affections, we acquire a concern for the end itself, and are uneasy under any disappointment we meet with in the pursuit of it. this proceeds from the relation and parallel direction of the passions above-mentioned. to illustrate all this by a similar instance, i shall observe, that there cannot be two passions more nearly resembling each other, than those of hunting and philosophy, whatever disproportion may at first sight appear betwixt them. it is evident, that the pleasure of hunting conflicts in the action of the mind and body; the motion, the attention, the difficulty, and the uncertainty. it is evident likewise, that these actions must be attended with an idea of utility, in order to their having any effect upon us. a man of the greatest fortune, and the farthest removed from avarice, though he takes a pleasure in hunting after patridges and pheasants, feels no satisfaction in shooting crows and magpies; and that because he considers the first as fit for the table, and the other as entirely useless. here it is certain, that the utility or importance of itself causes no real passion, but is only requisite to support the imagination; and the same person, who over-looks a ten times greater profit in any other subject, is pleased to bring home half a dozen woodcocks or plovers, after having employed several hours in hunting after them. to make the parallel betwixt hunting and philosophy more compleat, we may observe, that though in both cases the end of our action may in itself be despised, yet in the heat of the action we acquire such an attention to this end, that we are very uneasy under any disappointments, and are sorry when we either miss our game, or fall into any error in our reasoning. if we want another parallel to these affections, we may consider the passion of gaming, which affords a pleasure from the same principles as hunting and philosophy. it has been remarked, that the pleasure of gaming arises not from interest alone; since many leave a sure gain for this entertainment: neither is it derived from the game alone; since the same persons have no satisfaction, when they play for nothing: but proceeds from both these causes united, though separately they have no effect. it is here, as in certain chymical preparations, where the mixture of two clear and transparent liquids produces a third, which is opaque and coloured.. the interest, which we have in any game, engages our attention, without which we can have no enjoyment, either in that or in any other action. our attention being once engaged, the difficulty, variety, and sudden reverses of fortune, still farther interest us; and it is from that concern our satisfaction arises. human life is so tiresome a scene, and men generally are of such indolent dispositions, that whatever amuses them, though by a passion mixt with pain, does in the main give them a sensible pleasure. and this pleasure is here encreased by the nature of the objects, which being sensible, and of a narrow compass, are entered into with facility, and are agreeable to the imagination. the same theory, that accounts for the love of truth in mathematics and algebra may be extended to morals, politics, natural philosophy, and other studies, where we consider not the other abstract relations of ideas, but their real connexions and existence. but beside the love of knowledge, which displays itself in the sciences, there is a certain curiosity implanted in human nature, which is a passion derived from a quite different principle. some people have an insatiable desire of knowing the actions and circumstances of their neighbours, though their interest be no way concerned in them, and they must entirely depend on others for their information; in which case there is no room for study or application. let us search for the reason of this phaenomenon. it has been proved at large, that the influence of belief is at once to inliven and infix any idea in the imagination, and prevent all kind of hesitation and uncertainty about it. both these circumstances are advantageous. by the vivacity of the idea we interest the fancy, and produce, though in a lesser degree, the same pleasure, which arises from a moderate passion. as the vivacity of the idea gives pleasure, so its certainty prevents uneasiness, by fixing one particular idea in the mind, and keeping it from wavering in the choice of its objects. it is a quality of human nature, which is conspicuous on many occasions, and is common both to the mind and body, that too sudden and violent a change is unpleasant to us, and that however any objects may in themselves be indifferent, yet their alteration gives uneasiness. as it is the nature of doubt to cause a variation in the thought, and transport us suddenly from one idea to another, it must of consequence be the occasion of pain. this pain chiefly takes place, where interest, relation, or the greatness and novelty of any event interests us in it. it is not every matter of fact, of which we have a curiosity to be informed; neither are they such only as we have an interest to know. it is sufficient if the idea strikes on us with such force, and concerns us so nearly, as to give us an uneasiness in its instability and inconstancy. a stranger, when he arrives first at any town, may be entirely indifferent about knowing the history and adventures of the inhabitants; but as he becomes farther acquainted with them, and has lived any considerable time among them, he acquires the same curiosity as the natives. when we are reading the history of a nation, we may have an ardent desire of clearing up any doubt or difficulty, that occurs in it; but become careless in such researches, when the ideas of these events are, in a great measure, obliterated. book iii of morals part i of virtue and vice in general sect. i moral distinctions not derived from reason there is an inconvenience which attends all abstruse reasoning that it may silence, without convincing an antagonist, and requires the same intense study to make us sensible of its force, that was at first requisite for its invention. when we leave our closet, and engage in the common affairs of life, its conclusions seem to vanish, like the phantoms of the night on the appearance of the morning; and it is difficult for us to retain even that conviction, which we had attained with difficulty. this is still more conspicuous in a long chain of reasoning, where we must preserve to the end the evidence of the first propositions, and where we often lose sight of all the most received maxims, either of philosophy or common life. i am not, however, without hopes, that the present system of philosophy will acquire new force as it advances; and that our reasonings concerning morals will corroborate whatever has been said concerning the understanding and the passions. morality is a subject that interests us above all others: we fancy the peace of society to be at stake in every decision concerning it; and it is evident, that this concern must make our speculations appear more real and solid, than where the subject is, in a great measure, indifferent to us. what affects us, we conclude can never be a chimera; and as our passion is engaged on the one side or the other, we naturally think that the question lies within human comprehension; which, in other cases of this nature, we are apt to entertain some doubt of. without this advantage i never should have ventured upon a third volume of such abstruse philosophy, in an age, wherein the greatest part of men seem agreed to convert reading into an amusement, and to reject every thing that requires any considerable degree of attention to be comprehended. it has been observed, that nothing is ever present to the mind but its perceptions; and that all the actions of seeing, hearing, judging, loving, hating, and thinking, fall under this denomination. the mind can never exert itself in any action, which we may not comprehend under the term of perception; and consequently that term is no less applicable to those judgments, by which we distinguish moral good and evil, than to every other operation of the mind. to approve of one character, to condemn another, are only so many different perceptions. now as perceptions resolve themselves into two kinds, viz. impressions and ideas, this distinction gives rise to a question, with which we shall open up our present enquiry concerning morals. whether it is by means of our ideas or impressions we distinguish betwixt vice and virtue, and pronounce an action blameable or praiseworthy? this will immediately cut off all loose discourses and declamations, and reduce us to something precise and exact on the present subject. those who affirm that virtue is nothing but a conformity to reason; that there are eternal fitnesses and unfitnesses of things, which are the same to every rational being that considers them; that the immutable measures of right and wrong impose an obligation, not only on human creatures, but also on the deity himself: all these systems concur in the opinion, that morality, like truth, is discerned merely by ideas, and by their juxta-position and comparison. in order, therefore, to judge of these systems, we need only consider, whether it be possible, from reason alone, to distinguish betwixt moral good and evil, or whether there must concur some other principles to enable us to make that distinction. if morality had naturally no influence on human passions and actions, it were in vain to take such pains to inculcate it; and nothing would be more fruitless than that multitude of rules and precepts, with which all moralists abound. philosophy is commonly divided into speculative and practical; and as morality is always comprehended under the latter division, it is supposed to influence our passions and actions, and to go beyond the calm and indolent judgments of the understanding. and this is confirmed by common experience, which informs us, that men are often governed by their duties, and are detered from some actions by the opinion of injustice, and impelled to others by that of obligation. since morals, therefore, have an influence on the actions and affections, it follows, that they cannot be derived from reason; and that because reason alone, as we have already proved, can never have any such influence. morals excite passions, and produce or prevent actions. reason of itself is utterly impotent in this particular. the rules of morality therefore, are not conclusions of our reason. no one, i believe, will deny the justness of this inference; nor is there any other means of evading it, than by denying that principle, on which it is founded. as long as it is allowed, that reason has no influence on our passions and action, it is in vain to pretend, that morality is discovered only by a deduction of reason. an active principle can never be founded on an inactive; and if reason be inactive in itself, it must remain so in all its shapes and appearances, whether it exerts itself in natural or moral subjects, whether it considers the powers of external bodies, or the actions of rational beings. it would be tedious to repeat all the arguments, by which i have proved [book ii. part iii. sect .], that reason is perfectly inert, and can never either prevent or produce any action or affection, it will be easy to recollect what has been said upon that subject. i shall only recall on this occasion one of these arguments, which i shall endeavour to render still more conclusive, and more applicable to the present subject. reason is the discovery of truth or falshood. truth or falshood consists in an agreement or disagreement either to the real relations of ideas, or to real existence and matter of fact. whatever, therefore, is not susceptible of this agreement or disagreement, is incapable of being true or false, and can never be an object of our reason. now it is evident our passions, volitions, and actions, are not susceptible of any such agreement or disagreement; being original facts and realities, compleat in themselves, and implying no reference to other passions, volitions, and actions. it is impossible, therefore, they can be pronounced either true or false, and be either contrary or conformable to reason. this argument is of double advantage to our present purpose. for it proves directly, that actions do not derive their merit from a conformity to reason, nor their blame from a contrariety to it; and it proves the same truth more indirectly, by shewing us, that as reason can never immediately prevent or produce any action by contradicting or approving of it, it cannot be the source of moral good and evil, which are found to have that influence. actions may be laudable or blameable; but they cannot be reasonable: laudable or blameable, therefore, are not the same with reasonable or unreasonable. the merit and demerit of actions frequently contradict, and sometimes controul our natural propensities. but reason has no such influence. moral distinctions, therefore, are not the offspring of reason. reason is wholly inactive, and can never be the source of so active a principle as conscience, or a sense of morals. but perhaps it may be said, that though no will or action can be immediately contradictory to reason, yet we may find such a contradiction in some of the attendants of the action, that is, in its causes or effects. the action may cause a judgment, or may be obliquely caused by one, when the judgment concurs with a passion; and by an abusive way of speaking, which philosophy will scarce allow of, the same contrariety may, upon that account, be ascribed to the action. how far this truth or faishood may be the source of morals, it will now be proper to consider. it has been observed, that reason, in a strict and philosophical sense, can have influence on our conduct only after two ways: either when it excites a passion by informing us of the existence of something which is a proper object of it; or when it discovers the connexion of causes and effects, so as to afford us means of exerting any passion. these are the only kinds of judgment, which can accompany our actions, or can be said to produce them in any manner; and it must be allowed, that these judgments may often be false and erroneous. a person may be affected with passion, by supposing a pain or pleasure to lie in an object, which has no tendency to produce either of these sensations, or which produces the contrary to what is imagined. a person may also take false measures for the attaining his end, and may retard, by his foolish conduct, instead of forwarding the execution of any project. these false judgments may be thought to affect the passions and actions, which are connected with them, and may be said to render them unreasonable, in a figurative and improper way of speaking. but though this be acknowledged, it is easy to observe, that these errors are so far from being the source of all immorality, that they are commonly very innocent, and draw no manner of guilt upon the person who is so unfortunate as to fail into them. they extend not beyond a mistake of fact, which moralists have not generally supposed criminal, as being perfectly involuntary. i am more to be lamented than blamed, if i am mistaken with regard to the influence of objects in producing pain or pleasure, or if i know not the proper means of satisfying my desires. no one can ever regard such errors as a defect in my moral character. a fruit, for instance, that is really disagreeable, appears to me at a distance, and through mistake i fancy it to be pleasant and delicious. here is one error. i choose certain means of reaching this fruit, which are not proper for my end. here is a second error; nor is there any third one, which can ever possibly enter into our reasonings concerning actions. i ask, therefore, if a man, in this situation, and guilty of these two errors, is to be regarded as vicious and criminal, however unavoidable they might have been? or if it be possible to imagine, that such errors are the sources of all immorality? and here it may be proper to observe, that if moral distinctions be derived from the truth or falshood of those judgments, they must take place wherever we form the judgments; nor will there be any difference, whether the question be concerning an apple or a kingdom, or whether the error be avoidable or unavoidable. for as the very essence of morality is supposed to consist in an agreement or disagreement to reason, the other circumstances are entirely arbitrary, and can never either bestow on any action the character of virtuous or vicious, or deprive it of that character. to which we may add, that this agreement or disagreement, not admitting of degrees, all virtues and vices would of course be equal. should it be pretended, that though a mistake of fact be not criminal, yet a mistake of right often is; and that this may be the source of immorality: i would answer, that it is impossible such a mistake can ever be the original source of immorality, since it supposes a real right and wrong; that is, a real distinction in morals, independent of these judgments. a mistake, therefore, of right may become a species of immorality; but it is only a secondary one, and is founded on some other, antecedent to it. as to those judgments which are the effects of our actions, and which, when false, give occasion to pronounce the actions contrary to truth and reason; we may observe, that our actions never cause any judgment, either true or false, in ourselves, and that it is only on others they have such an influence. it is certain, that an action, on many occasions, may give rise to false conclusions in others; and that a person, who through a window sees any lewd behaviour of mine with my neighbour's wife, may be so simple as to imagine she is certainly my own. in this respect my action resembles somewhat a lye or falshood; only with this difference, which is material, that i perform not the action with any intention of giving rise to a false judgment in another, but merely to satisfy my lust and passion. it causes, however, a mistake and false judgment by accident; and the falshood of its effects may be ascribed, by some odd figurative way of speaking, to the action itself. but still i can see no pretext of reason for asserting, that the tendency to cause such an error is the first spring or original source of all immorality. [footnote . one might think it were entirely superfluous to prove this, if a late author [william wollaston, the religion of nature delineated (london )], who has had the good fortune to obtain some reputation, had not seriously affirmed, that such a falshood is the foundation of all guilt and moral deformity. that we may discover the fallacy of his hypothesis, we need only consider, that a false conclusion is drawn from an action, only by means of an obscurity of natural principles, which makes a cause be secretly interrupted in its operation, by contrary causes, and renders the connexion betwixt two objects uncertain and variable. now, as a like uncertainty and variety of causes take place, even in natural objects, and produce a like error in our judgment, if that tendency to produce error were the very essence of vice and immorality, it should follow, that even inanimate objects might be vicious and immoral. one might think it were entirely superfluous to prove this, if a late author [william wollaston, the religion of nature delineated (london )], who has had the good fortune to obtain some reputation, had not seriously affirmed, that such a falshood is the foundation of all guilt and moral deformity. that we may discover the fallacy of his hypothesis, we need only consider, that a false conclusion is drawn from an action, only by means of an obscurity of natural principles, which makes a cause be secretly interrupted in its operation, by contrary causes, and renders the connexion betwixt two objects uncertain and variable. now, as a like uncertainty and variety of causes take place, even in natural objects, and produce a like error in our judgment, if that tendency to produce error were the very essence of vice and immorality, it should follow, that even inanimate objects might be vicious and immoral. it is in vain to urge, that inanimate objects act without liberty and choice. for as liberty and choice are not necessary to make an action produce in us an erroneous conclusion, they can be, in no respect, essential to morality; and i do not readily perceive, upon this system, how they can ever come to be regarded by it. if the tendency to cause error be the origin of immorality, that tendency and immorality would in every case be inseparable. add to this, that if i had used the precaution of shutting the windows, while i indulged myself in those liberties with my neighbour's wife, i should have been guilty of no immorality; and that because my action, being perfectly concealed, would have had no tendency to produce any false conclusion. for the same reason, a thief, who steals in by a ladder at a window, and takes all imaginable care to cause no disturbance, is in no respect criminal. for either he will not be perceived, or if he be, it is impossible he can produce any error, nor will any one, from these circumstances, take him to be other than what he really is. it is well known, that those who are squint-sighted, do very readily cause mistakes in others, and that we imagine they salute or are talking to one person, while they address themselves to anther. are they therefore, upon that account, immoral? besides, we may easily observe, that in all those arguments there is an evident reasoning in a circle. a person who takes possession of another's goods, and uses them as his own, in a manner declares them to be his own; and this falshood is the source of the immorality of injustice. but is property, or right, or obligation, intelligible, without an antecedent morality? a man that is ungrateful to his benefactor, in a manner affirms, that he never received any favours from him. but in what manner? is it because it is his duty to be grateful? but this supposes, that there is some antecedent rule of duty and morals. is it because human nature is generally grateful, and makes us conclude, that a man who does any harm never received any favour from the person he harmed? but human nature is not so generally grateful, as to justify such a conclusion. or if it were, is an exception to a general rule in every case criminal, for no other reason than because it is an exception? but what may suffice entirely to destroy this whimsical system is, that it leaves us under the same difficulty to give a reason why truth is virtuous and falshood vicious, as to account for the merit or turpitude of any other action. i shall allow, if you please, that all immorality is derived from this supposed falshood in action, provided you can give me any plausible reason, why such a falshood is immoral. if you consider rightly of the matter, you will find yourself in the same difficulty as at the beginning. this last argument is very conclusive; because, if there be not an evident merit or turpitude annexed to this species of truth or falahood, it can never have any influence upon our actions. for, who ever thought of forbearing any action, because others might possibly draw false conclusions from it? or, who ever performed any, that he might give rise to true conclusions?] thus upon the whole, it is impossible, that the distinction betwixt moral good and evil, can be made to reason; since that distinction has an influence upon our actions, of which reason alone is incapable. reason and judgment may, indeed, be the mediate cause of an action, by prompting, or by directing a passion: but it is not pretended, that a judgment of this kind, either in its truth or falshood, is attended with virtue or vice. and as to the judgments, which are caused by our judgments, they can still less bestow those moral qualities on the actions, which are their causes. but to be more particular, and to shew, that those eternal immutable fitnesses and unfitnesses of things cannot be defended by sound philosophy, we may weigh the following considerations. if the thought and understanding were alone capable of fixing the boundaries of right and wrong, the character of virtuous and vicious either must lie in some relations of objects, or must be a matter of fact, which is discovered by our reasoning. this consequence is evident. as the operations of human understanding divide themselves into two kinds, the comparing of ideas, and the inferring of matter of fact; were virtue discovered by the understanding; it must be an object of one of these operations, nor is there any third operation of the understanding. which can discover it. there has been an opinion very industriously propagated by certain philosophers, that morality is susceptible of demonstration; and though no one has ever been able to advance a single step in those demonstrations; yet it is taken for granted, that this science may be brought to an equal certainty with geometry or algebra. upon this supposition vice and virtue must consist in some relations; since it is allowed on all hands, that no matter of fact is capable of being demonstrated. let us, therefore, begin with examining this hypothesis, and endeavour, if possible, to fix those moral qualities, which have been so long the objects of our fruitless researches. point out distinctly the relations, which constitute morality or obligation, that we may know wherein they consist, and after what manner we must judge of them. if you assert, that vice and virtue consist in relations susceptible of certainty and demonstration, you must confine yourself to those four relations, which alone admit of that degree of evidence; and in that case you run into absurdities, from which you will never be able to extricate yourself. for as you make the very essence of morality to lie in the relations, and as there is no one of these relations but what is applicable, not only to an irrational, but also to an inanimate object; it follows, that even such objects must be susceptible of merit or demerit. resemblance, contrariety, degrees in quality, and proportions in quantity and number; all these relations belong as properly to matter, as to our actions, passions, and volitions. it is unquestionable, therefore, that morality lies not in any of these relations, nor the sense of it in their discovery. [footnote . as a proof, how confused our way of thinking on this subject commonly is, we may observe, that those who assert, that morality is demonstrable, do not say, that morality lies in the relations, and that the relations are distinguishable by reason. they only say, that reason can discover such an action, in such relations, to be virtuous, and such another vicious. it seems they thought it sufficient, if they could bring the word, relation, into the proposition, without troubling themselves whether it was to the purpose or not. but here, i think, is plain argument. demonstrative reason discovers only relations. but that reason, according to this hypothesis, discovers also vice and virtue. these moral qualities, therefore, must be relations. when we blame any action, in any situation, the whole complicated object, of action and situation, must form certain relations, wherein the essence of vice consists. this hypothesis is not otherwise intelligible. for what does reason discover, when it pronounces any action vicious? does it discover a relation or a matter of fact? these questions are decisive, and must not be eluded.] should it be asserted, that the sense of morality consists in the discovery of some relation, distinct from these, and that our enumeration was not compleat, when we comprehended all demonstrable relations under four general heads: to this i know not what to reply, till some one be so good as to point out to me this new relation. it is impossible to refute a system, which has never yet been explained. in such a manner of fighting in the dark, a man loses his blows in the air, and often places them where the enemy is not present. i must, therefore, on this occasion, rest contented with requiring the two following conditions of any one that would undertake to clear up this system. first, as moral good and evil belong only to the actions of the mind, and are derived from our situation with regard to external objects, the relations, from which these moral distinctions arise, must lie only betwixt internal actions, and external objects, and must not be applicable either to internal actions, compared among themselves, or to external objects, when placed in opposition to other external objects. for as morality is supposed to attend certain relations, if these relations coued belong to internal actions considered singly, it would follow, that we might be guilty of crimes in ourselves, and independent of our situation, with respect to the universe: and in like manner, if these moral relations coued be applied to external objects, it would follow, that even inanimate beings would be susceptible of moral beauty and deformity. now it seems difficult to imagine, that any relation can be discovered betwixt our passions, volitions and actions, compared to external objects, which relation might not belong either to these passions and volitions, or to these external objects, compared among themselves. but it will be still more difficult to fulfil the second condition, requisite to justify this system. according to the principles of those who maintain an abstract rational difference betwixt moral good and evil, and a natural fitness and unfitness of things, it is not only supposed, that these relations, being eternal and immutable, are the same, when considered by every rational creature, but their effects are also supposed to be necessarily the same; and it is concluded they have no less, or rather a greater, influence in directing the will of the deity, than in governing the rational and virtuous of our own species. these two particulars are evidently distinct. it is one thing to know virtue, and another to conform the will to it. in order, therefore, to prove, that the measures of right and wrong are eternal laws, obligatory on every rational mind, it is not sufficient to shew the relations upon which they are founded: we must also point out the connexion betwixt the relation and the will; and must prove that this connexion is so necessary, that in every well-disposed mind, it must take place and have its influence; though the difference betwixt these minds be in other respects immense and infinite. now besides what i have already proved, that even in human nature no relation can ever alone produce any action: besides this, i say, it has been shewn, in treating of the understanding, that there is no connexion of cause and effect, such as this is supposed to be, which is discoverable otherwise than by experience, and of which we can pretend to have any security by the simple consideration of the objects. all beings in the universe, considered in themselves, appear entirely loose and independent of each other. it is only by experience we learn their influence and connexion; and this influence we ought never to extend beyond experience. thus it will be impossible to fulfil the first condition required to the system of eternal measures of right and wrong; because it is impossible to shew those relations, upon which such a distinction may be founded: and it is as impossible to fulfil the second condition; because we cannot prove a priori, that these relations, if they really existed and were perceived, would be universally forcible and obligatory. but to make these general reflections more dear and convincing, we may illustrate them by some particular instances, wherein this character of moral good or evil is the most universally acknowledged. of all crimes that human creatures are capable of committing, the most horrid and unnatural is ingratitude, especially when it is committed against parents, and appears in the more flagrant instances of wounds and death. this is acknowledged by all mankind, philosophers as well as the people; the question only arises among philosophers, whether the guilt or moral deformity of this action be discovered by demonstrative reasoning, or be felt by an internal sense, and by means of some sentiment, which the reflecting on such an action naturally occasions. this question will soon be decided against the former opinion, if we can shew the same relations in other objects, without the notion of any guilt or iniquity attending them. reason or science is nothing but the comparing of ideas, and the discovery of their relations; and if the same relations have different characters, it must evidently follow, that those characters are not discovered merely by reason. to put the affair, therefore, to this trial, let us chuse any inanimate object, such as an oak or elm; and let us suppose, that by the dropping of its seed, it produces a sapling below it, which springing up by degrees, at last overtops and destroys the parent tree: i ask, if in this instance there be wanting any relation, which is discoverable in parricide or ingratitude? is not the one tree the cause of the other's existence; and the latter the cause of the destruction of the former, in the same manner as when a child murders his parent? it is not sufficient to reply, that a choice or will is wanting. for in the case of parricide, a will does not give rise to any different relations, but is only the cause from which the action is derived; and consequently produces the same relations, that in the oak or elm arise from some other principles. it is a will or choice, that determines a man to kill his parent; and they are the laws of matter and motion, that determine a sapling to destroy the oak, from which it sprung. here then the same relations have different causes; but still the relations are the same: and as their discovery is not in both cases attended with a notion of immorality, it follows, that that notion does not arise from such a discovery. but to chuse an instance, still more resembling; i would fain ask any one, why incest in the human species is criminal, and why the very same action, and the same relations in animals have not the smallest moral turpitude and deformity? if it be answered, that this action is innocent in animals, because they have not reason sufficient to discover its turpitude; but that man, being endowed with that faculty which ought to restrain him to his duty, the same action instantly becomes criminal to him; should this be said, i would reply, that this is evidently arguing in a circle. for before reason can perceive this turpitude, the turpitude must exist; and consequently is independent of the decisions of our reason, and is their object more properly than their effect. according to this system, then, every animal, that has sense, and appetite, and will; that is, every animal must be susceptible of all the same virtues and vices, for which we ascribe praise and blame to human creatures. all the difference is, that our superior reason may serve to discover the vice or virtue, and by that means may augment the blame or praise: but still this discovery supposes a separate being in these moral distinctions, and a being, which depends only on the will and appetite, and which, both in thought and reality, may be distinguished from the reason. animals are susceptible of the same relations, with respect to each other, as the human species, and therefore would also be susceptible of the same morality, if the essence of morality consisted in these relations. their want of a sufficient degree of reason may hinder them from perceiving the duties and obligations of morality, but can never hinder these duties from existing; since they must antecedently exist, in order to their being perceived. reason must find them, and can never produce them. this argument deserves to be weighed, as being, in my opinion, entirely decisive. nor does this reasoning only prove, that morality consists not in any relations, that are the objects of science; but if examined, will prove with equal certainty, that it consists not in any matter of fact, which can be discovered by the understanding. this is the second part of our argument; and if it can be made evident, we may conclude, that morality is not an object of reason. but can there be any difficulty in proving, that vice and virtue are not matters of fact, whose existence we can infer by reason? take any action allowed to be vicious: wilful murder, for instance. examine it in all lights, and see if you can find that matter of fact, or real existence, which you call vice. in which-ever way you take it, you find only certain passions, motives, volitions and thoughts. there is no other matter of fact in the case. the vice entirely escapes you, as long as you consider the object. you never can find it, till you turn your reflection into your own breast, and find a sentiment of disapprobation, which arises in you, towards this action. here is a matter of fact; but it is the object of feeling, not of reason. it lies in yourself, not in the object. so that when you pronounce any action or character to be vicious, you mean nothing, but that from the constitution of your nature you have a feeling or sentiment of blame from the contemplation of it. vice and virtue, therefore, may be compared to sounds, colours, heat and cold, which, according to modern philosophy, are not qualities in objects, but perceptions in the mind: and this discovery in morals, like that other in physics, is to be regarded as a considerable advancement of the speculative sciences; though, like that too, it has little or no influence on practice. nothing can be more real, or concern us more, than our own sentiments of pleasure and uneasiness; and if these be favourable to virtue, and unfavourable to vice, no more can be requisite to the regulation of our conduct and behaviour. i cannot forbear adding to these reasonings an observation, which may, perhaps, be found of some importance. in every system of morality, which i have hitherto met with, i have always remarked, that the author proceeds for some time in the ordinary way of reasoning, and establishes the being of a god, or makes observations concerning human affairs; when of a sudden i am surprized to find, that instead of the usual copulations of propositions, is, and is not, i meet with no proposition that is not connected with an ought, or an ought not. this change is imperceptible; but is, however, of the last consequence. for as this ought, or ought not, expresses some new relation or affirmation, it is necessary that it should be observed and explained; and at the same time that a reason should be given, for what seems altogether inconceivable, how this new relation can be a deduction from others, which are entirely different from it. but as authors do not commonly use this precaution, i shall presume to recommend it to the readers; and am persuaded, that this small attention would subvert all the vulgar systems of morality, and let us see, that the distinction of vice and virtue is not founded merely on the relations of objects, nor is perceived by reason. sect. ii moral distinctions derived from a moral sense thus the course of the argument leads us to conclude, that since vice and virtue are not discoverable merely by reason, or the comparison of ideas, it must be by means of some impression or sentiment they occasion, that we are able to mark the difference betwixt them. our decisions concerning moral rectitude and depravity are evidently perceptions; and as all perceptions are either impressions or ideas, the exclusion of the one is a convincing argument for the other. morality, therefore, is more properly felt than judged of; though this feeling or sentiment is commonly so soft and gentle, that we are apt to confound it with an idea, according to our common custom of taking all things for the same, which have any near resemblance to each other. the next question is, of what nature are these impressions, and after what manner do they operate upon us? here we cannot remain long in suspense, but must pronounce the impression arising from virtue, to be agreeable, and that proceding from vice to be uneasy. every moments experience must convince us of this. there is no spectacle so fair and beautiful as a noble and generous action; nor any which gives us more abhorrence than one that is cruel and treacherous. no enjoyment equals the satisfaction we receive from the company of those we love and esteem; as the greatest of all punishments is to be obliged to pass our lives with those we hate or contemn. a very play or romance may afford us instances of this pleasure, which virtue conveys to us; and pain, which arises from vice. now since the distinguishing impressions, by which moral good or evil is known, are nothing but particular pains or pleasures; it follows, that in all enquiries concerning these moral distinctions, it will be sufficient to shew the principles, which make us feel a satisfaction or uneasiness from the survey of any character, in order to satisfy us why the character is laudable or blameable. an action, or sentiment, or character is virtuous or vicious; why? because its view causes a pleasure or uneasiness of a particular kind. in giving a reason, therefore, for the pleasure or uneasiness, we sufficiently explain the vice or virtue. to have the sense of virtue, is nothing but to feel a satisfaction of a particular kind from the contemplation of a character. the very feeling constitutes our praise or admiration. we go no farther; nor do we enquire into the cause of the satisfaction. we do not infer a character to be virtuous, because it pleases: but in feeling that it pleases after such a particular manner, we in effect feel that it is virtuous. the case is the same as in our judgments concerning all kinds of beauty, and tastes, and sensations. our approbation is implyed in the immediate pleasure they convey to us. i have objected to the system, which establishes eternal rational measures of right and wrong, that it is impossible to shew, in the actions of reasonable creatures, any relations, which are not found in external objects; and therefore, if morality always attended these relations, it were possible for inanimate matter to become virtuous or vicious. now it may, in like manner, be objected to the present system, that if virtue and vice be determined by pleasure and pain, these qualities must, in every case, arise from the sensations; and consequently any object, whether animate or inanimate, rational or irrational, might become morally good or evil, provided it can excite a satisfaction or uneasiness. but though this objection seems to be the very same, it has by no means the same force, in the one case as in the other. for, first, tis evident, that under the term pleasure, we comprehend sensations, which are very different from each other, and which have only such a distant resemblance, as is requisite to make them be expressed by the same abstract term. a good composition of music and a bottle of good wine equally produce pleasure; and what is more, their goodness is determined merely by the pleasure. but shall we say upon that account, that the wine is harmonious, or the music of a good flavour? in like manner an inanimate object, and the character or sentiments of any person may, both of them, give satisfaction; but as the satisfaction is different, this keeps our sentiments concerning them from being confounded, and makes us ascribe virtue to the one, and not to the other. nor is every sentiment of pleasure or pain, which arises from characters and actions, of that peculiar kind, which makes us praise or condemn. the good qualities of an enemy are hurtful to us; but may still command our esteem and respect. it is only when a character is considered in general, without reference to our particular interest, that it causes such a feeling or sentiment, as denominates it morally good or evil. it is true, those sentiments, from interest and morals, are apt to be confounded, and naturally run into one another. it seldom happens, that we do not think an enemy vicious, and can distinguish betwixt his opposition to our interest and real villainy or baseness. but this hinders not, but that the sentiments are, in themselves, distinct; and a man of temper and judgment may preserve himself from these illusions. in like manner, though it is certain a musical voice is nothing but one that naturally gives a particular kind of pleasure; yet it is difficult for a man to be sensible, that the voice of an enemy is agreeable, or to allow it to be musical. but a person of a fine ear, who has the command of himself, can separate these feelings, and give praise to what deserves it. secondly, we may call to remembrance the preceding system of the passions, in order to remark a still more considerable difference among our pains and pleasures. pride and humility, love and hatred are excited, when there is any thing presented to us, that both bears a relation to the object of the passion, and produces a separate sensation related to the sensation of the passion. now virtue and vice are attended with these circumstances. they must necessarily be placed either in ourselves or others, and excite either pleasure or uneasiness; and therefore must give rise to one of these four passions; which clearly distinguishes them from the pleasure and pain arising from inanimate objects, that often bear no relation to us: and this is, perhaps, the most considerable effect that virtue and vice have upon the human mind. it may now be asked in general, concerning this pain or pleasure, that distinguishes moral good and evil, from what principles is it derived, and whence does it arise in the human mind? to this i reply, first, that it is absurd to imagine, that in every particular instance, these sentiments are produced by an original quality and primary constitution. for as the number of our duties is, in a manner, infinite, it is impossible that our original instincts should extend to each of them, and from our very first infancy impress on the human mind all that multitude of precepts, which are contained in the compleatest system of ethics. such a method of proceeding is not conformable to the usual maxims, by which nature is conducted, where a few principles produce all that variety we observe in the universe, and every thing is carryed on in the easiest and most simple manner. it is necessary, therefore, to abridge these primary impulses, and find some more general principles, upon which all our notions of morals are founded. but in the second place, should it be asked, whether we ought to search for these principles in nature, or whether we must look for them in some other origin? i would reply, that our answer to this question depends upon the definition of the word, nature, than which there is none more ambiguous and equivocal. if nature be opposed to miracles, not only the distinction betwixt vice and virtue is natural, but also every event, which has ever happened in the world, excepting those miracles, on which our religion is founded. in saying, then, that the sentiments of vice and virtue are natural in this sense, we make no very extraordinary discovery. but nature may also be opposed to rare and unusual; and in this sense of the word, which is the common one, there may often arise disputes concerning what is natural or unnatural; and one may in general affirm, that we are not possessed of any very precise standard, by which these disputes can be decided. frequent and rare depend upon the number of examples we have observed; and as this number may gradually encrease or diminish, it will be impossible to fix any exact boundaries betwixt them. we may only affirm on this head, that if ever there was any thing, which coued be called natural in this sense, the sentiments of morality certainly may; since there never was any nation of the world, nor any single person in any nation, who was utterly deprived of them, and who never, in any instance, shewed the least approbation or dislike of manners. these sentiments are so rooted in our constitution and temper, that without entirely confounding the human mind by disease or madness, it is impossible to extirpate and destroy them. but nature may also be opposed to artifice, as well as to what is rare and unusual; and in this sense it may be disputed, whether the notions of virtue be natural or not. we readily forget, that the designs, and projects, and views of men are principles as necessary in their operation as heat and cold, moist and dry: but taking them to be free and entirely our own, it is usual for us to set them in opposition to the other principles of nature should it, therefore, be demanded, whether the sense of virtue be natural or artificial, i am of opinion, that it is impossible for me at present to give any precise answer to this question. perhaps it will appear afterwards, that our sense of some virtues is artificial, and that of others natural. the discussion of this question will be more proper, when we enter upon an exact detail of each particular vice and virtue. [footnote . in the following discourse natural is also opposed sometimes to civil, sometimes to moral. the opposition will always discover the sense, in which it is taken.] mean while it may not be amiss to observe from these definitions of natural and unnatural, that nothing can be more unphilosophical than those systems, which assert, that virtue is the same with what is natural, and vice with what is unnatural. for in the first sense of the word, nature, as opposed to miracles, both vice and virtue are equally natural; and in the second sense, as opposed to what is unusual, perhaps virtue will be found to be the most unnatural. at least it must be owned, that heroic virtue, being as unusual, is as little natural as the most brutal barbarity. as to the third sense of the word, it is certain, that both vice and virtue are equally artificial, and out of nature. for however it may be disputed, whether the notion of a merit or demerit in certain actions be natural or artificial, it is evident, that the actions themselves are artificial, and are performed with a certain design and intention; otherwise they coued never be ranked under any of these denominations. it is impossible, therefore, that the character of natural and unnatural can ever, in any sense, mark the boundaries of vice and virtue. thus we are still brought back to our first position, that virtue is distinguished by the pleasure, and vice by the pain, that any action, sentiment or character gives us by the mere view and contemplation. this decision is very commodious; because it reduces us to this simple question, why any action or sentiment upon the general view or survey, gives a certain satisfaction or uneasiness, in order to shew the origin of its moral rectitude or depravity, without looking for any incomprehensible relations and qualities, which never did exist in nature, nor even in our imagination, by any clear and distinct conception. i flatter myself i have executed a great part of my present design by a state of the question, which appears to me so free from ambiguity and obscurity. part ii of justice and injustice sect. i justice, whether a natural or artificial virtue? i have already hinted, that our sense of every kind of virtue is not natural; but that there are some virtues, that produce pleasure and approbation by means of an artifice or contrivance, which arises from the circumstances and necessity of mankind. of this kind i assert justice to be; and shall endeavour to defend this opinion by a short, and, i hope, convincing argument, before i examine the nature of the artifice, from which the sense of that virtue is derived. it is evident, that when we praise any actions, we regard only the motives that produced them, and consider the actions as signs or indications of certain principles in the mind and temper. the external performance has no merit. we must look within to find the moral quality. this we cannot do directly; and therefore fix our attention on actions, as on external signs. but these actions are still considered as signs; and the ultimate object of our praise and approbation is the motive, that produced them. after the same manner, when we require any action, or blame a person for not performing it, we always suppose, that one in that situation should be influenced by the proper motive of that action, and we esteem it vicious in him to be regardless of it. if we find, upon enquiry, that the virtuous motive was still powerful over his breast, though checked in its operation by some circumstances unknown to us, we retract our blame, and have the same esteem for him, as if he had actually performed the action, which we require of him. it appears, therefore, that all virtuous actions derive their merit only from virtuous motives, and are considered merely as signs of those motives. from this principle i conclude, that the first virtuous motive, which bestows a merit on any action, can never be a regard to the virtue of that action, but must be some other natural motive or principle. to suppose, that the mere regard to the virtue of the action may be the first motive, which produced the action, and rendered it virtuous, is to reason in a circle. before we can have such a regard, the action must be really virtuous; and this virtue must be derived from some virtuous motive: and consequently the virtuous motive must be different from the regard to the virtue of the action. a virtuous motive is requisite to render an action virtuous. an action must be virtuous, before we can have a regard to its virtue. some virtuous motive, therefore, must be antecedent to that regard. nor is this merely a metaphysical subtilty; but enters into all our reasonings in common life, though perhaps we may not be able to place it in such distinct philosophical terms. we blame a father for neglecting his child. why? because it shews a want of natural affection, which is the duty of every parent. were not natural affection a duty, the care of children coued not be a duty; and it were impossible we coued have the duty in our eye in the attention we give to our offspring. in this case, therefore, all men suppose a motive to the action distinct from a sense of duty. here is a man, that does many benevolent actions; relieves the distressed, comforts the afflicted, and extends his bounty even to the greatest strangers. no character can be more amiable and virtuous. we regard these actions as proofs of the greatest humanity. this humanity bestows a merit on the actions. a regard to this merit is, therefore, a secondary consideration, and derived from the antecedent principle of humanity, which is meritorious and laudable. in short, it may be established as an undoubted maxim, that no action can be virtuous, or morally good, unless there be in human nature some motive to produce it, distinct from the sense of its morality. but may not the sense of morality or duty produce an action, without any other motive? i answer, it may: but this is no objection to the present doctrine. when any virtuous motive or principle is common in human nature, a person, who feels his heart devoid of that motive, may hate himself upon that account, and may perform the action without the motive, from a certain sense of duty, in order to acquire by practice, that virtuous principle, or at least, to disguise to himself, as much as possible, his want of it. a man that really feels no gratitude in his temper, is still pleased to perform grateful actions, and thinks he has, by that means, fulfilled his duty. actions are at first only considered as signs of motives: but it is usual, in this case, as in all others, to fix our attention on the signs, and neglect, in some measure, the thing signifyed. but though, on some occasions, a person may perform an action merely out of regard to its moral obligation, yet still this supposes in human nature some distinct principles, which are capable of producing the action, and whose moral beauty renders the action meritorious. now to apply all this to the present case; i suppose a person to have lent me a sum of money, on condition that it be restored in a few days; and also suppose, that after the expiration of the term agreed on, he demands the sum: i ask, what reason or motive have i to restore the money? it will, perhaps, be said, that my regard to justice, and abhorrence of villainy and knavery, are sufficient reasons for me, if i have the least grain of honesty, or sense of duty and obligation. and this answer, no doubt, is just and satisfactory to man in his civilized state, and when trained up according to a certain discipline and education. but in his rude and more natural condition, if you are pleased to call such a condition natural, this answer would be rejected as perfectly unintelligible and sophistical. for one in that situation would immediately ask you, wherein consists this honesty and justice, which you find in restoring a loan, and abstaining from the property of others? it does not surely lie in the external action. it must, therefore be placed in the motive, from which the external action is derived. this motive can never be a regard to the honesty of the action. for it is a plain fallacy to say, that a virtuous motive is requisite to render an action honest, and at the same time that a regard to the honesty is the motive of the action. we can never have a regard to the virtue of an action, unless the action be antecedently virtuous. no action can be virtuous, but so far as it proceeds from a virtuous motive. a virtuous motive, therefore, must precede the regard to the virtue, and it is impossible, that the virtuous motive and the regard to the virtue can be the same. it is requisite, then, to find some motive to acts of justice and honesty, distinct from our regard to the honesty; and in this lies the great difficulty. for should we say, that a concern for our private interest or reputation is the legitimate motive to all honest actions; it would follow, that wherever that concern ceases, honesty can no longer have place. but it is certain, that self-love, when it acts at its liberty, instead of engaging us to honest actions, is the source of all injustice and violence; nor can a man ever correct those vices, without correcting and restraining the natural movements of that appetite. but should it be affirmed, that the reason or motive of such actions is the regard to publick interest, to which nothing is more contrary than examples of injustice and dishonesty; should this be said, i would propose the three following considerations, as worthy of our attention. first, public interest is not naturally attached to the observation of the rules of justice; but is only connected with it, after an artificial convention for the establishment of these rules, as shall be shewn more at large hereafter. secondly, if we suppose, that the loan was secret, and that it is necessary for the interest of the person, that the money be restored in the same manner (as when the lender would conceal his riches) in that case the example ceases, and the public is no longer interested in the actions of the borrower; though i suppose there is no moralist, who will affirm, that the duty and obligation ceases. thirdly, experience sufficiently proves, that men, in the ordinary conduct of life, look not so far as the public interest, when they pay their creditors, perform their promises, and abstain from theft, and robbery, and injustice of every kind. that is a motive too remote and too sublime to affect the generality of mankind, and operate with any force in actions so contrary to private interest as are frequently those of justice and common honesty. in general, it may be affirmed, that there is no such passion in human minds, as the love of mankind, merely as such, independent of personal qualities, of services, or of relation to ourseit it is true, there is no human, and indeed no sensible, creature, whose happiness or misery does not, in some measure, affect us when brought near to us, and represented in lively colours: but this proceeds merely from sympathy, and is no proof of such an universal affection to mankind, since this concern extends itself beyond our own species. an affection betwixt the sexes is a passion evidently implanted in human nature; and this passion not only appears in its peculiar symptoms, but also in inflaming every other principle of affection, and raising a stronger love from beauty, wit, kindness, than what would otherwise flow from them. were there an universal love among all human creatures, it would appear after the same manner. any degree of a good quality would cause a stronger affection than the same degree of a bad quality would cause hatred; contrary to what we find by experience. men's tempers are different, and some have a propensity to the tender, and others to the rougher, affections: but in the main, we may affirm, that man in general, or human nature, is nothing but the object both of love and hatred, and requires some other cause, which by a double relation of impressions and ideas, may excite these passions. in vain would we endeavour to elude this hypothesis. there are no phaenomena that point out any such kind affection to men, independent of their merit, and every other circumstance. we love company in general; but it is as we love any other amusement. an englishman in italy is a friend: a euro paean in china; and perhaps a man would be beloved as such, were we to meet him in the moon. but this proceeds only from the relation to ourselves; which in these cases gathers force by being confined to a few persons. if public benevolence, therefore, or a regard to the interests of mankind, cannot be the original motive to justice, much less can private benevolence, or a regard to the interests of the party concerned, be this motive. for what if he be my enemy, and has given me just cause to hate him? what if he be a vicious man, and deserves the hatred of all mankind? what if he be a miser, and can make no use of what i would deprive him of? what if he be a profligate debauchee, and would rather receive harm than benefit from large possessions? what if i be in necessity, and have urgent motives to acquire something to my family? in all these cases, the original motive to justice would fail; and consequently the justice itself, and along with it all property, tight, and obligation. a rich man lies under a moral obligation to communicate to those in necessity a share of his superfluities. were private benevolence the original motive to justice, a man would not be obliged to leave others in the possession of more than he is obliged to give them. at least the difference would be very inconsiderable. men generally fix their affections more on what they are possessed of, than on what they never enjoyed: for this reason, it would be greater cruelty to dispossess a man of any thing, than not to give it him. but who will assert, that this is the only foundation of justice? besides, we must consider, that the chief reason, why men attach themselves so much to their possessions is, that they consider them as their property, and as secured to them inviolably by the laws of society. but this is a secondary consideration, and dependent on the preceding notions of justice and property. a man's property is supposed to be fenced against every mortal, in every possible case. but private benevolence is, and ought to be, weaker in some persons, than in others: and in many, or indeed in most persons, must absolutely fail. private benevolence, therefore, is not the original motive of justice. from all this it follows, that we have no real or universal motive for observing the laws of equity, but the very equity and merit of that observance; and as no action can be equitable or meritorious, where it cannot arise from some separate motive, there is here an evident sophistry and reasoning in a circle. unless, therefore, we will allow, that nature has established a sophistry, and rendered it necessary and unavoidable, we must allow, that the sense of justice and injustice is not derived from nature, but arises artificially, though necessarily from education, and human conventions. i shall add, as a corollary to this reasoning, that since no action can be laudable or blameable, without some motives or impelling passions, distinct from the sense of morals, these distinct passions must have a great influence on that sense. it is according to their general force in human nature, that we blame or praise. in judging of the beauty of animal bodies, we always carry in our eye the oeconomy of a certain species; and where the limbs and features observe that proportion, which is common to the species, we pronounce them handsome and beautiful. in like manner we always consider the natural and usual force of the passions, when we determine concerning vice and virtue; and if the passions depart very much from the common measures on either side, they are always disapproved as vicious. a man naturally loves his children better than his nephews, his nephews better than his cousins, his cousins better than strangers, where every thing else is equal. hence arise our common measures of duty, in preferring the one to the other. our sense of duty always follows the common and natural course of our passions. to avoid giving offence, i must here observe, that when i deny justice to be a natural virtue, i make use of the word, natural, only as opposed to artificial. in another sense of the word; as no principle of the human mind is more natural than a sense of virtue; so no virtue is more natural than justice. mankind is an inventive species; and where an invention is obvious and absolutely necessary, it may as properly be said to be natural as any thing that proceeds immediately from original principles, without the intervention of thought or reflection. though the rules of justice be artificial, they are not arbitrary. nor is the expression improper to call them laws of nature; if by natural we understand what is common to any species, or even if we confine it to mean what is inseparable from the species. sect. ii of the origin of justice and property we now proceed to examine two questions, viz, concerning the manner, in which the rules of justice are established by the artifice of men; and concerning the reasons, which determine us to attribute to the observance or neglect of these rules a moral beauty and deformity. these questions will appear afterwards to be distinct. we shall begin with the former. of all the animals, with which this globe is peopled, there is none towards whom nature seems, at first sight, to have exercised more cruelty than towards man, in the numberless wants and necessities, with which she has loaded him, and in the slender means, which she affords to the relieving these necessities. in other creatures these two particulars generally compensate each other. if we consider the lion as a voracious and carnivorous animal, we shall easily discover him to be very necessitous; but if we turn our eye to his make and temper, his agility, his courage, his arms, and his force, we shall find, that his advantages hold proportion with his wants. the sheep and ox are deprived of all these advantages; but their appetites are moderate, and their food is of easy purchase. in man alone, this unnatural conjunction of infirmity, and of necessity, may be observed in its greatest perfection. not only the food, which is required for his sustenance, flies his search and approach, or at least requires his labour to be produced, but he must be possessed of cloaths and lodging, to defend him against the injuries of the weather; though to consider him only in himself, he is provided neither with arms, nor force, nor other natural abilities, which are in any degree answerable to so many necessities. it is by society alone he is able to supply his defects, and raise himself up to an equality with his fellow-creatures, and even acquire a superiority above them. by society all his infirmities are compensated; and though in that situation his wants multiply every moment upon him, yet his abilities are still more augmented, and leave him in every respect more satisfied and happy, than it is possible for him, in his savage and solitary condition, ever to become. when every individual person labours a-part, and only for himself, his force is too small to execute any considerable work; his labour being employed in supplying all his different necessities, he never attains a perfection in any particular art; and as his force and success are not at all times equal, the least failure in either of these particulars must be attended with inevitable ruin and misery. society provides a remedy for these three inconveniences. by the conjunction of forces, our power is augmented: by the partition of employments, our ability encreases: and by mutual succour we are less exposed to fortune and accidents. it is by this additional force, ability, and security, that society becomes advantageous. but in order to form society, it is requisite not only that it be advantageous, but also that men be sensible of these advantages; and it is impossible, in their wild uncultivated state, that by study and reflection alone, they should ever be able to attain this knowledge. most fortunately, therefore, there is conjoined to those necessities, whose remedies are remote and obscure, another necessity, which having a present and more obvious remedy, may justly be regarded as the first and original principle of human society. this necessity is no other than that natural appetite betwixt the sexes, which unites them together, and preserves their union, till a new tye takes place in their concern for their common offspring. this new concern becomes also a principle of union betwixt the parents and offspring, and forms a more numerous society; where the parents govern by the advantage of their superior strength and wisdom, and at the same time are restrained in the exercise of their authority by that natural affection, which they bear their children. in a little time, custom and habit operating on the tender minds of the children, makes them sensible of the advantages, which they may reap from society, as well as fashions them by degrees for it, by rubbing off those rough corners and untoward affections, which prevent their coalition. for it must be confest, that however the circumstances of human nature may render an union necessary, and however those passions of lust and natural affection may seem to render it unavoidable; yet there are other particulars in our natural temper, and in our outward circumstances, which are very incommodious, and are even contrary to the requisite conjunction. among the former, we may justly esteem our selfishness to be the most considerable. i am sensible, that generally speaking, the representations of this quality have been carried much too far; and that the descriptions, which certain philosophers delight so much to form of mankind in this particular, are as wide of nature as any accounts of monsters, which we meet with in fables and romances. so far from thinking, that men have no affection for any thing beyond themselves, i am of opinion, that though it be rare to meet with one, who loves any single person better than himself; yet it is as rare to meet with one, in whom all the kind affections, taken together, do not overbalance all the selfish. consult common experience: do you not see, that though the whole expence of the family be generally under the direction of the master of it, yet there are few that do not bestow the largest part of their fortunes on the pleasures of their wives, and the education of their children, reserving the smallest portion for their own proper use and entertainment. this is what we may observe concerning such as have those endearing ties; and may presume, that the case would be the same with others, were they placed in a like situation. but though this generosity must be acknowledged to the honour of human nature, we may at the same time remark, that so noble an affection, instead of fitting men for large societies, is almost as contrary to them, as the most narrow selfishness. for while each person loves himself better than any other single person, and in his love to others bears the greatest affection to his relations and acquaintance, this must necessarily produce an oppositon of passions, and a consequent opposition of actions; which cannot but be dangerous to the new-established union. it is however worth while to remark, that this contrariety of passions would be attended with but small danger, did it not concur with a peculiarity in our outward circumstances, which affords it an opportunity of exerting itself. there are different species of goods, which we are possessed of; the internal satisfaction of our minds, the external advantages of our body, and the enjoyment of such possessions as we have acquired by our industry and good fortune. we are perfectly secure in the enjoyment of the first. the second may be ravished from us, but can be of no advantage to him who deprives us of them. the last only are both exposed to the violence of others, and may be transferred without suffering any loss or alteration; while at the same time, there is not a sufficient quantity of them to supply every one's desires and necessities. as the improvement, therefore, of these goods is the chief advantage of society, so the instability of their possession, along with their scarcity, is the chief impediment. in vain should we expect to find, in uncultivated nature, a remedy to this inconvenience; or hope for any inartificial principle of the human mind, which might controul those partial affections, and make us overcome the temptations arising from our circumstances. the idea of justice can never serve to this purpose, or be taken for a natural principle, capable of inspiring men with an equitable conduct towards each other. that virtue, as it is now understood, would never have been dreamed of among rude and savage men. for the notion of injury or injustice implies an immorality or vice committed against some other person: and as every immorality is derived from some defect or unsoundness of the passions, and as this defect must be judged of, in a great measure, from the ordinary course of nature in the constitution of the mind; it will be easy to know, whether we be guilty of any immorality, with regard to others, by considering the natural, and usual force of those several affections, which are directed towards them. now it appears, that in the original frame of our mind, our strongest attention is confined to ourselves; our next is extended to our relations and acquaintance; and it is only the weakest which reaches to strangers and indifferent persons. this partiality, then, and unequal affection, must not only have an influence on our behaviour and conduct in society, but even on our ideas of vice and virtue; so as to make us regard any remarkable transgression of such a degree of partiality, either by too great an enlargement, or contraction of the affections, as vicious and immoral. this we may observe in our common judgments concerning actions, where we blame a person, who either centers all his affections in his family, or is so regardless of them, as, in any opposition of interest, to give the preference to a stranger, or mere chance acquaintance. from all which it follows, that our natural uncultivated ideas of morality, instead of providing a remedy for the partiality of our affections, do rather conform themselves to that partiality, and give it an additional force and influence. the remedy, then, is not derived from nature, but from artifice; or more e properly speaking, nature provides a remedy in the judgment and understanding, for what is irregular and incommodious in the affections. for when men, from their early education in society, have become sensible of the infinite advantages that result from it, and have besides acquired a new affection to company and conversation; and when they have observed, that the principal disturbance in society arises from those goods, which we call external, and from their looseness and easy transition from one person to another; they must seek for a remedy by putting these goods, as far as possible, on the same footing with the fixed and constant advantages of the mind and body. this can be done after no other manner, than by a convention entered into by all the members of the society to bestow stability on the possession of those external goods, and leave every one in the peaceable enjoyment of what he may acquire by his fortune and industry. by this means, every one knows what he may safely possess; and the passions ale restrained in their partial and contradictory motions. nor is such a restraint contrary to these passions; for if so, it coued never be entered into, nor maintained; but it is only contrary to their heedless and impetuous movement. instead of departing from our own interest, or from that of our nearest friends, by abstaining from the possessions of others, we cannot better consult both these interests, than by such a convention; because it is by that means we maintain society, which is so necessary to their well-being and subsistence, as well as to our own. this convention is not of the nature of a promise: for even promises themselves, as we shall see afterwards, arise from human conventions. it is only a general sense of common interest; which sense all the members of the society express to one another, and which induces them to regulate their conduct by certain rules. i observe, that it will be for my interest to leave another in the possession of his goods, provided he will act in the same manner with regard to me. he is sensible of a like interest in the regulation of his conduct. when this common sense of interest is mutually expressed, and is known to both, it produces a suitable resolution and behaviour. and this may properly enough be called a convention or agreement betwixt us, though without the interposition of a promise; since the actions of each of us have a reference to those of the other, and are performed upon the supposition, that something is to be performed on the other part. two men, who pull the oars of a boat, do it by an agreement or convention, though they have never given promises to each other. nor is the rule concerning the stability of possession the less derived from human conventions, that it arises gradually, and acquires force by a slow progression, and by our repeated experience of the inconveniences of transgressing it. on the contrary, this experience assures us still more, that the sense of interest has become common to all our fellows, and gives us a confidence of the future regularity of their conduct: and it is only on the expectation of this, that our moderation and abstinence are founded. in like manner are languages gradually established by human conventions without any promise. in like manner do gold and silver become the common measures of exchange, and are esteemed sufficient payment for what is of a hundred times their value. after this convention, concerning abstinence from the possessions of others, is entered into, and every one has acquired a stability in his possessions, there immediately arise the ideas of justice and injustice; as also those of property, right, and obligation. the latter are altogether unintelligible without first understanding the former. our property is nothing but those goods, whose constant possession is established by the laws of society; that is, by the laws of justice. those, therefore, who make use of the words property, or right, or obligation, before they have explained the origin of justice, or even make use of them in that explication, are guilty of a very gross fallacy, and can never reason upon any solid foundation. a man's property is some object related to him. this relation is not natural, but moral, and founded on justice. it is very preposterous, therefore, to imagine, that we can have any idea of property, without fully comprehending the nature of justice, and shewing its origin in the artifice and contrivance of man. the origin of justice explains that of property. the same artifice gives rise to both. as our first and most natural sentiment of morals is founded on the nature of our passions, and gives the preference to ourselves and friends, above strangers; it is impossible there can be naturally any such thing as a fixed right or property, while the opposite passions of men impel them in contrary directions, and are not restrained by any convention or agreement. no one can doubt, that the convention for the distinction of property, and for the stability of possession, is of all circumstances the most necessary to the establishment of human society, and that after the agreement for the fixing and observing of this rule, there remains little or nothing to be done towards settling a perfect harmony and concord. all the other passions, besides this of interest, are either easily restrained, or are not of such pernicious consequence, when indulged. vanity is rather to be esteemed a social passion, and a bond of union among men. pity and love are to be considered in the same light. and as to envy and revenge, though pernicious, they operate only by intervals, and are directed against particular persons, whom we consider as our superiors or enemies. this avidity alone, of acquiring goods and possessions for ourselves and our nearest friends, is insatiable, perpetual, universal, and directly destructive of society. there scarce is any one, who is not actuated by it; and there is no one, who has not reason to fear from it, when it acts without any restraint, and gives way to its first and most natural movements. so that upon the whole, we are to esteem the difficulties in the establishment of society, to be greater or less, according to those we encounter in regulating and restraining this passion. it is certain, that no affection of the human mind has both a sufficient force, and a proper direction to counterbalance the love of gain, and render men fit members of society, by making them abstain from the possessions of others. benevolence to strangers is too weak for this purpose; and as to the other passions, they rather inflame this avidity, when we observe, that the larger our possessions are, the more ability we have of gratifying all our appetites. there is no passion, therefore, capable of controlling the interested affection, but the very affection itself, by an alteration of its direction. now this alteration must necessarily take place upon the least reflection; since it is evident, that the passion is much better satisfyed by its restraint, than by its liberty, and that in preserving society, we make much greater advances in the acquiring possessions, than in the solitary and forlorn condition, which must follow upon violence and an universal licence. the question, therefore, concerning the wickedness or goodness of human nature, enters not in the least into that other question concerning the origin of society; nor is there any thing to be considered but the degrees of men's sagacity or folly. for whether the passion of self-interest be esteemed vicious or virtuous, it is all a case; since itself alone restrains it: so that if it be virtuous, men become social by their virtue; if vicious, their vice has the same effect. now as it is by establishing the rule for the stability of possession, that this passion restrains itself; if that rule be very abstruse, and of difficult invention; society must be esteemed, in a manner, accidental, and the effect of many ages. but if it be found, that nothing can be more simple and obvious than that rule; that every parent, in order to preserve peace among his children, must establish it; and that these first rudiments of justice must every day be improved, as the society enlarges: if all this appear evident, as it certainly must, we may conclude, that it is utterly impossible for men to remain any considerable time in that savage condition, which precedes society; but that his very first state and situation may justly be esteemed social. this, however, hinders not, but that philosophers may, if they please, extend their reasoning to the supposed state of nature; provided they allow it to be a mere philosophical fiction, which never had, and never coued have any reality. human nature being composed of two principal parts, which are requisite in all its actions, the affections and understanding; it is certain, that the blind motions of the former, without the direction of the latter, incapacitate men for society: and it may be allowed us to consider separately the effects, that result from the separate operations of these two component parts of the mind. the same liberty may be permitted to moral, which is allowed to natural philosophers; and it is very usual with the latter to consider any motion as compounded and consisting of two parts separate from each other, though at the same time they acknowledge it to be in itself uncompounded and inseparable. this state of nature, therefore, is to be regarded as a mere fiction, not unlike that of the golden age, which poets have invented; only with this difference, that the former is described as full of war, violence and injustice; whereas the latter is pointed out to us, as the most charming and most peaceable condition, that can possibly be imagined. the seasons, in that first age of nature, were so temperate, if we may believe the poets, that there was no necessity for men to provide themselves with cloaths and houses as a security against the violence of heat and cold. the rivers flowed with wine and milk: the oaks yielded honey; and nature spontaneously produced her greatest delicacies. nor were these the chief advantages of that happy age. the storms and tempests were not alone removed from nature; but those more furious tempests were unknown to human breasts, which now cause such uproar, and engender such confusion. avarice, ambition, cruelty, selfishness, were never heard of: cordial affection, compassion, sympathy, were the only movements, with which the human mind was yet acquainted. even the distinction of mine and thine was banished from that happy race of mortals, and carryed with them the very notions of property and obligation, justice and injustice. this, no doubt, is to be regarded as an idle fiction; but yet deserves our attention, because nothing can more evidently shew the origin of those virtues, which are the subjects of our present enquiry. i have already observed, that justice takes its rise from human conventions; and that these are intended as a remedy to some inconveniences, which proceed from the concurrence of certain qualities of the human mind with the situation of external objects. the qualities of the mind are selfishness and limited generosity: and the situation of external objects is their easy change, joined to their scarcity in comparison of the wants and desires of men. but however philosophers may have been bewildered in those speculations, poets have been guided more infallibly, by a certain taste or common instinct, which in most kinds of reasoning goes farther than any of that art and philosophy, with which we have been yet acquainted. they easily perceived, if every man had a tender regard for another, or if nature supplied abundantly all our wants and desires, that the jealousy of interest, which justice supposes, could no longer have place; nor would there be any occasion for those distinctions and limits of property and possession, which at present are in use among mankind. encrease to a sufficient degree the benevolence of men, or the bounty of nature, and you render justice useless, by supplying its place with much nobler virtues, and more valuable blessings. the selfishness of men is animated by the few possessions we have, in proportion to our wants; and it is to restrain this selfishness, that men have been obliged to separate themselves from the community, and to distinguish betwixt their own goods and those of others. nor need we have recourse to the fictions of poets to learn this; but beside the reason of the thing, may discover the same truth by common experience and observation. it is easy to remark, that a cordial affection renders all things common among friends; and that married people in particular mutually lose their property, and are unacquainted with the mine and thine, which are so necessary, and yet cause such disturbance in human society. the same effect arises from any alteration in the circumstances of mankind; as when there is such a plenty of any thing as satisfies all the desires of men: in which case the distinction of property is entirely lost, and every thing remains in common. this we may observe with regard to air and water, though the most valuable of all external objects; and may easily conclude, that if men were supplied with every thing in the same abundance, or if every one had the same affection and tender regard for every one as for himself; justice and injustice would be equally unknown among mankind. here then is a proposition, which, i think, may be regarded as certain, that it is only from the selfishness and confined generosity of men, along with the scanty provision nature has made for his wants, that justice derives its origin. if we look backward we shall find, that this proposition bestows an additional force on some of those observations, which we have already made on this subject. first, we may conclude from it, that a regard to public interest, or a strong extensive benevolence, is not our first and original motive for the observation of the rules of justice; since it is allowed, that if men were endowed with such a benevolence, these rules would never have been dreamt of. secondly, we may conclude from the same principle, that the sense of justice is not founded on reason, or on the discovery of certain connexions and relations of ideas, which are eternal, immutable, and universally obligatory. for since it is confest, that such an alteration as that above-mentioned, in the temper and circumstances of mankind, would entirely alter our duties and obligations, it is necessary upon the common system, that the sense of virtue is derived from reason, to shew the change which this must produce in the relations and ideas. but it is evident, that the only cause, why the extensive generosity of man, and the perfect abundance of every thing, would destroy the very idea of justice, is because they render it useless; and that, on the other hand, his confined benevolence, and his necessitous condition, give rise to that virtue, only by making it requisite to the publick interest, and to that of every individual. twas therefore a concern for our own, and the publick interest, which made us establish the laws of justice; and nothing can be more certain, than that it is not any relation of ideas, which gives us this concern, but our impressions and sentiments, without which every thing in nature is perfectly indifferent to us, and can never in the least affect us. the sense of justice, therefore, is not founded on our ideas, but on our impressions. thirdly, we may farther confirm the foregoing proposition, that those impressions, which give rise to this sense of justice, are not natural to the mind of man, but arise from artifice and human conventions. for since any considerable alteration of temper and circumstances destroys equally justice and injustice; and since such an alteration has an effect only by changing our own and the publick interest; it follows, that the first establishment of the rules of justice depends on these different interests. but if men pursued the publick interest naturally, and with a hearty affection, they would never have dreamed of restraining each other by these rules; and if they pursued their own interest, without any precaution, they would run head-long into every kind of injustice and violence. these rules, therefore, are artificial, and seek their end in an oblique and indirect manner; nor is the interest, which gives rise to them, of a kind that coued be pursued by the natural and inartificial passions of men. to make this more evident, consider, that though the rules of justice are established merely by interest, their connexion with interest is somewhat singular, and is different from what may be observed on other occasions. a single act of justice is frequently contrary to public interest; and were it to stand alone, without being followed by other acts, may, in itself, be very prejudicial to society. when a man of merit, of a beneficent disposition, restores a great fortune to a miser, or a seditious bigot, he has acted justly and laudably, but the public is a real sufferer. nor is every single act of justice, considered apart, more conducive to private interest, than to public; and it is easily conceived how a man may impoverish himself by a signal instance of integrity, and have reason to wish, that with regard to that single act, the laws of justice were for a moment suspended in the universe. but however single acts of justice may be contrary, either to public or private interest, it is certain, that the whole plan or scheme is highly conducive, or indeed absolutely requisite, both to the support of society, and the well-being of every individual. it is impossible to separate the good from the ill. property must be stable, and must be fixed by general rules. though in one instance the public be a sufferer, this momentary ill is amply compensated by the steady prosecution of the rule, and by the peace and order, which it establishes in society. and even every individual person must find himself a gainer, on ballancing the account; since, without justice society must immediately dissolve, and every one must fall into that savage and solitary condition, which is infinitely worse than the worst situation that can possibly be supposed in society. when therefore men have had experience enough to observe, that whatever may be the consequence of any single act of justice, performed by a single person, yet the whole system of actions, concurred in by the whole society, is infinitely advantageous to the whole, and to every part; it is not long before justice and property take place. every member of society is sen sible of this interest: every one expresses this sense to his fellows, along with the resolution he has taken of squaring his actions by it, on condition that others will do the same. no more is requisite to induce any one of them to perform an act of justice, who has the first opportunity. this becomes an example to others. and thus justice establishes itself by a kind of convention or agreement; that is, by a sense of interest, supposed to be common to all, and where every single act is performed in expectation that others are to perform the like. without such a convention, no one would ever have dreamed, that there was such a virtue as justice, or have been induced to conform his actions to it. taking any single act, my justice may be pernicious in every respect; and it is only upon the supposition that others are to imitate my example, that i can be induced to embrace that virtue; since nothing but this combination can render justice advantageous, or afford me any motives to conform my self to its rules. we come now to the second question we proposed, viz. why we annex the idea of virtue to justice, and of vice to injustice. this question will not detain us long after the principles, which we have already established, all we can say of it at present will be dispatched in a few words: and for farther satisfaction, the reader must wait till we come to the third part of this book. the natural obligation to justice, viz, interest, has been fully explained; but as to the moral obligation, or the sentiment of right and wrong, it will first be requisite to examine the natural virtues, before we can give a full and satisfactory account of it. after men have found by experience, that their selfishness and confined generosity, acting at their liberty, totally incapacitate them for society; and at the same time have observed, that society is necessary to the satisfaction of those very passions, they are naturally induced to lay themselves under the restraint of such rules, as may render their commerce more safe and commodious. to the imposition then, and observance of these rules, both in general, and in every particular instance, they are at first induced only by a regard to interest; and this motive, on the first formation of society, is sufficiently strong and forcible. but when society has become numerous, and has encreased to a tribe or nation, this interest is more remote; nor do men so readily perceive, that disorder and confusion follow upon every breach of these rules, as in a more narrow and contracted society. but though in our own actions we may frequently lose sight of that interest, which we have in maintaining order, and may follow a lesser and more present interest, we never fail to observe the prejudice we receive, either mediately or immediately, from the injustice of others; as not being in that case either blinded by passion, or byassed by any contrary temptation. nay when the injustice is so distant from us, as no way to affect our interest, it still displeases us; because we consider it as prejudicial to human society, and pernicious to every one that approaches the person guilty of it. we partake of their uneasiness by sympathy; and as every thing, which gives uneasiness in human actions, upon the general survey, is called vice, and whatever produces satisfaction, in the same manner, is denominated virtue; this is the reason why the sense of moral good and evil follows upon justice and injustice. and though this sense, in the present case, be derived only from contemplating the actions of others, yet we fail not to extend it even to our own actions. the general rule reaches beyond those instances, from which it arose; while at the same time we naturally sympathize with others in the sentiments they entertain of us. thus self-interest is the original motive to the establishment of justice: but a sympathy with public interest is the source of the moral approbation, which attends that virtue. though this progress of the sentiments be natural, and even necessary, it is certain, that it is here forwarded by the artifice of politicians, who, in order to govern men more easily, and preserve peace in human society, have endeavoured to produce an esteem for justice, and an abhorrence of injustice. this, no doubt, must have its effect; but nothing can be more evident, than that the matter has been carryed too far by certain writers on morals, who seem to have employed their utmost efforts to extirpate all sense of virtue from among mankind. any artifice of politicians may assist nature in the producing of those sentiments, which she suggests to us, and may even on some occasions, produce alone an approbation or esteem for any particular action; but it is impossible it should be the sole cause of the distinction we make betwixt vice and virtue. for if nature did not aid us in this particular, it would be in vain for politicians to talk of honourable or dishonourable, praiseworthy or blameable. these words would be perfectly unintelligible, and would no more have any idea annexed to them, than if they were of a tongue perfectly unknown to us. the utmost politicians can perform, is, to extend the natural sentiments beyond their original bounds; but still nature must furnish the materials, and give us some notion of moral distinctions. as publick praise and blame encrease our esteem for justice; so private education and instruction contribute to the same effect. for as parents easily observe, that a man is the more useful, both to himself and others, the greater degree of probity and honour he is endowed with; and that those principles have greater force, when custom and education assist interest and reflection: for these reasons they are induced to inculcate on their children, from their earliest infancy, the principles of probity, and teach them to regard the observance of those rules, by which society is maintained, as worthy and honourable, and their violation as base and infamous. by this means the sentiments of honour may take root in their tender minds, and acquire such firmness and solidity, that they may fall little short of those principles, which are the most essential to our natures, and the most deeply radicated in our internal constitution. what farther contributes to encrease their solidity, is the interest of our reputation, after the opinion, that a merit or demerit attends justice or injustice, is once firmly established among mankind. there is nothing, which touches us more nearly than our reputation, and nothing on which our reputation more depends than our conduct, with relation to the property of others. for this reason, every one, who has any regard to his character, or who intends to live on good terms with mankind, must fix an inviolable law to himself, never, by any temptation, to be induced to violate those principles, which are essential to a man of probity and honour. i shall make only one observation before i leave this subject, viz, that though i assert, that in the state of nature, or that imaginary state, which preceded society, there be neither justice nor injustice, yet i assert not, that it was allowable, in such a state, to violate the property of others. i only maintain, that there was no such thing as property; and consequently coued be no such thing as justice or injustice. i shall have occasion to make a similar reflection with regard to promises, when i come to treat of them; and i hope this reflection, when duly weighed, will suffice to remove all odium from the foregoing opinions, with regard to justice and injustice. sect. iii of the rules which determine property though the establishment of the rule, concerning the stability of possession, be not only useful, but even absolutely necessary to human society, it can never serve to any purpose, while it remains in such general terms. some method must be shewn, by which we may distinguish what particular goods are to be assigned to each particular person, while the rest of mankind are excluded from their possession and enjoyment. our next business, then, must be to discover the reasons which modify this general rule, and fit it to the common use and practice of the world. it is obvious, that those reasons are not derived from any utility or advantage, which either the particular person or the public may reap from his enjoyment of any particular goods, beyond what would result from the possession of them by any other person. twere better, no doubt, that every one were possessed of what is most suitable to him, and proper for his use: but besides, that this relation of fitness may be common to several at once, it is liable to so many controversies, and men are so partial and passionate in judging of these controversies, that such a loose and uncertain rule would be absolutely incompatible with the peace of human society. the convention concerning the stability of possession is entered into, in order to cut off all occasions of discord and contention; and this end would never be attained, were we allowed to apply this rule differently in every particular case, according to every particular utility, which might be discovered in such an application. justice, in her decisions, never regards the fitness or unfitness of objects to particular persons, but conducts herself by more extensive views. whether a man be generous, or a miser, he is equally well received by her, and obtains with the same facility a decision in his favours, even for what is entirely useless to him. it follows therefore, that the general rule, that possession must be stable, is not applied by particular judgments, but by other general rules, which must extend to the whole society, and be inflexible either by spite or favour. to illustrate this, i propose the following instance. i first consider men in their savage and solitary condition; and suppose, that being sensible of the misery of that state, and foreseeing the advantages that would result from society, they seek each other's company, and make an offer of mutual protection and assistance. i also suppose, that they are endowed with such sagacity as immediately to perceive, that the chief impediment to this project of society and partnership lies in the avidity and selfishness of their natural temper; to remedy which, they enter into a convention for the stability of possession, and for mutual restraint and forbearance. i am sensible, that this method of proceeding is not altogether natural; but besides that i here only suppose those reflections to be formed at once, which in fact arise insensibly and by degrees; besides this, i say, it is very possible, that several persons, being by different accidents separated from the societies, to which they formerly belonged, may be obliged to form a new society among themselves; in which case they are entirely in the situation above-mentioned. it is evident, then, that their first difficulty, in this situation, after the general convention for the establishment of society, and for the constancy of possession, is, how to separate their possessions, and assign to each his particular portion, which he must for the future inalterably enjoy. this difficulty will not detain them long; but it must immediately occur to them, as the most natural expedient, that every one continue to enjoy what he is at present master of, and that property or constant possession be conjoined to the immediate possession. such is the effect of custom, that it not only reconciles us to any thing we have long enjoyed, but even gives us an affection for it, and makes us prefer it to other objects, which may be more valuable, but are less known to us. what has long lain under our eye, and has often been employed to our advantage, that we are always the most unwilling to part with; but can easily live without possessions, which we never have enjoyed, and are not accustomed to. it is evident, therefore, that men would easily acquiesce in this expedient, that every one continue to enjoy what he is at present possessed of; and this is the reason, why they would so naturally agree in preferring it. [footnote . no questions in philosophy are more difficult, than when a number of causes present themselves for the same phaenomenon, to determine which is the principal and predominant. there seldom is any very precise argument to fix our choice, and men must be contented to be guided by a kind of taste or fancy, arising from analogy, and a comparison of familiar instances. thus, in the present case, there are, no doubt, motives of public interest for most of the rules, which determine property; but still i suspect, that these rules are principally fixed by the imagination, or the more frivolous properties of our thought and conception. i shall continue to explain these causes, leaving it to the reader's choice, whether he will prefer those derived from publick utility, or those derived from the imagination. we shall begin with the right of the present possessor. it is a quality, which i have already observed in human nature, that when two objects appear in a close relation to each other, the mind is apt to ascribe to them any additional relation, in order to compleat the union; and this inclination is so strong, as often to make us run into errors (such as that of the conjunction of thought and matter) if we find that they can serve to that purpose. many of our impressions are incapable of place or local position; and yet those very impressions we suppose to have a local conjunction with the impressions of sight and touch, merely because they are conjoined by causation, and are already united in the imagination. since, therefore, we can feign a new relation, and even an absurd one, in order to compleat any union, it will easily be imagined, that if there be any relations, which depend on the mind, it will readily conjoin them to any preceding relation, and unite, by a new bond, such objects as have already an union in the fancy. thus for instance, we never fail, in our arrangement of bodies, to place those which are resembling in contiguity to each other, or at least in correspondent points of view; because we feel a satisfaction in joining the relation of contiguity to that of resemblance, or the resemblance of situation to that of qualities. and this is easily accounted for from the known properties of human nature. when the mind is determined to join certain objects, but undetermined in its choice of the particular objects, it naturally turns its eye to such as are related together. they are already united in the mind: they present themselves at the same time to the conception; and instead of requiring any new reason for their conjunction, it would require a very powerful reason to make us over-look this natural affinity. this we shall have occasion to explain more fully afterwards, when we come to treat of beauty. in the mean time, we may content ourselves with observing, that the same love of order and uniformity, which arranges the books in a library, and the chairs in a parlour, contribute to the formation of society, and to the well-being of mankind, by modifying the general rule concerning the stability of possession. and as property forms a relation betwixt a person and an object, it is natural to found it on some preceding relation; and as property is nothing but a constant possession, secured by the laws of society, it is natural to add it to the present possession, which is a relation that resembles it. for this also has its influence. if it be natural to conjoin all sorts of relations, it is more so, to conjoin such relations as are resembling, and are related together.] but we may observe, that though the rule of the assignment of property to the present possessor be natural, and by that means useful, yet its utility extends not beyond the first formation of society; nor would any thing be more pernicious, than the constant observance of it; by which restitution would be excluded, and every injustice would be authorized and rewarded. we must, therefore, seek for some other circumstance, that may give rise to property after society is once established; and of this kind, i find four most considerable, viz. occupation, prescription, accession, and succession. we shall briefly examine each of these, beginning with occupation. the possession of all external goods is changeable and uncertain; which is one of the most considerable impediments to the establishment of society, and is the reason why, by universal agreement, express or tacite, men restrain themselves by what we now call the rules of justice and equity. the misery of the condition, which precedes this restraint, is the cause why we submit to that remedy as quickly as possible; and this affords us an easy reason, why we annex the idea of property to the first possession, or to occupation. men are unwilling to leave property in suspense, even for the shortest time, or open the least door to violence and disorder. to which we may add, that the first possession always engages the attention most; and did we neglect it, there would be no colour of reason for assigning property to any succeeding possession. [footnote . some philosophers account for the right of occupation, by saying, that every one has a property in his own labour; and when he joins that labour to any thing, it gives him the property of the whole: but, . there are several kinds of occupation, where we cannot be said to join our labour to the object we acquire: as when we possess a meadow by grazing our cattle upon it. . this accounts for the matter by means of accession; which is taking a needless circuit. . we cannot be said to join our labour to any thing but in a figurative sense. properly speaking, we only make an alteration on it by our labour. this forms a relation betwixt us and the object; and thence arises the property, according to the preceding principles.] there remains nothing, but to determine exactly, what is meant by possession; and this is not so easy as may at first sight be imagined. we are said to be in possession of any thing, not only when we immediately touch it, but also when we are so situated with respect to it, as to have it in our power to use it; and may move, alter, or destroy it, according to our present pleasure or advantage. this relation, then, is a species of cause and effect; and as property is nothing but a stable possession, derived from the rules of justice, or the conventions of men, it is to be considered as the same species of relation. but here we may observe, that as the power of using any object becomes more or less certain, according as the interruptions we may meet with are more or less probable; and as this probability may increase by insensible degrees; it is in many cases impossible to determine when possession begins or ends; nor is there any certain standard, by which we can decide such controversies. a wild boar, that falls into our snares, is deemed to be in our possession, if it be impossible for him to escape. but what do we mean by impossible? how do we separate this impossibility from an improbability? and how distinguish that exactly from a probability? mark the precise limits of the one and the other, and shew the standard, by which we may decide all disputes that may arise, and, as we find by experience, frequently do arise upon this subject. [footnote . if we seek a solution of these difficulties in reason and public interest, we never shall find satisfaction; and if we look for it in the imagination, it is evident, that the qualities, which operate upon that faculty, run so insensibly and gradually into each other, that it is impossible to give them any precise bounds or termination. the difficulties on this head must encrease, when we consider, that our judgment alters very sensibly, according to the subject, and that the same power and proximity will be deemed possession in one case, which is not esteemed such in another. a person, who has hunted a hare to the last degree of weariness, would look upon it as an injustice for another to rush in before him, and seize his prey. but the same person advancing to pluck an apple, that hangs within his reach, has no reason to complain, if another, more alert, passes him, and takes possession. what is the reason of this difference, but that immobility, not being natural to the hare, but the effect of industry, forms in that case a strong relation with the hunter, which is wanting in the other? here then it appears, that a certain and infallible power of enjoyment, without touch or some other sensible relation, often produces not property: and i farther observe, that a sensible relation, without any present power, is sometimes sufficient to give a title to any object. the sight of a thing is seldom a considerable relation, and is only regarded as such, when the object is hidden, or very obscure; in which case we find, that the view alone conveys a property; according to that maxim, that even a whole continent belongs to the nation, which first discovered it. it is however remarkable that both in the case of discovery and that of possession, the first discoverer and possessor must join to the relation an intention of rendering himself proprietor, otherwise the relation will not have its effect; and that because the connexion in our fancy betwixt the property and the relation is not so great, but that it requires to be helped by such an intention. from all these circumstances, it is easy to see how perplexed many questions may become concerning the acquisition of property by occupation; and the least effort of thought may present us with instances, which are not susceptible of any reasonable decision. if we prefer examples, which are real, to such as are feigned, we may consider the following one, which is to be met with in almost every writer, that has treated of the laws of nature. two grecian colonies, leaving their native country, in search of new feats, were informed that a city near them was deserted by its inhabitants. to know the truth of this report, they dispatched at once two messengers, one from each colony; who finding on their approach, that their information was true, begun a race together with an intention to take possession of the city, each of them for his countrymen. one of these messengers, finding that he was not an equal match for the other, launched his spear at the gates of the city, and was so fortunate as to fix it there before the arrival of his companion. this produced a dispute betwixt the two colonies, which of them was the proprietor of the empty city and this dispute still subsists among philosophers. for my part i find the dispute impossible to be decided, and that because the whole question hangs upon the fancy, which in this case is not possessed of any precise or determinate standard, upon which it can give sentence. to make this evident, let us consider, that if these two persons had been simply members of the colonies, and not messengers or deputies, their actions would not have been of any consequence; since in that case their relation to the colonies would have been but feeble and imperfect. add to this, that nothing determined them to run to the gates rather than the walls, or any other part of the city, but that the gates, being the most obvious and remarkable part, satisfy the fancy best in taking them for the whole; as we find by the poets, who frequently draw their images and metaphors from them. besides we may consider, that the touch or contact of the one messenger is not properly possession, no more than the piercing the gates with a spear; but only forms a relation; and there is a relation, in the other case, equally obvious, tho' not, perhaps, of equal force. which of these relations, then, conveys a right and property, or whether any of them be sufficient for that effect, i leave to the decision of such as are wiser than myself.] but such disputes may not only arise concerning the real existence of property and possession, but also concerning their extent; and these disputes are often susceptible of no decision, or can be decided by no other faculty than the imagination. a person who lands on the shore of a small island, that is desart and uncultivated, is deemed its possessor from the very first moment, and acquires the property of the whole; because the object is there bounded and circumscribed in the fancy, and at the same time is proportioned to the new possessor. the same person landing on a desart island, as large as great britain, extends his property no farther than his immediate possession; though a numerous colony are esteemed the proprietors of the whole from the instant of their debarkment. but it often happens, that the title of first possession becomes obscure through time; and that it is impossible to determine many controversies, which may arise concerning it. in that case long possession or prescription naturally takes place, and gives a person a sufficient property in any thing he enjoys. the nature of human society admits not of any great accuracy; nor can we always remount to the first origin of things, in order to determine their present condition. any considerable space of time sets objects at such a distance, that they seem, in a manner, to lose their reality, and have as little influence on the mind, as if they never had been in being. a man's title, that is clear and certain at present, will seem obscure and doubtful fifty years hence, even though the facts, on which it is founded, should be proved with the greatest evidence and certainty. the same facts have not the same influence after so long an interval of time. and this may be received as a convincing argument for our preceding doctrine with regard to property and justice. possession during a long tract of time conveys a title to any object. but as it is certain, that, however every thing be produced in time, there is nothing real that is produced by time; it follows, that property being produced by time, is not any thing real in the objects, but is the off-spring of the sentiments, on which alone time is found to have any influence. [footnote . present possession is plainly a relation betwixt a person and an object; but is not sufficient to counter-ballance the relation of first possession, unless the former be long and uninterrupted: in which case the relation is encreased on the side of the present possession, by the extent of time, and dlminished on that of first possession, by the distance, this change in the relation produces a consequent change in the property.] we acquire the property of objects by accession, when they are connected in an intimate manner with objects that are already our property, and at the same time are inferior to them. thus the fruits of our garden, the offspring of our cattle, and the work of our slaves, are all of them esteemed our property, even before possession. where objects are connected together in the imagination, they are apt to be put on the same footing, and are commonly supposed to be endowed with the same qualities. we readily pass from one to the other, and make no difference in our judgments concerning them; especially if the latter be inferior to the former. [footnote . this source of property can never be explained but from the imaginations; and one may affirm, that the causes are here unmixed. we shall proceed to explain them more particularly, and illustrate them by examples from common life and experience. it has been observed above, that the mind has a natural propensity to join relations, especially resembling ones, and finds a hind of fitness and uniformity in such an union. from this propensity are derived these laws of nature, that upon the first formation of society, property always follows the present possession; and afterwards, that it arises from first or from long possession. now we may easily observe, that relation is not confined merely to one degree; but that from an object, that is related to us, we acquire a relation to every other object, which is related to it, and so on, till the thought loses the chain by too long a progress, however the relation may weaken by each remove, it is not immediately destroyed; but frequently connects two objects by means of an intermediate one, which is related to both. and this principle is of such force as to give rise to the right of accession, and causes us to acquire the property not only of such objects as we are immediately possessed of; but also of such as are closely connected with them. suppose a german, a frenchman, and a spaniard to come into a room, where there are placed upon the table three bottles of wine, rhenish, burgundy and port; and suppose they shoued fall a quarrelling about the division of them; a person, who was chosen for umpire would naturally, to shew his impartiality, give every one the product of his own country: and this from a principle, which, in some measure, is the source of those laws of nature, that ascribe property to occupation, prescription and accession. in all these cases, and particularly that of accession, there is first a natural union betwixt the idea of the person and that of the object, and afterwards a new and moral union produced by that right or property, which we ascribe to the person. but here there occurs a difficulty, which merits our attention, and may afford us an opportunity of putting to tryal that singular method of reasoning, which has been employed on the present subject. i have already observed that the imagination passes with greater facility from little to great, than from great to littie, and that the transition of ideas is always easier and smoother in the former case than in the latter. now as the right of accession arises from the easy transition of ideas, by which related objects are connected together, it shoued naturally be imagined, that the right of accession must encrease in strength, in proportion as the transition of ideas is performed with greater facility. it may, therefore, be thought, that when we have acquired the property of any small object, we shall readily consider any great object related to it as an accession, and as belonging to the proprietor of the small one; since the transition is in that case very easy from the small object to the great one, and shoued connect them together in the closest manner. but in fact the case is always found to be otherwise, the empire of great britain seems to draw along with it the dominion of the orkneys, the hebrides, the isle of man, and the isle of wight; but the authority over those lesser islands does not naturally imply any title to great britain. in short, a small object naturally follows a great one as its accession; but a great one is never supposed to belong to the proprietor of a small one related to it, merely on account of that property and relation. yet in this latter case the transition of ideas is smoother from the proprietor to the small object, which is his property, and from the small object to the great one, than in the former case from the proprietor to the great object, and from the great one to the small. it may therefore be thought, that these phaenomena are objections to the foregoing hypothesis, that the ascribing of property to accession is nothing but an affect of the relations of ideas, and of the smooth transition of the imagination. it will be easy to solve this objection, if we consider the agility and unsteadiness of the imagination, with the different views, in which it is continually placing its objects. when we attribute to a person a property in two objects, we do not always pass from the person to one object, and from that to the other related to it. the objects being here to be considered as the property of the person, we are apt to join them together, and place them in the same light. suppose, therefore, a great and a small object to be related together; if a person be strongly related to the great object, he will likewise be strongly related to both the objects, considered together, because he is related to the most considerable part. on the contrary, if he be only related to the small object, he will not be strongly related to both, considered together, since his relation lies only with the most trivial part, which is not apt to strike us in any great degree, when we consider the whole. and this is the reason, why small objects become accessions to great ones, and not great to small. it is the general opinion of philosophers and civilians, that the sea is incapable of becoming the property of any nation; and that because it is impossible to take possession of it, or form any such distinct relation with it, as may be the foundation of property. where this reason ceases, property immediately takes place. thus the most strenuous advocates for the liberty of the seas universally allow, that friths and hays naturally belong as an accession to the proprietors of the surrounding continent. these have properly no more bond or union with the land, than the pacific ocean would have; but having an union in the fancy, and being at the same time inferior, they are of course regarded as an accession. the property of rivers, by the laws of most nations, and by the natural turn of our thought, is attributed to the proprietors of their banks, excepting such vast rivers as the rhine or the danube, which seem too large to the imagination to follow as an accession the property of the neighbouring fields. yet even these rivers are considered as the property of that nation, thro' whose dominions they run; the idea of a nation being of a suitable bulk to correspond with them, and bear them such a relation in the fancy. the accessions, which are made to lands bordering upon rivers, follow the land, say the civilians, provided it be made by what they call alluvion, that is, insensibly and imperceptibly; which are circumstances that mightily assist the imagination in the conjunction. where there is any considerable portion torn at once from one bank, and joined to another, it becomes not his property, whose land it falls on, till it unite with the land, and till the trees or plants have spread their roots into both. before that, the imagination does not sufficiently join them. there are other cases, which somewhat resemble this of accession, but which, at the bottom, are considerably different, and merit our attention. of this kind is the conjunction of the properties of different persons, after such a manner as not to admit of separation. the question is, to whom the united mass must belong. where this conjunction is of such a nature as to admit of division, but not of separation, the decision is natural and easy. the whole mass must be supposed to be common betwixt the proprietors of the several parts, and afterwards must be divided according to the proportions of these parts. but here i cannot forbear taking notice of a remarkable subtilty of the roman law, in distinguishing betwixt confusion and commixtion. confusion is an union of two bodies, such as different liquors, where the parts become entirely undistinguishable. commixtion is the blending of two bodies, such as two bushels of corn, where the parts remain separate in an obvious and visible manner. as in the latter case the imagination discovers not so entire an union as in the former, but is able to trace and preserve a distinct idea of the property of each; this is the reason, why the civil law, tho' it established an entire community in the case of confusion, and after that a proportional division, yet in the case of commixtion, supposes each of the proprietors to maintain a distinct right; however necessity may at last force them to submit to the same division. quod si frumentum titii frumento tuo mistum fuerit: siquidem ex voluntate vestra, commune est: quia singula corpora, id est, singula grana, quae cujusque pro pria fuerunt, ex consensu vestro communicata sunt. quod si casu id mistum fuerit, vel titius id miscuerit sine tua volunt ate, non videtur id commune esse; quia singula corpora in sua substantia durant. sed nec magis istis casibus commune sit frumentum quam grex intelligitur esse corn munis, si pecora titii tuis pecoribus mista fuerint. sed si ab alterutro vestrum totum id frumentum retineatur, in rem quidem actio pro modo frumenti cujusque corn petit. arbitrio autem judicis, ut ipse aestimet quale cujusque frumentum fuerit. inst. lib. il tit. i. sect . (in the case that your grain was mixed with that of titius, if it was done voluntarily on the part of both of you, it is common property, inasmuch as the individual items, i.e., the single grains, which were the peculiar property of either of you, were combined with your joint consent. if, however, the mixture was accidental, or if titius mixed it without your consent, it does not appear that it is common property, inasmuch as the several components retain their original identity. rather, in circumstances of this sort the grain does not become common property, any more than a herd of cattle is regarded as common property, if titius beasts should have become mixed up with yours. however, if all of the aforesaid corn is kept by either of you, this gives rise to a suit to determine the ownership of property, in respect of the amount of corn belonging to each. it is in the discretion of the judge to determine which is the corn belonging to either party.] where the properties of two persons are united after such a manner as neither to admit of division nor separation, as when one builds a house on another's ground, in that case, the whole must belong to one of the proprietors: and here i assert, that it naturally is conceived to belong to the proprietor of the most considerable part. for however the compound object may have a relation to two different persons, and carry our view at once to both of them, yet as the most considerable part principally engages our attention, and by the strict union draws the inferior along it; for this reason, the whole bears a relation to the proprietor of that part, and is regarded as his property. the only difficulty is, what we shall be pleased to call the most considerable part, and most attractive to the imagination. this quality depends on several different circumstances, which have little connexion with each other. one part of a compound object may become more considerable than another, either because it is more constant and durable; because it is of greater value; because it is more obvious and remarkable; because it is of greater extent; or because its existence is more separate and independent. it will be easy to conceive, that, as these circumstances may be conjoined and opposed in all the different ways, and according to all the different degrees, which can be imagined, there will result many cases, where the reasons on both sides are so equally balanced, that it is impossible for us to give any satisfactory decision. here then is the proper business of municipal laws, to fix what the principles of human nature have left undetermined. the superficies yields to the soil, says the civil law: the writing to the paper: the canvas to the picture. these decisions do not well agree together, and are a proof of the contrariety of those principles, from which they are derived. but of all the questions of this kind the most curious is that, which for so many ages divided the disciples of proculus and sabinus. suppose a person shoued make a cup from the metal of another, or a ship from his wood, and suppose the proprietor of the metal or wood shoued demand his goods, the question is, whether he acquires a title to the cup or ship. sabinus maintained the affirmative, and asserted that the substance or matter is the foundation of all the qualities; that it is incorruptible and immortal, and therefore superior to the form, which is casual and dependent. on the other hand, proculus observed, that the form is the most obvious and remarkable part, and that from it bodies are denominated of this or that particular species. to which he might have added, that the matter or substance is in most bodies so fluctuating and uncertain, that it is utterly impossible to trace it in all its changes. for my part, i know not from what principles such a controversy can be certainly determined. i shall therefore content my self with observing, that the decision of trebonian seems to me pretty ingenious; that the cup belongs to the proprietor of the metal, because it can be brought back to its first form: but that the ship belongs to the author of its form for a contrary reason. but however ingenious this reason may seem, it plainly depends upon the fancy, which by the possibility of such a reduction, finds a closer connexion and relation betwixt a cup and the proprietor of its metal, than betwixt a ship and the proprietor of its wood, where the substance is more fixed and unalterable.] the right of succession is a very natural one, from the presumed consent of the parent or near relation, and from the general interest of mankind, which requires, that men's possessions should pass to those, who are dearest to them, in order to render them more industrious and frugal. perhaps these causes are seconded by the influence of relation, or the association of ideas, by which we are naturally directed to consider the son after the parent's decease, and ascribe to him a title to his father's possessions. those goods must become the property of some body: but of whom is the question. here it is evident the persons children naturally present themselves to the mind; and being already. connected to those possessions by means of their deceased parent, we are apt to connect them still farther by the relation of property. of this there are many parallel instances. [footnote in examining the different titles to authority in government, we shall meet with many reasons to convince us, that the right of succession depends, in a great measure on the imagination. mean while i shall rest contented with observing one example, which belongs to the present subject. suppose that a person die without children, and that a dispute arises among his relations concerning his inheritance; it is evident, that if his riches be deriv'd partly from his father, partly from his mother, the most natural way of determining such a dispute, is, to divide his possessions, and assign each part to the family, from whence it is deriv'd. now as the person is suppos'd to have been once the full and entire proprietor of those goods; i ask, what is it makes us find a certain equity and natural reason in this partition, except it be the imagination? his affection to these families does not depend upon his possessions; for which reason his consent can never be presum'd precisely for such a partition. and as to the public interest, it seems not to be in the least concern'd on the one side or the other.] sect. iv of the transference of property by consent however useful, or even necessary, the stability of possession may be to human society, it is attended with very considerable inconveniences. the relation of fitness or suitableness ought never to enter into consideration, in distributing the properties of mankind; but we must govern ourselves by rules, which are more general in their application, and more free from doubt and uncertainty. of this kind is present possession upon the first establishment of society; and afterwards occupation, prescription, accession, and succession. as these depend very much on chance, they must frequently prove contradictory both to men's wants and desires; and persons and possessions must often be very ill adjusted. this is a grand inconvenience, which calls for a remedy. to apply one directly, and allow every man to seize by violence what he judges to be fit for him, would destroy society; and therefore the rules of justice seek some medium betwixt a rigid stability, and this changeable and uncertain adjustment. but there is no medium better than that obvious one, that possession and property should always be stable, except when the proprietor consents to bestow them on some other person. this rule can have no ill consequence, in occasioning wars and dissentions; since the proprietor's consent, who alone is concerned, is taken along in the alienation: and it may serve to many good purposes in adjusting property to persons. different parts of the earth produce different commodities; and not only so, but different men both are by nature fitted for different employments, and attain to greater perfection in any one, when they confine themselves to it alone. all this requires a mutual exchange and commerce; for which reason the translation of property by consent is founded on a law of nature, as well as its stability without such a consent. so far is determined by a plain utility and interest. but perhaps it is from more trivial reasons, that delivery, or a sensible transference of the object is commonly required by civil laws, and also by the laws of nature, according to most authors, as a requisite circumstance in the translation of property. the property of an object, when taken for something real, without any reference to morality, or the sentiments of the mind, is a quality perfectly insensible, and even inconceivable; nor can we form any distinct notion, either of its stability or translation. this imperfection of our ideas is less sensibly felt with regard to its stability, as it engages less our attention, and is easily past over by the mind, without any scrupulous examination. but as the translation of property from one person to another is a more remarkable event, the defect of our ideas becomes more sensible on that occasion, and obliges us to turn ourselves on every side in search of some remedy. now as nothing more enlivens any idea than a present impression, and a relation betwixt that impression and the idea; it is natural for us to seek some false light from this quarter. in order to aid the imagination in conceiving the transference of property, we take the sensible object, and actually transfer its possession to the person, on whom we would bestow the property. the supposed resemblance of the actions, and the presence of this sensible delivery, deceive the mind, and make it fancy, that it conceives the mysterious transition of the property. and that this explication of the matter is just, appears hence, that men have invented a symbolical delivery, to satisfy the fancy, where the real one is impracticable. thus the giving the keys of a granary is understood to be the delivery of the corn contained in it: the giving of stone and earth represents the delivery of a mannor. this is a kind of superstitious practice in civil laws, and in the laws of nature, resembling the roman catholic superstitions in religion. as the roman catholics represent the inconceivable mysteries of the christian religion, and render them more present to the mind, by a taper, or habit, or grimace, which is supposed to resemble them; so lawyers and moralists have run into like inventions for the same reason, and have endeavoured by those means to satisfy themselves concerning the transference of property by consent. sect. v of the obligation of promises that the rule of morality, which enjoins the performance of promises, is not natural, will sufficiently appear from these two propositions, which i proceed to prove, viz, that a promise would not be intelligible, before human conventions had established it; and that even if it were intelligible, it would not be attended with any moral obligation. i say, first, that a promise is not intelligible naturally, nor antecedent to human conventions; and that a man, unacquainted with society, could never enter into any engagements with another, even though they could perceive each other's thoughts by intuition. if promises be natural and intelligible, there must be some act of the mind attending these words, i promise; and on this act of the mind must the obligation depend. let us, therefore, run over all the faculties of the soul, and see which of them is exerted in our promises. the act of the mind, exprest by a promise, is not a resolution to perform any thing: for that alone never imposes any obligation. nor is it a desire of such a performance: for we may bind ourselves without such a desire, or even with an aversion, declared and avowed. neither is it the willing of that action, which we promise to perform: for a promise always regards some future time, and the will has an influence only on present actions. it follows, therefore, that since the act of the mind, which enters into a promise, and produces its obligation, is neither the resolving, desiring, nor willing any particular performance, it must necessarily be the willing of that obligation, which arises from the promise. nor is this only a conclusion of philosophy; but is entirely conformable to our common ways of thinking and of expressing ourselves, when we say that we are bound by our own consent, and that the obligation arises from our mere will and pleasure. the only question then is, whether there be not a manifest absurdity in supposing this act of the mind, and such an absurdity as no man coued fall into, whose ideas are not confounded with prejudice and the fallacious use of language. all morality depends upon our sentiments; and when any action, or quality of the mind, pleases us after a certain manner, we say it is virtuous; and when the neglect, or nonperformance of it, displeases us after a like manner, we say that we lie under an obligation to perform it. a change of the obligation supposes a change of the sentiment; and a creation of a new obligation supposes some new sentiment to arise. but it is certain we can naturally no more change our own sentiments, than the motions of the heavens; nor by a single act of our will, that is, by a promise, render any action agreeable or disagreeable, moral or immoral; which, without that act, would have produced contrary impressions, or have been endowed with different qualities. it would be absurd, therefore, to will any new obligation, that is, any new sentiment of pain or pleasure; nor is it possible, that men coued naturally fall into so gross an absurdity. a promise, therefore, is naturally something altogether unintelligible, nor is there any act of the mind belonging to it. [footnote were morality discoverable by reason, and not by sentiment, it would be still more evident, that promises cou'd make no alteration upon it. morality is suppos'd to consist in relation. every new imposition of morality, therefore, must arise from some new relation of objects; and consequently the will coud not produce immediately any change in morals, but cou'd have that effect only by producing a change upon the objects. but as the moral obligation of a promise is the pure effect of the will, without the least change in any part of the universe; it follows, that promises have no natural obligation. shou'd it be said, that this act of the will being in effect a new object, produces new relations and new duties; i wou'd answer, that this is a pure sophism, which may be detected by a very moderate share of accuracy and exactness. to will a new obligation, is to will a new relation of objects; and therefore, if this new relation of objects were form'd by the volition itself, we should in effect will the volition; which is plainly absurd and impossible. the will has here no object to which it cou'd tend; but must return upon itself in infinitum. the new obligation depends upon new relations. the new relations depend upon a new volition. the new volition has for object a new obligation, and consequently new relations, and consequently a new volition; which volition again has in view a new obligation, relation and volition, without any termination. it is impossible, therefore, we cou'd ever will a new obligation; and consequently it is impossible the will cou'd ever accompany a promise, or produce a new obligation of morality.] but, secondly, if there was any act of the mind belonging to it, it could not naturally produce any obligation. this appears evidently from the foregoing reasoning. a promise creates a new obligation. a new obligation supposes new sentiments to arise. the will never creates new sentiments. there could not naturally, therefore, arise any obligation from a promise, even supposing the mind could fall into the absurdity of willing that obligation. the same truth may be proved still more evidently by that reasoning, which proved justice in general to be an artificial virtue. no action can be required of us as our duty, unless there be implanted in human nature some actuating passion or motive, capable of producing the action. this motive cannot be the sense of duty. a sense of duty supposes an antecedent obligation: and where an action is not required by any natural passion, it cannot be required by any natural obligation; since it may be omitted without proving any defect or imperfection in the mind and temper, and consequently without any vice. now it is evident we have no motive leading us to the performance of promises, distinct from a sense of duty. if we thought, that promises had no moral obligation, we never should feel any inclination to observe them. this is not the case with the natural virtues. though there was no obligation to relieve the miserable, our humanity would lead us to it; and when we omit that duty, the immorality of the omission arises from its being a proof, that we want the natural sentiments of humanity. a father knows it to be his duty to take care of his children: but he has also a natural inclination to it. and if no human creature had that indination, no one coued lie under any such obligation. but as there is naturally no inclination to observe promises, distinct from a sense of their obligation; it follows, that fidelity is no natural virtue, and that promises have no force, antecedent to human conventions. if any one dissent from this, he must give a regular proof of these two propositions, viz. that there is a peculiar act of the mind, annext to promises; and that consequent to this act of the mind, there arises an inclination to perform, distinct from a sense of duty. i presume, that it is impossible to prove either of these two points; and therefore i venture to conclude that promises are human inventions, founded on the necessities and interests of society. in order to discover these necessities and interests, we must consider the same qualities of human nature, which we have already found to give rise to the preceding laws of society. men being naturally selfish, or endowed only with a confined generosity, they are not easily induced to perform any action for the interest of strangers, except with a view to some reciprocal advantage, which they had no hope of obtaining but by such a performance. now as it frequently happens, that these mutual performances cannot be finished at the same instant, it is necessary, that one party be contented to remain in uncertainty, and depend upon the gratitude of the other for a return of kindness. but so much corruption is there among men, that, generally speaking, this becomes but a slender security; and as the benefactor is here supposed to bestow his favours with a view to self-interest, this both takes off from the obligation, and sets an example to selfishness, which is the true mother of ingratitude. were we, therefore, to follow the natural course of our passions and inclinations, we should perform but few actions for the advantage of others, from distinterested views; because we are naturally very limited in our kindness and affection: and we should perform as few of that kind, out of a regard to interest; because we cannot depend upon their gratitude. here then is the mutual commerce of good offices in a manner lost among mankind, and every one reduced to his own skill and industry for his well-being and subsistence. the invention of the law of nature, concerning the stability of possession, has already rendered men tolerable to each other; that of the transference of property and possession by consent has begun to render them mutually advantageous: but still these laws of nature, however strictly observed, are not sufficient to render them so serviceable to each other, as by nature they are fitted to become. though possession be stable, men may often reap but small advantage from it, while they are possessed of a greater quantity of any species of goods than they have occasion for, and at the same time suffer by the want of others. the transference of property, which is the proper remedy for this inconvenience, cannot remedy it entirely; because it can only take place with regard to such objects as are present and individual, but not to such as are absent or general. one cannot transfer the property of a particular house, twenty leagues distant; because the consent cannot be attended with delivery, which is a requisite circumstance. neither can one transfer the property of ten bushels of corn, or five hogsheads of wine, by the mere expression and consent; because these are only general terms, and have no direct relation to any particular heap of corn, or barrels of wine. besides, the commerce of mankind is not confined to the barter of commodities, but may extend to services and actions, which we may exchange to our mutual interest and advantage. your corn is ripe to-day; mine will be so tomorrow. it is profitable for us both, that i should labour with you to-day, and that you should aid me to-morrow. i have no kindness for you, and know you have as little for me. i will not, therefore, take any pains upon your account; and should i labour with you upon my own account, in expectation of a return, i know i should be disappointed, and that i should in vain depend upon your gratitude. here then i leave you to labour alone: you treat me in the same manner. the seasons change; and both of us lose our harvests for want of mutual confidence and security. all this is the effect of the natural and inherent principles and passions of human nature; and as these passions and principles are inalterable, it may be thought, that our conduct, which depends on them, must be so too, and that it would be in vain, either for moralists or politicians, to tamper with us, or attempt to change the usual course of our actions, with a view to public interest. and indeed, did the success of their designs depend upon their success in correcting the selfishness and ingratitude of men, they would never make any progress, unless aided by omnipotence, which is alone able to new-mould the human mind, and change its character in such fundamental articles. all they can pretend to, is, to give a new direction to those natural passions, and teach us that we can better satisfy our appetites in an oblique and artificial manner, than by their headlong and impetuous motion. hence i learn to do a service to another, without bearing him any real kindness; because i forsee, that he will return my service, in expectation of another of the same kind, and in order to maintain the same correspondence of good offices with me or with others. and accordingly, after i have served him, and he is in possession of the advantage arising from my action, he is induced to perform his part, as foreseeing the consequences of his refusal. but though this self-interested commerce of man begins to take place, and to predominate in society, it does not entirely abolish the more generous and noble intercourse of friendship and good offices. i may still do services to such persons as i love, and am more particularly acquainted with, without any prospect of advantage; and they may make me a return in the same manner, without any view but that of recompensing my past services. in order, therefore, to distinguish those two different sorts of commerce, the interested and the disinterested, there is a certain form of words invented for the former, by which we bind ourselves to the performance of any action. this form of words constitutes what we call a promise, which is the sanction of the interested commerce of mankind. when a man says he promises any thing, he in effect expresses a resolution of performing it; and along with that, by making use of this form of words, subjects himself to the penalty of never being trusted again in case of failure. a resolution is the natural act of the mind, which promises express: but were there no more than a resolution in the case, promises would only declare our former motives, and would not create any new motive or obligation. they are the conventions of men, which create a new motive, when experience has taught us, that human affairs would be conducted much more for mutual advantage, were there certain symbols or signs instituted, by which we might give each, other security of our conduct in any particular incident, after these signs are instituted, whoever uses them is immediately bound by his interest to execute his engagements, and must never expect to be trusted any more, if he refuse to perform what he promised. nor is that knowledge, which is requisite to make mankind sensible of this interest in the institution and observance of promises, to be esteemed superior to the capacity of human nature, however savage and uncultivated. there needs but a very little practice of the world, to make us perceive all these consequences and advantages. the shortest experience of society discovers them to every mortal; and when each individual perceives the same sense of interest in all his fellows, he immediately performs his part of any contract, as being assured, that they will not be wanting in theirs. all of them, by concert, enter into a scheme of actions, calculated for common benefit, and agree to be true to their word; nor is there any thing requisite to form this concert or convention, but that every one have a sense of interest in the faithful fulfilling of engagements, and express that sense to other members of the society. this immediately causes that interest to operate upon them; and interest is the first obligation to the performance of promises. afterwards a sentiment of morals concurs with interest, and becomes a new obligation upon mankind. this sentiment of morality, in the performance of promises, arises from the same principles as that in the abstinence from the property of others. public interest, education, and the artifices of politicians, have the same effect in both cases. the difficulties, that occur to us, in supposing a moral obligation to attend promises, we either surmount or elude. for instance; the expression of a resolution is not commonly supposed to be obligatory; and we cannot readily conceive how the making use of a certain form of words should be able to cause any material difference. here, therefore, we feign a new act of the mind, which we call the willing an obligation; and on this we suppose the morality to depend. but we have proved already, that there is no such act of the mind, and consequently that promises impose no natural obligation. to confirm this, we may subjoin some other reflections concerning that will, which is supposed to enter into a promise, and to cause its obligation. it is evident, that the will alone is never supposed to cause the obligation, but must be expressed by words or signs, in order to impose a tye upon any man. the expression being once brought in as subservient to the will, soon becomes the principal part of the promise; nor will a man be less bound by his word, though he secretly give a different direction to his intention, and with-hold himself both from a resolution, and from willing an obligation. but though the expression makes on most occasions the whole of the promise, yet it does not always so; and one, who should make use of any expression, of which he knows not the meaning, and which he uses without any intention of binding himself, would not certainly be bound by it. nay, though he knows its meaning, yet if he uses it in jest only, and with such signs as shew evidently he has no serious intention of binding himself, he would not lie under any obligation of performance; but it is necessary, that the words be a perfect expression of the will, without any contrary signs. nay, even this we must not carry so far as to imagine, that one, whom, by our quickness of understanding, we conjecture, from certain signs, to have an intention of deceiving us, is not bound by his expression or verbal promise, if we accept of it; but must limit this conclusion to those cases, where the signs are of a different kind from those of deceit. all these contradictions are easily accounted for, if the obligation of promises be merely a human invention for the convenience of society; but will never be explained, if it be something real and natural, arising from any action of the mind or body. i shall farther observe, that since every new promise imposes a new obligation of morality on the person who promises, and since this new obligation arises from his will; it is one of the most mysterious and incomprehensible operations that can possibly be imagined, and may even be compared to transubstantiation, or holy orders [i mean so far, as holy orders are suppos'd to produce the indelible character. in other respects they are only a legal qualification.], where a certain form of words, along with a certain intention, changes entirely the nature of an external object, and even of a human nature. but though these mysteries be so far alike, it is very remarkable, that they differ widely in other particulars, and that this difference may be regarded as a strong proof of the difference of their origins. as the obligation of promises is an invention for the interest of society, it is warped into as many different forms as that interest requires, and even runs into direct contradictions, rather than lose sight of its object. but as those other monstrous doctines are mere priestly inventions, and have no public interest in view, they are less disturbed in their progress by new obstacles; and it must be owned, that, after the first absurdity, they follow more directly the current of reason and good sense. theologians clearly perceived, that the external form of words, being mere sound, require an intention to make them have any efficacy; and that this intention being once considered as a requisite circumstance, its absence must equally prevent the effect, whether avowed or concealed, whether sincere or deceitful. accordingly they have commonly determined, that the intention of the priest makes the sacrament, and that when he secretly withdraws his intention, he is highly criminal in himself; but still destroys the baptism, or communion, or holy orders. the terrible consequences of this doctrine were not able to hinder its taking place; as the inconvenience of a similar doctrine, with regard to promises, have prevented that doctrine from establishing itself. men are always more concerned about the present life than the future; and are apt to think the smallest evil, which regards the former, more important than the greatest, which regards the latter. we may draw the same conclusion, concerning the origin of promises, from the force, which is supposed to invalidate all contracts, and to free us from their obligation. such a principle is a proof, that promises have no natural obligation, and are mere artificial contrivances for the convenience and advantage of society. if we consider aright of the matter, force is not essentially different from any other motive of hope or fear, which may induce us to engage our word, and lay ourselves under any obligation. a man, dangerously wounded, who promises a competent sum to a surgeon to cure him, would certainly be bound to performance; though the case be not so much different from that of one, who promises a sum to a robber, as to produce so great a difference in our sentiments of morality, if these sentiments were not built entirely on public interest and convenience. sect. vi some farther reflections concerning justice and injustice we have now run over the three fundamental laws of nature, that of the stability of possession, of its transference by consent, and of the performance of promises. it is on the strict t observance of those three laws, that the peace and security of human society entirely depend; nor is there any possibility of establishing a good correspondence among men, where these are neglected. society is absolutely necessary for the well-being of men; and these are as necessary to the support of society. whatever restraint they may impose on the passions of men, they are the real offspring of those passions, and are only a more artful and more refined way of satisfying them. nothing is more vigilant and inventive than our passions; and nothing is more obvious, than the convention for the observance of these rules. nature has, therefore, trusted this affair entirely to the conduct of men, and has not placed in the mind any peculiar original principles, to determine us to a set of actions, into which the other principles of our frame and constitution were sufficient to lead us. and to convince us the more fully of this truth, we may here stop a moment, and from a review of the preceding reasonings may draw some new arguments, to prove that those laws, however necessary, are entirely artificial, and of human invention; and consequently that justice is an artificial, and not a natural virtue. ( ) the first argument i shall make use of is derived from the vulgar definition of justice. justice is commonly defined to be a constant and perpetual will of giving every one his due. in this definition it is supposed, that there are such things as right and property, independent of justice, and antecedent to it; and that they would have subsisted, though men had never dreamt of practising such a virtue. i have already observed, in a cursory manner, the fallacy of this opinion, and shall here continue to open up a little more distinctly my sentiments on that subject. i shall begin with observing, that this quality, which we shall call property, is like many of the imaginary qualities of the peripatetic philosophy, and vanishes upon a more accurate inspection into the subject, when considered a-part from our moral sentiments. it is evident property does not consist in any of the sensible qualities of the object. for these may continue invariably the same, while the property changes. property, therefore, must consist in some relation of the object. but it is not in its relation with regard to other external and inanimate objects. for these may also continue invariably the same, while the property changes. this quality, therefore, consists in the relations of objects to intelligent and rational beings. but it is not the external and corporeal relation, which forms the essence of property. for that relation may be the same betwixt inanimate objects, or with regard to brute creatures; though in those cases it forms no property. it is, therefore, in some internal relation, that the property consists; that is, in some influence, which the external relations of the object have on the mind and actions. thus the external relation, which we call occupation or first possession, is not of itself imagined to be the property of the object, but only to cause its property. now it is evident, this external relation causes nothing in external objects, and has only an influence on the mind, by giving us a sense of duty in abstaining from that object, and in restoring it to the first possessor. these actions are properly what we call justice; and consequently it is on that virtue that the nature of property depends, and not the virtue on the property. if any one, therefore, would assert, that justice is a natural virtue, and injustice a natural vice, he must assert, that abstracting from the nations of property, and right and obligation, a certain conduct and train of actions, in certain external relations of objects, has naturally a moral beauty or deformity, and causes an original pleasure or uneasiness. thus the restoring a man's goods to him is considered as virtuous, not because nature has annexed a certain sentiment of pleasure to such a conduct, with regard to the property of others, but because she has annexed that sentiment to such a conduct, with regard to those external objects, of which others have had the first or long possession, or which they have received by the consent of those, who have had first or long possession. if nature has given us no such sentiment, there is not, naturally, nor antecedent to human conventions, any such thing as property. now, though it seems sufficiently evident, in this dry and accurate consideration of the present subject, that nature has annexed no pleasure or sentiment of approbation to such a conduct; yet that i may leave as little room for doubt as possible, i shall subjoin a few more arguments to confirm my opinion. first, if nature had given us a pleasure of this kind, it would have been as evident and discernible as on every other occasion; nor should we have found any difficulty to perceive, that the consideration of such actions, in such a situation, gives a certain pleasure and sentiment of approbation. we should not have been obliged to have recourse to notions of property in the definition of justice, and at the same time make use of the notions of justice in the definition of property. this deceitful method of reasoning is a plain proof, that there are contained in the subject some obscurities and difficulties, which we are not able to surmount, and which we desire to evade by this artifice. secondly, those rules, by which properties, rights, and obligations are determined, have in them no marks of a natural origin but many of artifice and contrivance. they are too numerous to have proceeded from nature: they are changeable by human laws: and have all of them a direct and evident tendency to public good, and the support, of civil society. this last circumstance is remarkable upon two accounts. first, because, though the cause of the establishment of these laws had been a regard for the public good, as much as the public good is their natural tendency, they would still have been artificial, as being purposely contrived and directed to a certain end. secondly, because, if men had been endowed with such a strong regard for public good, they would never have restrained themselves by these rules; so that the laws of justice arise from natural principles in a manner still more oblique and artificial. it is self-love which is their real origin; and as the self-love of one person is naturally contrary to that of another, these several interested passions are obliged to adjust themselves after such a manner as to concur in some system of conduct and behaviour. this system, therefore, comprehending the interest of each individual, is of course advantageous to the public; though it be not intended for that purpose by die inventors. ( ) in the second place we may observe, that all kinds of vice and virtue run insensibly into each other, and may approach by such imperceptible degrees as will make it very difficult, if not absolutely impossible, to determine when the one ends, and the other begins; and from this observation we may derive a new argument for the foregoing principle. for whatever may be the case, with regard to all kinds of vice and virtue, it is certain, that rights, and obligations, and property, admit of no such insensible gradation, but that a man either has a full and perfect property, or none at all; and is either entirely obliged to perform any action, or lies under no manner of obligation. however civil laws may talk of a perfect dominion, and of an imperfect, it is easy to observe, that this arises from a fiction, which has no foundation in reason, and can never enter into our notions of natural justice and equity. a man that hires a horse, though but for a day, has as full a right to make use of it for that time, as he whom we call its proprietor has to make use of it any other day; and it was evident, that however the use may be bounded in time or degree, the right itself is not susceptible of any such gradation, but is absolute and entire, so far as it extends. accordingly we may observe, that this right both arises and perishes in an instant; and that a man entirely acquires the property of any object by occupation, or the consent of the proprietor; and loses it by his own consent; without any of that insensible gradation, which is remarkable in other qualities and relations, since, therefore, this is die case with regard to property, and rights, and obligations, i ask, how it stands with regard to justice and injustice? after whatever manner you answer this question, you run into inextricable difficulties. if you reply, that justice and injustice admit of degree, and run insensibly into each other, you expressly contradict the foregoing position, that obligation and property are not susceptible of such a gradation. these depend entirely upon justice and injustice, and follow them in all their variations. where the justice is entire, the property is also entire: where the justice is imperfect, the property must also be imperfect and vice versa, if the property admit of no such variations, they must also be incompatible with justice. if you assent, therefore, to this last proposition, and assert, that justice and injustice are not susceptible of degrees, you in effect assert, that they are not naturally either vicious or virtuous; since vice and virtue, moral good and evil, and indeed all natural qualities, run insensibly into each other, and are, on many occasions, undistinguishable. and here it may be worth while to observe, that though abstract reasoning, and the general maxims of philosophy and law establish this position, that property, and right, and obligation admit not of degrees, yet in our common and negligent way of thinking, we find great difficulty to entertain that opinion, and do even secretly embrace the contrary principle. an object must either be in the possession of one person or another. an action must either be performed or not the necessity there is of choosing one side in these dilemmas, and the impossibility there often is of finding any just medium, oblige us, when we reflect on the matter, to acknowledge, that all property and obligations are entire. but on the other hand, when we consider the origin of property and obligation, and find that they depend on public utility, and sometimes on the propensities of the imagination, which are seldom entire on any side; we are naturally inclined to imagine, that these moral relations admit of an insensible gradation. hence it is, that in references, where the consent of the parties leave the referees entire masters of the subject, they commonly discover so much equity and justice on both sides, as induces them to strike a medium, and divide the difference betwixt the parties. civil judges, who have not this liberty, but are obliged to give a decisive sentence on some one side, are often at a loss how to determine, and are necessitated to proceed on the most frivolous reasons in the world. half rights and obligations, which seem so natural in common life, are perfect absurdities in their tribunal; for which reason they are often obliged to take half arguments for whole ones, in order to terminate the affair one way or other. ( ) the third argument of this kind i shall make use of may be explained thus. if we consider the ordinary course of human actions, we shall find, that the mind restrains not itself by any general and universal rules; but acts on most occasions as it is determined by its present motives and inclination. as each action is a particular individual event, it must proceed from particular principles, and from our immediate situation within ourselves, and with respect to the rest of the universe. if on some occasions we extend our motives beyond those very circumstances, which gave rise to them, and form something like general rules for our conduct, it is easy to observe, that these rules are not perfectly inflexible, but allow of many exceptions. since, therefore, this is the ordinary course of human actions, we may conclude, that the laws of justice, being universal and perfectly inflexible, can never be derived from nature, nor be the immediate offspring of any natural motive or inclination. no action can be either morally good or evil, unless there be some natural passion or motive to impel us to it, or deter us from it; and it is evident, that die morality must be susceptible of all the same variations, which are natural to the passion. here are two persons, who dispute for an estate; of whom one is rich, a fool, and a batchelor; the other poor, a man of sense, and has a numerous family: the first is my enemy; the second my friend. whether i be actuated in this affair by a view to public or private interest, by friendship or enmity, i must be induced to do my utmost to procure the estate to the latter. nor would any consideration of the right and property of the persons be able to restrain me, were i actuated only by natural motives, without any combination or convention with others. for as all property depends on morality; and as all morality depends on the ordinary course of our passions and actions; and as these again are only directed by particular motives; it is evident, such a partial conduct must be suitable to the strictest morality, and coued never be a violation of property. were men, therefore, to take the liberty of acting with regard to the laws of society, as they do in every other affair, they would conduct themselves, on most occasions, by particular judgments, and would take into consideration the characters and circumstances of the persons, as well as the general nature of the question. but it is easy to observe, that this would produce an infinite confusion in human society, and that the avidity and partiality of men would quickly bring disorder into the world, if not restrained by some general and inflexible principles. twas, therefore, with a view to this inconvenience, that men have established those principles, and have agreed to restrain themselves by general rules, which are unchangeable by spite and favour, and by particular views of private or public interest. these rules, then, are artificially invented for a certain purpose, and are contrary to the common principles of human nature, which accommodate themselves to circumstances, and have no stated invariable method of operation. nor do i perceive how i can easily be mistaken in this matter. i see evidently, that when any man imposes on himself general inflexible rules in his conduct with others, he considers certain objects as their property, which he supposes to be sacred and inviolable. but no proposition can be more evident, than that property is perfectly unintelligible without first supposing justice and injustice; and that these virtues and vices are as unintelligible, unless we have motives, independent of the morality, to impel us to just actions, and deter us from unjust ones. let those motives, therefore, be what they will, they must accommodate themselves to circumstances, and must admit of all the variations, which human affairs, in their incessant revolutions, are susceptible of. they are consequently a very improper foundation for such rigid inflexible rules as the laws of nature; and it is evident these laws can only be derived from human conventions, when men have perceived the disorders that result from following their natural and variable principles. upon the whole, then, we are to consider this distinction betwixt justice and injustice, as having two different foundations, viz, that of interest, when men observe, that it is impossible to live in society without restraining themselves by certain rules; and that of morality, when this interest is once observed and men receive a pleasure from the view of such actions as tend to the peace of society, and an uneasiness from such as are contrary to it. it is the voluntary convention and artifice of men, which makes the first interest take place; and therefore those laws of justice are so far to be considered as artifrial. after that interest is once established and acknowledged, the sense of morality in the observance of these rules follows naturally, and of itself; though it is certain, that it is also augmented by a new artifice, and that the public instructions of politicians, and the private education of parents, contribute to the giving us a sense of honour and duty in the strict regulation of our actions with regard to the properties of others. sect. vii of the origin of government nothing is more certain, than that men are, in a great measure, governed by interest, and that even when they extend their concern beyond themselves, it is not to any great distance; nor is it usual for them, in common life, to look farther than their nearest friends and acquaintance. it is no less certain, that it is impossible for men to consult, their interest in so effectual a manner, as by an universal and inflexible observance of the rules of justice, by which alone they can preserve society, and keep themselves from falling into that wretched and savage condition, which is commonly represented as the state of nature. and as this interest, which all men have in the upholding of society, and the observation of the rules of justice, is great, so is it palpable and evident, even to the most rude and uncultivated of human race; and it is almost impossible for any one, who has had experience of society, to be mistaken in this particular. since, therefore, men are so sincerely attached to their interest, and their interest is so much concerned in the observance of justice, and this interest is so certain and avowed; it may be asked, how any disorder can ever arise in society, and what principle there is in human nature so powerful as to overcome so strong a passion, or so violent as to obscure so clear a knowledge? it has been observed, in treating of the passions, that men are mightily governed by the imagination, and proportion their affections more to the light, under which any object appears to them, than to its real and intrinsic value. what strikes upon them with a strong and lively idea commonly prevails above what lies in a more obscure light; and it must be a great superiority of value, that is able to compensate this advantage. now as every thing, that is contiguous to us, either in space or time, strikes upon us with such an idea, it has a proportional effect on the will and passions, and commonly operates with more force than any object, that lies in a more distant and obscure light. though we may be fully convinced, that the latter object excels the former, we are not able to regulate our actions by this judgment; but yield to the sollicitations of our passions, which always plead in favour of whatever is near and contiguous. this is the reason why men so often act in contradiction to their known interest; and in particular why they prefer any trivial advantage, that is present, to the maintenance of order in society, which so much depends on the observance of justice. the consequences of every breach of equity seem to lie very remote, and are not able to counter-ballance any immediate advantage, that may be reaped from it. they are, however, never the less real for being remote; and as all men are, in some degree, subject to the same weakness, it necessarily happens, that the violations of equity must become very frequent in society, and the commerce of men, by that means, be rendered very dangerous and uncertain. you have the same propension, that i have, in favour of what is contiguous above what is remote. you are, therefore, naturally carried to commit acts of injustice as well as me. your example both pushes me forward in this way by imitation, and also affords me a new reason for any breach of equity, by shewing me, that i should be the cully of my integrity, if i alone should impose on myself a severe restraint amidst the licentiousness of others. this quality, therefore, of human nature, not only is very dangerous to society, but also seems, on a cursory view, to be incapable of any remedy. the remedy can only come from the consent of men; and if men be incapable of themselves to prefer remote to contiguous, they will never consent to any thing, which would oblige them to such a choice, and contradict, in so sensible a manner, their natural principles and propensities. whoever chuses the means, chuses also the end; and if it be impossible for us to prefer what is remote, it is equally impossible for us to submit to any necessity, which would oblige us to such a method of acting. but here it is observable, that this infirmity of human nature becomes a remedy to itself, and that we provide against our negligence about remote objects, merely because we are naturally inclined to that negligence. when we consider any objects at a distance, all their minute distinctions vanish, and we always give the preference to whatever is in itself preferable, without considering its situation and circumstances. this gives rise to what in an improper sense we call reason, which is a principle, that is often contradictory to those propensities that display themselves upon the approach of the object. in reflecting on any action, which i am to perform a twelve-month hence, i always resolve to prefer the greater good, whether at that time it will be more contiguous or remote; nor does any difference in that particular make a difference in my present intentions and resolutions. my distance from the final determination makes all those minute differences vanish, nor am i affected by any thing, but the general and more discernible qualities of good and evil. but on my nearer approach, those circumstances, which i at first over-looked, begin to appear, and have an influence on my conduct and affections. a new inclination to the present good springs up, and makes it difficult for me to adhere inflexibly to my first purpose and resolution. this natural infirmity i may very much regret, and i may endeavour, by all possible means, to free my self from it. i may have recourse to study and reflection within myself; to the advice of friends; to frequent meditation, and repeated resolution: and having experienced how ineffectual all these are, i may embrace with pleasure any other expedient, by which i may impose a restraint upon myself, and guard against this weakness. the only difficulty, therefore, is to find out this expedient, by which men cure their natural weakness, and lay themselves under the necessity of observing the laws of justice and equity, notwithstanding their violent propension to prefer contiguous to remote. it is evident such a remedy can never be effectual without correcting this propensity; and as it is impossible to change or correct any thing material in our nature, the utmost we can do is to change our circumstances and situation, and render the observance of the laws of justice our nearest interest, and their violation our most remote. but this being impracticable with respect to all mankind, it can only take place with respect to a few, whom we thus immediately interest in the execution of justice. there are the persons, whom we call civil magistrates, kings and their ministers, our governors and rulers, who being indifferent persons to the greatest part of the state, have no interest, or but a remote one, in any act of injustice; and being satisfied with their present condition, and with their part in society, have an immediate interest in every execution of justice, which is so necessary to the upholding of society. here then is the origin of civil government and society. men are not able radically to cure, either in themselves or others, that narrowness of soul, which makes them prefer the present to the remote. they cannot change their natures. all they can do is to change their situation, and render the observance of justice the immediate interest of some particular persons, and its violation their more remote. these persons, then, are not only induced to observe those rules in their own conduct, but also to constrain others to a like regularity, and inforce the dictates of equity through the whole society. and if it be necessary, they may also interest others more immediately in the execution of justice, and create a number of officers, civil and military, to assist them in their government. but this execution of justice, though the principal, is not the only advantage of government. as violent passion hinder men from seeing distinctly the interest they have in an equitable behaviour towards others; so it hinders them from seeing that equity itself, and gives them a remarkable partiality in their own favours. this inconvenience is corrected in the same manner as that above-mentioned. the same persons, who execute the laws of justice, will also decide all controversies concerning them; and being indifferent to the greatest part of the society, will decide them more equitably than every one would in his own case. by means of these two advantages, in the execution and decision of justice, men acquire a security against each others weakness and passion, as well as against their own, and under the shelter of their governors, begin to taste at ease the sweets of society and mutual assistance. but government extends farther its beneficial influence; and not contented to protect men in those conventions they make for their mutual interest, it often obliges them to make such conventions, and forces them to seek their own advantage, by a concurrence in some common end or purpose. there is no quality in human nature, which causes more fatal errors in our conduct, than that which leads us to prefer whatever is present to the distant and remote, and makes us desire objects more according to their situation than their intrinsic value. two neighbours may agree to drain a meadow, which they possess in common; because it is easy for them to know each others mind; and each must perceive, that the immediate consequence of his failing in his part, is, the abandoning the whole project. but it is very difficult, and indeed impossible, that a thousand persons should agree in any such action; it being difficult for them to concert so complicated a design, and still more difficult for them to execute it; while each seeks a pretext to free himself of the trouble and expence, and would lay the whole burden on others. political society easily remedies both these inconveniences. magistrates find an immediate interest in the interest of any considerable part of their subjects. they need consult no body but themselves to form any scheme for the promoting of that interest. and as the failure of any one piece in the execution is connected, though not immediately, with the failure of the whole, they prevent that failure, because they find no interest in it, either immediate or remote. thus bridges are built; harbours opened; ramparts raised; canals formed; fleets equiped; and armies disciplined every where, by the care of government, which, though composed of men subject to all human infirmities, becomes, by one of the finest and most subtle inventions imaginable, a composition, which is, in some measure, exempted from all these infirmities. sect. viii of the source of allegiance though government be an invention very advantageous, and even in some circumstances absolutely necessary to mankind; it is not necessary in all circumstances, nor is it impossible for men to preserve society for some time, without having recourse to such an invention. men, it is true, are always much inclined to prefer present interest to distant and remote; nor is it easy for them to resist the temptation of any advantage, that they may immediately enjoy, in apprehension of an evil that lies at a distance from them: but still this weakness is less conspicuous where the possessions, and the pleasures of life are few, and of little value, as they always are in the infancy of society. an indian is but little tempted to dispossess another of his hut, or to steal his bow, as being already provided of the same advantages; and as to any superior fortune, which may attend one above another in hunting and fishing, it is only casual and temporary, and will have but small tendency to disturb society. and so far am i from thinking with some philosophers, that men are utterly incapable of society without government, that i assert the first rudiments of government to arise from quarrels, not among men of the same society, but among those of different societies. a less degree of riches will suffice to this latter effect, than is requisite for the former. men fear nothing from public war and violence but the resistance they meet with, which, because they share it in common, seems less terrible; and because it comes from strangers, seems less pernicious in its consequences, than when they are exposed singly against one whose commerce is advantageous to them, and without whose society it is impossible they can subsist. now foreign war to a society without government necessarily produces civil war. throw any considerable goods among men, they instantly fall a quarrelling, while each strives to get possession of what pleases him, without regard to the consequences. in a foreign war the most considerable of all goods, life and limbs, are at stake; and as every one shuns dangerous ports, seizes the best arms, seeks excuse for the slightest wounds, the laws, which may be well enough observed while men were calm, can now no longer take place, when they are in such commotion. this we find verified in the american tribes, where men live in concord and amity among themselves without any established government and never pay submission to any of their fellows, except in time of war, when their captain enjoys a shadow of authority, which he loses after their return from the field, and the establishment of peace with the neighbouring tribes. this authority, however, instructs them in the advantages of government, and teaches them to have recourse to it, when either by the pillage of war, by commerce, or by any fortuitous inventions, their riches and possessions have become so considerable as to make them forget, on every emergence, the interest they have in the preservation of peace and justice. hence we may give a plausible reason, among others, why all governments are at first monarchical, without any mixture and variety; and why republics arise only from the abuses of monarchy and despotic power. camps are the true mothers of cities; and as war cannot be administered, by reason of the suddenness of every exigency, without some authority in a single person, the same kind of authority naturally takes place in that civil government, which succeeds the military. and this reason i take to be more natural, than the common one derived from patriarchal government, or the authority of a father, which is said first to take place in one family, and to accustom the members of it to the government of a single person. the state of society without government is one of the most natural states of men, and must submit with the conjunction of many families, and long after the first generation. nothing but an encrease of riches and possessions coued oblige men to quit it; and so barbarous and uninstructed are all societies on their first formation, that many years must elapse before these can encrease to such a degree, as to disturb men in the enjoyment of peace and concord. but though it be possible for men to maintain a small uncultivated society without government, it is impossible they should maintain a society of any kind without justice, and the observance of those three fundamental laws concerning the stability of possession, its translation by consent, and the performance of promises. these are, therefore, antecedent to government, and are supposed to impose an obligation before the duty of allegiance to civil magistrates has once been thought of. nay, i shall go farther, and assert, that government, upon its first establishment, would naturally be supposed. to derive its obligation from those laws of nature, and, in particular, from that concerning the performance of promises. when men have once perceived the necessity of government to maintain peace, and execute justice, they would naturally assemble together, would chuse magistrates, determine power, and promise them obedience. as a promise is supposed to be a bond or security already in use, and attended with a moral obligation, it is to be considered as the original sanction of government, and as the source of the first obligation to obedience. this reasoning appears so natural, that it has become the foundation of our fashionable system of politics, and is in a manner the creed of a party amongst us, who pride themselves, with reason, on the soundness of their philosophy, and their liberty of thought. all men, say they, are born free and equal: government and superiority can only be established by consent: the consent of men, in establishing government, imposes on them a new obligation, unknown to the laws of nature. men, therefore, are bound to obey their magistrates, only because they promise it; and if they had not given their word, either expressly or tacitly, to preserve allegiance, it would never have become a part of their moral duty. this conclusion, however, when carried so far as to comprehend government in all its ages and situations, is entirely erroneous; and i maintain, that though the duty of allegiance be at first grafted on the obligation of promises, and be for some time supported by that obligation, yet it quickly takes root of itself, and has an original obligation and authority, independent of all contracts. this is a principle of moment, which we must examine with care and attention, before we proceed any farther. it is reasonable for those philosophers, who assert justice to be a natural virtue, and antecedent to human conventions, to resolve all civil allegiance into the obligation of a promise, and assert that it is our own consent alone, which binds us to any submission to magistracy. for as all government is plainly an invention of men, and the origin of most governments is known in history, it is necessary to mount higher, in order to find the source of our political duties, if we would assert them to have any natural obligation of morality. these philosophers, therefore, quickly observe, that society is as antient as the human species, and those three fundamental laws of nature as antient as society: so that taking advantage of the antiquity, and obscure origin of these laws, they first deny them to be artificial and voluntary inventions of men, and then seek to ingraft on them those other duties, which are more plainly artificial. but being once undeceived in this particular, and having found that natural, as well as civil justice, derives its origin from human conventions, we shall quickly perceive, how fruitless it is to resolve the one into the other, and seek, in the laws of nature, a stronger foundation for our political duties than interest, and human conventions; while these laws themselves are built on the very same foundation. on which ever side we turn this subject, we shall find, that these two kinds of duty are exactly on the same footing, and have the same source both of their first invention and moral obligation. they are contrived to remedy like inconveniences, and acquire their moral sanction in the same manner, from their remedying those inconveniences. these are two points, which we shall endeavour to prove as distinctly as possible. we have already shewn, that men invented the three fundamental laws of nature, when they observed the necessity of society to their mutual subsistance, and found, that it was impossible to maintain any correspondence together, without some restraint on their natural appetites. the same self-love, therefore, which renders men so incommodious to each other, taking a new and more convenient direction, produces the rules of justice, and is the first motive of their observance. but when men have observed, that though the rules of justice be sufficient to maintain any society, yet it is impossible for them, of themselves, to observe those rules, in large and polished societies; they establish government, as a new invention to attain their ends, and preserve the old, or procure new advantages, by a more strict execution of justice. so far, therefore, our civil duties are connected with our natural, that the former are invented chiefly for the sake of the latter; and that the principal object of government is to constrain men to observe the laws of nature. in this respect, however, that law of nature, concerning the performance of promises, is only comprized along with the rest; and its exact observance is to be considered as an effect of the institution of government, and not the obedience to government as an effect of the obligation of a promise. though the object of our civil duties be the enforcing of our natural, yet the first [first in time, not in dignity or force.] motive of the invention, as well as performance of both, is nothing but self-interest: and since there is a separate interest in the obedience to government, from that in the performance of promises, we must also allow of a separate obligation. to obey the civil magistrate is requisite to preserve order and concord in society. to perform promises is requisite to beget mutual trust and confidence in the common offices of life. the ends, as well as the means, are perfectly distinct; nor is the one subordinate to the other. to make this more evident, let us consider, that men will often bind themselves by promises to the performance of what it would have been their interest to perform, independent of these promises; as when they would give others a fuller security, by super-adding a new obligation of interest to that which they formerly lay under. the interest in the performance of promises, besides its moral obligation, is general, avowed, and of the last consequence in life. other interests may be more particular and doubtful; and we are apt to entertain a greater suspicion, that men may indulge their humour, or passion, in acting contrary to them. here, therefore, promises come naturally in play, and are often required for fuller satisfaction and security. but supposing those other interests to be as general and avowed as the interest in the performance of a promise, they will be regarded as on the same footing, and men will begin to repose the same confidence in them. now this is exactly the case with regard to our civil duties, or obedience to the magistrate; without which no government coued subsist, nor any peace or order be maintained in large societies, where there are so many possessions on the one hand, and so many wants, real or imaginary, on the other. our civil duties, therefore, must soon detach themselves from our promises, and acquire a separate force and influence. the interest in both is of the very same kind: it is general, avowed, and prevails in all times and places. there is, then, no pretext of reason for founding the one upon the other; while each of them has a foundation peculiar to itself. we might as well resolve the obligation to abstain from the possessions of others, into the obligation of a promise, as that of allegiance. the interests are not more distinct in the one case than the other. a regard to property is not more necessary to natural society, than obedience is to civil society or government; nor is the former society more necessary to the being of mankind, than the latter to their well-being and happiness. in short, if the performance of promises be advantageous, so is obedience to government: if the former interest be general, so is the latter: if the one interest be obvious and avowed, so is the other. and as these two rules are founded on like obligations of interest, each of them must have a peculiar authority, independent of the other. but it is not only the natural obligations of interest, which are distinct in promises and allegiance; but also the moral obligations of honour and conscience: nor does the merit or demerit of the one depend in the least upon that of the other. and indeed, if we consider the close connexion there is betwixt the natural and moral obligations, we shall find this conclusion to be entirely unavoidable. our interest is always engaged on the side of obedience to magistracy; and there is nothing but a great present advantage, that can lead us to rebellion, by making us over-look the remote interest, which we have in the preserving of peace and order in society. but though a present interest may thus blind us with regard to our own actions, it takes not place with regard to those of others; nor hinders them from appearing in their true colours, as highly prejudicial to public interest, and to our own in particular. this naturally gives us an uneasiness, in considering such seditious and disloyal actions, and makes us attach to them the idea of vice and moral deformity. it is the same principle, which causes us to disapprove of all kinds of private injustice, and in particular of the breach of promises. we blame all treachery and breach of faith; because we consider, that the freedom and extent of human commerce depend entirely on a fidelity with regard to promises. we blame all disloyalty to magistrates; because we perceive, that the execution of justice, in the stability of possession, its translation by consent, and the performance of promises, is impossible, without submission to government. as there are here two interests entirely distinct from each other, they must give rise to two moral obligations, equally separate and independent. though there was no such thing as a promise in the world, government would still be necessary in all large and civilized societies; and if promises had only their own proper obligation, without the separate sanction of government, they would have but little efficacy in such societies. this separates the boundaries of our public and private duties, and shews that the latter are more dependant on the former, than the former on the latter. education, and the artifice of politicians, concur to bestow a farther morality on loyalty, and to brand all rebellion with a greater degree of guilt and infamy. nor is it a wonder, that politicians should be very industrious in inculcating such notions, where their interest is so particularly concerned. lest those arguments should not appear entirely conclusive (as i think they are) i shall have recourse to authority, and shall prove, from the universal consent of mankind, that the obligation of submission to government is not derived from any promise of the subjects. nor need any one wonder, that though i have all along endeavoured to establish my system on pure reason, and have scarce ever cited the judgment even of philosophers or historians on any article, i should now appeal to popular authority, and oppose the sentiments of the rabble to any philosophical reasoning. for it must be observed, that the opinions of men, in this case, carry with them a peculiar authority, and are, in a great measure, infallible. the distinction of moral good and evil is founded on the pleasure or pain, which results from the view of any sentiment, or character; and as that pleasure or pain cannot be unknown to the person who feels it, it follows [footnote ], that there is just so much vice or virtue in any character, as every one places in it, and that it is impossible in this particular we can ever be mistaken. and though our judgments concerning the origin of any vice or virtue, be not so certain as those concerning their degrees; yet, since the question in this case regards not any philosophical origin of an obligation, but a plain matter of fact, it is not easily conceived how we can fall into an error. a man, who acknowledges himself to be bound to another, for a certain sum, must certainly know whether it be by his own bond, or that of his father; whether it be of his mere good-will, or for money lent him; and under what conditions, and for what purposes he has bound himself. in like manner, it being certain, that there is a moral obligation to submit to government, because every one thinks so; it must be as certain, that this obligation arises not from a promise; since no one, whose judgment has not been led astray by too strict adherence to a system of philosophy, has ever yet dreamt of ascribing it to that origin. neither magistrates nor subjects have formed this idea of our civil duties. [footnote this proposition must hold strictly true, with regard to every quality, that is determin'd merely by sentiment. in what sense we can talk either of a right or a wrong taste in morals, eloquence, or beauty, shall be considerd afterwards. in the mean time, it may be observ'd, that there is such an uniformity in the general sentiments of mankind, as to render such questions of but small importance.] we find, that magistrates are so far from deriving their authority, and the obligation to obedience in their subjects, from the foundation of a promise or original contract, that they conceal, as far as possible, from their people, especially from the vulgar, that they have their origin from thence. were this the sanction of government, our rulers would never receive it tacitly, which is the utmost that can be pretended; since what is given tacitly and insensibly can never have such influence on mankind, as what is performed expressly and openly. a tacit promise is, where the will is signified by other more diffuse signs than those of speech; but a will there must certainly be in the case, and that can never escape the person's notice, who exerted it, however silent or tacit. but were you to ask the far greatest part of the nation, whether they had ever consented to the authority of their rulers, or promised to obey them, they would be inclined to think very strangely of you; and would certainly reply, that the affair depended not on their consent, but that they were born to such an obedience. in consequence of this opinion, we frequently see them imagine such persons to be their natural rulers, as are at that time deprived of all power and authority, and whom no man, however foolish, would voluntarily chuse; and this merely because they are in that line, which ruled before, and in that degree of it, which used to succeed; though perhaps in so distant a period, that scarce any man alive coued ever have given any promise of obedience. has a government, then, no authority over such as these, because they never consented to it, and would esteem the very attempt of such a free choice a piece of arrogance and impiety? we find by experience, that it punishes them very freely for what it calls treason and rebellion, which, it seems, according to this system, reduces itself to common injustice. if you say, that by dwelling in its dominions, they in effect consented to the established government; i answer, that this can only be, where they think the affair depends on their choice, which few or none, beside those philosophers, have ever yet imagined. it never was pleaded as an excuse for a rebel, that the first act he perform d, after he came to years of discretion, was to levy war against the sovereign of the state; and that while he was a child he coued not bind himself by his own consent, and having become a man, showed plainly, by the first act he performed, that he had no design to impose on himself any obligation to obedience. we find, on the contrary, that civil laws punish this crime at the same age as any other, which is criminal, of itself, without our consent; that is, when the person is come to the full use of reason: whereas to this crime they ought in justice to allow some intermediate time, in which a tacit consent at least might be supposed. to which we may add, that a man living under an absolute government, would owe it no allegiance; since, by its very nature, it depends not on consent. but as that is as natural and common a government as any, it must certainly occasion some obligation; and it is plain from experience, that men, who are subjected to it, do always think so. this is a clear proof, that we do not commonly esteem our allegiance to be derived from our consent or promise; and a farther proof is, that when our promise is upon any account expressly engaged, we always distinguish exactly betwixt the two obligations, and believe the one to add more force to the other, than in a repetition of the same promise. where no promise is given, a man looks not on his faith as broken in private matters, upon account of rebellion; but keeps those two duties of honour and allegiance perfectly distinct and separate. as the uniting of them was thought by these philosophers a very subtile invention, this is a convincing proof, that it is not a true one; since no man can either give a promise, or be restrained by its sanction and obligation unknown to himself. sect. ix of the measures of allegiance those political writers, who have had recourse to a promise, or original contract, as the source of our allegiance to government, intended to establish a principle, which is perfectly just and reasonable; though the reasoning, upon which they endeavoured to establish it, was fallacious and sophistical. they would prove, that our submission to government admits of exceptions, and that an egregious tyranny in the rulers is sufficient to free the subjects from all ties of allegiance. since men enter into society, say they, and submit themselves to government, by their free and voluntary consent, they must have in view certain advantages, which they propose to reap from it, and for which they are contented to resign their native liberty. there is, therefore, something mutual engaged on the part of the magistrate, viz, protection and security; and it is only by the hopes he affords of these advantages, that he can ever persuade men to submit to him. but when instead of protection and security, they meet with tyranny and oppression, they are freeed from their promises, (as happens in all conditional contracts) and return to that state of liberty, which preceded the institution of government. men would never be so foolish as to enter into such engagements as should turn entirely to the advantage of others, without any view of bettering their own condition. whoever proposes to draw any profit from our submission, must engage himself, either expressly or tacitly, to make us reap some advantage from his authority; nor ought he to expect, that without the performance of his part we will ever continue in obedience. i repeat it: this conclusion is just, though the principles be erroneous; and i flatter myself, that i can establish the same conclusion on more reasonable principles. i shall not take such a compass, in establishing our political duties, as to assert, that men perceive the advantages of government; that they institute government with a view to those advantages; that this institution requires a promise of obedience; which imposes a moral obligation to a certain degree, but being conditional, ceases to be binding, whenever the other contracting party performs not his part of the engagement. i perceive, that a promise itself arises entirely from human conventions, and is invented with a view to a certain interest. i seek, therefore, some such interest more immediately connected with government, and which may be at once the original motive to its institution, and the source of our obedience to it. this interest i find to consist in the security and protection, which we enjoy in political society, and which we can never attain, when perfectly free and independent. as interest, therefore, is the immediate sanction of government, the one can have no longer being than the other; and whenever the civil magistrate carries his oppression so far as to render his authority perfectly intolerable, we are no longer bound to submit to it. the cause ceases; the effect must cease also. so far the conclusion is immediate and direct, concerning the natural obligation which we have to allegiance. as to the moral obligation, we may observe, that the maxim would here be false, that when the cause ceases, the effect must cease also. for there is a principle of human nature, which we have frequently taken notice of, that men are mightily addicted to general rules, and that we often carry our maxims beyond those reasons, which first induced us to establish them. where cases are similar in many circumstances, we are apt to put them on the same footing, without considering, that they differ in the most material circumstances, and that the resemblance is more apparent than real. it may, therefore, be thought, that in the case of allegiance our moral obligation of duty will not cease, even though the natural obligation of interest, which is its cause, has ceased; and that men may be bound by conscience to submit to a tyrannical government against their own and the public interest. and indeed, to the force of this argument i so far submit, as to acknowledge, that general rules commonly extend beyond the principles, on which they are founded; and that we seldom make any exception to them, unless that exception have the qualities of a general rule, and be founded on very numerous and common instances. now this i assert to be entirely the present case. when men submit to the authority of others, it is to procure themselves some security against the wickedness and injustice of men, who are perpetually carried, by their unruly passions, and by their present and immediate interest, to the violation of all the laws of society. but as this imperfection is inherent in human nature, we know that it must attend men in all their states and conditions; and that these, whom we chuse for rulers, do not immediately become of a superior nature to the rest of mankind, upon account of their superior power and authority. what we expect from them depends not on a change of their nature but of their situation, when they acquire a more immediate interest in the preservation of order and the execution of justice. but besides that this interest is only more immediate in the execution of justice among their subjects; besides this, i say, we may often expect, from the irregularity of human nature, that they will neglect even this immediate interest, and be transported by their passions into all the excesses of cruelty and ambition.. our general knowledge of human nature, our observation of the past history of mankind, our experience of present times; all these causes must induce us to open the door to exceptions, and must make us conclude, that we may resist the more violent effects of supreme power, without any crime or injustice. accordingly we may observe, that this is both the general practice and principle of mankind, and that no nation, that coued find any remedy, ever yet suffered the cruel ravages of a tyrant, or were blamed for their resistance. those who took up arms against dionysius or nero, or philip the second, have the favour of every reader in the perusal of their history: and nothing but the most violent perversion of common sense can ever lead us to condemn them. it is certain, therefore, that in all our notions of morals we never entertain such an absurdity as that of passive obedience, but make allowances for resistance in the more flagrant instances of tyranny and oppression. the general opinion of mankind has some authority in all cases; but in this of morals it is perfectly infallible. nor is it less infallible, because men cannot distinctly explain the principles, on which it is founded. few persons can carry on this train of reasoning: government is a mere human invention for the interest of society. where the tyranny of the governor removes this interest, it also removes the natural obligation to obedience. the moral obligation is founded on the natural, and therefore must cease where that ceases; especially where the subject is such as makes us foresee very many occasions wherein the natural obligation may cease, and causes us to form a kind of general rule for the regulation of our conduct in such occurrences. but though this train of reasoning be too subtile for the vulgar, it is certain, that all men have an implicit notion of it, and are sensible, that they owe obedience to government merely on account of the public interest; and at the same time, that human nature is so subject to frailties and passions, as may easily pervert this institution, and change their governors into tyrants and public enemies. if the sense of common interest were not our original motive to obedience, i would fain ask, what other principle is there in human nature capable of subduing the natural ambition of men, and forcing them to such a submission? imitation and custom are not sufficient. for the question still recurs, what motive first produces those instances of submission, which we imitate, and that train of actions, which produces the custom? there evidently is no other principle than public interest; and if interest first produces obedience to government, the obligation to obedience must cease, whenever the interest ceases, in any great degree, and in a considerable number of instances. sect. x of the objects of allegiance but though, on some occasions, it may be justifiable, both in sound politics and morality, to resist supreme power, it is certain, that in the ordinary course of human affairs nothing can be more pernicious and criminal; and that besides the convulsions, which always attend revolutions, such a practice tends directly to the subversion of all government, and the causing an universal anarchy and confusion among mankind. as numerous and civilized societies cannot subsist without government, so government is entirely useless without an exact obedience. we ought always to weigh the advantages, which we reap from authority, against the disadvantages; and by this means we shall become more scrupulous of putting in practice the doctrine of resistance. the common rule requires submission; and it is only in cases of grievous tyranny and oppression, that the exception can take place. since then such a blind submission is commonly due to magistracy, the next question is, to whom it is due, and whom we are to regard as our lawful magistrates? in order to answer this question, let us recollect what we have already established concerning the origin of government and political society. when men have once experienced the impossibility of preserving any steady order in society, while every one is his own master, and violates or observes the laws of society, according to his present interest or pleasure, they naturally run into the invention of government, and put it out of their own power, as far as possible, to transgress the laws of society. government, therefore, arises from the same voluntary conversation of men; and it is evident, that the same convention, which establishes government, will also determine the persons who are to govern, and will remove all doubt and ambiguity in this particular. and the voluntary consent of men must here have the greater efficacy, that the authority of the magistrate does at first stand upon the foundation of a promise of the subjects, by which they bind themselves to obedience; as in every other contract or engagement. the same promise, then, which binds them to obedience, ties them down to a particular person, and makes him the object of their allegiance. but when government has been established on this footing for some considerable time, and the separate interest, which we have in submission, has produced a separate sentiment of morality, the case is entirely altered, and a promise is no longer able to determine the particular magistrate since it is no longer considered as the foundation of government. we naturally suppose ourselves born to submission; and imagine, that such particular persons have a right to command, as we on our part are bound to obey. these notions of right and obligation are derived from nothing but the advantage we reap from government, which gives us a repugnance to practise resistance ourselves, and makes us displeased with any instance of it in others. but here it is remarkable, that in this new state of affairs, the original sanction of government, which is interest, is not admitted to determine the persons, whom we are to obey, as the original sanction did at first, when affairs were on the footing of a promise. a promise fixes and determines the persons, without any uncertainty: but it is evident, that if men were to regulate their conduct in this particular, by the view of a peculiar interest, either public or private, they would involve themselves in endless confusion, and would render all government, in a great measure, ineffectual. the private interest of every one is different; and though the public interest in itself be always one and the same, yet it becomes the source of as great dissentions, by reason of the different opinions of particular persons concerning it. the same interest, therefore, which causes us to submit to magistracy, makes us renounce itself in the choice of our magistrates, and binds us down to a certain form of government, and to particular persons, without allowing us to aspire to the utmost perfection in either. the case is here the same as in that law of nature concerning the stability of possession. it is highly advantageous, and even absolutely necessary to society, that possession should be stable; and this leads us to the establishment of such a rule: but we find, that were we to follow the same advantage, in assigning particular possessions to particular persons, we should disappoint our end, and perpetuate the confusion, which that rule is intended to prevent. we must, therefore, proceed by general rules, and regulate ourselves by general interests, in modifying the law of nature concerning the stability of possession. nor need we fear, that our attachment to this law will diminish upon account of the seeming frivolousness of those interests, by which it is determined. the impulse of the mind is derived from a very strong interest; and those other more minute interests serve only to direct the motion, without adding any thing to it, or diminishing from it. it is the same case with government. nothing is more advantageous to society than such an invention; and this interest is sufficient to make us embrace it with ardour and alacrity; though we are obliged afterwards to regulate and direct our devotion to government by several considerations, which are not of the same importance, and to chuse our magistrates without having in view any particular advantage from the choice. the first of those principles i shall take notice of, as a foundation of the right of magistracy, is that which gives authority to all the most established governments of the world without exception: i mean, long possession in any one form of government, or succession of princes. it is certain, that if we remount to the first origin of every nation, we shall find, that there scarce is any race of kings, or form of a commonwealth, that is not primarily founded on usurpation and rebellion, and whose title is not at first worse than doubtful and uncertain. time alone gives solidity to their right; and operating gradually on the minds of men, reconciles them to any authority, and makes it seem just and reasonable. nothing causes any sentiment to have a greater influence upon us than custom, or turns our imagination more strongly to any object. when we have been long accustomed to obey any set of men, that general instinct or tendency, which we have to suppose a moral obligation attending loyalty, takes easily this direction, and chuses that set of men for its objects. it is interest which gives the general instinct; but it is custom which gives the particular direction. and here it is observable, that the same length of time has a different influence on our sentiments of morality, according to its different influence on the mind. we naturally judge of every thing by comparison; and since in considering the fate of kingdoms and republics, we embrace a long extent of time, a small duration has not in this case a like influence on our sentiments, as when we consider any other object. one thinks he acquires a right to a horse, or a suit of cloaths, in a very short time; but a century is scarce sufficient to establish any new government, or remove all scruples in the minds of the subjects concerning it. add to this, that a shorter period of time will suffice to give a prince a title to any additional power he may usurp, than will serve to fix his right, where the whole is an usurpation. the kings of france have not been possessed of absolute power for above two reigns; and yet nothing will appear more extravagant to frenchmen than to talk of their liberties. if we consider what has been said concerning accession, we shall easily account for this phaenomenon. when there is no form of government established by long possession, the present possession is sufficient to supply its place, and may be regarded as the second source of all public authority. right to authority is nothing but the constant possession of authority, maintained by the laws of society and the interests of mankind; and nothing can be more natural than to join this constant possession to the present one, according to the principles above-mentioned. if the same principles did not take place with regard to the property of private persons, it was because these principles were counter-ballanced by very strong considerations of interest; when we observed, that all restitution would by that means be prevented, and every violence be authorized and protected. and though the same motives may seem to have force, with regard to public authority, yet they are opposed by a contrary interest; which consists in the preservation of peace, and the avoiding of all changes, which, however they may be easily produced in private affairs, are unavoidably attended with bloodshed and confusion, where the public is interested. any one, who finding the impossibility of accounting for the right of the present possessor, by any received system of ethics, should resolve to deny absolutely that right, and assert, that it is not authorized by morality, would be justly thought to maintain a very extravagant paradox, and to shock the common sense and judgment of mankind. no maxim is more conformable, both to prudence and morals, than to submit quietly to the government, which we find established in the country where we happen to live, without enquiring too curiously into its origin and first establishment. few governments will bear being examined so rigorously. how many kingdoms are there at present in the world, and how many more do we find in history, whose governors have no better foundation for their authority than that of present possession? to confine ourselves to the roman and grecian empire; is it not evident, that the long succession of emperors, from the dissolution of the roman liberty, to the final extinction of that empire by the turks, coued not so much as pretend to any other title to the empire? the election of the senate was a mere form, which always followed the choice of the legions; and these were almost always divided in the different provinces, and nothing but the sword was able to terminate the difference. it was by the sword, therefore, that every emperor acquired, as well as defended his right; and we must either say, that all the known world, for so many ages, had no government, and owed no allegiance to any one, or must allow, that the right of the stronger, in public affairs, is to be received as legitimate, and authorized by morality, when not opposed by any other title. the right of conquest may be considered as a third source of the title of sovereigns. this right resembles very much that of present possession; but has rather a superior force, being seconded by the notions of glory and honour, which we ascribe to conquerors, instead of the sentiments of hatred and detestation, which attend usurpers. men naturally favour those they love; and therefore are more apt to ascribe a right to successful violence, betwixt one sovereign and another, than to the successful rebellion of a subject against his sovereign. [footnote it is not here asserted, that present possession or conquest are sufficient to give a title against long possession and positive laws but only that they have some force, and will be able to call the ballance where the titles are otherwise equal, and will even be sufficient sometimes to sanctify the weaker title. what degree of force they have is difficult to determine. i believe all moderate men will allow, that they have great force in all disputes concerning the rights of princes.] when neither long possession, nor present possession, nor conquest take place, as when the first sovereign, who founded any monarchy, dies; in that case, the right of succession naturally prevails in their stead, and men are commonly induced to place the son of their late monarch on the throne, and suppose him to inherit his father's authority. the presumed consent of the father, the imitation of the succession to private families, the interest, which the state has in chusing the person, who is most powerful, and has the most numerous followers; all these reasons lead men to prefer the son of their late monarch to any other person. [footnote to prevent mistakes i must observe, that this case of succession is not the same with that of hereditary monarchies, where custom has fix'd the right of succession. these depend upon the principle of long possession above explain'd.] these reasons have some weight; but i am persuaded, that to one, who considers impartially of the matter, it will appear, that there concur some principles of the imagination, along with those views of interest. the royal authority seems to be connected with the young prince even in his father's life-time, by the natural transition of the thought; and still more after his death: so that nothing is more natural than to compleat this union by a new relation, and by putting him actually in possession of what seems so naturally to belong to him. to confirm this we may weigh the following phaenomena, which are pretty curious in their kind. in elective monarchies the right of succession has no place by the laws and settled custom; and yet its influence is so natural, that it is impossible entirely to exclude it from the imagination, and render the subjects indifferent to the son of their deceased monarch. hence in some governments of this kind, the choice commonly falls on one or other of the royal family; and in some governments they are all excluded. those contrary phaenomena proceed from the same principle. where the royal family is excluded, it is from a refinement in politics, which makes people sensible of their propensity to chuse a sovereign in that family, and gives them a jealousy of their liberty, lest their new monarch, aided by this propensity, should establish his family, and destroy the freedom of elections for the future. the history of artaxerxes, and the younger cyrus, may furnish us with some reflections to the same purpose. cyrus pretended a right to the throne above his elder brother, because he was born after his father's accession. i do not pretend, that this reason was valid. i would only infer from it, that he would never have made use of such a pretext, were it not for the qualities of the imagination above-mentioned, by which we are naturally inclined to unite by a new relation whatever objects we find already united. artaxerxes had an advantage above his brother, as being the eldest son, and the first in succession: but cyrus was more closely related to the royal authority, as being begot after his father was invested with it. should it here be pretended, that the view of convenience may be the source of all the right of succession, and that men gladly take advantage of any rule, by which they can fix the successor of their late sovereign, and prevent that anarchy and confusion, which attends all new elections? to this i would answer, that i readily allow, that this motive may contribute something to the effect; but at the same time i assert, that without another principle, it is impossible such a motive should take place. the interest of a nation requires, that the succession to the crown should be fixed one way or other; but it is the same thing to its interest in what way it be fixed: so that if the relation of blood had not an effect independent of public interest, it would never have been regarded, without a positive law; and it would have been impossible, that so many positive laws of different nations coued ever have concured precisely in the same views and intentions. this leads us to consider the fifth source of authority, viz. positive laws; when the legislature establishes a certain form of government and succession of princes. at first sight it may be thought, that this must resolve into some of the preceding titles of authority. the legislative power, whence the positive law is derived, must either be established by original contract, long possession, present possession, conquest, or succession; and consequently the positive law must derive its force from some of those principles. but here it is remarkable, that though a positive law can only derive its force from these principles, yet it acquires not all the force of the principle from whence it is derived, but loses considerably in the transition; as it is natural to imagine. for instance; a government is established for many centuries on a certain system of laws, forms, and methods of succession. the legislative power, established by this long succession, changes all on a sudden the whole system of government, and introduces a new constitution in its stead. i believe few of the subjects will think themselves bound to comply with this alteration, unless it have an evident tendency to the public good: but men think themselves still at liberty to return to the antient government. hence the notion of fundamental laws; which are supposed to be inalterable by the will of the sovereign: and of this nature the salic law is understood to be in france. how far these fundamental laws extend is not determined in any government; nor is it possible it ever should. there is such an indefensible gradation from the most material laws to the most trivial, and from the most antient laws to the most modem, that it will be impossible to set bounds to the legislative power, and determine how far it may innovate in the principles of government. that is the work more of imagination and passion than of reason. whoever considers the history of the several nations of the world; their revolutions, conquests, increase, and diminution; the manner in which their particular governments are established, and the successive right transmitted from one person to another, will soon learn to treat very lightly all disputes concerning the rights of princes, and will be convinced, that a strict adherence to any general rules, and the rigid loyalty to particular persons and families, on which some people set so high a value, are virtues that hold less of reason, than of bigotry and superstition. in this particular, the study of history confirms the reasonings of true philosophy; which, shewing us the original qualities of human nature, teaches us to regard the controversies in politics as incapable of any decision in most cases, and as entirely subordinate to the interests of peace and liberty. where the public good does not evidently demand a change; it is certain, that the concurrence of all those titles, original contract, long possession, present possession, succession, and positive laws, forms the strongest title to sovereignty, and is justly regarded as sacred and inviolable. but when these titles are mingled and opposed in different degrees, they often occasion perplexity; and are less capable of solution from the arguments of lawyers and philosophers, than from the swords of the soldiery. who shall tell me, for instance, whether germanicus, or drufus, ought to have succeeded tiberius, had he died while they were both alive, without naming any of them for his successor? ought the right of adoption to be received as equivalent to that of blood in a nation, where it had the same effect in private families, and had already, in two instances, taken place in the public? ought germanicus to be esteemed the eldest son, because he was born before drufus; or the younger, because he was adopted after the birth of his brother? ought the right of the elder to be regarded in a nation, where the eldest brother had no advantage in the succession to private families? ought the roman empire at that time to be esteemed hereditary, because of two examples; or ought it, even so early, to be regarded as belonging to the stronger, or the present possessor, as being founded on so recent an usurpation? upon whatever principles we may pretend to answer these and such like questions, i am afraid we shall never be able to satisfy an impartial enquirer, who adopts no party in political controversies, and will be satisfied with nothing but sound reason and philosophy. but here an english reader will be apt to enquire concerning that famous revolution, which has had such a happy influence on our constitution, and has been attended with such mighty consequences. we have already remarked, that in the case of enormous tyranny and oppression, it is lawful to take arms even against supreme power; and that as government is a mere human invention for mutual advantage and security, it no longer imposes any obligation, either natural or moral, when once it ceases to have that tendency. but though this general principle be authorized by common sense, and the practice of all ages, it is certainly impossible for the laws, or even for philosophy, to establish any particular rules, by which we may know when resistance is lawful; and decide all controversies, which may arise on that subject. this may not only happen with regard to supreme power; but it is possible, even in some constitutions, where the legislative authority is not lodged in one person, that there may be a magistrate so eminent and powerful, as to oblige the laws to keep silence in this particular. nor would this silence be an effect only of their respect, but also of their prudence; since it is certain, that in the vast variety of circumstances, which occur in all governments, an exercise of power, in so great a magistrate, may at one time be beneficial to the public, which at another time would be pernicious and tyrannical. but notwithstanding this silence of the laws in limited monarchies, it is certain, that the people still retain the right of resistance; since it is impossible, even in the most despotic governments, to deprive them of it. the same necessity of self-preservation, and the same motive of public good, give them the same liberty in the one case as in the other. and we may farther observe, that in such mixed governments, the cases, wherein resistance is lawful, must occur much oftener, and greater indulgence be given to the subjects to defend themselves by force of arms, than in arbitrary governments. not only where the chief magistrate enters into measures, in themselves, extremely pernicious to the public, but even when he would encroach on the other parts of the constitution, and extend his power beyond the legal bounds, it is allowable to resist and dethrone him; though such resistance and violence may, in the general tenor of the laws, be deemed unlawful and rebellious. for besides that nothing is more essential to public interest, than the preservation of public liberty; it is evident, that if such a mixed government be once supposed to be established, every part or member of the constitution must have a right of self-defence, and of maintaining its antient bounds against the enaoachment of every other authority. as matter would have been created in vain, were it deprived of a power of resistance, without which no part of it coued preserve a distinct existence, and the whole might be crowded up into a single point: so it is a gross absurdity to suppose, in any government, a right without a remedy, or allow, that the supreme power is shared with the people, without allowing, that it is lawful for them to defend their share against every invader. those, therefore, who would seem to respect our free government, and yet deny the right of resistance, have renounced all pretensions to common sense, and do not merit a serious answer. it does not belong to my present purpose to shew, that these general principles are applicable to the late revolution; and that all the rights and privileges, which ought to be sacred to a free nation, were at that time threatened with the utmost danger. i am better pleased to leave this controverted subject, if it really admits of controversy; and to indulge myself in some philosophical reflections, which naturally arise from that important event. first, we may observe, that should the lords and commons in our constitution, without any reason from public interest, either depose the king in being, or after his death exclude the prince, who, by laws and settled custom, ought to succeed, no one would esteem their proceedings legal, or think themselves bound to comply with them. but should the king, by his unjust practices, or his attempts for a tyrannical and despotic power, justly forfeit his legal, it then not only becomes morally lawful and suitable to the nature of political society to dethrone him; but what is more, we are apt likewise to think, that the remaining members of the constitution acquire a right of excluding his next heir, and of chusing whom they please for his successor. this is founded on a very singular quality of our thought and imagination. when a king forfeits his authority, his heir ought naturally to remain in the same situation, as if the king were removed by death; unless by mixing himself in the tyranny, he forfeit it for himself. but though this may seem reasonable, we easily comply with the contrary opinion. the deposition of a king, in such a government as ours, is certainly an act beyond all common authority, and an illegal assuming a power for public good, which, in the ordinary course of government, can belong to no member of the constitution. when the public good is so great and so evident as to justify the action, the commendable use of this licence causes us naturally to attribute to the parliament a right of using farther licences; and the antient bounds of the laws being once transgressed with approbation, we are not apt to be so strict in confining ourselves precisely within their limits. the mind naturally runs on with any train of action, which it has begun; nor do we commonly make any scruple concerning our duty, after the first action of any kind, which we perform. thus at the revolution, no one who thought the deposition of the father justifiable, esteemed themselves to be confined to his infant son; though had that unhappy monarch died innocent at that time, and had his son, by any accident, been conveyed beyond seas, there is no doubt but a regency would have been appointed till he should come to age, and coued be restored to his dominions. as the slightest properties of the imagination have an effect on the judgments of the people, it shews the wisdom of the laws and of the parliament to take advantage of such properties, and to chuse the magistrates either in or out of a line, according as the vulgar will most naturally attribute authority and right to them. secondly, though the accession of the prince of orange to the throne might at first give occasion to many disputes, and his title be contested, it ought not now to appear doubtful, but must have acquired a sufficient authority from those three princes, who have succeeded him upon the same title. nothing is more usual, though nothing may, at first sight, appear more unreasonable, than this way of thinking. princes often seem to acquire a right from their successors, as well as from their ancestors; and a king, who during his life-time might justly be deemed an usurper, will be regarded by posterity as a lawful prince, because he has had the good fortune to settle his family on the throne, and entirely change the antient form of government. julius caesar is regarded as the first roman emperor; while sylla and marius, whose titles were really the same as his, are treated as tyrants and usurpers. time and custom give authority to all forms of government, and all successions of princes; and that power, which at first was founded only on injustice and violence, becomes in time legal and obligatory. nor does the mind rest there; but returning back upon its footsteps, transfers to their predecessors and ancestors that right, which it naturally ascribes to the posterity, as being related together, and united in the imagination. the present king of france makes hugh capet a more lawful prince than cromwell; as the established liberty of the dutch is no inconsiderable apology for their obstinate resistance to philip the second. sect. xi of the laws of nations when civil government has been established over the greatest part of mankind, and different societies have been formed contiguous to each other, there arises a new set of duties among the neighbouring states, suitable to the nature of that commerce, which they carry on with each other. political writers tell us, that in every kind of intercourse, a body politic is to be considered as one person; and indeed this assertion is so far just, that different nations, as well as private persons, require mutual assistance; at the same time that their selfishness and ambition are perpetual sources of war and discord. but though nations in this particular resemble individuals, yet as they are very different in other respects, no wonder they regulate themselves by different maxims, and give rise to a new set of rules, which we call the laws of nations. under this head we may comprize the sacredness of the persons of ambassadors, the declaration of war, the abstaining from poisoned arms, with other duties of that kind, which are evidently calculated for the commerce, that is peculiar to different societies. but though these rules be super-added to the laws of nature, the former do not entirely abolish the latter; and one may safely affirm, that the three fundamental rules of justice, the stability of possession, its transference by consent, and the performance of promises, are duties of princes, as well as of subjects. the same interest produces the same effect in both cases. where possession has no stability, there must be perpetual war. where property is not transferred by consent, there can be no commerce. where promises are not observed, there can be no leagues nor alliances. the advantages, therefore, of peace, commerce, and mutual succour, make us extend to different kingdoms the same notions of justice, which take place among individuals. there is a maxim very current in the world, which few politicians are willing to avow, but which has been authorized by the practice of all ages, that there is a system of morals cakulated for princes, much more free than that which ought to govern private parsons. it is evident this is not to be understood of the lesser extent of public duties and obligations; nor will any one be so extravagant as to assert, that the most solemn treaties ought to have no force among princes. for as princes do actually form treaties among themselves, they must propose some advantage from the execution of them; and the prospect of such advantage for the future must engage them to perform their part, and must establish that law of nature. the meaning, therefore, of this political maxim is, that though the morality of princes has the same extent, yet it has not the same force as that of private persons, and may lawfully be trangressed from a more trivial motive. however shocking such a proposition may appear to certain philosophers, it will be easy to defend it upon those principles, by which we have accounted for the origin of justice and equity. when men have found by experience, that it is impossible to subsist without society, and that it is impossible to maintain society, while they give free course to their appetites; so urgent an interest quickly restrains their actions, and imposes an obligation to observe those rules, which we call the laws of justice. this obligation of interest rests nor here; but by the necessary course of the passions and sentiments, gives rise to the moral obligation of duty; while we approve of such actions as tend to the peace of society, and disapprove of such as tend to its disturbance. the same natural obligation of interest takes place among independent kingdoms, and gives rise to the same morality; so that no one of ever so corrupt morals will approve of a prince, who voluntarily, and of his own accord, breaks his word, or violates any treaty. but here we may observe, that though the intercourse of different states be advantageous, and even sometimes necessary, yet it is nor so necessary nor advantageous as that among individuals, without which it is utterly impossible for human nature ever to subsist. since, therefore, the natural obligation to justice, among different states, is not so strong as among individuals, the moral obligation, which arises from it, must partake of its weakness; and we must necessarily give a greater indulgence to a prince or minister, who deceives another; than to a private gentleman, who breaks his word of honour. should it be asked, what proportion these two species of morality bear to each other? i would answer, that this is a question, to which we can never give any precise answer; nor is it possible to reduce to numbers the proportion, which we ought to fix betwixt them. one may safely affirm, that this proportion finds itself, without any art or study of men; as we may observe on many other occasions. the practice of the world goes farther in teaching us the degrees of our duty, than the most subtile philosophy, which was ever yet invented. and this may serve as a convincing proof, that all men have an implicit notion of the foundation of those moral rules concerning natural and civil justice, and are sensible, that they arise merely from human conventions, and from the interest, which we have in the preservation of peace and order. for otherwise the diminution of the interest would never produce a relaxation of the morality, and reconcile us more easily to any transgression of justice among princes and republics, than in the private commerce of one subject with another. sect. xii of chastity and modesty if any difficulty attend this system concerning the laws of nature and nations, it will be with regard to the universal approbation or blame, which follows their observance or transgression, and which some may not think sufficiently explained from the general interests of society. to remove, as far as possible, all scruples of this kind, i shall here consider another set of duties, viz, the modesty and chastity which belong to the fair sex: and i doubt not but these virtues will be found to be still more conspicuous instances of the operation of those principles, which i have insisted on. there are some philosophers, who attack the female virtues with great vehemence, and fancy they have gone very far in detecting popular errors, when they can show, that there is no foundation in nature for all that exterior modesty, which we require in the expressions, and dress, and behaviour of the fair sex. i believe i may spare myself the trouble of insisting on so obvious a subject, and may proceed, without farther preparation, to examine after what manner such notions arise from education, from the voluntary conventions of men, and from the interest of society. whoever considers the length and feebleness of human infancy, with the concern which both sexes naturally have for their offspring, will easily perceive, that there must be an union of male and female for the education of the young, and that this union must be of considerable duration. but in order to induce the men to impose on themselves this restraint, and undergo chearfully all the fatigues and expences, to which it subjects them, they must believe, that the children are their own, and that their natural instinct is not directed to a wrong object, when they give a loose to love and tenderness. now if we examine the structure of the human body, we shall find, that this security is very difficult to be attained on our part; and that since, in the copulation of the sexes, the principle of generation goes from the man to the woman, an error may easily take place on the side of the former, though it be utterly impossible with regard to the latter. from this trivial and anatomical observation is derived that vast difference betwixt the education and duties of the two sexes. were a philosopher to examine the matter a priori, he would reason after the following manner. men are induced to labour for the maintenance and education of their children, by the persuasion that they are really their own; and therefore it is reasonable, and even necessary, to give them some security in this particular. this security cannot consist entirely in the imposing of severe punishments on any transgressions of conjugal fidelity on the part of the wife; since these public punishments cannot be inflicted without legal proof, which it is difficult to meet with in this subject. what restraint, therefore, shall we impose on women, in order to counter-balance so strong a temptation as they have to infidelity? there seems to be no restraint possible, but in the punishment of bad fame or reputation; a punishment, which has a mighty influence on the human mind, and at the same time is inflicted by the world upon surmizes, and conjectures, and proofs, that would never be received in any court of judicature. in order, therefore, to impose a due restraint on the female sex, we must attach a peculiar degree of shame to their infidelity, above what arises merely from its injustice, and must bestow proportionable praises on their chastity. but though this be a very strong motive to fidelity, our philosopher would quickly discover, that it would not alone be sufficient to that purpose. all human creatures, especially of the female sex, are apt to over-look remote motives in favour of any present temptation: the temptation is here the strongest imaginable: its approaches are insensible and seducing: and a woman easily finds, or flatters herself she shall find, certain means of securing her reputation, and preventing all the pernicious consequences of her pleasures. it is necessary, therefore, that, beside the infamy attending such licences, there should be some preceding backwardness or dread, which may prevent their first approaches, and may give the female sex a repugnance to all expressions, and postures, and liberties, that have an immediate relation to that enjoyment. such would be the reasonings of our speculative philosopher: but i am persuaded, that if he had not a perfect knowledge of human nature, he would be apt to regard them as mere chimerical speculations, and would consider the infamy attending infidelity, and backwardness to all its approaches, as principles that were rather to be wished than hoped for in the world. for what means, would he say, of persuading mankind, that the transgressions of conjugal duty are more infamous than any other kind of injustice, when it is evident they are more excusable, upon account of the greatness of the temptation? and what possibility of giving a backwardness to the approaches of a pleasure, to which nature has inspired so strong a propensity; and a propensity that it is absolutely necessary in the end to comply with, for the support of the species? but speculative reasonings, which cost so much pains to philosophers, are often formed by the world naturally, and without reflection: as difficulties, which seem unsurmountable in theory, are easily got over in practice. those, who have an interest in the fidelity of women, naturally disapprove of their infidelity, and all the approaches to it. those, who have no interest, are carried along with the stream. education takes possession of the ductile minds of the fair sex in their infancy. and when a general rule of this kind is once established, men are apt to extend it beyond those principles, from which it first arose. thus batchelors, however debauched, cannot chuse but be shocked with any instance of lewdness or impudence in women. and though all these maxims have a plain reference to generation, yet women past child-bearing have no more privilege in this respect, than those who are in the flower of their youth and beauty. men have undoubtedly an implicit notion, that all those ideas of modesty and decency have a regard to generation; since they impose not the same laws, with the same force, on the male sex, where that reason takes nor place. the exception is there obvious and extensive, and founded on a remarkable difference, which produces a clear separation and disjunction of ideas. but as the case is not the same with regard to the different ages of women, for this reason, though men know, that these notions are founded on the public interest, yet the general rule carries us beyond the original principle, and makes us extend the notions of modesty over the whole sex, from their earliest infancy to their extremest old-age and infirmity. courage, which is the point of honour among men, derives its merit, in a great measure, from artifice, as well as the chastity of women; though it has also some foundation in nature, as we shall see afterwards. as to the obligations which the male sex lie under, with regard to chastity, we may observe, that according to the general notions of the world, they bear nearly the same proportion to the obligations of women, as the obligations of the law of nations do to those of the law of nature. it is contrary to the interest of civil society, that men should have an entire liberty of indulging their appetites in venereal enjoyment: but as this interest is weaker than in the case of the female sex, the moral obligation, arising from it, must be proportionably weaker. and to prove this we need only appeal to the practice and sentiments of all nations and ages. part iii of the other virtues and vices sect. i of the origin of the natural virtues and vices we come now to the examination of such virtues and vices as are entirely natural, and have no dependance on the artifice and contrivance of men. the examination of these will conclude this system of morals. the chief spring or actuating principle of the human mind is pleasure or pain; and when these sensations are removed, both from our thought and feeling, we are, in a great measure, incapable of passion or action, of desire or volition. the most immediate effects of pleasure and pain are the propense and averse motions of the mind; which are diversified into volition, into desire and aversion, grief and joy, hope and fear, according as the pleasure or pain changes its situation, and becomes probable or improbable, certain or uncertain, or is considered as out of our power for the present moment. but when along with this, the objects, that cause pleasure or pain, acquire a relation to ourselves or others; they still continue to excite desire and aversion, grief and joy: but cause, at the same time, the indirect passions of pride or humility, love or hatred, which in this case have a double relation of impressions and ideas to the pain or pleasure. we have already observed, that moral distinctions depend entirely on certain peculiar sentiments of pain and pleasure, and that whatever mental quality in ourselves or others gives us a satisfaction, by the survey or reflection, is of course virtuous; as every thing of this nature, that gives uneasiness, is vicious. now since every quality in ourselves or others, which gives pleasure, always causes pride or love; as every one, that produces uneasiness, excites humility or hatred: it follows, that these two particulars are to be considered as equivalent, with regard to our mental qualities, virtue and the power of producing love or pride, vice and the power of producing humility or hatred. in every case, therefore, we must judge of the one by the other; and may pronounce any quality of the mind virtuous, which causes love or pride; and any one vicious, which causes hatred or humility. if any action be either virtuous or vicious, it is only as a sign of some quality or character. it must depend upon durable principles of the mind, which extend over the whole conduct, and enter into the personal character. actions themselves, not proceeding from any constant principle, have no influence on love or hatred, pride or humility; and consequently are never considered in morality. this reflection is self-evident, and deserves to be attended to, as being of the utmost importance in the present subject. we are never to consider any single action in our enquiries concerning the origin of morals; but only the quality or character from which the action proceeded. these alone are durable enough to affect our sentiments concerning the person. actions are, indeed, better indications of a character than words, or even wishes and sentiments; but it is only so far as they are such indications, that they are attended with love or hatred, praise or blame. to discover the true origin of morals, and of that love or hatred, which arises from mental qualities, we must take the matter pretty deep, and compare some principles, which have been already examined and explained. we may begin with considering a-new the nature and force of sympathy. the minds of all men are similar in their feelings and operations; nor can any one be actuated by any affection, of which all others are not, in some degree, susceptible. as in strings equally wound up, the motion of one communicates itself to the rest; so all the affections readily pass from one person to another, and beget correspondent movements in every human creature. when i see the effects of passion in the voice and gesture of any person, my mind immediately passes from these effects to their causes, and forms such a lively idea of the passion, as is presently converted into the passion itself. in like manner, when i perceive the causes of any emotion, my mind is conveyed to the effects, and is actuated with a like emotion. were i present at any of the more terrible operations of surgery, it is certain, that even before it begun, the preparation of the instruments, the laying of the bandages in order, the heating of the irons, with all the signs of anxiety and concern in the patient and assistants, would have a great effect upon my mind, and excite the strongest sentiments of pity and terror. no passion of another discovers itself immediately to the mind. we are only sensible of its causes or effects. from these we infer the passion: and consequently these give rise to our sympathy. our sense of beauty depends very much on this principle; and where any object has atendency to produce pleasure in its possessor, it is always regarded as beautiful; as every object, that has a tendency to produce pain, is disagreeable and deformed. thus the conveniency of a house, the fertility of a field, the strength of a horse, the capacity, security, and swift-sailing of a vessel, form the principal beauty of these several objects. here the object, which is denominated beautiful, pleases only by its tendency to produce a certain effect. that effect is the pleasure or advantage of some other person. now the pleasure of a stranger, for whom we have no friendship, pleases us only by sympathy. to this principle, therefore, is owing the beauty, which we find in every thing that is useful. how considerable a part this is of beauty can easily appear upon reflection. wherever an object has a tendency to produce pleasure in the possessor, or in other words, is the proper cause of pleasure, it is sure to please the spectator, by a delicate sympathy with the possessor. most of the works of art are esteemed beautiful, in proportion to their fitness for the use of man, and even many of the productions of nature derive their beauty from that source. handsome and beautiful, on most occasions, is nor an absolute but a relative quality, and pleases us by nothing but its tendency to produce an end that is agreeable. [footnote decentior equus cujus astricta sunt ilia; sed idem velocior. pulcher aspectu sit athieta, cujus lacertos exercitatio expressit; idem certamini paratior. nunquam vero species ab utilitate dividitur. sed hoc quidem discernere, modici judicii est. quinct. lib. . (a horse with narrow flanks looks more comely; it also moves faster. an athlete whose muscles have been developed by training presents a handsome appearance; he is also better prepared for the contest. attractive appearance is invariably associated with efficient functioning. yet it takes no outstanding powers of judgement to wake this distinction.)] the same principle produces, in many instances, our sentiments of morals, as well as those of beauty. no virtue is more esteemed than justice, and no vice more detested than injustice; nor are there any qualities, which go farther to the fixing the character, either as amiable or odious. now justice is a moral virtue, merely because it has that tendency to the good of mankind; and, indeed, is nothing but an artificial invention to that purpose. the same may be said of allegiance, of the laws of nations, of modesty, and of good-manners. all these are mere human contrivances for the interest of society. and since there is a very strong sentiment of morals, which in all nations, and all ages, has attended them, we must allow, that the reflecting on the tendency of characters and mental qualities, is sufficient to give us the sentiments of approbation and blame. now as the means to an end can only be agreeable, where the end is agreeable; and as the good of society, where our own interest is not concerned, or that of our friends, pleases only by sympathy: it follows, that sympathy is the source of the esteem, which we pay to all the artificial virtues. thus it appears, that sympathy is a very powerful principle in human nature, that it has a great influence on our taste of beauty, and that it produces our sentiment of morals in all the artificial virtues. from thence we may presume, that it also gives rise to many of the other virtues; and that qualities acquire our approbation, because of their tendency to the good of mankind. this presumption must become a certainty, when we find that most of those qualities, which we naturally approve of, have actually that tendency, and render a man a proper member of society: while the qualities, which we naturally disapprove of, have a contrary tendency, and render any intercourse with the person dangerous or disagreeable. for having found, that such tendencies have force enough to produce the strongest sentiment of morals, we can never reasonably, in these cases, look for any other cause of approbation or blame; it being an inviolable maxim in philosophy, that where any particular cause is sufficient for an effect, we ought to rest satisfied with it, and ought not to multiply causes without necessity. we have happily attained experiments in the artificial virtues, where the tendency of qualities to the good of society, is the sole cause of our approbation, without any suspicion of the concurrence of another principle. from thence we learn the force of that principle. and where that principle may take place, and the quality approved of is really beneficial to society, a true philosopher will never require any other principle to account for the strongest approbation and esteem. that many of the natural virtues have this tendency to the good of society, no one can doubt of. meekness, beneficence, charity, generosity, clemency, moderation, equity bear the greatest figure among the moral qualities, and are commonly denominated the social virtues, to mark their tendency to the good of society. this goes so far, that some philosophers have represented all moral distinctions as the effect of artifice and education, when skilful politicians endeavoured to restrain the turbulent passions of men, and make them operate to the public good, by the notions of honour and shame. this system, however, is nor consistent with experience. for, first, there are other virtues and vices beside those which have this tendency to the public advantage and loss. secondly, had not men a natural sentiment of approbation and blame, it coued never be excited by politicians; nor would the words laudable and praise-worthy, blameable and odious be any more intelligible, than if they were a language perfectly known to us, as we have already observed. but though this system be erroneous, it may teach us, that moral distinctions arise, in a great measure, from the tendency of qualities and characters to the interests of society, and that it is our concern for that interest, which makes us approve or disapprove of them. now we have no such extensive concern for society but from sympathy; and consequently it is that principle, which takes us so far out of ourselves, as to give us the same pleasure or uneasiness in the characters of others, as if they had a tendency to our own advantage or loss. the only difference betwixt the natural virtues and justice lies in this, that the good, which results from the former, arises from every single act, and is the object of some natural passion: whereas a single act of justice, considered in itself, may often be contrary to the public good; and it is only the concurrence of mankind, in a general scheme or system of action, which is advantageous. when i relieve persons in distress, my natural humanity is my motive; and so far as my succour extends, so far have i promoted the happiness of my fellow-creatures. but if we examine all the questions, that come before any tribunal of justice, we shall find, that, considering each case apart, it would as often be an instance of humanity to decide contrary to the laws of justice as conformable them. judges take from a poor man to give to a rich; they bestow on the dissolute the labour of the industrious; and put into the hands of the vicious the means of harming both themselves and others. the whole scheme, however, of law and justice is advantageous to the society; and it was with a view to this advantage, that men, by their voluntary conventions, established it. after it is once established by these conventions, it is naturally attended with a strong sentiment of morals; which can proceed from nothing but our sympathy with the interests of society. we need no other explication of that esteem, which attends such of the natural virtues, as have a tendency to the public good. i must farther add, that there are several circumstances, which render this hypothesis much more probable with regard to the natural than the artificial virtues. it is certain that the imagination is more affected by what is particular, than by what is general; and that the sentiments are always moved with difficulty, where their objects are, in any degree, loose and undetermined: now every particular act of justice is not beneficial to society, but the whole scheme or system: and it may not, perhaps, be any individual person for whom we are concerned, who receives benefit from justice, but the whole society alike. on the contrary, every particular act of generosity, or relief of the industrious and indigent, is beneficial; and is beneficial to a particular person, who is not undeserving of it. it is more natural, therefore, to think, that the tendencies of the latter virtue will affect our sentiments, and command our approbation, than those of the former; and therefore, since we find, that the approbation of the former arises from their tendencies, we may ascribe, with better reason, the same cause to the approbation of the latter. in any number of similar effects, if a cause can be discovered for one, we ought to extend that cause to all the other effects, which can be accounted for by it: but much more, if these other effects be attended with peculiar circumstances, which facilitate the operation of that cause. before i proceed farther, i must observe two remarkable circumstances in this affair, which may seem objections to the present system. the first may be thus explained. when any quality, or character, has a tendency to the good of mankind, we are pleased with it, and approve of it; because it presents the lively idea of pleasure; which idea affects us by sympathy, and is itself a kind of pleasure. but as this sympathy is very variable, it may be thought that our sentiments of morals must admit of all the same variations. we sympathize more with persons contiguous to us, than with persons remote from us: with our acquaintance, than with strangers: with our countrymen, than with foreigners. but notwithstanding this variation of our sympathy, we give the same approbation to the same moral qualities in china as in england. they appear equally virtuous, and recommend themselves equally to the esteem of a judicious spectator. the sympathy varies without a variation in our esteem. our esteem, therefore, proceeds not from sympathy. to this i answer: the approbation of moral qualities most certainly is not derived from reason, or any comparison of ideas; but proceeds entirely from a moral taste, and from certain sentiments of pleasure or disgust, which arise upon the contemplation and view of particular qualities or characters. now it is evident, that those sentiments, whence-ever they are derived, must vary according to the distance or contiguity of the objects; nor can i feel the same lively pleasure from the virtues of a person, who lived in greece two thousand years ago, that i feel from the virtues of a familiar friend and acquaintance. yet i do not say, that i esteem the one more than the other: and therefore, if the variation of the sentiment, without a variation of the esteem, be an objection, it must have equal force against every other system, as against that of sympathy. but to consider the matter a-right, it has no force at all; and it is the easiest matter in the world to account for it. our situation, with regard both to persons and things, is in continual fluctuation; and a man, that lies at a distance from us, may, in a little time, become a familiar acquaintance. besides, every particular man has a peculiar position with regard to others; and it is impossible we coued ever converse together on any reasonable terms, were each of us to consider characters and persons, only as they appear from his peculiar point of view. in order, therefore, to prevent those continual contradictions, and arrive at a more stable judgment of things, we fix on some steady and general points of view; and always, in our thoughts, place ourselves in them, whatever may be our present situation. in like manner, external beauty is determined merely by pleasure; and it is evident, a beautiful countenance cannot give so much pleasure, when seen at the distance of twenty paces, as when it is brought nearer us. we say not, however, that it appears to us less beautiful: because we know what effect it will have in such a position, and by that reflection we correct its momentary appearance. in general, all sentiments of blame or praise are variable, according to our situation of nearness or remoteness, with regard to the person blamed or praised, and according to the present disposition of our mind. but these variations we regard not in our general decision, but still apply the terms expressive of our liking or dislike, in the same manner, as if we remained in one point of view. experience soon teaches us this method of correcting our sentiments, or at least, of correcting our language, where the sentiments are more stubborn and inalterable. our servant, if diligent and faithful, may excite stronger sentiments of love and kindness than marcus brutus, as represented in history; but we say not upon that account, that the former character is more laudable than the latter. we know, that were we to approach equally near to that renowned patriot, he would command a much higher degree of affection and admiration. such corrections are common with regard to all the senses; and indeed it were impossible we could ever make use of language, or communicate our sentiments to one another, did we not correct the momentary appearances of things, and overlook our present situation. it is therefore from the influence of characters and qualities, upon those who have an intercourse with any person, that we blame or praise him. we consider not whether the persons, affected by the qualities, be our acquaintance or strangers, countrymen or foreigners. nay, we over-look our own interest in those general judgments; and blame not a man for opposing us in any of our pretensions, when his own interest is particularly concerned. we make allowance for a certain degree of selfishness in men; because we know it to be inseparable from human nature, and inherent in our frame and constitution. by this reflection we correct those sentiments of blame, which so naturally arise upon any opposition. but however the general principle of our blame or praise may be corrected by those other principles, it is certain, they are not altogether efficacious, nor do our passions often correspond entirely to the present theory. it is seldom men heartily love what lies at a distance from them, and what no way redounds to their particular benefit; as it is no less rare to meet with persons, who can pardon another any opposition he makes to their interest, however justifiable that opposition may be by the general rules of morality. here we are contented with saying, that reason requires such an impartial conduct, but that it is seldom we can bring ourselves to it, and that our passions do not readily follow the determination of our judgment. this language will be easily understood, if we consider what we formerly said concerning that reason, which is able to oppose our passion; and which we have found to be nothing but a general calm determination of the passions, founded on some distant view or reflection. when we form our judgments of persons, merely from the tendency of their characters to our own benefit, or to that of our friends, we find so many contradictions to our sentiments in society and conversation, and such an uncertainty from the incessant changes of our situation, that we seek some other standard of merit and demerit, which may not admit of so great variation. being thus loosened from our first station, we cannot afterwards fix ourselves so commodiously by any means as by a sympathy with those, who have any commerce with the person we consider. this is far from being as lively as when our own interest is concerned, or that of our particular friends; nor has it such an influence on our love and hatred: but being equally conformable to our calm and general principles, it is said to have an equal authority over our reason, and to command our judgment and opinion. we blame equally a bad action, which we read of in history, with one performed in our neighbourhood the other day: the meaning of which is, that we know from reflection, that the former action would excite as strong sentiments of disapprobation as the latter, were it placed in the same position. i now proceed to the second remarkable circumstance, which i proposed to take notice of. where a person is possessed of a character, that in its natural tendency is beneficial to society, we esteem him virtuous, and are delighted with the view of his character, even though particular accidents prevent its operation, and incapacitate him from being serviceable to his friends and country. virtue in rags is still virtue; and the love, which it procures, attends a man into a dungeon or desart, where the virtue can no longer be exerted in action, and is lost to all the world. now this may be esteemed an objection to the present system. sympathy interests us in the good of mankind; and if sympathy were the source of our esteem for virtue, that sentiment of approbation coued only take place, where the virtue actually attained its end, and was beneficial to mankind. where it fails of its end, it is only an imperfect means; and therefore can never acquire any merit from that end. the goodness of an end can bestow a merit on such means alone as are compleat, and actually produce the end. to this we may reply, that where any object, in all its parts, is fitted to attain any agreeable end, it naturally gives us pleasure, and is esteemed beautiful, even though some external circumstances be wanting to render it altogether effectual. it is sufficient if every thing be compleat in the object itself. a house, that is contrived with great judgment for all the commodities of life, pleases us upon that account; though perhaps we are sensible, that noone will ever dwell in it. a fertile soil, and a happy climate, delight us by a reflection on the happiness which they would afford the inhabitants, though at present the country be desart and uninhabited. a man, whose limbs and shape promise strength and activity, is esteemed handsome, though condemned to perpetual imprisonment. the imagination has a set of passions belonging to it, upon which our sentiments of beauty much depend. these passions are moved by degrees of liveliness and strength, which are inferior to belief, and independent of the real existence of their objects. where a character is, in every respect, fitted to be beneficial to society, the imagination passes easily from the cause to the effect, without considering that there are some circumstances wanting to render the cause a complete one. general rules create a species of probability, which sometimes influences the judgment, and always the imagination. it is true, when the cause is compleat, and a good disposition is attended with good fortune, which renders it really beneficial to society, it gives a stronger pleasure to the spectator, and is attended with a more lively sympathy. we are more affected by it; and yet we do not say that it is more virtuous, or that we esteem it more. we know, that an alteration of fortune may render the benevolent disposition entirely impotent; and therefore we separate, as much as possible, the fortune from the disposition. the case is the same, as when we correct the different sentiments of virtue, which proceed from its different distances from ourselves. the passions do not always follow our corrections; but these corrections serve sufficiently to regulate our abstract notions, and are alone regarded, when we pronounce in general concerning the degrees of vice and virtue. it is observed by critics, that all words or sentences, which are difficult to the pronunciation, are disagreeable to the ear. there is no difference, whether a man hear them pronounced, or read them silently to himself. when i run over a book with my eye, i imagine i hear it all; and also, by the force of imagination, enter into the uneasiness, which the delivery of it would give the speaker. the uneasiness is not real; but as such a composition of words has a natural tendency to produce it, this is sufficient to affect the mind with a painful sentiment, and render the discourse harsh and disagreeable. it is a similar case, where any real quality is, by accidental circumstances, rendered impotent, and is deprived of its natural influence on society. upon these principles we may easily remove any contradiction, which may appear to be betwixt the extensive sympathy, on which our sentiments of virtue depend, and that limited generosity which i have frequently observed to be natural to men, and which justice and property suppose, according to the precedent reasoning. my sympathy with another may give me the sentiment of pain and disapprobation, when any object is presented, that has a tendency to give him uneasiness; though i may not be willing to sacrifice any thing of my own interest, or cross any of my passions, for his satisfaction. a house may displease me by being ill-contrived for the convenience of the owner; and yet i may refuse to give a shilling towards the rebuilding of it. sentiments must touch the heart, to make them controul our passions: but they need not extend beyond the imagination, to make them influence our taste. when a building seems clumsy and tottering to the eye, it is ugly and disagreeable; though we be fully assured of the solidity of the workmanship. it is a kind of fear, which causes this sentiment of disapprobation; but the passion is not the same with that which we feel, when obliged to stand under a wall, that we really think tottering and insecure. the seeming tendencies of objects affect the mind: and the emotions they excite are of a like species with those, which proceed from the real consequences of objects, but their feeling is different. nay, these emotions are so different in their feeling, that they may often be contrary, without destroying each other; as when the fortifications of a city belonging to an enemy are esteemed beautiful upon account of their strength, though we coued wish that they were entirely destroyed. the imagination adheres to the general views of things, and distinguishes the feelings they produce, from those which arise from our particular and momentary situation. if we examine the panegyrics that are commonly made of great men, we shall find, that most of the qualities, which are attributed to them, may be divided into two kinds, viz. such as make them perform their part in society; and such as render them serviceable to themselves, and enable them to promote their own interest. their prudence, temperance, frugality, industry, assiduity, enterprize, dexterity, are celebrated, as well as their generosity and humanity. if we ever give an indulgence to any quality, that disables a man from making a figure in life, it is to that of indolence, which is not supposed to deprive one of his parts and capacity, but only suspends their exercise; and that without any inconvenience to the person himself, since it is, in some measure, from his own choice. yet indolence is always allowed to be a fault, and a very great one, if extreme: nor do a man's friends ever acknowledge him to be subject to it, but in order to save his character in more material articles. he coued make a figure, say they, if he pleased to give application: his understanding is sound, his conception quick, and his memory tenacious; but he hates business, and is indifferent about his fortune. and this a man sometimes may make even a subject of vanity; though with the air of confessing a fault: because he may think, that his incapacity for business implies much more noble qualities; such as a philosophical spirit, a fine taste, a delicate wit, or a relish for pleasure and society. but take any other case: suppose a quality, that without being an indication of any other good qualities, incapacitates a man always for business, and is destructive to his interest; such as a blundering understanding, and a wrong judgment of every thing in life; inconstancy and irresolution; or a want of address in the management of men and business: these are all allowed to be imperfections in a character; and many men would rather acknowledge the greatest crimes, than have it suspected, that they are, in any degree, subject to them. it is very happy, in our philosophical researches, when we find the same phaenomenon diversified by a variety of circumstances; and by discovering what is common among them, can the better assure ourselves of the truth of any hypothesis we may make use of to explain it. were nothing esteemed virtue but what were beneficial to society, i am persuaded, that the foregoing explication of the moral sense ought still to be received, and that upon sufficient evidence: but this evidence must grow upon us, when we find other kinds of virtue, which will not admit of any explication except from that hypothesis. here is a man, who is not remarkably defective in his social qualities; but what principally recommends him is his dexterity in business, by which he has extricated himself from the greatest difficulties, and conducted the most delicate affairs with a singular address and prudence. i find an esteem for him immediately to arise in me: his company is a satisfaction to me; and before i have any farther acquaintance with him, i would rather do him a service than another, whose character is in every other respect equal, but is deficient in that particular. in this case, the qualities that please me are all considered as useful to the person, and as having a tendency to promote his interest and satisfaction. they are only regarded as means to an end, and please me in proportion to their fitness for that end. the end, therefore, must be agreeable to me. but what makes the end agreeable? the person is a stranger: i am no way interested in him, nor lie under any obligation to him: his happiness concerns not me, farther than the happiness of every human, and indeed of every sensible creature: that is, it affects me only by sympathy. from that principle, whenever i discover his happiness and good, whether in its causes or effects, i enter so deeply into it, that it gives me a sensible emotion. the appearance of qualities, that have a tendency to promote it, have an agreeable effect upon my imagination, and command my love and esteem. this theory may serve to explain, why the same qualities, in all cases, produce both pride and love, humility and hatred; and the same man is always virtuous or vicious, accomplished or despicable to others, who is so to himself. a person, in whom we discover any passion or habit, which originally is only incommodious to himself, becomes always disagreeable to us, merely on its account; as on the other hand, one whose character is only dangerous and disagreeable to others, can never be satisfied with himself, as long as he is sensible of that disadvantage. nor is this observable only with regard to characters and manners, but may be remarked even in the most minute circumstances. a violent cough in another gives us uneasiness; though in itself it does not in the least affect us. a man will be mortified, if you tell him he has a stinking breath; though it is evidently no annoyance to himself. our fancy easily changes its situation; and either surveying ourselves as we appear to others, or considering others as they feel themselves, we enter, by that means, into sentiments, which no way belong to us, and in which nothing but sympathy is able to interest us. and this sympathy we sometimes carry so far, as even to be displeased with a quality commodious to us, merely because it displeases others, and makes us disagreeable in their eyes; though perhaps we never can have any interest in rendering ourselves agreeable to them. there have been many systems of morality advanced by philosophers in all ages; but if they are strictly examined, they may be reduced to two, which alone merit our attention. moral good and evil are certainly distinguished by our sentiments, not by reason: but these sentiments may arise either from the mere species or appearance of characters and passions, or from reflections on their tendency to the happiness of mankind, and of particular persons. my opinion is, that both these causes are intermixed in our judgments of morals; after the same manner as they are in our decisions concerning most kinds of external beauty: though i am also of opinion, that reflections on the tendencies of actions have by far the greatest influence, and determine all the great lines of our duty. there are, however, instances, in cases of less moment, wherein this immediate taste or sentiment produces our approbation. wit, and a certain easy and disengaged behaviour, are qualities immediately agreeable to others, and command their love and esteem. some of these qualities produce satisfaction in others by particular original principles of human nature, which cannot be accounted for: others may be resolved into principles, which are more general. this will best appear upon a particular enquiry. as some qualities acquire their merit from their being immediately agreeable to others, without any tendency to public interest; so some are denominated virtuous from their being immediately agreeable to the person himself, who possesses them. each of the passions and operations of the mind has a particular feeling, which must be either agreeable or disagreeable. the first is virtuous, the second vicious. this particular feeling constitutes the very nature of the passion; and therefore needs not be accounted for. but however directly the distinction of vice and virtue may seem to flow from the immediate pleasure or uneasiness, which particular qualities cause to ourselves or others; it is easy to observe, that it has also a considerable dependence on the principle of sympathy so often insisted on. we approve of a person, who is possessed of qualities immediately agreeable to those, with whom he has any commerce; though perhaps we ourselves never reaped any pleasure from them. we also approve of one, who is possessed of qualities, that are immediately agreeable to himself; though they be of no service to any mortal. to account for this we must have recourse to the foregoing principles. thus, to take a general review of the present hypothesis: every quality of the mind is denominated virtuous, which gives pleasure by the mere survey; as every quality, which produces pain, is called vicious. this pleasure and this pain may arise from four different sources. for we reap a pleasure from the view of a character, which is naturally fitted to be useful to others, or to the person himself, or which is agreeable to others, or to the person himself. one may, perhaps, be surprized. that amidst all these interests and pleasures, we should forget our own, which touch us so nearly on every other occasion. but we shall easily satisfy ourselves on this head, when we consider, that every particular person s pleasure and interest being different, it is impossible men coued ever agree in their sentiments and judgments, unless they chose some common point of view, from which they might survey their object, and which might cause it to appear the same to all of them. now in judging of characters, the only interest or pleasure, which appears the same to every spectator, is that of the person himself, whose character is examined; or that of persons, who have a connexion with him. and though such interests and pleasures touch us more faintly than our own, yet being more constant and universal, they counter-ballance the latter even in practice, and are alone admitted in speculation as the standard of virtue and morality. they alone produce that particular feeling or sentiment, on which moral distinctions depend. as to the good or ill desert of virtue or vice, it is an evident consequence of the sentiments of pleasure or uneasiness. these sentiments produce love or hatred; and love or hatred, by the original constitution of human passion, is attended with benevolence or anger; that is, with a desire of making happy the person we love, and miserable the person we hate. we have treated of this more fully on another occasion. sect. ii of greatness of mind it may now be proper to illustrate this general system of morals, by applying it to particular instances of virtue and vice, and shewing how their merit or demerit arises from the four sources here explained. we shall begin with examining the passions of pride and humility, and shall consider the vice or virtue that lies in their excesses or just proportion. an excessive pride or overweaning conceit of ourselves is always esteemed vicious, and is universally hated; as modesty, or a just sense of our weakness, is esteemed virtuous, and procures the good-will of every-one. of the four sources of moral distinctions, this is to be ascribed to the third; viz, the immediate agreeableness and disagreeableness of a quality to others, without any reflections on the tendency of that quality. in order to prove this, we must have recourse to two principles, which are very conspicuous in human nature. the first of these is the sympathy, and communication of sentiments and passions above-mentioned. so close and intimate is the correspondence of human souls, that no sooner any person approaches me, than he diffuses on me all his opinions, and draws along my judgment in a greater or lesser degree. and though, on many occasions, my sympathy with him goes not so far as entirely to change my sentiments, and way of thinking; yet it seldom is so weak as not to disturb the easy course of my thought, and give an authority to that opinion, which is recommended to me by his assent and approbation. nor is it any way material upon what subject he and i employ our thoughts. whether we judge of an indifferent person, or of my own character, my sympathy gives equal force to his decision: and even his sentiments of his own merit make me consider him in the same light, in which he regards himself. this principle of sympathy is of so powerful and insinuating a nature, that it enters into most of our sentiments and passions, and often takes place under the appearance of its contrary. for it is remarkable, that when a person opposes me in any thing, which i am strongly bent upon, and rouzes up my passion by contradiction, i have always a degree of sympathy with him, nor does my commotion proceed from any other origin. we may here observe an evident conflict or rencounter of opposite principles and passions. on the one side there is that passion or sentiment, which is natural to me; and it is observable, that the stronger this passion is, the greater is the commotion. there must also be some passion or sentiment on the other side; and this passion can proceed from nothing but sympathy. the sentiments of others can never affect us, but by becoming, in some measure, our own; in which case they operate upon us, by opposing and encreasing our passions, in the very same manner, as if they had been originally derived from our own temper and disposition. while they remain concealed in the minds of others, they can never have an influence upon us: and even when they are known, if they went no farther than the imagination, or conception; that faculty is so accustomed to objects of every different kind, that a mere idea, though contrary to our sentiments and inclinations, would never alone be able to affect us. the second principle i shall take notice of is that of comparison, or the variation of our judgments concerning ob jects, according to the proportion they bear to those with which we compare them. we judge more, of objects by comparison, than by their intrinsic worth and value; and regard every thing as mean, when set in opposition to what is superior of the same kind. but no comparison is more obvious than that with ourselves; and hence it is that on all occasions it takes place, and mixes with most of our passions. this kind of comparison is directly contrary to sympathy in its operation, as we have observed in treating of com passion and malice. [book ii. part ii. sect. viii.] in all kinds of comparison an object makes us always receive from another, to which it is compared, a sensation contrary to what arises from itself in its direct and immediate survey. the direct survey of another's pleasure naturally gives us pleasure; and therefore produces pain, when compared with our own. his pain, considered in itself, is pain ful; but augments the idea of our own happiness, and gives us pleasure. since then those principles of sympathy, and a comparison with ourselves, are directly contrary, it may be worth while to consider, what general rules can be formed, beside the particular temper of the person, for the prevalence of the one or the other. suppose i am now in safety at land, and would willingly reap some pleasure from this consideration: i must think on the miserable condition of those who are at sea in a storm, and must endeavour to render this idea as strong and lively as possible, in order to make me more sensible of my own happiness. but whatever pains i may take, the comparison will never have an equal efficacy, as if i were really on the shore [footnote ], and saw a ship at a distance tossed by a tempest, and in danger every moment of perishing on a rock or sand-bank. but suppose this idea to become still more lively. suppose the ship to be driven so near me, that i can perceive distinctly the horror, painted on the countenance of the seamen and passengers, hear their lamentable cries, see the dearest friends give their last adieu, or embrace with a resolution to perish in each others arms: no man has so savage a heart as to reap any pleasure from such a spectacle, or withstand the motions of the tenderest compassion and sympathy. it is evident, therefore, there is a medium in this case; and that if the idea be too feint, it has no influence by comparison; and on the other hand, if it be too strong, it operates on us entirely by sympathy, which is the contrary to comparison. sympathy being the conversion of an idea into an impression, demands a greater force and vivacity in the idea than is requisite to comparison. [footnote . suave mari magno turbantibus aequora ventis e terra magnum alterius spectare laborem; non quia vexari quenquam eat jucunda voluptas, sed quibus ipse malls caress qula cernere sauv' est. lucret. (there is something pleasant in watching, from dry land, the great difficulties another man is undergoing out on the high sea, with the winds lashing the waters. this is not because one derives delight from any man's distress, but because it is pleasurable to perceive from what troubles one is oneself free.)] all this is easily applied to the present subject. we sink very much in our own eyes, when in the presence of a great man, or one of a superior genius; and this humility makes a considerable ingredient in that respect, which we pay our superiors, according to our foregoing reasonings on that passion [book ii. part ii. sect. x.]. sometimes even envy and hatred arise from the comparison; but in the greatest part of men, it rests at respect and esteem. as sympathy has such a powerful influence on the human mind, it causes pride to have, in some measure, the same effect as merit; and by making us enter into those elevated sentiments, which the proud man entertains of himself, presents that comparison, which is so mortifying and disagreeable. our judgment does not entirely accompany him in the flattering conceit, in which he pleases himself; but still is so shaken as to receive the idea it presents, and to give it an influence above the loose conceptions of the imagination. a man, who, in an idle humour, would form a notion of a person of a merit very much superior to his own, would not be mortified by that fiction: but when a man, whom we are really persuaded to be of inferior merit, is presented to us; if we observe in him any extraordinary degree of pride and self-conceit; the firm persuasion he has of his own merit, takes hold of the imagination, and diminishes us in our own eyes, in the same manner, as if he were really possessed of all the good qualities which he so liberally attributes to himself. our idea is here precisely in that medium, which is requisite to make it operate on us by comparison. were it accompanied with belief, and did the person appear to have the same merit, which he assumes to himself, it would have a contrary effect, and would operate on us by sympathy. the influence of that principle would then be superior to that of comparison, contrary to what happens where the person's merit seems below his pretensions. the necessary consequence of these principles is, that pride, or an over-weaning conceit of ourselves, must be vicious; since it causes uneasiness in all men, and presents them every moment with a disagreeable comparison. it is a trite observation in philosophy, and even in common life and conversation, that it is our own pride, which makes us so much displeased with the pride of other people; and that vanity becomes insupportable to us merely because we are vain. the gay naturally associate themselves with the gay, and the amorous with the amorous: but the proud never can endure the proud, and rather seek the company of those who are of an opposite disposition. as we are, all of us, proud in some degree, pride is universally blamed and condemned by all mankind; as having a natural tendency to cause uneasiness in others by means of comparison. and this effect must follow the more naturally, that those, who have an ill-grounded conceit of themselves, are for ever making those comparisons, nor have they any other method of supporting their vanity. a man of sense and merit is pleased with himself, independent of all foreign considerations: but a fool must always find some person, that is more foolish, in order to keep himself in good humour with his own parts and understanding. but though an over-weaning conceit of our own merit be vicious and disagreeable, nothing can be more laudable, than to have a value for ourselves, where we really have qualities that are valuable. the utility and advantage of any quality to ourselves is a source of virtue, as well as its agreeableness to others; and it is certain, that nothing is more useful to us in the conduct of life, than a due degree of pride, which makes us sensible of our own merit, and gives us a confidence and assurance in all our projects and enterprizes. whatever capacity any one may be endowed with, it is entirely useless to him, if he be not acquainted with it, and form not designs suitable to it. it is requisite on all occasions to know our own force; and were it allowable to err on either side, it would be more advantageous to over-rate our merit, than to form ideas of it, below its just standard. fortune commonly favours the bold and enterprizing; and nothing inspires us with more boldness than a good opinion of ourselves. add to this, that though pride, or self-applause, be sometimes disagreeable to others, it is always agreeable to ourselves; as on the other hand, modesty, though it gives pleasure to every one, who observes it, produces often uneasiness in the person endowed with it. now it has been observed, that our own sensations determine the vice and virtue of any quality, as well as those sensations, which it may excite in others. thus self-satisfaction and vanity may not only be allowable, but requisite in a character. it is, however, certain, that good-breeding and decency require that we should avoid all signs and expressions, which tend directly to show that passion. we have, all of us, a wonderful partiality for ourselves, and were we always to give vent to our sentiments in this particular, we should mutually cause the greatest indignation in each other, not only by the immediate presence of so disagreeable a subject of comparison, but also by the contrariety of our judgments. in like manner, therefore, as we establish the laws of nature, in order to secure property in society, and prevent the opposition of self-interest; we establish the rules of good-breeding, in order to prevent the opposition of men's pride, and render conversation agreeable and inoffensive. nothing is more disagreeable than a man's over-weaning conceit of himself: every one almost has a strong propensity to this vice: no one can well distinguish in himself betwixt the vice and virtue, or be certain, that his esteem of his own merit is well-founded: for these reasons, all direct expressions of this passion are condemned; nor do we make any exception to this rule in favour of men of sense and merit. they are not allowed to do themselves justice openly, in words, no more than other people; and even if they show a reserve and secret doubt in doing themselves justice in their own thoughts, they will be more applauded. that impertinent, and almost universal propensity of men, to over-value themselves, has given us such a prejudice against self-applause, that we are apt to condemn it, by a general rule, wherever we meet with it; and it is with some difficulty we give a privilege to men of sense, even in their most secret thoughts. at least, it must be owned, that some disguise in this particular is absolutely requisite; and that if we harbour pride in our breasts, we must carry a fair outside, and have the appearance of modesty and mutual deference in all our conduct and behaviour. we must, on every occasion, be ready to prefer others to ourselves; to treat them with a kind of deference, even though they be our equals; to seem always the lowest and least in the company, where we are not very much distinguished above them: and if we observe these rules in our conduct, men will have more indulgence for our secret sentiments, when we discover them in an oblique manner. i believe no one, who has any practice of the world, and can penetrate into the inward sentiments of men, will assert, that the humility, which good-breeding and decency require of us, goes beyond the outside, or that a thorough sincerity in this particular is esteemed a real part of our duty. on the contrary, we may observe, that a genuine and hearty pride, or self-esteem, if well concealed and well founded, is essential to the character of a man of honour, and that there is no quality of the mind, which is more indispensibly requisite to procure the esteem and approbation of mankind. there are certain deferences and mutual submissions, which custom requires of the different ranks of men towards each other; and whoever exceeds in this particular, if through interest, is accused of meanness; if through ignorance, of simplicity. it is necessary, therefore, to know our rank and station in the world, whether it be fixed by our birth, fortune, employments, talents or reputation. it is necessary to feel the sentiment and passion of pride in conformity to it, and to regulate our actions accordingly. and should it be said, that prudence may suffice to regulate our actions in this particular, without any real pride, i would observe, that here the object of prudence is to conform our actions to the general usage and custom; and, that it is impossible those tacit airs of superiority should ever have been established and authorized by custom, unless men were generally proud, and unless that passion were generally approved, when well-grounded. if we pass from common life and conversation to history, this reasoning acquires new force, when we observe, that all those great actions and sentiments, which have become the admiration of mankind, are founded on nothing but pride and self-esteem. go, says alexander the great to his soldiers, when they refused to follow him to the indies, go tell your countrymen, that you left alexander corn pleating the conquest of the world. this passage was always particularly admired by the prince of conde, as we learn from st evremond. "alexander," said that prince, "abandoned by his soldiers, among barbarians, not yet fully subdued, felt in himself such a dignity of right and of empire, that he coued not believe it possible any one coued refuse to obey him. whether in europe or in asia, among greeks or persians, all was indifferent to him: wherever he found men, he fancied he found subjects." in general we may observe, that whatever we call heroic virtue, and admire under the character of greatness and elevation of mind, is either nothing but a steady and wellestablished pride and self-esteem, or partakes largely of that passion. courage, intrepidity, ambition, love of glory, magnanimity, and all the other shining virtues of that kind, have plainly a strong mixture of self-esteem in them, and derive a great part of their merit from that origin. accordingly we find, that many religious declaimers decry those virtues as purely pagan and natural, and represent to us the excellency of the christian religion, which places humility in the rank of virtues, and corrects the judgment of the world, and even of philosophers, who so generally admire all the efforts of pride and ambition. whether this virtue of humility has been rightly understood, i shall not pretend to determine. i am content with the concession, that the world naturally esteems a well-regulated pride, which secretly animates our conduct, without breaking out into such indecent expressions of vanity, as many offend the vanity of others. the merit of pride or self-esteem is derived from two circumstances, viz, its utility and its agreeableness to ourselves; by which it capacitates us for business, and, at the same time, gives us an immediate satisfaction. when it goes beyond its just bounds, it loses the first advantage, and even becomes prejudicial; which is the reason why we condemn an extravagant pride and ambition, however regulated by the decorums of good-breeding and politeness. but as such a passion is still agreeable, and conveys an elevated and sublime sensation to the person, who is actuated by it, the sympathy with that satisfaction diminishes considerably the blame, which naturally attends its dangerous influence on his conduct and behaviour. accordingly we may observe, that an excessive courage and magnanimity, especially when it displays itself under the frowns of fortune, contributes in a great measure, to the character of a hero, and will render a person the admiration of posterity; at the same time, that it ruins his affairs, and leads him into dangers and difficulties, with which otherwise he would never have been acquainted. heroism, or military glory, is much admired by the generality of mankind. they consider it as the most sublime kind of merit. men of cool reflection are not so sanguine in their praises of it. the infinite confusions and disorder, which it has caused in the world, diminish much of its merit in their eyes. when they would oppose the popular notions on this head, they always paint out the evils, which this supposed virtue has produced in human society; the subversion of empires, the devastation of provinces, the sack of cities. as long as these are present to us, we are more inclined to hate than admire the ambition of heroes. but when we fix our view on the person himself, who is the author of all this mischief, there is something so dazzling in his character, the mere contemplation of it so elevates the mind, that we cannot refuse it our admiration. the pain, which we receive from its tendency to the prejudice of society, is over-powered by a stronger and more immediate sympathy. thus our explication of the merit or demerit, which attends the degrees of pride or self-esteem, may serve as a strong argument for the preceding hypothesis, by shewing the effects of those principles above explained in all the variations of our judgments concerning that passion. nor will this reasoning be advantageous to us only by shewing, that the distinction of vice and virtue arises from the four principles of the advantage and of the pleasure of the person himself, and of others: but may also afford us a strong proof of some under-parts of that hypothesis. no one, who duly considers of this matter, will make any scruple of allowing, that any piece of in-breeding, or any expression of pride and haughtiness, is displeasing to us, merely because it shocks our own pride, and leads us by sympathy into a comparison, which causes the disagreeable passion of humility. now as an insolence of this kind is blamed even in a person who has always been civil to ourselves in particular; nay, in one, whose name is only known to us in history; it follows, that our disapprobation proceeds from a sympathy with others, and from the reflection, that such a character is highly displeasing and odious to every one, who converses or has any intercourse with the person possest of it. we sympathize with those people in their uneasiness; and as their uneasiness proceeds in part from a sympathy with the person who insults them, we may here observe a double rebound of the sympathy; which is a principle very similar to what we have observed. [book ii. part ii. sect. v.] sect. iii of goodness and benevolence having thus explained the origin of that praise and approbation, which attends every thing we call great in human affections; we now proceed to give an account of their goodness, and shew whence its merit is derived. when experience has once given us a competent knowledge of human affairs, and has taught us the proportion they bear to human passion, we perceive, that the generosity of men is very limited, and that it seldom extends beyond their friends and family, or, at most, beyond their native country. being thus acquainted with the nature of man, we expect not any impossibilities from him; but confine our view to that narrow circle, in which any person moves, in order to form a judgment of his moral character. when the natural tendency of his passions leads him to be serviceable and useful within his sphere, we approve of his character, and love his person, by a sympathy with the sentiments of those, who have a more particular connexion with him. we are quickly obliged to forget our own interest in our judgments of this kind, by reason of the perpetual contradictions, we meet with in society and conversation, from persons that are not placed in the same situation, and have not the same interest with ourselves. the only point of view, in which our sentiments concur with those of others, is, when we consider the tendency of any passion to the advantage or harm of those, who have any immediate connexion or intercourse with the person possessed of it. and though this advantage or harm be often very remote from ourselves, yet sometimes it is very near us, and interests us strongly by sympathy. this concern we readily extend to other cases, that are resembling; and when these are very remote, our sympathy is proportionably weaker, and our praise or blame fainter and more doubtful. the case is here the same as in our judgments concerning external bodies. all objects seem to diminish by their distance: but though the appearance of objects to our senses be the original standard, by which we judge of them, yet we do not say, that they actually diminish by the distance; but correcting the appearance by reflection, arrive at a more constant and established judgment concerning them. in like manner, though sympathy be much fainter than our concern for ourselves, and a sympathy with persons remote from us much fainter than that with persons near and contiguous; yet we neglect all these differences in our calm judgments concerning the characters of men. besides, that we ourselves often change our situation in this particular, we every day meet with persons, who are in a different situation from ourselves, and who coued never converse with us on any reasonable terms, were we to remain constantly in that situation and point of view, which is peculiar to us. the intercourse of sentiments, therefore, in society and conversation, makes us form some general inalterable standard, by which we may approve or disapprove of characters and manners. and though the heart does not always take part with those general notions, or regulate its love and hatred by them, yet are they sufficient for discourse, and serve all our purposes m company, in the pulpit, on the theatre, and in the schools. from these principles we may easily account for that merit, which is commonly ascribed to generosity, humanity, compassion, gratitude, friendship, fidelity, zeal, disinterestedness, liberality, and all those other qualities, which form the character of good and benevolent. a propensity to the tender passions makes a man agreeable and useful in all the parts of life; and gives a just direction to all his other quailties, which otherwise may become prejudicial to society. courage and ambition, when not regulated by benevolence, are fit only to make a tyrant and public robber. it is the same case with judgment and capacity, and all the qualities of that kind. they are indifferent in themselves to the interests of society, and have a tendency to the good or ill of mankind, according as they are directed by these other passions. as love is immediately agreeable to the person, who is actuated by it, and hatred immediately disagreeable; this may also be a considerable reason, why we praise all the passions that partake of the former, and blame all those that have any considerable share of the latter. it is certain we are infinitely touched with a tender sentiment, as well as with a great one. the tears naturally start in our eyes at the conception of it; nor can we forbear giving a loose to the same tenderness towards the person who exerts it. all this seems to me a proof, that our approbation has, in those cases, an origin different from the prospect of utility and advantage, either to ourselves or others. to which we may add, that men naturally, without reflection, approve of that character, which is most like their own. the man of a mild disposition and tender affections, in forming a notion of the most perfect virtue, mixes in it more of benevolence and humanity, than the man of courage and enterprize, who naturally looks upon a certain elevation of mind as the most accomplished character. this must evidently proceed from an immediate sympathy, which men have with characters similar to their own. they enter with more warmth into such sentiments, and feel more sensibly the pleasure, which arises from them. it is remarkable, that nothing touches a man of humanity more than any instance of extraordinary delicacy in love or friendship, where a person is attentive to the smallest concerns of his friend, and is willing to sacrifice to them the most considerable interest of his own. such delicacies have little influence on society; because they make us regard the greatest trifles: but they are the more engaging, the more minute the concern is, and are a proof of the highest merit in any one, who is capable of them. the passions are so contagious, that they pass with the greatest facility from one person to another, and produce correspondent movements in all human breasts. where friendship appears in very signal instances, my heart catches the same passion, and is warmed by those warm sentiments, that display themselves before me. such agreeable movements must give me an affection to every one that excites them. this is the case with every thing that is agreeable in any person. the transition from pleasure to love is easy: but the transition must here be still more easy; since the agreeable sentiment, which is excited by sympathy, is love itself; and there is nothing required but to change the object. hence the peculiar merit of benevolence in all its shapes and appearances. hence even its weaknesses are virtuous and amiable; and a person, whose grief upon the loss of a friend were excessive, would be esteemed upon that account. his tenderness bestows a merit, as it does a pleasure, on his melancholy. we are not, however, to imagine, that all the angry passions are vicious, though they are disagreeable. there is a certain indulgence due to human nature in this respect. anger and hatred are passions inherent in our very frame and constitutions. the want of them, on some occasions, may even be a proof of weakness and imbecillity. and where they appear only in a low degree, we not only excuse them because they are natural; but even bestow our applauses on them, because they are inferior to what appears in the greatest part of mankind. where these angry passions rise up to cruelty, they form the most detested of all vices. all the pity and concern which we have for the miserable sufferers by this vice, turns against the person guilty of it, and produces a stronger hatred than we are sensible of on any other occasion. even when the vice of inhumanity rises not to this extreme degree, our sentiments concerning it are very much influenced by reflections on the harm that results from it. and we may observe in general, that if we can find any quality in a person, which renders him incommodious to those, who live and converse with him, we always allow it to be a fault or blemish, without any farther examination. on the other hand, when we enumerate the good qualities of any person, we always mention those parts of his character, which render him a safe companion, an easy friend, a gentle master, an agreeable husband, or an indulgent father. we consider him with all his relations in society; and love or hate him, according as he affects those, who have any immediate intercourse with him. and it is a most certain rule, that if there be no relation of life, in which i coued not wish to stand to a particular person, his character must so far be allowed to be perfect. if he be as little wanting to himself as to others, his character is entirely perfect. this is the ultimate test of merit and virtue. sect. iv of natural abilities no distinction is more usual in all systems of ethics, than that betwixt natural abilities and moral virtues; where the former are placed on the same footing with bodily endowments, and are supposed to have no merit or moral worth annexed to them. whoever considers the matter accurately, will find, that a dispute upon this head would be merely a dispute of words, and that though these qualities are not altogether of the same kind, yet they agree in the most material circumstances. they are both of them equally mental qualities: and both of them equally produce pleasure; and have of course an equal tendency to procure the love and esteem of mankind. there are few, who are not as jealous of their character, with regard to sense and knowledge, as to honour and courage; and much more than with regard to temperance and sobriety. men are even afraid of passing for goodnatured; lest that should be taken for want of understanding: and often boast of more debauches than they have been really engaged in, to give themselves airs of fire and spirit. in short, the figure a man makes in the world, the reception he meets with in company, the esteem paid him by his acquaintance; all these advantages depend almost as much upon his good sense and judgment, as upon any other part of his character. let a man have the best intentions in the world, and be the farthest from all injustice and violence, he will never be able to make himself be much regarded without a moderate share, at least, of parts and understanding. since then natural abilities, though, perhaps, inferior, yet are on the same footing, both as to their causes and effects, with those qualities which we call moral virtues, why should we make any distinction betwixt them? though we refuse to natural abilities the title of virtues, we must allow, that they procure the love and esteem of mankind; that they give a new lustre to the other virtues; and that a man possessed of them is much more intitled to our good-will and services, than one entirely void of them. it may, indeed, be pretended that the sentiment of approbation, which those qualities produce, besides its being inferior, is also somewhat different from that, which attends the other virtues. but this, in my opinion, is not a sufficient reason for excluding them from the catalogue of virtues. each of the virtues, even benevolence, justice, gratitude, integrity, excites a different sentiment or feeling in the spectator. the characters of caesar and cato, as drawn by sallust, are both of them virtuous, in the strictest sense of the word; but in a different way: nor are the sentiments entirely the same, which arise from them. the one produces love; the other esteem: the one is amiable; the other awful: we could wish to meet with the one character in a friend; the other character we would be ambitious of in ourselves. in like manner, the approbation which attends natural abilities, may be somewhat different to the feeling from that, which arises from the other virtues, without making them entirely of a different species. and indeed we may observe, that the natural abilities, no more than the other virtues, produce not, all of them, the same kind of approbation. good sense and genius beget esteem: wit and humour excite love. [footnote love and esteem are at the bottom the same passions, and arise from like causes. the qualities, that produce both, are agreeable, and give pleasure. but where this pleasure is severe and serious; or where its object is great, and makes a strong impression; or where it produces any degree of humility and awe: in all these cases, the passion, which arises from the pleasure, is more properly denominated esteem than love. benevolence attends both: but is connected with love in a more eminent degree.] those, who represent the distinction betwixt natural abilities and moral virtues as very material, may say, that the former are entirely involuntary, and have therefore no merit attending them, as having no dependance on liberty and free-will. but to this i answer, first, that many of those qualities, which all moralists, especially the antients, comprehend under the title of moral virtues, are equally involuntary and necessary, with the qualities of the judgment and imagination. of this nature are constancy, fortitude, magnanimity; and, in short, all the qualities which form the great man. i might say the same, in some degree, of the others; it being almost impossible for the mind to change its character in any considerable article, or cure itself of a passionate or splenetic temper, when they are natural to it. the greater degree there is of these blameable qualities, the more vicious they become, and yet they are the less voluntary. secondly, i would have anyone give me a reason, why virtue and vice may not be involuntary, as well as beauty and deformity. these moral distinctions arise from the natural distinctions of pain and pleasure; and when we receive those feelings from the general consideration of any quality or character, we denominate it vicious or virtuous. now i believe no one will assert, that a quality can never produce pleasure or pain to the person who considers it, unless it be perfectly voluntary in the person who possesses it. thirdly, as to free-will, we have shewn that it has no place with regard to the actions, no more than the qualities of men. it is not a just consequence, that what is voluntary is free. our actions are more voluntary than our judgments; but we have not more liberty in the one than in the other. but though this distinction betwixt voluntary and involuntary be not sufficient to justify the distinction betwixt natural abilities and moral virtues, yet the former distinction will afford us a plausible reason, why moralists have invented the latter. men have observed, that though natural abilities and moral qualities be in the main on the same footing, there is, however, this difference betwixt them, that the former are almost invariable by any art or industry; while the latter, or at least, the actions, that proceed from them, may be changed by the motives of rewards and punishments, praise and blame. hence legislators, and divines, and moralists, have principally applied themselves to the regulating these voluntary actions, and have endeavoured to produce additional motives, for being virtuous in that particular. they knew, that to punish a man for folly, or exhort him to be prudent and sagacious, would have but little effect; though the same punishments and exhortations, with regard to justice and injustice, might have a considerable influence. but as men, in common life and conversation, do not carry those ends in view, but naturally praise or blame whatever pleases or displeases them, they do not seem much to regard this distinction, but consider prudence under the character of virtue as well as benevolence, and penetration as well as justice. nay, we find, that all moralists, whose judgment is not perverted by a strict adherence to a system, enter into the same way of thinking; and that the antient moralists in particular made no scruple of placing prudence at the head of the cardinal virtues. there is a sentiment of esteem and approbation, which may be excited, in some degree, by any faculty of the mind, in its perfect state and condition; and to account for this sentiment is the business of philosophers. it belongs to grammarians to examine what qualities are entitled to the denomination of virtue; nor will they find, upon trial, that this is so easy a task, as at first sight they may be apt to imagine. the principal reason why natural abilities are esteemed, is because of their tendency to be useful to the person, who is possessed of them. it is impossible to execute any design with success, where it is not conducted with prudence and discretion; nor will the goodness of our intentions alone suffice to procure us a happy issue to our enterprizes. men are superior to beasts principally by the superiority of their reason; and they are the degrees of the same faculty, which set such an infinite difference betwixt one man and another. all the advantages of art are owing to human reason; and where fortune is not very capricious, the most considerable part of these advantages must fall to the share of the prudent and sagacious. when it is asked, whether a quick or a slow apprehension be most valuable? whether one, that at first view penetrates into a subject, but can perform nothing upon study; or a contrary character, which must work out every thing by dint of application? whether a clear head, or a copious invention? whether a profound genius, or a sure judgment? in short, what character, or peculiar understanding, is more excellent than another? it is evident we can answer none of these questions, without considering which of those qualities capacitates a man best for the world, and carries him farthest in any of his undertakings. there are many other qualities of the mind, whose merit is derived from the same origin, industry, perseverance, patience, activity, vigilance, application, constancy, with other virtues of that kind, which it will be easy to recollect, are esteemed valuable upon no other account, than their advantage in the conduct of life. it is the same case with temperance, frugality, economy, resolution: as on the other hand, prodigality, luxury, irresolution, uncertainty, are vicious, merely because they draw ruin upon us, and incapacitate us for business and action. as wisdom and good-sense are valued, because they are useful to the person possessed of them; so wit and eloquence are valued, because they are immediately agreeable to others. on the other hand, good humour is loved and esteemed, because it is immediately agreeable to the person himself. it is evident, that the conversation of a man of wit is very satisfactory; as a chearful good-humoured companion diffuses a joy over the whole company, from a sympathy with his gaiety. these qualities, therefore, being agreeable, they naturally beget love and esteem, and answer to all the characters of virtue. it is difficult to tell, on many occasions, what it is that renders one man's conversation so agreeable and entertaining, and another's so insipid and distasteful. as conversation is a transcript of the mind as well as books, the same qualities, which render the one valuable, must give us an esteem for the other. this we shall consider afterwards. in the mean time it may be affirmed in general, that all the merit a man may derive from his conversation (which, no doubt, may be very considerable) arises from nothing but the pleasure it conveys to those who are present. in this view, cleanliness is also to be regarded as a virtue; since it naturally renders us agreeable to others, and is a very considerable source of love and affection. no one will deny, that a negligence in this particular is a fault; and as faults are nothing but smaller vices, and this fault can have no other origin than the uneasy sensation, which it excites in others, we may in this instance, seemingly so trivial, dearly discover the origin of the moral distinction of vice and virtue in other instances. besides all those qualities, which render a person lovely or valuable, there is also a certain je-ne-scai-quoi of agreeable and handsome, that concurs to the same effect. in this case, as well as in that of wit and eloquence, we must have recourse to a certain sense, which acts without reflection, and regards not the tendencies of qualities and characters. some moralists account for all the sentiments of virtue by this sense. their hypothesis is very plausible. nothing but a particular enquiry can give the preference to any other hypothesis. when we find, that almost all the virtues have such particular tendencies; and also find, that these tendencies are sufficient alone to give a strong sentiment of approbation: we cannot doubt, after this, that qualities are approved of, in proportion to the advantage, which results from them. the decorum or indecorum of a quality, with regard to the age, or character, or station, contributes also to its praise or blame. this decorum depends, in a great measure, upon experience. it is usual to see men lose their levity, as they advance in years. such a degree of gravity, therefore, and such years, are connected together in our thoughts. when we observe them separated in any person's character, this imposes a kind of violence on our imagination, and is disagreeable. that faculty of the soul, which, of all others, is of the least consequence to the character, and has the least virtue or vice in its several degrees, at the same time, that it admits of a great variety of degrees, is the memory. unless it rise up to that stupendous height as to surprize us, or sink so low as, in some measure, to affect the judgment, we commonly take no notice of its variations, nor ever mention them to the praise or dispraise of any person. it is so far from being a virtue to have a good memory, that men generally affect to complain of a bad one; and endeavouring to persuade the world, that what they say is entirely of their own invention, sacrifice it to the praise of genius and judgment. yet to consider the matter abstractedly, it would be difficult to give a reason, why the faculty of recalling past ideas with truth and clearness, should not have as much merit in it, as the faculty of placing our present ideas, in such an order, as to form true propositions and opinions. the reason of the difference certainly must be, that the memory is exerted without any sensation of pleasure or pain; and in all its middling degrees serves almost equally well in business and affairs. but the least variations in the judgment are sensibly felt in their consequences; while at the same time that faculty is never exerted in any eminent degree, without an extraordinary delight and satisfaction. the sympathy with this utility and pleasure bestows a merit on the understanding; and the absence of it makes us consider the memory as a faculty very indifferent to blame or praise. before i leave this subject of natural abilities, i must observe, that, perhaps, one source of the esteem and affection, which attends them, is derived from the importance and weight, which they bestow on the person possessed of them. he becomes of greater consequence in life. his resolutions and actions affect a greater number of his fellow-creatures. both his friendship and enmity are of moment. and it is easy to observe, that whoever is elevated, after this manner, above the rest of mankind, must excite in us the sentiments of esteem and approbation. whatever is important engages our attention, fixes our thought, and is contemplated with satisfaction. the histories of kingdoms are more interesting than domestic stories: the histories of great empires more than those of small cities and principalities: and the histories of wars and revolutions more than those of peace and order. we sympathize with the persons that suffer, in all the various sentiments which belong to their fortunes. the mind is occupied by the multitude of the objects, and by the strong passions, that display themselves. and this occupation or agitation of the mind is commonly agreeable and amusing. the same theory accounts for the esteem and regard we pay to men of extraordinary parts and abilities. the good and ill of multitudes are connected with their actions. whatever they undertake is important, and challenges our attention. nothing is to be over-looked and despised, that regards them. and where any person can excite these sentiments, he soon acquires our esteem; unless other circumstances of his character render him odious and disagreeable. sect. v some farther reflections concerning the natural virtues it has been observed, in treating of the passions, that pride and humility, love and hatred, are excited by any advantages or disadvantages of the mind, body, or fortune; and that these advantages or disadvantages have that effect by producing a separate impression of pain or pleasure. the pain or pleasure, which arises from the general survey or view of any action or quality of the mind, constitutes its vice or virtue, and gives rise to our approbation or blame, which is nothing but a fainter and more imperceptible love or hatred. we have assigned four different sources of this pain and pleasure; and in order to justify more fully that hypothesis, it may here be proper to observe, that the advantages or disadvantages of the body and of fortune, produce a pain or pleasure from the very same principles. the tendency of any object to be useful to the person possess d of it, or to others; to convey pleasure to him or to others; all these circumstances convey an immediate pleasure to the person, who considers the object, and command his love and approbation. to begin with the advantages of the body; we may observe a phaenomenon, which might appear somewhat trivial and ludicrous, if any thing coued be trivial, which fortified a conclusion of such importance, or ludicrous, which was employed in a philosophical reasoning. it is a general remark, that those we call good women's men, who have either signalized themselves by their amorous exploits, or whose make of body promises any extraordinary vigour of that kind, are well received by the fair sex, and naturally engage the affections even of those, whose virtue prevents any design of ever giving employment to those talents. here it is evident, that the ability of such a person to give enjoyment, is the real source of that love and esteem he meets with among the females; at the same time that the women, who love and esteem him, have no prospect of receiving that enjoyment themselves, and can only be affected by means of their sympathy with one, that has a commerce of love with him. this instance is singular, and merits our attention. another source of the pleasure we receive from considering bodily advantages, is their utility to the person himself, who is possessed of them. it is certain, that a considerable part of the beauty of men, as well as of other animals, consists in such a conformation of members, as we find by experience to be attended with strength and agility, and to capacitate the creature for any action or exercise. broad shoulders, a lank belly, firm joints, taper legs; all these are beautiful in our species because they are signs of force and vigour, which being advantages we naturally sympathize with, they convey to the beholder a share of that satisfaction they produce in the possessor. so far as to the utility, which may attend any quality of the body. as to the immediate pleasure, it is certain, that an air of health, as well as of strength and agility, makes a considerable part of beauty; and that a sickly air in another is always disagreeable, upon account of that idea of pain and uneasiness, which it conveys to us. on the other hand, we are pleased with the regularity of our own features, though it be neither useful to ourselves nor others; and it is necessary at a distance, to make it convey to us any satisfaction. we commonly consider ourselves as we appear in the eyes of others, and sympathize with the advantageous sentiments they entertain with regard to us. how far the advantages of fortune produce esteem and approbation from the same principles, we may satisfy ourselves by reflecting on our precedent reasoning on that subject. we have observed, that our approbation of those, who are possess d of the advantages of fortune, may be ascribed to three different causes. first, to that immediate pleasure, which a rich man gives us, by the view of the beautiful cloaths, equipage, gardens, or houses, which he possesses. secondly, to the advantage, which we hope to reap from him by his generosity and liberality. thirdly, to the pleasure and advantage, which he himself reaps from his possessions, and which produce an agreeable sympathy in us. whether we ascribe our esteem of the rich and great to one or all of these causes, we may clearly see the traces of those principles, which give rise to the sense of vice and virtue. i believe most people, at first sight, will be inclined to ascribe our esteem of the rich to self-interest, and the prospect of advantage. but as it is certain, that our esteem or deference extends beyond any prospect of advantage to ourselves, it is evident, that that sentiment must proceed from a sympathy with those, who are dependent on the person we esteem and respect, and who have an immediate connexion with him. we consider him as a person capable of contributing to the happiness or enjoyment of his fellow-creatures, whose sentiments, with regard to him, we naturally embrace. and this consideration will serve to justify my hypothesis in preferring the third principle to the other two, and ascribing our esteem of the rich to a sympathy with the pleasure and advantage, which they themselves receive from their possessions. for as even the other two principles cannot operate to a due extent, or account for all the phaenomena, without having recourse to a sympathy of one kind or other; it is much more natural to chuse that sympathy, which is immediate and direct, than that which is remote and indirect. to which we may add, that where the riches or power are very great, and render the person considerable and important in the world, the esteem attending them, may, in part, be ascribed to another source, distinct from these three, viz. their interesting the mind by a prospect of the multitude, and importance of their consequences: though, in order to account for the operation of this principle, we must also have recourse to sympathy; as we have observed in the preceding section. it may not be amiss, on this occasion, to remark the flexibility of our sentiments, and the several changes they so readily receive from the objects, with which they are conjoined. all the sentiments of approbation, which attend any particular species of objects, have a great resemblance to each other, though derived from different sources; and, on the other hand, those sentiments, when directed to different objects, are different to the feeling, though derived from the same source. thus the beauty of all visible objects causes a pleasure pretty much the same, though it be sometimes derived from the mere species and appearance of the objects; sometimes from sympathy, and an idea of their utility. in like manner, whenever we survey the actions and characters of men, without any particular interest in them, the pleasure, or pain, which arises from the survey (with some minute differences) is, in the main, of the same kind, though perhaps there be a great diversity in the causes, from which it is derived. on the other hand, a convenient house, and a virtuous character, cause not the same feeling of approbation; even though the source of our approbation be the same, and flow from sympathy and an idea of their utility. there is something very inexplicable in this variation of our feelings; but it is what we have experience of with regard to all our passions and sentiments. sect. vi conclusion of this book thus upon the whole i am hopeful, that nothing is wanting to an accurate proof of this system of ethics. we are certain, that sympathy is a very powerful principle in human nature. we are also certain, that it has a great influence on our sense of beauty, when we regard external objects, as well as when we judge of morals. we find, that it has force sufficient to give us the strongest sentiments of approbation, when it operates alone, without the concurrence of any other principle; as in the cases of justice, allegiance, chastity, and good-manners. we may observe, that all the circumstances requisite for its operation are found in most of the virtues; which have, for the most part, a tendency to the good of society, or to that of the person possessed of them. if we compare all these circumstances, we shall not doubt, that sympathy is the chief source of moral distinctions; especially when we reflect, that no objection can be raised against this hypothesis in one case, which will not extend to all cases. justice is certainly approved of for no other reason, than because it has a tendency to the public good: and the public good is indifferent to us, except so far as sympathy interests us in it. we may presume the like with regard to all the other virtues, which have a like tendency to the public good. they must derive all their merit from our sympathy with those, who reap any advantage from them: as the virtues, which have a tendency to the good of the person possessed of them, derive their merit from our sympathy with him. most people will readily allow, that the useful qualities of the mind are virtuous, because of their utility. this way of thinking is so natural, and occurs on so many occasions, that few will make any scruple of admitting it. now this being once admitted, the force of sympathy must necessarily be acknowledged. virtue is considered as means to an end. means to an end are only valued so far as the end is valued. but the happiness of strangers affects us by sympathy alone. to that principle, therefore, we are to ascribe the sentiment of approbation, which arises from the survey of all those virtues, that are useful to society, or to the person possessed of them. these form the most considerable part of morality. were it proper in such a subject to bribe the reader's assent, or employ any thing but solid argument, we are here abundantly supplied with topics to engage the affections. all lovers of virtue (and such we all are in speculation, however we may degenerate in practice) must certainly be pleased to see moral distinctions derived from so noble a source, which gives us a just notion both of the generosity and capacity of human nature. it requires but very little knowledge of human affairs to perceive, that a sense of morals is a principle inherent in the soul, and one of the most powerful that enters into the composition. but this sense must certainly acquire new force, when reflecting on itself, it approves of those principles, from whence it is derived, and finds nothing but what is great and good in its rise and origin. those who resolve the sense of morals into original instincts of the human mind, may defend the cause of virtue with sufficient authority; but want the advantage, which those possess, who account for that sense by an extensive sympathy with mankind. according to their system, not only virtue must be approved of, but also the sense of virtue: and not only that sense, but also the principles, from whence it is derived. so that nothing is presented on any side, but what is laudable and good. this observation may be extended to justice, and the other virtues of that kind. though justice be artificial, the sense of its morality is natural. it is the combination of men, in a system of conduct, which renders any act of justice beneficial to society. but when once it has that tendency, we naturally approve of it; and if we did not so, it is impossible any combination or convention coued ever produce that sentiment. most of the inventions of men are subject to change. they depend upon humour and caprice. they have a vogue for a time, and then sink into oblivion. it may, perhaps, be apprehended, that if justice were allowed to be a human invention, it must be placed on the same footing. but the cases are widely different. the interest, on which justice is founded, is the greatest imaginable, and extends to all times and places. it cannot possibly be served by any other invention. it is obvious, and discovers itself on the very first formation of society. all these causes render the rules of justice stedfast and immutable; at least, as immutable as human nature. and if they were founded on original instincts, coued they have any greater stability? the same system may help us to form a just notion of the happiness, as well as of the dignity of virtue, and may interest every principle of our nature in the embracing and cherishing that noble quality. who indeed does not feel an accession of alacrity in his pursuits of knowledge and ability of every kind, when he considers, that besides the advantage, which immediately result from these acquisitions, they also give him a new lustre in the eyes of mankind, and are universally attended with esteem and approbation? and who can think any advantages of fortune a sufficient compensation for the least breach of the social virtues, when he considers, that not only his character with regard to others, but also his peace and inward satisfaction entirely depend upon his strict observance of them; and that a mind will never be able to bear its own survey, that has been wanting in its part to mankind and society? but i forbear insisting on this subject. such reflections require a work a-part, very different from the genius of the present. the anatomist ought never to emulate the painter; nor in his accurate dissections and portraitures of the smaller parts of the human body, pretend to give his figures any graceful and engaging attitude or expression. there is even something hideous, or at least minute in the views of things, which he presents; and it is necessary the objects should be set more at a distance, and be more covered up from sight, to make them engaging to the eye and imagination. an anatomist, however, is admirably fitted to give advice to a painter; and it is even impracticable to excel in the latter art, without the assistance of the former. we must have an exact knowledge of the parts, their situation and connexion, before we can design with any elegance or correctness. and thus the most abstract speculations concerning human nature, however cold and unentertaining, become subservient to practical morality; and may render this latter science more correct in its precepts, and more persuasive in its exhortations. appendix there is nothing i would more willingly lay hold of, than an opportunity of confessing my errors; and should esteem such a return to truth and reason to be more honourable than the most unerring judgment. a man, who is free from mistakes, can pretend to no praises, except from the justness of his understanding: but a man, who corrects his mistakes, shews at once the justness of his understanding, and the candour and ingenuity of his temper. i have not yet been so fortunate as to discover any very considerable mistakes in the reasonings delivered in the preceding volumes, except on one article: but i have found by experience, that some of my expressions have not been so well chosen, as to guard against all mistakes in the readers; and it is chiefly to remedy this defect, i have subjoined the following appendix. we can never be induced to believe any matter of fact, except where its cause, or its effect, is present to us; but what the nature is of that belief, which arises from the relation of cause and effect, few have had the curiosity to ask themselves. in my opinion, this dilemma is inevitable. either the belief is some new idea, such as that of reality or existence, which we join to the simple conception of an object, or it is merely a peculiar feeling or sentiment. that it is not a new idea, annexed to the simple conception, may be evinced from these two arguments. first, we have no abstract idea of existence, distinguishable and separable from the idea of particular objects. it is impossible, therefore, that this idea of existence can be annexed to the idea of any object, or form the difference betwixt a simple conception and belief. secondly, the mind has the command over all its ideas, and can separate, unite, mix, and vary them, as it pleases; so that if belief consisted merely in a new idea, annexed to the conception, it would be in a man's power to believe what he pleased. we may, therefore, conclude, that belief consists merely in a certain feeling or sentiment; in something, that depends not on the will, but must arise from certain determinate causes and principles, of which we are not masters. when we are convinced of any matter of fact, we do nothing but conceive it, along with a certain feeling, different from what attends the mere reveries of the imagination. and when we express our incredulity concerning any fact, we mean, that the arguments for the fact produce not that feeling. did not the belief consist in a sentiment different from our mere conception, whatever objects were presented by the wildest imagination, would be on an equal footing with the most established truths founded on history and experience. there is nothing but the feeling, or sentiment, to distinguish the one from the other. this, therefore, being regarded as an undoubted truth, that belief is nothing but a peculiar feeling, different from the simple conception, the next question, that naturally occurs, is, what is the nature of this feeling, or sentiment, and whether it be analogous to any other sentiment of the human mind? this question is important. for if it be not analogous to any other sentiment, we must despair of explaining its causes, and must consider it as an original principle of the human mind. if it be analogous, we may hope to explain its causes from analogy, and trace it up to more general principles. now that there is a greater firmness and solidity in the conceptions, which are the objects of conviction and assurance, than in the loose and indolent reveries of a castle-builder, every one will readily own. they strike upon us with more force; they are more present to us; the mind has a firmer hold of them, and is more actuated and moved by them. it acquiesces in them; and, in a manner, fixes and reposes itself on them. in short, they approach nearer to the impressions, which are immediately present to us; and are therefore analogous to many other operations of the mind. there is not, in my opinion, any possibility of evading this conclusion, but by asserting, that belief, beside the simple conception, consists in some impression or feeling, distinguishable from the conception. it does not modify the conception, and render it more present and intense: it is only annexed to it, after the same manner that will and desire are annexed to particular conceptions of good and pleasure. but the following considerations will, i hope, be sufficient to remove this hypothesis. first, it is directly contrary to experience, and our immediate consciousness. all men have ever allowed reasoning to be merely an operation of our thoughts or ideas; and however those ideas may be varied to the feeling, there is nothing ever enters into our conclusions but ideas, or our fainter conceptions. for instance; i hear at present a person's voice, whom i am acquainted with; and this sound comes from the next room. this impression of my senses immediately conveys my thoughts to the person, along with all the surrounding objects. i paint them out to myself as existent at present, with the same qualities and relations, that i formerly knew them possessed of. these ideas take faster hold of my mind, than the ideas of an inchanted castle. they are different to the feeling; but there is no distinct or separate impression attending them. it is the same case when i recollect the several incidents of a journey, or the events of any history. every particular fact is there the object of belief. its idea is modified differently from the loose reveries of a castle-builder: but no distinct impression attends every distinct idea, or conception of matter of fact. this is the subject of plain experience. if ever this experience can be disputed on any occasion, it is when the mind has been agitated with doubts and difficulties; and afterwards, upon taking the object in a new point of view, or being presented with a new argument, fixes and reposes itself in one settled conclusion and belief. in this case there is a feeling distinct and separate from the conception. the passage from doubt and agitation to tranquility and repose, conveys a satisfaction and pleasure to the mind. but take any other case. suppose i see the legs and thighs of a person in motion, while some interposed object conceals the rest of his body. here it is certain, the imagination spreads out the whole figure. i give him a head and shoulders, and breast and neck. these members i conceive and believe him to be possessed of. nothing can be more evident, than that this whole operation is performed by the thought or imagination alone. the transition is immediate. the ideas presently strike us. their customary connexion with the present impression, varies them and modifies them in a certain manner, but produces no act of the mind, distinct from this peculiarity of conception. let any one examine his own mind, and he will evidently find this to be the truth. secondly, whatever may be the case, with regard to this distinct impression, it must be allowed, that the mind has a firmer hold, or more steady conception of what it takes to be matter of fact, than of fictions. why then look any farther, or multiply suppositions without necessity? thirdly, we can explain the causes of the firm conception, but not those of any separate impression. and not only so, but the causes of the firm conception exhaust the whole subject, and nothing is left to produce any other effect. an inference concerning a matter of fact is nothing but the idea of an object, that is frequently conjoined, or is associated with a present impression. this is the whole of it. every part is requisite to explain, from analogy, the more steady conception; and nothing remains capable of producing any distinct impression. fourthly, the effects of belief, in influencing the passions and imagination, can all be explained from the firm conception; and there is no occasion to have recourse to any other principle. these arguments, with many others, enumerated in the foregoing volumes, sufficiently prove, that belief only modifies the idea or conception; and renders it different to the feeling, without producing any distinct impression. thus upon a general view of the subject, there appear to be two questions of importance, which we may venture to recommend to the consideration of philosophers, whether there be any thing to distinguish belief from the simple conception beside the feeling of sentiment? and, whether this feeling be any thing but a firmer conception, or a faster hold, that we take of the object? if, upon impartial enquiry, the same conclusion, that i have formed, be assented to by philosophers, the next business is to examine the analogy, which there is betwixt belief, and other acts of the mind, and find the cause of the firmness and strength of conception: and this i do not esteem a difficult task. the transition from a present impression, always enlivens and strengthens any idea. when any object is presented, the idea of its usual attendant immediately strikes us, as something real and solid. it is felt, rather than conceived, and approaches the impression, from which it is derived, in its force and influence. this i have proved at large. i cannot add any new arguments. i had entertained some hopes, that however deficient our theory of the intellectual world might be, it would be free from those contradictions, and absurdities, which seem to attend every explication, that human reason can give of the material world. but upon a more strict review of the section concerning personal identity, i find myself involved in such a labyrinth, that, i must confess, i neither know how to correct my former opinions, nor how to render them consistent. if this be not a good general reason for scepticism, it is at least a sufficient one (if i were not already abundantly supplied) for me to entertain a diffidence and modesty in all my decisions. i shall propose the arguments on both sides, beginning with those that induced me to deny the strict and proper identity and simplicity of a self or thinking being. when we talk of self or substance, we must have an idea annexed to these terms, otherwise they are altogether unintelligible. every idea is derived from preceding impressions; and we have no impression of self or substance, as something simple and individual. we have, therefore, no idea of them in that sense. whatever is distinct, is distinguishable; and whatever is distinguishable, is separable by the thought or imagination. all perceptions are distinct. they are, therefore, distinguishable, and separable, and may be conceived as separately existent, and may exist separately, without any contradiction or absurdity. when i view this table and that chimney, nothing is present to me but particular perceptions, which are of a like nature with all the other perceptions. this is the doctrine of philosophers. but this table, which is present to me, and the chimney, may and do exist separately. this is the doctrine of the vulgar, and implies no contradiction. there is no contradiction, therefore, in extending the same doctrine to all the perceptions. in general, the following reasoning seems satisfactory. all ideas are borrowed from preceding perceptions. our ideas of objects, therefore, are derived from that source. consequently no proposition can be intelligible or consistent with regard to objects, which is not so with regard to perceptions. but it is intelligible and consistent to say, that objects exist distinct and independent, without any common simple substance or subject of inhesion. this proposition, therefore, can never be absurd with regard to perceptions. when i turn my reflection on myself, i never can perceive this self without some one or more perceptions; nor can i ever perceive any thing but the perceptions. it is the composition of these, therefore, which forms the self. we can conceive a thinking being to have either many or few perceptions. suppose the mind to be reduced even below the life of an oyster. suppose it to have only one perception, as of thirst or hunger. consider it in that situation. do you conceive any thing but merely that perception? have you any notion of self or substance? if not, the addition of other perceptions can never give you that notion. the annihilation, which some people suppose to follow upon death, and which entirely destroys this self, is nothing but an extinction of all particular perceptions; love and hatred, pain and pleasure, thought and sensation. these therefore must be the same with self; since the one cannot survive the other. is self the same with substance? if it be, how can that question have place, concerning the subsistence of self, under a change of substance? if they be distinct, what is the difference betwixt them? for my part, i have a notion of neither, when conceived distinct from particular perceptions. philosophers begin to be reconciled to the principle, that we have no idea of external substance, distinct from the ideas of particular qualities. this must pave the way for a like principle with regard to the mind, that we have no notion of it, distinct from the particular perceptions. so far i seem to be attended with sufficient evidence. but having thus loosened all our particular perceptions, when i proceed to explain the principle of connexion, which binds them together, and makes us attribute to them a real simplicity and identity; i am sensible, that my account is very defective, and that nothing but the seeming evidence of the precedent reasonings coued have induced me to receive it. if perceptions are distinct existences, they form a whole only by being connected together. but no connexions among distinct existences are ever discoverable by human understanding. we only feel a connexion or determination of the thought, to pass from one object to another. it follows, therefore, that the thought alone finds personal identity, when reflecting on the train of past perceptions, that compose a mind, the ideas of them are felt to be connected together, and naturally introduce each other. however extraordinary this conclusion may seem, it need not surprize us. most philosophers seem inclined to think, that personal identity arises from consciousness; and consciousness is nothing but a reflected thought or perception. the present philosophy, therefore, has so far a promising aspect. but all my hopes vanish, when i come to explain the principles, that unite our successive perceptions in our thought or consciousness. i cannot discover any theory, which gives me satisfaction on this head. in short there are two principles, which i cannot render consistent; nor is it in my power to renounce either of them, viz, that all our distinct perceptions are distinct existences, and that the mind never perceives any real connexion among distinct existences. did our perceptions either inhere in something simple and individual, or did the mind perceive some real connexion among them, there would be no difficulty in the case. for my part, i must plead the privilege of a sceptic, and confess, that this difficulty is too hard for my understanding. i pretend not, however, to pronounce it absolutely insuperable. others, perhaps, or myself, upon more mature reflections, may discover some hypothesis, that will reconcile those contradictions. i shall also take this opportunity of confessing two other errors of less importance, which more mature reflection has discovered to me in my reasoning. the first may be found in vol. i. page . where i say, that the distance betwixt two bodies is known, among other things, by the angles, which the rays of light flowing from the bodies make with each other. it is certain, that these angles are not known to the mind, and consequently can never discover the distance. the second error may be found in vol. i. page where i say, that two ideas of the same object can only be different by their different degrees of force and vivacity. i believe there are other differences among ideas, which cannot properly be comprehended under these terms. had i said, that two ideas of the same object can only be different by their different feeling, i should have been nearer the truth. distributed proofreaders an enquiry concerning human understanding. by david hume extracted from: enquiries concerning the human understanding, and concerning the principles of morals, by david hume. reprinted from the posthumous edition of , and edited with introduction, comparative tables of contents, and analytical index by l.a. selby-bigge, m.a., late fellow of university college, oxford. second edition, contents i. of the different species of philosophy ii. of the origin of ideas iii. of the association of ideas iv. sceptical doubts concerning the operations of the understanding v. sceptical solution of these doubts vi. of probability vii. of the idea of necessary connexion viii. of liberty and necessity ix. of the reason of animals x. of miracles xi. of a particular providence and of a future state xii. of the academical or sceptical philosophy index section i. of the different species of philosophy. . moral philosophy, or the science of human nature, may be treated after two different manners; each of which has its peculiar merit, and may contribute to the entertainment, instruction, and reformation of mankind. the one considers man chiefly as born for action; and as influenced in his measures by taste and sentiment; pursuing one object, and avoiding another, according to the value which these objects seem to possess, and according to the light in which they present themselves. as virtue, of all objects, is allowed to be the most valuable, this species of philosophers paint her in the most amiable colours; borrowing all helps from poetry and eloquence, and treating their subject in an easy and obvious manner, and such as is best fitted to please the imagination, and engage the affections. they select the most striking observations and instances from common life; place opposite characters in a proper contrast; and alluring us into the paths of virtue by the views of glory and happiness, direct our steps in these paths by the soundest precepts and most illustrious examples. they make us _feel_ the difference between vice and virtue; they excite and regulate our sentiments; and so they can but bend our hearts to the love of probity and true honour, they think, that they have fully attained the end of all their labours. . the other species of philosophers consider man in the light of a reasonable rather than an active being, and endeavour to form his understanding more than cultivate his manners. they regard human nature as a subject of speculation; and with a narrow scrutiny examine it, in order to find those principles, which regulate our understanding, excite our sentiments, and make us approve or blame any particular object, action, or behaviour. they think it a reproach to all literature, that philosophy should not yet have fixed, beyond controversy, the foundation of morals, reasoning, and criticism; and should for ever talk of truth and falsehood, vice and virtue, beauty and deformity, without being able to determine the source of these distinctions. while they attempt this arduous task, they are deterred by no difficulties; but proceeding from particular instances to general principles, they still push on their enquiries to principles more general, and rest not satisfied till they arrive at those original principles, by which, in every science, all human curiosity must be bounded. though their speculations seem abstract, and even unintelligible to common readers, they aim at the approbation of the learned and the wise; and think themselves sufficiently compensated for the labour of their whole lives, if they can discover some hidden truths, which may contribute to the instruction of posterity. . it is certain that the easy and obvious philosophy will always, with the generality of mankind, have the preference above the accurate and abstruse; and by many will be recommended, not only as more agreeable, but more useful than the other. it enters more into common life; moulds the heart and affections; and, by touching those principles which actuate men, reforms their conduct, and brings them nearer to that model of perfection which it describes. on the contrary, the abstruse philosophy, being founded on a turn of mind, which cannot enter into business and action, vanishes when the philosopher leaves the shade, and comes into open day; nor can its principles easily retain any influence over our conduct and behaviour. the feelings of our heart, the agitation of our passions, the vehemence of our affections, dissipate all its conclusions, and reduce the profound philosopher to a mere plebeian. . this also must be confessed, that the most durable, as well as justest fame, has been acquired by the easy philosophy, and that abstract reasoners seem hitherto to have enjoyed only a momentary reputation, from the caprice or ignorance of their own age, but have not been able to support their renown with more equitable posterity. it is easy for a profound philosopher to commit a mistake in his subtile reasonings; and one mistake is the necessary parent of another, while he pushes on his consequences, and is not deterred from embracing any conclusion, by its unusual appearance, or its contradiction to popular opinion. but a philosopher, who purposes only to represent the common sense of mankind in more beautiful and more engaging colours, if by accident he falls into error, goes no farther; but renewing his appeal to common sense, and the natural sentiments of the mind, returns into the right path, and secures himself from any dangerous illusions. the fame of cicero flourishes at present; but that of aristotle is utterly decayed. la bruyere passes the seas, and still maintains his reputation: but the glory of malebranche is confined to his own nation, and to his own age. and addison, perhaps, will be read with pleasure, when locke shall be entirely forgotten. the mere philosopher is a character, which is commonly but little acceptable in the world, as being supposed to contribute nothing either to the advantage or pleasure of society; while he lives remote from communication with mankind, and is wrapped up in principles and notions equally remote from their comprehension. on the other hand, the mere ignorant is still more despised; nor is any thing deemed a surer sign of an illiberal genius in an age and nation where the sciences flourish, than to be entirely destitute of all relish for those noble entertainments. the most perfect character is supposed to lie between those extremes; retaining an equal ability and taste for books, company, and business; preserving in conversation that discernment and delicacy which arise from polite letters; and in business, that probity and accuracy which are the natural result of a just philosophy. in order to diffuse and cultivate so accomplished a character, nothing can be more useful than compositions of the easy style and manner, which draw not too much from life, require no deep application or retreat to be comprehended, and send back the student among mankind full of noble sentiments and wise precepts, applicable to every exigence of human life. by means of such compositions, virtue becomes amiable, science agreeable, company instructive, and retirement entertaining. man is a reasonable being; and as such, receives from science his proper food and nourishment: but so narrow are the bounds of human understanding, that little satisfaction can be hoped for in this particular, either from the extent of security or his acquisitions. man is a sociable, no less than a reasonable being: but neither can he always enjoy company agreeable and amusing, or preserve the proper relish for them. man is also an active being; and from that disposition, as well as from the various necessities of human life, must submit to business and occupation: but the mind requires some relaxation, and cannot always support its bent to care and industry. it seems, then, that nature has pointed out a mixed kind of life as most suitable to the human race, and secretly admonished them to allow none of these biasses to _draw_ too much, so as to incapacitate them for other occupations and entertainments. indulge your passion for science, says she, but let your science be human, and such as may have a direct reference to action and society. abstruse thought and profound researches i prohibit, and will severely punish, by the pensive melancholy which they introduce, by the endless uncertainty in which they involve you, and by the cold reception which your pretended discoveries shall meet with, when communicated. be a philosopher; but, amidst all your philosophy, be still a man. . were the generality of mankind contented to prefer the easy philosophy to the abstract and profound, without throwing any blame or contempt on the latter, it might not be improper, perhaps, to comply with this general opinion, and allow every man to enjoy, without opposition, his own taste and sentiment. but as the matter is often carried farther, even to the absolute rejecting of all profound reasonings, or what is commonly called _metaphysics_, we shall now proceed to consider what can reasonably be pleaded in their behalf. we may begin with observing, that one considerable advantage, which results from the accurate and abstract philosophy, is, its subserviency to the easy and humane; which, without the former, can never attain a sufficient degree of exactness in its sentiments, precepts, or reasonings. all polite letters are nothing but pictures of human life in various attitudes and situations; and inspire us with different sentiments, of praise or blame, admiration or ridicule, according to the qualities of the object, which they set before us. an artist must be better qualified to succeed in this undertaking, who, besides a delicate taste and a quick apprehension, possesses an accurate knowledge of the internal fabric, the operations of the understanding, the workings of the passions, and the various species of sentiment which discriminate vice and virtue. how painful soever this inward search or enquiry may appear, it becomes, in some measure, requisite to those, who would describe with success the obvious and outward appearances of life and manners. the anatomist presents to the eye the most hideous and disagreeable objects; but his science is useful to the painter in delineating even a venus or an helen. while the latter employs all the richest colours of his art, and gives his figures the most graceful and engaging airs; he must still carry his attention to the inward structure of the human body, the position of the muscles, the fabric of the bones, and the use and figure of every part or organ. accuracy is, in every case, advantageous to beauty, and just reasoning to delicate sentiment. in vain would we exalt the one by depreciating the other. besides, we may observe, in every art or profession, even those which most concern life or action, that a spirit of accuracy, however acquired, carries all of them nearer their perfection, and renders them more subservient to the interests of society. and though a philosopher may live remote from business, the genius of philosophy, if carefully cultivated by several, must gradually diffuse itself throughout the whole society, and bestow a similar correctness on every art and calling. the politician will acquire greater foresight and subtility, in the subdividing and balancing of power; the lawyer more method and finer principles in his reasonings; and the general more regularity in his discipline, and more caution in his plans and operations. the stability of modern governments above the ancient, and the accuracy of modern philosophy, have improved, and probably will still improve, by similar gradations. . were there no advantage to be reaped from these studies, beyond the gratification of an innocent curiosity, yet ought not even this to be despised; as being one accession to those few safe and harmless pleasures, which are bestowed on human race. the sweetest and most inoffensive path of life leads through the avenues of science and learning; and whoever can either remove any obstructions in this way, or open up any new prospect, ought so far to be esteemed a benefactor to mankind. and though these researches may appear painful and fatiguing, it is with some minds as with some bodies, which being endowed with vigorous and florid health, require severe exercise, and reap a pleasure from what, to the generality of mankind, may seem burdensome and laborious. obscurity, indeed, is painful to the mind as well as to the eye; but to bring light from obscurity, by whatever labour, must needs be delightful and rejoicing. but this obscurity in the profound and abstract philosophy, is objected to, not only as painful and fatiguing, but as the inevitable source of uncertainty and error. here indeed lies the justest and most plausible objection against a considerable part of metaphysics, that they are not properly a science; but arise either from the fruitless efforts of human vanity, which would penetrate into subjects utterly inaccessible to the understanding, or from the craft of popular superstitions, which, being unable to defend themselves on fair ground, raise these intangling brambles to cover and protect their weakness. chaced from the open country, these robbers fly into the forest, and lie in wait to break in upon every unguarded avenue of the mind, and overwhelm it with religious fears and prejudices. the stoutest antagonist, if he remit his watch a moment, is oppressed. and many, through cowardice and folly, open the gates to the enemies, and willingly receive them with reverence and submission, as their legal sovereigns. . but is this a sufficient reason, why philosophers should desist from such researches, and leave superstition still in possession of her retreat? is it not proper to draw an opposite conclusion, and perceive the necessity of carrying the war into the most secret recesses of the enemy? in vain do we hope, that men, from frequent disappointment, will at last abandon such airy sciences, and discover the proper province of human reason. for, besides, that many persons find too sensible an interest in perpetually recalling such topics; besides this, i say, the motive of blind despair can never reasonably have place in the sciences; since, however unsuccessful former attempts may have proved, there is still room to hope, that the industry, good fortune, or improved sagacity of succeeding generations may reach discoveries unknown to former ages. each adventurous genius will still leap at the arduous prize, and find himself stimulated, rather that discouraged, by the failures of his predecessors; while he hopes that the glory of achieving so hard an adventure is reserved for him alone. the only method of freeing learning, at once, from these abstruse questions, is to enquire seriously into the nature of human understanding, and show, from an exact analysis of its powers and capacity, that it is by no means fitted for such remote and abstruse subjects. we must submit to this fatigue, in order to live at ease ever after: and must cultivate true metaphysics with some care, in order to destroy the false and adulterate. indolence, which, to some persons, affords a safeguard against this deceitful philosophy, is, with others, overbalanced by curiosity; and despair, which, at some moments, prevails, may give place afterwards to sanguine hopes and expectations. accurate and just reasoning is the only catholic remedy, fitted for all persons and all dispositions; and is alone able to subvert that abstruse philosophy and metaphysical jargon, which, being mixed up with popular superstition, renders it in a manner impenetrable to careless reasoners, and gives it the air of science and wisdom. . besides this advantage of rejecting, after deliberate enquiry, the most uncertain and disagreeable part of learning, there are many positive advantages, which result from an accurate scrutiny into the powers and faculties of human nature. it is remarkable concerning the operations of the mind, that, though most intimately present to us, yet, whenever they become the object of reflexion, they seem involved in obscurity; nor can the eye readily find those lines and boundaries, which discriminate and distinguish them. the objects are too fine to remain long in the same aspect or situation; and must be apprehended in an instant, by a superior penetration, derived from nature, and improved by habit and reflexion. it becomes, therefore, no inconsiderable part of science barely to know the different operations of the mind, to separate them from each other, to class them under their proper heads, and to correct all that seeming disorder, in which they lie involved, when made the object of reflexion and enquiry. this talk of ordering and distinguishing, which has no merit, when performed with regard to external bodies, the objects of our senses, rises in its value, when directed towards the operations of the mind, in proportion to the difficulty and labour, which we meet with in performing it. and if we can go no farther than this mental geography, or delineation of the distinct parts and powers of the mind, it is at least a satisfaction to go so far; and the more obvious this science may appear (and it is by no means obvious) the more contemptible still must the ignorance of it be esteemed, in all pretenders to learning and philosophy. nor can there remain any suspicion, that this science is uncertain and chimerical; unless we should entertain such a scepticism as is entirely subversive of all speculation, and even action. it cannot be doubted, that the mind is endowed with several powers and faculties, that these powers are distinct from each other, that what is really distinct to the immediate perception may be distinguished by reflexion; and consequently, that there is a truth and falsehood in all propositions on this subject, and a truth and falsehood, which lie not beyond the compass of human understanding. there are many obvious distinctions of this kind, such as those between the will and understanding, the imagination and passions, which fall within the comprehension of every human creature; and the finer and more philosophical distinctions are no less real and certain, though more difficult to be comprehended. some instances, especially late ones, of success in these enquiries, may give us a juster notion of the certainty and solidity of this branch of learning. and shall we esteem it worthy the labour of a philosopher to give us a true system of the planets, and adjust the position and order of those remote bodies; while we affect to overlook those, who, with so much success, delineate the parts of the mind, in which we are so intimately concerned? . but may we not hope, that philosophy, if cultivated with care, and encouraged by the attention of the public, may carry its researches still farther, and discover, at least in some degree, the secret springs and principles, by which the human mind is actuated in its operations? astronomers had long contented themselves with proving, from the phaenomena, the true motions, order, and magnitude of the heavenly bodies: till a philosopher, at last, arose, who seems, from the happiest reasoning, to have also determined the laws and forces, by which the revolutions of the planets are governed and directed. the like has been performed with regard to other parts of nature. and there is no reason to despair of equal success in our enquiries concerning the mental powers and economy, if prosecuted with equal capacity and caution. it is probable, that one operation and principle of the mind depends on another; which, again, may be resolved into one more general and universal: and how far these researches may possibly be carried, it will be difficult for us, before, or even after, a careful trial, exactly to determine. this is certain, that attempts of this kind are every day made even by those who philosophize the most negligently: and nothing can be more requisite than to enter upon the enterprize with thorough care and attention; that, if it lie within the compass of human understanding, it may at last be happily achieved; if not, it may, however, be rejected with some confidence and security. this last conclusion, surely, is not desirable; nor ought it to be embraced too rashly. for how much must we diminish from the beauty and value of this species of philosophy, upon such a supposition? moralists have hitherto been accustomed, when they considered the vast multitude and diversity of those actions that excite our approbation or dislike, to search for some common principle, on which this variety of sentiments might depend. and though they have sometimes carried the matter too far, by their passion for some one general principle; it must, however, be confessed, that they are excusable in expecting to find some general principles, into which all the vices and virtues were justly to be resolved. the like has been the endeavour of critics, logicians, and even politicians: nor have their attempts been wholly unsuccessful; though perhaps longer time, greater accuracy, and more ardent application may bring these sciences still nearer their perfection. to throw up at once all pretensions of this kind may justly be deemed more rash, precipitate, and dogmatical, than even the boldest and most affirmative philosophy, that has ever attempted to impose its crude dictates and principles on mankind. . what though these reasonings concerning human nature seem abstract, and of difficult comprehension? this affords no presumption of their falsehood. on the contrary, it seems impossible, that what has hitherto escaped so many wise and profound philosophers can be very obvious and easy. and whatever pains these researches may cost us, we may think ourselves sufficiently rewarded, not only in point of profit but of pleasure, if, by that means, we can make any addition to our stock of knowledge, in subjects of such unspeakable importance. but as, after all, the abstractedness of these speculations is no recommendation, but rather a disadvantage to them, and as this difficulty may perhaps be surmounted by care and art, and the avoiding of all unnecessary detail, we have, in the following enquiry, attempted to throw some light upon subjects, from which uncertainty has hitherto deterred the wise, and obscurity the ignorant. happy, if we can unite the boundaries of the different species of philosophy, by reconciling profound enquiry with clearness, and truth with novelty! and still more happy, if, reasoning in this easy manner, we can undermine the foundations of an abstruse philosophy, which seems to have hitherto served only as a shelter to superstition, and a cover to absurdity and error! section ii. of the origin of ideas. . every one will readily allow, that there is a considerable difference between the perceptions of the mind, when a man feels the pain of excessive heat, or the pleasure of moderate warmth, and when he afterwards recalls to his memory this sensation, or anticipates it by his imagination. these faculties may mimic or copy the perceptions of the senses; but they never can entirely reach the force and vivacity of the original sentiment. the utmost we say of them, even when they operate with greatest vigour, is, that they represent their object in so lively a manner, that we could _almost_ say we feel or see it: but, except the mind be disordered by disease or madness, they never can arrive at such a pitch of vivacity, as to render these perceptions altogether undistinguishable. all the colours of poetry, however splendid, can never paint natural objects in such a manner as to make the description be taken for a real landskip. the most lively thought is still inferior to the dullest sensation. we may observe a like distinction to run through all the other perceptions of the mind. a man in a fit of anger, is actuated in a very different manner from one who only thinks of that emotion. if you tell me, that any person is in love, i easily understand your meaning, and form a just conception of his situation; but never can mistake that conception for the real disorders and agitations of the passion. when we reflect on our past sentiments and affections, our thought is a faithful mirror, and copies its objects truly; but the colours which it employs are faint and dull, in comparison of those in which our original perceptions were clothed. it requires no nice discernment or metaphysical head to mark the distinction between them. . here therefore we may divide all the perceptions of the mind into two classes or species, which are distinguished by their different degrees of force and vivacity. the less forcible and lively are commonly denominated _thoughts_ or _ideas_. the other species want a name in our language, and in most others; i suppose, because it was not requisite for any, but philosophical purposes, to rank them under a general term or appellation. let us, therefore, use a little freedom, and call them _impressions_; employing that word in a sense somewhat different from the usual. by the term _impression_, then, i mean all our more lively perceptions, when we hear, or see, or feel, or love, or hate, or desire, or will. and impressions are distinguished from ideas, which are the less lively perceptions, of which we are conscious, when we reflect on any of those sensations or movements above mentioned. . nothing, at first view, may seem more unbounded than the thought of man, which not only escapes all human power and authority, but is not even restrained within the limits of nature and reality. to form monsters, and join incongruous shapes and appearances, costs the imagination no more trouble than to conceive the most natural and familiar objects. and while the body is confined to one planet, along which it creeps with pain and difficulty; the thought can in an instant transport us into the most distant regions of the universe; or even beyond the universe, into the unbounded chaos, where nature is supposed to lie in total confusion. what never was seen, or heard of, may yet be conceived; nor is any thing beyond the power of thought, except what implies an absolute contradiction. but though our thought seems to possess this unbounded liberty, we shall find, upon a nearer examination, that it is really confined within very narrow limits, and that all this creative power of the mind amounts to no more than the faculty of compounding, transposing, augmenting, or diminishing the materials afforded us by the senses and experience. when we think of a golden mountain, we only join two consistent ideas, _gold_, and _mountain_, with which we were formerly acquainted. a virtuous horse we can conceive; because, from our own feeling, we can conceive virtue; and this we may unite to the figure and shape of a horse, which is an animal familiar to us. in short, all the materials of thinking are derived either from our outward or inward sentiment: the mixture and composition of these belongs alone to the mind and will. or, to express myself in philosophical language, all our ideas or more feeble perceptions are copies of our impressions or more lively ones. . to prove this, the two following arguments will, i hope, be sufficient. first, when we analyze our thoughts or ideas, however compounded or sublime, we always find that they resolve themselves into such simple ideas as were copied from a precedent feeling or sentiment. even those ideas, which, at first view, seem the most wide of this origin, are found, upon a nearer scrutiny, to be derived from it. the idea of god, as meaning an infinitely intelligent, wise, and good being, arises from reflecting on the operations of our own mind, and augmenting, without limit, those qualities of goodness and wisdom. we may prosecute this enquiry to what length we please; where we shall always find, that every idea which we examine is copied from a similar impression. those who would assert that this position is not universally true nor without exception, have only one, and that an easy method of refuting it; by producing that idea, which, in their opinion, is not derived from this source. it will then be incumbent on us, if we would maintain our doctrine, to produce the impression, or lively perception, which corresponds to it. . secondly. if it happen, from a defect of the organ, that a man is not susceptible of any species of sensation, we always find that he is as little susceptible of the correspondent ideas. a blind man can form no notion of colours; a deaf man of sounds. restore either of them that sense in which he is deficient; by opening this new inlet for his sensations, you also open an inlet for the ideas; and he finds no difficulty in conceiving these objects. the case is the same, if the object, proper for exciting any sensation, has never been applied to the organ. a laplander or negro has no notion of the relish of wine. and though there are few or no instances of a like deficiency in the mind, where a person has never felt or is wholly incapable of a sentiment or passion that belongs to his species; yet we find the same observation to take place in a less degree. a man of mild manners can form no idea of inveterate revenge or cruelty; nor can a selfish heart easily conceive the heights of friendship and generosity. it is readily allowed, that other beings may possess many senses of which we can have no conception; because the ideas of them have never been introduced to us in the only manner by which an idea can have access to the mind, to wit, by the actual feeling and sensation. . there is, however, one contradictory phenomenon, which may prove that it is not absolutely impossible for ideas to arise, independent of their correspondent impressions. i believe it will readily be allowed, that the several distinct ideas of colour, which enter by the eye, or those of sound, which are conveyed by the ear, are really different from each other; though, at the same time, resembling. now if this be true of different colours, it must be no less so of the different shades of the same colour; and each shade produces a distinct idea, independent of the rest. for if this should be denied, it is possible, by the continual gradation of shades, to run a colour insensibly into what is most remote from it; and if you will not allow any of the means to be different, you cannot, without absurdity, deny the extremes to be the same. suppose, therefore, a person to have enjoyed his sight for thirty years, and to have become perfectly acquainted with colours of all kinds except one particular shade of blue, for instance, which it never has been his fortune to meet with. let all the different shades of that colour, except that single one, be placed before him, descending gradually from the deepest to the lightest; it is plain that he will perceive a blank, where that shade is wanting, and will be sensible that there is a greater distance in that place between the contiguous colours than in any other. now i ask, whether it be possible for him, from his own imagination, to supply this deficiency, and raise up to himself the idea of that particular shade, though it had never been conveyed to him by his senses? i believe there are few but will be of opinion that he can: and this may serve as a proof that the simple ideas are not always, in every instance, derived from the correspondent impressions; though this instance is so singular, that it is scarcely worth our observing, and does not merit that for it alone we should alter our general maxim. . here, therefore, is a proposition, which not only seems, in itself, simple and intelligible; but, if a proper use were made of it, might render every dispute equally intelligible, and banish all that jargon, which has so long taken possession of metaphysical reasonings, and drawn disgrace upon them. all ideas, especially abstract ones, are naturally faint and obscure: the mind has but a slender hold of them: they are apt to be confounded with other resembling ideas; and when we have often employed any term, though without a distinct meaning, we are apt to imagine it has a determinate idea annexed to it. on the contrary, all impressions, that is, all sensations, either outward or inward, are strong and vivid: the limits between them are more exactly determined: nor is it easy to fall into any error or mistake with regard to them. when we entertain, therefore, any suspicion that a philosophical term is employed without any meaning or idea (as is but too frequent), we need but enquire, _from what impression is that supposed idea derived_? and if it be impossible to assign any, this will serve to confirm our suspicion. by bringing ideas into so clear a light we may reasonably hope to remove all dispute, which may arise, concerning their nature and reality.[ ] [ ] it is probable that no more was meant by those, who denied innate ideas, than that all ideas were copies of our impressions; though it must be confessed, that the terms, which they employed, were not chosen with such caution, nor so exactly defined, as to prevent all mistakes about their doctrine. for what is meant by _innate_? if innate be equivalent to natural, then all the perceptions and ideas of the mind must be allowed to be innate or natural, in whatever sense we take the latter word, whether in opposition to what is uncommon, artificial, or miraculous. if by innate be meant, contemporary to our birth, the dispute seems to be frivolous; nor is it worth while to enquire at what time thinking begins, whether before, at, or after our birth. again, the word _idea_, seems to be commonly taken in a very loose sense, by locke and others; as standing for any of our perceptions, our sensations and passions, as well as thoughts. now in this sense, i should desire to know, what can be meant by asserting, that self-love, or resentment of injuries, or the passion between the sexes is not innate? but admitting these terms, _impressions_ and _ideas_, in the sense above explained, and understanding by _innate_, what is original or copied from no precedent perception, then may we assert that all our impressions are innate, and our ideas not innate. to be ingenuous, i must own it to be my opinion, that locke was betrayed into this question by the schoolmen, who, making use of undefined terms, draw out their disputes to a tedious length, without ever touching the point in question. a like ambiguity and circumlocution seem to run through that philosopher's reasonings on this as well as most other subjects. section iii. of the association of ideas. . it is evident that there is a principle of connexion between the different thoughts or ideas of the mind, and that, in their appearance to the memory or imagination, they introduce each other with a certain degree of method and regularity. in our more serious thinking or discourse this is so observable that any particular thought, which breaks in upon the regular tract or chain of ideas, is immediately remarked and rejected. and even in our wildest and most wandering reveries, nay in our very dreams, we shall find, if we reflect, that the imagination ran not altogether at adventures, but that there was still a connexion upheld among the different ideas, which succeeded each other. were the loosest and freest conversation to be transcribed, there would immediately be observed something which connected it in all its transitions. or where this is wanting, the person who broke the thread of discourse might still inform you, that there had secretly revolved in his mind a succession of thought, which had gradually led him from the subject of conversation. among different languages, even where we cannot suspect the least connexion or communication, it is found, that the words, expressive of ideas, the most compounded, do yet nearly correspond to each other: a certain proof that the simple ideas, comprehended in the compound ones, were bound together by some universal principle, which had an equal influence on all mankind. . though it be too obvious to escape observation, that different ideas are connected together; i do not find that any philosopher has attempted to enumerate or class all the principles of association; a subject, however, that seems worthy of curiosity. to me, there appear to be only three principles of connexion among ideas, namely, _resemblance_, _contiguity_ in time or place, and _cause or effect_. that these principles serve to connect ideas will not, i believe, be much doubted. a picture naturally leads our thoughts to the original[ ]: the mention of one apartment in a building naturally introduces an enquiry or discourse concerning the others[ ]: and if we think of a wound, we can scarcely forbear reflecting on the pain which follows it[ ]. but that this enumeration is complete, and that there are no other principles of association except these, may be difficult to prove to the satisfaction of the reader, or even to a man's own satisfaction. all we can do, in such cases, is to run over several instances, and examine carefully the principle which binds the different thoughts to each other, never stopping till we render the principle as general as possible[ ]. the more instances we examine, and the more care we employ, the more assurance shall we acquire, that the enumeration, which we form from the whole, is complete and entire. [ ] resemblance. [ ] contiguity. [ ] cause and effect. [ ] for instance, contrast or contrariety is also a connexion among ideas: but it may, perhaps, be considered as a mixture of _causation_ and _resemblance_. where two objects are contrary, the one destroys the other; that is, the cause of its annihilation, and the idea of the annihilation of an object, implies the idea of its former existence. section iv. sceptical doubts concerning the operations of the understanding. part i. . all the objects of human reason or enquiry may naturally be divided into two kinds, to wit, _relations of ideas_, and _matters of fact_. of the first kind are the sciences of geometry, algebra, and arithmetic; and in short, every affirmation which is either intuitively or demonstratively certain. _that the square of the hypothenuse is equal to the square of the two sides_, is a proposition which expresses a relation between these figures. _that three times five is equal to the half of thirty_, expresses a relation between these numbers. propositions of this kind are discoverable by the mere operation of thought, without dependence on what is anywhere existent in the universe. though there never were a circle or triangle in nature, the truths demonstrated by euclid would for ever retain their certainty and evidence. . matters of fact, which are the second objects of human reason, are not ascertained in the same manner; nor is our evidence of their truth, however great, of a like nature with the foregoing. the contrary of every matter of fact is still possible; because it can never imply a contradiction, and is conceived by the mind with the same facility and distinctness, as if ever so conformable to reality. _that the sun will not rise to-morrow_ is no less intelligible a proposition, and implies no more contradiction than the affirmation, _that it will rise_. we should in vain, therefore, attempt to demonstrate its falsehood. were it demonstratively false, it would imply a contradiction, and could never be distinctly conceived by the mind. it may, therefore, be a subject worthy of curiosity, to enquire what is the nature of that evidence which assures us of any real existence and matter of fact, beyond the present testimony of our senses, or the records of our memory. this part of philosophy, it is observable, has been little cultivated, either by the ancients or moderns; and therefore our doubts and errors, in the prosecution of so important an enquiry, may be the more excusable; while we march through such difficult paths without any guide or direction. they may even prove useful, by exciting curiosity, and destroying that implicit faith and security, which is the bane of all reasoning and free enquiry. the discovery of defects in the common philosophy, if any such there be, will not, i presume, be a discouragement, but rather an incitement, as is usual, to attempt something more full and satisfactory than has yet been proposed to the public. . all reasonings concerning matter of fact seem to be founded on the relation of _cause and effect_. by means of that relation alone we can go beyond the evidence of our memory and senses. if you were to ask a man, why he believes any matter of fact, which is absent; for instance, that his friend is in the country, or in france; he would give you a reason; and this reason would be some other fact; as a letter received from him, or the knowledge of his former resolutions and promises. a man finding a watch or any other machine in a desert island, would conclude that there had once been men in that island. all our reasonings concerning fact are of the same nature. and here it is constantly supposed that there is a connexion between the present fact and that which is inferred from it. were there nothing to bind them together, the inference would be entirely precarious. the hearing of an articulate voice and rational discourse in the dark assures us of the presence of some person: why? because these are the effects of the human make and fabric, and closely connected with it. if we anatomize all the other reasonings of this nature, we shall find that they are founded on the relation of cause and effect, and that this relation is either near or remote, direct or collateral. heat and light are collateral effects of fire, and the one effect may justly be inferred from the other. . if we would satisfy ourselves, therefore, concerning the nature of that evidence, which assures us of matters of fact, we must enquire how we arrive at the knowledge of cause and effect. i shall venture to affirm, as a general proposition, which admits of no exception, that the knowledge of this relation is not, in any instance, attained by reasonings _a priori_; but arises entirely from experience, when we find that any particular objects are constantly conjoined with each other. let an object be presented to a man of ever so strong natural reason and abilities; if that object be entirely new to him, he will not be able, by the most accurate examination of its sensible qualities, to discover any of its causes or effects. adam, though his rational faculties be supposed, at the very first, entirely perfect, could not have inferred from the fluidity and transparency of water that it would suffocate him, or from the light and warmth of fire that it would consume him. no object ever discovers, by the qualities which appear to the senses, either the causes which produced it, or the effects which will arise from it; nor can our reason, unassisted by experience, ever draw any inference concerning real existence and matter of fact. . this proposition, _that causes and effects are discoverable, not by reason but by experience_, will readily be admitted with regard to such objects, as we remember to have once been altogether unknown to us; since we must be conscious of the utter inability, which we then lay under, of foretelling what would arise from them. present two smooth pieces of marble to a man who has no tincture of natural philosophy; he will never discover that they will adhere together in such a manner as to require great force to separate them in a direct line, while they make so small a resistance to a lateral pressure. such events, as bear little analogy to the common course of nature, are also readily confessed to be known only by experience; nor does any man imagine that the explosion of gunpowder, or the attraction of a loadstone, could ever be discovered by arguments _a priori_. in like manner, when an effect is supposed to depend upon an intricate machinery or secret structure of parts, we make no difficulty in attributing all our knowledge of it to experience. who will assert that he can give the ultimate reason, why milk or bread is proper nourishment for a man, not for a lion or a tiger? but the same truth may not appear, at first sight, to have the same evidence with regard to events, which have become familiar to us from our first appearance in the world, which bear a close analogy to the whole course of nature, and which are supposed to depend on the simple qualities of objects, without any secret structure of parts. we are apt to imagine that we could discover these effects by the mere operation of our reason, without experience. we fancy, that were we brought on a sudden into this world, we could at first have inferred that one billiard-ball would communicate motion to another upon impulse; and that we needed not to have waited for the event, in order to pronounce with certainty concerning it. such is the influence of custom, that, where it is strongest, it not only covers our natural ignorance, but even conceals itself, and seems not to take place, merely because it is found in the highest degree. . but to convince us that all the laws of nature, and all the operations of bodies without exception, are known only by experience, the following reflections may, perhaps, suffice. were any object presented to us, and were we required to pronounce concerning the effect, which will result from it, without consulting past observation; after what manner, i beseech you, must the mind proceed in this operation? it must invent or imagine some event, which it ascribes to the object as its effect; and it is plain that this invention must be entirely arbitrary. the mind can never possibly find the effect in the supposed cause, by the most accurate scrutiny and examination. for the effect is totally different from the cause, and consequently can never be discovered in it. motion in the second billiard-ball is a quite distinct event from motion in the first; nor is there anything in the one to suggest the smallest hint of the other. a stone or piece of metal raised into the air, and left without any support, immediately falls: but to consider the matter _a priori_, is there anything we discover in this situation which can beget the idea of a downward, rather than an upward, or any other motion, in the stone or metal? and as the first imagination or invention of a particular effect, in all natural operations, is arbitrary, where we consult not experience; so must we also esteem the supposed tie or connexion between the cause and effect, which binds them together, and renders it impossible that any other effect could result from the operation of that cause. when i see, for instance, a billiard-ball moving in a straight line towards another; even suppose motion in the second ball should by accident be suggested to me, as the result of their contact or impulse; may i not conceive, that a hundred different events might as well follow from that cause? may not both these balls remain at absolute rest? may not the first ball return in a straight line, or leap off from the second in any line or direction? all these suppositions are consistent and conceivable. why then should we give the preference to one, which is no more consistent or conceivable than the rest? all our reasonings _a priori_ will never be able to show us any foundation for this preference. in a word, then, every effect is a distinct event from its cause. it could not, therefore, be discovered in the cause, and the first invention or conception of it, _a priori_, must be entirely arbitrary. and even after it is suggested, the conjunction of it with the cause must appear equally arbitrary; since there are always many other effects, which, to reason, must seem fully as consistent and natural. in vain, therefore, should we pretend to determine any single event, or infer any cause or effect, without the assistance of observation and experience. . hence we may discover the reason why no philosopher, who is rational and modest, has ever pretended to assign the ultimate cause of any natural operation, or to show distinctly the action of that power, which produces any single effect in the universe. it is confessed, that the utmost effort of human reason is to reduce the principles, productive of natural phenomena, to a greater simplicity, and to resolve the many particular effects into a few general causes, by means of reasonings from analogy, experience, and observation. but as to the causes of these general causes, we should in vain attempt their discovery; nor shall we ever be able to satisfy ourselves, by any particular explication of them. these ultimate springs and principles are totally shut up from human curiosity and enquiry. elasticity, gravity, cohesion of parts, communication of motion by impulse; these are probably the ultimate causes and principles which we shall ever discover in nature; and we may esteem ourselves sufficiently happy, if, by accurate enquiry and reasoning, we can trace up the particular phenomena to, or near to, these general principles. the most perfect philosophy of the natural kind only staves off our ignorance a little longer: as perhaps the most perfect philosophy of the moral or metaphysical kind serves only to discover larger portions of it. thus the observation of human blindness and weakness is the result of all philosophy, and meets us at every turn, in spite of our endeavours to elude or avoid it. . nor is geometry, when taken into the assistance of natural philosophy, ever able to remedy this defect, or lead us into the knowledge of ultimate causes, by all that accuracy of reasoning for which it is so justly celebrated. every part of mixed mathematics proceeds upon the supposition that certain laws are established by nature in her operations; and abstract reasonings are employed, either to assist experience in the discovery of these laws, or to determine their influence in particular instances, where it depends upon any precise degree of distance and quantity. thus, it is a law of motion, discovered by experience, that the moment or force of any body in motion is in the compound ratio or proportion of its solid contents and its velocity; and consequently, that a small force may remove the greatest obstacle or raise the greatest weight, if, by any contrivance or machinery, we can increase the velocity of that force, so as to make it an overmatch for its antagonist. geometry assists us in the application of this law, by giving us the just dimensions of all the parts and figures which can enter into any species of machine; but still the discovery of the law itself is owing merely to experience, and all the abstract reasonings in the world could never lead us one step towards the knowledge of it. when we reason _a priori_, and consider merely any object or cause, as it appears to the mind, independent of all observation, it never could suggest to us the notion of any distinct object, such as its effect; much less, show us the inseparable and inviolable connexion between them. a man must be very sagacious who could discover by reasoning that crystal is the effect of heat, and ice of cold, without being previously acquainted with the operation of these qualities. part ii. . but we have not yet attained any tolerable satisfaction with regard to the question first proposed. each solution still gives rise to a new question as difficult as the foregoing, and leads us on to farther enquiries. when it is asked, _what is the nature of all our reasonings concerning matter of fact?_ the proper answer seems to be, that they are founded on the relation of cause and effect. when again it is asked, _what is the foundation of all our reasonings and conclusions concerning that relation?_ it may be replied in one word, experience. but if we still carry on our sifting humour, and ask, _what is the foundation of all conclusions from experience?_ this implies a new question, which may be of more difficult solution and explication. philosophers, that give themselves airs of superior wisdom and sufficiency, have a hard task when they encounter persons of inquisitive dispositions, who push them from every corner to which they retreat, and who are sure at last to bring them to some dangerous dilemma. the best expedient to prevent this confusion, is to be modest in our pretensions; and even to discover the difficulty ourselves before it is objected to us. by this means, we may make a kind of merit of our very ignorance. i shall content myself, in this section, with an easy task, and shall pretend only to give a negative answer to the question here proposed. i say then, that, even after we have experience of the operations of cause and effect, our conclusions from that experience are _not_ founded on reasoning, or any process of the understanding. this answer we must endeavour both to explain and to defend. . it must certainly be allowed, that nature has kept us at a great distance from all her secrets, and has afforded us only the knowledge of a few superficial qualities of objects; while she conceals from us those powers and principles on which the influence of those objects entirely depends. our senses inform us of the colour, weight, and consistence of bread; but neither sense nor reason can ever inform us of those qualities which fit it for the nourishment and support of a human body. sight or feeling conveys an idea of the actual motion of bodies; but as to that wonderful force or power, which would carry on a moving body for ever in a continued change of place, and which bodies never lose but by communicating it to others; of this we cannot form the most distant conception. but notwithstanding this ignorance of natural powers[ ] and principles, we always presume, when we see like sensible qualities, that they have like secret powers, and expect that effects, similar to those which we have experienced, will follow from them. if a body of like colour and consistence with that bread, which we have formerly eat, be presented to us, we make no scruple of repeating the experiment, and foresee, with certainty, like nourishment and support. now this is a process of the mind or thought, of which i would willingly know the foundation. it is allowed on all hands that there is no known connexion between the sensible qualities and the secret powers; and consequently, that the mind is not led to form such a conclusion concerning their constant and regular conjunction, by anything which it knows of their nature. as to past _experience_, it can be allowed to give _direct_ and _certain_ information of those precise objects only, and that precise period of time, which fell under its cognizance: but why this experience should be extended to future times, and to other objects, which for aught we know, may be only in appearance similar; this is the main question on which i would insist. the bread, which i formerly eat, nourished me; that is, a body of such sensible qualities was, at that time, endued with such secret powers: but does it follow, that other bread must also nourish me at another time, and that like sensible qualities must always be attended with like secret powers? the consequence seems nowise necessary. at least, it must be acknowledged that there is here a consequence drawn by the mind; that there is a certain step taken; a process of thought, and an inference, which wants to be explained. these two propositions are far from being the same, _i have found that such an object has always been attended with such an effect_, and _i foresee, that other objects, which are, in appearance, similar, will be attended with similar effects_. i shall allow, if you please, that the one proposition may justly be inferred from the other: i know, in fact, that it always is inferred. but if you insist that the inference is made by a chain of reasoning, i desire you to produce that reasoning. the connexion between these propositions is not intuitive. there is required a medium, which may enable the mind to draw such an inference, if indeed it be drawn by reasoning and argument. what that medium is, i must confess, passes my comprehension; and it is incumbent on those to produce it, who assert that it really exists, and is the origin of all our conclusions concerning matter of fact. [ ] the word, power, is here used in a loose and popular sense. the more accurate explication of it would give additional evidence to this argument. see sect. . . this negative argument must certainly, in process of time, become altogether convincing, if many penetrating and able philosophers shall turn their enquiries this way and no one be ever able to discover any connecting proposition or intermediate step, which supports the understanding in this conclusion. but as the question is yet new, every reader may not trust so far to his own penetration, as to conclude, because an argument escapes his enquiry, that therefore it does not really exist. for this reason it may be requisite to venture upon a more difficult task; and enumerating all the branches of human knowledge, endeavour to show that none of them can afford such an argument. all reasonings may be divided into two kinds, namely, demonstrative reasoning, or that concerning relations of ideas, and moral reasoning, or that concerning matter of fact and existence. that there are no demonstrative arguments in the case seems evident; since it implies no contradiction that the course of nature may change, and that an object, seemingly like those which we have experienced, may be attended with different or contrary effects. may i not clearly and distinctly conceive that a body, falling from the clouds, and which, in all other respects, resembles snow, has yet the taste of salt or feeling of fire? is there any more intelligible proposition than to affirm, that all the trees will flourish in december and january, and decay in may and june? now whatever is intelligible, and can be distinctly conceived, implies no contradiction, and can never be proved false by any demonstrative argument or abstract reasoning _à priori_. if we be, therefore, engaged by arguments to put trust in past experience, and make it the standard of our future judgement, these arguments must be probable only, or such as regard matter of fact and real existence, according to the division above mentioned. but that there is no argument of this kind, must appear, if our explication of that species of reasoning be admitted as solid and satisfactory. we have said that all arguments concerning existence are founded on the relation of cause and effect; that our knowledge of that relation is derived entirely from experience; and that all our experimental conclusions proceed upon the supposition that the future will be conformable to the past. to endeavour, therefore, the proof of this last supposition by probable arguments, or arguments regarding existence, must be evidently going in a circle, and taking that for granted, which is the very point in question. . in reality, all arguments from experience are founded on the similarity which we discover among natural objects, and by which we are induced to expect effects similar to those which we have found to follow from such objects. and though none but a fool or madman will ever pretend to dispute the authority of experience, or to reject that great guide of human life, it may surely be allowed a philosopher to have so much curiosity at least as to examine the principle of human nature, which gives this mighty authority to experience, and makes us draw advantage from that similarity which nature has placed among different objects. from causes which appear _similar_ we expect similar effects. this is the sum of all our experimental conclusions. now it seems evident that, if this conclusion were formed by reason, it would be as perfect at first, and upon one instance, as after ever so long a course of experience. but the case is far otherwise. nothing so like as eggs; yet no one, on account of this appearing similarity, expects the same taste and relish in all of them. it is only after a long course of uniform experiments in any kind, that we attain a firm reliance and security with regard to a particular event. now where is that process of reasoning which, from one instance, draws a conclusion, so different from that which it infers from a hundred instances that are nowise different from that single one? this question i propose as much for the sake of information, as with an intention of raising difficulties. i cannot find, i cannot imagine any such reasoning. but i keep my mind still open to instruction, if any one will vouchsafe to bestow it on me. . should it be said that, from a number of uniform experiments, we _infer_ a connexion between the sensible qualities and the secret powers; this, i must confess, seems the same difficulty, couched in different terms. the question still recurs, on what process of argument this _inference_ is founded? where is the medium, the interposing ideas, which join propositions so very wide of each other? it is confessed that the colour, consistence, and other sensible qualities of bread appear not, of themselves, to have any connexion with the secret powers of nourishment and support. for otherwise we could infer these secret powers from the first appearance of these sensible qualities, without the aid of experience; contrary to the sentiment of all philosophers, and contrary to plain matter of fact. here, then, is our natural state of ignorance with regard to the powers and influence of all objects. how is this remedied by experience? it only shows us a number of uniform effects, resulting from certain objects, and teaches us that those particular objects, at that particular time, were endowed with such powers and forces. when a new object, endowed with similar sensible qualities, is produced, we expect similar powers and forces, and look for a like effect. from a body of like colour and consistence with bread we expect like nourishment and support. but this surely is a step or progress of the mind, which wants to be explained. when a man says, _i have found, in all past instances, such sensible qualities conjoined with such secret powers_: and when he says, _similar sensible qualities will always be conjoined with similar secret powers_, he is not guilty of a tautology, nor are these propositions in any respect the same. you say that the one proposition is an inference from the other. but you must confess that the inference is not intuitive; neither is it demonstrative: of what nature is it, then? to say it is experimental, is begging the question. for all inferences from experience suppose, as their foundation, that the future will resemble the past, and that similar powers will be conjoined with similar sensible qualities. if there be any suspicion that the course of nature may change, and that the past may be no rule for the future, all experience becomes useless, and can give rise to no inference or conclusion. it is impossible, therefore, that any arguments from experience can prove this resemblance of the past to the future; since all these arguments are founded on the supposition of that resemblance. let the course of things be allowed hitherto ever so regular; that alone, without some new argument or inference, proves not that, for the future, it will continue so. in vain do you pretend to have learned the nature of bodies from your past experience. their secret nature, and consequently all their effects and influence, may change, without any change in their sensible qualities. this happens sometimes, and with regard to some objects: why may it not happen always, and with regard to all objects? what logic, what process of argument secures you against this supposition? my practice, you say, refutes my doubts. but you mistake the purport of my question. as an agent, i am quite satisfied in the point; but as a philosopher, who has some share of curiosity, i will not say scepticism, i want to learn the foundation of this inference. no reading, no enquiry has yet been able to remove my difficulty, or give me satisfaction in a matter of such importance. can i do better than propose the difficulty to the public, even though, perhaps, i have small hopes of obtaining a solution? we shall at least, by this means, be sensible of our ignorance, if we do not augment our knowledge. . i must confess that a man is guilty of unpardonable arrogance who concludes, because an argument has escaped his own investigation, that therefore it does not really exist. i must also confess that, though all the learned, for several ages, should have employed themselves in fruitless search upon any subject, it may still, perhaps, be rash to conclude positively that the subject must, therefore, pass all human comprehension. even though we examine all the sources of our knowledge, and conclude them unfit for such a subject, there may still remain a suspicion, that the enumeration is not complete, or the examination not accurate. but with regard to the present subject, there are some considerations which seem to remove all this accusation of arrogance or suspicion of mistake. it is certain that the most ignorant and stupid peasants--nay infants, nay even brute beasts--improve by experience, and learn the qualities of natural objects, by observing the effects which result from them. when a child has felt the sensation of pain from touching the flame of a candle, he will be careful not to put his hand near any candle; but will expect a similar effect from a cause which is similar in its sensible qualities and appearance. if you assert, therefore, that the understanding of the child is led into this conclusion by any process of argument or ratiocination, i may justly require you to produce that argument; nor have you any pretence to refuse so equitable a demand. you cannot say that the argument is abstruse, and may possibly escape your enquiry; since you confess that it is obvious to the capacity of a mere infant. if you hesitate, therefore, a moment, or if, after reflection, you produce any intricate or profound argument, you, in a manner, give up the question, and confess that it is not reasoning which engages us to suppose the past resembling the future, and to expect similar effects from causes which are, to appearance, similar. this is the proposition which i intended to enforce in the present section. if i be right, i pretend not to have made any mighty discovery. and if i be wrong, i must acknowledge myself to be indeed a very backward scholar; since i cannot now discover an argument which, it seems, was perfectly familiar to me long before i was out of my cradle. section v. sceptical solution of these doubts. part i. . the passion for philosophy, like that for religion, seems liable to this inconvenience, that, though it aims at the correction of our manners, and extirpation of our vices, it may only serve, by imprudent management, to foster a predominant inclination, and push the mind, with more determined resolution, towards that side which already _draws_ too much, by the bias and propensity of the natural temper. it is certain that, while we aspire to the magnanimous firmness of the philosophic sage, and endeavour to confine our pleasures altogether within our own minds, we may, at last, render our philosophy like that of epictetus, and other _stoics_, only a more refined system of selfishness, and reason ourselves out of all virtue as well as social enjoyment. while we study with attention the vanity of human life, and turn all our thoughts towards the empty and transitory nature of riches and honours, we are, perhaps, all the while flattering our natural indolence, which, hating the bustle of the world, and drudgery of business, seeks a pretence of reason to give itself a full and uncontrolled indulgence. there is, however, one species of philosophy which seems little liable to this inconvenience, and that because it strikes in with no disorderly passion of the human mind, nor can mingle itself with any natural affection or propensity; and that is the academic or sceptical philosophy. the academics always talk of doubt and suspense of judgement, of danger in hasty determinations, of confining to very narrow bounds the enquiries of the understanding, and of renouncing all speculations which lie not within the limits of common life and practice. nothing, therefore, can be more contrary than such a philosophy to the supine indolence of the mind, its rash arrogance, its lofty pretensions, and its superstitious credulity. every passion is mortified by it, except the love of truth; and that passion never is, nor can be, carried to too high a degree. it is surprising, therefore, that this philosophy, which, in almost every instance, must be harmless and innocent, should be the subject of so much groundless reproach and obloquy. but, perhaps, the very circumstance which renders it so innocent is what chiefly exposes it to the public hatred and resentment. by flattering no irregular passion, it gains few partizans: by opposing so many vices and follies, it raises to itself abundance of enemies, who stigmatize it as libertine profane, and irreligious. nor need we fear that this philosophy, while it endeavours to limit our enquiries to common life, should ever undermine the reasonings of common life, and carry its doubts so far as to destroy all action, as well as speculation. nature will always maintain her rights, and prevail in the end over any abstract reasoning whatsoever. though we should conclude, for instance, as in the foregoing section, that, in all reasonings from experience, there is a step taken by the mind which is not supported by any argument or process of the understanding; there is no danger that these reasonings, on which almost all knowledge depends, will ever be affected by such a discovery. if the mind be not engaged by argument to make this step, it must be induced by some other principle of equal weight and authority; and that principle will preserve its influence as long as human nature remains the same. what that principle is may well be worth the pains of enquiry. . suppose a person, though endowed with the strongest faculties of reason and reflection, to be brought on a sudden into this world; he would, indeed, immediately observe a continual succession of objects, and one event following another; but he would not be able to discover anything farther. he would not, at first, by any reasoning, be able to reach the idea of cause and effect; since the particular powers, by which all natural operations are performed, never appear to the senses; nor is it reasonable to conclude, merely because one event, in one instance, precedes another, that therefore the one is the cause, the other the effect. their conjunction may be arbitrary and casual. there may be no reason to infer the existence of one from the appearance of the other. and in a word, such a person, without more experience, could never employ his conjecture or reasoning concerning any matter of fact, or be assured of anything beyond what was immediately present to his memory and senses. suppose, again, that he has acquired more experience, and has lived so long in the world as to have observed familiar objects or events to be constantly conjoined together; what is the consequence of this experience? he immediately infers the existence of one object from the appearance of the other. yet he has not, by all his experience, acquired any idea or knowledge of the secret power by which the one object produces the other; nor is it, by any process of reasoning, he is engaged to draw this inference. but still he finds himself determined to draw it: and though he should be convinced that his understanding has no part in the operation, he would nevertheless continue in the same course of thinking. there is some other principle which determines him to form such a conclusion. . this principle is custom or habit. for wherever the repetition of any particular act or operation produces a propensity to renew the same act or operation, without being impelled by any reasoning or process of the understanding, we always say, that this propensity is the effect of _custom_. by employing that word, we pretend not to have given the ultimate reason of such a propensity. we only point out a principle of human nature, which is universally acknowledged, and which is well known by its effects. perhaps we can push our enquiries no farther, or pretend to give the cause of this cause; but must rest contented with it as the ultimate principle, which we can assign, of all our conclusions from experience. it is sufficient satisfaction, that we can go so far, without repining at the narrowness of our faculties because they will carry us no farther. and it is certain we here advance a very intelligible proposition at least, if not a true one, when we assert that, after the constant conjunction of two objects--heat and flame, for instance, weight and solidity--we are determined by custom alone to expect the one from the appearance of the other. this hypothesis seems even the only one which explains the difficulty, why we draw, from a thousand instances, an inference which we are not able to draw from one instance, that is, in no respect, different from them. reason is incapable of any such variation. the conclusions which it draws from considering one circle are the same which it would form upon surveying all the circles in the universe. but no man, having seen only one body move after being impelled by another, could infer that every other body will move after a like impulse. all inferences from experience, therefore, are effects of custom, not of reasoning[ ]. [ ] nothing is more useful than for writers, even, on _moral_, _political_, or _physical_ subjects, to distinguish between _reason_ and _experience_, and to suppose, that these species of argumentation are entirely different from each other. the former are taken for the mere result of our intellectual faculties, which, by considering _à priori_ the nature of things, and examining the effects, that must follow from their operation, establish particular principles of science and philosophy. the latter are supposed to be derived entirely from sense and observation, by which we learn what has actually resulted from the operation of particular objects, and are thence able to infer, what will, for the future, result from them. thus, for instance, the limitations and restraints of civil government, and a legal constitution, may be defended, either from _reason_, which reflecting on the great frailty and corruption of human nature, teaches, that no man can safely be trusted with unlimited authority; or from _experience_ and history, which inform us of the enormous abuses, that ambition, in every age and country, has been found to make of so imprudent a confidence. the same distinction between reason and experience is maintained in all our deliberations concerning the conduct of life; while the experienced statesman, general, physician, or merchant is trusted and followed; and the unpractised novice, with whatever natural talents endowed, neglected and despised. though it be allowed, that reason may form very plausible conjectures with regard to the consequences of such a particular conduct in such particular circumstances; it is still supposed imperfect, without the assistance of experience, which is alone able to give stability and certainty to the maxims, derived from study and reflection. but notwithstanding that this distinction be thus universally received, both in the active speculative scenes of life, i shall not scruple to pronounce, that it is, at bottom, erroneous, at least, superficial. if we examine those arguments, which, in any of the sciences above mentioned, are supposed to be the mere effects of reasoning and reflection, they will be found to terminate, at last, in some general principle or conclusion, for which we can assign no reason but observation and experience. the only difference between them and those maxims, which are vulgarly esteemed the result of pure experience, is, that the former cannot be established without some process of thought, and some reflection on what we have observed, in order to distinguish its circumstances, and trace its consequences: whereas in the latter, the experienced event is exactly and fully familiar to that which we infer as the result of any particular situation. the history of a tiberius or a nero makes us dread a like tyranny, were our monarchs freed from the restraints of laws and senates: but the observation of any fraud or cruelty in private life is sufficient, with the aid of a little thought, to give us the same apprehension; while it serves as an instance of the general corruption of human nature, and shows us the danger which we must incur by reposing an entire confidence in mankind. in both cases, it is experience which is ultimately the foundation of our inference and conclusion. there is no man so young and unexperienced, as not to have formed, from observation, many general and just maxims concerning human affairs and the conduct of life; but it must be confessed, that, when a man comes to put these in practice, he will be extremely liable to error, till time and farther experience both enlarge these maxims, and teach him their proper use and application. in every situation or incident, there are many particular and seemingly minute circumstances, which the man of greatest talent is, at first, apt to overlook, though on them the justness of his conclusions, and consequently the prudence of his conduct, entirely depend. not to mention, that, to a young beginner, the general observations and maxims occur not always on the proper occasions, nor can be immediately applied with due calmness and distinction. the truth is, an unexperienced reasoner could be no reasoner at all, were he absolutely unexperienced; and when we assign that character to any one, we mean it only in a comparative sense, and suppose him possessed of experience, in a smaller and more imperfect degree. custom, then, is the great guide of human life. it is that principle alone which renders our experience useful to us, and makes us expect, for the future, a similar train of events with those which have appeared in the past. without the influence of custom, we should be entirely ignorant of every matter of fact beyond what is immediately present to the memory and senses. we should never know how to adjust means to ends, or to employ our natural powers in the production of any effect. there would be an end at once of all action, as well as of the chief part of speculation. . but here it may be proper to remark, that though our conclusions from experience carry us beyond our memory and senses, and assure us of matters of fact which happened in the most distant places and most remote ages, yet some fact must always be present to the senses or memory, from which we may first proceed in drawing these conclusions. a man, who should find in a desert country the remains of pompous buildings, would conclude that the country had, in ancient times, been cultivated by civilized inhabitants; but did nothing of this nature occur to him, he could never form such an inference. we learn the events of former ages from history; but then we must peruse the volumes in which this instruction is contained, and thence carry up our inferences from one testimony to another, till we arrive at the eyewitnesses and spectators of these distant events. in a word, if we proceed not upon some fact, present to the memory or senses, our reasonings would be merely hypothetical; and however the particular links might be connected with each other, the whole chain of inferences would have nothing to support it, nor could we ever, by its means, arrive at the knowledge of any real existence. if i ask why you believe any particular matter of fact, which you relate, you must tell me some reason; and this reason will be some other fact, connected with it. but as you cannot proceed after this manner, _in infinitum_, you must at last terminate in some fact, which is present to your memory or senses; or must allow that your belief is entirely without foundation. . what, then, is the conclusion of the whole matter? a simple one; though, it must be confessed, pretty remote from the common theories of philosophy. all belief of matter of fact or real existence is derived merely from some object, present to the memory or senses, and a customary conjunction between that and some other object. or in other words; having found, in many instances, that any two kinds of objects--flame and heat, snow and cold--have always been conjoined together; if flame or snow be presented anew to the senses, the mind is carried by custom to expect heat or cold, and to _believe_ that such a quality does exist, and will discover itself upon a nearer approach. this belief is the necessary result of placing the mind in such circumstances. it is an operation of the soul, when we are so situated, as unavoidable as to feel the passion of love, when we receive benefits; or hatred, when we meet with injuries. all these operations are a species of natural instincts, which no reasoning or process of the thought and understanding is able either to produce or to prevent. at this point, it would be very allowable for us to stop our philosophical researches. in most questions we can never make a single step farther; and in all questions we must terminate here at last, after our most restless and curious enquiries. but still our curiosity will be pardonable, perhaps commendable, if it carry us on to still farther researches, and make us examine more accurately the nature of this _belief_, and of the _customary conjunction_, whence it is derived. by this means we may meet with some explications and analogies that will give satisfaction; at least to such as love the abstract sciences, and can be entertained with speculations, which, however accurate, may still retain a degree of doubt and uncertainty. as to readers of a different taste; the remaining part of this section is not calculated for them, and the following enquiries may well be understood, though it be neglected. part ii. . nothing is more free than the imagination of man; and though it cannot exceed that original stock of ideas furnished by the internal and external senses, it has unlimited power of mixing, compounding, separating, and dividing these ideas, in all the varieties of fiction and vision. it can feign a train of events, with all the appearance of reality, ascribe to them a particular time and place, conceive them as existent, and paint them out to itself with every circumstance, that belongs to any historical fact, which it believes with the greatest certainty. wherein, therefore, consists the difference between such a fiction and belief? it lies not merely in any peculiar idea, which is annexed to such a conception as commands our assent, and which is wanting to every known fiction. for as the mind has authority over all its ideas, it could voluntarily annex this particular idea to any fiction, and consequently be able to believe whatever it pleases; contrary to what we find by daily experience. we can, in our conception, join the head of a man to the body of a horse; but it is not in our power to believe that such an animal has ever really existed. it follows, therefore, that the difference between _fiction_ and _belief_ lies in some sentiment or feeling, which is annexed to the latter, not to the former, and which depends not on the will, nor can be commanded at pleasure. it must be excited by nature, like all other sentiments; and must arise from the particular situation, in which the mind is placed at any particular juncture. whenever any object is presented to the memory or senses, it immediately, by the force of custom, carries the imagination to conceive that object, which is usually conjoined to it; and this conception is attended with a feeling or sentiment, different from the loose reveries of the fancy. in this consists the whole nature of belief. for as there is no matter of fact which we believe so firmly that we cannot conceive the contrary, there would be no difference between the conception assented to and that which is rejected, were it not for some sentiment which distinguishes the one from the other. if i see a billiard-ball moving towards another, on a smooth table, i can easily conceive it to stop upon contact. this conception implies no contradiction; but still it feels very differently from that conception by which i represent to myself the impulse and the communication of motion from one ball to another. . were we to attempt a _definition_ of this sentiment, we should, perhaps, find it a very difficult, if not an impossible task; in the same manner as if we should endeavour to define the feeling of cold or passion of anger, to a creature who never had any experience of these sentiments. belief is the true and proper name of this feeling; and no one is ever at a loss to know the meaning of that term; because every man is every moment conscious of the sentiment represented by it. it may not, however, be improper to attempt a _description_ of this sentiment; in hopes we may, by that means, arrive at some analogies, which may afford a more perfect explication of it. i say, then, that belief is nothing but a more vivid, lively, forcible, firm, steady conception of an object, than what the imagination alone is ever able to attain. this variety of terms, which may seem so unphilosophical, is intended only to express that act of the mind, which renders realities, or what is taken for such, more present to us than fictions, causes them to weigh more in the thought, and gives them a superior influence on the passions and imagination. provided we agree about the thing, it is needless to dispute about the terms. the imagination has the command over all its ideas, and can join and mix and vary them, in all the ways possible. it may conceive fictitious objects with all the circumstances of place and time. it may set them, in a manner, before our eyes, in their true colours, just as they might have existed. but as it is impossible that this faculty of imagination can ever, of itself, reach belief, it is evident that belief consists not in the peculiar nature or order of ideas, but in the _manner_ of their conception, and in their _feeling_ to the mind. i confess, that it is impossible perfectly to explain this feeling or manner of conception. we may make use of words which express something near it. but its true and proper name, as we observed before, is _belief_; which is a term that every one sufficiently understands in common life. and in philosophy, we can go no farther than assert, that _belief_ is something felt by the mind, which distinguishes the ideas of the judgement from the fictions of the imagination. it gives them more weight and influence; makes them appear of greater importance; enforces them in the mind; and renders them the governing principle of our actions. i hear at present, for instance, a person's voice, with whom i am acquainted; and the sound comes as from the next room. this impression of my senses immediately conveys my thought to the person, together with all the surrounding objects. i paint them out to myself as existing at present, with the same qualities and relations, of which i formerly knew them possessed. these ideas take faster hold of my mind than ideas of an enchanted castle. they are very different to the feeling, and have a much greater influence of every kind, either to give pleasure or pain, joy or sorrow. let us, then, take in the whole compass of this doctrine, and allow, that the sentiment of belief is nothing but a conception more intense and steady than what attends the mere fictions of the imagination, and that this _manner_ of conception arises from a customary conjunction of the object with something present to the memory or senses: i believe that it will not be difficult, upon these suppositions, to find other operations of the mind analogous to it, and to trace up these phenomena to principles still more general. . we have already observed that nature has established connexions among particular ideas, and that no sooner one idea occurs to our thoughts than it introduces its correlative, and carries our attention towards it, by a gentle and insensible movement. these principles of connexion or association we have reduced to three, namely, _resemblance_, _contiguity_ and _causation_; which are the only bonds that unite our thoughts together, and beget that regular train of reflection or discourse, which, in a greater or less degree, takes place among all mankind. now here arises a question, on which the solution of the present difficulty will depend. does it happen, in all these relations, that, when one of the objects is presented to the senses or memory, the mind is not only carried to the conception of the correlative, but reaches a steadier and stronger conception of it than what otherwise it would have been able to attain? this seems to be the case with that belief which arises from the relation of cause and effect. and if the case be the same with the other relations or principles of associations, this may be established as a general law, which takes place in all the operations of the mind. we may, therefore, observe, as the first experiment to our present purpose, that, upon the appearance of the picture of an absent friend, our idea of him is evidently enlivened by the _resemblance_, and that every passion, which that idea occasions, whether of joy or sorrow, acquires new force and vigour. in producing this effect, there concur both a relation and a present impression. where the picture bears him no resemblance, at least was not intended for him, it never so much as conveys our thought to him: and where it is absent, as well as the person, though the mind may pass from the thought of the one to that of the other, it feels its idea to be rather weakened than enlivened by that transition. we take a pleasure in viewing the picture of a friend, when it is set before us; but when it is removed, rather choose to consider him directly than by reflection in an image, which is equally distant and obscure. the ceremonies of the roman catholic religion may be considered as instances of the same nature. the devotees of that superstition usually plead in excuse for the mummeries, with which they are upbraided, that they feel the good effect of those external motions, and postures, and actions, in enlivening their devotion and quickening their fervour, which otherwise would decay, if directed entirely to distant and immaterial objects. we shadow out the objects of our faith, say they, in sensible types and images, and render them more present to us by the immediate presence of these types, than it is possible for us to do merely by an intellectual view and contemplation. sensible objects have always a greater influence on the fancy than any other; and this influence they readily convey to those ideas to which they are related, and which they resemble. i shall only infer from these practices, and this reasoning, that the effect of resemblance in enlivening the ideas is very common; and as in every case a resemblance and a present impression must concur, we are abundantly supplied with experiments to prove the reality of the foregoing principle. . we may add force to these experiments by others of a different kind, in considering the effects of _contiguity_ as well as of _resemblance_. it is certain that distance diminishes the force of every idea, and that, upon our approach to any object; though it does not discover itself to our senses; it operates upon the mind with an influence, which imitates an immediate impression. the thinking on any object readily transports the mind to what is contiguous; but it is only the actual presence of an object, that transports it with a superior vivacity. when i am a few miles from home, whatever relates to it touches me more nearly than when i am two hundred leagues distant; though even at that distance the reflecting on any thing in the neighbourhood of my friends or family naturally produces an idea of them. but as in this latter case, both the objects of the mind are ideas; notwithstanding there is an easy transition between them; that transition alone is not able to give a superior vivacity to any of the ideas, for want of some immediate impression[ ]. [ ] 'naturane nobis, inquit, datum dicam, an errore quodam, ut, cum ea loca videamus, in quibus memoria dignos viros acceperimus multum esse versatos, magis moveamur, quam siquando eorum ipsorum aut facta audiamus aut scriptum aliquod legamus? velut ego nunc moveor. venit enim mihi plato in mentem, quera accepimus primum hic disputare solitum: cuius etiam illi hortuli propinqui non memoriam solum mihi afferunt, sed ipsum videntur in conspectu meo hic ponere. hic speusippus, hic xenocrates, hic eius auditor polemo; cuius ipsa illa sessio fuit, quam videmus. equidem etiam curiam nostram, hostiliam dico, non hanc novam, quae mihi minor esse videtur postquam est maior, solebam intuens, scipionem, catonem, laelium, nostrum vero in primis avum cogitare. tanta vis admonitionis est in locis; ut non sine causa ex his memoriae deducta sit disciplina.' _cicero de finibus_. lib. v. . no one can doubt but causation has the same influence as the other two relations of resemblance and contiguity. superstitious people are fond of the reliques of saints and holy men, for the same reason, that they seek after types or images, in order to enliven their devotion, and give them a more intimate and strong conception of those exemplary lives, which they desire to imitate. now it is evident, that one of the best reliques, which a devotee could procure, would be the handywork of a saint; and if his cloaths and furniture are ever to be considered in this light, it is because they were once at his disposal, and were moved and affected by him; in which respect they are to be considered as imperfect effects, and as connected with him by a shorter chain of consequences than any of those, by which we learn the reality of his existence. suppose, that the son of a friend, who had been long dead or absent, were presented to us; it is evident, that this object would instantly revive its correlative idea, and recal to our thoughts all past intimacies and familiarities, in more lively colours than they would otherwise have appeared to us. this is another phaenomenon, which seems to prove the principle above mentioned. . we may observe, that, in these phaenomena, the belief of the correlative object is always presupposed; without which the relation could have no effect. the influence of the picture supposes, that we _believe_ our friend to have once existed. contiguity to home can never excite our ideas of home, unless we _believe_ that it really exists. now i assert, that this belief, where it reaches beyond the memory or senses, is of a similar nature, and arises from similar causes, with the transition of thought and vivacity of conception here explained. when i throw a piece of dry wood into a fire, my mind is immediately carried to conceive, that it augments, not extinguishes the flame. this transition of thought from the cause to the effect proceeds not from reason. it derives its origin altogether from custom and experience. and as it first begins from an object, present to the senses, it renders the idea or conception of flame more strong and lively than any loose, floating reverie of the imagination. that idea arises immediately. the thought moves instantly towards it, and conveys to it all that force of conception, which is derived from the impression present to the senses. when a sword is levelled at my breast, does not the idea of wound and pain strike me more strongly, than when a glass of wine is presented to me, even though by accident this idea should occur after the appearance of the latter object? but what is there in this whole matter to cause such a strong conception, except only a present object and a customary transition to the idea of another object, which we have been accustomed to conjoin with the former? this is the whole operation of the mind, in all our conclusions concerning matter of fact and existence; and it is a satisfaction to find some analogies, by which it may be explained. the transition from a present object does in all cases give strength and solidity to the related idea. here, then, is a kind of pre-established harmony between the course of nature and the succession of our ideas; and though the powers and forces, by which the former is governed, be wholly unknown to us; yet our thoughts and conceptions have still, we find, gone on in the same train with the other works of nature. custom is that principle, by which this correspondence has been effected; so necessary to the subsistence of our species, and the regulation of our conduct, in every circumstance and occurrence of human life. had not the presence of an object, instantly excited the idea of those objects, commonly conjoined with it, all our knowledge must have been limited to the narrow sphere of our memory and senses; and we should never have been able to adjust means to ends, or employ our natural powers, either to the producing of good, or avoiding of evil. those, who delight in the discovery and contemplation of _final causes_, have here ample subject to employ their wonder and admiration. . i shall add, for a further confirmation of the foregoing theory, that, as this operation of the mind, by which we infer like effects from like causes, and _vice versa_, is so essential to the subsistence of all human creatures, it is not probable, that it could be trusted to the fallacious deductions of our reason, which is slow in its operations; appears not, in any degree, during the first years of infancy; and at best is, in every age and period of human life, extremely liable to error and mistake. it is more conformable to the ordinary wisdom of nature to secure so necessary an act of the mind, by some instinct or mechanical tendency, which may be infallible in its operations, may discover itself at the first appearance of life and thought, and may be independent of all the laboured deductions of the understanding. as nature has taught us the use of our limbs, without giving us the knowledge of the muscles and nerves, by which they are actuated; so has she implanted in us an instinct, which carries forward the thought in a correspondent course to that which she has established among external objects; though we are ignorant of those powers and forces, on which this regular course and succession of objects totally depends. section vi. of probability[ ]. [ ] mr. locke divides all arguments into demonstrative and probable. in this view, we must say, that it is only probable all men must die, or that the sun will rise to-morrow. but to conform our language more to common use, we ought to divide arguments into _demonstrations_, _proofs_, and _probabilities_. by proofs meaning such arguments from experience as leave no room for doubt or opposition. . though there be no such thing as _chance_ in the world; our ignorance of the real cause of any event has the same influence on the understanding, and begets a like species of belief or opinion. there is certainly a probability, which arises from a superiority of chances on any side; and according as this superiority encreases, and surpasses the opposite chances, the probability receives a proportionable encrease, and begets still a higher degree of belief or assent to that side, in which we discover the superiority. if a dye were marked with one figure or number of spots on four sides, and with another figure or number of spots on the two remaining sides, it would be more probable, that the former would turn up than the latter; though, if it had a thousand sides marked in the same manner, and only one side different, the probability would be much higher, and our belief or expectation of the event more steady and secure. this process of the thought or reasoning may seem trivial and obvious; but to those who consider it more narrowly, it may, perhaps, afford matter for curious speculation. it seems evident, that, when the mind looks forward to discover the event, which may result from the throw of such a dye, it considers the turning up of each particular side as alike probable; and this is the very nature of chance, to render all the particular events, comprehended in it, entirely equal. but finding a greater number of sides concur in the one event than in the other, the mind is carried more frequently to that event, and meets it oftener, in revolving the various possibilities or chances, on which the ultimate result depends. this concurrence of several views in one particular event begets immediately, by an inexplicable contrivance of nature, the sentiment of belief, and gives that event the advantage over its antagonist, which is supported by a smaller number of views, and recurs less frequently to the mind. if we allow, that belief is nothing but a firmer and stronger conception of an object than what attends the mere fictions of the imagination, this operation may, perhaps, in some measure, be accounted for. the concurrence of these several views or glimpses imprints the idea more strongly on the imagination; gives it superior force and vigour; renders its influence on the passions and affections more sensible; and in a word, begets that reliance or security, which constitutes the nature of belief and opinion. . the case is the same with the probability of causes, as with that of chance. there are some causes, which are entirely uniform and constant in producing a particular effect; and no instance has ever yet been found of any failure or irregularity in their operation. fire has always burned, and water suffocated every human creature: the production of motion by impulse and gravity is an universal law, which has hitherto admitted of no exception. but there are other causes, which have been found more irregular and uncertain; nor has rhubarb always proved a purge, or opium a soporific to every one, who has taken these medicines. it is true, when any cause fails of producing its usual effect, philosophers ascribe not this to any irregularity in nature; but suppose, that some secret causes, in the particular structure of parts, have prevented the operation. our reasonings, however, and conclusions concerning the event are the same as if this principle had no place. being determined by custom to transfer the past to the future, in all our inferences; where the past has been entirely regular and uniform, we expect the event with the greatest assurance, and leave no room for any contrary supposition. but where different effects have been found to follow from causes, which are to _appearance_ exactly similar, all these various effects must occur to the mind in transferring the past to the future, and enter into our consideration, when we determine the probability of the event. though we give the preference to that which has been found most usual, and believe that this effect will exist, we must not overlook the other effects, but must assign to each of them a particular weight and authority, in proportion as we have found it to be more or less frequent. it is more probable, in almost every country of europe, that there will be frost sometime in january, than that the weather will continue open throughout that whole month; though this probability varies according to the different climates, and approaches to a certainty in the more northern kingdoms. here then it seems evident, that, when we transfer the past to the future, in order to determine the effect, which will result from any cause, we transfer all the different events, in the same proportion as they have appeared in the past, and conceive one to have existed a hundred times, for instance, another ten times, and another once. as a great number of views do here concur in one event, they fortify and confirm it to the imagination, beget that sentiment which we call _belief,_ and give its object the preference above the contrary event, which is not supported by an equal number of experiments, and recurs not so frequently to the thought in transferring the past to the future. let any one try to account for this operation of the mind upon any of the received systems of philosophy, and he will be sensible of the difficulty. for my part, i shall think it sufficient, if the present hints excite the curiosity of philosophers, and make them sensible how defective all common theories are in treating of such curious and such sublime subjects. section vii. of the idea of necessary connexion. part i. . the great advantage of the mathematical sciences above the moral consists in this, that the ideas of the former, being sensible, are always clear and determinate, the smallest distinction between them is immediately perceptible, and the same terms are still expressive of the same ideas, without ambiguity or variation. an oval is never mistaken for a circle, nor an hyperbola for an ellipsis. the isosceles and scalenum are distinguished by boundaries more exact than vice and virtue, right and wrong. if any term be defined in geometry, the mind readily, of itself, substitutes, on all occasions, the definition for the term defined: or even when no definition is employed, the object itself may be presented to the senses, and by that means be steadily and clearly apprehended. but the finer sentiments of the mind, the operations of the understanding, the various agitations of the passions, though really in themselves distinct, easily escape us, when surveyed by reflection; nor is it in our power to recal the original object, as often as we have occasion to contemplate it. ambiguity, by this means, is gradually introduced into our reasonings: similar objects are readily taken to be the same: and the conclusion becomes at last very wide of the premises. one may safely, however, affirm, that, if we consider these sciences in a proper light, their advantages and disadvantages nearly compensate each other, and reduce both of them to a state of equality. if the mind, with greater facility, retains the ideas of geometry clear and determinate, it must carry on a much longer and more intricate chain of reasoning, and compare ideas much wider of each other, in order to reach the abstruser truths of that science. and if moral ideas are apt, without extreme care, to fall into obscurity and confusion, the inferences are always much shorter in these disquisitions, and the intermediate steps, which lead to the conclusion, much fewer than in the sciences which treat of quantity and number. in reality, there is scarcely a proposition in euclid so simple, as not to consist of more parts, than are to be found in any moral reasoning which runs not into chimera and conceit. where we trace the principles of the human mind through a few steps, we may be very well satisfied with our progress; considering how soon nature throws a bar to all our enquiries concerning causes, and reduces us to an acknowledgment of our ignorance. the chief obstacle, therefore, to our improvement in the moral or metaphysical sciences is the obscurity of the ideas, and ambiguity of the terms. the principal difficulty in the mathematics is the length of inferences and compass of thought, requisite to the forming of any conclusion. and, perhaps, our progress in natural philosophy is chiefly retarded by the want of proper experiments and phaenomena, which are often discovered by chance, and cannot always be found, when requisite, even by the most diligent and prudent enquiry. as moral philosophy seems hitherto to have received less improvement than either geometry or physics, we may conclude, that, if there be any difference in this respect among these sciences, the difficulties, which obstruct the progress of the former, require superior care and capacity to be surmounted. . there are no ideas, which occur in metaphysics, more obscure and uncertain, than those of _power, force, energy_ or _necessary connexion_, of which it is every moment necessary for us to treat in all our disquisitions. we shall, therefore, endeavour, in this section, to fix, if possible, the precise meaning of these terms, and thereby remove some part of that obscurity, which is so much complained of in this species of philosophy. it seems a proposition, which will not admit of much dispute, that all our ideas are nothing but copies of our impressions, or, in other words, that it is impossible for us to _think_ of any thing, which we have not antecedently _felt_, either by our external or internal senses. i have endeavoured[ ] to explain and prove this proposition, and have expressed my hopes, that, by a proper application of it, men may reach a greater clearness and precision in philosophical reasonings, than what they have hitherto been able to attain. complex ideas may, perhaps, be well known by definition, which is nothing but an enumeration of those parts or simple ideas, that compose them. but when we have pushed up definitions to the most simple ideas, and find still some ambiguity and obscurity; what resource are we then possessed of? by what invention can we throw light upon these ideas, and render them altogether precise and determinate to our intellectual view? produce the impressions or original sentiments, from which the ideas are copied. these impressions are all strong and sensible. they admit not of ambiguity. they are not only placed in a full light themselves, but may throw light on their correspondent ideas, which lie in obscurity. and by this means, we may, perhaps, attain a new microscope or species of optics, by which, in the moral sciences, the most minute, and most simple ideas may be so enlarged as to fall readily under our apprehension, and be equally known with the grossest and most sensible ideas, that can be the object of our enquiry. [ ] section ii. . to be fully acquainted, therefore, with the idea of power or necessary connexion, let us examine its impression; and in order to find the impression with greater certainty, let us search for it in all the sources, from which it may possibly be derived. when we look about us towards external objects, and consider the operation of causes, we are never able, in a single instance, to discover any power or necessary connexion; any quality, which binds the effect to the cause, and renders the one an infallible consequence of the other. we only find, that the one does actually, in fact, follow the other. the impulse of one billiard-ball is attended with motion in the second. this is the whole that appears to the _outward_ senses. the mind feels no sentiment or _inward_ impression from this succession of objects: consequently, there is not, in any single, particular instance of cause and effect, any thing which can suggest the idea of power or necessary connexion. from the first appearance of an object, we never can conjecture what effect will result from it. but were the power or energy of any cause discoverable by the mind, we could foresee the effect, even without experience; and might, at first, pronounce with certainty concerning it, by mere dint of thought and reasoning. in reality, there is no part of matter, that does ever, by its sensible qualities, discover any power or energy, or give us ground to imagine, that it could produce any thing, or be followed by any other object, which we could denominate its effect. solidity, extension, motion; these qualities are all complete in themselves, and never point out any other event which may result from them. the scenes of the universe are continually shifting, and one object follows another in an uninterrupted succession; but the power of force, which actuates the whole machine, is entirely concealed from us, and never discovers itself in any of the sensible qualities of body. we know, that, in fact, heat is a constant attendant of flame; but what is the connexion between them, we have no room so much as to conjecture or imagine. it is impossible, therefore, that the idea of power can be derived from the contemplation of bodies, in single instances of their operation; because no bodies ever discover any power, which can be the original of this idea.[ ] [ ] mr. locke, in his chapter of power, says that, finding from experience, that there are several new productions in nature, and concluding that there must somewhere be a power capable of producing them, we arrive at last by this reasoning at the idea of power. but no reasoning can ever give us a new, original, simple idea; as this philosopher himself confesses. this, therefore, can never be the origin of that idea. . since, therefore, external objects as they appear to the senses, give us no idea of power or necessary connexion, by their operation in particular instances, let us see, whether this idea be derived from reflection on the operations of our own minds, and be copied from any internal impression. it may be said, that we are every moment conscious of internal power; while we feel, that, by the simple command of our will, we can move the organs of our body, or direct the faculties of our mind. an act of volition produces motion in our limbs, or raises a new idea in our imagination. this influence of the will we know by consciousness. hence we acquire the idea of power or energy; and are certain, that we ourselves and all other intelligent beings are possessed of power. this idea, then, is an idea of reflection, since it arises from reflecting on the operations of our own mind, and on the command which is exercised by will, both over the organs of the body and faculties of the soul. . we shall proceed to examine this pretension; and first with regard to the influence of volition over the organs of the body. this influence, we may observe, is a fact, which, like all other natural events, can be known only by experience, and can never be foreseen from any apparent energy or power in the cause, which connects it with the effect, and renders the one an infallible consequence of the other. the motion of our body follows upon the command of our will. of this we are every moment conscious. but the means, by which this is effected; the energy, by which the will performs so extraordinary an operation; of this we are so far from being immediately conscious, that it must for ever escape our most diligent enquiry. for _first_; is there any principle in all nature more mysterious than the union of soul with body; by which a supposed spiritual substance acquires such an influence over a material one, that the most refined thought is able to actuate the grossest matter? were we empowered, by a secret wish, to remove mountains, or control the planets in their orbit; this extensive authority would not be more extraordinary, nor more beyond our comprehension. but if by consciousness we perceived any power or energy in the will, we must know this power; we must know its connexion with the effect; we must know the secret union of soul and body, and the nature of both these substances; by which the one is able to operate, in so many instances, upon the other. _secondly_, we are not able to move all the organs of the body with a like authority; though we cannot assign any reason besides experience, for so remarkable a difference between one and the other. why has the will an influence over the tongue and fingers, not over the heart or liver? this question would never embarrass us, were we conscious of a power in the former case, not in the latter. we should then perceive, independent of experience, why the authority of will over the organs of the body is circumscribed within such particular limits. being in that case fully acquainted with the power or force, by which it operates, we should also know, why its influence reaches precisely to such boundaries, and no farther. a man, suddenly struck with palsy in the leg or arm, or who had newly lost those members, frequently endeavours, at first to move them, and employ them in their usual offices. here he is as much conscious of power to command such limbs, as a man in perfect health is conscious of power to actuate any member which remains in its natural state and condition. but consciousness never deceives. consequently, neither in the one case nor in the other, are we ever conscious of any power. we learn the influence of our will from experience alone. and experience only teaches us, how one event constantly follows another; without instructing us in the secret connexion, which binds them together, and renders them inseparable. _thirdly,_ we learn from anatomy, that the immediate object of power in voluntary motion, is not the member itself which is moved, but certain muscles, and nerves, and animal spirits, and, perhaps, something still more minute and more unknown, through which the motion is successively propagated, ere it reach the member itself whose motion is the immediate object of volition. can there be a more certain proof, that the power, by which this whole operation is performed, so far from being directly and fully known by an inward sentiment or consciousness, is, to the last degree mysterious and unintelligible? here the mind wills a certain event: immediately another event, unknown to ourselves, and totally different from the one intended, is produced: this event produces another, equally unknown: till at last, through a long succession, the desired event is produced. but if the original power were felt, it must be known: were it known, its effect also must be known; since all power is relative to its effect. and _vice versa,_ if the effect be not known, the power cannot be known nor felt. how indeed can we be conscious of a power to move our limbs, when we have no such power; but only that to move certain animal spirits, which, though they produce at last the motion of our limbs, yet operate in such a manner as is wholly beyond our comprehension? we may, therefore, conclude from the whole, i hope, without any temerity, though with assurance; that our idea of power is not copied from any sentiment or consciousness of power within ourselves, when we give rise to animal motion, or apply our limbs to their proper use and office. that their motion follows the command of the will is a matter of common experience, like other natural events: but the power or energy by which this is effected, like that in other natural events, is unknown and inconceivable.[ ] [ ] it may be pretended, that the resistance which we meet with in bodies, obliging us frequently to exert our force, and call up all our power, this gives us the idea of force and power. it is this _nisus_, or strong endeavour, of which we are conscious, that is the original impression from which this idea is copied. but, first, we attribute power to a vast number of objects, where we never can suppose this resistance or exertion of force to take place; to the supreme being, who never meets with any resistance; to the mind in its command over its ideas and limbs, in common thinking and motion, where the effect follows immediately upon the will, without any exertion or summoning up of force; to inanimate matter, which is not capable of this sentiment. _secondly,_ this sentiment of an endeavour to overcome resistance has no known connexion with any event: what follows it, we know by experience; but could not know it _à priori._ it must, however, be confessed, that the animal _nisus,_ which we experience, though it can afford no accurate precise idea of power, enters very much into that vulgar, inaccurate idea, which is formed of it. . shall we then assert, that we are conscious of a power or energy in our own minds, when, by an act or command of our will, we raise up a new idea, fix the mind to the contemplation of it, turn it on all sides, and at last dismiss it for some other idea, when we think that we have surveyed it with sufficient accuracy? i believe the same arguments will prove, that even this command of the will gives us no real idea of force or energy. _first,_ it must be allowed, that, when we know a power, we know that very circumstance in the cause, by which it is enabled to produce the effect: for these are supposed to be synonimous. we must, therefore, know both the cause and effect, and the relation between them. but do we pretend to be acquainted with the nature of the human soul and the nature of an idea, or the aptitude of the one to produce the other? this is a real creation; a production of something out of nothing: which implies a power so great, that it may seem, at first sight, beyond the reach of any being, less than infinite. at least it must be owned, that such a power is not felt, nor known, nor even conceivable by the mind. we only feel the event, namely, the existence of an idea, consequent to a command of the will: but the manner, in which this operation is performed, the power by which it is produced, is entirely beyond our comprehension. _secondly_, the command of the mind over itself is limited, as well as its command over the body; and these limits are not known by reason, or any acquaintance with the nature of cause and effect, but only by experience and observation, as in all other natural events and in the operation of external objects. our authority over our sentiments and passions is much weaker than that over our ideas; and even the latter authority is circumscribed within very narrow boundaries. will any one pretend to assign the ultimate reason of these boundaries, or show why the power is deficient in one case, not in another. _thirdly_, this self-command is very different at different times. a man in health possesses more of it than one languishing with sickness. we are more master of our thoughts in the morning than in the evening: fasting, than after a full meal. can we give any reason for these variations, except experience? where then is the power, of which we pretend to be conscious? is there not here, either in a spiritual or material substance, or both, some secret mechanism or structure of parts, upon which the effect depends, and which, being entirely unknown to us, renders the power or energy of the will equally unknown and incomprehensible? volition is surely an act of the mind, with which we are sufficiently acquainted. reflect upon it. consider it on all sides. do you find anything in it like this creative power, by which it raises from nothing a new idea, and with a kind of _fiat_, imitates the omnipotence of its maker, if i may be allowed so to speak, who called forth into existence all the various scenes of nature? so far from being conscious of this energy in the will, it requires as certain experience as that of which we are possessed, to convince us that such extraordinary effects do ever result from a simple act of volition. . the generality of mankind never find any difficulty in accounting for the more common and familiar operations of nature--such as the descent of heavy bodies, the growth of plants, the generation of animals, or the nourishment of bodies by food: but suppose that, in all these cases, they perceive the very force or energy of the cause, by which it is connected with its effect, and is for ever infallible in its operation. they acquire, by long habit, such a turn of mind, that, upon the appearance of the cause, they immediately expect with assurance its usual attendant, and hardly conceive it possible that any other event could result from it. it is only on the discovery of extraordinary phaenomena, such as earthquakes, pestilence, and prodigies of any kind, that they find themselves at a loss to assign a proper cause, and to explain the manner in which the effect is produced by it. it is usual for men, in such difficulties, to have recourse to some invisible intelligent principle[ ] as the immediate cause of that event which surprises them, and which, they think, cannot be accounted for from the common powers of nature. but philosophers, who carry their scrutiny a little farther, immediately perceive that, even in the most familiar events, the energy of the cause is as unintelligible as in the most unusual, and that we only learn by experience the frequent _conjunction_ of objects, without being ever able to comprehend anything like _connexion_ between them. [ ] [greek: theos apo maechanaes.] . here, then, many philosophers think themselves obliged by reason to have recourse, on all occasions, to the same principle, which the vulgar never appeal to but in cases that appear miraculous and supernatural. they acknowledge mind and intelligence to be, not only the ultimate and original cause of all things, but the immediate and sole cause of every event which appears in nature. they pretend that those objects which are commonly denominated _causes,_ are in reality nothing but _occasions;_ and that the true and direct principle of every effect is not any power or force in nature, but a volition of the supreme being, who wills that such particular objects should for ever be conjoined with each other. instead of saying that one billiard-ball moves another by a force which it has derived from the author of nature, it is the deity himself, they say, who, by a particular volition, moves the second ball, being determined to this operation by the impulse of the first ball, in consequence of those general laws which he has laid down to himself in the government of the universe. but philosophers advancing still in their inquiries, discover that, as we are totally ignorant of the power on which depends the mutual operation of bodies, we are no less ignorant of that power on which depends the operation of mind on body, or of body on mind; nor are we able, either from our senses or consciousness, to assign the ultimate principle in one case more than in the other. the same ignorance, therefore, reduces them to the same conclusion. they assert that the deity is the immediate cause of the union between soul and body; and that they are not the organs of sense, which, being agitated by external objects, produce sensations in the mind; but that it is a particular volition of our omnipotent maker, which excites such a sensation, in consequence of such a motion in the organ. in like manner, it is not any energy in the will that produces local motion in our members: it is god himself, who is pleased to second our will, in itself impotent, and to command that motion which we erroneously attribute to our own power and efficacy. nor do philosophers stop at this conclusion. they sometimes extend the same inference to the mind itself, in its internal operations. our mental vision or conception of ideas is nothing but a revelation made to us by our maker. when we voluntarily turn our thoughts to any object, and raise up its image in the fancy, it is not the will which creates that idea: it is the universal creator, who discovers it to the mind, and renders it present to us. . thus, according to these philosophers, every thing is full of god. not content with the principle, that nothing exists but by his will, that nothing possesses any power but by his concession: they rob nature, and all created beings, of every power, in order to render their dependence on the deity still more sensible and immediate. they consider not that, by this theory, they diminish, instead of magnifying, the grandeur of those attributes, which they affect so much to celebrate. it argues surely more power in the deity to delegate a certain degree of power to inferior creatures than to produce every thing by his own immediate volition. it argues more wisdom to contrive at first the fabric of the world with such perfect foresight that, of itself, and by its proper operation, it may serve all the purposes of providence, than if the great creator were obliged every moment to adjust its parts, and animate by his breath all the wheels of that stupendous machine. but if we would have a more philosophical confutation of this theory, perhaps the two following reflections may suffice. . _first_, it seems to me that this theory of the universal energy and operation of the supreme being is too bold ever to carry conviction with it to a man, sufficiently apprized of the weakness of human reason, and the narrow limits to which it is confined in all its operations. though the chain of arguments which conduct to it were ever so logical, there must arise a strong suspicion, if not an absolute assurance, that it has carried us quite beyond the reach of our faculties, when it leads to conclusions so extraordinary, and so remote from common life and experience. we are got into fairy land, long ere we have reached the last steps of our theory; and _there_ we have no reason to trust our common methods of argument, or to think that our usual analogies and probabilities have any authority. our line is too short to fathom such immense abysses. and however we may flatter ourselves that we are guided, in every step which we take, by a kind of verisimilitude and experience, we may be assured that this fancied experience has no authority when we thus apply it to subjects that lie entirely out of the sphere of experience. but on this we shall have occasion to touch afterwards.[ ] [ ] section xii. _secondly,_ i cannot perceive any force in the arguments on which this theory is founded. we are ignorant, it is true, of the manner in which bodies operate on each other: their force or energy is entirely incomprehensible: but are we not equally ignorant of the manner or force by which a mind, even the supreme mind, operates either on itself or on body? whence, i beseech you, do we acquire any idea of it? we have no sentiment or consciousness of this power in ourselves. we have no idea of the supreme being but what we learn from reflection on our own faculties. were our ignorance, therefore, a good reason for rejecting any thing, we should be led into that principle of denying all energy in the supreme being as much as in the grossest matter. we surely comprehend as little the operations of one as of the other. is it more difficult to conceive that motion may arise from impulse than that it may arise from volition? all we know is our profound ignorance in both cases[ ]. [ ] i need not examine at length the _vis inertiae_ which is so much talked of in the new philosophy, and which is ascribed to matter. we find by experience, that a body at rest or in motion continues for ever in its present state, till put from it by some new cause; and that a body impelled takes as much motion from the impelling body as it acquires itself. these are facts. when we call this a _vis inertiae_, we only mark these facts, without pretending to have any idea of the inert power; in the same manner as, when we talk of gravity, we mean certain effects, without comprehending that active power. it was never the meaning of sir isaac newton to rob second causes of all force or energy; though some of his followers have endeavoured to establish that theory upon his authority. on the contrary, that great philosopher had recourse to an etherial active fluid to explain his universal attraction; though he was so cautious and modest as to allow, that it was a mere hypothesis, not to be insisted on, without more experiments. i must confess, that there is something in the fate of opinions a little extraordinary. des cartes insinuated that doctrine of the universal and sole efficacy of the deity, without insisting on it. malebranche and other cartesians made it the foundation of all their philosophy. it had, however, no authority in england. locke, clarke, and cudworth, never so much as take notice of it, but suppose all along, that matter has a real, though subordinate and derived power. by what means has it become so prevalent among our modern metaphysicians? part ii. . but to hasten to a conclusion of this argument, which is already drawn out to too great a length: we have sought in vain for an idea of power or necessary connexion in all the sources from which we could suppose it to be derived. it appears that, in single instances of the operation of bodies, we never can, by our utmost scrutiny, discover any thing but one event following another, without being able to comprehend any force or power by which the cause operates, or any connexion between it and its supposed effect. the same difficulty occurs in contemplating the operations of mind on body--where we observe the motion of the latter to follow upon the volition of the former, but are not able to observe or conceive the tie which binds together the motion and volition, or the energy by which the mind produces this effect. the authority of the will over its own faculties and ideas is not a whit more comprehensible: so that, upon the whole, there appears not, throughout all nature, any one instance of connexion which is conceivable by us. all events seem entirely loose and separate. one event follows another; but we never can observe any tie between them. they seem _conjoined_, but never _connected_. and as we can have no idea of any thing which never appeared to our outward sense or inward sentiment, the necessary conclusion _seems_ to be that we have no idea of connexion or power at all, and that these words are absolutely without any meaning, when employed either in philosophical reasonings or common life. . but there still remains one method of avoiding this conclusion, and one source which we have not yet examined. when any natural object or event is presented, it is impossible for us, by any sagacity or penetration, to discover, or even conjecture, without experience, what event will result from it, or to carry our foresight beyond that object which is immediately present to the memory and senses. even after one instance or experiment where we have observed a particular event to follow upon another, we are not entitled to form a general rule, or foretell what will happen in like cases; it being justly esteemed an unpardonable temerity to judge of the whole course of nature from one single experiment, however accurate or certain. but when one particular species of event has always, in all instances, been conjoined with another, we make no longer any scruple of foretelling one upon the appearance of the other, and of employing that reasoning, which can alone assure us of any matter of fact or existence. we then call the one object, _cause;_ the other, _effect._ we suppose that there is some connexion between them; some power in the one, by which it infallibly produces the other, and operates with the greatest certainty and strongest necessity. it appears, then, that this idea of a necessary connexion among events arises from a number of similar instances which occur of the constant conjunction of these events; nor can that idea ever be suggested by any one of these instances, surveyed in all possible lights and positions. but there is nothing in a number of instances, different from every single instance, which is supposed to be exactly similar; except only, that after a repetition of similar instances, the mind is carried by habit, upon the appearance of one event, to expect its usual attendant, and to believe that it will exist. this connexion, therefore, which we _feel_ in the mind, this customary transition of the imagination from one object to its usual attendant, is the sentiment or impression from which we form the idea of power or necessary connexion. nothing farther is in the case. contemplate the subject on all sides; you will never find any other origin of that idea. this is the sole difference between one instance, from which we can never receive the idea of connexion, and a number of similar instances, by which it is suggested. the first time a man saw the communication of motion by impulse, as by the shock of two billiard balls, he could not pronounce that the one event was _connected:_ but only that it was _conjoined_ with the other. after he has observed several instances of this nature, he then pronounces them to be _connected._ what alteration has happened to give rise to this new idea of _connexion?_ nothing but that he now _feels_ these events to be connected in his imagination, and can readily foretell the existence of one from the appearance of the other. when we say, therefore, that one object is connected with another, we mean only that they have acquired a connexion in our thought, and give rise to this inference, by which they become proofs of each other's existence: a conclusion which is somewhat extraordinary, but which seems founded on sufficient evidence. nor will its evidence be weakened by any general diffidence of the understanding, or sceptical suspicion concerning every conclusion which is new and extraordinary. no conclusions can be more agreeable to scepticism than such as make discoveries concerning the weakness and narrow limits of human reason and capacity. . and what stronger instance can be produced of the surprising ignorance and weakness of the understanding than the present? for surely, if there be any relation among objects which it imports to us to know perfectly, it is that of cause and effect. on this are founded all our reasonings concerning matter of fact or existence. by means of it alone we attain any assurance concerning objects which are removed from the present testimony of our memory and senses. the only immediate utility of all sciences, is to teach us, how to control and regulate future events by their causes. our thoughts and enquiries are, therefore, every moment, employed about this relation: yet so imperfect are the ideas which we form concerning it, that it is impossible to give any just definition of cause, except what is drawn from something extraneous and foreign to it. similar objects are always conjoined with similar. of this we have experience. suitably to this experience, therefore, we may define a cause to be _an object, followed by another, and where all the objects similar to the first are followed by objects similar to the second_. or in other words _where, if the first object had not been, the second never had existed_. the appearance of a cause always conveys the mind, by a customary transition, to the idea of the effect. of this also we have experience. we may, therefore, suitably to this experience, form another definition of cause, and call it, _an object followed by another, and whose appearance always conveys the thought to that other._ but though both these definitions be drawn from circumstances foreign to the cause, we cannot remedy this inconvenience, or attain any more perfect definition, which may point out that circumstance in the cause, which gives it a connexion with its effect. we have no idea of this connexion, nor even any distinct notion what it is we desire to know, when we endeavour at a conception of it. we say, for instance, that the vibration of this string is the cause of this particular sound. but what do we mean by that affirmation? we either mean _that this vibration is followed by this sound, and that all similar vibrations have been followed by similar sounds:_ or, _that this vibration is followed by this sound, and that upon the appearance of one the mind anticipates the senses, and forms immediately an idea of the other._ we may consider the relation of cause and effect in either of these two lights; but beyond these, we have no idea of it.[ ] [ ] according to these explications and definitions, the idea of _power_ is relative as much as that of _cause;_ and both have a reference to an effect, or some other event constantly conjoined with the former. when we consider the _unknown_ circumstance of an object, by which the degree or quantity of its effect is fixed and determined, we call that its power: and accordingly, it is allowed by all philosophers, that the effect is the measure of the power. but if they had any idea of power, as it is in itself, why could not they measure it in itself? the dispute whether the force of a body in motion be as its velocity, or the square of its velocity; this dispute, i say, need not be decided by comparing its effects in equal or unequal times; but by a direct mensuration and comparison. as to the frequent use of the words, force, power, energy, &c., which every where occur in common conversation, as well as in philosophy; that is no proof, that we are acquainted, in any instance, with the connecting principle between cause and effect, or can account ultimately for the production of one thing to another. these words, as commonly used, have very loose meanings annexed to them; and their ideas are very uncertain and confused. no animal can put external bodies in motion without the sentiment of a _nisus_ or endeavour; and every animal has a sentiment or feeling from the stroke or blow of an external object, that is in motion. these sensations, which are merely animal, and from which we can _à priori_ draw no inference, we are apt to transfer to inanimate objects, and to suppose, that they have some such feelings, whenever they transfer or receive motion. with regard to energies, which are exerted, without our annexing to them any idea of communicated motion, we consider only the constant experienced conjunction of the events; and as we _feel_ a customary connexion between the ideas, we transfer that feeling to the objects; as nothing is more usual than to apply to external bodies every internal sensation, which they occasion. . to recapitulate, therefore, the reasonings of this section: every idea is copied from some preceding impression or sentiment; and where we cannot find any impression, we may be certain that there is no idea. in all single instances of the operation of bodies or minds, there is nothing that produces any impression, nor consequently can suggest any idea of power or necessary connexion. but when many uniform instances appear, and the same object is always followed by the same event; we then begin to entertain the notion of cause and connexion. we then _feel_ a new sentiment or impression, to wit, a customary connexion in the thought or imagination between one object and its usual attendant; and this sentiment is the original of that idea which we seek for. for as this idea arises from a number of similar instances, and not from any single instance, it must arise from that circumstance, in which the number of instances differ from every individual instance. but this customary connexion or transition of the imagination is the only circumstance in which they differ. in every other particular they are alike. the first instance which we saw of motion communicated by the shock of two billiard balls (to return to this obvious illustration) is exactly similar to any instance that may, at present, occur to us; except only, that we could not, at first, _infer_ one event from the other; which we are enabled to do at present, after so long a course of uniform experience. i know not whether the reader will readily apprehend this reasoning. i am afraid that, should i multiply words about it, or throw it into a greater variety of lights, it would only become more obscure and intricate. in all abstract reasonings there is one point of view which, if we can happily hit, we shall go farther towards illustrating the subject than by all the eloquence and copious expression in the world. this point of view we should endeavour to reach, and reserve the flowers of rhetoric for subjects which are more adapted to them. section viii. of liberty and necessity. part i. . it might reasonably be expected in questions which have been canvassed and disputed with great eagerness, since the first origin of science and philosophy, that the meaning of all the terms, at least, should have been agreed upon among the disputants; and our enquiries, in the course of two thousand years, been able to pass from words to the true and real subject of the controversy. for how easy may it seem to give exact definitions of the terms employed in reasoning, and make these definitions, not the mere sound of words, the object of future scrutiny and examination? but if we consider the matter more narrowly, we shall be apt to draw a quite opposite conclusion. from this circumstance alone, that a controversy has been long kept on foot, and remains still undecided, we may presume that there is some ambiguity in the expression, and that the disputants affix different ideas to the terms employed in the controversy. for as the faculties of the mind are supposed to be naturally alike in every individual; otherwise nothing could be more fruitless than to reason or dispute together; it were impossible, if men affix the same ideas to their terms, that they could so long form different opinions of the same subject; especially when they communicate their views, and each party turn themselves on all sides, in search of arguments which may give them the victory over their antagonists. it is true, if men attempt the discussion of questions which lie entirely beyond the reach of human capacity, such as those concerning the origin of worlds, or the economy of the intellectual system or region of spirits, they may long beat the air in their fruitless contests, and never arrive at any determinate conclusion. but if the question regard any subject of common life and experience, nothing, one would think, could preserve the dispute so long undecided but some ambiguous expressions, which keep the antagonists still at a distance, and hinder them from grappling with each other. . this has been the case in the long disputed question concerning liberty and necessity; and to so remarkable a degree that, if i be not much mistaken, we shall find, that all mankind, both learned and ignorant, have always been of the same opinion with regard to this subject, and that a few intelligible definitions would immediately have put an end to the whole controversy. i own that this dispute has been so much canvassed on all hands, and has led philosophers into such a labyrinth of obscure sophistry, that it is no wonder, if a sensible reader indulge his ease so far as to turn a deaf ear to the proposal of such a question, from which he can expect neither instruction or entertainment. but the state of the argument here proposed may, perhaps, serve to renew his attention; as it has more novelty, promises at least some decision of the controversy, and will not much disturb his ease by any intricate or obscure reasoning. i hope, therefore, to make it appear that all men have ever agreed in the doctrine both of necessity and of liberty, according to any reasonable sense, which can be put on these terms; and that the whole controversy has hitherto turned merely upon words. we shall begin with examining the doctrine of necessity. . it is universally allowed that matter, in all its operations, is actuated by a necessary force, and that every natural effect is so precisely determined by the energy of its cause that no other effect, in such particular circumstances, could possibly have resulted from it. the degree and direction of every motion is, by the laws of nature, prescribed with such exactness that a living creature may as soon arise from the shock of two bodies as motion in any other degree or direction than what is actually produced by it. would we, therefore, form a just and precise idea of _necessity_, we must consider whence that idea arises when we apply it to the operation of bodies. it seems evident that, if all the scenes of nature were continually shifted in such a manner that no two events bore any resemblance to each other, but every object was entirely new, without any similitude to whatever had been seen before, we should never, in that case, have attained the least idea of necessity, or of a connexion among these objects. we might say, upon such a supposition, that one object or event has followed another; not that one was produced by the other. the relation of cause and effect must be utterly unknown to mankind. inference and reasoning concerning the operations of nature would, from that moment, be at an end; and the memory and senses remain the only canals, by which the knowledge of any real existence could possibly have access to the mind. our idea, therefore, of necessity and causation arises entirely from the uniformity observable in the operations of nature, where similar objects are constantly conjoined together, and the mind is determined by custom to infer the one from the appearance of the other. these two circumstances form the whole of that necessity, which we ascribe to matter. beyond the constant _conjunction_ of similar objects, and the consequent _inference_ from one to the other, we have no notion of any necessity or connexion. if it appear, therefore, that all mankind have ever allowed, without any doubt or hesitation, that these two circumstances take place in the voluntary actions of men, and in the operations of mind; it must follow, that all mankind have ever agreed in the doctrine of necessity, and that they have hitherto disputed, merely for not understanding each other. . as to the first circumstance, the constant and regular conjunction of similar events, we may possibly satisfy ourselves by the following considerations. it is universally acknowledged that there is a great uniformity among the actions of men, in all nations and ages, and that human nature remains still the same, in its principles and operations. the same motives always produce the same actions. the same events follow from the same causes. ambition, avarice, self-love, vanity, friendship, generosity, public spirit: these passions, mixed in various degrees, and distributed through society, have been, from the beginning of the world, and still are, the source of all the actions and enterprises, which have ever been observed among mankind. would you know the sentiments, inclinations, and course of life of the greeks and romans? study well the temper and actions of the french and english: you cannot be much mistaken in transferring to the former _most_ of the observations which you have made with regard to the latter. mankind are so much the same, in all times and places, that history informs us of nothing new or strange in this particular. its chief use is only to discover the constant and universal principles of human nature, by showing men in all varieties of circumstances and situations, and furnishing us with materials from which we may form our observations and become acquainted with the regular springs of human action and behaviour. these records of wars, intrigues, factions, and revolutions, are so many collections of experiments, by which the politician or moral philosopher fixes the principles of his science, in the same manner as the physician or natural philosopher becomes acquainted with the nature of plants, minerals, and other external objects, by the experiments which he forms concerning them. nor are the earth, water, and other elements, examined by aristotle, and hippocrates, more like to those which at present lie under our observation than the men described by polybius and tacitus are to those who now govern the world. should a traveller, returning from a far country, bring us an account of men, wholly different from any with whom we were ever acquainted; men, who were entirely divested of avarice, ambition, or revenge; who knew no pleasure but friendship, generosity, and public spirit; we should immediately, from these circumstances, detect the falsehood, and prove him a liar, with the same certainty as if he had stuffed his narration with stories of centaurs and dragons, miracles and prodigies. and if we would explode any forgery in history, we cannot make use of a more convincing argument, than to prove, that the actions ascribed to any person are directly contrary to the course of nature, and that no human motives, in such circumstances, could ever induce him to such a conduct. the veracity of quintus curtius is as much to be suspected, when he describes the supernatural courage of alexander, by which he was hurried on singly to attack multitudes, as when he describes his supernatural force and activity, by which he was able to resist them. so readily and universally do we acknowledge a uniformity in human motives and actions as well as in the operations of body. hence likewise the benefit of that experience, acquired by long life and a variety of business and company, in order to instruct us in the principles of human nature, and regulate our future conduct, as well as speculation. by means of this guide, we mount up to the knowledge of men's inclinations and motives, from their actions, expressions, and even gestures; and again descend to the interpretation of their actions from our knowledge of their motives and inclinations. the general observations treasured up by a course of experience, give us the clue of human nature, and teach us to unravel all its intricacies. pretexts and appearances no longer deceive us. public declarations pass for the specious colouring of a cause. and though virtue and honour be allowed their proper weight and authority, that perfect disinterestedness, so often pretended to, is never expected in multitudes and parties; seldom in their leaders; and scarcely even in individuals of any rank or station. but were there no uniformity in human actions, and were every experiment which we could form of this kind irregular and anomalous, it were impossible to collect any general observations concerning mankind; and no experience, however accurately digested by reflection, would ever serve to any purpose. why is the aged husbandman more skilful in his calling than the young beginner but because there is a certain uniformity in the operation of the sun, rain, and earth towards the production of vegetables; and experience teaches the old practitioner the rules by which this operation is governed and directed. . we must not, however, expect that this uniformity of human actions should be carried to such a length as that all men, in the same circumstances, will always act precisely in the same manner, without making any allowance for the diversity of characters, prejudices, and opinions. such a uniformity in every particular, is found in no part of nature. on the contrary, from observing the variety of conduct in different men, we are enabled to form a greater variety of maxims, which still suppose a degree of uniformity and regularity. are the manners of men different in different ages and countries? we learn thence the great force of custom and education, which mould the human mind from its infancy and form it into a fixed and established character. is the behaviour and conduct of the one sex very unlike that of the other? is it thence we become acquainted with the different characters which nature has impressed upon the sexes, and which she preserves with constancy and regularity? are the actions of the same person much diversified in the different periods of his life, from infancy to old age? this affords room for many general observations concerning the gradual change of our sentiments and inclinations, and the different maxims which prevail in the different ages of human creatures. even the characters, which are peculiar to each individual, have a uniformity in their influence; otherwise our acquaintance with the persons and our observation of their conduct could never teach us their dispositions, or serve to direct our behaviour with regard to them. . i grant it possible to find some actions, which seem to have no regular connexion with any known motives, and are exceptions to all the measures of conduct which have ever been established for the government of men. but if we would willingly know what judgement should be formed of such irregular and extraordinary actions, we may consider the sentiments commonly entertained with regard to those irregular events which appear in the course of nature, and the operations of external objects. all causes are not conjoined to their usual effects with like uniformity. an artificer, who handles only dead matter, may be disappointed of his aim, as well as the politician, who directs the conduct of sensible and intelligent agents. the vulgar, who take things according to their first appearance, attribute the uncertainty of events to such an uncertainty in the causes as makes the latter often fail of their usual influence; though they meet with no impediment in their operation. but philosophers, observing that, almost in every part of nature, there is contained a vast variety of springs and principles, which are hid, by reason of their minuteness or remoteness, find, that it is at least possible the contrariety of events may not proceed from any contingency in the cause, but from the secret operation of contrary causes. this possibility is converted into certainty by farther observation, when they remark that, upon an exact scrutiny, a contrariety of effects always betrays a contrariety of causes, and proceeds from their mutual opposition. a peasant can give no better reason for the stopping of any clock or watch than to say that it does not commonly go right: but an artist easily perceives that the same force in the spring or pendulum has always the same influence on the wheels; but fails of its usual effect, perhaps by reason of a grain of dust, which puts a stop to the whole movement. from the observation of several parallel instances, philosophers form a maxim that the connexion between all causes and effects is equally necessary, and that its seeming uncertainty in some instances proceeds from the secret opposition of contrary causes. thus, for instance, in the human body, when the usual symptoms of health or sickness disappoint our expectation; when medicines operate not with their wonted powers; when irregular events follow from any particular cause; the philosopher and physician are not surprised at the matter, nor are ever tempted to deny, in general, the necessity and uniformity of those principles by which the animal economy is conducted. they know that a human body is a mighty complicated machine: that many secret powers lurk in it, which are altogether beyond our comprehension: that to us it must often appear very uncertain in its operations: and that therefore the irregular events, which outwardly discover themselves, can be no proof that the laws of nature are not observed with the greatest regularity in its internal operations and government. . the philosopher, if he be consistent, must apply the same reasoning to the actions and volitions of intelligent agents. the most irregular and unexpected resolutions of men may frequently be accounted for by those who know every particular circumstance of their character and situation. a person of an obliging disposition gives a peevish answer: but he has the toothache, or has not dined. a stupid fellow discovers an uncommon alacrity in his carriage: but he has met with a sudden piece of good fortune. or even when an action, as sometimes happens, cannot be particularly accounted for, either by the person himself or by others; we know, in general, that the characters of men are, to a certain degree, inconstant and irregular. this is, in a manner, the constant character of human nature; though it be applicable, in a more particular manner, to some persons who have no fixed rule for their conduct, but proceed in a continued course of caprice and inconstancy. the internal principles and motives may operate in a uniform manner, notwithstanding these seeming irregularities; in the same manner as the winds, rain, clouds, and other variations of the weather are supposed to be governed by steady principles; though not easily discoverable by human sagacity and enquiry. . thus it appears, not only that the conjunction between motives and voluntary actions is as regular and uniform as that between the cause and effect in any part of nature; but also that this regular conjunction has been universally acknowledged among mankind, and has never been the subject of dispute, either in philosophy or common life. now, as it is from past experience that we draw all inferences concerning the future, and as we conclude that objects will always be conjoined together which we find to have always been conjoined; it may seem superfluous to prove that this experienced uniformity in human actions is a source whence we draw _inferences_ concerning them. but in order to throw the argument into a greater variety of lights we shall also insist, though briefly, on this latter topic. the mutual dependence of men is so great in all societies that scarce any human action is entirely complete in itself, or is performed without some reference to the actions of others, which are requisite to make it answer fully the intention of the agent. the poorest artificer, who labours alone, expects at least the protection of the magistrate, to ensure him the enjoyment of the fruits of his labour. he also expects that, when he carries his goods to market, and offers them at a reasonable price, he shall find purchasers, and shall be able, by the money he acquires, to engage others to supply him with those commodities which are requisite for his subsistence. in proportion as men extend their dealings, and render their intercourse with others more complicated, they always comprehend, in their schemes of life, a greater variety of voluntary actions, which they expect, from the proper motives, to co-operate with their own. in all these conclusions they take their measures from past experience, in the same manner as in their reasonings concerning external objects; and firmly believe that men, as well as all the elements, are to continue, in their operations, the same that they have ever found them. a manufacturer reckons upon the labour of his servants for the execution of any work as much as upon the tools which he employs, and would be equally surprised were his expectations disappointed. in short, this experimental inference and reasoning concerning the actions of others enters so much into human life that no man, while awake, is ever a moment without employing it. have we not reason, therefore, to affirm that all mankind have always agreed in the doctrine of necessity according to the foregoing definition and explication of it? . nor have philosophers ever entertained a different opinion from the people in this particular. for, not to mention that almost every action of their life supposes that opinion, there are even few of the speculative parts of learning to which it is not essential. what would become of _history,_ had we not a dependence on the veracity of the historian according to the experience which we have had of mankind? how could _politics_ be a science, if laws and forms of goverment had not a uniform influence upon society? where would be the foundation of _morals,_ if particular characters had no certain or determinate power to produce particular sentiments, and if these sentiments had no constant operation on actions? and with what pretence could we employ our _criticism_ upon any poet or polite author, if we could not pronounce the conduct and sentiments of his actors either natural or unnatural to such characters, and in such circumstances? it seems almost impossible, therefore, to engage either in science or action of any kind without acknowledging the doctrine of necessity, and this _inference_ from motive to voluntary actions, from characters to conduct. and indeed, when we consider how aptly _natural_ and _moral_ evidence link together, and form only one chain of argument, we shall make no scruple to allow that they are of the same nature, and derived from the same principles. a prisoner who has neither money nor interest, discovers the impossibility of his escape, as well when he considers the obstinacy of the gaoler, as the walls and bars with which he is surrounded; and, in all attempts for his freedom, chooses rather to work upon the stone and iron of the one, than upon the inflexible nature of the other. the same prisoner, when conducted to the scaffold, foresees his death as certainly from the constancy and fidelity of his guards, as from the operation of the axe or wheel. his mind runs along a certain train of ideas: the refusal of the soldiers to consent to his escape; the action of the executioner; the separation of the head and body; bleeding, convulsive motions, and death. here is a connected chain of natural causes and voluntary actions; but the mind feels no difference between them in passing from one link to another: nor is less certain of the future event than if it were connected with the objects present to the memory or senses, by a train of causes, cemented together by what we are pleased to call a _physical_ necessity. the same experienced union has the same effect on the mind, whether the united objects be motives, volition, and actions; or figure and motion. we may change the name of things; but their nature and their operation on the understanding never change. were a man, whom i know to be honest and opulent, and with whom i live in intimate friendship, to come into my house, where i am surrounded with my servants, i rest assured that he is not to stab me before he leaves it in order to rob me of my silver standish; and i no more suspect this event than the falling of the house itself, which is new, and solidly built and founded._--but he may have been seized with a sudden and unknown frenzy.--_so may a sudden earthquake arise, and shake and tumble my house about my ears. i shall therefore change the suppositions. i shall say that i know with certainty that he is not to put his hand into the fire and hold it there till it be consumed: and this event, i think i can foretell with the same assurance, as that, if he throw himself out at the window, and meet with no obstruction, he will not remain a moment suspended in the air. no suspicion of an unknown frenzy can give the least possibility to the former event, which is so contrary to all the known principles of human nature. a man who at noon leaves his purse full of gold on the pavement at charing-cross, may as well expect that it will fly away like a feather, as that he will find it untouched an hour after. above one half of human reasonings contain inferences of a similar nature, attended with more or less degrees of certainty proportioned to our experience of the usual conduct of mankind in such particular situations. . i have frequently considered, what could possibly be the reason why all mankind, though they have ever, without hesitation, acknowledged the doctrine of necessity in their whole practice and reasoning, have yet discovered such a reluctance to acknowledge it in words, and have rather shown a propensity, in all ages, to profess the contrary opinion. the matter, i think, may be accounted for after the following manner. if we examine the operations of body, and the production of effects from their causes, we shall find that all our faculties can never carry us farther in our knowledge of this relation than barely to observe that particular objects are _constantly conjoined_ together, and that the mind is carried, by a _customary transition,_ from the appearance of one to the belief of the other. but though this conclusion concerning human ignorance be the result of the strictest scrutiny of this subject, men still entertain a strong propensity to believe that they penetrate farther into the powers of nature, and perceive something like a necessary connexion between the cause and the effect. when again they turn their reflections towards the operations of their own minds, and _feel_ no such connexion of the motive and the action; they are thence apt to suppose, that there is a difference between the effects which result from material force, and those which arise from thought and intelligence. but being once convinced that we know nothing farther of causation of any kind than merely the _constant conjunction_ of objects, and the consequent _inference_ of the mind from one to another, and finding that these two circumstances are universally allowed to have place in voluntary actions; we may be more easily led to own the same necessity common to all causes. and though this reasoning may contradict the systems of many philosophers, in ascribing necessity to the determinations of the will, we shall find, upon reflection, that they dissent from it in words only, not in their real sentiment. necessity, according to the sense in which it is here taken, has never yet been rejected, nor can ever, i think, be rejected by any philosopher. it may only, perhaps, be pretended that the mind can perceive, in the operations of matter, some farther connexion between the cause and effect; and connexion that has not place in voluntary actions of intelligent beings. now whether it be so or not, can only appear upon examination; and it is incumbent on these philosophers to make good their assertion, by defining or describing that necessity, and pointing it out to us in the operations of material causes. . it would seem, indeed, that men begin at the wrong end of this question concerning liberty and necessity, when they enter upon it by examining the faculties of the soul, the influence of the understanding, and the operations of the will. let them first discuss a more simple question, namely, the operations of body and of brute unintelligent matter; and try whether they can there form any idea of causation and necessity, except that of a constant conjunction of objects, and subsequent inference of the mind from one to another. if these circumstances form, in reality, the whole of that necessity, which we conceive in matter, and if these circumstances be also universally acknowledged to take place in the operations of the mind, the dispute is at an end; at least, must be owned to be thenceforth merely verbal. but as long as we will rashly suppose, that we have some farther idea of necessity and causation in the operations of external objects; at the same time, that we can find nothing farther in the voluntary actions of the mind; there is no possibility of bringing the question to any determinate issue, while we proceed upon so erroneous a supposition. the only method of undeceiving us is to mount up higher; to examine the narrow extent of science when applied to material causes; and to convince ourselves that all we know of them is the constant conjunction and inference above mentioned. we may, perhaps, find that it is with difficulty we are induced to fix such narrow limits to human understanding: but we can afterwards find no difficulty when we come to apply this doctrine to the actions of the will. for as it is evident that these have a regular conjunction with motives and circumstances and characters, and as we always draw inferences from one to the other, we must be obliged to acknowledge in words that necessity, which we have already avowed, in every deliberation of our lives, and in every step of our conduct and behaviour.[ ] [ ] the prevalence of the doctrine of liberty may be accounted for, from another cause, viz. a false sensation or seeming experience which we have, or may have, of liberty or indifference, in many of our actions. the necessity of any action, whether of matter or of mind, is not, properly speaking, a quality in the agent, but in any thinking or intelligent being, who may consider the action; and it consists chiefly in the determination of his thoughts to infer the existence of that action from some preceding objects; as liberty, when opposed to necessity, is nothing but the want of that determination, and a certain looseness or indifference, which we feel, in passing, or not passing, from the idea of one object to that of any succeeding one. now we may observe, that, though, in _reflecting_ on human actions, we seldom feel such a looseness, or indifference, but are commonly able to infer them with considerable certainty from their motives, and from the dispositions of the agent; yet it frequently happens, that, in _performing_ the actions themselves, we are sensible of something like it: and as all resembling objects are readily taken for each other, this has been employed as a demonstrative and even intuitive proof of human liberty. we feel, that our actions are subject to our will, on most occasions; and imagine we feel, that the will itself is subject to nothing, because, when by a denial of it we are provoked to try, we feel, that it moves easily every way, and produces an image of itself (or a _velleïty,_ as it is called in the schools) even on that side, on which it did not settle. this image, or faint motion, we persuade ourselves, could, at that time, have been compleated into the thing itself; because, should that be denied, we find, upon a second trial, that, at present, it can. we consider not, that the fantastical desire of shewing liberty, is here the motive of our actions. and it seems certain, that, however we may imagine we feel a liberty within ourselves, a spectator can commonly infer our actions from our motives and character; and even where he cannot, he concludes in general, that he might, were he perfectly acquainted with every circumstance of our situation and temper, and the most secret springs of our complexion and disposition. now this is the very essence of necessity, according to the foregoing doctrine. . but to proceed in this reconciling project with regard to the question of liberty and necessity; the most contentious question of metaphysics, the most contentious science; it will not require many words to prove, that all mankind have ever agreed in the doctrine of liberty as well as in that of necessity, and that the whole dispute, in this respect also, has been hitherto merely verbal. for what is meant by liberty, when applied to voluntary actions? we cannot surely mean that actions have so little connexion with motives, inclinations, and circumstances, that one does not follow with a certain degree of uniformity from the other, and that one affords no inference by which we can conclude the existence of the other. for these are plain and acknowledged matters of fact. by liberty, then, we can only mean _a power of acting or not acting, according to the determinations of the will;_ that is, if we choose to remain at rest, we may; if we choose to move, we also may. now this hypothetical liberty is universally allowed to belong to every one who is not a prisoner and in chains. here, then, is no subject of dispute. . whatever definition we may give of liberty, we should be careful to observe two requisite circumstances; _first,_ that it be consistent with plain matter of fact; _secondly,_ that it be consistent with itself. if we observe these circumstances, and render our definition intelligible, i am persuaded that all mankind will be found of one opinion with regard to it. it is universally allowed that nothing exists without a cause of its existence, and that chance, when strictly examined, is a mere negative word, and means not any real power which has anywhere a being in nature. but it is pretended that some causes are necessary, some not necessary. here then is the advantage of definitions. let any one _define_ a cause, without comprehending, as a part of the definition, a _necessary connexion_ with its effect; and let him show distinctly the origin of the idea, expressed by the definition; and i shall readily give up the whole controversy. but if the foregoing explication of the matter be received, this must be absolutely impracticable. had not objects a regular conjunction with each other, we should never have entertained any notion of cause and effect; and this regular conjunction produces that inference of the understanding, which is the only connexion, that we can have any comprehension of. whoever attempts a definition of cause, exclusive of these circumstances, will be obliged either to employ unintelligible terms or such as are synonymous to the term which he endeavours to define.[ ] and if the definition above mentioned be admitted; liberty, when opposed to necessity, not to constraint, is the same thing with chance; which is universally allowed to have no existence. [ ] thus, if a cause be defined, _that which produces any thing;_ it is easy to observe, that _producing_ is synonymous to _causing._ in like manner, if a cause be defined, _that by which any thing exists;_ this is liable to the same objection. for what is meant by these words, _by which?_ had it been said, that a cause is _that_ after which _any thing constantly exists;_ we should have understood the terms. for this is, indeed, all we know of the matter. and this constancy forms the very essence of necessity, nor have we any other idea of it. part ii. . there is no method of reasoning more common, and yet none more blameable, than, in philosophical disputes, to endeavour the refutation of any hypothesis, by a pretence of its dangerous consequences to religion and morality. when any opinion leads to absurdities, it is certainly false; but it is not certain that an opinion is false, because it is of dangerous consequence. such topics, therefore, ought entirely to be forborne; as serving nothing to the discovery of truth, but only to make the person of an antagonist odious. this i observe in general, without pretending to draw any advantage from it. i frankly submit to an examination of this kind, and shall venture to affirm that the doctrines, both of necessity and of liberty, as above explained, are not only consistent with morality, but are absolutely essential to its support. necessity may be defined two ways, conformably to the two definitions of _cause_, of which it makes an essential part. it consists either in the constant conjunction of like objects, or in the inference of the understanding from one object to another. now necessity, in both these senses, (which, indeed, are at bottom the same) has universally, though tacitly, in the schools, in the pulpit, and in common life, been allowed to belong to the will of man; and no one has ever pretended to deny that we can draw inferences concerning human actions, and that those inferences are founded on the experienced union of like actions, with like motives, inclinations, and circumstances. the only particular in which any one can differ, is, that either, perhaps, he will refuse to give the name of necessity to this property of human actions: but as long as the meaning is understood, i hope the word can do no harm: or that he will maintain it possible to discover something farther in the operations of matter. but this, it must be acknowledged, can be of no consequence to morality or religion, whatever it may be to natural philosophy or metaphysics. we may here be mistaken in asserting that there is no idea of any other necessity or connexion in the actions of body: but surely we ascribe nothing to the actions of the mind, but what everyone does, and must readily allow of. we change no circumstance in the received orthodox system with regard to the will, but only in that with regard to material objects and causes. nothing, therefore, can be more innocent, at least, than this doctrine. . all laws being founded on rewards and punishments, it is supposed as a fundamental principle, that these motives have a regular and uniform influence on the mind, and both produce the good and prevent the evil actions. we may give to this influence what name we please; but, as it is usually conjoined with the action, it must be esteemed a _cause_, and be looked upon as an instance of that necessity, which we would here establish. the only proper object of hatred or vengeance is a person or creature, endowed with thought and consciousness; and when any criminal or injurious actions excite that passion, it is only by their relation to the person, or connexion with him. actions are, by their very nature, temporary and perishing; and where they proceed not from some _cause_ in the character and disposition of the person who performed them, they can neither redound to his honour, if good; nor infamy, if evil. the actions themselves may be blameable; they may be contrary to all the rules of morality and religion: but the person is not answerable for them; and as they proceeded from nothing in him that is durable and constant, and leave nothing of that nature behind them, it is impossible he can, upon their account, become the object of punishment or vengeance. according to the principle, therefore, which denies necessity, and consequently causes, a man is as pure and untainted, after having committed the most horrid crime, as at the first moment of his birth, nor is his character anywise concerned in his actions, since they are not derived from it, and the wickedness of the one can never be used as a proof of the depravity of the other. men are not blamed for such actions as they perform ignorantly and casually, whatever may be the consequences. why? but because the principles of these actions are only momentary, and terminate in them alone. men are less blamed for such actions as they perform hastily and unpremeditately than for such as proceed from deliberation. for what reason? but because a hasty temper, though a constant cause or principle in the mind, operates only by intervals, and infects not the whole character. again, repentance wipes off every crime, if attended with a reformation of life and manners. how is this to be accounted for? but by asserting that actions render a person criminal merely as they are proofs of criminal principles in the mind; and when, by an alteration of these principles, they cease to be just proofs, they likewise cease to be criminal. but, except upon the doctrine of necessity, they never were just proofs, and consequently never were criminal. . it will be equally easy to prove, and from the same arguments, that _liberty_, according to that definition above mentioned, in which all men agree, is also essential to morality, and that no human actions, where it is wanting, are susceptible of any moral qualities, or can be the objects either of approbation or dislike. for as actions are objects of our moral sentiment, so far only as they are indications of the internal character, passions, and affections; it is impossible that they can give rise either to praise or blame, where they proceed not from these principles, but are derived altogether from external violence. . i pretend not to have obviated or removed all objections to this theory, with regard to necessity and liberty. i can foresee other objections, derived from topics which have not here been treated of. it may be said, for instance, that, if voluntary actions be subjected to the same laws of necessity with the operations of matter, there is a continued chain of necessary causes, pre-ordained and pre-determined, reaching from the original cause of all to every single volition of every human creature. no contingency anywhere in the universe; no indifference; no liberty. while we act, we are, at the same time, acted upon. the ultimate author of all our volitions is the creator of the world, who first bestowed motion on this immense machine, and placed all beings in that particular position, whence every subsequent event, by an inevitable necessity, must result. human actions, therefore, either can have no moral turpitude at all, as proceeding from so good a cause; or if they have any turpitude, they must involve our creator in the same guilt, while he is acknowledged to be their ultimate cause and author. for as a man, who fired a mine, is answerable for all the consequences whether the train he employed be long or short; so wherever a continued chain of necessary causes is fixed, that being, either finite or infinite, who produces the first, is likewise the author of all the rest, and must both bear the blame and acquire the praise which belong to them. our clear and unalterable ideas of morality establish this rule, upon unquestionable reasons, when we examine the consequences of any human action; and these reasons must still have greater force when applied to the volitions and intentions of a being infinitely wise and powerful. ignorance or impotence may be pleaded for so limited a creature as man; but those imperfections have no place in our creator. he foresaw, he ordained, he intended all those actions of men, which we so rashly pronounce criminal. and we must therefore conclude, either that they are not criminal, or that the deity, not man, is accountable for them. but as either of these positions is absurd and impious, it follows, that the doctrine from which they are deduced cannot possibly be true, as being liable to all the same objections. an absurd consequence, if necessary, proves the original doctrine to be absurd; in the same manner as criminal actions render criminal the original cause, if the connexion between them be necessary and evitable. this objection consists of two parts, which we shall examine separately; _first_, that, if human actions can be traced up, by a necessary chain, to the deity, they can never be criminal; on account of the infinite perfection of that being from whom they are derived, and who can intend nothing but what is altogether good and laudable. or, _secondly_, if they be criminal, we must retract the attribute of perfection, which we ascribe to the deity, and must acknowledge him to be the ultimate author of guilt and moral turpitude in all his creatures. . the answer to the first objection seems obvious and convincing. there are many philosophers who, after an exact scrutiny of all the phenomena of nature, conclude, that the whole, considered as one system, is, in every period of its existence, ordered with perfect benevolence; and that the utmost possible happiness will, in the end, result to all created beings, without any mixture of positive or absolute ill or misery. every physical ill, say they, makes an essential part of this benevolent system, and could not possibly be removed, even by the deity himself, considered as a wise agent, without giving entrance to greater ill, or excluding greater good, which will result from it. from this theory, some philosophers, and the ancient _stoics_ among the rest, derived a topic of consolation under all afflictions, while they taught their pupils that those ills under which they laboured were, in reality, goods to the universe; and that to an enlarged view, which could comprehend the whole system of nature, every event became an object of joy and exultation. but though this topic be specious and sublime, it was soon found in practice weak and ineffectual. you would surely more irritate than appease a man lying under the racking pains of the gout by preaching up to him the rectitude of those general laws, which produced the malignant humours in his body, and led them through the proper canals, to the sinews and nerves, where they now excite such acute torments. these enlarged views may, for a moment, please the imagination of a speculative man, who is placed in ease and security; but neither can they dwell with constancy on his mind, even though undisturbed by the emotions of pain or passion; much less can they maintain their ground when attacked by such powerful antagonists. the affections take a narrower and more natural survey of their object; and by an economy, more suitable to the infirmity of human minds, regard alone the beings around us, and are actuated by such events as appear good or ill to the private system. . the case is the same with _moral_ as with _physical_ ill. it cannot reasonably be supposed, that those remote considerations, which are found of so little efficacy with regard to one, will have a more powerful influence with regard to the other. the mind of man is so formed by nature that, upon the appearance of certain characters, dispositions, and actions, it immediately feels the sentiment of approbation or blame; nor are there any emotions more essential to its frame and constitution. the characters which engage our approbation are chiefly such as contribute to the peace and security of human society; as the characters which excite blame are chiefly such as tend to public detriment and disturbance: whence it may reasonably be presumed, that the moral sentiments arise, either mediately or immediately, from a reflection of these opposite interests. what though philosophical meditations establish a different opinion or conjecture; that everything is right with regard to the whole, and that the qualities, which disturb society, are, in the main, as beneficial, and are as suitable to the primary intention of nature as those which more directly promote its happiness and welfare? are such remote and uncertain speculations able to counterbalance the sentiments which arise from the natural and immediate view of the objects? a man who is robbed of a considerable sum; does he find his vexation for the loss anywise diminished by these sublime reflections? why then should his moral resentment against the crime be supposed incompatible with them? or why should not the acknowledgment of a real distinction between vice and virtue be reconcileable to all speculative systems of philosophy, as well as that of a real distinction between personal beauty and deformity? both these distinctions are founded in the natural sentiments of the human mind: and these sentiments are not to be controuled or altered by any philosophical theory or speculation whatsoever. . the _second_ objection admits not of so easy and satisfactory an answer; nor is it possible to explain distinctly, how the deity can be the mediate cause of all the actions of men, without being the author of sin and moral turpitude. these are mysteries, which mere natural and unassisted reason is very unfit to handle; and whatever system she embraces, she must find herself involved in inextricable difficulties, and even contradictions, at every step which she takes with regard to such subjects. to reconcile the indifference and contingency of human actions with prescience; or to defend absolute decrees, and yet free the deity from being the author of sin, has been found hitherto to exceed all the power of philosophy. happy, if she be thence sensible of her temerity, when she pries into these sublime mysteries; and leaving a scene so full of obscurities and perplexities, return, with suitable modesty, to her true and proper province, the examination of common life; where she will find difficulties enough to employ her enquiries, without launching into so boundless an ocean of doubt, uncertainty, and contradiction! section ix. of the reason of animals. . all our reasonings concerning matter of fact are founded on a species of analogy, which leads us to expect from any cause the same events, which we have observed to result from similar causes. where the causes are entirely similar, the analogy is perfect, and the inference, drawn from it, is regarded as certain and conclusive: nor does any man ever entertain a doubt, where he sees a piece of iron, that it will have weight and cohesion of parts; as in all other instances, which have ever fallen under his observation. but where the objects have not so exact a similarity, the analogy is less perfect, and the inference is less conclusive; though still it has some force, in proportion to the degree of similarity and resemblance. the anatomical observations, formed upon one animal, are, by this species of reasoning, extended to all animals; and it is certain, that when the circulation of the blood, for instance, is clearly proved to have place in one creature, as a frog, or fish, it forms a strong presumption, that the same principle has place in all. these analogical observations may be carried farther, even to this science, of which we are now treating; and any theory, by which we explain the operations of the understanding, or the origin and connexion of the passions in man, will acquire additional authority, if we find, that the same theory is requisite to explain the same phenomena in all other animals. we shall make trial of this, with regard to the hypothesis, by which we have, in the foregoing discourse, endeavoured to account for all experimental reasonings; and it is hoped, that this new point of view will serve to confirm all our former observations. . _first_, it seems evident, that animals as well as men learn many things from experience, and infer, that the same events will always follow from the same causes. by this principle they become acquainted with the more obvious properties of external objects, and gradually, from their birth, treasure up a knowledge of the nature of fire, water, earth, stones, heights, depths, &c., and of the effects which result from their operation. the ignorance and inexperience of the young are here plainly distinguishable from the cunning and sagacity of the old, who have learned, by long observation, to avoid what hurt them, and to pursue what gave ease or pleasure. a horse, that has been accustomed to the field, becomes acquainted with the proper height which he can leap, and will never attempt what exceeds his force and ability. an old greyhound will trust the more fatiguing part of the chace to the younger, and will place himself so as to meet the hare in her doubles; nor are the conjectures, which he forms on this occasion, founded in any thing but his observation and experience. this is still more evident from the effects of discipline and education on animals, who, by the proper application of rewards and punishments, may be taught any course of action, and most contrary to their natural instincts and propensities. is it not experience, which renders a dog apprehensive of pain, when you menace him, or lift up the whip to beat him? is it not even experience, which makes him answer to his name, and infer, from such an arbitrary sound, that you mean him rather than any of his fellows, and intend to call him, when you pronounce it in a certain manner, and with a certain tone and accent? in all these cases, we may observe, that the animal infers some fact beyond what immediately strikes his senses; and that this inference is altogether founded on past experience, while the creature expects from the present object the same consequences, which it has always found in its observation to result from similar objects. . _secondly_, it is impossible, that this inference of the animal can be founded on any process of argument or reasoning, by which he concludes, that like events must follow like objects, and that the course of nature will always be regular in its operations. for if there be in reality any arguments of this nature, they surely lie too abstruse for the observation of such imperfect understandings; since it may well employ the utmost care and attention of a philosophic genius to discover and observe them. animals, therefore, are not guided in these inferences by reasoning: neither are children: neither are the generality of mankind, in their ordinary actions and conclusions: neither are philosophers themselves, who, in all the active parts of life, are, in the main, the same with the vulgar, and are governed by the same maxims. nature must have provided some other principle, of more ready, and more general use and application; nor can an operation of such immense consequence in life, as that of inferring effects from causes, be trusted to the uncertain process of reasoning and argumentation. were this doubtful with regard to men, it seems to admit of no question with regard to the brute creation; and the conclusion being once firmly established in the one, we have a strong presumption, from all the rules of analogy, that it ought to be universally admitted, without any exception or reserve. it is custom alone, which engages animals, from every object, that strikes their senses, to infer its usual attendant, and carries their imagination, from the appearance of the one, to conceive the other, in that particular manner, which we denominate _belief_. no other explication can be given of this operation, in all the higher, as well as lower classes of sensitive beings, which fall under our notice and observation [ ]. [ ] since all reasonings concerning facts or causes is derived merely from custom, it may be asked how it happens, that men so much surpass animals in reasoning, and one man so much surpasses another? has not the same custom the same influence on all? we shall here endeavour briefly to explain the great difference in human understandings: after which the reason of the difference between men and animals will easily be comprehended. . when we have lived any time, and have been accustomed to the uniformity of nature, we acquire a general habit, by which we always transfer the known to the unknown, and conceive the latter to resemble the former. by means of this general habitual principle, we regard even one experiment as the foundation of reasoning, and expect a similar event with some degree of certainty, where the experiment has been made accurately, and free from all foreign circumstances. it is therefore considered as a matter of great importance to observe the consequences of things; and as one man may very much surpass another in attention and memory and observation, this will make a very great difference in their reasoning. . where there is a complication of causes to produce any effect, one mind may be much larger than another, and better able to comprehend the whole system of objects, and to infer justly their consequences. . one man is able to carry on a chain of consequences to a greater length than another. . few men can think long without running into a confusion of ideas, and mistaking one for another; and there are various degrees of this infirmity. . the circumstance, on which the effect depends, is frequently involved in other circumstances, which are foreign and extrinsic. the separation of it often requires great attention, accuracy, and subtilty. . the forming of general maxims from particular observation is a very nice operation; and nothing is more usual, from haste or a narrowness of mind, which sees not on all sides, than to commit mistakes in this particular. . when we reason from analogies, the man, who has the greater experience or the greater promptitude of suggesting analogies, will be the better reasoner. . byasses from prejudice, education, passion, party, &c. hang more upon one mind than another. . after we have acquired a confidence in human testimony, books and conversation enlarge much more the sphere of one man's experience and thought than those of another. it would be easy to discover many other circumstances that make a difference in the understandings of men. . but though animals learn many parts of their knowledge from observation, there are also many parts of it, which they derive from the original hand of nature; which much exceed the share of capacity they possess on ordinary occasions; and in which they improve, little or nothing, by the longest practice and experience. these we denominate instincts, and are so apt to admire as something very extraordinary, and inexplicable by all the disquisitions of human understanding. but our wonder will, perhaps, cease or diminish, when we consider, that the experimental reasoning itself, which we possess in common with beasts, and on which the whole conduct of life depends, is nothing but a species of instinct or mechanical power, that acts in us unknown to ourselves; and in its chief operations, is not directed by any such relations or comparisons of ideas, as are the proper objects of our intellectual faculties. though the instinct be different, yet still it is an instinct, which teaches a man to avoid the fire; as much as that, which teaches a bird, with such exactness, the art of incubation, and the whole economy and order of its nursery. section x. of miracles. part i. . there is, in dr. tillotson's writings, an argument against the _real presence_, which is as concise, and elegant, and strong as any argument can possibly be supposed against a doctrine, so little worthy of a serious refutation. it is acknowledged on all hands, says that learned prelate, that the authority, either of the scripture or of tradition, is founded merely in the testimony of the apostles, who were eye-witnesses to those miracles of our saviour, by which he proved his divine mission. our evidence, then, for the truth of the _christian_ religion is less than the evidence for the truth of our senses; because, even in the first authors of our religion, it was no greater; and it is evident it must diminish in passing from them to their disciples; nor can any one rest such confidence in their testimony, as in the immediate object of his senses. but a weaker evidence can never destroy a stronger; and therefore, were the doctrine of the real presence ever so clearly revealed in scripture, it were directly contrary to the rules of just reasoning to give our assent to it. it contradicts sense, though both the scripture and tradition, on which it is supposed to be built, carry not such evidence with them as sense; when they are considered merely as external evidences, and are not brought home to every one's breast, by the immediate operation of the holy spirit. nothing is so convenient as a decisive argument of this kind, which must at least _silence_ the most arrogant bigotry and superstition, and free us from their impertinent solicitations. i flatter myself, that i have discovered an argument of a like nature, which, if just, will, with the wise and learned, be an everlasting check to all kinds of superstitious delusion, and consequently, will be useful as long as the world endures. for so long, i presume, will the accounts of miracles and prodigies be found in all history, sacred and profane. . though experience be our only guide in reasoning concerning matters of fact; it must be acknowledged, that this guide is not altogether infallible, but in some cases is apt to lead us into errors. one, who in our climate, should expect better weather in any week of june than in one of december, would reason justly, and conformably to experience; but it is certain, that he may happen, in the event, to find himself mistaken. however, we may observe, that, in such a case, he would have no cause to complain of experience; because it commonly informs us beforehand of the uncertainty, by that contrariety of events, which we may learn from a diligent observation. all effects follow not with like certainty from their supposed causes. some events are found, in all countries and all ages, to have been constantly conjoined together: others are found to have been more variable, and sometimes to disappoint our expectations; so that, in our reasonings concerning matter of fact, there are all imaginable degrees of assurance, from the highest certainty to the lowest species of moral evidence. a wise man, therefore, proportions his belief to the evidence. in such conclusions as are founded on an infallible experience, he expects the event with the last degree of assurance, and regards his past experience as a full _proof_ of the future existence of that event. in other cases, he proceeds with more caution: he weighs the opposite experiments: he considers which side is supported by the greater number of experiments: to that side he inclines, with doubt and hesitation; and when at last he fixes his judgement, the evidence exceeds not what we properly call _probability_. all probability, then, supposes an opposition of experiments and observations, where the one side is found to overbalance the other, and to produce a degree of evidence, proportioned to the superiority. a hundred instances or experiments on one side, and fifty on another, afford a doubtful expectation of any event; though a hundred uniform experiments, with only one that is contradictory, reasonably beget a pretty strong degree of assurance. in all cases, we must balance the opposite experiments, where they are opposite, and deduct the smaller number from the greater, in order to know the exact force of the superior evidence. . to apply these principles to a particular instance; we may observe, that there is no species of reasoning more common, more useful, and even necessary to human life, than that which is derived from the testimony of men, and the reports of eye-witnesses and spectators. this species of reasoning, perhaps, one may deny to be founded on the relation of cause and effect. i shall not dispute about a word. it will be sufficient to observe that our assurance in any argument of this kind is derived from no other principle than our observation of the veracity of human testimony, and of the usual conformity of facts to the reports of witnesses. it being a general maxim, that no objects have any discoverable connexion together, and that all the inferences, which we can draw from one to another, are founded merely on our experience of their constant and regular conjunction; it is evident, that we ought not to make an exception to this maxim in favour of human testimony, whose connexion with any event seems, in itself, as little necessary as any other. were not the memory tenacious to a certain degree, had not men commonly an inclination to truth and a principle of probity; were they not sensible to shame, when detected in a falsehood: were not these, i say, discovered by experience to be qualities, inherent in human nature, we should never repose the least confidence in human testimony. a man delirious, or noted for falsehood and villany, has no manner of authority with us. and as the evidence, derived from witnesses and human testimony, is founded on past experience, so it varies with the experience, and is regarded either as a _proof_ or a _probability_, according as the conjunction between any particular kind of report and any kind of object has been found to be constant or variable. there are a number of circumstances to be taken into consideration in all judgements of this kind; and the ultimate standard, by which we determine all disputes, that may arise concerning them, is always derived from experience and observation. where this experience is not entirely uniform on any side, it is attended with an unavoidable contrariety in our judgements, and with the same opposition and mutual destruction of argument as in every other kind of evidence. we frequently hesitate concerning the reports of others. we balance the opposite circumstances, which cause any doubt or uncertainty; and when we discover a superiority on any side, we incline to it; but still with a diminution of assurance, in proportion to the force of its antagonist. . this contrariety of evidence, in the present case, may be derived from several different causes; from the opposition of contrary testimony; from the character or number of the witnesses; from the manner of their delivering their testimony; or from the union of all these circumstances. we entertain a suspicion concerning any matter of fact, when the witnesses contradict each other; when they are but few, or of a doubtful character; when they have an interest in what they affirm; when they deliver their testimony with hesitation, or on the contrary, with too violent asseverations. there are many other particulars of the same kind, which may diminish or destroy the force of any argument, derived from human testimony. suppose, for instance, that the fact, which the testimony endeavours to establish, partakes of the extraordinary and the marvellous; in that case, the evidence, resulting from the testimony, admits of a diminution, greater or less, in proportion as the fact is more or less unusual. the reason why we place any credit in witnesses and historians, is not derived from any _connexion_, which we perceive _a priori_, between testimony and reality, but because we are accustomed to find a conformity between them. but when the fact attested is such a one as has seldom fallen under our observation, here is a contest of two opposite experiences; of which the one destroys the other, as far as its force goes, and the superior can only operate on the mind by the force, which remains. the very same principle of experience, which gives us a certain degree of assurance in the testimony of witnesses, gives us also, in this case, another degree of assurance against the fact, which they endeavour to establish; from which contradition there necessarily arises a counterpoize, and mutual destruction of belief and authority. _i should not believe such a story were it told me by cato_, was a proverbial saying in rome, even during the lifetime of that philosophical patriot.[ ] the incredibility of a fact, it was allowed, might invalidate so great an authority. [ ] plutarch, in vita catonis. the indian prince, who refused to believe the first relations concerning the effects of frost, reasoned justly; and it naturally required very strong testimony to engage his assent to facts, that arose from a state of nature, with which he was unacquainted, and which bore so little analogy to those events, of which he had had constant and uniform experience. though they were not contrary to his experience, they were not conformable to it.[ ] [ ] no indian, it is evident, could have experience that water did not freeze in cold climates. this is placing nature in a situation quite unknown to him; and it is impossible for him to tell _a priori _what will result from it. it is making a new experiment, the consequence of which is always uncertain. one may sometimes conjecture from analogy what will follow; but still this is but conjecture. and it must be confessed, that, in the present case of freezing, the event follows contrary to the rules of analogy, and is such as a rational indian would not look for. the operations of cold upon water are not gradual, according to the degrees of cold; but whenever it comes to the freezing point, the water passes in a moment, from the utmost liquidity to perfect hardness. such an event, therefore, may be denominated _extraordinary_, and requires a pretty strong testimony, to render it credible to people in a warm climate: but still it is not _miraculous_, nor contrary to uniform experience of the course of nature in cases where all the circumstances are the same. the inhabitants of sumatra have always seen water fluid in their own climate, and the freezing of their rivers ought to be deemed a prodigy: but they never saw water in muscovy during the winter; and therefore they cannot reasonably be positive what would there be the consequence. . but in order to encrease the probability against the testimony of witnesses, let us suppose, that the fact, which they affirm, instead of being only marvellous, is really miraculous; and suppose also, that the testimony considered apart and in itself, amounts to an entire proof; in that case, there is proof against proof, of which the strongest must prevail, but still with a diminution of its force, in proportion to that of its antagonist. a miracle is a violation of the laws of nature; and as a firm and unalterable experience has established these laws, the proof against a miracle, from the very nature of the fact, is as entire as any argument from experience can possibly be imagined. why is it more than probable, that all men must die; that lead cannot, of itself, remain suspended in the air; that fire consumes wood, and is extinguished by water; unless it be, that these events are found agreeable to the laws of nature, and there is required a violation of these laws, or in other words, a miracle to prevent them? nothing is esteemed a miracle, if it ever happen in the common course of nature. it is no miracle that a man, seemingly in good health, should die on a sudden: because such a kind of death, though more unusual than any other, has yet been frequently observed to happen. but it is a miracle, that a dead man should come to life; because that has never been observed in any age or country. there must, therefore, be a uniform experience against every miraculous event, otherwise the event would not merit that appellation. and as a uniform experience amounts to a proof, there is here a direct and full _proof_, from the nature of the fact, against the existence of any miracle; nor can such a proof be destroyed, or the miracle rendered credible, but by an opposite proof, which is superior.[ ] [ ] sometimes an event may not, _in itself_, seem to be contrary to the laws of nature, and yet, if it were real, it might, by reason of some circumstances, be denominated a miracle; because, in _fact_, it is contrary to these laws. thus if a person, claiming a divine authority, should command a sick person to be well, a healthful man to fall down dead, the clouds to pour rain, the winds to blow, in short, should order many natural events, which immediately follow upon his command; these might justly be esteemed miracles, because they are really, in this case, contrary to the laws of nature. for if any suspicion remain, that the event and command concurred by accident, there is no miracle and no transgression of the laws of nature. if this suspicion be removed, there is evidently a miracle, and a transgression of these laws; because nothing can be more contrary to nature than that the voice or command of a man should have such an influence. a miracle may be accurately defined, _a transgression of a law of nature by a particular volition of the deity, or by the interposition of some invisible agent_. a miracle may either be discoverable by men or not. this alters not its nature and essence. the raising of a house or ship into the air is a visible miracle. the raising of a feather, when the wind wants ever so little of a force requisite for that purpose, is as real a miracle, though not so sensible with regard to us. . the plain consequence is (and it is a general maxim worthy of our attention), 'that no testimony is sufficient to establish a miracle, unless the testimony be of such a kind, that its falsehood would be more miraculous, than the fact, which it endeavours to establish; and even in that case there is a mutual destruction of arguments, and the superior only gives us an assurance suitable to that degree of force, which remains, after deducting the inferior.' when anyone tells me, that he saw a dead man restored to life, i immediately consider with myself, whether it be more probable, that this person should either deceive or be deceived, or that the fact, which he relates, should really have happened. i weigh the one miracle against the other; and according to the superiority, which i discover, i pronounce my decision, and always reject the greater miracle. if the falsehood of his testimony would be more miraculous, than the event which he relates; then, and not till then, can he pretend to command my belief or opinion. part ii. . in the foregoing reasoning we have supposed, that the testimony, upon which a miracle is founded, may possibly amount to an entire proof, and that the falsehood of that testimony would be a real prodigy: but it is easy to shew, that we have been a great deal too liberal in our concession, and that there never was a miraculous event established on so full an evidence. for _first_, there is not to be found, in all history, any miracle attested by a sufficient number of men, of such unquestioned good-sense, education, and learning, as to secure us against all delusion in themselves; of such undoubted integrity, as to place them beyond all suspicion of any design to deceive others; of such credit and reputation in the eyes of mankind, as to have a great deal to lose in case of their being detected in any falsehood; and at the same time, attesting facts performed in such a public manner and in so celebrated a part of the world, as to render the detection unavoidable: all which circumstances are requisite to give us a full assurance in the testimony of men. . _secondly_. we may observe in human nature a principle which, if strictly examined, will be found to diminish extremely the assurance, which we might, from human testimony, have, in any kind of prodigy. the maxim, by which we commonly conduct ourselves in our reasonings, is, that the objects, of which we have no experience, resembles those, of which we have; that what we have found to be most usual is always most probable; and that where there is an opposition of arguments, we ought to give the preference to such as are founded on the greatest number of past observations. but though, in proceeding by this rule, we readily reject any fact which is unusual and incredible in an ordinary degree; yet in advancing farther, the mind observes not always the same rule; but when anything is affirmed utterly absurd and miraculous, it rather the more readily admits of such a fact, upon account of that very circumstance, which ought to destroy all its authority. the passion of _surprise_ and _wonder_, arising from miracles, being an agreeable emotion, gives a sensible tendency towards the belief of those events, from which it is derived. and this goes so far, that even those who cannot enjoy this pleasure immediately, nor can believe those miraculous events, of which they are informed, yet love to partake of the satisfaction at second-hand or by rebound, and place a pride and delight in exciting the admiration of others. with what greediness are the miraculous accounts of travellers received, their descriptions of sea and land monsters, their relations of wonderful adventures, strange men, and uncouth manners? but if the spirit of religion join itself to the love of wonder, there is an end of common sense; and human testimony, in these circumstances, loses all pretensions to authority. a religionist may be an enthusiast, and imagine he sees what has no reality: he may know his narrative to be false, and yet persevere in it, with the best intentions in the world, for the sake of promoting so holy a cause: or even where this delusion has not place, vanity, excited by so strong a temptation, operates on him more powerfully than on the rest of mankind in any other circumstances; and self-interest with equal force. his auditors may not have, and commonly have not, sufficient judgement to canvass his evidence: what judgement they have, they renounce by principle, in these sublime and mysterious subjects: or if they were ever so willing to employ it, passion and a heated imagination disturb the regularity of its operations. their credulity increases his impudence: and his impudence overpowers their credulity. eloquence, when at its highest pitch, leaves little room for reason or reflection; but addressing itself entirely to the fancy or the affections, captivates the willing hearers, and subdues their understanding. happily, this pitch it seldom attains. but what a tully or a demosthenes could scarcely effect over a roman or athenian audience, every _capuchin_, every itinerant or stationary teacher can perform over the generality of mankind, and in a higher degree, by touching such gross and vulgar passions. the many instances of forged miracles, and prophecies, and supernatural events, which, in all ages, have either been detected by contrary evidence, or which detect themselves by their absurdity, prove sufficiently the strong propensity of mankind to the extraordinary and the marvellous, and ought reasonably to beget a suspicion against all relations of this kind. this is our natural way of thinking, even with regard to the most common and most credible events. for instance: there is no kind of report which rises so easily, and spreads so quickly, especially in country places and provincial towns, as those concerning marriages; insomuch that two young persons of equal condition never see each other twice, but the whole neighbourhood immediately join them together. the pleasure of telling a piece of news so interesting, of propagating it, and of being the first reporters of it, spreads the intelligence. and this is so well known, that no man of sense gives attention to these reports, till he find them confirmed by some greater evidence. do not the same passions, and others still stronger, incline the generality of mankind to believe and report, with the greatest vehemence and assurance, all religious miracles? . _thirdly_. it forms a strong presumption against all supernatural and miraculous relations, that they are observed chiefly to abound among ignorant and barbarous nations; or if a civilized people has ever given admission to any of them, that people will be found to have received them from ignorant and barbarous ancestors, who transmitted them with that inviolable sanction and authority, which always attend received opinions. when we peruse the first histories of all nations, we are apt to imagine ourselves transported into some new world; where the whole frame of nature is disjointed, and every element performs its operations in a different manner, from what it does at present. battles, revolutions, pestilence, famine and death, are never the effect of those natural causes, which we experience. prodigies, omens, oracles, judgements, quite obscure the few natural events, that are intermingled with them. but as the former grow thinner every page, in proportion as we advance nearer the enlightened ages, we soon learn, that there is nothing mysterious or supernatural in the case, but that all proceeds from the usual propensity of mankind towards the marvellous, and that, though this inclination may at intervals receive a check from sense and learning, it can never be thoroughly extirpated from human nature. _it is strange_, a judicious reader is apt to say, upon the perusal of these wonderful historians, _that such prodigious_ _events never happen in our days_. but it is nothing strange, i hope, that men should lie in all ages. you must surely have seen instances enough of that frailty. you have yourself heard many such marvellous relations started, which, being treated with scorn by all the wise and judicious, have at last been abandoned even by the vulgar. be assured, that those renowned lies, which have spread and flourished to such a monstrous height, arose from like beginnings; but being sown in a more proper soil, shot up at last into prodigies almost equal to those which they relate. it was a wise policy in that false prophet, alexander, who though now forgotten, was once so famous, to lay the first scene of his impostures in paphlagonia, where, as lucian tells us, the people were extremely ignorant and stupid, and ready to swallow even the grossest delusion. people at a distance, who are weak enough to think the matter at all worth enquiry, have no opportunity of receiving better information. the stories come magnified to them by a hundred circumstances. fools are industrious in propagating the imposture; while the wise and learned are contented, in general, to deride its absurdity, without informing themselves of the particular facts, by which it may be distinctly refuted. and thus the impostor above mentioned was enabled to proceed, from his ignorant paphlagonians, to the enlisting of votaries, even among the grecian philosophers, and men of the most eminent rank and distinction in rome: nay, could engage the attention of that sage emperor marcus aurelius; so far as to make him trust the success of a military expedition to his delusive prophecies. the advantages are so great, of starting an imposture among an ignorant people, that, even though the delusion should be too gross to impose on the generality of them (_which, though seldom, is sometimes the case_) it has a much better chance for succeeding in remote countries, than if the first scene had been laid in a city renowned for arts and knowledge. the most ignorant and barbarous of these barbarians carry the report abroad. none of their countrymen have a large correspondence, or sufficient credit and authority to contradict and beat down the delusion. men's inclination to the marvellous has full opportunity to display itself. and thus a story, which is universally exploded in the place where it was first started, shall pass for certain at a thousand miles distance. but had alexander fixed his residence at athens, the philosophers of that renowned mart of learning had immediately spread, throughout the whole roman empire, their sense of the matter; which, being supported by so great authority, and displayed by all the force of reason and eloquence, had entirely opened the eyes of mankind. it is true; lucian, passing by chance through paphlagonia, had an opportunity of performing this good office. but, though much to be wished, it does not always happen, that every alexander meets with a lucian, ready to expose and detect his impostures. . i may add as a _fourth_ reason, which diminishes the authority of prodigies, that there is no testimony for any, even those which have not been expressly detected, that is not opposed by an infinite number of witnesses; so that not only the miracle destroys the credit of testimony, but the testimony destroys itself. to make this the better understood, let us consider, that, in matters of religion, whatever is different is contrary; and that it is impossible the religions of ancient rome, of turkey, of siam, and of china should, all of them, be established on any solid foundation. every miracle, therefore, pretended to have been wrought in any of these religions (and all of them abound in miracles), as its direct scope is to establish the particular system to which it is attributed; so has it the same force, though more indirectly, to overthrow every other system. in destroying a rival system, it likewise destroys the credit of those miracles, on which that system was established; so that all the prodigies of different religions are to be regarded as contrary facts, and the evidences of these prodigies, whether weak or strong, as opposite to each other. according to this method of reasoning, when we believe any miracle of mahomet or his successors, we have for our warrant the testimony of a few barbarous arabians: and on the other hand, we are to regard the authority of titus livius, plutarch, tacitus, and, in short, of all the authors and witnesses, grecian, chinese, and roman catholic, who have related any miracle in their particular religion; i say, we are to regard their testimony in the same light as if they had mentioned that mahometan miracle, and had in express terms contradicted it, with the same certainty as they have for the miracle they relate. this argument may appear over subtile and refined; but is not in reality different from the reasoning of a judge, who supposes, that the credit of two witnesses, maintaining a crime against any one, is destroyed by the testimony of two others, who affirm him to have been two hundred leagues distant, at the same instant when the crime is said to have been committed. . one of the best attested miracles in all profane history, is that which tacitus reports of vespasian, who cured a blind man in alexandria, by means of his spittle, and a lame man by the mere touch of his foot; in obedience to a vision of the god serapis, who had enjoined them to have recourse to the emperor, for these miraculous cures. the story may be seen in that fine historian[ ]; where every circumstance seems to add weight to the testimony, and might be displayed at large with all the force of argument and eloquence, if any one were now concerned to enforce the evidence of that exploded and idolatrous superstition. the gravity, solidity, age, and probity of so great an emperor, who, through the whole course of his life, conversed in a familiar manner with his friends and courtiers, and never affected those extraordinary airs of divinity assumed by alexander and demetrius. the historian, a cotemporary writer, noted for candour and veracity, and withal, the greatest and most penetrating genius, perhaps, of all antiquity; and so free from any tendency to credulity, that he even lies under the contrary imputation, of atheism and profaneness: the persons, from whose authority he related the miracle, of established character for judgement and veracity, as we may well presume; eye-witnesses of the fact, and confirming their testimony, after the flavian family was despoiled of the empire, and could no longer give any reward, as the price of a lie. _utrumque, qui interfuere, nunc quoque memorant, postquam nullum mendacio pretium_. to which if we add the public nature of the facts, as related, it will appear, that no evidence can well be supposed stronger for so gross and so palpable a falsehood. [ ] hist. lib. iv. cap. . suetonius gives nearly the same account _in vita_ vesp. there is also a memorable story related by cardinal de retz, which may well deserve our consideration. when that intriguing politician fled into spain, to avoid the persecution of his enemies, he passed through saragossa, the capital of arragon, where he was shewn, in the cathedral, a man, who had served seven years as a door-keeper, and was well known to every body in town, that had ever paid his devotions at that church. he had been seen, for so long a time, wanting a leg; but recovered that limb by the rubbing of holy oil upon the stump; and the cardinal assures us that he saw him with two legs. this miracle was vouched by all the canons of the church; and the whole company in town were appealed to for a confirmation of the fact; whom the cardinal found, by their zealous devotion, to be thorough believers of the miracle. here the relater was also cotemporary to the supposed prodigy, of an incredulous and libertine character, as well as of great genius; the miracle of so _singular_ a nature as could scarcely admit of a counterfeit, and the witnesses very numerous, and all of them, in a manner, spectators of the fact, to which they gave their testimony. and what adds mightily to the force of the evidence, and may double our surprise on this occasion, is, that the cardinal himself, who relates the story, seems not to give any credit to it, and consequently cannot be suspected of any concurrence in the holy fraud. he considered justly, that it was not requisite, in order to reject a fact of this nature, to be able accurately to disprove the testimony, and to trace its falsehood, through all the circumstances of knavery and credulity which produced it. he knew, that, as this was commonly altogether impossible at any small distance of time and place; so was it extremely difficult, even where one was immediately present, by reason of the bigotry, ignorance, cunning, and roguery of a great part of mankind. he therefore concluded, like a just reasoner, that such an evidence carried falsehood upon the very face of it, and that a miracle, supported by any human testimony, was more properly a subject of derision than of argument. there surely never was a greater number of miracles ascribed to one person, than those, which were lately said to have been wrought in france upon the tomb of abbé paris, the famous jansenist, with whose sanctity the people were so long deluded. the curing of the sick, giving hearing to the deaf, and sight to the blind, were every where talked of as the usual effects of that holy sepulchre. but what is more extraordinary; many of the miracles were immediately proved upon the spot, before judges of unquestioned integrity, attested by witnesses of credit and distinction, in a learned age, and on the most eminent theatre that is now in the world. nor is this all: a relation of them was published and dispersed every where; nor were the _jesuits_, though a learned body, supported by the civil magistrate, and determined enemies to those opinions, in whose favour the miracles were said to have been wrought, ever able distinctly to refute or detect them[ ]. where shall we find such a number of circumstances, agreeing to the corroboration of one fact? and what have we to oppose to such a cloud of witnesses, but the absolute impossibility or miraculous nature of the events, which they relate? and this surely, in the eyes of all reasonable people, will alone be regarded as a sufficient refutation. [ ] this book was writ by mons. montgeron, counsellor or judge of the parliament of paris, a man of figure and character, who was also a martyr to the cause, and is now said to be somewhere in a dungeon on account of his book. there is another book in three volumes (called _recueil des miracles de l'abbé_ paris) giving an account of many of these miracles, and accompanied with prefatory discourses, which are very well written. there runs, however, through the whole of these a ridiculous comparison between the miracles of our saviour and those of the abbé; wherein it is asserted, that the evidence for the latter is equal to that for the former: as if the testimony of men could ever be put in the balance with that of god himself, who conducted the pen of the inspired writers. if these writers, indeed, were to be considered merely as human testimony, the french author is very moderate in his comparison; since he might, with some appearance of reason, pretend, that the jansenist miracles much surpass the other in evidence and authority. the following circumstances are drawn from authentic papers, inserted in the above-mentioned book. many of the miracles of abbé paris were proved immediately by witnesses before the officiality or bishop's court at paris, under the eye of cardinal noailles, whose character for integrity and capacity was never contested even by his enemies. his successor in the archbishopric was an enemy to the jansenists, and for that reason promoted to the see by the court. yet rectors or curés of paris, with infinite earnestness, press him to examine those miracles, which they assert to be known to the whole world, and undisputably certain: but he wisely forbore. the molinist party had tried to discredit these miracles in one instance, that of mademoiselle le franc. but, besides that their proceedings were in many respects the most irregular in the world, particularly in citing only a few of the jansenist witnesses, whom they tampered with: besides this, i say, they soon found themselves overwhelmed by a cloud of new witnesses, one hundred and twenty in number, most of them persons of credit and substance in paris, who gave oath for the miracle. this was accompanied with a solemn and earnest appeal to the parliament. but the parliament were forbidden by authority to meddle in the affair. it was at last observed, that where men are heated by zeal and enthusiasm, there is no degree of human testimony so strong as may not be procured for the greatest absurdity: and those who will be so silly as to examine the affair by that medium, and seek particular flaws in the testimony, are almost sure to be confounded. it must be a miserable imposture, indeed, that does not prevail in that contest. all who have been in france about that time have heard of the reputation of mons. heraut, the _lieutenant de police_, whose vigilance, penetration, activity, and extensive intelligence have been much talked of. this magistrate, who by the nature of his office is almost absolute, was vested with full powers, on purpose to suppress or discredit these miracles; and he frequently seized immediately, and examined the witnesses and subjects of them: but never could reach any thing satisfactory against them. in the case of mademoiselle thibaut he sent the famous de sylva to examine her; whose evidence is very curious. the physician declares, that it was impossible she could have been so ill as was proved by witnesses; because it was impossible she could, in so short a time, have recovered so perfectly as he found her. he reasoned, like a man of sense, from natural causes; but the opposite party told him, that the whole was a miracle, and that his evidence was the very best proof of it. the molinists were in a sad dilemma. they durst not assert the absolute insufficiency of human evidence, to prove a miracle. they were obliged to say, that these miracles were wrought by witchcraft and the devil. but they were told, that this was the resource of the jews of old. no jansenist was ever embarrassed to account for the cessation of the miracles, when the church-yard was shut up by the king's edict. it was the touch of the tomb, which produced these extraordinary effects; and when no one could approach the tomb, no effects could be expected. god, indeed, could have thrown down the walls in a moment; but he is master of his own graces and works, and it belongs not to us to account for them. he did not throw down the walls of every city like those of jericho, on the sounding of the rams horns, nor break up the prison of every apostle, like that of st. paul. no less a man, than the due de chatillon, a duke and peer of france, of the highest rank and family, gives evidence of a miraculous cure, performed upon a servant of his, who had lived several years in his house with a visible and palpable infirmity. i shall conclude with observing, that no clergy are more celebrated for strictness of life and manners than the secular clergy of france, particularly the rectors or curés of paris, who bear testimony to these impostures. the learning, genius, and probity of the gentlemen, and the austerity of the nuns of port-royal, have been much celebrated all over europe. yet they all give evidence for a miracle, wrought on the niece of the famous pascal, whose sanctity of life, as well as extraordinary capacity, is well known. the famous racine gives an account of this miracle in his famous history of port-royal, and fortifies it with all the proofs, which a multitude of nuns, priests, physicians, and men of the world, all of them of undoubted credit, could bestow upon it. several men of letters, particularly the bishop of tournay, thought this miracle so certain, as to employ it in the refutation of atheists and free-thinkers. the queen-regent of france, who was extremely prejudiced against the port-royal, sent her own physician to examine the miracle, who returned an absolute convert. in short, the supernatural cure was so uncontestable, that it saved, for a time, that famous monastery from the ruin with which it was threatened by the jesuits. had it been a cheat, it had certainly been detected by such sagacious and powerful antagonists, and must have hastened the ruin of the contrivers. our divines, who can build up a formidable castle from such despicable materials; what a prodigious fabric could they have reared from these and many other circumstances, which i have not mentioned! how often would the great names of pascal, racine, amaud, nicole, have resounded in our ears? but if they be wise, they had better adopt the miracle, as being more worth, a thousand times, than all the rest of the collection. besides, it may serve very much to their purpose. for that miracle was really performed by the touch of an authentic holy prickle of the holy thorn, which composed the holy crown, which, &c. . is the consequence just, because some human testimony has the utmost force and authority in some cases, when it relates the battle of philippi or pharsalia for instance; that therefore all kinds of testimony must, in all cases, have equal force and authority? suppose that the caesarean and pompeian factions had, each of them, claimed the victory in these battles, and that the historians of each party had uniformly ascribed the advantage to their own side; how could mankind, at this distance, have been able to determine between them? the contrariety is equally strong between the miracles related by herodotus or plutarch, and those delivered by mariana, bede, or any monkish historian. the wise lend a very academic faith to every report which favours the passion of the reporter; whether it magnifies his country, his family, or himself, or in any other way strikes in with his natural inclinations and propensities. but what greater temptation than to appear a missionary, a prophet, an ambassador from heaven? who would not encounter many dangers and difficulties, in order to attain so sublime a character? or if, by the help of vanity and a heated imagination, a man has first made a convert of himself, and entered seriously into the delusion; who ever scruples to make use of pious frauds, in support of so holy and meritorious a cause? the smallest spark may here kindle into the greatest flame; because the materials are always prepared for it. the _avidum genus auricularum_[ ], the gazing populace, receive greedily, without examination, whatever sooths superstition, and promotes wonder. [ ] lucret. how many stories of this nature have, in all ages, been detected and exploded in their infancy? how many more have been celebrated for a time, and have afterwards sunk into neglect and oblivion? where such reports, therefore, fly about, the solution of the phenomenon is obvious; and we judge in conformity to regular experience and observation, when we account for it by the known and natural principles of credulity and delusion. and shall we, rather than have a recourse to so natural a solution, allow of a miraculous violation of the most established laws of nature? i need not mention the difficulty of detecting a falsehood in any private or even public history, at the place, where it is said to happen; much more when the scene is removed to ever so small a distance. even a court of judicature, with all the authority, accuracy, and judgement, which they can employ, find themselves often at a loss to distinguish between truth and falsehood in the most recent actions. but the matter never comes to any issue, if trusted to the common method of altercations and debate and flying rumours; especially when men's passions have taken part on either side. in the infancy of new religions, the wise and learned commonly esteem the matter too inconsiderable to deserve their attention or regard. and when afterwards they would willingly detect the cheat, in order to undeceive the deluded multitude, the season is now past, and the records and witnesses, which might clear up the matter, have perished beyond recovery. no means of detection remain, but those which must be drawn from the very testimony itself of the reporters: and these, though always sufficient with the judicious and knowing, are commonly too fine to fall under the comprehension of the vulgar. . upon the whole, then, it appears, that no testimony for any kind of miracle has ever amounted to a probability, much less to a proof; and that, even supposing it amounted to a proof, it would be opposed by another proof; derived from the very nature of the fact, which it would endeavour to establish. it is experience only, which gives authority to human testimony; and it is the same experience, which assures us of the laws of nature. when, therefore, these two kinds of experience are contrary, we have nothing to do but substract the one from the other, and embrace an opinion, either on one side or the other, with that assurance which arises from the remainder. but according to the principle here explained, this substraction, with regard to all popular religions, amounts to an entire annihilation; and therefore we may establish it as a maxim, that no human testimony can have such force as to prove a miracle, and make it a just foundation for any such system of religion. . i beg the limitations here made may be remarked, when i say, that a miracle can never be proved, so as to be the foundation of a system of religion. for i own, that otherwise, there may possibly be miracles, or violations of the usual course of nature, of such a kind as to admit of proof from human testimony; though, perhaps, it will be impossible to find any such in all the records of history. thus, suppose, all authors, in all languages, agree, that, from the first of january , there was a total darkness over the whole earth for eight days: suppose that the tradition of this extraordinary event is still strong and lively among the people: that all travellers, who return from foreign countries, bring us accounts of the same tradition, without the least variation or contradiction: it is evident, that our present philosophers, instead of doubting the fact, ought to receive it as certain, and ought to search for the causes whence it might be derived. the decay, corruption, and dissolution of nature, is an event rendered probable by so many analogies, that any phenomenon, which seems to have a tendency towards that catastrophe, comes within the reach of human testimony, if that testimony be very extensive and uniform. but suppose, that all the historians who treat of england, should agree, that, on the first of january , queen elizabeth died; that both before and after her death she was seen by her physicians and the whole court, as is usual with persons of her rank; that her successor was acknowledged and proclaimed by the parliament; and that, after being interred a month, she again appeared, resumed the throne, and governed england for three years: i must confess that i should be surprised at the concurrence of so many odd circumstances, but should not have the least inclination to believe so miraculous an event. i should not doubt of her pretended death, and of those other public circumstances that followed it: i should only assert it to have been pretended, and that it neither was, nor possibly could be real. you would in vain object to me the difficulty, and almost impossibility of deceiving the world in an affair of such consequence; the wisdom and solid judgement of that renowned queen; with the little or no advantage which she could reap from so poor an artifice: all this might astonish me; but i would still reply, that the knavery and folly of men are such common phenomena, that i should rather believe the most extraordinary events to arise from their concurrence, than admit of so signal a violation of the laws of nature. but should this miracle be ascribed to any new system of religion; men, in all ages, have been so much imposed on by ridiculous stories of that kind, that this very circumstance would be a full proof of a cheat, and sufficient, with all men of sense, not only to make them reject the fact, but even reject it without farther examination. though the being to whom the miracle is ascribed, be, in this case, almighty, it does not, upon that account, become a whit more probable; since it is impossible for us to know the attributes or actions of such a being, otherwise than from the experience which we have of his productions, in the usual course of nature. this still reduces us to past observation, and obliges us to compare the instances of the violation of truth in the testimony of men, with those of the violation of the laws of nature by miracles, in order to judge which of them is most likely and probable. as the violations of truth are more common in the testimony concerning religious miracles, than in that concerning any other matter of fact; this must diminish very much the authority of the former testimony, and make us form a general resolution, never to lend any attention to it, with whatever specious pretence it may be covered. lord bacon seems to have embraced the same principles of reasoning. 'we ought,' says he, 'to make a collection or particular history of all monsters and prodigious births or productions, and in a word of every thing new, rare, and extraordinary in nature. but this must be done with the most severe scrutiny, lest we depart from truth. above all, every relation must be considered as suspicious, which depends in any degree upon religion, as the prodigies of livy: and no less so, every thing that is to be found in the writers of natural magic or alchimy, or such authors, who seem, all of them, to have an unconquerable appetite for falsehood and fable[ ].' [ ] nov. org. lib. ii. aph. . . i am the better pleased with the method of reasoning here delivered, as i think it may serve to confound those dangerous friends or disguised enemies to the _christian religion_, who have undertaken to defend it by the principles of human reason. our most holy religion is founded on _faith_, not on reason; and it is a sure method of exposing it to put it to such a trial as it is, by no means, fitted to endure. to make this more evident, let us examine those miracles, related in scripture; and not to lose ourselves in too wide a field, let us confine ourselves to such as we find in the _pentateuch_, which we shall examine, according to the principles of these pretended christians, not as the word or testimony of god himself, but as the production of a mere human writer and historian. here then we are first to consider a book, presented to us by a barbarous and ignorant people, written in an age when they were still more barbarous, and in all probability long after the facts which it relates, corroborated by no concurring testimony, and resembling those fabulous accounts, which every nation gives of its origin. upon reading this book, we find it full of prodigies and miracles. it gives an account of a state of the world and of human nature entirely different from the present: of our fall from that state: of the age of man, extended to near a thousand years: of the destruction of the world by a deluge: of the arbitrary choice of one people, as the favourites of heaven; and that people the countrymen of the author: of their deliverance from bondage by prodigies the most astonishing imaginable: i desire any one to lay his hand upon his heart, and after a serious consideration declare, whether he thinks that the falsehood of such a book, supported by such a testimony, would be more extraordinary and miraculous than all the miracles it relates; which is, however, necessary to make it be received, according to the measures of probability above established. . what we have said of miracles may be applied, without any variation, to prophecies; and indeed, all prophecies are real miracles, and as such only, can be admitted as proofs of any revelation. if it did not exceed the capacity of human nature to foretell future events, it would be absurd to employ any prophecy as an argument for a divine mission or authority from heaven. so that, upon the whole, we may conclude, that the _christian religion_ not only was at first attended with miracles, but even at this day cannot be believed by any reasonable person without one. mere reason is insufficient to convince us of its veracity: and whoever is moved by _faith_ to assent to it, is conscious of a continued miracle in his own person, which subverts all the principles of his understanding, and gives him a determination to believe what is most contrary to custom and experience. section xi. of a particular providence and of a future state. . i was lately engaged in conversation with a friend who loves sceptical paradoxes; where, though he advanced many principles, of which i can by no means approve, yet as they seem to be curious, and to bear some relation to the chain of reasoning carried on throughout this enquiry, i shall here copy them from my memory as accurately as i can, in order to submit them to the judgement of the reader. our conversation began with my admiring the singular good fortune of philosophy, which, as it requires entire liberty above all other privileges, and chiefly flourishes from the free opposition of sentiments and argumentation, received its first birth in an age and country of freedom and toleration, and was never cramped, even in its most extravagant principles, by any creeds, concessions, or penal statutes. for, except the banishment of protagoras, and the death of socrates, which last event proceeded partly from other motives, there are scarcely any instances to be met with, in ancient history, of this bigotted jealousy, with which the present age is so much infested. epicurus lived at athens to an advanced age, in peace and tranquillity: epicureans[ ] were even admitted to receive the sacerdotal character, and to officiate at the altar, in the most sacred rites of the established religion: and the public encouragement[ ] of pensions and salaries was afforded equally, by the wisest of all the roman emperors[ ], to the professors of every sect of philosophy. how requisite such kind of treatment was to philosophy, in her early youth, will easily be conceived, if we reflect, that, even at present, when she may be supposed more hardy and robust, she bears with much difficulty the inclemency of the seasons, and those harsh winds of calumny and persecution, which blow upon her. [ ] luciani [greek: symp. ae lapithai]. [ ] luciani [greek: eunouchos]. [ ] luciani and dio. you admire, says my friend, as the singular good fortune of philosophy, what seems to result from the natural course of things, and to be unavoidable in every age and nation. this pertinacious bigotry, of which you complain, as so fatal to philosophy, is really her offspring, who, after allying with superstition, separates himself entirely from the interest of his parent, and becomes her most inveterate enemy and persecutor. speculative dogmas of religion, the present occasions of such furious dispute, could not possibly be conceived or admitted in the early ages of the world; when mankind, being wholly illiterate, formed an idea of religion more suitable to their weak apprehension, and composed their sacred tenets of such tales chiefly as were the objects of traditional belief, more than of argument or disputation. after the first alarm, therefore, was over, which arose from the new paradoxes and principles of the philosophers; these teachers seem ever after, during the ages of antiquity, to have lived in great harmony with the established superstition, and to have made a fair partition of mankind between them; the former claiming all the learned and wise, the latter possessing all the vulgar and illiterate. . it seems then, say i, that you leave politics entirely out of the question, and never suppose, that a wise magistrate can justly be jealous of certain tenets of philosophy, such as those of epicurus, which, denying a divine existence, and consequently a providence and a future state, seem to loosen, in a great measure, the ties of morality, and may be supposed, for that reason, pernicious to the peace of civil society. i know, replied he, that in fact these persecutions never, in any age, proceeded from calm reason, or from experience of the pernicious consequences of philosophy; but arose entirely from passion and prejudice. but what if i should advance farther, and assert, that if epicurus had been accused before the people, by any of the _sycophants_ or informers of those days, he could easily have defended his cause, and proved his principles of philosophy to be as salutary as those of his adversaries, who endeavoured, with such zeal, to expose him to the public hatred and jealousy? i wish, said i, you would try your eloquence upon so extraordinary a topic, and make a speech for epicurus, which might satisfy, not the mob of athens, if you will allow that ancient and polite city to have contained any mob, but the more philosophical part of his audience, such as might be supposed capable of comprehending his arguments. the matter would not be difficult, upon such conditions, replied he: and if you please, i shall suppose myself epicurus for a moment, and make you stand for the athenian people, and shall deliver you such an harangue as will fill all the urn with white beans, and leave not a black one to gratify the malice of my adversaries. very well: pray proceed upon these suppositions. . i come hither, o ye athenians, to justify in your assembly what i maintained in my school, and i find myself impeached by furious antagonists, instead of reasoning with calm and dispassionate enquirers. your deliberations, which of right should be directed to questions of public good, and the interest of the commonwealth, are diverted to the disquisitions of speculative philosophy; and these magnificent, but perhaps fruitless enquiries, take place of your more familiar but more useful occupations. but so far as in me lies, i will prevent this abuse. we shall not here dispute concerning the origin and government of worlds. we shall only enquire how far such questions concern the public interest. and if i can persuade you, that they are entirely indifferent to the peace of society and security of government, i hope that you will presently send us back to our schools, there to examine, at leisure, the question the most sublime, but at the same time, the most speculative of all philosophy. the religious philosophers, not satisfied with the tradition of your forefathers, and doctrine of your priests (in which i willingly acquiesce), indulge a rash curiosity, in trying how far they can establish religion upon the principles of reason; and they thereby excite, instead of satisfying, the doubts, which naturally arise from a diligent and scrutinous enquiry. they paint, in the most magnificent colours, the order, beauty, and wise arrangement of the universe; and then ask, if such a glorious display of intelligence could proceed from the fortuitous concourse of atoms, or if chance could produce what the greatest genius can never sufficiently admire. i shall not examine the justness of this argument. i shall allow it to be as solid as my antagonists and accusers can desire. it is sufficient, if i can prove, from this very reasoning, that the question is entirely speculative, and that, when, in my philosophical disquisitions, i deny a providence and a future state, i undermine not the foundations of society, but advance principles, which they themselves, upon their own topics, if they argue consistently, must allow to be solid and satisfactory. . you then, who are my accusers, have acknowledged, that the chief or sole argument for a divine existence (which i never questioned) is derived from the order of nature; where there appear such marks of intelligence and design, that you think it extravagant to assign for its cause, either chance, or the blind and unguided force of matter. you allow, that this is an argument drawn from effects to causes. from the order of the work, you infer, that there must have been project and forethought in the workman. if you cannot make out this point, you allow, that your conclusion fails; and you pretend not to establish the conclusion in a greater latitude than the phenomena of nature will justify. these are your concessions. i desire you to mark the consequences. when we infer any particular cause from an effect, we must proportion the one to the other, and can never be allowed to ascribe to the cause any qualities, but what are exactly sufficient to produce the effect. a body of ten ounces raised in any scale may serve as a proof, that the counterbalancing weight exceeds ten ounces; but can never afford a reason that it exceeds a hundred. if the cause, assigned for any effect, be not sufficient to produce it, we must either reject that cause, or add to it such qualities as will give it a just proportion to the effect. but if we ascribe to it farther qualities, or affirm it capable of producing other effects, we can only indulge the licence of conjecture, and arbitrarily suppose the existence of qualities and energies, without reason or authority. the same rule holds, whether the cause assigned be brute unconscious matter, or a rational intelligent being. if the cause be known only by the effect, we never ought to ascribe to it any qualities, beyond what are precisely requisite to produce the effect: nor can we, by any rules of just reasoning, return back from the cause, and infer other effects from it, beyond those by which alone it is known to us. no one, merely from the sight of one of zeuxis's pictures, could know, that he was also a statuary or architect, and was an artist no less skilful in stone and marble than in colours. the talents and taste, displayed in the particular work before us; these we may safely conclude the workman to be possessed of. the cause must be proportioned to the effect; and if we exactly and precisely proportion it, we shall never find in it any qualities, that point farther, or afford an inference concerning any other design or performance. such qualities must be somewhat beyond what is merely requisite for producing the effect, which we examine. . allowing, therefore, the gods to be the authors of the existence or order of the universe; it follows, that they possess that precise degree of power, intelligence, and benevolence, which appears in their workmanship; but nothing farther can ever be proved, except we call in the assistance of exaggeration and flattery to supply the defects of argument and reasoning. so far as the traces of any attributes, at present, appear, so far may we conclude these attributes to exist. the supposition of farther attributes is mere hypothesis; much more the supposition, that, in distant regions of space or periods of time, there has been, or will be, a more magnificent display of these attributes, and a scheme of administration more suitable to such imaginary virtues. we can never be allowed to mount up from the universe, the effect, to jupiter, the cause; and then descend downwards, to infer any new effect from that cause; as if the present effects alone were not entirely worthy of the glorious attributes, which we ascribe to that deity. the knowledge of the cause being derived solely from the effect, they must be exactly adjusted to each other; and the one can never refer to anything farther, or be the foundation of any new inference and conclusion. you find certain phenomena in nature. you seek a cause or author. you imagine that you have found him. you afterwards become so enamoured of this offspring of your brain, that you imagine it impossible, but he must produce something greater and more perfect than the present scene of things, which is so full of ill and disorder. you forget, that this superlative intelligence and benevolence are entirely imaginary, or, at least, without any foundation in reason; and that you have no ground to ascribe to him any qualities, but what you see he has actually exerted and displayed in his productions. let your gods, therefore, o philosophers, be suited to the present appearances of nature: and presume not to alter these appearances by arbitrary suppositions, in order to suit them to the attributes, which you so fondly ascribe to your deities. . when priests and poets, supported by your authority, o athenians, talk of a golden or silver age, which preceded the present state of vice and misery, i hear them with attention and with reverence. but when philosophers, who pretend to neglect authority, and to cultivate reason, hold the same discourse, i pay them not, i own, the same obsequious submission and pious deference. i ask; who carried them into the celestial regions, who admitted them into the councils of the gods, who opened to them the book of fate, that they thus rashly affirm, that their deities have executed, or will execute, any purpose beyond what has actually appeared? if they tell me, that they have mounted on the steps or by the gradual ascent of reason, and by drawing inferences from effects to causes, i still insist, that they have aided the ascent of reason by the wings of imagination; otherwise they could not thus change their manner of inference, and argue from causes to effects; presuming, that a more perfect production than the present world would be more suitable to such perfect beings as the gods, and forgetting that they have no reason to ascribe to these celestial beings any perfection or any attribute, but what can be found in the present world. hence all the fruitless industry to account for the ill appearances of nature, and save the honour of the gods; while we must acknowledge the reality of that evil and disorder, with which the world so much abounds. the obstinate and intractable qualities of matter, we are told, or the observance of general laws, or some such reason, is the sole cause, which controlled the power and benevolence of jupiter, and obliged him to create mankind and every sensible creature so imperfect and so unhappy. these attributes then, are, it seems, beforehand, taken for granted, in their greatest latitude. and upon that supposition, i own that such conjectures may, perhaps, be admitted as plausible solutions of the ill phenomena. but still i ask; why take these attributes for granted, or why ascribe to the cause any qualities but what actually appear in the effect? why torture your brain to justify the course of nature upon suppositions, which, for aught you know, may be entirely imaginary, and of which there are to be found no traces in the course of nature? the religious hypothesis, therefore, must be considered only as a particular method of accounting for the visible phenomena of the universe: but no just reasoner will ever presume to infer from it any single fact, and alter or add to the phenomena, in any single particular. if you think, that the appearances of things prove such causes, it is allowable for you to draw an inference concerning the existence of these causes. in such complicated and sublime subjects, every one should be indulged in the liberty of conjecture and argument. but here you ought to rest. if you come backward, and arguing from your inferred causes, conclude, that any other fact has existed, or will exist, in the course of nature, which may serve as a fuller display of particular attributes; i must admonish you, that you have departed from the method of reasoning, attached to the present subject, and have certainly added something to the attributes of the cause, beyond what appears in the effect; otherwise you could never, with tolerable sense or propriety, add anything to the effect, in order to render it more worthy of the cause. . where, then, is the odiousness of that doctrine, which i teach in my school, or rather, which i examine in my gardens? or what do you find in this whole question, wherein the security of good morals, or the peace and order of society, is in the least concerned? i deny a providence, you say, and supreme governor of the world, who guides the course of events, and punishes the vicious with infamy and disappointment, and rewards the virtuous with honour and success, in all their undertakings. but surely, i deny not the course itself of events, which lies open to every one's inquiry and examination. i acknowledge, that, in the present order of things, virtue is attended with more peace of mind than vice, and meets with a more favourable reception from the world. i am sensible, that, according to the past experience of mankind, friendship is the chief joy of human life, and moderation the only source of tranquillity and happiness. i never balance between the virtuous and the vicious course of life; but am sensible, that, to a well-disposed mind, every advantage is on the side of the former. and what can you say more, allowing all your suppositions and reasonings? you tell me, indeed, that this disposition of things proceeds from intelligence and design. but whatever it proceeds from, the disposition itself, on which depends our happiness or misery, and consequently our conduct and deportment in life is still the same. it is still open for me, as well as you, to regulate my behaviour, by my experience of past events. and if you affirm, that, while a divine providence is allowed, and a supreme distributive justice in the universe, i ought to expect some more particular reward of the good, and punishment of the bad, beyond the ordinary course of events; i here find the same fallacy, which i have before endeavoured to detect. you persist in imagining, that, if we grant that divine existence, for which you so earnestly contend, you may safely infer consequences from it, and add something to the experienced order of nature, by arguing from the attributes which you ascribe to your gods. you seem not to remember, that all your reasonings on this subject can only be drawn from effects to causes; and that every argument, deducted from causes to effects, must of necessity be a gross sophism; since it is impossible for you to know anything of the cause, but what you have antecedently, not inferred, but discovered to the full, in the effect. . but what must a philosopher think of those vain reasoners, who, instead of regarding the present scene of things as the sole object of their contemplation, so far reverse the whole course of nature, as to render this life merely a passage to something farther; a porch, which leads to a greater, and vastly different building; a prologue, which serves only to introduce the piece, and give it more grace and propriety? whence, do you think, can such philosophers derive their idea of the gods? from their own conceit and imagination surely. for if they derived it from the present phenomena, it would never point to anything farther, but must be exactly adjusted to them. that the divinity may _possibly_ be endowed with attributes, which we have never seen exerted; may be governed by principles of action, which we cannot discover to be satisfied: all this will freely be allowed. but still this is mere _possibility_ and hypothesis. we never can have reason to _infer_ any attributes, or any principles of action in him, but so far as we know them to have been exerted and satisfied. _are there any marks of a distributive justice in the world?_ if you answer in the affirmative, i conclude, that, since justice here exerts itself, it is satisfied. if you reply in the negative, i conclude, that you have then no reason to ascribe justice, in our sense of it, to the gods. if you hold a medium between affirmation and negation, by saying, that the justice of the gods, at present, exerts itself in part, but not in its full extent; i answer, that you have no reason to give it any particular extent, but only so far as you see it, _at present_, exert itself. . thus i bring the dispute, o athenians, to a short issue with my antagonists. the course of nature lies open to my contemplation as well as to theirs. the experienced train of events is the great standard, by which we all regulate our conduct. nothing else can be appealed to in the field, or in the senate. nothing else ought ever to be heard of in the school, or in the closet. in vain would our limited understanding break through those boundaries, which are too narrow for our fond imagination. while we argue from the course of nature, and infer a particular intelligent cause, which first bestowed, and still preserves order in the universe, we embrace a principle, which is both uncertain and useless. it is uncertain; because the subject lies entirely beyond the reach of human experience. it is useless; because our knowledge of this cause being derived entirely from the course of nature, we can never, according to the rules of just reasoning, return back from the cause with any new inference, or making additions to the common and experienced course of nature, establish any new principles of conduct and behaviour. . i observe (said i, finding he had finished his harangue) that you neglect not the artifice of the demagogues of old; and as you were pleased to make me stand for the people, you insinuate yourself into my favour by embracing those principles, to which, you know, i have always expressed a particular attachment. but allowing you to make experience (as indeed i think you ought) the only standard of our judgement concerning this, and all other questions of fact; i doubt not but, from the very same experience, to which you appeal, it may be possible to refute this reasoning, which you have put into the mouth of epicurus. if you saw, for instance, a half-finished building, surrounded with heaps of brick and stone and mortar, and all the instruments of masonry; could you not _infer_ from the effect, that it was a work of design and contrivance? and could you not return again, from this inferred cause, to infer new additions to the effect, and conclude, that the building would soon be finished, and receive all the further improvements, which art could bestow upon it? if you saw upon the sea-shore the print of one human foot, you would conclude, that a man had passed that way, and that he had also left the traces of the other foot, though effaced by the rolling of the sands or inundation of the waters. why then do you refuse to admit the same method of reasoning with regard to the order of nature? consider the world and the present life only as an imperfect building, from which you can infer a superior intelligence; and arguing from that superior intelligence, which can leave nothing imperfect; why may you not infer a more finished scheme or plan, which will receive its completion in some distant point of space or time? are not these methods of reasoning exactly similar? and under what pretence can you embrace the one, while you reject the other? . the infinite difference of the subjects, replied he, is a sufficient foundation for this difference in my conclusions. in works of _human_ art and contrivance, it is allowable to advance from the effect to the cause, and returning back from the cause, to form new inferences concerning the effect, and examine the alterations, which it has probably undergone, or may still undergo. but what is the foundation of this method of reasoning? plainly this; that man is a being, whom we know by experience, whose motives and designs we are acquainted with, and whose projects and inclinations have a certain connexion and coherence, according to the laws which nature has established for the government of such a creature. when, therefore, we find, that any work has proceeded from the skill and industry of man; as we are otherwise acquainted with the nature of the animal, we can draw a hundred inferences concerning what may be expected from him; and these inferences will all be founded in experience and observation. but did we know man only from the single work or production which we examine, it were impossible for us to argue in this manner; because our knowledge of all the qualities, which we ascribe to him, being in that case derived from the production, it is impossible they could point to anything farther, or be the foundation of any new inference. the print of a foot in the sand can only prove, when considered alone, that there was some figure adapted to it, by which it was produced: but the print of a human foot proves likewise, from our other experience, that there was probably another foot, which also left its impression, though effaced by time or other accidents. here we mount from the effect to the cause; and descending again from the cause, infer alterations in the effect; but this is not a continuation of the same simple chain of reasoning. we comprehend in this case a hundred other experiences and observations, concerning the _usual_ figure and members of that species of animal, without which this method of argument must be considered as fallacious and sophistical. . the case is not the same with our reasonings from the works of nature. the deity is known to us only by his productions, and is a single being in the universe, not comprehended under any species or genus, from whose experienced attributes or qualities, we can, by analogy, infer any attribute or quality in him. as the universe shews wisdom and goodness, we infer wisdom and goodness. as it shews a particular degree of these perfections, we infer a particular degree of them, precisely adapted to the effect which we examine. but farther attributes or farther degrees of the same attributes, we can never be authorised to infer or suppose, by any rules of just reasoning. now, without some such licence of supposition, it is impossible for us to argue from the cause, or infer any alteration in the effect, beyond what has immediately fallen under our observation. greater good produced by this being must still prove a greater degree of goodness: a more impartial distribution of rewards and punishments must proceed from a greater regard to justice and equity. every supposed addition to the works of nature makes an addition to the attributes of the author of nature; and consequently, being entirely unsupported by any reason or argument, can never be admitted but as mere conjecture and hypothesis[ ]. [ ] in general, it may, i think, be established as a maxim, that where any cause is known only by its particular effects, it must be impossible to infer any new effects from that cause; since the qualities, which are requisite to produce these new effects along with the former, must either be different, or superior, or of more extensive operation, than those which simply produced the effect, whence alone the cause is supposed to be known to us. we can never, therefore, have any reason to suppose the existence of these qualities. to say, that the new effects proceed only from a continuation of the same energy, which is already known from the first effects, will not remove the difficulty. for even granting this to be the case (which can seldom be supposed), the very continuation and exertion of a like energy (for it is impossible it can be absolutely the same), i say, this exertion of a like energy, in a different period of space and time, is a very arbitrary supposition, and what there cannot possibly be any traces of in the effects, from which all our knowledge of the cause is originally derived. let the _inferred_ cause be exactly proportioned (as it should be) to the known effect; and it is impossible that it can possess any qualities, from which new or different effects can be _inferred_. the great source of our mistake in this subject, and of the unbounded licence of conjecture, which we indulge, is, that we tacitly consider ourselves, as in the place of the supreme being, and conclude, that he will, on every occasion, observe the same conduct, which we ourselves, in his situation, would have embraced as reasonable and eligible. but, besides that the ordinary course of nature may convince us, that almost everything is regulated by principles and maxims very different from ours; besides this, i say, it must evidently appear contrary to all rules of analogy to reason, from the intentions and projects of men, to those of a being so different, and so much superior. in human nature, there is a certain experienced coherence of designs and inclinations; so that when, from any fact, we have discovered one intention of any man, it may often be reasonable, from experience, to infer another, and draw a long chain of conclusions concerning his past or future conduct. but this method of reasoning can never have place with regard to a being, so remote and incomprehensible, who bears much less analogy to any other being in the universe than the sun to a waxen taper, and who discovers himself only by some faint traces or outlines, beyond which we have no authority to ascribe to him any attribute or perfection. what we imagine to be a superior perfection, may really be a defect. or were it ever so much a perfection, the ascribing of it to the supreme being, where it appears not to have been really exerted, to the full, in his works, savours more of flattery and panegyric, than of just reasoning and sound philosophy. all the philosophy, therefore, in the world, and all the religion, which is nothing but a species of philosophy, will never be able to carry us beyond the usual course of experience, or give us measures of conduct and behaviour different from those which are furnished by reflections on common life. no new fact can ever be inferred from the religious hypothesis; no event foreseen or foretold; no reward or punishment expected or dreaded, beyond what is already known by practice and observation. so that my apology for epicurus will still appear solid and satisfactory; nor have the political interests of society any connexion with the philosophical disputes concerning metaphysics and religion. . there is still one circumstance, replied i, which you seem to have overlooked. though i should allow your premises, i must deny your conclusion. you conclude, that religious doctrines and reasonings _can_ have no influence on life, because they _ought_ to have no influence; never considering, that men reason not in the same manner you do, but draw many consequences from the belief of a divine existence, and suppose that the deity will inflict punishments on vice, and bestow rewards on virtue, beyond what appear in the ordinary course of nature. whether this reasoning of theirs be just or not, is no matter. its influence on their life and conduct must still be the same. and, those, who attempt to disabuse them of such prejudices, may, for aught i know, be good reasoners, but i cannot allow them to be good citizens and politicians; since they free men from one restraint upon their passions, and make the infringement of the laws of society, in one respect, more easy and secure. after all, i may, perhaps, agree to your general conclusion in favour of liberty, though upon different premises from those, on which you endeavour to found it. i think, that the state ought to tolerate every principle of philosophy; nor is there an instance, that any government has suffered in its political interests by such indulgence. there is no enthusiasm among philosophers; their doctrines are not very alluring to the people; and no restraint can be put upon their reasonings, but what must be of dangerous consequence to the sciences, and even to the state, by paving the way for persecution and oppression in points, where the generality of mankind are more deeply interested and concerned. . but there occurs to me (continued i) with regard to your main topic, a difficulty, which i shall just propose to you without insisting on it; lest it lead into reasonings of too nice and delicate a nature. in a word, i much doubt whether it be possible for a cause to be known only by its effect (as you have all along supposed) or to be of so singular and particular a nature as to have no parallel and no similarity with any other cause or object, that has ever fallen under our observation. it is only when two _species_ of objects are found to be constantly conjoined, that we can infer the one from the other; and were an effect presented, which was entirely singular, and could not be comprehended under any known _species_, i do not see, that we could form any conjecture or inference at all concerning its cause. if experience and observation and analogy be, indeed, the only guides which we can reasonably follow in inferences of this nature; both the effect and cause must bear a similarity and resemblance to other effects and causes, which we know, and which we have found, in many instances, to be conjoined with each other. i leave it to your own reflection to pursue the consequences of this principle. i shall just observe, that, as the antagonists of epicurus always suppose the universe, an effect quite singular and unparalleled, to be the proof of a deity, a cause no less singular and unparalleled; your reasonings, upon that supposition, seem, at least, to merit our attention. there is, i own, some difficulty, how we can ever return from the cause to the effect, and, reasoning from our ideas of the former, infer any alteration on the latter, or any addition to it. section xii. of the academical or sceptical philosophy. part i. . there is not a greater number of philosophical reasonings, displayed upon any subject, than those, which prove the existence of a deity, and refute the fallacies of _atheists_; and yet the most religious philosophers still dispute whether any man can be so blinded as to be a speculative atheist. how shall we reconcile these contradictions? the knights-errant, who wandered about to clear the world of dragons and giants, never entertained the least doubt with regard to the existence of these monsters. the _sceptic_ is another enemy of religion, who naturally provokes the indignation of all divines and graver philosophers; though it is certain, that no man ever met with any such absurd creature, or conversed with a man, who had no opinion or principle concerning any subject, either of action or speculation. this begets a very natural question; what is meant by a sceptic? and how far it is possible to push these philosophical principles of doubt and uncertainty? there is a species of scepticism, _antecedent_ to all study and philosophy, which is much inculcated by des cartes and others, as a sovereign preservative against error and precipitate judgement. it recommends an universal doubt, not only of all our former opinions and principles, but also of our very faculties; of whose veracity, say they, we must assure ourselves, by a chain of reasoning, deduced from some original principle, which cannot possibly be fallacious or deceitful. but neither is there any such original principle, which has a prerogative above others, that are self-evident and convincing: or if there were, could we advance a step beyond it, but by the use of those very faculties, of which we are supposed to be already diffident. the cartesian doubt, therefore, were it ever possible to be attained by any human creature (as it plainly is not) would be entirely incurable; and no reasoning could ever bring us to a state of assurance and conviction upon any subject. it must, however, be confessed, that this species of scepticism, when more moderate, may be understood in a very reasonable sense, and is a necessary preparative to the study of philosophy, by preserving a proper impartiality in our judgements, and weaning our mind from all those prejudices, which we may have imbibed from education or rash opinion. to begin with clear and self-evident principles, to advance by timorous and sure steps, to review frequently our conclusions, and examine accurately all their consequences; though by these means we shall make both a slow and a short progress in our systems; are the only methods, by which we can ever hope to reach truth, and attain a proper stability and certainty in our determinations. . there is another species of scepticism, _consequent_ to science and enquiry, when men are supposed to have discovered, either the absolute fallaciousness of their mental faculties, or their unfitness to reach any fixed determination in all those curious subjects of speculation, about which they are commonly employed. even our very senses are brought into dispute, by a certain species of philosophers; and the maxims of common life are subjected to the same doubt as the most profound principles or conclusions of metaphysics and theology. as these paradoxical tenets (if they may be called tenets) are to be met with in some philosophers, and the refutation of them in several, they naturally excite our curiosity, and make us enquire into the arguments, on which they may be founded. i need not insist upon the more trite topics, employed by the sceptics in all ages, against the evidence of _sense_; such as those which are derived from the imperfection and fallaciousness of our organs, on numberless occasions; the crooked appearance of an oar in water; the various aspects of objects, according to their different distances; the double images which arise from the pressing one eye; with many other appearances of a like nature. these sceptical topics, indeed, are only sufficient to prove, that the senses alone are not implicitly to be depended on; but that we must correct their evidence by reason, and by considerations, derived from the nature of the medium, the distance of the object, and the disposition of the organ, in order to render them, within their sphere, the proper _criteria_ of truth and falsehood. there are other more profound arguments against the senses, which admit not of so easy a solution. . it seems evident, that men are carried, by a natural instinct or prepossession, to repose faith in their senses; and that, without any reasoning, or even almost before the use of reason, we always suppose an external universe, which depends not on our perception, but would exist, though we and every sensible creature were absent or annihilated. even the animal creation are governed by a like opinion, and preserve this belief of external objects, in all their thoughts, designs, and actions. it seems also evident, that, when men follow this blind and powerful instinct of nature, they always suppose the very images, presented by the senses, to be the external objects, and never entertain any suspicion, that the one are nothing but representations of the other. this very table, which we see white, and which we feel hard, is believed to exist, independent of our perception, and to be something external to our mind, which perceives it. our presence bestows not being on it: our absence does not annihilate it. it preserves its existence uniform and entire, independent of the situation of intelligent beings, who perceive or contemplate it. but this universal and primary opinion of all men is soon destroyed by the slightest philosophy, which teaches us, that nothing can ever be present to the mind but an image or perception, and that the senses are only the inlets, through which these images are conveyed, without being able to produce any immediate intercourse between the mind and the object. the table, which we see, seems to diminish, as we remove farther from it: but the real table, which exists independent of us, suffers no alteration: it was, therefore, nothing but its image, which was present to the mind. these are the obvious dictates of reason; and no man, who reflects, ever doubted, that the existences, which we consider, when we say, _this house_ and _that tree_, are nothing but perceptions in the mind, and fleeting copies or representations of other existences, which remain uniform and independent. . so far, then, are we necessitated by reasoning to contradict or depart from the primary instincts of nature, and to embrace a new system with regard to the evidence of our senses. but here philosophy finds herself extremely embarrassed, when she would justify this new system, and obviate the cavils and objections of the sceptics. she can no longer plead the infallible and irresistible instinct of nature: for that led us to a quite different system, which is acknowledged fallible and even erroneous. and to justify this pretended philosophical system, by a chain of clear and convincing argument, or even any appearance of argument, exceeds the power of all human capacity. by what argument can it be proved, that the perceptions of the mind must be caused by external objects, entirely different from them, though resembling them (if that be possible) and could not arise either from the energy of the mind itself, or from the suggestion of some invisible and unknown spirit, or from some other cause still more unknown to us? it is acknowledged, that, in fact, many of these perceptions arise not from anything external, as in dreams, madness, and other diseases. and nothing can be more inexplicable than the manner, in which body should so operate upon mind as ever to convey an image of itself to a substance, supposed of so different, and even contrary a nature. it is a question of fact, whether the perceptions of the senses be produced by external objects, resembling them: how shall this question be determined? by experience surely; as all other questions of a like nature. but here experience is, and must be entirely silent. the mind has never anything present to it but the perceptions, and cannot possibly reach any experience of their connexion with objects. the supposition of such a connexion is, therefore, without any foundation in reasoning. . to have recourse to the veracity of the supreme being, in order to prove the veracity of our senses, is surely making a very unexpected circuit. if his veracity were at all concerned in this matter, our senses would be entirely infallible; because it is not possible that he can ever deceive. not to mention, that, if the external world be once called in question, we shall be at a loss to find arguments, by which we may prove the existence of that being or any of his attributes. . this is a topic, therefore, in which the profounder and more philosophical sceptics will always triumph, when they endeavour to introduce an universal doubt into all subjects of human knowledge and enquiry. do you follow the instincts and propensities of nature, may they say, in assenting to the veracity of sense? but these lead you to believe that the very perception or sensible image is the external object. do you disclaim this principle, in order to embrace a more rational opinion, that the perceptions are only representations of something external? you here depart from your natural propensities and more obvious sentiments; and yet are not able to satisfy your reason, which can never find any convincing argument from experience to prove, that the perceptions are connected with any external objects. . there is another sceptical topic of a like nature, derived from the most profound philosophy; which might merit our attention, were it requisite to dive so deep, in order to discover arguments and reasonings, which can so little serve to any serious purpose. it is universally allowed by modern enquirers, that all the sensible qualities of objects, such as hard, soft, hot, cold, white, black, &c. are merely secondary, and exist not in the objects themselves, but are perceptions of the mind, without any external archetype or model, which they represent. if this be allowed, with regard to secondary qualities, it must also follow, with regard to the supposed primary qualities of extension and solidity; nor can the latter be any more entitled to that denomination than the former. the idea of extension is entirely acquired from the senses of sight and feeling; and if all the qualities, perceived by the senses, be in the mind, not in the object, the same conclusion must reach the idea of extension, which is wholly dependent on the sensible ideas or the ideas of secondary qualities. nothing can save us from this conclusion, but the asserting, that the ideas of those primary qualities are attained by _abstraction_, an opinion, which, if we examine it accurately, we shall find to be unintelligible, and even absurd. an extension, that is neither tangible nor visible, cannot possibly be conceived: and a tangible or visible extension, which is neither hard nor soft, black nor white, is equally beyond the reach of human conception. let any man try to conceive a triangle in general, which is neither _isosceles_ nor _scalenum_, nor has any particular length or proportion of sides; and he will soon perceive the absurdity of all the scholastic notions with regard to abstraction and general ideas.[ ] [ ] this argument is drawn from dr. berkeley; and indeed most of the writings of that very ingenious author form the best lessons of scepticism, which are to be found either among the ancient or modern philosopher, bayle not excepted. he professes, however, in his title-page (and undoubtedly with great truth) to have composed his book against the sceptics as well as against the atheists and free-thinkers. but that all his arguments, though otherwise intended, are, in reality, merely sceptical, appears from this, _that they admit of no answer and produce no conviction_. their only effect is to cause that momentary amazement and irresolution and confusion, which is the result of scepticism. . thus the first philosophical objection to the evidence of sense or to the opinion of external existence consists in this, that such an opinion, if rested on natural instinct, is contrary to reason, and if referred to reason, is contrary to natural instinct, and at the same time carries no rational evidence with it, to convince an impartial enquirer. the second objection goes farther, and represents this opinion as contrary to reason: at least, if it be a principle of reason, that all sensible qualities are in the mind, not in the object. bereave matter of all its intelligible qualities, both primary and secondary, you in a manner annihilate it, and leave only a certain unknown, inexplicable _something_, as the cause of our perceptions; a notion so imperfect, that no sceptic will think it worth while to contend against it. part ii. . it may seem a very extravagant attempt of the sceptics to destroy _reason_ by argument and ratiocination; yet is this the grand scope of all their enquiries and disputes. they endeavour to find objections, both to our abstract reasonings, and to those which regard matter of fact and existence. the chief objection against all _abstract_ reasonings is derived from the ideas of space and time; ideas, which, in common life and to a careless view, are very clear and intelligible, but when they pass through the scrutiny of the profound sciences (and they are the chief object of these sciences) afford principles, which seem full of absurdity and contradiction. no priestly _dogmas_, invented on purpose to tame and subdue the rebellious reason of mankind, ever shocked common sense more than the doctrine of the infinitive divisibility of extension, with its consequences; as they are pompously displayed by all geometricians and metaphysicians, with a kind of triumph and exultation. a real quantity, infinitely less than any finite quantity, containing quantities infinitely less than itself, and so on _in infinitum_; this is an edifice so bold and prodigious, that it is too weighty for any pretended demonstration to support, because it shocks the clearest and most natural principles of human reason.[ ] but what renders the matter more extraordinary, is, that these seemingly absurd opinions are supported by a chain of reasoning, the clearest and most natural; nor is it possible for us to allow the premises without admitting the consequences. nothing can be more convincing and satisfactory than all the conclusions concerning the properties of circles and triangles; and yet, when these are once received, how can we deny, that the angle of contact between a circle and its tangent is infinitely less than any rectilineal angle, that as you may increase the diameter of the circle _in infinitum_, this angle of contact becomes still less, even _in infinitum_, and that the angle of contact between other curves and their tangents may be infinitely less than those between any circle and its tangent, and so on, _in infinitum_? the demonstration of these principles seems as unexceptionable as that which proves the three angles of a triangle to be equal to two right ones, though the latter opinion be natural and easy, and the former big with contradiction and absurdity. reason here seems to be thrown into a kind of amazement and suspence, which, without the suggestions of any sceptic, gives her a diffidence of herself, and of the ground on which she treads. she sees a full light, which illuminates certain places; but that light borders upon the most profound darkness. and between these she is so dazzled and confounded, that she scarcely can pronounce with certainty and assurance concerning any one object. [ ] whatever disputes there may be about mathematical points, we must allow that there are physical points; that is, parts of extension, which cannot be divided or lessened, either by the eye or imagination. these images, then, which are present to the fancy or senses, are absolutely indivisible, and consequently must be allowed by mathematicians to be infinitely less than any real part of extension; and yet nothing appears more certain to reason, than that an infinite number of them composes an infinite extension. how much more an infinite number of those infinitely small parts of extension, which are still supposed infinitely divisible. . the absurdity of these bold determinations of the abstract sciences seems to become, if possible, still more palpable with regard to time than extension. an infinite number of real parts of time, passing in succession, and exhausted one after another, appears so evident a contradiction, that no man, one should think, whose judgement is not corrupted, instead of being improved, by the sciences, would ever be able to admit of it. yet still reason must remain restless, and unquiet, even with regard to that scepticism, to which she is driven by these seeming absurdities and contradictions. how any clear, distinct idea can contain circumstances, contradictory to itself, or to any other clear, distinct idea, is absolutely incomprehensible; and is, perhaps, as absurd as any proposition, which can be formed. so that nothing can be more sceptical, or more full of doubt and hesitation, than this scepticism itself, which arises from some of the paradoxical conclusions of geometry or the science of quantity.[ ] [ ] it seems to me not impossible to avoid these absurdities and contradictions, if it be admitted, that there is no such thing as abstract or general ideas, properly speaking; but that all general ideas are, in reality, particular ones, attached to a general term, which recalls, upon occasion, other particular ones, that resemble, in certain circumstances, the idea, present to the mind. thus when the term horse is pronounced, we immediately figure to ourselves the idea of a black or a white animal, of a particular size or figure: but as that term is also usually applied to animals of other colours, figures and sizes, these ideas, though not actually present to the imagination, are easily recalled; and our reasoning and conclusion proceed in the same way, as if they were actually present. if this be admitted (as seems reasonable) it follows that all the ideas of quantity, upon which mathematicians reason, are nothing but particular, and such as are suggested by the senses and imagination, and consequently, cannot be infinitely divisible. it is sufficient to have dropped this hint at present, without prosecuting it any farther. it certainly concerns all lovers of science not to expose themselves to the ridicule and contempt of the ignorant by their conclusions; and this seems the readiest solution of these difficulties. . the sceptical objections to _moral_ evidence, or to the reasonings concerning matter of fact, are either _popular_ or _philosophical_. the popular objections are derived from the natural weakness of human understanding; the contradictory opinions, which have been entertained in different ages and nations; the variations of our judgement in sickness and health, youth and old age, prosperity and adversity; the perpetual contradiction of each particular man's opinions and sentiments; with many other topics of that kind. it is needless to insist farther on this head. these objections are but weak. for as, in common life, we reason every moment concerning fact and existence, and cannot possibly subsist, without continually employing this species of argument, any popular objections, derived from thence, must be insufficient to destroy that evidence. the great subverter of _pyrrhonism_ or the excessive principles of scepticism is action, and employment, and the occupations of common life. these principles may flourish and triumph in the schools; where it is, indeed, difficult, if not impossible, to refute them. but as soon as they leave the shade, and by the presence of the real objects, which actuate our passions and sentiments, are put in opposition to the more powerful principles of our nature, they vanish like smoke, and leave the most determined sceptic in the same condition as other mortals. . the sceptic, therefore, had better keep within his proper sphere, and display those _philosophical_ objections, which arise from more profound researches. here he seems to have ample matter of triumph; while he justly insists, that all our evidence for any matter of fact, which lies beyond the testimony of sense or memory, is derived entirely from the relation of cause and effect; that we have no other idea of this relation than that of two objects, which have been frequently _conjoined_ together; that we have no argument to convince us, that objects, which have, in our experience, been frequently conjoined, will likewise, in other instances, be conjoined in the same manner; and that nothing leads us to this inference but custom or a certain instinct of our nature; which it is indeed difficult to resist, but which, like other instincts, may be fallacious and deceitful. while the sceptic insists upon these topics, he shows his force, or rather, indeed, his own and our weakness; and seems, for the time at least, to destroy all assurance and conviction. these arguments might be displayed at greater length, if any durable good or benefit to society could ever be expected to result from them. . for here is the chief and most confounding objection to _excessive_ scepticism, that no durable good can ever result from it; while it remains in its full force and vigour. we need only ask such a sceptic, _what his meaning is? and what he proposes by all these curious researches?_ he is immediately at a loss, and knows not what to answer. a copernican or ptolemaic, who supports each his different system of astronomy, may hope to produce a conviction, which will remain constant and durable, with his audience. a stoic or epicurean displays principles, which may not be durable, but which have an effect on conduct and behaviour. but a pyrrhonian cannot expect, that his philosophy will have any constant influence on the mind: or if it had, that its influence would be beneficial to society. on the contrary, he must acknowledge, if he will acknowledge anything, that all human life must perish, were his principles universally and steadily to prevail. all discourse, all action would immediately cease; and men remain in a total lethargy, till the necessities of nature, unsatisfied, put an end to their miserable existence. it is true; so fatal an event is very little to be dreaded. nature is always too strong for principle. and though a pyrrhonian may throw himself or others into a momentary amazement and confusion by his profound reasonings; the first and most trivial event in life will put to flight all his doubts and scruples, and leave him the same, in every point of action and speculation, with the philosophers of every other sect, or with those who never concerned themselves in any philosophical researches. when he awakes from his dream, he will be the first to join in the laugh against himself, and to confess, that all his objections are mere amusement, and can have no other tendency than to show the whimsical condition of mankind, who must act and reason and believe; though they are not able, by their most diligent enquiry, to satisfy themselves concerning the foundation of these operations, or to remove the objections, which may be raised against them. part iii. . there is, indeed, a more _mitigated_ scepticism or _academical_ philosophy, which may be both durable and useful, and which may, in part, be the result of this pyrrhonism, or _excessive_ scepticism, when its undistinguished doubts are, in some measure, corrected by common sense and reflection. the greater part of mankind are naturally apt to be affirmative and dogmatical in their opinions; and while they see objects only on one side, and have no idea of any counterpoising argument, they throw themselves precipitately into the principles, to which they are inclined; nor have they any indulgence for those who entertain opposite sentiments. to hesitate or balance perplexes their understanding, checks their passion, and suspends their action. they are, therefore, impatient till they escape from a state, which to them is so uneasy: and they think, that they could never remove themselves far enough from it, by the violence of their affirmations and obstinacy of their belief. but could such dogmatical reasoners become sensible of the strange infirmities of human understanding, even in its most perfect state, and when most accurate and cautious in its determinations; such a reflection would naturally inspire them with more modesty and reserve, and diminish their fond opinion of themselves, and their prejudice against antagonists. the illiterate may reflect on the disposition of the learned, who, amidst all the advantages of study and reflection, are commonly still diffident in their determinations: and if any of the learned be inclined, from their natural temper, to haughtiness and obstinacy, a small tincture of pyrrhonism might abate their pride, by showing them, that the few advantages, which they may have attained over their fellows, are but inconsiderable, if compared with the universal perplexity and confusion, which is inherent in human nature. in general, there is a degree of doubt, and caution, and modesty, which, in all kinds of scrutiny and decision, ought for ever to accompany a just reasoner. . another species of _mitigated_ scepticism which may be of advantage to mankind, and which may be the natural result of the pyrrhonian doubts and scruples, is the limitation of our enquiries to such subjects as are best adapted to the narrow capacity of human understanding. the _imagination_ of man is naturally sublime, delighted with whatever is remote and extraordinary, and running, without control, into the most distant parts of space and time in order to avoid the objects, which custom has rendered too familiar to it. a correct _judgement_ observes a contrary method, and avoiding all distant and high enquiries, confines itself to common life, and to such subjects as fall under daily practice and experience; leaving the more sublime topics to the embellishment of poets and orators, or to the arts of priests and politicians. to bring us to so salutary a determination, nothing can be more serviceable, than to be once thoroughly convinced of the force of the pyrrhonian doubt, and of the impossibility, that anything, but the strong power of natural instinct, could free us from it. those who have a propensity to philosophy, will still continue their researches; because they reflect, that, besides the immediate pleasure, attending such an occupation, philosophical decisions are nothing but the reflections of common life, methodized and corrected. but they will never be tempted to go beyond common life, so long as they consider the imperfection of those faculties which they employ, their narrow reach, and their inaccurate operations. while we cannot give a satisfactory reason, why we believe, after a thousand experiments, that a stone will fall, or fire burn; can we ever satisfy ourselves concerning any determination, which we may form, with regard to the origin of worlds, and the situation of nature, from, and to eternity? this narrow limitation, indeed, of our enquiries, is, in every respect, so reasonable, that it suffices to make the slightest examination into the natural powers of the human mind and to compare them with their objects, in order to recommend it to us. we shall then find what are the proper subjects of science and enquiry. . it seems to me, that the only objects of the abstract science or of demonstration are quantity and number, and that all attempts to extend this more perfect species of knowledge beyond these bounds are mere sophistry and illusion. as the component parts of quantity and number are entirely similar, their relations become intricate and involved; and nothing can be more curious, as well as useful, than to trace, by a variety of mediums, their equality or inequality, through their different appearances. but as all other ideas are clearly distinct and different from each other, we can never advance farther, by our utmost scrutiny, than to observe this diversity, and, by an obvious reflection, pronounce one thing not to be another. or if there be any difficulty in these decisions, it proceeds entirely from the undeterminate meaning of words, which is corrected by juster definitions. that _the square of the hypothenuse is equal to the squares of the other two sides_, cannot be known, let the terms be ever so exactly defined, without a train of reasoning and enquiry. but to convince us of this proposition, _that where there is no property, there can be no injustice_, it is only necessary to define the terms, and explain injustice to be a violation of property. this proposition is, indeed, nothing but a more imperfect definition. it is the same case with all those pretended syllogistical reasonings, which may be found in every other branch of learning, except the sciences of quantity and number; and these may safely, i think, be pronounced the only proper objects of knowledge and demonstration. . all other enquiries of men regard only matter of fact and existence; and these are evidently incapable of demonstration. whatever _is_ may _not be_. no negation of a fact can involve a contradiction. the non-existence of any being, without exception, is as clear and distinct an idea as its existence. the proposition, which affirms it not to be, however false, is no less conceivable and intelligible, than that which affirms it to be. the case is different with the sciences, properly so called. every proposition, which is not true, is there confused and unintelligible. that the cube root of is equal to the half of , is a false proposition, and can never be distinctly conceived. but that caesar, or the angel gabriel, or any being never existed, may be a false proposition, but still is perfectly conceivable, and implies no contradiction. the existence, therefore, of any being can only be proved by arguments from its cause or its effect; and these arguments are founded entirely on experience. if we reason _a priori_, anything may appear able to produce anything. the falling of a pebble may, for aught we know, extinguish the sun; or the wish of a man control the planets in their orbits. it is only experience, which teaches us the nature and bounds of cause and effect, and enables us to infer the existence of one object from that of another[ ]. such is the foundation of moral reasoning, which forms the greater part of human knowledge, and is the source of all human action and behaviour. [ ] that impious maxim of the ancient philosophy, _ex nihilo, nihil fit_, by which the creation of matter was excluded, ceases to be a maxim, according to this philosophy. not only the will of the supreme being may create matter; but, for aught we know _a priori_, the will of any other being might create it, or any other cause, that the most whimsical imagination can assign. moral reasonings are either concerning particular or general facts. all deliberations in life regard the former; as also all disquisitions in history, chronology, geography, and astronomy. the sciences, which treat of general facts, are politics, natural philosophy, physic, chemistry, &c. where the qualities, causes and effects of a whole species of objects are enquired into. divinity or theology, as it proves the existence of a deity, and the immortality of souls, is composed partly of reasonings concerning particular, partly concerning general facts. it has a foundation in _reason_, so far as it is supported by experience. but its best and most solid foundation is _faith_ and divine revelation. morals and criticism are not so properly objects of the understanding as of taste and sentiment. beauty, whether moral or natural, is felt, more properly than perceived. or if we reason concerning it, and endeavour to fix its standard, we regard a new fact, to wit, the general tastes of mankind, or some such fact, which may be the object of reasoning and enquiry. when we run over libraries, persuaded of these principles, what havoc must we make? if we take in our hand any volume; of divinity or school metaphysics, for instance; let us ask, _does it contain any abstract reasoning concerning quantity or number?_ no. _does it contain any experimental reasoning concerning matter of fact and existence?_ no. commit it then to the flames: for it can contain nothing but sophistry and illusion. index abstraction not source of ideas of primary qualities, . academic philosophy, . action and philosophy, , , , ; addition . analogy a species of, the foundation of all reasoning about matter of fact, ; animals the reason of, - ; learn from experience and draw inferences, ; which can only be founded on custom, ; cause of difference between men and animals, n. antiquity . appearances to senses must be corrected by reason, . a priori , n, n, , n. aristotle . association of ideas, three principles of, - , - (v. _cause_ c). atheism . bacon . belief (v. _cause_ c, - ); and chance, . berkeley really a sceptic, n. bigotry . body and soul, mystery of union of, ; volition and movements of, . real existence of (v. _scepticism_, b, - ). cause first (v. _god_, _necessity_, - ; _providence_, - , n). a principle of association of ideas, , ; sole foundation of reasonings about matter of fact or real existence, . a. _knowledge of causes arises from experience not from reason_, - . reasonings _a priori_ give no knowledge of cause and effect, f.; impossible to see the effect in the cause since they are totally different, ; natural philosophy never pretends to assign ultimate causes, but only to reduce causes to a few general causes, e.g. gravity, ; geometry applies laws obtained by experience, . conclusions from experience not based on any process of the understanding, ; yet we infer in the future a similar connexion between known qualities of things and their secret powers, to that which we assumed in the past. on what is this inference based? ; demonstrative reasoning has no place here, and all experimental reasoning assumes the resemblance of the future to the past, and so cannot prove it without being circular, , ; if reasoning were the basis of this belief, there would be no need for the multiplication of instances or of long experience, ; yet conclusions about matter of fact are affected by experience even in beasts and children, so that they cannot be founded on abstruse reasoning, ; to explain our inferences from experience a principle is required of equal weight and authority with reason, . b. _custom enables us to infer existence of one object from the appearance of another_, - . experience enables us to ascribe a more than arbitrary connexion to objects, ; we are determined to this by custom or habit which is the great guide of human life, ; but our inference must be based on some fact present to the senses or memory, ; the customary conjunction between such an object and some other object produces an operation of the soul which is as unavoidable as love, ; animals also infer one event from another by custom, - ; and in man as in animals experimental reasoning depends on a species of instinct or mechanical power that acts in us unknown to ourselves, . c. _belief_, - . belief differs from fiction or the loose reveries of the fancy by some feeling annexed to it, ; belief cannot be defined, but may be described as a more lively, forcible, firm, steady conception of an object than can be attained by the imagination alone, ; it is produced by the principles of association, viz. resemblance, ; contiguity, ; causation, ; by a kind of pre-established harmony between the course of nature and our ideas, ; this operation of our minds necessary to our subsistence and so entrusted by nature to instinct rather than to reasoning, . _probability_, - . belief produced by a majority of chances by an inexplicable contrivance of nature, (cf. - ); probability of causes: the failure of a cause ascribed to a secret counteracting cause, (cf. ); it is universally allowed that chance when strictly examined is a mere negative word, . d. _power_, - . power, force, energy, necessary connexion must either be defined by analysis or explained by production of the impression from which they are copied, ; from the first appearance of an object we cannot foretell its effect: we cannot see the power of a single body: we only see sequence, . is the idea of power derived from an internal impression and is it an idea of reflection? ; it is not derived, as locke said, from reasoning about power of production in nature, n; nor from consciousness of influence of will over bodily organs, ; nor from effort to overcome resistance, n (cf. n); nor from influence of will over mind, ; many philosophers appeal to an invisible intelligent principle, to a volition of the supreme being, and regard causes as only occasions and our mental conceptions as revelations, - ; thus diminishing the grandeur of god, ; this theory too bold and beyond verification by our faculties, and is no explanation, ; vis inertiae, n. in single instances we only see sequence of loose events which are conjoined and never connected, ; the idea of necessary connexion only arises from a number of similar instances, and the only difference between such a number and a single instance is that the former produces a habit of expecting the usual attendant, , . this customary transition is the impression from which we form the idea of necessary connexion. e. _reasoning from effect to cause and conversely_, - (v. _providence_). in arguing from effect to cause we must not infer more qualities in the cause than are required to produce the effect, nor reason backwards from an inferred cause to new effects, - ; we can reason back from cause to new effects in the case of human acts by analogy which rests on previous knowledge, - ; when the effect is entirely singular and does not belong to any species we cannot infer its cause at all, . f. _definitions of cause_, (cf. n). ceremonies . chance ignorance of causes, ; has no existence, (v. _cause_ b). cicero . circle in reasoning, . clarke n. colour peculiarity of ideas of, . contiguity , . contradiction the test of demonstration, . contrariety n. contrary of matter of fact always possible, , . creation n. criticism . cudworth n, n. custom when strongest conceals itself, ; an ultimate principle of all conclusions from experience, , ; and belief, - ; gives rise to inferences of animals, . definition only applicable to complex ideas, ; need of, ; of cause, . demonstrative opp. intuitive, ; reasoning, ; confined to quantity and number, ; impossible to demonstrate a fact since no negation of a fact can involve a contradiction, . descartes n.; his universal doubt antecedent to study if strictly taken is incurable, since even from an indubitable first principle no advance can be made except by the faculties which we doubt, ; his appeal to the veracity of god is useless, (v. _scepticism_, - ). design argument from, f. (v. _providence_). divisibility of mathematical and physical points, . doubt cartesian, , (v. _scepticism_ a). epictetus . epicurean philosophy, defence of, - ; denial of providence and future state is harmless, (v. _providence_). euclid truths in, do not depend on existence of circles or triangles, . evidence moral and natural, ; value of human, - (v. _miracles_). evil doctrine of necessity either makes god the cause of evil or denies existence of evil as regards the whole, - . existence external and perception, - (v. _scepticism_, b, - ). ex nihilo nihil n. experience (v. _cause_ a, - ); opposition of reason and experience usual, but really erroneous and superficial, n. infallible, may be regarded as proof, (v. _miracles_); all the philosophy and religion in the world cannot carry us beyond the usual course of experience, . extension ; a supposed primary quality, . faith , . fiction and fact (v. _cause_ c), f. future inference to, from past, (v. _cause_ a). general ideas, do not really exist, but only particular ideas attached to a general term, n. geography mental, . geometry propositions of certain, as depending only on relations of ideas not on existence of objects, ; gives no knowledge of ultimate causes: only applies laws discovered by experience, . god idea of, ; no idea of except what we learn from reflection on our own faculties, ; theory that god is cause of all motion and thought, causes being only occasions of his volition, - ; by doctrine of necessity either there are no bad actions or god is the cause of evil, - . veracity of, appealed to, . and creation of matter, n. v. _providence_, - ; _scepticism_, - . golden age, . gravity . habit (v. _custom_, _cause_ b). history use of, . human nature, inconstancy a constant character of, . ideas a. _origin of_, - . perceptions divided into impressions and ideas, - ; the mind can only compound the materials derived from outward or inward sentiment, (cf. ); all ideas resolvable into simple ideas copied from precedent feelings, ; deficiency in an organ of sensation produces deficiency in corresponding idea, - ; suspected ideas to be tested by asking for the impression from which it is derived, (cf. ); idea of reflection, ; general ideas, n; innate ideas, n; power of will over ideas, . b. _association of_, - . ideas introduce each other with a certain degree of method and regularity, ; only three principles of association, viz. resemblance, contiguity, and cause or effect, ; contrariety, n; production of belief by these principles, - . c. correspondence of ideas and course of nature, ; relations of ideas one of two possible objects of enquiry, ; such relations discoverable by the mere operation of thought, , ; no demonstration possible except in case of ideas of quantity or number, . imagination , ; and belief, . impressions all our more lively perceptions, ; the test of ideas, , . incest peculiar turpitude of explained, . inconceivability of the negative, (cf. ). inertia n. inference and similarity, , (v. _cause_). infinite divisibility, f. instances multiplication of not required by reason, . instinct more trustworthy than reasoning, ; the basis of all experimental reasoning, ; the basis of realism, , . intuitive opp. mediate reasoning, . la bruyere . liberty (v. _necessity_, - ). definition of hypothetical liberty, . necessary to morality, . locke , n, n, n. his loose use of 'ideas,' n; betrayed into frivolous disputes about innate ideas by the school-men, n; distinction of primary and secondary qualities, . malebranche , n.. man a reasonable and active being, . marriage rules of, based on and vary with utility, . mathematics ideas of, clear and determinate, hence their superiority to moral and metaphysical sciences, ; their difficulty, . mathematical and physical points, n. matter necessity of, ; creation of, n (v. _scepticism_ a). matter-of-fact contrary of, always possible, ; arguments to new, based only on cause and effect, . metaphysics not a science, - ; how inferior and superior to mathematics, . mind mental geography, ; secret springs and principles of, ; can only mix and compound materials given by inward and outward sentiment, ; power of will over, . miracles. - . belief in human evidence diminishes according as the event witnessed is unusual or extraordinary, ; difference between extraordinary and miraculous, n; if the evidence for a miracle amounted to proof we should have one proof opposed by another proof, for the proof against a miracle is as complete as possible; an event is not miraculous unless there is a uniform experience, that is a proof, against it, ; definition of miracle, n; hence no testimony is sufficient to establish a miracle unless its falsehood would be more miraculous than the event it establishes, ; as a fact the evidence for a miracle has never amounted to proof, ; the passion for the wonderful in human nature, ; prevalence of miracles in savage and early periods and their diminution with civilization, ; the evidence for miracles in matters of religion opposed by the almost infinite number of witnesses for rival religions, ; value of human testimony diminished by temptation to pose as a prophet or apostle, ; no testimony for a miracle has ever amounted to a probability, much less to a proof, and if it did amount to a proof it would be opposed by another perfect proof, ; so a miracle can never be proved so as to be the foundation of a system of religion, ; a conclusion which confounds those who base the christian religion on reason, not on faith, ; the christian religion cannot be believed without a miracle which will subvert the principle of a man's understanding and give him a determination to believe what is most contrary to custom and experience, . moral evil (q.v.) . moral science ; inferior to mathematics, ; sceptical objections to, - . moral evidence easily combined with natural, . motion . nature design in, f. (v. _providence_), and the course of our ideas, . state of, a philosophical fiction, , n. necessary connexion (v. _cause_). necessity two definitions of, . a. _and liberty_, - ; the controversy is based on ambiguity, and all mankind have always been of the same opinion on this subject, ; our idea of the necessity of matter arises solely from observed uniformity and consequent inference, circumstances which are allowed by all men to exist in respect of human action, ; history and knowledge of human nature assume such uniformity, , which does not exclude variety due to education and progress, ; irregular actions to be explained by secret operation of contrary causes, ; the inconstancy of human action, its constant character, as of winds and weather, ; we all acknowledge and draw inferences from the regular conjunction of motives and actions, ; history, politics, and morals show this, and the possibility of combining moral and natural evidence shows that they have a common origin, ; the reluctance to acknowledge the necessity of actions due to a lingering belief that we can see real connexion behind mere conjunction, ; we should begin with the examination not of the soul and will but of brute matter, ; the prevalence of the liberty doctrine due to a false sensation of liberty and a false experiment, n; though this question is the most contentious of all, mankind has always agreed in the doctrine of liberty, if we mean by it that hypothetical liberty which consists in a power of acting or not acting according to the determinations of our will, and which can be ascribed to every one who is not a prisoner, ; liberty when opposed to necessity, and not merely to constraint, is the same as chance, . b. _both necessity and liberty are necessary to morality_, this doctrine of necessity only alters our view of matter and so is at least innocent, ; rewards and punishments imply the uniform influence of motives, and connexion of character and action: if necessity be denied, a man may commit any crime and be no worse for it, ; liberty also essential to morality, . objection that doctrine of necessity and of a regular chain of causes either makes god the cause of evil, or abolishes evil in actions, ; stoic answer, that the whole system is good, is specious but ineffectual in practice, ; no speculative argument can counteract the impulse of our natural sentiments to blame certain actions, ; how god can be the cause of all actions without being the author of moral evil is a mystery with which philosophy cannot deal, . negative inconceivability of, . newton n. nisus n, n. number the object of demonstration, . occasional causes theory of, . parallelism between thought and course of nature, - . perception and external objects, f. (v. _scepticism_, _impression_, _idea_). philosophy moral, two branches of, abstruse and practical, - ; gratifies innocent curiosity, ; metaphysics tries to deal with matters inaccessible to human understanding, . true, must lay down limits of understanding, (cf. ); a large part of, consists in mental geography, ; may hope to resolve principles of mind into still more general principles, . natural, only staves off our ignorance a little longer, as moral or metaphysical philosophy serves only to discover larger portions of it, ; academical, or sceptical, flatters no bias or passion except love of truth, and so has few partisans, ; though it destroy speculation, cannot destroy action, for nature steps in and asserts her rights, ; moral, inferior to mathematics in clearness of ideas, superior in shortness of arguments, . controversies in, due to ambiguity of terms, . disputes in, not be settled by appeal to dangerous consequences of a doctrine, . speculative, entirely indifferent to the peace of society and security of government, (cf. ). all the philosophy in the world, and all the religion in the world, which is nothing but a species of philosophy, can never carry us beyond the usual course of experience, . happiness of, to have originated in an age and country of freedom and toleration, . points physical, indivisible, n. power f, n. (v. _cause_ d). probability f. (v. _cause_, b). probable arguments, , n. production n. promises not the foundation of justice, . proof n, - (v. _miracles_, _demonstrative_). providence - (v. _god_). the sole argument for a divine existence is from the marks of design in nature; must not infer greater power in the cause than is necessary to produce the observed effects, nor argue from such an inferred cause to any new effects which have not been observed, ; so must not infer in god more power, wisdom, and benevolence than appears in nature, ; so it is unnecessary to try and save the honour of the gods by assuming the intractability of matter or the observance of general laws, ; to argue from effects to unknown causes, and then from these causes to unknown effects, is a gross sophism, . from imperfect exercise of justice in this world we cannot infer its perfect exercise in a future world, ; we must regulate our conduct solely by the experienced train of events, ; in case of human works of art we can infer the perfect from the imperfect, but that is because we know man by experience and also know other instances of his art, - ; but in the case of god we only know him by his productions, and do not know any class of beings to which he belongs, ; and the universe, his production, is entirely singular and does not belong to a known species of things, . punishment requires doctrines of necessity and liberty, (v. _necessity_). pyrrhonism . qualities primary and secondary, . quantity and number, the only objects of demonstration, the parts of them being entirely similar, . real presence, . reality and thought, . realism of the vulgar, . reason (a) opp. intuition, ; opp. experience, , n. (b) corrects sympathy and senses, . no match for nature, . fallacious, compared with instinct, . of men and animals, n. (c) attempts to destroy, by reasoning, ; objections to abstract reasoning, f. (v. _scepticism_). (d) _reasoning_. two kinds of, demonstrative and moral, , n, ; moral, divided into general and particular, ; produces demonstrations, proofs, and probabilities, n. probable (v. _cause_, - ). relations of ideas, discoverable by the mere operation of thought, independently of the existence of any object, . religion a kind of philosophy, (v. _miracles, providence_). resemblance , (v. _similarity_). resistance and idea of power, n. scepticism a. antecedent to study and philosophy, such as descartes' universal doubt of our faculties, would be incurable: in a more moderate sense it is useful, (cf. - ); extravagant attempts of, to destroy reason by reasoning, . no such absurd creature as a man who has no opinion about anything at all, ; admits of no answer and produces no conviction, n. (cf. , , ). b. _as to the senses_, - . the ordinary criticisms of our senses only show that they have to be corrected by reason, ; more profound arguments show that the vulgar belief in external objects is baseless, and that the objects we see are nothing but perceptions which are fleeting copies of other existences, ; even this philosophy is hard to justify; it appeals neither to natural instinct, nor to experience, for experience tells nothing of objects which perceptions resemble, ; the appeal to the _veracity of god_ is useless, ; and scepticism is here triumphant, . _the distinction between primary and secondary qualities_ is useless, for the supposed primary qualities are only perceptions, ; and berkeley's theory that ideas of primary qualities are obtained by abstraction is impossible, , n; if matter is deprived of both primary and secondary qualities there is nothing left except a mere something which is not worth arguing about, . c. _as to reason_, - . attempt to destroy reason by reasoning extravagant, ; objection to _abstract reasoning_ because it asserts infinite divisibility of extension which is shocking to common sense, , and infinite divisibility of time, ; yet the ideas attacked are so clear and distinct that scepticism becomes sceptical about itself, . popular objections to _moral reasoning_ about matter of fact, based on weakness of understanding, variation of judgement, and disagreement among men, confuted by action, ; philosophical objections, that we only experience conjunction and that inference is based on custom, ; excessive scepticism refuted by its uselessness and put to flight by the most trivial event in life, . mitigated scepticism or academical philosophy useful as a corrective and as producing caution and modesty, ; and as limiting understanding to proper objects, ; all reasoning which is not either abstract, about quantity and number, or experimental, about matters of fact, is sophistry and illusion, . d. in _religion_ (v. _miracles_, _providence_). sciences (v. _reason_, (d); _scepticism_, c). secret powers, ; counteracting causes, , . senses outward and inward sensation supplies all the materials of thinking--must be corrected by reason, . scepticism concerning, (v. _scepticism_, b). similarity basis of all arguments from experience, (cf. ). solidity ; a supposed primary quality, . soul and body, . space and time, f. species an effect which belongs to no species does not admit of inference to its cause, (cf. ). stoics , . superstition (v. _providence_). theology science of, (v. _god_, _providence_). tillotson argument against real presence, . time and space, f. truth , (v. _scepticism_). understanding limits of human, ; operations of, to be classified, ; opp. experience, ; weakness of, (v. _reason_, _scepticism_). voluntariness as ground of distinction between virtues and talents, . whole theory that everything is good as regards 'the whole,' , . will compounds materials given by senses, ; influence of over organs of body can never give us the idea of power; for we are not conscious of any power in our will, only of sequence of motions on will, ; so with power of will over our minds in raising up new ideas, . of god, cannot be used to explain motion, . freedom of (v. _necessity_). the positive outcome of philosophy the nature of human brain work letters on logic. the positive outcome of philosophy by joseph dietzgen _translated by ernest untermann_ with an introduction by dr. anton pannekoek translated by ernest untermann edited by eugene dietzgen and joseph dietzgen, jr. chicago charles h. kerr & company copyright by eugene dietzgen contents page introduction by anton pannekoek the nature of human brain work preface i. introduction ii. pure reason or the faculty of thought in general iii. the nature of things iv. the practice of reason in physical science _a_ cause and effect _b_ matter and mind _c_ force and matter v. "practical reason" or morality _a_ the wise and reasonable _b_ morality and right _c_ the holy letters on logic first letter second letter third letter fourth letter fifth letter sixth letter seventh letter eighth letter ninth letter tenth letter eleventh letter twelfth letter thirteenth letter fourteenth letter fifteenth letter sixteenth letter seventeenth letter eighteenth letter nineteenth letter twentieth letter twenty-first letter twenty-second letter twenty-third letter (a) twenty-third letter (b) twenty-fourth letter the positive outcome of philosophy preface i. positive knowledge as a special object ii. the power of perception is kin to the universe iii. as to how the intellect is limited and unlimited iv. the universality of nature v. the understanding as a part of the human soul vi. consciousness is endowed with the faculty of knowing as well as with the feeling of the universality of all nature vii. the relationship or identity of spirit and nature viii. understanding is material ix. the four principles of logic x. the function of understanding on the religious field xi. the distinction between cause and effect is only one of the means to facilitate understanding xii. mind and matter: which is primary, which is secondary? xiii. the extent to which the doubts of the possibility of clear and accurate understanding have been overcome xiv. continuation of the discussion on the difference between doubtful and evident understanding xv. conclusion introduction the position and significance of j. dietzgen's philosophical works by dr. anton pannekoek in the history of philosophy we see before us the consecutive forms of the thoughts of the ruling classes of society on life and on the world at large. this class thought appears after the primitive communism has given way to a society with class antagonisms, at a stage when the wealth of the members of the ruling class gave them leisure time and thus stimulated them to turn their attention to the productions of the mind. the beginning of this thought is found in classic greece. but it assumed its clearest and best developed form when the modern bourgeoisie had become the ruling class in capitalistic europe and the thinkers gave expression to the ideas of this class. the characteristic mark of these ideas is dualism, that is to say the misunderstood contrast between thinking and being, between nature and spirit, the result of the mental unclearness of this class and of its incapacity to see the things of the world in their true interconnection. this mental state is but the expression of the division of mankind into classes and of the uncomprehended nature of social production ever since it became a production of goods for exchange. in times of primitive communism, the conditions of production were clear and easily understood. things were produced jointly for use and consumed in common. man was master of his mode of production and thus master of his own fate as far as the superior forces of nature admitted it. under such conditions, social ideas could not help being simple and clear. there being no clash between personal and social interests, men had no conception of a deep chasm between good and bad. only the uncontrolled forces of nature stood like unintelligible and mysterious powers, that appeared to them either as well meaning or as evil spirits, above these primitive little societies. but with the advent of the production of commodities the picture changes. civilized humanity begins to feel itself somewhat relieved from the hard and ungovernable pressure of fickle natural forces. but now new demons arise out of social conditions. "no sooner did the producers give their products away in exchange instead of consuming them as heretofore, than they lost control of them. they no longer knew what became of their products, and there was a possibility that these products might some day be used for the exploitation and oppression of the producers--the products rule the producers." (engels) in the production of commodities, it is not the purpose of the individual producer which is accomplished, but rather that which the productive forces back of him are aiming at. man proposes, but a social power, stronger than himself, disposes; he is no longer master of his fate. the inter-relations of production become complicated and difficult to grasp. while it is true that the individual is the producing unit, yet his individual labor is only a subordinate part of the whole process of social production, of which he remains a tool. the fruits of the labor of many are enjoyed by a few individuals. the social co-operation is concealed behind a violent competitive struggle of the producers against one another. the interests of the individuals are at war with those of society. good, that is to say the consideration of the common welfare, is opposed to bad, that is to say the sacrifice of everything to private interests. the passions of men as well as their mental gifts, after they have been aroused, developed, trained, strengthened, and refined in this struggle, henceforth become so many weapons which a superior power turns against their helpless possessors. such were the impressions out of which thinking men were obliged to fashion their world-philosophy, while, at the same time, they were members of the possessing classes and had thus an opportunity to employ their leisure for a certain self-study, without, however, being in touch with the source of their impressions, viz., the process of social labor which alone could have enabled them to see through the social origin of their ideas. men of this class, therefore, were led to the assumption that their ideas emanated from some supernatural and spiritual power or that they were themselves independent supernatural powers. this dualist metaphysical mode of thought has gone through various transformations in the course of time, adapting itself to the evolution of production beginning with ancient slavery, on through the serfdom of the middle ages and of mediæval commodity production, to modern capitalism. these successive changes of form are embodied in grecian philosophy, in the various phases of the christian religion, and in the modern systems of philosophy. but we must not regard these systems and religions for what they generally pass, that is to say, we must not think them to be only repeated unsuccessful attempts to formulate absolute truth. they are merely the incarnations of progressive stages of better knowledge acquired by the human mind about itself and about the universe. it was the aim of philosophical thought to find satisfaction in understanding. and as long as understanding could not wholly be gotten by natural means, there remained always a field for the supernatural and incomprehensible. but by the painstaking mental work of the deepest thinkers, the material of science was ceaselessly increased, and the field of the supernatural and incomprehensible was ever more narrowed. and this is especially the case since the progress of capitalist production has promoted the persistent study of nature. for through this study the human mind was enabled to test its powers by simple, quiet, persistent and fruitful labor in the search for successive parts of truth; and thus to rid itself from the overirritation of hopeless quest after absolute truth. the desire to ascertain the value of these new truths gave rise to the problems of the theory of understanding. the attempts to solve these problems form a permanent part of modern systems of philosophy, which represent a graduated evolution of the theory of understanding. but the supernatural element in these systems prevented their perfection. under the impulse of the technical requirements of capitalism, the evolution of natural sciences became a triumphal march of the human mind. nature was subjugated first through the discovery of its laws by the human mind, and then by the material subordination of the known forces of nature to the human will in the service of our main object, the production of the necessaries of life with a minimum expenditure of energy. but this bright shining light rendered, by contrast, the gloom which surrounded the phenomena of human society only the darker, and capitalism in its development still accentuates this contrast, as it accentuates and thus renders more easily visible and intelligible all contrasts. while the natural sciences dispensed with all mysterious secrecy within their narrower domain, the darkness shrouding the origin of ideas still offered a welcome refuge to the belief in miracles on the spiritual field. capitalism is now approaching its decline. socialism is near. and the vital importance of this transition in human history cannot be stated more strongly than in the words of marx and engels: "this concludes the primary history of man. he thereby passes definitely out of the animal kingdom." the social regulation of production makes man fully the master of his own fate. no longer does any mysterious social power then thwart his plans or jeopardise his success. nor does any mysterious natural force control him henceforth. he is no longer the slave, but the master of nature. he has investigated its effects, understands them, and presses them into his service. for the first time in his history he will then be the ruler of the earth. we now see that the many centuries that filled the history of civilization were a necessary preparation for socialism, a slow struggle to escape from nature's slavery, a gradual increase of the productivity of labor, up to the point where the necessaries of life for all may be obtained almost without exertion. this is the prime merit of capitalism and its justification, that after so many centuries of hardly perceptible progress it taught man to conquer nature by a rapid assault. at the same time it set loose the forces of production and finally transformed and bared the springs of the productive process to such a degree that they easily could be perceived and grasped by the human mind; this was the indispensable condition for the control of this process. as never since the first advent of production of commodities there has been such a fundamental revolution, it must necessarily be accompanied by an equally fundamental spiritual revolution. this economic revolution is the conclusion of the long period of class antagonisms and of production of commodities; it carries with it the end of the dualist and supernatural thoughts arising from this source. the mystery of social processes passes away with this period, and the spiritual expression of these mysteries must necessarily disappear with it. the slow development of human thought from ignorance to an ever increased understanding thereby ends its first chapter. this signifies the completion and conclusion of philosophy, which is equivalent to saying that philosophy as such passes out of existence, while its place is taken by the science of the human mind, a part of natural science. a new system of production sheds its light into the minds of men already before it has fully materialized. the same science which teaches us to understand and thereby to control the social forces, also unfetters the mind from the bewitching effects of those forces. it enables him even now already to emancipate himself from traditional superstitions and ideas which were formerly the expression of things unknown. we may anticipate with our mind the coming time. and thus the ideas which will then dominate are already even now growing within us in a rudimentary form corresponding to the present actual economic development. by this means we are even now enabled to overcome the capitalist philosophy in thought and to soberly and clearly grasp the matter-dependent nature of our spirit. the completion and the end of philosophy need not wait for the realization of socialist production. the new understanding does not fall from heaven like a meteor. it develops with the social-economic development, first imperfectly and imperceptibly, in a few thinkers who most strongly feel the breath of the approaching time. with the growth of the science of sociology and with that of its practical application, the socialist labor movement, the new understanding simultaneously spreads and gains ground step by step, waging a relentless battle against the traditional ideas to which the ruling classes are clinging. this struggle is the mental companion of the social class struggle. ************ the methods of the new natural science had already been practiced for a few centuries before the new theory was formulated. it first found vent in the expression of surprise at the great confidence with which men assumed to predict certain phenomena and to point out their connections. our experience is limited to a few successive observations of the regularity or coincidence of events. but we attribute to natural laws, in which are expressed causal relations of phenomena, a general and necessary applicability which far exceeds our experience. the english thinker hume was the first who clearly expressed and formulated the question--since called the problem of causality--why men always act in this manner. but as he believed the reason for such action should be sought in the nature of experience alone, experience being the only source of knowledge, and as he did not further investigate the special and distinct part played by the nature of the human mind in this experiential connection, he could not find any satisfactory answer. kant, who made the first important step toward the solution of this question, had been trained in the school of rationalism which then dominated in germany and which represented an adaptation of mediæval scholasticism to the requirements of increased knowledge. starting from the thesis that things which are logical in the mind must be real in nature, the rationalists formulated by mere deduction general truths about god, infinity and immortality. under the influence of hume, kant became the critic of rationalism and thus the reformer of philosophy. the question, how it is that we have knowledge of generally applicable laws in which we have implicit confidence--such as mathematical theses, or the maxim that every change has a cause--was answered by kant in this way: experience and science are as much conditioned on properties inherent in the organization of our mind as on the impressions of the outer world. the former properties must necessarily be contained in all experience and science. therefore everything dependent on this common mental part of science must be perfectly certain and independent of special sense impressions. common to all experience, and inseparable from it, are the pure sense-conceptions (reine anschauungsformen), such as space and time, while the many experiences, in order to succeed in forming understanding and science, must be connected by the pure mind-conceptions (reine verstandesbegriffe), the so-called categories; among the latter also belongs causality. now kant explains the necessity and general applicability of the pure sense and mind conceptions by the fact that they arise from the organization of our mind. accordingly, the world appears to the senses as a succession of phenomena in time and space. our reason transforms these phenomena into things which are welded into one aggregate nature by laws of cause and effect. on the things as they really are in themselves, in the opinion of kant, these pure conceptions cannot be applied. we know nothing of them and can neither perceive nor reconstruct them by reason, because "in themselves" they are wholly beyond reason and knowledge. the result of this investigation, which was the first valuable contribution to a scientific theory of understanding and forms, from our standpoint, the most important part of kant's philosophy, served him mainly as a means of answering the following questions: what is the value of knowledge which exceeds experience? can we, by mere deduction through concepts which go beyond experience, arrive at truths? his answer was: no, and it was a crushing blow to rationalism. we cannot exceed the boundaries of experience. by experience alone can we arrive at science. all supposed knowledge about the unlimited and infinite, about concepts of pure reason, called ideas by kant, (as the soul, the world, and god) is nothing but illusions. the contradictions in which the human mind becomes involved whenever it applies the categories outside of experience to such subjects, are manifested in the fruitless strife between the philosophical systems. metaphysics as a science is impossible. this did not give the deathblow to rationalism alone, but also to bourgeois materialism which reigned among the french radical thinkers. kant's researches refuted the negative as well as the positive assertions anent the supernatural and infinite. this cleared the field for faith, for intuitive conviction. god, freedom and immortality are concepts the truth of which cannot be proved by reason, like the natural truths derived from experience. but nevertheless their reality is no less certain, only it is of a different nature, being subjective and, therefore, necessarily a matter of personal conviction. the freedom of the will, for instance, is not a knowledge gained by experience, because experience never teaches us anything but lack of freedom and dependence on the laws of nature. but nevertheless freedom of will is a necessary conviction of every one who feels it in the categorical imperative: thou shalt! of every one possessed by a sense of duty and of the knowledge that he can act accordingly: therefore freedom of will is unconditionally certain and requires no proof by experience. and from this premise there follows in same way the assurance of the immortality of the soul and of the existence of god. it gives the same kind of certainty to all ideas which were left in a state of uncertainty by the critique of pure reason. at the same time freedom of will determines the form of the theory of understanding. in the entire world of phenomena there was no room for freedom, for these phenomena follow strict rules of causality, as demanded by the organization of our mind. therefore it was necessary to make room for freedom of will somewhere else, and so "things in themselves," hitherto a phrase without value and meaning, assumed a higher importance. they were not bound to space, time or categories, they were free: they formed so to say a second world, the world of noumena, which stood behind the world of phenomena and which solved the contradiction between the lawful dependence of things in nature and between the personal conviction of freedom of will. these opinions and reasonings were fully in accord with the conditions of science and the economic development of kant's time. the field of nature was left entirely to the inductive method of science which based itself on strictly materialist experience and observation, classifying things systematically in their causal order and excluding all supernatural interference. but while faith was banished from the natural sciences forever, it could not be dispensed with. the ignorance as to the origin of the human will left room for a supernatural ethic. the attempts of the materialists to exclude the supernatural also from this field failed. the time had not come as yet for a materialist and natural ethics, for science was not yet able to demonstrate as an indisputable truth, founded on experience, in what manner ethical codes and moral ideas in general had a material origin. this state of things shows that the kantian philosophy is the purest expression of bourgeois thought, and this is still more emphasized by the fact that freedom is the center of his system and controls it. rising capitalism required freedom for the producers of commodities in order to expand its productive forces, it required freedom of competition and freedom of unlimited exploitation. the producers of commodities should be free from all fetters and restrictions, and unhampered by any coercion, in order that they could go, under the sole direction of their own intelligence, into free competition with their fellow citizens. for this reason, freedom became the slogan of the young bourgeoisie aspiring to political power, and kant's doctrine of the free will, the basis of his ethics, was the echo of the approaching french revolution. but freedom was not absolute; it was to be dependent on the moral law. it was not to be used in the quest for happiness, but in accord with the moral law, in the service of duty. if the bourgeois society was to exist, the private interest of the individual must not be paramount, the welfare of the entire class had to be superior to that of the individual, and the commandments of this class had to be recognized as moral laws taking precedence over the quest for happiness. but for this very reason, these moral laws could never be fully obeyed, and every one found himself compelled to violate them in his own interest. hence the moral law existed only as a code which could never be fulfilled. and so it stood outside of experience. in kant's ethics the internal antagonism of bourgeois society is reflected, that antagonism which is the compelling force of the ever increasing economic development. the foundation of this antagonism is the antagonism, already mentioned, between the individual and social character of production that gives rise to omnipotent, but unconceived social forces ruling the destiny of man. in capitalistic production it is still intensified by the antithesis of the wealthy ruling class and the poor producing class that is continuously augmented by those who are expropriated by competition. this antagonism gives rise to the contradiction between the aims of men and the results achieved, between the desire of happiness and the misery of the great mass. it is the basis of the contradiction between virtue and vice, between freedom and dependence, between faith and science, between phenomenon and "thing itself." it is at the bottom of all contradictions and of the entire pronounced dualism of the kantian philosophy. these contradictions are to blame for the downfall of the system, and the work of disintegration was unavoidable from the moment that the contradictions of the bourgeois production became apparent, that is to say immediately after the political victory of the bourgeoisie. the system of kant could, however, not be overcome, unless the material origin of morality could be uncovered. then these contradictions could be understood and solved by showing that they were relative and not absolute as they appeared. and not until then could a materialist ethics, a science of morality, drive faith from its last retreat. this was at last accomplished by the discovery of social class struggles and of the nature of capitalist production, by the pioneer work of karl marx. the practice of developed capitalism about the middle of the th century directly challenged proletarian thinkers to criticise kant's doctrine of practical reason. bourgeois ethics and freedom manifested themselves in the form of freedom of exploitation in the interest of the bourgeoisie, as slavery for the working class. the maintenance of human dignity appeared in reality as the brutalization and degradation of the proletarians, and the state founded on justice proved to be nothing but the class state of the bourgeoisie. and so it was seen that kant's sublime ethics, instead of being the basis in all eternity of human activity in general, was merely the expression of the narrow class interests of the bourgeoisie. this proletarian criticism was the first material for a general theory, and once it had been stated, its correctness was demonstrated more and more by the study of previous historical events, and these events were thereby shown in their proper light. it was then understood by this theory that the social classes, distinguished by their position in the process of production, had different and antagonistic economic interests, and that each class did necessarily regard its own interest as good and sacred. these general class interests were not recognized in their true character but appeared to men in the guise of superior moral motives; in this form they crowded the special individual interests into the background, and since the class interests were generally felt, all the members of the same class recognized them. moreover, a ruling class could temporarily compel a defeated or suppressed class to recognize the class interests of the rulers as a moral law, so long as the inevitability of the mode of production in which that class ruled was acknowledged. owing to the fact that the nature and significance of the productive process was not understood, the origin of human motives could not be discovered. they were not traced back to experience, but simply felt directly and intuitively. and consequently they were thought to be of a supernatural origin and eternal duration. not only the moral codes, but also other products of the human mind, such as religion, science, arts, philosophy, were then understood to be intimately connected with the actual material conditions of society. the human mind is influenced in all its products by the entire world outside of it. and thus the mind is seen to be a part of nature, and the science of the mind becomes a natural science. the impressions of the outer world determine the experience of man, his wants determine his will, and his general wants his moral will. the world around him determines man's wants and impressions, but these, on the other hand, determine his will and activity by which he changes the world; this will-directed activity appears in the process of social production. in this manner man by his work is a part, a link in the great chain of natural and social development. this conception overturns the foundations of philosophy. since the human mind is seen now to be a part of nature and interacts with the rest of the world according to laws which are more or less known, it is classed among kant's phenomena. there is no longer any need of talking about noumena. thus they do not longer exist for us. philosophy then reduces itself to the theory of experience, to the science of the human mind. it is at this point that the beginning made by kant had to be farther developed. kant had always separated mind and nature very sharply. but the understanding that this separation should only be made temporarily for the purpose of better investigation, and that there is no absolute difference between matter and mind made it possible to advance the science of thought processes. however, this could be accomplished only by a thinker who had fully digested the teachings of socialism. this problem was solved by joseph dietzgen in his work on "the nature of human brain work," the first edition of which appeared in , and by this work he won for himself the name of philosopher of the proletariat. this problem could be solved only by the help of the dialectic method. therefore, the idealist philosophical systems from kant to hegel which consist chiefly in the development of the dialectic method, must be regarded as the indispensable pioneers and precursors of dietzgen's proletarian philosophy. ************ the philosophy of kant necessarily broke down on account of its dualism. it had shown that there is safety only in finite and material experience, and that the mind becomes involved in contradictions whenever it ventures beyond that line. the mind's reason calls for absolute truth which cannot be gotten. hence the mind is groping in the dark and critique may perhaps explain why it is in the dark, but it cannot show the way out. what is called with kant dialectics is in reality resignation. true, the mind finds knowledge about things outside of experience by some other way, viz., by means of its moral consciousness, but this intuitive knowledge in the form of faith remains sharply separated from scientific understanding. it was the task of the philosophical development immediately after kant, to do away with this sharp separation, this unreconciled contradiction. this development ended with hegel; its result was the understanding that contradiction is the true nature of everything. but this contradiction cannot be left to stand undisturbed, it must be solved and still retained in a higher form, and thus be reconciled. therefore the world of phenomena cannot be understood as being at rest. it can be understood only as a thing in motion, as activity, as a continuous change. action is always the reconciliation of contradiction in some higher form, and contradiction appears in this way as the lever of progressive development. that which accomplishes this dialectic self-development does not appear in the idealistic systems as the material world itself, but as the spiritual, the idea. in hegel's philosophy, this conception assumes the form of a comprehensive system outlining the self-development of the absolute which is spiritual and is identical with god. the development of this absolute takes place in three stages; in its primitive pure spiritual form it develops out of its undifferentiated being the conceptions of logic; then it expresses itself in another, an external form, opposite to itself, as nature. in nature all forms develop by way of contradictions which are eliminated by the development of some higher form. finally the absolute awakens to consciousness in nature in the form of the human mind and reaches thus its third stage, at which the opposite elements, matter and spirit, are reconciled into a unity. the human mind evolves in the same way to ever higher stages, until it arrives, at the end of its development by understanding itself, that is to say, by knowing intuitively the absolute. this is what happens unconsciously in religion. religion, which in the form of faith must be satisfied with a modest corner in the system of kant, appears in the system of hegel very proudly as a higher sort of understanding superior to all other knowledge, as an intuitive knowledge of absolute truth (god). in philosophy this is done consciously. and the historical development which finds its conclusion and climax in the hegelian philosophy corresponds to the logical development of the human mind. thus hegel unites all sciences and all parts of the world into one masterly system in which the revolutionary dialectics, the theory of evolution, that considers all finite things as perishable and transitory, is given a conservative conclusion by putting an end to all further development when the absolute truth is reached. all the knowledge of that period was assigned to its place somewhere in this system, on one of the steps of the dialectic development. many of the conceptions of the natural sciences of that day, which later on were found to be erroneous, are there presented as necessary truths resting on deduction, not on experience. this could give the impression that the hegelian philosophy made empirical research superfluous as a source of concrete truths. this appearance is to blame for the slight recognition of hegel among naturalists; in natural sciences, this philosophy therefore has won much less importance than it deserved and than it might have won, if its actual significance, which consists in the harmonious connection between widely separated events and sciences, had been better understood under its deceptive guise. on the abstract sciences the influence of hegel was greater, and here he held an exceptionally prominent position in the scientific world of that time. on one hand, his conception of history as a progressive evolution in which every imperfect previous condition is regarded as a necessary phase and preparation for subsequent conditions and thus appears natural and reasonable, was a great gain for science. on the other hand, his statements on the philosophy of law and religion met the requirements and conceptions of his time. in his philosophy of law, the human mind is taken in that stage in which it steps into reality, having as its principal characteristic a free will. it is first considered as a single individual which finds its freedom incorporated in its property. this personality enters into relations with others like it. its freedom of will is thereby expressed in moral laws. by combining all individuals into one aggregate whole, their contradictory relations are merged into the social units, viz., the family, the bourgeois society (bürgerliche gesellschaft) and the state. there the moral rules are carried from the inner to the outer reality. as the expressions of a superior, common and more general will, they stand forth in the generally accepted moral codes, in the natural laws of bourgeois society and in the authoritative laws of the state. in the state, the highest form of which is the monarchy, the mind finds itself at its highest stage of objective realization as the idea of the state. the reactionary character of hegelian philosophy is not merely a superficial appearance that rests on the glorification of state and royalty, thanks to which this philosophy was raised to the position of prussian state philosophy after the restauration. it was in its very essence a product of reaction which in those days represented the only possible advance after the revolution. this reaction was the first practical critique of bourgeois society. after this society had been firmly established, the relative amenities of the old time appeared in a better light, because the shortcomings of the new society made themselves soon felt. the bourgeoisie had recoiled before the consequences of its revolution, when it recognized that the proletariat was its barrier. it arrested the revolution as soon as its bourgeois aims had been accomplished, and it was willing to acknowledge again the mastery of the feudal state and monarchy, provided they would protect it and serve its interests. the feudal powers that previously had been overcome by the weight of their own sins and by the unconditional superiority of the new social order, again lifted their heads when the new order in its turn gave cause for well founded criticisms. but they could not keep the revolution in check, unless they recognized it in a limited degree. they could once more rule over the bourgeoisie, provided they compromised with it so far as it was inevitable. they could no longer prevail against capitalism, but they could govern for it. thus, by their rule, the imperfectness of capitalism was revealed. the theory of restauration, therefore, had to consist first of all of a thorough critique of the revolutionary bourgeois philosophy. but this philosophy could not be thrown aside entirely. so far as a critique of the old order was concerned, the truth of bourgeois philosophy had to be admitted. on the other hand, the sharp distinction it made between the falsity of the old and the truth of the new order was found to be beside the mark. so the correctness of the bourgeois philosophy itself proved to be relative and limited, like that of a herald of some higher truth which in its turn would acknowledge that which was temporarily and partially true in its vanquished precursor. in this way the contradictions became moments in the evolution of absolute truth, in this way, furthermore, the dialectics became the main feature and method of post-kantian philosophy; and in this way, finally, the theorists of the reaction were the men who steered philosophy over new courses and who thereby became the harbingers of socialism. scepticism and a critique of all traditional things, yet a careful protection of endangered faith, had characterized the tendencies of bourgeois thought during its revolutionary period. in the reactionary stage, the bourgeois implicitly accepted the belief in absolute truth and cultivated a self-righteous faith. the practice of metternich and of the holy alliance corresponded to the theory of hegelian philosophy. the practice of the prussian police state, which embodied the shortcomings of capitalism without its advantages and thus represented a higher degree of reaction, destroyed the hegelian philosophy, as soon as the practices of maturing capitalism began to rebel against the fetters by which reaction endeavored to bind it. feuerbach returned in his critique of religion from the fantastical heights of abstraction to physical man. marx demonstrated that the reality of bourgeois society expresses itself in its class antagonisms which herald its imperfectness and approaching downfall, and he discovered that the actual historical development rested on the development of the process of material production. the absolute spirit that was supposed to be embodied in the constitution of the despotic state before the march revolution now revealed itself as the narrow bourgeois spirit which regards bourgeois society as the final aim of all historical development. the hegelian statement that all finite things carry within themselves the germ of their own dissolution came home to his own philosophy, as soon as its finiteness and limitations had been grasped. its conservative form was abandoned, but its revolutionary content, the dialectics, was preserved. the hegelian philosophy was finally superseded by dialectic materialism which declares that absolute truth is realized only in the infinite progress of society and of scientific understanding. this does not imply a wholesale rejection of hegelian philosophy. it merely means that the relative validity of that philosophy has been recognized. the vicissitudes of the absolute spirit in the course of its self-development are but a fantastical description of the process which the real human mind experiences in its acquaintance with the world and its active participation in life. instead of the evolution of the absolute idea, the dialectics henceforth becomes the sole correct method of thought to be employed by the real human mind in the study of the actual world and for the purpose of understanding social development. the great and lasting importance of hegel's philosophy, even for our own time, is that it is an excellent theory of the human mind and of its working methods, provided we strip off its transcendental character, and that it far excels the first laborious contributions of kant to the theory of understanding. but this quality of the hegelian philosophy could not be appreciated, until dietzgen had created the basis for a dialectic and materialistic theory of understanding. the indispensable character of dialectic thought, which is illustrated by the monumental works of marx and engels, has been first demonstrated in a perfectly convincing manner by dietzgen's critical analysis of the human force of thinking. it was only by means of this method of thought--of which he was according to engels' testimony an independent discoverer--that he could succeed in completing the theory of understanding and bringing it to a close for the time being. ************ if we refer to the ideas laid down by dietzgen in this work as "his philosophy," we say too much, because it does not assume to be a new system of philosophy. yet, on the other hand, we should not say enough, because it would mean that his work is as passing as the systems before it. it is the merit of dietzgen to have raised philosophy to the position of a natural science, the same as marx did with history. the human faculty of thought is thereby stripped of its fantastic garb. it is regarded as a part of nature, and by means of experience a progressive understanding of its concrete and ever changing historical nature must be gained. dietzgen's work refers to itself as a finite and temporary realization of this aim, just as every new theory in natural science is a finite and temporary realization of its aims. this realization must be further improved and perfected by successive investigations. this is the method of natural science; philosophical systems, on the contrary, pretended to give absolute truth, that could not be improved upon. dietzgen's work is fundamentally different from these former philosophies, and more than they, because it wishes to be less. it presents itself as the positive outcome of philosophy toward which all great thinkers have contributed, seen by the sober eyes of a socialist and analyzed, recounted and further developed by him. at the same time, it attributes to previous systems the same character of partial truths and shows that they were not entirely useless speculations, but ascending stages of understanding naturally related, which contain ever more truth and ever less error. hegel had likewise entertained this broader view, but with him this development came to a self-contradictory end in his own system. dietzgen also calls his own conception the highest then existing, and its distinctive step in the evolution is that it for the first time adopts and professes this natural and scientific view, instead of the supernatural point of view of the former systems. the new understanding that the human mind is a common and natural thing is a decisive step in the progressive investigation of the mind, and this step places dietzgen at the head of this evolution. and it is a step which cannot be retraced, because it signifies a sober awakening after centuries of vain imaginings. since this system does not pretend to be absolute truth, but rather a finite and temporal one, it cannot fall as its predecessors did. it represents a scientific continuation of former philosophies, just as astronomy is the continuation of astrology and of the pythagorean fantasies, and chemistry the continuation of alchemy. it takes the place that formerly was held by its unscientific predecessors and has this in common with them, apart from its essential theory of understanding, that it is the basis of a new world-philosophy, of a methodical conception of the universe. this modern world-philosophy (weltanschauung), being a socialist or proletarian one, takes issue with the bourgeois conceptions; it was first conceived as a new view of the world, entirely opposite to the ruling bourgeois conceptions, by marx and engels, who developed its sociological and historical contents; its philosophical basis is here developed by dietzgen; its real character is indicated by the terms dialectic and materialist. by its core, historical materialism, it gains a wholly new theory of social evolution that forms its chief content. this theory was for the first time sketched in its main outlines in the communist manifesto, and later on fully developed in a number of other works and thoroughly vindicated by innumerable facts. it gives us the scientific assurance that the misery and imperfectness of present society, which bourgeois philosophy regards as inevitable and natural, is but a transitory condition, and that man will within measurable time emancipate himself from the slavery of his material wants by the regulation of social production. by this certainty socialism is put on an eminence so far above all bourgeois conceptions that these appear barbarous in comparison with it. and what is more significant, our world-philosophy may justly claim to have for the first time thrown the light of an indisputable science on society and man; combined with the maturest products of natural sciences it forms a complete science of the world, making all superstitions superfluous, and thus involving the theoretical emancipation, that is to say the emancipation of the mind. the science treating of the human mind forms the essence and foundation of this theory of society and man, not only because it gives us the same as the natural sciences a scientific or experience-proven theory of the function of human thinking, but also, because this theory of cognition can alone assure us that such sciences are able to furnish us an adequate picture of the world, and that anything outside of them is mere fantasy. for this reason we owe to dietzgen's theory of cognition the firm foundation of our world-philosophy. its character is primarily materialistic. in contradistinction to the idealist systems of the most flourishing time of german philosophy which considered the mind as the basis of all existence, it starts from concrete materialist being. not that it regards mere physical matter as its basis; it is rather opposed to the crude bourgeois materialism, and matter to it means everything which exists and furnishes material for thought, including thoughts and imaginations. its foundation is the unity of all concrete being. thus it assigns to the human mind an equal place among the other parts of the universe; it shows that the mind is as closely connected with all the other parts of the universe as those parts are among themselves; that is to say, the mind exists only as a part of the entire universe so that its content is only the effect of the other parts. thus our philosophy forms the theoretical basis of historical materialism. while the statement that "the consciousness of man is determined by his social life" could hitherto at best be regarded as a generalization of many historical facts and thus seemed imperfect and open to criticism, capable of improvement by later discoveries, the same as all other scientific theories, henceforth the complete dependence of the mind on the rest of the world becomes as impregnable and immutable a requirement of thought as causality. this signifies the thorough refutation of the belief in miracles. after having been banished long ago from the field of natural science, miracles were now banished from the domain of thought. the enlightening effect of this proletarian philosophy consists furthermore in its opposition to all superstition and its demonstration of the senselessness of all idol worship. socialist understanding accomplished something which the bourgeois reformers could not do, because they were limited to natural science in a narrow sense and could not solve the mystery of the mind; for in explaining all the mental, spiritual phenomena as natural phenomena our proletarian philosophy furnishes the means for a trenchant critique of christian faith which consists in the belief in a supernatural spiritual being. in his dialectic discussions of mind and matter, finiteness and infinity, god and the world, dietzgen has thoroughly clarified the confused mystery which surrounded these conceptions and has definitely refuted all transcendental beliefs. and this critique is no less destructive for the bourgeois idols: freedom, right, spirit, force, which are shown to be but fantastic images of abstract conceptions with a limited validity. this could be accomplished in no other way than by simultaneously determining, in its capacity as a theory of understanding, the relation of the world around us to the image which our mind forms of it. in this respect dietzgen completed the work begun by hume and kant. as a theory of understanding, his conceptions are not only the philosophical basis of historical materialism, but also of all other sciences as well. the thorough critique directed by dietzgen against the works of prominent natural scientists, shows that he was well aware of the importance of his own work. but, as might be expected, the voice of a socialist artisan did not penetrate to the lecture hall of the academies. it was not until much later that similar views appeared among the natural scientists. and now at last the most prominent theorists of natural science have adopted the view that explaining signifies nothing else but simply and completely describing the processes of nature. by this theory of understanding dietzgen has made it plainly perceptible why the dialectic method is an indispensable auxiliary in the quest for an explanation of the nature of understanding. the mind is the faculty of generalization. it forms out of concrete realities, which are a continuous and unbounded stream in perpetual motion, abstract conceptions that are essentially rigid, bounded, stable, and unchangeable. this gives rise to the contradiction that our conceptions must always adapt themselves to new realities without ever fully succeeding; the contradiction that they represent the living by what is dead, the infinite by what is finite, and that they are themselves finite though partaking of the nature of the infinite. this contradiction is understood and reconciled by the insight into the nature of the faculty of understanding, which is simultaneously a faculty of combination and of distinction, which forms a limited part of the universe and yet encompasses everything, and it is furthermore solved by the resulting penetration of the nature of the world. the world is a unity of the infinitely numerous multitude of phenomena and comprises within itself all contradictions, makes them relative and equalizes them. within its circle there are no absolute opposites. the mind merely constructs them, because it has not only the faculty of generalization but also of distinguishing. the practical solution of all contradictions is the revolutionary practice of infinitely progressing science which moulds old conceptions into new ones, rejects some, substitutes others in their place, improves, connects and dissects, still striving for an always greater unity and an always wider differentiation. by means of this theory of understanding, dialectic materialism also furnishes the means for the solution of the riddles of the world (welträtsel). not that it solves all these riddles; on the contrary, it says explicitly that this solution can be but the work of an ever advancing scientific research. but it solves them in so far as it deprives them of the character of a mysterious enigma and transforms them into a practical problem, the solution of which we are approaching by an infinite progression. bourgeois thought cannot solve the riddles of the world. a few years after the first publication of dietzgen's work, natural science in the person of du bois-reymond acknowledged its incapacity by his "ignorabimus:" "we shall never know." proletarian philosophy, in solving the riddle of the human mind, gives us the assurance that there are no insoluble riddles before us. in conclusion, dietzgen in this work indicates the principles of a new ethics. starting with the understanding that the origin of the ideas of good and bad is found in the needs of man, and designating as really moral that which is generally useful, he logically discovers that the essence of modern morality rests in its class interests. at the same time, a relative justification is accorded to these temporary ethics, since they are the necessary products of definite social requirements. the link between man and nature is formed by the process of social production carried on for the satisfaction of man's material wants. so long as this link was a fetter, it bound man by a misapprehended supernatural ethics. but once the process of social labor is understood, regulated and controlled, then this fetter is dropped and the place of ethics is taken by a reasonable understanding of the general wants. ************ the philosophical works of dietzgen do not seem to have, until now, exerted any perceptible influence on the socialist movement. while they may have found many a silent admirer and contributed much toward a clearing up of their thoughts, yet the importance of his writings for the theory of our movement has not been realized. but this is not a matter for great surprise. in the first decade after their publication, even the economic works of marx, the value of which was much more apparent, were little appreciated. the movement developed spontaneously, and the marxian theory could exert a useful and determining influence only by means of the clear foresight of a few leaders. hence it is no wonder that the philosophy of the proletariat, which is less easily and directly applicable than our economics, did not receive much attention. the political maturity of the german working class, which was farthest advanced in the theories of the international movement, did not develop to the point of adopting marxian theses as party principles, until after the abolition of the anti-socialist laws. but even then they were for most of the spokesmen of the party rather concise formulations of a few practical convictions than the outcome of a thorough scientific training and understanding. it was no doubt the great expansion of the party and of its activity which demanded all their powers for its organization and management, that led the younger intellectuals of the party to devote themselves to practical work and to neglect the theoretical studies. this neglect has bitterly avenged itself in the theoretical schisms of the subsequent years. the decrepit condition of capitalism is now evidenced very plainly by the decay of the bourgeois parties, so that the practical work of the socialist party is in itself sufficient to attract every one who has an independent turn of mind and a capacity for deep feeling. but under the present circumstances, such a transition was not accompanied by a proletarian world-philosophy acquired by painstaking study. instead of such a philosophy, we are confronted by a critique of socialist science from the bourgeois standpoint. marxism is measured by the standard of the immature bourgeois theory of understanding, and the neokantians, unconscious of the positive outcome of philosophy of the past century, are trying to connect socialism with kantian ethics. some even speak of a reconciliation with christianity and a renunciation of materialism. this bourgeois method of thought, which, being anti-dialectic and anti-materialistic, is opposed to marxism, has acquired some practical importance in the socialistic movement of countries where by lack of economical development the class-consciousness of the workers is hindered by relics of the narrow-minded views of the class of little producers--as in france and italy under the name of reformism. in germany where it could not obtain much practical importance it presented itself mostly as a theoretical struggle against marxism under the name of revisionism. it combines bourgeois philosophy and anti-capitalist disposition and takes the place formerly occupied by anarchism, and, like anarchism, it again represents in many respects the little bourgeois tendencies in the fight against capitalism. under these circumstances, a closer study of dietzgen's philosophical works becomes a necessity. marx has disclosed the nature of the social process of production, and its fundamental significance as a lever of social development. but he has not fully explained, by what means the nature of the human mind is involved in this material process. owing to the great traditional influence exerted by bourgeois thought, this weak spot in marxism is one of the main reasons for the incomplete and erroneous understanding of marxian theories. this shortcoming of marxism is cured by dietzgen, who made the nature of the mind the special object of his investigations. for this reason, a thorough study of dietzgen's philosophical writings is an important and indispensable auxiliary for the understanding of the fundamental works of marx and engels. dietzgen's work demonstrates that the proletariat has a mighty weapon not only in proletarian economics, but also in proletarian philosophy. let us learn to wield these weapons! anton pannekoek. leyden, holland, december, . the nature of human brain work a renewed critique of pure and practical reason by a manual worker translated by ernest untermann the nature of human brain work preface it may not be amiss here to say a few words to the kind reader and the unkind critic in regard to the personal relation of the author to the present work. the first objection which i anticipate will be aimed at my lack of scientific learning which is shown indirectly rather, between the lines, than in the work itself. "how dare you," i ask myself, "come before the public with your statements on a subject, which has been treated by such heroes of science as aristotle, kant, fichte, hegel, etc., without being thoroughly familiar with all the works of your famous predecessors?" at best, will you not merely repeat what has long since been accomplished? in reply, i wish to say that the seeds sown by philosophy in the soil of science have long since blossomed and borne fruit. the product of history develops historically, grows and passes away, in order to live eternally in another form. the original deed, the original work, is fertile only in the contact with the conditions and relations of the time in which it is born. but it finally becomes an empty shell, when it has yielded its kernel to history. whatever of a positive nature was produced by the science of the past, lives no longer in the words of the author, but has become more than spirit, has become flesh and blood in present science. in order, e. g., to know the products of physics and produce something new in its field, it is not necessary to first study the history of this science, nor derive the hitherto discovered laws from their fundamental source. on the contrary, historical research might only be an obstacle to the solution of a definite physical problem, for concentrated strength will naturally accomplish more than divided strength. in this sense, i consider my lack of other knowledge an advantage, because i am thus enabled to devote myself so much more intensely to my special object. i have striven hard to study this object and to learn everything which is known about it in my time. the history of philosophy has in a certain sense been repeated in the development of my individuality, since i speculated from my earliest youth on the means of satisfying my longing for a consistent and systematic conception of the world, and i believe i have finally found this satisfaction in the inductive understanding of the human faculty of thought. note that it is not the faculty of thought in its various manifestations, not the different forms of it, but its general form, its general nature, that satisfied me and that i propose to discuss. my object is then very plain and circumscribed, indeed it is so simple, that i had difficulties in showing its nature from different points of view and was compelled to resort to numerous repetitions. at the same time, the question concerning the nature of the mind is a popular one, which is not limited to professional philosophy, but concerns all sciences. and whatever the history of science has contributed towards the solution of this question, must be generally alive in the scientific conceptions of the present. i could well be satisfied with this source. i may, then, confess in spite of my authorship, that i am not a professor of philosophy, but a mechanic by profession. if any one should feel justified in telling me: "shoemaker, stick to your last!" i would reply to him with karl marx: "your non plus ultra professional wisdom became enormously foolish from the moment when the watchmaker watt invented the steam engine, the barber arkwright the loom, the jeweler fulton the steamship." without classing myself among these great men, i can strive to emulate them. besides, the nature of my object is especially pertinent to the class, a member of which i have the pleasure, if not the honor, of being. i treat in this work of the faculty of thought as the organ of the general. the oppressed fourth estate, the working class, is the true exponent of this organ, the ruling classes being prevented by their special class interests from recognizing the demands of general reason. our first consideration is, of course, the relation of our object to human conditions. however, so long as conditions are not equalized for men in general, but vitiated by class interests, our view of things is influenced by these class limitations. a truly objective understanding requires a subjective theoretical freedom. before copernicus saw the earth was moving and the sun stationary, he had to place himself outside of his terrestrial standpoint. the faculty of thought, having all relations for its object, must abstract from all of them in order to grasp its own real nature. since we can understand things only by means of thought, we must abstract from everything in order to understand thought in general. this task was too difficult, so long as man was bound to some limited class standpoint. not until historical development has proceeded to the point of striving at dissolution of the last society based on a ruling and a serving class, can prejudices be overcome to the extent of enabling the faculty of understanding to grasp the nature of human brain activity in the abstract. it is only a historical movement aiming at the direct and general liberty of the masses, the new era of the fourth estate based on much misunderstood premises, which can dispense with the spirit cult sufficiently to be enabled to expose the real author of every spook, the "pure" mind. the man of the fourth estate represents at last the "pure" man. his interests are no longer mere class interests, but mass interests, interests of humanity. this indicates that we are now approaching the end of a development in which the interests of the mass were dependent on the interests of a ruling class and in which humanity made progress not so much in spite of as by means of continuous oppression by jewish patriarchs, asiatic conquerors, antique slaveholders, feudal barons, guildmasters, modern capitalists and even capitalist cæsars. the class conditions of the past were inevitable in the general development. now this development has arrived at a point where the mass becomes conscious of itself. man has hitherto developed by class antagonism. by this means he has now arrived at the point where he wants to develop himself consciously. class antagonisms were _phenomena_ of humanity. the working class strives to abolish class antagonism in order that humanity itself may be a _truth_. just as the reformation was conditioned on the actual environment of the sixteenth century, so, like the discovery of the electric telegraph, the research of the theory of human understanding is based on the actual conditions of the nineteenth century. to this extent the contents of this little work are not an individual, but a historical product. in writing it, i feel myself, if i may use this mystic phrase, as a mere organ of the idea. only the form of presenting the subject is mine, and i beg the kind reader to judge it leniently. i ask that the reader may direct his or her silent or loud objections, not against the form, but against the substance of my remarks, not to cling to the letter, but to understand the spirit of my words. if i should not succeed in developing the idea, and if my voice should thus be drowned in the hubbub of our overstocked book market, i am nevertheless certain that the cause itself will find a more talented champion. joseph dietzgen, _tanner_. siegburg, may , . the nature of human brain work i. introduction systematization is the essence and the general expression of the aggregate activity of science. science seeks to classify and systematize the objects of the world for the understanding of our brain. the scientific understanding of a certain language, e. g., requires an orderly arrangement of that language in general categories and rules. the science of agriculture does not simply wish to produce a good crop of potatoes, but to find a system for the methods of cultivation and thus to furnish the knowledge by which success in cultivation can be determined beforehand. the practical result of all theory is to acquaint us with the system and method of its practice and thus to enable us to act in this world with a reasonable certainty of success. experience is, of course, an indispensable condition for this purpose; but it alone is not sufficient. only by means of empirically developed theories, by science, do we overcome the play of accident. science gives us the conscious domination over things and unconditional security in handling them. no one individual can know everything. the capacity of the individual brain is no more adequate for the knowledge of everything that is necessary than the skill and strength of the individual's hands are sufficient to produce all he needs. faith is indispensable to man, but only faith in that which others know, not in what they believe. science is as much a social matter as material production. "one for all and all for one." but just as there are some wants of the body which every one has to satisfy by himself, so every one has to know certain scientific facts which are not the prerogative of any special science. this is true of the faculty of human understanding. the knowledge and study of this theory cannot be left to any particular guild. lassalle justly says: "thinking itself has become a special trade in these days of division of labor, and it has fallen into the worst hands, those of our newspaper writers." he thus urges us not to acquiesce in this appropriation any longer, not to submit any more to the harangues of public opinion, but to resume thinking for ourselves. we may leave certain objects of scientific research to professionals, but general thought is a public matter which every one should be required to attend to himself. if we could place this general work of thinking on a scientific basis, if we could find a theory of general thought, if we were able to discover the means by which reason arrives at understanding, if we could develop a method by which truth is produced scientifically, then we should acquire for science in general and for our individual faculty of judgment the same certainty of success which we already possess in special fields of science. kant says: "if it is not possible to harmonize the various co-operators on the question of the means by which their common aim is to be accomplished, then we may safely infer that such a study is not yet on the secure road of science, but will continue to grope in the dark." now, if we take a look at the sciences, we find that there are many, especially among the natural sciences, which fulfill the requirements of kant, agreeing unanimously and consciously on certain empirical knowledge and building further understanding on that. "there we know," as liebig says, "what is to be called a certain fact, a conclusion, a rule, a law. we have touchstones for all this, and every one makes use of them before making known the fruits of his labors. the attempt to maintain any proposition by lawyer's tricks, or the intention to make others believe anything that cannot be proven, are immediately wrecked by the ethics of science." not so in other fields, where concrete and material things are left behind and abstract, so-called philosophical, matters are taken up, as, for instance, questions of general conceptions of the world and of life, of beginning and end, of the semblance and the essence of things, of cause and effect, of matter and force, of might and right, of wisdom of life, of morality, religion, and politics. here we find, instead of irrefutable proofs, mere "lawyer's tricks," an absence of reliable knowledge, a mere groping amid contradictory opinions. and it is precisely the prominent authorities of natural science who show by their disagreements on such matters that they are mere tyros in philosophy. it follows, then, that the socalled ethics of science, the touchstones of which the boast is made that they never fail in determining what is knowledge and what is mere conjecture, are based on a purely instinctive practice, not on a conscious theory of understanding. although our time excels in diligent scientific research, yet the numerous differences among scientists show that they are not capable of using their knowledge with a predetermined certainty of success. otherwise, how could misunderstandings arise? whoever understands understanding, cannot misunderstand. it is only the absolute accuracy of astronomical computations which entitles astronomy to the name of a science. a man who can figure is at least enabled to test whether his computation is right or wrong. in the same way, the general understanding of the process of thought must furnish us with the touchstone by which we can distinguish between understanding and misunderstanding, knowledge and conjecture, truth and error, by general and irrefutable rules. erring is human, but not scientific. science being a human matter, errors may exist eternally, but the understanding of the process of thought will enable us quite as well to prevent errors from being offered and accepted as scientific truths as an understanding of mathematics enables us to eliminate errors from our computations. it sounds paradoxical and yet it is true: whoever knows the general rule by which error may be distinguished from truth, and knows it as well as the rule in grammar by which a noun is distinguished from a verb, will be able to distinguish in both cases with equal certainty. scientists as well as scribes have ever embarrassed one another by the question: what is truth? this question has been an essential object of philosophy for thousands of years. this question, like philosophy itself, is finally settled by the understanding of the faculty of human thought. in other words, the question of what constitutes truth is identical with the question of the distinction between truth and error. philosophy is the science which has been engaged in solving this riddle, and the final solution of the riddle by the clear understanding of the process of thought also solves the question of the nature of philosophy. hence a short glance at the nature and development of philosophy may well serve as an introduction to our study. as the word philosophy is connected with various meanings, i state at the outset that i am referring only to socalled speculative philosophy. i dispense with frequent quotations and notes of the sources of my knowledge, as anything that i may say in this respect is so well established that we can afford to discard all scientific by-work. if we apply the above-named test of kant to speculative philosophy it appears to be more the playground of different opinions than of science. the philosophical celebrities and classic authorities are not even in accord on the question: what is philosophy and what is its aim? for this reason, and in order not to increase the difference by adding my own opinion, i regard everything as philosophy that calls itself by that name, and we select from the voluminous literature of philosophy that which is common and general in all philosophers, without taking any notice of their special peculiarities. by this empirical method we find first of all that philosophy is originally not a specialized science working with other sciences, but a generic name for all knowledge, the essence of all science, just as art is the essence of the various arts. whoever made knowledge, whoever made brain work his essential occupation, every thinker without regard to the contents of his thoughts, was originally a philosopher. but when with the progressive increase of human knowledge, the various departments detached themselves from the mother of all wisdom, especially since the origin of natural sciences, philosophy became known, not so much by its content as by its form. all other sciences are distinguished by their various objects, while philosophy is marked by its own method. of course, it also has its object and purpose. it desires to understand the universal whole, the cosmos. but it is not this object, this aim, by which philosophy is characterized; it is rather the manner in which this object is accomplished. all other sciences occupy themselves with special things, and if they consider the universe at all, they do so only in its bearing on the special objects of their study, the parts of which the universe is composed. alexander von humboldt says in his introduction to his "cosmos" that he is limiting himself to an empirical consideration, to a physical research, which seeks to elucidate the uniformity and unity by means of the great variety. and all inductive sciences arrive at general conclusions and conceptions only by way of their occupation with special and concrete things. for this reason they claim that their conclusions are based on facts. speculative philosophy proceeds by the opposite method. thought, the object of its study, may be some special question, yet it does not follow this up in the concrete. it rejects as fallacious the evidence of the senses, the physical experience gained by means of the eye and ear, hand and brain, and limits itself to "pure" and absolutely abstract thought, in order to understand thus by the unit of human reason the multiplicity of the universe. in seeking for an answer to the question: what is philosophy? which question we are specially discussing just now, speculative philosophy would not start out from its actual material form, from its wooden and pigskin volumes, from its great and small essays, in order to arrive at a conception of its object. on the contrary, the speculative philosopher turns to introspection and looks in the depths of his own mind for the true concept of philosophy. and by this standard he separates the impression of his senses into true or erroneous. this speculative method has hardly ever dealt in tangible things, unless we recognize this philosophical method in every unscientific concept of nature which populated the world with spooks. the rudiments of scientific speculation occasionally dealt with the course of the sun and the globe. but since inductive astronomy cultivates these fields with greater success, speculative philosophy limits itself entirely to abstract discussions. and in this line of research as well as in all others it is characterized by the production of its results out of the idea or the concept. for empirical science, for the inductive method, the multiplicity of experiences is the first basis, and thought the second. speculative philosophy, on the other hand, seeks to arrive at scientific truth without the help of experience. it rejects the socalled transient facts as a foundation of philosophical understanding, and declares that it should be absolute, exalted above time and space. speculative philosophy does not wish to be scientific physics, but metaphysics. it regards it as its task to find by "pure" reason, and without the assistance of experience, a system, a logic, or a theory of science, by which everything worth knowing is supposed to be reeled off logically and systematically, in about the same way in which we derive grammatically the various forms of a word from its root. but the physical sciences operate on the assumption that our faculty of understanding, to use a familiar illustration, resembles a piece of soft wax which receives impressions from outside, or a clean slate on which experience writes its lines. speculative philosophy, on the other hand, assumes that certain ideas are innate and may be dipped and produced from the depths of the mind by means of thought. the difference between speculative and inductive science is that between fantasy and sound common sense. the latter produces its ideas by means of the outer world, by the help of experience, while fantasy gets its product from the depth of the mind, out of itself. but this method of production is only seemingly one-sided. a thinker can no more think transcendental thoughts which are beyond the reach of experience, than a painter can invent transcendental pictures, transcendental forms. just as fantasy creates angels by a combination of man and bird, or mermaids by a composition of woman and fish, so all other products of fantasy, though seemingly derived out of itself, are in fact only arbitrarily arranged impressions of the outer world. reason operates with numbers and orders, time and measures, and other means of experience, while fantasy reproduces the experiences without regard to law and in an arbitrary form. the longing for knowledge has been the cause of speculative attempts to explain the phenomena of life and nature at a time when lack of experience and observation made inductive understanding impossible. experience was then supplemented by speculation. in later times, when experience had grown, previous speculation was generally recognized as erroneous. but it nevertheless required thousands of years of repeated disappointments on one side and numerous brilliant successes of the inductive method on the other, before these speculative hobbies came into disfavor. fantasy has certainly a positive power, and speculative intuition, derived from analogy, very often precedes empirical and inductive understanding. but we must remain aware of the fact that so much is assumption and so much actual scientific knowledge. conscious intuition stimulates scientific research, while pseudo-science closes the door to inductive research. the acquisition of the clear understanding of the distinction between speculation and knowledge is a historical process, the beginning and end of which coincides with the beginning and end of speculative philosophy. in ancient times, common sense operated in common with fantasy, the inductive with the speculative method. the discussion of their differences begins only with the understanding of the numerous disappointments caused by the still inexperienced judgment which have prevented an unobstructed view of the question up to modern times. but instead of attributing these disappointments to lack of understanding, they were charged to the account of the imperfection of the senses. the senses were called impostors and material phenomena untrue images. who has not heard the lament about the unreliability of the senses? the misunderstanding of nature and of its phenomena led to a serious rupture with sense perceptions. the philosophers had deceived themselves and thought they had been deceived by the senses. in their anger they turned disdainfully away from the world of sensations. with the same uncritical faith with which the semblance had hitherto been accepted as truth, now uncritical doubt rejected the truth of sensations altogether. research abandoned nature and experience, and began the work of speculative philosophy by "pure" thought. but no! science did not permit itself to be entirely led astray from the path of common sense, from the way of truth of sense perceptions. natural science soon stepped into the breach, and its brilliant successes gained for the inductive method the consciousness of its fertility, while on the other hand philosophy searched for a system by which all the great general truths might be opened up without specialized study, without sense perception and observation, by mere reason alone. now we have a more than sufficient quantity of such speculative systems. if we measure them with the aforementioned standard of unanimousness, we find that philosophy agrees only on its disagreements. in consequence, the history of speculative philosophy, unlike the history of other sciences, consists less of a gradual accumulation of knowledge, than of a series of unsuccessful attempts to solve the general riddles of nature and life by "pure" thought, without the help of the objects and experience of the outer world. the most daring attempt in this line, the most artificial structure of thought, was completed by hegel in the beginning of the nineteenth century. to use a common expression, he became as famous in the world of science as napoleon i did in the world of politics. but hegelian philosophy has not stood the test of time. haym, in his work entitled "hegel and his time," says of hegelian philosophy that "it was pushed aside by the progress of the world and by living history." the outcome of philosophy up to that time, then, was a declaration of its own impotence. nevertheless, we do not underestimate the fact that a work occupying the best brains for thousands of years surely contained some positive element. and in fact, speculative philosophy has a history, which is not merely a series of unsuccessful attempts, but also a living development. however, it is less the object of its study, less the logical world system, which developed, than its method. every positive science has a material object, a beginning in the outer world, a premise on which its understanding is based. every empirical science has for its fundament some material of the senses, some given object, on which its understanding is dependent, and thus it becomes "impure." speculative philosophy seeks a "pure, absolute," understanding. it wishes to understand by "pure" reason, without any material, without any experience. it takes its departure from the enthusiastic conviction of the superiority of understanding and knowledge over experience gained by sense perceptions. for this reason it wishes to leave experience entirely aside in favor of absolutely "pure" understanding. its object is truth; not concrete truth, not the truth of this or that thing, but truth in general, truth "in itself." the speculative systems seek after an absolute beginning, an indubitably self-supporting starting point, from which they may determine the absolutely indubitable. the speculative systems are thus by their own mentality perfectly complete and selfsufficient systems. every speculative system found its end in the subsequent knowledge that its totality, its selfsufficiency, its absoluteness, was imaginary, that it could be determined empirically and externally like all other knowledge, that it was not a philosophical system, but a relative and empirical attempt at understanding. speculation finally dissolved into the knowledge that understanding is by its very nature "impure," that the organ of philosophy, the faculty of understanding cannot begin its studies without a given point of departure, that science is not absolutely superior to experience, but only so far as it can organize numerous experiences. it followed from these premises that the object of philosophy can be a general and objective understanding, or "truth in itself," only in so far as understanding or truth in general can be derived from given concrete objects. in plain words, speculative philosophy was reduced to the unphilosophical science of the empirical faculty of understanding, to the critique of reason. modern conscious speculation takes its departure from the experienced difference between semblance and truth. it denies all sense phenomena in order to find truth by thinking, without being deceived by any semblance. the subsequent philosophers, however, found every time that the truths of their predecessors, gained by this method, were not what they pretended to be, but that their positive result consisted simply in having advanced the science of the thought process to a certain extent. by denying the actuality of the senses, by endeavoring to separate thought from all sense perceptions, by isolating it, so to say, from its sensory cover, speculative philosophy, more than any other science, laid bare the structure of the mind. the more this philosophy advanced in time, the more it developed in its historical course, the more classically and strikingly did this kernel of its work spring into view. after the repeated creation of giant fantasmagorias, it found its solution in the positive knowledge that socalled pure philosophical thought, abstracting from all concrete contents, is nothing but thoughtless thought, thought without any real object back of it, and produces mere fantasmagorias. this process of speculative deception and scientific exposure was continued up to recent times. finally the solution of the main question, and the solution of speculation, was introduced with the following words of feuerbach: "my philosophy is no philosophy." the long story of speculative work was finally reduced to the understanding of reason, of the intellect, the mind, to the exposure of those mysterious operations which we call thinking. the secret of the processes by which the truths of understanding are produced, the ignorance of the fact that every thought requires an object, a premise, was the cause of the idle speculative wanderings which we find registered in the history of philosophy. the same secret is today the cause of those numerous speculative mistakes which we observe in passing over the words and works of naturalists. their knowledge and understanding is far developed, but only so far as it refers to tangible objects. the moment they touch upon abstract discussions, they offer "lawyers' proofs" in place of "objective facts." for although they know intuitively and in a concrete case that this is a truth, that a conclusion, and that a rule, they do not apply this knowledge in general with consciousness and theoretical consistency. the successes of natural science have taught them to operate the instrument of thought, the mind, instinctively. but they lack the systematic understanding which operates with conscious and predetermined certainty. they ignore the outcome of speculative philosophy. it will be our task to set forth in a short summary what speculative philosophy has unconsciously produced of a positive nature by a tedious process, in other words, to explain the general nature of the thought process. we shall see that the understanding of this process will furnish us with the means of solving scientifically the general riddles of nature and of life. and thus we shall learn how that fundamental and systematic world conception is developed which was the long coveted goal of speculative philosophy. ii pure reason or the faculty of thought in general when speaking of food in general, we may mention fruits, cereals, vegetables, meat and bread and classify them all, in spite of their difference, under this one head. in the same way, we use, in this work, the terms reason, consciousness, intellect, knowledge, discernment, understanding, as referring to the same general thing. for we are discussing the general nature of the thought process rather than its special forms. "no intelligent thinker of our day," says a modern physiologist, "pretends to look for the seat of the intellectual powers in the blood, as did the ancient greeks, or in the pineal gland, as was the case in the middle ages. instead we have all become convinced that the central nerve system is the organic center of the intellectual functions of the brain." yes, true enough, thinking is a function of the brain and nerve center, just as writing is a function of the hand. but the study of the anatomy of the hand can no more solve the question: what is writing? than the physiological study of the brain can bring us nearer to the solution of the question: what is thought? with the dissecting knife, we may kill, but we cannot discover the mind. the understanding that thought is a product of the brain takes us closer to the solution of our problem, in as much as it draws it into the bright light of reality and out of the domain of fantasy in which the ghosts dwell. mind thereby loses the character of a transcendental incomprehensible being and appears as a bodily function. thinking is a function of the brain just as walking is a function of the legs. we perceive thought and mind just as clearly with our senses as we do pain and other feelings. thought is felt by us as a subjective process taking place inside of us. according to its contents this process varies every moment and with each person, but according to its form it is the same everywhere. in other words, in the thought process, as in all processes, we make a distinction between the special or concrete and the general or abstract. the general purpose of thought is understanding. we shall see later that the simplest conception, or any idea for that matter, is of the same general nature as the most perfect understanding. thought and understanding cannot be without subjective contents any more than without an object which suggests individual reflection. thought is work, and like every other work it requires an object to which it is applied. the statements: i do, i work, i think, must be completed by an answer to the question: what are you doing, working, thinking? every definite idea, all actual thought, is identical with its content, but not with its object. my desk as a picture in my mind is identical with my idea of it. but my desk outside of my brain is a separate object and distinct from my idea. the idea is to be distinguished from thinking only as a part of the thought process, while the object of my thought exists as a separate entity. we make a distinction between thinking and being. we distinguish between the object of sense perception and its mental image. nevertheless the intangible idea is also material and real. i perceive my idea of a desk just as plainly as the desk itself. true, if i choose to call only tangible things material, then ideas are not material. but in that case the scent of a rose and the heat of a stove are not material. it would be better to call thoughts sense perceptions. but if it is objected that this would be an incorrect use of the word, because language distinguishes material and mental things, then we dispense with the word material and call thought real. mind is as real as the tangible table, as the visible light, as the audible sound. while the idea of these things is different from the things themselves, yet it has that in common with them that it is as real as they. mind is not any more different from a table, a light, a sound, than these things differ among themselves. we do not deny that there is a difference. we merely emphasize that they have the same general nature in common. i hope the reader will not misunderstand me henceforth, when i call the faculty of thought a material quality, a phenomenon of sense perception. every perception of the senses is based on some object. in order that heat may be real, there must be an object, something else which is heated. the active cannot exist without the passive. the visible cannot exist without the faculty of sight, nor the faculty of sight without visible things. so is the faculty of thought a phenomenon, but it can never exist in itself, it must always be based on some sense perception. thought appears, like all other phenomena, in connection with an object. the function of the brain is no more a "pure" process than the function of the eye, the scent of a flower, the heat of a stove, or the touch of a table. the fact that a table may be seen, heard, or felt, is due as much to its own nature as to that of another object with which it enters into some relation. but while each function is limited by its own separate line of objects, while the function of the eye serves only for the perception of the visible, the hand for the tangible, while walking finds an object in the space it crosses, thought, on the other hand, has everything for its object. everything may be the object of understanding. thought is not limited to any special object. every phenomenon may be the object and the content of thought. more than this, we can only perceive anything when it becomes the object of our brain activity. everything is therefore the object and content of thought. the faculty of thought may be exerted quite generally on all objects. we said a moment ago that everything may be perceived, but we now modify this to the effect that only perceivable things may be perceived. only the knowable can be the object of knowledge, only the thinkable the object of thought. to this extent the faculty of thought is limited, for it cannot replace reading, hearing, feeling, and all other innumerable activities of the world of sensations. we do, indeed, perceive all objects, but no object may be exhaustively perceived, known, or understood. in other words, the objects are not wholly dissolved in the understanding. seeing requires something that is visible, something which is, therefore, more than seeing. in the same way, hearing requires something that can be heard, thinking an object that can be thought of, something which is more than our thoughts, something still outside of our consciousness. we shall learn later on how we arrive at the knowledge that we see, hear, feel, and think of objects, and not merely of subjective impressions. by means of thought we become aware of all things in a twofold manner, viz., outside in reality and inside in thought, in conception. it is easy to demonstrate that the things outside are different from the things in our thoughts. in their actual form, in their real dimensions, they cannot enter into our heads. our brain does not assimilate the things themselves, but only their images, their general outlines. the imagined tree is only a general object. the real tree is different from any other. and though i may have a picture of some special tree in my head, yet the real tree is still as different from its conception as the special is different from the general. the infinite variety of things, the innumerable wealth of their properties, has no room in our heads. i repeat, then, that we become aware of the outer world in a twofold way, viz., in a concrete, tangible, manifold form, and in an abstract form, which is mental and unitary. to our senses the world appears as a variety of forms. our brains combine them as a unit. and what is true of the world, holds good of every one of its parts. a sense-perceived unit is a nonentity. even the atom of a drop of water or the atom of any chemical element, is divisible, so long as it exists at all, and its parts are different and distinct. a is not b. but the concept, the faculty of thought, makes of every tangible or sense-perceived part an abstract whole and conceives of every whole or quantity as a part of the abstract world unit. in order to understand the things in their entirety, we must take them practically and theoretically, with body and mind. with the body we can grasp only the bodily, the tangible, with the mind only the mental, the thinkable. things also possess mental quality. mind is material and things are mental. mind and matter are real only in their inter-relations. can we see the things themselves? no, we see only the effects of things on our eyes. we do not taste the vinegar, but the relation of the vinegar to our tongue. the result is the sensation of acidity. the vinegar is acid only in relation to our tongue. in relation to iron it acts as a solvent. in the cold it becomes hard, in the heat liquid. it acts differently on different objects with which it enters into relations of time and space. vinegar is a phenomenon, just as all things are. but it never appears as vinegar by itself. it always appears in connection with other phenomena. every phenomenon is a product of a subject and an object. in order that a thought may appear, the brain or the faculty of thought is not sufficient in itself. it requires, besides, an object which suggests the thought. from this relative nature of our topic it follows that in its treatment we cannot confine ourselves "purely" to it. since reason, or the faculty of thought, never appears by itself, but always in connection with other things, we are continually compelled to pass from the faculty of thought to other things, which are its objects, and to treat of their connections. just as the sight does not see the tree, but only that which is visible of the tree, so does the faculty of thought assimilate only the perceivable image of an object, not the object itself. a thought is a child begotten by the function of the brain in communion with some object. in a thought is crystalized on one side the subjective faculty of thought, and on the other the perceivable nature of an object. every function of the mind presupposes some object by which it is caused and the spiritual image of which it is. or vice versa, the spiritual content of the mind is derived from some object which has its own existence and which is either seen or heard, or smelled, or tasted, or felt, in short, experienced. referring back to the statement that seeing is limited to the visible qualities of some object, hearing to its audible qualities, etc., while the faculty of thought has everything for its object, we now understand this to mean that all objects have certain innumerable, but concrete, qualities which are perceptible by our senses, and in addition thereto the general spiritual quality of being thought of, understood, in short, of being the object of our faculty of thought. this mode of classifying all objects applies also to the faculty of thought itself. the spirit, or mind, is a bodily function connected with the senses which appear in various forms. mind is thought generated at different times in different brains by different objects through the instrumentality of the senses. we may choose this mind as the object of special thought the same as all other things. considered as an object, mind is a manysided and sense-perceived fact which in connection with a special function of the brain generates the general concept of "mind" as the content of this special thought process. the object of thought is distinguished from its contents in the same way in which every object is distinguished from its mental image. the different kinds of motion perceived by the help of the senses are the object of a certain thought process and supply to it the idea of "motion." it is easier to understand that the mental image of some object perceived by the senses has a father and a mother, being begotten by our faculty of thought by means of some sense-perceived object, than it is to grasp the existence of that trinity which is born when our present thought experiences its own existence and thus creates a conception of its own self. this has the appearance of moving around in a circle. the object, the content and the function of thought apparently coincide. reason deals with itself, considers itself as an object and is its own content. but nevertheless the distinction between an object and its concept, though less evident, is just as actual as in other cases. it is only the habit of regarding matter and mind as fundamentally different things which conceals this truth. the necessity to make a distinction compels us everywhere to discriminate between the object of sense perception and its mental concept. we are forced to do the same in the case of the faculty of thought, and thus we find it necessary to give the name of "mind" to this special object of our sense perceptions. such an ambiguity of terms cannot be entirely avoided in any science. a reader who does not cling to words, but rather seeks to grasp the meaning, will easily realize that the difference between being and thinking applies also to the faculty of thought, that the fact of understanding is different from the understanding of understanding. and since the understanding of understanding is again another fact, it will be permitted to call all spiritual things facts or sense perceptions. reason, or the faculty of thought, is therefore not a mystical object which produces the individual thought. on the contrary, it is a fact that certain individual thoughts are the product of perception gained in contact with certain objects and that these in connection with a certain brain operation produce the concept of reason. reason as well as all other things of which we become aware has a two-fold existence: one as a phenomenon or sense-perception, the other as a concept. the concept of any thing presupposes a certain sense-perception of that thing, and so does the concept of reason. since all men think as a matter of fact, every one has himself perceived reason as a part of reality, as a phenomenon, sense-perception or fact. our object, reason, by virtue of the fact that it partakes of the nature of the senses, has the faculty of transforming the speculative method, which tries to dip understanding out of the depths of the spirit without the help of sense-perception, into the inductive method, and vice versa of transforming the inductive method, which desires to arrive at conclusions, concepts, or understanding exclusively by means of sense-perception, into the speculative method, by virtue of its simultaneous spiritual nature. our problem is to analyze the concept of thought, or of the faculty of thought, or of reason, of knowing, of science, by means of thought. to produce thoughts and to analyze them is the same thing inasmuch as both actions are functions of the brain. both have the same nature. but they are different to the same extent that instinct differs from consciousness. man does not think originally because he wants to, but because he must. ideas are produced instinctively, involuntarily. in order to become fully aware of them, to place them within the grasp of knowing and willing, we must analyze them. from the experience of walking, for instance, we derive the idea of walking. to analyze this idea means to solve the question, what is walking generally considered, what is the general nature of walking? we may answer: walking is a rythmical motion from one place to another, and thus we raise the instinctive idea to the position of a conscious analyzed idea. an object is not consciously, theoretically, understood, until it has been analyzed. in examining what elements constitute the concept of walking, we find that the general attribute of that experience which we agree in calling "walking" is a rythmical motion. in actual experience steps may be long or short, may be taken by two feet or by more, in brief may be varied. but as a concept walking is simply a rythmical motion, and the analysis of this concept furnishes us with the conscious understanding of this fact. the concept of light existed long before science analyzed it, before it was understood that undulations of the ether form the elements which constitute the concept of light. instinctive and analytical ideas differ in the same way in which the thoughts of every day life differ from the thoughts of science. the analysis of any idea and the theoretical analysis of any object, or of the thing which suggested the idea, is one and the same. every idea corresponds to some real object. ludwig feuerbach has demonstrated that even the concepts of god and immortality are reflections of real objects which can be perceived by the senses. for the purpose of analyzing such ideas as animal, light, friendship, man, etc., the phenomena, the objects, such as animals, friendships, men, and lights, are analyzed. the object which serves for the analysis of the concept "animal" is no more any single animal, than the object of the concept "light" is any single light. these concepts comprise classes, things in general, and therefore the question, or the analysis, of what constitutes the animal, the light, friendship, must not deal with any concrete, but with the abstract elements of the whole class. the fact that the analysis of a concept and the analysis of its object appear as two different things is due to our faculty of being able to separate things into two parts, viz., into a practical, tangible, perceptible, concrete thing and into a theoretical mental, thinkable, general thing. the practical analysis is the premise of the theoretical analysis. the individually perceptible animals serve us as a basis for the analysis of the animal concept, the individually experienced friendships as the basis for the analysis of the concept of friendship. every idea corresponds to an object which may be practically separated into its component parts. to analyze a concept is equivalent, therefore, to analyzing a previously experienced object by theoretical means. the analysis of a concept consists in the understanding of the common or general faculties of the concrete parts of the analyzed object. that which is common to the various modes of walking, the rythmical motion, constitutes the concept of walking, that which is common to the various manifestations of light constitutes the concept of light. a chemical factory analyzes objects for the purpose of obtaining chemicals, while science analyzes them for the purpose of obtaining their concepts. the special object of our analysis, the faculty of thought, is likewise distinguished from its concept. but in order to be able to analyze this concept, we must analyze the object. it cannot be analyzed chemically, for not everything is a matter of chemistry, but it may be analyzed theoretically or scientifically. as we have already stated, the science of understanding deals with all objects. but all objects which this science may wish to analyze theoretically, must first be handled practically. according to their special natures, they must either be handled in various ways, or carefully inspected, or scrutinized by intent listening, in short they must be thoroughly experienced in some way. it is a fact of experience that men think. the object or suggestion is furnished by facts, and we then derive the concept instinctively. thus, to analyze the faculty of thought means to find that which is common or general to the various personal and temporary processes of thought. in order to follow this study by the methods of natural science, we require neither physical instruments nor chemical reagents. the sense perception which is indispensable for every scientific understanding, is so to say present in this case _a priori_, without further experience. every one possesses the object of our study, the fact of thought faculty and its experience, in the memories of himself or herself. we have seen that thought like any other activity as well as its scientific analysis is everywhere developing the general or abstract out of particular and concrete sense perceptions. we now express this in the following words: the common feature of all separate thought-processes consists in their seeking the general character or unity which is common to all objects experienced in their manifold variety by sense perceptions. the general element which is common to the different animals, or to the different manifestations of light, is that which constitutes the general animal or light concept. the general is the nature of all concepts, of all understanding, all science, all thought processes. thus we arrive at the understanding that the analysis of the faculty of thought reveals its nature of finding that which is general and common to concrete and distinct things. the eye studies the visible, the ear the audible, and our brain that which is generally conceivable. we have seen that thought like any other activity requires an object; that it is unlimited in the choice of its objects, because all things may become the objects of thought; that these objects are perceived in manifold forms by various senses; and that they are transformed into simple ideas by extricating that which they possess in common, which is similar, which is general in them. if we apply this experienced understanding of the general method of thought processes to our special object, the faculty of thought, we realize that we have thus solved our problem, because all we were looking for was the general method of the thought process. _if the development of the general out of the concrete constitutes the general method by which reason arrives at understanding, then we have fully grasped reason as the faculty of deriving the general out of the concrete._ thinking is a physical process and it cannot exist or produce anything without materials any more than any other process of labor. my thought requires some material which can be thought of. this material is furnished by the phenomena of nature and life. these are the concrete things. in claiming that the universe, or all things, may be the object of thought, we simply mean that the materials of the thought process, the objects of the mind, are infinite in quantity and quality. the materials which the universe furnishes for our thought are as infinite as space, as eternal as time, and as absolutely manifold as the nature of these two forms of being. the faculty of thought is a universal faculty in so far as it enters into relations with all things, all substances, all phenomena, and thus generates thought. but it is not absolute, since it requires for its existence and action the previous presence of matter. matter is the boundary, beyond which the mind cannot pass. matter furnishes the background for the illumination of the mind, but is not consumed in this illumination. mind is a product of matter, but matter is more than a product of mind, being perceived also through the five senses and thus brought to our notice. we call real, objective products, or "things themselves" only such products as are revealed to us simultaneously by the senses and the mind. reason is a real thing only in so far as it is perceived by the senses. the perceptible actions of reason are revealed in the brain of man as well as in the world outside of it. for are not the effects tangible by which reason transforms nature and life? we see the successes of science with our eyes and grasp them with our hands. it is true that science or reason cannot produce such material effects out of themselves. the world of sense perceptions, the objects outside of the human brain, must be given. but what thing is there that has any effects "in itself?" in order that light may shine, that the sun may warm, and revolve in its course, there must be space and other things which may be lighted and warmed and passed. in order that my table may have color, there must be light and eyes. and everything else which my table is besides, it can be only in contact with other things. its being is just as manifold as those various contacts or relations. in short, the world consists only in its interrelations. any thing that is torn out of its relations with the world ceases to exist. a thing is anything "in itself" only because it is something for other things, by acting or appearing in connection with something else. if we wish to regard the world in the light of the "thing itself," we shall easily see that the world "itself" and the world as it appears, the world of phenomena, differ only in the same way in which the whole differs from its component parts. the world "itself" is nothing else but the sum total of its phenomena. the same holds good of that part of the world phenomena which we call reason, spirit, faculty of thought. although we distinguish between the faculty of thought and its phenomena or manifestations, yet the faculty of thought "itself," or "pure" reason, exists in reality only in the sum total of its manifestations. seeing is the physical existence of the faculty of sight. we possess the whole only by means of its parts, and we can possess reason, like all other things, only by the help of its effects, by its various thoughts. but we repeat that reason does not precede thought in the order of time. on the contrary thoughts generated by perceptible objects serve as a basis for the development of the concept of the faculty of thought. just as the understanding of the world movements has taught us that the sun is not revolving around the earth, so the understanding of the thought process tells us that it is not the faculty of thought which creates thought, but vice versa, that the concept of this faculty is created out of a series of concrete thoughts. hence the faculty of thought practically exists only as the sum total of our thoughts, just as the faculty of sight exists only through the sum of the things that we see. these thoughts, this practical reason, serve as the material out of which our brain manufactures the concept of "pure" reason. reason is necessarily impure in practice, which means that it must connect itself with some object. pure reason, or abstract reason without any special content, cannot be anything else but the general characteristic of all concrete reasoning processes. we possess this general nature of reason in two ways: in an impure state, that is as practical and concrete phenomenon, consisting of the sum of our real perceptions, and in a pure state, that is theoretically or abstractly, in the concept. the phenomenon of reason is distinguished from reason "itself" just as the real animals are distinguished from the concept of the animal. every actual reasoning process is based on some real object which has many qualities like all things in nature. the faculty of thought extracts from this many-sided object those properties which are general or common with it. a mouse and an elephant, as the objects of our reasoning activity, lose their differences in the general animal concept. such a concept combines many things under one uniform point of view, it develops one general idea out of many concrete things. since understanding is the general or common quality of all reasoning processes, it follows that reason in general, or the general nature of the reasoning process, consists in abstracting the general ideal character from any concrete thing perceptible by the help of the senses. reason being unable to exist without some objects outside of itself, it is understood that we can perceive "pure" reason, or reason "itself," only by its practical manifestations. we cannot find reason without objects outside of it with which it comes in contact and produces thought, any more than we can find any eyes without light. and the manifestations of reason are as varied as the objects which supply its material. it is plain, then, that reason has no separate existence "in itself," but that on the contrary the concept of reason is formed out of the material supplied by the senses. mental processes appear only in connection with perceptible phenomena. these processes are themselves phenomena of sense perception which, in connection with a brain process, produce the concept of the faculty of thought "itself." if we analyze this concept, we find that "pure" reason consists in the activity of producing general ideas out of concrete materials, which include so-called immaterial thoughts. in other words, reason may be characterized as an activity which seeks for unity in every multiplicity and equalizes all contrasts whether it deals with the many different sides and parts of one or of more objects. all these different statements describe the same thing in different words, so that the reader may not cling to the empty word, but grasp the living concept, the manifold object, in its general nature. reason, we said, exists in a "pure" state as the development of the general out of the special, of the abstract out of concrete sense perceptions. this is the whole content of pure reason, of scientific understanding, of consciousness. and by the terms "pure" and "whole" we simply indicate that we mean the general content of the various thought processes, the general form of reason. apart from this general abstract form, reason, like all other things, has also its concrete, special, sense form which we perceive directly through our experience. hence our entire process of consciousness consists in the experience of the senses, that is in the physical process, and its understanding. understanding is the general reflection of any object. consciousness, as the latin root of the word indicates, is the knowledge of being in existence. it is a form, or a quality, of existence which differs from other forms of being in that it is aware of its existence. quality cannot be explained, but must be experienced. we know by experience that consciousness includes along with the knowledge of being in existence the difference and contradiction between subject and object, thinking and being, between form and content, between phenomenon and essential thing, between attribute and substance, between the general and the concrete. this innate contradiction explains the various terms applied to consciousness, such as the organ of abstraction, the faculty of generalization or unification, or in contradistinction thereto the faculty of differentiation. for consciousness generalizes differences and differentiates generalities. contradiction is innate in consciousness, and its nature is so contradictory that it is at the same time a differentiating, a generalizing, and an understanding nature. consciousness generalizes contradiction. it recognizes that all nature, all being, lives in contradictions, that everything is what it is only in co-operation with its opposite. just as visible things are not visible without the faculty of sight, and vice versa the faculty of sight cannot see anything but what is visible, so contradiction must be recognized as something general which pervades all thought and being. the science of understanding, by generalizing contradiction, solves all concrete contradictions. iii the nature of things in so far as the faculty of understanding is a physical object, the knowledge of its nature is a matter of physical science. but in so far as we understand all things by the help of this faculty, the science of understanding becomes metaphysics. inasmuch as the scientific analysis of reason reverses the current conception of its nature, this specific understanding necessarily reverses our entire world philosophy. with the understanding of the nature of reason, we arrive at the long sought understanding of the "nature of things." we wish to know, understand, conceive, recognize all things in their very nature, not in their outward appearance. science seeks to understand the nature of things, or their true essence, by means of their manifestations. every thing has its own special nature, and this nature is not seen, or felt, or heard, but solely perceived by the faculty of thought. this faculty explores the nature of all things just as the eye explores all that is visible in things. just as the nature of sight is understood by the theory of vision, so the nature of things in general is understood by the theory of understanding. it is true that it sounds contradictory to say that the nature of a thing does not appear to the eye, but to the faculty of thought, and at the same time to imply that the opposite of appearance, nature, should appear. but we here refer to the nature of a thing as a phenomenon in the same way in which we referred to the mind as a perception of the senses, and we shall demonstrate further on that every being is a phenomenon, and every phenomenon is more or less of an essential thing. we have seen that the faculty of thought requires for its vital activity an object, or raw material. the effect of reasoning is seen in science, no matter whether we understand the term science in its narrow classical sense or in its broadest meaning of any kind of knowledge. the phenomena of sense perception constitute the general object or material of science. sense perceptions arise from infinite circulation of matter. the universe and all things in it consist of transformations of matter which take place simultaneously and consecutively in space and time. the universe is in every place and at any time itself, new, and present for the first time. it arises and passes away, passes and arises under our very hands. nothing remains the same, only the infinite change is constant, and even the change varies. every particle of time and space brings new changes. it is true that the materialist believes in the permanency, eternity, indestructibility of matter. he teaches us that not the smallest particle of matter has ever been lost in the world, that matter simply changes its forms eternally, but that its nature lasts indestructibly through all eternity. and yet, in spite of all distinctions between matter itself and its perishable form, the materialist is on the other hand more inclined than any one else to dwell on the identity of matter and its forms. inasmuch as the materialist speaks ironically of formless matter and matterless forms, in the same breath with perishable forms of imperishable matter, it is plain that materialism is not informed any more than idealism as to the relation of content to form, of a phenomenon to the essential nature of its subject. where do we find such eternal, imperishable, formless matter? in the world of sense perceptions we never meet anything but forms of perishable matter. it is true that there is matter everywhere. wherever anything passes away, something new instantly arises. but nowhere has any homogeneous, unchangeable matter enduring without any form, ever been discovered. even a chemically indivisible element is only a relative unit in its actual existence, and in extension of time as well as in extension through space it varies simultaneously and consecutively as much as any organic individual which also changes only its concrete forms, but remains the same in its general nature from beginning to end. my body changes continually its fleshy tissue, bones, and every other particle belonging to it, and yet it always remains the same. what constitutes, then, this body which is distinguished from its transient form? it is the sum total, in a generalized way, of all its varied concrete forms. eternal and imperishable matter exists in reality only as the sum total of its perishable forms. the statement that matter is imperishable cannot mean anything but that there will always and everywhere be matter. it is just as true to say that matter is imperishable and merely changes its forms, as it is to say that matter exists only in its changing forms, that it is matter which changes and that only the change is eternal. the terms "changeable matter" and "material change" are after all only different expressions for the same thing. in the practical world of sense perceptions, there is nothing permanent, nothing homogeneous, nothing beyond nature, nothing like a "thing itself." everything is changing, passing, phantomlike, so to say. one phantom is chased by another. "nevertheless," says kant, "things are also something in themselves," for otherwise we should have the absurd contradiction that there could be phenomena without things that produce them. but no! a phenomena is no more and no less different from the thing which produces it than the stretch of a twenty-mile road is different from the road itself. or we may distinguish between a knife and its blade and handle, but we know that there would be no knife if there were no blade and no handle. the essential nature of the universe is change. phenomena appear, that is all. the contradiction between the "thing itself," or its essence, and its outward appearance is fully solved by a complete critique of reason which arrives at the understanding that the human faculty of thought may generalize any number of varied sense perceptions under one uniform point of view, by singling out the general and equivalent forms and thus regarding everything it may meet as a concrete part of one and the same whole. in other words, the relative and transient forms perceived by our senses serve as raw material for our brain activity, which abstracts the general likeness out of the concrete forms and systematizes or classifies them for our consciousness. the infinite variety of sense perceptions passes in review before our subjective mind, and it constructs out of the multiplicity the unity, out of the parts the whole, out of the phenomena the essential nature, out of the perishable the imperishable, out of the attributes the subject. the essence, the nature of things, the "thing itself" is an ideal, a spiritual conception. consciousness knows how to make sums out of different units. it can take any number of units for its sums. the entire multiplicity of the universe is theoretically conceived as one unit. on the other hand, every abstract sum consists in reality of an infinite number of sense perceptions. where do we find any indivisible unit outside of our abstract conceptions? two halves, four fourths, eight eighths, or an infinite number of separate parts form the raw material out of which the mind fashions the mathematical unit. this book, its leaves, its letters, or their parts, are they units? where do i begin, where do i stop? in the same way, i may call a library with many volumes, a house, a farm, and finally the whole universe, a unit. is not everything a part, is not every part a thing? is the color of a leaf less of a thing than that leaf itself? perhaps some would call the color simply an attribute and the leaf its substance, because there might be a leaf without color, but no color without a leaf. but as surely as we exhaust a heap of sand by scattering it, just as surely do we remove all the substance of a leaf when we take away its attributes one after the other. color is only the sum of reactions of leaf, light, and eye, and so is all the rest of the matter of a leaf an aggregate of interactions. in the same way in which our reason deprives a leaf of its color attributes and sets it apart as a "thing itself," may we continue to deprive that leaf of all its other attributes, and in so doing we finally take away everything that makes the leaf. color is in its nature no less a substance than the leaf itself, and the leaf is no less an attribute than its color. as the color is an attribute of a leaf, so a leaf is an attribute of a tree, a tree an attribute of the earth, the earth an attribute of the universe. the universe is the substance, substance in general, and all other substances are but its attributes. and this world-substance reveals the fact that the nature of things, the "thing itself" as distinguished from its manifestations, is only a concept of the mind. in its universal search from the attribute to the substance, from the relative to the absolute, from the appearance of things to the true things, the mind finally arrives at the understanding that the substance is nothing but a sum of attributes collected by brain activity, and that the mind itself, or reason, is a substantial being which creates abstract mental units out of a multitude of sense perceptions and conceives of the universe as an absolute whole, as an independent "thing itself," by adding all its transient manifestations. in turning away full of dissatisfaction from attributes, searching restlessly after the substance, throwing aside phenomena, and forever groping for truth, for the nature of things, for the "thing itself," and in finally realizing that this substantial truth is merely the sum of all socalled untruths, the totality of all phenomena, the mind proves itself to be the creator of the abstract concept of substance. but it did not create this concept out of nothing. on the contrary, it generated the concept of a world substance out of attributes, it derived truth out of manifestations of things. the idealist conception that there is an abstract nature behind phenomena which materialises itself in them, is refuted by the understanding that this hidden nature does not dwell in the world outside of the human mind, but in the brain of man. but since the brain differentiates between phenomena and their nature, between the concrete and the general, only by means of sense perception, it cannot be denied that the distinction between phenomena and their nature is well founded; only the essential nature of things is not found back of phenomena, but by means of phenomena. this nature is materially existent and our faculty of thought is a real and natural one. it is true of spiritual things as well as of physical ones, in fact it is true of all things, metaphysically speaking, that they are what they are, not "in themselves," not in their abstract nature, but in contact with other things, in reality. in this sense one might say that things are not what they seem, but manifest themselves because they are existent, and they manifest themselves in as many different ways as there are other things with which they enter into relations of time and space. but the statement that things are not what they seem requires, in order to be rightly understood, the modification that whatever manifests itself, exists in nature, and its existence is limited by its manifestations. "we cannot perceive heat itself," says a book on physics written by professor koppe, "we merely conclude from its manifestations that it is present in nature." thus reasons a naturalist who seeks to understand a thing by practical and diligent study of its manifestations, but who seeks refuge in the speculative belief in a hidden "thing itself" whenever a lack of understanding of the fundamentals of logic embarrasses him. we, on the contrary, conclude that there is no such thing as "heat itself," since it cannot be found, in nature, and we conceive of heat as effects of matter which the human brain translated into the conception of "heat itself." because science was, perhaps, as yet unable to analyse this conception, the professor says we cannot perceive the natural object which gives rise to this conception. "heat itself" is simply composed of the sum total of its manifold effects, and there is nothing else to it. the faculty of thought generalizes this variety of effects under the concept of heat in general. the analysis of this conception, the discovery of the general character of the various manifestations of heat, is the function of inductive science. but the conception of heat separated from its effects is a speculative idea, similar to lichtenberg's knife without handle and blade. the faculty of thought in touch with sense perceptions produces the nature of things. but it produces them no more independently of things outside than do the eye, the ear, or any other sense of man. it is not the "things themselves" which we see or feel, but their effects on our eyes, hands, etc. the faculty of reason to generalize different perceptions of the eye permits us to distinguish between concrete sights and sight in general. the faculty of thought conceives of any concrete sight as an object of sight in general. it furthermore distinguishes between subjective and objective sight perceptions, the latter being sights which are visible not alone to the individual eye, but to eyesight in general. even the visions of a spiritualist, or such subjective impressions as forked lightning, circles of fire, caused by excited blood of closed eyes, serve as objects for the critical consciousness. a glittering object revealed by bright sunlight miles away is no more and no less tangible in substance, no more and no less true, than any optical illusion. a man whose ear is tingling hears something, though it is not the tinkling of bells. every sense perception is an object, and every object is a sense perception. the object of any subjective mind is a passing manifestation, and every objective perception is but a perishable subject. the object of observation may exist in a more tangible, less approachable, more stable, or more general form, but it is not a "thing itself." it may be perceived not alone by my eyes, but also by those of others, not by the eyes, but also by the feeling, the hearing, the taste, etc. and it may be noticed not alone by men, but also by other objects. but nevertheless it appears only as a manifestation, it is different in different places, it is not today what it is tomorrow. every existence is relative, in touch with other things, and entering into different relations of time and space with them. every sense perception is an actual and natural object. truth exists in the form of natural phenomena, and whatever is, is true. substance and attribute are only terms for certain relations. they are not contradictions, and, as a matter of fact, all contradictions disappear before our faculty of generalization and differentiation. for this faculty reconciles all contradictions by finding a general quality in all differences. existence, or universal truth, is the general object, the raw material, of the faculty of thought. this material is of the utmost variety and supplied by the senses. the senses reveal to us the substance of the universe in the forms of concrete qualities, in other words, the nature of perceptible matter is revealed to the faculty of thought through a variety of concrete forms. it is not perceived as a general essence, but only through interdependent phenomena. out of the interdependence of the sense perceptions with our faculty of thought there arise quantities, general concepts, things, true perceptions, or understood truths. essence and truth are two terms for the same thing. truth, or the essence and nature of things, is a theoretical concept. as we have seen, we receive impressions of things in two ways, viz., a sense impression and a mental impression, the one practical, the other theoretical. practice furnishes us with the sense impression, theory with the mental nature of things. practice is the premise of theory, sense perception the premise of the nature which is also called the truth. the same truth manifests itself in practice either simultaneously or consecutively in the same place or in different places. it exists theoretically as a homogeneous conception. practice, phenomena, sense perceptions, are absolute qualities, that is to say they have no quantitative limitation, they are not restricted by time or space. they are absolute and infinite qualities. the qualities of a thing are as infinite as its parts. on the other hand, the work of the faculty of thought, of theory, creates at will an infinite number of quantities, and it conceives every quality of sense _perceptions_ in the form of quantities, as the essential nature of things, as truths. every conception has a quality of some sense perception for its object. every object can be conceived by the faculty of thought only as a quantitative unit, as true nature, as truth. the faculty of thought produces in contact with sense perceptions that which manifests itself as true nature, as a general truth. a primitive concept accomplishes this at first only instinctively, while a scientific concept is a conscious and voluntary repetition of this primitive act. scientific understanding wanting to know an object, such as for instance heat, is not hunting after the phenomena themselves. it does not aim to see or hear how heat melts iron or wax, how it benefits in one case or injures in another, how it makes eggs solid or ice liquid, nor does it concern itself with the difference between the heat of an animal, of the sun, or of a stove. all these things are from the point of view of the faculty of understanding, only effects, phenomena, qualities. it desires to get at the essence, the true nature of things, it strives to find a general law, a concise scientific extract, of things seen, heard, and felt. the abstract nature of things cannot be a tangible object. it is a concept of theory, of science, of the faculty of thought. the understanding of heat consists in singling out that which is common to all phenomena of heat, which is essential or true for all heat. _practically the nature of heat consists of the sum total of all its manifestations, theoretically in its concept, scientifically in the analysis of this concept. to analyze the concept of heat means to ascertain that which is common to all manifestations of heat._ the general nature of the thing is its true nature, the general quality its true quality. we define rain more truly as being wet than as being fertilizing, because it gives moisture wherever it falls, while it fertilizes only under certain circumstances and in certain places. my true friend is one who is constant and loyal to me all my life under all circumstances. of course, we must not believe in any absolute and unconditional friendship any more than in any absolute and eternal truth. perfectly true, perfectly universal, is only the general existence, the universe, the absolute quantity. but the real world is absolutely relative, absolutely perishable, an infinity of manifestations, an infinity of qualities. all truths are simply parts of this world, partial truths. semblance and truth flow dialectically into one another like hard and soft, good and bad, right and wrong, but at the same time they remain different. even though i know that there is no rain which is "fertile in itself," and no friend who is true in an absolute sense, i may nevertheless refer to a certain rain as fertile in relation to certain crops, and i may distinguish between my more or less true friends. the universe is the truth. the universe is that which is universal, that is, things which exist and are perceived. the general mark of truth is existence, because universal existence is truth. now, existence is not a general abstraction, but a reality in the concrete form of sense perceptions. the world of sense perceptions has its true and perceptible existence in the passing and manifold manifestations of nature and life. therefore all manifestations are recognized as relative truths, all truths as concrete and temporal manifestations. the manifestation of practice is considered as a truth in theory, and vice versa, the truth of theory is manifested in practice. opposites are mutually relative. truth and error differ only comparatively, in volume of degree, like being and seeming, life and death, light and dark, like all other opposites in the world. it is a matter of course that all things of this world are worldly, consequently are of the same matter, the same nature, the same family, the same quality. in other words, every volume of perceptible manifestation forms in contact with the human faculty of thought a being, a truth, a general thing. for our consciousness, every particle of dust as well as every dust cloud, or any other mass of material manifestations, is on the one hand an abstract "thing in itself," and on the other a passing phenomenon of the absolute object, the universe. inside of this universe the various manifestations are systematized or generalized at will and on purpose by means of our mind. the chemical element is as much a manysided system as the organic cell or the whole vegetable kingdom. the smallest and the largest being is divided into individuals, species, families, classes, etc. this systematization, this generalization, this generation of beings is continued in an ascending scale up to the infinity of the universe, and in the descending scale down to the infinity of the parts. in the eyes of the faculty of thought all qualities become abstract things, all things relative qualities. every thing, every sense perception, no matter how subjective or shortlived it may be, is true, is a certain part of truth. in other words, the truth exists, not only in the general existence, but every concrete existence has also its own distinct generality or truth. every object, whether it be a mere passing idea, or a volatile scent, or some tangible matter, constitutes a sum of manifold phenomena. the faculty of thought turns various quantities into one, discerns the equality in different things, seeks the unity in the multiplicity. mind and matter have at least actual existence in common. organic nature agrees with inorganic nature in being material. it is true that there are wide divergences between man, monkey, elephant, and plants attached to the soil, but even greater differences are reconciled under the term "organism." however much a stone may differ from a human heart, thinking reason will discover innumerable similarities in them. they at least agree in being matter, they are both visible, tangible, and may be weighed, etc. their differences are as manifold as their likenesses. solomon truly says that there is nothing new under the sun, and schiller also says truly that the world grows old and again grows young. what abstract thing, being, existence, generality is there that is not manifold in its sense manifestations, and individually different from all other things? there are no two drops of water alike. i am now in many respects different from what i was an hour ago, and the likeness between my brother and myself is only relatively greater than the likeness between a watch and an oyster. in short, the faculty of thought is a faculty of absolute generalization, it classes all things without exception under one head, it comprises and understands everything uniformly, while sense perceptions show absolutely everything in a different, new and individual light. if we apply this metaphysics[ ] to our study, the faculty of thought, we see that its functions, like all other things, are material manifestations, which are all equally true. all manifestations of the mind, all ideas, opinions, errors, partake of a certain truth, all of them have a kernel of truth. just as inevitably as a painter derives all forms of his creation from perceptible objects around him, so are all ideas, images of true things, theories of true objects. so far as perceptions are perceptions, it is a matter of course that all perceptions perceive something. so far as knowledge is knowledge, it requires no explanation that all knowledge knows something. this follows from the rule of identity, according to which a equals a, or from the rule of contradiction, according to which is not , . all perceptions are thoughts. one might claim, on the other hand, that all thoughts are not perceptions. one might define "perceiving" as a special kind of thought, as real objective thought in distinction from supposing, believing, or imagining. but it cannot be denied that all thoughts have a common nature, in spite of their many differences. thought is treated in the court of the faculty of thought like all other things, it is made uniform. no matter how different the thoughts i had yesterday may be from those i have to-day, no matter how much the thoughts of different human beings may vary at different times, no matter how clearly we may distinguish between such thoughts as those expressed by the terms idea, conception, judgment, conclusion, impression, etc., they each and all possess the same common and universal nature, because all of them are manifestations of mind. it follows, then, that the difference between true and erroneous thoughts, between understanding and misunderstanding, like all other differences, is only relative. a thought "in itself" is neither false nor true, it is either of these only in relation to some other object. thoughts, conceptions, theories, natures, truths, all have this in common that they belong to some object. we have seen that any object is a part of the multiplicity of sense perceptions in the world outside of our brains. after as much of the universal being as constitutes the object which is to be understood has been defined by some customary term of language, truth is to be found in the discovery of the general nature of this perceptible part of being. the perceptible parts of being which constitute the things of this world have not only a semblance and manifestation, but also a true nature which is given by means of their manifestation. the nature of things is as infinite in number as the world of sense perceptions is infinitely divisible in space and time. every part of any phenomenon has its own nature, every special phenomenon has its general truth. a phenomenon is perceived in touch with the senses, while the true or essential nature of things is perceived in contact with our faculty of thought. in this way we find ourselves face to face with the necessity of speaking here, where the nature of things is up for discussion, simultaneously of the faculty of thought, and on the other hand of dealing with the nature of things when the faculty of thought is our main subject. we said at the outset: the criterion of truth includes the criterion of reason. truth, like reason, consists in developing a general concept, or an abstract theory, from a given sum of sense perceptions. therefore it is not abstract truth which is the criterion of true understanding, but we rather refer to that understanding as being true which produces the truth, or the general hall-mark of any concrete object. truth must be objective, that is to say it must be the truth about some concrete object. perceptions cannot be true to themselves, they are true only in relation to some definite object, and to some outside facts. the work of understanding consists in the abstraction of the general hall-mark from concrete objects. the concrete is the measure of the general, the standard of truth. whatever is, is true, no matter how much or how little true it may be. once we have found existence, its general nature follows as truth itself. the difference between that which is more or less general, between being and seeming, between truth and error, is limited to definite conditions, for it presupposes the relation to some special object. whether a perception is true or false will, therefore, depend not so much on perception as on the scope of the question which perception tries to solve of its own accord or which it is called upon to solve by external circumstances. a perfect understanding is possible only within definite limits. a perfect truth is one which is always aware of its imperfection. for instance, it is perfectly true that all bodies have weight only because the concept of "body" has previously been limited to things which have weight. after reason has assigned the conception of "body in general" to things of various weights, it is no longer a matter for surprise to find that bodies must inevitably have weight. once it is assumed that the term "bird" was abstracted exclusively from flying animals, we may be sure that all birds fly, whether they are in heaven, on earth, or in any other place. and to explain this we do not require the belief in _a priori_ conceptions which are supposed to differ from empirical conceptions by their strict necessity and generality. truths are valid only under certain conditions, and under certain conditions errors may be true. it is a true perception that the sun is shining, provided we understand that the sky is not covered by clouds. and it is no less true that a straight stick becomes crooked in flowing water, provided we understand that this truth is an optical one. _truth is that which is common or general to our reasoning faculty within a given circle of sense perceptions. to call within a definite circle of sense perceptions that which is exceptional or special the rule or the general, is error._ error, the opposite of truth, arises when the faculty of thought, or consciousness, inadvertently or shortsightedly and without previous experience concedes to certain phenomena a more general scope than is supported by the senses, for instance when it hastily attributes to what is in fact only an optical existence, a supposed plastic existence also. the judgment of error is a prejudice. truth and error, understanding and misunderstanding, knowing and not knowing, have their common habitation in the faculty of thought which is the organ of science. thought at large is the general expression of experienced facts perceived by the senses, and it includes errors as well. error is distinguished from truth in that the former assigns to any definite fact of which it is a manifestation, a wider and more general existence than is supported by sense perceptions and experience. unwarranted assumption is the nature of error. a glass bead does not become a counterfeit, until it pretends to be a genuine pearl. schleiden says of the eye: "when the excited blood expands the veins and presses on the nerves, we feel it in the fingers as pain, we see it in the eyes as forked lightning. and thus we obtain the irrefutable proof that our conceptions are free creations of the mind, that we do not perceive the external world as it really is, but that its reflex actions on us simply give rise to a peculiar brain activity, on our part. the products of this activity are frequently connected with certain processes of the external world, but frequently they are not. we close our eyes and we see a circle of light, but there is in reality no shining body. it is easy to see that this may be a great and dangerous source of errors of all kinds. from the teasing forms of a misty moonlight night to the threatening and insanity-producing visions of the believer in ghosts we meet a series of illusions which are not derived from any direct processes of external nature, but belong to the field of the free activity of the mind which is subject to error. it requires great judgment and wide education, before the mind learns to break away from all its own errors and to control them. reading in general seems so easy, and yet it is a difficult art. it is only by degrees that the mind learns to understand which of the messages of the nerves may be trusted and used as a basis for conceptions. the light, if we consider it entirely by itself, is not clear, not yellow, nor blue nor red. the light is a movement of a very fine and everywhere diffused substance, the ether." the beautiful world of light and splendor, of color and form, is supposed not to be a perception of something which really is. "through the thick covering of the grape arbor, a ray of sunlight undulates into the cooling shadows. you think you see the ray of light itself, but what you really see is nothing but a flock of dust particles." the truth about light and color is said to be that they are "waves rushing through ether in restless succession at the rate of , miles per second." this true physical nature of light and color is supposed to be so illusive, that "it required the sharp intellects of the greatest thinkers to reveal to us this true nature of light. we find that every one of our senses is susceptible only to definite external influences, and that the stimulation of different senses produces different conceptions in our mind. thus the sense organs are the mediators between the external soulless world (undulations of the ether), which is revealed to us by science, and the beautiful world of sense perceptions in which we find ourselves with our minds." schleiden thus gives an illustration of the fact that there is still a great deal of embarrassment, even in our times, when the understanding of these two worlds is under discussion, that there is still much helpless groping to explain the connection between the world of thought, of knowledge or science, which is in this case represented by undulations of the ether, and between the world of our five senses, represented by the bright and colored lights of the eyes or of reality. at the same time this illustration shows how queer the traditional survivals of speculative philosophy sound in the mouth of a modern scientist. the confused condition of this mode of thought is seen in the distinction between "an external sense-perceived world of science" and another one, "in which we find ourselves with our minds." the distinction between the senses and the mind, between theory and practice, between the special and the general, between truth and error, has been noticed by such thinkers, but they have no solution for it. they know there is something missing, but they do not know where to look for it, and therefore they are confused. the great scientific achievement of the xixth century consists in the victory over speculation, over knowledge without sense perception, in the delivery of the senses from the thraldom of such knowledge, and in the foundation of empirical investigation. to acknowledge the theoretical value of this achievement means to come to an understanding about the source of error. contrary to a philosophy that tries to discover truth with the mind, and error with the senses, we seek for truth with the senses and regard the mind as the source of errors. the belief in certain messages of the nerves which are alone worthy of confidence and which can be understood only by degrees without any specific mark of distinction, is a superstition. let us have confidence in all testimonials of the senses. there is nothing false to be separated from the genuine. the supernatural mind idea is the only deceiver whenever it undertakes to disregard the sense perceptions, and, instead of being the interpreter of the senses, tries to enlarge their statements and repeat what has not been dictated. the eye, in seeing forked lightning or radiant circles when the blood is excited or a pressure exerted on it, perceives no more errors than it does in perceiving any other manifestation of the external world. it is our faculty of thought which makes a mistake, by regarding without further inquiry such subjective events as objective bodies. one who sees ghosts does not commit any mistake, until he claims that his personal apparition is a general phenomenon, until he prematurely takes something for an experience which he has not experienced. error is an offense against the law of truth which prescribes to our consciousness that it must remember the limits within which a perception is true, or general. error makes out of something special a generality, out of a predicate a subject, and takes the part for the whole. error makes _a priori_ conclusions, while truth, its opposite, arrives at understanding by _a posteriori_ reasoning. _a priori_ and _a posteriori_ understanding are related in the same way as philosophy and natural science, taking the latter in the widest meaning of the term, that of science in general. the contrast between believing and knowing is duplicated in that between philosophy and natural science. speculative philosophy, like religion, lives on faith. the modern world has transformed faith into science. the reactionists in politics who demand that science retrace its steps desire its return to faith. the content of faith is acquired without exertion. faith makes _a priori_ perceptions, while science arrives at its knowledge by hard _a posteriori_ study. to give up faith means to give up taking things easy. and to confine science to _a posteriori_ knowledge means to decorate it with the characteristic mark of modern times, work. it is not a result of scientific study, but merely a freak of philosophy on the part of schleiden to deny the reality and truth of light phenomena, to call them fantasmagoria created by the free play of the mind. his superstitious belief in philosophical speculation misleads him into abandoning the scientific method of induction and speaking of "waves rushing through ether in restless succession at the rate of , miles per hour" as being the real and true nature of light and color, in contradistinction to the color phenomena of light. the perversion of this mode of procedure becomes evident by his referring to the material world of the eyes as a "creation of the mind" and to the undulations of the ether, revealed by the "sharp intellect of the greatest thinkers" as "physical nature." the truth of science maintains the same relation to the sense perception that the general does to the special. waves of light, the so-called truth of light and color, represent the "true" nature of light only in so far as they represent what is common to all light phenomena, whether they are white, yellow, blue, or any other color. the world of the mind, or of science finds its raw material, its premise, its proof, its beginning, and its boundary in sense perception. when we have learned that the nature, or the truth, of things is not back of their phenomena, but can be perceived only by the help of phenomena, and that it does not exist "in itself," but only in connection with the faculty of understanding, that the nature is separated from the phenomena only by thought; and when we see on the other hand, that the faculty of understanding does not derive conceptions out of itself, but only out of their relations with some phenomenon; then this discussion of the "nature of things" is an evidence that the nature of the faculty of thought is a conception which we have obtained from its sense manifestations. to understand that the faculty of thought, although universal in the choice of its objects, is nevertheless limited in that it requires some object; to recognize that the true thought process, that is to say the thought with a scientific result, differs from unscientific thinking by consciously attaching itself to some external object; to realize that truth, or universality, is not perceived "in itself," but can be perceived only by means of some given object; this frequently varied statement reveals the nature of the faculty of thought. this statement re-appears at the end of every chapter, because all special truths, all special chapters, serve only to demonstrate the general chapter of universal truth. footnote: [ ] e. g., this all-embracing physics.--editor. iv the practice of reason in physical science although we know that reason is attached to perceptible matter, to physical objects, so that science can never be anything else but the science of the physical, still we may, according to the prevailing ideas and usage of language, separate physics from logic and ethics, and thus distinguish them as different forms of science. the problem is then to demonstrate that in physics as well as in logic, as also in ethics, the general or intellectual perceptions can be practically obtained only on the basis of concrete perceptible facts. this practice of reason, to generate thought from matter, to arrive at understanding by sense perceptions, to produce the general out of the concrete, has been universally accepted in physical investigation, but only in practice. the inductive method is employed, and one is aware of this fact, but it is not understood that the nature of inductive science is the nature of science in general, of reason. the process of thought is misunderstood. physical science lacks the theory of understanding and for this reason often falls out of its practical step. the faculty of thought is still an unknown, mysterious, mystical being for natural science. either it confounds the function with the organ, the mind with the brain, as do the materialists, or it thinks with the idealists that the faculty of thought is an imperceptible object outside of its field. we see modern investigators marching toward their goal with firm and uniform steps, so far as physical matters are concerned. but they aimlessly grope around in the abstract relations of these things. the inductive method has been practically adopted by natural science and its successes have secured a great reputation for it. on the other hand, the speculative method has become discredited by its failures. there is, however, no conscious understanding of these various methods of thought. we see the men of physical research, when they are outside of their special field, offer lawyer-like speculations in lieu of scientific facts. while they arrive at the special truths of their chosen fields by sense perceptions, they still pretend to derive speculative truths out of the depths of their own minds. listen to the following statements of alexander von humboldt, which he makes in the initial argument of his "cosmos" in regard to speculation: "the most important result of physical research by sense perception is this: that it finds the element of unity in a multitude of forms; that it grasps all the individual manifestations offered by the discoveries of recent times, carefully scrutinizes and distinguishes them; yet does not succumb under their mass; that it fulfills the sublime mission of the human being, of understanding the nature of things which is hidden under the cover of phenomena. in this way our aim reaches beyond the narrow limits of the senses, and we may succeed in grasping the nature by controlling the raw material of empirical observation through ideas. in my observations of the scientific treatment of general cosmic phenomena, i am not deriving unity out of a few fundamental principles found by speculative reason. my work is the expression of a thoughtful observation of empirical phenomena seen as one and the same nature. i am not going to venture into a field which is foreign to me. what i call physical cosmology does not, therefore, aspire to the rank of a rational science of nature.... true to the character of my former occupation and writings, which were devoted to experiments, measurements, and investigations of facts, i confine myself in this work to empirical observations. it is the only ground on which i can move with a measure of security." in the same breath humboldt says that "without the earnest desire for the knowledge of concrete facts any great and universal world philosophy would be merely a castle in the air" and in another place that "an understanding of the universe by speculative and introspective reason would represent a still more sublime aim" than understanding by empirical thought. and on page of volume i. he says: "i am far from finding fault with endeavors of others the success of which still remains in doubt, when i have had no practical experience with them." now natural science shares with humboldt the consciousness that the practice of reason in physical research consists exclusively in "perceiving the element of unity in a multitude of forms." but on the other hand, though it does not always admit its belief in speculative introspection as frankly as humboldt does, it nevertheless proves that it does not fully understand the practice of science and that it believes in a metaphysical as well as a physical science by using the speculative method in the treatment of so-called philosophical topics, in which the element of unity is supposed to be discovered by introspective reason instead of an analysis of multiform sense perceptions, and it demonstrates its lack of unity by being unaware of the unscientific character of disagreements, by believing in a metaphysical science outside of the physical domain. the relations between phenomenon and its nature, cause and effect, matter and force, substance and spirit, are certainly physical ones. but what is there of unity that science teaches about them? plainly then, the work of science, like that of the farmer, has so far been done only practically, but not scientifically, not with a predetermination of success. understanding, that is to say the practice of understanding, is well applied in science, i readily admit. but the instrument of this understanding, the faculty of thought, is misunderstood. we find that natural science, instead of applying this faculty scientifically, simply experiments with it. what is the reason for this? natural science has neglected the critique of reason, the theory of science, logic. just as the handle and the blade of a knife constitute its general content, so we found that the general content of reason was the universal, the general "itself." we know that it does not produce this content out of itself, but out of given objects, and these objects are the sum of all natural or physical things. the object of reason is, therefore, an infinite, unlimited, absolute quantity. this infinite quantity manifests itself in finite quantities. in the treatment of relatively small quantities of nature the true essence of reason, the true method of understanding, is well recognized. it remains to be demonstrated that the great relations of the world, the treatment of which is still doubtful, are likewise intelligible by the same method. cause and effect, mind and matter, matter and force, are such great world problems, and they are of a physical character. we shall demonstrate that the most general distinction between reason and its object furnishes the key to the solution of the great world problems. +(a) cause and effect.+ "the nature of natural history," says f. w. bessell, "lies in the fact that it does not consider phenomena as facts in themselves, but looks for their causes. the knowledge of nature is thus reduced to the minimum number of facts." but the causes of the phenomena of nature had been investigated even before the age of natural history. the characteristic mark of natural history is not so much that it investigates causes, but that the causes which it investigates have a peculiar nature and a particular quality. inductive science has materially changed the conception of causes. it has retained the term, but uses it in a different sense from that employed by speculation. the naturalist conceives of causes differently within his special field and outside of it; here, outside of his specialty, he frequently indulges in introspective speculation, because he understands science and its cause in a concrete, but not in a general way. the unscientific forces are of a supernatural make-up, they are transcendental spirits, gods, forces, little and big goblins. the original conception of causes is an anthropomorphic one. in a state of inexperience, man measures the objective by a subjective standard, judges the world by himself. just as he creates things with conscious intent, so he attributes to nature his human manner, imagines the existence of an external and creative cause of the phenomena of sense perception, similar to himself who is the special cause of his own creations. this subjective mood is to blame for the fact that the struggle for objective understanding has so long been in vain. the unscientifically conceived cause is a speculation of the _a priori_ kind. if the term understanding is retained for subjective understanding, then objective science differs from it in that such a science penetrates to the causes of its objects not by faith or introspective speculation, but by experience and induction, not _a priori_, but _a posteriori_. natural science looks for causes not outside or back of nature's phenomena, but within or by means of them. modern research seeks no external creator of causes, but rather the immanent system, the method or general mode of the various phenomena as they are given by succession in time. the unscientifically conceived cause is a "thing in itself," a little god who generates his effects independently and hides behind them. the scientific conception of causes, on the other hand, looks only for the theory of effects, the general element of phenomena. to investigate a cause means then to generalize a variety of phenomena, to arrange the multiplicity of experienced facts under one scientific rule. "the knowledge of nature is thus reduced to the minimum number of facts." the commonplace and inept knowledge differs from the most exalted, rarest, and newly discovered science in the same way in which a petty and childish superstition differs from the historical superstition of a whole period. for this reason we may well choose our illustrations from our daily circle, instead of looking for them in the so-called higher regions of a remote science. human common sense had long practiced the investigation of causes by inductive and scientific methods, before science realized that it would have to pursue its higher aims in the same way. common sense does arrive at the faith in a mysterious cause of speculative reason, just like the naturalist, as soon as it leaves the field of its immediate environment. in order to stand firmly on the ground of real science, every one requires the understanding of the manner in which inductive reason investigates its causes. to this end let us glance briefly at the outcome of the study of the nature of reason. we know that the faculty of understanding is not a "thing in and by itself," because it becomes real only in contact with some object. but whatever we know of any object, is known not alone through the object, but also through the faculty of reason. consciousness, like all other being, is relative. understanding is contact with a variety of objects. to knowledge there is attached distinction, subject and object, variety in unity. thus things become mutual causes and mutual effects. the entire world of phenomena, of which thought is but a part, a form, is an absolute circle, in which the beginning and end is everywhere and nowhere, in which everything is at the same time essence and semblance, cause and effect, general and concrete. just as all nature is in the last instance one sole general unity, in view of which all other unities become a multitude, so this same nature, or objectivity, or world of sense perceptions, or whatever else we may call the sum of all phenomena or effects, is the final cause of all things, compared to which all other causes become effects. but we must remember that this cause of all causes is only the sum of all effects, not a transcendental or superior being. every cause has its effect, every effect causes something. a cause cannot be physically separated from its effect any more than the visible can be separated from the eye, the taste from the tongue, in brief the general from the concrete. nevertheless, the faculty of thought may separate the one from the other. we must keep in mind that this separation is a mere formality of thought, although it is a formality which is necessary in order to be reasonable or conscious, in order to act scientifically. the practice of understanding, or scientific practice, derives the concrete from the general, the natural things from nature. but whoever has been behind the scenes, and has looked at the faculty of thought at work, knows that, conversely the general is derived from the concrete, the concept of nature from natural things. the theory of understanding or science teaches us that the antecedent is understood by its consequent, the cause by its effect, while our practical understanding regards the after as a consequence of the before, the effect as a result of the cause. the faculty of understanding, the organ of generalization, regards its opposite, the concrete, as secondary, while the faculty of thought which understands itself regards it as primary. however, the practice of understanding is not to be changed by its theory, nor can it be; the theory intends simply to render the steps of consciousness firm. the scientific farmer differs from the practical farmer, not because he employs theory and method, for both do that, but because he understands the theory, while the practical man theorizes instinctively. to continue: from a given multitude of facts, reason generates truth in general, and out of a succession of forms and transformations it abstracts the true cause, just as absolute multiplicity is the nature of space, so absolute variability is the nature of time. every particle of time and space is new, original, and has never been there before. the faculty of thought enables us to find our way through this absolute medley by abstracting general concepts out of the multitude of things in space, and tracing the variations of time to general causes. the entire nature of reason consists in generalizing sense perceptions, in abstracting the common elements out of concrete things. whoever does not fully understand reason by understanding that it is the organ of generalization forgets that understanding requires an object which must remain something outside of its conception, since such object cannot be dissolved by its conception. the being of the reasoning faculty cannot be understood any more than being in general. or rather, being is understood when we take it in its generality. not being itself, but the general element of being, is understood by the faculty of thought. let us realize, for instance, the process which takes place when reason understands something it did not know before. think of some peculiar, unexpected and unknown chemical transformation which takes place suddenly and without apparent cause in some mixture. assume furthermore that the same reaction takes place more frequently after that, until experience demonstrates that this inexplicable change occurs whenever sunlight touches the mixture. this already constitutes a certain understanding of the process. assume furthermore that subsequent experience teaches us that several other substances have the faculty of producing the same reaction in connection with sunlight. we have then arranged the new reaction in line with a number of phenomena of the same class, that is to say we have enlarged, deepened, completed our understanding of it still more. and if we finally discover that a special part of the sunlight unites with a special element of the mixture and thereby produces this new reaction, we have generalized this experience, or experienced this generalization, in a "pure" state, in other words, the theory of this reaction is complete, reason has solved its problem, and yet it has done nothing more than it did when it classified the animal and vegetable kingdoms in families, genera, species, etc. to find the species, the genus, the sex, etc., of anything means to understand it. reason proceeds in the same way when it investigates the causes of certain transformations. causes are, in the last instance, not noticed and furnished by means of sight, hearing, feeling, not by means of the sense perceptions. they are rather supplied by the faculty of thought. it is true, causes are not the "pure" products of the faculty of thought, but are produced by it in connection with sense perceptions and their material objects. this raw material gives the objective existence to the causes produced by the mind. just as we demand that a truth should be the truth about some objective phenomenon, so we also demand that a cause should be real, that it should be the cause of some objective effect. the understanding of any concrete cause is conditioned on the empirical study of its material, while the understanding of any general cause is based on the study of the faculty of reason. in the understanding of concrete causes, the material of study varies, but reason maintains a constant or general attitude. the cause, as a general cause, is a pure conception, and it is based on the study of the multiformity of concrete understandings of causes, or on the multiplied study of concrete causes. hence we are compelled to return to the concrete material of the general concept, to the understanding of concrete causes, if we wish to analyze the concept of a general cause. when a stone falls into the water and causes ripples on the surface, the stone is no more the cause of the ripples than the liquid condition of the water. if the stone falls on solid substances, it causes no ripples. it is the contact of the falling stone with liquid substances which causes the ripples. the cause is itself an effect, and the effect, the ripples, become a cause when they carry a piece of cork ashore. but in either case the cause is based on a mutual effect, on the interaction of the waves with the light condition of the cork. a stone falling into the water is not a cause "in itself," not a cause in general. we arrive at such a cause only, when the faculty of thought uses concrete causes for its raw material and constructs out of them the "pure" concept of the cause in general. a stone falling into the water is only the cause of the subsequent ripples, and it becomes a general cause only through the experience that ripples always follow the falling of a stone into water. we call cause that which generally precedes a certain manifestation, and effect that which generally follows it. we refer to the stone as the cause of ripples merely because we know that it always causes them when falling into water. but since ripples sometimes appear without being preceded by the fall of a stone, ripples have another general cause. so far as there is anything general in ripples which precedes them, it is the elasticity of the water itself which is the general cause of ripples. circular ripples, which are a special form of ripples, are generally preceded by the falling of some body into the water, and this body is then considered as their cause. the cause is always different in proportion and to the extent of the phenomena under consideration. we cannot ascertain causes by mere introspective reasoning, we cannot derive them out of our head. matter, materials, sense perceptions are required for this purpose. a definite cause requires a definite material, a definite amount of sense perceptions. in the abstract unity of nature, the variations of matter are represented by the variations of concrete quantities. every quantity is given in time before and after a certain other quantity, as antecedent and subsequent. the general element of the antecedent is called cause, the general element of the subsequent, effect. when the wind sways a forest, the yielding character of the forest is as much instrumental in producing this effect as the bending power of the wind. the cause of a thing is its connection with other things. the fact that the same wind leaves rocks and walls standing shows that the cause is not qualitatively different from the effect, but that it is a matter of aggregate effects. if nevertheless science or knowledge determines any special fact to be the cause of any change, that is to say of any succession of phenomena, this cause is no longer regarded as the external creator, but merely as the general mode, the immanent method of succession. a definite cause can be ascertained only when we have under consideration a definite circle, series, or number of changes, the cause of which is to be determined. and within a definite circle of succeeding phenomena, that which generally precedes is their cause. the wind which sways a forest differs from wind as a general cause only in that the latter has other general effects, inasmuch as it howls in one place, stirs up dust in another, or acts in many different ways. in the special case of the forest, the wind is a cause only in so far as it precedes the swaying of the trees. but in the case of rocks and walls, the solidity precedes the wind and is therefore the general cause of their resistance to the swaying power of the wind. in a still wider circle of hurricane phenomena, a gentle wind may be regarded as a cause of the stability of the objects last mentioned. the _quantity_ or _number_ of given objects varies the name of their cause. if a certain company of people return from a walk in a tired condition, this change of condition is just as much due to the physical weakness of the people as to the walk. in other words, a manifestation has in itself no cause which can be separated from it. everything which was connected with a phenomenon has contributed toward its appearance. in the case of the promenaders, the physical constitution of their bodies has to be considered as well as the physical constitution and length of the road and duration of the walk. if reason is nevertheless called upon to determine the special cause of some concrete change, for instance, of a tired feeling, it is simply a question of determining which one of the various factors has contributed most to that feeling. in this case as well as in all others, the work of reason consists in developing the general from the concrete, that is to say in this case, singling out from a given number of tired sensations that which generally precedes the tired feeling. if most of the promenaders or all of them are found to be tired, the walk will be considered as the cause. but if only a few are tired, the weak constitution of these people will be considered as the general cause of their tired condition. to use another illustration: if the discharge of a shot frightens some birds, this effect is due to the combined action of the shot and the timidity of the birds. if the majority of the birds fly away, the shot will be considered as the cause. but if the minority fly away, their timidity will be regarded as the cause. effects are subsequences. since all things in nature follow other things and all things have an antecedent and a subsequent, we may call the natural, the real, the sense perceptions absolute effects, having no cause unless we find one with our faculty of thought by systematizing the given material. causes are mental generalizations of perceptible changes. the supposed relation of cause and effect is a miracle, a creation of something out of nothing. for this reason this relation has been and still is an object of speculative reasoning. the speculative cause creates its effects. but in reality the effects are the material out of which the brain, or science, forms its causes. the cause concept is a product of reason; not of "pure" reason, but of reason married to the world of sense perceptions. if kant maintains that the statement: "every change has its cause" is an _a priori truth_ which we cannot experience because no one can possibly experience all changes, although every one has the irrefutable feeling of the correctness of this statement, we know now that this statement expresses merely the experience that the phenomenon which we call reason recognizes the uniform element in all multiformity. or in other words, we now know that the development of the general element out of the concrete facts is called reason, thought, or mind. the secure knowledge that every change has its cause is nothing else but the conviction that we are thinking human beings. _cogito, ergo sum._ i think, therefore i am. we have experienced the nature of our reason instinctively even if we have not analyzed it scientifically. we are as well aware of the faculty of our reason to abstract a cause out of every given change, as we are that every circle is round, that a is equal to a. we know that the general is the product of reason, and reason produces this general thing in contact with every given object. and since all objects before and after a certain other object are temporal changes, it follows that all changes which we as thinking beings experience must have a general antecedent, a cause. already the english sceptic hume felt that true causes are different from assumed causes. according to him the concept of a cause contains nothing but the experience of that which generally precedes a certain phenomenon. kant rightfully remarks on the other hand that the conception of cause and effect expresses a far more intimate relation than that indicated by a loose and accidental succession, and that the concept of a cause rather comprises that of a certain effect as a necessity and strict general result. therefore he claimed that there must be something _a priori_ in reason which cannot be experienced and which extends beyond experience. we reply to the materialists who deny all autonomy of the mind and hope to detect causes by experience alone that the general necessity which presupposes the relation of cause and effect represents an impossible experience. and we reply to the idealists: although reason explores causes which cannot be experienced, this research cannot take place _a priori_, but only _a posteriori_, only on the basis of empirically given effects. it is true that the mind alone discovers the imperceptible and abstract generality, but it does so only within the circle of certain given sense perceptions. +(b) matter and mind.+ the understanding of the general dependence of the faculty of thought on material sense perceptions will restore to objective reality that right which has long been denied to it by ideas and opinions. nature with its varied concrete phenomena which had been crowded out of human considerations by philosophical and religious imaginings, and which has been scientifically re-established again on special fields by the development of natural sciences, gains general theoretical recognition by the understanding of the functions of the brain. hitherto natural science has chosen for its object only special matters, special causes, special forces, but has remained ignorant in general questions of so-called natural philosophy regarding the cause of all things, of matter, of force in general. the actual existence of this ignorance is revealed by that great contradiction between idealism and materialism which pervades all works of science like a red thread. "may i succeed in this letter in strengthening the conviction that chemistry as an independent science represents one of the most powerful means for the higher cultivation of the mind, that its study is useful not alone for the promotion of the material interests of mankind, but because it permits a deeper penetration of the wonders of creation, with which our existence, our welfare, and our development are intimately connected." in these words liebig expresses the prevalent views which have accustomed themselves to look upon material and spiritual differences as absolute opposites. but the untenability of such a distinction is vaguely felt even by the just quoted advocate of this view, who speaks of material interests and of a mental penetration which is the condition for our existence, welfare, and development. but what else does the term material interests mean but the abstract expression of our existence, welfare, and development? are not these the concrete content of our material interests? does he not say explicitly that the penetration of the wonders of creation promotes our material interests? and on the other hand, does not the promotion of our material interests require a penetration on our part of the wonders of creation? in what respect are our material interests different from our mental penetration of things? the superior, spiritual, ideal, which liebig in conformity with the views of the world of naturalists opposes to our material interests, is only a special part of those interests. mental penetration and material interests differ no more than the circle differs from the square. circles and squares are contrasts, but at the same time they are but different and special classes of form in general. it has been the custom, especially since the advent of christian times, to speak contemptuously of material, perceptible, fleshly things which are destroyed by rust and moths. and nowadays people continue on this conservative track, although their antipathy against perceptible reality has long disappeared from their minds and actions. the christian separation of mind and body has been practically abandoned in the age of natural science. but the theoretical solution of the contradiction, the demonstration that the spiritual is material and the material at the same time spiritual, by which the material interests would be freed from the stigma of inferiority, has not yet been forthcoming. modern science is natural science. science is deemed worthy of its name only in so far as it is natural science. in other words, only that thought is scientific which consciously has real, perceptible, natural things for its object. for this reason representatives and friends of science can not be enemies of nature or of matter. indeed they are not. but the very existence of science shows that this nature, this world of sense perceptions, this matter or substance, does alone and by itself not satisfy us. science, or thought, which has material practice or being for its object, does not strive to reproduce nature in its integrity, in its entire perceptible substance, for these are already present. if science were to aim at nothing new, it would be superfluous. it is entitled to special recognition only to the extent that it carries a new element into matter. science is not so much concerned in the material of its study as in understanding. of course it is the understanding of this material which is desired, the understanding of its general character, of the fixed pole in the succession of phenomena. that which religion supernaturally separates from the material, which science opposes to the material as something higher, diviner, more spiritual, is in reality nothing but the faculty of rising above multiformity, of proceeding from the concrete to the general. the nobler spiritual interests are not absolutely different from the material interests, they are not qualitatively different. the positive side of modern idealism does not consist in belittling eating and drinking, the pleasure in earthly possessions and in intercourse with the other sex, but rather in pleading for the recognition of other material enjoyments besides these, as for instance those of the eye, the ear, of art and science, in short of the whole man. you shall not indulge in the material revelries of passion, that is to say you shall not direct your thought one-sidedly to any concrete lust, but rather consider your entire development, take into account the total general extension of your existence. the bare materialist principle is inadequate in that it does not appreciate the difference between the concrete and the general, because it makes the individual synonymous with the general. it refuses to recognize the quantitative superiority of the mind over the world of sense perceptions. idealism, on the other hand, forgets the qualitative unity in the quantitative difference. it is transcendental and makes an absolute difference out of the relative one. the contradiction between these two camps is due to the misunderstood relation of our reason to its given object or material. the idealist regards reason alone as the source of all understanding, while the materialist looks upon the world of sense perceptions in the same way. nothing is required for a solution of this contradiction but the comprehension of the relative interdependence of these two sources of understanding. idealism sees only the difference, materialism sees only the uniformity of matter and mind, content and form, force and substance, sense perception and moral interpretation. but all these distinctions belong to the one common genus which constitutes the distinction between the special and the general. consistent materialists act like purely practical men without any science. but, since knowing and thinking are real attributes of man regardless of his party affiliation, purely practical men do not exist in reality. even the merest attempt at practical experiment on the basis of experienced facts differs only in degree from scientific practice based on theoretical principles. on the other hand, consistent idealists are just as impossible as purely practical men. they would like to have the general without the special, the spirit without matter, force without substance, science without experience or material, the absolute without the relative. how can thinkers who search for truth, being, relative causes, such as naturalists, be idealists? they are so only outside of their specialties, never inside of them. the modern mind, the mind of natural science, is immaterial only so far as it embraces all matters. but men like the astronomer madler find so little of the ridiculous in the current expectation of the materially increased spiritual power after our "emancipation from the bonds of matter," that he has nothing better to substitute for it and flatters himself with having defined the "bonds of matter" as material attraction. truly, so long as mind is still conceived in the form of a religious ghost, the expectation of an increased mental power after the emancipation from the bonds of matter is not so much an object for ridicule as for compassion. but if we regard mind as the expression of modern science, we offer the better scientific explanation for the traditional faith. by bonds of matter we do not mean, in that case, the bond of gravitation, but the multiplicity of sense perceptions. and matter holds the mind in bondage only so long as the faculty of thought has not overcome the multiplicity of things. the emancipation of the mind from the bonds of matter consists in developing the general element out of the concrete multiplicity. +(c) force and matter.+ the reader who has closely followed our main idea, which will be further illustrated, will anticipate that the question of matter and force finds its solution in the understanding of the relation between the general and the special. what is the relation of the concrete to the abstract? this is the common problem of those who see the active impulse of the world either in the spiritual force or in the material substance, who think to find the nature of things, the _non plus ultra_ of science, in either of these facts. liebig, who is especially fond of straying from his inductive science into the field of speculative thought, says in an idealist sense: "force cannot be seen, we cannot grasp it with our hands; in order to understand its nature and peculiarities, we must investigate its effects." and if a materialist replies to him: "matter is force, force is matter, no matter without force, no force without matter," it is plain that either has determined this relation only negatively. in certain shows, the clown is asked by the manager: "clown, where have you been?" "with the others," answers the clown. "and where were the others?"--"with me." in this case we have two answers with the same content, in the other we have two camps which quarrel with different words about an indisputable fact. and this dispute is so much more ridiculous because it is taken so seriously. if the idealist makes a distinction between matter and force, he does not mean to deny that the real phenomenon of force is inseparably linked with matter. and if the materialist claims that there is no matter without force and no force without matter, he does not mean to deny that matter and force are different, as his opponent claims. the dispute exists for a good reason and has its object, but this object is not revealed in the dispute. it is instinctively kept under cover by both parties, so that they may not be in a position where they would have to acknowledge their own ignorance. each wants to prove to the other that the other's explanations are inadequate, and both demonstrate this sufficiently. büchner admits in the closing statements of his "matter and force" that the empirical material is insufficient to permit of definite answers to transcendental questions, and that therefore no positive answer can be given to them. and he furthermore says that the empirical material "is fully sufficient to answer them negatively and to do away with hypothesis." this is saying in so many words that the science of the materialist is adequate for the proof that his opponent knows nothing. the spiritualist or idealist believes in a spiritual, which means in a ghostlike and inexplicable, nature of force. the materialist thinkers, on the other hand, are skeptical. a scientific proof of faith or of skepticism does not exist. the materialist has only this advantage over his idealist opponent, that he looks for the transcendental, the nature, the cause, the force, not back of the phenomenon, not outside of matter. but he remains behind the idealist when he ignores the difference between matter and force. the materialist dwells on the actual inseparability of matter and force and does not admit any other reason for a distinction between the two than "an external reason derived from the demand of our mind for systematization." büchner says in "nature and mind," page : "force and matter, separated from one another, are for me nothing but thoughts, fantasies, ideas without any substance, hypotheses which do not exist for any healthy study of nature, because all phenomena of nature are rendered obscure and unintelligible by such a separation." but if büchner deals with any special department of natural science in a productive way, instead of handling phrases of natural philosophy, his own practice will show him that the separation of forces from matter is not an "external," but an internal, an imminent necessity, by which alone we are enabled to elucidate and understand the phenomena of nature. although the author of "force and matter" chose for his motto: "now, what i want is--facts," we assure the reader that this device is more a thoughtless word than a serious opinion. materialism is not so coarse-grained that it wants purely facts. those facts which büchner is looking for are by themselves not specifics for his desires. the idealist likewise wants such facts. no student of nature wants mere hypotheses. what all cultivators of the field of science want is not so much facts as explanations or an understanding of facts. even the materialist will not deny that science, the "natural philosophy" of büchner not excepted, is more concerned with mental forces than with bodily matter, that it cares more for force than for matter. the separation of force and matter is derived from "the demand of our mind for systematization." very true! but so does all science emanate from the demand of our reason for systematization. the contradistinction between force and matter is as old as that between idealism and materialism. the first conciliation between the two was attempted by imagination which, through the belief in spirits, suggested a secret nature as the cause of all natural phenomena. science has of late expelled many of these special spirits by replacing the fantastic demons with scientific, or general, explanations. and after we have succeeded in explaining the demon of "pure" reason, it is not difficult to expel the special spirit of force by the general explanation of its nature and thus to reconcile scientifically the contradiction between spiritualism and materialism. in the universe which constitutes the object of science and of the faculty of reason, both force and matter are unseparated. in the world of sense perceptions force is matter and matter is force. "force cannot be seen." oh, yes! seeing itself is pure force. seeing is as much an effect of its object as an effect of the eye, and this double effect and other effects are forces. we do not see the things themselves, but their effects on our eyes. we see their forces. and force cannot alone be seen, it can also be heard, smelled, tasted, felt. who will deny that he can feel the force of heat, of cold, of gravitation? we have already quoted the words of professor koppe to the effect that we "cannot perceive heat itself, we merely conclude from its effects that this force exists in nature." this is saying in other words that we do not see, hear, or feel the things themselves, but their effects or forces. it is just as true to say that we feel matter and not its force as it is to say that we feel force and not matter. indeed, both are inseparable from the object, as we have already remarked. but by means of the faculty of thought we separate from the simultaneously and successively occurring phenomena the general and the concrete. for instance, we abstract the general concept of sight from the various phenomena of our sight and distinguish it by the name of power of vision from the concrete objects, or substances, of our eyes. from a multitude of sense perceptions we develop by means of reason the general element. the general element of different water phenomena, for instance, is the water power distinguished from the substance of the water. if levers of different materials but of the same length have the same power, it is plain that in this case force is different from matter only in so far as it represents the general element of various substances. a horse does not pull without force, and this force does not pull without the horse. indeed, in practice the horse is force and force is the horse. but nevertheless we may distinguish the power of pulling from other qualities of the horse, or we may refer to the common element in different services of horses as general horse power, without thereby starting from any other hypothesis than we do in distinguishing the sun from the earth. for in reality the sun does not exist without the earth, nor the earth without the sun. the world of sense perceptions is made known to us only by our consciousness, but consciousness is conditioned on the world of sense perceptions. nature is infinitely united or infinitely separated, according to whether we regard it from the standpoint of consciousness as an unconditional unit or from the standpoint of sense perceptions as an unconditional multiplicity. there is truth in both unity and multiplicity, but it is truth only relatively speaking, under certain conditions. it matters a great deal whether we look about with the eyes of the body or with the eyes of the mind. for the eyes of the mind, matter is force. for the eyes of the body, force is matter. the abstract matter is force, the concrete force is matter. matter is represented by the objects of the hand, of practice, while force is an object of understanding, of science. science is not limited to the so-called scientific world. it reaches beyond all classes, it belongs to the full depth and width of life. science belongs to thinking humanity in its entirety. and so it is with the separation of matter and force. only a stultified fanaticism can ignore the practical distinction. the miser who accumulates money without adding any wealth to his life process forgets that the valuable element of money resides in its force, which is different from, its substance. he forgets that not mere wealth as such, not the paltry gold substance, lends a reasonableness to the quest for its possession, but its spiritual content, its inherent exchange value, which buys the necessities of life. every scientific practice, which means every action carried on with a predetermined success and with understood substances, proves that the separation of matter and force, though only performed in thought and existing in thought, is nevertheless not an empty phrase, not a mere hypothesis, but a very fertile idea. a farmer manuring his field is handling "pure" manuring force, in so far as it is immaterial for the abstract conception whether he is handling cow dung, bone dust, or guano. and in weighing bundles of merchandise, it is not the iron, copper, stone, etc., which is handled by the pound, but their gravity. true, there is no force without matter, no matter without force. forceless matter and matterless force are nonentities. if idealist naturalists believe in an immaterial existence of forces which, so to say, carry on their goblin-pranks in matter, forces which we cannot see, cannot perceive by the senses and yet are asked to believe in, then we say that such men are to that extent that naturists, but mere speculators, in other words spiritualists. and the word of the materialists who refer to the intellectual separation of matter and force as a mere hypothesis, is quite as brainless. in order that this separation may be appreciated according to its merits, in order that our consciousness may neither etherealize force in a spiritualist sense nor deny it in a materialist sense, and in order to comprehend it scientifically, we have only to understand the faculty of thought in general or "in itself," that is to say its abstract form. the intellect can not operate without some perceptible material. in order to distinguish between matter and force, these things must exist and be experienced by sense perception. by means of this experience we refer to matter as the expression of force and to force as the expression of matter. the perceptible object which is to be studied is therefore matter and force in one, and since all objects are in their tangible reality such matter and force-things, the distinction made by the mind consists in the general method of brain work, in the derivation of the general unity, from the special multiplicity in any one and in all given objects. the distinction between matter and force is summarized in the universal distinction between the concrete and the abstract. to deny the value of this distinction is equivalent to denying the value of any and all distinction, equivalent to ignoring the function of the intellect altogether. if we refer to phenomena of sense perception as forces of matter in general, then this generalized matter is nothing but an abstract conception. but if we mean by the term sense perception the various concrete substances, then the general element which embraces the differences of things and pervades and controls them is force producing concrete effects. and whether we say matter or force, the mental which science is studying, not with its hands, but with its brain, the so-called essence, nature, cause, ideal, superior or spiritual, is the generality comprising the special things. v "practical reason" or morality +(a) the wise and reasonable.+ the understanding of the method of science, the understanding of the mind, is destined to solve all the problems of religion and philosophy, to explain thoroughly all the great and small riddles, and thus fully to restore research to its mission of empirically studying details. if we are aware that it is a law of reason to require some perceptible material, some cause, for its operation, then the question regarding the first or general cause becomes superfluous. human understanding is then seen to be first and last cause of all concrete causes. if we understand that it is a law of reason to require for its operation some given object, some beginning at which to start, then the question of the first beginning must necessarily become inane. if we understand that reason derives abstract units out of concrete multiplicities, that it constructs truth out of phenomena, substance out of attributes, that it perceives all things as parts of a whole, as individuals of some genus, as qualities of some object, then the question regarding a "thing itself," a something which in reality is back of all things, must needs become irrelevant. in brief, the understanding of the interdependence of reason reveals the unreasonableness of the demand for independent reason. now, although the main object of metaphysics, the cause of all causes, the beginning of all beginnings, the nature of things, causes little inconvenience to modern science, and even though the needs of the present have overcome the leaning for speculation, this practical downfall of speculation does not suffice for the solution of its problems. so long as the theoretical law is not understood, according to which reason requires some concrete object for its operation, there is no hope of abandoning objectless thought, this malpractice of speculative philosophy, which pretends to generate knowledge without intercourse with objective reality. our naturalists demonstrate this very clearly as soon as they turn from their tangible specialties to abstract things. the dispute over questions of life's wisdom, of morality, or the quarrel over the wise, good, right, or bad, reveals that here is the boundary of scientific agreement. the scientific explorers of the exact sciences abandon every day their inductive method when dealing with social problems, and stray off into the regions of speculative philosophy. just as in physics they believe in imperceptible physical truths, in "things themselves," so in social matters they believe in the reasonable, wise, right, or bad, in the sense of "things themselves," of absolute phases of life, of unconditional conditions. it is here where the outcome of our studies, of the critique of pure reason, must be applied. in recognizing that consciousness, the nature of understanding, the mental activity in its general form, consists in developing general concepts out of concrete objects, we circumscribe this insight by stating that reason develops its understanding out of contradictions. it is the nature of the mind to perceive, in given phenomena of different dimensions and different duration, the nature of things by their semblance, and their semblance by their nature; to distinguish in wants of various degrees the most essential and necessary from the less pressing; to measure within a certain circle of magnitudes the large by the small and the small by the large, or in other words to compare the contrasts of the world with one another, to harmonize them by explanation. common parlance instinctively calls understanding judging; judging requires a certain standard. just as surely as we cannot perceive any objects which are "in themselves" great or small, hard or soft, clear or dark, just as surely as these terms denote certain relations and require a certain standard by which their relations can be determined, even so does reason require a certain standard for the determination of that which is reasonable. the fact that we consider certain actions, institutions, conceptions, maxims of other periods, nations, or persons unreasonable is simply due to the application of a different standard, because we ignore the premises, the conditions, which cause another's reason to differ from our own. men who differ in their mental estimates, in their understanding of things, may be likened to the thermometers of reaumur and celsius, one of which designates the boiling point by and the other by . a different standard is the cause of this different result. on the so-called moral field there is no scientific agreement, such as we enjoy in some physical matters, because we lack the uniform standard which natural science has long since found. it is still attempted to perceive the reasonable, good, right, etc., without empirical data, by speculative reasoning without experience. speculation seeks the cause of all causes, the immeasurable cause; truth "itself," the unconditional and standardless truth; the unlimited good, the unboundedly reasonable, etc. the absence of a standard is the essence of speculation, and its practice is characterized by unlimited inconsistency and disagreement. if there are followers of certain positive religions who agree in the matter of morals, they owe this to the positive standard which certain dogmas, doctrines and commandments have given them. but if any one tries to perceive things by "pure" reason, the dependence of this reason on some standard will be demonstrated by its "impure," that is to say individual, perceptions. sense perception is the standard of truth, or of science in general. the phenomena of the outside world are the standard of physical truths, and man with his many wants is the standard of moral truth. the actions of man are determined by his wants. thirst teaches him to drink, need to pray. wants are regulated in the south by southern conditions, in the north by northern conditions. wants rule time and space, nations and individuals. they induce the savage to hunt and the gourmand to indulge. human wants give to reason a standard for judging what is good, right, bad, reasonable, etc. whatever satisfies our need is good, the opposite is bad. the physical feeling of man is the object of moral standards, the object of "practical reason." the contradictory variety of human needs is the basis for the contradictory variety of moral standards. because a member of a feudal guild prospered in a restricted competition, and a modern knight of industry in free competition, because their interests differ, therefore their views differ, and the one justly considers an institution as unreasonable which the other regards as reasonable. if the intellect of some person attempts to define by mere introspection the standard of reasonableness as a general thing, this person makes himself or herself the standard of humanity. if reason is credited with the faculty of finding within itself the source of moral truth, it commits the speculative mistake of attempting to produce understanding without perceptible objects. the same mistake is to blame for the idea that man is subordinate to the authority of reason, for the demand that man submit to the dictates of reason. this idea transforms man into an attribute of reason, while in reality reason is an attribute of man. the question whether man depends on reason or reason on man is similar to the one whether the citizen exists for the state or the state for the citizen. in the last and highest instance, the citizen is the primary fact and the state is modified according to the requirements of the citizen. but whenever the dominant interests of the citizenship have acquired the authority in the state, then the citizen is indeed dependent on the state. this is saying in so many words that man is guided in minor matters by more important ones. he sacrifices the less important, minor, particular things to the great, essential, general things. he subordinates his desire for more individual indulgence to his fundamental social needs. it is not pure reason, but the reason of a weak body or of a limited purse which teaches man to renounce the pleasures of dissipation for the benefit of the general welfare. the wants of the senses are the material out of which reason fashions moral truths. to single out the essential need among different physical needs of various degrees of intensity or extension, to separate the true from the individual, to develop general concepts, that is the mission of reason. the difference between the apparently and the truly reasonable reduces itself to the difference between the special and the general. we recall that reason requires sense perceptions for its existence and operation, that it needs some object which it can perceive. existence is the condition or premise of all understanding. just as the understanding of true existence is the function of natural science, so the understanding of reasonable existence is the function of wisdom. reason in general has the mission of understanding things as they are. as physical science it has to understand what is true, as wisdom, what is reasonable. and just as true may be translated by general, so reasonable may be translated by generally appropriate to need. we saw a while ago that a sense perception is not true "in itself," but only relatively true, that it is called true or general only in relation to other perceptions of lesser importance. in the same way, no human action can be reasonable or appropriate "in itself," it can be reasonable only in comparison with some other action which attempts to accomplish the same purpose in a less practicable, that is an impracticable, form. just as the true, the general, is conditioned on the relation to some other object, on a definite quantity of phenomena, on definite limits, so the reasonable or practicable is based on definite conditions which make it reasonable or unreasonable. the end in view is the measure of the practicable. the practicable can be determined only by some definite object that is wanted. once this object is known, then that action is called reasonable which accomplishes it in the fullest, most general way, and all other actions appear unreasonable compared to it. in view of the law which we evolved by our analysis of pure reason and which showed that all understanding, all thought, is based on some perceptible object, on some quantity of sense perceptions, it is evident that everything distinguished by our faculty of distinction is a certain quantity and that, therefore, all distinctions are only quantitative, not absolute, only graduated, not irreconcilable. even the difference between the reasonable and the unreasonable, or in other words between that which is momentarily or individually reasonable and that which is generally reasonable, is merely a quantitative distinction, like all others, so that the unreasonable may be conditionally reasonable, and nothing is unreasonable but that which is supposed to be unconditionally reasonable. if we understand that reason requires some perceptible object, some perceptible standard, then we shall no longer try to understand the absolutely reasonable, the purely reasonable. we shall then limit ourselves to look for the reasonable, as for all other things, in concrete objects. the definite, accurate, certain, uniform result of some understanding depends on the definite formulation of the task, on the accurate limitation of the perceptible quantity which is to be understood. if a certain moment, a certain person, a certain class, a certain nation are given and at the same time an essential need, a general and predominating purpose, then the question regarding the reasonable or suitable is easily answered. it is true that we may also know something of things which are generally reasonable for mankind in the aggregate, but in that case our standard must be abstract mankind instead of some concrete part of it. science may study the anatomical structure of some concrete body as well as the general type of the human body, but this again it can do only when it supplies the faculty of understanding with general instead of individual material. if science divides the whole human race into four or five races, by establishing a certain standard of physiognomy, and later on discovers some individuals or tribes whose characters are so peculiar and rare that they cannot be classed under any of the established races, the existence of such exceptions is not a crime against the physical order of the world, but merely a proof of the inadequacy of our scientific classification. if, on the other hand, some conventional mode of thought considers a certain action as universally reasonable or unreasonable and then encounters opposition in actual life, convention fancies itself exempt from the work of understanding and assumes to deny civic rights in the moral order of the world to its opponents. instead of realizing the limited applicability of its rules by the existence of opposing practices, convention seeks to establish an absolute applicability of its rules by simply ignoring the cause of the opposition. this is a dogmatic procedure, a negative practice, which ignores facts on the pretense that they are irrational, but it is not a positive understanding, not an intelligent knowledge, such as manifests itself by the conciliation of contradictions. if our study aims to ascertain what is universally human and reasonable, and if these predicates are given only to actions which are reasonable and practicable for all men, at all times, and under all conditions, then such concepts are absolute, indeterminate, and to that extent meaningless, indefinite generalities. we are stating such universal and indeterminate, and therefore unimportant and unpractical concepts, when we say that physically the whole is greater than a part, or that morally the good is preferable to the bad. the object of reason is that which is general, but it is the generality of some concrete object. the practice of reason deals with individual and concrete objects, with the things which are the opposite of the general, with special and concrete knowledge. in order to perceive in physics whether we are dealing with a part or with the whole object, we must handle definite and concrete objects or phenomena. if we desire to ascertain what is morally preferable as good or bad, we must start out with a definite quantity of human needs. abstract and general reason, with its socalled eternal and absolute truths, is a phantasmagoria of ignorance which binds the rights of the individual with crushing chains. real and true reason is individual, it cannot produce any other but individual perceptions, and these perceptions cannot be generalized to any greater extent than the general material with which they operate. only that is universally reasonable which is acknowledged to be so by all reasons. if the reason of some time, class, or person is referred to as rational, and if some other time, class or person considers it irrational; if, for instance, the russian noble considers serfdom a rational institution and the english bourgeois the so-called liberty of his wage worker, both of these institutions are not absolutely rational, but only relatively, only in a more or less limited circle. it is not necessary to state that i do not mean to question the great importance of our reason by the foregoing remarks. even though reason cannot independently, or absolutely, discern the objects of the speculative introspection, such as the objects of the moral world, the true, the beautiful, the right, the bad, the reasonable, etc., it nevertheless is well fitted to distinguish relatively, by means of concrete sense perceptions, between general and concrete things, between the object and its manifestation, between fundamental needs and fanciful appetites. although we may dispense with the belief in absolute reason and consequently realize that there can be no absolute peace, still we may call war an unmitigated evil when comparing it with the peaceful interests of our time or of our class. not until we abandon our fruitless exploring trip after absolute truth, shall we learn to find that which is true in space and time. it is precisely the consciousness of the relative applicability of our knowledge which is the strongest lever of progress. the believers in absolute truth have adopted the monotonous diagram of "good" men and "rational" institutions as a basis for their views of life. for this reason they oppose all human and historical institutions which do not fit into their pattern, but which reality nevertheless produces without regard to their brains. absolute truth is the arch foundation of intolerance. on the other hand tolerance proceeds from the consciousness of the relative applicability of "eternal truths." the understanding of pure reason leads to the realization that the consciousness of the universal interdependence of reason is the true road toward practical reason. +(b) morality and right.+ the nature of our task limits us to the demonstration that pure reason is a nonentity, that reason is the sum of all acts of individual understanding, that it deals only seemingly with pure and general, but in reality with practical, or concrete, perceptions. we have been discussing that philosophy which pretends to be the science of pure or absolute understanding. we found its aim to be idle, inasmuch as the development of speculative philosophy represents a succession of disappointments, because its unconditional or absolute systems proved to be limited in space and time. our presentation of the matter has revealed the relative character of so-called eternal truths. we perceived that reason was dependent on sense perceptions, we found that any truth required definite limits for its determination. as regards more especially life's wisdom, we saw that the acquired knowledge of "pure" reason manifested itself in practice by the dependence of the wise or the rational upon concrete sense perceptions. if we now apply this theory to morality as such, we must be able to establish harmony also in this field, where there is some doubt as to what is right and wrong, by means of the scientific method. pagan morality is different from christian morality. feudal morality differs from modern bourgeois morality as does bravery from solvency. in brief, we need no detailed illustration to show that different times and nations have different moralities. we have but to understand that this change is necessary, a special characteristic of the human race and of its historical development, and we shall then exchange the belief in "eternal truths," which every ruling class claims to be identical with its own selfish laws, for the scientific knowledge that absolute right is purely a concept which we derive by means of the faculty of thought from the various successive rights. right as an absolute concept means no more and no less than any other general concept, for instance, the head in general. every real head is a concrete one and belongs either to man or to some other animal, it is either long or broad, narrow or wide, in other words it has special peculiarities. but at the same time, every concrete head has certain general qualities which are universal in all heads, for instance the quality of being the superintendent of the body. moreover, every head has as many general as individual traits, it is no more personal than it is common. the faculty of thought abstracts the general traits from the actual concrete heads and in this way creates the concept of the absolute head. just as the absolute head, or _the_ head, is composed of the general qualities of all heads, so the absolute right stands merely for the general characters of all rights. both of these concepts exist merely as ideas, not as objects. every real right is a concrete right, it is right only under certain conditions, at definite periods, for this or that nation. "thou shalt not kill," is right in peace, but wrong in war; it is right for the majority of bourgeois society that wishes to see the outbursts of passion controlled in the interest of its own predominant needs, but wrong for the savage who has not arrived at the period where a peaceful and social life is appreciated, and who therefore would consider the above commandment as an immoral restriction of his liberty. for the love of life, murder is a detestable abomination, for revenge it is a sweet satisfaction. in the same way robbery seems right to the robber, wrong to the robbed. there can be no question of any absolute wrong in such cases, only of wrong in a relative sense. an action is wrong in a general sense only in so far as it is generally disliked. plain robbery is wrong in the opinion of the great majority today because our generation takes more interest in bourgeois affairs of commerce and industry than in the adventures of the knights of the road. if there were such a thing as an absolutely right law, dogma, or action, it would have to serve the welfare of all mankind under all conditions and at all times. but human welfare is as different as men, circumstances, and time. what is good for me is bad for another, and the thing which may be beneficial as a rule may be injurious as an exception. what promotes some interests in one period may interfere with them in another. a law which would presume to be absolutely right would have to be right for every one and at all times. no absolute morality, no duty, no categorical imperative, no idea of _the_ good, can teach man what is good, bad, right, or wrong. that is good which corresponds to our needs, that is bad which is contrary to them. but is there anything which is absolutely good? everything and nothing. it is not the straight timber which is good, nor the crooked. neither is good, or either is good, according to whether i need it or not. and since we need all things, we can see some good in all of them. we are not limited to any one thing. we are unlimited, universal, and need everything. our interests are therefore innumerable, inexpressibly great, and therefore every law is inadequate, because it always considers only some special welfare, some special interest. and for this reason no right is right, or all of them are right, and it is as right to say "thou shalt not kill" as it is to say "thou shalt kill." the difference between good needs and bad needs, right wants and wrong wants, like that between truth and error, reasonable and unreasonable, finds its conciliation in the difference between the concrete and the general. reason cannot discover within itself any positive rights or absolutely moral codes any more than any other speculative truth. it cannot estimate how essential or unessential a thing is, or classify the quantity of concrete and general characters, until it has some perceptible material to work upon. the understanding of the right, or of the moral, like all understanding, strives to single out the general characteristics of its object. but the general is only possible within certain defined limits, it exists only as the general qualities of some concrete and determined perceptible object. and if any one tries to represent some maxim, some law, some right in the light of an absolute maxim, law or right, he forgets this necessary limitation. absolute right is merely a meaningless concept, and it does not assume even a vague meaning until it is understood to stand for the right of mankind in general. but morality, or the determination of that which is right, has a practical purpose. yet, if we accept the general and unconditional right of mankind as a moral right, we necessarily miss our practical aim. an act or a line of action which is universally or everywhere right requires no law for its enforcement, for it will recommend itself. it is only the determined and limited law, adapted to certain persons, classes, nations, times, or circumstances, which has any practical value, and it is so much more practical the more defined, exact, precise and the less general it is. the most universal and most widely recognized right or need is in its quality no more rightful, better, or valuable than the most insignificant right of the moment, than the momentary need of some individual. although we know that the sun is hundreds of thousands of miles in diameter, we are nevertheless free to see it no larger than a plate. and though we may acknowledge that some moral law is theoretically or universally good or holy, we are free in practice to reject it momentarily, in parts, or individually, as bad and useless. even the most sacred right of the most universal extent is valid only within certain definite limits, and within particular limits an otherwise very great wrong may be a valid right. it is true that there is an eternal difference between assumed and true interests, between passion and reason, between essential, predominating, general, well-founded needs and inclinations, and accidental, subordinate, special appetites. but this difference is not one of two separated worlds, a world of the good and a world of the bad. it is not a positive, general, continuous, absolute difference, but merely a relative one. like the difference between beautiful and homely, it depends on the individuality of the person who distinguishes. that which is a true and fundamental need in one case, is a secondary, subordinate, and wrong desire in another. _morality is the aggregate of the most contradictory ethical laws which serve the common purpose of regulating the conduct of man toward himself and others in such a way that the future is considered as well as the present, the one as well as the other, the individual as well as the genus. the individual man finds himself lacking, inadequate, limited in many ways. he requires for his complement other people, society, and must therefore live and let live. the mutual concessions which arise out of these relative needs are called morality._ the inadequacy of the single individual, the need of association, is the basis and cause of man's consideration for his neighbor, of morality. now since the one who feels this need, man, is necessarily an individual, it follows that his need must likewise be individual and more or less intensive. and since my neighbors are necessarily different from me, it requires different considerations to meet their needs. concrete man needs a concrete morality. just as abstract and meaningless as the concept of mankind in general is that of absolute morality, and the ethical laws derived from this vague idea are quite as unpractical and unsuccessful. man is a living personality, whose welfare and purpose is embodied within himself, who has between himself and the world nothing but his needs as a mediator, who owes no allegiance to any law whatever from the moment that it contravenes his needs. the moral duty of an individual never exceeds his interests. the only thing which exceeds those interests is the _material power_ of the generality over the individuality. if we regard it as the function of reason to ascertain that which is morally right, a uniform scientific result may be produced if we agree at the outset on the persons, conditions, or limits within which the universal moral right is to be determined; in other words, we may accomplish something practical if we drop the idea of absolute right and search for definite rights applicable to well-defined purposes by clearly stating our problem. the contradiction in the various standards of morality, and the many opposing solutions of this contradiction, are due to a misunderstanding of the problem. to look for right without a given quantity of sense perceptions, without some definite working material, is an act of speculative reason which pretends to explore nature without the use of senses. the attempt to arrive at a positive determination of morality by pure perception and pure reason is a manifestation of the philosophical faith in understanding _a priori_. "it is true," said macaulay in his history of england, in speaking of the rebellion against the lawless and cruel government of james ii., "that to trace the exact boundary between rightful and wrongful resistance is impossible: but this impossibility arises from the nature of right and wrong, and is found in every part of ethical science. a good action is not distinguished from a bad action by marks so plain as those which distinguish a hexagon from a square. there is a frontier where virtue and vice fade into each other. who has ever been able to define the exact boundary between courage and rashness, between prudence and cowardice, between frugality and avarice, between liberality and prodigality? who has ever been able to say how far mercy to offenders ought to be carried, and where it ceases to deserve the name of mercy and becomes a pernicious weakness?" it is not the impossibility of accurately determining this limit to which the nature of the difference between right and wrong, in the sense of macaulay, is due. it is rather due to the vague thought which believes in an unlimited right, in absolute virtues and faults, which has not risen to the understanding that the terms good, brave, right, and bad are valid always and everywhere only in relation to some concrete individual who reasons, and that they have no validity in themselves. courage is foolhardiness in the eyes of the cautious, and caution is cowardice in the opinion of the daring. the revolt against existing governments is always right in the eyes of the rebels, always wrong in the opinion of the attacked. no action can be absolutely right or wrong. the same qualities of man are good or bad, according to his needs and their uses, according to time and place. here trickery, slyness, and bad faith prevail, there loyally, frankness and straightforwardness. here compassion and charity serve their purpose and promote welfare, there ruthless and bloody severity. the quantity, the more or less beneficial effect of a human quality, determines the difference between virtue and vice. reason can distinguish between right and wrong, virtue and vice, only to the extent that it can measure the relative quantity of right in any faculty, rule, or action. no categorical imperative, no ethical code, can serve as a basis for the real practical right. on the contrary, ethics finds its justification in the actual righteousness of perceptible objects. for general reason, frankness is not a better quality than slyness. frankness is preferable to slyness only inasmuch as it is quantitatively, that is to say, more frequently, better, and more generally appreciated than slyness. it follows that a science of right can serve as a guide in practice only to the extent that practice has served as a basis for science. reason cannot determine the action of man beforehand, because it can only experience, but not anticipate reality, because every man, every situation, is new, original, exists for the first time, and because the possibilities of reason are confined to understanding _a posteriori_. absolute right, or right in itself, is an imagined right, is a speculative desire. a scientifically universal right requires certain definite and perceptible premises which form the basis of the determination of the general. science is not a dogmatic infallibility which may say: this or that is right, because it is so understood. science requires for its perceptions some external object. it can perceive right only if it rightly exists. the universal existence is the material, premise, condition, and cause of science. from the foregoing follows the postulate that morality must be studied inductively or scientifically, not speculatively by the method of traditional philosophy. we must not attempt to study absolute, but only relative rights, only rights based on certain premises, and only this can be the moral problem of reason. thus the belief in a moral order of the world is dissolved in the consciousness of human freedom. the understanding of reason, of knowledge, of science, includes the understanding of the limited validity of all ethical maxims. whatever impressed man as salutary, valuable, divine, was exhibited by him in the tabernacle of faith as the most venerable thing. the egyptian worshipped the cat, the christian venerates the divine providence. so, when his needs led him to live a well-regulated life, the benefits of the law inspired him with such a high opinion of its noble origin that he adopted his own handiwork as a gift of heaven. the invention of the mouse-trap or other useful appliances pushed the cat out of its exalted position. whenever man becomes his own master, takes care of himself, and provides for himself, then all other providences become useless, and his own mastership makes all superior tutelage unbearable. man is a jealous creature. ruthlessly he subordinates everything to his own interests, even god and his commandments. no matter how great or venerable an authority any code may have acquired by long and faithful service, as soon as new needs oppose it, they degrade the divine authority to the ranks of human law and transform ancient right into modern wrong. the christian frivolity refused to respect the threat of physical retribution which the hebrew had anointed as an authority in moral questions and revered under the maxim: eye for eye, tooth for tooth. the christian had learned to cherish the blessings of peacefulness; he carried submissive tolerance into the holy land, and decorated the vacant tabernacle with the gentle injunction to offer the left cheek when the right was tired of cuffs. in our times which are christian in name, but very anti-christian in deeds, the long venerated tolerance has long gone out of use. just as every religion has its own peculiar god, so every time has its own peculiar right. to this extent, religion and morality are in harmony with the worship of their sanctum. but they become arrogant upstarts whenever they assume to exceed their natural boundaries, whenever they attempt to saddle upon all circumstances, under the pretense of offering something incomparable, absolute, permanent, that which is divine and right at certain times and under definite conditions; whenever they proclaim a successful remedy for their own peculiar disease as a universal patent medicine for all diseases; whenever they overbearingly forget their descent. a law is originally dictated by some individual need, and then mankind with its universal needs is supposed to balance itself on the thin rope of this one rule. originally that which is really good is right, and thereafter only some decreed right is supposed to be really good. that is the unbearable arrogance. ordained right is not satisfied to serve as the right of this time, this nation or country, this class or caste. it wants to dominate the whole world, wants to be absolute right, just as if a certain pill could be absolute medicine, could be good for everything. it is the mission of progress to repulse this assumption, to pluck this peacock feather out of the tail of the rooster, by leading mankind on beyond the boundaries prescribed by ordained law, by extending the world for him, by conquering for his cramped interests a wider liberty. the migration from palestine to europe where the consumption of pork does not cause leprosy emancipates our natural freedom from a once divine restriction by making it irrelevant. but progress does not deprive one god of his shoulder straps for the purpose of decorating some other god with them. that would merely be an exchange, not an acquirement. evolution does not drive the saints of tradition out of the country; it simply retires them from the wrongfully occupied field of universality into their peculiar boundaries. progress picks up the child and then pours the water out of the bath tub. though the cat may have lost its aureole and ceased to be a god, it does not give up catching mice; and though the jewish rules for bodily cleanliness at certain definite times have long been forgotten, a clean body is still highly respected. the present wealth of civilization is due only to the economical administration of the acquirements of the past. evolution is as much conservative as it is revolutionary, and it finds as much wrong as right in every law. it is true that the believers in absolute duty scent a difference between moral and legal right. but their self-interested narrowness does not permit them to realize that every law is originally moral and that every special morality is gradually reduced to the level of a mere law. their understanding reaches into other times and other classes, but does not reach their own time and class. the laws of the chinese and samoyeds are understood to refer to the peculiar requirements of those people. but the rules of bourgeois society are supposed to be far more sublime. our present day institutions and moral codes are either regarded as eternal truths of nature or reason, or as permanent oracular expressions of a pure conscience. just as if the barbarian did not have a barbarian reason; as if the turk did not have a turkish conscience and the hebrew a hebrew one; as if man could follow the dictates of some absolute conscience, instead of the conscience being conditioned on the man. whoever limits the purpose of man to the love and service of god, and to eternal blessedness hereafter, may devoutly recognize the traditions of abstract morality as authoritative and guide himself accordingly. but whoever regards development, education, and blessedness on earth as man's life purpose, will not think that the questioning of the assumed superiority of traditional morals is irrelevant. it is only the consciousness of individual freedom which creates sufficient unconcern for the rules made by others to permit a brave advance, which emancipates us from the striving for an illusory absolute ideal, for some "best world," and which restores us to the definite practical interests of our time and personality. at the same time we are thus reconciled with the world as it really is, because we no longer regard it as the unsuccessful realization of that which ought to be, but rather as the systematization of that which cannot but be. the world is always right. whatever exists, is right and is not fated to be otherwise until it changes. wherever there is existence, which is power, there is also right without any further condition, because it is right in a formative stage. weakness has no other right than that of striving for supremacy and then enforcing a recognition of its long denied needs. the study of history shows us not only the negative and ridiculous side of the religions, customs, institutions and ideas of the past, but also their positive, reasonable and necessary side. it explains to us, for instance, that the deification of animals was due to an enthusiastic recognition of their usefulness. and so the study of history shows not alone the inadequacy of the things of the present, but also demonstrates that they are the reasonable and necessary conclusions from the premises of previous stages. +(c) the holy.+ in the well-known statement: the end sanctifies the means, the developed theory of morality finds its practical expression. this maxim, used in an ambiguous sense, may stand as a common reproach for us and for the jesuits. the defenders of the society of jesus make efforts to prove that it is a malignant attempt to discredit their clients. we shall not try to speak for either party to this dispute, but will devote ourselves to the subject matter itself, and seek to substantiate the truth and reasonableness of this maxim, to rehabilitate it in the public opinion. it will be sufficient for the refutation of the most general opposition to understand that end and means are very relative terms, that all concrete ends are means and all means are ends. there is no more of a positive difference between great and small, right and wrong, virtue and vice, than there is between end and means. considered as something integral by itself, every action has its own end and its means are the various moments of which even the shortest action is composed. every concrete action is a means in relation to other actions which aim at the same common effect. but in themselves actions are neither ends nor means. nothing is anything by itself. all being is relative. things are what they are only within and by their interrelations. circumstances alter cases. in so far as every action is accompanied by other actions, it is a means, and serves a common end which exceeds its own special end; but inasmuch as every action is complete in itself it is an end which includes its own means. we eat in order to live; but so far as we are living while we are eating, we are living in order to eat. as life to its functions, so the end is related to its means. just as life is simply the sum of all life's functions, so the end is the sum of all its means. the difference between means and end reduces itself to that between the concrete and the general. and all abstract differences reduce themselves to this difference, because the faculty of abstraction or distinction reduces itself to the faculty of distinguishing between the concrete and the general. but this distinction presupposes the existence of some material, some given objects, some circle of sense perceptions by which it manifests itself. if this circle is found in the field of actions or functions, in other words, if a previously defined number of different actions is the object of our study, then we refer to the general character of these objects as the general end and to every more or less extended part of them, or to every function, as a means. whether any definite action is considered as an end or as a means, depends on the question whether we consider it as a whole in relation to its own parts, or as a part of some whole in which it is connected with other parts, with other actions. from a general point of view which has all human actions for the object of its study, and encompasses them all, there exists only one end, viz., the human welfare. this welfare is the end of all ends, is the final end, is the real, true, universal end compared to which all special ends are but means. now, our claim that the end sanctifies the means can have absolute validity only in regard to some absolute end. but all concrete ends are relative and finite. the one and sole absolute end is human welfare, and it is an end which sanctifies all rules and actions, all means, so long as they are subservient to it, but which reviles them as soon as they go their own way without serving it. the human weal is literally and historically the origin of the holy. that which is hale is holy. at the same time we must not ignore the fact that the weal, or hale, in general, the hale which sanctifies all means, is but an abstraction, the real content of which is as different as are the times, the nations, or persons which are seeking for their welfare. it must be remembered that the determination of that which is holy or for the human weal requires definite conditions, that no action, no means, is holy in itself, that each one of them is sanctified only by definite relations. it is not every end which sanctifies the means, but the holy end which sanctifies its own means. but since every real and concrete end is only relatively holy, it can sanctify its own means only relatively. the opposition against our maxim is not so much directed against it, as against the wrong application of it. recognition is denied and the socalled sanctified ends are accorded only limited means, because there is lurking in the background the consciousness that these ends have only a relative holiness. on the other hand our defense of the maxim does not imply that the various nominally holy means and ends are sanctified because some authority, some scriptural statement, some reason or conscience, has declared them to be so, but only in so far as they answer the common end of all ends, the human welfare. our maxim of ends does not at all teach that we should sacrifice love and truths to sanctified faith, but neither does it demand that we should sacrifice faith for love and truth. it merely states the fact that, whenever some superior end has been determined by sense perceptions or circumstances, all means contrary to that end are unholy, and that on the other hand means which are generally unholy may become temporarily and individually sanctioned by their relation to some momentary or individual welfare. wherever peacefulness is actually in favor as a sanctified means, war is unholy. when, on the other hand, man seeks his salvation in war, then murder and incendiarism are holy means. in other words, our reason requires for a valid determination of that which is sanctified certain definite material conditions or facts as premises; it cannot determine _the_ holy in general, not _a priori_, not philosophically in the old speculative way, but only in concrete cases, _a posteriori_, only empirically. if we understand that human welfare is the end of all ends, the ideal of all means; if we furthermore dispense with all special determinations of this welfare, with all personal ideas of it, and recognize that it is different under different circumstances, then we understand at the same time that no means is sanctified beyond the sanctity of its end. no means, no action, is positively sanctified or makes for human welfare under all circumstances. according to circumstances and relations one and the same means may be good or bad. a thing is good only to the extent that its results are good, only to the extent that there is good in its end. lying and cheating are bad only because they result injuriously for ourselves, because we do not wish to be lied to or cheated. but whenever a sanctified end is in question, the deceptive means used in lying and cheating are called tricks of war. if any one is firmly rooted in the goodness of chastity because he thinks it was ordained by god, we cannot discuss the matter with him. but if one honors virtue for the sake of virtue and abhors vice for the sake of vice, in other words, for their consequences, he admits that he sacrifices the lust of the flesh to the end of good health. in short, he admits that the means are sanctified by the end. in the christian conception of the world, the commandments of its religion are absolutely good for all time, they are considered good because christian revelation declares them to be so. this conception does not know that, for instance, its acme of virtue, the specifically christian virtue of abstemiousness, received its value only by contrast with corrupt heathenish licentiousness, but that it is not a virtue when compared to reasonable and normal satisfaction of material needs. it deals with certain means which it calls indiscriminately good without any relation to their ends, and others which it calls indiscriminately bad in the same absolute way. and for this reason, it opposes the above named maxim. but modern christianity, modern civilization, has practically long done away with this faith. it does indeed call the soul the likeness of god and the body a putrid food for worms; but its deeds prove that it does not take its religious phrases seriously. it cares little for the better part of man and directs all its thoughts and actions toward the satisfaction of the despised body. it employs science and art, and the products of all climates, for the glorification of the body, clothing it sumptuously, feeding it luxuriously, caring for it tenderly, resting it on soft cushions. although they speak slightingly of this earthly life in comparison to the eternal life beyond, yet in practice they cling for six days of the week to the uninterrupted pleasures of this body, while heaven is hardly considered worthy of careless attention for more than one short hour on sundays. with the same thoughtless inconsistency the socalled christian world also attacks our maxim with words, while in practical life it sanctifies the despised means by the end of its own welfare, going even so far as to demonstrate its inconsistency in its own life by subsidizing prostitution with state funds. the fact that the legislative bodies of our representative states keep down the enemies of their bourgeois order by courtmartials and exile, that they justify this course by the proverb, "do unto others as you would that they should do unto you," in the interest of "public" welfare, or that they defend their divorce codes by the plea of individual welfare, proves that the bourgeoisie also believes in the motto: the end sanctifies the means. and even though the citizens delegate rights to the state which they deny to themselves, also our opponents cannot but admit that in so doing the citizens are simply delegating their own rights to the superior authority of the state. true, whoever employs lying and cheating in the bourgeois world for the end of gaining wealth, even though he may make it one of his ends to give to charity, or whoever steals leather, like saint chispinus, for the purpose of making shoes for poor people, does not sanctify his means by his end, because the end in that case is not sanctified, or only nominally so, only in general, but not in the concrete case quoted. for charity is an end of but inferior holiness which must not be more than a means compared to the main end of maintaining bourgeois society, and whenever it contravenes this main purpose, charity loses its character of a good end. and we have already seen that an end which is sanctified only under certain circumstances cannot sanctify its means beyond them. the indispensable condition of all good ends is that they must be subservient to human welfare, and whether this welfare is secured by christian or pagan, by feudal or bourgeois means, it always demands that the things which are considered unessential and of lesser importance should be subordinated to the essential and necessary things, while in the above quoted cases the more salutary honesty and bourgeois respectability would be sacrificed to the less salutary charity. "the end sanctifies the means" signifies in other words that in ethics as well as in economics, the profit must justify the investment of the capital. again, if we call the forcible conversion of infidels a good end, and an arbitrary police measure a bad means, this does not prove anything against the truth of the maxim, but only testifies to its wrong application. the means is not sanctified in the case, because the end is not, because a forced conversion is not a good end, but rather an evil one resulting in hypocrisy, and because such a conversion does not deserve this name, or because force is a means which is unworthy of this term. if it is true that a forcible conversion or wooden iron are senseless ideas, how is it that people will persist in fighting against universally recognized truths with such inconsistencies, such inane word plays, such tricks of rhetoric and sophistry? the means of the jesuits, sly tricks and intrigues, poison and murder, appear unholy to us only because the jesuitic purpose, for instance that of extending the wealth and influence and glorifying power of the order, is an inferior end which may make use of the innocent language of the pulpit, but is not an absolutely sanctified end, no supreme end, to which we would grant means that would deprive us of some essential end, for instance of our personal and public safety. murder and manslaughter are considered immoral as individual actions because they are not means to accomplish our main end, because we incline not toward revenge or blood-thirstiness, nor toward arbitrariness and the wilful dispensation of justice by some judge, but toward lawful decisions and the more or less impartial decrees of the state. but do we not explicitly declare in favor of the maxim "the end sanctifies the means," when we constitute ourselves into juries and render dangerous criminals powerless by the rope and the ax of the executioner? the same people who boast of having dropped aristotle, that is to say the belief in authority, for centuries, and who therefore replaced the dead traditional truth by living self-gained truth, are found to be completely at odds with their own development in the above cited cases. if we listen to the recital of some funny story, which may be told by even a reliable witness, we nevertheless remain loyal to the principles of free reason, that is to say we are free to regard as serious and regrettable any incident which the narrator may consider funny and ridiculous. people know how to distinguish between a story and the subjective impression its incidents created on the mind of the narrator, and which depends more on the personality of the witness than on the actual facts. but in the matter of good ends and bad means it is proposed to neglect the distinction between an object and its subjective end which is otherwise the point of all critique. such ends as charity, the conversion of infidels, etc., are thoughtlessly, a priori, called good and holy, because they once were so under particular conditions, while now their effect in the cases above cited is just the opposite, and then people wonder that the unrighteous title carries with it unrighteous privileges. only that end is worthy of the predicate good or holy in practice which is itself a means, a servant, of the end of all purposes, of welfare. whenever man seeks his welfare in bourgeois life, in production and commerce of commodities, and in the undisturbed enjoyment of his private property, he clips his long fingers by the commandment: "thou shalt not steal." but wherever, as among the spartans, war is regarded as the supreme end and craftiness as a necessary quality of a warrior, there thieving is used as a means of acquiring craftiness and sanctioned as a means for the main end. to blame the spartan for being a warrior instead of a sedate bourgeois would be to ignore the facts of reality, would be equivalent to overlooking that our brain is not designed to substitute imaginary pictures for the actual conditions of the world, but is organized to understand that a period, a nation, an individual is always that which it can and must be under given circumstances. it is not from mere individual and unpraiseworthy fondness for the paradox that we subvert current views by defending the maxim "the end sanctifies the means," but from a consistent application of the science of philosophy. philosophy originated out of the belief in a dualist contrast between god and the world, between body and soul, between the flesh and the spirit, between brain and senses, between thinking and being, between the general and the concrete. the conciliation of this contrast represents the end, or the aggregate result, of philosophical research. philosophy found its dissolution in the understanding that the divine is worldly and the worldly divine, that the soul is related to the body, the spirit to the flesh, thinking to being, the intellect to the senses, in the same way in which the unity is related to the multiplicity or the general to the concrete. philosophy began with the erroneous supposition that the one, as the first thing, was the basis on which developed the two, three, four, and the entire multiplicity of things by succession. it has now arrived at the understanding that truth, or reality, turns this supposition upside down, that the reality with its multiplicity of forms, perceivable by the senses, is the first and foremost thing out of which the human brain gradually derived the conception of unity or generality. no achievement of science can be compared with the amount of talent and intellectual energy consumed in harvesting this one little fruit from the field of speculative philosophy. but neither does any scientific novelty encounter so many deep-rooted obstacles to its recognition. all brains unfamiliar with the outcome of philosophy are dominated by the old belief in the reality of some genuine, true, absolutely universal panacea, the discovery of which would make all sham, false individual panaceas impossible. but we, on the other hand, have been taught by the understanding of the thought process that this coveted panacea is a product of the brain and that, since it is supposed to be a general and abstract panacea, it cannot be any real, perceptible, concrete panacea. in the belief in an absolute difference between true and false welfare, there is manifested an ignorance of the actual operations of brain work. pythagoras made numbers the basis of things. if this grecian philosopher could have realized that this basic nature was a thing of the mind, of the intellect,[ ] and that numbers were the basis of reason, the common or abstract content of all intellectual activity, then we should have been spared all the disputes which have raged around the various forms of absolute truth, about "things in themselves." space and time are the general forms of reality, or reality exists in time and space. consequently all real welfare must be attached to space and time, and every welfare which exists in these dimensions must be real. the different welfares, in so far as their beneficent qualities are concerned, are to be distinguished only by their height and breadth, by the quantity of their dimensions, by their numeral relations. every welfare, whether true or seeming, is perceived by the senses, by practices of life, not by abstract reason. but practice assigns the most contradictory things to different people at different times as means to their welfare. what is welfare in one place, is disaster in another, and vice versa. understanding, or reason, has nothing else to do in the matter than to number these various welfares as they are made real by sense perceptions in various persons and times, and degrees of intensity, in the order in which they appear, and thus to distinguish the small from the great, the essential from the unessential, the concrete from the general. reason cannot dictate to us autocratically in matters of some absolutely true welfare, it can only indicate the most frequent, most essential, and most universal welfare in a certain perceived number of welfares. but it must not be forgotten that the truth of such an understanding, or enumeration, depends on certain definite premises. it is therefore a vain endeavor to search for the true and absolute welfare. this search becomes practical and successful only when it limits itself to the understanding of a definite amount of welfare of some particular objects. the general welfare can be found only within definite boundaries. but the various determinations of welfare agree in this respect, that they all consider it well to sacrifice the little for the great, the unessential for the essential, and not vice versa. in so far as this principle is right, it is also right for us to employ for the good end of a great welfare some small means in the shape of a small evil and to endure it, and thus we see once more that the end sanctifies the means. if people were liberal enough to permit every one to go to heaven in his or her own way, the opponents of our maxim would be easily convinced of its truth. but instead of doing this, people follow the usual course of shortsightedness and make their private standpoint a universal one. they call their own private welfare the only true welfare, and regard the welfare of other nations, times and conditions a mistake. so does every school of art declare its own subjective taste to be objective beauty, ignoring the fact that unity is but a matter of ideas, of thought, while reality is full of the most varied forms. the real welfare is manifold and the true welfare but a subjective choice which, like a funny story, may make an entirely different impression on others, and be a false welfare. even though kant, or fichte, or some other particular philosopher, may discuss at length the purpose of mankind and solve the problem to his full satisfaction and to that of his audience, we nevertheless have learned enough today to know that one can define one's own personal idea of the purpose of mankind by means of abstract speculation, but that one cannot discover any unknown and hidden object in this way. thought, or reason, requires some object, and its work is that of measuring, of criticising. it may distinguish between true and false welfare, but will also remember that they have their limits, remember that it is itself personal and that its distinctions are likewise personal and cannot be generalized beyond the point where others receive the same impression of the same object. humanity is an idea, while man is always some special person who has his or her peculiar life in a definite environment and is therefore subservient to general principles only from motives of self-interest. the sacrifice of ethics, like that of religion, is only seemingly a self-denial and serves the ends of reasonable self-interest, an expenditure with a view to greater gains. a morality worthy of that name which is not better defined by the term obedience can be exercised only through the understanding of its worth, of its value for our welfare, of its usefulness. the variety of political parties is conditioned on the varieties of the interests concerned, and the difference in the means is conditioned on the difference in ends. in questions of less importance even the champions of absolute morality testify to this fact. thiers in his history of the french revolution tells of a peculiar situation in the year , when the patriots held the public power and the royalists carried on a revolutionary propaganda. it was then that the partisans of the revolution, who should have been the champions of unlimited liberty, demanded coercive measures, while the opposition, who secretly cared more for a monarchy than for a republic, voted for unlimited liberty. "to such an extent are parties governed by their self-interests," comments thiers, just as if this were an anomaly instead of being the natural, necessary and inevitable course of the world. when, on the other hand, it is a question of the fundamental laws of bourgeois order, then the moral representatives of the ruling classes are egotistic enough to deny the connection of their material interests with these laws and to claim that theirs are eternal, metaphysical world laws, that the pillars of their special class rule are the eternal pillars of humanity, and that their own means alone are holy ones and their end the final end of the universe. it is a disastrous deception, a robbing of human liberty, an attempt to cause the stagnation of the historical development, if any age or class thus proclaims its own peculiar purposes and means to be for the absolute welfare of humanity. morality originally reflects one's interests just as fashion reflects one's taste, and finally the action is moulded after the conceived pattern like the coat in dressing. in this process, force naturally is exerted for the maintenance and protection of one's own life and those who resist are subdued. interest and duty, though perhaps not entirely synonymous, are certainly closely related. both of them are merged in the term welfare. self-interest represents more nearly the concrete, immediate, tangible welfare, while duty concerns itself with the more remote and general welfare of the future also. while self-interest considers the present tangible metallic welfare of the purse, duty demands that we keep not only a part of welfare, but all welfare in mind, that we consider the future as well as the present, that we remember the spiritual welfare as well as the physical. duty thinks also of the heart, of social needs, of the future, of the spiritual weal, in brief of interest in general and urges us to renounce the superfluous in order to secure and retain the necessary. thus your duty is your self-interest and your self-interest your duty. if our ideas are to adapt themselves to truth, or to reality, instead of reality or truth adapting itself to our notions or thoughts, we must understand that the mutability of that which is right, holy, moral, is a natural, necessary and true fact. and we must grant to an individual the theoretical freedom which cannot be taken from it in practice, we must admit that it is as free now as it has ever been, that laws must be adapted to the needs of the social individual and not to the vague, unreal, and impossible abstractions, such as justice or morality. what is justice? the embodiment of all that is considered right, an individual conception, which assumes different forms in different persons. in reality only individual, definite, concrete rights exist, and man simply comes along and abstracts from them the idea of justice, just as he abstracted from different kinds of wood the conception of wood in general, or from material things the conception of matter. it is just as far from the truth, to think that material things consist of, or are by virtue of, abstract matter, although this view is widely spread, as it is to believe that the moral or bourgeois laws were derived from the idea of justice. the ethical loss caused by our realistic, or if you prefer, materialistic, conception of morality is not so great as it appears. we need not fear that through this conception social beings will become lawless cannibals or hermits. freedom and lawfulness are closely allied by the need for association which compels us to permit others to live together with us. if a man is prevented by his conscience or by other spiritualistic or bourgeois ethics from committing unlawful actions--unlawful in the wider meaning of the term--he is either not exposed to very grave temptations, or he has a nature so tame that the natural or legal punishments fully suffice to keep him within prescribed bounds. but where these checks are ineffective, morality is likewise powerless. if it were otherwise, we should have to assume that morality exerts in secret the same influence on the faithful which is exerted by public opinion on the faithless. but we know from actual experience that there are more pious thieves than infidel robbers. that the world, which attributes so much value for social welfare to morality by word of mouth, actually shares this view of ours, is proven by the fact that bourgeois society gives more attention to the penal code and to the police than to the influence of morality. moreover, our fight is not directed against morality, not even against any special form of it, but only against the arrogance which assumes to stamp some concrete form of morality with the trade mark of absolute morality. we recognize that morality is eternally sacred, in so far as it refers to considerations which a man owes to himself and to his fellowmen in the interest of their common welfare. but the freedom of the individual demands that each one should be at liberty to determine the degree of consideration and the manner of giving it expression. under these circumstances it is as inevitable that the ruling powers, classes or majorities should enforce their special needs under the form of a prescribed right, as it is that a man's shirt should be closer to his skin than his coat. but it appears to us not merely very superfluous, but even detrimental to the energies required for the progress of the future, that some decreed right should be elevated to the position of absolute right and transformed into an insuperable barrier to the advance of humanity. footnote: [ ] which was gained by the mind's contact with its sense-perceived multiplicity of the world.--editor. letters on logic especially democratic-proletarian logic by joseph dietzgen translated by ernest untermann editorial remark. the "letters on logic," treating on the same subjects as "the positive outcome of philosophy," were intended by the author to be replaced by this subsequent work. we publish, however, both these works in hopes that the reader will pardon the frequent repetitions on account of the additional light that other parts of the "letters on logic" are apt to impart. letters on logic first letter dear eugene: you have now reached the age at which the students go to the university. there, according to custom, they register first of all for a course in logic, whether they choose the study of law, medicine, or theology. logic is, so to say, the elementary study in all branches of learning. now you know, my dear, that school and life are regarded as two separate things. i should like to call your attention to their connection. we live also in school, we are schooled also by life. i should like to consider your trip across the atlantic ocean as your first venture in the high school of life, and assume the role of your professor of logic. i feel well qualified for this office. although i am not well up in latin and greek, still i feel competent to guide you to the depths of logical science better than a german professor trained and installed according to the most approved pattern. you will admit the possibility of such a thing. for one who knows little may explain that little with more ease and efficacy than one who has his head stuffed full of the prescribed bunch of official wisdom. you, my son, have been so fortunate as to enjoy a seven years' course in a german college. and since your teachers, at your departure, gave you the highest certificate, i may well consider you as qualified not only to enter the school of life in the united states, but also to listen intelligently to my lectures on logic. but in order that my well trained pupil may not look down upon his self-taught teacher, i appeal to the fact that even the man with the best all-around education will be a tyro in specialties; and that, on the other hand, ignorance in many things does not exclude the possibility of knowing more about a certain specialty than science has heretofore grasped. now i claim in this case to have acquired a knowledge of the subject with which i intend to deal here that surpasses anything i have been able to find in the professional literature. i mention this, my dear eugene, with all due modesty, not for the purpose of throwing a halo around my personality, but in order to give a certain authority to my office as teacher and to inspire my pupil with confidence. yes, i value confidence. although you know me as a democrat who cares nothing for authority, you shall also learn to know me as a graduate in dialectics who, though he may empty the bath, still retains his hold on the child and does not permit it to float off with the water. children, and one may say nations in their childhood, cannot do without authority, and a teacher, whether he instruct children or nations, cannot dispense with a certain confidence-inspiring air. the pupil must believe in the wisdom of his teacher, in order that he may approach the master with the necessary attention and willingness to learn. later on the understanding of the subject makes all authority superfluous. thus a thing so sublime as authority is subject to the destructive tendencies of time, to the historical process. hitherto mankind has often been tempted by preconceived notions to idolize vain things. it has been attempted to shield not only authority in general, but, what is still worse, this or that throne or altar, against the attacks of time. the relation between the perishable and the imperishable has always been subject to much misunderstanding. now since logic is that science which aims to set the intellect aright, we shall have to touch occasionally on the general misconception of time and eternity. the most famous expounders of logic are reproached for their cumbrous style and their obscure mode of explanation. even masters of languages have complained in my hearing about the foreign terms used by that branch of science, terms which even they could not understand. much of the blame for this condition of things may fall on the difficulties of the subject, which have baffled all elucidation for thousands of years. some of the blame also falls on the bad habit of using learned vernacular. but the greatest fault lies with the mental laziness of the students. nothing can be learned without mental exertion. if you are concerned in your further development, you will recognize the christian word as to the curse of work as untrue. work cannot be descended from sin, for it is a blessing. you will have experienced in yourself how elated one feels after successful physical or mental work. the things which science yields without exertion can be at most axiomatic commonplaces. i assume that you are quite willing to perform the necessary mental labor, and i promise you that i shall do my best to make this study easy for you. i do this so much more readily, as i frankly confess that these letters to my son are written with the intention of making them accessible to a wider circle of readers by means of the press. before concluding, let me say a word about my aim of speaking especially of democratic-proletarian logic. you will think or say: logic may be a subject worthy of study, but a special democratic-proletarian logic can surely treat of nothing but party matters. but just as the special accomplishments in this or that line, the special advances of this or that nation, are at the same time general advances, progress of civilization, so the ideas of proletarian logic are not party ideas, but conclusions of logic in general. you may reply: even though the special thought of a chinaman may be quite consistent and logical, still we would not call it chinese logic. that would be quite true, but it does not meet my point. the thought on which the proletarian demands are based, the idea of the equality of all human beings, this ultimate proletarian idea, if i may say so, is fully backed up by the deeper insight into the tortuous problem of logic. now, since this idea dominates mankind, it certainly has more right than any chinese idea. furthermore, industrial development has leveled, simplified, cleared all social conditions to such an extent that it becomes ever easier to penetrate with sober eyes into the secrets of logic. finally, my logic deserves its proletarian qualification for the reason that it requires for its understanding the overcoming of all prejudices by which the capitalist world is held together. the cause of the people is not a party matter, but the general object of all science. the people's cause as the ultimate object, and logic as the most elementary and most abstract science, as ultimate science, are as intimately connected as plants and botany, or as laws and the legal profession. so are the interests of democracy and the proletariat intimately connected. the fact that this has not been well recognized in the united states so far, is more a proof of the lucky condition of that country than of the scientific knowledge of its democracy. the spreading primeval forests and prairies offered innumerable homesteads to the poor and they obscured the antagonism between capitalists and wage workers, between capitalist and proletarian democracy. but you still lack the knowledge of proletarian economics which would enable you to recognize without a doubt that it is precisely on the republican ground of america that capitalism makes giant strides and reveals ever more clearly its twofold task of first enslaving the people for the purpose of freeing them in due time. second letter dear eugene: having written the first letter by way of introduction, i now am ready for a gradual approach to my subject. logic aims to instruct the human mind as to its own nature and processes; it will lay bare the interior working of our mind for our guidance. the object of the study of logic is thought, its nature, and its proper classification. the human brain performs the function of thinking as involuntarily as the chest the function of breathing. however, we can, by our will, stop breathing for a while, and accelerate or retard the breathing movements. in the same way, the will can control the thoughts. we may choose any object as the subject matter of our thought, and yet we may quickly convince ourselves that the power of our will and the freedom of the mind are not any greater than the freedom of the chest in breathing. while logic undertakes to assign the proper position to our brain, still it has to remember that nature has already assigned that position. it is with logic as it is with other sciences. they draw wisdom from the mysterious source of plain experience. agriculture, e. g., aims to teach the farmer how to cultivate the soil; but fields were tilled long before any agricultural college had begun its lectures. in the same way human beings think without ever having heard of logic. but by practice they improve their innate faculty of thought, they make progress, they gradually learn to make better use of it. finally, just as the farmer arrives at the science of agriculture, so the thinker arrives at logic, acquires a clear consciousness of his faculty of thought and a professional dexterity in applying it. i have two purposes in mind in saying this. firstly, you must not expect too much from this science, for you cannot set contrary brains to rights by any logic. secondly, you must not think too little of it, by regarding the matter as mere scholastic word-mongery and useless hairsplitting. in daily life, as well as in all sciences, we never operate without the help of thought, but only with it, hence an understanding of the nature of the processes of thought is of eminent value. logic has its history like all sciences. aristotle, whom marx calls the "grecian giant of thought," is universally recognized as its founder. after the classic culture of antiquity had been buried by barbarism, the name of bacon of verulam rose with the beginning of modern times as a philosophical light of the first order. his most famous work is entitled "novum organon." by the new organ he meant a new method of research which should be founded on experience, instead of the subtleties of the purely introspective method hitherto in vogue. after him, descartes, or cartesius, as he called himself in literature, wrote his still famous work, "about methods." i furthermore recall immanuel kant's "critique of reason," johann gottlieb fichte's "theory of science," and finally hegel, of whom the biographer said that he was as famous in the scientific world as napoleon in the political. hegel calls his chief work "logic," and bases his whole system on the "dialectic method." you have only to look at the titles of these philosophical masterpieces in order to recognize that they all treat of the same subject which we are making our special study, viz., the light of understanding. the great philosophers of all times have searched for the true method, the method of truth, for the way in which understanding and reason arrive at science. i merely wish to indicate that this subject has its famous history, but i do not care to enter more deeply into it. i will not speak of the oppression and persecution, which was inaugurated by religious fanaticism. i will not enumerate the various events that led to a greater and greater light from generation to generation. the attempt to trace this history would entangle us in many disputed questions and errors which would only increase the difficulties of this study for the beginner. if a teacher of technology were to instruct you on steam engines and, to explain their first incomplete invention, trace their further development historically from improvement to improvement, until he should arrive at the height of perfection attained in their present day construction, he would also be advancing on a path, but on a tedious one. i shall endeavor to show my subject at the outset in the very clearest light which has ever been thrown on it by the help of the nations of all times. if i succeed in this, it will be easy in the future, in the reading of any author, to separate the chaff from the wheat. i can afford to dispense with quotations and proofs from others in trying to make my case and demonstrating the positive product of social culture, for we are dealing with the most universal and omnipresent object,--one which enters into every spoken or written sentence with its own body. if anybody tells of far off times or wonderful things, he must quote witnesses. now, much of what i have to say for my case may sound wonderful, because it runs counter to the popular prejudice, but the only witness required to prove the truth of my statements is the clear brain of my pupil, who has only to examine his own experience without preconceived notions, in order to find proofs on every hand. it is surprising in the first place, that such a near at hand object has not been understood long ago and that so much still remains to be explained and to be taught after thousands of years of study. but you know that just as the small things are often great, and great things small, so the nearest things are often hidden and the hidden things nearest. i promised you in the first sentences of this letter, dear eugene, that i would now pass from introduction to subject matter. but since i have really continued to move around the outer edge of the subject instead of entering into its midst, you might become impatient, and so i will justify my method. it is a peculiarity of this subject matter that it exposes me to this charge. it is a peculiarity of thought that it never stays with itself, but always digresses to other things. the thought is the plank to which i should stick, but it is the nature of this plank never to stick. thinking is a thing full of contradictions, a dialectical secret. now i know that here i am saying something which it is very hard for you to understand. but look here, has it not always been so? when you began declining latin words in the sixth class, you were unable at once to grasp the full meaning of declension. you knew what you were doing, and yet you did not entirely understand it. only after penetrating more deeply into the construction of the language did the meaning and purpose of the beginning become clear to you. in the same way, you now must try to digest as much as you can of what i say, and after you have gone more deeply into this matter, you will fully understand me from beginning to end. in taking lessons from an author, on an unknown subject, i have always followed the method of first getting a superficial view of the subject, of glancing over its many pages and chapters, in order to return to the beginning and acquire a thorough knowledge by repeated study. with the growing familiarity with the subject the ability to understand it grew, and at the conclusion the thing became clear to me. this is the only correct method i can recommend to you. in conclusion let me say for to-day in passing that the recommendation of the correct method for studying logic is not only an introduction, but, as i have already said, the subject matter of science itself. third letter dear eugene: my task of teaching logic requires two things: a logician and a teacher. the last named capacity requires that i should clothe the subject in an attractive way. permit me, therefore, to combine the didactic style with that of the story teller, and to relate at this point an episode from a novel of gustav zu putlitz: the organist of a certain village is lying on his deathbed. his last strength has been spent on the previous day in playing a hymn, and after its conclusion he was carried from the church in an unconscious state. he had played his masterpiece, but at the same time his last piece. a despised stage girl had accompanied him with a voice like that of a nightingale. but neither she nor the organ player had earned any applause from the stupid villagers. the old man looked around in his room, his eyes were first riveted on his faithful piano, his friend and companion through life. he extended his hand, but it sank down exhausted. he had not had the intention to touch the piano anyway. it was only like stretching out one's hand for a friend far away. then he looked through the window trying to recollect what time of the day it was. and when he had taken in the situation, he turned to the girl kneeling at his feet. "poor child," he began, "you were deeply disappointed yesterday. i felt very much hurt, when i first heard of it, but after that everything became clear to me while i heard the music all night, until a short while ago. rejoice, my girl, at being reviled, for it is done for the sake of that sacred music, and it is an ecstasy, a blessing, to be martyred for one's music which is well worth all injuries. i did not fare any better all my life, and if i thank god for all the good he has done me until this hour, i also thank him first and most fervently for the gift of music which he bestowed on the world, and which he revealed to me most wonderfully in my most painful hours. "for my music i have starved and suffered all my life, and my gain was delicious, my reward celestial for this poor perishable stake. "my father was an organist in a little town of eastern frisia. his father had held the same position in the same church, and, i think, so did the father of his father follow music for a profession. music has been the heirloom of our family for generations. true, it was the only heirloom, but i have cherished it and held its flag aloft all my life. when god calls me away, i shall leave nothing behind but that old piano and the sheet music which i wrote myself, for in all other respects i have always been poor. i might have done differently, and my wife has often upbraided me for it, but she does not understand the blessing of music. i do not blame her for that, for it was not her fault that god closed her ear to music as he did the ears of many others. poor people, how cold and dreary must be their lives when music does not scatter blossoms in their path and bathe their temples in light. but there will come a time when their ears will be opened, and god will compensate them in heaven for what they missed here below. "we who love music have tasted a part of eternal bliss here below, for harmony which dissolves all chords is eternal life and its wings are fanning us in this terrestrial life---- "do you see, i know it well, and no one besides me, how it is when the soul prepares to leave the perishable body and enter the song of the spheres-- "you do not understand me, my girl, but do not worry, you also will understand some day. i will only tell you this much, and it shall be a consolation to you when the world treats you roughly hereafter. all of us, whether rich or poor, whether reclining on soft silken cushions or on hard straw, all of us enter life with the celestial melodies in our hearts. the beating of time goes with us as long as we are breathing. it is the beating of the heart in our breast. we may seem to lose the melody, even the measured step of time seems to become confused by our passion, but in the blessed hours we always find our melody anew, and then we feel at home in the path of our life." thus the old organist idolized his music. but it is not alone the harmony of music which has such a power over the mind. the harmony of colors, every art and science, has the same power. even the most common craft, and the most prosaic of all prose, the chase after the dollar, may take possession of a man's soul and prostrate him in adoration before its idol. true, not every one is so sentimentally inclined, and even the sentimentalist is so only in especially sentimental moments. furthermore it cannot be denied that artists, inventors, and explorers are worshipping the most worthy and most adorable objects. and i admit that no great success can be accomplished without putting your whole soul into some great aim. nevertheless you should know that anything which may take possession of one's soul shares its sublimity with all other things, and is for this reason at the same time something ordinary. without such a dialectic clarification of our consciousness all adoration is idol worship. the actual experience, then, that anything and everything may serve as an idol should clearly convince you that no one thing, but only the universe is the true god, is truth and life. now, is this logic or is it theology? it is both. at closer range you will notice that all great logicians occupy themselves a great deal with god and deity, and that on the other hand all honest theologians are trying to base their faith on some logical order. logic is by its whole nature metaphysical.[ ] there exists a class of logicians who attempt to deny the inevitable connection between the celestial region and the tangible universe. some of them do so from excessive religious delicacy of feeling, in order to protect the sublime from the disintegrating effects of critique. others have such an antipathy against the religious abuses that they do not wish to hear any more about religion. both classes adhere to the so-called formal logic. these adherents of formal logic may be compared to a maker of porcelain dishes who would contend that he was simply paying attention to the form of his dishes, pots, and vases, but that he did not have anything to do with the raw material, while it is evident that he is compelled to form the body in trying to embody forms. these things can be separated by words only, but not by actions. in the same way as body and form, the finite and infinite or so-called celestial spheres, the physical and the metaphysical, are inseparable. logic analyzes thought. but it analyzes thought as it is in reality, and therefore it unavoidably searches for truth. and whether this truth is found above or below, or anywhere, is a question which just as inevitably brings the logician into contact with the theologian. to think of avoiding such a meeting from considerations of sympathy or antipathy, would be a rude lack of consideration for science. metaphysical logic which aims to extend its field to eternity, which looks for logical order even in heaven, and seeks to solve even the so-called last questions of all knowledge, differs in a distinct way from formal logic, which selects a restricted field for its research and confines itself to investigating the logical order of the socalled physical world. this difference is worthy of your special attention, because in it there is hidden the kernel of our whole correspondence. it is quite a practical method to set a limit for one's investigations, not to fly into clouds, not to undertake anything that cannot be accomplished. yet you must not forget that practical boundaries are not theoretical boundaries, that they are not invariable boundaries for you, or for others. although you cannot fly to heaven and will give up the idea of flying machines from considerations of practical expediency, yet you will not wish to deny to man the theoretical freedom of infinite striving even in the matter of airships, and you will not be so small as to give up the idea of the capacity for our race for metaphysical, or in other words, infinite development. footnote: [ ] in the sense of: mental and physical world embracing, all-embracing.--editor. fourth letter dear eugene: in my first letter i acquainted you with my purpose, in the second i lifted the subject on my finger tips, so to say, to show it for a brief moment; in the third i showed that its color had inevitably a religious shade. now, to continue, permit me to introduce another point to your consideration. the great cause of the working class has hitherto always been the beast of burden of a small and exclusive minority. this is most evident in the slave states of antiquity, in egypt, greece, rome. likewise in the feudal and guild systems of the middle ages the oppression of the mass of the people is sufficiently apparent. at present this condition of things is more visible in eastern europe, in russia, turkey, bulgaria, hungary, eastern prussia, etc., than in the industrial countries of the west. in the united states of america it is most obscured, so that there the people hardly realize their enslaved condition. in america, many of the upper ten thousand have made their way from the bottom up, and it happens more frequently than in europe that the captains of industry laid their foundation by hard work. the shortsighted observers then easily forget out of sympathy for the hard beginning that there is sharper's practice at the end, and they indulge in the idle hope that every hard working beast of burden might transform itself into a happy millionaire by thrift and smartness. you will probably ask: what has that to do with logic or the art of reasoning? patience! you will admit that the emancipation of the nations from beastly toil, misery and suffering is the highest goal of the human mind. nor will you deny that the thought is the most essential instrument for reaching this high goal. the accomplishments of thought are visible in the results of civilization. the proletariat of the present, also that of russia, turkey, east prussia, participates in these accomplishments of thought. it participates not alone in the sense that its brains are better educated and cultured, but also that its food, clothing, and shelter have become more civilized through the progressive deeds of intellect. you see, then, that the people's cause is connected with the faculty of thought, and the nature of the latter may be illustrated as well by the example of the development of civilization. the complicated network of wheels in a watch may also serve to demonstrate the nature of that which language designates by many names, such as spirit, intellect, faculty of knowledge, reason, etc. only it must be remembered that this mysterious something cannot be shown by itself, but only in connection with other things, whether they be the history of civilization or a watch. there will then be no contradiction in finding that the intellectual life appears more powerful and magnificent through the clockwork of the history of civilization than through any miniature product of thought. in searching for the connection of things, one generally seeks to recognize the manner or the degree of the connection. but we, in this case, disregard the question as to how the things of this world are related to one another and to thought, and we simply make a note of the fact of the interdependence of thought and being, of nature and mind. this fact of the universal interconnection of things contradicts the untrained prejudice. the uncultivated brain nurses the illusion that the earth, the trees on it, and the clouds and the sun above them are separate things. but it requires a better training of reason to understand that the earth, the tree, the clouds, and the sun, can be what they are only in the universal interconnection. i remember reading an article from fichte, in a german school reader, which clearly showed that the disarrangement of an insignificant object during the process of thinking causes us to disarrange the whole history of the world in our thoughts. it is well known that one unfamiliar with political economy overlooks the fact that the business men not only carry on their trading for their private benefit, but are also members of the process of social production. it is overlooked that all labor, aside from being individual activity, is at the same time an organic part of social labor. and just as ignorance of economics overlooks the industrial interdependence, so ignorance of logic overlooks the cosmic interrelations. here is a drop of water. look how different it is according to the different things with which it is connected. it cannot be what it is without a certain temperature. according to changes in temperature, it will assume either the form of ice or of steam. in fat the drop remains compact, in salt it divides infinitely, runs downhill in general and uphill in a loaf of sugar. according to the specific gravity of a certain fluid, with which it may come into contact, it either floats on the surface or sinks. without a connection with the earth, its temperature and gravitation, this drop and all others would disappear in the fathomless abyss and have no existence. thus the forms of things change according to their connections, and they are what they are only as parts of the universal interrelation. what is true of a drop of water, is true of all things, all forces and substances, even of our thoughts. the human mind lives and works only in connection with the rest of the material universe--and the recognition of the organic unity of all things is the fulcrum of my logic. old line metaphysical logic was so enamored of its object that the descent, the kinship, and the connection with the common things of this world seemed too ordinary for the exquisite spirit. that logic was transcendental, and therefore its chosen object likewise had to be in touch with a transcendental world. and though it was scientific enough to regard the tale of the creation of the first soul by the breath of god as a fable, it was nevertheless so prejudiced in favor of the extraordinary nature of the intellect that it did not abandon, for thousands of years, the hope of finding in that intellect a source which would reveal transcendental matters. formal logic now entirely discards this hope of a fantastical world, but at the same time it misunderstands the natural connection between the spirit and the common world. it isolates the instrument of thought and leaves the question undecided whether this instrument has a natural, supernatural, or no connection at all. it overlooks that just as logic is real, so reality is logical, and does not see that the back door which leads to illogical heaven by way of faith deserves the disdain of science. thought, intellect, are really existing, and their existence is a uniform part of the universal existence. that is the cardinal point of sober logic. the fact that the thoughts are of the same worldly substance as the other parts of the universe, that they are parts of common nature and not a transcendental essence, has already been expressed by cartesius in the famous words: "_cogito, ergo sum_," i think, therefore i am. the fact of my thinking, says the philosopher, proves my existence. in order to come to an absolute conviction on the nature of truth and error, he sets out by doubting everything. and then he says that he cannot doubt the existence of his thoughts. he thus placed the spirit on the basis of real life, delivered it of its transcendentalism, and that constitutes his everlasting merit. however, not alone cartesius, but also your own experience testifies to the inseparable connection between thinking and being. have not your thoughts been connected always and everywhere with some worldly or real object? if you attempt to isolate thought in order to ponder over it, you can only do so because that thought has been experienced by you and therefore was in every instance attached to some worldly object. true, you have thought of greek gods, brownies, and mermaids. but you, an amateur in painting, are familiar enough with that part of the mind which is called imagination in order to admit that even this eccentric part of the mind does not only act, and therefore, exist in reality, but also derives all its products from reality, so that even its most fantastical vagaries and illusions are still real pictures, reflections of reality. but how is it that i require such a multitude of words in order to state over and over again that the thought has a real existence and is a uniform part of the universe? simply because from time immemorial the confusion in matters of logic is so great that the human spirit is in the same breath exalted to heaven, and yet its thoughts regarded as nothing real, nothing true. this is made plain by the fact that a sharp distinction is commonly made between that which is real and that which is only imagined, and this difference is exaggerated to such an extent that it appears as if the idea, which indeed is only in the brain, has no real existence at all. in order that you may understand the interrelations of the things of the universe, i must warn you against this exaggeration and prove that the intellect has a real existence which is connected with the universe or reality. botany, which occupies itself with plants, does not only teach us to divide them into classes, orders, and families, but it also does more by showing us what place in the entire realm of nature is occupied by the vegetable kingdom, by pointing out the differences which distinguish the plants from the inorganic mineral kingdom or the organic animal kingdom. formal logic similarly dissects the spirit into its parts, makes distinctions between conceptions, ideas, judgments, conclusions, divides these into subdivisions, classifies conceptions according to species, separates abstract and concrete thought, knows many varieties of judgments, registers three, four, or more modes of conclusion. but at the same time this formal logic recoils from touching on the question as to how the universal spirit is related to the universe, what role it plays in the general existence, whether it is part and parcel of nature or transcendental. and yet this is the most interesting part, the part which logically connects the intellect and the science of the intellect with all other sciences and things. logic must teach us how to distinguish. it is not a question, however, of distinguishing sheet iron from gold, or a greyhound from a pug-dog, for this is done by special lines of knowledge. logic must rather enlighten us about that part of the faculty of distinguishing which is generally required in all branches of knowledge, whereby truth and error, imagination and reality are recognized. to this end i feel impelled to advise you not to overlook that even error and imagination belong to the one infinite and absolutely coherent reality. for the purpose of distinguishing true imagination from actual reality, it must be remembered that just as rye bread and cream puffs agree in belonging to the general category of baker's products, so imagination and truth, thought and reality, are two different kinds of the same nature. to sum up the contents of this letter, let me point out that its beginning shows the connection of the intellect with the development of the people, while its conclusion explains the wider connection of the mind with the universal existence. fifth letter a man not trained in logical thinking is handicapped by the absence of a monistic method of thought. monistic is synonymous with systematic, logical, or uniform. if we call a cream puff a tidbit and rye bread a food without remembering that every food is a tidbit and every tidbit food, and if we ignore the fact that both of them, in spite of their difference, belong to the same category and are, therefore, related, then we lack logic. and logic is lacking whenever the fact is ignored that all things without exception: substances, forces, or qualities of the world, are chips of the same block, finite parts of the infinite, which is the only truth and reality. that insects, fishes, birds, and mammals form one and the same animal kingdom, is an old story which has long been patched up by the logical instinct. darwin did not only enrich the natural sciences, but also perform an invaluable service for logic. in proving how amphibia developed into birds, he bored a hole into the hitherto fixed order of classification. he brought motion, life, spirit into the zoological swamp. in case you should not be familiar enough with darwin's work to understand my allusions, i will enter a little more deeply into the matter in a few sentences. the zoologists knew well enough that all species of animals belonged to the animal kingdom; but this classification was a mechanical affair. now the "origin of species," which demonstrates that the zoological classification is not constant but variable, which outlines the actual transition from one species of animals to another, reveals at the same time that this alignment of all animal species in one kingdom is not only a logical mechanism, but also a fact of actual existence. this classification of all animals from the minutest to the most gigantic in one kingdom appeared before the time of darwin as an order which had been accomplished by thought alone, while after him it was known as an order of nature. what the zoologists did to the animal kingdom, must be done by the logician to existence in general, to the cosmos. it must be shown that the whole world, all forms of its existence, including the spirit, are logically or monistically connected, related, welded together. a certain narrow materialism thinks that everything is done and said when the inter-connection between thought and brain is pointed out. a good many things may still be discovered by the help of the dissecting knife, microscope, and experiment; but this does not make the function of logic superfluous. true, thought and brain are connected, just as intimately as the brain is related to the blood, the blood with oxygen, etc.; but moreover thought is connected quite as intimately with all other things as all physical objects are. that the apple is not alone dependent on the stem which attaches it to the tree, but also on sunshine and rain, that these things are not one-sidedly but universally connected, this is what logic wants to teach you particularly in regard to the spirit, the thought. if a traveler in africa had to report a new animal species, he would not make special mention of the fact of its existence, because that is obvious. and though he were to relate things about the most abnormal existence, we should still know that this abnormality is only a deviation in degree which does not overstep the bounds of existence in general. but the human intellect is a greater novelty than the most wonderful animal species of the interior of africa. you know my sharpwitted friend engländer. when i told him that i was writing articles on the human mind, he advised me not to bother my head about it. he said that this was a subject no man knew anything about. and when the learned mr. hinze, whom you also know, wanted to prove the inevitability of religious faith and the inadequacy of all science, he always asked the pathetic question: what is consciousness? and he used to take on an expression, as if he had presented a book with seven seals. now i don't want to class the professors of logic with such men. but it is a fact that the great multitude, among them many scientists, are quite unfamiliar with the truth that the existence of the blue sky and of the green trees is a uniform part of the same generality with the existence of our intellect. for this reason it is necessary to prove that the intellect exists in the same way that all other things do. for it is denied and misunderstood, not only by those who regard the spirit as a being of a transcendental nature, but also by those who admit the existence of the true contents of an ideological concept, but not of thought itself. in short, the matter is so obscure that i feel sure that you will likewise be as yet in doubt whether there are not two kinds of ideological concepts, one of them real, the other unreal. for two thousand years logic has proclaimed the sentence that thought is a form to be filled with real contents. true thought "must coincide with reality." it is true that there is a germ of sense in this statement, but it is misunderstood. the central point of logic is overlooked. every thought must not only have a real content, but it is also necessary, in order to distinguish true thoughts or perceptions from untrue, to realize that thought is always and everywhere a part of reality and truth, even when it contains the most singular imaginations and errors. just as the domestic cat and the panther are different species of cats and yet belong to the same genus of cats, so true and false thoughts, in spite of all their differences, are of the same genus. for truth is so great that it comprises absolutely everything. truth, reality, the world, the all, the infinite and the absolute are synonymous expressions. a clear conception of truth is indispensable for the understanding of logic. and in the last analysis it is simply using different words for the same thing, when i base the quintessence of logic, its fulcrum, cardinal, salient, or distinctive point on the spirit intimately united to nature or on the concept of a uniform world, truth, or reality. i cannot give you a clearer view of truth than by quoting at this place the famous words of lessing: "if god were to offer me the ever active striving for truth in his left hand and truth in his right hand, i should grasp his left and say: father, keep truth, it is for you alone." this statement is somewhat highflown and mystical, and lessing was no doubt somewhat embarrassed by mystical thinking. still there is a sober truth in these words, which is quite clear and to the point. "truth itself" is the universe, the infinite and inexhaustible. every part of it is a finite part of the infinite and is, therefore, finite and infinite, perishable and imperishable at the same time. every part is a separate part and connected inseparably with the whole. the human mind, among others, is such a part. the universal existence, or truth, is the inexhaustible object of the human mind. the fact that in the study of logic the human mind has itself for an object must be explained to the student by pointing out that in this case the subject and the object are both things like all other things, in other words, are a part of truth, a part of natural existence. "truth itself" cannot be wholly conceived by the human brain, but in parts. for this reason we possess only the ever active striving for truth; for this reason, furthermore, the conception or knowledge can never be completely identical with reality, but can be only a part of it. now permit me to say a few words which do not sound as would those spoken on the throne of logic, but which are expressed in popular language. if you conceive some real object, whether a church steeple or a thimble, then this object exists twice, viz., in reality and in conception. on the other hand, a certain creation of imagination has only a simple fantastical existence. such a popular way of thinking is undoubtedly correct. it is incorrect only when the fact is universally ignored that all modes of existence belong to the same genus, the same as a domestic cat and a panther, so that the existence of a thing in our brains, and outside of them in the heavens, on earth, and in all places has a logical meaning only when it is the same existence in spite of all multiplicity. an existence not partaking of the general nature of all existence would be an illogical, nonsensical, thing. now, i think you will have no difficulty in understanding me when i say that a church steeple in imagination and the same church steeple in reality are not two church steeples, but that imagination and reality are forms of the same existence. ancient logic ordered a medal and had stamped on its face: the thought must be identical with the reality. we now stamp on its reverse side: ( ) the thought is itself a part of reality and ( ) the reality outside of thought is too voluminous and cannot enter thought even with its smallest particle. what good, under these circumstances, is the old inscription, especially since it does not teach us at all how the identity between thought and its real object is to be attained, known, or measured? if you, my dear eugene, should become confused by these statements instead of enlightened, you should have patience and consider that a thing which is to be illuminated by logic must, of course, be first obscure. i believe that i have served you in some way by simply raising a doubt in your mind as to the soundness of the popular way of speaking and if i thus have convinced you of the confusion and inadequacy of the plausible idea of the identity of thought and reality. true, a thought must agree with its object just as a portrait should. but what good will it do a painter to have his special attention called to this fact? have you ever seen a portrait or a copy that did not agree in some respect with the original? i am convinced that this has never been your experience any more than a portrait which was a complete likeness of its object. your experience will be sufficiently cultivated to know that it can always be a question only of a more or less. i would seriously recommend to you to reflect on the relativeness of all equality, similarity, and identity. by far the greater part of humanity is in this respect barbarously thoughtless. it is very difficult to grasp for the logically untrained brain that two drops of water or twins are only relatively alike or unlike, just as are man and woman, negro and white man, and that all existence is just as alike as it is unlike. it is with the thinker as it is with the painter. they both search for a likeness of reality and truth. in painting as in understanding there are excellent pictures and bad ones. in this respect one may make a distinction between true and false thoughts, but you must also know that even the unsuccessful portrait has some likeness, and that even the most accurate likeness is yet far from being in perfect harmony and identical with its object. reality, truth, universal nature, stands in the pulpit and preaches: "i am the lord, thy god. thou shalt not make any graven image to worship it." you must have a far too sublime conception of truth to entertain the idea that any painter or thinker might encompass it fully within the limit of a picture, no matter how good a likeness it may be. now, that we have recognized the human mind as a part of actual reality and truth, we see at the same time that undivided reality, the sum of all that is, represents absolute truth which comprises everything. in their capacity of parts of the universe, true and false thoughts, good and bad men, heaven and hell, and all other things, are all pieces of the same cloth, bombs of the same caliber. sixth letter my dear son: after the third letter had acquainted you with the fact that the subject of logic has a certain religious flavor, the two subsequent letters endeavored to show that the logical subject is interconnected with the universal existence of the world, that the faculty of thought is an inseparable part of actual truth. in the vernacular of theology my last two letters have represented the human mind as a part of the living true god. christianity teaches: god is a spirit and who would worship him must worship in spirit and in truth. and logic teaches: the spirit is a part of universal existence. whoever worships the spirit, is an idolator, for he worships a part and misunderstands the whole truth. truth itself is identical with the universal existence, with the world, and all things are simply forms, phenomena, predicates, attributes, passing expressions of it. the universal existence may be called divine because it is infinite, being the alpha and omega which comprises all things as special truths. the intellect is such a limited part among other special parts of divine truth, and the latter is frequently called world without any bombastic emphasis. undoubtedly, every science, profession and trade can say the same thing of its object. the blue sky and the green trees are divine parts. everything is interrelated and connected. if that were a good reason for not making any subdivisions, every part and description would become endlessly tiresome. however, the specialty of logic is the cosmic sum of all truths, because it aims at a general elucidation of the nature of the human brain. this purpose is not so well served by an accumulation of other knowledge as by the general understanding of truth. logic, which seeks to enlighten the mind for the purpose of scientific thinking, does not so much treat of true conceptions as of the general and absolute conception of truth which is inseparably linked to the infinite universal life. if you wish to think scientifically, you will first of all strive after clear ideas. and yet your head may be quite clear in regard to everyday things, without getting any nearer to general clearness. nor is such clearness obtainable by the accumulation of mere special knowledge, for even if you were to grow in wisdom to the end of your days, nevertheless the fountain of wisdom, the universe, is inexhaustible and your brain will remain imperfectly informed or unclear as before. yea, even the smallest part of the world is so inexhaustible that the most talented can never acquire all the knowledge necessary to understand entirely even the most minute object. the strongest microscope cannot see all there is to see in a drop of water, and the wisest man can never learn all there is to shoemaking. you can see by all this that the scientific use of our intellect is furthered by special knowledge only in the corresponding details. for this reason it does not satisfy us to have some logicians tell us how many kinds of concepts, judgments and conclusions are contained in our intellect. these are special details of logic. but the thing of first importance for the student of logic is the elucidation of the universal concept of truth, not the accumulation of special truths. special truths enlighten the intellect. but the understanding that all specialties are connected with one another by one monad or unit which is truth itself gives us a certain general enlightenment which certainly does not render any special research unnecessary, or take the place of it, but which may well serve as the foundation of all research, which may therefore be called a fundamental assistance. i may remark in passing that the understanding of logical science is rendered especially difficult by the fact that the unpracticed understands all terms and concepts only in their narrow popular meaning, while the subject matter leads up continually into the widest fields. when i speak of parts of the world, you must not think merely of geographical parts, but you must think farther until you arrive at the insight that stars and bricks, matter and force, in short all parts of the world are world parts. the logical difficulty may be principally traced to the lack of familiarity with the comprehensive categories. it will be clear to you that thinking and being, phenomenon and truth, etc., are conceptions of the widest scope. so you may have some difficulty in distinguishing between concepts of truth, and true concepts. and yet this is the same as making a distinction between the general class of herbs and its individual species. the mere intercourse with such comprehensive concepts as truth, existence, universe, is an excellent school of intellectual enlightenment. perhaps you may object to the deviation of a science devoted to the special study of the faculty of thought into such fields as existence or truth. but a logic confined to an analysis of the faculty of understanding would be narrow compared to one representing this faculty of understanding at work in real life. if the science of the eye were to treat only of the various parts of the eye without considering the things outside connected with its function, the light, the objects, in short, the vision of the eye, it would be more an anatomy of the eye than a general science of the eye. at all events a science which represents not alone the subjective faculty of vision, but also the living activity of the eye, the objective field of vision inseparable from the subjective faculty, is a far more comprehensive instruction, a higher enlightenment of the human brain. in my opinion, logic should not so much treat of the analysis of the intellectual subject as of the purpose and object of the faculty of thought, its culture, which is not accomplished by the intellect itself, but by its connection with the world of truth, its interrelation with the universal existence. what can a logic accomplish which divides thought into analytical and synthetical thoughts, which speaks of inductive and deductive understanding and of a dozen other kinds, but which finally declines to meet the question of the relation of thought and understanding to truth, and fails to indicate what and where is divine truth and how we may arrive at it? pilate, the typical sceptic, shrugs his shoulders; the clergymen make a mystery of divine truth; the natural sciences care only for the true conceptions, but naught for the concept of truth; and then the special science of understanding, formal logic, tries to refer its task to philosophy or world wisdom. i have already pointed out that the titles of the principal works on philosophy indicate that the whole world wisdom turns around the question: how can our brain be enlightened, how can it arrive at truth? the naturalists answer that this can be accomplished by special studies, and they are frequently opposed to philosophical research which makes general truth its main object, and belittle it. you will readily see that this is a mistake when you consider that, to illustrate, a machine or an organism as a whole is still something more than a mere sum of its parts. no matter how well you may know each single part, yet you will not understand the whole machine or organism by this means alone. the universe is not an aggregation of unorganized parts, but a living process which must be understood not only in its parts but also as a whole. we may pass for the moment the question whether the milky way may be dissolved into stars, and whether the stars may become globes like our earth which may develop plants, animals, and intelligent beings. the thing which is evident is that there is a process of development, that all nature takes part in this movement, that the universe is a whole without end, composed of an infinite number of parts; a coming and going, an eternal transformation, which is always identical with itself and always the same world. what all this would be without our eyes and ears and without the intellect by means of which we use eyes and ears, what the world "in itself" is, that is a senseless and transcendental speculation. the science of logic must deal only with the actual world which is inseparable from us and from our thoughts. this world which we hear, see, smell, in which we live and breathe, is the world of truth or the true world. that is a fact. must i prove this? and how is a fact proven? how do we prove that a peach is a delicious fruit? one goes and eats it. in the same way, you may now go and enjoy life, of course in a rational manner, and i am convinced that your own love of life will tell you that it is proof positive of the truth of the world, of its actuality. but even in the midst of this actual world there is present an inconsistent element, a human race with a confused logic. this race has been led by various depressing and saddening circumstances to blacken the delicious truth of this world and to look for a transcendental truth in philosophical metaphysics or religious fantasmagorias, both of which are parts of the same stew. the philosophers of misery who make of the world of truth a vain shadow and a miserable vale of sorrow must needs be convinced by logic that the living world is the only true one. well, that is not so difficult. but there is a danger of getting into a vicious circle of errors, imitating a snake biting its own tail. i have to prove logically that the world and truth are one and the same thing, before we have come to an agreement as to what is logical truth or true logic. nevertheless, nature has assisted us. the logic of nature is the true logic by the help of which we can agree. nothing more is required than a somewhat trained brain. take two men having a dispute about truth. one of them says it is one thing, the other that it is something else. so they are arguing about that which is. this last word is a form of the verb to be. hence in arguing whether the remote nebula in the heavens is a brick or a star, a male or a female, one is always discussing some form of existence. all disputes turn around forms of existence, but existence itself is an undisputable truth. have i now still to prove that all existence is of the same category? are there any stones that do not belong to the category of stones, or any kind of wood which is iron? what would become of reason and language, if such a thing were to be considered? and yet, much that is being said by opponents is of such a nature. if i have succeeded in convincing you that the universe is the truth, there still remains the special question: what place shall we assign to fantastic ideas, error, and untruth? if the universe is the truth, then everything would be true, and hence it seems contradictory that error and untruth should have a place in truth or in the world. of this more anon. i shall only point out in passing that untruth may without any contradiction belong to truth, just as weeds are a negation of herbs and still at the same time herbs. in conclusion i call your attention to the eminently proletarian character of the science of truth. it gives to the working class the logical justification to renounce all clerical and mystic control and to look for salvation in this same world in which divine truth is living. seventh letter the philologists distinguish carefully between a science of language and a science of languages. the latter teaches egyptian, assyrian, hebrew, greek, latin, english, french, etc., while the former treats of the general characteristics common to all languages, of language itself. philosophical logic stands in the same relation to other sciences. the latter make us acquainted with special truths, while logic treats of truth in general. those overintelligent people who claim that truth is merely a collective term for many truths do not see the woods for trees. herder, wilhelm von humboldt, max müller, steinthal, etc., have many things to say about the science of language of which the linguists with many languages never dream. the science of language, aside from its many amenities, is also burdened with a difficult problem which it cannot solve without the help of logic. this problem is the point of differentiation where babbling and word-mongery cease and intelligent speech begins. for human speech has a certain meaning, and even the cries of the animals are not without sense. the sparrows know how to converse together, the rooster calls his flock together, the dog knows how to announce that a stranger enters his master's home. not alone the jokers, but serious thinkers speak of animal language, of a sign language, and maintain that speech does not alone consist of words, but also of inarticulate sounds and gestures. poets endow even the storm, the thunder and the winds with speech. we wish to clear this confusion and ascertain what language is and where it begins. languages, as is well known, have their beginning at the tower of babel. but in order to get close to language, we must look for a beginning of things either in god or in logic. you know the old question: which was first, the egg or the hen? but only a frivolous mind overlooks the serious side of this question and turns it into a mere joke. the question of beginning and end is an eminently logical one, and an unequivocal and clear answer to it would bring light not alone into the science of language, but also into the human brain. let us, therefore, follow up the problem of the "origin of language" a little farther. when our forefathers dealt with this question, they thought that a god had given speech to man or some genius had invented it. they thought of a beginning in time. the modern thinkers speculate more deeply. they have found out that language is not a fixed thing, but fluid, and has risen from low beginnings to a great perfection. we can no more find its temporal beginning by looking backward than we can see its end by looking ahead. for this reason we no longer look for its temporal, but for its ideological beginning. (steinthal.) we should like to have a fixed mark where we might say: up to this point that which resembles speech is only roaring, exclamation, noise, and here is the beginning of the well articulated sound which deserves the name of "spoken word." but there is still another factor which complicates the question further. some say: it is not only the sound, the word, which constitutes speech, but the connected sentence; there must be sense and reason mixed with it. and this applies to the speaker and to the listener. language presupposes reason. then, again, intellect is not a fixed thing, but a fluid process which develops in, from, and by speech. so it appears on one side as if the mind produces language, and on the other, as if language produces the mind, the reason. where, then, is the beginning and end, and how can we bring order into these relations? for us, who are studying the mind, not the language, the conclusion follows that it is not alone the word, but also the sound, the tone, the gesture, that all things have a meaning and speak a language. we find mind wherever we penetrate with our mind. not alone language, but the world is connected with the mind, with the thought. but the connection with language may well serve as an illustration by which the connection of the cosmic mind may be demonstrated and the human brain illuminated. language shares the honor with the mind of being extolled, even in this sober century, if not to the skies, at least far out of the general connection of common things. for this reason, we must emphasize in the case of language as in that of the mind, that they exist, that they are part and parcel of the universal existence. at this point i wish to give you a vivid illustration of the unity of all being by pointing out that it is indubitably established by the existence of one single name which is sufficient to designate _all_. true, language employs many names for this unity of the world, but that is a luxury. it is logical and necessary for the intellect to have _one_ name for the _all_, because everything is not only infinitely variegated, but also infinitely one, or a unit. there are many different waters, but all water partakes of the general nature of water. unless that nature is present, there is no water and the name of water does not apply. in the same way there are many kinds of oil; olive oil, kerosene oil, castor oil, etc., and each kind has its own subdivisions. but everything that has a common name is a unit. kindly observe, now, that the names of things form just such circles as the water does after being struck by a stone. just as the name water, so the name oil indicates a ring. then the name fluid constitutes another and wider ring which includes both oil and water. then the name matter draws a still wider circle and includes solids as well as fluids, and finally the name being, or _all_, includes mind and matter, all matter and force, including heaven and hell, in one sole ring, in one unit. on the basis of this universal unity, from which it becomes apparent that high and low, dry and fluid, in short the whole universe is made of the same substance, any fantastic thinker can prove that human and animal language is one, for otherwise one could not refer to both of them as language. he may then justly contend that speech, producing a sound, is a noise, that speech and noise are one. speech is sound and sound speaks. in this way language would have no beginning and no end. in the last analysis it would be one with all things, and all things would be one with it. in this way the whole universe would become an inexplicable, incomprehensible, inexpressible mixture of speech. and yet it is an old story that man's insight grows the more he magnifies a thing. the more excessively we exaggerate a thing, the plainer become its boundaries. language indeed requires one single name for _all_, but it also requires an infinite number of names in order to specify the parts of _all_. inasmuch as language claims to be only a part of existence, this part has to be bounded, and you should in this connection remember the unlimited freedom of man in drawing such boundaries. words are not merely empty words, but names of cosmic parts, of cosmic rings of undulation. language, or rather the mind connected with language, wishes to bound the infinite by the help of language. the instinctive popular use of language does this in a haphazard way. conscious science proceeds in an exact manner. just as it has determined on the field of temperature what should be called hot and what warm, so it is at liberty on the field of sounds to determine where the name of language begins or ceases. the end of the discussion of language is therefore this: that which has already been done to horse power has not yet been done to the concept of language; it has been somewhat fixed by common usage, but only insufficiently. and so the moral of this tale is that the things of this world, even mind and language, are connected and intermingling undulations of the same stream, which has neither beginning nor end. let me say it once more clearly and without circumlocution: the logic which i teach and the thought which is its object are parts of the world, of the infinite, and every part being a piece of the infinite is likewise infinite. every part partakes of the nature of the infinite. hence you must not expect that i should exhaust my infinite subject. i confine myself to the logical chapter of "the one and the many." i simply wish to make it plain that without any contradiction the whole multiplicity of existence is of the same nature, and that this oneness of nature subdivides into manifold forms. the world is interconnected and this interconnection is subdivided into departments. it adds to the general enlightenment of the human brain to recognize this in regard to language, to mind, to all parts of the universe. i repeat, then: one may think logically without having attended any lectures on logic, just as one may raise potatoes without a scientific knowledge of agriculture. it was possible to invent the thermometer, to clearly distinguish between sounds and colors, and a hundred other things, without having explained the faculty of discrimination. but the most abstract distinctions, such as beginning and end, word and meaning, body and soul, man and animal, matter and force, truth and error, presuppose for their explanation a logical explanation of their interconnection with our intellect. eighth letter dear eugene: logic is going through the same experience as economics. the economists of the capitalist era talk solely of the means and ways by which profit and surplus value may be increased. they discuss only its relative size, its increase or decrease. but the thing itself, its origin and descent, is not discussed. it is passed in silence that profit is extracted from labor power by paying less for a day's work than is produced by it. the gentlemen talk only of the "wealth of nations," but not of their poverty. and though this was due to ignorance in the beginning, it has later become sheer roguery. the formal logicians are as ignorant as they are roguish, when they persist in discussing the intellect or thought in the traditional manner as if they were isolated things, while ignoring the necessary connection of the object of the logical study with the world of experiences. this interconnection leads to an explanation of truth and error, of sense and nonsense, of god and idols, and this is very inopportune for the professors. for this reason this unwelcome problem is handed over to the mystical departments, to metaphysics and religion, so that these venerable pillars of official wisdom may continue their services to the ruling classes. i have already stated in my letters that the kernel of my discussion turns on the distinction between formal and what i call proletarian logic. the formal logicians treat the intellect as a thing "in itself," while i express in many different ways the fact that the intellect does not exist by itself, but is interconnected with all things and with the universe. that intellect has indeed a transcendental leaning, which seeks vent by trying to exclude now music, now language, now itself, now some other fetich from the universal interrelation. but the science of the mind teaches that the brain watching its own activity finds out that all affirmations and negations, assertions and contradictions, belong to the one omnipotent world mechanism, which keeps them stored within itself and which is actually truth and life. inasmuch as the human brain is of the same nature as this automatic universal being and interconnected with it, logic is at the same time religion, metaphysics, and world wisdom.[ ] formal logic teaches that our intellect must keep all things apart, but does not teach that it must also connect them. this logic is right in one way and yet does not arrive at the goal of a clear world philosophy, because it permits the transcendental leaning to exaggerate the differences and distinctions. it overlooks the paradoxical or dialectical nature of things which are not only separated but also connected. what must be understood is that, generally speaking, the classification of the universe is only a formality. we are, indeed, justified in distinguishing between above and below, right and left, beginning and end, gold and sheet metal, good and bad, but we must also enlighten ourselves as to how multiplicity can be a unity, the variable constant, and the constant variable. formal logic has a wrong name. it is not formal, but transcendental. it shares the common prejudice that there are absolutely contradictory things or irreconcilable opposites, that there are essential differences which have no connection, no bridge between them, nothing in common. it teaches that contradictions cannot exist, and contradicts itself by clinging to the belief that there are irreconcilable contradictions. it teaches that a thing which contradicts itself is inconceivable, is not true, and thus reveals that it is not well informed on the formality of contradictions, on the true conciliation of contradictions, and on universal truth. gold is not sheet iron, that is true enough. whoever calls gold sheet metal or sheet metal gold, contradicts himself. in the actual world both things are separated. yet they are not separated to such extent that gold and sheet iron do not partake of the same nature, of the nature of all metal. gold and sheet iron are unlike metals, but they have the same metallic likeness. that like things are different and different things alike, that it is everywhere only a question of the degree of difference, of formal differences, this is overlooked by "formal" logic and by all who seek truth in any logical diagram or fetich, instead of in the eternal, omnipresent existence of the inseparable universe. our logic deals with truth or with the universe, which contains the most sublime gods and the meanest deviltry, in other words, which contains everything. in the world truth there is contained error, pretense, lies, just as death also lives in it. in other words, error, pretense, lies, death are only phenomena, formalities, passing trifles or things which are nothing compared to the one thing, that thing of all things, which is being, truth, life. the understanding of the one living world truth is so greatly aggravated by the so-called contradictions which it contains. we find for instance that where one thing ends another begins. the end of the one is the beginning of another. every beginning is at the same time an end. both are contained in one another, and yet in our minds beginning and end are separated. we find the beginning and the end everywhere and nowhere. or look into space. you do not see any boundary, and yet your vision reaches only a certain distance. your vision is bounded and yet there is no boundary to be seen. or look at life. death soon arrives, and yet a closer look shows that death is not really death, for "a new life arises from the ruins." the world proves to be the eternal life which does not know death. it is a contradiction to say that death lives, but this contradiction can be solved by the understanding that the difference between life and death, however great, is still a formal one, a difference which like all other differences is reduced to relative insignificance by the infinite cosmic life. there exists a widely diffused school, if this term may be applied to the unschooled, that preaches patience in the matter of the systematization of our thoughts or the enlightenment of our intellect, and though it no longer hopes for a mysterious revelation, yet founds its faith on natural science which has explained so many things to us and which is finally supposed to throw light on the "last questions of all knowledge." but i can easily convince you that the new countries, plants, animals. esquimaux, that may be discovered on polar expeditions, or the inventions which edison may perhaps make on the field of electricity, or the experiences which future astronomers may gather in regard to suns, moons, and comets, while they may add valuable contributions to science and life, will yet do little toward a correct general employment of our intellect or to a universal enlightenment of the human brain. on the other hand, an enlightenment as to the nature and meaning of contradictions will spread light to the remotest corners of imagination, into the heavens and eternity, into the existence of the whole, the unity and difference of all things. the most drastic, and perhaps the most instructive, illustration of the correct meaning of contradictions is given by the contrast between truth and untruth. these two poles are perhaps more widely separated than the north pole and the south pole, and yet they are as intimately connected as these two. the commonplace logic will hardly listen to the demonstration of the unity of such apparently wide opposites as truth and untruth. therefore you will pardon me, if i illustrate this example by others, for instance by the contrast between day and night. take it that the day lasts twelve hours and the night likewise. day and night are opposites. where there is day cannot be any night, and yet day and night constitute one single day of twenty-four hours, in which they both dwell harmoniously. it is the same with truth and untruth. the world is the truth, and error, pretense, and lies are embodied in it, are parts of the actual world, just as night is a part of day without confusing logic. we may honestly speak of genuine pretense and true lies, without any contradiction. just as unreason has still some reason left, so untruth still lives inevitably in truth, because the latter is all-embracing, is the universe. "contradictions cannot exist." but confused brains full of contradictions nevertheless exist. knives without handles and blades, two mountains without a valley between them, and other nonsense, exist as a phrase. there are two kinds of contradictions: senseless ones and very sensible ones. yea, the whole world[ ] is an infinite and inexhaustible contradiction, which contains innumerable sensible statements and misstatements, which never disappear and yet may be solved harmoniously by the help of time and reason. from this it follows that the formal criteria of truth which are on everybody's tongue, such as the identity of thought with its object, and the absence of all contradictions, do not furnish a basis at all for the analysis of truth and cannot define it, except in an ignorant and roguish way. since the prophet daniel scattered ashes in the temple and unmasked the servants of baal, other idol worshippers have continued to stimulate the people to daily sacrifices, in order to steal the victuals at night. this continual rascality and its repeated exposure has blunted the desire of the people to serve truth, so that a great many have become frivolous and indifferent. this rascally logic, not to mention ignorance, encourages the frivolous and indifferent in their godless departure from truth. in the pulpit and in the garb of science it preaches the vanity and inadequacy of research. this is preached not as a dogma, but as a logical science, and thus the senseless contradiction is committed of trying to prove truly by the help of the intellect that the intellect is too limited to grasp the truth and prove it. in its historical course logical research once arrived at such a result in good faith. this happened in the famous "critique of reason" of immanuel kant. our shrewd friends of darkness now seek to utilize the fame of this work, to which it is entitled on account of its great contribution toward the elucidation of cosmic truth, for the purpose of preventing on the strength of it a progress of enlightenment beyond the standpoint of kant. by the way, kant has demonstrated that the truth in general is as much a matter of experience as the brain with which we search for it. he has shown beyond a doubt that our eyes and ears are inseparably connected with our mind and with the whole cosmic truth. but the persistent spirit of transcendentalism, or what is the same thing, the traditional belief in the transcendental spirit, has led him to grant a mysterious existence alongside of or above the human mind, alongside of or above the cosmic truth, to an incomprehensible monster spirit and to a fantastical hyper-truth. the kantian critique of reason did not understand the universality of truth. it still affirmed the existence of two worlds and two truths without any unity. and as it is the curse of the evil deed to generate more evil, it produced two intellects. ( ) the poor little subservient intellect of man, and ( ) the enormous and abnormal intellect of the _lord_, who is supposed to understand the incomprehensible and to untie the most senseless contradictions like so many knots. the truth which is the universe, the cosmic or universal truth, will reveal to you the absurdity of abnormal humility which is contained in the dualistic doctrine of the two minds. of course, the philosopher kant had a greater intellect than peter simple. but nevertheless all intellects partake of the nature of the general intellect, and no intellect can step above or below this general nature without losing sense or reason. one cannot speak of another, higher, faculty of thought than that acquired by man through experience without dropping from logic to absurdity. no doubt the animal world possesses something similar to intellect. no doubt, also, the animal mind may be separated from the human mind by some special name, for instance "instinct." no doubt, furthermore, our reason is strengthened by culture from generation to generation. but that anywhere and at any time there should come into existence a faculty of thought which would stand outside of the cosmic interconnection, that is an absurd conception and a senseless thing. just as necessarily as all water has one and the same nature, that of being wet, just so necessarily every intelligence and every thought partakes of the general nature of thought and must logically be a part, a particular part, of the one universal and empirical world. footnotes: [ ] religion denotes here as much as conception of the world and explanation of its last questions; and metaphysics stands here for everything conceivable, which meaning embraces more than the mere tangible.--editor. [ ] when we consider its many parts as such.--editor. ninth letter repetition, my dear eugene, is the mother of all study. logic aims to teach you the proper use of the intellect, not only in this or that branch of study, but in the general branch of truth. its result is the following precept: in all things always remember the universal interrelation. in order to illustrate this statement a little, let me point out that in the period of scholasticism thinking was practiced without any interconnection with the rest of the world, merely by brown study. the present age of natural sciences then cultivated a better method. but the method of the natural sciences has not succeeded so far in being applied to the field of law, morals, politics, psychology, and philosophy, because the logical understanding of the total interrelation of the indivisible world truth was lacking, because the concept of truth was enveloped in darkness, and because the privileged classes have a great interest in maintaining darkness. for this reason, the true method of reasoning still requires many explanations. the socialist, for instance, is charged with inciting the people, with promising more than he can keep and with sowing strife in the hearts of men. those who make this charge in the commonplace sense, tear two things, viz., peace and strife, out of their due connection. as a matter of fact, peace and strife must always dwell together. a nation whose peace were not intermingled with a certain strife, would be a nation of sluggards. thanks to the strife in their breasts, the nations are progressive and stirring. motion is the essence of the world, and national motion is inconceivable without the striving of men. for the sake of development and culture, nations must always demand more than they can immediately attain. on the other hand, striving of this sort is not sufficient. one must not demand more than one can obtain, nor promise more than one can give. for this reason the logical socialist must know that even in the future society the trees will not grow into the clouds, and that the peace for which we hope and strive will always be mixed with strife. the music of the future, although more harmonious than the music of the present, will nevertheless be eternally marred by disharmony. there is nothing perfect in the world, because only the whole universe is perfect, because the universe alone is perfectness itself. eternal peace, as the warriors may justly claim, is an illusion, so long as we think of peace in a transcendental way and as being separated from strife. but the sons of the war god who would like to continue the thunder of cannons and the rattle of sabers eternally, are no less the victims of illusion, if not something worse. eternal is only war in peace and peace in war, although that may seem senseless to the logicians of the old school. thus even the inevitable war will become more peaceful and humane in the course of time. the barbarian form of war, of which the prussians are masters, is not destined to last forever, unless we speak of the illogical eternity of the preacher which opens its doors by leaving the temporal world. in defending the social war, i wish to have it understood that neither the conceptions nor the things called war and peace are separated by a chinese wall. everything is interconnected and interdependent. it is true that strife and animosities may be exaggerated, and so may peace. but whatever blame attaches to this, refers only to the exaggeration. it is not the animosity, but the excessive animosity which deserves censure. by recognizing the logical interconnection between peace and strife, the dispute of the parties is rendered saner. there is then no longer a question of a yawning chasm between satisfaction and dissatisfaction, but of something about which an agreement is possible, viz., how much there is of either. as peace and war in the human breast, so all variety intermingles in the cosmic unit. in the novel "_homo sum_," by ebers, the monk paulus, who tasted the delights of the preliminary celestial ecstasy when castigating his body, says: "i truly believe that it is just as difficult on this globe to find pain without joy as joy without pain." and till eulenspiegel, that type of a practical joker, showed an understanding of dialectics when he lightened the difficulty of ascending a mountain by the reflection that the descent on the other side would be so much easier. logic is no more senseless in teaching that all things, even the most opposite, are of the same substance than it is in showing that night belongs to day and weeds to herbs. in order that these petty illustrations may not confuse your mind, it should be remembered that the essential point is the elucidation of the great contradiction between mind and matter, between thinking and being, which includes all petty contradictions. in order to think in accordance with logical consistency, you must not regard a thing as something independent, but consider everything as fluid particles of the same substance, which is the thing of all things, the world, the truth, and life. our logic is therefore the science of truth. this truth is neither above nor below, neither in jerusalem nor in jericho, neither in the spirit nor in the flesh, but everywhere. our logic is the science of understanding. it teaches that you must not search for understanding by cudgeling your brain, but only in connection with experience, with the interrelation of things. since man in his experience also meets errors, science was dominated for centuries by the question whether truth and experience are not two different things, whether all our experience is only an illusion of our senses. cartesius replied to this: "no; the belief in a perfect, true being cannot admit of such a delusion." by substituting the concept of truth for the concept of god, we are certain that the world of experience is not a ghost, but the most actual reality. although the great kant called the cosmic truth a phenomenon, because he could not divest his mind of transcendental faith, of the faith in a transcendental truth, still we know today that all distinctions which are ever made constitute but a nibbling at the universal unit. as necessarily as all variety in baking produces bakery wares, just as necessarily heaven and earth, and everything connected with them, are parts of the indivisible truth which is also called nature, cosmos, universe, god, and experience. language gives to its darling truth many different pet names, just as a happy mother calls her heart's treasure by a thousand endearing terms. feuerbach reasons in this fashion: "if god is not a personal being different from nature and man, then he is an entirely superfluous being.... the use of the word god which is always combined with the conception of a separate being, is a disturbing and confusing abuse. why do you want to be a theist, if you are a naturalist, or a naturalist if you are a theist? away with this contradiction! where god is confounded with nature, or nature with god, there is neither god nor nature, but a mystical amphibious hermaphrodite." feuerbach is right. the name of god is much abused. but truth is also blasphemed by negation and frivolousness. the sober understanding that god, truth, nature, are various names for the same thing permits us to play with them without despairing of the matter. indeed, this play of words serves to make the subject clear. but logic demands that we recognize truth as the absolute, as the power, the force, and the glory, which comprises all logical and illogical distinctions, together with the things to be distinguished, even the faculty of distinguishing itself. such an understanding of the absolute, such world wisdom, will not make you conceited, because it makes you conscious of the fact that your understanding has grasped celestial truth which at the same time is terrestrial, only in a very general way. you possess nothing but a definition of truth. and without denying that definitions are valuable and instructive, i, at the same time, point out that you know very little about astronomy when you know that it is the science of the stars. no matter, therefore, how clearly i may have defined truth, we require for its complete understanding all the details of science, and that is too much for me, for you, and for any individual human being. just as our vision never exhausts the visible, because the eye sees an object but does not fully penetrate it, just so can the intellect never fully understand and fathom the absolute all, the truth, or god. but we can understand and fathom individual truths, parts of the universal truth. what understanding grasps is not the truth itself, but yet it is true understanding. tenth letter dear eugene: my previous lectures instructed you as to the very trivial fact that the thought is a part of the world. in proceeding from the part to the whole, i passed logically from the mouth of the river to its source. the universe is the maternal womb of the intellect as of all things. it occurs to me that you or some teacher of logic might accuse my letters of lack of logic. it may seem that these lectures fail to present the subject matter in a strictly systematized form. you will, please, excuse this in part with the fact that they appear in the form of letters. this form demands that the contents should be logically arranged and rounded off in each letter. it should furthermore serve as an excuse for any defect, that my subject is not a finished one, not perfectly elaborated by others before me. i am here not merely a lecturer, but also an explorer on a field which, though much investigated, yet is still rather obscure. the conclusion of my last letter explained that the use of the term god for the universe has much to recommend it and much to disqualify it. but it is easily apparent that the universe with its absolute qualities is closely related to that infinite being of whom jakob böhme, the philosophical shoemaker, said: "he is neither the light nor the darkness, neither love nor anger, but the eternal one.... hence all forces are merely one sole force." that nothing exists outside of the universe, that everything is contained in the all, that the all, with all real and imagined beings, is everything, that it is neither sweet nor sour, neither great nor small, but just everything and all, this statement is as obvious as the often and long repeated statement of identity: a equals a. the all is omnipotent, omnipresent, all-wise. this last term might be questioned, since the universe is not a dummy with a monster head and giant brain. for this very reason it was considered inappropriate to apply the name of god to the universe, because that creates the impression of a personal being. the all thinks only by means of human brains, and for this reason omniscience cannot be anything but common human knowledge. of course, you, i, and every other man, are very limited in our knowledge. but still we may indulge in the hope that the things which we do not know are known by other men or will be discovered by future generations, so that the collective human mind will know everything that is knowable. we cannot see everything that is visible; there are animals that can see even better than we can. but since even the most intelligent animal is supposed to lack the highest degree of intelligence, reason and science, there is no one who knows anything except the human race. mankind is omniscient. but since all our science is derived only from the world, mankind is only the formal bearer of intelligence, and it belongs to the fountain of all things, to eternal nature. our wisdom is the wisdom of nature, is world wisdom. although there may be inhabitants of the moon and of other stars who may know things which are unknown to us, still that is in the first place a mere speculation of little value, and in the second place universal omniscience or the omniscient universe would not in the least be affected thereby. it is a reasonable use of the language to regard human wisdom as the only and omniscient wisdom, just as all natural and wet water is called water without any further modification. i believe in the statement of protagoras: "man is the measure of all things." whoever uses a different measure, uses a superhuman, transcendental measure.[ ] hence, when i call the cosmic essence of all existence omnipotent, you will not think of a senseless magic power which forges knives without handles and blades, nor will you read any transcendental meaning into my use of the term omniscience. omniscience belongs obviously under the head of logic, because the organ of science and wisdom is the object of the study of logic. and it must now be stated that the human mind does not only exceed the animal mind by far, but is also the _non plus ultra_ of all minds. but it must be retained that this mind can only be whatever it is in connection with the divine universe which i may also be permitted to call worldly deity. this name is fitting because it is a means of understanding that in the first place no monster mind rules the world, and in the second place the natural universe is not a mere sum of all things, but truth and life. of course, the identification of the universe with the religious god is only a comparison, and comparisons are lame. still we may compare the sun with an eternal lamp or the moon with a candle, or the german prime minister with a butler. logic shall teach you that everything which may be distinguished by the faculty of understanding is of the same kind, everything is of common clay, but the whole is sublimely elevated above all that is commonplace. mere frivolous atheism, as created by the free-thinkers, is not sufficient. a bare denial of god always creates some other idol worship. the positive understanding of the divine world truth is an indispensable requirement for the radical extermination of all idol worship. logic must begin with the sublime, infinite, absolute. all logical, consistent or interconnected thinking must take its departure from it. the so-called scientific research after temporal causes, after the egg from which the chicken was hatched, after the hen from which the egg came, after the kindred organisms which developed the hen by natural selection and adaption according to darwin, this is a very valuable research without which we can never understand the world process. but nevertheless, such research must not satisfy the thinking man. logic demands from everybody that he or she should search for the highest, for the cause of all causes. whoever feels the desire to bring logical order into his consciousness, must know that the finite and infinite, the relative and the absolute, the special truths and the one general truth, are contained in one another. logical thought as demanded by science means nothing but to be aware of the final cause, the absolute foundation of all thought. this foundation is the universe, an attribute of which is the external and internal human head. the thousand year old dispute between the materialists and the idealists turns on the question whether the spirit is material or the world spiritual. our answer is plain and clear: they both belong together, they together make up the one thing, the thing of all things. mind and matter are two attributes of the same substance. they may be compared the same as fish and flesh, the former being called very appropriately by some african tribes "water flesh." in this way, matter and mind are two kinds of meat of a different and yet of the same nature. i remember reading in a satirical paper the question: "what is a gentleman? answer: a gentleman is a loafer with money, and a loafer is a gentleman without money." just as these two types of men are essentially alike and differ only in the small matter of money, so you should remember that there are no essential differences, that all differences are merely matters of attributes and qualities of the same absolute world substance. to distinguish correctly and logically, that is the point which logic is aiming to teach us. to make distinctions is the function which is also called perceiving, knowing, understanding, comprehending. when you consider that this function is innate in man, and that man together with his faculty of understanding is innate in nature, then you recognize all distinctions and the distinguished objects as attributes of the undistinguished one, of the absolute, compared to which all things are only relative things, in other words, attributes. i am endeavoring to make clear to you that logical thinking requires the awakening of the consciousness of the one supreme general nature. and you must not think of this sum of all existence in the stupid way in which people used to think of the animal kingdom before darwin, but regard the world as a living organic unit, from which the faculty of understanding has blossomed the same as all other things. in the logic of the narrow-minded, all animal species are widely separated, without any living interconnection, while darwin has demonstrated the uniform process, the intermingling life in multiform creation. the illustration of this famous zoologist of the transition from one species to another may serve as an example of the logical transitions in the world process, in which all differences are but undulations. all our classifications must always remember the undivided basis on which they are resting. we have shown that the intellect divides the universal nature, classifies and analyzes it, and we have learned of the universal nature that it not only furnishes to the intellect the material for its work, but also that the world comprises within its general process the intellectual process, that the intellectual movement is a specialization of the natural movement. the world is not only the object, but also the subject of understanding, it understands, it dissects its own multiplicity by means of the human intellect. our wisdom is world wisdom in a two-fold sense: the world is that which is being understood, classified, analyzed, and at the same time it is that which, by the help of our intellect, practices understanding, classification, etc. when i call the human mind the cosmic mind, the mind of the supreme being, i wish to have it understood that there is nothing mysterious about this, that i merely intend to show that thought or intelligence can only operate in the universal cosmic interconnection, that it is not an abnormal and transcendental thing, but a thing like all other things. you must not conceive of the spirit as the producer of truth, as a little god, but only as a means. the true god, the divine truth, has our intellect for an attribute. the latter does not produce truth, but only the understanding of truth. it produces only pictures of truth which are all more or less perfect. of course, it is not at all immaterial whether we produce a more or less faithful, a true or a false picture of truth, but still this is, at present and for us here, a secondary matter. the main thing is to know that truth, or nature, is far above all pictures, and still consists of parts, of forms, which together constitute the whole. footnote: [ ] please note the additional explanation on page .--editor. eleventh letter dear eugene: johannes scherr relates in the "gartenlaube," a german family paper, in an article entitled "mahomet and his work," that insane doctrinarians are searching for people without religion. this has not succeeded, it is said, although the spark of religious feeling is glowing very dimly in peoples that are close to the animal. but nevertheless, he continues, the expressions of religious feeling mark the boundary line where the beast ceases and man begins. for just as in the higher stages of civilization religion means the consciousness of the finite of being one with the infinite, so in the lower stages of civilization the indefinite impulse is felt by man to connect his special nature with the universal nature and bring them into harmony. this is idealism, the idealistic need. it is obvious that, and why, the people have always and everywhere sought and found satisfaction for their idealistic longings in religion. but, adds the shrewd observer, i must remark that i do not refer to the shifting population when i say "people," for sad to relate, that population is torn away from all connection with natural conditions. i refer to the "settled, the permanent, the true people." this quotation shows that a champion of the "true people" is in conflict with true logic. in dividing a population into shifting and settled people, one should retain as a basis the logical consciousness that all classes of people are embraced by one class; furthermore, that human, monkey, ant, and other nations are parts of the one and the same nation; until finally man and animal, real and imaginary, with all religious and godless things, are ultimately fused in the world unit and can never be "torn away from all connection with natural conditions." all distinctions must logically be based on the consciousness of the absolute and universal unity, of the interconnection of all things. for this reason some pious people, with their god in whom everything is living and has its being, have more logic than some freethinkers of the class of johannes scherr who have no coherence in their method of thought. the faithful think more logically than the narrowly skeptical, for they begin and end with god. but still they cannot think quite logically, because they cannot establish any logical connection between their eternally perfect lord and evil, the devil, disease, misery, sin, in short all the sufferings and vanities here below. the unit of nature, the infinite, is the quintessence of logic. neither natural science in the narrow sense of the word, nor metaphysics, nor formal logic, can give any clue as to the nature of this thing of things. this can be done only by a science of understanding which recognizes matter and mind and all opposites and contradictions as formalities of the universe. how can a man who is out of touch with the mass of the shifting population feel that he is one with the universe? whoever regards any special class as the true people, has no understanding either of the common people or of the absolute universe. proletarian logic teaches not only the equality of all human beings, but universal equality. and mark well, this universal equality does not conflict with variety any more than a variety of pots and jugs conflicts with the unity of vessels, or the manifold forms of bretzels and rolls with the unity of bakery ware. the enemies of democratic development, in attacking the idea of freedom and equality, point to the manifoldness of nature, the individual differences of men, the distinctions between weak and strong, wise and fools, men and women, and consider it tyranny to attempt to equalize that which nature has made different. they cannot understand that like things may be different and different things alike. they are blinded by their class logic which sees only the differences, but not the unity, not the transfusion of all classes. class logic teaches that contradictory things cannot exist. according to it, a thing cannot be genuine and false at the same time. this class logic has a narrow conception of existence. it has only observed that there are many different things in nature, but has overlooked the fact that all these things have also a general nature. we, on the other hand, recognize that every thing, every person, is a part of the infinite world and partakes of its general nature, is eternal and perishable, true and untrue, great and small, one sided and manyfold, in short contradictory. before and after socrates, philosophy and religion have searched for the genuine, right, good, true, and beautiful, but have reached no harmonious results. but it cannot be denied that in the course of the centuries the problem has become clearer and clearer. the great names of pythagoras, socrates, plato, aristotle, bacon, cartesius, spinoza, leibniz, kant, hegel, are milestones on the highway of this progress. the evolution is apparent, but the interrelation between the intellectual and physical, and especially between intellectual and economic evolution, is much ignored. the bridge between mind and body was not found, and philosophical evolution has been regarded up to our day as a purely mental process accomplished by one or two dozen of famous brains. i wish to point out to you now, that proletarian logic is the continuation of the preceding research after the genuine, true, good, and beautiful. it teaches how to conceive of these ideals logically, and it has not so much proceeded from any one talented brain, but is rather the product of the entire cosmic process. philosophical brains have developed the science of logical thought only to the extent that the material development of the world has stimulated them to do so. you must regard the human brains only as secondary levers of the universal lever which is not only genuine, true, good, and beautiful, but truth, goodness, and beauty itself, or the world and the absolute. the understanding of the absolute which is called "good lord," and then again "the bad world," in other words the selfsufficient cosmos, is very inconvenient to the wisdom of the professors, and they are attempting to assign it to a special study which they call "metaphysics." this division of labor is not introduced for the purpose of making research more productive, but of surrounding this study by mysterious darkness. the professors who lecture to the young people on formal logic set aside the ancient research after the true, the good, the beautiful, and try to place these ideals outside of the light of science in order to be able to preserve them unchanged in the tabernacle of faith. this charge may seem unjust, because the learned gentlemen reserved a corner for the true, the good, and the beautiful in their metaphysical department. but there is something peculiar about this. the great kant has asked the plain question: "is metaphysics practicable as a science?" answer: no! the transcendental truth, etc., sought by metaphysics, and named god, freedom, immortality in christian language, cannot be found by any reason. but being a child of his time, the great philosopher makes a small concession to the transcendental. he teaches: although transcendental truth cannot be located scientifically, still the religious faith in its existence is wholesome. we, in our time, think more soberly about this theory of salvation and accept the elimination of all transcendentalism from science. while the spokesmen of the "true people" would like to hide their exalted truth, freedom, and immortality behind the curtains of temples, we throw the full daylight of logic on the absolute truth, goodness, and beauty of the material world. logic as the science of correct thought cannot be restricted to any one object, it cannot exclude any object, whether terrestrial or heavenly, from its sphere. the great lights of present day learning do not wish to subordinate the intellect as the object of the logical department, and absolute truth as the object of the metaphysical department, to one another, but to co-ordinate them side by side. but two co-ordinated things which are not subordinated to a third higher thing lack logic, and the brain which is satisfied by such a condition suffers from disorder. logical truth must inevitably be a part of absolute truth, and it is our duty to remove absolute truth from the field of metaphysics, of transcendentalism, and to transfer it to the sober world which forms an inseparable unit with the human mind. so much for the proletarian duty to continue the research after the true, the good, and the beautiful which was the object of the philosophers before and after socrates. but remember that i am referring only to the truly good, beautiful, etc., which is contained in the universal truth of all true specifications. the question of the ethically good, the esthetically beautiful and the absolutely perfect is as necessarily contained in the question of the universal truth as red, blue, and green in the rainbow, of course only in an abstract sense. our logic which has for its object the truth of the universe, is the science of the understanding of the universe, a science of universal understanding or conception of the world. it teaches that the interrelation of all things is truth and life, is the genuine, right, good, and beautiful. all the sublime moving the heart of man, all the sweet stirring his breast, is the universal nature or the universe. but the vexing question still remains: what about the negative, the ugly, the evil, what about error, pretense, standstill, disease, death, and the devil? true, the world is vain, evil, ugly. but these are merely accidental phenomena, only forms and appendages of the world. its eternity, truth, goodness, beauty, is substantial, existing, positive. its negative is like the darkness which serves to make the light more brilliant, so that it may overcome the dark and shine so much more brightly. the spokesmen of the ruling classes are not open for such a sublime optimism, because they have the pessimistic duty of perpetuating misery and servitude. twelfth letter logic, the science of correct thought, demands in the first place true, or in other words, reasonable thought. logic deals with reason and truth. these two things have been endowed with a mysterious nature, while they obviously belong to the entire universe and its tangible nature. reason and truth are not separated from the other things, are not things in themselves. there is no such thing. philosophers who have looked for them in the depths of the human brain with their hands over their eyes and engaged in brown study, were on the wrong road. proletarian logic differs from conventional logic in that it does not look for reason and truth behind the curtains of temples, nor in the brains of the learned, but it discovers them in the actual interconnection of all things and processes of nature. preachers, professors, judges, and politicians are the leaders of "the wise men of gotham," and since we have all passed our youth among them, we find it difficult to get rid of their confused logic. we owe much of our better insight to the famous philosophers. these men had many an eccentric notion, but on the whole they were reasonable fellows who followed the doctrine of the unreliability of the senses and the faith in the hidden truth and reason more in a theoretical than in a practical way. in practice they operated with open eyes and ears. thus correct logic, although confused by queer notions, has been handed down to us from generation to generation. preachers, professors, judges, and politicians cling to the confused notions, while we take the liberty to discard them. now we recognize not only that reason and truth are connected with the world, but also that the universe is the supreme reason and truth, is that being which religion and philosophy have long been looking for, the most perfect being, which plato called the true, good and beautiful, kant god, freedom, and immortality, and hegel the absolute. if he is an atheist who denies that perfection can be found in any individual, then i am an atheist. and if he is a believer in god who has the faith in the "most perfect being" with which not alone the theologists, but also cartesius and spinoza have occupied themselves so much, then i am one of the true children of god. the abuse of sublime feelings and exalted ideas has filled many hearts with disgust, so that they care no longer for any unctuous sermons. the mere flavor of religion is odious to them. nevertheless i assure you that we shall never get rid of idol worship, unless we understand the supreme being, reason or truth, in its true nature. "understand" is a mysterious word. to bring light into the mystery of understanding by a clear theory of understanding, is an integral part of the science of thought, of logic. permit me to compare the faculty of understanding with a photographic apparatus, by the help of which you strive to obtain a picture of the cosmic truth. then you will see at a glance that in this way we can obtain but a dim picture of the whole. the object appears boundless, too infinitely great and sublime to permit of copying. and yet we can approach it. although we cannot get a true picture of universal truth, yet we can obtain clear pictures of individual truths, in other words, we can picture the infinite in its parts. by the help of your intellect, you can grasp the infinite by means of limitation. absolute truth appears to us in relative phenomena. the perfect being is composed of imperfect parts. a "wise man of gotham" may regard this as a senseless contradiction. but we can separate the arms, legs, head, and trunk from one another, and so separated they will be mere parts of a corpse, while connected they certainly possess the chance of vitality. life is composed of the dead, the most perfect being is composed of imperfect parts. in the universal truth everything is contained. it is the perfect being, it includes the whole existence, even the imperfect. the false, the ugly, the evil, the nasty are involved in the true, the good, the beautiful. the universal existence is the absolute truth, the whole is composed of relativities, of parts, of phenomena. our understanding, our instrument of thought, is likewise an imperfect part of the perfect being. our intellect produces only a dim, imperfect picture of the absolute, but it reproduces true pictures of its parts, although pictures only. there are good and bad, adequate and inadequate, true and false thoughts and understanding. but there are no absolutely true thoughts. all our conceptions and ideas are imperfect pictures of the most perfect being which is inexhaustible in great things as in small things, as a whole and in parts. every part of nature is a natural part of the infinite. i repeat: all parts or things of this world have, apart from their imperfect nature as parts, also the world nature of the absolute being. they are imperfect perfections. our intellect is no exception. the human mind is the only mind having the name of reason, and is the most perfect reason which can possibly exist. in the same way, the water of this earth is the non plus ultra of all water. the belief in another and different mind, in a monster mind, belongs to the same transcendental category as the belief in a celestial river without the nature of water flowing around the castle of zion. even the most perfect mind is nothing else, and cannot be anything else, but an imperfect part of the absolute world being. the first thing a student of correct thought has to learn is to distinguish true thought from false thought, and for this purpose he must know above all that distinction must not be exaggerated. all differences can only be relative. the bad and the good pictures belong to the same family, and all families finally belong to the absolute, are individuals of the universe. for the purpose of distinguishing true thoughts from false, it should be remembered that the true thought is only a part of the truth, a part which does not exaggerate its own importance, but subordinates itself to the absolute. the following illustration may explain this. although astronomy teaches that the earth revolves daily around its axis and that the sun is standing still, it nevertheless knows that the fixed state of the sun is only a relative truth, so that from a higher point of view both the earth and the sun are revolving. the consciousness of its relative truth alone makes the statement of the sun's standstill true. again, when the farmer sees that the earth is fixed and that the sun is moving every day from east to west, he is mistaken only so far as he regards his standpoint as the whole truth, his farmers' knowledge for absolute knowledge. the knowledge of the absolute alone enables you to distinguish correctly between truth and error. whoever sees the sun turning around the earth with the consciousness that this revolution is but a partial truth is not in error, but sees truly. the knowledge of the absolute truth clears up error and instructs us as to the method of correct thought. this thought makes us apt, humble, and tolerant in judging. the "wisest of men" was very proud of his modesty in knowing that he knew nothing. his example may well be recommended to-day. although we have learned a great deal, we know very little compared to the inexhaustible fountain of all wisdom, good mother nature. we learn every day, but we never learn all there is to learn. what was to the credit of socrates, was his firm faith in the truth, his conviction of its existence, and his faith in the mission of the human intellect to search for truth. on the contrary, the sophists confused and disputed everything. they frivolously flouted all truth and research. this same frivolousness now relies upon kant who, misled by the prejudice of his time, removed truth to a transcendental world and therefore deprecatingly called our actual world the "world of phenomena." in distinction from him, our logic teaches that the phenomena of this world without exception are parts of the one truth, and that the true art of understanding consists in studying the parts. the doctrine of the sophists to the effect that everything may be denied and disputed has a certain similarity with ours in that we declare that the universe is the truth and all parts of it true parts, that smoke and fog, reason and imagination, dreams and realities, subject and object, are true parts of the world. they are not the whole truth, but still true. for this reason it is well to call your attention to the difference between the sophistical and the logical method of thought. the contemporaries of socrates are still alive to-day. they are teaching in the name of god and believe in nothing, while to us truth, every day naked and sober truth, is sacred. thirteenth letter in his "three books on the soul," aristotle discussed at length the question whether the human soul has five senses or one. the commentator, j. h. von kirchmann, the publisher of the "philosophical library," remarks in his footnote that man has six senses. he divides feeling into pure and active feeling. according to this, the phrase of the five senses belongs to the old iron the same as that of the four elements. now neither you, nor i, nor any reader should worry about the question whether all sensation may be summed up in the one sense of feeling, whether there are five senses according to aristotle, or six according to kirchmann, or whether there is even a seventh sense for the transcendental, the organ of which, as some optimists hope, will gradually be developed with the growing perfection of man. we are concerned in this matter only so far as it is connected with the cardinal question, whether the world is only one thing or a mere collection of an infinite number of disconnected things; whether the so-called things are independent subjects and objects, or whether they are only predicates of the one world subject. looking through the window i see the river, the street, the bridge, houses, and trees. everything is a thing in itself and yet is connected inseparably with all others. the qualities of the world are regarded by the intellect as subjects; but the intelligent subject should also know that its actions, its distinguishing and understanding, are formalities, a formal dismemberment of the absolute, which in spite of all division always remains the undivided whole. in order to master this method of thought, you must understand above all that the things are only so-called things, but are in reality qualities of the universe, in other words, relative things or predicates of the absolute. you will then understand, that our thought has a right to make one thing as well as six of a chair, its back, its seat, and its four legs. you will recognize that the five senses of aristotle are not an eternal truth, but a classification, which is eternally variable. distinguishing means classifying. i know very well that i am making a bold statement here, and that it is not easy to justify it. for this reason you must not expect that i can make my meaning clear in a few sentences. it is not only the general prejudice which prevents this by making a most mysterious and miraculous thing of the intellectual function, but also the fact that this thing is still very obscure, although it has become clearer and clearer in the course of time. the freethinking pastor hironymi writes on this point: "the most prominent naturalists of the present, such as dubois-reymond, who are at the same time thinkers, admit that they do not know what feeling, life, consciousness, are, and how they arise. and this ignorance is far more valuable for truth and religion than the alleged knowledge. let us, therefore, continue in the devotion with which we have hitherto admired the universe without understanding it. the higher existence, the consciousness, has not been explained, it has remained a miracle, the only lasting, absolute, miracle." thus speaks the preacher who is a know-nothing by nature and makes a business of admiring and wondering, while we are interested in understanding and knowing. we wish to fathom the mystery, and hence i may write still more letters on logic and you may study some more. i shall try to demonstrate by a trivial example, how it is that understanding or distinguishing is based on classification. take it that you awake at early dawn and notice in a corner of your bed room something uncouth and moving which you cannot clearly distinguish. to know that a phenomenon appears is not enough because the term phenomenon applies to everything, natural and unnatural things, good and evil spirits. even if you are sufficiently enlightened to know that the thing in question must be something natural, still this explains very little, for the term "nature" again means everything. but you understand or recognize more when you ascertain that the uncouth thing is dead or alive, wall paper or garment, man or animal. you will notice that in this intellectual enlightenment it is simply a matter of classification, of the head under which the mystery should be classed. to classify the phenomena of truth and life, means to understand, to use the intellect, to enlighten the brain. but we must well consider how far we shall have to go in our classification in order to find the place in the system which will fully clarify and determine understanding. suppose that in the above mentioned case you have ascertained that the motion is due to a cat, then the inquiring faculty of understanding has not yet reached the end of its tether. the next question is then, whether it is your cat or that of your neighbor, whether it is black, white, or grey, young or old. and when you finally recognize that it is your tomcat peter, you must remember that the subject which understands as well as the object to be recognized, being parts of the absolute, are absolutely and infinitely divisible parts, which are never fully understood and never fully exhausted. please remember that in speaking of something uncouth, we are not so much concerned in peter or tabby, but in the intellect which we desire to understand so that we may make a correct use of it. and i refer to it as uncouth merely because its understanding is beset with so many difficulties. when i compared it in the preceding letter with a photographic apparatus which should furnish us with pictures, and in likening it now to an instrument designed to distinguish things by classification, i warn you not to be confused thereby. classification is most essential as a means of producing intellectual pictures. in this connection i emphasize once more that the faculty of understanding, the same as other things, is not independent by itself, but can accomplish something only in the universal interconnection. the understanding that the phenomenon quoted above belongs to the category of tomcats, and more especially into the column labeled peter, would not be any understanding at all, if you had not become previously acquainted with the mouse-devouring race and individual in question. only in connection with your previous experience is the understanding that this tomcat and the uncouth motion are one and the same thing, or belong to the same category, a true understanding. ludwig feuerbach says: a talented writer is recognized by the fact that he assumes talent on the part of the reader also and does not chew up his subject into minute parts like a petty schoolmaster. on the other hand, it seems to me that it is possible to assume too much, and i pursued a schoolmasterly course in this case, because the subject is new to you and still leaves plenty of room for reflection. i wanted to show by a commonplace example what i mean by insight and understanding and how by means of it the unknown and uncouth becomes known and familiar. true, the understanding in this case was illumined by previous experience, while you are after new knowledge. you want to know how enlightenment arises in order to acquire new insight. now, all novelty has the dialectic quality of being at the same time something antiquated. new understanding can be acquired only by the help of old understanding. in other words, old and new understanding, which i define here as the faculty of classification, have their existence only in the total interdependence of the universal existence. you must discard the old prejudice that knowledge can be collected like cents. although this is well enough, it does not suffice for the purpose of logical thinking. one science belongs to another, and all of them together belong to one class with the entire universe. it will be apparent to you, then, that at the beginning of your young days your knowledge has not sprouted all at once, but has come out of the unknown. and what is true of you, is true of the whole human race. in its cradle it was without intellect. it had, indeed, the germ. but do not beasts, worms, and sensitive plants have that also? in short, the light of perception and understanding is nothing new in the radical sense of the word, but connected with the old and with the world in general, and of the same kind. all our knowledge must be connected and combined into one understanding, one system, one realm, and this is the realm of reality, of truth, of life. systematic classification is the task of logic. the first requirement for this purpose is the awakened consciousness of the indivisibility of the universe, of its universal unity. this consciousness is, in other words, at the same time the recognition of the merely formal significance of all scientific classification. the unity of the universe is true, and is the sole and innate truth. that this sole world truth is full of differences, is just as absolutely different as absolutely the same, does no more contradict a reasonable unity and equality than there is any contradiction in the fact that the various owls have different faces and still the same owl face. aristotle divided the sense into five parts, anthropologists the race of man into five races, natural philosophers the space into three dimensions. it is now a question of showing to you that such a division, however true and just, is nevertheless far from being truth and justice, but is merely classification. the fundamental requirement of logic is to designate scientific classifications as that which they are, viz., mental operations. it is the business of the intellect to make classifications. that is its characteristic quality and does not contradict the indivisible truth in the least. old wiseacres teach that a reasonable man must not contradict himself, and this is a wise, though very narrow, lesson. hegel maintains that everything in the world is reasonable, hence the contradictions are also. under this conservative exterior there is hidden a very revolutionary perception of which the "destructive" minds take advantage in order to flatly contradict the wiseacres and their stable, dead, disordered order which cannot stand any contradiction. reason dissolves all contradictions and opposition into harmony by logical classification. "everything in its own time and place." if it does not wish to be called unreason, reason must rise to the understanding that its opposite is only a formal antagonism. it must know that god and the world, body and soul, life and death, motion and rest, and whatever else the dualists may distinguish, are two and yet one. then it becomes clear that the conservatives are the real revolutionaries, because by their senseless adherence to the "good old order" they drive the proletariat to desperation, until it upsets that order. on the other hand, the maligned revolutionaries are conservative, because they subordinate themselves to the world's evolutionary process which was, is, and will be eternal. the red thread winding through all these letters deals with the following points: the instrument of thought is a thing like all other common things, a part or attribute of the universe. it belongs particularly to the general category of being and is an apparatus which produces a detailed picture of human experience by categorical classification or distinction. in order to use this apparatus correctly, one must fully grasp the fact that the world unit is multiform and that all multiformity is a unit. it is the solution of the riddle of the ancient eleatic philosophy: how can the one be contained in the many, and the many in one? fourteenth letter shoemaking and beet culture are as much sciences as physics, chemistry, and astronomy. reading, writing, and reckoning are called elementary knowledge, and though i do not deny that they have an elementary value for the culture of the mind, yet i can truly say that i have met well-informed people who could neither read nor write. i wish to indicate by this that there are indeed high and low degrees of knowledge and science, but that such graduations have only a temporary, local, relative, subjective significance, while in the absolute all things are the same. the scorn with which you may hear some people speak of the night of the absolute in which all cats are grey and all women beautiful helenas shall not prevent us from repeatedly studying the absolute which i have again and again praised as the main topic of logic. only remember, please, that you must not have any mystic idea of it. the absolute is the sum total of all that was, is, and will be. the subjects as well as the objects of all science belong to the absolute, which is commonly called "world." all other sciences have for their object limited parts, relative matters, while the science of the mind treats of all things, of the infinite. this is a point to which i refer frequently because it tends to make my lessons obscure. i am lecturing on the science of the intellect, but i speak of all things, of the universe, because i am obliged to demonstrate, not the relation of the mind to shoemaking or astronomy, but its general interrelations. i have to make plain its general conduct, and this leads necessarily to the all-embracing generality, to the absolute. we wish to learn the art of thinking, not on this or that subject, but the art of general world thought. the intellect is a special part, the same as every other scientific or practical object. but it is that part which is not satisfied with piece work, which knows that it itself and all special things are attributes or predicates of the absolute subject, that it itself and all things are universally interrelated. the human mind is sometimes called self-consciousness. but this name is too limited for such an unlimited thing, for the pathfinder of the infinite, for your, my, and every other consciousness of the world and of existence in general. for centuries the question has been discussed whether there are innate ideas hidden in the intellect or whether it may be likened to a blank paper which experience impregnates with knowledge. this is the question after the origin and source of understanding. whence comes reason, where do we get our ideas, judgments, conclusions? by the help of brown-study from the interior of our brain, from revelation, or from experience? it seems to me that you will quickly decide this matter when i ask you to consider that everything we experience, together with the intellect going through experiences, is a revelation of the absolute. everything we know is experience. we may consider the mind as a sheet of blank paper, but in order that it may receive writing on its surface this internal paper is as necessary as the external world which produces the hand, the pen and the ink for this process of writing. in other words, all experience originates from the world organism. not knowledge, but consciousness, world consciousness, is innate in the intellect. it has not the consciousness of this or that in itself, but it knows of itself the general, the existence as such, the absolute. the science of the intellect has ever wrestled with one peculiar fact. it found knowledge which the mind had received from the outside, so-called empirical knowledge. but it also found knowledge which was innate, so-called _a priori_ knowledge. that there is always a valley between two mountains, that gold is not sheet iron, that the part is smaller than the whole, that the angles of a triangle are together equal to two right angles, that circles are round, that water is wet, that fire is hot, etc., these are things of which we know that they are true in heaven and in hell, and in all time to come, although we have never been there with our experience. this plainly shows that we harbor a secret in our brains which the lovers of the mystical seek to exploit by making believe that their self-interested wisdom of god and high authority likewise belongs to the eternally innate truths. for this reason it is especially important for the proletariat to bring the controversy of the origin and source of understanding to a close. our logic asks: does wisdom descend mysteriously from the interior of the human brain, or does it come from the outer world like all experience? we shall leave its descent from heaven out of the question. the answer is: science, perception, understanding, thought, require internal and external things, subject and object, brain and world. truth is here and truth is there. truth is so divine that it is everywhere and absolute. but how to explain that wonderful _a priori_ knowledge which exceeds all experience? for it is a fact that the intellect has not alone the faculty of knowing things in general, but also that of separating them into their parts and from one another and to name them. it cuts off slices, so to say. but not like the butcher who sees everything merely from the standpoint of his trade. you will remember from your own experience as well as from my repeated statements that the world is not a monotonous, but a multiform unit. this confused knot is dissolved and explained by intellectual separation, by classification. in the absolute everything is alike and unlike. but the intellect makes abstractions from the unlike. for instance, in conceiving of the term minerals, we pass over the distinction between gold and sheet iron. then, when we continue the classification by subordinating gold and sheet iron as separate species to the general term of minerals, we know very well that gold and sheet iron are different kinds of the same general mineral nature. we know what the names indicate, and so long as they retain their meaning, we know that neither in heaven nor in hell can gold be sheet iron or sheet iron be gold. water and fire are specialties taken from the universe and named. is it a wonder, then, that these names have a special meaning and that we have the settled conviction that wherever sense instead of nonsense is master, fire burns, water wets, circles are round, and the sum of the angles of every triangle is equal to two right angles? these illustrations are commonplace enough, indeed, but it seems to me that they clearly show the mere formality of the distinction between innate and experienced knowledge. you will recognize that both of these kinds of knowledge are different and yet of the same kind, that both are mixtures of the internal and external. knowledge _a priori_ ceases to be a miracle when we understand that it comes out of the same fountain of experience as _a posteriori_ knowledge, and in either case knowledge is acquired only by means of the intellect. hence intellect connected with the world is the sole source of all wisdom, and external nature as well as our internal faculty of understanding are parts of the one general nature, which is the truth and the absolute. "only a gradual, slow, gapless development," says noiré, "can free the thinking mind from the philosophical disease of wondering." the art of dialectics or logic which teaches that the universe, or the whole world, is one being, is the science of absolute evolution. "in the whole constitution of all natural things," writes lazare geiger, "there is hardly anything more miraculous than the way in which the miracle avoids our glance and continuously withdraws into the distance to escape observation. in the place of the abrupt and strange things produced by imagination, reason puts uniformity and transition." and we add that the science of reason, or logic, teaches simultaneously with the unity of the whole world, also that all things are alike miraculous, or that there is only one miracle, which is existence in general, the absolute. in other words, everything and nothing is miraculous. in demonstrating that the most different things, such as heat and cold, and all radical distinctions, are only relative forms of universal nature, i prove the uninterrupted and matter of fact transition and the absolute graduality, the fusion, of all things. i have tried to establish this proof in regard to the two kinds of knowledge and illustrated it with commonplace examples, because these have a popularizing effect. in order to meet the demands of more exacting minds, i shall presently take up the miracle of causality. the indubitable statement that everything must have its cause is regarded as the most miraculous innate knowledge, and is much misused for the purpose of bringing confusion into logic. fifteenth letter my son: if on my return from some voyage i were to tell you of all the things i have _not_ seen, you would justly doubt the order of my senses. sane reason demands that the description of unfamiliar things be given in a positive, not in a negative manner. if that is so, is it not wrong to proceed negatively by trying to prove in explaining the nature of the intellect that it is not a miracle and no mysterious charm of wisdom? i answer: no. for the present, the intellect is still a sort of _ignis fatuus_ which is magnified into a fiery man. in order to understand the _ignis fatuus_, it is necessary to remove the fiery man. logic must show that human reason is not a miracle, not a mystical receptacle of wisdom. the negative process is in such a case positively in order. wherever a thing is obscured by prejudices, these must first be removed, in order that room may be made for the bare fact. it was the famous kant who posed the question: "how is _a priori_ knowledge possible?" how do we arrive at the knowledge of things which are not accessible to experience? the answer is that the intellect cannot accomplish such a miracle, and kant substantiates this in a long-winded way and with admirable penetration. but he left a nasty hair in the soup. he found that by the help of our reason we can explain only phenomena. the confusion between truth and phenomena had been handed down to him as an infirmity of ancient times. he worked diligently on its solution, but left some work for those coming after him. originally the study of supernatural and the profane study of natural things were closely intermingled. not until the obvious results of natural science became known, did thinkers accommodate themselves to the habit of leaving supernatural things to faith and limiting science to the study of natural phenomena. science had so to say passed on to the practical order of business, not paying any further attention to the contrast between phenomena and truth. but the logic, which is innate in the human mind, cannot content itself with the dualistic split between faith and science. it demands a monistic system and does not desist until the primeval forests of faith are completely put under cultivation. the logical impulse of culture caused kant to continue what was begun by socrates. philosophy before socrates searched for truth externally. while our logic teaches that everything is true, and truth is the universe, the ionic philosophers made a sort of fetish out of the matter. thales idolized the water as the thing of things, another the fire, a third numbers. this worship of the fetish was the worship of truth. the search for understanding starts out with misunderstanding. from religious to scientific culture, it is a step, not a leap. when socrates turned to introspection and started out, with his "know thyself," in submitting the prodigy of the human soul to critique, he made another important step. you know that the "wisest of men" was not interested in air and water, in natural science of the strict order, but rather in the good, the true, and the beautiful, in the human in the narrower sense, in the realm of the spirit, in the soul. it was indeed unwise that he was interested to the verge of idolization, since in consequence of this interest in a special part, the other, the material part was being neglected. according to goethe's statement that one thing is not fit for all, socrates did right. he and all philosophical lights after him studied the intellect. what they missed was the now dawning understanding that the faculty of thought is not a prodigy but a special, and at the same time common, part of universal nature. while these philosophers looked for truth in any one special form of excellence, you are now invited to look for it in the total interrelation of things. science has ever endeavored to do away with miracles and prodigies. this could be accomplished only gradually, and the logicians have, therefore, remained more or less biased and confused. the great kant was no exception. he looked for supreme truth, and for its sake he investigated the intellect. he is celebrated because he explained so well that this intellect feels no mission for anything transcendental, and cannot understand anything but phenomena. still he permitted something transcendental to remain. kant is of the opinion that we perceive things as they appear, but not as they are "in themselves." nevertheless we should believe that a mysterious truth is at the bottom of those phenomena, because we should otherwise arrive at the irreconcilable contradiction that there are phenomena without anything which could appear. the intellect, he holds, can operate only on the field of phenomena, and for this reason we should give up the endless grubbing after the transcendental. but we should leave one little room in the house of reason, one little chamber of faith, which points beyond experience up to the point where a mysterious truth guards god and his commands. the subsequent philosophers, especially the hegelian philosophy, opposed this separation which assigned to the intellect only the study of phenomena and to faith the absolute and infinite for veneration. but they did not yet succeed in completely mastering the matter, they did not fully arrive at an indubitably clear exposition of the fountain of understanding and of the unity of truth, so that reaction nowadays can again sound the retreat after the melody: "back to kant." you know that lessing complained about the treatment of "a dead dog" accorded to spinoza, and marx added pointedly: "hegel is more of a dead dog to-day than spinoza was at lessing's time." the enemies of the working class are the enemies of evolution. they wish to preserve the existing order of things and the good old time in which they feel at home. for this reason it is the mission of the proletariat to continue the work of logic. it is our duty to show clearly that the metaphysical truth which kant opposed to the phenomena of nature and could not eliminate from the intellect, is nothing but just a metaphysical, a fantastically exaggerated, thing. according to our logic, the universe is the truth and everything partakes of it. that such a truth is logical and such a logic true, is shown by the interconnection of things, so that this science is applicable to everything which the sciences respect as reasonable and true. in order to help you in the understanding of the absolute and liberate your thought from all special miracles, i refer to kant's critique of reason. it teaches that our intellect becomes a source of understanding only in connection with other phenomena of nature. only his critique stuck fast in the mysterious fountain of causality. thus he showed that he was only a seeker after logic, not its master. the conclusion that there must be _something_ that does appear where there are phenomena is certainly correct. but that which kant was thinking of, something of a transcendental or metaphysical nature, led him to the radically wrong conclusion that there must be something different, peculiar, miraculous, mysterious, wherever there are phenomena. the kantian conclusion that there must be an absolute truth by itself behind a phenomenon, an absolute truth that exists independent of and disconnected with such phenomenon, was due to his fetish-like conception of truth. it is the first requirement for a correct use of the faculty of logical reasoning to know that truth is the common nature of the universe. that a phenomenon must be based on nature, or an effect on a cause, is a fact identical with "causality" which i already promised to discuss in the preceding letter. this same problem may also be expressed in the words: where there are predicates, there must be a subject that carries them. in order to make quite sure that i will not be misunderstood, i emphasize once more the fact that i am not raising any doubt as to the correctness of this conclusion, but only to the metaphysical application of this conclusion after the kantian manner which consists in making the same use of it as a clergyman who tries to prove that his theology is innate in reason. our conception of logic wishes to show that all causes and effects are matter of the same kind, and that our faculty of reasoning is a matter of fact thing which brooks no mysteries or metaphysical dreams. sixteenth letter now let me illustrate the interconnection of all things, or the world-unit, by discussing the question of causality. we know that everything has its cause. we know that this is also true on the moon or on uranus, although we have not acquired this knowledge by experience on those world bodies. thus it seemed that the intellect was a mysterious receptacle containing innate wisdom. the same receptacle also contains, for instance, the truth that all white horses are white and all black horses black. we do not know anything about the color of other horses in other countries, but the color of black and white horses we know even if we have never seen them in other countries. it is thus apparent that our intellect is an instrument which reaches beyond experience. for this reason there would seem to be no telling where the supply of such miraculous revelations would stop and into what mysterious worlds the intellect passing beyond the limits of experience would lead us. in order that the human intellect may not appear transcendental, in order to give it its place in the general classification of natural forces, we must investigate the nature of causality and so-called _a priori_ knowledge. kindly observe in the first place that a thing is just as wonderful _after_ it is explained as it was before its explanation. a scientific explanation of a thing ought not to do away with our admiration, but only to reduce it to reasonable bounds. the intellect may very well be regarded as something wonderful, but its wondrous quality should be reduced to the measure of all things which are none of them any less wonderful. after you have explained what water is, after you have learned that it is composed of two chemical elements, after you have realized all its qualities thoroughly, it still remains a wonderful, divine, fluid. "all things have their causes." what are all things? they are attributes, qualities of the universe. it is innate in the intellect to know that the world is _one_ thing, that all things belong, not to any different thing, but to one and the same subject. the intellect is by nature the absolute feeling of unity. it knows of itself that everything is interrelated and that the consciousness of causality is nothing else but the consciousness of cosmic interrelation. and i maintain that the innateness of the consciousness of cosmic interrelation in our brain is explained when we realize that it is an actual thing like all others, a phenomenon which has the same general nature as every other phenomenon.[ ] the fact is undeniable that a certain knowledge is innate in our consciousness. the only difficulty has been to explain this fact. at this point i call your attention to the exaggerated notion entertained in regard to explaining, and understanding, things. by explanations, a thing is not dissolved, but only classified. the hatching of an egg is explained when you perceive that this process is part and parcel of a whole class of similar processes. if you modify the exalted idea of the effect of explanations in this sense, you must realize that the innate consciousness of the general interrelation of things is natural and intelligible and requires no other explanation than the humidity of the water, the gravity of bodies, or the color of black horses. even after it has been explained and understood, the intellect with its logic remains a wonderful thing. just as clay is by its nature untransparent and pliable, or glass transparent and brittle, so consciousness has its peculiar innate qualities. in this way knowledge comes to the intellect not only by experience, but it is also a sort of receptacle full of wisdom. still this receptacle would no more contain wisdom without experience than the eye would have impressions without light. in order to straighten out the intricate windings of our subject, i recapitulate them. we wish to learn the proper use of our intellect, the conscious application of consciousness. to this end we analyze its hitherto hidden mystical nature. so long as we exalt this nature transcendentally to the clouds, we do not acquire its proper use. therefore the first paragraph of our lesson reads: the intellect belongs in the same category with all things of the universe. and the second paragraph says: if we distinguish two classes of thought radiated by the human intellect, viz., innate thoughts, such as causality, and on the other hand thoughts which come through experience, we must remember that such a distinction is correct only when we realize that in spite of this classification in two kinds they really belong to the same kind. innate and acquired wisdom, though served on two different plates, still are taken from the same general world dish. from this it follows that the science of causality, though applicable to all the phenomena of the world, does not apply to the universe. if it is a fact that all wisdom is worldly, then one must not fly outside of the world with the concept of causality. this is the salient point at issue. all things are one thing, are interdependent, stand in the relation of cause and effect toward one another, or of genus and species. to say that all things have a cause means that they have a mother. the fact that every mother has a mother finds its final ending in the world mother or mother world, which is absolute and motherless and contains all mothers in its womb. causes are mothers, effects are daughters. every daughter has not only a mother, grand-mother, and great-grand-mother, but also a father, grand-father, and great-grand-father. the origin, or the family relationship, of a daughter is not one-sided, but all-sided. in the same way all things have not one, but many causes which flow together in the general cause. the intellect which has the innate knowledge that everything has its cause will accept the teaching that all causes in the world are founded in the absolute world cause and must return to it. it is the quintessence of logic not only to ascertain the true nature of the intellect, but also to elucidate the nature of the universe by the help of the intellect. all things have a mother, but to expect that the world mother should logically have a mother is to carry logic to extremities and to misunderstand the intellect and its art of reasoning. if you have recognized the faculty of understanding as a part of existence, you will not wonder at its miraculousness. existence is wonderful. its parts arise one out of the other, out of the universal interrelations of the one world. they all have their predecessors and causes. but what is true of the relative parts, is not true of the absolute whole. i am the son of my father and the father of my son. i am at the same time father and son. in the same way all things are simultaneously cause and effect. although father and son are two different persons, still the capacity of being father and son rest in the same person, and although cause and effect are to be distinguished as two things, still they are two relations of the same thing. persons and things, causes and effects, are not independent entities, but relative entities, are interconnections or relations of the absolute. the intellect is innate in us, and with it and through it also the consciousness of being, although it is innate in us only as the teeth of the child which grow after birth. everything that we become aware of is known only as a part of the universe. in so far as this is wonderful, the consciousness of causality is miraculous. but, in fact, the knowledge of the causality of all things is innate wisdom the same as that of the color of all white and black horses. at the same time it must be observed that every innate knowledge is in part acquired, and every acquired knowledge in part innate, so that both kinds intermingle and form one category. my whole argument aims to convince you that all things are worldly things, and their causality is only another name for the same thing, just as the german _brot_ is called _pain_ in french and _bread_ in english. thus we derive the firm conviction that if there is _pain_ in heaven there will be bread, and if there are things, there will be causes and effects, or interrelation with the unit of existence. the mystery of causality is sometimes expressed by the statement that we possess the indubitable knowledge which extends beyond all experience that wherever a change takes place there must have preceded another change. indeed, we have the faculty of recognizing the unity in the infinite multiplicity, and infinite multiplicity in the unity. multiplicity, change, motion--who is to split hairs about them, who will make fine distinctions? the intellect is the photographic organ of the infinite motion and transformations called the "world." it is and possesses the consciousness of cosmic changes. is it a wonder that it knows that there is interrelation in its things, that no part of the world, not a particle of its motion and transformations, stands alone by itself, that everything is connected and mutually dependent in and with the universe? because this understanding is in a way innate in the intellect, therefore it understands that there is nothing but change, infinitely proceeding transformations. and if it detaches any single thing from this process, it knows that changes preceded it and changes will follow. in short, we must not marvel at any single part of nature, not even at the intellect, but admire the whole universe. then fetishism will at last end and a true cult, the cult of world truth, can begin. the art of thinking, my dear eugene, is not so easy. for this reason i keep on warning you against misunderstanding. i do not mean to advise you with the foregoing against admiring any single part of nature, or of art, a landscape or a statue. my teaching merely tends to moderate admiration by the reflection that the whole world is wonderful, that everything is beautiful, so that nothing ugly remains. the distinction between beautiful and ugly is only relative. even when i say that the true worship of god, the cult of truth, cannot begin until idol worship ceases, you will appreciate the phrase and will not insinuate that i do not value the cultivation of science in the past, or that i hate idol worship to the extent of forgetting what i have emphasized repeatedly, viz., that idol worship is also worship of god, and error a paving stone on the way toward truth. the most minute thing is a magnitude. everything is true, good, and beautiful, for the universe is absolute truth, beauty and goodness. i conclude with the words of fr. von sallet: a sunny view of world and life is balm for brain and heart, it is with health and beauty rife, with noblest works of art. but do not for a moment think that it is captured in a wink. the golden harvest does not grow, unless the early tempests blow. and only bitter woe and strain will bright and lofty wisdom gain. footnote: [ ] e. g. that of natural existence.--editor. seventeenth letter. my subject, dear eugene, is the simplest in the world, but it requires thorough treatment for all its full understanding. so every letter is in a way but a repetition of the same argument. "it is remarkable," says schopenhauer, "that we find the few main theses of pre-socratic philosophy repeated innumerable times. also in the works of modern thinkers, such as cartesius, spinoza, leibniz, and even kant, we find that their few main theses are repeated over and over." now i ask you to consider what i said in my first letters, viz., that the titles of the principal philosophical works reveal that philosophy is engaged in the study of logic, in the analysis of the intellect and the art of its use. you will then recognize that in the very nature of the subject my presentation of the matter lacks systematization. it has no real beginning and end, because its object, the intellect, is interconnected with the whole universe, which is without beginning and end, which has neither before nor after, neither above nor below. you may venture that the relation of the intellect to the universe does not concern the intellect especially, but is a universal matter. that would be true. but it is easy to show that the art of thinking and wisdom of the world are identical. and although the universal interrelation of things is germain to all things and subjects, yet its consideration is a special task of logic which treats all objects of thought summarily. my subject therefore begins everywhere, even though it is a specialty. hence i take the liberty to take my departure from any literature which i happen to study. in the present letter, i deal with "logical investigations" of the prominent professor trendelenburg. his is a bulky volume, but you need not fear that i shall weary you with its subtleties. as a rule i read only the preface of philosophical works of the second and third order, their introduction and perhaps the first few chapters. then i am approximately informed as to what i may expect from them further on. one frequently finds statements which, if they do not throw new light on the subject, still bring out in bolder relief some of the accomplishments of historical research in our field. and in order that the son may not trust to the father alone, which might lead to distrust, i connect my argument with some statements of trendelenburg. in the preface to the second edition the author complains of the "dull headache" which the hegelian intoxication has left in germany and says: "philosophy will not resume its old power until it becomes consistent, and it will not become consistent until it grows in the same way that all other sciences do. in other words, it must not take a new departure in every brain and then quit, but it must approach its problems historically and develop them. the german prejudice must be abandoned, according to which the philosophy of the future is supposed to look for a new principle. this principle has already been found. it consists in the organic world conception, the fundaments of which are resting in plato and aristotle." the professor is right, but he overlooks that the philosophers, even of modern times, do not begin "each on his own account," do not have "each his own principle," or if they have, such a "false originality" is but the indifferent attribute of historical development which has handed the object of logic, the true art of thought, from generation to generation in an ever brighter condition. i repeat this emphatically for pedagogic reasons, because i consider it essential to convince you and the reader that the apparent paradoxes which i state are the objects of discussion since time immemorial. i also wish to stimulate you to a study of the master works of philosophy which show the cheering spectacle, in the persons of the most brilliant specimens of the human mind, of the onward march of this mind from darkness to light. in order that the wheat contained in this human treasure box may not be concealed by the tares, i am endeavoring to throw light on the outcome of the historical development of philosophy, and for this purpose i continue to discuss the question by taking my departure in this instance from some further statements of trendelenburg. "it is a peculiarity of philosophical methods of reasoning to recognize a part in the whole, and it is tacitly assumed that the whole is descended from a thought which determines the parts. on the other hand, it is peculiar to empirical methods of analysis to study the parts without regard to their interrelation, or at best to collect them and put them together, and it is tacitly assumed that every point is something peculiar in itself which must be studied apart from all the rest." "the aim of all human understanding is always to solve the miracle of divine creation by further creative thought. when this task is undertaken in detail, the detail study forces one on to other things: for things must go backwards toward their dissolution by the same force through which they arose out of the depths." these sentences state the problem before us. shall we use the intellect philosophically, or shall we use it empirically? we are striving to understand the parts and the whole, and this is identical with the research after a systematical world philosophy, or with the art of dialectics. now we must state in the first place that thinking of any kind, whether it be philosophical or empirical, is of the same species, that the same kernel is contained in both forms. roses are different flowers from carnations, but the flower nature is in both of them. thus the nature of thought is contained in both philosophical and empirical thinking. the distinction is well enough, but their unity must not be lost sight of. the philosophers, he says, seek to understand the detail by the whole; the empirical thinkers analyze the details without regard to interrelations. but both methods of research are different specimens of the same genus, and both of them are one-sided when their interconnection is overlooked. the empirical thinker who seeks to understand the details in their isolation, thinks philosophically, when he regards his special research as a contribution to the whole, and the philosopher, who seeks to understand the detail by the whole, thinks empirically when he rightly regards all details as attributes of the whole. trendelenburg, then, has expressed his case very obscurely. both methods of study, if employed one-sidedly, entirely misconceive the art of thinking. the philosophers err when they regard the intellect as the only source of understanding and truth; it is only a part of truth and must be supplemented by all the rest of the world. on the other hand, the empirical thinkers err when they look for understanding and truth exclusively in the outer world, without taking into account the intellectual instrument by the help of which they lift their treasures. in fact, such one-sided philosophers exist only in theory; i mean there are some who imagine that truth could be one-sided. but in practice they all testify, much against their will, to the inevitable interconnection of matter and mind, of inside and outside. in the practical use of the intellect everybody shows that the part operates in the whole, and that the whole is active in its parts. we know _a priori_ that the universe is a whole. the universal existence can be conceived only as of one kind or nature. the mere thought that there might be something which does not partake of the nature of the universe is no thought, because it is a thought without sense or reason. the whole world is the supreme being, though i grant that we have but a vague conception of it. we have as yet no detailed, true, conception of the universe, but it is gradually acquired in the course of science. still, our conception will never be perfect because details are infinitesimal and the absolute being is infinite growth. as to details, we know them more or less accurately and yet not accurately, because even the most minute part of the infinite is infinite. all science has searched in vain for atoms. what our understanding knows, has always been nothing but predicates or attributes of truth, although they are true attributes and are truly understood by us. i emphasize the inadequacy of all modes of thought and of all understanding in opposition to those who make an idol of science. i emphasize the truth of all perceptions in opposition to those knownothings who claim that truth cannot be understood, but can only be admired and worshipped. hence it follows for our theory of understanding that intellect and reason and the art of thought are no independent treasure boxes which make any revelations to us. they are theoretical classifications which in practice are operative only in the universal interconnection of things. understanding, perceiving, judging, distinguishing and concluding, etc., are unable to produce any truths. they can only enlighten and clarify experience by logical classification and distinction. because man produces works which are preceded by planning, therefore the philosophical mode of research has "assumed that the whole is descended from a thought." but this is an assumption of human origin, which is shown to be without foundation on closer analysis. the plans of our works are copies of natural originals and are "free creations of the mind" only in a limited sense. the artists are well aware of the natural descent of their thoughts and fictions. to regard the world as the outcome of thought is a perverse logic. it is the first condition of rational, proletarian, thought to recognize the intellect and its products as attributes of the world subject. eighteenth letter just as in political history action and reaction follow one another, just as periods of economic prosperity are alternated by periods of depression, so we find in literature a periodical fluctuation between philosophical and anti-philosophical tendencies. after hegel had for a time thoroughly aroused the spirits, a time of apathy followed, so that this hero of thought who shortly before had been almost idolized could be attacked and reviled. for about a decade, a philosophical breeze has now once more been blowing. the subject of logic, the theory of understanding, is again the object of universal attention. this movement is stimulated by important discoveries in science, such as the heat equivalent of robert mayer, the origin of species by darwin, etc., and natural science and philosophy may be compared to two miners who are digging a tunnel, so that sharp ears on both sides can hear the blows of the hammers and the clanging of the tools. there is much truth in this picture, but it may also lead to misunderstandings. by the vivisection of frogs and rabbits, by boring into the brain, physiology will not discover the mind. no microscope, no telescope, will reveal the nature of reason and truth or the art of logical discernment. neither will lazarre geiger, max müller, steinthal, and noiré succeed in philology in solving the "last questions of all knowledge" by the help of any primitive arch-language. at the same time, the value of the co-operation of these gentlemen is not denied, only i desire to point out that the comparison with the tunnel is not quite accurate. what marx said of economic formulas, is true of logical formulas: "in their analysis neither the microscope nor chemical reagents are of any service. the power of abstraction must replace them both." the two sciences will finally meet, not because each one of them digs away in its own one-sided fashion, but because the miners meet after working hours and exchange their experiences. and the philosophers may be the dominant party, because they are specialists in logic and therefore prepared to utilize anything which may serve their purpose, no matter from what side it comes. the other party, on the other hand, has its own specialties and promotes the cause of logic in a secondary and involuntary fashion. natural science has its own monism which is distinguished from philosophical proletarian monism in that it does not appreciate the historical outcome of philosophical research. one of the most prominent representatives of the former is noiré. he entitles one of his little works "monistic thought," but shows himself on its pages as a very unclear dualist. he speaks of the "dual nature of causality" and relates that the mind operates with a different causality than the mere mechanical one. he calls this other "sensory causality." according to him the world has only two attributes: "motion and sensation are the only true and objective qualities of the world.... motion is the truly objective ... though it is admitted that it gives us only the phenomenon.... sensation makes up the internal nature of things. every subject, whether man or atom, is endowed with the two qualities of all beings, viz., motion and sensation." thereupon i have carefully looked for an explanation in noiré's works, why he regards the nature of things as composed of an external and an internal quality, and why sensation should not be regarded as a sort of motion, but the only reason i could find was the dualistic nature of his "monistic" reasoning. as schopenhauer provided the whole world with a "will," so noiré provides it with "sensation." kant and his "critical philosophy" held in their time that our intellect perceives only the phenomena of nature, while the mystic law of causality, according to him, points to a hidden being, which cannot be perceived but must be believed, which we may venerate but must leave undisturbed by science. schopenhauer, his brilliant successor, who in spite of his brilliancy did not materially advance the cause of philosophy, mystified the problem of causality by his discovery that the nature of the world is will power. these teachings of kant and schopenhauer are dressed up anew and mixed with the recent discoveries of science by noiré. but he entirely ignores the work of schelling and hegel, who by their criticisms have made evident the lack of logic in the kantian separation of phenomenon (apparition) from noumenon (essence), of cause from effect. you are familiar with the silly question whether goethe or schiller, shakespeare or byron, is the greater poet, and you will not think that i am trying to elevate hegel above kant or kant above hegel. they are just two cogs on the spinning wheel of history. if the second crushes what the first has cracked, such is the result of their succession. natural science is also a valuable co-operator in the solution of the world problem, not so much by digging in the logical tunnel itself, or making amateur excursions into the fields of philosophy or metaphysics, but because it elucidates and renders tangible the special object of logic in such far-embracing objects as the unity of natural forces or of animal species. the scientific presentation of this special object, however, requires a brain armed with the full equipment of the historical outcome of philosophy. now you must not believe that i am conceited enough to place my own little personality on the pedestal as the only true philosopher. i am too well aware of my shortcomings as a self-educated man. but seeing that i have striven earnestly and without prejudice since my young days to understand the high object of my studies, i feel in my heart a certain confidence in my qualification to deal with it. on the other hand, i know my lack of that sort of learning which is required in order to be able to present the scientifically much-courted nature of the human mind in such a form and with such emphasis as its sublime character deserves. and if i, nevertheless, come before the public on various occasions with my tentative works, i offer as an excuse that hitherto the messiah has not appeared who will come after me and whose john the baptist i should like to be. you, my dear eugene, will take me soberly and reduce my resounding words to their proper measure, when i, in the intoxication of enthusiasm, flow over like that now and then. you know that i am no hero worshipper. though all research is but the product of individual minds, the mind of each man is a part of the universal mind which produces science. now follows the point which forms the conclusion of all my letters: the intellect which produces science is indeed a part of man, but still more a part of the world, it is the universal world intellect, the reason of the absolute, the absolute reason. the study of this intellect at work, not merely in shoemaking, in anatomy, or in astronomy, but in all fields, in the infinite, of its life in the absolute, is the means by which the art of logic is acquired. it is true that the infinite exists only in finite parts, and you cannot conceive of the infinite directly, you can perceive it only in its parts. and in perceiving them you must always remember that every part is an infinite piece of the infinite universe. in his "introduction and proofs of a monistic theory of understanding," noiré, after enumerating the new points contained in his work, adds sneeringly that he is "not in a position to give any new clews as to the nature of the absolute." for this very reason i want to denounce his "monism" as a shallow piece of work, which offers only the name instead of the essence. the well-known ernst hæckel knows a great deal more about this subject. in a lecture given at the twenty-fifth convention of natural scientists in eisenach, he calls the monistic view of nature "a grand pantheistic one." the essence of all religion, according to him, consists in the "conviction of a final and unmistakably common cause of all things." and he continues: "in the admission that with the present day organization of our brain, we are unable to penetrate to the final cause of all things, the critical natural philosophy and dogmatic religion agree." whether the professor is one of those natural philosophers who regard the human mind as too narrow for the understanding of the "unmistakably (hence somewhat understood) common cause of all things," is not quite clear to me, nor probably to the famous scientist himself. for he adds: "the more we progress in the understanding of nature, the more we approach that unattainable final cause." and further on: "the purest form of monistic faith culminates in the conviction of the unity of god and nature." now i ask: if nature, god, and absolute truth are one and the same thing, have we not learned something about the "final cause of all things?" what necessity is there in that case for speaking in such an abjectedly humble tone of human understanding, or to assign nothing but straw and husks to it, in the language of hegel? you see, then, that hæckel has a higher estimate of absolute nature than noiré who does not care to have anything to do with the nature of the absolute. but my object at this moment is to convince you that neither the one nor the other of these two, nor natural science, so-called, is directly digging in the tunnel which will give us light on the question of the limits of our understanding and the final cause of things. our logic, on the other hand, which treats the intellect as a part of nature, cultivates a natural science that includes the mere empirical natural science in the same way in which the day of twenty-four hours includes the day of twelve hours and the night. natural science proper deals mainly with tangible things. light and sound, the objects of eye and ear, are still included in its studies. the objects of smell and taste stand on the dividing line. but the socalled sciences of the mind, such as grammar and politics, political economy and history, morals and law, and most decidedly logic, are entirely excluded. such a limitation is well enough, if we remember that it is purely formal. however, it must not overlook the bridge which leads from limited nature to universal, infinite, nature. the monism of natural science has a far too narrow view of the universe. when it says that "all is motion," it says just as little or as much as solomon with his "all is vain." everything is crooked and straight, everything great and small, everything temporal and eternal, everything truth and life. but nothing is thus said to show the meaning of distinction in this world, to explain how rest exists in motion, and sense in nonsense. in order to differentiate logically we must know that everything is everything, that the universe or absolute is its own cause and the final cause of all things, which embraces all distinctions, even that of causality and that between matter and mind. nineteenth letter "philosophy should not try to be edifying," said hegel. this means that religious feeling is far below scientific thought. but there is a reverse side to this sentence, viz., that thoughts which do not rise to the edifying interconnection of all things, no matter whether they remain stuck in some specialty on account of frivolousness or of narrowmindedness, are far below a wise world philosophy. in a former letter i have already emphasized, and i hope to prove it more convincingly, that the conception of "god," or of the absolute, is indispensable for a logical world philosophy. you know that in my dictionary the gods and divinities of all religions and denominations are "idols," and justly so, since they are all manufactured images. instead of the entire universe, they worship a more or less unessential part of it. the religions show by their idolatry, the sciences frequently by their little creditable indifference, that they have no conception of the intellect and its art of reasoning. the universe is a familiar conception. everybody uses it, and there is apparently little to say about it. but in fact it is the conception of all conceptions, the being of all beings, the cause of itself which has no other cause and no other being beside itself. that the whole world is contained in the universe is so obvious that you may wonder at my waste of words over such a matter-of-fact thing. but when you consider that the people have always searched for a world cause outside of the world, together with a beginning of the world and a transcendental truth, then you will see that they have not grasped the conception of the world as a whole, as a universe. and if that is admitted, then the proof that it is the cause of all causes, the beginning of all beginnings, and the truth of all truths, is not such a superfluous undertaking. now you may say that it is presumptuous to try to understand the whole universe at once. this objection is justified in a way, according to the interpretation of the words. still i hope that it will be my justification to declare that it is not a question of understanding the universe in detail, but only in general, not each and everything in its differentiation, but only in a summary way. and it is only the edifying conception of the universe as a whole which will open for you the door to the understanding of the human mind, of thought, and the art of using it. we wish to understand _the_ conception; not this or that conception, but the whole conception, the conception of the whole. you will no longer indulge in the superstition that the faculty of thought or understanding is a thing apart from the world's interconnection. i presume that you have now learned enough about the art of thought to be sure not to think of anything without its worldwide interrelation. for so long as one imagines that a piece of wood or a stone is a thing in itself, without connection with light and air, with earth, moon, and sun, he has a very barbarian conception of the things of this world. i maintain that the understanding of the human faculty of reason and the art of its use are inseparable from the world concept. and i want this understood in the sense, that it is not a mistake to distinguish between the internal mind and the outside world, but that these are merely formal distinctions of the essentially indivisible and absolute universe. the concept of this true god or divine, because universal, truth shows on close analysis that it includes the special truth of the art of thought as well as all other sciences, and pre-eminently the science of thought, because this science must not limit itself to any special thing, but must be world wisdom by its very will and nature. to understand the universe, then, means to become aware that this being of all beings has no beginning, no cause, no truth nor reason outside and beside itself, but has everything in and by itself. to understand the universe means to recognize that one is rushing beyond the worldly infinity into the realm of fantastic transcendentalism and abusing the intellect, when illogically applying such terms as beginning and end, cause and effect, being and not being, to the absolute universe. such an illogical use of the faculty of thought is well illustrated and rebuked by the poet who questions and answers: "and when my life has passed away, what will become of me? the world has one eternal day, 'thereafter' cannot be." in order to acquire the universal sense, you will strive to understand that the universe includes all relative things, while as a whole it embodies the absolute or the edifying deity. if you would become world-wise, you must learn that the things called opposites and contradictions have a different meaning than is ordinarily applied to them by the logic of the idolators. they say that god and the world, body and soul, truth and error, life and death, etc., are irreconcilable antipodes; that they exclude one another; that they cannot be brought under the same roof, but must be kept wide apart by the laws of eternal reason. but this doctrine of contradiction is merely narrow dogmatism, which confuses the minds instead of enlightening them. certainly, death differs from life, the perishable from the imperishable, black from white, crooked from straight, large from small. who would be silly enough to deny that? but even the apparently most contradictory and opposite things may be classified under the same genus, family, or species, as twins in a mother's womb. the same thing that does not prevent male and female from sitting in the same nest, does not prevent the most widely different things, in spite of their separate characters, from being one and the same, from being two pieces of the same caliber. you are certainly still the same eugene that you were as a little baby, and yet you are at the same time another. the experts in physiology even claim that they can compute how often a man of sixty has changed his flesh, bones, skin, and hair. although the old man is the same individual that he was when first born, yet he never remained the same. you will see by this illustration that all difference is of the same nature, a general, supreme, universal being, absolute and divine, and this absolute world being is highly edifying, because it comprises all other beings and is the alpha and omega of all things. is this world-god a mere idea? no, it is the truth and life itself. and it is very interesting to note that the so-called "ontological proof of the existence of god" agrees very well with the world truth which i proclaim in the tabernacle of logic. this proof is originally attributed to the learned anselmo of canterbury. however that may be, it is certain that descartes and spinoza support him with their famous names. they hold that the "most perfect being" must necessarily have existence, because otherwise it would not be the most perfect. "i understood very well," writes descartes in the fourth section of his "method of correct thought," "that in accepting the hypothesis of a triangle i would have to accept the fact that the sum of its three angles is equal to two right angles. but nothing convinced me of the presence of such a triangle, while i found that my conception of the most perfect being was as inseparably linked to existence as my conception of a triangle is to the identity of the sum of its angles with two right angles.... hence it is certainly as undeniable as any geometrical proof can be that god exists as this most perfect being." this argument appears to me as clear as daylight and ought to convince you, not of the existence of a transcendental idol, but of the truth of the absolute and most perfect world being. if you were to remark that this perfectness is not so very great, considering its many obvious imperfections, i should ask you not to split hairs and to recognize with sane senses that these imperfections of the world belong as logically to the perfect world as the evil desires belong to virtue which becomes virtue only by the test of overcoming them. the conception of a perfection which has no imperfections to overcome would be a silly idea. now in conclusion let me say a few words of apology for continually interchanging the universe and the concept of the universe. i frequently speak of the idea of a thing as if it were the thing itself. but see here! do you not ask on seeing the portrait of some person unknown to you: who is this? and do you not interchange the portrait for the person itself, without difficulty and misunderstanding? the idea stands in the same relation to the thing, as the portrait to the person it represents. this remark is directed against that unsound logic which knows only the separation of the idea from the thing, of reason from its objects, but does not grasp the mere formality of such a distinction, does not appreciate the unity of the world, the edifying and supreme truth, the truth of the supreme being. this letter, my dear eugene, pleads for edification, but only for that kind of edification which includes the unedifying, whereby edification is sobered down. if you would give the name of pantheism to this world philosophy, you should remember that it is not a sentimental and exalted, but a common sense pantheism, a deification which has the taste of the godless. twentieth letter dear eugene: today i am going to present my case with the precision of a schoolmaster. the concept of white cabbage embraces all white cabbage heads that ever were and ever will be. the concept of cabbage embraces red, white, and many other kinds of cabbage. the concept of vegetable embraces a still wider range. the organic field is still more comprehensive. and finally the world concept embraces everything which we know and don't know, the end of which we cannot conceive, and which therefore is called infinite. when we trace our steps backward over the same reasoning, we find at once that the universal concept is divided into two parts, viz., the universe and the conception of it. we thus find the world in the concept and the concept in the world, so that both of these parts are interconnected, each is the predicate of the other, and whether we turn the thing to the right or to the left, the concept is in the world and the world in the concept. now it is true that the concept, or the faculty of understanding, is the object of our study rather than the world outside of it. the faculty of understanding, by the way, is nothing but a collective noun for all concepts, hence simply another name for concept in general. but what i eternally repeat is this: we cannot make a concept separated from all the rest of the world the object of our study, because that would be an empty abstraction which does not take on any meaning until we connect it with the world, for instance the special concept of cabbage with sense-perceived cabbage and so forth. the concepts of white cabbage, cabbage in general, vegetables, or plants, etc., are all of them special concepts and at the same time general concepts. the one and the other is relative. compared to the various species it includes, the general concept of cabbage is abstract, while compared to the general concept of vegetables it is concrete. and so it is with all concepts. they are abstract and concrete at the same time. only the final concept, the world concept, is neither concrete nor abstract, but absolute. it is the concept of the absolute, which is indispensable for an understanding of logic. we found a while ago that the absolute world concept consisted of two parts, viz., the concept and the world. in the same way, the chemists teach us that water consists of two elements, each of which by itself does not make any water, while their compound makes pure water. but we do not need such distant illustrations. my table in its present composition is something different from what it would be if the same pieces were put together in some other way and without a plan. therefore the world concept is a far more sublime concept than all the parts of which it consists. and in order to make this quite clear, i may honor this compound of the world and its concept by a special name, say "universe," so as to distinguish it from its component parts. now i declare, without fear of having the word turned in my mouth by any sophist, that the world embracing the thought, or the universe, is the absolute which includes everything, while the world and the thought of it, each by itself, are but classifications or relative things. we wish to understand thought, not empty abstract thought, but the universal world-embracing thought, the thought in a philosophical sense. this is not mere thought, but living truth, the universe, the absolute, the supreme being. it is with the universe and its parts as it is with a telescope and its concentric rings. our intellect is a special ring which gives us a picture of the whole concentric thing. this photographer, as i have called it in a former letter, is not the object of our study for its own sake, nor for the sake of its pictures, but rather for the sake of the original, of the universe. it is as if somebody were to buy a portrait of some historically renowned person. no matter how much concerned the buyer would be with the picture, in the last analysis he is concerned with that person itself. so it is with the art of understanding the absolute, with world wisdom, which we study not for the sake of the wisdom, but of the world itself. this lengthy discussion might have been cut short by simply speaking of the world instead of going to so much trouble on account of the world concept. but i should then miss my point, which is that the human intellect is a part of the world, and that the ideological distinction which separates this intellect from the rest of the world, requires for the whole an embracing term. the absolute concept is the concept of the absolute, of the supreme being. to it applies all the true, good, and beautiful ever attributed to god, and it is also that being which lends logic, consistency, and form to all thought. plato is a philosopher who has thrown a wonderful light on the faculty of understanding, though he has not fully explained it. in his dialogue entitled "gorgias," he makes socrates say the following: "does it seem to you that men want that with which they occupy themselves at any time, or that for the sake of which they undertake whatever they may be engaged in? do those, for instance, who take some medicine prescribed by the physicians seem to want that which they do ... or to want that for the sake of which they take medicine, viz., health?... in the same way those who go on board of ships and trade do not want that which they are doing; for who would care to go to sea and face danger or conquer obstacles? that for which they go to sea is that which they want, viz., to become rich; they are going to sea for the sake of acquiring wealth." plato thus says that the immediate purposes of men are not their real purposes, but means to an end, means to welfare or for "good." he therefore continues: "it is in pursuit of good, then, that we go when we go, because we are after something better, and we stand still for the sake of the same good." now let us go a step farther than socrates and plato. just as men's actions are truly done, not for the sake of some immediate purpose, but of the ulterior, of welfare, and just as their socalled ethical actions are justified only by the general wellbeing, so all things of the world are not substantiated by their immediate environment, but by the infinite universe. it is not the seed planted in the soil which is the cause of the growing plant, as the farmer thinks, but the earth, the sun, the winds, and the weather, in short, the whole of nature, and that includes the seed germ. if we apply this reasoning to our special object, the faculty of understanding, we find that it is not a narrowly human, nor a transcendental, but a universal cosmic faculty. according to homer, the immortal gods call things by other names than mortal men. but once you have grasped the concept of the absolute, you understand the language of the gods, you understand that the intellect by itself is but a minute particle, while in the interrelation with the universe it is an absolute and integral part of the universal absolute. all things have a dual nature, all of them are limited parts of the unlimited, the inexhaustible, the unknowable. just as all things are small and great, temporal and eternal, so all of them including the human mind are knowable and unknowable at the same time. we must not idolize the faculty of thought nor forget its divine nature. man should be humble, but without bowing in doglike submission to a transcendental spirit, and he should be sustained by the sublime consciousness that his spirit is the true one, the spirit of universal truth. everything can be seen by eyes, including those of a hawk. just as the eye is the instrument of vision, so the intellect is the instrument of thought. and just as spectacles and glasses are means of assisting the eye in seeing, so senses, experience, and experiments are means of assisting the intellect in understanding. with this equipment the intellect can assimilate everything in its conceptions. it understands "all," but "all" only in a relative sense. we understand all, just as we buy everything for money. we can buy only what is for sale. reason and sunshine cannot be valued in money. we can see everything with eyes, and yet not everything. sounds and smells cannot be seen. just as everything is great and small, so everything is knowable and unknowable, according to the meaning given to "everything" in the language of men or gods. that word has the dual meaning of applying to any particle and to the whole universe. so is the human mind universal, but only a universal specialty. look at that magnificently colored carnation. you see the whole flower, and yet you do not see all of it. you do not see its scent nor its weight. in the human language "whole" means a relative whole, which is at the same time a part. every particle of the universe is such a dual thing. but in the language of the gods, which is spoken by philosophy, only the absolute universe is whole. when the subject under discussion is not the intellect, but some other part of the world, for instance the eyes, the universal concept of the absolute is not so important, because the faculty of seeing, like the faculty of wealth, is in little danger of being metaphysically abused. one knows that eyes which can see around a corner, or through a block of iron, or which can perceive the scent of a carnation, are as meaningless as a white sorrel. even though our eyes cannot see the invisible, that does not prevent them from being a universal instrument which can see everything, that is everything visible. if you understand this, you will also see through the miserable wisdom of the professors which wallows on its belly in the dust and cries with the faithful: o lord, o lord! similarly to du bois-reymond, who cries out: _ignorabimus_! it is true that the human mind is an ignoramus in the sense that it is ever learning, because there is inexhaustible material in nature. there is also something unknowable in every particle of nature, just as there is something invisible in every carnation. but the unknowable in the sense used by those ignorant people who cannot understand the human mind because they have a transcendental monster in their mind, such a monstrous unknowable exists only in the imagination of the idolators to whom the true spirit reveals itself as little as the spirit of truth. just as surely as we know that there cannot be in heaven any knife without a blade and a handle, nor any black horses that are white, just so surely do we know that the faculty of understanding can never and nowhere be the absolute, but must always be a special faculty. the concept of understanding, like the concept of a knife, is limited to a definite instrument. there may be all kinds of knives and intellects, but nothing exists that has escaped from its own skin or from the limitation of its own particular concept. by this standard you may measure the silly thought of those who speak transcendentally of an unlimited faculty of understanding. they haven't any right idea of the mind nor of the universe, of the conceivable nor of the inconceivable, otherwise they would not speak in such a nonsensical sense of the "limits of understanding." in short, you see that the relative limitation or absoluteness of reason can only be understood by means of the concept of the absolute. twenty-first letter the proletarian logic of the working class searches after the supreme being. the working class knows that it must serve but it wants to know whom to serve. shall it be an idol or a king? where, who, what, is the supreme being to which everything else is subordinate, which brings system, consistency, logic, into our thought and actions? the next question is then: by what road do we arrive at its understanding? any transcendental revelation being of no use to us, there are only two ways open: reason and experience. now it is a mistake of common logic to regard these two roads as separate, while, in fact, they are one and the same common road, which by the help of empirical reason or reasonable experience leads us to the point where we recognize that the supreme being to which everything is subordinate, is nothing special, not a part or a particle, but the universe itself with all its parts. we take medicine for the sake of health, we make efforts for the sake of wealth. but neither health nor wealth are an end in themselves. what good is health to us, when we have nothing to bite? what good are all the treasures of croesus, if health is lacking? therefore health and wealth must be combined. nor is that enough. there is a spirit in us that drives us farther ahead. there are still other treasures and requirements, for instance contentment is surely one of them. but the motive power of the world spirit is so infinite, that it is not satisfied until it has everything. everything, then, in other words the whole world, that is the true end. socrates and his school, to whom i alluded in the preceding letter, wandered the way of separate reason for the purpose of finding the supreme being, the true, the good, the beautiful. the platonic dialogues paint a very magnificent picture of the truth that neither health nor wealth, neither bravery nor devotion, are "the greatest good," but that it is mainly a question of the understanding and use to which mankind put these things. accordingly they are good or bad, they are but relative "goods." love and faith, honesty and veracity, are good enough, but not _the_ good; they only partake of the good. what is sought is that which is under all circumstances absolutely good, true, and beautiful. when socrates asked his disciples to define the good or reasonable, they enumerated as a rule a series of good and reasonable specialties, while the master was continually compelled to instruct them, that his research was not aimed at those objects. they name important virtues, and he wants to know what absolute virtue is. they name good things, and he is looking for _the_ good, for pure goodness, while the good things have the bad quality of being good only under certain circumstances. the socratic school then finds out that only the understanding or the intellect can find the circumstances under which we may arrive at the absolute. understanding, the human mind, philosophy, is to them the divine. thus they arrive at their famous "know thyself," which in their language means: hold introspection and rack your brain. but they did not succeed in thus using the intellect as an oracle. nor did the christian philosophers of later times fare any better with that method, when they changed the title of the object of their studies and substituted god, liberty, and immortality, for the good, the true, and the beautiful. in order to get out of the confusion resulting from the many names given to the object of logic in the course of history, it must be remembered that pagan as well as christian research founded their quest for the absolute on the innate need of understanding the supreme being which was to be the pivot of all thought and action. polytheism had to have a supreme god, no matter whether his name was zeus or jupiter. in consequence of this longing for unity it was very natural that the place of the many immortals was finally taken by one eternal father of all. the philosophers are distinguished from the theologians only in so far as the former seek for the fulcrum of the world more on real than on imaginary ground. after more than two thousand years of mediation by intermediary links, ancient philosophy has at last been transformed into modern democratic-proletarian logic which recognizes that the intellect is an instrument which leads to the supreme being on condition that it does not rack the brain but goes outside of itself and consciously connects itself with the world outside. this connection constitutes the supreme being, the imperishable, eternal, truth, goodness, beauty, and reason. all other things only "partake of it," to use platonic language. although the socratic school were handicapped by many fantastical attributes, still they were on the road towards true logic, as neither health nor wealth, nor any other treasure or virtue satisfied them. they did not care for true phenomena, but for truth itself. but truth is the universe, and man must understand that this is the only truth, in order to be able to use his intellect logically, to be reasonable in the highest and classical sense of this word. all the world speaks of logic and logical thought. but when you, my son, as a thinking man feel the need of getting out of phraseology and knowing exactly what words should mean, you will hardly find one book that will give you sufficient light on the subject of logic. the best book would be the bible, perhaps. i mean that, when you inquire after beginning and end, purpose and destination, in short, after that which would give you and all things a definite support, when you search for the vortex around which everything revolves, then the bible does not tell you about the beginning of this or that part of history, but speaks of the absolute beginning and end of all history, of the general purpose and general destination of all existence. that is what i call logic. the free thinkers were not satisfied with religious mythology, they wanted to bring consistency and logic into their brains by their own studies. plato and aristotle have done good work along this line. so have the subsequent philosophers, cartesius, spinoza, kant. the main impediment for all of them was the obstinate prejudice that man could have reason in his own brain. of course, that is where he has it, but it is not reasonable reason. the intellect shut up in the skull has not wisdom in its keeping, as the ancients thought. wisdom cannot be acquired by racking your brain. hegel is right: reason is in the brain, it is in all things, "everything is reasonable." i merely repeat, then, that the universe is the true reason. you will not misunderstand the term "racking your brain." i am not an opponent of introspective thought, but only desire to call your attention to the fact that it has led to the wrong habit of separating thought from sight, hearing, feeling, of divesting the mind of the body. just as the christian looked for salvation outside of the flesh, so the philosophers looked for reason or understanding outside of the connection with the rest of the world, outside of experience. it was especially the research after the nature of the intellect which imagined it had to creep inside of itself. when studying the stars, we look at the heavens; when endeavoring to enrich our knowledge of plants, we gather flowers. but if we attempt to understand the mind, we must not rack our brain, nor dissect it with an anatomical knife. we shall indeed find the brain, but not the mind, not reason. and even the brain is not so easily cut out, as many an overzealous materialist may think. the student of anatomy who pries into the nature of the brain substance knows very well that this substance is not contained in the head of this or that fellow, but must be sought in many heads before the average brain is found, which differs materially from that of peter or paul. this will show that your brain is not only your own, but also "partakes" of the universal brain, and you will easily conclude from this how much less your reason is yours alone. hegel is right: not only men, but everything is reasonable. true, the most rotten conditions may be defended by such maxims. hence the great logician hegel has the bad name of having been, not a philosopher of the people, but a royal state philosopher of prussia. i will neither blacken nor whitewash him, nor will i overlook that he left the great cause in a state of mystical obscurity. but i recognize that even the worst prejudices, the most perverted morals, laws and institutions, have their reasonable justification in the times and conditions of their origin. such an understanding is immediately followed by the further insight, that the most reasonable things, crushed by the wheel of time, will become rotten and unreasonable. in short, the "good" is not any special institutions, but is found in the interrelations of the universe. only the absolute is absolutely good. and for this reason not only some conservative editors of capitalist papers, but also the revolutionary authors of the "communist manifesto," are genuine hegelians. twenty-second letter dear eugene: socrates teaches: when we walk, it is not walking, when we stand still, it is not standing which is our purpose. we always have something ulterior in view, until finally the general welfare is the true end of our actions, in other words, the "good." and on closer analysis you will find that your individual welfare, the socalled egoistic good, is not enough in itself. you are not only related to your father, mother, brothers, sisters, relatives and friends, but also to your community, state, and finally to the entire population of the globe. your welfare is dependent on their welfare, on the welfare of the whole. i know very well that the horizon of the everyday capitalist minds does not reach farther than they can see from the steeple of their church. they think according to the bad maxim: the shirt is closer to the skin than the coat. if i had to choose between the shirt and the coat, i should prefer to wear the coat without a shirt rather than to run around in shirt sleeves as the object of universal ridicule. the old man who plants a tree the fruits of which he will perhaps never see is not such a capitalist mind, otherwise he would sow seeds that would ripen during this year's summer. at this juncture we must remember that the disciples of socrates who looked for the absolute under the name of the "good," were in so far narrow as they conceived of it only from the moral, specifically human, standpoint, instead of at the same time considering its cosmic side. just as health and wealth belong together, and even these are not sufficient for human welfare which further requires all social and political virtues, so the good is not comprised in the interrelations of all mankind, but passes beyond them and connects itself with the entire universe. without the universe man is nothing. he has no eyes without light, no ears without sound, no morals without physics. man is not so much the measure of all things; his more or less intimate connection with all things is rather the measure of all humanity. not narrow morality, but the universe, the supreme being, is the good in the very highest meaning of the word, is absolute good, right, truth, beauty, and reason. in my preceding letter i spoke of universal reason and said that not alone men, but also mountains, valleys, forests and fields, and even fools and knaves were reasonable. now you are familiar with that student's song: "what's coming from the heights?" and you know that it makes everything leathern. it speaks of a leathern hill, a leathern coach-driver, a leathern letter, even father, mother, and sister are of leather. and i mention this simply for the purpose of showing that i understand that we cannot call leather reasonable and reasonable leathern without brewing a mixture of language which is lacking the mark by which all reasonable language is distinguished from chattering, howling, and roaring. language is only reasonable when it classifies the world and distinguishes things by different names. this is easily understood. but it is more difficult to see that those who use their intellect without logical training exaggerate distinctions to such an extent that they ignore the connection between them. all things are not only distinct, but also connected. but logic so far must be blamed for not rising to the recognition of the interrelation of all things. the science of understanding frequently treats reason and experience as if they were two different things without a common nature. therefore, i make it a point to insist that there is no experience without reason and no reason without experience. the linguists who dispute about the question whether reason has developed after language or language after reason agree that both belong together. one cannot speak without the use of reason, or talk without sense, because chattering, or babbling, or whatever one may wish to call it, are everything else but language. on the other hand, there can be no reason without naming the things of this world, so as to distinguish between leather and lady, between reason and experience. of course, the idea of a leathern lady is only a youthful prank. still it is calculated to illustrate the dialectic transfusion of all names and things, of all subjects and predicates. it shows indirectly that according to common sense thought, reason has its home only in the brain of man, and that this reason is nevertheless unsound when it does not know and remember that the individual human brain is connected with all brains, and reasons with the whole world, so that only all existence and the entire universe is reasonable in the highest meaning of the word. in order to be able to use your reason in all research and on all objects in a reasonable manner, you must know that the whole world has one nature, even leather and your sister. apparently there is a wide gulf between these two, and yet in both of them the same forces are active, just as a black horse has the same horse nature as a white horse, so that from this point of view your sister is indeed leathern and leather sisterly. such statements sound paradoxical enough, yet i insist on making them in this extreme manner in order to fully reveal the absolute oneness of all existence, since it is the indispensable basis of a reasonable understanding of logic. take one of the questions of the day now agitating the public mind, for a further illustration. two tendencies are now observed in the most radical political movement of the nations. one of them is called propaganda of the deed. it works in russia and ireland with dynamite, powder, and lead. the other recommends the propaganda of the word, of the vote, and of lawful agitation. and the difference between these two is not discussed reasonably with a view to ascertaining for whom, when, where, and why, this or that propaganda is fitting, but every one tries to present his relative truth with the fanatical sectarianism of those who claim absolute truth. but if you have grasped the method of getting at truth, the true method of using your reasoning faculty, you will take sides for one thing today and for another thing tomorrow, because you will understand that all roads are leading toward rome. and if some of the comrades outvote you occasionally, you will still value these antagonists as friends, and if you combat them, even in a war to the knife, this will still be a relative war, a use of the knife with reason. our proletarian logic is tolerant, not fanatical. this logic does not want to be reasonable without passion, nor passionate without reason. it does not abolish the difference between friend and foe, between truth and falsehood, between reason and nonsense, but calms the fanaticism which exaggerates those distinctions. its fundamental maxim is: there is only one absolute, the universe. remember well that the conception of a universe which has anything outside or beside itself is still more senseless, if possible, than the idea of wooden iron. you thus see that all differences have one common nature which does not permit a transcendentally wide difference between things or opinions. because the universe is the supreme being, therefore all differences, even those of opinion, are unessential. for the purpose of studying logic, i entreat you to pay special attention to the question of essential differences and to test it by your own experience which will come to you from day to day. by means of our logic we learn the language of the gods. in the dictionary of this language, there is only one essential being, the universal or supreme being. on the other hand, the language of the mortals calls every particle a "being," but such being can be relative beings only. every ear of a cornfield, every hair of an ox skin, and even every one of their particles, is such a being. but these relative beings are at the same time unessential attributes. thus all differences between the particles of the world are simultaneously essential and unessential; in other words, they have a relative existence, they merely partake of the supreme being, compared to whom they are absolutely unessential. whether you are a good or a bad man, whether your country is happy or unhappy, free or oppressed, is very essential to you or me, but compared with the great absolute whole it is very unessential. in the universal history the fate of any single nation has no more significance than one hair on my head, although none of my hairs is there by mere chance and all of them have been counted. hence everything is in its particular and isolated self an unessential thing, but in the general interrelation everything is a necessary, reasonable, essential and divine particle. and now we come to the moral of it all. the human reason, the special object of logical research, partakes of the nature of the universe. it is nothing in itself. as an isolated being, it is wholly void and incapable of producing any understanding or knowledge. only in connection, not merely with the material brain, but with the entire universe, is the intellect capable of existing and acting. it is not the mere brain which thinks, but the whole man is required for that purpose; and not man alone, but the total interrelation with the universe is necessary for the purpose of thinking. reason itself reveals no truths. the truths which are revealed to us by means of reason, are revelations of the general nature of the absolute universe. if you think of reason in this way, then, my son, you are thinking reasonably, are world-wise, logical, and true. twenty-third letter (a) although we know that there is no actual beginning, because we are living in the universe without beginning and end, still we mortals must always begin at a certain point. so i have begun one of my retrospects over the history of my subject with plato, and at another time i have ended with hegel, although before and after them there has been much philosophical thought. these two names are luminant points which throw their light over everything which is situated between them. the errors of our predecessors are just as useful for the purpose of illustration as their positive achievements. more even: the errors form the steps of a ladder which leads toward a universal world philosophy. we clamber up and down on it, perhaps a little irregularly, but nowadays the crooked roads of an english park are preferred to the straight french avenues. it was an achievement on the part of the socratic and platonic schools to seek the good not in good specialties, but in general good, as a "pure" or absolute thing, to search for virtue in general instead of virtues. but it was a mistake which prevented their success, to exaggerate the distinction between the special and the general. according to plato, the black and white horses canter over terrestrial pavements, but the horse in general, which is neither brown, black, nor white, neither as slender as a race horse nor as clumsy as a draft horse, cantered along in the platonic "idea," in the ideal mists. platonic logic lacked what is taught by our present, or if you prefer, future proletarian logic, viz., the general understanding of the interrelation of all things, the truth that in spite of their individual differences all things belong together as individuals of the same genus. the logical relation between individual and genus stuck upside down in the brain of the noble plato. he lived in a time which is similar to our own time in that the world of the gods of the ancients was in the same state of dissolution in which the christian religions are today. plato was as little satisfied with grecian mythology as a basis for a reasonable explanation of the world, as we are with christian mythology. he wanted to ascend to the universal truth, not by way of little traditional stories, but by scientific philosophy. his intention was good, but his weak flesh wrestled with a task which required thousands of years for its solution. a while ago i said that it was that topsy-turvy view of religion as to the relation between the special and the general which thwarted plato. let me illustrate a little more in detail in what this religious topsy-turvydom consisted. here we have wind, the waters of the seas, the rays of the sun, chemical and physical forces, forces of nature. these are specimens of the universal force of nature. these specimens were regarded with sober enough eyes by the greeks, but the general nature sat high upon olympus in the form of zeus. in the same way, the greeks were familiar with beautiful things, but beauty was an unapproachable goddess, aphrodite. true, the philosopher no longer believed in the gods, but he was nevertheless still under the influence of transcendental concepts and thus he mystified the general under the name of the "idea." the platonic ideas, like the gods of the heathen, are mystifications of the general. plato furthermore shows himself as a descendant of polytheism in this: although he clearly distinguished between virtue and virtuous things, between beauty and beautiful things, between truth and true things, yet he did not rise to the understanding that all generalities are amalgamated and unified in the absolute generality, that, in so far, the good, the true, and the beautiful are identical. the research for the absolute did not become monistic until christian monotheism lent a hand. you will see from this that religion and philosophy form a common chapter which has the genus of all genera for its object. faith is distinguished from science in that the latter no longer bows to the dictates of imagination and of its organs, the priests, but seeks to fathom the object of its studies by the exact use of the intellect. a partial amalgamation of the two is, therefore, quite natural. "when a woman is strong, isn't she strong after the same conception and the same strength? by the term _same_," says the platonic socrates, "i mean that it makes no difference whether the strength is in the man or in the woman." this quotation, taken from plato's "menon," shows that platonic research deals with the general, in this case the general concept of strength which is the _same_ in man or woman, ox or mule, tom and jerry. it is the genus by means of which black and white horses are known as horses, dogs and monkeys as animals, animals and plants as organisms, and finally the variations of the whole world as the universe, as the _same_. plato has grasped this _same-ness_ in a limited way, for instance in regard to strength, reason, virtue, etc. but that in an infinite sense everything is the _same_, that things as well as ideas, bodies, and souls, are the same, remained for radical proletarian logic to discover. hand in hand with the narrow platonic conception of the general went a narrow theory of understanding or science, a wrong conception of the intellect and its functions. the socratic plato and the platonic socrates both call understanding by the name of "remembering." by praising understanding, they teach us that we must not believe the priests, but study by the help of our senses. but, nevertheless, they still teach a wrong method, a narrow art of thought. in "menon," the object of study is virtue. socrates does not exactly pose as a schoolmaster. he knows that he is called the wisest of men, but explains that this is so, because others have a conceited opinion of their wisdom, while his wisdom consists in humbly knowing that he knows nothing. he does not so much try to teach what virtue is, as to stimulate his disciples to search for it. but his idea of research is distorted. among the immortal things which he transcendentally separates from mortal things, he also classifies the soul, "the immortal soul" which dies and lives again, and has always lived, knows everything, but must "remember." thus his research becomes a cudgeling of the brain, an introspective speculation. he is not looking for understanding by way of natural science, through the interrelations of the world, but speculatively through the inside of the human skull. in order to make his theory of memory plain, socrates in "menon" calls an ignorant slave and instructs him in the fundamentals of geometry. he quickly succeeds in getting from the ignorant fellow, who at first gives wrong answers, the correct statements by recalling the connections of thought by clever questioning. he thus demonstrates to his satisfaction that man has wisdom _a priori_ in his head. but the socratic-platonic art of logic has overlooked that such wisdom requires concepts which are fixed in memory by internal _and_ external interrelations. the socalled immortal soul with its innate wisdom has troubled the world a good while thereafter. you must not think that i have a poor opinion of plato, because i criticize him in this way. on the contrary, i am highly delighted with his divine and immortal writings. "honor to socrates, honor to plato, but still more honor to truth." i also assure you that i am a great admirer of natural science, but nevertheless i should like to show you that it indulges in narrow reasoning. robert mayer, the talented discoverer of the equivalent of heat, has proven that the force of gravitation, of electricity, of steam, of heat, etc., represents different modes of expression of the same force, of the force of nature in general. but no, not quite so! he has ascertained the numerical relation by which the transformations of one force into another is accomplished. thus a logical understanding sees that the various forces and force in general are distinguished in detail but identical in general. darwin in his "origin of species" has accomplished a similar demonstration. but neither mayer nor darwin have given that general expression to world unity which is required by the art of logic. in order to become an adept at this art, you must rise to the understanding that all forces are various modes of expression of the one force, all animals and species transformations of animaldom, that on the moon a part is smaller than the whole, the same as on earth, that there as well as here fire burns, and that as surely as you have no doubt of your being, just as surely is there only one being, the infinite, divine universe which has no other gods beside it, but contains all forces, materials, and transformations. this is an innate science which is the cause of all other science, an innate science which, indeed, must first be awakened in you by "memory." hence our proletarian logic instructs you not to rack your brain by mere introspection, as the ancient philosophers used to do, not to call the senses impostors nor to search for truth without eyes, nose, and ears, nor on the other hand to start out with the idea of certain natural scientists who try to see, hear, and smell understanding without the help of the intellect. the mistake committed in making a wrong use of the intellect is a "sin against the holy ghost." the socratic-platonic doctrine of memory is one extreme side of this sin; the other extreme side is represented by that modern science which tries to find truth by mere external means and rejects everything as untrue which is not ponderable or tangible. as this letter is more intimately connected with the following one than is ordinarily the case, i take the liberty to unite them under the same number and mark them with the letters a and b. (b) we are still the guests of plato today, my son, and i should like to show you that this philosopher, in whose time natural science had barely developed its first downy feathers, already suspected its stubborn narrowness, although in a certain sense the platonic logic was no less narrow than that of the so-called exact sciences still is to-day, at least in part. still platonic logic had at least the advantage of its outlook toward the supreme being, the absolute, while modern naturalism is still stuck in the narrow land of specialties. therefore, i hope that you will find it interesting to note with me the way in which universal truth is peeping forth beneath the wings of platonic speculation. "listen, then, to what i am going to say," remarks socrates in "phaedo," paragraph . "in my youth, o cebes, i had a great interest in natural science, for it seemed to me a magnificent thing to know the cause of everything, to learn how everything begins, exists, and passes. a hundred times i turned to one thing and then to another, reflecting about these matters by myself. do animals arise when the hot and the cold begin to disintegrate, as some claim? is it the blood, which enables us to think, or the air or the fire? or is it none of these, but rather the brain which produces all perceptions, such as seeing, hearing, smelling, and does memory and thought then arise by these, and from thought and memory, when they become adjusted, understanding? and again, when i considered that all this passes away, and the changes in heaven and on earth, i finally felt myself poorly qualified for this whole investigation. let this be sufficient proof to you: in the things which formerly were familiar and known to me, i became so doubtful by this investigation, that i forgot even that which i thought i knew of many other things, as for instance the question as to how man grows. i thought that everybody knew that this was caused by eating and drinking. for when through the food flesh comes to flesh and bone to bone, and in the same way that which is akin to all the rest of the things which constitute man, it seemed natural that a small mass would become larger, and thus a small man grow tall. does not this appear reasonable to you?... consider furthermore this. it seemed enough to me that a man appeared large when standing by the side of something small, that he looked taller by one head, and in the same way one horse by the side of another; or what is still plainer, ten seemed to me more than eight, because it is more by two, and a thing of two feet longer than that which measures only one foot, because it exceeds it by one." thereupon cebes asks: "well, and what do you think of this now?" "i think, by zeus," says socrates, "that i am far removed from knowing the cause of any of these things. i do not even admit that by adding one to one i obtain two, by such an addition. for i wonder how it is that each was supposed to be one when by itself, while now, that they have been added to one another, they have become two. neither can i convince myself that if one thing divides a thing in two, that this division is the cause of it becoming two. for this would be the opposite way of making two. but when i heard somebody reading something from a book, written by anaxagoras as he said, to the effect that it is reason which had arranged everything and was the cause of everything, i rejoiced at this cause.... now if one were to search for the cause of all things, of their origin, existence and passing, he should only find out what is the best way to maintain their existence.... hence it is not meet that man should care for anything else in regard to himself as well as to all other things, but for that which is best and most excellent, and then he would also know the worst about things, for the understanding of both is the same. considering this, i was glad to have found a teacher who knows about the cause of all things, who suited me, i mean anaxagoras, and who would now tell me, first whether the earth is round or flat, and after telling me that, would also explain to me the necessity for it and the cause, by pointing to the fact that it was better that it should be so. and when he claimed that the earth was the center of things, i hoped he would explain why it was better that it should be the center, and when he had explained that, i was resolved that i would not ask for any other cause. in the same way i was going to inquire after the cause of the sun, the moon, and the other stars, etc.... for i did not believe that after claiming all this to have been arranged by reason, he would be dragging in any other cause than that of being best to have it just so. and this wonderful hope i had to abandon, my friends, when i continued to read and saw that the man accomplished nothing by reason and adduces no other reasons relating to the arrangement of things, but quotes air, and water, and ether, and many other astonishing things. "and it seemed that it was as if some one said socrates accomplishes all things by reason, and then, when he began to enumerate the cause of everything i do, were to say first that i am sitting here because my body consists of bones and sinews, and that the bones are hard and are differentiated by joints, and the sinews so constructed that they can be extended and shortened, etc. and further, if he tried to name the causes of our discussion, he would refer to other similar things, such as sound, and air and hearing, and a thousand and one other things, quite neglecting the true cause, viz., that it suited the athenians better to condemn me, and that it suited me for this reason to stay here and seemed more just to me to bear patiently the punishment which they have ordered. for i believe that my bones and sinews would have gone long ago to the dogs or been carried to the boeotians, had i not considered it more just and beautiful to atone to the state than to flee. "it is very illogical, then, to name such causes. but if any one were to say that i should not be able to do what i please without these things (sinews and bones, and whatever else i may have), he would be right. but it would be a very thoughtless contention to say that these things are the cause of my actions, instead of my free choice to do the best. that would show an inability to distinguish the fact that in all things the cause is one thing, and another thing that without which the cause could not be cause. and it seems to me that it is precisely this which some call by a wrong name in considering it as the cause. for this reason some put a whirlwind from heaven round the earth and others rest it on air as they would a wide trough on a footstool." so far socrates, whose words i ask you to read repeatedly and carefully, though they may look a little old-fashioned. this quotation is somewhat lengthy, but i thought best not to cut it too short and to present it in its main outlines. this quotation says on the whole the same thing which i have said in my proceeding letters. according to socrates, all our thoughts and actions have a wider and more general purpose, which he calls the "good," so that we even do evil for the sake of good. a crime always aims at some particular good. evil is misunderstood good. applied to natural science, this means that it misunderstands the interrelation of all its fine discoveries. and this charge is true even to-day. although the natural interrelations are more and more recognized from day to day, still the understanding of the absolute inter-connection continues to be overlooked, especially that of the intellect with material things, or of the ideal with the real. natural science teaches after the manner of the gospel of john: abraham begot isaac, isaac begot jacob. but it forgets to teach that all these genitors were not genitors in the last analysis, but begotten by old jehovah himself. the uncultivated condition of grecian natural sciences may have been ground enough for socrates to think little of it. we, on the other hand, have to-day good reasons for thinking highly of natural science, and for this very reason i take pains to illustrate by its prominent example in what respect the neglect of the universal world thought results in a narrow conception of the world. we may well rejoice more lastingly than socrates when natural science teaches us how it happens that everything has its origin, life, and end, because the knowledge of natural science has been far more enriched by modern experiences than it was at the time of anaxagoras. nevertheless you must not stop learning furthermore from logic that all growing, coming into existence, living, and passing away is but a change of form. the causes of natural science are indeed not causes, but effects of the universe. they are reasonable effects of reason in so far as the latter is not an isolated part, but interconnected with the universe. to repeat: our intellect is not ours, it does not belong to man, but it together with man belongs to the universe. reason and the world, the true, the good, and the beautiful, together with godhood which you shall not idolize but understand in the spirit and in the world, in truth and in reality, are all one thing, one being, and everywhere eternal and the _same_. socrates shows that he has as yet only a narrow anthropomorphic, not a cosmic conception of the "best and good" and of reason. he was dominated by the prejudice which still holds sway over the uncultured believers in god, that reason is older than all the rest of the world, that it is the ruling and antecedent creator. our conception of logic, on the other hand, teaches that the spirit which we have in our brain is but the emanation of the world spirit. and this latter must not be conceived as a nebulous world monster, not as an enormous spirit, but as the actual universe, which in spite of all change and all variation is eternally one, true, good, reasonable, real, and supreme. twenty-fourth letter the art of thought, my son, for which we are striving, is not pure and abstract, but connected with practice, a practical theory, a theoretical practice. it is not a separate and isolated thing, not a "thing in itself," but is connected with all things; it has a universal interrelation. hence our logic, as we have repeatedly stated, is a philosophy, world wisdom, and metaphysics. i include the latter, because our logic excludes nothing, not even the transcendental. it teaches that everything, even transcendentalism, if practiced with consciousness and the necessary moderation, and at the right time and place, for instance at the carnival, is a reasonable and sublime pleasure. all prominent philosophers were explorers and users of the same art of thought, of living, of viewing the world, although many of them retired to the solitude and were ascetics. can the world be understood in a hermitage? yes and no. after you have been traveling and seeing many lands, it is well to retire and classify the impressions received, and thus to reflect about a true philosophy of life. in this way, secluded thought, in the relative meaning of the word, that is, in connection with observation and experience, with enjoyment and life, is a veritable savior. body and soul belong together, and if they are separated, it must be remembered that such a separation is a mere matter of form, that they are in fact one thing, attributes of the same being which is infinitely great, so great that all other beings are but its fringes. the art of distinction distinguishes the infinite infinitely with the consciousness that in reality everything is interrelated without distinction and is one. this truth, and thus absolute truth, is ignored by laymen and professional authorities alike. the thousand year dualism between body and soul has been especially instrumental in preventing the understanding of the universal interrelation. the whole history of philosophy is but a wrestling with the dualism between matter and mind. it was only by degrees that it moved towards its monistic goal. after the brilliant triple star socrates-plato-aristotle was extinguished, the philosophical sky was covered with dark clouds. the heathens stepped from the stage, and christianity and the dogmas of its church predominated the logic of men, until at last a new scientific light arose in the beginning of modern times. it was especially cartesius and spinoza who were most brilliant among the early thinkers that emancipated their minds slowly and under great difficulties. spinoza, of jewish descent, is especially interesting in his fight against narrowmindedness and for a universal philosophy. he wrote an "essay on the improvement of the intellect and on the way by which it is best led to a true understanding of things." he, as well as we, was looking for the best way, the true way, the way of truth. he, as well as we, seeks to study and practice the fundamentals of the art of thought. he begins: "after experience has taught me that everything which the ordinary life offers is vain, and i have seen that everything which i feared is only good or bad in so far as the mind is moved by it, i finally resolved to investigate whether there is any true good--whether there is anything the discovery of which will forever secure continuous and supreme joy. what is most generally found in life, and what mankind regards as the highest good, may be reduced to three things, viz., wealth, honor, and sensual pleasure." after spinoza has then uncovered the shadowy side and the vanity of these popular ideals, he calls them "unsafe by their very nature," while he is looking for "permanent good," which is "insecure only as regards its possession, but not in its nature." but how is that to be found? "here i shall say shortly what i mean by true good, and what is at the same time the highest good. in order to grasp this fully, we must remember that good or bad are only relative terms, and thus the same thing may be called good or bad according to its relations, or on the other hand perfect or imperfect." spinoza, forestalling the object of his research, discovers that the true, supreme and permanent good is the "understanding of the unity" of the soul with the entire nature. "this then," he says, "is the goal which i am coveting." "to this end, we must study morals, philosophy, and the education of boys, and combine with this study the entire science of medicine, because health materially assists us in reaching our ideal. neither must mechanics be neglected, because many difficult things are made easy by art. above all we must strive to find a way for the improvement of the intellect." here we have once more arrived at the pivotal point of our subject, my dear disciple. who or what is the intellect, whence does it come from, whither does it lead? answer: it is a light which does not shine within itself, but throws rays outside of itself for the illumination of the world. for this reason the science which has the faculty of understanding for its object, though a limited, is at the same time a universal science, a universal world wisdom. but isn't it a contradiction that a special science wants to be general world wisdom? is not general wisdom that which comprises all knowledge, all special science? must i not know everything in order to be world wise? and how can any single brain assume to acquire all knowledge, to know everything? answer: it is impossible for you to know everything; but you can rise to the understanding that your special wisdom and that of all others is a part of universal wisdom and form together a relative whole which in connection with all the rest of the world constitute the absolute being. this understanding represents pure logic and is universal understanding, understanding of the universal being. do not be troubled by the fact that socrates was looking for virtue and the "best," or spinoza for permanent and supreme joy, and that their wisdom aimed only at the narrow circle of human life, without rising to the cosmic interrelation. the means and the instrument by the help of which they strive for their ideal is the intellect. it is quite natural that intellectual research led to the study of the intellect, to the "improvement of the intellect," to the "critique of reason," to "logic," and finally to the understanding that the faculty of thought is an inseparable part of the monistic whole, of the absolute which lends support, consistency, reason and sense to all thought. on his exploring tour for the improvement of the intellect, spinoza picks up a remark which seems to me worthy of closer attention. he says in so many words: if we are looking for a way to improve the intellect, is it not necessary for the purpose of finding such a way to first improve the intellect, in order to be at all able to discern the way which leads to an improvement of the intellect, and so on without end? "we must have a hammer to forge the iron, and in order to have a hammer, it must be made; but for this purpose we need another hammer and other instruments, and so forth without end. in this way it must not be proven that men have no power to forge iron. men have rather accomplished only the easiest tasks with difficulty and imperfectly by the help of the natural tools of their bodies. gradually they accomplished more difficult things with less labor and better. and thus they slowly proceeded from the simplest tasks to the instruments." i admire in this process of reasoning the brilliant understanding that the hammer is not such a limited instrument as the untrained human brain thinks. it thinks that a hammer is not a pair of tongs. but spinoza says that the bare fist is a hammer when used for striking, much more a stone or a club. a pair of tongs used to drive a nail becomes a hammer; a hammer which i use to draw a nail becomes a pair of tongs. fist or club, sense or nonsense, all is one. in other words, things are separated, but never so far as the fantastical dreamers think. just as hammer and tongs, saw and file, are parts of the class of tools, so all things are parts of the one and absolute universe. recognize, then, dear eugene, that the relative and the absolute are not separated by such a bridgeless chasm, that the one should be praised to the skies and the other damned to the lowest pit. understand that everything is dialectically interrelated, that the infinite, eternal, divine, can live only in the finite, special things, and that on the other hand the parts of the world can exist only in the absolute. in short, raise your conception to the universal conception, and at the same time, understand the supreme being in all its parts instead of idolizing it. the positive outcome of philosophy by joseph dietzgen translated by ernest untermann the positive outcome of philosophy preface as a father cares for his child, so an author cares for his product. i may be able to give a little additional zest to the contents of this work by adding an explanation how i came to write it. although born by my mother in , i did not enter my own world until "the mad year," . i was learning the trade of my father in my paternal shop, when i saw in the "kölnische zeitung," how the people of berlin had overcome the king of prussia and conquered "liberty." this "liberty" now became the first object of my musings. the parties of that period, the disturbers and howlers, made a great deal of fuss about it. but the more i heard about it, and hence became enthusiastic over it, the duller, hazier and more indistinct became the meaning of it, so that it turned things upside down in my head. the psychologists have long known that enthusiasm for a cause and understanding of that cause are two different things. mark, for instance, the zeal displayed by catholic peasants in singing their mass, although they do not understand a word of latin. what is meant by political freedom? what is its beginning, what its end? where and how are we to find a positive and definite knowledge of it? in the parties of the middle, the so-called "constitutionals," as well as among the bourgeois democrats, there was no end of dissension. nothing could be learned there. among them, as among the protestants, every one was a chosen interpreter of the gospel. however, the papers of the extremes, that is, the "neue preussische" with its "for god, king and fatherland," and the "neue rheinische," the organ of "democracy," gave me a hint that liberty had some sort of a material basis. during the following years, my life in rural surroundings gave me leisure to follow this scent. on one side, it was the work of men like gerlach, stahl, and leo, on the other of marx and engels, that gave me a foothold. though the communists and the ultra-conservatives came to widely different conclusions, still i felt and read between the lines that both of these extreme parties based their demands on one fundamental premise. they knew what they wanted; they both had a definite beginning and end. and that permitted the assumption that both had a common philosophy. the prussian landholding aristocracy based the cross, which they wore as an emblem on their hats, on the historically acquired royal military power and on the positive divine revelation of the bible printed in black and supported by the ecclesiastical police force dressed in black. and the communist point of departure was quite as positive, unquestionable and material, viz., the growing supremacy of the mass of the people with their proletarian interests based on the historically acquired productive power of the working class. the spirit of both of these hostile camps was descending from the results of philosophy, primarily from the hegelian school. both of them were armed with the philosophical achievements of the century, which they had not only mechanically assimilated, but rather continually provided with fresh food like a living being. in the beginning of the fifties, a pamphlet was published by one of the cross bearers, stahl, entitled "against bunsen." this bunsen was at the time the prussian embassador at london, a crony of the ruling prussian king frederic william iv., and, apart from this, nothing but a liberal muddle head who was interested in political and religious tolerance. the pamphlet of the cross bearer stahl attacked this tolerance and demonstrated valiantly that tolerance could be preached only by a muddled free lance to whom religion and fatherland were indifferent conceptions. religious faith, so far as it is truth, so he said, has a true power and can transpose mountains. such a faith could not be tolerant and indifferent, but must push its propaganda with fire and sword. in the same way in which stahl defended the interests of the landed aristocracy, the philosopher feuerbach spoke in the interest of the infidel revolutionaries. both of them were to that extent in accord with the "communist manifesto" that they no longer regarded liberty as a phantasmagoria, but as a being of flesh and blood. when i had realized this, it dawned upon me that any conception elucidated by philosophy, in this case the idea of liberty, had this peculiarity: liberty is as yet an abstract idea. in order to become real, it must assume a concrete, special form. political freedom as a glittering generality is a thing of no reality. under such fantastic ideal the constitutionalists or the liberals conceal the liberty of the money bag. under these circumstances, they are quite right in demanding german unity with prussia as a head, or a republic with a grand duke at the top. the landed aristocracy also are right in demanding the liberty of that aristocracy. and the communists are still more right, for they demand the liberty that will guarantee bread and butter for the mass of the people and will fully set free all the forces of production. from this experience and conclusion it follows that true liberty and the highest right are composed of individual liberties and rights, that are opposed to one another without being inconceivable. it is easy to proceed from this premise to the rule of thought laid down in this work, that the brain need not make any excursions into the transcendental in order to find his way through the contradictions of the real world. in this way i passed from politics to philosophy, and from philosophy to the theory of positive knowledge which i presented to the public in in my little work "the nature of human brain work." further studies on the general powers of understanding have added to my special knowledge of this subject, so that i am now enabled to fill the old wine into a new bottle instead of publishing a new edition of my old work. the science which i present in the following pages is very limited in its circumference, but all the better founded and important in its consequences. this, i trust, will be accepted as a sufficient excuse for the recurring repetition of the same statements in a different form. my remaining confined to a single point requires no apology. what is left undone by one, is bequeathed as a problem to others. there might be some dispute over the question, how much of this positive achievement of philosophy is due to the author and to his predecessors. but that is an interminable task of small concern. no matter who hoisted the calf out of the well, so long as it is out. anyway, this whole work treats of the concatenation and interdependence of things, and this also throws a bright light on the question of mine and thine. j. dietzgen. chicago, march , . the positive outcome of philosophy i positive knowledge as a special object that which we call science nowadays was known to our ancestors by a name which then sounded very respectable and distinguished, but which has in the meantime acquired a somewhat ludicrous taste, the name of wisdom. this gradual transition of wisdom into science is a positive achievement of philosophy which well deserves our attention. the term "ancestors" is very indefinite. it comprises people who lived more than three thousand years ago as well as those who died less than a hundred years ago. and a wise man was still respected a hundred years ago, while to-day that title always implies a little ridicule and disrespect. the wisdom of our ancestors is so old that it has not even a date. it reaches back, the same as the origin of language, to the period when man developed from the animal world. but if we call a wise man, in the language of our day, a philosopher, then it is at once plain that wisdom is descended from the ancient greeks. this wonderful nation produced the first philosophers. whether this term indicates a man who loves wisdom or one who loves science, is of little moment to-day, and there was no such distinction in ancient times. we remember that it was entirely undecided among the greeks whether a mathematician, an astronomer, a physician, an orator, or a student of the art of living deserved the title of a philosopher. these professions were not clearly distinguished. they were wrapped up one in another like the embryo in a mother's womb. while humanity had still little knowledge, a man might well be wise. but to-day it is necessary to specialize, to devote one's self to a special science, because the field of exploration has grown so extended. the philosopher of to-day is no longer a wise man, but a specialist. the stars are the objects of astronomy, the animals of zoology, the plants of botany. who and what are now the objects of philosophy? this may be explained in one word to an expert. but if we try to give information to the general public, the matter becomes difficult. what do i know about the shoe industry, if i know that it produces shoes? i know something general about it, but i have no knowledge of its details. it is impossible to give sufficient information on the details of shoemaking to any one in a few words, not even to an educated person. neither is it possible to explain the object of philosophy in such a way. the object may be stated, but not explained, for it cannot be made plain and brought home to the understanding in a few words. that is the word, understanding. the understanding is the object of philosophy. we must at once call the reader's attention to the ambiguity of this term. understanding, knowledge, is the object of all science. that is nothing special. every study seeks to enlighten the brain. but philosophy wishes to be a science and does not desire to relapse into antiquity by becoming universal wisdom. to say that understanding is the object of philosophy is to give merely the same reply which thales, pythagoras, or plato would have given. has proud philosophy gained nothing since? what is its positive achievement? that is the question. philosophy to-day still has understanding for its object. but it is no longer indefinite understanding which tries to embrace everything, but rather the understanding of the method by which knowledge may be gained. philosophy now wishes to learn _how it comes to pass_ that other objects may be illumined by the mind. to speak plainly, it is no longer the understanding which seeks to know everything as it did at the time of socrates that is now the special study of philosophy, but rather the mind itself, its method and the perceptive powers of thought and understanding. if this were all, if the world's wise men had done nothing but to at last find the object of philosophy, it would be a very scanty achievement. no, the harvest is much richer. the present day theory of human understanding is a real science, which well deserves to be popularized. our ancestors sought understanding after the manner of socrates and plato in the entrails of the human brain, while at the same time despising the experience outside of it. they hoped to find truth by cudgeling their brain. "honor to socrates, honor to plato; but still more honor to truth!" aristotle showed a little more interest in the outer world. with the downfall of the old social stage the old philosophy naturally succumbed also. it did not revive until a few hundred years ago, at the beginning of modern times. a short while ago, shakespeare attracted much attention, when some one claimed to have discovered that it was not he who wrote those famous dramas and tragedies, but his contemporary bacon of verulam, lord chancellor of england. whether shakespeare keeps his laurels or not, bacon's name is still great enough, for it is generally accepted as the mile stone of modern philosophy. one might say that philosophy was asleep from the time of aristotle to that of bacon. at least it produced no remarkable results during that period, and it cannot be denied that philosophy from ancient greek days to the present times moved in a mystic fog which detracted much from its study in the eyes of educated and honest men. but the philosophers themselves are less to blame for this than the concealment of the object. only after the entire social development has furthered the human understanding to the point where it can benefit from the light spread by the various branches of science, does philosophy become conscious of its special object and able to separate its positive achievements from the rubbish of the past. if we compare the old grecian wisdom with modern science, the outcome of philosophy looks insignificant by the side of the achievements of science. nevertheless, great as the value of the aggregate product of science may be, it is composed of individual values, and every one of its parts is worthy of consideration. the method, the way, the form, in which the mind arrives at its practical creations is one of these parts. the mind, on its march from ignorance to its present wealth has not only gathered a treasury of knowledge, but also improved its methods, so that the further constructive work of science proceeds faster now. who will fail to recognize that material production has accumulated a treasure in the methods by which it produces to-day, which is by no means of less value than the accumulated national wealth itself? the positive outcome of philosophy bears the same relation to the wealth of science. ii the power of cognition is kin to the universe the way of truth, or the true way, is not musing, but the conscious connection of our thoughts with the actual life--that is the quintessence of the teachings of philosophy produced by evolution. but this is not everything. if i know that a tanner makes leather, i do not by any means know everything he does, because there still remains the manner and method of his manipulations. in the same way, the doctrine of the interrelation of mind and matter, which is the product of the entire social development, requires a better and more specific substantiation, so that its true quality as a positive achievement of philosophy, or of the theory of knowledge may be better understood. if the matter is represented in this bare manner--it does, indeed, resemble the egg of columbus--one does not see why so much should be made of it. but if we enter into the details that have produced the result, we do not only learn to better respect the prominent philosophers, but their works also reveal a rich mine of special and comprehensive knowledge. all sciences are closely related, for advances in one branch are preparations for advances in others. astronomy is unthinkable without mathematics and optics. every science has begun unscientifically, and in the course of the accumulation of individual knowledge a more or less exact systematic organization of this knowledge has resulted. no science has as yet arrived at completeness and perfectness. we have as yet more the results of experimental effort than accomplished perfection. philosophy is no better off in this respect. we rather believe we are doing something to overcome a deeply rooted prejudice when we state that philosophy is no worse off than other sciences, so long as we succeed in ascertaining that it has accomplished positive results and in pointing them out. it is a positive accomplishment of philosophy that mankind to-day has a clear and unequivocal conception of the necessity of the division of labor as a means of being successful. our present day philosophers no longer make excursions into dreamland in the quest of the true, the beautiful, and the good, as did the ancients. the true, the beautiful, and the good, are nevertheless the objects of all modern science, only, thanks to evolution, these objects are now sought by special means. and the clear consciousness of this condition of things is a philosophical consciousness. it is a part of the theory of understanding to know that in order to accomplish something one must limit oneself to a specialty. that is a fundamental demand for the use of common sense, which the primitive musing brain did not realize. thinking must be done with wide open and active eyes, with alert senses, not with closed eyes or fixed gaze. this is a part of logic. we do not deny that men have always done their thinking by means of the senses. we only claim that they did not do so from principle, otherwise the old complaint about the unreliability of the senses as a means of knowledge would not have lived so long. neither would the inner man have been so excessively overestimated, nor abstract thought so much celebrated, just as if it alone were the child of nobler birth. i do not wish to detract from the merits of the power of abstraction, but i simply claim that the clay of which adam was made was no less divine than the spiritual breath that gave him his life. nor do i mean that it is due to philosophy alone that mankind learned not to strain "understanding" in abstract vaporings, but instead to introduce the division of labor and to take up the various specialties with open senses. the technique of understanding is the product of the entire movement of civilization, and as such a positive accomplishment of philosophy. the total process of evolution has placed the philosophers on their feet. there is no doubt that up to the present time, philosophy partook more of the character of a desire and love of science than of world wisdom. this wisdom does not amount to much, even to-day. this is plainly demonstrated by the dissensions of the educated and uneducated on all questions pertaining to wisdom of life. socrates in the market of athens, and plato in his dialogues, have probably said better things about the questions: "what is virtue? what is justice? what is moral and reasonable?" than the professors of philosophy would know how to say to-day. kant has well said that the unanimity of the experts is the test by which one may decide what is a scientific fact and what is mere dispute. from this it is easy to judge that wisdom of life is still in a bad way and will have to wait for its scientific transformation. we declared understanding itself to be the special object of philosophy and shall now attempt to outline the results so far obtained by it. one of the first requirements for the education of the object of philosophy is to recall its various names. the understanding, or the power of knowledge, is also called intelligence, intellect, mind, spirit, reason, power of cognition, of conception, of distinction, of imagination, of judgment, and of drawing conclusions. the attempt has frequently been made to analyze understanding or to dissect it into its various parts and to specialize them by the help of those names. especially logic knows how to give particular explanations of what is imagination, a conception, a judgment, and a conclusion. it has even divided these sections into subsections, so that a trained logician might reproach me with being ignorant for applying various names to intelligence, because only the common people confound those names and use them as synonyms, while science has long used them in their proper order for designating special parts of intelligence. to such a reproach, i answer that aristotle and the subsequent formal logicians have made some pretty pointed observations and excellent arrangements in this field. but these proved to be premature or inadequate, because the observations on which the ancient intellectual explorers relied were too scanty. this scantiness of the observations made in regard to intelligence, and by intelligence, has kept the human race in the mazes of intellectual bondage and by this mysticism has even prevented the most advanced minds from penetrating deeper into this obscure question. the history of philosophy is not the history of a useless struggle, but yet a history of a hard struggle with the question: what is, what does, of what parts consists, and of what nature is understanding, intelligence, reason, intellect, etc.? so long as this question is unsettled, the questioner is entitled to dispense with any and all sections and subsections of the intellectual object and to regard the various names as synonymous. the main accomplishment in the solution of this question is the ever clearer and preciser knowledge of our days that the nature of the human intellect is of the same kind, genus or quality as the whole of nature. in order that the theory of understanding may be able to elucidate this point, it must divest itself, more or less, of the character of a speciality and occupy itself with all of nature, assume the character of cosmogony. it is principally an achievement of philosophy that we now know definitely and down to the minutest detail that the human mind is a definite and limited part of the unlimited universe. just as a piece of oak wood has the twofold quality of partaking not alone, with its oaken nature, of the general nature of wood, but also of the unlimited generality of all nature, so is the intellect a limited specialty, which has the quality of being universal as a part of the universe and of being conscious of its own and of all universality. the boundless universal cosmic nature is embodied in the intellect, in the animal as well as in man, the same as it is embodied in the oak wood, in all other wood, in all matter and force. the worldly monistic nature which is mortal and immortal, limited and unlimited, special and general, all in one, is found in everything, and everything is found in nature--understanding or the power of knowledge is no exception. it is this twofold nature of the universe, this being at the same time limited and unlimited, this reflection of its eternal essence and eternal truth in changing phenomena, which has rendered its understanding very difficult for the human mind. this intricate quality has been represented by religion in the fantastic picture of two worlds, separating the temporal from the eternal, the limited from the unlimited, too unreasonably far. but nowadays the indestructibility of matter and the eternity of material forces is a matter of fact accepted by natural science. the positive outcome of philosophy, then, is the knowledge of the monistic way in which the seeming duality of the universe is active in the human understanding. iii as to how the intellect is limited and unlimited understanding taught by experience no longer muses about universal nature, but acquires a knowledge of it by special studies. by degrees philosophy, first unconsciously and lately clearly and plainly, has taken up the problem of ascertaining the limits of understanding. this philosophical problem first assumed the form of polemics. it became opposed to the religious dogma which represented the human mind as a small, subservient, limited and restricted emanation of the unlimited divine spirit. this terrestrial emanation was regarded as too limited to understand and find its divine source. the study of the limits of the understanding has now emancipated itself from this dogma, but not to such an extent that there is no longer any mysterious obscurity floating around the understanding and intelligence, and especially around the question whether the human mind can penetrate only into some things while others will remain in the unscrutable darkness of faith and intuition, or whether it may penetrate boldly and without hindrance into the infinity of the physical and chemical universe. we here desire to claim as a positive outcome of philosophy that it has at last acquired the clear and exact knowledge that a socalled infinite spirit, in the religious sense, is a fantastic, unscientific conception. in the natural sense of the word, the human powers of understanding are universal and yet in spite of their universality they are, quite naturally, limited. the human understanding has its limits, why should it not? only drop the illusion that a dark mystery is concealed beyond these limits. the understanding is a force among others, and everything that is located alongside of other things is limited and restricted by them. we can understand everything, but we can also touch, see, hear, feel, and taste everything. we also have the power of moving about, and other qualities. one art limits another, and yet each is unlimited in its own field. the various human powers belong together and constitute together the human wealth. be careful not to separate the power of understanding from other natural powers. in a certain sense it must be separated, because it is the special object of our study, but it must always be remembered that such a separation has only a theoretical value. just as our power of vision can see everything, so our understanding can grasp everything. let us look a little closer at this statement. how can we see everything? not from any single standpoint. in that sense our powers of vision are limited. but what is not visible in the distance, becomes so on approaching nearer to it. what one eye cannot see, that of others can, and what is invisible to the naked eye, is revealed by the telescope and microscope. nevertheless the vision remains limited, even though it may be the sharpest, and armed with the best artificial means. even if we regard all the eyes of the past and future generations of humanity as organs of the universal human vision, this vision still remains limited. nevertheless, no one will complain about the limits of human power, because we cannot see sounds with our eyes or hear the light with our ears. the understanding of man is limited, just as his vision is. the eye can look through a glass pane, but not through a plate of iron. yet no one will call any eye limited, because it cannot see through a block of metal. these drastic examples are very opportune, because there are certain wise men who reflectively lay their finger on their nose and call attention to the limits of our intellect in that sense, just as if the knowledge gained on earth by scientific means were only a nominal, not a real, understanding and knowing. the human intellect is thus degraded to the position of a substitute of some "higher" intellect which is not discovered, but must be "believed" to exist in the small head of a fairy or in the large head of an almighty being above the clouds. would any one try to make us believe that there is a great and almighty eye that can look through blocks of metal the same as through glass? the idea of a spiritual organ with an infinite understanding is just as senseless. an unlimited single thing, an unlimited single being, is impossible, unless we regard the whole world, the world without beginning and without end, the infinite world, as a unit. within this world everything is subject to change, but nothing can go beyond its genus without losing its name and character. there are various kinds of fire, but none that does not burn, none which has not the general nature of fire. neither is there any water without the general nature of water, nor a spirit that is elevated above the general nature of spirits. in our days of clear conceptions the tendency toward the transcendental is mere fantastic vaporing. it is not alone unscientific, it is fantastic, to think even afar of a higher power of thought or understanding than the human one. one might as well think of a higher horse which runs with eight, sixteen, or sixteen hundred legs and carries away his rider in a higher air at a higher speed than that of the wind or the light. it is a part of the achievements of philosophy, of correct methods of thought, of the art of thought or dialectics, to know that we must use all conceptions, without exception, in a limited, rational, commonplace way, unless we wish to stray into that region where there are mountains without valleys and where every theory of understanding loses its mind. it is true that all things, including our understanding, may be improved. everything develops, why should not our intellects do so? at the same time we may know _a priori_ that our intellect must remain limited, of course not limited in the sense of the dunce, just as our eyes will never become so sharp that they can see through metal blocks. every individual has its limited brain, but humanity, so the positive achievements of philosophy have shown, has an intellect of as universal a power as any that can be imagined, required, or found, in heaven or on earth. we maintain that philosophy so far has acquired something positive, has left us a legacy, and that this consists in a clear revelation of the method of using our intellect in order to produce excellent pictures of nature and its phenomena. for the purpose of making the reader familiar with this method, with this legacy of philosophy, we must enter more closely into the essence of the instrument which lifts all the treasures of science. we are especially interested in the question, whether it is a finite or infinite and universal instrument with which we go fishing for truth. it is the custom to belittle the faculties of the human understanding, in order to keep it under the supremacy of the divine metaphysical augurs. it is quite easy to see, therefore, that the question of the essence of our powers of understanding is intimately related to, or even identical with, the question of how we may be permitted to use them, whether they should be used only for the investigation of the limited, finite, or also for the study of the eternal, infinite, and immeasurable. we object here to the tendency of belittling the human mind. about a hundred years ago, the philosopher kant found it appropriate to draw the sword against those who played fast and loose with the human mind, against the socalled metaphysicians. they had made a miraculous thing of the instrument of thought, a matter for effusions. in order to be able clearly to state the outcome of philosophy, we must acquaint the reader with the fact that this instrument of thought, in its way, is one of the best and most magnificent things in existence, but that, at the same time, it is bound to its general kind or genus. the human understanding perceives quite perfectly, but we must not have an exaggerated idea of its perfection, any more than we would of a perfect eye or ear, that, be they ever so perfect, cannot see the grass grow or hear the fleas cough. god is a spirit, says the bible, and god is infinite. if he is a spirit, an intellect, such as man, then it would be fair to assume that man's intellect is also infinite, or even is the divine spirit itself which has taken up its abode in the human brains. people cudgeled their brains with such confused conceptions, so long as the object of modern philosophy, the intellect, was a mystery. now it is recognized as a finite, natural phenomenon, an energy or a force which is not the infinite, though it is, like all other matter and force, a part of the infinite, eternal, immeasurable. leaving all religious notions aside, the infinite, immeasurable, eternal, is not personal, but objective; it is no longer referred to as a masculine, but as a neuter. it may be called by many names, such as the universe, the cosmos, or the world. in order to understand clearly that the spirit which we have in our minds, is a finite part of the world, we must get a little better acquainted with this infinite, eternal world. our physical world cannot have any other world beside it, because it is the universe. within the universe there are many worlds, which all of them make out the cosmos, which has neither a beginning nor an end in time and space. the cosmos reaches across all time and space, "in heaven and on earth, and everywhere." but how do i know what i state in such an offhand manner? well, the knowledge of the universe, of the infinite, is given to us partly by birth and partly by experience. this knowledge is inherent in man just as language is, viz., in the germ, and experience gives us a proof of the infinite in a negative way, for we never learn the beginning or the end of anything. on the contrary, experience has shown us positively that all socalled beginnings and ends are only interconnections of the infinite, immeasurable, inexhaustible, and unfathomable universe. compared to the wealth of the cosmos the intellect is only a poor fellow. however, this does not prevent it from being the most perfect instrument for clearly and plainly reflecting the finite phenomena of the infinite universe. iv the universality of nature the positive outcome of philosophy concerns itself with specifying the nature of the human mind. it shows that this special nature of mind does not occupy an exceptional position, but belongs with the whole of nature in the same organization. in order to show this, philosophy must not discuss the human mind as if it were something separate from nature, but must rather deal with its general nature. and since this general nature of our intellect is the same of which every other thing partakes, it follows that nature in general, or the universe, or the cosmos, all of which is the same thing, are an indispensable object in the special study of the nature of the human mind. we have already said that the experienced understanding of the present day no longer muses over nature in general in the fantastic and mere introspective manner as of old, but rather seeks to obtain a knowledge of it by special study. in so doing we do not forget that the study of specialties at the same time throws a light on the general relation of things, of which every species is but a part. since the human mind is a part of the whole of nature, viz., that part which has the desire and longing to obtain a conception of all the other parts, and more than that, to understand the interconnection between the parts and the undivided and infinite whole, it is easy to comprehend the fact that the philosophers have occupied themselves so much with the most real and most perfect being. whether this being was called god, or substance, or idea, or the absolute, or nature, or matter, all of these terms cannot prevent us today from approaching infinite nature with sober senses, in order to gain, by its help, a lifelike picture of the human intellect, which is not a mystical being, but a reasonable part of the same nature that lives reasonably and intelligibly in all other parts of nature. the inexperienced powers of distinction which did not understand their function, magnified the difference between the infinite and its finite phenomena out of all proportion. now that we have made the philosophical experience that the general as well as the special nature of the human intellect admits only of moderate and bounded distinctions, we arrive at the conclusion that the immeasurable, all-perfect, and eternal being is composed of finite, commensurable, imperfect, and transient things in such a way that the universal being combines in itself all perfections as well as all imperfections. this contradictory universal being, this nature to which all contradictory attributes may be simultaneously assigned, in a certain sense puts the old rule to shame that you cannot at the same time affirm and deny the predicate of any subject. nature comprises all and is all. reason and unreason, being and not being, all these contradictions are contained in it. outside of it there are no affirmations and no contradictions. since the human mind eternally moves in affirmations and negations, in order to obtain a clear picture of things, it has an interminable task in understanding the interminable object. our brain is supposed to solve the contradictions of nature. if it knows enough about itself to realize that it is not an exception from general nature, but a natural part of the same whole--although it calls itself "spirit"--then it also knows and must know that its clearness can differ but moderately from the general confusion, that the solution of the problem cannot differ materially from the problem itself. the contradictions are solved only by reasonable differentiation, only by the science of understanding which shows that extravagant differences are nothing but extravagant speculations. the human understanding inclines to exaggerations in its untrained state, and it is a relic of untrained habits to differentiate in an absolute manner the spiritual from the rest of nature, to make a too extravagant distinction between it and the physical body. it is the merit of philosophy to have given us a clear doctrine of the use of the intellect, and this doctrine culminates in the rule not to make exaggerated, but only graduated distinctions. for this purpose it is necessary to realize that there is only one being and that all other socalled beings are but minor expressions of the same general being, which we designate by the name of nature or universe. in consequence of the human bent to exaggeration, the human understanding has been regarded as a being of a different nature from that of natural beings which exist outside of the intellect. but it must be remembered that every part of nature is "another" individual piece of it, and, furthermore, that every other and different part is really nothing different but a uniform piece of the same general nature. the thing is mutual: the general nature exists only in its many individual parts, and these in their turn exist only in, with and by the general cosmic being. nature which is divided by the human understanding into east and west, south and north, and into a hundred thousand other named parts, is yet an undivided whole of which we may say with certainty that it has as many innumerable beginnings and ends as it is without beginning and end, as it is the infinite itself. it is well known that there is nothing new under the sun. nothing is created, nothing disappears, and yet there is a continuous change. the brain of man has a right and a left side, a top and a bottom, a front and a back part, an interior and an exterior. and the innermost of the brain again has two sides or qualities, a physical and a spiritual. they are so little divided that the term brain has two meanings, designating now the physical brain, now its mental functions. in speaking here exclusively of the mind, we tacitly assume its inseparable connection with the physical body. the material brain and the mental brain are two brains that together make one. thus two, three, four, or innumerable things are yet one thing. the human understanding was endowed by nature with the faculty of embracing the infinite variety of the universe as a unit, as a single conception. the unity of nature is as true and real as its multiplicity. to say that many are one and one many is not nonsense, but simply a truism which becomes clear when understanding the positive outcome of philosophy. a reader unfamiliar with this our product of philosophy still follows the habit of regarding the physical body as something different from the mind. a distinction between these two is quite justified, but this manner of classification must not be overdone. the reader should remember that he also is in the habit of regarding such heterogeneous things as axes, scissors, and knives as children of the same family by referring to them collectively as cutting tools. the outcome of philosophy now demands that we apply the same method to the object of our special study, the human brain. we must henceforth eschew all effervescent flights of imagination and regard the powers of the human mind as children of the same family as all other physical powers, whose immortal mother is the universe. the universe is infinite not alone in the matter of time and space, but also in that of the variety of its products. the human brains which it produces are likewise internally and externally of an infinite differentiation, although this does not prevent them from forming a common group uniform in its way. to group the phenomena of nature, the children of the universe, in such a way by classes, families, and species that they may be easily grasped, that is the task of the science of understanding, the work and constitution of the perceiving human brain. to understand simply means to obtain a general and at the same time a detailed view of the processes and products of the universe by grouping them in a fashion similar to that used for the vegetable kingdom by botany and for the animal kingdom by zoology. it goes without argument that we, the limited children of the unlimited universe, are able to solve this problem only in a limited way. however, this natural physical limitation of the human understanding must not be confounded with the abject misery which slavish and sentimental metaphysics attribute to it. the infinite universe is by no means niggardly in its gifts to the human understanding. it opens its whole depths to our intellectual understanding and perception. our intellect is a part of the inexhaustible universe and therefore partakes of its inexhaustible nature. that part of nature which is known by the name of intellect is limited only to the extent that the part is smaller than the whole. v the understanding as a part of the human soul the human intellect or understanding, the special object of all philosophy, is a part, and in our case the most prominent part, of the human soul. gustav theodore fechner, a forgotten star on the literary firmament, posed the question of the soul in his time and attempted to answer it. in so doing he clothed the result of past philosophies in a peculiar garb which looked fantastic enough at first sight. he regards the outcome of philosophy merely as an individual product and he is so full of veneration for the ancient terms, such as _immortal souls_, _god_, _christianity_, that he does not care to dismiss them, no matter how roughly he handles their essence. fechner extends the possession of a soul to human beings, animals, plants, stones, planets; in short, to the whole world. this is simply saying that the human soul is of the same nature as all the rest of the world, or vice versa, that all natural things have the same nature as the human soul. not only animals, but also stones and planets have something analogous to our human soul. fechner is not fantastic at bottom, and yet how fantastical it sounds to hear him say: "i went out walking on a spring morning. the fields were green, the birds were singing, the dew sparkled, the smoke rose toward the clouds. here and there a human being stirred. a glory of light was diffused over it all. it was only a small piece of the earth. it was only a short moment of its existence. and yet, as i took all this in with an ever-widening understanding, i felt not alone the beauty, but also the truth that it is an angel who is thus passing through the sky with his rich, fresh and blooming nature, his living face upturned to the heavens. and i asked myself how it is that man can ever become so stunted that he sees nothing but a dry clod in the earth and looks for angels above and beyond it, never finding them anywhere. but people call this sentimental dreaming." "the earth is a globe, and what it is besides may be found in the museums of natural history." thus writes fechner. now there can be no objection to comparing the beautiful earth and the stars around it with angels, any more than there can be to the lover calling his sweetheart an angel of god. the earth, the moon, and the stars are according to fechner's terminology angelic beings with souls; mediators between man and god. he knows very well that this is nothing but a matter of analogy and terminology, he is as atheistic as the most atheistic, but his fondness and reverence for the traditional terms lead him to attribute a soul to the material world and to give to this great and infinite soul a divine name. if we waive this religious hobby of fechner's, there still remains his peculiarity of using words and names in a symbolical sense. it is nothing but the old poetic way of calling a sweetheart's eyes heavenly stars and the stars of the blue heavens lovely eyes, which makes a snowy hill of a woman's breast, a zephyr of the wind, a nymph of a spring of water, and an erlking of an old willow tree. this poetic license has filled the whole world with good and evil spirits, mermaids, fairies, elfs, and goblins. this is not a bad way of speaking, so long as we keep in mind, like a poet, what we are doing and that we are consciously using symbolical terms. fechner does this only to a certain extent. a little spleen remains in his brain. it is this spleen which i intend to deal with in the proper light, in order to thus demonstrate the outcome of philosophy. fechner is not aware that his universal soul reflects only one half of our present outcome of philosophical study. the other half, which renders an understanding of the whole possible, consists in the perception that not only are all material things endowed with a soul, but that all souls, including the human ones, are ordinary things. philosophy has not only deified the world and inspired it with a soul, but has also secularized god and the souls. this is the whole truth, and each by itself is only a part. apart from psychology, which treats of the individual human soul, there has lately arisen a "psychology of nations" which regards the individual souls as parts of the universal human soul, as individual pieces constituting an aggregate soul which, decidedly, is more than a simple aggregation of numbers. the soul of the psychology of nations has the same relation to the individual souls that modern political economy has to private economy. prosperity in general is a different question and deals with different matters than the amassing of wealth for your individual pocket. granted that the national soul is essentially different from the individual soul, what would be the nature of the universal animal soul, including the souls of lions, tigers, flies, elephants, mice, etc.? if we now extend the generalization farther and include in our psychology the vegetable and the mineral kingdom, the various world bodies, our solar system, and finally the whole universe, what else could that signify than a mere rhetorical climax? mere generalization is one-sided and leads to fantastical dreams. by this method one can transform anything into everything. it is necessary to supplement generalization by specialization. we wish to have the elephants separated from the fleas, the mice from the lice, at the same time never forgetting the unity of the special and the general. this sin of omission has often been committed by the zoologists in the museums and the botanists in their plant collections, and philosophical investigators of the soul like fechner have drifted into the other extreme of generalization without specialization. the positive outcome of philosophy, then, in its abstract outline, is at present the doctrine that the general must be conceived in its relation to its special forms, and these forms in their universal interconnection, in their qualities as parts of nature in general. true, such an abstract outline reveals very little. in order to grasp its concrete significance, we must penetrate into its details, into the special aspects of this doctrine. the title of "critique of reason," which kant gave to his special study, is at the same time a fitting term for all philosophical research. reason, the essential part of the human soul, raises the critique of reason, the science of philosophy, to the position of the most essential part of psychology. but why do we call this the most essential part? is not the material world and its understanding as essential as reason, as intellect, which bends to the task of exploring this world? surely, it is, and i do not use the word essential in this sense. i call the intellect the most essential part of the soul, and the soul the most essential part of the world, only in so far as these parts are the special condition of all scientific study and because the investigation of the general nature of scientific study is my special object and purpose. whether i endeavor to explain the general nature of scientific study, whether i investigate the intellect or the theory of understanding, it all amounts to the same thing. let us approach our task once more from the side of fechner's universal soul. with his extravagant animation of all things, with his plant, stone, and star souls, he can help us to prove that the general nature of that particle of soul which is called reason, intellect, spirit, or understanding, is not so extraordinarily different from the general nature of stones or trees as the old time idealists and materialists were wont to think. as i said before, fechner is a poet, and a poet sees similarities which a matter-of-fact brain cannot perceive. but at the same time we must admit that the matter of fact brain which cannot see anything but mere distinctions is a very poor brain. the philosophers before me have taught me that a good brain sees the similarities and the differences at the same time and knows how to discriminate between them. a sober poetry and the combination of poetic qualities with a comprehensive and universal levelheadedness and discrimination, these are the marks of a good head. still the poorest as well as the most talented brains partake of the general brain nature, which consists in the understanding that like and unlike, general and special, are interrelated. the one is never without the other, but both are always together. if the distinction between men and stones is so trifling that a talented brain like fechner's can justly speak of them both as being animated, surely the difference between the body and soul cannot be so great that there is not the least similarity and community between them. however, this escaped fechner's notice. is not the air or the scent of flowers an ethereal body? reason is also called understanding, and it is a positive achievement of philosophy to have arrived at the knowledge that this understanding does not admit of any exaggerated distinctions. in other words, all things are so closely related that a good poet may transform anything into everything. can natural science do as much? ah, the gentlemen of that science are also progressing well. they transform dry substance into liquid, and liquid into gas; they change gravity into heat and heat into mechanical power. and they are doing this without forgetting to discriminate, as happened to our fechner. it is not enough to know that the body has a soul and the soul a body, not enough to know that everything has a soul. it is also necessary to discriminate between the peculiarities and details of the human, animal, plant, and other souls, taking care not to exaggerate their differences to the extreme of making them senseless. we do not intend to follow this theory of a universal soul any further. fechner declares himself that "it must be admitted at the outset that the whole question of a soul is a question of faith."... "analogy is not a convincing proof."... "we can no more prove the existence of a soul than we can disprove it." however, from the time of cartesius it has been an accepted fact in the world of philosophers that the consciousness of the human soul is the best proof of its existence. the most positive science in the world is the empirical self-observation of the thinking soul. this subject is the most conspicuous object imaginable, and it is the positive outcome of philosophy to have given an excellent description of the life and actions of this soul particle called consciousness or understanding. if the understanding is a part of the human soul and this soul an evident and positive part of the universal life, then, clearly, everything partaking of this life, such as pieces of wood and stones scattered around, is related to this soul. individual human souls, national souls, animal souls, pieces of wood, lumps of stone, world bodies, are all children of the same common universal nature. but there are so many children that they must be classified into orders, classes, families, etc., in order to know them apart. on account of their likeness, the souls belong together in one class and the bodies in another, and each requires more detailed classification. thus we finally arrive at the class of human souls forming a department by themselves, because they all have a common general character. the manufacturers know that the work of ten laborers produces more and is of a different quality than the work of a single laborer multiplied by ten. likewise the general human soul, or any national soul, expresses itself differently from the sum of the various individual souls composing it. more even, the very individual soul differs at various times and places, so that the individual soul is as manifold as any national soul. "has the plant a soul? has the earth a soul? have they a soul analogous to that of man? that is the question." thus asks fechner. just as my soul of today has something analogous to my soul of yesterday, so it has also with the soul of my brother, and finally with the souls of animals, plants, stones, etc., proving that everything is more or less analogous. a herd of sheep is analogous to yonder flock of small, white clouds in the sky, and a poet has the license to call those small clouds little sheep. in the same way fechner is justified in propounding his theory of a universal soul. is it not necessary, however, to make a distinction between poetry and truth? my brother's soul and my own are souls in the true sense of the word, but the souls of stones--they are only so figuratively speaking. at this point i want to call the reader's attention to the fact that we must not pass lightly over the valuation of the difference between the true and the figurative sense of a word. words are names which do not, and cannot, have any other function than that of symbolic illustration. my soul, yours, or any other, are only in conception the same souls. when i say that john flathead has the same soul as you and i, my intention is simply to indicate that he has something which is common to you and me and to all men. his soul is made in the image of our souls. but where shall we draw the line in this comparison of images? what is not an image in the abstract, and what is more than an image in the concrete? truth and fiction are not totally different. the poet speaks the truth and true understanding partakes largely of the nature of poetry. philosophy has truly perceived the nature of the soul, and especially that part of it with which we are dealing, that is, reason or understanding. this instrument has the function of furnishing to our head a picture of the processes of the world outside of it, to describe everything that is around us and to analyze the universe, itself a phenomenon, with all its phenomena as a process of infinite variety in time and space. if this could be accomplished with the theory of a universal soul, then fechner would be the greatest philosopher that ever was. but he lacks the understanding that the intellect which has to combine all things within a general wrapper, must also consider the other side of the question, that of specification. that, of course, cannot be achieved by any philosopher. it must be the work of all science, and philosophy as a doctrine of science must acknowledge that. vi consciousness is endowed with the faculty of knowing as well as with the feeling of the universality of all nature in the historical course of philosophy, there has been much discussion as to where our knowledge comes from, whether any of it, or how much of it, is innate, and how much acquired by experience. without any innate faculties no knowledge could have been gathered with any amount of experience, and without any experience even the best faculties would remain barren. the results of science in all departments are due to the interaction of subject and object. there could be no subjective faculty of vision unless there were something objective to be seen. the possession of a faculty of vision carries with it the practical performance of seeing. one cannot have the faculty of vision without seeing things. of course, the two may be separated, but only in theory, not in practice, and this theoretical separation must be accompanied by the recollection that the separated faculty is only a conception derived from the practical function. faculty and function are combined and belong together. man does not acquire consciousness, the faculty of understanding, until he knows something, and his power grows with the performance of this function. the reader will remember that we have mentioned as an achievement of philosophy the understanding of the fact that we must not make any exaggerated distinctions. hence we must not make any such distinction between the innate faculty of understanding and the acquired knowledge. it is an established universal rule that the human intellect knows of no absolute separation of any two things, although it is free to separate the universe into its parts for the purpose of understanding. now, if i claim that the conception of the universe is innate in us, the reader must not conclude that i believe in the old prejudice of the human intellect being like a receptacle filled with ideas of the true, the beautiful, the good, and so forth. no, the intellect can create its ideas and concepts only by self-production and the world around it must furnish the materials for this purpose. but such a production presupposes an innate faculty. consciousness, the knowledge of being, must be present, before any special knowledge can be acquired. consciousness signifies the knowledge of being. it means having at least a faint inkling of the fact that being is _the_ universal idea. being is everything; it is the essence of everything. without it there cannot be anything, because it is the universe, the infinite. consciousness is in itself the consciousness of the infinite. the innate consciousness of man is the knowledge of infinite existence. when i know that i exist, then i know myself as a part of existence. that this existence, this world, of which i am but a particle with all others, must be an infinite world, does indeed not dawn on me until i begin to analyze the conception of being with an experienced instrument of thought. the reader, in undertaking this work with such an instrument, will at once discover that the conception of the infinite is innate to his consciousness,[ ] and that no faculty of conception is possible without this conception. the faculty of conception, understanding, thought, means above all the faculty of grasping the universal concept. the intellect cannot have any conception which is not more or less clearly or faintly based on the concept of the universe. _cogito, ergo sum._ i think, therefore, i am. whatever i imagine is there, at least in imagination. of course, the imagined and the real thing are different, yet this difference does not exceed the limits of the universal existence. creatures of fiction and real creatures are not so radically different that they would not all of them fit into the general gender of being. the manner, the form of being, are different. goblins exist in fiction and polish jews exist in a tangible form, but they both exist. the general existence comprises the body and the soul, fiction and truth, goblins and polish jews. it is no more inconceivable that the faculty of universal understanding should be innate in us than that circles come into this world round, two mountains have a valley between them, water is liquid and fire burns. all things have a certain composition in themselves, they are born with it. does that require any explanation? the flowers which gradually grow on plants, the powers and wisdom that grow in men in the course of years, are no more easily explained than such innate faculties, and the latter are no more wonderful than those acquired later. the best explanation cannot deprive the wonders of nature of their natural marvelousness. it is a mistake to assume that the faculty of explanation which is located in the human brain, is a destroyer of the belief in natural marvels. philosophy which makes this faculty of explanation and the nature of its explanations the object of its special study gives us a new and much better understanding of this old miracle maker. it destroys the belief in metaphysical miracles by showing that physical nature is so universal that it absolutely excludes every other form of existence than the natural one from this world of wonders. i and many of my readers find in our brains the actual consciousness that this general nature of which the intellect is a part is an infinite nature. i call this consciousness innate, although it is acquired. the point that i wish to impress on the reader is that the difference generally made between innate and acquired qualities is not so extraordinary that the innate need not to be acquired and the acquired does not presuppose something innate. the one contradicts the other only in those brains who do not understand the positive outcome of philosophy. such thinkers do not know how to make reasonable distinctions and exaggerate in consequence. they have not grasped the conciliation of all differences and contradictions in universal nature by which all contradictions are solved. philosophy has endeavored to understand the intellect. in demonstrating the positive outcome of philosophy, we must explain that philosophical understanding as well as any other does not rise out of the isolated faculty of understanding, but out of the universal nature. the womb of our knowledge and understanding must not be sought in the human brain, but in all nature which is not only called the universe, but is actually universal. in order to prove this latter assertion, i refer to the fact that this conception, this consciousness of the infinite in the developed intellect, is in a manner innate. if the reader wishes to object to my indiscriminately mixing the innate faculty with the acquired understanding, i beg him to consider that i am endeavoring to prove that any and all distinction made by the intellect refers in reality to the inseparable parts of the one undivided universe. from this it follows that the admired and mysterious intellect is not a miracle, or at least no greater marvel than any other part of the general marvel which is identical with the infinitely wonderful general nature. some people love to represent consciousness as something supernatural, to draw an unduly sharp line of separation between thinking and being, thought and reality. but philosophy, which occupies itself particularly with consciousness, has ascertained that such a sharp contrast is unwarranted, not in harmony with the reality, and not a faithful likeness of reality and truth. in order to understand what philosophy has accomplished in the way of insight into the function of the discriminating intellect, we must never lose sight of the fact that there is only a moderate distinction of degree between purely imaginary things and socalled real things. neither the natural condition of our faculty of thought, nor the universality of general nature, permit of an exaggerated distinction between the reality of creations of imagination and of really tangible things. at the same time the exigencies of science demand clear illustrations and so we must distinguish between these two kinds of reality. it is true that in common usage the mere thought and the purely imaginary things are set apart from nature and reality as something different and antagonistic. yet the rules of language heretofore in vogue cannot prevent the spread of the additional knowledge that the universe, or general nature, is so unlimited that it can establish a conciliation between these limited antagonisms. the cat and the dog, for instance, are pronounced enemies, but nevertheless zoology recognizes them as being legitimate domestic companions. human consciousness is, in the first place, individual. every human individual has its own. but the peculiarity of my consciousness, of yours, and that of others, is that of being not alone the consciousness of the individual in question, but also the general consciousness of the universe, at least that is its possibility and mission. not every individual is conscious of the universality of general nature, otherwise there would be none of that distracting dualism. nor would there be any necessity for volumes and volumes of philosophy to teach us that a limit, a thing, or a world outside of the universal, is a nonsensical idea, an idea which is contrary to sense and reason. we may well say, for this reason, that our consciousness, our intellect, is only in a manner of speaking our own, while it is in fact a consciousness, an intellect belonging to universal nature. it can no more be denied that our consciousness is an attribute of the infinite universe than it can be denied that the sun, the moon and the stars are. since this intellectual faculty belongs to the infinite and is its child, we must not wonder that this universal faculty of thought is born with the capability of grasping the conception of a universe. and whoever does no longer wonder at this, must find it explicable, must realize that the fact of universal consciousness is thus explained. to explain the mysterious may be regarded as the whole function of understanding, of intellect. if we succeed in divesting of its mysteries the fact that the concept of an infinite universe is found in the limited human mind, we have then explained this fact itself and substantiated our contention that the things around us are explained by their accurate reflection in our brain. we summarize the nature of consciousness, its actions, life, and aims in these words: it is the science of infinite being; it seeks to obtain an accurate conception of this being and to explain its marvelousness. but we have by no means exhausted its life and aims in these words. with all the power of language, we can convey but a vague idea of the immensity of the object under discussion. whoever desires to know more about it, must work for his own progress by observation and study. this much may be safely said: this question is no more mysterious than any other part of the general mystery. footnote: [ ] e. g., given with his consciousness.--editor. vii the relationship or identity of spirit and nature "there is a natural law of analogy which explains that all things belonging to the universe are members of the same family, that they are related to one another by bonds which permit of the greatest variety in individual differences and are not nullified even by the distance between extremes." if we grasp the meaning of these words in their full bearing, we recognize the outcome of philosophy up to date. they teach us how to use our intellect in order to obtain an accurate picture of the universe. the intellect is also called by the name of faculty of discrimination. if in the science of the powers of this faculty we place ourselves on the standpoint of present-day natural knowledge, we possess the clear and plain insight that there are no exaggerated distinctions, no unrelated extremes, in the universe. the infinite is related to the finite. for all developed and perishable things are the direct offspring of the imperishable, of the eternal universe. general nature and its special parts are inseparably interlaced. there is nothing among all that has a name which is fundamentally different from other things known by name. there will hardly be any objection against these sentences, until we proceed to draw their last consequences. if all things are related and without exception children of the universe, it follows that mind and matter must also be two yards of cloth from the same piece. hence the difference between human understanding and other natural human faculties must not be magnified into that of irreconcilable extremes. in order to become accustomed to scientific distinctions, the reader should consider that a man can remain under the sway of a belief in ghosts only so long as he ignores the relationship of all existing things. he believes in real ghosts whose reality is supposed to be radically different from his own. such a distinction is exaggerated and illogical, and whoever believes in it does not know how to discriminate scientifically and has not the full use of his critical faculties. just as common parlance opposes art to nature and then forgets that art is a part of nature, similarly as night is a part of day, so the language of the believer in ghosts does not know that reason and wood, mind and matter, in spite of all their differences, are two parts of the same whole, two expressions of the same universal reality. everything is real and true, because in the last instance the universe is all, is the only truth and reality. so i call it a slip of the tongue to speak of natural nature as opposed to natural art or artificial nature, of imaginary reality as distinct from real reality. there ought to be a different name for the day of twelve hours than for the day of twenty-four hours, so that it might be better understood that day and night are not fundamentally different, but two prongs of the same fork. just as the faculty of thinking is innate in the child, and grows with its development, so mankind's faculty of thought grows and has hitherto expressed itself in a language which gave only instinctive conceptions of the composition of the human brain and of its functions. the construction of languages explains in a way the condition of the human mind which had only inadequate knowledge of itself so far. those shortcomings of speech which i called slips of the tongue were not understood until sufficient progress had been made in the explanation of the process of thinking, and now these same shortcomings offer an excellent means of representing and demonstrating the results of enlightenment. the mind is to give to man a picture of the world, the language is the brush of the mind. it paints by its construction the universal relationship of all things referred to in the beginning of this chapter, and it does so in the following manner: it gives to each thing not only its own name, but also adds to it another indicating its family, and another indicating its race, another for the species, the genus, and finally a general name which proclaims that all things are parts of the one indivisible unit which is called world, existence, universe, cosmos. this diagrammatic construction of language furnishes us with an illustration of the graduated relationship of things and of the way in which the human race arrives at its knowledge, its perceptions or pictures. we said that philosophy is that endeavor which seeks to throw light on the process of human thought. this work has been rendered very difficult by the unavoidable misunderstanding of the universal relationship just mentioned. the transcendentalists insist above all that the process of thinking and its product, thought, should not be classed among ordinary physics, not as a part of physical nature, but as the creature of another nature which carries the mysterious name of metaphysics. that such a nature and such a science is neither possible nor real is proven by the construction of language which normally describes everything as being closely related and corroborates this by its abnormal shortcomings which we called slips of the tongue. the shortcomings of language which demonstrate the positive outcome of philosophy consist in occasionally giving insufficiently significant names to things belonging to a group in which the distinction between individuals, species, genera, and families is not clearly defined. it is not discernible, for instance, whether the term "cat" applies to a domestic cat or to a tiger, because that term is used for a large class of animals of which the domestic cat is the arch-type. but it may be that this illustration is not well chosen for the purpose of demonstrating that slip of the tongue which is supposed to give us an exact appreciation of the positive outcome of philosophy. let us find another and better illustration which will be a transition from the inadequate to the adequate and thus throw so much more light on the obscurities of language. another and better example of the inadequacies of language is the distinction between fish and meat. in this case, we entirely lack a general term for meat, one kind of which is furnished by aquatic animals and the other by terrestrial animals. now let the reader apply this shortcoming of language to the distinction between physics and metaphysics, or between thought and reality. we lack a term which will fully indicate the relation between these two. thoughts are indeed real things. true, there is a difference whether i have one hundred dollars in imagination or in reality in my pocket. still we must not exaggerate this difference into something transcendental. painted money or imagined money are in a way also real, that is in imagination. in other words, language lacks a term which will clearly express the different realities within the compass of the unit. the understanding of these peculiarities of language is calculated to promote the insight and enlightenment in regard to that secret lamp which man is carrying in his brain and with which he lights up the things of this world. the cultivation of the theory of understanding, the critique of reason, has an elementary significance for the elucidation of all things. this is not saying that philosophy, that special science with which we are here dealing, is a universal science in the sense in which antiquity conceived of it. but it is universal nevertheless in the sense in which the alphabet and other primary topics are universal. every one must use his brains and should therefore take pains to understand its processes. though the knowledge of these does not make other efforts unnecessary, still it explains many ideas, it elucidates the nature of thinking which every one is doing and which is frequently used in a more ruthless manner than a dog would treat a rag. the inertia which has prevented the one-sided idealists on the one hand and the one-sided materialists on the other from coming to a peaceful understanding may be traced to one of those slips of the tongue. we lack the right terms for designating the relationship between spiritual phenomena, such as our ideas, conceptions, judgments and conclusions and many other things on one side and the tangible, ponderable, commensurable things on the other. true, the reason for this lack of terms is the absence of understanding, and for this reason the dispute is not one of mere words, although it can be allayed only by an improvement of our terminology. büchner, in his well-known work on "_force and matter_," likewise overlooks this point, the same as all prior materialists, because they are as onesidedly insistent on their _matter_ as the idealists are on their _idea_. quarrel and strife mean confusion, only peace will bring light. the contrast between matter and mind finds its conciliation in the positive outcome of philosophy which teaches that all distinctions must be reasonable, because neither our instrument of thought nor the rest of nature justify any exaggerated distinctions. in order to elucidate the moot question, nothing is required but the insight that ideas which nature develops in the human brain are materials for the work of our understanding, though not materials for the work of our hands. philosophy has made material efforts to grasp the understanding and its conceptions and is still making them in the same way in which chemistry is working for the understanding of substances and physics for the understanding of forces. substances, forces, ideas, conceptions, judgments, conclusions, knowledge and perceptions, according to the positive outcome of philosophy, must be regarded as differences or varieties of the same monistic genus. the differentiation of things no more contradicts their unity than their unity contradicts their differentiation. darwin expanded the conception of "species" and thus contributed to a better understanding of zoology. philosophy expands the conception of species still far beyond the darwinian definition in teaching us to consider the species as little generalities and the largest genus, the absolute or the cosmos as the all in one, the all-embracing species. in order to closely connect the worm and the elephant, the lowest and the highest animal, the vegetable and the animal kingdom, the inorganic and the organic, as members of the same species or genus in a reasonable way, we must keep account of the gradations in nature, the transitions, the connecting links and connecting ideas. embryology, which shows that the life of the highest animal develops through the stages of the animal genus, has greatly promoted the understanding of the common nature of all animals. "the continuity in the natural gradation of things is perfect, because there are no gradations which are not represented, because there are no differences between the various grades which nature does not fill by an intermediary form.... there is no abrupt difference in nature, no metaphysical jump, no vacuum, no gap in the order of the world," says a well-known author of our times whose name i shall not mention, because i wish to base my argument on the acknowledged facts rather than on names of authorities. what darwin taught us in relation to animal life, viz., that there are no fundamental differences between species, that is taught by philosophy in regard to the universe. the understanding of the latter is rendered difficult by the habit of making a transcendental distinction between matter and mind. viii understanding is material whether we say that philosophy has the understanding for the object of its study, or whether we say that philosophy investigates the method of utilizing subjective understanding in order to arrive at genuine, correct, excellent, objective knowledge, that is only a matter of using different terms for the same process. it makes no difference whether we designate the object of our special science as a thing or as a process. it is much more essential to understand that the distinction between the thing and its action is in this instance of little consequence. according to modern natural science all existence is resolved into motion. it is well known now that even rocks do not stand still, but are continuously active, growing and decaying. the understanding, the intellect, is an active object, or an objective action, the same as sunshine, the flow of waters, growing of trees, disintegration of rocks, or any other natural phenomenon. also the understanding, the thinking which takes place consciously or unconsciously in the human brain, is a phenomenon of as indubitable actuality as the most material of them. it cannot in the least shake our contention of the materially perceptible nature of intellectual activity that we become aware of this activity by an internal, not by an external, sense. whether a stone is externally perceptible or thought internally, what difference does this slight distinction make in the incontestable fact that both perceptions are of equal material, natural and sense-perceptible kind? why should not the action of the brain belong in the same category as the action of the heart? and though the movement of the heart be internal and that of the tongue of the nightingale external, what is to prevent us from considering these two movements from the higher viewpoint of natural or material processes? if the function of the heart may be referred to as material, why not the function of the brain? true, the present usages of language are in conflict with this mode of thought. but it must be remembered that every science comes into conflict with usages of language by progressive development. the discovery of every new thing in plant and animal life compels the discoverer to invent a new term or change the meaning of an old one. the term material has not had a well defined, but rather an indefinite meaning so far. now, since it is necessary, in order to understand the function of the brain to remove it from the class of transcendental or metaphysical conceptions and assign to it a place among the material things, the question arises: what will be the most appropriate term for it? the material and the spiritual are both two species of the same genus. how are we to designate the species, how the genus? for the sake of complete clearness, we require three different names, one for each species and a common general name. but since we are much less concerned about the name than about the understanding of these facts which cannot be well explained without terms, we do not insist dogmatically on calling the understanding material. it is sufficient to point out that the function of the heart and of the brain both belong to the same class, no matter whether this class be called material, real, physical, or what not. so long as language has not established a definite meaning for these terms, all of them serve equally well and are equally deceptive. the positive outcome of philosophy which culminates in placing the theory of understanding in the same class with all other theories, cannot be easily demonstrated on account of a natural confusion of thought which arises from an equally natural confusion of language. in the special department of handicraft as well as in that of scientific brain work the terminology is well systematized, while in the general affairs of life and science there is a confusion which is as great in the matter of conceptions as in that of applying the terms by which those awkward conceptions are expressed. wherever understanding is clear, there the language is also clear. the man who does not understand shoemaking does not understand its terminology. this is not saying that the understanding of a trade and the understanding of its terminology are identical, but only indicating their actual connection. if the reader has had a glimpse of the enormity of the work of more than two thousand years of philosophy in order to state what little we know today of its achievement in the science of understanding, he will not be very much surprised at the difficulties we here meet with in finding terms for its demonstration. the function of the brain is as material as that of the heart. the heart and its function are two things, but they are dependent one upon the other so that one cannot exist without the other. the function may partly be felt. we feel the heart beating, the brain working. the working of the heart may even be felt by touch, which is not the case with the working of the brain. but it would be a mistake to imagine that our knowledge of the function of the heart is exhausted by our perception of it through the touch. once we have overcome the habit of making exaggerated distinctions between things, and have learned to consider the differences of things as well as their interconnection, we can easily understand that the science of the function of the heart is an infinite science which is connected with all others. the heart cannot work without the blood, the blood cannot exist without food, and this is connected with the air, the plants, the animals, the sun, and the moon. the function of the brain and its product, the understanding, is likewise inseparable from the universal interdependence of things. the health of the blood which is produced by the action of the heart is no more and no less a material phenomenon than the total knowledge of science which appears as a product of brain life. although we represent the doctrine of the material nature of understanding as the positive outcome of philosophy, this is not proclaiming the victory of that narrow materialism which has been spreading itself particularly since the eighteenth century. on the contrary, this mechanical materialism wholly misunderstands the nature of the problem. it teaches that the faculty of thought is a function of the brain, the brain is the object of study and its function, the faculty of thought, is fully explained as a brain quality or function. this materialism is enamored of mechanics, idolizes it, does not regard it as a part of the world, but as the sole substance which comprises the whole universe. because it misunderstands the relation of thing and function, of subject and predicate, it has no inkling of the fact that this relation which it handles in such a matter-of-fact way, but not at all scientifically, may be an object worthy of study. the materialist of the old school is too horny-handed to consider the function or quality of understanding as an object worthy of a separate scientific department. we, on the other hand, follow the suggestion of spinoza, who required of the philosophers that they should consider everything in the light of eternity. in so doing we find that the tangible things, such as the brain, are qualities of nature, and that in the same way the socalled functions are natural things, substantial parts of the universe. not only tangible objects are "things," but also the rays of the sun and the scent of flowers belong to this category, and perceptions are no exception to the rule. but all these "things" are only relative things, since they are qualities of the one and absolute which is the only thing, the "thing itself," well known to every one by the name of the universe, or cosmos. ix the four principles of logic since this work wishes to demonstrate the positive outcome of philosophy, the reader may ask the author what are his proofs that instead of the quintessence of thousands of years of philosophical work he is not offered the elaboration of any individual philosopher, or even that of the author himself. in reply i wish to say that my work would be rendered uselessly voluminous by quotations from the works of the most prominent philosophical writers, without proving anything, since the words of one often contradict those of another. what is said by kant, fichte, schelling, or hegel, in one place of any of their works, is at least considerably modified, if not contradicted, in another place of the same work. it is of little consequence, how and by whose help i have arrived at the positive outcome of philosophy as here rendered. whether it is the actual outcome or not can be judged only by the expert, and every opinion is necessarily very subjective. under the circumstances i, as author, claim that my opinion is worth as much as any other, and the reader may therefore accept my assurance. as to the further value of that which i offer, it is a peculiarity of the subject under discussion that every reader carries it and its experiences within himself and may, without consulting any other author, at once draw his own conclusions about my views, provided he has acquired the necessary training in thought. what a traveler tells us about the interior of africa must either be believed to the letter or verified by the accounts of other travelers. but what i say about logic will, i hope, find its corroboration in the logic of every reading brain. the theory of understanding which has become the special object of philosophy, is nothing else, and cannot be anything else, but expanded logic. many practical rules and laws of this department are known and recognized since the time of aristotle. but the question whether there is one world or two, a natural and unnatural, or supernatural as it is called with preference, that is the point which has given much trouble to philosophy and which will influence the health of logic so long as it is undecided. dr. friedrich dittes, director of the institute of pedagogy in vienna, has published a _school of pedagogy_, several editions of which have appeared, in which he gives much attention to logic. dittes is a prominent pedagogue, well known through his writings. he confines himself in his _school_ to teaching only that which is well established and accepted without a doubt. as a practical man who addresses himself mainly to teachers of primary grades, he would not place himself on the pinnacle of the outcome of philosophy, even if he could. he must confine himself to that which is well established, which is far removed from the disputes of the day. but it may here serve as a whetstone by the help of which we may give to the positive product of philosophy its latest and greatest sharpness. he writes right in the beginning of the first part: "our ideas are as manifold as the objects to which they refer. several things may have many or few, or at least one quality, in common. still they may also be totally different." this last point, viz., that there may be things which are "totally" different from one another, is the one which is decidedly rejected by that science which has risen to the eminence of the positive acquisition of philosophy. there can be no natural things which are "totally" different from one another, because they must all of them have in common the quality of being natural. it sounds very commonplace to say that there are no unnatural things in nature. since the last witch was burnt, everybody is sufficiently enlightened to know that. but the logical conclusions of natural monism have not yet been drawn. true, natural science, properly socalled, is busily engaged in arriving at them. but so much more strife is there in the "science of mind" and there is no other remedy but a well founded theory of understanding which teaches that nature is not alone absolute nature, but also the nature of the absolute. from this doctrine it necessarily follows that all things are not individually independent, but related by sex, dependent children, "predicates" of the monistic unity of the world. "the arch fountain of the human spirit," says dittes, "is perception.... whether perception as such discloses to us the true nature of things, or whether it makes us familiar only with their phenomena, this is not to be discussed by logic." the practical pedagogue who confines himself to the education of children's brains or who wishes at most to influence such teachers as educate children's brains, is quite right in being satisfied with the old traditional aristotlean logic. but in the school of the human race, this logic has not been sufficient. for this reason the philosophers have broached the question whether perception, "the arch fountain of the human spirit," is a true or a deceptive fountain. the product of the philosophical investigation which we here offer amounts to the declaration that the logicians are greatly mistaken about the "arch fountain." it is a cardinal error of ancient logic to regard perception as the ultimate source from which the human mind dips its knowledge. it is nature which is the ultimate source, and our perception is but the mediator of understanding. and its product, recognized truth, is not truth itself, but merely a formal picture of it. universal nature is the arch fountain, is the eternal and imperishable truth itself, and our perception, like every other part of universal existence, is only an attribute, a particle of absolute nature. the human mind, with whose nature logic is dealing, is no more an independent thing than any other, but simply a phenomenon, a reflex or predicate of nature. to confound true perceptions or perceived truths with general truth, with the _non plus ultra_ of all truths, is equivalent to regarding a sparrow as _the_ bird in general, or a period of civilization as civilization itself, which would mean the closing of the door to all further development. modern philosophy, beginning with bacon of verulam and closing with hegel, carries on a constant struggle with the aristotlean logic. the product of this struggle, the outcome of philosophy, does not deny the old rules of traditional logic, but adds a new and decidedly higher circle of logical perception to the former ones. for the sake of better understanding it may be well to give to this circle a special title, the special name of "theory of understanding," which is sometimes called "dialectics." in order to demonstrate the essential contents of this philosophical product by an investigation of the fundamental laws of traditional logic and to explain it thereby, i refer once more to the teacher of elementary logic, dittes. under the caption of "principles of judgment" he teaches: "since judging, like all thinking, aims at the perception of truth, the rules have been sought after by which this purpose might be accomplished. as universally applicable rules, as principles or laws of thought, the following four have been named: ( ) the law of uniformity (identity). ( ) the law of contradiction. ( ) the law of the excluded third. ( ) the law of adequate cause." so much scholastic talk has been indulged in over these four "principles," that i can hardly bring myself to discuss them further. but since my purpose, the demonstration of the positive outcome of philosophy, consists in throwing a new light on the logic contained in these four so-called principles or laws, i am compelled to lay bare their inmost kernel. the first principle, then, declares that a is a, or to speak mathematically, every quantity is equal to itself. in plain english: a thing is what it is; no thing is what it is not. "characters which are excluded by any conception must not be attributed to it." the square is excluded from the conception of a circle, therefore the predicate "square" must not be given to a circle. for the same reason a straight line must not be crooked, and a lie must not be true. now this so-called law of thought may be well enough for household use, where nothing but known quantities are under consideration. a thing is what it is. right is not left and one hundred is not one thousand. whoever is named peter or paul remains peter or paul all his life. this, i say, is all right for household use. but when we consider matters from the wider point of view of cosmic universal life, then this famous law of thought proves to be nothing but an expedient in logic which is not adequate to the nature of things, but merely a means of mutual understanding for us human beings. hence the left bank of the rhine is not the right, because we have agreed that in naming the banks of a river we will turn our backs to the source and our faces to the mouth of the river and then designate the banks as right and left. such a way of distinguishing, thinking, and judging is good and practical, so long as this narrow standpoint is accompanied by the consciousness of its narrowness. hitherto this has not been the case. this determined logic has overlooked that the perception which is produced by its rules is not truth, not the real world, but only gives an ideal, more or less accurate, reflection of it. peter and paul, who according to the law of identity are the same all their lives, are in fact different fellows every minute and every day of their lives, and all things of this world are, like those two, not constant, but very variable quantities. the mathematical points, the straight lines, the round circles, are ideals. in reality every point has a certain dimension, every straight line, when seen through a magnifying glass, is full of many crooked turns, and even the roundest circle, according to the mathematicians, consists of an infinite number of straight lines. the traditional logic, then, declares with its law of identity, or in the words of dittes "law of uniformity," that peter and paul are the same fellows from beginning to end, or that the western mountains remain the same western mountains so long as they exist. the product of modern philosophy, on the other hand, declares that the identity of people, woods, and rocks is inseparably linked to their opposite, their incessant transformation. the old school logic treats things, the objects of perception, like stereotyped moulds, while the philosophically expanded logic considers such treatment adequate for household use only. the logical household use of stereotyped conceptions extends, and should extend, to all of science. the consideration of things as remaining "the same" is indispensable, and yet it is very salubrious to know and remember that the things are not only the same permanent and stereotyped, but at the same time variable and in flow. that is a contradiction, but not a senseless one. this contradiction has confused the minds and given much trouble to the philosophers. the solution of this problem, the elucidation of this simple fact, is the positive product of philosophy. i have just declared that logic so far did not know that the perception produced by its principles does not offer us truth itself, but only a more or less accurate picture of it. i have furthermore contended that the positive outcome of philosophy has materially added to the clearness of the portrait of the human mind. logic claims to be "the doctrine of the forms and laws of thought." dialectics, the product of philosophy, aims to be the same, and its first paragraph declares: not thought produces truth, but being, of which thought is only that part which is engaged in securing a picture of truth. the fact resulting from this statement may easily confuse the reader, viz., that the philosophy which has been bequeathed to us by logical dialectics, or dialectic logic, must explain not alone thought, but also the original of which thought is a reflex. while, therefore, traditional logic teaches in its first law that all things are equal to themselves, the new dialectics teaches not only that things are equal to themselves and identical from start to finish, but also that these same things have the contradictory quality of being the same and yet widely variable. if it is a law of thought that we gain as accurate as possible a conception of things by the help of thought, it is at the same time a law of thought that all things, processes, and proceedings are not things but resemble the color of that silk which, although equal to itself and identical throughout, still plays from one color into another. the things of which the thinking thing or human intellect is one are so far from being one and the same from beginning to end that they are in truth and fact without beginning and end. and as phenomena of nature, as parts of infinite nature, they only seem to have a beginning and end, while they are in reality but natural transformations arising temporarily from the infinite and returning into it after a while. natural truth or true nature, without beginning and end, is so contradictory that it only expresses itself by shifting phenomena which are nevertheless quite true. to old line logic this contradiction appears senseless. it insists on its first, second, and third law, on its identity, its law of contradiction and excluded third, which must be either straight or crooked, cold or warm, and excludes all intermediary conceptions. and in a way it is right. for every-day use it is all right to deal in this summary fashion with thoughts and words. but it is at the same time judicious to learn from the positive outcome of philosophy that in reality and truth things do not come to pass so ideally. the logical laws think quite correctly of thoughts and their forms and applications. but they do not exhaust thinking and its thoughts. they overlook the consciousness of the inexhaustibleness of all natural creations, of which the object of logic, human understanding, is a part. this object did not fall from heaven, but is a finite part of the infinite which actually has the contradictory quality of possessing in and with its logical nature that universal nature which is superior to all logic. from this critique of the three first "fundamental laws of logic" it is apparent that the human understanding is not only everywhere identical, but also different in each individual and has a historical development. we are, of course, logically entitled to consider this faculty like all others by itself and give it a birthday. wherever man begins, there understanding, the faculty of thought, begins. but we are philosophically and dialectically no less entitled, and it is even our duty, to know that the faculty of understanding, the same as its human bearer, has no beginning, in spite of the fact that we ascribe a beginning to them. when we trace the historical development of these two, of man and understanding, backward to their origin, we arrive at a transition to the animal and see their special nature merging into general nature. the same is found in tracing the development of the individual mind. where does consciousness begin in the child? before, at, or after birth? consciousness arises from its opposite, unconsciousness, and returns to it. in consequence we regard the unconscious as the substance and the conscious as its predicate or attribute. and the fixed conceptions which we make for ourselves of the units or phenomena of the natural substance are recognized by us as necessary means in explaining nature, but at the same time it is necessary to learn from dialectics that all fixed conceptions are floating in a liquid element. the infinite substance of nature is a very mobile element, in which all fixed things appear and sink, thus being temporarily fixed and yet not fixed. now let us briefly review the fourth fundamental law of logic, according to which everything must have an adequate cause. this law is likewise very well worthy of attention, yet it is very inadequate, because the question what should be our conception of the world and what is the constitution of the most highly developed thinking faculty of the world requires the answer: the world, in which everything has its adequate cause, is nevertheless, including consciousness and the faculty of thought, without beginning, end, and cause, that is, a thing justified in itself and by itself. the law of the adequate cause applies only to pictures made by the human mind. in our logical pictures of the world everything must have its adequate cause. but the original, the universal cosmos, has no cause, it is its own cause and effect. to understand that all causes rest on the causeless is an important dialectic knowledge which first throws the requisite light on the law of the necessity of an adequate cause. formally everything must have its cause. but really everything has not only one cause, but innumerable causes. not alone father and mother are the cause of my existence, but also the grand parents and great grand parents, together with the air they breathed, the food they ate, the earth on which they walked, the sun which warmed the earth, etc. not a thing, not a process, not a change is the adequate cause of another, but everything is rather caused by the universe which is absolute. when philosophy began its career with the intention of understanding the world, it soon discovered that this purpose could be accomplished only by special study. when it chose understanding, or the faculty of thought, as the special object of its study, it separated its specific object too far from the general existence. its logic, in opposing thought to the rest of existence, forgot the interconnection of the opposites, forgot that thought is a form, a species, an individuality which belongs to the genus of existence, the same as fish to the genus of meat, night to the genus of day, art to nature, word to action, and death to life. it does not attempt to explore the essence of thought for its own sake, but for the purpose of discovering the rules of exploring and thinking correctly. it could not very well arrive at those coveted rules, so long as it idealized truth transcendentally and elevated it far above the phenomena. all phenomena of nature are true parts of truth. even error and lies are not opposed to truth in that exaggerated sense in which the old style logic represents them, which teaches that two contradictory predicates must not be simultaneously applied to the same subject, that any one subject is either true or false, and that any third alternative is out of the question. such statements are due to an entire misconception of truth. truth is the absolute, universal sum of all existing things, of all phenomena of the past, present, and future. truth is the real universe from which errors and lies are not excluded. in so far as stray thoughts, giants and brownies, lies and errors are really existing, though only in the imagination of men, to that extent they are true. they belong to the sum of all phenomena, but they are not the whole truth, not the infinite sum. and even the most positive knowledge is nothing but an excellent picture of a certain part. the pictures in our minds have this in common with their originals that they are true. all errors and lies are true errors and true lies, hence are not so far removed from truth that one should belong to heaven and the other to eternal damnation. let us remain human. since old line logic with its four principles was too narrowminded, its development had to produce that dialectics which is the positive outcome of philosophy. this science of thought so expanded regards the universe as the truly universal or infinite, in which all contradictions slumber as in the womb of conciliation. whether the new logic shall have the same name as the old, or assume the separate title of theory of understanding or dialectics, is simply a question of terms which must be decided by considerations of expediency. x the function of understanding on the religious field we took our departure from the fact that philosophy is searching for "understanding." the first and principal acquisition of philosophy was the perception that its object is not to be found in a transcendental generality. whoever wishes to obtain understanding, must confine himself to something special, without, however, through this limitation losing sight of all measure and aim to such an extent that he forgets the infinite generality. a modern psychologist who occupies himself with "thoughts on enlightenment," which topic is evidently related to ours, says: "real and genuine enlightenment can proceed only from religious motives." expressed in our language, this would mean: every genuine understanding, every true conception or knowledge, must be based on the clear consciousness that the infinite universe is the arch fundament of all things. understanding and true enlightenment are identical. "it is true," say the "thoughts on enlightenment," "that all enlightenment takes the form of struggles on account of the nature of him who is to be enlightened and of the object about which he is to be informed. but it is a struggle for religion, not against it." the author, professor lazarus, says in his preface that he does not wish the reader to base his opinion on any single detached sentence. "every single sentence," he says, "may be tested as to its value, but the whole of my views on religion and enlightenment cannot be recognized from any single one of them." as this wish is entirely justified and as our position is somewhat supported by his psychological treatment of enlightenment, we shall comply with his wish and seek to grasp the meaning of his statements on the religious nature of enlightenment in their entirety, not as isolated sentences. we even go a step farther than professor lazarus, by extending to understanding what he says about enlightenment, viz., that genuine knowledge and enlightenment must, so to say, take their departure from religious motives. but we differ a little as to what motives are religious. lazarus refers, so far as i can see, to ideas and the ideal, while we, thanks to the positive outcome of philosophy, understand the terms _religion_ and _religious_ to refer to the universal interdependence of things. obviously the dividing line between heat and cold is drawn by the human mind. the point selected for this purpose is the freezing point of water. one might just as well have selected any other point. evidently the dividing line between that which is religious and that which is irreligious is as indeterminate as that between hot and cold. neither any university nor any usage of language can decide that, nor is the pope a scientific authority in the matter. it is mainly due to the socalled historical school that a thing is considered not alone by its present condition, but by its origin and decline. what, then, is religion and religious? the fetish cult, the animal cult, the cult of the ideal and spiritual creator, or the cult of the real human mind? where are we to begin and where to end? if the ancient germans regarded the great oak as sacred and religious, why should not art and science become religious among the modern germans? in this sense, lazarus is correct. the "enlightenment" which was headed in france by voltaire and the encyclopedists, in germany by lessing and kant, the "enlightenment" which came as a struggle for reason and against religion, was then in fact a struggle for religion, not against it. by this means one may make everything out of anything. but this has to be learned first in order to recognize how our mind ought to be adjusted, so that it may perceive that not only everything is everything, but that each thing also has its own place. we wish to become clear in our minds how it is possible, and reconcilable with sound conception, that such an anti-religious struggle as that carried on during that period of "enlightenment" can nevertheless be a struggle for and in the interest of religion. we wish to find out how one may abolish religion and at the same time maintain it. this is easily understood, if we remember the repeatedly quoted dialectic rule according to which our understanding must never exaggerate the distinctions between two things. we must not too widely separate the religious from the secular field. of course, the religious field is in heaven, while the secular is naturally in the profane universe. having become aware that even religious imagination, together with its heaven and spirit creator, are profane conceptions in spite of their alleged transcendentalism, we find religion in the secular field, and thus this field has in a way become religious. the religious and the profane infinite have something in common, at least this that the indefinite religious name may also be applied to the secular or profane infinity. "all culture, every condition of humanity or of a nation, has its roots as well as its bounds in history," says our professor of psychology. should not religion, which according to the words of a german emperor "must be preserved for the people," also have its bounds in history? or does it belong to the infinite and must it exist forever? in order to free history of its bounds, it is necessary to avail ourselves of the positive outcome of philosophy and to demonstrate that nothing is infinite but the infinite itself, which has the double nature of being infinite and inseparable from the finite phenomena of nature. the whole of nature is eternal, but none of its individual phenomena is, although even the imperishable whole is composed of perishable parts. the relation of the constant whole of nature to its variable parts, the relation of the general to the specialties composing it, includes, if we fully grasp it, a perfect conception of the human mind as well as of the understanding and enlightenment which it acquires. this mind cannot enlighten itself as to its special nature without observing how it came to enlighten itself as to the nature of other specialties. we then find that it has likewise enlightened itself on religious phenomena by recognizing them as a part, as a variation, of the general phenomenon of the constant, eternal, natural universe. hence secular nature, which is at the same time eternal and temporal, is the mother of religious nature. of course, the child partakes of the nature of the mother. religion, historically considered, arises from nature, but the determination of the date of the beginning of this specialty is left as much to the choice of man as that of the point where the cold and the warm meet. the general movement of nature, from which arise its specialties, proceeds in infinite time. its transformations are so gradual that every determined point constitutes an arbitrary act which is at the same time arbitrary and necessary; necessary for the human being who wishes to gain a conception of it. a perfect conception of religion, therefore, goes right to the center of the question, to the point where the religious specialty reaches a characteristic stage, to its freezing point, so to say. from this standpoint, heat and cold may be sharply defined; likewise religion. if we say, for instance, that religion is the conception of a supernatural spirit who rules nature, and the reader thinks this definition somewhat appropriate, the simple demonstration of the achievements of philosophy in the field of understanding or dialectics proves that this religious conception is untenable in this world of the human mind which knows how to obtain a logical picture of its experiences. to desire to preserve religion for the people as a sharply defined and finite thing is contrary to all logic and equivalent to swimming against the tide. on the other hand, it is equally illogical to identify religion after the manner of lazarus with the conception of natural infinity or infinite nature, because that promotes mental haziness. the laws of thought obtained by philosophical research give us considerable enlightenment about the infinite material process, the nature of which is sublime enough to be worthy of religious devotion, and yet special and matter-of-fact enough to wash the dim eyes with natural clearness. we have already seen in preceding chapters that we must first define our standpoint before we can decide which is the right or left bank of a river. so it is also in the matter of abolishing and maintaining religion for the people. it can be done the moment we extend the discussion to the realm of infinity. the conception of infinity, called substance by spinoza, monad by leibniz, thing itself by kant, the absolute by hegel, is indeed necessary in order to explain anything, not only by the fourth root, but by the infinite root of the adequate reason. to that extent we are agreed that enlightenment, or understanding as we say, is not alone a struggle against religion, but also for it. in the theory of understanding acquired by philosophy, there is contained a decisive repeal of religion. nevertheless we say with lazarus: "the power of enlightenment and its aim are not expressed in negation, not in that which is not believed, but in that which is believed, venerated, and preserved." and yet every enlightening perception, every understanding resulting from enlightenment, is a negation. in seeking enlightenment, for instance, on understanding, it is necessary, in order to prove that it is a natural phenomenon, to deny the religious element in so far as it assumes the existence of a divine chief spirit whose secondary copy the human spirit is supposed to be. or, in order to gain enlightenment on the nature of the universe, in order to realize that it is a truly universal universe, we are compelled to deny the existence of every "higher" world, including the religious. but if we desire to become enlightened as to how it is that religion may not alone be denied, but also preserved, we must transfer its origin from an illogical other world into the natural and logical universe. thus religion becomes natural and nature religious. if worship is confined to the idolization of the sun or the cat, every one realizes the temporality of the matter. and if we restrict worship to the adoration of the great omnipotent spirit, every one realizes the temporality of this adoration who has acquired an accurate conception of the small human spirit. if, on the other hand, we extend religious worship to everything which has ever been venerated, or will ever be venerated, by human beings, in other words, if we extend the conception of religion to the entire universe, then it assumes a very far-reaching significance. this is the essence of enlightenment on religion: that we may at will expand or contract our conceptions, that all things are alike to the extent of representing only one nature, that all fantastical ideas, all good and evil spirits and ghosts, no matter how "supernaturally" conceived, are all natural. the essential thing in the enlightenment acquired by philosophical study is the appreciation of the fact that understanding, enlightenment, science, etc., are not cultivated for their own sake, but must serve the purpose of human development, the material interests of which demand a correct mental picture of the natural processes. we have chosen the religious idea for discussion in this chapter so that it may serve as a means of illustrating the nature of thought in general. we regard it as the merit of philosophy to have unveiled this nature. professor lazarus is quite a pleasing companion. he is a fine thinker, saturated with the teachings of the philosophers, not overfond of any particular school, and only about two hands' breadth removed from our position. but this is just enough to demonstrate by his shortcomings the advantages of our position which proves that the part of the human soul performing the work of thinking is understood by us at least two hands' breadth better than by this prominent psychologist. "the function of enlightenment is to recognize that no phenomenon can be an effect which has not another phenomenon as its cause, and to search for the sole cause of every effect, noting all its parts and their consecutive divisions." these words describe the mental work performed by the human brain fairly well, but still they require a little addition, to the effect that the mental work is no exception from any other phenomena, all of which have not alone their special, but also one general cause. the cause of all causes, of which religion is making an idol, must be profaned, so to speak, by the cult of science, so that the above definition of lazarus regarding enlightenment would read as follows: the sole and true cause of all effects is the universe, or the general interdependence of all things. but this is not by far the full scope of enlightenment. it is further necessary, as lazarus well says, to note "all its parts and their consecutive divisions." we further add: the universal cause must be understood not alone in its consecutive parts, but also in its co-ordinate parts. it is only then that understanding, enlightenment, become perfect. we then find that after all the relation between cause and effect, or the relation between the universal truth and its natural phenomena, is not a very trenchant one, but a relative one. "enlightenment advances in various, in all, fields of mental life. religious enlightenment has long been recognized as the most essential, justly so, and for many reasons, the chief of them being that religious enlightenment is the most important and hence the most bitterly contested." thus religious enlightenment is a part of universal, cosmic, enlightenment. it is a confusing expression to say that it is confined to "all fields of mental life." we believe to be shedding more light on the question by saying that there is enlightenment in all fields, not alone in the mental, but also in the cosmic, which unites both the material and mental. to classify this field, that is the exhaustive task of our understanding, that its exhaustive definition. xi the distinction between cause and effect is one of the means of understanding the processes of the human mind and their subjective composition cannot be analyzed in a _pure_ state and without regard to their objective effects any more than handiwork can be explained without the raw material to be handled and the products derived therefrom, any more than any work can be described in a _pure_ state without regard to the product. that is the sad defect of old time logic which is an obstacle to its further advance: it literally tears things out of their connections and forgets the necessity of interdependence over the need of special study. the instrument which produces thought and knowledge in the human brain is not an isolated thing, nor an isolated quality. it is connected not only with the brain and the nervous system, but also with all qualities of the soul. true, thinking is different from feeling, but it is nevertheless a feeling the same as gladness and sorrow. thought is called incomprehensible and the heart unfathomable. it is the function of science, of thinking and thought, to fathom and comprehend what as yet is not fathomed and not comprehended. just as thinking and understanding are parts of the human soul, so the latter is a part of physical and intellectual man. together with the physical development of man, of the species as well as of the individual, the soul also develops and with it that part which is the special object of the theory of understanding, viz., thought and thinking. not alone does physical development produce intellectual development, but, vice versa, the understanding reacts on the physical world. the one is not merely a cause, nor the other merely an effect. this obsolete distinction does not suffice for the full understanding of their interrelations. we pay a tribute to the "thoughts on enlightenment" of professor lazarus quoted in the previous chapter by acknowledging that they throw so much light on a certain point that little more than the dot over the "i" is required in order to clear up a bad misunderstanding about the relation of cause and effect. since the time of aristotle this relation has been called a category. we have already noted the statement which characterizes the age of enlightenment as one in which the causal category, or let us say the distinction between cause and effect, became the dominant issue. other periods live with their understanding, with their thoughts, in other categories. though the ancient greeks knew the distinction between cause and effect, yet it was far from being the dominant point of view in their search after scientific understanding. instead of regarding, as we do today, everything as effects which were produced by preceding causes, they saw in every process, in every phenomenon, a means which had a purpose. the category of means and purpose dominated the greeks. socrates admired the knowledge of nature displayed by anaxagoras, the stories he could tell of sun, moon, and stars. but as anaxagoras had omitted to disclose the _reasonable purpose_ of the processes of nature, socrates did not think much of such a natural science. at that period the means and the purpose were the measure of reason, the handle of the mind, the category of understanding; today causes and effects have taken their places. between the golden age of greece and the era of modern science, the socalled night of the middle ages, the epoch of superstition, extends. if then you started out on a voyage and first met an old woman, it meant misfortune for you. wallenstein cast the horoscope before he directed his troops. "understanding" was gathered from the flight of a bird, the cry of an animal, the constellations of stars, the meeting with an old woman. the category of that period was the _sign_ and its _consequences_. and according to lazarus, these things were believed by brains which were by no means dull. "i refer to a name which fills us all with veneration: kepler believed in astrology, in the _category of the sign and its consequence_, together with the thinkers of the thousand years before him and of his own century. astrology was a science for many centuries, promoted together with astronomy ... and by the same people." the peculiar thing in this statement is the reference to the category of sign and consequence as a _science_. this category has no longer a place in modern science. may not our modern viewpoint, the category in which our present day science thinks, the category of cause and effect, be equally transitory? the ancients have accomplished lasting scientific results in spite of their "purposes." mediæval superstition with its "signs," its astrology and alchemy, has likewise bequeathed to us a few valuable scientific products. and, on the other hand, even the greatest partisans of modern science do not deny that it is marred by various adventurous vagaries. the categories of means and purposes, of signs and consequences, are still in vogue today and will be preserved together with that of causes and effects. the knowledge that this latter category is likewise but a historical one and exerts but temporarily a dominating influence on science belongs to the positive outcome of philosophy, and professor lazarus, with all his advanced standpoint, has remained behind this result by about a yard. kindly note that it is not the extinction of the relation between cause and effect which we predict, but merely that of its dominance. whoever skips lightly over the current of life, will be greatly shocked when reading that we place the fundamental pillar of all perception, the category of cause and effect, in the same passing boat in which the prophets and astrologers rode. one is very prone to belittle the faith of others by the name of "superstition" and honor one's own superstition by the title of "science." once we have grasped the fact that our intellect has no other purpose than that of tracing a human picture of cosmic processes, and that its penetration of the interior of nature, its understanding, explaining, perceiving, knowing, etc., is nothing else, and cannot be anything else, that moment it loses its mysterious, transcendental metaphysical character. we also understand then, that the great spirit above the clouds who is supposed to create the world out of nothing, could very well serve the mind as a means of explaining things. and it is the same with the category of cause and effect, which is a splendid means of assisting explanation, but still will not suffice for the requirements of all time to come. the perception that the great spirit above the clouds is a free invention of the small human mind has become so widely spread that we may well pass on over it to other things. among the questions now on the order of business is the one whether the "causes" with which modern science operates so widely are not in a way creators in miniature which produce their effects in a sleight-of-hand way. and this erroneous notion is, indeed, the current conception. if a stone falls into the water, it is the cause of the undulations, but not their creator. it is only a co-operator, for the liquid and elastic qualities of the water also act as a cause. if the stone falls into butter, it creates at best but one undulation, and if this stony creator falls on the hard ground, it is all up with the creation of undulations. this shows that causes are not creators, but rather effects which are not effected, but effect themselves. the category of cause and effect is a good help in explanation, so long as it is accompanied by the philosophical consciousness that the whole of nature is an infinite sea of transformations, which are not created by one great or many small creators, but which create themselves. a well-known philosophical author expresses himself in the following manner: "during the first weeks of its existence, the child has no perception either of the world without, or of its own body, or of its soul. hence its feeling is not accompanied by the consciousness of an interaction between these three factors. it does not suspect its causes." we see that soul, body, and outer world are called the three factors of feeling. now note how each one of these three causes or factors is, so to say, the store house of innumerable factors or causes, all of which cause the feeling of the child. the soul consists of many soul parts, the body of many bodily parts, and the outer world consists of so many parts that it would consist of ten times more parts, if there were any more than innumerable. there is no doubt that the child's feeling, or any other, does not exist independently, but is dependent on the soul, the body, and the outer world. this constitutes the indubitable interrelation of all things. in the winding processes of the self-agitated universe, the category of cause and effect serves as a means of enlightenment, by giving our mind its help in the systematization of processes. if the drop of a stone precedes, the undulations of the water follow; if soul, body, and outer world are present, feeling follows. the positive outcome of philosophy does not reject the services of the category of cause and effect. it only rejects the mystical element in that category in which many people, even among those with a "scientific education," still believe. there is no witchcraft in this matter, but simply a mechanical systematization and classification of natural phenomena in the order of their appearance. so long as water remains water and retains its liquid and elastic properties, and so long as a stone is a stone, a ponderous fellow striking the water heavily, just so long will the splash of the stone be surely and inevitably followed by undulations of the water. so long as soul, body, and outer world retain their known properties, they will with unfailing precision produce feeling. it is no more surprising that we can affirm this on the strength of our experience than that we have a category of cause and effect. there exists nothing extraordinary but the condition of things, and in this respect all things are alike, so that human understanding, cause and effect, or any other category, are no more extraordinary than any other condition. the only wonder is the universe, but this, being a universal wonder, is at the same time trivial, for nothing is so familiar as that which is common to all. by the help of the viewpoint of cause and effect, man throws light on the phenomena of nature. cause and effect serve to enlighten us about the world. the way, the method, by which this enlightenment is produced, is the special object of our study. we do not deny that cause and effect serve us as a means, but only as one of many. we honor the category of cause and effect far too much when we regard it as _the_ panacea. we have seen that formerly other viewpoints served the same purpose and still others exist today, some of which have a prospect of being valued more highly in the future than cause and effect. this category serves very well for the explanation of processes which follow one another. but there are other phenomena which occur side by side, and these must also be elucidated. for such a purpose, the category of genus and species is quite as serviceable. haeckel speaks somewhat slightingly of "museum zoologists and herbarium botanists," because they merely classify animals and plants according to genera and species. the modern zoologists and botanists do not simply consider the multiplicity of animals and plants which exist simultaneously, but also the chronological order of the changes and transformations, and in this way they have gained much more of a life-picture of the zoological and botanical world, a picture not alone of its being, but also of its growing, of arising and declining. undoubtedly the knowledge of the museum zoologists and herbarium botanists was meager, narrow, mechanical, and modern science offers a far better portrait of truth and life. still this is no reason for overestimating the value of analysis by cause and effect. this method supplements the category of genus and species. it assists in enlightening, it helps in the process of thought, but it does not render other forms of thought superfluous. it is essential for the theory of understanding, to recognize the special forms of thought of old and new times as peculiarities which have a common nature. this common nature of the process of thought, understanding, enlightenment, is a part of the universal world process, and not greatly different from it. the conception of a cause partly explains the phenomena of the universe; but so does the conception of a purpose and of a species, in fact, so do all conceptions. in the universe all parts are causes, all of them caused, produced, created, and yet there is no creator, no producer, no cause. the general produces the special, and the latter in turn produces by reaction the general. the category of the general and the special, of the universe and its parts, contains all other categories in the germ. in order to explain the process of thought, we must explain it as a part of the universal process. it has not caused the creation of the world, neither in a theological nor in an idealist sense, nor is it a mere effect of the brain substance, as the materialists of the eighteenth century represented it. the process of thought and its understanding is a peculiarity of the universal cosmos. the relation of the general to the special is the clear and typical category underlying all other categories. one might also apply other names to this category, for instance, the one and the many; the essence and the form; the substance and its attributes; truth and its phenomena, etc. however, a name is but a breath and a sound; understanding and comprehension are what we want in the first place. xii mind and matter: which is primary, which secondary? it is the merit of the philosophical outcome to have delivered the process of understanding from its mystic elements. so long as cause and effect are not recognized as a form of thought belonging to the same species with many other forms of thought, all of which serve the common purpose of illuminating the cosmic processes for the human mind by a symbolized picture composed of various conceptions, just so long will something mysterious adhere to the category of cause and effect. philosophy is particularly engaged in illuminating the understanding. it has learned enough of its specialty to know that it is a part of the universe performing the special function of arranging the world of phenomena and its smaller circles according to relations of consanguinity and chronology. such an arrangement presents a scientific picture of the world. the well-known diagram of conceptions used by logicians, consisting of a large circle symbolizing the general, inside of which smaller circles crossing and encircling one another represent the specialties, is a fitting aid in explaining the method by which the faculty of understanding arrives at its scientific results. science in general is the sum of all special kinds of knowledge, differing from them in no greater degree than the human body from the various organs of which it is composed. a bodily organ can no more exist outside of the body than any particular knowledge can exist outside of the generality of all sciences. no metaphysics is possible under this condition. as surely as we know that two mountains cannot be without a valley between them, just so surely do we know that nothing in heaven, on earth, or in any other place can lie outside of the general circle of things. outside of the worldly world there can be no other little world. a logically constituted human mind cannot think differently. and it is likewise impossible to discover such an outside world by the help of and within the limits of experience, because thought is inseparable from experience and there can be no experience without thought. a man who has a head upon his shoulders--and there can be no man without a head--cannot experience any unworldly metaphysical world. the faculty of experience, which includes the faculty of understanding or perception, is merely empirical. our settled conviction of the unity of the universe is an inborn logic. the unity of the world is the supreme and most universal category. a closer look at it at once reveals the fact that it carries its opposite, the infinite multiplicity, under its heart or in its womb. the general is pregnant with specialties. this is a comparison, and comparisons limp. a mother has other qualities beside that of motherhood, while the universe, or the absolute generality, is nothing but the bearer, the cause, of all special and separate things. it is "pure" motherhood which can no more be without children than the children without a mother. in this way, no cause can be without effects. a cause without an effect--let us dismiss it. the child is as much a cause in motherhood as it is its effect and product. in the same way the universe has never been, and could not be conceived, without the many special children which it carries in its womb. if thought wishes to make for itself a picture, a conception of the cause of all causes, it must necessarily take cognizance of the effects. thought may very well separate one from the other, but cannot think correctly without the consciousness that its separating and distinguishing is only a formality. imagining, conceiving, knowing, perceiving, are so many formalities.[ ] but philosophy took its departure from the opposite, the wrong, view. it regarded perceiving, understanding, as the main thing. it did not use science as a formality, as something secondary, as something serving a nature, a cause, a purpose, a higher reason, but it started with the illogical and irrelevant assumption that the specialty of mind, understanding, conceiving, judging, distinguishing, is the primary, supreme, self-constituted cause and purpose, instead of being an element in logic. even in hegel's logic, which, by the way, has given us much light on the process of thought, this confounding of the original with the copy is the cause of an almost impenetrable mysticism. not nature, but science is to those idealist philosophers the source of truth. the "true idea" surpassed everything with them. this "idea" is forced by hegel to roll about, and wind, and twist as if it were not a natural child, but a metaphysical dragon. but we cannot deny that in these twistings and windings of the hegelian dragon the condition of the mind is exposed in all its peculiarities and nakedness. according to hegel's theosophical opinion i do not become aware of my friend in material intercourse and bodily touch. hegel's mark of a true friend is not that he proves true in life, but that he corresponds "to his idea." the "idea" of true friendship is for the idealist the measure of friendly truth, just as plato measures the ideal or true condition of states and cooking pots of this valley of sorrows by the standard of an "idea" of the state, or an "idea" of the cooking pot, supposed to be derived from some other world. it is surely a valuable gift of nature that the human mind can form its ideals. but it is a gift that has also caused much trouble and which requires for its higher development the clear understanding that ideals are constructed out of real materials. without this understanding the human race will never succeed in making a reasonable use of its ideal faculty. the beautiful ideal of true friendship may stimulate us to emulation. but the knowledge that it is nothing but an ideal which in reality is always mixed with a little falseness serves as no mean antidote against sentimental transcendentalism. and the same holds true of truth, liberty, justice, equality, brotherhood, etc. the striving after an ideal is very good, but it does no harm to be conscious of the fact and clearly see that any ideal can never be realized without some admixture of its opposite. what is it that lessing says? "if god were to offer me the search for truth in his left hand, and truth in his right, i should grasp his left hand and say: father, keep truth, it is for you alone." it has not been the task of philosophy to give us a true mind picture of the world. this it cannot do, this cannot be done by any scientific specialty. it may be done by the totality of sciences, and even by them only approximately. even with them striving is a higher truth and of higher value than knowing. i repeat, then: it is not the particular task of philosophy to furnish a true picture of the world, but rather to investigate the method by which the human mind arrives at its world pictures. that is its work, and it is the object of this book to sketch its outline. a sketch is in itself an inexact piece of work. i may be blamed for jumbling together such terms as world, cosmos, universe, nature, or such others as ideas, judgment, conclusion, thought, mind, intellect, etc., and for using them as synonyms when many of them have already been assigned their fixed meaning in the classification of science. but this is the point which i emphasize, that the method of science, of thought, has the twofold nature of making fixed terms and still remaining pliable. science not only defines what this or that is, but also how it moves, how it originates, passes away, and still remains; how it is fixed and yet at the same time moving. the real being of which science treats, viz., the universe, is not alone present, but also past and future, and it is not alone this or that, but it is everything. even nothing is something belonging to the aggregate life. this dialectic statement is rather incomprehensible to the unphilosophical brain. nothing and something are conceptions so widely diverging from one another in the unphilosophical mind that they seem far more apart than heavenly bliss is supposed to be separated from earthly misery, according to the declarations of clergymen. clergymen are transcendental logicians, and it is likewise transcendental to regard nothing as an absolute nothing. it cannot be denied that it is at least a conception or a term. therefore, whether little or much, it is something. we cannot get out of existence, out of the universe, any more than münchhausen can pull himself out of a swamp by his pigtail. there can be no absolute nothing, because the absolute is synonymous with the universe, and everything else is relative. so it is also with nothing. it simply has the significance of not being the main thing. to say: this is nothing means it is not that which is essential at this time and place. this man is nothing simply means that he is not a man out of the ordinary, and it does not at all signify that he is nothing at all. the category of being and not being, like all categories,[ ] which appear as something fixed to the sound but ill-informed mind, is really something shifting. its poles fuse and flow into one another, its differences are not perfectly radical. these categories give us an illustration of the mobile universe, which is a unit composed of its opposite, multiplicity. the positive outcome of philosophy has for its climax the understanding that the world is multifarious, and that this multiplicity is uniform in possessing the universal nature in common. the sciences must represent these objects in such a contradictory way, because all things live in reality in this contradiction. what the museum zoologists and the herbarium botanists have accomplished on the field of zoology and botany in the category of space, has been accepted by the darwinians with the addition of the variety of those subjects in the category of time. either class of scientists categorizes, classifies, systematizes. the chemists do the same with substances and forces, and so does hegel with his categories of being and not being, quantity and quality, substance and attribute, thing and quality, cause and effect, etc. he makes all things flow into one another, rise, pass, move, and he is right in doing so. everything moves and belongs together. but that which hegel missed and which is added by us consists in the further perception that the flow and the variability of the categories just quoted is only an illustration of the necessary variability and interaction of all thoughts and conceptions, which are, and must be, nothing but illustrations and reflexes of the universal life. however, the idealist philosophers who have all of them contributed materially toward this ultimate special knowledge, are still more or less under the mistaken impression that the process of thinking is the true process and the true original, and that the true original, nature or the material universe, is only a secondary phenomenon. we now insist on having it understood that the cosmic interaction of phenomena, the universal living world, is the truth and life. is the world a concept? is it an idea? it may be conceived and grasped by the mind, but it does and is more than that. it surpasses our understanding in the past, the present, and the future. it is infinite in quantity and quality. how do we know that? we say in the same breath that we do not know everything which is passing, has passed, and will pass in the world; we do not understand the whole, and yet we claim to have fully understood that this whole universe is not a mere idea, but something absolute, something more than a conception or an intuitive knowledge, something real and true, something infinite. how do we solve this contradiction? the science of the limitation of the individual and of the collective human intellect is identical with the universal concept; in other words, it is innate in the human intellect to know that it is a limited part of the absolute universe. this intellectual faculty of ours is no less natural and aboriginal than the faculty of trees to become green in summer and that of the spiders to spread their nets. although the intellect is a limited part of the unlimited and aware of this fact, yet its faculty of knowing, understanding, judging, is a universal one. no intellect is possible or conceivable which can do more than the instrument of thought given by nature to the human race. we may indeed conceive of a mental giant. but when we take a closer look, every one will perceive that this mental giant cannot get outside of the traditional race of thinkers, unless he is supposed to be the creature of imagination. thinking, knowing, understanding, are universal. i can perceive all things in about the same way that i can see all cobble stones. i can see them all, but i cannot see everything that they are composed of, i cannot see, for instance, that they are heavy and ponderable. in the same way all things may be perceived, but not everything that belongs to them. they do not dissolve in understanding, in other words, understanding is only a part of the universe, all of which may be perceived, but the understanding of which is not the whole, since our intellect is but a part of the universe. everything may be understood, but understanding is not everything. every pug-dog is a dog, but every dog is not a pug-dog. the conflict of idealism and materialism rests on this same conflict between genus and subordinate species. the idealist incarnate contends that all things are ideas, while we strive to make him see that ideal things and material things are two species of the same genus, and that they should be given a common family or general name beside their special name, on account of their common nature and for the purpose of a sound logic. wherever this understanding has been acquired, the quarrel between idealists and materialists appears in the light of a mere bandying of words. everything is large, everything is small, everything extended through space and time, everything cause and everything effect, everything a whole and a part, because everything is the essence of everything, because everything is contained in the all, everything related, everything connected, everything interdependent. the conception of all as the absolute, the content of which consists of innumerable relativities, the concept of the all as the universal truth which reflects many phenomena, that is the basis of the science of understanding. footnotes: [ ] a by means of which we picture and explain the monistic interrelation of all things, called universe, nature and cosmos.--editor. [ ] that is, like all categories that are subdivisions of the absolute being, of general existence, pertaining only to the phenomena or specialties which, however, in their entirety constitute the absolute being or monistic nature.--editor. xiii the extent to which the doubts of the possibility of clear and accurate understanding have been overcome a contemporaneous professor of philosophy, kuno fischer, of jena, says: "the problem of modern philosophy is the understanding of things." but this problem does not occupy modern philosophy alone; it was also considered by ancient philosophy. even more, it belongs to the whole world. all the world, i mean the whole human world, and especially the sciences, search after understanding. i do not say this for the purpose of setting the professor right, for i acknowledge that he is a fairly deserving philosopher. if i cared to go through his works, i should surely find other passages which state the problem of philosophy more accurately and concretely, to the effect that philosophy does not strive merely for the indefinite "understanding of things," but rather for the special understanding of that particular thing which bears the name of "understanding." philosophy at the climax of its development seeks to understand "understanding." it has seriously attempted the solution of this problem so long as men think, so far as our historical records go. after that which we have already said about the beginning and the end of things and about their immortality, it will be easily understood that the thing called understanding has no more historical beginning than all the rest. the known grows out of the unknown, the conscious out of the unconscious. our modern consciousness, though agreeably cultivated, is still an undeveloped, unconscious consciousness. nevertheless, development has gone far enough to make it plain that understanding is anti-religious. especially the understanding of understanding, the outcome of positive philosophy, has a pronounced anti-religious, and to that extent "destructive," tendency. but one should not have an exaggerated idea of this destruction. here, under this sun, nothing is destroyed without leaving the basis for the growth of new life from the ruins. it belongs to the conception of the universe to understand that it is the main conception required for the conception of conception, for the understanding of understanding. the history of philosophy begins with the decay of heathen religion, and the history of modern philosophy with the decay of christian religion. since religion must be preserved for the people according to the official declarations of the rulers, the official professors are not clear and accurate expounders of the positive outcome of philosophy. no matter how great the work of spinoza, leibniz, kant, and hegel may be, yet the followers of kant and hegel have no freedom of research, and kuno fischer, although very close to the root of the subject, is nevertheless doomed to remain in the mystification of the function of conceiving and of understanding. his profession clouds his judgment. "nature," says this professor, "is regarded as the first object of understanding, as the principle from which everything else follows. in this respect modern philosophy is naturalistic. it is taken for granted that nature can be understood, or that the possibility of understanding things is given. modern philosophy makes this assumption dogmatically.... the kantian philosophy, on the other hand, assumes a critical, not a dogmatic, attitude toward the possibility of understanding." (system of logic and metaphysics, by kuno fischer, second edition, pages and .) in this latter, critical, stage, the subject is kept rather hot by the professors of philosophy. the critics are still engaged in exclaiming: be amazed, oh world! how is understanding possible? in the first place, there is nothing to be amazed at. why is not the "naturalistic" philosopher consistent by recognizing his special object, understanding, as a natural object? the "supposition" that an understanding of things is possible, is neither a supposition nor anything "dogmatic." the philosophers should abandon their old hobby of trying to prove anything by syllogisms. nowadays, a case is not substantiated by words, but by facts, by deeds. the sciences are sufficiently equipped, and thus the "possibility of understanding" is demonstrated beyond a doubt. "but," say the critics who are so wise that they hear the grass growing, "are those perceptions which are produced by the exact sciences really perceptions? are they not simply substitutes? those sciences recognize only the phenomena of things; but where is the understanding which perceives the truth?" we shall offer it to them. you are naturalists. well, then, nature is the truth. or are you spiritualists who make a metaphysical distinction between the truth and the phenomenon? to understand means to distinguish and judge. the semblance must be distinguished from the truth, but not in an excessive manner. it must be remembered that even the most evil semblance is a natural phenomenon, and the sublimest truth is only revealed by phenomena, just because it is natural. but the old logic cannot stand any contradictions. semblance and truth are contradictions for it and they cannot be reconciled by it. but the irreconcilable simply consists in entertaining, in this monistic world, thoughts which are supposed to be totally different. hence old style logic lacks entirely the mediating manner of thought which does not elevate understanding and its faculty of thought to the skies, but is satisfied to regard it as a very valuable, but still natural, quality. the old logic could not construct any valid rules of thought, because it thought too transcendentally of thinking itself. it was not satisfied that thought is only a faculty, a mode of doing, a part of true nature, but the nature of truth was spiritualized by it into a transcendental being. instead of grasping the conception of spirit with blood and flesh, it tries to dissolve blood and flesh into ideas. that would be well enough, if such a solution of the riddles were meant to have no other significance than that of symbols. the old logic contains long chapters about the proofs of truth. it is supposed to be "identical" with the idea and to be proven by ideas. this would be all right, if we remained conscious of the secondary relation in which the idea and understanding stand to truth. but old line logic is not conscious of this relation. on the contrary. its consciousness distorts that relation. it elevates the mind to the first place and relegates blood and flesh to the last. "the necessity of a conception is proven by the impossibility of its opposite. an idea is contradicted by proving its impossibility. this impossibility is demonstrated when it can be proven that a thing is at the same time a and not-a, or when it can be shown that a thing is neither a nor not-a. the first mode of proof is called _antinomy_, the second, _dilemma_." in this representation of the logical proof much is said of the "thing," for instance this: a thing cannot be at the same time straight and crooked, true and untrue, light and dark. the excellence of this doctrine is easily apparent, because it is overlooked that the concept "thing" is not a fixed, but a variable one. if a straight line is a thing, and a crooked line another thing, and if these two things are held to be opposed to one another, then the above logic is the most justified in the world. but who claims that there are not many straight lines which are crooked at one end, which run straight on for a certain distance and then turn? who will define to us what a line is? a line may be composed of , , , etc., parts, and each part is a line. before anything to the point can be said about the logical laws, it is necessary to say above all how it stands with the relation of the whole to its parts, of the universe to its subdivisions. the old theological question of god and his creatures, the old metaphysical question of the unity and the multiplicity, of truth and its phenomena, reason and consequence, etc., in one word, the question of metaphysical categories must be solved and settled before the definition of the minor factors of understanding, the questions of formal logic, can be attempted. what is a "thing?" a clergyman would answer: only god is something, everything else is nothing! and we say: only the universe is something, and everything in it consists of vacillating, changing, precarious, varicolored, fluid, variable phenomena or relativities. in our times, up to which the theologians have speculated so much and contributed so little to understanding, one can hardly touch on the god concept without annoying the reader. yet it is very essential for a thorough understanding of the human mind to point out that the god concept and the universe concept are analogous concepts. not in vain have the first minds of modern philosophy, such as cartesius, spinoza, leibniz, occupied themselves so closely with the god concept. they invented the socalled ontological proof of the existence of god. this proof if applied to the universe, testifies to its divinity. a metaphysical cloud pusher as well as the physical cosmos are fundamentally concepts of the most perfect being. it makes little difference whether we say that the concept of the universe, or of the cosmos, or of the most perfect being is innate in man. if this concept were not existing, it would lack the main thing required for its perfection. hence the most perfect being must exist. and it does. it is the universe, and everything belongs to its existence. nothing is excluded from it, least of all understanding. the latter is, therefore, not only possible, but a fact, which is proven by the very concept of the most perfect being. this ought to be sufficient to help us over the doubts of the critics, especially over kantian criticism, or rather dualism. kant did not care to accept the dogma of the possibility of understanding without examination; he wished to investigate first. he then discovered that we may understand correctly, provided we remain with our understanding on the field of common experience; in other words, in the physical universe, and refrain from digressing into the metaphysical heaven. but he did not understand that the metaphysical heaven against which he warns us would be an obsolete standpoint in our days. he still permits that transcendental possibility to remain and while he warns us not to stray into it with our understanding he omits to tell us to also keep away from it with our intuition. kant struggles about between the "thing as phenomenon" and the "thing itself." the former is material and may be understood, the latter is supernatural and may be believed or divined. with this doctrine, he again made understanding, the object of modern philosophy, problematical, thus inviting us to investigate further. this we have done, and it is now the positive outcome of philosophy to know clearly and definitely and understand that understanding is not only a part of this world of phenomena, but a true part of the general truth, beside which there is no other truth, and which is the most perfect being. philosophy took its departure from confused wrangling about that which is and that which is not, especially from the religious disappointments met by the greek nation when its world of deities dissolved into phantasms. humanity demands a positive, strong, unequivocal, reliable understanding. now, in this world of ours, the solid is so mixed with the fluid, the imperishable with the perishable, that a total separation is impossible. nevertheless our intellect catches itself continually making separations and distinctions. should not that appear mysterious to it? the necessary and natural result was the problem of the theory of understanding, the special question of philosophy: which is the way to an indubitably clear and positive understanding? the summit of grecian philosophy bears the name of aristotle. he was a practical man who did not like to stray into the distance when he could find good things near by, and he did not concern himself about the descent of understanding. its platonic origin from an ideal world went instinctively against his grain. he, therefore, took hold of the question at the nearest end and analyzed the positive knowledge available at that time. but since grecian science and the knowledge of aristotlean times were rather slim, his attempt to demonstrate logic did not produce any decisive results. but it had been discovered that it was possible to make positive deductions from fixed premises. aristotle clung to this. he showed clearly and definitely, excellently and substantially, how logical deductions should be made in order to arrive at positive understanding. all dogs are watchful. my pug-dog is a dog, therefore it is watchful. what can be more evident? why, then, speculate about god, freedom, and immortality, when indubitable knowledge may be obtained by the formal method of exact deductions? but aristotle had overlooked something, or, being a practical man, perhaps overlooked it intentionally. the premise from which he deducted the watchfulness of dogs in general, was handed down by tradition and had been accepted on faith. but was it founded on fact? could there not be some dogs who lacked the quality of watchfulness, and might not our pug-dog be very unreliable, in spite of all exact deductions? in the case of the pug-dog this would not be of very great moment. but what about the question of the beginning and end of the world, or the question of the existence of god? the grecian gods had been outgrown by aristotle. the history of logic, and of philosophy in general, is interrupted by christianity and by the decline of the antique world, until the reformation opens a new era. the catholic church had, in its own way, thoroughly settled the great questions of the true nature of things, of beginning and end, reason and consequence. but when it, and with it christianity, began to disintegrate, disbelief once more posed in the brains of the philosophers the old question: how do we obtain reliable and true understanding? reliability and truth were at that time still identical. bacon and descartes are the men who started the investigation. both of them were disgusted with aristotle and with his formal logic, particularly with the subtleties of scholasticism. it did not satisfy this new epoch to found positive understanding on traditional contentions and exact deductions therefrom. it is a radical epoch and, therefore, epoch-making. the new philosophers have the aim of unequivocal understanding in common with the ancient philosophers. bacon still connects himself with the stock in trade of the past. his historian says of him that one should not reiterate that bacon took his departure from experience, for this means nothing or nothing more than that columbus was a mariner while the main thing is that he discovered america.... he wanted to find a new logic corresponding to the new life.... the inventive human mind has created the new time, the compass, the powder, the art of typography.... he wanted a new logic which corresponded to the spirit of invention. he, the philosopher of invention, was lord chancellor of england, was a man of the world. not only himself, but also his science, was too ambitious, too full of energy, too world-embracing, for him to bury himself in solitude. that is a glory for a philosopher, but at the same time an obstacle for his special task, for the new logic. he recognized the import of his task only in its general outlines. but his contemporary and successor descartes approached the matter more radically and pointedly. although in recent times the human mind had demonstrated its positive faculty of understanding in natural sciences, especially by inventions, still it was prejudiced by religious improbabilities in its great premises dealing with the essence of things and men, with the "good, true, and beautiful," as the ancients called it. in order to end his doubts, descartes elevates radical doubt to the position of a principle and of a starting point for all understanding. then he cannot doubt that he is at least searching for truth. he who does not believe in any understanding, any science, any inventions, cannot doubt at all events that the impulse for understanding is there. it, at least, is undeniable. _cogito, ergo sum_--i think, therefore i am--that is a premise which cannot be shaken. the rest, thinks descartes, may be deducted by aristotlean methods. with this thought, the philosopher of modern times relapsed into the old error that anything positively true could be ascertained with logical formulas. his consciousness of the thoughts stirring in his brain, i might say his flesh and blood, convinced him by matter-of-fact evidence of the reality of their existence. this fact had hitherto been misunderstood. it is claimed that descartes could convince himself only of the existence of his soul, of his thought, by evidence. no, my feeling, my sight, my hearing, etc., are just as evident to me as my thinking, and simultaneously with sight and hearing that which is heard and seen. the separation of subject and object can and must be merely a formality. the descartian thesis has been distorted into the statement that nothing is evident to man but his own subjective conception. and the ideology has been carried to the extreme of calling the whole world an idea, a phantasmagoria. true, descartes needed god in order to be sure that his conceptions did not cheat him. in order to prove that we no longer need such extravagant means in our times, i shall devote another chapter to this subject. xiv continuation of the discussion on the difference between doubtful and evident understanding let us divide the history of civilization into two periods. in the first, the less civilized period, the doubtful perceptions predominate, in the second period the evident ones. our special investigation of the correct way of evident understanding began in the first period in which the doubtful perceptions, commonly called errors, predominated. in this period, the gods rule in heaven and imagination on earth. to get rid of errors meant originally to lose gods and heaven. the ideal world was the cause of metaphysics. metaphysics which drew the investigation of the supernatural into the circle of its activity, did so for the purpose of enlightening the human mind. thus its problem was from the outset of a twofold nature. it desires to throw light on the natural process of thought, which was temporarily unbalanced by a bent for the supernatural, and for this reason it first loses itself in the clouds. while human reason has now become soberer, the meaning of the term "metaphysics" has also been sobered down. our contemporaneous metaphysicians speak no longer of such transcendental things as the ancients did. present day metaphysics occupies itself with such abstract ideas as the thing and nothing, being and coming into being, matter and force, truth and error. particularly the investigation of doubtful, erroneous, and evident or true understanding, which we here discuss, is a part of metaphysics. the term metaphysics, then, has a double meaning, one of them transcendental and extravagant, the other natural and within sober limits. our sober task of demonstrating the positive outcome of philosophy that acquired sober methods in dealing with understanding also compels us to face transcendental metaphysics, which sobers down in the course of time and develops into its opposite, into pure, bare, naked physics. the divine has become human, the transcendental sober, and so understanding grows ever more unequivocal and evident in the progress of history. in order to become clear on the problem of understanding, we must cease to turn our eyes to any one individual opinion, thought, knowledge, or perception. we must rather consider the process of understanding in its entirety. we then notice the development from doubt to evidence, from errors to true understanding. at the same time we become aware how unwise it was to entertain such an exaggerated idea of the contrast between truth and error. whoever searches for true and evident understanding will not find it in jerusalem, nor in jericho, nor in the spirit; not in any single thing, but in the universe. there the known emerges from the unknown so gradually that no beginning can be traced. understanding comes into being and grows, is partly erroneous and partly accurate, becomes more and more evident. but there is never an absolutely true understanding any more than there can be an absolutely faulty one. only the universe, but not any single thing, is absolute, imperishable, and impregnable. in order to accurately define understanding, we must separate it from misunderstanding, but not too far, not excessively, otherwise the thing becomes extravagant. the limited formal logic teaches, indeed, that the same thing cannot be affirmed and denied at the same time, affirmation and denial being contradictions. but such a logic is very narrow. herbs are not weeds. weeds are the negation of herbs, and still weeds are herbs. an erroneous understanding is a negation of a true understanding, error is not truth, and still it exists in truth. there is no absolute error any more than perceptions are the truth itself. all perceptions are and remain nothing but symbols or reflections of truth. we do not wish to confound error with truth and make a stew of them, but rather understand them both. the mixing is done by the man who opposes them as irreconcilable contradictions. let us first note the mistake committed in so doing. by so opposing error and truth something is done which is not intended, not known. the intention is to confront the erroneous understanding with truth. for this purpose, error is assumed to be the same as erroneous understanding, which may be admitted; but true understanding and truth are two different things and must be kept separate, if we wish to arrive at clear and unmistakable results. if we formulate the question in this way: how do erroneous and true understanding differ, we are nearer to the desired clarity by two solar distances. we then find that error and understanding do not exclude one another, but are two species of the same genus, two individuals of the same family. two times two is not alone four; this is only a part of the truth; it is also four times one, or eight times one-half, or one plus three, or sixteen times one-quarter, etc. the man who first observed that the sun circled around the earth once a day, committed a mistake, yet he made a true perception. the apparent circulation of the sun in twenty-four hours around the earth is a substantial part of the understanding which illumines the relation of the motion of the sun and of the earth. no truth is merely simple, but it is at the same time composed of an infinite number of partial truths. the semblance must not be contradictorily separated from truth, in an extravagant sense, but is part of truth, just as all errors contribute toward true understanding. in so far as all perceptions are limited, they are errors, partial truths. true understanding requires above all the backing of the conscious recognition that it is a limited part of the unlimited universe. the cosmic relation of the whole to its parts, of the general to the special, must be considered in order to get a clear conception of the nature of the human understanding. understanding or knowledge, thinking, perceiving, reasoning, must, for the purpose of investigation, not be excessively separated from other phenomena. in a way, every object which is chosen for special study is isolated. in saying, "in a way," i mean that the separation of the objects of study from other world objects must be consciously moderate, not exaggerated. the separation of the intellect from other objects or subjects when investigating them, must be accompanied by the recognition that such a separation is not excessive, but only formal. in separating a board, for the purpose of studying its condition, from other boards or things and finding that it is black, i must still remember that this board is black only on account of its interdependence with the whole world process; that the blackness which it possesses is not of its own making, but that light, and eyes, and the whole cosmic connection belong to it. in this way every special perception becomes a proportionate part in the chain of universal perceptions, and this again a proportionate part of the universal life. that this evident universal life is not a mere semblance, not a ghost, not a baseless imagination, but the truth, is made evident to the thinking man by his consciousness, reason, common sense. true, he has been deceived by them, sometimes. but it requires no logic, no syllogistic proof, to know that they are telling the truth in this respect. it is nevertheless important to give this proof, because by it the peculiar nature of our intellect is revealed, of the object the study of which is the special concern of philosophy. this proof, that the universe is the universal truth, was first attempted by philosophy in an indirect way, by casting about in vain for a metaphysical truth. the philosopher kant was no doubt the thinker who confined the use of understanding most strictly to the domain of experience. now, if we recognize that this field is universal, we become aware that the assumed kantian limitation is not a limitation at all. the human mind is a universal instrument, the special productions of which all belong to general truth. though we make a distinction between the doubtful and the positive, the outcome of philosophy teaches us that it must be no excessive distinction, but must be backed up by the consciousness that all evidence is composed of probabilities, of phenomena of truth, of parts of truth. the thinking understanding--this is the result of philosophy--is no more evident than anything else and derives its existence not from itself, but from the universal life. this universal life from which thought derives its perceptions, from which understanding derives its enlightenment, does not only exist as a general thing, but also in the form of infinitely varied individualities. and generalization, the relation of things, their number and extension, are no more, and no less, infinite than individualization and specialization. every tree in the forest, every grain of a pile of sand, are individual, separate, distinct. every particle of every grain of sand is distinctly individual. and the infinite individualization of nature goes so far that, just as the human individual is different every day, every hour, every moment, so is the individual grain of sand, even though its transformations were not to become noticeable until after thousands of years, by accumulated changes. by classifying this contradictory, infinitely general and infinitely individual nature in groups according to time and space, in classes, genera, families, species, orders, and other subdivisions, we are discerning and understanding. in the universe, every group is an individual and every individual is a group. the uniformity of nature is not greater than its variety. both of them are infinite. we distinguish between time and space. every moment is composed of little moments. the smallest division of time cannot be denominated any more than the largest, just because there is no smallest and no largest in the universe, neither in time nor in space. atoms are groups. as smallest parts they exist only in our thoughts and thus give excellent service in chemistry. the consciousness that they are not tangible, but only mental things, does not detract from their usefulness, but heightens it still more. it is the nature of human intelligence to divide, classify, group. we divide the world into four cardinal points; we also divide it into two kingdoms, the kingdom of the mind and the kingdom of nature; the latter we again subdivide into the organic and the inorganic, or perhaps into the mineral, vegetable, and animal kingdoms. in short, science seeks to illumine the universe by division. the question then arises: which is the genuine and true division? where does the variety of science, its undecided vacillation end, and when does understanding become stable? the reader should remember that the things, the objects of understanding, are not fixed, but also variable objects, and that the whole universe is moving, progressing; that especially the human mind becomes more and more affluent from century to century, from year to year, and that for this reason science is not alone compelled to fix things, but also to remain in flow. the fixed and the fluid are not so widely separated in science any more, that the evidence could not be evident and yet at the same time a little doubtful. man and his understanding are progressive, and for this reason he must progress by experience in his classifications, conceptions, and sciences. the fixed, impregnable, socalled apodictical facts are nothing but tautologies, if seen at close range. after it has become common usage to call only heavy and tangible things bodies, it is an apodictical fact that all bodies are heavy and tangible. if the conceptions of vapor, water and ice are restricted by common usage and by science to the three stages of aggregation of the same substance, then we need not wonder at our firm assurance that the water will always remain fluid in all time to come, also above the stars. this signifies nothing more than that we conceive of the things as solid which we call solid, and of those as fluid which we call fluid, but it does not change the fact that our faculty of understanding or perceiving gives us only an approximate picture of natural processes, in which the solid and the fluid are neither wholly opposed nor different, but where the positive and the negative gradually flow into one another. the philosophers produced a very good conception of understanding by developing the concept of truth step by step and finally coming to quite exact results. but this "quite exact" must only be accepted in a reasonable sense, not in an extravagant one. truth as the infinite, as the sum total of all things and qualities, is "in itself" quite right, but it cannot be accurately reproduced, not even by means of the mind, of reason, or understanding. the means is smaller than the purpose, is subordinate to purpose. so is our faculty of understanding only a subordinate servant of truth, of the universe. the latter is absolutely evident, true, indubitable, and positive. it does not vitiate the sublimity of this world in the least that it is veiled by appearances, by error, by untruth. on the contrary. without sin there is no virtue, and without error there is no understanding, no truth. the negative, the weakness, the sin and error, are overcome, and thereby truth shines in full splendor. the universe, the general truth, is a progressive thing. it is absolute, but not at any fixed time or place, but only in the combined unity of all time and space. it is sometimes said that this is too much for our intellect, that we cannot understand this. it is true that we cannot squeeze this into any of our categories, of our fundamental conceptions, unless we place the category of illimited and indeterminable and infinite truth at the beginning of them. if that is not quite clear and plain, it should serve to teach us that the category of clear and plain human understanding is destined to recognize its function as a subordinate factor of nature. such an understanding of understanding, such a higher consciousness standing ever behind us, promotes a meek pride or a proud meekness which is well distinguished from the mental poverty of theologians, from the transcendental distinction between god and the world, between creator and creature. to us the perishable soul is not a narrow-minded servant for whom the plans of the imperishable monster soul are incomprehensible. a philosophically educated and self-understanding mind is a part of absolute nature. this mind is not only a limited human mind, but the mind of the infinite eternal, omnipotent universe from which it derived the faculty of knowing everything knowable. but when this mind demands the ability to absolutely know everything, it demands that knowledge should be everything, it becomes transcendental and insolent, it misconceives the relation of science to infinity. the latter is more than science, it is the object of science. xv conclusion the philosopher herbart declares: "if the meaning of a word were determined by the use to which it is put by this or that person, then the term _metaphysics_ would be ambiguous and scarcely comprehensible. if one wishes to know what meaning of this term has been handed down to us by tradition, he should read the ancient metaphysicians and their followers, from aristotle to wolff and his school. it will then be found that the concepts of being, of its quality, of cause and effect, of space and time, have been the objects of this science everywhere ... that it has been attempted to analyze them logically and that this has led to all sorts of disputes. these disputes ... determined the concept of metaphysics." such a declaration is right enough to furnish, by the help of a little criticism on our part, a sketch of the positive outcome of philosophy. metaphysics has always been the principal part of philosophy. in the first sentence of his "handbook for the elements of philosophy," herbart defines philosophy as the "analysis of ideas." according to this, metaphysics would have to analyze the special ideas of being, etc. now it must be remembered that the idea of being is not so much a special concept as the general idea which comprises all ideas and all things. everything belongs to being, and to understand that is too much for metaphysics. hence it came into difficulties. now our authority has just explained to us that the concept of metaphysics was not so much determined by the work it accomplished as by disputes. it did not work, but only made the logical attempt to analyze the concept of being. in so doing it led to disputes and did not distinguish itself very much as a science. the latter, kant has told us in his preface to his "critique of pure reason," is recognized by its agreements, not by its disputes. the metaphysical disputes were overcome by philosophic science, which is the study of ideas or understanding, by arriving at a clear and plain theory of understanding, the demonstration of which i have here attempted. the faculty of understanding had been transmitted to us by our superstitious ancestors as a thing of another world. but the illusion of another world is a metaphysical one and led to disputes about the idea of being. the positive outcome of philosophy assures us and demonstrates that there is only one world, that this world is the essence of all being, that there are many modes of being, but that they all belong to the same common nature. thus philosophy has unified the concept of being and overcome metaphysics and its disputes. universal being has only one quality, the natural one of general existence. at the same time this quality is the essence of all special qualities. just as the concept of herbs includes all herbs, even weeds, so the concept of being comprises not only that which is, but also that which is not, which was once upon a time and which will be in the future. to free the concept of being from its metaphysical disputes, is a very difficult thing for those who attribute an extravagant meaning to the first principle of logic which says: "any subject can have only one of two radically different predicates, because it cannot be at the same time a and not-a." all previous science of understanding has really revolved around this statement. it is based on something plausible, but still more on misunderstanding. only when we have become aware of what has finally been the outcome of the science of understanding, only when this statement is backed up by the positive product of philosophy, does this stubbornly maintained and much contested statement receive a lasting value by its just modification. in the first place, a "subject" is not a fixed, but a variable concept. in the last analysis, as we have sufficiently explained in this work, there is only one sole universal subject which is nowhere radically different. the first principle of the old and tried aristotlean logic tells us that a man, a subject, who is lame cannot move about with alacrity. but i have a friend who was totally lame and who today jumps about briskly; there is no contradiction in this. but if i tell another man about my lame friend and in the course of my story have this lame subject all of a sudden jumping over chairs and tables, then such a thing is _inconceivable_ and i contradict myself. such a contradiction is a violation of all logic, but not because agility and lameness are totally different predicates which cannot be attributed to the same subject, nor because the contradiction cannot exist. being is full of contradictions, but they are not simultaneous or without mediation. a logical speech or story must not forget to mediate. by mediation, all contradictions are solved. and this is the outcome of philosophy. in discordant metaphysics, being and not being are irreconcilable and mutually exclusive contradictions. metaphysics is in doubt whether this common existence is real or only apparent, or whether there is not somewhere in a heaven above the clouds an entirely different life. but philosophy is now fully aware that even the most fictitious being is so positively real that any negation which appearances may attribute to it is outclassed by affirmation to the utter discomfiture of the former. being and its affirmation is absolute, negation and not being are only relative. being is everywhere and always dominant, so that there is no non-existence. though we may say that this or that is nothing, yet we must remain conscious that anything we may call nothing is still something very positive. there cannot be any ignorance which does not at least know a little. there is no evil which cannot be transformed into good. the things that have been, will be, and are, all of them are. there is no non-existence. it is at least a word, though it does not convey any meaning. the world and our language are of so positive a character that even a meaningless word still means something. nothing cannot be expressed. the superstition of another "true" world which floats above this world of phenomena or is secretly hidden behind it has so vitiated logic that it is now difficult to remove the discordant metaphysical "concept of being" from the human mind. the belief in something absolutely different will not easily disappear. it is especially difficult to demonstrate that conceived things are of the same nature as real things, that both of them really belong to true nature. conceived things are pictures, real pictures, pictures of reality. all the limbs of an imaginary dragon are copied from nature. such creations of imagination are distinguished from truths only by their fanciful composition. to connect nature and human life according to the given order, that is the whole function of understanding. knowing, thinking, understanding, explaining, has not, and cannot have, any other function but that of describing the processes of experience by division or classification. the famous scientist haeckel may call this contemptuously "museum zoology" and "herbarium botany," but he simply shows that he has not grasped the secret of the intellect, but still wonders at it in a metaphysical way, the same as his predecessors. what darwin ascertained about the "origin of species" and about the transitions and evolutions in organic life is a very valuable expansion of museum zoology. whoever expects anything else from the nature of intellectual faculties, shows that he is not familiar with the outcome of philosophy, that he has not emancipated himself from the vain wondering and its accompanying edification, which the wonder of human intelligence caused to primitive ignorance. understanding has hitherto been in error about itself and was, therefore, inadequately equipped for the task of giving a true account of its relatives, of the phenomena of nature and life. nevertheless it has acquired training in the course of culture and has progressively accomplished better things. its errors have never been valueless, and its truths will never be sufficient. that this is so, is not due to the defective condition of our intelligence, but to the inexhaustibleness of being, the indescribable wealth of nature. the self-conscious, philosophically trained understanding and intelligence has now the means of knowing that the accuracy of all investigation is limited, that for this reason all its future results will be affected by error. but a science which is backed up by such an enlightened understanding, is reconciled to its limitations and transforms them into a hall of glory. self-conscious limitation is aware of its partnership in the absolute perfection of the universe. the self-conscious intellect improved by the positive product of philosophy knows that it can understand, describe, the whole world in a natural, sensible way. there is nothing that can resist it. but in the sense of a transcendental metaphysics, our understanding is not worthy of that name. in return, this metaphysics is pure vagary in the eyes of critical reason. taking its departure from fantastical ideals, from contradictions, especially between being and not being, metaphysics has gradually transformed itself in the course of civilization and become philosophy, which in its turn has progressed step by step the same as all other science. philosophy was at first impelled by the nebulous desire for universal world wisdom and has finally assumed the form of a lucid special investigation of the theory of understanding. this theory is part, and the most essential part at that, of psychology or the science of the soul. modern psychologists have at least divined, if not recognized, that the human soul is not a metaphysical thing, but a phenomenon. like professor haeckel, they also complain about the dead classification in their specialty. the human soul is presented to them as a multitude of _faculties_. there is the faculty of understanding, of feeling, of perceiving, etc., without number and end. but how is life infused into them? where is the consistent connection? there is, for instance, the conception and feeling of beauty in the human soul. the beautiful again is divided into the artistically beautiful and the ethically beautiful, and each of these into other subdivisions. there is beside the beautiful also the pretty, the charming, the graceful, the dignified, the noble, the solemn, the splendid, the pathetic, the touching. psychology also treats of the ridiculous, of the joke, the wit, the satire, the irony, the humor, of a thousand subtleties and distinctions, the ideological separation of which it attempts just as do botany, zoology, and every other science in their field. to all of them, being is the object of study. what is the use of metaphysics under these circumstances? only because it had in mind a different being, a transcendental one, could it induce kant to sum up all his studies in the question: how is metaphysics possible as a science? it is the merit of philosophy to have demonstrated that metaphysics is possible only as fantastical speculation. it is the business of metaphysics to treat being transcendentally. it is the business of special sciences to classify being after the manner of herbarium botany. classical order is already present in the vegetable kingdom, otherwise no specialist in botany could classify it. but the objective arrangement of the vegetable kingdom in infinitely more multiform than the subjective arrangement of botany. the latter is always excellent, if it corresponds to the scientific progress of its period. whoever is looking for absolute botany or psychology, or for any other absolute science, misunderstands the universally natural character of the absolute as well as the relative special character of the human faculty of understanding. philosophy familiar with its historical achievement understands being as the infinite material of life and science which is taken up by the special sciences and classified by them. it teaches the specialists to remember throughout all their classifications according to departments and concepts that all specialties are connected by life and not so separated in life as they are in science, but that they are flowing and passing into one another. thus our science of understanding finally culminates in the rule: thou shalt sharply divide and subdivide and farther subdivide to the utmost the universal concept, the concept of the universe, but thou shalt be backed up by the consciousness that this mental classification is a formality by which man seeks for the sake of his information to register and to place his experience; thou shalt furthermore remain aware of thy liberty to progressively improve the experience acquired by thyself in the course of time, by modifying thy classification. things are ideas, ideas are names, and things, ideas, and names are subject to continuous perfection. stable motion and mobile stability constitute the reconciling contradiction which enables us to reconcile all contradictions. the end the problem of truth by h. wildon carr honorary d.litt., durham london: t. c. & e. c. jack long acre, w.c., and edinburgh new york: dodge publishing co. {v} preface a problem of philosophy is completely different from a problem of science. in science we accept our subject-matter as it is presented in unanalysed experience; in philosophy we examine the first principles and ultimate questions that concern conscious experience itself. the problem of truth is a problem of philosophy. it is not a problem of merely historical interest, but a present problem--a living controversy, the issue of which is undecided. its present interest may be said to centre round the doctrine of pragmatism, which some fifteen years ago began to challenge the generally accepted principles of philosophy. in expounding this problem of truth, my main purpose has been to make clear to the reader the nature of a problem of philosophy and to disclose the secret of its interest. my book presumes no previous study of philosophy nor special knowledge of its problems. the theories that i have shown in conflict on this question are, each of them, held by some of the leaders of philosophy. in presenting them, therefore, i have tried to let the full dialectical force of the argument appear. i have indicated my own view, that the direction in which the solution lies is in the new conception of life and the theory of knowledge given to us in the philosophy of bergson. if i am right, the solution is not, like pragmatism, a doctrine of the nature of truth, but a theory of knowledge in which {vi} the dilemma in regard to truth does not arise. but, as always in philosophy, the solution of one problem is the emergence of another. there is no finality. my grateful acknowledgment is due to my friend professor s. alexander, who kindly read my manuscript and assisted me with most valuable suggestions, and also to my friend dr. t. percy nunn for a similar service. h. wildon carr. {vii} contents chap. i. physics and metaphysics ii. appearance and reality iii. the logical theories iv. the absolute v. pragmatism vi. utility vii. illusion viii. the problem of error ix. conclusion bibliography index { } the problem of truth chapter i physics and metaphysics the progress of physical science leads to the continual discovery of complexity in what is first apprehended as simple. the atom of hydrogen, so long accepted as the ideal limit of simplicity, is now suspected to be not the lowest unit in the scale of elements, and it is no longer conceived, as it used to be, as structureless, but as an individual system, comparable to a solar system, of electrical components preserving an equilibrium probably only temporary. the same tendency to discover complexity in what is first apprehended as simple is evident in the study of philosophy. the more our simple and ordinary notions are submitted to analysis, the more are profound problems brought to consciousness. it is impossible to think that we do not know what such an ordinary, simple notion as that of truth is; yet the attempt to give a definition of its meaning brings quite unexpected difficulties to light, and the widest divergence at the present time between rival principles of philosophical interpretation is in regard to a theory of the nature of truth. it is not a problem that is pressed on us by any felt need, nor is anyone who does not feel its interest called upon to occupy himself with it. we speak our language before we know its { } grammar, and we reason just as well whether we have learnt the science of logic or not. this science of logic, or, as it is sometimes called, of formal logic, was, until modern times, regarded as a quite simple account of the principles that govern the exercise of our reasoning faculty, and of the rules founded on those principles by following which truth was attained and false opinion or error avoided. it was called formal because it was supposed to have no relation to the matter of the subject reasoned about, but only to the form which the reasoning must take. a complete account of this formal science, as it was recognised and accepted for many ages, might easily have been set forth within the limits of a small volume such as this. but the development of modern philosophy has wrought an extraordinary change. anyone now who will set himself the task of mastering all the problems that have been raised round the question of the nature of logical process, will find himself confronted with a vast library of special treatises, and involved in discussions that embrace the whole of philosophy. the special problem of truth that it is the object of this little volume to explain is a quite modern question. it has been raised within the present generation of philosophical writers, and is to-day, perhaps, the chief controversy in which philosophers are engaged. but although it is only in the last few years that controversy has been aroused on this question, the problem is not new--it is indeed as old as philosophy itself. in the fifth century before christ, and in the generation that immediately preceded socrates, a famous philosopher, protagoras ( - b.c.) published a book with the title _the truth_. he had the misfortune, common at that time, to offend the religious athenians, { } for he spoke slightingly of the gods, proposing to "banish their existence or non-existence from writing and speech." he was convicted of atheism, and his books were publicly burnt, and he himself, then seventy years of age, was either banished or at least was obliged to flee from athens, and on his way to sicily he lost his life in a shipwreck. our knowledge of this book of protagoras is due to the preservation of its argument by plato in the dialogue "theætetus." protagoras, we are there told, taught that "man is the measure of all things--of the existence of things that are, and of the non-existence of things that are not." "you have read him?" asks socrates, addressing theætetus. "oh yes, again and again," is theætetus' reply. plato was entirely opposed to the doctrine that protagoras taught. it seemed to him to bring gods and men and tadpoles to one level as far as truth was concerned; for he drew the deduction that if man is the measure of all things, then to each man his own opinion is right. plato opposed to it the theory that truth is the vision of a pure objective reality. this same problem that exercised the ancient world is now again a chief centre of philosophical interest, and the aim of this little book is not to decide that question, but to serve as a guide and introduction to those who desire to know what the question is that divides philosophers to-day into the hostile camps of pragmatism and intellectualism. the subject is not likely to interest anyone who does not care for the study of the exact definitions and abstract principles that lie at the basis of science and philosophy. there are many who are engaged in the study of the physical and natural sciences, and also many who devote themselves to the social and political { } sciences, who hold in profound contempt the fine distinctions and intellectual subtleties that seem to them the whole content of logic and metaphysic. the attitude of the scientific mind is not difficult to understand. it has recently been rather graphically expressed by a distinguished and popular exponent of the principles of natural science. "one may regard the utmost possibilities of the results of human knowledge as the contents of a bracket, and place outside the bracket the factor _x_ to represent those unknown and unknowable possibilities which the imagination of man is never wearied of suggesting. this factor _x_ is the plaything of the metaphysician."[ ] this mathematical symbol of the bracket, multiplied by _x_ to represent the unknown and unknowable possibilities beyond it, will serve me to indicate with some exactness the problem with which i am going to deal. the symbol is an expression of the agnostic position. the popular caricature of the metaphysician and his "plaything" we may disregard as a pure fiction. the unknowable _x_ of the agnostic is not the "meta" or "beyond" of physics which the metaphysician vainly seeks to know. the only "beyond" of physics is consciousness or experience itself, and this is the subject-matter of metaphysics. our present problem is that of the bracket, not that of the factor outside, if there is any such factor, nor yet the particular nature of the contents within. there are, as we shall see, three views that are possible of the nature of the bracket. in one view, it is merely the conception of the extent which knowledge has attained or can attain; it has no intimate relation to the knowledge, but marks externally its limit. this is the view of the realist. in another view, the whole of knowledge is intimately related { } to its particular parts; the things we know are not a mere collection or aggregate of independent facts that we have discovered; the bracket which contains our knowledge gives form to it, and relates organically the dependent parts to the whole in one comprehensive individual system. this is the view of the idealist. there is yet another view: human knowledge is relative to human activity and its needs; the bracket is the ever-changing limit of that activity--within it is all that is relevant to human purpose and personality without it is all that is irrelevant. this is the view of the pragmatist. it is not only the scientific mind, but also the ethical and religious mind, that is likely to be at least impatient, if not contemptuous, of this inquiry. the question what is truth? will probably bring to everyone's mind the words uttered by a roman procurator at the supreme moment of a great world-tragedy. pilate's question is usually interpreted as the cynical jest of a judge indifferent to the significance of the great cause he was trying--the expression of the belief that there is no revelation of spiritual truth of the highest importance for our human nature, or at least that there is no infallible test by which it can be known. it is not this problem of truth that we are now to discuss. there are, on the other hand, many minds that can never rest satisfied while they have accepted only, and not examined, the assumptions of science and the values of social and political and religious ideals. their quest of first principles may appear to more practical natures a harmless amusement or a useless waste of intellectual energy; but they are responding to a deep need of our human nature, a need that, it may be, is in its very nature insatiable--the need of intellectual satisfaction. it is { } the nature of this intellectual satisfaction itself that is our problem of truth. there are therefore two attitudes towards the problem of truth and reality--that of the mind which brings a practical test to every question, and that of the mind restless to gain by insight or by speculation a clue to the mystery that enshrouds the meaning of existence. the first attitude seems peculiarly to characterise the man of science, who delights to think that the problem of reality is simple and open to the meanest understanding. between the plain man's view and that of the man of high attainment in scientific research there is for him only a difference of degree, and science seems almost to require an apology if it does not directly enlarge our command over nature. it would explain life and consciousness as the result of chemical combination of material elements. philosophy, on the other hand, is the instinctive feeling that the secret of the universe is not open and revealed to the plain man guided by common-sense experience alone, even if to this experience be added the highest attainments of scientific research. either there is far more in matter than is contained in the three-dimensional space it occupies, or else the universe must owe its development to something beyond matter. the universe must seem a poor thing indeed to a man who can think that physical science does or can lay bare its meaning. it is the intense desire to catch some glimpse of its meaning that leads the philosopher to strive to transcend the actual world by following the speculative bent of the reasoning power that his intellectual nature makes possible. [ ] sir kay lankester. { } chapter ii appearance and reality our conscious life is one unceasing change. from the first awakening of consciousness to the actual present, no one moment has been the mere repetition of another, and the moments which as we look back seem to have made up our life are not separable elements of it but our own divisions of a change that has been continuous. and as it has been, so we know it will be until consciousness ceases with death. consciousness and life are in this respect one and the same, although when we speak of our consciousness we think chiefly of a passive receptivity, and when we speak of our life we think of an activity. consciousness as the unity of knowing and acting is a becoming. the past is not left behind, it is with us in the form of memory; the future is not a predetermined order which only a natural disability prevents us from knowing, it is yet uncreated; conscious life is the enduring present which grows with the past and makes the future. this reality of consciousness is our continually changing experience. but there is also another reality with which it seems to be in necessary relation and also in complete contrast--this is the reality of the material or physical universe. the world of physical reality seems to be composed of a matter that cannot change in a space that is absolutely unchangeable. this physical world seems made up of solid things, formed out of matter. change in physical science is only a rearrangement of matter or an alteration of position in space. this physical reality is not, as psychical reality is, { } known to us directly; it is an interpretation of our sense experience. immediate experience has objects, generally called sense data. these objects are what we actually see in sensations of sight, what we actually hear in sensations of sound, and so on; and they lead us to suppose or infer physical objects--that is, objects that do not depend upon our experience for their existence, but whose existence is the cause of our having the experience. the process by which we infer the nature of the external world from our felt experience is logical. it includes perceiving, conceiving, thinking or reasoning. the object of the logical process, the aim or ideal to which it seeks to attain, is truth. knowledge of reality is truth. there are therefore two realities, the reality of our felt experience from which all thinking sets out, and the reality which in thinking we seek to know. the one reality is immediate; it is conscious experience itself. the other reality is that which we infer from the fact of experience, that by which we seek to explain our existence. the one we feel, the other we think. if the difference between immediate knowledge and mediate knowledge or inference lay in the feeling of certainty alone or in the nature of belief, the distinction would not be the difficult one that it is. the theories of idealism and realism show how widely philosophers are divided on the subject. we are quite as certain of some of the things that we can only infer as we are of the things of which we are immediately aware. wd cannot doubt, for instance, that there are other persons besides ourselves, yet we can have no distinct knowledge of any consciousness but one--our own. our knowledge that there are other minds is an inference from our observation of the behaviour of some of the things we { } directly experience, and from the experience of our own consciousness. and even those things which seem in direct relation to us--the things we see, or hear, or touch--are immediately present in only a very small, perhaps an infinitesimal, part of what we know and think of as their full reality; all but this small part is inferred. from a momentary sensation of sight, or sound, or touch we infer reality that far exceeds anything actually given to us by the sensation. thinking is questioning experience. when our attention is suddenly attracted by something--a flash of light, or a sound, or a twinge of pain--consciously or unconsciously we say to ourself, what is that? the _that_--a simple felt experience--contains a meaning, brings a message, and we ask _what_? we distinguish the existence as an appearance, and we seek to know the reality. the quest of the reality which is made known to us by the appearance is the logical process of thought. the end or purpose of this logical process is to replace the immediate reality of the felt experience with a mediated-reality--that is, a reality made known to us. directly, therefore, that we begin to think, the immediately present existence becomes an appearance, and throughout the development of our thought it is taken to be something that requires explanation. we seek to discover the reality which will explain it. it is in this distinction of appearance and reality that the problem of truth arises. it does not depend upon any particular theory of knowledge. the same fact is recognised by idealists and by realists. idealism may deny that the knowledge of independent reality is possible; realism may insist that it is implied in the very fact of consciousness itself--whichever is right, the reality which thinking brings before the mind is quite { } unlike and of a different order to that which we immediately experience in feeling. and even if we know nothing of philosophy, if we are ignorant of all theories of knowledge and think of the nature of knowledge simply from the standpoint of the natural man, the fact is essentially the same--the true reality of things is something concealed from outward view, something to be found out by science or by practical wisdom. our knowledge of this reality may be true, in this case only is it knowledge; or it may be false, in which case it is not knowledge but opinion or error. the reality then, the knowledge of which is truth, is not the immediate reality of feeling but the inferred reality of thought. to have any intelligible meaning, the affirmation that knowledge is true supposes that there already exists a distinction between knowledge and the reality known, between the being and the knowing of that which is known. in immediate knowledge, in actual conscious felt experience there is no such distinction, and therefore to affirm truth or error of such knowledge is unmeaning. i cannot have a toothache without knowing that i have it. in the actual felt toothache knowing and being are not only inseparable--they are indistinguishable. if, however, i think of my toothache as part of an independent order of reality, my knowledge of it may be true or false. i am then thinking of it as the effect of an exposed nerve, or of an abscess or of an inflammation--as something, that is to say, that is conditioned independently of my consciousness and that will cease to exist when the conditions are altered. in the same way, when i behold a landscape, the blue expanse of sky and variegated colour of the land which i actually experience are not either true or false, they are immediate experience in { } which knowing is being and being is knowing. truth and error only apply to the interpretation of that experience, to the independent reality that i infer from it. we can, then, distinguish two kinds of knowledge which we may call immediate and mediate, or, better still, acquaintance and description. accordingly, when we say that something is, or when we say of anything that it if real, we may mean either of two things. we may mean that it is part of the changing existence that we actually feel and that we call consciousness or life, or we may mean that it is part of an independent order of things whose existence we think about in order to explain, not what our feeling is (there can be no explanation of this), but how it comes to exist. we know by description a vast number of things with which we never can be actually acquainted. such, indeed, is the case with all the knowledge by which we rule our lives and conceive the reality which environs us. yet we are absolutely dependent on the reality we know by acquaintance for all our knowledge of these things. not only is immediate sense experience and the knowledge it gives us by acquaintance the only evidence we have of the greater and wider reality, but we are dependent on it for the terms wherewith to describe it, for the form in which to present it, for the matter with which to compose it. and this is the real ground of the study of philosophy, the justification of its standpoint. it is this fact--this ultimate undeniable fact--that all reality of whatever kind and in whatever way known, whether by thought or by feeling, whether it is perceived or conceived, remembered or imagined, is in the end composed of sense experience: it is this fact from which all the problems of philosophy arise. it is this fact that our utilitarian men of science find { } themselves forced to recognise, however scornful they may be of metaphysical methods and results. the special problem of the nature of truth is concerned, then, with the reality that we have distinguished as known by description, and conceived by us as independent in its existence of the consciousness by which we know it. what is the nature of the seal by which we stamp this knowledge true? chapter iii the logical theories whoever cares to become acquainted with the difficulty of the problem of truth must not be impatient of dialectical subtleties. there is a well-known story in boswell's _life of dr. johnson_ which relates how the doctor refuted berkeley's philosophy which affirmed the non-existence of matter. "i observed," says boswell, "that though we are satisfied his doctrine is not true, it is impossible to refute it. i shall never forget the alacrity with which johnson answered, striking his foot with mighty force against a large stone, till he rebounded from it--'i refute it _thus_.'" dr. johnson is the representative of robust common sense. it has very often turned out in metaphysical disputes that the common-sense answer is the one that has been justified in the end. those who are impatient of metaphysics are, therefore, not without reasonable ground; and indeed the strong belief that the common-sense view will be justified in the end, however powerful the sceptical doubt that seems to contradict it, however startling the paradox that seems to be involved in it, is a possession of the human mind without which the ordinary { } practical conduct of life would be impossible. when, then, we ask ourselves, what is truth? the answer seems to be simple and obvious. truth, we reply, is a property of certain of our ideas; it means their agreement, as falsity means their disagreement, with reality. if i say of anything that it is so, then, if it is so, what i say is true; if it is not so, then what i say is false. this simple definition of truth is one that is universally accepted. no one really can deny it, for if he did he would have nothing to appeal to to justify his own theory or condemn another. the problem of truth is only raised when we ask, what does the agreement of an idea with reality mean? if the reader will ask himself that question, and carefully ponder it, he will see that there is some difficulty in the answer to the simple question, what is truth? the answer that will probably first of all suggest itself is that the idea is a copy of the reality. and at once many experiences will seem to confirm this view. thus when we look at a landscape we know that the lines of light which radiate from every point of it pass through the lens of each of our eyes to be focussed on the retina, forming there a small picture which is the exact counterpart of the reality. if we look into another person's eye we may see there a picture of the whole field of his vision reflected from his lens. it is true that what we see is not what he sees, for that is on his retina, but the analogy of this with a photographic camera, where we see the picture on the ground glass, seems obvious and natural; and so we think of knowledge, so far as it depends on the sense of vision, as consisting in more or less vivid, more or less faded, copies of real things stored up by the memory. but a very little reflection will convince us that the truth of our ideas cannot consist in the fact { } that they are copies of realities, for clearly they are not copies in any possible meaning of the term. take, for example, this very illustration of seeing a landscape: what we see is not a picture or copy of the landscape, but the real landscape itself. we feel quite sure of this, and with regard to the other sensations, those that come to us by hearing, taste, smell, touch, it would seem highly absurd to suppose that the ideas these sensations produce in us are copies of real things. the pain of burning is not a copy of real fire, and the truth of the judgment, fire burns, does not consist in the fact that the ideas denoted by the words "fire," "burns," faithfully copy certain real things which are not ideas. and the whole notion is seen to be absurd if we consider that, were it a fact that real things produce copies of themselves in our mind, we could never know it was so--all that we should have any knowledge of would be the copies, and whether these were like or unlike the reality, or indeed whether there was any reality for them to be like would, in the nature of the case, be unknowable, and we could never ask the question. if, then, our ideas are not copies of things, and if there are things as well as ideas about things, it is quite clear that the ideas must correspond to the things in some way that does not make them copies of the things. the most familiar instance of correspondence is the symbolism we use in mathematics. are our ideas of this nature? and is their truth their correspondence? is a perfectly true idea one in which there exists a point to point correspondence to the reality it represents? at once there will occur to the mind a great number of instances where this seems to be the case. a map of england is not a copy of england such as, for example, a photograph might be if we were to imagine it taken { } from the moon. the correctness or the truth of a map consists in the correspondence between the reality and the diagram, which is an arbitrary sign of it. throughout the whole of our ordinary life we find that we make use of symbols and signs that are not themselves either parts of or copies of the things for which they stand. language itself is of this nature, and there may be symbols of symbols of symbols of real things. written language is the arbitrary visual sign of spoken language, and spoken language is the arbitrary sign, it may be, of an experienced thing or of an abstract idea. is, then, this property of our ideas which we call truth the correspondence of ideas with their objects, and is falsity the absence of this correspondence? it cannot be so. to imagine that ideas can correspond with realities is to forget that ideas simply are the knowledge of realities; it is to slip into the notion that we know two kinds of different things, first realities and secondly ideas, and that we can compare together these two sorts of things. but it is at once evident that if we could know realities without ideas, we should never need to have recourse to ideas. it is simply ridiculous to suppose that the relation between consciousness and reality which we call knowing is the discovery of a correspondence between mental ideas and real things. the two things that are related together in knowledge are not the idea and its object, but the mind and its object. the idea of the object is the knowledge of the object. there may be correspondence between ideas, but not between ideas and independent things, for that supposes that the mind knows the ideas and also knows the things and observes the correspondence between them. and even if we suppose that ideas are an independent kind of entity distinguishable and separable from another kind { } of entity that forms the real world, how could we know that the two corresponded, for the one would only be inferred from the other? there is, however, a form of the correspondence theory of truth that is presented in a way which avoids this difficulty. truth, it is said, is concerned not with the nature of things themselves but with our judgments about them. judgment is not concerned with the terms that enter into relation--these are immediately experienced and ultimate--but with the relations in which they stand to one another. thus, when we say john is the father of james, the truth of our judgment does not consist in the adequacy of our ideas of john and james, nor in the correspondence of our ideas with the realities, but is concerned only with the relation that is affirmed to exist between them. this relation is declared to be independent of or at least external to the terms, and, so far as it is expressed in a judgment, truth consists in its actual correspondence with fact. so if i say john is the father of james, then, if john is the father of james, the judgment is true, the affirmation is a truth; if he is not, it is false, the affirmation is a falsehood. this view has the merit of simplicity, and is sufficiently obvious almost to disarm criticism. there is, indeed, little difficulty in accepting it if we are able to take the view of the nature of the real universe which it assumes. the theory is best described as pluralistic realism. it is the view that the universe consists of or is composed of an aggregate of an infinite number of entities. some of these have a place in the space and time series, and these exist. some, on the other hand, are possibilities which have not and may never have any actual existence. entities that have their place in the perceptual order of experience exist, { } or have existed, or will exist; but entities that are concepts, such as goodness, beauty, truth, or that are abstract symbols like numbers, geometrical figures, pure forms, do not exist, but are none the less just as real as the entities that do exist. these entities are the subject-matter of our judgments, and knowing is discovering the relations in which they stand to one another. the whole significance of this view lies in the doctrine that relations are external to the entities that are related--they do not enter into and form part of the nature of the entities. the difficulty of this view is just this externality of the relation. it seems difficult to conceive what nature is left in any entity deprived of all its relations. the relation of father and son in the judgment, john is the father of james, is so far part of the nature of the persons john and james, that if the judgment is false then to that extent john and james are not the actual persons john and james that they are thought to be. and this is the case even in so purely external a relation as is expressed, say, in the judgment, edinburgh is east of glasgow. it is difficult to discuss any relation which can be said to be entirely indifferent to the nature of its terms, and it is doubtful if anything whatever would be left of a term abstracted from all its relations. these difficulties have led to the formulation of an altogether different theory, namely, the theory that truth does not consist in correspondence between ideas and their real counterparts, but in the consistence and internal harmony of the ideas themselves. it is named the coherence theory. it will be recognised at once that there is very much in common experience to support it. it is by the test of consistency and coherence that we invariably judge the truth of evidence. { } also it seems a very essential part of our intellectual nature to reject as untrue and false any statement or any idea that is self-contradictory or irreconcilable with the world of living experience. but then, on the other hand, we by no means allow that that must be true which does not exhibit logical contradiction and inconsistency. it is a common enough experience that ideas prove false though they have exhibited no inherent failure to harmonise with surrounding circumstances nor any self-contradiction. the theory, therefore, requires more than a cursory examination. thinking is the activity of our mind which discovers the order, arrangement, and system in the reality that the senses reveal. without thought, our felt experience would be a chaos and not a world. the philosopher kant expressed this by saying that the understanding gives unity to the manifold of sense. the understanding, he said, makes nature. it does this by giving form to the matter which comes to it by the senses. the mind is not a _tabula rasa_ upon which the external world makes and leaves impressions, it is a relating activity which arranges the matter it receives in forms. first of all there are space and time, which are forms in which we receive all perceptual experience, and then there are categories that are conceptual frames or moulds by which we think of everything we experience as having definite relations and belonging to a real order of existence. substance, causality, quality, and quantity are categories; they are universal forms in which the mind arranges sense experience, and which constitute the laws of nature, the order of the world. space and time, and the categories of the understanding kant declared to be transcendental--that is to say, they are the elements necessary to experience which are not { } themselves derived from experience, as, for example, that every event has a cause. there are, he declared, synthetic _a priori_ judgments--that is, judgments about experience which are not themselves derived from experience, but, on the contrary, the conditions that make experience possible. it is from this doctrine of kant that the whole of modern idealism takes its rise. kant, indeed, held that there are things-in-themselves, and to this extent he was not himself an idealist, but he also held that things-in-themselves are unknowable, and this is essentially the idealist position. clearly, if we hold the view that things-in-themselves are unknowable, truth cannot be a correspondence between our ideas and these things-in-themselves. truth must be some quality of the ideas themselves, and this can only be their logical consistency. consistency, because the ideas must be in agreement with one another; and logical, because this consistency belongs to the thinking, and logic is the science of thinking. truth, in effect, is the ideal of logical consistency. we experience in thinking an activity striving to attain the knowledge of reality, and the belief, the feeling of satisfaction that we experience when our thinking seems to attain the knowledge of reality, is the harmony, the absence of contradiction, the coherence, of our ideas themselves. this is the coherence theory. let us see what it implies as to the ultimate nature of truth and reality. in both the theories we have now examined, truth is a logical character of ideas. in the correspondence theory there is indeed supposed a non-logical reality, but it is only in the ideas that there is the conformity or correspondence which constitutes their truth. in the coherence theory, reality is itself ideal, and the { } ultimate ground of everything is logical. this is the theory of truth that accords with the idealist view, and this view finds its most perfect expression in the theory of the absolute. the absolute is the idea of an object that realises perfect logical consistency. this object logic itself creates; if it be a necessary existence, then knowledge of it cannot be other than truth. this view, on account of the supreme position that it assigns to the intellect, and of the fundamental character with which it invests the logical categories, has been named by those who oppose it intellectualism. it is important that it should be clearly understood, and the next chapter will be devoted to its exposition. chapter iv the absolute a comparison of the two theories of truth examined in the last chapter will show that, whereas both rest on a logical quality in ideas, the first depends on an external view taken by the mind of an independent non-mental reality, whereas the second depends on the discovery of an inner meaning in experience itself. it is this inner meaning of experience that we seek to know when asking any question concerning reality. it is the development of this view, and what it implies as to the ultimate nature of reality and truth, that we are now to examine. when we ask questions about reality, we assume in the very inquiry that reality is of a nature that experience reveals. reality in its ultimate nature may be logical--that is to say, of the nature of reason, or it may { } be non-logical--that is to say, of the nature of feeling or will; but in either case it must be a nature of which conscious experience can give us knowledge. if indeed we hold the view which philosophers have often endeavoured to formulate, that reality is unknowable, then there is no more to be said; for, whatever the picture or the blank for a picture by which the mind tries to present this unknowable reality, there can be no question in relation to it of the nature and meaning of truth. an unknowable reality, as we shall show later on, is to all intents and purposes non-existent reality. on the other hand, if thinking leads to the knowledge of reality that we call truth, it is because being and knowing are ultimately one, and this unity can only be in conscious experience. this is the axiom on which the idealist argument is based. the theory of the absolute is a logical argument of great dialectical force. it is not an exaggeration to say that it is the greatest dialectical triumph of modern philosophy. it is the most successful expression of idealism. that this is not an extravagant estimate is shown, i think, by the fact that, widespread and determined as is the opposition it has had to encounter, criticism has been directed not so much against its logic as against the basis of intellectualism on which it rests. the very boldness of its claim and brilliance of its triumph lead to the suspicion that the intellect cannot be the sole determining factor of the ultimate nature of reality. it will be easier to understand the theory of the absolute if we first of all notice, for the sake of afterwards comparing it, another argument very famous in the history of philosophy--the argument to prove the existence of god named after st. anselm of canterbury. { } it runs thus: we have in god the idea of a perfect being; the idea of a perfect being includes the existence of that being, for not to exist is to fall short of perfection; therefore god exists. the theological form of this argument need raise no prejudice against it. it is of very great intrinsic importance, and if it is wrong it is not easy to point out wherein the fallacy lies. it may, of course, be denied that we have or can have the idea of a perfect being--that is to say, that we can present that idea to the mind with a positive content or meaning as distinct from a merely negative or limiting idea. but this is practically to admit the driving force of the argument, namely, that there may be an idea of whose content or meaning existence forms part. with regard to everything else the idea of existing is not existence. there is absolutely no difference between the idea of a hundred dollars and the idea of a hundred dollars existing, but there is the whole difference between thought and reality in the idea of the hundred dollars existing and the existence of the hundred dollars. their actual existence in no way depends on the perfection or imperfection of my idea, nor in the inclusion of their existence in my idea. this is sufficiently obvious in every case in which we are dealing with perceptual reality, and in which we can, in the words of the philosopher hume, produce the impression which gives rise to the idea. but there are some objects which by their very nature will not submit to this test. no man hath seen god at any time, not because god is an object existing under conditions and circumstances of place and time impossible for us to realise by reason of the limitations of our finite existence, but because god is an object in a different sense from that which has a place in the perceptual order, and therefore it is affirmed of god that the { } idea involves existence. god is not an object of perception, either actual or possible; nor in the strict sense is god a concept--that is to say, a universal of which there may be particulars. he is in a special sense the object of reason. if we believe that there is a god, it is because our reason tells us that there must be. god, in philosophy, is the idea of necessary existence, and the argument runs: god must be, therefore is. if, then, we exclude from the idea of god every mythological and theological element--if we mean not zeus nor jehovah nor brahma, but the first principle of existence--then we may find in the st. anselm argument the very ground of theism. i have explained this argument, which is of the class called ontological because it is concerned with the fundamental question of being, in order to give an instance of the kind of argument that has given us the theory of the absolute. i will now try to set that theory before the reader, asking only that he will put himself into the position of a plain man with no special acquaintance with philosophy, but reflective and anxious to interpret the meaning of his ordinary experience. we have already seen that thinking is the questioning of experience, and that the moment it begins it gives rise to a distinction between appearance and reality. it is the asking _what?_ of every _that_ of felt experience to which the mind attends. the world in which we find ourselves is extended all around us in space and full of things which affect us in various ways: some give us pleasure, others give us pain, and we ourselves are things that affect other things as well as being ourselves affected by them. when we think about the things in the world in order to discover _what_ they really are, we very soon find that we are liable to illusion and error. { } things turn out on examination to be very different to what we first imagined them to be. our ideas, by which we try to understand the reality of things are just so many attempts to correct and set right our illusions and errors. and so the question arises, how far are our ideas about things truths about reality? it is very soon evident that there are some qualities of things that give rise to illusion and error much more readily than others. the spatial qualities of things, solidity, shape, size, seem to be real in a way that does not admit of doubt. we seem able to apply to these qualities a test that is definite and absolute. on the other hand, there seem to be effects of these things in us such as their colour, taste, odour, sound, coldness, or heat, qualities that are incessantly changing and a fruitful source of illusion and error. we therefore distinguish the spatial qualities as primary, and consider that they are the real things and different from their effects, which we call their secondary qualities. and this is, perhaps, our most ordinary test of reality. if, for example, we should think that something we see is an unreal phantom, or a ghost, or some kind of hallucination, and on going up to it find that it does actually occupy space, we correct our opinion and say the thing is real. but the spatial or primary qualities of a thing, although they may seem more permanent and more essential to the reality of the thing than the secondary qualities, are nevertheless only qualities. they are not the thing itself, but ways in which it affects us. it seems to us that these qualities must inhere in or belong to the thing, and so we try to form the idea of the real thing as a substance or substratum which has the qualities. this was a generally accepted notion until berkeley ( - ) showed how contradictory it is. so { } simple and convincing was his criticism of the notion, that never since has material substance been put forward as an explanation of the reality of the things we perceive. all that he did was to show how impossible and contradictory it is to think that the reality of that which we perceive is something in its nature imperceptible, for such must material substance be apart from its sense qualities. how can that which we perceive be something imperceptible? and if we reflect on it, we shall surely agree that it is so--by the thing we mean its qualities, and apart from the qualities there is no thing. we must try, then, in some other way to reach the reality. what, we shall now ask, can it be that binds together these sense qualities so that we speak of them as a thing? there are two elements that seem to enter into everything whatever that comes into our experience, and which it seems to us would remain if everything in the universe were annihilated. these are space and time. are they reality? here we are met with a new kind of difficulty. it was possible to dismiss material substance as a false idea, an idea of something whose existence is impossible; but space and time are certainly not false ideas. the difficulty about them is that we cannot make our thought of them consistent--they are ideas that contain a self-contradiction, or at least that lead to a self-contradiction when we affirm them of reality. with the ideas of space and time are closely linked the ideas of change, of movement, of causation, of quality and quantity, and all of these exhibit this same puzzling characteristic, that they seem to make us affirm what we deny and deny what we affirm. i might fill this little book with illustrations of the paradoxes that are involved in these ordinary working ideas. everyone is familiar with the difficulty involved in the { } idea of time. we must think there was a beginning, and we cannot think that there was any moment to which there was no before. so also with space, it is an infinite extension which we can only think of as a beyond to every limit. this receding limit of the infinitely extensible space involves the character of infinite divisibility, for if there are an infinite number of points from which straight lines can be drawn without intersecting one another to any fixed point there is therefore no smallest space that cannot be further divided. the contradictions that follow from these demonstrable contents of the idea of space are endless. the relation of time to space is another source of contradictory ideas. i shall perhaps, however, best make the meaning of this self-contradictory character of our ordinary ideas clear by following out a definite illustration. what is known as the antinomy of motion is probably familiar to everyone from the well-known paradox of the greek philosopher zeno. the flying arrow, he said, does not move, because if it did it would be in two places at one and the same time, and that is impossible. i will now put this same paradox of movement in a form which, so far as i know, it has not been presented before. my illustration will involve the idea of causation as well as that of movement. if we suppose a space to be fully occupied, we shall agree that nothing within that space can move without thereby displacing whatever occupies the position into which it moves. that is to say, the movement of any occupant of one position must cause the displacement of the occupant of the new position into which he moves. but on the other hand it is equally clear that the displacement of the occupant of the new position is a prior condition of the possibility of the movement of { } the mover, for nothing can move unless there is an unoccupied place for it to move into, and there is no unoccupied place unless it has been vacated by its occupant before the movement begins. we have therefore the clear contradiction that a thing can only move when something else which it causes to move has already moved. now if we reflect on it we shall see that this is exactly the position we occupy in our three-dimensional space. the space which surrounds us is occupied, and therefore we cannot move until a way is made clear for us, and nothing makes way for us unless we move. we cannot move through stone walls because we cannot displace solid matter, but we can move through air and water because we are able to displace these. the problem is the same. my movement displaces the air, but there is no movement until the air is displaced. can we escape the contradiction by supposing the displacement is the cause and the movement the effect. are we, like people in a theatre queue, only able to move from behind forward as the place is vacated for us in front? in that case we should be driven to the incredible supposition that the original cause or condition of our movement is the previous movement of something at the outskirts of our occupied space, that this somewhat moving into the void made possible the movement of the occupant of the space next adjoining, and so on until after a lapse of time which may be ages, which may indeed be infinite, the possibility of movement is opened to us. in fact we must believe that the effect of our movement--namely, the displacement of the previous occupants from the positions we occupy in moving--happened before it was caused. now it is impossible for us to believe either of the only two alternatives--either that we do not really move but only { } appear to do so, or that the displacement our movement causes really precedes the movement. when we meet with a direct self-contradiction in our thoughts about anything, we can only suppose that that about which we are thinking is in its nature nonsensical, or else that our ideas about it are wrong. it may perhaps be thought that the whole difficulty arises simply because what we are trying to think consistently about is a reality that is external to us. space and time, movement, cause and effect are ideas that apply to a world outside and independent of the mind that tries to think it. may not this be the reason of our failure and the whole explanation of the seeming contradiction? if we turn our thoughts inward upon our own being and think of the self, the i, the real subject of experience, then surely where thought is at home and its object is mental not physical, we shall know reality. it is not so. the same self-contradiction characterises our ideas when we try to present the real object of inner perception as when we try to present the real object of external perception. not, of course, that it is possible to doubt the reality of our own existence, but that we fail altogether to express the meaning of the self we so surely know to exist in any idea which does not fall into self-contradiction. as in the case of the thing and its qualities, we think that there is something distinct from the qualities in which they inhere and yet find ourselves unable to present to the mind any consistent idea of such thing, so we think that there must be some substance or basis of personal identity, some real self which _has_ the successive changing conscious states, which has the character which distinguishes our actions as personal but which nevertheless _is_ not itself these things. the self-contradiction { } in the idea of self, or i, or subject, is that it both cannot change and is always changing. as unchanging, we distinguish it from our body, which is an external object among other objects and is different from other objects only in the more direct and intimate relation in which it stands to us. the body is always changing; never for two successive moments is it exactly the same combination of chemical elements. we distinguish also ourself from that consciousness which is memory, the awareness of past experience, from present feelings, desires, thoughts, and strivings--these, we say, belong to the self but are not it. the self must have qualities and dwell in the body, guiding, directing, and controlling it, yet this self we never perceive, nor can we conceive it, for our idea of it is of a reality that changes and is yet unchangeable. there is, however, one idea--an idea to which we have already alluded--that seems to offer us an escape from the whole of this logical difficulty, the idea that reality is unknowable. may not the contradictoriness of our ideas be due to this fact, that our knowledge is entirely of phenomena, of appearances of things, and not of things as they are in themselves? by a thing-in-itself we do not mean a reality that dwells apart in a universe of its own, out of any relation whatever to our universe. there may or may not be such realities, and whether there are or not is purely irrelevant to any question of the nature of reality in our universe. the thing-in-itself is the unknowable reality of the thing we know. we conceive it as existing in complete abstraction from every aspect or relation of it that constitutes knowledge of it in another. the self-contradiction of such an idea is not difficult to show, quite apart from any consideration of its utter futility as an { } explanation. the thing-in-itself either is or else it is not the reality of phenomena. if it is, then, inasmuch as the phenomena reveal it, it is neither in-itself nor unknowable. if, on the other hand, it is not, if it is unrelated in any way to phenomena, then it is not only unknowable--it does not exist to be known. it is an idea without any content or meaning, and therefore indistinguishable from nothing. it is simply saying of one and the same thing that it must be and that there is nothing that it can be. while, then, there is no actual thing that we experience, whether it be an object outside of us or an object within us, of which we can say this is not a phenomenon or appearance of reality but the actual reality itself, we cannot also say that we do not know reality, because if we had no idea, no criterion, of reality we could never know that anything was only an appearance. it is this fact--the fact that we undoubtedly possess, in the very process of thinking itself, a criterion of reality--that the idealist argument lays hold of as the basis of its doctrine. the mere fact seems, at first sight, barren and unpromising enough, but the idealist does not find it so. possessed of this principle, logic, which has seemed till now purely destructive, becomes in his hands creative, and gives form and meaning to an object of pure reason. the criterion of reality is self-consistency. we cannot think that anything is ultimately real which has its ground of existence in something else. a real thing is that which can be explained without reference to some other thing. reality, therefore, is completely self-contained existence, not merely dependent existence. contradictions cannot be true. if we have to affirm a contradiction of anything, it must be due to an { } appearance, and the reality must reconcile the contradiction. the idea of reality, therefore, is the idea of perfect harmony. knowing, then, what reality is, can we say that there is any actual object of thought that conforms to it? and have we in our limited experience anything that will guide us to the attainment of this object? the idealist is confident that we have. some things seem to us to possess a far higher degree of reality than others, just because they conform in a greater degree to this ideal of harmonious existence. it is when we compare the reality of physical things with the reality of mental things that the contrast is most striking, and in it we have the clue to the nature of the higher reality. physical reality may seem, and indeed in a certain sense is, the basis of existence, but when we try to think out the meaning of physical reality, it becomes increasingly abstract, and we seem unable to set any actual limit to prevent it dissipating into nothing. in physical science we never have before us an actual element, either matter or energy, in which we can recognise, however far below the limit of perceivability, the ultimate stuff of which the universe is composed. science has simply to arrest the dissipation by boldly assuming a matter that is the substance and foundation of reality and an energy that is the ultimate cause of the evolution of the universe. on the other hand, when we consider mental existence, the pursuit of reality is in an exactly contrary direction. there, the more concrete, the more comprehensive, the more individual a thing is, the greater degree of reality it seems to have. in the spiritual realm, by which we mean, not some supposed supra-mundane sphere, but the world of values, the world in which ideas have reality, in which we live our rational life, reality is always sought in a { } higher and higher individuality. the principle of individuality is that the whole is more real than the parts. an individual human being, for example, is a whole, an indivisible organic unity, not merely an aggregation of physiological organs with special functions, nor are these a mere collection of special cells, nor these a mere concourse of chemical elements. the state as a community is an individual organic unity with a reality that is more than the mere total of the reality of individual citizens who compose it. it is this principle of individuality that is the true criterion of reality. it is this principle that, while it leads us to seek the unity in an individuality ever higher and more complete than we have attained, at the same time explains the discrepancy of our partial view, explains contradictions as the necessary result of the effort to understand the parts in independence of the whole which gives to them their reality. thus, while on the one hand the scientific search for reality is ever towards greater simplicity and abstractness, a simplicity whose ideal limit is zero, the philosophical search for reality is ever towards greater concreteness, towards full comprehensiveness, and its ideal limit is the whole universe as one perfect and completely harmonious individual. this idea of full reality is the absolute. there are not two realities, one material and the other spiritual; the material and the spiritual are two directions in which we may seek the one reality, but there is only one pathway by which we shall find it. the absolute is the whole universe not in its aspect of an aggregate of infinitely diverse separate elements, whether these are material or spiritual, but in its aspect of an individual whole and in its nature as a whole. this nature of the whole is to be individual--only in { } the individual are contradictions reconciled. is the absolute more than an idea? does it actually exist? clearly we cannot claim to know it by direct experience, by acquaintance; it is not a _that_ of which we can ask _what_? it is the object of reason itself, therefore we know that it must be. also we know that it can be; it is a possible object in the logical meaning that it is not a self-contradictory idea, like every other idea that we can have. it is not self-contradictory, for it is itself the idea of that which is consistent. therefore, argues the idealist, it is, for that which must be, and can be, surely exists. the reader will now understand why i introduced this account of the absolute with a description for comparison of the st. anselm proof of the existence of god. there is one further question. whether the absolute does or does not exist, is it, either in idea or reality, of any use to us? the reply is that its value lies in this, that it reveals to us the nature of reality and the meaning of truth. logic is the creative power of thought which leads us to the discovery of higher and higher degrees of reality. the satyr, in the fable, drove his guest from his shelter because the man blew into his hands to warm them, and into his porridge to cool it. the satyr could not reconcile the contradiction that one could with the same breath blow hot and cold. nor would he reconcile it ever, so long as he sought truth as correspondence. truth would have shown the facts coherent by reconciling the contradiction in a higher reality. { } chapter v pragmatism the theory of the absolute is only one form of idealism, but it illustrates the nature and general direction of the development of philosophy along the line of speculation that began with kant. there have been, of course, other directions. in particular many attempts have been made to make philosophy an adjunct of physical science, but the theory i have sketched is characteristic of the prevailing movement in philosophy during the last period of the nineteenth century, and until the movement known as pragmatism directed criticism upon it. the form the pragmatical criticism of the theory of the absolute took was to direct attention to the logical or intellectual principle on which it rests--in fact to raise the problem of the nature of truth. pragmatism is a theory of the meaning of truth. it is the denial of a purely logical criterion of truth, and the insistence that truth is always dependent on psychological conditions. pragmatism therefore rejects both the views that we have examined--the theory that truth is a correspondence of the idea with its object, and the theory that it is the logical coherence and consistency of the idea itself. it proposes instead the theory that truth is always founded on a practical postulate, and consists in the verification of that postulate; the verification not being the discovery of something that was waiting to be discovered, but the discovery that the postulate that claims to be true is useful, in that it works. truth is what works. the absolute is reality and truth. the idealist argument which we have followed was an attempt to { } determine the nature of reality, and not an attempt to explain what we mean when we say that an idea agrees with its object. what is true about reality? was the starting point, and not, what is truth? nor even, what is true about truth? the search for reality failed to discover any object that agreed with its idea, but at last there was found an idea that must agree with its object, an idea whose object cannot not be. this idea, the absolute, reveals the nature of reality. the pragmatist when he asks, what is truth? seems to dig beneath the argument, seems indeed even to reach the bedrock, but it is only in appearance that this is so. how, indeed, could he hope to be able to answer the question he has himself asked, if there is no way of distinguishing the true answer from the false? we must already know what truth is even to be able to ask what it is--a point which many pragmatist writers appear to me to have overlooked. in challenging the idea of truth, the pragmatist raises the no less important question of the nature of error. a theory of truth must not only show in what truth consists, but must distinguish false from true and show the nature of error. the pragmatist claims for his theory that it alone can give a consistent account of illusion and error. now, as we saw in our account of the idealist argument, it is the fact of illusion and error that compels us to seek reality behind the appearances that are the sense data of our conscious experience. the whole force of the pragmatist movement in philosophy is directed to proving that truth is a prior consideration to reality. if we understand the nature of truth, we shall see reality in the making. reality can in fact be left to look after itself; our business is with our conceptions alone, which are either true or false. the distinction of appearance and reality does { } not explain illusion and error because it does not distinguish between true and false appearance. there is no principle in idealism by which the absolute rejects the false appearance and reconciles the true. before i examine the pragmatist argument, i ought first to explain the meaning and origin of the word. the term pragmatism, that has in the last few years entered so widely into all philosophical discussion, was used first by mr. c. s. peirce, an american philosopher, in a magazine article written as long ago as , but it attracted no attention for nearly twenty years, when it was recalled by william james in the criticism of the current philosophy in his _will to believe_, a book which marks the beginning of the new movement. pragmatism was first put forward as the principle that the whole meaning of any conception expresses itself in practical consequences. the conception of the practical effects of a conception is the whole conception of the object. the pragmatist maxim is--would you know what any idea or conception means, then consider what practical consequences are involved by its acceptance or rejection. dr. schiller, the leading exponent of the principle in england, prefers to call the philosophy "humanism" in order still more to emphasize the psychological and personal character of knowledge. the name is suggested by the maxim of protagoras, "man is the measure of all things." the term intellectualism is used by pragmatist writers to include all theories of knowledge that do not agree with their own, very much as the greeks called all who were not greeks, barbarians. it must not be taken to mean, as its etymology would imply, a philosophy like that of plato, which held that only universals, the ideas, are real, or like that of hegel, who said that "the actual is the rational and the rational is the actual." the { } pragmatists apply the term intellectualist to all philosophers who recognise an objective character in the logical ideal of truth, whether or not they also recognise non-logical elements in reality, and whether or not these non-logical elements are physical, such as matter and energy, or purely psychical, such as will, desire, emotion, pleasure, and pain. pragmatism is a criticism and a theory. if reality in its full meaning is the absolute, and if all seeming reality is only a degree of or approximation to this full reality, if the knowledge of this reality only is truth, must it not seem to us that truth is useless knowledge? useless, not in the sense that it is without value to the mind that cares to contemplate it, but useless in so far as the hard everyday working world in which we have to spend our lives is concerned. we who have to win our existence in the struggle of life, need truth. we need truth in order to act. truth that transcends our temporal needs, truth that is eternal, truth that reconciles illusion and error, that accepts them as a necessary condition of appearance in time, is useless in practice, however it may inspire the poet and philosopher. truth to serve us must reject error and not reconcile it, must be a working criterion and not only a rational one. whatever truth is, it is not useless; it is a necessity of life, not a luxury of speculation. pragmatism therefore rejects the logical criterion of truth because it is purely formal and therefore useless. it demands for us a practical criterion, one that will serve our continual needs. whether our working ideas--cause, time, space, movement, things and their qualities, terms and their relations, and the like--are consistent or inconsistent in themselves, they more or less work; and in so far as they work they are useful and serve us, and because they work, and just in so far as they work, they are true. { } the pragmatist therefore declares that utility, not logical consistency, is the criterion of truth. ideas are true in so far as they work. the discovery that they serve us is their verification. if we discover ideas that will serve us better, the old ideas that were true become untrue, and the new ideas that we adopt become true because they are found to work. this doctrine of the verification or making true of ideas leads to a theory of the origin of the ideas themselves. each idea has arisen or been called forth by a human need. it has been formed by human nature to meet a need of human nature. it is a practical postulate claiming truth. even the axioms that now seem to us self-evident--such, for example, as the very law of contradiction itself, from which, as we have seen, the logical criterion of consistency is deduced--were in their origin practical postulates, called forth by a need, and, because found to work, true. the inconsistencies and contradictions in our ideas do not condemn them as appearance, and compel us to construct a reality in which they disappear or are reconciled, but are evidence of their origin in practical need and of their provisional character. truth is not eternal, it is changing. new conditions are ever calling forth new ideas, and truths become untrue. each new idea comes forward with a claim to truth, and its claim is tested by its practicability. truth is not something we discover, and which was there to be discovered. we verify ideas. to verify is not to find true but to make true. the pragmatist theory therefore is that truth is made. in all other theories truth is found. but if we make truth we must make reality, for it is clear that if reality is there already, the agreement with it of man-made truth would be nothing short of a miracle. the pragmatist, or at all events the pragmatist who is also a { } humanist, finds no difficulty in accepting this consequence of the theory, although at the same time insisting that the whole problem, of being as well as of knowing is concerned with truth. we shall see, however, that it offers a serious difficulty to the acceptance of the theory--a theory which in very many respects agrees with ordinary practice and with scientific method. take, for example, scientific method. is not all progress in science made by suggesting a hypothesis, and testing it by experiment to see if it works? do we not judge its claim to truth by the practical consequences involved in accepting or rejecting it? is there any other verification? this is the simple pragmatist test,--does the laboratory worker add to it or find it in any respect insufficient? if truth can be considered alone, then we must admit that it is the attribute of knowledge which is comprised under the term useful, the term being used in its most comprehensive meaning to include every kind of practical consequence. it is the question of reality that raises the difficulty for the scientific worker. we cannot believe, or perhaps we should say, the ordinary man and the scientific man would find it very difficult to believe, that reality changes correspondingly with our success or failure in the verification of our hypothesis. when the scientific worker verifies his hypothesis, he feels not that he has made something true which before was not true, but that he has discovered what always was true, although until the discovery he did not know it. to this the pragmatist reply is, that this very belief is a practical consequence involved in the verification of the hypothesis, involved in the discovery that it works. what he denies is that truth reveals, or ever can reveal, a reality entirely irrelevant to any human purpose. it is also very important to add that in declaring that truth is verification, the { } pragmatist does not set up a purely practical or utilitarian standard. the "working" of truth means theoretical as well as practical working. much of the current criticism of pragmatism has failed to take notice of this intention or meaning of its principle, and hence the common misapprehension that the maxim "truth is what works" must mean that whatever a man believes is for him truth. the pragmatist doctrine and attitude will perhaps be easier to understand if we take it in regard to a particular instance of truth and error in regard to fundamental notions. in the last four or five years a new principle has been formulated in physics, named the principle of relativity. it revolutionises the current conceptions of space and time. it is so recent that probably some of my readers now hear of it for the first time, and therefore before i refer to its formulation by mathematicians i will give a simple illustration to explain what it is. suppose that you are walking up and down the deck of a steamer, and let us suppose that the steamer is proceeding at the speed of four miles an hour, the space that you cover and the interval of time that you occupy are exactly the same for you whether you are moving up the deck in the direction the steamer is going or down the deck in the direction which is the reverse of the steamer's movement. but suppose some one on the shore could observe you moving while the ship was invisible to him, your movement would appear to him entirely different to what it is to you. when you were walking up the deck you would seem to be going at twice the speed you would be going, and when you were going down the deck you would seem not to be moving at all. the time measurement would also seem different to the observer on the shore, for while to you each moment would be measured by an equal { } space covered, to him one moment you would be moving rapidly, the next at rest. this is simple and easy to understand. now suppose that both you and the observer were each observing a natural phenomenon, say a thunder-storm, it would seem that each of you ought to observe it with a difference--a difference strictly calculable from the system of movement, the ship, in which you were placed in relation to him. the propagation of the sound and of the light would have to undergo a correction if each of you described your experience to the other. if you were moving in the direction of the light waves they would be slower for you than for him, and if against their direction they would be faster for you than for him. of course the immense velocity of the light waves, about , miles a second, would make the difference in a movement of four miles an hour so infinitesimal as to be altogether inappreciable, but it would not be nothing, and you would feel quite confident that if it could be measured the infinitesimal quantity would appear in the result. now suppose that we could measure it with absolute accuracy, and that the result was the discovery that the supposed difference did not exist at all--and of course, we suppose that there is no doubt whatever about the measurement--what, then, should we be obliged to think? we should be forced to believe that as the velocity of light was the same for the two observers, one moving, one at rest, therefore the space and the time must be different for each. now, however strange it may seem, such a measurement has been made, and with this surprising result. in consequence there has been formulated a new principle in physics named the principle of relativity. i take this principle of relativity for my illustration because it is based on reasoning that practically admits of no doubt, and because { } it requires us to form new conceptions of space and time which seem to alter fundamentally what we have hitherto considered as the evident and unmistakable nature of those realities. it has always seemed that the distance separating two points, and the interval of time separating two events, were each independent of the other and each absolute. however different the distance and the interval may appear to observers in movement or to observers in different systems of movement in relation to ourselves and to one another, in themselves they are the same distance and the same interval for all. they are the same for the man in the express train as for the man standing on the station platform. the principle of relativity requires us to think that this is not so, but that, contrary to all our settled notions, the actual space and time vary--really undergo an alteration, a contraction or expansion--with each different system of movement of translation to which the observer is bound. events that for an observer belonging to one system of movement happen in the same place, for another observer in a different system of movement happen in different places. events that for one observer happen simultaneously, for other observers are separated by a time interval according to the movement of translation of the system to which they belong. so that space, which newton described as rigid, and time which he described as flowing at a constant rate, and which for him was absolute, are for the new theory relative, different for an observer in every different system of movement of translation. or we may state it in the opposite way, and say that the principle of relativity shows us that the reason why natural phenomena, such as the rate of propagation of light, undergo no alteration when we pass from one system of movement of translation to another, as we { } are constantly doing in the changing velocity of the earth's movement round the sun, is that space and time alter with the velocity. i cannot here give the argument or describe the experiments which have given this result--i am simply taking it as an illustration.[ ] it seems to me admirably suited to compare the pragmatist method and the pragmatist attitude with that of scientific realism and of absolute idealism. [ ] the principle of relativity is mainly the result of the recent mathematical work of h. a. lorentz, einstein, and the late professor minkowski. a very interesting and not excessively difficult, account of it is contained in _dernières pensées_, by the late henri poincaré; paris, alcan. here, then, is a question in which the truth of our accepted notions is called in question, and new notions claim to be true. the sole question involved, pragmatism insists, is the truth of conceptions, not the reality of things, and there is but one way of testing the truth of conceptions--and that is by comparing the rival conceptions in respect of the practical consequences that follow from them and adopting those that will work. if the old conceptions of space and time fail to conform to a new need, then what was true before the need was revealed is no longer true, the new conception has become true. by verifying the new conception, we make it true. but, objects the realist, an idea cannot become true; what is now true always was true, and what is no longer true never was true, though we may have worked with the false notion ignorant that it was false. behind truth there is reality. the earth was spherical even when all mankind believed it flat and found the belief work. to this the pragmatist reply is that reality is only our objectification of truth; it possesses no meaning divorced from human purposes. had anyone announced that the earth was a sphere { } when it was generally held to be flat, unless his announcement had some relevance to a defect in the flat earth notion, or a claim to revise that notion, his announcement would have been neither a truth nor a falsehood in any intelligible meaning of the term--he would have been making an irrelevant remark. the notions of space and time that newton held worked, and were therefore true; if a new need requires us to replace them with other notions, and these other notions will work and are therefore true, they have become true and newton's notions have become false. if it is still objected that the new notions were also true for newton, although he was ignorant of them, the need for them not having arisen, the only reply is that truth, or reality, in complete detachment from human purposes, cannot be either affirmed or denied. with this view the idealist will be in agreement; his objection is of a different kind. he rejects, as the pragmatist does, the notion of a reality independent of human nature that forces upon us the changes that our conceptions undergo. these changes, he holds, are the inner working of the conceptions themselves, the manifestation of our intellectual nature, ever striving for an ideal of logical consistency. truth is this ideal. we do not make it; we move towards it. if we compare, then, the idealist and the pragmatist doctrine, it will seem that, while for the idealist truth is growing with advancing knowledge into an ever larger because more comprehensive system of reality, for the pragmatist it is ever narrowing, discarding failures as useless and irrelevant to present purpose. how indeed, the idealist will ask, if practical consequences be the meaning of truth, is it possible to understand that knowledge has advanced or can advance? does not the history of science prove a continual expansion, an increasing { } comprehension? it is within the conception that the inconsistency is revealed, not in any mere outward use of the conceptions, and the intellectual effort is to reconcile the contradiction by relating the conception to a more comprehensive whole. how, then, does the idealist meet this case which we have specially instanced, the demand for new notions of space and time made by the principle of relativity? he denies that the new conceptions are called forth by human needs in the narrow sense--that is to say, in the sense that working hypotheses or practical postulates are required. the need is purely logical. the inconsistency revealed in the notions that have hitherto served us can only be reconciled by apprehending a higher unity. if the older notions of space and time are inadequate to the more comprehensive view of the universe as a co-ordination of systems of movement, then this very negation of the older notions is the affirmation of the new, and from the negation by pure logic the content and meaning which are the truth of the new notions are derived. to this objection the pragmatist reply is that if this be the meaning of the truth there is no way shown by which it can be distinguished from error. there is in fact for idealism no error, no illusion, no falsehood; as real facts, there are only degrees of truth. but a theory of truth which ignores such stubborn realities as illusion, falsehood, and error is, from whatever standpoint we view it, useless. on the other hand, pragmatism offers a test by which we can discriminate between true and false--namely, the method of judging conceptions by their practical consequences. can we or can we not make our conceptions work? that is the whole meaning of asking, are they true or false? and now, lest the reader is alarmed at the prospect of having to revise his working ideas of space and { } time, i will, to reassure him, quote the words with which henri poincaré concluded his account of the new conceptions, and which admirably express and illustrate the pragmatist's attitude: "what is to be our position in view of these new conceptions? are we about to be forced to modify our conclusions? no, indeed: we had adopted a convention because it seemed to us convenient, and we declared that nothing could compel us to abandon it. to-day certain physicists wish to adopt a new convention. it is not because they are compelled to; they judge this new convention to be more convenient--that is all; and those who are not of this opinion can legitimately keep the old and so leave their old habits undisturbed. i think, between ourselves, that this is what they will do for a long time to come." i have so far considered pragmatism rather as a criticism than as a doctrine. i will now try and characterise it on its positive side. it declares that there is no such thing as pure thought, but that all thinking is personal and purposive; that all knowing is directed, controlled, and qualified by psychological conditions such as interest, attention, desire, emotion, and the like; and that we cannot, as formal logic does, abstract from any of these, for logic itself is part of a psychical process. truth therefore depends upon belief; truths are matters of belief, and beliefs are rules of action. it is this doctrine that gives to pragmatism its paradoxical, some have even said its grotesque, character. it seems to say that the same proposition is both true and false--true for the man who believes it, false for the man who cannot. it seems to say that we can make anything true by believing it, and we can believe anything so long as the consequences of acting on it are not absolutely disastrous. and the proposition, all truths work, seems to involve the conclusion that all that works is true; and the proposition, the true is the useful, seems to imply that { } whatever is useful is therefore true. no small part of the pragmatist controversy has been directed to the attempt to show that all and each of these corollaries are, or arise from, misconceptions of the doctrine. i think, and i shall endeavour to show, that there is a serious defect in the pragmatist statement, and that these misconceptions are in a great part due to it. nevertheless, we must accept the pragmatist disavowal. and there is no difficulty in doing so, for the meaning of the theory is sufficiently clear. truth, according to pragmatism, is a value and not a fact. truth is thus connected with the conception of "good." in saying that truth is useful, we say that it is a means to an end, a good. it is not a moral end, but a cognitive end, just as "beauty" is an esthetic end. truth, beauty, and goodness thus stand together as judgments of value or worth. it is only by recognising that truth is a value that we can possess an actual criterion to distinguish it from error, for if truth is a judgment of fact, if it asserts existence, so also does error. the pragmatist principle has an important bearing on religion. it justifies the faith attitude. it shows that the good aimed at by a "truth claim" is only attainable by the exercise of the will to believe. thus it replaces the intellectual maxim, believe in nothing you can possibly doubt, with the practical maxim, resolve not to quench any impulse to believe because doubts of the truth are possible. belief may even be a condition of the success of the truth claim. chapter vi utility we have seen in the last chapter that pragmatism is both a criticism and a theory. it shows us that the { } notion that truth is correspondence involves the conception of an "impossible" knowledge, and the notion that truth is coherence or consistency involves the conception of a "useless" knowledge. the explanation pragmatism itself offers is of the kind that is called in the technical language of philosophy teleological. this means that to explain or to give a meaning to truth all we can do is to point out the purpose on account of which it exists. this is not scientific explanation. physical science explains a fact or an event by showing the conditions which give rise to it or that determine its character. pragmatism recognises no conditions determining truth such as those which science embodies in the conception of a natural law--that is, the idea of a connection of natural events with one another which is not dependent on human thoughts about them nor on human purposes in regard to them. truth is in intimate association with human practical activity; its meaning lies wholly in its utility. we must therefore now examine somewhat closely this notion of utility. there appears to me to be a serious defect in the pragmatist conception and application of the principle of utility; it is based on a conception altogether too narrow. a theory that condemns any purely logical process as resulting in "useless" knowledge can only justify itself by insisting on an application of the principle of utility that will be found to exclude not merely the absolute of philosophy but most if not all of the results of pure mathematics and physics, for these sciences apply a method of pure logical deduction and induction indistinguishable from that which pragmatism condemns. the intellectual nature of man is an endowment which sharply distinguishes him from other forms of living creatures. so supreme a position does our intellect assign to us, so wide is the gap that separates { } us from other creatures little different from ourselves in respect of perfection of material organisation and adaptation to environment, that it seems almost natural to suppose that our intellect is that for which we exist, and not merely a mode of controlling, directing, and advancing our life. now it is possible to hold--and this is the view that i shall endeavour in what follows to develop--that the intellect is subservient to life, and that we can show the manner and method of its working and the purpose it serves. so far we may agree with the pragmatist, but it is not the same thing to say that the intellect serves a useful purpose and to say that truth, the ideal of the intellect, the end which it strives for, is itself only a utility. were there no meaning in truth except that it is what works, were there no meaning independent of and altogether distinct from the practical consequences of belief, of what value to us would the intellect be? if the meaning the intellect assigns to truth is itself not true, how can the intellect serve us? the very essence of its service is reduced to nought; for what else but the conception of an objective truth, a logical reality independent of any and every psychological condition, is the utility that the intellect puts us in possession of? it is this conception alone that constitutes it an effective mode of activity. therefore, if we hold with the pragmatist that the intellect is subservient to life, truth is indeed a utility, but it is a utility just because it has a meaning distinct from usefulness. on the other hand, to condemn any knowledge as "useless" is to deny utility to the intellect. before i try to show that the logical method of the idealist philosophy, which pragmatism condemns because it leads to "useless" knowledge, is identical in every respect with the method employed in pure mathematics and physics, i will give for comparison two illustrations { } that seem to me instances of a narrow and of a wide use of the concept of utility. a short time ago an orang-utang escaped from its cage in the zoological gardens under somewhat singular and very interesting circumstances. the cage was secured with meshed wire of great strength, judged sufficient to resist the direct impact of the most powerful of the carnivora; but the ape, by attention to the twisting of the plied wire, had by constant trying succeeded in loosening and finally in unwinding a large section. it escaped from its enclosure, and after doing considerable damage in the corridor, including the tearing out of a window frame, made its way into the grounds and took refuge in a tree, twisting the branches into a platform said to be similar to the constructions it makes in its native forests. in taking this action as an illustration, i am not concerned with the question of what may be the distinction between action that is intelligent and action that is instinctive. if we take intelligence in a wide and general meaning, we may compare the intelligence shown by this ape with the intelligence shown by man in the highest processes of the mind. psychologists would, i think, be unanimous in holding that in the mind of the ape there was no conception of freedom, no kind of mental image of unrestricted life and of a distinct means of attaining it, no clearly purposed end, the means of attaining which was what prompted the undoing of the wire, such as we should certainly suppose in the case of a man in a similar situation. it was the kind of intelligent action that psychologists denote by the description "trial and error." it seems to me, however, that this exactly fulfils the conditions that the pragmatist doctrine of the meaning of truth require. we see the intellect of the ape making true by finding out what works. { } we can suppose an entire absence of the idea of objective truth to which reality must conform, of truth unaffected by purpose. here, then, we seem to have the pure type of truth in its simplest conditions, a practical activity using intelligence to discover what works. is the difference between this practical activity and the higher mental activities as we employ them in the abstract sciences one of degree of complexity only, or is it different in kind? let us consider now, as an illustration of the method of the abstract sciences, the well-known case of the discovery of the planet neptune. this planet was discovered by calculation and deduction, and was only seen when its position had been so accurately determined that the astronomers who searched for it knew exactly the point of the heavens to which to direct their telescopes. the calculation was one of extraordinary intricacy, and was made independently by two mathematicians, adams of cambridge and leverrier of paris, between the years and . each communicated his result independently--adams to the astronomer challis, the director of the cambridge observatory, and leverrier to dr. galle of the berlin observatory. within six weeks of one another and entirely unknown to one another, in august and september , each of these astronomers observed the planet where he had been told to look for it. this is one of the romances of modern science. it is not the discovery but the method that led to it which may throw light on our problem of the nature of truth. at first sight this seems exactly to accord with and even to illustrate the pragmatist theory, that truth is what works. the investigation is prompted by the discrepancies between the actual and the calculated positions of uranus, the outermost planet, as it was then supposed, of the system. this revealed a need, and this { } need was met by the practical postulate of the existence of another planet as yet unseen. the hypothesis was found to work even before the actual observation put the final seal of actuality on the discovery. what else but the practical consequences of the truth claim in the form of the hypothesis of an undiscovered planet were ever in question? yes, we reply, but the actual method adopted, and the knowledge sought for by the method, are precisely of the kind that pragmatism rejects as "useless" knowledge. why were not the observed movements of uranus accepted as what they were? why was it felt that they must be other than they were seen to be unless there was another planet? the need lay in the idea of system. it was inconsistent with the system then believed complete, and the need was to find the complete system in which it would harmonise. the truth that was sought for was a harmonious individual whole, and the method employed precisely that which the absolutist theory of reality employs. there is observed a discrepancy, an inconsistency, a contradiction within the whole conceived as a system. this negation is treated as a defect, is calculated and accurately determined, and is then positively affirmed of the reality. now, what is distinctive in this method is that reality is conceived as a complete system. if the felt defect in this system cannot be made good by direct discovery, its place is supplied by a fiction, using the term in its etymological meaning to express something made and not in its derived meaning to express something found false. this intellectual process of construction is purely logical; no psychological element in the sense of the will to believe enters into it or colours it in any way. this is not an isolated instance, it illustrates the method of science in all theorising. an even more { } striking illustration than that we have just given is the case of the hypothesis of the luminiferous æther--a supposed existence, a fiction, that has served a useful, even an indispensable service in the history of modern physics. to many physicists, even to lord kelvin, the hypothesis seemed so surely established that its nonexistence hardly seemed thinkable, yet all the experiments designed to detect its presence have been uniformly negative in result, and it now seems not even necessary as a hypothesis, and likely to disappear. the æther was not only not discovered, it was not even suspected to exist, as in the case of the unknown planet neptune--it was logically constructed. it was required to support the theory of the undulatory nature of light and to fulfil the possibility of light propagation in space. it was therefore a postulate, called forth by a need--so far we may adopt the pragmatist account. but what was the nature of the need, and what was the method by which the postulate was called forth? it is in answering this question that the pragmatist criterion fails. the need was intellectual in the purely logical meaning of the term, and it was met by a purely logical construction. the need was a practical human need only in so far as the intellect working by logical process is a human endowment but not in any personal sense such as is conveyed by the term psychological. willingness or unwillingness to believe, desire, aversion, interest were all irrelevant. given the intellect, the logical necessity was the only need that called forth by logical process the "truth-claiming" hypothesis of the æther. but even so, the pragmatist will urge, is its truth anything else but its usefulness as shown in the practical consequences of believing it? was it not true while it was useful, and is it not only now false, if it is false, if it is actually discovered not to be useful? { } the reply is that no mathematician or physicist would recognise the possibility of working with a conception of truth that simply identified truth with utility, and for this reason that he can only conceive reality as a system whose truth is symbolised in an equation. it is the system that determines and characterises the postulate, and not the postulate advanced at a venture, tried and verified, that constitutes the system. the mathematician begins by placing symbols to represent the unknown factors in his equation, and proceeds by means of his known factors to determine their value. the æther is at first a pure fiction constructed to supply an unknown existence recognised as a defect. its truth cannot mean that it works for it cannot but work, having been constructed purely for that purpose. its truth means that it corresponds to some actual existence at present unknown. to prove its truth the physicist does not appeal to its value as a hypothesis, but devises experiments by which, if it does exist, its existence will be demonstrated. in this actual case the experiments have had a uniformly negative result, and therefore the truth of the hypothesis is made doubtful or denied. the hypothesis continues to work as well as it ever did, and physicists will probably long continue to use it, but it has failed to establish its truth claim. the result is the modern principle of relativity, which, as we have already said, has produced a revolution in modern physics. the abolition of the æther would have been impossible if the physicist had been content with the utility of his hypothesis and had not experimented to prove its truth. the relation between truth and utility is thus proved to be that it is useful to know what is true. these two illustrations of scientific method--namely, the discovery of neptune and the negative discovery { } that the æther is non-existent--make it evident that verification is the intellectual process not of making true, but of finding true. we can, indeed, distinguish quite clearly the two processes. the first process, that of making true, is the constructing of the fiction by which we complete an incomplete system, and the second is the testing of that fiction to see if it corresponds to anything actually existing. no kind of intellectual activity will make an idea true, and conversely we may say that were truth only a utility, then knowledge instead of being systematic would be chaotic. existence has its roots in reality, not in knowledge. reality does not depend on truth. truth is the intellectual apprehension of reality. if the pragmatist objects that in this argument i have throughout supposed him to be urging the narrow meaning of utility, namely, that it is usefulness in the strictly practical sense, whereas he intends it in the widest possible meaning--a meaning that includes theoretical usefulness--then the trouble is a different one; it is to know how and where the pragmatist stops short of the coherence theory of truth, and wherein his method differs from that of the idealist. this brings me to the consideration of another theory in which the concept of utility plays a large, indeed a predominant part. this is the theory of the relation of knowledge to life that is given to us in the philosophy of bergson. i have in one of the volumes of this series given an account of this philosophy; i am here only dealing with its relation to this special problem of the nature of truth. it has been claimed that this philosophy is only a form of pragmatism, but it is not a theory of truth, and it has this essential difference from pragmatism that it is the intellect and not truth that is a utility. before we consider the question that it gives { } rise to in regard to truth, let us first examine the theory of the intellect, and the nature of its utility. the intellect is a mode of activity, an endowment acquired in the course of evolution, and which has been retained and perfected because of its utility. this does not mean that the intellect directs us to what is useful and inhibits us from courses fatal to life, neither does it mean that it gives us any power to make true what is not already true, it means that the power to acquire knowledge is useful. there is a contrast in our own existence between our life and our intellect. to understand the way in which the intellect serves the living creature endowed with it, we need only regard it from the standpoint of ordinary experience. we know in ourselves that our life is wider than our intellect, and that our intellect serves the activity of our life. the common expressions we employ, such as using our wits, taking an intelligent interest, trying to think, all imply a utility distinct from the intellect. so viewed, our life appears as an active principle within us, maintaining our organism in its relations, active and passive, and reactive to the reality outside and independent of it. our intellect also seems both active and passive. it receives the influences that stream in upon us from the reality around us, it apprehends and interprets them, and works out the lines of our possible action in regard to them. the influences that flow in upon us from the outside world are already selected before our intellect apprehends them, for they flow in by the avenues of our senses, and the senses are natural instruments of selection. if we picture these influences as vibrations, then we may say that a certain group of vibrations of a very rapid frequency are selected by the eye and give rise to vision, that another group of very much lower frequency are selected by the ear and { } give the sensation of sound, and other groups are selected by taste, smell, and touch. many groups are known indirectly by means of artificial instruments, and all the infinite series that unite these groups of the actually experienced vibrations escape our apprehension altogether--we have no means of selecting them. but all these sense data, as we may call them, come to us without exertion or activity on our part; it is the intellect which gives them meaning, which interprets them, which makes them the apprehension or awareness of objects or things. and the active part that the intellect plays is also a process of selection. this is evident if we reflect upon the universal form which our intellectual activity takes, namely, attention. it is in the act of attention that we are conscious of mental activity, and attention is essentially selection--the selection of an interest. besides the natural selection that is effected by our senses and the conscious selection that is manifest in attention, there is also a more or less arbitrary selection that our intellect performs in marking out the lines of our practical interest and possible action. in this work of selection the intellect makes the world conform to the necessities of our action. so far we have looked at our intellectual endowment from the standpoint of ordinary common-sense experience. let us now consider the philosophical theory based on this view, which explains the nature of knowledge by showing its purpose. the intellect not only selects, but in selecting transforms the reality. it presents us with knowledge that indeed corresponds with reality, for it is essentially a view of reality, but also in selecting it marks out divisions, and gives to reality a form that is determined by practical interest. the same reality is different to different individuals and to different species according to their practical interests. { } the practical end which the human intellect serves is to present us with a field for our life activity. this is the real world for us, as we know it, real objects in a real space. had we no other way of knowing but that of our intellect we should not know the life which is active within us as it is really lived, we should be as those who, standing outside, watch a movement, and not as those who are carried along in the movement and experience it from within. in life and intellect we have the counterpart of reality and appearance. life is not something that changes; it is the change of which the something is the appearance. life is the reality of which all things, as we understand them, are the appearances, and on account of which they appear. the solid things in space and time are not in reality what they appear; they are views of the reality. the intellect guided by our practical interest presents reality under this form of solid spatial things. clearly, then, if this view be true, the whole world, as it is presented to us and thought of by us, is an illusion. our science is not unreal, but it is a transformed reality. the illusions may be useful, may, indeed, be necessary and indispensable, but nevertheless it is illusion. but here there arises a new difficulty in regard to truth. if the usefulness of the intellect consists in the active production of an illusion, can we say that the intellect leads us to truth? is it not only if we can turn away from the intellect and obtain a non-intellectual intuition that we can know truth? { } chapter vii illusion the doctrine that the world that appears is essentially unlike the world that is is neither new nor peculiar to any particular theory of philosophy. it has received a new interest and a new interpretation lately in the theory that we are now considering, that the clue to the appearance of the world to us is to be found in the conception of the nature of the utility of the intellect and in the mode of its activity. the idea that we are perhaps disqualified by our very nature itself from beholding reality and knowing truth is illustrated in the well-known allegory in the _republic_ of plato: "and now let me show in a figure how far our nature is enlightened or unenlightened. behold! human beings living in an underground den, which has a mouth open towards the light and reaching all along the den; here they have been from their childhood, and have their legs and necks chained so that they cannot move and can only see before them, being prevented by the chains from turning round their heads. above and behind them a fire is blazing at a distance, and between the fire and the prisoners there is a raised way; and you will see, if you look, a low wall built along the way, like the screen which marionette players have in front of them, over which they show the puppets. and men are passing along the wall carrying all sorts of vessels, and statues, and figures of animals made of wood and stone and various materials, which appear over the wall.... "they are strange prisoners, like ourselves, and they see only their own shadows or the shadows of one another which the fire throws on the opposite wall of the cave. and so also of the objects carried and of the passers-by; to the prisoners the truth would be literally nothing but the shadows of the images. { } "and now look again, and see what will naturally follow if the prisoners are released and disabused of their error. at first, when any of them, is liberated and compelled suddenly to stand up and turn his neck round and walk and look towards the light, he will suffer sharp pains; the glare will distress him, and he will be unable to see the realities of which in his former state he had seen the shadows. and then conceive someone saying to him that what he saw before was an illusion, but that now, when he is approaching nearer to being, and his eye is turned towards more real existence, he has a clearer vision, and what will be his reply? will he not fancy that the shadows which he formerly saw are truer than the objects which are now shown to him?... "and suppose that he is forced into the presence of the sun himself, is he not likely to be pained and irritated? when he approaches the light his eyes will be dazzled, and he will not be able to see anything at all of what are now called realities." the thought that plato has expressed in this wonderful allegory has entered deeply into all philosophy. what we first take for reality is merely a shadow world. but in plato's view it is the intellect which gives us the means of escape, the power to turn from the illusion to behold the reality. it is not until now that philosophy has sought the clue to the illusion in the nature of the intellect itself. the very instrument of truth is unfitted to reveal to us the reality as it is, because its nature and purpose is to transform reality, to make reality appear in a form which, though of paramount importance to us as active beings, is essentially an illusion. the intellectual bent of our mind leads us away from, and not towards a vision of reality in its purity. the more our intellect progresses, and the more and more clearly we { } see into a greater and ever greater number of things, the farther are we from, and not the nearer to a grasp of reality as it is. to obtain this vision of reality we have to turn away from the intellect and find ourselves again in that wider life out of which the intellect is formed. life, as it lives, is an intuition that is nonintellectual. "human intelligence," writes bergson, "is not at all what plato taught in the allegory of the cave. its function is not to look at passing shadows, nor yet to turn itself round and contemplate the glaring sun. it has something else to do. harnessed, like yoked oxen, to a heavy task, we feel the play of our muscles and joints, the weight of the plough, and the resistance of the soil. to act and to know that we are acting, to come into touch with reality and even to live it, but only in the measure in which it concerns the work that is being accomplished and the furrow that is being ploughed, such is the function of human intelligence." the illusion to which our intellectual nature subjects us is the necessity we are under to regard the things of the universe as more ultimate, as more fundamental than the movement which actuates the universe. it seems to us impossible that there could exist movement or change, unless there already existed things to be moved or changed, things whose nature is not altered, but only their form and their external relations, when they are moved or changed. this necessity of thought seems to have received authoritative recognition in all attempts, religious and scientific, to conceive origins. thus we read in the book of genesis: "in the beginning god created the heaven and the earth. and the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. and the spirit of god moved upon the face of the waters." { } the matter of the universe, it is felt, must be in existence before the movement which vivifies it. the dead inert stuff must be created before it can receive the breath of life. and if god the creator is conceived as living before the matter which he has created, it is as an external principle, the relation of which to the creation is by most religious minds thought to transcend the power of the finite understanding to conceive. the same fundamental conception of the primacy of matter over movement is evident in the scientific theories of the nature and origin of life. life appears to science as a form of energy that requires things, matter occupying space, to support it. according to one view, life is the result of a certain combination or synthesis of chemical or physical elements, previously existing separately--a combination of very great complexity, and one that may possibly have occurred once only in the long process of nature, but which nevertheless might be, and some think probably, or even certainly, will be brought about by a chemist working in his laboratory. this is the mechanistic or materialist view. on the other hand, there is the theory of vitalism. life, it is contended, cannot be due to such a synthesis of material elements as the mechanistic view supposes, because it is of the nature of an "entelechy"--that is, an individual existence which functions, as a whole, in every minutest part of the organism it "vitalises." life has supervened upon, and not arisen out of the material organism which it guides and controls not by relating independent parts, but by making every part subserve the activity and unity of the whole. but the vitalist theory, as well as the mechanistic theory, conceives the movement and change which is life as dependent on the previous existence of a matter or stuff which is moved or changed. the philosophical { } conception differs, therefore, from both these theories. it is that life is an original movement, and that this movement is the whole reality of which things, inert matter, even spatial extension, are appearances. true duration is change, not the permanence of something amidst change. there are no unchanging things. everything changes. reality is the flux; things are views of the flux, arrests or contractions of the flowing that the intellect makes. the appearance of the world to us is our intellectual grasp of a reality that flows. this original movement is the life of the universe. briefly stated, the argument on which the theory is based is that it is logically impossible to explain change by changelessness, movement by immobility. real change cannot be a succession of states themselves fixed and changeless; real movement cannot be the immobile positions in which some thing is successively at rest. on the other hand, if movement is original, the interruption of movement, in whatever way effected, will appear as things. the experience which confirms this argument is the insight that everyone may obtain of the reality of his own life as continuous movement, unceasing change, wherein all that exists exists together in a present activity. to develop this argument would exceed the limits of this book, and would be outside its purpose. it is essential, however, that such a theory should be understood, for clearly it is possible to hold not only that we are subject to illusion, but that illusion is of the very nature of intellectual apprehension. if, then, the understanding works illusion for the sake of action, is it thereby disqualified as an instrument for the attainment of truth? we are brought, then, to the critical point of our inquiry. if illusion is the essential condition of human activity, if the intellect, the very instrument of truth, { } is itself affected, what is to save us from universal scepticism? if the salt have lost his savour, wherewith shall it be salted? the intellect with its frames and moulds shapes living change and movement into fixed immobile states; the process of knowing alters profoundly the reality known. must we not conclude that knowledge, however useful, is not true? and to what shall we turn for truth? there is, indeed, if this be so, a deeper irony in the question, what is truth? than even pilate could have imagined. we have absolutely no practical concern with truth--we must leave it to the mystic, to the unpractical, the contemplative man who has turned aside from the stern task of busy life. it is not so. the problem that seems so fundamental admits a quite simple solution. illusion is not error, nor is it falsehood; it is the appearance of reality. it is the reality that appears, and when we grasp the principle of utility we understand the shape that the appearance must assume. this shape may seem to us a distortion, but in recognising appearance we are in touch with reality, and practical interest is the key that opens to us the interpretation of intellectual experience. and it is not only by the intellect that we interpret the nature of reality, for besides logic there is life, and in life we directly perceive the reality that in logic we think about. the intellect, then, does not make truth, neither does it make reality; it makes reality take the form of spatial things, and it makes things seem to be the ground of reality. were our nature not intellectual, if all consciousness was intuitive, the world would not then appear as things--there would be no things. but, notwithstanding that our world is an illusion, it is not the less on that account a true world, and our science is true knowledge, in the objective meaning of truth, for { } once an illusion is interpreted, it becomes an integral part of the conception of reality. it would be easy to find abundant illustration of this fact within science itself. thus in the familiar case of the straight stick which appears bent when partly immersed in water, as soon as the illusion is understood as due to the different refraction of light in media of different density, air and water, it ceases to be an illusion. we then recognise that if a partly immersed stick did not appear bent, it would really be bent. again, the illusion that clings to us most persistently throughout our experience is that which is connected with movement and rest. the system of movement in which we are ourselves carried along appears to us stationary, while that which is outside it seems alone to move. in very simple cases, such as viewing the landscape from a railway-carriage window, habit has long caused the illusion to cease, but we all remember the child's feeling that the trees and fields were flying past us. the earth's motion never becomes to us a real experience of movement, we accept the fact and never doubt the scientific evidence on which it rests, yet we always speak and think of sunrise and sunset; and this is not merely due to the accident that our language was fixed before the nature of the celestial movement was known, but to a natural illusion which it is far more convenient to retain than to abandon. the fact of illusion is not the tenet of any particular philosophy, nor even of philosophy itself; it is a recognised factor in common life and in physical science, but in instancing the theory of bergson's philosophy i am choosing an extreme case. berkeley held that illusion is practically universal; kant taught that the apparent objectivity of phenomena is the form that the understanding imposes on things; but bergson teaches { } not only that all material reality is illusion, but also that this very illusion is the work of the intellect, that the intellect is formed for this purpose, intellect and matter being correlative, evolving _pari passu_. to such a doctrine there is of necessity a positive side, for it is impossible that it can rest on universal scepticism--scepticism both of knowledge and of the instrument of knowledge. if the intellectual view of reality as solid matter in absolute space is illusion, it must be possible to apprehend the reality from which the judgment that it is illusion is derived. if the intellect distorts, there must be an intuition which is pure, and the relation between these will be the relation between reality and appearance. neither, then, is reality truth, nor appearance error. there is a truth of appearance, a truth that is a value in itself, a truth that is more than the mere negation that appearance is not reality. the appearance is our hold upon the reality, our actual contact with it, the mode and direction of our action upon it. what, then, is error? it cannot consist in the fact that we know appearance only, not reality, for we can only know reality by its appearance. it cannot be an appearance behind which there is no reality, for non-being cannot appear. it cannot be nothing at all or pure non-being, for to think of absolute nothing is not to think. in error there is some object of thought which is denied real being. what this is is the problem of error. chapter viii the problem of error in the _theætetus_ of plato, socrates has been discussing with theætetus what knowledge is, and when at last agreement seems to be reached in the definition that { } knowledge is true opinion, a new difficulty occurs to socrates: "there is a point which often troubles me and is a great perplexity to me both in regard to myself and to others. i cannot make out the nature or origin of the mental experience to which i refer. how there can be false opinion--that difficulty still troubles the eye of my mind. do we not speak of false opinion, and say that one man holds a false and another a true opinion, as though there were some natural distinction between them? all things and everything are either known or not known. he who knows, cannot but know; and he who does not know, cannot know.... where, then, is false opinion? for if all things are either known or unknown, there can be no opinion which is not comprehended under this alternative, and so false opinion is excluded." this difficulty may appear at first sight purely verbal, and we shall perhaps be inclined to see the answer to it in the double use that we make of the word knowledge. we use the word in two senses, in one of which it includes all and everything that is or can be present to the mind in thinking, and in another and narrower sense the word knowledge means truth. it was in the narrow sense of the word that whatever is not true is not knowledge that socrates interpreted the meaning of the delphic oracle that had declared him the wisest of men. his wisdom must be, he said, that whereas other men seemed to be wise and to know something, he knew that he knew nothing. all men have opinion, but opinion is not knowledge, though easily and generally mistaken for it. his perplexity was to understand what actually this false opinion could be which passed for knowledge. it could not be nothing at all, for then it would simply mean ignorance; but in false opinion { } some object is present to the mind. everything that the mind thinks of has being. a thing may have being that does not exist if by existence is meant the particular existence of an event in time, for most of the things we think about are timeless--they are ideas, such as whiteness, goodness, numbers and the properties of numbers, faith, love, and such-like. all such ideas are called universals, because their reality does not mean that they exist at one particular moment and no other, but they are real, they have being. how, then, can there be anything intermediate between being and not being, anything that is and also is not, for this is what false opinion or error seems to be? there is, then, a problem of error, and it is quite distinct from the problem of truth. the problem of truth is to know by what criterion we can test the agreement of our ideas with reality; the problem of error is to know how there can be false opinion. there is false opinion, of this no one needs to be convinced; but where its place is in the fundamental scheme of the mental process, in what precisely it consists, whether it is purely a negation or whether it has a positive nature of its own, this is the problem we have now to consider. there is an important distinction in logic between what is contradictory and what is contrary. of two contradictory propositions one must be true, the other must be false; but of two contrary propositions one must be false, but both may be false. of contradictory propositions one is always a pure negation, one declares the non-existence of what the other affirms the existence; but of contrary propositions each has a positive content, and both may be false. a true proposition may be based on a false opinion, and it is very important to have a clear idea of what we intend by false opinion. we do not mean by false opinion such plainly false { } propositions as that two and two are five or that there may be no corners in a square--such propositions are false, because they contradict propositions that are self-evident. if anyone should seriously affirm them, we should not, i think, say that such a one had a false opinion, but that he failed, perhaps through some illusion, to understand the meaning of the terms he was using. an example of what would now, i suppose, be unquestionably regarded by everyone as error is that whole body of opinion that found expression in the theory and practice of witchcraft. this was once almost universally accepted, and though probably at no period nor in any country was there not some one who doubted or disbelieved, still the reasons of such doubt or disbelief would probably be very different from those reasons which lead us to reject it to-day. for witchcraft was grounded on a general belief that spiritual agencies, beneficent and malign, were the cause of material well-being or evil. this conception has now given place to the mechanistic or naturalistic theory on which our modern physical science is based. we interpret all physical occurrences as caused by material agency. but this belief, quite as much as the belief in spiritual agencies, is opinion, not knowledge, and it may be false. it is conceivable that future generations will reject our scientific notions, self-evident though they seem to us, as completely as we reject the notions of the dark ages. it is even conceivable that the whole of our modern science may come to appear to mankind as not even an approximation to knowledge. error, like illusion, may be universal. no one whose opinion counts as a rational belief now holds that sickness may be caused by the malign influence of the evil eye, and that this influence may be neutralised by making the sign of the cross; some, but very few, believe that a { } sick man may be healed by the prayers and anointing of righteous men; many believe that material disease, however malignant, may be expelled from the body by faith; while the majority of rational men, whatever independent religious views they hold, regard sickness and disease as material in the ordinary sense, and expect them to yield to drugs and treatment. now, of these various opinions some must be false, while all may be false. let us add some illustrations from philosophy. some philosophers hold, in common with general opinion, that sense experience is caused by physical objects; others hold that there are no physical objects, but that consciousness is the one and only reality; and there are others who think that the reality that gives rise to our sense experience is neither physical in the sense of a material thing, nor mental in the sense of consciousness or thought, but is movement or change--change that requires no support and is absolute. all these are opinions, and may be false, and our belief that any one of them is true does not depend on immediate experience, but on reasons. the best that can be said in favour of any belief is that there is no reason for supposing it false, and the worst that can be said against any belief is that there is no reason for supposing it true. our problem, then, is to know what constitutes the nature of error in any one of these examples if it is, as each one may be, false? the instances we have given are all of them propositions or judgments, or else conceptions formed out of propositions or judgments, the purpose of which is to interpret experience. the actual experience itself, in so far as it consists of the actual presence of the object to the mind aware of it, is, as we have seen, neither truth nor error; it simply is what it is. it is the conceptions by which we interpret this experience that are { } true or false. and our problem is that the meaning or content of a conception, that which is present to the mind when we make a judgment, is precisely the same whether the conception is true or false, there is no distinctive mark or feature by which we can know that in the one case the object of thought is a real or actual fact, in the other an opinion to which no reality corresponds. and, further, it seems exceedingly difficult to understand in what way a non-reality can be present to the mind at all. let us now examine some attempts to solve this problem, and first of all let us take the pragmatist solution. pragmatism claims that it has no difficulty in explaining error, because, as we have already seen, it acknowledges no other test or criterion of truth except a pragmatic one. every proposition or judgment that we make must, in order to have any meaning whatever, be relevant to some human purpose; every such proposition is a truth-claim; and every truth-claim is tested by its workability. consequently, error is simply the failure of a proposition to establish its claim by the practical test of working. propositions marked by such failure are errors. as there is no truth independent of time, place, and circumstance, no irrelevant truth, no truth independent of the conditions under which its claim is put forward, there is no truth that may not become error. no judgment, according to pragmatism, is an error pure and simple--that is to say, it cannot come into existence as error, for it comes claiming truth, and maintaining that claim until challenged; it becomes an error in retrospect only, and always in relation to another judgment which corrects it. error does not characterise a class of judgments; it is something that happens to a judgment, it is a judgment whose truth-claim is rejected in reference to another judgment { } which succeeds. the essential thing in the pragmatist doctrine of error is that in claiming to be true a judgment is not challenging comparison with some independent reality, nor is it claiming to belong to a timeless order of existence--to be eternal; it is claiming to fulfil the particular purpose for which it has been called forth, whether that purpose be practical or theoretical. let us now consider the explanation of error offered by the idealist philosophy. in this view only the whole truth is wholly true; the absolute, as a perfect, concrete, individual system, is the ideal, and all that falls short of it can only possess a degree of truth--a degree which is greater or less according as it approximates to the ideal. the degrees of truth are not quantitative, not a mixture of truth and error, but a nearer or more distant approach to the ideal. there can be no absolute error, because if truth is the whole, error, if it exists at all, must in some way be included in truth. clearly error cannot as such be truth, and therefore it must follow that, in the whole, error loses its character of error, and finds reconciliation of its contradiction to truth. error, then, if it is something, and not a pure negation, is partial or incomplete truth; the perplexity and contradiction that it gives rise to are incidental to our partial view. knowledge, it must seem to us, can exist only for omniscience. unless we know everything, we know nothing. these two doctrines are in a sense the exact antithesis of one another. they agree together in this, that in each the explanation of error follows as a consequence of the conception of the nature of truth. the pragmatist theory implies that there is no truth in any real sense, but only more or less successful error. the idealist theory implies that there is no real error, but only a variety in the degree of truth. { } most people, however, are convinced that truth and error are not related to one another, nor to the circumstances that call forth belief or disbelief. let us now examine a theory that recognises this. there are false judgments, and they need explanation; error has a nature of its own. if a judgment is false, it is absolutely and unalterably false; if it is true, it is unconditionally true and with no reserve. no logical process, no psychological disposition, can make what is false true. error must lie in the nature of knowledge, and to discover that nature we must understand the theory of knowledge and determine the exact nature of the mental act in knowing. the first essential is to distinguish the kind of knowledge to which truth and error can apply. we pointed out in the second chapter that all knowledge rests ultimately on immediate experience. in immediate experience the relation between the mental act of knowing and the object that is known is so simple that any question as to truth or error in regard to it is unmeaning. to question the truth of immediate experience is to question its existence; it is to ask if it is what it is, and this is plainly unmeaning. but thinking, we said, is questioning experience in order to know its content or meaning, and in thinking, the simplicity of the relation which unites the mind to its object in immediate experience is left behind, and a logical process of very great complexity takes its place. it is in this complexity that the possibility of error lies. let us look at it a little more closely. knowing is a relation which unites two things, one the mind that knows, the other the thing known. in every act of knowing, something is present to the mind; if knowing is simply awareness of this actually present something, we call it immediate experience, we are acquainted with the object. but our knowledge is not only of objects { } immediately present to the mind and with which we are therefore acquainted. knowledge embraces the past and future and the distant realms of space. indeed were knowledge only of what is actually present to the mind, it is difficult to imagine that we could, in the ordinary meaning of the word, know anything at all. i may be thinking, for example, of an absent friend; all that is present to my mind is, it may be, a memory image, a faint recall of his appearance on some one occasion, or perhaps a recollection of the tone of his voice, or it may be the black marks on white paper which i recognise as his handwriting. this image is present to my mind, but the image is not the object, my friend, about whom i think and make endless judgments, true and false. so also, if what is present to the mind is affecting me through the external senses, if it is a sense impression, it is clear that what is actually present is not the whole object of which i am aware, but only a very small part of it, or, it may be, no part of it at all, but something, a sound, or an odour, that represents it. the immediate data of consciousness are named by some philosophers sense data, by others, presentations, by others images, and there is much controversy as to their nature and existence, but with this controversy we are not here concerned--we are seeking to make clear an obvious distinction, namely, the distinction between knowledge by acquaintance and knowledge by description. what kind of knowledge is it that we acquire by description? knowledge about things with which we are not first acquainted. the most important knowledge that we possess or acquire is knowledge of objects which we know only by the knowledge we have about them--objects that we know about without knowing them. they are not direct impressions on our senses, { } nor are they ideas known in actual experience. we make judgments about them, and the subjects about which we make these judgments are really composed of these judgments that we make about them. to go back to our illustrations, we may know a great deal about the evil eye, a malignant influence, disease, faith, healing, causality, physical objects, without any acquaintance with them, without even knowing that they exist. such knowledge is descriptive, and the objects are descriptions. knowledge by description is never quite simple, and is often very complex, for, besides the relation of the mental act to the object known, there are the terms and relations which are the elements in the judgment and the relations of the judgments themselves. if we analyse a judgment, every word in which it is expressed, whether it is a noun or a verb or a preposition or a conjunction, conveys a distinct meaning, indicates a term or a relation, each of which can be made a distinct object to the mind, and all of which are combined in the single meaning the judgment expresses. it is in this complexity that the possibility of error lies, and the possibility increases as the complexity increases. all the terms and the relations which a judgment contains depend on the knowledge we have by acquaintance--that is to say, we are ultimately dependent on our actual experience for all knowledge whatever, whether it is acquaintance or description, for we can only describe in terms with which we are acquainted; but in the judgment these elements are combined into new objects, or a certain relation is declared to exist between objects, and it is this combination of the elements of the judgment that involves its truth or falsehood. if this view of the nature of the mental act of knowing is accepted, we are able to understand how false opinion { } is consistent with the fact that all knowledge is truth. we escape both the alternatives that seemed to socrates the only possible ones. "when a man has a false opinion, does he think that which he knows to be some other thing which he knows, and knowing both is he at the same time ignorant of both? or does he think of something which he does not know as some other thing which he does not know?" no, neither; in error he thinks that something that he knows is in a relation that he knows to some other thing that he knows, when in fact that relation is not relating the two things. the false proposition is not one in which the constituent terms and relations are unknown or non-existent, but one in which a combination of these terms and relations is thought to exist when in fact it does not exist; and the true proposition is that in which the combination thought to exist does exist. we can, therefore, if this account be true, at least know what false opinion or error can be, whether or not we have any means of deciding in regard to any particular opinion that it is false. there is one other theory, the last we shall notice. it is in one respect the most important of all, namely, that it is the most direct attempt to grapple with the problem of error. it is founded on a theory of knowledge which we owe mainly to the profound and acute work of a german philosopher (meinong), and which at the present time is being keenly discussed. it is an attempt to determine more exactly than has yet been done the fundamental scheme of the mental life and development. the brief account that i am now offering, i owe to a paper by prof. g. f. stout on "some fundamental points in the theory of knowledge." we have seen that the problem of error is the difficulty there is in conceiving how there can be any real thing, any real { } object of thought, intermediate between being and not-being. error seems to exist and yet to have a nature which is a negation of existence, and it seems therefore to be a downright contradiction when we affirm that error or false opinion can _be_--that there is a real object of thought when we judge falsely. this theory meets the difficulty directly by distinguishing in the mental act of knowing a process that is neither perceiving nor thinking of things, and that involves neither believing nor disbelieving on the one hand nor desiring or willing on the other: this is the process of supposing. corresponding to this mental act of supposing, there is a distinct kind of object intended or meant by the mind--an object that is neither a sense datum nor an idea, nor a judgment, but a supposition. also and again corresponding to this mental act of supposing and its intended object the supposition, there is a mode of being which is neither existence nor non-existence, but is named subsistence. a supposition, it is said, does not exist--it subsists. this thesis, it will easily be understood, is based on an analysis, and deals with arguments that touch the most fundamental problems of theory of knowledge. moreover, its presentment is excessively technical, and only those highly trained in the habit of psychological introspection and skilled in philosophical analysis are really competent to discuss it. it is not possible to offer here anything but a simple outline of the part of the theory that concerns the present problem. the actual experience of knowing is a relation between two things, one of which is a mental _act_, the act of perceiving or thinking or having ideas, and the other is an _object_, that which is perceived or thought of. the act is a particular mental existence, it is the act of a psychical individual. the object is not included within the actual experience which is the knowing of it, it is { } that which is meant or intended by the experience. the act, then, is the mental process of meaning or intending, the object the thing meant or intended. the mental act differs according to the kind of object intended. the act of perceiving is the direction of the mind towards sense data and ideas; the act of judging is the direction of the mind towards judgments or propositions about things, propositions that affirm or deny relations between things; the act of supposing is different from both these--it is the direction of the mind towards suppositions. suppositions differ from ideas in this, that they may be either positive or negative, whereas ideas are never negative. this may seem to contradict experience. can we not, for example, have an idea of not-red just as well as an idea of red? no, the two ideas can easily be seen to be one and the same; in each case it is red we are actually acquainted with, and the difference is in affirming or denying existence to the one idea. the difference is in our judgment, which may be affirmative or negative. a supposition is like a judgment in this respect; it may be either affirmative or negative, but it differs from a judgment in another respect, that while a judgment always conveys a conviction, always expresses belief or disbelief, a supposition does not--it is neither believed nor disbelieved. before i show the application of this analysis of knowledge to the problem of error, let me try and clear up its obscurity, for undoubtedly it is difficult to comprehend. its difficulty lies in this, that though all the ideas with which it deals are quite familiar--suppositions, real and unreal possibilities, fulfilled and non-fulfilled beliefs--yet it seems to run counter to all our notions of the extreme simplicity of the appeal to reality. it seems strange and paradoxical to our ordinary habit { } of thinking to affirm that there are real things and real relations between things which though real yet do not exist, and also that non-existent realities are not things that once were real but now are nought--they are things that subsist. yet this is no new doctrine. the most familiar case of such realities is that of numbers. the greeks discovered that numbers do not exist--that is to say, that their reality is of another kind to that which we denote by existence. numbers are realities, otherwise there would be no science of mathematics. pythagoras (about - b.c.) taught that numbers are the reality from which all else is derived. and there are many other things of the mind that seem indeed to be more real than the things of sense. it is this very problem of error that brings into relief this most important doctrine. now let us apply this theory of the supposition to the problem of error, and we shall then see how there can be an object present to the mind when we judge falsely, and also that the object is the same whether we judge truly or falsely. suppositions are real possibilities; they are alternatives that may be fulfilled or that may never be fulfilled. these real possibilities, or these possible alternatives, are objects of thought; they do not belong to the mental act of thinking; they are not in the mind, but realities present to the mind. in mere supposing they are present as alternatives; in judging, we affirm of them or deny of them the relation to general reality that they are fulfilled. judgments therefore are true or false accordingly as the fulfilment they affirm does or does not agree with reality. in this way, then, we may answer the perplexing question, how can there be an object of thought in a false judgment? the answer is, that the objects of thought about which we make judgments are suppositions, and our judgments { } concern their fulfilment, and their fulfilment is a relation external to them--it is their agreement or disagreement with reality. chapter ix conclusion i will now briefly sum up the argument of this book. the problem of truth is to discover the nature of the agreement between the things of the mind, our ideas, and the reality of which ideas are the knowledge. we call the agreement truth. what is it? we have seen that there are three different answers, namely--( ) that it is a correspondence between the idea and the reality; ( ) that it is the coherence of the idea in a consistent and harmonious whole; and ( ) that it is a value that we ourselves give to our ideas. the theory that truth is correspondence we found to offer this difficulty. to say of an idea that it corresponds with reality supposes a knowledge of reality in addition to and distinct from the knowledge that is the idea, and yet the knowledge of reality is the idea of it. and if it be said that not the idea but the judgment is what corresponds with reality in truth, this equally supposes a knowledge of reality that is not a judgment. if, as the common sense of mankind requires us to believe, the reality that is known by us exists in entire independence of our relation of knowing to it, how can we state this fact without falling into contradiction in the very statement of it? this is the difficulty of a realist theory of knowledge. we next examined the theory that truth is coherence, and this seemed to present to us an unattainable ideal. { } only the whole truth is wholly true. we followed the idealist argument on which it is based, and this seemed to lead us inevitably, in the doctrine of the absolute, to the paradox that unless we know everything we know nothing. in pragmatism we met a new principle, the proposal to regard truth as a value. truth, it is said, is something that happens to ideas; they become true, or are made true. there is no criterion, no absolute standard, independent of ideas to which they must conform if they are judged to be true. the value of an idea is its practical usefulness as tested by its workability. truth is what works. this led us to criticise the concept of utility. we found that it is impossible to identify utility with truth even if we include theoretical utility in its widest meaning, because over and above the usefulness and workability of an idea there always remains the question of its relation to reality. but we recognised in the principle of truth-value an important advance towards a theory of knowledge. the solution of the problem of truth, it became clear, must be sought in a theory of knowledge. have we, in the new theory of life and knowledge of bergson's philosophy, an answer to the question, what is truth? yes, but not in the form of a direct solution of the dilemma which confronts us in every theory that accepts the independence of knowledge and reality--rather in a theory of knowledge in which the dilemma does not and cannot arise. the theory of bergson is that in the intuition of life we know reality as it is, our knowledge is one with our knowing; and in the intellect we possess a mode of knowing which is equally immediate but the essential quality of which is that it externalises or spatialises reality. we understand this mode of knowing in { } recognising the purpose it serves, its practical advantage to us. the theory, therefore, resembles pragmatism in bringing the concept of utility to the aid of its theory of knowledge. but, we insisted, the resemblance is outward only, for the essential tenet of pragmatism, that truth itself is a value, is fatal to the theory. it would mean, in fact, that not the mode of knowing, that is the intellect, but the actual knowledge itself, is a practical endowment. but the problem of truth arises in a new form, for the practical utility of the intellect consists in the illusion which it produces in us. it makes the flowing reality appear as fixed states. how, then, can universal illusion be consistent with the possession of truth? to answer this question we examined the nature of illusion and its distinction from error. in the last chapter we have dealt with the problem of error. the fact of error presented a difficulty distinct from the question, what is truth? for it implied a real object of thought, of which it seemed equally contradictory to say that it exists and that it does not exist. in the solutions that have been proposed we saw how the problem is forcing philosophers to examine again the fundamental processes of the mind and the nature of the universe they reveal. { } bibliography the _theætetus_ of plato is an exposition of the problem of truth and error as it presented itself in ancient philosophy. the quotation i have made from it, and also the quotations from the _republic_, are from jowett's translation. the most clear exposition of what i have called the realistic doctrine is _the problems of philosophy_, by the hon. bertrand russell, in the home university library (williams and norgate). i have adopted mr. russell's terms, "acquaintance" and "description"; the distinction they denote seems to me of fundamental importance, and mr. russell's doctrine on this point a permanent addition to philosophy. mr. russell's theory, that in the judgment what is present to the mind is a relation which is external to the terms of the judgment, and that agreement or disagreement between this relation and reality makes the truth or falsehood of the judgment, can only be appreciated if studied in connection with his general scheme. the classical work on what i have called the modern idealist doctrine (i have avoided the word intellectualist) is mr. f. h. bradley's _appearance and reality_. i have attempted to give the main lines of the theory in my chapter on "the absolute." although it is a book for advanced students, it is not a closed volume even to the uninstructed. the brilliant dialectical skill of the { } author is acknowledged and may be enjoyed by those who reject or may fail to understand his conclusion. mr. harold h. joachim's _the nature of truth_ (oxford, clarendon press) is a most able and scholarly argument for the coherence theory of truth. the principal expositions of pragmatism are the works of william james and of dr. f. c. s. schiller. william james' _the will to believe_ was the first distinct formulation of the principle. _pragmatism, a new name for some old ways of thinking_, is the fullest and most systematic statement of the doctrine. _the meaning of truth_ is a defence of the doctrine against the criticism that had been meted out to it unsparingly. all three books are published by longmans. dr. f. c. s. schiller is uncompromising in his advocacy of a complete return to the doctrine taught in the ancient world by protagoras. he has defended that philosopher against the arguments of plato in a polemical pamphlet entitled _plato or protagoras?_ (oxford, blackwell). an essay on "axioms as postulates" in _personal idealism_ (macmillan & co.), and two volumes of collected essays on _humanism_ (macmillan & co.), set forth the doctrine, which he prefers to call humanism, with great force, abundant illustration, and the relief of no small amount of humour. for an account of the theories of bergson, i may mention my own little book in this series, _henri bergson: the philosophy of change_. m. bergson's books are _time and freewill_, _matter and memory_, and _creative evolution_. to these has been recently added _an introduction to metaphysics_ (macmillan, ). it is the republication in english of an article written in , which has been for a long time out of print. it is a short and clear statement of the doctrine of intuition. { } the important studies of professor g. f. stout are not easily accessible to the general reader, as they consist in contributions to philosophical journals and proceedings of learned societies. the essay referred to in the last chapter, "some fundamental points in the theory of knowledge," is in the _st. andrews quincentenary publications_, (maclehose). i may mention also his essay on "error" in _personal idealism_, noticed above, and "the object of thought and real being," in _proceedings of the aristotelian society_, . { } index ndx bergson, mons. henri, , , , berkeley, , , coherence theory, , correspondence theory, , discovery of planet neptune, faith-attitude of pragmatism, formal logic, hegel, hume, intellectualism, james, william, kant, , , , meinong, pierce, c. s., plato, , , , , pluralistic realism, poincaré, henri, pragmatist theory of truth, primary 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should presume to address you in this manner. but that a man who has written something with a design to promote useful knowledge and religion in the world should make choice of your lordship for his patron, will not be thought strange by any one that is not altogether unacquainted with the present state of the church and learning, and consequently ignorant how great an ornament and support you are to both. yet, nothing could have induced me to make you this present of my poor endeavours, were i not encouraged by that candour and native goodness which is so bright a part in your lordship's character. i might add, my lord, that the extraordinary favour and bounty you have been pleased to show towards our society gave me hopes you would not be unwilling to countenance the studies of one of its members. these considerations determined me to lay this treatise at your lordship's feet, and the rather because i was ambitious to have it known that i am with the truest and most profound respect, on account of that learning and virtue which the world so justly admires in your lordship, my lord, your lordship's most humble and most devoted servant, george berkeley * * * * * contents preface introduction of the principles of human knowledge * * * * * preface what i here make public has, after a long and scrupulous inquiry, seemed to me evidently true and not unuseful to be known--particularly to those who are tainted with scepticism, or want a demonstration of the existence and immateriality of god, or the natural immortality of the soul. whether it be so or no i am content the reader should impartially examine; since i do not think myself any farther concerned for the success of what i have written than as it is agreeable to truth. but, to the end this may not suffer, i make it my request that the reader suspend his judgment till he has once at least read the whole through with that degree of attention and thought which the subject-matter shall seem to deserve. for, as there are some passages that, taken by themselves, are very liable (nor could it be remedied) to gross misinterpretation, and to be charged with most absurd consequences, which, nevertheless, upon an entire perusal will appear not to follow from them; so likewise, though the whole should be read over, yet, if this be done transiently, it is very probable my sense may be mistaken; but to a thinking reader, i flatter myself it will be throughout clear and obvious. as for the characters of novelty and singularity which some of the following notions may seem to bear, it is, i hope, needless to make any apology on that account. he must surely be either very weak, or very little acquainted with the sciences, who shall reject a truth that is capable of demonstration, for no other reason but because it is newly known, and contrary to the prejudices of mankind. thus much i thought fit to premise, in order to prevent, if possible, the hasty censures of a sort of men who are too apt to condemn an opinion before they rightly comprehend it. introduction . philosophy being nothing else but the study of wisdom and truth, it may with reason be expected that those who have spent most time and pains in it should enjoy a greater calm and serenity of mind, a greater clearness and evidence of knowledge, and be less disturbed with doubts and difficulties than other men. yet so it is, we see the illiterate bulk of mankind that walk the high-road of plain common sense, and are governed by the dictates of nature, for the most part easy and undisturbed. to them nothing that is familiar appears unaccountable or difficult to comprehend. they complain not of any want of evidence in their senses, and are out of all danger of becoming sceptics. but no sooner do we depart from sense and instinct to follow the light of a superior principle, to reason, meditate, and reflect on the nature of things, but a thousand scruples spring up in our minds concerning those things which before we seemed fully to comprehend. prejudices and errors of sense do from all parts discover themselves to our view; and, endeavouring to correct these by reason, we are insensibly drawn into uncouth paradoxes, difficulties, and inconsistencies, which multiply and grow upon us as we advance in speculation, till at length, having wandered through many intricate mazes, we find ourselves just where we were, or, which is worse, sit down in a forlorn scepticism. . the cause of this is thought to be the obscurity of things, or the natural weakness and imperfection of our understandings. it is said, the faculties we have are few, and those designed by nature for the support and comfort of life, and not to penetrate into the inward essence and constitution of things. besides, the mind of man being finite, when it treats of things which partake of infinity, it is not to be wondered at if it run into absurdities and contradictions, out of which it is impossible it should ever extricate itself, it being of the nature of infinite not to be comprehended by that which is finite. . but, perhaps, we may be too partial to ourselves in placing the fault originally in our faculties, and not rather in the wrong use we make of them. it is a hard thing to suppose that right deductions from true principles should ever end in consequences which cannot be maintained or made consistent. we should believe that god has dealt more bountifully with the sons of men than to give them a strong desire for that knowledge which he had placed quite out of their reach. this were not agreeable to the wonted indulgent methods of providence, which, whatever appetites it may have implanted in the creatures, doth usually furnish them with such means as, if rightly made use of, will not fail to satisfy them. upon the whole, i am inclined to think that the far greater part, if not all, of those difficulties which have hitherto amused philosophers, and blocked up the way to knowledge, are entirely owing to ourselves--that we have first raised a dust and then complain we cannot see. . my purpose therefore is, to try if i can discover what those principles are which have introduced all that doubtfulness and uncertainty, those absurdities and contradictions, into the several sects of philosophy; insomuch that the wisest men have thought our ignorance incurable, conceiving it to arise from the natural dulness and limitation of our faculties. and surely it is a work well deserving our pains to make a strict inquiry concerning the first principles of human knowledge, to sift and examine them on all sides, especially since there may be some grounds to suspect that those lets and difficulties, which stay and embarrass the mind in its search after truth, do not spring from any darkness and intricacy in the objects, or natural defect in the understanding, so much as from false principles which have been insisted on, and might have been avoided. . how difficult and discouraging soever this attempt may seem, when i consider how many great and extraordinary men have gone before me in the like designs, yet i am not without some hopes--upon the consideration that the largest views are not always the clearest, and that he who is short--sighted will be obliged to draw the object nearer, and may, perhaps, by a close and narrow survey, discern that which had escaped far better eyes. . a chief source of error in all parts of knowledge.--in order to prepare the mind of the reader for the easier conceiving what follows, it is proper to premise somewhat, by way of introduction, concerning the nature and abuse of language. but the unravelling this matter leads me in some measure to anticipate my design, by taking notice of what seems to have had a chief part in rendering speculation intricate and perplexed, and to have occasioned innumerable errors and difficulties in almost all parts of knowledge. and that is the opinion that the mind has a power of framing abstract ideas or notions of things. he who is not a perfect stranger to the writings and disputes of philosophers must needs acknowledge that no small part of them are spent about abstract ideas. these are in a more especial manner thought to be the object of those sciences which go by the name of logic and metaphysics, and of all that which passes under the notion of the most abstracted and sublime learning, in all which one shall scarce find any question handled in such a manner as does not suppose their existence in the mind, and that it is well acquainted with them. . proper acceptation of abstraction.--it is agreed on all hands that the qualities or modes of things do never really exist each of them apart by itself, and separated from all others, but are mixed, as it were, and blended together, several in the same object. but, we are told, the mind being able to consider each quality singly, or abstracted from those other qualities with which it is united, does by that means frame to itself abstract ideas. for example, there is perceived by sight an object extended, coloured, and moved: this mixed or compound idea the mind resolving into its simple, constituent parts, and viewing each by itself, exclusive of the rest, does frame the abstract ideas of extension, colour, and motion. not that it is possible for colour or motion to exist without extension; but only that the mind can frame to itself by abstraction the idea of colour exclusive of extension, and of motion exclusive of both colour and extension. . of generalizing [note].--again, the mind having observed that in the particular extensions perceived by sense there is something common and alike in all, and some other things peculiar, as this or that figure or magnitude, which distinguish them one from another; it considers apart or singles out by itself that which is common, making thereof a most abstract idea of extension, which is neither line, surface, nor solid, nor has any figure or magnitude, but is an idea entirely prescinded from all these. so likewise the mind, by leaving out of the particular colours perceived by sense that which distinguishes them one from another, and retaining that only which is common to all, makes an idea of colour in abstract which is neither red, nor blue, nor white, nor any other determinate colour. and, in like manner, by considering motion abstractedly not only from the body moved, but likewise from the figure it describes, and all particular directions and velocities, the abstract idea of motion is framed; which equally corresponds to all particular motions whatsoever that may be perceived by sense. [note: vide reid, on the intellectual powers of man, essay v, chap iii. sec. , edit. ] . of compounding.--and as the mind frames to itself abstract ideas of qualities or modes, so does it, by the same precision or mental separation, attain abstract ideas of the more compounded beings which include several coexistent qualities. for example, the mind having observed that peter, james, and john resemble each other in certain common agreements of shape and other qualities, leaves out of the complex or compounded idea it has of peter, james, and any other particular man, that which is peculiar to each, retaining only what is common to all, and so makes an abstract idea wherein all the particulars equally partake--abstracting entirely from and cutting off all those circumstances and differences which might determine it to any particular existence. and after this manner it is said we come by the abstract idea of man, or, if you please, humanity, or human nature; wherein it is true there is included colour, because there is no man but has some colour, but then it can be neither white, nor black, nor any particular colour, because there is no one particular colour wherein all men partake. so likewise there is included stature, but then it is neither tall stature, nor low stature, nor yet middle stature, but something abstracted from all these. and so of the rest. moreover, their being a great variety of other creatures that partake in some parts, but not all, of the complex idea of man, the mind, leaving out those parts which are peculiar to men, and retaining those only which are common to all the living creatures, frames the idea of animal, which abstracts not only from all particular men, but also all birds, beasts, fishes, and insects. the constituent parts of the abstract idea of animal are body, life, sense, and spontaneous motion. by body is meant body without any particular shape or figure, there being no one shape or figure common to all animals, without covering, either of hair, or feathers, or scales, &c., nor yet naked: hair, feathers, scales, and nakedness being the distinguishing properties of particular animals, and for that reason left out of the abstract idea. upon the same account the spontaneous motion must be neither walking, nor flying, nor creeping; it is nevertheless a motion, but what that motion is it is not easy to conceive[note.]. [note: vide hobbes' tripos, ch. v. sect. .] . two objections to the existence of abstract ideas.--whether others have this wonderful faculty of abstracting their ideas, they best can tell: for myself, i find indeed i have a faculty of imagining, or representing to myself, the ideas of those particular things i have perceived, and of variously compounding and dividing them. i can imagine a man with two heads, or the upper parts of a man joined to the body of a horse. i can consider the hand, the eye, the nose, each by itself abstracted or separated from the rest of the body. but then whatever hand or eye i imagine, it must have some particular shape and colour. likewise the idea of man that i frame to myself must be either of a white, or a black, or a tawny, a straight, or a crooked, a tall, or a low, or a middle-sized man. i cannot by any effort of thought conceive the abstract idea above described. and it is equally impossible for me to form the abstract idea of motion distinct from the body moving, and which is neither swift nor slow, curvilinear nor rectilinear; and the like may be said of all other abstract general ideas whatsoever. to be plain, i own myself able to abstract in one sense, as when i consider some particular parts or qualities separated from others, with which, though they are united in some object, yet it is possible they may really exist without them. but i deny that i can abstract from one another, or conceive separately, those qualities which it is impossible should exist so separated; or that i can frame a general notion, by abstracting from particulars in the manner aforesaid--which last are the two proper acceptations of abstraction. and there are grounds to think most men will acknowledge themselves to be in my case. the generality of men which are simple and illiterate never pretend to abstract notions. it is said they are difficult and not to be attained without pains and study; we may therefore reasonably conclude that, if such there be, they are confined only to the learned. . i proceed to examine what can be alleged in defence of the doctrine of abstraction, and try if i can discover what it is that inclines the men of speculation to embrace an opinion so remote from common sense as that seems to be. there has been a late deservedly esteemed philosopher who, no doubt, has given it very much countenance, by seeming to think the having abstract general ideas is what puts the widest difference in point of understanding betwixt man and beast. "the having of general ideas," saith he, "is that which puts a perfect distinction betwixt man and brutes, and is an excellency which the faculties of brutes do by no means attain unto. for, it is evident we observe no foot-steps in them of making use of general signs for universal ideas; from which we have reason to imagine that they have not the faculty of abstracting, or making general ideas, since they have no use of words or any other general signs." and a little after: "therefore, i think, we may suppose that it is in this that the species of brutes are discriminated from men, and it is that proper difference wherein they are wholly separated, and which at last widens to so wide a distance. for, if they have any ideas at all, and are not bare machines (as some would have them), we cannot deny them to have some reason. it seems as evident to me that they do, some of them, in certain instances reason as that they have sense; but it is only in particular ideas, just as they receive them from their senses. they are the best of them tied up within those narrow bounds, and have not (as i think) the faculty to enlarge them by any kind of abstraction." essay on human understanding, ii. xi. and . i readily agree with this learned author, that the faculties of brutes can by no means attain to abstraction. but then if this be made the distinguishing property of that sort of animals, i fear a great many of those that pass for men must be reckoned into their number. the reason that is here assigned why we have no grounds to think brutes have abstract general ideas is, that we observe in them no use of words or any other general signs; which is built on this supposition--that the making use of words implies the having general ideas. from which it follows that men who use language are able to abstract or generalize their ideas. that this is the sense and arguing of the author will further appear by his answering the question he in another place puts: "since all things that exist are only particulars, how come we by general terms?" his answer is: "words become general by being made the signs of general ideas."--essay on human understanding, iv. iii. . but [note. ] it seems that a word becomes general by being made the sign, not of an abstract general idea, but of several particular ideas [note. ], any one of which it indifferently suggests to the mind. for example, when it is said "the change of motion is proportional to the impressed force," or that "whatever has extension is divisible," these propositions are to be understood of motion and extension in general; and nevertheless it will not follow that they suggest to my thoughts an idea of motion without a body moved, or any determinate direction and velocity, or that i must conceive an abstract general idea of extension, which is neither line, surface, nor solid, neither great nor small, black, white, nor red, nor of any other determinate colour. it is only implied that whatever particular motion i consider, whether it be swift or slow, perpendicular, horizontal, or oblique, or in whatever object, the axiom concerning it holds equally true. as does the other of every particular extension, it matters not whether line, surface, or solid, whether of this or that magnitude or figure. [note : "to this i cannot assent, being of opinion," edit of .] [note : of the same sort.] . existence of general ideas admitted.--by observing how ideas become general we may the better judge how words are made so. and here it is to be noted that i do not deny absolutely there are general ideas, but only that there are any abstract general ideas; for, in the passages we have quoted wherein there is mention of general ideas, it is always supposed that they are formed by abstraction, after the manner set forth in sections and . now, if we will annex a meaning to our words, and speak only of what we can conceive, i believe we shall acknowledge that an idea which, considered in itself, is particular, becomes general by being made to represent or stand for all other particular ideas of the same sort. to make this plain by an example, suppose a geometrician is demonstrating the method of cutting a line in two equal parts. he draws, for instance, a black line of an inch in length: this, which in itself is a particular line, is nevertheless with regard to its signification general, since, as it is there used, it represents all particular lines whatsoever; so that what is demonstrated of it is demonstrated of all lines, or, in other words, of a line in general. and, as that particular line becomes general by being made a sign, so the name line, which taken absolutely is particular, by being a sign is made general. and as the former owes its generality not to its being the sign of an abstract or general line, but of all particular right lines that may possibly exist, so the latter must be thought to derive its generality from the same cause, namely, the various particular lines which it indifferently denotes. [note.] [note: "i look upon this (doctrine) to be one of the greatest and most valuable discoveries that have been made of late years in the republic of letters."--treatise of human nature, book i, part i, sect. . also stewart's philosophy of the mind, part i, chapt. iv. sect. iii. p. .] . abstract general ideas necessary, according to locke.--to give the reader a yet clearer view of the nature of abstract ideas, and the uses they are thought necessary to, i shall add one more passage out of the essay on human understanding, (iv. vii. ) which is as follows: "abstract ideas are not so obvious or easy to children or the yet unexercised mind as particular ones. if they seem so to grown men it is only because by constant and familiar use they are made so. for, when we nicely reflect upon them, we shall find that general ideas are fictions and contrivances of the mind, that carry difficulty with them, and do not so easily offer themselves as we are apt to imagine. for example, does it not require some pains and skill to form the general idea of a triangle (which is yet none of the most abstract, comprehensive, and difficult); for it must be neither oblique nor rectangle, neither equilateral, equicrural, nor scalenon, but all and none of these at once? in effect, it is something imperfect that cannot exist, an idea wherein some parts of several different and inconsistent ideas are put together. it is true the mind in this imperfect state has need of such ideas, and makes all the haste to them it can, for the conveniency of communication and enlargement of knowledge, to both which it is naturally very much inclined. but yet one has reason to suspect such ideas are marks of our imperfection. at least this is enough to show that the most abstract and general ideas are not those that the mind is first and most easily acquainted with, nor such as its earliest knowledge is conversant about."--if any man has the faculty of framing in his mind such an idea of a triangle as is here described, it is in vain to pretend to dispute him out of it, nor would i go about it. all i desire is that the reader would fully and certainly inform himself whether he has such an idea or no. and this, methinks, can be no hard task for anyone to perform. what more easy than for anyone to look a little into his own thoughts, and there try whether he has, or can attain to have, an idea that shall correspond with the description that is here given of the general idea of a triangle, which is neither oblique nor rectangle, equilateral, equicrural nor scalenon, but all and none of these at once? . but they are not necessary for communication.--much is here said of the difficulty that abstract ideas carry with them, and the pains and skill requisite to the forming them. and it is on all hands agreed that there is need of great toil and labour of the mind, to emancipate our thoughts from particular objects, and raise them to those sublime speculations that are conversant about abstract ideas. from all which the natural consequence should seem to be, that so difficult a thing as the forming abstract ideas was not necessary for communication, which is so easy and familiar to all sorts of men. but, we are told, if they seem obvious and easy to grown men, it is only because by constant and familiar use they are made so. now, i would fain know at what time it is men are employed in surmounting that difficulty, and furnishing themselves with those necessary helps for discourse. it cannot be when they are grown up, for then it seems they are not conscious of any such painstaking; it remains therefore to be the business of their childhood. and surely the great and multiplied labour of framing abstract notions will be found a hard task for that tender age. is it not a hard thing to imagine that a couple of children cannot prate together of their sugar-plums and rattles and the rest of their little trinkets, till they have first tacked together numberless inconsistencies, and so framed in their minds abstract general ideas, and annexed them to every common name they make use of? . nor for the enlargement of knowledge.--nor do i think them a whit more needful for the enlargement of knowledge than for communication. it is, i know, a point much insisted on, that all knowledge and demonstration are about universal notions, to which i fully agree: but then it doth not appear to me that those notions are formed by abstraction in the manner premised--universality, so far as i can comprehend, not consisting in the absolute, positive nature or conception of anything, but in the relation it bears to the particulars signified or represented by it; by virtue whereof it is that things, names, or notions, being in their own nature particular, are rendered universal. thus, when i demonstrate any proposition concerning triangles, it is to be supposed that i have in view the universal idea of a triangle; which ought not to be understood as if i could frame an idea of a triangle which was neither equilateral, nor scalenon, nor equicrural; but only that the particular triangle i consider, whether of this or that sort it matters not, doth equally stand for and represent all rectilinear triangles whatsoever, and is in that sense universal. all which seems very plain and not to include any difficulty in it. . objection.--answer.--but here it will be demanded, how we can know any proposition to be true of all particular triangles, except we have first seen it demonstrated of the abstract idea of a triangle which equally agrees to all? for, because a property may be demonstrated to agree to some one particular triangle, it will not thence follow that it equally belongs to any other triangle, which in all respects is not the same with it. for example, having demonstrated that the three angles of an isosceles rectangular triangle are equal to two right ones, i cannot therefore conclude this affection agrees to all other triangles which have neither a right angle nor two equal sides. it seems therefore that, to be certain this proposition is universally true, we must either make a particular demonstration for every particular triangle, which is impossible, or once for all demonstrate it of the abstract idea of a triangle, in which all the particulars do indifferently partake and by which they are all equally represented. to which i answer, that, though the idea i have in view whilst i make the demonstration be, for instance, that of an isosceles rectangular triangle whose sides are of a determinate length, i may nevertheless be certain it extends to all other rectilinear triangles, of what sort or bigness soever. and that because neither the right angle, nor the equality, nor determinate length of the sides are at all concerned in the demonstration. it is true the diagram i have in view includes all these particulars, but then there is not the least mention made of them in the proof of the proposition. it is not said the three angles are equal to two right ones, because one of them is a right angle, or because the sides comprehending it are of the same length. which sufficiently shows that the right angle might have been oblique, and the sides unequal, and for all that the demonstration have held good. and for this reason it is that i conclude that to be true of any obliquangular or scalenon which i had demonstrated of a particular right--angled equicrural triangle, and not because i demonstrated the proposition of the abstract idea of a triangle and here it must be acknowledged that a man may consider a figure merely as triangular, without attending to the particular qualities of the angles, or relations of the sides. so far he may abstract; but this will never prove that he can frame an abstract, general, inconsistent idea of a triangle. in like manner we may consider peter so far forth as man, or so far forth as animal without framing the fore-mentioned abstract idea, either of man or of animal, inasmuch as all that is perceived is not considered. . advantage of investigating the doctrine of abstract general ideas.--it were an endless as well as an useless thing to trace the schoolmen, those great masters of abstraction, through all the manifold inextricable labyrinths of error and dispute which their doctrine of abstract natures and notions seems to have led them into. what bickerings and controversies, and what a learned dust have been raised about those matters, and what mighty advantage has been from thence derived to mankind, are things at this day too clearly known to need being insisted on. and it had been well if the ill effects of that doctrine were confined to those only who make the most avowed profession of it. when men consider the great pains, industry, and parts that have for so many ages been laid out on the cultivation and advancement of the sciences, and that notwithstanding all this the far greater part of them remains full of darkness and uncertainty, and disputes that are like never to have an end, and even those that are thought to be supported by the most clear and cogent demonstrations contain in them paradoxes which are perfectly irreconcilable to the understandings of men, and that, taking all together, a very small portion of them does supply any real benefit to mankind, otherwise than by being an innocent diversion and amusement--i say the consideration of all this is apt to throw them into a despondency and perfect contempt of all study. but this may perhaps cease upon a view of the false principles that have obtained in the world, amongst all which there is none, methinks, has a more wide and extended sway over the thoughts of speculative men than [note.] this of abstract general ideas. [note: "that we have been endeavouring to overthrow."--edit .] . i come now to consider the source of this prevailing notion, and that seems to me to be language. and surely nothing of less extent than reason itself could have been the source of an opinion so universally received. the truth of this appears as from other reasons so also from the plain confession of the ablest patrons of abstract ideas, who acknowledge that they are made in order to naming; from which it is a clear consequence that if there had been no such things as speech or universal signs there never had been any thought of abstraction. see iii. vi. , and elsewhere of the essay on human understanding. let us examine the manner wherein words have contributed to the origin of that mistake.--first [vide sect. xix.] then, it is thought that every name has, or ought to have, one only precise and settled signification, which inclines men to think there are certain abstract, determinate ideas that constitute the true and only immediate signification of each general name; and that it is by the mediation of these abstract ideas that a general name comes to signify any particular thing. whereas, in truth, there is no such thing as one precise and definite signification annexed to any general name, they all signifying indifferently a great number of particular ideas. all which doth evidently follow from what has been already said, and will clearly appear to anyone by a little reflexion. to this it will be objected that every name that has a definition is thereby restrained to one certain signification. for example, a triangle is defined to be a plain surface comprehended by three right lines, by which that name is limited to denote one certain idea and no other. to which i answer, that in the definition it is not said whether the surface be great or small, black or white, nor whether the sides are long or short, equal or unequal, nor with what angles they are inclined to each other; in all which there may be great variety, and consequently there is no one settled idea which limits the signification of the word triangle. it is one thing for to keep a name constantly to the same definition, and another to make it stand everywhere for the same idea; the one is necessary, the other useless and impracticable. . secondly, but, to give a farther account how words came to produce the doctrine of abstract ideas, it must be observed that it is a received opinion that language has no other end but the communicating our ideas, and that every significant name stands for an idea. this being so, and it being withal certain that names which yet are not thought altogether insignificant do not always mark out particular conceivable ideas, it is straightway concluded that they stand for abstract notions. that there are many names in use amongst speculative men which do not always suggest to others determinate, particular ideas, or in truth anything at all, is what nobody will deny. and a little attention will discover that it is not necessary (even in the strictest reasonings) significant names which stand for ideas should, every time they are used, excite in the understanding the ideas they are made to stand for--in reading and discoursing, names being for the most part used as letters are in algebra, in which, though a particular quantity be marked by each letter, yet to proceed right it is not requisite that in every step each letter suggest to your thoughts that particular quantity it was appointed to stand for.[note.] [note: language has become the source or origin of abstract general ideas on account of a twofold error.--( .) that every word has only one signification. ( .) that the only end of language is the communication of our ideas--ed.] . some of the ends of language.--besides, the communicating of ideas marked by words is not the chief and only end of language, as is commonly supposed. there are other ends, as the raising of some passion, the exciting to or deterring from an action, the putting the mind in some particular disposition--to which the former is in many cases barely subservient, and sometimes entirely omitted, when these can be obtained without it, as i think does not unfrequently happen in the familiar use of language. i entreat the reader to reflect with himself, and see if it doth not often happen, either in hearing or reading a discourse, that the passions of fear, love, hatred, admiration, disdain, and the like, arise immediately in his mind upon the perception of certain words, without any ideas coming between. at first, indeed, the words might have occasioned ideas that were fitting to produce those emotions; but, if i mistake not, it will be found that, when language is once grown familiar, the hearing of the sounds or sight of the characters is oft immediately attended with those passions which at first were wont to be produced by the intervention of ideas that are now quite omitted. may we not, for example, be affected with the promise of a good thing, though we have not an idea of what it is? or is not the being threatened with danger sufficient to excite a dread, though we think not of any particular evil likely to befal us, nor yet frame to ourselves an idea of danger in abstract? if any one shall join ever so little reflexion of his own to what has been said, i believe that it will evidently appear to him that general names are often used in the propriety of language without the speaker's designing them for marks of ideas in his own, which he would have them raise in the mind of the hearer. even proper names themselves do not seem always spoken with a design to bring into our view the ideas of those individuals that are supposed to be marked by them. for example, when a schoolman tells me "aristotle has said it," all i conceive he means by it is to dispose me to embrace his opinion with the deference and submission which custom has annexed to that name. and this effect is often so instantly produced in the minds of those who are accustomed to resign their judgment to authority of that philosopher, as it is impossible any idea either of his person, writings, or reputation should go before [note.]. innumerable examples of this kind may be given, but why should i insist on those things which every one's experience will, i doubt not, plentifully suggest unto him? [note: "so close and immediate a connection may custom establish betwixt the very word aristotle, and the motions of assent and reverence in the minds of some men."--edit .] . caution in the use of language necessary.--we have, i think, shown the impossibility of abstract ideas. we have considered what has been said for them by their ablest patrons; and endeavored to show they are of no use for those ends to which they are thought necessary. and lastly, we have traced them to the source from whence they flow, which appears evidently to be language.--it cannot be denied that words are of excellent use, in that by their means all that stock of knowledge which has been purchased by the joint labours of inquisitive men in all ages and nations may be drawn into the view and made the possession of one single person. but at the same time it must be owned that most parts of knowledge have been strangely perplexed and darkened by the abuse of words, and general ways of speech wherein they are delivered.[note .] since therefore words are so apt to impose on the understanding[note .], whatever ideas i consider, i shall endeavour to take them bare and naked into my view, keeping out of my thoughts so far as i am able, those names which long and constant use has so strictly united with them; from which i may expect to derive the following advantages: [note : "that it may almost be made a question, whether language has contributed more to the hindrance or advancement of the sciences."--edit .] [note : "i am resolved in my inquiries to make as little use of them as possibly i can."--edit .] . first, i shall be sure to get clear of all controversies purely verbal--the springing up of which weeds in almost all the sciences has been a main hindrance to the growth of true and sound knowledge. secondly, this seems to be a sure way to extricate myself out of that fine and subtle net of abstract ideas which has so miserably perplexed and entangled the minds of men; and that with this peculiar circumstance, that by how much the finer and more curious was the wit of any man, by so much the deeper was he likely to be ensnared and faster held therein. thirdly, so long as i confine my thoughts to my own ideas divested of words, i do not see how i can easily be mistaken. the objects i consider, i clearly and adequately know. i cannot be deceived in thinking i have an idea which i have not. it is not possible for me to imagine that any of my own ideas are alike or unlike that are not truly so. to discern the agreements or disagreements there are between my ideas, to see what ideas are included in any compound idea and what not, there is nothing more requisite than an attentive perception of what passes in my own understanding. . but the attainment of all these advantages doth presuppose an entire deliverance from the deception of words, which i dare hardly promise myself; so difficult a thing it is to dissolve an union so early begun, and confirmed by so long a habit as that betwixt words and ideas. which difficulty seems to have been very much increased by the doctrine of abstraction. for, so long as men thought abstract ideas were annexed to their words, it doth not seem strange that they should use words for ideas--it being found an impracticable thing to lay aside the word, and retain the abstract idea in the mind, which in itself was perfectly inconceivable. this seems to me the principal cause why those men who have so emphatically recommended to others the laying aside all use of words in their meditations, and contemplating their bare ideas, have yet failed to perform it themselves. of late many have been very sensible of the absurd opinions and insignificant disputes which grow out of the abuse of words. and, in order to remedy these evils, they advise well, that we attend to the ideas signified, and draw off our attention from the words which signify them. but, how good soever this advice may be they have given others, it is plain they could not have a due regard to it themselves, so long as they thought the only immediate use of words was to signify ideas, and that the immediate signification of every general name was a determinate abstract idea. . but, these being known to be mistakes, a man may with greater ease prevent his being imposed on by words. he that knows he has no other than particular ideas, will not puzzle himself in vain to find out and conceive the abstract idea annexed to any name. and he that knows names do not always stand for ideas will spare himself the labour of looking for ideas where there are none to be had. it were, therefore, to be wished that everyone would use his utmost endeavours to obtain a clear view of the ideas he would consider, separating from them all that dress and incumbrance of words which so much contribute to blind the judgment and divide the attention. in vain do we extend our view into the heavens and pry into the entrails of the earth, in vain do we consult the writings of learned men and trace the dark footsteps of antiquity--we need only draw the curtain of words, to hold the fairest tree of knowledge, whose fruit is excellent, and within the reach of our hand. . unless we take care to clear the first principles of knowledge from the embarras and delusion of words, we may make infinite reasonings upon them to no purpose; we may draw consequences from consequences, and be never the wiser. the farther we go, we shall only lose ourselves the more irrecoverably, and be the deeper entangled in difficulties and mistakes. whoever therefore designs to read the following sheets, i entreat him to make my words the occasion of his own thinking, and endeavour to attain the same train of thoughts in reading that i had in writing them. by this means it will be easy for him to discover the truth or falsity of what i say. he will be out of all danger of being deceived by my words, and i do not see how he can be led into an error by considering his own naked, undisguised ideas. of the principles of human knowledge . objects of human knowledge.--it is evident to any one who takes a survey of the objects of human knowledge, that they are either ideas actually imprinted on the senses; or else such as are perceived by attending to the passions and operations of the mind; or lastly, ideas formed by help of memory and imagination--either compounding, dividing, or barely representing those originally perceived in the aforesaid ways. by sight i have the ideas of light and colours, with their several degrees and variations. by touch i perceive hard and soft, heat and cold, motion and resistance, and of all these more and less either as to quantity or degree. smelling furnishes me with odours; the palate with tastes; and hearing conveys sounds to the mind in all their variety of tone and composition. and as several of these are observed to accompany each other, they come to be marked by one name, and so to be reputed as one thing. thus, for example a certain colour, taste, smell, figure and consistence having been observed to go together, are accounted one distinct thing, signified by the name apple. other collections of ideas constitute a stone, a tree, a book, and the like sensible things--which as they are pleasing or disagreeable excite the passions of love, hatred, joy, grief, and so forth. . mind--spirit--soul.--but, besides all that endless variety of ideas or objects of knowledge, there is likewise something which knows or perceives them, and exercises divers operations, as willing, imagining, remembering, about them. this perceiving, active being is what i call mind, spirit, soul, or myself. by which words i do not denote any one of my ideas, but a thing entirely distinct from them, wherein they exist, or, which is the same thing, whereby they are perceived--for the existence of an idea consists in being perceived. . how far the assent of the vulgar conceded.--that neither our thoughts, nor passions, nor ideas formed by the imagination, exist without the mind, is what everybody will allow. and it seems no less evident that the various sensations or ideas imprinted on the sense, however blended or combined together (that is, whatever objects they compose), cannot exist otherwise than in a mind perceiving them. i think an intuitive knowledge may be obtained of this by any one that shall attend to what is meant by the term exist, when applied to sensible things. the table i write on i say exists, that is, i see and feel it; and if i were out of my study i should say it existed--meaning thereby that if i was in my study i might perceive it, or that some other spirit actually does perceive it.[note.] there was an odour, that is, it was smelt; there was a sound, that is, it was heard; a colour or figure, and it was perceived by sight or touch. this is all that i can understand by these and the like expressions. for as to what is said of the absolute existence of unthinking things without any relation to their being perceived, that seems perfectly unintelligible. their esse is percipi, nor is it possible they should have any existence out of the minds or thinking things which perceive them. [note: first argument in support of the author's theory.] . the vulgar opinion involves a contradiction.--it is indeed an opinion strangely prevailing amongst men, that houses, mountains, rivers, and in a word all sensible objects, have an existence, natural or real, distinct from their being perceived by the understanding. but, with how great an assurance and acquiescence soever this principle may be entertained in the world, yet whoever shall find in his heart to call it in question may, if i mistake not, perceive it to involve a manifest contradiction. for, what are the fore-mentioned objects but the things we perceive by sense? and what do we perceive besides our own ideas or sensations? and is it not plainly repugnant that any one of these, or any combination of them, should exist unperceived? . cause of this prevalent error.--if we thoroughly examine this tenet it will, perhaps, be found at bottom to depend on the doctrine of abstract ideas. for can there be a nicer strain of abstraction than to distinguish the existence of sensible objects from their being perceived, so as to conceive them existing unperceived? light and colours, heat and cold, extension and figures--in a word the things we see and feel--what are they but so many sensations, notions, ideas, or impressions on the sense? and is it possible to separate, even in thought, any of these from perception? for my part, i might as easily divide a thing from itself. i may, indeed, divide in my thoughts, or conceive apart from each other, those things which, perhaps i never perceived by sense so divided. thus, i imagine the trunk of a human body without the limbs, or conceive the smell of a rose without thinking on the rose itself. so far, i will not deny, i can abstract--if that may properly be called abstraction which extends only to the conceiving separately such objects as it is possible may really exist or be actually perceived asunder. but my conceiving or imagining power does not extend beyond the possibility of real existence or perception. hence, as it is impossible for me to see or feel anything without an actual sensation of that thing, so is it impossible for me to conceive in my thoughts any sensible thing or object distinct from the sensation or perception of it.[note.] [note: "in truth the object and the sensation are the same thing, and cannot therefore be abstracted from each other--edit ."] . some truths there are so near and obvious to the mind that a man need only open his eyes to see them. such i take this important one to be, viz., that all the choir of heaven and furniture of the earth, in a word all those bodies which compose the mighty frame of the world, have not any subsistence without a mind, that their being (esse) is to be perceived or known; that consequently so long as they are not actually perceived by me, or do not exist in my mind or that of any other created spirit, they must either have no existence at all, or else subsist in the mind of some eternal spirit--it being perfectly unintelligible, and involving all the absurdity of abstraction, to attribute to any single part of them an existence independent of a spirit [note.]. to be convinced of which, the reader need only reflect, and try to separate in his own thoughts the being of a sensible thing from its being perceived. [note: "to make this appear with all the light and evidence of an axiom, it seems sufficient if i can but awaken the reflection of the reader, that he may take an impartial view of his own meaning, and in turn his thoughts upon the subject itself, free and disengaged from all embarrass of words and prepossession in favour of received mistakes."--edit ] . second argument.[note.]--from what has been said it follows there is not any other substance than spirit, or that which perceives. but, for the fuller proof of this point, let it be considered the sensible qualities are colour, figure, motion, smell, taste, etc., i.e. the ideas perceived by sense. now, for an idea to exist in an unperceiving thing is a manifest contradiction, for to have an idea is all one as to perceive; that therefore wherein colour, figure, and the like qualities exist must perceive them; hence it is clear there can be no unthinking substance or substratum of those ideas. [note: vide sect. iii. and xxv.] . objection.--answer.--but, say you, though the ideas themselves do not exist without the mind, yet there may be things like them, whereof they are copies or resemblances, which things exist without the mind in an unthinking substance. i answer, an idea can be like nothing but an idea; a colour or figure can be like nothing but another colour or figure. if we look but never so little into our thoughts, we shall find it impossible for us to conceive a likeness except only between our ideas. again, i ask whether those supposed originals or external things, of which our ideas are the pictures or representations, be themselves perceivable or no? if they are, then they are ideas and we have gained our point; but if you say they are not, i appeal to any one whether it be sense to assert a colour is like something which is invisible; hard or soft, like something which is intangible; and so of the rest. . the philosophical notion of matter involves a contradiction.--some there are who make a distinction betwixt primary and secondary qualities. by the former they mean extension, figure, motion, rest, solidity or impenetrability, and number; by the latter they denote all other sensible qualities, as colours, sounds, tastes, and so forth. the ideas we have of these they acknowledge not to be the resemblances of anything existing without the mind, or unperceived, but they will have our ideas of the primary qualities to be patterns or images of things which exist without the mind, in an unthinking substance which they call matter. by matter, therefore, we are to understand an inert, senseless substance, in which extension, figure, and motion do actually subsist. but it is evident from what we have already shown, that extension, figure, and motion are only ideas existing in the mind, and that an idea can be like nothing but another idea, and that consequently neither they nor their archetypes can exist in an unperceiving substance. hence, it is plain that the very notion of what is called matter or corporeal substance, involves a contradiction in it.[note.] [note: "insomuch that i should not think it necessary to spend more time in exposing its absurdity. but because the tenet of the existence of matter seems to have taken so deep a root in the minds of philosophers, and draws after it so many ill consequences, i choose rather to be thought prolix and tedious, than omit anything that might conduce to the full discovery and extirpation of the prejudice."--edit .] . argumentum ad hominem.--they who assert that figure, motion, and the rest of the primary or original qualities do exist without the mind in unthinking substances, do at the same time acknowledge that colours, sounds, heat cold, and suchlike secondary qualities, do not--which they tell us are sensations existing in the mind alone, that depend on and are occasioned by the different size, texture, and motion of the minute particles of matter. this they take for an undoubted truth, which they can demonstrate beyond all exception. now, if it be certain that those original qualities are inseparably united with the other sensible qualities, and not, even in thought, capable of being abstracted from them, it plainly follows that they exist only in the mind. but i desire any one to reflect and try whether he can, by any abstraction of thought, conceive the extension and motion of a body without all other sensible qualities. for my own part, i see evidently that it is not in my power to frame an idea of a body extended and moving, but i must withal give it some colour or other sensible quality which is acknowledged to exist only in the mind. in short, extension, figure, and motion, abstracted from all other qualities, are inconceivable. where therefore the other sensible qualities are, there must these be also, to wit, in the mind and nowhere else. . a second argument ad hominem.--again, great and small, swift and slow, are allowed to exist nowhere without the mind, being entirely relative, and changing as the frame or position of the organs of sense varies. the extension therefore which exists without the mind is neither great nor small, the motion neither swift nor slow, that is, they are nothing at all. but, say you, they are extension in general, and motion in general: thus we see how much the tenet of extended movable substances existing without the mind depends on the strange doctrine of abstract ideas. and here i cannot but remark how nearly the vague and indeterminate description of matter or corporeal substance, which the modern philosophers are run into by their own principles, resembles that antiquated and so much ridiculed notion of materia prima, to be met with in aristotle and his followers. without extension solidity cannot be conceived; since therefore it has been shown that extension exists not in an unthinking substance, the same must also be true of solidity. . that number is entirely the creature of the mind, even though the other qualities be allowed to exist without, will be evident to whoever considers that the same thing bears a different denomination of number as the mind views it with different respects. thus, the same extension is one, or three, or thirty-six, according as the mind considers it with reference to a yard, a foot, or an inch. number is so visibly relative, and dependent on men's understanding, that it is strange to think how any one should give it an absolute existence without the mind. we say one book, one page, one line, etc.; all these are equally units, though some contain several of the others. and in each instance, it is plain, the unit relates to some particular combination of ideas arbitrarily put together by the mind. . unity i know some will have to be a simple or uncompounded idea, accompanying all other ideas into the mind. that i have any such idea answering the word unity i do not find; and if i had, methinks i could not miss finding it: on the contrary, it should be the most familiar to my understanding, since it is said to accompany all other ideas, and to be perceived by all the ways of sensation and reflexion. to say no more, it is an abstract idea. . a third argument ad hominem.--i shall farther add, that, after the same manner as modern philosophers prove certain sensible qualities to have no existence in matter, or without the mind, the same thing may be likewise proved of all other sensible qualities whatsoever. thus, for instance, it is said that heat and cold are affections only of the mind, and not at all patterns of real beings, existing in the corporeal substances which excite them, for that the same body which appears cold to one hand seems warm to another. now, why may we not as well argue that figure and extension are not patterns or resemblances of qualities existing in matter, because to the same eye at different stations, or eyes of a different texture at the same station, they appear various, and cannot therefore be the images of anything settled and determinate without the mind? again, it is proved that sweetness is not really in the sapid thing, because the thing remaining unaltered the sweetness is changed into bitter, as in case of a fever or otherwise vitiated palate. is it not as reasonable to say that motion is not without the mind, since if the succession of ideas in the mind become swifter, the motion, it is acknowledged, shall appear slower without any alteration in any external object? . not conclusive as to extension.--in short, let any one consider those arguments which are thought manifestly to prove that colours and taste exist only in the mind, and he shall find they may with equal force be brought to prove the same thing of extension, figure, and motion. though it must be confessed this method of arguing does not so much prove that there is no extension or colour in an outward object, as that we do not know by sense which is the true extension or colour of the object. but the arguments foregoing plainly show it to be impossible that any colour or extension at all, or other sensible quality whatsoever, should exist in an unthinking subject without the mind, or in truth, that there should be any such thing as an outward object. . but let us examine a little the received opinion.--it is said extension is a mode or accident of matter, and that matter is the substratum that supports it. now i desire that you would explain to me what is meant by matter's supporting extension. say you, i have no idea of matter and therefore cannot explain it. i answer, though you have no positive, yet, if you have any meaning at all, you must at least have a relative idea of matter; though you know not what it is, yet you must be supposed to know what relation it bears to accidents, and what is meant by its supporting them. it is evident support cannot here be taken in its usual or literal sense--as when we say that pillars support a building; in what sense therefore must it be taken? [note.] [note: "for my part, i am not able to discover any sense at all that can be applicable to it."--edit .] . philosophical meaning of "material substance" divisible into two parts.--if we inquire into what the most accurate philosophers declare themselves to mean by material substance, we shall find them acknowledge they have no other meaning annexed to those sounds but the idea of being in general, together with the relative notion of its supporting accidents. the general idea of being appeareth to me the most abstract and incomprehensible of all other; and as for its supporting accidents, this, as we have just now observed, cannot be understood in the common sense of those words; it must therefore be taken in some other sense, but what that is they do not explain. so that when i consider the two parts or branches which make the signification of the words material substance, i am convinced there is no distinct meaning annexed to them. but why should we trouble ourselves any farther, in discussing this material substratum or support of figure and motion, and other sensible qualities? does it not suppose they have an existence without the mind? and is not this a direct repugnancy, and altogether inconceivable? . the existence of external bodies wants proof.--but, though it were possible that solid, figured, movable substances may exist without the mind, corresponding to the ideas we have of bodies, yet how is it possible for us to know this? either we must know it by sense or by reason. as for our senses, by them we have the knowledge only of our sensations, ideas, or those things that are immediately perceived by sense, call them what you will: but they do not inform us that things exist without the mind, or unperceived, like to those which are perceived. this the materialists themselves acknowledge. it remains therefore that if we have any knowledge at all of external things, it must be by reason, inferring their existence from what is immediately perceived by sense. but what reason can induce us to believe the existence of bodies without the mind, from what we perceive, since the very patrons of matter themselves do not pretend there is any necessary connexion betwixt them and our ideas? i say it is granted on all hands (and what happens in dreams, phrensies, and the like, puts it beyond dispute) that it is possible we might be affected with all the ideas we have now, though there were no bodies existing without resembling them. hence, it is evident the supposition of external bodies is not necessary for the producing our ideas; since it is granted they are produced sometimes, and might possibly be produced always in the same order, we see them in at present, without their concurrence. . the existence of external bodies affords no explication of the manner in which our ideas are produced.--but, though we might possibly have all our sensations without them, yet perhaps it may be thought easier to conceive and explain the manner of their production, by supposing external bodies in their likeness rather than otherwise; and so it might be at least probable there are such things as bodies that excite their ideas in our minds. but neither can this be said; for, though we give the materialists their external bodies, they by their own confession are never the nearer knowing how our ideas are produced; since they own themselves unable to comprehend in what manner body can act upon spirit, or how it is possible it should imprint any idea in the mind. hence it is evident the production of ideas or sensations in our minds can be no reason why we should suppose matter or corporeal substances, since that is acknowledged to remain equally inexplicable with or without this supposition. if therefore it were possible for bodies to exist without the mind, yet to hold they do so, must needs be a very precarious opinion; since it is to suppose, without any reason at all, that god has created innumerable beings that are entirely useless, and serve to no manner of purpose. . dilemma.--in short, if there were external bodies, it is impossible we should ever come to know it; and if there were not, we might have the very same reasons to think there were that we have now. suppose--what no one can deny possible--an intelligence without the help of external bodies, to be affected with the same train of sensations or ideas that you are, imprinted in the same order and with like vividness in his mind. i ask whether that intelligence has not all the reason to believe the existence of corporeal substances, represented by his ideas, and exciting them in his mind, that you can possibly have for believing the same thing? of this there can be no question--which one consideration were enough to make any reasonable person suspect the strength of whatever arguments be may think himself to have, for the existence of bodies without the mind. . were it necessary to add any further proof against the existence of matter after what has been said, i could instance several of those errors and difficulties (not to mention impieties) which have sprung from that tenet. it has occasioned numberless controversies and disputes in philosophy, and not a few of far greater moment in religion. but i shall not enter into the detail of them in this place, as well because i think arguments a posteriori are unnecessary for confirming what has been, if i mistake not, sufficiently demonstrated a priori, as because i shall hereafter find occasion to speak somewhat of them. . i am afraid i have given cause to think i am needlessly prolix in handling this subject. for, to what purpose is it to dilate on that which may be demonstrated with the utmost evidence in a line or two, to any one that is capable of the least reflexion? it is but looking into your own thoughts, and so trying whether you can conceive it possible for a sound, or figure, or motion, or colour to exist without the mind or unperceived. this easy trial may perhaps make you see that what you contend for is a downright contradiction. insomuch that i am content to put the whole upon this issue:--if you can but conceive it possible for one extended movable substance, or, in general, for any one idea, or anything like an idea, to exist otherwise than in a mind perceiving it, i shall readily give up the cause. and, as for all that compages of external bodies you contend for, i shall grant you its existence, though ( .) you cannot either give me any reason why you believe it exists [vide sect. lviii.], or ( .) assign any use to it when it is supposed to exist [vide sect. lx.]. i say, the bare possibility of your opinions being true shall pass for an argument that it is so. [note: i.e. although your argument be deficient in the two requisites of an hypothesis.--ed.] . but, say you, surely there is nothing easier than for me to imagine trees, for instance, in a park, or books existing in a closet, and nobody by to perceive them. i answer, you may so, there is no difficulty in it; but what is all this, i beseech you, more than framing in your mind certain ideas which you call books and trees, and the same time omitting to frame the idea of any one that may perceive them? but do not you yourself perceive or think of them all the while? this therefore is nothing to the purpose; it only shows you have the power of imagining or forming ideas in your mind: but it does not show that you can conceive it possible the objects of your thought may exist without the mind. to make out this, it is necessary that you conceive them existing unconceived or unthought of, which is a manifest repugnancy. when we do our utmost to conceive the existence of external bodies, we are all the while only contemplating our own ideas. but the mind taking no notice of itself, is deluded to think it can and does conceive bodies existing unthought of or without the mind, though at the same time they are apprehended by or exist in itself. a little attention will discover to any one the truth and evidence of what is here said, and make it unnecessary to insist on any other proofs against the existence of material substance. . the absolute existence of unthinking things are words without a meaning.--it is very obvious, upon the least inquiry into our thoughts, to know whether it is possible for us to understand what is meant by the absolute existence of sensible objects in themselves, or without the mind. to me it is evident those words mark out either a direct contradiction, or else nothing at all. and to convince others of this, i know no readier or fairer way than to entreat they would calmly attend to their own thoughts; and if by this attention the emptiness or repugnancy of those expressions does appear, surely nothing more is requisite for the conviction. it is on this therefore that i insist, to wit, that the absolute existence of unthinking things are words without a meaning, or which include a contradiction. this is what i repeat and inculcate, and earnestly recommend to the attentive thoughts of the reader. . third argument.[note: vide sect. iii. and vii.]--refutation of locke.--all our ideas, sensations, notions, or the things which we perceive, by whatsoever names they may be distinguished, are visibly inactive--there is nothing of power or agency included in them. so that one idea or object of thought cannot produce or make any alteration in another. to be satisfied of the truth of this, there is nothing else requisite but a bare observation of our ideas. for, since they and every part of them exist only in the mind, it follows that there is nothing in them but what is perceived: but whoever shall attend to his ideas, whether of sense or reflexion, will not perceive in them any power or activity; there is, therefore, no such thing contained in them. a little attention will discover to us that the very being of an idea implies passiveness and inertness in it, insomuch that it is impossible for an idea to do anything, or, strictly speaking, to be the cause of anything: neither can it be the resemblance or pattern of any active being, as is evident from sect. . whence it plainly follows that extension, figure, and motion cannot be the cause of our sensations. to say, therefore, that these are the effects of powers resulting from the configuration, number, motion, and size of corpuscles, must certainly be false. [note: vide sect. cii.] . cause of ideas.--we perceive a continual succession of ideas, some are anew excited, others are changed or totally disappear. there is therefore some cause of these ideas, whereon they depend, and which produces and changes them. that this cause cannot be any quality or idea or combination of ideas, is clear from the preceding section. it must therefore be a substance; but it has been shown that there is no corporeal or material substance: it remains therefore that the cause of ideas is an incorporeal active substance or spirit. . no idea of spirit.--a spirit is one simple, undivided, active being--as it perceives ideas it is called the understanding, and as it produces or otherwise operates about them it is called the will. hence there can be no idea formed of a soul or spirit; for all ideas whatever, being passive and inert (vide sect. ), they cannot represent unto us, by way of image or likeness, that which acts. a little attention will make it plain to any one, that to have an idea which shall be like that active principle of motion and change of ideas is absolutely impossible. such is the nature of spirit, or that which acts, that it cannot be of itself perceived, but only by the effects which it produceth. if any man shall doubt of the truth of what is here delivered, let him but reflect and try if he can frame the idea of any power or active being, and whether he has ideas of two principal powers, marked by the names will and understanding, distinct from each other as well as from a third idea of substance or being in general, with a relative notion of its supporting or being the subject of the aforesaid powers--which is signified by the name soul or spirit. this is what some hold; but, so far as i can see, the words will [note: "understanding, mind."--edit .], soul, spirit, do not stand for different ideas, or, in truth, for any idea at all, but for something which is very different from ideas, and which, being an agent, cannot be like unto, or represented by, any idea whatsoever. though it must be owned at the same time that we have some notion of soul, spirit, and the operations of the mind: such as willing, loving, hating--inasmuch as we know or understand the meaning of these words. . i find i can excite ideas in my mind at pleasure, and vary and shift the scene as oft as i think fit. it is no more than willing, and straightway this or that idea arises in my fancy; and by the same power it is obliterated and makes way for another. this making and unmaking of ideas doth very properly denominate the mind active. thus much is certain and grounded on experience; but when we think of unthinking agents or of exciting ideas exclusive of volition, we only amuse ourselves with words. . ideas of sensation differ from those of reflection or memory.--but, whatever power i may have over my own thoughts, i find the ideas actually perceived by sense have not a like dependence on my will. when in broad daylight i open my eyes, it is not in my power to choose whether i shall see or no, or to determine what particular objects shall present themselves to my view; and so likewise as to the hearing and other senses; the ideas imprinted on them are not creatures of my will. there is therefore some other will or spirit that produces them. . laws of nature.--the ideas of sense are more strong, lively, and distinct than those of the imagination; they have likewise a steadiness, order, and coherence, and are not excited at random, as those which are the effects of human wills often are, but in a regular train or series, the admirable connexion whereof sufficiently testifies the wisdom and benevolence of its author. now the set rules or established methods wherein the mind we depend on excites in us the ideas of sense, are called the laws of nature; and these we learn by experience, which teaches us that such and such ideas are attended with such and such other ideas, in the ordinary course of things. . knowledge of them necessary for the conduct of worldly affairs.--this gives us a sort of foresight which enables us to regulate our actions for the benefit of life. and without this we should be eternally at a loss; we could not know how to act anything that might procure us the least pleasure, or remove the least pain of sense. that food nourishes, sleep refreshes, and fire warms us; that to sow in the seed-time is the way to reap in the harvest; and in general that to obtain such or such ends, such or such means are conducive--all this we know, not by discovering any necessary connexion between our ideas, but only by the observation of the settled laws of nature, without which we should be all in uncertainty and confusion, and a grown man no more know how to manage himself in the affairs of life than an infant just born. . and yet this consistent uniform working, which so evidently displays the goodness and wisdom of that governing spirit whose will constitutes the laws of nature, is so far from leading our thoughts to him, that it rather sends them a wandering after second causes. for, when we perceive certain ideas of sense constantly followed by other ideas and we know this is not of our own doing, we forthwith attribute power and agency to the ideas themselves, and make one the cause of another, than which nothing can be more absurd and unintelligible. thus, for example, having observed that when we perceive by sight a certain round luminous figure we at the same time perceive by touch the idea or sensation called heat, we do from thence conclude the sun to be the cause of heat. and in like manner perceiving the motion and collision of bodies to be attended with sound, we are inclined to think the latter the effect of the former. . of real things and ideas or chimeras.--the ideas imprinted on the senses by the author of nature are called real things; and those excited in the imagination being less regular, vivid, and constant, are more properly termed ideas, or images of things, which they copy and represent. but then our sensations, be they never so vivid and distinct, are nevertheless ideas, that is, they exist in the mind, or are perceived by it, as truly as the ideas of its own framing. the ideas of sense are allowed to have more reality in them, that is, to be more ( )strong, ( )orderly, and ( )coherent than the creatures of the mind; but this is no argument that they exist without the mind. they are also ( )less dependent on the spirit [note: vide sect. xxix.--note.], or thinking substance which perceives them, in that they are excited by the will of another and more powerful spirit; yet still they are ideas, and certainly no idea, whether faint or strong, can exist otherwise than in a mind perceiving it. . first general objection.--answer.--before we proceed any farther it is necessary we spend some time in answering objections which may probably be made against the principles we have hitherto laid down. in doing of which, if i seem too prolix to those of quick apprehensions, i hope it may be pardoned, since all men do not equally apprehend things of this nature, and i am willing to be understood by every one. first, then, it will be objected that by the foregoing principles all that is real and substantial in nature is banished out of the world, and instead thereof a chimerical scheme of ideas takes place. all things that exist, exist only in the mind, that is, they are purely notional. what therefore becomes of the sun, moon and stars? what must we think of houses, rivers, mountains, trees, stones; nay, even of our own bodies? are all these but so many chimeras and illusions on the fancy? to all which, and whatever else of the same sort may be objected, i answer, that by the principles premised we are not deprived of any one thing in nature. whatever we see, feel, hear, or anywise conceive or understand remains as secure as ever, and is as real as ever. there is a rerum natura, and the distinction between realities and chimeras retains its full force. this is evident from sect. , , and , where we have shown what is meant by real things in opposition to chimeras or ideas of our own framing; but then they both equally exist in the mind, and in that sense they are alike ideas. . the existence of matter, as understood by philosophers, denied.[vide sect. lxxxiv.]--i do not argue against the existence of any one thing that we can apprehend either by sense or reflexion. that the things i see with my eyes and touch with my hands do exist, really exist, i make not the least question. the only thing whose existence we deny is that which philosophers call matter or corporeal substance. and in doing of this there is no damage done to the rest of mankind, who, i dare say, will never miss it. the atheist indeed will want the colour of an empty name to support his impiety; and the philosophers may possibly find they have lost a great handle for trifling and disputation. . readily explained.--if any man thinks this detracts from the existence or reality of things, he is very far from understanding what has been premised in the plainest terms i could think of. take here an abstract of what has been said:--there are spiritual substances, minds, or human souls, which will or excite ideas in themselves at pleasure; but these are faint, weak, and unsteady in respect of others they perceive by sense--which, being impressed upon them according to certain rules or laws of nature, speak themselves the effects of a mind more powerful and wise than human spirits. these latter are said to have more reality in them than the former:--by which is meant that they are more affecting, orderly, and distinct, and that they are not fictions of the mind perceiving them. and in this sense the sun that i see by day is the real sun, and that which i imagine by night is the idea of the former. in the sense here given of reality it is evident that every vegetable, star, mineral, and in general each part of the mundane system, is as much a real being by our principles as by any other. whether others mean anything by the term reality different from what i do, i entreat them to look into their own thoughts and see. . the philosophic, not the vulgar substance, taken away.--i will be urged that thus much at least is true, to wit, that we take away all corporeal substances. to this my answer is, that if the word substance be taken in the vulgar sense--for a combination of sensible qualities, such as extension, solidity, weight, and the like--this we cannot be accused of taking away: but if it be taken in a philosophic sense--for the support of accidents or qualities without the mind--then indeed i acknowledge that we take it away, if one may be said to take away that which never had any existence, not even in the imagination. . but, say you, it sounds very harsh to say we eat and drink ideas, and are clothed with ideas. i acknowledge it does so--the word idea not being used in common discourse to signify the several combinations of sensible qualities which are called things; and it is certain that any expression which varies from the familiar use of language will seem harsh and ridiculous. but this doth not concern the truth of the proposition, which in other words is no more than to say, we are fed and clothed with those things which we perceive immediately by our senses. the hardness or softness, the colour, taste, warmth, figure, or suchlike qualities, which combined together constitute the several sorts of victuals and apparel, have been shown to exist only in the mind that perceives them; and this is all that is meant by calling them ideas; which word if it was as ordinarily used as thing, would sound no harsher nor more ridiculous than it. i am not for disputing about the propriety, but the truth of the expression. if therefore you agree with me that we eat and drink and are clad with the immediate objects of sense, which cannot exist unperceived or without the mind, i shall readily grant it is more proper or conformable to custom that they should be called things rather than ideas. . the term idea preferable to thing.--if it be demanded why i make use of the word idea, and do not rather in compliance with custom call them things. i answer, i do it for two reasons:--first, because the term thing in contra-distinction to idea, is generally supposed to denote somewhat existing without the mind; secondly, because thing has a more comprehensive signification than idea, including spirit or thinking things as well as ideas. since therefore the objects of sense exist only in the mind, and are withal thoughtless and inactive, i chose to mark them by the word idea, which implies those properties. . the evidence of the senses not discredited.--but, say what we can, some one perhaps may be apt to reply, he will still believe his senses, and never suffer any arguments, how plausible soever, to prevail over the certainty of them. be it so; assert the evidence of sense as high as you please, we are willing to do the same. that what i see, hear, and feel doth exist, that is to say, is perceived by me, i no more doubt than i do of my own being. but i do not see how the testimony of sense can be alleged as a proof for the existence of anything which is not perceived by sense. we are not for having any man turn sceptic and disbelieve his senses; on the contrary, we give them all the stress and assurance imaginable; nor are there any principles more opposite to scepticism than those we have laid down [note.], as shall be hereafter clearly shown. [note: they extirpate the very root of scepticism, "the fallacy of the senses."--ed.] . second objection.--answer.--secondly, it will be objected that there is a great difference betwixt real fire for instance, and the idea of fire, betwixt dreaming or imagining oneself burnt, and actually being so: if you suspect it to be only the idea of fire which you see, do but put your hand into it and you will be convinced with a witness. this and the like may be urged in opposition to our tenets. to all which the answer is evident from what has been already said; and i shall only add in this place, that if real fire be very different from the idea of fire, so also is the real pain that it occasions very different from the idea of the same pain, and yet nobody will pretend that real pain either is, or can possibly be, in an unperceiving thing, or without the mind, any more than its idea. . third objection.--answer.--thirdly, it will be objected that we see things actually without or at distance from us, and which consequently do not exist in the mind; it being absurd that those things which are seen at the distance of several miles should be as near to us as our own thoughts. in answer to this, i desire it may be considered that in a dream we do oft perceive things as existing at a great distance off, and yet for all that, those things are acknowledged to have their existence only in the mind. . but, for the fuller clearing of this point, it may be worth while to consider how it is that we perceive distance and things placed at a distance by sight. for, that we should in truth see external space, and bodies actually existing in it, some nearer, others farther off, seems to carry with it some opposition to what has been said of their existing nowhere without the mind. the consideration of this difficulty it was that gave birth to my "essay towards a new theory of vision," which was published not long since, wherein it is shown ( ) that distance or outness is neither immediately of itself perceived by sight, nor yet apprehended or judged of by lines and angles, or anything that has a necessary connexion with it; but ( ) that it is only suggested to our thoughts by certain visible ideas and sensations attending vision, which in their own nature have no manner of similitude or relation either with distance or things placed at a distance; but, by a connexion taught us by experience, they come to signify and suggest them to us, after the same manner that words of any language suggest the ideas they are made to stand for; insomuch that a man born blind and afterwards made to see, would not, at first sight, think the things he saw to be without his mind, or at any distance from him. see sect. of the fore-mentioned treatise. . the ideas of sight and touch make two species entirely distinct and heterogeneous. the former are marks and prognostics of the latter. that the proper objects of sight neither exist without mind, nor are the images of external things, was shown even in that treatise. though throughout the same the contrary be supposed true of tangible objects--not that to suppose that vulgar error was necessary for establishing the notion therein laid down, but because it was beside my purpose to examine and refute it in a discourse concerning vision. so that in strict truth the ideas of sight, when we apprehend by them distance and things placed at a distance, do not suggest or mark out to us things actually existing at a distance, but only admonish us what ideas of touch will be imprinted in our minds at such and such distances of time, and in consequence of such or such actions. it is, i say, evident from what has been said in the foregoing parts of this treatise, and in sect. and elsewhere of the essay concerning vision, that visible ideas are the language whereby the governing spirit on whom we depend informs us what tangible ideas he is about to imprint upon us, in case we excite this or that motion in our own bodies. but for a fuller information in this point i refer to the essay itself. . fourth objection, from perpetual annihilation and creation.--answer.--fourthly, it will be objected that from the foregoing principles it follows things are every moment annihilated and created anew. the objects of sense exist only when they are perceived; the trees therefore are in the garden, or the chairs in the parlour, no longer than while there is somebody by to perceive them. upon shutting my eyes all the furniture in the room is reduced to nothing, and barely upon opening them it is again created. in answer to all which, i refer the reader to what has been said in sect. , , &c., and desire he will consider whether he means anything by the actual existence of an idea distinct from its being perceived. for my part, after the nicest inquiry i could make, i am not able to discover that anything else is meant by those words; and i once more entreat the reader to sound his own thoughts, and not suffer himself to be imposed on by words. if he can conceive it possible either for his ideas or their archetypes to exist without being perceived, then i give up the cause; but if he cannot, he will acknowledge it is unreasonable for him to stand up in defence of he knows not what, and pretend to charge on me as an absurdity the not assenting to those propositions which at bottom have no meaning in them. . argumentum ad hominem.--it will not be amiss to observe how far the received principles of philosophy are themselves chargeable with those pretended absurdities. ( ) it is thought strangely absurd that upon closing my eyelids all the visible objects around me should be reduced to nothing; and yet is not this what philosophers commonly acknowledge, when they agree on all hands that light and colours, which alone are the proper and immediate objects of sight, are mere sensations that exist no longer than they are perceived? ( )again, it may to some perhaps seem very incredible that things should be every moment creating, yet this very notion is commonly taught in the schools. for the schoolmen, though they acknowledge the existence of matter, and that the whole mundane fabric is framed out of it, are nevertheless of opinion that it cannot subsist without the divine conservation, which by them is expounded to be a continual creation. . ( ) further, a little thought will discover to us that though we allow the existence of matter or corporeal substance, yet it will unavoidably follow, from the principles which are now generally admitted, that the particular bodies, of what kind soever, do none of them exist whilst they are not perceived. for, it is evident from sect. ii and the following sections, that the matter philosophers contend for is an incomprehensible somewhat, which has none of those particular qualities whereby the bodies falling under our senses are distinguished one from another. ( ) but, to make this more plain, it must be remarked that the infinite divisibility of matter is now universally allowed, at least by the most approved and considerable philosophers, who on the received principles demonstrate it beyond all exception. hence, it follows there is an infinite number of parts in each particle of matter which are not perceived by sense. the reason therefore that any particular body seems to be of a finite magnitude, or exhibits only a finite number of parts to sense, is, not because it contains no more, since in itself it contains an infinite number of parts, but because the sense is not acute enough to discern them. in proportion therefore as the sense is rendered more acute, it perceives a greater number of parts in the object, that is, the object appears greater, and its figure varies, those parts in its extremities which were before unperceivable appearing now to bound it in very different lines and angles from those perceived by an obtuser sense. and at length, after various changes of size and shape, when the sense becomes infinitely acute the body shall seem infinite. during all which there is no alteration in the body, but only in the sense. each body therefore, considered in itself, is infinitely extended, and consequently void of all shape or figure. from which it follows that, though we should grant the existence of matter to be never so certain, yet it is withal as certain, the materialists themselves are by their own principles forced to acknowledge, that neither the particular bodies perceived by sense, nor anything like them, exists without the mind. matter, i say, and each particle thereof, is according to them infinite and shapeless, and it is the mind that frames all that variety of bodies which compose the visible world, any one whereof does not exist longer than it is perceived. . if we consider it, the objection proposed in sect. will not be found reasonably charged on the principles we have premised, so as in truth to make any objection at all against our notions. for, though we hold indeed the objects of sense to be nothing else but ideas which cannot exist unperceived; yet we may not hence conclude they have no existence except only while they are perceived by us, since there may be some other spirit that perceives them though we do not. wherever bodies are said to have no existence without the mind, i would not be understood to mean this or that particular mind, but all minds whatsoever. it does not therefore follow from the foregoing principles that bodies are annihilated and created every moment, or exist not at all during the intervals between our perception of them. . fifth objection.--answer.--fifthly, it may perhaps be objected that if extension and figure exist only in the mind, it follows that the mind is extended and figured; since extension is a mode or attribute which (to speak with the schools) is predicated of the subject in which it exists. i answer, ( ) those qualities are in the mind only as they are perceived by it--that is, not by way of mode or attribute, but only by way of idea; and it no more follows the soul or mind is extended, because extension exists in it alone, than it does that it is red or blue, because those colours are on all hands acknowledged to exist in it, and nowhere else. ( ) as to what philosophers say of subject and mode, that seems very groundless and unintelligible. for instance, in this proposition "a die is hard, extended, and square," they will have it that the word die denotes a subject or substance, distinct from the hardness, extension, and figure which are predicated of it, and in which they exist. this i cannot comprehend: to me a die seems to be nothing distinct from those things which are termed its modes or accidents. and, to say a die is hard, extended, and square is not to attribute those qualities to a subject distinct from and supporting them, but only an explication of the meaning of the word die. . sixth objection, from natural philosophy.--answer.--sixthly, you will say there have been a great many things explained by matter and motion; take away these and you destroy the whole corpuscular philosophy, and undermine those mechanical principles which have been applied with so much success to account for the phenomena. in short, whatever advances have been made, either by ancient or modern philosophers, in the study of nature do all proceed on the supposition that corporeal substance or matter doth really exist. to this i answer that there is not any one phenomenon explained on that supposition which may not as well be explained without it, as might easily be made appear by an induction of particulars. to explain the phenomena, is all one as to show why, upon such and such occasions, we are affected with such and such ideas. but ( ) how matter should operate on a spirit, or produce any idea in it, is what no philosopher will pretend to explain; it is therefore evident there can be no use of matter in natural philosophy. besides, ( ) they who attempt to account for things do it not by corporeal substance, but by figure, motion, and other qualities, which are in truth no more than mere ideas, and, therefore, cannot be the cause of anything, as has been already shown. see sect. . . seventh objection.--answer.--seventhly, it will upon this be demanded whether it does not seem absurd to take away natural causes, and ascribe everything to the immediate operation of spirits? we must no longer say upon these principles that fire heats, or water cools, but that a spirit heats, and so forth. would not a man be deservedly laughed at, who should talk after this manner? i answer, he would so; in such things we ought to think with the learned, and speak with the vulgar. they who to demonstration are convinced of the truth of the copernican system do nevertheless say "the sun rises," "the sun sets," or "comes to the meridian"; and if they affected a contrary style in common talk it would without doubt appear very ridiculous. a little reflexion on what is here said will make it manifest that the common use of language would receive no manner of alteration or disturbance from the admission of our tenets. . in the ordinary affairs of life, any phrases may be retained, so long as they excite in us proper sentiments, or dispositions to act in such a manner as is necessary for our well-being, how false soever they may be if taken in a strict and speculative sense. nay, this is unavoidable, since, propriety being regulated by custom, language is suited to the received opinions, which are not always the truest. hence it is impossible, even in the most rigid, philosophic reasonings, so far to alter the bent and genius of the tongue we speak, as never to give a handle for cavillers to pretend difficulties and inconsistencies. but, a fair and ingenuous reader will collect the sense from the scope and tenor and connexion of a discourse, making allowances for those inaccurate modes of speech which use has made inevitable. . as to the opinion that there are no corporeal causes, this has been heretofore maintained by some of the schoolmen, as it is of late by others among the modern philosophers, who though they allow matter to exist, yet will have god alone to be the immediate efficient cause of all things. these men saw that amongst all the objects of sense there was none which had any power or activity included in it; and that by consequence this was likewise true of whatever bodies they supposed to exist without the mind, like unto the immediate objects of sense. but then, that they should suppose an innumerable multitude of created beings, which they acknowledge are not capable of producing any one effect in nature, and which therefore are made to no manner of purpose, since god might have done everything as well without them: this i say, though we should allow it possible, must yet be a very unaccountable and extravagant supposition. . eighth objection.--twofold answer.--in the eighth place, the universal concurrent assent of mankind may be thought by some an invincible argument in behalf of matter, or the existence of external things. must we suppose the whole world to be mistaken? and if so, what cause can be assigned of so widespread and predominant an error? i answer, first, that, upon a narrow inquiry, it will not perhaps be found so many as is imagined do really believe the existence of matter or things without the mind. strictly speaking, to believe that which involves a contradiction, or has no meaning in it, is impossible; and whether the foregoing expressions are not of that sort, i refer it to the impartial examination of the reader. in one sense, indeed, men may be said to believe that matter exists, that is, they act as if the immediate cause of their sensations, which affects them every moment, and is so nearly present to them, were some senseless unthinking being. but, that they should clearly apprehend any meaning marked by those words, and form thereof a settled speculative opinion, is what i am not able to conceive. this is not the only instance wherein men impose upon themselves, by imagining they believe those propositions which they have often heard, though at bottom they have no meaning in them. . but secondly, though we should grant a notion to be never so universally and steadfastly adhered to, yet this is weak argument of its truth to whoever considers what a vast number of prejudices and false opinions are everywhere embraced with the utmost tenaciousness, by the unreflecting (which are the far greater) part of mankind. there was a time when the antipodes and motion of the earth were looked upon as monstrous absurdities even by men of learning: and if it be considered what a small proportion they bear to the rest of mankind, we shall find that at this day those notions have gained but a very inconsiderable footing in the world. . ninth objection.--answer.--but it is demanded that we assign a cause of this prejudice, and account for its obtaining in the world. to this i answer, that men knowing they perceived several ideas, whereof they themselves were not the authors--as not being excited from within nor depending on the operation of their wills--this made them maintain those ideas, or objects of perception had an existence independent of and without the mind, without ever dreaming that a contradiction was involved in those words. but, philosophers having plainly seen that the immediate objects of perception do not exist without the mind, they in some degree corrected the mistake of the vulgar; but at the same time run into another which seems no less absurd, to wit, that there are certain objects really existing without the mind, or having a subsistence distinct from being perceived, of which our ideas are only images or resemblances, imprinted by those objects on the mind. and this notion of the philosophers owes its origin to the same cause with the former, namely, their being conscious that they were not the authors of their own sensations, which they evidently knew were imprinted from without, and which therefore must have some cause distinct from the minds on which they are imprinted. . but why they should suppose the ideas of sense to be excited in us by things in their likeness, and not rather have recourse to spirit which alone can act, may be accounted for, first, because they were not aware of the repugnancy there is, ( ) as well in supposing things like unto our ideas existing without, as in ( ) attributing to them power or activity. secondly, because the supreme spirit which excites those ideas in our minds, is not marked out and limited to our view by any particular finite collection of sensible ideas, as human agents are by their size, complexion, limbs, and motions. and thirdly, because his operations are regular and uniform. whenever the course of nature is interrupted by a miracle, men are ready to own the presence of a superior agent. but, when we see things go on in the ordinary course they do not excite in us any reflexion; their order and concatenation, though it be an argument of the greatest wisdom, power, and goodness in their creator, is yet so constant and familiar to us that we do not think them the immediate effects of a free spirit; especially since inconsistency and mutability in acting, though it be an imperfection, is looked on as a mark of freedom. . tenth objection.--answer.--tenthly, it will be objected that the notions we advance are inconsistent with several sound truths in philosophy and mathematics. for example, the motion of the earth is now universally admitted by astronomers as a truth grounded on the clearest and most convincing reasons. but, on the foregoing principles, there can be no such thing. for, motion being only an idea, it follows that if it be not perceived it exists not; but the motion of the earth is not perceived by sense. i answer, that tenet, if rightly understood, will be found to agree with the principles we have premised; for, the question whether the earth moves or no amounts in reality to no more than this, to wit, whether we have reason to conclude, from what has been observed by astronomers, that if we were placed in such and such circumstances, and such or such a position and distance both from the earth and sun, we should perceive the former to move among the choir of the planets, and appearing in all respects like one of them; and this, by the established rules of nature which we have no reason to mistrust, is reasonably collected from the phenomena. . we may, from the experience we have had of the train and succession of ideas in our minds, often make, i will not say uncertain conjectures, but sure and well--grounded predictions concerning the ideas we shall be affected with pursuant to a great train of actions, and be enabled to pass a right judgment of what would have appeared to us, in case we were placed in circumstances very different from those we are in at present. herein consists the knowledge of nature, which may preserve its use and certainty very consistently with what has been said. it will be easy to apply this to whatever objections of the like sort may be drawn from the magnitude of the stars, or any other discoveries in astronomy or nature. . eleventh objection.--in the eleventh place, it will be demanded to what purpose serves that curious organization of plants, and the animal mechanism in the parts of animals; might not vegetables grow, and shoot forth leaves of blossoms, and animals perform all their motions as well without as with all that variety of internal parts so elegantly contrived and put together; which, being ideas, have nothing powerful or operative in them, nor have any necessary connexion with the effects ascribed to them? if it be a spirit that immediately produces every effect by a fiat or act of his will, we must think all that is fine and artificial in the works, whether of man or nature, to be made in vain. by this doctrine, though an artist has made the spring and wheels, and every movement of a watch, and adjusted them in such a manner as he knew would produce the motions he designed, yet he must think all this done to no purpose, and that it is an intelligence which directs the index, and points to the hour of the day. if so, why may not the intelligence do it, without his being at the pains of making the movements and putting them together? why does not an empty case serve as well as another? and how comes it to pass that whenever there is any fault in the going of a watch, there is some corresponding disorder to be found in the movements, which being mended by a skilful hand all is right again? the like may be said of all the clockwork of nature, great part whereof is so wonderfully fine and subtle as scarce to be discerned by the best microscope. in short, it will be asked, how, upon our principles, any tolerable account can be given, or any final cause assigned of an innumerable multitude of bodies and machines, framed with the most exquisite art, which in the common philosophy have very apposite uses assigned them, and serve to explain abundance of phenomena? . answer.--to all which i answer, first, that though there were some difficulties relating to the administration of providence, and the uses by it assigned to the several parts of nature, which i could not solve by the foregoing principles, yet this objection could be of small weight against the truth and certainty of those things which may be proved a priori, with the utmost evidence and rigor of demonstration. secondly, but neither are the received principles free from the like difficulties; for, it may still be demanded to what end god should take those roundabout methods of effecting things by instruments and machines, which no one can deny might have been effected by the mere command of his will without all that apparatus; nay, if we narrowly consider it, we shall find the objection may be retorted with greater force on those who hold the existence of those machines without of mind; for it has been made evident that solidity, bulk, figure, motion, and the like have no activity or efficacy in them, so as to be capable of producing any one effect in nature. see sect. . whoever therefore supposes them to exist (allowing the supposition possible) when they are not perceived does it manifestly to no purpose; since the only use that is assigned to them, as they exist unperceived, is that they produce those perceivable effects which in truth cannot be ascribed to anything but spirit. . (fourthly.)--but, to come nigher the difficulty, it must be observed that though the fabrication of all those parts and organs be not absolutely necessary to the producing any effect, yet it is necessary to the producing of things in a constant regular way according to the laws of nature. there are certain general laws that run through the whole chain of natural effects; these are learned by the observation and study of nature, and are by men applied as well to the framing artificial things for the use and ornament of life as to the explaining various phenomena--which explication consists only in showing the conformity any particular phenomenon has to the general laws of nature, or, which is the same thing, in discovering the uniformity there is in the production of natural effects; as will be evident to whoever shall attend to the several instances wherein philosophers pretend to account for appearances. that there is a great and conspicuous use in these regular constant methods of working observed by the supreme agent has been shown in sect. . and it is no less visible that a particular size, figure, motion, and disposition of parts are necessary, though not absolutely to the producing any effect, yet to the producing it according to the standing mechanical laws of nature. thus, for instance, it cannot be denied that god, or the intelligence that sustains and rules the ordinary course of things, might if he were minded to produce a miracle, cause all the motions on the dial-plate of a watch, though nobody had ever made the movements and put them in it: but yet, if he will act agreeably to the rules of mechanism, by him for wise ends established and maintained in the creation, it is necessary that those actions of the watchmaker, whereby he makes the movements and rightly adjusts them, precede the production of the aforesaid motions; as also that any disorder in them be attended with the perception of some corresponding disorder in the movements, which being once corrected all is right again. . it may indeed on some occasions be necessary that the author of nature display his overruling power in producing some appearance out of the ordinary series of things. such exceptions from the general rules of nature are proper to surprise and awe men into an acknowledgement of the divine being; but then they are to be used but seldom, otherwise there is a plain reason why they should fail of that effect. besides, god seems to choose the convincing our reason of his attributes by the works of nature, which discover so much harmony and contrivance in their make, and are such plain indications of wisdom and beneficence in their author, rather than to astonish us into a belief of his being by anomalous and surprising events. . to set this matter in a yet clearer light, i shall observe that what has been objected in sect. amounts in reality to no more than this:--ideas are not anyhow and at random produced, there being a certain order and connexion between them, like to that of cause and effect; there are also several combinations of them made in a very regular and artificial manner, which seem like so many instruments in the hand of nature that, being hid as it were behind the scenes, have a secret operation in producing those appearances which are seen on the theatre of the world, being themselves discernible only to the curious eye of the philosopher. but, since one idea cannot be the cause of another, to what purpose is that connexion? and, since those instruments, being barely inefficacious perceptions in the mind, are not subservient to the production of natural effects, it is demanded why they are made; or, in other words, what reason can be assigned why god should make us, upon a close inspection into his works, behold so great variety of ideas so artfully laid together, and so much according to rule; it not being credible that he would be at the expense (if one may so speak) of all that art and regularity to no purpose. . to all which my answer is, first, that the connexion of ideas does not imply the relation of cause and effect, but only of a mark or sign with the thing signified. the fire which i see is not the cause of the pain i suffer upon my approaching it, but the mark that forewarns me of it. in like manner the noise that i hear is not the effect of this or that motion or collision of the ambient bodies, but the sign thereof. secondly, the reason why ideas are formed into machines, that is, artificial and regular combinations, is the same with that for combining letters into words. that a few original ideas may be made to signify a great number of effects and actions, it is necessary they be variously combined together. and, to the end their use be permanent and universal, these combinations must be made by rule, and with wise contrivance. by this means abundance of information is conveyed unto us, concerning what we are to expect from such and such actions and what methods are proper to be taken for the exciting such and such ideas; which in effect is all that i conceive to be distinctly meant when it is said that, by discerning a figure, texture, and mechanism of the inward parts of bodies, whether natural or artificial, we may attain to know the several uses and properties depending thereon, or the nature of the thing. . proper employment of the natural philosopher.--hence, it is evident that those things which, under the notion of a cause co-operating or concurring to the production of effects, are altogether inexplicable, and run us into great absurdities, may be very naturally explained, and have a proper and obvious use assigned to them, when they are considered only as marks or signs for our information. and it is the searching after and endeavouring to understand those signs instituted by the author of nature, that ought to be the employment of the natural philosopher; and not the pretending to explain things by corporeal causes, which doctrine seems to have too much estranged the minds of men from that active principle, that supreme and wise spirit "in whom we live, move, and have our being." . twelfth objection.--answer.--in the twelfth place, it may perhaps be objected that--though it be clear from what has been said that there can be no such thing as an inert, senseless, extended, solid, figured, movable substance existing without the mind, such as philosophers describe matter--yet, if any man shall leave out of his idea of matter the positive ideas of extension, figure, solidity and motion, and say that he means only by that word an inert, senseless substance, that exists without the mind or unperceived, which is the occasion of our ideas, or at the presence whereof god is pleased to excite ideas in us: it doth not appear but that matter taken in this sense may possibly exist. in answer to which i say, first, that it seems no less absurd to suppose a substance without accidents, than it is to suppose accidents without a substance. but secondly, though we should grant this unknown substance may possibly exist, yet where can it be supposed to be? that it exists not in the mind is agreed; and that it exists not in place is no less certain--since all place or extension exists only in the mind, as has been already proved. it remains therefore that it exists nowhere at all. . matter supports nothing, an argument against its existence.--let us examine a little the description that is here given us of matter. it neither acts, nor perceives, nor is perceived; for this is all that is meant by saying it is an inert, senseless, unknown substance; which is a definition entirely made up of negatives, excepting only the relative notion of its standing under or supporting. but then it must be observed that it supports nothing at all, and how nearly this comes to the description of a nonentity i desire may be considered. but, say you, it is the unknown occasion, at the presence of which ideas are excited in us by the will of god. now, i would fain know how anything can be present to us, which is neither perceivable by sense nor reflexion, nor capable of producing any idea in our minds, nor is at all extended, nor has any form, nor exists in any place. the words "to be present," when thus applied, must needs be taken in some abstract and strange meaning, and which i am not able to comprehend. . again, let us examine what is meant by occasion. so far as i can gather from the common use of language, that word signifies either the agent which produces any effect, or else something that is observed to accompany or go before it in the ordinary course of things. but when it is applied to matter as above described, it can be taken in neither of those senses; for matter is said to be passive and inert, and so cannot be an agent or efficient cause. it is also unperceivable, as being devoid of all sensible qualities, and so cannot be the occasion of our perceptions in the latter sense: as when the burning my finger is said to be the occasion of the pain that attends it. what therefore can be meant by calling matter an occasion? the term is either used in no sense at all, or else in some very distant from its received signification. . you will perhaps say that matter, though it be not perceived by us, is nevertheless perceived by god, to whom it is the occasion of exciting ideas in our minds. for, say you, since we observe our sensations to be imprinted in an orderly and constant manner, it is but reasonable to suppose there are certain constant and regular occasions of their being produced. that is to say, that there are certain permanent and distinct parcels of matter, corresponding to our ideas, which, though they do not excite them in our minds, or anywise immediately affect us, as being altogether passive and unperceivable to us, they are nevertheless to god, by whom they art perceived, as it were so many occasions to remind him when and what ideas to imprint on our minds; that so things may go on in a constant uniform manner. . in answer to this, i observe that, as the notion of matter is here stated, the question is no longer concerning the existence of a thing distinct from spirit and idea, from perceiving and being perceived; but whether there are not certain ideas of i know not what sort, in the mind of god which are so many marks or notes that direct him how to produce sensations in our minds in a constant and regular method--much after the same manner as a musician is directed by the notes of music to produce that harmonious train and composition of sound which is called a tune, though they who hear the music do not perceive the notes, and may be entirely ignorant of them. but, this notion of matter seems too extravagant to deserve a confutation. besides, it is in effect no objection against what we have advanced, viz. that there is no senseless unperceived substance. . the order of our perceptions shows the goodness of god, but affords no proof of the existence of matter.--if we follow the light of reason, we shall, from the constant uniform method of our sensations, collect the goodness and wisdom of the spirit who excites them in our minds; but this is all that i can see reasonably concluded from thence. to me, i say, it is evident that the being of a spirit infinitely wise, good, and powerful is abundantly sufficient to explain all the appearances of nature. but, as for inert, senseless matter, nothing that i perceive has any the least connexion with it, or leads to the thoughts of it. and i would fain see any one explain any the meanest phenomenon in nature by it, or show any manner of reason, though in the lowest rank of probability, that he can have for its existence, or even make any tolerable sense or meaning of that supposition. for, as to its being an occasion, we have, i think, evidently shown that with regard to us it is no occasion. it remains therefore that it must be, if at all, the occasion to god of exciting ideas in us; and what this amounts to we have just now seen. . it is worth while to reflect a little on the motives which induced men to suppose the existence of material substance; that so having observed the gradual ceasing and expiration of those motives or reasons, we may proportionably withdraw the assent that was grounded on them. first, therefore, it was thought that colour, figure, motion, and the rest of the sensible qualities or accidents, did really exist without the mind; and for this reason it seemed needful to suppose some unthinking substratum or substance wherein they did exist, since they could not be conceived to exist by themselves. afterwards, in process of time, men being convinced that colours, sounds, and the rest of the sensible, secondary qualities had no existence without the mind, they stripped this substratum or material substance of those qualities, leaving only the primary ones, figure, motion, and suchlike, which they still conceived to exist without the mind, and consequently to stand in need of a material support. but, it having been shown that none even of these can possibly exist otherwise than in a spirit or mind which perceives them it follows that we have no longer any reason to suppose the being of matter; nay, that it is utterly impossible there should be any such thing, so long as that word is taken to denote an unthinking substratum of qualities or accidents wherein they exist without the mind. . but though it be allowed by the materialists themselves that matter was thought of only for the sake of supporting accidents, and, the reason entirely ceasing, one might expect the mind should naturally, and without any reluctance at all, quit the belief of what was solely grounded thereon; yet the prejudice is riveted so deeply in our thoughts, that we can scarce tell how to part with it, and are therefore inclined, since the thing itself is indefensible, at least to retain the name, which we apply to i know not what abstracted and indefinite notions of being, or occasion, though without any show of reason, at least so far as i can see. for, what is there on our part, or what do we perceive, amongst all the ideas, sensations, notions which are imprinted on our minds, either by sense or reflexion, from whence may be inferred the existence of an inert, thoughtless, unperceived occasion? and, on the other hand, on the part of an all-sufficient spirit, what can there be that should make us believe or even suspect he is directed by an inert occasion to excite ideas in our minds? . absurdity of contending for the existence of matter as the occasion of ideas.--it is a very extraordinary instance of the force of prejudice, and much to be lamented, that the mind of man retains so great a fondness, against all the evidence of reason, for a stupid thoughtless somewhat, by the interposition whereof it would as it were screen itself from the providence of god, and remove it farther off from the affairs of the world. but, though we do the utmost we can to secure the belief of matter, though, when reason forsakes us, we endeavour to support our opinion on the bare possibility of the thing, and though we indulge ourselves in the full scope of an imagination not regulated by reason to make out that poor possibility, yet the upshot of all is, that there are certain unknown ideas in the mind of god; for this, if anything, is all that i conceive to be meant by occasion with regard to god. and this at the bottom is no longer contending for the thing, but for the name. . whether therefore there are such ideas in the mind of god, and whether they may be called by the name matter, i shall not dispute. but, if you stick to the notion of an unthinking substance or support of extension, motion, and other sensible qualities, then to me it is most evidently impossible there should be any such thing, since it is a plain repugnancy that those qualities should exist in or be supported by an unperceiving substance. . that a substratum not perceived, may exist, unimportant.--but, say you, though it be granted that there is no thoughtless support of extension and the other qualities or accidents which we perceive, yet there may perhaps be some inert, unperceiving substance or substratum of some other qualities, as incomprehensible to us as colours are to a man born blind, because we have not a sense adapted to them. but, if we had a new sense, we should possibly no more doubt of their existence than a blind man made to see does of the existence of light and colours. i answer, first, if what you mean by the word matter be only the unknown support of unknown qualities, it is no matter whether there is such a thing or no, since it no way concerns us; and i do not see the advantage there is in disputing about what we know not what, and we know not why. . but, secondly, if we had a new sense it could only furnish us with new ideas or sensations; and then we should have the same reason against their existing in an unperceiving substance that has been already offered with relation to figure, motion, colour and the like. qualities, as has been shown, are nothing else but sensations or ideas, which exist only in a mind perceiving them; and this is true not only of the ideas we are acquainted with at present, but likewise of all possible ideas whatsoever. . but, you will insist, what if i have no reason to believe the existence of matter? what if i cannot assign any use to it or explain anything by it, or even conceive what is meant by that word? yet still it is no contradiction to say that matter exists, and that this matter is in general a substance, or occasion of ideas; though indeed to go about to unfold the meaning or adhere to any particular explication of those words may be attended with great difficulties. i answer, when words are used without a meaning, you may put them together as you please without danger of running into a contradiction. you may say, for example, that twice two is equal to seven, so long as you declare you do not take the words of that proposition in their usual acceptation but for marks of you know not what. and, by the same reason, you may say there is an inert thoughtless substance without accidents which is the occasion of our ideas. and we shall understand just as much by one proposition as the other. . in the last place, you will say, what if we give up the cause of material substance, and stand to it that matter is an unknown somewhat--neither substance nor accident, spirit nor idea, inert, thoughtless, indivisible, immovable, unextended, existing in no place. for, say you, whatever may be urged against substance or occasion, or any other positive or relative notion of matter, has no place at all, so long as this negative definition of matter is adhered to. i answer, you may, if so it shall seem good, use the word "matter" in the same sense as other men use "nothing," and so make those terms convertible in your style. for, after all, this is what appears to me to be the result of that definition, the parts whereof when i consider with attention, either collectively or separate from each other, i do not find that there is any kind of effect or impression made on my mind different from what is excited by the term nothing. . you will reply, perhaps, that in the fore-said definition is included what doth sufficiently distinguish it from nothing--the positive abstract idea of quiddity, entity, or existence. i own, indeed, that those who pretend to the faculty of framing abstract general ideas do talk as if they had such an idea, which is, say they, the most abstract and general notion of all; that is, to me, the most incomprehensible of all others. that there are a great variety of spirits of different orders and capacities, whose faculties both in number and extent are far exceeding those the author of my being has bestowed on me, i see no reason to deny. and for me to pretend to determine by my own few, stinted narrow inlets of perception, what ideas the inexhaustible power of the supreme spirit may imprint upon them were certainly the utmost folly and presumption--since there may be, for aught that i know, innumerable sorts of ideas or sensations, as different from one another, and from all that i have perceived, as colours are from sounds. but, how ready soever i may be to acknowledge the scantiness of my comprehension with regard to the endless variety of spirits and ideas that may possibly exist, yet for any one to pretend to a notion of entity or existence, abstracted from spirit and idea, from perceived and being perceived, is, i suspect, a downright repugnancy and trifling with words.--it remains that we consider the objections which may possibly be made on the part of religion. . objections derived from the scriptures answered.--some there are who think that, though the arguments for the real existence of bodies which are drawn from reason be allowed not to amount to demonstration, yet the holy scriptures are so clear in the point as will sufficiently convince every good christian that bodies do really exist, and are something more than mere ideas; there being in holy writ innumerable facts related which evidently suppose the reality of timber and stone, mountains and rivers, and cities, and human bodies. to which i answer that no sort of writings whatever, sacred or profane, which use those and the like words in the vulgar acceptation, or so as to have a meaning in them, are in danger of having their truth called in question by our doctrine. that all those things do really exist, that there are bodies, even corporeal substances, when taken in the vulgar sense, has been shown to be agreeable to our principles; and the difference betwixt things and ideas, realities and chimeras, has been distinctly explained. see sect. , , , , &c. and i do not think that either what philosophers call matter, or the existence of objects without the mind, is anywhere mentioned in scripture. . no objection as to language tenable.--again, whether there can be or be not external things, it is agreed on all hands that the proper use of words is the marking our conceptions, or things only as they are known and perceived by us; whence it plainly follows that in the tenets we have laid down there is nothing inconsistent with the right use and significancy of language, and that discourse, of what kind soever, so far as it is intelligible, remains undisturbed. but all this seems so manifest, from what has been largely set forth in the premises, that it is needless to insist any farther on it. . but, secondly it will be urged that miracles do, at least, lose much of their stress and import by our principles. what must we think of moses' rod? was it not really turned into a serpent; or was there only a change of ideas in the minds of the spectators? and, can it be supposed that our saviour did no more at the marriage-feast in cana than impose on the sight, and smell, and taste of the guests, so as to create in them the appearance or idea only of wine? the same may be said of all other miracles; which, in consequence of the foregoing principles, must be looked upon only as so many cheats, or illusions of fancy. to this i reply, that the rod was changed into a real serpent, and the water into real wine. that this does not in the least contradict what i have elsewhere said will be evident from sect. and . but this business of real and imaginary has been already so plainly and fully explained, and so often referred to, and the difficulties about it are so easily answered from what has gone before, that it were an affront to the reader's understanding to resume the explication of it in its place. i shall only observe that if at table all who were present should see, and smell, and taste, and drink wine, and find the effects of it, with me there could be no doubt of its reality; so that at bottom the scruple concerning real miracles has no place at all on ours, but only on the received principles, and consequently makes rather for than against what has been said. . consequences of the preceding tenets.--having done with the objections, which i endeavoured to propose in the clearest light, and gave them all the force and weight i could, we proceed in the next place to take a view of our tenets in their consequences. some of these appear at first sight--as that several difficult and obscure questions, on which abundance of speculation has been thrown away, are entirely banished from philosophy. "whether corporeal substance can think," "whether matter be infinitely divisible," and "how it operates on spirit"--these and like inquiries have given infinite amusement to philosophers in all ages; but depending on the existence of matter, they have no longer any place on our principles. many other advantages there are, as well with regard to religion as the sciences, which it is easy for any one to deduce from what has been premised; but this will appear more plainly in the sequel. . the removal of matter gives certainty to knowledge.--from the principles we have laid down it follows human knowledge may naturally be reduced to two heads--that of ideas and that of spirits. of each of these i shall treat in order. and first as to ideas or unthinking things. our knowledge of these has been very much obscured and confounded, and we have been led into very dangerous errors, by supposing a twofold existence of the objects of sense--the one intelligible or in the mind, the other real and without the mind; whereby unthinking things are thought to have a natural subsistence of their own distinct from being perceived by spirits. this, which, if i mistake not, has been shown to be a most groundless and absurd notion, is the very root of scepticism; for, so long as men thought that real things subsisted without the mind, and that their knowledge was only so far forth real as it was conformable to real things, it follows they could not be certain they had any real knowledge at all. for how can it be known that the things which are perceived are conformable to those which are not perceived, or exist without the mind? . colour, figure, motion, extension, and the like, considered only as so many sensations in the mind, are perfectly known, there being nothing in them which is not perceived. but, if they are looked on as notes or images, referred to things or archetypes existing without the mind, then are we involved all in scepticism. we see only the appearances, and not the real qualities of things. what may be the extension, figure, or motion of anything really and absolutely, or in itself, it is impossible for us to know, but only the proportion or relation they bear to our senses. things remaining the same, our ideas vary, and which of them, or even whether any of them at all, represent the true quality really existing in the thing, it is out of our reach to determine. so that, for aught we know, all we see, hear, and feel may be only phantom and vain chimera, and not at all agree with the real things existing in rerum natura. all this scepticism follows from our supposing a difference between things and ideas, and that the former have a subsistence without the mind or unperceived. it were easy to dilate on this subject, and show how the arguments urged by sceptics in all ages depend on the supposition of external objects. . if there be external matter, neither the nature nor existence of things can be known.--so long as we attribute a real existence to unthinking things, distinct from their being perceived, it is not only impossible for us to know with evidence the nature of any real unthinking being, but even that it exists. hence it is that we see philosophers distrust their senses, and doubt of the existence of heaven and earth, of everything they see or feel, even of their own bodies. and, after all their labour and struggle of thought, they are forced to own we cannot attain to any self-evident or demonstrative knowledge of the existence of sensible things. but, all this doubtfulness, which so bewilders and confounds the mind and makes philosophy ridiculous in the eyes of the world, vanishes if we annex a meaning to our words, and not amuse ourselves with the terms "absolute," "external," "exist," and such-like, signifying we know not what. i can as well doubt of my own being as of the being of those things which i actually perceive by sense; it being a manifest contradiction that any sensible object should be immediately perceived by sight or touch, and at the same time have no existence in nature, since the very existence of an unthinking being consists in being perceived. . of thing or being.--nothing seems of more importance towards erecting a firm system of sound and real knowledge, which may be proof against the assaults of scepticism, than to lay the beginning in a distinct explication of what is meant by thing, reality, existence; for in vain shall we dispute concerning the real existence of things, or pretend to any knowledge thereof, so long as we have not fixed the meaning of those words. thing or being is the most general name of all; it comprehends under it two kinds entirely distinct and heterogeneous, and which have nothing common but the name. viz. spirits and ideas. the former are active, indivisible substances: the latter are inert, fleeting, dependent beings, which subsist not by themselves, but are supported by, or exist in minds or spiritual substances. we comprehend our own existence by inward feeling or reflexion, and that of other spirits by reason. we may be said to have some knowledge or notion of our own minds, of spirits and active beings, whereof in a strict sense we have not ideas. in like manner, we know and have a notion of relations between things or ideas--which relations are distinct from the ideas or things related, inasmuch as the latter may be perceived by us without our perceiving the former. to me it seems that ideas, spirits, and relations are all in their respective kinds the object of human knowledge and subject of discourse; and that the term idea would be improperly extended to signify everything we know or have any notion of. . external things either imprinted by or perceived by some other mind.--ideas imprinted on the senses are real things, or do really exist; this we do not deny, but we deny they can subsist without the minds which perceive them, or that they are resemblances of any archetypes existing without the mind; since the very being of a sensation or idea consists in being perceived, and an idea can be like nothing but an idea. again, the things perceived by sense may be termed external, with regard to their origin--in that they are not generated from within by the mind itself, but imprinted by a spirit distinct from that which perceives them. sensible objects may likewise be said to be "without the mind" in another sense, namely when they exist in some other mind; thus, when i shut my eyes, the things i saw may still exist, but it must be in another mind. . sensible qualities real.--it were a mistake to think that what is here said derogates in the least from the reality of things. it is acknowledged, on the received principles, that extension, motion, and in a word all sensible qualities have need of a support, as not being able to subsist by themselves. but the objects perceived by sense are allowed to be nothing but combinations of those qualities, and consequently cannot subsist by themselves. thus far it is agreed on all hand. so that in denying the things perceived by sense an existence independent of a substance of support wherein they may exist, we detract nothing from the received opinion of their reality, and are guilty of no innovation in that respect. all the difference is that, according to us, the unthinking beings perceived by sense have no existence distinct from being perceived, and cannot therefore exist in any other substance than those unextended indivisible substances or spirits which act and think and perceive them; whereas philosophers vulgarly hold that the sensible qualities do exist in an inert, extended, unperceiving substance which they call matter, to which they attribute a natural subsistence, exterior to all thinking beings, or distinct from being perceived by any mind whatsoever, even the eternal mind of the creator, wherein they suppose only ideas of the corporeal substances created by him; if indeed they allow them to be at all created. . objections of atheists overturned.--for, as we have shown the doctrine of matter or corporeal substance to have been the main pillar and support of scepticism, so likewise upon the same foundation have been raised all the impious schemes of atheism and irreligion. nay, so great a difficulty has it been thought to conceive matter produced out of nothing, that the most celebrated among the ancient philosophers, even of those who maintained the being of a god, have thought matter to be uncreated and co-eternal with him. how great a friend material substance has been to atheists in all ages were needless to relate. all their monstrous systems have so visible and necessary a dependence on it that, when this corner-stone is once removed, the whole fabric cannot choose but fall to the ground, insomuch that it is no longer worth while to bestow a particular consideration on the absurdities of every wretched sect of atheists. . and of fatalists also.--that impious and profane persons should readily fall in with those systems which favour their inclinations, by deriding immaterial substance, and supposing the soul to be divisible and subject to corruption as the body; which exclude all freedom, intelligence, and design from the formation of things, and instead thereof make a self--existent, stupid, unthinking substance the root and origin of all beings; that they should hearken to those who deny a providence, or inspection of a superior mind over the affairs of the world, attributing the whole series of events either to blind chance or fatal necessity arising from the impulse of one body or another--all this is very natural. and, on the other hand, when men of better principles observe the enemies of religion lay so great a stress on unthinking matter, and all of them use so much industry and artifice to reduce everything to it, methinks they should rejoice to see them deprived of their grand support, and driven from that only fortress, without which your epicureans, hobbists, and the like, have not even the shadow of a pretence, but become the most cheap and easy triumph in the world. . of idolators.--the existence of matter, or bodies unperceived, has not only been the main support of atheists and fatalists, but on the same principle doth idolatry likewise in all its various forms depend. did men but consider that the sun, moon, and stars, and every other object of the senses are only so many sensations in their minds, which have no other existence but barely being perceived, doubtless they would never fall down and worship their own ideas, but rather address their homage to that eternal invisible mind which produces and sustains all things. . and socinians.--the same absurd principle, by mingling itself with the articles of our faith, has occasioned no small difficulties to christians. for example, about the resurrection, how many scruples and objections have been raised by socinians and others? but do not the most plausible of them depend on the supposition that a body is denominated the same, with regard not to the form or that which is perceived by sense, but the material substance, which remains the same under several forms? take away this material substance, about the identity whereof all the dispute is, and mean by body what every plain ordinary person means by that word, to wit, that which is immediately seen and felt, which is only a combination of sensible qualities or ideas, and then their most unanswerable objections come to nothing. . summary of the consequences of expelling matter.--matter being once expelled out of nature drags with it so many sceptical and impious notions, such an incredible number of disputes and puzzling questions, which have been thorns in the sides of divines as well as philosophers, and made so much fruitless work for mankind, that if the arguments we have produced against it are not found equal to demonstration (as to me they evidently seem), yet i am sure all friends to knowledge, peace, and religion have reason to wish they were. . beside the external existence of the objects of perception, another great source of errors and difficulties with regard to ideal knowledge is the doctrine of abstract ideas, such as it has been set forth in the introduction. the plainest things in the world, those we are most intimately acquainted with and perfectly know, when they are considered in an abstract way, appear strangely difficult and incomprehensible. time, place, and motion, taken in particular or concrete, are what everybody knows, but, having passed through the hands of a metaphysician, they become too abstract and fine to be apprehended by men of ordinary sense. bid your servant meet you at such a time in such a place, and he shall never stay to deliberate on the meaning of those words; in conceiving that particular time and place, or the motion by which he is to get thither, he finds not the least difficulty. but if time be taken exclusive of all those particular actions and ideas that diversify the day, merely for the continuation of existence or duration in abstract, then it will perhaps gravel even a philosopher to comprehend it. . dilemma.--for my own part, whenever i attempt to frame a simple idea of time, abstracted from the succession of ideas in my mind, which flows uniformly and is participated by all beings, i am lost and embrangled in inextricable difficulties. i have no notion of it at all, only i hear others say it is infinitely divisible, and speak of it in such a manner as leads me to entertain odd thoughts of my existence; since that doctrine lays one under an absolute necessity of thinking, either that he passes away innumerable ages without a thought, or else that he is annihilated every moment of his life, both which seem equally absurd. time therefore being nothing, abstracted from the sucession of ideas in our minds, it follows that the duration of any finite spirit must be estimated by the number of ideas or actions succeeding each other in that same spirit or mind. hence, it is a plain consequence that the soul always thinks; and in truth whoever shall go about to divide in his thoughts, or abstract the existence of a spirit from its cogitation, will, i believe, find it no easy task. . so likewise when we attempt to abstract extension and motion from all other qualities, and consider them by themselves, we presently lose sight of them, and run into great extravagances. all which depend on a twofold abstraction; first, it is supposed that extension, for example, may be abstracted from all other sensible qualities; and secondly, that the entity of extension may be abstracted from its being perceived. but, whoever shall reflect, and take care to understand what he says, will, if i mistake not, acknowledge that all sensible qualities are alike sensations and alike real; that where the extension is, there is the colour, too, i.e., in his mind, and that their archetypes can exist only in some other mind; and that the objects of sense are nothing but those sensations combined, blended, or (if one may so speak) concreted together; none of all which can be supposed to exist unperceived. . what it is for a man to be happy, or an object good, every one may think he knows. but to frame an abstract idea of happiness, prescinded from all particular pleasure, or of goodness from everything that is good, this is what few can pretend to. so likewise a man may be just and virtuous without having precise ideas of justice and virtue. the opinion that those and the like words stand for general notions, abstracted from all particular persons and actions, seems to have rendered morality very difficult, and the study thereof of small use to mankind. and in effect the doctrine of abstraction has not a little contributed towards spoiling the most useful parts of knowledge. . of natural philosophy and mathematics.--the two great provinces of speculative science conversant about ideas received from sense, are natural philosophy and mathematics; with regard to each of these i shall make some observations. and first i shall say somewhat of natural philosophy. on this subject it is that the sceptics triumph. all that stock of arguments they produce to depreciate our faculties and make mankind appear ignorant and low, are drawn principally from this head, namely, that we are under an invincible blindness as to the true and real nature of things. this they exaggerate, and love to enlarge on. we are miserably bantered, say they, by our senses, and amused only with the outside and show of things. the real essence, the internal qualities and constitution of every the meanest object, is hid from our view; something there is in every drop of water, every grain of sand, which it is beyond the power of human understanding to fathom or comprehend. but, it is evident from what has been shown that all this complaint is groundless, and that we are influenced by false principles to that degree as to mistrust our senses, and think we know nothing of those things which we perfectly comprehend. . one great inducement to our pronouncing ourselves ignorant of the nature of things is the current opinion that everything includes within itself the cause of its properties; or that there is in each object an inward essence which is the source whence its discernible qualities flow, and whereon they depend. some have pretended to account for appearances by occult qualities, but of late they are mostly resolved into mechanical causes, to wit, the figure, motion, weight, and suchlike qualities, of insensible particles; whereas, in truth, there is no other agent or efficient cause than spirit, it being evident that motion, as well as all other ideas, is perfectly inert. see sect. . hence, to endeavour to explain the production of colours or sounds, by figure, motion, magnitude, and the like, must needs be labour in vain. and accordingly we see the attempts of that kind are not at all satisfactory. which may be said in general of those instances wherein one idea or quality is assigned for the cause of another. i need not say how many hypotheses and speculations are left out, and how much the study of nature is abridged by this doctrine. . attraction signifies the effect, not the manner or cause.--the great mechanical principle now in vogue is attraction. that a stone falls to the earth, or the sea swells towards the moon, may to some appear sufficiently explained thereby. but how are we enlightened by being told this is done by attraction? is it that that word signifies the manner of the tendency, and that it is by the mutual drawing of bodies instead of their being impelled or protruded towards each other? but, nothing is determined of the manner or action, and it may as truly (for aught we know) be termed "impulse," or "protrusion," as "attraction." again, the parts of steel we see cohere firmly together, and this also is accounted for by attraction; but, in this as in the other instances, i do not perceive that anything is signified besides the effect itself; for as to the manner of the action whereby it is produced, or the cause which produces it, these are not so much as aimed at. . indeed, if we take a view of the several phenomena, and compare them together, we may observe some likeness and conformity between them. for example, in the falling of a stone to the ground, in the rising of the sea towards the moon, in cohesion, crystallization, etc, there is something alike, namely, an union or mutual approach of bodies. so that any one of these or the like phenomena may not seem strange or surprising to a man who has nicely observed and compared the effects of nature. for that only is thought so which is uncommon, or a thing by itself, and out of the ordinary course of our observation. that bodies should tend towards the centre of the earth is not thought strange, because it is what we perceive every moment of our lives. but, that they should have a like gravitation towards the centre of the moon may seem odd and unaccountable to most men, because it is discerned only in the tides. but a philosopher, whose thoughts take in a larger compass of nature, having observed a certain similitude of appearances, as well in the heavens as the earth, that argue innumerable bodies to have a mutual tendency towards each other, which he denotes by the general name "attraction," whatever can be reduced to that he thinks justly accounted for. thus he explains the tides by the attraction of the terraqueous globe towards the moon, which to him does not appear odd or anomalous, but only a particular example of a general rule or law of nature. . if therefore we consider the difference there is betwixt natural philosophers and other men, with regard to their knowledge of the phenomena, we shall find it consists not in an exacter knowledge of the efficient cause that produces them--for that can be no other than the will of a spirit--but only in a greater largeness of comprehension, whereby analogies, harmonies, and agreements are discovered in the works of nature, and the particular effects explained, that is, reduced to general rules, see sect. , which rules, grounded on the analogy and uniformness observed in the production of natural effects, are most agreeable and sought after by the mind; for that they extend our prospect beyond what is present and near to us, and enable us to make very probable conjectures touching things that may have happened at very great distances of time and place, as well as to predict things to come; which sort of endeavour towards omniscience is much affected by the mind. . caution as to the use of analogies.--but we should proceed warily in such things, for we are apt to lay too great stress on analogies, and, to the prejudice of truth, humour that eagerness of the mind whereby it is carried to extend its knowledge into general theorems. for example, in the business of gravitation or mutual attraction, because it appears in many instances, some are straightway for pronouncing it universal; and that to attract and be attracted by every other body is an essential quality inherent in all bodies whatsoever. whereas it is evident the fixed stars have no such tendency towards each other; and, so far is that gravitation from being essential to bodies that in some instances a quite contrary principle seems to show itself; as in the perpendicular growth of plants, and the elasticity of the air. there is nothing necessary or essential in the case, but it depends entirely on the will of the governing spirit, who causes certain bodies to cleave together or tend towards each other according to various laws, whilst he keeps others at a fixed distance; and to some he gives a quite contrary tendency to fly asunder just as he sees convenient. . after what has been premised, i think we may lay down the following conclusions. first, it is plain philosophers amuse themselves in vain, when they inquire for any natural efficient cause, distinct from a mind or spirit. secondly, considering the whole creation is the workmanship of a wise and good agent, it should seem to become philosophers to employ their thoughts (contrary to what some hold) about the final causes of things; and i confess i see no reason why pointing out the various ends to which natural things are adapted, and for which they were originally with unspeakable wisdom contrived, should not be thought one good way of accounting for them, and altogether worthy a philosopher. thirdly, from what has been premised no reason can be drawn why the history of nature should not still be studied, and observations and experiments made, which, that they are of use to mankind, and enable us to draw any general conclusions, is not the result of any immutable habitudes or relations between things themselves, but only of god's goodness and kindness to men in the administration of the world. see sect. and fourthly, by a diligent observation of the phenomena within our view, we may discover the general laws of nature, and from them deduce the other phenomena; i do not say demonstrate, for all deductions of that kind depend on a supposition that the author of nature always operates uniformly, and in a constant observance of those rules we take for principles: which we cannot evidently know. . three analogies.--those men who frame general rules from the phenomena and afterwards derive the phenomena from those rules, seem to consider signs rather than causes. a man may well understand natural signs without knowing their analogy, or being able to say by what rule a thing is so or so. and, as it is very possible to write improperly, through too strict an observance of general grammar rules; so, in arguing from general laws of nature, it is not impossible we may extend the analogy too far, and by that means run into mistakes. . as in reading other books a wise man will choose to fix his thoughts on the sense and apply it to use, rather than lay them out in grammatical remarks on the language; so, in perusing the volume of nature, it seems beneath the dignity of the mind to affect an exactness in reducing each particular phenomenon to general rules, or showing how it follows from them. we should propose to ourselves nobler views, namely, to recreate and exalt the mind with a prospect of the beauty, order. extent, and variety of natural things: hence, by proper inferences, to enlarge our notions of the grandeur, wisdom, and beneficence of the creator; and lastly, to make the several parts of the creation, so far as in us lies, subservient to the ends they were designed for, god's glory, and the sustentation and comfort of ourselves and fellow-creatures. . the best key for the aforesaid analogy or natural science will be easily acknowledged to be a certain celebrated treatise of mechanics. in the entrance of which justly admired treatise, time, space, and motion are distinguished into absolute and relative, true and apparent, mathematical and vulgar; which distinction, as it is at large explained by the author, does suppose these quantities to have an existence without the mind; and that they are ordinarily conceived with relation to sensible things, to which nevertheless in their own nature they bear no relation at all. . as for time, as it is there taken in an absolute or abstracted sense, for the duration or perseverance of the existence of things, i have nothing more to add concerning it after what has been already said on that subject. sect. and . for the rest, this celebrated author holds there is an absolute space, which, being unperceivable to sense, remains in itself similar and immovable; and relative space to be the measure thereof, which, being movable and defined by its situation in respect of sensible bodies, is vulgarly taken for immovable space. place he defines to be that part of space which is occupied by any body; and according as the space is absolute or relative so also is the place. absolute motion is said to be the translation of a body from absolute place to absolute place, as relative motion is from one relative place to another. and, because the parts of absolute space do not fall under our senses, instead of them we are obliged to use their sensible measures, and so define both place and motion with respect to bodies which we regard as immovable. but, it is said in philosophical matters we must abstract from our senses, since it may be that none of those bodies which seem to be quiescent are truly so, and the same thing which is moved relatively may be really at rest; as likewise one and the same body may be in relative rest and motion, or even moved with contrary relative motions at the same time, according as its place is variously defined. all which ambiguity is to be found in the apparent motions, but not at all in the true or absolute, which should therefore be alone regarded in philosophy. and the true as we are told are distinguished from apparent or relative motions by the following properties.--first, in true or absolute motion all parts which preserve the same position with respect of the whole, partake of the motions of the whole. secondly, the place being moved, that which is placed therein is also moved; so that a body moving in a place which is in motion doth participate the motion of its place. thirdly, true motion is never generated or changed otherwise than by force impressed on the body itself. fourthly, true motion is always changed by force impressed on the body moved. fifthly, in circular motion barely relative there is no centrifugal force, which, nevertheless, in that which is true or absolute, is proportional to the quantity of motion. . motion, whether real or apparent, relative.--but, notwithstanding what has been said, i must confess it does not appear to me that there can be any motion other than relative; so that to conceive motion there must be at least conceived two bodies, whereof the distance or position in regard to each other is varied. hence, if there was one only body in being it could not possibly be moved. this seems evident, in that the idea i have of motion doth necessarily include relation. . apparent motion denied.--but, though in every motion it be necessary to conceive more bodies than one, yet it may be that one only is moved, namely, that on which the force causing the change in the distance or situation of the bodies, is impressed. for, however some may define relative motion, so as to term that body moved which changes its distance from some other body, whether the force or action causing that change were impressed on it or no, yet as relative motion is that which is perceived by sense, and regarded in the ordinary affairs of life, it should seem that every man of common sense knows what it is as well as the best philosopher. now, i ask any one whether, in his sense of motion as he walks along the streets, the stones he passes over may be said to move, because they change distance with his feet? to me it appears that though motion includes a relation of one thing to another, yet it is not necessary that each term of the relation be denominated from it. as a man may think of somewhat which does not think, so a body may be moved to or from another body which is not therefore itself in motion. . as the place happens to be variously defined, the motion which is related to it varies. a man in a ship may be said to be quiescent with relation to the sides of the vessel, and yet move with relation to the land. or he may move eastward in respect of the one, and westward in respect of the other. in the common affairs of life men never go beyond the earth to define the place of any body; and what is quiescent in respect of that is accounted absolutely to be so. but philosophers, who have a greater extent of thought, and juster notions of the system of things, discover even the earth itself to be moved. in order therefore to fix their notions they seem to conceive the corporeal world as finite, and the utmost unmoved walls or shell thereof to be the place whereby they estimate true motions. if we sound our own conceptions, i believe we may find all the absolute motion we can frame an idea of to be at bottom no other than relative motion thus defined. for, as has been already observed, absolute motion, exclusive of all external relation, is incomprehensible; and to this kind of relative motion all the above-mentioned properties, causes, and effects ascribed to absolute motion will, if i mistake not, be found to agree. as to what is said of the centrifugal force, that it does not at all belong to circular relative motion, i do not see how this follows from the experiment which is brought to prove it. see philosophiae naturalis principia mathematica, in schol. def. viii. for the water in the vessel at that time wherein it is said to have the greatest relative circular motion, has, i think, no motion at all; as is plain from the foregoing section. . for, to denominate a body moved it is requisite, first, that it change its distance or situation with regard to some other body; and secondly, that the force occasioning that change be applied to it. if either of these be wanting, i do not think that, agreeably to the sense of mankind, or the propriety of language, a body can be said to be in motion. i grant indeed that it is possible for us to think a body which we see change its distance from some other to be moved, though it have no force applied to it (in which sense there may be apparent motion), but then it is because the force causing the change of distance is imagined by us to be applied or impressed on that body thought to move; which indeed shows we are capable of mistaking a thing to be in motion which is not, and that is all. . any idea of pure space relative.--from what has been said it follows that the philosophic consideration of motion does not imply the being of an absolute space, distinct from that which is perceived by sense and related bodies; which that it cannot exist without the mind is clear upon the same principles that demonstrate the like of all other objects of sense. and perhaps, if we inquire narrowly, we shall find we cannot even frame an idea of pure space exclusive of all body. this i must confess seems impossible, as being a most abstract idea. when i excite a motion in some part of my body, if it be free or without resistance, i say there is space; but if i find a resistance, then i say there is body; and in proportion as the resistance to motion is lesser or greater, i say the space is more or less pure. so that when i speak of pure or empty space, it is not to be supposed that the word "space" stands for an idea distinct from or conceivable without body and motion--though indeed we are apt to think every noun substantive stands for a distinct idea that may be separated from all others; which has occasioned infinite mistakes. when, therefore, supposing all the world to be annihilated besides my own body, i say there still remains pure space, thereby nothing else is meant but only that i conceive it possible for the limbs of my body to be moved on all sides without the least resistance, but if that, too, were annihilated then there could be no motion, and consequently no space. some, perhaps, may think the sense of seeing doth furnish them with the idea of pure space; but it is plain from what we have elsewhere shown, that the ideas of space and distance are not obtained by that sense. see the essay concerning vision. . what is here laid down seems to put an end to all those disputes and difficulties that have sprung up amongst the learned concerning the nature of pure space. but the chief advantage arising from it is that we are freed from that dangerous dilemma, to which several who have employed their thoughts on that subject imagine themselves reduced, to wit, of thinking either that real space is god, or else that there is something beside god which is eternal, uncreated, infinite, indivisible, immutable. both which may justly be thought pernicious and absurd notions. it is certain that not a few divines, as well as philosophers of great note, have, from the difficulty they found in conceiving either limits or annihilation of space, concluded it must be divine. and some of late have set themselves particularly to show the incommunicable attributes of god agree to it. which doctrine, how unworthy soever it may seem of the divine nature, yet i do not see how we can get clear of it, so long as we adhere to the received opinions. . the errors arising from the doctrines of abstraction and external material existences, influence mathematical reasonings.--hitherto of natural philosophy: we come now to make some inquiry concerning that other great branch of speculative knowledge, to wit, mathematics. these, how celebrated soever they may be for their clearness and certainty of demonstration, which is hardly anywhere else to be found, cannot nevertheless be supposed altogether free from mistakes, if in their principles there lurks some secret error which is common to the professors of those sciences with the rest of mankind. mathematicians, though they deduce their theorems from a great height of evidence, yet their first principles are limited by the consideration of quantity: and they do not ascend into any inquiry concerning those transcendental maxims which influence all the particular sciences, each part whereof, mathematics not excepted, does consequently participate of the errors involved in them. that the principles laid down by mathematicians are true, and their way of deduction from those principles clear and incontestible, we do not deny; but, we hold there may be certain erroneous maxims of greater extent than the object of mathematics, and for that reason not expressly mentioned, though tacitly supposed throughout the whole progress of that science; and that the ill effects of those secret unexamined errors are diffused through all the branches thereof. to be plain, we suspect the mathematicians are as well as other men concerned in the errors arising from the doctrine of abstract general ideas, and the existence of objects without the mind. . arithmetic has been thought to have for its object abstract ideas of number; of which to understand the properties and mutual habitudes, is supposed no mean part of speculative knowledge. the opinion of the pure and intellectual nature of numbers in abstract has made them in esteem with those philosophers who seem to have affected an uncommon fineness and elevation of thought. it has set a price on the most trifling numerical speculations which in practice are of no use, but serve only for amusement; and has therefore so far infected the minds of some, that they have dreamed of mighty mysteries involved in numbers, and attempted the explication of natural things by them. but, if we inquire into our own thoughts, and consider what has been premised, we may perhaps entertain a low opinion of those high flights and abstractions, and look on all inquiries, about numbers only as so many difficiles nugae, so far as they are not subservient to practice, and promote the benefit of life. . unity in abstract we have before considered in sect. , from which and what has been said in the introduction, it plainly follows there is not any such idea. but, number being defined a "collection of units," we may conclude that, if there be no such thing as unity or unit in abstract, there are no ideas of number in abstract denoted by the numeral names and figures. the theories therefore in arithmetic, if they are abstracted from the names and figures, as likewise from all use and practice, as well as from the particular things numbered, can be supposed to have nothing at all for their object; hence we may see how entirely the science of numbers is subordinate to practice, and how jejune and trifling it becomes when considered as a matter of mere speculation. . however, since there may be some who, deluded by the specious show of discovering abstracted verities, waste their time in arithmetical theorems and problems which have not any use, it will not be amiss if we more fully consider and expose the vanity of that pretence; and this will plainly appear by taking a view of arithmetic in its infancy, and observing what it was that originally put men on the study of that science, and to what scope they directed it. it is natural to think that at first, men, for ease of memory and help of computation, made use of counters, or in writing of single strokes, points, or the like, each whereof was made to signify an unit, i.e., some one thing of whatever kind they had occasion to reckon. afterwards they found out the more compendious ways of making one character stand in place of several strokes or points. and, lastly, the notation of the arabians or indians came into use, wherein, by the repetition of a few characters or figures, and varying the signification of each figure according to the place it obtains, all numbers may be most aptly expressed; which seems to have been done in imitation of language, so that an exact analogy is observed betwixt the notation by figures and names, the nine simple figures answering the nine first numeral names and places in the former, corresponding to denominations in the latter. and agreeably to those conditions of the simple and local value of figures, were contrived methods of finding, from the given figures or marks of the parts, what figures and how placed are proper to denote the whole, or vice versa. and having found the sought figures, the same rule or analogy being observed throughout, it is easy to read them into words; and so the number becomes perfectly known. for then the number of any particular things is said to be known, when we know the name of figures (with their due arrangement) that according to the standing analogy belong to them. for, these signs being known, we can by the operations of arithmetic know the signs of any part of the particular sums signified by them; and, thus computing in signs (because of the connexion established betwixt them and the distinct multitudes of things whereof one is taken for an unit), we may be able rightly to sum up, divide, and proportion the things themselves that we intend to number. . in arithmetic, therefore, we regard not the things, but the signs, which nevertheless are not regarded for their own sake, but because they direct us how to act with relation to things, and dispose rightly of them. now, agreeably to what we have before observed of words in general (sect. , introd.) it happens here likewise that abstract ideas are thought to be signified by numeral names or characters, while they do not suggest ideas of particular things to our minds. i shall not at present enter into a more particular dissertation on this subject, but only observe that it is evident from what has been said, those things which pass for abstract truths and theorems concerning numbers, are in reality conversant about no object distinct from particular numeral things, except only names and characters, which originally came to be considered on no other account but their being signs, or capable to represent aptly whatever particular things men had need to compute. whence it follows that to study them for their own sake would be just as wise, and to as good purpose as if a man, neglecting the true use or original intention and subserviency of language, should spend his time in impertinent criticisms upon words, or reasonings and controversies purely verbal. . from numbers we proceed to speak of extension, which, considered as relative, is the object of geometry. the infinite divisibility of finite extension, though it is not expressly laid down either as an axiom or theorem in the elements of that science, yet is throughout the same everywhere supposed and thought to have so inseparable and essential a connexion with the principles and demonstrations in geometry, that mathematicians never admit it into doubt, or make the least question of it. and, as this notion is the source from whence do spring all those amusing geometrical paradoxes which have such a direct repugnancy to the plain common sense of mankind, and are admitted with so much reluctance into a mind not yet debauched by learning; so it is the principal occasion of all that nice and extreme subtilty which renders the study of mathematics so difficult and tedious. hence, if we can make it appear that no finite extension contains innumerable parts, or is infinitely divisible, it follows that we shall at once clear the science of geometry from a great number of difficulties and contradictions which have ever been esteemed a reproach to human reason, and withal make the attainment thereof a business of much less time and pains than it hitherto has been. . every particular finite extension which may possibly be the object of our thought is an idea existing only in the mind, and consequently each part thereof must be perceived. if, therefore, i cannot perceive innumerable parts in any finite extension that i consider, it is certain they are not contained in it; but, it is evident that i cannot distinguish innumerable parts in any particular line, surface, or solid, which i either perceive by sense, or figure to myself in my mind: wherefore i conclude they are not contained in it. nothing can be plainer to me than that the extensions i have in view are no other than my own ideas; and it is no less plain that i cannot resolve any one of my ideas into an infinite number of other ideas, that is, that they are not infinitely divisible. if by finite extension be meant something distinct from a finite idea, i declare i do not know what that is, and so cannot affirm or deny anything of it. but if the terms "extension," "parts," &c., are taken in any sense conceivable, that is, for ideas, then to say a finite quantity or extension consists of parts infinite in number is so manifest a contradiction, that every one at first sight acknowledges it to be so; and it is impossible it should ever gain the assent of any reasonable creature who is not brought to it by gentle and slow degrees, as a converted gentile to the belief of transubstantiation. ancient and rooted prejudices do often pass into principles; and those propositions which once obtain the force and credit of a principle, are not only themselves, but likewise whatever is deducible from them, thought privileged from all examination. and there is no absurdity so gross, which, by this means, the mind of man may not be prepared to swallow. . he whose understanding is possessed with the doctrine of abstract general ideas may be persuaded that (whatever be thought of the ideas of sense) extension in abstract is infinitely divisible. and one who thinks the objects of sense exist without the mind will perhaps in virtue thereof be brought to admit that a line but an inch long may contain innumerable parts--really existing, though too small to be discerned. these errors are grafted as well in the minds of geometricians as of other men, and have a like influence on their reasonings; and it were no difficult thing to show how the arguments from geometry made use of to support the infinite divisibility of extension are bottomed on them. at present we shall only observe in general whence it is the mathematicians are all so fond and tenacious of that doctrine. . it has been observed in another place that the theorems and demonstrations in geometry are conversant about universal ideas (sect. , introd.); where it is explained in what sense this ought to be understood, to wit, the particular lines and figures included in the diagram are supposed to stand for innumerable others of different sizes; or, in other words, the geometer considers them abstracting from their magnitude--which does not imply that he forms an abstract idea, but only that he cares not what the particular magnitude is, whether great or small, but looks on that as a thing different to the demonstration. hence it follows that a line in the scheme but an inch long must be spoken of as though it contained ten thousand parts, since it is regarded not in itself, but as it is universal; and it is universal only in its signification, whereby it represents innumerable lines greater than itself, in which may be distinguished ten thousand parts or more, though there may not be above an inch in it. after this manner, the properties of the lines signified are (by a very usual figure) transferred to the sign, and thence, through mistake, though to appertain to it considered in its own nature. . because there is no number of parts so great but it is possible there may be a line containing more, the inch-line is said to contain parts more than any assignable number; which is true, not of the inch taken absolutely, but only for the things signified by it. but men, not retaining that distinction in their thoughts, slide into a belief that the small particular line described on paper contains in itself parts innumerable. there is no such thing as the ten--thousandth part of an inch; but there is of a mile or diameter of the earth, which may be signified by that inch. when therefore i delineate a triangle on paper, and take one side not above an inch, for example, in length to be the radius, this i consider as divided into , or , parts or more; for, though the ten-thousandth part of that line considered in itself is nothing at all, and consequently may be neglected without an error or inconveniency, yet these described lines, being only marks standing for greater quantities, whereof it may be the ten--thousandth part is very considerable, it follows that, to prevent notable errors in practice, the radius must be taken of , parts or more. . lines which are infinitely divisible.--from what has been said the reason is plain why, to the end any theorem become universal in its use, it is necessary we speak of the lines described on paper as though they contained parts which really they do not. in doing of which, if we examine the matter thoroughly, we shall perhaps discover that we cannot conceive an inch itself as consisting of, or being divisible into, a thousand parts, but only some other line which is far greater than an inch, and represented by it; and that when we say a line is infinitely divisible, we must mean a line which is infinitely great. what we have here observed seems to be the chief cause why, to suppose the infinite divisibility of finite extension has been thought necessary in geometry. . the several absurdities and contradictions which flowed from this false principle might, one would think, have been esteemed so many demonstrations against it. but, by i know not what logic, it is held that proofs a posteriori are not to be admitted against propositions relating to infinity, as though it were not impossible even for an infinite mind to reconcile contradictions; or as if anything absurd and repugnant could have a necessary connexion with truth or flow from it. but, whoever considers the weakness of this pretence will think it was contrived on purpose to humour the laziness of the mind which had rather acquiesce in an indolent scepticism than be at the pains to go through with a severe examination of those principles it has ever embraced for true. . of late the speculations about infinities have run so high, and grown to such strange notions, as have occasioned no small scruples and disputes among the geometers of the present age. some there are of great note who, not content with holding that finite lines may be divided into an infinite number of parts, do yet farther maintain that each of those infinitesimals is itself subdivisible into an infinity of other parts or infinitesimals of a second order, and so on ad infinitum. these, i say, assert there are infinitesimals of infinitesimals of infinitesimals, &c., without ever coming to an end; so that according to them an inch does not barely contain an infinite number of parts, but an infinity of an infinity of an infinity ad infinitum of parts. others there be who hold all orders of infinitesimals below the first to be nothing at all; thinking it with good reason absurd to imagine there is any positive quantity or part of extension which, though multiplied infinitely, can never equal the smallest given extension. and yet on the other hand it seems no less absurd to think the square, cube or other power of a positive real root, should itself be nothing at all; which they who hold infinitesimals of the first order, denying all of the subsequent orders, are obliged to maintain. . objection of mathematicians.--answer.--have we not therefore reason to conclude they are both in the wrong, and that there is in effect no such thing as parts infinitely small, or an infinite number of parts contained in any finite quantity? but you will say that if this doctrine obtains it will follow the very foundations of geometry are destroyed, and those great men who have raised that science to so astonishing a height, have been all the while building a castle in the air. to this it may be replied that whatever is useful in geometry, and promotes the benefit of human life, does still remain firm and unshaken on our principles; that science considered as practical will rather receive advantage than any prejudice from what has been said. but to set this in a due light may be the proper business of another place. for the rest, though it should follow that some of the more intricate and subtle parts of speculative mathematics may be pared off without any prejudice to truth, yet i do not see what damage will be thence derived to mankind. on the contrary, i think it were highly to be wished that men of great abilities and obstinate application would draw off their thoughts from those amusements, and employ them in the study of such things as lie nearer the concerns of life, or have a more direct influence on the manners. . second objection of mathematicians.--answer.--if it be said that several theorems undoubtedly true are discovered by methods in which infinitesimals are made use of, which could never have been if their existence included a contradiction in it; i answer that upon a thorough examination it will not be found that in any instance it is necessary to make use of or conceive infinitesimal parts of finite lines, or even quantities less than the minimum sensible; nay, it will be evident this is never done, it being impossible. . if the doctrine were only an hypothesis it should be respected for its consequences.--by what we have premised, it is plain that very numerous and important errors have taken their rise from those false principles which were impugned in the foregoing parts of this treatise; and the opposites of those erroneous tenets at the same time appear to be most fruitful principles, from whence do flow innumerable consequences highly advantageous to true philosophy, as well as to religion. particularly matter, or the absolute existence of corporeal objects, has been shown to be that wherein the most avowed and pernicious enemies of all knowledge, whether human or divine, have ever placed their chief strength and confidence. and surely, if by distinguishing the real existence of unthinking things from their being perceived, and allowing them a subsistance of their own out of the minds of spirits, no one thing is explained in nature, but on the contrary a great many inexplicable difficulties arise; if the supposition of matter is barely precarious, as not being grounded on so much as one single reason; if its consequences cannot endure the light of examination and free inquiry, but screen themselves under the dark and general pretence of "infinites being incomprehensible"; if withal the removal of this matter be not attended with the least evil consequence; if it be not even missed in the world, but everything as well, nay much easier conceived without it; if, lastly, both sceptics and atheists are for ever silenced upon supposing only spirits and ideas, and this scheme of things is perfectly agreeable both to reason and religion: methinks we may expect it should be admitted and firmly embraced, though it were proposed only as an hypothesis, and the existence of matter had been allowed possible, which yet i think we have evidently demonstrated that it is not. . true it is that, in consequence of the foregoing principles, several disputes and speculations which are esteemed no mean parts of learning, are rejected as useless. but, how great a prejudice soever against our notions this may give to those who have already been deeply engaged, and make large advances in studies of that nature, yet by others we hope it will not be thought any just ground of dislike to the principles and tenets herein laid down, that they abridge the labour of study, and make human sciences far more clear, compendious and attainable than they were before. . having despatched what we intended to say concerning the knowledge of ideas, the method we proposed leads us in the next place to treat of spirits--with regard to which, perhaps, human knowledge is not so deficient as is vulgarly imagined. the great reason that is assigned for our being thought ignorant of the nature of spirits is our not having an idea of it. but, surely it ought not to be looked on as a defect in a human understanding that it does not perceive the idea of spirit, if it is manifestly impossible there should be any such idea. and this if i mistake not has been demonstrated in section ; to which i shall here add that a spirit has been shown to be the only substance or support wherein unthinking beings or ideas can exist; but that this substance which supports or perceives ideas should itself be an idea or like an idea is evidently absurd. . objection.--answer.--it will perhaps be said that we want a sense (as some have imagined) proper to know substances withal, which, if we had, we might know our own soul as we do a triangle. to this i answer, that, in case we had a new sense bestowed upon us, we could only receive thereby some new sensations or ideas of sense. but i believe nobody will say that what he means by the terms soul and substance is only some particular sort of idea or sensation. we may therefore infer that, all things duly considered, it is not more reasonable to think our faculties defective, in that they do not furnish us with an idea of spirit or active thinking substance, than it would be if we should blame them for not being able to comprehend a round square. . from the opinion that spirits are to be known after the manner of an idea or sensation have risen many absurd and heterodox tenets, and much scepticism about the nature of the soul. it is even probable that this opinion may have produced a doubt in some whether they had any soul at all distinct from their body since upon inquiry they could not find they had an idea of it. that an idea which is inactive, and the existence whereof consists in being perceived, should be the image or likeness of an agent subsisting by itself, seems to need no other refutation than barely attending to what is meant by those words. but, perhaps you will say that though an idea cannot resemble a spirit in its thinking, acting, or subsisting by itself, yet it may in some other respects; and it is not necessary that an idea or image be in all respects like the original. . i answer, if it does not in those mentioned, it is impossible it should represent it in any other thing. do but leave out the power of willing, thinking, and perceiving ideas, and there remains nothing else wherein the idea can be like a spirit. for, by the word spirit we mean only that which thinks, wills, and perceives; this, and this alone, constitutes the signification of the term. if therefore it is impossible that any degree of those powers should be represented in an idea, it is evident there can be no idea of a spirit. . but it will be objected that, if there is no idea signified by the terms soul, spirit, and substance, they are wholly insignificant, or have no meaning in them. i answer, those words do mean or signify a real thing, which is neither an idea nor like an idea, but that which perceives ideas, and wills, and reasons about them. what i am myself, that which i denote by the term i, is the same with what is meant by soul or spiritual substance. if it be said that this is only quarreling at a word, and that, since the immediately significations of other names are by common consent called ideas, no reason can be assigned why that which is signified by the name spirit or soul may not partake in the same appellation. i answer, all the unthinking objects of the mind agree in that they are entirely passive, and their existence consists only in being perceived; whereas a soul or spirit is an active being, whose existence consists, not in being perceived, but in perceiving ideas and thinking. it is therefore necessary, in order to prevent equivocation and confounding natures perfectly disagreeing and unlike, that we distinguish between spirit and idea. see sect. . . our idea of spirit.--in a large sense, indeed, we may be said to have an idea or rather a notion of spirit; that is, we understand the meaning of the word, otherwise we could not affirm or deny anything of it. moreover, as we conceive the ideas that are in the minds of other spirits by means of our own, which we suppose to be resemblances of them; so we know other spirits by means of our own soul--which in that sense is the image or idea of them; it having a like respect to other spirits that blueness or heat by me perceived has to those ideas perceived by another. . the natural immortality of the soul is a necessary consequence of the foregoing doctrine.--it must not be supposed that they who assert the natural immortality of the soul are of opinion that it is absolutely incapable of annihilation even by the infinite power of the creator who first gave it being, but only that it is not liable to be broken or dissolved by the ordinary laws of nature or motion. they indeed who hold the soul of man to be only a thin vital flame, or system of animal spirits, make it perishing and corruptible as the body; since there is nothing more easily dissipated than such a being, which it is naturally impossible should survive the ruin of the tabernacle wherein it is enclosed. and this notion has been greedily embraced and cherished by the worst part of mankind, as the most effectual antidote against all impressions of virtue and religion. but it has been made evident that bodies, of what frame or texture soever, are barely passive ideas in the mind, which is more distant and heterogeneous from them than light is from darkness. we have shown that the soul is indivisible, incorporeal, unextended, and it is consequently incorruptible. nothing can be plainer than that the motions, changes, decays, and dissolutions which we hourly see befall natural bodies (and which is what we mean by the course of nature) cannot possibly affect an active, simple, uncompounded substance; such a being therefore is indissoluble by the force of nature; that is to say, "the soul of man is naturally immortal." . after what has been said, it is, i suppose, plain that our souls are not to be known in the same manner as senseless, inactive objects, or by way of idea. spirits and ideas are things so wholly different, that when we say "they exist," "they are known," or the like, these words must not be thought to signify anything common to both natures. there is nothing alike or common in them: and to expect that by any multiplication or enlargement of our faculties we may be enabled to know a spirit as we do a triangle, seems as absurd as if we should hope to see a sound. this is inculcated because i imagine it may be of moment towards clearing several important questions, and preventing some very dangerous errors concerning the nature of the soul. we may not, i think, strictly be said to have an idea of an active being, or of an action, although we may be said to have a notion of them. i have some knowledge or notion of my mind, and its acts about ideas, inasmuch as i know or understand what is meant by these words. what i know, that i have some notion of. i will not say that the terms idea and notion may not be used convertibly, if the world will have it so; but yet it conduceth to clearness and propriety that we distinguish things very different by different names. it is also to be remarked that, all relations including an act of the mind, we cannot so properly be said to have an idea, but rather a notion of the relations and habitudes between things. but if, in the modern way, the word idea is extended to spirits, and relations, and acts, this is, after all, an affair of verbal concern. . it will not be amiss to add, that the doctrine of abstract ideas has had no small share in rendering those sciences intricate and obscure which are particularly conversant about spiritual things. men have imagined they could frame abstract notions of the powers and acts of the mind, and consider them prescinded as well from the mind or spirit itself, as from their respective objects and effects. hence a great number of dark and ambiguous terms, presumed to stand for abstract notions, have been introduced into metaphysics and morality, and from these have grown infinite distractions and disputes amongst the learned. . but, nothing seems more to have contributed towards engaging men in controversies and mistakes with regard to the nature and operations of the mind, than the being used to speak of those things in terms borrowed from sensible ideas. for example, the will is termed the motion of the soul; this infuses a belief that the mind of man is as a ball in motion, impelled and determined by the objects of sense, as necessarily as that is by the stroke of a racket. hence arise endless scruples and errors of dangerous consequence in morality. all which, i doubt not, may be cleared, and truth appear plain, uniform, and consistent, could but philosophers be prevailed on to retire into themselves, and attentively consider their own meaning. . knowledge of spirits not immediate.--from what has been said, it is plain that we cannot know the existence of other spirits otherwise than by their operations, or the ideas by them excited in us. i perceive several motions, changes, and combinations of ideas, that inform me there are certain particular agents, like myself, which accompany them and concur in their production. hence, the knowledge i have of other spirits is not immediate, as is the knowledge of my ideas; but depending on the intervention of ideas, by me referred to agents or spirits distinct from myself, as effects or concomitant signs. . but, though there be some things which convince us human agents are concerned in producing them; yet it is evident to every one that those things which are called the works of nature, that is, the far greater part of the ideas or sensations perceived by us, are not produced by, or dependent on, the wills of men. there is therefore some other spirit that causes them; since it is repugnant that they should subsist by themselves. see sect. . but, if we attentively consider the constant regularity, order, and concatenation of natural things, the surprising magnificence, beauty, and perfection of the larger, and the exquisite contrivance of the smaller parts of creation, together with the exact harmony and correspondence of the whole, but above all the never-enough-admired laws of pain and pleasure, and the instincts or natural inclinations, appetites, and passions of animals; i say if we consider all these things, and at the same time attend to the meaning and import of the attributes one, eternal, infinitely wise, good, and perfect, we shall clearly perceive that they belong to the aforesaid spirit, "who works all in all," and "by whom all things consist." . the existence of god more evident than that of man.--hence, it is evident that god is known as certainly and immediately as any other mind or spirit whatsoever distinct from ourselves. we may even assert that the existence of god is far more evidently perceived than the existence of men; because the effects of nature are infinitely more numerous and considerable than those ascribed to human agents. there is not any one mark that denotes a man, or effect produced by him, which does not more strongly evince the being of that spirit who is the author of nature. for, it is evident that in affecting other persons the will of man has no other object than barely the motion of the limbs of his body; but that such a motion should be attended by, or excite any idea in the mind of another, depends wholly on the will of the creator. he alone it is who, "upholding all things by the word of his power," maintains that intercourse between spirits whereby they are able to perceive the existence of each other. and yet this pure and clear light which enlightens every one is itself invisible. . it seems to be a general pretence of the unthinking herd that they cannot see god. could we but see him, say they, as we see a man, we should believe that he is, and believing obey his commands. but alas, we need only open our eyes to see the sovereign lord of all things, with a more full and clear view than we do any one of our fellow--creatures. not that i imagine we see god (as some will have it) by a direct and immediate view; or see corporeal things, not by themselves, but by seeing that which represents them in the essence of god, which doctrine is, i must confess, to me incomprehensible. but i shall explain my meaning;--a human spirit or person is not perceived by sense, as not being an idea; when therefore we see the colour, size, figure, and motions of a man, we perceive only certain sensations or ideas excited in our own minds; and these being exhibited to our view in sundry distinct collections, serve to mark out unto us the existence of finite and created spirits like ourselves. hence it is plain we do not see a man--if by man is meant that which lives, moves, perceives, and thinks as we do--but only such a certain collection of ideas as directs us to think there is a distinct principle of thought and motion, like to ourselves, accompanying and represented by it. and after the same manner we see god; all the difference is that, whereas some one finite and narrow assemblage of ideas denotes a particular human mind, whithersoever we direct our view, we do at all times and in all places perceive manifest tokens of the divinity: everything we see, hear, feel, or anywise perceive by sense, being a sign or effect of the power of god; as is our perception of those very motions which are produced by men. . it is therefore plain that nothing can be more evident to any one that is capable of the least reflexion than the existence of god, or a spirit who is intimately present to our minds, producing in them all that variety of ideas or sensations which continually affect us, on whom we have an absolute and entire dependence, in short "in whom we live, and move, and have our being." that the discovery of this great truth, which lies so near and obvious to the mind, should be attained to by the reason of so very few, is a sad instance of the stupidity and inattention of men, who, though they are surrounded with such clear manifestations of the deity, are yet so little affected by them that they seem, as it were, blinded with excess of light. . objection on behalf of nature.--answer.--but you will say, has nature no share in the production of natural things, and must they be all ascribed to the immediate and sole operation of god? i answer, if by nature is meant only the visible series of effects or sensations imprinted on our minds, according to certain fixed and general laws, then it is plain that nature, taken in this sense, cannot produce anything at all. but, if by nature is meant some being distinct from god, as well as from the laws of nature, and things perceived by sense, i must confess that word is to me an empty sound without any intelligible meaning annexed to it. nature, in this acceptation, is a vain chimera, introduced by those heathens who had not just notions of the omnipresence and infinite perfection of god. but, it is more unaccountable that it should be received among christians, professing belief in the holy scriptures, which constantly ascribe those effects to the immediate hand of god that heathen philosophers are wont to impute to nature. "the lord he causeth the vapours to ascend; he maketh lightnings with rain; he bringeth forth the wind out of his treasures." jerem. . . "he turneth the shadow of death into the morning, and maketh the day dark with night." amos, . . "he visiteth the earth, and maketh it soft with showers: he blesseth the springing thereof, and crowneth the year with his goodness; so that the pastures are clothed with flocks, and the valleys are covered over with corn." see psalm . but, notwithstanding that this is the constant language of scripture, yet we have i know not what aversion from believing that god concerns himself so nearly in our affairs. fain would we suppose him at a great distance off, and substitute some blind unthinking deputy in his stead, though (if we may believe saint paul) "he be not far from every one of us." . objection to the hand of god being the immediate cause, threefold.--answer.--it will, i doubt not, be objected that the slow and gradual methods observed in the production of natural things do not seem to have for their cause the immediate hand of an almighty agent. besides, monsters, untimely births, fruits blasted in the blossom, rains falling in desert places, miseries incident to human life, and the like, are so many arguments that the whole frame of nature is not immediately actuated and superintended by a spirit of infinite wisdom and goodness. but the answer to this objection is in a good measure plain from sect. ; it being visible that the aforesaid methods of nature are absolutely necessary, in order to working by the most simple and general rules, and after a steady and consistent manner; which argues both the wisdom and goodness of god. such is the artificial contrivance of this mighty machine of nature that, whilst its motions and various phenomena strike on our senses, the hand which actuates the whole is itself unperceivable to men of flesh and blood. "verily" (saith the prophet) "thou art a god that hidest thyself." isaiah, . . but, though the lord conceal himself from the eyes of the sensual and lazy, who will not be at the least expense of thought, yet to an unbiased and attentive mind nothing can be more plainly legible than the intimate presence of an all-wise spirit, who fashions, regulates and sustains the whole system of beings. it is clear, from what we have elsewhere observed, that the operating according to general and stated laws is so necessary for our guidance in the affairs of life, and letting us into the secret of nature, that without it all reach and compass of thought, all human sagacity and design, could serve to no manner of purpose; it were even impossible there should be any such faculties or powers in the mind. see sect. . which one consideration abundantly outbalances whatever particular inconveniences may thence arise. . we should further consider that the very blemishes and defects of nature are not without their use, in that they make an agreeable sort of variety, and augment the beauty of the rest of the creation, as shades in a picture serve to set off the brighter and more enlightened parts. we would likewise do well to examine whether our taxing the waste of seeds and embryos, and accidental destruction of plants and animals, before they come to full maturity, as an imprudence in the author of nature, be not the effect of prejudice contracted by our familiarity with impotent and saving mortals. in man indeed a thrifty management of those things which he cannot procure without much pains and industry may be esteemed wisdom. but, we must not imagine that the inexplicably fine machine of an animal or vegetable costs the great creator any more pains or trouble in its production than a pebble does; nothing being more evident than that an omnipotent spirit can indifferently produce everything by a mere fiat or act of his will. hence, it is plain that the splendid profusion of natural things should not be interpreted weakness or prodigality in the agent who produces them, but rather be looked on as an argument of the riches of his power. . as for the mixture of pain or uneasiness which is in the world, pursuant to the general laws of nature, and the actions of finite, imperfect spirits, this, in the state we are in at present, is indispensably necessary to our well-being. but our prospects are too narrow. we take, for instance, the idea of some one particular pain into our thoughts, and account it evil; whereas, if we enlarge our view, so as to comprehend the various ends, connexions, and dependencies of things, on what occasions and in what proportions we are affected with pain and pleasure, the nature of human freedom, and the design with which we are put into the world; we shall be forced to acknowledge that those particular things which, considered in themselves, appear to be evil, have the nature of good, when considered as linked with the whole system of beings. . atheism and manicheism would have few supporters if mankind were in general attentive.--from what has been said, it will be manifest to any considering person, that it is merely for want of attention and comprehensiveness of mind that there are any favourers of atheism or the manichean heresy to be found. little and unreflecting souls may indeed burlesque the works of providence, the beauty and order whereof they have not capacity, or will not be at the pains, to comprehend; but those who are masters of any justness and extent of thought, and are withal used to reflect, can never sufficiently admire the divine traces of wisdom and goodness that shine throughout the economy of nature. but what truth is there which shineth so strongly on the mind that by an aversion of thought, a wilful shutting of the eyes, we may not escape seeing it? is it therefore to be wondered at, if the generality of men, who are ever intent on business or pleasure, and little used to fix or open the eye of their mind, should not have all that conviction and evidence of the being of god which might be expected in reasonable creatures? . we should rather wonder that men can be found so stupid as to neglect, than that neglecting they should be unconvinced of such an evident and momentous truth. and yet it is to be feared that too many of parts and leisure, who live in christian countries, are, merely through a supine and dreadful negligence, sunk into atheism. since it is downright impossible that a soul pierced and enlightened with a thorough sense of the omnipresence, holiness, and justice of that almighty spirit should persist in a remorseless violation of his laws. we ought, therefore, earnestly to meditate and dwell on those important points; that so we may attain conviction without all scruple "that the eyes of the lord are in every place beholding the evil and the good; that he is with us and keepeth us in all places whither we go, and giveth us bread to eat and raiment to put on"; that he is present and conscious to our innermost thoughts; and that we have a most absolute and immediate dependence on him. a clear view of which great truths cannot choose but fill our hearts with an awful circumspection and holy fear, which is the strongest incentive to virtue, and the best guard against vice. . for, after all, what deserves the first place in our studies is the consideration of god and our duty; which to promote, as it was the main drift and design of my labours, so shall i esteem them altogether useless and ineffectual if, by what i have said, i cannot inspire my readers with a pious sense of the presence of god; and, having shown the falseness or vanity of those barren speculations which make the chief employment of learned men, the better dispose them to reverence and embrace the salutary truths of the gospel, which to know and to practice is the highest perfection of human nature. the analysis of mind by bertrand russell muirhead library of philosophy an admirable statement of the aims of the library of philosophy was provided by the first editor, the late professor j. h. muirhead, in his description of the original programme printed in erdmann's history of philosophy under the date . this was slightly modified in subsequent volumes to take the form of the following statement: "the muirhead library of philosophy was designed as a contribution to the history of modern philosophy under the heads: first of different schools of thought--sensationalist, realist, idealist, intuitivist; secondly of different subjects--psychology, ethics, aesthetics, political philosophy, theology. while much had been done in england in tracing the course of evolution in nature, history, economics, morals and religion, little had been done in tracing the development of thought on these subjects. yet 'the evolution of opinion is part of the whole evolution'. "by the co-operation of different writers in carrying out this plan it was hoped that a thoroughness and completeness of treatment, otherwise unattainable, might be secured. it was believed also that from writers mainly british and american fuller consideration of english philosophy than it had hitherto received might be looked for. in the earlier series of books containing, among others, bosanquet's "history of aesthetic," pfleiderer's "rational theology since kant," albee's "history of english utilitarianism," bonar's "philosophy and political economy," brett's "history of psychology," ritchie's "natural rights," these objects were to a large extent effected. "in the meantime original work of a high order was being produced both in england and america by such writers as bradley, stout, bertrand russell, baldwin, urban, montague, and others, and a new interest in foreign works, german, french and italian, which had either become classical or were attracting public attention, had developed. the scope of the library thus became extended into something more international, and it is entering on the fifth decade of its existence in the hope that it may contribute to that mutual understanding between countries which is so pressing a need of the present time." the need which professor muirhead stressed is no less pressing to-day, and few will deny that philosophy has much to do with enabling us to meet it, although no one, least of all muirhead himself, would regard that as the sole, or even the main, object of philosophy. as professor muirhead continues to lend the distinction of his name to the library of philosophy it seemed not inappropriate to allow him to recall us to these aims in his own words. the emphasis on the history of thought also seemed to me very timely; and the number of important works promised for the library in the very near future augur well for the continued fulfilment, in this and other ways, of the expectations of the original editor. h. d. lewis preface this book has grown out of an attempt to harmonize two different tendencies, one in psychology, the other in physics, with both of which i find myself in sympathy, although at first sight they might seem inconsistent. on the one hand, many psychologists, especially those of the behaviourist school, tend to adopt what is essentially a materialistic position, as a matter of method if not of metaphysics. they make psychology increasingly dependent on physiology and external observation, and tend to think of matter as something much more solid and indubitable than mind. meanwhile the physicists, especially einstein and other exponents of the theory of relativity, have been making "matter" less and less material. their world consists of "events," from which "matter" is derived by a logical construction. whoever reads, for example, professor eddington's "space, time and gravitation" (cambridge university press, ), will see that an old-fashioned materialism can receive no support from modern physics. i think that what has permanent value in the outlook of the behaviourists is the feeling that physics is the most fundamental science at present in existence. but this position cannot be called materialistic, if, as seems to be the case, physics does not assume the existence of matter. the view that seems to me to reconcile the materialistic tendency of psychology with the anti-materialistic tendency of physics is the view of william james and the american new realists, according to which the "stuff" of the world is neither mental nor material, but a "neutral stuff," out of which both are constructed. i have endeavoured in this work to develop this view in some detail as regards the phenomena with which psychology is concerned. my thanks are due to professor john b. watson and to dr. t. p. nunn for reading my mss. at an early stage and helping me with many valuable suggestions; also to mr. a. wohlgemuth for much very useful information as regards important literature. i have also to acknowledge the help of the editor of this library of philosophy, professor muirhead, for several suggestions by which i have profited. the work has been given in the form of lectures both in london and peking, and one lecture, that on desire, has been published in the athenaeum. there are a few allusions to china in this book, all of which were written before i had been in china, and are not intended to be taken by the reader as geographically accurate. i have used "china" merely as a synonym for "a distant country," when i wanted illustrations of unfamiliar things. peking, january . contents i. recent criticisms of "consciousness" ii. instinct and habit iii. desire and feeling iv. influence of past history on present occurrences in living organisms v. psychological and physical causal laws vi. introspection vii. the definition of perception viii.sensations and images ix. memory x. words and meaning xi. general ideas and thought xii. belief xiii.truth and falsehood xiv. emotions and will xv. characteristics of mental phenomena the analysis of mind lecture i. recent criticisms of "consciousness" there are certain occurrences which we are in the habit of calling "mental." among these we may take as typical believing and desiring. the exact definition of the word "mental" will, i hope, emerge as the lectures proceed; for the present, i shall mean by it whatever occurrences would commonly be called mental. i wish in these lectures to analyse as fully as i can what it is that really takes place when we, e.g. believe or desire. in this first lecture i shall be concerned to refute a theory which is widely held, and which i formerly held myself: the theory that the essence of everything mental is a certain quite peculiar something called "consciousness," conceived either as a relation to objects, or as a pervading quality of psychical phenomena. the reasons which i shall give against this theory will be mainly derived from previous authors. there are two sorts of reasons, which will divide my lecture into two parts: ( ) direct reasons, derived from analysis and its difficulties; ( ) indirect reasons, derived from observation of animals (comparative psychology) and of the insane and hysterical (psycho-analysis). few things are more firmly established in popular philosophy than the distinction between mind and matter. those who are not professional metaphysicians are willing to confess that they do not know what mind actually is, or how matter is constituted; but they remain convinced that there is an impassable gulf between the two, and that both belong to what actually exists in the world. philosophers, on the other hand, have maintained often that matter is a mere fiction imagined by mind, and sometimes that mind is a mere property of a certain kind of matter. those who maintain that mind is the reality and matter an evil dream are called "idealists"--a word which has a different meaning in philosophy from that which it bears in ordinary life. those who argue that matter is the reality and mind a mere property of protoplasm are called "materialists." they have been rare among philosophers, but common, at certain periods, among men of science. idealists, materialists, and ordinary mortals have been in agreement on one point: that they knew sufficiently what they meant by the words "mind" and "matter" to be able to conduct their debate intelligently. yet it was just in this point, as to which they were at one, that they seem to me to have been all alike in error. the stuff of which the world of our experience is composed is, in my belief, neither mind nor matter, but something more primitive than either. both mind and matter seem to be composite, and the stuff of which they are compounded lies in a sense between the two, in a sense above them both, like a common ancestor. as regards matter, i have set forth my reasons for this view on former occasions,* and i shall not now repeat them. but the question of mind is more difficult, and it is this question that i propose to discuss in these lectures. a great deal of what i shall have to say is not original; indeed, much recent work, in various fields, has tended to show the necessity of such theories as those which i shall be advocating. accordingly in this first lecture i shall try to give a brief description of the systems of ideas within which our investigation is to be carried on. * "our knowledge of the external world" (allen & unwin), chapters iii and iv. also "mysticism and logic," essays vii and viii. if there is one thing that may be said, in the popular estimation, to characterize mind, that one thing is "consciousness." we say that we are "conscious" of what we see and hear, of what we remember, and of our own thoughts and feelings. most of us believe that tables and chairs are not "conscious." we think that when we sit in a chair, we are aware of sitting in it, but it is not aware of being sat in. it cannot for a moment be doubted that we are right in believing that there is some difference between us and the chair in this respect: so much may be taken as fact, and as a datum for our inquiry. but as soon as we try to say what exactly the difference is, we become involved in perplexities. is "consciousness" ultimate and simple, something to be merely accepted and contemplated? or is it something complex, perhaps consisting in our way of behaving in the presence of objects, or, alternatively, in the existence in us of things called "ideas," having a certain relation to objects, though different from them, and only symbolically representative of them? such questions are not easy to answer; but until they are answered we cannot profess to know what we mean by saying that we are possessed of "consciousness." before considering modern theories, let us look first at consciousness from the standpoint of conventional psychology, since this embodies views which naturally occur when we begin to reflect upon the subject. for this purpose, let us as a preliminary consider different ways of being conscious. first, there is the way of perception. we "perceive" tables and chairs, horses and dogs, our friends, traffic passing in the street--in short, anything which we recognize through the senses. i leave on one side for the present the question whether pure sensation is to be regarded as a form of consciousness: what i am speaking of now is perception, where, according to conventional psychology, we go beyond the sensation to the "thing" which it represents. when you hear a donkey bray, you not only hear a noise, but realize that it comes from a donkey. when you see a table, you not only see a coloured surface, but realize that it is hard. the addition of these elements that go beyond crude sensation is said to constitute perception. we shall have more to say about this at a later stage. for the moment, i am merely concerned to note that perception of objects is one of the most obvious examples of what is called "consciousness." we are "conscious" of anything that we perceive. we may take next the way of memory. if i set to work to recall what i did this morning, that is a form of consciousness different from perception, since it is concerned with the past. there are various problems as to how we can be conscious now of what no longer exists. these will be dealt with incidentally when we come to the analysis of memory. from memory it is an easy step to what are called "ideas"--not in the platonic sense, but in that of locke, berkeley and hume, in which they are opposed to "impressions." you may be conscious of a friend either by seeing him or by "thinking" of him; and by "thought" you can be conscious of objects which cannot be seen, such as the human race, or physiology. "thought" in the narrower sense is that form of consciousness which consists in "ideas" as opposed to impressions or mere memories. we may end our preliminary catalogue with belief, by which i mean that way of being conscious which may be either true or false. we say that a man is "conscious of looking a fool," by which we mean that he believes he looks a fool, and is not mistaken in this belief. this is a different form of consciousness from any of the earlier ones. it is the form which gives "knowledge" in the strict sense, and also error. it is, at least apparently, more complex than our previous forms of consciousness; though we shall find that they are not so separable from it as they might appear to be. besides ways of being conscious there are other things that would ordinarily be called "mental," such as desire and pleasure and pain. these raise problems of their own, which we shall reach in lecture iii. but the hardest problems are those that arise concerning ways of being "conscious." these ways, taken together, are called the "cognitive" elements in mind, and it is these that will occupy us most during the following lectures. there is one element which seems obviously in common among the different ways of being conscious, and that is, that they are all directed to objects. we are conscious "of" something. the consciousness, it seems, is one thing, and that of which we are conscious is another thing. unless we are to acquiesce in the view that we can never be conscious of anything outside our own minds, we must say that the object of consciousness need not be mental, though the consciousness must be. (i am speaking within the circle of conventional doctrines, not expressing my own beliefs.) this direction towards an object is commonly regarded as typical of every form of cognition, and sometimes of mental life altogether. we may distinguish two different tendencies in traditional psychology. there are those who take mental phenomena naively, just as they would physical phenomena. this school of psychologists tends not to emphasize the object. on the other hand, there are those whose primary interest is in the apparent fact that we have knowledge, that there is a world surrounding us of which we are aware. these men are interested in the mind because of its relation to the world, because knowledge, if it is a fact, is a very mysterious one. their interest in psychology is naturally centred in the relation of consciousness to its object, a problem which, properly, belongs rather to theory of knowledge. we may take as one of the best and most typical representatives of this school the austrian psychologist brentano, whose "psychology from the empirical standpoint,"* though published in , is still influential and was the starting-point of a great deal of interesting work. he says (p. ): * "psychologie vom empirischen standpunkte," vol. i, . (the second volume was never published.) "every psychical phenomenon is characterized by what the scholastics of the middle ages called the intentional (also the mental) inexistence of an object, and what we, although with not quite unambiguous expressions, would call relation to a content, direction towards an object (which is not here to be understood as a reality), or immanent objectivity. each contains something in itself as an object, though not each in the same way. in presentation something is presented, in judgment something is acknowledged or rejected, in love something is loved, in hatred hated, in desire desired, and so on. "this intentional inexistence is exclusively peculiar to psychical phenomena. no physical phenomenon shows anything similar. and so we can define psychical phenomena by saying that they are phenomena which intentionally contain an object in themselves." the view here expressed, that relation to an object is an ultimate irreducible characteristic of mental phenomena, is one which i shall be concerned to combat. like brentano, i am interested in psychology, not so much for its own sake, as for the light that it may throw on the problem of knowledge. until very lately i believed, as he did, that mental phenomena have essential reference to objects, except possibly in the case of pleasure and pain. now i no longer believe this, even in the case of knowledge. i shall try to make my reasons for this rejection clear as we proceed. it must be evident at first glance that the analysis of knowledge is rendered more difficult by the rejection; but the apparent simplicity of brentano's view of knowledge will be found, if i am not mistaken, incapable of maintaining itself either against an analytic scrutiny or against a host of facts in psycho-analysis and animal psychology. i do not wish to minimize the problems. i will merely observe, in mitigation of our prospective labours, that thinking, however it is to be analysed, is in itself a delightful occupation, and that there is no enemy to thinking so deadly as a false simplicity. travelling, whether in the mental or the physical world, is a joy, and it is good to know that, in the mental world at least, there are vast countries still very imperfectly explored. the view expressed by brentano has been held very generally, and developed by many writers. among these we may take as an example his austrian successor meinong.* according to him there are three elements involved in the thought of an object. these three he calls the act, the content and the object. the act is the same in any two cases of the same kind of consciousness; for instance, if i think of smith or think of brown, the act of thinking, in itself, is exactly similar on both occasions. but the content of my thought, the particular event that is happening in my mind, is different when i think of smith and when i think of brown. the content, meinong argues, must not be confounded with the object, since the content must exist in my mind at the moment when i have the thought, whereas the object need not do so. the object may be something past or future; it may be physical, not mental; it may be something abstract, like equality for example; it may be something imaginary, like a golden mountain; or it may even be something self-contradictory, like a round square. but in all these cases, so he contends, the content exists when the thought exists, and is what distinguishes it, as an occurrence, from other thoughts. * see, e.g. his article: "ueber gegenstande hoherer ordnung und deren verhaltniss zur inneren wahrnehmung," "zeitschrift fur psychologie and physiologie der sinnesorgane," vol. xxi, pp. - ( ), especially pp. - . to make this theory concrete, let us suppose that you are thinking of st. paul's. then, according to meinong, we have to distinguish three elements which are necessarily combined in constituting the one thought. first, there is the act of thinking, which would be just the same whatever you were thinking about. then there is what makes the character of the thought as contrasted with other thoughts; this is the content. and finally there is st. paul's, which is the object of your thought. there must be a difference between the content of a thought and what it is about, since the thought is here and now, whereas what it is about may not be; hence it is clear that the thought is not identical with st. paul's. this seems to show that we must distinguish between content and object. but if meinong is right, there can be no thought without an object: the connection of the two is essential. the object might exist without the thought, but not the thought without the object: the three elements of act, content and object are all required to constitute the one single occurrence called "thinking of st. paul's." the above analysis of a thought, though i believe it to be mistaken, is very useful as affording a schema in terms of which other theories can be stated. in the remainder of the present lecture i shall state in outline the view which i advocate, and show how various other views out of which mine has grown result from modifications of the threefold analysis into act, content and object. the first criticism i have to make is that the act seems unnecessary and fictitious. the occurrence of the content of a thought constitutes the occurrence of the thought. empirically, i cannot discover anything corresponding to the supposed act; and theoretically i cannot see that it is indispensable. we say: "_i_ think so-and-so," and this word "i" suggests that thinking is the act of a person. meinong's "act" is the ghost of the subject, or what once was the full-blooded soul. it is supposed that thoughts cannot just come and go, but need a person to think them. now, of course it is true that thoughts can be collected into bundles, so that one bundle is my thoughts, another is your thoughts, and a third is the thoughts of mr. jones. but i think the person is not an ingredient in the single thought: he is rather constituted by relations of the thoughts to each other and to the body. this is a large question, which need not, in its entirety, concern us at present. all that i am concerned with for the moment is that the grammatical forms "i think," "you think," and "mr. jones thinks," are misleading if regarded as indicating an analysis of a single thought. it would be better to say "it thinks in me," like "it rains here"; or better still, "there is a thought in me." this is simply on the ground that what meinong calls the act in thinking is not empirically discoverable, or logically deducible from what we can observe. the next point of criticism concerns the relation of content and object. the reference of thoughts to objects is not, i believe, the simple direct essential thing that brentano and meinong represent it as being. it seems to me to be derivative, and to consist largely in beliefs: beliefs that what constitutes the thought is connected with various other elements which together make up the object. you have, say, an image of st. paul's, or merely the word "st. paul's" in your head. you believe, however vaguely and dimly, that this is connected with what you would see if you went to st. paul's, or what you would feel if you touched its walls; it is further connected with what other people see and feel, with services and the dean and chapter and sir christopher wren. these things are not mere thoughts of yours, but your thought stands in a relation to them of which you are more or less aware. the awareness of this relation is a further thought, and constitutes your feeling that the original thought had an "object." but in pure imagination you can get very similar thoughts without these accompanying beliefs; and in this case your thoughts do not have objects or seem to have them. thus in such instances you have content without object. on the other hand, in seeing or hearing it would be less misleading to say that you have object without content, since what you see or hear is actually part of the physical world, though not matter in the sense of physics. thus the whole question of the relation of mental occurrences to objects grows very complicated, and cannot be settled by regarding reference to objects as of the essence of thoughts. all the above remarks are merely preliminary, and will be expanded later. speaking in popular and unphilosophical terms, we may say that the content of a thought is supposed to be something in your head when you think the thought, while the object is usually something in the outer world. it is held that knowledge of the outer world is constituted by the relation to the object, while the fact that knowledge is different from what it knows is due to the fact that knowledge comes by way of contents. we can begin to state the difference between realism and idealism in terms of this opposition of contents and objects. speaking quite roughly and approximately, we may say that idealism tends to suppress the object, while realism tends to suppress the content. idealism, accordingly, says that nothing can be known except thoughts, and all the reality that we know is mental; while realism maintains that we know objects directly, in sensation certainly, and perhaps also in memory and thought. idealism does not say that nothing can be known beyond the present thought, but it maintains that the context of vague belief, which we spoke of in connection with the thought of st. paul's, only takes you to other thoughts, never to anything radically different from thoughts. the difficulty of this view is in regard to sensation, where it seems as if we came into direct contact with the outer world. but the berkeleian way of meeting this difficulty is so familiar that i need not enlarge upon it now. i shall return to it in a later lecture, and will only observe, for the present, that there seem to me no valid grounds for regarding what we see and hear as not part of the physical world. realists, on the other hand, as a rule, suppress the content, and maintain that a thought consists either of act and object alone, or of object alone. i have been in the past a realist, and i remain a realist as regards sensation, but not as regards memory or thought. i will try to explain what seem to me to be the reasons for and against various kinds of realism. modern idealism professes to be by no means confined to the present thought or the present thinker in regard to its knowledge; indeed, it contends that the world is so organic, so dove-tailed, that from any one portion the whole can be inferred, as the complete skeleton of an extinct animal can be inferred from one bone. but the logic by which this supposed organic nature of the world is nominally demonstrated appears to realists, as it does to me, to be faulty. they argue that, if we cannot know the physical world directly, we cannot really know any thing outside our own minds: the rest of the world may be merely our dream. this is a dreary view, and they there fore seek ways of escaping from it. accordingly they maintain that in knowledge we are in direct contact with objects, which may be, and usually are, outside our own minds. no doubt they are prompted to this view, in the first place, by bias, namely, by the desire to think that they can know of the existence of a world outside themselves. but we have to consider, not what led them to desire the view, but whether their arguments for it are valid. there are two different kinds of realism, according as we make a thought consist of act and object, or of object alone. their difficulties are different, but neither seems tenable all through. take, for the sake of definiteness, the remembering of a past event. the remembering occurs now, and is therefore necessarily not identical with the past event. so long as we retain the act, this need cause no difficulty. the act of remembering occurs now, and has on this view a certain essential relation to the past event which it remembers. there is no logical objection to this theory, but there is the objection, which we spoke of earlier, that the act seems mythical, and is not to be found by observation. if, on the other hand, we try to constitute memory without the act, we are driven to a content, since we must have something that happens now, as opposed to the event which happened in the past. thus, when we reject the act, which i think we must, we are driven to a theory of memory which is more akin to idealism. these arguments, however, do not apply to sensation. it is especially sensation, i think, which is considered by those realists who retain only the object.* their views, which are chiefly held in america, are in large measure derived from william james, and before going further it will be well to consider the revolutionary doctrine which he advocated. i believe this doctrine contains important new truth, and what i shall have to say will be in a considerable measure inspired by it. * this is explicitly the case with mach's "analysis of sensations," a book of fundamental importance in the present connection. (translation of fifth german edition, open court co., . first german edition, .) william james's view was first set forth in an essay called "does 'consciousness' exist?"* in this essay he explains how what used to be the soul has gradually been refined down to the "transcendental ego," which, he says, "attenuates itself to a thoroughly ghostly condition, being only a name for the fact that the 'content' of experience is known. it loses personal form and activity--these passing over to the content--and becomes a bare bewusstheit or bewusstsein uberhaupt, of which in its own right absolutely nothing can be said. i believe (he continues) that 'consciousness,' when once it has evaporated to this estate of pure diaphaneity, is on the point of disappearing altogether. it is the name of a nonentity, and has no right to a place among first principles. those who still cling to it are clinging to a mere echo, the faint rumour left behind by the disappearing 'soul' upon the air of philosophy"(p. ). * "journal of philosophy, psychology and scientific methods," vol. i, . reprinted in "essays in radical empiricism" (longmans, green & co., ), pp. - , to which references in what follows refer. he explains that this is no sudden change in his opinions. "for twenty years past," he says, "i have mistrusted 'consciousness' as an entity; for seven or eight years past i have suggested its non-existence to my students, and tried to give them its pragmatic equivalent in realities of experience. it seems to me that the hour is ripe for it to be openly and universally discarded"(p. ). his next concern is to explain away the air of paradox, for james was never wilfully paradoxical. "undeniably," he says, "'thoughts' do exist." "i mean only to deny that the word stands for an entity, but to insist most emphatically that it does stand for a function. there is, i mean, no aboriginal stuff or quality of being, contrasted with that of which material objects are made, out of which our thoughts of them are made; but there is a function in experience which thoughts perform, and for the performance of which this quality of being is invoked. that function is knowing"(pp. - ). james's view is that the raw material out of which the world is built up is not of two sorts, one matter and the other mind, but that it is arranged in different patterns by its inter-relations, and that some arrangements may be called mental, while others may be called physical. "my thesis is," he says, "that if we start with the supposition that there is only one primal stuff or material in the world, a stuff of which everything is composed, and if we call that stuff 'pure experience,' then knowing can easily be explained as a particular sort of relation towards one another into which portions of pure experience may enter. the relation itself is a part of pure experience; one of its 'terms' becomes the subject or bearer of the knowledge, the knower, the other becomes the object known"(p. ). after mentioning the duality of subject and object, which is supposed to constitute consciousness, he proceeds in italics: "experience, i believe, has no such inner duplicity; and the separation of it into consciousness and content comes, not by way of subtraction, but by way of addition"(p. ). he illustrates his meaning by the analogy of paint as it appears in a paint-shop and as it appears in a picture: in the one case it is just "saleable matter," while in the other it "performs a spiritual function. just so, i maintain (he continues), does a given undivided portion of experience, taken in one context of associates, play the part of a knower, of a state of mind, of 'consciousness'; while in a different context the same undivided bit of experience plays the part of a thing known, of an objective 'content.' in a word, in one group it figures as a thought, in another group as a thing"(pp. - ). he does not believe in the supposed immediate certainty of thought. "let the case be what it may in others," he says, "i am as confident as i am of anything that, in myself, the stream of thinking (which i recognize emphatically as a phenomenon) is only a careless name for what, when scrutinized, reveals itself to consist chiefly of the stream of my breathing. the 'i think' which kant said must be able to accompany all my objects, is the 'i breathe' which actually does accompany them"(pp. - ). the same view of "consciousness" is set forth in the succeeding essay, "a world of pure experience" (ib., pp. - ). the use of the phrase "pure experience" in both essays points to a lingering influence of idealism. "experience," like "consciousness," must be a product, not part of the primary stuff of the world. it must be possible, if james is right in his main contentions, that roughly the same stuff, differently arranged, would not give rise to anything that could be called "experience." this word has been dropped by the american realists, among whom we may mention specially professor r. b. perry of harvard and mr. edwin b. holt. the interests of this school are in general philosophy and the philosophy of the sciences, rather than in psychology; they have derived a strong impulsion from james, but have more interest than he had in logic and mathematics and the abstract part of philosophy. they speak of "neutral" entities as the stuff out of which both mind and matter are constructed. thus holt says: "if the terms and propositions of logic must be substantialized, they are all strictly of one substance, for which perhaps the least dangerous name is neutral-stuff. the relation of neutral-stuff to matter and mind we shall have presently to consider at considerable length." * * "the concept of consciousness" (geo. allen & co., ), p. . my own belief--for which the reasons will appear in subsequent lectures--is that james is right in rejecting consciousness as an entity, and that the american realists are partly right, though not wholly, in considering that both mind and matter are composed of a neutral-stuff which, in isolation, is neither mental nor material. i should admit this view as regards sensations: what is heard or seen belongs equally to psychology and to physics. but i should say that images belong only to the mental world, while those occurrences (if any) which do not form part of any "experience" belong only to the physical world. there are, it seems to me, prima facie different kinds of causal laws, one belonging to physics and the other to psychology. the law of gravitation, for example, is a physical law, while the law of association is a psychological law. sensations are subject to both kinds of laws, and are therefore truly "neutral" in holt's sense. but entities subject only to physical laws, or only to psychological laws, are not neutral, and may be called respectively purely material and purely mental. even those, however, which are purely mental will not have that intrinsic reference to objects which brentano assigns to them and which constitutes the essence of "consciousness" as ordinarily understood. but it is now time to pass on to other modern tendencies, also hostile to "consciousness." there is a psychological school called "behaviourists," of whom the protagonist is professor john b. watson,* formerly of the johns hopkins university. to them also, on the whole, belongs professor john dewey, who, with james and dr. schiller, was one of the three founders of pragmatism. the view of the "behaviourists" is that nothing can be known except by external observation. they deny altogether that there is a separate source of knowledge called "introspection," by which we can know things about ourselves which we could never observe in others. they do not by any means deny that all sorts of things may go on in our minds: they only say that such things, if they occur, are not susceptible of scientific observation, and do not therefore concern psychology as a science. psychology as a science, they say, is only concerned with behaviour, i.e. with what we do; this alone, they contend, can be accurately observed. whether we think meanwhile, they tell us, cannot be known; in their observation of the behaviour of human beings, they have not so far found any evidence of thought. true, we talk a great deal, and imagine that in so doing we are showing that we can think; but behaviourists say that the talk they have to listen to can be explained without supposing that people think. where you might expect a chapter on "thought processes" you come instead upon a chapter on "the language habit." it is humiliating to find how terribly adequate this hypothesis turns out to be. * see especially his "behavior: an introduction to comparative psychology," new york, . behaviourism has not, however, sprung from observing the folly of men. it is the wisdom of animals that has suggested the view. it has always been a common topic of popular discussion whether animals "think." on this topic people are prepared to take sides without having the vaguest idea what they mean by "thinking." those who desired to investigate such questions were led to observe the behaviour of animals, in the hope that their behaviour would throw some light on their mental faculties. at first sight, it might seem that this is so. people say that a dog "knows" its name because it comes when it is called, and that it "remembers" its master, because it looks sad in his absence, but wags its tail and barks when he returns. that the dog behaves in this way is matter of observation, but that it "knows" or "remembers" anything is an inference, and in fact a very doubtful one. the more such inferences are examined, the more precarious they are seen to be. hence the study of animal behaviour has been gradually led to abandon all attempt at mental interpretation. and it can hardly be doubted that, in many cases of complicated behaviour very well adapted to its ends, there can be no prevision of those ends. the first time a bird builds a nest, we can hardly suppose it knows that there will be eggs to be laid in it, or that it will sit on the eggs, or that they will hatch into young birds. it does what it does at each stage because instinct gives it an impulse to do just that, not because it foresees and desires the result of its actions.* * an interesting discussion of the question whether instinctive actions, when first performed, involve any prevision, however vague, will be found in lloyd morgan's "instinct and experience" (methuen, ), chap. ii. careful observers of animals, being anxious to avoid precarious inferences, have gradually discovered more and more how to give an account of the actions of animals without assuming what we call "consciousness." it has seemed to the behaviourists that similar methods can be applied to human behaviour, without assuming anything not open to external observation. let us give a crude illustration, too crude for the authors in question, but capable of affording a rough insight into their meaning. suppose two children in a school, both of whom are asked "what is six times nine?" one says fifty-four, the other says fifty-six. the one, we say, "knows" what six times nine is, the other does not. but all that we can observe is a certain language-habit. the one child has acquired the habit of saying "six times nine is fifty-four"; the other has not. there is no more need of "thought" in this than there is when a horse turns into his accustomed stable; there are merely more numerous and complicated habits. there is obviously an observable fact called "knowing" such-and-such a thing; examinations are experiments for discovering such facts. but all that is observed or discovered is a certain set of habits in the use of words. the thoughts (if any) in the mind of the examinee are of no interest to the examiner; nor has the examiner any reason to suppose even the most successful examinee capable of even the smallest amount of thought. thus what is called "knowing," in the sense in which we can ascertain what other people "know," is a phenomenon exemplified in their physical behaviour, including spoken and written words. there is no reason--so watson argues--to suppose that their knowledge is anything beyond the habits shown in this behaviour: the inference that other people have something nonphysical called "mind" or "thought" is therefore unwarranted. so far, there is nothing particularly repugnant to our prejudices in the conclusions of the behaviourists. we are all willing to admit that other people are thoughtless. but when it comes to ourselves, we feel convinced that we can actually perceive our own thinking. "cogito, ergo sum" would be regarded by most people as having a true premiss. this, however, the behaviourist denies. he maintains that our knowledge of ourselves is no different in kind from our knowledge of other people. we may see more, because our own body is easier to observe than that of other people; but we do not see anything radically unlike what we see of others. introspection, as a separate source of knowledge, is entirely denied by psychologists of this school. i shall discuss this question at length in a later lecture; for the present i will only observe that it is by no means simple, and that, though i believe the behaviourists somewhat overstate their case, yet there is an important element of truth in their contention, since the things which we can discover by introspection do not seem to differ in any very fundamental way from the things which we discover by external observation. so far, we have been principally concerned with knowing. but it might well be maintained that desiring is what is really most characteristic of mind. human beings are constantly engaged in achieving some end they feel pleasure in success and pain in failure. in a purely material world, it may be said, there would be no opposition of pleasant and unpleasant, good and bad, what is desired and what is feared. a man's acts are governed by purposes. he decides, let us suppose, to go to a certain place, whereupon he proceeds to the station, takes his ticket and enters the train. if the usual route is blocked by an accident, he goes by some other route. all that he does is determined--or so it seems--by the end he has in view, by what lies in front of him, rather than by what lies behind. with dead matter, this is not the case. a stone at the top of a hill may start rolling, but it shows no pertinacity in trying to get to the bottom. any ledge or obstacle will stop it, and it will exhibit no signs of discontent if this happens. it is not attracted by the pleasantness of the valley, as a sheep or cow might be, but propelled by the steepness of the hill at the place where it is. in all this we have characteristic differences between the behaviour of animals and the behaviour of matter as studied by physics. desire, like knowledge, is, of course, in one sense an observable phenomenon. an elephant will eat a bun, but not a mutton chop; a duck will go into the water, but a hen will not. but when we think of our own desires, most people believe that we can know them by an immediate self-knowledge which does not depend upon observation of our actions. yet if this were the case, it would be odd that people are so often mistaken as to what they desire. it is matter of common observation that "so-and-so does not know his own motives," or that "a is envious of b and malicious about him, but quite unconscious of being so." such people are called self-deceivers, and are supposed to have had to go through some more or less elaborate process of concealing from themselves what would otherwise have been obvious. i believe that this is an entire mistake. i believe that the discovery of our own motives can only be made by the same process by which we discover other people's, namely, the process of observing our actions and inferring the desire which could prompt them. a desire is "conscious" when we have told ourselves that we have it. a hungry man may say to himself: "oh, i do want my lunch." then his desire is "conscious." but it only differs from an "unconscious" desire by the presence of appropriate words, which is by no means a fundamental difference. the belief that a motive is normally conscious makes it easier to be mistaken as to our own motives than as to other people's. when some desire that we should be ashamed of is attributed to us, we notice that we have never had it consciously, in the sense of saying to ourselves, "i wish that would happen." we therefore look for some other interpretation of our actions, and regard our friends as very unjust when they refuse to be convinced by our repudiation of what we hold to be a calumny. moral considerations greatly increase the difficulty of clear thinking in this matter. it is commonly argued that people are not to blame for unconscious motives, but only for conscious ones. in order, therefore, to be wholly virtuous it is only necessary to repeat virtuous formulas. we say: "i desire to be kind to my friends, honourable in business, philanthropic towards the poor, public-spirited in politics." so long as we refuse to allow ourselves, even in the watches of the night, to avow any contrary desires, we may be bullies at home, shady in the city, skinflints in paying wages and profiteers in dealing with the public; yet, if only conscious motives are to count in moral valuation, we shall remain model characters. this is an agreeable doctrine, and it is not surprising that men are un willing to abandon it. but moral considerations are the worst enemies of the scientific spirit and we must dismiss them from our minds if we wish to arrive at truth. i believe--as i shall try to prove in a later lecture--that desire, like force in mechanics, is of the nature of a convenient fiction for describing shortly certain laws of behaviour. a hungry animal is restless until it finds food; then it becomes quiescent. the thing which will bring a restless condition to an end is said to be what is desired. but only experience can show what will have this sedative effect, and it is easy to make mistakes. we feel dissatisfaction, and think that such and-such a thing would remove it; but in thinking this, we are theorizing, not observing a patent fact. our theorizing is often mistaken, and when it is mistaken there is a difference between what we think we desire and what in fact will bring satisfaction. this is such a common phenomenon that any theory of desire which fails to account for it must be wrong. what have been called "unconscious" desires have been brought very much to the fore in recent years by psycho-analysis. psycho-analysis, as every one knows, is primarily a method of understanding hysteria and certain forms of insanity*; but it has been found that there is much in the lives of ordinary men and women which bears a humiliating resemblance to the delusions of the insane. the connection of dreams, irrational beliefs and foolish actions with unconscious wishes has been brought to light, though with some exaggeration, by freud and jung and their followers. as regards the nature of these unconscious wishes, it seems to me--though as a layman i speak with diffidence--that many psycho-analysts are unduly narrow; no doubt the wishes they emphasize exist, but others, e.g. for honour and power, are equally operative and equally liable to concealment. this, however, does not affect the value of their general theories from the point of view of theoretic psychology, and it is from this point of view that their results are important for the analysis of mind. * there is a wide field of "unconscious" phenomena which does not depend upon psycho-analytic theories. such occurrences as automatic writing lead dr. morton prince to say: "as i view this question of the subconscious, far too much weight is given to the point of awareness or not awareness of our conscious processes. as a matter of fact, we find entirely identical phenomena, that is, identical in every respect but one-that of awareness in which sometimes we are aware of these conscious phenomena and sometimes not"(p. of "subconscious phenomena," by various authors, rebman). dr. morton price conceives that there may be "consciousness" without "awareness." but this is a difficult view, and one which makes some definition of "consciousness" imperative. for nay part, i cannot see how to separate consciousness from awareness. what, i think, is clearly established, is that a man's actions and beliefs may be wholly dominated by a desire of which he is quite unconscious, and which he indignantly repudiates when it is suggested to him. such a desire is generally, in morbid cases, of a sort which the patient would consider wicked; if he had to admit that he had the desire, he would loathe himself. yet it is so strong that it must force an outlet for itself; hence it becomes necessary to entertain whole systems of false beliefs in order to hide the nature of what is desired. the resulting delusions in very many cases disappear if the hysteric or lunatic can be made to face the facts about himself. the consequence of this is that the treatment of many forms of insanity has grown more psychological and less physiological than it used to be. instead of looking for a physical defect in the brain, those who treat delusions look for the repressed desire which has found this contorted mode of expression. for those who do not wish to plunge into the somewhat repulsive and often rather wild theories of psychoanalytic pioneers, it will be worth while to read a little book by dr. bernard hart on "the psychology of insanity."* on this question of the mental as opposed to the physiological study of the causes of insanity, dr. hart says: * cambridge, ; nd edition, . the following references are to the second edition. "the psychological conception [of insanity] is based on the view that mental processes can be directly studied without any reference to the accompanying changes which are presumed to take place in the brain, and that insanity may therefore be properly attacked from the standpoint of psychology"(p. ). this illustrates a point which i am anxious to make clear from the outset. any attempt to classify modern views, such as i propose to advocate, from the old standpoint of materialism and idealism, is only misleading. in certain respects, the views which i shall be setting forth approximate to materialism; in certain others, they approximate to its opposite. on this question of the study of delusions, the practical effect of the modern theories, as dr. hart points out, is emancipation from the materialist method. on the other hand, as he also points out (pp. - ), imbecility and dementia still have to be considered physiologically, as caused by defects in the brain. there is no inconsistency in this if, as we maintain, mind and matter are neither of them the actual stuff of reality, but different convenient groupings of an underlying material, then, clearly, the question whether, in regard to a given phenomenon, we are to seek a physical or a mental cause, is merely one to be decided by trial. metaphysicians have argued endlessly as to the interaction of mind and matter. the followers of descartes held that mind and matter are so different as to make any action of the one on the other impossible. when i will to move my arm, they said, it is not my will that operates on my arm, but god, who, by his omnipotence, moves my arm whenever i want it moved. the modern doctrine of psychophysical parallelism is not appreciably different from this theory of the cartesian school. psycho-physical parallelism is the theory that mental and physical events each have causes in their own sphere, but run on side by side owing to the fact that every state of the brain coexists with a definite state of the mind, and vice versa. this view of the reciprocal causal independence of mind and matter has no basis except in metaphysical theory.* for us, there is no necessity to make any such assumption, which is very difficult to harmonize with obvious facts. i receive a letter inviting me to dinner: the letter is a physical fact, but my apprehension of its meaning is mental. here we have an effect of matter on mind. in consequence of my apprehension of the meaning of the letter, i go to the right place at the right time; here we have an effect of mind on matter. i shall try to persuade you, in the course of these lectures, that matter is not so material and mind not so mental as is generally supposed. when we are speaking of matter, it will seem as if we were inclining to idealism; when we are speaking of mind, it will seem as if we were inclining to materialism. neither is the truth. our world is to be constructed out of what the american realists call "neutral" entities, which have neither the hardness and indestructibility of matter, nor the reference to objects which is supposed to characterize mind. * it would seem, however, that dr. hart accepts this theory as methodological precept. see his contribution to "subconscious phenomena" (quoted above), especially pp. - . there is, it is true, one objection which might be felt, not indeed to the action of matter on mind, but to the action of mind on matter. the laws of physics, it may be urged, are apparently adequate to explain everything that happens to matter, even when it is matter in a man's brain. this, however, is only a hypothesis, not an established theory. there is no cogent empirical reason for supposing that the laws determining the motions of living bodies are exactly the same as those that apply to dead matter. sometimes, of course, they are clearly the same. when a man falls from a precipice or slips on a piece of orange peel, his body behaves as if it were devoid of life. these are the occasions that make bergson laugh. but when a man's bodily movements are what we call "voluntary," they are, at any rate prima facie, very different in their laws from the movements of what is devoid of life. i do not wish to say dogmatically that the difference is irreducible; i think it highly probable that it is not. i say only that the study of the behaviour of living bodies, in the present state of our knowledge, is distinct from physics. the study of gases was originally quite distinct from that of rigid bodies, and would never have advanced to its present state if it had not been independently pursued. nowadays both the gas and the rigid body are manufactured out of a more primitive and universal kind of matter. in like manner, as a question of methodology, the laws of living bodies are to be studied, in the first place, without any undue haste to subordinate them to the laws of physics. boyle's law and the rest had to be discovered before the kinetic theory of gases became possible. but in psychology we are hardly yet at the stage of boyle's law. meanwhile we need not be held up by the bogey of the universal rigid exactness of physics. this is, as yet, a mere hypothesis, to be tested empirically without any preconceptions. it may be true, or it may not. so far, that is all we can say. returning from this digression to our main topic, namely, the criticism of "consciousness," we observe that freud and his followers, though they have demonstrated beyond dispute the immense importance of "unconscious" desires in determining our actions and beliefs, have not attempted the task of telling us what an "unconscious" desire actually is, and have thus invested their doctrine with an air of mystery and mythology which forms a large part of its popular attractiveness. they speak always as though it were more normal for a desire to be conscious, and as though a positive cause had to be assigned for its being unconscious. thus "the unconscious" becomes a sort of underground prisoner, living in a dungeon, breaking in at long intervals upon our daylight respectability with dark groans and maledictions and strange atavistic lusts. the ordinary reader, almost inevitably, thinks of this underground person as another consciousness, prevented by what freud calls the "censor" from making his voice heard in company, except on rare and dreadful occasions when he shouts so loud that every one hears him and there is a scandal. most of us like the idea that we could be desperately wicked if only we let ourselves go. for this reason, the freudian "unconscious" has been a consolation to many quiet and well-behaved persons. i do not think the truth is quite so picturesque as this. i believe an "unconscious" desire is merely a causal law of our behaviour,* namely, that we remain restlessly active until a certain state of affairs is realized, when we achieve temporary equilibrium if we know beforehand what this state of affairs is, our desire is conscious; if not, unconscious. the unconscious desire is not something actually existing, but merely a tendency to a certain behaviour; it has exactly the same status as a force in dynamics. the unconscious desire is in no way mysterious; it is the natural primitive form of desire, from which the other has developed through our habit of observing and theorizing (often wrongly). it is not necessary to suppose, as freud seems to do, that every unconscious wish was once conscious, and was then, in his terminology, "repressed" because we disapproved of it. on the contrary, we shall suppose that, although freudian "repression" undoubtedly occurs and is important, it is not the usual reason for unconsciousness of our wishes. the usual reason is merely that wishes are all, to begin with, unconscious, and only become known when they are actively noticed. usually, from laziness, people do not notice, but accept the theory of human nature which they find current, and attribute to themselves whatever wishes this theory would lead them to expect. we used to be full of virtuous wishes, but since freud our wishes have become, in the words of the prophet jeremiah, "deceitful above all things and desperately wicked." both these views, in most of those who have held them, are the product of theory rather than observation, for observation requires effort, whereas repeating phrases does not. * cf. hart, "the psychology of insanity," p. . the interpretation of unconscious wishes which i have been advocating has been set forth briefly by professor john b. watson in an article called "the psychology of wish fulfilment," which appeared in "the scientific monthly" in november, . two quotations will serve to show his point of view: "the freudians (he says) have made more or less of a 'metaphysical entity' out of the censor. they suppose that when wishes are repressed they are repressed into the 'unconscious,' and that this mysterious censor stands at the trapdoor lying between the conscious and the unconscious. many of us do not believe in a world of the unconscious (a few of us even have grave doubts about the usefulness of the term consciousness), hence we try to explain censorship along ordinary biological lines. we believe that one group of habits can 'down' another group of habits--or instincts. in this case our ordinary system of habits--those which we call expressive of our 'real selves'--inhibit or quench (keep inactive or partially inactive) those habits and instinctive tendencies which belong largely in the past"(p. ). again, after speaking of the frustration of some impulses which is involved in acquiring the habits of a civilized adult, he continues: "it is among these frustrated impulses that i would find the biological basis of the unfulfilled wish. such 'wishes' need never have been 'conscious,' and need never have been suppressed into freud's realm of the unconscious. it may be inferred from this that there is no particular reason for applying the term 'wish' to such tendencies"(p. ). one of the merits of the general analysis of mind which we shall be concerned with in the following lectures is that it removes the atmosphere of mystery from the phenomena brought to light by the psycho-analysts. mystery is delightful, but unscientific, since it depends upon ignorance. man has developed out of the animals, and there is no serious gap between him and the amoeba. something closely analogous to knowledge and desire, as regards its effects on behaviour, exists among animals, even where what we call "consciousness" is hard to believe in; something equally analogous exists in ourselves in cases where no trace of "consciousness" can be found. it is therefore natural to suppose that, what ever may be the correct definition of "consciousness," "consciousness" is not the essence of life or mind. in the following lectures, accordingly, this term will disappear until we have dealt with words, when it will re-emerge as mainly a trivial and unimportant outcome of linguistic habits. lecture ii. instinct and habit in attempting to understand the elements out of which mental phenomena are compounded, it is of the greatest importance to remember that from the protozoa to man there is nowhere a very wide gap either in structure or in behaviour. from this fact it is a highly probable inference that there is also nowhere a very wide mental gap. it is, of course, possible that there may be, at certain stages in evolution, elements which are entirely new from the standpoint of analysis, though in their nascent form they have little influence on behaviour and no very marked correlatives in structure. but the hypothesis of continuity in mental development is clearly preferable if no psychological facts make it impossible. we shall find, if i am not mistaken, that there are no facts which refute the hypothesis of mental continuity, and that, on the other hand, this hypothesis affords a useful test of suggested theories as to the nature of mind. the hypothesis of mental continuity throughout organic evolution may be used in two different ways. on the one hand, it may be held that we have more knowledge of our own minds than those of animals, and that we should use this knowledge to infer the existence of something similar to our own mental processes in animals and even in plants. on the other hand, it may be held that animals and plants present simpler phenomena, more easily analysed than those of human minds; on this ground it may be urged that explanations which are adequate in the case of animals ought not to be lightly rejected in the case of man. the practical effects of these two views are diametrically opposite: the first leads us to level up animal intelligence with what we believe ourselves to know about our own intelligence, while the second leads us to attempt a levelling down of our own intelligence to something not too remote from what we can observe in animals. it is therefore important to consider the relative justification of the two ways of applying the principle of continuity. it is clear that the question turns upon another, namely, which can we know best, the psychology of animals or that of human beings? if we can know most about animals, we shall use this knowledge as a basis for inference about human beings; if we can know most about human beings, we shall adopt the opposite procedure. and the question whether we can know most about the psychology of human beings or about that of animals turns upon yet another, namely: is introspection or external observation the surer method in psychology? this is a question which i propose to discuss at length in lecture vi; i shall therefore content myself now with a statement of the conclusions to be arrived at. we know a great many things concerning ourselves which we cannot know nearly so directly concerning animals or even other people. we know when we have a toothache, what we are thinking of, what dreams we have when we are asleep, and a host of other occurrences which we only know about others when they tell us of them, or otherwise make them inferable by their behaviour. thus, so far as knowledge of detached facts is concerned, the advantage is on the side of self-knowledge as against external observation. but when we come to the analysis and scientific understanding of the facts, the advantages on the side of self-knowledge become far less clear. we know, for example, that we have desires and beliefs, but we do not know what constitutes a desire or a belief. the phenomena are so familiar that it is difficult to realize how little we really know about them. we see in animals, and to a lesser extent in plants, behaviour more or less similar to that which, in us, is prompted by desires and beliefs, and we find that, as we descend in the scale of evolution, behaviour becomes simpler, more easily reducible to rule, more scientifically analysable and predictable. and just because we are not misled by familiarity we find it easier to be cautious in interpreting behaviour when we are dealing with phenomena remote from those of our own minds: moreover, introspection, as psychoanalysis has demonstrated, is extraordinarily fallible even in cases where we feel a high degree of certainty. the net result seems to be that, though self-knowledge has a definite and important contribution to make to psychology, it is exceedingly misleading unless it is constantly checked and controlled by the test of external observation, and by the theories which such observation suggests when applied to animal behaviour. on the whole, therefore, there is probably more to be learnt about human psychology from animals than about animal psychology from human beings; but this conclusion is one of degree, and must not be pressed beyond a point. it is only bodily phenomena that can be directly observed in animals, or even, strictly speaking, in other human beings. we can observe such things as their movements, their physiological processes, and the sounds they emit. such things as desires and beliefs, which seem obvious to introspection, are not visible directly to external observation. accordingly, if we begin our study of psychology by external observation, we must not begin by assuming such things as desires and beliefs, but only such things as external observation can reveal, which will be characteristics of the movements and physiological processes of animals. some animals, for example, always run away from light and hide themselves in dark places. if you pick up a mossy stone which is lightly embedded in the earth, you will see a number of small animals scuttling away from the unwonted daylight and seeking again the darkness of which you have deprived them. such animals are sensitive to light, in the sense that their movements are affected by it; but it would be rash to infer that they have sensations in any way analogous to our sensations of sight. such inferences, which go beyond the observable facts, are to be avoided with the utmost care. it is customary to divide human movements into three classes, voluntary, reflex and mechanical. we may illustrate the distinction by a quotation from william james ("psychology," i, ): "if i hear the conductor calling 'all aboard' as i enter the depot, my heart first stops, then palpitates, and my legs respond to the air-waves falling on my tympanum by quickening their movements. if i stumble as i run, the sensation of falling provokes a movement of the hands towards the direction of the fall, the effect of which is to shield the body from too sudden a shock. if a cinder enter my eye, its lids close forcibly and a copious flow of tears tends to wash it out. "these three responses to a sensational stimulus differ, however, in many respects. the closure of the eye and the lachrymation are quite involuntary, and so is the disturbance of the heart. such involuntary responses we know as 'reflex' acts. the motion of the arms to break the shock of falling may also be called reflex, since it occurs too quickly to be deliberately intended. whether it be instinctive or whether it result from the pedestrian education of childhood may be doubtful; it is, at any rate, less automatic than the previous acts, for a man might by conscious effort learn to perform it more skilfully, or even to suppress it altogether. actions of this kind, with which instinct and volition enter upon equal terms, have been called 'semi-reflex.' the act of running towards the train, on the other hand, has no instinctive element about it. it is purely the result of education, and is preceded by a consciousness of the purpose to be attained and a distinct mandate of the will. it is a 'voluntary act.' thus the animal's reflex and voluntary performances shade into each other gradually, being connected by acts which may often occur automatically, but may also be modified by conscious intelligence. "an outside observer, unable to perceive the accompanying consciousness, might be wholly at a loss to discriminate between the automatic acts and those which volition escorted. but if the criterion of mind's existence be the choice of the proper means for the attainment of a supposed end, all the acts alike seem to be inspired by intelligence, for appropriateness characterizes them all alike." there is one movement, among those that james mentions at first, which is not subsequently classified, namely, the stumbling. this is the kind of movement which may be called "mechanical"; it is evidently of a different kind from either reflex or voluntary movements, and more akin to the movements of dead matter. we may define a movement of an animal's body as "mechanical" when it proceeds as if only dead matter were involved. for example, if you fall over a cliff, you move under the influence of gravitation, and your centre of gravity describes just as correct a parabola as if you were already dead. mechanical movements have not the characteristic of appropriateness, unless by accident, as when a drunken man falls into a waterbutt and is sobered. but reflex and voluntary movements are not always appropriate, unless in some very recondite sense. a moth flying into a lamp is not acting sensibly; no more is a man who is in such a hurry to get his ticket that he cannot remember the name of his destination. appropriateness is a complicated and merely approximate idea, and for the present we shall do well to dismiss it from our thoughts. as james states, there is no difference, from the point of view of the outside observer, between voluntary and reflex movements. the physiologist can discover that both depend upon the nervous system, and he may find that the movements which we call voluntary depend upon higher centres in the brain than those that are reflex. but he cannot discover anything as to the presence or absence of "will" or "consciousness," for these things can only be seen from within, if at all. for the present, we wish to place ourselves resolutely in the position of outside observers; we will therefore ignore the distinction between voluntary and reflex movements. we will call the two together "vital" movements. we may then distinguish "vital" from mechanical movements by the fact that vital movements depend for their causation upon the special properties of the nervous system, while mechanical movements depend only upon the properties which animal bodies share with matter in general. there is need for some care if the distinction between mechanical and vital movements is to be made precise. it is quite likely that, if we knew more about animal bodies, we could deduce all their movements from the laws of chemistry and physics. it is already fairly easy to see how chemistry reduces to physics, i.e. how the differences between different chemical elements can be accounted for by differences of physical structure, the constituents of the structure being electrons which are exactly alike in all kinds of matter. we only know in part how to reduce physiology to chemistry, but we know enough to make it likely that the reduction is possible. if we suppose it effected, what would become of the difference between vital and mechanical movements? some analogies will make the difference clear. a shock to a mass of dynamite produces quite different effects from an equal shock to a mass of steel: in the one case there is a vast explosion, while in the other case there is hardly any noticeable disturbance. similarly, you may sometimes find on a mountain-side a large rock poised so delicately that a touch will set it crashing down into the valley, while the rocks all round are so firm that only a considerable force can dislodge them what is analogous in these two cases is the existence of a great store of energy in unstable equilibrium ready to burst into violent motion by the addition of a very slight disturbance. similarly, it requires only a very slight expenditure of energy to send a post-card with the words "all is discovered; fly!" but the effect in generating kinetic energy is said to be amazing. a human body, like a mass of dynamite, contains a store of energy in unstable equilibrium, ready to be directed in this direction or that by a disturbance which is physically very small, such as a spoken word. in all such cases the reduction of behaviour to physical laws can only be effected by entering into great minuteness; so long as we confine ourselves to the observation of comparatively large masses, the way in which the equilibrium will be upset cannot be determined. physicists distinguish between macroscopic and microscopic equations: the former determine the visible movements of bodies of ordinary size, the latter the minute occurrences in the smallest parts. it is only the microscopic equations that are supposed to be the same for all sorts of matter. the macroscopic equations result from a process of averaging out, and may be different in different cases. so, in our instance, the laws of macroscopic phenomena are different for mechanical and vital movements, though the laws of microscopic phenomena may be the same. we may say, speaking somewhat roughly, that a stimulus applied to the nervous system, like a spark to dynamite, is able to take advantage of the stored energy in unstable equilibrium, and thus to produce movements out of proportion to the proximate cause. movements produced in this way are vital movements, while mechanical movements are those in which the stored energy of a living body is not involved. similarly dynamite may be exploded, thereby displaying its characteristic properties, or may (with due precautions) be carted about like any other mineral. the explosion is analogous to vital movements, the carting about to mechanical movements. mechanical movements are of no interest to the psychologist, and it has only been necessary to define them in order to be able to exclude them. when a psychologist studies behaviour, it is only vital movements that concern him. we shall, therefore, proceed to ignore mechanical movements, and study only the properties of the remainder. the next point is to distinguish between movements that are instinctive and movements that are acquired by experience. this distinction also is to some extent one of degree. professor lloyd morgan gives the following definition of "instinctive behaviour": "that which is, on its first occurrence, independent of prior experience; which tends to the well-being of the individual and the preservation of the race; which is similarly performed by all members of the same more or less restricted group of animals; and which may be subject to subsequent modification under the guidance of experience." * * "instinct and experience" (methuen, ) p. . this definition is framed for the purposes of biology, and is in some respects unsuited to the needs of psychology. though perhaps unavoidable, allusion to "the same more or less restricted group of animals" makes it impossible to judge what is instinctive in the behaviour of an isolated individual. moreover, "the well-being of the individual and the preservation of the race" is only a usual characteristic, not a universal one, of the sort of movements that, from our point of view, are to be called instinctive; instances of harmful instincts will be given shortly. the essential point of the definition, from our point of view, is that an instinctive movement is in dependent of prior experience. we may say that an "instinctive" movement is a vital movement performed by an animal the first time that it finds itself in a novel situation; or, more correctly, one which it would perform if the situation were novel.* the instincts of an animal are different at different periods of its growth, and this fact may cause changes of behaviour which are not due to learning. the maturing and seasonal fluctuation of the sex-instinct affords a good illustration. when the sex-instinct first matures, the behaviour of an animal in the presence of a mate is different from its previous behaviour in similar circumstances, but is not learnt, since it is just the same if the animal has never previously been in the presence of a mate. * though this can only be decided by comparison with other members of the species, and thus exposes us to the need of comparison which we thought an objection to professor lloyd morgan's definition. on the other hand, a movement is "learnt," or embodies a "habit," if it is due to previous experience of similar situations, and is not what it would be if the animal had had no such experience. there are various complications which blur the sharpness of this distinction in practice. to begin with, many instincts mature gradually, and while they are immature an animal may act in a fumbling manner which is very difficult to distinguish from learning. james ("psychology," ii, ) maintains that children walk by instinct, and that the awkwardness of their first attempts is only due to the fact that the instinct has not yet ripened. he hopes that "some scientific widower, left alone with his offspring at the critical moment, may ere long test this suggestion on the living subject." however this may be, he quotes evidence to show that "birds do not learn to fly," but fly by instinct when they reach the appropriate age (ib., p. ). in the second place, instinct often gives only a rough outline of the sort of thing to do, in which case learning is necessary in order to acquire certainty and precision in action. in the third place, even in the clearest cases of acquired habit, such as speaking, some instinct is required to set in motion the process of learning. in the case of speaking, the chief instinct involved is commonly supposed to be that of imitation, but this may be questioned. (see thorndike's "animal intelligence," p. ff.) in spite of these qualifications, the broad distinction between instinct and habit is undeniable. to take extreme cases, every animal at birth can take food by instinct, before it has had opportunity to learn; on the other hand, no one can ride a bicycle by instinct, though, after learning, the necessary movements become just as automatic as if they were instinctive. the process of learning, which consists in the acquisition of habits, has been much studied in various animals.* for example: you put a hungry animal, say a cat, in a cage which has a door that can be opened by lifting a latch; outside the cage you put food. the cat at first dashes all round the cage, making frantic efforts to force a way out. at last, by accident, the latch is lifted and the cat pounces on the food. next day you repeat the experiment, and you find that the cat gets out much more quickly than the first time, although it still makes some random movements. the third day it gets out still more quickly, and before long it goes straight to the latch and lifts it at once. or you make a model of the hampton court maze, and put a rat in the middle, assaulted by the smell of food on the outside. the rat starts running down the passages, and is constantly stopped by blind alleys, but at last, by persistent attempts, it gets out. you repeat this experiment day after day; you measure the time taken by the rat in reaching the food; you find that the time rapidly diminishes, and that after a while the rat ceases to make any wrong turnings. it is by essentially similar processes that we learn speaking, writing, mathematics, or the government of an empire. * the scientific study of this subject may almost be said to begin with thorndike's "animal intelligence" (macmillan, ). professor watson ("behavior," pp. - ) has an ingenious theory as to the way in which habit arises out of random movements. i think there is a reason why his theory cannot be regarded as alone sufficient, but it seems not unlikely that it is partly correct. suppose, for the sake of simplicity, that there are just ten random movements which may be made by the animal--say, ten paths down which it may go--and that only one of these leads to food, or whatever else represents success in the case in question. then the successful movement always occurs during the animal's attempts, whereas each of the others, on the average, occurs in only half the attempts. thus the tendency to repeat a previous performance (which is easily explicable without the intervention of "consciousness") leads to a greater emphasis on the successful movement than on any other, and in time causes it alone to be performed. the objection to this view, if taken as the sole explanation, is that on improvement ought to set in till after the second trial, whereas experiment shows that already at the second attempt the animal does better than the first time. something further is, therefore, required to account for the genesis of habit from random movements; but i see no reason to suppose that what is further required involves "consciousness." mr. thorndike (op. cit., p. ) formulates two "provisional laws of acquired behaviour or learning," as follows: "the law of effect is that: of several responses made to the same situation, those which are accompanied or closely followed by satisfaction to the animal will, other things being equal, be more firmly connected with the situation, so that, when it recurs, they will be more likely to recur; those which are accompanied or closely followed by discomfort to the animal will, other things being equal, have their connections with that situation weakened, so that, when it recurs, they will be less likely to occur. the greater the satisfaction or discomfort, the greater the strengthening or weakening of the bond. "the law of exercise is that: any response to a situation will, other things being equal, be more strongly connected with the situation in proportion to the number of times it has been connected with that situation and to the average vigour and duration of the connections." with the explanation to be presently given of the meaning of "satisfaction" and "discomfort," there seems every reason to accept these two laws. what is true of animals, as regards instinct and habit, is equally true of men. but the higher we rise in the evolutionary scale, broadly speaking, the greater becomes the power of learning, and the fewer are the occasions when pure instinct is exhibited unmodified in adult life. this applies with great force to man, so much so that some have thought instinct less important in the life of man than in that of animals. this, however, would be a mistake. learning is only possible when instinct supplies the driving-force. the animals in cages, which gradually learn to get out, perform random movements at first, which are purely instinctive. but for these random movements, they would never acquire the experience which afterwards enables them to produce the right movement. (this is partly questioned by hobhouse*--wrongly, i think.) similarly, children learning to talk make all sorts of sounds, until one day the right sound comes by accident. it is clear that the original making of random sounds, without which speech would never be learnt, is instinctive. i think we may say the same of all the habits and aptitudes that we acquire in all of them there has been present throughout some instinctive activity, prompting at first rather inefficient movements, but supplying the driving force while more and more effective methods are being acquired. a cat which is hungry smells fish, and goes to the larder. this is a thoroughly efficient method when there is fish in the larder, and it is often successfully practised by children. but in later life it is found that merely going to the larder does not cause fish to be there; after a series of random movements it is found that this result is to be caused by going to the city in the morning and coming back in the evening. no one would have guessed a priori that this movement of a middle-aged man's body would cause fish to come out of the sea into his larder, but experience shows that it does, and the middle-aged man therefore continues to go to the city, just as the cat in the cage continues to lift the latch when it has once found it. of course, in actual fact, human learning is rendered easier, though psychologically more complex, through language; but at bottom language does not alter the essential character of learning, or of the part played by instinct in promoting learning. language, however, is a subject upon which i do not wish to speak until a later lecture. * "mind in evolution" (macmillan, ), pp. - . the popular conception of instinct errs by imagining it to be infallible and preternaturally wise, as well as incapable of modification. this is a complete delusion. instinct, as a rule, is very rough and ready, able to achieve its result under ordinary circumstances, but easily misled by anything unusual. chicks follow their mother by instinct, but when they are quite young they will follow with equal readiness any moving object remotely resembling their mother, or even a human being (james, "psychology," ii, ). bergson, quoting fabre, has made play with the supposed extraordinary accuracy of the solitary wasp ammophila, which lays its eggs in a caterpillar. on this subject i will quote from drever's "instinct in man," p. : "according to fabre's observations, which bergson accepts, the ammophila stings its prey exactly and unerringly in each of the nervous centres. the result is that the caterpillar is paralyzed, but not immediately killed, the advantage of this being that the larva cannot be injured by any movement of the caterpillar, upon which the egg is deposited, and is provided with fresh meat when the time comes. "now dr. and mrs. peckham have shown that the sting of the wasp is not unerring, as fabre alleges, that the number of stings is not constant, that sometimes the caterpillar is not paralyzed, and sometimes it is killed outright, and that the different circumstances do not apparently make any difference to the larva, which is not injured by slight movements of the caterpillar, nor by consuming food decomposed rather than fresh caterpillar." this illustrates how love of the marvellous may mislead even so careful an observer as fabre and so eminent a philosopher as bergson. in the same chapter of dr. drever's book there are some interesting examples of the mistakes made by instinct. i will quote one as a sample: "the larva of the lomechusa beetle eats the young of the ants, in whose nest it is reared. nevertheless, the ants tend the lomechusa larvae with the same care they bestow on their own young. not only so, but they apparently discover that the methods of feeding, which suit their own larvae, would prove fatal to the guests, and accordingly they change their whole system of nursing" (loc. cit., p. ). semon ("die mneme," pp. - ) gives a good illustration of an instinct growing wiser through experience. he relates how hunters attract stags by imitating the sounds of other members of their species, male or female, but find that the older a stag becomes the more difficult it is to deceive him, and the more accurate the imitation has to be. the literature of instinct is vast, and illustrations might be multiplied indefinitely. the main points as regards instinct, which need to be emphasized as against the popular conceptions of it, are: ( ) that instinct requires no prevision of the biological end which it serves; ( ) that instinct is only adapted to achieve this end in the usual circumstances of the animal in question, and has no more precision than is necessary for success as a rule; ( ) that processes initiated by instinct often come to be performed better after experience; ( ) that instinct supplies the impulses to experimental movements which are required for the process of learning; ( ) that instincts in their nascent stages are easily modifiable, and capable of being attached to various sorts of objects. all the above characteristics of instinct can be established by purely external observation, except the fact that instinct does not require prevision. this, though not strictly capable of being proved by observation, is irresistibly suggested by the most obvious phenomena. who can believe, for example, that a new-born baby is aware of the necessity of food for preserving life? or that insects, in laying eggs, are concerned for the preservation of their species? the essence of instinct, one might say, is that it provides a mechanism for acting without foresight in a manner which is usually advantageous biologically. it is partly for this reason that it is so important to understand the fundamental position of instinct in prompting both animal and human behaviour. lecture iii. desire and feeling desire is a subject upon which, if i am not mistaken, true views can only be arrived at by an almost complete reversal of the ordinary unreflecting opinion. it is natural to regard desire as in its essence an attitude towards something which is imagined, not actual; this something is called the end or object of the desire, and is said to be the purpose of any action resulting from the desire. we think of the content of the desire as being just like the content of a belief, while the attitude taken up towards the content is different. according to this theory, when we say: "i hope it will rain," or "i expect it will rain," we express, in the first case, a desire, and in the second, a belief, with an identical content, namely, the image of rain. it would be easy to say that, just as belief is one kind of feeling in relation to this content, so desire is another kind. according to this view, what comes first in desire is something imagined, with a specific feeling related to it, namely, that specific feeling which we call "desiring" it. the discomfort associated with unsatisfied desire, and the actions which aim at satisfying desire, are, in this view, both of them effects of the desire. i think it is fair to say that this is a view against which common sense would not rebel; nevertheless, i believe it to be radically mistaken. it cannot be refuted logically, but various facts can be adduced which make it gradually less simple and plausible, until at last it turns out to be easier to abandon it wholly and look at the matter in a totally different way. the first set of facts to be adduced against the common sense view of desire are those studied by psycho-analysis. in all human beings, but most markedly in those suffering from hysteria and certain forms of insanity, we find what are called "unconscious" desires, which are commonly regarded as showing self-deception. most psycho-analysts pay little attention to the analysis of desire, being interested in discovering by observation what it is that people desire, rather than in discovering what actually constitutes desire. i think the strangeness of what they report would be greatly diminished if it were expressed in the language of a behaviourist theory of desire, rather than in the language of every-day beliefs. the general description of the sort of phenomena that bear on our present question is as follows: a person states that his desires are so-and-so, and that it is these desires that inspire his actions; but the outside observer perceives that his actions are such as to realize quite different ends from those which he avows, and that these different ends are such as he might be expected to desire. generally they are less virtuous than his professed desires, and are therefore less agreeable to profess than these are. it is accordingly supposed that they really exist as desires for ends, but in a subconscious part of the mind, which the patient refuses to admit into consciousness for fear of having to think ill of himself. there are no doubt many cases to which such a supposition is applicable without obvious artificiality. but the deeper the freudians delve into the underground regions of instinct, the further they travel from anything resembling conscious desire, and the less possible it becomes to believe that only positive self-deception conceals from us that we really wish for things which are abhorrent to our explicit life. in the cases in question we have a conflict between the outside observer and the patient's consciousness. the whole tendency of psycho-analysis is to trust the outside observer rather than the testimony of introspection. i believe this tendency to be entirely right, but to demand a re-statement of what constitutes desire, exhibiting it as a causal law of our actions, not as something actually existing in our minds. but let us first get a clearer statement of the essential characteristic of the phenomena. a person, we find, states that he desires a certain end a, and that he is acting with a view to achieving it. we observe, however, that his actions are such as are likely to achieve a quite different end b, and that b is the sort of end that often seems to be aimed at by animals and savages, though civilized people are supposed to have discarded it. we sometimes find also a whole set of false beliefs, of such a kind as to persuade the patient that his actions are really a means to a, when in fact they are a means to b. for example, we have an impulse to inflict pain upon those whom we hate; we therefore believe that they are wicked, and that punishment will reform them. this belief enables us to act upon the impulse to inflict pain, while believing that we are acting upon the desire to lead sinners to repentance. it is for this reason that the criminal law has been in all ages more severe than it would have been if the impulse to ameliorate the criminal had been what really inspired it. it seems simple to explain such a state of affairs as due to "self-deception," but this explanation is often mythical. most people, in thinking about punishment, have had no more need to hide their vindictive impulses from themselves than they have had to hide the exponential theorem. our impulses are not patent to a casual observation, but are only to be discovered by a scientific study of our actions, in the course of which we must regard ourselves as objectively as we should the motions of the planets or the chemical reactions of a new element. the study of animals reinforces this conclusion, and is in many ways the best preparation for the analysis of desire. in animals we are not troubled by the disturbing influence of ethical considerations. in dealing with human beings, we are perpetually distracted by being told that such-and-such a view is gloomy or cynical or pessimistic: ages of human conceit have built up such a vast myth as to our wisdom and virtue that any intrusion of the mere scientific desire to know the facts is instantly resented by those who cling to comfortable illusions. but no one cares whether animals are virtuous or not, and no one is under the delusion that they are rational. moreover, we do not expect them to be so "conscious," and are prepared to admit that their instincts prompt useful actions without any prevision of the ends which they achieve. for all these reasons, there is much in the analysis of mind which is more easily discovered by the study of animals than by the observation of human beings. we all think that, by watching the behaviour of animals, we can discover more or less what they desire. if this is the case--and i fully agree that it is--desire must be capable of being exhibited in actions, for it is only the actions of animals that we can observe. they may have minds in which all sorts of things take place, but we can know nothing about their minds except by means of inferences from their actions; and the more such inferences are examined, the more dubious they appear. it would seem, therefore, that actions alone must be the test of the desires of animals. from this it is an easy step to the conclusion that an animal's desire is nothing but a characteristic of a certain series of actions, namely, those which would be commonly regarded as inspired by the desire in question. and when it has been shown that this view affords a satisfactory account of animal desires, it is not difficult to see that the same explanation is applicable to the desires of human beings. we judge easily from the behaviour of an animal of a familiar kind whether it is hungry or thirsty, or pleased or displeased, or inquisitive or terrified. the verification of our judgment, so far as verification is possible, must be derived from the immediately succeeding actions of the animal. most people would say that they infer first something about the animal's state of mind--whether it is hungry or thirsty and so on--and thence derive their expectations as to its subsequent conduct. but this detour through the animal's supposed mind is wholly unnecessary. we can say simply: the animal's behaviour during the last minute has had those characteristics which distinguish what is called "hunger," and it is likely that its actions during the next minute will be similar in this respect, unless it finds food, or is interrupted by a stronger impulse, such as fear. an animal which is hungry is restless, it goes to the places where food is often to be found, it sniffs with its nose or peers with its eyes or otherwise increases the sensitiveness of its sense-organs; as soon as it is near enough to food for its sense-organs to be affected, it goes to it with all speed and proceeds to eat; after which, if the quantity of food has been sufficient, its whole demeanour changes it may very likely lie down and go to sleep. these things and others like them are observable phenomena distinguishing a hungry animal from one which is not hungry. the characteristic mark by which we recognize a series of actions which display hunger is not the animal's mental state, which we cannot observe, but something in its bodily behaviour; it is this observable trait in the bodily behaviour that i am proposing to call "hunger," not some possibly mythical and certainly unknowable ingredient of the animal's mind. generalizing what occurs in the case of hunger, we may say that what we call a desire in an animal is always displayed in a cycle of actions having certain fairly well marked characteristics. there is first a state of activity, consisting, with qualifications to be mentioned presently, of movements likely to have a certain result; these movements, unless interrupted, continue until the result is achieved, after which there is usually a period of comparative quiescence. a cycle of actions of this sort has marks by which it is broadly distinguished from the motions of dead matter. the most notable of these marks are--( ) the appropriateness of the actions for the realization of a certain result; ( ) the continuance of action until that result has been achieved. neither of these can be pressed beyond a point. either may be (a) to some extent present in dead matter, and (b) to a considerable extent absent in animals, while vegetable are intermediate, and display only a much fainter form of the behaviour which leads us to attribute desire to animals. (a) one might say rivers "desire" the sea water, roughly speaking, remains in restless motion until it reaches either the sea or a place from which it cannot issue without going uphill, and therefore we might say that this is what it wishes while it is flowing. we do not say so, because we can account for the behaviour of water by the laws of physics; and if we knew more about animals, we might equally cease to attribute desires to them, since we might find physical and chemical reactions sufficient to account for their behaviour. (b) many of the movements of animals do not exhibit the characteristics of the cycles which seem to embody desire. there are first of all the movements which are "mechanical," such as slipping and falling, where ordinary physical forces operate upon the animal's body almost as if it were dead matter. an animal which falls over a cliff may make a number of desperate struggles while it is in the air, but its centre of gravity will move exactly as it would if the animal were dead. in this case, if the animal is killed at the end of the fall, we have, at first sight, just the characteristics of a cycle of actions embodying desire, namely, restless movement until the ground is reached, and then quiescence. nevertheless, we feel no temptation to say that the animal desired what occurred, partly because of the obviously mechanical nature of the whole occurrence, partly because, when an animal survives a fall, it tends not to repeat the experience. there may be other reasons also, but of them i do not wish to speak yet. besides mechanical movements, there are interrupted movements, as when a bird, on its way to eat your best peas, is frightened away by the boy whom you are employing for that purpose. if interruptions are frequent and completion of cycles rare, the characteristics by which cycles are observed may become so blurred as to be almost unrecognizable. the result of these various considerations is that the differences between animals and dead matter, when we confine ourselves to external unscientific observation of integral behaviour, are a matter of degree and not very precise. it is for this reason that it has always been possible for fanciful people to maintain that even stocks and stones have some vague kind of soul. the evidence that animals have souls is so very shaky that, if it is assumed to be conclusive, one might just as well go a step further and extend the argument by analogy to all matter. nevertheless, in spite of vagueness and doubtful cases, the existence of cycles in the behaviour of animals is a broad characteristic by which they are prima facie distinguished from ordinary matter; and i think it is this characteristic which leads us to attribute desires to animals, since it makes their behaviour resemble what we do when (as we say) we are acting from desire. i shall adopt the following definitions for describing the behaviour of animals: a "behaviour-cycle" is a series of voluntary or reflex movements of an animal, tending to cause a certain result, and continuing until that result is caused, unless they are interrupted by death, accident, or some new behaviour-cycle. (here "accident" may be defined as the intervention of purely physical laws causing mechanical movements.) the "purpose" of a behaviour-cycle is the result which brings it to an end, normally by a condition of temporary quiescence-provided there is no interruption. an animal is said to "desire" the purpose of a behaviour cycle while the behaviour-cycle is in progress. i believe these definitions to be adequate also to human purposes and desires, but for the present i am only occupied with animals and with what can be learnt by external observation. i am very anxious that no ideas should be attached to the words "purpose" and "desire" beyond those involved in the above definitions. we have not so far considered what is the nature of the initial stimulus to a behaviour-cycle. yet it is here that the usual view of desire seems on the strongest ground. the hungry animal goes on making movements until it gets food; it seems natural, therefore, to suppose that the idea of food is present throughout the process, and that the thought of the end to be achieved sets the whole process in motion. such a view, however, is obviously untenable in many cases, especially where instinct is concerned. take, for example, reproduction and the rearing of the young. birds mate, build a nest, lay eggs in it, sit on the eggs, feed the young birds, and care for them until they are fully grown. it is totally impossible to suppose that this series of actions, which constitutes one behaviour-cycle, is inspired by any prevision of the end, at any rate the first time it is performed.* we must suppose that the stimulus to the performance of each act is an impulsion from behind, not an attraction from the future. the bird does what it does, at each stage, because it has an impulse to that particular action, not because it perceives that the whole cycle of actions will contribute to the preservation of the species. the same considerations apply to other instincts. a hungry animal feels restless, and is led by instinctive impulses to perform the movements which give it nourishment; but the act of seeking food is not sufficient evidence from which to conclude that the animal has the thought of food in its "mind." * for evidence as to birds' nests, cf. semon, "die mneme," pp. , . coming now to human beings, and to what we know about our own actions, it seems clear that what, with us, sets a behaviour-cycle in motion is some sensation of the sort which we call disagreeable. take the case of hunger: we have first an uncomfortable feeling inside, producing a disinclination to sit still, a sensitiveness to savoury smells, and an attraction towards any food that there may be in our neighbourhood. at any moment during this process we may become aware that we are hungry, in the sense of saying to ourselves, "i am hungry"; but we may have been acting with reference to food for some time before this moment. while we are talking or reading, we may eat in complete unconsciousness; but we perform the actions of eating just as we should if we were conscious, and they cease when our hunger is appeased. what we call "consciousness" seems to be a mere spectator of the process; even when it issues orders, they are usually, like those of a wise parent, just such as would have been obeyed even if they had not been given. this view may seem at first exaggerated, but the more our so-called volitions and their causes are examined, the more it is forced upon us. the part played by words in all this is complicated, and a potent source of confusions; i shall return to it later. for the present, i am still concerned with primitive desire, as it exists in man, but in the form in which man shows his affinity to his animal ancestors. conscious desire is made up partly of what is essential to desire, partly of beliefs as to what we want. it is important to be clear as to the part which does not consist of beliefs. the primitive non-cognitive element in desire seems to be a push, not a pull, an impulsion away from the actual, rather than an attraction towards the ideal. certain sensations and other mental occurrences have a property which we call discomfort; these cause such bodily movements as are likely to lead to their cessation. when the discomfort ceases, or even when it appreciably diminishes, we have sensations possessing a property which we call pleasure. pleasurable sensations either stimulate no action at all, or at most stimulate such action as is likely to prolong them. i shall return shortly to the consideration of what discomfort and pleasure are in themselves; for the present, it is their connection with action and desire that concerns us. abandoning momentarily the standpoint of behaviourism, we may presume that hungry animals experience sensations involving discomfort, and stimulating such movements as seem likely to bring them to the food which is outside the cages. when they have reached the food and eaten it, their discomfort ceases and their sensations become pleasurable. it seems, mistakenly, as if the animals had had this situation in mind throughout, when in fact they have been continually pushed by discomfort. and when an animal is reflective, like some men, it comes to think that it had the final situation in mind throughout; sometimes it comes to know what situation will bring satisfaction, so that in fact the discomfort does bring the thought of what will allay it. nevertheless the sensation involving discomfort remains the prime mover. this brings us to the question of the nature of discomfort and pleasure. since kant it has been customary to recognize three great divisions of mental phenomena, which are typified by knowledge, desire and feeling, where "feeling" is used to mean pleasure and discomfort. of course, "knowledge" is too definite a word: the states of mind concerned are grouped together as "cognitive," and are to embrace not only beliefs, but perceptions, doubts, and the understanding of concepts. "desire," also, is narrower than what is intended: for example, will is to be included in this category, and in fact every thing that involves any kind of striving, or "conation" as it is technically called. i do not myself believe that there is any value in this threefold division of the contents of mind. i believe that sensations (including images) supply all the "stuff" of the mind, and that everything else can be analysed into groups of sensations related in various ways, or characteristics of sensations or of groups of sensations. as regards belief, i shall give grounds for this view in later lectures. as regards desires, i have given some grounds in this lecture. for the present, it is pleasure and discomfort that concern us. there are broadly three theories that might be held in regard to them. we may regard them as separate existing items in those who experience them, or we may regard them as intrinsic qualities of sensations and other mental occurrences, or we may regard them as mere names for the causal characteristics of the occurrences which are uncomfortable or pleasant. the first of these theories, namely, that which regards discomfort and pleasure as actual contents in those who experience them, has, i think, nothing conclusive to be said in its favour.* it is suggested chiefly by an ambiguity in the word "pain," which has misled many people, including berkeley, whom it supplied with one of his arguments for subjective idealism. we may use "pain" as the opposite of "pleasure," and "painful" as the opposite of "pleasant," or we may use "pain" to mean a certain sort of sensation, on a level with the sensations of heat and cold and touch. the latter use of the word has prevailed in psychological literature, and it is now no longer used as the opposite of "pleasure." dr. h. head, in a recent publication, has stated this distinction as follows:** * various arguments in its favour are advanced by a. wohlgemuth, "on the feelings and their neural correlate, with an examination of the nature of pain," "british journal of psychology," viii, . ( ). but as these arguments are largely a reductio ad absurdum of other theories, among which that which i am advocating is not included, i cannot regard them as establishing their contention. ** "sensation and the cerebral cortex," "brain," vol. xli, part ii (september, ), p. . cf. also wohlgemuth, loc. cit. pp. , . "it is necessary at the outset to distinguish clearly between 'discomfort' and 'pain.' pain is a distinct sensory quality equivalent to heat and cold, and its intensity can be roughly graded according to the force expended in stimulation. discomfort, on the other hand, is that feeling-tone which is directly opposed to pleasure. it may accompany sensations not in themselves essentially painful; as for instance that produced by tickling the sole of the foot. the reaction produced by repeated pricking contains both these elements; for it evokes that sensory quality known as pain, accompanied by a disagreeable feeling-tone, which we have called discomfort. on the other hand, excessive pressure, except when applied directly over some nerve-trunk, tends to excite more discomfort than pain." the confusion between discomfort and pain has made people regard discomfort as a more substantial thing than it is, and this in turn has reacted upon the view taken of pleasure, since discomfort and pleasure are evidently on a level in this respect. as soon as discomfort is clearly distinguished from the sensation of pain, it becomes more natural to regard discomfort and pleasure as properties of mental occurrences than to regard them as separate mental occurrences on their own account. i shall therefore dismiss the view that they are separate mental occurrences, and regard them as properties of such experiences as would be called respectively uncomfortable and pleasant. it remains to be examined whether they are actual qualities of such occurrences, or are merely differences as to causal properties. i do not myself see any way of deciding this question; either view seems equally capable of accounting for the facts. if this is true, it is safer to avoid the assumption that there are such intrinsic qualities of mental occurrences as are in question, and to assume only the causal differences which are undeniable. without condemning the intrinsic theory, we can define discomfort and pleasure as consisting in causal properties, and say only what will hold on either of the two theories. following this course, we shall say: "discomfort" is a property of a sensation or other mental occurrence, consisting in the fact that the occurrence in question stimulates voluntary or reflex movements tending to produce some more or less definite change involving the cessation of the occurrence. "pleasure" is a property of a sensation or other mental occurrence, consisting in the fact that the occurrence in question either does not stimulate any voluntary or reflex movement, or, if it does, stimulates only such as tend to prolong the occurrence in question.* * cf. thorndike, op. cit., p. . "conscious" desire, which we have now to consider, consists of desire in the sense hitherto discussed, together with a true belief as to its "purpose," i.e. as to the state of affairs that will bring quiescence with cessation of the discomfort. if our theory of desire is correct, a belief as to its purpose may very well be erroneous, since only experience can show what causes a discomfort to cease. when the experience needed is common and simple, as in the case of hunger, a mistake is not very probable. but in other cases--e.g. erotic desire in those who have had little or no experience of its satisfaction--mistakes are to be expected, and do in fact very often occur. the practice of inhibiting impulses, which is to a great extent necessary to civilized life, makes mistakes easier, by preventing experience of the actions to which a desire would otherwise lead, and by often causing the inhibited impulses themselves to be unnoticed or quickly forgotten. the perfectly natural mistakes which thus arise constitute a large proportion of what is, mistakenly in part, called self-deception, and attributed by freud to the "censor." but there is a further point which needs emphasizing, namely, that a belief that something is desired has often a tendency to cause the very desire that is believed in. it is this fact that makes the effect of "consciousness" on desire so complicated. when we believe that we desire a certain state of affairs, that often tends to cause a real desire for it. this is due partly to the influence of words upon our emotions, in rhetoric for example, and partly to the general fact that discomfort normally belongs to the belief that we desire such-and-such a thing that we do not possess. thus what was originally a false opinion as to the object of a desire acquires a certain truth: the false opinion generates a secondary subsidiary desire, which nevertheless becomes real. let us take an illustration. suppose you have been jilted in a way which wounds your vanity. your natural impulsive desire will be of the sort expressed in donne's poem: when by thy scorn, o murderess, i am dead, in which he explains how he will haunt the poor lady as a ghost, and prevent her from enjoying a moment's peace. but two things stand in the way of your expressing yourself so naturally: on the one hand, your vanity, which will not acknowledge how hard you are hit; on the other hand, your conviction that you are a civilized and humane person, who could not possibly indulge so crude a desire as revenge. you will therefore experience a restlessness which will at first seem quite aimless, but will finally resolve itself in a conscious desire to change your profession, or go round the world, or conceal your identity and live in putney, like arnold bennett's hero. although the prime cause of this desire is a false judgment as to your previous unconscious desire, yet the new conscious desire has its own derivative genuineness, and may influence your actions to the extent of sending you round the world. the initial mistake, however, will have effects of two kinds. first, in uncontrolled moments, under the influence of sleepiness or drink or delirium, you will say things calculated to injure the faithless deceiver. secondly, you will find travel disappointing, and the east less fascinating than you had hoped--unless, some day, you hear that the wicked one has in turn been jilted. if this happens, you will believe that you feel sincere sympathy, but you will suddenly be much more delighted than before with the beauties of tropical islands or the wonders of chinese art. a secondary desire, derived from a false judgment as to a primary desire, has its own power of influencing action, and is therefore a real desire according to our definition. but it has not the same power as a primary desire of bringing thorough satisfaction when it is realized; so long as the primary desire remains unsatisfied, restlessness continues in spite of the secondary desire's success. hence arises a belief in the vanity of human wishes: the vain wishes are those that are secondary, but mistaken beliefs prevent us from realizing that they are secondary. what may, with some propriety, be called self-deception arises through the operation of desires for beliefs. we desire many things which it is not in our power to achieve: that we should be universally popular and admired, that our work should be the wonder of the age, and that the universe should be so ordered as to bring ultimate happiness to all, though not to our enemies until they have repented and been purified by suffering. such desires are too large to be achieved through our own efforts. but it is found that a considerable portion of the satisfaction which these things would bring us if they were realized is to be achieved by the much easier operation of believing that they are or will be realized. this desire for beliefs, as opposed to desire for the actual facts, is a particular case of secondary desire, and, like all secondary desire its satisfaction does not lead to a complete cessation of the initial discomfort. nevertheless, desire for beliefs, as opposed to desire for facts, is exceedingly potent both individually and socially. according to the form of belief desired, it is called vanity, optimism, or religion. those who have sufficient power usually imprison or put to death any one who tries to shake their faith in their own excellence or in that of the universe; it is for this reason that seditious libel and blasphemy have always been, and still are, criminal offences. it is very largely through desires for beliefs that the primitive nature of desire has become so hidden, and that the part played by consciousness has been so confusing and so exaggerated. we may now summarize our analysis of desire and feeling. a mental occurrence of any kind--sensation, image, belief, or emotion--may be a cause of a series of actions, continuing, unless interrupted, until some more or less definite state of affairs is realized. such a series of actions we call a "behaviour-cycle." the degree of definiteness may vary greatly: hunger requires only food in general, whereas the sight of a particular piece of food raises a desire which requires the eating of that piece of food. the property of causing such a cycle of occurrences is called "discomfort"; the property of the mental occurrences in which the cycle ends is called "pleasure." the actions constituting the cycle must not be purely mechanical, i.e. they must be bodily movements in whose causation the special properties of nervous tissue are involved. the cycle ends in a condition of quiescence, or of such action as tends only to preserve the status quo. the state of affairs in which this condition of quiescence is achieved is called the "purpose" of the cycle, and the initial mental occurrence involving discomfort is called a "desire" for the state of affairs that brings quiescence. a desire is called "conscious" when it is accompanied by a true belief as to the state of affairs that will bring quiescence; otherwise it is called "unconscious." all primitive desire is unconscious, and in human beings beliefs as to the purposes of desires are often mistaken. these mistaken beliefs generate secondary desires, which cause various interesting complications in the psychology of human desire, without fundamentally altering the character which it shares with animal desire. lecture iv. influence of past history on present occurrences in living organisms in this lecture we shall be concerned with a very general characteristic which broadly, though not absolutely, distinguishes the behaviour of living organisms from that of dead matter. the characteristic in question is this: the response of an organism to a given stimulus is very often dependent upon the past history of the organism, and not merely upon the stimulus and the hitherto discoverable present state of the organism. this characteristic is embodied in the saying "a burnt child fears the fire." the burn may have left no visible traces, yet it modifies the reaction of the child in the presence of fire. it is customary to assume that, in such cases, the past operates by modifying the structure of the brain, not directly. i have no wish to suggest that this hypothesis is false; i wish only to point out that it is a hypothesis. at the end of the present lecture i shall examine the grounds in its favour. if we confine ourselves to facts which have been actually observed, we must say that past occurrences, in addition to the present stimulus and the present ascertainable condition of the organism, enter into the causation of the response. the characteristic is not wholly confined to living organisms. for example, magnetized steel looks just like steel which has not been magnetized, but its behaviour is in some ways different. in the case of dead matter, however, such phenomena are less frequent and important than in the case of living organisms, and it is far less difficult to invent satisfactory hypotheses as to the microscopic changes of structure which mediate between the past occurrence and the present changed response. in the case of living organisms, practically everything that is distinctive both of their physical and of their mental behaviour is bound up with this persistent influence of the past. further, speaking broadly, the change in response is usually of a kind that is biologically advantageous to the organism. following a suggestion derived from semon ("die mneme," leipzig, ; nd edition, , english translation, allen & unwin, ; "die mnemischen empfindungen," leipzig, ), we will give the name of "mnemic phenomena" to those responses of an organism which, so far as hitherto observed facts are concerned, can only be brought under causal laws by including past occurrences in the history of the organism as part of the causes of the present response. i do not mean merely--what would always be the case--that past occurrences are part of a chain of causes leading to the present event. i mean that, in attempting to state the proximate cause of the present event, some past event or events must be included, unless we take refuge in hypothetical modifications of brain structure. for example: you smell peat-smoke, and you recall some occasion when you smelt it before. the cause of your recollection, so far as hitherto observable phenomena are concerned, consists both of the peat smoke (present stimulus) and of the former occasion (past experience). the same stimulus will not produce the same recollection in another man who did not share your former experience, although the former experience left no observable traces in the structure of the brain. according to the maxim "same cause, same effect," we cannot therefore regard the peat-smoke alone as the cause of your recollection, since it does not have the same effect in other cases. the cause of your recollection must be both the peat-smoke and the past occurrence. accordingly your recollection is an instance of what we are calling "mnemic phenomena." before going further, it will be well to give illustrations of different classes of mnemic phenomena. (a) acquired habits.--in lecture ii we saw how animals can learn by experience how to get out of cages or mazes, or perform other actions which are useful to them but not provided for by their instincts alone. a cat which is put into a cage of which it has had experience behaves differently from the way in which it behaved at first. we can easily invent hypotheses, which are quite likely to be true, as to connections in the brain caused by past experience, and themselves causing the different response. but the observable fact is that the stimulus of being in the cage produces differing results with repetition, and that the ascertainable cause of the cat's behaviour is not merely the cage and its own ascertainable organization, but also its past history in regard to the cage. from our present point of view, the matter is independent of the question whether the cat's behaviour is due to some mental fact called "knowledge," or displays a merely bodily habit. our habitual knowledge is not always in our minds, but is called up by the appropriate stimuli. if we are asked "what is the capital of france?" we answer "paris," because of past experience; the past experience is as essential as the present question in the causation of our response. thus all our habitual knowledge consists of acquired habits, and comes under the head of mnemic phenomena. (b) images.--i shall have much to say about images in a later lecture; for the present i am merely concerned with them in so far as they are "copies" of past sensations. when you hear new york spoken of, some image probably comes into your mind, either of the place itself (if you have been there), or of some picture of it (if you have not). the image is due to your past experience, as well as to the present stimulus of the words "new york." similarly, the images you have in dreams are all dependent upon your past experience, as well as upon the present stimulus to dreaming. it is generally believed that all images, in their simpler parts, are copies of sensations; if so, their mnemic character is evident. this is important, not only on its own account, but also because, as we shall see later, images play an essential part in what is called "thinking." (c) association.--the broad fact of association, on the mental side, is that when we experience something which we have experienced before, it tends to call up the context of the former experience. the smell of peat-smoke recalling a former scene is an instance which we discussed a moment ago. this is obviously a mnemic phenomenon. there is also a more purely physical association, which is indistinguishable from physical habit. this is the kind studied by mr. thorndike in animals, where a certain stimulus is associated with a certain act. this is the sort which is taught to soldiers in drilling, for example. in such a case there need not be anything mental, but merely a habit of the body. there is no essential distinction between association and habit, and the observations which we made concerning habit as a mnemic phenomenon are equally applicable to association. (d) non-sensational elements in perception.--when we perceive any object of a familiar kind, much of what appears subjectively to be immediately given is really derived from past experience. when we see an object, say a penny, we seem to be aware of its "real" shape we have the impression of something circular, not of something elliptical. in learning to draw, it is necessary to acquire the art of representing things according to the sensation, not according to the perception. and the visual appearance is filled out with feeling of what the object would be like to touch, and so on. this filling out and supplying of the "real" shape and so on consists of the most usual correlates of the sensational core in our perception. it may happen that, in the particular case, the real correlates are unusual; for example, if what we are seeing is a carpet made to look like tiles. if so, the non-sensational part of our perception will be illusory, i.e. it will supply qualities which the object in question does not in fact have. but as a rule objects do have the qualities added by perception, which is to be expected, since experience of what is usual is the cause of the addition. if our experience had been different, we should not fill out sensation in the same way, except in so far as the filling out is instinctive, not acquired. it would seem that, in man, all that makes up space perception, including the correlation of sight and touch and so on, is almost entirely acquired. in that case there is a large mnemic element in all the common perceptions by means of which we handle common objects. and, to take another kind of instance, imagine what our astonishment would be if we were to hear a cat bark or a dog mew. this emotion would be dependent upon past experience, and would therefore be a mnemic phenomenon according to the definition. (e) memory as knowledge.--the kind of memory of which i am now speaking is definite knowledge of some past event in one's own experience. from time to time we remember things that have happened to us, because something in the present reminds us of them. exactly the same present fact would not call up the same memory if our past experience had been different. thus our remembering is caused by-- ( ) the present stimulus, ( ) the past occurrence. it is therefore a mnemic phenomenon according to our definition. a definition of "mnemic phenomena" which did not include memory would, of course, be a bad one. the point of the definition is not that it includes memory, but that it includes it as one of a class of phenomena which embrace all that is characteristic in the subject matter of psychology. (f) experience.--the word "experience" is often used very vaguely. james, as we saw, uses it to cover the whole primal stuff of the world, but this usage seems objection able, since, in a purely physical world, things would happen without there being any experience. it is only mnemic phenomena that embody experience. we may say that an animal "experiences" an occurrence when this occurrence modifies the animal's subsequent behaviour, i.e. when it is the mnemic portion of the cause of future occurrences in the animal's life. the burnt child that fears the fire has "experienced" the fire, whereas a stick that has been thrown on and taken off again has not "experienced" anything, since it offers no more resistance than before to being thrown on. the essence of "experience" is the modification of behaviour produced by what is experienced. we might, in fact, define one chain of experience, or one biography, as a series of occurrences linked by mnemic causation. i think it is this characteristic, more than any other, that distinguishes sciences dealing with living organisms from physics. the best writer on mnemic phenomena known to me is richard semon, the fundamental part of whose theory i shall endeavour to summarize before going further: when an organism, either animal or plant, is subjected to a stimulus, producing in it some state of excitement, the removal of the stimulus allows it to return to a condition of equilibrium. but the new state of equilibrium is different from the old, as may be seen by the changed capacity for reaction. the state of equilibrium before the stimulus may be called the "primary indifference-state"; that after the cessation of the stimulus, the "secondary indifference-state." we define the "engraphic effect" of a stimulus as the effect in making a difference between the primary and secondary indifference-states, and this difference itself we define as the "engram" due to the stimulus. "mnemic phenomena" are defined as those due to engrams; in animals, they are specially associated with the nervous system, but not exclusively, even in man. when two stimuli occur together, one of them, occurring afterwards, may call out the reaction for the other also. we call this an "ekphoric influence," and stimuli having this character are called "ekphoric stimuli." in such a case we call the engrams of the two stimuli "associated." all simultaneously generated engrams are associated; there is also association of successively aroused engrams, though this is reducible to simultaneous association. in fact, it is not an isolated stimulus that leaves an engram, but the totality of the stimuli at any moment; consequently any portion of this totality tends, if it recurs, to arouse the whole reaction which was aroused before. semon holds that engrams can be inherited, and that an animal's innate habits may be due to the experience of its ancestors; on this subject he refers to samuel butler. semon formulates two "mnemic principles." the first, or "law of engraphy," is as follows: "all simultaneous excitements in an organism form a connected simultaneous excitement-complex, which as such works engraphically, i.e. leaves behind a connected engram-complex, which in so far forms a whole" ("die mnemischen empfindungen," p. ). the second mnemic principle, or "law of ekphory," is as follows: "the partial return of the energetic situation which formerly worked engraphically operates ekphorically on a simultaneous engram-complex" (ib., p. ). these two laws together represent in part a hypothesis (the engram), and in part an observable fact. the observable fact is that, when a certain complex of stimuli has originally caused a certain complex of reactions, the recurrence of part of the stimuli tends to cause the recurrence of the whole of the reactions. semon's applications of his fundamental ideas in various directions are interesting and ingenious. some of them will concern us later, but for the present it is the fundamental character of mnemic phenomena that is in question. concerning the nature of an engram, semon confesses that at present it is impossible to say more than that it must consist in some material alteration in the body of the organism ("die mnemischen empfindungen," p. ). it is, in fact, hypothetical, invoked for theoretical uses, and not an outcome of direct observation. no doubt physiology, especially the disturbances of memory through lesions in the brain, affords grounds for this hypothesis; nevertheless it does remain a hypothesis, the validity of which will be discussed at the end of this lecture. i am inclined to think that, in the present state of physiology, the introduction of the engram does not serve to simplify the account of mnemic phenomena. we can, i think, formulate the known laws of such phenomena in terms, wholly, of observable facts, by recognizing provisionally what we may call "mnemic causation." by this i mean that kind of causation of which i spoke at the beginning of this lecture, that kind, namely, in which the proximate cause consists not merely of a present event, but of this together with a past event. i do not wish to urge that this form of causation is ultimate, but that, in the present state of our knowledge, it affords a simplification, and enables us to state laws of behaviour in less hypothetical terms than we should otherwise have to employ. the clearest instance of what i mean is recollection of a past event. what we observe is that certain present stimuli lead us to recollect certain occurrences, but that at times when we are not recollecting them, there is nothing discoverable in our minds that could be called memory of them. memories, as mental facts, arise from time to time, but do not, so far as we can see, exist in any shape while they are "latent." in fact, when we say that they are "latent," we mean merely that they will exist under certain circumstances. if, then, there is to be some standing difference between the person who can remember a certain fact and the person who cannot, that standing difference must be, not in anything mental, but in the brain. it is quite probable that there is such a difference in the brain, but its nature is unknown and it remains hypothetical. everything that has, so far, been made matter of observation as regards this question can be put together in the statement: when a certain complex of sensations has occurred to a man, the recurrence of part of the complex tends to arouse the recollection of the whole. in like manner, we can collect all mnemic phenomena in living organisms under a single law, which contains what is hitherto verifiable in semon's two laws. this single law is: if a complex stimulus a has caused a complex reaction b in an organism, the occurrence of a part of a on a future occasion tends to cause the whole reaction b. this law would need to be supplemented by some account of the influence of frequency, and so on; but it seems to contain the essential characteristic of mnemic phenomena, without admixture of anything hypothetical. whenever the effect resulting from a stimulus to an organism differs according to the past history of the organism, without our being able actually to detect any relevant difference in its present structure, we will speak of "mnemic causation," provided we can discover laws embodying the influence of the past. in ordinary physical causation, as it appears to common sense, we have approximate uniformities of sequence, such as "lightning is followed by thunder," "drunkenness is followed by headache," and so on. none of these sequences are theoretically invariable, since something may intervene to disturb them. in order to obtain invariable physical laws, we have to proceed to differential equations, showing the direction of change at each moment, not the integral change after a finite interval, however short. but for the purposes of daily life many sequences are to all in tents and purposes invariable. with the behaviour of human beings, however, this is by no means the case. if you say to an englishman, "you have a smut on your nose," he will proceed to remove it, but there will be no such effect if you say the same thing to a frenchman who knows no english. the effect of words upon the hearer is a mnemic phenomena, since it depends upon the past experience which gave him understanding of the words. if there are to be purely psychological causal laws, taking no account of the brain and the rest of the body, they will have to be of the form, not "x now causes y now," but-- "a, b, c,... in the past, together with x now, cause y now." for it cannot be successfully maintained that our understanding of a word, for example, is an actual existent content of the mind at times when we are not thinking of the word. it is merely what may be called a "disposition," i.e. it is capable of being aroused whenever we hear the word or happen to think of it. a "disposition" is not something actual, but merely the mnemic portion of a mnemic causal law. in such a law as "a, b, c,... in the past, together with x now, cause y now," we will call a, b, c,... the mnemic cause, x the occasion or stimulus, and y the reaction. all cases in which experience influences behaviour are instances of mnemic causation. believers in psycho-physical parallelism hold that psychology can theoretically be freed entirely from all dependence on physiology or physics. that is to say, they believe that every psychical event has a psychical cause and a physical concomitant. if there is to be parallelism, it is easy to prove by mathematical logic that the causation in physical and psychical matters must be of the same sort, and it is impossible that mnemic causation should exist in psychology but not in physics. but if psychology is to be independent of physiology, and if physiology can be reduced to physics, it would seem that mnemic causation is essential in psychology. otherwise we shall be compelled to believe that all our knowledge, all our store of images and memories, all our mental habits, are at all times existing in some latent mental form, and are not merely aroused by the stimuli which lead to their display. this is a very difficult hypothesis. it seems to me that if, as a matter of method rather than metaphysics, we desire to obtain as much independence for psychology as is practically feasible, we shall do better to accept mnemic causation in psychology protem, and therefore reject parallelism, since there is no good ground for admitting mnemic causation in physics. it is perhaps worth while to observe that mnemic causation is what led bergson to deny that there is causation at all in the psychical sphere. he points out, very truly, that the same stimulus, repeated, does not have the same consequences, and he argues that this is contrary to the maxim, "same cause, same effect." it is only necessary, however, to take account of past occurrences and include them with the cause, in order to re-establish the maxim, and the possibility of psychological causal laws. the metaphysical conception of a cause lingers in our manner of viewing causal laws: we want to be able to feel a connection between cause and effect, and to be able to imagine the cause as "operating." this makes us unwilling to regard causal laws as merely observed uniformities of sequence; yet that is all that science has to offer. to ask why such-and-such a kind of sequence occurs is either to ask a meaningless question, or to demand some more general kind of sequence which includes the one in question. the widest empirical laws of sequence known at any time can only be "explained" in the sense of being subsumed by later discoveries under wider laws; but these wider laws, until they in turn are subsumed, will remain brute facts, resting solely upon observation, not upon some supposed inherent rationality. there is therefore no a priori objection to a causal law in which part of the cause has ceased to exist. to argue against such a law on the ground that what is past cannot operate now, is to introduce the old metaphysical notion of cause, for which science can find no place. the only reason that could be validly alleged against mnemic causation would be that, in fact, all the phenomena can be explained without it. they are explained without it by semon's "engram," or by any theory which regards the results of experience as embodied in modifications of the brain and nerves. but they are not explained, unless with extreme artificiality, by any theory which regards the latent effects of experience as psychical rather than physical. those who desire to make psychology as far as possible independent of physiology would do well, it seems to me, if they adopted mnemic causation. for my part, however, i have no such desire, and i shall therefore endeavour to state the grounds which occur to me in favour of some such view as that of the "engram." one of the first points to be urged is that mnemic phenomena are just as much to be found in physiology as in psychology. they are even to be found in plants, as sir francis darwin pointed out (cf. semon, "die mneme," nd edition, p. n.). habit is a characteristic of the body at least as much as of the mind. we should, therefore, be compelled to allow the intrusion of mnemic causation, if admitted at all, into non-psychological regions, which ought, one feels, to be subject only to causation of the ordinary physical sort. the fact is that a great deal of what, at first sight, distinguishes psychology from physics is found, on examination, to be common to psychology and physiology; this whole question of the influence of experience is a case in point. now it is possible, of course, to take the view advocated by professor j. s. haldane, who contends that physiology is not theoretically reducible to physics and chemistry.* but the weight of opinion among physiologists appears to be against him on this point; and we ought certainly to require very strong evidence before admitting any such breach of continuity as between living and dead matter. the argument from the existence of mnemic phenomena in physiology must therefore be allowed a certain weight against the hypothesis that mnemic causation is ultimate. * see his "the new physiology and other addresses," griffin, , also the symposium, "are physical, biological and psychological categories irreducible?" in "life and finite individuality," edited for the aristotelian society, with an introduction. by h. wildon carr, williams & norgate, . the argument from the connection of brain-lesions with loss of memory is not so strong as it looks, though it has also, some weight. what we know is that memory, and mnemic phenomena generally, can be disturbed or destroyed by changes in the brain. this certainly proves that the brain plays an essential part in the causation of memory, but does not prove that a certain state of the brain is, by itself, a sufficient condition for the existence of memory. yet it is this last that has to be proved. the theory of the engram, or any similar theory, has to maintain that, given a body and brain in a suitable state, a man will have a certain memory, without the need of any further conditions. what is known, however, is only that he will not have memories if his body and brain are not in a suitable state. that is to say, the appropriate state of body and brain is proved to be necessary for memory, but not to be sufficient. so far, therefore, as our definite knowledge goes, memory may require for its causation a past occurrence as well as a certain present state of the brain. in order to prove conclusively that mnemic phenomena arise whenever certain physiological conditions are fulfilled, we ought to be able actually to see differences between the brain of a man who speaks english and that of a man who speaks french, between the brain of a man who has seen new york and can recall it, and that of a man who has never seen that city. it may be that the time will come when this will be possible, but at present we are very far removed from it. at present, there is, so far as i am aware, no good evidence that every difference between the knowledge possessed by a and that possessed by b is paralleled by some difference in their brains. we may believe that this is the case, but if we do, our belief is based upon analogies and general scientific maxims, not upon any foundation of detailed observation. i am myself inclined, as a working hypothesis, to adopt the belief in question, and to hold that past experience only affects present behaviour through modifications of physiological structure. but the evidence seems not quite conclusive, so that i do not think we ought to forget the other hypothesis, or to reject entirely the possibility that mnemic causation may be the ultimate explanation of mnemic phenomena. i say this, not because i think it likely that mnemic causation is ultimate, but merely because i think it possible, and because it often turns out important to the progress of science to remember hypotheses which have previously seemed improbable. lecture v. psychological and physical causal laws the traditional conception of cause and effect is one which modern science shows to be fundamentally erroneous, and requiring to be replaced by a quite different notion, that of laws of change. in the traditional conception, a particular event a caused a particular event b, and by this it was implied that, given any event b, some earlier event a could be discovered which had a relation to it, such that-- ( ) whenever a occurred, it was followed by b; ( ) in this sequence, there was something "necessary," not a mere de facto occurrence of a first and then b. the second point is illustrated by the old discussion as to whether it can be said that day causes night, on the ground that day is always followed by night. the orthodox answer was that day could not be called the cause of night, because it would not be followed by night if the earth's rotation were to cease, or rather to grow so slow that one complete rotation would take a year. a cause, it was held, must be such that under no conceivable circumstances could it fail to be followed by its effect. as a matter of fact, such sequences as were sought by believers in the traditional form of causation have not so far been found in nature. everything in nature is apparently in a state of continuous change,* so that what we call one "event" turns out to be really a process. if this event is to cause another event, the two will have to be contiguous in time; for if there is any interval between them, something may happen during that interval to prevent the expected effect. cause and effect, therefore, will have to be temporally contiguous processes. it is difficult to believe, at any rate where physical laws are concerned, that the earlier part of the process which is the cause can make any difference to the effect, so long as the later part of the process which is the cause remains unchanged. suppose, for example, that a man dies of arsenic poisoning, we say that his taking arsenic was the cause of death. but clearly the process by which he acquired the arsenic is irrelevant: everything that happened before he swallowed it may be ignored, since it cannot alter the effect except in so far as it alters his condition at the moment of taking the dose. but we may go further: swallowing arsenic is not really the proximate cause of death, since a man might be shot through the head immediately after taking the dose, and then it would not be of arsenic that he would die. the arsenic produces certain physiological changes, which take a finite time before they end in death. the earlier parts of these changes can be ruled out in the same way as we can rule out the process by which the arsenic was acquired. proceeding in this way, we can shorten the process which we are calling the cause more and more. similarly we shall have to shorten the effect. it may happen that immediately after the man's death his body is blown to pieces by a bomb. we cannot say what will happen after the man's death, through merely knowing that he has died as the result of arsenic poisoning. thus, if we are to take the cause as one event and the effect as another, both must be shortened indefinitely. the result is that we merely have, as the embodiment of our causal law, a certain direction of change at each moment. hence we are brought to differential equations as embodying causal laws. a physical law does not say "a will be followed by b," but tells us what acceleration a particle will have under given circumstances, i.e. it tells us how the particle's motion is changing at each moment, not where the particle will be at some future moment. * the theory of quanta suggests that the continuity is only apparent. if so, we shall be able theoretically to reach events which are not processes. but in what is directly observable there is still apparent continuity, which justifies the above remarks for the prevent. laws embodied in differential equations may possibly be exact, but cannot be known to be so. all that we can know empirically is approximate and liable to exceptions; the exact laws that are assumed in physics are known to be somewhere near the truth, but are not known to be true just as they stand. the laws that we actually know empirically have the form of the traditional causal laws, except that they are not to be regarded as universal or necessary. "taking arsenic is followed by death" is a good empirical generalization; it may have exceptions, but they will be rare. as against the professedly exact laws of physics, such empirical generalizations have the advantage that they deal with observable phenomena. we cannot observe infinitesimals, whether in time or space; we do not even know whether time and space are infinitely divisible. therefore rough empirical generalizations have a definite place in science, in spite of not being exact of universal. they are the data for more exact laws, and the grounds for believing that they are usually true are stronger than the grounds for believing that the more exact laws are always true. science starts, therefore, from generalizations of the form, "a is usually followed by b." this is the nearest approach that can be made to a causal law of the traditional sort. it may happen in any particular instance that a is always followed by b, but we cannot know this, since we cannot foresee all the perfectly possible circumstances that might make the sequence fail, or know that none of them will actually occur. if, however, we know of a very large number of cases in which a is followed by b, and few or none in which the sequence fails, we shall in practice be justified in saying "a causes b," provided we do not attach to the notion of cause any of the metaphysical superstitions that have gathered about the word. there is another point, besides lack of universality and necessity, which it is important to realize as regards causes in the above sense, and that is the lack of uniqueness. it is generally assumed that, given any event, there is some one phenomenon which is the cause of the event in question. this seems to be a mere mistake. cause, in the only sense in which it can be practically applied, means "nearly invariable antecedent." we cannot in practice obtain an antecedent which is quite invariable, for this would require us to take account of the whole universe, since something not taken account of may prevent the expected effect. we cannot distinguish, among nearly invariable antecedents, one as the cause, and the others as merely its concomitants: the attempt to do this depends upon a notion of cause which is derived from will, and will (as we shall see later) is not at all the sort of thing that it is generally supposed to be, nor is there any reason to think that in the physical world there is anything even remotely analogous to what will is supposed to be. if we could find one antecedent, and only one, that was quite invariable, we could call that one the cause without introducing any notion derived from mistaken ideas about will. but in fact we cannot find any antecedent that we know to be quite invariable, and we can find many that are nearly so. for example, men leave a factory for dinner when the hooter sounds at twelve o'clock. you may say the hooter is the cause of their leaving. but innumerable other hooters in other factories, which also always sound at twelve o'clock, have just as good a right to be called the cause. thus every event has many nearly invariable antecedents, and therefore many antecedents which may be called its cause. the laws of traditional physics, in the form in which they deal with movements of matter or electricity, have an apparent simplicity which somewhat conceals the empirical character of what they assert. a piece of matter, as it is known empirically, is not a single existing thing, but a system of existing things. when several people simultaneously see the same table, they all see something different; therefore "the" table, which they are supposed all to see, must be either a hypothesis or a construction. "the" table is to be neutral as between different observers: it does not favour the aspect seen by one man at the expense of that seen by another. it was natural, though to my mind mistaken, to regard the "real" table as the common cause of all the appearances which the table presents (as we say) to different observers. but why should we suppose that there is some one common cause of all these appearances? as we have just seen, the notion of "cause" is not so reliable as to allow us to infer the existence of something that, by its very nature, can never be observed. instead of looking for an impartial source, we can secure neutrality by the equal representation of all parties. instead of supposing that there is some unknown cause, the "real" table, behind the different sensations of those who are said to be looking at the table, we may take the whole set of these sensations (together possibly with certain other particulars) as actually being the table. that is to say, the table which is neutral as between different observers (actual and possible) is the set of all those particulars which would naturally be called "aspects" of the table from different points of view. (this is a first approximation, modified later.) it may be said: if there is no single existent which is the source of all these "aspects," how are they collected together? the answer is simple: just as they would be if there were such a single existent. the supposed "real" table underlying its appearances is, in any case, not itself perceived, but inferred, and the question whether such-and-such a particular is an "aspect" of this table is only to be settled by the connection of the particular in question with the one or more particulars by which the table is defined. that is to say, even if we assume a "real" table, the particulars which are its aspects have to be collected together by their relations to each other, not to it, since it is merely inferred from them. we have only, therefore, to notice how they are collected together, and we can then keep the collection without assuming any "real" table as distinct from the collection. when different people see what they call the same table, they see things which are not exactly the same, owing to difference of point of view, but which are sufficiently alike to be described in the same words, so long as no great accuracy or minuteness is sought. these closely similar particulars are collected together by their similarity primarily and, more correctly, by the fact that they are related to each other approximately according to the laws of perspective and of reflection and diffraction of light. i suggest, as a first approximation, that these particulars, together with such correlated others as are unperceived, jointly are the table; and that a similar definition applies to all physical objects.* *see "our knowledge of the external world" (allen & unwin), chaps. iii and iv. in order to eliminate the reference to our perceptions, which introduces an irrelevant psychological suggestion, i will take a different illustration, namely, stellar photography. a photographic plate exposed on a clear night reproduces the appearance of the portion of the sky concerned, with more or fewer stars according to the power of the telescope that is being used. each separate star which is photographed produces its separate effect on the plate, just as it would upon ourselves if we were looking at the sky. if we assume, as science normally does, the continuity of physical processes, we are forced to conclude that, at the place where the plate is, and at all places between it and a star which it photographs, something is happening which is specially connected with that star. in the days when the aether was less in doubt, we should have said that what was happening was a certain kind of transverse vibration in the aether. but it is not necessary or desirable to be so explicit: all that we need say is that something happens which is specially connected with the star in question. it must be something specially connected with that star, since that star produces its own special effect upon the plate. whatever it is must be the end of a process which starts from the star and radiates outwards, partly on general grounds of continuity, partly to account for the fact that light is transmitted with a certain definite velocity. we thus arrive at the conclusion that, if a certain star is visible at a certain place, or could be photographed by a sufficiently sensitive plate at that place, something is happening there which is specially connected with that star. therefore in every place at all times a vast multitude of things must be happening, namely, at least one for every physical object which can be seen or photographed from that place. we can classify such happenings on either of two principles: ( ) we can collect together all the happenings in one place, as is done by photography so far as light is concerned; ( ) we can collect together all the happenings, in different places, which are connected in the way that common sense regards as being due to their emanating from one object. thus, to return to the stars, we can collect together either-- ( ) all the appearances of different stars in a given place, or, ( ) all the appearances of a given star in different places. but when i speak of "appearances," i do so only for brevity: i do not mean anything that must "appear" to somebody, but only that happening, whatever it may be, which is connected, at the place in question, with a given physical object--according to the old orthodox theory, it would be a transverse vibration in the aether. like the different appearances of the table to a number of simultaneous observers, the different particulars that belong to one physical object are to be collected together by continuity and inherent laws of correlation, not by their supposed causal connection with an unknown assumed existent called a piece of matter, which would be a mere unnecessary metaphysical thing in itself. a piece of matter, according to the definition that i propose, is, as a first approximation,* the collection of all those correlated particulars which would normally be regarded as its appearances or effects in different places. some further elaborations are desirable, but we can ignore them for the present. i shall return to them at the end of this lecture. *the exact definition of a piece of matter as a construction will be given later. according to the view that i am suggesting, a physical object or piece of matter is the collection of all those correlated particulars which would be regarded by common sense as its effects or appearances in different places. on the other hand, all the happenings in a given place represent what common sense would regard as the appearances of a number of different objects as viewed from that place. all the happenings in one place may be regarded as the view of the world from that place. i shall call the view of the world from a given place a "perspective." a photograph represents a perspective. on the other hand, if photographs of the stars were taken in all points throughout space, and in all such photographs a certain star, say sirius, were picked out whenever it appeared, all the different appearances of sirius, taken together, would represent sirius. for the understanding of the difference between psychology and physics it is vital to understand these two ways of classifying particulars, namely: ( ) according to the place where they occur; ( ) according to the system of correlated particulars in different places to which they belong, such system being defined as a physical object. given a system of particulars which is a physical object, i shall define that one of the system which is in a given place (if any) as the "appearance of that object in that place." when the appearance of an object in a given place changes, it is found that one or other of two things occurs. the two possibilities may be illustrated by an example. you are in a room with a man, whom you see: you may cease to see him either by shutting your eyes or by his going out of the room. in the first case, his appearance to other people remains unchanged; in the second, his appearance changes from all places. in the first case, you say that it is not he who has changed, but your eyes; in the second, you say that he has changed. generalizing, we distinguish-- ( ) cases in which only certain appearances of the object change, while others, and especially appearances from places very near to the object, do not change; ( ) cases where all, or almost all, the appearances of the object undergo a connected change. in the first case, the change is attributed to the medium between the object and the place; in the second, it is attributed to the object itself.* * the application of this distinction to motion raises complications due to relativity, but we may ignore these for our present purposes. it is the frequency of the latter kind of change, and the comparatively simple nature of the laws governing the simultaneous alterations of appearances in such cases, that have made it possible to treat a physical object as one thing, and to overlook the fact that it is a system of particulars. when a number of people at a theatre watch an actor, the changes in their several perspectives are so similar and so closely correlated that all are popularly regarded as identical with each other and with the changes of the actor himself. so long as all the changes in the appearances of a body are thus correlated there is no pressing prima facie need to break up the system of appearances, or to realize that the body in question is not really one thing but a set of correlated particulars. it is especially and primarily such changes that physics deals with, i.e. it deals primarily with processes in which the unity of a physical object need not be broken up because all its appearances change simultaneously according to the same law--or, if not all, at any rate all from places sufficiently near to the object, with in creasing accuracy as we approach the object. the changes in appearances of an object which are due to changes in the intervening medium will not affect, or will affect only very slightly, the appearances from places close to the object. if the appearances from sufficiently neighbouring places are either wholly un changed, or changed to a diminishing extent which has zero for its limit, it is usually found that the changes can be accounted for by changes in objects which are between the object in question and the places from which its appearance has changed appreciably. thus physics is able to reduce the laws of most changes with which it deals to changes in physical objects, and to state most of its fundamental laws in terms of matter. it is only in those cases in which the unity of the system of appearances constituting a piece of matter has to be broken up, that the statement of what is happening cannot be made exclusively in terms of matter. the whole of psychology, we shall find, is included among such cases; hence their importance for our purposes. we can now begin to understand one of the fundamental differences between physics and psychology. physics treats as a unit the whole system of appearances of a piece of matter, whereas psychology is interested in certain of these appearances themselves. confining ourselves for the moment to the psychology of perceptions, we observe that perceptions are certain of the appearances of physical objects. from the point of view that we have been hitherto adopting, we might define them as the appearances of objects at places from which sense-organs and the suitable parts of the nervous system form part of the intervening medium. just as a photographic plate receives a different impression of a cluster of stars when a telescope is part of the intervening medium, so a brain receives a different impression when an eye and an optic nerve are part of the intervening medium. an impression due to this sort of intervening medium is called a perception, and is interesting to psychology on its own account, not merely as one of the set of correlated particulars which is the physical object of which (as we say) we are having a perception. we spoke earlier of two ways of classifying particulars. one way collects together the appearances commonly regarded as a given object from different places; this is, broadly speaking, the way of physics, leading to the construction of physical objects as sets of such appearances. the other way collects together the appearances of different objects from a given place, the result being what we call a perspective. in the particular case where the place concerned is a human brain, the perspective belonging to the place consists of all the perceptions of a certain man at a given time. thus classification by perspectives is relevant to psychology, and is essential in defining what we mean by one mind. i do not wish to suggest that the way in which i have been defining perceptions is the only possible way, or even the best way. it is the way that arose naturally out of our present topic. but when we approach psychology from a more introspective standpoint, we have to distinguish sensations and perceptions, if possible, from other mental occurrences, if any. we have also to consider the psychological effects of sensations, as opposed to their physical causes and correlates. these problems are quite distinct from those with which we have been concerned in the present lecture, and i shall not deal with them until a later stage. it is clear that psychology is concerned essentially with actual particulars, not merely with systems of particulars. in this it differs from physics, which, broadly speaking, is concerned with the cases in which all the particulars which make up one physical object can be treated as a single causal unit, or rather the particulars which are sufficiently near to the object of which they are appearances can be so treated. the laws which physics seeks can, broadly speaking, be stated by treating such systems of particulars as causal units. the laws which psychology seeks cannot be so stated, since the particulars themselves are what interests the psychologist. this is one of the fundamental differences between physics and psychology; and to make it clear has been the main purpose of this lecture. i will conclude with an attempt to give a more precise definition of a piece of matter. the appearances of a piece of matter from different places change partly according to intrinsic laws (the laws of perspective, in the case of visual shape), partly according to the nature of the intervening medium--fog, blue spectacles, telescopes, microscopes, sense-organs, etc. as we approach nearer to the object, the effect of the intervening medium grows less. in a generalized sense, all the intrinsic laws of change of appearance may be called "laws of perspective." given any appearance of an object, we can construct hypothetically a certain system of appearances to which the appearance in question would belong if the laws of perspective alone were concerned. if we construct this hypothetical system for each appearance of the object in turn, the system corresponding to a given appearance x will be independent of any distortion due to the medium beyond x, and will only embody such distortion as is due to the medium between x and the object. thus, as the appearance by which our hypothetical system is defined is moved nearer and nearer to the object, the hypothetical system of appearances defined by its means embodies less and less of the effect of the medium. the different sets of appearances resulting from moving x nearer and nearer to the object will approach to a limiting set, and this limiting set will be that system of appearances which the object would present if the laws of perspective alone were operative and the medium exercised no distorting effect. this limiting set of appearances may be defined, for purposes of physics, as the piece of matter concerned. lecture vi. introspection one of the main purposes of these lectures is to give grounds for the belief that the distinction between mind and matter is not so fundamental as is commonly supposed. in the preceding lecture i dealt in outline with the physical side of this problem. i attempted to show that what we call a material object is not itself a substance, but is a system of particulars analogous in their nature to sensations, and in fact often including actual sensations among their number. in this way the stuff of which physical objects are composed is brought into relation with the stuff of which part, at least, of our mental life is composed. there is, however, a converse task which is equally necessary for our thesis, and that is, to show that the stuff of our mental life is devoid of many qualities which it is commonly supposed to have, and is not possessed of any attributes which make it incapable of forming part of the world of matter. in the present lecture i shall begin the arguments for this view. corresponding to the supposed duality of matter and mind, there are, in orthodox psychology, two ways of knowing what exists. one of these, the way of sensation and external perception, is supposed to furnish data for our knowledge of matter, the other, called "introspection," is supposed to furnish data for knowledge of our mental processes. to common sense, this distinction seems clear and easy. when you see a friend coming along the street, you acquire knowledge of an external, physical fact; when you realize that you are glad to meet him, you acquire knowledge of a mental fact. your dreams and memories and thoughts, of which you are often conscious, are mental facts, and the process by which you become aware of them seems to be different from sensation. kant calls it the "inner sense"; sometimes it is spoken of as "consciousness of self"; but its commonest name in modern english psychology is "introspection." it is this supposed method of acquiring knowledge of our mental processes that i wish to analyse and examine in this lecture. i will state at the outset the view which i shall aim at establishing. i believe that the stuff of our mental life, as opposed to its relations and structure, consists wholly of sensations and images. sensations are connected with matter in the way that i tried to explain in lecture v, i.e. each is a member of a system which is a certain physical object. images, though they usually have certain characteristics, especially lack of vividness, that distinguish them from sensations, are not invariably so distinguished, and cannot therefore be defined by these characteristics. images, as opposed to sensations, can only be defined by their different causation: they are caused by association with a sensation, not by a stimulus external to the nervous system--or perhaps one should say external to the brain, where the higher animals are concerned. the occurrence of a sensation or image does not in itself constitute knowledge but any sensation or image may come to be known if the conditions are suitable. when a sensation--like the hearing of a clap of thunder--is normally correlated with closely similar sensations in our neighbours, we regard it as giving knowledge of the external world, since we regard the whole set of similar sensations as due to a common external cause. but images and bodily sensations are not so correlated. bodily sensations can be brought into a correlation by physiology, and thus take their place ultimately among sources of knowledge of the physical world. but images cannot be made to fit in with the simultaneous sensations and images of others. apart from their hypothetical causes in the brain, they have a causal connection with physical objects, through the fact that they are copies of past sensations; but the physical objects with which they are thus connected are in the past, not in the present. these images remain private in a sense in which sensations are not. a sensation seems to give us knowledge of a present physical object, while an image does not, except when it amounts to a hallucination, and in this case the seeming is deceptive. thus the whole context of the two occurrences is different. but in themselves they do not differ profoundly, and there is no reason to invoke two different ways of knowing for the one and for the other. consequently introspection as a separate kind of knowledge disappears. the criticism of introspection has been in the main the work of american psychologists. i will begin by summarizing an article which seems to me to afford a good specimen of their arguments, namely, "the case against introspection," by knight dunlap ("psychological review," vol xix, no. , pp. - , september, ). after a few historical quotations, he comes to two modern defenders of introspection, stout and james. he quotes from stout such statements as the following: "psychical states as such become objects only when we attend to them in an introspective way. otherwise they are not themselves objects, but only constituents of the process by which objects are recognized" ("manual," nd edition, p. . the word "recognized" in dunlap's quotation should be "cognized.") "the object itself can never be identified with the present modification of the individual's consciousness by which it is cognized" (ib. p. ). this is to be true even when we are thinking about modifications of our own consciousness; such modifications are to be always at least partially distinct from the conscious experience in which we think of them. at this point i wish to interrupt the account of knight dunlap's article in order to make some observations on my own account with reference to the above quotations from stout. in the first place, the conception of "psychical states" seems to me one which demands analysis of a somewhat destructive character. this analysis i shall give in later lectures as regards cognition; i have already given it as regards desire. in the second place, the conception of "objects" depends upon a certain view as to cognition which i believe to be wholly mistaken, namely, the view which i discussed in my first lecture in connection with brentano. in this view a single cognitive occurrence contains both content and object, the content being essentially mental, while the object is physical except in introspection and abstract thought. i have already criticized this view, and will not dwell upon it now, beyond saying that "the process by which objects are cognized" appears to be a very slippery phrase. when we "see a table," as common sense would say, the table as a physical object is not the "object" (in the psychological sense) of our perception. our perception is made up of sensations, images and beliefs, but the supposed "object" is something inferential, externally related, not logically bound up with what is occurring in us. this question of the nature of the object also affects the view we take of self-consciousness. obviously, a "conscious experience" is different from a physical object; therefore it is natural to assume that a thought or perception whose object is a conscious experience must be different from a thought or perception whose object is a physical object. but if the relation to the object is inferential and external, as i maintain, the difference between two thoughts may bear very little relation to the difference between their objects. and to speak of "the present modification of the individual's consciousness by which an object is cognized" is to suggest that the cognition of objects is a far more direct process, far more intimately bound up with the objects, than i believe it to be. all these points will be amplified when we come to the analysis of knowledge, but it is necessary briefly to state them now in order to suggest the atmosphere in which our analysis of "introspection" is to be carried on. another point in which stout's remarks seem to me to suggest what i regard as mistakes is his use of "consciousness." there is a view which is prevalent among psychologists, to the effect that one can speak of "a conscious experience" in a curious dual sense, meaning, on the one hand, an experience which is conscious of something, and, on the other hand, an experience which has some intrinsic nature characteristic of what is called "consciousness." that is to say, a "conscious experience" is characterized on the one hand by relation to its object and on the other hand by being composed of a certain peculiar stuff, the stuff of "consciousness." and in many authors there is yet a third confusion: a "conscious experience," in this third sense, is an experience of which we are conscious. all these, it seems to me, need to be clearly separated. to say that one occurrence is "conscious" of another is, to my mind, to assert an external and rather remote relation between them. i might illustrate it by the relation of uncle and nephew a man becomes an uncle through no effort of his own, merely through an occurrence elsewhere. similarly, when you are said to be "conscious" of a table, the question whether this is really the case cannot be decided by examining only your state of mind: it is necessary also to ascertain whether your sensation is having those correlates which past experience causes you to assume, or whether the table happens, in this case, to be a mirage. and, as i explained in my first lecture, i do not believe that there is any "stuff" of consciousness, so that there is no intrinsic character by which a "conscious" experience could be distinguished from any other. after these preliminaries, we can return to knight dunlap's article. his criticism of stout turns on the difficulty of giving any empirical meaning to such notions as the "mind" or the "subject"; he quotes from stout the sentence: "the most important drawback is that the mind, in watching its own workings, must necessarily have its attention divided between two objects," and he concludes: "without question, stout is bringing in here illicitly the concept of a single observer, and his introspection does not provide for the observation of this observer; for the process observed and the observer are distinct" (p. ). the objections to any theory which brings in the single observer were considered in lecture i, and were acknowledged to be cogent. in so far, therefore, as stout's theory of introspection rests upon this assumption, we are compelled to reject it. but it is perfectly possible to believe in introspection without supposing that there is a single observer. william james's theory of introspection, which dunlap next examines, does not assume a single observer. it changed after the publication of his "psychology," in consequence of his abandoning the dualism of thought and things. dunlap summarizes his theory as follows: "the essential points in james's scheme of consciousness are subject, object, and a knowing of the object by the subject. the difference between james's scheme and other schemes involving the same terms is that james considers subject and object to be the same thing, but at different times in order to satisfy this requirement james supposes a realm of existence which he at first called 'states of consciousness' or 'thoughts,' and later, 'pure experience,' the latter term including both the 'thoughts' and the 'knowing.' this scheme, with all its magnificent artificiality, james held on to until the end, simply dropping the term consciousness and the dualism between the thought and an external reality"(p. ). he adds: "all that james's system really amounts to is the acknowledgment that a succession of things are known, and that they are known by something. this is all any one can claim, except for the fact that the things are known together, and that the knower for the different items is one and the same" (ib.). in this statement, to my mind, dunlap concedes far more than james did in his later theory. i see no reason to suppose that "the knower for different items is one and the same," and i am convinced that this proposition could not possibly be ascertained except by introspection of the sort that dunlap rejects. the first of these points must wait until we come to the analysis of belief: the second must be considered now. dunlap's view is that there is a dualism of subject and object, but that the subject can never become object, and therefore there is no awareness of an awareness. he says in discussing the view that introspection reveals the occurrence of knowledge: "there can be no denial of the existence of the thing (knowing) which is alleged to be known or observed in this sort of 'introspection.' the allegation that the knowing is observed is that which may be denied. knowing there certainly is; known, the knowing certainly is not"(p. ). and again: "i am never aware of an awareness" (ib.). and on the next page: "it may sound paradoxical to say that one cannot observe the process (or relation) of observation, and yet may be certain that there is such a process: but there is really no inconsistency in the saying. how do i know that there is awareness? by being aware of something. there is no meaning in the term 'awareness' which is not expressed in the statement 'i am aware of a colour (or what-not).'" but the paradox cannot be so lightly disposed of. the statement "i am aware of a colour" is assumed by knight dunlap to be known to be true, but he does not explain how it comes to be known. the argument against him is not conclusive, since he may be able to show some valid way of inferring our awareness. but he does not suggest any such way. there is nothing odd in the hypothesis of beings which are aware of objects, but not of their own awareness; it is, indeed, highly probable that young children and the higher animals are such beings. but such beings cannot make the statement "i am aware of a colour," which we can make. we have, therefore, some knowledge which they lack. it is necessary to knight dunlap's position to maintain that this additional knowledge is purely inferential, but he makes no attempt to show how the inference is possible. it may, of course, be possible, but i cannot see how. to my mind the fact (which he admits) that we know there is awareness, is all but decisive against his theory, and in favour of the view that we can be aware of an awareness. dunlap asserts (to return to james) that the real ground for james's original belief in introspection was his belief in two sorts of objects, namely, thoughts and things. he suggests that it was a mere inconsistency on james's part to adhere to introspection after abandoning the dualism of thoughts and things. i do not wholly agree with this view, but it is difficult to disentangle the difference as to introspection from the difference as to the nature of knowing. dunlap suggests (p. ) that what is called introspection really consists of awareness of "images," visceral sensations, and so on. this view, in essence, seems to me sound. but then i hold that knowing itself consists of such constituents suitably related, and that in being aware of them we are sometimes being aware of instances of knowing. for this reason, much as i agree with his view as to what are the objects of which there is awareness, i cannot wholly agree with his conclusion as to the impossibility of introspection. the behaviourists have challenged introspection even more vigorously than knight dunlap, and have gone so far as to deny the existence of images. but i think that they have confused various things which are very commonly confused, and that it is necessary to make several distinctions before we can arrive at what is true and what false in the criticism of introspection. i wish to distinguish three distinct questions, any one of which may be meant when we ask whether introspection is a source of knowledge. the three questions are as follows: ( ) can we observe anything about ourselves which we cannot observe about other people, or is everything we can observe public, in the sense that another could also observe it if suitably placed? ( ) does everything that we can observe obey the laws of physics and form part of the physical world, or can we observe certain things that lie outside physics? ( ) can we observe anything which differs in its intrinsic nature from the constituents of the physical world, or is everything that we can observe composed of elements intrinsically similar to the constituents of what is called matter? any one of these three questions may be used to define introspection. i should favour introspection in the sense of the first question, i.e. i think that some of the things we observe cannot, even theoretically, be observed by any one else. the second question, tentatively and for the present, i should answer in favour of introspection; i think that images, in the actual condition of science, cannot be brought under the causal laws of physics, though perhaps ultimately they may be. the third question i should answer adversely to introspection i think that observation shows us nothing that is not composed of sensations and images, and that images differ from sensations in their causal laws, not intrinsically. i shall deal with the three questions successively. ( ) publicity or privacy of what is observed. confining ourselves, for the moment, to sensations, we find that there are different degrees of publicity attaching to different sorts of sensations. if you feel a toothache when the other people in the room do not, you are in no way surprised; but if you hear a clap of thunder when they do not, you begin to be alarmed as to your mental condition. sight and hearing are the most public of the senses; smell only a trifle less so; touch, again, a trifle less, since two people can only touch the same spot successively, not simultaneously. taste has a sort of semi-publicity, since people seem to experience similar taste-sensations when they eat similar foods; but the publicity is incomplete, since two people cannot eat actually the same piece of food. but when we pass on to bodily sensations--headache, toothache, hunger, thirst, the feeling of fatigue, and so on--we get quite away from publicity, into a region where other people can tell us what they feel, but we cannot directly observe their feeling. as a natural result of this state of affairs, it has come to be thought that the public senses give us knowledge of the outer world, while the private senses only give us knowledge as to our own bodies. as regards privacy, all images, of whatever sort, belong with the sensations which only give knowledge of our own bodies, i.e. each is only observable by one observer. this is the reason why images of sight and hearing are more obviously different from sensations of sight and hearing than images of bodily sensations are from bodily sensations; and that is why the argument in favour of images is more conclusive in such cases as sight and hearing than in such cases as inner speech. the whole distinction of privacy and publicity, however, so long as we confine ourselves to sensations, is one of degree, not of kind. no two people, there is good empirical reason to think, ever have exactly similar sensations related to the same physical object at the same moment; on the other hand, even the most private sensation has correlations which would theoretically enable another observer to infer it. that no sensation is ever completely public, results from differences of point of view. two people looking at the same table do not get the same sensation, because of perspective and the way the light falls. they get only correlated sensations. two people listening to the same sound do not hear exactly the same thing, because one is nearer to the source of the sound than the other, one has better hearing than the other, and so on. thus publicity in sensations consists, not in having precisely similar sensations, but in having more or less similar sensations correlated according to ascertainable laws. the sensations which strike us as public are those where the correlated sensations are very similar and the correlations are very easy to discover. but even the most private sensations have correlations with things that others can observe. the dentist does not observe your ache, but he can see the cavity which causes it, and could guess that you are suffering even if you did not tell him. this fact, however, cannot be used, as watson would apparently wish, to extrude from science observations which are private to one observer, since it is by means of many such observations that correlations are established, e.g. between toothaches and cavities. privacy, therefore does not by itself make a datum unamenable to scientific treatment. on this point, the argument against introspection must be rejected. ( ) does everything observable obey the laws of physics? we come now to the second ground of objection to introspection, namely, that its data do not obey the laws of physics. this, though less emphasized, is, i think, an objection which is really more strongly felt than the objection of privacy. and we obtain a definition of introspection more in harmony with usage if we define it as observation of data not subject to physical laws than if we define it by means of privacy. no one would regard a man as introspective because he was conscious of having a stomach ache. opponents of introspection do not mean to deny the obvious fact that we can observe bodily sensations which others cannot observe. for example, knight dunlap contends that images are really muscular contractions,* and evidently regards our awareness of muscular contractions as not coming under the head of introspection. i think it will be found that the essential characteristic of introspective data, in the sense which now concerns us, has to do with localization: either they are not localized at all, or they are localized, like visual images, in a place already physically occupied by something which would be inconsistent with them if they were regarded as part of the physical world. if you have a visual image of your friend sitting in a chair which in fact is empty, you cannot locate the image in your body, because it is visual, nor (as a physical phenomenon) in the chair, because the chair, as a physical object, is empty. thus it seems to follow that the physical world does not include all that we are aware of, and that images, which are introspective data, have to be regarded, for the present, as not obeying the laws of physics; this is, i think, one of the chief reasons why an attempt is made to reject them. i shall try to show in lecture viii that the purely empirical reasons for accepting images are overwhelming. but we cannot be nearly so certain that they will not ultimately be brought under the laws of physics. even if this should happen, however, they would still be distinguishable from sensations by their proximate causal laws, as gases remain distinguishable from solids. * "psychological review," , "thought-content and feeling," p. . see also ib., , "the nature of perceived relations," where he says: "'introspection,' divested of its mythological suggestion of the observing of consciousness, is really the observation of bodily sensations (sensibles) and feelings (feelables)"(p. n.). ( ) can we observe anything intrinsically different from sensations? we come now to our third question concerning introspection. it is commonly thought that by looking within we can observe all sorts of things that are radically different from the constituents of the physical world, e.g. thoughts, beliefs, desires, pleasures, pains and emotions. the difference between mind and matter is increased partly by emphasizing these supposed introspective data, partly by the supposition that matter is composed of atoms or electrons or whatever units physics may at the moment prefer. as against this latter supposition, i contend that the ultimate constituents of matter are not atoms or electrons, but sensations, and other things similar to sensations as regards extent and duration. as against the view that introspection reveals a mental world radically different from sensations, i propose to argue that thoughts, beliefs, desires, pleasures, pains and emotions are all built up out of sensations and images alone, and that there is reason to think that images do not differ from sensations in their intrinsic character. we thus effect a mutual rapprochement of mind and matter, and reduce the ultimate data of introspection (in our second sense) to images alone. on this third view of the meaning of introspection, therefore, our decision is wholly against it. there remain two points to be considered concerning introspection. the first is as to how far it is trustworthy; the second is as to whether, even granting that it reveals no radically different stuff from that revealed by what might be called external perception, it may not reveal different relations, and thus acquire almost as much importance as is traditionally assigned to it. to begin with the trustworthiness of introspection. it is common among certain schools to regard the knowledge of our own mental processes as incomparably more certain than our knowledge of the "external" world; this view is to be found in the british philosophy which descends from hume, and is present, somewhat veiled, in kant and his followers. there seems no reason whatever to accept this view. our spontaneous, unsophisticated beliefs, whether as to ourselves or as to the outer world, are always extremely rash and very liable to error. the acquisition of caution is equally necessary and equally difficult in both directions. not only are we often un aware of entertaining a belief or desire which exists in us; we are often actually mistaken. the fallibility of introspection as regards what we desire is made evident by psycho-analysis; its fallibility as to what we know is easily demonstrated. an autobiography, when confronted by a careful editor with documentary evidence, is usually found to be full of obviously inadvertent errors. any of us confronted by a forgotten letter written some years ago will be astonished to find how much more foolish our opinions were than we had remembered them as being. and as to the analysis of our mental operations--believing, desiring, willing, or what not--introspection unaided gives very little help: it is necessary to construct hypotheses and test them by their consequences, just as we do in physical science. introspection, therefore, though it is one among our sources of knowledge, is not, in isolation, in any degree more trustworthy than "external" perception. i come now to our second question: does introspection give us materials for the knowledge of relations other than those arrived at by reflecting upon external perception? it might be contended that the essence of what is "mental" consists of relations, such as knowing for example, and that our knowledge concerning these essentially mental relations is entirely derived from introspection. if "knowing" were an unanalysable relation, this view would be incontrovertible, since clearly no such relation forms part of the subject matter of physics. but it would seem that "knowing" is really various relations, all of them complex. therefore, until they have been analysed, our present question must remain unanswered i shall return to it at the end of the present course of lectures. lecture vii. the definition of perception in lecture v we found reason to think that the ultimate constituents* of the world do not have the characteristics of either mind or matter as ordinarily understood: they are not solid persistent objects moving through space, nor are they fragments of "consciousness." but we found two ways of grouping particulars, one into "things" or "pieces of matter," the other into series of "perspectives," each series being what may be called a "biography." before we can define either sensations or images, it is necessary to consider this twofold classification in somewhat greater detail, and to derive from it a definition of perception. it should be said that, in so far as the classification assumes the whole world of physics (including its unperceived portions), it contains hypothetical elements. but we will not linger on the grounds for admitting these, which belong to the philosophy of physics rather than of psychology. * when i speak of "ultimate constituents," i do not mean necessarily such as are theoretically incapable of analysis, but only such as, at present, we can see no means of analysing. i speak of such constituents as "particulars," or as "relative particulars" when i wish to emphasize the fact that they may be themselves complex. the physical classification of particulars collects together all those that are aspects of one "thing." given any one particular, it is found often (we do not say always) that there are a number of other particulars differing from this one in gradually increasing degrees. those (or some of those) that differ from it only very slightly will be found to differ approximately according to certain laws which may be called, in a generalized sense, the laws of "perspective"; they include the ordinary laws of perspective as a special case. this approximation grows more and more nearly exact as the difference grows less; in technical language, the laws of perspective account for the differences to the first order of small quantities, and other laws are only required to account for second-order differences. that is to say, as the difference diminishes, the part of the difference which is not according to the laws of perspective diminishes much more rapidly, and bears to the total difference a ratio which tends towards zero as both are made smaller and smaller. by this means we can theoretically collect together a number of particulars which may be defined as the "aspects" or "appearances" of one thing at one time. if the laws of perspective were sufficiently known, the connection between different aspects would be expressed in differential equations. this gives us, so far, only those particulars which constitute one thing at one time. this set of particulars may be called a "momentary thing." to define that series of "momentary things" that constitute the successive states of one thing is a problem involving the laws of dynamics. these give the laws governing the changes of aspects from one time to a slightly later time, with the same sort of differential approximation to exactness as we obtained for spatially neighbouring aspects through the laws of perspective. thus a momentary thing is a set of particulars, while a thing (which may be identified with the whole history of the thing) is a series of such sets of particulars. the particulars in one set are collected together by the laws of perspective; the successive sets are collected together by the laws of dynamics. this is the view of the world which is appropriate to traditional physics. the definition of a "momentary thing" involves problems concerning time, since the particulars constituting a momentary thing will not be all simultaneous, but will travel outward from the thing with the velocity of light (in case the thing is in vacuo). there are complications connected with relativity, but for our present purpose they are not vital, and i shall ignore them. instead of first collecting together all the particulars constituting a momentary thing, and then forming the series of successive sets, we might have first collected together a series of successive aspects related by the laws of dynamics, and then have formed the set of such series related by the laws of perspective. to illustrate by the case of an actor on the stage: our first plan was to collect together all the aspects which he presents to different spectators at one time, and then to form the series of such sets. our second plan is first to collect together all the aspects which he presents successively to a given spectator, and then to do the same thing for the other spectators, thus forming a set of series instead of a series of sets. the first plan tells us what he does; the second the impressions he produces. this second way of classifying particulars is one which obviously has more relevance to psychology than the other. it is partly by this second method of classification that we obtain definitions of one "experience" or "biography" or "person." this method of classification is also essential to the definition of sensations and images, as i shall endeavour to prove later on. but we must first amplify the definition of perspectives and biographies. in our illustration of the actor, we spoke, for the moment, as though each spectator's mind were wholly occupied by the one actor. if this were the case, it might be possible to define the biography of one spectator as a series of successive aspects of the actor related according to the laws of dynamics. but in fact this is not the case. we are at all times during our waking life receiving a variety of impressions, which are aspects of a variety of things. we have to consider what binds together two simultaneous sensations in one person, or, more generally, any two occurrences which forte part of one experience. we might say, adhering to the standpoint of physics, that two aspects of different things belong to the same perspective when they are in the same place. but this would not really help us, since a "place" has not yet been defined. can we define what is meant by saying that two aspects are "in the same place," without introducing anything beyond the laws of perspective and dynamics? i do not feel sure whether it is possible to frame such a definition or not; accordingly i shall not assume that it is possible, but shall seek other characteristics by which a perspective or biography may be defined. when (for example) we see one man and hear another speaking at the same time, what we see and what we hear have a relation which we can perceive, which makes the two together form, in some sense, one experience. it is when this relation exists that two occurrences become associated. semon's "engram" is formed by all that we experience at one time. he speaks of two parts of this total as having the relation of "nebeneinander" (m. ; m.e. ff.), which is reminiscent of herbart's "zusammen." i think the relation may be called simply "simultaneity." it might be said that at any moment all sorts of things that are not part of my experience are happening in the world, and that therefore the relation we are seeking to define cannot be merely simultaneity. this, however, would be an error--the sort of error that the theory of relativity avoids. there is not one universal time, except by an elaborate construction; there are only local times, each of which may be taken to be the time within one biography. accordingly, if i am (say) hearing a sound, the only occurrences that are, in any simple sense, simultaneous with my sensation are events in my private world, i.e. in my biography. we may therefore define the "perspective" to which the sensation in question belongs as the set of particulars that are simultaneous with this sensation. and similarly we may define the "biography" to which the sensation belongs as the set of particulars that are earlier or later than, or simultaneous with, the given sensation. moreover, the very same definitions can be applied to particulars which are not sensations. they are actually required for the theory of relativity, if we are to give a philosophical explanation of what is meant by "local time" in that theory the relations of simultaneity and succession are known to us in our own experience; they may be analysable, but that does not affect their suitability for defining perspectives and biographies. such time-relations as can be constructed between events in different biographies are of a different kind: they are not experienced, and are merely logical, being designed to afford convenient ways of stating the correlations between different biographies. it is not only by time-relations that the parts of one biography are collected together in the case of living beings. in this case there are the mnemic phenomena which constitute the unity of one "experience," and transform mere occurrences into "experiences." i have already dwelt upon the importance of mnemic phenomena for psychology, and shall not enlarge upon them now, beyond observing that they are what transforms a biography (in our technical sense) into a life. it is they that give the continuity of a "person" or a "mind." but there is no reason to suppose that mnemic phenomena are associated with biographies except in the case of animals and plants. our two-fold classification of particulars gives rise to the dualism of body and biography in regard to everything in the universe, and not only in regard to living things. this arises as follows. every particular of the sort considered by physics is a member of two groups ( ) the group of particulars constituting the other aspects of the same physical object; ( ) the group of particulars that have direct time-relations to the given particular. each of these is associated with a place. when i look at a star, my sensation is ( ) a member of the group of particulars which is the star, and which is associated with the place where the star is; ( ) a member of the group of particulars which is my biography, and which is associated with the place where i am.* *i have explained elsewhere the manner in which space is constructed on this theory, and in which the position of a perspective is brought into relation with the position of a physical object ("our knowledge of the external world," lecture iii, pp. , ). the result is that every particular of the kind relevant to physics is associated with two places; e.g. my sensation of the star is associated with the place where i am and with the place where the star is. this dualism has nothing to do with any "mind" that i may be supposed to possess; it exists in exactly the same sense if i am replaced by a photographic plate. we may call the two places the active and passive places respectively.* thus in the case of a perception or photograph of a star, the active place is the place where the star is, while the passive place is the place where the percipient or photographic plate is. * i use these as mere names; i do not want to introduce any notion of "activity." we can thus, without departing from physics, collect together all the particulars actively at a given place, or all the particulars passively at a given place. in our own case, the one group is our body (or our brain), while the other is our mind, in so far as it consists of perceptions. in the case of the photographic plate, the first group is the plate as dealt with by physics, the second the aspect of the heavens which it photographs. (for the sake of schematic simplicity, i am ignoring various complications connected with time, which require some tedious but perfectly feasible elaborations.) thus what may be called subjectivity in the point of view is not a distinctive peculiarity of mind: it is present just as much in the photographic plate. and the photographic plate has its biography as well as its "matter." but this biography is an affair of physics, and has none of the peculiar characteristics by which "mental" phenomena are distinguished, with the sole exception of subjectivity. adhering, for the moment, to the standpoint of physics, we may define a "perception" of an object as the appearance of the object from a place where there is a brain (or, in lower animals, some suitable nervous structure), with sense-organs and nerves forming part of the intervening medium. such appearances of objects are distinguished from appearances in other places by certain peculiarities, namely: ( ) they give rise to mnemic phenomena; ( ) they are themselves affected by mnemic phenomena. that is to say, they may be remembered and associated or influence our habits, or give rise to images, etc., and they are themselves different from what they would have been if our past experience had been different--for example, the effect of a spoken sentence upon the hearer depends upon whether the hearer knows the language or not, which is a question of past experience. it is these two characteristics, both connected with mnemic phenomena, that distinguish perceptions from the appearances of objects in places where there is no living being. theoretically, though often not practically, we can, in our perception of an object, separate the part which is due to past experience from the part which proceeds without mnemic influences out of the character of the object. we may define as "sensation" that part which proceeds in this way, while the remainder, which is a mnemic phenomenon, will have to be added to the sensation to make up what is called the "perception." according to this definition, the sensation is a theoretical core in the actual experience; the actual experience is the perception. it is obvious that there are grave difficulties in carrying out these definitions, but we will not linger over them. we have to pass, as soon as we can, from the physical standpoint, which we have been hitherto adopting, to the standpoint of psychology, in which we make more use of introspection in the first of the three senses discussed in the preceding lecture. but before making the transition, there are two points which must be made clear. first: everything outside my own personal biography is outside my experience; therefore if anything can be known by me outside my biography, it can only be known in one of two ways: ( ) by inference from things within my biography, or ( ) by some a priori principle independent of experience. i do not myself believe that anything approaching certainty is to be attained by either of these methods, and therefore whatever lies outside my personal biography must be regarded, theoretically, as hypothesis. the theoretical argument for adopting the hypothesis is that it simplifies the statement of the laws according to which events happen in our experience. but there is no very good ground for supposing that a simple law is more likely to be true than a complicated law, though there is good ground for assuming a simple law in scientific practice, as a working hypothesis, if it explains the facts as well as another which is less simple. belief in the existence of things outside my own biography exists antecedently to evidence, and can only be destroyed, if at all, by a long course of philosophic doubt. for purposes of science, it is justified practically by the simplification which it introduces into the laws of physics. but from the standpoint of theoretical logic it must be regarded as a prejudice, not as a well-grounded theory. with this proviso, i propose to continue yielding to the prejudice. the second point concerns the relating of our point of view to that which regards sensations as caused by stimuli external to the nervous system (or at least to the brain), and distinguishes images as "centrally excited," i.e. due to causes in the brain which cannot be traced back to anything affecting the sense-organs. it is clear that, if our analysis of physical objects has been valid, this way of defining sensations needs reinterpretation. it is also clear that we must be able to find such a new interpretation if our theory is to be admissible. to make the matter clear, we will take the simplest possible illustration. consider a certain star, and suppose for the moment that its size is negligible. that is to say, we will regard it as, for practical purposes, a luminous point. let us further suppose that it exists only for a very brief time, say a second. then, according to physics, what happens is that a spherical wave of light travels outward from the star through space, just as, when you drop a stone into a stagnant pond, ripples travel outward from the place where the stone hit the water. the wave of light travels with a certain very nearly constant velocity, roughly , kilometres per second. this velocity may be ascertained by sending a flash of light to a mirror, and observing how long it takes before the reflected flash reaches you, just as the velocity of sound may be ascertained by means of an echo. what it is that happens when a wave of light reaches a given place we cannot tell, except in the sole case when the place in question is a brain connected with an eye which is turned in the right direction. in this one very special case we know what happens: we have the sensation called "seeing the star." in all other cases, though we know (more or less hypothetically) some of the correlations and abstract properties of the appearance of the star, we do not know the appearance itself. now you may, for the sake of illustration, compare the different appearances of the star to the conjugation of a greek verb, except that the number of its parts is really infinite, and not only apparently so to the despairing schoolboy. in vacuo, the parts are regular, and can be derived from the (imaginary) root according to the laws of grammar, i.e. of perspective. the star being situated in empty space, it may be defined, for purposes of physics, as consisting of all those appearances which it presents in vacuo, together with those which, according to the laws of perspective, it would present elsewhere if its appearances elsewhere were regular. this is merely the adaptation of the definition of matter which i gave in an earlier lecture. the appearance of a star at a certain place, if it is regular, does not require any cause or explanation beyond the existence of the star. every regular appearance is an actual member of the system which is the star, and its causation is entirely internal to that system. we may express this by saying that a regular appearance is due to the star alone, and is actually part of the star, in the sense in which a man is part of the human race. but presently the light of the star reaches our atmosphere. it begins to be refracted, and dimmed by mist, and its velocity is slightly diminished. at last it reaches a human eye, where a complicated process takes place, ending in a sensation which gives us our grounds for believing in all that has gone before. now, the irregular appearances of the star are not, strictly speaking, members of the system which is the star, according to our definition of matter. the irregular appearances, however, are not merely irregular: they proceed according to laws which can be stated in terms of the matter through which the light has passed on its way. the sources of an irregular appearance are therefore twofold: ( ) the object which is appearing irregularly; ) the intervening medium. it should be observed that, while the conception of a regular appearance is perfectly precise, the conception of an irregular appearance is one capable of any degree of vagueness. when the distorting influence of the medium is sufficiently great, the resulting particular can no longer be regarded as an appearance of an object, but must be treated on its own account. this happens especially when the particular in question cannot be traced back to one object, but is a blend of two or more. this case is normal in perception: we see as one what the microscope or telescope reveals to be many different objects. the notion of perception is therefore not a precise one: we perceive things more or less, but always with a very considerable amount of vagueness and confusion. in considering irregular appearances, there are certain very natural mistakes which must be avoided. in order that a particular may count as an irregular appearance of a certain object, it is not necessary that it should bear any resemblance to the regular appearances as regard its intrinsic qualities. all that is necessary is that it should be derivable from the regular appearances by the laws which express the distorting influence of the medium. when it is so derivable, the particular in question may be regarded as caused by the regular appearances, and therefore by the object itself, together with the modifications resulting from the medium. in other cases, the particular in question may, in the same sense, be regarded as caused by several objects together with the medium; in this case, it may be called a confused appearance of several objects. if it happens to be in a brain, it may be called a confused perception of these objects. all actual perception is confused to a greater or less extent. we can now interpret in terms of our theory the distinction between those mental occurrences which are said to have an external stimulus, and those which are said to be "centrally excited," i.e. to have no stimulus external to the brain. when a mental occurrence can be regarded as an appearance of an object external to the brain, however irregular, or even as a confused appearance of several such objects, then we may regard it as having for its stimulus the object or objects in question, or their appearances at the sense-organ concerned. when, on the other hand, a mental occurrence has not sufficient connection with objects external to the brain to be regarded as an appearance of such objects, then its physical causation (if any) will have to be sought in the brain. in the former case it can be called a perception; in the latter it cannot be so called. but the distinction is one of degree, not of kind. until this is realized, no satisfactory theory of perception, sensation, or imagination is possible. lecture viii. sensations and images the dualism of mind and matter, if we have been right so far, cannot be allowed as metaphysically valid. nevertheless, we seem to find a certain dualism, perhaps not ultimate, within the world as we observe it. the dualism is not primarily as to the stuff of the world, but as to causal laws. on this subject we may again quote william james. he points out that when, as we say, we merely "imagine" things, there are no such effects as would ensue if the things were what we call "real." he takes the case of imagining a fire. "i make for myself an experience of blazing fire; i place it near my body; but it does not warm me in the least. i lay a stick upon it and the stick either burns or remains green, as i please. i call up water, and pour it on the fire, and absolutely no difference ensues. i account for all such facts by calling this whole train of experiences unreal, a mental train. mental fire is what won't burn real sticks; mental water is what won't necessarily (though of course it may) put out even a mental fire.... with 'real' objects, on the contrary, consequences always accrue; and thus the real experiences get sifted from the mental ones, the things from our thoughts of them, fanciful or true, and precipitated together as the stable part of the whole experience--chaos, under the name of the physical world."* * "essays in radical empiricism," pp. - . in this passage james speaks, by mere inadvertence, as though the phenomena which he is describing as "mental" had no effects. this is, of course, not the case: they have their effects, just as much as physical phenomena do, but their effects follow different laws. for example, dreams, as freud has shown, are just as much subject to laws as are the motions of the planets. but the laws are different: in a dream you may be transported from one place to another in a moment, or one person may turn into another under your eyes. such differences compel you to distinguish the world of dreams from the physical world. if the two sorts of causal laws could be sharply distinguished, we could call an occurrence "physical" when it obeys causal laws appropriate to the physical world, and "mental" when it obeys causal laws appropriate to the mental world. since the mental world and the physical world interact, there would be a boundary between the two: there would be events which would have physical causes and mental effects, while there would be others which would have mental causes and physical effects. those that have physical causes and mental effects we should define as "sensations." those that have mental causes and physical effects might perhaps be identified with what we call voluntary movements; but they do not concern us at present. these definitions would have all the precision that could be desired if the distinction between physical and psychological causation were clear and sharp. as a matter of fact, however, this distinction is, as yet, by no means sharp. it is possible that, with fuller knowledge, it will be found to be no more ultimate than the distinction between the laws of gases and the laws of rigid bodies. it also suffers from the fact that an event may be an effect of several causes according to several causal laws we cannot, in general, point to anything unique as the cause of such-and-such an event. and finally it is by no means certain that the peculiar causal laws which govern mental events are not really physiological. the law of habit, which is one of the most distinctive, may be fully explicable in terms of the peculiarities of nervous tissue, and these peculiarities, in turn, may be explicable by the laws of physics. it seems, therefore, that we are driven to a different kind of definition. it is for this reason that it was necessary to develop the definition of perception. with this definition, we can define a sensation as the non-mnemic elements in a perception. when, following our definition, we try to decide what elements in our experience are of the nature of sensations, we find more difficulty than might have been expected. prima facie, everything is sensation that comes to us through the senses: the sights we see, the sounds we hear, the smells we smell, and so on; also such things as headache or the feeling of muscular strain. but in actual fact so much interpretation, so much of habitual correlation, is mixed with all such experiences, that the core of pure sensation is only to be extracted by careful investigation. to take a simple illustration: if you go to the theatre in your own country, you seem to hear equally well in the stalls or the dress circle; in either case you think you miss nothing. but if you go in a foreign country where you have a fair knowledge of the language, you will seem to have grown partially deaf, and you will find it necessary to be much nearer the stage than you would need to be in your own country. the reason is that, in hearing our own language spoken, we quickly and unconsciously fill out what we really hear with inferences to what the man must be saying, and we never realize that we have not heard the words we have merely inferred. in a foreign language, these inferences are more difficult, and we are more dependent upon actual sensation. if we found ourselves in a foreign world, where tables looked like cushions and cushions like tables, we should similarly discover how much of what we think we see is really inference. every fairly familiar sensation is to us a sign of the things that usually go with it, and many of these things will seem to form part of the sensation. i remember in the early days of motor-cars being with a friend when a tyre burst with a loud report. he thought it was a pistol, and supported his opinion by maintaining that he had seen the flash. but of course there had been no flash. nowadays no one sees a flash when a tyre bursts. in order, therefore, to arrive at what really is sensation in an occurrence which, at first sight, seems to contain nothing else, we have to pare away all that is due to habit or expectation or interpretation. this is a matter for the psychologist, and by no means an easy matter. for our purposes, it is not important to determine what exactly is the sensational core in any case; it is only important to notice that there certainly is a sensational core, since habit, expectation and interpretation are diversely aroused on diverse occasions, and the diversity is clearly due to differences in what is presented to the senses. when you open your newspaper in the morning, the actual sensations of seeing the print form a very minute part of what goes on in you, but they are the starting-point of all the rest, and it is through them that the newspaper is a means of information or mis-information. thus, although it may be difficult to determine what exactly is sensation in any given experience, it is clear that there is sensation, unless, like leibniz, we deny all action of the outer world upon us. sensations are obviously the source of our knowledge of the world, including our own body. it might seem natural to regard a sensation as itself a cognition, and until lately i did so regard it. when, say, i see a person i know coming towards me in the street, it seems as though the mere seeing were knowledge. it is of course undeniable that knowledge comes through the seeing, but i think it is a mistake to regard the mere seeing itself as knowledge. if we are so to regard it, we must distinguish the seeing from what is seen: we must say that, when we see a patch of colour of a certain shape, the patch of colour is one thing and our seeing of it is another. this view, however, demands the admission of the subject, or act, in the sense discussed in our first lecture. if there is a subject, it can have a relation to the patch of colour, namely, the sort of relation which we might call awareness. in that case the sensation, as a mental event, will consist of awareness of the colour, while the colour itself will remain wholly physical, and may be called the sense-datum, to distinguish it from the sensation. the subject, however, appears to be a logical fiction, like mathematical points and instants. it is introduced, not because observation reveals it, but because it is linguistically convenient and apparently demanded by grammar. nominal entities of this sort may or may not exist, but there is no good ground for assuming that they do. the functions that they appear to perform can always be performed by classes or series or other logical constructions, consisting of less dubious entities. if we are to avoid a perfectly gratuitous assumption, we must dispense with the subject as one of the actual ingredients of the world. but when we do this, the possibility of distinguishing the sensation from the sense-datum vanishes; at least i see no way of preserving the distinction. accordingly the sensation that we have when we see a patch of colour simply is that patch of colour, an actual constituent of the physical world, and part of what physics is concerned with. a patch of colour is certainly not knowledge, and therefore we cannot say that pure sensation is cognitive. through its psychological effects, it is the cause of cognitions, partly by being itself a sign of things that are correlated with it, as e.g. sensations of sight and touch are correlated, and partly by giving rise to images and memories after the sensation is faded. but in itself the pure sensation is not cognitive. in the first lecture we considered the view of brentano, that "we may define psychical phenomena by saying that they are phenomena which intentionally contain an object." we saw reasons to reject this view in general; we are now concerned to show that it must be rejected in the particular case of sensations. the kind of argument which formerly made me accept brentano's view in this case was exceedingly simple. when i see a patch of colour, it seemed to me that the colour is not psychical, but physical, while my seeing is not physical, but psychical. hence i concluded that the colour is something other than my seeing of the colour. this argument, to me historically, was directed against idealism: the emphatic part of it was the assertion that the colour is physical, not psychical. i shall not trouble you now with the grounds for holding as against berkeley that the patch of colour is physical; i have set them forth before, and i see no reason to modify them. but it does not follow that the patch of colour is not also psychical, unless we assume that the physical and the psychical cannot overlap, which i no longer consider a valid assumption. if we admit--as i think we should--that the patch of colour may be both physical and psychical, the reason for distinguishing the sense-datum from the sensation disappears, and we may say that the patch of colour and our sensation in seeing it are identical. this is the view of william james, professor dewey, and the american realists. perceptions, says professor dewey, are not per se cases of knowledge, but simply natural events with no more knowledge status than (say) a shower. "let them [the realists] try the experiment of conceiving perceptions as pure natural events, not cases of awareness or apprehension, and they will be surprised to see how little they miss."* i think he is right in this, except in supposing that the realists will be surprised. many of them already hold the view he is advocating, and others are very sympathetic to it. at any rate, it is the view which i shall adopt in these lectures. * dewey, "essays in experimental logic," pp. , . the stuff of the world, so far as we have experience of it, consists, on the view that i am advocating, of innumerable transient particulars such as occur in seeing, hearing, etc., together with images more or less resembling these, of which i shall speak shortly. if physics is true, there are, besides the particulars that we experience, others, probably equally (or almost equally) transient, which make up that part of the material world that does not come into the sort of contact with a living body that is required to turn it into a sensation. but this topic belongs to the philosophy of physics, and need not concern us in our present inquiry. sensations are what is common to the mental and physical worlds; they may be defined as the intersection of mind and matter. this is by no means a new view; it is advocated, not only by the american authors i have mentioned, but by mach in his analysis of sensations, which was published in . the essence of sensation, according to the view i am advocating, is its independence of past experience. it is a core in our actual experiences, never existing in isolation except possibly in very young infants. it is not itself knowledge, but it supplies the data for our knowledge of the physical world, including our own bodies. there are some who believe that our mental life is built up out of sensations alone. this may be true; but in any case i think the only ingredients required in addition to sensations are images. what images are, and how they are to be defined, we have now to inquire. the distinction between images and sensations might seem at first sight by no means difficult. when we shut our eyes and call up pictures of familiar scenes, we usually have no difficulty, so long as we remain awake, in discriminating between what we are imagining and what is really seen. if we imagine some piece of music that we know, we can go through it in our mind from beginning to end without any discoverable tendency to suppose that we are really hearing it. but although such cases are so clear that no confusion seems possible, there are many others that are far more difficult, and the definition of images is by no means an easy problem. to begin with: we do not always know whether what we are experiencing is a sensation or an image. the things we see in dreams when our eyes are shut must count as images, yet while we are dreaming they seem like sensations. hallucinations often begin as persistent images, and only gradually acquire that influence over belief that makes the patient regard them as sensations. when we are listening for a faint sound--the striking of a distant clock, or a horse's hoofs on the road--we think we hear it many times before we really do, because expectation brings us the image, and we mistake it for sensation. the distinction between images and sensations is, therefore, by no means always obvious to inspection.* * on the distinction between images and sensation, cf. semon, "die mnemischen empfindungen," pp. - . we may consider three different ways in which it has been sought to distinguish images from sensations, namely: ( ) by the less degree of vividness in images; ( ) by our absence of belief in their "physical reality"; ( ) by the fact that their causes and effects are different from those of sensations. i believe the third of these to be the only universally applicable criterion. the other two are applicable in very many cases, but cannot be used for purposes of definition because they are liable to exceptions. nevertheless, they both deserve to be carefully considered. ( ) hume, who gives the names "impressions" and "ideas" to what may, for present purposes, be identified with our "sensations" and "images," speaks of impressions as "those perceptions which enter with most force and violence" while he defines ideas as "the faint images of these (i.e. of impressions) in thinking and reasoning." his immediately following observations, however, show the inadequacy of his criteria of "force" and "faintness." he says: "i believe it will not be very necessary to employ many words in explaining this distinction. every one of himself will readily perceive the difference betwixt feeling and thinking. the common degrees of these are easily distinguished, though it is not impossible but in particular instances they may very nearly approach to each other. thus in sleep, in a fever, in madness, or in any very violent emotions of soul, our ideas may approach to our impressions; as, on the other hand, it sometimes happens, that our impressions are so faint and low that we cannot distinguish them from our ideas. but notwithstanding this near resemblance in a few instances, they are in general so very different, that no one can make a scruple to rank them under distinct heads, and assign to each a peculiar name to mark the difference" ("treatise of human nature," part i, section i). i think hume is right in holding that they should be ranked under distinct heads, with a peculiar name for each. but by his own confession in the above passage, his criterion for distinguishing them is not always adequate. a definition is not sound if it only applies in cases where the difference is glaring: the essential purpose of a definition is to provide a mark which is applicable even in marginal cases--except, of course, when we are dealing with a conception, like, e.g. baldness, which is one of degree and has no sharp boundaries. but so far we have seen no reason to think that the difference between sensations and images is only one of degree. professor stout, in his "manual of psychology," after discussing various ways of distinguishing sensations and images, arrives at a view which is a modification of hume's. he says (i quote from the second edition): "our conclusion is that at bottom the distinction between image and percept, as respectively faint and vivid states, is based on a difference of quality. the percept has an aggressiveness which does not belong to the image. it strikes the mind with varying degrees of force or liveliness according to the varying intensity of the stimulus. this degree of force or liveliness is part of what we ordinarily mean by the intensity of a sensation. but this constituent of the intensity of sensations is absent in mental imagery"(p. ). this view allows for the fact that sensations may reach any degree of faintness--e.g. in the case of a just visible star or a just audible sound--without becoming images, and that therefore mere faintness cannot be the characteristic mark of images. after explaining the sudden shock of a flash of lightning or a steam-whistle, stout says that "no mere image ever does strike the mind in this manner"(p. ). but i believe that this criterion fails in very much the same instances as those in which hume's criterion fails in its original form. macbeth speaks of-- that suggestion whose horrid image doth unfix my hair and make my seated heart knock at my ribs against the use of nature. the whistle of a steam-engine could hardly have a stronger effect than this. a very intense emotion will often bring with it--especially where some future action or some undecided issue is involved--powerful compelling images which may determine the whole course of life, sweeping aside all contrary solicitations to the will by their capacity for exclusively possessing the mind. and in all cases where images, originally recognized as such, gradually pass into hallucinations, there must be just that "force or liveliness" which is supposed to be always absent from images. the cases of dreams and fever-delirium are as hard to adjust to professor stout's modified criterion as to hume's. i conclude therefore that the test of liveliness, however applicable in ordinary instances, cannot be used to define the differences between sensations and images. ( ) we might attempt to distinguish images from sensations by our absence of belief in the "physical reality" of images. when we are aware that what we are experiencing is an image, we do not give it the kind of belief that we should give to a sensation: we do not think that it has the same power of producing knowledge of the "external world." images are "imaginary"; in some sense they are "unreal." but this difference is hard to analyse or state correctly. what we call the "unreality" of images requires interpretation it cannot mean what would be expressed by saying "there's no such thing." images are just as truly part of the actual world as sensations are. all that we really mean by calling an image "unreal" is that it does not have the concomitants which it would have if it were a sensation. when we call up a visual image of a chair, we do not attempt to sit in it, because we know that, like macbeth's dagger, it is not "sensible to feeling as to sight"--i.e. it does not have the correlations with tactile sensations which it would have if it were a visual sensation and not merely a visual image. but this means that the so-called "unreality" of images consists merely in their not obeying the laws of physics, and thus brings us back to the causal distinction between images and sensations. this view is confirmed by the fact that we only feel images to be "unreal" when we already know them to be images. images cannot be defined by the feeling of unreality, because when we falsely believe an image to be a sensation, as in the case of dreams, it feels just as real as if it were a sensation. our feeling of unreality results from our having already realized that we are dealing with an image, and cannot therefore be the definition of what we mean by an image. as soon as an image begins to deceive us as to its status, it also deceives us as to its correlations, which are what we mean by its "reality." ( ) this brings us to the third mode of distinguishing images from sensations, namely, by their causes and effects. i believe this to be the only valid ground of distinction. james, in the passage about the mental fire which won't burn real sticks, distinguishes images by their effects, but i think the more reliable distinction is by their causes. professor stout (loc. cit., p. ) says: "one characteristic mark of what we agree in calling sensation is its mode of production. it is caused by what we call a stimulus. a stimulus is always some condition external to the nervous system itself and operating upon it." i think that this is the correct view, and that the distinction between images and sensations can only be made by taking account of their causation. sensations come through sense-organs, while images do not. we cannot have visual sensations in the dark, or with our eyes shut, but we can very well have visual images under these circumstances. accordingly images have been defined as "centrally excited sensations," i.e. sensations which have their physiological cause in the brain only, not also in the sense-organs and the nerves that run from the sense-organs to the brain. i think the phrase "centrally excited sensations" assumes more than is necessary, since it takes it for granted that an image must have a proximate physiological cause. this is probably true, but it is an hypothesis, and for our purposes an unnecessary one. it would seem to fit better with what we can immediately observe if we were to say that an image is occasioned, through association, by a sensation or another image, in other words that it has a mnemic cause--which does not prevent it from also having a physical cause. and i think it will be found that the causation of an image always proceeds according to mnemic laws, i.e. that it is governed by habit and past experience. if you listen to a man playing the pianola without looking at him, you will have images of his hands on the keys as if he were playing the piano; if you suddenly look at him while you are absorbed in the music, you will experience a shock of surprise when you notice that his hands are not touching the notes. your image of his hands is due to the many times that you have heard similar sounds and at the same time seen the player's hands on the piano. when habit and past experience play this part, we are in the region of mnemic as opposed to ordinary physical causation. and i think that, if we could regard as ultimately valid the difference between physical and mnemic causation, we could distinguish images from sensations as having mnemic causes, though they may also have physical causes. sensations, on the other hand, will only have physical causes. however this may be, the practically effective distinction between sensations and images is that in the causation of sensations, but not of images, the stimulation of nerves carrying an effect into the brain, usually from the surface of the body, plays an essential part. and this accounts for the fact that images and sensations cannot always be distinguished by their intrinsic nature. images also differ from sensations as regards their effects. sensations, as a rule, have both physical and mental effects. as you watch the train you meant to catch leaving the station, there are both the successive positions of the train (physical effects) and the successive waves of fury and disappointment (mental effects). images, on the contrary, though they may produce bodily movements, do so according to mnemic laws, not according to the laws of physics. all their effects, of whatever nature, follow mnemic laws. but this difference is less suitable for definition than the difference as to causes. professor watson, as a logical carrying-out of his behaviourist theory, denies altogether that there are any observable phenomena such as images are supposed to be. he replaces them all by faint sensations, and especially by pronunciation of words sotto voce. when we "think" of a table (say), as opposed to seeing it, what happens, according to him, is usually that we are making small movements of the throat and tongue such as would lead to our uttering the word "table" if they were more pronounced. i shall consider his view again in connection with words; for the present i am only concerned to combat his denial of images. this denial is set forth both in his book on "behavior" and in an article called "image and affection in behavior" in the "journal of philosophy, psychology and scientific methods," vol. x (july, ). it seems to me that in this matter he has been betrayed into denying plain facts in the interests of a theory, namely, the supposed impossibility of introspection. i dealt with the theory in lecture vi; for the present i wish to reinforce the view that the facts are undeniable. images are of various sorts, according to the nature of the sensations which they copy. images of bodily movements, such as we have when we imagine moving an arm or, on a smaller scale, pronouncing a word, might possibly be explained away on professor watson's lines, as really consisting in small incipient movements such as, if magnified and prolonged, would be the movements we are said to be imagining. whether this is the case or not might even be decided experimentally. if there were a delicate instrument for recording small movements in the mouth and throat, we might place such an instrument in a person's mouth and then tell him to recite a poem to himself, as far as possible only in imagination. i should not be at all surprised if it were found that actual small movements take place while he is "mentally" saying over the verses. the point is important, because what is called "thought" consists mainly (though i think not wholly) of inner speech. if professor watson is right as regards inner speech, this whole region is transferred from imagination to sensation. but since the question is capable of experimental decision, it would be gratuitous rashness to offer an opinion while that decision is lacking. but visual and auditory images are much more difficult to deal with in this way, because they lack the connection with physical events in the outer world which belongs to visual and auditory sensations. suppose, for example, that i am sitting in my room, in which there is an empty arm-chair. i shut my eyes, and call up a visual image of a friend sitting in the arm-chair. if i thrust my image into the world of physics, it contradicts all the usual physical laws. my friend reached the chair without coming in at the door in the usual way; subsequent inquiry will show that he was somewhere else at the moment. if regarded as a sensation, my image has all the marks of the supernatural. my image, therefore, is regarded as an event in me, not as having that position in the orderly happenings of the public world that belongs to sensations. by saying that it is an event in me, we leave it possible that it may be physiologically caused: its privacy may be only due to its connection with my body. but in any case it is not a public event, like an actual person walking in at the door and sitting down in my chair. and it cannot, like inner speech, be regarded as a small sensation, since it occupies just as large an area in my visual field as the actual sensation would do. professor watson says: "i should throw out imagery altogether and attempt to show that all natural thought goes on in terms of sensori-motor processes in the larynx." this view seems to me flatly to contradict experience. if you try to persuade any uneducated person that she cannot call up a visual picture of a friend sitting in a chair, but can only use words describing what such an occurrence would be like, she will conclude that you are mad. (this statement is based upon experiment.) galton, as every one knows, investigated visual imagery, and found that education tends to kill it: the fellows of the royal society turned out to have much less of it than their wives. i see no reason to doubt his conclusion that the habit of abstract pursuits makes learned men much inferior to the average in power of visualizing, and much more exclusively occupied with words in their "thinking." and professor watson is a very learned man. i shall henceforth assume that the existence of images is admitted, and that they are to be distinguished from sensations by their causes, as well as, in a lesser degree, by their effects. in their intrinsic nature, though they often differ from sensations by being more dim or vague or faint, yet they do not always or universally differ from sensations in any way that can be used for defining them. their privacy need form no bar to the scientific study of them, any more than the privacy of bodily sensations does. bodily sensations are admitted by even the most severe critics of introspection, although, like images, they can only be observed by one observer. it must be admitted, however, that the laws of the appearance and disappearance of images are little known and difficult to discover, because we are not assisted, as in the case of sensations, by our knowledge of the physical world. there remains one very important point concerning images, which will occupy us much hereafter, and that is, their resemblance to previous sensations. they are said to be "copies" of sensations, always as regards the simple qualities that enter into them, though not always as regards the manner in which these are put together. it is generally believed that we cannot imagine a shade of colour that we have never seen, or a sound that we have never heard. on this subject hume is the classic. he says, in the definitions already quoted: "those perceptions, which enter with most force and violence, we may name impressions; and under this name i comprehend all our sensations, passions and emotions, as they make their first appearance in the soul. by ideas i mean the faint images of these in thinking and reasoning." he next explains the difference between simple and complex ideas, and explains that a complex idea may occur without any similar complex impression. but as regards simple ideas, he states that "every simple idea has a simple impression, which resembles it, and every simple impression a correspondent idea." he goes on to enunciate the general principle "that all our simple ideas in their first appearance are derived from simple impressions, which are correspondent to them, and which they exactly represent" ("treatise of human nature," part i, section i). it is this fact, that images resemble antecedent sensations, which enables us to call them images "of" this or that. for the understanding of memory, and of knowledge generally, the recognizable resemblance of images and sensations is of fundamental importance. there are difficulties in establishing hume's principles, and doubts as to whether it is exactly true. indeed, he himself signalized an exception immediately after stating his maxim. nevertheless, it is impossible to doubt that in the main simple images are copies of similar simple sensations which have occurred earlier, and that the same is true of complex images in all cases of memory as opposed to mere imagination. our power of acting with reference to what is sensibly absent is largely due to this characteristic of images, although, as education advances, images tend to be more and more replaced by words. we shall have much to say in the next two lectures on the subject of images as copies of sensations. what has been said now is merely by way of reminder that this is their most notable characteristic. i am by no means confident that the distinction between images and sensations is ultimately valid, and i should be glad to be convinced that images can be reduced to sensations of a peculiar kind. i think it is clear, however, that, at any rate in the case of auditory and visual images, they do differ from ordinary auditory and visual sensations, and therefore form a recognizable class of occurrences, even if it should prove that they can be regarded as a sub-class of sensations. this is all that is necessary to validate the use of images to be made in the sequel. lecture ix. memory memory, which we are to consider to-day, introduces us to knowledge in one of its forms. the analysis of knowledge will occupy us until the end of the thirteenth lecture, and is the most difficult part of our whole enterprise. i do not myself believe that the analysis of knowledge can be effected entirely by means of purely external observation, such as behaviourists employ. i shall discuss this question in later lectures. in the present lecture i shall attempt the analysis of memory-knowledge, both as an introduction to the problem of knowledge in general, and because memory, in some form, is presupposed in almost all other knowledge. sensation, we decided, is not a form of knowledge. it might, however, have been expected that we should begin our discussion of knowledge with perception, i.e. with that integral experience of things in the environment, out of which sensation is extracted by psychological analysis. what is called perception differs from sensation by the fact that the sensational ingredients bring up habitual associates--images and expectations of their usual correlates--all of which are subjectively indistinguishable from the sensation. the fact of past experience is essential in producing this filling-out of sensation, but not the recollection of past experience. the non-sensational elements in perception can be wholly explained as the result of habit, produced by frequent correlations. perception, according to our definition in lecture vii, is no more a form of knowledge than sensation is, except in so far as it involves expectations. the purely psychological problems which it raises are not very difficult, though they have sometimes been rendered artificially obscure by unwillingness to admit the fallibility of the non-sensational elements of perception. on the other hand, memory raises many difficult and very important problems, which it is necessary to consider at the first possible moment. one reason for treating memory at this early stage is that it seems to be involved in the fact that images are recognized as "copies" of past sensible experience. in the preceding lecture i alluded to hume's principle "that all our simple ideas in their first appearance are derived from simple impressions, which are correspondent to them, and which they exactly represent." whether or not this principle is liable to exceptions, everyone would agree that is has a broad measure of truth, though the word "exactly" might seem an overstatement, and it might seem more correct to say that ideas approximately represent impressions. such modifications of hume's principle, however, do not affect the problem which i wish to present for your consideration, namely: why do we believe that images are, sometimes or always, approximately or exactly, copies of sensations? what sort of evidence is there? and what sort of evidence is logically possible? the difficulty of this question arises through the fact that the sensation which an image is supposed to copy is in the past when the image exists, and can therefore only be known by memory, while, on the other hand, memory of past sensations seems only possible by means of present images. how, then, are we to find any way of comparing the present image and the past sensation? the problem is just as acute if we say that images differ from their prototypes as if we say that they resemble them; it is the very possibility of comparison that is hard to understand.* we think we can know that they are alike or different, but we cannot bring them together in one experience and compare them. to deal with this problem, we must have a theory of memory. in this way the whole status of images as "copies" is bound up with the analysis of memory. * how, for example, can we obtain such knowledge as the following: "if we look at, say, a red nose and perceive it, and after a little while ekphore, its memory-image, we note immediately how unlike, in its likeness, this memory-image is to the original perception" (a. wohlgemuth, "on the feelings and their neural correlate with an examination of the nature of pain," "journal of psychology," vol. viii, part iv, june, ). in investigating memory-beliefs, there are certain points which must be borne in mind. in the first place, everything constituting a memory-belief is happening now, not in that past time to which the belief is said to refer. it is not logically necessary to the existence of a memory-belief that the event remembered should have occurred, or even that the past should have existed at all. there is no logical impossibility in the hypothesis that the world sprang into being five minutes ago, exactly as it then was, with a population that "remembered" a wholly unreal past. there is no logically necessary connection between events at different times; therefore nothing that is happening now or will happen in the future can disprove the hypothesis that the world began five minutes ago. hence the occurrences which are called knowledge of the past are logically independent of the past; they are wholly analysable into present contents, which might, theoretically, be just what they are even if no past had existed. i am not suggesting that the non-existence of the past should be entertained as a serious hypothesis. like all sceptical hypotheses, it is logically tenable, but uninteresting. all that i am doing is to use its logical tenability as a help in the analysis of what occurs when we remember. in the second place, images without beliefs are insufficient to constitute memory; and habits are still more insufficient. the behaviourist, who attempts to make psychology a record of behaviour, has to trust his memory in making the record. "habit" is a concept involving the occurrence of similar events at different times; if the behaviourist feels confident that there is such a phenomenon as habit, that can only be because he trusts his memory, when it assures him that there have been other times. and the same applies to images. if we are to know as it is supposed we do--that images are "copies," accurate or inaccurate, of past events, something more than the mere occurrence of images must go to constitute this knowledge. for their mere occurrence, by itself, would not suggest any connection with anything that had happened before. can we constitute memory out of images together with suitable beliefs? we may take it that memory-images, when they occur in true memory, are (a) known to be copies, (b) sometimes known to be imperfect copies (cf. footnote on previous page). how is it possible to know that a memory-image is an imperfect copy, without having a more accurate copy by which to replace it? this would seem to suggest that we have a way of knowing the past which is independent of images, by means of which we can criticize image-memories. but i do not think such an inference is warranted. what results, formally, from our knowledge of the past through images of which we recognize the inaccuracy, is that such images must have two characteristics by which we can arrange them in two series, of which one corresponds to the more or less remote period in the past to which they refer, and the other to our greater or less confidence in their accuracy. we will take the second of these points first. our confidence or lack of confidence in the accuracy of a memory-image must, in fundamental cases, be based upon a characteristic of the image itself, since we cannot evoke the past bodily and compare it with the present image. it might be suggested that vagueness is the required characteristic, but i do not think this is the case. we sometimes have images that are by no means peculiarly vague, which yet we do not trust--for example, under the influence of fatigue we may see a friend's face vividly and clearly, but horribly distorted. in such a case we distrust our image in spite of its being unusually clear. i think the characteristic by which we distinguish the images we trust is the feeling of familiarity that accompanies them. some images, like some sensations, feel very familiar, while others feel strange. familiarity is a feeling capable of degrees. in an image of a well-known face, for example, some parts may feel more familiar than others; when this happens, we have more belief in the accuracy of the familiar parts than in that of the unfamiliar parts. i think it is by this means that we become critical of images, not by some imageless memory with which we compare them. i shall return to the consideration of familiarity shortly. i come now to the other characteristic which memory-images must have in order to account for our knowledge of the past. they must have some characteristic which makes us regard them as referring to more or less remote portions of the past. that is to say if we suppose that a is the event remembered, b the remembering, and t the interval of time between a and b, there must be some characteristic of b which is capable of degrees, and which, in accurately dated memories, varies as t varies. it may increase as t increases, or diminish as t increases. the question which of these occurs is not of any importance for the theoretic serviceability of the characteristic in question. in actual fact, there are doubtless various factors that concur in giving us the feeling of greater or less remoteness in some remembered event. there may be a specific feeling which could be called the feeling of "pastness," especially where immediate memory is concerned. but apart from this, there are other marks. one of these is context. a recent memory has, usually, more context than a more distant one. when a remembered event has a remembered context, this may occur in two ways, either (a) by successive images in the same order as their prototypes, or (b) by remembering a whole process simultaneously, in the same way in which a present process may be apprehended, through akoluthic sensations which, by fading, acquire the mark of just-pastness in an increasing degree as they fade, and are thus placed in a series while all sensibly present. it will be context in this second sense, more specially, that will give us a sense of the nearness or remoteness of a remembered event. there is, of course, a difference between knowing the temporal relation of a remembered event to the present, and knowing the time-order of two remembered events. very often our knowledge of the temporal relation of a remembered event to the present is inferred from its temporal relations to other remembered events. it would seem that only rather recent events can be placed at all accurately by means of feelings giving their temporal relation to the present, but it is clear that such feelings must play an essential part in the process of dating remembered events. we may say, then, that images are regarded by us as more or less accurate copies of past occurrences because they come to us with two sorts of feelings: ( ) those that may be called feelings of familiarity; ( ) those that may be collected together as feelings giving a sense of pastness. the first lead us to trust our memories, the second to assign places to them in the time-order. we have now to analyse the memory-belief, as opposed to the characteristics of images which lead us to base memory-beliefs upon them. if we had retained the "subject" or "act" in knowledge, the whole problem of memory would have been comparatively simple. we could then have said that remembering is a direct relation between the present act or subject and the past occurrence remembered: the act of remembering is present, though its object is past. but the rejection of the subject renders some more complicated theory necessary. remembering has to be a present occurrence in some way resembling, or related to, what is remembered. and it is difficult to find any ground, except a pragmatic one, for supposing that memory is not sheer delusion, if, as seems to be the case, there is not, apart from memory, any way of ascertaining that there really was a past occurrence having the required relation to our present remembering. what, if we followed meinong's terminology, we should call the "object" in memory, i.e. the past event which we are said to be remembering, is unpleasantly remote from the "content," i.e. the present mental occurrence in remembering. there is an awkward gulf between the two, which raises difficulties for the theory of knowledge. but we must not falsify observation to avoid theoretical difficulties. for the present, therefore, let us forget these problems, and try to discover what actually occurs in memory. some points may be taken as fixed, and such as any theory of memory must arrive at. in this case, as in most others, what may be taken as certain in advance is rather vague. the study of any topic is like the continued observation of an object which is approaching us along a road: what is certain to begin with is the quite vague knowledge that there is some object on the road. if you attempt to be less vague, and to assert that the object is an elephant, or a man, or a mad dog, you run a risk of error; but the purpose of continued observation is to enable you to arrive at such more precise knowledge. in like manner, in the study of memory, the certainties with which you begin are very vague, and the more precise propositions at which you try to arrive are less certain than the hazy data from which you set out. nevertheless, in spite of the risk of error, precision is the goal at which we must aim. the first of our vague but indubitable data is that there is knowledge of the past. we do not yet know with any precision what we mean by "knowledge," and we must admit that in any given instance our memory may be at fault. nevertheless, whatever a sceptic might urge in theory, we cannot practically doubt that we got up this morning, that we did various things yesterday, that a great war has been taking place, and so on. how far our knowledge of the past is due to memory, and how far to other sources, is of course a matter to be investigated, but there can be no doubt that memory forms an indispensable part of our knowledge of the past. the second datum is that we certainly have more capacity for knowing the past than for knowing the future. we know some things about the future, for example what eclipses there will be; but this knowledge is a matter of elaborate calculation and inference, whereas some of our knowledge of the past comes to us without effort, in the same sort of immediate way in which we acquire knowledge of occurrences in our present environment. we might provisionally, though perhaps not quite correctly, define "memory" as that way of knowing about the past which has no analogue in our knowledge of the future; such a definition would at least serve to mark the problem with which we are concerned, though some expectations may deserve to rank with memory as regards immediacy. a third point, perhaps not quite so certain as our previous two, is that the truth of memory cannot be wholly practical, as pragmatists wish all truth to be. it seems clear that some of the things i remember are trivial and without any visible importance for the future, but that my memory is true (or false) in virtue of a past event, not in virtue of any future consequences of my belief. the definition of truth as the correspondence between beliefs and facts seems peculiarly evident in the case of memory, as against not only the pragmatist definition but also the idealist definition by means of coherence. these considerations, however, are taking us away from psychology, to which we must now return. it is important not to confuse the two forms of memory which bergson distinguishes in the second chapter of his "matter and memory," namely the sort that consists of habit, and the sort that consists of independent recollection. he gives the instance of learning a lesson by heart: when i know it by heart i am said to "remember" it, but this merely means that i have acquired certain habits; on the other hand, my recollection of (say) the second time i read the lesson while i was learning it is the recollection of a unique event, which occurred only once. the recollection of a unique event cannot, so bergson contends, be wholly constituted by habit, and is in fact something radically different from the memory which is habit. the recollection alone is true memory. this distinction is vital to the understanding of memory. but it is not so easy to carry out in practice as it is to draw in theory. habit is a very intrusive feature of our mental life, and is often present where at first sight it seems not to be. there is, for example, a habit of remembering a unique event. when we have once described the event, the words we have used easily become habitual. we may even have used words to describe it to ourselves while it was happening; in that case, the habit of these words may fulfil the function of bergson's true memory, while in reality it is nothing but habit-memory. a gramophone, by the help of suitable records, might relate to us the incidents of its past; and people are not so different from gramophones as they like to believe. in spite, however, of a difficulty in distinguishing the two forms of memory in practice, there can be no doubt that both forms exist. i can set to work now to remember things i never remembered before, such as what i had to eat for breakfast this morning, and it can hardly be wholly habit that enables me to do this. it is this sort of occurrence that constitutes the essence of memory until we have analysed what happens in such a case as this, we have not succeeded in understanding memory. the sort of memory with which we are here concerned is the sort which is a form of knowledge. whether knowledge itself is reducible to habit is a question to which i shall return in a later lecture; for the present i am only anxious to point out that, whatever the true analysis of knowledge may be, knowledge of past occurrences is not proved by behaviour which is due to past experience. the fact that a man can recite a poem does not show that he remembers any previous occasion on which he has recited or read it. similarly, the performances of animals in getting out of cages or mazes to which they are accustomed do not prove that they remember having been in the same situation before. arguments in favour of (for example) memory in plants are only arguments in favour of habit-memory, not of knowledge-memory. samuel butler's arguments in favour of the view that an animal remembers something of the lives of its ancestors* are, when examined, only arguments in favour of habit-memory. semon's two books, mentioned in an earlier lecture, do not touch knowledge-memory at all closely. they give laws according to which images of past occurrences come into our minds, but do not discuss our belief that these images refer to past occurrences, which is what constitutes knowledge-memory. it is this that is of interest to theory of knowledge. i shall speak of it as "true" memory, to distinguish it from mere habit acquired through past experience. before considering true memory, it will be well to consider two things which are on the way towards memory, namely the feeling of familiarity and recognition. * see his "life and habit and unconscious memory." we often feel that something in our sensible environment is familiar, without having any definite recollection of previous occasions on which we have seen it. we have this feeling normally in places where we have often been before--at home, or in well-known streets. most people and animals find it essential to their happiness to spend a good deal of their time in familiar surroundings, which are especially comforting when any danger threatens. the feeling of familiarity has all sorts of degrees, down to the stage where we dimly feel that we have seen a person before. it is by no means always reliable; almost everybody has at some time experienced the well-known illusion that all that is happening now happened before at some time. there are occasions when familiarity does not attach itself to any definite object, when there is merely a vague feeling that something is familiar. this is illustrated by turgenev's "smoke," where the hero is long puzzled by a haunting sense that something in his present is recalling something in his past, and at last traces it to the smell of heliotrope. whenever the sense of familiarity occurs without a definite object, it leads us to search the environment until we are satisfied that we have found the appropriate object, which leads us to the judgment: "this is familiar." i think we may regard familiarity as a definite feeling, capable of existing without an object, but normally standing in a specific relation to some feature of the environment, the relation being that which we express in words by saying that the feature in question is familiar. the judgment that what is familiar has been experienced before is a product of reflection, and is no part of the feeling of familiarity, such as a horse may be supposed to have when he returns to his stable. thus no knowledge as to the past is to be derived from the feeling of familiarity alone. a further stage is recognition. this may be taken in two senses, the first when a thing not merely feels familiar, but we know it is such-and-such. we recognize our friend jones, we know cats and dogs when we see them, and so on. here we have a definite influence of past experience, but not necessarily any actual knowledge of the past. when we see a cat, we know it is a cat because of previous cats we have seen, but we do not, as a rule, recollect at the moment any particular occasion when we have seen a cat. recognition in this sense does not necessarily involve more than a habit of association: the kind of object we are seeing at the moment is associated with the word "cat," or with an auditory image of purring, or whatever other characteristic we may happen to recognize in the cat of the moment. we are, of course, in fact able to judge, when we recognize an object, that we have seen it before, but this judgment is something over and above recognition in this first sense, and may very probably be impossible to animals that nevertheless have the experience of recognition in this first sense of the word. there is, however, another sense of the word, in which we mean by recognition, not knowing the name of a thing or some other property of it, but knowing that we have seen it before in this sense recognition does involve knowledge about the fast. this knowledge is memory in one sense, though in another it is not. it does not involve a definite memory of a definite past event, but only the knowledge that something happening now is similar to something that happened before. it differs from the sense of familiarity by being cognitive; it is a belief or judgment, which the sense of familiarity is not. i do not wish to undertake the analysis of belief at present, since it will be the subject of the twelfth lecture; for the present i merely wish to emphasize the fact that recognition, in our second sense, consists in a belief, which we may express approximately in the words: "this has existed before." there are, however, several points in which such an account of recognition is inadequate. to begin with, it might seem at first sight more correct to define recognition as "i have seen this before" than as "this has existed before." we recognize a thing (it may be urged) as having been in our experience before, whatever that may mean; we do not recognize it as merely having been in the world before. i am not sure that there is anything substantial in this point. the definition of "my experience" is difficult; broadly speaking, it is everything that is connected with what i am experiencing now by certain links, of which the various forms of memory are among the most important. thus, if i recognize a thing, the occasion of its previous existence in virtue of which i recognize it forms part of "my experience" by definition: recognition will be one of the marks by which my experience is singled out from the rest of the world. of course, the words "this has existed before" are a very inadequate translation of what actually happens when we form a judgment of recognition, but that is unavoidable: words are framed to express a level of thought which is by no means primitive, and are quite incapable of expressing such an elementary occurrence as recognition. i shall return to what is virtually the same question in connection with true memory, which raises exactly similar problems. a second point is that, when we recognize something, it was not in fact the very same thing, but only something similar, that we experienced on a former occasion. suppose the object in question is a friend's face. a person's face is always changing, and is not exactly the same on any two occasions. common sense treats it as one face with varying expressions; but the varying expressions actually exist, each at its proper time, while the one face is merely a logical construction. we regard two objects as the same, for common-sense purposes, when the reaction they call for is practically the same. two visual appearances, to both of which it is appropriate to say: "hullo, jones!" are treated as appearances of one identical object, namely jones. the name "jones" is applicable to both, and it is only reflection that shows us that many diverse particulars are collected together to form the meaning of the name "jones." what we see on any one occasion is not the whole series of particulars that make up jones, but only one of them (or a few in quick succession). on another occasion we see another member of the series, but it is sufficiently similar to count as the same from the standpoint of common sense. accordingly, when we judge "i have seen this before," we judge falsely if "this" is taken as applying to the actual constituent of the world that we are seeing at the moment. the word "this" must be interpreted vaguely so as to include anything sufficiently like what we are seeing at the moment. here, again, we shall find a similar point as regards true memory; and in connection with true memory we will consider the point again. it is sometimes suggested, by those who favour behaviourist views, that recognition consists in behaving in the same way when a stimulus is repeated as we behaved on the first occasion when it occurred. this seems to be the exact opposite of the truth. the essence of recognition is in the difference between a repeated stimulus and a new one. on the first occasion there is no recognition; on the second occasion there is. in fact, recognition is another instance of the peculiarity of causal laws in psychology, namely, that the causal unit is not a single event, but two or more events habit is the great instance of this, but recognition is another. a stimulus occurring once has a certain effect; occurring twice, it has the further effect of recognition. thus the phenomenon of recognition has as its cause the two occasions when the stimulus has occurred; either alone is insufficient. this complexity of causes in psychology might be connected with bergson's arguments against repetition in the mental world. it does not prove that there are no causal laws in psychology, as bergson suggests; but it does prove that the causal laws of psychology are prima facie very different from those of physics. on the possibility of explaining away the difference as due to the peculiarities of nervous tissue i have spoken before, but this possibility must not be forgotten if we are tempted to draw unwarranted metaphysical deductions. true memory, which we must now endeavour to understand, consists of knowledge of past events, but not of all such knowledge. some knowledge of past events, for example what we learn through reading history, is on a par with the knowledge we can acquire concerning the future: it is obtained by inference, not (so to speak) spontaneously. there is a similar distinction in our knowledge of the present: some of it is obtained through the senses, some in more indirect ways. i know that there are at this moment a number of people in the streets of new york, but i do not know this in the immediate way in which i know of the people whom i see by looking out of my window. it is not easy to state precisely wherein the difference between these two sorts of knowledge consists, but it is easy to feel the difference. for the moment, i shall not stop to analyse it, but shall content myself with saying that, in this respect, memory resembles the knowledge derived from the senses. it is immediate, not inferred, not abstract; it differs from perception mainly by being referred to the past. in regard to memory, as throughout the analysis of knowledge, there are two very distinct problems, namely ( ) as to the nature of the present occurrence in knowing; ( ) as to the relation of this occurrence to what is known. when we remember, the knowing is now, while what is known is in the past. our two questions are, in the case of memory: ( ) what is the present occurrence when we remember? ( ) what is the relation of this present occurrence to the past event which is remembered? of these two questions, only the first concerns the psychologist; the second belongs to theory of knowledge. at the same time, if we accept the vague datum with which we began, to the effect that, in some sense, there is knowledge of the past, we shall have to find, if we can, such an account of the present occurrence in remembering as will make it not impossible for remembering to give us knowledge of the past. for the present, however, we shall do well to forget the problems concerning theory of knowledge, and concentrate upon the purely psychological problem of memory. between memory-image and sensation there is an intermediate experience concerning the immediate past. for example, a sound that we have just heard is present to us in a way which differs both from the sensation while we are hearing the sound and from the memory-image of something heard days or weeks ago. james states that it is this way of apprehending the immediate past that is "the original of our experience of pastness, from whence we get the meaning of the term"("psychology," i, p. ). everyone knows the experience of noticing (say) that the clock has been striking, when we did not notice it while it was striking. and when we hear a remark spoken, we are conscious of the earlier words while the later ones are being uttered, and this retention feels different from recollection of something definitely past. a sensation fades gradually, passing by continuous gradations to the status of an image. this retention of the immediate past in a condition intermediate between sensation and image may be called "immediate memory." everything belonging to it is included with sensation in what is called the "specious present." the specious present includes elements at all stages on the journey from sensation to image. it is this fact that enables us to apprehend such things as movements, or the order of the words in a spoken sentence. succession can occur within the specious present, of which we can distinguish some parts as earlier and others as later. it is to be supposed that the earliest parts are those that have faded most from their original force, while the latest parts are those that retain their full sensational character. at the beginning of a stimulus we have a sensation; then a gradual transition; and at the end an image. sensations while they are fading are called "akoluthic" sensations.* when the process of fading is completed (which happens very quickly), we arrive at the image, which is capable of being revived on subsequent occasions with very little change. true memory, as opposed to "immediate memory," applies only to events sufficiently distant to have come to an end of the period of fading. such events, if they are represented by anything present, can only be represented by images, not by those intermediate stages, between sensations and images, which occur during the period of fading. * see semon, "die mnemischen empfindungen," chap. vi. immediate memory is important both because it provides experience of succession, and because it bridges the gulf between sensations and the images which are their copies. but it is now time to resume the consideration of true memory. suppose you ask me what i ate for breakfast this morning. suppose, further, that i have not thought about my breakfast in the meantime, and that i did not, while i was eating it, put into words what it consisted of. in this case my recollection will be true memory, not habit-memory. the process of remembering will consist of calling up images of my breakfast, which will come to me with a feeling of belief such as distinguishes memory-images from mere imagination-images. or sometimes words may come without the intermediary of images; but in this case equally the feeling of belief is essential. let us omit from our consideration, for the present, the memories in which words replace images. these are always, i think, really habit-memories, the memories that use images being the typical true memories. memory-images and imagination-images do not differ in their intrinsic qualities, so far as we can discover. they differ by the fact that the images that constitute memories, unlike those that constitute imagination, are accompanied by a feeling of belief which may be expressed in the words "this happened." the mere occurrence of images, without this feeling of belief, constitutes imagination; it is the element of belief that is the distinctive thing in memory.* * for belief of a specific kind, cf. dorothy wrinch "on the nature of memory," "mind," january, . there are, if i am not mistaken, at least three different kinds of belief-feeling, which we may call respectively memory, expectation and bare assent. in what i call bare assent, there is no time-element in the feeling of belief, though there may be in the content of what is believed. if i believe that caesar landed in britain in b.c. , the time-determination lies, not in the feeling of belief, but in what is believed. i do not remember the occurrence, but have the same feeling towards it as towards the announcement of an eclipse next year. but when i have seen a flash of lightning and am waiting for the thunder, i have a belief-feeling analogous to memory, except that it refers to the future: i have an image of thunder, combined with a feeling which may be expressed in the words: "this will happen." so, in memory, the pastness lies, not in the content of what is believed, but in the nature of the belief-feeling. i might have just the same images and expect their realization; i might entertain them without any belief, as in reading a novel; or i might entertain them together with a time-determination, and give bare assent, as in reading history. i shall return to this subject in a later lecture, when we come to the analysis of belief. for the present, i wish to make it clear that a certain special kind of belief is the distinctive characteristic of memory. the problem as to whether memory can be explained as habit or association requires to be considered afresh in connection with the causes of our remembering something. let us take again the case of my being asked what i had for breakfast this morning. in this case the question leads to my setting to work to recollect. it is a little strange that the question should instruct me as to what it is that i am to recall. this has to do with understanding words, which will be the topic of the next lecture; but something must be said about it now. our understanding of the words "breakfast this morning" is a habit, in spite of the fact that on each fresh day they point to a different occasion. "this morning" does not, whenever it is used, mean the same thing, as "john" or "st. paul's" does; it means a different period of time on each different day. it follows that the habit which constitutes our understanding of the words "this morning" is not the habit of associating the words with a fixed object, but the habit of associating them with something having a fixed time-relation to our present. this morning has, to-day, the same time-relation to my present that yesterday morning had yesterday. in order to understand the phrase "this morning" it is necessary that we should have a way of feeling time-intervals, and that this feeling should give what is constant in the meaning of the words "this morning." this appreciation of time-intervals is, however, obviously a product of memory, not a presupposition of it. it will be better, therefore, if we wish to analyse the causation of memory by something not presupposing memory, to take some other instance than that of a question about "this morning." let us take the case of coming into a familiar room where something has been changed--say a new picture hung on the wall. we may at first have only a sense that something is unfamiliar, but presently we shall remember, and say "that picture was not on the wall before." in order to make the case definite, we will suppose that we were only in the room on one former occasion. in this case it seems fairly clear what happens. the other objects in the room are associated, through the former occasion, with a blank space of wall where now there is a picture. they call up an image of a blank wall, which clashes with perception of the picture. the image is associated with the belief-feeling which we found to be distinctive of memory, since it can neither be abolished nor harmonized with perception. if the room had remained unchanged, we might have had only the feeling of familiarity without the definite remembering; it is the change that drives us from the present to memory of the past. we may generalize this instance so as to cover the causes of many memories. some present feature of the environment is associated, through past experiences, with something now absent; this absent something comes before us as an image, and is contrasted with present sensation. in cases of this sort, habit (or association) explains why the present feature of the environment brings up the memory-image, but it does not explain the memory-belief. perhaps a more complete analysis could explain the memory-belief also on lines of association and habit, but the causes of beliefs are obscure, and we cannot investigate them yet. for the present we must content ourselves with the fact that the memory-image can be explained by habit. as regards the memory-belief, we must, at least provisionally, accept bergson's view that it cannot be brought under the head of habit, at any rate when it first occurs, i.e. when we remember something we never remembered before. we must now consider somewhat more closely the content of a memory-belief. the memory-belief confers upon the memory-image something which we may call "meaning;" it makes us feel that the image points to an object which existed in the past. in order to deal with this topic we must consider the verbal expression of the memory-belief. we might be tempted to put the memory-belief into the words: "something like this image occurred." but such words would be very far from an accurate translation of the simplest kind of memory-belief. "something like this image" is a very complicated conception. in the simplest kind of memory we are not aware of the difference between an image and the sensation which it copies, which may be called its "prototype." when the image is before us, we judge rather "this occurred." the image is not distinguished from the object which existed in the past: the word "this" covers both, and enables us to have a memory-belief which does not introduce the complicated notion "something like this." it might be objected that, if we judge "this occurred" when in fact "this" is a present image, we judge falsely, and the memory-belief, so interpreted, becomes deceptive. this, however, would be a mistake, produced by attempting to give to words a precision which they do not possess when used by unsophisticated people. it is true that the image is not absolutely identical with its prototype, and if the word "this" meant the image to the exclusion of everything else, the judgment "this occurred" would be false. but identity is a precise conception, and no word, in ordinary speech, stands for anything precise. ordinary speech does not distinguish between identity and close similarity. a word always applies, not only to one particular, but to a group of associated particulars, which are not recognized as multiple in common thought or speech. thus primitive memory, when it judges that "this occurred," is vague, but not false. vague identity, which is really close similarity, has been a source of many of the confusions by which philosophy has lived. of a vague subject, such as a "this," which is both an image and its prototype, contradictory predicates are true simultaneously: this existed and does not exist, since it is a thing remembered, but also this exists and did not exist, since it is a present image. hence bergson's interpenetration of the present by the past, hegelian continuity and identity-in-diversity, and a host of other notions which are thought to be profound because they are obscure and confused. the contradictions resulting from confounding image and prototype in memory force us to precision. but when we become precise, our remembering becomes different from that of ordinary life, and if we forget this we shall go wrong in the analysis of ordinary memory. vagueness and accuracy are important notions, which it is very necessary to understand. both are a matter of degree. all thinking is vague to some extent, and complete accuracy is a theoretical ideal not practically attainable. to understand what is meant by accuracy, it will be well to consider first instruments of measurement, such as a balance or a thermometer. these are said to be accurate when they give different results for very slightly different stimuli.* a clinical thermometer is accurate when it enables us to detect very slight differences in the temperature of the blood. we may say generally that an instrument is accurate in proportion as it reacts differently to very slightly different stimuli. when a small difference of stimulus produces a great difference of reaction, the instrument is accurate; in the contrary case it is not. * this is a necessary but not a sufficient condition. the subject of accuracy and vagueness will be considered again in lecture xiii. exactly the same thing applies in defining accuracy of thought or perception. a musician will respond differently to very minute differences in playing which would be quite imperceptible to the ordinary mortal. a negro can see the difference between one negro and another one is his friend, another his enemy. but to us such different responses are impossible: we can merely apply the word "negro" indiscriminately. accuracy of response in regard to any particular kind of stimulus is improved by practice. understanding a language is a case in point. few frenchmen can hear any difference between the sounds "hall" and "hole," which produce quite different impressions upon us. the two statements "the hall is full of water" and "the hole is full of water" call for different responses, and a hearing which cannot distinguish between them is inaccurate or vague in this respect. precision and vagueness in thought, as in perception, depend upon the degree of difference between responses to more or less similar stimuli. in the case of thought, the response does not follow immediately upon the sensational stimulus, but that makes no difference as regards our present question. thus to revert to memory: a memory is "vague" when it is appropriate to many different occurrences: for instance, "i met a man" is vague, since any man would verify it. a memory is "precise" when the occurrences that would verify it are narrowly circumscribed: for instance, "i met jones" is precise as compared to "i met a man." a memory is "accurate" when it is both precise and true, i.e. in the above instance, if it was jones i met. it is precise even if it is false, provided some very definite occurrence would have been required to make it true. it follows from what has been said that a vague thought has more likelihood of being true than a precise one. to try and hit an object with a vague thought is like trying to hit the bull's eye with a lump of putty: when the putty reaches the target, it flattens out all over it, and probably covers the bull's eye along with the rest. to try and hit an object with a precise thought is like trying to hit the bull's eye with a bullet. the advantage of the precise thought is that it distinguishes between the bull's eye and the rest of the target. for example, if the whole target is represented by the fungus family and the bull's eye by mushrooms, a vague thought which can only hit the target as a whole is not much use from a culinary point of view. and when i merely remember that i met a man, my memory may be very inadequate to my practical requirements, since it may make a great difference whether i met brown or jones. the memory "i met jones" is relatively precise. it is accurate if i met jones, inaccurate if i met brown, but precise in either case as against the mere recollection that i met a man. the distinction between accuracy and precision is however, not fundamental. we may omit precision from out thoughts and confine ourselves to the distinction between accuracy and vagueness. we may then set up the following definitions: an instrument is "reliable" with respect to a given set of stimuli when to stimuli which are not relevantly different it gives always responses which are not relevantly different. an instrument is a "measure" of a set of stimuli which are serially ordered when its responses, in all cases where they are relevantly different, are arranged in a series in the same order. the "degree of accuracy" of an instrument which is a reliable measurer is the ratio of the difference of response to the difference of stimulus in cases where the difference of stimulus is small.* that is to say, if a small difference of stimulus produces a great difference of response, the instrument is very accurate; in the contrary case, very inaccurate. * strictly speaking, the limit of this, i.e. the derivative of the response with respect to the stimulus. a mental response is called "vague" in proportion to its lack of accuracy, or rather precision. these definitions will be found useful, not only in the case of memory, but in almost all questions concerned with knowledge. it should be observed that vague beliefs, so far from being necessarily false, have a better chance of truth than precise ones, though their truth is less valuable than that of precise beliefs, since they do not distinguish between occurrences which may differ in important ways. the whole of the above discussion of vagueness and accuracy was occasioned by the attempt to interpret the word "this" when we judge in verbal memory that "this occurred." the word "this," in such a judgment, is a vague word, equally applicable to the present memory-image and to the past occurrence which is its prototype. a vague word is not to be identified with a general word, though in practice the distinction may often be blurred. a word is general when it is understood to be applicable to a number of different objects in virtue of some common property. a word is vague when it is in fact applicable to a number of different objects because, in virtue of some common property, they have not appeared, to the person using the word, to be distinct. i emphatically do not mean that he has judged them to be identical, but merely that he has made the same response to them all and has not judged them to be different. we may compare a vague word to a jelly and a general word to a heap of shot. vague words precede judgments of identity and difference; both general and particular words are subsequent to such judgments. the word "this" in the primitive memory-belief is a vague word, not a general word; it covers both the image and its prototype because the two are not distinguished.* * on the vague and the general cf. ribot: "evolution of general ideas," open court co., , p. : "the sole permissible formula is this: intelligence progresses from the indefinite to the definite. if 'indefinite' is taken as synonymous with general, it may be said that the particular does not appear at the outset, but neither does the general in any exact sense: the vague would be more appropriate. in other words, no sooner has the intellect progressed beyond the moment of perception and of its immediate reproduction in memory, than the generic image makes its appearance, i.e. a state intermediate between the particular and the general, participating in the nature of the one and of the other--a confused simplification." but we have not yet finished our analysis of the memory-belief. the tense in the belief that "this occurred" is provided by the nature of the belief-feeling involved in memory; the word "this," as we have seen, has a vagueness which we have tried to describe. but we must still ask what we mean by "occurred." the image is, in one sense, occurring now; and therefore we must find some other sense in which the past event occurred but the image does not occur. there are two distinct questions to be asked: ( ) what causes us to say that a thing occurs? ( ) what are we feeling when we say this? as to the first question, in the crude use of the word, which is what concerns us, memory-images would not be said to occur; they would not be noticed in themselves, but merely used as signs of the past event. images are "merely imaginary"; they have not, in crude thought, the sort of reality that belongs to outside bodies. roughly speaking, "real" things would be those that can cause sensations, those that have correlations of the sort that constitute physical objects. a thing is said to be "real" or to "occur" when it fits into a context of such correlations. the prototype of our memory-image did fit into a physical context, while our memory-image does not. this causes us to feel that the prototype was "real," while the image is "imaginary." but the answer to our second question, namely as to what we are feeling when we say a thing "occurs" or is "real," must be somewhat different. we do not, unless we are unusually reflective, think about the presence or absence of correlations: we merely have different feelings which, intellectualized, may be represented as expectations of the presence or absence of correlations. a thing which "feels real" inspires us with hopes or fears, expectations or curiosities, which are wholly absent when a thing "feels imaginary." the feeling of reality is a feeling akin to respect: it belongs primarily to whatever can do things to us without our voluntary co-operation. this feeling of reality, related to the memory-image, and referred to the past by the specific kind of belief-feeling that is characteristic of memory, seems to be what constitutes the act of remembering in its pure form. we may now summarize our analysis of pure memory. memory demands (a) an image, (b) a belief in past existence. the belief may be expressed in the words "this existed." the belief, like every other, may be analysed into ( ) the believing, ( ) what is believed. the believing is a specific feeling or sensation or complex of sensations, different from expectation or bare assent in a way that makes the belief refer to the past; the reference to the past lies in the belief-feeling, not in the content believed. there is a relation between the belief-feeling and the content, making the belief-feeling refer to the content, and expressed by saying that the content is what is believed. the content believed may or may not be expressed in words. let us take first the case when it is not. in that case, if we are merely remembering that something of which we now have an image occurred, the content consists of (a) the image, (b) the feeling, analogous to respect, which we translate by saying that something is "real" as opposed to "imaginary," (c) a relation between the image and the feeling of reality, of the sort expressed when we say that the feeling refers to the image. this content does not contain in itself any time-determination. the time-determination lies in the nature of the belief feeling, which is that called "remembering" or (better) "recollecting." it is only subsequent reflection upon this reference to the past that makes us realize the distinction between the image and the event recollected. when we have made this distinction, we can say that the image "means" the past event. the content expressed in words is best represented by the words "the existence of this," since these words do not involve tense, which belongs to the belief-feeling, not to the content. here "this" is a vague term, covering the memory-image and anything very like it, including its prototype. "existence" expresses the feeling of a "reality" aroused primarily by whatever can have effects upon us without our voluntary co-operation. the word "of" in the phrase "the existence of this" represents the relation which subsists between the feeling of reality and the "this." this analysis of memory is probably extremely faulty, but i do not know how to improve it. note.-when i speak of a feeling of belief, i use the word "feeling" in a popular sense, to cover a sensation or an image or a complex of sensations or images or both; i use this word because i do not wish to commit myself to any special analysis of the belief-feeling. lecture x. words and meaning the problem with which we shall be concerned in this lecture is the problem of determining what is the relation called "meaning." the word "napoleon," we say, "means" a certain person. in saying this, we are asserting a relation between the word "napoleon" and the person so designated. it is this relation that we must now investigate. let us first consider what sort of object a word is when considered simply as a physical thing, apart from its meaning. to begin with, there are many instances of a word, namely all the different occasions when it is employed. thus a word is not something unique and particular, but a set of occurrences. if we confine ourselves to spoken words, a word has two aspects, according as we regard it from the point of view of the speaker or from that of the hearer. from the point of view of the speaker, a single instance of the use of a word consists of a certain set of movements in the throat and mouth, combined with breath. from the point of view of the hearer, a single instance of the use of a word consists of a certain series of sounds, each being approximately represented by a single letter in writing, though in practice a letter may represent several sounds, or several letters may represent one sound. the connection between the spoken word and the word as it reaches the hearer is causal. let us confine ourselves to the spoken word, which is the more important for the analysis of what is called "thought." then we may say that a single instance of the spoken word consists of a series of movements, and the word consists of a whole set of such series, each member of the set being very similar to each other member. that is to say, any two instances of the word "napoleon" are very similar, and each instance consists of a series of movements in the mouth. a single word, accordingly, is by no means simple it is a class of similar series of movements (confining ourselves still to the spoken word). the degree of similarity required cannot be precisely defined: a man may pronounce the word "napoleon" so badly that it can hardly be determined whether he has really pronounced it or not. the instances of a word shade off into other movements by imperceptible degrees. and exactly analogous observations apply to words heard or written or read. but in what has been said so far we have not even broached the question of the definition of a word, since "meaning" is clearly what distinguishes a word from other sets of similar movements, and "meaning" remains to be defined. it is natural to think of the meaning of a word as something conventional. this, however, is only true with great limitations. a new word can be added to an existing language by a mere convention, as is done, for instance, with new scientific terms. but the basis of a language is not conventional, either from the point of view of the individual or from that of the community. a child learning to speak is learning habits and associations which are just as much determined by the environment as the habit of expecting dogs to bark and cocks to crow. the community that speaks a language has learnt it, and modified it by processes almost all of which are not deliberate, but the results of causes operating according to more or less ascertainable laws. if we trace any indo-european language back far enough, we arrive hypothetically (at any rate according to some authorities) at the stage when language consisted only of the roots out of which subsequent words have grown. how these roots acquired their meanings is not known, but a conventional origin is clearly just as mythical as the social contract by which hobbes and rousseau supposed civil government to have been established. we can hardly suppose a parliament of hitherto speechless elders meeting together and agreeing to call a cow a cow and a wolf a wolf. the association of words with their meanings must have grown up by some natural process, though at present the nature of the process is unknown. spoken and written words are, of course, not the only way of conveying meaning. a large part of one of wundt's two vast volumes on language in his "volkerpsychologie" is concerned with gesture-language. ants appear to be able to communicate a certain amount of information by means of their antennae. probably writing itself, which we now regard as merely a way of representing speech, was originally an independent language, as it has remained to this day in china. writing seems to have consisted originally of pictures, which gradually became conventionalized, coming in time to represent syllables, and finally letters on the telephone principle of "t for tommy." but it would seem that writing nowhere began as an attempt to represent speech it began as a direct pictorial representation of what was to be expressed. the essence of language lies, not in the use of this or that special means of communication, but in the employment of fixed associations (however these may have originated) in order that something now sensible--a spoken word, a picture, a gesture, or what not--may call up the "idea" of something else. whenever this is done, what is now sensible may be called a "sign" or "symbol," and that of which it is intended to call up the "idea" may be called its "meaning." this is a rough outline of what constitutes "meaning." but we must fill in the outline in various ways. and, since we are concerned with what is called "thought," we must pay more attention than we otherwise should do to the private as opposed to the social use of language. language profoundly affects our thoughts, and it is this aspect of language that is of most importance to us in our present inquiry. we are almost more concerned with the internal speech that is never uttered than we are with the things said out loud to other people. when we ask what constitutes meaning, we are not asking what is the meaning of this or that particular word. the word "napoleon" means a certain individual; but we are asking, not who is the individual meant, but what is the relation of the word to the individual which makes the one mean the other. but just as it is useful to realize the nature of a word as part of the physical world, so it is useful to realize the sort of thing that a word may mean. when we are clear both as to what a word is in its physical aspect, and as to what sort of thing it can mean, we are in a better position to discover the relation of the two which is meaning. the things that words mean differ more than words do. there are different sorts of words, distinguished by the grammarians; and there are logical distinctions, which are connected to some extent, though not so closely as was formerly supposed, with the grammatical distinctions of parts of speech. it is easy, however, to be misled by grammar, particularly if all the languages we know belong to one family. in some languages, according to some authorities, the distinction of parts of speech does not exist; in many languages it is widely different from that to which we are accustomed in the indo-european languages. these facts have to be borne in mind if we are to avoid giving metaphysical importance to mere accidents of our own speech. in considering what words mean, it is natural to start with proper names, and we will again take "napoleon" as our instance. we commonly imagine, when we use a proper name, that we mean one definite entity, the particular individual who was called "napoleon." but what we know as a person is not simple. there may be a single simple ego which was napoleon, and remained strictly identical from his birth to his death. there is no way of proving that this cannot be the case, but there is also not the slightest reason to suppose that it is the case. napoleon as he was empirically known consisted of a series of gradually changing appearances: first a squalling baby, then a boy, then a slim and beautiful youth, then a fat and slothful person very magnificently dressed this series of appearances, and various occurrences having certain kinds of causal connections with them, constitute napoleon as empirically known, and therefore are napoleon in so far as he forms part of the experienced world. napoleon is a complicated series of occurrences, bound together by causal laws, not, like instances of a word, by similarities. for although a person changes gradually, and presents similar appearances on two nearly contemporaneous occasions, it is not these similarities that constitute the person, as appears from the "comedy of errors" for example. thus in the case of a proper name, while the word is a set of similar series of movements, what it means is a series of occurrences bound together by causal laws of that special kind that makes the occurrences taken together constitute what we call one person, or one animal or thing, in case the name applies to an animal or thing instead of to a person. neither the word nor what it names is one of the ultimate indivisible constituents of the world. in language there is no direct way of designating one of the ultimate brief existents that go to make up the collections we call things or persons. if we want to speak of such existents--which hardly happens except in philosophy--we have to do it by means of some elaborate phrase, such as "the visual sensation which occupied the centre of my field of vision at noon on january , ." such ultimate simples i call "particulars." particulars might have proper names, and no doubt would have if language had been invented by scientifically trained observers for purposes of philosophy and logic. but as language was invented for practical ends, particulars have remained one and all without a name. we are not, in practice, much concerned with the actual particulars that come into our experience in sensation; we are concerned rather with whole systems to which the particulars belong and of which they are signs. what we see makes us say "hullo, there's jones," and the fact that what we see is a sign of jones (which is the case because it is one of the particulars that make up jones) is more interesting to us than the actual particular itself. hence we give the name "jones" to the whole set of particulars, but do not trouble to give separate names to the separate particulars that make up the set. passing on from proper names, we come next to general names, such as "man," "cat," "triangle." a word such as "man" means a whole class of such collections of particulars as have proper names. the several members of the class are assembled together in virtue of some similarity or common property. all men resemble each other in certain important respects; hence we want a word which shall be equally applicable to all of them. we only give proper names to the individuals of a species when they differ inter se in practically important respects. in other cases we do not do this. a poker, for instance, is just a poker; we do not call one "john" and another "peter." there is a large class of words, such as "eating," "walking," "speaking," which mean a set of similar occurrences. two instances of walking have the same name because they resemble each other, whereas two instances of jones have the same name because they are causally connected. in practice, however, it is difficult to make any precise distinction between a word such as "walking" and a general name such as "man." one instance of walking cannot be concentrated into an instant: it is a process in time, in which there is a causal connection between the earlier and later parts, as between the earlier and later parts of jones. thus an instance of walking differs from an instance of man solely by the fact that it has a shorter life. there is a notion that an instance of walking, as compared with jones, is unsubstantial, but this seems to be a mistake. we think that jones walks, and that there could not be any walking unless there were somebody like jones to perform the walking. but it is equally true that there could be no jones unless there were something like walking for him to do. the notion that actions are performed by an agent is liable to the same kind of criticism as the notion that thinking needs a subject or ego, which we rejected in lecture i. to say that it is jones who is walking is merely to say that the walking in question is part of the whole series of occurrences which is jones. there is no logical impossibility in walking occurring as an isolated phenomenon, not forming part of any such series as we call a "person." we may therefore class with "eating," "walking," "speaking" words such as "rain," "sunrise," "lightning," which do not denote what would commonly be called actions. these words illustrate, incidentally, how little we can trust to the grammatical distinction of parts of speech, since the substantive "rain" and the verb "to rain" denote precisely the same class of meteorological occurrences. the distinction between the class of objects denoted by such a word and the class of objects denoted by a general name such as "man," "vegetable," or "planet," is that the sort of object which is an instance of (say) "lightning" is much simpler than (say) an individual man. (i am speaking of lightning as a sensible phenomenon, not as it is described in physics.) the distinction is one of degree, not of kind. but there is, from the point of view of ordinary thought, a great difference between a process which, like a flash of lightning, can be wholly comprised within one specious present and a process which, like the life of a man, has to be pieced together by observation and memory and the apprehension of causal connections. we may say broadly, therefore, that a word of the kind we have been discussing denotes a set of similar occurrences, each (as a rule) much more brief and less complex than a person or thing. words themselves, as we have seen, are sets of similar occurrences of this kind. thus there is more logical affinity between a word and what it means in the case of words of our present sort than in any other case. there is no very great difference between such words as we have just been considering and words denoting qualities, such as "white" or "round." the chief difference is that words of this latter sort do not denote processes, however brief, but static features of the world. snow falls, and is white; the falling is a process, the whiteness is not. whether there is a universal, called "whiteness," or whether white things are to be defined as those having a certain kind of similarity to a standard thing, say freshly fallen snow, is a question which need not concern us, and which i believe to be strictly insoluble. for our purposes, we may take the word "white" as denoting a certain set of similar particulars or collections of particulars, the similarity being in respect of a static quality, not of a process. from the logical point of view, a very important class of words are those that express relations, such as "in," "above," "before," "greater," and so on. the meaning of one of these words differs very fundamentally from the meaning of one of any of our previous classes, being more abstract and logically simpler than any of them. if our business were logic, we should have to spend much time on these words. but as it is psychology that concerns us, we will merely note their special character and pass on, since the logical classification of words is not our main business. we will consider next the question what is implied by saying that a person "understands" a word, in the sense in which one understands a word in one's own language, but not in a language of which one is ignorant. we may say that a person understands a word when (a) suitable circumstances make him use it, (b) the hearing of it causes suitable behaviour in him. we may call these two active and passive understanding respectively. dogs often have passive understanding of some words, but not active understanding, since they cannot use words. it is not necessary, in order that a man should "understand" a word, that he should "know what it means," in the sense of being able to say "this word means so-and-so." understanding words does not consist in knowing their dictionary definitions, or in being able to specify the objects to which they are appropriate. such understanding as this may belong to lexicographers and students, but not to ordinary mortals in ordinary life. understanding language is more like understanding cricket*: it is a matter of habits, acquired in oneself and rightly presumed in others. to say that a word has a meaning is not to say that those who use the word correctly have ever thought out what the meaning is: the use of the word comes first, and the meaning is to be distilled out of it by observation and analysis. moreover, the meaning of a word is not absolutely definite: there is always a greater or less degree of vagueness. the meaning is an area, like a target: it may have a bull's eye, but the outlying parts of the target are still more or less within the meaning, in a gradually diminishing degree as we travel further from the bull's eye. as language grows more precise, there is less and less of the target outside the bull's eye, and the bull's eye itself grows smaller and smaller; but the bull's eye never shrinks to a point, and there is always a doubtful region, however small, surrounding it.** * this point of view, extended to the analysis of "thought" is urged with great force by j. b. watson, both in his "behavior," and in "psychology from the standpoint of a behaviorist" (lippincott. ), chap. ix. ** on the understanding of words, a very admirable little book is ribot's "evolution of general ideas," open court co., . ribot says (p. ): "we learn to understand a concept as we learn to walk, dance, fence or play a musical instrument: it is a habit, i.e. an organized memory. general terms cover an organized, latent knowledge which is the hidden capital without which we should be in a state of bankruptcy, manipulating false money or paper of no value. general ideas are habits in the intellectual order." a word is used "correctly" when the average hearer will be affected by it in the way intended. this is a psychological, not a literary, definition of "correctness." the literary definition would substitute, for the average hearer, a person of high education living a long time ago; the purpose of this definition is to make it difficult to speak or write correctly. the relation of a word to its meaning is of the nature of a causal law governing our use of the word and our actions when we hear it used. there is no more reason why a person who uses a word correctly should be able to tell what it means than there is why a planet which is moving correctly should know kepler's laws. to illustrate what is meant by "understanding" words and sentences, let us take instances of various situations. suppose you are walking in london with an absent-minded friend, and while crossing a street you say, "look out, there's a motor coming." he will glance round and jump aside without the need of any "mental" intermediary. there need be no "ideas," but only a stiffening of the muscles, followed quickly by action. he "understands" the words, because he does the right thing. such "understanding" may be taken to belong to the nerves and brain, being habits which they have acquired while the language was being learnt. thus understanding in this sense may be reduced to mere physiological causal laws. if you say the same thing to a frenchman with a slight knowledge of english he will go through some inner speech which may be represented by "que dit-il? ah, oui, une automobile!" after this, the rest follows as with the englishman. watson would contend that the inner speech must be incipiently pronounced; we should argue that it might be merely imaged. but this point is not important in the present connection. if you say the same thing to a child who does not yet know the word "motor," but does know the other words you are using, you produce a feeling of anxiety and doubt you will have to point and say, "there, that's a motor." after that the child will roughly understand the word "motor," though he may include trains and steam-rollers if this is the first time the child has heard the word "motor," he may for a long time continue to recall this scene when he hears the word. so far we have found four ways of understanding words: ( ) on suitable occasions you use the word properly. ( ) when you hear it you act appropriately. ( ) you associate the word with another word (say in a different language) which has the appropriate effect on behaviour. ( ) when the word is being first learnt, you may associate it with an object, which is what it "means," or a representative of various objects that it "means." in the fourth case, the word acquires, through association, some of the same causal efficacy as the object. the word "motor" can make you leap aside, just as the motor can, but it cannot break your bones. the effects which a word can share with its object are those which proceed according to laws other than the general laws of physics, i.e. those which, according to our terminology, involve vital movements as opposed to merely mechanical movements. the effects of a word that we understand are always mnemic phenomena in the sense explained in lecture iv, in so far as they are identical with, or similar to, the effects which the object itself might have. so far, all the uses of words that we have considered can be accounted for on the lines of behaviourism. but so far we have only considered what may be called the "demonstrative" use of language, to point out some feature in the present environment. this is only one of the ways in which language may be used. there are also its narrative and imaginative uses, as in history and novels. let us take as an instance the telling of some remembered event. we spoke a moment ago of a child who hears the word "motor" for the first time when crossing a street along which a motor-car is approaching. on a later occasion, we will suppose, the child remembers the incident and relates it to someone else. in this case, both the active and passive understanding of words is different from what it is when words are used demonstratively. the child is not seeing a motor, but only remembering one; the hearer does not look round in expectation of seeing a motor coming, but "understands" that a motor came at some earlier time. the whole of this occurrence is much more difficult to account for on behaviourist lines. it is clear that, in so far as the child is genuinely remembering, he has a picture of the past occurrence, and his words are chosen so as to describe the picture; and in so far as the hearer is genuinely apprehending what is said, the hearer is acquiring a picture more or less like that of the child. it is true that this process may be telescoped through the operation of the word-habit. the child may not genuinely remember the incident, but only have the habit of the appropriate words, as in the case of a poem which we know by heart, though we cannot remember learning it. and the hearer also may only pay attention to the words, and not call up any corresponding picture. but it is, nevertheless, the possibility of a memory-image in the child and an imagination-image in the hearer that makes the essence of the narrative "meaning" of the words. in so far as this is absent, the words are mere counters, capable of meaning, but not at the moment possessing it. yet this might perhaps be regarded as something of an overstatement. the words alone, without the use of images, may cause appropriate emotions and appropriate behaviour. the words have been used in an environment which produced certain emotions; by a telescoped process, the words alone are now capable of producing similar emotions. on these lines it might be sought to show that images are unnecessary. i do not believe, however, that we could account on these lines for the entirely different response produced by a narrative and by a description of present facts. images, as contrasted with sensations, are the response expected during a narrative; it is understood that present action is not called for. thus it seems that we must maintain our distinction words used demonstratively describe and are intended to lead to sensations, while the same words used in narrative describe and are only intended to lead to images. we have thus, in addition to our four previous ways in which words can mean, two new ways, namely the way of memory and the way of imagination. that is to say: ( ) words may be used to describe or recall a memory-image: to describe it when it already exists, or to recall it when the words exist as a habit and are known to be descriptive of some past experience. ( ) words may be used to describe or create an imagination-image: to describe it, for example, in the case of a poet or novelist, or to create it in the ordinary case for giving information-though, in the latter case, it is intended that the imagination-image, when created, shall be accompanied by belief that something of the sort occurred. these two ways of using words, including their occurrence in inner speech, may be spoken of together as the use of words in "thinking." if we are right, the use of words in thinking depends, at least in its origin, upon images, and cannot be fully dealt with on behaviourist lines. and this is really the most essential function of words, namely that, originally through their connection with images, they bring us into touch with what is remote in time or space. when they operate without the medium of images, this seems to be a telescoped process. thus the problem of the meaning of words is brought into connection with the problem of the meaning of images. to understand the function that words perform in what is called "thinking," we must understand both the causes and the effects of their occurrence. the causes of the occurrence of words require somewhat different treatment according as the object designated by the word is sensibly present or absent. when the object is present, it may itself be taken as the cause of the word, through association. but when it is absent there is more difficulty in obtaining a behaviourist theory of the occurrence of the word. the language-habit consists not merely in the use of words demonstratively, but also in their use to express narrative or desire. professor watson, in his account of the acquisition of the language-habit, pays very little attention to the use of words in narrative and desire. he says ("behavior," pp. - ): "the stimulus (object) to which the child often responds, a box, e.g. by movements such as opening and closing and putting objects into it, may serve to illustrate our argument. the nurse, observing that the child reacts with his hands, feet, etc., to the box, begins to say 'box' when the child is handed the box, 'open box' when the child opens it, 'close box' when he closes it, and 'put doll in box' when that act is executed. this is repeated over and over again. in the process of time it comes about that without any other stimulus than that of the box which originally called out the bodily habits, he begins to say 'box' when he sees it, 'open box' when he opens it, etc. the visible box now becomes a stimulus capable of releasing either the bodily habits or the word-habit, i.e. development has brought about two things: ( ) a series of functional connections among arcs which run from visual receptor to muscles of throat, and ( ) a series of already earlier connected arcs which run from the same receptor to the bodily muscles.... the object meets the child's vision. he runs to it and tries to reach it and says 'box.'... finally the word is uttered without the movement of going towards the box being executed.... habits are formed of going to the box when the arms are full of toys. the child has been taught to deposit them there. when his arms are laden with toys and no box is there, the word-habit arises and he calls 'box'; it is handed to him, and he opens it and deposits the toys therein. this roughly marks what we would call the genesis of a true language-habit."(pp. - ).* * just the same account of language is given in professor watson's more recent book (reference above). we need not linger over what is said in the above passage as to the use of the word "box" in the presence of the box. but as to its use in the absence of the box, there is only one brief sentence, namely: "when his arms are laden with toys and no box is there, the word-habit arises and he calls 'box.'" this is inadequate as it stands, since the habit has been to use the word when the box is present, and we have to explain its extension to cases in which the box is absent. having admitted images, we may say that the word "box," in the absence of the box, is caused by an image of the box. this may or may not be true--in fact, it is true in some cases but not in others. even, however, if it were true in all cases, it would only slightly shift our problem: we should now have to ask what causes an image of the box to arise. we might be inclined to say that desire for the box is the cause. but when this view is investigated, it is found that it compels us to suppose that the box can be desired without the child's having either an image of the box or the word "box." this will require a theory of desire which may be, and i think is, in the main true, but which removes desire from among things that actually occur, and makes it merely a convenient fiction, like force in mechanics.* with such a view, desire is no longer a true cause, but merely a short way of describing certain processes. * see lecture iii, above. in order to explain the occurrence of either the word or the image in the absence of the box, we have to assume that there is something, either in the environment or in our own sensations, which has frequently occurred at about the same time as the word "box." one of the laws which distinguish psychology (or nerve-physiology?) from physics is the law that, when two things have frequently existed in close temporal contiguity, either comes in time to cause the other.* this is the basis both of habit and of association. thus, in our case, the arms full of toys have frequently been followed quickly by the box, and the box in turn by the word "box." the box itself is subject to physical laws, and does not tend to be caused by the arms full of toys, however often it may in the past have followed them--always provided that, in the case in question, its physical position is such that voluntary movements cannot lead to it. but the word "box" and the image of the box are subject to the law of habit; hence it is possible for either to be caused by the arms full of toys. and we may lay it down generally that, whenever we use a word, either aloud or in inner speech, there is some sensation or image (either of which may be itself a word) which has frequently occurred at about the same time as the word, and now, through habit, causes the word. it follows that the law of habit is adequate to account for the use of words in the absence of their objects; moreover, it would be adequate even without introducing images. although, therefore, images seem undeniable, we cannot derive an additional argument in their favour from the use of words, which could, theoretically, be explained without introducing images. *for a more exact statement of this law, with the limitations suggested by experiment, see a. wohlgemuth, "on memory and the direction of associations," "british journal of psychology," vol. v, part iv (march, ). when we understand a word, there is a reciprocal association between it and the images of what it "means." images may cause us to use words which mean them, and these words, heard or read, may in turn cause the appropriate images. thus speech is a means of producing in our hearers the images which are in us. also, by a telescoped process, words come in time to produce directly the effects which would have been produced by the images with which they were associated. the general law of telescoped processes is that, if a causes b and b causes c, it will happen in time that a will cause c directly, without the intermediary of b. this is a characteristic of psychological and neural causation. in virtue of this law, the effects of images upon our actions come to be produced by words, even when the words do not call up appropriate images. the more familiar we are with words, the more our "thinking" goes on in words instead of images. we may, for example, be able to describe a person's appearance correctly without having at any time had any image of him, provided, when we saw him, we thought of words which fitted him; the words alone may remain with us as a habit, and enable us to speak as if we could recall a visual image of the man. in this and other ways the understanding of a word often comes to be quite free from imagery; but in first learning the use of language it would seem that imagery always plays a very important part. images as well as words may be said to have "meaning"; indeed, the meaning of images seems more primitive than the meaning of words. what we call (say) an image of st. paul's may be said to "mean" st. paul's. but it is not at all easy to say exactly what constitutes the meaning of an image. a memory-image of a particular occurrence, when accompanied by a memory-belief, may be said to mean the occurrence of which it is an image. but most actual images do not have this degree of definiteness. if we call up an image of a dog, we are very likely to have a vague image, which is not representative of some one special dog, but of dogs in general. when we call up an image of a friend's face, we are not likely to reproduce the expression he had on some one particular occasion, but rather a compromise expression derived from many occasions. and there is hardly any limit to the vagueness of which images are capable. in such cases, the meaning of the image, if defined by relation to the prototype, is vague: there is not one definite prototype, but a number, none of which is copied exactly.* * cf. semon, mnemische empfindungen, chap. xvi, especially pp. - . there is, however, another way of approaching the meaning of images, namely through their causal efficacy. what is called an image "of" some definite object, say st. paul's, has some of the effects which the object would have. this applies especially to the effects that depend upon association. the emotional effects, also, are often similar: images may stimulate desire almost as strongly as do the objects they represent. and conversely desire may cause images*: a hungry man will have images of food, and so on. in all these ways the causal laws concerning images are connected with the causal laws concerning the objects which the images "mean." an image may thus come to fulfil the function of a general idea. the vague image of a dog, which we spoke of a moment ago, will have effects which are only connected with dogs in general, not the more special effects which would be produced by some dogs but not by others. berkeley and hume, in their attack on general ideas, do not allow for the vagueness of images: they assume that every image has the definiteness that a physical object would have this is not the case, and a vague image may well have a meaning which is general. * this phrase is in need of interpretation, as appears from the analysis of desire. but the reader can easily supply the interpretation for himself. in order to define the "meaning" of an image, we have to take account both of its resemblance to one or more prototypes, and of its causal efficacy. if there were such a thing as a pure imagination-image, without any prototype whatever, it would be destitute of meaning. but according to hume's principle, the simple elements in an image, at least, are derived from prototypes-except possibly in very rare exceptional cases. often, in such instances as our image of a friend's face or of a nondescript dog, an image is not derived from one prototype, but from many; when this happens, the image is vague, and blurs the features in which the various prototypes differ. to arrive at the meaning of the image in such a case, we observe that there are certain respects, notably associations, in which the effects of images resemble those of their prototypes. if we find, in a given case, that our vague image, say, of a nondescript dog, has those associative effects which all dogs would have, but not those belonging to any special dog or kind of dog, we may say that our image means "dog" in general. if it has all the associations appropriate to spaniels but no others, we shall say it means "spaniel"; while if it has all the associations appropriate to one particular dog, it will mean that dog, however vague it may be as a picture. the meaning of an image, according to this analysis, is constituted by a combination of likeness and associations. it is not a sharp or definite conception, and in many cases it will be impossible to decide with any certainty what an image means. i think this lies in the nature of things, and not in defective analysis. we may give somewhat more precision to the above account of the meaning of images, and extend it to meaning in general. we find sometimes that, in mnemic causation, an image or word, as stimulus, has the same effect (or very nearly the same effect) as would belong to some object, say, a certain dog. in that case we say that the image or word means that object. in other cases the mnemic effects are not all those of one object, but only those shared by objects of a certain kind, e.g. by all dogs. in this case the meaning of the image or word is general: it means the whole kind. generality and particularity are a matter of degree. if two particulars differ sufficiently little, their mnemic effects will be the same; therefore no image or word can mean the one as opposed to the other; this sets a bound to the particularity of meaning. on the other hand, the mnemic effects of a number of sufficiently dissimilar objects will have nothing discoverable in common; hence a word which aims at complete generality, such as "entity" for example, will have to be devoid of mnemic effects, and therefore of meaning. in practice, this is not the case: such words have verbal associations, the learning of which constitutes the study of metaphysics. the meaning of a word, unlike that of an image, is wholly constituted by mnemic causal laws, and not in any degree by likeness (except in exceptional cases). the word "dog" bears no resemblance to a dog, but its effects, like those of an image of a dog, resemble the effects of an actual dog in certain respects. it is much easier to say definitely what a word means than what an image means, since words, however they originated, have been framed in later times for the purpose of having meaning, and men have been engaged for ages in giving increased precision to the meanings of words. but although it is easier to say what a word means than what an image means, the relation which constitutes meaning is much the same in both cases. a word, like an image, has the same associations as its meaning has. in addition to other associations, it is associated with images of its meaning, so that the word tends to call up the image and the image tends to call up the word., but this association is not essential to the intelligent use of words. if a word has the right associations with other objects, we shall be able to use it correctly, and understand its use by others, even if it evokes no image. the theoretical understanding of words involves only the power of associating them correctly with other words; the practical understanding involves associations with other bodily movements. the use of words is, of course, primarily social, for the purpose of suggesting to others ideas which we entertain or at least wish them to entertain. but the aspect of words that specially concerns us is their power of promoting our own thought. almost all higher intellectual activity is a matter of words, to the nearly total exclusion of everything else. the advantages of words for purposes of thought are so great that i should never end if i were to enumerate them. but a few of them deserve to be mentioned. in the first place, there is no difficulty in producing a word, whereas an image cannot always be brought into existence at will, and when it comes it often contains much irrelevant detail. in the second place, much of our thinking is concerned with abstract matters which do not readily lend themselves to imagery, and are apt to be falsely conceived if we insist upon finding images that may be supposed to represent them. the word is always concrete and sensible, however abstract its meaning may be, and thus by the help of words we are able to dwell on abstractions in a way which would otherwise be impossible. in the third place, two instances of the same word are so similar that neither has associations not capable of being shared by the other. two instances of the word "dog" are much more alike than (say) a pug and a great dane; hence the word "dog" makes it much easier to think about dogs in general. when a number of objects have a common property which is important but not obvious, the invention of a name for the common property helps us to remember it and to think of the whole set of objects that possess it. but it is unnecessary to prolong the catalogue of the uses of language in thought. at the same time, it is possible to conduct rudimentary thought by means of images, and it is important, sometimes, to check purely verbal thought by reference to what it means. in philosophy especially the tyranny of traditional words is dangerous, and we have to be on our guard against assuming that grammar is the key to metaphysics, or that the structure of a sentence corresponds at all accurately with the structure of the fact that it asserts. sayce maintained that all european philosophy since aristotle has been dominated by the fact that the philosophers spoke indo-european languages, and therefore supposed the world, like the sentences they were used to, necessarily divisible into subjects and predicates. when we come to the consideration of truth and falsehood, we shall see how necessary it is to avoid assuming too close a parallelism between facts and the sentences which assert them. against such errors, the only safeguard is to be able, once in a way, to discard words for a moment and contemplate facts more directly through images. most serious advances in philosophic thought result from some such comparatively direct contemplation of facts. but the outcome has to be expressed in words if it is to be communicable. those who have a relatively direct vision of facts are often incapable of translating their vision into words, while those who possess the words have usually lost the vision. it is partly for this reason that the highest philosophical capacity is so rare: it requires a combination of vision with abstract words which is hard to achieve, and too quickly lost in the few who have for a moment achieved it. lecture xi. general ideas and thought it is said to be one of the merits of the human mind that it is capable of framing abstract ideas, and of conducting nonsensational thought. in this it is supposed to differ from the mind of animals. from plato onward the "idea" has played a great part in the systems of idealizing philosophers. the "idea" has been, in their hands, always something noble and abstract, the apprehension and use of which by man confers upon him a quite special dignity. the thing we have to consider to-day is this: seeing that there certainly are words of which the meaning is abstract, and seeing that we can use these words intelligently, what must be assumed or inferred, or what can be discovered by observation, in the way of mental content to account for the intelligent use of abstract words? taken as a problem in logic, the answer is, of course, that absolutely nothing in the way of abstract mental content is inferable from the mere fact that we can use intelligently words of which the meaning is abstract. it is clear that a sufficiently ingenious person could manufacture a machine moved by olfactory stimuli which, whenever a dog appeared in its neighbourhood, would say, "there is a dog," and when a cat appeared would throw stones at it. the act of saying "there is a dog," and the act of throwing stones, would in such a case be equally mechanical. correct speech does not of itself afford any better evidence of mental content than the performance of any other set of biologically useful movements, such as those of flight or combat. all that is inferable from language is that two instances of a universal, even when they differ very greatly, may cause the utterance of two instances of the same word which only differ very slightly. as we saw in the preceding lecture, the word "dog" is useful, partly, because two instances of this word are much more similar than (say) a pug and a great dane. the use of words is thus a method of substituting for two particulars which differ widely, in spite of being instances of the same universal, two other particulars which differ very little, and which are also instances of a universal, namely the name of the previous universal. thus, so far as logic is concerned, we are entirely free to adopt any theory as to general ideas which empirical observation may recommend. berkeley and hume made a vigorous onslaught on "abstract ideas." they meant by an idea approximately what we should call an image. locke having maintained that he could form an idea of triangle in general, without deciding what sort of triangle it was to be, berkeley contended that this was impossible. he says: "whether others, have this wonderful faculty of abstracting their ideas, they best can tell: for myself, i dare be confident i have it not. i find, indeed, i have indeed a faculty of imagining, or representing to myself, the ideas of those particular things i have perceived, and of variously compounding and dividing them. i can imagine a man with two heads, or the upper parts of a man joined to the body of a horse. i can consider the hand, the eye, the nose, each by itself abstracted or separated from the rest of the body. but, then, whatever hand or eye i imagine, it must have some particular shape and colour. likewise the idea of a man that i frame to myself must be either of a white, or a black, or a tawny, a straight, or a crooked, a tall, or a low, or a middle-sized man. i cannot by any effort of thought conceive the abstract idea above described. and it is equally impossible for me to form the abstract idea of motion distinct from the body moving, and which is neither swift nor slow, curvilinear nor rectilinear; and the like may be said of all other abstract general ideas whatsoever. to be plain, i own myself able to abstract in one sense, as when i consider some particular parts of qualities separated from others, with which, though they are united in some object, yet it is possible they may really exist without them. but i deny that i can abstract from one another, or conceive separately, those qualities which it is impossible should exist so separated; or that i can frame a general notion, by abstracting from particulars in the manner aforesaid--which last are the two proper acceptations of abstraction. and there is ground to think most men will acknowledge themselves to be in my case. the generality of men which are simple and illiterate never pretend to abstract notions. it is said they are difficult and not to be attained without pains and study; we may therefore reasonably conclude that, if such there be, they are confined only to the learned. "i proceed to examine what can be alleged in defence of the doctrine of abstraction, and try if i can discover what it is that inclines the men of speculation to embrace an opinion so remote from common sense as that seems to be. there has been a late excellent and deservedly esteemed philosopher who, no doubt, has given it very much countenance, by seeming to think the having abstract general ideas is what puts the widest difference in point of understanding betwixt man and beast. 'the having of general ideas,' saith he, 'is that which puts a perfect distinction betwixt man and brutes, and is an excellency which the faculties of brutes do by no means attain unto. for, it is evident we observe no footsteps in them of making use of general signs for universal ideas; from which we have reason to imagine that they have not the faculty of abstracting, or making general ideas, since they have no use of words or any other general signs.' and a little after: 'therefore, i think, we may suppose that it is in this that the species of brutes are discriminated from men, and it is that proper difference wherein they are wholly separated, and which at last widens to so wide a distance. for, if they have any ideas at all, and are not bare machines (as some would have them), we cannot deny them to have some reason. it seems as evident to me that they do, some of them, in certain instances reason as that they have sense; but it is only in particular ideas, just as they receive them from their senses. they are the best of them tied up within those narrow bounds, and have not (as i think) the faculty to enlarge them by any kind of abstraction.* ("essay on human understanding," bk. ii, chap. xi, paragraphs and .) i readily agree with this learned author, that the faculties of brutes can by no means attain to abstraction. but, then, if this be made the distinguishing property of that sort of animals, i fear a great many of those that pass for men must be reckoned into their number. the reason that is here assigned why we have no grounds to think brutes have abstract general ideas is, that we observe in them no use of words or any other general signs; which is built on this supposition-that the making use of words implies the having general ideas. from which it follows that men who use language are able to abstract or generalize their ideas. that this is the sense and arguing of the author will further appear by his answering the question he in another place puts: 'since all things that exist are only particulars, how come we by general terms?' his answer is: 'words become general by being made the signs of general ideas.' ("essay on human understanding," bk. iii, chap. iii, paragraph .) but it seems that a word becomes general by being made the sign, not of an abstract general idea, but of several particular ideas, any one of which it indifferently suggests to the mind. for example, when it is said 'the change of motion is proportional to the impressed force,' or that 'whatever has extension is divisible,' these propositions are to be understood of motion and extension in general; and nevertheless it will not follow that they suggest to my thoughts an idea of motion without a body moved, or any determinate direction and velocity, or that i must conceive an abstract general idea of extension, which is neither line, surface, nor solid, neither great nor small, black, white, nor red, nor of any other determinate colour. it is only implied that whatever particular motion i consider, whether it be swift or slow, perpendicular, horizontal, or oblique, or in whatever object, the axiom concerning it holds equally true. as does the other of every particular extension, it matters not whether line, surface, or solid, whether of this or that magnitude or figure. "by observing how ideas become general, we may the better judge how words are made so. and here it is to be noted that i do not deny absolutely there are general ideas, but only that there are any abstract general ideas; for, in the passages we have quoted wherein there is mention of general ideas, it is always supposed that they are formed by abstraction, after the manner set forth in sections and . now, if we will annex a meaning to our words, and speak only of what we can conceive, i believe we shall acknowledge that an idea which, considered in itself, is particular, becomes general by being made to represent or stand for all other particular ideas of the same sort. to make this plain by an example, suppose a geometrician is demonstrating the method of cutting a line in two equal parts. he draws, for instance, a black line of an inch in length: this, which in itself is a particular line, is nevertheless with regard to its signification general, since, as it is there used, it represents all particular lines whatsoever; so that what is demonstrated of it is demonstrated of all lines, or, in other words, of a line in general. and, as that particular line becomes general by being made a sign, so the name 'line,' which taken absolutely is particular, by being a sign is made general. and as the former owes its generality not to its being the sign of an abstract or general line, but of all particular right lines that may possibly exist, so the latter must be thought to derive its generality from the same cause, namely, the various particular lines which it indifferently denotes." * * introduction to "a treatise concerning the principles of human knowledge," paragraphs , , and . berkeley's view in the above passage, which is essentially the same as hume's, does not wholly agree with modern psychology, although it comes nearer to agreement than does the view of those who believe that there are in the mind single contents which can be called abstract ideas. the way in which berkeley's view is inadequate is chiefly in the fact that images are as a rule not of one definite prototype, but of a number of related similar prototypes. on this subject semon has written well. in "die mneme," pp. ff., discussing the effect of repeated similar stimuli in producing and modifying our images, he says: "we choose a case of mnemic excitement whose existence we can perceive for ourselves by introspection, and seek to ekphore the bodily picture of our nearest relation in his absence, and have thus a pure mnemic excitement before us. at first it may seem to us that a determinate quite concrete picture becomes manifest in us, but just when we are concerned with a person with whom we are in constant contact, we shall find that the ekphored picture has something so to speak generalized. it is something like those american photographs which seek to display what is general about a type by combining a great number of photographs of different heads over each other on one plate. in our opinion, the generalizations happen by the homophonic working of different pictures of the same face which we have come across in the most different conditions and situations, once pale, once reddened, once cheerful, once earnest, once in this light, and once in that. as soon as we do not let the whole series of repetitions resound in us uniformly, but give our attention to one particular moment out of the many... this particular mnemic stimulus at once overbalances its simultaneously roused predecessors and successors, and we perceive the face in question with concrete definiteness in that particular situation." a little later he says: "the result is--at least in man, but probably also in the higher animals--the development of a sort of physiological abstraction. mnemic homophony gives us, without the addition of other processes of thought, a picture of our friend x which is in a certain sense abstract, not the concrete in any one situation, but x cut loose from any particular point of time. if the circle of ekphored engrams is drawn even more widely, abstract pictures of a higher order appear: for instance, a white man or a negro. in my opinion, the first form of abstract concepts in general is based upon such abstract pictures. the physiological abstraction which takes place in the above described manner is a predecessor of purely logical abstraction. it is by no means a monopoly of the human race, but shows itself in various ways also among the more highly organized animals." the same subject is treated in more detail in chapter xvi of "die mnemischen empfindungen," but what is said there adds nothing vital to what is contained in the above quotations. it is necessary, however, to distinguish between the vague and the general. so long as we are content with semon's composite image, we may get no farther than the vague. the question whether this image takes us to the general or not depends, i think, upon the question whether, in addition to the generalized image, we have also particular images of some of the instances out of which it is compounded. suppose, for example, that on a number of occasions you had seen one negro, and that you did not know whether this one was the same or different on the different occasions. suppose that in the end you had an abstract memory-image of the different appearances presented by the negro on different occasions, but no memory-image of any one of the single appearances. in that case your image would be vague. if, on the other hand, you have, in addition to the generalized image, particular images of the several appearances, sufficiently clear to be recognized as different, and as instances of the generalized picture, you will then not feel the generalized picture to be adequate to any one particular appearance, and you will be able to make it function as a general idea rather than a vague idea. if this view is correct, no new general content needs to be added to the generalized image. what needs to be added is particular images compared and contrasted with the generalized image. so far as i can judge by introspection, this does occur in practice. take for example semon's instance of a friend's face. unless we make some special effort of recollection, the face is likely to come before us with an average expression, very blurred and vague, but we can at will recall how our friend looked on some special occasion when he was pleased or angry or unhappy, and this enables us to realize the generalized character of the vague image. there is, however, another way of distinguishing between the vague, the particular and the general, and this is not by their content, but by the reaction which they produce. a word, for example, may be said to be vague when it is applicable to a number of different individuals, but to each as individuals; the name smith, for example, is vague: it is always meant to apply to one man, but there are many men to each of whom it applies.* the word "man," on the other hand, is general. we say, "this is smith," but we do not say "this is man," but "this is a man." thus we may say that a word embodies a vague idea when its effects are appropriate to an individual, but are the same for various similar individuals, while a word embodies a general idea when its effects are different from those appropriate to individuals. in what this difference consists it is, however, not easy to say. i am inclined to think that it consists merely in the knowledge that no one individual is represented, so that what distinguishes a general idea from a vague idea is merely the presence of a certain accompanying belief. if this view is correct, a general idea differs from a vague one in a way analogous to that in which a memory-image differs from an imagination-image. there also we found that the difference consists merely of the fact that a memory-image is accompanied by a belief, in this case as to the past. * "smith" would only be a quite satisfactory representation of vague words if we failed to discriminate between different people called smith. it should also be said that our images even of quite particular occurrences have always a greater or a less degree of vagueness. that is to say, the occurrence might have varied within certain limits without causing our image to vary recognizably. to arrive at the general it is necessary that we should be able to contrast it with a number of relatively precise images or words for particular occurrences; so long as all our images and words are vague, we cannot arrive at the contrast by which the general is defined. this is the justification for the view which i quoted on p. from ribot (op. cit., p. ), viz. that intelligence progresses from the indefinite to the definite, and that the vague appears earlier than either the particular or the general. i think the view which i have been advocating, to the effect that a general idea is distinguished from a vague one by the presence of a judgment, is also that intended by ribot when he says (op. cit., p. ): "the generic image is never, the concept is always, a judgment. we know that for logicians (formerly at any rate) the concept is the simple and primitive element; next comes the judgment, uniting two or several concepts; then ratiocination, combining two or several judgments. for the psychologists, on the contrary, affirmation is the fundamental act; the concept is the result of judgment (explicit or implicit), of similarities with exclusion of differences." a great deal of work professing to be experimental has been done in recent years on the psychology of thought. a good summary of such work up to the year agog is contained in titchener's "lectures on the experimental psychology of the thought processes" ( ). three articles in the "archiv fur die gesammte psychologie" by watt,* messer** and buhler*** contain a great deal of the material amassed by the methods which titchener calls experimental. * henry j. watt, "experimentelle beitrage zu einer theorie des denkens," vol. iv ( ) pp. - . ** august messer, "experimentell-psychologische untersuchu gen uber das denken," vol. iii ( ), pp. - . *** karl buhler, "uber gedanken," vol. ix ( ), pp. - . for my part i am unable to attach as much importance to this work as many psychologists do. the method employed appears to me hardly to fulfil the conditions of scientific experiment. broadly speaking, what is done is, that a set of questions are asked of various people, their answers are recorded, and likewise their own accounts, based upon introspection, of the processes of thought which led them to give those answers. much too much reliance seems to me to be placed upon the correctness of their introspection. on introspection as a method i have spoken earlier (lecture vi). i am not prepared, like professor watson, to reject it wholly, but i do consider that it is exceedingly fallible and quite peculiarly liable to falsification in accordance with preconceived theory. it is like depending upon the report of a shortsighted person as to whom he sees coming along the road at a moment when he is firmly convinced that jones is sure to come. if everybody were shortsighted and obsessed with beliefs as to what was going to be visible, we might have to make the best of such testimony, but we should need to correct its errors by taking care to collect the simultaneous evidence of people with the most divergent expectations. there is no evidence that this was done in the experiments in question, nor indeed that the influence of theory in falsifying the introspection was at all adequately recognized. i feel convinced that if professor watson had been one of the subjects of the questionnaires, he would have given answers totally different from those recorded in the articles in question. titchener quotes an opinion of wundt on these investigations, which appears to me thoroughly justified. "these experiments," he says, "are not experiments at all in the sense of a scientific methodology; they are counterfeit experiments, that seem methodical simply because they are ordinarily performed in a psychological laboratory, and involve the co-operation of two persons, who purport to be experimenter and observer. in reality, they are as unmethodical as possible; they possess none of the special features by which we distinguish the introspections of experimental psychology from the casual introspections of everyday life."* titchener, of course, dissents from this opinion, but i cannot see that his reasons for dissent are adequate. my doubts are only increased by the fact that buhler at any rate used trained psychologists as his subjects. a trained psychologist is, of course, supposed to have acquired the habit of observation, but he is at least equally likely to have acquired a habit of seeing what his theories require. we may take buhler's "uber gedanken" to illustrate the kind of results arrived at by such methods. buhler says (p. ): "we ask ourselves the general question: 'what do we experience when we think?' then we do not at all attempt a preliminary determination of the concept 'thought,' but choose for analysis only such processes as everyone would describe as processes of thought." the most important thing in thinking, he says, is "awareness that..." (bewusstheit dass), which he calls a thought. it is, he says, thoughts in this sense that are essential to thinking. thinking, he maintains, does not need language or sensuous presentations. "i assert rather that in principle every object can be thought (meant) distinctly, without any help from sensuous presentation (anschauungshilfen). every individual shade of blue colour on the picture that hangs in my room i can think with complete distinctness unsensuously (unanschaulich), provided it is possible that the object should be given to me in another manner than by the help of sensations. how that is possible we shall see later." what he calls a thought (gedanke) cannot be reduced, according to him, to other psychic occurrences. he maintains that thoughts consist for the most part of known rules (p. ). it is clearly essential to the interest of this theory that the thought or rule alluded to by buhler should not need to be expressed in words, for if it is expressed in words it is immediately capable of being dealt with on the lines with which the behaviourists have familiarized us. it is clear also that the supposed absence of words rests solely upon the introspective testimony of the persons experimented upon. i cannot think that there is sufficient certainty of their reliability in this negative observation to make us accept a difficult and revolutionary view of thought, merely because they have failed to observe the presence of words or their equivalent in their thinking. i think it far more likely, especially in view of the fact that the persons concerned were highly educated, that we are concerned with telescoped processes, in which habit has caused a great many intermediate terms to be elided or to be passed over so quickly as to escape observation. * titchener, op. cit., p. . i am inclined to think that similar remarks apply to the general idea of "imageless thinking," concerning which there has been much controversy. the advocates of imageless thinking are not contending merely that there can be thinking which is purely verbal; they are contending that there can be thinking which proceeds neither in words nor in images. my own feeling is that they have rashly assumed the presence of thinking in cases where habit has rendered thinking unnecessary. when thorndike experimented with animals in cages, he found that the associations established were between a sensory stimulus and a bodily movement (not the idea of it), without the need of supposing any non-physiological intermediary (op. cit., p. ff.). the same thing, it seems to me, applies to ourselves. a certain sensory situation produces in us a certain bodily movement. sometimes this movement consists in uttering words. prejudice leads us to suppose that between the sensory stimulus and the utterance of the words a process of thought must have intervened, but there seems no good reason for such a supposition. any habitual action, such as eating or dressing, may be performed on the appropriate occasion, without any need of thought, and the same seems to be true of a painfully large proportion of our talk. what applies to uttered speech applies of course equally to the internal speech which is not uttered. i remain, therefore, entirely unconvinced that there is any such phenomenon as thinking which consists neither of images nor of words, or that "ideas" have to be added to sensations and images as part of the material out of which mental phenomena are built. the question of the nature of our consciousness of the universal is much affected by our view as to the general nature of the relation of consciousness to its object. if we adopt the view of brentano, according to which all mental content has essential reference to an object, it is then natural to suppose that there is some peculiar kind of mental content of which the object is a universal, as oppose to a particular. according to this view, a particular cat can be perceived or imagined, while the universal "cat" is conceived. but this whole manner of viewing our dealings with universals has to be abandoned when the relation of a mental occurrence to its "object" is regarded as merely indirect and causal, which is the view that we have adopted. the mental content is, of course, always particular, and the question as to what it "means" (in case it means anything) is one which cannot be settled by merely examining the intrinsic character of the mental content, but only by knowing its causal connections in the case of the person concerned. to say that a certain thought "means" a universal as opposed to either a vague or a particular, is to say something exceedingly complex. a horse will behave in a certain manner whenever he smells a bear, even if the smell is derived from a bearskin. that is to say, any environment containing an instance of the universal "smell of a bear" produces closely similar behaviour in the horse, but we do not say that the horse is conscious of this universal. there is equally little reason to regard a man as conscious of the same universal, because under the same circumstances he can react by saying, "i smell a bear." this reaction, like that of the horse, is merely closely similar on different occasions where the environment affords instances of the same universal. words of which the logical meaning is universal can therefore be employed correctly, without anything that could be called consciousness of universals. such consciousness in the only sense in which it can be said to exist is a matter of reflective judgment consisting in the observation of similarities and differences. a universal never appears before the mind as a single object in the sort of way in which something perceived appears. i think a logical argument could be produced to show that universals are part of the structure of the world, but they are an inferred part, not a part of our data. what exists in us consists of various factors, some open to external observation, others only visible to introspection. the factors open to external observation are primarily habits, having the peculiarity that very similar reactions are produced by stimuli which are in many respects very different from each other. of this the reaction of the horse to the smell of the bear is an instance, and so is the reaction of the man who says "bear" under the same circumstances. the verbal reaction is, of course, the most important from the point of view of what may be called knowledge of universals. a man who can always use the word "dog" when he sees a dog may be said, in a certain sense, to know the meaning of the word "dog," and in that sense to have knowledge of the universal "dog." but there is, of course, a further stage reached by the logician in which he not merely reacts with the word "dog," but sets to work to discover what it is in the environment that causes in him this almost identical reaction on different occasions. this further stage consists in knowledge of similarities and differences: similarities which are necessary to the applicability of the word "dog," and differences which are compatible with it. our knowledge of these similarities and differences is never exhaustive, and therefore our knowledge of the meaning of a universal is never complete. in addition to external observable habits (including the habit of words), there is also the generic image produced by the superposition, or, in semon's phrase, homophony, of a number of similar perceptions. this image is vague so long as the multiplicity of its prototypes is not recognized, but becomes universal when it exists alongside of the more specific images of its instances, and is knowingly contrasted with them. in this case we find again, as we found when we were discussing words in general in the preceding lecture, that images are not logically necessary in order to account for observable behaviour, i.e. in this case intelligent speech. intelligent speech could exist as a motor habit, without any accompaniment of images, and this conclusion applies to words of which the meaning is universal, just as much as to words of which the meaning is relatively particular. if this conclusion is valid, it follows that behaviourist psychology, which eschews introspective data, is capable of being an independent science, and of accounting for all that part of the behaviour of other people which is commonly regarded as evidence that they think. it must be admitted that this conclusion considerably weakens the reliance which can be placed upon introspective data. they must be accepted simply on account of the fact that we seem to perceive them, not on account of their supposed necessity for explaining the data of external observation. this, at any rate, is the conclusion to which we are forced, so long as, with the behaviourists, we accept common-sense views of the physical world. but if, as i have urged, the physical world itself, as known, is infected through and through with subjectivity, if, as the theory of relativity suggests, the physical universe contains the diversity of points of view which we have been accustomed to regard as distinctively psychological, then we are brought back by this different road to the necessity for trusting observations which are in an important sense private. and it is the privacy of introspective data which causes much of the behaviourists' objection to them. this is an example of the difficulty of constructing an adequate philosophy of any one science without taking account of other sciences. the behaviourist philosophy of psychology, though in many respects admirable from the point of view of method, appears to me to fail in the last analysis because it is based upon an inadequate philosophy of physics. in spite, therefore, of the fact that the evidence for images, whether generic or particular, is merely introspective, i cannot admit that images should be rejected, or that we should minimize their function in our knowledge of what is remote in time or space. lecture xii. belief belief, which is our subject to-day, is the central problem in the analysis of mind. believing seems the most "mental" thing we do, the thing most remote from what is done by mere matter. the whole intellectual life consists of beliefs, and of the passage from one belief to another by what is called "reasoning." beliefs give knowledge and error; they are the vehicles of truth and falsehood. psychology, theory of knowledge and metaphysics revolve about belief, and on the view we take of belief our philosophical outlook largely depends. before embarking upon the detailed analysis of belief, we shall do well to note certain requisites which any theory must fulfil. ( ) just as words are characterized by meaning, so beliefs are characterized by truth or falsehood. and just as meaning consists in relation to the object meant, so truth and falsehood consist in relation to something that lies outside the belief. you may believe that such-and-such a horse will win the derby. the time comes, and your horse wins or does not win; according to the outcome, your belief was true or false. you may believe that six times nine is fifty-six; in this case also there is a fact which makes your belief false. you may believe that america was discovered in , or that it was discovered in . in the one case your belief is true, in the other false; in either case its truth or falsehood depends upon the actions of columbus, not upon anything present or under your control. what makes a belief true or false i call a "fact." the particular fact that makes a given belief true or false i call its "objective,"* and the relation of the belief to its objective i call the "reference" or the "objective reference" of the belief. thus, if i believe that columbus crossed the atlantic in , the "objective" of my belief is columbus's actual voyage, and the "reference" of my belief is the relation between my belief and the voyage--that relation, namely, in virtue of which the voyage makes my belief true (or, in another case, false). "reference" of beliefs differs from "meaning" of words in various ways, but especially in the fact that it is of two kinds, "true" reference and "false" reference. the truth or falsehood of a belief does not depend upon anything intrinsic to the belief, but upon the nature of its relation to its objective. the intrinsic nature of belief can be treated without reference to what makes it true or false. in the remainder of the present lecture i shall ignore truth and falsehood, which will be the subject of lecture xiii. it is the intrinsic nature of belief that will concern us to-day. * this terminology is suggested by meinong, but is not exactly the same as his. ( ) we must distinguish between believing and what is believed. i may believe that columbus crossed the atlantic, that all cretans are liars, that two and two are four, or that nine times six is fifty-six; in all these cases the believing is just the same, and only the contents believed are different. i may remember my breakfast this morning, my lecture last week, or my first sight of new york. in all these cases the feeling of memory-belief is just the same, and only what is remembered differs. exactly similar remarks apply to expectations. bare assent, memory and expectation are forms of belief; all three are different from what is believed, and each has a constant character which is independent of what is believed. in lecture i we criticized the analysis of a presentation into act, content and object. but our analysis of belief contains three very similar elements, namely the believing, what is believed and the objective. the objections to the act (in the case of presentations) are not valid against the believing in the case of beliefs, because the believing is an actual experienced feeling, not something postulated, like the act. but it is necessary first to complete our preliminary requisites, and then to examine the content of a belief. after that, we shall be in a position to return to the question as to what constitutes believing. ( ) what is believed, and the believing, must both consist of present occurrences in the believer, no matter what may be the objective of the belief. suppose i believe, for example, "that caesar crossed the rubicon." the objective of my belief is an event which happened long ago, which i never saw and do not remember. this event itself is not in my mind when i believe that it happened. it is not correct to say that i am believing the actual event; what i am believing is something now in my mind, something related to the event (in a way which we shall investigate in lecture xiii), but obviously not to be confounded with the event, since the event is not occurring now but the believing is. what a man is believing at a given moment is wholly determinate if we know the contents of his mind at that moment; but caesar's crossing of the rubicon was an historical physical event, which is distinct from the present contents of every present mind. what is believed, however true it may be, is not the actual fact that makes the belief true, but a present event related to the fact. this present event, which is what is believed, i shall call the "content" of the belief. we have already had occasion to notice the distinction between content and objective in the case of memory-beliefs, where the content is "this occurred" and the objective is the past event. ( ) between content and objective there is sometimes a very wide gulf, for example in the case of "caesar crossed the rubicon." this gulf may, when it is first perceived, give us a feeling that we cannot really "know" anything about the outer world. all we can "know," it may be said, is what is now in our thoughts. if caesar and the rubicon cannot be bodily in our thoughts, it might seem as though we must remain cut off from knowledge of them. i shall not now deal at length with this feeling, since it is necessary first to define "knowing," which cannot be done yet. but i will say, as a preliminary answer, that the feeling assumes an ideal of knowing which i believe to be quite mistaken. it assumes, if it is thought out, something like the mystic unity of knower and known. these two are often said to be combined into a unity by the fact of cognition; hence when this unity is plainly absent, it may seem as if there were no genuine cognition. for my part, i think such theories and feelings wholly mistaken: i believe knowing to be a very external and complicated relation, incapable of exact definition, dependent upon causal laws, and involving no more unity than there is between a signpost and the town to which it points. i shall return to this question on a later occasion; for the moment these provisional remarks must suffice. ( ) the objective reference of a belief is connected with the fact that all or some of the constituents of its content have meaning. if i say "caesar conquered gaul," a person who knows the meaning of the three words composing my statement knows as much as can be known about the nature of the objective which would make my statement true. it is clear that the objective reference of a belief is, in general, in some way derivative from the meanings of the words or images that occur in its content. there are, however, certain complications which must be borne in mind. in the first place, it might be contended that a memory-image acquires meaning only through the memory-belief, which would seem, at least in the case of memory, to make belief more primitive than the meaning of images. in the second place, it is a very singular thing that meaning, which is single, should generate objective reference, which is dual, namely true and false. this is one of the facts which any theory of belief must explain if it is to be satisfactory. it is now time to leave these preliminary requisites, and attempt the analysis of the contents of beliefs. the first thing to notice about what is believed, i.e. about the content of a belief, is that it is always complex: we believe that a certain thing has a certain property, or a certain relation to something else, or that it occurred or will occur (in the sense discussed at the end of lecture ix); or we may believe that all the members of a certain class have a certain property, or that a certain property sometimes occurs among the members of a class; or we may believe that if one thing happens, another will happen (for example, "if it rains i shall bring my umbrella"), or we may believe that something does not happen, or did not or will not happen (for example, "it won't rain"); or that one of two things must happen (for example, "either you withdraw your accusation, or i shall bring a libel action"). the catalogue of the sorts of things we may believe is infinite, but all of them are complex. language sometimes conceals the complexity of a belief. we say that a person believes in god, and it might seem as if god formed the whole content of the belief. but what is really believed is that god exists, which is very far from being simple. similarly, when a person has a memory-image with a memory-belief, the belief is "this occurred," in the sense explained in lecture ix; and "this occurred" is not simple. in like manner all cases where the content of a belief seems simple at first sight will be found, on examination, to confirm the view that the content is always complex. the content of a belief involves not merely a plurality of constituents, but definite relations between them; it is not determinate when its constituents alone are given. for example, "plato preceded aristotle" and "aristotle preceded plato" are both contents which may be believed, but, although they consist of exactly the same constituents, they are different, and even incompatible. the content of a belief may consist of words only, or of images only, or of a mixture of the two, or of either or both together with one or more sensations. it must contain at least one constituent which is a word or an image, and it may or may not contain one or more sensations as constituents. some examples will make these various possibilities clear. we may take first recognition, in either of the forms "this is of such-and-such a kind" or "this has occurred before." in either case, present sensation is a constituent. for example, you hear a noise, and you say to yourself "tram." here the noise and the word "tram" are both constituents of your belief; there is also a relation between them, expressed by "is" in the proposition "that is a tram." as soon as your act of recognition is completed by the occurrence of the word "tram," your actions are affected: you hurry if you want the tram, or cease to hurry if you want a bus. in this case the content of your belief is a sensation (the noise) and a word ("tram") related in a way which may be called predication. the same noise may bring into your mind the visual image of a tram, instead of the word "tram." in this case your belief consists of a sensation and an image suitable related. beliefs of this class are what are called "judgments of perception." as we saw in lecture viii, the images associated with a sensation often come with such spontaneity and force that the unsophisticated do not distinguish them from the sensation; it is only the psychologist or the skilled observer who is aware of the large mnemic element that is added to sensation to make perception. it may be objected that what is added consists merely of images without belief. this is no doubt sometimes the case, but is certainly sometimes not the case. that belief always occurs in perception as opposed to sensation it is not necessary for us to maintain; it is enough for our purposes to note that it sometimes occurs, and that when it does, the content of our belief consists of a sensation and an image suitably related. in a pure memory-belief only images occur. but a mixture of words and images is very common in memory. you have an image of the past occurrence, and you say to yourself: "yes, that's how it was." here the image and the words together make up the content of the belief. and when the remembering of an incident has become a habit, it may be purely verbal, and the memory-belief may consist of words alone. the more complicated forms of belief tend to consist only of words. often images of various kinds accompany them, but they are apt to be irrelevant, and to form no part of what is actually believed. for example, in thinking of the solar system, you are likely to have vague images of pictures you have seen of the earth surrounded by clouds, saturn and his rings, the sun during an eclipse, and so on; but none of these form part of your belief that the planets revolve round the sun in elliptical orbits. the only images that form an actual part of such beliefs are, as a rule, images of words. and images of words, for the reasons considered in lecture viii, cannot be distinguished with any certainty from sensations, when, as is often, if not usually, the case, they are kinaesthetic images of pronouncing the words. it is impossible for a belief to consist of sensations alone, except when, as in the case of words, the sensations have associations which make them signs possessed of meaning. the reason is that objective reference is of the essence of belief, and objective reference is derived from meaning. when i speak of a belief consisting partly of sensations and partly of words, i do not mean to deny that the words, when they are not mere images, are sensational, but that they occur as signs, not (so to speak) in their own right. to revert to the noise of the tram, when you hear it and say "tram," the noise and the word are both sensations (if you actually pronounce the word), but the noise is part of the fact which makes your belief true, whereas the word is not part of this fact. it is the meaning of the word "tram," not the actual word, that forms part of the fact which is the objective of your belief. thus the word occurs in the belief as a symbol, in virtue of its meaning, whereas the noise enters into both the belief and its objective. it is this that distinguishes the occurrence of words as symbols from the occurrence of sensations in their own right: the objective contains the sensations that occur in their own right, but contains only the meanings of the words that occur as symbols. for the sake of simplicity, we may ignore the cases in which sensations in their own right form part of the content of a belief, and confine ourselves to images and words. we may also omit the cases in which both images and words occur in the content of a belief. thus we become confined to two cases: (a) when the content consists wholly of images, (b) when it consists wholly of words. the case of mixed images and words has no special importance, and its omission will do no harm. let us take in illustration a case of memory. suppose you are thinking of some familiar room. you may call up an image of it, and in your image the window may be to the left of the door. without any intrusion of words, you may believe in the correctness of your image. you then have a belief, consisting wholly of images, which becomes, when put into words, "the window is to the left of the door." you may yourself use these words and proceed to believe them. you thus pass from an image-content to the corresponding word-content. the content is different in the two cases, but its objective reference is the same. this shows the relation of image-beliefs to word-beliefs in a very simple case. in more elaborate cases the relation becomes much less simple. it may be said that even in this very simple case the objective reference of the word-content is not quite the same as that of the image-content, that images have a wealth of concrete features which are lost when words are substituted, that the window in the image is not a mere window in the abstract, but a window of a certain shape and size, not merely to the left of the door, but a certain distance to the left, and so on. in reply, it may be admitted at once that there is, as a rule, a certain amount of truth in the objection. but two points may be urged to minimize its force. first, images do not, as a rule, have that wealth of concrete detail that would make it impossible to express them fully in words. they are vague and fragmentary: a finite number of words, though perhaps a large number, would exhaust at least their significant features. for--and this is our second point--images enter into the content of a belief through the fact that they are capable of meaning, and their meaning does not, as a rule, have as much complexity as they have: some of their characteristics are usually devoid of meaning. thus it may well be possible to extract in words all that has meaning in an image-content; in that case the word-content and the image-content will have exactly the same objective reference. the content of a belief, when expressed in words, is the same thing (or very nearly the same thing) as what in logic is called a "proposition." a proposition is a series of words (or sometimes a single word) expressing the kind of thing that can be asserted or denied. "that all men are mortal," "that columbus discovered america," "that charles i died in his bed," "that all philosophers are wise," are propositions. not any series of words is a proposition, but only such series of words as have "meaning," or, in our phraseology, "objective reference." given the meanings of separate words, and the rules of syntax, the meaning of a proposition is determinate. this is the reason why we can understand a sentence we never heard before. you probably never heard before the proposition "that the inhabitants of the andaman islands habitually eat stewed hippopotamus for dinner," but there is no difficulty in understanding the proposition. the question of the relation between the meaning of a sentence and the meanings of the separate words is difficult, and i shall not pursue it now; i brought it up solely as being illustrative of the nature of propositions. we may extend the term "proposition" so as to cover the image-contents of beliefs consisting of images. thus, in the case of remembering a room in which the window is to the left of the door, when we believe the image-content the proposition will consist of the image of the window on the left together with the image of the door on the right. we will distinguish propositions of this kind as "image-propositions" and propositions in words as "word-propositions." we may identify propositions in general with the contents of actual and possible beliefs, and we may say that it is propositions that are true or false. in logic we are concerned with propositions rather than beliefs, since logic is not interested in what people do in fact believe, but only in the conditions which determine the truth or falsehood of possible beliefs. whenever possible, except when actual beliefs are in question, it is generally a simplification to deal with propositions. it would seem that image-propositions are more primitive than word-propositions, and may well ante-date language. there is no reason why memory-images, accompanied by that very simple belief-feeling which we decided to be the essence of memory, should not have occurred before language arose; indeed, it would be rash to assert positively that memory of this sort does not occur among the higher animals. our more elementary beliefs, notably those that are added to sensation to make perception, often remain at the level of images. for example, most of the visual objects in our neighbourhood rouse tactile images: we have a different feeling in looking at a sofa from what we have in looking at a block of marble, and the difference consists chiefly in different stimulation of our tactile imagination. it may be said that the tactile images are merely present, without any accompanying belief; but i think this view, though sometimes correct, derives its plausibility as a general proposition from our thinking of explicit conscious belief only. most of our beliefs, like most of our wishes, are "unconscious," in the sense that we have never told ourselves that we have them. such beliefs display themselves when the expectations that they arouse fail in any way. for example, if someone puts tea (without milk) into a glass, and you drink it under the impression that it is going to be beer; or if you walk on what appears to be a tiled floor, and it turns out to be a soft carpet made to look like tiles. the shock of surprise on an occasion of this kind makes us aware of the expectations that habitually enter into our perceptions; and such expectations must be classed as beliefs, in spite of the fact that we do not normally take note of them or put them into words. i remember once watching a cock pigeon running over and over again to the edge of a looking-glass to try to wreak vengeance on the particularly obnoxious bird whom he expected to find there, judging by what he saw in the glass. he must have experienced each time the sort of surprise on finding nothing, which is calculated to lead in time to the adoption of berkeley's theory that objects of sense are only in the mind. his expectation, though not expressed in words, deserved, i think, to be called a belief. i come now to the question what constitutes believing, as opposed to the content believed. to begin with, there are various different attitudes that may be taken towards the same content. let us suppose, for the sake of argument, that you have a visual image of your breakfast-table. you may expect it while you are dressing in the morning; remember it as you go to your work; feel doubt as to its correctness when questioned as to your powers of visualizing; merely entertain the image, without connecting it with anything external, when you are going to sleep; desire it if you are hungry, or feel aversion for it if you are ill. suppose, for the sake of definiteness, that the content is "an egg for breakfast." then you have the following attitudes "i expect there will be an egg for breakfast"; "i remember there was an egg for breakfast"; "was there an egg for breakfast?" "an egg for breakfast: well, what of it?" "i hope there will be an egg for breakfast"; "i am afraid there will be an egg for breakfast and it is sure to be bad." i do not suggest that this is a list of all possible attitudes on the subject; i say only that they are different attitudes, all concerned with the one content "an egg for breakfast." these attitudes are not all equally ultimate. those that involve desire and aversion have occupied us in lecture iii. for the present, we are only concerned with such as are cognitive. in speaking of memory, we distinguished three kinds of belief directed towards the same content, namely memory, expectation and bare assent without any time-determination in the belief-feeling. but before developing this view, we must examine two other theories which might be held concerning belief, and which, in some ways, would be more in harmony with a behaviourist outlook than the theory i wish to advocate. ( ) the first theory to be examined is the view that the differentia of belief consists in its causal efficacy i do not wish to make any author responsible for this theory: i wish merely to develop it hypothetically so that we may judge of its tenability. we defined the meaning of an image or word by causal efficacy, namely by associations: an image or word acquires meaning, we said, through having the same associations as what it means. we propose hypothetically to define "belief" by a different kind of causal efficacy, namely efficacy in causing voluntary movements. (voluntary movements are defined as those vital movements which are distinguished from reflex movements as involving the higher nervous centres. i do not like to distinguish them by means of such notions as "consciousness" or "will," because i do not think these notions, in any definable sense, are always applicable. moreover, the purpose of the theory we are examining is to be, as far as possible, physiological and behaviourist, and this purpose is not achieved if we introduce such a conception as "consciousness" or "will." nevertheless, it is necessary for our purpose to find some way of distinguishing between voluntary and reflex movements, since the results would be too paradoxical, if we were to say that reflex movements also involve beliefs.) according to this definition, a content is said to be "believed" when it causes us to move. the images aroused are the same if you say to me, "suppose there were an escaped tiger coming along the street," and if you say to me, "there is an escaped tiger coming along the street." but my actions will be very different in the two cases: in the first, i shall remain calm; in the second, it is possible that i may not. it is suggested, by the theory we are considering, that this difference of effects constitutes what is meant by saying that in the second case i believe the proposition suggested, while in the first case i do not. according to this view, images or words are "believed" when they cause bodily movements. i do not think this theory is adequate, but i think it is suggestive of truth, and not so easily refutable as it might appear to be at first sight. it might be objected to the theory that many things which we certainly believe do not call for any bodily movements. i believe that great britain is an island, that whales are mammals, that charles i was executed, and so on; and at first sight it seems obvious that such beliefs, as a rule, do not call for any action on my part. but when we investigate the matter more closely, it becomes more doubtful. to begin with, we must distinguish belief as a mere disposition from actual active belief. we speak as if we always believed that charles i was executed, but that only means that we are always ready to believe it when the subject comes up. the phenomenon we are concerned to analyse is the active belief, not the permanent disposition. now, what are the occasions when, we actively believe that charles i was executed? primarily: examinations, when we perform the bodily movement of writing it down; conversation, when we assert it to display our historical erudition; and political discourses, when we are engaged in showing what soviet government leads to. in all these cases bodily movements (writing or speaking) result from our belief. but there remains the belief which merely occurs in "thinking." one may set to work to recall some piece of history one has been reading, and what one recalls is believed, although it probably does not cause any bodily movement whatever. it is true that what we believe always may influence action. suppose i am invited to become king of georgia: i find the prospect attractive, and go to cook's to buy a third-class ticket to my new realm. at the last moment i remember charles i and all the other monarchs who have come to a bad end; i change my mind, and walk out without completing the transaction. but such incidents are rare, and cannot constitute the whole of my belief that charles i was executed. the conclusion seems to be that, although a belief always may influence action if it becomes relevant to a practical issue, it often exists actively (not as a mere disposition) without producing any voluntary movement whatever. if this is true, we cannot define belief by the effect on voluntary movements. there is another, more theoretical, ground for rejecting the view we are examining. it is clear that a proposition can be either believed or merely considered, and that the content is the same in both cases. we can expect an egg for breakfast, or merely entertain the supposition that there may be an egg for breakfast. a moment ago i considered the possibility of being invited to become king of georgia, but i do not believe that this will happen. now, it seems clear that, since believing and considering have different effects if one produces bodily movements while the other does not, there must be some intrinsic difference between believing and considering*; for if they were precisely similar, their effects also would be precisely similar. we have seen that the difference between believing a given proposition and merely considering it does not lie in the content; therefore there must be, in one case or in both, something additional to the content which distinguishes the occurrence of a belief from the occurrence of a mere consideration of the same content. so far as the theoretical argument goes, this additional element may exist only in belief, or only in consideration, or there may be one sort of additional element in the case of belief, and another in the case of consideration. this brings us to the second view which we have to examine. * cf. brentano, "psychologie vom empirischen standpunkte," p. (criticizing bain, "the emotions and the will"). ( ) the theory which we have now to consider regards belief as belonging to every idea which is entertained, except in so far as some positive counteracting force interferes. in this view belief is not a positive phenomenon, though doubt and disbelief are so. what we call belief, according to this hypothesis, involves only the appropriate content, which will have the effects characteristic of belief unless something else operating simultaneously inhibits them. james (psychology, vol. ii, p. ) quotes with approval, though inaccurately, a passage from spinoza embodying this view: "let us conceive a boy imagining to himself a horse, and taking note of nothing else. as this imagination involves the existence of the horse, and the boy has no perception which annuls its existence [james's italics], he will necessarily contemplate the horse as present, nor will he be able to doubt of its existence, however little certain of it he may be. i deny that a man in so far as he imagines [percipit] affirms nothing. for what is it to imagine a winged horse but to affirm that the horse [that horse, namely] has wings? for if the mind had nothing before it but the winged horse, it would contemplate the same as present, would have no cause to doubt of its existence, nor any power of dissenting from its existence, unless the imagination of the winged horse were joined to an idea which contradicted [tollit] its existence" ("ethics," vol. ii, p. , scholium). to this doctrine james entirely assents, adding in italics: "any object which remains uncontradicted is ipso facto believed and posited as absolute reality." if this view is correct, it follows (though james does not draw the inference) that there is no need of any specific feeling called "belief," and that the mere existence of images yields all that is required. the state of mind in which we merely consider a proposition, without believing or disbelieving it, will then appear as a sophisticated product, the result of some rival force adding to the image-proposition a positive feeling which may be called suspense or non-belief--a feeling which may be compared to that of a man about to run a race waiting for the signal. such a man, though not moving, is in a very different condition from that of a man quietly at rest and so the man who is considering a proposition without believing it will be in a state of tension, restraining the natural tendency to act upon the proposition which he would display if nothing interfered. in this view belief primarily consists merely in the existence of the appropriate images without any counteracting forces. there is a great deal to be said in favour of this view, and i have some hesitation in regarding it as inadequate. it fits admirably with the phenomena of dreams and hallucinatory images, and it is recommended by the way in which it accords with mental development. doubt, suspense of judgment and disbelief all seem later and more complex than a wholly unreflecting assent. belief as a positive phenomenon, if it exists, may be regarded, in this view, as a product of doubt, a decision after debate, an acceptance, not merely of this, but of this-rather-than-that. it is not difficult to suppose that a dog has images (possible olfactory) of his absent master, or of the rabbit that he dreams of hunting. but it is very difficult to suppose that he can entertain mere imagination-images to which no assent is given. i think it must be conceded that a mere image, without the addition of any positive feeling that could be called "belief," is apt to have a certain dynamic power, and in this sense an uncombated image has the force of a belief. but although this may be true, it accounts only for some of the simplest phenomena in the region of belief. it will not, for example, explain memory. nor can it explain beliefs which do not issue in any proximate action, such as those of mathematics. i conclude, therefore, that there must be belief-feelings of the same order as those of doubt or disbelief, although phenomena closely analogous to those of belief can be produced by mere uncontradicted images. ( ) i come now to the view of belief which i wish to advocate. it seems to me that there are at least three kinds of belief, namely memory, expectation and bare assent. each of these i regard as constituted by a certain feeling or complex of sensations, attached to the content believed. we may illustrate by an example. suppose i am believing, by means of images, not words, that it will rain. we have here two interrelated elements, namely the content and the expectation. the content consists of images of (say) the visual appearance of rain, the feeling of wetness, the patter of drops, interrelated, roughly, as the sensations would be if it were raining. thus the content is a complex fact composed of images. exactly the same content may enter into the memory "it was raining" or the assent "rain occurs." the difference of these cases from each other and from expectation does not lie in the content. the difference lies in the nature of the belief-feeling. i, personally, do not profess to be able to analyse the sensations constituting respectively memory, expectation and assent; but i am not prepared to say that they cannot be analysed. there may be other belief-feelings, for example in disjunction and implication; also a disbelief-feeling. it is not enough that the content and the belief-feeling should coexist: it is necessary that there should be a specific relation between them, of the sort expressed by saying that the content is what is believed. if this were not obvious, it could be made plain by an argument. if the mere co-existence of the content and the belief-feeling sufficed, whenever we were having (say) a memory-feeling we should be remembering any proposition which came into our minds at the same time. but this is not the case, since we may simultaneously remember one proposition and merely consider another. we may sum up our analysis, in the case of bare assent to a proposition not expressed in words, as follows: (a) we have a proposition, consisting of interrelated images, and possibly partly of sensations; (b) we have the feeling of assent, which is presumably a complex sensation demanding analysis; (c) we have a relation, actually subsisting, between the assent and the proposition, such as is expressed by saying that the proposition in question is what is assented to. for other forms of belief-feeling or of content, we have only to make the necessary substitutions in this analysis. if we are right in our analysis of belief, the use of words in expressing beliefs is apt to be misleading. there is no way of distinguishing, in words, between a memory and an assent to a proposition about the past: "i ate my breakfast" and "caesar conquered gaul" have the same verbal form, though (assuming that i remember my breakfast) they express occurrences which are psychologically very different. in the one case, what happens is that i remember the content "eating my breakfast"; in the other case, i assent to the content "caesar's conquest of gaul occurred." in the latter case, but not in the former, the pastness is part of the content believed. exactly similar remarks apply to the difference between expectation, such as we have when waiting for the thunder after a flash of lightning, and assent to a proposition about the future, such as we have in all the usual cases of inferential knowledge as to what will occur. i think this difficulty in the verbal expression of the temporal aspects of beliefs is one among the causes which have hampered philosophy in the consideration of time. the view of belief which i have been advocating contains little that is novel except the distinction of kinds of belief-feeling--such as memory and expectation. thus james says: "everyone knows the difference between imagining a thing and believing in its existence, between supposing a proposition and acquiescing in its truth...in its inner nature, belief, or the sense of reality, is a sort of feeling more allied to the emotions than to anything else" ("psychology," vol. ii, p. . james's italics). he proceeds to point out that drunkenness, and, still more, nitrous-oxide intoxication, will heighten the sense of belief: in the latter case, he says, a man's very soul may sweat with conviction, and he be all the time utterly unable to say what he is convinced of. it would seem that, in such cases, the feeling of belief exists unattached, without its usual relation to a content believed, just as the feeling of familiarity may sometimes occur without being related to any definite familiar object. the feeling of belief, when it occurs in this separated heightened form, generally leads us to look for a content to which to attach it. much of what passes for revelation or mystic insight probably comes in this way: the belief-feeling, in abnormal strength, attaches itself, more or less accidentally, to some content which we happen to think of at the appropriate moment. but this is only a speculation, upon which i do not wish to lay too much stress. lecture xiii. truth and falsehood the definition of truth and falsehood, which is our topic to-day, lies strictly outside our general subject, namely the analysis of mind. from the psychological standpoint, there may be different kinds of belief, and different degrees of certainty, but there cannot be any purely psychological means of distinguishing between true and false beliefs. a belief is rendered true or false by relation to a fact, which may lie outside the experience of the person entertaining the belief. truth and falsehood, except in the case of beliefs about our own minds, depend upon the relations of mental occurrences to outside things, and thus take us beyond the analysis of mental occurrences as they are in themselves. nevertheless, we can hardly avoid the consideration of truth and falsehood. we wish to believe that our beliefs, sometimes at least, yield knowledge, and a belief does not yield knowledge unless it is true. the question whether our minds are instruments of knowledge, and, if so, in what sense, is so vital that any suggested analysis of mind must be examined in relation to this question. to ignore this question would be like describing a chronometer without regard to its accuracy as a time-keeper, or a thermometer without mentioning the fact that it measures temperature. many difficult questions arise in connection with knowledge. it is difficult to define knowledge, difficult to decide whether we have any knowledge, and difficult, even if it is conceded that we sometimes have knowledge to discover whether we can ever know that we have knowledge in this or that particular case. i shall divide the discussion into four parts: i. we may regard knowledge, from a behaviourist standpoint, as exhibited in a certain kind of response to the environment. this response must have some characteristics which it shares with those of scientific instruments, but must also have others that are peculiar to knowledge. we shall find that this point of view is important, but not exhaustive of the nature of knowledge. ii. we may hold that the beliefs that constitute knowledge are distinguished from such as are erroneous or uncertain by properties which are intrinsic either to single beliefs or to systems of beliefs, being in either case discoverable without reference to outside fact. views of this kind have been widely held among philosophers, but we shall find no reason to accept them. iii. we believe that some beliefs are true, and some false. this raises the problem of verifiability: are there any circumstances which can justifiably give us an unusual degree of certainty that such and such a belief is true? it is obvious that there are circumstances which in fact cause a certainty of this sort, and we wish to learn what we can from examining these circumstances. iv. finally, there is the formal problem of defining truth and falsehood, and deriving the objective reference of a proposition from the meanings of its component words. we will consider these four problems in succession. i. we may regard a human being as an instrument, which makes various responses to various stimuli. if we observe these responses from outside, we shall regard them as showing knowledge when they display two characteristics, accuracy and appropriateness. these two are quite distinct, and even sometimes incompatible. if i am being pursued by a tiger, accuracy is furthered by turning round to look at him, but appropriateness by running away without making any search for further knowledge of the beast. i shall return to the question of appropriateness later; for the present it is accuracy that i wish to consider. when we are viewing a man from the outside, it is not his beliefs, but his bodily movements, that we can observe. his knowledge must be inferred from his bodily movements, and especially from what he says and writes. for the present we may ignore beliefs, and regard a man's knowledge as actually consisting in what he says and does. that is to say, we will construct, as far as possible, a purely behaviouristic account of truth and falsehood. if you ask a boy "what is twice two?" and the boy says "four," you take that as prima facie evidence that the boy knows what twice two is. but if you go on to ask what is twice three, twice four, twice five, and so on, and the boy always answers "four," you come to the conclusion that he knows nothing about it. exactly similar remarks apply to scientific instruments. i know a certain weather-cock which has the pessimistic habit of always pointing to the north-east. if you were to see it first on a cold march day, you would think it an excellent weather-cock; but with the first warm day of spring your confidence would be shaken. the boy and the weather-cock have the same defect: they do not vary their response when the stimulus is varied. a good instrument, or a person with much knowledge, will give different responses to stimuli which differ in relevant ways. this is the first point in defining accuracy of response. we will now assume another boy, who also, when you first question him, asserts that twice two is four. but with this boy, instead of asking him different questions, you make a practice of asking him the same question every day at breakfast. you find that he says five, or six, or seven, or any other number at random, and you conclude that he also does not know what twice two is, though by good luck he answered right the first time. this boy is like a weather-cock which, instead of being stuck fast, is always going round and round, changing without any change of wind. this boy and weather-cock have the opposite defect to that of the previous pair: they give different responses to stimuli which do not differ in any relevant way. in connection with vagueness in memory, we already had occasion to consider the definition of accuracy. omitting some of the niceties of our previous discussion, we may say that an instrument is accurate when it avoids the defects of the two boys and weather-cocks, that is to say, when-- (a) it gives different responses to stimuli which differ in relevant ways; (b) it gives the same response to stimuli which do not differ in relevant ways. what are relevant ways depends upon the nature and purpose of the instrument. in the case of a weather-cock, the direction of the wind is relevant, but not its strength; in the case of the boy, the meaning of the words of your question is relevant, but not the loudness of your voice, or whether you are his father or his schoolmaster if, however, you were a boy of his own age, that would be relevant, and the appropriate response would be different. it is clear that knowledge is displayed by accuracy of response to certain kinds of stimuli, e.g. examinations. can we say, conversely, that it consists wholly of such accuracy of response? i do not think we can; but we can go a certain distance in this direction. for this purpose we must define more carefully the kind of accuracy and the kind of response that may be expected where there is knowledge. from our present point of view, it is difficult to exclude perception from knowledge; at any rate, knowledge is displayed by actions based upon perception. a bird flying among trees avoids bumping into their branches; its avoidance is a response to visual sensations. this response has the characteristic of accuracy, in the main, and leads us to say that the bird "knows," by sight, what objects are in its neighbourhood. for a behaviourist, this must certainly count as knowledge, however it may be viewed by analytic psychology. in this case, what is known, roughly, is the stimulus; but in more advanced knowledge the stimulus and what is known become different. for example, you look in your calendar and find that easter will be early next year. here the stimulus is the calendar, whereas the response concerns the future. even this can be paralleled among instruments: the behaviour of the barometer has a present stimulus but foretells the future, so that the barometer might be said, in a sense, to know the future. however that may be, the point i am emphasizing as regards knowledge is that what is known may be quite different from the stimulus, and no part of the cause of the knowledge-response. it is only in sense-knowledge that the stimulus and what is known are, with qualifications, identifiable. in knowledge of the future, it is obvious that they are totally distinct, since otherwise the response would precede the stimulus. in abstract knowledge also they are distinct, since abstract facts have no date. in knowledge of the past there are complications, which we must briefly examine. every form of memory will be, from our present point of view, in one sense a delayed response. but this phrase does not quite clearly express what is meant. if you light a fuse and connect it with a heap of dynamite, the explosion of the dynamite may be spoken of, in a sense, as a delayed response to your lighting of the fuse. but that only means that it is a somewhat late portion of a continuous process of which the earlier parts have less emotional interest. this is not the case with habit. a display of habit has two sorts of causes: (a) the past occurrences which generated the habit, (b) the present occurrence which brings it into play. when you drop a weight on your toe, and say what you do say, the habit has been caused by imitation of your undesirable associates, whereas it is brought into play by the dropping of the weight. the great bulk of our knowledge is a habit in this sense: whenever i am asked when i was born, i reply correctly by mere habit. it would hardly be correct to say that getting born was the stimulus, and that my reply is a delayed response but in cases of memory this way of speaking would have an element of truth. in an habitual memory, the event remembered was clearly an essential part of the stimulus to the formation of the habit. the present stimulus which brings the habit into play produces a different response from that which it would produce if the habit did not exist. therefore the habit enters into the causation of the response, and so do, at one remove, the causes of the habit. it follows that an event remembered is an essential part of the causes of our remembering. in spite, however, of the fact that what is known is sometimes an indispensable part of the cause of the knowledge, this circumstance is, i think, irrelevant to the general question with which we are concerned, namely what sort of response to what sort of stimulus can be regarded as displaying knowledge? there is one characteristic which the response must have, namely, it must consist of voluntary movements. the need of this characteristic is connected with the characteristic of appropriateness, which i do not wish to consider as yet. for the present i wish only to obtain a clearer idea of the sort of accuracy that a knowledge-response must have. it is clear from many instances that accuracy, in other cases, may be purely mechanical. the most complete form of accuracy consists in giving correct answers to questions, an achievement in which calculating machines far surpass human beings. in asking a question of a calculating machine, you must use its language: you must not address it in english, any more than you would address an englishman in chinese. but if you address it in the language it understands, it will tell you what is times , without a moment's hesitation or a hint of inaccuracy. we do not say the machine knows the answer, because it has no purpose of its own in giving the answer: it does not wish to impress you with its cleverness, or feel proud of being such a good machine. but as far as mere accuracy goes, the machine leaves nothing to be desired. accuracy of response is a perfectly clear notion in the case of answers to questions, but in other cases it is much more obscure. we may say generally that an object whether animate or inanimate, is "sensitive" to a certain feature of the environment if it behaves differently according to the presence or absence of that feature. thus iron is sensitive to anything magnetic. but sensitiveness does not constitute knowledge, and knowledge of a fact which is not sensible is not sensitiveness to that fact, as we have seen in distinguishing the fact known from the stimulus. as soon as we pass beyond the simple case of question and answer, the definition of knowledge by means of behaviour demands the consideration of purpose. a carrier pigeon flies home, and so we say it "knows" the way. but if it merely flew to some place at random, we should not say that it "knew" the way to that place, any more than a stone rolling down hill knows the way to the valley. on the features which distinguish knowledge from accuracy of response in general, not much can be said from a behaviourist point of view without referring to purpose. but the necessity of something besides accuracy of response may be brought out by the following consideration: suppose two persons, of whom one believed whatever the other disbelieved, and disbelieved whatever the other believed. so far as accuracy and sensitiveness of response alone are concerned, there would be nothing to choose between these two persons. a thermometer which went down for warm weather and up for cold might be just as accurate as the usual kind; and a person who always believes falsely is just as sensitive an instrument as a person who always believes truly. the observable and practical difference between them would be that the one who always believed falsely would quickly come to a bad end. this illustrates once more that accuracy of response to stimulus does not alone show knowledge, but must be reinforced by appropriateness, i.e. suitability for realizing one's purpose. this applies even in the apparently simple case of answering questions: if the purpose of the answers is to deceive, their falsehood, not their truth, will be evidence of knowledge. the proportion of the combination of appropriateness with accuracy in the definition of knowledge is difficult; it seems that both enter in, but that appropriateness is only required as regards the general type of response, not as regards each individual instance. ii. i have so far assumed as unquestionable the view that the truth or falsehood of a belief consists in a relation to a certain fact, namely the objective of the belief. this view has, however, been often questioned. philosophers have sought some intrinsic criterion by which true and false beliefs could be distinguished.* i am afraid their chief reason for this search has been the wish to feel more certainty than seems otherwise possible as to what is true and what is false. if we could discover the truth of a belief by examining its intrinsic characteristics, or those of some collection of beliefs of which it forms part, the pursuit of truth, it is thought, would be a less arduous business than it otherwise appears to be. but the attempts which have been made in this direction are not encouraging. i will take two criteria which have been suggested, namely, ( ) self-evidence, ( ) mutual coherence. if we can show that these are inadequate, we may feel fairly certain that no intrinsic criterion hitherto suggested will suffice to distinguish true from false beliefs. * the view that such a criterion exists is generally held by those whose views are in any degree derived from hegel. it may be illustrated by the following passage from lossky, "the intuitive basis of knowledge" (macmillan, ), p. : "strictly speaking, a false judgment is not a judgment at all. the predicate does not follow from the subject s alone, but from the subject plus a certain addition c, which in no sense belongs to the content of the judgment. what takes place may be a process of association of ideas, of imagining, or the like, but is not a process of judging. an experienced psychologist will be able by careful observation to detect that in this process there is wanting just the specific element of the objective dependence of the predicate upon the subject which is characteristic of a judgment. it must be admitted, however, that an exceptional power of observation is needed in order to distinguish, by means of introspection, mere combination of ideas from judgments." ( ) self-evidence.--some of our beliefs seem to be peculiarly indubitable. one might instance the belief that two and two are four, that two things cannot be in the same place at the same time, nor one thing in two places, or that a particular buttercup that we are seeing is yellow. the suggestion we are to examine is that such: beliefs have some recognizable quality which secures their truth, and the truth of whatever is deduced from them according to self-evident principles of inference. this theory is set forth, for example, by meinong in his book, "ueber die erfahrungsgrundlagen unseres wissens." if this theory is to be logically tenable, self-evidence must not consist merely in the fact that we believe a proposition. we believe that our beliefs are sometimes erroneous, and we wish to be able to select a certain class of beliefs which are never erroneous. if we are to do this, it must be by some mark which belongs only to certain beliefs, not to all; and among those to which it belongs there must be none that are mutually inconsistent. if, for example, two propositions p and q were self-evident, and it were also self-evident that p and q could not both be true, that would condemn self-evidence as a guarantee of truth. again, self-evidence must not be the same thing as the absence of doubt or the presence of complete certainty. if we are completely certain of a proposition, we do not seek a ground to support our belief. if self-evidence is alleged as a ground of belief, that implies that doubt has crept in, and that our self-evident proposition has not wholly resisted the assaults of scepticism. to say that any given person believes some things so firmly that he cannot be made to doubt them is no doubt true. such beliefs he will be willing to use as premisses in reasoning, and to him personally they will seem to have as much evidence as any belief can need. but among the propositions which one man finds indubitable there will be some that another man finds it quite possible to doubt. it used to seem self-evident that there could not be men at the antipodes, because they would fall off, or at best grow giddy from standing on their heads. but new zealanders find the falsehood of this proposition self-evident. therefore, if self-evidence is a guarantee of truth, our ancestors must have been mistaken in thinking their beliefs about the antipodes self-evident. meinong meets this difficulty by saying that some beliefs are falsely thought to be self-evident, but in the case of others it is self-evident that they are self-evident, and these are wholly reliable. even this, however, does not remove the practical risk of error, since we may mistakenly believe it self-evident that a certain belief is self-evident. to remove all risk of error, we shall need an endless series of more and more complicated self-evident beliefs, which cannot possibly be realized in practice. it would seem, therefore, that self-evidence is useless as a practical criterion for insuring truth. the same result follows from examining instances. if we take the four instances mentioned at the beginning of this discussion, we shall find that three of them are logical, while the fourth is a judgment of perception. the proposition that two and two are four follows by purely logical deduction from definitions: that means that its truth results, not from the properties of objects, but from the meanings of symbols. now symbols, in mathematics, mean what we choose; thus the feeling of self-evidence, in this case, seems explicable by the fact that the whole matter is within our control. i do not wish to assert that this is the whole truth about mathematical propositions, for the question is complicated, and i do not know what the whole truth is. but i do wish to suggest that the feeling of self-evidence in mathematical propositions has to do with the fact that they are concerned with the meanings of symbols, not with properties of the world such as external observation might reveal. similar considerations apply to the impossibility of a thing being in two places at once, or of two things being in one place at the same time. these impossibilities result logically, if i am not mistaken, from the definitions of one thing and one place. that is to say, they are not laws of physics, but only part of the intellectual apparatus which we have manufactured for manipulating physics. their self-evidence, if this is so, lies merely in the fact that they represent our decision as to the use of words, not a property of physical objects. judgments of perception, such as "this buttercup is yellow," are in a quite different position from judgments of logic, and their self-evidence must have a different explanation. in order to arrive at the nucleus of such a judgment, we will eliminate, as far as possible, the use of words which take us beyond the present fact, such as "buttercup" and "yellow." the simplest kind of judgment underlying the perception that a buttercup is yellow would seem to be the perception of similarity in two colours seen simultaneously. suppose we are seeing two buttercups, and we perceive that their colours are similar. this similarity is a physical fact, not a matter of symbols or words; and it certainly seems to be indubitable in a way that many judgments are not. the first thing to observe, in regard to such judgments, is that as they stand they are vague. the word "similar" is a vague word, since there are degrees of similarity, and no one can say where similarity ends and dissimilarity begins. it is unlikely that our two buttercups have exactly the same colour, and if we judged that they had we should have passed altogether outside the region of self-evidence. to make our proposition more precise, let us suppose that we are also seeing a red rose at the same time. then we may judge that the colours of the buttercups are more similar to each other than to the colour of the rose. this judgment seems more complicated, but has certainly gained in precision. even now, however, it falls short of complete precision, since similarity is not prima facie measurable, and it would require much discussion to decide what we mean by greater or less similarity. to this process of the pursuit of precision there is strictly no limit. the next thing to observe (although i do not personally doubt that most of our judgments of perception are true) is that it is very difficult to define any class of such judgments which can be known, by its intrinsic quality, to be always exempt from error. most of our judgments of perception involve correlations, as when we judge that a certain noise is that of a passing cart. such judgments are all obviously liable to error, since there is no correlation of which we have a right to be certain that it is invariable. other judgments of perception are derived from recognition, as when we say "this is a buttercup," or even merely "this is yellow." all such judgments entail some risk of error, though sometimes perhaps a very small one; some flowers that look like buttercups are marigolds, and colours that some would call yellow others might call orange. our subjective certainty is usually a result of habit, and may lead us astray in circumstances which are unusual in ways of which we are unaware. for such reasons, no form of self-evidence seems to afford an absolute criterion of truth. nevertheless, it is perhaps true that judgments having a high degree of subjective certainty are more apt to be true than other judgments. but if this be the case, it is a result to be demonstrated, not a premiss from which to start in defining truth and falsehood. as an initial guarantee, therefore, neither self-evidence nor subjective certainty can be accepted as adequate. ( ) coherence.--coherence as the definition of truth is advocated by idealists, particularly by those who in the main follow hegel. it is set forth ably in mr. joachim's book, "the nature of truth" (oxford, ). according to this view, any set of propositions other than the whole of truth can be condemned on purely logical grounds, as internally inconsistent; a single proposition, if it is what we should ordinarily call false, contradicts itself irremediably, while if it is what we should ordinarily call true, it has implications which compel us to admit other propositions, which in turn lead to others, and so on, until we find ourselves committed to the whole of truth. one might illustrate by a very simple example: if i say "so-and-so is a married man," that is not a self-subsistent proposition. we cannot logically conceive of a universe in which this proposition constituted the whole of truth. there must be also someone who is a married woman, and who is married to the particular man in question. the view we are considering regards everything that can be said about any one object as relative in the same sort of way as "so-and-so is a married man." but everything, according to this view, is relative, not to one or two other things, but to all other things, so that from one bit of truth the whole can be inferred. the fundamental objection to this view is logical, and consists in a criticism of its doctrine as to relations. i shall omit this line of argument, which i have developed elsewhere.* for the moment i will content myself with saying that the powers of logic seem to me very much less than this theory supposes. if it were taken seriously, its advocates ought to profess that any one truth is logically inferable from any other, and that, for example, the fact that caesar conquered gaul, if adequately considered, would enable us to discover what the weather will be to-morrow. no such claim is put forward in practice, and the necessity of empirical observation is not denied; but according to the theory it ought to be. * in the article on "the monistic theory of truth" in "philosophical essays" (longmans, ), reprinted from the "proceedings of the aristotelian society," - . another objection is that no endeavour is made to show that we cannot form a consistent whole composed partly or wholly of false propositions, as in a novel. leibniz's conception of many possible worlds seems to accord much better with modern logic and with the practical empiricism which is now universal. the attempt to deduce the world by pure thought is attractive, and in former times was largely supposed capable of success. but nowadays most men admit that beliefs must be tested by observation, and not merely by the fact that they harmonize with other beliefs. a consistent fairy-tale is a different thing from truth, however elaborate it may be. but to pursue this topic would lead us into difficult technicalities; i shall therefore assume, without further argument, that coherence is not sufficient as a definition of truth. iii. many difficult problems arise as regards the verifiability of beliefs. we believe various things, and while we believe them we think we know them. but it sometimes turns out that we were mistaken, or at any rate we come to think we were. we must be mistaken either in our previous opinion or in our subsequent recantation; therefore our beliefs are not all correct, and there are cases of belief which are not cases of knowledge. the question of verifiability is in essence this: can we discover any set of beliefs which are never mistaken or any test which, when applicable, will always enable us to discriminate between true and false beliefs? put thus broadly and abstractly, the answer must be negative. there is no way hitherto discovered of wholly eliminating the risk of error, and no infallible criterion. if we believe we have found a criterion, this belief itself may be mistaken; we should be begging the question if we tried to test the criterion by applying the criterion to itself. but although the notion of an absolute criterion is chimerical, there may be relative criteria, which increase the probability of truth. common sense and science hold that there are. let us see what they have to say. one of the plainest cases of verification, perhaps ultimately the only case, consists in the happening of something expected. you go to the station believing that there will be a train at a certain time; you find the train, you get into it, and it starts at the expected time this constitutes verification, and is a perfectly definite experience. it is, in a sense, the converse of memory instead of having first sensations and then images accompanied by belief, we have first images accompanied by belief and then sensations. apart from differences as to the time-order and the accompanying feelings, the relation between image and sensation is closely similar in the two cases of memory and expectation; it is a relation of similarity, with difference as to causal efficacy--broadly, the image has the psychological but not the physical effects that the sensation would have. when an image accompanied by an expectation-belief is thus succeeded by a sensation which is the "meaning" of the image, we say that the expectation-belief has been verified. the experience of verification in this sense is exceedingly familiar; it happens every time that accustomed activities have results that are not surprising, in eating and walking and talking and all our daily pursuits. but although the experience in question is common, it is not wholly easy to give a theoretical account of it. how do we know that the sensation resembles the previous image? does the image persist in presence of the sensation, so that we can compare the two? and even if some image does persist, how do we know that it is the previous image unchanged? it does not seem as if this line of inquiry offered much hope of a successful issue. it is better, i think, to take a more external and causal view of the relation of expectation to expected occurrence. if the occurrence, when it comes, gives us the feeling of expectedness, and if the expectation, beforehand, enabled us to act in a way which proves appropriate to the occurrence, that must be held to constitute the maximum of verification. we have first an expectation, then a sensation with the feeling of expectedness related to memory of the expectation. this whole experience, when it occurs, may be defined as verification, and as constituting the truth of the expectation. appropriate action, during the period of expectation, may be regarded as additional verification, but is not essential. the whole process may be illustrated by looking up a familiar quotation, finding it in the expected words, and in the expected part of the book. in this case we can strengthen the verification by writing down beforehand the words which we expect to find. i think all verification is ultimately of the above sort. we verify a scientific hypothesis indirectly, by deducing consequences as to the future, which subsequent experience confirms. if somebody were to doubt whether caesar had crossed the rubicon, verification could only be obtained from the future. we could proceed to display manuscripts to our historical sceptic, in which it was said that caesar had behaved in this way. we could advance arguments, verifiable by future experience, to prove the antiquity of the manuscript from its texture, colour, etc. we could find inscriptions agreeing with the historian on other points, and tending to show his general accuracy. the causal laws which our arguments would assume could be verified by the future occurrence of events inferred by means of them. the existence and persistence of causal laws, it is true, must be regarded as a fortunate accident, and how long it will continue we cannot tell. meanwhile verification remains often practically possible. and since it is sometimes possible, we can gradually discover what kinds of beliefs tend to be verified by experience, and what kinds tend to be falsified; to the former kinds we give an increased degree of assent, to the latter kinds a diminished degree. the process is not absolute or infallible, but it has been found capable of sifting beliefs and building up science. it affords no theoretical refutation of the sceptic, whose position must remain logically unassailable; but if complete scepticism is rejected, it gives the practical method by which the system of our beliefs grows gradually towards the unattainable ideal of impeccable knowledge. iv. i come now to the purely formal definition of the truth or falsehood of a belief. for this definition it is necessary first of all to consider the derivation of the objective reference of a proposition from the meanings of its component words or images. just as a word has meaning, so a proposition has an objective reference. the objective reference of a proposition is a function (in the mathematical sense) of the meanings of its component words. but the objective reference differs from the meaning of a word through the duality of truth and falsehood. you may believe the proposition "to-day is tuesday" both when, in fact, to-day is tuesday, and when to-day is not tuesday. if to-day is not tuesday, this fact is the objective of your belief that to-day is tuesday. but obviously the relation of your belief to the fact is different in this case from what it is in the case when to-day is tuesday. we may say, metaphorically, that when to-day is tuesday, your belief that it is tuesday points towards the fact, whereas when to-day is not tuesday your belief points away from the fact. thus the objective reference of a belief is not determined by the fact alone, but by the direction of the belief towards or away from the fact.* if, on a tuesday, one man believes that it is tuesday while another believes that it is not tuesday, their beliefs have the same objective, namely the fact that it is tuesday but the true belief points towards the fact while the false one points away from it. thus, in order to define the reference of a proposition we have to take account not only of the objective, but also of the direction of pointing, towards the objective in the case of a true proposition and away from it in the case of a false one. * i owe this way of looking at the matter to my friend ludwig wittgenstein. this mode of stating the nature of the objective reference of a proposition is necessitated by the circumstance that there are true and false propositions, but not true and false facts. if to-day is tuesday, there is not a false objective "to-day is not tuesday," which could be the objective of the false belief "to-day is not tuesday." this is the reason why two beliefs which are each other's contradictories have the same objective. there is, however, a practical inconvenience, namely that we cannot determine the objective reference of a proposition, according to this definition, unless we know whether the proposition is true or false. to avoid this inconvenience, it is better to adopt a slightly different phraseology, and say: the "meaning" of the proposition "to-day is tuesday" consists in pointing to the fact "to-day is tuesday" if that is a fact, or away from the fact "to-day is not tuesday" if that is a fact. the "meaning" of the proposition "to-day is not tuesday" will be exactly the opposite. by this hypothetical form we are able to speak of the meaning of a proposition without knowing whether it is true or false. according to this definition, we know the meaning of a proposition when we know what would make it true and what would make it false, even if we do not know whether it is in fact true or false. the meaning of a proposition is derivative from the meanings of its constituent words. propositions occur in pairs, distinguished (in simple cases) by the absence or presence of the word "not." two such propositions have the same objective, but opposite meanings: when one is true, the other is false, and when one is false, the other is true. the purely formal definition of truth and falsehood offers little difficulty. what is required is a formal expression of the fact that a proposition is true when it points towards its objective, and false when it points away from it, in very simple cases we can give a very simple account of this: we can say that true propositions actually resemble their objectives in a way in which false propositions do not. but for this purpose it is necessary to revert to image-propositions instead of word-propositions. let us take again the illustration of a memory-image of a familiar room, and let us suppose that in the image the window is to the left of the door. if in fact the window is to the left of the door, there is a correspondence between the image and the objective; there is the same relation between the window and the door as between the images of them. the image-memory consists of the image of the window to the left of the image of the door. when this is true, the very same relation relates the terms of the objective (namely the window and the door) as relates the images which mean them. in this case the correspondence which constitutes truth is very simple. in the case we have just been considering the objective consists of two parts with a certain relation (that of left-to-right), and the proposition consists of images of these parts with the very same relation. the same proposition, if it were false, would have a less simple formal relation to its objective. if the image-proposition consists of an image of the window to the left of an image of the door, while in fact the window is not to the left of the door, the proposition does not result from the objective by the mere substitution of images for their prototypes. thus in this unusually simple case we can say that a true proposition "corresponds" to its objective in a formal sense in which a false proposition does not. perhaps it may be possible to modify this notion of formal correspondence in such a way as to be more widely applicable, but if so, the modifications required will be by no means slight. the reasons for this must now be considered. to begin with, the simple type of correspondence we have been exhibiting can hardly occur when words are substituted for images, because, in word-propositions, relations are usually expressed by words, which are not themselves relations. take such a proposition as "socrates precedes plato." here the word "precedes" is just as solid as the words "socrates" and "plato"; it means a relation, but is not a relation. thus the objective which makes our proposition true consists of two terms with a relation between them, whereas our proposition consists of three terms with a relation of order between them. of course, it would be perfectly possible, theoretically, to indicate a few chosen relations, not by words, but by relations between the other words. "socrates-plato" might be used to mean "socrates precedes plato"; "plato-socrates" might be used to mean "plato was born before socrates and died after him"; and so on. but the possibilities of such a method would be very limited. for aught i know, there may be languages that use it, but they are not among the languages with which i am acquainted. and in any case, in view of the multiplicity of relations that we wish to express, no language could advance far without words for relations. but as soon as we have words for relations, word-propositions have necessarily more terms than the facts to which they refer, and cannot therefore correspond so simply with their objectives as some image-propositions can. the consideration of negative propositions and negative facts introduces further complications. an image-proposition is necessarily positive: we can image the window to the left of the door, or to the right of the door, but we can form no image of the bare negative "the window not to the left of the door." we can disbelieve the image-proposition expressed by "the window to the left of the door," and our disbelief will be true if the window is not to the left of the door. but we can form no image of the fact that the window is not to the left of the door. attempts have often been made to deny such negative facts, but, for reasons which i have given elsewhere,* i believe these attempts to be mistaken, and i shall assume that there are negative facts. * "monist," january, , p. ff. word-propositions, like image-propositions, are always positive facts. the fact that socrates precedes plato is symbolized in english by the fact that the word "precedes" occurs between the words "socrates" and "plato." but we cannot symbolize the fact that plato does not precede socrates by not putting the word "precedes" between "plato" and "socrates." a negative fact is not sensible, and language, being intended for communication, has to be sensible. therefore we symbolize the fact that plato does not precede socrates by putting the words "does not precede" between "plato" and "socrates." we thus obtain a series of words which is just as positive a fact as the series "socrates precedes plato." the propositions asserting negative facts are themselves positive facts; they are merely different positive facts from those asserting positive facts. we have thus, as regards the opposition of positive and negative, three different sorts of duality, according as we are dealing with facts, image-propositions, or word-propositions. we have, namely: ( ) positive and negative facts; ( ) image-propositions, which may be believed or disbelieved, but do not allow any duality of content corresponding to positive and negative facts; ( ) word-propositions, which are always positive facts, but are of two kinds: one verified by a positive objective, the other by a negative objective. owing to these complications, the simplest type of correspondence is impossible when either negative facts or negative propositions are involved. even when we confine ourselves to relations between two terms which are both imaged, it may be impossible to form an image-proposition in which the relation of the terms is represented by the same relation of the images. suppose we say "caesar was , years before foch," we express a certain temporal relation between caesar and foch; but we cannot allow , years to elapse between our image of caesar and our image of foch. this is perhaps not a fair example, since " , years before" is not a direct relation. but take a case where the relation is direct, say, "the sun is brighter than the moon." we can form visual images of sunshine and moonshine, and it may happen that our image of the sunshine is the brighter of the two, but this is by no means either necessary or sufficient. the act of comparison, implied in our judgment, is something more than the mere coexistence of two images, one of which is in fact brighter than the other. it would take us too far from our main topic if we were to go into the question what actually occurs when we make this judgment. enough has been said to show that the correspondence between the belief and its objective is more complicated in this case than in that of the window to the left of the door, and this was all that had to be proved. in spite of these complications, the general nature of the formal correspondence which makes truth is clear from our instances. in the case of the simpler kind of propositions, namely those that i call "atomic" propositions, where there is only one word expressing a relation, the objective which would verify our proposition, assuming that the word "not" is absent, is obtained by replacing each word by what it means, the word meaning a relation being replaced by this relation among the meanings of the other words. for example, if the proposition is "socrates precedes plato," the objective which verifies it results from replacing the word "socrates" by socrates, the word "plato" by plato, and the word "precedes" by the relation of preceding between socrates and plato. if the result of this process is a fact, the proposition is true; if not, it is false. when our proposition is "socrates does not precede plato," the conditions of truth and falsehood are exactly reversed. more complicated propositions can be dealt with on the same lines. in fact, the purely formal question, which has occupied us in this last section, offers no very formidable difficulties. i do not believe that the above formal theory is untrue, but i do believe that it is inadequate. it does not, for example, throw any light upon our preference for true beliefs rather than false ones. this preference is only explicable by taking account of the causal efficacy of beliefs, and of the greater appropriateness of the responses resulting from true beliefs. but appropriateness depends upon purpose, and purpose thus becomes a vital part of theory of knowledge. lecture xiv. emotions and will on the two subjects of the present lecture i have nothing original to say, and i am treating them only in order to complete the discussion of my main thesis, namely that all psychic phenomena are built up out of sensations and images alone. emotions are traditionally regarded by psychologists as a separate class of mental occurrences: i am, of course, not concerned to deny the obvious fact that they have characteristics which make a special investigation of them necessary. what i am concerned with is the analysis of emotions. it is clear that an emotion is essentially complex, and we have to inquire whether it ever contains any non-physiological material not reducible to sensations and images and their relations. although what specially concerns us is the analysis of emotions, we shall find that the more important topic is the physiological causation of emotions. this is a subject upon which much valuable and exceedingly interesting work has been done, whereas the bare analysis of emotions has proved somewhat barren. in view of the fact that we have defined perceptions, sensations, and images by their physiological causation, it is evident that our problem of the analysis of the emotions is bound up with the problem of their physiological causation. modern views on the causation of emotions begin with what is called the james-lange theory. james states this view in the following terms ("psychology," vol. ii, p. ): "our natural way of thinking about these coarser emotions, grief, fear, rage, love, is that the mental perception of some fact excites the mental affection called the emotion, and that this latter state of mind gives rise to the bodily expression. my theory, on the contrary, is that the bodily changes follow directly the perception of the exciting fact, and that our feeling of the same changes as they occur _is_ the emotion (james's italics). common sense says: we lose our fortune, are sorry and weep; we meet a bear, are frightened and run; we are insulted by a rival, are angry and strike. the hypothesis here to be defended says that this order of sequence is incorrect, that the one mental state is not immediately induced by the other, that the bodily manifestations must first be interposed between, and that the more rational statement is that we feel sorry because we cry, angry because we strike, afraid because we tremble, and not that we cry, strike, or tremble, because we are sorry, angry, or fearful, as the case may be. without the bodily states following on the perception, the latter would be purely cognitive in form, pale, colourless, destitute of emotional warmth." round this hypothesis a very voluminous literature has grown up. the history of its victory over earlier criticism, and its difficulties with the modern experimental work of sherrington and cannon, is well told by james r. angell in an article called "a reconsideration of james's theory of emotion in the light of recent criticisms."* in this article angell defends james's theory and to me--though i speak with diffidence on a question as to which i have little competence--it appears that his defence is on the whole successful. * "psychological review," . sherrington, by experiments on dogs, showed that many of the usual marks of emotion were present in their behaviour even when, by severing the spinal cord in the lower cervical region, the viscera were cut off from all communication with the brain, except that existing through certain cranial nerves. he mentions the various signs which "contributed to indicate the existence of an emotion as lively as the animal had ever shown us before the spinal operation had been made."* he infers that the physiological condition of the viscera cannot be the cause of the emotion displayed under such circumstances, and concludes: "we are forced back toward the likelihood that the visceral expression of emotion is secondary to the cerebral action occurring with the psychical state.... we may with james accept visceral and organic sensations and the memories and associations of them as contributory to primitive emotion, but we must regard them as re-enforcing rather than as initiating the psychosis."* * quoted by angell, loc. cit. angell suggests that the display of emotion in such cases may be due to past experience, generating habits which would require only the stimulation of cerebral reflex arcs. rage and some forms of fear, however, may, he thinks, gain expression without the brain. rage and fear have been especially studied by cannon, whose work is of the greatest importance. his results are given in his book, "bodily changes in pain, hunger, fear and rage" (d. appleton and co., ). the most interesting part of cannon's book consists in the investigation of the effects produced by secretion of adrenin. adrenin is a substance secreted into the blood by the adrenal glands. these are among the ductless glands, the functions of which, both in physiology and in connection with the emotions, have only come to be known during recent years. cannon found that pain, fear and rage occurred in circumstances which affected the supply of adrenin, and that an artificial injection of adrenin could, for example, produce all the symptoms of fear. he studied the effects of adrenin on various parts of the body; he found that it causes the pupils to dilate, hairs to stand erect, blood vessels to be constricted, and so on. these effects were still produced if the parts in question were removed from the body and kept alive artificially.* * cannon's work is not unconnected with that of mosso, who maintains, as the result of much experimental work, that "the seat of the emotions lies in the sympathetic nervous system." an account of the work of both these men will be found in goddard's "psychology of the normal and sub-normal" (kegan paul, ), chap. vii and appendix. cannon's chief argument against james is, if i understand him rightly, that similar affections of the viscera may accompany dissimilar emotions, especially fear and rage. various different emotions make us cry, and therefore it cannot be true to say, as james does, that we "feel sorry because we cry," since sometimes we cry when we feel glad. this argument, however, is by no means conclusive against james, because it cannot be shown that there are no visceral differences for different emotions, and indeed it is unlikely that this is the case. as angell says (loc. cit.): "fear and joy may both cause cardiac palpitation, but in one case we find high tonus of the skeletal muscles, in the other case relaxation and the general sense of weakness." angell's conclusion, after discussing the experiments of sherrington and cannon, is: "i would therefore submit that, so far as concerns the critical suggestions by these two psychologists, james's essential contentions are not materially affected." if it were necessary for me to take sides on this question, i should agree with this conclusion; but i think my thesis as to the analysis of emotion can be maintained without coming to a probably premature conclusion upon the doubtful parts of the physiological problem. according to our definitions, if james is right, an emotion may be regarded as involving a confused perception of the viscera concerned in its causation, while if cannon and sherrington are right, an emotion involves a confused perception of its external stimulus. this follows from what was said in lecture vii. we there defined a perception as an appearance, however irregular, of one or more objects external to the brain. and in order to be an appearance of one or more objects, it is only necessary that the occurrence in question should be connected with them by a continuous chain, and should vary when they are varied sufficiently. thus the question whether a mental occurrence can be called a perception turns upon the question whether anything can be inferred from it as to its causes outside the brain: if such inference is possible, the occurrence in question will come within our definition of a perception. and in that case, according to the definition in lecture viii, its non-mnemic elements will be sensations. accordingly, whether emotions are caused by changes in the viscera or by sensible objects, they contain elements which are sensations according to our definition. an emotion in its entirety is, of course, something much more complex than a perception. an emotion is essentially a process, and it will be only what one may call a cross-section of the emotion that will be a perception, of a bodily condition according to james, or (in certain cases) of an external object according to his opponents. an emotion in its entirety contains dynamic elements, such as motor impulses, desires, pleasures and pains. desires and pleasures and pains, according to the theory adopted in lecture iii, are characteristics of processes, not separate ingredients. an emotion--rage, for example--will be a certain kind of process, consisting of perceptions and (in general) bodily movements. the desires and pleasures and pains involved are properties of this process, not separate items in the stuff of which the emotion is composed. the dynamic elements in an emotion, if we are right in our analysis, contain, from our point of view, no ingredients beyond those contained in the processes considered in lecture iii. the ingredients of an emotion are only sensations and images and bodily movements succeeding each other according to a certain pattern. with this conclusion we may leave the emotions and pass to the consideration of the will. the first thing to be defined when we are dealing with will is a voluntary movement. we have already defined vital movements, and we have maintained that, from a behaviourist standpoint, it is impossible to distinguish which among such movements are reflex and which voluntary. nevertheless, there certainly is a distinction. when we decide in the morning that it is time to get up, our consequent movement is voluntary. the beating of the heart, on the other hand, is involuntary: we can neither cause it nor prevent it by any decision of our own, except indirectly, as e.g. by drugs. breathing is intermediate between the two: we normally breathe without the help of the will, but we can alter or stop our breathing if we choose. james ("psychology," chap. xxvi) maintains that the only distinctive characteristic of a voluntary act is that it involves an idea of the movement to be performed, made up of memory-images of the kinaesthetic sensations which we had when the same movement occurred on some former occasion. he points out that, on this view, no movement can be made voluntarily unless it has previously occurred involuntarily.* * "psychology," vol. ii, pp. - . i see no reason to doubt the correctness of this view. we shall say, then, that movements which are accompanied by kinaesthetic sensations tend to be caused by the images of those sensations, and when so caused are called voluntary. volition, in the emphatic sense, involves something more than voluntary movement. the sort of case i am thinking of is decision after deliberation. voluntary movements are a part of this, but not the whole. there is, in addition to them, a judgment: "this is what i shall do"; there is also a sensation of tension during doubt, followed by a different sensation at the moment of deciding. i see no reason whatever to suppose that there is any specifically new ingredient; sensations and images, with their relations and causal laws, yield all that seems to be wanted for the analysis of the will, together with the fact that kinaesthetic images tend to cause the movements with which they are connected. conflict of desires is of course essential in the causation of the emphatic kind of will: there will be for a time kinaesthetic images of incompatible movements, followed by the exclusive image of the movement which is said to be willed. thus will seems to add no new irreducible ingredient to the analysis of the mind. lecture xv. characteristics of mental phenomena at the end of our journey it is time to return to the question from which we set out, namely: what is it that characterizes mind as opposed to matter? or, to state the same question in other terms: how is psychology to be distinguished from physics? the answer provisionally suggested at the outset of our inquiry was that psychology and physics are distinguished by the nature of their causal laws, not by their subject matter. at the same time we held that there is a certain subject matter, namely images, to which only psychological causal laws are applicable; this subject matter, therefore, we assigned exclusively to psychology. but we found no way of defining images except through their causation; in their intrinsic character they appeared to have no universal mark by which they could be distinguished from sensations. in this last lecture i propose to pass in review various suggested methods of distinguishing mind from matter. i shall then briefly sketch the nature of that fundamental science which i believe to be the true metaphysic, in which mind and matter alike are seen to be constructed out of a neutral stuff, whose causal laws have no such duality as that of psychology, but form the basis upon which both physics and psychology are built. in search for the definition of "mental phenomena," let us begin with "consciousness," which is often thought to be the essence of mind. in the first lecture i gave various arguments against the view that consciousness is fundamental, but i did not attempt to say what consciousness is. we must find a definition of it, if we are to feel secure in deciding that it is not fundamental. it is for the sake of the proof that it is not fundamental that we must now endeavour to decide what it is. "consciousness," by those who regard it as fundamental, is taken to be a character diffused throughout our mental life, distinct from sensations and images, memories, beliefs and desires, but present in all of them.* dr. henry head, in an article which i quoted in lecture iii, distinguishing sensations from purely physiological occurrences, says: "sensation, in the strict sense of the term, demands the existence of consciousness." this statement, at first sight, is one to which we feel inclined to assent, but i believe we are mistaken if we do so. sensation is the sort of thing of which we may be conscious, but not a thing of which we must be conscious. we have been led, in the course of our inquiry, to admit unconscious beliefs and unconscious desires. there is, so far as i can see, no class of mental or other occurrences of which we are always conscious whenever they happen. * cf. lecture vi. the first thing to notice is that consciousness must be of something. in view of this, i should define "consciousness" in terms of that relation of an image of a word to an object which we defined, in lecture xi, as "meaning." when a sensation is followed by an image which is a "copy" of it, i think it may be said that the existence of the image constitutes consciousness of the sensation, provided it is accompanied by that sort of belief which, when we reflect upon it, makes us feel that the image is a "sign" of something other than itself. this is the sort of belief which, in the case of memory, we expressed in the words "this occurred"; or which, in the case of a judgment of perception, makes us believe in qualities correlated with present sensations, as e.g., tactile and visual qualities are correlated. the addition of some element of belief seems required, since mere imagination does not involve consciousness of anything, and there can be no consciousness which is not of something. if images alone constituted consciousness of their prototypes, such imagination-images as in fact have prototypes would involve consciousness of them; since this is not the case, an element of belief must be added to the images in defining consciousness. the belief must be of that sort that constitutes objective reference, past or present. an image, together with a belief of this sort concerning it, constitutes, according to our definition, consciousness of the prototype of the image. but when we pass from consciousness of sensations to consciousness of objects of perception, certain further points arise which demand an addition to our definition. a judgment of perception, we may say, consists of a core of sensation, together with associated images, with belief in the present existence of an object to which sensation and images are referred in a way which is difficult to analyse. perhaps we might say that the belief is not fundamentally in any present existence, but is of the nature of an expectation: for example, when we see an object, we expect certain sensations to result if we proceed to touch it. perception, then, will consist of a present sensation together with expectations of future sensations. (this, of course, is a reflective analysis, not an account of the way perception appears to unchecked introspection.) but all such expectations are liable to be erroneous, since they are based upon correlations which are usual but not invariable. any such correlation may mislead us in a particular case, for example, if we try to touch a reflection in a looking-glass under the impression that it is "real." since memory is fallible, a similar difficulty arises as regards consciousness of past objects. it would seem odd to say that we can be "conscious" of a thing which does not or did not exist. the only way to avoid this awkwardness is to add to our definition the proviso that the beliefs involved in consciousness must be true. in the second place, the question arises as to whether we can be conscious of images. if we apply our definition to this case, it seems to demand images of images. in order, for example, to be conscious of an image of a cat, we shall require, according to the letter of the definition, an image which is a copy of our image of the cat, and has this image for its prototype. now, it hardly seems probable, as a matter of observation, that there are images of images, as opposed to images of sensations. we may meet this difficulty in two ways, either by boldly denying consciousness of images, or by finding a sense in which, by means of a different accompanying belief, an image, instead of meaning its prototype, can mean another image of the same prototype. the first alternative, which denies consciousness of images, has already been discussed when we were dealing with introspection in lecture vi. we then decided that there must be, in some sense, consciousness of images. we are therefore left with the second suggested way of dealing with knowledge of images. according to this second hypothesis, there may be two images of the same prototype, such that one of them means the other, instead of meaning the prototype. it will be remembered that we defined meaning by association a word or image means an object, we said, when it has the same associations as the object. but this definition must not be interpreted too absolutely: a word or image will not have all the same associations as the object which it means. the word "cat" may be associated with the word "mat," but it would not happen except by accident that a cat would be associated with a mat. and in like manner an image may have certain associations which its prototype will not have, e.g. an association with the word "image." when these associations are active, an image means an image, instead of meaning its prototype. if i have had images of a given prototype many times, i can mean one of these, as opposed to the rest, by recollecting the time and place or any other distinctive association of that one occasion. this happens, for example, when a place recalls to us some thought we previously had in that place, so that we remember a thought as opposed to the occurrence to which it referred. thus we may say that we think of an image a when we have a similar image b associated with recollections of circumstances connected with a, but not with its prototype or with other images of the same prototype. in this way we become aware of images without the need of any new store of mental contents, merely by the help of new associations. this theory, so far as i can see, solves the problems of introspective knowledge, without requiring heroic measures such as those proposed by knight dunlap, whose views we discussed in lecture vi. according to what we have been saying, sensation itself is not an instance of consciousness, though the immediate memory by which it is apt to be succeeded is so. a sensation which is remembered becomes an object of consciousness as soon as it begins to be remembered, which will normally be almost immediately after its occurrence (if at all); but while it exists it is not an object of consciousness. if, however, it is part of a perception, say of some familiar person, we may say that the person perceived is an object of consciousness. for in this case the sensation is a sign of the perceived object in much the same way in which a memory-image is a sign of a remembered object. the essential practical function of "consciousness" and "thought" is that they enable us to act with reference to what is distant in time or space, even though it is not at present stimulating our senses. this reference to absent objects is possible through association and habit. actual sensations, in themselves, are not cases of consciousness, because they do not bring in this reference to what is absent. but their connection with consciousness is very close, both through immediate memory, and through the correlations which turn sensations into perceptions. enough has, i hope, been said to show that consciousness is far too complex and accidental to be taken as the fundamental characteristic of mind. we have seen that belief and images both enter into it. belief itself, as we saw in an earlier lecture, is complex. therefore, if any definition of mind is suggested by our analysis of consciousness, images are what would naturally suggest themselves. but since we found that images can only be defined causally, we cannot deal with this suggestion, except in connection with the difference between physical and psychological causal laws. i come next to those characteristics of mental phenomena which arise out of mnemic causation. the possibility of action with reference to what is not sensibly present is one of the things that might be held to characterize mind. let us take first a very elementary example. suppose you are in a familiar room at night, and suddenly the light goes out. you will be able to find your way to the door without much difficulty by means of the picture of the room which you have in your mind. in this case visual images serve, somewhat imperfectly it is true, the purpose which visual sensations would otherwise serve. the stimulus to the production of visual images is the desire to get out of the room, which, according to what we found in lecture iii, consists essentially of present sensations and motor impulses caused by them. again, words heard or read enable you to act with reference to the matters about which they give information; here, again, a present sensible stimulus, in virtue of habits formed in the past, enables you to act in a manner appropriate to an object which is not sensibly present. the whole essence of the practical efficiency of "thought" consists in sensitiveness to signs: the sensible presence of a, which is a sign of the present or future existence of b, enables us to act in a manner appropriate to b. of this, words are the supreme example, since their effects as signs are prodigious, while their intrinsic interest as sensible occurrences on their own account is usually very slight. the operation of signs may or may not be accompanied by consciousness. if a sensible stimulus a calls up an image of b, and we then act with reference to b, we have what may be called consciousness of b. but habit may enable us to act in a manner appropriate to b as soon as a appears, without ever having an image of b. in that case, although a operates as a sign, it operates without the help of consciousness. broadly speaking, a very familiar sign tends to operate directly in this manner, and the intervention of consciousness marks an imperfectly established habit. the power of acquiring experience, which characterizes men and animals, is an example of the general law that, in mnemic causation, the causal unit is not one event at one time, but two or more events at two or more times.& a burnt child fears the fire, that is to say, the neighbourhood of fire has a different effect upon a child which has had the sensations of burning than upon one which has not. more correctly, the observed effect, when a child which has been burnt is put near a fire, has for its cause, not merely the neighbourhood of the fire, but this together with the previous burning. the general formula, when an animal has acquired experience through some event a, is that, when b occurs at some future time, the animal to which a has happened acts differently from an animal which a has not happened. thus a and b together, not either separately, must be regarded as the cause of the animal's behaviour, unless we take account of the effect which a has had in altering the animal's nervous tissue, which is a matter not patent to external observation except under very special circumstances. with this possibility, we are brought back to causal laws, and to the suggestion that many things which seem essentially mental are really neural. perhaps it is the nerves that acquire experience rather than the mind. if so, the possibility of acquiring experience cannot be used to define mind.* * cf. lecture iv. very similar considerations apply to memory, if taken as the essence of mind. a recollection is aroused by something which is happening now, but is different from the effect which the present occurrence would have produced if the recollected event had not occurred. this may be accounted for by the physical effect of the past event on the brain, making it a different instrument from that which would have resulted from a different experience. the causal peculiarities of memory may, therefore, have a physiological explanation. with every special class of mental phenomena this possibility meets us afresh. if psychology is to be a separate science at all, we must seek a wider ground for its separateness than any that we have been considering hitherto. we have found that "consciousness" is too narrow to characterize mental phenomena, and that mnemic causation is too wide. i come now to a characteristic which, though difficult to define, comes much nearer to what we require, namely subjectivity. subjectivity, as a characteristic of mental phenomena, was considered in lecture vii, in connection with the definition of perception. we there decided that those particulars which constitute the physical world can be collected into sets in two ways, one of which makes a bundle of all those particulars that are appearances of a given thing from different places, while the other makes a bundle of all those particulars which are appearances of different things from a given place. a bundle of this latter sort, at a given time, is called a "perspective"; taken throughout a period of time, it is called a "biography." subjectivity is the characteristic of perspectives and biographies, the characteristic of giving the view of the world from a certain place. we saw in lecture vii that this characteristic involves none of the other characteristics that are commonly associated with mental phenomena, such as consciousness, experience and memory. we found in fact that it is exhibited by a photographic plate, and, strictly speaking, by any particular taken in conjunction with those which have the same "passive" place in the sense defined in lecture vii. the particulars forming one perspective are connected together primarily by simultaneity; those forming one biography, primarily by the existence of direct time-relations between them. to these are to be added relations derivable from the laws of perspective. in all this we are clearly not in the region of psychology, as commonly understood; yet we are also hardly in the region of physics. and the definition of perspectives and biographies, though it does not yet yield anything that would be commonly called "mental," is presupposed in mental phenomena, for example in mnemic causation: the causal unit in mnemic causation, which gives rise to semon's engram, is the whole of one perspective--not of any perspective, but of a perspective in a place where there is nervous tissue, or at any rate living tissue of some sort. perception also, as we saw, can only be defined in terms of perspectives. thus the conception of subjectivity, i.e. of the "passive" place of a particular, though not alone sufficient to define mind, is clearly an essential element in the definition. i have maintained throughout these lectures that the data of psychology do not differ in, their intrinsic character from the data of physics. i have maintained that sensations are data for psychology and physics equally, while images, which may be in some sense exclusively psychological data, can only be distinguished from sensations by their correlations, not by what they are in themselves. it is now necessary, however, to examine the notion of a "datum," and to obtain, if possible, a definition of this notion. the notion of "data" is familiar throughout science, and is usually treated by men of science as though it were perfectly clear. psychologists, on the other hand, find great difficulty in the conception. "data" are naturally defined in terms of theory of knowledge: they are those propositions of which the truth is known without demonstration, so that they may be used as premisses in proving other propositions. further, when a proposition which is a datum asserts the existence of something, we say that the something is a datum, as well as the proposition asserting its existence. thus those objects of whose existence we become certain through perception are said to be data. there is some difficulty in connecting this epistemological definition of "data" with our psychological analysis of knowledge; but until such a connection has been effected, we have no right to use the conception "data." it is clear, in the first place, that there can be no datum apart from a belief. a sensation which merely comes and goes is not a datum; it only becomes a datum when it is remembered. similarly, in perception, we do not have a datum unless we have a judgment of perception. in the sense in which objects (as opposed to propositions) are data, it would seem natural to say that those objects of which we are conscious are data. but consciousness, as we have seen, is a complex notion, involving beliefs, as well as mnemic phenomena such as are required for perception and memory. it follows that no datum is theoretically indubitable, since no belief is infallible; it follows also that every datum has a greater or less degree of vagueness, since there is always some vagueness in memory and the meaning of images. data are not those things of which our consciousness is earliest in time. at every period of life, after we have become capable of thought, some of our beliefs are obtained by inference, while others are not. a belief may pass from either of these classes into the other, and may therefore become, or cease to be, a belief giving a datum. when, in what follows, i speak of data, i do not mean the things of which we feel sure before scientific study begins, but the things which, when a science is well advanced, appear as affording grounds for other parts of the science, without themselves being believed on any ground except observation. i assume, that is to say, a trained observer, with an analytic attention, knowing the sort of thing to look for, and the sort of thing that will be important. what he observes is, at the stage of science which he has reached, a datum for his science. it is just as sophisticated and elaborate as the theories which he bases upon it, since only trained habits and much practice enable a man to make the kind of observation that will be scientifically illuminating. nevertheless, when once it has been observed, belief in it is not based on inference and reasoning, but merely upon its having been seen. in this way its logical status differs from that of the theories which are proved by its means. in any science other than psychology the datum is primarily a perception, in which only the sensational core is ultimately and theoretically a datum, though some such accretions as turn the sensation into a perception are practically unavoidable. but if we postulate an ideal observer, he will be able to isolate the sensation, and treat this alone as datum. there is, therefore, an important sense in which we may say that, if we analyse as much as we ought, our data, outside psychology, consist of sensations, which include within themselves certain spatial and temporal relations. applying this remark to physiology, we see that the nerves and brain as physical objects are not truly data; they are to be replaced, in the ideal structure of science, by the sensations through which the physiologist is said to perceive them. the passage from these sensations to nerves and brain as physical objects belongs really to the initial stage in the theory of physics, and ought to be placed in the reasoned part, not in the part supposed to be observed. to say we see the nerves is like saying we hear the nightingale; both are convenient but inaccurate expressions. we hear a sound which we believe to be causally connected with the nightingale, and we see a sight which we believe to be causally connected with a nerve. but in each case it is only the sensation that ought, in strictness, to be called a datum. now, sensations are certainly among the data of psychology. therefore all the data of the physical sciences are also psychological data. it remains to inquire whether all the data of psychology are also data of physical science, and especially of physiology. if we have been right in our analysis of mind, the ultimate data of psychology are only sensations and images and their relations. beliefs, desires, volitions, and so on, appeared to us to be complex phenomena consisting of sensations and images variously interrelated. thus (apart from certain relations) the occurrences which seem most distinctively mental, and furthest removed from physics, are, like physical objects, constructed or inferred, not part of the original stock of data in the perfected science. from both ends, therefore, the difference between physical and psychological data is diminished. is there ultimately no difference, or do images remain as irreducibly and exclusively psychological? in view of the causal definition of the difference between images and sensations, this brings us to a new question, namely: are the causal laws of psychology different from those of any other science, or are they really physiological? certain ambiguities must be removed before this question can be adequately discussed. first, there is the distinction between rough approximate laws and such as appear to be precise and general. i shall return to the former presently; it is the latter that i wish to discuss now. matter, as defined at the end of lecture v, is a logical fiction, invented because it gives a convenient way of stating causal laws. except in cases of perfect regularity in appearances (of which we can have no experience), the actual appearances of a piece of matter are not members of that ideal system of regular appearances which is defined as being the matter in question. but the matter is, after all, inferred from its appearances, which are used to verify physical laws. thus, in so far as physics is an empirical and verifiable science, it must assume or prove that the inference from appearances to matter is, in general, legitimate, and it must be able to tell us, more or less, what appearances to expect. it is through this question of verifiability and empirical applicability to experience that we are led to a theory of matter such as i advocate. from the consideration of this question it results that physics, in so far as it is an empirical science, not a logical phantasy, is concerned with particulars of just the same sort as those which psychology considers under the name of sensations. the causal laws of physics, so interpreted, differ from those of psychology only by the fact that they connect a particular with other appearances in the same piece of matter, rather than with other appearances in the same perspective. that is to say, they group together particulars having the same "active" place, while psychology groups together those having the same "passive" place. some particulars, such as images, have no "active" place, and therefore belong exclusively to psychology. we can now understand the distinction between physics and psychology. the nerves and brain are matter: our visual sensations when we look at them may be, and i think are, members of the system constituting irregular appearances of this matter, but are not the whole of the system. psychology is concerned, inter alia, with our sensations when we see a piece of matter, as opposed to the matter which we see. assuming, as we must, that our sensations have physical causes, their causal laws are nevertheless radically different from the laws of physics, since the consideration of a single sensation requires the breaking up of the group of which it is a member. when a sensation is used to verify physics, it is used merely as a sign of a certain material phenomenon, i.e. of a group of particulars of which it is a member. but when it is studied by psychology, it is taken away from that group and put into quite a different context, where it causes images or voluntary movements. it is primarily this different grouping that is characteristic of psychology as opposed to all the physical sciences, including physiology; a secondary difference is that images, which belong to psychology, are not easily to be included among the aspects which constitute a physical thing or piece of matter. there remains, however, an important question, namely: are mental events causally dependent upon physical events in a sense in which the converse dependence does not hold? before we can discuss the answer to this question, we must first be clear as to what our question means. when, given a, it is possible to infer b, but given b, it is not possible to infer a, we say that b is dependent upon a in a sense in which a is not dependent upon b. stated in logical terms, this amounts to saying that, when we know a many-one relation of a to b, b is dependent upon a in respect of this relation. if the relation is a causal law, we say that b is causally dependent upon a. the illustration that chiefly concerns us is the system of appearances of a physical object. we can, broadly speaking, infer distant appearances from near ones, but not vice versa. all men look alike when they are a mile away, hence when we see a man a mile off we cannot tell what he will look like when he is only a yard away. but when we see him a yard away, we can tell what he will look like a mile away. thus the nearer view gives us more valuable information, and the distant view is causally dependent upon it in a sense in which it is not causally dependent upon the distant view. it is this greater causal potency of the near appearance that leads physics to state its causal laws in terms of that system of regular appearances to which the nearest appearances increasingly approximate, and that makes it value information derived from the microscope or telescope. it is clear that our sensations, considered as irregular appearances of physical objects, share the causal dependence belonging to comparatively distant appearances; therefore in our sensational life we are in causal dependence upon physical laws. this, however, is not the most important or interesting part of our question. it is the causation of images that is the vital problem. we have seen that they are subject to mnenic causation, and that mnenic causation may be reducible to ordinary physical causation in nervous tissue. this is the question upon which our attitude must turn towards what may be called materialism. one sense of materialism is the view that all mental phenomena are causally dependent upon physical phenomena in the above-defined sense of causal dependence. whether this is the case or not, i do not profess to know. the question seems to me the same as the question whether mnemic causation is ultimate, which we considered without deciding in lecture iv. but i think the bulk of the evidence points to the materialistic answer as the more probable. in considering the causal laws of psychology, the distinction between rough generalizations and exact laws is important. there are many rough generalizations in psychology, not only of the sort by which we govern our ordinary behaviour to each other, but also of a more nearly scientific kind. habit and association belong among such laws. i will give an illustration of the kind of law that can be obtained. suppose a person has frequently experienced a and b in close temporal contiguity, an association will be established, so that a, or an image of a, tends to cause an image of b. the question arises: will the association work in either direction, or only from the one which has occurred earlier to the one which has occurred later? in an article by mr. wohlgemuth, called "the direction of associations" ("british journal of psychology," vol. v, part iv, march, ), it is claimed to be proved by experiment that, in so far as motor memory (i.e. memory of movements) is concerned, association works only from earlier to later, while in visual and auditory memory this is not the case, but the later of two neighbouring experiences may recall the earlier as well as the earlier the later. it is suggested that motor memory is physiological, while visual and auditory memory are more truly psychological. but that is not the point which concerns us in the illustration. the point which concerns us is that a law of association, established by purely psychological observation, is a purely psychological law, and may serve as a sample of what is possible in the way of discovering such laws. it is, however, still no more than a rough generalization, a statistical average. it cannot tell us what will result from a given cause on a given occasion. it is a law of tendency, not a precise and invariable law such as those of physics aim at being. if we wish to pass from the law of habit, stated as a tendency or average, to something more precise and invariable, we seem driven to the nervous system. we can more or less guess how an occurrence produces a change in the brain, and how its repetition gradually produces something analogous to the channel of a river, along which currents flow more easily than in neighbouring paths. we can perceive that in this way, if we had more knowledge, the tendency to habit through repetition might be replaced by a precise account of the effect of each occurrence in bringing about a modification of the sort from which habit would ultimately result. it is such considerations that make students of psychophysiology materialistic in their methods, whatever they may be in their metaphysics. there are, of course, exceptions, such as professor j. s. haldane,* who maintains that it is theoretically impossible to obtain physiological explanations of psychical phenomena, or physical explanations of physiological phenomena. but i think the bulk of expert opinion, in practice, is on the other side. *see his book, "the new physiology and other addresses" (charles griffin & co., ). the question whether it is possible to obtain precise causal laws in which the causes are psychological, not material, is one of detailed investigation. i have done what i could to make clear the nature of the question, but i do not believe that it is possible as yet to answer it with any confidence. it seems to be by no means an insoluble question, and we may hope that science will be able to produce sufficient grounds for regarding one answer as much more probable than the other. but for the moment i do not see how we can come to a decision. i think, however, on grounds of the theory of matter explained in lectures v and vii, that an ultimate scientific account of what goes on in the world, if it were ascertainable, would resemble psychology rather than physics in what we found to be the decisive difference between them. i think, that is to say, that such an account would not be content to speak, even formally, as though matter, which is a logical fiction, were the ultimate reality. i think that, if our scientific knowledge were adequate to the task, which it neither is nor is likely to become, it would exhibit the laws of correlation of the particulars constituting a momentary condition of a material unit, and would state the causal laws* of the world in terms of these particulars, not in terms of matter. causal laws so stated would, i believe, be applicable to psychology and physics equally; the science in which they were stated would succeed in achieving what metaphysics has vainly attempted, namely a unified account of what really happens, wholly true even if not the whole of truth, and free from all convenient fictions or unwarrantable assumptions of metaphysical entities. a causal law applicable to particulars would count as a law of physics if it could be stated in terms of those fictitious systems of regular appearances which are matter; if this were not the case, it would count as a law of psychology if one of the particulars were a sensation or an image, i.e. were subject to mnemic causation. i believe that the realization of the complexity of a material unit, and its analysis into constituents analogous to sensations, is of the utmost importance to philosophy, and vital for any understanding of the relations between mind and matter, between our perceptions and the world which they perceive. it is in this direction, i am convinced, that we must look for the solution of many ancient perplexities. * in a perfected science, causal laws will take the form of differential equations--or of finite-difference equations, if the theory of quanta should prove correct. it is probable that the whole science of mental occurrences, especially where its initial definitions are concerned, could be simplified by the development of the fundamental unifying science in which the causal laws of particulars are sought, rather than the causal laws of those systems of particulars that constitute the material units of physics. this fundamental science would cause physics to become derivative, in the sort of way in which theories of the constitution of the atom make chemistry derivative from physics; it would also cause psychology to appear less singular and isolated among sciences. if we are right in this, it is a wrong philosophy of matter which has caused many of the difficulties in the philosophy of mind--difficulties which a right philosophy of matter would cause to disappear. the conclusions at which we have arrived may be summed up as follows: i. physics and psychology are not distinguished by their material. mind and matter alike are logical constructions; the particulars out of which they are constructed, or from which they are inferred, have various relations, some of which are studied by physics, others by psychology. broadly speaking, physics group particulars by their active places, psychology by their passive places. ii. the two most essential characteristics of the causal laws which would naturally be called psychological are subjectivity and mnemic causation; these are not unconnected, since the causal unit in mnemic causation is the group of particulars having a given passive place at a given time, and it is by this manner of grouping that subjectivity is defined. iii. habit, memory and thought are all developments of mnemic causation. it is probable, though not certain, that mnemic causation is derivative from ordinary physical causation in nervous (and other) tissue. iv. consciousness is a complex and far from universal characteristic of mental phenomena. v. mind is a matter of degree, chiefly exemplified in number and complexity of habits. vi. all our data, both in physics and psychology, are subject to psychological causal laws; but physical causal laws, at least in traditional physics, can only be stated in terms of matter, which is both inferred and constructed, never a datum. in this respect psychology is nearer to what actually exists. an essay concerning human understanding by john locke [based on the d edition] contents of the second volume book iii. of words. chap. i. of words or language in general ii. of the signification of words iii. of general terms iv. of the names of simple ideas v. of the names of mixed modes and relations vi. of the names of substances vii. of particles viii. of abstract and concrete terms ix. of the imperfection of words x. of the abuse of words xi. of the remedies of the foregoing imperfection and abuses book iv. of knowledge and probability. chap. i. of knowledge in general ii. of the degrees of our knowledge iii. of the extent of human knowledge iv. of the reality of our knowledge v. of truth in general vi. of universal propositions: their truth and certainty vii. of maxims viii. of trifling propositions ix. of our threefold knowledge of existence x. of our knowledge of the existence of a god xi. of our knowledge of the existence of other things xii. of the improvement of our knowledge xiii. some other considerations concerning our knowledge xiv. of judgment xv. of probability xvi. of the degrees of assent xvii. of reason [and syllogism] xviii. of faith and reason, and their distinct provinces xix. [of enthusiasm] xx. of wrong assent, or error xxi. of the division of the sciences book iii of words chapter i. of words or language in general. . man fitted to form articulated sounds. god, having designed man for a sociable creature, made him not only with an inclination, and under a necessity to have fellowship with those of his own kind, but furnished him also with language, which was to be the great instrument and common tie of society. man, therefore, had by nature his organs so fashioned, as to be fit to frame articulate sounds, which we call words. but this was not enough to produce language; for parrots, and several other birds, will be taught to make articulate sounds distinct enough, which yet by no means are capable of language. . to use these sounds as signs of ideas. besides articulate sounds, therefore, it was further necessary that he should be able to use these sounds as signs of internal conceptions; and to make them stand as marks for the ideas within his own mind, whereby they might be made known to others, and the thoughts of men's minds be conveyed from one to another. . to make them general signs. but neither was this sufficient to make words so useful as they ought to be. it is not enough for the perfection of language, that sounds can be made signs of ideas, unless those signs can be so made use of as to comprehend several particular things: for the multiplication of words would have perplexed their use, had every particular thing need of a distinct name to be signified by. [to remedy this inconvenience, language had yet a further improvement in the use of general terms, whereby one word was made to mark a multitude of particular existences: which advantageous use of sounds was obtained only by the difference of the ideas they were made signs of: those names becoming general, which are made to stand for general ideas, and those remaining particular, where the ideas they are used for are particular.] . to make them signify the absence of positive ideas. besides these names which stand for ideas, there be other words which men make use of, not to signify any idea, but the want or absence of some ideas, simple or complex, or all ideas together; such as are nihil in latin, and in english, ignorance and barrenness. all which negative or privative words cannot be said properly to belong to, or signify no ideas: for then they would be perfectly insignificant sounds; but they relate to positive ideas, and signify their absence. . words ultimately derived from such as signify sensible ideas. it may also lead us a little towards the original of all our notions and knowledge, if we remark how great a dependence our words have on common sensible ideas; and how those which are made use of to stand for actions and notions quite removed from sense, have their rise from thence, and from obvious sensible ideas are transferred to more abstruse significations, and made to stand for ideas that come not under the cognizance of our senses; v.g. to imagine, apprehend, comprehend, adhere, conceive, instil, disgust, disturbance, tranquillity, &c., are all words taken from the operations of sensible things, and applied to certain modes of thinking. spirit, in its primary signification, is breath; angel, a messenger: and i doubt not but, if we could trace them to their sources, we should find, in all languages, the names which stand for things that fall not under our senses to have had their first rise from sensible ideas. by which we may give some kind of guess what kind of notions they were, and whence derived, which filled their minds who were the first beginners of languages, and how nature, even in the naming of things, unawares suggested to men the originals and principles of all their knowledge: whilst, to give names that might make known to others any operations they felt in themselves, or any other ideas that came not under their senses, they were fain to borrow words from ordinary known ideas of sensation, by that means to make others the more easily to conceive those operations they experimented in themselves, which made no outward sensible appearances; and then, when they had got known and agreed names to signify those internal operations of their own minds, they were sufficiently furnished to make known by words all their other ideas; since they could consist of nothing but either of outward sensible perceptions, or of the inward operations of their minds about them; we having, as has been proved, no ideas at all, but what originally come either from sensible objects without, or what we feel within ourselves, from the inward workings of our own spirits, of which we are conscious to ourselves within. . distribution of subjects to be treated of. but to understand better the use and force of language, as subservient to instruction and knowledge, it will be convenient to consider: first, to what it is that names, in the use of language, are immediately applied. secondly, since all (except proper) names are general, and so stand not particularly for this or that single thing, but for sorts and ranks of things, it will be necessary to consider, in the next place, what the sorts and kinds, or, if you rather like the latin names, what the species and genera of things are, wherein they consist, and how they come to be made. these being (as they ought) well looked into, we shall the better come to find the right use of words; the natural advantages and defects of language; and the remedies that ought to be used, to avoid the inconveniences of obscurity or uncertainty in the signification of words: without which it is impossible to discourse with any clearness or order concerning knowledge: which, being conversant about propositions, and those most commonly universal ones, has greater connexion with words than perhaps is suspected. these considerations, therefore, shall be the matter of the following chapters. chapter ii. of the signification of words. . words are sensible signs, necessary for communication of ideas. man, though he have great variety of thoughts, and such from which others as well as himself might receive profit and delight; yet they are all within his own breast, invisible and hidden from others, nor can of themselves be made to appear. the comfort and advantage of society not being to be had without communication of thoughts, it was necessary that man should find out some external sensible signs, whereof those invisible ideas, which his thoughts are made up of, might be made known to others. for this purpose nothing was so fit, either for plenty or quickness, as those articulate sounds, which with so much ease and variety he found himself able to make. thus we may conceive how words, which were by nature so well adapted to that purpose, came to be made use of by men as the signs of their ideas; not by any natural connexion that there is between particular articulate sounds and certain ideas, for then there would be but one language amongst all men; but by a voluntary imposition, whereby such a word is made arbitrarily the mark of such an idea. the use, then, of words, is to be sensible marks of ideas; and the ideas they stand for are their proper and immediate signification. . words, in their immediate signification, are the sensible signs of his ideas who uses them. the use men have of these marks being either to record their own thoughts, for the assistance of their own memory; or, as it were, to bring out their ideas, and lay them before the view of others: words, in their primary or immediate signification, stand for nothing but the ideas in the mind of him that uses them, how imperfectly soever or carelessly those ideas are collected from the things which they are supposed to represent. when a man speaks to another, it is that he may be understood: and the end of speech is, that those sounds, as marks, may make known his ideas to the hearer. that then which words are the marks of are the ideas of the speaker: nor can any one apply them as marks, immediately, to anything else but the ideas that he himself hath: for this would be to make them signs of his own conceptions, and yet apply them to other ideas; which would be to make them signs and not signs of his ideas at the same time; and so in effect to have no signification at all. words being voluntary signs, they cannot be voluntary signs imposed by him on things he knows not. that would be to make them signs of nothing, sounds without signification. a man cannot make his words the signs either of qualities in things, or of conceptions in the mind of another, whereof he has none in his own. till he has some ideas of his own, he cannot suppose them to correspond with the conceptions of another man; nor can he use any signs for them: for thus they would be the signs of he knows not what, which is in truth to be the signs of nothing. but when he represents to himself other men's ideas by some of his own, if he consent to give them the same names that other men do, it is still to his own ideas; to ideas that he has, and not to ideas that he has not. . examples of this. this is so necessary in the use of language, that in this respect the knowing and the ignorant, the learned and the unlearned, use the words they speak (with any meaning) all alike. they, in every man's mouth, stand for the ideas he has, and which he would express by them. a child having taken notice of nothing in the metal he hears called gold, but the bright shining yellow colour, he applies the word gold only to his own idea of that colour, and nothing else; and therefore calls the same colour in a peacock's tail gold. another that hath better observed, adds to shining yellow great weight: and then the sound gold, when he uses it, stands for a complex idea of a shining yellow and a very weighty substance. another adds to those qualities fusibility: and then the word gold signifies to him a body, bright, yellow, fusible, and very heavy. another adds malleability. each of these uses equally the word gold, when they have occasion to express the idea which they have applied it to: but it is evident that each can apply it only to his own idea; nor can he make it stand as a sign of such a complex idea as he has not. . words are often secretly referred, first to the ideas supposed to be in other men's minds. but though words, as they are used by men, can properly and immediately signify nothing but the ideas that are in the mind of the speaker; yet they in their thoughts give them a secret reference to two other things. first, they suppose their words to be marks of the ideas in the minds also of other men, with whom they communicate; for else they should talk in vain, and could not be understood, if the sounds they applied to one idea were such as by the hearer were applied to another, which is to speak two languages. but in this men stand not usually to examine, whether the idea they, and those they discourse with have in their minds be the same: but think it enough that they use the word, as they imagine, in the common acceptation of that language; in which they suppose that the idea they make it a sign of is precisely the same to which the understanding men of that country apply that name. . secondly, to the reality of things. secondly, because men would not be thought to talk barely of their own imagination, but of things as really they are; therefore they often suppose the words to stand also for the reality of things. but this relating more particularly to substances and their names, as perhaps the former does to simple ideas and modes, we shall speak of these two different ways of applying words more at large, when we come to treat of the names of mixed modes and substances in particular: though give me leave here to say, that it is a perverting the use of words, and brings unavoidable obscurity and confusion into their signification, whenever we make them stand for anything but those ideas we have in our own minds. . words by use readily excite ideas of their objects. concerning words, also, it is further to be considered: first, that they being immediately the signs of men's ideas, and by that means the instruments whereby men communicate their conceptions, and express to one another those thoughts and imaginations they have within their own breasts; there comes, by constant use, to be such a connexion between certain sounds and the ideas they stand for, that the names heard, almost as readily excite certain ideas as if the objects themselves, which are apt to produce them, did actually affect the senses. which is manifestly so in all obvious sensible qualities, and in all substances that frequently and familiarly occur to us. . words are often used without signification, and why. secondly, that though the proper and immediate signification of words are ideas in the mind of the speaker, yet, because by familiar use from our cradles, we come to learn certain articulate sounds very perfectly, and have them readily on our tongues, and always at hand in our memories, but yet are not always careful to examine or settle their significations perfectly; it often happens that men, even when they would apply themselves to an attentive consideration, do set their thoughts more on words than things. nay, because words are many of them learned before the ideas are known for which they stand: therefore some, not only children but men, speak several words no otherwise than parrots do, only because they have learned them, and have been accustomed to those sounds. but so far as words are of use and signification, so far is there a constant connexion between the sound and the idea, and a designation that the one stands for the other; without which application of them, they are nothing but so much insignificant noise. . their signification perfectly arbitrary, not the consequence of a natural connexion. words, by long and familiar use, as has been said, come to excite in men certain ideas so constantly and readily, that they are apt to suppose a natural connexion between them. but that they signify only men's peculiar ideas, and that by a perfect arbitrary imposition, is evident, in that they often fail to excite in others (even that use the same language) the same ideas we take them to be signs of: and every man has so inviolable a liberty to make words stand for what ideas he pleases, that no one hath the power to make others have the same ideas in their minds that he has, when they use the same words that he does. and therefore the great augustus himself, in the possession of that power which ruled the world, acknowledged he could not make a new latin word: which was as much as to say, that he could not arbitrarily appoint what idea any sound should be a sign of, in the mouths and common language of his subjects. it is true, common use, by a tacit consent, appropriates certain sounds to certain ideas in all languages, which so far limits the signification of that sound, that unless a man applies it to the same idea, he does not speak properly: and let me add, that unless a man's words excite the same ideas in the hearer which he makes them stand for in speaking, he does not speak intelligibly. but whatever be the consequence of any man's using of words differently, either from their general meaning, or the particular sense of the person to whom he addresses them; this is certain, their signification, in his use of them, is limited to his ideas, and they can be signs of nothing else. chapter iii. of general terms. . the greatest part of words are general terms. all things that exist being particulars, it may perhaps be thought reasonable that words, which ought to be conformed to things, should be so too,--i mean in their signification: but yet we find quite the contrary. the far greatest part of words that make all languages are general terms: which has not been the effect of neglect or chance, but of reason and necessity. . that every particular thing should have a name for itself is impossible. first, it is impossible that every particular thing should have a distinct peculiar name. for, the signification and use of words depending on that connexion which the mind makes between its ideas and the sounds it uses as signs of them, it is necessary, in the application of names to things, that the mind should have distinct ideas of the things, and retain also the particular name that belongs to every one, with its peculiar appropriation to that idea. but it is beyond the power of human capacity to frame and retain distinct ideas of all the particular things we meet with: every bird and beast men saw; every tree and plant that affected the senses, could not find a place in the most capacious understanding. if it be looked on as an instance of a prodigious memory, that some generals have been able to call every soldier in their army by his proper name, we may easily find a reason why men have never attempted to give names to each sheep in their flock, or crow that flies over their heads; much less to call every leaf of plants, or grain of sand that came in their way, by a peculiar name. . and would be useless, if it were possible. secondly, if it were possible, it would yet be useless; because it would not serve to the chief end of language. men would in vain heap up names of particular things, that would not serve them to communicate their thoughts. men learn names, and use them in talk with others, only that they may be understood: which is then only done when, by use or consent, the sound i make by the organs of speech, excites in another man's mind who hears it, the idea i apply it to in mine, when i speak it. this cannot be done by names applied to particular things; whereof i alone having the ideas in my mind, the names of them could not be significant or intelligible to another, who was not acquainted with all those very particular things which had fallen under my notice. . a distinct name for every particular thing not fitted for enlargement of knowledge. thirdly, but yet, granting this also feasible, (which i think is not,) yet a distinct name for every particular thing would not be of any great use for the improvement of knowledge: which, though founded in particular things, enlarges itself by general views; to which things reduced into sorts, under general names, are properly subservient. these, with the names belonging to them, come within some compass, and do not multiply every moment, beyond what either the mind can contain, or use requires. and therefore, in these, men have for the most part stopped: but yet not so as to hinder themselves from distinguishing particular things by appropriated names, where convenience demands it. and therefore in their own species, which they have most to do with, and wherein they have often occasion to mention particular persons, they make use of proper names; and there distinct individuals have distinct denominations. . what things have proper names, and why. besides persons, countries also, cities, rivers, mountains, and other the like distinctions of place have usually found peculiar names, and that for the same reason; they being such as men have often as occasion to mark particularly, and, as it were, set before others in their discourses with them. and i doubt not but, if we had reason to mention particular horses as often as as have reason to mention particular men, we should have proper names for the one, as familiar as for the other, and bucephalus would be a word as much in use as alexander. and therefore we see that, amongst jockeys, horses have their proper names to be known and distinguished by, as commonly as their servants: because, amongst them, there is often occasion to mention this or that particular horse when he is out of sight. . how general words are made. the next thing to be considered is,--how general words come to be made. for, since all things that exist are only particulars, how come we by general terms; or where find we those general natures they are supposed to stand for? words become general by being made the signs of general ideas: and ideas become general, by separating from them the circumstances of time and place, and any other ideas that may determine them to this or that particular existence. by this way of abstraction they are made capable of representing more individuals than one; each of which having in it a conformity to that abstract idea, is (as we call it) of that sort. . shown by the way we enlarge our complex ideas from infancy. but, to deduce this a little more distinctly, it will not perhaps be amiss to trace our notions and names from their beginning, and observe by what degrees we proceed, and by what steps we enlarge our ideas from our first infancy. there is nothing more evident, than that the ideas of the persons children converse with (to instance in them alone) are, like the persons themselves, only particular. the ideas of the nurse and the mother are well framed in their minds; and, like pictures of them there, represent only those individuals. the names they first gave to them are confined to these individuals; and the names of nurse and mamma, the child uses, determine themselves to those persons. afterwards, when time and a larger acquaintance have made them observe that there are a great many other things in the world, that in some common agreements of shape, and several other qualities, resemble their father and mother, and those persons they have been used to, they frame an idea, which they find those many particulars do partake in; and to that they give, with others, the name man, for example. and thus they come to have a general name, and a general idea. wherein they make nothing new; but only leave out of the complex idea they had of peter and james, mary and jane, that which is peculiar to each, and retain only what is common to them all. . and further enlarge our complex ideas, by still leaving out properties contained in them. by the same way that they come by the general name and idea of man, they easily advance to more general names and notions. for, observing that several things that differ from their idea of man, and cannot therefore be comprehended out under that name, have yet certain qualities wherein they agree with man, by retaining only those qualities, and uniting them into one idea, they have again another and more general idea; to which having given a name they make a term of a more comprehensive extension: which new idea is made, not by any new addition, but only as before, by leaving out the shape, and some other properties signified by the name man, and retaining only a body, with life, sense, and spontaneous motion, comprehended under the name animal. . general natures are nothing but abstract and partial ideas of more complex ones. that this is the way whereby men first formed general ideas, and general names to them, i think is so evident, that there needs no other proof of it but the considering of a man's self, or others, and the ordinary proceedings of their minds in knowledge. and he that thinks general natures or notions are anything else but such abstract and partial ideas of more complex ones, taken at first from particular existences, will, i fear, be at a loss where to find them. for let any one effect, and then tell me, wherein does his idea of man differ from that of peter and paul, or his idea of horse from that of bucephalus, but in the leaving out something that is peculiar to each individual, and retaining so much of those particular complex ideas of several particular existences as they are found to agree in? of the complex ideas signified by the names man and horse, leaving out but those particulars wherein they differ, and retaining only those wherein they agree, and of those making a new distinct complex idea, and giving the name animal to it, one has a more general term, that comprehends with man several other creatures. leave out of the idea of animal, sense and spontaneous motion, and the remaining complex idea, made up of the remaining simple ones of body, life, and nourishment, becomes a more general one, under the more comprehensive term, vivens. and, not to dwell longer upon this particular, so evident in itself; by the same way the mind proceeds to body, substance, and at last to being, thing, and such universal terms, which stand for any of our ideas whatsoever. to conclude: this whole mystery of genera and species, which make such a noise in the schools, and are with justice so little regarded out of them, is nothing else but abstract ideas, more or less comprehensive, with names annexed to them. in all which this is constant and unvariable, that every more general term stands for such an idea, and is but a part of any of those contained under it. . why the genus is ordinarily made use of in definitions. this may show us the reason why, in the defining of words, which is nothing but declaring their signification, we make use of the genus, or next general word that comprehends it. which is not out of necessity, but only to save the labour of enumerating the several simple ideas which the next general word or genus stands for; or, perhaps, sometimes the shame of not being able to do it. but though defining by genus and differentia (i crave leave to use these terms of art, though originally latin, since they most properly suit those notions they are applied to), i say, though defining by the genus be the shortest way, yet i think it may be doubted whether it be the best. this i am sure, it is not the only, and so not absolutely necessary. for, definition being nothing but making another understand by words what idea the term defined stands for, a definition is best made by enumerating those simple ideas that are combined in the signification of the term defined: and if, instead of such an enumeration, men have accustomed themselves to use the next general term, it has not been out of necessity, or for greater clearness, but for quickness and dispatch sake. for i think that, to one who desired to know what idea the word man stood for; if it should be said, that man was a solid extended substance, having life, sense, spontaneous motion, and the faculty of reasoning, i doubt not but the meaning of the term man would be as well understood, and the idea it stands for be at least as clearly made known, as when it is defined to be a rational animal: which, by the several definitions of animal, vivens, and corpus, resolves itself into those enumerated ideas. i have, in explaining the term man, followed here the ordinary definition of the schools; which, though perhaps not the most, exact, yet serves well enough to my present purpose. and one may, in this instance, see what gave occasion to the rule, that a definition must consist of genus and differentia; and it suffices to show us the little necessity there is of such a rule, or advantage in the strict observing of it. for, definitions, as has been said, being only the explaining of one word by several others, so that the meaning or idea it stands for may be certainly known; languages are not always so made according to the rules of logic, that every term can have its signification exactly and clearly expressed by two others. experience sufficiently satisfies us to the contrary; or else those who have made this rule have done ill, that they have given us so few definitions conformable to it. but of definitions more in the next chapter. . general and universal are creatures of the understanding, and belong not to the real existence of things. to return to general words: it is plain, by what has been said, that general and universal belong not to the real existence of things; but are the inventions and creatures of the understanding, made by it for its own use, and concern only signs, whether words or ideas. words are general, as has been said, when used for signs of general ideas, and so are applicable indifferently to many particular things; and ideas are general when they are set up as the representatives of many particular things: but universality belongs not to things themselves, which are all of them particular in their existence, even those words and ideas which in their signification are general. when therefore we quit particulars, the generals that rest are only creatures of our own making; their general nature being nothing but the capacity they are put into, by the understanding, of signifying or representing many particulars. for the signification they have is nothing but a relation that, by the mind of man, is added to them. . abstract ideas are the essences of genera and species. the next thing therefore to be considered is, what kind of signification it is that general words have. for, as it is evident that they do not signify barely one particular thing; for then they would not be general terms, but proper names, so, on the other side, it is as evident they do not signify a plurality; for man and men would then signify the same; and the distinction of numbers (as the grammarians call them) would be superfluous and useless. that then which general words signify is a sort of things; and each of them does that, by being a sign of an abstract idea in the mind; to which idea, as things existing are found to agree, so they come to be ranked under that name, or, which is all one, be of that sort. whereby it is evident that the essences of the sorts, or, if the latin word pleases better, species of things, are nothing else but these abstract ideas. for the having the essence of any species, being that which makes anything to be of that species; and the conformity to the idea to which the name is annexed being that which gives a right to that name; the having the essence, and the having that conformity, must needs be the same thing: since to be of any species, and to have a right to the name of that species, is all one. as, for example, to be a man, or of the species man, and to have right to the name man, is the same thing. again, to be a man, or of the species man, and have the essence of a man, is the same thing. now, since nothing can be a man, or have a right to the name man, but what has a conformity to the abstract idea the name man stands for, nor anything be a man, or have a right to the species man, but what has the essence of that species; it follows, that the abstract idea for which the name stands, and the essence of the species, is one and the same. from whence it is easy to observe, that the essences of the sorts of things, and, consequently, the sorting of things, is the workmanship of the understanding that abstracts and makes those general ideas. . they are the workmanship of the understanding, but have their foundation in the similitude of things. i would not here be thought to forget, much less to deny, that nature, in the production of things, makes several of them alike: there is nothing more obvious, especially in the races of animals, and all things propagated by seed. but yet i think we may say, the sorting of them under names is the workmanship of the understanding, taking occasion, from the similitude it observes amongst them, to make abstract general ideas, and set them up in the mind, with names annexed to them, as patterns or forms, (for, in that sense, the word form has a very proper signification,) to which as particular things existing are found to agree, so they come to be of that species, have that denomination, or are put into that classis. for when we say this is a man, that a horse; this justice, that cruelty; this a watch, that a jack; what do we else but rank things under different specific names, as agreeing to those abstract ideas, of which we have made those names the signs? and what are the essences of those species set out and marked by names, but those abstract ideas in the mind; which are, as it were, the bonds between particular things that exist, and the names they are to be ranked under? and when general names have any connexion with particular beings, these abstract ideas are the medium that unites them: so that the essences of species, as distinguished and denominated by us, neither are nor can be anything but those precise abstract ideas we have in our minds. and therefore the supposed real essences of substances, if different from our abstract ideas, cannot be the essences of the species we rank things into. for two species may be one, as rationally as two different essences be the essence of one species: and i demand what are the alterations [which] may, or may not be made in a horse or lead, without making either of them to be of another species? in determining the species of things by our abstract ideas, this is easy to resolve: but if any one will regulate himself herein by supposed real essences, he will i suppose, be at a loss: and he will never be able to know when anything precisely ceases to be of the species of a horse or lead. . each distinct abstract idea is a distinct essence. nor will any one wonder that i say these essences, or abstract ideas (which are the measures of name, and the boundaries of species) are the workmanship of the understanding, who considers that at least the complex ones are often, in several men, different collections of simple ideas; and therefore that is covetousness to one man, which is not so to another. nay, even in substances, where their abstract ideas seem to be taken from the things themselves, they are not constantly the same; no, not in that species which is most familiar to us, and with which we have the most intimate acquaintance: it having been more than once doubted, whether the foetus born of a woman were a man, even so far as that it hath been debated, whether it were or were not to be nourished and baptized: which could not be, if the abstract idea or essence to which the name man belonged were of nature's making; and were not the uncertain and various collection of simple ideas, which the understanding put together, and then, abstracting it, affixed a name to it. so that, in truth, every distinct abstract idea is a distinct essence; and the names that stand for such distinct ideas are the names of things essentially different. thus a circle is as essentially different from an oval as a sheep from a goat; and rain is as essentially different from snow as water from earth: that abstract idea which is the essence of one being impossible to be communicated to the other. and thus any two abstract ideas, that in any part vary one from another, with two distinct names annexed to them, constitute two distinct sorts, or, if you please, species, as essentially different as any two of the most remote or opposite in the world. . several significations of the word essence. but since the essences of things are thought by some (and not without reason) to be wholly unknown, it may not be amiss to consider the several significations of the word essence. real essences. first, essence may be taken for the very being of anything, whereby it is what it is. and thus the real internal, but generally (in substances) unknown constitution of things, whereon their discoverable qualities depend, may be called their essence. this is the proper original signification of the word, as is evident from the formation of it; essential in its primary notation, signifying properly, being. and in this sense it is still used, when we speak of the essence of particular things, without giving them any name. nominal essences. secondly, the learning and disputes of the schools having been much busied about genus and species, the word essence has almost lost its primary signification: and, instead of the real constitution of things, has been almost wholly applied to the artificial constitution of genus and species. it is true, there is ordinarily supposed a real constitution of the sorts of things; and it is past doubt there must be some real constitution, on which any collection of simple ideas co-existing must depend. but, it being evident that things are ranked under names into sorts or species, only as they agree to certain abstract ideas, to which we have annexed those names, the essence of each genus, or sort, comes to be nothing but that abstract idea which the general, or sortal (if i may have leave so to call it from sort, as i do general from genus,) name stands for. and this we shall find to be that which the word essence imports in its most familiar use. these two sorts of essences, i suppose, may not unfitly be termed, the one the real, the other nominal essence. . constant connexion between the name and nominal essence. between the nominal essence and the name there is so near a connexion, that the name of any sort of things cannot be attributed to any particular being but what has this essence, whereby it answers that abstract idea whereof that name is the sign. . supposition, that species are distinguished by their real essences useless. concerning the real essences of corporeal substances (to mention these only) there are, if i mistake not, two opinions. the one is of those who, using the word essence for they know not what, suppose a certain number of those essences, according to which all natural things are made, and wherein they do exactly every one of them partake, and so become of this or that species. the other and more rational opinion is of those who look on all natural things to have a real, but unknown, constitution of their insensible parts; from which flow those sensible qualities which serve us to distinguish them one from another, according as we have occasion to rank them into sorts, under common denominations. the former of these opinions, which supposes these essences as a certain number of forms or moulds, wherein all natural things that exist are cast, and do equally partake, has, i imagine, very much perplexed the knowledge of natural things. the frequent productions of monsters, in all the species of animals, and of changelings, and other strange issues of human birth, carry with them difficulties, not possible to consist with this hypothesis; since it is as impossible that two things partaking exactly of the same real essence should have different properties, as that two figures partaking of the same real essence of a circle should have different properties. but were there no other reason against it, yet the supposition of essences that cannot be known; and the making of them, nevertheless, to be that which distinguishes the species of things, is so wholly useless and unserviceable to any part of our knowledge, that that alone were sufficient to make us lay it by, and content ourselves with such essences of the sorts or species of things as come within the reach of our knowledge: which, when seriously considered, will be found, as i have said, to be nothing else but, those abstract complex ideas to which we have annexed distinct general names. . real and nominal essence essences being thus distinguished into nominal and real, we may further observe, that, in the species of simple ideas and modes, they are always the same; but in substances always quite different. thus, a figure including a space between three lines, is the real as well as nominal essence of a triangle; it being not only the abstract idea to which the general name is annexed, but the very essentia or being of the thing itself; that foundation from which all its properties flow, and to which they are all inseparably annexed. but it is far otherwise concerning that parcel of matter which makes the ring on my finger; wherein these two essences are apparently different. for, it is the real constitution of its insensible parts, on which depend all those properties of colour, weight, fusibility, fixedness, &c., which are to be found in it; which constitution we know not, and so, having no particular idea of, having no name that is the sign of it. but yet it is its colour, weight, fusibility, fixedness, &c., which makes it to be gold, or gives it a right to that name, which is therefore its nominal essence. since nothing can be called gold but what has a conformity of qualities to that abstract complex idea to which that name is annexed. but this distinction of essences, belonging particularly to substances, we shall, when we come to consider their names, have an occasion to treat of more fully. . essences ingenerable and incorruptible. that such abstract ideas, with names to them, as we have been speaking of are essences, may further appear by what we are told concerning essences, viz. that they are all ingenerable and incorruptible. which cannot be true of the real constitutions of things, which begin and perish with them. all things that exist, besides their author, are all liable to change; especially those things we are acquainted with, and have ranked into bands under distinct names or ensigns. thus, that which was grass to-day is to-morrow the flesh of a sheep; and, within a few days after, becomes part of a man: in all which and the like changes, it is evident their real essence--i. e. that constitution whereon the properties of these several things depended--is destroyed, and perishes with them. but essences being taken for ideas established in the mind, with names annexed to them, they are supposed to remain steadily the same, whatever mutations the particular substances are liable to. for, whatever becomes of alexander and bucephalus, the ideas to which man and horse are annexed, are supposed nevertheless to remain the same; and so the essences of those species are preserved whole and undestroyed, whatever changes happen to any or all of the individuals of those species. by this means the essence of a species rests safe and entire, without the existence of so much as one individual of that kind. for, were there now no circle existing anywhere in the world, (as perhaps that figure exists not anywhere exactly marked out,) yet the idea annexed to that name would not cease to be what it is; nor cease to be as a pattern to determine which of the particular figures we meet with have or have not a right to the name circle, and so to show which of them, by having that essence, was of that species. and though there neither were nor had been in nature such a beast as an unicorn, or such a fish as a mermaid; yet, supposing those names to stand for complex abstract ideas that contained no inconsistency in them, the essence of a mermaid is as intelligible as that of a man; and the idea of an unicorn as certain, steady, and permanent as that of a horse. from what has been said, it is evident, that the doctrine of the immutability of essences proves them to be only abstract ideas; and is founded on the relation established between them and certain sounds as signs of them; and will always be true, as long as the same name can have the same signification. . recapitulation. to conclude. this is that which in short i would say, viz. that all the great business of genera and species, and their essences, amounts to no more but this:--that men making abstract ideas, and settling them in their minds with names annexed to them, do thereby enable themselves to consider things, and discourse of them, as it were in bundles, for the easier and readier improvement and communication of their knowledge, which would advance but slowly were their words and thoughts confined only to particulars. chapter iv. of the names of simple ideas. . names of simple ideas, modes, and substances, have each something peculiar. though all words, as i have shown, signify nothing immediately but the ideas in the mind of the speaker; yet, upon a nearer survey, we shall find the names of simple ideas, mixed modes (under which i comprise relations too), and natural substances, have each of them something peculiar and different from the other. for example:-- . first, names of simple ideas, and of substances intimate real existence. first, the names of simple ideas and substances, with the abstract ideas in the mind which they immediately signify, intimate also some real existence, from which was derived their original pattern. but the names of mixed modes terminate in the idea that is in the mind, and lead not the thoughts any further; as we shall see more at large in the following chapter. . secondly, names of simple ideas and modes signify always both real and nominal essences. secondly, the names of simple ideas and modes signify always the real as well as nominal essence of their species. but the names of natural substances signify rarely, if ever, anything but barely the nominal essences of those species; as we shall show in the chapter that treats of the names of substances in particular. . thirdly, names of simple ideas are undefinable. thirdly, the names of simple ideas are not capable of any definition; the names of all complex ideas are. it has not, that i know, been yet observed by anybody what words are, and what are not, capable of being defined; the want whereof is (as i am apt to think) not seldom the occasion of great wrangling and obscurity in men's discourses, whilst some demand definitions of terms that cannot be defined; and others think they ought not to rest satisfied in an explication made by a more general word, and its restriction, (or to speak in terms of art, by a genus and difference,) when, even after such definition, made according to rule, those who hear it have often no more a clear conception of the meaning of the word than they had before. this at least i think, that the showing what words are, and what are not, capable of definitions, and wherein consists a good definition, is not wholly besides our present purpose; and perhaps will afford so much light to the nature of these signs and our ideas, as to deserve a more particular consideration. . if all names were definable, it would be a process in infinitum. i will not here trouble myself to prove that all terms are not definable, from that progress in infinitum, which it will visibly lead us into, if we should allow that all names could be defined. for, if the terms of one definition were still to be defined by another, where at last should we stop? but i shall, from the nature of our ideas, and the signification of our words, show why some names can, and others cannot be defined; and which they are. . what a definition is. i think it is agreed, that a definition is nothing else but the showing the meaning of one word by several other not synonymous terms. the meaning of words being only the ideas they are made to stand for by him that uses them, the meaning of any term is then showed, or the word is defined, when, by other words, the idea it is made the sign of, and annexed to, in the mind of the speaker, is as it were represented, or set before the view of another; and thus its signification ascertained. this is the only use and end of definitions; and therefore the only measure of what is, or is not a good definition. . simple ideas, why undefinable. this being premised, i say that the names of simple ideas, and those only, are incapable of being defined. the reason whereof is this, that the several terms of a definition, signifying several ideas, they can all together by no means represent an idea which has no composition at all: and therefore a definition, which is properly nothing but the showing the meaning of one word by several others not signifying each the same thing, can in the names of simple ideas have no place. . instances: scholastic definitions of motion. the not observing this difference in our ideas, and their names, has produced that eminent trifling in the schools, which is so easy to be observed in the definitions they give us of some few of these simple ideas. for, as to the greatest part of them, even those masters of definitions were fain to leave them untouched, merely by the impossibility they found in it. what more exquisite jargon could the wit of man invent, than this definition:--'the act of a being in power, as far forth as in power;' which would puzzle any rational man, to whom it was not already known by its famous absurdity, to guess what word it could ever be supposed to be the explication of. if tully, asking a dutchman what beweeginge was, should have received this explication in his own language, that it was 'actus entis in potentia quatenus in potentia;' i ask whether any one can imagine he could thereby have understood what the word beweeginge signified, or have guessed what idea a dutchman ordinarily had in his mind, and would signify to another, when he used that sound? . modern definition of motion. nor have the modern philosophers, who have endeavoured to throw off the jargon of the schools, and speak intelligibly, much better succeeded in defining simple ideas, whether by explaining their causes, or any otherwise. the atomists, who define motion to be 'a passage from one place to another,' what do they more than put one synonymous word for another? for what is passage other than motion? and if they were asked what passage was, how would they better define it than by motion? for is it not at least as proper and significant to say, passage is a motion from one place to another, as to say, motion is a passage, &c.? this is to translate, and not to define, when we change two words of the same signification one for another; which, when one is better understood than the other, may serve to discover what idea the unknown stands for; but is very far from a definition, unless we will say every english word in the dictionary is the definition of the latin word it answers, and that motion is a definition of motus. nor will 'the successive application of the parts of the superficies of one body to those of another,' which the cartesians give us, prove a much better definition of motion, when well examined. . definitions of light. 'the act of perspicuous, as far forth as perspicuous,' is another peripatetic definition of a simple idea; which, though not more absurd than the former of motion, yet betrays its uselessness and insignificancy more plainly; because experience will easily convince any one that it cannot make the meaning of the word light (which it pretends to define) at all understood by a blind man, but the definition of motion appears not at first sight so useless, because it escapes this way of trial. for this simple idea, entering by the touch as well as sight, it is impossible to show an example of any one who has no other way to get the idea of motion, but barely by the definition of that name. those who tell us that light is a great number of little globules, striking briskly on the bottom of the eye, speak more intelligibly than the schools: but yet these words never so well understood would make the idea the word light stands for no more known to a man that understands it not before, than if one should tell him that light was nothing but a company of little tennis-balls, which fairies all day long struck with rackets against some men's foreheads, whilst they passed by others. for granting this explication of the thing to be true, yet the idea of the cause of light, if we had it never so exact, would no more give us the idea of light itself, as it is such a particular perception in us, than the idea of the figure and motion of a sharp piece of steel would give us the idea of that pain which it is able to cause in us. for the cause of any sensation, and the sensation itself, in all the simple ideas of one sense, are two ideas; and two ideas so different and distant one from another, that no two can be more so. and therefore, should des cartes's globules strike never so long on the retina of a man who was blind by a gutta serena, he would thereby never have any idea of light, or anything approaching it, though he understood never so well what little globules were, and what striking on another body was. and therefore the cartesians very well distinguish between that light which is the cause of that sensation in us, and the idea which is produced in us by it, and is that which is properly light. . simple ideas, why undefinable, further explained. simple ideas, as has been shown, are only to be got by those impressions objects themselves make on our minds, by the proper inlets appointed to each sort. if they are not received this way, all the words in the world, made use of to explain or define any of their names, will never be able to produce in us the idea it stands for. for, words being sounds, can produce in us no other simple ideas than of those very sounds; nor excite any in us, but by that voluntary connexion which is known to be between them and those simple ideas which common use has made them the signs of. he that thinks otherwise, let him try if any words can give him the taste of a pine apple, and make him have the true idea of the relish of that celebrated delicious fruit. so far as he is told it has a resemblance with any tastes whereof he has the ideas already in his memory, imprinted there by sensible objects, not strangers to his palate, so far may he approach that resemblance in his mind. but this is not giving us that idea by a definition, but exciting in us other simple ideas by their known names; which will be still very different from the true taste of that fruit itself. in light and colours, and all other simple ideas, it is the same thing: for the signification of sounds is not natural, but only imposed and arbitrary. and no definition of light or redness is more fitted or able to produce either of those ideas in us, than the sound light or red, by itself. for, to hope to produce an idea of light or colour by a sound, however formed, is to expect that sounds should be visible, or colours audible; and to make the ears do the office of all the other senses. which is all one as to say, that we might taste, smell, and see by the ears: a sort of philosophy worthy only of sancho panza, who had the faculty to see dulcinea by hearsay. and therefore he that has not before received into his mind, by the proper inlet, the simple idea which any word stands for, can never come to know the signification of that word by any other words or sounds whatsoever, put together according to any rules of definition. the only way is, by applying to his senses the proper object; and so producing that idea in him, for which he has learned the name already. a studious blind man, who had mightily beat his head about visible objects, and made use of the explication of his books and friends, to understand those names of light and colours which often came in his way, bragged one day, that he now understood what scarlet signified. upon which, his friend demanding what scarlet was? the blind man answered, it was like the sound of a trumpet. just such an understanding of the name of any other simple idea will he have, who hopes to get it only from a definition, or other words made use of to explain it. . the contrary shown in complex ideas, by instances of a statue and rainbow. the case is quite otherwise in complex ideas; which, consisting of several simple ones, it is in the power of words, standing for the several ideas that make that composition, to imprint complex ideas in the mind which were never there before, and so make their names be understood. in such collections of ideas, passing under one name, definition, or the teaching the signification of one word by several others, has place, and may make us understand the names of things which never came within the reach of our senses; and frame ideas suitable to those in other men's minds, when they use those names: provided that none of the terms of the definition stand for any such simple ideas, which he to whom the explication is made has never yet had in his thought. thus the word statue may be explained to a blind man by other words, when picture cannot; his senses having given him the idea of figure, but not of colours, which therefore words cannot excite in him. this gained the prize to the painter against the statuary: each of which contending for the excellency of his art, and the statuary bragging that his was to be preferred, because it reached further, and even those who had lost their eyes could yet perceive the excellency of it. the painter agreed to refer himself to the judgment of a blind man; who being brought where there was a statue made by the one, and a picture drawn by the other; he was first led to the statue, in which he traced with his hands all the lineaments of the face and body, and with great admiration applauded the skill of the workman. but being led to the picture, and having his hands laid upon it, was told, that now he touched the head, and then the forehead, eyes, nose, &c., as his hand moved over the parts of the picture on the cloth, without finding any the least distinction: whereupon he cried out, that certainly that must needs be a very admirable and divine piece of workmanship, which could represent to them all those parts, where he could neither feel nor perceive anything. . colours indefinable to the born-blind. he that should use the word rainbow to one who knew all those colours, but yet had never seen that phenomenon, would, by enumerating the figure, largeness, position, and order of the colours, so well define that word that it might be perfectly understood. but yet that definition, how exact and perfect soever, would never make a blind man understand it; because several of the simple ideas that make that complex one, being such as he never received by sensation and experience, no words are able to excite them in his mind. . complex ideas definable only when the simple ideas of which they consist have been got from experience. simple ideas, as has been shown, can only be got by experience from those objects which are proper to produce in us those perceptions. when, by this means, we have our minds stored with them, and know the names for them, then we are in a condition to define, and by definition to understand, the names of complex ideas that are made up of them. but when any term stands for a simple idea that a man has never yet had in his mind, it is impossible by any words to make known its meaning to him. when any term stands for an idea a man is acquainted with, but is ignorant that that term is the sign of it, then another name of the same idea, which he has been accustomed to, may make him understand its meaning. but in no case whatsoever is any name of any simple idea capable of a definition. . fourthly, names of simple ideas of less doubtful meaning than those of mixed modes and substances. fourthly, but though the names of simple ideas have not the help of definition to determine their signification, yet that hinders not but that they are generally less doubtful and uncertain than those of mixed modes and substances; because they, standing only for one simple perception, men for the most part easily and perfectly agree in their signification; and there is little room for mistake and wrangling about their meaning. he that knows once that whiteness is the name of that colour he has observed in snow or milk, will not be apt to misapply that word, as long as he retains that idea; which when he has quite lost, he is not apt to mistake the meaning of it, but perceives he understands it not. there is neither a multiplicity of simple ideas to be put together, which makes the doubtfulness in the names of mixed modes; nor a supposed, but an unknown, real essence, with properties depending thereon, the precise number whereof is also unknown, which makes the difficulty in the names of substances. but, on the contrary, in simple ideas the whole signification of the name is known at once, and consists not of parts, whereof more or less being put in, the idea may be varied, and so the signification of name be obscure, or uncertain. . simple ideas have few ascents in linea praedicamentali. fifthly, this further may be observed concerning simple simple ideas and their names, that they have but few ascents in linea praedicamentali, (as they call it,) from the lowest species to the summum genus. the reason whereof is, that the lowest species being but one simple idea, nothing can be left out of it, that so the difference being taken away, it may agree with some other thing in one idea common to them both; which, having one name, is the genus of the other two: v.g. there is nothing that can be left out of the idea of white and red to make them agree in one common appearance, and so have one general name; as rationality being left out of the complex idea of man, makes it agree with brute in the more general idea and name of animal. and therefore when, to avoid unpleasant enumerations, men would comprehend both white and red, and several other such simple ideas, under one general name, they have been fain to do it by a word which denotes only the way they get into the mind. for when white, red, and yellow are all comprehended under the genus or name colour, it signifies no more but such ideas as are produced in the mind only by the sight, and have entrance only through the eyes. and when they would frame yet a more general term to comprehend both colours and sounds, and the like simple ideas, they do it by a word that signifies all such as come into the mind only by one sense. and so the general term quality, in its ordinary acceptation, comprehends colours, sounds, tastes, smells, and tangible qualities, with distinction from extension, number, motion, pleasure, and pain, which make impressions on the mind and introduce their ideas by more senses than one. . sixthly, names of simple ideas not arbitrary, but perfectly taken from the existence of things. sixthly, the names of simple ideas, substances, and mixed modes have also this difference: that those of mixed modes stand for ideas perfectly arbitrary; those of substances are not perfectly so, but refer to a pattern, though with some latitude; and those of simple ideas are perfectly taken from the existence of things, and are not arbitrary at all. which, what difference it makes in the significations of their names, we shall see in the following chapters. simple modes. the names of simple modes differ little from those of simple ideas. chapter v. of the names of mixed modes and relations. . mixed modes stand for abstract ideas, as other general names. the names of mixed modes, being general, they stand, as has been shewed, for sorts or species of things, each of which has its peculiar essence. the essences of these species also, as has been shewed, are nothing but the abstract ideas in the mind, to which the name is annexed. thus far the names and essences of mixed modes have nothing but what is common to them with other ideas: but if we take a little nearer survey of them, we shall find that they have something peculiar, which perhaps may deserve our attention. . first, the abstract ideas they stand for are made by the understanding. the first particularity i shall observe in them, is, that the abstract ideas, or, if you please, the essences, of the several species of mixed modes, are made by the understanding, wherein they differ from those of simple ideas: in which sort the mind has no power to make any one, but only receives such as are presented to it by the real existence of things operating upon it. . secondly, made arbitrarily, and without patterns. in the next place, these essences of the species of mixed modes are not only made by the mind, but made very arbitrarily, made without patterns, or reference to any real existence. wherein they differ from those of substances, which carry with them the supposition of some real being, from which they are taken, and to which they are conformable. but, in its complex ideas of mixed modes, the mind takes a liberty not to follow the existence of things exactly. it unites and retains certain collections, as so many distinct specific ideas; whilst others, that as often occur in nature, and are as plainly suggested by outward things, pass neglected, without particular names or specifications. nor does the mind, in these of mixed modes, as in the complex idea of substances, examine them by the real existence of things; or verify them by patterns containing such peculiar compositions in nature. to know whether his idea of adultery or incest be right, will a man seek it anywhere amongst things existing? or is it true because any one has been witness to such an action? no: but it suffices here, that men have put together such a collection into one complex idea, that makes the archetype and specific idea; whether ever any such action were committed in rerum natura or no. . how this is done. to understand this right, we must consider wherein this making of these complex ideas consists; and that is not in the making any new idea, but putting together those which the mind had before. wherein the mind does these three things: first, it chooses a certain number; secondly, it gives them connexion, and makes them into one idea; thirdly, it ties them together by a name. if we examine how the mind proceeds in these, and what liberty it takes in them, we shall easily observe how these essences of the species of mixed modes are the workmanship of the mind; and, consequently, that the species themselves are of men's making. . evidently arbitrary, in that the idea is often before the existence. nobody can doubt but that these ideas of mixed modes are made by a voluntary collection of ideas, put together in the mind, independent from any original patterns in nature, who will but reflect that this sort of complex ideas may be made, abstracted, and have names given them, and so a species be constituted, before any one individual of that species ever existed. who can doubt but the ideas of sacrilege or adultery might be framed in the minds of men, and have names given them, and so these species of mixed modes be constituted, before either of them was ever committed; and might be as well discoursed of and reasoned about, and as certain truths discovered of them, whilst yet they had no being but in the understanding, as well as now, that they have but too frequently a real existence? whereby it is plain how much the sorts of mixed modes are the creatures of the understanding, where they have a being as subservient to all the ends of real truth and knowledge, as when they really exist. and we cannot doubt but law-makers have often made laws about species of actions which were only the creatures of their own understandings; beings that had no other existence but in their own minds. and i think nobody can deny but that the resurrection was a species of mixed modes in the mind, before it really existed. . instances: murder, incest, stabbing. to see how arbitrarily these essences of mixed modes are made by the mind, we need but take a view of almost any of them. a little looking into them will satisfy us, that it is the mind that combines several scattered independent ideas into one complex one; and, by the common name it gives them, makes them the essence of a certain species, without regulating itself by any connexion they have in nature. for what greater connexion in nature has the idea of a man than the idea of a sheep with killing, that this is made a particular species of action, signified by the word murder, and the other not? or what union is there in nature between the idea of the relation of a father with killing than that of a son or neighbour, that those are combined into one complex idea, and thereby made the essence of the distinct species parricide, whilst the other makes no distinct species at all? but, though they have made killing a man's father or mother a distinct species from killing his son or daughter, yet, in some other cases, son and daughter are taken in too, as well as father and mother: and they are all equally comprehended in the same species, as in that of incest. thus the mind in mixed modes arbitrarily unites into complex ideas such as it finds convenient; whilst others that have altogether as much union in nature are left loose, and never combined into one idea, because they have no need of one name. it is evident then that the mind, by its free choice, gives a connexion to a certain number of ideas, which in nature have no more union with one another than others that it leaves out: why else is the part of the weapon the beginning of the wound is made with taken notice of, to make the distinct species called stabbing, and the figure and matter of the weapon left out? i do not say this is done without reason, as we shall see more by and by; but this i say, that it is done by the free choice of the mind, pursuing its own ends; and that, therefore, these species of mixed modes are the workmanship of the understanding. and there is nothing more evident than that, for the most part, in the framing these ideas, the mind searches not its patterns in nature, nor refers the ideas it makes to the real existence of things, but puts such together as may best serve its own purposes, without tying itself to a precise imitation of anything that really exists. . but still subservient to the end of language, and not made at random. but, though these complex ideas or essences of mixed modes depend on the mind, and are made by it with great liberty, yet they are not made at random, and jumbled together without any reason at all. though these complex ideas be not always copied from nature, yet they are always suited to the end for which abstract ideas are made: and though they be combinations made of ideas that are loose enough, and have as little union in themselves as several other to which the mind never gives a connexion that combines them into one idea; yet they are always made for the convenience of communication, which is the chief end of language. the use of language is, by short sounds, to signify with ease and dispatch general conceptions; wherein not only abundance of particulars may be contained, but also a great variety of independent ideas collected into one complex one. in the making therefore of the species of mixed modes, men have had regard only to such combinations as they had occasion to mention one to another. those they have combined into distinct complex ideas, and given names to; whilst others, that in nature have as near a union, are left loose and unregarded. for, to go no further than human actions themselves, if they would make distinct abstract ideas of all the varieties which might be observed in them, the number must be infinite, and the memory confounded with the plenty, as well as overcharged to little purpose. it suffices that men make and name so many complex ideas of these mixed modes as they find they have occasion to have names for, in the ordinary occurrence of their affairs. if they join to the idea of killing the idea of father or mother, and so make a distinct species from killing a man's son or neighbour, it is because of the different heinousness of the crime, and the distinct punishment is due to the murdering a man's father and mother, different to what ought to be inflicted on the murder of a son or neighbour; and therefore they find it necessary to mention it by a distinct name, which is the end of making that distinct combination. but though the ideas of mother and daughter are so differently treated, in reference to the idea of killing, that the one is joined with it to make a distinct abstract idea with a name, and so a distinct species, and the other not; yet, in respect of carnal knowledge, they are both taken in under incest: and that still for the same convenience of expressing under one name, and reckoning of one species, such unclean mixtures as have a peculiar turpitude beyond others; and this to avoid circumlocutions and tedious descriptions. . whereof the intranslatable words of divers languages are a proof. a moderate skill in different languages will easily satisfy one of the truth of this, it being so obvious to observe great store of words in one language which have not any that answer them in another. which plainly shows that those of one country, by their customs and manner of life, have found occasion to make several complex ideas, and given names to them, which others never collected into specific ideas. this could not have happened if these species were the steady workmanship of nature, and not collections made and abstracted by the mind, in order to naming, and for the convenience of communication. the terms of our law, which are not empty sounds, will hardly find words that answer them in the spanish or italian, no scanty languages; much less, i think, could any one translate them into the caribbee or westoe tongues: and the versura of the romans, or corban of the jews, have no words in other languages to answer them; the reason whereof is plain, from what has been said. nay, if we look a little more nearly into this matter, and exactly compare different languages, we shall find that, though they have words which in translations and dictionaries are supposed to answer one another, yet there is scarce one often amongst the names of complex ideas, especially of mixed modes, that stands for the same precise idea which the word does that in dictionaries it is rendered by. there are no ideas more common and less compounded than the measures of time, extension, and weight; and the latin names, hora, pes, libra, are without difficulty rendered by the english names, hour, foot, and pound: but yet there is nothing more evident than that the ideas a roman annexed to these latin names, were very far different from those which an englishman expresses by those english ones. and if either of these should make use of the measures that those of the other language designed by their names, he would be quite out in his account. these are too sensible proofs to be doubted; and we shall find this much more so in the names of more abstract and compounded ideas, such as are the greatest part of those which make up moral discourses: whose names, when men come curiously to compare with those they are translated into, in other languages, they will find very few of them exactly to correspond in the whole extent of their significations. . this shows species to be made for communication. the reason why i take so particular notice of this is, that we may not be mistaken about genera and species, and their essences, as if they were things regularly and constantly made by nature, and had a real existence in things; when they appear, upon a more wary survey, to be nothing else but an artifice of the understanding, for the easier signifying such collections of ideas as it should often have occasion to communicate by one general term; under which divers particulars, as far forth as they agreed to that abstract idea, might be comprehended. and if the doubtful signification of the word species may make it sound harsh to some, that i say the species of mixed modes are 'made by the understanding'; yet, i think, it can by nobody be denied that it is the mind makes those abstract complex ideas to which specific names are given. and if it be true, as it is, that the mind makes the patterns for sorting and naming of things, i leave it to be considered who makes the boundaries of the sort or species; since with me species and sort have no other difference than that of a latin and english idiom. . in mixed modes it is the name that ties the combination of simple ideas together, and makes it a species. the near relation that there is between species, essences, and their general name, at least in mixed modes, will further appear when we consider, that it is the name that seems to preserve those essences, and give them their lasting duration. for, the connexion between the loose parts of those complex ideas being made by the mind, this union, which has no particular foundation in nature, would cease again, were there not something that did, as it were, hold it together, and keep the parts from scattering. though therefore it be the mind that makes the collection, it is the name which is as it were the knot that ties them fast together. what a vast variety of different ideas does the word triumphus hold together, and deliver to us as one species! had this name been never made, or quite lost, we might, no doubt, have had descriptions of what passed in that solemnity: but yet, i think, that which holds those different parts together, in the unity of one complex idea, is that very word annexed to it; without which the several parts of that would no more be thought to make one thing, than any other show, which having never been made but once, had never been united into one complex idea, under one denomination. how much, therefore, in mixed modes, the unity necessary to any essence depends on the mind; and how much the continuation and fixing of that unity depends on the name in common use annexed to it, i leave to be considered by those who look upon essences and species as real established things in nature. . suitable to this, we find that men speaking of mixed modes, seldom imagine or take any other for species of them, but such as are set out by name: because they, being of man's making only, in order to naming, no such species are taken notice of, or supposed to be, unless a name be joined to it, as the sign of man's having combined into one idea several loose ones; and by that name giving a lasting union to the parts which would otherwise cease to have any, as soon as the mind laid by that abstract idea, and ceased actually to think on it. but when a name is once annexed to it, wherein the parts of that complex idea have a settled and permanent union, then is the essence, as it were, established, and the species looked on as complete. for to what purpose should the memory charge itself with such compositions, unless it were by abstraction to make them general? and to what purpose make them general, unless it were that they might have general names for the convenience of discourse and communication? thus we see, that killing a man with a sword or a hatchet are looked on as no distinct species of action; but if the point of the sword first enter the body, it passes for a distinct species, where it has a distinct name, as in england, in whose language it is called stabbing: but in another country, where it has not happened to be specified under a peculiar name, it passes not for a distinct species. but in the species of corporeal substances, though it be the mind that makes the nominal essence, yet, since those ideas which are combined in it are supposed to have an union in nature whether the mind joins them or not, therefore those are looked on as distinct species, without any operation of the mind, either abstracting, or giving a name to that complex idea. . for the originals of our mixed modes, we look no further than the mind; which also shows them to be the workmanship of the understanding. conformable also to what has been said concerning the essences of the species of mixed modes, that they are the creatures of the understanding rather than the works of nature; conformable, i say, to this, we find that their names lead our thoughts to the mind, and no further. when we speak of justice, or gratitude, we frame to ourselves no imagination of anything existing, which we would conceive; but our thoughts terminate in the abstract ideas of those virtues, and look not further; as they do when we speak of a horse, or iron, whose specific ideas we consider not as barely in the mind, but as in things themselves, which afford the original patterns of those ideas. but in mixed modes, at least the most considerable parts of them, which are moral beings, we consider the original patterns as being in the mind, and to those we refer for the distinguishing of particular beings under names. and hence i think it is that these essences of the species of mixed modes are by a more particular name called notions; as, by a peculiar right, appertaining to the understanding. . their being made by the understanding without patterns, shows the reason why they are so compounded. hence, likewise, we may learn why the complex ideas of mixed modes are commonly more compounded and decompounded than those of natural substances. because they being the workmanship of the understanding, pursuing only its own ends, and the conveniency of expressing in short those ideas it would make known to another, it does with great liberty unite often into one abstract idea things that, in their nature, have no coherence; and so under one term bundle together a great variety of compounded and decompounded ideas. thus the name of procession: what a great mixture of independent ideas of persons, habits, tapers, orders, motions, sounds, does it contain in that complex one, which the mind of man has arbitrarily put together, to express by that one name? whereas the complex ideas of the sorts of substances are usually made up of only a small number of simple ones; and in the species of animals, these two, viz. shape and voice, commonly make the whole nominal essence. . names of mixed modes stand alway for their real essences, which are the workmanship of our minds. another thing we may observe from what has been said is, that the names of mixed modes always signify (when they have any determined signification) the real essences of their species. for, these abstract ideas being the workmanship of the mind, and not referred to the real existence of things, there is no supposition of anything more signified by that name, but barely that complex idea the mind itself has formed; which is all it would have expressed by it; and is that on which all the properties of the species depend, and from which alone they all flow: and so in these the real and nominal essence is the same; which, of what concernment it is to the certain knowledge of general truth, we shall see hereafter. . why their names are usually got before their ideas. this also may show us the reason why for the most part the names of mixed modes are got before the ideas they stand for are perfectly known. because there being no species of these ordinarily taken notice of but what have names, and those species, or rather their essences, being abstract complex ideas, made arbitrarily by the mind, it is convenient, if not necessary, to know the names, before one endeavour to frame these complex ideas: unless a man will fill his head with a company of abstract complex ideas, which, others having no names for, he has nothing to do with, but to lay by and forget again. i confess that, in the beginning of languages, it was necessary to have the idea before one gave it the name: and so it is still, where, making a new complex idea, one also, by giving it a new name, makes a new word. but this concerns not languages made, which have generally pretty well provided for ideas which men have frequent occasion to have and communicate; and in such, i ask whether it be not the ordinary method, that children learn the names of mixed modes before they have their ideas? what one of a thousand ever frames the abstract ideas of glory and ambition, before he has heard the names of them? in simple ideas and substances i grant it is otherwise; which, being such ideas as have a real existence and union in nature, the ideas and names are got one before the other, as it happens. . reason of my being so large on this subject. what has been said here of mixed modes is, with very little difference, applicable also to relations; which, since every man himself may observe, i may spare myself the pains to enlarge on: especially, since what i have here said concerning words in this third book, will possibly be thought by some to this be much more than what so slight a subject required. i allow it might be brought into a narrower compass; but i was willing to stay my reader on an argument that appears to me new and a little out of the way, (i am sure it is one i thought not of when i began to write,) that, by searching it to the bottom, and turning it on every side, some part or other might meet with every one's thoughts, and give occasion to the most averse or negligent to reflect on a general miscarriage, which, though of great consequence, is little taken notice of. when it is considered what a pudder is made about essences, and how much all sorts of knowledge, discourse, and conversation are pestered and disordered by the careless and confused use and application of words, it will perhaps be thought worth while thoroughly to lay it open. and i shall be pardoned if i have dwelt long on an argument which i think, therefore, needs to be inculcated, because the faults men are usually guilty of in this kind, are not only the greatest hindrances of true knowledge, but are so well thought of as to pass for it. men would often see what a small pittance of reason and truth, or possibly none at all, is mixed with those huffing opinions they are swelled with; if they would but look beyond fashionable sounds, and observe what ideas are or are not comprehended under those words with which they are so armed at all points, and with which they so confidently lay about them. i shall imagine i have done some service to truth, peace, and learning, if, by any enlargement on this subject, i can make men reflect on their own use of language; and give them reason to suspect, that, since it is frequent for others, it may also be possible for them, to have sometimes very good and approved words in their mouths and writings, with very uncertain, little, or no signification. and therefore it is not unreasonable for them to be wary herein themselves, and not to be unwilling to have them examined by others. with this design, therefore, i shall go on with what i have further to say concerning this matter. chapter vi. of the names of substances. . the common names of substances stand for sorts. the common names of substances, as well as other general terms, stand for sorts: which is nothing else but the being made signs of such complex ideas wherein several particular substances do or might agree, by virtue of which they are capable of being comprehended in one common conception, and signified by one name. i say do or might agree: for though there be but one sun existing in the world, yet the idea of it being abstracted, so that more substances (if there were several) might each agree in it, it is as much a sort as if there were as many suns as there are stars. they want not their reasons who think there are, and that each fixed star would answer the idea the name sun stands for, to one who was placed in a due distance: which, by the way, may show us how much the sorts, or, if you please, genera and species of things (for those latin terms signify to me no more than the english word sort) depend on such collections of ideas as men have made, and not on the real nature of things; since it is not impossible but that, in propriety of speech, that might be a sun to one which is a star to another. . the essence of each sort of substance is our abstract idea to which the name is annexed. the measure and boundary of each sort or species, whereby it is constituted that particular sort, and distinguished from others, is that we call its essence, which is nothing but that abstract idea to which the name is annexed; so that everything contained in that idea is essential to that sort. this, though it be all the essence of natural substances that we know, or by which we distinguish them into sorts, yet i call it by a peculiar name, the nominal essence, to distinguish it from the real constitution of substances, upon which depends this nominal essence, and all the properties of that sort; which, therefore, as has been said, may be called the real essence: v.g. the nominal essence of gold is that complex idea the word gold stands for, let it be, for instance, a body yellow, of a certain weight, malleable, fusible, and fixed. but the real essence is the constitution of the insensible parts of that body, on which those qualities and all the other properties of gold depend. how far these two are different, though they are both called essence, is obvious at first sight to discover. . the nominal and real essence different. for, though perhaps voluntary motion, with sense and reason, joined to a body of a certain shape, be the complex idea to which i and others annex the name man, and so be the nominal essence of the species so called: yet nobody will say that complex idea is the real essence and source of all those operations which are to be found in any individual of that sort. the foundation of all those qualities which are the ingredients of our complex idea, is something quite different: and had we such a knowledge of that constitution of man; from which his faculties of moving, sensation, and reasoning, and other powers flow, and on which his so regular shape depends, as it is possible angels have, and it is certain his maker has, we should have a quite other idea of his essence than what now is contained in our definition of that species, be it what it will: and our idea of any individual man would be as far different from what it is now, as is his who knows all the springs and wheels and other contrivances within of the famous clock at strasburg, from that which a gazing countryman has of it, who barely sees the motion of the hand, and hears the clock strike, and observes only some of the outward appearances. . nothing essential to individuals. that essence, in the ordinary use of the word, relates to sorts, and that it is considered in particular beings no further than as they are ranked into sorts, appears from hence: that, take but away the abstract ideas by which we sort individuals, and rank them under common names, and then the thought of anything essential to any of them instantly vanishes: we have no notion of the one without the other, which plainly shows their relation. it is necessary for me to be as i am; god and nature has made me so: but there is nothing i have is essential to me. an accident or disease may very much alter my colour or shape; a fever or fall may take away my reason or memory, or both; and an apoplexy leave neither sense, nor understanding, no, nor life. other creatures of my shape may be made with more and better, or fewer and worse faculties than i have; and others may have reason and sense in a shape and body very different from mine. none of these are essential to the one or the other, or to any individual whatever, till the mind refers it to some sort or species of things; and then presently, according to the abstract idea of that sort, something is found essential. let any one examine his own thoughts, and he will find that as soon as he supposes or speaks of essential, the consideration of some species, or the complex idea signified by some general name, comes into his mind; and it is in reference to that that this or that quality is said to be essential. so that if it be asked, whether it be essential to me or any other particular corporeal being, to have reason? i say, no; no more than it is essential to this white thing i write on to have words in it. but if that particular being be to be counted of the sort man, and to have the name man given it, then reason is essential to it; supposing reason to be a part of the complex idea the name man stands for: as it is essential to this thing i write on to contain words, if i will give it the name treatise, and rank it under that species. so that essential and not essential relate only to our abstract ideas, and the names annexed to them; which amounts to no more than this, that whatever particular thing has not in it those qualities which are contained in the abstract idea which any general term stands for, cannot be ranked under that species, nor be called by that name; since that abstract idea is the very essence of that species. . the only essences perceived by us in individual substances are those qualities which entitle them to receive their names. thus, if the idea of body with some people be bare extension or space, then solidity is not essential to body: if others make the idea to which they give the name body to be solidity and extension, then solidity is essential to body. that therefore, and that alone, is considered as essential, which makes a part of the complex idea the name of a sort stands for; without which no particular thing can be reckoned of that sort, nor be entitled to that name. should there be found a parcel of matter that had all the other qualities that are in iron, but wanted obedience to the loadstone, and would neither be drawn by it nor receive direction from it, would any one question whether it wanted anything essential? it would be absurd to ask, whether a thing really existing wanted anything essential to it. or could it be demanded, whether this made an essential or specific difference or no, since we have no other measure of essential or specific but our abstract ideas? and to talk of specific differences in nature, without reference to general ideas in names, is to talk unintelligibly. for i would ask any one, what is sufficient to make an essential difference in nature between any two particular beings, without any regard had to some abstract idea, which is looked upon as the essence and standard of a species? all such patterns and standards being quite laid aside, particular beings, considered barely in themselves, will be found to have all their qualities equally essential; and everything in each individual will be essential to it; or, which is more, nothing at all. for, though it may be reasonable to ask, whether obeying the magnet be essential to iron? yet i think it is very improper and insignificant to ask, whether it be essential to the particular parcel of matter i cut my pen with; without considering it under the name iron, or as being of a certain species. and if, as has been said, our abstract ideas, which have names annexed to them, are the boundaries of species, nothing can be essential but what is contained in those ideas. . even the real essences of individual substances imply potential sorts. it is true, i have often mentioned a real essence, distinct in substances from those abstract ideas of them, which i call their nominal essence. by this real essence i mean, that real constitution of anything, which is the foundation of all those properties that are combined in, and are constantly found to co-exist with the nominal essence; that particular constitution which everything has within itself, without any relation to anything without it. but essence, even in this sense, relates to a sort, and supposes a species. for, being that real constitution on which the properties depend, it necessarily supposes a sort of things, properties belonging only to species, and not to individuals: v. g. supposing the nominal essence of gold to be a body of such a peculiar colour and weight, with malleability and fusibility, the real essence is that constitution of the parts of matter on which these qualities and their union depend; and is also the foundation of its solubility in aqua regia and other properties, accompanying that complex idea. here are essences and properties, but all upon supposition of a sort or general abstract idea, which is considered as immutable; but there is no individual parcel of matter to which any of these qualities are so annexed as to be essential to it or inseparable from it. that which is essential belongs to it as a condition whereby it is of this or that sort: but take away the consideration of its being ranked under the name of some abstract idea, and then there is nothing necessary to it, nothing inseparable from it. indeed, as to the real essences of substances, we only suppose their being, without precisely knowing what they are; but that which annexes them still to the species is the nominal essence, of which they are the supposed foundation and cause. . the nominal essence bounds the species to us. the next thing to be considered is, by which of those essences it is that substances are determined into sorts or species; and that, it is evident, is by the nominal essence. for it is that alone that the name, which is the mark of the sort, signifies. it is impossible, therefore, that anything should determine the sorts of things, which we rank under general names, but that idea which that name is designed as a mark for; which is that, as has been shown, which we call nominal essence. why do we say this is a horse, and that a mule; this is an animal, that an herb? how comes any particular thing to be of this or that sort, but because it has that nominal essence; or, which is all one, agrees to that abstract idea, that name is annexed to? and i desire any one but to reflect on his own thoughts, when he hears or speaks any of those or other names of substances, to know what sort of essences they stand for. . the nature of species as formed by us. and that the species of things to us are nothing but the ranking them under distinct names, according to the complex ideas in us, and not according to precise, distinct, real essences in them, is plain from hence:--that we find many of the individuals that are ranked into one sort, called by one common name, and so received as being of one species, have yet qualities, depending on their real constitutions, as far different one from another as from others from which they are accounted to differ specifically. this, as it is easy to be observed by all who have to do with natural bodies, so chemists especially are often, by sad experience, convinced of it, when they, sometimes in vain, seek for the same qualities in one parcel of sulphur, antimony, or vitriol, which they have found in others. for, though they are bodies of the same species, having the same nominal essence, under the same name, yet do they often, upon severe ways of examination, betray qualities so different one from another, as to frustrate the expectation and labour of very wary chemists. but if things were distinguished into species, according to their real essences, it would be as impossible to find different properties in any two individual substances of the same species, as it is to find different properties in two circles, or two equilateral triangles. that is properly the essence to us, which determines every particular to this or that classis; or, which is the same thing, to this or that general name: and what can that be else, but that abstract idea to which that name is annexed; and so has, in truth, a reference, not so much to the being of particular things, as to their general denominations? . not the real essence, or texture of parts, which we know not. nor indeed can we rank and sort things, and consequently (which is the end of sorting) denominate them, by their real essences; because we know them not. our faculties carry us no further towards the knowledge and distinction of substances, than a collection of those sensible ideas which we observe in them; which, however made with the greatest diligence and exactness we are capable of, yet is more remote from the true internal constitution from which those qualities flow, than, as i said, a countryman's idea is from the inward contrivance of that famous clock at strasburg, whereof he only sees the outward figure and motions. there is not so contemptible a plant or animal, that does not confound the most enlarged understanding. though the familiar use of things about us take off our wonder, yet it cures not our ignorance. when we come to examine the stones we tread on, or the iron we daily handle, we presently find we know not their make; and can give no reason of the different qualities we find in them. it is evident the internal constitution, whereon their properties depend, is unknown to us: for to go no further than the grossest and most obvious we can imagine amongst them, what is that texture of parts, that real essence, that makes lead and antimony fusible, wood and stones not? what makes lead and iron malleable, antimony and stones not? and yet how infinitely these come short of the fine contrivances and inconceivable real essences of plants or animals, every one knows. the workmanship of the all-wise and powerful god in the great fabric of the universe, and every part thereof, further exceeds the capacity and comprehension of the most inquisitive and intelligent man, than the best contrivance of the most ingenious man doth the conceptions of the most ignorant of rational creatures. therefore we in vain pretend to range things into sorts, and dispose them into certain classes under names, by their real essences, that are so far from our discovery or comprehension. a blind man may as soon sort things by their colours, and he that has lost his smell as well distinguish a lily and a rose by their odours, as by those internal constitutions which he knows not. he that thinks he can distinguish sheep and goats by their real essences, that are unknown to him, may be pleased to try his skill in those species called cassiowary and querechinchio; and by their internal real essences determine the boundaries of those species, without knowing the complex idea of sensible qualities that each of those names stand for, in the countries where those animals are to be found. . not the substantial form, which know not. those, therefore, who have been taught that the several species of substances had their distinct internal substantial forms, and that it was those forms which made the distinction of substances into their true species and genera, were led yet further out of the way by having their minds set upon fruitless inquiries after 'substantial forms'; wholly unintelligible, and whereof we have scarce so much as any obscure or confused conception in general. . that the nominal essence is that only whereby we distinguish species of substances, further evident, from our ideas of finite spirits and of god. that our ranking and distinguishing natural substances into species consists in the nominal essences the mind makes, and not in the real essences to be found in the things themselves, is further evident from our ideas of spirits. for the mind getting, only by reflecting on its own operations, those simple ideas which it attributes to spirits, it hath or can have no other notion of spirit but by attributing all those operations it finds in itself to a sort of beings; without consideration of matter. and even the most advanced notion we have of god is but attributing the same simple ideas which we have got from reflection on what we find in ourselves, and which we conceive to have more perfection in them than would be in their absence; attributing, i say, those simple ideas to him in an unlimited degree. thus, having got from reflecting on ourselves the idea of existence, knowledge, power and pleasure--each of which we find it better to have than to want; and the more we have of each the better--joining all these together, with infinity to each of them, we have the complex idea of an eternal, omniscient, omnipotent, infinitely wise and happy being. and though we are told that there are different species of angels; yet we know not how to frame distinct specific ideas of them: not out of any conceit that the existence of more species than one of spirits is impossible; but because having no more simple ideas (nor being able to frame more) applicable to such beings, but only those few taken from ourselves, and from the actions of our own minds in thinking, and being delighted, and moving several parts of our bodies; we can no otherwise distinguish in our conceptions the several species of spirits, one from another, but by attributing those operations and powers we find in ourselves to them in a higher or lower degree; and so have no very distinct specific ideas of spirits, except only of god, to whom we attribute both duration and all those other ideas with infinity; to the other spirits, with limitation: nor, as i humbly conceive, do we, between god and them in our ideas, put any difference, by any number of simple ideas which we have of one and not of the other, but only that of infinity. all the particular ideas of existence, knowledge, will, power, and motion, &c., being ideas derived from the operations of our minds, we attribute all of them to all sorts of spirits, with the difference only of degrees; to the utmost we can imagine, even infinity, when we would frame as well as we can an idea of the first being; who yet, it is certain, is infinitely more remote, in the real excellency of his nature, from the highest and perfectest of all created beings, than the greatest man, nay, purest seraph, is from the most contemptible part of matter; and consequently must infinitely exceed what our narrow understandings can conceive of him. . of finite spirits there are probably numberless species in a continuous series of gradations. it is not impossible to conceive, nor repugnant to reason, that there may be many species of spirits, as much separated and diversified one from another by distinct properties whereof we have no ideas, as the species of sensible things are distinguished one from another by qualities which we know and observe in them. that there should be more species of intelligent creatures above us, than there are of sensible and material below us, is probable to me from hence: that in all the visible corporeal world, we see no chasms or gaps. all quite down from us the descent is by easy steps, and a continued series of things, that in each remove differ very little one from the other. there are fishes that have wings, and are not strangers to the airy region: and there are some birds that are inhabitants of the water, whose blood is cold as fishes, and their flesh so like in taste that the scrupulous are allowed them on fish-days. there are animals so near of kin both to birds and beasts that they are in the middle between both: amphibious animals link the terrestrial and aquatic together; seals live at land and sea, and porpoises have the warm blood and entrails of a hog; not to mention what is confidently reported of mermaids, or sea-men. there are some brutes that seem to have as much knowledge and reason as some that are called men: and the animal and vegetable kingdoms are so nearly joined, that, if you will take the lowest of one and the highest of the other, there will scarce be perceived any great difference between them: and so on, till we come to the lowest and the most inorganical parts of matter, we shall find everywhere that the several species are linked together, and differ but in almost insensible degrees. and when we consider the infinite power and wisdom of the maker, we have reason to think that it is suitable to the magnificent harmony of the universe, and the great design and infinite goodness of the architect, that the species of creatures should also, by gentle degrees, ascend upward from us toward his infinite perfection, as we see they gradually descend from us downwards: which if it be probable, we have reason then to be persuaded that there are far more species of creatures above us than there are beneath; we being, in degrees of perfection, much more remote from the infinite being of god than we are from the lowest state of being, and that which approaches nearest to nothing. and yet of all those distinct species, for the reasons abovesaid, we have no clear distinct ideas. . the nominal essence that of the species, as conceived by us, proved from water and ice. but to return to the species of corporeal substances. if i should ask any one whether ice and water were two distinct species of things, i doubt not but i should be answered in the affirmative: and it cannot be denied but he that says they are two distinct species is in the right. but if an englishman bred in jamaica, who perhaps had never seen nor heard of ice, coming into england in the winter, find the water he put in his basin at night in a great part frozen in the morning, and, not knowing any peculiar name it had, should call it hardened water; i ask whether this would be a new species to him, different from water? and i think it would be answered here, it would not be to him a new species, no more than congealed jelly, when it is cold, is a distinct species from the same jelly fluid and warm; or than liquid gold in the furnace is a distinct species from hard gold in the hands of a workman. and if this be so, it is plain that our distinct species are nothing but distinct complex ideas, with distinct names annexed to them. it is true every substance that exists has its peculiar constitution, whereon depend those sensible qualities and powers we observe in it; but the ranking of things into species (which is nothing but sorting them under several titles) is done by us according to the ideas that we have of them: which, though sufficient to distinguish them by names, so that we may be able to discourse of them when we have them not present before us; yet if we suppose it to be done by their real internal constitutions, and that things existing are distinguished by nature into species, by real essences, according as we distinguish them into species by names, we shall be liable to great mistakes. . difficulties in the supposition of a certain number of real essences to distinguish substantial beings into species, according to the usual supposition, that there are certain precise essences or forms of things, whereby all the individuals existing are, by nature distinguished into species, these things are necessary:-- . a crude supposition. first, to be assured that nature, in the production of things, always designs them to partake of certain regulated established essences, which are to be the models of all things to be produced. this, in that crude sense it is usually proposed, would need some better explication, before it can fully be assented to. . monstrous births. secondly, it would be necessary to know whether nature always attains that essence it designs in the production of things. the irregular and monstrous births, that in divers sorts of animals have been observed, will always give us reason to doubt of one or both of these. . are monsters really a distinct species? thirdly, it ought to be determined whether those we call monsters be really a distinct species, according to the scholastic notion of the word species; since it is certain that everything that exists has its particular constitution. and yet we find that some of these monstrous productions have few or none of those qualities which are supposed to result from, and accompany, the essence of that species from whence they derive their originals, and to which, by their descent, they seem to belong. . men can have no ideas of real essences. fourthly, the real essences of those things which we distinguish into species, and as so distinguished we name, ought to be known; i.e. we ought to have ideas of them. but since we are ignorant in these four points, the supposed real essences of things stand us not in stead for the distinguishing substances into species. . our nominal essences of substances not perfect collections of the properties that flow from the real essence. fifthly, the only imaginable help in this case would be, that, having framed perfect complex ideas of the properties of things flowing from their different real essences, we should thereby distinguish them into species. but neither can this be done. for, being ignorant of the real essence itself, it is impossible to know all those properties that flow from it, and are so annexed to it, that any one of them being away, we may certainly conclude that that essence is not there, and so the thing is not of that species. we can never know what is the precise number of properties depending on the real essence of gold, any one of which failing, the real essence of gold, and consequently gold, would not be there, unless we knew the real essence of gold itself, and by that determined that species. by the word gold here, i must be understood to design a particular piece of matter; v. g. the last guinea that was coined. for, if it should stand here, in its ordinary signification, for that complex idea which i or any one else calls gold, i. e. for the nominal essence of gold, it would be jargon. so hard is it to show the various meaning and imperfection of words, when we have nothing else but words to do it by. . hence names independent of real essence. by all which it is clear, that our distinguishing substances into species by names, is not at all founded on their real essences; nor can we pretend to range and determine them exactly into species, according to internal essential differences. . but stand for such collections of simple ideas as we have made the name stand for. but since, as has been remarked, we have need of general words, though we know not the real essences of things; all we can do is, to collect such a number of simple ideas as, by examination, we find to be united together in things existing, and thereof to make one complex idea. which, though it be not the real essence of any substance that exists, is yet the specific essence to which our name belongs, and is convertible with it; by which we may at least try the truth of these nominal essences. for example: there be that say that the essence of body is extension; if it be so, we can never mistake in putting the essence of anything for the thing itself. let us then in discourse put extension for body, and when we would say that body moves, let us say that extension moves, and see how ill it will look. he that should say that one extension by impulse moves another extension, would, by the bare expression, sufficiently show the absurdity of such a notion. the essence of anything in respect of us, is the whole complex idea comprehended and marked by that name; and in substances, besides the several distinct simple ideas that make them up, the confused one of substance, or of an unknown support and cause of their union, is always a part: and therefore the essence of body is not bare extension, but an extended solid thing; and so to say, an extended solid thing moves, or impels another, is all one, and as intelligible, as to say, body moves or impels. likewise, to say that a rational animal is capable of conversation, is all one as to say a man; but no one will say that rationality is capable of conversation, because it makes not the whole essence to which we give the name man. . our abstract ideas are to us the measures of the species we make in instance in that of man. there are creatures in the world that have shapes like ours, but are hairy, and want language and reason. there are naturals amongst us that have perfectly our shape, but want reason, and some of them language too. there are creatures, as it is said, (sit fides penes authorem, but there appears no contradiction that there should be such,) that, with language and reason and a shape in other things agreeing with ours, have hairy tails; others where the males have no beards, and others where the females have. if it be asked whether these be all men or no, all of human species? it is plain, the question refers only to the nominal essence: for those of them to whom the definition of the word man, or the complex idea signified by that name, agrees, are men, and the other not. but if the inquiry be made concerning the supposed real essence; and whether the internal constitution and frame of these several creatures be specifically different, it is wholly impossible for us to answer, no part of that going into our specific idea: only we have reason to think, that where the faculties or outward frame so much differs, the internal constitution is not exactly the same. but what difference in the real internal constitution makes a specific difference it is in vain to inquire; whilst our measures of species be, as they are, only our abstract ideas, which we know; and not that internal constitution, which makes no part of them. shall the difference of hair only on the skin be a mark of a different internal specific constitution between a changeling and a drill, when they agree in shape, and want of reason and speech? and shall not the want of reason and speech be a sign to us of different real constitutions and species between a changeling and a reasonable man? and so of the rest, if we pretend that distinction of species or sorts is fixedly established by the real frame and secret constitutions of things. . species in animals not distinguished by generation. nor let any one say, that the power of propagation in animals by the mixture of male and female, and in plants by seeds, keeps the supposed real species distinct and entire, for, granting this to be true, it would help us in the distinction of the species of things no further than the tribes of animals and vegetables. what must we do for the rest? but in those too it is not sufficient: for if history lie not, women have conceived by drills; and what real species, by that measure, such a production will be in nature will be a new question: and we have reason to think this is not impossible, since mules and jumarts, the one from the mixture of an ass and a mare, the other from the mixture of a bull and a mare, are so frequent in the world. i once saw a creature that was the issue of a cat and a rat, and had the plain marks of both about it; wherein nature appeared to have followed the pattern of neither sort alone, but to have jumbled them both together. to which he that shall add the monstrous productions that are so frequently to be met with in nature, will find it hard, even in the race of animals, to determine by the pedigree of what species every animal's issue is; and be at a loss about the real essence, which he thinks certainly conveyed by generation, and has alone a right to the specific name. but further, if the species of animals and plants are to be distinguished only by propagation, must i go to the indies to see the sire and dam of the one, and the plant from which the seed was gathered that produced the other, to know whether this be a tiger or that tea? . not by substantial forms. upon the whole matter, it is evident that it is their own collections of sensible qualities that men make the essences of their several sorts of substances; and that their real internal structures are not considered by the greatest part of men in the sorting them. much less were any substantial forms ever thought on by any but those who have in this one part of the world learned the language of the schools: and yet those ignorant men, who pretend not any insight into the real essences, nor trouble themselves about substantial forms, but are content with knowing things one from another by their sensible qualities, are often better acquainted with their differences; can more nicely distinguish them from their uses; and better know what they expect from each, than those learned quick-sighted men, who look so deep into them, and talk so confidently of something more hidden and essential. . the specific essences that are common made by men. but supposing that the real essences of substances were discoverable by those that would severely apply themselves to that inquiry, yet we could not reasonably think that the ranking of things under general names was regulated by those internal real constitutions, or anything else but their obvious appearances; since languages, in all countries, have been established long before sciences. so that they have not been philosophers or logicians, or such who have troubled themselves about forms and essences, that have made the general names that are in use amongst the several nations of men: but those more or less comprehensive terms have, for the most part, in all languages, received their birth and signification from ignorant and illiterate people, who sorted and denominated things by those sensible qualities they found in them; thereby to signify them, when absent, to others, whether they had an occasion to mention a sort or a particular thing. . therefore very various and uncertain in the ideas of different men. since then it is evident that we sort and name substances by their nominal and not by their real essences, the next thing to be considered is how, and by whom these essences come to be made. as to the latter, it is evident they are made by the mind, and not by nature: for were they nature's workmanship, they could not be so various and different in several men as experience tells us they are. for if we will examine it, we shall not find the nominal essence of any one species of substances in all men the same: no, not of that which of all others we are the most intimately acquainted with. it could not possibly be that the abstract idea to which the name man is given should be different in several men, if it were of nature's making; and that to one it should be animal rationale, and to another, animal implume bipes latis unguibus. he that annexes the name man to a complex idea, made up of sense and spontaneous motion, joined to a body of such a shape, has thereby one essence of the species man; and he that, upon further examination, adds rationality, has another essence of the species he calls man: by which means the same individual will be a true man to the one which is not so to the other. i think there is scarce any one will allow this upright figure, so well known, to be the essential difference of the species man; and yet how far men determine of the sorts of animals rather by their shape than descent, is very visible; since it has been more than once debated, whether several human foetuses should be preserved or received to baptism or no, only because of the difference of their outward configuration from the ordinary make of children, without knowing whether they were not as capable of reason as infants cast in another mould: some whereof, though of an approved shape, are never capable of as much appearance of reason all their lives as is to be found in an ape, or an elephant, and never give any signs of being acted by a rational soul. whereby it is evident, that the outward figure, which only was found wanting, and not the faculty of reason, which nobody could know would be wanting in its due season, was made essential to the human species. the learned divine and lawyer must, on such occasions, renounce his sacred definition of animal rationale, and substitute some other essence of the human species. [monsieur menage furnishes us with an example worth the taking notice of on this occasion: 'when the abbot of saint martin,' says he, 'was born, he had so little of the figure of a man, that it bespake him rather a monster. it was for some time under deliberation, whether he should be baptized or no. however, he was baptized, and declared a man provisionally [till time should show what he would prove]. nature had moulded him so untowardly, that he was called all his life the abbot malotru; i.e. ill-shaped. he was of caen. (menagiana, , .) this child, we see, was very near being excluded out of the species of man, barely by his shape. he escaped very narrowly as he was; and it is certain, a figure a little more oddly turned had cast him, and he had been executed, as a thing not to be allowed to pass for a man. and yet there can be no reason given why, if the lineaments of his face had been a little altered, a rational soul could not have been lodged in him; why a visage somewhat longer, or a nose flatter, or a wider mouth, could not have consisted, as well as the rest of his ill figure, with such a soul, such parts, as made him, disfigured as he was, capable to be a dignitary in the church.] . nominal essences of particular substances are undetermined by nature, and therefore various as men vary. wherein, then, would i gladly know, consist the precise and unmovable boundaries of that species? it is plain, if we examine, there is no such thing made by nature, and established by her amongst men. the real essence of that or any other sort of substances, it is evident, we know not; and therefore are so undetermined in our nominal essences, which we make ourselves, that, if several men were to be asked concerning some oddly-shaped foetus, as soon as born, whether it were a man or no, it is past doubt one should meet with different answers. which could not happen, if the nominal essences, whereby we limit and distinguish the species of substances, were not made by man with some liberty; but were exactly copied from precise boundaries set by nature, whereby it distinguished all substances into certain species. who would undertake to resolve what species that monster was of which is mentioned by licetus (lib. i. c. ), with a man's head and hog's body? or those other which to the bodies of men had the heads of beasts, as dogs, horses, &c. if any of these creatures had lived, and could have spoke, it would have increased the difficulty. had the upper part to the middle been of human shape, and all below swine, had it been murder to destroy it? or must the bishop have been consulted, whether it were man enough to be admitted to the font or no? as i have been told it happened in france some years since, in somewhat a like case. so uncertain are the boundaries of species of animals to us, who have no other measures than the complex ideas of our own collecting: and so far are we from certainly knowing what a man is; though perhaps it will be judged great ignorance to make any doubt about it. and yet i think i may say, that the certain boundaries of that species are so far from being determined, and the precise number of simple ideas which make the nominal essence so far from being settles and perfectly known, that very material doubts may still arise about it. and i imagine none of the definitions of the word man which we yet have, nor descriptios of that sort of animal, are so perfect and exact as to satisfy a considerate inquisitive person; much less to obtain a general consent, and to be that which men would everywhere stick by, in the decision of cases, and determining of life and death, baptism or no baptism, in productions that mights happen. . but not so arbitrary as mixed modes. but though these nominal essences of substances are made by the mind, they are not yet made so arbitrarily as those of mixed modes. to the making of any nominal essence, it is necessary, first, that the ideas whereof it consists have such a union as to make but one idea, how compounded soever. secondly, that the particular ideas so united be exactly the same, neither more nor less. for if two abstract complex ideas differ either in number or sorts of their component parts, they make two different, and not one and the same essence. in the first of these, the mind, in making its complex ideas of substances, only follows nature; and puts none together which are not supposed to have a union in nature. nobody joins the voice of a sheep with the shape of a horse; nor the colour of lead with the weight and fixedness of gold, to be the complex ideas of any real substances; unless he has a mind to fill his head with chimeras, and his discourse with unintelligible words. men observing certain qualities always joined and existing together, therein copied nature; and of ideas so united made their complex ones of substances. for, though men may make what complex ideas they please, and give what names to them they will; yet, if they will be understood when they speak of things really existing, they must in some degree conform their ideas to the things they would speak of; or else men's language will be like that of babel; and every man's words, being intelligible only to himself, would no longer serve to conversation and the ordinary affairs of life, if the ideas they stand for be not some way answering the common appearances and agreement of substances as they really exist. . our nominal essences of substances usually consist of a few obvious qualities observed in things. secondly, though the mind of man, in making its complex ideas of substances, never puts any together that do not really, or are not supposed to, co-exist; and so it truly borrows that union from nature: yet the number it combines depends upon the various care, industry, or fancy of him that makes it. men generally content themselves with some few sensible obvious qualities; and often, if not always, leave out others as material and as firmly united as those that they take. of sensible substances there are two sorts: one of organized bodies, which are propagated by seed; and in these the shape is that which to us is the leading quality, and most characteristical part, that determines the species. and therefore in vegetables and animals, an extended solid substance of such a certain figure usually serves the turn. for however some men seem to prize their definition of animal rationale, yet should there a creature be found that had language and reason, but partaked not of the usual shape of a man, i believe it would hardly pass for a man, how much soever it were animal rationale. and if balaam's ass had all his life discoursed as rationally as he did once with his master, i doubt yet whether any one would have thought him worthy the name man, or allowed him to be of the same species with himself. as in vegetables and animals it is the shape, so in most other bodies, not propagated by seed, it is the colour we most fix on, and are most led by. thus where we find the colour of gold, we are apt to imagine all the other qualities comprehended in our complex idea to be there also: and we commonly take these two obvious qualities, viz. shape and colour, for so presumptive ideas of several species, that in a good picture, we readily say, this is a lion, and that a rose; this is a gold, and that a silver goblet, only by the different figures and colours represented to the eye by the pencil. . yet, imperfect as they thus are, they serve for common converse. but though this serves well enough for gross and confused conceptions, and inaccurate ways of talking and thinking; yet men are far enough from having agreed on the precise number of simple ideas or qualities belonging to any sort of things, signified by its name. nor is it a wonder; since it requires much time, pains, and skill, strict inquiry, and long examination to find out what, and how many, those simple ideas are, which are constantly and inseparably united in nature, and are always to be found together in the same subject. most men, wanting either time, inclination, or industry enough for this, even to some tolerable degree, content themselves with some few obvious and outward appearances of things, thereby readily to distinguish and sort them for the common affairs of life: and so, without further examination, give them names, or take up the names already in use. which, though in common conversation they pass well enough for the signs of some few obvious qualities co-existing, are yet far enough from comprehending, in a settled signification, a precise number of simple ideas, much less all those which are united in nature. he that shall consider, after so much stir about genus and species, and such a deal of talk of specific differences, how few words we have yet settled definitions of, may with reason imagine, that those forms which there hath been so much noise made about are only chimeras, which give us no light into the specific natures of things. and he that shall consider how far the names of substances are from having significations wherein all who use them do agree, will have reason to conclude that, though the nominal essences of substances are all supposed to be copied from nature, yet they are all, or most of them, very imperfect. since the composition of those complex ideas are, in several men, very different: and therefore that these boundaries of species are as men, and not as nature, makes them, if at least there are in nature any such prefixed bounds. it is true that many particular substances are so made by nature, that they have agreement and likeness one with another, and so afford a foundation of being ranked into sorts. but the sorting of things by us, or the making of determinate species, being in order to naming and comprehending them under general terms, i cannot see how it can be properly said, that nature sets the boundaries of the species of things: or, if it be so, our boundaries of species are not exactly conformable to those in nature. for we, having need of general names for present use, stay not for a perfect discovery of all those qualities which would best show us their most material differences and agreements; but we ourselves divide them, by certain obvious appearances, into species, that we may the easier under general names communicate our thoughts about them. for, having no other knowledge of any substance but of the simple ideas that are united in it; and observing several particular things to agree with others in several of those simple ideas; we make that collection our specific idea, and give it a general name; that in recording our thoughts, and in our discourse with others, we may in one short word designate all the individuals that agree in that complex idea, without enumerating the simple ideas that make it up; and so not waste our time and breath in tedious descriptions: which we see they are fain to do who would discourse of any new sort of things they have not yet a name for. . essences of species under the same name very different in different minds. but however these species of substances pass well enough in ordinary conversation, it is plain that this complex idea wherein they observe several individuals to agree, is by different men made very differently; by some more, and others less accurately. in some, this complex idea contains a greater, and in others a smaller number of qualities; and so is apparently such as the mind makes it. the yellow shining colour makes gold to children; others add weight, malleableness, and fusibility; and others yet other qualities, which they find joined with that yellow colour, as constantly as its weight and fusibility. for in all these and the like qualities, one has as good a right to be put into the complex idea of that substance wherein they are all joined as another. and therefore different men, leaving out or putting in several simple ideas which others do not, according to their various examination, skill, or observation of that subject, have different essences of gold, which must therefore be of their own and not of nature's making. . the more general our ideas of substances are, the more incomplete and partial they are. if the number of simple ideas that make the nominal essence of the lowest species, or first sorting, of individuals, depends on the mind of man, variously collecting them, it is much more evident that they do so in the more comprehensive classes, which, by the masters of logic, are called genera. these are complex ideas designedly imperfect: and it is visible at first sight, that several of those qualities that are to be found in the things themselves are purposely left out of generical ideas. for, as the mind, to make general ideas comprehending several particulars, leaves out those of time and place, and such other, that make them incommunicable to more than one individual; so to make other yet more general ideas, that may comprehend different sorts, it leaves out those qualities that distinguish them, and puts into its new collection only such ideas as are common to several sorts. the same convenience that made men express several parcels of yellow matter coming from guinea and peru under one name, sets them also upon making of one name that may comprehend both gold and silver, and some other bodies of different sorts. this is done by leaving out those qualities, which are peculiar to each sort, and retaining a complex idea made up of those that are common to them all. to which the name metal being annexed, there is a genus constituted; the essence whereof being that abstract idea, containing only malleableness and fusibility, with certain degrees of weight and fixedness, wherein some bodies of several kinds agree, leaves out the colour and other qualities peculiar to gold and silver, and the other sorts comprehended under the name metal. whereby it is plain that men follow not exactly the patterns set them by nature, when they make their general ideas of substances; since there is no body to be found which has barely malleableness and fusibility in it, without other qualities as inseparable as those. but men, in making their general ideas, seeking more the convenience of language, and quick dispatch by short and comprehensive signs, than the true and precise nature of things as they exist, have, in the framing their abstract ideas, chiefly pursued that end; which was to be furnished with store of general and variously comprehensive names. so that in this whole business of genera and species, the genus, or more comprehensive, is but a partial conception of what is in the species; and the species but a partial idea of what is to be found in each individual. if therefore any one will think that a man, and a horse, and an animal, and a plant, &c., are distinguished by real essences made by nature, he must think nature to be very liberal of these real essences, making one for body, another for an animal, and another for a horse; and all these essences liberally bestowed upon bucephalus. but if we would rightly consider what is done in all these genera and species, or sorts, we should find that there is no new thing made; but only more or less comprehensive signs, whereby we may be enabled to express in a few syllables great numbers of particular things, as they agree in more or less general conceptions, which we have framed to that purpose. in all which we may observe, that the more general term is always the name of a less complex idea; and that each genus is but a partial conception of; the species comprehended under it. so that if these abstract general ideas be thought to be complete, it can only be in respect of a certain established relation between them and certain names which are made use of to signify them; and not in respect of anything existing, as made by nature. . this all accommodated to the end of the speech. this is adjusted to the true end of speech, which is to be the easiest and shortest way of communicating our notions. for thus he that would discourse of things, as they agreed in the complex idea of extension and solidity, needed but use the word body to denote all such. he that to these would join others, signified by the words life, sense, and spontaneous motion, needed but use the word animal to signify all which partaked of those ideas, and he that had made a complex idea of a body, with life, sense, and motion, with the faculty of reasoning, and a certain shape joined to it, needed but use the short monosyllable man, to express all particulars that correspond to that complex idea. this is the proper business of genus and species: and this men do without any consideration of real essences, or substantial forms; which come not within the reach of our knowledge when we think of those things, nor within the signification of our words when we discourse with others. . instance in cassowaries. were i to talk with any one of a sort of birds i lately saw in st. james's park, about three or four feet high, with a covering of something between feathers and hair, of a dark brown colour, without wings, but in the place thereof two or three little branches coming down like sprigs of spanish broom, long great legs, with feet only of three claws, and without a tail; i must make this description of it, and so may make others understand me. but when i am told that the name of it is cassuaris, i may then use that word to stand in discourse for all my complex idea mentioned in that description; though by that word, which is now become a specific name, i know no more of the real essence or constitution of that sort of animals than i did before; and knew probably as much of the nature of that species of birds before i learned the name, as many englishmen do of swans or herons, which are specific names, very well known, of sorts of birds common in england. . men determine the sorts of substances, which may be sorted variously. from what has been said, it is evident that men make sorts of things. for, it being different essences alone that make different species, it is plain that they who make those abstract ideas which are the nominal essences do thereby make the species, or sort. should there be a body found, having all the other qualities of gold except malleableness, it would no doubt be made a question whether it were gold or not, i.e. whether it were of that species. this could be determined only by that abstract idea to which every one annexed the name gold: so that it would be true gold to him, and belong to that species, who included not malleableness in his nominal essence, signified by the sound gold; and on the other side it would not be true gold, or of that species, to him who included malleableness in his specific idea. and who, i pray, is it that makes these diverse species, even under one and the same name, but men that make two different abstract ideas, consisting not exactly of the same collection of qualities? nor is it a mere supposition to imagine that a body may exist wherein the other obvious qualities of gold may be without malleableness; since it is certain that gold itself will be sometimes so eager, (as artists call it,) that it will as little endure the hammer as glass itself. what we have said of the putting in, or leaving out of malleableness, in the complex idea the name gold is by any one annexed to, may be said of its peculiar weight, fixedness, and several other the like qualities: for whatever is left out, or put in, it is still the complex idea to which that name is annexed that makes the species: and as any particular parcel of matter answers that idea, so the name of the sort belongs truly to it; and it is of that species. and thus anything is true gold, perfect metal. all which determination of the species, it is plain, depends on the understanding of man, making this or that complex idea. . nature makes the similitudes of substances. this, then, in short, is the case: nature makes many particular things, which do agree one with another in many sensible qualities, and probably too in their internal frame and constitution: but it is not this real essence that distinguishes them into species; it is men who, taking occasion from the qualities they find united in them, and wherein they observe often several individuals to agree, range them into sorts, in order to their naming, for the convenience of comprehensive signs; under which individuals, according to their conformity to this or that abstract idea, come to be ranked as under ensigns: so that this is of the blue, that the red regiment; this is a man, that a drill: and in this, i think, consists the whole business of genus and species. . the manner of sorting particular beings the work of fallible men, though nature makes things alike. i do not deny but nature, in the constant production of particular beings, makes them not always new and various, but very much alike and of kin one to another: but i think it nevertheless true, that the boundaries of the species, whereby men sort them, are made by men; since the essences of the species, distinguished by different names, are, as has been proved, of man's making, and seldom adequate to the internal nature of the things they are taken from. so that we may truly say, such a manner of sorting of things is the workmanship of men. . each abstract idea, with a name to it, makes a nominal essence. one thing i doubt not but will seem very strange in this doctrine, which is, that from what has been said it will follow, that each abstract idea, with a name to it, makes a distinct species. but who can help it, if truth will have it so? for so it must remain till somebody can show us the species of things limited and distinguished by something else; and let us see that general terms signify not our abstract ideas, but something different from them. i would fain know why a shock and a hound are not as distinct species as a spaniel and an elephant. we have no other idea of the different essence of an elephant and a spaniel, than we have of the different essence of a shock and a hound; all the essential difference, whereby we know and distinguish them one from another, consisting only in the different collection of simple ideas, to which we have given those different names. . how genera and species are related to naming. how much the making of species and genera is in order to general names; and how much general names are necessary, if not to the being, yet at least to the completing of a species, and making it pass for such, will appear, besides what has been said above concerning ice and water, in a very familiar example. a silent and a striking watch are but one species, to those who have but one name for them: but he that has the name watch for one, and clock for the other, and distinct complex ideas to which those names belong, to him they are different species. it will be said perhaps, that the inward contrivance and constitution is different between these two, which the watchmaker has a clear idea of. and yet it is plain they are but one species to him, when he has but one name for them. for what is sufficient in the inward contrivance to make a new species? there are some watches that are made with four wheels, others with five; is this a specific difference to the workman? some have strings and physics, and others none; some have the balance loose, and others regulated by a spiral spring, and others by hogs' bristles. are any or all of these enough to make a specific difference to the workman, that knows each of these and several other different contrivances in the internal constitutions of watches? it is certain each of these hath a real difference from the rest; but whether it be an essential, a specific difference or no, relates only to the complex idea to which the name watch is given: as long as they all agree in the idea which that name stands for, and that name does not as a generical name comprehend different species under it, they are not essentially nor specifically different. but if any one will make minuter divisions, from differences that he knows in the internal frame of watches, and to such precise complex ideas give names that shall prevail; they will then be new species, to them who have those ideas with names to them, and can by those differences distinguish watches into these several sorts; and then watch will be a generical name. but yet they would be no distinct species to men ignorant of clock-work, and the inward contrivances of watches, who had no other idea but the outward shape and bulk, with the marking of the hours by the hand. for to them all those other names would be but synonymous terms for the same idea, and signify no more, nor no other thing but a watch. just thus i think it is in natural things. nobody will doubt that the wheels or springs (if i may so say) within, are different in a rational man and a changeling; no more than that there is a difference in the frame between a drill and a changeling. but whether one or both these differences be essential or specifical, is only to be known to us by their agreement or disagreement with the complex idea that the name man stands for: for by that alone can it be determined whether one, or both, or neither of those be a man. . species of artificial things less confused than natural. from what has been before said, we may see the reason why, in the species of artificial things, there is generally less confusion and uncertainty than in natural. because an artificial thing being a production of man, which the artificer designed, and therefore well knows the idea of, the name of it is supposed to stand for no other idea, nor to import any other essence, than what is certainly to be known, and easy enough to be apprehended. for the idea or essence of the several sorts of artificial things, consisting for the most part in nothing but the determinate figure of sensible parts, and sometimes motion depending thereon, which the artificer fashions in matter, such as he finds for his turn; it is not beyond the reach of our faculties to attain a certain idea thereof; and so settle the signification of the names whereby the species of artificial things are distinguished, with less doubt, obscurity, and equivocation than we can in things natural, whose differences and operations depend upon contrivances beyond the reach of our discoveries. . artificial things of distinct species. i must be excused here if i think artificial things are of distinct species as well as natural: since i find they are as plainly and orderly ranked into sorts, by different abstract ideas, with general names annexed to them, as distinct one from another as those of natural substances. for why should we not think a watch and pistol as distinct species one from another, as a horse and a dog; they being expressed in our minds by distinct ideas, and to others by distinct appellations? . substances alone, of all our several sorts of ideas, have proper names. this is further to be observed concerning substances, that they alone of all our several sorts of ideas have particular or proper names, whereby one only particular thing is signified. because in simple ideas, modes, and relations, it seldom happens that men have occasion to mention often this or that particular when it is absent. besides, the greatest part of mixed modes, being actions which perish in their birth, are not capable of a lasting duration, as substances which are the actors; and wherein the simple ideas that make up the complex ideas designed by the name have a lasting union. . difficult to lead another by words into the thoughts of things stripped of those abstract ideas we give them. i must beg pardon of my reader for having dwelt so long upon this subject, and perhaps with some obscurity. but i desire it may be considered, how difficult it is to lead another by words into the thoughts of things, stripped of those specifical differences we give them: which things, if i name not, i say nothing; and if i do name them, i thereby rank them into some sort or other, and suggest to the mind the usual abstract idea of that species; and so cross my purpose. for, to talk of a man, and to lay by, at the same time, the ordinary signification of the name man, which is our complex idea usually annexed to it; and bid the reader consider man, as he is in himself, and as he is really distinguished from others in his internal constitution, or real essence, that is, by something he knows not what, looks like trifling: and yet thus one must do who would speak of the supposed real essences and species of things, as thought to be made by nature, if it be but only to make it understood, that there is no such thing signified by the general names which substances are called by. but because it is difficult by known familiar names to do this, give me leave to endeavour by an example to make the different consideration the mind has of specific names and ideas a little more clear; and to show how the complex ideas of modes are referred sometimes to archetypes in the minds of other intelligent beings, or, which is the same, to the signification annexed by others to their received names; and sometimes to no archetypes at all. give me leave also to show how the mind always refers its ideas of substances, either to the substances themselves, or to the signification of their names, as to the archetypes; and also to make plain the nature of species or sorting of things, as apprehended and made use of by us; and of the essences belonging to those species: which is perhaps of more moment to discover the extent and certainty of our knowledge than we at first imagine. . instances of mixed modes names kinneah and niouph. let us suppose adam, in the state of a grown man, with a good understanding, but in a strange country, with all things new and unknown about him; and no other faculties to attain the knowledge of them but what one of this age has now. he observes lamech more melancholy than usual, and imagines it to be from a suspicion he has of his wife adah, (whom he most ardently loved) that she had too much kindness for another man. adam discourses these his thoughts to eve, and desires her to take care that adah commit not folly: and in these discourses with eve he makes use of these two new words kinneah and niouph. in time, adam's mistake appears, for he finds lamech's trouble proceeded from having killed a man: but yet the two names kinneah and niouph, (the one standing for suspicion in a husband of his wife's disloyalty to him; and the other for the act of committing disloyalty,) lost not their distinct significations. it is plain then, that here were two distinct complex ideas of mixed modes, with names to them, two distinct species of actions essentially different; i ask wherein consisted the essences of these two distinct species of actions? and it is plain it consisted in a precise combination of simple ideas, different in one from the other. i ask, whether the complex idea in adam's mind, which he called kinneah, were adequate or not? and it is plain it was; for it being a combination of simple ideas, which he, without any regard to any archetype, without respect to anything as a pattern, voluntarily put together, abstracted, and gave the name kinneah to, to express in short to others, by that one sound, all the simple ideas contained and united in that complex one; it must necessarily follow that it was an adequate idea. his own choice having made that combination, it had all in it he intended it should, and so could not but be perfect, could not but be adequate; it being referred to no other archetype which it was supposed to represent. . these words, kinneah and niouph, by degrees grew into common use, and then the case was somewhat altered. adam's children had the same faculties, and thereby the same power that he had, to make what complex ideas of mixed modes they pleased in their own minds; to abstract them, and make what sounds they pleased the signs of them: but the use of names being to make our ideas within us known to others, that cannot be done, but when the same sign stands for the same idea in two who would communicate their thoughts and discourse together. those, therefore, of adam's children, that found these two words, kinneah and niouph, in familiar use, could not take them for insignificant sounds, but must needs conclude they stood for something; for certain ideas, abstract ideas, they being general names; which abstract ideas were the essences of the species distinguished by those names. if therefore, they would use these words as names of species already established and agreed on, they were obliged to conform the ideas in their minds, signified by these names, to the ideas that they stood for in other men's minds, as to their patterns and archetypes; and then indeed their ideas of these complex modes were liable to be inadequate, as being very apt (especially those that consisted of combinations of many simple ideas) not to be exactly conformable to the ideas in other men's minds, using the same names; though for this there be usually a remedy at hand, which is to ask the meaning of any word we understand not of him that uses it: it being as impossible to know certainly what the words jealousy and adultery (which i think answer [hebrew] and [hebrew]) stand for in another man's mind, with whom i would discourse about them; as it was impossible, in the beginning of language, to know what kinneah and niouph stood for in another man's mind, without explication; they being voluntary signs in every one. . instances of a species of substance named zahab. let us now also consider, after the same manner, the names of substances in their first application. one of adam's children, roving in the mountains, lights on a glittering substance which pleases his eye. home he carries it to adam, who, upon consideration of it, finds it to be hard, to have a bright yellow colour, and an exceeding great weight. these perhaps, at first, are all the qualities he takes notice of in it; and abstracting this complex idea, consisting of a substance having that peculiar bright yellowness, and a weight very great in proportion to its bulk, he gives the name zahab, to denominate and mark all substances that have these sensible qualities in them. it is evident now, that, in this case, adam acts quite differently from what he did before, in forming those ideas of mixed modes to which he gave the names kinneah and niouph. for there he put ideas together only by his own imagination, not taken from the existence of anything; and to them he gave names to denominate all things that should happen to agree to those his abstract ideas, without considering whether any such thing did exist or not: the standard there was of his own making. but in the forming his idea of this new substance, he takes the quite contrary course; here he has a standard made by nature; and therefore, being to represent that to himself, by the idea he has of it, even when it is absent, he puts in no simple idea into his complex one, but what he has the perception of from the thing itself. he takes care that his idea be conformable to this archetype, and intends the name should stand for an idea so conformable. . this piece of matter, thus denominated zahab by adam, being quite different from any he had seen before, nobody, i think, will deny to be a distinct species, and to have its peculiar essence; and that the name zahab is the mark of the species, and a name belonging to all things partaking in that essence. but here it is plain the essence adam made the name zahab stand for was nothing but a body hard, shining, yellow, and very heavy. but the inquisitive mind of man, not content with the knowledge of these, as i may say, superficial qualities, puts adam upon further examination of this matter. he therefore knocks, and beats it with flints, to see what was discoverable in the inside: he finds it yield to blows, but not easily separate into pieces: he finds it will bend without breaking. is not now ductility to be added to his former idea, and made part of the essence of the species that name zahab stands for? further trials discover fusibility and fixedness. are not they also, by the same reason that any of the others were, to be put into the complex idea signified by the name zahab? if not, what reason will there be shown more for the one than the other? if these must, then all the other properties, which any further trials shall discover in this matter, ought by the same reason to make a part of the ingredients of the complex idea which the name zahab stands for, and so be the essence of the species marked by that name. which properties, because they are endless, it is plain that the idea made after this fashion, by this archetype, will be always inadequate. . the abstract ideas of substances always imperfect and therefore various. but this is not all. it would also follow that the names of substances would not only have, as in truth they have, but would also be supposed to have different significations, as used by different men, which would very much cumber the use of language. for if every distinct quality that were discovered in any matter by any one were supposed to make a necessary part of the complex idea signified by the common name given to it, it must follow, that men must suppose the same word to signify different things in different men: since they cannot doubt but different men may have discovered several qualities, in substances of the same denomination, which others know nothing of. . therefore to fix the nominal species real essence supposed. to avoid this therefore, they have supposed a real essence belonging to every species, from which these properties all flow, and would have their name of the species stand for that. but they, not having any idea of that real essence in substances, and their words signifying nothing but the ideas they have, that which is done by this attempt is only to put the name or sound in the place and stead of the thing having that real essence, without knowing what the real essence is, and this is that which men do when they speak of species of things, as supposing them made by nature, and distinguished by real essences. . which supposition is of no use. for, let us consider, when we affirm that 'all gold is fixed,' either it means that fixedness is a part of the definition, i. e., part of the nominal essence the word gold stands for; and so this affirmation, 'all gold is fixed,' contains nothing but the signification of the term gold. or else it means, that fixedness, not being a part of the definition of the gold, is a property of that substance itself: in which case it is plain that the word gold stands in the place of a substance, having the real essence of a species of things made by nature. in which way of substitution it has so confused and uncertain a signification, that, though this proposition--'gold is fixed'--be in that sense an affirmation of something real; yet it is a truth will always fail us in its particular application, and so is of no real use or certainty. for let it be ever so true, that all gold, i. e. all that has the real essence of gold, is fixed, what serves this for, whilst we know not, in this sense, what is or is not gold? for if we know not the real essence of gold, it is impossible we should know what parcel of matter has that essence, and so whether it be true gold or no. . conclusion. to conclude: what liberty adam had at first to make any complex ideas of mixed modes by no other pattern but by his own thoughts, the same have all men ever since had. and the same necessity of conforming his ideas of substances to things without him, as to archetypes made by nature, that adam was under, if he would not wilfully impose upon himself, the same are all men ever since under too. the same liberty also that adam had of affixing any new name to any idea, the same has any one still, (especially the beginners of languages, if we can imagine any such;) but only with this difference, that, in places where men in society have already established a language amongst them, the significations of words are very warily and sparingly to be altered. because men being furnished already with names for their ideas, and common use having appropriated known names to certain ideas, an affected misapplication of them cannot but be very ridiculous. he that hath new notions will perhaps venture sometimes on the coining of new terms to express them: but men think it a boldness, and it is uncertain whether common use will ever make them pass for current. but in communication with others, it is necessary that we conform the ideas we make the vulgar words of any language stand for to their known proper significations, (which i have explained at large already,) or else to make known that new signification we apply them to. chapter vii. of particles. . particles connect parts, or whole sentences together. besides words which are names of ideas in the mind, there are a great many others that are made use of to signify the connexion that the mind gives to ideas, or to propositions, one with another. the mind, in communicating its thoughts to others, does not only need signs of the ideas it has then before it, but others also, to show or intimate some particular action of its own, at that time, relating to those ideas. this it does several ways; as _i_s and _i_s not, are the general marks, of the mind, affirming or denying. but besides affirmation or negation, without which there is in words no truth or falsehood, the mind does, in declaring its sentiments to others, connect not only the parts of propositions, but whole sentences one to another, with their several relations and dependencies, to make a coherent discourse. . in right use of particles consists the art of well-speaking the words whereby it signifies what connexion it gives to the several affirmations and negations, that it unites in one continued reasoning or narration, are generally called particles: and it is in the right use of these that more particularly consists the clearness and beauty of a good style. to think well, it is not enough that a man has ideas clear and distinct in his thoughts, nor that he observes the agreement or disagreement of some of them; but he must think in train, and observe the dependence of his thoughts and reasonings upon one another. and to express well such methodical and rational thoughts, he must have words to show what connexion, restriction, distinction, opposition, emphasis, &c., he gives to each respective part of his discourse. to mistake in any of these, is to puzzle instead of informing his hearer: and therefore it is, that those words which are not truly by themselves the names of any ideas are of such constant and indispensable use in language, and do much contribute to men's well expressing themselves. . they say what relation the mind gives to its own thoughts. this part of grammar has been perhaps as much neglected as some others over-diligently cultivated. it is easy for men to write, one after another, of cases and genders, moods and tenses, gerunds and supines: in these and the like there has been great diligence used; and particles themselves, in some languages, have been, with great show of exactness, ranked into their several orders. but though prepositions and conjunctions, &c., are names well known in grammar, and the particles contained under them carefully ranked into their distinct subdivisions; yet he who would show the right use of particles, and what significancy and force they have, must take a little more pains, enter into his own thoughts, and observe nicely the several postures of his mind in discoursing. . they are all marks of some action or intimation of the mind. neither is it enough, for the explaining of these words, to render them, as is usual in dictionaries, by words of another tongue which come nearest to their signification: for what is meant by them is commonly as hard to be understood in one as another language. they are all marks of some action or intimation of the mind; and therefore to understand them rightly, the several views, postures, stands, turns, limitations, and exceptions, and several other thoughts of the mind, for which we have either none or very deficient names, are diligently to be studied. of these there is a great variety, much exceeding the number of particles that most languages have to express them by: and therefore it is not to be wondered that most of these particles have divers and sometimes almost opposite significations. in the hebrew tongue there is a particle consisting of but one single letter, of which there are reckoned up, as i remember, seventy, i am sure above fifty, several significations. . instance in but. 'but' is a particle, none more familiar in our language: and he that says it is a discretive conjunction, and that it answers to sed latin, or mais in french, thinks he has sufficiently explained it. but yet it seems to me to intimate several relations the mind gives to the several propositions or parts of them which it joins by this monosyllable. first, 'but to say no more:' here it intimates a stop of the mind in the course it was going, before it came quite to the end of it. secondly, 'i saw but two plants;' here it shows that the mind limits the sense to what is expressed, with a negation of all other. thirdly,'you pray; but it is not that god would bring you to the true religion.' fourthly, 'but that he would confirm you in your own.' the first of these buts intimates a supposition in the mind of something otherwise than it should be; the latter shows that the mind makes a direct opposition between that and what goes before it. fifthly, 'all animals have sense, but a dog is an animal:' here it signifies little more but that the latter proposition is joined to the former, as the minor of a syllogism. . this matter of the use of particles but lightly touched here. to these, i doubt not, might be added a great many other significations of this particle, if it were my business to examine it in its full latitude, and consider it in all the places it is to be found: which if one should do, i doubt whether in all those manners it is made use of, it would deserve the title of discretive, which grammarians give to it. but i intend not here a full explication of this sort of signs. the instances i have given in this one may give occasion to reflect on their use and force in language, and lead us into the contemplation of several actions of our minds in discoursing, which it has found a way to intimate to others by these particles, some whereof constantly, and others in certain constructions, have the sense of a whole sentence contained in them. chapter viii. of abstract and concrete terms. . abstract terms predicated one on another and why. the ordinary words of language, and our common use of them, would have given us light into the nature of our ideas, if they had been but considered with attention. the mind, as has been shown, has a power to abstract its ideas, and so they become essences, general essences, whereby the sorts of things are distinguished. now each abstract idea being distinct, so that of any two the one can never be the other, the mind will, by its intuitive knowledge, perceive their difference, and therefore in propositions no two whole ideas can ever be affirmed one of another. this we see in the common use of language, which permits not any two abstract words, or names of abstract ideas, to be affirmed one of another. for how near of kin soever they may seem to be, and how certain soever it is that man is an animal, or rational, or white, yet every one at first hearing perceives the falsehood of these propositions: humanity is animality, or rationality, or whiteness: and this is as evident as any of the most allowed maxims. all our affirmations then are only in concrete, which is the affirming, not one abstract idea to be another, but one abstract idea to be joined to another; which abstract ideas, in substances, may be of any sort; in all the rest are little else but of relations; and in substances the most frequent are of powers: v.g. 'a man is white,' signifies that the thing that has the essence of a man has also in it the essence of whiteness, which is nothing but a power to produce the idea of whiteness in one whose eyes can discover ordinary objects: or, 'a man is rational,' signifies that the same thing that hath the essence of a man hath also in it the essence of rationality, i.e. a power of reasoning. . they show the difference of our ideas. this distinction of names shows us also the difference of our ideas: for if we observe them, we shall find that our simple ideas have all abstract as well as concrete names: the one whereof is (to speak the language of grammarians) a substantive, the other an adjective; as whiteness, white; sweetness, sweet. the like also holds in our ideas of modes and relations; as justice, just; equality, equal: only with this difference, that some of the concrete names of relations amongst men chiefly are substantives; as, paternitas, pater; whereof it were easy to render a reason. but as to our ideas of substances, we have very few or no abstract names at all. for though the schools have introduced animalitas, humanitas, corporietas, and some others; yet they hold no proportion with that infinite number of names of substances, to which they never were ridiculous enough to attempt the coining of abstract ones: and those few that the schools forged, and put into the mouths of their scholars, could never yet get admittance into common use, or obtain the license of public approbation. which seems to me at least to intimate the confession of all mankind, that they have no ideas of the real essences of substances, since they have not names for such ideas: which no doubt they would have had, had not their consciousness to themselves of their ignorance of them kept them from so idle an attempt. and therefore, though they had ideas enough to distinguish gold from a stone, and metal from wood; yet they but timorously ventured on such terms, as aurietas and saxietas, metallietas and lignietas, or the like names, which should pretend to signify the real essences of those substances whereof they knew they had no ideas. and indeed it was only the doctrine of substantial forms, and the confidence of mistaken pretenders to a knowledge that they had not, which first coined and then introduced animalitas and humanitas, and the like; which yet went very little further than their own schools, and could never get to be current amongst understanding men. indeed, humanitas was a word in familiar use amongst the romans; but in a far different sense, and stood not for the abstract essence of any substance; but was the abstracted name of a mode, and its concrete humanus, not homo. chapter ix. of the imperfection of words. . words are used for recording and communicating our thoughts. from what has been said in the foregoing chapters, it is easy to perceive what imperfection there is in language, and how the very nature of words makes it almost unavoidable for many of them to be doubtful and uncertain in their significations. to examine the perfection or imperfection of words, it is necessary first to consider their use and end: for as they are more or less fitted to attain that, so they are more or less perfect. we have, in the former part of this discourse often, upon occasion, mentioned a double use of words. first, one for the recording of our own thoughts. secondly, the other for the communicating of our thoughts to others. . any words will serve for recording. as to the first of these, for the recording our own thoughts for the help of our own memories, whereby, as it were, we talk to ourselves, any words will serve the turn. for since sounds are voluntary and indifferent signs of any ideas, a man may use what words he pleases to signify his own ideas to himself: and there will be no imperfection in them, if he constantly use the same sign for the same idea: for then he cannot fail of having his meaning understood, wherein consists the right use and perfection of language. . communication by words either for civil or philosophical purposes. secondly, as to communication by words, that too has a double use. i. civil. ii. philosophical. first, by, their civil use, i mean such a communication of thoughts and ideas by words, as may serve for the upholding common conversation and commerce, about the ordinary affairs and conveniences of civil life, in the societies of men, one amongst another. secondly, by the philosophical use of words, i mean such a use of them as may serve to convey the precise notions of things, and to express in general propositions certain and undoubted truths, which the mind may rest upon and be satisfied with in its search after true knowledge. these two uses are very distinct; and a great deal less exactness will serve in the one than in the other, as we shall see in what follows. . the imperfection of words is the doubtfulness or ambiguity of their signification, which is caused by the sort of ideas they stand for. the chief end of language in communication being to be understood, words serve not well for that end, neither in civil nor philosophical discourse, when any word does not excite in the hearer the same idea which it stands for in the mind of the speaker. now, since sounds have no natural connexion with our ideas, but have all their signification from the arbitrary imposition of men, the doubtfulness and uncertainty of their signification, which is the imperfection we here are speaking of, has its cause more in the ideas they stand for than in any incapacity there is in one sound more than in another to signify any idea: for in that regard they are all equally perfect. that then which makes doubtfulness and uncertainty in the signification of some more than other words, is the difference of ideas they stand for. . natural causes of their imperfection, especially in those that stand for mixed modes, and for our ideas of substances. words having naturally no signification, the idea which each stands for must be learned and retained, by those who would exchange thoughts, and hold intelligible discourse with others, in any language. but this is the hardest to be done where, first, the ideas they stand for are very complex, and made up of a great number of ideas put together. secondly, where the ideas they stand for have no certain connexion in nature; and so no settled standard anywhere in nature existing, to rectify and adjust them by. thirdly, when the signification of the word is referred to a standard, which standard is not easy to be known. fourthly, where the signification of the word and the real essence of the thing are not exactly the same. these are difficulties that attend the signification of several words that are intelligible. those which are not intelligible at all, such as names standing for any simple ideas which another has not organs or faculties to attain; as the names of colours to a blind man, or sounds to a deaf man, need not here be mentioned. in all these cases we shall find an imperfection in words; which i shall more at large explain, in their particular application to our several sorts of ideas: for if we examine them, we shall find that the names of _m_ixed _m_odes are most liable to doubtfulness and imperfection, for the two first of these reasons; and the names of _s_ubstances chiefly for the two latter. . the names of mixed modes doubtful. first, the names of mixed modes are, many of them, liable to great uncertainty and obscurity in their signification. i. because the ideas they stand for are so complex. because of that great composition these complex ideas are often made up of. to make words serviceable to the end of communication, it is necessary, as has been said, that they excite in the hearer exactly the same idea they stand for in the mind of the speaker. without this, men fill one another's heads with noise and sounds; but convey not thereby their thoughts, and lay not before one another their ideas, which is the end of discourse and language. but when a word stands for a very complex idea that is compounded and decompounded, it is not easy for men to form and retain that idea so exactly, as to make the name in common use stand for the same precise idea, without any the least variation. hence it comes to pass that men's names of very compound ideas, such as for the most part are moral words, have seldom in two different men the same precise signification; since one man's complex idea seldom agrees with another's, and often differs from his own--from that which he had yesterday, or will have tomorrow. . secondly because they have no standards in nature. because the names of mixed modes for the most part want standards in nature, whereby men may rectify and adjust their significations; therefore they are very various and doubtful. they are assemblages of ideas put together at the pleasure of the mind, pursuing its own ends of discourse, and suited to its own notions; whereby it designs not to copy anything really existing, but to denominate and rank things as they come to agree with those archetypes or forms it has made. he that first brought the word sham, or wheedle, or banter, in use, put together as he thought fit those ideas he made it stand for; and as it is with any new names of modes that are now brought into any language, so it was with the old ones when they were first made use of. names, therefore, that stand for collections of ideas which the mind makes at pleasure must needs be of doubtful signification, when such collections are nowhere to be found constantly united in nature, nor any patterns to be shown whereby men may adjust them. what the word murder, or sacrilege, &c., signifies can never be known from things themselves: there be many of the parts of those complex ideas which are not visible in the action itself; the intention of the mind, or the relation of holy things, which make a part of murder or sacrilege, have no necessary connexion with the outward and visible action of him that commits either: and the pulling the trigger of the gun with which the murder is committed, and is all the action that perhaps is visible, has no natural connexion with those other ideas that make up the complex one named murder. they have their union and combination only from the understanding which unites them under one name: but, uniting them without any rule or pattern, it cannot be but that the signification of the name that stands for such voluntary collections should be often various in the minds of different men, who have scarce any standing rule to regulate themselves and their notions by, in such arbitrary ideas. . common use, or propriety not a sufficient remedy. it is true, common use, that is, the rule of propriety may be supposed here to afford some aid, to settle the signification of language; and it cannot be denied but that in some measure it does. common use regulates the meaning of words pretty well for common conversation; but nobody having an authority to establish the precise signification of words, nor determine to what ideas any one shall annex them, common use is not sufficient to adjust them to philosophical discourses; there being scarce any name of any very complex idea (to say nothing of others) which, in common use, has not a great latitude, and which, keeping within the bounds of propriety, may not be made the sign of far different ideas. besides, the rule and measure of propriety itself being nowhere established, it is often matter of dispute, whether this or that way of using a word be propriety of speech or no. from all which it is evident, that the names of such kind of very complex ideas are naturally liable to this imperfection, to be of doubtful and uncertain signification; and even in men that have a mind to understand one another, do not always stand for the same idea in speaker and hearer. though the names glory and gratitude be the same in every man's mouth through a whole country, yet the complex collective idea which every one thinks on or intends by that name, is apparently very different in men using the same language. . the way of learning these names contributes also to their doubtfulness. the way also wherein the names of mixed modes are ordinarily learned, does not a little contribute to the doubtfulness of their signification. for if we will observe how children learn languages, we shall find that, to make them understand what the names of simple ideas or substances stand for, people ordinarily show them the thing whereof they would have them have the idea; and then repeat to them the name that stands for it; as white, sweet, milk, sugar, cat, dog. but as for mixed modes, especially the most material of them, moral words, the sounds are usually learned first; and then, to know what complex ideas they stand for, they are either beholden to the explication of others, or (which happens for the most part) are left to their own observation and industry; which being little laid out in the search of the true and precise meaning of names, these moral words are in most men's mouths little more than bare sounds; or when they have any, it is for the most part but a very loose and undetermined, and, consequently, obscure and confused signification. and even those themselves who have with more attention settled their notions, do yet hardly avoid the inconvenience to have them stand for complex ideas different from those which other, even intelligent and studious men, make them the signs of. where shall one find any, either controversial debate, or familiar discourse, concerning honour, faith, grace, religion, church, &c., wherein it is not easy to observe the different notions men have of them? which is nothing but this, that they are not agreed in the signification of those words, nor have in their minds the same complex ideas which they make them stand for, and so all the contests that follow thereupon are only about the meaning of a sound. and hence we see that, in the interpretation of laws, whether divine or human, there is no end; comments beget comments, and explications make new matter for explications; and of limiting, distinguishing, varying the signification of these moral words there is no end. these ideas of men's making are, by men still having the same power, multiplied in infinitum. many a man who was pretty well satisfied of the meaning of a text of scripture, or clause in the code, at first reading, has, by consulting commentators, quite lost the sense of it, and by these elucidations given rise or increase to his doubts, and drawn obscurity upon the place. i say not this that i think commentaries needless; but to show how uncertain the names of mixed modes naturally are, even in the mouths of those who had both the intention and the faculty of speaking as clearly as language was capable to express their thoughts. . hence unavoidable obscurity in ancient authors. what obscurity this has unavoidably brought upon the writings of men who have lived in remote ages, and different countries, it will be needless to take notice. since the numerous volumes of learned men, employing their thoughts that way, are proofs more than enough, to show what attention, study, sagacity, and reasoning are required to find out the true meaning of ancient authors. but, there being no writings we have any great concernment to be very solicitous about the meaning of, but those that contain either truths we are required to believe, or laws we are to obey, and draw inconveniences on us when we mistake or transgress, we may be less anxious about the sense of other authors; who, writing but their own opinions, we are under no greater necessity to know them, than they to know ours. our good or evil depending not on their decrees, we may safely be ignorant of their notions: and therefore in the reading of them, if they do not use their words with a due clearness and perspicuity, we may lay them aside, and without any injury done them, resolve thus with ourselves, si non vis intelligi, debes negligi. . names of substances of doubtful signification, because the ideas they stand for relate to the reality of things. if the signification of the names of mixed modes be uncertain, because there be no real standards existing in nature to which those ideas are referred, and by which they may be adjusted, the names of substances are of a doubtful signification, for a contrary reason, viz. because the ideas they stand for are supposed conformable to the reality of things, and are referred to as standards made by nature. in our ideas of substances we have not the liberty, as in mixed modes, to frame what combinations we think fit, to be the characteristical notes to rank and denominate things by. in these we must follow nature, suit our complex ideas to real existences, and regulate the signification of their names by the things themselves, if we will have our names to be signs of them, and stand for them. here, it is true, we have patterns to follow; but patterns that will make the signification of their names very uncertain: for names must be of a very unsteady and various meaning, if the ideas they stand for be referred to standards without us, that either cannot be known at all, or can be known but imperfectly and uncertainly. . names of substances referred, i. to real essences that cannot be known. the names of substances have, as has been shown, a double reference in their ordinary use. first, sometimes they are made to stand for, and so their signification is supposed to agree to, the real constitution of things, from which all their properties flow, and in which they all centre. but this real constitution, or (as it is apt to be called) essence, being utterly unknown to us, any sound that is put to stand for it must be very uncertain in its application; and it will be impossible to know what things are or ought to be called a horse, or antimony, when those words are put for real essences that we have no ideas of at all. and therefore in this supposition, the names of substances being referred to standards that cannot be known, their significations can never be adjusted and established by those standards. . secondly, to co-existing qualities, which are known but imperfectly. secondly, the simple ideas that are found to co-exist in substances being that which their names immediately signify, these, as united in the several sorts of things, are the proper standards to which their names are referred, and by which their significations may be best rectified. but neither will these archetypes so well serve to this purpose as to leave these names without very various and uncertain significations. because these simple ideas that co-exist, and are united in the same subject, being very numerous, and having all an equal right to go into the complex specific idea which the specific name is to stand for, men, though they propose to themselves the very same subject to consider, yet frame very different ideas about it; and so the name they use for it unavoidably comes to have, in several men, very different significations. the simple qualities which make up the complex ideas, being most of them powers, in relation to changes which they are apt to make in, or receive from other bodies, are almost infinite. he that shall but observe what a great variety of alterations any one of the baser metals is apt to receive, from the different application only of fire; and how much a greater number of changes any of them will receive in the hands of a chymist, by the application of other bodies, will not think it strange that i count the properties of any sort of bodies not easy to be collected, and completely known, by the ways of inquiry which our faculties are capable of. they being therefore at least so many, that no man can know the precise and definite number, they are differently discovered by different men, according to their various skill, attention, and ways of handling; who therefore cannot choose but have different ideas of the same substance, and therefore make the signification of its common name very various and uncertain. for the complex ideas of substances, being made up of such simple ones as are supposed to co-exist in nature, every one has a right to put into his complex idea those qualities he has found to be united together. for, though in the substance of gold one satisfies himself with colour and weight, yet another thinks solubility in aqua regia as necessary to be joined with that colour in his idea of gold, as any one does its fusibility; solubility in aqua regia being a quality as constantly joined with its colour and weight as fusibility or any other; others put into it ductility or fixedness, &c., as they have been taught by tradition or experience. who of all these has established the right signification of the word, gold? or who shall be the judge to determine? each has his standard in nature, which he appeals to, and with reason thinks he has the same right to put into his complex idea signified by the word gold, those qualities, which, upon trial, he has found united; as another who has not so well examined has to leave them out; or a third, who has made other trials, has to put in others. for the union in nature of these qualities being the true ground of their union in one complex idea, who can say one of them has more reason to be put in or left out than another? from hence it will unavoidably follow, that the complex ideas of substances in men using the same names for them, will be very various, and so the significations of those names very uncertain. . thirdly, to co-existing qualities which are known but imperfectly. besides, there is scarce any particular thing existing, which, in some of its simple ideas, does not communicate with a greater, and in others a less number of particular beings: who shall determine in this case which are those that are to make up the precise collection that is to be signified by the specific name? or can with any just authority prescribe, which obvious or common qualities are to be left out; or which more secret, or more particular, are to be put into the signification of the name of any substance? all which together, seldom or never fail to produce that various and doubtful signification in the names of substances, which causes such uncertainty, disputes, or mistakes, when we come to a philosophical use of them. . with this imperfection, they may serve for civil, but not well for philosophical use. it is true, as to civil and common conversation, the general names of substances, regulated in their ordinary signification by some obvious qualities, (as by the shape and figure in things of known seminal propagation, and in other substances, for the most part by colour, joined with some other sensible qualities,) do well enough to design the things men would be understood to speak of: and so they usually conceive well enough the substances meant by the word gold or apple, to distinguish the one from the other. but in philosophical inquiries and debates, where general truths are to be established, and consequences drawn from positions laid down, there the precise signification of the names of substances will be found not only not to be well established but also very hard to be so. for example: he that shall make malleability, or a certain degree of fixedness, a part of his complex idea of gold, may make propositions concerning gold, and draw consequences from them, that will truly and clearly follow from gold, taken in such a signification: but yet such as another man can never be forced to admit, nor be convinced of their truth, who makes not malleableness, or the same degree of fixedness, part of that complex idea that the name gold, in his use of it, stands for. . instance, liquor. this is a natural and almost unavoidable imperfection in almost all the names of substances, in all languages whatsoever, which men will easily find when, once passing from confused or loose notions, they come to more strict and close inquiries. for then they will be convinced how doubtful and obscure those words are in their signification, which in ordinary use appeared very clear and determined. i was once in a meeting of very learned and ingenious physicians, where by chance there arose a question, whether any liquor passed through the filaments of the nerves. the debate having been managed a good while, by variety of arguments on both sides, i (who had been used to suspect, that the greatest part of disputes were more about the signification of words than a real difference in the conception of things) desired, that, before they went any further on in this dispute, they would first examine and establish amongst them, what the word liquor signified. they at first were a little surprised at the proposal; and had they been persons less ingenious, they might perhaps have taken it for a very frivolous or extravagant one: since there was no one there that thought not himself to understand very perfectly what the word liquor stood for; which i think, too, none of the most perplexed names of substances. however, they were pleased to comply with my motion; and upon examination found that the signification of that word was not so settled or certain as they had all imagined; but that each of them made it a sign of a different complex idea. this made them perceive that the main of their dispute was about the signification of that term; and that they differed very little in their opinions concerning some fluid and subtle matter, passing through the conduits of the nerves; though it was not so easy to agree whether it was to be called liquor or no, a thing, which, when considered, they thought it not worth the contending about. . instance, gold. how much this is the case in the greatest part of disputes that men are engaged so hotly in, i shall perhaps have an occasion in another place to take notice. let us only here consider a little more exactly the fore-mentioned instance of the word gold, and we shall see how hard it is precisely to determine its signification. i think all agree to make it stand for a body of a certain yellow shining colour; which being the idea to which children have annexed that name, the shining yellow part of a peacock's tail is properly to them gold. others finding fusibility joined with that yellow colour in certain parcels of matter, make of that combination a complex idea to which they give the name gold, to denote a sort of substances; and so exclude from being gold all such yellow shining bodies as by fire will be reduced to ashes; and admit to be of that species, or to be comprehended under that name gold, only such substances as having that shining yellow colour, will by fire be reduced to fusion, and not to ashes. another, by the same reason, adds the weight, which, being a quality as straightly joined with that colour as its fusibility, he thinks has the same reason to be joined in its idea, and to be signified by its name: and therefore the other made up of body, of such a colour and fusibility, to be imperfect; and so on of all the rest: wherein no one can show a reason why some of the inseparable qualities, that are always united in nature, should be put into the nominal essence, and others left out, or why the word gold, signifying that sort of body the ring on his finger is made of, should determine that sort rather by its colour, weight, and fusibility, than by its colour, weight, and solubility in aqua regia: since the dissolving it by that liquor is as inseparable from it as the fusion by fire, and they are both of them nothing but the relation which that substance has to two other bodies, which have a power to operate differently upon it. for by what right is it that fusibility comes to be a part of the essence signified by the word gold, and solubility but a property of it? or why is its colour part of the essence, and its malleableness but a property? that which i mean is this, that these being all but properties, depending on its real constitution, and nothing but powers, either active or passive, in reference to other bodies, no one has authority to determine the signification of the word gold (as referred to such a body existing in nature) more to one collection of ideas to be found in that body than to another: whereby the signification of that name must unavoidably be very uncertain. since, as has been said, several people observe several properties in the same substance; and i think i may say nobody all. and therefore we have but very imperfect descriptions of things, and words have very uncertain significations. . the names of simple ideas the least doubtful. from what has been said, it is easy to observe what has been before remarked, viz. that the names of simple ideas are, of all others, the least liable to mistakes, and that for these reasons. first, because the ideas they stand for, being each but one single perception, are much easier got, and more clearly retained, than the more complex ones, and therefore are not liable to the uncertainty which usually attends those compounded ones of substances and mixed modes, in which the precise number of simple ideas that make them up are not easily agreed, so readily kept in mind. and, secondly, because they are never referred to any other essence, but barely that perception they immediately signify: which reference is that which renders the signification of the names of substances naturally so perplexed, and gives occasion to so many disputes. men that do not perversely use their words, or on purpose set themselves to cavil, seldom mistake, in any language which they are acquainted with, the use and signification of the name of simple ideas. white and sweet, yellow and bitter, carry a very obvious meaning with them, which every one precisely comprehends, or easily perceives he is ignorant of, and seeks to be informed. but what precise collection of simple ideas modesty or frugality stand for, in another's use, is not so certainly known. and however we are apt to think we well enough know what is meant by gold or iron; yet the precise complex idea others make them the signs of is not so certain: and i believe it is very seldom that, in speaker and hearer, they stand for exactly the same collection. which must needs produce mistakes and disputes, when they are made use of in discourses, wherein men have to do with universal propositions, and would settle in their minds universal truths, and consider the consequences that follow from them. . and next to them, simple modes. by the same rule, the names of simple modes are, next to those of simple ideas, least liable to doubt and uncertainty; especially those of figure and number, of which men have so clear and distinct ideas. who ever that had a mind to understand them mistook the ordinary meaning of seven, or a triangle? and in general the least compounded ideas in every kind have the least dubious names. . the most doubtful are the names of very compounded mixed modes and substances. mixed modes, therefore, that are made up but of a few and obvious simple ideas, have usually names of no very uncertain signification. but the names of mixed modes, which comprehend a great number of simple ideas, are commonly of a very doubtful and undetermined meaning, as has been shown. the names of substances, being annexed to ideas that are neither the real essences, nor exact representations of the patterns they are referred to, are liable to yet greater imperfection and uncertainty, especially when we come to a philosophical use of them. . why this imperfection charged upon words. the great disorder that happens in our names of substances, proceeding, for the most part, from our want of knowledge, and inability to penetrate into their real constitutions, it may probably be wondered why i charge this as an imperfection rather upon our words than understandings. this exception has so much appearance of justice, that i think myself obliged to give a reason why i have followed this method. i must confess, then, that, when i first began this discourse of the understanding, and a good while after, i had not the least thought that any consideration of words was at all necessary to it. but when, having passed over the original and composition of our ideas, i began to examine the extent and certainty of our knowledge, i found it had so near a connexion with words, that, unless their force and manner of signification were first well observed, there could be very little said clearly and pertinently concerning knowledge: which being conversant about truth, had constantly to do with propositions. and though it terminated in things, yet it was for the most part so much by the intervention of words, that they seemed scarce separable from our general knowledge. at least they interpose themselves so much between our understandings, and the truth which it would contemplate and apprehend, that, like the medium through which visible objects pass, the obscurity and disorder do not seldom cast a mist before our eyes, and impose upon our understandings. if we consider, in the fallacies men put upon themselves, as well as others, and the mistakes in men's disputes and notions, how great a part is owing to words, and their uncertain or mistaken significations, we shall have reason to think this no small obstacle in the way to knowledge; which i conclude we are the more carefully to be warned of, because it has been so far from being taken notice of as an inconvenience, that the arts of improving it have been made the business of men's study, and obtained the reputation of learning and subtilty, as we shall see in the following chapter. but i am apt to imagine, that, were the imperfections of language, as the instrument of knowledge, more thoroughly weighed, a great many of the controversies that make such a noise in the world, would of themselves cease; and the way to knowledge, and perhaps peace too, lie a great deal opener than it does. . this should teach us moderation in imposing our own sense of old authors. sure i am that the signification of words in all languages, depending very much on the thoughts, notions, and ideas of him that uses them, must unavoidably be of great uncertainty to men of the same language and country. this is so evident in the greek authors, that he that shall peruse their writings will find in almost every one of them, a distinct language, though the same words. but when to this natural difficulty in every country, there shall be added different countries and remote ages, wherein the speakers and writers had very different notions, tempers, customs, ornaments, and figures of speech, &c., every one of which influenced the signification of their words then, though to us now they are lost and unknown; it would become us to be charitable one to another in our interpretations or misunderstandings of those ancient writings; which, though of great concernment to be understood, are liable to the unavoidable difficulties of speech, which (if we except the names of simple ideas, and some very obvious things) is not capable, without a constant defining the terms, of conveying the sense and intention of the speaker, without any manner of doubt and uncertainty to the hearer. and in discourses of religion, law, and morality, as they are matters of the highest concernment, so there will be the greatest difficulty. . especially of the old and new testament scriptures. the volumes of interpreters and commentators on the old and new testament are but too manifest proofs of this. though everything said in the text be infallibly true, yet the reader may be, nay, cannot choose but be, very fallible in the understanding of it. nor is it to be wondered, that the will of god, when clothed in words, should be liable to that doubt and uncertainty which unavoidably attends that sort of conveyance, when even his son, whilst clothed in flesh, was subject to all the frailties and inconveniences of human nature, sin excepted. and we ought to magnify his goodness, that he hath spread before all the world such legible characters of his works and providence, and given all mankind so sufficient a light of reason, that they to whom this written word never came, could not (whenever they set themselves to search) either doubt of the being of a god, or of the obedience due to him. since then the precepts of natural religion are plain, and very intelligible to all mankind, and seldom come to be controverted; and other revealed truths, which are conveyed to us by books and languages, are liable to the common and natural obscurities and difficulties incident to words; methinks it would become us to be more careful and diligent in observing the former, and less magisterial, positive, and imperious, in imposing our own sense and interpretations of the latter. chapter x. of the abuse of words. . woeful abuse of words. besides the imperfection that is naturally in language, and the obscurity and confusion that is so hard to be avoided in the use of words, there are several wilful faults and neglects which men are guilty of in this way of communication, whereby they render these signs less clear and distinct in their signification than naturally they need to be. . first, words are often employed without any, or without clear ideas. first, in this kind the first and most palpable abuse is, the using of words without clear and distinct ideas; or, which is worse, signs without anything signified. of these there are two sorts:-- i. some words introduced without clear ideas annexed to them, even in their first original. one may observe, in all languages, certain words that, if they be examined, will be found in their first original, and their appropriated use, not to stand for any clear and distinct ideas. these, for the most part, the several sects of philosophy and religion have introduced. for their authors or promoters, either affecting something singular, and out of the way of common apprehensions, or to support some strange opinions, or cover some weakness of their hypothesis, seldom fail to coin new words, and such as, when they come to be examined, may justly be called insignificant terms. for, having either had no determinate collection of ideas annexed to them when they were first invented; or at least such as, if well examined, will be found inconsistent, it is no wonder, if, afterwards, in the vulgar use of the same party, they remain empty sounds, with little or no signification, amongst those who think it enough to have them often in their mouths, as the distinguishing characters of their church or school, without much troubling their heads to examine what are the precise ideas they stand for. i shall not need here to heap up instances; every man's reading and conversation will sufficiently furnish him. or if he wants to be better stored, the great mint-masters of this kind of terms, i mean the schoolmen and metaphysicians (under which i think the disputing natural and moral philosophers of these latter ages may be comprehended) have wherewithal abundantly to content him. . ii. other words, to which ideas were annexed at first, used afterwards without distinct meanings. others there be who extend this abuse yet further, who take so little care to lay by words, which, in their primary notation have scarce any clear and distinct ideas which they are annexed to, that, by an unpardonable negligence, they familiarly use words which the propriety of language has affixed to very important ideas, without any distinct meaning at all. wisdom, glory, grace, &c., are words frequent enough in every man's mouth; but if a great many of those who use them should be asked what they mean by them, they would be at a stand, and not know what to answer: a plain proof, that, though they have learned those sounds, and have them ready at their tongues ends, yet there are no determined ideas laid up in their minds, which are to be expressed to others by them. . this occasioned by men learning names before they have the ideas the names belong to. men having been accustomed from their cradles to learn words which are easily got and retained, before they knew or had framed the complex ideas to which they were annexed, or which were to be found in the things they were thought to stand for, they usually continue to do so all their lives; and without taking the pains necessary to settle in their minds determined ideas, they use their words for such unsteady and confused notions as they have, contenting themselves with the same words other people use; as if their very sound necessarily carried with it constantly the same meaning. this, though men make a shift with in the ordinary occurrences of life, where they find it necessary to be understood, and therefore they make signs till they are so; yet this insignificancy in their words, when they come to reason concerning either their tenets or interest, manifestly fills their discourse with abundance of empty unintelligible noise and jargon, especially in moral matters, where the words for the most part standing for arbitrary and numerous collections of ideas, not regularly and permanently united in nature, their bare sounds are often only thought on, or at least very obscure and uncertain notions annexed to them. men take the words they find in use amongst their neighbours; and that they may not seem ignorant what they stand for, use them confidently, without much troubling their heads about a certain fixed meaning; whereby, besides the ease of it, they obtain this advantage, that, as in such discourses they seldom are in the right, so they are as seldom to be convinced that they are in the wrong; it being all one to go about to draw those men out of their mistakes who have no settled notions, as to dispossess a vagrant of his habitation who has no settled abode. this i guess to be so; and every one may observe in himself and others whether it be so or not. . secondly unsteady application of them. secondly, another great abuse of words is inconstancy in the use of them. it is hard to find a discourse written on any subject, especially of controversy, wherein one shall not observe, if he read with attention, the same words (and those commonly the most material in the discourse, and upon which the argument turns) used sometimes for one collection of simple ideas, and sometimes for another; which is a perfect abuse of language. words being intended for signs of my ideas, to make them known to others, not by any natural signification, but by a voluntary imposition, it is plain cheat and abuse, when i make them stand sometimes for one thing and sometimes for another; the wilful doing whereof can be imputed to nothing but great folly, or greater dishonesty. and a man, in his accounts with another may, with as much fairness make the characters of numbers stand sometimes for one and sometimes for another collection of units: v.g. this character , stand sometimes for three, sometimes for four, and sometimes for eight, as in his discourse or reasoning make the same words stand for different collections of simple ideas. if men should do so in their reckonings, i wonder who would have to do with them? one who would speak thus in the affairs and business of the world, and call sometimes seven, and sometimes nine, as best served his advantage, would presently have clapped upon him, one of the two names men are commonly disgusted with. and yet in arguings and learned contests, the same sort of proceedings passes commonly for wit and learning; but to me it appears a greater dishonesty than the misplacing of counters in the casting up a debt; and the cheat the greater, by how much truth is of greater concernment and value than money. . thirdly, affected obscurity, as in the peripatetic and other sects of philosophy. thirdly. another abuse of language is an affected obscurity; by either applying old words to new and unusual significations; or introducing new and ambiguous terms, without defining either; or else putting them so together, as may confound their ordinary meaning. though the peripatetick philosophy has been most eminent in this way, yet other sects have not been wholly clear of it. there are scarce any of them that are not cumbered with some difficulties (such is the imperfection of human knowledge,) which they have been fain to cover with obscurity of terms, and to confound the signification of words, which, like a mist before people's eyes, might hinder their weak parts from being discovered. that body and extension in common use, stand for two distinct ideas, is plain to any one that will but reflect a little. for were their signification precisely the same, it would be as proper, and as intelligible to say, 'the body of an extension,' as the 'extension of a body;' and yet there are those who find it necessary to confound their signification. to this abuse, and the mischiefs of confounding the signification of words, logic, and the liberal sciences as they have been handled in the schools, have given reputation; and the admired art of disputing hath added much to the natural imperfection of languages, whilst it has been made use of and fitted to perplex the signification of words, more than to discover the knowledge and truth of things: and he that will look into that sort of learned writings, will find the words there much more obscure, uncertain, and undetermined in their meaning, than they are in ordinary conversation. . logic and dispute have much contributed to this. this is unavoidably to be so, where men's parts and learning are estimated by their skill in disputing. and if reputation and reward shall attend these conquests, which depend mostly on the fineness and niceties of words, it is no wonder if the wit of man so employed, should perplex, involve, and subtilize the signification of sounds, so as never to want something to say in opposing or defending any question; the victory being adjudged not to him who had truth on his side, but the last word in the dispute. . calling it subtlety. this, though a very useless skill, and that which i think the direct opposite to the ways of knowledge, hath yet passed hitherto under the laudable and esteemed names of subtlety and acuteness, and has had the applause of the schools, and encouragement of one part of the learned men of the world. and no wonder, since the philosophers of old, (the disputing and wrangling philosophers i mean, such as lucian wittily and with reason taxes,) and the schoolmen since, aiming at glory and esteem, for their great and universal knowledge, easier a great deal to be pretended to than really acquired, found this a good expedient to cover their ignorance, with a curious and inexplicable web of perplexed words, and procure to themselves the admiration of others, by unintelligible terms, the apter to produce wonder because they could not be understood; whilst it appears in all history, that these profound doctors were no wiser nor more useful than their neighbours, and brought but small advantage to human life or the societies wherein they lived; unless the coining of new words, where they produced no new things to apply them to, or the perplexing or obscuring the signification of old ones, and so bringing all things into question and dispute, were a thing profitable to the life of man, or worthy commendation and reward. . this learning very little benefits society. for, notwithstanding these learned disputants, these all-knowing doctors, it was to the unscholastic statesman that the governments of the world owed their peace, defence, and liberties; and from the illiterate and contemned mechanic (a name of disgrace) that they received the improvements of useful arts. nevertheless, this artificial ignorance, and learned gibberish, prevailed mightily in these last ages, by the interest and artifice of those who found no easier way to that pitch of authority and dominion they have attained, than by amusing the men of business, and ignorant, with hard words, or employing the ingenious and idle in intricate disputes about unintelligible terms, and holding them perpetually entangled in that endless labyrinth. besides, there is no such way to gain admittance, or give defence to strange and absurd doctrines, as to guard them round about with legions of obscure, doubtful, and undefined words. which yet make these retreats more like the dens of robbers, or holes of foxes, than the fortresses of fair warriors; which, if it be hard to get them out of, it is not for the strength that is in them, but the briars and thorns, and the obscurity of the thickets they are beset with. for untruth being unacceptable to the mind of man, there is no other defence left for absurdity but obscurity. . but destroys the instruments of knowledge and communication. thus learned ignorance, and this art of keeping even inquisitive men from true knowledge, hath been propagated in the world, and hath much perplexed, whilst it pretended to inform the understanding. for we see that other well-meaning and wise men, whose education and parts had not acquired that acuteness, could intelligibly express themselves to one another; and in its plain use make a benefit of language. but though unlearned men well enough understood the words white and black; &c., and had constant notions of the ideas signified by those words; yet there were philosophers found who had learning and subtlety enough to prove that snow was black; i.e. to prove that white was black. whereby they had the advantage to destroy the instruments and means of discourse, conversation, instruction, and society; whilst, with great art and subtlety, they did no more but perplex and confound the signification of words, and thereby render language less useful than the real defects of it had made it; a gift which the illiterate had not attained to. . as useful as to confound the sound that the letters of the alphabet stand for. these learned men did equally instruct men's understandings, and profit their lives, as he who should alter the signification of known characters, and, by a subtle device of learning, far surpassing the capacity of the illiterate, dull, and vulgar, should in his writing show that he could put a for b, and d for e, &c., to the no small admiration and benefit of for his reader. it being as senseless to put black, which is a word agreed on to stand for one sensible idea, to put it, i say, for another, or the contrary idea; i.e. to call snow black, as to put this mark a, which is a character agreed on to stand for one modification of sound, made by a certain motion of the organs of speech, for b, which is agreed on to stand for another modification of sound, made by another certain mode of the organs of speech. . this art has perplexed religion and justice. nor hath this mischief stopped in logical niceties, or curious empty speculations; it hath invaded the great concernments of human life and society; obscured and perplexed the material truths of law and divinity; brought confusion, disorder, and uncertainty into the affairs of mankind; and if not destroyed, yet in a great measure rendered useless, these two great rules, religion and justice. what have the greatest part of the comments and disputes upon the laws of god and man served for, but to make the meaning more doubtful, and perplex the sense? what have been the effect of those multiplied curious distinctions, and acute niceties, but obscurity and uncertainty, leaving the words more unintelligible, and the reader more at a loss? how else comes it to pass that princes, speaking or writing to their servants, in their ordinary commands are easily understood; speaking to their people, in their laws, are not so? and, as i remarked before, doth it not often happen that a man of an ordinary capacity very well understands a text, or a law, that he reads, till he consults an expositor, or goes to counsel; who, by that time he hath done explaining them, makes the words signify either nothing at all, or what he pleases. . and ought not to pass for learning. whether any by-interests of these professions have occasioned this, i will not here examine; but i leave it to be considered, whether it would not be well for mankind, whose concernment it is to know things as they are, and to do what they ought, and not to spend their lives in talking about them, or tossing words to and fro;--whether it would not be well, i say, that the use of words were made plain and direct; and that language, which was given us for the improvement of knowledge and bond of society, should not be employed to darken truth and unsettle people's rights; to raise mists, and render unintelligible both morality and religion? or that at least, if this will happen, it should not be thought learning or knowledge to do so? . iv. fourthly, by taking words for things. fourthly, another great abuse of words is, the taking them for things. this, though it in some degree concerns all names in general, yet more particularly affects those of substances. to this abuse those men are most subject who most confine their thoughts to any one system, and give themselves up into a firm belief of the perfection of any received hypothesis: whereby they come to be persuaded that the terms of that sect are so suited to the nature of things, that they perfectly correspond with their real existence. who is there that has been bred up in the peripatetick philosophy, who does not think the ten names, under which are ranked the ten predicaments, to be exactly conformable to the nature of things? who is there of that school that is not persuaded that substantial forms, vegetative souls, abhorrence of a vacuum, intentional species, &c., are something real? these words men have learned from their very entrance upon knowledge, and have found their masters and systems lay great stress upon them: and therefore they cannot quit the opinion, that they are conformable to nature, and are the representations of something that really exists. the platonists have their soul of the world, and the epicureans their endeavor towards motion in their atoms when at rest. there is scarce any sect in philosophy has not a distinct set of terms that others understand not. but yet this gibberish, which, in the weakness of human understanding, serves so well to palliate men's ignorance, and cover their errors, comes, by familiar use amongst those of the same tribe, to seem the most important part of language, and of all other the terms the most significant: and should aerial and oetherial vehicles come once, by the prevalency of that doctrine, to be generally received anywhere, no doubt those terms would make impressions on men's minds, so as to establish them in the persuasion of the reality of such things, as much as peripatetick forms and intentional species have heretofore done. . instance, in matter. how much names taken for things are apt to mislead the understanding, the attentive reading of philosophical writers would abundantly discover; and that perhaps in words little suspected of any such misuse. i shall instance in one only, and that a very familiar one. how many intricate disputes have there been about matter, as if there were some such thing really in nature, distinct from body; as it is evident the word matter stands for an idea distinct from the idea of body? for if the ideas these two terms stood for were precisely the same, they might indifferently in all places be put for one another. but we see that though it be proper to say, there is one matter of all bodies, one cannot say, there is one body of all matters: we familiarly say one body is bigger than another; but it sounds harsh (and i think is never used) to say one matter is bigger than another. whence comes this, then? viz. from hence: that, though matter and body be not really distinct, but wherever there is the one there is the other; yet matter and body stand for two different conceptions, whereof the one is incomplete, and but a part of the other. for body stands for a solid extended figured substance, whereof matter is but a partial and more confused conception; it seeming to me to be used for the substance and solidity of body, without taking in its extension and figure: and therefore it is that, speaking of matter, we speak of it always as one, because in truth it expressly contains nothing but the idea of a solid substance, which is everywhere the same, everywhere uniform. this being our idea of matter, we no more conceive or speak of different matters in the world than we do of different solidities; though we both conceive and speak of different bodies, because extension and figure are capable of variation. but, since solidity cannot exist without extension and figure, the taking matter to be the name of something really existing under that precision, has no doubt produced those obscure and unintelligible discourses and disputes, which have filled the heads and books of philosophers concerning materia prima; which imperfection or abuse, how far it may concern a great many other general terms i leave to be considered. this, i think, i may at least say, that we should have a great many fewer disputes in the world, if words were taken for what they are, the signs of our ideas only; and not for things themselves. for, when we argue about matter, or any the like term, we truly argue only about the idea we express by that sound, whether that precise idea agree to anything really existing in nature or no. and if men would tell what ideas they make their words stand for, there could not be half that obscurity or wrangling in the search or support of truth that there is. . this makes errors lasting. but whatever inconvenience follows from this mistake of words, this i am sure, that, by constant and familiar use, they charm men into notions far remote from the truth of things. it would be a hard matter to persuade any one that the words which his father, or schoolmaster, the parson of the parish, or such a reverend doctor used, signified nothing that really existed in nature: which perhaps is none of the least causes that men are so hardly drawn to quit their mistakes, even in opinions purely philosophical, and where they have no other interest but truth. for the words they have a long time been used to, remaining firm in their minds, it is no wonder that the wrong notions annexed to them should not be removed. . fifthly, by setting them in the place of what they cannot signify. v. fifthly, another abuse of words is, the setting them in the place of things which they do or can by no means signify. we may observe that, in the general names of substances, whereof the nominal essences are only known to us, when we put them into propositions, and affirm or deny anything about them, we do most commonly tacitly suppose or intend, they should stand for the real essence of a certain sort of substances. for, when a man says gold is malleable, he means and would insinuate something more than this, that what i call gold is malleable, (though truly it amounts to no more,) but would have this understood, viz. that gold, i.e. what has the real essence of gold, is malleable; which amounts to thus much, that malleableness depends on, and is inseparable from the real essence of gold. but a man, not knowing wherein that real essence consists, the connexion in his mind of malleableness is not truly with an essence he knows not, but only with the sound gold he puts for it. thus, when we say that animal rationale is, and animal imflume bipes latis unguibus is not a good definition of a man; it is plain we suppose the name man in this case to stand for the real essence of a species, and would signify that 'a rational animal' better described that real essence than 'a two-legged animal with broad nails, and without feathers.' for else, why might not plato as properly make the word [word in greek], or man, stand for his complex idea, made up of the idea of a body, distinguished from others by a certain shape and other outward appearances, as aristotle make the complex idea to which he gave the name [word in greek], or man, of body and the faculty of reasoning joined together; unless the name [word in greek], or man, were supposed to stand for something else than what it signifies; and to be put in the place of some other thing than the idea a man professes he would express by it? . vi. putting them for the real essences of substances. it is true the names of substances would be much more useful, and propositions made in them much more certain, were the real essences of substances the ideas in our minds which those words signified. and it is for want of those real essences that our words convey so little knowledge or certainty in our discourses about them; and therefore the mind, to remove that imperfection as much as it can, makes them, by a secret supposition, to stand for a thing having that real essence, as if thereby it made some nearer approaches to it. for, though the word man or gold signify nothing truly but a complex idea of properties united together in one sort of substances; yet there is scarce anybody, in the use of these words, but often supposes each of those names to stand for a thing having the real essence on which these properties depend. which is so far from diminishing the imperfection of our words, that by a plain abuse it adds to it, when we would make them stand for something, which, not being in our complex idea, the name we use can no ways be the sign of. . hence we think change of our complex ideas of substances not to change their species. this shows us the reason why in mixed modes any of the ideas that make the composition of the complex one being left out or changed, it is allowed to be another thing, i.e. to be of another species, as is plain in chance-medley, manslaughter, murder, parricide, &c. the reason whereof is, because the complex idea signified by that name is the real as well as nominal essence; and there is no secret reference of that name to any other essence but that. but in substances, it is not so. for though in that called gold, one puts into his complex idea what another leaves out, and vice versa: yet men do not usually think that therefore the species is changed: because they secretly in their minds refer that name, and suppose it annexed to a real immutable essence of a thing existing, on which those properties depend. he that adds to his complex idea of gold that of fixedness and solubility in aqua regia, which he put not in it before, is not thought to have changed the species; but only to have a more perfect idea, by adding another simple idea, which is always in fact joined with those other, of which his former complex idea consisted. but this reference of the name to a thing, whereof we have not the idea, is so far from helping at all, that it only serves the more to involve us in difficulties. for by this tacit reference to the real essence of that species of bodies, the word gold (which, by standing for a more or less perfect collection of simple ideas, serves to design that sort of body well enough in civil discourse) comes to have no signification at all, being put for somewhat whereof we have no idea at all, and so can signify nothing at all, when the body itself is away. for however it may be thought all one, yet, if well considered, it will be found a quite different thing, to argue about gold in name, and about a parcel in the body itself, v.g. a piece of leaf-gold laid before us; though in discourse we are fain to substitute the name for the thing. . the cause of this abuse, a supposition of nature's working always regularly, in setting boundaries to species. that which i think very much disposes men to substitute their names for the real essences of species, is the supposition before mentioned, that nature works regularly in the production of things, and sets the boundaries to each of those species, by giving exactly the same real internal constitution to each individual which we rank under one general name. whereas any one who observes their different qualities can hardly doubt, that many of the individuals, called by the same name, are, in their internal constitution, as different one from another as several of those which are ranked under different specific names. this supposition, however, that the same precise and internal constitution goes always with the same specific name, makes men forward to take those names for the representatives of those real essences; though indeed they signify nothing but the complex ideas they have in their minds when they use them. so that, if i may so say, signifying one thing, and being supposed for, or put in the place of another, they cannot but, in such a kind of use, cause a great deal of uncertainty in men's discourses; especially in those who have thoroughly imbibed the doctrine of substantial forms, whereby they firmly imagine the several species of things to be determined and distinguished. . this abuse contains two false suppositions. but however preposterous and absurd it be to make our names stand for ideas we have not, or (which is all one) essences that we know not, it being in effect to make our words the signs of nothing; yet it is evident to any one who ever so little reflects on the use men make of their words, that there is nothing more familiar. when a man asks whether this or that thing he sees, let it be a drill, or a monstrous foetus, be a man or no; it is evident the question is not, whether that particular thing agree to his complex idea expressed by the name man: but whether it has in it the real essence of a species of things which he supposes his name man to stand for. in which way of using the names of substances, there are these false suppositions contained:-- first, that there are certain precise essences according to which nature makes all particular things, and by which they are distinguished into species. that everything has a real constitution, whereby it is what it is, and on which its sensible qualities depend, is past doubt: but i think it has been proved that this makes not the distinction of species as we rank them, nor the boundaries of their names. secondly, this tacitly also insinuates, as if we had ideas of these proposed essences. for to what purpose else is it, to inquire whether this or that thing have the real essence of the species man, if we did not suppose that there were such a specifick essence known? which yet is utterly false. and therefore such application of names as would make them stand for ideas which we have not, must needs cause great disorder in discourses and reasonings about them, and be a great inconvenience in our communication by words. . vi. sixthly, by proceeding upon the supposition that the words we use have a certain and evident signification which other men cannot but understand. sixthly, there remains yet another more general, though perhaps less observed, abuse of words; and that is, that men having by a long and familiar use annexed to them certain ideas, they are apt to imagine so near and necessary a connexion between the names and signification they use them in, that they forwardly suppose one cannot but understand what their meaning is; and therefore one ought to acquiesce in the words delivered, as if it were past doubt that, in the use of those common received sounds, the speaker and hearer had necessarily the same precise ideas. whence presuming, that when they have in discourse used any term, they have thereby, as it were, set before others the very thing they talked of. and so likewise taking the words of others, as naturally standing for just what they themselves have been accustomed to apply them to, they never trouble themselves to explain their own, or understand clearly others' meaning. from whence commonly proceeds noise, and wrangling, without improvement or information; whilst men take words to be the constant regular marks of agreed notions, which in truth are no more but the voluntary and unsteady signs of their own ideas. and yet men think it strange, if in discourse, or (where it is often absolutely necessary) in dispute, one sometimes asks the meaning of their terms: though the arguings one may every day observe in conversation make it evident, that there are few names of complex ideas which any two men use for the same just precise collection. it is hard to name a word which will not be a clear instance of this. life is a term, none more familiar. any one almost would take it for an affront to be asked what he meant by it. and yet if it comes in question, whether a plant that lies ready formed in the seed have life; whether the embryo in an egg before incubation, or a man in a swoon without sense or motion, be alive or no; it is easy to perceive that a clear, distinct, settled idea does not always accompany the use of so known a word as that of life is. some gross and confused conceptions men indeed ordinarily have, to which they apply the common words of their language; and such a loose use of their words serves them well enough in their ordinary discourses or affairs. but this is not sufficient for philosophical inquiries. knowledge and reasoning require precise determinate ideas. and though men will not be so importunately dull as not to understand what others say, without demanding an explication of their terms; nor so troublesomely critical as to correct others in the use of the words they receive from them: yet, where truth and knowledge are concerned in the case, i know not what fault it can be, to desire the explication of words whose sense seems dubious; or why a man should be ashamed to own his ignorance in what sense another man uses his words; since he has no other way of certainly knowing it but by being informed. this abuse of taking words upon trust has nowhere spread so far, nor with so ill effects, as amongst men of letters. the multiplication and obstinacy of disputes, which have so laid waste the intellectual world, is owing to nothing more than to this ill use of words. for though it be generally believed that there is great diversity of opinions in the volumes and variety of controversies the world is distracted with; yet the most i can find that the contending learned men of different parties do, in their arguings one with another, is, that they speak different languages. for i am apt to imagine, that when any of them, quitting terms, think upon things, and know what they think, they think all the same: though perhaps what they would have be different. . the ends of language: first, to convey our ideas. to conclude this consideration of the imperfection and abuse of language. the ends of language in our discourse with others being chiefly these three: first, to make known one man's thoughts or ideas to another; secondly, to do so with as much ease and quickness as possible; and, thirdly, thereby to convey the knowledge of things: language is either abused or deficient, when it fails of any of these three. first, words fail in the first of these ends, and lay not open one man's ideas to another's view: . when men have names in their mouths without any determinate ideas in their minds whereof they are the signs: or, . when they apply the common received names of any language to ideas, to which the common use of that language does not apply them: or . when they apply them very unsteadily, making them stand now for one, and by and by for another idea. . secondly, to do it with quickness. secondly, men fail of conveying their thoughts with the quickness and ease that may be, when they have complex ideas without having any distinct names for them. this is sometimes the fault of the language itself, which has not in it a sound yet applied to such a signification; and sometimes the fault of the man, who has not yet learned the name for that idea he would show another. . thirdly, therewith to convey the knowledge of things. thirdly, there is no knowledge of things conveyed by men's words, when their ideas agree not to the reality of things. though it be a defect that has its original in our ideas, which are not so conformable to the nature of things as attention, study and application might make them, yet it fails not to extend itself to our words too, when we use them as signs of real beings, which yet never had any reality or existence. . how men's words fail in all these: first, when used without any ideas. first, he that hath words of any language, without distinct ideas in his mind to which he applies them, does, so far as he uses them in discourse, only make a noise without any sense or signification; and how learned soever he may seem, by the use of hard words or learned terms, is not much more advanced thereby in knowledge, than he would be in learning, who had nothing in his study but the bare titles of books, without possessing the contents of them. for all such words, however put into discourse, according to the right construction of grammatical rules, or the harmony of well-turned periods, do yet amount to nothing but bare sounds, and nothing else. . secondly, when complex ideas are without names annexed to them. secondly, he that has complex ideas, without particular names for them, would be in no better case than a bookseller, who had in his warehouse volumes that lay there unbound, and without titles, which he could therefore make known to others only by showing the loose sheets, and communicate them only by tale. this man is hindered in his discourse, for want of words to communicate his complex ideas, which he is therefore forced to make known by an enumeration of the simple ones that compose them; and so is fain often to use twenty words, to express what another man signifies in one. . thirdly, when the same sign is not put for the same idea. thirdly, he that puts not constantly the same sign for the same idea, but uses the same word sometimes in one and sometimes in another signification, ought to pass in the schools and conversation for as fair a man, as he does in the market and exchange, who sells several things under the same name. . fourthly, when words are diverted from their common use. fourthly, he that applies the words of any language to ideas different from those to which the common use of that country applies them, however his own understanding may be filled with truth and light, will not by such words be able to convey much of it to others, without defining his terms. for however the sounds are such as are familiarly known, and easily enter the ears of those who are accustomed to them; yet standing for other ideas than those they usually are annexed to, and are wont to excite in the mind of the hearers, they cannot make known the thoughts of him who thus uses them. . fifthly, when they are names of fantastical imaginations. fifthly, he that imagined to himself substances such as never have been, and filled his head with ideas which have not any correspondence with the real nature of things, to which yet he gives settled and defined names, may fill his discourse, and perhaps another man's head, with the fantastical imaginations of his own brain, but will be very far from advancing thereby one jot in real and true knowledge. . summary. he that hath names without ideas, wants meaning in his words, and speaks only empty sounds. he that hath complex ideas without names for them, wants liberty and dispatch in his expressions, and is necessitated to use periphrases. he that uses his words loosely and unsteadily will either be not minded or not understood. he that applies his names to ideas different from their common use, wants propriety in his language, and speaks gibberish. and he that hath the ideas of substances disagreeing with the real existence of things, so far wants the materials of true knowledge in his understanding, and hath instead thereof chimeras. . how men's words fail when they stand for substances. in our notions concerning substances, we are liable to all the former inconveniences: v. g. he that uses the word tarantula, without having any imagination or idea of what it stands for, pronounces a good word; but so long means nothing at all by it. . he that, in a newly-discovered country, shall see several sorts of animals and vegetables, unknown to him before, may have as true ideas of them, as of a horse or a stag; but can speak of them only by a description, till he shall either take the names the natives call them by, or give them names himself. . he that uses the word body sometimes for pure extension, and sometimes for extension and solidity together, will talk very fallaciously. . he that gives the name horse to that idea which common usage calls mule, talks improperly, and will not be understood. . he that thinks the name centaur stands for some real being, imposes on himself, and mistakes words for things. . how when they stand for modes and relations. in modes and relations generally, we are liable only to the four first of these inconveniences; viz. . i may have in my memory the names of modes, as gratitude or charity, and yet not have any precise ideas annexed in my thoughts to those names, . i may have ideas, and not know the names that belong to them: v. g. i may have the idea of a man's drinking till his colour and humour be altered, till his tongue trips, and his eyes look red, and his feet fail him; and yet not know that it is to be called drunkenness. . i may have the ideas of virtues or vices, and names also, but apply them amiss: v. g. when i apply the name frugality to that idea which others call and signify by this sound, covetousness. . i may use any of those names with inconstancy. . but, in modes and relations, i cannot have ideas disagreeing to the existence of things: for modes being complex ideas, made by the mind at pleasure, and relation being but by way of considering or comparing two things together, and so also an idea of my own making, these ideas can scarce be found to disagree with anything existing; since they are not in the mind as the copies of things regularly made by nature, nor as properties inseparably flowing from the internal constitution or essence of any substance; but, as it were, patterns lodged in my memory, with names annexed to them, to denominate actions and relations by, as they come to exist. but the mistake is commonly in my giving a wrong name to my conceptions; and so using words in a different sense from other people: i am not understood, but am thought to have wrong ideas of them, when i give wrong names to them. only if i put in my ideas of mixed modes or relations any inconsistent ideas together, i fill my head also with chimeras; since such ideas, if well examined, cannot so much as exist in the mind, much less any real being ever be denominated from them. . seventhly, language is often abused by figurative speech. since wit and fancy find easier entertainment in the world than dry truth and real knowledge, figurative speeches and allusion in language will hardly be admitted as an imperfection or abuse of it. i confess, in discourses where we seek rather pleasure and delight than information and improvement, such ornaments as are borrowed from them can scarce pass for faults. but yet if we would speak of things as they are, we must allow that all the art of rhetoric, besides order and clearness; all the artificial and figurative application of words eloquence hath invented, are for nothing else but to insinuate wrong ideas, move the passions, and thereby mislead the judgment; and so indeed are perfect cheats: and therefore, however laudable or allowable oratory may render them in harangues and popular addresses, they are certainly, in all discourses that pretend to inform or instruct, wholly to be avoided; and where truth and knowledge are concerned, cannot but be thought a great fault, either of the language or person that makes use of them. what and how various they are, will be superfluous here to take notice; the books of rhetoric which abound in the world, will instruct those who want to be informed: only i cannot but observe how little the preservation and improvement of truth and knowledge is the care and concern of mankind; since the arts of fallacy are endowed and preferred. it is evident how much men love to deceive and be deceived, since rhetoric, that powerful instrument of error and deceit, has its established professors, is publicly taught, and has always been had in great reputation: and i doubt not but it will be thought great boldness, if not brutality, in me to have said thus much against it. eloquence, like the fair sex, has too prevailing beauties in it to suffer itself ever to be spoken against. and it is in vain to find fault with those arts of deceiving, wherein men find pleasure to be deceived. chapter xi. of the remedies of the foregoing imperfections and abuses of words. . remedies are worth seeking. the natural and improved imperfections of languages we have seen above at large: and speech being the great bond that holds society together, and the common conduit, whereby the improvements of knowledge are conveyed from one man and one generation to another, it would well deserve our most serious thoughts to consider, what remedies are to be found for the inconveniences above mentioned. . are not easy to find. i am not so vain as to think that any one can pretend to attempt the perfect reforming the languages of the world, no not so much as of his own country, without rendering himself ridiculous. to require that men should use their words constantly in the same sense, and for none but determined and uniform ideas, would be to think that all men should have the same notions, and should talk of nothing but what they have clear and distinct ideas of: which is not to be expected by any one who hath not vanity enough to imagine he can prevail with men to be very knowing or very silent. and he must be very little skilled in the world, who thinks that a voluble tongue shall accompany only a good understanding; or that men's talking much or little should hold proportion only to their knowledge. . but yet necessary to those who search after truth. but though the market and exchange must be left to their own ways of talking, and gossipings not be robbed of their ancient privilege: though the schools, and men of argument would perhaps take it amiss to have anything offered, to abate the length or lessen the number of their disputes; yet methinks those who pretend seriously to search after or maintain truth, should think themselves obliged to study how they might deliver themselves without obscurity, doubtfulness, or equivocation, to which men's words are naturally liable, if care be not taken. . misuse of words the great cause of errors. for he that shall well consider the errors and obscurity, the mistakes and confusion, that are spread in the world by an ill use of words, will find some reason to doubt whether language, as it has been employed, has contributed more to the improvement or hindrance of knowledge amongst mankind. how many are there, that, when they would think on things, fix their thoughts only on words, especially when they would apply their minds to moral matters? and who then can wonder if the result of such contemplations and reasonings, about little more than sounds, whilst the ideas they annex to them are very confused and very unsteady, or perhaps none at all; who can wonder, i say, that such thoughts and reasonings end in nothing but obscurity and mistake, without any clear judgment or knowledge? . has made men more conceited and obstinate. this inconvenience, in an ill use of words, men suffer in their own private meditations: but much more manifest are the disorders which follow from it, in conversation, discourse, and arguings with others. for language being the great conduit, whereby men convey their discoveries, reasonings, and knowledge, from one to another, he that makes an ill use of it, though he does not corrupt the fountains of knowledge, which are in things themselves, yet he does, as much as in him lies, break or stop the pipes whereby it is distributed to the public use and advantage of mankind. he that uses words without any clear and steady meaning, what does he but lead himself and others into errors? and he that designedly does it, ought to be looked on as an enemy to truth and knowledge. and yet who can wonder that all the sciences and parts of knowledge have been so overcharged with obscure and equivocal terms, and insignificant and doubtful expressions, capable to make the most attentive or quick-sighted very little, or not at all, the more knowing or orthodox: since subtlety, in those who make profession to teach or defend truth, hath passed so much for a virtue: a virtue, indeed, which, consisting for the most part in nothing but the fallacious and illusory use of obscure or deceitful terms, is only fit to make men more conceited in their ignorance, and more obstinate in their errors. . addicted to wrangling about sounds. let us look into the books of controversy of any kind, there we shall see that the effect of obscure, unsteady, or equivocal terms is nothing but noise and wrangling about sounds, without convincing or bettering a man's understanding. for if the idea be not agreed on, betwixt the speaker and hearer, for which the words stand, the argument is not about things, but names. as often as such a word whose signification is not ascertained betwixt them, comes in use, their understandings have no other object wherein they agree, but barely the sound; the things that they think on at that time, as expressed by that word, being quite different. . instance, bat and bird. whether a bat be a bird or no, is not a question, whether a bat be another thing than indeed it is, or have other qualities than indeed it has; for that would be extremely absurd to doubt of. but the question is, (i) either between those that acknowledged themselves to have but imperfect ideas of one or both of this sort of things, for which these names are supposed to stand. and then it is a real inquiry concerning the nature of a bird or a bat, to make their yet imperfect ideas of it more complete; by examining whether all the simple ideas to which, combined together, they both give name bird, be all to be found in a bat: but this is a question only of inquirers (not disputers) who neither affirm nor deny, but examine: or, ( ) it is a question between disputants; whereof the one affirms, and the other denies that a bat is a bird. and then the question is barely about the signification of one or both these words; in that they not having both the same complex ideas to which they give these two names, one holds and the other denies, that these two names may be affirmed one of another. were they agreed in the signification of these two names, it were impossible they should dispute about them. for they would presently and clearly see (were that adjusted between them,) whether all the simple ideas of the more general name bird were found in the complex idea of a bat or no; and so there could be no doubt whether a bat were a bird or no. and here i desire it may be considered, and carefully examined, whether the greatest part of the disputes in the world are not merely verbal, and about the signification of words; and whether, if the terms they are made in were defined, and reduced in their signification (as they must be where they signify anything) to determined collections of the simple ideas they do or should stand for, those disputes would not end of themselves, and immediately vanish. i leave it then to be considered, what the learning of disputation is, and how well they are employed for the advantage of themselves or others, whose business is only the vain ostentation of sounds; i. e. those who spend their lives in disputes and controversies. when i shall see any of those combatants strip all his terms of ambiguity and obscurity, (which every one may do in the words he uses himself,) i shall think him a champion for knowledge, truth, and peace, and not the slave of vain-glory, ambition, or a party. . remedies. to remedy the defects of speech before mentioned to some degree, and to prevent the inconveniences that follow from them, i imagine the observation of these following rules may be of use, till somebody better able shall judge it worth his while to think more maturely on this matter, and oblige the world with his thoughts on it. first remedy: to use no word without an idea annexed to it. first, a man shall take care to use no word without a signification, no name without an idea for which he makes it stand. this rule will not seem altogether needless to any one who shall take the pains to recollect how often he has met with such words as instinct, sympathy, and antipathy, &c., in the discourse of others, so made use of as he might easily conclude that those that used them had no ideas in their minds to which they applied them, but spoke them only as sounds, which usually served instead of reasons on the like occasions. not but that these words, and the like, have very proper significations in which they may be used; but there being no natural connexion between any words and any ideas, these, and any other, may be learned by rote, and pronounced or writ by men who have no ideas in their minds to which they have annexed them, and for which they make them stand; which is necessary they should, if men would speak intelligibly even to themselves alone. . second remedy: to have distinct, determinate ideas annexed to words, especially in mixed modes. secondly, it is not enough a man uses his words as signs of some ideas: those he annexes them to, if they be simple, must be clear and distinct; if complex, must be determinate, i.e. the precise collection of simple ideas settled in the mind, with that sound annexed to it, as the sign of that precise determined collection, and no other. this is very necessary in names of modes, and especially moral words; which, having no settled objects in nature, from whence their ideas are taken, as from their original, are apt to be very confused. justice is a word in every man's mouth, but most commonly with a very undetermined, loose signification; which will always be so, unless a man has in his mind a distinct comprehension of the component parts that complex idea consists of and if it be decompounded, must be able to resolve it still only till he at last comes to the simple ideas that make it up: and unless this be done, a man makes an ill use of the word, let it be justice, for example, or any other. i do not say, a man needs stand to recollect, and make this analysis at large, every time the word justice comes in his way: but this at least is necessary, that he have so examined the signification of that name, and settled the idea of all its parts in his mind, that he can do it when he pleases. if any one who makes his complex idea of justice to be, such a treatment of the person or goods of another as is according to law, hath not a clear and distinct idea what law is, which makes a part of his complex idea of justice, it is plain his idea of justice itself will be confused and imperfect. this exactness will, perhaps, be judged very troublesome; and therefore most men will think they may be excused from settling the complex ideas of mixed modes so precisely in their minds. but yet i must say, till this be done, it must not be wondered, that they have a great deal of obscurity and confusion in their own minds, and a great deal of wrangling in their discourse with others. . and distinct and conformable ideas in words that stand for substances. in the names of substances, for a right use of them, something more is required than barely determined ideas. in these the names must also be conformable to things as they exist; but of this i shall have occasion to speak more at large by and by. this exactness is absolutely necessary in inquiries after philosophical knowledge, and in controversies about truth. and though it would be well, too, if it extended itself to common conversation and the ordinary affairs of life; yet i think that is scarce to be expected. vulgar notions suit vulgar discourses: and both, though confused enough, yet serve pretty well the market and the wake. merchants and lovers, cooks and tailors, have words wherewithal to dispatch their ordinary affairs: and so, i think, might philosophers and disputants too, if they had a mind to understand, and to clearly understood. . third remedy: to apply words to such ideas as common use has annexed them to. thirdly, it is not enough that men have ideas, determined ideas, for which they make these signs stand; but they must also take care to apply their words as near as may be to such ideas as common use has annexed them to. for words, especially of languages already framed, being no man's private possession, but the common measure of commerce and communication, it is not for any one at pleasure to change the stamp they are current in, nor alter the ideas they are affixed to; or at least, when there is a necessity to do so, he is bound to give notice of it. men's intentions in speaking are, or at least should be, to be understood; which cannot be without frequent explanations, demands, and other the like incommodious interruptions, where men do not follow common use. propriety of speech is that which gives our thoughts entrance into other men's minds with the greatest ease and advantage: and therefore deserves some part of our care and study, especially in the names of moral words. the proper signification and use of terms is best to be learned from those who in their writings and discourses appear to have had the clearest notions, and applied to them their terms with the exactest choice and fitness. this way of using a man's words, according to the propriety of the language, though it have not always the good fortune to be understood; yet most commonly leaves the blame of it on him who is so unskilful in the language he speaks, as not to understand it when made use of as it ought to be. . fourth remedy: to declare the meaning in which we use them. fourthly, but, because common use has not so visibly annexed any signification to words, as to make men know always certainly what they precisely stand for: and because men, in the improvement of their knowledge, come to have ideas different from the vulgar and ordinary received ones, for which they must either make new words, (which men seldom venture to do, for fear of being thought guilty of affectation or novelty,) or else must use old ones in a new signification: therefore, after the observation of the foregoing rules, it is sometimes necessary, for the ascertaining the signification of words, to declare their meaning; where either common use has left it uncertain and loose, (as it has in most names of very complex ideas;) or where the term, being very material in the discourse, and that upon which it chiefly turns, is liable to any doubtfulness or mistake. . and that in three ways. as the ideas men's words stand for are of different sorts, so the way of making known the ideas they stand for, when there is occasion, is also different. for though defining be thought the proper way to make known the proper signification of words; yet there are some words that will not be defined, as there are others whose precise meaning cannot be made known but by definition: and perhaps a third, which partake somewhat of both the other, as we shall see in the names of simple ideas, modes, and substances. . in simple ideas, either by synonymous terms, or by showing examples. i. first, when a man makes use of the name of any simple idea, which he perceives is not understood, or is in danger to be mistaken, he is obliged, by the laws of ingenuity and the end of speech, to declare his meaning, and make known what idea he makes it stand for. this, as has been shown, cannot be done by definition: and therefore, when a synonymous word fails to do it, there is but one of these ways left. first, sometimes the naming the subject wherein that simple idea is to be found, will make its name to be understood by those who are acquainted with that subject, and know it by that name. so to make a countryman understand what feuillemorte colour signifies, it may suffice to tell him, it is the colour of withered leaves falling in autumn. secondly, but the only sure way of making known the signification of the name of any simple idea, is by presenting to his senses that subject which may produce it in his mind, and make him actually have the idea that word stands for. . in mixed modes, by definition. ii. secondly, mixed modes, especially those belonging to morality, being most of them such combinations of ideas as the mind puts together of its own choice, and whereof there are not always standing patterns to be found existing, the signification of their names cannot be made known, as those of simple ideas, by any showing: but, in recompense thereof, may be perfectly and exactly defined. for they being combinations of several ideas that the mind of man has arbitrarily put together, without reference to any archetypes, men may, if they please, exactly know the ideas that go to each composition, and so both use these words in a certain and undoubted signification, and perfectly declare, when there is occasion, what they stand for. this, if well considered, would lay great blame on those who make not their discourses about moral things very clear and distinct. for since the precise signification of the names of mixed modes, or, which is all one, the real essence of each species is to be known, they being not of nature's, but man's making, it is a great negligence and perverseness to discourse of moral things with uncertainty and obscurity; which is more pardonable in treating of natural substances, where doubtful terms are hardly to be avoided, for a quite contrary reason, as we shall see by and by. . morality capable of demonstration. upon this ground it is that i am bold to think that morality is capable of demonstration, as well as mathematics: since the precise real essence of the things moral words stand for may be perfectly known, and so the congruity and incongruity of the things themselves be certainly discovered; in which consists perfect knowledge. nor let any one object, that the names of substances are often to be made use of in morality, as well as those of modes, from which will arise obscurity. for, as to substances, when concerned in moral discourses, their divers natures are not so much inquired into as supposed: v.g. when we say that man is subject to law, we mean nothing by man but a corporeal rational creature: what the real essence or other qualities of that creature are in this case is no way considered. and, therefore, whether a child or changeling be a man, in a physical sense, may amongst the naturalists be as disputable as it will, it concerns not at all the moral man, as i may call him, which is this immovable, unchangeable idea, a corporeal rational being. for, were there a monkey, or any other creature, to be found that had the use of reason to such a degree, as to be able to understand general signs, and to deduce consequences about general ideas, he would no doubt be subject to law, and in that sense be a man, how much soever he differed in shape from others of that name. the names of substances, if they be used in them as they should, can no more disturb moral than they do mathematical discourses; where, if the mathematician speaks of a cube or globe of gold, or of any other body, he has his clear, settled idea, which varies not, though it may by mistake be applied to a particular body to which it belongs not. . definitions can make moral discourse clear. this i have here mentioned, by the by, to show of what consequence it is for men, in their names of mixed modes, and consequently in all their moral discourses, to define their words when there is occasion: since thereby moral knowledge may be brought to so great clearness and certainty. and it must be great want of ingenuousness (to say no worse of it) to refuse to do it: since a definition is the only way whereby the precise meaning of moral words can be known; and yet a way whereby their meaning may be known certainly, and without leaving any room for any contest about it. and therefore the negligence or perverseness of mankind cannot be excused, if their discourses in morality be not much more clear than those in natural philosophy: since they are about ideas in the mind, which are none of them false or disproportionate; they having no external beings for the archetypes which they are referred to and must correspond with. it is far easier for men to frame in their minds an idea, which shall be the standard to which they will give the name justice; with which pattern so made, all actions that agree shall pass under that denomination, than, having seen aristides, to frame an idea that shall in all things be exactly like him; who is as he is, let men make what idea they please of him. for the one, they need but know the combination of ideas that are put together in their own minds; for the other, they must inquire into the whole nature, and abstruse hidden constitution, and various qualities of a thing existing without them. . and is the only way in which the meaning of mixed modes can be made known. another reason that makes the defining of mixed modes so necessary, especially of moral words, is what i mentioned a little before, viz. that it is the only way whereby the signification of the most of them can be known with certainty. for the ideas they stand for, being for the most part such whose component parts nowhere exist together, but scattered and mingled with others, it is the mind alone that collects them, and gives them the union of one idea: and it is only by words enumerating the several simple ideas which the mind has united, that we can make known to others what their names stand for; the assistance of the senses in this case not helping us, by the proposal of sensible objects, to show the ideas which our names of this kind stand for, as it does often in the names of sensible simple ideas, and also to some degree in those of substances. . in substances, both by showing and by defining. iii. thirdly, for the explaining the signification of the names of substances, as they stand for the ideas we have of their distinct species, both the forementioned ways, viz. of showing and defining, are requisite, in many cases, to be made use of. for, there being ordinarily in each sort some leading qualities, to which we suppose the other ideas which make up our complex idea of that species annexed, we forwardly give the specific name to that thing wherein that characteristic mark is found, which we take to be the most distinguishing idea of that species. these leading or characteristical (as i may call them) ideas, in the sorts of animals and vegetables, are (as has been before remarked, ch vi. section and ch. ix. section ) mostly figure; and in inanimate bodies, colour; and in some, both together. now, . ideas of the leading qualities of substances are best got by showing. these leading sensible qualities are those which make the chief ingredients of our specific ideas, and consequently the most observable and invariable part in the definitions of our specific names, as attributed to sorts of substances coming under our knowledge. for though the sound man, in its own nature, be as apt to signify a complex idea made up of animality and rationality, united in the same subject, as to signify any other combination; yet, used as a mark to stand for a sort of creatures we count of our own kind, perhaps the outward shape is as necessary to be taken into our complex idea, signified by the word man, as any other we find in it: and therefore, why plato's animal implume bipes latis unguibus should not be a good definition of the name man, standing for that sort of creatures, will not be easy to show: for it is the shape, as the leading quality, that seems more to determine that species, than a faculty of reasoning, which appears not at first, and in some never. and if this be not allowed to be so, i do not know how they can be excused from murder who kill monstrous births, (as we call them,) because of an unordinary shape, without knowing whether they have a rational soul or no; which can be no more discerned in a well-formed than ill-shaped infant, as soon as born. and who is it has informed us that a rational soul can inhabit no tenement, unless it has just such a sort of frontispiece; or can join itself to, and inform no sort of body, but one that is just of such an outward structure? . and can hardly be made known otherwise. now these leading qualities are best made known by showing, and can hardly be made known otherwise. for the shape of a horse or cassowary will be but rudely and imperfectly imprinted on the mind by words; the sight of the animals doth it a thousand times better. and the idea of the particular colour of gold is not to be got by any description of it, but only by the frequent exercise of the eyes about as is evident in those who are used to this metal, who frequently distinguish true from counterfeit, pure from adulterate, by the sight, where others (who have as good eyes, but yet by use have not got the precise nice idea of that peculiar yellow) shall not perceive any difference. the like may be said of those other simple ideas, peculiar in their kind to any substance; for which precise ideas there are no peculiar names. the particular ringing sound there is in gold, distinct from the sound of other bodies, has no particular name annexed to it, no more than the particular yellow that belongs to that metal. . the ideas of the powers of substances are best known by definition. but because many of the simple ideas that make up our specific ideas of substances are powers which lie not obvious to our senses in the things as they ordinarily appear; therefore, in the signification of our names of substances, some part of the signification will be better made known by enumerating those simple ideas, than by showing the substance itself. for, he that to the yellow shining colour of gold, got by sight, shall, from my enumerating them, have the ideas of great ductility, fusibility, fixedness, and solubility, in aqua regia, will have a perfecter idea of gold than he can have by seeing a piece of gold, and thereby imprinting in his mind only its obvious qualities. but if the formal constitution of this shining, heavy, ductile thing, (from whence all these its properties flow,) lay open to our senses, as the formal constitution or essence of a triangle does, the signification of the word gold might as easily be ascertained as that of triangle. . a reflection on the knowledge of corporeal things possessed by spirits separate from bodies. hence we may take notice, how much the foundation of all our knowledge of corporeal things lies in our senses. for how spirits, separate from bodies, (whose knowledge and ideas of these things are certainly much more perfect than ours,) know them, we have no notion, no idea at all. the whole extent of our knowledge or imagination reaches not beyond our own ideas limited to our ways of perception. though yet it be not to be doubted that spirits of a higher rank than those immersed in flesh may have as clear ideas of the radical constitution of substances as we have of a triangle, and so perceive how all their properties and operations flow from thence: but the manner how they come by that knowledge exceeds our conceptions. . ideas of substances must also be conformable to things. fourthly, but, though definitions will serve to explain the names of substances as they stand for our ideas, yet they leave them not without great imperfection as they stand for things. for our names of substances being not put barely for our ideas, but being made use of ultimately to represent things, and so are put in their place, their signification must agree with the truth of things as well as with men's ideas. and therefore, in substances, we are not always to rest in the ordinary complex idea commonly received as the signification of that word, but must go a little further, and inquire into the nature and properties of the things themselves, and thereby perfect, as much as we can, our ideas of their distinct species; or else learn them from such as are used to that sort of things, and are experienced in them. for, since it is intended their names should stand for such collections of simple ideas as do really exist in things themselves, as well as for the complex idea in other men's minds, which in their ordinary acceptation they stand for, therefore, to define their names right, natural history is to be inquired into, and their properties are, with care and examination, to be found out. for it is not enough, for the avoiding inconveniences in discourse and arguings about natural bodies and substantial things, to have learned, from the propriety of the language, the common, but confused, or very imperfect, idea to which each word is applied, and to keep them to that idea in our use of them; but we must, by acquainting ourselves with the history of that sort of things, rectify and settle our complex idea belonging to each specific name; and in discourse with others, (if we find them mistake us,) we ought to tell what the complex idea is that we make such a name stand for. this is the more necessary to be done by all those who search after knowledge and philosophical verity, in that children, being taught words, whilst they have but imperfect notions of things, apply them at random, and without much thinking, and seldom frame determined ideas to be signified by them. which custom (it being easy, and serving well enough for the ordinary affairs of life and conversation) they are apt to continue when they are men: and so begin at the wrong end, learning words first and perfectly, but make the notions to which they apply those words afterwards very overtly. by this means it comes to pass, that men speaking the language of their country, i.e. according to grammar rules of that language, do yet speak very improperly of things themselves; and, by their arguing one with another, make but small progress in the discoveries of useful truths, and the knowledge of things, as they are to be found in themselves, and not in our imaginations; and it matters not much for the improvement of our knowledge how they are called. . not easy to be made so. it were therefore to be wished, that men versed in physical inquiries, and acquainted with the several sorts of natural bodies, would set down those simple ideas wherein they observe the individuals of each sort constantly to agree. this would remedy a great deal of that confusion which comes from several persons applying the same name to a collection of a smaller or greater number of sensible qualities, proportionably as they have been more or less acquainted with, or accurate in examining, the qualities of any sort of things which come under one denomination. but a dictionary of this sort, containing, as it were, a natural history, requires too many hands as well as too much time, cost, pains, and sagacity ever to be hoped for; and till that be done, we must content ourselves with such definitions of the names of substances as explain the sense men use them in. and it would be well, where there is occasion, if they would afford us so much. this yet is not usually done; but men talk to one another, and dispute in words, whose meaning is not agreed between them, out of a mistake that the significations of common words are certainly established, and the precise ideas they stand for perfectly known; and that it is a shame to be ignorant of them. both which suppositions are false, no names of complex ideas having so settled determined significations, that they are constantly used for the same precise ideas. nor is it a shame for a man to have a certain knowledge of anything, but by the necessary ways of attaining it; and so it is no discredit not to know what precise idea any sound stands for in another man's mind, without he declare it to me by some other way than barely using that sound, there being no other way, without such a declaration, certainly to know it. indeed the necessity of communication by language brings men to an agreement in the signification of common words, within some tolerable latitude, that may serve for ordinary conversation: and so a man cannot be supposed wholly ignorant of the ideas which are annexed to words by common use, in a language familiar to him. but common use being but a very uncertain rule, which reduces itself at last to the ideas of particular men, proves often but a very variable standard. but though such a dictionary as i have above mentioned will require too much time, cost, and pains to be hoped for in this age; yet methinks it is not unreasonable to propose, that words standing for things which are known and distinguished by their outward shapes should be expressed by little draughts and prints made of them. a vocabulary made after this fashion would perhaps with more ease, and in less time, teach the true signification of many terms, especially in languages of remote countries or ages, and settle truer ideas in men's minds of several things, whereof we read the names in ancient authors, than all the large and laborious comments of learned critics. naturalists, that treat of plants and animals, have found the benefit of this way: and he that has had occasion to consult them will have reason to confess that he has a clearer idea of apium or ibex, from a little print of that herb or beast, than he could have from a long definition of the names of either of them. and so no doubt he would have of strigil and sistrum, if, instead of currycomb and cymbal, (which are the english names dictionaries render them by,) he could see stamped in the margin small pictures of these instruments, as they were in use amongst the ancients. toga, tunica, pallium, are words easily translated by gown, coat, and cloak; but we have thereby no more true ideas of the fashion of those habits amongst the romans, than we have of the faces of the tailors who made them. such things as these, which the eye distinguishes by their shapes, would be best let into the mind by draughts made of them, and more determine the signification of such words, than any other words set for them, or made use of to define them. but this is only by the bye. . v. fifth remedy: to use the same word constantly in the same sense. fifthly, if men will not be at the pains to declare the meaning of their words, and definitions of their terms are not to be had, yet this is the least that can be expected, that, in all discourses wherein one man pretends to instruct or convince another, he should use the same word constantly in the same sense. if this were done, (which nobody can refuse without great disingenuity,) many of the books extant might be spared; many of the controversies in dispute would be at an end; several of those great volumes, swollen with ambiguous words, now used in one sense, and by and by in another, would shrink into a very narrow compass; and many of the philosophers (to mention no other) as well as poets works, might be contained in a nutshell. . when not so used, the variation is to be explained. but after all, the provision of words is so scanty in respect to that infinite variety of thoughts, that men, wanting terms to suit their precise notions, will, notwithstanding their utmost caution, be forced often to use the same word in somewhat different senses. and though in the continuation of a discourse, or the pursuit of an argument, there can be hardly room to digress into a particular definition, as often as a man varies the signification of any term; yet the import of the discourse will, for the most part, if there be no designed fallacy, sufficiently lead candid and intelligent readers into the true meaning of it; but where there is not sufficient to guide the reader, there it concerns the writer to explain his meaning, and show in what sense he there uses that term. book iv of knowledge and probability synopsis of the fourth book. locke's review of the different sorts of ideas, or appearances of what exists, that can be entertained in a human understanding, and of their relations to words, leads, in the fourth book, to an investigation of the extent and validity of the knowledge that our ideas bring within our reach; and into the nature of faith in probability, by which assent is extended beyond knowledge, for the conduct of life. he finds (ch. i, ii) that knowledge is either an intuitive, a demonstrative, or a sensuous perception of absolute certainty, in regard to one or other of four sorts of agreement or disagreement on the part of ideas:--( ) of each idea with itself, as identical, and different from every other; ( ) in their abstract relations to one another; ( ) in their necessary connexions, as qualities and powers coexisting in concrete substances; and ( ) as revelations to us of the final realities of existence. the unconditional certainty that constitutes knowledge is perceptible by man only in regard to the first, second, and fourth of these four sorts: in all general propositions only in regard to the first and second; that is to say, in identical propositions, and in those which express abstract relations of simple or mixed modes, in which nominal and real essences coincide, e. g. propositions in pure mathematics and abstract morality (chh. iii, v-viii). the fourth sort, which express certainty as to realities of existence, refer to any of three realities. for every man is able to perceive with absolute certainty that he himself exists, that god must exist, and that finite beings other than himself exist;--the first of these perceptions being awakened by all our ideas, the second as the consequence of perception of the first, and the last in the reception of our simple ideas of sense (chh. i. section ; ii. section ; iii. section ; iv, ix-xi). agreement of the third sort, of necessary coexistence of simple ideas as qualities and powers in particular substances, with which all physical inquiry is concerned, lies beyond human knowledge; for here the nominal and real essences are not coincident: general propositions of this sort are determined by analogies of experience, in judgments that are more or less probable: intellectually necessary science of nature presupposes omniscience; man's interpretations of nature have to turn upon presumptions of probability (chh. iii. sections - ; iv. sections - ; vi, xiv-xvi). in forming their stock of certainties and probabilities men employ the faculty of reason, faith in divine revelation, and enthusiasm (chh. xvii-xix); much misled by the last, as well as by other causes of 'wrong assent' (ch. xx), when they are at work in 'the three great provinces of the intellectual world' (ch. xxi), concerned respectively with ( ) 'things as knowable' (physica); ( ) 'actions as they depend on us in order to happiness' (practica); and ( ) methods for interpreting the signs of what is, and of what ought to be, that are presented in our ideas and words (logica). chapter i. of knowledge in general. . our knowledge conversant about our ideas only. since the mind, in all its thoughts and reasonings, hath no other immediate object but its own ideas, which it alone does or can contemplate, it is evident that our knowledge is only conversant about them. . knowledge is the perception of the agreement or disagreement of two ideas. knowledge then seems to me to be nothing but the perception of the connexion of and agreement, or disagreement and repugnancy of any of our ideas. in this alone it consists. where this perception is, there is knowledge, and where it is not, there, though we may fancy, guess, or believe, yet we always come short of knowledge. for when we know that white is not black, what do we else but perceive, that these two ideas do not agree? when we possess ourselves with the utmost security of the demonstration, that the three angles of a triangle are equal to two right ones, what do we more but perceive, that equality to two right ones does necessarily agree to, and is inseparable from, the three angles of a triangle? . this agreement or disagreement may be any of four sorts. but to understand a little more distinctly wherein this agreement or disagreement consists, i think we may reduce it all to these four sorts: i. identity, or diversity. ii. relation. iii. co-existence, or necessary connexion. iv. real existence. . first, of identity, or diversity in ideas. first, as to the first sort of agreement or disagreement, viz. identity or diversity. it is the first act of the mind, when it has any sentiments or ideas at all, to perceive its ideas; and so far as it perceives them, to know each what it is, and thereby also to perceive their difference, and that one is not another. this is so absolutely necessary, that without it there could be no knowledge, no reasoning, no imagination, no distinct thoughts at all. by this the mind clearly and infallibly perceives each idea to agree with itself, and to be what it is; and all distinct ideas to disagree, i. e. the one not to be the other: and this it does without pains, labour, or deduction; but at first view, by its natural power of perception and distinction. and though men of art have reduced this into those general rules, what is, is, and it is impossible for the same thing to be and not to be, for ready application in all cases, wherein there may be occasion to reflect on it: yet it is certain that the first exercise of this faculty is about particular ideas. a man infallibly knows, as soon as ever he has them in his mind, that the ideas he calls white and round are the very ideas they are; and that they are not other ideas which he calls red or square. nor can any maxim or proposition in the world make him know it clearer or surer than he did before, and without any such general rule. this then is the first agreement or disagreement which the mind perceives in its ideas; which it always perceives at first sight: and if there ever happen any doubt about it, it will always be found to be about the names, and not the ideas themselves, whose identity and diversity will always be perceived, as soon and clearly as the ideas themselves are; nor can it possibly be otherwise. . secondly, of abstract relations between ideas. secondly, the next sort of agreement or disagreement the mind perceives in any of its ideas may, i think, be called relative, and is nothing but the perception of the relation between any two ideas, of what kind soever, whether substances, modes, or any other. for, since all distinct ideas must eternally be known not to be the same, and so be universally and constantly denied one of another, there could be no room for any positive knowledge at all, if we could not perceive any relation between our ideas, and find out the agreement or disagreement they have one with another, in several ways the mind takes of comparing them. . thirdly, of their necessary co-existence in substances. thirdly, the third sort of agreement or disagreement to be found in our ideas, which the perception of the mind is employed about, is co-existence or non-co-existence in the same subject; and this belongs particularly to substances. thus when we pronounce concerning gold, that it is fixed, our knowledge of this truth amounts to no more but this, that fixedness, or a power to remain in the fire unconsumed, is an idea that always accompanies and is joined with that particular sort of yellowness, weight, fusibility, malleableness, and solubility in aqua regia, which make our complex idea signified by the word gold. . fourthly, of real existence agreeing to any idea. fourthly, the fourth and last sort is that of actual real existence agreeing to any idea. within these four sorts of agreement or disagreement is, i suppose, contained all the knowledge we have, or are capable of. for all the inquiries we can make concerning any of our ideas, all that we know or can affirm concerning any of them, is, that it is, or is not, the same with some other; that it does or does not always co-exist with some other idea in the same subject; that it has this or that relation with some other idea; or that it has a real existence without the mind. thus, 'blue is not yellow,' is of identity. 'two triangles upon equal bases between two parallels are equal,' is of relation. 'iron is susceptible of magnetical impressions,' is of co-existence. 'god is,' is of real existence. though identity and co-existence are truly nothing but relations, yet they are such peculiar ways of agreement or disagreement of our ideas, that they deserve well to be considered as distinct heads, and not under relation in general; since they are so different grounds of affirmation and negation, as will easily appear to any one, who will but reflect on what is said in several places of this essay. i should now proceed to examine the several degrees of our knowledge, but that it is necessary first, to consider the different acceptations of the word knowledge. . knowledge is either actual or habitual. there are several ways wherein the mind is possessed of truth; each of which is called knowledge. i. there is actual knowledge, which is the present view the mind has of the agreement or disagreement of any of its ideas, or of the relation they have one to another. ii. a man is said to know any proposition, which having been once laid before his thoughts, he evidently perceived the agreement or disagreement of the ideas whereof it consists; and so lodged it in his memory, that whenever that proposition comes again to be reflected on, he, without doubt or hesitation, embraces the right side, assents to, and is certain of the truth of it. this, i think, one may call habitual knowledge. and thus a man may be said to know all those truths which are lodged in his memory, by a foregoing clear and full perception, whereof the mind is assured past doubt as often as it has occasion to reflect on them. for our finite understandings being able to think clearly and distinctly but on one thing at once, if men had no knowledge of any more than what they actually thought on, they would all be very ignorant: and he that knew most, would know but one truth, that being all he was able to think on at one time. . habitual knowledge is of two degrees. of habitual knowledge there are, also, vulgarly speaking, two degrees: first, the one is of such truths laid up in the memory as, whenever they occur to the mind, it actually perceives the relation is between those ideas. and this is in all those truths whereof we have an intuitive knowledge; where the ideas themselves, by an immediate view, discover their agreement or disagreement one with another. secondly, the other is of such truths whereof the mind having been convinced, it retains the memory of the conviction, without the proofs. thus, a man that remembers certainly that he once perceived the demonstration, that the three angles of a triangle are equal to two right ones, is certain that he knows it, because he cannot doubt the truth of it. in his adherence to a truth, where the demonstration by which it was at first known is forgot, though a man may be thought rather to believe his memory than really to know, and this way of entertaining a truth seemed formerly to me like something between opinion and knowledge; a sort of assurance which exceeds bare belief, for that relies on the testimony of another;--yet upon a due examination i find it comes not short of perfect certainty, and is in effect true knowledge. that which is apt to mislead our first thoughts into a mistake in this matter is, that the agreement or disagreement of the ideas in this case is not perceived, as it was at first, by an actual view of all the intermediate ideas whereby the agreement or disagreement of those in the proposition was at first perceived; but by other intermediate ideas, that show the agreement or disagreement of the ideas contained in the proposition whose certainty we remember. for example: in this proposition, that 'the three angles of a triangle are equal to two right ones,' one who has seen and clearly perceived the demonstration of this truth knows it to be true, when that demonstration is gone out of his mind; so that at present it is not actually in view, and possibly cannot be recollected: but he knows it in a different way from what he did before. the agreement of the two ideas joined in that proposition is perceived; but it is by the intervention of other ideas than those which at first produced that perception. he remembers, i.e. he knows (for remembrance is but the reviving of some past knowledge) that he was once certain of the truth of this proposition, that the three angles of a triangle are equal to two right ones. the immutability of the same relations between the same immutable things is now the idea that shows him, that if the three angles of a triangle were once equal to two right ones, they will always be equal to two right ones. and hence he comes to be certain, that what was once true in the case, is always true; what ideas once agreed will always agree; and consequently what he once knew to be true, he will always know to be true; as long as he can remember that he once knew it. upon this ground it is, that particular demonstrations in mathematics afford general knowledge. if then the perception, that the same ideas will eternally have the same habitudes and relations, be not a sufficient ground of knowledge, there could be no knowledge of general propositions in mathematics; for no mathematical demonstration would be any other than particular: and when a man had demonstrated any proposition concerning one triangle or circle, his knowledge would not reach beyond that particular diagram. if he would extend it further, he must renew his demonstration in another instance, before he could know it to be true in another like triangle, and so on: by which means one could never come to the knowledge of any general propositions. nobody, i think, can deny, that mr. newton certainly knows any proposition that he now at any time reads in his book to be true; though he has not in actual view that admirable chain of intermediate ideas whereby he at first discovered it to be true. such a memory as that, able to retain such a train of particulars, may be well thought beyond the reach of human faculties, when the very discovery, perception, and laying together that wonderful connexion of ideas, is found to surpass most readers' comprehension. but yet it is evident the author himself knows the proposition to be true, remembering he once saw the connexion of those ideas; as certainly as he knows such a man wounded another, remembering that he saw him run him through. but because the memory is not always so clear as actual perception, and does in all men more or less decay in length of time, this, amongst other differences, is one which shows that demonstrative knowledge is much more imperfect than intuitive, as we shall see in the following chapter. chapter ii. of the degrees of our knowledge. . of the degrees, or differences in clearness, of our knowledge: i. intuitive all our knowledge consisting, as i have said, in the view the mind has of its own ideas, which is the utmost light and greatest certainty we, with our faculties, and in our way of knowledge, are capable of, it may not be amiss to consider a little the degrees of its evidence. the different clearness of our knowledge seems to me to lie in the different way of perception the mind has of the agreement or disagreement of any of its ideas. for if we will reflect on our own ways of thinking, we will find, that sometimes the mind perceives the agreement or disagreement of two ideas immediately by themselves, without the intervention of any other: and this i think we may call intuitive knowledge. for in this the mind is at no pains of proving or examining, but perceives the truth as the eye doth light, only by being directed towards it. thus the mind perceives that white is not black, that a circle is not a triangle, that three are more than two and equal to one and two. such kinds of truths the mind perceives at the first sight of the ideas together, by bare intuition; without the intervention of any other idea: and this kind of knowledge is the clearest and most certain that human frailty is capable of. this part of knowledge is irresistible, and, like bright sunshine, forces itself immediately to be perceived, as soon as ever the mind turns its view that way; and leaves no room for hesitation, doubt, or examination, but the mind is presently filled with the clear light of it. it is on this intuition that depends all the certainty and evidence of all our knowledge; which certainty every one finds to be so great, that he cannot imagine, and therefore not require a greater: for a man cannot conceive himself capable of a greater certainty than to know that any idea in his mind is such as he perceives it to be; and that two ideas, wherein he perceives a difference, are different and not precisely the same. he that demands a greater certainty than this, demands he knows not what, and shows only that he has a mind to be a sceptic, without being able to be so. certainty depends so wholly on this intuition, that, in the next degree of knowledge which i call demonstrative, this intuition is necessary in all the connexions of the intermediate ideas, without which we cannot attain knowledge and certainty. . ii. demonstrative. the next degree of knowledge is, where the mind perceives the agreement or disagreement of any ideas, but not immediately. though wherever the mind perceives the agreement or disagreement of any of its ideas, there be certain knowledge; yet it does not always happen, that the mind sees that agreement or disagreement, which there is between them, even where it is discoverable; and in that case remains in ignorance, and at most gets no further than a probable conjecture. the reason why the mind cannot always perceive presently the agreement or disagreement of two ideas, is, because those ideas, concerning whose agreement or disagreement the inquiry is made, cannot by the mind be so put together as to show it. in this case then, when the mind cannot so bring its ideas together as by their immediate comparison, and as it were juxta-position or application one to another, to perceive their agreement or disagreement, it is fain, by the intervention of other ideas, (one or more, as it happens) to discover the agreement or disagreement which it searches; and this is that which we call reasoning. thus, the mind being willing to know the agreement or disagreement in bigness between the three angles of a triangle and two right ones, cannot by an immediate view and comparing them do it: because the three angles of a triangle cannot be brought at once, and be compared with any other one, or two, angles; and so of this the mind has no immediate, no intuitive knowledge. in this case the mind is fain to find out some other angles, to which the three angles of a triangle have an equality; and, finding those equal to two right ones, comes to know their equality to two right ones. . demonstration depends on clearly perceived proofs. those intervening ideas, which serve to show the agreement of any two others, are called proofs; and where the agreement and disagreement is by this means plainly and clearly perceived, it is called demonstration; it being shown to the understanding, and the mind made to see that it is so. a quickness in the mind to find out these intermediate ideas, (that shall discover the agreement or disagreement of any other,) and to apply them right, is, i suppose, that which is called sagacity. . as certain, but not so easy and ready as intuitive knowledge. this knowledge, by intervening proofs, though it be certain, yet the evidence of it is not altogether so clear and bright, nor the assent so ready, as in intuitive knowledge. for, though in demonstration the mind does at last perceive the agreement or disagreement of the ideas it considers; yet it is not without pains and attention: there must be more than one transient view to find it. a steady application and pursuit are required to this discovery: and there must be a progression by steps and degrees, before the mind can in this way arrive at certainty, and come to perceive the agreement or repugnancy between two ideas that need proofs and the use of reason to show it. . the demonstrated conclusion not without doubt, precedent to the demonstration. another difference between intuitive and demonstrative knowledge is, that, though in the latter all doubt be removed when, by the intervention of the intermediate ideas, the agreement or disagreement is perceived, yet before the demonstration there was a doubt; which in intuitive knowledge cannot happen to the mind that has its faculty of perception left to a degree capable of distinct ideas; no more than it can be a doubt to the eye (that can distinctly see white and black), whether this ink and this paper be all of a colour. if there be sight in the eyes, it will, at first glimpse, without hesitation, perceive the words printed on this paper different from the colour of the paper: and so if the mind have the faculty of distinct perception, it will perceive the agreement or disagreement of those ideas that produce intuitive knowledge. if the eyes have lost the faculty of seeing, or the mind of perceiving, we in vain inquire after the quickness of sight in one, or clearness of perception in the other. . not so clear as intuitive knowledge. it is true, the perception produced by demonstration is also very clear; yet it is often with a great abatement of that evident lustre and full assurance that always accompany that which i call intuitive: like a face reflected by several mirrors one to another, where, as long as it retains the similitude and agreement with the object, it produces a knowledge; but it is still, in every successive reflection, with a lessening of that perfect clearness and distinctness which is in the first; till at last, after many removes, it has a great mixture of dimness, and is not at first sight so knowable, especially to weak eyes. thus it is with knowledge made out by a long train of proof. . each step in demonstrated knowledge must have intuitive evidence. now, in every step reason makes in demonstrative knowledge, there is an intuitive knowledge of that agreement or disagreement it seeks with the next intermediate idea which it uses as a proof: for if it were not so, that yet would need a proof; since without the perception of such agreement or disagreement, there is no knowledge produced: if it be perceived by itself, it is intuitive knowledge: if it cannot be perceived by itself, there is need of some intervening idea, as a common measure, to show their agreement or disagreement. by which it is plain, that every step in reasoning that produces knowledge, has intuitive certainty; which when the mind perceives, there is no more required but to remember it, to make the agreement or disagreement of the ideas concerning which we inquire visible and certain. so that to make anything a demonstration, it is necessary to perceive the immediate agreement of the intervening ideas, whereby the agreement or disagreement of the two ideas under examination (whereof the one is always the first, and the other the last in the account) is found. this intuitive perception of the agreement or disagreement of the intermediate ideas, in each step and progression of the demonstration, must also be carried exactly in the mind, and a man must be sure that no part is left out: which, because in long deductions, and the use of many proofs, the memory does not always so readily and exactly retain; therefore it comes to pass, that this is more imperfect than intuitive knowledge, and men embrace often falsehood for demonstrations. . hence the mistake, ex praecognitis, et praeconcessis. the necessity of this intuitive knowledge, in each step of scientifical or demonstrative reasoning, gave occasion, i imagine, to that mistaken axiom, that all reasoning was ex praecognitis et praeconcessis: which, how far it is a mistake, i shall have occasion to show more at large, when i come to consider propositions, and particularly those propositions which are called maxims, and to show that it is by a mistake that they are supposed to be the foundations of all our knowledge and reasonings. . demonstration not limited to ideas of mathematical quantity. [it has been generally taken for granted, that mathematics alone are capable of demonstrative certainty: but to have such an agreement or disagreement as may intuitively be perceived, being, as i imagine, not the privilege of the ideas of number, extension, and figure alone, it may possibly be the want of due method and application in us, and not of sufficient evidence in things, that demonstration has been thought to have so little to do in other parts of knowledge, and been scarce so much as aimed at by any but mathematicians.] for whatever ideas we have wherein the mind can perceive the immediate agreement or disagreement that is between them, there the mind is capable of intuitive knowledge; and where it can perceive the agreement or disagreement of any two ideas, by an intuitive perception of the agreement or disagreement they have with any intermediate ideas, there the mind is capable of demonstration: which is not limited to ideas of extension, figure, number, and their modes. . why it has been thought to be so limited. the reason why it has been generally sought for, and supposed to be only in those, i imagine has been, not only the general usefulness of those sciences; but because, in comparing their equality or excess, the modes of numbers have every the least difference very clear and perceivable: and though in extension every the least excess is not so perceptible, yet the mind has found out ways to examine, and discover demonstratively, the just equality of two angles, or extensions, or figures: and both these, i. e. numbers and figures, can be set down by visible and lasting marks, wherein the ideas under consideration are perfectly determined; which for the most part they are not, where they are marked only by names and words. . modes of qualities not demonstrable like modes of quantity. but in other simple ideas, whose modes and differences are made and counted by degrees, and not quantity, we have not so nice and accurate a distinction of their differences as to perceive, or find ways to measure, their just equality, or the least differences. for those other simple ideas, being appearances of sensations produced in us, by the size, figure, number, and motion of minute corpuscles singly insensible; their different degrees also depend upon the variation of some or of all those causes: which, since it cannot be observed by us, in particles of matter whereof each is too subtile to be perceived, it is impossible for us to have any exact measures of the different degrees of these simple ideas. for, supposing the sensation or idea we name whiteness be produced in us by a certain number of globules, which, having a verticity about their own centres, strike upon the retina of the eye, with a certain degree of rotation, as well as progressive swiftness; it will hence easily follow, that the more the superficial parts of any body are so ordered as to reflect the greater number of globules of light, and to give them the proper rotation, which is fit to produce this sensation of white in us, the more white will that body appear, that from an equal space sends to the retina the greater number of such corpuscles, with that peculiar sort of motion. i do not say that the nature of light consists in very small round globules; nor of whiteness in such a texture of parts as gives a certain rotation to these globules when it reflects them: for i am not now treating physically of light or colours. but this i think i may say, that i cannot (and i would be glad any one would make intelligible that he did) conceive how bodies without us can any ways affect our senses, but by the immediate contact of the sensible bodies themselves, as in tasting and feeling, or the impulse of some sensible particles coming from them, as in seeing, hearing, and smelling; by the different impulse of which parts, caused by their different size, figure, and motion, the variety of sensations is produced in us. . particles of light and simple ideas of colour. whether then they be globules or no; or whether they have a verticity about their own centres that produces the idea of whiteness in us; this is certain, that the more particles of light are reflected from a body, fitted to give them that peculiar motion which produces the sensation of whiteness in us; and possibly too, the quicker that peculiar motion is,--the whiter does the body appear from which the greatest number are reflected, as is evident in the same piece of paper put in the sunbeams, in the shade, and in a dark hole; in each of which it will produce in us the idea of whiteness in far different degrees. . the secondary qualities of things not discovered by demonstration. not knowing, therefore, what number of particles, nor what motion of them, is fit to produce any precise degree of whiteness, we cannot demonstrate the certain equality of any two degrees of whiteness; because we have no certain standard to measure them by, nor means to distinguish every the least real difference, the only help we have being from our senses, which in this point fail us. but where the difference is so great as to produce in the mind clearly distinct ideas, whose differences can be perfectly retained, there these ideas or colours, as we see in different kinds, as blue and red, are as capable of demonstration as ideas of number and extension. what i have here said of whiteness and colours, i think holds true in all secondary qualities and their modes. . iii. sensitive knowledge of the particular existence of finite beings without us. these two, viz. intuition and demonstration, are the degrees of our knowledge; whatever comes short of one of these, with what assurance soever embraced, is but faith or opinion, but not knowledge, at least in all general truths. there is, indeed, another perception of the mind, employed about the particular existence of finite beings without us, which, going beyond bare probability, and yet not reaching perfectly to either of the foregoing degrees of certainty, passes under the name of knowledge. there can be nothing more certain than that the idea we receive from an external object is in our minds: this is intuitive knowledge. but whether there be anything more than barely that idea in our minds; whether we can thence certainly infer the existence of anything without us, which corresponds to that idea, is that whereof some men think there may be a question made; because men may have such ideas in their minds, when no such thing exists, no such object affects their senses. but yet here i think we are provided with an evidence that puts us past doubting. for i ask any one, whether he be not invincibly conscious to himself of a different perception, when he looks on the sun by day, and thinks on it by night; when he actually tastes wormwood, or smells a rose, or only thinks on that savour or odour? we as plainly find the difference there is between any idea revived in our minds by our own memory, and actually coming into our minds by our senses, as we do between any two distinct ideas. if any one say, a dream may do the same thing, and all these ideas may be produced, in us without any external objects; he may please to dream that i make him this answer:--i. that it is no great matter, whether i remove his scruple or no: where all is but dream, reasoning and arguments are of no use, truth and knowledge nothing. . that i believe he will allow a very manifest difference between dreaming of being in the fire, and being actually in it. but yet if he be resolved to appear so sceptical as to maintain, that what i call being actually in the fire is nothing but a dream; and that we cannot thereby certainly know, that any such thing as fire actually exists without us: i answer, that we certainly finding that pleasure or pain follows upon the application of certain objects to us, whose existence we perceive, or dream that we perceive, by our senses; this certainty is as great as our happiness or misery, beyond which we have no concernment to know or to be. so that, i think, we may add to the two former sorts of knowledge this also, of the existence of particular external objects, by that perception and consciousness we have of the actual entrance of ideas from them, and allow these three degrees of knowledge, viz. intuitive, demonstrative, and sensitive; in each of which there are different degrees and ways of evidence and certainty. . knowledge not always clear, where the ideas that enter into it are clear. but since our knowledge is founded on and employed about our ideas only, will it not follow from thence that it is conformable to our ideas; and that where our ideas are clear and distinct, or obscure and confused, our knowledge will be so too? to which i answer, no: for our knowledge consisting in the perception of the agreement or disagreement of any two ideas, its clearness or obscurity consists in the clearness or obscurity of that perception, and not in the clearness or obscurity of the ideas themselves: v. g. a man that has as clear ideas of the angles of a triangle, and of equality to two right ones, as any mathematician in the world, may yet have but a very obscure perception of their agreement, and so have but a very obscure knowledge of it. [but ideas which, by reason of their obscurity or otherwise, are confused, cannot produce any clear or distinct knowledge; because, as far as any ideas are confused, so far the mind cannot perceive clearly whether they agree or disagree. or to express the same thing in a way less apt to be misunderstood: he that hath not determined ideas to the words he uses, cannot make propositions of them of whose truth he can be certain.] chapter iii. of the extent of human knowledge. . extent of our knowledge. knowledge, as has been said, lying in the perception of the agreement or disagreement of any of our ideas, it follows from hence, that, first, it extends no further than we have ideas. first, we can have knowledge no further than we have ideas. . secondly, it extends no further than we can perceive their agreement or disagreement. secondly, that we can have no knowledge further than we can have perception of that agreement or disagreement. which perception being: . either by intuition, or the immediate comparing any two ideas; or, . by reason, examining the agreement or disagreement of two ideas, by the intervention of some others; or, . by sensation, perceiving the existence of particular things: hence it also follows: . thirdly, intuitive knowledge extends itself not to all the relation of all our ideas. thirdly, that we cannot have an intuitive knowledge that shall extend itself to all our ideas, and all that we would know about them; because we cannot examine and perceive all the relations they have one to another, by juxta-position, or an immediate comparison one with another. thus, having the ideas of an obtuse and an acute angled triangle, both drawn from equal bases, and between parallels, i can, by intuitive knowledge, perceive the one not to be the other, but cannot that way know whether they be equal or no; because their agreement or disagreement in equality can never be perceived by an immediate comparing them: the difference of figure makes their parts incapable of an exact immediate application; and therefore there is need of some intervening qualities to measure them by, which is demonstration, or rational knowledge. . fourthly, nor does demonstrative knowledge. fourthly, it follows, also, from what is above observed, that our rational knowledge cannot reach to the whole extent of our ideas: because between two different ideas we would examine, we cannot always find such mediums as we can connect one to another with an intuitive knowledge in all the parts of the deduction; and wherever that fails, we come short of knowledge and demonstration. . fifthly, sensitive knowledge narrower than either. fifthly, sensitive knowledge reaching no further than the existence of things actually present to our senses, is yet much narrower than either of the former. . sixthly, our knowledge, therefore narrower than our ideas. sixthly, from all which it is evident, that the extent of our knowledge comes not only short of the reality of things, but even of the extent of our own ideas. though our knowledge be limited to our ideas, and cannot exceed them either in extent or perfection; and though these be very narrow bounds, in respect of the extent of all-being, and far short of what we may justly imagine to be in some even created understandings, not tied down to the dull and narrow information that is to be received from some few, and not very acute, ways of perception, such as are our senses; yet it would be well with us if our knowledge were but as large as our ideas, and there were not many doubts and inquiries concerning the ideas we have, whereof we are not, nor i believe ever shall be in this world resolved. nevertheless, i do not question but that human knowledge, under the present circumstances of our beings and constitutions, may be carried much further than it has hitherto been, if men would sincerely, and with freedom of mind, employ all that industry and labour of thought, in improving the means of discovering truth, which they do for the colouring or support of falsehood, to maintain a system, interest, or party they are once engaged in. but yet after all, i think i may, without injury to human perfection, be confident, that our knowledge would never reach to all we might desire to know concerning those ideas we have; nor be able to surmount all the difficulties, and resolve all the questions that might arise concerning any of them. we have the ideas of a square, a circle, and equality; and yet, perhaps, shall never be able to find a circle equal to a square, and certainly know that it is so. we have the ideas of matter and thinking, but possibly shall never be able to know whether [any mere material being] thinks or no; it being impossible for us, by the contemplation of our own ideas, without revelation, to discover whether omnipotency has not given to some systems of matter, fitly disposed, a power to perceive and think, or else joined and fixed to matter, so disposed, a thinking immaterial substance: it being, in respect of our notions, not much more remote from our comprehension to conceive that god can, if he pleases, superadd to matter a faculty of thinking, than that he should superadd to it another substance with a faculty of thinking; since we know not wherein thinking consists, nor to what sort of substances the almighty has been pleased to give that power, which cannot be in any created being, but merely by the good pleasure and bounty of the creator. for i see no contradiction in it, that the first eternal thinking being, or omnipotent spirit, should, if he pleased, give to certain systems of created senseless matter, put together as he thinks fit, some degrees of sense, perception, and thought: though, as i think i have proved, lib. iv. ch. , section , &c., it is no less than a contradiction to suppose matter (which is evidently in its own nature void of sense and thought) should be that eternal first-thinking being. what certainty of knowledge can any one have, that some perceptions, such as, v. g., pleasure and pain, should not be in some bodies themselves, after a certain manner modified and moved, as well as that they should be in an immaterial substance, upon the motion of the parts of body: body, as far as we can conceive, being able only to strike and affect body, and motion, according to the utmost reach of our ideas, being able to produce nothing but motion; so that when we allow it to produce pleasure or pain, or the idea of a colour or sound, we are fain to quit our reason, go beyond our ideas, and attribute it wholly to the good pleasure of our maker. for, since we must allow he has annexed effects to motion which we can no way conceive motion able to produce, what reason have we to conclude that he could not order them as well to be produced in a subject we cannot conceive capable of them, as well as in a subject we cannot conceive the motion of matter can any way operate upon? i say not this, that i would any way lessen the belief of the soul's immateriality: i am not here speaking of probability, but knowledge, and i think not only that it becomes the modesty of philosophy not to pronounce magisterially, where we want that evidence that can produce knowledge; but also, that it is of use to us to discern how far our knowledge does reach; for the state we are at present in, not being that of vision, we must in many things content ourselves with faith and probability: and in the present question, about the immateriality of the soul, if our faculties cannot arrive at demonstrative certainty, we need not think it strange. all the great ends of morality and religion are well enough secured, without philosophical proofs of the soul's immateriality; since it is evident, that he who made us at the beginning to subsist here, sensible intelligent beings, and for several years continued us in such a state, can and will restore us to the like state of sensibility in another world, and make us capable there to receive the retribution he has designed to men, according to their doings in this life. [and therefore it is not of such mighty necessity to determine one way or the other, as some, over-zealous for or against the immateriality of the soul, have been forward to make the world believe. who, either on the one side, indulging too much their thoughts immersed altogether in matter, can allow no existence to what is not material: or who, on the other side, finding not cogitation within the natural powers of matter, examined over and over again by the utmost intention of mind, have the confidence to conclude--that omnipotency itself cannot give perception and thought to a substance which has the modification of solidity. he that considers how hardly sensation is, in our thoughts, reconcilable to extended matter; or existence to anything that has no extension at all, will confess that he is very far from certainly knowing what his soul is. it is a point which seems to me to be put out of the reach of our knowledge: and he who will give himself leave to consider freely, and look into the dark and intricate part of each hypothesis, will scarce find his reason able to determine him fixedly for or against the soul's materiality. since, on which side soever he views it, either as an unextended substance, or as a thinking extended matter, the difficulty to conceive either will, whilst either alone is in his thoughts, still drive him to the contrary side. an unfair way which some men take with themselves: who, because of the inconceivableness of something they find in one, throw themselves violently into the contrary hypothesis, though altogether as unintelligible to an unbiassed understanding. this serves not only to show the weakness and the scantiness of our knowledge, but the insignificant triumph of such sort of arguments; which, drawn from our own views, may satisfy us that we can find no certainty on one side of the question: but do not at all thereby help us to truth by running into the opposite opinion; which, on examination, will be found clogged with equal difficulties. for what safety, what advantage to any one is it, for the avoiding the seeming absurdities, and to him unsurmountable rubs, he meets with in one opinion, to take refuge in the contrary, which is built on something altogether as inexplicable, and as far remote from his comprehension? it is past controversy, that we have in us something that thinks; our very doubts about what it is, confirm the certainty of its being, though we must content ourselves in the ignorance of what kind of being it is: and it is in vain to go about to be sceptical in this, as it is unreasonable in most other cases to be positive against the being of anything, because we cannot comprehend its nature. for i would fain know what substance exists, that has not something in it which manifestly baffles our understandings. other spirits, who see and know the nature and inward constitution of things, how much must they exceed us in knowledge? to which, if we add larger comprehension, which enables them at one glance to see the connexion and agreement of very many ideas, and readily supplies to them the intermediate proofs, which we by single and slow steps, and long poring in the dark, hardly at last find out, and are often ready to forget one before we have hunted out another; we may guess at some part of the happiness of superior ranks of spirits, who have a quicker and more penetrating sight, as well as a larger field of knowledge.] but to return to the argument in hand: our knowledge, i say, is not only limited to the paucity and imperfections of the ideas we have, and which we employ it about, but even comes short of that too: but how far it reaches, let us now inquire. . how far our knowledge reaches. the affirmations or negations we make concerning the ideas we have, may, as i have before intimated in general, be reduced to these four sorts, viz. identity, co-existence, relation, and real existence. i shall examine how far our knowledge extends in each of these: . firstly, our knowledge of identity and diversity in ideas extends as far as our ideas themselves. first, as to identity and diversity. in this way of agreement or disagreement of our ideas, our intuitive knowledge is as far extended as our ideas themselves: and there can be no idea in the mind, which it does not, presently, by an intuitive knowledge, perceive to be what it is, and to be different from any other. . secondly, of their co-existence, extends only a very little way. secondly, as to the second sort, which is the agreement or disagreement of our ideas in co-existence, in this our knowledge is very short; though in this consists the greatest and most material part of our knowledge concerning substances. for our ideas of the species of substances being, as i have showed, nothing but certain collections of simple ideas united in one subject, and so co-existing together; v.g. our idea of flame is a body hot, luminous, and moving upward; of gold, a body heavy to a certain degree, yellow, malleable, and fusible: for these, or some such complex ideas as these, in men's minds, do these two names of the different substances, flame and gold, stand for. when we would know anything further concerning these, or any other sort of substances, what do we inquire, but what other qualities or powers these substances have or have not? which is nothing else but to know what other simple ideas do, or do not co-exist with those that make up that complex idea? . because the connexion between simple ideas in substances is for the most part unknown. this, how weighty and considerable a part soever of human science, is yet very narrow, and scarce any at all. the reason whereof is, that the simple ideas whereof our complex ideas of substances are made up are, for the most part, such as carry with them, in their own nature, no visible necessary connexion or inconsistency with any other simple ideas, whose co-existence with them we would inform ourselves about. . especially of the secondary qualities of bodies. the ideas that our complex ones of substances are made up of, and about which our knowledge concerning substances is most employed, are those of their secondary qualities; which depending all (as has been shown) upon the primary qualities of their minute and insensible parts; or, if not upon them, upon something yet more remote from our comprehension; it is impossible we should know which have a necessary union or inconsistency one with another. for, not knowing the root they spring from, not knowing what size, figure, and texture of parts they are, on which depend, and from which result those qualities which make our complex idea of gold, it is impossible we should know what other qualities result from, or are incompatible with, the same constitution of the insensible parts of gold; and so consequently must always co-exist with that complex idea we have of it, or else are inconsistent with it. . because necessary connexion between any secondary and the primary qualities is undiscoverable by us. besides this ignorance of the primary qualities of the insensible parts of bodies, on which depend all their secondary qualities, there is yet another and more incurable part of ignorance, which sets us more remote from a certain knowledge of the co-existence or inco-existence (if i may so say) of different ideas in the same subject; and that is, that there is no discoverable connexion between any secondary quality and those primary qualities which it depends on. . we have no perfect knowledge of their primary qualities. that the size, figure, and motion of one body should cause a change in the size, figure, and motion of another body, is not beyond our conception; the separation of the parts of one body upon the intrusion of another; and the change from rest to motion upon impulse; these and the like seem to have some connexion one with another. and if we knew these primary qualities of bodies, we might have reason to hope we might be able to know a great deal more of these operations of them one upon another: but our minds not being able to discover any connexion betwixt these primary qualities of bodies and the sensations that are produced in us by them, we can never be able to establish certain and undoubted rules of the consequence or co-existence of any secondary qualities, though we could discover the size, figure, or motion of those invisible parts which immediately produce them. we are so far from knowing what figure, size, or motion of parts produce a yellow colour, a sweet taste, or a sharp sound, that we can by no means conceive how any size, figure, or motion of any particles, can possibly produce in us the idea of any colour, taste, or sound whatsoever: there is no conceivable connexion between the one and the other. . and seek in vain for certain and universal knowledge of unperceived qualities in substances. in vain, therefore, shall we endeavour to discover by our ideas (the only true way of certain and universal knowledge) what other ideas are to be found constantly joined with that of our complex idea of any substance: since we neither know the real constitution of the minute parts on which their qualities do depend; nor, did we know them, could we discover any necessary connexion between them and any of the secondary qualities: which is necessary to be done before we can certainly know their necessary co-existence. so, that, let our complex idea of any species of substances be what it will, we can hardly, from the simple ideas contained in it, certainly determine the necessary co-existence of any other quality whatsoever. our knowledge in all these inquiries reaches very little further than our experience. indeed some few of the primary qualities have a necessary dependence and visible connexion one with another, as figure necessarily supposes extension; receiving or communicating motion by impulse, supposes solidity. but though these, and perhaps some others of our ideas have: yet there are so few of them that have a visible connexion one with another, that we can by intuition or demonstration discover the co-existence of very few of the qualities that are to be found united in substances: and we are left only to the assistance of our senses to make known to us what qualities they contain. for of all the qualities that are co-existent in any subject, without this dependence and evident connexion of their ideas one with another, we cannot know certainly any two to co-exist, any further than experience, by our senses, informs us. thus, though we see the yellow colour, and, upon trial, find the weight, malleableness, fusibility, and fixedness that are united in a piece of gold; yet, because no one of these ideas has any evident dependence or necessary connexion with the other, we cannot certainly know that where any four of these are, the fifth will be there also, how highly probable soever it may be; because the highest probability amounts not to certainty, without which there can be no true knowledge. for this co-existence can be no further known than it is perceived; and it cannot be perceived but either in particular subjects, by the observation of our senses, or, in general, by the necessary connexion of the ideas themselves. . of repugnancy to co-exist, our knowledge is larger. as to the incompatibility or repugnancy to co-existence, we may know that any subject may have of each sort of primary qualities but one particular at once: v.g. each particular extension, figure, number of parts, motion, excludes all other of each kind. the like also is certain of all sensible ideas peculiar to each sense; for whatever of each kind is present in any subject, excludes all other of that sort: v.g. no one subject can have two smells or two colours at the same time. to this, perhaps will be said, has not an opal, or the infusion of lignum nephriticum, two colours at the same time? to which i answer, that these bodies, to eyes differently, placed, may at the same time afford different colours: but i take liberty also to say, that, to eyes differently placed, it is different parts of the object that reflect the particles of light: and therefore it is not the same part of the object, and so not the very same subject, which at the same time appears both yellow and azure. for, it is as impossible that the very same particle of any body should at the same time differently modify or reflect the rays of light, as that it should have two different figures and textures at the same time. . our knowledge of the co-existence of power in bodies extends but a very little way. but as to the powers of substances to change the sensible qualities of other bodies, which make a great part of our inquiries about them, and is no inconsiderable branch of our knowledge; i doubt as to these, whether our knowledge reaches much further than our experience; or whether we can come to the discovery of most of these powers, and be certain that they are in any subject, by the connexion with any of those ideas which to us make its essence. because the active and passive powers of bodies, and their ways of operating, consisting in a texture and motion of parts which we cannot by any means come to discover; it is but in very few cases we can be able to perceive their dependence on, or repugnance to, any of those ideas which make our complex one of that sort of things. i have here instanced in the corpuscularian hypothesis, as that which is thought to go furthest in an intelligible explication of those qualities of bodies; and i fear the weakness of human understanding is scarce able to substitute another, which will afford us a fuller and clearer discovery of the necessary connexion and co-existence of the powers which are to be observed united in several sorts of them. this at least is certain, that, whichever hypothesis be clearest and truest, (for of that it is not my business to determine,) our knowledge concerning corporeal substances will be very little advanced by any of them, till we are made to see what qualities and powers of bodies have a necessary connexion or repugnancy one with another; which in the present state of philosophy i think we know but to a very small degree: and i doubt whether, with those faculties we have, we shall ever be able to carry our general knowledge (i say not particular experience) in this part much further. experience is that which in this part we must depend on. and it were to be wished that it were more improved. we find the advantages some men's generous pains have this way brought to the stock of natural knowledge. and if others, especially the philosophers by fire, who pretend to it, had been so wary in their observations, and sincere in their reports as those who call themselves philosophers ought to have been, our acquaintance with the bodies here about us, and our insight into their powers and operations had been yet much greater. . of the powers that co-exist in spirits yet narrower. if we are at a loss in respect of the powers and operations of bodies, i think it is easy to conclude we are much more in the dark in reference to spirits; whereof we naturally have no ideas but what we draw from that of our own, by reflecting on the operations of our own souls within us, as far as they can come within our observation. but how inconsiderable a rank the spirits that inhabit our bodies hold amongst those various and possibly innumerable kinds of nobler beings; and how far short they come of the endowments and perfections of cherubim and seraphim, and infinite sorts of spirits above us, is what by a transient hint in another place i have offered to my reader's consideration. . thirdly, of relations between abstracted ideas it is not easy to say how far our knowledge extends. thirdly, as to the third sort of our knowledge, viz. the agreement or disagreement of any of our ideas in any other relation: this, as it is the largest field of our knowledge, so it is hard to determine how far it may extend: because the advances that are made in this part of knowledge, depending on our sagacity in finding intermediate ideas, that may show the relations and habitudes of ideas whose co-existence is not considered, it is a hard matter to tell when we are at an end of such discoveries; and when reason has all the helps it is capable of, for the finding of proofs, or examining the agreement or disagreement of remote ideas. they that are ignorant of algebra cannot imagine the wonders in this kind are to be done by it: and what further improvements and helps advantageous to other parts of knowledge the sagacious mind of man may yet find out, it is not easy to determine. this at least i believe, that the ideas of quantity are not those alone that are capable of demonstration and knowledge; and that other, and perhaps more useful, parts of contemplation, would afford us certainty, if vices, passions, and domineering interest did not oppose or menace such endeavours. morality capable of demonstration the idea of a supreme being, infinite in power, goodness, and wisdom, whose workmanship we are, and on whom we depend; and the idea of ourselves, as understanding, rational creatures, being such as are clear in us, would, i suppose, if duly considered and pursued, afford such foundations of our duty and rules of action as might place morality amongst the sciences capable of demonstration: wherein i doubt not but from self-evident propositions, by necessary consequences, as incontestible as those in mathematics, the measures of right and wrong might be made out, to any one that will apply himself with the same indifferency and attention to the one as he does to the other of these sciences. the relation of other modes may certainly be perceived, as well as those of number and extension: and i cannot see why they should not also be capable of demonstration, if due methods were thought on to examine or pursue their agreement or disagreement. 'where there is no property there is no injustice,' is a proposition as certain as any demonstration in euclid: for the idea of property being a right to anything, and the idea of which the name 'injustice' is given being the invasion or violation of that right, it is evident that these ideas, being thus established, and these names annexed to them, i can as certainly know this proposition to be true, as that a triangle has three angles equal to two right ones. again: 'no government allows absolute liberty.' the idea of government being the establishment of society upon certain rules or laws which require conformity to them; and the idea of absolute liberty being for any one to do whatever he pleases; i am as capable of being certain of the truth of this proposition as of any in the mathematics. . two things have made moral ideas to be thought incapable of demonstration: their unfitness for sensible representation, and their complexedness. that which in this respect has given the advantage to the ideas of quantity, and made them thought more capable of certainty and demonstration, is, first, that they can be set down and represented by sensible marks, which have a greater and nearer correspondence with them than any words or sounds whatsoever. diagrams drawn on paper are copies of the ideas in the mind, and not liable to the uncertainty that words carry in their signification. an angle, circle, or square, drawn in lines, lies open to the view, and cannot be mistaken: it remains unchangeable, and may at leisure be considered and examined, and the demonstration be revised, and all the parts of it may be gone over more than once, without any danger of the least change in the ideas. this cannot be thus done in moral ideas: we have no sensible marks that resemble them, whereby we can set them down; we have nothing but words to express them by; which, though when written they remain the same, yet the ideas they stand for may change in the same man; and it is very seldom that they are not different in different persons. secondly, another thing that makes the greater difficulty in ethics is, that moral ideas are commonly more complex than those of the figures ordinarily considered in mathematics. from whence these two inconveniences follow:--first, that their names are of more uncertain signification, the precise collection of simple ideas they stand for not being so easily agreed on; and so the sign that is used for them in communication always, and in thinking often, does not steadily carry with it the same idea. upon which the same disorder, confusion, and error follow, as would if a man, going to demonstrate something of an heptagon, should, in the diagram he took to do it, leave out one of the angles, or by oversight make the figure with one angle more than the name ordinarily imported, or he intended it should when at first he thought of his demonstration. this often happens, and is hardly avoidable in very complex moral ideas, where the same name being retained, one angle, i.e. one simple idea, is left out, or put in the complex one (still called by the same name) more at one time than another. secondly, from the complexedness of these moral ideas there follows another inconvenience, viz. that the mind cannot easily retain those precise combinations so exactly and perfectly as is necessary in the examination of the habitudes and correspondences, agreements or disagreements, of several of them one with another; especially where it is to be judged of by long deductions, and the intervention of several other complex ideas to show the agreement or disagreement of two remote ones. the great help against this which mathematicians find in diagrams and figures, which remain unalterable in their draughts, is very apparent, and the memory would often have great difficulty otherwise to retain them so exactly, whilst the mind went over the parts of them step by step to examine their several correspondences. and though in casting up a long sum either in addition, multiplication, or division, every part be only a progression of the mind taking a view of its own ideas, and considering their agreement or disagreement, and the resolution of the question be nothing but the result of the whole, made up of such particulars, whereof the mind has a clear perception: yet, without setting down the several parts by marks, whose precise significations are known, and by marks that last, and remain in view when the memory had let them go, it would be almost impossible to carry so many different ideas in the mind, without confounding or letting slip some parts of the reckoning, and thereby making all our reasonings about it useless. in which case the cyphers or marks help not the mind at all to perceive the agreement of any two or more numbers, their equalities or proportions; that the mind has only by intuition of its own ideas of the numbers themselves. but the numerical characters are helps to the memory, to record and retain the several ideas about which the demonstration is made, whereby a man may know how far his intuitive knowledge in surveying several of the particulars has proceeded; that so he may without confusion go on to what is yet unknown; and at last have in one view before him the result of all his perceptions and reasonings. . remedies of our difficulties in dealing demonstratively with moral ideas. one part of these disadvantages in moral ideas which has made them be thought not capable of demonstration, may in a good measure be remedied by definitions, setting down that collection of simple ideas, which every term shall stand for; and then using the terms steadily and constantly for that precise collection. and what methods algebra, or something of that kind, may hereafter suggest, to remove the other difficulties, it is not easy to foretell. confident i am, that, if men would in the same method, and with the same indifferency, search after moral as they do mathematical truths, they would find them have a stronger connexion one with another, and a more necessary consequence from our clear and distinct ideas, and to come nearer perfect demonstration than is commonly imagined. but much of this is not to be expected, whilst the desire of esteem, riches, or power makes men espouse the well-endowed opinions in fashion, and then seek arguments either to make good their beauty, or varnish over and cover their deformity. nothing being so beautiful to the eye as truth is to the mind; nothing so deformed and irreconcilable to the understanding as a lie. for though many a man can with satisfaction enough own a no very handsome wife in his bosom; yet who is bold enough openly to avow that he has espoused a falsehood, and received into his breast so ugly a thing as a lie? whilst the parties of men cram their tenets down all men's throats whom they can get into their power, without permitting them to examine their truth or falsehood; and will not let truth have fair play in the world, nor men the liberty to search after it; what improvements can be expected of this kind? what greater light can be hoped for in the moral sciences? the subject part of mankind in most places might, instead thereof, with egyptian bondage, expect egyptian darkness, were not the candle of the lord set up by himself in men's minds, which it is impossible for the breath or power of man wholly to extinguish. . fourthly, of the three real existences of which we have certain knowledge. fourthly, as to the fourth sort of our knowledge, viz. of the real actual existence of things, we have an intuitive knowledge of our own existence, and a demonstrative knowledge of the existence of a god: of the existence of anything else, we have no other but a sensitive knowledge; which extends not beyond the objects present to our senses. . our ignorance great. our knowledge being so narrow, as i have shown, it will perhaps give us some light into the present state of our minds if we look a little into the dark side, and take a view of our ignorance; which, being infinitely larger than our knowledge, may serve much to the quieting of disputes, and improvement of useful knowledge; if, discovering how far we have clear and distinct ideas, we confine our thoughts within the contemplation of those things that are within the reach of our understandings, and launch not out into that abyss of darkness, (where we have not eyes to see, nor faculties to perceive anything), out of a presumption that nothing is beyond our comprehension. but to be satisfied of the folly of such a conceit, we need not go far. he that knows anything, knows this, in the first place, that he need not seek long for instances of his ignorance. the meanest and most obvious things that come in our way have dark sides, that the quickest sight cannot penetrate into. the clearest and most enlarged understandings of thinking men find themselves puzzled and at a loss in every particle of matter. we shall the less wonder to find it so, when we consider the causes of our ignorance; which, from what has been said, i suppose will be found to be these three:-- first, want of ideas. its causes. secondly, want of a discoverable connexion between the ideas we have. thirdly, want of tracing and examining our ideas. . first, one cause of our ignorance want of ideas. i. want of simple ideas that other creatures in other parts of the universe may have. first, there are some things, and those not a few, that we are ignorant of, for want of ideas. first, all the simple ideas we have are confined (as i have shown) to those we receive from corporeal objects by sensation, and from the operations of our own minds as the objects of reflection. but how much these few and narrow inlets are disproportionate to the vast whole extent of all beings, will not be hard to persuade those who are not so foolish as to think their span the measure of all things. what other simple ideas it is possible the creatures in other parts of the universe may have, by the assistance of senses and faculties more or perfecter than we have, or different from ours, it is not for us to determine. but to say or think there are no such, because we conceive nothing of them, is no better an argument than if a blind man should be positive in it, that there was no such thing as sight and colours, because he had no manner of idea of any such thing, nor could by any means frame to himself any notions about seeing. the ignorance and darkness that is in us no more hinders nor confines the knowledge that is in others, than the blindness of a mole is an argument against the quicksightedness of an eagle. he that will consider the infinite power, wisdom, and goodness of the creator of all things will find reason to think it was not all laid out upon so inconsiderable, mean, and impotent a creature as he will find man to be; who in all probability is one of the lowest of all intellectual beings. what faculties, therefore, other species of creatures have to penetrate into the nature and inmost constitutions of things; what ideas they may receive of them far different from ours, we know not. this we know and certainly find, that we want several other views of them besides those we have, to make discoveries of them more perfect. and we may be convinced that the ideas we can attain to by our faculties are very disproportionate to things themselves, when a positive, clear, distinct one of substance itself, which is the foundation of all the rest, is concealed from us. but want of ideas of this kind, being a part as well as cause of our ignorance, cannot be described. only this i think i may confidently say of it, that the intellectual and sensible world are in this perfectly alike: that that part which we see of either of them holds no proportion with what we see not; and whatsoever we can reach with our eyes or our thoughts of either of them is but a point, almost nothing in comparison of the the rest. . want of simple ideas that men are capable of having, but having not,( ) because their remoteness, or, secondly, another great cause of ignorance is the want of ideas we are capable of. as the want of ideas which our faculties are not able to give us shuts us wholly from those views of things which it is reasonable to think other beings, perfecter than we, have, of which we know nothing; so the want of ideas i now speak of keeps us in ignorance of things we conceive capable of being known to us. bulk, figure, and motion we have ideas of. but though we are not without ideas of these primary qualities of bodies in general, yet not knowing what is the particular bulk, figure, and motion, of the greatest part of the bodies of the universe, we are ignorant of the several powers, efficacies, and ways of operation, whereby the effects which we daily see are produced. these are hid from us, in some things by being too remote, and in others by being too minute. when we consider the vast distance of the known and visible parts of the world, and the reasons we have to think that what lies within our ken is but a small part of the universe, we shall then discover a huge abyss of ignorance. what are the particular fabrics of the great masses of matter which make up the whole stupendous frame of corporeal beings; how far they are extended; what is their motion, and how continued or communicated; and what influence they have one upon another, are contemplations that at first glimpse our thoughts lose themselves in. if we narrow our contemplations, and confine our thoughts to this little canton--i mean this system of our sun, and the grosser masses of matter that visibly move about it, what several sorts of vegetables, animals, and intellectual corporeal beings, infinitely different from those of our little spot of earth, may there probably be in the other planets, to the knowledge of which, even of their outward figures and parts, we can no way attain whilst we are confined to this earth; there being no natural means, either by sensation or reflection, to convey their certain ideas into our minds? they are out of the reach of those inlets of all our knowledge: and what sorts of furniture and inhabitants those mansions contain in them we cannot so much as guess, much less have clear and distinct ideas of them. . ( ) because of their minuteness. if a great, nay, far the greatest part of the several ranks of bodies in the universe escape our notice by their remoteness, there are others that are no less concealed from us by their minuteness. these insensible corpuscles, being the active parts of matter, and the great instruments of nature, on which depend not only all their secondary qualities, but also most of their natural operations, our want of precise distinct ideas of their primary qualities keeps us in an incurable ignorance of what we desire to know about them. i doubt not but if we could discover the figure, size, texture, and motion of the minute constituent parts of any two bodies, we should know without trial several of their operations one upon another; as we do now the properties of a square or a triangle. did we know the mechanical affections of the particles of rhubarb, hemlock, opium, and a man, as a watchmaker does those of a watch, whereby it performs its operations; and of a file, which by rubbing on them will alter the figure of any of the wheels; we should be able to tell beforehand that rhubarb will purge, hemlock kill, and opium make a man sleep: as well as a watchmaker can, that a little piece of paper laid on the balance will keep the watch from going till it be removed; or that, some small part of it being rubbed by a file, the machine would quite lose its motion, and the watch go no more. the dissolving of silver in aqua fortis, and gold in aqua regia, and not vice versa, would be then perhaps no more difficult to know than it is to a smith to understand why the turning of one key will open a lock, and not the turning of another. but whilst we are destitute of senses acute enough to discover the minute particles of bodies, and to give us ideas of their mechanical affections, we must be content to be ignorant of their properties and ways of operation; nor can we be assured about them any further than some few trials we make are able to reach. but whether they will succeed again another time, we cannot be certain. this hinders our certain knowledge of universal truths concerning natural bodies: and our reason carries us herein very little beyond particular matter of fact. . hence no science of bodies within our reach. and therefore i am apt to doubt that, how far soever human industry may advance useful and experimental philosophy in physical things, scientifical will still be out of our reach: because we want perfect and adequate ideas of those very bodies which are nearest to us, and most under our command. those which we have ranked into classes under names, and we think ourselves best acquainted with, we have but very imperfect and incomplete ideas of. distinct ideas of the several sorts of bodies that fall under the examination of our senses perhaps we may have: but adequate ideas, i suspect, we have not of any one amongst them. and though the former of these will serve us for common use and discourse, yet whilst we want the latter, we are not capable of scientifical knowledge; nor shall ever be able to discover general, instructive, unquestionable truths concerning them. certainty and demonstration are things we must not, in these matters, pretend to. by the colour, figure, taste, and smell, and other sensible qualities, we have as clear and distinct ideas of sage and hemlock, as we have of a circle and a triangle: but having no ideas of the particular primary qualities of the minute parts of either of these plants, nor of other bodies which we would apply them to, we cannot tell what effects they will produce; nor when we see those effects can we so much as guess, much less know, their manner of production. thus, having no ideas of the particular mechanical affections of the minute parts of bodies that are within our view and reach, we are ignorant of their constitutions, powers, and operations: and of bodies more remote we are yet more ignorant, not knowing so much as their very outward shapes, or the sensible and grosser parts of their constitutions. . much less a science of unembodied spirits. this at first will show us how disproportionate our knowledge is to the whole extent even of material beings; to which if we add the consideration of that infinite number of spirits that may be, and probably are, which are yet more remote from our knowledge, whereof we have no cognizance, nor can frame to ourselves any distinct ideas of their several ranks and sorts, we shall find this cause of ignorance conceal from us, in an impenetrable obscurity, almost the whole intellectual world; a greater certainly, and more beautiful world than the material. for, bating some very few, and those, if i may so call them, superficial ideas of spirit, which by reflection we get of our own, and from thence the best we can collect of the father of all spirits, the eternal independent author of them, and us, and all things, we have no certain information, so much as of the existence of other spirits, but by revelation. angels of all sorts are naturally beyond our discovery; and all those intelligences, whereof it is likely there are more orders than of corporeal substances, are things whereof our natural faculties give us no certain account at all. that there are minds and thinking beings in other men as well as himself, every man has a reason, from their words and actions, to be satisfied: and the knowledge of his own mind cannot suffer a man that considers, to be ignorant that there is a god. but that there are degrees of spiritual beings between us and the great god, who is there, that, by his own search and ability, can come to know? much less have we distinct ideas of their different natures, conditions, states, powers, and several constitutions wherein they agree or differ from one another and from us. and, therefore, in what concerns their different species and properties we are in absolute ignorance. . secondly, another cause, want of a discoverable connexion between ideas we have. secondly, what a small part of the substantial beings that are in the universe the want of ideas leaves open to our knowledge, we have seen. in the next place, another cause of ignorance, of no less moment, is a want of a discoverable connection between those ideas we have. for wherever we want that, we are utterly incapable of universal and certain knowledge; and are, in the former case, left only to observation and experiment: which, how narrow and confined it is, how far from general knowledge we need not be told. i shall give some few instances of this cause of our ignorance, and so leave it. it is evident that the bulk, figure, and motion of several bodies about us produce in us several sensations, as of colours, sounds, tastes, smells, pleasure, and pain, &c. these mechanical affections of bodies having no affinity at all with those ideas they produce in us, (there being no conceivable connexion between any impulse of any sort of body and any perception of a colour or smell which we find in our minds,) we can have no distinct knowledge of such operations beyond our experience; and can reason no otherwise about them, than as effects produced by the appointment of an infinitely wise agent, which perfectly surpass our comprehensions. as the ideas of sensible secondary qualities which we have in our minds, can by us be no way deduced from bodily causes, nor any correspondence or connexion be found between them and those primary qualities which (experience shows us) produce them in us; so, on the other side, the operation of our minds upon our bodies is as inconceivable. how any thought should produce a motion in body is as remote from the nature of our ideas, as how any body should produce any thought in the mind. that it is so, if experience did not convince us, the consideration of the things themselves would never be able in the least to discover to us. these, and the like, though they have a constant and regular connexion in the ordinary course of things; yet that connexion being not discoverable in the ideas themselves, which appearing to have no necessary dependence one on another, we can attribute their connexion to nothing else but the arbitrary determination of that all-wise agent who has made them to be, and to operate as they do, in a way wholly above our weak understandings to conceive. . instances in some of our ideas there are certain relations, habitudes, and connexions, so visibly included in the nature of the ideas themselves, that we cannot conceive them separable from them by any power whatsoever. and in these only we are capable of certain and universal knowledge. thus the idea of a right-lined triangle necessarily carries with it an equality of its angles to two right ones. nor can we conceive this relation, this connexion of these two ideas, to be possibly mutable, or to depend on any arbitrary power, which of choice made it thus, or could make it otherwise. but the coherence and continuity of the parts of matter; the production of sensation in us of colours and sounds, &c., by impulse and motion; nay, the original rules and communication of motion being such, wherein we can discover no natural connexion with any ideas we have, we cannot but ascribe them to the arbitrary will and good pleasure of the wise architect. i need not, i think, here mention the resurrection of the dead, the future state of this globe of earth, and such other things, which are by every one acknowledged to depend wholly on the determination of a free agent. the things that, as far as our observation reaches, we constantly find to proceed regularly, we may conclude do act by a law set them; but yet by a law that we know not: whereby, though causes work steadily, and effects constantly flow from them, yet their connexions and dependencies being not discoverable in our ideas, we can have but an experimental knowledge of them. from all which it is easy to perceive what a darkness we are involved in, how little it is of being, and the things that are, that we are capable to know. and therefore we shall do no injury to our knowledge, when we modestly think with ourselves, that we are so far from being able to comprehend the whole nature of the universe, and all the things contained in it, that we are not capable of a philosophical knowledge of the bodies that are about us, and make a part of us: concerning their secondary qualities, powers, and operations, we can have no universal certainty. several effects come every day within the notice of our senses, of which we have so far sensitive knowledge: but the causes, manner, and certainty of their production, for the two foregoing reasons, we must be content to be very ignorant of. in these we can go no further than particular experience informs us of matter of fact, and by analogy to guess what effects the like bodies are, upon other trials, like to produce. but as to a perfect science of natural bodies, (not to mention spiritual beings,) we are, i think, so far from being capable of any such thing, that i conclude it lost labour to seek after it. . thirdly a third cause, want of tracing our ideas. thirdly, where we have adequate ideas, and where there is a certain and discoverable connexion between them, yet we are often ignorant, for want of tracing those ideas which we have or may have; and for want of finding out those intermediate ideas, which may show us what habitude of agreement or disagreement they have one with another. and thus many are ignorant of mathematical truths, not out of any imperfection of their faculties, or uncertainty in the things themselves, but for want of application in acquiring, examining, and by due ways comparing those ideas. that which has most contributed to hinder the due tracing of our ideas, and finding out their relations, and agreements or disagreements, one with another, has been, i suppose, the ill use of words. it is impossible that men should ever truly seek or certainly discover the agreement or disagreement of ideas themselves, whilst their thoughts flutter about, or stick only in sounds of doubtful and uncertain significations. mathematicians abstracting their thoughts from names, and accustoming themselves to set before their minds the ideas themselves that they would consider, and not sounds instead of them, have avoided thereby a great part of that perplexity, puddering, and confusion, which has so much hindered men's progress in other parts of knowledge. for whilst they stick in words of undetermined and uncertain signification, they are unable to distinguish true from false, certain from probable, consistent from inconsistent, in their own opinions. this having been the fate or misfortune of a great part of men of letters, the increase brought into the stock of real knowledge has been very little, in proportion to the schools disputes, and writings, the world has been filled with; whilst students, being lost in the great wood of words, knew not whereabouts they were, how far their discoveries were advanced, or what was wanting in their own, or the general stock of knowledge. had men, in the discoveries of the material, done as they have in those of the intellectual world, involved all in the obscurity of uncertain and doubtful ways of talking, volumes writ of navigation and voyages, theories and stories of zones and tides, multiplied and disputed; nay, ships built, and fleets sent out, would never have taught us the way beyond the line; and the antipodes would be still as much unknown, as when it was declared heresy to hold there were any. but having spoken sufficiently of words, and the ill or careless use that is commonly made of them, i shall not say anything more of it here. . extent of human knowledge in respect to its universality. hitherto we have examined the extent of our knowledge, in respect of the several sorts of beings that are. there is another extent of it, in respect of universality, which will also deserve to be considered; and in this regard, our knowledge follows the nature of our ideas. if the ideas are abstract, whose agreement or disagreement we perceive, our knowledge is universal. for what is known of such general ideas, will be true of every particular thing in whom that essence, i.e. that abstract idea, is to be found: and what is once known of such ideas, will be perpetually and for ever true. so that as to all general knowledge we must search and find it only in our minds; and it is only the examining of our own ideas that furnisheth us with that. truths belonging to essences of things (that is, to abstract ideas) are eternal; and are to be found out by the contemplation only of those essences: as the existence of things is to be known only from experience. but having more to say of this in the chapters where i shall speak of general and real knowledge, this may here suffice as to the universality of our knowledge in general. chapter iv. of the reality of knowledge. . objection. 'knowledge placed in our ideas may be all unreal or chimerical' i doubt not but my reader, by this time, may be apt to think that i have been all this while only building a castle in the air; and be ready to say to me:-- 'to what purpose all this stir? knowledge, say you, is only the perception of the agreement or disagreement of our own ideas: but who knows what those ideas may be? is there anything so extravagant as the imaginations of men's brains? where is the head that has no chimeras in it? or if there be a sober and a wise man, what difference will there be, by your rules, between his knowledge and that of the most extravagant fancy in the world? they both have their ideas, and perceive their agreement and disagreement one with another. if there be any difference between them, the advantage will be on the warm-headed man's side, as having the more ideas, and the more lively. and so, by your rules, he will be the more knowing. if it be true, that all knowledge lies only in the perception of the agreement or disagreement of our own ideas, the visions of an enthusiast and the reasonings of a sober man will be equally certain. it is no matter how things are: so a man observe but the agreement of his own imaginations, and talk conformably, it is all truth, all certainty. such castles in the air will be as strongholds of truth, as the demonstrations of euclid. that an harpy is not a centaur is by this way as certain knowledge, and as much a truth, as that a square is not a circle. 'but of what use is all this fine knowledge of men's own imaginations, to a man that inquires after the reality of things? it matters not what men's fancies are, it is the knowledge of things that is only to be prized: it is this alone gives a value to our reasonings, and preference to one man's knowledge over another's, that it is of things as they really are, and not of dreams and fancies.' . answer not so, where ideas agree with things. to which i answer, that if our knowledge of our ideas terminate in them, and reach no further, where there is something further intended, our most serious thoughts will be of little more use than the reveries of a crazy brain; and the truths built thereon of no more weight than the discourses of a man who sees things clearly in a dream, and with great assurance utters them. but i hope, before i have done, to make it evident, that this way of certainty, by the knowledge of our own ideas, goes a little further than bare imagination: and i believe it will appear that all the certainty of general truths a man has lies in nothing else. . but what shall be the criterion of this agreement? it is evident the mind knows not things immediately, but only by the intervention of the ideas it has of them. our knowledge, therefore, is real only so far as there is a conformity between our ideas and the reality of things. but what shall be here the criterion? how shall the mind, when it perceives nothing but its own ideas, know that they agree with things themselves? this, though it seems not to want difficulty, yet, i think, there be two sorts of ideas that we may be assured agree with things. . as, first all simple ideas are really conformed to things. first, the first are simple ideas, which since the mind, as has been showed, can by no means make to itself, must necessarily be the product of things operating on the mind, in a natural way, and producing therein those perceptions which by the wisdom and will of our maker they are ordained and adapted to. from whence it follows, that simple ideas are not fictions of our fancies, but the natural and regular productions of things without us, really operating upon us; and so carry with them all the conformity which is intended; or which our state requires: for they represent to us things under those appearances which they are fitted to produce in us: whereby we are enabled to distinguish the sorts of particular substances, to discern the states they are in, and so to take them for our necessities, and apply them to our uses. thus the idea of whiteness, or bitterness, as it is in the mind, exactly answering that power which is in any body to produce it there, has all the real conformity it can or ought to have, with things without us. and this conformity between our simple ideas and the existence of things, is sufficient for real knowledge. . secondly, all complex ideas, except ideas of substances, are their own archetypes. secondly, all our complex ideas, except those of substances, being archetypes of the mind's own making, not intended to be the copies of anything, nor referred to the existence of anything, as to their originals, cannot want any conformity necessary to real knowledge. for that which is not designed to represent anything but itself, can never be capable of a wrong representation, nor mislead us from the true apprehension of anything, by its dislikeness to it: and such, excepting those of substances, are all our complex ideas. which, as i have showed in another place, are combinations of ideas, which the mind, by its free choice, puts together, without considering any connexion they have in nature. and hence it is, that in all these sorts the ideas themselves are considered as the archetypes, and things no otherwise regarded, but as they are conformable to them. so that we cannot but be infallibly certain, that all the knowledge we attain concerning these ideas is real, and reaches things themselves. because in all our thoughts, reasonings, and discourses of this kind, we intend things no further than as they are conformable to our ideas. so that in these we cannot miss of a certain and undoubted reality. . hence the reality of mathematical knowledge i doubt not but it will be easily granted, that the knowledge we have of mathematical truths is not only certain, but real knowledge; and not the bare empty vision of vain, insignificant chimeras of the brain: and yet, if we will consider, we shall find that it is only of our own ideas. the mathematician considers the truth and properties belonging to a rectangle or circle only as they are in idea in his own mind. for it is possible he never found either of them existing mathematically, i.e. precisely true, in his life. but yet the knowledge he has of any truths or properties belonging to a circle, or any other mathematical figure, are nevertheless true and certain, even of real things existing: because real things are no further concerned, nor intended to be meant by any such propositions, than as things really agree to those archetypes in his mind. is it true of the idea of a triangle, that its three angles are equal to two right ones? it is true also of a triangle, wherever it really exists. whatever other figure exists, that it is not exactly answerable to that idea of a triangle in his mind, is not at all concerned in that proposition. and therefore he is certain all his knowledge concerning such ideas is real knowledge: because, intending things no further than they agree with those his ideas, he is sure what he knows concerning those figures, when they have barely an ideal existence in his mind, will hold true of them also when they have a real existance in matter: his consideration being barely of those figures, which are the same wherever or however they exist. . and of moral. and hence it follows that moral knowledge is as capable of real certainty as mathematics. for certainty being but the perception of the agreement or disagreement of our ideas, and demonstration nothing but the perception of such agreement, by the intervention of other ideas or mediums; our moral ideas, as well as mathematical, being archetypes themselves, and so adequate and complete ideas; all the agreement or disagreement which we shall find in them will produce real knowledge, as well as in mathematical figures. . existence not required to make abstract knowledge real. [for the attaining of knowledge and certainty, it is requisite that we have determined ideas:] and, to make our knowledge real, it is requisite that the ideas answer their archetypes. nor let it be wondered, that i place the certainty of our knowledge in the consideration of our ideas, with so little care and regard (as it may seem) to the real existence of things: since most of those discourses which take up the thoughts and engage the disputes of those who pretend to make it their business to inquire after truth and certainty, will, i presume, upon examination, be found to be general propositions, and notions in which existence is not at all concerned. all the discourses of the mathematicians about the squaring of a circle, conic sections, or any other part of mathematics, concern not the existence of any of those figures: but their demonstrations, which depend on their ideas, are the same, whether there be any square or circle existing in the world or no. in the same manner, the truth and certainty of moral discourses abstracts from the lives of men, and the existence of those virtues in the world whereof they treat: nor are tully's offices less true, because there is nobody in the world that exactly practises his rules, and lives up to that pattern of a virtuous man which he has given us, and which existed nowhere when he writ but in idea. if it be true in speculation, i.e. in idea, that murder deserves death, it will also be true in reality of any action that exists conformable to that idea of murder. as for other actions, the truth of that proposition concerns them not. and thus it is of all other species of things, which have no other essences but those ideas which are in the minds of men. . nor will it be less true or certain, because moral ideas are of our own making and naming. but it will here be said, that if moral knowledge be placed in the contemplation of our own moral ideas, and those, as other modes, be of our own making, what strange notions will there be of justice and temperance? what confusion of virtues and vices, if every one may make what ideas of them he pleases? no confusion or disorder in the things themselves, nor the reasonings about them; no more than (in mathematics) there would be a disturbance in the demonstration, or a change in the properties of figures, and their relations one to another, if a man should make a triangle with four corners, or a trapezium with four right angles: that is, in plain english, change the names of the figures, and call that by one name, which mathematicians call ordinarily by another. for, let a man make to himself the idea of a figure with three angles, whereof one is a right one, and call it, if he please, equilaterum or trapezium, or anything else; the properties of, and demonstrations about that idea will be the same as if he called it a rectangular triangle. i confess the change of the name, by the impropriety of speech, will at first disturb him who knows not what idea it stands for: but as soon as the figure is drawn, the consequences and demonstrations are plain and clear. just the same is it in moral knowledge: let a man have the idea of taking from others, without their consent, what their honest industry has possessed them of, and call this justice if he please. he that takes the name here without the idea put to it will be mistaken, by joining another idea of his own to that name: but strip the idea of that name, or take it such as it is in the speaker's mind, and the same things will agree to it, as if you called it injustice. indeed, wrong names in moral discourses breed usually more disorder, because they are not so easily rectified as in mathematics, where the figure, once drawn and seen, makes the name useless and of no force. for what need of a sign, when the thing signified is present and in view? but in moral names, that cannot be so easily and shortly done, because of the many decompositions that go to the making up the complex ideas of those modes. but yet for all this, the miscalling of any of those ideas, contrary to the usual signification of the words of that language, hinders not but that we may have certain and demonstrative knowledge of their several agreements and disagreements, if we will carefully, as in mathematics, keep to the same precise ideas, and trace them in their several relations one to another, without being led away by their names. if we but separate the idea under consideration from the sign that stands for it, our knowledge goes equally on in the discovery of real truth and certainty, whatever sounds we make use of. . misnaming disturbs not the certainty of the knowledge one thing more we are to take notice of, that where god or any other law-maker, hath defined any moral names, there they have made the essence of that species to which that name belongs; and there it is not safe to apply or use them otherwise: but in other cases it is bare impropriety of speech to apply them contrary to the common usage of the country. but yet even this too disturbs not the certainty of that knowledge, which is still to be had by a due contemplation and comparing of those even nick-named ideas. . thirdly, our complex ideas of substances have their archetypes without us; and here knowledge comes short. thirdly, there is another sort of complex ideas, which, being referred to archetypes without us, may differ from them, and so our knowledge about them may come short of being real. such are our ideas of substances, which, consisting of a collection of simple ideas, supposed taken from the works of nature, may yet vary from them; by having more or different ideas united in them than are to be found united in the things themselves. from whence it comes to pass, that they may, and often do, fail of being exactly conformable to things themselves. . so far as our complex ideas agree with those archetypes without us, so far our knowledge concerning substances is real. i say, then, that to have ideas of substances which, by being conformable to things, may afford us real knowledge, it is not enough, as in modes, to put together such ideas as have no inconsistence, though they did never before so exist: v.g. the ideas of sacrilege or perjury, &c., were as real and true ideas before, as after the existence of any such fact. but our ideas of substances, being supposed copies, and referred to archetypes without us, must still be taken from something that does or has existed: they must not consist of ideas put together at the pleasure of our thoughts, without any real pattern they were taken from, though we can perceive no inconsistence in such a combination. the reason whereof is because we, knowing not what real constitution it is of substances whereon our simple ideas depend, and which really is the cause of the strict union of some of them one with another, and the exclusion of others; there are very few of them that we can be sure are or are not inconsistent in nature: any further than experience and sensible observation reach herein, therefore, is founded the reality of our knowledge concerning substances--that all our complex ideas of them must be such, and such only, as are made up of such simple ones as have been discovered to co-exist in nature. and our ideas being thus true, though not perhaps very exact copies, are yet the subjects of real (as far as we have any) knowledge of them. which (as has been already shown) will not be found to reach very far: but so far as it does, it will still be real knowledge. whatever ideas we have, the agreement we find they have with others will still be knowledge. if those ideas be abstract, it will be general knowledge. but to make it real concerning substances, the ideas must be taken from the real existence of things. whatever simple ideas have been found to co-exist in any substance, these we may with confidence join together again, and so make abstract ideas of substances. for whatever have once had an union in nature, may be united again. . in our inquiries about substances, we must consider ideas, and not confine our thoughts to names, or species supposed set out by names. this, if we rightly consider, and confine not our thoughts and abstract ideas to names, as if there were, or could be no other sorts of things than what known names had already determined, and, as it were, set out, we should think of things with greater freedom and less confusion than perhaps we do. it would possibly be thought a bold paradox, if not a very dangerous falsehood, if i should say that some changelings, who have lived forty years together, without any appearance of reason, are something between a man and a beast: which prejudice is founded upon nothing else but a false supposition, that these two names, man and beast, stand for distinct species so set out by real essences, that there can come no other species between them: whereas if we will abstract from those names, and the supposition of such specific essences made by nature, wherein all things of the same denominations did exactly and equally partake; if we would not fancy that there were a certain number of these essences, wherein all things, as in moulds, were cast and formed; we should find that the idea of the shape, motion, and life of a man without reason, is as much a distinct idea, and makes as much a distinct sort of things from man and beast, as the idea of the shape of an ass with reason would be different from either that of man or beast, and be a species of an animal between, or distinct from both. . objection against a changeling being something between a man and beast, answered. here everybody will be ready to ask, if changelings may be supposed something between man and beast, pray what are they? i answer, changelings; which is as good a word to signify something different from the signification of man or beast, as the names man and beast are to have significations different one from the other. this, well considered, would resolve this matter, and show my meaning without any more ado. but i am not so unacquainted with the zeal of some men, which enables them to spin consequences, and to see religion threatened, whenever any one ventures to quit their forms of speaking, as not to foresee what names such a proposition as this is like to be charged with: and without doubt it will be asked, if changelings are something between man and beast, what will become of them in the other world? to which i answer, i. it concerns me not to know or inquire. to their own master they stand or fall. it will make their state neither better nor worse, whether we determine anything of it or no. they are in the hands of a faithful creator and a bountiful father, who disposes not of his creatures according to our narrow thoughts or opinions, nor distinguishes them according to names and species of our contrivance. and we that know so little of this present world we are in, may, i think, content ourselves without being peremptory in defining the different states which creatures shall come into when they go off this stage. it may suffice us, that he hath made known to all those who are capable of instruction, discoursing, and reasoning, that they shall come to an account, and receive according to what they have done in this body. . what will become of changelings in a future state? but, secondly, i answer, the force of these men's question (viz. will you deprive changelings of a future state?) is founded on one of these two suppositions, which are both false. the first is, that all things that have the outward shape and appearance of a man must necessarily be designed to an immortal future being after this life: or, secondly, that whatever is of human birth must be so. take away these imaginations, and such questions will be groundless and ridiculous. i desire then those who think there is no more but an accidental difference between themselves and changelings, the essence in both being exactly the same, to consider, whether they can imagine immortality annexed to any outward shape of the body; the very proposing it is, i suppose, enough to make them disown it. no one yet, that ever i heard of, how much soever immersed in matter, allowed that excellency to any figure of the gross sensible outward consequence of it; or that any mass of matter should, after its dissolution here, be again restored hereafter to an everlasting state of sense, perception, and knowledge, only because it was moulded into this or that figure, and had such a particular frame of its visible parts. such an opinion as this, placing immortality in a certain superficial figure, turns out of doors all consideration of soul or spirit; upon whose account alone some corporeal beings have hitherto been concluded immortal, and others not. this is to attribute more to the outside than inside of things; and to place the excellency of a man more in the external shape of his body, than internal perfections of his soul: which is but little better than to annex the great and inestimable advantage of immortality and life everlasting, which he has above other material beings, to annex it, i say, to the cut of his beard, or the fashion of his coat. for this or that outward mark of our bodies no more carries with it the hope of an eternal duration, than the fashion of a man's suit gives him reasonable grounds to imagine it will never wear out, or that it will make him immortal. it will perhaps be said, that nobody thinks that the shape makes anything immortal, but it is the shape that is the sign of a rational soul within, which is immortal. i wonder who made it the sign of any such thing: for barely saying it, will not make it so. it would require some proofs to persuade one of it. no figure that i know speaks any such language. for it may as rationally be concluded, that the dead body of a man, wherein there is to be found no more appearance or action of life than there is in a statue, has yet nevertheless a living soul in it, because of its shape; as that there is a rational soul in a changeling, because he has the outside of a rational creature, when his actions carry far less marks of reason with them, in the whole course of his life than what are to be found in many a beast. . monsters but it is the issue of rational parents, and must therefore be concluded to have a rational soul. i know not by what logic you must so conclude. i am sure this is a conclusion that men nowhere allow of. for if they did, they would not make bold, as everywhere they do to destroy ill-formed and mis-shaped productions. ay, but these are monsters. let them be so: what will your drivelling, unintelligent, intractable changeling be? shall a defect in the body make a monster; a defect in the mind (the far more noble, and, in the common phrase, the far more essential part) not? shall the want of a nose, or a neck, make a monster, and put such issue out of the rank of men; the want of reason and understanding, not? this is to bring all back again to what was exploded just now: this is to place all in the shape, and to take the measure of a man only by his outside. to show that according to the ordinary way of reasoning in this matter, people do lay the whole stress on the figure, and resolve the whole essence of the species of man (as they make it) into the outward shape, how unreasonable soever it be, and how much soever they disown it, we need but trace their thoughts and practice a little further, and then it will plainly appear. the well-shaped changeling is a man, has a rational soul, though it appear not: this is past doubt, say you: make the ears a little longer, and more pointed, and the nose a little flatter than ordinary, and then you begin to boggle: make the face yet narrower, flatter, and longer, and then you are at a stand: add still more and more of the likeness of a brute to it, and let the head be perfectly that of some other animal, then presently it is a monster; and it is demonstration with you that it hath no rational soul, and must be destroyed. where now (i ask) shall be the just measure; which the utmost bounds of that shape, that carries with it a rational soul? for, since there have been human foetuses produced, half beast and half man; and others three parts one, and one part the other; and so it is possible they may be in all the variety of approaches to the one or the other shape, and may have several degrees of mixture of the likeness of a man, or a brute;--i would gladly know what are those precise lineaments, which, according to this hypothesis, are or are not capable of a rational soul to be joined to them. what sort of outside is the certain sign that there is or is not such an inhabitant within? for till that be done, we talk at random of man: and shall always, i fear, do so, as long as we give ourselves up to certain sounds, and the imaginations of settled and fixed species in nature, we know not what. but, after all, i desire it may be considered, that those who think they have answered the difficulty, by telling us, that a mis-shaped foetus is a monster, run into the same fault they are arguing against; by constituting a species between man and beast. for what else, i pray, is their monster in the case, (if the word monster signifies anything at all,) but something neither man nor beast, but partaking somewhat of either? and just so is the changeling before mentioned. so necessary is it to quit the common notion of species and essences, if we will truly look into the nature of things, and examine them by what our faculties can discover in them as they exist, and not by groundless fancies that have been taken up about them. . words and species. i have mentioned this here, because i think we cannot be too cautious that words and species, in the ordinary notions which we have been used to of them, impose not on us. for i am apt to think therein lies one great obstacle to our clear and distinct knowledge, especially in reference to substances: and from thence has rose a great part of the difficulties about truth and certainty. would we accustom ourselves to separate our contemplations and reasonings from words, we might in a great measure remedy this inconvenience within our own thoughts: but yet it would still disturb us in our discourse with others, as long as we retained the opinion, that species and their essences were anything else but our abstract ideas (such as they are) with names annexed to them, to be the signs of them. . recapitulation. wherever we perceive the agreement or disagreement of any of our ideas, there is certain knowledge: and wherever we are sure those ideas agree with the reality of things, there is certain real knowledge. of which agreement of our ideas with the reality of things, having here given the marks, i think, i have shown wherein it is that certainty, real certainty, consists. which, whatever it was to others, was, i confess, to me heretofore, one of those desiderata which i found great want of. chapter v. of truth in general. . what truth is. what is truth? was an inquiry many ages since; and it being that which all mankind either do, or pretend to search after, it cannot but be worth our while carefully to examine wherein it consists; and so acquaint ourselves with the nature of it, as to observe how the mind distinguishes it from falsehood. . a right joining or separating of signs, i.e. either ideas or words. truth, then, seems to me, in the proper import of the word, to signify nothing but the joining or seperating of signs, as the things signified by them do agree or disagree one with another. the joining or separating of signs here meant, is what by another name we call proposition. so that truth properly belongs only to propositions: whereof there are two sorts, viz. mental and verbal; as there are two sorts of signs commonly made use of, viz. ideas and words. . which make mental or verbal propositions. to form a clear notion of truth, it is very necessary to consider truth of thought, and truth of words, distinctly one from another: but yet it is very difficult to treat of them asunder. because it is unavoidable, in treating of mental propositions, to make use of words: and then the instances given of mental propositions cease immediately to be barely mental, and become verbal. for a mental proposition being nothing but a bare consideration of the ideas, as they are in our minds, stripped of names, they lose the nature of purely mental propositions as soon as they are put into words. . mental propositions are very hard to be treated of. and that which makes it yet harder to treat of mental and verbal propositions separately is, that most men, if not all, in their thinking and reasonings within themselves, make use of words instead of ideas; at least when the subject of their meditation contains in it complex ideas. which is a great evidence of the imperfection and uncertainty of our ideas of that kind, and may, if attentively made use of, serve for a mark to show us what are those things we have clear and perfect established ideas of, and what not. for if we will curiously observe the way our mind takes in thinking and reasoning, we shall find, i suppose, that when we make any propositions within our own thoughts about white or black, sweet or bitter, a triangle or a circle, we can and often do frame in our minds the ideas themselves, without reflecting on the names. but when we would consider, or make propositions about the more complex ideas, as of a man, vitriol, fortitude, glory, we usually put the name for the idea: because the ideas these names stand for, being for the most part imperfect, confused, and undetermined, we reflect on the names themselves, because they are more clear, certain, and distinct, and readier occur to our thoughts than the pure ideas: and so we make use of these words instead of the ideas themselves, even when we would meditate and reason within ourselves, and make tacit mental propositions. in substances, as has been already noticed, this is occasioned by the imperfections of our ideas: we making the name stand for the real essence, of which we have no idea at all. in modes, it is occasioned by the great number of simple ideas that go to the making them up. for many of them being compounded, the name occurs much easier than the complex idea itself, which requires time and attention to be recollected, and exactly represented to the mind, even in those men who have formerly been at the pains to do it; and is utterly impossible to be done by those who, though they have ready in their memory the greatest part of the common words of that language, yet perhaps never troubled themselves in all their lives to consider what precise ideas the most of them stood for. some confused or obscure notions have served their turns; and many who talk very much of religion and conscience, of church and faith, of power and right, of obstructions and humours, melancholy and choler, would perhaps have little left in their thoughts and meditations, if one should desire them to think only of the things themselves, and lay by those words with which they so often confound others, and not seldom themselves also. . mental and verbal propositions contrasted. but to return to the consideration of truth: we must, i say, observe two sorts of propositions that we are capable of making:-- first, mental, wherein the ideas in our understandings are without the use of words put together, or separated, by the mind perceiving or judging of their agreement or disagreement. secondly, verbal propositions, which are words, the signs of our ideas, put together or separated in affirmative or negative sentences. by which way of affirming or denying, these signs, made by sounds, are, as it were, put together or separated from another. so that proposition consists in joining or separating signs; and truth consists in the putting together or separating those signs, according as the things which they stand for agree or disagree. . when mental propositions contain real truth, and when verbal. every one's experience will satisfy him, that the mind, either by perceiving, or supposing, the agreement or disagreement of any of its ideas, does tacitly within itself put them into a kind of proposition affirmative or negative; which i have endeavoured to express by the terms putting together and separating. but this action of the mind, which is so familiar to every thinking and reasoning man, is easier to be conceived by reflecting on what passes in us when we affirm or deny, than to be explained by words. when a man has in his head the idea of two lines, viz. the side and diagonal of a square, whereof the diagonal is an inch long, he may have the idea also of the division of that line into a certain number of equal parts; v.g. into five, ten, a hundred, a thousand, or any other number, and may have the idea of that inch line being divisible, or not divisible, into such equal parts, as a certain number of them will be equal to the sideline. now, whenever he perceives, believes, or supposes such a kind of divisibility to agree or disagree to his idea of that line, he, as it were, joins or separates those two ideas, viz. the idea of that line, and the idea of that kind of divisibility; and so makes a mental proposition, which is true or false, according as such a kind of divisibility, a divisibility into such aliquot parts, does really agree to that line or no. when ideas are so put together, or separated in the mind, as they or the things they stand for do agree or not, that is, as i may call it, mental truth. but truth of words is something more; and that is the affirming or denying of words one of another, as the ideas they stand for agree or disagree: and this again is two-fold; either purely verbal and trifling, which i shall speak of, (chap. viii.,) or real and instructive; which is the object of that real knowledge which we have spoken of already. . objection against verbal truth, that thus it may all be chimerical. but here again will be apt to occur the same doubt about truth, that did about knowledge: and it will be objected, that if truth be nothing but the joining and separating of words in propositions, as the ideas they stand for agree or disagree in men's minds, the knowledge of truth is not so valuable a thing as it is taken to be, nor worth the pains and time men employ in the search of it: since by this account it amounts to no more than the conformity of words to the chimeras of men's brains. who knows not what odd notions many men's heads are filled with, and what strange ideas all men's brains are capable of? but if we rest here, we know the truth of nothing by this rule, but of the visionary words in our own imaginations; nor have other truth, but what as much concerns harpies and centaurs, as men and horses. for those, and the like, may be ideas in our heads, and have their agreement or disagreement there, as well as the ideas of real beings, and so have as true propositions made about them. and it will be altogether as true a proposition to say all centaurs are animals, as that all men are animals; and the certainty of one as great as the other. for in both the propositions, the words are put together according to the agreement of the ideas in our minds: and the agreement of the idea of animal with that of centaur is as clear and visable to the mind, as the agreement of the idea of animal with that of man; and so these two propositions are equally true, equally certain. but of what use is all such truth to us? . answered, real truth is about ideas agreeing to things. though what has been said in the foregoing chapter to distinguish real from imaginary knowledge might suffice here, in answer to this doubt, to distinguish real truth from chimerical, or (if you please) barely nominal, they depending both on the same foundation; yet it may not be amiss here again to consider, that though our words signify things, the truth they contain when put into propositions will be only verbal, when they stand for ideas in the mind that have not an agreement with the reality of things. and therefore truth as well as knowledge may well come under the distinction of verbal and real; that being only verbal truth, wherein terms are joined according to the agreement or disagreement of the ideas they stand for; without regarding whether our ideas are such as really have, or are capable of having, an existence in nature. but then it is they contain real truth, when these signs are joined, as our ideas agree; and when our ideas are such as we know are capable of having an existence in nature: which in substances we cannot know, but by knowing that such have existed. . truth and falsehood in general. truth is the marking down in words the agreement or disagreement of ideas as it is. falsehood is the marking down in words the agreement or disagreement of ideas otherwise than it is. and so far as these ideas, thus marked by sounds, agree to their archetypes, so far only is the truth real. the knowledge of this truth consists in knowing what ideas the words stand for, and the perception of the agreement or disagreement of those ideas, according as it is marked by those words. . general propositions to be treated of more at large. but because words are looked on as the great conduits of truth and knowledge, and that in conveying and receiving of truth, and commonly in reasoning about it, we make use of words and propositions, i shall more at large inquire wherein the certainty of real truths contained in propositions consists, and where it is to be had; and endeavour to show in what sort of universal propositions we are capable of being certain of their real truth or falsehood. i shall begin with general propositions, as those which most employ our thoughts, and exercise our contemplation. general truths are most looked after by the mind as those that most enlarge our knowledge; and by their comprehensiveness satisfying us at once of many particulars, enlarge our view, and shorten our way to knowledge. . moral and metaphysical truth. besides truth taken in the strict sense before mentioned, there are other sorts of truths: as, . moral truth, which is speaking of things according to the persuasion of our own minds, though the proposition we speak agree not to the reality of things; . metaphysical truth, which is nothing but the real existence of things, conformable to the ideas to which we have annexed their names. this, though it seems to consist in the very beings of things, yet, when considered a little nearly, will appear to include a tacit proposition, whereby the mind joins that particular thing to the idea it had before settled with the name to it. but these considerations of truth, either having been before taken notice of, or not being much to our present purpose, it may suffice here only to have mentioned them. chapter vi. of universal propositions: their truth and certainty. . treating of words necessary to knowledge. though the examining and judging of ideas by themselves, their names being quite laid aside, be the best and surest way to clear and distinct knowledge: yet, through the prevailing custom of using sounds for ideas, i think it is very seldom practised. every one may observe how common it is for names to be made use of, instead of the ideas themselves, even when men think and reason within their own breasts; especially if the ideas be very complex, and made up of a great collection of simple ones. this makes the consideration of words and propositions so necessary a part of the treatise of knowledge, that it is very hard to speak intelligibly of the one, without explaining the other. . general truths hardly to be understood, but in verbal propositions. all the knowledge we have, being only of particular or general truths, it is evident that whatever may be done in the former of these, the latter, which is that which with reason is most sought after, can never be well made known, and is very seldom apprehended, but as conceived and expressed in words. it is not, therefore, out of our way, in the examination of our knowledge, to inquire into the truth and certainty of universal propositions. . certainty twofold--of truth and of knowledge. but that we may not be misled in this case by that which is the danger everywhere, i mean by the doubtfulness of terms, it is fit to observe that certainty is twofold: certainty of truth and certainty of knowledge. certainty of truth is, when words are so put together in propositions as exactly to express the agreement or disagreement of the ideas they stand for, as really it is. certainty of knowledge is to perceive the agreement or disagreement of ideas, as expressed in any proposition. this we usually call knowing, or being certain of the truth of any proposition. . no proposition can be certainly known to be true, where the real essence of each species mentioned is not known. now, because we cannot be certain of the truth of any general proposition, unless we know the precise bounds and extent of the species its terms stand for, it is necessary we should know the essence of each species, which is that which constitutes and bounds it. this, in all simple ideas and modes, is not hard to do. for in these the real and nominal essence being the same, or, which is all one, the abstract idea which the general term stands for being the sole essence and boundary that is or can be supposed of the species, there can be no doubt how far the species extends, or what things are comprehended under each term; which, it is evident, are all that have an exact conformity with the idea it stands for, and no other. but in substances, wherein a real essence, distinct from the nominal, is supposed to constitute, determine, and bound the species, the extent of the general word is very uncertain; because, not knowing this real essence, we cannot know what is, or what is not of that species; and, consequently, what may or may not with certainty be affirmed of it. and thus, speaking of a man, or gold, or any other species of natural substances, as supposed constituted by a precise and real essence which nature regularly imparts to every individual of that kind, whereby it is made to be of that species, we cannot be certain of the truth of any affirmation or negation made of it. for man or gold, taken in this sense, and used for species of things constituted by real essences, different from the complex idea in the mind of the speaker, stand for we know not what; and the extent of these species, with such boundaries, are so unknown and undetermined, that it is impossible with any certainty to affirm, that all men are rational, or that all gold is yellow. but where the nominal essence is kept to, as the boundary of each species, and men extend the application of any general term no further than to the particular things in which the complex idea it stands for is to be found, there they are in no danger to mistake the bounds of each species, nor can be in doubt, on this account, whether any proposition be true or not. i have chosen to explain this uncertainty of propositions in this scholastic way, and have made use of the terms of essences, and species, on purpose to show the absurdity and inconvenience there is to think of them as of any other sort of realities, than barely abstract ideas with names to them. to suppose that the species of things are anything but the sorting of them under general names, according as they agree to several abstract ideas of which we make those names signs, is to confound truth, and introduce uncertainty into all general propositions that can be made about them. though therefore these things might, to people not possessed with scholastic learning, be treated of in a better and clearer way yet those wrong notions of essences or species having got root in most people's minds who have received any tincture from the learning which has prevailed in this part of the world, are to be discovered and removed, to make way for that use of words which should convey certainty with it. . this more particularly concerns substances. the names of substances, then, whenever made to stand for species which are supposed to be constituted by real essences which we know not, are not capable to convey certainty to the understanding. of the truth general propositions made up of such terms we cannot be sure. [the reason whereof is plain: for how can we be sure that this or that quality is in gold, when we know not what is or is not gold? since in this way of speaking, nothing is gold but what partakes of an essence, which we, not knowing, cannot know where it is or is not, and so cannot be sure that any parcel of matter in the world is or is not in this sense gold; being incurably ignorant whether it has or has not that which makes anything to be called gold; i. e. that real essence of gold whereof we have no idea at all. this being as impossible for us to know as it is for a blind man to tell in what flower the colour of a pansy is or is not to be found, whilst he has no idea of the colour of a pansy at all. or if we could (which is impossible) certainly know where a real essence, which we know not, is, v.g. in what parcels of matter the real essence of gold is, yet could we not be sure that this or that quality could with truth be affirmed of gold; since it is impossible for us to know that this or that quality or idea has a necessary connexion with a real essence of which we have no idea at all, whatever species that supposed real essence may be imagined to constitute.] . on the other side, the names of substances, when made use of as they should be, for the ideas men have in their minds, though they carry a clear and determinate signification with them, will not yet serve us to make many universal propositions of whose truth we can be certain. not because in this use of them we are uncertain what things are signified by them, but because the complex ideas they stand for are such combinations of simple ones as carry not with them any discoverable connexion or repugnancy, but with a very few other ideas. . the complex ideas that our names of the species of substances properly stand for, are collections of such qualities as have been observed to co-exist in an unknown substratum, which we call substance; but what other qualities necessarily co-exist with such combinations, we cannot certainly know, unless we can discover their natural dependence; which, in their primary qualities, we can go but a very little way in; and in all their secondary qualities we can discover no connexion at all: for the reasons mentioned, chap. iii. viz. . because we know not the real constitutions of substances, on which each secondary quality particularly depends. . did we know that, it would serve us only for experimental (not universal) knowledge; and reach with certainty no further than that bare instance: because our understandings can discover no conceivable connexion between any secondary quality and any modification whatsoever of any of the primary ones. and therefore there are very few general propositions to be made concerning substances, which can carry with them undoubted certainty. . instance in gold. 'all gold is fixed,' is a proposition whose truth we cannot be certain of, how universally soever it be believed. for if, according to the useless imagination of the schools, any one supposes the term gold to stand for a species of things set out by nature, by a real essence belonging to it, it is evident he knows not what particular substances are of that species; and so cannot with certainty affirm anything universally of gold. but if he makes gold stand for a species determined by its nominal essence, let the nominal essence, for example, be the complex idea of a body of a certain yellow colour, malleable, fusible, and heavier than any other known;--in this proper use of the word gold, there is no difficulty to know what is or is not gold. but yet no other quality can with certainty be universally affirmed or denied of gold, but what hath a discoverable connexion or inconsistency with that nominal essence. fixedness, for example, having no necessary connexion that we can discover, with the colour, weight, or any other simple idea of our complex one, or with the whole combination together; it is impossible that we should certainly know the truth of this proposition, that all gold is fixed. . no discoverable necessary connexion between nominal essence gold, and other simple ideas. as there is no discoverable connexion between fixedness and the colour, weight, and other simple ideas of that nominal essence of gold; so, if we make our complex idea of gold, a body yellow, fusable, ductile, weighty, and fixed, we shall be at the same uncertainty concerning solubility in aqua regia, and for the same reason. since we can never, from consideration of the ideas themselves, with certainty affirm or deny of a body whose complex idea is made up of yellow, very weighty, ductile, fusible, and fixed, that it is soluble in aqua regia: and so on of the rest of its qualities. i would gladly meet with one general affirmation concerning any will, no doubt, be presently objected, is not this an universal proposition, all gold is malleable? to which i answer, it is a very complex idea the word gold stands for. but then here is nothing affirmed of gold, but that that sound stands for an idea in which malleableness is contained: and such a sort of truth and certainty as this it is, to say a centaur is four-footed. but if malleableness make not a part of the specific essence the name of gold stands for, it is plain, all gold is malleable, is not a certain proposition. because, let the complex idea of gold be made up of whichsoever of its other qualities you please, malleableness will not appear to depend on that complex idea, nor follow from any simple one contained in it: the connexion that malleableness has (if it has any) with those other qualities being only by the intervention of the real constitution of its insensible parts; which, since we know not, it is impossible we should perceive that connexion, unless we could discover that which ties them together. . as far as any such co-existence can be known, so far universal propositions maybe certain. but this will go but a little way. the more, indeed, of these co-existing qualities we unite into one complex idea, under one name, the more precise and determinate we make the signification of that word; but never yet make it thereby more capable of universal certainty, in respect of other qualities not contained in our complex idea: since we perceive not their connexion or dependence on one another; being ignorant both of that real constitution in which they are all founded, and also how they flow from it. for the chief part of our knowledge concerning substances is not, as in other things, barely of the relation of two ideas that may exist separately; but is of the necessary connexion and co-existence of several distinct ideas in the same subject, or of their repugnancy so to co-exist. could we begin at the other end, and discover what it was wherein that colour consisted, what made a body lighter or heavier, what texture of parts made it malleable, fusible, and fixed, and fit to be dissolved in this sort of liquor, and not in another;--if, i say, we had such an idea as this of bodies, and could perceive wherein all sensible qualities originally consist, and how they are produced; we might frame such abstract ideas of them as would furnish us with matter of more general knowledge, and enable us to make universal propositions, that should carry general truth and certainty with them. but whilst our complex ideas of the sorts of substances are so remote from that internal real constitution on which their sensible qualities depend, and are made up of nothing but an imperfect collection of those apparent qualities our senses can discover, there can be few general propositions concerning substances of whose real truth we can be certainly assured; since there are but few simple ideas of whose connexion and necessary co-existence we can have certain and undoubted knowledge. i imagine, amongst all the secondary qualities of substances, and the powers relating to them, there cannot any two be named, whose necessary co-existence, or repugnance to co-exist, can certainly be known; unless in those of the same sense, which necessarily exclude one another, as i have elsewhere showed. no one, i think, by the colour that is in any body, can certainly know what smell, taste, sound, or tangible qualities it has, nor what alterations it is capable to make or receive on or from other bodies. the same may be said of the sound or taste, &c. our specific names of substances standing for any collections of such ideas, it is not to be wondered that we can with them make very few general propositions of undoubted real certainty. but yet so far as any complex idea of any sort of substances contains in it any simple idea, whose necessary co-existence with any other may be discovered, so far universal propositions may with certainty be made concerning it: v.g. could any one discover a necessary connexion between malleableness and the colour or weight of gold, or any other part of the complex idea signified by that name, he might make a certain universal proposition concerning gold in this respect; and the real truth of this proposition, that all gold is malliable, would be as certain as of this, the three angles of all right-lined triangles are all equal to two right ones. . the qualities which make our complex ideas of substances depend mostly on external, remote, and unperceived causes. had we such ideas of substances as to know what real constitutions produce those sensible qualities we find in them, and how those qualities flowed from thence, we could, by the specific ideas of their real essences in our own minds, more certainly find out their properties, and discover what qualities they had or had not, than we can now by our senses: and to know the properties of gold, it would be no more necessary that gold should exist, and that we should make experiments upon it, than it is necessary for the knowing the properties of a triangle, that a triangle should exist in any matter, the idea in our minds would serve for the one as well as the other. but we are so far from being admitted into the secrets of nature, that we scarce so much as ever approach the first entrance towards them. for we are wont to consider the substances we meet with, each of them, as an entire thing by itself, having all its qualities in itself, and independent of other things; overlooking, for the most part, the operations of those invisible fluids they are encompassed with, and upon whose motions and operations depend the greatest part of those qualities which are taken notice of in them, and are made by us the inherent marks of distinction whereby we know and denominate them. put a piece of gold anywhere by itself, separate from the reach and influence of all other bodies, it will immediately lose all its colour and weight, and perhaps malleableness too; which, for aught i know, would be changed into a perfect friability. water, in which to us fluidity is an essential quality, left to itself, would cease to be fluid. but if inanimate bodies owe so much of their present state to other bodies without them, that they would not be what they appear to us were those bodies that environ them removed; it is yet more so in vegetables, which are nourished, grow, and produce leaves, flowers, and seeds, in a constant succession. and if we look a little nearer into the state of animals, we shall find that their dependence, as to life, motion, and the most considerable qualities to be observed in them, is so wholly on extrinsical causes and qualities of other bodies that make no part of them, that they cannot subsist a moment without them: though yet those bodies on which they depend are little taken notice of, and make no part of the complex ideas we frame of those animals. take the air but for a minute from the greatest part of living creatures, and they presently lose sense, life, and motion. this the necessity of breathing has forced into our knowledge. but how many other extrinsical and possibly very remote bodies do the springs of these admirable machines depend on, which are not vulgarly observed, or so much as thought on; and how many are there which the severest inquiry can never discover? the inhabitants of this spot of the universe, though removed so many millions of miles from the sun, yet depend so much on the duly tempered motion of particles coming from or agitated by it, that were this earth removed but a small part of the distance out of its present situation, and placed a little further or nearer that source of heat, it is more than probable that the greatest part of the animals in it would immediately perish: since we find them so often destroyed by an excess or defect of the sun's warmth, which an accidental position in some parts of this our little globe exposes them to. the qualities observed in a loadstone must needs have their source far beyond the confines of that body; and the ravage made often on several sorts of animals by invisible causes, the certain death (as we are told) of some of them, by barely passing the line, or, as it is certain of other, by being removed into a neighbouring country; evidently show that the concurrence and operations of several bodies, with which they are seldom thought to have anything to do, is absolutely necessary to make them be what they appear to us, and to preserve those qualities by which we know and distinguish them. we are then quite out of the way, when we think that things contain within themselves the qualities that appear to us in them; and we in vain search for that constitution within the body of a fly or an elephant, upon which depend those qualities and powers we observe in them. for which, perhaps, to understand them aright, we ought to look not only beyond this our earth and atmosphere, but even beyond the sun or remotest star our eyes have yet discovered. for how much the being and operation of particular substances in this our globe depends on causes utterly beyond our view, is impossible for us to determine. we see and perceive some of the motions and grosser operations of things here about us; but whence the streams come that keep all these curious machines in motion and repair, how conveyed and modified, is beyond our notice and apprehension: and the great parts and wheels, as i may so say, of this stupendous structure of the universe, may, for aught we know, have such a connexion and dependence in their influences and operations one upon another, that perhaps things in this our mansion would put on quite another face, and cease to be what they are, if some one of the stars or great bodies incomprehensibly remote from us, should cease to be or move as it does. this is certain: things, however absolute and entire they seem in themselves, are but retainers to other parts of nature, for that which they are most taken notice of by us. their observable qualities, actions, and powers are owing to something without them; and there is not so complete and perfect a part that we know of nature, which does not owe the being it has, and the excellences of it, to its neighbours; and we must not confine our thoughts within the surface of any body, but look a great deal further, to comprehend perfectly those qualities that are in it. . our nominal essences of substances furnish few universal propositions about them that are certain. if this be so, it is not to be wondered that we have very imperfect ideas of substances, and that the real essences, on which depend their properties and operations, are unknown to us. we cannot discover so much as that size, figure, and texture of their minute and active parts, which is really in much less the different motions and impulses made in and upon them by bodies from without, upon which depends, and by which is formed the greatest and most remarkable part of those qualities we observe in them, and of which our complex ideas of them are made up. this consideration alone is enough to put an end to all our hopes of ever having the ideas of their real essences; which whilst we want, the nominal essences we make use of instead of them will be able to furnish us but very sparingly with any general knowledge, or universal propositions capable of real certainty. . judgment of probability concerning substances may reach further: but that is not knowledge. we are not therefore to wonder, if certainty be to be found in very few general propositions made concerning substances: our knowledge of their qualities and properties goes very seldom further than our senses reach and inform us. possibly inquisitive and observing men may, by strength of judgment, penetrate further, and, on probabilities taken from wary observation, and hints well laid together, often guess right at what experience has not yet discovered to them. but this is but guessing still; it amounts only to opinion, and has not that certainty which is requisite to knowledge. for all general knowledge lies only in our own thoughts, and consists barely in the contemplation of our own abstract ideas. wherever we perceive any agreement or disagreement amongst them, there we have general knowledge; and by putting the names of those ideas together accordingly in propositions, can with certainty pronounce general truths. but because the abstract ideas of substances, for which their specific names stand, whenever they have any distinct and determinate signification, have a discoverable connexion or inconsistency with but a very few other ideas, the certainty of universal propositions concerning substances is very narrow and scanty, in that part which is our principal inquiry concerning them; and there are scarce any of the names of substances, let the idea it is applied to be what it will, of which we can generally, and with certainty, pronounce, that it has or has not this or that other quality belonging to it, and constantly co-existing or inconsistent with that idea, wherever it is to be found. . what is requisite for our knowledge of substances. before we can have any tolerable knowledge of this kind, we must first know what changes the primary qualities of one body do regularly produce in the primary qualities of another, and how. secondly, we must know what primary qualities of any body produce certain sensations or ideas in us. this is in truth no less than to know all the effects of matter, under its divers modifications of bulk, figure, cohesion of parts, motion and rest. which, i think every body will allow, is utterly impossible to be known by us without revelation. nor if it were revealed to us what sort of figure, bulk, and motion of corpuscles would produce in us the sensation of a yellow colour, and what sort of figure, bulk, and texture of parts in the superficies of any body were fit to give such corpuscles their due motion to produce that colour; would that be enough to make universal propositions with certainty, concerning the several sorts of them; unless we had faculties acute enough to perceive the precise bulk, figure, texture, and motion of bodies, in those minute parts, by which they operate on our senses, so that we might by those frame our abstract ideas of them. i have mentioned here only corporeal substances, whose operations seem to lie more level to our understandings. for as to the operations of spirits, both their thinking and moving of bodies, we at first sight find ourselves at a loss; though perhaps, when we have applied our thoughts a little nearer to the consideration of bodies and their operations, and examined how far our notions, even in these, reach with any clearness beyond sensible matter of fact, we shall be bound to confess that, even in these too, our discoveries amount to very little beyond perfect ignorance and incapacity. . whilst our complex ideas of substances contain not ideas of their real constitutions, we can make but few general propositions concerning them. this is evident, the abstract complex ideas of substances, for which their general names stand, not comprehending their real constitutions, can afford us very little universal certainty. because our ideas of them are not made up of that on which those qualities we observe in them, and would inform ourselves about, do depend, or with which they have any certain connexion: v.g. let the ideas to which we give the name man be, as it commonly is, a body of the ordinary shape, with sense, voluntary motion, and reason joined to it. this being the abstract idea, and consequently the essence of our species, man, we can make but very few general certain propositions concerning man, standing for such an idea. because, not knowing the real constitution on which sensation, power of motion, and reasoning, with that peculiar shape, depend, and whereby they are united together in the same subject, there are very few other qualities with which we can perceive them to have a necessary connexion: and therefore we cannot with certainty affirm: that all men sleep by intervals; that no man can be nourished by wood or stones; that all men will be poisoned by hemlock: because these ideas have no connexion nor repugnancy with this our nominal essence of man, with this abstract idea that name stands for. we must, in these and the like, appeal to trial in particular subjects, which can reach but a little way. we must content ourselves with probability in the rest: but can have no general certainty, whilst our specific idea of man contains not that real constitution which is the root wherein all his inseparable qualities are united, and from whence they flow. whilst our idea the word man stands for is only an imperfect collection of some sensible qualities and powers in him, there is no discernible connexion or repugnance between our specific idea, and the operation of either the parts of hemlock or stones upon his constitution. there are animals that safely eat hemlock, and others that are nourished by wood and stones: but as long as we want ideas of those real constitutions of different sorts of animals whereon these and the like qualities and powers depend, we must not hope to reach certainty in universal propositions concerning them. those few ideas only which have a discernible connexion with our nominal essence, or any part of it, can afford us such propositions. but these are so few, and of so little moment, that we may justly look on our certain general knowledge of substances as almost none at all. . wherein lies the general certainty of propositions. to conclude: general propositions, of what kind soever, are then only capable of certainty, when the terms used in them stand for such ideas, whose agreement or disagreement, as there expressed, is capable to be discovered by us. and we are then certain of their truth or falsehood, when we perceive the ideas the terms stand for to agree or not agree, according as they are affirmed or denied one of another. whence we may take notice, that general certainty is never to be found but in our ideas. whenever we go to seek it elsewhere, in experiment or observations without us, our knowledge goes not beyond particulars. it is the contemplation of our own abstract ideas that alone is able to afford us general knowledge. chapter vii. of maxims . maxims or axioms are self-evident propositions. there are a sort of propositions, which, under the name of maxims and axioms, have passed for principles of science: and because they are self-evident, have been supposed innate, without that anybody (that i know) ever went about to show the reason and foundation of their clearness or cogency. it may, however, be worth while to inquire into the reason of their evidence, and see whether it be peculiar to them alone; and also to examine how far they influence and govern our other knowledge. . where in that self-evidence consists. knowledge, as has been shown, consists in the perception of the agreement or disagreement of ideas. now, where that agreement or disagreement is perceived immediately by itself, without the intervention or help of any other, there our knowledge is self-evident. this will appear to be so to any who will but consider any of those propositions which, without any proof, he assents to at first sight: for in all of them he will find that the reason of his assent is from that agreement or disagreement which the mind, by an immediate comparing them, finds in those ideas answering the affirmation or negation in the proposition. . self evidence not peculiar to received axioms. this being so, in the next place, let us consider whether this self-evidence be peculiar only to those propositions which commonly pass under the name of maxims, and have the dignity of axioms allowed them. and here it is plain, that several other truths, not allowed to be axioms, partake equally with them in this self-evidence. this we shall see, if we go over these several sorts of agreement or disagreement of ideas which i have above mentioned, viz. identity, relation, co-existence, and real existence; which will discover to us, that not only those few propositions which have had the credit of maxims are self-evident, but a great many, even almost an infinite number of other propositions are such. . as to identity and diversity all propositions are equally self-evident. i. for, first, the immediate perception of the agreement or disagreement of identity being founded in the mind's having distinct ideas, this affords us as many self-evident propositions as we have distinct ideas. every one that has any knowledge at all, has, as the foundation of it, various and distinct ideas: and it is the first act of the mind (without which it can never be capable of any knowledge) to know every one of its ideas by itself, and distinguish it from others. every one finds in himself, that he knows the ideas he has; that he knows also, when any one is in his understanding, and what it is; and that when more than one are there, he knows them distinctly and unconfusedly one from another; which always being so, (it being impossible but that he should perceive what he perceives,) he can never be in doubt when any idea is in his mind, that it is there, and is that idea it is; and that two distinct ideas, when they are in his mind, are there, and are not one and the same idea. so that all such affirmations and negations are made without any possibility of doubt, uncertainty, or hesitation, and must necessarily be assented to as soon as understood; that is, as soon as we have in our minds [determined ideas,] which the terms in the proposition stand for. [and, therefore, whenever the mind with attention considers any proposition, so as to perceive the two ideas signified by the terms, and affirmed or denied one of the other to be the same or different; it is presently and infallibly certain of the truth of such a proposition; and this equally whether these propositions be in terms standing for more general ideas, or such as are less so: v.g. whether the general idea of being be affirmed of itself, as in this proposition, 'whatsoever is, is'; or a more particular idea be affirmed of itself, as 'a man is a man'; or, 'whatsoever is white is white'; or whether the idea of being in general be denied of not-being, which is the only (if i may so call it) idea different from it, as in this other proposition, 'it is impossible for the same thing to be and not to be': or any idea of any particular being be denied of another different from it, as 'a man is not a horse'; 'red is not blue.' the difference of the ideas, as soon as the terms are understood, makes the truth of the proposition presently visible, and that with an equal certainty and easiness in the less as well as the more general propositions; and all for the same reason, viz. because the mind perceives, in any ideas that it has, the same idea to be the same with itself; and two different ideas to be different, and not the same; and this it is equally certain of, whether these ideas be more or less general, abstract, and comprehensive.] it is not, therefore, alone to these two general propositions--'whatsoever is, is'; and 'it is impossible for the same thing to be and not to be'--that this sort of self-evidence belongs by any peculiar right. the perception of being, or not being, belongs no more to these vague ideas, signified by the terms whatsoever, and thing, than it does to any other ideas. [these two general maxims, amounting to no more, in short, but this, that the same is the same, and the same is not different, are truths known in more particular instances, as well as in those general maxims; and known also in particular instances, before these general maxims are ever thought on; and draw all their force from the discernment of the mind employed about particular ideas. there is nothing more visible than that] the mind, without the help of any proof, [or reflection on either of these general propositions,] perceives so clearly, and knows so certainly, that the idea of white is the idea of white, and not the idea of blue; and that the idea of white, when it is in the mind, is there, and is not absent; [that the consideration of these axioms can add nothing to the evidence or certainty of its knowledge.] [just so it is (as every one may experiment in himself) in all the ideas a man has in his mind: he knows each to be itself, and not to be another; and to be in his mind, and not away when it is there, with a certainty that cannot be greater; and, therefore, the truth of no general proposition can be known with a greater certainty, nor add anything to this.] so that, in respect of identity, our intuitive knowledge reaches as far as our ideas. and we are capable of making as many self-evident propositions, as we have names for distinct ideas. and i appeal to every one's own mind, whether this proposition, 'a circle is a circle,' be not as self-evident a proposition as that consisting of more general terms, 'whatsoever is, is'; and again, whether this proposition, 'blue is not red,' be not a proposition that the mind can no more doubt of, as soon as it understands the words, than it does of that axiom, 'it is impossible for the same thing to be and not to be?' and so of all the like. . in co-existance we have few self-evident propositions. ii. secondly, as to co-existance, or such a necessary connexion between two ideas that, in the subject where one of them is supposed, there the other must necessarily be also: of such agreement or disagreement as this, the mind has an immediate perception but in very few of them. and therefore in this sort we have but very little intuitive knowledge: nor are there to be found very many propositions that are self-evident, though some there are: v.g. the idea of filling a place equal to the contents of its superficies, being annexed to our idea of body, i think it is a self-evident proposition, that two bodies cannot be in the same place. . iii. in other relations we may have many. thirdly, as to the relations of modes, mathematicians have framed many axioms concerning that one relation of equality. as, 'equals taken from equals, the remainder will be equal'; which, with the rest of that kind, however they are received for maxims by the mathematicians, and are unquestionable truths, yet, i think, that any one who considers them will not find that they have a clearer self-evidence than these,--that 'one and one are equal to two', that 'if you take from the five fingers of one hand two, and from the five fingers of the other hand two, the remaining numbers will be equal.' these and a thousand other such propositions may be found in numbers, which, at the very first hearing, force the assent, and carry with them an equal if not greater clearness, than those mathematical axioms. . iv. concerning real existence, we have none. fourthly, as to real existance, since that has no connexion with any other of our ideas, but that of ourselves, and of a first being, we have in that, concerning the real existence of all other beings, not so much as demonstrative, much less a self-evident knowledge: and, therefore, concerning those, there are no maxims. . these axioms do not much influence our other knowledge. in the next place let us consider, what influence these received maxims have upon the other parts of our knowledge. the rules established in the schools, that all reasonings are ex praecognitis et praeconcessis, seem to lay the foundation of all other knowledge in these maxims, and to suppose them to be praecognita. whereby, i think, are meant these two things: first, that these axioms are those truths that are first known to the mind; and, secondly, that upon them the other parts of our knowledge depend. . because maxims or axioms are not the truths we first knew. first, that they are not the truths first known to the mind is evident to experience, as we have shown in another place. (book i. chap, .) who perceives not that a child certainly knows that a stranger is not its mother; that its sucking-bottle is not the rod, long before he knows that 'it is impossible for the same thing to be and not to be?' and how many truths are there about numbers, which it is obvious to observe that the mind is perfectly acquainted with, and fully convinced of, before it ever thought on these general maxims, to which mathematicians, in their arguings, do sometimes refer them? whereof the reason is very plain: for that which makes the mind assent to such propositions, being nothing else but the perception it has of the agreement or disagreement of its ideas, according as it finds them affirmed or denied one of another in words it understands; and every idea being known to be what it is, and every two distinct ideas being known not to be the same; it must necessarily follow that such self-evident truths must be first known which consist of ideas that are first in the mind. and the ideas first in the mind, it is evident, are those of particular things, from whence by slow degrees, the understanding proceeds to some few general ones; which being taken from the ordinary and familiar objects of sense, are settled in the mind, with general names to them. thus particular ideas are first received and distinguished, and so knowledge got about them; and next to them, the less general or specific, which are next to particular. for abstract ideas are not so obvious or easy to children, or the yet unexercised mind, as particular ones. if they seem so to grown men, it is only because by constant and familiar use they are made so. for, when we nicely reflect upon them, we shall find that general ideas are fictions and contrivances of the mind, that carry difficulty with them and do not so easily offer themselves as we are apt to imagine. for example, does it not require some pains and skill to form the general idea of a triangle,(which is yet none of the more abstract, comprehensive, and difficult,) for it must be neither oblique nor rectangle, neither equilateral, equicrural, nor scalinon; but all and none of these at once. in effect, it is something imperfect, that cannot exist; an idea wherein some part of several different and inconsistant ideas are put together. it is true, the mind, in this imperfect state, has need of such ideas, and makes all the haste to them it can, for the conveniency of communication and enlargement of knowledge; to both which it is naturally very much inclined. but yet one has reason to suspect such ideas are marks of our imperfection; at least, this is enough to show that the most abstract and general ideas are not those that the mind is first and most easily acquainted with, nor such as its earliest knowledge is conversant about. . because on perception of them the other parts of our knowledge do not depend. secondly, from what has been said it plainly follows, that these magnified maxims are not the principles and foundations of all our other knowledge. for if there be a great many other truths, which have as much self-evidence as they, and a great many that we know before them, it is impossible they should be the principles from which we deduce all other truths. is it impossible to know that one and two are equal to three, but by virtue of this, or some such axiom, viz. 'the whole is equal to all its parts taken together?' many a one knows that one and two are equal to three, without having heard, or thought on, that or any other axiom by which it might be proved; and knows it as certainly as any other man knows, that 'the whole is equal to all its parts,' or any other maxim; and all from the same reason of self-evidence: the equality of those ideas being as visible and certain to him without that or any other axiom as with it, it needing no proof to make it perceived. nor after the knowledge, that the whole is equal to all its parts, does he know that one and two are equal to three, better or more certainly than he did before. for if there be any odds in those ideas, the whole and parts are more obscure, or at least more difficult to be settled in the mind than those of one, two, and three. and indeed, i think, i may ask these men, who will needs have all knowledge, besides those general principles themselves, to depend on general, innate, and self-evident principles. what principle is requisite to prove that one and one are two, that two and two are four, that three times two are six? which being known without any proof, do evince, that either all knowledge does not depend on certain praecognita or general maxims, called principles; or else that these are principles: and if these are to be counted principles, a great part of numeration will be so. to which, if we add all the self-evident propositions which may be made about all our distinct ideas, principles will be almost infinite, at least innumerable, which men arrive to the knowledge of, at different ages; and a great many of these innate principles they never come to know all their lives. but whether they come in view of the mind earlier or later, this is true of them, that they are all known by their native evidence; are wholly independent; receive no light, nor are capable of any proof one from another; much less the more particular from the more general, or the more simple from the more compounded; the more simple and less abstract being the most familiar, and the easier and earlier apprehended. but whichever be the clearest ideas, the evidence and certainty of all such propositions is in this, that a man sees the same idea to be the same idea, and infallibly perceives two different ideas to be different ideas. for when a man has in his understanding the ideas of one and of two, the idea of yellow, and the idea of blue, he cannot but certainly know that the idea of one is the idea of one, and not the idea of two; and that the idea of yellow is the idea of yellow, and not the idea of blue. for a man cannot confound the ideas in his mind, which he has distinct: that would be to have them confused and distinct at the same time, which is a contradiction: and to have none distinct, is to have no use of our faculties, to have no knowledge at all. and, therefore, what idea soever is affirmed of itself, or whatsoever two entire distinct ideas are denied one of another, the mind cannot but assent to such a proposition as infallibly true, as soon as it understands the terms, without hesitation or need of proof, or regarding those made in more general terms and called maxims. . what use these general maxims or axioms have. [what shall we then say? are these general maxims of no use? by no means; though perhaps their use is not that which it is commonly taken to be. but, since doubting in the least of what hath been by some men ascribed to these maxims may be apt to be cried out against, as overturning the foundations of all the sciences; it may be worth while to consider them with respect to other parts of our knowledge, and examine more particularly to what purposes they serve, and to what not. {of no use to prove less general propositions, nor as foundations on consideration of which any science has been built.} ( ) it is evident from what has been already said, that they are of no use to prove or confirm less general self-evident propositions. ( ) it is as plain that they are not, nor have been the foundations whereon any science hath been built. there is, i know, a great deal of talk, propagated from scholastic men, of sciences and the maxims on which they are built: but it has been my ill-luck never to meet with any such sciences; much less any one built upon these two maxims, what is, is; and it is impossible for the same thing to be and not to be. and i would be glad to be shown where any such science, erected upon these or any other general axioms is to be found: and should be obliged to any one who would lay before me the frame and system of any science so built on these or any such like maxims, that could not be shown to stand as firm without any consideration of them. i ask, whether these general maxims have not the same use in the study of divinity, and in theological questions, that they have in other sciences? they serve here, too, to silence wranglers, and put an end to dispute. but i think that nobody will therefore say, that the christian religion is built upon these maxims, or that the knowledge we have of it is derived from these principles. it is from revelation we have received it, and without revelation these maxims had never been able to help us to it. when we find out an idea by whose intervention we discover the connexion of two others, this is a revelation from god to us by the voice of reason: for we then come to know a truth that we did not know before. when god declares any truth to us, this is a revelation to us by the voice of his spirit, and we are advanced in our knowledge. but in neither of these do we receive our light or knowledge from maxims. but in the one, the things themselves afford it: and we see the truth in them by perceiving their agreement or disagreement. in the other, god himself affords it immediately to us: and we see the truth of what he says in his unerring veracity. ( ) nor as helps in the discovery of yet unknown truths. they are not of use to help men forward in the advancement of sciences, or new discoveries of yet unknown truths. mr. newton, in his never enough to be admired book, has demonstrated several propositions, which are so many new truths, before unknown to the world, and are further advances in mathematical knowledge: but, for the discovery of these, it was not the general maxims, 'what is, is;' or, 'the whole is bigger than a part,' or the like, that helped him. these were not the clues that led him into the discovery of the truth and certainty of those propositions. nor was it by them that he got the knowledge of those demonstrations, but by finding out intermediate ideas that showed the agreement or disagreement of the ideas, as expressed in the propositions he demonstrated. this is the greatest exercise and improvement of human understanding in the enlarging of knowledge, and advancing the sciences; wherein they are far enough from receiving any help from the contemplation of these or the like magnified maxims. would those who have this traditional admiration of these propositions, that they think no step can be made in knowledge without the support of an axiom, no stone laid in the building of the sciences without a general maxim, but distinguish between the method of acquiring knowledge, and of communicating it; between the method of raising any science, and that of teaching it to others, as far as it is advanced--they would see that those general maxims were not the foundations on which the first discoverers raised their admirable structures, nor the keys that unlocked and opened those secrets of knowledge. though afterwards, when schools were erected, and sciences had their professors to teach what others had found out, they often made use of maxims, i.e. laid down certain propositions which were self-evident, or to be received for true; which being settled in the minds of their scholars as unquestionable verities, they on occasion made use of, to convince them of truths in particular instances, that were not so familiar to their minds as those general axioms which had before been inculcated to them, and carefully settled in their minds. though these particular instances, when well reflected on, are no less self-evident to the understanding than the general maxims brought to confirm them: and it was in those particular instances that the first discoverer found the truth, without the help of the general maxims: and so may any one else do, who with attention considers them. {maxims of use in the exposition of what has been discovered, and in silencing obstinate wranglers.} to come, therefore, to the use that is made of maxims. ( ) they are of use, as has been observed, in the ordinary methods of teaching sciences as far as they are advanced: but of little or none in advancing them further. ( ) they are of use in disputes, for the silencing of obstinate wranglers, and bringing those contests to some conclusion. whether a need of them to that end came not in the manner following, i crave leave to inquire. the schools having made disputation the touchstone of men's abilities, and the criterion of knowledge, adjudged victory to him that kept the field: and he that had the last word was concluded to have the better of the argument, if not of the cause. but because by this means there was like to be no decision between skilful combatants, whilst one never failed of a medius terminus to prove any proposition; and the other could as constantly, without or with a distinction, deny the major or minor; to prevent, as much as could be, running out of disputes into an endless train of syllogisms, certain general propositions--most of them, indeed, self-evident--were introduced into the schools: which being such as all men allowed and agreed in, were looked on as general measures of truth, and served instead of principles (where the disputants had not lain down any other between them) beyond which there was no going, and which must not be receded from by either side. and thus these maxims, getting the name of principles, beyond which men in dispute could not retreat, were by mistake taken to be the originals and sources from whence all knowledge began, and the foundations whereon the sciences were built. because when in their disputes they came to any of these, they stopped there, and went no further; the matter was determined. but how much this is a mistake, hath been already shown. {how maxims came to be so much in vogue.} this method of the schools, which have been thought the fountains of knowledge, introduced, as i suppose, the like use of these maxims into a great part of conversation out of the schools, to stop the mouths of cavillers, whom any one is excused from arguing any longer with, when they deny these general self-evident principles received by all reasonable men who have once thought of them: but yet their use herein is but to put an end to wrangling. they in truth, when urged in such cases, teach nothing: that is already done by the intermediate ideas made use of in the debate, whose connexion may be seen without the help of those maxims, and so the truth known before the maxim is produced, and the argument brought to a first principle. men would give off a wrong argument before it came to that, if in their disputes they proposed to themselves the finding and embracing of truth, and not a contest for victory. and thus maxims have their use to put a stop to their perverseness, whose ingenuity should have yielded sooner. but the method of the schools having allowed and encouraged men to oppose and resist evident truth till they are baffled, i.e. till they are reduced to contradict themselves, or some established principles: it is no wonder that they should not in civil conversation be ashamed of that which in the schools is counted a virtue and a glory, viz. obstinately to maintain that side of the question they have chosen, whether true or false, to the last extremity; even after conviction. a strange way to attain truth and knowledge: and that which i think the rational part of mankind, not corrupted by education, could scare believe should ever be admitted amongst the lovers of truth, and students of religion or nature, or introduced into the seminaries of those who are to propegate the truths of religion or philosophy amongst the ignorant and unconvinced. how much such a way of learning is like to turn young men's minds from the sincere search and love of truth; nay, and to make them doubt whether there is any such thing, or, at least, worth the adhering to, i shall not now inquire. this i think, that, bating those places, which brought the peripatetic philosophy into their schools, where it continued many ages, without teaching the world anything but the art of wrangling, these maxims were nowhere thought the foundations on which the sciences were built, nor the great helps to the advancement of knowledge.] {of great use to stop wranglers in disputes, but of little use to the discovery of truths.} as to these general maxims, therefore, they are, as i have said, of great use in disputes, to stop the mouths of wranglers; but not of much use to the discovery of unknown truths, or to help the mind forwards in its search after knowledge. for who ever began to build his knowledge on this general proposition, what is, is; or, it is impossible for the same thing to be and not to be: and from either of these, as from a principle of science, deduced a system of useful knowledge? wrong opinions often involving contradictions, one of these maxims, as a touchstone, may serve well to show whither they lead. but yet, however fit to lay open the absurdity or mistake of a man's reasoning or opinion, they are of very little use for enlightening the understanding: and it will not be found that the mind receives much help from them in its progress in knowledge; which would be neither less, nor less certain, were these two general propositions never thought on. it is true, as i have said, they sometimes serve in argumentation to stop a wrangler's mouth, by showing the absurdity of what he saith, [and by exposing him to the shame of contradicting what all the world knows, and he himself cannot but own to be true.] but it is one thing to show a man that he is in an error, and another to put him in possession of truth, and i would fain know what truths these two propositions are able to teach, and by their influence make us know which we did not know before, or could not know without them. let us reason from them as well as we can, they are only about identical predications, and influence, if any at all, none but such. each particular proposition concerning identity or diversity is as clearly and certainly known in itself, if attended to, as either of these general ones: [only these general ones, as serving in all cases, are therefore more inculcated and insisted on.] as to other less general maxims, many of them are no more than bare verbal propositions, and teach us nothing but the respect and import of names one to another. 'the whole is equal to all its parts:' what real truth, i beseech you, does it teach us? what more is contained in that maxim, than what the signification of the word totum, or the whole, does of itself import? and he that knows that the word whole stands for what is made up of all its parts, knows very little less than that the whole is equal to all its parts. and, upon the same ground, i think that this proposition, 'a hill is higher than a valley', and several the like, may also pass for maxims. but yet [masters of mathematics, when they would, as teachers of what they know, initiate others in that science do not] without reason place this and some other such maxims [at the entrance of their systems]; that their scholars, having in the beginning perfectly acquainted their thoughts with these propositions, made in such general terms, may be used to make such reflections, and have these more general propositions, as formed rules and sayings, ready to apply to all particular cases. not that if they be equally weighed, they are more clear and evident than the particular instances they are brought to confirm; but that, being more familiar to the mind, the very naming them is enough to satisfy the understanding. but this, i say, is more from our custom of using them, and the establishment they have got in our minds by our often thinking of them, than from the different evidence of the things. but before custom has settled methods of thinking and reasoning in our minds, i am apt to imagine it is quite otherwise; and that the child, when a part of his apple is taken away, knows it better in that particular instance, than by this general proposition, 'the whole is equal to all its parts;' and that, if one of these have need to be confirmed to him by the other, the general has more need to be let into his mind by the particular, than the particular by the general. for in _particulars_ our knowledge begins, and so spreads itself, by degrees, to _generals_ [footnote: this is the order in time of the conscious acquistion of knowledge that is human. the _essay_ might be regarded as a commentary on this one sentence. our intellectual progress is from particulars and involuntary recipiency, through reactive doubt and criticism, into what is at last reasoned faith.]. though afterwards the mind takes the quite contrary course, and having drawn its knowledge into as general propositions as it can, makes those familiar to its thoughts, and accustoms itself to have recourse to them, as to the standards of truth and falsehood. [footnote: this is the philosophic attitude. therein one consciously apprehends the intellectual necessities that were unconciously presupposed, its previous intellectual progress. in philosophy we 'draw our knowledge into as general propositions as it can' be made to assume, and thus either learn to see it as an organic while in a speculative unity, or learn that it cannot be so seen in a finite intelligence, and that even at the last it must remain 'broken' and mysterious in the human understanding. ] by which familiar use of them, as rules to measure the truth of other propositions, it comes in time to be thought, that more particular propositions have their truth and evidence from their conformity to these more general ones, which, in discourse and argumentation, are so frequently urged, and constantly admitted. and this i think to be the reason why, amongst so many self-evident propositions, the most general only have had the title of maxims. . maxims, if care be not taken in the use of words, may prove contradictions. one thing further, i think, it may not be amiss to observe concerning these general maxims, that they are so far from improving or establishing our minds in true knowledge that if our notions be wrong, loose, or unsteady, and we resign up our thoughts to the sound of words, rather than [fix them on settled, determined] ideas of things; i say these general maxims will serve to confirm us in mistakes; and in such a way of use of words, which is most common, will serve to prove contradictions: v.g. he that with descartes shall frame in his mind an idea of what he calls body to be nothing but extension, may easily demonstrate that there is no vacuum, i.e. no space void of body, by this maxim, what is, is. for the idea to which he annexes the name body, being bare extension, his knowledge that space cannot be without body, is certain. for he knows his own idea of extension clearly and distinctly, and knows that it is what it is, and not another idea, though it be called by these three names,--extension, body, space. which three words, standing for one and the same idea, may, no doubt, with the same evidence and certainty be affirmed one of another, as each of itself: and it is as certain, that, whilst i use them all to stand for one and the same idea, this predication is as true and identical in its signification, that 'space is body,' as this predication is true and identical, that 'body is body,' both in signification and sound. . instance in vacuum. but if another should come and make to himself another idea, different from descartes's, of the thing, which yet with descartes he calls by the same name body, and make his idea, which he expresses by the word body, to be of a thing that hath both extension and solidity together; he will as easily demonstrate, that there may be a vacuum or space without a body, as descartes demonstrated the contrary. because the idea to which he gives the name space being barely the simple one of extension, and the idea to which he gives the name body being the complex idea of extension and resistibility or solidity, together in the same subject, these two ideas are not exactly one and the same, but in the understanding as distinct as the ideas of one and two, white and black, or as of corporeity and humanity, if i may use those barbarous terms: and therefore the predication of them in our minds, or in words standing for them, is not identical, but the negation of them one of another; [viz. this proposition: 'extension or space is not body,' is] as true and evidently certain as this maxim, it is impossible for the same thing to be and not to be, [can make any proposition.] . but they prove not the existance of things without us. but yet, though both these propositions (as you see) may be equally demonstrated, viz. that there may be a vacuum, and that there cannot be a vacuum, by these two certain principles, viz. what is, is, and the same thing cannot be and not be: yet neither of these principles will serve to prove to us, that any, or what bodies do exist: for that we are left to our senses to discover to us as far as they can. those universal and self-evident principles being only our constant, clear, and distinct knowledge of our own ideas, more general or comprehensive, can assure us of nothing that passes without the mind: their certainty is founded only upon the knowledge we have of each idea by itself, and of its distinction from others, about which we cannot be mistaken whilst they are in our minds; though we may be and often are mistaken when we retain the names without the ideas; or use them confusedly, sometimes for one and sometimes for another idea. in which cases the force of these axioms, reaching only to the sound, and not the signification of the words, serves only to lead us into confusion, mistake, and error. [it is to show men that these maxims, however cried up for the great guards of truth, will not secure them from error in a careless loose use of their words, that i have made this remark. in all that is here suggested concerning their little use for the improvement of knowledge, or dangerous use in undetermined ideas, i have been far enough from saying or intending they should be laid aside; as some have been too forward to charge me. i affirm them to be truths, self-evident truths; and so cannot be laid aside. as far as their influence will reach, it is in vain to endeavour, nor will i attempt, to abridge it. but yet, without any injury to truth or knowledge, i may have reason to think their use is not answerable to the great stress which seems to be laid on them; and i may warn men not to make an ill use of them, for the confirming themselves in errors.] . they cannot add to our knowledge of substances, and their application to complex ideas is dangerous. but let them be of what use they will in verbal propositions, they cannot discover or prove to us the least knowledge of the nature of substances, as they are found and exist without us, any further than grounded on experience. and though the consequence of these two propositions, called principles, be very clear, and their use not dangerous or hurtful, in the probation of such things wherein there is no need at all of them for proof, but such as are clear by themselves without them, viz. where our ideas are [determined] and known by the names that stand for them: yet when these principles, viz. what is, is, and it is impossible for the same thing to be and not to be, are made use of in the probation of propositions wherein are words standing for complex ideas, v.g. man, horse, gold, virtue; there they are of infinite danger, and most commonly make men receive and retain falsehood for manifest truth, and uncertainty for demonstration: upon which follow error, obstinacy, and all the mischiefs that can happen from wrong reasoning. the reason whereof is not, that these principles are less true [or of less force] in proving propositions made of terms standing for complex ideas, than where the propositions are about simple ideas. [but because men mistake generally,--thinking that where the same terms are preserved, the propositions are about the same things, though the ideas they stand for are in truth different, therefore these maxims are made use of to support those which in sound and appearance are contradictory propositions; and is clear in the demonstrations above mentioned about a vacuum. so that whilst men take words for things, as usually they do, these maxims may and do commonly serve to prove contradictory propositions; as shall yet be further made manifest] . instance in demonstrations about man which can only be verbal. for instance: let man be that concerning which you would by these first principles demonstrate anything, and we shall see, that so far as demonstration is by these principles, it is only verbal, and gives us no certain, universal, true proposition, or knowledge, of any being existing without us. first, a child having framed the idea of a man, it is probable that his idea is just like that picture which the painter makes of the visible appearances joined together; and such a complication of ideas together in his understanding makes up the single complex idea which he calls man, whereof white or flesh-colour in england being one, the child can demonstrate to you that a negro is not a man, because white colour was one of the constant simple ideas of the complex idea he calls man; and therefore he can demonstrate, by the principle, it is impossible for the same thing to be and not to be, that a negro is not a man; the foundation of his certainty being not that universal proposition, which perhaps he never heard nor thought of, but the clear, distinct perception he hath of his own simple ideas of black and white, which he cannot be persuaded to take, nor can ever mistake one for another, whether he knows that maxim or no. and to this child, or any one who hath such an idea, which he calls man, can you never demonstrate that a man hath a soul, because his idea of man includes no such notion or idea in it. and therefore, to him, the principle of what is, is, proves not this matter; but it depends upon collection and observation, by which he is to make his complex idea called man. . another instance. secondly, another that hath gone further in framing and collecting the idea he calls man, and to the outward shape adds laughter and rational discourse, may demonstrate that infants and changelings are no men, by this maxim, it is impossible for the same thing to be and not to be; and i have discoursed with very rational men, who have actually denied that they are men. . a third instance. thirdly, perhaps another makes up the complex idea which he calls man, only out of the ideas of body in general, and the powers of language and reason, and leaves out the shape wholly: this man is able to demonstrate that a man may have no hands, but be quadrupes, neither of those being included in his idea of man: and in whatever body or shape he found speech and reason joined, that was a man; because, having a clear knowledge of such a complex idea, it is certain that what is, is. . little use of these maxims in proofs where we have clear and distinct ideas. so that, if rightly considered, i think we may say, that where our ideas are determined in our minds, and have annexed to them by us known and steady names under those settled determinations, there is little need, or no use at all of these maxims, to prove the agreement or disagreement of any of them. he that cannot discern the truth or falsehood of such propositions, without the help of these and the like maxims, will not be helped by these maxims to do it: since he cannot be supposed to know the truth of these maxims themselves without proof, if he cannot know the truth of others without proof, which are as self-evident as these. upon this ground it is that intuitive knowledge neither requires nor admits any proof, one part of it more than another. he that will suppose it does, takes away the foundation of all knowledge and certainty; and he that needs any proof to make him certain, and give his assent to this proposition, that two are equal to two, will also have need of a proof to make him admit, that what is, is. he that needs a probation to convince him that two are not three, that white is not black, that a triangle is not a circle, &c., or any other two [determined] distinct ideas are not one and the same, will need also a demonstration to convince him that it is impossible for the same thing to be and not to be. . their use dangerous where our ideas are not determined and as these maxims are of little use where we have determined ideas, so they are, as i have showed, of dangerous use where [our ideas are not determined; and where] we use words that are not annexed to determined ideas, but such as are of a loose and wandering signification, sometimes standing for one, and sometimes for another idea: from which follow mistake and error, which these maxims (brought as proofs to establish propositions, wherein the terms stand for undetermined ideas) do by their authority confirm and rivet. chapter viii. of trifling propositions. . some propositions bring no increase to our knowledge. whether the maxims treated of in the foregoing chapter be of that use to real knowledge as is generally supposed, i leave to be considered. this, i think, may confidently be affirmed, that there are universal propositions, which, though they be certainly true, yet they add no light to our understanding; bring no increase to our knowledge. such are-- . as, first, identical propositions. first, all purely identical propositions. these obviously and at first blush appear to contain no instruction in them; for when we affirm the said term of itself, whether it be barely verbal, or whether it contains any clear and real idea, it shows us nothing but what we must certainly know before, whether such a proposition be either made by, or proposed to us. indeed, that most general one, what is, is, may serve sometimes to show a man the absurdity he is guilty of, when, by circumlocution or equivocal terms, he would in particular instances deny the same thing of itself; because nobody will so openly bid defiance to common sense, as to affirm visible and direct contradictions in plain words; or, if he does, a man is excused if he breaks off any further discourse with him. but yet i think i may say, that neither that received maxim, nor any other identical proposition, teaches us anything; and though in such kind of propositions this great and magnified maxim, boasted to be the foundation of demonstration, may be and often is made use of to confirm them, yet all it proves amounts to no more than this, that the same word may with great certainty be affirmed of itself, without any doubt of the truth of any such proposition; and let me add, also, without any real knowledge. . examples. for, at this rate, any very ignorant person, who can but make a proposition, and knows what he means when he says ay or no, may make a million of propositions of whose truth he may be infallibly certain, and yet not know one thing in the world thereby; v.g. 'what is a soul, is a soul;' or, 'a soul is a soul;' 'a spirit is a spirit;' 'a fetiche is a fetiche,' &c. these all being equivalent to this proposition, viz. what is, is; i.e. what hath existence, hath existence; or, who hath a soul, hath a soul. what is this more than trifling with words? it is but like a monkey shifting his oyster from one hand to the other: and had he but words, might no doubt have said, 'oyster in right hand is subject, and oyster in left hand is predicate:' and so might have made a self-evident proposition of oyster, i.e. oyster is oyster; and yet, with all this, not have been one whit the wiser or more knowing: and that way of handling the matter would much at one have satisfied the monkey's hunger, or a man's understanding, and they would have improved in knowledge and bulk together. . secondly, propositions in which a part of any complex idea is predicated of the whole. ii. another sort of trifling propositions is, when a part of the complex idea is predicated of the name of the whole; a part of the definition of the word defined. such are all propositions wherein the genus is predicated of the species, or more comprehensive of less comprehensive terms. for what information, what knowledge, carries this proposition in it, viz. 'lead is a metal' to a man who knows the complex idea the name lead stands for? all the simple ideas that go to the complex one signified by the term metal, being nothing but what he before comprehended and signified by the name lead. indeed, to a man that knows the signification of the word metal, and not of the word lead, it is a shorter way to explain the signification of the word lead, by saying it is a metal, which at once expresses several of its simple ideas, than to enumerate them one by one, telling him it is a body very heavy, fusible, and malleable. . as part of the definition of the term defined. alike trifling it is to predicate any other part of the definition of the term defined, or to affirm anyone of the simple ideas of a complex one of the name of the whole complex idea; as, 'all gold is fusible.' for fusibility being one of the simple ideas that goes to the making up the complex one the sound gold stands for, what can it be but playing with sounds, to affirm that of the name gold, which is comprehended in its received signification? it would be thought little better than ridiculous to affirm gravely, as a truth of moment, that gold is yellow; and i see not how it is any jot more material to say it is fusible, unless that quality be left out of the complex idea, of which the sound gold is the mark in ordinary speech. what instruction can it carry with it, to tell one that which he hath been told already, or he is supposed to know before? for i am supposed to know the signification of the word another uses to me, or else he is to tell me. and if i know that the name gold stands for this complex idea of body, yellow, heavy, fusible, malleable, it will not much instruct me to put it solemnly afterwards in a proposition, and gravely say, all gold is fusible. such propositions can only serve to show the disingenuity of one who will go from the definition of his own terms, by reminding him sometimes of it; but carry no knowledge with them, but of the signification of words, however certain they be. . instance, man and palfrey. 'every man is an animal, or living body,' is as certain a proposition as can be; but no more conducing to the knowledge of things than to say, a palfrey is an ambling horse, or a neighing, ambling animal, both being only about the signification of words, and make me know but this--that body, sense, and motion, or power of sensation and moving, are three of those ideas that i always comprehend and signify by the word man: and where they are not to be found together, the name man belongs not to that thing: and so of the other--that body, sense, and a certain way of going, with a certain kind of voice, are some of those ideas which i always comprehend and signify by the word palfrey; and when they are not to be found together, the name palfrey belongs not to that thing. it is just the same, and to the same purpose, when any term standing for any one or more of the simple ideas, that altogether make up that complex idea which is called man, is affirmed of the term man:--v.g. suppose a roman signified by the word homo all these distinct ideas united in one subject, corporietas, sensibilitas, potentia se movendi, rationalitas, risibilitas; he might, no doubt, with great certainty, universally affirm one, more, or all of these together of the word homo, but did no more than say that the word homo, in his country, comprehended in its signification all these ideas. much like a romance knight, who by the word palfrey signified these ideas:--body of a certain figure, four-legged, with sense, motion, ambling, neighing, white, used to have a woman on his back--might with the same certainty universally affirm also any or all of these of the word palfrey: but did thereby teach no more, but that the word palfrey, in his or romance language, stood for all these, and was not to be applied to anything where any of these was wanting but he that shall tell me, that in whatever thing sense, motion, reason, and laughter, were united, that thing had actually a notion of god, or would be cast into a sleep by opium, made indeed an instructive proposition: because neither having the notion of god, nor being cast into sleep by opium, being contained in the idea signified by the word man, we are by such propositions taught something more than barely what the word man stands for: and therefore the knowledge contained in it is more than verbal. . for this teaches but the signification of words. before a man makes any proposition, he is supposed to understand the terms he uses in it, or else he talks like a parrot, only making a noise by imitation, and framing certain sounds, which he has learnt of others; but not as a rational creature, using them for signs of ideas which he has in his mind. the hearer also is supposed to understand the terms as the speaker uses them, or else he talks jargon, and makes an unintelligible noise. and therefore he trifles with words who makes such a proposition, which, when it is made, contains no more than one of the terms does, and which a man was supposed to know before: v.g. a triangle hath three sides, or saffron is yellow. and this is no further tolerable than where a man goes to explain his terms to one who is supposed or declares himself not to understand him; and then it teaches only the signification of that word, and the use of that sign. . but adds no real knowledge. we can know then the truth of two sorts of propositions with perfect certainty. the one is, of those trifling propositions which have a certainty in them, but it is only a verbal certainty, but not instructive. and, secondly, we can know the truth, and so may be certain in propositions, which affirm something of another, which is a necessary consequence of its precise complex idea, but not contained in it: as that, the external angle of all triangles is bigger than either of the opposite internal angles. which relation of the outward angle to either of the opposite internal angles, making no part of the complex idea signified by the name triangle, this is a real truth, and conveys with it instructive real knowledge. . general propositions concerning substances are often trifling. we having little or no knowledge of what combinations there be of simple ideas existing together in substances, but by our senses, we cannot make any universal certain propositions concerning them, any further than our nominal essences lead us. which being to a very few and inconsiderable truths, in respect of those which depend on their real constitutions, the general propositions that are made about substances, if they are certain, are for the most part but trifling; and if they are instructive, are uncertain, and such as we can have no knowledge of their real truth, how much soever constant observation and analogy may assist our judgment in guessing. hence it comes to pass, that one may often meet with very clear and coherent discourses, that amount yet to nothing. for it is plain that names of substantial beings, as well as others, as far as they have relative significations affixed to them, may, with great truth, be joined negatively and affirmatively in propositions, as their relative definitions make them fit to be so joined; and propositions consisting of such terms, may, with the same clearness, be deduced one from another, as those that convey the most real truths: and all this without any knowledge of the nature or reality of things existing without us. by this method one may make demonstrations and undoubted propositions in words, and yet thereby advance not one jot in the knowledge of the truth of things: v. g. he that having learnt these following words, with their ordinary mutual relative acceptations annexed to them; v. g. substance, man, animal, form, soul, vegetative, sensitive, rational, may make several undoubted propositions about the soul, without knowing at all what the soul really is: and of this sort, a man may find an infinite number of propositions, reasonings, and conclusions, in books of metaphysics, school-divinity, and some sort of natural philosophy; and, after all, know as little of god, spirits, or bodies, as he did before he set out. . and why. he that hath liberty to define, i.e. to determine the signification of his names of substances (as certainly every one does in effect, who makes them stand for his own ideas), and makes their significations at a venture, taking them from his own or other men's fancies, and not from an examination or inquiry into the nature of things themselves; may with little trouble demonstrate them one of another, according to those several respects and mutual relations he has given them one to another; wherein, however things agree or disagree in their own nature, he needs mind nothing but his own notions, with the names he hath bestowed upon them: but thereby no more increases his own knowledge than he does his riches, who, taking a bag of counters, calls one in a certain place a pound, another in another place a shilling, and a third in a third place a penny; and so proceeding, may undoubtedly reckon right, and cast up a great sum, according to his counters so placed, and standing for more or less as he pleases, without being one jot the richer, or without even knowing how much a pound, shilling, or penny is, but only that one is contained in the other twenty times, and contains the other twelve: which a man may also do in the signification of words, by making them, in respect of one another, more or less, or equally comprehensive. . thirdly, using words variously is trifling with them. though yet concerning most words used in discourses, equally argumentative and controversial, there is this more to be complained of, which is the worst sort of trifling, and which sets us yet further from the certainty of knowledge we hope to attain by them, or find in them; viz. that most writers are so far from instructing us in the nature and knowledge of things, that they use their words loosely and uncertainly, and do not, by using them constantly and steadily in the same significations make plain and clear deductions of words one from another, and make their discourses coherent and clear, (how little soever they were instructive); which were not difficult to do, did they not find it convenient to shelter their ignorance or obstinacy under the obscurity and perplexedness of their terms: to which, perhaps, inadvertency and ill custom do in many men much contribute. . marks of verbal propositions. first, predication in abstract. to conclude. barely verbal propositions may be known by these following marks: first, all propositions wherein two abstract terms are affirmed one of another, are barely about the signification of sounds. for since no abstract idea can be the same with any other but itself, when its abstract name is affirmed of any other term, it can signify no more but this, that it may, or ought to be called by that name; or that these two names signify the same idea. thus, should any one say that parsimony is frugality, that gratitude is justice, that this or that action is or is not temperate: however specious these and the like propositions may at first sight seem, yet when we come to press them, and examine nicely what they contain, we shall find that it all amounts to nothing but the signification of those terms. . secondly, a part of the definition predicated of any term. secondly, all propositions wherein a part of the complex idea which any term stands for is predicated of that term, are only verbal: v.g. to say that gold is a metal, or heavy. and thus all propositions wherein more comprehensive words, called genera, are affirmed of subordinate or less comprehensive, called species, or individuals, are barely verbal. when by these two rules we have examined the propositions that make up the discourses we ordinarily meet with, both in and out of books, we shall perhaps find that a greater part of them than is usually suspected are purely about the signification of words, and contain nothing in them but the use and application of these signs. this i think i may lay down for an infallible rule, that, wherever the distinct idea any word stands for is not known and considered, and something not contained in the idea is not affirmed or denied of it, there our thoughts stick wholly in sounds, and are able to attain no real truth or falsehood. this, perhaps, if well heeded, might save us a great deal of useless amusement and dispute; and very much shorten our trouble and wandering in the search of real and true knowledge. chapter ix. of our threefold knowledge of existence. . general propositions that are certain concern not existence. hitherto we have only considered the essences of things; which being only abstract ideas, and thereby removed in our thoughts from particular existence, (that being the proper operation of the mind, in abstraction, to consider an idea under no other existence but what it has in the understandings,) gives us no knowledge of real existence at all. where, by the way, we may take notice, that universal propositions of whose truth or falsehood we can have certain knowledge concern not existence: and further, that all particular affirmations or negations that would not be certain if they were made general, are only concerning existence; they declaring only the accidental union or separation of ideas in things existing, which, in their abstract natures, have no known necessary union or repugnancy. . a threefold knowledge of existence. but, leaving the nature of propositions, and different ways of predication to be considered more at large in another place, let us proceed now to inquire concerning our knowledge of the existance of things, and how we come by it. i say, then, that we have the knowledge of our own existence by intuition; of the existence of god by demonstration; and of other things by sensation. . our knowledge of our own existence is intuitive. as for our own existence, we perceive it so plainly and so certainly, that it neither needs nor is capable of any proof for nothing can be more evident to us than our own existence. i think, i reason, i feel pleasure and pain: can any of these be more evident to me than my own existence? if i doubt of all other things, that very doubt makes me perceive my own existence, and will not suffer me to doubt of that. for if i know i feel pain, it is evident i have as certain perception of my own existence, as of the existence of the pain i feel: or if i know i doubt, i have as certain perception of the existence of the thing doubting, as of that thought which i call doubt. experience then convinces us, that we have an intuitive knowledge of our own existence, and an internal infallible perception that we are. in every act of sensation, reasoning, or thinking, we are conscious to ourselves of our own being; and, in this matter, come not short of the highest degree of certainty. chapter x. of our knowledge of the existence of a god. . we are capable of knowing certainly that there is a god. though god has given us no innate ideas of himself; though he has stamped no original characters on our minds, wherein we may read his being; yet having furnished us with those faculties our minds are endowed with, he hath not left himself without witness: since we have sense, perception, and reason, and cannot want a clear proof of him, as long as we carry ourselves about us. nor can we justly complain of our ignorance in this great point; since he has so plentifully provided us with the means to discover and know him; so far as is necessary to the end of our being, and the great concernment of our happiness. but, though this be the most obvious truth that reason discovers, and though its evidence be (if i mistake not) equal to mathematical certainty: yet it requires thought and attention; and the mind must apply itself to a regular deduction of it from some part of our intuitive knowledge, or else we shall be as uncertain and ignorant of this as of other propositions, which are in themselves capable of clear demonstration. to show, therefore, that we are capable of knowing, i.e. being certain that there is a god, and how we may come by this certainty, i think we need go no further than ourselves, and that undoubted knowledge we have of our own existence. . for man knows that he himself exists. i think it is beyond question, that man has a clear idea of his own being; he knows certainly he exists, and that he is something. he that can doubt whether he be anything or no, i speak not to; no more than i would argue with pure nothing, or endeavour to convince nonentity that it were something. if any one pretends to be so sceptical as to deny his own existence, (for really to doubt of it is manifestly impossible,) let him for me enjoy his beloved happiness of being nothing, until hunger or some other pain convince him of the contrary. this, then, i think i may take for a truth, which every one's certain knowledge assures him of, beyond the liberty of doubting, viz. that he is something that actually exists. . he knows also that nothing cannot produce a being; therefore something must have existed from eternity. in the next place, man knows, by an intuitive certainty, that bare nothing can no more produce any real being, than it can be equal to two right angles. if a man knows not that nonentity, or the absence of all being, cannot be equal to two right angles, it is impossible he should know any demonstration in euclid. if, therefore, we know there is some real being, and that nonentity cannot produce any real being, it is an evident demonstration, that from eternity there has been something; since what was not from eternity had a beginning; and what had a beginning must be produced by something else. . and that eternal being must be most powerful. next, it is evident, that what had its being and beginning from another, must also have all that which is in and belongs to its being from another too. all the powers it has must be owing to and received from the same source. this eternal source, then, of all being must also be the source and original of all power; and so this eternal being must be also the most powerful. . and most knowing. again, a man finds in himself perception and knowledge. we have then got one step further; and we are certain now that there is not only some being, but some knowing, intelligent being in the world. there was a time, then, when there was no knowing being, and when knowledge began to be; or else there has been also a knowing being from eternity. if it be said, there was a time when no being had any knowledge, when that eternal being was void of all understanding; i reply, that then it was impossible there should ever have been any knowledge: it being as impossible that things wholly void of knowledge, and operating blindly, and without any perception, should produce a knowing being, as it is impossible that a triangle should make itself three angles bigger than two right ones. for it is as repugnant to the idea of senseless matter, that it should put into itself sense, perception, and knowledge, as it is repugnant to the idea of a triangle, that it should put into itself greater angles than two right ones. . and therefore god. thus, from the consideration of ourselves, and what we infallibly find in our own constitutions, our reason leads us to the knowledge of this certain and evident truth,--that there is an eternal, most powerful, and most knowing being; which whether any one will please to call god, it matters not. the thing is evident; and from this idea duly considered, will easily be deduced all those other attributes, which we ought to ascribe to this eternal being. [if, nevertheless, any one should be found so senselessly arrogant, as to suppose man alone knowing and wise, but yet the product of mere ignorance and chance; and that all the rest of the universe acted only by that blind haphazard; i shall leave with him that very rational and emphatical rebuke of tully ( . ii. de leg.), to be considered at his leisure: 'what can be more sillily arrogant and misbecoming, than for a man to think that he has a mind and understanding in him, but yet in all the universe beside there is no such thing? or that those things, which with the utmost stretch of his reason he can scarce comprehend, should be moved and managed without any reason at all?' quid est enim verius, quam neminem esse oportere tam stulte arogantem, ut in se mentem et rationem putet inesse in coelo mundoque non putet? aut ea quoe viz summa ingenii ratione comprehendat, nulla ratione moveri putet?] from what has been said, it is plain to me we have a more certain knowledge of the existence of a god, than of anything: our senses have not immediately discovered to us. nay, i presume i may say, that we more certainly know that there is a god, than that there is anything else without us. when i say we know, i mean there is such a knowledge within our reach which we cannot miss, if we will but apply our minds to that, as we do to several other inquiries. . our idea of a most perfect being, not the sole proof of a god. how far the idea of a most perfect being, which a man, may frame in his mind, does or does not prove the existence of a god, i will not here examine. for in the different make of men's tempers and application of their thoughts, some arguments prevail more on one, and some on another, for the confirmation of the same truth. but yet, i think, this i may say, that it is an ill way of establishing this truth, and silencing atheists, to lay the whole stress of so important a point as this upon that sole foundation: and take some men's having that idea of god in their minds, (for it is evident some men have none, and some worse than none, and the most very different,) for the only proof of a deity; and out of an over fondness of that darling invention, cashier, or at least endeavour to invalidate all other arguments; and forbid us to hearken to those proofs, as being weak or fallacious, which our own existence, and the sensible parts of the universe offer so clearly and cogently to our thoughts, that i deem it impossible for a considering man to withstand them. for i judge it as certain and clear a truth as can anywhere be delivered, that 'the invisible things of god are clearly seen from the creation of the world, being understood by the things that are made, even his eternal power and godhead.' though our own being furnishes us, as i have shown, with an evident and incontestible proof of a deity; and i believe nobody can avoid the cogency of it, who will but as carefully attend to it, as to any other demonstration of so many parts: yet this being so fundamental a truth, and of that consequence, that all religion and genuine morality depend thereon, i doubt not but i shall be forgiven by my reader if i go over some parts of this argument again, and enlarge a little more upon them. . recapitulation something from eternity. there is no truth more evident than that something must be from eternity. i never yet heard of any one so unreasonable, or that could suppose so manifest a contradiction, as a time wherein there was perfectly nothing. this being of all absurdities the greatest, to imagine that pure nothing, the perfect negation and absence of all beings, should ever produce any real existence. it being, then, unavoidable for all rational creatures to conclude, that something has existed from eternity; let us next see what kind of thing that must be. . two sorts of beings, cogitative and incogitative. there are but two sorts of beings in the world that man knows or conceives. first, such as are purely material, without sense, perception, or thought, as the clippings of our beards, and parings of our nails. secondly, sensible, thinking, perceiving beings, such as we find ourselves to be. which, if you please, we will hereafter call cogitative and incogitative beings; which to our present purpose, if for nothing else, are perhaps better terms than material and immaterial. . incogitative being cannot produce a cogitative being. if, then, there must be something eternal, let us see what sort of being it must be. and to that it is very obvious to reason, that it must necessarily be a cogitative being. for it is as impossible to conceive that ever bare incogitative matter should produce a thinking intelligent being, as that nothing should of itself produce matter. let us suppose any parcel of matter eternal, great or small, we shall find it, in itself, able to produce nothing. for example: let us suppose the matter of the next pebble we meet with eternal, closely united, and the parts firmly at rest together; if there were no other being in the world, must it not eternally remain so, a dead inactive lump? is it possible to conceive it can add motion to itself, being purely matter, or produce anything? matter, then, by its own strength, cannot produce in itself so much as motion: the motion it has must also be from eternity, or else be produced, and added to matter by some other being more powerful than matter; matter, as is evident, having not power to produce motion in itself. but let us suppose motion eternal too: yet matter, incogitative matter and motion, whatever changes it might produce of figure and bulk, could never produce thought: knowledge will still be as far beyond the power of motion and matter to produce, as matter is beyond the power of nothing or nonentity to produce. and i appeal to every one's own thoughts, whether he cannot as easily conceive matter produced by nothing, as thought to be produced by pure matter, when, before, there was no such thing as thought or an intelligent being existing? divide matter into as many parts as you will, (which we are apt to imagine a sort of spiritualizing, or making a thinking thing of it,) vary the figure and motion of it as much as you please--a globe, cube, cone, prism, cylinder, &c., whose diameters are but , th part of a gry, will operate no otherwise upon other bodies of proportionable bulk, than those of an inch or foot diameter; and you may as rationally expect to produce sense, thought, and knowledge, by putting together, in a certain figure and motion, gross particles of matter, as by those that are the very minutest that do anywhere exist. they knock, impel, and resist one another, just as the greater do; and that is all they can do. so that, if we will suppose nothing first or eternal, matter can never begin to be: if we suppose bare matter without motion, eternal, motion can never begin to be: if we suppose only matter and motion first, or eternal, thought can never begin to be. [for it is impossible to conceive that matter, either with or without motion, could have, originally, in and from itself, sense, perception, and knowledge; as is evident from hence, that then sense, perception, and knowledge, must be a property eternally inseparable from matter and every particle of it. not to add, that, though our general or specific conception of matter makes us speak of it as one thing, yet really all matter is not one individual thing, neither is there any such thing existing as one material being, or one single body that we know or can conceive. and therefore, if matter were the eternal first cogitative being, there would not be one eternal, infinite, cogitative being, but an infinite number of eternal, finite, cogitative beings, independent one of another, of limited force, and distinct thoughts, which could never produce that order, harmony, and beauty which are to be found in nature. since, therefore, whatsoever is the first eternal being must necessarily be cogitative; and] whatsoever is first of all things must necessarily contain in it, and actually have, at least, all the perfections that can ever after exist; nor can it ever give to another any perfection that it hath not either actually in itself, or, at least, in a higher degree; [it necessarily follows, that the first eternal being cannot be matter.] . therefore, there has been an eternal wisdom. if, therefore, it be evident, that something necessarily must exist from eternity, it is also as evident, that that something must necessarily be a cogitative being: for it is as impossible that incogitative matter should produce a cogitative being, as that nothing, or the negation of all being, should produce a positive being or matter. . the attributes of the eternal cogitative being. though this discovery of the necessary existance of a eternal mind does sufficiently lead us into the knowledge of god; since it will hence follow, that all other knowing beings that have a beginning must depend on him, and have in other ways of knowledge or extent of power than what he gives them; and therefore, if he made those, he made all the less excellent pieces of this universe,--all inanimate beings whereby his omniscience, power, and providence will be established, and all his other attributes necessarily follow yet, to clear up this a little further, we will see what doubt can be raised against it. . whether the eternal mind may be also material or no. first, perhaps it will be said, that, though it be as clear as demonstration can make it, that there must be an eternal being, and that being must also be knowing: yet it does not follow but that thinking being may also be material. let it be so, it equally still follows that there is a god. for there be an eternal, omniscient, omnipotent being, it is certain that there is a god, whether you imagine that being to be material or no. but herein, i suppose, lies the danger and deceit of that supposition:--there being no way to avoid the demonstration, that there is an eternal knowing being, men devoted to matter, would willingly have it granted, that that knowing being is material; and then, letting slide out of their minds, or the discourse, the demonstration whereby an eternal knowing being was proved necessarily to exist, would argue all to be matter, and so deny a god, that is, an eternal cogitative being: whereby they are so far from establishing, that they destroy their own hypothesis. for, if there can be, in their opinion, eternal matter, without any eternal cogitative being, they manifestly separate matter and thinking, and suppose no necessary connexion of the one with the other, and so establish the necessity of an eternal spirit, but not of matter; since it has been proved already, that an eternal cogitative being is unavoidably to be granted. now, if thinking and matter may be separated, the eternal existence of matter will not follow from the eternal existence of a cogitative being, and they suppose it to no purpose. . not material: first, because each particle of matter is not cogitative. but now let us see how they can satisfy themselves, or others, that this eternal thinking being is material. i. i would ask them, whether they imagine that all matter, every particle of matter, thinks? this, i suppose, they will scarce say; since then there would be as many eternal thinking beings as there are particles of matter, and so an infinity of gods. and yet, if they will not allow matter as matter, that is, every particle of matter, to be as well cogitative as extended, they will have as hard a task to make out to their own reasons a cogitative being out of incogitative particles, as an extended being out of unextended parts, if i may so speak. . ii. secondly, because one particle alone of matter cannot be cogitative. if all matter does not think, i next ask, whether it be only one atom that does so? this has as many absurdities as the other; for then this atom of matter must be alone eternal or not. if this alone be eternal, then this alone, by its powerful thought or will, made all the rest of matter. and so we have the creation of matter by a powerful thought, which is that the materialists stick at; for if they suppose one single thinking atom to have produced all the rest of matter, they cannot ascribe that pre-eminency to it upon any other account than that of its thinking, the only supposed difference. but allow it to be by some other way which is above our conception, it must still be creation; and these men must give up their great maxim, ex nihilo nil fit. if it be said, that all the rest of matter is equally eternal as that thinking atom, it will be to say anything at pleasure, though ever so absurd. for to suppose all matter eternal, and yet one small particle in knowledge and power infinitely above all the rest, is without any the least appearance of reason to frame an hypothesis. every particle of matter, as matter, is capable of all the same figures and motions of any other; and i challenge any one, in his thoughts, to add anything else to one above another. . iii. thirdly, because a system of incogitative matter cannot be cogitative. if then neither one peculiar atom alone can be this eternal thinking being; nor all matter, as matter, i. e. every particle of matter, can be it; it only remains, that it is some certain system of matter, duly put together, that is this thinking eternal being. this is that which, i imagine, is that notion which men are aptest to have of god; who would have him a material being, as most readily suggested to them by the ordinary conceit they have of themselves and other men, which they take to be material thinking beings. but this imagination, however more natural, is no less absurd than the other; for to suppose the eternal thinking being to be nothing else but a composition of particles of matter, each whereof is incogitative, is to ascribe all the wisdom and knowledge of that eternal being only to the juxta-position of parts; than which nothing can be more absurd. for unthinking particles of matter, however put together, can have nothing thereby added to them, but a new relation of position, which it is impossible should give thought and knowledge to them. . and whether this corporeal system is in motion or at rest. but further: this corporeal system either has all its parts at rest, or it is a certain motion of the parts wherein its thinking consists. if it be perfectly at rest, it is but one lump, and so can have no privileges above one atom. if it be the motion of its parts on which its thinking depends, all the thoughts there must be unavoidably accidental and limited; since all the particles that by motion cause thought, being each of them in itself without any thought, cannot regulate its own motions, much less be regulated by the thought of the whole; since that thought is not the cause of motion, (for then it must be antecedent to it, and so without it,) but the consequence of it; whereby freedom, power, choice, and all rational and wise thinking or acting, will be quite taken away: so that such a thinking being will be no better nor wiser than pure blind matter; since to resolve all into the accidental unguided motions of blind matter, or into thought depending on unguided motions of blind matter, is the same thing: not to mention the narrowness of such thoughts and knowledge that must depend on the motion of such parts. but there needs no enumeration of any more absurdities and impossibilities in this hypothesis (however full of them it be) than that before mentioned; since, let this thinking system be all or a part of the matter of the universe, it is impossible that any one particle should either know its own, or the motion of any other particle, or the whole know the motion of every particle; and so regulate its own thoughts or motions, or indeed have any thought resulting from such motion. . matter not co-eternal with an eternal mind. secondly, others would have matter to be eternal, notwithstanding that they allow an eternal, cogitative, immaterial being. this, though it take not away the being of a god, yet, since it denies one and the first great piece of his workmanship, the creation, let us consider it a little. matter must be allowed eternal: why? because you cannot conceive how it can be made out of nothing: why do you not also think yourself eternal? you will answer, perhaps, because, about twenty or forty years since, you began to be. but if i ask you, what that you is, which began then to be, you can scarce tell me. the matter whereof you are made began not then to be: for if it did, then it is not eternal: but it began to be put together in such a fashion and frame as makes up your body; but yet that frame of particles is not you, it makes not that thinking thing you are; (for i have now to do with one who allows an eternal, immaterial, thinking being, but would have unthinking matter eternal too;) therefore, when did that thinking thing begin to be? if it did never begin to be, then have you always been a thinking thing from eternity; the absurdity whereof i need not confute, till i meet with one who is so void of understanding as to own it. if, therefore, you can allow a thinking thing to be made out of nothing, (as all things that are not eternal must be,) why also can you not allow it possible for a material being to be made out of nothing by an equal power, but that you have the experience of the one in view, and not of the other? though, when well considered, creation [of a spirit will be found to require no less power than the creation of matter. nay, possibly, if we would emancipate ourselves from vulgar notions, and raise our thoughts, as far as they would reach, to a closer contemplation of things, we might be able to aim at some dim and seeming conception how matter might at first be made, and begin to exist, by the power of that eternal first being: but to give beginning and being to a spirit would be found a more inconceivable effect of omnipotent power. but this being what would perhaps lead us too far from the notions on which the philosophy now in the world is built, it would not be pardonable to deviate so far from them; or to inquire, so far as grammar itself would authorize, if the common settled opinion opposes it: especially in this place, where the received doctrine serves well enough to our present purpose, and leaves this past doubt, that] the creation or beginning of any one [substance] out of nothing being once admitted, the creation of all other but the creator himself, may, with the same ease, be supposed. . objection: creation out of nothing. but you will say, is it not impossible to admit of the making anything out of nothing, since we cannot possibly conceive it? i answer, no. because it is not reasonable to deny the power of an infinite being, because we cannot comprehend its operations. we do not deny other effects upon this ground, because we cannot possibly conceive the manner of their production. we cannot conceive how anything but impulse of body can move body; and yet that is not a reason sufficient to make us deny it possible, against the constant experience we have of it in ourselves, in all our voluntary motions; which are produced in us only by the free action or thought of our own minds, and are not, nor can be, the effects of the impulse or determination of the motion of blind matter in or upon our own bodies; for then it could not be in our power or choice to alter it. for example: my right hand writes, whilst my left hand is still: what causes rest in one, and motion in the other? nothing but my will,--a thought of my mind; my thought only changing, the right hand rests, and the left hand moves. this is matter of fact, which cannot be denied: explain this and make it intelligible, and then the next step will be to understand creation. [for the giving a new determination to the motion of the animal spirits (which some make use of to explain voluntary motion) clears not the difficulty one jot. to alter the determination of motion, being in this case no easier nor less, than to give motion itself: since the new determination given to the animal spirits must be either immediately by thought, or by some other body put in their way by thought which was not in their way before, and so must owe its motion to thought: either of which leaves voluntary motion as unintelligible as it was before.] in the meantime, it is an over-valuing ourselves to reduce all to the narrow measure of our capacities; and to conclude all things impossible to be done, whose manner of doing exceeds our comprehension. this is to make our comprehension infinite, or god finite, when what he can do is limited to what we can conceive of it. if you do not understand the operations of your own finite mind, that thinking thing within you, do not deem it strange that you cannot comprehend the operations of that eternal infinite mind, who made and governs all things, and whom the heaven of heavens cannot contain. chapter xi. of our knowledge of the existence of other things. . knowledge of the existence of other finite beings is to be had only by actual sensation. the knowledge of our own being we have by intuition. the existence of a god, reason clearly makes known to us, as has been shown. the knowledge of the existence of any other thing we can have only by sensation: for there being no necessary connexion of real existence with any idea a man hath in his memory; nor of any other existence but that of god with the existence of any particular man: no particular man can know the existence of any other being, but only when, by actual operating upon him, it makes itself perceived by him. for, the having the idea of anything in our mind, no more proves the existence of that thing, than the picture of a man evidences his being in the world, or the visions of a dream make thereby a true history. . instance: whiteness of this paper. it is therefore the actual receiving of ideas from without that gives us notice of the existence of other things, and makes us know, that something doth exist at that time without us, which causes that idea in us; though perhaps we neither know nor consider how it does it. for it takes not from the certainty of our senses, and the ideas we receive by them, that we know not the manner wherein they are produced: v.g. whilst i write this, i have, by the paper affecting my eyes, that idea produced in my mind, which, whatever object causes, i call white; by which i know that that quality or accident (i.e. whose appearance before my eyes always causes that idea) doth really exist, and hath a being without me. and of this, the greatest assurance i can possibly have, and to which my faculties can attain, is the testimony of my eyes, which are the proper and sole judges of this thing; whose testimony i have reason to rely on as so certain, that i can no more doubt, whilst i write this, that i see white and black, and that something really exists that causes that sensation in me, than that i write or move my hand; which is a certainty as great as human nature is capable of, concerning the existence of anything, but a man's self alone, and of god. . this notice by our senses, though not so certain as demonstration, yet may be called knowledge, and proves the existence of things without us. the notice we have by our senses of the existing of things without us, though it be not altogether so certain as our intuitive knowledge, or the deductions of our reason employed about the clear abstract ideas of our own minds; yet it is an assurance that deserves the name of knowledge. if we persuade ourselves that our faculties act and inform us right concerning the existence of those objects that affect them, it cannot pass for an ill-grounded confidence: for i think nobody can, in earnest, be so sceptical as to be uncertain of the existence of those things which he sees and feels. at least, he that can doubt so far, (whatever he may have with his own thoughts,) will never have any controversy with me; since he can never be sure i say anything contrary to his own opinion. as to myself, i think god has given me assurance enough of the existence of things without me: since, by their different application, i can produce in myself both pleasure and pain, which is one great concernment of my present state. this is certain: the confidence that our faculties do not herein deceive us, is the greatest assurance we are capable of concerning the existence of material beings. for we cannot act anything but by our faculties; nor talk of knowledge itself, but by the help of those faculties which are fitted to apprehend even what knowledge is. but besides the assurance we have from our senses themselves, that they do not err in the information they give us of the existence of things without us, when they are affected by them, we are further confirmed in this assurance by other concurrent reasons:-- . i. confirmed by concurrent reasons:--first, because we cannot have ideas of sensation but by the inlet of the senses. it is plain those perceptions are produced in us by exterior causes affecting our senses: because those that want the organs of any sense, never can have the ideas belonging to that sense produced in their minds. this is too evident to be doubted: and therefore we cannot but be assured that they come in by the organs of that sense, and no other way. the organs themselves, it is plain, do not produce them: for then the eyes of a man in the dark would produce colours, and his nose smell roses in the winter: but we see nobody gets the relish of a pineapple, till he goes to the indies, where it is, and tastes it. . ii. secondly, because we find that an idea from actual sensation, and another from memory, are very distinct perceptions. because sometimes i find that i cannot avoid the having those ideas produced in my mind. for though, when my eyes are shut, or windows fast, i can at pleasure recal to my mind the ideas of light, or the sun, which former sensations had lodged in my memory; so i can at pleasure lay by that idea, and take into my view that of the smell of a rose, or taste of sugar. but, if i turn my eyes at noon towards the sun, i cannot avoid the ideas which the light or sun then produces in me. so that there is a manifest difference between the ideas laid up in my memory, (over which, if they were there only, i should have constantly the same power to dispose of them, and lay them by at pleasure,) and those which force themselves upon me, and i cannot avoid having. and therefore it must needs be some exterior cause, and the brisk acting of some objects without me, whose efficacy i cannot resist, that produces those ideas in my mind, whether i will or no. besides, there is nobody who doth not perceive the difference in himself between contemplating the sun, as he hath the idea of it in his memory, and actually looking upon it: of which two, his perception is so distinct, that few of his ideas are more distinguishable one from another. and therefore he hath certain knowledge that they are not both memory, or the actions of his mind, and fancies only within him; but that actual seeing hath a cause without. . iii. thirdly, because pleasure or pain, which accompanies actual sensation, accompanies not the returning of those ideas without the external objects. add to this, that many of those ideas are produced in us with pain, which afterwards we remember without the least offence. thus, the pain of heat or cold, when the idea of it is revived in our minds, gives us no disturbance; which, when felt, was very troublesome; and is again, when actually repeated: which is occasioned by the disorder the external object causes in our bodies when applied to them: and we remember the pains of hunger, thirst, or the headache, without any pain at all; which would either never disturb us, or else constantly do it, as often as we thought of it, were there nothing more but ideas floating in our minds, and appearances entertaining our fancies, without the real existence of things affecting us from abroad. the same may be said of pleasure, accompanying several actual sensations. and though mathematical demonstration depends not upon sense, yet the examining them by diagrams gives great credit to the evidence of our sight, and seems to give it a certainty approaching to that of demonstration itself. for, it would be very strange, that a man should allow it for an undeniable truth, that two angles of a figure, which he measures by lines and angles of a diagram, should be bigger one than the other, and yet doubt of the existence of those lines and angles, which by looking on he makes use of to measure that by. . iv. fourthly, because our senses assist one another's testimony of the existence of outward things, and enable us to predict. our senses in many cases bear witness to the truth of each other's report, concerning the existence of sensible things without us. he that sees a fire, may, if he doubt whether it be anything more than a bare fancy, feel it too; and be convinced, by putting his hand in it. which certainly could never be put into such exquisite pain by a bare idea or phantom, unless that the pain be a fancy too: which yet he cannot, when the burn is well, by raising the idea of it, bring upon himself again. thus i see, whilst i write this, i can change the appearance of the paper; and by designing the letters, tell beforehand what new idea it shall exhibit the very next moment, by barely drawing my pen over it: which will neither appear (let me fancy as much as i will) if my hands stand still; or though i move my pen, if my eyes be shut: nor, when those characters are once made on the paper, can i choose afterwards but see them as they are; that is, have the ideas of such letters as i have made. whence it is manifest, that they are not barely the sport and play of my own imagination, when i find that the characters that were made at the pleasure of my own thoughts, do not obey them; nor yet cease to be, whenever i shall fancy it, but continue to affect my senses constantly and regularly, according to the figures i made them. to which if we will add, that the sight of those shall from another man, draw such sounds as i beforehand design they shall stand for, there will be little reason left to doubt that those words i write do really exist without me, when they cause a long series of regular sounds to affect my ears, which could not be the effect of my imagination, nor could my memory retain them in that order. . this certainty is as great as our condition needs. but yet, if after all this any one will be so sceptical as to distrust his senses, and to affirm that all we see and hear, feel and taste, think and do, during our whole being, is but the series and deluding appearances of a long dream, whereof there is no reality; and therefore will question the existence of all things, or our knowledge of anything: i must desire him to consider, that, if all be a dream, then he doth but dream that he makes the question, and so it is not much matter that a waking man should answer him. but yet, if he pleases, he may dream that i make him this answer, that the certainty of things existing in rerum natura when we have the testimony of our senses for it is not only as great as our frame can attain to, but as our condition needs. for, our faculties being suited not to the full extent of being, nor to a perfect, clear, comprehensive knowledge of things free from all doubt and scruple; but to the preservation of us, in whom they are; and accommodated to the use of life: they serve to our purpose well enough, if they will but give us certain notice of those things, which are convenient or inconvenient to us. for he that sees a candle burning, and hath experimented the force of its flame by putting his finger in it, will little doubt that this is something existing without him, which does him harm, and puts him to great pain: which is assurance enough, when no man requires greater certainty to govern his actions by than what is as certain as his actions themselves. and if our dreamer pleases to try whether the glowing heat of a glass furnace be barely a wandering imagination in a drowsy man's fancy, by putting his hand into it, he may perhaps be wakened into a certainty greater than he could wish, that it is something more than bare imagination. so that this evidence is as great as we can desire, being as certain to us as our pleasure or pain, i.e. happiness or misery; beyond which we have no concernment, either of knowing or being. such an assurance of the existence of things without us is sufficient to direct us in the attaining the good and avoiding the evil which is caused by them, which is the important concernment we have of being made acquainted with them. . but reaches no further than actual sensation. in fine, then, when our senses do actually convey into our understandings any idea, we cannot but be satisfied that there doth something at that time really exist without us, which doth affect our senses, and by them give notice of itself to our apprehensive faculties, and actually produce that idea which we then perceive: and we cannot so far distrust their testimony, as to doubt that such collections of simple ideas as we have observed by our senses to be united together, do really exist together. but this knowledge extends as far as the present testimony of our senses, employed about particular objects that do then affect them, and no further. for if i saw such a collection of simple ideas as is wont to be called man, existing together one minute since, and am now alone, i cannot be certain that the same man exists now, since there is no necessary connexion of his existence a minute since with his existence now: by a thousand ways he may cease to be, since i had the testimony of my senses for his existence. and if i cannot be certain that the man i saw last to-day is now in being, i can less be certain that he is so who hath been longer removed from my senses, and i have not seen since yesterday, or since the last year: and much less can i be certain of the existence of men that i never saw. and, therefore, though it be highly probable that millions of men do now exist, yet, whilst i am alone, writing this, i have not that certainty of it which we strictly call knowledge; though the great likelihood of it puts me past doubt, and it be reasonable for me to do several things upon the confidence that there are men (and men also of my acquaintance, with whom i have to do) now in the world: but this is but probability, not knowledge. . folly to expect demonstration in everything. whereby yet we may observe how foolish and vain a thing it is for a man of a narrow knowledge, who having reason given him to judge of the different evidence and probability of things, and to be swayed accordingly; how vain, i say, it is to expect demonstration and certainty in things not capable of it; and refuse assent to very rational propositions, and act contrary to very plain and clear truths, because they cannot be made out so evident, as to surmount every the least (i will not say reason, but) pretence of doubting. he that, in the ordinary affairs of life, would admit of nothing but direct plain demonstration, would be sure of nothing in this world, but of perishing quickly. the wholesomeness of his meat or drink would not give him reason to venture on it: and i would fain know what it is he could do upon such grounds as are capable of no doubt, no objection. . past existence of other things is known by memory. as when our senses are actually employed about any object, we do know that it does exist; so by our memory we may be assured, that heretofore things that affected our senses have existed. and thus we have knowledge of the past existence of several things, whereof our senses having informed us, our memories still retain the ideas; and of this we are past all doubt, so long as we remember well. but this knowledge also reaches no further than our senses have formerly assured us. thus, seeing water at this instant, it is an unquestionable truth to me that water doth exist: and remembering that i saw it yesterday, it will also be always true, and as long as my memory retains it always an undoubted proposition to me, that water did exist the th of july, ; as it will also be equally true that a certain number of very fine colours did exist, which at the same time i saw upon a bubble of that water: but, being now quite out of sight both of the water and bubbles too, it is no more certainly known to me that the water doth now exist, than that the bubbles or colours therein do so: it being no more necessary that water should exist to-day, because it existed yesterday, than that the colours or bubbles exist to-day, because they existed yesterday, though it be exceedingly much more probable; because water hath been observed to continue long in existence, but bubbles, and the colours on them, quickly cease to be. . the existence of other finite spirits not knowable, and rests on faith. what ideas we have of spirits, and how we come by them, i have already shown. but though we have those ideas in our minds, and know we have them there, the having the ideas of spirits does not make us know that any such things do exist without us, or that there are any finite spirits, or any other spiritual beings, but the eternal god. we have ground from revelation, and several other reasons, to believe with assurance that there are such creatures: but our senses not being able to discover them, we want the means of knowing their particular existences. for we can no more know that there are finite spirits really existing, by the idea we have of such beings in our minds, than by the ideas any one has of fairies or centaurs, he can come to know that things answering those ideas do really exist. and therefore concerning the existence of finite spirits, as well as several other things, we must content ourselves with the evidence of faith; but universal, certain propositions concerning this matter are beyond our reach. for however true it may be, v.g., that all the intelligent spirits that god ever created do still exist, yet it can never make a part of our certain knowledge. these and the like propositions we may assent to, as highly probable, but are not, i fear, in this state capable of knowing. we are not, then, to put others upon demonstrating, nor ourselves upon search of universal certainty in all those matters; wherein we are not capable of any other knowledge, but what our senses give us in this or that particular. . only particular propositions concerning concrete existances are knowable. by which it appears that there are two sorts of propositions:--( ) there is one sort of propositions concerning the existence of anything answerable to such an idea: as having the idea of an elephant, phoenix, motion, or an angel, in my mind, the first and natural inquiry is, whether such a thing does anywhere exist? and this knowledge is only of particulars. no existence of anything without us, but only of god, can certainly be known further than our senses inform us, ( ) there is another sort of propositions, wherein is expressed the agreement or disagreement of our abstract ideas, and their dependence on one another. such propositions may be universal and certain. so, having the idea of god and myself, of fear and obedience, i cannot but be sure that god is to be feared and obeyed by me: and this proposition will be certain, concerning man in general, if i have made an abstract idea of such a species, whereof i am one particular. but yet this proposition, how certain soever, that 'men ought to fear and obey god' proves not to me the existence of men in the world; but will be true of all such creatures, whenever they do exist: which certainty of such general propositions depends on the agreement or disagreement to be discovered in those abstract ideas. . and all general propositions that are known to be true concern abstract ideas. in the former case, our knowledge is the consequence of the existence of things, producing ideas in our minds by our senses: in the latter, knowledge is the consequence of the ideas (be they what they will) that are in our minds, producing there general certain propositions. many of these are called aeternae veritates, and all of them indeed are so; not from being written, all or any of them, in the minds of all men; or that they were any of them propositions in any one's mind, till he, having got the abstract ideas, joined or separated them by affirmation or negation. but wheresoever we can suppose such a creature as man is, endowed with such faculties, and thereby furnished with such ideas as we have, we must conclude, he must needs, when he applies his thoughts to the consideration of his ideas, know the truth of certain propositions that will arise from the agreement or disagreement which he will perceive in his own ideas. such propositions are therefore called eternal truths, not because they are eternal propositions actually formed, and antecedent to the understanding that at any time makes them; nor because they are imprinted on the mind from any patterns that are anywhere out of the mind, and existed before: but because, being once made about abstract ideas, so as to be true, they will, whenever they can be supposed to be made again at any time, past or come, by a mind having those ideas, always actually be true. for names being supposed to stand perpetually for the same ideas, and the same ideas having immutably the same habitudes one to another, propositions concerning any abstract ideas that are once true must needs be eternal verities. chapter xii. of the improvement of our knowledge . knowledge is not got from maxims. it having been the common received opinion amongst men of letters, that maxims were the foundation of all knowledge; and that the sciences were each of them built upon certain praecognita, from whence the understanding was to take its rise, and by which it was to conduct itself in its inquiries into the matters belonging to that science, the beaten road of the schools has been, to lay down in the beginning one or more general propositions, as foundations whereon to build the knowledge that was to be had of that subject. these doctrines, thus laid down for foundations of any science, were called principles, as the beginnings from which we must set out, and look no further backwards in our inquiries, as we have already observed. . (the occasion of that opinion.) one thing which might probably give an occasion to this way of proceeding in other sciences, was (as i suppose) the good success it seemed to have in mathematics, wherein men, being observed to attain a great certainty of knowledge, these sciences came by pre-eminence to be called [word in greek], and [word in greek], learning, or things learned, thoroughly learned, as having of all others the greatest certainty, clearness, and evidence in them. . but from comparing clear and distinct ideas. but if any one will consider, he will (i guess) find, that the great advancement and certainty of real knowledge which men arrived to in these sciences, was not owing to the influence of these principles, nor derived from any peculiar advantage they received from two or three general maxims, laid down in the beginning; but from the clear, distinct, complete ideas their thoughts were employed about, and the relation of equality and excess so clear between some of them, that they had an intuitive knowledge, and by that a way to discover it in others; and this without the help of those maxims. for i ask, is it not possible for a young lad to know that his whole body is bigger than his little finger, but by virtue of this axiom, that the whole is bigger than a part; nor be assured of it, till he has learned that maxim? or cannot a country wench know that, having received a shilling from one that owes her three, and a shilling also from another that owes her three, the remaining debts in each of their hands are equal? cannot she know this, i say, unless she fetch the certainty of it from this maxim, that if you take equals from equals, the remainder will be equals, a maxim which possibly she never heard or thought of? i desire any one to consider, from what has been elsewhere said, which is known first and clearest by most people, the particular instance, or the general rule; and which it is that gives life and birth to the other. these general rules are but the comparing our more general and abstract ideas, which are the workmanship of the mind, made, and names given to them for the easier dispatch in its reasonings, and drawing into comprehensive terms and short rules its various and multiplied observations. but knowledge began in the mind, and was founded on particulars; though afterwards, perhaps, no notice was taken thereof: it being natural for the mind (forward still to enlarge its knowledge) most attentively to lay up those general notions, and make the proper use of them, which is to disburden the memory of the cumbersome load of particulars. for i desire it may be considered, what more certainty there is to a child, or any one, that his body, little finger, and all, is bigger than his little finger alone, after you have given to his body the name whole, and to his little finger the name part, than he could have had before; or what new knowledge concerning his body can these two relative terms give him, which he could not have without them? could he not know that his body was bigger than his little finger, if his language were yet so imperfect that he had no such relative terms as whole and part? i ask, further, when he has got these names, how is he more certain that his body is a whole, and his little finger a part, than he was or might be certain before he learnt those terms, that his body was bigger than his little finger? any one may as reasonably doubt or deny that his little finger is a part of his body, as that it is less than his body. and he that can doubt whether it be less, will as certainly doubt whether it be a part. so that the maxim, the whole is bigger than a part, can never be made use of to prove the little finger less than the body, but when it is useless, by being brought to convince one of a truth which he knows already. for he that does not certainly know that any parcel of matter, with another parcel of matter joined to it, is bigger than either of them alone, will never be able to know it by the help of these two relative terms, whole and part, make of them what maxim you please. . dangerous to build upon precarious principles. but be it in the mathematics as it will, whether it be clearer, that, taking an inch from a black line of two inches, and an inch from a red line of two inches, the remaining parts of the two lines will be equal, or that if you take equals from equals, the remainder will be equals: which, i say, of these two is the clearer and first known, i leave to any one to determine, it not being material to my present occasion. that which i have here to do, is to inquire, whether, if it be the readiest way to knowledge to begin with general maxims, and build upon them, it be yet a safe way to take the principles which are laid down in any other science as unquestionable truths; and so receive them without examination, and adhere to them, without suffering them to be doubted of, because mathematicians have been so happy, or so fair, to use none but self-evident and undeniable. if this be so, i know not what may not pass for truth in morality, what may not be introduced and proved in natural philosophy. let that principle of some of the old philosophers, that all is matter, and that there is nothing else, be received for certain and indubitable, and it will be easy to be seen by the writings of some that have revived it again in our days, what consequences it will lead us into. let any one, with polemo, take the world; or with the stoics, the aether, or the sun; or with anaximenes, the air, to be god; and what a divinity, religion, and worship must we needs have! nothing can be so dangerous as principles thus taken up without questioning or examination; especially if they be such as concern morality, which influence men's lives, and give a bias to all their actions. who might not justly expect another kind of life in aristippus, who placed happiness in bodily pleasure; and in antisthenes, who made virtue sufficient to felicity? and he who, with plato, shall place beatitude in the knowledge of god, will have his thoughts raised to other contemplations than those who look not beyond this spot of earth, and those perishing things which are to be had in it. he that, with archelaus, shall lay it down as a principle, that right and wrong, honest and dishonest, are defined only by laws, and not by nature, will have other measures of moral rectitude and gravity, than those who take it for granted that we are under obligations antecedent to all human constitutions. . to do so is no certain way to truth. if, therefore, those that pass for principles are not certain, (which we must have some way to know, that we may be able to distinguish them from those that are doubtful,) but are only made so to us by our blind assent, we are liable to be misled by them; and instead of being guided into truth, we shall, by principles, be only confirmed in mistake and error. . but to compare clear, complete ideas, under steady names. but since the knowledge of the certainty of principles, as well as of all other truths, depends only upon the perception we have of the agreement or disagreement of our ideas, the way to improve our knowledge is not, i am sure, blindly, and with an implicit faith, to receive and swallow principles; but is, i think, to get and fix in our minds clear, distinct, and complete ideas, as far as they are to be had, and annex to them proper and constant names. and thus, perhaps, without any other principles, but barely considering those perfect ideas, and by comparing them one with another; finding their agreement and disagreement, and their several relations and habitudes; we shall get more true and clear knowledge by the conduct of this one rule, than by taking up principles, and thereby putting our minds into the disposal of others. . the true method of advancing knowledge is by considering our abstract ideas. we must, therefore, if we will proceed as reason advises, adapt our methods of inquiry to the nature of the ideas we examine, and the truth we search after. general and certain truths are only founded in the habitudes and relations of abstract ideas. a sagacious and methodical application of our thoughts, for the finding out these relations, is the only way to discover all that can be put with truth and certainty concerning them into general propositions. by what steps we are to proceed in these, is to be learned in the schools of the mathematicians, who, from very plain and easy beginnings, by gentle degrees, and a continued chain of reasonings, proceed to the discovery and demonstration of truths that appear at first sight beyond human capacity. the art of finding proofs, and the admirable methods they have invented for the singling out and laying in order those intermediate ideas that demonstratively show the equality or inequality of unapplicable quantities, is that which has carried them so far, and produced such wonderful and unexpected discoveries: but whether something like this, in respect of other ideas, as well as those of magnitude, may not in time be found out, i will not determine. this, i think, i may say, that if other ideas that are the real as well as nominal essences of their species, were pursued in the way familiar to mathematicians, they would carry our thoughts further, and with greater evidence and clearness than possibly we are apt to imagine. . by which morality also may be made clearer. this gave me the confidence to advance that conjecture, which i suggest, (chap. iii.) viz. that morality is capable of demonstration as well as mathematics. for the ideas that ethics are conversant about, being all real essences, and such as i imagine have a discoverable connexion and agreement one with another; so far as we can find their habitudes and relations, so far we shall be possessed of certain, real, and general truths; and i doubt not but, if a right method were taken, a great part of morality might be made out with that clearness, that could leave, to a considering man, no more reason to doubt, than he could have to doubt of the truth of propositions in mathematics, which have been demonstrated to him. . our knowledge of substances is to be improved, not by contemplation of abstract ideas, but only by experience. in our search after the knowledge of substances, our want of ideas that are suitable to such a way of proceeding obliges us to a quite different method. we advance not here, as in the other, (where our abstract ideas are real as well as nominal essences,) by contemplating our ideas, and considering their relations and correspondences; that helps us very little for the reasons, that in another place we have at large set down. by which i think it is evident, that substances afford matter of very little general knowledge; and the bare contemplation of their abstract ideas will carry us but a very little way in the search of truth and certainty. what, then, are we to do for the improvement of our knowledge in substantial beings? here we are to take a quite contrary course: the want of ideas of their real essences sends us from our own thoughts to the things themselves as they exist. experience here must teach me what reason cannot: and it is by trying alone, that i can certainly know, what other qualities co-exist with those of my complex idea, v.g. whether that yellow heavy, fusible body i call gold, be malleable, or no; which experience (which way ever it prove in that particular body i examine) makes me not certain, that it is so in all, or any other yellow, heavy, fusible bodies, but that which i have tried. because it is no consequence one way or the other from my complex idea: the necessity or inconsistence of malleability hath no visible connexion with the combination of that colour, weight, and fusibility in any body. what i have said here of the nominal essence of gold, supposed to consist of a body of such a determinate colour, weight, and fusibility, will hold true, if malleableness, fixedness, and solubility in aqua regia be added to it. our reasonings from these ideas will carry us but a little way in the certain discovery of the other properties in those masses of matter wherein all these are to be found. because the other properties of such bodies, depending not on these, but on that unknown real essence on which these also depend, we cannot by them discover the rest; we can go no further than the simple ideas of our nominal essence will carry us, which is very little beyond themselves; and so afford us but very sparingly any certain, universal, and useful truths. for, upon trial, having found that particular piece (and all others of that colour, weight, and fusibility, that i ever tried) malleable, that also makes now, perhaps, a part of my complex idea, part of my nominal essence of gold: whereby though i make my complex idea to which i affix the name gold, to consist of more simple ideas than before; yet still, it not containing the real essence of any species of bodies, it helps me not certainly to know (i say to know, perhaps it may be to conjecture) the other remaining properties of that body, further than they have a visible connexion with some or all of the simple ideas that make up my nominal essence. for example, i cannot be certain, from this complex idea, whether gold be fixed or no; because, as before, there is no necessary connexion or inconsistence to be discovered betwixt a complex idea of a body yellow, heavy, fusible, malleable; betwixt these, i say, and fixedness; so that i may certainly know, that in whatsoever body these are found, there fixedness is sure to be. here, again, for assurance, i must apply myself to experience; as far as that reaches, i may have certain knowledge, but no further. . experience may procure is convenience, not science. i deny not but a man, accustomed to rational and regular experiments, shall be able to see further into the nature of bodies, and guess righter at their yet unknown properties, than one that is a stranger to them: but yet, as i have said, this is but judgment and opinion, not knowledge and certainty. this way of getting and improving our knowledge in substances only by experience and history, which is all that the weakness of our faculties in this state of mediocrity which we are in this world can attain to, makes me suspect that natural philosophy is not capable is being made a science. we are able, i imagine, to reach very little general knowledge concerning the species of bodies, and their several properties. experiments and historical observations we may have, from which we may draw advantages of ease and health, and thereby increase our stock of conveniences for this life; but beyond this i fear our talents reach not, nor are our faculties, as i guess, able to advance. . we are fitted for moral science, but only for probable interpretations of external nature. from whence is it obvious to conclude, that, since our faculties are not fitted to penetrate into the internal fabric and real essences of bodies; but yet plainly discover to us the being of a god, and the knowledge of ourselves, enough to lead us into a full and clear discovery of our duty and great concernment; it will become us, as rational creatures, to employ those faculties we have about what they are most adapted to, and follow the direction of nature, where it seems to point us out the way. for it is rational to conclude, that our proper employment lies in those inquiries, and in that sort of knowledge which is most suited to our natural capacities, and carries in it our greatest interest, i.e. the condition of our eternal estate. hence i think i may conclude, that morality is the proper science and business of mankind in general, (who are both concerned and fitted to search out their summum bonum;) as several arts, conversant about several parts of nature, are the lot and private talent of particular men, for the common use of human life, and their own particular subsistence in this world. of what consequence the discovery of one natural body and its properties may be to human life, the whole great continent of america is a convincing instance: whose ignorance in useful arts, and want of the greatest part of the conveniences of life, in a country that abounded with all sorts of natural plenty, i think may be attributed to their ignorance of what was to be found in a very ordinary, despicable stone, i mean the mineral of iron. and whatever we think of our parts or improvements in this part of the world, where knowledge and plenty seem to vie with each other; yet to any one that will seriously reflect on it, i suppose it will appear past doubt, that, were the use of iron lost among us, we should in a few ages be unavoidably reduced to the wants and ignorance of the ancient savage americans, whose natural endowments and provisions come no way short of those of the most flourishing and polite nations. so that he who first made known the use of that contemptible mineral, may be truly styled the father of arts, and author of plenty. . in the study of nature we must beware of hypotheses and wrong principles. i would not, therefore, be thought to disesteem or dissuade the study of nature. i readily agree the contemplation of his works gives us occasion to admire, revere, and glorify their author: and, if rightly directed, may be of greater benefit to mankind than the monuments of exemplary charity that have at so great charge been raised by the founders of hospitals and almshouses. he that first invented printing, discovered the use of the compass, or made public the virtue and right use of kin kina, did more for the propagation of knowledge, for the supply and increase of useful commodities, and saved more from the grave than those who built colleges, workhouses, and hospitals. all that i would say is, that we should not be too forwardly possessed with the opinion or expectation of knowledge, where it is not to be had, or by ways that will not attain to it: that we should not take doubtful systems for complete sciences; nor unintelligible notions for scientifical demonstrations. in the knowledge of bodies, we must be content to glean what we can from particular experiments: since we cannot, from a discovery of their real essences, grasp at a time whole sheaves, and in bundles comprehend the nature and properties of whole species together. where our inquiry is concerning co-existence, or repugnancy to co-exist, which by contemplation of our ideas we cannot discover; there experience, observation, and natural history, must give us, by our senses and by retail, an insight into corporeal substances. the knowledge of bodies we must get by our senses, warily employed in taking notice of their qualities and operations on one another: and what we hope to know of separate spirits in this world, we must, i think, expect only from revelation. he that shall consider how little general maxims, precarious principles, and hypotheses laid down at pleasure, have promoted true knowledge, or helped to satisfy the inquiries of rational men after real improvements; how little, i say, the setting out at that end has, for many ages together, advanced men's progress, towards the knowledge of natural philosophy, will think we have reason to thank those who in this latter age have taken another course, and have trod out to us, though not an easier way to learned ignorance, yet a surer way to profitable knowledge. . the true use of hypotheses. not that we may not, to explain any phenomena of nature, make use of any probable hypothesis whatsoever: hypotheses, if they are well made, are at least great helps to the memory, and often direct us to new discoveries. but my meaning is, that we should not take up any one too hastily (which the mind, that would always penetrate into the causes of things, and have principles to rest on, is very apt to do) till we have very well examined particulars, and made several experiments, in that thing which we would explain by our hypothesis, and see whether it will agree to them all; whether our principles will carry us quite through, and not be as inconsistent with one phenomenon of nature, as they seem to accommodate and explain another. and at least that we take care that the name of principles deceive us not, nor impose on us, by making us receive that for an unquestionable truth, which is really at best but a very doubtful conjecture; such as are most (i had almost said all) of the hypotheses in natural philosophy. . clear and distinct ideas with settled names, and the finding of those intermediate ideas which show their agreement or disagreement, are the ways to enlarge our knowledge. but whether natural philosophy be capable of certainty or no, the ways to enlarge our knowledge, as far as we are capable, seems to me, in short, to be these two:-- first, the first is to get and settle in our minds [determined ideas of those things whereof we have general or specific names; at least, so many of them as we would consider and improve our knowledge in, or reason about.] [and if they be specific ideas of substances, we should endeavour also to make them as complete as we can, whereby i mean, that we should put together as many simple ideas as, being constantly observed to co-exist, may perfectly determine the species; and each of those simple ideas which are the ingredients of our complex ones, should be clear and distinct in our minds.] for it being evident that our knowledge cannot exceed our ideas; [as far as] they are either imperfect, confused, or obscure, we cannot expect to have certain, perfect, or clear knowledge. secondly, the other is the art of finding out those intermediate ideas, which may show us the agreement or repugnancy of other ideas, which cannot be immediately compared. . mathematics an instance of this. that these two (and not the relying on maxims, and drawing consequences from some general propositions) are the right methods of improving our knowledge in the ideas of other modes besides those of quantity, the consideration of mathematical knowledge will easily inform us. where first we shall find that he that has not a perfect and clear idea of those angles or figures of which he desires to know anything, is utterly thereby incapable of any knowledge about them. suppose but a man not to have a perfect exact idea of a right angle, a scalenum, or trapezium, and there is nothing more certain than that he will in vain seek any demonstration about them. further, it is evident, that it was not the influence of those maxims which are taken for principles in mathematics, that hath led the masters of that science into those wonderful discoveries they have made. let a man of good parts know all the maxims generally made use of in mathematics ever so perfectly, and contemplate their extent and consequences as much as he pleases, he will, by their assistance, i suppose, scarce ever come to know that the square of the hypothenuse in a right-angled triangle is equal to the squares of the two other sides. the knowledge that 'the whole is equal to all its parts,' and 'if you take equals from equals, the remainder will be equal,' &c., helped him not, i presume, to this demonstration: and a man may, i think, pore long enough on those axioms, without ever seeing one jot the more of mathematical truths. they have been discovered by the thoughts otherwise applied: the mind had other objects, other views before it, far different from those maxims, when it first got the knowledge of such truths in mathematics, which men, well enough acquainted with those received axioms, but ignorant of their method who first made these demonstrations, can never sufficiently admire. and who knows what methods to enlarge our knowledge in other parts of science may hereafter be invented, answering that of algebra in mathematics, which so readily finds out the ideas of quantities to measure others by; whose equality or proportion we could otherwise very hardly, or, perhaps, never come to know? chapter xiii. some further considerations concerning our knowledge. . our knowledge partly necessary partly voluntary. our knowledge, as in other things, so in this, has so great a conformity with our sight, that it is neither wholly necessary, nor wholly voluntary. if our knowledge were altogether necessary, all men's knowledge would not only be alike, but every man would know all that is knowable; and if it were wholly voluntary, some men so little regard or value it, that they would have extreme little, or none at all. men that have senses cannot choose but receive some ideas by them; and if they have memory, they cannot but retain some of them; and if they have any distinguishing faculty, cannot but perceive the agreement or disagreement of some of them one with another; as he that has eyes, if he will open them by day, cannot but see some objects, and perceive a difference in them. but though a man with his eyes open in the light, cannot but see, yet there be certain objects which he may choose whether he will turn his eyes to; there may be in his reach a book containing pictures and discourses, capable to delight or instruct him, which yet he may never have the will to open, never take the pains to look into. . the application of our faculties voluntary; but they being employed, we know as things are, not as we please. there is also another thing in a man's power, and that is, though he turns his eyes sometimes towards an object, yet he may choose whether he will curiously survey it, and with an intent application endeavour to observe accurately all that is visible in it. but yet, what he does see, he cannot see otherwise than he does. it depends not on his will to see that black which appears yellow; nor to persuade himself, that what actually scalds him, feels cold. the earth will not appear painted with flowers, nor the fields covered with verdure, whenever he has a mind to it: in the cold winter, he cannot help seeing it white and hoary, if he will look abroad. just thus is it with our understanding: all that is voluntary in our knowledge is, the employing or withholding any of our faculties from this or that sort of objects, and a more or less accurate survey of them: but, they being employed, our will hath no power to determine the knowledge of the mind one way or another; that is done only by the objects themselves, as far as they are clearly discovered. and therefore, as far as men's senses are conversant about external objects, the mind cannot but receive those ideas which are presented by them, and be informed of the existence of things without: and so far as men's thoughts converse with their own determined ideas, they cannot but in some measure observe the agreement or disagreement that is to be found amongst some of them, which is so far knowledge: and if they have names for those ideas which they have thus considered, they must needs be assured of the truth of those propositions which express that agreement or disagreement they perceive in them, and be undoubtedly convinced of those truths. for what a man sees, he cannot but see; and what he perceives, he cannot but know that he perceives. . instance in numbers. thus he that has got the ideas of numbers, and hath taken the pains to compare one, two, and three, to six, cannot choose but know that they are equal: he that hath got the idea of a triangle, and found the ways to measure its angles and their magnitudes, is certain that its three angles are equal to two right ones; and can as little doubt of that, as of this truth, that, it is impossible for the same thing to be, and not to be. . instance in natural religion. he also that hath the idea of an intelligent, but frail and weak being, made by and depending on another, who is eternal, omnipotent, perfectly wise and good, will as certainly know that man is to honour, fear, and obey god, as that the sun shines when he sees it. for if he hath but the ideas of two such beings in his mind, and will turn his thoughts that way, and consider them, he will as certainly find that the inferior, finite, and dependent, is under an obligation to obey the supreme and infinite, as he is certain to find that three, four, and seven are less than fifteen; if he will consider and compute those numbers: nor can he be surer in a clear morning that the sun is risen; if he will but open his eyes, and turn them that way. but yet these truths, being ever so certain, ever so clear, he may be ignorant of either, or all of them, who will never take the pains to employ his faculties, as he should, to inform himself about them. chapter xiv. of judgment. . our knowledge being short, we want something else. the understanding faculties being given to man, not barely for speculation, but also for the conduct of his life, man would be at a great loss if he had nothing to direct him but what has the certainty of true knowledge. for that being very short and scanty, as we have seen, he would be often utterly in the dark, and in most of the actions of his life, perfectly at a stand, had he nothing to guide him in the absence of clear and certain knowledge. he that will not eat till he has demonstration that it will nourish him; he that will not stir till he infallibly knows the business he goes about will succeed, will have little else to do but to sit still and perish. . what use to be made of this twilight state. therefore, as god has set some things in broad daylight; as he has given us some certain knowledge, though limited to a few things in comparison, probably as a taste of what intellectual creatures are capable of to excite in us a desire and endeavour after a better state: so, in the greatest part of our concernments, he has afforded us only the twilight, as i may so say, of probability; suitable, i presume, to that state of mediocrity and probationership he has been pleased to place us in here; wherein, to check our over-confidence and presumption, we might, by every day's experience, be made sensible of our short-sightedness and liableness to error; the sense whereof might be a constant admonition to us, to spend the days of this our pilgrimage with industry and care, in the search and following of that way which might lead us to a state of greater perfection. it being highly rational to think, even were revelation silent in the case, that, as men employ those talents god has given them here, they shall accordingly receive their rewards at the close of the day, when their sun shall set, and night shall put an end to their labours. . judgement or assent to probability, supplies our want of knowledge. the faculty which god has given man to supply the want of clear and certain knowledge, in cases where that cannot be had, is judgement: whereby the mind takes its ideas to agree or disagree; or, which is the same, any proposition to be true or false, without perceiving a demonstrative evidence in the proofs. the mind sometimes exercises this judgment out of necessity, where demonstrative proofs and certain knowledge are not to be had; and sometimes out of laziness, unskilfulness, or haste, even where demonstrative and certain proofs are to be had. men often stay not warily to examine the agreement or disagreement of two ideas, which they are desirous or concerned to know; but, either incapable of such attention as is requisite in a long train of gradations, or impatient of delay, lightly cast their eyes on, or wholly pass by the proofs; and so, without making out the demonstration, determine of the agreement or disagreement of two ideas, as it were by a view of them as they are at a distance, and take it to be the one or the other, as seems most likely to them upon such a loose survey. this faculty of the mind, when it is exercised immediately about things, is called judgement; when about truths delivered in words, is most commonly called assent or dissent: which being the most usual way, wherein the mind has occasion to employ this faculty, i shall, under these terms, treat of it, as feast liable in our language to equivocation. . judgement is the presuming things to be so, without perceiving it. thus the mind has two faculties conversant (about truth and falsehood):-- first, knowledge, whereby it certainly perceives, and is undoubtedly satisfied of the agreement or disagreement of any ideas. secondly, judgement, which is the putting ideas together, or separating them from one another in the mind, when their certain agreement or disagreement is not perceived, but presumed to be so; which is, as the word imports, taken to be so before it certainly appears. and if it so unites or separates them as in reality things are, it is right judgement. chapter xv. of probability. . probability is the appearance of agreement upon fallible proofs. as demonstration is the showing the agreement or disagreement of two ideas, by the intervention of one or more proofs, which have a constant, immutable, and visible connexion one with another; so probability is nothing but the appearance of such an agreement or disagreement, by the intervention of proofs, whose connexion is not constant and immutable, or at least is not perceived to be so, but is, or appears for the most part to be so, and is enough to induce the mind to judge the proposition to be true or false, rather than the contrary. for example: in the demonstration of it a man perceives the certain, immutable connexion there is of equality between the three angles of a triangle, and those intermediate ones which are made use of to show their equality to two right ones; and so, by an intuitive knowledge of the agreement or disagreement of the intermediate ideas in each step of the progress, the whole series is continued with an evidence, which clearly shows the agreement or disagreement of those three angles in equality to two right ones: and thus he has certain knowledge that it is so. but another man, who never took the pains to observe the demonstration, hearing a mathematician, a man of credit, affirm the three angles of a triangle to be equal to two right ones, assents to it, i.e. receives it for true: in which case the foundation of his assent is the probability of the thing; the proof being such as for the most part carries truth with it: the man on whose testimony he receives it, not being wont to affirm anything contrary to or besides his knowledge, especially in matters of this kind: so that that which causes his assent to this proposition, that the three angles of a triangle are equal to two right ones, that which makes him take these ideas to agree, without knowings them to do so, is the wonted veracity of the speaker in other cases, or his supposed veracity in this. . it is to supply our want of knowledge. our knowledge, as has been shown, being very narrow, and we not happy enough to find certain truth in everything which we have occasion to consider; most of the propositions we think, reason, discourse--nay, act upon, are such as we cannot have undoubted knowledge of their truth: yet some of them border so near upon certainty, that we make no act, according to the assent, as resolutely as if they were infallibly demonstrated, and that our knowledge of them was perfect and certain. but there being degrees herein, from the very neighbourhood of certainty and demonstration, quite down to improbability and unlikeness, even to the confines of impossibility; and also degrees of assent from full assurance and confidence, quite down to conjecture, doubt, and distrust: i shall come now, (having, as i think, found out the bounds of human knowledge and certainty,) in the next place, to consider the several degrees and grounds of probability, and assent or faith. . being that which makes us presume things to be true, before we know them to be so. probability is likeliness to be true, the very notation of the word signifying such a proposition, for which there be arguments or proofs to make it pass, or be received for true. the entertainment the mind gives this sort of propositions is called belief, assent, or opinion, which is the admitting or receiving any proposition for true, upon arguments or proofs that are found to persuade us to receive it as true, without certain knowledge that it is so. and herein lies the difference between probability and certainty, faith, and knowledge, that in all the parts of knowledge there is intuition; each immediate idea, each step has its visible and certain connexion: in belief, not so. that which makes me believe, is something extraneous to the thing i believe; something not evidently joined on both sides to, and so not manifestly showing the agreement or disagreement of those ideas that are under consideration. . the grounds of probability are two: conformity with our own experience, or the testimony of others. probability then, being to supply the defect of our knowledge, and to guide us where that fails, is always conversant about propositions whereof we have no certainty, but only some inducements to receive them for true. the grounds of it are, in short, these two following:-- first, the conformity of anything with our own knowledge, observation, and experience. secondly, the testimony of others, vouching their observation and experience. in the testimony of others is to be considered: . the number. . the integrity. . the skill of the witnesses. . the design of the author, where it is a testimony out of a book cited. . the consistency of the parts, and circumstances of the relation. . contrary testimonies. . in this, all the arguments pro and con ought to be examined, before we come to a judgment. probability wanting that intuitive evidence which, infallibly determines the understanding and produces certain knowledge, the mind, if it will proceed rationally, ought to examine all the grounds of probability, and see how they make more or less for or against any proposition, before it assents to or dissents from it; and, upon a due balancing the whole, reject or receive it, with a more or less firm assent, proportionably to the preponderancy of the greater grounds of probability on one side or the other. for example:-- if i myself see a man walk on the ice, it is past probability; it is knowledge. but if another tells me he saw a man in england, in the midst of a sharp winter, walk upon water hardened with cold, this has so great conformity with what is usually observed to happen, that i am disposed by the natures of the thing itself to assent to it; unless some manifest suspicion attend the relation of that matter of fact. but if the same thing be told to one born between the tropics, who never saw nor heard of any such thing before, there the whole probability relies on testimony: and as the relators are more in number, and of more credit, and have no interest to speak contrary to the truth, so that matter of fact is like to find more or less belief. though to a man whose experience has always been quite contrary, and who has never heard of anything like it, the most untainted credit of a witness will scarce be able to find belief. as it happened to a dutch ambassador, who entertaining the king of siam with the particularities of holland, which he was inquisitive after, amongst other things told him, that the water in his country would sometimes, in cold weather, be so hard, that men walked upon it, and that it would bear an elephant, if he were there. to which the king replied, hitherto _i_ have believed the strange things you have told me, because _i_ look upon you as a sober fair man, but now _i_ am sure you lie. . probable arguments capable of great variety. upon these grounds depends the probability of any proposition: and as the conformity of our knowledge, as the certainty of observations, as the frequency and constancy of experience, and the number and credibility of testimonies do more or less agree or disagree with it, so is any proposition in itself more or less probable. there is another, i confess, which, though by itself it be no true ground of probability, yet is often made use of for one, by which men most commonly regulate their assent, and upon which they pin their faith more than anything else, and that is, the opinion of others; though there cannot be a more dangerous thing to rely on, nor more likely to mislead one; since there is much more falsehood and error among men, than truth and knowledge. and if the opinions and persuasions of others, whom we know and think well of, be a ground of assent, men have reason to be heathens in japan, mahometans in turkey, papists in spain, protestants in england, and lutherans in sweden. but of this wrong ground of assent i shall have occasion to speak more at large in another place. chapter xvi. of the degrees of assent. . our assent ought to be regulated by the grounds of probability. the grounds of probability we have laid down in the foregoing chapter: as they are the foundations on which our assent is built, so are they also the measure whereby its several degrees are, or ought to be regulated: only we are to take notice, that, whatever grounds of probability there may be, they yet operate no further on the mind which searches after truth, and endeavours to judge right, than they appear; at least, in the first judgment or search that the mind makes. i confess, in the opinions men have, and firmly stick to in the world, their assent is not always from an actual view of the reasons that at first prevailed with them: it being in many cases almost impossible, and in most, very hard, even for those who have very admirable memories, to retain all the proofs which, upon a due examination, made them embrace that side of the question. it suffices that they have once with care and fairness sifted the matter as far as they could; and that they have searched into all the particulars, that they could imagine to give any light to the question; and, with the best of their skill, cast up the account upon the whole evidence: and thus, having once found on which side the probability appeared to them, after as full and exact an inquiry as they can make, they lay up the conclusion in their memories, as a truth they have discovered; and for the future they remain satisfied with the testimony of their memories, that this is the opinion that, by the proofs they have once seen of it, deserves such a degree of their assent as they afford it. . these can not always be actually in view; and then we must content ourselves with the remembrance that we once saw ground for such a degree of assent. this is all that the greatest part of men are capable of doing, in regulating their opinions and judgments; unless a man will exact of them, either to retain distinctly in their memories all the proofs concerning any probable truth, and that too, in the same order, and regular deduction of consequences in which they have formerly placed or seen them; which sometimes is enough to fill a large volume on one single question: or else they must require a man, for every opinion that he embraces, every day to examine the proofs: both which are impossible. it is unavoidable, therefore, that the memory be relied on in the case, and that men be persuaded of several opinions, whereof the proofs are not actually in their thoughts; nay, which perhaps they are not able actually to recall. without this, the greatest part of men must be either very sceptics; or change every moment, and yield themselves up to whoever, having lately studied the question, offers them arguments, which, for want of memory, they are not able presently to answer. . the ill consequence of this, if our former judgments were not rightly made. i cannot but own, that men's sticking to their past judgment, and adhering firmly to conclusions formerly made, is often the cause of great obstinacy in error and mistake. but the fault is not that they rely on their memories for what they have before well judged, but because they judged before they had well examined. may we not find a great number (not to say the greatest part) of men that think they have formed right judgments of several matters; and that for no other reason, but because they never thought otherwise? that themselves to have judged right, only because they never questioned, never examined, their own opinions? which is indeed to think they judged right, because they never judged at all. and yet these, of all men, hold their opinions with the greatest stiffness; those being generally the most fierce and firm in their tenets, who have least examined them. what we once know, we are certain is so: and we may be secure, that there are no latent proofs undiscovered, which may overturn our knowledge, or bring it in doubt. but, in matters of probability, it is not in every case we can be sure that we have all the particulars before us, that any way concern the question; and that there is no evidence behind, and yet unseen, which may cast the probability on the other side, and outweigh all that at present seems to preponderate with us. who almost is there that hath the leisure, patience, and means to collect together all the proofs concerning most of the opinions he has, so as safely to conclude that he hath a clear and full view; and that there is no more to be alleged for his better information? and yet we are forced to determine ourselves on the one side or other. the conduct of our lives, and the management of our great concerns, will not bear delay: for those depend, for the most part, on the determination of our judgment in points wherein we are not capable of certain and demonstrative knowledge, and wherein it is necessary for us to embrace the one side or the other. . the right use of it, mutual charity and forbearance, in a necessary diversity of opinions. since, therefore, it is unavoidable to the greatest part of men, if not all, to have several opinions, without certain and indubitable proofs of their truth; and it carries too great an imputation of ignorance, lightness, or folly for men to quit and renounce their former tenets presently upon the offer of an argument which they cannot immediately answer, and show the insufficiency of: it would, methinks, become all men to maintain peace, and the common offices of humanity, and friendship, in the diversity of opinions; since we cannot reasonably expect that any one should readily and obsequiously quit his own opinion, and embrace ours, with a blind resignation to an authority which the understanding of man acknowledges not. for however it may often mistake, it can own no other guide but reason, nor blindly submit to the will and dictates of another. if he you would bring over to your sentiments be one that examines before he assents, you must give him leave at his leisure to go over the account again, and, recalling what is out of his mind, examine all the particulars, to see on which side the advantage lies: and if he will not think our arguments of weight enough to engage him anew in so much pains, it is but what we often do ourselves in the like case; and we should take it amiss if others should prescribe to us what points we should study. and if he be one who takes his opinions upon trust, how can we imagine that he should renounce those tenets which time and custom have so settled in his mind, that he thinks them self-evident, and of an unquestionably certainty; or which he takes to be impressions he has received from god himself, or from men sent by him? how can we expect, i say, that opinions thus settled should be given up to the arguments or authority of a stranger or adversary, especially if there be any suspicion of interest or design, as there never fails to be, where men find themselves ill-trusted? we should do well to commiserate our mutual ignorance, and endeavour to remove it in all the gentle and fair ways of information; and not instantly treat others ill, as obstinate and perverse, because they will not renounce their own, and receive our opinions, or at least those we would force upon them, when it is more than probable that we are no less obstinate in not embracing some of theirs. for where is the man that has incontestable evidence of the truth of all that he holds, or of the falsehood of all he condemns; or can say that he has examined to the bottom all his own, or other men's opinions? the necessity of believing without knowledge, nay often upon very slight grounds, in this fleeting state of action and blindness we are in, should make us more busy and careful to inform ourselves than constrain others. at least, those who have not thoroughly examined to the bottom all their own tenets, must confess they are unfit to prescribe to others; and are unreasonable in imposing that as truth on other men's belief, which they themselves have not searched into, nor weighed the arguments of probability, on which they should receive or reject it. those who have fairly and truly examined, and are thereby got past doubt in all the doctrines they profess and govern themselves by, would have a juster pretence to require others to follow them: but these are so few in number, and find so little reason to be magisterial in their opinions, that nothing insolent and imperious is to be expected from them: and there is reason to think, that, if men were better instructed themselves, they would be less imposing on others. . probability is either of sensible matter of fact, capable of human testimony, or of what is beyond the evidence of our senses. but to return to the grounds of assent, and the several degrees of it, we are to take notice, that the propositions we receive upon inducements of probability are of two sorts: either concerning some particular existance, or, as it is usually termed, matter of fact, which, falling under observation, is capable of human testimony; or else concerning things, which being beyond the discovery of our senses, are not capable of any such testimony. . concerning the first of these, viz. particular matter of fact. i. the concurrent experience of all other men with ours, produces assurance approaching to knowledge. where any particular thing, consonant to the constant observation of ourselves and others in the like case, comes attested by the concurrent reports of all that mention it, we receive it as easily, and build as firmly upon it, as if it were certain knowledge; and we reason and act thereupon with as little doubt as if it were perfect demonstration. thus, if all englishmen, who have occasion to mention it, should affirm that it froze in england the last winter, or that there were swallows seen there in the summer, i think a man could almost as little doubt of it as that seven and four are eleven. the first, therefore, and highest degree of probability, is, when the general consent of all men, in all ages, as far as it can be known, concurs with a man's constant and never-failing experience in like cases, to confirm the truth of any particular matter of fact attested by fair witnesses: such are all the stated constitutions and properties of bodies, and the regular proceedings of causes and effects in the ordinary course of nature. this we call an argument from the nature of things themselves. for what our own and other men's constant observation has found always to be after the same manner, that we with reason conclude to be the effect of steady and regular causes; though they come not within the reach of our knowledge. thus, that fire warmed a man, made lead fluid, and changed the colour or consistency in wood or charcoal; that iron sunk in water, and swam in quicksilver: these and the like propositions about particular facts, being agreeable to our constant experience, as often as we have to do with these matters; and being generally spoke of (when mentioned by others) as things found constantly to be so, and therefore not so much as controverted by anybody--we are put past doubt that a relation affirming any such thing to have been, or any predication that it will happen again in the same manner, is very true. these probabilities rise so near to certainty, that they govern our thoughts as absolutely, and influence all our actions as fully, as the most evident demonstration; and in what concerns us we make little or no difference between them and certain knowledge. our belief, thus grounded, rises to assurance. . ii. unquestionable testimony, and our own experience that a thing is for the most part so, produce confidence. the next degree of probability is, when i find by my own experience, and the agreement of all others that mention it, a thing to be for the most part so, and that the particular instance of it is attested by many and undoubted witnesses: v.g. history giving us such an account of men in all ages, and my own experience, as far as i had an opportunity to observe, confirming it, that most men prefer their private advantage to the public: if all historians that write of tiberius, say that tiberius did so, it is extremely probable. and in this case, our assent has a sufficient foundation to raise itself to a degree which we may call confidence. . iii. fair testimony, and the nature of the thing indifferent, produce unavoidable assent. in things that happen indifferently, as that a bird should fly this or that way; that it should thunder on a man's right or left hand, &c., when any particular matter of fact is vouched by the concurrent testimony of unsuspected witnesses, there our assent is also unavoidable. thus: that there is such a city in italy as rome: that about one thousand seven hundred years ago, there lived in it a man, called julius caesar; that he was a general, and that he won a battle against another, called pompey. this, though in the nature of the thing there be nothing for nor against it, yet being related by historians of credit, and contradicted by no one writer, a man cannot avoid believing it, and can as little doubt of it as he does of the being and actions of his own acquaintance, whereof he himself is a witness. . experience and testimonies clashing, infinitely vary the degrees of probability. thus far the matter goes easy enough. probability upon such grounds carries so much evidence with it, that it naturally determines the judgment, and leaves us as little liberty to believe or disbelieve, as a demonstration does, whether we will know, or be ignorant. the difficulty is, when testimonies contradict common experience, and the reports of history and witnesses clash with the ordinary course of nature, or with one another; there it is, where diligence, attention, and exactness are required, to form a right judgment, and to proportion the assent to the different evidence and probability of the thing: which rises and falls, according as those two foundations of credibility, viz. common observation in like cases, and particular testimonies in that particular instance, favour or contradict it. these are liable to so great variety of contrary observations, circumstances, reports, different qualifications, tempers, designs, oversights, &c., of the reporters, that it is impossible to reduce to precise rules the various degrees wherein men give their assent. this only may be said in general, that as the arguments and proofs pro and con, upon due examination, nicely weighing every particular circumstance, shall to any one appear, upon the whole matter, in a greater or less degree to preponderate on either side; so they are fitted to produce in the mind such different entertainments, as we call belief, conjecture, guess, doubt, wavering, distrust, disbelief, &c. . traditional testimonies, the further removed the less their proof becomes. this is what concerns assent in matters wherein testimony is made use of: concerning which, i think, it may not be amiss to take notice of a rule observed in the law of england; which is, that though the attested copy of a record be good proof, yet the copy of a copy, ever so well attested, and by ever so credible witnesses, will not be admitted as a proof in judicature. this is so generally approved as reasonable, and suited to the wisdom and caution to be used in our inquiry after material truths, that i never yet heard of any one that blamed it. this practice, if it be allowable in the decisions of right and wrong, carries this observation along with it, viz. that any testimony, the further off it is from the original truth, the less force and proof it has. the being and existence of the thing itself, is what i call the original truth. a credible man vouching his knowledge of it is a good proof; but if another equally credible do witness it from his report, the testimony is weaker: and a third that attests the hearsay of an hearsay is yet less considerable. so that in traditional truths, each remove weakens the force of the proof: and the more hands the tradition has successively passed through, the less strength and evidence does it receive from them. this i thought necessary to be taken notice of: because i find amongst some men the quite contrary commonly practised, who look on opinions to gain force by growing older; and what a thousand years since would not, to a rational man contemporary with the first voucher, have appeared at all probable, is now urged as certain beyond all question, only because several have since, from him, said it one after another. upon this ground propositions, evidently false or doubtful enough in their first beginning, come, by an inverted rule of probability, to pass for authentic truths; and those which found or deserved little credit from the mouths of their first authors, are thought to grow venerable by age, are urged as undeniable. . yet history is of great use. i would not be thought here to lessen the credit and use of history: it is all the light we have in many cases, and we receive from it a great part of the useful truths we have, with a convincing evidence. i think nothing more valuable than the records of antiquity: i wish we had more of them, and more uncorrupted. but this truth itself forces me to say, that no probability can rise higher than its first original. what has no other evidence than the single testimony of one only witness must stand or fall by his only testimony, whether good, bad, or indifferent; and though cited afterwards by hundreds of others, one after another, is so far from receiving any strength thereby, that it is only the weaker. passion, interest, inadvertency, mistake of his meaning, and a thousand odd reasons, or capricios, men's minds are acted by, (impossible to be discovered,) may make one man quote another man's words or meaning wrong. he that has but ever so little examined the citations of writers, cannot doubt how little credit the quotations deserve, where the originals are wanting; and consequently how much less quotations of quotations can be relied on. this is certain, that what in one age was affirmed upon slight grounds, can never after come to be more valid in future ages by being often repeated. but the further still it is from the original, the less valid it is, and has always less force in the mouth or writing of him that last made use of it than in his from whom he received it. . secondly, in things which sense cannot discover, analogy is the great rule of probability. [secondly], the probabilities we have hitherto mentioned are only such as concern matter of fact, and such things as are capable of observation and testimony. there remains that other sort, concerning which men entertain opinions with variety of assent, though the things be such, that falling not under the reach of our senses, they are not capable of testimony. such are, . the existence, nature and operations of finite immaterial beings without us; as spirits, angels, devils, &c. or the existence of material beings which, either for their smallness in themselves or remoteness from us, our senses cannot take notice of--as, whether there be any plants, animals, and intelligent inhabitants in the planets, and other mansions of the vast universe. . concerning the manner of operation in most parts of the works of nature: wherein, though we see the sensible effects, yet their causes are unknown, and we perceive not the ways and manner how they are produced. we see animals are generated, nourished, and move; the loadstone draws iron; and the parts of a candle, successively melting, turn into flame, and give us both light and heat. these and the like effects we see and know: but the causes that operate, and the manner they are produced in, we can only guess and probably conjecture. for these and the like, coming not within the scrutiny of human senses, cannot be examined by them, or be attested by anybody; and therefore can appear more or less probable, only as they more or less agree to truths that are established in our minds, and as they hold proportion to other parts of our knowledge and observation. analogy in these matters is the only help we have, and it is from that alone we draw all our grounds of probability. thus, observing that the bare rubbing of two bodies violently one upon another, produces heat, and very often fire itself, we have reason to think, that what we call heat and fire consists in a violent agitation of the imperceptible minute parts of the burning matter. observing likewise that the different refractions of pellucid bodies produce in our eyes the different appearances of several colours; and also, that the different ranging and laying the superficial parts of several bodies, as of velvet, watered silk, &c., does the like, we think it probable that the colour and shining of bodies is in them nothing but the different arrangement and refraction of their minute and insensible parts. thus, finding in all parts of the creation, that fall under human observation, that there is a gradual connexion of one with another, without any great or discernible gaps between, in all that great variety of things we see in the world, which are so closely linked together, that, in the several ranks of beings, it is not easy to discover the bounds betwixt them; we have reason to be persuaded that, by such gentle steps, things ascend upwards in degrees of perfection. it is a hard matter to say where sensible and rational begin, and where insensible and irrational end: and who is there quick-sighted enough to determine precisely which is the lowest species of living things, and which the first of those which have no life? things, as far as we can observe, lessen and augment, as the quantity does in a regular cone; where, though there be a manifest odds betwixt the bigness of the diameter at a remote distance, yet the difference between the upper and under, where they touch one another, is hardly discernible. the difference is exceeding great between some men and some animals: but if we will compare the understanding and abilities of some men and some brutes, we shall find so little difference, that it will be hard to say, that that of the man is either clearer or larger. observing, i say, such gradual and gentle descents downwards in those parts of the creation that are beneath man, the rule of analogy may make it probable, that it is so also in things above us and our observation; and that there are several ranks of intelligent beings, excelling us in several degrees of perfection, ascending upwards towards the infinite perfection of the creator, by gentle steps and differences, that are every one at no great distance from the next to it. this sort of probability, which is the best conduct of rational experiments, and the rise of hypothesis, has also its use and influence; and a wary reasoning from analogy leads us often into the discovery of truths and useful productions, which would otherwise lie concealed. . one case where contrary experience lessens not the testimony. though the common experience and the ordinary course of things have justly a mighty influence on the minds of men, to make them give or refuse credit to anything proposed to their belief; yet there is one case, wherein the strangeness of the fact lessens not the assent to a fair testimony given of it. for where such supernatural events are suitable to ends aimed at by him who has the power to change the course of nature, there, under such circumstances, that may be the fitter to procure belief, by how much the more they are beyond or contrary to ordinary observation. this is the proper case of miracles, which, well attested, do not only find credit themselves, but give it also to other truths, which need such confirmation. . the bare testimony of divine revelation is the highest certainty. besides those we have hitherto mentioned, there is one sort of propositions that challenge the highest degree of our assent, upon bare testimony, whether the thing proposed agree or disagree with common experience, and the ordinary course of things, or no. the reason whereof is, because the testimony is of such an one as cannot deceive nor be deceived: and that is of god himself. this carries with it an assurance beyond doubt, evidence beyond exception. this is called by a peculiar name, revelation, and our assent to it, faith, which [as absolutely determines our minds, and as perfectly excludes all wavering,] as our knowledge itself; and we may as well doubt of our own being, as we can whether any revelation from god be true. so that faith is a settled and sure principle of assent and assurance, and leaves no manner of room for doubt or hesitation. only we must be sure that it be a divine revelation, and that we understand it right: else we shall expose ourselves to all the extravagancy of enthusiasm, and all the error of wrong principles, if we have faith and assurance in what is not divine revelation. and therefore, in those cases, our assent can be rationally no higher than the evidence of its being a revelation, and that this is the meaning of the expressions it is delivered in. if the evidence of its being a revelation, or that this is its true sense, be only on probable proofs, our assent can reach no higher than an assurance or diffidence, arising from the more or less apparent probability of the proofs. but of faith, and the precedency it ought to have before other arguments of persuasion, i shall speak more hereafter; where i treat of it as it is ordinarily placed, in contradistinction to reason; though in truth it be nothing else but an assent founded on the highest reason. chapter xvii. of reason . various significations of the word reason. the word reason in the english language has different significations: sometimes it is taken for true and clear principles: sometimes for clear and fair deductions from those principles: and sometimes for the cause, and particularly the final cause. but the consideration i shall have of it here is in a signification different from all these; and that is, as it stands for a faculty in man, that faculty whereby man is supposed to be distinguished from beasts, and wherein it is evident he much surpasses them. . wherein reasoning consists. if general knowledge, as has been shown, consists in a perception of the agreement or disagreement of our own ideas, and the knowledge of the existence of all things without us (except only of a god, whose existence every man may certainly know and demonstrate to himself from his own existence), be had only by our senses, what room is there for the exercise of any other faculty, but outward sense and inward perception? what need is there of reason? very much: both for the enlargement of our knowledge, and regulating our assent. for it hath to do both in knowledge and opinion, and is necessary and assisting to all our other intellectual faculties, and indeed contains two of them, viz. sagacity and illation. by the one, it finds out; and by the other, it so orders the intermediate ideas as to discover what connexion there is in each link of the chain, whereby the extremes are held together; and thereby, as it were, to draw into view the truth sought for, which is that which we call illation or inference, and consists in nothing but the perception of the connexion there is between the ideas, in each step of the deduction; whereby the mind comes to see, either the certain agreement or disagreement of any two ideas, as in demonstration, in which it arrives at knowledge; or their probable connexion, on which it gives or withholds its assent, as in opinion. sense and intuition reach but a very little way. the greatest part of our knowledge depends upon deductions and intermediate ideas: and in those cases where we are fain to substitute assent instead of knowledge, and take propositions for true, without being certain they are so, we have need to find out, examine, and compare the grounds of their probability. in both these cases, the faculty which finds out the means, and rightly applies them, to discover certainty in the one, and probability in the other, is that which we call reason. for, as reason perceives the necessary and indubitable connexion of all the ideas or proofs one to another, in each step of any demonstration that produces knowledge; so it likewise perceives the probable connexion of all the ideas or proofs one to another, in every step of a discourse, to which it will think assent due. this is the lowest degree of that which can be truly called reason. for where the mind does not perceive this probable connexion, where it does not discern whether there be any such connexion or no; there men's opinions are not the product of judgment, or the consequence of reason, but the effects of chance and hazard, of a mind floating at all adventures, without choice and without direction. . reason in its four degrees. so that we may in reason consider these four degrees: the first and highest is the discovering and finding out of truths; the second, the regular and methodical disposition of them, and laying them in a clear and fit order, to make their connexion and force be plainly and easily perceived; the third is the perceiving their connexion; and the fourth, a making a right conclusion. these several degrees may be observed in any mathematical demonstration; it being one thing to perceive the connexion of each part, as the demonstration is made by another; another to perceive the dependence of the conclusion on all the parts; a third, to make out a demonstration clearly and neatly one's self; and something different from all these, to have first found out these intermediate ideas or proofs by which it is made. . whether syllogism is the great instrument of reason. there is one thing more which i shall desire to be considered concerning reason; and that is, whether syllogism, as is generally thought, be the proper instrument of it, and the usefullest way of exercising this faculty. the causes i have to doubt are these:-- first cause to doubt this. first, because syllogism serves our reason but in one only of the forementioned parts of it; and that is, to show the connexion of the proofs in any one instance, and no more; but in this it is of no great use, since the mind can perceive such connexion, where it really is, as easily, nay, perhaps better, without it. men can reason well who cannot make a syllogism. if we will observe the actings of our own minds, we shall find that we reason best and clearest, when we only observe the connexion of the proof, without reducing our thoughts to any rule of syllogism. and therefore we may take notice, that there are many men that reason exceeding clear and rightly, who know not how to make a syllogism. he that will look into many parts of asia and america, will find men reason there perhaps as acutely as himself, who yet never heard of a syllogism, nor can reduce any one argument to those forms: [and i believe scarce any one makes syllogisms in reasoning within himself.] indeed syllogism is made use of, on occasion, to discover a fallacy hid in a rhetorical flourish, or cunningly wrapt up in a smooth period; and, stripping an absurdity of the cover of wit and good language, show it in its naked deformity. but the mind is not taught to reason by these rules; it has a native faculty to perceive the coherence or incoherence of its ideas, and can range them right without any such perplexing repetitions. tell a country gentlewoman that the wind is south-west, and the weather lowering, and like to rain, and she will easily understand it is not safe for her to go abroad thin clad in such a day, after a fever: she clearly sees the probable connexion of all these, viz. south-west wind, and clouds, rain, wetting, taking cold, relapse, and danger of death, without tying them together in those artificial and cumbersome fetters of several syllogisms, that clog and hinder the mind, which proceeds from one part to another quicker and clearer without them: and the probability which she easily perceives in things thus in their native state would be quite lost, if this argument were managed learnedly, and proposed in mode and figure. for it very often confounds the connexion; and, i think, every one will perceive in mathematical demonstrations, that the knowledge gained thereby comes shortest and clearest without syllogism. secondly, because though syllogism serves to show the force or fallacy of an argument, made use of in the usual way of discoursing, by supplying the absent proposition, and so, setting it before the view in a clear light; yet it no less engages the mind in the perplexity of obscure, equivocal, and fallacious terms, wherewith this artificial way of reasoning always abounds: it being adapted more to the attaining of victory in dispute than the discovery and confirmation of truth in fair enquiries. . syllogism helps little in demonstration, less in probability. but however it be in knowledge, i think i may truly say, it is of far less, or no use at all in probabilities. for the assent there being to be determined by the preponderancy, after due weighing of all the proofs, with all circumstances on both sides, nothing is so unfit to assist the mind in that as syllogism; which running away with one assumed probability, or one topical argument, pursues that till it has led the mind quite out of sight of the thing under consideration; and, forcing it upon some remote difficulty, holds it fast there; entangled perhaps, and, as it were, manacled, in the chain of syllogisms, without allowing it the liberty, much less affording it the helps, requisite to show on which side, all things considered, is the greater probability. . serves not to increase our knowledge, but to fence with the knowledge we suppose we have. but let it help us (as perhaps may be said) in convincing men of their errors and mistakes: (and yet i would fain see the man that was forced out of his opinion by dint of syllogism,) yet still it fails our reason in that part, which, if not its highest perfection, is yet certainly its hardest task, and that which we most need its help in; and that is the finding out of proofs, and making new discoveries. the rules of syllogism serve not to furnish the mind with those intermediate ideas that may show the connexion of remote ones. this way of reasoning discovers no new proofs, but is the art of marshalling and ranging the old ones we have already. the forty-seventh proposition of the first book of euclid is very true; but the discovery of it, i think, not owing to any rules of common logic. a man knows first and then he is able to prove syllogistically. so that syllogism comes after knowledge, and then a man has little or no need of it. but it is chiefly by the finding out those ideas that show the connexion of distant ones, that our stock of knowledge is increased, and that useful arts and sciences are advanced. syllogism, at best, is but the art of fencing with the little knowledge we have, without making any addition to it. and if a man should employ his reason all this way, he will not do much otherwise than he who, having got some iron out of the bowels of the earth, should have it beaten up all into swords, and put it into his servants' hands to fence with and bang one another. had the king of spain employed the hands of his people, and his spanish iron so, he had brought to light but little of that treasure that lay so long hid in the dark entrails of america. and i am apt to think that he who shall employ all the force of his reason only in brandishing of syllogisms, will discover very little of that mass of knowledge which lies yet concealed in the secret recesses of nature; and which, i am apt to think, native rustic reason (as it formerly has done) is likelier to open a way to, and add to the common stock of mankind, rather than any scholastic proceeding by the strict rules of mode and figure. . other helps to reason than syllogism should be sought. i doubt not, nevertheless, but there are ways to be found to assist our reason in this most useful part; and this the judicious hooker encourages me to say, who in his eccl. pol. . i. section , speaks thus: 'if there might be added the right helps of true art and learning, (which helps, i must plainly confess, this age of the world, carrying the name of a learned age, doth neither much know nor generally regard,) there would undoubtedly be almost as much difference in maturity of judgment between men therewith inured, and that which men now are, as between men that are now, and innocents.' i do not pretend to have found or discovered here any of those 'right helps of art,' this great man of deep thought mentions: but that is plain, that syllogism, and the logic now in use, which were as well known in his days, can be none of those he means. it is sufficient for me, if by a discourse, perhaps something out of the way, i am sure, as to me, wholly new and unborrowed, i shall have given occasion to others to cast about for new discoveries, and to seek in their own thoughts for those right helps of art, which will scarce be found, i fear, by those who servilely confine themselves to the rules and dictates of others. for beaten tracks lead this sort of cattle, (as an observing roman calls them,) whose thoughts reach only to imitation, non quo eundum est, sed quo itur. but i can be bold to say, that this age is adorned with some men of that strength of judgment and largeness of comprehension, that, if they would employ their thoughts on this subject, could open new and undiscovered ways to the advancement of knowledge. . we can reason about particulars; and the immediate object of all our reasonings is nothing but particular ideas. having here had occasion to speak of syllogism in general, and the use of it in reasoning, and the improvement of our knowledge, it is fit, before i leave this subject, to take notice of one manifest mistake in the rules of syllogism: viz. that no syllogistical reasoning can be right and conclusive, but what has at least one general proposition in it. as if we could not reason, and have knowledge about particulars: whereas, in truth, the matter rightly considered, the immediate object of all our reasoning and knowledge, is nothing but particulars. every man's reasoning and knowledge is only about the ideas existing in his own mind; which are truly, every one of them, particular existences: and our knowledge and reason about other things, is only as they correspond with those our particular ideas. so that the perception of the agreement or disagreement of our particular ideas, is the whole and utmost of all our knowledge. universality is but accidental to it, and consists only in this, that the particular ideas about which it is are such as more than one particular, thing can correspond with and be represented by. but the perception of the agreement or disagreement of our particular ideas, and consequently our knowledge, is equally clear and certain, whether either, or both, or neither of those ideas, be capable of representing more real beings than one, or no. . our reason often fails us. reason, though it penetrates into the depths of the sea and earth, elevates our thoughts as high as the stars, and leads us through the vast spaces and large rooms of this mighty fabric, yet it comes far short of the real extent of even corporeal being. and there are many instances wherein it fails us: as, first, in cases when we have no ideas. i. it perfectly fails us, where our ideas fail. it neither does nor can extend itself further than they do. and therefore, wherever we have no ideas, our reasoning stops, and we are at an end of our reckoning: and if at any time we reason about words which do not stand for any ideas, it is only about those sounds, and nothing else. . secondly, because our ideas are often obscure or imperfect. ii. our reason is often puzzled and at a loss, because of the obscurity, confusion, or imperfection of the ideas it is employed about; and there we are involved in difficulties and contradictions. thus, not having any perfect idea of the least extension of matter, nor of infinity, we are at a loss about the divisibility of matter; but having perfect, clear, and distinct ideas of number, our reason meets with none of those inextricable difficulties in numbers, nor finds itself involved in any contradictions about them. thus, we having but imperfect ideas of the operations of our minds, and of the beginning of motion, or thought how the mind produces either of them in us, and much imperfecter yet of the operation of god, run into great difficulties about free created agents, which reason cannot well extricate itself out of. . iii. thirdly, because we perceive not intermediate ideas to show conclusions. our reason is often at a stand, because it perceives not those ideas, which could serve to show the certain or probable agreement or disagreement of any other two ideas: and in this some men's faculties far outgo others. till algebra, that great instrument and instance of human sagacity, was discovered, men with amazement looked on several of the demonstrations of ancient mathematicians, and could scarce forbear to think the finding several of those proofs to be something more than human. . iv. fourthly, because we often proceed upon wrong principles. the mind, by proceeding upon false principles, is often engaged in absurdities and difficulties, brought into straits and contradictions, without knowing how to free itself: and in that case it is in vain to implore the help of reason, unless it be to discover the falsehood and reject the influence of those wrong principles. reason is so far from clearing the difficulties which the building upon false foundations brings a man into, that if he will pursue it, it entangles him the more, and engages him deeper in perplexities. . v. fifthly, because we often employ doubtful terms. as obscure and imperfect ideas often involve our reason, so, upon the same ground, do dubious words and uncertain signs, often, in discourses and arguings, when not warily attended to, puzzle men's reason, and bring them to a nonplus. but these two latter are our fault, and not the fault of reason. but yet the consequences of them are nevertheless obvious; and the perplexities or errors they fill men's minds with are everywhere observable. . our highest degree of knowledge is intuitive, without reasoning. some of the ideas that are in the mind, are so there, that they can be by themselves immediately compared one with another: and in these the mind is able to perceive that they agree or disagree as clearly as that it has them. thus the mind perceives, that an arch of a circle is less than the whole circle, as clearly as it does the idea of a circle: and this, therefore, as has been said, i call intuitive knowledge; which is certain, beyond all doubt, and needs no probation, nor can have any; this being the highest of all human certainty. in this consists the evidence of all those maxims which nobody has any doubt about, but every man (does not, as is said, only assent to, but) knows to be true, as soon as ever they are proposed to his understanding. in the discovery of and assent to these truths, there is no use of the discursive faculty, no need of reasoning, but they are known by a superior and higher degree of evidence. and such, if i may guess at things unknown, i am apt to think that angels have now, and the spirits of just men made perfect shall have, in a future state, of thousands of things which now either wholly escape our apprehensions, or which our short-sighted reason having got some faint glimpse of, we, in the dark, grope after. . the next is got by reasoning. but though we have, here and there, a little of this clear light, some sparks of bright knowledge, yet the greatest part of our ideas are such, that we cannot discern their agreement or disagreement by an immediate comparing them. and in all these we have need of reasoning, and must, by discourse and inference, make our discoveries. now of these there are two sorts, which i shall take the liberty to mention here again:-- first, through reasonings that are demonstrative. first, those whose agreement or disagreement, though it cannot be seen by an immediate putting them together, yet may be examined by the intervention of other ideas which can be compared with them. in this case, when the agreement or disagreement of the intermediate idea, on both sides, with those which we would compare, is plainly discerned: there it amounts to demonstration whereby knowledge is produced, which, though it be certain, yet it is not so easy, nor altogether so clear as intuitive knowledge. because in that there is barely one simple intuition, wherein there is no room for any the least mistake or doubt: the truth is seen all perfectly at once. in demonstration, it is true, there is intuition too, but not altogether at once; for there must be a remembrance of the intuition of the agreement of the medium, or intermediate idea, with that we compared it with before, when we compare it with the other: and where there be many mediums, there the danger of the mistake is the greater. for each agreement or disagreement of the ideas must be observed and seen in each step of the whole train, and retained in the memory, just as it is; and the mind must be sure that no part of what is necessary to make up the demonstration is omitted or overlooked. this makes some demonstrations long and perplexed, and too hard for those who have not strength of parts distinctly to perceive, and exactly carry so many particulars orderly in their heads. and even those who are able to master such intricate speculations, are fain sometimes to go over them again, and there is need of more than one review before they can arrive at certainty. but yet where the mind clearly retains the intuition it had of the agreement of any idea with another, and that with a third, and that with a fourth, &c., there the agreement of the first and the fourth is a demonstration, and produces certain knowledge; which may be called rational knowledge, as the other is intuitive. . secondly, to supply the narrowness of demonstrative and intuitive knowledge we have nothing but judgment upon probable reasoning. secondly, there are other ideas, whose agreement or disagreement can no otherwise be judged of but by the intervention of others which have not a certain agreement with the extremes, but an usual or likely one: and in these is that the judgment is properly exercised; which is the acquiescing of the mind, that any ideas do agree, by comparing them with such probable mediums. this, though it never amounts to knowledge, no, not to that which is the lowest degree of it; yet sometimes the intermediate ideas tie the extremes so firmly together, and the probability is so clear and strong, that assent as necessarily follows it, as knowledge does demonstration. the great excellency and use of the judgment is to observe right, and take a true estimate of the force and weight of each probability; and then casting them up all right together, choose that side which has the overbalance. . intuition, demonstration, judgment. intuitive knowledge is the perception of the certain agreement or disagreement of two ideas immediately compared together. rational knowledge is the perception of the certain agreement or disagreement of any two ideas, by the intervention of one or more other ideas. judgment is the thinking or taking two ideas to agree or disagree, by the intervention of one or more ideas, whose certain agreement or disagreement with them it does not perceive, but hath observed to be frequent and usual. . consequences of words, and consequences of ideas. though the deducing one proposition from another, or making inferences in words, be a great part of reason, and that which it is usually employed about; yet the principal act of ratiocination is the finding the agreement or disagreement of two ideas one with another, by the intervention of a third. as a man, by a yard, finds two houses to be of the same length, which could not be brought together to measure their equality by juxta-position. words have their consequences, as the signs of such ideas: and things agree or disagree, as really they are; but we observe it only by our ideas. . four sorts of arguments. before we quit this subject, it may be worth our while a little to reflect on four sorts of arguments, that men, in their reasonings with others, do ordinarily make use of to prevail on their assent; or at least so to awe them as to silence their opposition. first, argumentum ad verecundiam. i. the first is, to allege the opinions of men, whose parts, learning, eminency, power, or some other cause has gained a name, and settled their reputation in the common esteem with some kind of authority. when men are established in any kind of dignity, it is thought a breach of modesty for others to derogate any way from it, and question the authority of men who are in possession of it. this is apt to be censured, as carrying with it too much pride, when a man does not readily yield to the determination of approved authors, which is wont to be received with respect and submission by others: and it is looked upon as insolence, for a man to set up and adhere to his own opinion against the current stream of antiquity; or to put it in the balance against that of some learned doctor, or otherwise approved writer. whoever backs his tenets with such authorities, thinks he ought thereby to carry the cause, and is ready to style it impudence in any one who shall stand out against them. this i think may be called argumentum ad verecundiam. . secondly, argumentum ad ignorantiam. ii. secondly, another way that men ordinarily use to drive others, and force them to submit their judgments, and receive the opinion in debate, is to require the adversary to admit what they allege as a proof, or to assign a better. and this i call argumentum ad ignorantiam. . thirdly, argumentum ad hominem. iii. thirdly, a third way is to press a man with consequences drawn from his own principles or concessions. this is already known under the name of argumentum ad hominem. . fourthly, argumentum ad justicium. the fourth alone advances us in knowledge and judgment. iv. the fourth is the using of proofs drawn from any of the foundations of knowledge or probability. this i call argumentum ad justicium. this alone, of all the four, brings true instruction with it, and advances us in our way to knowledge. for, . it argues not another man's opinion to be right, because i, out of respect, or any other consideration but that of conviction, will not contradict him. . it proves not another man to be in the right way, nor that i ought to take the same with him, because i know not a better. . nor does it follow that another man is in the right way, because he has shown me that i am in the wrong. i may be modest, and therefore not oppose another man's persuasion: i may be ignorant, and not be able to produce a better: i may be in an error, and another may show me that i am so. this may dispose me, perhaps, for the reception of truth, but helps me not to it: that must come from proofs and arguments, and light arising from the nature of things themselves, and not from my shamefacedness, ignorance, or error. . above, contrary, and according to reason. by what has been before said of reason, we may be able to make some guess at the distinction of things, into those that are according to, above, and contrary to reason. . according to reason are such propositions whose truth we can discover by examining and tracing those ideas we have from sensation and reflection; and by natural deduction find to be true or probable. . above reason are such propositions whose truth or probability we cannot by reason derive from those principles. . contrary to reason are such propositions as are inconsistent with or irreconcilable to our clear and distinct ideas. thus the existence of one god is according to reason; the existence of more than one god, contrary to reason; the resurrection of the dead, above reason. above reason also may be taken in a double sense, viz. either as signifying above probability, or above certainty: and in that large sense also, contrary to reason, is, i suppose, sometimes taken. . reason and faith not opposite, for faith must be regulated by reason. there is another use of the word reason, wherein it is opposed to faith: which, though it be in itself a very improper way of speaking, yet common use has so authorized it, that it would be folly either to oppose or hope to remedy it. only i think it may not be amiss to take notice, that, however faith be opposed to reason, faith is nothing but a firm assent of the mind: which, if it be regulated, as is our duty, cannot be afforded to anything but upon good reason; and so cannot be opposite to it. he that believes without having any reason for believing, may be in love with his own fancies; but neither seeks truth as he ought, nor pays the obedience due to his maker, who would have him use those discerning faculties he has given him, to keep him out of mistake and error. he that does not this to the best of his power, however he sometimes lights on truth, is in the right but by chance; and i know not whether the luckiness of the accident will excuse the irregularity of his proceeding. this at least is certain, that he must be accountable for whatever mistakes he runs into: whereas he that makes use of the light and faculties god has given him, and seeks sincerely to discover truth by those helps and abilities he has, may have this satisfaction in doing his duty as a rational creature, that, though he should miss truth, he will not miss the reward of it. for he governs his assent right, and places it as he should, who, in any case or matter whatsoever, believes or disbelieves according as reason directs him. he that doth otherwise, transgresses against his own light, and misuses those faculties which were given him to no other end, but to search and follow the clearer evidence and greater probability. but since reason and faith are by some men opposed, we will so consider them in the following chapter. chapter xviii. of faith and reason, and their distinct provinces. . necessary to know their boundaries. it has been above shown, . that we are of necessity ignorant, and want knowledge of all sorts, where we want ideas. . that we are ignorant, and want rational knowledge, where we want proofs. . that we want certain knowledge and certainty, as far as we want clear and determined specific ideas. . that we want probability to direct our assent in matters where we have neither knowledge of our own nor testimony of other men to bottom our reason upon. from these things thus premised, i think we may come to lay down the measures and boundaries between faith and reason: the want whereof may possibly have been the cause, if not of great disorders, yet at least of great disputes, and perhaps mistakes in the world. for till it be resolved how far we are to be guided by reason, and how far by faith, we shall in vain dispute, and endeavour to convince one another in matters of religion. . faith and reason, what, as contradistingushed. i find every sect, as far as reason will help them, make use of it gladly: and where it fails them, they cry out, it is matter of faith, and above reason. and i do not see how they can argue with any one, or ever convince a gainsayer who makes use of the same plea, without setting down strict boundaries between faith and reason; which ought to be the first point established in all questions where faith has anything to do. reason, therefore, here, as contradistinguished to faith, i take to be the discovery of the certainty or probability of such propositions or truths, which the mind arrives at by deduction made from such ideas, which it has got by the use of its natural faculties; viz. by sensation or reflection. faith, on the other side, is the assent to any proposition, not thus made out by the deductions of reason, but upon the credit of the proposer, as coming from god, in some extraordinary way of communication. this way of discovering truths to men, we call revelation. . first, no new simple idea can be conveyed by traditional revelation. first, then i say, that no man inspired by god can by any revelation communicate to others any new simple ideas which they had not before from sensation or reflection. for, whatsoever impressions he himself may have from the immediate hand of god, this revelation, if it be of new simple ideas, cannot be conveyed to another, either by words or any other signs. because words, by their immediate operation on us, cause no other ideas but of their natural sounds: and it is by the custom of using them for signs, that they excite and revive in our minds latent ideas; but yet only such ideas as were there before. for words, seen or heard, recal to our thoughts those ideas only which to us they have been wont to be signs of, but cannot introduce any perfectly new, and formerly unknown simple ideas. the same holds in all other signs; which cannot signify to us things of which we have before never had any idea at all. thus whatever things were discovered to st. paul, when he was rapt up into the third heaven; whatever new ideas his mind there received, all the description he can make to others of that place, is only this, that there are such things, 'as eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, nor hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive.' and supposing god should discover to any one, supernaturally, a species of creatures inhabiting, for example, jupiter or saturn, (for that it is possible there may be such, nobody can deny,) which had six senses; and imprint on his mind the ideas conveyed to theirs by that sixth sense: he could no more, by words, produce in the minds of other men those ideas imprinted by that sixth sense, than one of us could convey the idea of any colour, by the sound of words, into a man who, having the other four senses perfect, had always totally wanted the fifth, of seeing. for our simple ideas, then, which are the foundation, and sole matter of all our notions and knowledge, we must depend wholly on our reason, i mean our natural faculties; and can by no means receive them, or any of them, from traditional revelation. i say, traditional revelation, in distinction to original revelation. by the one, i mean that first impression which is made immediately by god on the mind of any man, to which we cannot set any bounds; and by the other, those impressions delivered over to others in words, and the ordinary ways of conveying our conceptions one to another. . secondly, traditional revelation may make us know propositions knowable also by reason, but not with the same certainty that reason doth. secondly, i say that the same truths may be discovered, and conveyed down from revelation, which are discernable to us by reason, and by those ideas we naturally may have. so god might, by revelation, discover the truth of any proposition in euclid; as well as men, by the natural use of their faculties, come to make the discovery themselves. in all things of this kind there is little need or use of revelation, god having furnished us with natural and surer means to arrive at the knowledge of them. for whatsoever truth we come to the clear discovery of, from the knowledge and contemplation of our own ideas, will always be certainer to us than those which are conveyed to us by traditional revelation. for the knowledge we have that this revelation came at first from god, can never be so sure as the knowledge we have from the clear and distinct perception of the agreement or disagreement of our own ideas: v.g. if it were revealed some ages since, that the three angles of a triangle were equal to two right ones, i might assent to the truth of that proposition, upon the credit of the tradition, that it was revealed: but that would never amount to so great a certainty as the knowledge of it, upon the comparing and measuring my own ideas of two right angles, and the three angles of a triangle. the like holds in matter of fact knowable by our senses; v.g. the history of the deluge is conveyed to us by writings which had their original from revelation: and yet nobody, i think, will say he has as certain and clear a knowledge of the flood as noah, that saw it; or that he himself would have had, had he then been alive and seen it. for he has no greater an assurance than that of his senses, that it is writ in the book supposed writ by moses inspired: but he has not so great an assurance that moses wrote that book as if he had seen moses write it. so that the assurance of its being a revelation is less still than the assurance of his senses. . even original revelation cannot be admitted against the clear evidence of reason. in propositions, then, whose certainty is built upon the clear perception of the agreement or disagreement of our ideas, attained either by immediate intuition, as in self-evident propositions, or by evident deductions of reason in demonstrations we need not the assistance of revelation, as necessary to gain our assent, and introduce them into our minds. because the natural ways of knowledge could settle them there, or had done it already; which is the greatest assurance we can possibly have of anything, unless where god immediately reveals it to us: and there too our assurance can be no greater than our knowledge is, that it is a revelation from god. but yet nothing, i think, can, under that title, shake or overrule plain knowledge; or rationally prevail with any man to admit it for true, in a direct contradiction to the clear evidence of his own understanding. for, since no evidence of our faculties, by which we receive such revelations, can exceed, if equal, the certainty of our intuitive knowledge, we can never receive for a truth anything that is directly contrary to our clear and distinct knowledge; v.g. the ideas of one body and one place do so clearly agree, and the mind has so evident a perception of their agreement, that we can never assent to a proposition that affirms the same body to be in two distant places at once, however it should pretend to the authority of a divine revelation: since the evidence, first, that we deceive not ourselves, in ascribing it to god; secondly, that we understand it right; can never be so great as the evidence of our own intuitive knowledge, whereby we discern it impossible for the same body to be in two places at once. and therefore no proposition can be received for divine revelation, or obtain the assent due to all such, if it be contradictory to our clear intuitive knowledge. because this would be to subvert the principles and foundations of all knowledge, evidence, and assent whatsoever: and there would be left no difference between truth and falsehood, no measures of credible and incredible in the world, if doubtful propositions shall take place before self-evident; and what we certainly know give way to what we may possibly be mistaken in. in propositions therefore contrary to the clear perception of the agreement or disagreement of any of our ideas, it will be in vain to urge them as matters of faith. they cannot move our assent under that or any other title whatsoever. for faith can never convince us of anything that contradicts our knowledge. because, though faith be founded on the testimony of god (who cannot lie) revealing any proposition to us: yet we cannot have an assurance of the truth of its being a divine revelation greater than our own knowledge. since the whole strength of the certainty depends upon our knowledge that god revealed it; which, in this case, where the proposition supposed revealed contradicts our knowledge or reason, will always have this objection hanging to it, viz. that we cannot tell how to conceive that to come from god, the bountiful author of our being, which, if received for true, must overturn all the principles and foundations of knowledge he has given us; render all our faculties useless; wholly destroy the most excellent part of his workmanship, our understandings; and put a man in a condition wherein he will have less light, less conduct than the beast that perisheth. for if the mind of man can never have a clearer (and perhaps not so clear) evidence of anything to be a divine revelation, as it has of the principles of its own reason, it can never have a ground to quit the clear evidence of its reason, to give a place to a proposition, whose revelation has not a greater evidence than those principles have. . traditional revelation much less. thus far a man has use of reason, and ought to hearken to it, even in immediate and original revelation, where it is supposed to be made to himself. but to all those who pretend not to immediate revelation, but are required to pay obedience, and to receive the truths revealed to others, which, by the tradition of writings, or word of mouth, are conveyed down to them, reason has a great deal more to do, and is that only which can induce us to receive them. for matter of faith being only divine revelation, and nothing else, faith, as we use the word, (called commonly divine faith), has to do with no propositions, but those which are supposed to be divinely revealed. so that i do not see how those who make revelation alone the sole object of faith can say, that it is a matter of faith, and not of reason, to believe that such or such a proposition, to be found in such or such a book, is of divine inspiration; unless it be revealed that that proposition, or all in that book, was communicated by divine inspiration. without such a revelation, the believing, or not believing, that proposition, or book, to be of divine authority, can never be matter of faith, but matter of reason; and such as i must come to an assent to only by the use of my reason, which can never require or enable me to believe that which is contrary to itself: it being impossible for reason ever to procure any assent to that which to itself appears unreasonable. in all things, therefore, where we have clear evidence from our ideas, and those principles of knowledge i have above mentioned, reason is the proper judge; and revelation, though it may, in consenting with it, confirm its dictates, yet cannot in such cases invalidate its decrees: nor can we be obliged, where we have the clear and evident sentence of reason, to quit it for the contrary opinion, under a pretence that it is matter of faith: which can have no authority against the plain and clear dictates of reason. . thirdly, things above reason are, when revealed, the proper matter of faith. but, thirdly, there being many things wherein we have very imperfect notions, or none at all; and other things, of whose past, present, or future existence, by the natural use of our faculties, we can have no knowledge at all; these, as being beyond the discovery of our natural faculties, and above reason, are, when revealed, the proper matter of faith. thus, that part of the angels rebelled against god, and thereby lost their first happy state: and that the dead shall rise, and live again: these and the like, being beyond the discovery of reason, are purely matters of faith, with which reason has directly nothing to do. . or not contrary to reason, if revealed, are matter of faith; and must carry it against probable conjectures of reason. but since god, in giving us the light of reason, has not thereby tied up his own hands from affording us, when he thinks fit, the light of revelation in any of those matters wherein our natural faculties are able to give a probable determination; revelation, where god has been pleased to give it, must carry it against the probable conjectures of reason. because the mind not being certain of the truth of that it does not evidently know, but only yielding to the probability that appears in it, is bound to give up its assent to such a testimony which, it is satisfied, comes from one who cannot err, and will not deceive. but yet, it still belongs to reason to judge of the truth of its being a revelation, and of the signification of the words wherein it is delivered. indeed, if anything shall be thought revelation which is contrary to the plain principles of reason, and the evident knowledge the mind has of its own clear and distinct ideas; there reason must be hearkened to, as to a matter within its province. since a man can never have so certain a knowledge, that a proposition which contradicts the clear principles and evidence of his own knowledge was divinely revealed, or that he understands the words rightly wherein it is delivered, as he has that the contrary is true, and so is bound to consider and judge of it as a matter of reason, and not swallow it, without examination, as a matter of faith. . revelation in matters where reason cannot judge, or but probably, ought to be hearkened to. first, whatever proposition is revealed, of whose truth our mind, by its natural faculties and notions, cannot judge, that is purely matter of faith, and above reason. secondly, all propositions whereof the mind, by the use of its natural faculties, can come to determine and judge, from naturally acquired ideas, are matter of reason; with this difference still, that, in those concerning which it has but an uncertain evidence, and so is persuaded of their truth only upon probable grounds, which still admit a possibility of the contrary to be true, without doing violence to the certain evidence of its own knowledge, and overturning the principles of all reason; in such probable propositions, i say, an evident revelation ought to determine our assent, even against probability. for where the principles of reason have not evidenced a proposition to be certainly true or false, there clear revelation, as another principle of truth and ground of assent, may determine; and so it may be matter of faith, and be also above reason. because reason, in that particular matter, being able to reach no higher than probability, faith gave the determination where reason came short; and revelation discovered on which side the truth lay. . in matters where reason can afford certain knowledge, that is to be hearkened to. thus far the dominion of faith reaches, and that without any violence or hindrance to reason; which is not injured or disturbed, but assisted and improved by new discoveries of truth, coming from the eternal fountain of all knowledge. whatever god hath revealed is certainly true: no doubt can be made of it. this is the proper object of faith: but whether it be a divine revelation or no, reason must judge; which can never permit the mind to reject a greater evidence to embrace what is less evident, nor allow it to entertain probability in opposition to knowledge and certainty. there can be no evidence that any traditional revelation is of divine original, in the words we receive it, and in the sense we understand it, so clear and so certain as that of the principles of reason: and therefore nothing that is contrary to, and inconsistent with, the clear and self-evident dictates of reason, has a right to be urged or assented to as a matter of faith, wherein reason hath nothing to do. whatsoever is divine revelation, ought to overrule all our opinions, prejudices, and interest, and hath a right to be received with full assent. such a submission as this, of our reason to faith, takes not away the landmarks of knowledge: this shakes not the foundations of reason, but leaves us that use of our faculties for which they were given us. . if the boundaries be not set between faith and reason, no enthusiasm or extravagancy in religion can be contradicted. if the provinces of faith and reason are not kept distinct by these boundaries, there will, in matters of religion, be no room for reason at all; and those extravagant opinions and ceremonies that are to be found in the several religions of the world will not deserve to be blamed. for, to this crying up of faith in opposition to reason, we may, i think, in good measure ascribe those absurdities that fill almost all the religions which possess and divide mankind. for men having been principled with an opinion, that they must not consult reason in the things of religion, however apparently contradictory to common sense and the very principles of all their knowledge, have let loose their fancies and natural superstition; and have been by them led into so strange opinions, and extravagant practices in religion, that a considerate man cannot but stand amazed, at their follies, and judge them so far from being acceptable to the great and wise god, that he cannot avoid thinking them ridiculous and offensive to a sober good man. so that, in effect, religion, which should most distinguish us from beasts, and ought most peculiarly to elevate us, as rational creatures, above brutes, is that wherein men often appear most irrational, and more senseless than beasts themselves. credo, quia impossibile est: i believe, because it is impossible, might, in a good man, pass for a sally of zeal; but would prove a very ill rule for men to choose their opinions or religion by. chapter xix. [not in early editions] chapter xx. of wrong assent, or error. . causes of error, or how men come to give assent contrary to probability. knowledge being to be had only of visible and certain truth, error is not a fault of our knowledge, but a mistake of our judgment giving assent to that which is not true. but if assent be grounded on likelihood, if the proper object and motive of our assent be probability, and that probability consists in what is laid down in the foregoing chapters, it will be demanded how men come to give their assents contrary to probability. for there is nothing more common than contrariety of opinions; nothing more obvious than that one man wholly disbelieves what another only doubts of, and a third steadfastly believes and firmly adheres to. the reasons whereof, though they may be very various, yet, i suppose may all be reduced to these four: i. want of proofs. ii. want of ability to use them. iii. want of will to see them. iv. wrong measures of probability. . first cause of error, want of proofs. first, by want of proofs, i do not mean only the want of those proofs which are nowhere extant, and so are nowhere to be had; but the want even of those proofs which are in being, or might be procured. and thus men want proofs, who have not the convenience or opportunity to make experiments and observations themselves, tending to the proof of any proposition; nor likewise the convenience to inquire into and collect the testimonies of others: and in this state are the greatest part of mankind, who are given up to labour, and enslaved to the necessity of their mean condition, whose lives are worn out only in the provisions for living. these men's opportunities of knowledge and inquiry are commonly as narrow as their fortunes; and their understandings are but little instructed, when all their whole time and pains is laid out to still the croaking of their own bellies, or the cries of their children. it is not to be expected that a man who drudges on all his life in a laborious trade, should be more knowing in the variety of things done in the world than a packhorse, who is driven constantly forwards and backwards in a narrow lane and dirty road, only to market, should be skilled in the geography of the country. nor is it at all more possible, that he who wants leisure, books, and languages, and the opportunity of conversing with variety of men, should be in a condition to collect those testimonies and observations which are in being, and are necessary to make out many, nay most, of the propositions that, in the societies of men, are judged of the greatest moment; or to find out grounds of assurance so great as the belief of the points he would build on them is thought necessary. so that a great part of mankind are, by the natural and unalterable state of things in this world, and the constitution of human affairs, unavoidably given over to invincible ignorance of those proofs on which others build, and which are necessary to establish those opinions: the greatest part of men, having much to do to get the means of living, are not in a condition to look after those of learned and laborious inquiries. . objection, what shall become of those who want proofs? answered. what shall we say, then? are the greatest part of mankind, by the necessity of their condition, subjected to unavoidable ignorance, in those things which are of greatest importance to them? (for of those it is obvious to inquire.) have the bulk of mankind no other guide but accident and blind chance to conduct them to their happiness or misery? are the current opinions, and licensed guides of every country sufficient evidence and security to every man to venture his great concernments on; nay, his everlasting happiness or misery? or can those be the certain and infallible oracles and standards of truth, which teach one thing in christendom and another in turkey? or shall a poor countryman be eternally happy, for having the chance to be born in italy; or a day-labourer be unavoidably lost, because he had the ill-luck to be born in england? how ready some men may be to say some of these things, i will not here examine: but this i am sure, that men must allow one or other of these to be true, (let them choose which they please,) or else grant that god has furnished men with faculties sufficient to direct them in the way they should take, if they will but seriously employ them that way, when their ordinary vocations allow them the leisure. no man is so wholly taken up with the attendance on the means of living, as to have no spare time at all to think of his soul, and inform himself in matters of religion. were men as intent upon this as they are on things of lower concernment, there are none so enslaved to the necessities of life who might not find many vacancies that might be husbanded to this advantage of their knowledge. . people hindered from inquiry. besides those whose improvements and informations are straitened by the narrowness of their fortunes, there are others whose largeness of fortune would plentifully enough supply books, and other requisites for clearing of doubts, and discovering of truth: but they are cooped in close, by the laws of their countries, and the strict guards of those whose interest it is to keep them ignorant, lest, knowing more, they should believe the less in them. these are as far, nay further, from the liberty and opportunities of a fair inquiry, than these poor and wretched labourers we before spoke of: and however they may seem high and great, are confined to narrowness of thought, and enslaved in that which should be the freest part of man, their understandings. this is generally the case of all those who live in places where care is taken to propagate truth without knowledge; where men are forced, at a venture, to be of the religion of the country; and must therefore swallow down opinions, as silly people do empiric's pills, without knowing what they are made of, or how they will work, and having nothing to do but believe that they will do the cure: but in this are much more miserable than they, in that they are not at liberty to refuse swallowing what perhaps they had rather let alone; or to choose the physician, to whose conduct they would trust themselves. . second cause of error, want of skill to use proofs. secondly, those who want skill to use those evidences they have of probabilities; who cannot carry a train of consequences in their heads; nor weigh exactly the preponderancy of contrary proofs and testimonies, making every circumstance its due allowance; may be easily misled to assent to positions that are not probable. there are some men of one, some but of two syllogisms, and no more; and others that can but advance one step further. these cannot always discern that side on which the strongest proofs lie; cannot constantly follow that which in itself is the more probable opinion. now that there is such a difference between men, in respect of their understandings, i think nobody, who has had any conversation with his neighbours, will question: though he never was at westminster-hall or the exchange on the one hand, nor at alms-houses or bedlam on the other. which great difference in men's intellectuals, whether it rises from any defect in the organs of the body, particularly adapted to thinking; or in the dulness or untractableness of those faculties for want of use; or, as some think, in the natural differences of men's souls themselves; or some, or all of these together; it matters not here to examine: only this is evident, that there is a difference of degrees in men's understandings, apprehensions, and reasonings, to so great a latitude, that one may, without doing injury to mankind, affirm, that there is a greater distance between some men and others in this respect, than between some men and some beasts. but how this comes about is a speculation, though of great consequence, yet not necessary to our present purpose. . third cause of error, want of will to use them. thirdly, there are another sort of people that want proofs, not because they are out of their reach, but because they will not use them: who, though they have riches and leisure enough, and want neither parts nor learning, may yet, through their hot pursuit of pleasure, or business, or else out of laziness or fear that the doctrines whose truth they would inquire into would not suit well with their opinions, lives or designs, may never come to the knowledge of, nor give their assent to, those possibilities which lie so much within their view, that, to be convinced of them, they need but turn their eyes that way. we know some men will not read a letter which is supposed to bring ill news; and many men forbear to cast up their accounts, or so much as think upon their estates, who have reason to fear their affairs are in no very good posture. how men, whose plentiful fortunes allow them leisure to improve their understandings, can satisfy themselves with a lazy ignorance, i cannot tell: but methinks they have a low opinion of their souls, who lay out all their incomes in provisions for the body, and employ none of it to procure the means and helps of knowledge; who take great care to appear always in a neat and splendid outside, and would think themselves miserable in coarse clothes, or a patched coat, and yet contentedly suffer their minds to appear abroad in a piebald livery of coarse patches and borrowed shreds, such as it has pleased chance, or their country tailor (i mean the common opinion of those they have conversed with) to clothe them in. i will not here mention how unreasonable this is for men that ever think of a future state, and their concernment in it, which no rational man can avoid to do sometimes: nor shall i take notice what a shame and confusion it is to the greatest contemners of knowledge, to be found ignorant in things they are concerned to know. but this at least is worth the consideration of those who call themselves gentlemen, that, however they may think credit, respect, power, and authority the concomitants of their birth and fortune, yet they will find all these still carried away from them by men of lower condition, who surpass them in knowledge. they who are blind will always be led by those that see, or else fall into the ditch: and he is certainly the most subjected, the most enslaved, who is so in his understanding. in the foregoing instances some of the causes have been shown of wrong assent, and how it comes to pass, that probable doctrines are not always received with an assent proportionable to the reasons which are to be had for their probability: but hitherto we have considered only such probabilities whose proofs do exist, but do not appear to him who embraces the error. . fourth cause of error, wrong measures of probability: which are-- fourthly, there remains yet the last sort, who, even where the real probabilities appear, and are plainly laid before them, do not admit of the conviction, nor yield unto manifest reasons, but do either suspend their assent, or give it to the less probable opinion. and to this danger are those exposed who have taken up wrong measures of probability, which are: i. propositions that are in themselves certain and evident, but doubtful and false, taken up for principles. ii. received hypotheses. iii. predominant passions or inclinations. iv. authority. . i. doubtful propositions taken for principles. the first and firmest ground of probability is the conformity anything has to our own knowledge; especially that part of our knowledge which we have embraced, and continue to look on as principles. these have so great an influence upon our opinions, that it is usually by them we judge of truth, and measure probability; to that degree, that what is inconsistent with our principles, is so far from passing for probable with us, that it will not be allowed possible. the reverence borne to these principles is so great, and their authority so paramount to all other, that the testimony, not only of other men, but the evidence of our own senses are often rejected, when they offer to vouch anything contrary to these established rules. how much the doctrine of innate principles, and that principles are not to be proved or questioned, has contributed to this, i will not here examine. this i readily grant, that one truth cannot contradict another: but withal i take leave also to say, that every one ought very carefully to beware what he admits for a principle, to examine it strictly, and see whether he certainly knows it to be true of itself, by its own evidence, or whether he does only with assurance believe it to be so, upon the authority of others. for he hath a strong bias put into his understanding, which will unavoidably misguide his assent, who hath imbibed wrong principles, and has blindly given himself up to the authority of any opinion in itself not evidently true. . instilled in childhood. there is nothing more ordinary than children's receiving into their minds propositions (especially about matters of religion) from their parents, nurses, or those about them: which being insinuated into their unwary as well as unbiassed understandings, and fastened by degrees, are at last (equally whether true or false) riveted there by long custom and education, beyond all possibility of being pulled out again. for men, when they are grown up, reflecting upon their opinions, and finding those of this sort to be as ancient in their minds as their very memories, not having observed their early insinuation, nor by what means they got them, they are apt to reverence them as sacred things, and not to suffer them to be profaned, touched, or questioned: they look on them as the urim and thummim set up in their minds immediately by god himself, to be the great and unerring deciders of truth and falsehood, and the judges to which they are to appeal in all manner of controversies. . of irresistible efficacy. this opinion of his principles (let them be what they will) being once established in any one's mind, it is easy to be imagined what reception any proposition shall find, how clearly soever proved, that shall invalidate their authority, or at all thwart with these internal oracles; whereas the grossest absurdities and improbabilities, being but agreeable to such principles, go down glibly, and are easily digested. the great obstinacy that is to be found in men firmly believing quite contrary opinions, though many times equally absurd, in the various religions of mankind, are as evident a proof as they are an unavoidable consequence of this way of reasoning from received traditional principles. so that men will disbelieve their own eyes, renounce the evidence of their senses, and give their own experience the lie, rather than admit of anything disagreeing with these sacred tenets. take an intelligent romanist that, from the first dawning of any notions in his understanding, hath had this principle constantly inculcated, viz. that he must believe as the church (i.e. those of his communion) believes, or that the pope is infallible, and this he never so much as heard questioned, till at forty or fifty years old he met with one of other principles: how is he prepared easily to swallow, not only against all probability, but even the clear evidence of his senses, the doctrine of transubstantiation? this principle has such an influence on his mind, that he will believe that to be flesh which he sees to be bread. and what way will you take to convince a man of any improbable opinion he holds, who, with some philosophers, hath laid down this as a foundation of reasoning, that he must believe his reason (for so men improperly call arguments drawn from their principles) against his senses? let an enthusiast be principled that he or his teacher is inspired, and acted by an immediate communication of the divine spirit, and you in vain bring the evidence of clear reasons against his doctrine. whoever, therefore, have imbibed wrong principles, are not, in things inconsistent with these principles, to be moved by the most apparent and convincing probabilities, till they are so candid and ingenuous to themselves, as to be persuaded to examine even those very principles, which many never suffer themselves to do. . received hypotheses. next to these are men whose understandings are cast into a mould, and fashioned just to the size of a received hypothesis. the difference between these and the former, is, that they will admit of matter of fact, and agree with dissenters in that; but differ only in assigning of reasons and explaining the manner of operation. these are not at that open defiance with their senses, with the former: they can endure to hearken to their information a little more patiently; but will by no means admit of their reports in the explanation of things; nor be prevailed on by probabilities, which would convince them that things are not brought about just after the same manner that they have decreed within themselves that they are. would it not be an insufferable thing for a learned professor, and that which his scarlet would blush at, to have his authority of forty years standing, wrought out of hard rock, greek and latin, with no small expense of time and candle, and confirmed by general tradition and a reverend beard, in an instant overturned by an upstart novelist? can any one expect that he should be made to confess, that what he taught his scholars thirty years ago was all error and mistake; and that he sold them hard words and ignorance at a very dear rate. what probabilities, i say, are sufficient to prevail in such a case? and who ever, by the most cogent arguments, will be prevailed with to disrobe himself at once of all his old opinions, and pretences to knowledge and learning, which with hard study he hath all this time been labouring for; and turn himself out stark naked, in quest afresh of new notions? all the arguments that can be used will be as little able to prevail, as the wind did with the traveller to part with his cloak, which he held only the faster. to this of wrong hypothesis may be reduced the errors that may be occasioned by a true hypothesis, or right principles, but not rightly understood. there is nothing more familiar than this. the instances of men contending for different opinions, which they all derive from the infallible truth of the scripture, are an undeniable proof of it. all that call themselves christians, allow the text that says,[word in greek], to carry in it the obligation to a very weighty duty. but yet how very erroneous will one of their practices be, who, understanding nothing but the french, take this rule with one translation to be, repentez-vous, repent; or with the other, fatiez penitence, do penance. . iii. predominant passions. probabilities which cross men's appetites and prevailing passions run the same fate. let ever so much probability hang on one side of a covetous man's reasoning, and money on the other; it is easy to foresee which will outweigh. earthly minds, like mud walls, resist the strongest batteries: and though, perhaps, sometimes the force of a clear argument may make some impression, yet they nevertheless stand firm, and keep out the enemy, truth, that would captivate or disturb them. tell a man passionately in love, that he is jilted; bring a score of witnesses of the falsehood of his mistress, it is ten to one but three kind words of hers shall invalidate all their testimonies. quod volumus, facile credimus; what suits our wishes, is forwardly believed, is, i suppose, what every one hath more than once experimented: and though men cannot always openly gainsay or resist the force of manifest probabilities that make against them, yet yield they not to the argument. not but that it is the nature of the understanding constantly to close with the more probable side; but yet a man hath a power to suspend and restrain its inquiries, and not permit a full and satisfactory examination, as far as the matter in question is capable, and will bear it to be made. until that be done, there will be always these two ways left of evading the most apparent probabilities: . two means of evading probabilities: . supposed fallacy latent in the words employed. first, that the arguments being (as for the most part they are) brought in words, there may be a fallacy latent in them: and the consequences being, perhaps, many in train, they may be some of them incoherent. there are very few discourses so short, clear, and consistent, to which most men may not, with satisfaction enough to themselves, raise this doubt; and from whose conviction they may not, without reproach of disingenuity or unreasonableness, set themselves free with the old reply, non persuadebis, etiamsi persuaseris; though i cannot answer, i will not yield. . supposed unknown arguments for the contrary. secondly, manifest probabilities maybe evaded, and the assent withheld, upon this suggestion, that i know not yet all that may be said on the contrary side. and therefore, though i be beaten, it is not necessary i should yield, not knowing what forces there are in reserve behind. this is a refuge against conviction so open and so wide, that it is hard to determine when a man is quite out of the verge of it. . what probabilities naturally determine the assent. but yet there is some end of it; and a man having carefully inquired into all the grounds of probability and unlikeliness; done his utmost to inform himself in all particulars fairly, and cast up the sum total on both sides; may, in most cases, come to acknowledge, upon the whole matter, on which side the probability rests: wherein some proofs in matter of reason, being suppositions upon universal experience, are so cogent and clear, and some testimonies in matter of fact so universal, that he cannot refuse his assent. so that i think we may conclude, that, in propositions, where though the proofs in view are of most moment, yet there are sufficient grounds to suspect that there is either fallacy in words, or certain proofs as considerable to be produced on the contrary side; there assent, suspense, or dissent, are often voluntary actions. but where the proofs are such as make it highly probable, and there is not sufficient ground to suspect that there is either fallacy of words (which sober and serious consideration may discover) nor equally valid proofs yet undiscovered, latent on the other side (which also the nature of the thing may, in some cases, make plain to a considerate man;) there, i think, a man who has weighed them can scarce refuse his assent to the side on which the greater probability appears. whether it be probable that a promiscuous jumble of printing letters should often fall into a method and order, which should stamp on paper a coherent discourse; or that a blind fortuitous concourse of atoms, not guided by an understanding agent, should frequently constitute the bodies of any species of animals: in these and the like cases, i think, nobody that considers them can be one jot at a stand which side to take, nor at all waver in his assent. lastly, when there can be no supposition (the thing in its own nature indifferent, and wholly depending upon the testimony of witnesses) that there is as fair testimony against, as for the matter of fact attested; which by inquiry is to be learned, v.g. whether there was one thousand seven hundred years ago such a man at rome as julius caesar: in all such cases, i say, i think it is not in any rational man's power to refuse his assent; but that it necessarily follows, and closes with such probabilities. in other less clear cases, i think it is in man's power to suspend his assent; and perhaps content himself with the proofs he has, if they favour the opinion that suits with his inclination or interest, and so stop from further search. but that a man should afford his assent to that side on which the less probability appears to him, seems to me utterly impracticable, and as impossible as it is to believe the same thing probable and improbable at the same time. . where it is in our power to suspend our judgment. as knowledge is no more arbitrary than perception; so, i think, assent is no more in our power than knowledge. when the agreement of any two ideas appears to our minds, whether immediately or by the assistance of reason, i can no more refuse to perceive, no more avoid knowing it, than i can avoid seeing those objects which i turn my eyes to, and look on in daylight; and what upon full examination i find the most probable, i cannot deny my assent to. but, though we cannot hinder our knowledge, where the agreement is once perceived; nor our assent, where the probability manifestly appears upon due consideration of all the measures of it: yet we can hinder both knowledge and assent, by stopping our inquiry, and not employing our faculties in the search of any truth. if it were not so, ignorance, error, or infidelity, could not in any case be a fault. thus, in some cases we can prevent or suspend our assent: but can a man versed in modern or ancient history doubt whether there is such a place as rome, or whether there was such a man as julius caesar? indeed, there are millions of truths that a man is not, or may not think himself concerned to know; as whether our king richard the third was crooked or no; or whether roger bacon was a mathematician or a magician. in these and such like cases, where the assent one way or other is of no importance to the interest of any one; no action, no concernment of his following or depending thereon, there it is not strange that the mind should give itself up to the common opinion, or render itself to the first comer. these and the like opinions are of so little weight and moment, that, like motes in the sun, their tendencies are very rarely taken notice of. they are there, as it were, by chance, and the mind lets them float at liberty. but where the mind judges that the proposition has concernment in it: where the assent or not assenting is thought to draw consequences of moment after it, and good and evil to depend on choosing or refusing the right side, and the mind sets itself seriously to inquire and examine the probability: there i think it is not in our choice to take which side we please, if manifest odds appear on either. the greater probability, i think, in that case will determine the assent: and a man can no more avoid assenting, or taking it to be true, where he perceives the greater probability, than he can avoid knowing it to be true, where he perceives the agreement or disagreement of any two ideas. if this be so, the foundation of error will lie in wrong measures of probability; as the foundation of vice in wrong measures of good. . iv. authority the fourth and last wrong measure of probability i shall take notice of, and which keeps in ignorance or error more people than all the other together, is that which i have mentioned in the foregoing chapter: i mean the giving up our assent to the common received opinions, either of our friends or party, neighbourhood or country. how many men have no other ground for their tenets, than the supposed honesty, or learning, or number of those of the same profession? as if honest or bookish men could not err; or truth were to be established by the vote of the multitude: yet this with most men serves the turn. the tenet has had the attestation of reverend antiquity; it comes to me with the passport of former ages, and therefore i am secure in the reception i give it: other men have been and are of the same opinion, (for that is all is said,) and therefore it is reasonable for me to embrace it. a man may more justifiably throw up cross and pile for his opinions, than take them up by such measures. all men are liable to error, and most men are in many points, by passion or interest, under temptation to it. if we could but see the secret motives that influenced the men of name and learning in the world, and the leaders of parties, we should not always find that it was the embracing of truth for its own sake, that made them espouse the doctrines they owned and maintained. this at least is certain, there is not an opinion so absurd, which a man may not receive upon this ground. there is no error to be named, which has not had its professors: and a man shall never want crooked paths to walk in, if he thinks that he is in the right way, wherever he has the footsteps of others to follow. . not so many men in errors as is commonly supposed. but, notwithstanding the great noise is made in the world about errors and opinions, i must do mankind that right as to say, there are not so many men in errors and wrong opinions as is commonly supposed. not that i think they embrace the truth; but indeed, because concerning those doctrines they keep such a stir about, they have no thought, no opinion at all. for if any one should a little catechise the greatest part of the partizans of most of the sects in the world, he would not find, concerning those matters they are so zealous for, that they have any opinions of their own: much less would he have reason to think that they took them upon the examination of arguments and appearance of probability. they are resolved to stick to a party that education or interest has engaged them in; and there, like the common soldiers of an army, show their courage and warmth as their leaders direct, without ever examining, or so much as knowing, the cause they contend for. if a man's life shows that he has no serious regard for religion; for what reason should we think that he beats his head about the opinions of his church, and troubles himself to examine the grounds of this or that doctrine? it is enough for him to obey his leaders, to have his hand and his tongue ready for the support of the common cause, and thereby approve himself to those who can give him credit, preferment, or protection in that society. thus men become professors of, and combatants for, those opinions they were never convinced of nor proselytes to; no, nor ever had so much as floating in their heads: and though one cannot say there are fewer improbable or erroneous opinions in the world than there are, yet this is certain; there are fewer that actually assent to them, and mistake them for truths, than is imagined. chapter xxi. of the division of the sciences. . science may be divided into three sorts. all that can fall within the compass of human understanding, being either, first, the nature of things, as they are in themselves, their relations, and their manner of operation: or, secondly, that which man himself ought to do, as a rational and voluntary agent, for the attainment of any end, especially happiness: or, thirdly, the ways and means whereby the knowledge of both the one and the other of these is attained and communicated; i think science may be divided properly into these three sorts:-- . first, physica. first, the knowledge of things, as they are in their own proper beings, then constitution, properties, and operations; whereby i mean not only matter and body, but spirits also, which have their proper natures, constitutions, and operations, as well as bodies. this, in a little more enlarged sense of the word, i call [word in greek: physika], or natural philosophy. the end of this is bare speculative truth: and whatsoever can afford the mind of man any such, falls under this branch, whether it be god himself, angels, spirits, bodies; or any of their affections, as number, and figure, &c. . secondly, practica. secondly, [word in greek: praktika], the skill of right applying our own powers and actions, for the attainment of things good and useful. the most considerable under this head is ethics, which is the seeking out those rules and measures of human actions, which lead to happiness, and the means to practise them. the end of this is not bare speculation and the knowledge of truth; but right, and a conduct suitable to it. . thirdly, [word in greek: semeiotika] thirdly, the third branch may be called [word in greek: semeiotika], or the doctrine of signs; the most usual whereof being words, it is aptly enough termed also [word in greek: logika], logic: the business whereof is to consider the nature of signs, the mind makes use of for the understanding of things, or conveying its knowledge to others. for, since the things the mind contemplates are none of them, besides itself, present to the understanding, it is necessary that something else, as a sign or representation of the thing it considers, should be present to it: and these are ideas. and because the scene of ideas that makes one man's thoughts cannot be laid open to the immediate view of another, nor laid up anywhere but in the memory, a no very sure repository: therefore to communicate our thoughts to one another, as well as record them for our own use, signs of our ideas are also necessary: those which men have found most convenient, and therefore generally make use of, are articulate sounds. the consideration, then, of ideas and words as the great instruments of knowledge, makes no despicable part of their contemplation who would take a view of human knowledge in the whole extent of it. and perhaps if they were distinctly weighed, and duly considered, they would afford us another sort of logic and critic, than what we have been hitherto acquainted with. . this is the first and most general division of the objects of our understanding. this seems to me the first and most general, as well as natural division of the objects of our understanding. for a man can employ his thoughts about nothing, but either, the contemplation of things themselves, for the discovery of truth; or about the things in his own power, which are his own actions, for the attainment of his own ends; or the signs the mind makes use of both in the one and the other, and the right ordering of them, for its clearer information. all which three, viz. things, as they are in themselves knowable; actions as they depend on us, in order to happiness; and the right use of signs in order to knowledge, being toto coelo different, they seemed to me to be the three great provinces of the intellectual world, wholly separate and distinct one from another. the end [illustration] tom pinch at the organ. _frontispiece._ charles dickens and music by james t. lightwood author of 'hymn-tunes and their story' london charles h. kelly - city road, and paternoster row, e.c. _first edition, _ in pleasant memory of many happy years at pembroke house, lytham preface for many years i have been interested in the various musical references in dickens' works, and have had the impression that a careful examination of his writings would reveal an aspect of his character hitherto unknown, and, i may add, unsuspected. the centenary of his birth hastened a work long contemplated, and a first reading (after many years) brought to light an amount of material far in excess of what i anticipated, while a second examination convinced me that there is, perhaps, no great writer who has made a more extensive use of music to illustrate character and create incident than charles dickens. from an historical point of view these references are of the utmost importance, for they reflect to a nicety the general condition of ordinary musical life in england during the middle of the last century. we do not, of course, look to dickens for a history of classical music during the period--those who want this will find it in the newspapers and magazines; but for the story of music in the ordinary english home, for the popular songs of the period, for the average musical attainments of the middle and lower classes (music was not the correct thing amongst the 'upper ten'), we must turn to the pages of dickens' novels. it is certainly strange that no one has hitherto thought of tapping this source of information. in and about the papers teemed with articles that outlined the history of music during the first fifty years of victoria's reign; but i have not seen one that attempted to derive first-hand information from the sources referred to, nor indeed does the subject of 'dickens and music' ever appear to have received the attention which, in my opinion, it deserves. i do not profess to have chronicled _all_ the musical references, nor has it been possible to identify every one of the numerous quotations from songs, although i have consulted such excellent authorities as dr. cummings, mr. worden (preston), and mr. j. allanson benson (bromley). i have to thank mr. frank kidson, who, i understand, had already planned a work of this description, for his kind advice and assistance. there is no living writer who has such a wonderful knowledge of old songs as mr. kidson, a knowledge which he is ever ready to put at the disposal of others. even now there are some half-dozen songs which every attempt to run to earth has failed, though i have tried to 'mole 'em out' (as mr. pancks would say) by searching through some hundreds of song-books and some thousands of separate songs. should any of my readers be able to throw light on dark places i shall be very glad to hear from them, with a view to making the information here presented as complete and correct as possible if another edition should be called for. may i suggest to the secretaries of our literary societies, guilds, and similar organizations that a pleasant evening might be spent in rendering some of the music referred to by dickens. the proceedings might be varied by readings from his works or by historical notes on the music. many of the pieces are still in print, and i shall be glad to render assistance in tracing them. perhaps this idea will also commend itself to the members of the dickens fellowship, an organization with which all lovers of the great novelist ought to associate themselves. james t. lightwood. lytham, _october, ._ i truly love dickens; and discern in the inner man of him a tone of real music which struggles to express itself, as it may in these bewildered, stupefied and, indeed, very crusty and distracted days--better or worse! thomas carlyle. contents chap. page i. dickens as a musician ii. instrumental combinations iii. various instruments: flute, organ, guitar (and some hummers) iv. various instruments (_continued_) v. church music vi. songs and some singers vii. some noted singers list of songs, &c., mentioned by dickens index of musical instruments index of characters general index list of music titles, &c., founded on dickens' characters list of works referred to _with abbreviations used_ _american notes_ _a.n._ _barnaby rudge_ _b.r._ _battle of life_ _b.l._ _bleak house_ - _b.h._ _chimes_ _ch._ _christmas carol_ _c.c._ _christmas stories_ -- _c.s._ _christmas stories_-- dr. marigold's prescription _dr. m._ going into society _g.s._ holly tree _h.t._ mugby junction _m.j._ mrs. lirriper's lodgings -- no thoroughfare _n.t._ somebody's luggage _s.l._ wreck of the golden mary _g.m._ _collected papers_ -- _c.p._ _cricket on the hearth_ _c.h._ _dombey & son_ - _d. & s._ _david copperfield_ - _d.c._ _edwin drood_ _e.d._ _great expectations_ - _g.e._ _hard times_ _h.t._ _haunted house_ -- _haunted man_ _h.m._ _holiday romance_ -- _h.r._ _little dorrit_ - _l.d._ _martin chuzzlewit_ - _m.c._ _master humphrey's clock_ - _m.h.c._ _mystery of edwin drood_ _e.d._ _nicholas nickleby_ - _n.n._ _old curiosity shop_ _o.c.s._ _oliver twist_ - _o.t._ _our mutual friend_ _o.m.f._ _pickwick papers_ - _p.p._ _pictures from italy_ _it._ _reprinted pieces_-- our bore -- our english watering-place -- our french watering-place -- our school -- out of the season -- _sketches by boz_ - _s.b._ characters -- _s.b.c._ our parish -- -- scenes -- _s.b.s._ tales -- _s.b.t._ _sunday under three heads_ -- _sketches of young people_ -- _sketches of young gentlemen_ -- _tale of two cities, a_ -- _uncommercial traveller_ - _u.t._ charles dickens and music chapter i dickens as a musician the attempts to instil the elements of music into charles dickens when he was a small boy do not appear to have been attended with success. mr. kitton tells us that he learnt the piano during his school days, but his master gave him up in despair. mr. bowden, an old schoolfellow of the novelist's when he was at wellington house academy, in hampstead road, says that music used to be taught there, and that dickens received lessons on the violin, but he made no progress, and soon relinquished it. it was not until many years after that he made his third and last attempt to become an instrumentalist. during his first transatlantic voyage he wrote to forster telling him that he had bought an accordion. the steward lent me one on the passage out, and i regaled the ladies' cabin with my performances. you can't think with what feelings i play 'home, sweet home' every night, or how pleasantly sad it makes us. on the voyage back he gives the following description of the musical talents of his fellow passengers: one played the accordion, another the violin, and another (who usually began at six o'clock a.m.) the key bugle: the combined effect of which instruments, when they all played different tunes, in different parts of the ship, at the same time, and within hearing of each other, as they sometimes did (everybody being intensely satisfied with his own performance), was sublimely hideous. he does not tell us whether he was one of the performers on these occasions. but although he failed as an instrumentalist he took delight in hearing music, and was always an appreciative yet critical listener to what was good and tuneful. his favourite composers were mendelssohn--whose _lieder_ he was specially fond of[ ]--chopin, and mozart. he heard gounod's _faust_ whilst he was in paris, and confesses to having been quite overcome with the beauty of the music. 'i couldn't bear it,' he says, in one of his letters, 'and gave in completely. the composer must be a very remarkable man indeed.' at the same time he became acquainted with offenbach's music, and heard _orphée aux enfers_. this was in february, . here also he made the acquaintance of auber, 'a stolid little elderly man, rather petulant in manner.' he told dickens that he had lived for a time at 'stock noonton' (stoke newington) in order to study english, but he had forgotten it all. in the description of a dinner in the _sketches_ we read that the knives and forks form a pleasing accompaniment to auber's music, and auber's music would form a pleasing accompaniment to the dinner, if you could hear anything besides the cymbals. he met meyerbeer on one occasion at lord john russell's. the musician congratulated him on his outspoken language on sunday observance, a subject in which dickens was deeply interested, and on which he advocated his views at length in the papers entitled _sunday under three heads_. dickens was acquainted with jenny lind, and he gives the following amusing story in a letter to douglas jerrold, dated paris, february , : i am somehow reminded of a good story i heard the other night from a man who was a witness of it and an actor in it. at a certain german town last autumn there was a tremendous _furore_ about jenny lind, who, after driving the whole place mad, left it, on her travels, early one morning. the moment her carriage was outside the gates, a party of rampant students who had escorted it rushed back to the inn, demanded to be shown to her bedroom, swept like a whirlwind upstairs into the room indicated to them, tore up the sheets, and wore them in strips as decorations. an hour or two afterwards a bald old gentleman of amiable appearance, an englishman, who was staying in the hotel, came to breakfast at the _table d'hôte_, and was observed to be much disturbed in his mind, and to show great terror whenever a student came near him. at last he said, in a low voice, to some people who were near him at the table, 'you are english gentlemen, i observe. most extraordinary people, these germans. students, as a body, raving mad, gentlemen!' 'oh, no,' said somebody else: 'excitable, but very good fellows, and very sensible.' 'by god, sir!' returned the old gentleman, still more disturbed, 'then there's something political in it, and i'm a marked man. i went out for a little walk this morning after shaving, and while i was gone'--he fell into a terrible perspiration as he told it--'they burst into my bedroom, tore up my sheets, and are now patrolling the town in all directions with bits of 'em in their button-holes.' i needn't wind up by adding that they had gone to the wrong chamber. it was dickens' habit wherever he went on his continental travels to avail himself of any opportunity of visiting the opera; and his criticisms, though brief, are always to the point. he tells us this interesting fact about carrara: there is a beautiful little theatre there, built of marble, and they had it illuminated that night in my honour. there was really a very fair opera, but it is curious that the chorus has been always, time out of mind, made up of labourers in the quarries, who don't know a note of music, and sing entirely by ear. but much as he loved music, dickens could never bear the least sound or noise while he was studying or writing, and he ever waged a fierce war against church bells and itinerant musicians. even when in scotland his troubles did not cease, for he writes about 'a most infernal piper practising under the window for a competition of pipers which is to come off shortly.' elsewhere he says that he found dover 'too bandy' for him (he carefully explains he does not refer to its legs), while in a letter to forster he complains bitterly of the vagrant musicians at broadstairs, where he 'cannot write half an hour without the most excruciating organs, fiddles, bells, or glee singers.' the barrel-organ, which he somewhere calls an 'italian box of music,' was one source of annoyance, but bells were his special aversion. 'if you know anybody at st. paul's,' he wrote to forster, 'i wish you'd send round and ask them not to ring the bell so. i can hardly hear my own ideas as they come into my head, and say what they mean.' his bell experiences at genoa are referred to elsewhere (p. ). how marvellously observant he was is manifest in the numerous references in his letters and works to the music he heard in the streets and squares of london and other places. here is a description of golden square, london, w. (_n.n._): two or three violins and a wind instrument from the opera band reside within its precincts. its boarding-houses are musical, and the notes of pianos and harps float in the evening time round the head of the mournful statue, the guardian genius of the little wilderness of shrubs, in the centre of the square.... sounds of gruff voices practising vocal music invade the evening's silence, and the fumes of choice tobacco scent the air. there, snuff and cigars and german pipes and flutes, and violins and violoncellos, divide the supremacy between them. it is the region of song and smoke. street bands are on their mettle in golden square, and itinerant glee singers quaver involuntarily as they raise their voices within its boundaries. we have another picture in the description of dombey's house, where-- the summer sun was never on the street but in the morning, about breakfast-time.... it was soon gone again, to return no more that day, and the bands of music and the straggling punch's shows going after it left it a prey to the most dismal of organs and white mice. _as a singer_ most of the writers about dickens, and especially his personal friends, bear testimony both to his vocal power and his love of songs and singing. as a small boy we read of him and his sister fanny standing on a table singing songs, and acting them as they sang. one of his favourite recitations was dr. watts' 'the voice of the sluggard,' which he used to give with great effect. the memory of these words lingered long in his mind, and both captain cuttle and mr. pecksniff quote them with excellent appropriateness. when he grew up he retained his love of vocal music, and showed a strong predilection for national airs and old songs. moore's _irish melodies_ had also a special attraction for him. in the early days of his readings his voice frequently used to fail him, and mr. kitton tells us that in trying to recover the lost power he would test it by singing these melodies to himself as he walked about. it is not surprising, therefore, to find numerous references to these songs, as well as to other works by moore, in his writings. from a humorous account of a concert on board ship we gather that dickens possessed a tenor voice. writing to his daughter from boston in , he says: we had speech-making and singing in the saloon of the _cuba_ after the last dinner of the voyage. i think i have acquired a higher reputation from drawing out the captain, and getting him to take the second in 'all's well' and likewise in 'there's not in the wide world'[ ] (your parent taking the first), than from anything previously known of me on these shores.... we also sang (with a chicago lady, and a strong-minded woman from i don't know where) 'auld lang syne,' with a tender melancholy expressive of having all four been united from our cradles. the more dismal we were, the more delighted the company were. once (when we paddled i' the burn) the captain took a little cruise round the compass on his own account, touching at the canadian boat song,[ ] and taking in supplies at jubilate, 'seas between us braid ha' roared,' and roared like ourselves. j.t. field, in his _yesterdays with authors_, says: 'to hear him sing an old-time stage song, such as he used to enjoy in his youth at a cheap london theatre ... was to become acquainted with one of the most delightful and original companions in the world.' when at home he was fond of having music in the evening. his daughter tells us that on one occasion a member of his family was singing a song while he was apparently deep in his book, when he suddenly got up and saying 'you don't make enough of that word,' he sat down by the piano and showed how it should be sung. on another occasion his criticism was more pointed. one night a gentleman visitor insisted on singing 'by the sad sea waves,' which he did vilely, and he wound up his performance by a most unexpected and misplaced embellishment, or 'turn.' dickens found the whole ordeal very trying, but managed to preserve a decorous silence till this sound fell on his ear, when his neighbour said to him, 'whatever did he mean by that extraneous effort of melody?' 'oh,' said dickens, 'that's quite in accordance with rule. when things are at their worst they always take a _turn_.' forster relates that while he was at work on the _old curiosity shop_ he used to discover specimens of old ballads in his country walks between broadstairs and ramsgate, which so aroused his interest that when he returned to town towards the end of he thoroughly explored the ballad literature of seven dials,[ ] and would occasionally sing not a few of these wonderful discoveries with an effect that justified his reputation for comic singing in his childhood. we get a glimpse of his investigations in _out of the season_, where he tells us about that 'wonderful mystery, the music-shop,' with its assortment of polkas with coloured frontispieces, and also the book-shop, with its 'little warblers and fairburn's comic songsters.' here too were ballads on the old ballad paper and in the old confusion of types, with an old man in a cocked hat, and an armchair, for the illustration to will watch the bold smuggler, and the friar of orders grey, represented by a little girl in a hoop, with a ship in the distance. all these as of yore, when they were infinite delights to me. on one of his explorations he met a landsman who told him about the running down of an emigrant ship, and how he heard a sound coming over the sea 'like a great sorrowful flute or aeolian harp.' he makes another and very humorous reference to this instrument in a letter to landor, in which he calls to mind that steady snore of yours, which i once heard piercing the door of your bedroom ... reverberating along the bell-wire in the hall, so getting outside into the street, playing aeolian harps among the area railings, and going down the new road like the blast of a trumpet. the deserted watering-place referred to in _out of the season_ is broadstairs, and he gives us a further insight into its musical resources in a letter to miss power written on july , , in which he says that a little tinkling box of music that stops at 'come' in the melody of the buffalo gals, and can't play 'out to-night,' and a white mouse, are the only amusements left at broadstairs. 'buffalo gals' was a very popular song 'sung with great applause by the original female american serenaders.' (_c._ .) the first verse will explain the above allusion: as i went lum'rin' down de street, down de street, a 'ansom gal i chanc'd to meet, oh, she was fair to view. buffalo gals, can't ye come out to-night, come out to-night, come out to-night; buffalo gals, can't ye come out to-night, and dance by the light of the moon. we find some interesting musical references and memories in the novelist's letters. writing to wilkie collins in reference to his proposed sea voyage, he quotes campbell's lines from 'ye mariners of england': as i sweep through the deep when the stormy winds do blow. there are other references to this song in the novels. i have pointed out elsewhere that the last line also belongs to a seventeenth-century song. writing to mark lemon (june, ) he gives an amusing parody of lesbia hath a beaming eye, beginning lemon is a little hipped. in a letter to maclise he says: my foot is in the house, my bath is on the sea, and before i take a souse, here's a single note to thee. these lines are a reminiscence of byron's ode to tom moore, written from venice on july , : my boat is on the shore, and my bark is on the sea, but before i go, tom moore, here's a double health to thee! the words were set to music by bishop. this first verse had a special attraction for dickens, and he gives us two or three variations of it, including a very apt one from dick swiveller (see p. ). henry f. chorley, the musical critic, was an intimate friend of dickens. on one occasion he went to hear chorley lecture on 'the national music of the world,' and subsequently wrote him a very friendly letter criticizing his delivery, but speaking in high terms of the way he treated his subject. in one of his letters he makes special reference to the singing of the hutchinson family.[ ] writing to the countess of blessington, he says: i must have some talk with you about these american singers. they must never go back to their own country without your having heard them sing hood's 'bridge of sighs.' amongst the distinguished visitors at gad's hill was joachim, who was always a welcome guest, and of whom dickens once said 'he is a noble fellow.' his daughter writes in reference to this visit: i never remember seeing him so wrapt and absorbed as he was then, on hearing him play; and the wonderful simplicity and _un_-self-consciousness of the genius went straight to my father's heart, and made a fast bond of sympathy between those two great men. _in music drama_ much has been written about dickens' undoubted powers as an actor, as well as his ability as a stage manager, and it is well known that it was little more than an accident that kept him from adopting the dramatic profession. he ever took a keen interest in all that pertained to the stage, and when he was superintending the production of a play he was always particular about the musical arrangements. there is in existence a play-bill of showing that he superintended a private performance of _clari_. this was an opera by bishop, and contains the first appearance of the celebrated 'home, sweet home,' a melody which, as we have already said, he reproduced on the accordion some years after. he took the part of rolano, but had no opportunity of showing off his singing abilities, unless he took a part in the famous glee 'sleep, gentle lady,' which appears in the work as a quartet for alto, two tenors, and bass, though it is now arranged in other forms. in his dealings with the drama dickens was frequently his own bandmaster and director of the music. for instance, in _no thoroughfare_ we find this direction: 'boys enter and sing "god save the queen" (or any school devotional hymn).' at obenreizer's entrance a 'mysterious theme is directed to be played,' that gentleman being 'well informed, clever, and a good musician.' dickens was concerned in the production of one operetta--_the village coquettes_--for which he wrote the words, and john hullah composed the music. it consists of songs, duets, and concerted pieces, and was first produced at st. james's theatre, london, on december , . the following year it was being performed at edinburgh when a fire broke out in the theatre, and the instrumental scores together with the music of the concerted pieces were destroyed. no fresh copy was ever made, but the songs are still to be obtained. mr. kitton, in his biography of the novelist, says, 'the play was well received, and duly praised by prominent musical journals.' the same writer gives us to understand that hullah originally composed the music for an opera called _the gondolier_, but used the material for _the village coquettes_. braham, the celebrated tenor, had a part in it. dickens says in a letter to hullah that he had had some conversation with braham about the work. the singer thought very highly of it, and dickens adds: his only remaining suggestion is that miss rainforth[ ] will want another song when the piece is in rehearsal--'a bravura--something in "the soldier tired" way.' we have here a reference to a song which had a long run of popularity. it is one of the airs in arne's _artaxerxes_, an opera which was produced in , and which held the stage for many years. there is a reference to this song in _sketches by boz_, when miss evans and her friends visited the eagle. during the concert 'miss somebody in white satin' sang this air, much to the satisfaction of her audience. dickens wrote a few songs and ballads, and in most cases he fell in with the custom of his time, and suggested the tune (if any) to which they were to be sung. in addition to those that appear in the various novels, there are others which deserve mention here. in he contributed three political squibs in verse to the _examiner_, one being the 'quack doctor's proclamation,' to the tune of 'a cobbler there was,' and another called 'the fine old english gentleman.' for the _daily news_ (of which he was the first editor) he wrote 'the british lion, a new song but an old story,' which was to be sung to the tune of the 'great sea snake.' this was a very popular comic song of the period, which described a sea monster of wondrous size: one morning from his head we bore with every stitch of sail, and going at ten knots an hour in six months came to his tail. three of the songs in the _pickwick papers_ (referred to elsewhere) are original, while blandois' song in _little dorrit_, 'who passes by this road so late,' is a translation from the french. this was set to music by r.s. dalton. in addition to these we find here and there impromptu lines which have no connexion with any song. perhaps the best known are those which 'my lady bowley' quotes in _the chimes_, and which she had 'set to music on the new system': oh let us love our occupations, bless the squire and his relations, live upon our daily rations, and always know our proper stations. the reference to the 'new system' is not quite obvious. dickens may have been thinking of the 'wilhem' method of teaching singing which his friend hullah introduced into england, or it may be a reference to the tonic sol-fa system, which had already begun to make progress when _the chimes_ was written in .[ ] there are some well-known lines which owners of books were fond of writing on the fly-leaf in order that there might be no mistake as to the name of the possessor. the general form was something like this: john wigglesworth is my name, and england is my nation; london is my dwelling-place, and christ is my salvation. (see _choir_, jan., , p. .) dickens gives us at least two variants of this. in _edwin drood_, durdles says of the mayor of cloisterham: mister sapsea is his name, england is his nation, cloisterham's his dwelling-place, aukshneer's his occupation. and captain cuttle thus describes himself, ascribing the authorship of the words to job--but then literary accuracy was not the captain's strong point: cap'en cuttle is my name, and england is my nation, this here is my dwelling-place, and blessed be creation. it is said that there appeared in the _london singer's magazine_ for 'the teetotal excursion, an original comic song by boz, sung at the london concerts,' but it is not in my copy of this song-book, nor have i ever seen it. dickens was always very careful in his choice of names and titles, and the evolution of some of the latter is very interesting. one of the many he conceived for the magazine which was to succeed _household words_ was _household harmony_, while another was _home music_. considering his dislike of bells in general, it is rather surprising that two other suggestions were _english bells_ and _weekly bells_, but the final choice was _all the year round_. only once does he make use of a musician's name in his novels, and that is in _great expectations_. philip, otherwise known as pip, the hero, becomes friendly with herbert pocket. the latter objects to the name philip, 'it sounds like a moral boy out of a spelling-book,' and as pip had been a blacksmith and the two youngsters were 'harmonious,' pocket asks him: 'would you mind handel for a familiar name? there's a charming piece of music, by handel, called the "harmonious blacksmith."' 'i should like it very much.' dickens' only contribution to hymnology appeared in the _daily news_ february , , with the title 'hymn of the wiltshire labourers.' it was written after reading a speech at one of the night meetings of the wives of agricultural labourers in wiltshire, held with the object of petitioning for free trade. this is the first verse: o god, who by thy prophet's hand did'st smite the rocky brake, whence water came at thy command thy people's thirst to slake, strike, now, upon this granite wall, stern, obdurate, and high; and let some drop of pity fall for us who starve and die! we find the fondness for italian names shown by vocalists and pianists humorously parodied in such self-evident forms as jacksonini, signora marra boni, and billsmethi. banjo bones is a self-evident _nom d'occasion_, and the high-sounding name of rinaldo di velasco ill befits the giant pickleson (_dr. m._), who had a little head and less in it. as it was essential that the miss crumptons of minerva house should have an italian master for their pupils, we find signer lobskini introduced, while the modern rage for russian musicians is to some extent anticipated in major tpschoffki of the imperial bulgraderian brigade (_g.s._). his real name, if he ever had one, is said to have been stakes. dickens has little to say about the music of his time, but in the reprinted paper called _old lamps for new ones_ (written in ), which is a strong condemnation of pre-raphaelism in art, he attacks a similar movement in regard to music, and makes much fun of the brotherhood. he detects their influence in things musical, and writes thus: in music a retrogressive step in which there is much hope, has been taken. the p.a.b., or pre-agincourt brotherhood, has arisen, nobly devoted to consign to oblivion mozart, beethoven, handel, and every other such ridiculous reputation, and to fix its millennium (as its name implies) before the date of the first regular musical composition known to have been achieved in england. as this institution has not yet commenced active operations, it remains to be seen whether the royal academy of music will be a worthy sister of the royal academy of art, and admit this enterprising body to its orchestra. we have it, on the best authority, that its compositions will be quite as rough and discordant as the real old original. fourteen years later he makes use of a well-known phrase in writing to his friend wills (october , ) in reference to the proofs of an article. i have gone through the number carefully, and have been down upon chorley's paper in particular, which was a 'little bit' too personal. it is all right now and good, and them's my sentiments too of the music of the future.[ ] although there was little movement in this direction when dickens wrote this, the paragraph makes interesting reading nowadays in view of some musical tendencies in certain quarters. [ ] in his speech at birmingham on 'literature and art' ( ) he makes special reference to the 'great music of mendelssohn.' [ ] moore's _irish melodies_. [ ] moore. [ ] 'seven dials! the region of song and poetry--first effusions and last dying speeches: hallowed by the names of catnac and of pitts, names that will entwine themselves with costermongers and barrel-organs, when penny magazines shall have superseded penny yards of song, and capital punishment be unknown!' (_s.b.s._ .) [ ] the 'hutchinson family' was a musical troupe composed of three sons and two daughters selected from the 'tribe of jesse,' a name given to the sixteen children of jesse and mary hutchinson, of milford, n.h. they toured in england in and , and were received with great enthusiasm. their songs were on subjects connected with temperance and anti-slavery. on one occasion judson, one of the number, was singing the 'humbugged husband,' which he used to accompany with the fiddle, and he had just sung the line 'i'm sadly taken in,' when the stage where he was standing gave way and he nearly disappeared from view. the audience at first took this as part of the performance. [ ] miss rainforth was the soloist at the first production of mendelssohn's 'hear my prayer.' (see _the choir_, march, .) [ ] john curwen published his _grammar of vocal music_ in . [ ] quoted in mr. r.c. lehmann's _dickens as an editor_ ( ). chapter ii instrumental combinations violin, violoncello, harp, piano dickens' orchestras are limited, both in resources and in the number of performers; in fact, it would be more correct to call them combinations of instruments. some of them are of a kind not found in modern works on instrumentation, as, for instance, at the party at trotty veck's (_ch._) when a 'band of music' burst into the good man's room, consisting of a drum, marrow-bones and cleavers, and bells, 'not _the_ bells but a portable collection on a frame.' we gather from leech's picture that other instrumentalists were also present. sad to relate, the drummer was not quite sober, an unfortunate state of things, certainly, but not always confined to the drumming fraternity, since in the account of the party at minerva house (_s.b.t._) we read that amongst the numerous arrivals were 'the pianoforte player and the violins: the harp in a state of intoxication.' we have an occasional mention of a theatre orchestra, as, for instance, when the phenomenon was performing at portsmouth (_n.n._): 'ring in the orchestra, grudden.' that useful lady did as she was requested, and shortly afterwards the tuning of three fiddles was heard, which process, having been protracted as long as it was supposed that the patience of the orchestra could possibly bear it, was put a stop to by another jerk of the bell, which, being the signal to begin in earnest, set the orchestra playing a variety of popular airs with involuntary variations. on one occasion dickens visited vauxhall gardens by day, where 'a small party of dismal men in cocked hats were "executing" the overture to _tancredi_,' but he does not, unfortunately, give us any details about the number or kind of instruments employed. this would be in , when the experiment of day entertainments was given a trial, and a series of balloon ascents became the principal attraction. forster tells us that dickens was a frequent visitor at the numerous gardens and places of entertainment which abounded in london, and which he knew better than any other man. references will be found elsewhere to the music at the eagle (p. ) and the white conduit gardens (p. ). _violin and kit._ we meet with but few players on the violin, and it is usually mentioned in connexion with other instruments, though it was to the strains of a solitary fiddle that simon tappertit danced a hornpipe for the delectation of his followers, while the same instrument supplied the music at the fezziwig's ball. in came a fiddler with a music-book, and went up to the lofty desk, and made an orchestra of it, and tuned like fifty stomach-aches. the orchestra at the 'singing-house' provided for jack's amusement when ashore (_u.t._ ) consisted of a fiddle and tambourine; while at dances the instruments were fiddles and harps. it was the harps that first aroused mr. jingle's curiosity, as he met them being carried up the staircase of the bull at rochester, while, shortly after, the tuning of both harps and fiddles inspired mr. tupman with a strong desire to go to the ball. sometimes the orchestra is a little more varied. at the private theatricals which took place at mrs. gattleton's (_s.b.t._ ), the selected instruments were a piano, flute, and violoncello, but there seems to have been a want of proper rehearsal. ting, ting, ting! went the prompter's bell at eight o'clock precisely, and dash went the orchestra into the overture to the _men of prometheus_. the pianoforte player hammered away with laudable perseverance, and the violoncello, which struck in at intervals, sounded very well, considering. the unfortunate individual, however, who had undertaken to play the flute accompaniment 'at sight' found, from fatal experience, the perfect truth of the old adage, 'out of sight, out of mind'; for being very near-sighted, and being placed at a considerable distance from his music-book, all he had an opportunity of doing was to play a bar now and then in the wrong place, and put the other performers out. it is, however, but justice to mr. brown to say that he did this to admiration. the overture, in fact, was not unlike a race between the different instruments; the piano came in first by several bars, and the violoncello next, quite distancing the poor flute; for the deaf gentleman _too-too'd_ away, quite unconscious that he was at all wrong, until apprised, by the applause of the audience, that the overture was concluded. it was probably after this that the pianoforte player fainted away, owing to the heat, and left the music of _masaniello_ to the other two. there were differences between these remaining musicians and mr. harleigh, who played the title rôle, the orchestra complaining that 'mr. harleigh put them out, while the hero declared that the orchestra prevented his singing a note.' it was to the strains of a wandering harp and fiddle that marion and grace jeddler danced 'a trifle in the spanish style,' much to their father's astonishment as he came bustling out to see who 'played music on his property before breakfast.' the little fiddle commonly known as a 'kit' that dancing-masters used to carry in their capacious tail coat pockets was much more in evidence in the middle of last century than it is now. caddy jellyby (_b.h._), after her marriage to a dancing-master, found a knowledge of the piano and the kit essential, and so she used to practise them assiduously. when sampson brass hears kit's name for the first time he says to swiveller: 'strange name--name of a dancing-master's fiddle, eh, mr. richard?' we must not forget the story of a fine young irish gentleman, as told by the one-eyed bagman to mr. pickwick and his friends, who, being asked if he could play the fiddle, replied he had no doubt he could, but he couldn't exactly say for certain, because he had never tried. _violoncello_ mr. morfin (_d. & s._), 'a cheerful-looking, hazel-eyed elderly bachelor,' was a great musical amateur--in his way--after business, and had a paternal affection for his violoncello, which was once in every week transported from islington, his place of abode, to a certain club-room hard by the bank, where quartets of the most tormenting and excruciating nature were executed every wednesday evening by a private party. his habit of humming his musical recollections of these evenings was a source of great annoyance to mr. james carker, who devoutly wished 'that he would make a bonfire of his violoncello, and burn his books with it.' there was only a thin partition between the rooms which these two gentlemen occupied, and on another occasion mr. morfin performed an extraordinary feat in order to warn the manager of his presence. i have whistled, hummed tunes, gone accurately through the whole of beethoven's sonata in b, to let him know that i was within hearing, but he never heeded me. this particular sonata has not hitherto been identified. it is comforting to know that the fall of the house of dombey made no difference to mr. morfin, who continued to solace himself by producing 'the most dismal and forlorn sounds out of his violoncello before going to bed,' a proceeding which had no effect on his deaf landlady, beyond producing 'a sensation of something rumbling in her bones.' nor were the quartet parties interfered with. they came round regularly, his violoncello was in good tune, and there was nothing wrong in _his_ world. happy mr. morfin! another 'cellist was the rev. charles timson, who, when practising his instrument in his bedroom, used to give strict orders that he was on no account to be disturbed. it was under the pretence of buying 'a second-hand wiolinceller' that bucket visited the house of the dealer in musical instruments in order to effect the arrest of mr. george (_b.h._). _harp_ the harp was a fashionable drawing-room instrument in the early victorian period, although the re-introduction of the guitar temporarily detracted from its glory. it was also indispensable in providing music for dancing-parties and concerts. when esther summerson went to call on the turveydrops (_b.h._) she found the hall blocked up with a grand piano, a harp, and various other instruments which had been used at a concert. as already stated, it was the sight of these instruments being carried up the stairs at the bull in rochester that aroused mr. jingle's curiosity (_p.p._) and led to the discovery that a ball was in prospect. we must not forget the eldest miss larkins, one of david copperfield's early, fleeting loves. he used to wander up and down outside the home of his beloved and watch the officers going in to hear miss l. play the harp. on hearing of her engagement to one of these he mourned for a very brief period, and then went forth and gloriously defeated his old enemy the butcher boy. what a contrast between this humour and the strange scene in the drawing-room at james steerforth's home after rosa dartle had sung the strange weird irish song to the accompaniment of her harp! and how different, again, the scene in the home of scrooge's nephew (_c.c._) when, after tea, 'they had some music.' scrooge's niece played well upon the harp; and played, among other things, a simple little air. it reminded scrooge of a time long past. he softened more and more; and thought that if he could have listened to it often, years ago, he might have cultivated the kindnesses of life for his own happiness with his own hand. little paul dombey told lady skettles at the breaking-up party that he was very fond of music, and he was very, very proud of his sister's accomplishments both as player and singer. did they inherit this love from their father? 'you are fond of music,' said the hon. mrs. skewton to mr. dombey during an interval in a game of picquet. 'eminently so,' was the reply. but the reader must not take him at his word. when edith (the future mrs. dombey) entered the room and sat down to her harp, mr. dombey rose and stood beside her, listening. he had little taste for music, and no knowledge of the strain she played; but he saw her bending over it, and perhaps he heard among the sounding strings some distant music of his own. yet when she went to the piano and commenced to sing mr. dombey did not know that it was 'the air that his neglected daughter sang to his dead son'! _piano_ lady musicians are numerous, and of very varied degrees of excellence. amongst the pianists is miss teresa malderton, who nearly fell a prey to that gay deceiver mr. horatio sparkins (_s.b.t._ ). her contribution to a musical evening was 'the fall of paris,' played, as mr. sparkins declared, in a masterly manner. there was a song called 'the fall of paris,' but it is most probable that dickens was thinking of a very popular piece which he must have often heard in his young days, of which the full title was the surrender of paris. a characteristic divertimento for the pianoforte, including the events from the duke of wellington and prince blucher's marching to that capital to the evacuation by the french troops and taking possession by the allies, composed by louis jansen, . not the least curious section of this piece of early programme music is a _moderato_ recording the various articles of the capitulation. these are eighteen in number, and each has its own 'theme.' the interspersion of some discords seems to imply serious differences of opinion between the parties to the treaty. there was also a song called 'the downfall of paris,' the first verse of which was great news i have to tell you all, of bonaparte and a' that; how paris it has got a fall, he's lost his plans and a' that. _chorus._ rise up, john bull, rise up and sing, your chanter loudly blaw that; lang live our auld and worthy king, success to britain, a' that. the instrument beloved of miss tox (_d. & s._) was the harpsichord, and her favourite piece was the 'bird waltz,' while the 'copenhagen waltz' was also in her repertoire. two notes of the instrument were dumb from disuse, but their silence did not impoverish the rendering. caddy jellyby found it necessary to know something of the piano, in order that she might instruct the 'apprentices' at her husband's dancing-school. another performer was mrs. namby, who entertained mr. pickwick with solos on a square piano while breakfast was being prepared. when questioned by david copperfield as to the gifts of miss sophy crewler, traddles explained that she knew enough of the piano to teach it to her little sisters, and she also sang ballads to freshen up her family a little when they were out of spirits, but 'nothing scientific.' the guitar was quite beyond her. david noted with much satisfaction (though he did not say so) that his dora was much more gifted musically. when dickens wrote his earlier works it was not considered the correct thing for a gentleman to play the piano, though it might be all very well for the lower classes and the music teacher. consequently we read of few male performers on the instrument. mr. skimpole could play the piano, and of course jasper had a 'grand' in his room at cloisterham. at one time, if we may believe the turnkey at the marshalsea prison, william dorrit had been a pianist, a fact which raised him greatly in the turnkey's opinion. brought up as a gentleman, he was, if ever a man was. educated at no end of expense. went into the marshal's house once to try a new piano for him. played it, i understand, like one o'clock--beautiful. in the _collected papers_ we have a picture of the 'throwing off young gentleman,' who strikes a note or two upon the piano, and accompanies it correctly (by dint of laborious practice) with his voice. he assures a circle of wondering listeners that so acute was his ear that he was wholly unable to sing out of tune, let him try as he would. mr. weller senior laid a deep plot in which a piano was to take a prominent part. his object was to effect mr. pickwick's escape from the fleet. me and a cab'net-maker has dewised a plan for gettin' him out. 'a pianner, samivel, a pianner,' said mr. weller, striking his son on the chest with the back of his hand, and falling back a step or two. 'wot do you mean?' said sam. 'a pianner-forty, samivel,' rejoined mr. weller, in a still more mysterious manner, 'as he can have on hire; vun as von't play, sammy.' 'and wot 'ud be the good of that?' said sam. 'there ain't no vurks in it,' whispered his father. 'it 'ull hold him easy, vith his hat and shoes on; and breathe through the legs, vich is holler.' but the usually dutiful sam showed so little enthusiasm for his father's scheme that nothing more was heard of it. chapter iii various instruments flute, organ, guitar (and some hummers) _flute_ we find several references to the flute, and dickens contrives to get much innocent fun out of it. first comes mr. mell, who used to carry his instrument about with him and who, in response to his mother's invitation to 'have a blow at it' while david copperfield was having his breakfast, made, said david, 'the most dismal sounds i have ever heard produced by any means, natural or artificial.' after he had finished he unscrewed his flute into three pieces, and deposited them underneath the skirts of his coat. dickens' schoolmasters seem to have been partial to the flute. mr. squeers, it is true, was not a flautist, but mr. feeder, b.a., was, or rather he was going to be. when little paul dombey visited his tutor's room he saw 'a flute which mr. feeder couldn't play yet, but was going to make a point of learning, he said, hanging up over the fireplace.' he also had a beautiful little curly second-hand 'key bugle,' which was also on the list of things to be accomplished on some future occasion, in fact he has unlimited confidence in the power and influence of music. here is his advice to the love-stricken mr. toots, whom he recommends to learn the guitar, or at least the flute; for women like music when you are paying your addresses to 'em, and he has found the advantage of it himself. the flute was the instrument that mr. richard swiveller took to when he heard that sophy wackles was lost to him for ever, thinking that it was a good, sound, dismal occupation, not only in unison with his own sad thoughts, but calculated to awaken a fellow feeling in the bosoms of his neighbours. so he got out his flute, arranged the light and a small oblong music-book to the best advantage, and began to play 'most mournfully.' the air was 'away with melancholy,' a composition which, when it is played very slowly on the flute, in bed, with the further disadvantage of being performed by a gentleman but imperfectly acquainted with the instrument, who repeats one note a great many times before he can find the next, has not a lively effect. so mr. swiveller spent half the night or more over this pleasing exercise, merely stopping now and then to take breath and soliloquize about the marchioness; and it was only after he 'had nearly maddened the people of the house, and at both the next doors, and over the way,' that he shut up the book and went to sleep. the result of this was that the next morning he got a notice to quit from his landlady, who had been in waiting on the stairs for that purpose since the dawn of day. jack redburn, too (_m.h.c._), seems to have found consolation in this instrument, spending his wet sundays in 'blowing a very slow tune on the flute.' there is one, and only one, recorded instance of this very meek instrument suddenly asserting itself by going on strike, and that is in the sketch entitled _private theatres_ (_s.b.s._ ), where the amateurs take so long to dress for their parts that 'the flute says he'll be blowed if he plays any more.' we must on no account forget the serenade with which the gentlemen boarders proposed to honour the miss pecksniffs. the performance was both vocal and instrumental, and the description of the flute-player is delightful. it was very affecting, very. nothing more dismal could have been desired by the most fastidious taste.... the youngest gentleman blew his melancholy into a flute. he didn't blow much out of it, but that was all the better. after a description of the singing we have more about the flute. the flute of the youngest gentleman was wild and fitful. it came and went in gusts, like the wind. for a long time together he seemed to have left off, and when it was quite settled by mrs. todgers and the young ladies that, overcome by his feelings, he had retired in tears, he unexpectedly turned up again at the very top of the tune, gasping for breath. he was a tremendous performer. there was no knowing where to have him; and exactly when you thought he was doing nothing at all, then was he doing the very thing that ought to astonish you most. yet another performer is the domestic young gentleman (_c.p._) who holds skeins of silk for the ladies to wind, and who then brings down his flute in compliance with a request from the youngest miss gray, and plays divers tunes out of a very small book till supper-time. when nancy went to the prison to look for oliver twist, she found nobody in durance vile except a man who had been taken up for playing the flute, and who was bewailing the loss of the same, which had been confiscated for the use of the county. the gentleman who played the violoncello at mrs. gattleton's party has already been referred to, and it only remains to mention mr. evans, who 'had such lovely whiskers' and who played the flute on the same occasion, to bring the list of players to an end. _hummers_ we meet with a remarkable musician in _dombey and son_ in the person of harriet carker's visitor, a scientific one, according to the description: a certain skilful action of his fingers as he hummed some bars, and beat time on the seat beside him, seemed to denote the musician; and the extraordinary satisfaction he derived from humming something very slow and long, which had no recognizable tune, seemed to denote that he was a scientific one. a less capable performer was sampson brass, who hummed in a voice that was anything but musical certain vocal snatches which appeared to have reference to the union between church and state, inasmuch as they were compounded of the evening hymn and 'god save the king.' musicians of various degrees abound in the _sketches_. here is mr. wisbottle, whistling 'the light guitar' at five o'clock in the morning, to the intense disgust of mr. john evenson, a fellow boarder at mrs. tibbs'. subsequently he came down to breakfast in blue slippers and a shawl dressing-gown, whistling 'di piacer.' mr. evenson can no longer control his feelings, and threatens to start the triangle if his enemy will not stop his early matutinal music. a suggested name for this whistler is the 'humming-top,' from his habit of describing semi-circles on the piano stool, and 'humming most melodiously.' there are a number of characters who indulge in the humming habit either to cover their confusion, or as a sign of light-heartedness and contentment. prominent amongst these are pecksniff, who, like morfin, hums melodiously, and micawber, who can both sing and hum. nor must we omit to mention miss petowker, who 'hummed a tune' as her contribution to the entertainment at mrs. kenwigs' party. many of the characters resort to humming to conceal their temporary discomfiture, and perhaps no one ever hummed under more harassing circumstances than when mr. pecksniff had to go to the door to let in some very unwelcome guests, who had already knocked several times. but he was a past master in the art of dissimulation. he is particularly anxious to conceal from his visitors the fact that jonas chuzzlewit is in the house. so he says to the latter-- 'this may be a professional call. indeed i am pretty sure it is. thank you.' then mr. pecksniff, gently warbling a rustic stave, put on his garden hat, seized a spade, and opened the street door; calmly appearing on the threshold as if he thought he had, from his vineyard, heard a modest rap, but was not quite certain. then he tells his visitors 'i do a little bit of adam still.' he certainly had a good deal of the old adam in him. _clarionet_ the clarionet is associated with the fortunes of mr. frederick dorrit, who played the instrument at the theatre where his elder niece was a dancer, and where little dorrit sought an engagement. after the rehearsal was over she and her sister went to take him home. he had been in that place six nights a week for many years, but had never been observed to raise his eyes above his music-book.... the carpenters had a joke that he was dead without being aware of it. at the theatre he had no part in what was going on except the part written for the clarionet. in his young days his house had been the resort of singers and players. when the fortunes of the family changed his clarionet was taken away from him, on the ground that it was a 'low instrument.' it was subsequently restored to him, but he never played it again. of quite a different stamp was one of the characters in _going into society_, who played the clarionet in a band at a wild beast show, and played it all wrong. he was somewhat eccentric in dress, as he had on 'a white roman shirt and a bishop's mitre covered with leopard skin.' we are told nothing about him, except that he refused to know his old friends. in his story of the _seven poor travellers_ dickens found the clarionet-player of the rochester waits so communicative that he accompanied the party across an open green called the vines, and assisted--in the french sense--at the performance of two waltzes, two polkas, and three irish melodies. _bassoon_ a notable bassoon player was mr. bagnet, who had a voice somewhat resembling his instrument. the ex-artilleryman kept a little music shop in a street near the elephant and castle. there were a few fiddles in the window, and some pan's pipes and a tambourine, and a triangle, and certain elongated scraps of music. it was to this shop that bucket the detective came under the pretence of wanting a second-hand 'wiolinceller' (see p. ). in the course of conversation it turns out that master bagnet (otherwise 'woolwich') 'plays the fife beautiful,' and he performs some popular airs for the benefit of his audience. mr. bucket also claims to have played the fife himself when a boy, 'not in a scientific way, but by ear.' _bagpipes_ two references to the bagpipes deserve notice. one is in _david copperfield_, where the novelist refers to his own early experiences as a shorthand reporter. he has no high opinion of the speeches he used to take down. one joyful night, therefore, i noted down the music of the parliamentary bagpipes for the last time, and i have never heard it since; though i still recognize the old drone in the newspapers. in _o.m.f._ (ii.) we read of charley hexam's fellow pupils keeping themselves awake by maintaining a monotonous droning noise, as if they were performing, out of time and tune, on a ruder sort of bagpipe. the peculiar subdued noise caused by a lot of children in a school is certainly suggestive of the instrument. _trombone_ little is said about the trombone. we are told, in reference to the party at dr. strong's (_d.c._), that the good doctor knew as much about playing cards as he did about 'playing the trombone.' in 'our school' (_r.p._) we are told a good deal about the usher who 'made out the bills, mended the pens, and did all sorts of things.' he was rather musical, and on some remote quarter-day had bought an old trombone; but a bit of it was lost, and it made the most extraordinary sounds when he sometimes tried to play it of an evening. in a similarly dismembered state was the flute which dickens once saw in a broker's shop. it was 'complete with the exception of the middle joint.' this naturally calls to mind the story of the choir librarian who was putting away the vocal parts of a certain funeral anthem. after searching in vain for two missing numbers he was obliged to label the parcel 'his body is buried in peace.' two parts missing. _organ_ the references to the organ are both numerous and interesting, and it is pretty evident that this instrument had a great attraction for dickens. the gentle tom pinch (_m.c._), whom gissing calls 'a gentleman who derives his patent of gentility direct from god almighty,' first claims our attention. he used to play the organ at the village church 'for nothing.' it was a simple instrument, 'the sweetest little organ you ever heard,' provided with wind by the action of the musician's feet, and thus tom was independent of a blower, though he was so beloved that there was not a man or boy in all the village and away to the turnpike (tollman included) but would have blown away for him till he was black in the face. what a delight it must have been to him to avail himself of the opportunity to play the organ in the cathedral when he went to meet martin! as the grand tones resounded through the church they seemed, to tom, to find an echo in the depth of every ancient tomb, no less than in the deep mystery of his own heart. and he would have gone on playing till midnight 'but for a very earthy verger,' who insisted on locking up the cathedral and turning him out. on one occasion, while he was practising at the church, the miserable pecksniff entered the building and, hiding behind a pew, heard the conversation between tom and mary that led to the former being dismissed from the architect's office, so he had to leave his beloved organ, and mightily did the poor fellow miss it when he went to london! being an early riser, he had been accustomed to practise every morning, and now he was reduced to taking long walks about london, a poor substitute indeed! nor was the organ the only instrument that he could play, for we read how he would spend half his nights poring over the 'jingling anatomy of that inscrutable old harpsichord in the back parlour,' and amongst the household treasures that he took to london were his music and an old fiddle. the picture which forms our frontispiece shows tom pinch playing his favourite instrument. at the sale of the original drawings executed by 'phiz' for _martin chuzzlewit_ this frontispiece, which is an epitome of the salient characters and scenes in the novel, was sold for £ . we read in _christmas stories_ that silas jorgan played the organ, but we are not told the name of the artist who at the concert at the eagle (_s.b.c._ ) accompanied a comic song on the organ--and such an organ! miss j'mima ivins's friend's young man whispered it had cost 'four hundred pound,' which mr. samuel wilkins said was 'not dear neither.' the singer was probably either howell or glindon. dickens appears to have visited the eagle tavern in or . it was then a notable place of entertainment consisting of gardens with an orchestra, and the 'grecian saloon,' which was furnished with an organ and a 'self-acting piano.' here concerts were given every evening, which in lent took a sacred turn, and consisted of selections from handel and mozart. in the organ was removed, and a new one erected by parsons. the eagle gained a wide reputation through its being introduced into a once popular song. up and down the city road, in and out the eagle, that's the way the money goes, pop goes the weasel. this verse was subsequently modified (for nursery purposes) thus: half a pound of tuppenny rice, half a pound of treacle, that's the way the money goes,[ ] pop goes the weasel. many explanations have been given of 'weasel.' some say it was a purse made of weasel skin; others that it was a tailor's flat-iron which used to be pawned (or 'popped') to procure the needful for admission to the tavern. a third (and more intelligible) suggestion is that the line is simply a catch phrase, without any meaning. there is a notable reference to the organ in _little dorrit_. arthur clennam goes to call on old frederick dorrit, the clarionet player, and is directed to the house where he lived. 'there were so many lodgers in this house that the door-post seemed to be as full of bell handles as a cathedral organ is of stops,' and clennam hesitates for a time, 'doubtful which might be the clarionet stop.' further on in the same novel we are told that it was the organ that mrs. finching was desirous of learning. i have said ever since i began to recover the blow of mr. f's death that i would learn the organ of which i am extremely fond but of which i am ashamed to say i do not yet know a note. the following fine description of the tones of an organ occurs in _the chimes_: the organ sounded faintly in the church below. swelling by degrees the melody ascended to the roof, and filled the choir and nave. expanding more and more, it rose up, up; up, up; higher, higher, higher up; awakening agitated hearts within the burly piles of oak, the hollow bells, the iron-bound doors, the stairs of solid stone; until the tower walls were insufficient to contain it, and it soared into the sky. the effect of this on trotty veck was very different from that which another organ had on the benevolent old lady we read of in _our parish_. she subscribed £ towards a new instrument for the parish church, and was so overcome when she first heard it that she had to be carried out by the pew-opener. there are various references to the organs in the city churches, and probably the description of one of them given in _dombey and son_ would suit most instruments of the period. the organ rumbled and rolled as if it had got the colic, for want of a congregation to keep the wind and damp out. _barrel-organ_ in real life the barrel-organ was a frequent source of annoyance to dickens, who found its ceaseless strains very trying when he was busy writing, and who had as much trouble in evicting the grinders as david copperfield's aunt had with the donkeys. however, he takes a very mild revenge on this deservedly maligned instrument in his works, and the references are, as usual, of a humorous character. a barrel-organ formed a part of the procession to celebrate the election of mr. tulrumble[ ] as mayor of mudfog, but the player put on the wrong stop, and played one tune while the band played another. this instrument had an extraordinary effect on major tpschoffki, familiarly and more easily known as 'chops,' the dwarf, 'spirited but not proud,' who was desirous of 'going into society' (_g.s._), and who had got it into his head that he was entitled to property: his ideas respectin' his property never come upon him so strong as when he sat upon a barrel-organ, and had the handle turned. arter the wibration had run through him a little time he would screech out, 'toby, i feel my property coming--grind away! i'm counting my guineas by thousands, toby--grind away! toby, i shall be a man of fortun! i feel the mint a-jingling in me, toby, and i'm swelling out into the bank of england.' such is the influence of music on a poetic mind. dickens found the streets in new york very different from those in london, and specially remarks how quiet they were--no itinerant musicians or showmen of any kind. he could only remember hearing one barrel-organ with a dancing-monkey. 'beyond that, nothing lively, no, not so much as a white mouse in a twirling cage.' we must not forget that he has two references to pipe organs in his _american notes_. when he visited the blind school at boston he heard a voluntary played on the organ by one of the pupils, while at st. louis he was informed that the jesuit college was to be supplied with an organ sent from belgium. the barrel-organ brings to mind jerry and his troupe of dancing-dogs (_o.c.s._), especially the unfortunate animal who had lost a halfpenny during the day, and consequently had to go without his supper. in fact, his master made the punishment fit the crime; for, having set the stop, he made the dog play the organ while the rest had their evening meal. when the knives and forks rattled very much, or any of his fellows got an unusually large piece of fat, he accompanied the music with a short howl; but he immediately checked it on his master looking round and applied himself with increased diligence to the old hundredth. in _dombey and son_ there is a very apt comparison of mr. feeder, b.a., to this instrument. he was doctor blimber's assistant master, and was entrusted with the education of little paul. mr. feeder, b.a. ... was a kind of human barrel-organ with a little list of tunes at which he was continually working, over and over again, without any variation. he might have been fitted up with a change of barrels, perhaps, in early life, if his destiny had been favourable, but it had not been. so he had only one barrel, his sole occupation being to 'bewilder the young ideas of dr. blimber's young gentlemen.' sometimes he had his virgil stop on, and at other times his herodotus stop. in trying to keep up the comparison, however, dickens makes a curious mistake. in the above quotation feeder is assigned one barrel only, while in chapter xli we are told that he had 'his other barrels on a shelf behind him.' we find another comparison in _little dorrit_, when the long-suffering pancks turns round on casby, his employer, and exposes his hypocrisy. pancks, who has had much difficulty in getting his master's rents from the tenants, makes up his mind to leave him; and before doing so he tells the whole truth about casby to the inhabitants of bleeding heart yard. 'here's the stop,' said pancks, 'that sets the tune to be ground. and there is but one tune, and its name is "grind! grind! grind!"' _guitar_ although the guitar was a fashionable instrument sixty years ago, there are but few references to it. this was the instrument that enabled the three miss briggses, each of them performers, to eclipse the glory of the miss tauntons, who could only manage a harp. on the eventful day of 'the steam excursion' (_s.b._) the three sisters brought their instruments, carefully packed up in dark green cases, which were carefully stowed away in the bottom of the boat, accompanied by two immense portfolios of music, which it would take at least a week's incessant playing to get through. at a subsequent stage of the proceedings they were asked to play, and after replacing a broken string, and a vast deal of screwing and tightening, they gave 'a new spanish composition, for three voices and three guitars,' and secured an encore, thus completely overwhelming their rivals. in the account of the _french watering-place_ (_r.p._) we read about a guitar on the pier, 'to which a boy or woman sings without any voice little songs without any tune.' on one of his night excursions in the guise of an 'uncommercial traveller' dickens discovered a stranded spaniard, named antonio. in response to a general invitation 'the swarthy youth' takes up his cracked guitar and gives them the 'feeblest ghost of a tune,' while the inmates of the miserable den kept time with their heads. dora used to delight david copperfield by singing enchanting ballads in the french language and accompanying herself 'on a glorified instrument, resembling a guitar,' though subsequent references show it was that instrument and none other. we read in _little dorrit_ that young john chivery wore 'pantaloons so highly decorated with side stripes, that each leg was a three-stringed lute.' this appears to be the only reference to this instrument, and a lute of three strings is the novelist's own conception, the usual number being about nine. [ ] or, 'mix it up and make it nice.' [ ] _the public life of mr. tulrumble_, . chapter iv various instruments (continued) many musical instruments and terms are mentioned by way of illustration. blathers, the bow street officer (_o.t._), plays carelessly with his handcuffs as if they were a pair of castanets. miss miggs (_b.r._) clanks her pattens as if they were a pair of cymbals. mr. bounderby (_h.t._), during his conversation with harthouse, with his hat in his hand, gave a beat upon the crown at every division of his sentences, as if it were a tambourine; and in the same work the electric wires rule 'a colossal strip of music-paper out of the evening sky.' perhaps the most extraordinary comparison is that instituted by mrs. lirriper in reference to her late husband. my poor lirriper was a handsome figure of a man, with a beaming eye and a voice as mellow as a musical instrument made of honey and steel. what a vivid imagination the good woman had! her descriptive powers remind us of those possessed by mrs. gamp in speaking of the father of the mysterious mrs. harris. as pleasant a singer, mr. chuzzlewit, as ever you heerd, with a voice like a jew's-harp in the bass notes. there are many humorous references to remarkable performances on various instruments more or less musical in their nature. during the election at eatanswill the crier performed two concertos on his bell, and shortly afterwards followed them up with a fantasia on the same instrument. dickens suffered much from church bells, and gives vent to his feelings about them in _little dorrit_, where he says that maddening church bells of all degrees of dissonance, sharp and flat, cracked and clear, fast and slow, made the brick-and-mortar echoes hideous. in his _pictures from italy_ he wrote thus: at genoa the bells of the church ring incessantly, not in peals, or any known form of sound, but in horrible, irregular, jerking dingle, dingle, dingle; with a sudden stop at every fifteenth dingle or so, which is maddening.... the noise is supposed to be particularly obnoxious to evil spirits. but it was these same bells, which he found so maddening, that inspired him with the title of a well-known story. he had chosen a subject, but was at a loss for a name. as he sat working one morning there suddenly rose up from genoa the clang and clash of all its steeples, pouring into his ears, again and again, in a tuneless, grating, discordant jerking, hideous vibration that made his ideas spin round and round till they lost themselves in a whirl of vexation and giddiness, and dropped down dead.... only two days later came a letter in which not a syllable was written but 'we have heard the chimes at midnight, master shallow,' and i knew he had discovered what he wanted.[ ] yet, in spite of all this, dickens shows--through his characters--a deep interest in bells and bell-lore. little paul dombey finds a man mending the clocks at dr. blimber's academy, and asks a multitude of questions about chimes and clocks; as, whether people watched up in the lonely church steeples by night to make them strike, and how the bells were rung when people died, and whether those were different bells from wedding-bells, or only sounded dismal in the fancies of the living; and then the precocious small boy proceeds to give the astonished clockmaker some useful information about king alfred's candles and curfew-bells. as smike and nicholas tramp their long journey to portsmouth they hear the sheep-bells tinkling on the downs. to tom pinch journeying londonwards 'the brass work on the harness was a complete orchestra of little bells.' what a terror the bells are to jonas chuzzlewit just before he starts on his evil journey! he hears the ringers practising in a neighbouring church, and the clashing of their bells was almost maddening. curse the clamouring bells! they seemed to know that he was listening at the door, and to proclaim it in a crowd of voices to all the town! would they never be still? they ceased at last, and then the silence was so new and terrible that it seemed the prelude to some dreadful noise. the boom of the bell is associated with many of the villains of the novels. fagin hears it when under sentence of death. blackpool and carker hear the accusing bells when in the midst of planning their evil deeds. we can read the characters of some by the way they ring a bell. the important little mr. bailey, when he goes to see his friend poll sweedlepipe (_m.c._) 'came in at the door with a lunge, to get as much sound out of the bell as possible,' while bob sawyer gives a pull as if he would bring it up by the roots. mr. clennam pulls the rope with a hasty jerk, and mr. watkins tottle with a faltering jerk, while tom pinch gives a gentle pull. and how angry mr. mantalini is with newman noggs because he keeps him 'ringing at this confounded old cracked tea-kettle of a bell, every tinkle of which is enough to throw a strong man into convulsions, upon my life and soul,--oh demmit.' the introduction of electric bells has been a great trial to those who used to vent their wrath on the wire-pulled article or the earlier bell-rope, which used not infrequently to add unnecessary fuel by coming incontinently down on the head of the aggrieved one. what a pull the fierce gentleman must have given whose acquaintance mr. pickwick made when he was going to bath! he had been kept waiting for his buttered toast, so he (captain dowler) rang the bell with great violence, and told the waiter he'd better bring the toast in five seconds, or he'd know the reason why. dickens rang far more changes on the bells than there is space to enumerate; but i have shown to what extent he makes their sound a commentary on innumerable phases of life. a slight technical knowledge of bell phraseology is found in _barnaby rudge_ ( ), where he mentions the variations known as a 'triple bob major.' finally there is an interesting reference in _master humphrey's clock_ to a use of the bell which has now passed into history. belinda says in a postscript to a letter to master humphrey, 'the bellman, rendered impatient by delay, is ringing dreadfully in the passage'; while in a second ps. she says, 'i open this to say the bellman is gone, and that you must not expect it till the next post.' in the old days it was the custom for the letter-carriers to collect letters by ringing a bell. there is no doubt that a most extraordinary, certainly a most original, musical effect is that secured by mr. george (_b.h._), who had just finished smoking. 'do you know what that tune is, mr. smallweed?' he adds, after breaking off to whistle one, accompanied on the table with the empty pipe. 'tune,' replies the old man. 'no, we never have tunes here.' 'that's the "dead march" in _saul_. they bury soldiers to it, so it's the natural end of the subject.' surely a highly original way of bringing a conversation to a close! this march is referred to in _our mutual friend_, where mr. wilfer suggests that going through life with mrs. wilfer is like keeping time to the 'dead march' in _saul_, from which singular simile we may gather that this lady was not the liveliest of companions. several other instruments are casually mentioned. mr. hardy (_s.b.t._ ) was a master of many accomplishments. he could sing comic songs, imitate hackney coachmen and fowls, play airs on his chin, and execute concertos on the jew's harp. the champion 'chin' performer of the early victorian period was michael boai, 'the celebrated chin melodist,' who was announced to perform 'some of his admired pieces' at many of the places of entertainment. there is another reference to this extraordinary way of producing music in _sketches by boz_, where mrs. tippin performed an air with variations on the guitar, 'accompanied on the chin by master tippin.' to return to mr. hardy, this gentleman was evidently deeply interested in all sorts and degrees of music, but he got out of his depth in a conversation with the much-travelled captain helves. after the three miss briggses had finished their guitar performances, mr. hardy approached the captain with the question, 'did you ever hear a portuguese tambourine?' 'did _you_ ever hear a tom-tom, sir?' sternly inquired the captain, who lost no opportunity of showing off his travels, real or pretended. 'a what?' asked hardy, rather taken aback. 'a tom-tom.' 'never.' 'nor a gum-gum?' 'never.' 'what _is_ a gum-gum?' eagerly inquired several young ladies. the question is unanswered to this day, though hardy afterwards suggests it is another name for a humbug. when dickens visited the school where the half-time system was in force, he found the boys undergoing military and naval drill. a small boy played the fife while the others went through their exercises. after that a boys' band appeared, the youngsters being dressed in a neat uniform. then came a choral class, who sang 'the praises of a summer's day to a harmonium.' in the arithmetical exercises the small piper excels (_u.t._ ). wise as the serpent is the four feet of performer on the nearest approach to that instrument. this was written when the serpent was practically extinct, but dickens would be very familiar with the name of the instrument, and may have seen and heard it in churches in his younger days. in referring to another boy's attempt at solving the arithmetical puzzles, he mentions the cymbals, combined with a faint memory of st. paul. i observe the player of the cymbals to dash at a sounding answer now and then rather than not cut in at all; but i take that to be in the way of his instrument. in _great expectations_ mr. wopsle, who is a parish clerk by profession, had an ambition not only to tread the boards, but to start off as hamlet. his appearance was not a success, and the audience was derisive. on his taking the recorders--very like a little black flute that had just been played in the orchestra and handed out at the door--he was called upon unanimously for 'rule britannia.' reference has already been made to bucket's music-shop, so we must not forget to visit caleb plummer's little room, where there were scores of melancholy little carts which, when the wheels went round, performed most doleful music. many small fiddles, drums, and other instruments of torture. the old man made a rude kind of harp specially for his poor blind daughter, and on which dot used to play when she visited the toy-maker's. caleb's musical contribution would be 'a bacchanalian song, something about a sparkling bowl,' which much annoyed his grumpy employer. 'what! you're singing, are you?' said tackleton, putting his head in at the door. 'go it, _i_ can't sing.' nobody would have suspected him of it. he hadn't what is generally termed a singing face, by any means. the wonderful duet between the cricket and the kettle at the commencement of _the cricket on the hearth_ certainly deserves mention, though it is rather difficult to know whether to class the performers as instrumentalists or singers. the kettle began it with a series of short vocal snorts, which at first it checked in the bud, but finally it burst into a stream of song, 'while the lid performed a sort of jig, and clattered like a deaf and dumb cymbal that had never known the use of its twin brother.' then the cricket came in with its chirp, chirp, chirp, and at it they went in fierce rivalry until 'the kettle, being dead beat, boiled over, and was taken off the fire.' dickens was certainly partial to the cricket, for elsewhere (_m.h.c._) we read of the clock that makes cheerful music, like one of those chirping insects who delight in the warm hearth. there are two or three references to the key bugle, which also used to be known as the kent bugle. it was a popular instrument half a century ago, as the addition of keys gave it a much greater range of notes than the ordinary bugle possessed. a notable though inefficient performer was the driver who took martin chuzzlewit up to london. he was musical, besides, and had a little key bugle in his pocket on which, whenever the conversation flagged, he played the first part of a great many tunes, and regularly broke down in the second. this instrument was on mr. feeder's _agenda_. two more instruments demand our attention. at the marriage of tackleton and may fielding (_c.h._) there were to be marrow-bones and cleavers, while to celebrate the union of trotty veck's daughter meg and richard they had a band including the aforesaid instruments and also the drum and the bells. it was formerly the custom for butchers' assistants to provide themselves with marrow-bones and cleavers for musical effects. each cleaver was ground so that when it was struck with the bone it emitted a certain note.[ ] a complete band would consist of eight men, with their cleavers so tuned as to give an octave of notes. after more or less practice they would offer their services as bandsmen on the occasion of marriage ceremonies, which they had a wonderful faculty for locating, and they would provide music (of a kind) _ad libitum_ until the requisite fee was forthcoming. if their services were declined the butchers would turn up all the same, and make things very unpleasant for the marriage party. the custom dates from the eighteenth century, and though it has gradually fallen into disuse a marrow-bone and cleaver band is still available in london for those who want it. a band took part in a wedding ceremony at clapham as recently as the autumn of . the following extract, referring to the second marriage of mr. dombey, shows what bridal parties had to put up with in the good old days: the men who play the bells have got scent of the marriage; and the marrow-bones and cleavers too; and a brass band too. the first are practising in a back settlement near battle-bridge[ ]; the second put themselves in communication, through their chief, with mr. tomlinson, to whom they offer terms to be bought off; and the third, in the person of an artful trombone, lurks and dodges round the corner, waiting for some traitor-tradesman to reveal the place and hour of breakfast, for a bribe. other instruments casually referred to are the pan's pipes, which in one place is also called a mouth-organ (_s.b.s._ ), the flageolet, and the triangle. it is difficult to classify the walking-stick on which mr. jennings rudolph played tunes before he went behind the parlour door and gave his celebrated imitations of actors, edgetools, and animals (_s.b.c._ ). [ ] forster, _life of charles dickens._ [ ] this is rather a modern development. [ ] near king's cross station (g.n.r.). chapter v church music dickens has not much to say about church music as such, but the references are interesting, inasmuch as they throw some light upon it during the earlier years of his life. in _our parish_ (_s.b._) we read about the old naval officer who finds fault with the sermon every sunday, says that the organist ought to be ashamed of himself, and offers to back himself for any amount to sing the psalms better than all the children put together. this reminds us that during the first half of last century, and indeed later in many places, the church choir as we know it did not exist, and the leading of the singing was entrusted to the children of the charity school under the direction of the clerk, a custom which had existed since the seventeenth century. the chancel was never used for the choir, and the children sat up in the gallery at the west end, on either side of the organ. in a city church that dickens attended the choir was limited to two girls. the organ was so out of order that he could 'hear more of the rusty working of the stops than of any music.' when the service began he was so depressed that, as he says, i gave but little heed to our dull manner of ambling through the service; to the brisk clerk's manner of encouraging us to try a note or two at psalm time; to the gallery congregation's manner of enjoying a shrill duet, without a notion of time or tune; to the whity-brown man's manner of shutting the minister into the pulpit, and being very particular with the lock of the door, as if he were a dangerous animal. elsewhere he found in the choir gallery an 'exhausted charity school' of four boys and two girls. the congregations were small, a state of things which at any rate satisfied mrs. lirriper, who had a pew at st. clement danes and was 'partial to the evening service not too crowded.' in _sunday under three heads_ we have a vivid picture of the state of things at a fashionable church. carriages roll up, richly dressed people take their places and inspect each other through their glasses. the organ peals forth, the hired singers commence a short hymn, and the congregation condescendingly rise, stare about them and converse in whispers. dickens passes from church to chapel. here, he says, the hymn is sung--not by paid singers, but by the whole assembly at the loudest pitch of their voices, unaccompanied by any musical instrument, the words being given out, two lines at a time, by the clerk. it cannot be said that, as far as the music is concerned, either of these descriptions is exaggerated when we remember the time at which they were written ( ). very few chapels in london had organs, or indeed instruments of any kind, and there is no doubt that the congregations, as a rule, _did_ sing at the tops of their voices, a proceeding known under the more euphonious title of 'hearty congregational singing.' he gives a far more favourable account of the music in the village church. in the essay just referred to he mentions the fact that he attended a service in a west of england church where the service 'was spoken--not merely read--by a grey-headed minister.' the psalms were accompanied by a few instrumental performers, who were stationed in a small gallery extending across the church at the lower end; and the voices were led by the clerk, who, it was evident, derived no slight pride and gratification from this portion of the service. but if the church music in england was not of a very high quality when dickens wrote the above, it was, according to his own account, far superior to what he heard in certain churches in italy. when in rome he visited st. peter's, where he was quite unimpressed by the music. i have been infinitely more affected in many english cathedrals when the organ has been playing, and in many english country churches when the congregation have been singing. on another occasion he attended church at genoa on a feast day, and he writes thus about the music: the organ played away lustily, and a full band did the like; while a conductor, in a little gallery opposite the band, hammered away on the desk before him, with a scroll, and a tenor, without any voice, sang. the band played one way, the organ played another, the singer went a third, and the unfortunate conductor banged and banged, and flourished his scroll on some principle of his own; apparently well satisfied with the whole performance. i never did hear such a discordant din. _parish clerks_ we have but few references to parish clerks in the novels. mr. wopsle (_g.e._)--whom mr. andrew lang calls 'one of the best of dickens' minor characters'--'punished the amens tremendously,'[ ] and when he gave out the psalms--always giving the whole verse--he looked all round the congregation first, as much as to say 'you have heard our friend overhead; oblige me with your opinion of this style.' this gentleman subsequently became a 'play-actor,' but failed to achieve the success he desired. solomon daisy (_b.r._) is bell-ringer and parish clerk of chigwell, though we hear nothing of his exploits in these capacities. however, he must have been a familiar figure to the villagers as he stood in his little desk on the sunday, giving out the psalms and leading the singing, because when in the rifled and dismantled maypole he appeals to the poor witless old willet as to whether he did not know him-- 'you know us, don't you, johnny?' said the little clerk, rapping himself on the breast. 'daisy, you know--chigwell church--bell-ringer--little desk on sundays--eh, johnny?' mr. willet reflected for a few moments, and then muttered as it were mechanically: 'let us sing to the praise and glory of--' 'yes, to be sure,' cried the little man hastily, 'that's it, that's me, johnny.' besides the numerous body of more or less distinguished artists whom the novelist introduces to us and whose achievements are duly set forth in these pages, there are two others whose connexion with cloisterham gives them a prominent position in our list. one of these is the rev. mr. crisparkle (_e.d._), minor canon of cloisterham: early riser, musical, classical, cheerful, kind, good-natured, social, contented, and boy-like. what a contrast to the stiggins and chadband type! he is a member of the 'alternate musical wednesdays' society, and amongst his lesser duties is that of corrector-in-chief of the un-dean-like english of the cathedral verger. it is mr. crisparkle's custom to sit up last of the early household, very softly touching his piano and practising his parts in concerted vocal music. over a closet in his dining-room, where occasional refreshments were kept, a portrait of handel in a flowing wig beamed down at the spectator, with a knowing air of being up to the contents of the closet, and a musical air of intending to combine all its harmonies in one delicious fugue. the minor canon is a warm admirer of jasper's musical talents, and on one occasion in particular is much impressed with his singing. i must thank you, jasper, for the pleasure with which i have heard you to-day. beautiful! delightful! and thus we are introduced to the other musician, whose position at cloisterham cathedral is almost as much a mystery as that of edwin drood himself. he was the lay precentor or lay clerk, and he was also a good choirmaster. it is unnecessary to criticize or examine too closely the exact position that jasper held. in answer to a question on this subject, mr. b. luard-selby, the present organist of rochester cathedral, writes thus: we have never had in the choir of rochester cathedral such a musical functionary as dickens describes in _the mystery of edwin drood_. the only person approaching jasper in the choir is one of the lay clerks who looks after the music, but who of course has nothing to do with _setting_ the music for the month. i don't think dickens had much idea of church order or of cathedral worship, though he may have gone over the cathedral with a verger on occasions. the music of a cathedral is always in the hands of the precentor, assisted by the organist. it is edwin drood himself who says that jasper was lay precentor or lay clerk at the cathedral. he had a great reputation as a choir-trainer and teacher of music, but he is already weary of his position and takes little notice of words of eulogy. he was well acquainted with the old melodies, and on one occasion we find him sitting at the piano singing brave songs to mr. sapsea. no kickshaw ditties, favourites with national enemies, but ... genuine george the third home brewed, exhorting him (as 'my brave boys') to reduce to a smashed condition all other islands but this island, and all continents, peninsulas, isthmuses, promontories, and other geographical forms of land soever, besides sweeping the sea in all directions. in short he rendered it pretty clear that providence made a distinct mistake in originating so small a nation of hearts of oak, and so many other verminous peoples. we have a different picture of him on another occasion, as he sits 'chanting choir music in a low and beautiful voice, for two or three hours'--a somewhat unusual exercise even for the most enthusiastic choirmaster. but this was before the strange journey with durdles, and we can only guess at the weird thoughts which were passing through the musician's mind as he sat in his lonely room. we have only a brief reference to the choir of cloisterham cathedral. towards the end we read of them 'struggling into their nightgowns' before the service, while they subsequently are 'as much in a hurry to get their bedgowns off as they were but now to get them on'--and these were almost the last words that came from the master's pen. _anthems_ there is an interesting reference to anthems in connexion with the foundling hospital,[ ] an institution which dickens mentions several times. mr. wilding (_n.t._), after he had been pumped on by his lawyer in order to clear his head, names the composers of the anthems he had been accustomed to sing at the foundling. handel, mozart, haydn, kent, purcell, doctor arne, greene, mendelssohn. i know the choruses to those anthems by heart. foundling chapel collection. mr. wilding had a scheme of forming his household retainers and dependents into a singing-class in the warehouse, and a choir in the neighbouring church. only one member, joey ladle, refused to join, for fear he should 'muddle the 'armony,' and his remark that handel must have been down in some of them foreign cellars pretty much for to go and say the same thing so many times over is certainly not lacking in originality. _hymns and hymn-tunes_ there are many purists in church music who object to adaptations of any kind, and we do not know what their feelings are on reading the account of the meeting of the brick lane branch of the united grand junction ebenezer temperance association. in order to vary the proceedings mr. anthony humm announced that brother mordlin had adapted the beautiful words of 'who hasn't heard of a jolly young waterman' to the tune of the old hundredth, which he would request them to join in singing. (great applause.) and so the song commenced, the chairman giving out two lines at a time, in proper orthodox fashion. it was this air that mr. jerry's dog, as already related, ground out of the barrel-organ, but, besides this particular melody, we do not find that dickens mentions any other hymn-tune. the hymns referred to are rather more in number. in _the wreck of the golden mary_ mrs. atherfield sang little lucy to sleep with the evening hymn. there is a veiled reference to ken's morning hymn in _o.c.s._, where sampson brass says: 'here we are, mr. richard, rising with the sun to run our little course--our course of duty, sir.' dr. watts makes several appearances, dickens made the acquaintance of this noted hymnist in early youth (see p. ), and makes good use of his knowledge. in _the cricket on the hearth_ mrs. peerybingle asks john if he ever learnt 'how doth the little' when he went to school. 'not to quite know it,' john returned. 'i was very near it once.' another of the doctor's hymns is suggested by the behaviour of the young tetterbys (_h.m._). the contentions between the tetterbys' children for the milk and water jug, common to all, which stood upon the table, presented so lamentable an instance of angry passions risen very high indeed, that it was an outrage on the memory of dr. watts. the pages of history abound with instances of misguided amateurs who have amended the hymns (and tunes) of others in order to bring them into their way of thinking, and a prominent place in their ranks must be assigned to miss monflathers (_o.c.s._), who managed to parody the good doctor's meaning to an alarming extent and to insist that in books, or work or healthful play[ ] is only applicable to _genteel_ children, while all poor people's children, such as little nell, should spend their time. in work, work, work. in work alway, let my first years be passed, that i may give for ev'ry day some good account at last, which is far from the good doctor's meaning. dr. strong, david copperfield's second schoolmaster, was fond of quoting this great authority on mischief, but mr. wickfield suggests that dr. watts, had he known mankind well, would also have written 'satan finds some mischief still for busy hands to do.' some years ago a question was raised in _notes and queries_ as to the identity of the 'no. collection' of hymns which appeared to afford consolation to job trotter. no answer was vouchsafed, the fact being that the title is a pure invention, and no such collection has ever existed. it is scarcely necessary to add that history is silent as to the identity of the hymn-book which uriah heep was reading when david copperfield and others visited him in prison. we are indebted to dickens for the introduction to the literary world of adelaide procter, many of whose sacred verses have found their way into our hymnals. the novelist wrote an introduction to her _legends and lyrics_, in which he tells the story of how, as editor of _household words_, he accepted verses sent him from time to time by a miss mary berwick, and only discovered, some months later, that his contributor was the daughter of his friend procter, who was known under the _nom de plume_ of barry cornwall. there seems to be some difficulty in regard to the authorship of the hymn hear my prayer, o heavenly father, ere i lay me down to sleep; bid thy angels, pure and holy, round my bed their vigil keep. it has already been pointed out (see _choir_, february, ) that this hymn appeared in the christmas number of _household words_ for , in a story entitled _the wreck of the golden mary_. the chief authorities on the works of dickens claim it as his composition, and include it in his collected works. on the other hand, miller, in his _our hymns_ ( ), states that miss harriet parr informed him that the hymn, and the story of _poor dick_, in which it occurs, were both her own. we may add that when dr. allon applied for permission to include it in his new hymn-book dickens referred him to the authoress. dr. julian takes this as authoritative, and has no hesitation in ascribing the hymn to miss parr. on the other hand, forster records in his _life of dickens_ that a clergyman, the rev. r.h. davies, had been struck by this hymn when it appeared in _household words_, and wrote to thank him for it. 'i beg to thank you,' dickens answered (christmas eve, ), 'for your very acceptable letter, not the less because i am myself the writer you refer to.' here dickens seems to claim the authorship, but it is possible he was referring to something else in the magazine when he wrote these words, and not to the hymn. [ ] dickens frequently uses the word in this sense. tom pinch says, 'i shall punish the boar's head tremendously.' it is also interesting to note that dickens uses the phrase 'i don't think' in its modern slang meaning on at least two occasions. tom pinch remarks 'i'm a nice man, i don't think, as john used to say' (_m.c._ ), and sam weller (_p.p._ ) says to mr. winkle 'you're a amiably-disposed young man, sir, i don't think.' mark tapley uses the expression 'a pious fraud' (_m.c._ ). [ ] 'pet' (_l.d._ ) was a frequent visitor to the hospital. [ ] from the poem on _industry_. chapter vi songs and some singers the numerous songs and vocal works referred to by dickens in his novels and other writings furnish perhaps the most interesting, certainly the most instructive, branch of this subject. his knowledge of song and ballad literature was extraordinary, and he did not fail to make good use of it. not only are the quotations always well chosen and to the point, but the use of them has greatly added to the interest of such characters as swiveller, micawber, cuttle, and many others, all of whom are of a very musical turn of mind. these songs may be conveniently divided into three classes, the first containing the national and popular airs of the eighteenth century, of which 'rule britannia' and 'sally in our alley' are notable examples. many of these are referred to in the following pages, while a full list will be found on pp. - . i.--_national songs_ there are numerous references to 'rule britannia.' besides those mentioned elsewhere we have the picture of little david copperfield in his dismal home. what evenings when the candles came, and i was expected to employ myself, but not daring to read an entertaining book, pored over some hard-headed, harder-hearted treatise on arithmetic; when the tables of weights and measures set themselves to tunes as 'rule britannia,' or 'away with melancholy'! no wonder he finally went to sleep over them! in _dombey and son_ old sol has a wonderful story of the _charming sally_ being wrecked in the baltic, while the crew sang 'rule britannia' as the ship went down, 'ending with one awful scream in chorus.' walter gives the date of the tragedy as . (the song was written in .) captain cuttle had a theory that 'rule britannia,' 'which the garden angels sang about so many times over,' embodied the outlines of the british constitution. it is perhaps unnecessary to explain that the captain's 'garden angels' appear in the song as 'guardian angels.' mark tapley, when in america, entertained a grey-haired black man by whistling this tune with all his might and main. the entry of martin chuzzlewit caused him to stop the tune at that point where britons generally are supposed to declare (when it is whistled) that they never, never, never-- in the article on 'wapping workhouse' (_u.t._) dickens introduces the first verse of the song in criticizing the workhouse system and its treatment of old people, and in the _american notes_ he tells us that he left canada with 'rule britannia' sounding in his ears. 'british grenadiers,' said mr. bucket to mr. bagnet, 'there's a tune to warm an englishman up! _could_ you give us "british grenadiers," my fine fellow?' and the 'fine fellow,' who was none other than bagnet junior (also known as 'woolwich'), promptly fetches his fife and performs the stirring melody, during which performance mr. bucket, much enlivened, beats time, and never fails to come in sharp with the burden 'brit ish gra-a-anadeers.' our national anthem is frequently referred to. in the description of the public dinner (_s.b.s._ )-- 'god save the queen' is sung by the professional gentlemen, the unprofessional gentlemen joining in the chorus, and giving the national anthem an effect which the newspapers, with great justice, describe as 'perfectly electrical.' on another occasion we are told the company, sang the national anthem with national independence, each one singing it according to his own ideas of time and tune. this is the usual way of singing it at the present day. in addition to those above mentioned we find references to 'the marseillaise' and 'Ça ira,' both of which dickens says he heard in paris. in _little dorrit_ mr. meagles says: as to marseilles, we know what marseilles is. it sent the most insurrectionary tune into the world that was ever composed. without disputing the decided opinion expressed by the speaker, there is no doubt that some would give the palm to 'Ça ira,' which the novelist refers to in one of his letters. the words of this song were adapted in to the tune of 'carillon national.' this was a favourite air of marie antoinette, and she frequently played it on the harpsichord. after her downfall she heard it as a cry of hatred against herself--it followed her from versailles to the capital, and she would hear it from her prison and even when going to her death. when martin chuzzlewit and mark tapley were on their way to america, one of their fellow travellers was an english gentleman who was strongly suspected of having run away from a bank, with something in his possession belonging to its strong-box besides the key [and who] grew eloquent upon the subject of the rights of man, and hummed the marseillaise hymn constantly. in an article on this tune in the _choir_ (nov., ) it is stated that it was composed in at strasburg, but received its name from the fact that a band of soldiers going from marseilles to paris made the new melody their marching tune. a casual note about it appears to be the only musical reference in _a tale of two cities_. from america we have 'hail columbia' and 'yankee doodle.' in _martin chuzzlewit_ we meet the musical coach-driver who played snatches of tunes on the key bugle. a friend of his went to america, and wrote home saying he was always singing 'ale columbia.' in his _american notes_ dickens tells about a cleveland newspaper which announced that america had 'whipped england twice, and that soon they would sing "yankee doodle" in hyde park and "hail columbia" in the scarlet courts of westminster.' ii.--_songs from - _ we then come to a group of songs dating, roughly, from . this includes several popular sea songs by charles dibdin and others, some ballad opera airs, the _irish melodies_ and other songs by thomas moore, and a few sentimental ditties. following these we have the songs of the early victorian period, consisting of more sentimental ditties of a somewhat feebler type, with a few comic and nigger minstrel songs. the task of identifying the numerous songs referred to has been interesting, but by no means easy. no one who has not had occasion to refer to them can have any idea of the hundreds, nay, of the thousands, of song-books that were turned out from the various presses under an infinitude of titles during the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. there is nothing like them at the present day, and the reasons for their publication have long ceased to exist. it should be explained that the great majority of these books contained the words only, very few of them being furnished with the musical notes. dickens has made use of considerably over a hundred different songs. in some cases the references are somewhat obscure, but their elucidation is necessary to a proper understanding of the text. an example of this occurs in chapter ix of _martin chuzzlewit_, where we are told the history of the various names given to the young red-haired boy at mrs. todgers' commercial boarding-house. when the pecksniffs visited the house he was generally known among the gentlemen as bailey junior, a name bestowed upon him in contradistinction perhaps to old bailey, and possibly as involving the recollection of an unfortunate lady of the same name, who perished by her own hand early in life and has been immortalized in a ballad. the song referred to here is 'unfortunate miss bailey,' by george colman, and sung by mr. mathews in the comic opera of _love laughs at locksmiths_. it tells the story of a maid who hung herself, while her persecutor took to drinking ratafia. dickens often refers to these old song-books, either under real or imaginary names. captain cuttle gives 'stanfell's budget' as the authority for one of his songs, and this was probably the song-book that formed one of the ornaments which he placed in the room he was preparing for florence dombey. other common titles are the 'prentice's warbler,' which simon tappertit used, 'fairburn's comic songster,' and the 'little warbler,' which is mentioned two or three times. of the songs belonging to this second period, some are embedded in ballad operas and plays, popular enough in their day, but long since forgotten. an example is mr. jingle's quotation when he tells the blushing rachel that he is going in hurry, post haste for a licence, in hurry, ding dong i come back, though he omitted the last two lines: for that you shan't need bid me twice hence, i'll be here and there in a crack. this verse is sung by lord grizzle in fielding's _tom thumb_, as arranged by kane o'hara. _paul and virginia_ is mentioned by mrs. flora finching (_l.d._) as being one of the things that ought to have been returned to arthur clennam when their engagement was broken off. this was a ballad opera by reeve and mazzinghi, and the opening number is the popular duet 'see from ocean rising,' concerning which there is a humorous passage in 'the steam excursion' (_s.b._), where it is sung by one of the miss tauntons and captain helves. the last-named, 'after a great deal of preparatory crowing and humming,' began in that grunting tone in which a man gets down, heaven knows where, without the remotest chance of ever getting up again. this in private circles is frequently designated a 'bass voice.' [figure ] see from ocean rising bright flame, the orb of day; from yon grove the varied song shall slumber from virginia chase, chase away, slumber from virginia chase, chase away. dickens is not quite correct in this description, as the part of paul was created by incledon, the celebrated tenor, but there are still to be found basses who insist on singing tenor when they think that part wants their assistance. iii.--_contemporary comic songs_ when dickens visited vauxhall (_s.b.s._ ) in , he heard a variety entertainment, to which some reference has already been made. amongst the performers was a comic singer who bore the name of one of the english counties, and who sang a very good song about the seven ages, the first half hour of which afforded the assembly the purest delight. the name of this singer was mr. bedford, though there was also a mr. buckingham in the vauxhall programmes of those days. there are at least four songs, all of them lengthy, though not to the extent dickens suggests, which bear on the subject. they are: .--'all the world's a stage,' a popular medley written by mr. l. rede, and sung by mrs. kelley in the _frolic of the fairies_. .--'paddy mcshane's seven ages,' sung by mr. johnstone at drury lane. .--'the seven ages,' as sung by mr. fuller (eight very long verses). .--'the seven ages of woman,' as sung by mr. harley. you've heard the seven ages of great mister man, and now mistress woman's i'll chaunt, if i can. this was also a very long song, each verse being sung to a different tune. some of these songs are found in a scarce book called _london oddities_ ( ), which also contains 'time of day,' probably the comic duet referred to in _the mistaken milliner_ (_s.b._). this sketch was written in for _bell's life in london_, the original title being _the vocal dressmaker_, and contains an account of a concert (real or imaginary) at the white conduit house. this place of entertainment was situated in penton street, islington, near the top of pentonville road, and when dickens wrote his sketch the place had been in existence nearly a hundred years. early in the nineteenth century it became a place of varied amusements, from balloon ascents to comic songs. dickens visited the place about . the titles of some of the pieces he mentions as having been sung there are real, while others (such as 'red ruffian, retire') appear to be invented. of a different kind is the one sung by the giant pickleson, known in the profession as rinaldo di vasco, a character introduced to us by dr. marigold. i gave him sixpence (for he was kept as short as he was long), and he laid it out on two three penn'orths of gin-and-water, which so brisked him up that he sang the favourite comic of 'shivery shakey, ain't it cold?' perhaps in no direction does the taste of the british public change so rapidly and so completely as in their idea of humour as depicted in the comic song, and it is unlikely that what passed for humour sixty years ago would appeal to an audience of the present day. the song here referred to had a great though brief popularity. this is the first verse: the man that couldn't get warm. _words by j. beuler._ _accompaniment by j. clinton._ all you who're fond in spite of price of pastry, cream and jellies nice be cautious how you take an ice whenever you're overwarm. a merchant who from india came, and shiverand shakey was his name, a pastrycook's did once entice to take a cooling, luscious ice, the weather, hot enough to kill, kept tempting him to eat, until it gave his corpus such a chill he never again felt warm. shiverand shakey o, o, o, criminy crikey! isn't it cold, woo, woo, woo, oo, oo, behold the man that couldn't get warm. some people affect to despise a comic song, but there are instances where a good specimen has helped to make history, or has added a popular phrase to our language. an instance of the latter is macdermott's 'jingo' song 'we don't want to fight but by jingo if we do.' an illustration of the former comes from the coal strike of march, , during which period the price of that commodity only once passed the figure it reached in , as we gather from the old song 'look at the price of coals.' we don't know what's to be done, they're forty-two shillings a ton. there are two interesting references in a song which mrs. jarley's poet adapted to the purposes of the waxwork exhibition, 'if i'd a donkey as wouldn't go.' the first verse of the song is as follows: if i'd a donkey wot wouldn't go, d'ye think i'd wollop him? no, no, no; but gentle means i'd try, d'ye see, because i hate all cruelty. if all had been like me in fact, there'd ha' been no occasion for martin's act dumb animals to prevent getting crackt on the head, for-- if i had a donkey wot wouldn't go, i never would wollop him, no, no, no; i'd give him some hay, and cry gee o, and come up neddy. the singer then meets 'bill burns,' who, 'while crying out his greens,' is ill-treating his donkey. on being interfered with, bill burns says, 'you're one of these mr. martin chaps.' then there was a fight, when the 'new police' came up and 'hiked' them off before the magistrate. there is a satisfactory ending, and 'bill got fin'd.' here is a reminder that we are indebted to mr. martin, m.p., for initiating the movement which resulted in the 'royal society for the prevention of cruelty to animals' being established in . two years previously parliament had passed what is known as martin's act ( ), which was the first step taken by this or any other country for the protection of animals. in scene of _sketches by boz_ there is a mention of 'the renowned mr. martin, of costermonger notoriety.' the reference to the new police act reminds us that the london police force was remodelled by mr. (afterwards sir robert) peel in . hence the date of the song will be within a year or two of this. mr. reginald wilfer (_o.m.f._) owed his nickname to the conventional chorus of some of the comic songs of the period. being a modest man, he felt unable to live up to the grandeur of his christian name, so he always signed himself 'r. wilfer.' hence his neighbours provided him with all sorts of fancy names beginning with r, but his popular name was rumty, which a 'gentleman of convivial habits connected with the drug market' had bestowed upon him, and which was derived from the burden-- rumty iddity, row dow dow, sing toodlely teedlely, bow wow wow. the third decade of the nineteenth century saw the coming of the christy minstrels. one of the earliest of the so-called 'negro' impersonators was t.d. rice, whose song 'jim crow' (_a.n._) took england by storm. it is useless to attempt to account for the remarkable popularity of this and many another favourite, but the fact remains that the song sold by thousands. in this case it may have been due to the extraordinary antics of the singer, for the words certainly do not carry weight (see p. ). rice made his first appearance at the surrey theatre in , when he played in a sketch entitled _bone squash diabolo_, in which he took the part of 'jim crow.' the song soon went all over england, and 'jim crow' hats and pipes were all the rage, while _punch_ caricatured a statesman who changed his opinions on some question of the day as the political 'jim crow.' to this class also belongs the song 'buffalo gals' (see p. ). amongst the contents of the shop window at the watering-place referred to in _out of the season_ was every polka with a coloured frontispiece that ever was published; from the original one, where a smooth male or female pole of high rank are coming at the observer with their arms akimbo, to the 'ratcatcher's daughter.' this last piece is of some slight interest from the fact that certain people have claimed that the hymn-tune 'belmont' is derived therefrom. we give the first four lines, and leave our readers to draw their own conclusions. it is worth while stating that the first appearance of the hymn-tune took place soon after the song became popular.[ ] [figure ] in westminster, not long ago, there lived a ratcatcher's daughter; she was not born in westminster but on t'other side of the water. _some singers_ in the _pickwick papers_ we have at least three original poems. wardle's carol-- i care not for spring; on his fickle wing let the blossoms and buds be borne-- has been set to music, but dickens always preferred that it should be sung to the tune of 'old king cole,' though a little ingenuity is required to make it fit in. the 'wild and beautiful legend,' bold turpin vunce, on hounslow heath his bold mare bess bestrode--er, with which sam weller favoured a small but select company on a memorable occasion appears to have been overlooked by composers until sir frederick bridge set it to excellent music. it will be remembered that sam intimated that he was not wery much in the habit o' singin' without the instrument; but anythin' for a quiet life, as the man said wen he took the sitivation at the lighthouse. sam was certainly more obliging than another member of the company, the 'mottled-faced' gentleman, who, when asked to sing, sturdily and somewhat offensively declined to do so. we also find references to other crusty individuals who flatly refuse to exercise their talents, as, for instance, after the accident to the coach which was conveying nicholas nickleby and squeers to yorkshire. in response to the call for a song to pass the time away, some protest they cannot, others wish they could, others can do nothing without the book, while the 'very fastidious lady entirely ignored the invitation to give them some little italian thing out of the last opera.' a somewhat original plea for refusing to sing when asked is given by the chairman of the musical gathering at the magpie and stump (_p.p._). when asked why he won't enliven the company he replies, 'i only know one song, and i have sung it already, and it's a fine of glasses round to sing the same song twice in one night.' doubtless he was deeply thankful to mr. pickwick for changing the subject. at another gathering of a similar nature, we are told about a man who knew a song of seven verses, but he couldn't recall them at the moment, so he sang the first verse seven times. there is no record as to what the comic duets were that sam weller and bob sawyer sang in the dickey of the coach that was taking the party to birmingham, and this suggests what a number of singers of all kinds are referred to, though no mention is made of their songs. what was little nell's repertoire? it must have been an extensive one according to the man in the boat (_o.c.s._ ). 'you've got a very pretty voice' ... said this gentleman ... 'let me hear a song this minute.' 'i don't think i know one, sir,' returned nell. 'you know forty-seven songs,' said the man, with a gravity which admitted of no altercation on the subject. 'forty-seven's your number.' and so the poor little maid had to keep her rough companions in good humour all through the night. then tiny tim had a song about a lost child travelling in the snow; the miner sang a christmas song--'it had been a very old song when he was a boy,' while the man in the lighthouse (_c.c._) consoled himself in his solitude with a 'sturdy' ditty. what was john browdie's north-country song? (_n.n._). all we are told is that he took some time to consider the words, in which operation his wife assisted him, and then began to roar a meek sentiment (supposed to be uttered by a gentle swain fast pining away with love and despair) in a voice of thunder. the miss pecksniffs used to come singing into the room, but their songs are unrecorded, as well as those that florence dombey used to sing to paul, to his great delight. what was the song miss mills sang to david copperfield and dora about the slumbering echoes in the cavern of memory; as if she was a hundred years old. when we first meet mark tapley he is singing merrily, and there are dozens of others who sing either for their own delight or to please others. even old fips, of austin friars, the dry-as-dust lawyer, sang songs to the delight of the company gathered round the festive board in martin chuzzlewit's rooms in the temple. truly dickens must have loved music greatly himself to have distributed such a love of it amongst his characters. it is not to be expected that sampson brass would be musical, and we are not surprised when on an occasion already referred to we find him humming in a voice that was anything but musical certain vocal snatches which appeared to have reference to the union between church and state, inasmuch as they were compounded of the evening hymn and 'god save the king.' whatever music he had in him must have been of a sub-conscious nature, for shortly afterwards he affirms that the still small voice is a-singing comic songs within me, and all is happiness and joy. his sister sally is not a songster, nor is quilp, though he quotes 'sally in our alley' in reference to the former. all we know about his musical attainments is that he occasionally entertained himself with a melodious howl, intended for a song but bearing not the faintest resemblance to any scrap of any piece of music, vocal or instrumental, ever invented by man. bass singers, and especially the basso profundos, will be glad to know that dickens pays more attention to them than to the other voices, though it must be acknowledged that the references are of a humorous nature. 'bass!' as the young gentleman in one of the _sketches_ remarks to his companion about the little man in the chair, 'bass! i believe you. he can go down lower than any man; so low sometimes that you can't hear him.' and so he does. to hear him growling away, gradually lower and lower down, till he can't get back again, is the most delightful thing in the world. of similar calibre is the voice of captain helves, already referred to on p. . topper, who had his eye on one of scrooge's niece's sisters (_c.c._), could growl away in the bass like a good one, and never swell the large veins in his forehead or get red in the face over it. dickens must certainly have had much experience of basses, as he seems to know their habits and eccentricities so thoroughly. in fact it seems to suggest that at some unknown period of his career, hitherto unchronicled by his biographers, he must have been a choirmaster. he also shows a knowledge of the style of song the basses delighted in at the harmony meetings in which the collegians at the marshalsea[ ] used to indulge. occasionally a vocal strain more sonorous than the generality informed the listener that some boastful bass was in blue water or the hunting field, or with the reindeer, or on the mountain, or among the heather, but the marshal of the marshalsea knew better, and had got him hard and fast. we are not told what the duet was that dickens heard at vauxhall, but the description is certainly vivid enough: it was a beautiful duet; first the small gentleman asked a question and then the tall lady answered it; then the small gentleman and the tall lady sang together most melodiously; then the small gentleman went through a little piece of vehemence by himself, and got very tenor indeed, in the excitement of his feelings, to which the tall lady responded in a similar manner; then the small gentleman had a shake or two, after which the tall lady had the same, and then they both merged imperceptibly into the original air. our author is quite impartial in his distribution of his voices. in _p.p._ we read of a boy of fourteen who was a tenor (not the fat boy), while the quality of the female voices is usually left to the imagination. if mrs. plornish (_l.d._) is to be believed, her father, mr. john edward nandy, was a remarkable singer. he was a poor little reedy piping old gentleman, like a worn-out bird, who had been in what he called the music-binding business. but mrs. p. was very proud of her father's talents, and in response to her invitation, 'sing us a song, father,' then would he give them chloe, and if he were in pretty good spirits, phyllis also--strephon he had hardly been up to since he went into retirement--and then would mrs. plornish declare she did believe there never was such a singer as father, and wipe her eyes. old nandy evidently favoured the eighteenth-century songs, in which the characters here referred to were constantly occurring. at a subsequent period of his history nandy's vocal efforts surprised even his daughter. 'you never heard father in such voice as he is at present,' said mrs. plornish, her own voice quavering, she was so proud and pleased. 'he gave us strephon last night, to that degree that plornish gets up and makes him this speech across the table, "john edward nandy," says plornish to father, "i never heard you come the warbles as i have heard you come the warbles this night." ain't it gratifying, mr. pancks, though; really.' the mr. pancks here referred to did not mind taking his part in a bit of singing. he says, in reference to a 'harmony evening' at the marshalsea: 'i am spending the evening with the rest of 'em,' said pancks. 'i've been singing. i've been taking a part in "white sand and grey sand." i don't know anything about it. never mind. i'll take part in anything, it's all the same, if you're loud enough.' here we have a round of considerable antiquity, though the date and author are alike unknown. [figure ] or [figure ] white sand and grey sand: who'll buy my white sand? who'll buy my grey sand? _glee-singing_ a feature of the harmonic meetings at the 'sol' (_b.h._) was the performance of little swills, who, after entertaining the company with comic songs, took the 'gruff line' in a concerted piece, and adjured 'his friends to listen, listen, listen to the wa-ter-fall!' little swills was also an adept at 'patter and gags.' glee and catch singing was a feature at the christmas party given by scrooge's nephew, for 'they were a musical family, and knew what they were about.' this remark can scarcely be applied to the malderton family, who, assisted by the redoubtable mr. horatio sparkins, tried over glees and trios without number; they having made the pleasing discovery that their voices harmonized beautifully. to be sure, they all sang the first part; and horatio, in addition to the slight drawback of having no ear, was perfectly innocent of knowing a note of music; still, they passed the time very agreeably. glee-singing seems to have been a feature in the social life of cloisterham (_e.d._). 'we shall miss you, jasper' (said mr. crisparkle), 'at the "alternate musical wednesdays" to-night; but no doubt you are best at home. good-night, god bless you. "tell me shepherds te-e-ell me: tell me-e-e have you seen (have you seen, have you seen, have you seen) my-y-y flo-o-ora-a pass this way!"' it was a different kind of glee party that left the blue boar after the festivities in connexion with pip's indentures (_g.e._). they were all in excellent spirits on the road home, and sang 'o lady fair,' mr. wopsle taking the bass, and assisting with a tremendously strong voice (in reply to the inquisitive bore who leads that piece of music in a most impertinent manner by wanting to know all about everybody's private affairs) that _he_ was the man with his white locks flowing, and that he was upon the whole the weakest pilgrim going. perhaps the most remarkable glee party that dickens gives us is the one organized by the male boarders at mrs. todgers', with a view to serenading the two miss pecksniffs. it was very affecting, very. nothing more dismal could have been desired by the most fastidious taste. the gentleman of a vocal turn was head mute, or chief mourner; jinkins took the bass, and the rest took anything they could get.... if the two miss pecksniffs and mrs. todgers had perished by spontaneous combustion, and the serenade had been in honour of their ashes, it would have been impossible to surpass the unutterable despair expressed in that one chorus: 'go where glory waits thee.' it was a requiem, a dirge, a moan, a howl, a wail, a lament, an abstract of everything that is sorrowful and hideous in sound. the song which the literary boarder had written for the occasion, 'all hail to the vessel of pecksniff, the sire,' is a parody of scott's 'all hail to the chief who in triumph advances,' from the _lady of the lake_. two words that by themselves have a musical meaning are 'chaunter' and 'drums'; but the chaunter referred to is one of edward dorrit's creditors, and the word means 'not a singer of anthems, but a seller of horses.' to this profession also simpson belonged, on whom mr. pickwick was 'chummed' in the fleet prison. a 'drum' is referred to in the description of the london streets at night in _barnaby rudge_, and signifies a rout or evening party for cards; while one where stakes ran high and much noise accompanied the play was known as a 'drum major.' in _our bore_ (_r.p._) this sentence occurs: he was at the norwich musical festival when the extraordinary echo, for which science has been wholly unable to account, was heard for the first and last time. he and the bishop heard it at the same moment, and caught each other's eye. dr. a.h. mann, who knows as much about norwich and its festivals as any one, is quite unable to throw any light on this mystic remark. there were complaints about the acoustics of the st. andrew's hall many years ago, but there appears to be no historic foundation for dickens' reference. it would certainly be interesting to know what suggested the idea to him. there is a curious incident connected with uncle dick, whose great ambition was 'to beat the drum.' it was only by a mere chance that his celebrated reference to king charles's head got into the story. dickens originally wrote as follows (in chapter , _d.c._): 'do you recollect the date,' said mr. dick, looking earnestly at me, and taking up his pen to note it down, 'when the bull got into the china warehouse and did so much mischief?' in the proof dickens struck out all the words after 'when,' and inserted in their place the following: 'king charles the first had his head cut off?' i said i believed it happened in the year sixteen hundred and forty-nine. 'well,' returned mr. dick, scratching his ear with his pen and looking dubiously at me, 'so the books say, but i don't see how that can be. because if it was so long ago, how could the people about him have made that mistake of putting some of the trouble out of his head, after it was taken off, into mine?' the whole of the substituted passage is inserted in the margin at the bottom of the page. again, when mr. dick shows david copperfield his kite covered with manuscript, david was made to say in the proof: 'i thought i saw some allusion to the bull again in one or two places.' here dickens has struck through the words, 'the bull,' and replaced them with 'king charles the first's head.' the original reference was to a very popular song of the period called 'the bull in the china shop,' words by c. dibdin, junior, and music by w. reeve. produced about , it was popularized by the celebrated clown grimaldi. the first verse is: you've heard of a frog in an opera hat, 'tis a very old tale of a mouse and a rat, i could sing you another as pleasant, mayhap, of a kitten that wore a high caul cap; but my muse on a far nobler subject shall drop, of a bull who got into a china shop, with his right leg, left leg, upper leg, under leg, st. patrick's day in the morning. [ ] mr. alfred payne writes thus: 'some time ago an old friend told me that he had heard from a hertfordshire organist that dr. w.h. monk (editor of _hymns ancient and modern_) adapted "belmont" from the highly classical melody of which a few bars are given above. monk showed this gentleman the notes, being the actual arrangement he had made from this once popular song, back in the fifties. this certainly coincides with its appearance in severn's _islington collection_, .'--see _hymn-tunes and their story_, p. . [ ] the marshalsea was a debtors' prison formerly situated in southwark. it was closed about the middle of the last century, and demolished in . chapter vii some noted singers _the micawbers_ dickens presents us with such an array of characters who reckon singing amongst their various accomplishments that it is difficult to know where to begin. perhaps the marvellous talents of the micawber family entitle them to first place. mrs. micawber was famous for her interpretation of 'the dashing white sergeant' and 'little taffline' when she lived at home with her papa and mamma, and it was her rendering of these songs that gained her a spouse, for, as mr. micawber told copperfield, when he heard her sing the first one, on the first occasion of his seeing her beneath the parental roof, she had attracted his attention in an extraordinary degree, but that when it came to 'little tafflin,' he had resolved to win that woman or perish in the attempt. it will be remembered that mr. bucket (_b.h._) gained a wife by a similar display of vocal talent. after singing 'believe me, if all those endearing young charms,' he informs his friend mrs. bagnet that this ballad was his most powerful ally in moving the heart of mrs. bucket when a maiden, and inducing her to approach the altar. mr. bucket's own words are 'to come up to the scratch.' mrs. micawber's 'little taffline' was a song in storace's ballad opera _three and the deuce_, words by prince hoare. it will be interesting to see what the song which helped to mould micawber's fate was like. little taffline. [figure ] should e'er the fortune be my lot to be made a wealthy bride, i'll glad my parents' lowly cot, all their pleasure and their pride: and when i'm drest all in my best, i'll trip away like lady gay, i'll trip, i'll trip away. and the lads will say, dear heart, what a flash! look at little taffline with a silken sash, and the lads will say, dear heart, what a flash! and the lads will say, dear heart, what a flash! look at little taffline, look at little taffline, oh, look at little taffline with the silken sash! there was also a character called little taffline in t. dibdin's _st. david's day_, the music for which was compiled and composed by thomas attwood, organist of st. paul's cathedral. her other song, 'the dashing white sergeant,' was a martial and very popular setting of some words by general burgoyne. micawber could both sing and hum, and when music failed him he fell back on quotations. as he was subject to extremes of depression and elevation it was nothing unusual for him to commence a saturday evening in tears and finish up with singing 'about jack's delight being his lovely nan' towards the end of it. here we gather that one of his favourite songs was c. dibdin's 'lovely nan,' containing these two lines: but oh, much sweeter than all these is jack's delight, his lovely nan. his musical powers made him useful at the club-room in the king's bench, where david discovered him leading the chorus of 'gee up, dobbin.' this would be 'mr. doggett's comicall song' in the farce _the stage coach_, containing the lines-- with a hey gee up, gee up, hay ho; with a hay gee, dobbin, hey ho! 'auld lang syne' was another of mr. micawber's favourites, and when david joined the worthy pair in their lodgings at canterbury they sang it with much energy. to use micawber's words-- when we came to 'here's a hand, my trusty frere' we all joined hands round the table; and when we declared we would 'take a right gude willie waught,' and hadn't the least idea what it meant, we were really affected. the memory of this joyous evening recurred to mr. m. at a later date, after the feast in david's rooms, and he calls to mind how they had sung we twa had run about the braes and pu'd the gowans fine. he confesses his ignorance as to what gowans are, but i have no doubt that copperfield and myself would frequently have taken a pull at them, if it had been feasible. in the last letter he writes he makes a further quotation from the song. on another occasion, however, under the stress of adverse circumstances he finds consolation in a verse from 'scots, wha hae',' while at the end of the long epistle in which he disclosed the infamy of uriah heep, he claims to have it said of him, 'as of a gallant and eminent naval hero,' that what he has done, he did for england, home, and beauty. 'the death of nelson,' from which this line comes, had a long run of popularity. braham, the composer, was one of the leading tenors of the day, and thus had the advantage of being able to introduce his own songs to the public. the novelist's dictum that 'composers can very seldom sing their own music or anybody else's either' (_p.p._ ) may be true in the main, but scarcely applies to braham, who holds very high rank amongst english tenors. another song which he wrote with the title 'the victory and death of lord viscount nelson' met with no success. the one quoted by micawber was naturally one of captain cuttle's favourites, and it is also made use of by silas wegg. the musical gifts of mr. and mrs. micawber descended to their son wilkins, who had 'a remarkable head voice,' but having failed to get into the cathedral choir at canterbury, he had to take to singing in public-houses instead of in sacred edifices. his great song appears to have been 'the woodpecker tapping.' when the family emigrated mr. m. expressed the hope that 'the melody of my son will be acceptable at the galley fire' on board ship. the final glimpse we get of him is at port middlebay, where he delights a large assembly by his rendering of 'non nobis' (see p. ), and by his dancing with the fourth daughter of mr. mell. the 'woodpecker' song is referred to in an illustrative way by mrs. finching (_l.d._), who says that her papa is sitting prosily breaking his new-laid egg in the back parlour like the woodpecker tapping. _captain cuttle_ captain cuttle is almost as full of melody as micawber, though his repertoire is chiefly confined to naval ditties. his great song is 'lovely peg,' and his admiration for florence dombey induces him to substitute her name in the song, though the best he can accomplish is 'lovely fleg.' there are at least three eighteenth-century ballads with peg, or lovely peg, for the subject, and it is not certain which of these the captain favoured. this is one of them: once more i'll tune the vocal shell, to hills and dales my passion tell, a flame which time can never quell, that burns for lovely peggy. then comes this tuneful refrain: [figure ] lovely peggy, lovely peggy, lovely, lovely, lovely peggy; the heav'ns should sound with echoes rung in praise of lovely peggy. the two others of this period that i have seen are called 'peggy' and 'lovely peggy, an imitation.' however, it is most probable that the one that the captain favoured--in spite of the mixture of names--was c. dibdin's 'lovely polly.' lovely polly [figure ] a seaman's love is void of art, plain sailing to his port the heart; he knows no jealous folly, he knows no jealous folly. 'tis hard enough at sea to war with boist'rous elements that jar-- all's peace with lovely polly, all's peace with lovely polly, with lovely polly, lovely polly, all's peace with lovely polly. dickens was very familiar with dibdin's songs, while the eighteenth-century ones referred to he probably never heard of, as they are very rarely found. the worthy captain enjoys a good rollicking song, preferably of a patriotic turn, but is very unreliable as to the sources of his ditties. 'wal'r, my boy,' replied the captain, 'in the proverbs of solomon you will find the following words, "may we never want a friend in need, nor a bottle to give him!" when found, made a note of.' this is taken from a song by j. davy, known as 'since the first dawn of reason,' and was sung by incledon. since the first dawn of reason that beam'd on my mind, and taught me how favoured by fortune my lot, to share that good fortune i still am inclined, and impart to who wanted what i wanted not. it's a maxim entitled to every one's praise, when a man feels distress, like a man to relieve him; and my motto, though simple, means more than it says, 'may we ne'er want a friend or a bottle to give him.' he is equally unreliable as to the source of a still more famous song. when florence dombey goes to see him the captain intimates his intention of standing by old sol gills, 'and not desert until death do us part, and when the stormy winds do blow, do blow, do blow--overhaul the catechism,' said the captain parenthetically, 'and there you'll find these expressions.' i have not heard of any church that has found it necessary to include this old refrain in its catechism, nor even to mix it up with the wedding service. a further mixture of quotations occurs when he is talking of florence on another occasion. speaking of the supposed death of walter he says, though lost to sight, to memory dear, and england, home, and beauty. the first part--which is one of cuttle's favourite quotations--is the first line of a song by g. linley. he composed a large number of operas and songs, many of which were very popular. the second part of the quotation is from braham's 'death of nelson' (see p. ). in conversation with his friend bunsby, cuttle says-- give me the lad with the tarry trousers as shines to me like di'monds bright, for which you'll overhaul the 'stanfell's budget,' and when found make a note. elsewhere he mentions fairburn's 'comic songster' and the 'little warbler' as his song authorities. the song referred to here is classed by dr. vaughan williams amongst essex folk-songs, but it is by no means confined to that county. it tells of a mother who wants her daughter to marry a tailor, and not wait for her sailor bold. my mother wants me to wed with a tailor and not give me my heart's delight; but give me the man with the tarry trousers, that shines to me like diamonds bright. after the firm of dombey has decided to send walter to barbados, the boy discusses his prospects with his friend the captain, and finally bursts into song-- how does that tune go that the sailors sing? for the port of barbados, boys! cheerily! leaving old england behind us, boys! cheerily! here the captain roared in chorus, oh cheerily, cheerily! oh cheer-i-ly! all efforts to trace this song have failed, and for various reasons i am inclined to think that dickens made up the lines to fit the occasion; while the words 'oh cheerily, cheerily' are a variant of a refrain common in sea songs, and the captain teaches rob the grinder to sing it at a later period of the story. the arguments against the existence of such a song are: first, that the dombey firm have already decided to send the boy to barbados, and as there is no song suitable, the novelist invents one; and in the second place there has never been a time in the history of barbados to give rise to such a song as this, and no naval expedition of any consequence has ever been sent there. it is perhaps unnecessary to urge that there is no such place as the 'port of barbados.' _dick swiveller_ none of dickens' characters has such a wealth of poetical illustration at command as mr. richard swiveller. he lights up the brass office 'with scraps of song and merriment,' and when he is taking kit's mother home in a depressed state after the trial he does his best to entertain her with 'astonishing absurdities in the way of quotation from song and poem.' from the time of his introduction, when he 'obliged the company with a few bars of an intensely dismal air,' to when he expresses his gratitude to the marchioness-- and she shall walk in silk attire, and siller have to spare-- there is scarcely a scene in which he is present when he does not illumine his remarks by quotations of some kind or other, though there are certainly a few occasions when his listeners are not always able to appreciate their aptness. for instance in the scene between swiveller and the single gentleman, after the latter has been aroused from his slumbers, and has intimated he is not to be disturbed again. 'i beg your pardon,' said dick, halting in his passage to the door, which the lodger prepared to open, 'when he who adores thee has left but the name--' 'what do you mean?' 'but the name,' said dick, 'has left but the name--in case of letters or parcels--' 'i never have any,' said the lodger. 'or in case anybody should call.' 'nobody ever calls on me.' 'if any mistake should arise from not having the name, don't say it was my fault, sir,' added dick, still lingering; 'oh, blame not the bard--' 'i'll blame nobody,' said the lodger. but that mr. swiveller's knowledge of songs should be both 'extensive and peculiar' is only to be expected from one who held the distinguished office of 'perpetual grand master of the glorious apollers,' although he seems to have been more in the habit of quoting extracts from them than of giving vocal illustrations. on one occasion, however, we find him associated with mr. chuckster 'in a fragment of the popular duet of "all's well" with a long shake at the end.' the following extract illustrates the 'shake': all's well (duet). _sung by mr. braham and mr. charles braham._ _music by mr. braham._ [figure ] all's well, all's well; above, below, all, all's well. although most of swiveller's quotations are from songs, he does not always confine himself to them, as for instance, when he sticks his fork into a large carbuncular potato and reflects that 'man wants but little here below,' which seems to show that in his quieter moments he had studied goldsmith's _hermit_. mr. swiveller's quotations are largely connected with his love-passages with sophy wackles, and they are so carefully and delicately graded that they practically cover the whole ground in the rise and decline of his affections. he begins by suggesting that 'she's all my fancy painted her.' from this he passes to she's like the red, red rose, that's newly sprung in june. she's also like a melody, that's sweetly played in tune. then when the heart of a man is depressed with fears, the mist is dispelled when miss wackles appears, which is his own variant of if the heart of a man is depressed with care, the mist is dispelled when a woman appears. but at the party given by the wackleses dick finds he is cut out by mr. cheggs, and so makes his escape saying, as he goes-- my boat is on the shore, and my bark is on the sea; but before i pass this door, i will say farewell to thee, and he subsequently adds-- miss wackles, i believed you true, and i was blessed in so believing; but now i mourn that e'er i knew a girl so fair, yet so deceiving. the _dénouement_ occurs some time after, when, in the course of an interview with quilp, he takes from his pocket a small and very greasy parcel, slowly unfolding it, and displaying a little slab of plum cake, extremely indigestible in appearance and bordered with a paste of sugar an inch and a half deep. 'what should you say this was?' demanded mr. swiveller. 'it looks like bride-cake,' replied the dwarf, grinning. 'and whose should you say it was?' inquired mr. swiveller, rubbing the pastry against his nose with dreadful calmness. 'whose?' 'not--' 'yes,' said dick, 'the same. you needn't mention her name. there's no such name now. her name is cheggs now, sophy cheggs. yet loved i as man never loved that hadn't wooden legs, and my heart, my heart is breaking for the love of sophy cheggs.' with this extemporary adaptation of a popular ballad to the distressing circumstances of his own case, mr. swiveller folded up the parcel again, beat it very flat upon the palms of his hands, thrust it into his breast, buttoned his coat over it, and folded his arms upon the whole. and then he signifies his grief by pinning a piece of crape on his hat, saying as he did so, 'twas ever thus: from childhood's hour i've seen my fondest hopes decay; i never loved a tree or flower but 'twas the first to fade away; i never nursed a dear gazelle, to glad me with its soft black eye, but when it came to know me well, and love me, it was sure to marry a market gardener. he is full of song when entertaining the marchioness. 'do they often go where glory waits 'em?' he asks, on hearing that sampson and sally brass have gone out for the evening. he accepts the statement that miss brass thinks him a 'funny chap' by affirming that 'old king cole was a merry old soul'; and on taking his leave of the little slavey he says, 'good night, marchioness. fare thee well, and if for ever then for ever fare thee well--and put up the chain, marchioness, in case of accidents. since life like a river is flowing, i care not how fast it rolls on, ma'am, while such purl on the bank still is growing, and such eyes light the waves as they run.' on a later occasion, after enjoying some games of cards he retires to rest in a deeply contemplative mood. 'these rubbers,' said mr. swiveller, putting on his nightcap in exactly the same style as he wore his hat, 'remind me of the matrimonial fireside. cheggs's wife plays cribbage; all-fours likewise. she rings the changes on 'em now. from sport to sport they hurry her, to banish her regrets; and when they win a smile from her they think that she forgets--but she don't.' many of mr. swiveller's quotations are from moore's _irish melodies_, though he has certainly omitted one which, coming from him, would not have been out of place, viz. 'the time i've lost in wooing'! on another occasion swiveller recalls some well-known lines when talking to kit. 'an excellent woman, that mother of yours, christopher,' said mr. swiveller; '"who ran to catch me when i fell, and kissed the place to make it well? my mother."' this is from ann taylor's nursery song, which has probably been more parodied than any other poem in existence. there is a french version by madame à taslie, and it has most likely been translated into other languages. dick gives us another touching reference to his mother. he is overcome with curiosity to know in what part of the brass establishment the marchioness has her abode. my mother must have been a very inquisitive woman; i have no doubt i'm marked with a note of interrogation somewhere. my feelings i smother, but thou hast been the cause of this anguish, my-- this last remark is a memory of t.h. bayly's celebrated song 'we met,' which tells in somewhat incoherent language the story of a maiden who left her true love at the command of her mother, and married for money. the world may think me gay, for my feelings i smother; oh _thou_ hast been the cause of this anguish--my mother. t. haynes bayly was a prominent song-writer some seventy years ago ( - ). his most popular ballad was 'i'd be a butterfly.' it came out with a coloured title-page, and at once became the rage, in fact, as john hullah said, 'half musical england was smitten with an overpowering, resistless rage for metempsychosis.' there were many imitations, such as 'i'd be a nightingale' and 'i'd be an antelope.' _teachers and composers_ although we read so much about singers, the singing-master is rarely introduced, in fact mr. m'choakumchild (_h.t._), who 'could teach everything from vocal music to general cosmography,' almost stands alone. however, in view of the complaints of certain adjudicators about the facial distortions they beheld at musical competitions, it may be well to record mrs. general's recipe for giving 'a pretty form to the lips' (_l.d._). papa, potatoes, poultry, prunes, and prism are all very good words for the lips, especially prunes and prism. you will find it serviceable in the formation of a demeanour. nor do composers receive much attention, but amongst the characters we may mention mr. skimpole (_b.h._), who composed half an opera, and the lamp porter at mugby junction, who composed 'little comic songs-like.' in this category we can scarcely include mrs. kenwigs, who 'invented and composed' her eldest daughter's name, the result being 'morleena.' mr. skimpole, however, has a further claim upon our attention, as he 'played what he composed with taste,' and was also a performer on the violoncello. he had his lighter moments, too, as when he went to the piano one evening at p.m. and rattled hilariously that the best of all ways to lengthen our days was to steal a few hours from night, my dear! it is evident that his song was 'the young may moon,' one of moore's _irish melodies_. the young may moon is beaming, love, the glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love, how sweet to rove through morna's grove while the drowsy world is dreaming, love! then awake--the heavens look bright, my dear! 'tis never too late for delight, my dear! and the best of all ways to lengthen our days is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear! _silas wegg's effusions_ we first meet silas wegg in the fifth chapter of _our mutual friend_, where he is introduced to us as a ballad-monger. his intercourse with his employer, mr. boffin, is a frequent cause of his dropping into poetry, and most of his efforts are adaptations of popular songs. his character is not one that arouses any sympathetic enthusiasm, and probably no one is sorry when towards the end of the story sloppy seizes hold of the mean little creature, carries him out of the house, and deposits him in a scavenger's cart 'with a prodigious splash.' the following are wegg's poetical effusions, with their sources and original forms. book i, ch. . 'beside that cottage door, mr. boffin,' from 'the soldier's tear' _alexander lee_ beside that cottage porch a girl was on her knees; she held aloft a snowy scarf which fluttered in the breeze. she breath'd a prayer for him, a prayer he could not hear; but he paused to bless her as she knelt, and wip'd away a tear. book i, ch. . the gay, the gay and festive scene, i'll tell thee how the maiden wept, mrs. boffin. from 'the light guitar.' (see index of songs.) book i, ch. . 'thrown on the wide world, doomed to wander and roam.' from 'the peasant boy' _j. parry_ thrown on the wide world, doom'd to wander and roam, bereft of his parents, bereft of his home, a stranger to pleasure, to comfort and joy, behold little edmund, the poor peasant boy. book i, ch. . 'weep for the hour.' from 'eveleen's bower' _t. moore_ oh! weep for the hour when to eveleen's bower the lord of the valley with false vows came. book i, ch . 'then farewell, my trim-built wherry.' from 'the waterman' _c. dibdin_ book ii, ch. . 'helm a-weather, now lay her close.' from 'the tar for all weathers' _unknown_ book iii, ch. . 'no malice to dread, sir.' from verse of 'my ain fireside.' words by _mrs. e. hamilton_ nae falsehood to dread, nae malice to fear, but truth to delight me, and kindness to cheer; o' a' roads to pleasure that ever were tried, there's nane half so sure as one's own fireside. my ain fireside, my ain fireside, oh sweet is the blink o' my ain fireside. book iii, ch. . and you needn't, mr. venus, be your black bottle, for surely i'll be mine, and we'll take a glass with a slice of lemon in it, to which you're partial, for auld lang syne. a much altered version of verse of burns' celebrated song. book iii, ch. . charge, chester, charge, on mr. venus, on. from scott's _marmion_. book iv, ch. . 'if you'll come to the bower i've shaded for you.' from 'will you come to the bower' _t. moore_ will you come to the bower i've shaded for you, our bed shall be roses, all spangled with dew. will you, will you, will you, will you come to the bower? will you, will you, will you, will you come to the bower? a list of songs and instrumental music mentioned by dickens with historical notes _the figures in brackets denote the chapter in the novel referred to_ a cobbler there was (_d. & s._ ) a cobbler there was, and he lived in a stall, which serv'd him for parlour, for kitchen and hall, no coin in his pocket, nor care in his pate, no ambition had he, nor no duns at his gate, derry down, down, down, derry down. the melody appeared in _beggar's opera_, , and _fashionable lady_, . a frog he would (_p.p._ ) the theme of the ballad belongs to the late sixteenth century. a frog he would a-wooing go, heigho! said rowley, whether his mother would let him or no, with his rowly powly, gammon and spinnage, o heigh! said anthony rowley. we are told that jack hopkins sang 'the king, god bless him,' to a novel air, compounded of 'the bay of biscay' and 'a frog he would.' the latter was evidently the modern setting by c.e. horn. alice gray see 'yet lov'd i.' all hail to the vessel of pecksniff the sire (_m.c._ ) perhaps a parody on 'all hail to the chief.' all in the downs (_p.p._ ) see 'black-eyed susan.' all's well (_o.c.s._ ). see p. . duet in _the english fleet_. (_t. dibdin_) _j. braham._ deserted by the waning moon, when skies proclaim night's cheerless gloom, on tower, fort, or tented ground, the sentry walks his lonely round; and should a footstep haply stray where caution marks the guarded way, who goes there? stranger, quickly tell, a friend. the word? good-night. all's well. and she shall walk (_o.c.s._ ) words by _susan blamire_. and ye shall walk in silk attire, and siller ha'e to spare, gin ye'll consent to be my bride, nor think on donald mair. susan blamire was born at carden hall, near carlisle. very few of her poems were published under her own name, as well-born ladies of those days disliked seeing their names published as authors. 'the siller crown,' from which this verse is taken, is in the cumberland dialect. it first appeared anonymously in the _scots musical museum_, , and the authorship was subsequently settled by members of the family. and you needn't, mr. venus, be your black bottle (_o.m.f._). see p. . a stiff nor'-wester's blowing, bill (_d. & s._ ) from 'the sailor's consolation.' one night came on a hurricane, the seas were mountains rolling, when barney buntline turned his quid, and said to billy bowling, a stiff nor'-wester's blowing, bill, hark, don't you hear it roar now? lord help 'em! how i pity's all unhappy folk ashore now. mr. kidson says in reference to this: 'i do not know that it was ever written to music, though i fancy more than one popular tune has been set to the words, which are by a person named pitt.' auld lang syne ('holly tree,' _d.c._ , ) words by _burns_. a version of the melody occurs at the end of the overture to shield's _rosina_, , and is either his own composition or an imitation of some scotch melody. as, however, such melody has not hitherto been discovered, no great importance can be attached to this theory. _rosina_ was performed in edinburgh. some maintain that the tune is taken from a scotch reel known as the 'miller's wedding,' found in bremner's _reels_ ( - ). away with melancholy (_o.c.s._ , _o.m.f._ ii. , _p.p._ , _d.c._ ) the melody is from mozart's _magic flute_, 'das klinget so herrlich'--a chorus with glockenspiel accompaniment. the writer of the words is unknown. the air was introduced into an arrangement of shakespeare's _tempest_, and set to the words 'to moments so delighting!' sung by miss stephens. also found as a duet 'composed by sigr. mozart, arranged by f.a. hyde.' bay of biscay (_u.t._ , _d. & s._ , _p.p._ ) words by _andrew cherry_. _j. davy._ also see under 'a frog he would.' beethoven's sonata in b. see p. . begone, dull care (_o.c.s._ , _e.d._ ) author unknown. the words occur in various song-books of the eighteenth century. the tune is seventeenth century, possibly derived from the 'queen's jigg' in the _dancing master_. begone, dull care, i prithee begone from me; begone, dull care, you and i can never agree. the words were set as a glee by john sale, and this may be the music that dickens knew. believe me, if all jarley's waxworks so rare (_o.c.s._ ) a parody on the following. believe me, if all those endearing young charms (_b.h._ ) words by _t. moore_. set to the old melody 'my lodging is on the cold ground.' this appears to have come into existence about the middle of the eighteenth century. it is found in _vocal music, or the songster's companion_, , and it was claimed by moore to be an irish melody, but some authorities deny this. it has also been claimed as scotch, but the balance of opinion is in favour of its english origin (f. kidson). beside that cottage door, mr. boffin (_o.m.f._) see p. . bid me discourse (_s.b.t._ ) words adapted from shakespeare's _venus and adonis_. _h.r. bishop._ bird waltz (_d. & s._ , ) _panormo._ a very popular piano piece of the pre-victorian period. black-eyed susan (_a.n._), or all in the downs (_p.p._ ) words by _john gay_. _r. leveridge._ this song was printed in sheet form previous to , in which year it appeared in watts' _musical miscellany_, vol. iv., and was also inserted about that time in several ballad operas. bold turpin vunce (_p.p._ ) mr. frank kidson has pointed out that sam weller's song is founded upon a ballad entitled 'turpin and the bishop,' which appears in _gaieties and gravities_, by one of the authors of _rejected addresses_. the author is said to be horatio smith. there is a good four-part setting of the words by sir f. bridge. brave lodgings for one (_p.p._ ) original. british grenadiers (_b.h._ ) the tune as we know it now is the growth of centuries, the foundation probably being a tune in _the fitzwilliam virginal book_. the grenadiers were founded in . the second verse refers to 'hand grenades,' and the regiment ceased to use these in the reign of queen anne. the author is unknown. britons, strike home (_s.l._) the well-known song in purcell's _bonduca_ gave its name to an opera by charles dibdin, published in . this work probably suggested the phrase to dickens. it was written with a view to arousing a patriotic feeling. the following verse occurs in the work: when dryden wrote and purcell sung britons, strike home, the patriot-sounds re-echoing rung the vaulted dome. buffalo gals (_letters_) see p. . by the sad sea waves (_letters_) _julius benedict._ a once popular song from the opera _the brides of venice_. cheer, boys, cheer (_u.t._ ) words by _charles mackay_. _henry russell._ cheer! boys, cheer! no more of idle sorrow-- courage! true hearts shall bear us on our way, hope points before, and shows the bright to-morrow, let us forget the darkness of to-day. one of russell's most popular songs. he sold the copyright for £ , and shortly afterwards learnt that the publisher had to keep thirty-nine presses at work on it night and day to meet the demand. copenhagen waltz (_d. & s._ ) also known as the _danish waltz_. dead march. from the oratorio _saul_. _handel._ see p. . death of nelson (_d.c._ , _d. & s._ , _o.m.f._ iv. ) see p. . _j. braham._ too well the gallant hero fought, for england, home, and beauty. di piacer (_s.b.t._ ) _rossini._ a favourite air from the opera _la gazza ladra_. downfall of paris see p. . dragon of wantley (_d.c._ ) an eighteenth-century popular burlesque opera. words by _h. carey_, music by _lampe_. drink to me only with thine eyes (_o.m.f._ iii. ) words by _ben jonson_. the composer is unknown. the air was originally issued as a glee for three voices. dumbledumdeary (_s.b.s._ ) a refrain rarely found in old songs. it occurs in 'richard of taunton dean.' also (as in the reference) the name of a dance. evening bells (_d.c._ ) duet by _g. alexander lee_. come away, come away, evening bells are ringing, sweetly, sweetly; 'tis the vesper hour. fare thee well, and if for ever (_o.c.s._ ) words by _byron_. included in 'domestic pieces.' fare thee well, and if for ever, still for ever, fare thee well; even though unforgiving, never 'gainst thee shall my heart rebel. about the words were set to an air from mozart's _la clemenza di tito_. there are original settings by parke, s. webbe, and six other composers. fill the bumper fair (_n.t._) moore's _irish melodies_, air 'bob and joan.' flow on, thou shining river (_s.b.t._ ) moore's _national melodies_. said to be a 'portuguese air.' the melody has been utilized as a hymn-tune. fly, fly from the world, my bessy, with me (_s.b.s._ ) words and music by _t. moore_. for england see 'death of nelson.' for england, home, and beauty see 'death of nelson.' for the port of barbados, boys (_d. & s._ ) original (?) see p. . from sport to sport (_o.c.s._ ) from 'oh no, we never mention her.' words by _t.h. bayly_. _h.r. bishop._ from sport to sport they hurry me, to banish my regret; and when they win a smile from me, they think that i forget. gee up, dobbin (_d.c._ ) in the burney collection is a tune 'gee ho, dobbin.' also in _apollo's cabinet_, , vol. ii, and _love in a village_, . the tune was frequently used for ephemeral songs. it is doubtful if dickens would know this song, the title of which has passed into a common phrase. glorious apollo (_o.c.s._ , ) _s. webbe._ the title of this glee probably suggested the name of the 'glorious apollers.' see p. . go where glory waits thee (_m.c._ ) ('do they often go where glory waits 'em?' _o.c.s._ ) moore's _irish melodies_, set to the air 'maid of the valley.' god bless the prince of wales (_u.t._ ) words by _j. ceiriog hughes_. trans, by g. linley. _h. brinley richards_, . god bless you, merry gentlemen (_c.c._) origin unknown. the second word should be 'rest,' and the correct reading is god rest you merry, gentlemen. god save the king (_s.b.s._ , &c.) god save the queen (_m.c._ ) it is unnecessary here to discuss the origin and sources of this air. the form in which we know it is probably due to henry carey, and the first recorded public performance was on september , . had i a heart for falsehood framed (_d. & s._ ) words by _r.b. sheridan_. sung by mr. leoni (see _choir_, may, ). in the _duenna_, . set to the air now known as 'the harp that once through tara's halls.' moore, in his _irish melodies_, calls the melody 'gramachree.' hail columbia (_m.c._ , _a.n._) mr. elson (_national music of america_) says that the music was originally known as the 'president's march,' probably by a german composer. the words were subsequently adapted to the air by dr. joseph hopkinson. harmonious blacksmith (_g.e._ ) from handel's _suite de pieces pour le clavecin_, set i. see p. . has she then failed in her truth (_n.n._ ) _anon._ _h.r. bishop._ and has she then failed in her truth, the beautiful maid i adore? shall i never again hear her voice, nor see her lov'd form any more? heart of oak (_b.r._ , _e.d._ , _u.t._ , parody) words by _d. garrick_. _w. boyce._ it is important to notice that the correct title is as given, and not '_hearts_ of oak.' helm a weather, now lay her close (_o.m.f._) see p. . how doth the little-- (_ch._) _dr. watts._ see p. . i am a friar of orders grey (_s.b.s._ ) (_out of season_) words by _john o'keefe_. _wm. reeve._ appeared in _merry sherwood_, . i care not for spring see p. . i'd crowns resign, to call her mine (_d.c._ ) 'lass of richmond hill.' words by _l. macnally_. _j. hook._ i'd crowns resign, to call her mine, sweet lass of richmond hill. for a long time there was a dispute between the partisans of surrey and yorkshire as to which 'richmond hill' was referred to. the former county was the favourite for a long time, till a communication in _notes and queries_ ( th series iii. p. ) pulverized its hopes and definitely placed the locality in yorkshire. if i had a donkey (_o.c.s._ ) see p. . if you'll come to the bower (_o.m.f._) see p. . i'll tell thee how the maiden wept (_o.m.f._) see p. . in hurry, post haste for a licence (_p.p._ ) see p. . i saw her at the fancy fair (_s.b.t._ ) i saw thy show in youthful prime (_o.c.s._ ) moore's _irish melodies_, air 'domhnall.' i saw thy form in youthful prime, nor thought that pale decay would steal before the steps of time, and waste its bloom away, mary. isle of the brave and land of the free (_m.j._) original. it may lighten and storm (_m.c._ ) possibly from some old ballad opera, but more probably original. jack's delight (to) his lovely nan (_d.c._ ) words and music by _c. dibdin_. from 'lovely nan.' last two lines: but oh, much sweeter than all these, is jack's delight, his lovely nan. jim crow (_a.n._) _unknown._ see p. . i come from old kentucky, a long time ago, where i first larn to wheel about, and jump jim crow; wheel about and turn about, and do jis so, eb'ry time i wheel about, i jump jim crow. jolly young waterman (_it._, _p.p._ ) words and music by _c. dibdin_ in _the waterman_. king death (_b.h._ ) words by _barry cornwall_. _neukomm._ king death was a rare old fellow, he sat where no sun could shine, and he lifted his hand so yellow, and pour'd out his coal-black wine. hurrah for the coal-black wine! john leech used to sing 'king death,' and it was of his voice that jerrold once remarked, 'i say, leech, if you had the same opportunity of exercising your voice as you have of using your pencil, how it would _draw_!' lesbia hath a beaming eye (_letter to lemon_) words by _moore_. set to the delightfully gay air 'nora creina.' lesbia hath a beaming eye, but no one knows for whom it beameth, right and left its arrows fly, but what they aim at no one dreameth! listen to the waterfall (_b.h._ ) _lord mornington._ from the glee 'here in cool grot.' little taffline (_d.c._ ) words by _prince hoare_. _s. storace._ in the opera _three and the deuce_, produced in . see pp. , . there is a character 'little taffline' in t. dibdin's _st. david's day_, music composed and compiled by attwood. there is another setting said to be 'composed by j. parry,' but it is merely an altered form of the original. lovely peg (_d. & s._ ) see pp. - . marseillaise (_m.c._ , _e.d._ , _l.d._ ) _rouget de lisle._ for brief history see _the choir_ (nov., ) masaniello (_s.b.t._ ) opera by _auber_. see p. . may we ne'er want a friend (_d. & s._ ) see 'when the first dawn of reason.' men of prometheus (_s.b.t._ ) see p. . this was the name given to the first edition of beethoven's ballet music to _prometheus_, composed in . miss wackles, i believed you true (_o.c.s._ ) 'mary, i believed thee true,' _moore_ (one of his 'juvenile poems'). mary, i believed thee true, and i was blest in so believing, but now i mourn that e'er i knew a girl so fair and so deceiving! it has been suggested that these words were adapted and sung to the scotch air 'gala water.' my boat is on the shore (_g.s._) (_d.c._ , _letters_) words by _lord byron_. _bishop._ see p. . also set by w. cratherne. my feelings i smother (_o.c.s._ ) see 'we met.' my heart's in the highlands (_o.c.s._ , _s.b.s._ ) words partly by _burns_. in captain fraser's _airs peculiar to the scottish highlands_, . there is a parody by dickens (see forster's _life_, ch. ). never leave off dancing (_d.c._ ) said to be the subject of a french song. no malice to dread, sir (_o.m.f._) see p. . non nobis (_s.b.s._ ) this celebrated canon, by byrd, has been performed at public dinners from time immemorial. it also used to be performed at the theatre royal, covent garden. now's the day, and now's the hour (_d.c._ ) verse of 'scots, wha hae' (_burns_). now's the day, and now's the hour, see the front o' battle lour, see approach proud edward's power, chains and slaverie. of all the girls that are so smart (_o.c.s._ ) words and music by _henry carey_. carey composed his melody in . it soon became popular, but owing to the similarity of certain phrases to those of an older tune known as 'the country lass,' the two gradually got mixed up, with the result that the latter became the recognized setting. off she goes (_s.b.t._ ) a once popular dance air. oft in the stilly night (_s.b.s._ ) from t. moore's _national airs_, set to an air possibly of scotch origin. there are also settings by stevenson and hullah. oh blame not the bard (_o.c.s._ ) words by _t. moore_. in _irish melodies_. set to the tune 'kitty tyrrel.' oh give me but my arab steed (_o.c.s._ ) words by _t.h. bayly_. _g.a. hodson._ written in . sung by braham. oh give me but my arab steed, my prince defends his right, and i will to the battle speed, to guard him in the fight. oh cheerily, cheerily (_d. & s._ ) original, but a refrain similar to this is not uncommon in old sea songs. oh lady fair (_g.e._ ) trio by _moore_. see 'strew then, o strew.' oh let us love our occupations (_ch._) original lines by dickens. 'set to music on the new system,' probably refers to hullah's method (c. ), or possibly the tonic sol-fa (c. ), see p. . oh landsmen are folly (_h.r._) original. old clem (_g.e._ , ) a custom prevailed at chatham of holding a procession on st. clement's day, and the saint, who was irreverently designated 'old clem,' was personated by a young smith disguised for the occasion. dickens frequently writes a verse in the form of prose, and this is an example. written out properly, it reads thus: hammer boys round--old clem, with a thump and a sound--old clem, beat it out, beat it out--old clem, with a cluck for the stout--old clem, blow the fire, blow the fire--old clem, roaring drier, soaring higher--old clem. old king cole (_o.c.s._ , _p.p._ ) the personality of this gentleman has never been settled. chappell suggests he was 'old cole,' a cloth-maker of reading _temp._ henry i. wardle's carol 'i care not for spring' (_p.p._ ) was adapted to this air, and printed in how's _illustrated book of british song_. over the hills and far away (_dr. m._, _m.c._ ) an old saying, both in song and as a phrase. it occurs in two songs in d'urfey's _pills to purge melancholy_, , one of which is, tom he was a piper's son, he learned to play when he was young; but all the tune that he could play was over the hills and far away. (vol. iv.) doctor marigold's version is probably original: north and south and west and east, winds liked best and winds liked least, here and there and gone astray, over the hills and far away. over the water to charlie (_o.c.s._ ) tune in johnson's _musical museum_, vol. ii, . come boat me o'er, come row me o'er, come boat me o'er to charlie, i'll gie john brown another half-crown, to boat me o'er to charlie; we'll o'er the water, we'll o'er the sea, we'll o'er the water to charlie, come weal, come woe, we'll gather and go, and live or die wi' charlie. another jacobite song was the cause of an amusing incident at edinburgh. on the occasion of one of his visits there dickens went to the theatre, and he and his friends were much amazed and amused by the orchestra playing 'charlie is my darling' amid tumultuous shouts of delight. paul and virginia (_s.b.t._ , _l.d._ ) _j. mazzinghi._ the popular duet from this opera 'see from ocean rising' was sung by mr. johnstone and mr. incledon. see p. . polly put the kettle on (_b.r._ ) an old country dance. red ruffian, retire! (_s.b.c._ ) probably an imaginary title, invented by dickens. rule britannia (_d. & s._ , , _u.t._ , _m.c._ , , _a.n._, _d.c._ ) words by _thomson_ or _mallet_. _arne._ first appeared in print at the end of the masque _the judgement of paris_, but it was composed for the masque of _alfred_, which was first performed on august , . see _musical times_, april, . sally in our alley see 'of all the girls.' satan finds some mischief still (_d.c._ ) see p. . _dr. watts._ see from ocean rising (_s.b.t._ ) see _paul and virginia_. she's all my fancy painted her (_o.c.s._ ) ('alice gray.') see 'yet lov'd i.' she's like the red, red rose (_o.c.s._ ) burns revised the words from an old song. the music is in _caledonian pocket companion_, bk. vii, , under the name 'low down in the broom.' shivery shakey, ain't it cold (_dr. m._) see p. . since laws were made for every degree (_o.c.s._ , _l.d._ ii. ) tyburn tree. since laws were made for ev'ry degree to curb vice in others as well as me, i wonder we han't better company upon tyburn tree. from _beggar's opera_. words by _gay_. set to the tune of 'greensleeves,' which dates from . this tune is twice mentioned by shakespeare in _the merry wives of windsor_. an earlier 'tyburn' version is a song entitled 'a warning to false traitors,' which refers to the execution of six people at 'tyborne' on august , . since the first dawn of reason _j. davy._ see p. . song about a sparkling bowl (_ch._) there are several songs of this nature, such as 'the flowing bowl' ('fill the bowl with sparkling nectar'). another began 'fill, fill the bowl with sparkling wine.' song about the slumbering echoes in the cavern of memory (_d.c._ ) not at present traced. strew then, oh strew a bed of rushes (_o.c.s._ ) words and music by _moore_. from the glee 'holy be the pilgrim's sleep,' which is a sequel to 'oh lady fair' (q.v.). moore wrote two inane songs, entitled 'holy be the pilgrim's sleep' and 'oh lady fair.' for both pilgrim and lady arrangements are made for spending the night somewhere, and in each song occur the words strew then, oh strew his [our] bed of rushes, here he shall [we must] rest till morning blushes. tamaroo (_m.c._ ) said to be taken from an english ballad in which it is supposed to express the bold and fiery nature of a certain hackney coachman. according to _notes and queries_ (x. ), this was sung at winchester school some seventy or eighty years ago. the following is quoted as the first verse: ben he was a coachman rare ('jarvey! jarvey!' 'here i am, yer honour'), crikey! how he used to swear! how he'd swear, and how he'd drive, number two hundred and sixty-five. tamaroo! tamaroo! tamaroo! dr. sweeting, the present music-master at winchester, says, 'the song "tamaroo" is quite unknown here now, and if it was sung here seventy or eighty years ago, i should imagine that that was only because it was generally well known. dickens' allusion to it seems to suggest that it was a song he had heard, and he utilized its character to label one of his characters in his own fanciful way.' tarry trousers (_d. & s._ ) an old folk-song. a mother wants her daughter to marry a tailor, and not wait for her sailor bold, telling her that it is quite time she was a bride. the daughter says: my mother wants me to wed with a tailor, and not give me my heart's delight, but give me the man with the tarry trousers, that shine to me like diamonds bright. tell me, shepherds (_e.d._ ) _mazzinghi._ glee. 'ye shepherds, tell me' (or 'the wreath'). the brave old oak (_s.b.s._ .) words by _h.f. chorley_. _e.j. loder._ a song for the oak, the brave old oak, who hath ruled in the greenwood long; here's health and renown to his broad green crown, and his fifty arms so strong! the bull in the china shop see p. . the cherub that sits up aloft (_u.t._ ) from 'poor jack.' _c. dibdin._ for d'ye see, there's a cherub sits smiling aloft to keep watch for the life of poor jack. (_last two lines of verse ._) the cordial that sparkled for helen (_o.c.s._ ) moore's _irish melodies_. the dashing white sergeant (_d.c._ ) words by _general burgoyne_. _h.r. bishop._ if i had a beau, for a soldier who'd go, do you think i'd say no? no, no, not i. the gay, the gay and festive season (_o.m.f._) see 'the light guitar.' the great sea snake set to the air 'rampant moll.' perhaps you have all of you heard of a yarn of a famous large sea snake, that once was seen off the isle pitcairn and caught by admiral blake. see p. . the ivy green (_p.p._ .) words by _dickens_. the most popular musical setting is that by _henry russell_. the light guitar (_s.b.t._ , _o.c.s._) _barnett._ oh leave the gay and festive scene, the halls of dazzling light, and rove with me through forests green beneath the silent night. the miller of the dee (_o.m.f._ ii. ) words, c. . tune, . referring to a disused boiler and a great iron wheel, dickens says they are like the miller of questionable jollity in the song. they cared for nobody, no not they, and nobody cared for them. the air is found in _the quaker's opera_, . the ratcatcher's daughter (_out of season_) see p. . the seven ages (_s.b.s._ ) see pp. , . the soldier, tired (_s.b.c._ ) _arne._ dr. arne translated the words from the _artaserse_ of metastasio. this song was the great 'show song' for sopranos for many years. it was originally sung by miss brent. the soldier, tired of war's alarms, forswears the clang of hostile arms, and scorns the spear and shield; but if the brazen trumpet sound, he burns with conquest to be crowned, and dares again the field. the woodpecker tapping (_d.c._ , _l.d._ , _s.b.t._ , _m.c._ ) words by _moore_. _m. kelly._ every leaf was at rest, and i heard not a sound but the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree. the young may moon see p. . then farewell, my trim-built wherry (_o.m.f._) see p. . there let 'em be, merry and free, toor-rul-lal-la (_o.c.s._ ) probably original. though lost to sight, to memory dear (_d. & s._ ) words and music by _g. linley_. tho' lost to sight, to mem'ry dear thou ever wilt remain, one only hope my heart can cheer: the hope to meet again. thrown on the wide world (_o.m.f._) see p. . time of day (_s.b.c._ ) see p. . 'tis the voice of the sluggard (_m.c._ ) _dr. watts._ 'twas ever thus from childhood's hour (_o.c.s._ , _d.c._ ) ('oh ever,' &c.) words by _moore_. from 'lalla rookh.' has been set to music by s. glover, e. souper, and verini. villikens and his dinah sung by mr. robson and by s. cowell. composer unknown. a very popular song - . it's of a liquor merchant who in london did dwell, he had but one darter, a beautiful gal. her name it was dinah, just sixteen years old, and she had a large fortune in silver and gold. to my too-ral-lal loo-ral-li loo-ral-li-day. wapping old stairs (_u.t._ ) _j. percy._ weep for the hour (_o.m.f._) see p. . we met (_o.c.s._ , _s.b.t._ ) _t.h. bayly._ the story of a girl who was compelled by her mother to jilt her true love and marry some one else. the story ends with the words misquoted by swiveller: the world may think me gay, for my feelings i smother-- oh! _thou_ hast been the cause of this anguish, my mother! we're a'noddin' (_b.h._ ) _anonymous._ a once popular scotch song. o we're a' noddin, nid nid noddin, o we're a' noddin at our house at home; how's o' wi' ye, kimmer? and how do ye thrive, and how many bairns hae ye now? bairns i hae five. we won't go home till morning (_p.p._ ) said in the _london singer's magazine_ (c. ) to be written and composed by c. blondel ('adapted and arranged' might be more correct). the tune is founded on an air known as malbrough, or malbrook, which originated during the duke of marlborough's campaign, - , known as 'the war of the spanish succession.' what are the wild waves saying? words by _j.e. carpenter_. _stephen glover._ this duet was founded upon the question little paul dombey asks his sister: i want to know what it says--the sea, floy, what is it that it keeps on saying? when he who adores thee (_o.c.s._ ) words by _moore_. in _irish melodies_ to the air 'the fox's sleep.' when i went to lunnon town, sirs (_g.e._ ) probably original. the nearest i have found to it is-- the astonished countryman, or, a bustling picture of london. when first i came to london town, how great was my surprise, thought i, the world's turned upside down, such wonders met my eyes. and in _the universal songster_-- when i arrived in london town, i got my lesson pat, &c. when in death i shall calm recline moore's _irish melodies_. in dickens wrote a travesty called _o' thello_, in which is a humorous solo of eight lines, to be sung to the air to which the above is set. when lovely woman stoops to folly (_o.c.s._ ) 'do my pretty olivia,' cried she, 'let us have that little melancholy air your papa was so fond of; your sister sophy has already obliged us. do, child, it will please your old father.' she complied in a manner so exquisitely pathetic, as moved me. when lovely woman stoops to folly, and finds, too late, that men betray, what charm can soothe her melancholy? what art can wash her guilt away? (goldsmith's _vicar of wakefield_, ch. xxiv.) when the heart of a man (_d.c._ , _o.m.f._ iii. ) words by _gay_ (_beggar's opera_). set to a seventeenth-century air. if the heart of a man is depressed with care, the mist is dispelled when a woman appears, like the notes of a fiddle she sweetly, sweetly raises our spirits and charms our ears. when the stormy winds (_d.c._ , _d. & s._ ) words by _campbell_, who may have taken them from an earlier source. see 'you gentlemen of england.' white sand (_l.d._ i. ) an old glee. see p. . who passes by this road so late (_l.d._ i. ) (blandois' song.) words by _c. dickens_. _h.r.s. dalton._ an old french children's singing game. dickens' words are a literal translation. see _eighty singing games_ (kidson and moffat). who ran to catch me when i fell (_o.c.s._ ) from ann taylor's nursery song 'my mother.' wife shall dance and i will sing, so merrily pass the day from 'begone, dull care' (q.v.). will watch, the bold smuggler (_out of season_) _john davy._ yankee doodle (_u.t._, _a.n._) mr. f. kidson has traced this to 'a selection of scotch, english, irish, and foreign airs,' published in glasgow by james aird, c. or . yet lov'd i as man ne'er loved (_o.c.s._ ) words by _william mee_. _millard._ from 'alice gray.' she's all my fancy painted her, she's lovely, she's divine, but her heart it is another's, it never can be mine. yet lov'd i as ne'er man loved, a love without decay, oh my heart, my heart is breaking, for the love of _alice gray_! 'alice gray.' a ballad, sung by miss stephens, miss palon, and miss grant. composed and inscribed to mr. a. pettet by mrs. philip millard. published by a. pettet, hanway street. you gentlemen of england (_d. & s._ ) old english ballad. a seventeenth-century song, the last line of each verse being 'when the stormy winds do blow.' young love lived once (_s.b.s._ ) in _sketches by boz_ this sentence occurs: 'when we say a "shed" we do not mean the conservatory kind of building which, according to the old song, love frequented when a young man.' the song referred to is by t. moore. young love lived once in a humble shed, where roses breathing, and woodbines wreathing, around the lattice their tendrils spread, as wild and sweet as the life he led. it is one of the songs in _m.p., or the blue-stocking_, a comic opera in three acts. index of musical instruments accordion, , aeolian harp, bagpipes, , banjo, [ ] barrel-organ, , , , , , bassoon, bells (church) , bells (various), , , , castanets, 'chaunter,' chin-playing, clarionet, , cymbals, , , drum, , , , 'drums,' fiddle, see violin fife, , , flageolet, flute, , , , , - , guitar, , , , 'gum-gum,' harmonium, harp, , , , , , , , harpsichord, , jew's-harp, key bugle (or kent bugle), , , , , kit, lute, marrowbones and cleaver, , , mouth-organ, organ, - , , - pan's pipes, , piano, , , - , - , , piano ('self acting'), recorders, serpent, tambourine, , , , tom-tom, triangle, , , trombone, , violin, , , , , - , , violoncello, , , , index of characters antonio (_u.t._), atherfield, mrs. (_g.m._), bagnet, mrs. (_b.h._), bagnet (_b.h._), , bagnet, master (_b.h._), , bailey, jr. (_m.c._), , banjo bones (_u.t._ ), belinda (_m.h.c._), billsmethi (_s.b.c._ ), blackpool, s. (_h.t._), blandois (_l.d._), blathers (_o.t._), blimber, dr. (_d.c._), , boffin (_o.m.f._), bounderby (_h.t._), brass, sally (_o.c.s._), , brass, sampson (_o.c.s._), , , , , briggses, miss (_s.b.t._ ), , browdie, john (_n.n._), brown, mr. (_s.b.t._ ), [ ] bucket (_b.h._), , , , , , bunsby (_l.d._), carker, harriet (_d. & s._), carker, james (_d. & s._), , casby (_l.d._), chadband, rev. (_b.h._), cheggs (_o.c.s._), chivery, young (_l.d._), chuckster (_o.c.s._), chuzzlewit, jonas (_m.c._), , chuzzlewit, martin (_m.c._), chuzzlewit, m., jr., , , , clennam, arthur (_l.d._), , , copperfield, david (_d.c._), , , , , , , , , crewler, sophy (_d.c._), crisparkle, rev. (_e.d._), , crumptons, miss (_s.b.t._ ), cuttle, capt. (_d. & s._), , , , , , - daisy, solomon (_b.r._), dartle, rosa (_d.c._), dick, mr. (_d.c._), dombey, mr. (_d. & s._), , , dombey, florence (_d. & s._), , , , , dombey, paul (_d. & s._), , , , , dorrit, e. (_l.d._), dorrit, f. (_l.d._), , dorrit, w. (_l.d._), dorrit, miss (_l.d._), dorrit, little (_l.d._), dowler (_p.p._), drood, e. (_e.d._), durdles (_e.d._), , evans, jemima (_s.b.c._ ), , evans, mr. (_s.b.t._ ), evenson (_s.b.t._ ), fagin (_o.t._), feeder (_d. & s._), , , , fezziwig, mrs. (_c.c._), fielding, may (_c.h._), finching, flora (_l.d._), , , fips (_m.c._), gamp, mrs. (_m.c._), gattleton, mrs. (_s.b.t._ ), , gay, walter (_d. & s._), , , general, mrs. (_l.d._), george, mr. (_b.h._), , , gills ('old sol') (_d. & s._), graham, mary (_m.c._), handel (_g.e._), see pirrip hardy (_s.b.t._ ), , harleigh (_s.b.t._ ), harris, mrs. (_m.c._), heep (_d.c._), , helves, capt. (_s.b.t._ ), , , hexham (_o.m.f._), hopkins, humm (_p.p._), humphrey, master (_m.h.c._), hunter, mrs. (_p.p._) jacksonini (_letters_), jarley, mrs. (_o.c.s._), jasper (_e.d._), , , , jeddler (_b.l._), jellyby, caddy (_b.h._), , jerry (_o.c.s._), , jingle (_p.p._), , , jorgan (_p.p._), kenwigs, mrs. (_n.n._), , kit, see nubbles ladle, joey (_n.t._), larkins, miss (_d.c._), lirriper, mrs. (_l.l._), , lobskini (_s.b.t._ ), m'choakumchild (_h.t._), malderton, miss (_s.b.t._ ), , maldon, jack (_d.c._) mantalini (_n.n._), marchioness, the (_o.c.s._), , , , marigold, dr., marra boni (_s.b.c._ ), meagles (_l.d._), meagles, miss ('pet'), mell (_d.c._), , micawber (_d.c._), , , - micawber, mrs. (_d.c._), , , micawber, w. (_d.c._), miggs, miss (_b.r._), mills, miss (_d.c._), monflathers, mrs. (_o.c.s._), mordlin, brother (_p.p._), morfin (_d. & s._), , , , namby, mrs. (_p.p._), nancy (_o.t._), nandy (_l.d._), , nell, little (_o.c.s._), , nickleby (_n.n._), , noggs (_n.n._), nubbles ('kit') (_o.c.s._), , obenreizer (_n.t._), 'old clem,' 'old sol,' see gills pancks (_l.d._), vii, , pecksniff (_m.c._), , , pecksniffs, miss (_m.c._), , , , peerybingle, mrs. (_c.h._), 'pet,' see meagles, miss petowker, miss (_n.n._), phenomenon, the (_n.n._), pickleson (_dr. m._), , pickwick, mr. (_p.p._), , , , , pinch, tom (_m.c._), , , , , (&c.) pirrip ('pip' or 'handel'), , pip (_g.e._), see pirrip plornish, mrs. (_l.d._), , plornish, mr. (_l.d._), plummer (_c.h._), pocket, herbert (_g.e._), quilp (_o.c.s._), , redburn, jack (_m.h.c._), rob the grinder (_d. & s._), rudolph, jennings (_s.b.c._ ), sapsea, mr. (_e.d._), , sawyer, bob (_p.p._), , scrooge (_c.c._), scrooge's nephew (_c.c._), , simpson (_p.p._), skettles, lady (_d. & s._), skewton, hon. mrs. (_d. & s._), skimpole (_b.h._), , smike (_n.n._), sparkins (_s.b.t._ ), , spenlow, dora (_d.c._) , , squeers (_n.n._), , steerforth (_d.c._) stiggins (_p.p._), strong, dr. (_d.c._) , summerson, esther (_b.h._), sweedlepipe (_m.c._), swills, little (_b.h._), swiveller, dick (_o.c.s._), , , , , , - tackleton (_c.h._), , tapley, mark (_m.c._), , , , tappertit (_b.r._), tauntons, miss (_s.b.t._ ), , tetterby family (_h.m._), tibbs, mrs. (_s.b.t._ ), timson, rev. (_s.b.t._ ), tiny tim (_c.c._), tippin, mrs. (_s.b.t._ ), tippin, master (_s.b.t._ ), todgers, mrs. (_m.c._), , tomlinson (_d. & s._), toots (_d.c._), topper (_c.c._), tottle, watkins (_s.b.t._ ), tox, miss (_d. & s._), tpschoffki (_g.s._), , traddles (_d.c._), trotter, job (_p.p._), trotwood, miss (_d.c._), tulrumble (_m.p._), tupman (_p.p._), turveydrop (_b.h._), twist, oliver (_o.t._), varden, mrs. (_b.r._) veck, toby ('trotty') (_ch._), , , velasco, rinaldo di, see pickleson wackles, sophy (_o.c.s._), , - wardle (_p.p._), wegg, silas (_o.m.f._), - weller, mr. (_p.p._), weller, sam (_p.p._), , (&c.), , wickfield (_d.c._), wilding (_n.t._), wilfer (_o.m.f._), , wilkins (_s.b.c._), willet, joe (_b.r._), wisbottle (_s.b.t._ ), wopsle (_g.e._), , , general index allon, dr., arne, dr., , , , attwood, t., auber, barnett, j., bath, bayly, t.h., , bedford (singer), beethoven, , _beggar's opera_, , , _bell's life in london_, 'belmont' (hymn-tune), benedict, sir j., bishop, sir h., , , , , , , blamire, s., blondel, c., boai, m., boston (u.s.a.), , bowden, boyce, w., braham (singer), , , , bridge, sir f., , broadstairs, , , buckingham (singer), burgoyne, burns, , , byrd, byron, , campbell, , carey, h., , , carpenter, j.e., carrara, chappell, w., 'chaunter,' cherry, andrew, _choir_, the, , chopin, chorley, h., , clapham, _clari_, collins, wilkie, cowell (singer), curwen, john, _daily news_, the, , dalton, h.r.s., , davies, rev. r., davy, j., , , , dibdin, c., , , , , , , dibdin, c., jr., dibdin, t., , dover, 'drums,' d'urfey, 'eagle,' the, , , , 'elephant and castle,' the, elson, c., fairburn (song publisher), , , field, j.t., forster, j., , , , , , foundling hospital, garrick, d., gay, , genoa, , gissing, glindon, glover, s., , golden square, goldsmith, gounod, greene, m., grimaldi, hamilton, mrs. e., handel, , , , , , , haydn, hoare, prince, hodson, g.a., hook, j., horn, c.e., _household words_, , - howell, hughes, j.c., hullah, , , , hutchinson family, incledon, , _irish melodies_, , , , , , et seq. jonson, ben, jerrold, d., joachim, julian, dr., kelly, m., kent (composer), kidson, mr. f., , , , kitton, f.g., , , lampe, j.f., landor, lang, a., lee, g.a., , leech, j., lemon, mark, leveridge, r., lind, jenny, linley, g., , , lisle, rouget de, _little warbler_, , , loder, e.j., _london oddities_, _london singer's magazine_, , luard-selby, b., macdermott, maclise, mallet, mann, dr. a.h., marseilles, marshalsea, martin's act, mazzinghi, , mendelssohn, , meyerbeer, millard, mrs., miller, rev. j., moffat, j., moore, t., , , , , et seq. mornington, lord, mozart, , , , , , _musical times_, the, neukomm, norwich festival, 'number four collection,' offenbach, panormo, parke, parr, miss, parry, j., parsons, peel, sir r., percy, j., 'phiz,' power, miss, _prentice's warbler_, procter, a., purcell, , rainforth, miss, reeve, w., , rice, t.d., richards, brinley, robson (singer), rochester, , rossini, royal academy of music, russell, henry, , russell, lord john, st. clement danes, st. peter's, rome, seven dials, shakespeare, sheridan, r.b., shield, stanfell's budget, storace, s., , souper, e., sweeting, dr., thomson, tonic sol-fa, , vauxhall gardens, , , verini, vicar of wakefield, watts, dr., , , , , , , webbe, s., , wellington house academy, white conduit gardens, , williams, dr. v., wills, a list of vocal and instrumental music associated with dickens and with the characters in his novels _all these pieces are in the possession of mr. w. miller, librarian of the dickens fellowship_ songs in the village coquettes. words by _charles dickens_. music by _hullah_. the ivy green. song. words by _charles dickens_. music by _mrs. henry dale_. the ivy green. song. music by _a. de belfer_. the ivy green. song. music by w. _lovell phillips_. the ivy green. song. music by _henry russell_. (this song has been published by almost every music publisher in london and america.) introduction and familiar variations on the ivy green arranged for the pianoforte by _ricardo linter_. russell's song the ivy green, with introduction and variations for the pianoforte by _stephen glover_. the ivy green as a vocal duet. music by _henry russell_. a christmas carol. words by _charles dickens_. music by _henry russell_. a christmas carol. words by _charles dickens_. music by _henry russell_ to the tune of old king cole. bold turpin. words by _charles dickens_. music by _sir j.f. bridge_. pickwick. set to music by _george l. jeune_. words by _george soane_. the wery last observations of weller senior to boz on his departure from london. written and sung by _j.m. field, esq._ adapted to an old air. boston, . the original set of pickwick quadrilles. edited by _'boz' junior_. sam weller's adventures. reprinted in _the life and times of james catnach_. gabriel grub. cantata seria buffa. adapted by _frederick wood_. music by _george fox_. pickwick tarantelle. mr. stiggins. song. maliciously written and composed by '_tony weller_.' the pickwick quadrille. composed by _fred revallin_. the pickwick lancers. composed by _camille d'aubert_. pickwick. songs and dances by _edward solomon_. words of songs by _sir f.c. burnand_. oliver twist. written by _h. copeland_ from a song by _w.t. townsend_. the artful dodger. written by _charles sloman_ and _sam cowell_. music by _fred bridgeman_. sung by _sam cowell_. nicholas nickleby quadrille and nickleby galop. by _sydney vernon_. master humphrey's clock, 'did you hear anything knock?' song by _beuler_. master humphrey's quadrilles. music by _'boz' junior_. the chimes of master humphrey's clock. arranged for the pianoforte by _charles arnold_. the ghost of the baron of grog-swig. written by _john major_. arranged by _j. monro_. little nell. words by _miss charlotte young_. music by _george linley_. little nell. composed by _george linley_. arranged for the pianoforte by _carlo totti_. nell. song. composed by _h.l. winter_. little nell. by _miss hawley_. little nell. waltz by _dan godfrey_. nell. words by _edward oxenford_. music by _alfred j. caldicott_. little nellie's polka. composed by _j. pridham_. barnaby rudge tarantelle. by _clementine ward_. dolly varden. ballad. words and music by _cotsford dick_. _g.w. hunt's_ popular song dolly varden. dolly varden. comic song. words by _frank w. green_. music _alfred lee_. _vance's_ dolly varden. written, composed, and sung by _alfred g. vance_. _g.w. moore's_ great song dressed as a dolly varden. written, composed, and sung by _g.w. moore_. dolly varden's wedding. comic song. written, composed, and arranged by _t.r. tebley_. dolly varden waltz. by _henry parker_. dolly varden valse. composed by _sara leumas_. the dolly varden polka. by _brinley richards_. the dolly varden polka. by _w.c. levey_. dolly varden polka. by _henry parker_. the dolly varden polka. arranged by _t.c. lewis_. composed by _g. discongi_. dolly varden polka. by _george gough_. dolly varden galop. by _charles coote, jun._ dolly varden schottische. by _helene_. the dolly varden schottische. by _h. king_. dolly varden gavotte. by _clementine ward_. dolly varden quadrille. by _henry parker_. dolly varden quadrille, on old english tunes. by _c.h.r. marriott_. maypole hugh. song. words by _charles bradberry_. music by _george fox_. yankee notes for english circulation; or boz in a-merry-key. comic song. written by _james briton_. music arranged to an american air by _geo. loder_. the christmas carol quadrilles. by _edwin merriott_. tiny tim. words by _edward oxenford_. music by _alfred j. caldicott_. tiny tim. words by _harry lynn_. music by _w. knowles_. the song of christmas. song sung in _a christmas carol_ at the theatre royal, adelphi. composed by _c. herbert rodwell_. tiny tim. written and composed by _arthur wingham_. 'god bless us every one.' words by _geo. cooper_. music by _herbert foster_. the chimes. song. written by _j.e. carpenter_. music composed by _f. nicholls crouch_. the chimes. by _jullien_. the chimes quadrilles. by _henry oakey_. the chimes quadrilles. by _lancelott_. the chimes gavotte. for the pianoforte, with bell accompaniment (ad lib.). composed by _wm. west_, organist and choirmaster of st. margaret pattens (rood lane, e.c.). lillian. ballad from _the chimes_. the poetry by _fanny e. lacey_. music by _edward l. hime_. the spirit of the chimes. written and composed by _fanny e. lacey_. the cricket on the hearth. song. by _james e. stewart_, cincinnati, u.s.a. the cricket on the hearth. a domestic ballad. written by _edward j. gill_. music by _j. blewitt_. the cricket polka. the cricket polka. composed by _jullien_. the cricket on the hearth quadrilles. composed by _s.d. saunders_. the cricket on the hearth. a set of quadrilles. by _t.l. rowbotham_. the cricket on the hearth. a new christmas quadrille. by _f. lancelott_. the new cricket polka. composed by _johann lupeski_. the battle of life. song. words by _o.c. lynn_. music by _r. graylott_. published in _the illustrated london news_, march , . the fruit gatherers' song ('the battle of life'). written by _fanny e. lacey_. composed by _edwin flood_. the haunted man quadrilles. by _wm. west_. what are the wild waves saying? written by _j.e. carpenter_. music by _stephen glover_. what are the wild waves saying? (_stephen glover_). arranged for the pianoforte by _brinley richards_. a voice from the waves (an answer to the above). words by _r. ryan_. music by _stephen glover_. little paul ballad. poetry by _miss c. young_. music by _w.t. wrighton_. paul. song. words by _edward oxenford_. music by _alfred j. caldicott_. florence. song. written by _charles jeffrey_. poor florence. song. music composed by _w.t. wrighton_. walter and florence. song. written by _johanna chandler_. music by _stephen glover_. dombey and son quadrille. by _miss harriet frances brown_. the david copperfield polka. composed by _w. wilson_. the micawber quadrille (played in the drama of _little em'ly_, at the olympic theatre, in ). composed by _j. winterbottom_. little em'ly valses. by _john winterbottom_. (played in the drama of _little em'ly_, at the olympic theatre, in .) the little em'ly polka. composed by _w.g. severn_. agnes; or i have loved you all my life. ballad. written by _ger vere irving_. composed by _gerald stanley_. dora; or the child-wife's farewell. ballad. written by _george linley_. composed by _gerald stanley_. peggotty the wanderer. ballad. written by _william martin_. music by _james william etherington_. dora to agnes. song. words by _charles jeffrey_. music by _j.h. tully_. little blossom. ballad by _stephen glover_. words by _charlotte young_. household words. duet. written by _charlotte young_. composed by _john blockley_. songs and ballads from _bleak house_: ( ) the song of esther summerson, 'farewell to the old home.' written by _charles jeffrey_. music by _charles w. glover_. ( ) ada clare. written by _charles jeffrey_. set to music by _charles w. glover_. poor jo! ballad. written by _h.b. farnie_. composed by _c.f.r. marriott_. poor jo! song and chorus. written by _w.r. gordon_. composed by _alfred lee_. 'jo.' galop for the pianoforte upon airs from the celebrated drama, by _edward solomon_. 'he was wery good to me.' poor jo's song. written and composed by _alfred allen_. the token flowers. song founded on 'caddy's flowers' in _bleak house_. written by _joseph edward carpenter_. music by _b. moligne_. hard times. polka. by _c.w._ little dorrit. ballad. written and composed by _john caulfield_. little dorrit. song. written by _henry abrahams_. music by _c. stanley_. little dorrit's polka. composed by _jules norman_. as you like it; or little dorrit's polka. by _w.h. montgomery_. little dorrit's vigil. by the composer of little nell. little dorrit's schottische. composed by _w.m. parker_. little dorrit serenade. by _clementine ward_. 'my dear old home.' ballad. written by _j.e. carpenter_. composed by _john blockley_. who passes by this road so late? blandois' song from _little dorrit_. words by _charles dickens_. music by _h.r.s. dalton_. (this song was suggested to dickens by the french song entitled 'le chevalier du guet.') floating away ballad. written by _j.e. carpenter_. music by _john blockley_. all the year round; or the search for happiness. song. written by _w.s. passmore_. composed by _john blockley_. all the year round quadrilles. by _e. frewin_. all the year round varsoviana. by _w.h. montgomery_. the two cities quadrilles. by _w.h. montgomery_. tom tiddler's polka. composed by _w. wilson_. great expectations. ballad. _coote's_ lancers, 'somebody's luggage.' mrs. lirriper's quadrille. written by _adrian victor_. jenny wren (the doll's dressmaker). song. words by _edward oxenford_. music by _alfred j. caldicott_. jenny wren quadrilles. arranged by _rosabel_. mugby junction galop. by _charles coote, jun._ no thoroughfare galop. composed by _charles coote, jun._ [from an edition:] printed by the 'southampton times' co., ltd., above bar, southampton transcriber's notes the musical extracts are marked [figure ]-[figure ]. these are available as midi files. italic text is marked _thus_ with underscores. alterations: page "and can't play 'out to-night,'" hyphen not inked in original. page "and tuned like fifty stomach-aches." corrected typo: "tuned liked" page "which had no recognizable tune" corrected typo: "recognizable time" page "given to the young red-haired boy" corrected typo: "young red-haired boots" page "penn'orths" page "hunting field," letter 't' not inked in original. page "his musical powers made him useful at the club-room" hyphen at line-end: could be "clubroom". page "'as of a gallant and eminent naval hero,'" closing quote missing in original. page "(_o.c.s._ )" corrected typo: "_d.c.s._" page "see 'since the first dawn of reason.'" original had "when the first dawn of reason." page "see 'strew then, oh strew.'" original had "strew then, o strew." page "come weal, come woe, we'll gather and go," line indented in original. page "banjo" page "brown, mr." page numbers missing in original. pages , , , "cadby" corrected to "caddy" literature (back online soon in an extended version, also linking to free sources for education worldwide ... mooc's, educational materials,...) images generously made available by the bodleian library, oxford. the philosophical works of david hume. including all the essays, and exhibiting the more important alterations and corrections in the successive editions published by the author. in four volumes. vol. i. edinburgh: printed for adam black and william tait; and charles tait, , fleet street, london. mdcccxxvi. [illustration: allan ramsey pinx.--robert grace sculp.--david hume] advertisement. the philosophical writings of mr hume are here for the first time collected in a uniform edition. the essays are reprinted from the edition of , in two octavo volumes, corrected by the author for the press, a short time before his death, and which he desired might be regarded as containing his philosophical principles. the text of that edition has been faithfully adhered to in the present; but as it has been thought an interesting object of curiosity, to trace the successive variations of sentiment and taste in a mind like that of hume, and to mark the gradual and most observable increase of caution in his expression of those sentiments, it has been the care of the present editor to compare the former editions, of which a list is here subjoined, and where any alterations were discovered, not merely verbal, but illustrative of the philosophical opinions of the author, to add these as notes to the passages where they occur. the essays contained in the early editions, but which were omitted in that of , will be found at the end of the last volume of the present collection of his works, together with the two essays, on suicide, and the immortality of the soul. in addition to the author's life, written by himself, the account of the controversy with m. rousseau has also been prefixed. it was originally printed in french, and shortly afterwards in english, in the year . the english translation was superintended by mr hume; and as it relates to an extraordinary occurrence in the lives of these eminent philosophers, has been thought a suitable appendage to the short memoir of himself. edinburgh, june . editions of the essays collated and referred to. essays, moral and political. edinburgh, kincaid, . mo. (a) essays, moral and political, vol. ii. edinburgh, kincaid, . mo. pp. . (b) essays, moral and political, d edition, corrected. edinburgh, kincaid, . mo. pp. . (c) essays, moral and political. by d. hume, esq. d edition, corrected, with additions. london, millar, . mo. (d) three essays, moral and political, never before published, which completes the former edition, in two volumes octavo. by d. hume, esq. london, millar, . mo. (e) political discourses. by d. hume, esq. edinburgh, kincaid, . small vo. _to this edition there is sometimes added 'a list of scotticisms_.' (f) political discourses. by d. hume, esq. d edition. edinburgh, kincaid, . mo. _merely a reprint of the preceding_. (g) essays and treatises on several subjects. by d. hume, esq. vol. iv. containing political discourses. d edition, with additions and corrections. london, millar, . (h) four dissertations: st, natural history of religion: d, of the passions: d, of tragedy: th, of the standard of taste. by d. hume, esq. london, millar, . mo. (i) philosophical essays concerning human understanding. by the author of the essays moral and political. london, millar, . mo. (k) philosophical essays concerning human understanding. by d. hume, esq. d edition, with additions and corrections. london, millar, . mo. (l) an enquiry concerning the principles of morals. by d. hume, esq. london, millar, . (m) essays and treatises on several subjects. by d. hume, esq. london, millar, . vols. to. (n) essays and treatises on several subjects. by d. hume, esq. london, cadell, . vols vo. (o) _the above list comprehends all the editions which vary materially from each other. those which have been found on examination to be mere reprints, are not included._ contents of volume first. life of the author letter from adam smith, ll.d. to william strachan esq., and latter-will and testament of mr hume account of the controversy between hume and rousseau list of scotticisms treatise of human nature. introduction book i.--of the understanding. part i. of ideas, their origin, composition, connexion, abstraction, &c. of the origin of our ideas division of the subject of the ideas of the memory and imagination of the connexion or association of ideas of relations of modes and substances of abstract ideas part ii. of the ideas of space and time. of the infinite divisibility of our ideas of space and time of the infinite divisibility of space and time of the other qualities of our ideas of space and time objections answered the same subject continued of the idea of existence, and of external existence part iii. of knowledge and probability. of knowledge of probability, and of the idea of cause and effect why a cause is always necessary of the component parts of our reasonings concerning cause and effect of the impressions of the senses and memory of the inference from the impression to the ideax of the nature of the idea or belief of the causes of belief of the effects of other relations and other habits of the influence of belief of the probability of chances of the probability of causes of unphilosophical probability of the idea of necessary connexion rules by which to judge of causes and effectsx of the reason of animals part iv. of the sceptical and other systems of philosophy. of scepticism with regard to reason of scepticism with regard to the sensesx of the ancient philosophy of the modern philosophyx of the immateriality of the soul of personal identity conclusion of this book life of the author by himself. my own life. it is difficult for a man to speak long of himself without vanity; therefore, i shall be short. it may be thought an instance of vanity that i pretend at all to write my life; but this narrative shall contain little more than the history of my writings; as, indeed, almost all my life has been spent in literary pursuits and occupations. the first success of most of my writings was not such as to be an object of vanity. i was born the th of april , old style, at edinburgh. i was of a good family, both by father and mother. my father's family is a branch of the earl of home's or hume's; and my ancestors had been proprietors of the estate, which my brother possesses, for several generations. my mother was daughter of sir david falconer, president of the college of justice; the title of lord halkerton came by succession to her brother. my family, however, was not rich; and, being myself a younger brother, my patrimony, according to the mode of my country, was of course very slender. my father, who passed for a man of parts, died when i was an infant, leaving me, with an elder brother and a sister, under the care of our mother, a woman of singular merit, who, though young and handsome, devoted herself entirely to the rearing and educating of her children. i passed through the ordinary course of education with success, and was seized very early with a passion for literature, which has been the ruling passion of my life, and the great source of my enjoyments. my studious disposition, my sobriety, and my industry, gave my family a notion that the law was a proper profession for me; but i found an unsurmountable aversion to every thing but the pursuits of philosophy and general learning; and while they fancied i was poring upon voet and vinnius, cicero and virgil were the authors which i was secretly devouring. my very slender fortune, however, being unsuitable to this plan of life, and my health being a little broken by my ardent application, i was tempted, or rather forced, to make a very feeble trial for entering into a more active scene of life. in , i went to bristol, with some recommendations to eminent merchants, but in a few months found that scene totally unsuitable to me, i went over to france, with a view of prosecuting my studies in a country retreat; and i there laid that plan of life, which i have steadily and successfully pursued. i resolved to make a very rigid frugality supply my deficiency of fortune, to maintain unimpaired my independency, and to regard every object as contemptible, except the improvement of my talents in literature. during my retreat in france, first at rheims, but chiefly at la flêche, in anjou, i composed my _treatise of human nature_. after passing three years very agreeably in that country, i came over to london in . in the end of , i published my treatise, and immediately went down to my mother and my brother, who lived at his country-house, and was employing himself very judiciously and successfully in the improvement of his fortune. never literary attempt was more unfortunate than my treatise of human nature. it fell _dead-born from the press_, without reaching such distinction, as even to excite a murmur among the zealots. but being naturally of a cheerful and sanguine temper, i very soon recovered the blow, and prosecuted with great ardour my studies in the country. in , i printed at edinburgh the first part of my essays: the work was favourably received, and soon made me entirely forget my former disappointment. i continued with my mother and brother in the country, and in that time recovered the knowledge of the greek language, which i had too much neglected in my early youth. in , i received a letter from the marquis of annandale, inviting me to come and live with him in england; i found also, that the friends and family of that young nobleman were desirous of putting him under my care and direction, for the state of his mind and health required it. i lived with him a twelvemonth. my appointments during that time made a considerable accession to my small fortune. i then received an invitation from general st clair to attend him as a secretary to his expedition, which was at first meant against canada, but ended in an incursion on the coast of france. next year, to wit, , i received an invitation from the general to attend him in the same station in his military embassy to the courts of vienna and turin. i then wore the uniform of an officer, and was introduced at these courts as _aide-de-camp_ to the general, along with sir harry erskine and captain grant, now general grant. these two years were almost the only interruptions which my studies have received during the course of my life. i passed them agreeably, and in good company; and my appointments, with my frugality, had made me reach a fortune, which i called independent, though most of my friends were inclined to smile when i said so; in short, i was now master of near a thousand pounds. i had always entertained a notion, that my want of success in publishing the treatise of human nature, had proceeded more from the manner than the matter, and that i had been guilty of a very usual indiscretion, in going to the press too early. i, therefore, cast the first part of that work anew in the inquiry concerning human understanding, which was published while i was at turin. but this piece was at first little more successful than the treatise of human nature. on my return from italy, i had the mortification to find all england in a ferment, on account of dr middleton's free inquiry, while my performance was entirely overlooked and neglected. a new edition, which had been published at london, of my essays, moral and political, met not with a much better reception. such is the force of natural temper, that these disappointments made little or no impression on me. i went down in , and lived two years with my brother at his country-house, for my mother was now dead. i there composed the second part of my essays, which i called political discourses, and also my inquiry concerning the principles of morals, which is another part of my treatise that i cast anew. meanwhile, my bookseller a. millar informed me, that my former publications (all but the unfortunate treatise) were beginning to be the subject of conversation; that the sale of them was gradually increasing, and that new editions were demanded. answers by reverends, and right reverends, came out two or three in a year; and i found, by dr warburton's railing, that the books were beginning to be esteemed in good company. however, i had fixed a resolution, which i inflexibly maintained, never to reply to any body; and not being very irascible in my temper, i have easily kept myself clear of all literary squabbles. these symptoms of a rising reputation gave me encouragement, as i was ever more disposed to see the favourable than unfavourable side of things; a turn of mind which it is more happy to possess, than to be born to an estate of ten thousand a year. in , i removed from the country to the town, the true scene for a man of letters. in , were published at edinburgh, where i then lived, my political discourses, the only work of mine that was successful on the first publication. it was well received abroad and at home. in the same year was published at london, my inquiry concerning the principles of morals; which, in my own opinion (who ought not to judge on that subject), is of all my writings, historical, philosophical, or literary, incomparably the best. it came unnoticed and unobserved into the world. in , the faculty of advocates chose me their librarian, an office from which i received little or no emolument, but which gave me the command of a large library. i then formed the plan of writing the history of england; but being frightened with the notion of continuing a narrative through a period of years, i commenced with the accession of the house of stuart, an epoch when, i thought, the misrepresentations of faction began chiefly to take place. i was, i own, sanguine in my expectations of the success of this work. i thought that i was the only historian that had at once neglected present power, interest, and authority, and the cry of popular prejudices; and as the subject was suited to every capacity, i expected proportional applause. but miserable was my disappointment: i was assailed by one cry of reproach, disapprobation, and even detestation; english, scotch, and irish, whig and tory, churchman and sectary, free-thinker and religionist, patriot and courtier, united in their rage against the man, who had presumed to shed a generous tear for the fate of charles i. and the earl of strafford; and after the first ebullitions of their fury were over, what was still more mortifying, the book seemed to sink into oblivion. mr millar told me, that in a twelvemonth he sold only forty-five copies of it. i scarcely, indeed, heard of one man in the three kingdoms, considerable for rank or letters, that could endure the book. i must only except the primate of england, dr herring, and the primate of ireland, dr stone, which seem two odd exceptions. these dignified prelates separately sent me messages not to be discouraged. i was however, i confess, discouraged; and had not the war been at that time breaking out between france and england, i had certainly retired to some provincial town of the former kingdom, have changed my name, and never more have returned to my native country. but as this scheme was not now practicable, and the subsequent volume was considerably advanced, i resolved to pick up courage, and to persevere. in this interval, i published at london my natural history of religion, along with some other small pieces. its public entry was rather obscure, except only that dr hurd wrote a pamphlet against it, with all the illiberal petulance, arrogance and scurrility, which distinguish the warburtonian school. this pamphlet gave me some consolation for the otherwise indifferent reception of my performance. in , two years after the fall of the first volume, was published the second volume of my history, containing the period from the death of charles i. till the revolution. this performance happened to give less displeasure to the whigs, and was better received. it not only rose itself, but helped to buoy up its unfortunate brother. but though i had been taught, by experience, that the whig party were in possession of bestowing all places, both in the state and in literature, i was so little inclined to yield to their senseless clamour, that in above a hundred alterations, which farther study, reading or reflection, engaged me to make in the reigns of the two first stuarts, i have made all of them invariably to the tory side. it is ridiculous to consider the english constitution before that period as a regular plan of liberty. in , i published my history of the house of tudor. the clamour against this performance was almost equal to that against the history of the two first stuarts. the reign of elizabeth was particularly obnoxious. but i was now callous against the impressions of public folly, and continued very peaceably and contentedly in my retreat at edinburgh, to finish, in two volumes, the more early part of the english history, which i gave to the public in , with tolerable, and but tolerable success. but, notwithstanding this variety of winds and seasons, to which my writings had been exposed, they had still been making such advances, that the copy-money given me by the booksellers, much exceeded any thing formerly known in england; i was become not only independent, but opulent. i retired to my native country of scotland, determined never more to set my foot out of it; and retaining the satisfaction of never having preferred a request to one great man, or even making advances of friendship to any of them. as i was now turned of fifty, i thought of passing all the rest of my life in this philosophical manner, when i received, in , an invitation from the earl of hertford, with whom i was not in the least acquainted, to attend him on his embassy to paris, with a near prospect of being appointed secretary to the embassy, and, in the meanwhile, of performing the functions of that office. this offer, however inviting, i at first declined, both because i was reluctant to begin connexions with the great, and because i was afraid that the civilities and gay company of paris, would prove disagreeable to a person of my age and humour: but on his lordship's repeating the invitation, i accepted of it, i have every reason, both of pleasure and interest, to think myself happy in my connexions with that nobleman, as well as afterwards with his brother, general conway. those who have not seen the strange effects of modes, will never imagine the reception i met with at paris, from men and women of all ranks and stations. the more i resiled from their excessive civilities, the more i was loaded with them. there is, however, a real satisfaction in living at paris, from the great number of sensible, knowing, and polite company with which that city abounds above all places in the universe. i thought once of settling there for life. i was appointed secretary to the embassy; and, in summer , lord hertford left me, being appointed lord lieutenant of ireland. i was _chargé d'affaires_ till the arrival of the duke of richmond, towards the end of the year. in the beginning of , i left paris, and next summer went to edinburgh, with the same view as formerly, of burying myself in a philosophical retreat. i returned to that place, not richer, but with much more money, and a much larger income, by means of lord hertford's friendship, than i left it; and i was desirous of trying what superfluity could produce, as i had formerly made an experiment of a competency. but, in , i received from mr conway an invitation to be under-secretary; and this invitation, both the character of the person, and my connexions with lord hertford, prevented me from declining. i returned to edinburgh in , very opulent (for i possessed a revenue of _l_. a year), healthy, and, though somewhat stricken in years, with the prospect of enjoying long my ease, and of seeing the increase of my reputation. in spring , i was struck with a disorder in my bowels, which at first gave me no alarm, but has since, as i apprehend it, become mortal and incurable. i now reckon upon a speedy dissolution. i have suffered very little pain from my disorder; and what is more strange, have, notwithstanding the great decline of my person, never suffered a moment's abatement of my spirits; insomuch, that were i to name the period of my life, which i should most choose to pass over again, i might be tempted to point to this later period. i possess the same ardour as ever in study, and the same gaiety in company. i consider, besides, that a man of sixty-five, by dying, cuts off only a few years of infirmities; and though i see many symptoms of my literary reputation's breaking out at last with additional lustre, i knew that i could have but few years to enjoy it. it is difficult to be more detached from life than i am at present. to conclude historically with my own character. i am, or rather was (for that is the style i must now use in speaking of myself, which emboldens me the more to speak my sentiments); i was, i say, a man of mild dispositions, of command of temper, of an open, social, and cheerful humour, capable of attachment, but little susceptible of enmity, and of great moderation in all my passions. even my love of literary fame, my ruling passion, never soured my temper, notwithstanding my frequent disappointments. my company was not unacceptable to the young and careless, as well as to the studious and literary; and as i took a particular pleasure in the company of modest women, i had no reason to be displeased with the reception i met with from them. in a word, though most men any wise eminent, have found reason to complain of calumny, i never was touched, or even attacked by her baleful tooth: and though i wantonly exposed myself to the rage of both civil and religious factions, they seemed to be disarmed in my behalf of their wonted fury. my friends never had occasion to vindicate any one circumstance of my character and conduct: not but that the zealots, we may well suppose, would have been glad to invent and propagate any story to my disadvantage, but they could never find any which they thought would wear the face of probability. i cannot say there is no vanity in making this funeral oration of myself, but i hope it is not a misplaced one; and this is a matter of fact which is easily cleared and ascertained. april . . letter from adam smith, ll.d. to william strachan, esq. _kirkaldy, fifeshire, nov_. , . dear sir, it is with a real, though a very melancholy pleasure, that i sit down to give you some account of the behaviour of our late excellent friend, mr hume, during his last illness. though, in his own judgment, his disease was mortal and incurable, yet he allowed himself to be prevailed upon, by the entreaty of his friends, to try what might be the effects of a long journey. a few days before he set out, he wrote that account of his own life, which, together with his other papers, he has left to your care. my account, therefore, shall begin where his ends. he set out for london towards the end of april, and at morpeth met with mr john home and myself, who had both come down from london on purpose to see him, expecting to have found him at edinburgh. mr home returned with him, and attended him during the whole of his stay in england, with that care and attention which might be expected from a temper so perfectly friendly and affectionate. as i had written to my mother that she might expect me in scotland, i was under the necessity of continuing my journey. his disease seemed to yield to exercise and change of air, and when he arrived in london, he was apparently in much better health than when he left edinburgh. he was advised to go to bath to drink the waters, which appeared for some time to have so good an effect upon him, that even he himself began to entertain, what he was not apt to do, a better opinion of his own health. his symptoms, however, soon returned with their usual violence, and from that moment he gave up all thoughts of recovery, but submitted with the utmost cheerfulness, and the most perfect complacency and resignation. upon his return to edinburgh, though he found himself much weaker, yet his cheerfulness never abated, and he continued to divert himself, as usual, with correcting his own works for a new edition, with reading books of amusement, with the conversation of his friends; and, sometimes in the evening, with a party at his favourite game of whist. his cheerfulness was so great, and his conversation and amusements run so much in their usual strain, that, notwithstanding all bad symptoms, many people could not believe he was dying. "i shall tell your friend, colonel edmondstone," said doctor dundas to him one day, "that i left you much better, and in a fair way of recovery." "doctor," said he, "as i believe you would not choose to tell any thing but the truth, you had better tell him, that i am dying as fast as my enemies, if i have any, could wish, and as easily and cheerfully as my best friends could desire." colonel edmondstone soon afterwards came to see him, and take leave of him; and on his way home, he could not forbear writing him a letter bidding him once more an eternal adieu, and applying to him, as to a dying man, the beautiful french verses in which the abbé chaulieu, in expectation of his own death, laments his approaching separation from his friend, the marquis de la fare. mr hume's magnanimity and firmness were such, that his most affectionate friends knew that they hazarded nothing in talking or writing to him as to a dying man, and that so far from being hurt by this frankness, he was rather pleased and flattered by it. i happened to come into his room while he was reading this letter, which he had just received, and which he immediately showed me. i told him, that though i was sensible how very much he was weakened, and that appearances were in many respects very bad, yet his cheerfulness was still so great, the spirit of life seemed still to be so very strong in him, that i could not help entertaining some faint hopes. he answered, "your hopes are groundless. an habitual diarrhoea of more than a year's standing, would be a very bad disease at any age: at my age it is a mortal one. when i lie down in the evening, i feel myself weaker than when i rose in the morning; and when i rise in the morning, weaker than when i lay down in the evening. i am sensible, besides, that some of my vital parts are affected, so that i must soon die." "well," said i, "if it must be so, you have at least the satisfaction of leaving all your friends, your brother's family in particular, in great prosperity." he said that he felt that satisfaction so sensibly, that when he was reading, a few days before, lucian's dialogues of the dead, among all the excuses which are alleged to charon for not entering readily into his boat, he could not find one that fitted him; he had no house to finish, he had no daughter to provide for, he had no enemies upon whom he wished to revenge himself. "i could not well imagine," said he, "what excuse i could make to charon in order to obtain a little delay. i have done every thing of consequence which i ever meant to do; and i could at no time expect to leave my relations and friends in a better situation than that in which i am now likely to leave them. i therefore have all reason to die contented." he then diverted himself with inventing several jocular excuses, which he supposed he might make to charon, and with imagining the very surly answers which it might suit the character of charon to return to them. "upon further consideration," said he, "i thought i might say to him, good charon, i have been correcting my works for a new edition. allow me a little time, that i may see how the public receives the alterations." but charon would answer, "when you have seen the effect of these, you will be for making other alterations. there will be no end of such excuses; so, honest friend, please step into the boat." but i might still urge, "have a little patience, good charon; i have been endeavouring to open the eyes of the public. if i live a few years longer, i may have the satisfaction of seeing the downfall of some of the prevailing systems of superstition." but charon would then lose all temper and decency. "you loitering rogue, that will not happen these many hundred years. do you fancy i will grant you a lease for so long a term? get into the boat this instant, you lazy loitering rogue." but, though mr hume always talked of his approaching dissolution with great cheerfulness, he never affected to make any parade of his magnanimity. he never mentioned the subject but when the conversation naturally led to it, and never dwelt longer upon it than the course of the conversation happened to require: it was a subject, indeed, which occurred pretty frequently, in consequence of the inquiries which his friends, who came to see him, naturally made concerning the state of his health. the conversation which i mentioned above, and which passed on thursday the th of august, was the last, except one, that i ever had with him. he had now become so very weak, that the company of his most intimate friends fatigued him; for his cheerfulness was still so great, his complaisance and social disposition were still so entire, that when any friend was with him, he could not help talking more, and with greater exertion, than suited the weakness of his body. at his own desire, therefore, i agreed to leave edinburgh, where i was staying partly upon his account, and returned to my mother's house here, at kirkaldy, upon condition that he would send for me whenever he wished to see me; the physician who saw him most frequently, dr black, undertaking, in the mean time, to write me occasionally an account of the state of his health. on the d of august, the doctor wrote me the following letter: "since my last, mr hume has passed his time pretty easily, but is much weaker. he sits up, goes down stairs once a day, and amuses himself with reading, but seldom sees anybody. he finds that even the conversation of his most intimate friends fatigues and oppresses him; and it is happy that he does not need it, for he is quite free from anxiety, impatience, or low spirits, and passes his time very well with the assistance of amusing books." i received the day after a letter from mr hume himself, of which the following is an extract. "_edinburgh_, _d august_, . "my dearest friend, "i am obliged to make use of my nephew's hand in writing to you, as i do not rise to-day. * * * * * "i go very fast to decline, and last night had a small fever, which i hoped might put a quicker period to this tedious illness, but unluckily it has, in a great measure, gone off. i cannot submit to your coming over here on my account, as it is possible for me to see you so small a part of the day, but doctor black can better inform you concerning the degree of strength which may from time to time remain with me. adieu," &c. three days after i received the following letter from doctor black. "_edinburgh, monday_, _th august_, . "dear sir, "yesterday about four o'clock afternoon, mr hume expired. the near approach of his death became evident in the night between thursday and friday, when his disease became excessive, and soon weakened him so much, that he could no longer rise out of his bed. he continued to the last perfectly sensible, and free from much pain or feelings of distress. he never dropped the smallest expression of impatience; but when he had occasion to speak to the people about him, always did it with affection and tenderness. i thought it improper to write to bring you over, especially as i heard that he had dictated a letter to you desiring you not to come. when he became very weak, it cost him an effort to speak, and he died in such a happy composure of mind, that nothing could exceed it." thus died our most excellent, and never to be forgotten friend; concerning whose philosophical opinions men will, no doubt, judge variously, every one approving, or condemning them, according as they happen to coincide or disagree with his own; but concerning whose character and conduct there can scarce be a difference of opinion. his temper, indeed, seemed to be more happily balanced, if i may be allowed such an expression, than that perhaps of any other man i have ever known. even in the lowest state of his fortune, his great and necessary frugality never hindered him from exercising, upon proper occasions, acts both of charity and generosity. it was a frugality founded, not upon avarice, but upon the love of independency. the extreme gentleness of his nature never weakened either the firmness of his mind, or the steadiness of his resolutions. his constant pleasantry was the genuine effusion of good nature and good humour, tempered with delicacy and modesty, and without even the slightest tincture of malignity, so frequently the disagreeable source of what is called wit in other men. it never was the meaning of his raillery to mortify; and therefore, far from offending, it seldom failed to please and delight, even those who were the objects of it. to his friends, who were frequently the objects of it, there was not perhaps any one of all his great and amiable qualities, which contributed more to endear his conversation. and that gaiety of temper, so agreeable in society, but which is so often accompanied with frivolous and superficial qualities, was in him certainly attended with the most severe application, the most extensive learning, the greatest depth of thought, and a capacity in every respect the most comprehensive. upon the whole, i have always considered him, both in his lifetime and since his death, as approaching as nearly to the idea of a perfectly wise and virtuous man, as perhaps the nature of human frailty will permit. i ever am, dear sir, most affectionately yours, adam smith. [illustration: drawn by a. nasmyth--engraved by w. miller--hume's monument, calton hill.] the latter-will and testament of david hume. i, david hume, second lawful son of joseph home of ninewells, advocate, for the love and affection i bear to john home of ninewells, my brother, and for other causes, do, by these presents, under the reservations and burdens after-mentioned, give and dispose to the said john home, or, if he die before me, to david home, his second son, his heirs and assigns whatsomever, all lands, heritages, debts, and sums of money, as well heritable as moveable, which shall belong to me at the time of my decease, as also my whole effects in general, real and personal, with and under the burden of the following legacies, viz. to my sister catherine home, the sum of twelve hundred pounds sterling, payable the first term of whitsunday or martinmas after my decease, together with all my english books, and the life-rent of my house in st james's court, or in case that house be sold at the time of my decease, twenty pounds a year during the whole course of her life: to my friend adam ferguson, professor of moral philosophy in the college of edinburgh, two hundred pounds sterling: to my friend m. d'alembert, member of the french academy, and of the academy of sciences in paris, two hundred pounds: to my friend dr adam smith, late professor of moral philosophy in glasgow, i leave all my manuscripts without exception, desiring him to publish my _dialogues on natural religion_, which are comprehended in this present bequest; but to publish no other papers which he suspects not to have been written within these five years, but to destroy them all at his leisure: and i even leave him full power over all my papers, except the dialogues above mentioned; and though i can trust to that intimate and sincere friendship, which has ever subsisted between us, for his faithful execution of this part of my will, yet, as a small recompense of his pains in correcting and publishing this work, i leave him two hundred pounds, to be paid immediately after the publication of it: i also leave to mrs anne and mrs janet hepburn, daughters of mr james hepburn of keith, one hundred pounds a piece: to my cousin david campbell, son of mr campbell, minister of lillysleaf, one hundred pounds: to the infirmary of edinburgh, fifty pounds: to all the servants who shall be in my family at the time of my decease, one year's wages; and to my housekeeper, margaret irvine, three year's wages: and i also ordain, that my brother, or nephew, or executor, whoever he be, shall not pay up to the said margaret irvine, without her own consent, any sum of money which i shall owe her at the time of my decease, whether by bill, bond, or for wages, but shall retain in his hand, and pay her the legal interest upon it, till she demand the principal: and in case my brother above-mentioned shall survive me, i leave to his son david, the sum of a thousand pounds to assist him in his education: but in case that by my brother's death before me, the succession of my estate and effects shall devolve to the aforesaid david, i hereby burden him, over and above the payment of the aforesaid legacies, with the payment of the sums following: to his brothers joseph and john, a thousand pounds a piece: to his sisters catherine and agnes, five hundred pounds a piece: all which sums, as well as every sum contained in the present disposition (except that to dr smith), to be payable the first term of whitsunday and martinmas, after my decease; and all of them, without exception, in sterling money. and i do hereby nominate and appoint the said john home, my brother, and failing of him by decease, the said david home, to be my sole executor and universal legatee, with and under the burdens above mentioned; reserving always full power and liberty to me, at any time of my life, even in deathbed, to alter and innovate these presents, in whole or in part, and to burden the same with such other legacies as i shall think fit. and i do hereby declare these presents to be a good, valid, and sufficient evidence, albeit found in my custody, or in the custody of any other person at the time of my death, &c. (_in common style_.) signed january , before these witnesses, the right honourable the earl of home, and mr john mcgowan, clerk to the signet. david hume. i also ordain, that if i shall die any where in scotland, i shall be buried in a private manner in the calton churchyard, the south side of it, and a monument to be built over my body, at an expense not exceeding a hundred pounds, with an inscription containing only my name, with the year of my birth and death, leaving it to posterity to add the rest. _at edinburgh_, _th april_, . david hume. i also leave for rebuilding the bridge of churnside the sum of a hundred pounds; but on condition that the managers of the bridge shall take none of the stones for building the bridge from the quarry of ninewells, except from that part of the quarry which has been already opened. i leave to my nephew joseph, the sum of fifty pounds to enable him to make a good sufficient drain and sewer round the house of ninewells, but on condition that, if that drain and sewer be not made, from whatever cause, within a year after my death, the said fifty pounds shall be paid to the poor of the parish of churnside: to my sister, instead of all my english books, i leave her a hundred volumes at her choice: to david waite, servant to my brother, i leave the sum of ten pounds, payable the first term after my death. david hume. an account of the controversy between hume and rousseau. london. m.d.cc.lxvi. advertisement of the french editors. the name and writings of mr hume have been long since well known throughout europe. at the same time, his personal acquaintance have remarked, in the candour and simplicity of his manners, that impartiality and ingenuousness of disposition which distinguishes his character, and is sufficiently indicated in his writings. he hath exerted those great talents he received from nature, and the acquisitions he made by study, in the search of truth, and promoting the good of mankind; never wasting his time, or sacrificing his repose, in literary or personal disputes. he hath seen his writings frequently censured with bitterness, by fanaticism, ignorance, and the spirit of party, without ever giving an answer to his adversaries. even those who have attacked his works with the greatest violence, have always respected his personal character. his love of peace is so well known, that the criticisms written against his pieces, have been often brought him by their respective authors, for him to revise and correct them. at one time, in particular, a performance of this kind was shown to him, in which he had been treated in a very rude and even injurious manner; on remarking which to the author, the latter struck out the exceptionable passages, blushing and wondering at the force of that _polemic spirit_ which had carried him imperceptibly away beyond the founds of truth and decency. it was with great reluctance that a man, possessed of such pacific dispositions, could be brought to consent to the publication of the following piece. he was very sensible that the quarrels among men of letters are a scandal to philosophy; nor was any person in the world less formed for giving occasion to a scandal, so consolatory to blockheads. but the circumstances were such as to draw him into it, in spite of his inclinations. all the world knows that mr rousseau, proscribed in almost every country where he resided, determined at length to take refuge in england; and that mr hume, affected by his situation, and his misfortunes, undertook to bring him over, and to provide for him a peaceful, safe, and convenient asylum. but very few persons are privy to the zeal, activity, and even delicacy, with which mr hume conferred this act of benevolence. what an affectionate attachment he had contracted for this new friend, which humanity had given him! with what address he endeavoured to anticipate his desires, without offending his pride! in short, with what address he strove to justify, in the eyes of others, the singularities of mr rousseau, and to defend his character against those who were not disposed to think so favourably of him as he did himself. even at the time when mr hume was employed in doing mr rousseau the most essential service, he received from him the most insolent and abusive letter. the more such a stroke was unexpected, the more it was cruel and affecting. mr hume wrote an account of this extraordinary adventure to his friends at paris, and expressed himself in his letters with all that indignation which so strange a proceeding must excite. he thought himself under no obligation to keep terms with a man, who, after having received from him the most certain and constant marks of friendship, could reproach him, without any reason, as false, treacherous, and as the most wicked of mankind. in the mean time, the dispute between these two celebrated personages did not fail to make a noise. the complaints of mr hume soon came to the knowledge of the public, which at first hardly believed it possible that mr rousseau could be guilty of that excessive ingratitude laid to his charge. even mr hume's friends were fearful, lest, in the first effusions of sensibility, he was not carried too far, and had not mistaken for wilful crimes of the heart, the vagaries of the imagination, or the deceptions of the understanding. he judged it necessary, therefore to explain the affair, by writing a precise narrative of all that passed between him and mr rousseau, from their first connection to their rupture. this narrative he sent to his friends, some of whom advised him to print it, alleging, that as mr rousseau's accusations were become public, the proofs of his justification ought to be so too. mr hume did not give into these arguments, choosing rather to run the risk of being unjustly censured, than to resolve on making himself a public party in an affair so contrary to his disposition and character. a new incident, however, at length overcame his reluctance. mr rousseau had addressed a letter to a bookseller at paris, in which he directly accuses mr hume of having entered into a league with his enemies to betray and defame him; and in which he boldly defies mr hume to print the papers he had in his hands. this letter was communicated to several persons in paris, was translated into english, and the translation printed in the public papers in london. an accusation and defiance so very public could not be suffered to pass without reply, while any long silence on the part of mr hume might have been interpreted little in his favour. besides, the news of this dispute had spread itself over europe, and the opinions entertained of it were various. it had doubtless been much happier, if the whole affair had been buried in oblivion, and remained a profound secret; but as it was impossible to prevent the public interesting itself in the controversy, it became necessary at least that the truth of the matter should be known. mr hume's friends unitedly represented to him all these reasons, the force of which he was at length convinced of; and seeing the necessity, consented, though with reluctance, to the printing of his memorial. the narrative, and notes, are translated from the english.[ ] the letters of mr rousseau, which serve as authentic proofs of the facts are exact copies of the originals.[ ] this pamphlet contains many strange instances of singularity, that will appear extraordinary enough to those who will give themselves the trouble to peruse it. those who do not choose to take the trouble, however, may possibly do better, as its contents are of little importance, except to those who are immediately interested. on the whole, mr hume, in offering to the public the genuine pieces of his trial, has authorized us to declare, that he will never take up the pen again on the subject. mr rousseau indeed may return to the charge; he may produce suppositions, misconstructions, inferences, and new declamations; he may create and realize new phantoms, and envelop them in the clouds of his rhetoric, he will meet with no more contradiction. the facts are all laid before the public;[ ] and mr hume submits his cause to the determination of every man of sense and probity. [ ] and are now re-translated, for the most part, from the french, the french editors having taken some liberties, not without mr hume's consent, with the english original.--_english translator_. [ ] in the present edition mr hume's letters are printed _verbatim_; and to mr rousseau's the translator hath endeavoured to do justice, as well with regard to the sense as the expression. not that he can flatter himself with having always succeeded in the latter. he has taken the liberty also to add a note or two, regarding some particular circumstances which had come to his knowledge. [ ] the original letters of both parties will be lodged in the british museum, on account of the above mentioned defiance of mr rousseau, and his subsequent insinuation, that if they should be published, they would be falsified. an account of the controversy between mr hume and mr rousseau. _august_ , . my connexion with mr rousseau began in , when the parliament of paris had issued an arrêt for apprehending him, on account of his _emilius_. i was at that time at edinburgh. a person of great worth wrote to me from paris, that mr rousseau intended to seek an asylum in england, and desired i would do him all the good offices in my power. as i conceived mr rousseau had actually put his design in execution, i wrote to several of my friends in london, recommending this celebrated exile to their favour. i wrote also immediately to mr rousseau himself; assuring him of my desire to oblige, and readiness to serve him. at the same time, i invited him to come to edinburgh, if the situation would be agreeable, and offered him a retreat in my own house, so long as he should please to partake of it. there needed no other motive to excite me to this act of humanity, than the idea given me of mr rousseau's personal character, by the friend who had recommended him, his well known genius and abilities, and above all, his misfortunes; the very cause of which was an additional reason to interest me in his favour. the following is the answer i received. mr rousseau to mr hume. _motiers-travers_, _feb_. , . sir, i did not receive till lately, and at this place, the letter you did me the honour to direct to me at london, the d of july last, on the supposition that i was then arrived at that capital. i should doubtless have made choice of a retreat in your country, and as near as possible to yourself, if i had foreseen what a reception i was to meet with in my own. no other nation could claim a preference to england. and this prepossession, for which i have dearly suffered, was at that time too natural not to be very excusable; but, to my great astonishment, as well as that of the public, i have met with nothing but affronts and insults, where i hoped to have found consolation at least, if not gratitude. how many reasons have i not to regret the want of that asylum and philosophical hospitality i should have found with you! my misfortunes, indeed, have constantly seemed to lead me in a manner that way. the protection and kindness of my lord marshall, your worthy and illustrious countryman, hath brought scotland home to me, if i may so express myself, in the midst of switzerland; he hath made you so often bear a part in our conversation, hath brought me so well acquainted with your virtues, which i before was only with your talents, that he inspired me with the most tender friendship for you, and the most ardent desire of obtaining yours, before i even knew you were disposed to grant it. judge then of the pleasure i feel, at finding this inclination reciprocal. no, sir, i should pay your merit but half its due, if it were the subject only of my admiration. your great impartiality, together with your amazing penetration and genius, would lift you far above the rest of mankind, if you were less attached to them by the goodness of your heart. my lord marshal, in acquainting me that the amiableness of your disposition was still greater than the sublimity of your genius, rendered a correspondence with you every day more desirable, and cherished in me those wishes which he inspired, of ending my days near you. oh, sir, that a better state of health, and more convenient circumstances, would but enable me to take such a journey in the manner i could like! could i but hope to see you and my lord marshal one day settled in your own country, which should for ever after be mine, i should be thankful, in such a society, for the very misfortunes that led me into it, and should account the day of its commencement as the first of my life. would to heaven i might live to see that happy day, though now more to be desired than expected! with what transports should i not exclaim, on setting foot in that happy country which gave birth to david hume and the lord marshal of scotland! salve, facis mihi debita tellus! hæc domus, hæc patria est. j.j.r. this letter is not published from a motive of vanity; as will be seen presently, when i give the reader a recantation of all the eulogies it contains; but only to complete the course of our correspondence, and to show that i have been long since disposed to mr rousseau's service. from this time our correspondence entirely ceased, till about the middle of last autumn ( ), when it was renewed by the following accident. a certain lady of mr rousseau's acquaintance, being on a journey to one of the french provinces, bordering on switzerland, had taken that opportunity of paying a visit to our solitary philosopher, in his retreat at motiers-travers. to this lady he complained, that his situation in neufchâtel was become extremely disagreeable, as well on account of the superstition of the people, as the resentment of the clergy; and that he was afraid he should shortly be under the necessity of seeking an asylum elsewhere; in which case, england appeared to him, from the nature of its laws and government, to be the only place to which he could retire with perfect security; adding, that my lord marshal, his former protector, had advised him to put himself under my protection, (that was the term he was pleased, to make use of), and that he would accordingly address himself to me, if he thought it would not be giving me too much trouble. i was at that time charged with the affairs of england at the court of france; but as i had the prospect of soon returning to london, i could not reject a proposal made to me under such circumstances, by a man so celebrated for his genius and misfortunes. as soon as i was thus informed, therefore, of the situation and intentions of mr rousseau, i wrote to him, making him an offer of my services; to which he returned the following answer. mr rousseau to mr hume. _strasbourg_, _dec_. , . sir, your goodness affects me as much as it does me honour. the best reply i can make to your offers is to accept them, which i do. i shall set out in five or six days to throw myself into your arms. such is the advice of my lord marshal, my protector, friend and father; it is the advice also of madam * * * [ ] whose good sense and benevolence serve equally for my direction and consolation; in fine, i may say it is the advice of my own heart, which takes a pleasure in being indebted to the most illustrious of my contemporaries, to a man whose goodness surpasses his glory. i sigh after a solitary and free retirement, wherein i might finish my days in peace. if this be procured me by means of your benevolent solicitude, i shall then enjoy at once the pleasure of the only blessing my heart desires, and also that of being indebted for it to you. i am, sir, with all my heart, &c. j. j. r. [ ] the person here mentioned desired her name might be suppressed. _french editor_. as the motive to the suppression of the lady's name can hardly be supposed to extend to this country, the _english translator_ takes the liberty to mention the name of the marchioness de verdelin. not that i had deferred till this time my endeavours to be useful to mr rousseau. the following letter was communicated to me by mr clairaut, some weeks before his death. mr rousseau to mr clairaut. _motiers-travers_, _march_ , . sir, the remembrance of your former kindness, induces me to be again importunate. it is to desire you will be so good, for the second time, to be the censor of one of my performances. it is a very paltry rhapsody, which i compiled many years ago, under the title of _a musical dictionary_, and am now obliged to republish it for subsistence. amidst the torrent of misfortunes that overwhelm me, i am not in a situation to review the work; which, i know, is full of oversights and mistakes. if any interest you may take in the lot of the most unfortunate of mankind, should induce you to bestow a little more attention on his work than on that of another, i should be extremely obliged to you, if you would take the trouble to correct such errors as you may meet with in the perusal. to point them out, without correcting them, would be doing nothing, for i am absolutely incapable of paying the least attention to such a work; so that if you would but condescend to alter, add, retrench, and, in short, use it as you would do your own, you would do a great charity, for which i should be extremely thankful. accept, sir, my most humble excuses and salutations. j. j. r. it is with reluctance i say it, but i am compelled to it; i now know of a certainty that this affectation of extreme poverty and distress was a mere pretence, a petty kind of imposture which mr rousseau successfully employed to excite the compassion of the public; but i was then very far from suspecting any such artifice. i must own, i felt on this occasion an emotion of pity, mixed with indignation, to think a man of letters of such eminent merit, should be reduced, in spite of the simplicity of his manner of living, to such extreme indigence; and that this unhappy state should be rendered more intolerable by sickness, by the approach of old age, and the implacable rage of persecution. i knew that many persons imputed the wretchedness of mr rousseau to his excessive pride, which induced him to refuse the assistance of his friends; but i thought this fault, if it were a fault, was a very respectable one. too many men of letters have debased their character in stooping so low as to solicit the assistance of persons of wealth or power, unworthy of affording them protection; and i conceived that a noble pride, even though carried to excess, merited some indulgence in a man of genius, who, borne up by a sense of his own superiority and a love of independence, should have braved the storms of fortune and the insults of mankind. i proposed, therefore, to serve mr rousseau in his own way. i desired mr clairaut, accordingly, to give me his letter, which i showed to several of mr rousseau's friends and patrons in paris. at the same time i proposed to them a scheme by which he might be relieved, without suspecting any thing of the matter. this was to engage the bookseller, who was to publish his _dictionary_, to give mr rousseau a greater sum for the copy than he had offered, and to indemnify him by paying him the difference. but this project, which could not be executed without the assistance of mr clairaut, fell to the ground at the unexpected decease of that learned and respectable academician. retaining, however, still the same idea of mr rousseau's excessive poverty, i constantly retained the same inclination to oblige him; and when i was informed of his intention to go to england under my conduct, i formed a scheme much of the same kind with that i could not execute at paris. i wrote immediately to my friend, mr john stewart of buckingham street, that i had an affair to communicate to him, of so secret and delicate a nature, that i should not venture even to commit it to paper, but that he might learn the particulars of mr elliot (now sir gilbert elliot), who would soon return from paris to london. the plan was this, and was really communicated by mr elliot some time after to mr stewart, who was at the same time enjoined to the greatest secrecy. mr stewart was to look out for some honest discreet farmer in his neighbourhood in the country, who might be willing to lodge and board mr rousseau and his gouvernante in a very decent and plentiful manner, at a pension which mr stewart might settle at fifty or sixty pounds a year; the farmer engaging to keep such agreement a profound secret, and to receive from mr rousseau only twenty or twenty-five pounds a year, i engaging to supply the difference. it was not long before mr stewart wrote me word he had found a situation which he conceived might be agreeable; on which i desired he would get the apartment furnished in a proper and convenient manner at my expense. but this scheme, in which there could not possibly enter any motive of vanity on my part, secrecy being a necessary condition of its execution, did not take place, other designs presenting themselves more convenient and agreeable. the fact, however, is well known both to mr stewart and sir gilbert elliot. it will not be improper here to mention another plan concerted with the same intentions. i had accompanied mr rousseau into a very pleasant part of the county of surry, where he spent two days at colonel webb's, mr rousseau seeming to me highly delighted with the natural and solitary beauties of the place. through the means of mr stewart, therefore, i entered into treaty with colonel webb for the purchasing the house, with a little estate adjoining, in order to make a settlement for mr rousseau. if, after what has passed, mr rousseau's testimony be of any validity, i may appeal to himself for the truth of what i advance. but be this as it will, these facts are well known to mr stewart, to general clarke, and in part to colonel webb. but to proceed in my narrative. mr rousseau came to paris, provided with a passport which his friends had obtained for him. i conducted him to england. for upwards of two months after our arrival, i employed myself and my friends in looking out for some agreeable situation for him. we gave way to all his caprices; excused all his singularities; indulged him in all his humours; in short, neither time nor trouble was spared to procure him what he desired;[ ] and, notwithstanding he rejected several of the projects which i had laid out for him, yet i thought myself sufficiently recompensed for my trouble by the gratitude and even affection with which he appeared to repay my solicitude. at length his present settlement was proposed and approved. mr davenport, a gentleman of family, fortune and worth, offered him his house at wooton, in the county of derby, where he himself seldom resides, and at which mr rousseau and his housekeeper are boarded at a very moderate expense. when mr rousseau arrived at wooton, he wrote me the following letter. [ ] it is probably to this excessive and ill-judged complaisance mr hume may in a great degree impute the disagreeable consequences that have followed. there is no end in indulging caprice, nor any prudence in doing it, when it is known to be such. it may be thought humane to indulge the weak of body or mind, the decrepitude of age, and imbecility of childhood; but even here it too often proves cruelty to the very parties indulged. how much more inexcusable, therefore, is it to cherish the absurdities of whim and singularity in men of genius and abilities! how is it possible to make a man easy or happy in a world, to whose customs and maxims he is determined to run retrograde? no. capricious men, like forward children, should be left to kick against the pricks, and vent their spleen unnoticed. to humour, is only to spoil them.--_english translator_. mr rousseau to mr hume. _wooton_, _march_ , . you see already, my dear patron, by the date of my letter, that i am arrived at the place of my destination; but you cannot see all the charms which i find in it. to do this, you should be acquainted with the situation, and be able to read my heart. you ought, however, to read at least those of my sentiments with respect to you, and which you have so well deserved. if i live in this agreeable asylum as happy as i hope to do, one of the greatest pleasures of my life will be, to reflect that i owe it to you. to make another happy, is to deserve to be happy one's self. may you therefore find in yourself the reward of all you have done for me! had i been alone, i might perhaps have met with hospitality; but i should have never relished it so highly as i now do in owing it to your friendship. retain still that friendship for me, my dear patron; love me for my sake, who am so much indebted to you; love me for your own, for the good you have done me. i am sensible of the full value of your sincere friendship: it is the object of my ardent wishes: i am ready to repay it with all mine, and feel something in my heart which may one day convince you that it is not without its value. as, for the reasons agreed on between us, i shall receive nothing by the post, you will be pleased, when you have the goodness to write to me, to send your letters to mr davenport. the affair of the carriage is not yet adjusted, because i know i was imposed on. it is a trifling fault, however, which may be only the effect of an obliging vanity, unless it should happen to be repeated. if you were concerned in it, i would advise you to give up, once for all, these little impositions, which cannot proceed from any good motive, when converted into snares for simplicity. i embrace you, my dear patron, with the same cordiality which i hope to find in you. j. j. r. some few days after, i received from him another letter, of which the following is a copy. mr rousseau to mr hume. _wooton_, _march_ , . you will see, my dear patron, by the letter mr davenport will have transmitted you, how agreeably i find myself situated in this place. i might perhaps be more at my ease if i were less noticed; but the solicitude of so polite an host as mine is too obliging to give offence; and as there is nothing in life without its inconvenience, that of being too good is one of those which is the most tolerable. i find a much greater inconvenience in not being able to make the servants understand me, and particularly in my not understanding them. luckily mrs le vasseur serves me as interpreter, and her fingers speak better than my tongue. there is one advantage, however, attending my ignorance, which is a kind of compensation; it serves to tire and keep at a distance impertinent visitors. the minister of the parish came to see me yesterday, who, finding that i spoke to him only in french, would not speak to me in english, so that our interview was almost a silent one. i have taken a great fancy to this expedient, and shall make use of it with all my neighbours, if i have any. nay, should i even learn to speak english, i would converse with them only in french, especially if i were so happy as to find they did not understand a word of that language; an artifice this, much of the same kind with that which the negroes pretend is practised by the monkeys, who, they say, are capable of speech, but cannot be prevailed upon to talk, lest they should be set to work. it is not true in any sense that i agreed to accept of a model from mr gosset as a present. on the contrary, i asked him the price, which he told me was a guinea and half, adding that he intended to present me with it; an offer i did not accept. i desire you therefore to pay him for it, and mr davenport will be so good as repay you the money. and if mr gosset does not consent to be paid for it, it must be returned to him, and purchased by some other hand. it is designed for mr du peyrou, who desired long since to have my portrait, and caused one to be painted in miniature, which is not at all like me. you were more fortunate in this respect than me; but i am sorry that, by your assiduity to serve me, you deprived me of the pleasure of discharging the same friendly obligation with regard to yourself. be so good, my dear patron, as to order the model to be sent to messrs guinand and hankey, little st helen's, bishopsgate street, in order to be transmitted to mr du peyrou by the first safe conveyance. it hath been a frost ever since i have been here; the snow falls daily; and the wind is cutting and severe; notwithstanding all which, i had rather lodge in the hollow trunk of an old tree, in this country, than in the most superb apartment in london. good day, my dear patron. i embrace you with all my heart. j. j. r. mr rousseau and i having agreed not to lay each other under any restraint by a continued correspondence, the only subject of our future letters was the obtaining a pension for him from the king of england, which was then in agitation, and of which affair the following is a concise and faithful relation. as we were conversing together one evening at calais, where we were detained by contrary winds, i asked mr rousseau if he would not accept of a pension from the king of england, in case his majesty should be pleased to grant him one. to this he replied, it was a matter of some difficulty to resolve on, but that he should be entirely directed by the advice of my lord marshall. encouraged by this answer, i no sooner arrived in london than i addressed myself to his majesty's ministers, and particularly to general conway, secretary of state, and general græme, secretary and chamberlain to the queen. application was accordingly made to their majesties, who, with their usual goodness, consented, on condition only that the affair should not be made public. mr rousseau and i both wrote to my lord marshall; and mr rousseau expressly observed in his letter, that the circumstance of the affair's being to be kept secret was very agreeable to him. the consent of my lord marshall arrived, as may readily be imagined; soon after which mr rousseau set out for wooton, while the business remained some time in suspense, on account of the indisposition of general conway. in the mean time, i began to be afraid, from what i had observed of mr rousseau's disposition and character, that his natural restlessness of mind would prevent the enjoyment of that repose, to which the hospitality and security he found in england invited him. i saw, with infinite regret, that he was born for storms and tumults, and that the disgust which might succeed the peaceful enjoyment of solitude and tranquillity, would soon render him a burthen to himself and every body about him.[ ] but, as i lived at the distance of an hundred and fifty miles from the place of his residence, and was constantly employed in doing him good offices, i did not expect that i myself should be the victim of this unhappy disposition. [ ] in forming the opinion of mr rousseau's disposition, mr hume was by no means singular. the striking features of mr rousseau's extraordinary character having been strongly marked in the criticisms on his several writings, in the monthly review, particularly in the account of his letters from the mountains, in the appendix to the st vol. of that work, where this celebrated genius is described, merely from the general tenour of his writings and the outlines of his public conduct, to be exactly such a kind of person as mr hume hath discovered him from intimate and personal acquaintance.--_english translator_. it is necessary to introduce here a letter, which was written last winter, at paris, in the name of the king of prussia. my dear john james, you have renounced geneva, your native soil. you have been driven from switzerland, a country of which you have made such boast in your writings. in france you are outlawed: come then to me. i admire your talents, and amuse myself with your reveries; on which, however, by the way, you bestow too much time and attention. it is high time to grow prudent and happy; you have made yourself sufficiently talked of for singularities little becoming a truly great man: show your enemies that you have sometimes common sense: this will vex them without hurting you. my dominions afford you a peaceable retreat: i am desirous to do you good, and will do it, if you can but think it such. but if you are determined to refuse my assistance, you may expect that i shall say not a word about it to any one. if you persist in perplexing your brains to find out new misfortunes, choose such as you like best; i am a king, and can make you as miserable as you can wish; at the same time, i will engage to do that which your enemies never will, i will cease to persecute you, when you are no longer vain of persecution. your sincere friend, frederick. this letter was written by mr horace walpole, about three weeks before i left paris; but though we lodged in the same hotel, and were often together, mr walpole, out of regard to me, carefully concealed this piece of pleasantry till after my departure. he then showed it to some friends, who took copies; and those of course presently multiplied; so that this little piece had been spread with rapidity all over europe, and was in every body's hands when i saw it, for the first time, in london. i believe every one will allow, who knows any thing of the liberty of this country, that such a piece of raillery could not, even by the utmost influence of kings, lords and commons, by all the authority ecclesiastical, civil and military, be kept from finding its way to the press. it was accordingly published in the st james's chronicle, and a few days after i was very much surprised to find the following piece in the same paper. mr rousseau to the author of the st james's chronicle. _wooton_, _april_ _th_, . sir, you have been wanting in that respect which every private person owes to crowned heads, in publickly ascribing to the king of prussia, a letter full of baseness and extravagance; by which circumstance alone, you might be very well assured he could not be the author. you have even dared to subscribe his name, as if you had seen him write it with his own hand. i inform you, sir, that this letter was fabricated at paris, and, what rends and afflicts my heart, that the impostor hath his accomplices in england. in justice to the king of prussia, to truth, and to myself, you ought therefore to print the letter i am now writing, and to which i set my name, by way of reparation for a fault, which you would undoubtedly reproach yourself for if you knew of what atrociousness you have been made the instrument. sir, i make you my sincere salutations. j. j. r. i was sorry to see mr rousseau display such an excess of sensibility, on account of so simple and unavoidable an incident, as the publication of this pretended letter from the king of prussia. but i should have accused myself of a most black and malevolent disposition, if i had imagined mr rousseau could have suspected me to have been the editor of it, or that he had intentionally directed his resentment against me. he now informs me, however, that this was really the case. just eight days before, i had received a letter, written in the most amicable terms imaginable.[ ] i am, surely, the last man in the world, who, in common sense, ought to be suspected; yet, without even the pretence of the smallest proof or probability, i am, of a sudden, the first man not only suspected, but certainly concluded to be the publisher; i am, without further inquiry or explication, intentionally insulted in a public paper; i am, from the dearest friend, converted into a treacherous and malignant enemy; and all my present and past services are at one stroke very artfully cancelled. were it not ridiculous to employ reasoning on such a subject, and with such a man, i might ask mr rousseau, "why i am supposed to have any malignity against him?" my actions, in a hundred instances, had sufficiently demonstrated the contrary; and it is not usual for favours conferred to beget ill will in the person who confers them. but supposing i had secretly entertained an animosity towards him, would i run the risk of a discovery, by so silly a vengeance, and by sending this piece to the press, when i knew, from the usual avidity of the news-writers to find articles of intelligence, that it must necessarily in a few days be laid hold of? [ ] that of the th of march. but not imagining that i was the object of so black and ridiculous a suspicion, i pursued my usual train, by serving my friend in the least doubtful manner. i renewed my applications to general conway, as soon as the state of that gentleman's health permitted it: the general applies again to his majesty: his majesty's consent is renewed: the marquis of rockingham, first commissioner of the treasury, is also applied to: the whole affair is happily finished; and full of joy, i conveyed the intelligence to my friend. on which mr conway soon after received the following letter. mr rousseau to general conway. _may_ _th_, . sir, affected with a most lively sense of the favour his majesty hath honoured me with, and with that of your goodness, which procured it me, it affords me the most pleasing sensation to reflect, that the best of kings, and the minister most worthy of his confidence, are pleased to interest themselves in my fortune. this, sir, is an advantage of which i am justly tenacious, and which i will never deserve to lose. but it is necessary i should speak to you with that frankness you admire. after the many misfortunes that have befallen me, i thought myself armed against all possible events. there have happened to me some, however, which i did not foresee, and which indeed an ingenuous mind ought not to have foreseen: hence it is that they affect me by so much the more severely. the trouble in which they involve me, indeed, deprives me of the ease and presence of mind necessary to direct my conduct: all i can reasonably do, under so distressed a situation, is to suspend my resolutions about every affair of such importance as is that in agitation. so far from refusing the beneficence of the king from pride, as is imputed to me, i am proud of acknowledging it, and am only sorry i cannot do it more publicly. but when i actually receive it, i would be able to give up myself entirely to those sentiments which it would naturally inspire, and to have an heart replete with gratitude for his majesty's goodness and yours. i am not at all afraid this manner of thinking will make any alteration in yours towards me. deign, therefore, sir, to preserve that goodness for me, till a more happy opportunity, when you will be satisfied that i defer taking the advantage of it, only to render myself more worthy of it. i beg of you, sir, to accept of my most humble and respectful salutations. j. j. r. this letter appeared both to general conway and me a plain refusal, as long as the article of secrecy was insisted on; but as i knew that mr rousseau had been acquainted with that condition from the beginning, i was the less surprised at his silence towards me. i thought that my friend, conscious of having treated me ill in this affair, was ashamed to write to me; and having prevailed on general conway to keep the matter still open, i wrote a very friendly letter to mr rousseau, exhorting him to return to his former way of thinking, and to accept of the pension. as to the deep distress which he mentions to general conway, and which, he says, deprives him even of the use of his reason, i was set very much at ease on that head, by receiving a letter from mr davenport, who told me, that his guest was at that very time extremely happy, easy, cheerful, and even sociable. i saw plainly, in this event, the usual infirmity of my friend, who wishes to interest the world in his favour, by passing for sickly, and persecuted, and distressed, and unfortunate, beyond all measure, even while he is the most happy and contented. his pretences of an extreme sensibility had been too frequently repeated, to have any effect on a man who was so well acquainted with them. i waited three weeks in vain for an answer: i thought this a little strange, and i even wrote so to mr davenport; but having to do with a very odd sort of a man, and still accounting for his silence by supposing him ashamed to write to me, i was resolved not to be discouraged, nor to lose the opportunity of doing him an essential service, on account of a vain ceremonial. i accordingly renewed my applications to the ministers, and was so happy as to be enabled to write the following letter to mr rousseau, the only one of so old a date of which i have a copy. mr hume to mr rousseau. _lisle-street_, _leicester-fields_, _th june_, . as i have not received any answer from you, i conclude, that you persevere in the same resolution of refusing all marks of his majesty's goodness, as long as they must remain a secret. i have therefore applied to general conway to have this condition removed; and i was so fortunate as to obtain his promise that he would speak to the king for that purpose. it will only be requisite, said he, that we know previously from mr rousseau, whether he would accept of a pension publicly granted him, that his majesty may not be exposed to a second refusal. he gave me authority to write to you on that subject; and i beg to hear your resolution as soon as possible. if you give your consent, which i earnestly entreat you to do, i know, that i could depend on the good offices of the duke of richmond, to second general conway's application; so that i have no doubt of success. i am, my dear sir, yours, with great sincerity, d. h. in five days i received the following answer. mr rousseau to mr hume. _wooton_, _june_ _d_, . i imagined, sir, that my silence, truly interpreted by your own conscience, had said enough; but since you have some design in not understanding me, i shall speak. you have but ill disguised yourself. i know you, and you are not ignorant of it. before we had any personal connections, quarrels, or disputes; while we knew each other only by literary reputation, you affectionately made me the offer of the good offices of yourself and friends. affected by this generosity, i threw myself into your arms; you brought me to england, apparently to procure me an asylum, but in fact to bring me to dishonour. you applied to this noble work, with a zeal worthy of your heart, and a success worthy of your abilities. you needed not have taken so much pains: you live and converse with the world; i with myself in solitude. the public love to be deceived, and you were formed to deceive them. i know one man, however, whom you can not deceive; i mean myself. you know with what horror my heart rejected the first suspicion of your designs. you know i embraced you with tears in my eyes, and told you, if you were not the best of men, you must be the blackest of mankind. in reflecting on your private conduct, you must say to yourself sometimes, you are not the best of men: under which conviction, i doubt much if ever you will be the happiest. i leave your friends and you to carry on your schemes as you please; giving up to you, without regret, my reputation during life; certain that, sooner or later, justice will be done to that of both. as to your good offices in matters of interest, which you have made use of as a mask, i thank you for them, and shall dispense with profiting by them. i ought not to hold a correspondence with you any longer, or to accept of it to my advantage in any affair in which you are to be the mediator. adieu, sir, i wish you the truest happiness; but as we ought not to have any thing to say to each other for the future, this is the last letter you will receive from me. j. j. r. to this i immediately sent the following reply. mr hume to mr rousseau. _june_ _th_, . as i am conscious of having ever acted towards you the most friendly part, of having always given the most tender, the most active proofs of sincere affection; you may judge of my extreme surprize on perusing your epistle. such violent accusations, confined altogether to generals, it is as impossible to answer, as it is impossible to comprehend them. but affairs cannot, must not remain on that footing. i shall charitably suppose, that some infamous calumniator has belied me to you. but in that case, it is your duty, and i am persuaded it will be your inclination, to give me an opportunity of detecting him, and of justifying myself; which can only be done by your mentioning the particulars of which i am accused. you say, that i myself know that i have been false to you; but i say it loudly, and will say it to the whole world, that i know the contrary, that i know my friendship towards you has been unbounded and uninterrupted, and that though instances of it have been very generally remarked both in france and england, the smallest part of it only has as yet come to the knowledge of the public. i demand, that you will produce me the man who will assert the contrary; and above all, i demand, that he will mention any one particular in which i have been wanting to you. you owe this to me; you owe it to yourself; you owe it to truth, and honour, and justice, and to every thing that can be deemed sacred among men. as an innocent man; i will not say, as your friend; i will not say, as your benefactor; but, i repeat it, as an innocent man, i claim the privilege of proving my innocence, and of refuting any scandalous lie which may have been invented against me. mr davenport, to whom i have sent a copy of your letter, and who will read this before he delivers it, i am confident, will second my demand, and will tell you, that nothing possibly can be more equitable. happily i have preserved the letter you wrote me after your arrival at wooton; and you there express in the strongest terms, indeed in terms too strong, your satisfaction in my poor endeavours to serve you: the little epistolary intercourse which afterwards passed between us, has been all employed on my side to the most friendly purposes. tell me, what has since given you offence. tell me of what i am accused. tell me the man who accuses me. even after you have fulfilled all these conditions, to my satisfaction, and to that of mr davenport, you will have great difficulty to justify the employing such outrageous terms towards a man, with whom you have been so intimately connected, and whom, on many accounts, you ought to have treated with some regard and decency. mr davenport knows the whole transaction about your pension, because i thought it necessary that the person who had undertaken your settlement, should be fully acquainted with your circumstances; lest he should be tempted to perform towards you concealed acts of generosity, which, if they accidentally came to your knowledge, might give you some grounds of offence. i am, sir, d. h. mr davenport's authority procured me, in three weeks, the following enormous letter; which however has this advantage, that it confirms all the material circumstances of the foregoing narrative. i have subjoined a few notes relative to some facts which mr rousseau hath not truly represented, and leave my readers to judge which of us deserves the greatest confidence. mr rousseau to mr hume. _wooton_, _july_ , . sir, i am indisposed, and little in a situation to write; but you require an explanation, and it must be given you: it was your own fault you had it not long since; but you did not desire it, and i was therefore silent: at present you do, and i have sent it. it will be a long one, for which i am very sorry; but i have much to say, and would put an end to the subject at once. as i live retired from the world, i am ignorant of what passes in it. i have no party, no associates, no intrigues; i am told nothing, and i know only what i feel. but as care hath been taken to make me severely feel; that i well know. the first concern of those who engage in bad designs is to secure themselves from legal proofs of detection: it would not be very advisable to seek a remedy against them at law. the innate conviction of the heart admits of another kind of proof, which influences the sentiments of honest men. you well know the basis of mine. you ask me, with great confidence, to name your accuser. that accuser, sir, is the only man in the world whose testimony i should admit against you; it is yourself. i shall give myself up, without fear or reserve, to the natural frankness of my disposition; being an enemy to every kind of artifice, i shall speak with the same freedom as if you were an indifferent person, on whom i placed all that confidence which i no longer have in you. i will give you a history of the emotions of my heart, and of what produced them; while speaking of mr hume in the third person, i shall make yourself the judge of what i ought to think of him. notwithstanding the length of my letter, i shall pursue no other order than that of my ideas, beginning with the premises, and ending with the demonstration. i quitted switzerland, wearied out by the barbarous treatment i had undergone; but which affected only my personal security, while my honour was safe. i was going, as my heart directed me, to join my lord marshal; when i received at strasburg, a most affectionate invitation from mr hume, to go over with him to england, where he promised me the most agreeable reception, and more tranquillity than i have met with. i hesitated some time between my old friend and my new one; in this i was wrong. i preferred the latter, and in this was still more so. but the desire of visiting in person a celebrated nation, of which i had heard both so much good and so much ill, prevailed. assured i could not lose george keith, i was flattered with the acquisition of david hume. his great merit, extraordinary abilities, and established probity of character, made me desirous of annexing his friendship to that with which i was honoured by his illustrious countrymen. besides, i gloried not a little in setting an example to men of letters, in a sincere union between two men so different in their principles. before i had received an invitation from the king of prussia, and my lord marshal, undetermined about the place of my retreat, i had desired, and obtained by the interest of my friends, a passport from the court of france. i made use of this, and went to paris to join mr hume. he saw, and perhaps saw too much of, the favourable reception i met with from a great prince, and i will venture to say, of the public. i yielded, as it was my duty, though with reluctance, to that eclat; concluding how far it must excite the envy of my enemies. at the same time, i saw with pleasure, the regard which the public entertained for mr hume, sensibly increasing throughout paris, on account of the good work he had undertaken with respect to me. doubtless he was affected too; but i know not if it was in the same manner as i was. we set out with one of my friends, who came to england almost entirely on my account. when we were landed at dover, transported with the thoughts of having set foot in this land of liberty, under the conduct of so celebrated a person, i threw my arms round his neck, and pressed him to my heart, without speaking a syllable; bathing his cheeks, as i kissed them, with tears sufficiently expressive. this was not the only, nor the most remarkable instance i have given him of the effusions of a heart full of sensibility. i know not what he does with the recollection of them, when that happens; but i have a notion they must be sometimes troublesome to him. at our arrival in london, we were mightily caressed and entertained: all ranks of people eagerly pressing to give me marks of their benevolence and esteem. mr hume presented me politely to every body; and it was natural for me to ascribe to him, as i did, the best part of my good reception. my heart was full of him, i spoke in his praise to every one, i wrote to the same purpose to all my friends; my attachment to him gathering every day new strength, while his appeared the most affectionate to me, of which he frequently gave me instances that touched me extremely. that of causing my portrait to be painted, however, was not of the number. this seemed to me to carry with it too much the affectation of popularity, and had an air of ostentation which by no means pleased me. all this, however, might have been easily excusable, had mr hume been a man apt to throw away his money, or had a gallery of pictures with the portraits of his friends. after all, i freely confess, that, on this head, i may be in the wrong.[ ] but what appears to me an act of friendship and generosity the most undoubted and estimable, in a word, the most worthy of mr hume, was the care he took to solicit for me, of his own accord, a pension from the king, to which most assuredly i had no right to aspire. as i was a witness to the zeal he exerted in that affair, i was greatly affected with it. nothing could flatter me more than a piece of service of that nature; not merely for the sake of interest; for, too much attached, perhaps, to what i actually possess, i am not capable of desiring what i have not, and, as i am able to subsist on my labour, and the assistance of my friends, i covet nothing more. but the honour of receiving testimonies of the goodness, i will not say of so great a monarch, but of so good a father, so good a husband, so good a master, so good a friend, and, above all, so worthy a man, was sensibly affecting: and when i considered farther, that the minister who had obtained for me this favour, was a living instance of that probity which of all others is the most important to mankind, and at the same time hardly ever met with in the only character wherein it can be useful, i could not check the emotions of my pride, at having for my benefactors three men, who of all the world i could most desire to have my friends. thus, so far from refusing the pension offered me, i only made one condition necessary for my acceptance; this was the consent of a person, whom i could not, without neglecting my duty, fail to consult. being honoured with the civilities of all the world, i endeavoured to make a proper return. in the mean time, my bad state of health, and being accustomed to live in the country, made my residence in town very disagreeable. immediately country houses presented themselves in plenty; i had my choice of all the counties of england. mr hume took the trouble to receive these proposals, and to represent them to me; accompanying me to two or three in the neighbouring counties. i hesitated a good while in my choice, and he increased the difficulty of determination. at length i fixed on this place, and immediately mr hume settled the affair; all difficulties vanished, and i departed; arriving presently at this solitary, convenient, and agreeable habitation, where the owner of the house provides every thing, and nothing is wanting. i became tranquil, independent; and this seemed to be the wished-for moment when all my misfortunes should have an end. on the contrary, it was now they began; misfortunes more cruel than any i had yet experienced. hitherto i have spoken in the fulness of my heart, and to do justice, with the greatest pleasure, to the good offices of mr hume. would to heaven that what remains for me to say were of the same nature! it would never give me pain to speak what would redound to his honour; nor is it proper to set a value on benefits till one is accused of ingratitude, which is the case at present. i will venture to make one observation, therefore, which renders it necessary. in estimating the services of mr hume, by the time and the pains they took him up, they were of an infinite value, and that still more from the good will displayed in their performance; but for the actual service they were of to me, it was much more in appearance than reality. i did not come over to beg my bread in england; i brought the means of subsistence with me. i came merely to seek an asylum in a country which is open to every stranger without distinction. i was, besides, not so totally unknown as that, if i had arrived alone, i should have wanted either assistance or service. if some persons have sought my acquaintance for the sake of mr hume, others have sought it for my own. thus, when mr davenport, for example, was so kind as to offer my present retreat, it was not for the sake of mr hume, whom he did not know, and whom he saw only in order to desire him to make me his obliging proposal; so that, when mr hume endeavours to alienate from me this worthy man, he takes that from me which he did not give me.[ ] all the good that hath been done me, would have been done me nearly the same without him, and perhaps better; but the evil would not have been done me at all; for why should i have enemies in england? why are those enemies all the friends of mr hume? who could have excited their enmity against me? it certainly was not i, who knew nothing of them, nor ever saw them in my life. i should not have had a single enemy had i come to england alone.[ ] i have hitherto dwelt upon public and notorious facts, which, from their own nature, and my acknowledgment, have made the greatest eclat. those which are to follow are particular and secret, at least in their cause; and all possible measures have been taken to keep the knowledge of them from the public; but as they are well known to the person interested, they will not have the less influence toward his own conviction. a very short time after our arrival in london, i observed an absurd change in the minds of the people regarding me, which soon became very apparent. before i arrived in england, there was not a nation in europe in which i had a greater reputation, i will venture to say, or was held in greater estimation. the public papers were full of encomiums on me, and a general outcry prevailed on my persecutors.[ ] this was the case at my arrival, which was published in the newspapers with triumph; england prided itself in affording me refuge, and justly gloried on that occasion in its laws and government; when all of a sudden, without the least assignable cause, the tone was changed, and that so speedily and totally, that, of all the caprices of the public, never was known any thing more surprising. the signal was given in a certain _magazine_, equally full of follies and falsehoods, in which the author, being well informed, or pretending to be so, gives me out for the son of a musician. from this time[ ] i was constantly spoken of in print in a very equivocal or slighting manner.[ ] every thing that had been published concerning my misfortunes was misrepresented, altered, or placed in a wrong light, and always as much as possible to my disadvantage. so far was any body from speaking of the reception i met with at paris, and which had made but too much noise, it was not generally supposed that i durst have appeared in that city, even one of mr hume's friends being very much surprised when i told him i came through it. accustomed as i had been too much to the inconstancy of the public, to be affected by this instance of it, i could not help being astonished, however, at a change, so very sudden and general, that not one of those who had so much praised me in my absence, appeared, now i was present, to think even of my existence. i thought it something very odd that, immediately after the return of mr hume, who had so much credit in london, with so much influence over the booksellers and men of letters, and such great connections with them, his presence should produce an effect so contrary to what might have been expected; that among so many writers of every kind, not one of his friends should show himself to be mine; while it was easy to be seen, that those who spoke of him were not his enemies, since, in noticing his public character, they reported that i had come through france under his protection, and by favour of a passport which he had obtained of the court; nay, they almost went so far as to insinuate, that i came over in his retinue, and at his expense. all this was of little signification, and was only singular; but what was much more so, was, that his friends changed their tone with me as much as the public. i shall always take a pleasure in saying that they were still equally solicitous to serve me, and that they exerted themselves greatly in my favour; but so far were they from showing me the same respect, particularly the gentleman at whose house we alighted on our arrival, that he accompanied all his actions with discourse so rude, and sometimes so insulting, that one would have thought he had taken an occasion to oblige me, merely to have a right to express his contempt.[ ] his brother, who was at first very polite and obliging, altered his behaviour with so little reserve, that he would hardly deign to speak a single word to me, even in their own house, in return to a civil salutation, or to pay any of those civilities which are usually paid in like circumstances to strangers. nothing new had happened, however, except the arrival of j. j. rousseau and david hume: and certainly the cause of these alterations did not come from me, unless, indeed, too great a portion of simplicity, discretion, and modesty, be the cause of offence in england. as to mr hume, he was so far from assuming such a disgusting tone, that he gave into the other extreme. i have always looked upon flatterers with an eye of suspicion: and he was so full of all kinds[ ] of flattery, that he even obliged me, when i could bear it no longer,[ ] to tell him my sentiments on that head. his behaviour was such as to render few words necessary, yet i could have wished he had substituted, in the room of such gross encomiums, sometimes the language of a friend; but i never found any thing in his, which savoured of true friendship, not even in his manner of speaking of me to others in my presence. one would have thought that, in endeavouring to procure me patrons, he strove to deprive me of their good will; that he sought rather to have me assisted than loved; and i have been sometimes surprised at the rude turn he hath given to my behaviour before people who might not unreasonably have taken offence at it. i shall give an example of what i mean. mr pennick of the museum, a friend of my lord marshal's, and minister of a parish where i was solicited to reside, came to see me. mr hume made my excuses, while i myself was present, for not having paid him a visit. doctor matty, said he, invited us on thursday to the museum, where mr rousseau should have seen you; but he chose rather to go with mrs garrick to the play: we could not do both the same day.[ ] you will confess, sir, this was a strange method of recommending me to mr pennick. i know not what mr hume might say in private of me to his acquaintance, but nothing was more extraordinary than their behaviour to me, even by his own confession, and even often through his own means. although my purse was not empty, and i needed not that of any other person, which he very well knew, yet any one would have thought i was come over to subsist on the charity of the public, and that nothing more was to be done than to give me alms in such a manner as to save me a little confusion.[ ] i must own, this constant and insolent piece of affectation was one of those things which made me averse to reside in london. this certainly was not the footing on which any man should have been introduced in england, had there been a design of procuring him ever so little respect. this display of charity, however, may admit of a more favourable interpretation, and i consent it should. to proceed. at paris was published a fictitious letter from the king of prussia, addressed to me, and replete with the most cruel malignity. i learned with surprise that it was one mr walpole, a a friend of mr hume's who was the editor; i asked him if it were true; in answer to which question, he only asked me, of whom i had the information. a moment before he had given me a card for this same mr walpole, written to engage him to bring over such papers as related to me from paris, and which i wanted to have by a safe hand. i was informed that the son of that quack[ ] tronchin, my most mortal enemy, was not only the friend of mr hume, and under his protection, but that they both lodged in the same house together; and when mr hume found that i knew it, he imparted it in confidence; assuring me at the same time that the son was by no means like the father. i lodged a few nights myself, together with my governante, in the same house; and by the air and manner with which we were received by the landladies, who are his friends, i judged in what manner either mr hume, or that man, who, as he said, was by no means like his father, must have spoken to them both of her and me.[ ] all these facts put together, added to a certain appearance of things on the whole, insensibly gave me an uneasiness which i rejected with horror. in the mean time, i found the letters i wrote did not come to hand; those i received had often been opened; and all went through the hands of mr hume.[ ] if at any time any one escaped him, he could not conceal his eagerness to see it. one evening, in particular, i remember a very remarkable circumstance of this kind that greatly struck me.[ ] as we were sitting one evening, after supper, silent by the fire-side, i caught his eyes intently fixed on mine, as indeed happened very often; and that in a manner of which it is very difficult to give an idea. at that time he gave me a stedfast, piercing look, mixed with a sneer, which greatly disturbed me. to get rid of the embarrassment i lay under, i endeavoured to look full at him in my turn; but, in fixing my eyes against his, i felt the most inexpressible terror, and was obliged soon to turn them away. the speech and physiognomy of the good david is that of an honest man; but where, great god! did this good man borrow those eyes he fixes so sternly and unaccountably on those of his friends? the impression of this look remained with me, and gave me much uneasiness. my trouble increased even to a degree of fainting; and if i had not been relieved by an effusion of tears, i had been suffocated. presently after this i was seized with the most violent remorse; i even despised myself; till at length, in a transport which i still remember with delight, i sprang on his neck, embraced him eagerly; while almost choked with sobbing, and bathed in tears, i cried out, in broken accents, _no, no, david hume cannot be treacherous. if he be not the best of men, he must be the basest of mankind_. david hume politely returned my embraces, and, gently, tapping me on the back, repeated several times, in a good-natured and easy tone, _why, what, my dear sir! nay, my dear sir! oh, my dear sir!_ he said nothing more. i felt my heart yearn within me. we went to bed; and i set out the next day for the country. arrived at this agreeable asylum, to which i have travelled so far in search of repose, i ought to find it in a retired, convenient, and pleasant habitation; the master of which, a man of understanding and worth, spares for nothing to render it agreeable to me. but what repose can be tasted in life, when the heart is agitated? afflicted with the most cruel uncertainty, and ignorant what to think of a man whom i ought to love and esteem, i endeavoured to get rid of that fatal doubt, in placing confidence in my benefactor. for, wherefore, from what unaccountable caprice should he display so much apparent zeal for my happiness, and at the same time entertain secret designs against my honour. among the several observations that disturbed me, each fact was in itself of no great moment; it was their concurrence that was surprising; yet i thought, perhaps, that mr hume, informed of other facts, of which i was ignorant, could have given me a satisfactory solution of them, had we come to an explanation. the only thing that was inexplicable, was, that he refused to come to such an explanation; which both his honour and his friendship rendered equally necessary. i saw very well there was something in the affair which i did not comprehend, and which i earnestly wished to know. before i came to an absolute determination, therefore, with regard to him, i was desirous of making another effort, and to try to recover him, if he had permitted himself to be seduced by my enemies, or, in short, to prevail on him to explain himself one way or other. accordingly i wrote him a letter, which he ought to have found very natural,[ ] if he were guilty; but very extraordinary, if he were innocent. for what could be more extraordinary than a letter full of gratitude for his services, and at the same time, of distrust of his sentiments; and in which, placing in a manner his actions on one side, and his sentiments on the other, instead of speaking of the proofs of friendship he had given me, i desired him to love me, for the good he had done me![ ] i did not take the precaution to preserve a copy of this letter; but as he hath done it, let him produce it: and whoever shall read it, and see therein a man labouring under a secret trouble, which he is desirous of expressing, and is afraid to do it, will, i am persuaded, be curious to know what kind of éclaircissement it produced, especially after the preceding scene. none. absolutely none at all. mr hume contented himself, in his answer, with only speaking of the obliging offices mr davenport proposed to do for me. as for the rest, he said not a word of the principal subject of my letter, nor of the situation of my heart, of whose distress he could not be ignorant. i was more struck with this silence, than i had been with his phlegm during our last conversation. in this i was wrong; this silence was very natural after the other, and was no more than i ought to have expected. for when one hath ventured to declare to a man's face, _i am tempted to believe you a traitor_, and he hath not the curiosity to ask you _for what_,[ ] it may be depended on he will never have any such curiosity as long as he lives; and it is easy to judge of him from these slight indications. after the receipt of his letter, which was long delayed, i determined at length to write to him no more. soon after, every thing served to confirm me in the resolution to break off all farther correspondence with him. curious to the last degree concerning the minutest circumstance of my affairs, he was not content to learn them of me, in our frequent conversations; but, as i learned, never let slip an opportunity of being alone with my governante,[ ] to interrogate her even importunately concerning my occupations, my resources, my friends, acquaintances, their names, situations, place of abode, and all this after setting out with telling her he was well acquainted with the whole of my connections; nay, with the most jesuitical address, he would ask the same questions of us separately. one ought undoubtedly to interest one's self in the affairs of a friend; but one ought to be satisfied with what he thinks proper to let us know of them, particularly when people are so frank and ingenuous as i am. indeed all this petty inquisitiveness is very little becoming a philosopher. about the same time i received two other letters which had been opened. the one from mr boswell, the seal of which was so loose and disfigured, that mr davenport, when he received it, remarked the same to mr hume's servant. the other was from mr d'ivernois, in mr hume's packet, and which had been sealed up again by means of a hot iron, which, awkwardly applied, had burnt the paper round the impression. on this i wrote to mr davenport to desire him to take charge of all the letters which might be sent for me, and to trust none of them in any body's hands, under any pretext whatever. i know not whether mr davenport, who certainly was far from thinking that precaution was to be observed with regard to mr hume, showed him my letter or not; but this i know, that the latter had all the reason in the world to think he had forfeited my confidence, and that he proceeded nevertheless in his usual manner, without troubling himself about the recovery of it. but what was to become of me, when i saw, in the public papers, the pretended letter of the king of prussia which i had never before seen, that fictitious letter, printed in french and english, given for genuine, even with the signature of the king, and in which i knew the pen of mr d'alembert as certainly as if i had seen him write it?[ ] in a moment a ray of light discovered to me the secret cause of that touching and sudden change, which i had observed in the public respecting me; and i saw the plot which was put in execution at london, had been laid in paris. mr d'alembert, another intimate friend of mr hume's, had been long since my secret enemy, and lay in watch for opportunities to injure me without exposing himself. he was the only person, among the men of letters, of my old acquaintance, who did not come to see me,[ ] or send their civilities during my last passage through paris. i knew his secret disposition, but i gave myself very little trouble about it, contenting myself with advising my friends of it occasionally. i remember that being asked about him one day by mr hume, who afterwards asked my governante the same question, i told him that mr d'alembert was a cunning, artful man. he contradicted me with a warmth that surprised me; not then knowing they stood so well with each other, and that it was his own cause he defended. the perusal of the letter above mentioned alarmed me a good deal, when, perceiving that i had been brought over to england in consequence of a project which began to be put in execution, but of the end of which i was ignorant, i felt the danger without knowing what to guard against, or on whom to rely. i then recollected four terrifying words mr hume had made use of, and of which i shall speak hereafter. what could be thought of a paper in which my misfortunes were imputed to me as a crime, which tended, in the midst of my distress, to deprive me of all compassion, and, to render its effects still more cruel, pretended to have been written by a prince who had afforded me protection? what could i divine would be the consequence of such a beginning? the people in england read the public papers, and are in no wise prepossessed in favour of foreigners. even a coat, cut in a different fashion from their own, is sufficient to excite a prejudice against them. what then had not a poor stranger to expect in his rural walks, the only pleasures of his life, when the good people in the neighbourhood were once thoroughly persuaded he was fond of being persecuted and pelted? doubtless they would be ready enough to contribute to his favourite amusement. but my concern, my profound and cruel concern, the bitterest indeed i ever felt, did not arise from the danger to which i was personally exposed. i have braved too many others to be much moved with that. the treachery of a false friend,[ ] to which i had fallen a prey, was the circumstance that filled my too susceptible heart with deadly sorrow. in the impetuosity of its first emotions, of which i never yet was master, and of which my enemies have artfully taken the advantage, i wrote several letters full of disorder, in which i did not disguise either my anxiety or indignation. i have, sir, so many things to mention, that i forget half of them by the way. for instance, a certain narrative in form of a letter, concerning my manner of living at montmorency, was given by the booksellers to mr hume, who showed it me. i agreed to its being printed, and mr hume undertook the care of its edition; but it never appeared. again, i had brought over with me a copy of the letters of mr du peyron, containing a relation of the treatment i had met with at neufchâtel. i gave them into the hands of the same bookseller to have them translated and reprinted. mr hume charged himself with the care of them; but they never appeared.[ ] the supposititious letter of the king of prussia, and its translation, had no sooner made their appearance, than i immediately apprehended why the other pieces had been suppressed,[ ] and i wrote as much to the booksellers.[ ] i wrote several other letters also, which probably were handed about london; till at length i employed the credit of a man of quality and merit, to insert a declaration of the imposture in the public papers. in this declaration, i concealed no part of my extreme concern, nor did i in the least disguise the cause. hitherto mr hume seems to have walked in darkness. you will soon see him appear in open day, and act without disguise. nothing more is necessary, in our behaviour towards cunning people, than to act ingenuously; sooner or later they will infallibly betray themselves. when this pretended letter from the ring of prussia was first published in london, mr hume, who certainly knew that it was fictitious, as i had told him so, yet said nothing of the matter, did not write to me, but was totally silent; and did not even think of making any declaration of the truth, in favour of his absent friend.[ ] it answered his purpose better to let the report take its course, as he did. mr hume having been my conductor into england, he was of course in a manner my patron and protector. if it were but natural in him to undertake my defence, it was no less so that, when i had a public protestation to make, i should have addressed myself to him. having already ceased writing to him,[ ] however, i had no mind to renew our correspondence. i addressed myself therefore to another person. the first slap on the face i gave my patron. he felt nothing of it. in saying the letter was fabricated at paris, it was of very little consequence to me whether it was understood particularly of mr d'alembert, or of mr walpole, whose name he borrowed on the occasion. but in adding that, what afflicted and tore my heart was, the impostor had got his accomplices in england; i expressed myself very clearly to their friend, who was in london, and was desirous of passing for mine. for certainly he was the only person in england, whose hatred could afflict and rend my heart. this was the second slap of the face i gave my patron. he did not feel, however, yet. on the contrary, he maliciously pretended that my affliction arose solely from the publication of the above letter, in order to make me pass for a man who was excessively affected by satire. whether i am vain or not, certain it is i was mortally afflicted; he knew it, and yet wrote me not a word. this affectionate friend, who had so much at heart the filling of my purse, gave himself no trouble to think my heart was bleeding with sorrow. another piece appeared soon after, in the same papers, by the author of the former, and still if possible more cruel, in which the writer could not disguise his rage at the reception i met with at paris.[ ] this however did not affect me; it told me nothing new. mere libels may take their course without giving me any emotion; and the inconstant public may amuse themselves as long as they please with the subject. it is not an affair of conspirators, who, bent on the destruction of my honest fame, are determined by some means or other to effect it. it was necessary to change the battery. the affair of the pension was not determined. it was not difficult, however, for mr hume to obtain, from the humanity of the minister, and the generosity of the king, the favour of its determination. he was required to inform me of it, which he did. this, i must confess, was one of the critical moments of my life. how much did it cost me to do my duty! my preceding engagements, the necessity of showing a due respect for the goodness of the king, and for that of his minister, together with the desire of displaying how far i was sensible of both; add to these the advantage of being made a little more easy in circumstances in the decline of life, surrounded as i was by enemies and evils; in fine, the embarrassment i was under to find a decent excuse for not accepting a benefit already half accepted; all these together made the necessity of that refusal very difficult and cruel: for necessary it was, or i should have been one of the meanest and basest of mankind to have voluntarily laid myself under an obligation to a man who had betrayed me. i did my duty, though not without reluctance. i wrote immediately to general conway, and in the most civil and respectful manner possible, without giving an absolute refusal, excusing myself from accepting the pension for the present. now, mr hume had been the only negociator of this affair, nay the only person who had spoke of it. yet i not only did not give him any answer, though it was he who wrote to me on the subject, but did not even so much as mention him in my letter to general conway. this was the third slap of the face i gave my patron, which if he does not feel, it is certainly his own fault, he can feel nothing. my letter was not clear, nor could it be so to general conway, who did not know the motives of my refusal; but it was very plain to mr hume, who knew them but too well. he pretended nevertheless to be deceived as well with regard to the cause of my discontent, as to that of my declining the pension; and, in a letter he wrote me on the occasion, gave me to understand that the king's goodness might be continued towards me, if i should reconsider the affair of the pension. in a word, he seemed determined, at all events, to remain still my patron, in spite of my teeth. you will imagine, sir, he did not expect my answer; and he had none. much about this time, for i do not know exactly the date, nor is such precision necessary, appeared a letter, from mr de voltaire to me, with an english translation, which still improved on the original. the noble object of this ingenious performance, was to draw on me the hatred and contempt of the people, among whom i was come to reside. i made not the least doubt that my dear patron was one of the instruments of its publication; particularly when i saw that the writer, in endeavouring to alienate from me those who might render my life agreeable, had omitted the name of him who brought me over. he doubtless knew that it was superfluous, and that with regard to him, nothing more was necessary to be said. the omission of his name, so impoliticly forgot in this letter, recalled to my mind what tacitus says of the picture of brutus, omitted in a funeral solemnity, viz. that every body took notice of it, particularly because it was not there. mr hume was not mentioned; but he lives and converses with people that are mentioned. it is well known his friends are all my enemies; there are abroad such people as tronchin, d'alembert, and voltaire;[ ] but it is much worse in london; for here i have no enemies but what are his friends. for why, indeed, should i have any other? why should i have even them?[ ] what have i done to lord littleton,[ ] whom i don't even know? what have i done to mr walpole, whom i know full as little? what do they know of me, except that i am unhappy, and a friend to their friend hume? what can he have said to them, for it is only through him they know any thing of me? i can very well imagine, that, considering the part he has to play, he does not unmask himself to every body; for then he would be disguised to nobody. i can very well imagine that he does not speak of me to general conway and the duke of richmond as he does in his private conversations with mr walpole, and his secret correspondence with mr d'alembert. but let any one discover the clue that hath been unravelled since my arrival in london, and it will easily be seen whether mr hume does not hold the principal thread. at length the moment arrived in which it was thought proper to strike the great blow, the effect of which was prepared for by a fresh satirical piece put in the papers.[ ] had there remained in me the least doubt, it would have been impossible to have harboured it after perusing this piece, as it contained facts unknown to any body but mr hume; exaggerated, it is true, in order to render them odious to the public. it is said in this paper that my door was opened to the rich, and shut to the poor. pray, who knows when my door was open or shut, except mr hume, with whom i lived, and by whom every body was introduced that i saw? i will except one great personage, whom i gladly received without knowing him, and whom i should still have more gladly received if i had known him. it was mr hume who told me his name when he was gone; on which information, i was really chagrined, that, as he deigned to mount up two pair of stairs, he was not received in the first floor. as to the poor, i have nothing to say about the matter. i was constantly desirous of seeing less company; but as i was unwilling to displease any one, i suffered myself to be directed in this affair altogether by mr hume, and endeavoured to receive every body he introduced as well as i could, without distinction, whether rich or poor. it is said in the same piece that i received my relations very coldly, _not to say any thing worse_. this general charge relates to my having once received, with some indifference, the only relation i have, out of geneva, and that in the presence of mr hume.[ ] it must necessarily be either mr hume or this relation who furnished that piece of intelligence. now, my cousin, whom i have always known for a friendly relation and a worthy man, is incapable of furnishing materials for public satires against me. add to this, that his situation in life confining him to the conversation of persons in trade, he has no connection with men of letters or paragraph writers, and still less with satirists and libellers; so that the article could not come from him. at the worst, can i help imagining that mr hume must have endeavoured to take advantage of what he said, and construed it in favour of his own purpose? it is not improper to add, that, after my rupture with mr hume, i wrote an account of it to my cousin. in fine, it is said in the same paper that i am apt to change my friends. no great subtlety is necessary to comprehend what this reflection is preparative to. but let us distinguish facts. i have preserved some very valuable and solid friends for twenty-five to thirty years. i have others whose friendship is of a later date, but no less valuable, and which, if i live, i may preserve still longer. i have not found, indeed, the same security in general among those friendships i have made with men of letters. i have for this reason sometimes changed them, and shall always change them when they appear suspicious; for i am determined never to have friends by way of ceremony; i have them only with a view to show them my affection. if ever i was fully and clearly convinced of any thing, i am so convinced that mr hume furnished the materials for the above paper. but what is still more, i have not only that absolute conviction, but it is very clear to me that mr hume intended i should: for how can it be supposed that a man of his subtlety should be so imprudent as to expose himself thus, if he had not intended it? what was his design in it? nothing is more clear than this. it was to raise my resentment to the highest pitch, that he might strike the blow he was preparing to give me with greater eclat. he knew he had nothing more to do than put me in a passion, and i should be guilty of a number of absurdities. we are now arrived at the critical moment which is to show whether he reasoned well or ill. it is necessary to have all the presence of mind, all the phlegm and resolution of mr hume, to be able to take the part he hath taken, after all that has passed between us. in the embarrassment i was under in writing to general conway, i could make use only of obscure expressions, to which mr hume, in quality of my friend, gave what interpretation he pleased. supposing, therefore, for he knew very well to the contrary, that it was the circumstance of secrecy which gave me uneasiness, he obtained the promise of the general to endeavour to remove it; but before any thing was done, it was previously necessary to know whether i would accept of the pension without that condition, in order not to expose his majesty to a second refusal. this was the decisive moment, the end and object of all his labours. an answer was required: he would have it. to prevent effectually indeed my neglect of it, he sent to mr davenport a duplicate of his letter to me; and, not content with this precaution, wrote me word, in another billet, that he could not possibly stay any longer in london to serve me. i was giddy with amazement on reading this note. never in my life did i meet with any thing so unaccountable. at length he obtained from me the so much desired answer, and began presently to triumph. in writing to mr davenport, he treated me as a monster of brutality and ingratitude. but he wanted to do still more. he thinks his measures well taken; no proof can be made to appear against him. he demands an explanation: he shall have it, and here it is. that last stroke was a masterpiece. he himself proves every thing, and that beyond reply. i will suppose, though by way of impossibility, that my complaints against mr hume never reached his ears; that he knew nothing of them; but was as perfectly ignorant as if he had held no cabal with those who are acquainted with them, but had resided all the while in china.[ ] yet the behaviour passing directly between us; the last striking words which i said to him in london; the letter which followed replete with fears and anxiety; my persevering silence still more expressive than words; my public and bitter complaints with regard to the letter of mr d'alembert; my letter to the secretary of state, who did not write to me, in answer to that which mr hume wrote to me himself, and in which i did not mention him; and in fine my refusal, without deigning to address myself to him, to acquiesce in an affair which he had managed in my favour, with my own privity, and without any opposition on my part; all this must have spoken in a very forcible manner, i will not say to any person of the least sensibility, but to every man of common sense. strange that, after i had ceased to correspond with him for three months, when i had made no answer to any one of his letters, however important the subject of it, surrounded with both public and private marks of that affliction which his infidelity gave me; a man of so enlightened an understanding, of so penetrating a genius by nature, and so dull by design, should see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing, be moved at nothing; but, without one word of complaint, justification, or explanation, continue to give me the most pressing marks of his good will to serve me, in spite of myself? he wrote to me affectionately, that he could not stay any longer in london to do me service, as if we had agreed that he should stay there for that purpose! this blindness, this insensibility, this perseverance, are not in nature; they must be accounted for, therefore, from other motives. let us set this behaviour in a still clearer light; for this is the decisive point. mr hume must necessarily have acted in this affair, either as one of the first or last of mankind. there is no medium. it remains to determine which of the two it hath been. could mr hume, after so many instances of disdain on my part, have still the astonishing generosity as to persevere sincerely to serve me? he knew it was impossible for me to accept his good offices, so long as i entertained for him such sentiments as i had conceived. he had himself avoided an explanation. so that to serve me without justifying himself, would have been to render his services useless; this therefore was no generosity. if he supposed that in such circumstances i should have accepted his services, he must have supposed me to have been an infamous scoundrel. it was then in behalf of a man whom he supposed to be a scoundrel, that he so warmly solicited a pension from his majesty. can any thing be supposed more extravagant? but let it be supposed that mr hume, constantly pursuing his plan, should only have said to himself, this is the moment for its execution; for, by pressing rousseau to accept the pension, he will be reduced either to accept or refuse it. if he accepts it, with the proofs i have in hand against him, i shall be able completely to disgrace him: if he refuses, after having accepted it, he will have no pretext, but must give a reason for such refusal. this is what i expect; if he accuses me, he is ruined. if, i say, mr hume reasoned with himself in this manner, he did what was consistent with his plan, and in that case very natural; indeed this is the only way in which his conduct in this affair can be explained, for upon any other supposition it is inexplicable: if this be not demonstrable, nothing ever was so. the critical situation to which he had now reduced me, re-recalled strongly to my mind the four words i mentioned above; and which i heard him say and repeat, at a time when i did not comprehend their full force. it was the first night after our departure from paris. we slept in the same chamber, when, during the night, i heard him several times cry out with great vehemence, in the french language, _je tiens j. j. rousseau._ 'i have you, rousseau.' i know not whether he was awake or asleep.[ ] the expression was remarkable, coming from a man who is too well acquainted with the french language, to be mistaken with regard to the force or choice of words. i took these words, however, and i could not then take them otherwise than in a favourable sense: notwithstanding the tone of voice in which they were spoken, was still less favourable than the expression. it is indeed impossible for me to give any idea of it; but it corresponds exactly with those terrible looks i have before mentioned. at every repetition of them i was seized with a shuddering, a kind of horror i could not resist, though a moment's recollection restored me, and made me smile at my terror. the next day all this was so perfectly obliterated, that i did not even think of it during my stay in london, and its neighbourhood. it was not till my arrival in this place, that so many things have contributed to recall these words to my mind; and indeed recall them every moment. these words, the tone of which dwells on my heart, as if i had but just heard them; those long and fatal looks so frequently cast on me; the patting me on the back, with the repetition of _o, my dear sir_, in answer to my suspicions of his being a traitor: all this affects me to such a degree, after what preceded, that this recollection, had i no other, would be sufficient to prevent any reconciliation or return of confidence between us; not a night indeed passes over my head, but i think i hear, _rousseau, i have you_, ring in my ears as if he had just pronounced them. yes, mr hume, i know you _have me_; but that only by mere externals: you have me in the public opinion and judgment of mankind. you have my reputation, and perhaps my security, to do with as you will. the general prepossession is in your favour; it will be very easy for you to make me pass for the monster you have begun to represent me; and i already see the barbarous exultation of my implacable enemies. the public will no longer spare me. without any farther examination, every body is on the side of those who have conferred favours; because each is desirous to attract the same good offices, by displaying a sensibility of the obligation. i foresee readily the consequences of all this, particularly in the country to which you have conducted me; and where, being without friends, and an utter stranger to every body, i lie almost entirely at your mercy. the sensible part of mankind, however, will comprehend that i must be so far from seeking this affair, that nothing more disagreeable or terrible could possibly have happened to me in my present situation. they will perceive that nothing but my invincible aversion to all kind of falsehood, and the possibility of my professing a regard for a person who had forfeited it, could have prevented my dissimulation, at a time when it was on so many accounts my interest. but the sensible part of mankind are few, nor do they make the greatest noise in the world. yes, mr hume, you _have me_ by all the ties of this life; but you have no power over my probity or my fortitude, which, being independent either of you or of mankind, i will preserve in spite of you. think not to frighten me with the fortune that awaits me. i know the opinions of mankind; i am accustomed to their injustice, and have learned to care little about it. if you have taken your resolution, as i have reason to believe you have, be assured mine is taken also. i am feeble indeed in body, but never possessed greater strength of mind. mankind may say and do what they will, it is of little consequence to me. what is of consequence, however, is, that i should end as i have begun; that i should continue to preserve my ingenuousness and integrity to the end, whatever may happen; and that i should have no cause to reproach myself either with meanness in adversity, or insolence in prosperity. whatever disgrace attends, or misfortune threatens me, i am ready to meet them. though i am to be pitied, i am much less so than you, and all the revenge i shall take on you is, to leave you the tormenting consciousness of being obliged, in spite of yourself, to have a respect for the unfortunate person you have oppressed. in closing this letter, i am surprised at my having been able to write it. if it were possible to die with grief, every line was sufficient to kill me with sorrow. every circumstance of the affair is equally incomprehensible. such conduct as yours hath been, is not in nature: it is contradictory to itself, and yet it is demonstrable to me that it has been such as i conceive. on each side of me there is a bottomless abyss! and i am lost in one or the other. if you are guilty, i am the most unfortunate of mankind; if you are innocent, i am the most culpable.[ ] you even make me desire to be that contemptible object. yes, the situation to which you see me reduced, prostrate at your feet, crying out for mercy, and doing every thing to obtain it; publishing aloud my own unworthiness, and paying the most explicit homage to your virtues, would be a state of joy and cordial effusion, after the grievous state of restraint and mortification into which you have plunged me. i have but a word more to say. if you are guilty, write to me no more; it would be superfluous, for certainly you could not deceive me. if you are innocent, justify yourself. i know my duty; i love, and shall always love it, however difficult and severe. there is no state of abjection that a heart, not formed for it, may not recover from. once again, i say, if you are innocent, deign to justify yourself; if you are not, adieu for ever. j. j. r. [ ] the fact was this. my friend, mr ramsay, a painter of eminence, and a man of merit, proposed to draw mr rousseau's picture; and when he had begun it, told me he intended to make me a present of it. thus the design of having mr rousseau's picture drawn did not come from me, nor did it cost me any thing. mr rousseau, therefore, is equally contemptible in paying me a compliment for this pretended gallantry, in his letter of the th march, and in converting it into ridicule here.--mr hume. [ ] mr rousseau forms a wrong judgment of me, and ought to know me better. i have written to mr davenport, even since our rupture, to engage him to continue his kindness to his unhappy guest.--mr hume. [ ] how strange are the effects of a disordered imagination! mr rousseau tells us he is ignorant of what passes in the world, and yet talks of the enemies he has in england. how does he know this? where did he see them? he hath received nothing but marks of beneficence and hospitality. mr walpole is the only person who hath thrown out a little piece of raillery against him; but is not therefore his enemy. if mr rousseau could have seen things exactly as they are, he would have seen that he had no other friend in england but me, and no other enemy but himself.--mr hume. [ ] that a general outcry should prevail against mr rousseau's persecutors in england, is no wonder. such an outcry would have prevailed from sentiments of humanity, had he been a person of much less note; so that this is no proof of his being esteemed. and as to the encomiums on him inserted in the public newspapers, the value of such kind of puffs is well known in england. i have already observed, that the authors of more respectable works were at no loss what to think of mr rousseau, but had formed a proper judgment of him long before his arrival in england. the genius which displayed itself in his writings did by no means blind the eyes of the more sensible part of mankind to the absurdity and inconsistency of his opinions and conduct. in exclaiming against mr rousseau's fanatical persecutors, they did not think him the more possessed of the true spirit of martyrdom. the general opinion indeed was, that he had too much philosophy to be very devout, and had too much devotion to have much philosophy.--_english translator_. [ ] mr rousseau knows very little of the public judgment in england, if he thinks it is to be influenced by any story told in a certain magazine. but, as i have before said, it was not from this time that mr rousseau was slightingly spoke of, but long before, and that in a more consequential manner. perhaps, indeed, mr rousseau ought in justice to impute great part of those civilities he met with on his arrival, rather to vanity and curiosity than to respect and esteem.--_english translator_. [ ] so then i find i am to answer for every article of every magazine and newspaper printed in england. i assure mr rousseau i would rather answer for every robbery committed on the highway; and i am entirely as innocent of the one as the other.--mr hume. [ ] this relates to my friend mr john stewart, who entertained mr rousseau at his house, and did him all the good offices in his power. mr rousseau, in complaining of this gentleman's behaviour, forgets that he wrote mr stewart a letter from wooton, full of acknowledgments, and just expressions of gratitude. what mr rousseau adds, regarding the brother of mr stewart, is neither civil nor true--mr hume. [ ] i shall mention only one, that made me smile; this was, his attention to have, every time i came to see him, a volume of _eloisa_ upon his table; as if i did not know enough of mr hume's taste for reading, as to be well assured, that of all books in the world, eloisa must be one of the most tiresome to him.--mr rousseau. [ ] the reader may judge from the two first letters of mr rousseau, which i published with that view, on which side the flatteries commenced. as for the rest, i loved and esteemed mr rousseau, and took a pleasure in giving him to understand so. i might perhaps be too lavish in my praises; but i can assure the reader he never once complained of it.--mr hume. [ ] i don't recollect a single circumstance of this history; but what makes me give very little credit to it, is, that i remember very well we had settled two different days for the purposes mentioned, that is, one to go to the museum, and another to the play.--mr hume. [ ] i conceive mr rousseau hints here at two or three dinners, that were sent him from the house of mr stewart, when he chose to dine at his own lodgings; this was not done, however, to save him the expense of a meal, but because there was no convenient tavern or chop-house in the neighbourhood. i beg the reader's pardon for descending to such trivial particulars.--mr hume. [ ] we have not been authorized to suppress this affronting term; but it is too gross and groundless to do any injury to the celebrated and respectable physician to whose name it is annexed.--_french editors_. [ ] thus am i accused of treachery, because i am a friend of mr walpole, who hath thrown out a little raillery on mr rousseau, and because the son of a man whom mr rousseau does not like lodges by accident in the same house; because my landladies, who do not understand a syllable of french, received mr rousseau coldly. as to the rest, all that i said to mr rousseau about the young tronchin was, that he had not the same prejudices against him as his father.--mr hume. [ ] the story of mr rousseau's letters is as follows. he had often been complaining to me, and with reason, that he was ruined by postage at neufchâtel, which commonly cost him about or louis d'ors a year, and all for letters which were of no significance, being wrote, some of them by people who took that opportunity of abusing him, and most of them by persons unknown to him. he was therefore resolved, he said, in england to receive no letters which came by the post; and the same resolution he reiterates in his letter to me dated the d of march. when he went to chiswick, near london, the postman brought his letters to me. i carried him out a cargo of them. he exclaimed, desired me to return the letters, and recover the price of postage. i told him, that, in that case, the clerks of the post office were entire masters of his letters. he said he was indifferent: they might do with them what they pleased. i added, that he would by that means be cut off from all correspondence with all his friends. he replied, that he would give a particular direction to such as he desired to correspond with. but till his instructions for that purpose could arrive, what could i do more friendly than to save, at my own expense, his letters from the curiosity and indiscretion of the clerks of the post office? i am indeed ashamed to find myself obliged to discover such petty circumstances.---mr hume. [ ] it is necessary to explain this circumstance. i had been writing on mr hume's table, during his absence, an answer to a letter i had just received. he came in, very anxious to know what i had been writing, and hardly able to contain himself from desiring to read it. i closed my letter, however, without showing it him; when, as i was putting it into my pocket, he asked me for it eagerly, saying he would send it away on the morrow, being post-day. the letter lay on the table. lord newnham came in. mr hume went out of the room for a moment, on which i took the letter up again, saying i should find time to send it the next day. lord newnham offered to get it inclosed in the french ambassador's packet, which i accepted. mr hume re-entered the moment his lordship had inclosed it, and was pulling out his seal. mr hume officiously offered his own seal, and that with so much earnestness, that it could not well be refused. the bell was rung, and lord newnham gave the letter to mr hume's servant, to give it to his own, who waited below with the chariot, in order to have it sent to the ambassador. mr hume's servant was hardly got out of the room, but i said to myself, i'll lay a wager the master follows. he did not fail to do as i expected. not knowing how to leave lord newnham alone, i staid some time before i followed mr hume. i said nothing; but he must perceive that i was uneasy. thus, although i have received no answer to my letter, i doubt not of its going to hand; but i confess, i cannot help suspecting it was read first.--mr rousseau. [ ] it appears from what he wrote to me afterwards, that he was very well satisfied with this letter, and that he thought of it very well.--mr rousseau. [ ] my answer to this is contained in mr rousseau's own letter of the d of march; wherein he expresses himself with the utmost cordiality, without any reserve, and without the least appearance of suspicion.--mr hume. [ ] all this hangs upon the fable he had so artfully worked up, as i before observed.--mr hume. [ ] i had only one such opportunity with his governante, which was on their arrival in london. i must own it never entered into my head to talk to her upon any other subject than the concerns of mr rousseau.--mr hume. [ ] see mr d'alembert's declaration on this head, annexed to this narrative. [ ] mr rousseau declares himself to have been fatigued with the visits he received; ought he therefore to complain that mr d'alembert, whom he did not like, did not importune him with his?--mr hume. [ ] this _false friend_ is, undoubtedly, myself. but what is the treachery? what harm have i done, or could i do to mr rousseau? on the supposition of my entering into a project to ruin him, how could i think to bring it about by the services i did him? if mr rousseau should gain credit, i must be thought still more weak than wicked.--mr hume. [ ] the booksellers have lately informed me that the edition is finished, and will shortly be published. this may be; but it is too late, and what is still worse, it is too opportune for the purpose intended to be served.--mr rousseau. [ ] it is about four months since mr becket, the bookseller, told mr rousseau that the publication of these pieces was delayed on account of the indisposition of the translator. as for any thing else, i never promised to take any charge at all of the edition, as mr becket can testify.--mr hume. [ ] as to mr rousseau's suspicions of the cause of the _suppression_, as he calls it, of the narrative and letters above mentioned, the translator thinks it incumbent on him to affirm, that they were entirely groundless. it is true, as mr becket told mr hume, that the translator of the letters was indisposed about that time. but the principal cause of the delay was, that he was of his own mere motion, no less indisposed to those pieces making their appearance in english at all;(*) and this not out of ill will to mr rousseau, or good will to mr hume, neither of which he ever saw, or spoke to, in his life; but really out of regard to the character and reputation of a man, whose genius he admired, and whose works he had translated: well knowing the publication of such squabbles could do mr rousseau no good in the opinion of the more judicious and sensible part of mankind. with regard to the translation of the narrative of his manner of living at montmorency, i never saw it till it was actually printed, when mr becket put it into my hands, and i frankly told him that i thought it a very unseasonable, puerile affair, and could by no means serve to advance mr rousseau's estimation in the eyes of the public. it was certainly of great importance to the good people of england, to know how mr rousseau amused himself seven or eight years ago at montmorency, that he cooked his own broth, and did not leave it to the management of his nurse, for fear she should have a better dinner than himself! yet this is one of the most remarkable circumstances contained in that narrative, except indeed that we are told, mr rousseau is a most passionate admirer of virtue, and that his eyes always sparkle at the bare mention of that word.--o virtue! how greatly is thy name prostituted! and how fair, from the teeth outward, are thy nominal votaries!--_english translator_. (*) for, so far were the booksellers from intending to _suppress_ these pieces, that they actually reprinted the french edition of peyrou's letters, and published it in london. [ ] no body could possibly be mistaken with regard to the letter's being fictitious; besides it was well known that mr walpole was the author of it--mr hume. [ ] mr rousseau forgets himself here. it was but a week before that he wrote me a very friendly letter. see his letter of the th of march.--mr hume. [ ] i know nothing of this pretended libel.--mr hume. [ ] i have never been so happy as to meet with mr de voltaire; he only did me the honour to write me a letter about three years ago. as to mr tronchin, i never saw him in my life, nor ever had any correspondence with him. of mr d'alembert's friendship, indeed, i am proud to make a boast.--mr hume. [ ] why indeed? except that sensible people in england are averse to affectation and quackery. those who see and despise these most in mr rousseau, are not, however, his _enemies_; perhaps, if he could be brought to think so, they are his best and truest friends.--_english translator_. [ ] mr rousseau, seeing the letter addressed to him in the name of voltaire advertised in the public papers, wrote to mr davenport, who was then in london, to desire he would bring it him. i told mr davenport that the printed copy was very faulty, but that i would ask of lord littleton a manuscript copy, which was correct. this is sufficient to make mr rousseau conclude that lord littleton is his mortal enemy, and my intimate friend; and that we are in a conspiracy against him. he ought rather to have concluded, that the printed copy could not come from me,--mr hume. the piece above mentioned was shown to the _translator_ before its publication, and many absurd liberties taken with the original pointed out and censured. at which time there did not appear, from the parties concerned in it, that mr hume could have the least hand in, or could have known any thing of the edition.--_english translator_. [ ] i have never seen this piece, neither before nor after its publication; nor has it come to the knowledge of any body to whom i have spoken of it--mr hume. the _translator_, who has been attentive to every thing that has come out from, or about mr rousseau, knows also nothing of this piece. why did not mr rousseau mention particularly in what paper, and when it appeared?--_english translator_. [ ] i was not present when mr rousseau received his cousin. i only just saw them afterwards together for about a minute on the terrace in buckingham street.--mr hume. [ ] how was it possible for me to guess at such chimerical suspicions? mr davenport, the only person of my acquaintance who then saw mr rousseau, assures me that he was perfectly ignorant of them himself.--mr hume. [ ] i cannot answer for every thing i may say in my sleep, and much less am i conscious whether or not i dream in french. but pray, as mr rousseau did not know whether i was asleep or awake when i pronounced those terrible words, with such a terrible voice, how is he certain that he himself was well awake when he heard them?--mr hume. [ ] and does it depend on an _if_, after all mr r's positive conviction, and absolute demonstrations?--_english translator_. i hesitated some time whether i should make any reply to this strange memorial. at length i determined to write mr rousseau the following letter. mr hume to mr rousseau. _lisle-street, leicester-fields, july_ _d_, . sir, i shall only answer one article of your long letter: it is that which regards the conversation between us the evening before your departure. mr davenport had imagined a good natured artifice, to make you believe that a retour chaise had offered for wooton; and i believe he made an advertisement be put in the papers, in order the better to deceive you. his purpose was only to save you some expenses in the journey, which i thought a laudable project; though i had no hand either in contriving or conducting it. you entertained, how ever, suspicions of his design, while we were sitting alone by my fire-side; and you reproached me with concurring in it. i endeavoured to pacify you, and to divert the discourse; but to no purpose. you sat sullen, and was either silent, or made me very peevish answers. at last you rose up, and took a turn or two about the room; when all of a sudden, and to my great surprise, you clapped yourself on my knee, threw your arms about my neck, kissed me with seeming ardour, and bedewed my face with tears. you exclaimed, 'my dear friend, can you ever pardon this folly! after all the pains you have taken to serve me, after the numberless instances of friendship you have given me, here i reward you with this ill humour and sullenness. but your forgiveness of me will be a new instance of your friendship; and i hope you will find at bottom, that my heart is not unworthy of it.' i was very much affected, i own; and i believe, there passed a very tender scene between us. you added, by way of compliment, that though i had many better titles to recommend me to posterity, yet perhaps my uncommon attachment and friendship to a poor unhappy persecuted man, would not altogether be overlooked. this incident, sir, was somewhat remarkable; and it is impossible that either you or i could so soon have forgot it. but you have had the assurance to tell me the story twice in a manner so different, or rather so opposite, that when i persist, as i do, in this account, it necessarily follows, that either you or i am a liar. you imagine, perhaps, that because the incident passed privately without a witness, the question will lie between the credibility of your assertion and of mine. but you shall not have this advantage or disadvantage, whichever you are pleased to term it. i shall produce against you other proofs, which will put the matter beyond controversy. first, you are not aware, that i have a letter under your hand, which is totally irreconcilable with your account, and confirms mine.[ ] secondly, i told the story the next day, or the day after, to mr davenport, with a friendly view of preventing any such good natured artifices for the future. he surely remembers it. thirdly, as i thought the story much to your honour, i told it to several of my friends here. i even wrote it to mde. de boufflers at paris. i believe no one will imagine, that i was preparing beforehand an apology, in case of a rupture with you; which, of all human events, i should then have thought the most incredible, especially as we were separated almost for ever, and i still continued to render you the most essential services. fourthly, the story, as i tell it, is consistent and rational: there is not common sense in your account. what! because sometimes, when absent in thought, i have a fixed look or stare, you suspect me to be a traitor, and you have the assurance to tell me of such black and ridiculous suspicions! are not most studious men (and many of them more than i) subject to such reveries or fits of absence, without being exposed to such suspicions? you do not even pretend that, before you left london, you had any other solid grounds of suspicion against me. i shall enter into no detail with regard to your letter: the other articles of it are as much without foundation as you yourself know this to be. i shall only add, in general, that i enjoyed about a month ago an uncommon pleasure, when i reflected, that through many difficulties, and by most assiduous care and pains, i had, beyond my most sanguine expectations, provided for your repose, honour and fortune. but i soon felt a very sensible uneasiness when i found that you had wantonly and voluntarily thrown away all these advantages, and was become the declared enemy of your repose, fortune, and honour: i cannot be surprised after this that you are my enemy. adieu, and for ever. i am, sir, yours, d. h. [ ] that of the d of march, which is entirely cordial; and proves that mr rousseau had never, till that moment, entertained, or at least discovered the smallest suspicion against me. there is also in the same letter, a peevish passage about the hire of a chaise.--mr hume. to all these papers, i need only subjoin the following letter of mr walpole to me, which proves how ignorant and innocent i am of the whole matter of the king of prussia's letter. mr walpole to mr hume. _arlington street, july_ _th_, . i cannot be precise as to the time of my writing the king of prussia's letter, but i do assure you, with the utmost truth, that it was several days before you left paris, and before rousseau's arrival there, of which i can give you a strong proof; for i not only suppressed the letter while you staid there, out of delicacy to you, but it was the reason why, out of delicacy to myself, i did not go to see him, as you often proposed to me; thinking it wrong to go and make a cordial visit to a man, with a letter in my pocket to laugh at him. you are at full liberty, dear sir, to make use of what i say in your justification, either to rousseau or any body else. i should be very sorry to have you blamed on my account: i have a hearty contempt of rousseau, and am perfectly indifferent what any body thinks of the matter. if there is any fault, which i am far from thinking, let it lie on me. no parts can hinder my laughing at their possessor, if he is a mountebank. if he has a bad and most ungrateful heart, as rousseau has shown in your case, into the bargain, he will have my scorn likewise, as he will of all good and sensible men. you may trust your sentence to such, who are as respectable judges as any that have pored over ten thousand more volumes. yours most sincerely, h. w. thus i have given a narrative, as concise as possible, of this extraordinary affair, which i am told has very much attracted the attention of the public, and which contains more unexpected incidents than any other in which i was ever engaged. the persons to whom i have shown the original papers which authenticate the whole, have differed very much in their opinion, as well of the use i ought to make of them as of mr rousseau's present sentiments and state of mind. some of them have maintained that he is altogether insincere in his quarrel with me, and his opinion of my guilt, and that the whole proceeds from that excessive pride which forms the basis of his character, and which leads him both to seek the eclat of refusing the king of england's bounty, and to shake off the intolerable burthen of an obligation to me, by every sacrifice of honour, truth, and friendship, as well as of interest. they found their sentiments on the absurdity of that first supposition on which he grounds his anger, viz. that mr walpole's letter, which he knew had been every where dispersed both in paris and london, was given to the press by me; and as this supposition is contrary to common sense on the one hand, and not supported even by the pretence of the slightest probability on the other, they conclude, that it never had any weight even with the person himself who lays hold of it. they confirm their sentiments by the number of fictions and lies which he employs to justify his anger; fictions with regard to points in which it is impossible for him to be mistaken. they also remark his real cheerfulness and gaiety, amidst the deep melancholy with which he pretended to be oppressed; not to mention the absurd reasoning which runs through the whole, and on which it is impossible for any man to rest his conviction. and though a very important interest is here abandoned, yet money is not universally the chief object with mankind: vanity weighs farther with some men, particularly with this philosopher; and the very ostentation of refusing a pension from the king of england--an ostentation which, with regard to other princes, he has often sought--might be of itself a sufficient motive for his present conduct. there are others of my friends who regard this whole affair in a more compassionate light, and consider mr rousseau as an object rather of pity than of anger. they suppose the same domineering pride and ingratitude to be the basis of his character; but they are also willing to believe that his brain has received a sensible shock, and that his judgment, set afloat, is carried to every side, as it is pushed by the current of his humours and of his passions. the absurdity of his belief is no proof of its insincerity. he imagines himself the sole important being in the universe: he fancies all mankind to be in a combination against him: his greatest benefactor, as hurting him most, is the chief object of his animosity: and though he supports all his whimsies by lies and fictions, this is so frequent a case with wicked men, who are in that middle state between sober reason and total frenzy, that it needs give no surprise to any body. i own that i am much inclined to this latter opinion; though, at the same time, i question whether, in any period of his life, mr rousseau was ever more in his senses than he is at present. the former brilliancy of his genius, and his great talents for writing, are no proof of the contrary. it is an old remark, that great wits are near allied to madness; and even in those frantic letters which he has wrote to me, there are evidently strong traces of his wonted genius and eloquence. he has frequently told me that he was composing his memoirs, in which justice should be done to his own character, to that of his friends, and to that of his enemies; and as mr davenport informs me, that, since his retreat into the country, he has been much employed in writing, i have reason to conclude that he is at present finishing that undertaking. nothing could be more unexpected to me than my passing so suddenly from the class of his friend to that of his enemies; but this transition being made, i must expect to be treated accordingly; and i own that this reflection gave me some anxiety.[ ] a work of this nature, both from the celebrity of the person, and the strokes of eloquence interspersed, would certainly attract the attention of the world; and it might be published either after my death, or after that of the author. in the former case, there would be nobody who could tell the story, or justify my memory. in the latter, my apology, wrote in opposition to a dead person, would lose a great deal of its authenticity. for this reason, i have at present collected the whole story into one narrative, that i may show it to my friends, and at any time have it in my power to make whatever use of it they and i should think proper. i am, and always have been, such a lover of peace, that nothing but necessity, or very forcible reasons, could have obliged me to give it to the public. _'perdidi beneficium. numquid quæ consecravimus perdidisse nos dicimus? inter consecrata beneficium est; etiam si male respondit, bene collatum. non est ille qualem speravimus; simus nos quales fuimus, ei dissimiles.'_ seneca de beneficiis, lib. vii. cap. . [ ] in his letter of the d of march, he flatters me indirectly with the figure i am to make in his memoirs. in that of the d of june, he threatens me. these are proofs how much he is in earnest. declaration of mr d'alembert, relating to mr walpole's letter. (_addressed to the french editors_.) it is with the greatest surprise i learn, from mr hume, that mr rousseau accuses me of being the author of the ironical letter addressed to him, in the public papers, under the name of the king of prussia. every body knows, both at paris and london, that such letter was written by mr walpole; nor does he disown it. he acknowledges only that he was a little assisted, in regard to the style, by a person he does not name, and whom perhaps he ought to name. as to my part, on whom the public suspicions have fallen in this affair, i am not at all acquainted with mr walpole. i don't even believe i ever spoke to him; having only happened to meet once occasionally on a visit. i have not only had not the least to do, either directly or indirectly, with the letter in question, but could mention above a hundred persons, among the friends as well as enemies of mr rousseau, who have heard me greatly disapprove of it; because, as i said, we ought not to ridicule the unfortunate, especially when they do us no harm. besides, my respect for the king of prussia, and the acknowledgments i owe him, might, i should have thought, have persuaded mr rousseau that i should not have taken such a liberty with the name of that prince, though in pleasantry. to this i shall add, that i never was an enemy to mr rousseau, either open or secret, as he pretends; and i defy him to produce the least proof of my having endeavoured to injure him in any shape whatever. i can prove to the contrary, by the most respectable witnesses, that i have always endeavoured to oblige him, whenever it lay in my power. as to my pretended _secret correspondence_ with mr hume, it is very certain that we did not begin to write to each other till about five or six months after his departure, on occasion of the quarrel arisen between him and mr rousseau, and into which the latter thought proper unnecessarily to introduce me. i thought this declaration necessary for my own sake, as well as for the sake of truth, and in regard to the situation of mr rousseau. i sincerely lament his having so little confidence in the probity of mankind, and particularly in that of mr hume. d'alembert. scotticisms. _will_, in the first person, as _i will walk_, _we will walk_, expresses the intention or resolution of the person, along with the future event: in the second and third person, as, _you will_, _he will_, _they will_, it expresses the future action or event, without comprehending or excluding the volition. _shall_, in the first person, whether singular or plural, expresses the future action or event, without excluding or comprehending the intention or resolution: but in the _second_ or _third_ person, it marks a necessity, and commonly a necessity proceeding from the person who speaks; as, _he shall walk_, _you shall repent it_. these variations seem to have proceeded from a politeness in the _english_, who, in speaking to others, or of others, made use of the term _will_, which implies volition, even where the event may be the subject of necessity and constraint. and in speaking of themselves, made use of the term _shall_, which implies constraint, even though the event may be the object of choice. _wou'd_ and _shou'd_ are conjunctive moods, subject to the same rule; only, we may observe, that in a sentence, where there is a condition exprest, and a consequence of that condition, the former always requires _shou'd_, and the latter _wou'd_, in the second and third persons; as, _if he shou'd fall, he wou'd break his leg_, &c. _these_ is the plural of _this_; _those of that_. the former, therefore, expresses what is near: the latter, what is more remote. as, in these lines of the duke of buckingham, "philosophers and poets vainly strove, in every age, the lumpish mass to move. but those were pedants if compared with these, who knew not only to instruct, but please." where a relative is to follow, and the subject has not been mentioned immediately before, _those_ is always required. _those observations which he made_. _those kingdoms which alexander conquered_. in the verbs, which end in _t_, or _te_, we frequently omit _ed_ in the preterperfect and in the participle; as, _he operate_, _it was cultivate_. _milton_ says, _in thought more elevate_; but he is the only author who uses that expression. _notice_ shou'd not be used as a verb. the proper phrase is _take notice_. yet i find lord shaftesbury uses _notic'd_, the participle: and _unnotic'd_ is very common. _hinder to do_, is _scotch_. the _english_ phrase is, _hinder from doing_. yet _milton_ says, _hindered not satan to pervert the mind_. book ix. scotch. english. conform to conformable to friends and acquaintances friends and acquitance maltreat abuse advert to attend to proven, improven, approven prov'd, improv'd, approv'd pled pleaded incarcerate imprison tear to pieces tear in pieces drunk, run drank, ran fresh weather open weather tender sickly in the long run at long run notwithstanding of that notwithstanding that contented himself to do contented himself with doing 'tis a question if 'tis a question whether discretion civility with child to a man with child by a man out of hand presently simply impossible absolutely impossible a park an enclosure in time coming in time to come nothing else no other thing mind it remember it denuded divested severals several some better something better anent with regard to allenarly solely alongst. yet the _english_ say both amid, amidst, among, along and amongst evenly even as i shall answer i protest or declare cause him do it. yet 'tis good _english_ to say, make cause him to do it him do it marry upon marry to learn teach there, where thither, whither effectuate. this word in _english_ effect means to effect with pains and difficulty. a wright. yet 'tis good _english_ a carpenter to say, a wheelwright defunct deceast evite avoid part with child miscarry notour notorious to want it to be without a thing, even though it be not desirable to be difficulted to be puzzled rebuted discouraged by repulses for ordinary usually think shame asham'd in favours of in favour of dubiety doubtfulness prejudge hurt compete enter into competition heritable hereditary to remeed to remedy bankier banker adduce a proof produce a proof superplus surplus forfaulture forfeiture in no event in no case common soldiers private men big with a man great with a man bygone past debitor debtor exeemed exempted yesternight last night big coat great coat a chimney a grate annualrent interest tenible argument good argument amissing missing to condescend upon to specify to discharge to forbid to extinguish an obligation to cancel an obligation to depone to depose a compliment a present to inquire at a man to inquire of a man to be angry at a man to be angry with a man to send an errand to send off an errand to furnish goods to him to furnish him with goods to open up to open, or lay open _thucydide, herodot, sueton,_ _thucydides, herodotus, suetonius_ butter and bread bread and butter pepper and vinegar vinegar and pepper paper, pen and ink pen, ink and paper readily probably on a sudden of a sudden as ever i saw as i ever saw for my share for my part misgive fail rather chuse to buy as sell rather chuse to buy than sell deduce deduct look't over the window look't out at the window a pretty enough girl a pretty girl enough 'tis a week since he left this 'tis a week since he left this place come in to the fire come near the fire to take off a new coat to make up a new suit alwise always cut out his hair cut off his hair cry him call him to crave to dun, to ask payment to get a stomach to get an appetite vacance vacation a treatise of human nature. being an attempt to introduce the experimental method of reasoning into moral subjects. rara temporum felicitas, ubi sentire, quÆ velis; et quÆ sentias, dicere licet. tacitus. book i. of the understanding. _advertisement._ _my design in the present work is sufficiently explained in the introduction. the reader must only observe, that all the subjects i have there planned out to myself are not treated in these two volumes. the subjects of the understanding and passions make a complete chain of reasoning by themselves; and i was willing to take advantage of this natural division, in order to try the taste of the public. if i have the good fortune to meet with success, i shall proceed to the examination of morals, politics, and criticism, which will complete this treatise of human nature. the approbation of the public i consider as the greatest reward of my labours; but am determined to regard its judgment, whatever it be, as my best instruction._ introduction. nothing is more usual and more natural for those, who pretend to discover any thing new to the world in philosophy and the sciences, than to insinuate the praises of their own systems, by decrying all those which have been advanced before them. and indeed were they content with lamenting that ignorance, which we still lie under in the most important questions that can come before the tribunal of human reason, there are few, who have an acquaintance with the sciences, that would not readily agree with them. 'tis easy for one of judgment and learning, to perceive the weak foundation even of those systems, which have obtained the greatest credit, and have carried their pretensions highest to accurate and profound reasoning. principles taken upon trust, consequences lamely deduced from them, want of coherence in the parts, and of evidence in the whole, these are every where to be met with in the systems of the most eminent philosophers, and seem to have drawn disgrace upon philosophy itself. nor is there required such profound knowledge to discover the present imperfect condition of the sciences, but even the rabble without doors may judge from the noise and clamour which they hear, that all goes not well within. there is nothing which is not the subject of debate, and in which men of learning are not of contrary opinions. the most trivial question escapes not our controversy, and in the most momentous we are not able to give any certain decision. disputes are multiplied, as if every thing was uncertain. amidst all this bustle, 'tis not reason which carries the prize, but eloquence; and no man needs ever despair of gaining proselytes to the most extravagant hypothesis, who has art enough to represent it in any favourable colours. the victory is not gained by the men at arms, who manage the pike and the sword, but by the trumpeters, drummers, and musicians of the army. from hence, in my opinion, arises that common prejudice against metaphysical reasonings of all kinds, even amongst those who profess themselves scholars, and have a just value for every other part of literature. by metaphysical reasonings, they do not understand those on any particular branch of science, but every kind of argument which is any way abstruse, and requires some attention to be comprehended. we have so often lost our labour in such researches, that we commonly reject them without hesitation, and resolve, if we must for ever be a prey to errors and delusions, that they shall at least be natural and entertaining. and, indeed, nothing but the most determined scepticism, along with a great degree of indolence, can justify this aversion to metaphysics. for, if truth be at all within the reach of human capacity, 'tis certain it must lie very deep and abstruse; and to hope we shall arrive at it without pains, while the greatest geniuses have failed with the utmost pains, must certainly be esteemed sufficiently vain and presumptuous. i pretend to no such advantage in the philosophy i am going to unfold, and would esteem it a strong presumption against it, were it so very easy and obvious. 'tis evident, that all the sciences have a relation, greater or less, to human nature; and that, however wide any of them may seem to run from it, they still return back by one passage or another; even _mathematics_, _natural philosophy_, and _natural religion_, are in some measure dependant on the science of man; since they lie under the cognizance of men, and are judged of by their powers and faculties. 'tis impossible to tell what changes and improvements we; might make in these sciences were we thoroughly acquainted with the extent and force of human understanding, and could explain the nature of the ideas we employ, and of the operations we perform in our reasonings. and these improvements are the more to be hoped for in natural religion, as it is not content with instructing us in the nature of superior powers, but carries its views farther, to their disposition towards us, and our duties towards them; and consequently, we ourselves are not only the beings that reason, but also one of the objects concerning which we reason. if, therefore, the sciences of mathematics, natural philosophy, and natural religion, have such a dependence on the knowledge of man, what may be expected in the other sciences, whose connexion with human nature is more close and intimate? the sole end of logic is to explain the principles and operations of our reasoning faculty, and the nature of our ideas; morals and criticism regard our tastes and sentiments; and politics consider men as united in society, and dependent on each other. in these four sciences of _logic_, _morals_, _criticism_, and _politics_, is comprehended almost every thing which it can any way import us to be acquainted with, or which can tend either to the improvement or ornament of the human mind. here then is the only expedient, from which we can hope for success in our philosophical researches, to leave the tedious lingering method, which we have hitherto followed, and, instead of taking now and then a castle or village on the frontier, to march up directly to the capital or centre of these sciences, to human nature itself; which being once masters of, we may every where else hope for an easy victory. from this station we may extend our conquests over all those sciences, which more intimately concern human life, and may afterwards proceed at leisure, to discover more fully those which are the objects of pure curiosity. there is no question of importance, whose decision is not comprised in the science of man; and there is none, which can be decided with any certainty, before we become acquainted with that science. in pretending, therefore, to explain the principles of human nature, we in effect propose a complete system of the sciences, built on a foundation almost entirely new, and the only one upon which they can stand with any security. and, as the science of man is the only solid foundation for the other sciences, so, the only solid foundation we can give to this science itself must be laid on experience and observation. 'tis no astonishing reflection to consider, that the application of experimental philosophy to moral subjects should come after that to natural, at the distance of above a whole century; since we find in fact, that there was about the same interval betwixt the origins of these sciences; and that, reckoning from thales to socrates, the space of time is nearly equal to that betwixt my lord bacon and some late philosophers[ ] in england, who have begun to put the science of man on a new footing, and have engaged the attention, and excited the curiosity of the public. so true it is, that however other nations may rival us in poetry, and excel us in some other agreeable arts, the improvements in reason and philosophy can only be owing to a land of toleration and of liberty. nor ought we to think, that this latter improvement in the science of man will do less honour to our native country than the former in natural philosophy, but ought rather to esteem it a greater glory, upon account of the greater importance of that science, as well as the necessity it lay under of such a reformation. for to me it seems evident, that the essence of the mind being equally unknown to us with that of external bodies, it must be equally impossible to form any notion of its powers and qualities otherwise than from careful and exact experiments, and the observation of those particular effects, which result from its different circumstances and situations. and though we must endeavour to render all our principles as universal as possible, by tracing up our experiments to the utmost, and explaining all effects from the simplest and fewest causes, 'tis still certain we cannot go beyond experience; and any hypothesis, that pretends to discover the ultimate original qualities of human nature, ought at first to be rejected as presumptuous and chimerical. i do not think a philosopher, who would apply himself so earnestly to the explaining the ultimate principles of the soul, would show himself a great master in that very science of human nature, which he pretends to explain, or very knowing in what is naturally satisfactory to the mind of man. for nothing is more certain, than that despair has almost the same effect upon us with enjoyment, and that we are no sooner acquainted with the impossibility of satisfying any desire, than the desire itself vanishes. when we see, that we have arrived at the utmost extent of human reason, we sit down contented; though we be perfectly satisfied in the main of our ignorance, and perceive that we can give no reason for our most general and most refined principles, beside our experience of their reality; which is the reason of the mere vulgar, and what it required no study at first to have discovered for the most particular and most extraordinary phenomenon. and as this impossibility of making any farther progress is enough to satisfy the reader, so the writer may derive a more delicate satisfaction from the free confession of his ignorance, and from his prudence in avoiding that error, into which so many have fallen, of imposing their conjectures and hypotheses on the world for the most certain principles. when this mutual contentment and satisfaction can be obtained betwixt the master and scholar, i know not what more we can require of our philosophy. but if this impossibility of explaining ultimate principles should be esteemed a defect in the science of man, i will venture to affirm, that it is a defect common to it with all the sciences, and all the arts, in which we can employ ourselves, whether they be such as are cultivated in the schools of the philosophers, or practised in the shops of the meanest artisans. none of them can go beyond experience, or establish any principles which are not founded on that authority. moral philosophy has, indeed, this peculiar disadvantage, which is not found in natural, that in collecting its experiments, it cannot make them purposely, with premeditation, and after such a manner as to satisfy itself concerning every particular difficulty which may arise. when i am at a loss to know the effects of one body upon another in any situation, i need only put them in that situation, and observe what results from it. but should i endeavour to clear up after the same manner any doubt in moral philosophy, by placing myself in the same case with that which i consider, 'tis evident this reflection and premeditation would so disturb the operation of my natural principles, as must render it impossible to form any just conclusion from the phenomenon. we must, therefore, glean up our experiments in this science from a cautious observation of human life, and take them as they appear in the common course of the world, by men's behaviour in company, in affairs, and in their pleasures. where experiments of this kind are judiciously collected and compared, we may hope to establish on them a science which will not be inferior in certainty, and will be much superior in utility, to any other of human comprehension. [ ] mr locke, my lord shaftsbury, dr mandeville, mr hutchinson, dr butler, &c. book i. of the understanding. part i. of ideas, their origin, composition, connexion, and abstraction. section i. of the origin of our ideas. all the perceptions of the human mind resolve themselves into two distinct kinds, which i shall call _impressions_ and _ideas_. the difference betwixt these consists in the degrees of force and liveliness, with which they strike upon the mind, and make their way into our thought or consciousness. those perceptions which enter with most force and violence, we may name _impressions_; and, under this name, i comprehend all our sensations, passions, and emotions, as they make their first appearance in the soul. by _ideas_, i mean the faint images of these in thinking and reasoning; such as, for instance, are all the perceptions excited by the present discourse, excepting only those which arise from the sight and touch, and excepting the immediate pleasure or uneasiness it may occasion. i believe it will not be very necessary to employ many words, in explaining this distinction. every one of himself will readily perceive the difference betwixt feeling and thinking. the common degrees of these are easily distinguished; though it is not impossible but, in particular instances, they may very nearly approach to each other. thus, in sleep, in a fever, in madness, or in any very violent emotions of soul, our ideas may approach to our impressions: as, on the other hand, it sometimes happens, that our impressions are so faint and low, that we cannot distinguish them from our ideas. but, notwithstanding this near resemblance in a few instances, they are in general so very different, that no one can make a scruple to rank them under distinct heads, and assign to each a peculiar name to mark the difference.[ ] there is another division of our perceptions, which it will be convenient to observe, and which extends itself both to our impressions and ideas. this division is into _simple_ and _complex_. simple perceptions, or impressions and ideas, are such as admit of no distinction nor separation. the complex are the contrary to these, and may be distinguished into parts. though a particular colour, taste and smell, are qualities all united together in this apple, 'tis easy to perceive they are not the same, but are at least distinguishable from each other. having, by these divisions, given an order and arrangement to our objects, we may now apply ourselves to consider, with the more accuracy, their qualities and relations. the first circumstance that strikes my eye, is the great resemblance betwixt our impressions and ideas in every other particular, except their degree of force and vivacity. the one seem to be, in a manner, the reflection of the other; so that all the perceptions of the mind are double, and appear both as impressions and ideas. when i shut my eyes, and think of my chamber, the ideas i form are exact representations of the impressions i felt; nor is there any circumstance of the one, which is not to be found in the other. in running over my other perceptions, i find still the same resemblance and representation. ideas and impressions appear always to correspond to each other. this circumstance seems to me remarkable, and engages my attention for a moment. upon a more accurate survey i find i have been carried away too far by the first appearance, and that i must make use of the distinction of perceptions into _simple_ and _complex_, to limit this general decision, _that all our ideas and impressions are resembling_. i observe that many of our complex ideas never had impressions that corresponded to them, and that many of our complex impressions never are exactly copied in ideas. i can imagine to myself such a city as the new jerusalem, whose pavement is gold, and walls are rubies, though i never saw any such. i have seen paris; but shall i affirm i can form such an idea of that city, as will perfectly represent all its streets and houses in their real and just proportions? i perceive, therefore, that though there is, in general, a great resemblance betwixt our _complex_ impressions and ideas, yet the rule is not universally true, that they are exact copies of each other. we may next consider, how the case stands with our _simple_ perceptions. after the most accurate examination of which i am capable, i venture to affirm, that the rule here holds without any exception, and that every simple idea has a simple impression, which resembles it, and every simple impression a correspondent idea. that idea of red, which we form in the dark, and that impression, which strikes our eyes in sunshine, differ only in degree, not in nature. that the case is the same with all our simple impressions and ideas, 'tis impossible to prove by a particular enumeration of them. every one may satisfy himself in this point by running over as many as he pleases. but if any one should deny this universal resemblance, i know no way of convincing him, but by desiring him to show a simple impression that has not a correspondent idea, or a simple idea that has not a correspondent impression. if he does not answer this challenge, as 'tis certain he cannot, we may, from his silence and our own observation, establish our conclusion. thus we find, that all simple ideas and impressions resemble each other; and, as the complex are formed from them, we may affirm in general, that these two species of perception are exactly correspondent. having discovered this relation, which requires no farther examination, i am curious to find some other of their qualities. let us consider, how they stand with regard to their existence, and which of the impressions and ideas are causes, and which effects. the full examination of this question is the subject of the present treatise; and, therefore, we shall here content ourselves with establishing one general proposition, _that all our simple ideas in their first appearance, are derived from simple impressions, which are correspondent to them, and which they exactly represent_. in seeking for phenomena to prove this proposition, i find only those of two kinds; but, in each kind the phenomena are obvious, numerous, and conclusive. i first make myself certain, by a new review, of what i have already asserted, that every simple impression is attended with a correspondent idea, and every simple idea with a correspondent impression. from this constant conjunction of resembling perceptions i immediately conclude, that there is a great connexion betwixt our correspondent impressions and ideas, and that the existence of the one has a considerable influence upon that of the other. such a constant conjunction, in such an infinite number of instances, can never arise from chance; but clearly proves a dependence of the impressions on the ideas, or of the ideas on the impressions. that i may know on which side this dependence lies, i consider the order of their _first appearance_; and find, by constant experience, that the simple impressions always take the precedence of their correspondent ideas, but never appear in the contrary order. to give a child an idea of scarlet or orange, of sweet or bitter, i present the objects, or, in other words, convey to him these impressions; but proceed not so absurdly, as to endeavour to produce the impressions by exciting the ideas. our ideas, upon their appearance, produce not their correspondent impressions, nor do we perceive any colour, or feel any sensation merely upon thinking of them. on the other hand we find, that any impression, either of the mind or body, is constantly followed by an idea, which resembles it, and is only different in the degrees of force and liveliness. the constant conjunction of our resembling perceptions, is a convincing proof, that the one are the causes of the other; and this priority of the impressions is an equal proof, that our impressions are the causes of our ideas, not our ideas of our impressions. to confirm this, i consider another plain and convincing phenomenon; which is, that wherever, by any accident, the faculties which give rise to any impressions are obstructed in their operations, as when one is born blind or deaf, not only the impressions are lost, but also their correspondent ideas; so that there never appear in the mind the least traces of either of them. nor is this only true, where the organs of sensation are entirely destroyed, but likewise where they have never been put in action to produce a particular impression. we cannot form to ourselves a just idea of the taste of a pine-apple, without having actually tasted it. there is, however, one contradictory phenomenon, which may prove, that 'tis not absolutely impossible for ideas to go before their correspondent impressions. i believe it will readily be allowed, that the several distinct ideas of colours, which enter by the eyes, or those of sounds, which are conveyed by the hearing, are really different from each other, though, at the same time, resembling. now, if this be true of different colours, it must be no less so of the different shades of the same colour, that each of them produces a distinct idea, independent of the rest. for if this should be denied, 'tis possible, by the continual gradation of shades, to run a colour insensibly into what is most remote from it; and, if you will not allow any of the means to be different, you cannot, without absurdity, deny the extremes to be the same. suppose, therefore, a person to have enjoyed his sight for thirty years, and to have become perfectly well acquainted with colours of all kinds, excepting one particular shade of blue, for instance, which it never has been his fortune to meet with. let all the different shades of that colour, except that single one, be placed before him, descending gradually from the deepest to the lightest; 'tis plain, that he will perceive a blank, where that shade is wanting, and will be sensible that there is a greater distance in that place, betwixt the contiguous colours, than in any other. now i ask, whether 'tis possible for him, from his own imagination, to supply this deficiency, and raise up to himself the idea of that particular shade, though it had never been conveyed to him by his senses? i believe there are few but will be of opinion that he can; and this may serve as a proof, that the simple ideas are not always derived from the correspondent impressions; though the instance is so particular and singular, that 'tis scarce worth our observing, and does not merit that, for it alone, we should alter our general maxim. but, besides this exception, it may not be amiss to remark, on this head, that the principle of the priority of impressions to ideas, must be understood with another limitation, viz. that as our ideas are images of our impressions, so we can form secondary ideas, which are images of the primary, as appears from this very reasoning concerning them. this is not, properly speaking, an exception to the rule so much as an explanation of it. ideas produce the images of themselves in new ideas; but as the first ideas are supposed to be derived from impressions, it still remains true, that all our simple ideas proceed, either mediately or immediately, from their correspondent impressions. this, then, is the first principle i establish in the science of human nature; nor ought we to despise it because of the simplicity of its appearance. for 'tis remarkable, that the present question concerning the precedency of our impressions or ideas, is the same with what has made so much noise in other terms, when it has been disputed whether there be any _innate ideas_, or whether all ideas be derived from sensation and reflection. we may observe, that in order to prove the ideas of extension and colour not to be innate, philosophers do nothing but show, that they are conveyed by our senses. to prove the ideas of passion and desire not to be innate, they observe, that we have a preceding experience of these emotions in ourselves. now, if we carefully examine these arguments, we shall find that they prove nothing but that ideas are preceded by other more lively perceptions, from which they are derived, and which they represent. i hope this clear stating of the question will remove all disputes concerning it, and will render this principle of more use in our reasonings, than it seems hitherto to have been. [ ] i here make use of these terms, _impression_ and _idea_, in a sense different from what is usual, and i hope this liberty will be allowed me. perhaps i rather restore the word idea to its original sense, from which mr locke had perverted it, in making it stand for all our perceptions. by the term of impression, i would not be understood to express the manner in which our lively perceptions are produced in the soul, but merely the perceptions themselves; for which there is no particular name, either in the english or any other language that i know of. section ii. division of the subject. since it appears, that our simple impressions are prior to their correspondent ideas, and that the exceptions are very rare, method seems to require we should examine our impressions before we consider our ideas. impressions may be divided into two kinds, those of _sensation_, and those of _reflection_. the first kind arises in the soul originally, from unknown causes. the second is derived, in a great measure, from our ideas, and that in the following order. an impression first strikes upon the senses, and makes us perceive heat or cold, thirst or hunger, pleasure or pain, of some kind or other. of this impression there is a copy taken by the mind, which remains after the impression ceases; and this we call an idea. this idea of pleasure or pain, when it returns upon the soul, produces the new impressions of desire and aversion, hope and fear, which may properly be called impressions of reflection, because derived from it. these again are copied by the memory and imagination, and become ideas; which, perhaps, in their turn, give rise to other impressions and ideas: so that the impressions of reflection are only antecedent to their correspondent ideas, but posterior to those of sensation, and derived from them. the examination of our sensations belongs more to anatomists and natural philosophers than to moral; and, therefore, shall not at present be entered upon. and, as the impressions of reflection, viz. passions, desires, and emotions, which principally deserve our attention, arise mostly from ideas, 'twill be necessary to reverse that method, which at first sight seems most natural; and, in order to explain the nature and principles of the human mind, give a particular account of ideas, before we proceed to impressions. for this reason, i have here chosen to begin with ideas. section iii. of the ideas of the memory and imagination. we find, by experience, that when any impression has been present with the mind, it again makes its appearance there as an idea; and this it may do after two different ways: either when, in its new appearance, it retains a considerable degree of its first vivacity, and is somewhat intermediate betwixt an impression and an idea; or when it entirely loses that vivacity, and is a perfect idea. the faculty by which we repeat our impressions in the first manner, is called the _memory_, and the other the _imagination_. 'tis evident, at first sight, that the ideas of the memory are much more lively and strong than those of the imagination, and that the former faculty paints its objects in more distinct colours, than any which are employed by the latter. when we remember any past event, the idea of it flows in upon the mind in a forcible manner; whereas, in the imagination, the perception is faint and languid, and cannot, without difficulty, be preserved by the mind steady and uniform for any considerable time. here, then, is a sensible difference betwixt one species of ideas and another. but of this more fully hereafter.[ ] there is another difference betwixt these two kinds of ideas, which is no less evident, namely, that though neither the ideas of the memory nor imagination, neither the lively nor faint ideas, can make their appearance in the mind, unless their correspondent impressions have gone before to prepare the way for them, yet the imagination is not restrained to the same order and form with the original impressions; while the memory is in a manner tied down in that respect, without any power of variation. 'tis evident, that the memory preserves the original form, in which its objects were presented, and that wherever we depart from it in recollecting any thing, it proceeds from some defect or imperfection in that faculty. an historian may, perhaps, for the more convenient carrying on of his narration, relate an event before another to which it was in fact posterior; but then, he takes notice of this disorder, if he be exact; and, by that means, replaces the idea in its due position. 'tis the same case in our recollection of those places and persons, with which we were formerly acquainted. the chief exercise of the memory is not to preserve the simple ideas, but their order and position. in short, this principle is supported by such a number of common and vulgar phenomena, that we may spare ourselves the trouble of insisting on it any farther. the same evidence follows us in our second principle, _of the liberty of the imagination to transpose and change its ideas_. the fables we meet with in poems and romances put this entirely out of question. nature there is totally confounded, and nothing mentioned but winged horses, fiery dragons, and monstrous giants. nor will this liberty of the fancy appear strange, when we consider, that all our ideas are copied from our impressions, and that there are not any two impressions which are perfectly inseparable. not to mention, that this is an evident consequence of the division of ideas into simple and complex. wherever the imagination perceives a difference among ideas, it can easily produce a separation. [ ] part iii. sect. . section iv. of the connexion or association of ideas. as all simple ideas may be separated by the imagination, and may be united again in what form it pleases, nothing would be more unaccountable than the operations of that faculty, were it not guided by some universal principles, which render it, in some measure, uniform with itself in all times and places. were ideas entirely loose and unconnected, chance alone would join them; and 'tis impossible the same simple ideas should fall regularly into complex ones (as they commonly do), without some bond of union among them, some associating quality, by which one idea naturally introduces another. this uniting principle among ideas is not to be considered as an inseparable connexion; for that has been already excluded from the imagination: nor yet are we to conclude, that without it the mind cannot join two ideas; for nothing is more free than that faculty: but we are only to regard it as a gentle force, which commonly prevails, and is the cause why, among other things, languages so nearly correspond to each other; nature, in a manner, pointing out to every one those simple ideas, which are most proper to be united into a complex one. the qualities, from which this association arises, and by which the mind is, after this manner, conveyed from one idea to another, are three, viz. _resemblance, contiguity_ in time or place, and _cause_ and _effect_. i believe it will not be very necessary to prove, that these qualities produce an association among ideas, and, upon the appearance of one idea, naturally introduce another. 'tis plain, that, in the course of our thinking, and in the constant revolution of our ideas, our imagination runs easily from one idea to any other that _resembles_ it, and that this quality alone is to the fancy a sufficient bond and association. 'tis likewise evident, that as the senses, in changing their objects, are necessitated to change them regularly, and take them as they lie _contiguous_ to each other, the imagination must, by long custom, acquire the same method of thinking, and run along the parts of space and time in conceiving its objects. as to the connexion that is made by the relation of _cause and effect_, we shall have occasion afterwards to examine it to the bottom, and therefore shall not at present insist upon it. 'tis sufficient to observe, that there is no relation, which produces a stronger connexion in the fancy, and makes one idea more readily recal another, than the relation of cause and effect betwixt their objects. that we may understand the full extent of these relations, we must consider, that two objects are connected together in the imagination, not only when the one is immediately resembling, contiguous to, or the cause of the other, but also when there is interposed betwixt them a third object, which bears to both of them any of these relations. this may be carried on to a great length; though, at the same time we may observe, that each remove considerably weakens the relation. cousins in the fourth degree are connected by _causation_, if i may be allowed to use that term; but not so closely as brothers, much less as child and parent. in general, we may observe, that all the relations of blood depend upon cause and effect, and are esteemed near or remote, according to the number of connecting causes interposed betwixt the persons. of the three relations above mentioned this of causation is the most extensive. two objects may be considered as placed in this relation, as well when one is the cause of any of the actions or motions of the other, as when the former is the cause of the existence of the latter. for as that action or motion is nothing but the object itself, considered in a certain light, and as the object continues the same in all its different situations, 'tis easy to imagine how such an influence of objects upon one another may connect them in the imagination. we may carry this farther, and remark, not only that two objects are connected by the relation of cause and effect, when the one produces a motion or any action in the other, but also when it has a power of producing it. and this we may observe to be the source of all the relations of interest and duty, by which men influence each other in society, and are placed in the ties of government and subordination. a master is such a one as, by his situation, arising either from force or agreement, has a power of directing in certain particulars the actions of another, whom we call servant. a judge is one, who, in all disputed cases, can fix by his opinion the possession or property of any thing betwixt any members of the society. when a person is possessed of any power, there is no more required to convert it into action, but the exertion of the will; and _that_ in every case is considered as possible, and in many as probable; especially in the case of authority, where the obedience of the subject is a pleasure and advantage to the superior. these are, therefore, the principles of union or cohesion among our simple ideas, and in the imagination supply the place of that inseparable connexion, by which they are united in our memory. here is a kind of _attraction_, which in the mental world will be found to have as extraordinary effects as in the natural, and to show itself in as many and as various forms. its effects are every where conspicuous; but, as to its causes, they are mostly unknown, and must be resolved into _original_ qualities of human nature, which i pretend not to explain. nothing is more requisite for a true philosopher, than to restrain the intemperate desire of searching into causes; and, having established any doctrine upon a sufficient number of experiments, rest contented with that, when he sees a farther examination would lead him into obscure and uncertain speculations. in that case his inquiry would be much better employed in examining the effects than the causes of his principle. amongst the effects of this union or association of ideas, there are none more remarkable than those complex ideas, which are the common subjects of our thoughts and reasoning, and generally arise from some principle of union among our simple ideas. these complex ideas may be divided into _relations, modes,_ and _substances_. we shall briefly examine each of these in order, and shall subjoin some considerations concerning our _general_ and _particular_ ideas, before we leave the present subject, which may be considered as the elements of this philosophy. section v. of relations. the word _relation_ is commonly used in two senses considerably different from each other. either for that quality, by which two ideas are connected together in the imagination, and the one naturally introduces the other, after the manner above explained; or for that particular circumstance, in which, even upon the arbitrary union of two ideas in the fancy, we may think proper to compare them. in common language, the former is always the sense in which we use the word relation; and 'tis only in philosophy that we extend it to mean any particular subject of comparison, without a connecting principle. thus, distance will be allowed by philosophers to be a true relation, because we acquire an idea of it by the comparing of objects: but in a common way we say, _that nothing can be more distant than such or such things from each other, nothing can have less relation_; as if distance and relation were incompatible. it may, perhaps, be esteemed an endless task to enumerate all those qualities, which make objects admit of comparison, and by which the ideas of _philosophical_ relation are produced. but if we diligently consider them we shall find, that without difficulty they may be comprised under seven general heads, which may be considered as the sources of all philosophical relation. . the first is _resemblance_: and this is a relation, without which no philosophical relation can exist, since no objects will admit of comparison, but what have some degree of resemblance. but though resemblance be necessary to all philosophical relation, it does not follow that it always produces a connexion or association of ideas. when a quality becomes very general, and is common to a great many individuals, it leads not the mind directly to any one of them; but, by presenting at once too great a choice, does thereby prevent the imagination from fixing on any single object. . _identity_ may be esteemed a second species of relation. this relation i here consider as applied in its strictest sense to constant and unchangeable objects; without examining the nature and foundation of personal identity, which shall find its place afterwards. of all relations the most universal is that of identity, being common to every being, whose existence has any duration. . after identity the most universal and comprehensive relations are those of _space_ and _time_, which are the sources of an infinite number of comparisons, such as _distant, contiguous, above, below, before, after, &c_. . all those objects, which admit of _quantity_ or _number_, may be compared in that particular, which is another very fertile source of relation. . when any two objects possess the same _quality_ in common, the _degrees_ in which they possess it form a fifth species of relation. thus, of two objects which are both heavy, the one may be either of greater or less weight than the other. two colours, that are of the same kind, may yet be of different shades, and in that respect admit of comparison. . the relation of _contrariety_ may at first sight be regarded as an exception to the rule, _that no relation of any kind can subsist without some degree of resemblance_. but let us consider, that no two ideas are in themselves contrary, except those of existence and non-existence, which are plainly resembling, as implying both of them an idea of the object; though the latter excludes the object from all times and places, in which it is supposed not to exist. . all other objects, such as fire and water, heat and cold, are only found to be contrary from experience, and from the contrariety of their _causes_ or _effects_; which relation of cause and effect is a seventh philosophical relation, as well as a natural one. the resemblance implied in this relation shall be explained afterwards. it might naturally be expected that i should join _difference_ to the other relations; but that i consider rather as a negation of relation than as any thing real or positive. difference is of two kinds, as opposed either to identity or resemblance. the first is called a difference of _number_; the other of _kind_. section vi. of modes and substances. i would fain ask those philosophers, who found so much of their reasonings on the distinction of substance and accident, and imagine we have clear ideas of each, whether the idea of _substance_ be derived from the impressions of sensation or reflection? if it be conveyed to us by our senses, i ask, which of them, and after what manner? if it be perceived by the eyes, it must be a colour; if by the ears, a sound; if by the palate, a taste; and so of the other senses. but i believe none will assert, that substance is either a colour, or sound, or a taste. the idea of substance must therefore be derived from an impression of reflection, if it really exist. but the impressions of reflection resolve themselves into our passions and emotions; none of which can possibly represent a substance. we have, therefore, no idea of substance, distinct from that of a collection of particular qualities, nor have we any other meaning when we either talk or reason concerning it. the idea of a substance as well as that of a mode, is nothing but a collection of simple ideas, that are united by the imagination, and have a particular name assigned them, by which we are able to recal, either to ourselves or others, that collection. but the difference betwixt these ideas consists in this, that the particular qualities, which form a substance, are commonly referred to an unknown _something_, in which they are supposed to inhere; or granting this fiction should not take place, are at least supposed to be closely and inseparably connected by the relations of contiguity and causation. the effect of this is, that whatever new simple quality we discover to have the same connexion with the rest, we immediately comprehend it among them, even though it did not enter into the first conception of the substance. thus our idea of gold may at first be a yellow colour, weight, malleableness, fusibility; but upon the discovery of its dissolubility in _aqua regia_, we join that to the other qualities, and suppose it to belong to the substance as much as if its idea had from the beginning made a part of the compound one. the principle of union being regarded as the chief part of the complex idea, gives entrance to whatever quality afterwards occurs, and is equally comprehended by it, as are the others, which first presented themselves. that this cannot take place in modes, is evident from considering their nature. the simple ideas of which modes are formed, either represent qualities, which are not united by contiguity and causation, but are dispersed in different subjects; or if they be all united together, the uniting principle is not regarded as the foundation of the complex idea. the idea of a dance is an instance of the first kind of modes; that of beauty of the second. the reason is obvious, why such complex ideas cannot receive any new idea, without changing the name, which distinguishes the mode. section vii. of abstract ideas. a very material question has been started concerning _abstract_ or _general_ ideas, _whether they be general or particular in the mind's conception of them_. a great philosopher[ ] has disputed the received opinion in this particular, and has asserted, that all general ideas are nothing but particular ones annexed to a certain term, which gives them a more extensive signification, and makes them recal upon occasion other individuals, which are similar to them. as i look upon this to be one of the greatest and most valuable discoveries that has been made of late years in the republic of letters, i shall here endeavour to confirm it by some arguments, which i hope will put it beyond all doubt and controversy. 'tis evident, that, in forming most of our general ideas, if not all of them, we abstract from every particular degree of quantity and quality, and that an object ceases not to be of any particular species on account of every small alteration in its extension, duration, and other properties. it may therefore be thought, that here is a plain dilemma, that decides concerning the nature of those abstract ideas, which have afforded so much speculation to philosophers. the abstract idea of a man represents men of all sizes and all qualities, which 'tis concluded it cannot do, but either by representing at once all possible sizes and all possible qualities, or by representing no particular one at all. now, it having been esteemed absurd to defend the former proposition, as implying an infinite capacity in the mind, it has been commonly inferred in favour of the latter; and our abstract ideas have been supposed to represent no particular degree either of quantity or quality. but that this inference is erroneous, i shall endeavour to make appear, _first_, by proving, that 'tis utterly impossible to conceive any quantity or quality, without forming a precise notion of its degrees; and, _secondly_, by showing, that though the capacity of the mind be not infinite, yet we can at once form a notion of all possible degrees of quantity and quality, in such a manner at least, as, however imperfect, may serve all the purposes of reflection and conversation. to begin with the first proposition, _that the mind cannot form any notion of quantity or quality without forming a precise notion of degrees of each_, we may prove this by the three following arguments. first, we have observed, that whatever objects are different are distinguishable, and that whatever objects are distinguishable are separable by the thought and imagination. and we may here add, that these propositions are equally true in the _inverse_, and that whatever objects are separable are also distinguishable, and that whatever objects are distinguishable are also different. for how is it possible we can separate what is not distinguishable, or distinguish what is not different? in order therefore to know whether abstraction implies a separation, we need only consider it in this view, and examine, whether all the circumstances, which we abstract from in our general ideas, be such as are distinguishable and different from those, which we retain as essential parts of them. but 'tis evident at first sight, that the precise length of a line is not different nor distinguishable from the line itself; nor the precise degree of any quality from the quality. these ideas, therefore, admit no more of separation than they do of distinction and difference. they are, consequently, conjoined with each other in the conception; and the general idea of a line, notwithstanding all our abstractions and refinements, has, in its appearance in the mind, a precise degree of quantity and quality; however it may be made to represent others which have different degrees of both. secondly, 'tis confessed, that no object can appear to the senses; or in other words, that no impression can become present to the mind, without being determined in its degrees both of quantity and quality. the confusion, in which impressions are sometimes involved, proceeds only from their faintness and unsteadiness, not from any capacity in the mind to receive any impression, which in its real existence has no particular degree nor proportion. that is a contradiction in terms; and even implies the flattest of all contradictions, viz. that 'tis possible for the same thing both to be and not to be. now, since all ideas are derived from impressions, and are nothing but copies and representations of them, whatever is true of the one must be acknowledged concerning the other. impressions and ideas differ only in their strength and vivacity. the foregoing conclusion is not founded on any particular degree of vivacity. it cannot, therefore, be affected by any variation in that particular. an idea is a weaker impression; and, as a strong impression must necessarily have a determinate quantity and quality, the case must be the same with its copy or representative. thirdly, 'tis a principle generally received in philosophy, that every thing in nature is individual, and that 'tis utterly absurd to suppose a triangle really existent, which has no precise proportion of sides and angles. if this, therefore, be absurd in _fact and reality_, it must also be absurd _in idea_; since nothing of which we can form a clear and distinct idea is absurd and impossible. but to form the idea of an object, and to form an idea simply, is the same thing; the reference of the idea to an object being an extraneous denomination, of which in itself it bears no mark or character. now, as 'tis impossible to form an idea of an object that is possessed of quantity and quality, and yet is possessed of no precise degree of either, it follows, that there is an equal impossibility of forming an idea, that is not limited and confined in both these particulars. abstract ideas are, therefore, in themselves individual, however they may become general in their representation. the image in the mind is only that of a particular object, though the application of it in our reasoning be the same as if it were universal. this application of ideas, beyond their nature, proceeds from our collecting all their possible degrees of quantity and quality in such an imperfect manner as may serve the purposes of life, which is the second proposition i proposed to explain. when we have found a resemblance[ ] among several objects, that often occur to us, we apply the same name to all of them, whatever differences we may observe in the degrees of their quantity and quality, and whatever other differences may appear among them. after we have acquired a custom of this kind, the hearing of that name revives the idea of one of these objects, and makes the imagination conceive it with all its particular circumstances and proportions. but as the same word is supposed to have been frequently applied to other individuals, that are different in many respects from that idea, which is immediately present to the mind; the word not being able to revive the idea of all these individuals, only touches the soul, if i may be allowed so to speak, and revives that custom, which we have acquired by surveying them. they are not really and in fact present to the mind, but only in power; nor do we draw them all out distinctly in the imagination, but keep ourselves in a readiness to survey any of them, as we may be prompted by a present design or necessity. the word raises up an individual idea, along with a certain custom, and that custom produces any other individual one, for which we may have occasion. but as the production of all the ideas, to which the name may be applied, is in most cases impossible, we abridge that work by a more partial consideration, and find but few inconveniences to arise in our reasoning from that abridgment. for this is one of the most extraordinary circumstances in the present affair, that after the mind has produced an individual idea, upon which we reason, the attendant custom, revived by the general or abstract term, readily suggests any other individual, if by chance we form any reasoning that agrees not with it. thus, should we mention the word triangle, and form the idea of a particular equilateral one to correspond to it, and should we afterwards assert, _that the three angles of a triangle are equal to each other_, the other individuals of a scalenum and isosceles, which we overlooked at first, immediately crowd in upon us, and make us perceive the falsehood of this proposition, though it be true with relation to that idea which we had formed. if the mind suggests not always these ideas upon occasion, it proceeds from some imperfection in its faculties; and such a one as is often the source of false reasoning and sophistry. but this is principally the case with those ideas which are abstruse and compounded. on other occasions the custom is more entire, and 'tis seldom we run into such errors. nay so entire is the custom, that the very same idea may be annexed to several different words, and may be employed in different reasonings, without any danger of mistake. thus the idea of an equilateral triangle of an inch perpendicular may serve us in talking of a figure, of a rectilineal figure, of a regular figure, of a triangle, and of an equilateral triangle. all these terms, therefore, are in this case attended with the same idea; but as they are wont to be applied in a greater or lesser compass, they excite their particular habits, and thereby keep the mind in a readiness to observe, that no conclusion be formed contrary to any ideas, which are usually comprised under them. before those habits have become entirely perfect, perhaps the mind may not be content with forming the idea of only one individual, but may run over several, in order to make itself comprehend its own meaning, and the compass of that collection, which it intends to express by the general term. that we may fix the meaning of the word, figure, we may revolve in our mind the ideas of circles, squares, parallelograms, triangles of different sizes and proportions, and may not rest on one image or idea. however this may be, 'tis certain _that_ we form the idea of individuals whenever we use any general term; _that_ we seldom or never can exhaust these individuals; and _that_ those which remain, are only represented by means of that habit by which we recal them, whenever any present occasion requires it. this then is the nature of our abstract ideas and general terms; and 'tis after this manner we account for the foregoing paradox, _that some ideas are particular in their nature, but general in their representation_. a particular idea becomes general by being annexed to a general term; that is, to a term which, from a customary conjunction, has a relation to many other particular ideas, and readily recals them in the imagination. the only difficulty that can remain on this subject, must be with regard to that custom, which so readily recals every particular idea for which we may have occasion, and is excited by any word or sound to which we commonly annex it. the most proper method, in my opinion, of giving a satisfactory explication of this act of the mind, is by producing other instances which are analogous to it, and other principles which facilitate its operation. to explain the ultimate causes of our mental actions is impossible. 'tis sufficient if we can give any satisfactory account of them from experience and analogy. first, then, i observe, that when we mention any great number, such as a thousand, the mind has generally no adequate idea of it, but only a power of producing such an idea, by its adequate idea of the decimals under which the number is comprehended. this imperfection, however, in our ideas, is never felt in our reasonings, which seems to be an instance parallel to the present one of universal ideas. secondly, we have several instances of habits which may be revived by one single word; as when a person who has, by rote, any periods of a discourse, or any number of verses, will be put in remembrance of the whole, which he is at a loss to recollect, by that single word or expression with which they begin. thirdly, i believe every one who examines the situation of his mind in reasoning, will agree with me, that we do not annex distinct and complete ideas to every term we make use of, and that in talking of _government, church, negociation, conquest_, we seldom spread out in our minds all the simple ideas of which these complex ones are composed. 'tis however observable, that notwithstanding this imperfection, we may avoid talking nonsense on these subjects, and may perceive any repugnance among the ideas as well as if we had a full comprehension of them. thus, if instead of saying, _that in war the weaker have always recourse to negociation_, we should say, _that they have always recourse to conquest_, the custom which we have acquired of attributing certain relations to ideas, still follows the words, and makes us immediately perceive the absurdity of that proposition; in the same manner as one particular idea may serve us in reasoning concerning other ideas, however different from it in several circumstances. fourthly, as the individuals are collected together, and placed under a general term with a view to that resemblance which they bear to each other, this relation must facilitate their entrance in the imagination, and make them be suggested more readily upon occasion. and, indeed, if we consider the common progress of the thought, either in reflection or conversation, we shall find great reason to be satisfied in this particular. nothing is more admirable than the readiness with which the imagination suggests its ideas, and presents them at the very instant in which they become necessary or useful. the fancy runs from one end of the universe to the other, in collecting those ideas which belong to any subject. one would think the whole intellectual world of ideas was at once subjected to our view, and that we did nothing but pick out such as were most proper for our purpose. there may not, however, be any present, beside those very ideas, that are thus collected by a kind of magical faculty in the soul, which, though it be always most perfect in the greatest geniuses, and is properly what we call a genius, is however inexplicable by the utmost efforts of human understanding. perhaps these four reflections may help to remove all difficulties to the hypothesis i have proposed concerning abstract ideas, so contrary to that which has hitherto prevailed in philosophy. but to tell the truth, i place my chief confidence in what i have already proved concerning the impossibility of general ideas, according to the common method of explaining them. we must certainly seek some new system on this head, and there plainly is none beside what i have proposed. if ideas be particular in their nature, and at the same time finite in their number, 'tis only by custom they can become general in their representation, and contain an infinite number of other ideas under them. before i leave this subject, i shall employ the same principles to explain that _distinction of reason_, which is so much talked of, and is so little understood in the schools. of this kind is the distinction betwixt figure and the body figured; motion and the body moved. the difficulty of explaining this distinction arises from the principle above explained, _that all ideas which are different are separable_. for it follows from thence, that if the figure be different from the body, their ideas must be separable as well as distinguishable; if they be not different, their ideas can neither be separable nor distinguishable. what then is meant by a distinction of reason, since it implies neither a difference nor separation? to remove this difficulty, we must have recourse to the foregoing explication of abstract ideas. 'tis certain that the mind would never have dreamed of distinguishing a figure from the body figured, as being in reality neither distinguishable, nor different, nor separable, did it not observe, that even in this simplicity there might be contained many different resemblances and relations. thus, when a globe of white marble is presented, we receive only the impression of a white colour disposed in a certain form, nor are we able to separate and distinguish the colour from the form. but observing afterwards a globe of black marble and a cube of white, and comparing them with our former object, we find two separate resemblances, in what formerly seemed, and really is, perfectly inseparable. after a little more practice of this kind, we begin to distinguish the figure from the colour by a _distinction of reason_; that is, we consider the figure and colour together, since they are, in effect, the same and undistinguishable; but still view them in different aspects, according to the resemblances of which they are susceptible. when we would consider only the figure of the globe of white marble, we form in reality an idea both of the figure and colour, but tacitly carry our eye to its resemblance with the globe of black marble: and in the same manner, when we would consider its colour only, we turn our view to its resemblance with the cube of white marble. by this means we accompany our ideas with a kind of reflection, of which custom renders us, in a great measure, insensible. a person who desires us to consider the figure of a globe of white marble without thinking on its colour, desires an impossibility; but his meaning is, that we should consider the colour and figure together, but still keep in our eye the resemblance to the globe of black marble, or that to any other globe of whatever colour or substance. [ ] dr berkeley. [ ] 'tis evident, that even different simple ideas may have a similarity or resemblance to each other; nor is it necessary, that the point or circumstance of resemblance should be distinct or separable from that in which they differ. _blue_ and _green_ are different simple ideas, but are more resembling than _blue_ and _scarlet_; though their perfect simplicity excludes all possibility of separation or distinction. 'tis the same case with particular sounds, and tastes, and smells. these admit of infinite resemblances upon the general appearance and comparison, without having any common circumstance the same. and of this we may be certain, even from the very abstract terms _simple idea_. they comprehend all simple ideas under them. these resemble each other in their simplicity. and yet from their very nature, which excludes all composition, this circumstance, in which they resemble, is not distinguishable or separable from the rest. 'tis the same case with all the degrees in any quality. they are all resembling, and yet the quality, in any individual, is not distinct from the degree. part ii. of the ideas of space and time. section i. of the infinite divisibility of our ideas of space and time. whatever has the air of a paradox, and is contrary to the first and most unprejudiced notions of mankind, is often greedily embraced by philosophers, as showing the superiority of their science, which could discover opinions so remote from vulgar conception. on the other hand, any thing proposed to us, which causes surprise and admiration, gives such a satisfaction to the mind, that it indulges itself in those agreeable emotions, and will never be persuaded that its pleasure is entirely without foundation. from these dispositions in philosophers and their disciples, arises that mutual complaisance betwixt them; while the former furnish such plenty of strange and unaccountable opinions, and the latter so readily believe them. of this mutual complaisance i cannot give a more evident instance than in the doctrine of infinite divisibility, with the examination of which i shall begin this subject of the ideas of space and time. 'tis universally allowed, that the capacity of the mind is limited, and can never attain a full and adequate conception of infinity: and though it were not allowed, 'twould be sufficiently evident from the plainest observation and experience. 'tis also obvious, that whatever is capable of being divided _in infinitum_, must consist of an infinite number of parts, and that 'tis impossible to set any bounds to the number of parts without setting bounds at the same time to the division. it requires scarce any induction to conclude from hence, that the _idea_, which we form of any finite quality, is not infinitely divisible, but that by proper distinctions and separations we may run up this idea to inferior ones, which will be perfectly simple and indivisible. in rejecting the infinite capacity of the mind, we suppose it may arrive at an end in the division of its ideas; nor are there any possible means of evading the evidence of this conclusion. 'tis therefore certain, that the imagination reaches a _minimum_, and may raise up to itself an idea, of which it cannot conceive any subdivision, and which cannot be diminished without a total annihilation. when you tell me of the thousandth and ten thousandth part of a grain of sand, i have a distinct idea of these numbers and of their different proportions; but the images which i form in my mind to represent the things themselves, are nothing different from each other, nor inferior to that image, by which i represent the grain of sand itself, which is supposed so vastly to exceed them. what consists of parts is distinguishable into them, and what is distinguishable is separable. but, whatever we may imagine of the thing, the idea of a grain of sand is not distinguishable nor separable into twenty, much less into a thousand, ten thousand, or an infinite number of different ideas. 'tis the same case with the impressions of the senses as with the ideas of the imagination. put a spot of ink upon paper, fix your eye upon that spot, and retire to such a distance that at last you lose sight of it; 'tis plain, that the moment before it vanished, the image, or impression, was perfectly indivisible. 'tis not for want of rays of light striking on our eyes, that the minute parts of distant bodies convey not any sensible impression; but because they are removed beyond that distance, at which their impressions were reduced to a _minimum_, and were incapable of any farther diminution. a microscope or telescope, which renders them visible, produces not any new rays of light, but only spreads those which always flowed from them; and, by that means, both gives parts to impressions, which to the naked eye appear simple and uncompounded, and advances to a _minimum_ what was formerly imperceptible. we may hence discover the error of the common opinion, that the capacity of the mind is limited on both sides, and that 'tis impossible for the imagination to form an adequate idea of what goes beyond a certain degree of minuteness as well as of greatness. nothing can be more minute than some ideas which we form in the fancy, and images which appear to the senses; since there are ideas and images perfectly simple and indivisible. the only defect of our senses is, that they give us disproportioned images of things, and represent as minute and uncompounded what is really great and composed of a vast number of parts. this mistake we are not sensible of; but, taking the impressions of those minute objects, which appear to the senses to be equal, or nearly equal to the objects, and finding, by reason, that there are other objects vastly more minute, we too hastily conclude, that these are inferior to any idea of our imagination or impression of our senses. this, however, is certain, that we can form ideas, which shall be no greater than the smallest atom of the animal spirits of an insect a thousand times less than a mite: and we ought rather to conclude, that the difficulty lies in enlarging our conceptions so much as to form a just notion of a mite, or even of an insect a thousand times less than a mite. for, in order to form a just notion of these animals, we must have a distinct idea representing every part of them; which, according to the system of infinite divisibility, is utterly impossible, and according to that of indivisible parts or atoms, is extremely difficult, by reason of the vast number and multiplicity of these parts. section ii. of the infinite divisibility of space and time. wherever ideas are adequate representations of objects, the relations, contradictions, and agreements of the ideas are all applicable to the objects; and this we may, in general, observe to be the foundation of all human knowledge. but our ideas are adequate representations of the most minute parts of extension; and, through whatever divisions and subdivisions we may suppose these parts to be arrived at, they can never become inferior to some ideas which we form. the plain consequence is, that whatever _appears_ impossible and contradictory upon the comparison of these ideas, must be _really_ impossible and contradictory, without any farther excuse or evasion. every thing capable of being infinitely divided contains an infinite number of parts; otherwise the division would be stopped short by the indivisible parts, which we should immediately arrive at. if therefore any finite extension be infinitely divisible, it can be no contradiction to suppose, that a finite extension contains an infinite number of parts: and _vice versa_, if it be a contradiction to suppose, that a finite extension contains an infinite number of parts, no finite extension can be infinitely divisible. but that this latter supposition is absurd, i easily convince myself by the consideration of my clear ideas. i first take the least idea i can form of a part of extension, and being certain that there is nothing more minute than this idea, i conclude, that whatever i discover by its means, must be a real quality of extension. i then repeat this idea once, twice, thrice, &c. and find the compound idea of extension, arising from its repetition, always to augment, and become double, triple, quadruple, &c. till at last it swells up to a considerable bulk, greater or smaller, in proportion as i repeat more or less the same idea. when i stop in the addition of parts, the idea of extension ceases to augment; and were i to carry on the addition _in infinitum_, i clearly perceive, that the idea of extension must also become infinite. upon the whole, i conclude, that the idea of an infinite number of parts is individually the same idea with that of an infinite extension; that no finite extension is capable of containing an infinite number of parts; and, consequently, that no finite extension is infinitely divisible.[ ] i may subjoin another argument proposed by a noted author,[ ] which seems to me very strong and beautiful. 'tis evident, that existence in itself belongs only to unity, and is never applicable to number, but on account of the unites of which the number is composed. twenty men may be said to exist; but 'tis only because one, two, three, four, &c. are existent; and if you deny the existence of the latter, that of the former falls of course. 'tis therefore utterly absurd to suppose any number to exist, and yet deny the existence of unites; and as extension is always a number, according to the common sentiment of metaphysicians, and never resolves itself into any unite or indivisible quantity, it follows that extension can never at all exist. 'tis in vain to reply, that any determinate quantity of extension is an unite; but such a one as admits of an infinite number of fractions, and is inexhaustible in its subdivisions. for by the same rule, these twenty men _may be considered as an unite_. the whole globe of the earth, nay, the whole universe _may be considered as an unite_. that term of unity is merely a fictitious denomination, which the mind may apply to any quantity of objects it collects together; nor can such an unity any more exist alone than number can, as being in reality a true number. but the unity, which can exist alone, and whose existence is necessary to that of all number, is of another kind, and must be perfectly indivisible, and incapable of being resolved into any lesser unity. all this reasoning takes place with regard to time; along with an additional argument, which it may be proper to take notice of. 'tis a property inseparable from time, and which in a manner constitutes its essence, that each of its parts succeeds another, and that none of them, however contiguous, can ever be co-existent. for the same reason that the year cannot concur with the present year , every moment must be distinct from, and posterior or antecedent to another. 'tis certain then, that time, as it exists, must be composed of indivisible moments. for if in time we could never arrive at an end of division, and if each moment, as it succeeds another, were not perfectly single and indivisible, there would be an infinite number of co-existent moments, or parts of time; which i believe will be allowed to be an arrant contradiction. the infinite divisibility of space implies that of time, as is evident from the nature of motion. if the latter, therefore, be impossible, the former must be equally so. i doubt not but it will readily be allowed by the most obstinate defender of the doctrine of infinite divisibility, that these arguments are difficulties, and that 'tis impossible to give any answer to them which will be perfectly clear and satisfactory. but here we may observe, that nothing can be more absurd than this custom of calling a _difficulty_ what pretends to be a _demonstration_, and endeavouring by that means to elude its force and evidence. 'tis not in demonstrations, as in probabilities, that difficulties can take place, and one argument counterbalance another, and diminish its authority. a demonstration, if just, admits of no opposite difficulty; and if not just, 'tis a mere sophism, and consequently can never be a difficulty. 'tis either irresistible, or has no manner of force. to talk therefore of objections and replies, and balancing of arguments in such a question as this, is to confess, either that human reason is nothing but a play of words, or that the person himself, who talks so, has not a capacity equal to such subjects. demonstrations may be difficult to be comprehended, because of the abstractedness of the subject; but can never have any such difficulties as will weaken their authority, when once they are comprehended. 'tis true, mathematicians are wont to say, that there are here equally strong arguments on the other side of the question, and that the doctrine of indivisible points is also liable to unanswerable objections. before i examine these arguments and objections in detail, i will here take them in a body, and endeavour, by a short and decisive reason, to prove, at once, that 'tis utterly impossible they can have any just foundation. 'tis an established maxim in metaphysics, _that whatever the mind clearly conceives includes the idea of possible existence_, or, in other words, _that nothing we imagine is absolutely impossible_. we can form the idea of a golden mountain, and from thence conclude, that such a mountain may actually exist. we can form no idea of a mountain without a valley, and therefore regard it as impossible. now 'tis certain we have an idea of extension; for otherwise, why do we talk and reason concerning it? 'tis likewise certain, that this idea, as conceived by the imagination, though divisible into parts or inferior ideas, is not infinitely divisible, nor consists of an infinite number of parts: for that exceeds the comprehension of our limited capacities. here then is an idea of extension, which consists of parts or inferior ideas, that are perfectly indivisible: consequently this idea implies no contradiction: consequently 'tis possible for extension really to exist conformable to it: and consequently, all the arguments employed against the possibility of mathematical points are mere scholastic quibbles, and unworthy of our attention. these consequences we may carry one step farther, and conclude that all the pretended demonstrations for the infinite divisibility of extension are equally sophistical; since 'tis certain these demonstrations cannot be just without proving the impossibility of mathematical points; which 'tis an evident absurdity to pretend to. [ ] it has been objected to me, that infinite divisibility supposes only an infinite number of _proportional_ not of _aliquot_ parts, and that an infinite number of proportional parts does not form an infinite extension. but this distinction is entirely frivolous. whether these parts be called _aliquot_ or _proportional_, they cannot be inferior to those minute parts we conceive; and therefore, cannot form a less extension by their conjunction. [ ] mons. malezieu. section iii. of the other qualities of our ideas of space and time. no discovery could have been made more happily for deciding all controversies concerning ideas, than that above mentioned, that impressions always take the precedency of them, and that every idea, with which the imagination is furnished, first makes its appearance in a correspondent impression. these latter perceptions are all so clear and evident, that they admit of no controversy; though many of our ideas are so obscure, that 'tis almost impossible even for the mind, which forms them, to tell exactly their nature and composition. let us apply this principle, in order to discover farther the nature of our ideas of space and time. upon opening my eyes and turning them to the surrounding objects, i perceive many visible bodies; and upon shutting them again, and considering the distance betwixt these bodies, i acquire the idea of extension. as every idea is derived from some impression which is exactly similar to it, the impressions similar to this idea of extension, must either be some sensations derived from the sight, or some internal impressions arising from these sensations. our internal impressions are our passions, emotions, desires, and aversions; none of which, i believe, will ever be asserted to be the model from which the idea of space is derived. there remains, therefore, nothing but the senses which can convey to us this original impression. now, what impression do our senses here convey to us? this is the principal question, and decides without appeal concerning the nature of the idea. the table before me is alone sufficient by its view to give me the idea of extension. this idea, then, is borrowed from, and represents some impression which this moment appears to the senses. but my senses convey to me only the impressions of coloured points, disposed in a certain manner. if the eye is sensible of any thing farther, i desire it may be pointed out to me. but, if it be impossible to shew any thing farther, we may conclude with certainty, that the idea of extension is nothing but a copy of these coloured points, and of the manner of their appearance. suppose that, in the extended object, or composition of coloured points, from which we first received the idea of extension, the points were of a purple colour; it follows, that in every repetition of that idea we would not only place the points in the same order with respect to each other, but also bestow on them that precise colour with which alone we are acquainted. but afterwards, having experience of the other colours of violet, green, red, white, black, and of all the different compositions of these, and finding a resemblance in the disposition of coloured points, of which they are composed, we omit the peculiarities of colour, as far as possible, and found an abstract idea merely on that disposition of points, or manner of appearance, in which they agree. nay, even when the resemblance is carried beyond the objects of one sense, and the impressions of touch are found to be similar to those of sight in the disposition of their parts; this does not hinder the abstract idea from representing both, upon account of their resemblance. all abstract ideas are really nothing but particular ones, considered in a certain light; but being annexed to general terms, they are able to represent a vast variety, and to comprehend objects, which, as they are alike in some particulars, are in others vastly wide of each other. the idea of time, being derived from the succession of our perceptions of every kind, ideas as well as impressions, and impressions of reflection as well as of sensation, will afford us an instance of an abstract idea, which comprehends a still greater variety than that of space, and yet is represented in the fancy by some particular individual idea of a determined quantity and quality. as 'tis from the disposition of visible and tangible objects we receive the idea of space, so, from the succession of ideas and impressions we form the idea of time; nor is it possible for time alone ever to make its appearance, or be taken notice of by the mind. a man in a sound sleep, or strongly occupied with one thought, is insensible of time; and according as his perceptions succeed each other with greater or less rapidity, the same duration appears longer or shorter to his imagination. it has been remarked by a great philosopher,[ ] that our perceptions have certain bounds in this particular, which are fixed by the original nature and constitution of the mind, and beyond which no influence of external objects on the senses is ever able to hasten or retard our thought. if you wheel about a burning coal with rapidity, it will present to the senses an image of a circle of fire; nor will there seem to be any interval of time betwixt its revolutions; merely because 'tis impossible for our perceptions to succeed each other, with the same rapidity that motion may be communicated to external objects. wherever we have no successive perceptions, we have no notion of time, even though there be a real succession in the objects. from these phenomena, as well as from many others, we may conclude, that time cannot make its appearance to the mind, either alone or attended with a steady unchangeable object, but is always discovered by some _perceivable_ succession of changeable objects. to confirm this we may add the following argument, which to me seems perfectly decisive and convincing. 'tis evident, that time or duration consists of different parts: for otherwise, we could not conceive a longer or shorter duration. 'tis also evident, that these parts are not co-existent: for that quality of the coexistence of parts belongs to extension, and is what distinguishes it from duration. now as time is composed of parts that are not co-existent, an unchangeable object, since it produces none but co-existent impressions, produces none that can give us the idea of time; and, consequently, that idea must be derived from a succession of changeable objects, and time in its first appearance can never be severed from such a succession. having therefore found, that time in its first appearance to the mind is always conjoined with a succession of changeable objects, and that otherwise it can never fall under our notice, we must now examine, whether it can be _conceived_ without our conceiving any succession of objects, and whether it can alone form a distinct idea in the imagination. in order to know whether any objects, which are joined in impression, be separable in idea, we need only consider if they be different from each other; in which case, 'tis plain they may be conceived apart. every thing that is different is distinguishable, and every thing that is distinguishable may be separated, according to the maxims above explained. if, on the contrary, they be not different, they are not distinguishable; and if they be not distinguishable, they cannot be separated. but this is precisely the case with respect to time, compared with our successive perceptions. the idea of time is not derived from a particular impression mixed up with others, and plainly distinguishable from them, but arises altogether from the manner in which impressions appear to the mind, without making one of the number. five notes played on a flute give us the impression and idea of time, though time be not a sixth impression which presents itself to the hearing or any other of the senses. nor is it a sixth impression which the mind by reflection finds in itself. these five sounds making their appearance in this particular manner, excite no emotion in the mind, nor produce an affection of any kind, which being observed by it can give rise to a new idea. for _that_ is necessary to produce a new idea of reflection; nor can the mind, by revolving over a thousand times all its ideas of sensation, ever extract from them any new original idea, unless nature has so framed its faculties, that it feels some new original impression arise from such a contemplation. but here it only takes notice of the our the _manner_ in which the different sounds make their appearance, and that it may afterwards consider without considering these particular sounds, but may conjoin it with any other objects. the ideas of some objects it certainly must have, nor is it possible for it without these ideas ever to arrive at any conception of time; which, since it appears not as any primary distinct impression, can plainly be nothing but different ideas, or impressions, or objects disposed in a certain manner, that is, succeeding each other. i know there are some who pretend that the idea of duration is applicable in a proper sense to objects which are perfectly unchangeable; and this i take to be the common opinion of philosophers as well as of the vulgar. but to be convinced of its falsehood, we need but reflect on the foregoing conclusion, that the idea of duration is always derived from a succession of changeable objects, and can never be conveyed to the mind by any thing stedfast and unchangeable. for it inevitably follows from thence, that since the idea of duration cannot be derived from such an object, it can never in any propriety or exactness be applied to it, nor can any thing unchangeable be ever said to have duration. ideas always represent the objects or impressions, from which they are derived, and can never, without a fiction, represent or be applied to any other. by what fiction we apply the idea of time, even to what is unchangeable, and suppose, as is common that duration is a measure of rest as well as of motion, we shall consider afterwards.[ ] there is another very decisive argument, which establishes the present doctrine concerning our ideas of space and time, and is founded only on that simple principle, _that our ideas of them are compounded of parts, which are indivisible_. this argument may be worth the examining. every idea that is distinguishable being also separable, let us take one of those simple indivisible ideas, of which the compound one of _extension_ is formed, and separating it from all others, and considering it apart, let us form a judgment of its nature and qualities. 'tis plain it is not the idea of extension: for the idea of extension consists of parts; and this idea, according to the supposition, is perfectly simple and indivisible. is it therefore nothing? that is absolutely impossible. for as the compound idea of extension, which is real, is composed of such ideas, were these so many nonentities there would be a real existence composed of nonentities, which is absurd. here, therefore, i must ask, _what is our idea of a simple and indivisible point_? no wonder if my answer appear somewhat new, since the question itself has scarce ever yet been thought of. we are wont to dispute concerning the nature of mathematical points, but seldom concerning the nature of their ideas. the idea of space is conveyed to the mind by two senses, the sight and touch; nor does any thing ever appear extended, that is not either visible or tangible. that compound impression, which represents extension, consists of several lesser impressions, that are indivisible to the eye or feeling, and may be called impressions of atoms or corpuscles endowed with colour and solidity. but this is not all. 'tis not only requisite that these atoms should be coloured or tangible, in order to discover themselves to our senses, 'tis also necessary we should preserve the idea of their colour or tangibility, in order to comprehend them by our imagination. there is nothing but the idea of their colour or tangibility which can render them conceivable by the mind. upon the removal of the ideas of these sensible qualities they are utterly annihilated to the thought or imagination. now, such as the parts are, such is the whole. if a point be not considered as coloured or tangible, it can convey to us no idea; and consequently the idea of extension, which is composed of the ideas of these points, can never possibly exist: but if the idea of extension really can exist, as we are conscious it does, its parts must also exist; and in order to that, must be considered as coloured or tangible. we have therefore no idea of space or extension, but when we regard it as an object either of our sight or feeling. the same reasoning will prove, that the indivisible moments of time must be filled with some real object or existence, whose succession forms the duration, and makes it be conceivable by the mind. [ ] mr locke. [ ] sect. . section iv. objections answered. our system concerning space and time consists of two parts, which are intimately connected together. the first depends on this chain of reasoning. the capacity of the mind is not infinite, consequently no idea of extension or duration consists of an infinite number of parts or inferior ideas, but of a finite number, and these simple and indivisible: 'tis therefore possible for space and time to exist conformable to this idea: and if it be possible, 'tis certain they actually do exist conformable to it, since their infinite divisibility is utterly impossible and contradictory. the other part of our system is a consequence of this. the parts, into which the ideas of space and time resolve themselves, become at last indivisible; and these indivisible parts, being nothing in themselves, are inconceivable when not filled with something real and existent. the ideas of space and time are therefore no separate or distinct ideas, but merely those of the manner or order in which objects exist; or, in other words, 'tis impossible to conceive either a vacuum and extension without matter, or a time when there was no succession or change in any real existence. the intimate connexion betwixt these parts of our system is the reason why we shall examine together the objections which have been urged against both of them, beginning with those against the finite divisibility of extension. i. the first of these objections which i shall take notice of, is more proper to prove this connexion and dependence of the one part upon the other than to destroy either of them. it has often been maintained in the schools, that extension must be divisible, _in infinitum_, because the system of mathematical points is absurd; and that system is absurd, because a mathematical point is a nonentity, and consequently can never, by its conjunction with others, form a real existence. this would be perfectly decisive, were there no medium betwixt the infinite divisibility of matter, and the nonentity of mathematical points. but there is evidently a medium, viz. the bestowing a colour or solidity on these points; and the absurdity of both the extremes is a demonstration of the truth and reality of this medium. the system of _physical_ points, which is another medium, is too absurd to need a refutation. a real extension, such as a physical point is supposed to be, can never exist without parts different from each other; and wherever objects are different, they are distinguishable and separable by the imagination. ii. the second objection is derived from the necessity there would be of _penetration_, if extension consisted of mathematical points. a simple and indivisible atom that touches another must necessarily penetrate it; for 'tis impossible it can touch it by its external parts, from the very supposition of its perfect simplicity, which excludes all parts. it must therefore touch it intimately, and in its whole essence, _secundum se, tota, et totaliter_; which is the very definition of penetration. but penetration is impossible: mathematical points are of consequence equally impossible. i answer this objection by substituting a juster idea of penetration. suppose two bodies, containing no void within their circumference, to approach each other, and to unite in such a manner that the body, which results from their union, is no more extended than either of them; 'tis this we must mean when we talk of penetration. but 'tis evident this penetration is nothing but the annihilation of one of these bodies, and the preservation of the other, without our being able to distinguish particularly which is preserved and which annihilated. before the approach we have the idea of two bodies; after it we have the idea only of one. 'tis impossible for the mind to preserve any notion of difference betwixt two bodies of the same nature existing in the same place at the same time. taking then penetration in this sense, for the annihilation of one body upon its approach to another, i ask any one if he sees a necessity that a coloured or tangible point should be annihilated upon the approach of another coloured or tangible point? on the contrary, does he not evidently perceive, that, from the union of these points, there results an object which is compounded and divisible, and may be distinguished into two parts, of which each preserves its existence, distinct and separate, notwithstanding its contiguity to the other? let him aid his fancy by conceiving these points to be of different colours, the better to prevent their coalition and confusion. a blue and a red point may surely lie contiguous without any penetration or annihilation. for if they cannot, what possibly can become of them? whether shall the red or the blue be annihilated? or if these colours unite into one, what new colour will they produce by their union? what chiefly gives rise to these objections, and at the same time renders it so difficult to give a satisfactory answer to them, is the natural infirmity and unsteadiness both of our imagination and senses when employed on such minute objects. put a spot of ink upon paper, and retire to such a distance that the spot becomes altogether invisible, you will find, that, upon your return and nearer approach, the spot first becomes visible by short intervals, and afterwards becomes always visible; and afterwards acquires only a new force in its colouring, without augmenting its bulk; and afterwards, when it has increased to such a degree as to be really extended, 'tis still difficult for the imagination to break it into its component parts, because of the uneasiness it finds in the conception of such a minute object as a single point. this infirmity affects most of our reasonings on the present subject, and makes it almost impossible to answer in an intelligible manner, and in proper expressions, many questions which may arise concerning it. iii. there have been many objections drawn from the _mathematics_ against the indivisibility of the parts of extension, though at first sight that science seems rather favourable to the present doctrine; and if it be contrary in its _demonstrations_,'tis perfectly conformable in its _definitions_. my present business then must be, to defend the definitions and refute the demonstrations. a surface is _defined_ to be length and breadth without depth; a line to be length without breadth or depth; a point to be what has neither length, breadth, nor depth. 'tis evident that all this is perfectly unintelligible upon any other supposition than that of the composition of extension by indivisible points or atoms. how else could any thing exist without length, without breadth, or without depth? two different answers, i find, have been made to this argument, neither of which is, in my opinion, satisfactory. the first is, that the objects of geometry, those surfaces, lines, and points, whose proportions and positions it examines, are mere ideas in the mind; and not only never did, but never can exist in nature. they never did exist; for no one will pretend to draw a line or make a surface entirely conformable to the definition: they never can exist; for we may produce demonstrations from these very ideas to prove that they are impossible. but can any thing be imagined more absurd and contradictory than this reasoning? whatever can be conceived by a clear and distinct idea, necessarily implies the possibility of existence; and he who pretends to prove the impossibility of its existence by any argument derived from the clear idea, in reality asserts that we have no clear idea of it, because we have a clear idea. 'tis in vain to search for a contradiction in any thing that is distinctly conceived by the mind. did it imply any contradiction, 'tis impossible it could ever be conceived. there is therefore no medium betwixt allowing at least the possibility of indivisible points, and denying their idea; and 'tis on this latter principle that the second answer to the foregoing argument is founded. it has been pretended,[ ] that though it be impossible to conceive a length without any breadth, yet by an abstraction without a separation we can consider the one without regarding the other; in the same manner as we may think of the length of the way betwixt two towns and overlook its breadth. the length is inseparable from the breadth both in nature and in our minds; but this excludes not a partial consideration, and a _distinction of reason_, after the manner above explained. in refuting this answer i shall not insist on the argument, which i have already sufficiently explained, that if it be impossible for the mind to arrive at a _minimum_ in its ideas, its capacity must be infinite in order to comprehend the infinite number of parts, of which its idea of any extension would be composed. i shall here endeavour to find some new absurdities in this reasoning. a surface terminates a solid; a line terminates a surface; a point terminates a line; but i assert, that if the _ideas_ of a point, line, or surface, were not indivisible, 'tis impossible we should ever conceive these terminations. for let these ideas be supposed infinitely divisible, and then let the fancy endeavour to fix itself on the idea of the last surface, line, or point, it immediately finds this idea to break into parts; and upon its seizing the last of these parts it loses its hold by a new division, and so on _in infinitum_, without any possibility of its arriving at a concluding idea. the number of fractions bring it no nearer the last division than the first idea it formed. every particle eludes the grasp by a new fraction, like quicksilver, when we endeavour to seize it. but as in fact there must be something which terminates the idea of every finite quantity, and as this terminating idea cannot itself consist of parts or inferior ideas, otherwise it would be the last of its parts, which finished the idea, and so on; this is a clear proof, that the ideas of surfaces, lines, and points, admit not of any division; those of surfaces in depth, of lines in breadth and depth, and of points in any dimension. the _schoolmen_ were so sensible of the force of this argument, that some of them maintained that nature has mixed among those particles of matter, which are divisible _in infinitum_, a number of mathematical points in order to give a termination to bodies; and others eluded the force of this reasoning by a heap of unintelligible cavils and distinctions. both these adversaries equally yield the victory. a man who hides himself confesses as evidently the superiority of his enemy, as another, who fairly delivers his arms. thus it appears, that the definitions of mathematics destroy the pretended demonstrations; and that if we have the idea of indivisible points, lines, and surfaces, conformable to the definition, their existence is certainly possible; but if we have no such idea, 'tis impossible we can ever conceive the termination of any figure, without which conception there can be no geometrical demonstration. but i go farther, and maintain, that none of these demonstrations can have sufficient weight to establish such a principle as this of infinite divisibility; and that because with regard to such minute objects, they are not properly demonstrations, being built on ideas which are not exact, and maxims which are not precisely true. when geometry decides any thing concerning the proportions of quantity, we ought not to look for the utmost _precision_ and exactness. none of its proofs extend so far: it takes the dimensions and proportions of figures justly; but roughly, and with some liberty. its errors are never considerable, nor would it err at all, did it not aspire to such an absolute perfection. i first ask mathematicians what they mean when they say one line or surface is _equal_ to, or _greater_, or _less_ than another? let any of them give an answer, to whatever sect he belongs, and whether he maintains the composition of extension by indivisible points, or by quantities divisible _in infinitum_. this question will embarrass both of them. there are few or no mathematicians who defend the hypothesis of indivisible points, and yet these have the readiest and justest answer to the present question. they need only reply, that lines or surfaces are equal, when the numbers of points in each are equal; and that as the proportion of the numbers varies, the proportion of the lines and surfaces is also varied. but though this answer be _just_ as well as obvious, yet i may affirm, that this standard of equality is entirely _useless_, and that it never is from such a comparison we determine objects to be equal or unequal with respect to each other. for as the points which enter into the composition of any line or surface, whether perceived by the sight or touch, are so minute and so confounded with each other that 'tis utterly impossible for the mind to compute their number, such a computation will never afford us a standard, by which we may judge of proportions. no one will ever be able to determine by an exact enumeration, that an inch has fewer points than a foot, or a foot fewer than an ell, or any greater measure; for which reason, we seldom or never consider this as the standard of equality or inequality. as to those who imagine that extension is divisible _in infinitum_, 'tis impossible they can make use of this answer, or fix the equality of any line or surface by a numeration of its component parts. for since, according to their hypothesis, the least as well as greatest figures contain an infinite number of parts, and since infinite numbers, properly speaking, can neither be equal _nor_ unequal with respect to each other, the equality or inequality of any portions of space can never depend on any proportion in the number of their parts. 'tis true, it may be said, that the inequality of an ell and a yard consists in the different numbers of the feet of which they are composed, and that of a foot and a yard in the number of inches. but as that quantity we call an inch in the one is supposed equal to what we call an inch in the other, and as 'tis impossible for the mind to find this equality by proceeding _in infinitum_ with these references to inferior quantities, 'tis evident that at last we must fix some standard of equality different from an enumeration of the parts. there are some who pretend,[ ] that equality is best defined by _congruity_, and that any two figures are equal, when upon the placing of one upon the other, all their parts correspond to and touch each other. in order to judge of this definition let us consider, that since equality is a relation, it is not, strictly speaking, a property in the figures themselves, but arises merely from the comparison which the mind makes betwixt them. if it consists therefore in this imaginary application and mutual contact of parts, we must at least have a distinct notion of these parts, and must conceive their contact. now 'tis plain, that in this conception, we would run up these parts to the greatest minuteness which can possibly be conceived, since the contact of large parts would never render the figures equal. but the minutest parts we can conceive are mathematical points, and consequently this standard of equality is the same with that derived from the equality of the number of points, which we have already determined to be a just but an useless standard. we must therefore look to some other quarter for a solution of the present difficulty. there are many philosophers, who refuse to assign any standard of _equality_, but assert, that 'tis sufficient to present two objects, that are equal, in order to give us a just notion of this proportion. all definitions, say they, are fruitless without the perception of such objects; and where we perceive such objects we no longer stand in need of any definition. to this reasoning i entirely agree; and assert, that the only useful notion of equality, or inequality, is derived from the whole united appearance and the comparison of particular objects. 'tis evident that the eye, or rather the mind, is often able at one view to determine the proportions of bodies, and pronounce them equal to, or greater or less than each other, without examining or comparing the number of their minute parts. such judgments are not only common, but in many cases certain and infallible. when the measure of a yard and that of a foot are presented, the mind can no more question, that the first is longer than the second, than it can doubt of those principles which are the most clear and self-evident. there are therefore three proportions, which the mind distinguishes in the general appearance of its objects, and calls by the names of _greater, less_, and _equal_. but though its decisions concerning these proportions be sometimes infallible, they are not always so; nor are our judgments of this kind more exempt from doubt and error than those on any other subject. we frequently correct our first opinion by a review and reflection; and pronounce those objects to be equal, which at first we esteemed unequal; and regard an object as less, though before it appeared greater than another. nor is this the only correction which these judgments of our senses undergo; but we often discover our error by a juxta-position of the objects; or, where that is impracticable, by the use of some common and invariable measure, which, being successively applied to each, informs us of their different proportions. and even this correction is susceptible of a new correction, and of different degrees of exactness, according to the nature of the instrument by which we measure the bodies, and the care which we employ in the comparison. when therefore the mind is accustomed to these judgments and their corrections, and finds that the same proportion which makes two figures have in the eye that appearance, which we call _equality_, makes them also correspond to each other, and to any common measure with which they are compared, we form a mixed notion of equality derived both from the looser and stricter methods of comparison. but we are not content with this. for as sound reason convinces us that there are bodies _vastly_ more minute than those which appear to the senses; and as a false reason would persuade us, that there are bodies _infinitely_ more minute, we clearly perceive that we are not possessed of any instrument or art of measuring which can secure us from all error and uncertainty. we are sensible that the addition or removal of one of these minute parts is not discernible either in the appearance or measuring; and as we imagine that two figures, which were equal before, cannot be equal after this removal or addition, we therefore suppose some imaginary standard of equality, by which the appearances and measuring are exactly corrected, and the figures reduced entirely to that proportion. this standard is plainly imaginary. for as the very idea of equality is that of such a particular appearance, corrected by juxta-position or a common measure, the notion of any correction beyond what we have instruments and art to make, is a mere fiction of the mind, and useless as well as incomprehensible. but though this standard be only imaginary, the fiction however is very natural; nor is any thing more usual, than for the mind to proceed after this manner with any action, even after the reason has ceased, which first determined it to begin. this appears very conspicuously with regard to time; where, though 'tis evident we have no exact method of determining the proportions of parts, not even so exact as in extension, yet the various corrections of our measures, and their different degrees of exactness, have given us an obscure and implicit notion of a perfect and entire equality. the case is the same in many other subjects. a musician, finding his ear become every day more delicate, and correcting himself by reflection and attention, proceeds with the same act of the mind even when the subject fails him, and entertains a notion of a complete _tierce_ or _octave_, without being able to tell whence he derives his standard. a painter forms the same fiction with regard to colours; a mechanic with regard to motion. to the one _light_ and _shade_, to the other _swift_ and _slow_, are imagined to be capable of an exact comparison and equality beyond the judgments of the senses. we may apply the same reasoning to _curve_ and _right_ lines. nothing is more apparent to the senses than the distinction betwixt a curve and a right line; nor are there any ideas we more easily form than the ideas of these objects. but however easily we may form these ideas, 'tis impossible to produce any definition of them, which will fix the precise boundaries betwixt them. when we draw lines upon paper or any continued surface, there is a certain order by which the lines run along from one point to another, that they may produce the entire impression of a curve or right line; but this order is perfectly unknown, and nothing is observed but the united appearance. thus, even upon the system of indivisible points, we can only form a distant notion of some unknown standard to these objects. upon that of infinite divisibility we cannot go even this length, but are reduced merely to the general appearance, as the rule by which we determine lines to be either curve or right ones. but though we can give no perfect definition of these lines, nor produce any very exact method of distinguishing the one from the other, yet this hinders us not from correcting the first appearance by a more accurate consideration, and by a comparison with some rule, of whose rectitude, from repeated trials, we have a greater assurance. and 'tis from these corrections, and by carrying on the same action of the mind, even when its reason fails us, that we form the loose idea of a perfect standard to these figures, without being able to explain or comprehend it. 'tis true, mathematicians pretend they give an exact definition of a right line when they say, _it is the shortest way betwixt two points_. but in the first place i observe, that this is more properly the discovery of one of the properties of a right line, than a just definition of it. for i ask any one, if, upon mention of a right line, he thinks not immediately on such a particular appearance, and if 'tis not by accident only that he considers this property? a right line can be comprehended alone; but this definition is unintelligible without a comparison with other lines, which we conceive to be more extended. in common life 'tis established as a maxim, that the straightest way is always the shortest; which would be as absurd as to say, the shortest way is always the shortest, if our idea of a right line was not different from that of the shortest way betwixt two points. secondly, i repeat, what i have already established, that we have no precise idea of equality and inequality, shorter and longer, more than of a right line or a curve; and consequently that the one can never afford us a perfect standard for the other. an exact idea can never be built on such as are loose and undeterminate. the idea of a _plain surface_ is as little susceptible of a precise standard as that of a right line; nor have we any other means of distinguishing such a surface, than its general appearance. 'tis in vain that mathematicians represent a plain surface as produced by the flowing of a right line. 'twill immediately be objected, that our idea of a surface is as independent of this method of forming a surface, as our idea of an ellipse is of that of a cone; that the idea of a right line is no more precise than that of a plain surface; that a right line may flow irregularly, and by that means form a figure quite different from a plane; and that therefore we must suppose it to flow along two right lines, parallel to each other, and on the same plane; which is a description that explains a thing by itself, and returns in a circle. it appears then, that the ideas which are most essential to geometry, viz. those of equality and inequality, of a right line and a plain surface, are far from being exact and determinate, according to our common method of conceiving them. not only we are incapable of telling if the case be in any degree doubtful, when such particular figures are equal; when such a line is a right one, and such a surface a plain one; but we can form no idea of that proportion, or of these figures, which is firm and invariable. our appeal is still to the weak and fallible judgment, which we make from the appearance of the objects, and correct by a compass, or common measure; and if we join the supposition of any farther correction, 'tis of such a one as is either useless or imaginary. in vain should we have recourse to the common topic, and employ the supposition of a deity, whose omnipotence may enable him to form a perfect geometrical figure, and describe a right line without any curve or inflection. as the ultimate standard of these figures is derived from nothing but the senses and imagination, 'tis absurd to talk of any perfection beyond what these faculties can judge of; since the true perfection of any thing consists in its conformity to its standard. now, since these ideas are so loose and uncertain, i would fain ask any mathematician, what infallible assurance he has, not only of the more intricate and obscure propositions of his science, but of the most vulgar and obvious principles? how can he prove to me, for instance, that two right lines cannot have one common segment? or that 'tis impossible to draw more than one right line betwixt any two points? should he tell me, that these opinions are obviously absurd, and repugnant to our clear ideas; i would answer, that i do not deny, where two right lines incline upon each other with a sensible angle, but 'tis absurd to imagine them to have a common segment. but supposing these two lines to approach at the rate of an inch in twenty leagues, i perceive no absurdity in asserting, that upon their contact they become one. for, i beseech you, by what rule or standard do you judge, when you assert that the line, in which i have supposed them to concur, cannot make the same right line with those two, that form so small an angle betwixt them? you must surely have some idea of a right line, to which this line does not agree. do you therefore mean, that it takes not the points in the same order and by the same rule, as is peculiar and essential to a right line? if so, i must inform you, that besides that, in judging after this manner, you allow that extension is composed of indivisible points (which, perhaps, is more than you intend), besides this, i say, i must inform you, that neither is this the standard from which we form the idea of a right line; nor, if it were, is there any such firmness in our senses or imagination, as to determine when such an order is violated or preserved. the original standard of a right line is in reality nothing but a certain general appearance; and 'tis evident right lines may be made to concur with each other, and yet correspond to this standard, though corrected by all the means either practicable or imaginable. to whatever side mathematicians turn, this dilemma still meets them. if they judge of equality, or any other proportion, by the accurate and exact standard, viz. the enumeration of the minute indivisible parts, they both employ a standard, which is useless in practice, and actually establish the indivisibility of extension, which they endeavour to explode. or if they employ, as is usual, the inaccurate standard, derived from a comparison of objects, upon their general appearance, corrected by measuring and juxtaposition; their first principles, though certain and infallible, are too coarse to afford any such subtile inferences as they commonly draw from them. the first principles are founded on the imagination and senses; the conclusion therefore can never go beyond, much less contradict, these faculties. this may open our eyes a little, and let us see, that no geometrical demonstration for the infinite divisibility of extension can have so much force as what we naturally attribute to every argument, which is supported by such magnificent pretensions. at the same time we may learn the reason, why geometry fails of evidence in this single point, while all its other reasonings command our fullest assent and approbation. and indeed it seems more requisite to give the reason of this exception, than to show that we really must make such an exception, and regard all the mathematical arguments for infinite divisibility as utterly sophistical. for 'tis evident, that as no idea of quantity is infinitely divisible, there cannot be imagined a more glaring absurdity, than to endeavour to prove, that quantity itself admits of such a division; and to prove this by means of ideas, which are directly opposite in that particular. and as this absurdity is very glaring in itself, so there is no argument founded on it, which is not attended with a new absurdity, and involves not an evident contradiction. i might give as instances those arguments for infinite divisibility, which are derived from the _point of contact_. i know there is no mathematician, who will not refuse to be judged by the diagrams he describes upon paper, these being loose draughts, as he will tell us, and serving only to convey with greater facility certain ideas, which are the true foundation of all our reasoning. this i am satisfied with, and am willing to rest the controversy merely upon these ideas. i desire therefore our mathematician to form, as accurately as possible, the ideas of a circle and a right line; and i then ask, if upon the conception of their contact he can conceive them as touching in a mathematical point, or if he must necessarily imagine them to concur for some space. whichever side he chooses, he runs himself into equal difficulties. if he affirms, that in tracing these figures in his imagination, he can imagine them to touch only in a point, he allows the possibility of that idea, and consequently of the thing. if he says, that in his conception of the contact of those lines he must make them concur, he thereby acknowledges the fallacy of geometrical demonstrations, when carried beyond a certain degree of minuteness; since, 'tis certain he has such demonstrations against the concurrence of a circle and a right line; that is, in other words, he can prove an idea, viz. that of concurrence, to be _incompatible_ with two other ideas, viz. those of a circle and right line; though at the same time he acknowledges these ideas to be _inseparable_. [ ] l'art de penser. [ ] see dr barrow's mathematical lectures. section v. the same subject continued. if the second part of my system be true, _that the idea of space or extension is nothing but the idea of visible or tangible points distributed in a certain order_, it follows, that we can form no idea of a vacuum, or space, where there is nothing visible or tangible. this gives rise to three objections, which i shall examine together, because the answer i shall give to one is a consequence of that which i shall make use of for the others. first, it may be said, that men have disputed for many ages concerning a vacuum and a plenum, without being able to bring the affair to a final decision: and philosophers, even at this day, think themselves at liberty to take party on either side, as their fancy leads them. but whatever foundation there may be for a controversy concerning the things themselves, it may be pretended that the very dispute is decisive concerning the idea, and that 'tis impossible men could so long reason about a vacuum, and either refute or defend it, without having a notion of what they refuted or defended. secondly, if this argument should be contested, the reality, or at least possibility, of the _idea_ of a vacuum, may be proved by the following reasoning. every idea is possible which is a necessary and infallible consequence of such as are possible. now, though we allow the world to be at present a plenum, we may easily conceive it to be deprived of motion; and this idea will certainly be allowed possible. it must also be allowed possible, to conceive the annihilation of any part of matter by the omnipotence of the deity, while the other parts remain at rest. for as every idea that is distinguishable is separable by the imagination, and as every idea that is separable by the imagination may be conceived to be separately existent, 'tis evident, that the existence of one particle of matter no more implies the existence of another, than a square figure in one body implies a square figure in every one. this being granted, i now demand what results from the concurrence of these two possible ideas of _rest_ and _annihilation_, and what must we conceive to follow upon the annihilation of all the air and subtile matter in the chamber, supposing the walls to remain the same, without any motion or alteration? there are some metaphysicians who answer, that since matter and extension are the same, the annihilation of the one necessarily implies that of the other; and there being now no distance betwixt the walls of the chamber, they touch each other; in the same manner as my hand touches the paper which is immediately before me. but though this answer be very common, i defy these metaphysicians to conceive the matter according to their hypothesis, or imagine the floor and roof, with all the opposite sides of the chamber, to touch each other, while they continue in rest, and preserve the same position. for how can the two walls, that run from south to north, touch each other, while they touch the opposite ends of two walls that run from east to west? and how can the floor and roof ever meet, while they are separated by the four walls that lie in a contrary position? if you change their position, you suppose a motion. if you conceive any thing betwixt them, you suppose a new creation. but keeping strictly to the two ideas of _rest_ and _annihilation_, 'tis evident, that the idea which results from them is not that of a contact of parts, but something else, which is concluded to be the idea of a vacuum. the third objection carries the matter still farther, and not only asserts, that the idea of a vacuum is real and possible, but also necessary and unavoidable. this assertion is founded on the motion we observe in bodies, which, 'tis maintained, would be impossible and inconceivable without a vacuum, into which one body must move in order to make way for another. i shall not enlarge upon this objection, because it principally belongs to natural philosophy, which lies without our present sphere. in order to answer these objections, we must take the matter pretty deep, and consider the nature and origin of several ideas, lest we dispute without understanding perfectly the subject of the controversy. 'tis evident the idea of darkness is no positive idea, but merely the negation of light, or, more properly speaking, of coloured and visible objects. a man who enjoys his sight, receives no other perception from turning his eyes on every side, when entirely deprived of light, than what is common to him with one born blind; and 'tis certain such a one has no idea either of light or darkness. the consequence of this is, that 'tis not from the mere removal of visible objects we receive the impression of extension without matter; and that the idea of utter darkness can never be the same with that of vacuum. suppose again a man to be supported in the air, and to be softly conveyed along by some invisible power; 'tis evident he is sensible of nothing, and never receives the idea of extension, nor indeed any idea, from this invariable motion. even supposing he moves his limbs to and fro, this cannot convey to him that idea. he feels in that case a certain sensation or impression, the parts of which are successive to each other, and may give him the idea of time, but certainly are not disposed in such a manner as is necessary to convey the idea of space or extension. since, then, it appears that darkness and motion, with the utter removal of every thing visible and tangible, can never give us the idea of extension without matter, or of a vacuum; the next question is, whether they can convey this idea, when mixed with something visible and tangible? 'tis commonly allowed by philosophers, that all bodies which discover themselves to the eye, appear as if painted on a plain surface, and that their different degrees of remoteness from ourselves are discovered more by reason than by the senses. when i hold up my hand before me, and spread my fingers, they are separated as perfectly by the blue colour of the firmament, as they could be by any visible object which i could place betwixt them. in order, therefore, to know whether the sight can convey the impression and idea of a vacuum, we must suppose, that amidst an entire darkness, there are luminous bodies presented to us, whose light discovers only these bodies themselves, without giving us any impression of the surrounding objects. we must form a parallel supposition concerning the objects of our feeling. 'tis not proper to suppose a perfect removal of all tangible objects: we must allow something to be perceived by the feeling; and after an interval and motion of the hand or other organ of sensation, another object of the touch to be met with; and upon leaving that, another; and so on, as often as we please. the question is, whether these intervals do not afford us the idea of extension without body. to begin with the first case; 'tis evident, that when only two luminous bodies appear to the eye, we can perceive whether they be conjoined or separate; whether they be separated by a great or small distance; and if this distance varies, we can perceive its increase or diminution, with the motion of the bodies. but as the distance is not in this case any thing coloured or visible, it may be thought that there is here a vacuum or pure extension, not only intelligible to the mind, but obvious to the very senses. this is our natural and most familiar way of thinking, but which we shall learn to correct by a little reflection. we may observe, that when two bodies present themselves, where there was formerly an entire darkness, the only change that is discoverable is in the appearance of these two objects, and that all the rest continues to be as before, a perfect negation of light, and of every coloured or visible object. this is not only true of what may be said to be remote from these bodies, but also of the very distance which is interposed betwixt them; _that_ being nothing but darkness, or the negation of light; without parts, without composition, invariable and indivisible. now, since this distance causes no perception different from what a blind man receives from his eyes, or what is conveyed to us in the darkest night, it must partake of the same properties; and as blindness and darkness afford us no ideas of extension, 'tis impossible that the dark and undistinguishable distance betwixt two bodies can ever produce that idea. the sole difference betwixt an absolute darkness and the appearance of two or more visible luminous objects consists, as i said, in the objects themselves, and in the manner they affect our senses. the angles, which the rays of light flowing from them form with each other; the motion that is required in the eye, in its passage from one to the other; and the different parts of the organs which are affected by them; these produce the only perceptions from which we can judge of the distance. but as these perceptions are each of them simple and indivisible, they can never give us the idea of extension. we may illustrate this by considering the sense of feeling, and the imaginary distance or interval interposed betwixt tangible or solid objects. i suppose two cases, viz. that of a man supported in the air, and moving his limbs to and fro, without meeting any thing tangible; and that of a man, who, feeling something tangible, leaves it, and, after a motion of which he is sensible, perceives another tangible object; and i then ask, wherein consists the difference betwixt these two cases? no one will make any scruple to affirm, that it consists merely in the perceiving those objects, and that the sensation, which arises from the motion, is in both cases the same; and as that sensation is not capable of conveying to us an idea of extension, when unaccompanied with some other perception, it can no more give us that idea, when mixed with the impressions of tangible objects, since that mixture produces no alteration upon it. but though motion and darkness, either alone or attended with tangible and visible objects, convey no idea of a vacuum or extension without matter, yet they are the causes why we falsely imagine we can form such an idea. for there is a close relation betwixt that motion and darkness, and a real extension, or composition of visible and tangible objects. first, we may observe, that two visible objects, appearing in the midst of utter darkness, affect the senses in the same manner, and form the same angle by the rays which flow from them, and meet in the eye, as if the distance betwixt them were filled with visible objects, that give us a true idea of extension. the sensation of motion is likewise the same, when there is nothing tangible interposed betwixt two bodies, as when we feel a compounded body, whose different parts are placed beyond each other. secondly, we find by experience, that two bodies, which are so placed as to affect the senses in the same manner with two others, that have a certain extent of visible objects interposed betwixt them, are capable of receiving the same extent, without any sensible impulse or penetration, and without any change on that angle, under which they appear to the senses. in like manner, where there is one object, which we cannot feel after another without an interval, and the perceiving of that sensation we call motion in our hand or organ of sensation; experience shews us, that 'tis possible the same object may be felt with the same sensation of motion, along with the interposed impression of solid and tangible objects, attending the sensation. that is, in other words, an invisible and intangible distance may be converted into a visible and tangible one, without any change on the distant objects. thirdly, we may observe, as another relation betwixt these two kinds of distance, that they have nearly the same effects on every natural phenomenon. for as all qualities, such as heat, cold, light, attraction, &c. diminish in proportion to the distance; there is but little difference observed, whether this distance be marked out by compounded and sensible objects, or be known only by the manner in which the distant objects affect the senses. here then are three relations betwixt that distance, which conveys the idea of extension, and that other, which is not filled with any coloured or solid object. the distant objects affect the senses in the same manner, whether separated by the one distance or the other; the second species of distance is found capable of receiving the first; and they both equally diminish the force of every quality. these relations betwixt the two kinds of distance, will afford us an easy reason why the one has so often been taken for the other, and why we imagine we have an idea of extension without the idea of any object either of the sight or feeling. for we may establish it as a general maxim in this science of human nature, that wherever there is a close relation betwixt two ideas, the mind is very apt to mistake them, and in all its discourses and reasonings to use the one for the other. this phenomenon occurs on so many occasions, and is of such consequence, that i cannot forbear stopping a moment to examine its causes. i shall only premise, that we must distinguish exactly betwixt the phenomenon itself, and the causes which i shall assign for it; and must not imagine, from any uncertainty in the latter, that the former is also uncertain. the phenomenon may be real, though my explication be chimerical. the falsehood of the one is no consequence of that of the other; though at the same time we may observe, that 'tis very natural for us to draw such a consequence; which is an evident instance of that very principle, which i endeavour to explain. when i received the relations of _resemblance, contiguity_, and _causation_, as principles of union among ideas, without examining into their causes, 'twas more in prosecution of my first maxim, that we must in the end rest contented with experience, than for want of something specious and plausible, which i might have displayed on that subject. 'twould have been easy to have made an imaginary dissection of the brain, and have shown, why, upon our conception of any idea, the animal spirits run into all the contiguous traces, and rouze up the other ideas that are related to it. but though i have neglected any advantage, which i might have drawn from this topic in explaining the relations of ideas, i am afraid i must here have recourse to it, in order to account for the mistakes that arise from these relations. i shall therefore observe, that as the mind is endowed with a power of exciting any idea it pleases; whenever it despatches the spirits into that region of the brain, in which the idea is placed; these spirits always excite the idea, when they run precisely into the proper traces, and rummage that cell, which belongs to the idea. but as their motion is seldom direct, and naturally turns a little to the one side or the other; for this reason the animal spirits, falling into the contiguous traces, present other related ideas, in lieu of that which the mind desired at first to survey. this change we are not always sensible of; but continuing still the same train of thought, make use of the related idea, which is presented to us, and employ it in our reasoning, as if it were the same with what we demanded. this is the cause of many mistakes and sophisms in philosophy; as will naturally be imagined, and as it would be easy to show, if there was occasion. of the three relations above-mentioned that of resemblance is the most fertile source of error; and indeed there are few mistakes in reasoning, which do not borrow largely from that origin. resembling ideas are not only related together, but the actions of the mind, which we employ in considering them, are so little different, that we are not able to distinguish them. this last circumstance is of great consequence; and we may in general observe, that wherever the actions of the mind in forming any two ideas are the same or resembling, we are very apt to confound these ideas, and take the one for the other. of this we shall see many instances in the progress of this treatise. but though resemblance be the relation, which most readily produces a mistake in ideas, yet the others of causation and contiguity may also concur in the same influence. we might produce the figures of poets and orators, as sufficient proofs of this, were it as usual as it is reasonable, in metaphysical subjects, to draw our arguments from that quarter. but lest metaphysicians should esteem this below their dignity, i shall borrow a proof from an observation, which may be made on most of their own discourses, viz. that 'tis usual for men to use words for ideas, and to talk instead of thinking in their reasonings. we use words for ideas, because they are commonly so closely connected, that the mind easily mistakes them. and this likewise is the reason, why we substitute the idea of a distance, which is not considered either as visible or tangible, in the room of extension, which is nothing but a composition of visible or tangible points disposed in a certain order. in causing this mistake there concur both the relations of _causation_ and _resemblance_. as the first species of distance is found to be convertible into the second, 'tis in this respect a kind of cause; and the similarity of their manner of affecting the senses, and diminishing every quality, forms the relation of resemblance. after this chain of reasoning and explication of my principles, i am now prepared to answer all the objections that have been offered, whether derived from _metaphysics_ or _mechanics_. the frequent disputes concerning a vacuum, or extension without matter, prove not the reality of the idea, upon which the dispute turns; there being nothing more common, than to see men deceive themselves in this particular; especially when, by means of any close relation, there is another idea presented, which may be the occasion of their mistake. we may make almost the same answer to the second objection, derived from the conjunction of the ideas of rest and annihilation. when every thing is annihilated in the chamber, and the walls continue immovable, the chamber must be conceived much in the same manner as at present, when the air that fills it is not an object of the senses. this annihilation leaves to the _eye_ that fictitious distance, which is discovered by the different parts of the organ that are affected, and by the degrees of light and shade; and to the _feeling_, that which consists in a sensation of motion in the hand, or other member of the body. in vain should we search any farther. on whichever side we turn this subject, we shall find that these are the only impressions such an object can produce after the supposed annihilation; and it has already been remarked, that impressions can give rise to no ideas, but to such as resemble them. since a body interposed betwixt two others may be supposed to be annihilated, without producing any change upon such as lie on each hand of it, 'tis easily conceived, how it may be created anew, and yet produce as little alteration. now the motion of a body has much the same effect as its creation. the distant bodies are no more affected in the one case, than in the other. this suffices to satisfy the imagination, and proves there is no repugnance in such a motion. afterwards experience comes in play to persuade us that two bodies, situated in the manner above described, have really such a capacity of receiving body betwixt them, and that there is no obstacle to the conversion of the invisible and intangible distance into one that is visible and tangible. however natural that conversion may seem, we cannot be sure it is practicable, before we have had experience of it. thus i seem to have answered the three objections above mentioned; though at the same time i am sensible, that few will be satisfied with these answers, but will immediately propose new objections and difficulties. 'twill probably be said, that my reasoning makes nothing to the matter in hand, and that i explain only the manner in which objects affect the senses, without endeavouring to account for their real nature and operations. though there be nothing visible or tangible interposed betwixt two bodies, yet we find _by experience_, that the bodies may be placed in the same manner, with regard to the eye, and require the same motion of the hand in passing from one to the other, as if divided by something visible and tangible. this invisible and intangible distance is also found _by experience_ to contain a capacity of receiving body, or of becoming visible and tangible. here is the whole of my system; and in no part of it have i endeavoured to explain the cause, which separates bodies after this manner, and gives them a capacity of receiving others betwixt them, without any impulse or penetration. i answer this objection, by pleading guilty, and by confessing that my intention never was to penetrate into the nature of bodies, or explain the secret causes of their operations. for, besides that this belongs not to my present purpose, i am afraid, that such an enterprise is beyond the reach of human understanding, and that we can never pretend to know body otherwise than by those external properties, which discover themselves to the senses. as to those who attempt any thing farther, i cannot approve of their ambition, till i see, in some one instance at least, that they have met with success. but at present i content myself with knowing perfectly the manner in which objects affect my senses, and their connexions with each other, as far as experience informs me of them. this suffices for the conduct of life; and this also suffices for my philosophy, which pretends only to explain the nature and causes of our perceptions, or impressions and ideas.[ ] i shall conclude this subject of extension with a paradox, which will easily be explained from the foregoing reasoning. this paradox is, that if you are pleased to give to the invisible and intangible distance, or in other words, to the capacity of becoming a visible and tangible distance, the name of a vacuum, extension and matter are the same, and yet there is a vacuum. if you will not give it that name, motion is possible in a plenum, without any impulse _in infinitum_, without returning in a circle, and without penetration. but however we may express ourselves, we must always confess, that we have no idea of any real extension without filling it with sensible objects, and conceiving its parts as visible or tangible. as to the doctrine, that time is nothing but the manner in which some real objects exist; we may observe, that 'tis liable to the same objections as the similar doctrine with regard to extension. if it be a sufficient proof, that we have the idea of a vacuum, because we dispute and reason concerning it; we must for the same reason have the idea of time without any changeable existence; since there is no subject of dispute more frequent and common. but that we really have no such idea, is certain. for whence should it be derived? does it arise from an impression of sensation or of reflection? point it out distinctly to us, that we may know its nature and qualities. but if you cannot point out _any such impression_, you may be certain you are mistaken, when you imagine you have _any such idea_. but though it be impossible to show the impression, from which the idea of time without a changeable existence is derived, yet we can easily point out those appearances, which make us fancy we have that idea. for we may observe, that there is a continual succession of perceptions in our mind; so that the idea of time being for ever present with us, when we consider a stedfast object at five o'clock, and regard the same at six, we are apt to apply to it that idea in the same manner as if every moment were distinguished by a different position, or an alteration of the object. the first and second appearances of the object, being compared with the succession of our perceptions, seem equally removed as if the object had really changed. to which we may add, what experience shows us, that the object was susceptible of such a number of changes betwixt these appearances; as also that the unchangeable or rather fictitious duration has the same effect upon every quality, by increasing or diminishing it, as that succession which is obvious to the senses. from these three relations we are apt to confound our ideas, and imagine we can form the idea of a time and duration, without any change or succession. [ ] as long as we confine our speculations to _the appearances_ of objects to our senses, without entering into disquisitions concerning their real nature and operations, we are safe from all difficulties, and can never be embarrassed by any question. thus, if it be asked, if the invisible and intangible distance, interposed betwixt two objects, be something or nothing: 'tis easy to answer, that it is _something_, viz. a property of the objects, which affect the _senses_ after such a particular manner. if it be asked, whether two objects, having such a distance betwixt them, touch or not: it may be answered, that this depends upon the definition of the word _touch_. if objects be said to touch, when there is nothing _sensible_ interposed betwixt them, these objects touch: if objects be said to touch, when their _images_ strike contiguous parts of the eye, and when the hand _feels_ both objects successively, without any interposed motion, these objects do not touch. the appearances of objects to our senses are all consistent; and no difficulties can ever arise, but from the obscurity of the terms we make use of. if we carry our inquiry beyond the appearances of objects to the senses, i am afraid, that most of our conclusions will be full of scepticism and uncertainty. thus, if it be asked, whether or not the invisible and intangible distance be always full of _body_, or of something that by an improvement of our organs might become visible or tangible, i must acknowledge, that i find no very decisive arguments on either side: though i am inclined to the contrary opinion, as being more suitable to vulgar and popular notions. if _the newtonian_ philosophy be rightly understood, it will be found to mean no more. a vacuum is asserted; that is, bodies are said to be placed after such a manner as to receive bodies betwixt them, without impulsion or penetration. the real nature of this position of bodies is unknown. we are only acquainted with its effects on the senses, and its power of receiving body. nothing is more suitable to that philosophy, than a modest scepticism to a certain degree, and a fair confession of ignorance in subjects that exceed all human capacity. section vi. of the idea of existence, and of external existence. it may not be amiss, before we leave this subject, to explain the ideas of _existence_ and of _external existence_; which have their difficulties, as well as the ideas of space and time. by this means we shall be the better prepared for the examination of knowledge and probability, when we understand perfectly all those particular ideas, which may enter into our reasoning. there is no impression nor idea of any kind, of which we have any consciousness or memory, that is not conceived as existent; and 'tis evident that, from this consciousness, the most perfect idea and assurance of _being_ is derived. from hence we may form a dilemma, the most clear and conclusive that can be imagined, viz. that since we never remember any idea or impression without attributing existence to it, the idea of existence must either be derived from a distinct impression, conjoined with every perception or object of our thought, or must be the very same with the idea of the perception or object. as this dilemma is an evident consequence of the principle, that every idea arises from a similar impression, so our decision betwixt the propositions of the dilemma is no more doubtful. so far from there being any distinct impression attending every impression and every idea, that i do not think there are any two distinct impressions which are inseparably conjoined. though certain sensations may at one time be united, we quickly find they admit of a separation, and may be presented apart. and thus, though every impression and idea we remember be considered as existent, the idea of existence is not derived from any particular impression. the idea of existence, then, is the very same with the idea of what we conceive to be existent. to reflect on any thing simply, and to reflect on it as existent, are nothing different from each other. that idea, when conjoined with the idea of any object, makes no addition to it. whatever we conceive, we conceive to be existent. any idea we please to form is the idea of a being; and the idea of a being is any idea we please to form. whoever opposes this, must necessarily point out that distinct impression, from which the idea of entity is derived, and must prove, that this impression is inseparable from every perception we believe to be existent. this we may without hesitation conclude to be impossible. our foregoing reasoning[ ] concerning the _distinction_ of ideas without any real _difference_ will not here serve us in any stead. that kind of distinction is founded on the different resemblances, which the same simple idea may have to several different ideas. but no object can be presented resembling some object with respect to its existence, and different from others in the same particular; since every object that is presented, must necessarily be existent. a like reasoning will account for the idea of _external existence_. we may observe, that 'tis universally allowed by philosophers, and is besides pretty obvious of itself, that nothing is ever really present with the mind but its perceptions or impressions and ideas, and that external objects become known to us only by those perceptions they occasion. to hate, to love, to think, to feel, to see; all this is nothing but to perceive. now, since nothing is ever present to the mind but perceptions, and since all ideas are derived from something antecedently present to the mind; it follows, that 'tis impossible for us so much as to conceive or form an idea of any thing specifically different from ideas and impressions. let us fix our attention out of ourselves as much as possible; let us chase our imagination to the heavens, or to the utmost limits of the universe; we never really advance a step beyond ourselves, nor can conceive any kind of existence, but those perceptions, which have appeared in that narrow compass. this is the universe of the imagination, nor have we any idea but what is there produced. the farthest we can go towards a conception of external objects, when supposed _specifically_ different from our perceptions, is to form a relative idea of them, without pretending to comprehend the related objects. generally speaking, we do not suppose them specifically different; but only attribute to them different relations, connexions, and durations. but of this more fully hereafter.[ ] [ ] part i. sect. . [ ] part vi. sect. . part iii. of knowledge and probability. section i. of knowledge. there are seven different kinds of philosophical relation,[ ] viz. _resemblance, identity, relations of time and place, proportion in quantity or number, degrees in any quality, contrariety, and causation_. these relations may be divided into two classes; into such as depend entirely on the ideas, which we compare together, and such as may be changed without any change in the ideas. 'tis from the idea of a triangle, that we discover the relation of equality, which its three angles bear to two right ones; and this relation is invariable, as long as our idea remains the same. on the contrary, the relations of _contiguity_ and _distance_ betwixt two objects may be changed merely by an alteration of their place, without any change on the objects themselves or on their ideas; and the place depends on a hundred different accidents, which cannot be foreseen by the mind. 'tis the same case with _identity_ and _causation_. two objects, though perfectly resembling each other, and even appearing in the same place at different times, may be numerically different: and as the power, by which one object produces another, is never discoverable merely from their idea, 'tis evident _cause_ and _effect_ are relations, of which we receive information from experience, and not from any abstract reasoning or reflection. there is no single phenomenon, even the most simple, which can be accounted for from the qualities of the objects, as they appear to us; or which we could foresee without the help of our memory and experience. it appears therefore that of these seven philosophical relations, there remain only four, which depending solely upon ideas, can be the objects of knowledge and certainty. these four are _resemblance, contrariety, degrees in quality, and proportions in quantity or number_. three of these relations are discoverable at first sight, and fall more properly under the province of intuition than demonstration. when any objects _resemble_ each other, the resemblance will at first strike the eye, or rather the mind; and seldom requires a second examination. the case is the same with _contrariety_, and with the _degrees_ of any _quality_. no one can once doubt but existence and non-existence destroy each other, and are perfectly incompatible and contrary. and though it be impossible to judge exactly of the degrees of any quality, such as colour, taste, heat, cold, when the difference betwixt them is very small; yet 'tis easy to decide, that any of them is superior or inferior to another, when their difference is considerable. and this decision we always pronounce at first sight, without any inquiry or reasoning. we might proceed, after the same manner, in fixing the _proportions_ of _quantity_ or _number_, and might at one view observe a superiority or inferiority betwixt any numbers, or figures; especially where the difference is very great and remarkable. as to equality or any exact proportion, we can only guess at it from a single consideration; except in very short numbers, or very limited portions of extension; which are comprehended in an instant, and where we perceive an impossibility of falling into any considerable error. in all other cases we must settle the proportions with some liberty, or proceed in a more _artificial_ manner. i have already observed, that geometry, or the _art_ by which we fix the proportions of figures; though it much excels both in universality and exactness, the loose judgments of the senses and imagination; yet never attains a perfect precision and exactness. its first principles are still drawn from the general appearance of the objects; and that appearance can never afford us any security, when we examine the prodigious minuteness of which nature is susceptible. our ideas seem to give a perfect assurance, that no two right lines can have a common segment; but if we consider these ideas, we shall find, that they always suppose a sensible inclination of the two lines, and that where the angle they form is extremely small, we have no standard of a right line so precise as to assure us of the truth of this proposition. 'tis the same case with most of the primary decisions of the mathematics. there remain therefore algebra and arithmetic as the only sciences, in which we can carry on a chain of reasoning to any degree of intricacy, and yet preserve a perfect exactness and certainty. we are possessed of a precise standard, by which we can judge of the equality and proportion of numbers; and according as they correspond or not to that standard, we determine their relations, without any possibility of error. when two numbers are so combined, as that the one has always an unite answering to every unite of the other, we pronounce them equal; and 'tis for want of such a standard of equality in extension, that geometry can scarce be esteemed a perfect and infallible science. but here it may not be amiss to obviate a difficulty, which may arise from my asserting, that though geometry falls short of that perfect precision and certainty, which are peculiar to arithmetic and algebra, yet it excels the imperfect judgments of our senses and imagination. the reason why i impute any defect to geometry, is, because its original and fundamental principles are derived merely from appearances; and it may perhaps be imagined, that this defect must always attend it, and keep it from ever reaching a greater exactness in the comparison of objects or ideas, than what our eye or imagination alone is able to attain. i own that this defect so far attends it, as to keep it from ever aspiring to a full certainty: but since these fundamental principles depend on the easiest and least deceitful appearances, they bestow on their consequences a degree of exactness, of which these consequences are singly incapable. 'tis impossible for the eye to determine the angles of a chiliagon to be equal to right angles, or make any conjecture, that approaches this proportion; but when it determines, that right lines cannot concur; that we cannot draw more than one right line between two given points; its mistakes can never be of any consequence. and this is the nature and use of geometry, to run us up to such appearances, as, by reason of their simplicity, cannot lead us into any considerable error. i shall here take occasion to propose a second observation concerning our demonstrative reasonings, which is suggested by the same subject of the mathematics. 'tis usual with mathematicians to pretend, that those ideas, which are their objects, are of so refined and spiritual a nature, that they fall not under the conception of the fancy, but must be comprehended by a pure and intellectual view, of which the superior faculties of the soul are alone capable. the same notion runs through most parts of philosophy, and is principally made use of to explain our abstract ideas, and to show how we can form an idea of a triangle, for instance, which shall neither be an isosceles nor scalenum, nor be confined to any particular length and proportion of sides. 'tis easy to see why philosophers are so fond of this notion of some spiritual and refined perceptions; since by that means they cover many of their absurdities, and may refuse to submit to the decisions of clear ideas, by appealing to such as are obscure and uncertain. but to destroy this artifice, we need but reflect on that principle so oft insisted on, _that all our ideas are copied from out impressions_. for from thence we may immediately conclude, that since all impressions are clear and precise, the ideas, which are copied from them, must be of the same nature, and can never, but from our fault, contain any thing so dark and intricate. an idea is by its very nature weaker and fainter than an impression; but being in every other respect the same, cannot imply any very great mystery. if its weakness render it obscure, 'tis our business to remedy that defect, as much as possible, by keeping the idea steady and precise; and till we have done so, 'tis in vain to pretend to reasoning and philosophy. [ ] part i. sect. . section ii. of probability, and of the idea of cause and effect. this is all i think necessary to observe concerning those four relations, which are the foundation of science; but as to the other three, which depend not upon the idea, and may be absent or present even while _that_ remains the same, 'twill be proper to explain them more particularly. these three relations are _identity, the situations in time and place, and causation_. all kinds of reasoning consist in nothing but a _comparison_, and a discovery of those relations, either constant or inconstant, which two or more objects bear to each other. this comparison we may make, either when both the objects are present to the senses, or when neither of them is present, or when only one. when both the objects are present to the senses along with the relation, we call _this_ perception rather than reasoning; nor is there in this case any exercise of the thought, or any action, properly speaking, but a mere passive admission of the impressions through the organs of sensation. according to this way of thinking, we ought not to receive as reasoning any of the observations we may make concerning _identity_, and the _relations_ of _time_ and _place_; since in none of them the mind can go beyond what is immediately present to the senses, either to discover the real existence or the relations of objects. 'tis only _causation_, which produces such a connexion, as to give us assurance from the existence or action of one object, that 'twas followed or preceded by any other existence or action; nor can the other two relations ever be made use of in reasoning, except so far as they either affect or are affected by it. there is nothing in any objects to persuade us, that they are either always _remote_ or always _contiguous_; and when from experience and observation we discover, that their relation in this particular is invariable, we always conclude there is some secret _cause_ which separates or unites them. the same reasoning extends to _identity_. we readily suppose an object may continue individually the same, though several times absent from and present to the senses; and ascribe to it an identity, notwithstanding the interruption of the perception, whenever we conclude, that if we had kept our eye or hand constantly upon it, it would have conveyed an invariable and uninterrupted perception. but this conclusion beyond the impressions of our senses can be founded only on the connexion of _cause and effect_; nor can we otherwise have any security that the object is not changed upon us, however much the new object may resemble that which was formerly present to the senses. whenever we discover such a perfect resemblance, we consider whether it be common in that species of objects; whether possibly or probably any cause could operate in producing the change and resemblance; and according as we determine concerning these causes and effects, we form our judgment concerning the identity of the object. here then it appears, that of those three relations, which depend not upon the mere ideas, the only one that can be traced beyond our senses, and informs us of existences and objects, which we do not see or feel, is _causation_. this relation therefore we shall endeavour to explain fully before we leave the subject of the of the understanding. to begin regularly, we must consider the idea of _causation_, and see from what origin it is derived. 'tis impossible to reason justly, without understanding perfectly the idea concerning which we reason; and 'tis impossible perfectly to understand any idea, without tracing it up to its origin, and examining that primary impression, from which it arises. the examination of the impression bestows a clearness on the idea; and the examination of the idea bestows a like clearness on all our reasoning. let us therefore cast our eye on any two objects, which we call cause and effect, and turn them on all sides, in order to find that impression, which produces an idea of such prodigious consequence. at first sight i perceive, that i must not search for it in any of the particular _qualities_ of the objects; since, whichever of these qualities i pitch on, i find some object that is not possessed of it, and yet falls under the denomination of cause or effect. and indeed there is nothing existent, either externally or internally, which is not to be considered either as a cause or an effect; though 'tis plain there is no one quality which universally belongs to all beings, and gives them a title to that denomination. the idea then of causation must be derived from some _relation_ among objects; and that relation we must now endeavour to discover. i find in the first place, that whatever objects are considered as causes or effects, are _contiguous_; and that nothing can operate in a time or place, which is ever so little removed from those of its existence. though distant objects may sometimes seem productive of each other, they are commonly found upon examination to be linked by a chain of causes, which are contiguous among themselves, and to the distant objects; and when in any particular instance we cannot discover this connexion, we still presume it to exist. we may therefore consider the relation of _contiguity_ as essential to that of causation; at least may suppose it such, according to the general opinion, till we can find a more proper occasion[ ] to clear up this matter, by examining what objects are or are not susceptible of juxtaposition and conjunction. the second relation i shall observe as essential to causes and effects, is not so universally acknowledged, but is liable to some controversy. 'tis that of _priority_ of time in the cause before the effect. some pretend that 'tis not absolutely necessary a cause should precede its effect; but that any object or action, in the very first moment of its existence, may exert its productive quality, and give rise to another object or action, perfectly cotemporary with itself. but beside that experience in most instances seems to contradict this opinion, we may establish the relation of priority by a kind of inference or reasoning. 'tis an established maxim both in natural and moral philosophy, that an object, which exists for any time in its full perfection without producing another, is not its sole cause; but is assisted by some other principle which pushes it from its state of inactivity, and makes it exert that energy, of which it was secretly possessed. now if any cause may be perfectly cotemporary with its effect, 'tis certain, according to this maxim, that they must all of them be so; since any one of them, which retards its operation for a single moment, exerts not itself at that very individual time, in which it might have operated; and therefore is no proper cause. the consequence of this would be no less than the destruction of that succession of causes, which we observe in the world; and indeed the utter annihilation of time. for if one cause were cotemporary with its effect, and this effect with _its_ effect, and so on, 'tis plain there would be no such thing as succession, and all objects must be co-existent. if this argument appear satisfactory, 'tis well. if not, i beg the reader to allow me the same liberty, which i have used in the preceding case, of supposing it such. for he shall find, that the affair is of no great importance. having thus discovered or supposed the two relations of _contiguity_ and _succession_ to be essential to causes and effects, i find i am stopped short, and can proceed no farther in considering any single instance of cause and effect. motion in one body is regarded upon impulse as the cause of motion in another. when we consider these objects with the utmost attention, we find only that the one body approaches the other; and that the motion of it precedes that of the other, but without any sensible interval. 'tis in vain to rack ourselves with _farther_ thought and reflection upon this subject. we can go no _farther_ in considering this particular instance. should any one leave this instance, and pretend to define a cause, by saying it is something productive of another, 'tis evident he would say nothing. for what does he mean by _production_? can he give any definition of it, that will not be the same with that of causation? if he can, i desire it maybe produced. if he cannot, he here runs in a circle, and gives a synonymous term instead of a definition. shall we then rest contented with these two relations of contiguity and succession, as affording a complete idea of causation? by no means. an object may be contiguous and prior to another, without being considered as its cause. there is a _necessary connexion_ to be taken into consideration; and that relation is of much greater importance, than any of the other two above mentioned. here again i turn the object on all sides, in order to discover the nature of this necessary connexion, and find the impression, or impressions, from which its idea may be derived. when i cast my eye on the _known qualities_ of objects, i immediately discover that the relation of cause and effect depends not in the least on _them_. when i consider their _relations_, i can find none but those of contiguity and succession; which i have already regarded as imperfect and unsatisfactory. shall the despair of success make me assert, that i am here possessed of an idea, which is not preceded by any similar impression? this would be too strong a proof of levity and inconstancy; since the contrary principle has been already so firmly established, as to admit of no farther doubt; at least, till we have more fully examined the present difficulty. we must therefore proceed like those who, being in search of any thing that lies concealed from them, and not finding it in the place they expected, beat about all the neighbouring fields, without any certain view or design, in hopes their good fortune will at last guide them to what they search for. 'tis necessary for us to leave the direct survey of this question concerning the nature of that _necessary connexion_, which enters into our idea of cause and effect; and endeavour to find some other questions, the examination of which will perhaps afford a hint, that may serve to clear up the present difficulty. of these questions there occur two, which i shall proceed to examine, viz. first, for what reason we pronounce it _necessary_, that every thing whose existence has a beginning, should also have a cause? secondly, why we conclude, that such particular causes must _necessarily_ have such particular effects; and what is the nature of that _inference_ we draw from the one to the other, and of the _belief_ we repose in it? i shall only observe before i proceed any farther, that though the ideas of cause and effect be derived from the impressions of reflection as well as from those of sensation, yet for brevity's sake, i commonly mention only the latter as the origin of these ideas; though i desire that, whatever i say of them, may also extend to the former. passions are connected with their objects and with one another; no less than external bodies are connected together. the same relation then of cause and effect, which belongs to one, must be common to all of them. [ ] part iv. sect . section iii. why a cause is always necessary. to begin with the first question concerning the necessity of a cause: 'tis a general maxim in philosophy, that _whatever begins to exist, must have a cause of existence_. this is commonly taken for granted in all reasonings, without any proof given or demanded. 'tis supposed to be founded on intuition, and to be one of those maxims which, though they may be denied with the lips, 'tis impossible for men in their hearts really to doubt of. but if we examine this maxim by the idea of knowledge above explained, we shall discover in it no mark of any such intuitive certainty; but on the contrary shall find, that 'tis of a nature quite foreign to that species of conviction. all certainty arises from the comparison of ideas, and from the discovery of such relations as are unalterable, so long as the ideas continue the same. these relations are _resemblance, proportions in quantity and number, degrees of any quality, and contrariety_; none of which are implied in this proposition, _whatever has a beginning has also a cause of existence_. that proposition therefore is not intuitively certain. at least any one, who would assert it to be intuitively certain, must deny these to be the only infallible relations, and must find some other relation of that kind to be implied in it; which it will then be time enough to examine. but here is an argument, which proves at once, that the foregoing proposition is neither intuitively nor demonstrably certain. we can never demonstrate the necessity of a cause to every new existence, or new modification of existence, without showing at the same time the impossibility there is, that any thing can ever begin to exist without some productive principle; and where the latter proposition cannot be proved, we must despair of ever being able to prove the former. now that the latter proposition is utterly incapable of a demonstrative proof, we may satisfy ourselves by considering, that as all distinct ideas are separable from each other, and as the ideas of cause and effect are evidently distinct, 'twill be easy for us to conceive any object to be non-existent this moment, and existent the next, without conjoining to it the distinct idea of a cause or productive principle. the separation therefore of the idea of a cause from that of a beginning of existence, is plainly possible for the imagination; and consequently the actual separation of these objects is so far possible, that it implies no contradiction nor absurdity; and is therefore incapable of being refuted by any reasoning from mere ideas, without which 'tis impossible to demonstrate the necessity of a cause. accordingly, we shall find upon examination, that every demonstration, which has been produced for the necessity of a cause, is fallacious and sophistical. all the points of time and place, say some philosophers,[ ] in which we can suppose any object to begin to exist, are in themselves equal; and unless there be some cause, which is peculiar to one time and to one place, and which by that means determines and fixes the existence, it must remain in eternal suspense; and the object can never begin to be, for want of something to fix its beginning. but i ask, is there any more difficulty in supposing the time and place to be fixed without a cause, than to suppose the existence to be determined in that manner! the first question that occurs on this subject is always, _whether_ the object shall exist or not: the next, _when_ and _where_ it shall begin to exist. if the removal of a cause be intuitively absurd in the one case, it must be so in the other: and if that absurdity be not clear without a proof in the one case, it will equally require one in the other. the absurdity then of the one supposition can never be a proof of that of the other; since they are both upon the same footing, and must stand or fall by the same reasoning. the second argument,[ ] which i find used on this head, labours under an equal difficulty. every thing, 'tis said, must have a cause; for if any thing wanted a cause, _it_ would produce _itself_, that is, exist before it existed, which is impossible. but this reasoning is plainly unconclusive; because it supposes that, in our denial of a cause, we still grant what we expressly deny, viz. that there must be a cause; which therefore is taken to be the object itself; and _that_, no doubt, is an evident contradiction. but to say that any thing is produced, or, to express myself more properly, comes into existence, without a cause, is not to affirm that 'tis itself its own cause; but, on the contrary, in excluding all external causes, excludes _a fortiori_ the thing itself which is created. an object that exists absolutely without any cause, certainly is not its own cause; and when you assert, that the one follows from the other, you suppose the very point in question, and take it for granted, that 'tis utterly impossible any thing can ever begin to exist without a cause, but that, upon the exclusion of one productive principle, we must still have recourse to another. 'tis exactly the same case with the third argument,[ ] which has been employed to demonstrate the necessity of a cause. whatever is produced without any cause, is produced by _nothing_; or, in other words, has nothing for its cause. but nothing can never be a cause, no more than it can be something, or equal to two right angles. by the same intuition, that we perceive nothing not to be equal to two right angles, or not to be something, we perceive, that it can never be a cause; and consequently must perceive, that every object has a real cause of its existence. i believe it will not be necessary to employ many words in showing the weakness of this argument, after what i have said of the foregoing. they are all of them founded on the same fallacy, and are derived from the same turn of thought. 'tis sufficient only to observe, that when we exclude all causes we really do exclude them, and neither suppose nothing nor the object itself to be the causes of the existence; and consequently can draw no argument from the absurdity of these suppositions to prove the absurdity of that exclusion. if every thing must have a cause, it follows, that, upon the exclusion of other causes, we must accept of the object itself or of nothing as causes. but 'tis the very point in question, whether every thing must have a cause or not; and therefore, according to all just reasoning, it ought never to be taken for granted. they are still more frivolous who say, that every effect must have a cause, because 'tis implied in the very idea of effect. every effect necessarily presupposes a cause; effect being a relative term, of which cause is a correlative. but this does not prove that every being must be preceded by a cause; no more than it follows, because every husband must have a wife, that therefore every man must be married. the true state of the question is, whether every object which begins to exist, must owe its existence to a cause; and this i assert neither to be intuitively nor demonstratively certain, and hope to have proved it sufficiently by the foregoing arguments. since it is not from knowledge or any scientific reasoning, that we derive the opinion of the necessity of a cause to every new production, that opinion must necessarily arise from observation and experience. the next question, then, should naturally be, _how experience gives rise to such a principle_? but as i find it will be more convenient to sink this question in the following, _why we conclude, that such particular causes must necessarily have such particular effects, and why we form an inference from one to another_? we shall make that the subject of our future inquiry. 'twill, perhaps, be found in the end, that the same answer will serve for both questions. [ ] mr hobbes. [ ] dr clarke and others. [ ] mr locke. section iv. of the component parts of our reasonings concerning cause and effect. though the mind in its reasonings from causes or effects, carries its view beyond those objects which it sees or remembers, it must never lose sight of them entirely, nor reason merely upon its own ideas, without some mixture of impressions, or at least of ideas of the memory, which are equivalent to impressions. when we infer effects from causes, we must establish the existence of these causes; which we have only two ways of doing, either by an immediate perception of our memory or senses, or by an inference from other causes; which causes again we must ascertain in the same manner, either by a present impression or by an inference from _their_ causes, and so on, till we arrive at some object, which we see or remember. 'tis impossible for us to carry on our inferences _in infinitum_; and the only thing that can stop them, is an impression of the memory or senses, beyond which there is no room for doubt or inquiry. to give an instance of this, we may choose any point of history, and consider for what reason we either believe or reject it. thus, we believe that cæsar was killed in the senate-house on the _ides_ of _march_, and that because this fact is established on the unanimous testimony of historians, who agree to assign this precise time and place to that event. here are certain characters and letters present either to our memory or senses; which characters we likewise remember to have been used as the signs of certain ideas: and these ideas were either in the minds of such as were immediately present at that action, and received the ideas directly from its existence; or they were derived from the testimony of others, and that again from another testimony, by a visible gradation, till we arrive at those who were eye-witnesses and spectators of the event. 'tis obvious all this chain of argument or connexion of causes and effects, is at first founded on those characters or letters, which are seen or remembered, and that without the authority either of the memory or senses, our whole reasoning would be chimerical and without foundation. every link of the chain would in that case hang upon another; but there would not be any thing fixed to one end of it, capable of sustaining the whole; and consequently there would be no belief nor evidence. and this actually is the case with all _hypothetical_ arguments, or reasonings upon a supposition; there being in them neither any present impression, nor belief of a real existence. i need not observe, that 'tis no just objection to the present doctrine, that we can reason upon our past conclusions or principles, without having recourse to those impressions, from which they first arose. for even supposing these impressions should be entirely effaced from the memory, the conviction they produced may still remain; and 'tis equally true, that all reasonings concerning causes and effects are originally derived from some impression; in the same manner, as the assurance of a demonstration proceeds always from a comparison of ideas, though it may continue after the comparison is forgot. section v. of the impressions of the senses and memory. in this kind of reasoning, then, from causation, we employ materials, which are of a mixed and heterogeneous nature, and which, however connected, are yet essentially different from each other. all our arguments concerning causes and effects consist both of an impression of the memory or senses, and of the idea of that existence, which produces the object of the impression, or is produced by it. here, therefore, we have three things to explain, viz. _first_, the original impression. _secondly_, the transition to the idea of the connected cause or effect. _thirdly_, the nature and qualities of that idea. as to those _impressions_, which arise from the _senses_, their ultimate cause is, in my opinion, perfectly inexplicable by human reason, and 'twill always be impossible to decide with certainty, whether they arise immediately from the object, or are produced by the creative power of the mind, or are derived from the author of our being. nor is such a question any way material to our present purpose. we may draw inferences from the coherence of our perceptions, whether they be true or false; whether they represent nature justly, or be mere illusions of the senses. when we search for the characteristic, which distinguishes the _memory_ from the imagination, we must immediately perceive, that it cannot lie in the simple ideas it presents to us; since both these faculties borrow their simple ideas from the impressions, and can never go beyond these original perceptions. these faculties are as little distinguished from each other by the arrangement of their complex ideas. for, though it be a peculiar property of the memory to preserve the original order and position of its ideas, while the imagination transposes and changes them as it pleases; yet this difference is not sufficient to distinguish them in their operation, or make us know the one from the other; it being impossible to recal the past impressions, in order to compare them with our present ideas, and see whether their arrangement be exactly similar. since therefore the memory is known, neither by the order of its _complex_ ideas, nor the nature of its _simple_ ones; it follows, that the difference betwixt it and the imagination lies in its superior force and vivacity. a man may indulge his fancy in feigning any past scene of adventures; nor would there be any possibility of distinguishing this from a remembrance of a like kind, were not the ideas of the imagination fainter and more obscure. it frequently happens, that when two men have been engaged in any scene of action, the one shall remember it much better than the other, and shall have all the difficulty in the world to make his companion recollect it. he runs over several circumstances in vain; mentions the time, the place, the company, what was said, what was done on all sides; till at last he hits on some lucky circumstance, that revives the whole, and gives his friend a perfect memory of every thing. here the person that forgets, receives at first all the ideas from the discourse of the other, with the same circumstances of time and place; though he considers them as mere fictions of the imagination. but as soon as the circumstance is mentioned that touches the memory, the very same ideas now appear in a new light, and have, in a manner, a different feeling from what they had before. without any other alteration, beside that of the feeling, they become immediately ideas of the memory, and are assented to. since therefore the imagination can represent all the same objects that the memory can offer to us, and since those faculties are only distinguished by the different _feeling_ of the ideas they present, it may be proper to consider what is the nature of that feeling. and here i believe every one will readily agree with me, that the ideas of the memory are more _strong_ and _lively_ than those of the fancy. a painter, who intended to represent a passion or emotion of any kind, would endeavour to get a sight of a person actuated by a like emotion, in order to enliven his ideas, and give them a force and vivacity superior to what is found in those, which are mere fictions of the imagination. the more recent this memory is, the clearer is the idea; and when, after a long interval, he would return to the contemplation of his object, he always finds its idea to be much decayed, if not, wholly obliterated. we are frequently in doubt concerning the ideas of the memory, as they become very weak and feeble; and are at a loss to determine whether any image proceeds from the fancy or the memory, when it is not drawn in such lively colours as distinguish that latter faculty. i think i remember such an event, says one; but am not sure. a long tract of time has almost worn it out of my memory, and leaves me uncertain whether or not it be the pure offspring of my fancy. and as an idea of the memory, by losing its force and vivacity, may degenerate to such a degree, as to be taken for an idea of the imagination; so, on the other of hand, an idea of the imagination may acquire such a and force and vivacity, as to pass for an idea of the memory, and counterfeit its effects on the belief and judgment. this is noted in the case of liars; who by the frequent repetition of their lies, come at last to believe and remember them, as realities; custom and habit having, in this case, as in many others, the same influence on the mind as nature, and infixing the idea with equal force and vigour. thus it appears, that the _belief_ or _assent_, which always attends the memory and senses, is nothing but the vivacity of those perceptions they present; and that this alone distinguishes them from the imagination. to believe is in this case to feel an immediate impression of the senses, or a repetition of that impression in the memory. 'tis merely the force and liveliness of the perception, which constitutes the first act of the judgment, and lays the foundation of that reasoning, which we build upon it, when we trace the relation of cause and effect. section vi. of the inference from the impression to the idea. 'tis easy to observe, that in tracing this relation, the inference we draw from cause to effect, is not derived merely from a survey of these particular objects, and from such a penetration into their essences as may discover the dependence of the one upon the other. there is no object which implies the existence of any other, if we consider these objects in themselves, and never look beyond the ideas which we form of them. such an inference would amount to knowledge, and would imply the absolute contradiction and impossibility of conceiving any thing different. but as all distinct ideas are separable, 'tis evident there can be no impossibility of that kind. when we pass from a present impression to the idea of any object, we might possibly have separated the idea from the impression, and have substituted any other idea in its room. 'tis therefore by _experience_ only that we can infer the existence of one object from that of another. the nature of experience is this. we remember to have had frequent instances of the existence of one species of objects; and also remember, that the individuals of another species of objects have always attended them, and have existed in a regular order of contiguity and succession with regard to them. thus we remember to have seen that species of object we call _fame_, and to have felt that species of sensation we call _heat_. we likewise call to mind their constant conjunction in all past instances. without any farther ceremony, we call the one _cause_, and the other _effect_, and infer the existence of the one from that of the other. in all those instances from which we learn the conjunction of particular causes and effects, both the causes and effects have been perceived by the senses, and are remembered: but in all cases, wherein we reason concerning them, there is only one perceived or remembered, and the other is supplied in conformity to our past experience. thus, in advancing, we have insensibly discovered a new relation betwixt cause and effect when we least expected it, and were entirely employed upon another subject. this relation is their _constant conjunction_. contiguity and succession are not sufficient to make us pronounce any two objects to be cause and effect, unless we perceive that these two relations are preserved in several instances. we may now see the advantage of quitting the direct survey of this relation, in order to discover the nature of that _necessary connexion_ which makes so essential a part of it. there are hopes, that by this means we may at last arrive at our proposed end; though, to tell the truth, this new-discovered relation of a constant conjunction seems to advance us but very little in our way. for it implies no more than this, that like objects have always been placed in like relations of contiguity and succession; and it seems evident, at least at first sight, that by this means we can never discover any new idea, and can only multiply, but not enlarge, the objects of our mind. it may be thought, that what we learn not from one object, we can never learn from a hundred, which are all of the same kind, and are perfectly resembling in every circumstance. as our senses show us in one instance two bodies, or motions, or qualities in certain relations of succession and contiguity, so our memory presents us only with a multitude of instances wherein we always find like bodies, motions, or qualities, in like relations. from the mere repetition of any past impression, even to infinity, there never will arise any new original idea, such as that of a necessary connexion; and the number of impressions has in this case no more effect than if we confined ourselves to one only. but though this reasoning seems just and obvious, yet, as it would be folly to despair too soon, we shall continue the thread of our discourse; and having found, that after the discovery of the constant conjunction of any objects, we always draw an inference from one object to another, we shall now examine the nature of that inference, and of the transition from the impression to the idea. perhaps 'twill appear in the end, that the necessary connexion depends on the inference, instead of the inference's depending on the necessary connexion. since it appears, that the transition from an impression present to the memory or senses to the idea of an object, which we call cause or effect, is founded on past _experience_, and on our remembrance of their _constant conjunction_, the next question is, whether experience produces the idea by means of the understanding or imagination; whether we are determined by reason to make the transition, or by a certain association and relation of perceptions. if reason determined us, it would proceed upon that principle, _that instances, of which we have had no experience, must resemble those of which we have had experience, and that the course of nature continues always uniformly the same._ in order, therefore, to clear up this matter, let us consider all the arguments upon which such a proposition may be supposed to be founded; and as these must be derived either from _knowledge_ or _probability_, let us cast our eye on each of these degrees of evidence, and see whether they afford any just conclusion of this nature. our foregoing method of reasoning will easily convince us, that there can be no _demonstrative_ arguments to prove, _that those instances of which we have had no experience resemble those of which we have had experience_. we can at least conceive a change in the course of nature; which sufficiently proves that such a change is not absolutely impossible. to form a clear idea of any thing is an undeniable argument for its possibility, and is alone a refutation of any pretended demonstration against it. probability, as it discovers not the relations of ideas, considered as such, but only those of objects, must in some respects be founded on the impressions of our memory and senses, and in some respects on our ideas. were there no mixture of any impression in our probable reasonings, the conclusion would be entirely chimerical: and were there no mixture of ideas, the action of the mind, in observing the relation, would, properly speaking, be sensation, not reasoning. 'tis therefore necessary, that in all probable reasonings there be something present to the mind, either seen or remembered; and that from this we infer something connected with it, which is not seen nor remembered. the only connexion or relation of objects, which can lead us beyond the immediate impressions of our memory and senses, is that of cause and effect; and that because 'tis the only one, on which we can found a just inference from one object to another. the idea of cause and effect is derived from _experience_, which informs us, that such particular objects, in all past instances, have been constantly conjoined with each other: and as an object similar to one of these is supposed to be immediately present in its impression, we thence presume on the existence of one similar to its usual attendant. according to this account of things, which is, i think, in every point unquestionable, probability is founded on the presumption of a resemblance betwixt those objects of which we have had experience, and those of which we have had none; and therefore 'tis impossible this presumption can arise from probability. the same principle cannot be both the cause and effect of another; and this is, perhaps, the only proposition concerning that relation, which is either intuitively or demonstratively certain. should any one think to elude this argument; and without determining whether our reasoning on this subject be derived from demonstration or probability, pretend that all conclusions from causes and effects are built on solid reasoning: i can only desire that this reasoning may be produced, in order to be exposed to our examination. it may perhaps be said, that after experience of the constant conjunction of certain objects, we reason in the following manner. such an object is always found to produce another. 'tis impossible it could have this effect, if it was not endowed with a power of production. the power necessarily implies the effect; and therefore there is a just foundation for drawing a conclusion from the existence of one object to that of its usual attendant. the past production implies a power: the power implies a new production: and the new production is what we infer from the power and the past production. 'twere easy for me to show the weakness of this reasoning, were i willing to make use of those observations i have already made, that the idea of _production_ is the same with that of _causation_, and that no existence certainly and demonstratively implies a power in any other object; or were it proper to anticipate what i shall have occasion to remark afterwards concerning the idea we form of _power_ and _efficacy_. but as such a method of proceeding may seem either to weaken my system, by resting one part of it on another, or to breed a confusion in my reasoning, i shall endeavour to maintain my present assertion without any such assistance. it shall therefore be allowed for at moment, that the production of one object by another in any one instance implies a power; and that this power is connected with its effect. but it having been already proved, that the power lies not in the sensible qualities of the cause; and there being nothing but the sensible qualities present to us; i ask, why in other instances you presume that the same power still exists, merely upon the appearance of these qualities? your appeal to past experience decides nothing in the present case; and at the utmost can only prove, that that very object, which produced any other, was at that very instant endowed with such a power; but can never prove, that the same power must continue in the same object or collection of sensible qualities; much less, that a like power is always conjoined with like sensible qualities. should it be said, that we have experience, that the same power continues united with the same object, and that like objects are endowed with like powers, i would renew my question, _why from this experience we form any conclusion beyond those past instances, of which we have had experience_? if you answer this question in the same manner as the preceding, your answer gives still occasion to a new question of the same kind, even _in infinitum_; which clearly proves, that the foregoing reasoning had no just foundation. thus, not only our reason fails us in the discovery of the _ultimate connexion_ of causes and effects, but even after experience has informed us of their _constant conjunction_, 'tis impossible for us to satisfy ourselves by our reason, why we should extend that experience beyond those particular instances which have fallen under our observation. we suppose, but are never able to prove, that there must be a resemblance betwixt those objects, of which we have had experience, and those which lie beyond the reach of our discovery. we have already taken notice of certain relations, which make us pass from one object to another, even though there be no reason to determine us to that transition; and this we may establish for a general rule, that wherever the mind constantly and uniformly makes a transition without any reason, it is influenced by these relations. now, this is exactly the present case. reason can never show us the connexion of one object with another, though aided by experience, and the observation of their constant conjunction in all past instances. when the mind therefore passes from the idea or impression of one object to the idea or belief of another, it is not determined by reason, but by certain principles, which associate together the ideas of these objects, and unite them in the imagination. had ideas no more union in the fancy, than objects seem to have to the understanding, we could never draw any inference from causes to effects, nor repose belief in any matter of fact. the inference therefore depends solely on the union of ideas. the principles of union among ideas, i have reduced to three general ones, and have asserted, that the idea or impression of any object naturally introduces the idea of any other object, that is resembling, contiguous to, or connected with it. these principles i allow to be neither the _infallible_ nor the _sole_ causes of an union among ideas. they are not the infallible causes. for one may fix his attention during some time on any one object without looking farther. they are not the sole causes. for the thought has evidently a very irregular motion in running along its objects, and may leap from the heavens to the earth, from one end of the creation to the other, without any certain method or order. but though i allow this weakness in these three relations, and this irregularity in the imagination; yet i assert, that the only _general_ principles which associate ideas, are resemblance, contiguity, and causation. there is indeed a principle of union among ideas, which at first sight may be esteemed different from any of these, but will be found at the bottom to depend on the same origin. when every individual of any species of objects is found by experience to be constantly united with an individual of another species, the appearance of any new individual of either species naturally conveys the thought to its usual attendant. thus, because such a particular idea is commonly annexed to such a particular word, nothing is required but the hearing of that word to produce the correspondent idea; and 'twill scarce be possible for the mind, by its utmost efforts, to prevent that transition. in this case it is not absolutely necessary, that upon hearing such a particular sound, we should reflect on any past experience, and consider what idea has been usually connected with the sound. the imagination of itself supplies the place of this reflection, and is so accustomed to pass from the word to the idea, that it interposes not a moment's delay betwixt the hearing of the one, and the conception of the other. but though i acknowledge this to be a true principle of association among ideas, i assert it to be the very same with that betwixt the ideas of cause and effect, and to be an essential part in all our reasonings from that relation. we have no other notion of cause and effect, but that of certain objects, which have been _always conjoined_ together, and which in all past instances have been found inseparable. we cannot penetrate into the reason of the conjunction. we only observe the thing itself, and always find that, from the constant conjunction, the objects acquire an union in the imagination. when the impression of one becomes present to us, we immediately form an idea of its usual attendant; and consequently we may establish this as one part of the definition of an opinion or belief, that 'tis _an idea related to or associated with a present impression_. thus, though causation be a _philosophical_ relation, as implying contiguity, succession, and constant conjunction, yet 'tis only so far as it is a _natural_ relation, and produces an union among our ideas, that we are able to reason upon it, or draw any inference from it. section vii. of the nature of the idea or belief. the idea of an object is an essential part of the belief of it, but not the whole. we conceive many things which we do not believe. in order then to discover more fully the nature of belief, or the qualities of those ideas we assent to, let us weigh the following considerations. 'tis evident, that all reasonings from causes or effects terminate in conclusions concerning matter of fact; that is, concerning the existence of objects or of their qualities. 'tis also evident, that the idea of existence is nothing different from the idea of any object, and that when after the simple conception of any thing we would conceive it as existent, we in reality make no addition to or alteration on our first idea. thus, when we affirm that god is existent, we simply form the idea of such a being as he is represented to us: nor is the existence, which we attribute to him, conceived by a particular idea, which we join to the idea of his other qualities, and can again separate and distinguish from them. but i go farther; and, not content with asserting, that the conception of the existence of any object is no addition to the simple conception of it, i likewise maintain, that the belief of the existence joins no new ideas to those, which compose the idea of the object. when i think of god, when i think of him as existent, and when i believe him to be existent, my idea of him neither increases nor diminishes. but as 'tis certain there is a great difference betwixt the simple conception of the existence of an object, and the belief of it, and as this difference lies not in the parts or composition of the idea which we conceive; it follows, that it must lie in the _manner_ in which we conceive it. suppose a person present with me, who advances propositions, to which i do not assent, _that cæsar died in his bed, that silver is more fusible than lead, or mercury heavier than gold_; 'tis evident that, notwithstanding my incredulity, i clearly understand his meaning, and form all the same ideas which he forms. my imagination is endowed with the same powers as his; nor is it possible for him to conceive any idea, which i cannot conceive; or conjoin any, which i cannot conjoin. i therefore ask, wherein consists the difference betwixt believing and disbelieving any proposition? the answer is easy with regard to propositions, that are proved by intuition or demonstration. in that case, the person who assents not only conceives the ideas according to the proposition, but is necessarily determined to conceive them in that particular manner, either immediately, or by the interposition of other ideas. whatever is absurd is unintelligible; nor is it possible for the imagination to conceive any thing contrary to a demonstration. but as, in reasonings from causation, and concerning matters of fact, this absolute necessity cannot take place, and the imagination is free to conceive both sides of the question, i still ask, _wherein consists the difference betwixt incredulity and belief_? since in both cases the conception of the idea is equally possible and requisite. 'twill not be a satisfactory answer to say, that & person, who does not assent to a proposition you advance; after having conceived the object in the same manner with you, immediately conceives it in a different manner, and has different ideas of it. this answer is unsatisfactory; not because it contains any falsehood, but because it discovers not all the truth. 'tis confessed that, in all cases wherein we dissent from any person, we conceive both sides of the question; but as we can believe only one, it evidently follows, that the belief must make some difference betwixt that conception to which we assent, and that from which we dissent. we may mingle, and unite, and separate, and confound, and vary our ideas in a hundred different ways; but 'till there appears some principle, which fixes one of these different situations, we have in reality no opinion: and this principle, as it plainly makes no addition to our precedent ideas, can only change the _manner_ of our conceiving them. all the perceptions of the mind are of two kinds, viz. impressions and ideas, which differ from each other only in their different degrees of force and vivacity. our ideas are copied from our impressions, and represent them in all their parts. when you would any way vary the idea of a particular object, you can only increase or diminish its force and vivacity. if you make any other change on it, it represents a different object or impression. the case is the same as in colours. a particular shade of any colour may acquire a new degree of liveliness or brightness without any other variation. but when you produce any other variation, 'tis no longer the same shade or colour; so that as belief does nothing but vary the manner in which we conceive any object, it can only bestow on our ideas an additional force and vivacity. an opinion therefore or belief may be most accurately defined, _a lively idea related to or associated with a present impression_.[ ] here are the heads of those arguments, which lead us to this conclusion. when we infer the existence of an object from that of others, some object must always be present either to the memory or senses, in order to be the foundation of our reasoning; since the mind cannot run up with its inferences _in infinitum_. reason can never satisfy us that the existence of any one object does ever imply that of another; so that when we pass from the impression of one to the idea or belief of another, we are not determined by reason, but by custom, or a principle of association. but belief is somewhat more than a simple idea. 'tis a particular manner of forming an idea: and as the same idea can only be varied by a variation of its degrees of force and vivacity; it follows upon the whole, that belief is a lively idea produced by a relation to a present impression, according to the foregoing definition. this operation of the mind, which forms the belief of any matter of fact, seems hitherto to have been one of the greatest mysteries of philosophy; though no one has so much as suspected, that there was any difficulty in explaining it. for my part, i must own, that i find a considerable difficulty in the case; and that even when i think i understand the subject perfectly, i am at a loss for terms to express my meaning. i conclude, by an induction which seems to me very evident, that an opinion or belief is nothing but an idea, that is different from a fiction, not in the nature, or the order of its parts, but in the _manner_ of its being conceived. but when i would explain this _manner_, i scarce find any word that fully answers the case, but am obliged to have recourse to every one's feeling, in order to give him a perfect notion of this operation of the mind. an idea assented to _feels_ different from a fictitious idea, that the fancy alone presents to us: and this different feeling i endeavour to explain by calling it a superior _force_, or _vivacity_, or _solidity_, or _steadiness_. this variety of terms, which may seem so unphilosophical, is intended only to express that act of the mind, which renders realities more present to us than fictions, causes them to weigh more in the thought, and gives them a superior influence on the passions and imagination. provided we agree about the thing, 'tis needless to dispute about the terms. the imagination has the command over all its ideas, and can join, and mix, and vary them in all the ways possible. it may conceive objects with all the circumstances of place and time. it may set them, in a manner, before our eyes in their true colours, just as they might have existed. but as it is impossible that that faculty can ever of itself reach belief; 'tis evident, that belief consists not in the nature and order of our ideas, but in the manner of their conception, and in their feeling to the mind. i confess, that 'tis impossible to explain perfectly this feeling or manner of conception. we may make use of words that express something near it. but its true and proper name is _belief_, which is a term that every one sufficiently understands in common life. and in philosophy, we can go no farther than assert, that it is something _felt_ by the mind, which distinguishes the ideas of the judgment from the fictions of the imagination. it gives them more force and influence; makes them appear of greater importance; infixes them in the mind; and renders them the governing principles of all our actions. this definition will also be found to be entirely conformable to every one's feeling and experience. nothing is more evident, than that those ideas, to which we assent, are more strong, firm, and vivid, than the loose reveries of a castle-builder. if one person sits down to read a book as a romance, and another as a true history, they plainly receive the same ideas, and in the same order; nor does the incredulity of the one, and the belief of the other, hinder them from putting the very same sense upon their author. his words produce the same ideas in both; though his testimony has not the same influence on them. the latter has a more lively conception of all the incidents. he enters deeper into the concerns of the persons: represents to himself their actions, and characters, and friendships, and enmities: he even goes so far as to form a notion of their features, and air, and person. while the former, who gives no credit to the testimony of the author, has a more faint and languid conception of all these particulars, and, except on account of the style and ingenuity of the composition, can receive little entertainment from it. [ ] we may here take occasion to observe a very remarkable error, which, being frequently inculcated in the schools, has become a kind of established maxim, and is universally received by all logicians. this error consists in the vulgar division of the acts of the understanding into _conception, judgment_ and _reasoning_, and in the definitions we give of them. conception is defined to be the simple survey of one or more ideas: judgment to be the separating or uniting of different ideas: reasoning to be the separating or uniting of different ideas by the interposition of others, which show the relation they bear to each other. but these distinctions and definitions are faulty in very considerable articles. for, _first_,'tis far from being true, that, in every judgment which we form, we unite two different ideas; since in that proposition, _god is_, or indeed any other, which regards existence, the idea of existence is no distinct idea, which we unite with that of the object, and which is capable of forming a compound idea by the union. _secondly_, as we can thus form a proposition, which contains only one idea, so we may exert our reason without employing more than two ideas, and without having recourse to a third to serve as a medium betwixt them. we infer a cause immediately from its effect; and this inference is not only a true species of reasoning, but the strongest of all others, and more convincing than when we interpose another idea to connect the two extremes. what we may in general affirm concerning these three acts of the understanding is, that taking them in a proper light, they all resolve themselves into the first, and are nothing but particular ways of conceiving our objects. whether we consider a single object, or several; whether we dwell on these objects, or run from them to others; and in whatever form or order we survey them, the act of the mind exceeds not a simple conception; and the only remarkable difference, which occurs on this occasion, is, when we join belief to the conception, and are persuaded of the truth of what we conceive. this act of the mind has never yet been explained by any philosopher; and therefore i am at liberty to propose my hypothesis concerning it; which is, that 'tis only a strong and steady conception of any idea, and such as approaches in some measure to an immediate impression. section viii. of the causes of belief. having thus explained the nature of belief, and shown that it consists in a lively idea related to a present impression; let us now proceed to examine from what principles it is derived, and what bestows the vivacity on the idea. i would willingly establish it as a general maxim in the science of human nature, _that when any impression becomes present to us, it not only transports the mind to such ideas as are related to it, but likewise communicates to them a share of its force and vivacity_. all the operations of the mind depend, in a great measure, on its disposition when it performs them; and according as the spirits are more or less elevated, and the attention more or less fixed, the action will always have more or less vigour and vivacity. when, therefore, any object is presented which elevates and enlivens the thought, every action, to which the mind applies itself, will be more strong and vivid, as long as that disposition continues. now, 'tis evident the continuance of the disposition depends entirely on the objects about which the mind is employed; and that any new object naturally gives a new direction to the spirits, and changes the disposition; as on the contrary, when the mind fixes constantly on the same object, or passes easily and insensibly along related objects, the disposition has a much longer duration. hence it happens, that when the mind is once enlivened by a present impression, it proceeds to form a more lively idea of the related objects, by a natural transition of the disposition from the one to the other. the change of the objects is so easy, that the mind is scarce sensible of it, but applies itself to the conception of the related idea with all the force and vivacity it acquired from the present impression. if, in considering the nature of relation, and that facility of transition which is essential to it, we can satisfy ourselves concerning the reality of this phenomenon, 'tis well: but i must confess i place my chief confidence in experience to prove so material a principle. we may therefore observe, as the first experiment to our present purpose, that upon the appearance of the picture of an absent friend, our idea of him is evidently enlivened by the _resemblance_, and that every passion, which that idea occasions, whether of joy or sorrow, acquires new force and vigour. in producing this effect there concur both a relation and a present impression. where the picture bears him no resemblance, or at least was not intended for him, it never so much as conveys our thought to him: and where it is absent as well as the person; though the mind may pass from the thought of the one to that of the other; it feels its idea to be rather weakened than enlivened by that transition. we take a pleasure in viewing the picture of a friend, when 'tis set before us; but when 'tis removed, rather choose to consider him directly, than by reflection in an image, which is equally distant and obscure. the ceremonies of the roman catholic religion may be considered as experiments of the same nature. the devotees of that strange superstition usually plead in excuse of the mummeries with which they are up-braided, that they feel the good effect of those external motions, and postures and actions, in enlivening their devotion, and quickening their fervour, which otherwise would decay away, if directed entirely to distant and immaterial objects. we shadow out the objects of our faith, say they, in sensible types and images, and render them more present to us by the immediate presence of these types, than 'tis possible for us to do, merely by an intellectual view and contemplation. sensible objects have always a greater influence on the fancy than any other; and this influence they readily convey to those ideas to which they are related, and which they resemble. i shall only infer from these practices, and this reasoning, that the effect of resemblance in enlivening the idea is very common; and as in every case a resemblance and a present impression must concur, we are abundantly supplied with experiments to prove the reality of the foregoing principle. we may add force to these experiments by others of a different kind, in considering the effects of _contiguity_, as well as of _resemblance_.'tis certain that distance diminishes the force of every idea; and that, upon our approach to any object, though it does not discover itself to our senses, it operates upon the mind with an influence that imitates an immediate impression. the thinking on any object readily transports the mind to what is contiguous; but 'tis only the actual presence of an object, that transports it with a superior vivacity. when i am a few miles from home, whatever relates to it touches me more nearly than when i am two hundred leagues distant; though even at that distance the reflecting on any thing in the neighbourhood of my friends and family naturally produces an idea of them. but as in this latter case, both the objects of the mind are ideas; notwithstanding there is an easy transition betwixt them; that transition alone is not able to give a superior vivacity to any of the ideas, for want of some immediate impression.[ ] no one can doubt but causation has the same influence as the other two relations of resemblance and contiguity. superstitious people are fond of the relicks of saints and holy men, for the same reason that they seek after types and images, in order to enliven their devotion, and give them a more intimate and strong conception of those exemplary lives, which they desire to imitate. now, 'tis evident one of the best relicks a devotee could procure would be the handy-work of a saint; and if his clothes and furniture are ever to be considered in this light, 'tis because they were once at his disposal, and were moved and affected by him; in which respect they are to be considered as imperfect effects, and as connected with him by a shorter chain of consequences than any of those, from which we learn the reality of his existence. this phenomenon clearly proves, that a present impression with a relation of causation may enliven any idea, and consequently produce belief or assent, according to the precedent definition of it. but why need we seek for other arguments to prove, that a present impression with a relation or transition of the fancy may enliven any idea, when this very instance of our reasonings from cause and effect will alone suffice to that purpose? 'tis certain we must have an idea of every matter of fact which we believe. 'tis certain that this idea arises only from a relation to a present impression. 'tis certain that the belief superadds nothing to the idea, but only changes our manner of conceiving it, and renders it more strong and lively. the present conclusion concerning the influence of relation is the immediate consequence of all these steps; and every step appears to me sure and infallible. there enters nothing into this operation of the mind but a present impression, a lively idea, and a relation or association in the fancy betwixt the impression and idea; so that there can be no suspicion of mistake. in order to put this whole affair in a fuller light, let us consider it as a question in natural philosophy, which we must determine by experience and observation. i suppose there is an object presented, from which i draw a certain conclusion, and form to myself ideas, which i am said to believe or assent to. here 'tis evident, that however that object, which is present to my senses, and that other, whose existence i infer by reasoning, may be thought to influence each other by their particular powers or qualities; yet as the phenomenon of belief, which we at present examine, is merely internal, these powers and qualities being entirely unknown, can have no hand in producing it. 'tis the present impression which is to be considered as the true and real cause of the idea, and of the belief which attends it. we must therefore endeavour to discover, by experiments, the particular qualities by which 'tis enabled to produce so extraordinary an effect. first then i observe, that the present impression has not this effect by its own proper power and efficacy, and, when considered alone as a single perception, limited to the present moment. i find that an impression, from which, on its first appearance, i can draw no conclusion, may afterwards become the foundation of belief, when i have had experience of its usual consequences. we must in every case have observed the same impression in past instances, and have found it to be constantly conjoined with some other impression. this is confirmed by such a multitude of experiments, that it admits not of the smallest doubt. from a second observation i conclude, that the belief which attends the present impression, and is produced by a number of past impressions and conjunctions; that this belief, i say, arises immediately, without any new operation of the reason or imagination. of this i can be certain, because i never am conscious of any such operation, and find nothing in the subject on which it can be founded. now, as we call every thing _custom_ which proceeds from a past repetition, without any new reasoning or conclusion, we may establish it as a certain truth, that all the belief, which follows upon any present impression, is derived solely from that origin. when we are accustomed to see two impressions conjoined together, the appearance or idea of the one immediately carries us to the idea of the other. being fully satisfied on this head, i make a third set of experiments, in order to know whether any thing be requisite, beside the customary transition, towards the production of this phenomenon of belief. i therefore change the first impression into an idea; and observe, that though the customary transition to the correlative idea still remains, yet there is in reality no belief nor persuasion. a present impression, then, is absolutely requisite to this whole operation; and when after this i compare an impression with an idea, and find that their only difference consists in their different degrees of force and vivacity, i conclude upon the whole, that belief is a more vivid and intense conception of an idea, proceeding from its relation to a present impression. thus, all probable reasoning is nothing but a species of sensation. 'tis not solely in poetry and music we must follow our taste and sentiment, but likewise in philosophy. when i am convinced of any principle, 'tis only an idea which strikes more strongly upon me. when i give the preference to one set of arguments above another, i do nothing but decide from my feeling concerning the superiority of their influence. objects have no discoverable connexion together; nor is it from any other principle but custom operating upon the imagination, that we can draw any inference from the appearance of one to the existence of another. 'twill here be worth our observation, that the past experience, on which all our judgments concerning cause and effect depend, may operate on our mind in such an insensible manner as never to be taken notice of, and may even in some measure be unknown to us. a person, who stops short in his journey upon meeting a river in his way, foresees the consequences of his proceeding forward; and his knowledge of these consequences is conveyed to him by past experience, which informs him of such certain conjunctions of causes and effects. but can we think, that on this occasion he reflects on any past experience, and calls to remembrance instances that he has seen or heard of, in order to discover the effects of water on animal bodies? no, surely; this is not the method, in which he proceeds in his reasoning. the idea of sinking is so closely connected with that of water, and the idea of suffocating with that of sinking, that the mind makes the transition without the assistance of the memory. the custom operates before we have time for reflection. the objects seem so inseparable, that we interpose not a moment's delay in passing from the one or the other. but as this transition proceeds from experience, and not from any primary connexion betwixt the ideas, we must necessarily acknowledge, that experience may produce a belief and a judgment of causes and effects by a separate operation, and without being once thought of. this removes all pretext, if there yet remains any, for asserting that the mind is convinced by reasoning of that principle, _that instances of which we have no experience, must necessarily resemble those of which we have_. for we here find, that the understanding or imagination can draw inferences from past experience, without reflecting on it; much more without forming any principle concerning it, or reasoning upon that principle. in general we may observe, that in all the most established and uniform conjunctions of causes and effects, such as those of gravity, impulse, solidity, &c. the mind never carries its view expressly to consider any past experience: though in other associations of objects, which are more rare and unusual, it may assist the custom and transition of ideas by this reflection. nay we find in some cases, that the reflection produces the belief without the custom; or, more properly speaking, that the reflection produces the custom in an _oblique_ and _artificial_ manner. i explain myself. 'tis certain, that not only in philosophy, but even in common life, we may attain the knowledge of a particular cause merely by one experiment, provided it be made with judgment, and after a careful removal of all foreign and superfluous circumstances. now, as after one experiment of this kind, the mind, upon the appearance either of the cause or the effect, can draw an inference concerning the existence of its correlative, and as a habit can never be acquired merely by one instance, it may be thought that belief cannot in this case be esteemed the effect of custom. but this difficulty will vanish, if we consider, that, though we are here supposed to have had only one experiment of a particular effect, yet we have many millions to convince us of this principle, _that like objects, placed in like circumstances, will always produce like effects_; and as this principle has established itself by a sufficient custom, it bestows an evidence and firmness on any opinion to which it can be applied. the connexion of the ideas is not habitual after one experiment; but this connexion is comprehended under another principle that is habitual; which brings us back to our hypothesis. in all cases we transfer our experience to instances of which we have no experience, either _expressly_ or _tacitly_, either _directly_ or _indirectly_. i must not conclude this subject without observing, that 'tis very difficult to talk of the operations of the mind with perfect propriety and exactness; because common language has seldom made any very nice distinctions among them, but has generally called by the same term all such as nearly resemble each other. and as this is a source almost inevitable of obscurity and confusion in the author, so it may frequently give rise to doubts and objections in the reader, which otherwise he would never have dreamed of. thus, my general position, that an opinion or belief is _nothing but a strong and lively idea derived from a present impression related to it_, may be liable to the following objection, by reason of a little ambiguity in those words _strong_ and _lively_. it may be said, that not only an impression may give rise to reasoning, but that an idea may also have the same influence; especially upon my principle, _that all our ideas are derived from correspondent impressions_. for, suppose i form at present an idea, of which i have forgot the correspondent impression, i am able to conclude, from this idea, that such an impression did once exist; and as this conclusion is attended with belief, it may be asked, from whence are the qualities of force and vivacity derived which constitute this belief? and to this i answer very readily, _from the present idea_. for as this idea is not here considered as the representation of any absent object, but as a real perception in the mind, of which we are intimately conscious, it must be able to bestow, on whatever is related to it, the same quality, call it _firmness, or solidity, or force, or vivacity_, with which the mind reflects upon it, and is assured of its present existence. the idea here supplies the place of an impression, and is entirely the same, so far as regards our present purpose. upon the same principles we need not be surprised to hear of the remembrance of an idea; that is, of the idea of an idea, and of its force and vivacity superior to the loose conceptions of the imagination. in thinking of our past thoughts we not only delineate out the objects of which we were thinking, but also conceive the action of the mind in the meditation, that certain _je-ne-scai-quoi_, of which 'tis impossible to give any definition or description, but which every one sufficiently understands. when the memory offers an idea of this, and represents it as past, 'tis easily conceived how that idea may have more vigour and firmness than when we think of a past thought of which we have no remembrance. after this, any one will understand how we may form the idea of an impression and of an idea, and how we may believe the existence of an impression and of an idea. [ ] naturane nobis, inquit, datum dicam, an errore quodam, ut, cum ea loca videamus, in quibus memoria dignos viros acceperimus multum esse versatos, magis moveamur, quam siquando eorum ipsorum aut facta audiamus, aut scriptum aliquod legamus? velut ego nunc moveor. venit enim mihi platonis in mentem: quem accipimus prinum hîc disputare solitum: cujus etiam illi hortuli propinqui non memoriam solûm mihi afferunt, sed ipsum videntur in conspectu meo hic ponere. hîc speusippus, hic xenocrates, hic ejus auditor polemo; cujus ipsa illa sessio fuit, quam videamus. equidem etiam curiam nostram, hostiliam dico, non hanc novam, quæ mihi minor esse videtur postquam est major, solebam intuens scipionem, catonem, lælium, nostrum vero in primis avum cogitare. tanta vis admonitionis inest in locis; ut non sine causa ex his memoriæ ducta sit diciplina.--_cicero de finibus, lib. ._ section ix. of the effects of other relations and other habits. however convincing the foregoing arguments may appear, we must not rest contented with them, but must turn the subject on every side, in order to find some new points of view, from which we may illustrate and confirm such extraordinary and such fundamental principles. a scrupulous hesitation to receive any new hypothesis is so laudable a disposition in philosophers, and so necessary to the examination of truth, that it deserves to be complied with, and requires that every argument be produced which may tend to their satisfaction, and every objection removed which may stop them in their reasoning. i have often observed, that, beside cause and effect, the two relations of resemblance and contiguity are to be considered as associating principles of thought, and as capable of conveying the imagination from one idea to another. i have also observed, that when of two objects, connected together by any of these relations, one is immediately present to the memory or senses, not only the mind is conveyed to its co-relative by means of the associating principle, but likewise conceives it with an additional force and vigour, by the united operation of that principle, and of the present impression. all this i have observed, in order to confirm, by analogy, my explication of our judgments concerning cause and effect. but this very argument may perhaps be turned against me, and, instead of a confirmation of my hypothesis, may become an objection to it. for it may be said, that if all the parts of that hypothesis be true, viz. _that_ these three species of relation are derived from the same principles; _that_ their effects, in enforcing and enlivening our ideas, are the same; and _that_ belief is nothing but a more forcible and vivid conception of an idea; it should follow, that that action of the mind may not only be derived from the relation of cause and effect, but also from those of contiguity and resemblance. but as we find by experience that belief arises only from causation, and that we can draw no inference from one object to another, except they be connected by this relation, we may conclude, that there is some error in that reasoning which leads us into such difficulties. this is the objection: let us now consider its solution. 'tis evident, that whatever is present to the memory, striking upon the mind with a vivacity which resembles an immediate impression, must become of considerable moment in all the operations of the mind, and must easily distinguish itself above the mere fictions of the imagination. of these impressions or ideas of the memory we form a kind of system, comprehending whatever we remember to have been present, either to our internal perception or senses; and every particular of that system, joined to the present impressions, we are pleased to call a _reality_. but the mind stops not here. for finding, that with this system of perceptions there is another connected by custom, or, if you will, by the relation of cause or effect, it proceeds to the consideration of their ideas; and as it feels that 'tis in a manner necessarily determined to view these particular ideas, and that the custom or relation, by which it is determined, admits not of the least change, it forms them into a new system, which it likewise dignifies with the title of _realities_. the first of these systems is the object of the memory and senses; the second of the judgment. 'tis this latter principle which peoples the world, and brings us acquainted with such existences as, by their removal in time and place, lie beyond the reach of the senses and memory. by means of it i paint the universe in my imagination, and fix my attention on any part of it i please. i form an idea of rome, which i neither see nor remember, but which is connected with such impressions as i remember to have received from the conversation and books of travellers and historians. this idea of rome i place in a certain situation on the idea of an object which i call the globe. i join to it the conception of a particular government, and religion and manners. i look backward and consider its first foundation, its several revolutions, successes and misfortunes. all this, and every thing else which i believe, are nothing but ideas, though, by their force and settled order, arising from custom and the relation of cause and effect, they distinguish themselves from the other ideas, which are merely the offspring of the imagination. as to the influence of contiguity and resemblance, we may observe, that if the contiguous and resembling object be comprehended in this system of realities, there is no doubt but these two relations will assist that of cause and effect, and infix the related idea with more force in the imagination. this i shall enlarge upon presently. meanwhile i shall carry my observation a step farther, and assert, that even where the related object is but feigned, the relation will serve to enliven the idea, and increase its influence. a poet, no doubt, will be the better able to form a strong description of the elysian fields, that he prompts his imagination by the view of a beautiful meadow or garden; as at another time he may, by his fancy, place himself in the midst of these fabulous regions, that by the feigned contiguity he may enliven his imagination. but though i cannot altogether exclude the relations of resemblance and contiguity from operating on the fancy in this manner, 'tis observable that, when single, their influence is very feeble and uncertain. as the relation of cause and effect is requisite to persuade us of any real existence, so is this persuasion requisite to give force to these other relations. for where upon the appearance of an impression we not only feign another object, but likewise arbitrarily, and of our mere good-will and pleasure give it a particular relation to the impression, this can have but a small effect upon the mind; nor is there any reason, why, upon the return of the same impression, we should be determined to place the same object in the same relation to it. there is no manner of necessity for the mind to feign any resembling and contiguous objects; and if it feigns such, there is as little necessity for it always to confine itself to the same, without any difference or variation. and indeed such a fiction is founded on so little reason, that nothing but pure _caprice_ can determine the mind to form it; and that principle being fluctuating and uncertain, 'tis impossible it can ever operate with any considerable degree of force and constancy. the mind foresees and anticipates the change; and even from the very first instant feels the looseness of its actions, and the weak hold it has of its objects. and as this imperfection is very sensible in every single instance, it still increases by experience and observation, when we compare the several instances we may remember, and form a _general rule_ against the reposing any assurance in those momentary glimpses of light, which arise in the imagination from a feigned resemblance and contiguity. the relation of cause and effect has all the opposite advantages. the objects it presents are fixed and unalterable. the impressions of the memory never change in any considerable degree; and each impression draws along with it a precise idea, which takes its place in the imagination, as something solid and real, certain and invariable. the thought is always determined to pass from the impression to the idea, and from that particular impression to that particular idea, without any choice or hesitation. but not content with removing this objection, i shall endeavour to extract from it a proof of the present doctrine. contiguity and resemblance have an effect much inferior to causation; but still have some effect, and augment the conviction of any opinion, and the vivacity of any conception. if this can be proved in several new instances, beside what we have already observed, 'twill be allowed no inconsiderable argument, that belief is nothing but a lively idea related to a present impression. to begin with contiguity; it has been remarked among the mahometans as well as christians, that those _pilgrims_, who have seen mecca or the holy land are ever after more faithful and zealous believers, than those who have not had that advantage. a man, whose memory presents him with a lively image of the red sea, and the desert, and jerusalem, and galilee, can never doubt of any miraculous events, which are related either by moses or the evangelists. the lively idea of the places passes by an easy transition to the facts, which are supposed to have been related to them by contiguity, and increases the belief by increasing the vivacity of the conception. the remembrance of these fields and rivers has the same influence on the vulgar as a new argument, and from the same causes. we may form a like observation concerning _resemblance_. we have remarked, that the conclusion which we draw from a present object to its absent cause or effect, is never founded on any qualities which we observe in that object, considered in itself; or, in other words, that 'tis impossible to determine otherwise than by experience, what will result from any phenomenon, or what has preceded it. but though this be so evident in itself, that it seemed not to require any proof, yet some philosophers have imagined that there is an apparent cause for the communication of motion, and that a reasonable man might immediately infer the motion of one body from the impulse of another, without having recourse to any past observation. that this opinion is false will admit of an easy proof. for if such an inference may be drawn merely from the ideas of body, of motion, and of impulse, it must amount to a demonstration, and must imply the absolute impossibility of any contrary supposition. every effect, then, beside the communication of motion, implies a formal contradiction; and 'tis impossible not only that it can exist, but also that it can be conceived. but we may soon satisfy ourselves of the contrary, by forming a clear and consistent idea of one body's moving upon another, and of its rest immediately upon the contact; or of its returning back in the same line in which it came; or of its annihilation, or circular or elliptical motion: and in short, of an infinite number of other changes, which they may suppose it to undergo. these suppositions are all consistent and natural; and the reason why we imagine the communication of motion to be more consistent and natural, not only than those suppositions, but also than any other natural effect, is founded on the relation of _resemblance_ betwixt the cause and effect, which is here united to experience, and binds the objects in the closest and most intimate manner to each other, so as to make us imagine them to be absolutely inseparable. resemblance, then, has the same or a parallel influence with experience; and as the only immediate effect of experience is to associate our ideas together, it follows that all belief arises from the association of ideas, according to my hypothesis. 'tis universally allowed by the writers on optics, that the eye at all times sees an equal number of physical points, and that a man on the top of a mountain has no larger an image presented to his senses, than when he is cooped up in the narrowest court or chamber. 'tis only by experience that he infers the greatness of the object from some peculiar qualities of the image; and this inference of the judgment he confounds with sensation, as is common on other occasions. now 'tis evident, that the inference of the judgment is here much more lively than what is usual in our common reasonings, and that a man has a more vivid conception of the vast extent of the ocean from the image he receives by the eye, when he stands on the top of the high promontory, than merely from hearing the roaring of the waters. he feels a more sensible pleasure from its magnificence, which is a proof of a more lively idea; and he confounds his judgment with sensation, which is another proof of it. but as the inference is equally certain and immediate in both cases, this superior vivacity of our conception in one case can proceed from nothing but this, that in drawing an inference from the sight, beside the customary conjunction, there is also a resemblance betwixt the image and the object we infer, which strengthens the relation, and conveys the vivacity of the impression to the related idea with an easier and more natural movement. no weakness of human nature is more universal and conspicuous than what we commonly call _credulity_, or a too easy faith in the testimony of others; and this weakness is also very naturally accounted for from the influence of resemblance. when we receive any matter of fact upon human testimony, our faith arises from the very same origin as our inferences from causes to effects, and from effects to causes; nor is there any thing but our _experience_ of the governing principles of human nature, which can give us any assurance of the veracity of men. but though experience be the true standard of this, as well as of all other judgments, we seldom regulate ourselves entirely by it, but have a remarkable propensity to believe whatever is reported, even concerning apparitions, enchantments, and prodigies, however contrary to daily experience and observation. the words or discourses of others have an intimate connexion with certain ideas in their mind; and these ideas have also a connexion with the facts or objects which they represent. this latter connexion is generally much over-rated, and commands our assent beyond what experience will justify, which can proceed from nothing beside the resemblance betwixt the ideas and the facts. other effects only point out their causes in an oblique manner; but the testimony of men does it directly, and is to be considered as an image as well as an effect. no wonder, therefore, we are so rash in drawing our inferences from it, and are less guided by experience in our judgments concerning it, than in those upon any other subject. as resemblance, when conjoined with causation, fortifies our reasonings, so the want of it in any very great degree is able almost entirely to destroy them. of this there is a remarkable instance in the universal carelessness and stupidity of men with regard to a future state, where they show as obstinate an incredulity, as they do a blind credulity on other occasions. there is not indeed a more ample matter of wonder to the studious, and of regret to the pious man, than to observe the negligence of the bulk of mankind concerning their approaching condition; and 'tis with reason, that many eminent theologians have not scrupled to affirm, that though the vulgar have no formal principles of infidelity, yet they are really infidels in their hearts, and have nothing like what we can call a belief of the eternal duration of their souls. for let us consider on the one hand what divines have displayed with such eloquence concerning the importance of eternity; and at the same time reflect, that though in matters of rhetoric we ought to lay our account with some exaggeration, we must in this case allow, that the strongest figures are infinitely inferior to the subject: and after this, let us view on the other hand the prodigious security of men in this particular: i ask, if these people really believe what is inculcated on them, and what they pretend to affirm; and the answer is obviously in the negative. as belief is an act of the mind arising from custom, 'tis not strange the want of resemblance should overthrow what custom has established, and diminish the force of the idea, as much as that latter principle increases it. a future state is so far removed from our comprehension, and we have so obscure an idea of the manner in which we shall exist after the dissolution of the body, that all the reasons we can invent, however strong in themselves, and however much assisted by education, are never able with slow imaginations to surmount this difficulty, or bestow a sufficient authority and force on the idea. i rather choose to ascribe this incredulity to the faint idea we form of our future condition, derived from its want of resemblance to the present life, than to that derived from its remoteness. for i observe, that men are every where concerned about what may happen after their death, provided it regard this world; and that there are few to whom their name, their family, their friends, and their country are in any period of time entirely indifferent. and indeed the want of resemblance in this case so entirely destroys belief, that except those few who, upon cool reflection on the importance of the subject, have taken care by repeated meditation to imprint in their minds the arguments for a future state, there scarce are any who believe the immortality of the soul with a true and established judgment; such as is derived from the testimony of travellers and historians. this appears very conspicuously wherever men have occasion to compare the pleasures and pains, the rewards and punishments of this life with those of a future; even though the case does not concern themselves, and there is no violent passion to disturb their judgment. the roman catholics are certainly the most zealous of any sect in the christian world; and yet you'll find few among the more sensible part of that communion who do not blame the gunpowder treason, and the massacre of st bartholomew, as cruel and barbarous, though projected or executed against those very people, whom without any scruple they condemn to eternal and infinite punishments. all we can say in excuse for this inconsistency is, that they really do not believe what they affirm concerning a future state; nor is there any better proof of it than the very inconsistency. we may add to this a remark, that in matters of religion men take a pleasure in being terrified, and that no preachers are so popular as those who excite the most dismal and gloomy passions. in the common affairs of life, where we feel and are with the solidity of the subject, nothing can be more disagreeable than fear and terror; and 'tis only in dramatic performances and in religious discourses that they ever give pleasure. in these latter cases the imagination reposes itself indolently on the idea; and the passion being softened by the want of belief in the subject, has no more than the agreeable effect of enlivening the mind and fixing the attention. the present hypothesis will receive additional confirmation, if we examine the effects of other kinds of custom, as well as of other relations. to understand this we must consider that custom, to which i attribute all belief and reasoning, may operate upon the mind in invigorating an idea after two several ways. for supposing that, in all past experience, we have found two objects to have been always conjoined together, 'tis evident, that upon the appearance of one of these objects in an impression, we must, from custom, make an easy transition to the idea of that object, which usually attends it; and by means of the present impression and easy transition must conceive that idea in a stronger and more lively manner than we do any loose floating image of the fancy. but let us next suppose, that a mere idea alone, without any of this curious and almost artificial preparation, should frequently make its appearance in the mind, this idea must, by degrees, acquire a facility and force; and both by its firm hold and easy introduction distinguish itself from any new and unusual idea. this is the only particular in which these two kinds of custom agree; and if it appear that their effects on the judgment are similar and proportionable, we may certainly conclude, that the foregoing explication of that faculty is satisfactory. but can we doubt of this agreement in their influence on the judgment, when we consider the nature and effects of _education_? all those opinions and notions of things, to which we have been accustomed from our infancy, take such deep root, that 'tis impossible for us, by all the powers of reason and experience, to eradicate them; and this habit not only approaches in its influence, but even on many occasions prevails over that which arises from the constant and inseparable union of causes and effects. here we must not be contented with saying, that the vividness of the idea produces the belief: we must maintain that they are individually the same. the frequent repetition of any idea infixes it in the imagination; but could never possibly of itself produce belief, if that act of the mind was, by the original constitution of our natures, annexed only to a reasoning and comparison of ideas. custom may lead us into some false comparison of ideas. this is the utmost effect we can conceive of it; but 'tis certain it could never supply the place of that comparison, nor produce any act of the mind which naturally belonged to that principle. a person that has lost a leg or an arm by amputation endeavours for a long time afterwards to serve himself with them. after the death of any one, 'tis a common remark of the whole family, but especially the servants, that they can scarce believe him to be dead, but still imagine him to be in his chamber or in any other place, where they were accustomed to find him. i have often heard in conversation, after talking of a person that is any way celebrated, that one, who has no acquaintance with him, will say, _i have never seen such a one, but almost fancy i have, so often have i heard talk of him_. all these are parallel instances. if we consider this argument from _education_ in a proper light, 'twill appear very convincing; and the more so, that 'tis founded on one of the most common phenomena that is any where to be met with. i am persuaded that, upon examination, we shall find more than one half of those opinions that prevail among mankind to be owing to education, and that the principles which are thus implicitly embraced, overbalance those, which are owing either to abstract reasoning or experience. as liars, by the frequent repetition of their lies, come at last to remember them; so the judgment, or rather the imagination, by the like means, may have ideas so strongly imprinted on it, and conceive them in so full a light, that they may operate upon the mind in the same manner with those which the senses, memory, or reason present to us. but as education is an artificial and not a natural cause, and as its maxims are frequently contrary to reason, and even to themselves in different times and places, it is never upon that account recognised by philosophers; though in reality it be built almost on the same foundation of custom and repetition as our reasonings from causes and effects.[ ] [ ] in general we may observe, that as our assent to all probable reasonings is founded on the vivacity of ideas, it resembles many of those whimsies and prejudices which are rejected under the opprobrious character of being the offspring of the imagination. by this expression it appears, that the word imagination, is commonly used in two different senses; and though nothing be more contrary to true philosophy than this inaccuracy, yet, in the following reasonings, i have often been obliged to fall into it. when i oppose the imagination to the memory, i mean the faculty by which we form our fainter ideas. when i oppose it to reason, i mean the same faculty, excluding only our demonstrative and probable reasonings. when i oppose it to neither, 'tis indifferent whether it be taken in the larger or more limited sense, or at least the context will sufficiently explain the meaning. section x. of the influence of belief. but though education be disclaimed by philosophy, as a fallacious ground of assent to any opinion, it prevails nevertheless in the world, and is the cause why all systems are apt to be rejected at first as new and unusual. this, perhaps, will be the fate of what i have here advanced concerning _belief_; and though the proofs i have produced appear to me perfectly conclusive, i expect not to make many proselytes to my opinion. men will scarce ever be persuaded, that effects of such consequence can flow from principles which are seemingly so inconsiderable, and that the far greatest part of our reasonings, with all our actions and passions, can be derived from nothing but custom and habit. to obviate this objection, i shall here anticipate a little what would more properly fall under our consideration afterwards, when we come to treat of the passions and the sense of beauty. there is implanted in the human mind a perception of pain and pleasure, as the chief spring and moving principle of all its actions. but pain and pleasure have two ways of making their appearance in the mind; of which the one has effects very different from the other. they may either appear an impression to the actual feeling, or only in idea, as at present when i mention them. 'tis evident the influence of these upon our actions is far from being equal. impressions always actuate the soul, and that in the highest degree; but 'tis not every idea which has the same effect. nature has proceeded with caution in this case, and seems to have carefully avoided the inconveniences of two extremes. did impressions alone influence the will, we should every moment of our lives be subject to the greatest calamities; because, though we foresaw their approach, we should not be provided by nature with any principle of action, which might impel us to avoid them. on the other hand, did every idea influence our actions, our condition would not be much mended. for such is the unsteadiness and activity of thought, that the images of every thing, especially of goods and evils, are always wandering in the mind; and were it moved by every idle conception of this kind, it would never enjoy a moment's peace and tranquillity. nature has therefore chosen a medium, and has neither bestowed on every idea of good and evil the power of actuating the will, nor yet has entirely excluded them from this influence. though an idle fiction has no efficacy, yet we find by experience, that the ideas of those objects, which we believe either are or will be existent, produce in a lesser degree the same effect with those impressions, which are immediately present to the senses and perception. the effect then of belief is to raise up a simple idea to an equality with our impressions, and bestow on it a like influence on the passions. this effect it can only have by making an idea approach an impression in force and vivacity. for as the different degrees of force make all the original difference betwixt an impression and an idea, they must of consequence be the source of all the differences in the effects of these perceptions, and their removal, in whole or in part, the cause of every new resemblance they acquire. wherever we can make an idea approach the impressions in force and vivacity, it will likewise imitate them in its influence on the mind; and _vice versa_, where it imitates them in that influence, as in the present case, this must proceed from its approaching them in force and vivacity. belief, therefore, since it causes an idea to imitate the effects of the impressions, must make it resemble them in these qualities, and is nothing but _a more vivid and intense conception of any idea_. this then may both serve as an additional argument for the present system, and may give us a notion after what manner our reasonings from causation are able to operate on the will and passions. as belief is almost absolutely requisite to the exciting our passions, so the passions, in their turn, are very favourable to belief; and not only such facts as convey agreeable emotions, but very often such as give pain, do upon that account become more readily the objects of faith and opinion. a coward, whose fears are easily awakened, readily assents to every account of danger he meets with; as a person of a sorrowful and melancholy disposition is very credulous of every thing that nourishes his prevailing passion. when any affecting object is presented, it gives the alarm, and excites immediately a degree of its proper passion; especially in persons who are naturally inclined to that passion. this emotion passes by an easy transition to the imagination; and, diffusing itself over our idea of the affecting object, makes us form that idea with greater force and vivacity, and consequently assent to it, according to the precedent system. admiration and surprise have the same effect as the other passions; and accordingly we may observe, that among the vulgar, quacks and projectors meet with a more easy faith upon account of their magnificent pretensions, than if they kept themselves within the bounds of moderation. the first astonishment, which naturally attends their miraculous relations, spreads itself over the whole soul, and so vivifies and enlivens the idea, that it resembles the inferences we draw from experience. this is a mystery, with which we may be already a little acquainted, and which we shall have further occasion to be let into in the progress of this treatise. after this account of the influence of belief on the passions, we shall find less difficulty in explaining its effects on the imagination, however extraordinary they may appear. 'tis certain we cannot take pleasure in any discourse, where our judgment gives no assent to those images which are presented to our fancy. the conversation of those, who have acquired a habit of lying, though in affairs of no moment, never gives any satisfaction; and that because those ideas they present to us, not being attended with belief, make no impression upon the mind. poets themselves, though liars by profession, always endeavour to give an air of truth to their fictions; and where that is totally neglected, their performances, however ingenious, will never be able to afford much pleasure. in short, we may observe, that even when ideas have no manner of influence on the will and passions, truth and reality are still requisite, in order to make them entertaining to the imagination. but if we compare together all the phenomena that occur on this head, we shall find, that truth, however necessary it may seem in all works of genius, has no other effect than to procure an easy reception for the ideas, and to make the mind acquiesce in them with satisfaction, or at least without reluctance. but as this is an effect, which may easily be supposed to flow from that solidity and force, which, according to my system, attend those ideas that are established by reasonings from causation; it follows, that all the influence of belief upon the fancy may be explained from that system. accordingly we may observe, that wherever that influence arises from any other principles beside truth or reality, they supply its place, and give an equal entertainment to the imagination. poets have formed what they call a poetical system of things, which, though it be believed neither by themselves nor readers, is commonly esteemed a sufficient foundation for any fiction. we have been so much accustomed to the names of mars, jupiter, venus, that in the same manner as education infixes any opinion, the constant repetition of these ideas makes them enter into the mind with facility, and prevail upon the fancy, without influencing the judgment. in like manner tragedians always borrow their fable, or at least the names of their principal actors, from some known passage in history; and that not in order to deceive the spectators; for they will frankly confess, that truth is not in any circumstance inviolably observed, but in order to procure a more easy reception into the imagination for those extraordinary events, which they represent. but this is a precaution which is not required of comic poets, whose personages and incidents, being of a more familiar kind, enter easily into the conception, and are received without any such formality, even though at first sight they be known to be fictitious, and the pure offspring of the fancy. this mixture of truth and falsehood in the fables of tragic poets not only serves our present purpose, by showing that the imagination can be satisfied without any absolute belief or assurance; but may in another view be regarded as a very strong confirmation of this system. 'tis evident, that poets make use of this artifice of borrowing the names of their persons, and the chief events of their poems, from history, in order to procure a more easy reception for the whole, and cause it to make a deeper impression on the fancy and affections. the several incidents of the piece acquire a kind of relation by being united into one poem or representation; and if any of these incidents be an object of belief, it bestows a force and vivacity on the others, which are related to it. the vividness of the first conception diffuses itself along the relations, and is conveyed, as by so many pipes or canals, to every idea that has any communication with the primary one. this indeed can never amount to a perfect assurance; and that because the union among the ideas is in a manner accidental: but still it approaches so near in its influence, as may convince us that they are derived from the same origin. belief must please the imagination by means of the force and vivacity which attends it; since every idea, which has force and vivacity, is found to be agreeable to that faculty. to confirm this we may observe, that the assistance is mutual betwixt the judgment and fancy, as well as betwixt the judgment and passion; and that belief not only gives vigour to the imagination, but that a vigorous and strong imagination is of all talents the most proper to procure belief and authority. 'tis difficult for us to withhold our assent from what is painted out to us in all the colours of eloquence; and the vivacity produced by the fancy is in many cases greater than that which arises from custom and experience. we are hurried away by the lively imagination of our author or companion; and even he himself is often a victim to his own fire and genius. nor will it be amiss to remark, that as a lively imagination very often degenerates into madness or folly, and bears it a great resemblance in its operations; so they influence the judgment after the same manner, and produce belief from the very same principles. when the imagination, from any extraordinary ferment of the blood and spirits, acquires such a vivacity as disorders all its powers and faculties, there is no means of distinguishing betwixt truth and falsehood; but every loose fiction or idea, having the same influence as the impressions of the memory, or the conclusions of the judgment, is received on the same footing, and operates with equal force on the passions. a present impression and a customary transition are now no longer necessary to enliven our ideas. every chimera of the brain is as vivid and intense as any of those inferences, which we formerly dignified with the name of conclusions concerning matters of fact, and sometimes as the present impressions of the senses. we may observe the same effect of poetry in a lesser degree; and this is common both to poetry and madness, that the vivacity they bestow on the ideas is not derived from the particular situations or connexions of the objects of these ideas, but from the present temper and disposition of the person. but how great soever the pitch may be to which this vivacity rise, 'tis evident, that in poetry it never has the same _feeling_ with that which arises in the mind, when we reason, though even upon the lowest species of probability. the mind can easily distinguish betwixt the one and the other; and whatever emotion the poetical enthusiasm may give to the spirits, 'tis still the mere phantom of belief or persuasion. the case is the same with the idea as with the passion it occasions. there is no passion of the human mind but what may arise from poetry; though, at the same time, the _feelings_ of the passions are very different when excited by poetical fictions, from what they are when they arise from belief and reality. a passion which is disagreeable in real life, may afford the highest entertainment in a tragedy or epic poem. in the latter case it lies not with that weight upon us: it feels less firm and solid, and has no other than the agreeable effect of exciting the spirits, and rousing the attention. the difference in the passions is a clear proof of a like difference in those ideas from which the passions are derived. where the vivacity arises from a customary conjunction with a present impression, though the imagination may not, in appearance, be so much moved, yet there is always something more forcible and real in its actions than in the fervours of poetry and eloquence. the force of our mental actions in this case, no more than in any other, is not to be measured by the apparent agitation of the mind. a poetical description may have a more sensible effect on the fancy than an historical narration. it may collect more of those circumstances that form a complete image or picture. it may seem to set the object before us in more lively colours. but still the ideas it presents are different to the _feeling_ from those which arise from the memory and the judgment. there is something weak and imperfect amidst all that seeming vehemence of thought and sentiment which attends the fictions of poetry. we shall afterwards have occasion to remark both the resemblances and differences betwixt a poetical enthusiasm and a serious conviction. in the mean time, i cannot forbear observing, that the great difference in their feeling proceeds, in some measure, from reflection and _general rules_. we observe, that the vigour of conception which fictions receive from poetry and eloquence, is a circumstance merely accidental, of which every idea is equally susceptible; and that such fictions are connected with nothing that is real. this observation makes us only lend ourselves, so to speak, to the fiction, but causes the idea to feel very different from the eternal established persuasions founded on memory and custom. they are somewhat of the same kind; but the one is much inferior to the other, both in its causes and effects. a like reflection on _general rules_ keeps us from augmenting our belief upon every increase of the force and vivacity of our ideas. where an opinion admits of no doubt, or opposite probability, we attribute to it a full conviction; though the want of resemblance, or contiguity, may render its force inferior to that of other opinions. 'tis thus the understanding corrects the appearances of the senses, and makes us imagine, that an object at twenty foot distance seems even to the eye as large as one of the same dimensions at ten. we may observe the same effect of poetry in a lesser degree; only with this difference, that the least reflection dissipates the illusions of poetry, and places the objects in their proper light. 'tis however certain, that in the warmth of a poetical enthusiasm, a poet has a counterfeit belief, and even a kind of vision of his objects; and if there be any shadow of argument to support this belief nothing contributes more to his full conviction than a blaze of poetical figures and images, which have their effect upon the poet himself, as well as upon his readers. section xi. of the probability of chances. but in order to bestow on this system its full force and evidence, we must carry our eye from it a moment to consider its consequences, and explain, from the same principles, some other species of reasoning which are derived from the same origin. those philosophers who have divided human reason into _knowledge and probability_, and have defined the first to be _that evidence which arises from the comparison of ideas_, are obliged to comprehend all our arguments from causes or effects under the general term of probability. but though every one be free to use his terms in what sense he pleases; and accordingly, in the precedent part of this discourse, i have followed this method of expression; 'tis however certain, that in common discourse we readily affirm, that many arguments from causation exceed probability, and may be received as a superior kind of evidence. one would appear ridiculous who would say, that 'tis only probable the sun will rise to-morrow, or that all men must die; though 'tis plain we have no further assurance of these facts than what experience affords us. for this reason t'would perhaps be more convenient, in order at once to preserve the common signification of words, and mark the several degrees of evidence, to distinguish human reason into three kinds, viz. _that from knowledge, from proofs, and from probabilities_. by knowledge, i mean the assurance arising from the comparison of ideas. by proofs, those arguments which are derived from the relation of cause and effect, and which are entirely free from doubt and uncertainty. by probability, that evidence which is still attended with uncertainty. 'tis this last species of reasoning i proceed to examine. probability or reasoning from conjecture may be divided into two kinds, viz. that which is founded on _chance_, and that which arises from _causes_. we shall consider each of these in order. the idea of cause and effect is derived from experience, which, presenting us with certain objects constantly conjoined with each other, produces such a habit of surveying them in that relation, that we cannot, without a sensible violence, survey them in any other. on the other hand, as chance is nothing real in itself, and, properly speaking, is merely the negation of a cause, its influence on the mind is contrary to that of causation; and 'tis essential to it to leave the imagination perfectly indifferent, either to consider the existence or non-existence of that object which is regarded as contingent. a cause traces the way to our thought, and in a manner forces us to survey such certain objects in such certain relations. chance can only destroy this determination of the thought, and leave the mind in its native situation of indifference; in which, upon the absence of a cause, 'tis instantly reinstated. since, therefore, an entire indifference is essential to chance, no one chance can possibly be superior to another, otherwise than as it is composed of a superior number of equal chances. for if we affirm that one chance can, after any other manner, be superior to another, we must at the same time affirm, that there is something which gives it the superiority, and determines the event rather to that side than the other; that is, in other words, we must allow of a cause, and destroy the supposition of chance, which we had before established. a perfect and total indifference is essential to chance, and one total indifference can never in itself be either superior or inferior to another. this truth is not peculiar to my system, but is acknowledged by every one that forms calculations concerning chances. and here 'tis remarkable, that though chance and causation be directly contrary, yet 'tis impossible for us to conceive this combination of chances, which is requisite to render one hazard superior to another, without supposing a mixture of causes among the chances, and a conjunction of necessity in some particulars, with a total indifference in others. where nothing limits the chances, every notion that the most extravagant fancy can form is upon a footing of equality; nor can there be any circumstance to give one the advantage above another. thus, unless we allow that there are some causes to make the dice fall, and preserve their form in their fall, and lie upon some one of their sides, we can form no calculation concerning the laws of hazard. but supposing these causes to operate, and supposing likewise all the rest to be indifferent and to be determined by chance, 'tis easy to arrive at a notion of a superior combination of chances. a dye that has four sides marked with a certain number of spots, and only two with another, affords us an obvious and easy instance of this superiority. the mind is here limited by the causes to such a precise number and quality of the events; and, at the same time, is undetermined in its choice of any particular event. proceeding, then, in that reasoning, wherein we have advanced three steps; _that_ chance is merely the negation of a cause, and produces a total indifference in the mind; _that_ one negation of a cause and one total indifference can never be superior or inferior to another; and _that_ there must always be a mixture of causes among the chances, in order to be the foundation of any reasoning. we are next to consider what effect a superior combination of chances can have upon the mind, and after what manner it influences our judgment and opinion. here we may repeat all the same arguments we employed in examining that belief which arises from causes; and may prove, after the same manner, that a superior number of chances produces our assent neither by _demonstration_ nor _probability_. 'tis indeed evident, that we can never, by the comparison of mere ideas, make any discovery which can be of consequence in this affair, and that 'tis impossible to prove with certainty that any event must fall on that side were there is a superior number of chances. to suppose in this case any certainty, were to overthrow what we have established concerning the opposition of chances, and their perfect equality and indifference. should it be said, that though in an opposition of chances, 'tis impossible to determine with _certainty_ on which side the event will fall, yet we can pronounce with certainty, that 'tis more likely and probable 'twill be on that side where there is a superior number of chances, than where there is an inferior: should this be said, i would ask, what is here meant by _likelihood and probability_? the likelihood and probability of chances is a superior number of equal chances; and consequently, when we say 'tis likely the event will fall on the side which is superior, rather than on the inferior, we do no more than affirm, that where there is a superior number of chances there is actually a superior, and where there is an inferior there is an inferior, which are identical propositions, and of no consequence. the question is, by what means a superior number of equal chances operates upon the mind, and produces belief or assent, since it appears that 'tis neither by arguments derived from demonstration, nor from probability. in order to clear up this difficulty, we shall suppose a person to take a dye, formed after such a manner as that four of its sides are marked with one figure, or one number of spots, and two with another; and to put this dye into the box with an intention of throwing it: 'tis plain, he must conclude the one figure to be more probable than the other, and give the preference to that which is inscribed on the greatest number of sides. he in a manner believes that this will lie uppermost; though still with hesitation and doubt, in proportion to the number of chances which are contrary: and according as these contrary chances diminish, and the superiority increases on the other side, his belief acquires new degrees of stability and assurance. this belief arises from an operation of the mind upon the simple and limited object before us; and therefore its nature will be the more easily discovered and explained. we have nothing but one single dye to contemplate, in order to comprehend one of the most curious operations of the understanding. this dye formed as above, contains three circumstances worthy of our attention. first, certain causes, such as gravity, solidity, a cubical figure, &c. which determine it to fall, to preserve its form in its fall, and to turn up one of its sides. secondly, a certain number of sides, which are supposed indifferent. thirdly, a certain figure inscribed on each side. these three particulars, form the whole nature of the dye, so far as relates to our present purpose; and consequently are the only circumstances regarded by the mind in its forming a judgment concerning the result of such a throw. let us therefore consider gradually and carefully what must be the influence of these circumstances on the thought and imagination. first, we have already observed, that the mind is determined by custom to pass from any cause to its effect, and that upon the appearance of the one, 'tis almost impossible for it not to form an idea of the other. their constant conjunction in past instances has produced such a habit in the mind, that it always conjoins them in its thought, and infers the existence of the one from that of its usual attendant. when it considers the dye as no longer supported by the box, it cannot without violence regard it as suspended in the air; but naturally places it on the table, and views it as turning up one of its sides. this is the effect of the intermingled causes, which are requisite to our forming any calculation concerning chances. secondly, 'tis supposed, that though the dye be necessarily determined to fall, and turn up one of its sides, yet there is nothing to fix the particular side, but that this is determined entirely by chance. the very nature and essence of chance is a negation of causes, and the leaving the mind in a perfect indifference among those events which are supposed contingent. when, therefore, the thought is determined by the causes to consider the dye as falling and turning up one of its sides, the chances present all these sides as equal, and make us consider every one of them, one after another, as alike probable and possible. the imagination passes from the cause, viz. the throwing of the dye, to the effect, viz. the turning up one of the six sides; and feels a kind of impossibility both of stopping short in the way, and of forming any other idea. but as all these six sides are incompatible, and the dye cannot turn up above one at once, this principle directs us not to consider all of them at once as lying uppermost, which we look upon as impossible: neither does it direct us with its entire force to any particular side; for in that case this side would be considered as certain and inevitable; but it directs us to the whole six sides after such a manner as to divide its force equally among them. we conclude in general, that some one of them must result from the throw: we run all of them over in our minds: the determination of the thought is common to all; but no more of its force falls to the share of any one, than what is suitable to its proportion with the rest. 'tis after this manner the original impulse, and consequently the vivacity of thought arising from the causes, is divided and split in pieces by the intermingled chances. we have already seen the influence of the two first qualities of the dye, viz. the _causes_, and the _number_, and _indifference_ of the sides, and have learned how they give an impulse to the thought, and divide that impulse into as many parts as there are units in the number of sides. we must now consider the effects of the third particular, viz. the _figures_ inscribed on each side. 'tis evident, that where several sides have the same figure inscribed on them, they must concur in their influence on the mind, and must unite upon one image or idea of a figure all those divided impulses, that were dispersed over the several sides, upon which that figure is inscribed. were the question only what side will be turned up, these are all perfectly equal, and no one could ever have any advantage above another. but as the question is concerning the figure, and as the same figure is presented by more than one side, 'tis evident that the impulses belonging to all these sides must re-unite in that one figure, and become stronger and more forcible by the union. four sides are supposed in the present case to have the same figure inscribed on them, and two to have another figure. the impulses of the former are therefore superior to those of the latter. but as the events are contrary, and 'tis impossible both these figures can be turned up; the impulses likewise become contrary, and the inferior destroys the superior, as far as its strength goes. the vivacity of the idea is always proportionable to the degrees of the impulse or tendency to the transition; and belief is the same with the vivacity of the idea, according to the precedent doctrine. section xii. of the probability of causes. what i have said concerning the probability of chances, can serve to no other purpose than to assist us in explaining the probability of causes; since 'tis commonly allowed by philosophers, that what the vulgar call chance is nothing but a secret and concealed cause. that species of probability, therefore, is what we must chiefly examine. the probabilities of causes are of several kinds; but are all derived from the same origin, viz. _the association of ideas to a present impression_. as the habit which produces the association, arises from the frequent conjunction of objects, it must arrive at its perfection by degrees, and must acquire new force from each instance that falls under our observation. the first instance has little or no force: the second makes some addition to it: the third becomes still more sensible; and 'tis by these slow steps that our judgment arrives at a full assurance. but before it attains this pitch of perfection, it passes through several inferior degrees, and in all of them is only to be esteemed a presumption or probability. the gradation therefore from probabilities to proofs is in many cases insensible; and the difference betwixt these kinds of evidence is more easily perceived in the remote degrees, than in the near and contiguous. 'tis worthy of remark on this occasion, that though the species of probability here explained be the first in order, and naturally takes place before any entire proof can exist, yet no one, who is arrived at the age of maturity, can any longer be acquainted with it. 'tis true, nothing is more common than for people of the most advanced knowledge to have attained only an imperfect experience of many particular events; which naturally produces only an imperfect habit and transition: but then we must consider, that the mind, having formed another observation concerning the connexion of causes and effects, gives new force to its reasoning from that observation; and by means of it can build an argument on one single experiment, when duly prepared and examined. what we have found once to follow from any object, we conclude will for ever follow from it; and if this maxim be not always built upon as certain, 'tis not for want of a sufficient number of experiments, but because we frequently meet with instances to the contrary; which leads us to the second species of probability, where there is a _contrariety_ in our experience and observation. 'twould be very happy for men in the conduct of their lives and actions, were the same objects always conjoined together, and we had nothing to fear but the mistakes of our own judgment, without having any reason to apprehend the uncertainty of nature. but as 'tis frequently found, that one observation is contrary to another, and that causes and effects follow not in the same order, of which we have had experience, we are obliged to vary our reasoning on account of this uncertainty, and take into consideration the contrariety of events. the first question that occurs on this head, is concerning the nature and causes of the contrariety. the vulgar, who take things according to their first appearance, attribute the uncertainty of events to such an uncertainty in the causes, as makes them often fail of their usual influence, though they meet with no obstacle nor impediment in their operation. but philosophers observing, that almost in every part of nature there is contained a vast variety of springs and principles, which are hid, by reason of their minuteness or remoteness, find that 'tis at least possible the contrariety of events may not proceed from any contingency in the cause, but from the secret operation of contrary causes. this possibility is converted into certainty by farther observation, when they remark, that upon an exact scrutiny, a contrariety of effects always betrays a contrariety of causes, and proceeds from their mutual hinderance and opposition. a peasant can give no better reason for the stopping of any clock or watch than to say, that commonly it does not go right: but an artisan easily perceives, that the same force in the spring or pendulum has always the same influence on the wheels; but fails of its usual effect, perhaps by reason of a grain of dust, which puts a stop to the whole movement. from the observation of several parallel instances, philosophers form a maxim, that the connexion betwixt all causes and effects is equally necessary, and that its seeming uncertainty in some instances proceeds from the secret opposition of contrary causes. but however philosophers and the vulgar may differ in their explication of the contrariety of events, their inferences from it are always of the same kind, and founded on the same principles. a contrariety of events in the past may give us a kind of hesitating belief for the future, after two several ways. first, by producing an imperfect habit and transition from the present impression to the related idea. when the conjunction of any two objects is frequent, without being entirely constant, the mind is determined to pass from one object to the other; but not with so entire a habit, as when the union is uninterrupted, and all the instances we have ever met with are uniform and of a piece. we find from common experience, in our actions as well as reasonings, that a constant perseverance in any course of life produces a strong inclination and tendency to continue for the future; though there are habits of inferior degrees of force, proportioned to the inferior degrees of steadiness and uniformity in our conduct. there is no doubt but this principle sometimes takes place, and produces those inferences we draw from contrary phenomena; though i am persuaded that, upon examination, we shall not find it to be the principle that most commonly influences the mind in this species of reasoning. when we follow only the habitual determination of the mind, we make the transition without any reflection, and interpose not a moment's delay betwixt the view of one object, and the belief of that which is often found to attend it. as the custom depends not upon any deliberation, it operates immediately, without allowing any time for reflection. but this method of proceeding we have but few instances of in our probable reasonings; and even fewer than in those, which are derived from the uninterrupted conjunction of objects. in the former species of reasoning we commonly take knowingly into consideration the contrariety of past events; we compare the different sides of the contrariety, and carefully weigh the experiments, which we have on each side: whence we may conclude, that our reasonings of this kind arise not _directly_ from the habit, but in an _oblique_ manner; which we must now endeavour to explain. 'tis evident, that when an object is attended with contrary effects, we judge of them only by our past experience, and always consider those as possible, which we have observed to follow from it. and as past experience regulates our judgment concerning the possibility of these effects, so it does that concerning their probability; and that effect, which has been the most common, we always esteem the most likely. here then are two things to be considered, viz. the _reasons_ which determine us to make the past a standard for the future, and the _manner_ how we extract a single judgment from a contrariety of past events. first we may observe, that the supposition, _that the future resembles the past_, is not founded on arguments of any kind, but is derived entirely from habit, by which we are determined to expect for the future the same train of objects to which we have been accustomed. this habit or determination to transfer the past to the future is full and perfect; and consequently the first impulse of the imagination in this species of reasoning is endowed with the same qualities. but, _secondly_, when in considering past experiments we find them of a contrary nature, this determination, though full and perfect in itself, presents us with no steady object, but offers us a number of disagreeing images in a certain order and proportion. the first impulse therefore is here broke into pieces, and diffuses itself over all those images, of which each partakes an equal share of that force and vivacity that is derived from the impulse. any of these past events may again happen; and we judge, that when they do happen, they will be mixed in the same proportion as in the past. if our intention, therefore, be to consider the proportions of contrary events in a great number of instances, the images presented by our past experience must remain in their _first form_, and preserve their first proportions. suppose, for instance, i have found, by long observation, that of twenty ships which go to sea, only nineteen return. suppose i see at present twenty ships that leave the port: i transfer my past experience to the future, and represent to myself nineteen of these ships as returning in safety, and one as perishing. concerning this there can be no difficulty. but as we frequently run over those several ideas of past events, in order to form a judgment concerning one single event, which appears uncertain; this consideration must change the _first form_ of our ideas, and draw together the divided images presented by experience; since 'tis to _it_ we refer the determination of that particular event, upon which we reason. many of these images are supposed to concur, and a superior number to concur on one side. these agreeing images unite together, and render the idea more strong and lively, not only than a mere fiction of the imagination, but also than any idea, which is supported by a lesser number of experiments. each new experiment is as a new stroke of the pencil, which bestows an additional vivacity on the colours, without either multiplying or enlarging the figure. this operation of the mind has been so fully explained in treating of the probability of chance, that i need not here endeavour to render it more intelligible. every past experiment may be considered as a kind of chance; it being uncertain to us, whether the object will exist conformable to one experiment or another: and for this reason every thing that has been said on the one subject is applicable to both. thus, upon the whole, contrary experiments produce an imperfect belief, either by weakening the habit, or by dividing and afterwards joining in different parts, that _perfect_ habit, which makes us conclude in general, that instances, of which we have no experience, must necessarily resemble those of which we have. to justify still farther this account of the second species of probability, where we reason with knowledge and reflection from a contrariety of past experiments, i shall propose the following considerations, without fearing to give offence by that air of subtilty, which attends them. just reasoning ought still, perhaps, to retain its force, however subtile; in the same manner as matter preserves its solidity in the air, and fire, and animal spirits, as well as in the grosser and more sensible forms. first, we may observe, that there is no probability so great as not to allow of a contrary possibility; because otherwise 'twould cease to be a probability, and would become a certainty. that probability of causes, which is most extensive, and which we at present examine, depends on a contrariety of experiments; and 'tis evident an experiment in the past proves at least a possibility for the future. secondly, the component parts of this possibility and probability are of the same nature, and differ in number only, but not in kind. it has been observed, that all single chances are entirely equal, and that the only circumstance, which can give any event that is contingent a superiority over another, is a superior number of chances. in like manner, as the uncertainty of causes is discovered by experience, which presents us with a view of contrary events, 'tis plain that, when we transfer the past to the future, the known to the unknown, every past experiment has the same weight, and that 'tis only a superior number of them, which can throw the balance on any side. the possibility, therefore, which enters into every reasoning of this kind, is composed of parts, which are of the same nature both among themselves, and with those that compose the opposite probability. thirdly, we may establish it as a certain maxim, that in all moral as well as natural phenomena, wherever any cause consists of a number of parts, and the effect increases or diminishes, according to the variation of that number, the effect, properly speaking, is a compounded one, and arises from the union of the several effects, that proceed from each part of the cause. thus, because the gravity of a body increases or diminishes by the increase or diminution of its parts, we conclude that each part contains this quality, and contributes to the gravity of the whole. the absence or presence of a part of the cause is attended with that of a proportionable part of the effect. this connexion or constant conjunction sufficiently proves the one part to be the cause of the other. as the belief, which we have of any event, increases or diminishes according to the number of chances or past experiments, 'tis to be considered as a compounded effect, of which each part arises from a proportionable number of chances or experiments. let us now join these three observations, and see what conclusion we can draw from them. to every probability there is an opposite possibility. this possibility is composed of parts that are entirely of the same nature with those of the probability; and consequently have the same influence on the mind and understanding. the belief which attends the probability, is a compounded effect, and is formed by the concurrence of the several effects, which proceed from each part of the probability. since, therefore, each part of the probability contributes to the production of the belief, each part of the possibility must have the same influence on the opposite side; the nature of these parts being entirely the same. the contrary belief attending the possibility, implies a view of a certain object, as well as the probability does an opposite view. in this particular, both these degrees of belief are alike. the only manner then, in which the superior number of similar component parts in the one can exert its influence, and prevail above the inferior in the other, is by producing a stronger and more lively view of its object. each part presents a particular view; and all these views uniting together produce one general view, which is fuller and more distinct by the greater number of causes or principles from which it is derived. the component parts of the probability and possibility being alike in their nature, must produce like effects; and the likeness of their effects consists in this, that each of them presents a view of a particular object. but though these parts be alike in their nature, they are very different in their quantity and number; and this difference must appear in the effect as well as the similarity. now, as the view they present is in both cases full and entire, and comprehends the object in all its parts, 'tis impossible that, in this particular, there can be any difference; nor is there any thing but a superior vivacity in the probability, arising from the concurrence of a superior number of views, which can distinguish these effects. here is almost the same argument in a different light. all our reasonings concerning the probability of causes are founded on the transferring of past to future. the transferring of any past experiment to the future is sufficient to give us a view of the object; whether that experiment be single or combined with others of the same kind; whether it be entire, or opposed by others of a contrary kind. suppose then it acquires both these qualities of combination and opposition, it loses not, upon that account, its former power of presenting a view of the object, but only concurs with and opposes other experiments that have a like influence. a question, therefore, may arise concerning the manner both of the concurrence and opposition. as to the _concurrence_ there is only the choice left betwixt these two hypotheses. _first_, that the view of the object, occasioned by the transference of each past experiment, preserves itself entire, and only multiplies the number of views. or, _secondly_, that it runs into the other similar and correspondent views, and gives them a superior degree of force and vivacity. but that the first hypothesis is erroneous, is evident from experience, which informs us, that the belief attending any reasoning consists in one conclusion, not in a multitude of similar ones, which would only distract the mind, and, in many cases, would be too numerous to be comprehended distinctly by any finite capacity. it remains, therefore, as the only reasonable opinion, that these similar views run into each other and unite their forces; so as to produce a stronger and clearer view than what arises from any one alone. this is the manner in which past experiments concur when they are transferred to any future event. as to the manner of their _opposition_,'tis evident that, as the contrary views are incompatible with each other, and 'tis impossible the object can at once exist conformable to both of them, their influence becomes mutually destructive, and the mind is determined to the superior only with that force which remains after subtracting the inferior. i am sensible how abstruse all this reasoning must appear to the generality of readers, who, not being accustomed to such profound reflections on the intellectual faculties of the mind, will be apt to reject as chimerical whatever strikes not in with the common received notions, and with the easiest and most obvious principles of philosophy. and, no doubt, there are some pains required to enter into these arguments; though perhaps very little are necessary to perceive the imperfection of every vulgar hypothesis on this subject, and the little light, which philosophy can yet afford us in such sublime and such curious speculations. let men be once fully persuaded of these two principles, _that there is nothing in any object, considered in itself, which can afford us a reason for drawing a conclusion beyond it_; and, _that even after the observation of the frequent or constant conjunction of objects, we have no reason to draw any inference concerning any object beyond those of which we have had experience_; i say, let men be once fully convinced of these two principles, and this will throw them so loose from all common systems, that they will make no difficulty of receiving any, which may appear the most extraordinary. these principles we have found to be sufficiently convincing, even with regard to our most certain reasonings from causation: but i shall venture to affirm, that with regard to these conjectural or probable reasonings they still acquire a new degree of evidence. _first_,'tis obvious that, in reasonings of this kind, 'tis not the object presented to us, which, considered in itself, affords us any reason to draw a conclusion concerning any other object or event. for as this latter object is supposed uncertain, and as the uncertainty is derived from a concealed contrariety of causes in the former, were any of the causes placed in the known qualities of that object, they would no longer be concealed, nor would our conclusion be uncertain. but, _secondly_,'tis equally obvious in this species of reasoning, that if the transference of the past to the future were founded merely on a conclusion of the understanding, it could never occasion any belief or assurance. when we transfer contrary experiments to the future, we can only repeat these contrary experiments with their particular proportions; which could not produce assurance in any single event upon which we reason, unless the fancy melted together all those images that concur, and extracted from them one single idea or image, which is intense and lively in proportion to the number of experiments from which it is derived, and their superiority above their antagonists. our past experience presents no determinate object; and as our belief, however faint, fixes itself on a determinate object, 'tis evident that the belief arises not merely from the transference of past to future, but from some operation of the _fancy_ conjoined with it. this may lead us to conceive the manner in which that faculty enters into all our reasonings. i shall conclude this subject with two reflections which may deserve our attention. the _first_ may be explained after this manner: when the mind forms a reasoning concerning any matter of fact, which is only probable, it casts its eye backward upon past experience, and, transferring it to the future, is presented with so many contrary views of its object, of which those that are of the same kind uniting together and running into one act of the mind, serve to fortify and enliven it. but suppose that this multitude of views or glimpses of an object proceeds not from experience, but from a voluntary act of the imagination; this effect does not follow, or, at least, follows not in the same degree. for though custom and education produce belief by such a repetition as is not derived from experience, yet this requires a long tract of time, along with a very frequent and _undesigned_ repetition. in general we may pronounce, that a person, who would _voluntarily_ repeat any idea in his mind, though supported by one past experience, would be no more inclined to believe the existence of its object, than if he had contented himself with one survey of it. beside the effect of design, each act of the mind, being separate and independent, has a separate influence, and joins not its force with that of its fellows. not being united by any common object producing them, they have no relation to each other; and consequently make no transition or union of forces. this phenomenon we shall understand better afterwards. my _second_ reflection is founded on those large probabilities which the mind can judge of, and the minute differences it can observe betwixt them. when the chances or experiments on one side amount to ten thousand, and on the other to ten thousand and one, the judgment gives the preference to the latter upon account of that superiority; though 'tis plainly impossible for the mind to run over every particular view, and distinguish the superior vivacity of the image arising from the superior number, where the difference is so inconsiderable. we have a parallel instance in the affections. 'tis evident, according to the principles above mentioned, that when an object produces any passion in us, which varies according to the different quantity of the object; i say, 'tis evident, that the passion, properly speaking, is not a simple emotion, but a compounded one, of a great number of weaker passions, derived from a view of each part of the object; for otherwise 'twere impossible the passion should increase by the increase of these parts. thus, a man who desires a thousand pounds has, in reality, a thousand or more desires which, uniting together, seem to make only one passion; though the composition evidently betrays itself upon every alteration of the object, by the preference he gives to the larger number, if superior only by an unit. yet nothing can be more certain, than that so small a difference would not be discernible in the passions, nor could render them distinguishable from each other. the difference, therefore, of our conduct in preferring the greater number depends not upon our passions, but upon custom and _general rules_. we have found in a multitude of instances that the augmenting the numbers of any sum augments the passion, where the numbers are precise and the difference sensible. the mind can perceive, from its immediate feeling, that three guineas produce a greater passion than two; and _this_ it transfers to larger numbers, because of the resemblance; and by a general rule assigns to a thousand guineas a stronger passion than to nine hundred and ninety-nine. these general rules we shall explain presently. but beside these two species of probability, which are derived from an _imperfect_ experience and from _contrary_ causes, there is a third arising from _analogy_, which differs from them in some material circumstances. according to the hypothesis above explained, all kinds of reasoning from causes or effects are founded on two particulars, viz. the constant conjunction of any two objects in all past experience, and the resemblance of a present object to any one of them. the effect of these two particulars is, that the present object invigorates and enlivens the imagination; and the resemblance, along with the constant union, conveys this force and vivacity to the related idea; which we are therefore said to believe or assent to. if you weaken either the union or resemblance, you weaken the principle of transition, and of consequence that belief which arises from it. the vivacity of the first impression cannot be fully conveyed to the related idea, either where the conjunction of their objects is not constant, or where the present impression does not perfectly resemble any of those whose union we are accustomed to observe. in those probabilities of chance and causes above explained, 'tis the constancy of the union which is diminished; and in the probability derived from analogy, 'tis the resemblance only which is affected. without some degree of resemblance, as well as union, 'tis impossible there can be any reasoning. but as this resemblance admits of many different degrees, the reasoning becomes proportionably more or less firm and certain. an experiment loses of its force, when transferred to instances which are not exactly resembling; though 'tis evident it may still retain as much as may be the foundation of probability, as long as there is any resemblance remaining. section xiii. of unphilosophical probability. all these kinds of probability are received by philosophers, and allowed to be reasonable foundations of belief and opinion. but there are others that are derived from the same principles, though they have not had the good fortune to obtain the same sanction. the _first_ probability of this kind may be accounted for thus. the diminution of the union and of the resemblance, as above explained, diminishes the facility of the transition, and by that means weakens the evidence; and we may farther observe, that the same diminution of the evidence will follow from a diminution of the impression, and from the shading of those colours under which it appears to the memory or senses. the argument which we found on any matter of fact we remember is more or less convincing, according as the fact is recent or remote; and though the difference in these degrees of evidence be not received by philosophy as solid and legitimate; because in that case an argument must have a different force to-day from what it shall have a month hence; yet, notwithstanding the opposition of philosophy, 'tis certain this circumstance has a considerable influence on the understanding, and secretly changes the authority of the same argument, according to the different times in which it is proposed to us. a greater force and vivacity in the impression naturally conveys a greater to the related idea; and 'tis on the degrees of force and vivacity that the belief depends, according to the foregoing system. there is a _second_ difference which we may frequently observe in our degrees of belief and assurance, and which never fails to take place, though disclaimed by philosophers. an experiment that is recent and fresh in the memory, affects us more than one that is in some measure obliterated; and has a superior influence on the judgment as well as on the passions. a lively impression produces more assurance than a faint one, because it has more original force to communicate to the related idea, which thereby acquires a greater force and vivacity. a recent observation has a like effect; because the custom and transition is there more entire, and preserves better the original force in the communication. thus a drunkard, who has seen his companion die of a debauch, is struck with that instance for some time, and dreads a like accident for himself; but as the memory of it decays away by degrees, his former security returns, and the danger seems less certain and real. i add, as a _third_ instance of this kind, that though our reasonings from proofs and from probabilities be considerably different from each other, yet the former species of reasoning often degenerates insensibly into the latter, by nothing but the multitude of connected arguments. 'tis certain, that when an inference is drawn immediately from an object, without any intermediate cause or effect, the conviction is much stronger, and the persuasion more lively, than when the imagination is carried through a long chain of connected arguments, however infallible the connexion of each link may be esteemed. 'tis from the original impression that the vivacity of all the ideas is derived, by means of the customary transition of the imagination; and 'tis evident this vivacity must gradually decay in proportion to the distance, and must lose somewhat in each transition. sometimes this distance has a greater influence than even contrary experiments would have; and a man may receive a more lively conviction from a probable reasoning which is close and immediate, than from a long chain of consequences, though just and conclusive in each part. nay, 'tis seldom such reasonings produce any conviction; and one must have a very strong and firm imagination to preserve the evidence to the end, where it passes through so many stages. but here it may not be amiss to remark a very curious phenomenon which the present subject suggests to us. 'tis evident there is no point of ancient history, of which we can have any assurance, but by passing through many millions of causes and effects, and through a chain of arguments of almost an immeasurable length. before the knowledge of the fact could come to the first historian, it must be conveyed through many mouths; and after it is committed to writing, each new copy is a new object, of which the connexion with the foregoing is known only by experience and observation. perhaps therefore it may be concluded, from the precedent reasoning, that the evidence of all ancient history must now be lost, or at least will be lost in time, as the chain of causes increases, and runs on to a greater length. but as it seems contrary to common sense to think, that if the republic of letters and the art of printing continue on the same footing as at present, our posterity, even after a thousand ages, can ever doubt if there has been such a man as julius cæsar; this may be considered as an objection to the present system. if belief consisted only in a certain vivacity, conveyed from an original impression, it would decay by the length of the transition, and must at last be utterly extinguished. and, _vice versa_, if belief, on some occasions, be not capable of such an extinction, it must be something different from that vivacity. before i answer this objection i shall observe, that from this topic there has been borrowed a very celebrated argument against the _christian religion_; but with this difference, that the connexion betwixt each link of the chain in human testimony has been there supposed not to go beyond probability, and to be liable to a degree of doubt and uncertainty. and indeed it must be confessed, that in this manner of considering the subject (which, however, is not a true one), there is no history or tradition but what must in the end lose all its force and evidence. every new probability diminishes the original conviction; and, however great that conviction may be supposed, 'tis impossible it can subsist under such reiterated diminutions. this is true in general, though we shall find afterwards,[ ] that there is one very memorable exception, which is of vast consequence in the present subject of the understanding. meanwhile, to give a solution of the preceding objection upon the supposition that historical evidence amounts at first to an entire proof, let us consider, that, though the links are innumerable that connect any original fact with the present impression, which is the foundation of belief, yet they are all of the same kind, and depend on the fidelity of printers and copyists. one edition passes into another, and that into a third, and so on, till we come to that volume we peruse at present. there is no variation in the steps. after we know one, we know all of them; and after we have made one, we can have no scruple as to the rest. this circumstance alone preserves the evidence of history, and will perpetuate the memory of the present age to the latest posterity. if all the long chain of causes and effects, which connect any past event with any volume of history, were composed of parts different from each other, and which 'twere necessary for the mind distinctly to conceive, 'tis impossible we should preserve to the end any belief or evidence. but as most of these proofs are perfectly resembling, the mind runs easily along them, jumps from one part to another with facility, and forms but a confused and general notion of each link. by this means, a long chain of argument has as little effect in diminishing the original vivacity, as a much shorter would have if composed of parts which were different from each other, and of which each required a distinct consideration. a fourth unphilosophical species of probability is that derived from _general rules_, which we rashly form to ourselves, and which are the source of what we properly call _prejudice_. an irishman cannot have wit, and a frenchman cannot have solidity; for which reason, though the conversation of the former in any instance be visibly very agreeable, and of the latter very judicious, we have entertained such a prejudice against them, that they must be dunces or fops in spite of sense and reason. human nature is very subject to errors of this kind, and perhaps this nation as much as any other. should it be demanded why men form general rules, and allow them to influence their judgment, even contrary to present observation and experience, i should reply, that in my opinion it proceeds from those very principles on which all judgments concerning causes and effects depend. our judgments concerning cause and effect are derived from habit and experience; and when we have been accustomed to see one object united to another, our imagination passes from the first to the second by a natural transition, which precedes reflection, and which cannot be prevented by it. now, 'tis the nature of custom not only to operate with its full force, when objects are presented that are exactly the same with those to which we have been accustomed, but also to operate in an inferior degree when we discover such as are similar; and though the habit loses somewhat of its force by every difference, yet 'tis seldom entirely destroyed where any considerable circumstances remain the same. a man who has contracted a custom of eating fruit by the use of pears or peaches, will satisfy himself with melons where he cannot find his favourite fruit; as one, who has become a drunkard by the use of red wines, will be carried almost with the same violence to white, if presented to him. from this principle i have accounted for that species of probability, derived from analogy, where we transfer our experience in past instances to objects which are resembling, but are not exactly the same with those concerning which we have had experience. in proportion as the resemblance decays, the probability diminishes, but still has some force as long as there remain any traces of the resemblance. this observation we may carry farther, and may remark, that though custom be the foundation of all our judgments, yet sometimes it has an effect on the imagination in opposition to the judgment, and produces a contrariety in our sentiments concerning the same object. i explain myself. in almost all kinds of causes there is a complication of circumstances, of which some are essential, and others superfluous; some are absolutely requisite to the production of the effect, and others are only conjoined by accident. now we may observe, that when these superfluous circumstances are numerous and remarkable, and frequently conjoined with the essential, they have such an influence on the imagination, that even in the absence of the latter they carry us on to the conception of the usual effect, and give to that conception a force and vivacity which make it superior to the mere fictions of the fancy. we may correct this propensity by a reflection on the nature of those circumstances; but 'tis still certain, that custom takes the start, and gives a bias to the imagination. to illustrate this by a familiar instance, let us consider the case of a man, who, being hung out from a high tower in a cage of iron, cannot forbear trembling when he surveys the precipice below him, though he knows himself to be perfectly secure from falling, by his experience of the solidity of the iron which supports him, and though the ideas of fall and descent, and harm and death, be derived solely from custom and experience. the same custom goes beyond the instances from which it is derived, and to which it perfectly corresponds; and influences his ideas of such objects as are in some respect resembling, but fall not precisely under the same rule. the circumstances of depth and descent strike so strongly upon him, that their influence cannot be destroyed by the contrary circumstances of support and solidity, which ought to give him a perfect security. his imagination runs away with its object, and excites a passion proportioned to it. that passion returns back upon the imagination, and enlivens the idea; which lively idea has a new influence on the passion, and in its turn augments its force and violence: and both his fancy and affections, thus mutually supporting each other, cause the whole to have a very great influence upon him. but why need we seek for other instances, while the present subject of philosophical probabilities offers us so obvious an one, in the opposition betwixt the judgment and imagination, arising from these effects of custom? according to my system, all reasonings are nothing but the effects of custom, and custom has no influence, but by enlivening the imagination, and giving us a strong conception of any object. it may therefore be concluded, that our judgment and imagination can never be contrary, and that custom cannot operate on the latter faculty after such a manner, as to render it opposite to the former. this difficulty we can remove after no other manner, than by supposing the influence of general rules. we shall afterwards[ ] take notice of some general rules, by which we ought to regulate our judgment concerning causes and effects; and these rules are formed on the nature of our understanding, and on our experience of its operations in the judgments we form concerning objects. by them we learn to distinguish the accidental circumstances from the efficacious causes; and when we find that an effect can be produced without the concurrence of any particular circumstance, we conclude that that circumstance makes not a part of the efficacious cause, however frequently conjoined with it. but as this frequent conjunction necessarily makes it have some effect on the imagination, in spite of the opposite conclusion from general rules, the opposition of these two principles produces a contrariety in our thoughts, and causes us to ascribe the one inference to our judgment, and the other to our imagination. the general rule is attributed to our judgment, as being more extensive and constant; the exception to the imagination, as being more capricious and uncertain. thus, our general rules are in a manner set in opposition to each other. when an object appears, that resembles any cause in very considerable circumstances, the imagination naturally carries us to a lively conception of the usual effect, though the object be different in the most material and most efficacious circumstances from that cause. here is the first influence of general rules. but when we take a review of this act of the mind, and compare it with the more general and authentic operations of the understanding, we find it to be of an irregular nature, and destructive of all the most established principles of reasonings, which is the cause of our rejecting it. this is a second influence of general rules, and implies the condemnation of the former. sometimes the one, sometimes the other prevails, according to the disposition and character of the person. the vulgar are commonly guided by the first, and wise men by the second. meanwhile the sceptics may here have the pleasure of observing a new and signal contradiction in our reason, and of seeing all philosophy ready to be subverted by a principle of human nature, and again saved by a new direction of the very same principle. the following of general rules is a very unphilosophical species of probability; and yet 'tis only by following them that we can correct this, and all other unphilosophical probabilities. since we have instances where general rules operate on the imagination, even contrary to the judgment, we need not be surprised to see their effects increase, when conjoined with that latter faculty, and to observe that they bestow on the ideas they present to us a force superior to what attends any other. every one knows there is an indirect manner of insinuating praise or blame, which is much less shocking than the open flattery or censure of any person. however he may communicate his sentiments by such secret insinuations, and make them known with equal certainty as by the open discovery of them, 'tis certain that their influence is not equally strong and powerful. one who lashes me with concealed strokes of satire, moves not my indignation to such a degree, as if he flatly told me i was a fool and a coxcomb; though i equally understand his meaning, as if he did. this difference is to be attributed to the influence of general rules. whether a person openly abuses me, or slily intimates his contempt, in neither case do i immediately perceive his sentiment or opinion; and 'tis only by signs, that is, by its effects, i become sensible of it. the only difference then, betwixt these two cases, consists in this, that in the open discovery of his sentiments he makes use of signs, which are general and universal; and in the secret intimation employs such as are more singular and uncommon. the effect of this circumstance is, that the imagination, in running from the present impression to the absent idea, makes the transition with greater facility, and consequently conceives the object with greater force, where the connexion is common and universal, than where it is more rare and particular. accordingly, we may observe, that the open declaration of our sentiments is called the taking off the mask, as the secret intimation of our opinions is said to be the veiling of them. the difference betwixt an idea produced by a general connexion, and that arising from a particular one, is here compared to the difference betwixt an impression and an idea. this difference in the imagination has a suitable effect on the passions, and this effect is augmented by another circumstance. a secret intimation of anger or contempt shows that we still have some consideration for the person, and avoid the directly abusing him. this makes a concealed satire less disagreeable, but still this depends on the same principle. for if an idea were not more feeble, when only intimated, it would never be esteemed a mark of greater respect to proceed in this method than in the other. sometimes scurrility is less displeasing than delicate satire, because it revenges us in a manner for the injury at the very time it is committed, by affording us a just reason to blame and contemn the person who injures us. but this phenomenon likewise depends upon the same principle. for why do we blame all gross and injurious language, unless it be, because we esteem it contrary to good breeding and humanity? and why is it contrary, unless it be more shocking than any delicate satire? the rules of good breeding condemn whatever is openly disobliging, and gives a sensible pain and confusion to those with whom we converse. after this is once established, abusive language is universally blamed, and gives less pain upon account of its coarseness and incivility, which render the person despicable that employs it. it becomes less disagreeable, merely because originally it is more so; and 'tis more disagreeable, because it affords an inference by general and common rules that are palpable and undeniable. to this explication of the different influence of open and concealed flattery or satire, i shall add the consideration of another phenomenon, which is analogous to it. there are many particulars in the point of honour, both of men and women, whose violations, when open and avowed, the world never excuses, but which it is more apt to overlook, when the appearances are saved, and the transgression is secret and concealed. even those who know with equal certainty that the fault is committed, pardon it more easily, when the proofs seem in some measure oblique and equivocal, than when they are direct and undeniable. the same idea is presented in both cases, and, properly speaking, is equally assented to by the judgment; and yet its influence is different, because of the different manner in which it is presented. now, if we compare these two cases, of the _open_ and _concealed_ violations of the laws of honour, we shall find, that the difference betwixt them consists in this, that in the first case the sign, from which we infer the blameable action, is single, and suffices alone to be the foundation of our reasoning and judgment; whereas in the latter the signs are numerous, and decide little or nothing when alone and unaccompanied with many minute circumstances, which are almost imperceptible. but 'tis certainly true, that any reasoning is always the more convincing, the more single and united it is to the eye, and the less exercise it gives to the imagination to collect all its parts, and run from them to the correlative idea, which forms the conclusion. the labour of the thought disturbs the regular progress of the sentiments, as we shall observe presently.[ ] the idea strikes not on us with such vivacity, and consequently has no such influence on the passion and imagination. from the same principles we may account for those observations of the cardinal de retz, _that there are many things in which the world wishes to be deceived_, and _that it more easily excuses a person in acting than in talking contrary to the decorum of his profession and character_. a fault in words is commonly more open and distinct than one in actions, which admit of many palliating excuses, and decide not so clearly concerning the intention and views of the actor. thus it appears, upon the whole, that every kind of opinion or judgment which amounts not to knowledge, is derived entirely from the force and vivacity of the perception, and that these qualities constitute in the mind what we call the _belief_ of the existence of any object. this force and this vivacity are most conspicuous in the memory; and therefore our confidence in the veracity of that faculty is the greatest imaginable, and equals in many respects the assurance of a demonstration. the next degree of these qualities is that derived from the relation of cause and effect; and this too is very great, especially when the conjunction is found by experience to be perfectly constant, and when the object, which is present to us, exactly resembles those, of which we have had experience. but below this degree of evidence there are many others, which have an influence on the passions and imagination, proportioned to that degree of force and vivacity, which they communicate to the ideas. 'tis by habit we make the transition from cause to effect; and 'tis from some present impression we borrow that vivacity, which we diffuse over the correlative idea. but when we have not observed a sufficient number of instances to produce a strong habit; or when these instances are contrary to each other; or when the resemblance is not exact; or the present impression is faint and obscure; or the experience in some measure obliterated from the memory; or the connexion dependent on a long chain of objects; or the inference derived from general rules, and yet not conformable to them: in all these cases the evidence diminishes by the diminution of the force and intenseness of the idea. this therefore is the nature of the judgment and probability. what principally gives authority to this system is, beside the undoubted arguments, upon which each part is founded, the agreement of these parts, and the necessity of one to explain another. the belief which attends our memory is of the same nature with that which is derived from our judgments: nor is there any difference betwixt that judgment which is derived from a constant and uniform connexion of causes and effects, and that which depends upon an interrupted and uncertain. 'tis indeed evident, that in all determinations where the mind decides from contrary experiments, 'tis first divided within itself, and has an inclination to either side in proportion to the number of experiments we have seen and remember. this contest is at last determined to the advantage of that side where we observe a superior number of these experiments; but still with a diminution of force in the evidence correspondent to the number of the opposite experiments. each possibility, of which the probability is composed, operates separately upon the imagination; and 'tis the larger collection of possibilities, which at last prevails, and that with a force proportionable to its superiority. all these phenomena lead directly to the precedent system; nor will it ever be possible upon any other principles to give a satisfactory and consistent explication of them. without considering these judgments as the effects of custom on the imagination, we shall lose ourselves in perpetual contradiction and absurdity. [ ] part iv. sect. . [ ] sect. . [ ] part iv. sect. . section xiv. of the idea of necessary connexion. having thus explained the manner _in which we reason beyond our immediate impressions, and conclude that such particular causes must have such particular effects_; we must now return upon our footsteps to examine that question[ ] which first occurred to us, and which we dropped in our way, viz. _what is our idea of necessity, when we say that two objects are necessarily connected together_? upon this head i repeat, what i have often had occasion to observe, that as we have no idea that is not derived from an impression, we must find some impression that gives rise to this idea of necessity, if we assert we have really such an idea. in order to this, i consider in what objects necessity is commonly supposed to lie; and, finding that it is always ascribed to causes and effects, i turn my eye to two objects supposed to be placed in that relation, and examine them in all the situations of which they are susceptible. i immediately perceive that they are _contiguous_ in time and place, and that the object we call cause _precedes_ the other we call effect. in no one instance can i go any farther, nor is it possible for me to discover any third relation betwixt these objects. i therefore enlarge my view to comprehend several instances, where i find like objects always existing in like relations of contiguity and succession. at first sight this seems to serve but little to my purpose. the reflection on several instances only repeats the same objects; and therefore can never give rise to a new idea. but upon farther inquiry i find, that the repetition is not in every particular the same, but produces a new impression, and by that means the idea which i at present examine. for after a frequent repetition i find, that upon the appearance of one of the objects, the mind is _determined_ by custom to consider its usual attendant, and to consider it in a stronger light upon account of its relation to the first object. 'tis this impression, then, or _determination_, which affords me the idea of necessity. i doubt not but these consequences will at first sight be received without difficulty, as being evident deductions from principles which we have already established, and which we have often employed in our reasonings. this evidence, both in the first principles and in the deductions, may seduce us unwarily into the conclusion, and make us imagine it contains nothing extraordinary, nor worthy of our curiosity. but though such an inadvertence may facilitate the reception of this reasoning, 'twill make it be the more easily forgot; for which reason i think it proper to give warning, that i have just now examined one of the most sublime questions in philosophy, viz. _that concerning the power and efficacy of causes_, where all the sciences seem so much interested. such a warning will naturally rouse up the attention of the reader, and make him desire a more full account of my doctrine, as well as of the arguments on which it is founded. this request is so reasonable, that i cannot refuse complying with it; especially as i am hopeful that these principles, the more they are examined, will acquire the more force and evidence. there is no question which, on account of its importance, as well as difficulty, has caused more disputes both among ancient and modern philosophers, than this concerning the efficacy of causes, or that quality which makes them be followed by their effects. but before they entered upon these disputes, methinks it would not have been improper to have examined what idea we have of that efficacy, which is the subject of the controversy. this is what i find principally wanting in their reasonings, and what i shall here endeavour to supply. i begin with observing, that the terms of _efficacy, agency, power, force, energy, necessity, connexion_, and _productive quality_, are all nearly synonymous; and therefore 'tis an absurdity to employ any of them in defining the rest. by this observation we reject at once all the vulgar definitions which philosophers have given of power and efficacy; and instead of searching for the idea in these definitions, must look for it in the impressions from which it is originally derived. if it be a compound idea, it must arise from compound impressions. if simple, from simple impressions. i believe the most general and most popular explication of this matter, is to say,[ ] that finding from experience that there are several new productions in matter, such as the motions and variations of body, and concluding that there must somewhere be a power capable of producing them, we arrive at last by this reasoning at the idea of power and efficacy. but to be convinced that this explication is more popular than philosophical, we need but reflect on two very obvious principles. _first_, that reason alone can never give rise to any original idea; and, _secondly_, that reason, as distinguished from experience, can never make us conclude that a cause or productive quality is absolutely requisite to every beginning of existence. both these considerations have been sufficiently explained; and therefore shall not at present be any farther insisted on. i shall only infer from them, that since reason can never give rise to the idea of efficacy, that idea must be derived from experience, and from some particular instances of this efficacy, which make their passage into the mind by the common channels of sensation or reflection. ideas always represent their objects or impressions; and _vice versa_, there are some objects necessary to give rise to every idea. if we pretend, therefore, to have any just idea of this efficacy, we must produce some instance wherein the efficacy is plainly discoverable to the mind, and its operations obvious to our consciousness or sensation. by the refusal of this, we acknowledge, that the idea is impossible and imaginary; since the principle of innate ideas, which alone can save us from this dilemma, has been already refuted, and is now almost universally rejected in the learned world. our present business, then, must be to find some natural production, where the operation and efficacy of a cause can be clearly conceived and comprehended by the mind, without any danger of obscurity or mistake. in this research, we meet with very little encouragement from that prodigious diversity which is found in the opinions of those philosophers who have pretended to explain the secret force and energy of causes.[ ] there are some who maintain, that bodies operate by their substantial form; others, by their accidents or qualities; several, by their matter and form; some, by their form and accidents; others, by certain virtues and faculties distinct from all this. all these sentiments, again, are mixed and varied in a thousand different ways, and form a strong presumption that none of them have any solidity or evidence, and that the supposition of an efficacy in any of the known qualities of matter is entirely without foundation. this presumption must increase upon us, when we consider, that these principles of substantial forms, and accidents, and faculties, are not in reality any of the known properties of bodies, but are perfectly unintelligible and inexplicable. for 'tis evident philosophers would never have had recourse to such obscure and uncertain principles, had they met with any satisfaction in such as are clear and intelligible; especially in such an affair as this, which must be an object of the simplest understanding, if not of the senses. upon the whole, we may conclude, that 'tis impossible, in any one instance, to show the principle in which the force and agency of a cause is placed; and that the most refined and most vulgar understandings are equally at a loss in this particular. if any one think proper to refute this assertion, he need not put himself to the trouble of inventing any long reasonings, but may at once show us an instance of a cause, where we discover the power or operating principle. this defiance we are obliged frequently to make use of, as being almost the only means of proving a negative in philosophy. the small success which has been met with in all the attempts to fix this power, has at last obliged philosophers to conclude, that the ultimate force and efficacy of nature is perfectly unknown to us, and that 'tis in vain we search for it in all the known qualities of matter. in this opinion they are almost unanimous; and 'tis only in the inference they draw from it, that they discover any difference in their sentiments. for some of them, as the cartesians in particular, having established it as a principle, that we are perfectly acquainted with the essence of matter, have very naturally inferred, that it is endowed with no efficacy, and that 'tis impossible for it of itself to communicate motion, or produce any of those effects, which we ascribe to it. as the essence of matter consists in extension, and as extension implies not actual motion, but only mobility; they conclude, that the energy, which produces the motion, cannot lie in the extension. this conclusion leads them into another, which they regard as perfectly unavoidable. matter, say they, is in itself entirely unactive, and deprived of any power, by which it may produce, or continue, or communicate motion: but since these effects are evident to our senses, and since the power that produces them must be placed somewhere, it must lie in the deity, or that divine being who contains in his nature all excellency and perfection. 'tis the deity, therefore, who is the prime mover of the universe, and who not only first created matter, and gave it its original impulse, but likewise, by a continued exertion of omnipotence, supports its existence, and successively bestows on it all those motions, and configurations, and qualities, with which it is endowed. this opinion is certainly very curious, and well worth our attention; but 'twill appear superfluous to examine it in this place, if we reflect a moment on our present purpose in taking notice of it. we have established it as a principle, that as all ideas are derived from impressions, or some precedent _perceptions_,'tis impossible we can have any idea of power and efficacy, unless some instances can be produced, wherein this power _is perceived_ to exert itself. now, as these instances can never be discovered in body, the cartesians, proceeding upon their principle of innate ideas, have had recourse to a supreme spirit or deity, whom they consider as the only active being in the universe, and as the immediate cause of every alteration in matter. but the principle of innate ideas being allowed to be false, it follows, that the supposition of a deity can serve us in no stead, in accounting for that idea of agency, which we search for in vain in all the objects which are presented to our senses, or which we are internally conscious of in our own minds. for if every idea be derived from an impression, the idea of a deity proceeds from the same origin; and if no impression, either of sensation or reflection, implies any force or efficacy, 'tis equally impossible to discover or even imagine any such active principle in the deity. since these philosophers, therefore, have concluded that matter cannot be endowed with any efficacious principle, because 'tis impossible to discover in it such a principle, the same course of reasoning should determine them to exclude it from the supreme being, or, if they esteem that opinion absurd and impious, as it really is, i shall tell them how they may avoid it; and that is, by concluding from the very first, that they have no adequate idea of power or efficacy in any object; since neither in body nor spirit, neither in superior nor inferior natures, are they able to discover one single instance of it. the same conclusion is unavoidable upon the hypothesis of those, who maintain the efficacy of second causes, and attribute a derivative, but a real power and energy to matter. for as they confess that this energy lies not in any of the known qualities of matter, the difficulty still remains concerning the origin of its idea. if we have really an idea of power, we may attribute power to an unknown quality: but as 'tis impossible that that idea can be derived from such a quality, and as there is nothing in known qualities which can produce it, it follows that we deceive ourselves, when we imagine we are possessed of any idea of this kind, after the manner we commonly understand it. all ideas are derived from, and represent impressions. we never have any impression that contains any power or efficacy. we never, therefore, have any idea of power. some have asserted, that we feel an energy or power in our own mind; and that, having in this manner acquired the idea of power, we transfer that quality to matter, where we are not able immediately to discover it. the motions of our body, and the thoughts and sentiments of our mind (say they) obey the will; nor do we seek any farther to acquire a just notion of force or power. but to convince us how fallacious this reasoning is, we need only consider, that the will being here considered as a cause, has no more a discoverable connexion with its effects, than any material cause has with its proper effect. so far from perceiving the connexion betwixt an act of volition and a motion of the body, 'tis allowed that no effect is more inexplicable from the powers and essence of thought and matter. nor is the empire of the will over our mind more intelligible. the effect is there distinguishable and separable from the cause, and could be foreseen without the experience of their constant conjunction. we have command over our mind to a certain degree, but beyond _that_ lose all empire over it: and 'tis evidently impossible to fix any precise bounds to our authority, where we consult not experience. in short, the actions of the mind are, in this respect, the same with those of matter. we perceive only their constant conjunction; nor can we ever reason beyond it. no internal impression has an apparent energy, more than external objects have. since, therefore, matter is confessed by philosophers to operate by an unknown force, we should in vain hope to attain an idea of force by consulting our own minds.[ ] it has been established as a certain principle, that general or abstract ideas are nothing but individual ones taken in a certain light, and that, in reflecting on any object, 'tis as impossible to exclude from our thought all particular degrees of quantity and quality as from the real nature of things. if we be possessed, therefore, of any idea of power in general, we must also be able to conceive some particular species of it; and as power cannot subsist alone, but is always regarded as an attribute of some being or existence, we must be able to place this power in some particular being, and conceive that being as endowed with a real force and energy, by which such a particular effect necessarily results from its operation. we must distinctly and particularly conceive the connexion betwixt the cause and effect, and be able to pronounce, from a simple view of the one, that it must be followed or preceded by the other. this is the true manner of conceiving a particular power in a particular body: and a general idea being impossible without an individual; where the latter is impossible, 'tis certain the former can never exist. now nothing is more evident, than that the human mind cannot form such an idea of two objects, as to conceive any connexion betwixt them, or comprehend distinctly that power or efficacy, by which they are united. such a connexion would amount to a demonstration, and would imply the absolute impossibility for the one object not to follow, or to be conceived not to follow upon the other: which kind of connexion has already been rejected in all cases. if any one is of a contrary opinion, and thinks he has attained a notion of power in any particular object, i desire he may point out to me that object. but till i meet with such a one, which i despair of, i cannot forbear concluding, that since we can never distinctly conceive how any particular power can possibly reside in any particular object, we deceive ourselves in imagining we can form any such general idea. thus, upon the whole, we may infer, that when we talk of any being, whether of a superior or inferior nature, as endowed with a power or force, proportioned to any effect; when we speak of a necessary connexion betwixt objects, and suppose that this connexion depends upon an efficacy or energy, with which any of these objects are endowed; in all the expressions, _so applied_, we have really no distinct meaning, and make use only of common words, without any clear and determinate ideas. but as 'tis more probable, that these expressions do here lose their true meaning by being _wrong applied_, than that they never have any meaning; 'twill be proper to bestow another consideration on this subject, to see if possibly we can discover the nature and origin of those ideas we annex to them. suppose two objects to be presented to us, of which the one is the cause and the other the effect; 'tis plain that, from the simple consideration of one, or both these objects, we never shall perceive the tie by which they are united, or be able certainly to pronounce, that there is a connexion betwixt them. 'tis not, therefore, from any one instance, that we arrive at the idea of cause and effect, of a necessary connexion of power, of force, of energy, and of efficacy. did we never see any but particular conjunctions of objects, entirely different from each other, we should never be able to form any such ideas. but, again, suppose we observe several instances in which the same objects are always conjoined together, we immediately conceive a connexion betwixt them, and begin to draw an inference from one to another. this multiplicity of resembling instances, therefore, constitutes the very essence of power or connexion, and is the source from which the idea of it arises. in order, then, to understand the idea of power, we must consider that multiplicity; nor do i ask more to give a solution of that difficulty, which has so long perplexed us. for thus i reason. the repetition of perfectly similar instances can never _alone_ give rise to an original idea, different from what is to be found in any particular instance, as has been observed, and as evidently follows from our fundamental principle, _that all ideas are copied from impressions_. since, therefore, the idea of power is a new original idea, not to be found in any one instance, and which yet arises from the repetition of several instances, it follows, that the repetition _alone_ has not that effect, but must either _discover_ or _produce_ something new, which is the source of that idea. did the repetition neither discover nor produce any thing new, our ideas might be multiplied by it, but would not be enlarged above what they are upon the observation of one single instance. every enlargement, therefore, (such as the idea of power or connexion) which arises from the multiplicity of similar instances, is copied from some effects of the multiplicity, and will be perfectly understood by understanding these effects. wherever we find any thing new to be discovered or produced by the repetition, there we must place the power, and must never look for it in any other object. but 'tis evident, in the first place, that the repetition of like objects in like relations of succession and contiguity, _discovers_ nothing new in any one of them; since we can draw no inference from it, nor make it a subject either of our demonstrative or probable reasonings; as has been already proved.[ ] nay, suppose we could draw an inference, 'twould be of no consequence in the present case; since no kind of reasoning can give rise to a new idea, such as this of power is; but wherever we reason, we must antecedently be possessed of clear ideas, which may be the objects of our reasoning. the conception always precedes the understanding; and where the one is obscure, the other is uncertain; where the one fails, the other must fail also. secondly, 'tis certain that this repetition of similar objects in similar situations, _produces_ nothing new either in these objects, or in any external body. for 'twill readily be allowed, that the several instances we have of the conjunction of resembling causes and effects, are in themselves entirely independent, and that the communication of motion, which i see result at present from the shock of two billiard balls, is totally distinct from that which i saw result from such an impulse a twelvemonth ago. these impulses have no influence on each other. they are entirely divided by time and place; and the one might have existed and communicated motion, though the other never had been in being. there is, then, nothing new either discovered or produced in any objects by their constant conjunction, and by the uninterrupted resemblance of their relations of succession and contiguity. but 'tis from this resemblance, that the ideas of necessity, of power, and of efficacy, are derived. these ideas therefore represent not any thing, that does or can belong to the objects, which are constantly conjoined. this is an argument, which, in every view we can examine it, will be found perfectly unanswerable. similar instances are still the first source of our idea of power or necessity; at the same time that they have no influence by their similarity either on each other, or on any external object. we must therefore turn ourselves to some other quarter to seek the origin of that idea. though the several resembling instances, which give rise to the idea of power, have no influence on each other, and can never produce any new quality _in the object_, which can be the model of that idea, yet the _observation_ of this resemblance produces a new impression _in the mind_, which is its real model. for after we have observed the resemblance in a sufficient number of instances, we immediately feel a determination of the mind to pass from one object to its usual attendant, and to conceive it in a stronger light upon account of that relation. this determination is the only effect of the resemblance; and therefore must be the same with power or efficacy, whose idea is derived from the resemblance. the several instances of resembling conjunctions lead us into the notion of power and necessity. these instances are in themselves totally distinct from each other, and have no union but in the mind, which observes them, and collects their ideas. necessity, then, is the effect of this observation, and as nothing but an internal impression of the mind, or a determination to carry our thoughts from one object to another. without considering it in this view, we can never arrive at the most distant notion of it, or be able to attribute it either to external or internal objects, to spirit or body, to causes or effects. the necessary connexion betwixt causes and effects is the foundation of our inference from one to the other. the foundation of our inference is the transition arising from the accustomed union. these are therefore the same. the idea of necessity arises from some impression. there is no impression conveyed by our senses, which can give rise to that idea. it must, therefore, be derived from some internal impression, or impression of reflection. there is no internal impression which has any relation to the present business, but that propensity, which custom produces, to pass from an object to the idea of its usual attendant. this, therefore, is the essence of necessity. upon the whole, necessity is something that exists in the mind, not in objects; nor is it possible for us ever to form the most distant idea of it, considered as a quality in bodies. either we have no idea of necessity, or necessity is nothing but that determination of the thought to pass from causes to effects, and from effects to causes, according to their experienced union. thus, as the necessity, which makes two times two equal to four, or three angles of a triangle equal to two right ones, lies only in the act of the understanding, by which we consider and compare these ideas; in like manner, the necessity of power, which unites causes and effects, lies in the determination of the mind to pass from the one to the other. the efficacy or energy of causes is neither placed in the causes themselves, nor in the deity, nor in the concurrence of these two principles; but belongs entirely to the soul, which considers the union of two or more objects in all past instances. 'tis here that the real power of causes is placed, along with their connexion and necessity. i am sensible, that of all the paradoxes which i have had, or shall hereafter have occasion to advance in the course of this treatise, the present one is the most violent, and that 'tis merely by dint of solid proof and reasoning i can ever hope it will have admission, and overcome the inveterate prejudices of mankind. before we are reconciled to this doctrine, how often must we repeat to ourselves, _that_ the simple view of any two objects or actions, however related, can never give us any idea of power, or of a connexion betwixt them: _that_ this idea arises from the repetition of their union: _that_ the repetition neither discovers nor causes any thing in the objects, but has an influence only on the mind, by that customary transition it produces: _that_ this customary transition is therefore the same with the power and necessity; which are consequently qualities of perceptions, not of objects, and are internally felt by the soul, and not perceived externally in bodies? there is commonly an astonishment attending every thing extraordinary; and this astonishment changes immediately into the highest degree of esteem or contempt, according as we approve or disapprove of the subject. i am much afraid, that though the foregoing reasoning appears to me the shortest and most decisive imaginable, yet, with the generality of readers, the bias of the mind will prevail, and give them a prejudice against the present doctrine. this contrary bias is easily accounted for. 'tis a common observation, that the mind has a great propensity to spread itself on external objects, and to conjoin with them any internal impressions which they occasion, and which always make their appearance at the same time that these objects discover themselves to the senses. thus, as certain sounds and smells are always found to attend certain visible objects, we naturally imagine a conjunction, even in place, betwixt the objects and qualities, though the qualities be of such a nature as to admit of no such conjunction, and really exist no where. but of this more fully hereafter.[ ] meanwhile, 'tis sufficient to observe, that the same propensity is the reason why we suppose necessity and power to lie in the objects we consider, not in our mind, that considers them; notwithstanding it is not possible for us to form the most distant idea of that quality, when it is not taken for the determination of the mind to pass from the idea of an object to that of its usual attendant. but though this be the only reasonable account we can give of necessity, the contrary notion is so riveted in the mind from the principles above-mentioned, that i doubt not but my sentiments will be treated by many as extravagant and ridiculous. what! the efficacy of causes lie in the determination of the mind! as if causes did not operate entirely independent of the mind, and would not continue their operation, even though there was no mind existent to contemplate them, or reason concerning them. thought may well depend on causes for its operation, but not causes on thought. this is to reverse the order of nature, and make that secondary, which is really primary. to every operation there is a power proportioned; and this power must be placed on the body that operates. if we remove the power from one cause, we must ascribe it to another: but to remove it from all causes, and bestow it on a being that is no ways related to the cause or effect, but by perceiving them, is a gross absurdity, and contrary to the most certain principles of human reason. i can only reply to all these arguments, that the case is here much the same, as if a blind man should pretend to find a great many absurdities in the supposition, that the colour of scarlet is not the same with the sound of a trumpet, nor light the same with solidity. if we have really no idea of a power or efficacy in any object, or of any real connexion betwixt causes and effects, 'twill be to little purpose to prove, that an efficacy is necessary in all operations. we do not understand our own meaning in talking so, but ignorantly confound ideas which are entirely distinct from each other. i am, indeed, ready to allow, that there may be several qualities, both in material and immaterial objects, with which we are utterly unacquainted; and if we please to call these _power_ or _efficacy_,'twill be of little consequence to the world. but when, instead of meaning these unknown qualities, we make the terms of power and efficacy signify something, of which we have a clear idea, and which is incompatible with those objects to which we apply it, obscurity and error begin then to take place, and we are led astray by a false philosophy. this is the case when we transfer the determination of the thought to external objects, and suppose any real intelligible connexion betwixt them; that being a quality which can only belong to the mind that considers them. as to what may be said, that the operations of nature are independent of our thought and reasoning, i allow it; and accordingly have observed, that objects bear to each other the relations of contiguity and succession; that like objects may be observed, in several instances, to have like relations; and that all this is independent of, and antecedent to, the operations of the understanding. but if we go any farther, and ascribe a power or necessary connexion to these objects, this is what we can never observe in them, but must draw the idea of it from what we feel internally in contemplating them. and this i carry so far, that i am ready to convert my present reasoning into an instance of it, by a subtility which it will not be difficult to comprehend. when any object is presented to us, it immediately conveys to the mind a lively idea of that object which is usually found to attend it; and this determination of the mind forms the necessary connexion of these objects. but when we change the point of view from the objects to the perceptions, in that case the impression is to be considered as the cause, and the lively idea as the effect; and their necessary connexion is that new determination, which we feel to pass from the idea of the one to that of the other. the uniting principle among our internal perceptions is as unintelligible as that among external objects, and is not known to us any other way than by experience. now, the nature and effects of experience have been already sufficiently examined and explained. it never gives us any insight into the internal structure or operating principle of objects, but only accustoms the mind to pass from one to another. 'tis now time to collect all the different parts of this reasoning, and, by joining them together, form an exact definition of the relation of cause and effect, which makes the subject of the present inquiry. this order would not have been excusable, of first examining our inference from the relation before we had explained the relation itself, had it been possible to proceed in a different method. but as the nature of the relation depends so much on that of the inference, we have been obliged to advance in this seemingly preposterous manner, and make use of terms before we were able exactly to define them, or fix their meaning. we shall now correct this fault by giving a precise definition of cause and effect. there may two definitions be given of this relation, which are only different by their presenting a different view of the same object, and making us consider it either as a _philosophical_ or as a _natural_ relation; either as a comparison of two ideas, or as an association betwixt them. we may define a _cause_ to be "an object precedent and contiguous to another, and where all the objects resembling the former are placed in like relations of precedency and contiguity to those objects that resemble the latter." if this definition be esteemed defective, because drawn from objects foreign to the cause, we may substitute this other definition in its place, viz. "a _cause_ is an object precedent and contiguous to another, and so united with it that the idea of the one determines the mind to form the idea of the other, and the impression of the one to form a more lively idea of the other." should this definition also be rejected for the same reason, i know no other remedy, than that the persons who express this delicacy should substitute a juster definition in its place. but, for my part, i must own my incapacity for such an undertaking. when i examine, with the utmost accuracy, those objects which are commonly denominated causes and effects, i find, in considering a single instance, that the one object is precedent and contiguous to the other; and in enlarging my view to consider several instances, i find only that like objects are constantly placed in like relations of succession and contiguity. again, when i consider the influence of this constant conjunction, i perceive that such a relation can never be an object of reasoning, and can never operate upon the mind but by means of custom, which determines the imagination to make a transition from the idea of one object to that of its usual attendant, and from the impression of one to a more lively idea of the other. however extraordinary these sentiments may appear, i think it fruitless to trouble myself with any farther inquiry or reasoning upon the subject, but shall repose myself on them as on established maxims. 'twill only be proper, before we leave this subject, to draw some corollaries from it, by which we may remove several prejudices and popular errors that have very much prevailed in philosophy. first, we may learn, from the foregoing doctrine, that all causes are of the same kind, and that, in particular, there is no foundation for that distinction which we sometimes make betwixt efficient causes, and causes _sine qua non_; or betwixt efficient causes, and formal, and material, and exemplary, and final causes. for as our idea of efficiency is derived from the constant conjunction of two objects, wherever this is observed, the cause is efficient; and where it is not, there can never be a cause of any kind. for the same reason we must reject the distinction betwixt _cause_ and _occasion_, when supposed to signify any thing essentially different from each other. if constant conjunction be implied in what we call occasion, 'tis a real cause; if not, 'tis no relation at all, and cannot give rise to any argument or reasoning. secondly, the same course of reasoning will make us conclude, that there is but one kind of _necessity_, as there is but one kind of cause, and that the common distinction betwixt _moral_ and _physical_ necessity is without any foundation in nature. this clearly appears from the precedent explication of necessity. 'tis the constant conjunction of objects, along with the determination of the mind, which constitutes a physical necessity: and the removal of these is the same thing with _chance_. as objects must either be conjoined or not, and as the mind must either be determined or not to pass from one object to another, 'tis impossible to admit of any medium betwixt chance and an absolute necessity. in weakening this conjunction and determination you do not change the nature of the necessity; since even in the operation of bodies, these have different degrees of constancy and force, without producing a different species of that relation. the distinction, which we often make betwixt _power_ and the _exercise_ of it, is equally without foundation. thirdly, we may now be able fully to overcome all that repugnance, which 'tis so natural for us to entertain against the foregoing reasoning, by which we endeavoured to prove, that the necessity of a cause to every beginning of existence is not founded on any arguments either demonstrative or intuitive. such an opinion will not appear strange after the foregoing definitions. if we define a cause to be _an object precedent and contiguous to another, and where all the objects resembling the former are placed in a like relation of priority and contiguity to those objects that resemble the latter_; we may easily conceive that there is no absolute nor metaphysical necessity, that every beginning of existence should be attended with such an object. if we define a cause to be, _an object precedent and contiguous to another, and so united with it in the imagination, that the idea of the one determines the mind to form the idea of the other, and the impression of the one to form a more lively idea of the other_; we shall make still less difficulty of assenting to this opinion. such an influence on the mind is in itself perfectly extraordinary and incomprehensible; nor can we be certain of its reality, but from experience and observation. i shall add as a fourth corollary, that we can never have reason to believe that any object exists, of which we cannot form an idea. for, as all our reasonings concerning existence are derived from causation, and as all our reasonings concerning causation are derived from the experienced conjunction of objects, not from any reasoning or reflection, the same experience must give us a notion of these objects, and must remove all mystery from our conclusions. this is so evident that 'twould scarce have merited our attention, were it not to obviate certain objections of this kind which might arise against the following reasonings concerning _matter_ and _substance_. i need not observe, that a full knowledge of the object is not requisite, but only of those qualities of it which we believe to exist. [ ] sect. . [ ] see mr locke; chapter of power. [ ] see father malebranche, book vi. part ii. chap. , and the illustrations upon it. [ ] the same imperfection attends our ideas of the deity; but this can have no effect either on religion or morals. the order of the universe proves an omnipotent mind; that is, a mind whose will is _constantly attended_ with the obedience of every creature and being. nothing more is requisite to give a foundation to all the articles of religion; nor is it necessary we should form a distinct idea of the force and energy of the supreme being. [ ] section . [ ] part iv. sect . section xv. rules by which to judge of causes and effects. according to the precedent doctrine, there are no objects which, by the mere survey, without consulting experience, we can determine to be the causes of any other; and no objects which we can certainly determine in the same manner not to be the causes. any thing may produce any thing. creation, annihilation, motion, reason, volition; all these may arise from one another, or from any other object we can imagine. nor will this appear strange if we compare two principles explained above, _that the constant conjunction of objects determines their causation_,[ ] and _that, properly speaking, no objects are contrary to each other but existence and non-existence_. where objects are not contrary, nothing hinders them from having that constant conjunction on which the relation of cause and effect totally depends. since, therefore, 'tis possible for all objects to become causes or effects to each other, it may be proper to fix some general rules by which we may know when they really are so. . the cause and effect must be contiguous in space and time. . the cause must be prior to the effect. . there must be a constant union betwixt the cause and effect. 'tis chiefly this quality that constitutes the relation. . the same cause always produces the same effect, and the same effect never arises but from the same cause. this principle we derive from experience, and is the source of most of our philosophical reasonings. for when by any clear experiment we have discovered the causes or effects of any phenomenon, we immediately extend our observation to every phenomenon of the same kind, without waiting for that constant repetition, from which the first idea of this relation is derived. . there is another principle which hangs upon this, viz. that where several different objects produce the same effect, it must be by means of some quality which we discover to be common amongst them. for as like effects imply like causes, we must always ascribe the causation to the circumstance wherein we discover the resemblance. . the following principle is founded on the same reason. the difference in the effects of two resembling objects must proceed from that particular in which they differ. for as like causes always produce like effects, when in any instance we find our expectation to be disappointed, we must conclude that this irregularity proceeds from some difference in the causes. . when any object increases or diminishes with the increase or diminution of its cause, 'tis to be regarded as a compounded effect, derived from the union of the several different effects which arise from the several different parts of the cause. the absence or presence of one part of the cause is here supposed to be always attended with the absence or presence of a proportionable part of the effect. this constant conjunction sufficiently proves that the one part is the cause of the other. we must, however, beware not to draw such a conclusion from a few experiments. a certain degree of heat gives pleasure; if you diminish that heat, the pleasure diminishes; but it does not follow, that if you augment it beyond a certain degree, the pleasure will likewise augment; for we find that it degenerates into pain. . the eighth and last rule i shall take notice of is, that an object, which exists for any time in its full perfection without any effect, is not the sole cause of that effect, but requires to be assisted by some other principle, which may forward its influence and operation. for as like effects necessarily follow from like causes, and in a contiguous time and place, their separation for a moment shows that these causes are not complete ones. here is all the _logic_ i think proper to employ in my reasoning; and perhaps even this was not very necessary, but might have been supplied by the natural principles of our understanding. our scholastic headpieces and logicians show no such superiority above the mere vulgar in their reason and ability, as to give us any inclination to imitate them in delivering a long system of rules and precepts to direct our judgment in philosophy. all the rules of this nature are very easy in their invention, but extremely difficult in their application; and even experimental philosophy, which seems the most natural and simple of any, requires the utmost stretch of human judgment. there is no phenomenon in nature but what is compounded and modified by so many different circumstances, that, in order to arrive at the decisive point, we must carefully separate whatever is superfluous, and inquire, by new experiments, if every particular circumstance of the first experiment was essential to it. these new experiments are liable to a discussion of the same kind; so that the utmost constancy is required to make us persevere in our inquiry, and the utmost sagacity to chuse the right way among so many that present themselves. if this be the case even in natural philosophy, how much more in moral, where there is a much greater complication of circumstances, and where those views and sentiments, which are essential to any action of the mind, are so implicit and obscure, that they often escape our strictest attention, and are not only unaccountable in their causes, but even unknown in their existence? i am much afraid, lest the small success i meet with in my inquiries, will make this observation bear the air of an apology rather than of boasting. if any thing can give me security in this particular, 'twill be the enlarging the sphere of my experiments as much as possible; for which reason, it may be proper, in this place, to examine the reasoning faculty of brutes, as well as that of human creatures. [ ] part i. sect . section xvi. of the reason of animals. next to the ridicule of denying an evident truth, is that of taking much pains to defend it; and no truth appears to me more evident, than that the beasts are endowed with thought and reason as well as men. the arguments are in this case so obvious, that they never escape the most stupid and ignorant. we are conscious, that we ourselves, in adapting means to ends, are guided by reason and design, and that 'tis not ignorantly nor casually we perform those actions which tend to self-preservation, to the obtaining pleasure, and avoiding pain. when, therefore, we see other creatures, in millions of instances, perform like actions, and direct them to like ends, all our principles of reason and probability carry us with an invincible force to believe the existence of a like cause. 'tis needless, in my opinion, to illustrate this argument by the enumeration of particulars. the smallest attention will supply us with more than are requisite. the resemblance betwixt the actions of animals and those of men is so entire, in this respect, that the very first action of the first animal we shall please to pitch on, will afford us an incontestable argument for the present doctrine. this doctrine is as useful as it is obvious, and furnishes us with a kind of touchstone, by which we may try every system in this species of philosophy. 'tis from the resemblance of the external actions of animals to those we ourselves perform, that we judge their internal likewise to resemble ours; and the same principle of reasoning, carried one step farther, will make us conclude, that, since our internal actions resemble each other, the causes, from which they are derived, must also be resembling. when any hypothesis, therefore, is advanced to explain a mental operation, which is common to men and beasts, we must apply the same hypothesis to both; and as every true hypothesis will abide this trial, so i may venture to affirm, that no false one will ever be able to endure it. the common defect of those systems, which philosophers have employed to account for the actions of the mind, is, that they suppose such a subtility and refinement of thought, as not only exceeds the capacity of mere animals, but even of children and the common people in our own species; who are, notwithstanding, susceptible of the same emotions and affections as persons of the most accomplished genius and understanding. such a subtility is a clear proof of the falsehood, as the contrary simplicity of the truth, of any system. let us, therefore, put our present system, concerning the nature of the understanding, to this decisive trial, and see whether it will equally account for the reasonings of beasts as for those of the human species. here we must make a distinction betwixt those actions of animals, which are of a vulgar nature, and seem to be on a level with their common capacities, and those more extraordinary instances of sagacity, which they sometimes discover for their own preservation, and the propagation of their species. a dog that avoids fire and precipices, that shuns strangers, and caresses his master, affords us an instance of the first kind. a bird, that chuses with such care and nicety the place and materials of her nest, and sits upon her eggs for a due time, and in a suitable season, with all the precaution that a chemist is capable of in the most delicate projection, furnishes us with a lively instance of the second. as to the former actions, i assert they proceed from a reasoning, that is not in itself different, nor founded on different principles, from that which appears in human nature. 'tis necessary, in the first place, that there be some impression immediately present to their memory or senses, in order to be the foundation of their judgment. from the tone of voice the dog infers his master's anger, and foresees his own punishment. from a certain sensation affecting his smell, he judges his game not to be far distant from him. secondly, the inference he draws from the present impression is built on experience, and on his observation of the conjunction of objects in past instances. as you vary this experience, he varies his reasoning. make a beating follow upon one sign or motion for some time, and afterwards upon another; and he will successively draw different conclusions, according to his most recent experience. now, let any philosopher make a trial, and endeavour to explain that act of the mind which we call _belief_, and give an account of the principles from which it is derived, independent of the influence of custom on the imagination, and let his hypothesis be equally applicable to beasts as to the human species; and, after he has done this, i promise to embrace his opinion. but, at the same time i demand as an equitable condition, that if my system be the only one, which can answer to all these terms, it may be received as entirely satisfactory and convincing. and that 'tis the only one, is evident almost without any reasoning. beasts certainly never perceive any real connexion among objects. 'tis therefore by experience they infer one from another. they can never by any arguments form a general conclusion, that those objects of which they have had no experience, resemble those of which they have. 'tis therefore by means of custom alone that experience operates upon them. all this was sufficiently evident with respect to man. but with respect to beasts there cannot be the least suspicion of mistake; which must be owned to be a strong confirmation, or rather an invincible proof of my system. nothing shows more the force of habit in reconciling us to any phenomenon, than this, that men are not astonished at the operations of their own reason, at the same time that they admire the _instinct_ of animals, and find a difficulty in explaining it, merely because it cannot be reduced to the very same principles. to consider the matter aright, reason is nothing but a wonderful and unintelligible instinct in our souls, which carries us along a certain train of ideas, and endows them with particular qualities, according to their particular situations and relations. this instinct, 'tis true, arises from past observation and experience; but can any one give the ultimate reason, why past experience and observation produces such an effect, any more than why nature alone should produce it? nature may certainly produce whatever can arise from habit: nay, habit is nothing but one of the principles of nature, and derives all its force from that origin. part iv. of the sceptical and other systems of philosophy. section i. of scepticism with regard to reason. in all demonstrative sciences the rules are certain and infallible; but when we apply them, our fallible and uncertain faculties are very apt to depart from them, and fall into error. we must therefore in every reasoning form a new judgment, as a check or control on our first judgment or belief; and must enlarge our view to comprehend a kind of history of all the instances, wherein our understanding has deceived us, compared with those wherein its testimony was just and true. our reason must be considered as a kind of cause, of which truth is the natural effect; but such a one as, by the irruption of other causes, and by the inconstancy of our mental powers, may frequently be prevented. by this means all knowledge degenerates into probability; and this probability is greater or less, according to our experience of the veracity or deceitfulness of our understanding, and according to the simplicity or intricacy of the question. there is no algebraist nor mathematician so expert in his science, as to place entire confidence in any truth immediately upon his discovery of it, or regard it as any thing but a mere probability. every time he runs over his proofs, his confidence increases; but still more by the approbation of his friends; and is raised to its utmost perfection by the universal assent and applauses of the learned world. now, 'tis evident that this gradual increase of assurance is nothing but the addition of new probabilities, and is derived from the constant union of causes and effects, according to past experience and observation. in accounts of any length or importance, merchants seldom trust to the infallible certainty of numbers for their security; but by the artificial structure of the accounts, produce a probability beyond what is derived from the skill and experience of the accountant. for that is plainly of itself some degree of probability; though uncertain and variable, according to the degrees of his experience and length of the account. now as none will maintain, that our assurance in a long numeration exceeds probability, i may safely affirm, that there scarce is any proposition concerning numbers, of which we can have a fuller security. for 'tis easily possible, by gradually diminishing the numbers, to reduce the longest series of addition to the most simple question which can be formed, to an addition of two single numbers; and upon this supposition we shall find it impracticable to show the precise limits of knowledge and of probability, or discover that particular number at which the one ends and the other begins. but knowledge and probability are of such contrary and disagreeing natures, that they cannot well run insensibly into each other, and that because they will not divide, but must be either entirely present, or entirely absent. besides, if any single addition were certain, every one would be so, and consequently the whole or total sum; unless the whole can be different from all its parts. i had almost said, that this was certain; but i reflect that it must reduce _itself_, as well as every other reasoning, and from knowledge degenerate into probability. since, therefore, all knowledge resolves itself into probability, and becomes at last of the same nature with that evidence which we employ in common life, we must now examine this latter species of reasoning, and see on what foundation it stands. in every judgment which we can form concerning probability, as well as concerning knowledge, we ought always to correct the first judgment, derived from the nature of the object, by another judgment, derived from the nature of the understanding. 'tis certain a man of solid sense and long experience ought to have, and usually has, a greater assurance in his opinions, than one that is foolish and ignorant, and that our sentiments have different degrees of authority, even with ourselves, in proportion to the degrees of our reason and experience. in the man of the best sense and longest experience, this authority is never entire; since even such a one must be conscious of many errors in the past, and must still dread the like for the future. here then arises a new species of probability to correct and regulate the first, and fix its just standard and proportion. as demonstration is subject to the control of probability, so is probability liable to a new correction by a reflex act of the mind, wherein the nature of our understanding, and our reasoning from the first probability, become our objects. having thus found in every probability, beside the original uncertainty inherent in the subject, a new uncertainty, derived from the weakness of that faculty which judges, and having adjusted these two together, we are obliged by our reason to add a new doubt, derived from the possibility of error in the estimation we make of the truth and fidelity of our faculties. this is a doubt which immediately occurs to us, and of which, if we would closely pursue our reason, we cannot avoid giving a decision. but this decision, though it should be favourable to our preceding judgment, being founded only on probability, must weaken still further our first evidence, and must itself be weakened by a fourth doubt of the same kind, and so on _in infinitum_; till at last there remain nothing of the original probability, however great we may suppose it to have been, and however small the diminution by every new uncertainty. no finite object can subsist under a decrease repeated _in infinitum_; and even the vastest quantity, which can enter into human imagination, must in this manner be reduced to nothing. let our first belief be never so strong, it must infallibly perish, by passing through so many new examinations, of which each diminishes somewhat of its force and vigour. when i reflect on the natural fallibility of my judgment, i have less confidence in my opinions, than when i only consider the objects concerning which i reason; and when i proceed still farther, to turn the scrutiny against every successive estimation i make of my faculties, all the rules of logic require a continual diminution, and at last a total extinction of belief and evidence. should it here be asked me, whether i sincerely assent to this argument, which i seem to take such pains to inculcate, and whether i be really one of those sceptics, who hold that all is uncertain, and that our judgment is not in _any_ thing possessed of _any_ measures of truth and falsehood; i should reply, that this question is entirely superfluous, and that neither i, nor any other person, was ever sincerely and constantly of that opinion. nature, by an absolute and uncontrollable necessity, has determined us to judge as well as to breathe and feel; nor can we any more forbear viewing certain objects in a stronger and fuller light, upon account of their customary connexion with a present impression, than we can hinder ourselves from thinking, as long as we are awake, or seeing the surrounding bodies, when we turn our eyes towards them in broad sunshine. whoever has taken the pains to refute the cavils of this _total_ scepticism, has really disputed without an antagonist, and endeavoured by arguments to establish a faculty, which nature has antecedently implanted in the mind, and rendered unavoidable. my intention then in displaying so carefully the arguments of that fantastic sect, is only to make the reader sensible of the truth of my hypothesis, _that all our reasonings concerning causes and effects, are derived from nothing but custom; and that belief is more properly an act of the sensitive, than of the cogitative part of our natures_. i have here proved, that the very same principles, which make us form a decision upon any subject, and correct that decision by the consideration of our genius and capacity, and of the situation of our mind, when we examined that subject; i say, i have proved, that these same principles, when carried farther, and applied to every new reflex judgment, must, by continually diminishing the original evidence, at last reduce it to nothing, and utterly subvert all belief and opinion. if belief, therefore, were a simple act of the thought, without any peculiar manner of conception, or the addition or a force and vivacity, it must infallibly destroy itself, and in every case terminate in a total suspense of judgment. but as experience will sufficiently convince any one, who thinks it worth while to try, that though he can find no error in the foregoing arguments, yet he still continues to believe, and think, and reason, as usual, he may safely conclude, that his reasoning and belief is some sensation or peculiar manner of conception, which 'tis impossible for mere ideas and reflections to destroy. but here, perhaps, it may be demanded, how it happens, even upon my hypothesis, that these arguments above explained produce not a total suspense of judgment, and after what manner the mind ever retains a degree of assurance in any subject? for as these new probabilities, which, by their repetition, perpetually diminish the original evidence, are founded on the very same principles, whether of thought or sensation, as the primary judgment, it may seem unavoidable, that in either case they must equally subvert it, and by the opposition, either of contrary thoughts or sensations, reduce the mind to a total uncertainty. i suppose there is some question proposed to me, and that, after revolving over the impressions of my memory and senses, and carrying my thoughts from them to such objects as are commonly conjoined with them, i feel a stronger and more forcible conception on the one side than on the other. this strong conception forms my first decision. i suppose, that afterwards i examine my judgment itself, and observing, from experience, that 'tis sometimes just and sometimes erroneous, i consider it as regulated by contrary principles or causes, of which some lead to truth, and some to error; and in balancing these contrary causes, i diminish, by a new probability, the assurance of my first decision. this new probability is liable to the same diminution as the foregoing, and so on, _in infinitum_. 'tis therefore demanded, _how it happens, that, even after all, we retain a degree of belief, which is sufficient for our purpose, either in philosophy or common life?_ i answer, that after the first and second decision, as the action of the mind becomes forced and unnatural, and the ideas faint and obscure, though the principles of judgment, and the balancing of opposite causes be the same as at the very beginning, yet their influence on the imagination, and the vigour they add to, or diminish from, the thought, is by no means equal. where the mind reaches not its objects with easiness and facility, the same principles have not the same effect as in a more natural conception of the ideas; nor does the imagination feel a sensation, which holds any proportion with that which arises from its common judgments and opinions. the attention is on the stretch; the posture of the mind is uneasy; and the spirits being diverted from their natural course, are not governed in their movements by the same laws, at least not to the same degree, as when they flow in their usual channel. if we desire similar instances, 'twill not be very difficult to find them. the present subject of metaphysics will supply us abundantly. the same argument, which would have been esteemed convincing in a reasoning concerning history or politics, has little or no influence in these abstruser subjects, even though it be perfectly comprehended; and that because there is required a study and an effort of thought, in order to its being comprehended: and this effort of thought disturbs the operation of our sentiments, on which the belief depends. the case is the same in other subjects. the straining of the imagination always hinders the regular flowing of the passions and sentiments. a tragic poet, that would represent his heroes as very ingenious and witty in their misfortunes, would never touch the passions. as the emotions of the soul prevent any subtile reasoning and reflection, so these latter actions of the mind are equally prejudicial to the former. the mind, as well as the body, seems to be endowed with a certain precise degree of force and activity, which it never employs in one action, but at the expense of all the rest. this is more evidently true, where the actions are of quite different natures; since in that case the force of the mind is not only diverted, but even the disposition changed, so as to render us incapable of a sudden transition from one action to the other, and still more of performing both at once. no wonder, then, the conviction, which arises from a subtile reasoning, diminishes in proportion to the efforts which the imagination makes to enter into the reasoning, and to conceive it in all its parts. belief, being a lively conception, can never be entire, where it is not founded on something natural and easy. this i take to be the true state of the question, and cannot approve of that expeditious way, which some take with the sceptics, to reject at once all their arguments without inquiry or examination. if the sceptical reasonings be strong, say they, 'tis a proof that reason may have some force and authority: if weak, they can never be sufficient to invalidate all the conclusions of our understanding. this argument is not just; because the sceptical reasonings, were it possible for them to exist, and were they not destroyed by their subtilty, would be successively both strong and weak, according to the successive dispositions of the mind. reason first appears in possession of the throne, prescribing laws, and imposing maxims, with an absolute sway and authority. her enemy, therefore, is obliged to take shelter under her protection, and by making use of rational arguments to prove the fallaciousness and imbecility of reason, produces, in a manner, a patent under her hand and seal. this patent has at first an authority, proportioned to the present and immediate authority of reason, from which it is derived. but as it is supposed to be contradictory to reason, it gradually diminishes the force of that governing power and its own at the same time; till at last they both vanish away into nothing, by a regular and just diminution. the sceptical and dogmatical reasons are of the same kind, though contrary in their operation and tendency; so that where the latter is strong, it has an enemy of equal force in the former to encounter; and as their forces were at first equal, they still continue so, as long as either of them subsists; nor does one of them lose any force in the contest, without taking as much from its antagonist. 'tis happy, therefore, that nature breaks the force of all sceptical arguments in time, and keeps them from having any considerable influence on the understanding. were we to trust entirely to their self-destruction, that can never take place, 'till they have first subverted all conviction, and have totally destroyed human reason. section ii. of scepticism with regard to the senses. thus the sceptic still continues to reason and believe, even though he asserts that he cannot defend his reason by reason; and by the same rule he must assent to the principle concerning the existence of body, though he cannot pretend, by any arguments of philosophy, to maintain its veracity. nature has not left this to his choice, and has doubtless esteemed it an affair of too great importance, to be trusted to our uncertain reasonings and speculations. we may well ask, _what causes induce us to believe in the existence of body_? but 'tis in vain to ask, _whether there be body or not_? that is a point, which we must take for granted in all our reasonings. the subject, then, of our present inquiry, is concerning the _causes_ which induce us to believe in the existence of body: and my reasonings on this head i shall begin with a distinction, which at first sight may seem superfluous, but which will contribute very much to the perfect understanding of what follows. we ought to examine apart those two questions, which are commonly confounded together, viz. why we attribute a _continued_ existence to objects, even when they are not present to the senses; and why we suppose them to have an existence _distinct_ from the mind and perception? under this last head i comprehend their situation as well as relations, their _external_ position as well as the _independence_ of their existence and operation. these two questions concerning the continued and distinct existence of body are intimately connected together. for if the objects of our senses continue to exist, even when they are not perceived, their existence is of course independent of and distinct from the perception; and _vice versa_, if their existence be independent of the perception, and distinct from it, they must continue to exist, even though they be not perceived. but though the decision of the one question decides the other; yet that we may the more easily discover the principles of human nature, from whence the decision arises, we shall carry along with us this distinction, and shall consider, whether it be the _senses, reason_, or the _imagination_, that produces the opinion of a _continued_ or of a _distinct_ existence. these are the only questions that are intelligible on the present subject. for as to the notion of external existence, when taken for something specifically different from our perceptions, we have already shown its absurdity.[ ] to begin with the _senses_,'tis evident these faculties are incapable of giving rise to the notion of the _continued_ existence of their objects, after they no longer appear to the senses. for that is a contradiction in terms, and supposes that the senses continue to operate, even after they have ceased all manner of operation. these faculties, therefore, if they have any influence in the present case, must produce the opinion of a distinct, not of a continued existence; and in order to that, must present their impressions either as images and representations, or as these very distinct and external existences. that our senses offer not their impressions as the images of something _distinct_, or _independent_, and _external_, is evident; because they convey to us nothing but a single perception, and never give us the least intimation of any thing beyond. a single perception can never produce the idea of a double existence, but by some inference either of the reason or imagination. when the mind looks farther than what immediately appears to it, its conclusions can never be put to the account of the senses; and it certainly looks farther, when from a single perception it infers a double existence, and supposes the relations of resemblance and causation betwixt them. if our senses, therefore, suggest any idea of distinct existences, they must convey the impressions as those very existences, by a kind of fallacy and illusion. upon this head we may observe, that all sensations are felt by the mind, such as they really are, and that, when we doubt whether they present themselves as distinct objects, or as mere impressions, the difficulty is not concerning their nature, but concerning their relations and situation. now, if the senses presented our impressions as external to, and independent of ourselves, both the objects and ourselves must be obvious to our senses, otherwise they could not be compared by these faculties. the difficulty then, is, how far we are _ourselves_ the objects of our senses. 'tis certain there is no question in philosophy more abstruse than that concerning identity, and the nature of the uniting principle, which constitutes a person. so far from being able by our senses merely to determine this question, we must have recourse to the most profound metaphysics to give a satisfactory answer to it; and in common life 'tis evident these ideas of self and person are never very fixed nor determinate. 'tis absurd therefore to imagine the senses can ever distinguish betwixt ourselves and external objects. add to this, that every impression, external and internal, passions, affections, sensations, pains and pleasures, are originally on the same footing; and that whatever other differences we may observe among them, they appear, all of them, in their true colours, as impressions or perceptions. and indeed, if we consider the matter aright, 'tis scarce possible it should be otherwise; nor is it conceivable that our senses should be more capable of deceiving us in the situation and relations, than in the nature of our impressions. for since all actions and sensations of the mind are known to us by consciousness, they must necessarily appear in every particular what they are, and be what they appear. every thing that enters the mind, being in _reality_ as the perception, 'tis impossible any thing should to _feeling_ appear different. this were to suppose, that even where we are most intimately conscious, we might be mistaken. but not to lose time in examining, whether 'tis possible for our senses to deceive us, and represent our perceptions as distinct from ourselves, that is, as _external_ to and _independent_ of us; let us consider whether they really do so, and whether this error proceeds from an immediate sensation, or from some other causes. to begin with the question concerning _external_ existence, it may perhaps be said, that setting aside the metaphysical question of the identity of a thinking substance, our own body evidently belongs to us; and as several impressions appear exterior to the body, we suppose them also exterior to ourselves. the paper, on which i write at present, is beyond my hand. the table is beyond the paper. the walls of the chamber beyond the table. and in casting my eye towards the window, i perceive a great extent of fields and buildings beyond my chamber. from all this it may be inferred, that no other faculty is required, beside the senses, to convince us of the external existence of body. but to prevent this inference, we need only weigh the three following considerations. _first_, that, properly speaking, 'tis not our body we perceive, when we regard our limbs and members, but certain impressions, which enter by the senses; so that the ascribing a real and corporeal existence to these impressions, or to their objects, is an act of the mind as difficult to explain as that which we examine at present. _secondly_, sounds, and tastes, and smells, though commonly regarded by the mind as continued independent qualities, appear not to have any existence in extension, and consequently cannot appear to the senses as situated externally to the body. the reason why we ascribe a place to them, shall be considered afterwards.[ ] _thirdly_, even our sight informs us not of distance or outness (so to speak) immediately and without a certain reasoning and experience, as is acknowledged by the most rational philosophers. as to the _independency_ of our perceptions on ourselves, this can never be an object of the senses; but any opinion we form concerning it, must be derived from experience and observation: and we shall see afterwards, that our conclusions from experience are far from being favourable to the doctrine of the independency of our perceptions. meanwhile we may observe, that when we talk of real distinct existences, we have commonly more in our eye their independency than external situation in place, and think an object has a sufficient reality, when its being is uninterrupted, and independent of the incessant revolutions, which we are conscious of in ourselves. thus to resume what i have said concerning the senses; they give us no notion of continued existence, because they cannot operate beyond the extent, in which they really operate. they as little produce the opinion of a distinct existence, because they neither can offer it to the mind as represented, nor as original. to offer it as represented, they must present both an object and an image. to make it appear as original, they must convey a falsehood; and this falsehood must lie in the relations and situation: in order to which, they must be able to compare the object with ourselves; and even in that case they do not, nor is it possible they should deceive us. we may therefore conclude with certainty, that the opinion of a continued and of a distinct existence never arises from the senses. to confirm this, we may observe, that there are three different kinds of impressions conveyed by the senses. the first are those of the figure, bulk, motion, and solidity of bodies. the second, those of colours, tastes, smells, sounds, heat and cold. the third are the pains and pleasures that arise from the application of objects to our bodies, as by the cutting of our flesh with steel, and such like. both philosophers and the vulgar suppose the first of these to have a distinct continued existence. the vulgar only regard the second as on the same footing. both philosophers and the vulgar, again, esteem the third to be merely perceptions; and, consequently, interrupted and dependent beings. now, 'tis evident, that, whatever may be our philosophical opinion, colour, sounds, heat and cold, as far as appears to the senses, exist after the same manner with motion and solidity; and that the difference we make betwixt them, in this respect, arises not from the mere perception. so strong is the prejudice for the distinct continued existence of the former qualities, that when the contrary opinion is advanced by modern philosophers, people imagine they can almost refute it from their feeling and experience, and that their very senses contradict this philosophy. 'tis also evident, that colours, sounds, &c. are originally on the same footing with the pain that arises from steel, and pleasure that proceeds from a fire; and that the difference betwixt them is founded neither on perception nor reason, but on the imagination. for as they are confessed to be, both of them, nothing but perceptions arising from the particular configurations and motions of the parts of body, wherein possibly can their difference consist? upon the whole, then, we may conclude, that, as far as the senses are judges, all perceptions are the same in the manner of their existence. we may also observe, in this instance of sounds and colours, that we can attribute a distinct continued existence to objects without ever consulting _reason_, or weighing our opinions by any philosophical principles. and, indeed, whatever convincing arguments philosophers may fancy they can produce to establish the belief of objects independent of the mind, 'tis obvious these arguments are known but to very few; and that 'tis not by them that children, peasants, and the greatest part of mankind, are induced to attribute objects to some impressions, and deny them to others. accordingly, we find, that all the conclusions which the vulgar form on this head, are directly contrary to those which are confirmed by philosophy. for philosophy informs us, that every thing which appears to the mind, is nothing but a perception, and is interrupted and dependent on the mind; whereas the vulgar confound perceptions and objects, and attribute a distinct continued existence to the very things they feel or see. this sentiment, then, as it is entirely unreasonable, must proceed from some other faculty than the understanding. to which we may add, that, as long as we take our perceptions and objects to be the same, we can never infer the existence of the one from that of the other, nor form any argument from the relation of cause and effect; which is the only one that can assure us of matter of fact. even after we distinguish our perceptions from our objects, 'twill appear presently that we are still incapable of reasoning from the existence of one to that of the other: so that, upon the whole, our reason neither does, nor is it possible it ever should, upon any supposition, give us an assurance of the continued and distinct existence of body. that opinion must be entirely owing to the _imagination_: which must now be the subject of our inquiry. since all impressions are internal and perishing existences, and appear as such, the notion of their distinct and continued existence must arise from a concurrence of some of their qualities with the qualities of the imagination; and since this notion does not extend to all of them, it must arise from certain qualities peculiar to some impressions. 'twill, therefore, be easy for us to discover these qualities by a comparison of the impressions, to which we attribute a distinct and continued existence, with those which we regard as internal and perishing. we may observe, then, that 'tis neither upon account of the involuntariness of certain impressions, as is commonly supposed, nor of their superior force and violence, that we attribute to them a reality and continued existence, which we refuse to others that are voluntary or feeble. for 'tis evident, our pains and pleasures, our passions and affections, which we never suppose to have any existence beyond our perception, operate with greater violence, and are equally involuntary, as the impressions of figure and extension, colour and sound, which we suppose to be permanent beings. the heat of a fire, when moderate, is supposed to exist in the fire; but the pain which it causes upon a near approach is not taken to have any being except in the perception. these vulgar opinions, then, being rejected, we must search for some other hypothesis, by which we may discover those peculiar qualities in our impressions, which makes us attribute to them a distinct and continued existence. after a little examination, we shall find, that all those objects, to which we attribute a continued existence, have a peculiar _constancy_, which distinguishes them from the impressions whose existence depends upon our perception. those mountains, and houses, and trees, which lie at present under my eye, have always appeared to me in the same order; and when i lose sight of them by shutting my eyes or turning my head, i soon after find them return upon me without the least alteration. my bed and table, my books and papers, present themselves in the same uniform manner, and change not upon account of any interruption in my seeing or perceiving them. this is the case with all the impressions, whose objects are supposed to have an external existence; and is the case with no other impressions, whether gentle or violent, voluntary or involuntary. this constancy, however, is not so perfect as not to admit of very considerable exceptions. bodies often change their position and qualities, and, after a little absence or interruption, may become hardly knowable. but here 'tis observable, that even in these changes they preserve a _coherence_, and have a regular dependence on each other; which is the foundation of a kind of reasoning from causation, and produces the opinion of their continued existence. when i return to my chamber after an hour's absence, i find not my fire in the same situation in which i left it; but then i am accustomed, in other instances, to see a like alteration produced in a like time, whether i am present or absent, near or remote. this coherence, therefore, in their changes, is one of the characteristics of external objects, as well as their constancy. having found that the opinion of the continued existence of body depends on the _coherence_ and _constancy_ of certain impressions, i now proceed to examine after what manner these qualities give rise to so extraordinary an opinion. to begin with the coherence; we may observe, that though those internal impressions, which we regard as fleeting and perishing, have also a certain coherence or regularity in their appearances, yet 'tis of somewhat a different nature from that which we discover in bodies. our passions are found by experience to have a mutual connexion with, and dependence on each other; but on no occasion is it necessary to suppose that they have existed and operated, when they were not perceived, in order to preserve the same dependence and connexion, of which we have had experience. the case is not the same with relation to external objects. those require a continued existence, or otherwise lose, in a great measure, the regularity of their operation. i am here seated in my chamber, with my face to the fire; and all the objects that strike my senses are contained in a few yards around me. my memory, indeed, informs me of the existence of many objects; but, then, this information extends not beyond their past existence, nor do either my senses or memory give any testimony to the continuance of their being. when, therefore, i am thus seated, and revolve over these thoughts, i hear on a sudden a noise as of a door turning upon its hinges; and a little after see a porter, who advances towards me. this gives occasion to many new reflections and reasonings. first, i never have observed that this noise could proceed from any thing but the motion of a door; and therefore conclude, that the present phenomenon is a contradiction to all past experience, unless the door, which i remember on t'other side the chamber, be still in being. again, i have always found, that a human body was possessed of a quality which i call gravity, and which hinders it from mounting in the air, as this porter must have done to arrive at my chamber, unless the stairs i remember be not annihilated by my absence. but this is not all. i receive a letter, which, upon opening it, i perceive by the handwriting and subscription to have come from a friend, who says he is two hundred leagues distant. 'tis evident i can never account for this phenomenon, conformable to my experience in other instances, without spreading out in my mind the whole sea and continent between us, and supposing the effects and continued existence of posts and ferries, according to my memory and observation. to consider these phenomena of the porter and letter in a certain light, they are contradictions to common experience, and may be regarded as objections to those maxims which we form concerning the connexions of causes and effects. i am accustomed to hear such a sound, and see such an object in motion at the same time. i have not received, in this particular instance, both these perceptions. these observations are contrary, unless i suppose that the door still remains, and that it was opened without my perceiving it: and this supposition, which was at first entirely arbitrary and hypothetical, acquires a force and evidence by its being the only one upon which i can reconcile these contradictions. there is scarce a moment of my life, wherein there is not a similar instance presented to me, and i have not occasion to suppose the continued existence of objects, in order to connect their past and present appearances, and give them such an union with each other, as i have found, by experience, to be suitable to their particular natures and circumstances. here, then, i am naturally led to regard the world as something real and durable, and as preserving its existence, even when it is no longer present to my perception. but, though this conclusion, from the coherence of appearances, may seem to be of the same nature with our reasonings concerning causes and effects, as being derived from custom, and regulated by past experience, we shall find, upon examination, that they are at the bottom considerably different from each other, and that this inference arises from the understanding and from custom, in an indirect and oblique manner. for 'twill readily be allowed, that since nothing is ever really present to the mind, besides its own perceptions, 'tis not only impossible that any habit should ever be acquired otherwise than by the regular succession of these perceptions, but also that any habit should ever exceed that degree of regularity. any degree, therefore, of regularity in our perceptions, can never be a foundation for us to infer a greater degree of regularity in some objects which are not perceived, since this supposes a contradiction, viz. a habit acquired by what was never present to the mind. but, 'tis evident that, whenever we infer the continued existence of the objects of sense from their coherence, and the frequency of their union, 'tis in order to bestow on the objects a greater regularity than what is observed in our mere perceptions. we remark a connexion betwixt two kinds of objects in their past appearance to the senses, but are not able to observe this connexion to be perfectly constant, since the turning about of our head, or the shutting of our eyes, is able to break it. what, then, do we suppose in this case, but that these objects still continue their usual connexion, notwithstanding their apparent interruption, and that the irregular appearances are joined by something of which we are insensible? but as all reasoning concerning matters of fact arises only from custom, and custom can only be the effect of repeated perceptions, the extending of custom and reasoning beyond the perceptions can never be the direct and natural effect of the constant repetition and connexion, but must arise from the cooperation of some other principles. i have already observed,[ ] in examining the foundation of mathematics, that the imagination, when set into any train of thinking, is apt to continue even when its object fails it, and, like a galley put in motion by the oars, carries on its course without any new impulse. this i have assigned for the reason, why, after considering several loose standards of equality, and correcting them by each other, we proceed to imagine so correct and exact a standard of that relation as is not liable to the least error or variation. the same principle makes us easily entertain this opinion of the continued existence of body. objects have a certain coherence even as they appear to our senses; but this coherence is much greater and more uniform if we suppose the objects to have a continued existence; and as the mind is once in the train of observing an uniformity among objects, it naturally continues till it renders the uniformity as complete as possible. the simple supposition of their continued existence suffices for this purpose, and gives us a notion of a much greater regularity among objects, than what they have when we look no farther than our senses. but whatever force we may ascribe to this principle, i am afraid 'tis too weak to support alone so vast an edifice as is that of the continued existence of all external bodies; and that we must join the _constancy_ of their appearance to the _coherence_, in order to give a satisfactory account of that opinion. as the explication of this will lead me into a considerable compass of very profound reasoning, i think it proper, in order to avoid confusion, to give a short sketch or abridgment of my system, and afterwards draw out all its parts in their full compass. this inference from the constancy of our perceptions, like the precedent from their coherence, gives rise to the opinion of the _continued_ existence of body, which is prior to that of its _distinct_ existence, and produces that latter principle. when we have been accustomed to observe a constancy in certain impressions, and have found that the perception of the sun or ocean, for instance, returns upon us, after an absence or annihilation, with like parts and in a like order as at its first appearance, we are not apt to regard these interrupted perceptions as different (which they really are), but on the contrary consider them as individually the same, upon account of their resemblance. but as this interruption of their existence is contrary to their perfect identity, and makes us regard the first impression as annihilated, and the second as newly created, we find ourselves somewhat at a loss, and are involved in a kind of contradiction. in order to free ourselves from this difficulty, we disguise, as much as possible, the interruption, or rather remove it entirely, by supposing that these interrupted perceptions are connected by a real existence, of which we are insensible. this supposition, or idea of continued existence, acquires a force and vivacity from the memory of these broken impressions, and from that propensity which they give us to suppose them the same; and according to the precedent reasoning, the very essence of belief consists in the force and vivacity of the conception. in order to justify this system, there are four things requisite. _first_, to explain the _principium individuations_, or principle of identity. _secondly_, give a reason why the resemblance of our broken and interrupted perceptions induces us to attribute an identity to them. _thirdly_, account for that propensity, which this allusion gives, to unite these broken appearances by a continued existence. _fourthly_, and lastly, explain that force and vivacity of conception which arises from the propensity. first, as to the principle of individuation, we may observe, that the view of any one object is not sufficient to convey the idea of identity. for in that proposition, _an object is the same with itself_, if the idea expressed by the word _object_ were no ways distinguished from that meant by _itself_; we really should mean nothing, nor would the proposition contain a predicate and a subject, which, however, are implied in this affirmation. one single object conveys the idea of unity, not that of identity. on the other hand, a multiplicity of objects can never convey this idea, however resembling they may be supposed. the mind always pronounces the one not to be the other, and considers them as forming two, three, or any determinate number of objects, whose existences are entirely distinct and independent. since then both number and unity are incompatible with the relation of identity, it must lie in something that is neither of them. but to tell the truth, at first sight this seems utterly impossible. betwixt unity and number there can be no medium; no more than betwixt existence and non-existence. after one object is supposed to exist, we must either suppose another also to exist; in which case we have the idea of number: or we must suppose it not to exist; in which case the first object remains at unity. to remove this difficulty, let us have recourse to the idea of time or duration. i have already observed,[ ] that time, in a strict sense, implies succession, and that, when we apply its idea to any unchangeable object, 'tis only by a fiction of the imagination by which the unchangeable object is supposed to participate of the changes of the co-existent objects, and in particular of that of our perceptions. this fiction of the imagination almost universally takes place; and 'tis by means of it that a single object, placed before us, and surveyed for any time without our discovering in it any interruption or variation, is able to give us a notion of identity. for when we consider any two points of this time, we may place them in different lights: we may either survey them at the very same instant; in which case they give us the idea of number, both by themselves and by the object; which must be multiplied in order to be conceived at once, as existent in these two different points of time: or, on the other hand, we may trace the succession of time by a like succession of ideas, and conceiving first one moment, along with the object then existent, imagine afterwards a change in the time without any _variation_ or _interruption_ in the object; in which case it gives us the idea of unity. here then is an idea, which is a medium betwixt unity and number; or, more properly speaking, is either of them, according to the view in which we take it: and this idea we call that of identity. we cannot, in any propriety of speech, say that an object is the same with itself, unless we mean that the object existent at one time is the same with itself existent at another. by this means we make a difference betwixt the idea meant by the word _object_, and that meant by _itself_, without going the length of number, and at the same time without restraining ourselves to a strict and absolute unity. thus the principle of individuation is nothing but the _invariableness_ and _uninterruptedness_ of any object, through a supposed variation of time, by which the mind can trace it in the different periods of its existence, without any break of the view, and without being obliged to form the idea of multiplicity or number. i now proceed to explain the _second_ part of my system, and show why the constancy of our perceptions makes us ascribe to them a perfect numerical identity, though there be very long intervals betwixt their appearance, and they have only one of the essential qualities of identity, viz. _invariableness_. that i may avoid all ambiguity and confusion on this head, i shall observe, that i here account for the opinions and belief of the vulgar with regard to the existence of body; and therefore must entirely conform myself to their manner of thinking and of expressing themselves. now, we have already observed, that however philosophers may distinguish betwixt the objects and perceptions of the senses; which they suppose co-existent and resembling; yet this is a distinction which is not comprehended by the generality of mankind, who, as they perceive only one being, can never assent to the opinion of a double existence and representation. those very sensations which enter by the eye or ear are with them the true objects, nor can they readily conceive that this pen or paper, which is immediately perceived, represents another which is different from, but resembling it. in order, therefore, to accommodate myself to their notions, i shall at first suppose that there is only a single existence, which i shall call indifferently _object_ or _perception_, according as it shall seem best to suit my purpose, understanding by both of them what any common man means by a hat, or shoe, or stone, or any other impression conveyed to him by his senses. i shall be sure to give warning when i return to a more philosophical way of speaking and thinking. to enter therefore upon the question concerning the source of the error and deception with regard to identity, when we attribute it to our resembling perceptions, notwithstanding their interruption, i must here recal an observation which i have already proved and explained.[ ] nothing is more apt to make us mistake one idea for another, than any relation betwixt them, which associates them together in the imagination, and makes it pass with facility from one to the other. of all relations, that of resemblance is in this respect the most efficacious; and that because it not only causes an association of ideas, but also of dispositions, and makes us conceive the one idea by an act or operation of the mind, similar to that by which we conceive the other. this circumstance i have observed to be of great moment; and we may establish it for a general rule, that whatever ideas place the mind in the same disposition or in similar ones, are very apt to be confounded. the mind readily passes from one to the other, and perceives not the change without a strict attention, of which, generally speaking, 'tis wholly incapable. in order to apply this general maxim, we must first examine the disposition of the mind in viewing any object which preserves a perfect identity, and then find some other object that is confounded with it, by causing a similar disposition. when we fix our thought on any object, and suppose it to continue the same for some time, 'tis evident we suppose the change to lie only in the time, and never exert ourselves to produce any new image or idea of the object. the faculties of the mind repose themselves in a manner, and take no more exercise than what is necessary to continue that idea of which we were formerly possessed, and which subsists without variation or interruption. the passage from one moment to another is scarce felt, and distinguishes not itself by a different perception or idea, which may require a different direction of the spirits, in order to its conception. now, what other objects, beside identical ones, are capable of placing the mind in the same disposition, when it considers them, and of causing the same uninterrupted passage of the imagination from one idea to another? this question is of the last importance. for if we can find any such objects, we may certainly conclude, from the foregoing principle, that they are very naturally confounded with identical ones, and are taken for them in most of our reasonings. but though this question be very important, 'tis not very difficult nor doubtful. for i immediately reply, that a succession of related objects places the mind in this disposition, and is considered with the same smooth and uninterrupted progress of the imagination, as attends the view of the same invariable object. the very nature and essence of relation is to connect our ideas with each other, and upon the appearance of one, to facilitate the transition to its correlative. the passage betwixt related ideas, is therefore so smooth and easy, that it produces little alteration on the mind, and seems like the continuation of the same action; and as the continuation of the same action is an effect of the continued view of the same object, 'tis for this reason we attribute sameness to every succession of related objects. the thought slides along the succession with equal facility, as if it considered only one object; and therefore confounds the succession with the identity. we shall afterwards see many instances of this tendency of relation to make us ascribe an _identity_ to _different_ objects; but shall here confine ourselves to the present subject. we find by experience, that there is such a _constancy_ in almost all the impressions of the senses, that their interruption produces no alteration on them, and hinders them not from returning the same in appearance and in situation as at their first existence. i survey the furniture of my chamber; i shut my eyes, and afterwards open them; and find the new perceptions to resemble perfectly those which formerly struck my senses. this resemblance is observed in a thousand instances, and naturally connects together our ideas of these interrupted perceptions by the strongest relation, and conveys the mind with an easy transition from one to another. an easy transition or passage of the imagination, along the ideas of these different and interrupted perceptions, is almost the same disposition of mind with that in which we consider one constant and uninterrupted perception. 'tis therefore very natural for us to mistake the one for the other.[ ] the persons who entertain this opinion concerning the identity of our resembling perceptions, are in general all the unthinking and unphilosophical part of mankind, (that is, all of us at one time or other), and, consequently, such as suppose their perceptions to be their only objects, and never think of a double existence internal and external, representing and represented. the very image which is present to the senses is with us the real body; and 'tis to these interrupted images we ascribe a perfect identity. but as the interruption of the appearance seems contrary to the identity, and naturally leads us to regard these resembling perceptions as different from each other, we here find ourselves at a loss how to reconcile such opposite opinions. the smooth passage of the imagination along the ideas of the resembling perceptions makes us ascribe to them a perfect identity. the interrupted manner of their appearance makes us consider them as so many resembling, but still distinct beings, which appear after certain intervals. the perplexity arising from this contradiction produces a propension to unite these broken appearances by the fiction of a continued existence, which is the _third_ part of that hypothesis i proposed to explain. nothing is more certain from experience than that any contradiction either to the sentiments or passions gives a sensible uneasiness, whether it proceeds from without or from within; from the opposition of external objects, or from the combat of internal principles. on the contrary, whatever strikes in with the natural propensities, and either externally forwards their satisfaction, or internally concurs with their movements, is sure to give a sensible pleasure. now, there being here an opposition betwixt the notion of the identity of resembling perceptions, and the interruption of their appearance, the mind must be uneasy in that situation, and will naturally seek relief from the uneasiness. since the uneasiness arises from the opposition of two contrary principles, it must look for relief by sacrificing the one to the other. but as the smooth passage of our thought along our resembling perceptions makes us ascribe to them an identity, we can never, without reluctance, yield up that opinion. we must therefore turn to the other side, and suppose that our perceptions are no longer interrupted, but preserve a continued as well as an invariable existence, and are by that means entirely the same. but here the interruptions in the appearance of these perceptions are so long and frequent, that 'tis impossible to overlook them; and as the _appearance_ of a perception in the mind and its _existence_ seem at first sight entirely the same, it may be doubted whether we can ever assent to so palpable a contradiction, and suppose a perception to exist without being present to the mind. in order to clear up this matter, and learn how the interruption in the appearance of a perception implies not necessarily an interruption in its existence, 'twill be proper to touch upon some principles which we shall have occasion to explain more fully afterwards.[ ] we may begin with observing, that the difficulty in the present case is not concerning the matter of fact, or whether the mind forms such a conclusion concerning the continued existence of its perceptions, but only concerning the manner in which the conclusion is formed, and principles from which it is derived. 'tis certain that almost all mankind, and even philosophers themselves, for the greatest part of their lives, take their perceptions to be their only objects, and suppose that the very being which is intimately present to the mind, is the real body or material existence. 'tis also certain that this very perception or object is supposed to have a continued uninterrupted being, and neither to be annihilated by our absence, nor to be brought into existence by our presence. when we are absent from it, we say it still exists, but that we do not feel, we do not see it. when we are present, we say we feel or see it. here then may arise two questions; _first_, how we can satisfy ourselves in supposing a perception to be absent from the mind without being annihilated. _secondly_, after what manner we conceive an object to become present to the mind, without some new creation of a perception or image; and what we mean by this _seeing_, and _feeling_, and _perceiving_. as to the first question, we may observe, that what we call a _mind_, is nothing but a heap or collection of different perceptions, united together by certain relations, and supposed, though falsely, to be endowed with a perfect simplicity and identity. now, as every perception is distinguishable from another, and may be considered as separately existent; it evidently follows, that there is no absurdity in separating any particular perception from the mind; that is, in breaking off all its relations with that connected mass of perceptions which constitute a thinking being. the same reasoning affords us an answer to the second question. if the name of _perception_ renders not this separation from a mind absurd and contradictory, the name of _object_, standing for the same thing, can never render their conjunction impossible. external objects are seen and felt, and become present to the mind; that is, they acquire such a relation to a connected heap of perceptions as to influence them very considerably in augmenting their number by present reflections and passions, and in storing the memory with ideas. the same continued and uninterrupted being may, therefore, be sometimes present to the mind and sometimes absent from it without any real or essential change in the being itself. an interrupted appearance to the senses implies not necessarily an interruption in the existence. the supposition of the continued existence of sensible objects or perceptions involves no contradiction. we may easily indulge our inclination to that supposition. when the exact resemblance of our perceptions makes us ascribe to them an identity, we may remove the seeming interruption by feigning a continued being, which may fill those intervals, and preserve a perfect and entire identity to our perceptions. but as we here not only _feign_ but _believe_ this continued existence, the question is, _from whence arises such a belief_? and this question leads us to the _fourth_ member of this system. it has been proved already, that belief, in general, consists in nothing but the vivacity of an idea; and that an idea may acquire this vivacity by its relation to some present impression. impressions are naturally the most vivid perceptions of the mind; and this quality is in part conveyed by the relation to every connected idea. the relation causes a smooth passage from the impression to the idea, and even gives a propensity to that passage. the mind falls so easily from the one perception to the other, that it scarce perceives the change, but retains in the second a considerable share of the vivacity of the first. it is excited by the lively impression, and this vivacity is conveyed to the related idea, without any great diminution in the passage, by reason of the smooth transition and the propensity of the imagination. but suppose that this propensity arises from some other principle, besides that of relation; 'tis evident, it must still have the same effect, and convey the vivacity from the impression to the idea. now, this is exactly the present case. our memory presents us with a vast number of instances of perceptions perfectly resembling each other, that return at different distances of time, and after considerable interruptions. this resemblance gives us a propension to consider these interrupted perceptions as the same; and also a propension to connect them by a continued existence, in order to justify this identity, and avoid the contradiction in which the interrupted appearance of these perceptions seems necessarily to involve us. here then we have a propensity to feign the continued existence of all sensible objects; and as this propensity arises from some lively impressions of the memory, it bestows a vivacity on that fiction; or, in other words, makes us believe the continued existence of body. if, sometimes we ascribe a continued existence to objects, which are perfectly new to us, and of whose constancy and coherence we have no experience, 'tis because the manner, in which they present themselves to our senses, resembles that of constant and coherent objects; and this resemblance is a source of reasoning and analogy, and leads us to attribute the same qualities to the similar objects. i believe an intelligent reader will find less difficulty to assent to this system, than to comprehend it fully and distinctly, and will allow, after a little reflection, that every part carries its own proof along with it. 'tis indeed evident, that as the vulgar _suppose_ their perceptions to be their only objects, and at the same time _believe_ the continued existence of matter, we must account for the origin of the belief upon that supposition. now, upon that supposition, 'tis a false opinion that any of our objects, or perceptions, are identically the same after an interruption; and consequently the opinion of their identity can never arise from reason, but must arise from the imagination. the imagination is seduced into such an opinion only by means of the resemblance of certain perceptions; since we find they are only our resembling perceptions, which we have a propension to suppose the same. this propension to bestow an identity on our resembling perceptions, produces the fiction of a continued existence; since that fiction, as well as the identity, is really false, as is acknowledged by all philosophers, and has no other effect than to remedy the interruption of our perceptions, which is the only circumstance that is contrary to their identity. in the last place, this propension causes belief by means of the present impressions of the memory; since, without the remembrance of former sensations, 'tis plain we never should have any belief of the continued existence of body. thus, in examining all these parts, we find that each of them is supported by the strongest proofs; and that all of them together form a consistent system, which is perfectly convincing. a strong propensity or inclination alone, without any present impression, will sometimes cause a belief or opinion. how much more when aided by that circumstance! but though we are led after this manner, by the natural propensity of the imagination, to ascribe a continued existence to those sensible objects or perceptions, which we find to resemble each other in their interrupted appearance; yet a very little reflection and philosophy is sufficient to make us perceive the fallacy of that opinion. i have already observed, that there is an intimate connexion betwixt those two principles, of a _continued_ and of a _distinct_ or _independent_ existence, and that we no sooner establish the one than the other follows, as a necessary consequence. 'tis the opinion of a continued existence, which first takes place, and without much study or reflection draws the other along with it, wherever the mind follows its first and most natural tendency. but when we compare experiments, and reason a little upon them, we quickly perceive, that the doctrine of the independent existence of our sensible perceptions is contrary to the plainest experience. this leads us backward upon our footsteps to perceive our error in attributing a continued existence to our perceptions, and is the origin of many very curious opinions, which we shall here endeavour to account for. 'twill first be proper to observe a few of those experiments, which convince us, that our perceptions are not possessed of any independent existence. when we press one eye with a finger, we immediately perceive all the objects to become double, and one half of them to be removed from their common and natural position. but as we do not attribute a continued existence to both these perceptions, and as they are both of the same nature, we clearly perceive, that all our perceptions are dependent on our organs, and the disposition of our nerves and animal spirits. this opinion is confirmed by the seeming increase and diminution of objects according to their distance; by the apparent alterations in their figure; by the changes in their colour and other qualities, from our sickness and distempers, and by an infinite number of other experiments of the same kind; from all which we learn, that our sensible perceptions are not possessed of any distinct or independent existence. the natural consequence of this reasoning should be, that our perceptions have no more a continued than an independent existence; and, indeed, philosophers have so far run into this opinion, that they change their system, and distinguish (as we shall do for the future) betwixt perceptions and objects, of which the former are supposed to be interrupted and perishing, and different at every different return; the latter to be uninterrupted, and to preserve a continued existence and identity. but however philosophical this new system may be esteemed, i assert that 'tis only a palliative remedy, and that it contains all the difficulties of the vulgar system, with some others that are peculiar to itself. there are no principles either of the understanding or fancy, which lead us directly to embrace this opinion of the double existence of perceptions and objects, nor can we arrive at it but by passing through the common hypothesis of the identity and continuance of our interrupted perceptions. were we not first persuaded that our perceptions are our only objects, and continue to exist even when they no longer make their appearance to the senses, we should never be led to think that our perceptions and objects are different, and that our objects alone preserve a continued existence. "the latter hypothesis has no primary recommendation either to reason or the imagination, but acquires all its influence on the imagination from the former." this proposition contains two parts, which we shall endeavour to prove as distinctly and clearly as such abstruse subjects will permit. as to the first part of the proposition, _that this philosophical hypothesis has no primary recommendation, either to reason or the imagination_, we may soon satisfy ourselves with regard to _reason_, by the following reflections. the only existences, of which we are certain, are perceptions, which, being immediately present to us by consciousness, command our strongest assent, and are the first foundation of all our conclusions. the only conclusion we can draw from the existence of one thing to that of another, is by means of the relation of cause and effect, which shows, that there is a connexion betwixt them, and that the existence of one is dependent on that of the other. the idea of this relation is derived from past experience, by which we find, that two beings are constantly conjoined together, and are always present at once to the mind. but as no beings are ever present to the mind but perceptions, it follows, that we may observe a conjunction or a relation of cause and effect between different perceptions, but can never observe it between perceptions and objects. 'tis impossible, therefore, that from the existence or any of the qualities of the former, we can ever form any conclusion concerning the existence of the latter, or ever satisfy our reason in this particular. 'tis no less certain, that this philosophical system has no primary recommendation to the _imagination_, and that that faculty would never, of itself, and by its original tendency, have fallen upon such a principle. i confess it will be somewhat difficult to prove this to the full satisfaction of the reader; because it implies a negative, which in many cases will not admit of any positive proof. if any one would take the pains to examine this question, and would invent a system, to account for the direct origin of this opinion from the imagination, we should be able, by the examination of that system, to pronounce a certain judgment in the present subject. let it be taken for granted, that our perceptions are broken and interrupted, and, however like, are still different from each other; and let any one, upon this supposition, show why the fancy, directly and immediately, proceeds to the belief of another existence, resembling these perceptions in their nature, but yet continued, and uninterrupted, and identical; and after he has done this to my satisfaction, i promise to renounce my present opinion. meanwhile i cannot forbear concluding, from the very abstractedness and difficulty of the first supposition, that 'tis an improper subject for the fancy to work upon. whoever would explain the origin of the _common_ opinion concerning the continued and distinct existence of body, must take the mind in its _common_ situation, and must proceed upon the supposition, that our perceptions are our only objects, and continue to exist even when they are not perceived. though this opinion be false, 'tis the most natural of any, and has alone any primary recommendation to the fancy. as to the second part of the proposition, _that the philosophical system acquires all its influence on the imagination from the vulgar one_; we may observe, that this is a natural and unavoidable consequence of the foregoing conclusion, _that it has no primary recommendation to reason or the imagination_. for as the philosophical system is found by experience to take hold of many minds, and, in particular, of all those who reflect ever so little on this subject, it must derive all its authority from the vulgar system, since it has no original authority of its own. the manner in which these two systems, though directly contrary, are connected together, may be explained as follows. the imagination naturally runs on in this train of thinking. our perceptions are our only objects: resembling perceptions are the same, however broken or uninterrupted in their appearance: this appearing interruption is contrary to the identity: the interruption consequently extends not beyond the appearance, and the perception or object really continues to exist, even when absent from us: our sensible perceptions have, therefore, a continued and uninterrupted existence. but as a little reflection destroys this conclusion, that our perceptions have a continued existence, by showing that they have a dependent one, 'twould naturally be expected, that we must altogether reject the opinion, that there is such a thing in nature as a continued existence, which is preserved even when it no longer appears to the senses. the case, however, is otherwise. philosophers are so far from rejecting the opinion of a continued existence upon rejecting that of the independence and continuance of our sensible perceptions, that though all sects agree in the latter sentiment, the former, which is in a manner its necessary consequence, has been peculiar to a few extravagant sceptics; who, after all, maintained that opinion in words only, and were never able to bring themselves sincerely to believe it. there is a great difference betwixt such opinions as we form after a calm and profound reflection, and such as we embrace by a kind of instinct or natural impulse, on account of their suitableness and conformity to the mind. if these opinions become contrary, 'tis not difficult to foresee which of them will have the advantage. as long as our attention is bent upon the subject, the philosophical and studied principle may prevail; but the moment we relax our thoughts, nature will display herself, and draw us back to our former opinion. nay she has sometimes such an influence, that she can stop our progress, even in the midst of our most profound reflections, and keep us from running on with all the consequences of any philosophical opinion. thus, though we clearly perceive the dependence and interruption of our perceptions, we stop short in our career, and never upon that account reject the notion of an independent and continued existence. that opinion has taken such deep root in the imagination, that 'tis impossible ever to eradicate it, nor will any strained metaphysical conviction of the dependence of our perceptions be sufficient for that purpose. but though our natural and obvious principles here prevail above our studied reflections, 'tis certain there must be some struggle and opposition in the case; at least so long as these reflections retain any force or vivacity. in order to set ourselves at ease in this particular, we contrive a new hypothesis, which seems to comprehend both these principles of reason and imagination. this hypothesis is the philosophical one of the double existence of perceptions and objects; which pleases our reason, in allowing that our dependent perceptions are interrupted and different, and at the same time is agreeable to the imagination, in attributing a continued existence to something else, which we call _objects_. this philosophical system, therefore, is the monstrous offspring of two principles, which are contrary to each other, which are both at once embraced by the mind, and which are unable mutually to destroy each other. the imagination tells us, that our resembling perceptions have a continued and uninterrupted existence, and are not annihilated by their absence. reflection tells us, that even our resembling perceptions are interrupted in their existence, and different from each other. the contradiction betwixt these opinions we elude by a new fiction, which is conformable to the hypotheses both of reflection and fancy, by ascribing these contrary qualities to different existences; the _interruption_ to perceptions, and the _continuance_ to objects. nature is obstinate, and will not quit the field, however strongly attacked by reason; and at the same time reason is so clear in the point, that there is no possibility of disguising her. not being able to reconcile these two enemies, we endeavour to set ourselves at ease as much as possible, by successively granting to each whatever it demands, and by feigning a double existence, where each may find something that has all the conditions it desires. were we fully convinced that our resembling perceptions are continued, and identical, and independent, we should never run into this opinion of a double existence; since we should find satisfaction in our first supposition, and would not look beyond. again, were we fully convinced that our perceptions are dependent, and interrupted, and different, we should be as little inclined to embrace the opinion of a double existence; since in that case we should clearly perceive the error of our first supposition of a continued existence, and would never regard it any farther. 'tis therefore from the intermediate situation of the mind that this opinion arises, and from such an adherence to these two contrary principles, as makes us seek some pretext to justify our receiving both; which happily at last is found in the system of a double existence. another advantage of this philosophical system is its similarity to the vulgar one, by which means we can humour our reason for a moment, when it becomes troublesome and solicitous; and yet upon its least negligence or inattention, can easily return to our vulgar and natural notions. accordingly we find, that philosophers neglect not this advantage, but, immediately upon leaving their closets, mingle with the rest of mankind in those exploded opinions, that our perceptions are our only objects, and continue identically and uninterruptedly the same in all their interrupted appearances. there are other particulars of this system, wherein we may remark its dependence on the fancy, in a very conspicuous manner. of these, i shall observe the two following. _first_, we suppose external objects to resemble internal perceptions. i have already shown, that the relation of cause and effect can never afford us any just conclusion from the existence or qualities of our perceptions to the existence of external continued objects: and i shall farther add, that even though they could afford such a conclusion, we should never have any reason to infer that our objects resemble our perceptions. that opinion, therefore, is derived from nothing but the quality of the fancy above explained, _that it borrows all its ideas from some precedent perception_. we never can conceive any thing but perceptions, and therefore must make every thing resemble them. secondly, as we suppose our objects in general to resemble our perceptions, so we take it for granted, that every particular object resembles that perception which it causes. the relation of cause and effect determines us to join the other of resemblance; and the ideas of these existences being already united together in the fancy by the former relation, we naturally add the latter to complete the union. we have a strong propensity to complete every union by joining new relations to those which we have before observed betwixt any ideas, as we shall have occasion to observe presently.[ ] having thus given an account of all the systems, both popular and philosophical, with regard to external existences, i cannot forbear giving vent to a certain sentiment which arises upon reviewing those systems. i begun this subject with premising, that we ought to have an implicit faith in our senses, and that this would be the conclusion i should draw from the whole of my reasoning. but to be ingenuous, i feel myself _at present_ of a quite contrary sentiment, and am more inclined to repose no faith at all in my senses, or rather imagination, than to place in it such an implicit confidence. i cannot conceive how such trivial qualities of the fancy, conducted by such false suppositions, can ever lead to any solid and rational system. they are the coherence and constancy of our perceptions, which produce the opinion of their continued existence; though these qualities of perceptions have no perceivable connexion with such an existence. the constancy of our perceptions has the most considerable effect, and yet is attended with the greatest difficulties. 'tis a gross illusion to suppose, that our resembling perceptions are numerically the same; and 'tis this illusion which leads us into the opinion, that these perceptions are uninterrupted, and are still existent, even when they are not present to the senses. this is the case with our popular system. and as to our philosophical one, 'tis liable to the same difficulties; and is, over and above, loaded with this absurdity, that it at once denies and establishes the vulgar supposition. philosophers deny our resembling perceptions to be identically the same, and uninterrupted; and yet have so great a propensity to believe them such, that they arbitrarily invent a new set of perceptions, to which they attribute these qualities. i say, a new set of perceptions: for we may well suppose in general, but 'tis impossible for us distinctly to conceive, objects to be in their nature any thing but exactly the same with perceptions. what then can we look for from this confusion of groundless and extraordinary opinions but error and falsehood? and how can we justify to ourselves any belief we repose in them? this sceptical doubt, both with respect to reason and the senses, is a malady which can never be radically cured, but must return upon us every moment, however we may chase it away, and sometimes may seem entirely free from it. 'tis impossible, upon any system, to defend either our understanding or senses; and we but expose them farther when we endeavour to justify them in that manner. as the sceptical doubt arises naturally from a profound and intense reflection on those subjects, it always increases the farther we carry our reflections, whether in opposition or conformity to it. carelessness and inattention alone can afford us any remedy. for this reason i rely entirely upon them; and take it for granted, whatever may be the reader's opinion at this present moment, that an hour hence he will be persuaded there is both an external and internal world; and, going upon that supposition, i intend to examine some general systems, both ancient and modern, which have been proposed of both, before i proceed to a more particular inquiry concerning our impressions. this will not, perhaps, in the end, be found foreign to our present purpose. [ ] part ii. sect. . [ ] sect. . [ ] part ii. sect. . [ ] part ii. sect. . [ ] part. ii. sect. . [ ] this reasoning, it must be confessed, is somewhat abstruse, and difficult to be comprehended; but it is remarkable, that this very difficulty may be converted into a proof of the reasoning. we may observe, that there are two relations, and both of them resemblances, which contribute to our mistaking the succession of our interrupted perceptions for an identical object. the first is, the resemblance of the perceptions: the second is, the resemblance which the act of the mind in surveying a succession of resembling objects, bears to that in surveying an identical object. now these resemblances we are apt to confound with each other; and 'tis natural we should, according to this very reasoning. but let us keep them distinct, and we shall find no difficulty in conceiving the precedent argument. [ ] sect. . [ ] sect. . section iii. of the ancient philosophy. several moralists have recommended it as an excellent method of becoming acquainted with our own hearts, and knowing our progress in virtue, to recollect our dreams in a morning, and examine them with the same rigour that we would our most serious and most deliberate actions. our character is the same throughout, say they, and appears best where artifice, fear and policy, have no place, and men can neither be hypocrites with themselves nor others. the generosity or baseness of our temper, our meekness or cruelty, our courage or pusillanimity, influence the fictions of the imagination with the most unbounded liberty, and discover themselves in the most glaring colours. in like manner, i am persuaded, there might be several useful discoveries made from a criticism of the fictions of the ancient philosophy concerning _substances, and substantial forms, and accidents, and occult qualities_, which, however unreasonable and capricious, have a very intimate connexion with the principles of human nature. 'tis confessed by the most judicious philosophers, that our ideas of bodies are nothing but collections formed by the mind of the ideas of the several distinct sensible qualities, of which objects are composed, and which we find to have a constant union with each other. but however these qualities may in themselves be entirely distinct, 'tis certain we commonly regard the compound, which they form, as _one_ thing, and as continuing the _same_ under very considerable alterations. the acknowledged composition is evidently contrary to this supposed _simplicity_, and the variation to the _identity_. it may therefore be worth while to consider the _causes_, which make us almost universally fall into such evident contradictions, as well as the _means_ by which we endeavour to conceal them. 'tis evident, that as the ideas of the several distinct _successive_ qualities of objects are united together by a very close relation, the mind, in looking along the succession, must be carried from one part of it to another by an easy transition, and will no more perceive the change, than if it contemplated the same unchangeable object. this easy transition is the effect, or rather essence of relation; and as the imagination readily takes one idea for another, where their influence on the mind is similar; hence it proceeds, that any such succession of related qualities is readily considered as one continued object, existing without any variation. the smooth and uninterrupted progress of the thought, being alike in both cases, readily deceives the mind, and makes us ascribe an identity to the changeable succession of connected qualities. but when we alter our method of considering the succession, and, instead of tracing it gradually through the successive points of time, survey at once any two distinct periods of its duration, and compare the different conditions of the successive qualities; in that case the variations, which were insensible when they arose gradually, do now appear of consequence, and seem entirely to destroy the identity. by this means there arises a kind of contrariety in our method of thinking, from the different points of view, in which we survey the object, and from the nearness or remoteness of those instants of time, which we compare together. when we gradually follow an object in its successive changes, the smooth progress of the thought makes us ascribe an identity to the succession; because 'tis by a similar act of the mind we consider an unchangeable object. when we compare its situation after a considerable change the progress of the thought is broke; and consequently we are presented with the idea of diversity; in order to reconcile which contradictions the imagination is apt to feign something unknown and invisible, which it supposes to continue the same under all these variations; and this unintelligible something it calls a _substance, or original and first matter_. we entertain a like notion with regard to the _simplicity_ of substances, and from like causes. suppose an object perfectly simple and indivisible to be presented, along with another object, whose _co-existent_ parts are connected together by a strong relation, 'tis evident the actions of the mind, in considering these two objects, are not very different. the imagination conceives the simple object at once, with facility, by a single effort of thought, without change or variation. the connexion of parts in the compound object has almost the same effect, and so unites the object within itself, that the fancy feels not the transition in passing from one part to another. hence the colour, taste, figure, solidity, and other qualities, combined in a peach or melon, are conceived to form _one thing_; and that on account of their close relation, which makes them affect the thought in the same manner, as if perfectly uncompounded. but the mind rests not here. whenever it views the object in another light, it finds that all these qualities are different, and distinguishable, and separable from each other; which view of things being destructive of its primary and more natural notions, obliges the imagination to feign an unknown something, or _original_ substance and matter, as a principle of union or cohesion among these qualities, and as what may give the compound object a title to be called one thing, notwithstanding its diversity and composition. the peripatetic philosophy asserts the _original_ matter to be perfectly homogeneous in all bodies, and considers fire, water, earth, and air, as of the very same substance, on account of their gradual revolutions and changes into each other. at the same time it assigns to each of these species of objects a distinct _substantial form_, which it supposes to be the source of all those different qualities they possess, and to be a new foundation of simplicity and identity to each particular species. all depends on our manner of viewing the objects. when we look along the insensible changes of bodies, we suppose all of them to be of the same substance or essence. when we consider their sensible differences, we attribute to each of them a substantial and essential difference. and in order to indulge ourselves in both these ways of considering our objects, we suppose all bodies to have at once a substance and a substantial form. the notion of _accidents_ is an unavoidable consequence of this method of thinking with regard to substances and substantial forms; nor can we forbear looking upon colours, sounds, tastes, figures, and other properties of bodies, as existences, which cannot subsist apart, but require a subject of inhesion to sustain and support them. for having never discovered any of these sensible qualities, where, for the reasons above mentioned, we did not likewise fancy a substance to exist; the same habit, which makes us infer a connexion betwixt cause and effect, makes us here infer a dependence of every quality on the unknown substance. the custom of imagining a dependence has the same effect as the custom of observing it would have. this conceit, however, is no more reasonable than any of the foregoing. every quality being a distinct thing from another, may be conceived to exist apart, and may exist apart not only from every other quality, but from that unintelligible chimera of a substance. but these philosophers carry their fictions still farther in their sentiments concerning _occult qualities_, and both suppose a substance supporting, which they do not understand, and an accident supported, of which they have as imperfect an idea. the whole system, therefore, is entirely incomprehensible, and yet is derived from principles as natural as any of these above explained. in considering this subject, we may observe a gradation of three opinions that rise above each other, according as the persons who form them acquire new degrees of reason and knowledge. these opinions are that of the vulgar, that of a false philosophy, and that of the true; where we shall find upon inquiry, that the true philosophy approaches nearer to the sentiments of the vulgar than to those of a mistaken knowledge. 'tis natural for men, in their common and careless way of thinking, to imagine they perceive a connexion betwixt such objects as they have constantly found united together; and because custom has rendered it difficult to separate the ideas, they are apt to fancy such a separation to be in itself impossible and absurd. but philosophers, who abstract from the effects of custom, and compare the ideas of objects, immediately perceive the falsehood of these vulgar sentiments, and discover that there is no known connexion among objects. every different object appears to them entirely distinct and separate; and they perceive that 'tis not from a view of the nature and qualities of objects we infer one from another, but only when in several instances we observe them to have been constantly conjoined. but these philosophers, instead of drawing a just inference from this observation, and concluding, that we have no idea of power or agency, separate from the mind and belonging to causes; i say, instead of drawing this conclusion, they frequently search for the qualities in which this agency consists, and are displeased with every system which their reason suggests to them, in order to explain it. they have sufficient force of genius to free them from the vulgar error, that there is a natural and perceivable connexion betwixt the several sensible qualities and actions of matter, but not sufficient to keep them from ever seeking for this connexion in matter or causes. had they fallen upon the just conclusion, they would have returned back to the situation of the vulgar, and would have regarded all these disquisitions with indolence and indifference. at present they seem to be in a very lamentable condition, and such as the poets have given us but a faint notion of in their descriptions of the punishment of sisyphus and tantalus. for what can be imagined more tormenting than to seek with eagerness what for ever flies us, and seek for it in a place where 'tis impossible it can ever exist? but as nature seems to have observed a kind of justice and compensation in every thing, she has not neglected philosophers more than the rest of the creation, but has reserved them a consolation amid all their disappointments and afflictions. this consolation principally consists in their invention of the words _faculty_ and _occult quality_. for it being usual, after the frequent use of terms, which are really significant and intelligible, to omit the idea which we would express by them, and preserve only the custom by which we recal the idea at pleasure; so it naturally happens, that after the frequent use of terms which are wholly insignificant and unintelligible, we fancy them to be on the same footing with the precedent, and to have a secret meaning which we might discover by reflection. the resemblance of their appearance deceives the mind, as is usual, and makes us imagine a thorough resemblance and conformity. by this means these philosophers set themselves at ease, and arrive at last, by an illusion, at the same indifference which the people attain by their stupidity, and true philosophers by their moderate scepticism. they need only say, that any phenomenon which puzzles them arises from a faculty or an occult quality, and there is an end of all dispute and inquiry upon the matter. but among all the instances wherein the peripatetics have shown they were guided by every trivial propensity of the imagination, no one is more remarkable than their _sympathies, antipathies, and horrors of a vacuum_. there is a very remarkable inclination in human nature to bestow on external objects the same emotions which it observes in itself, and to find every where those ideas which are most present to it. this inclination, 'tis true, is suppressed by a little reflection, and only takes place in children, poets, and the ancient philosophers. it appears in children, by their desire of beating the stones which hurt them: in poets by their readiness to personify every thing; and in the ancient philosophers, by these fictions of sympathy and antipathy. we must pardon children, because of their age; poets, because they profess to follow implicitly the suggestions of their fancy; but what excuse shall we find to justify our philosophers in so signal a weakness? section iv. of the modern philosophy. but here it may be objected, that the imagination, according to my own confession, being the ultimate judge of all systems of philosophy, i am unjust in blaming the ancient philosophers for making use of that faculty, and allowing themselves to be entirely guided by it in their reasonings. in order to justify myself, i must distinguish in the imagination betwixt the principles which are permanent, irresistible, and universal; such as the customary transition from causes to effects, and from effects to causes: and the principles, which are changeable, weak and irregular; such as those i have just now taken notice of. the former are the foundation of all our thoughts and actions, so that upon their removal, human nature must immediately perish and go to ruin. the latter are neither unavoidable to mankind, nor necessary, or so much as useful in the conduct of life; but, on the contrary, are observed only to take place in weak minds, and being opposite to the other principles of custom and reasoning, may easily be subverted by a due contrast and opposition. for this reason, the former are received by philosophy, and the latter rejected. one who concludes somebody to be near him, when he hears an articulate voice in the dark, reasons justly and naturally; though that conclusion be derived from nothing but custom, which infixes and enlivens the idea of a human creature, on account of his usual conjunction with the present impression. but one, who is tormented he knows not why, with the apprehension of spectres in the dark, may perhaps be said to reason, and to reason naturally too: but then it must be in the same sense that a malady is said to be natural; as arising from natural causes, though it be contrary to health, the most agreeable and most natural situation of man. the opinions of the ancient philosophers, their fictions of substance and accident, and their reasonings concerning substantial forms and occult qualities, are like the spectres in the dark, and are derived from principles, which, however common, are neither universal nor unavoidable in human nature. the _modern philosophy_ pretends to be entirely free from this defect, and to arise only from the solid, permanent, and consistent principles of the imagination. upon what grounds this pretension is founded, must now be the subject of our inquiry. the fundamental principle of that philosophy is the opinion concerning colours, sounds, tastes, smells, heat and cold; which it asserts to be nothing but impressions in the mind, derived from the operation of external objects, and without any resemblance to the qualities of the objects. upon examination, i find only one of the reasons commonly produced for this opinion to be satisfactory; viz. that derived from the variations of those impressions, even while the external object, to all appearance, continues the same. these variations depend upon several circumstances. upon the different situations of our health: a man in a malady feels a disagreeable taste in meats, which before pleased him the most. upon the different complexions and constitutions of men: that seems bitter to one, which is sweet to another. upon the difference of their external situation and position: colours reflected from the clouds change according to the distance of the clouds, and according to the angle they make with the eye and luminous body. fire also communicates the sensation of pleasure at one distance, and that of pain at another. instances of this kind are very numerous and frequent. the conclusion drawn from them, is likewise as satisfactory as can possibly be imagined. 'tis certain, that when different impressions of the same sense arise from any object, every one of these impressions has not a resembling quality existent in the object. for as the same object cannot, at the same time, be endowed with different qualities of the same sense, and as the same quality cannot resemble impressions entirely different; it evidently follows, that many of our impressions have no external model or archetype. now, from like effects we presume like causes. many of the impressions of colour, sound, &c., are confessed to be nothing but internal existences, and to arise from causes, which no ways resemble them. these impressions are in appearance nothing different from the other impressions of colour, sound, &c. we conclude, therefore, that they are, all of them, derived from a like origin. this principle being once admitted, all the other doctrines of that philosophy seem to follow by an easy consequence. for, upon the removal of sounds, colours, heat, cold, and other sensible qualities, from the rank of continued independent existences, we are reduced merely to what are called primary qualities, as the only _real_ ones, of which we have any adequate notion. these primary qualities are extension and solidity, with their different mixtures and modifications; figure, motion, gravity and cohesion. the generation, increase, decay and corruption of animals and vegetables, are nothing but changes of figure and motion; as also the operations of all bodies on each other; of fire, of light, water, air, earth, and of all the elements and powers of nature. one figure and motion produces another figure and motion; nor does there remain in the material universe any other principle, either active or passive, of which we can form the most distant idea. i believe many objections might be made to this system; but at present i shall confine myself to one, which is, in my opinion, very decisive. i assert, that instead of explaining the operations of external objects by its means, we utterly annihilate all these objects, and reduce ourselves to the opinions of the most extravagant scepticism concerning them. if colours, sounds, tastes and smells be merely perceptions, nothing, we can conceive, is possessed of a real, continued, and independent existence; not even motion, extension and solidity, which are the primary qualities chiefly insisted on. to begin with the examination of motion; 'tis evident this is a quality altogether inconceivable alone, and without a reference to some other object. the idea of motion necessarily supposes that of a body moving. now, what is our idea of the moving body, without which motion is incomprehensible? it must resolve itself into the idea of extension or of solidity; and consequently the reality of motion depends upon that of these other qualities. this opinion, which is universally acknowledged concerning motion, i have proved to be true with regard to extension; and have shown that 'tis impossible to conceive extension but as composed of parts, endowed with colour or solidity. the idea of extension is a compound idea; but as it is not compounded of an infinite number of parts or inferior ideas, it must at last resolve itself into such as are perfectly simple and indivisible. these simple and indivisible parts not being ideas of extension, must be nonentities, unless conceived as coloured or solid. colour is excluded from any real existence. the reality therefore of our idea of extension depends upon the reality of that of solidity; nor can the former be just while the latter is chimerical. let us then lend our attention to the examination of the idea of solidity. the idea of solidity is that of two objects, which, being impelled by the utmost force, cannot penetrate each other, but still maintain a separate and distinct existence. solidity therefore is perfectly incomprehensible alone, and without the conception of some bodies which are solid, and maintain this separate and distinct existence. now, what idea have we of these bodies? the ideas of colours, sounds, and other secondary qualities, are excluded. the idea of motion depends on that of extension, and the idea of extension on that of solidity. 'tis impossible, therefore, that the idea of solidity can depend on either of them. for that would be to run in a circle, and make one idea depend on another, while, at the same time, the latter depends on the former. our modern philosophy, therefore, leaves us no just nor satisfactory idea of solidity, nor consequently of matter. this argument will appear entirely conclusive to every one that comprehends it; but because it may seem abstruse and intricate to the generality of readers, i hope to be excused if i endeavour to render it more obvious by some variation of the expression. in order to form an idea of solidity, we must conceive two bodies pressing on each other without any penetration; and 'tis impossible to arrive at this idea, when we confine ourselves to one object, much more without conceiving any. two nonentities cannot exclude each other from their places, because they never possess any place, nor can be endowed with any quality. now i ask, what idea do we form of these bodies or objects to which we suppose solidity to belong? to say that we conceive them merely as solid, is, to run on _in infinitum_. to affirm that we paint them out to ourselves as extended, either resolves all into a false idea, or returns in a circle. extension must necessarily be considered either as coloured, which is a false idea, or as solid, which brings us back to the first question. we may make the same observation concerning mobility and figure; and, upon the whole, must conclude, that after the exclusion of colours, sounds, heat and cold, from the rank of external existences, there remains nothing which can afford us a just and consistent idea of body. add to this, that, properly speaking, solidity or impenetrability is nothing but an impossibility of annihilation, as has been already observed:[ ] for which reason 'tis the more necessary for us to form some distinct idea of that object whose annihilation we suppose impossible. an impossibility of being annihilated cannot exist, and can never be conceived to exist, by itself, but necessarily requires some object or real existence to which it may belong. now, the difficulty still remains how to form an idea of this object or existence, without having recourse to the secondary and sensible qualities. nor must we omit, on this occasion, our accustomed method of examining ideas by considering those impressions from which they are derived. the impressions which enter by the sight and hearing, the smell and taste, are affirmed by modern philosophy to be without any resembling objects; and consequently the idea of solidity, which is supposed to be real, can never be derived from any of these senses. there remains, therefore, the feeling as the only sense that can convey the impression which is original to the idea of solidity; and, indeed, we naturally imagine that we feel the solidity of bodies, and need but touch any object in order to perceive this quality. but this method of thinking is more popular than philosophical, as will appear from the following reflections. first, 'tis easy to observe, that though bodies are felt by means of their solidity, yet the feeling is a quite different thing from the solidity, and that they have not the least resemblance to each other. a man who has the palsy in one hand has as perfect an idea of impenetrability, when he observes that hand to be supported by the table, as when he feels the same table with the other hand. an object that presses upon any of our members meets with resistance; and that, resistance, by the motion it gives to the nerves and animal spirits, conveys a certain sensation to the mind; but it does not follow that the sensation, motion and resistance, are any ways resembling. secondly, the impressions of touch are simple impressions, except when considered with regard to their extension; which makes nothing to the present purpose: and from this simplicity i infer, that they neither represent solidity, nor any real object. for let us put two cases, viz. that of a man who presses a stone or any solid body with his hand, and that of two stones which press each other; 'twill readily be allowed that these two cases are not in every respect alike, but that in the former there is conjoined with the solidity a feeling or sensation of which there is no appearance in the latter. in order, therefore, to make these two cases alike, 'tis necessary to remove some part of the impression which the man feels by his hand, or organ of sensation; and that being impossible in a simple impression, obliges us to remove the whole, and proves that this whole impression has no archetype or model in external objects; to which we may add, that solidity necessarily supposes two bodies, along with contiguity and impulse; which being a compound object, can never be represented by a simple impression. not to mention, that, though solidity continues always invariably the same, the impressions of touch change every moment upon us, which is a clear proof that the latter are not representations of the former. thus there is a direct and total opposition betwixt our reason and our senses; or, more properly speaking, betwixt those conclusions we form from cause and effect, and those that persuade us of the continued and independent existence of body. when we reason from cause and effect, we conclude, that neither colour, sound, taste nor smell, have a continued and independent existence. when we exclude these sensible qualities, there remains nothing in the universe which has such an existence. [ ] part ii. sect. . section v. of the immateriality of the soul. having found such contradictions and difficulties in every system concerning external objects, and in the idea of matter, which we fancy so clear and determinate, we shall naturally expect still greater difficulties and contradictions in every hypothesis concerning our internal perceptions, and the nature of the mind, which we are apt to imagine so much more obscure and uncertain. but in this we should deceive ourselves. the intellectual world, though involved in infinite obscurities, is not perplexed with any such contradictions as those we have discovered in the natural. what is known concerning it, agrees with itself; and what is unknown, we must be contented to leave so. 'tis true, would we hearken to certain philosophers, they promise to diminish our ignorance; but i am afraid 'tis at the hazard of running us into contradictions, from which the subject is of itself exempted. these philosophers are the curious reasoners concerning the material or immaterial substances, in which they suppose our perceptions to inhere. in order to put a stop to these endless cavils on both sides, i know no better method, than to ask these philosophers in a few words, _what they mean by substance and inhesion?_ and after they have answered this question, 'twill then be reasonable, and not till then, to enter seriously into the dispute. this question we have found impossible to be answered with regard to matter and body; but besides that in the case of the mind it labours under all the same difficulties, 'tis burthened with some additional ones, which are peculiar to that subject. as every idea is derived from a precedent impression, had we any idea of the substance of our minds, we must also have an impression of it, which is very difficult, if not impossible, to be conceived. for how can an impression represent a substance, otherwise than by resembling it? and how can an impression resemble a substance, since, according to this philosophy, it is not a substance, and has none of the peculiar qualities or characteristics of a substance? but leaving the question of _what may or may not be_, for that other _what actually is_, i desire those philosophers, who pretend that we have an idea of the substance of our minds, to point out the impression that produces it, and tell distinctly after what manner that impression operates, and from what object it is derived. is it an impression of sensation or reflection? is it pleasant, or painful, or indifferent? does it attend us at all times, or does it only return at intervals? if at intervals, at what times principally does it return, and by what causes is it produced? if, instead of answering these questions, any one should evade the difficulty, by saying, that the definition of a substance is _something which may exist by itself_, and that this definition ought to satisfy us: should this be said, i should observe, that this definition agrees to every thing that can possibly be conceived; and never will serve to distinguish substance from accident, or the soul from its perceptions. for thus i reason. whatever is clearly conceived, may exist; and whatever is clearly conceived, after any manner, may exist after the same manner. this is one principle which has been already acknowledged. again, every thing which is different is distinguishable, and every thing which is distinguishable is separable by the imagination. this is another principle. my conclusion from both is, that since all our perceptions are different from each other, and from every thing else in the universe, they are also distinct and separable, and may be considered as separately existent, and may exist separately, and have no need of any thing else to support their existence. they are therefore substances, as far as this definition explains a substance. thus, neither by considering the first origin of ideas, nor by means of a definition, are we able to arrive at any satisfactory notion of substance, which seems to me a sufficient reason for abandoning utterly that dispute concerning the materiality and immateriality of the soul, and makes me absolutely condemn even the question itself. we have no perfect idea of any thing but of a perception. a substance is entirely different from a perception. we have therefore no idea of a substance. inhesion in something is supposed to be requisite to support the existence of our perceptions. nothing appears requisite to support the existence of a perception. we have therefore no idea of inhesion. what possibility then of answering that question, _whether perceptions inhere in a material or immaterial substance_, when we do not so much as understand the meaning of the question? there is one argument commonly employed for the immateriality of the soul, which seems to me remarkable. whatever is extended consists of parts; and whatever consists of parts is divisible, if not in reality, at least in the imagination. but 'tis impossible any thing divisible can be _conjoined_ to a thought or perception, which is a being altogether inseparable and indivisible. for, supposing such a conjunction, would the indivisible thought exist on the left or on the right hand of this extended divisible body? on the surface or in the middle? on the back or fore-side of it? if it be conjoined with the extension, it must exist somewhere within its dimensions. if it exist within its dimensions, it must either exist in one particular part; and then that particular part is indivisible, and the perception is conjoined only with it, not with the extension: or if the thought exists in every part, it must also be extended, and separable, and divisible, as well as the body, which is utterly absurd and contradictory. for can any one conceive a passion of a yard in length, a foot in breadth, and an inch in thickness? thought therefore and extension are qualities wholly incompatible, and never can incorporate together into one subject. this argument affects not the question concerning the _substance_ of the soul, but only that concerning its _local conjunction_ with matter; and therefore it may not be improper to consider in general what objects are, or are not susceptible of a local conjunction. this is a curious question, and may lead us to some discoveries of considerable moment. the first notion of space and extension is derived solely from the senses of sight and feeling; nor is there anything, but what is coloured or tangible, that has parts disposed after such a manner as to convey that idea. when we diminish or increase a relish, 'tis not after the same manner that we diminish or increase any visible object; and when several sounds strike our hearing at once, custom and reflection alone make us form an idea of the degrees of the distance and contiguity of those bodies from which they are derived. whatever marks the place of its existence, either must be extended, or must be a mathematical point, without parts or composition. what is extended must have a particular figure, as square, round, triangular; none of which will agree to a desire, or indeed to any impression or idea, except of these two senses above-mentioned. neither ought a desire, though indivisible, to be considered as a mathematical point. for in that case 'twould be possible, by the addition of others, to make two, three, four desires; and these disposed and situated in such a manner, as to have a determinate length, breadth, and thickness; which is evidently absurd. 'twill not be surprising after this, if i deliver a maxim, which is condemned by several metaphysicians, and is esteemed contrary to the most certain principles of human reason. this maxim is, _that an object may exist, and yet be no where_: and i assert, that this is not only possible, but that the greatest part of beings do and must exist after this manner. an object may be said to be no where, when its parts are not so situated with respect to each other, as to form any figure or quantity; nor the whole with respect to other bodies so as to answer to our notions of contiguity or distance. now, this is evidently the case with all our perceptions and objects, except those of the sight and feeling. a moral reflection cannot be placed on the right or on the left hand of a passion; nor can a smell or sound be either of a circular or a square figure. these objects and perceptions, so far from requiring any particular place, are absolutely incompatible with it, and even the imagination cannot attribute it to them. and as to the absurdity of supposing them to be no where, we may consider, that if the passions and sentiments appear to the perception to have any particular place, the idea of extension might be derived from them, as well as from the sight and touch; contrary to what we have already established. if they _appear_ not to have any particular place, they may possibly _exist_ in the same manner; since whatever we conceive is possible. 'twill not now be necessary to prove, that those perceptions, which are simple, and exist no where, are incapable of any conjunction in place with matter or body, which is extended and divisible; since 'tis impossible to found a relation but on some common quality.[ ] it may be better worth our while to remark, that this question of the local conjunction of objects, does not only occur in metaphysical disputes concerning the nature of the soul, but that even in common life we have every moment occasion to examine it. thus, supposing we consider a fig at one end of the table, and an olive at the other, 'tis evident, that, in forming the complex ideas of these substances, one of the most obvious is that of their different relishes; and 'tis as evident, that we incorporate and conjoin these qualities with such as are coloured and tangible. the bitter taste of the one, and sweet of the other, are supposed to lie in the very visible body, and to be separated from each other by the whole length of the table. this is so notable and so natural an illusion, that it may be proper to consider the principles from which it is derived. though an extended object be incapable of a conjunction in place with another that exists without any place or extension, yet are they susceptible of many other relations. thus the taste and smell of any fruit are inseparable from its other qualities of colour and tangibility; and whichever of them be the cause or effect, 'tis certain they are always co-existent. nor are they only co-existent in general, but also cotemporary in their appearance in the mind; and 'tis upon the application of the extended body to our senses we perceive its particular taste and smell. these relations, then, of _causation, and contiguity in the time of their appearance_, betwixt the extended object and the quality, which exists without any particular place, must have such an effect on the mind, that, upon the appearance of one, it will immediately turn its thought to the conception of the other. nor is this all. we not only turn our thought from one to the other upon account of their relation, but likewise endeavour to give them a new relation, viz. that of _a conjunction in place_, that we may render the transition more easy and natural. for 'tis a quality, which i shall often have occasion to remark in human nature, and shall explain more fully in its proper place, that, when objects are united by any relation, we have a strong propensity to add some new relation to them, in order to complete the union. in our arrangement of bodies, we never fail to place such as are resembling in contiguity to each other, or, at least, in correspondent points of view: why? but because we feel a satisfaction in joining the relation of contiguity to that of resemblance, or the resemblance of situation to that of qualities. the effects of this propensity have been already observed[ ] in that resemblance, which we so readily suppose betwixt particular impressions and their external causes. but we shall not find a more evident effect of it than in the present instance, where, from the relations of causation and contiguity in time betwixt two objects, we feign likewise that of a conjunction in place, in order to strengthen the connexion. but whatever confused notions we may form of an union in place betwixt an extended body, as a fig, and its particular taste, 'tis certain that, upon reflection, we must observe in this union something altogether unintelligible and contradictory. for, should we ask ourselves one obvious question, viz. if the taste, which we conceive to be contained in the circumference of the body, is in every part of it, or in one only, we must quickly find ourselves at a loss, and perceive the impossibility of ever giving a satisfactory answer. we cannot reply that 'tis only in one part: for experience convinces us that every part has the same relish. we can as little reply that it exists in every part: for then we must suppose it figured and extended; which is absurd and incomprehensible. here, then, we are influenced by two principles, directly contrary to each other, viz. that _inclination_ of our fancy by which we are determined to incorporate the taste with the extended object, and our _reason_, which shows us the impossibility of such an union. being divided betwixt these opposite principles, we renounce neither one nor the other, but involve the subject in such confusion and obscurity, that we no longer perceive the opposition. we suppose that the taste exists within the circumference of the body, but in such a manner, that it fills the whole without extension, and exists entire in every part without separation. in short, we use, in our most familiar way of thinking, that scholastic principle which, when crudely proposed, appears so shocking, of _totum in toto, et totum in qualibet parte_; which is much the same as if we should say, that a thing is in a certain place, and yet is not there. all this absurdity proceeds from our endeavouring to bestow a place on what is utterly incapable of it; and that endeavour again arises from our inclination to complete an union which is founded on causation and a contiguity of time, by attributing to the objects a conjunction in place. but if ever reason be of sufficient force to overcome prejudice, 'tis certain that, in the present case, it must prevail. for we have only this choice left, either to suppose that some beings exist without any place, or that they are figured and extended; or that when they are incorporated with extended objects, the whole is in the whole, and the whole in every part. the absurdity of the two last suppositions proves sufficiently the veracity of the first. nor is there any fourth opinion: for as to the supposition of their existence in the manner of mathematical points, it resolves itself into the second opinion, and supposes, that several passions may be placed in a circular figure, and that a certain number of smells, conjoined with a certain number of sounds, may make a body of twelve cubic inches; which appears ridiculous upon the bare mentioning of it. but though in this view of things we cannot refuse to condemn, the materialists, who conjoin all thought with extension; yet a little reflection will show us equal reason for blaming their antagonists, who conjoin all thought with a simple and indivisible substance. the most vulgar philosophy informs us, that no external object can make itself known to the mind immediately, and without the interposition of an image or perception. that table, which just now appears to me, is only a perception, and all its qualities are qualities of a perception. now, the most obvious of all its qualities is extension. the perception consists of parts. these parts are so situated as to afford us the notion of distance and contiguity, of length, breadth and thickness. the termination of these three dimensions is what we call figure. this figure is moveable, separable, and divisible. mobility and separability are the distinguishing properties of extended objects. and to cut short all disputes, the very idea of extension is copied from nothing but an impression, and consequently must perfectly agree to it. to say the idea of extension agrees to any thing, is to say it is extended. the freethinker may now triumph in his turn; and having found there are impressions and ideas really extended, may ask his antagonists, how they can incorporate a simple and indivisible subject with an extended perception? all the arguments of theologians may here be retorted upon them. is the indivisible subject or immaterial substance, if you will, on the left or on the right hand of the perception? is it in this particular part, or in that other? is it in every part without being extended? or is it entire in any one part without deserting the rest? 'tis impossible to give any answer to these questions but what will both be absurd in itself, and will account for the union of our indivisible perceptions with an extended substance. this gives me an occasion to take anew into consideration the question concerning the substance of the soul; and though i have condemned that question as utterly unintelligible, yet i cannot forbear proposing some farther reflections concerning it. i assert, that the doctrine of the immateriality, simplicity, and indivisibility of a thinking substance is a true atheism, and will serve to justify all those sentiments for which spinoza is so universally infamous. from this topic i hope at least to reap one advantage, that my adversaries will not have any pretext to render the present doctrine odious by their declamations when they see that they can be so easily retorted on them. the fundamental principle of the atheism of spinoza is the doctrine of the simplicity of the universe, and the unity of that substance in which he supposes both thought and matter to inhere. there is only one substance, says he, in the world, and that substance is perfectly simple and indivisible, and exists every where without any local presence. whatever we discover externally by sensation, whatever we feel internally by reflection, all these are nothing but modifications of that one simple and necessarily existent being, and are not possessed of any separate or distinct existence. every passion of the soul, every configuration of matter however different and various, inhere in the same substance, and preserve in themselves their characters of distinction, without communicating them to that subject in which they inhere. the same _substratum_, if i may so speak, supports the most different modifications without any difference in itself, and varies them without any variation. neither time, nor place, nor all the diversity of nature are able to produce any composition or change in its perfect simplicity and identity. i believe this brief exposition of the principles of that famous atheist will be sufficient for the present purpose, and that without entering farther into these gloomy and obscure regions, i shall be able to show, that this hideous hypothesis is almost the same with that of the immateriality of the soul, which has become so popular. to make this evident, let us remember,[ ] that as every idea is derived from a preceding perception, 'tis impossible our idea of a perception, and that of an object or external existence, can ever represent what are specifically different from each other. whatever difference we may suppose betwixt them, 'tis still incomprehensible to us; and we are obliged, either to conceive an external object merely as a relation without a relative, or to make it the very same with a perception or impression. the consequence i shall draw from this may, at first sight, appear a mere sophism; but upon the least examination will be found solid and satisfactory. i say then, that since we may suppose, but never can conceive, a specific difference betwixt an object and impression, any conclusion we form concerning the connexion and repugnance of impressions, will not be known certainly to be applicable to objects; but that, on the other hand, whatever conclusions of this kind we form concerning objects, will most certainly be applicable to impressions. the reason is not difficult. as an object is supposed to be different from an impression, we cannot be sure, that the circumstance, upon which we found our reasoning, is common to both, supposing we form the reasoning upon the impression. 'tis still possible, that the object may differ from it in that particular. but when we first form our reasoning concerning the object, 'tis beyond doubt, that the same reasoning must extend to the impression: and that because the quality of the object, upon which the argument is founded, must at least be conceived by the mind, and could not be conceived, unless it were common to an impression; since we have no idea but what is derived from that origin. thus we may establish it as a certain maxim, that we can never, by any principle, but by an irregular kind of reasoning from experience,[ ] discover a connexion or repugnance betwixt objects, which extends not to impressions; though the inverse proposition may not be equally true, that all the discoverable relations of impressions are common to objects. to apply this to the present case; there are two different systems of beings presented, to which i suppose myself under a necessity of assigning some substance, or ground of inhesion. i observe first the universe of objects or of body: the sun, moon, and stars; the earth, seas, plants, animals, men, ships, houses, and other productions either of art or nature. here spinoza appears, and tells me, that these are only modifications and that the subject in which they inhere is simple, uncompounded, and indivisible. after this i consider the other system of beings, viz. the universe of thought, or my impressions and ideas. there i observe another sun, moon, and stars; an earth, and seas, covered and inhabited by plants and animals; towns, houses, mountains, rivers; and in short every thing i can discover or conceive in the first system. upon my inquiring concerning these, theologians present themselves, and tell me, that these also are modifications, and modifications of one simple, uncompounded, and indivisible substance. immediately upon which i am deafened with the noise of a hundred voices, that treat the first hypothesis with detestation and scorn, and the second with applause and veneration. i turn my attention to these hypotheses to see what may be the reason of so great a partiality; and find that they have the same fault of being unintelligible, and that, as far as we can understand them, they are so much alike, that 'tis impossible to discover any absurdity in one, which is not common to both of them. we have no idea of any quality in an object, which does not agree to, and may not represent a quality in an impression; and that because all our ideas are derived from our impressions. we can never therefore find any repugnance betwixt an extended object as a modification, and a simple uncompounded essence, as its substance; unless that repugnance takes place equally betwixt the perception or impression of that extended object, and the same uncompounded essence. every idea of a quality in an object passes through an impression; and therefore every _perceivable_ relation, whether of connexion or repugnance, must be common both to objects and impressions. but though this argument, considered in general, seems evident beyond all doubt and contradiction, yet to make it more clear and sensible, let us survey it in detail; and see whether all the absurdities, which have been found in the system of spinoza, may not likewise be discovered in that of theologians.[ ] first, it has been said against spinoza, according to the scholastic way of talking, rather than thinking, that a mode, not being any distinct or separate existence, must be the very same with its substance, and consequently the extension of the universe must be in a manner identified with that simple, uncompounded essence in which the universe is supposed to inhere. but this, it may be pretended, is utterly impossible and inconceivable unless the indivisible substance expand itself, so as to correspond to the extension, or the extension contract itself, so as to answer to the indivisible substance. this argument seems just, as far as we can understand it; and 'tis plain nothing is required, but a change in the terms, to apply the same argument to our extended perceptions, and the simple essence of the soul; the ideas of objects and perceptions being in every respect the same, only attended with the supposition of a difference, that is unknown and incomprehensible. secondly, it has been said, that we have no idea of substance, which is not applicable to matter; nor any idea of a distinct substance, which is not applicable to every distinct portion of matter. matter therefore is not a mode but a substance, and each part of matter is not a distinct mode, but a distinct substance. i have already proved, that we have no perfect idea of substance; but that taking it for _something that can exist by itself_, 'tis evident every perception is a substance, and every distinct part of a perception a distinct substance: and consequently the one hypothesis labours under the same difficulties in this respect with the other. thirdly, it has been objected to the system of one simple substance in the universe, that this substance, being the support or _substratum_ of every thing, must at the very same instant be modified into forms, which are contrary and incompatible. the round and square figures are incompatible in the same substance at the same time. how then is it possible, that the same substance can at once be modified into that square table, and into this round one? i ask the same question concerning the impressions of these tables; and find that the answer is no more satisfactory in one case than in the other. it appears, then, that to whatever side we turn, the same difficulties follow us, and that we cannot advance one step towards the establishing the simplicity and immateriality of the soul, without preparing the way for a dangerous and irrecoverable atheism. 'tis the same case, if, instead of calling thought a modification of the soul, we should give it the more ancient, and yet more modish name of an _action_. by an action we mean much the same thing as what is commonly called an abstract mode; that is, something which, properly speaking, is neither distinguishable, nor separable from its substance, and is only conceived by a distinction of reason, or an abstraction. but nothing is gained by this change of the term of modification for that of action; nor do we free ourselves from one single difficulty by its means, as will appear from the two following reflections: first, i observe, that the word _action_, according to this explication of it, can never justly be applied to any perception, as derived from a mind or thinking substance. our perceptions are all really different, and separable, and distinguishable from each other, and from every thing else which we can imagine; and therefore, 'tis impossible to conceive how they can be the action or abstract mode of any substance. the instance of motion, which is commonly made use of to show after what manner perception depends as an action upon its substance, rather confounds than instructs us. motion, to all appearance, induces no real nor essential change on the body, but only varies its relation to other objects. but, betwixt a person in the morning walking in a garden, with company agreeable to him; and a person in the afternoon enclosed in a dungeon, and full of terror, despair and resentment, there seems to be a radical difference, and of quite another kind, than what is produced on a body by the change of its situation. as we conclude from the distinction and separability of their ideas, that external objects have a separate existence from each other; so, when we make these ideas themselves our objects, we must draw the same conclusion concerning _them_, according to the precedent reasoning. at least, it must be confessed, that having no idea of the substance of the soul, 'tis impossible for us to tell how it can admit of such differences, and even contrarieties of perception, without any fundamental change; and, consequently, can never tell in what sense perceptions are actions of that substance. the use, therefore, of the word _action_, unaccompanied with any meaning, instead of that of modification, makes no addition to our knowledge, nor is of any advantage to the doctrine of the immateriality of the soul. i add, in the second place, that if it brings any advantage to that cause, it must bring an equal to the cause of atheism. for, do our theologians pretend to make a monopoly of the word _action_, and may not the atheists likewise take possession of it, and affirm that other plants, animals, men, &c., are nothing but particular actions of one simple universal substance, which exerts itself from a blind and absolute necessity? this you'll say, is utterly absurd. i own 'tis unintelligible; but, at the same time assert, according to the principles above explained, that 'tis impossible to discover any absurdity in the supposition, that all the various objects in nature are actions of one simple substance, which absurdity will not be applicable to a like supposition concerning impressions and ideas. from these hypotheses concerning the _substance_ and _local conjunction_ of our perceptions, we may pass to another, which is more intelligible than the former, and more important than the latter, viz. concerning the _cause_ of our perceptions. matter and motion, 'tis commonly said in the schools, however varied, are still matter and motion, and produce only a difference in the position and situation of objects. divide a body as often as you please, 'tis still body. place it in any figure, nothing ever results but figure, or the relation of parts. move it in any manner, you still find motion or a change of relation. 'tis absurd to imagine, that motion in a circle, for instance, should be nothing but merely motion in a circle; while motion in another direction, as in an ellipse, should also be a passion or moral reflection: that the shocking of two globular particles should become a sensation of pain, and that the meeting of two triangular ones should afford a pleasure. now as these different shocks and variations and mixtures are the only changes of which matter is susceptible, and as these never afford us any idea of thought or perception, 'tis concluded to be impossible, that thought can ever be caused by matter. few have been able to withstand the seeming evidence of this argument; and yet nothing in the world is more easy than to refute it. we need only reflect on what has been proved at large, that we are never sensible of any connexion betwixt causes and effects, and that 'tis only by our experience of their constant conjunction, we can arrive at any knowledge of this relation. now, as all objects, which are not contrary, are susceptible of a constant conjunction, and as no real objects are contrary; i have inferred from these principles,[ ] that to consider the matter _a priori_, any thing may produce any thing, and that we shall never discover a reason, why any object may or may not be the cause of any other, however great, or however little the resemblance may be betwixt them. this evidently destroys the precedent reasoning concerning the cause of thought or perception. for though there appear no manner of connexion betwixt motion or thought, the case is the same with all other causes and effects. place one body of a pound weight on one end of a lever, and another body of the same weight on another end; you will never find in these bodies any principle of motion dependent on their distances from the centre, more than of thought and perception. if you pretend, therefore, to prove, _a priori_, that such a position of bodies can never cause thought; because, turn it which way you will, 'tis nothing but a position of bodies; you must, by the same course of reasoning conclude, that it can never produce motion; since there is no more apparent connexion in the one case than in the other. but as this latter conclusion is contrary to evident experience, and as 'tis possible we may have a like experience in the operations of the mind, and may perceive a constant conjunction of thought and motion; you reason too hastily, when, from the mere consideration of the ideas, you conclude that 'tis impossible motion can ever produce thought, or a different position of parts give rise to a different passion or reflection. nay, 'tis not only possible we may have such an experience, but 'tis certain we have it; since every one may perceive, that the different dispositions of his body change his thoughts and sentiments. and should it be said, that this depends on the union of soul and body, i would answer, that we must separate the question concerning the substance of the mind from that concerning the cause of its thought; and that, confining ourselves to the latter question, we find, by the comparing their ideas, that thought and motion are different from each other, and by experience, that they are constantly united; which being all the circumstances that enter into the idea of cause and effect, when applied to the operations of matter, we may certainly conclude, that motion may be, and actually is, the cause of thought and perception. there seems only this dilemma left us in the present case; either to assert, that nothing can be the cause of another, but where the mind can perceive the connexion in its idea of the objects: or to maintain, that all objects which we find constantly conjoined, are upon that account to be regarded as causes and effects. if we choose the first part of the dilemma, these are the consequences. _first_, we in reality affirm, that there is no such thing in the universe as a cause or productive principle, not even the deity himself; since our idea of that supreme being is derived from particular impressions, none of which contain any efficacy, nor seem to have _any_ connexion with _any_ other existence. as to what may be said, that the connexion betwixt the idea of an infinitely powerful being and that of any effect, which he wills, is necessary and unavoidable; i answer, that we have no idea of a being endowed with any power, much less of one endowed with infinite power. but if we will change expressions, we can only define power by connexion; and then in saying, that the idea of an infinitely powerful being is connected with that of every effect which he wills, we really do no more than assert, that a being, whose volition is connected with every effect, is connected with every effect; which is an identical proposition, and gives us no insight into the nature of this power or connexion. but, _secondly_, supposing that the deity were the great and efficacious principle which supplies the deficiency of all causes, this leads us into the grossest impieties and absurdities. for upon the same account that we have recourse to him in natural operations, and assert that matter cannot of itself communicate motion, or produce thought, viz. because there is no apparent connexion betwixt these objects; i say, upon the very same account, we must acknowledge that the deity is the author of all our volitions and perceptions; since they have no more apparent connexion either with one another, or with the supposed but unknown substance of the soul. this agency of the supreme being we know to have been asserted by several philosophers[ ] with relation to all the actions of the mind, except volition, or rather an inconsiderable part of volition; though 'tis easy to perceive, that this exception is a mere pretext, to avoid the dangerous consequences of that doctrine. if nothing be active but what has an apparent power, thought is in no case any more active than matter; and if this inactivity must make us have recourse to a deity, the supreme being is the real cause of all our actions, bad as well as good, vicious as well as virtuous. thus we are necessarily reduced to the other side of the dilemma, viz. that all objects, which are found to be constantly conjoined, are upon that account only to be regarded as causes and effects. now, as all objects which are not contrary, are susceptible of a constant conjunction, and as no real objects are contrary; it follows, that, for ought we can determine by the mere ideas, any thing may be the cause or effect of any thing; which evidently gives the advantage to the materialists above their antagonists. to pronounce, then, the final decision upon the whole: the question concerning the substance of the soul is absolutely unintelligible: all our perceptions are not susceptible of a local union, either with what is extended or unextended; there being some of them of the one kind, and some of the other: and as the constant conjunction of objects constitutes the very essence of cause and effect, matter and motion may often be regarded as the causes of thought, as far as we have any notion of that relation. 'tis certainly a kind of indignity to philosophy, whose sovereign authority ought every where to be acknowledged, to oblige her on every occasion to make apologies for her conclusions, and justify herself to every particular art and science, which may be offended at her. this puts one in mind of a king arraigned for high treason against his subjects. there is only one occasion when philosophy will think it necessary and even honourable to justify herself; and that is, religion may seem to be in the least offended; whose rights are as dear to her as her own, and are indeed the same. if any one, therefore, should imagine that the foregoing arguments are any ways dangerous to religion, i hope the following apology will remove his apprehensions. there is no foundation for any conclusion _a priori_, either concerning the operations or duration of any object, of which 'tis possible for the human mind to form a conception. any object may be imagined to become entirely inactive, or to be annihilated in a moment; and 'tis an evident principle, _that whatever we can imagine is possible_. now this is no more true of matter, than of spirit; of an extended compounded substance, than of a simple and unextended. in both cases the metaphysical arguments for the immortality of the soul are equally inconclusive; and in both cases the moral arguments and those derived from the analogy of nature are equally strong and convincing. if my philosophy therefore makes no addition to the arguments for religion, i have at least the satisfaction to think it takes nothing from them, but that every thing remains precisely as before. [ ] part i. sect. . [ ] sect , towards the end. [ ] part. ii. sect. . [ ] such as that of sect. , from the coherence of our perceptions. [ ] see bayle's dictionary, article of spinoza. [ ] part iii. sect. . [ ] as father malebranche and other cartesians. section vi. of personal identity. there are some philosophers, who imagine we are every moment intimately conscious of what we call our _self_; that we feel its existence and its continuance in existence; and are certain, beyond the evidence of a demonstration, both of its perfect identity and simplicity. the strongest sensation, the most violent passion, say they, instead of distracting us from this view, only fix it the more intensely, and make us consider their influence on _self_ either by their pain or pleasure. to attempt a farther proof of this were to weaken its evidence; since no proof can be derived from any fact of which we are so intimately conscious; nor is there any thing, of which we can be certain, if we doubt of this. unluckily all these positive assertions are contrary to that very experience which is pleaded for them; nor have we any idea of _self_, after the manner it is here explained. for, from what impression could this idea be derived? this question 'tis impossible to answer without a manifest contradiction and absurdity; and yet 'tis a question which must necessarily be answered, if we would have the idea of self pass for clear and intelligible. it must be some one impression that gives rise to every real idea. but self or person is not any one impression, but that to which our several impressions and ideas are supposed to have a reference. if any impression gives rise to the idea of self, that impression must continue invariably the same, through the whole course of our lives; since self is supposed to exist after that manner. but there is no impression constant and invariable. pain and pleasure, grief and joy, passions and sensations succeed each other, and never all exist at the same time. it cannot therefore be from any of these impressions, or from any other, that the idea of self is derived; and consequently there is no such idea. but farther, what must become of all our particular perceptions upon this hypothesis? all these are different, and distinguishable, and separable from each other, and may be separately considered, and may exist separately, and have no need of any thing to support their existence. after what manner therefore do they belong to self, and how are they connected with it? for my part, when i enter most intimately into what i call _myself_, i always stumble on some particular perception or other, of heat or cold, light or shade, love or hatred, pain or pleasure. i never can catch _myself_ at any time without a perception, and never can observe any thing but the perception. when my perceptions are removed for any time, as by sound sleep, so long am i insensible of _myself_, and may truly be said not to exist. and were all my perceptions removed by death, and could i neither think, nor feel, nor see, nor love, nor hate, after the dissolution of my body, i should be entirely annihilated, nor do i conceive what is farther requisite to make me a perfect nonentity. if any one, upon serious and unprejudiced reflection, thinks he has a different notion of _himself_, i must confess i can reason no longer with him. all i can allow him is, that he may be in the right as well as i, and that we are essentially different in this particular. he may, perhaps, perceive something simple and continued, which he calls _himself_; though i am certain there is no such principle in me. but setting aside some metaphysicians of this kind, i may venture to affirm of the rest of mankind, that they are nothing but a bundle or collection of different perceptions, which succeed each other with an inconceivable rapidity, and are in a perpetual flux and movement. our eyes cannot turn in their sockets without varying our perceptions. our thought is still more variable than our sight; and all our other senses and faculties contribute to this change; nor is there any single power of the soul, which remains unalterably the same, perhaps for one moment. the mind is a kind of theatre, where several perceptions successively make their appearance; pass, repass, glide away, and mingle in an infinite variety of postures and situations. there is properly no _simplicity_ in it at one time, nor _identity_ in different, whatever natural propension we may have to imagine that simplicity and identity. the comparison of the theatre must not mislead us. they are the successive perceptions only, that constitute the mind; nor have we the most distant notion of the place where these scenes are represented, or of the materials of which it is composed. what then gives us so great a propension to ascribe an identity to these successive perceptions, and to suppose ourselves possessed of an invariable and uninterrupted existence through the whole course of our lives? in order to answer this question, we must distinguish betwixt personal identity, as it regards our thought or imagination, and as it regards our passions or the concern we take in ourselves. the first is our present subject; and to explain it perfectly we must take the matter pretty deep, and account for that identity, which we attribute to plants and animals; there being a great analogy betwixt it and the identity of a self or person. we have a distinct idea of an object that remains invariable and uninterrupted through a supposed variation of time; and this idea we call that of _identity_ or _sameness_. we have also a distinct idea of several different objects existing in succession, and connected together by a close relation; and this to an accurate view affords as perfect a notion of _diversity_, as if there was no manner of relation among the objects. but though these two ideas of identity, and a succession of related objects, be in themselves perfectly distinct, and even contrary, yet 'tis certain that, in our common way of thinking, they are generally confounded with each other. that action of the imagination, by which we consider the uninterrupted and invariable object, and that by which we reflect on the succession of related objects, are almost the same to the feeling; nor is there much more effort of thought required in the latter case than in the former. the relation facilitates the transition of the mind from one object to another, and renders its passage as smooth as if it contemplated one continued object. this resemblance is the cause of the confusion and mistake, and makes us substitute the notion of identity, instead of that of related objects. however at one instant we may consider the related succession as variable or interrupted, we are sure the next to ascribe to it a perfect identity, and regard it as invariable and uninterrupted. our propensity to this mistake is so great from the resemblance above mentioned, that we fall into it before we are aware; and though we incessantly correct ourselves by reflection, and return to a more accurate method of thinking, yet we cannot long sustain our philosophy, or take off this bias from the imagination. our last resource is to yield to it, and boldly assert that these different related objects are in effect the same, however interrupted and variable. in order to justify to ourselves this absurdity, we often feign some new and unintelligible principle, that connects the objects together, and prevents their interruption or variation. thus, we feign the continued existence of the perceptions of our senses, to remove the interruption; and run into the notion of a _soul_, and _self_, and _substance_, to disguise the variation. but, we may farther observe, that where we do not give rise to such a fiction, our propension to confound identity with relation is so great, that we are apt to imagine something unknown and mysterious,[ ] connecting the parts, beside their relation; and this i take to be the case with regard to the identity we ascribe to plants and vegetables. and even when this does not take place, we still feel a propensity to confound these ideas, though we are not able fully to satisfy ourselves in that particular, nor find any thing invariable and uninterrupted to justify our notion of identity. thus, the controversy concerning identity is not merely a dispute of words. for, when we attribute identity, in an improper sense, to variable or interrupted objects, our mistake is not confined to the expression, but is commonly attended with a fiction, either of something invariable and uninterrupted, or of something mysterious and inexplicable, or at least with a propensity to such fictions. what will suffice to prove this hypothesis to the satisfaction of every fair inquirer, is to show, from daily experience and observation, that the objects which are variable or interrupted, and yet are supposed to continue the same, are such only as consist of a succession of parts, connected together by resemblance, contiguity, or causation. for as such a succession answers evidently to our notion of diversity, it can only be by mistake we ascribe to it an identity; and as the relation of parts, which leads us into this mistake, is really nothing but a quality, which produces an association of ideas, and an easy transition of the imagination from one to another, it can only be from the resemblance, which this act of the mind bears to that by which we contemplate one continued object, that the error arises. our chief business, then, must be to prove, that all objects, to which we ascribe identity, without observing their invariableness and uninterruptedness, are such as consist of a succession of related objects. in order to this, suppose any mass of matter, of which the parts are contiguous and connected, to be placed before us; 'tis plain we must attribute a perfect identity to this mass, provided all the parts continue uninterruptedly and invariably the same, whatever motion or change of place we may observe either in the whole or in any of the parts. but supposing some very _small_ or _inconsiderable_ part to be added to the mass, or subtracted from it; though this absolutely destroys the identity of the whole, strictly speaking, yet as we seldom think so accurately, we scruple not to pronounce a mass of matter the same, where we find so trivial an alteration. the passage of the thought from the object before the change to the object after it, is so smooth and easy, that we scarce perceive the transition, and are apt to imagine, that 'tis nothing but a continued survey of the same object. there is a very remarkable circumstance that attends this experiment; which is, that though the change of any considerable part in a mass of matter destroys the identity of the whole, yet we must measure the greatness of the part, not absolutely, but by its _proportion_ to the whole. the addition or diminution of a mountain would not be sufficient to produce a diversity in a planet; though the change of a very few inches would be able to destroy the identity of some bodies. 'twill be impossible to account for this, but by reflecting that objects operate upon the mind, and break or interrupt the continuity of its actions, not according to their real greatness, but according to their proportion to each other; and therefore, since this interruption makes an object cease to appear the same, it must be the uninterrupted progress of the thought which constitutes the imperfect identity. this may be confirmed by another phenomenon. a change in any considerable part of a body destroys its identity; but 'tis remarkable, that where the change is produced _gradually_ and _insensibly_, we are less apt to ascribe to it the same effect. the reason can plainly be no other, than that the mind, in following the successive changes of the body, feels an easy passage from the surveying its condition in one moment, to the viewing of it in another, and in no particular time perceives any interruption in its actions. from which continued perception, it ascribes a continued existence and identity to the object. but whatever precaution we may use in introducing the changes gradually, and making them proportionable to the whole, 'tis certain, that where the changes are at last observed to become considerable, we make a scruple of ascribing identity to such different objects. there is, however, another artifice, by which we may induce the imagination to advance a step farther; and that is, by producing a reference of the parts to each other, and a combination to some _common end_ or purpose. a ship, of which a considerable part has been changed by frequent reparations, is still considered as the same; nor does the difference of the materials hinder us from ascribing an identity to it. the common end, in which the parts conspire, is the same under all their variations, and affords an easy transition of the imagination from one situation of the body to another. but this is still more remarkable, when we add a _sympathy_ of parts to their _common end_, and suppose that they bear to each other the reciprocal relation of cause and effect in all their actions and operations. this is the case with all animals and vegetables; where not only the several parts have a reference to some general purpose, but also a mutual dependence on, and connexion with, each other. the effect of so strong a relation is, that though every one must allow, that in a very few years both vegetables and animals endure a _total_ change, yet we still attribute identity to them, while their form, size and substance, are entirely altered. an oak that grows from a small plant to a large tree is still the same oak, though there be not one particle of matter or figure of its parts the same. an infant becomes a man, and is sometimes fat, sometimes lean, without any change in his identity. we may also consider the two following phenomena, which are remarkable in their kind. the first is, that though we commonly be able to distinguish pretty exactly betwixt numerical and specific identity, yet it sometimes happens that we confound them, and in our thinking and reasoning employ the one for the other. thus, a man who hears a noise that is frequently interrupted and renewed, says it is still the same noise, though 'tis evident the sounds have only a specific identity or resemblance, and there is nothing numerically the same but the cause which produced them. in like manner it may be said, without breach of the propriety of language, that such a church, which was formerly of brick, fell to ruin, and that the parish rebuilt the same church of freestone, and according to modern architecture. here neither the form nor materials are the same, nor is there any thing common to the two objects but their relation to the inhabitants of the parish; and yet this alone is sufficient to make us denominate them the same. but we must observe, that in these cases the first object is in a manner annihilated before the second comes into existence; by which means, we are never presented, in any one point of time, with the idea of difference and multiplicity; and for that reason are less scrupulous in calling them the same. secondly, we may remark, that though, in a succession of related objects, it be in a manner requisite that the change of parts be not sudden nor entire, in order to preserve the identity, yet where the objects are in their nature changeable and inconstant, we admit of a more sudden transition than would otherwise be consistent with that relation. thus, as the nature of a river consists in the motion and change of parts, though in less than four-and-twenty hours these be totally altered, this hinders not the river from continuing the same during several ages. what is natural and essential to any thing is, in a manner, expected; and what is expected makes less impression, and appears of less moment than what is unusual and extraordinary. a considerable change of the former kind seems really less to the imagination than the most trivial alteration of the latter; and by breaking less the continuity of the thought, has less influence in destroying the identity. we now proceed to explain the nature of _personal identity_, which has become so great a question in philosophy, especially of late years, in england, where all the abstruser sciences are studied with a peculiar ardour and application. and here 'tis evident the same method of reasoning must be continued which has so successfully explained the identity of plants, and animals, and ships, and houses, and of all the compounded and changeable productions either of art or nature. the identity which we ascribe to the mind of man is only a fictitious one, and of a like kind with that which we ascribe to vegetables and animal bodies. it cannot therefore have a different origin, but must proceed from a like operation of the imagination upon like objects. but lest this argument should not convince the reader, though in my opinion perfectly decisive, let him weigh the following reasoning, which is still closer and more immediate. 'tis evident that the identity which we attribute to the human mind, however perfect we may imagine it to be, is not able to run the several different perceptions into one, and make them lose their characters of distinction and difference, which are essential to them. 'tis still true that every distinct perception which enters into the composition of the mind, is a distinct existence, and is different, and distinguishable, and separable from every other perception, either contemporary or successive. but as, notwithstanding this distinction and separability, we [suppose] the whole train of perceptions to be united by identity, a question naturally arises concerning this relation of identity, whether it be something that really binds our several perceptions together, or only associates their ideas in the imagination; that is, in other words, whether, in pronouncing concerning the identity of a person, we observe some real bond among his perceptions, or only feel one among the ideas we form of them. this question we might easily decide, if we would recollect what has been already proved at large, that the understanding never observes any real connexion among objects, and that even the union of cause and effect, when strictly examined, resolves itself into a customary association of ideas. for from thence it evidently follows, that identity is nothing really belonging to these different perceptions, and uniting them together, but is merely a quality which we attribute to them, because of the union of their ideas in the imagination when we reflect upon them. now, the only qualities which can give ideas an union in the imagination, are these three relations above mentioned. these are the uniting principles in the ideal world, and without them every distinct object is separable by the mind, and may be separately considered, and appears not to have any more connexion with any other object than if disjoined by the greatest difference and remoteness. 'tis therefore on some of these three relations of resemblance, contiguity and causation, that identity depends; and as the very essence of these relations consists in their producing an easy transition of ideas, it follows, that our notions of personal identity proceed entirely from the smooth and uninterrupted progress of the thought along a train of connected ideas, according to the principles above explained. the only question, therefore, which remains is, by what relations this uninterrupted progress of our thought is produced, when we consider the successive existence of a mind or thinking person. and here 'tis evident we must confine ourselves to resemblance and causation, and must drop contiguity, which has little or no influence in the present case. to begin with _resemblance_; suppose we could see clearly into the breast of another, and observe that succession of perceptions which constitutes his mind or thinking principle, and suppose that he always preserves the memory of a considerable part of past perceptions, 'tis evident that nothing could more contribute to the bestowing a relation on this succession amidst all its variations. for what is the memory but a faculty, by which we raise up the images of past perceptions? and as an image necessarily resembles its object, must not the frequent placing of these resembling perceptions in the chain of thought, convey the imagination more easily from one link to another, and make the whole seem like the continuance of one object? in this particular, then, the memory not only discovers the identity, but also contributes to its production, by producing the relation of resemblance among the perceptions. the case is the same, whether we consider ourselves or others. as to _causation_; we may observe, that the true idea of the human mind, is to consider it as a system of different perceptions or different existences, which are linked together by the relation of cause and effect, and mutually produce, destroy, influence, and modify each other. our impressions give rise to their correspondent ideas; and these ideas, in their turn, produce other impressions. one thought chases another, and draws after it a third, by which it is expelled in its turn. in this respect, i cannot compare the soul more properly to any thing than to a republic or commonwealth, in which the several members are united by the reciprocal ties of government and subordination, and give rise to other persons who propagate the same republic in the incessant changes of its parts. and as the same individual republic may not only change its members, but also its laws and constitutions; in like manner the same person may vary his character and disposition, as well as his impressions and ideas, without losing his identity. whatever changes he endures, his several parts are still connected by the relation of causation. and in this view our identity with regard to the passions serves to corroborate that with regard to the imagination, by the making our distant perceptions influence each other, and by giving us a present concern for our past or future pains or pleasures. as memory alone acquaints us with the continuance and extent of this succession of perceptions, 'tis to be considered, upon that account chiefly, as the source of personal identity. had we no memory, we never should have any notion of causation, nor consequently of that chain of causes and effects, which constitute our self or person. but having once acquired this notion of causation from the memory, we can extend the same chain of causes, and consequently the identity of our persons beyond our memory, and can comprehend times, and circumstances, and actions, which we have entirely forgot, but suppose in general to have existed. for how few of our past actions are there, of which we have any memory? who can tell me, for instance, what were his thoughts and actions on the first of january , the eleventh of march , and the third of august ? or will he affirm, because he has entirely forgot the incidents of these days, that the present self is not the same person with the self of that time; and by that means overturn all the most established notions of personal identity? in this view, therefore, memory does not so much _produce_ as _discover_ personal identity, by showing us the relation of cause and effect among our different perceptions. 'twill be incumbent on those who affirm that memory produces entirely our personal identity, to give a reason why we can thus extend our identity beyond our memory. the whole of this doctrine leads us to a conclusion, which is of great importance in the present affair, viz. that all the nice and subtile questions concerning personal identity can never possibly be decided, and are to be regarded rather as grammatical than as philosophical difficulties. identity depends on the relations of ideas; and these relations produce identity, by means of that easy transition they occasion. but as the relations, and the easiness of the transition may diminish by insensible degrees, we have no just standard by which we can decide any dispute concerning the time when they acquire or lose a title to the name of identity. all the disputes concerning the identity of connected objects are merely verbal, except so far as the relation of parts gives rise to some fiction or imaginary principle of union, as we have already observed. what i have said concerning the first origin and uncertainty of our notion of identity, as applied to the human mind, may be extended with little or no variation to that of _simplicity_. an object, whose different co-existent parts are bound together by a close relation, operates upon the imagination after much the same manner as one perfectly simple and indivisible, and requires not a much greater stretch of thought in order to its conception. from this similarity of operation we attribute a simplicity to it, and feign a principle of union as the support of this simplicity, and the centre of all the different parts and qualities of the object. thus we have finished our examination of the several systems of philosophy, both of the intellectual and moral world; and, in our miscellaneous way of reasoning, have been led into several topics, which will either illustrate and confirm some preceding part of this discourse, or prepare the way for our following opinions. 'tis now time to return to a more close examination of our subject, and to proceed in the accurate anatomy of human nature, having fully explained the nature of our judgment and understanding. [ ] if the reader is desirous to see how a great genius may be influenced by these seemingly trivial principles of the imagination, as well as the mere vulgar, let him read my lord shaftsbury's reasonings concerning the uniting principle of the universe, and the identity of plants and animals. see his _moralists_, or _philosophical rhapsody_. section vii. conclusion of this book. but before i launch out into those immense depths of philosophy which lie before me, i find myself inclined to stop a moment in my present station, and to ponder that voyage which i have undertaken, and which undoubtedly requires the utmost art and industry to be brought to a happy conclusion. methinks i am like a man, who, having struck on many shoals, and having narrowly escaped shipwreck in passing a small frith, has yet the temerity to put out to sea in the same leaky weather-beaten vessel, and even carries his ambition so far as to think of compassing the globe under these disadvantageous circumstances. my memory of past errors and perplexities makes me diffident for the future. the wretched condition, weakness, and disorder of the faculties, i must employ in my inquiries, increase my apprehensions. and the impossibility of amending or correcting these faculties, reduces me almost to despair, and makes me resolve to perish on the barren rock, on which i am at present, rather than venture myself upon that boundless ocean which runs out into immensity. this sudden view of my danger strikes me with melancholy; and, as 'tis usual for that passion, above all others, to indulge itself, i cannot forbear feeding my despair with all those desponding reflections which the present subject furnishes me with in such abundance. i am first affrighted and confounded with that forlorn solitude in which i am placed in my philosophy, and fancy myself some strange uncouth monster, who, not being able to mingle and unite in society, has been expelled all human commerce, and left utterly abandoned and disconsolate. fain would i run into the crowd for shelter and warmth, but cannot prevail with myself to mix with such deformity. i call upon others to join me, in order to make a company apart, but no one will hearken to me. every one keeps at a distance, and dreads that storm which beats upon me from every side. i have exposed myself to the enmity of all metaphysicians, logicians, mathematicians, and even theologians; and can i wonder at the insults i must suffer? i have declared my disapprobation of their systems; and can i be surprised if they should express a hatred of mine and of my person? when i look abroad, i foresee on every side dispute, contradiction, anger, calumny and detraction. when i turn my eye inward, i find nothing but doubt and ignorance. all the world conspires to oppose and contradict me; though such is my weakness, that i feel all my opinions loosen and fall of themselves, when unsupported by the approbation of others. every step i take is with hesitation, and every new reflection makes me dread an error and absurdity in my reasoning. for with what confidence can i venture upon such bold enterprises, when, beside those numberless infirmities peculiar to myself, i find so many which are common to human nature? can i be sure that, in leaving all established opinions, i am following truth? and by what criterion shall i distinguish her, even if fortune should at last guide me on her footsteps? after the most accurate and exact of my reasonings, i can give no reason why i should assent to it, and feel nothing but a _strong_ propensity to consider objects _strongly_ in that view under which they appear to me. experience is a principle which instructs me in the several conjunctions of objects for the past. habit is another principle which determines me to expect the same for the future; and both of them conspiring to operate upon the imagination, make me form certain ideas in a more intense and lively manner than others which are not attended with the same advantages. without this quality, by which the mind enlivens some ideas beyond others (which seemingly is so trivial, and so little founded on reason), we could never assent to any argument, nor carry our view beyond those few objects which are present to our senses. nay, even to these objects we could never attribute any existence but what was dependent on the senses, and must comprehend them entirely in that succession of perceptions which constitutes our self or person. nay, farther, even with relation to that succession, we could only admit of those perceptions which are immediately present to our consciousness; nor could those lively images, with which the memory presents us, be ever received as true pictures of past perceptions. the memory, senses, and understanding are therefore all of them founded on the imagination, or the vivacity of our ideas. no wonder a principle so inconstant and fallacious should lead us into errors when implicitly followed (as it must be) in all its variations. 'tis this principle which makes us reason from causes and effects; and 'tis the same principle which convinces us of the continued existence of external objects when absent from the senses. but though these two operations be equally natural and necessary in the human mind, yet in some circumstances they are directly contrary;[ ] nor is it possible for us to reason justly and regularly from causes and effects, and at the same time believe the continued existence of matter. how then shall we adjust those principles together? which of them shall we prefer? or in case we prefer neither of them, but successively assent to both, as is usual among philosophers, with what confidence can we afterwards usurp that glorious title, when we thus knowingly embrace a manifest contradiction? this contradiction[ ] would be more excusable were it compensated by any degree of solidity and satisfaction in the other parts of our reasoning. but the case is quite contrary. when we trace up the human understanding to its first principles, we find it to lead us into such sentiments as seem to turn into ridicule all our past pains and industry, and to discourage us from future inquiries. nothing is more curiously inquired after by the mind of man than the causes of every phenomenon; nor are we content with knowing the immediate causes, but push on our inquiries till we arrive at the original and ultimate principle. we would not willingly stop before we are acquainted with that energy in the cause by which it operates on its effect; that tie, which connects them together; and that efficacious quality on which the tie depends. this is our aim in all our studies and reflections: and how must we be disappointed when we learn that this connexion, tie, or energy lies merely in ourselves, and is nothing but that determination of the mind which is acquired by custom, and causes us to make a transition from an object to its usual attendant, and from the impression of one to the lively idea of the other? such a discovery not only cuts off all hope of ever attaining satisfaction, but even prevents our very wishes; since it appears, that when we say we desire to know the ultimate and operating principle as something which resides in the external object, we either contradict ourselves, or talk without a meaning. this deficiency in our ideas is not indeed perceived in common life, nor are we sensible that, in the most usual conjunctions of cause and effect, we are as ignorant of the ultimate principle which binds them together, as in the most unusual and extraordinary. but this proceeds merely from an illusion of the imagination; and the question is, how far we ought to yield to these illusions. this question is very difficult, and reduces us to a very dangerous dilemma, whichever way we answer it. for if we assent to every trivial suggestion of the fancy, beside that these suggestions are often contrary to each other, they lead us into such errors, absurdities, and obscurities, that we must at last become ashamed of our credulity. nothing is more dangerous to reason than the flights of the imagination, and nothing has been the occasion of more mistakes among philosophers. men of bright fancies may in this respect be compared to those angels, whom the scripture represents as covering their eyes with their wings. this has already appeared in so many instances, that we may spare ourselves the trouble of enlarging upon it any farther. but, on the other hand, if the consideration of these instances makes us take a resolution to reject all the trivial suggestions of the fancy, and adhere to the understanding, that is, to the general and more established properties of the imagination; even this resolution, if steadily executed, would be dangerous, and attended with the most fatal consequences. for i have already shown,[ ] that the understanding, when it acts alone, and according to its most general principles, entirely subverts itself, and leaves not the lowest degree of evidence in any proposition, either in philosophy or common life. we save ourselves from this total scepticism only by means of that singular and seemingly trivial property of the fancy, by which we enter with difficulty into remote views of things, and are not able to accompany them with so sensible an impression, as we do those which are more easy and natural. shall we, then, establish it for a general maxim, that no refined or elaborate reasoning is ever to be received? consider well the consequences of such a principle. by this means you cut off entirely all science and philosophy: you proceed upon one singular quality of the imagination, and by a parity of reason must embrace all of them: and you expressly contradict yourself; since this maxim must be built on the preceding reasoning, which will be allowed to be sufficiently refined and metaphysical. what party, then, shall we choose among these difficulties? if we embrace this principle, and condemn all refined reasoning, we run into the most manifest absurdities. if we reject it in favour of these reasonings, we subvert entirely the human understanding. we have therefore no choice left, but betwixt a false reason and none at all. for my part, i know not what ought to be done in the present case. i can only observe what is commonly done; which is, that this difficulty is seldom or never thought of; and even where it has once been present to the mind, is quickly forgot, and leaves but a small impression behind it. very refined reflections have little or no influence upon us; and yet we do not, and cannot establish it for a rule, that they ought not to have any influence; which implies a manifest contradiction. but what have i here said, that reflections very refined and metaphysical have little or no influence upon us? this opinion i can scarce forbear retracting, and condemning from my present feeling and experience. the _intense_ view of these manifold contradictions and imperfections in human reason has so wrought upon me, and heated my brain, that i am ready to reject all belief and reasoning, and can look upon no opinion even as more probable or likely than another. where am i, or what? from what causes do i derive my existence, and to what condition shall i return? whose favour shall i court, and whose anger must i dread? what beings surround me? and on whom have i any influence, or who have any influence on me? i am confounded with all these questions, and begin to fancy myself in the most deplorable condition imaginable, environed with the deepest darkness, and utterly deprived of the use of every member and faculty. most fortunately it happens, that since reason is incapable of dispelling these clouds, nature herself suffices to that purpose, and cures me of this philosophical melancholy and delirium, either by relaxing this bent of mind, or by some avocation, and lively impression of my senses, which obliterate all these chimeras. i dine, i play a game of backgammon, i converse, and am merry with my friends; and when, after three or four hours' amusement, i would return to these speculations, they appear so cold, and strained, and ridiculous, that i cannot find in my heart to enter into them any farther. here, then, i find myself absolutely and necessarily determined to live, and talk, and act like other people in the common affairs of life. but notwithstanding that my natural propensity, and the course of my animal spirits and passions reduce me to this indolent belief in the general maxims of the world, i still feel such remains of my former disposition, that i am ready to throw all my books and papers into the fire, and resolve never more to renounce the pleasures of life for the sake of reasoning and philosophy. for those are my sentiments in that splenetic humour which governs me at present. i may, nay i must yield to the current of nature, in submitting to my senses and understanding; and in this blind submission i show most perfectly my sceptical disposition and principles. but does it follow that i must strive against the current of nature, which leads me to indolence and pleasure; that i must seclude myself, in some measure, from the commerce and society of men, which is so agreeable; and that i must torture my brain with subtilties and sophistries, at the very time that i cannot satisfy myself concerning the reasonableness of so painful an application, nor have any tolerable prospect of arriving by its means at truth and certainty? under what obligation do i lie of making such an abuse of time? and to what end can it serve, either for the service of mankind, or for my own private interest? no: if i must be a fool, as all those who reason or believe any thing _certainly_ are, my follies shall at least be natural and agreeable. where i strive against my inclination, i shall have a good reason for my resistance; and will no more be led a wandering into such dreary solitudes, and rough passages, as i have hitherto met with. these are the sentiments of my spleen and indolence; and indeed i must confess, that philosophy has nothing to oppose to them, and expects a victory more from the returns of a serious good-humoured disposition, than from the force of reason and conviction. in all the incidents of life, we ought still to preserve our scepticism. if we believe that fire warms, or water refreshes, 'tis only because it costs us too much pains to think otherwise. nay, if we are philosophers, it ought only to be upon sceptical principles, and from an inclination which we feel to the employing ourselves after that manner. where reason is lively, and mixes itself with some propensity, it ought to be assented to. where it does not, it never can have any title to operate upon us. at the time, therefore, that i am tired with amusement and company, and have indulged a _reverie_ in my chamber, or in a solitary walk by a river side, i feel my mind all collected within itself, and am naturally _inclined_ to carry my view into all those subjects, about which i have met with so many disputes in the course of my reading and conversation. i cannot forbear having a curiosity to be acquainted with the principles of moral good and evil, the nature and foundation of government, and the cause of those several passions and inclinations which actuate and govern me. i am uneasy to think i approve of one object, and disapprove of another; call one thing beautiful, and another deformed; decide concerning truth and falsehood, reason and folly, without knowing upon what principles i proceed. i am concerned for the condition of the learned world, which lies under such a deplorable ignorance in all these particulars. i feel an ambition to arise in me of contributing to the instruction of mankind, and of acquiring a name by my inventions and discoveries. these sentiments spring up naturally in my present disposition; and should i endeavour to banish them, by attaching myself to any other business or diversion, i _feel_ i should be a loser in point of pleasure; and this is the origin of my philosophy. but even suppose this curiosity and ambition should not transport me into speculations without the sphere of common life, it would necessarily happen, that from my very weakness i must be led into such inquiries. 'tis certain that superstition is much more bold in its systems and hypotheses than philosophy; and while the latter contents itself with assigning new causes and principles to the phenomena which appear in the visible world, the former opens a world of its own, and presents us with scenes, and beings, and objects, which are altogether new. since, therefore, 'tis almost impossible for the mind of man to rest, like those of beasts, in that narrow circle of objects, which are the subject of daily conversation and action, we ought only to deliberate concerning the choice of our guide, and ought to prefer that which is safest and most agreeable. and in this respect i make bold to recommend philosophy, and shall not scruple to give it the preference to superstition of every kind or denomination. for as superstition arises naturally and easily from the popular opinions of mankind, it seizes more strongly on the mind, and is often able to disturb us in the conduct of our lives and actions. philosophy, on the contrary, if just, can present us only with mild and moderate sentiments; and if false and extravagant, its opinions are merely the objects of a cold and general speculation, and seldom go so far as to interrupt the course of our natural propensities. the _cynics_ are an extraordinary instance of philosophers, who, from reasonings purely philosophical, ran into as great extravagancies of conduct as any _monk_ or _dervise_ that ever was in the world. generally speaking, the errors in religion are dangerous; those in philosophy only ridiculous. i am sensible, that these two cases of the strength and weakness of the mind will not comprehend all mankind, and that there are in england, in particular, many honest gentlemen, who, being always employed in their domestic affairs, or amusing themselves in common recreations, have carried their thoughts very little beyond those objects, which are every day exposed to their senses. and indeed, of such as these i pretend not to make philosophers, nor do i expect them either to be associates in these researches, or auditors of these discoveries. they do well to keep themselves in their present situation; and, instead of refining them into philosophers, i wish we could communicate to our founders of systems, a share of this gross earthy mixture, as an ingredient, which they commonly stand much in need of, and which would serve to temper those fiery particles, of which they are composed. while a warm imagination is allowed to enter into philosophy, and hypotheses embraced merely for being specious and agreeable, we can never have any steady principles, nor any sentiments, which will suit with common practice and experience. but were these hypotheses once removed, we might hope to establish a system or set of opinions, which if not true (for that, perhaps, is too much to be hoped for), might at least be satisfactory to the human mind, and might stand the test of the most critical examination. nor should we despair of attaining this end, because of the many chimerical systems, which have successively arisen and decayed away among men, would we consider the shortness of that period, wherein these questions have been the subjects of inquiry and reasoning. two thousand years with such long interruptions, and under such mighty discouragements, are a small space of time to give any tolerable perfection to the sciences; and perhaps we are still in too early an age of the world to discover any principles, which will bear the examination of the latest posterity. for my part, my only hope is, that i may contribute a little to the advancement of knowledge, by giving in some particulars a different turn to the speculations of philosophers, and pointing out to them more distinctly those subjects, where alone they can expect assurance and conviction. human nature is the only science of man; and yet has been hitherto the most neglected. 'twill be sufficient for me, if i can bring it a little more into fashion; and the hope of this serves to compose my temper from that spleen, and invigorate it from that indolence, which sometimes prevail upon me. if the reader finds himself in the same easy disposition, let him follow me in my future speculations. if not, let him follow his inclination, and wait the returns of application and good humour. the conduct of a man who studies philosophy in this careless manner, is more truly sceptical than that of one who, feeling in himself an inclination to it, is yet so overwhelmed with doubts and scruples, as totally to reject it. a true sceptic will be diffident of his philosophical doubts, as well as of his philosophical conviction; and will never refuse any innocent satisfaction which offers itself, upon account of either of them. nor is it only proper we should in general indulge our inclination in the most elaborate philosophical researches, notwithstanding our sceptical principles, but also that we should yield to that propensity, which inclines us to be positive and certain in _particular points_, according to the light in which we survey them in any _particular instant_. 'tis easier to forbear all examination and inquiry, than to check ourselves in so natural a propensity, and guard against that assurance, which always arises from an exact and full survey of an object. on such an occasion we are apt not only to forget our scepticism, but even our modesty too; and make use of such terms as these, _'tis evident, 'tis certain, 'tis undeniable_; which a due deference to the public ought, perhaps, to prevent. i may have fallen into this fault after the example of others; but i here enter a _caveat_ against any objections which may be offered on that head; and declare that such expressions were extorted from me by the present view of the object, and imply no dogmatical spirit, nor conceited idea of my own judgment, which are sentiments that i am sensible can become nobody, and a sceptic still less than any other. [ ] sect. . [ ] part iii. sect. . [ ] section . end of volume first. memorial collection at http://posner.library.cmu.edu/posner note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) images of the original pages are available through the posner memorial collection. see http://posner.library.cmu.edu/posner/books/book.cgi?call= _k s_ shakespeare and precious stones by george frederick kunz, ph.d., a.m., d.sc. * * * * * the curious lore of precious stones being a description of their sentiments and folklore, superstitions, symbolism, mysticism, use in protection, prevention, religion and divination, crystal gazing, birth-stones, lucky stones and talismans, astral, zodiacal, and planetary. the magic of jewels and charms magic jewels and electric gems; meteorites or celestial stones; stones of healing; fabulous stones, concretions and fossils; snake stones and bezoars; charms of ancient and modern times; facts and fancies about precious stones. each: profusely illustrated in color, doubletone and line. octavo. handsome cloth binding, gilt top, in a box. $ . net. carriage charges extra. shakespeare and precious stones treating of the known references to precious stones in shakespeare's works, with comments as to the origin of his material, the knowledge of the poet concerning precious stones and references as to where the precious stones of his time came from. four illustrations. square octavo. decorated cloth. $ . net. mr. william shakespeares comedies, histories, & tragedies published according to the true originall copies [illustration: william shakespeare engraved by martin droeshout for the first folio of , wherein the plays were first assembled. reproduced from a copy of this folio owned by the new york public library. the original measures - / x in., or x cm.] london printed by isaac laggard, and ed. blount. . * * * * * shakespeare and precious stones treating of the known _references_ of _precious stones_ in shakespeare's works, with comments as to the origin of his material, the knowledge of the _poet_ concerning _precious stones_, and references as to where the precious stones of his time came from the author george frederick kunz ph.d., sc.d., a.m. honorary president of the shakespeare garden committee of new york city; vice president of the permanent shakespeare birthday committee of the city of new york; member of the executive committee of the new york city tercentenary celebration; member of the mayor's shakespeare celebration committee of new york. with illustrations philadelphia & london imprinted by j.b. lippincott company at the washington square press upon the tercentenary of shakespeare to ruby, my daughter, whose mother, sophia handforth was born in the land of shakespeare, and to ruby's daughter, gretel, (the pearl), this volume is lovingly dedicated foreword as no writer has made a more beautiful and telling use of precious stones in his verse than did shakespeare, the author believed that if these references could be gathered together for comparison and for quotation, and if this were done from authentic and early editions of the great dramatist-poet's works, it would give the literary and historical student a better understanding as to what gems were used in shakespeare's time, and in what terms he referred to them. this has been done here, and comparisons are made with the precious stones of the present time, showing what mines were known and gems were worn in shakespeare's day, and also something of those that were not known then, but are known at this time. the reader is also provided with a few important data serving to show what could have been the sources of the poet's knowledge regarding precious stones and whence were derived those which he may have seen or of which he may have heard. as in this period the beauty of a jewel depended as much, or more, upon the elaborate setting as upon the purity and brilliancy of the gems, the author has given some information regarding the leading goldsmith-jewellers, both english and french, of shakespeare's age. thus the reader will find, besides the very full references to the poet's words and clear directions as to where all the passages can be located in the first folio of , much material that will stimulate an interest in the subject and promote further independent research. the author wishes to express his thanks to dr. appleton morgan, president of the shakespeare society of new york; miss h.c. bartlett, the shakespearean bibliophile; the new york public library and h.m. leydenberg, assistant there; gardner c. teall; frederic w. erb, assistant librarian of columbia university; the council of the grolier club, miss ruth s. granniss, librarian of the club, and vechten waring, all of new york city. g.f.k. new york april, contents shakespeare and precious stones precious stones mentioned in the plays of shakespeare precious stones mentioned in the poems of shakespeare illustrations william shakespeare (engraved by martin droeshout) _frontispiece_ five of the six authentic shakespeare signatures diamond cutter's shop, eighteenth century from a portrait of queen elizabeth printer's mark of richard field shakespeare and precious stones so wide is the range of the immortal verse of shakespeare, and so many and various are the subjects he touched upon and adorned with the magic beauty of his poetic imagery, that it will be of great interest to refer to the allusions to gems and precious stones in his plays and poems. these allusions are all given in the latter part of this volume. what can we learn from them of shakespeare's knowledge of the source, quality, and use of these precious stones? the great favor that pearls enjoyed in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries is, as we see, reflected by the frequency with which he speaks of them, and the different passages reveal in several instances a knowledge of the ancient tales of their formation and principal source. thus, in _troilus and cressida_ (act i, sc. ) he writes: "her bed is india; there she lies, a pearl"; and pliny's tales of the pearl's origin from dew are glanced at indirectly when he says: the liquid drops of tears that you have shed shall come again, transform'd to orient pearl. _richard iii_, act iv, sc. . first folio, "histories", p. , col. a, line . this is undoubtedly the reason for the comparison between pearls and tears, leading to the german proverb, "_perlen bedeuten tränen_" (pearls mean tears), which was then taken to signify that pearls portended tears, instead of that they were the offspring of drops of liquid. the world-famed pearl of cleopatra, which she drank after dissolving it, so as to win her wager with antony that she would entertain him with a banquet costing a certain immense sum of money, is not even noticed, however, in shakespeare's _antony and cleopatra_. in the poet's time pearls were not only worn as jewels, but were extensively used in embroidering rich garments and upholstery and for the adornment of harnesses. to this shakespeare alludes in the following passages: the intertissued robe of gold and pearl. _henry v_, act iv, sc. . first folio, "histories", p. (page number repeated), col. b, line . their harness studded all with gold and pearl. _taming of the shrew_, introd., sc. . "comedies", p. , col. b, line . fine linen, turkey cushions boss'd with pearl. _ibid_., act ii, sc. . "comedies", p. , col. b, line . laced with silver, set with pearls. _much ado about nothing_, act iii, sc. . "comedies", p. , col. b, line . moreover, we have a simile which might almost make us suppose that shakespeare knew something of the details of the pearl fisheries, when the oysters are piled up on shore and allowed to decompose, so as to render it easier to get at the pearls, for he makes one of his characters say, speaking of an honest man in a poor dwelling, that he was like a "pearl in your foul oyster". (_as you like it_, act v, sc. .) in the strange transformation told of in ariel's song, the bones of the drowned man have been turned to coral, and his eyes to pearls (_tempest_, act i, sc. ). the strange and sometimes morbid attraction of opposites finds expression in a queer old english proverbial saying given in the _two gentlemen of verona_: "black men are pearls in beauteous ladies' eyes". the likeness to drops of dew appears where we read of the dew that it was "decking with liquid pearl the bladed grass" (_midsummer night's dream_, act i, sc. ), and a little later in the same play we read the following injunction: i most go seek some dewdrops here and hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. _midsummer night's dream_, act ii, sc. . first folio, "comedies", p. , col. a, line . and later still we have the lines: that same dew, which sometime on the buds was wont to swell like round and orient pearls. _midsummer night's dream_, act iv, sc. . "comedies", p. , col. b, line . the pearl as a simile for great and transcendent value, perhaps suggested by the pearl of great price of the gospel, is used of helen of greece in the lines (_troilus and cressida_, act ii, sc. ): she is a pearl whose price hath launch'd above a thousand ships. at end of "histories", page unnumbered (p. of facsimile), col. a, line . this being an allusion to the greek fleet sent out under agamemnon and menelaus to bring back the truant wife from troy. the idea of a supremely valuable pearl is also apparent in the lines embraced in othello's last words before his self-immolation as an expiation of the murder of desdemona, where he says of himself:[ ] whose hand like the base indian, threw a pearl away richer than all his tribe. _othello_, act v, sc. . "tragedies", p. , col. b, line . [footnote : for a venetian tale that may have suggested these lines to shakespeare, see the present writer's "the magic of jewels and charms", philadelphia and london, , p. . the text of the first folio gives "iudean", instead of "indian".] although the term "orient pearl" is that used by shakespeare, and undoubtedly many of the older pearls of his day were really of cinghalese or persian origin, the principal source of supply was then the panama fishery discovered by the spaniards about a century earlier and actively exploited by them.[ ] however, through the old inventories made by experts familiar with the real sources of precious stones and pearls--though not always correctly with those of the latter--the term "orient pearl" came in time to denote one of fine hue, so that the "orient" of a pearl is still spoken of as signifying a sheen of the first quality. [footnote : on the pearls brought to europe from both north and south america in shakespeare's time, see the writer's "gems and precious stones of north america", new york, , pp. - ; d. ed., .] many fine pearls of the fresh-water variety, not the marine pearls, were found in the scotch rivers. it was these that are mentioned as having been obtained by julius cæsar to ornament a buckler which he dedicated to the shrine of the temple of venus genetrix. it was also this type of pearl that was so eagerly sought by the late queen victoria when she visited scotland. many of these pearls exist in old, especially in ecclesiastical jewelry, and several are in the ashburnham missal now in the j. pierpont morgan library.[ ] [footnote : see "the book of the pearl", by george frederick kunz and charles hugh stevenson, new york, , colored plate opposite p. .] of the glowing ruby shakespeare seems to have known little, since he uses its name only in the conventional way to signify a bright or choice shade of red. in _measure for measure_ (act ii, sc. ) the "impression of keen whips" produced ruby streaks on the skin; even more materialistic is the nose "all o'er embellished with rubies, carbuncles and sapphires" (_comedy of errors_, act iii, sc. ). the common employment of the designation carbuncle for a precious stone and also for a boil was usual from ancient times. at least, we might gather from this passage that the poet was aware of the distinction between ruby and carbuncle (pyrope garnet). rubies as "fairy favors" is a dainty mention in the fairy drama _midsummer night's dream_ (act ii, sc. ). cæsar's wounds "ope their ruby lips" (_julius cæsar_, act iii, sc. ). macbeth speaks of the "natural ruby of your cheeks", in addressing his wife at the apparition of banquo's ghost; with her this is unchanged, while with him terror or remorse has blanched it (_macbeth_, act iii, sc. ). lastly, the term "ruby lips", so often used by poets, is employed by shakespeare with consummate art in _cymbeline_ (act ii, sc. ) where he writes: but kiss; one kiss! rubies unparagon'd, how dearly they do't. first folio, "tragedies", p. , col. b, line . the "rubies" of the poet's time were frequently ruby spinels, or the so-called "balas rubies" from badakshan, in afghan turkestan. the most noted one in the england of that period was probably the one said to have been given to edward the black prince by pedro the cruel of castile, after the battle of najera, in , and now the most prized adornment of the english crown, excepting the great historic diamond, the koh-i-nûr. the immense star of south africa, weighing metric carats, five times the weight of the koh-i-nûr, is intrinsically worth much more, but lacks the manifold dramatic and historic associations of its indian sister. strange to say, the beautiful sapphire is only twice named by shakespeare, once as an adjunct to the pearl in embroidery (_merry wives of windsor_, act v, sc. ). the single mention of chrysolite is much more impressive: if heaven would make me such another world, of one entire and perfect chrysolite! _othello_, act v, sc. . "tragedies", p. , col. a, line . chrysolite (peridot, or olivine) was regarded in shakespeare's time and earlier as of exceptional rarity. the fine peridots of the chapel of the three kings in cologne cathedral were believed to be emeralds of extraordinary size and were once valued at $ , , , although they are really worth barely $ , ; some of them are more than an inch in diameter. whence they came is uncertain, but it is probable that they were brought from the east at some time during the crusades. indeed the origin of the fine peridots of the middle ages is shrouded in mystery; they are, however, believed to have been found in one or more of the islands in the red sea. in our day a number of specimens have been discovered on the small island of st. john in that sea; the deposit here is a jealously-guarded monopoly of the egyptian government. peridots have also been found at spyrget island, in the arabian gulf. the most remarkable source of gem-material of this stone is meteoric, a few gems weighing as much as a carat each having been cut out of some yellowish-green peridot obtained by the writer from the meteoric iron of glorieta mountain, new mexico. that a turquoise, presumably set in a ring, was given to shylock by leah before their marriage, perhaps at their betrothal, is all that shakespeare has found occasion to write of this pretty stone, one of the earliest used for adornment in the world's history, as the great mines of nishapur, in persia, and those of the sinai peninsula were worked at a very early time, the latter by the egyptians as far back as b.c. with the opal, the poet has seized upon its most characteristic quality, its changeableness of hue, where he says in _twelfth night_ (act ii, sc. ): "thy mind is a very opal". a luminous ring is poetically described in one of shakespeare's earliest plays, _titus andronicus_, written in or about . the lines referring to the ring are highly expressive. after the murder of bassianus, martius searches in the depths of a dark pit for the dead body, and suddenly cries out to his companion quintus that he has discovered the bloody corpse. as the interior of the pit is pitch dark, quintus can scarcely believe what he hears, and he asks martius how the latter could possibly see what he has described. the answer is given in the following lines: upon his bloody finger he doth wear a precious ring, that lightens all the hole, which, like a taper in some monument, doth shine upon the dead man's earthy cheeks, and shows the ragged entrails of the pit. _titus andronicus_, act ii, sc. . first folio, "tragedies", p. , col. b, lines - . this certainly was suggested by the common belief in naturally luminous stones, a belief partly due to a superstitious explanation of the ruddy brilliancy of rubies and garnets as resulting from a hidden fire in the stone, and partly, perhaps, to the occasional observation of the phenomena of phosphorescence or fluorescence in certain precious stones. it will have been seen that the text of shakespeare's plays gives no evidence tending to show any greater familiarity with precious stones than could be gathered from the poetry of his day, and from his intercourse with classical scholars, such as francis bacon, ben jonson, and others of those who formed the unique assemblage wont to meet together at the old mermaid tavern in london. that a diamond could cost ducats ($ ), a very large sum in shakespeare's time, is noted in one of his earliest plays, the _merchant of venice_ (act iii, sc. ), and the following injunction emphasizes the great value of a fine diamond: set this diamond safe in golden palaces, as it becomes. _i henry vi_, act v, sc. . "histories", p. , col. b, line . in _pericles_ we read (act iii, sc. ): the diamonds of a most praisèd water do appear, to make the world twice rich. third folio, , p. , col. b, line ; separate pagination. in shakespeare's time but few of the world's great diamonds were in europe, though two, at least, were in his native country. all of them must have been of east indian origin, as this was before the discovery of the brazilian mines ( ). in , henry viii of england bought of the fuggers of augsburg--the great money-lending bankers and jewel setters, or royal pawnbrokers, who generally sold or forced some jewels upon those who obtained a loan--the jewel of charles the bold, called the "three brethren", from three large balas-rubies with which it was set; the central ornament was a "great pointed diamond"; of its weight nothing is known. this jewel was lost by duke charles on the field of granson, march , , where it was secured by the swiss victors; it was eventually bought by the fuggers. the other fine english diamond was that known as the sancy, weighing - / carats ( . metric carats), acquired by james i from nicholas harley de sancy, in , for , crowns. this is also stated to have belonged to charles the bold. in it was redeemed by cardinal mazarin, after having been pledged for a loan by queen henrietta maria, and at mazarin's death, in , was bequeathed, with his other diamonds, to the french crown. after passing through many vicissitudes, it has recently come into the possession of baron astor of hever (william waldorf astor). there is a possibility that the florentine diamond of - / carats ( . metric carats) was already owned by the grand-ducal house of tuscany before shakespeare's death, but the earliest notice of it appears to be that given by fermental, a french traveller, who saw it in florence in . the other great diamonds of former days are of more recent date. the regent of - / carats ( . metric carats), found in india about , was acquired by the duke of orleans in ; the orloff ( - / old carats = . metric carats) was bought by prince orloff for catherine ii, in , for , , dutch florins, or about $ , . the famous koh-i-nûr, weighing - / carats ( . metric carats) in its old cutting, came to europe, as a gift to queen victoria from the east india company, only in ; although, if it be the same as the great diamond taken by humayun, son of baber, at the battle of paniput, april , , its history dates back at least to , when sultan ala-ed-din took it from the sultan of malva, whose family had already owned it for generations. as fresh-colored lips are likened to rubies, so it is said of a bright eye, that it "would emulate the diamond" (_merry wives of windsor_, act iii, sc. ). bright eyes are also compared to rock-crystal, and the setting of other gems within a bordering of crystals is evidently alluded to in the following lines from _love's labour's lost_ (act ii, sc. ): methought all his senses were lock'd in his eyes as jewels in crystal. first folio, "comedies", p. , col. a, line . we have in _richard ii_ (act i, sc. ) the terms "fair and crystal" applied to a clear sky, and in _romeo and juliet_ (act i, sc. ) the word is used to denote superlative excellence, where a lady's love is to be weighed against her rival on "crystal scales". rock-crystal was much more highly valued in the england of elizabeth and of james i than it is to-day, and was freely used as an adjunct to more precious material, and still was employed to some extent in the adornment of book-covers, although this usage, so common in mediæval times, was fast passing away. in shakespeare's poems, "venus and adonis" ( ) and "lucrece" ( ), as well as in his "sonnets" ( ), in the "lover's complaint" and in the almost certainly spurious "passionate pilgrim", containing two sonnets and three poems from _love's labour's lost_, and which has been included in most collections of his works, there are perhaps relatively more frequent mentions of precious stones than in the plays, a few of them being of special interest. where we have twice "ruby lips" (and once "coral lips") in the plays, the poems speak thrice of "coral lips" or a "coral mouth";[ ] a belt has "coral clasps" ("passionate pilgrim", l. ). this belt bears also "amber studs", and in the "lover's complaint", l. , are "favours of amber", and also of "crystal, and of beaded jet". [footnote : "venus and adonis", l. ; "lucrece", l. ; sonnet cxxx, l. .] coming to the really precious stones, sapphire finds a single mention, also in the "lover's complaint", l. , where it is termed "heaven-hued". the same poem says of the diamond that it was "beautiful and hard" (l. ), thus symbolizing a heartless beauty. more interesting are the following lines regarding the emerald ( , ): the deep-green emerald, in whose fresh regard weak sights their sickly radiance do amend. this proves the poet's familiarity with the idea that gazing on an emerald benefited weak sight, an idea expressed as far back as b.c. by theophrastus, a pupil of aristotle, and repeated by the roman pliny in a.d. the "lover's complaint" furnishes another pretty line ( ) contrasting the different beauties of rubies and pearls: of paled pearls and rubies red as blood. in "venus and adonis", honey-tongued shakespeare writes of a "ruby-colored portal". pearls are noted six times, usually as similes for tears, and tears are likened to "pearls in glass" ("venus and adonis", l. ). a tender line is that in the "passionate pilgrim" (hardly from shakespeare's hand, however): bright orient pearl, alack, too timely shaded. more varied are the allusions to rock-crystal or crystal, as the poet calls it. in one place ("venus and adonis", l. ) there are "crystal tears", and these form "a crystal tide" that flows down the cheeks and drops in the bosom (_idem_, l. ). on the other hand, the eyes are likened to this stone, as in "crystal eyne" ("venus and adonis", l. ), or "crystal eyes" (sonnet xlvi, l. ). there are also "crystal favours",[ ] a "crystal gate",[ ] and "crystal walls",[ ] the two characteristics of brilliancy and transparency suggesting these uses of the term. [footnote : "lover's complaint", l. .] [footnote : "idem", l. .] [footnote : "lucrece", l. .] the emeralds of shakespeare's age had been brought from peru by the spaniards and had originally come from colombian mines, such as those at muzo, which are still worked in our day. the location of some of the early deposits here appears to have been lost sight of since the spanish conquest. the emeralds of greek and roman times, and of the middle ages, came from mount zabara (gebel zabara), near the red sea coast, east of assuan, where traces of the old workings were found in ; these mines were reopened by order of mehemet ali, and were worked for a brief period by mons. f. cailliaud. there can be no doubt that shakespeare must have seen many fine jewels and glittering gems in pageants and processions during his residence in london. on certain special occasions the players were summoned to assist at royal functions, provision being made by the royal treasury for rich materials to be used in making special doublets and mantles for wear on these occasions. it has been suggested that the rich jewelling of many of the court portraits by holbein and others must have impressed the poet by their wealth of color spread before his eyes; but it is nowise sure that he ever had special opportunity to closely examine such portraits, the smaller details of which may not have interested him greatly. while it is not unlikely that some of the royal or noble ladies who attended the performances of shakespeare's plays, while he was connected with the globe theatre, wore brilliant jewels, it is improbable that they were bedecked with the most valuable of their gems. the danger of being waylaid and robbed was much greater in those days than it is to-day, and it was probably only within palace or castle doors, or at some great state function, that the costliest jewels were worn. hence nothing distantly approaching the rather excessive splendor of a new york or london opera night could ever have dazzled the poet-actor's eyes. in the case of plays acted before the court, however, the royal and noble ladies, undoubtedly, wore many of their finest jewels, as did also the sovereign and courtiers. still, preoccupied as shakespeare must have been with the presentation, or representation of the dramatic performance, he probably had little time or inclination to devote especial attention to these jewels. no museum collections, properly so called, existed in shakespeare's day, from which he could have acquired any closer knowledge of precious stones or gems, although the conception of a great modern museum of art and science found expression in the "new atlantis" of his great contemporary, lord bacon. the modest beginnings of the royal society of london, founded in , cannot be traced back beyond . the french academy of sciences, founded in , was preceded by earlier informal meetings of french scientists, to which allusion is even made by lord bacon, who died in . the berlin academy came much later, in , and the st. petersburg academy was first established in by catherine i, widow of peter the great. one society, the academia secretorum naturæ of naples, goes back to , and the accademia dei lincei of prince federico cesi was founded at rome in . but of these shakespeare could have known little or nothing. that the poet knew, more or less vaguely, of america as a source of precious stones, as were the indies, comes out in the farcical lines from _the comedy of errors_ (act iii, sc. ), when one of the dromios, in locating the various lands of the world on parts of his mistress's body, to the query of antipholus: "where america, the indies?" replies: "oh, sir, upon her nose, all o'er embellished with rubies, carbuncles, sapphires". this is the only mention of america in the plays. a coincidence having its own significance is that april , the day of shakespeare's death and also his birthday, was the day dedicated to st. george, the patron saint of merry england. the war-cry of england is given several times by shakespeare, as, for example: cry, god for harry, england and saint george! _henry v_, act iii, sc. . first folio, "histories", p. , col. b, line . god and saint george! richmond and victory! _richard iii_, act v, sc. . first folio, "histories", p. , col. a, line . and in _i henry vi_ (act i, sc. ) we read: bonfires in france forthwith i am to make, to keep our great saint george's feast withal. first folio, "histories", p. , col. b, line . we find no trace in shakespeare's works of any belief in the many quaint and curious superstitions current in his day regarding the talismanic or curative virtues of precious stones. this is quite in keeping with the thoroughly sane outlook upon life that constituted the strong foundation of his incomparable mind. not but that, like every true poet, the sense of mystery, and even the vague impression of the existence of occult powers, of the "unknowable" in nature, was strongly developed, but this is always in a broad and earnest spirit, far removed from all petty superstition. margaret of anjou, wife of henry vi, sacrificed her heart and diamond jewel, as a symbol of her sorrow and her love, when a tempest beat back the ship that was bearing her from the continent to the english coast. her act, as described in the following verses, seems almost an attempt to propitiate the storm (_ii henry vi_, act iii, sc. ): when from thy shore the tempest beat us back, i stood upon the hatches in the storm, and when the dusky sky began to rob my earnest-gaping sight of thy land's view, i took a costly jewel from my neck, a heart it was, bound in with diamonds, and threw it towards thy land: the sea received it, and so i wish'd thy body might my heart. first folio, "histories", p. , col. a, lines - . the idea of the sacredness of a ring as a love-token is voiced by portia in shakespeare's _merchant of venice_ where she says (act v, sc. ): i gave my love a ring and made him swear never to part with it; and here he stands; i dare be sworn for him he would not leave it nor pluck it from his finger, for the wealth that the world masters. first folio, "comedies", p. , col. b, lines - . the nearest approach to a sentimental characterization of precious stones is to be found in "a lover's complaint", lines - . although we have already noted most of them separately, it may be well to give the entire passage here consecutively: and, lo, behold these talents of their hair, with twisted metal amorously impleach'd, i have received from many a several fair, their kind acceptance weepingly beseech'd with the annexions of fair gems enrich'd, and deep-brain'd sonnets that did amplify each stone's dear nature, worth and quality. the diamond,--why, 'twas beautiful and hard, whereto his invised[ ] properties did tend; the deep-green emerald, in whose fresh regard weak sights their sickly radiance do amend; the heaven-hued sapphire and the opal blend with objects manifold: each several stone, with wit well blazon'd, smiled or made some moan. [footnote : rare word, only known in this passage. century dictionary gives "invisible", "unseen", "uninspected", noting that some commentators suggest "inspected", "tried", "investigated".] had shakespeare felt much interest in the lore of gems, he had before him most of the then available material in a book of which he seems to have made some use.[ ] this was an english rendering of the "de proprietatibus rerum" of bartholomæus anglicus (fl. ca. ), by stephan batman, or bateman (d. ), an english divine and poet, who in the later years of his life was chaplain and librarian to the famous archbishop parker, and thus had free access to the latter's fine library. his rendering, published in , bears the following quaint title: "batman uppon bartholome his book de proprietatibus rerum"; it was published in , and appears to have been widely read in england among those still interested in the learning of the scholastic period. a much earlier english version, made by john of trevisa in , was published by wynkyn de worde in , and is considered to be the finest production of his press.[ ] [footnote : see h.r.d. anders, "shakespeare's books", berlin, , pp. - , and the new shakespeare soc. trans., - , pp. sqq.] [footnote : in the author's library is a fourteenth century ms. of the "de proprietatibus rerum", which belonged to the carthusian monastery of the holy trinity, at dijon.] a rarely noted source for some of shakespeare's knowledge regarding curious customs has been sought in the rambling treatise on heraldry written by gerard legh and issued, in , under the title: "accedens of armorie" (approximately, introduction to heraldry). this is cast in the form of a dialogue between gerard the herehaught (herold) and the caligat knight, the latter term designating an inferior kind of knight with no claim to nobility; indeed, an old writer renders it "a souldior on foot". the writer manages to weave in much material slightly or not at all connected with his main theme. legh was the son of a fleet street draper. he seems to have studied a variety of subjects and gathered together many scraps of curious information. he died of the plague, october , . his book went through several editions during shakespeare's lifetime. following the first edition of came successive ones in , , , and one bearing the imprint of j. jaggard in . the author is believed to have been intentionally obscure in his treatment of heraldic questions lest he might earn the ill-will of the college of arms by violating certain of their privileges. while both shakespeare and his great contemporary cervantes died on april of the year , it strangely happens that cervantes had been dead ten days when shakespeare expired. this apparent paradox is due to the fact that while in spain the gregorian calendar had already been introduced, the "old style", or julian reckoning, was still used in england; indeed, it was not totally abandoned until , in the reign of george ii, years after the first use of the gregorian reckoning on the continent. in the seventeenth century the error to be corrected amounted to ten days, so that shakespeare's death, under the new style, occurred on may , while cervantes died on april of the old style. in commemoration of the tercentenary of shakespeare's death, the shakespearean scholar, miss h.c. bartlett, prepared for the new york public library an exhibition of shakespearean books, including all the early editions of the quartos; the various editions of the folios; the works of contemporaneous authors whom shakespeare had consulted; and also the early works that mention shakespeare, or cite from his plays or poems, including greene's "groat's worth of wit", published in by henry chettle and containing the earliest printed allusion to shakespeare under the name of "shake-scene". one of the contemporary books containing citations from shakespeare's works, shown at the new york public library, is "the woman hater", by francis beaumont (? - or ), printed in .[ ] the citation, from _hamlet_, act i, sc. ,[ ] is apropos of the disappearance of a "fish head". it is put into the mouths of two of the characters, as follows: _lazarello_. speak, i am bound to hear. _count_. so art thou to revenge when thou shalt hear. [footnote : "the woman hater, as it hath beene lately acted by the children of paules, london, printed and to be sold by john hodgers in paules church-yard, ".] [footnote : first folio, p. , col. b, lines , .] in the spacious hall of the beautiful hispanic museum in new york city there has recently been displayed, in commemoration of the tercentenary of cervantes's death, an exceptionally fine collection of editions of his works and of rare plates illustrating episodes from them. notable among the books was a first edition of his earliest published poems, four redondillas, a copla and an elegy, on the death, october , , of elizabeth de valois, third wife of philip ii, and sister of charles ix of france.[ ] dark rumors were afloat for some time that she had been poisoned by order of her husband. among the other treasures in the hispanic museum exhibition was the earliest imprint of cervantes's masterpiece, the immortal "don quixote". this was printed in madrid, in , by juan de la cuesta. [footnote : the compilation containing these poems is entitled: "hystoria y relacio verdadera de la enfermedad felicissimo transito y sumptuosas exequias funebres de la serenissima reyna de españa isabel de valoys nuestra señora", madrid, . the opening lines of cervantes are: a quien yra mi doloroso canto o en cuya oreja sonara su acento? (to whom will my sad song go, and in whose ears will its accents sound?) ] a rather attractive bit of verse, purporting to have been written by shakespeare and dedicated to the woman who became his wife in , when he was but eighteen years old (she was eight years his senior), alludes in its third stanza to "the orient list" of gems, diamond, topaz, amethyst, emerald, and ruby. this little poem, with its play upon the lady-love's name, can find a place here, although many readers are already familiar with it. to the idol of mine eyes and the delight of mine heart, anne hathaway would ye be taught, ye feathered throng, with love's sweet notes to grace your song, to pierce the heart with thrilling lay, listen to mine anne hathaway! she hath a way to sing so clear, phoebus might wond'ring stop to hear; to melt the sad, make blithe the gay, and nature charm, anne hath a way: she hath a way, anne hathaway, to breathe delight anne hath a way. when envy's breath and rancorous tooth do soil and bite fair worth and truth, and merit to distress betray, to soothe the heart anne hath a way; she hath a way to chase despair, to heal all grief, to cure all care, turn foulest night to fairest day: thou know'st, fond heart, anne hath a way, she hath a way, anne hathaway, to make grief bliss anne hath a way. talk not of gems, the orient list, the diamond, topaz, amethyst, the emerald mild, the ruby gay; talk of my gem, anne hathaway! she hath a way, with her bright eye, their various lustre to defy, the jewel she and the foil they, so sweet to look anne hath a way. she hath a way, anne hathaway, to make grief bliss anne hath a way. but were it to my fancy given to rate her charms, i'd call them heaven; for though a mortal made of clay, angels must love anne hathaway. she hath a way so to control to rupture the imprisoned soul, and sweetest heaven on earth display, that to be heaven anne hath a way! she hath a way, anne hathaway, to be heaven's self anne hath a way. this little poem is by charles dibdin ( - ), the writer of about sea-songs, at one time great favorites with sailors. it appeared, in , in his long-forgotten novel, "hannah hewit, or the female crusoe", and sir sidney lee conjectures that it may have been composed on the occasion of the stratford jubilee of , in the organization of which dibdin aided the great actor, david garrick. in the "poems of places", new york, , edited by henry w. longfellow, this poem is assigned to shakespeare on the strength of a persistent popular error.[ ] in his "life" dibdin says: "my songs have been the solace of sailors in their long voyages, in storms, in battle; and they have been quoted in mutinies to the restoration of order and discipline". it has been asserted that they brought more men into the navy than all the press gangs could do. [footnote : sir sidney lee, "a life of shakespeare", new edition, london, , p. , note.] the poem has sometimes been attributed to edmund falconer ( - ), an actor and dramatist, born in dublin, and whose real name was edmund o'rourke. however, his poem entitled "anne hathaway, a traditionary ballad sung to a day dreamer by the mummers of shottery brook",[ ] falls far below the lines we have quoted in poetic quality, as may be seen from the opening stanza (the best), which runs as follows: no beard on thy chin, but a fire in thine eye, with lustiest manhood's in passion to vie, a stripling in form, with a tongue that can make the oldest folks listen, maids sweethearts forsake, hie over the fields at the first blush of may, and give thy boy's heart unto anne hathaway. [footnote : edmund falconer, "memories, the bequest of my boyhood", london, , pp. - .] in none of the allusions to precious stones made by shakespeare is there any indication that he had in mind any of the biblical passages treating of gems. the most notable of these are the enumeration of the twelve stones in aaron's breast-plate (exodus xxviii, - ; xxxix, - ), the list of the foundation stones and gates of the new jerusalem given by john in revelation (xxi, - ), and the description of the tyrian king's "covering" in ezekiel (xxviii, ). had the poet given any particular attention to these texts we could scarcely fail to note the fact. other bible mentions, such as those elsewhere made by ezekiel (xxvii, , ), regarding the trade of tyre, the agates (and coral) from syria, and the precious stones brought by the arabian or syrian merchants of sheba and raamah, are too much generalized to invite any special notice. the same may be said of most of the remaining brief allusions. we might rather expect that where the color or brilliancy of a precious stone is used as a simile this might strike a poet's fancy and perhaps find direct expression in his own words. the light of the new jerusalem is likened to "a jasper stone, clear as crystal" (rev. xxi, ), and in exodus (xxiv, ) the sapphire stone is said to be "as it were the body of heaven in its clearness". however, that shakespeare wrote of "the heaven-hued sapphire" ("lover's complaint", l. ) has no necessary connection with this, as the celestial hue of the beautiful sapphire is spoken of time and again by many of the older writers. five of the six authentic shakespeare signatures [illustration: signature on the purchase deed of shakespeare's house in blackfriars dated march , . in the guildhall, london] [illustration: signatures on the three pages of shakespeare's will executed march , . original in somerset house, london] [illustration: signature attached to the deed mortgaging the house in blackfriars, dated march , . in the british museum] it should be borne in mind that the great english translation of the bible, popularly called "king james' bible", was published only after shakespeare had completed his last play in . before that time, dating from tyndale's version of , and in great measure based on it, a number of english translations had appeared, the most authoritative in shakspeare's time being perhaps the "bishops' bible", printed under the patronage of queen elizabeth in , and edited by the archbishop of canterbury. the geneva bible of , the first entire bible in english in which the division into chapters and verses was carried out, had, however, the widest dissemination in shakespeare's time, and a careful study of passages in his works referable to biblical texts appears to prove that this version was the one with which he was most familiar. his plays testify to his close knowledge of the scriptures, although no writer is less fettered by purely doctrinal considerations. the geneva bible went through no less than sixty editions in queen elizabeth's reign, and even after the issue of the "authorized version" in it competed successfully with this for a time. that shakespeare may have seen philemon holland's ( - ) excellent translation of pliny is nowise unlikely. a notable passage in his _othello_ seems in any case to indicate that it was suggested by pliny's words (bk. ii, chap. , in holland's version): and the sea pontus evermore floweth and runneth out into propontic, but the sea never retireth backe againe within pontus. othello replies thus to iago's conjecture that he may change his mind (act iii, sc. ): never, iago. like to the pontic sea, whose icy current and compulsive course ne'er feels retiring ebb, but keeps due on to the propontic and the hellespont, even so my bloody thoughts, with violent pace, shall ne'er look back, ne'er ebb to humble love. first folio, "tragedies", p. , col. b, lines - . there is, however, no trace of any familiarity on shakespeare's part with the precious stone lore of the roman encyclopædist, either from the latin text of his great "historia naturalis", or from the translation published by holland in . this translator, who englished many of the chief latin and greek authors, suetonius, livy, ammianus marcellinus, plutarch's "morals" and other works, was pronounced by fuller, in his "worthies", to be "translator general in his age", adding that "these books alone of his turning into english will make a country gentleman a competent library". for his ammianus marcellinus the council of coventry, his place of residence, paid him £ , and £ for a translation of camden's "britannia"--small sums, indeed, for so much labor, but not so unreasonable when we think that a half-century later the immortal milton got but £ for his "paradise lost". he was a fellow of trinity college, cambridge, where he had studied and graduated; later he studied medicine, receiving a degree of m.d., not from oxford or cambridge, however, but either from a scottish or foreign university. although solinus, writing in the third century a.d., relies mainly upon pliny for his information on precious stones, still he here and there gives evidence of a more critical spirit, as when he says of the rock-crystal that the theory according to which it was frozen and hardened water was necessarily incorrect, for it was to be found in such mild climates as "alabanda in asia and the island of cyprus".[ ] this is the more notable that the wholly incorrect view persisted into the sixteenth century, so learned a writer as lord bacon (d. ) restating it in his last work, "sylva sylvarum". [footnote : collectanea rerum memorabilium, cap. .] one of the most curious gem-treatises, especially as a source of early sixteenth-century beliefs in the magic properties of precious stones, the "speculum lapidum" of camillo leonardo, published in venice, , probably never came under shakespeare's eye. indeed, even in italy it seems to have been so neglected that ludovico dolci ventured to publish a literal italian version of the latin original as his own work in . the english "mirror of stones", issued in , is frankly stated to be a translation of the latin original bearing the same name.[ ] [footnote : noted in the present writer's "the curious lore of precious stones", philadelphia and london, , p. .] in marlowe's ( - ) "hero and leander", almost certainly written before shakespeare's "venus and adonis" ( ), although not published until , five years after marlowe's death, "pearl tears" and the "sparkling diamond" are used much in the same way as by shakespeare, as appears in the following verses: forth from those two translucent cisterns brake a stream of liquid pearl, which down her face made milk-white paths. lines - . why should you worship her! her you surpass as much as sparkling diamonds flaring glass. lines , . there is a curious parallelism between a passage in _troilus and cressida_, , and one in marlowe's _dr. faustus_, . marlowe wrote (sc. , l. ): was this the face that launched a thousand ships and burnt the topless towers of ilium? this is followed very closely by shakespeare, with the substitution of "pearl" for "face". she [helen] is a pearl, whose price hath launch'd above a thousand ships. _troilus and cressida_, act ii, sc. , l. . first folio, at end of "histories", unnumbered page ( of facsimile), col. a, line . the greatest of the world's poets lived in a period midway between the highest development of renaissance civilization and the foundation of our modern civilization, and he was thus at once heir to the rich treasures of a glorious past, and endowed with a poetic, or we might say a prophetic insight that makes his works appeal as closely to the readers of to-day as to those of his own time. in the four leading european nations of the age--italy, despite her high rank in art, still lacked national unity--four sovereigns of marked though widely diverse character and attainments reigned for a considerable part of shakespeare's life. of the "virgin queen" we scarcely need to write. the england of her day, and of later days, would not have been what it was and what it became, without the aid of her mingled shrewdness and prudence. faults she had and shortcomings, but, granted the almost overpowering difficulties she had to face, both at home and abroad, it is doubtful whether a more decided, a more straight-forward policy would have been as successful as the somewhat devious one she pursued. her chief rival, philip ii ( - ), as much averse as elizabeth herself to energetic action, even more fond of procrastination, lacked her relative religious and political tolerance, and left spain weaker than he had found it. and still his tenacity, his devotion to the cause he believed to be that of heaven, his consistency, and even the gloomy seriousness of his life, testify to a strong soul, though a thoroughly unlovable one. the reign of the eccentric rudolph ii, emperor of germany ( - ), whose imperial residence was at prague, covers the greater part of shakespeare's life. in spite of many failings and mistakes, this monarch did much to foster the study of the arts and sciences of his age, so far as he was able to understand them. that he was for a time the dupe of adventurers and alchemists, such as the half-visionary john dee and the altogether unscrupulous edward kelley, was no unusual experience in those days, when the dividing line between true science and charlatanism was too indistinctly marked to be easily discernible. the greatest of all the sovereigns of shakespeare's time was henry iv of france, unquestionably the greatest of french kings, despite the fact that the primacy has often been accorded to the roi soleil, louis xiv. the powerful and ductile personality that was able to put an end to the destructive religious wars of france and to lay a firm foundation for the strongly-centralized power of a later time, a foundation which the great statesman richelieu broadened and deepened, deserves all the credit that should be given to those who conquer the first apparently insurmountable difficulties in the realization of a great aim. how brief was the reign of most of the popes of this time is shown by the fact that no less than ten of them were at one time or other shakespeare's contemporaries, although the duration of his life was but fifty-two years. of these probably the most noteworthy was gregory xiii ( - ), in whose reign occurred the fearful massacre of st. bartholomew, august , , and the reform of the calendar from that known as the julian to the new style named the gregorian calendar in honor of this pope. in the east, just coming into closer commercial intercourse with europe, the long reign of the greatest of the mogul emperors, jelal-ed-din akbar ( - ), began two years before the accession of elizabeth and lasted two years after her death. probably no oriental sovereign, certainly no indian sovereign, ranks higher than akbar, who was at once a great statesman, an able organizer, and singularly tolerant in religion. in persia, one of the most marked rulers of this land, abbas the great, began to reign in and died in . in no period was jewelry worn more ornately, or with greater display, we might almost say ostentation, than in the age of shakespeare. as a rule, in this period the precious stones were less considered than the elaborate goldsmith work in which they were placed. they were the adjuncts, rather than the principal glory of the jewel. the court jeweller of james vi of scotland and of this monarch after his accession to the english throne, as james i, was george heriot (ca. - ), born in edinburgh, the son of a member of the company of goldsmiths in that city. as the scotch goldsmiths cumulated the profession of money-lending with that of goldsmithing, they were usually persons of considerable account among the citizens. heriot became a member of the company in , the year of the spanish armada. despite the rather straitened circumstances of the scottish court, considerable amounts were expended for jewels, especially as the queen, anne of denmark, was very fond of display. the nobility also, such of them at least as possessed the means, were inclined to deck themselves out with brilliant jewels and splendid ornaments of massive gold. heriot's appointment as goldsmith to the queen dates from ; soon after this he was made jeweller and goldsmith to the king. he followed the court to london in , when king james succeeded to elizabeth, and at the time of his death, february , , had amassed the sum of £ , by his profitable connection with the court, and had also acquired lands and houses at rochampton, in surrey, and st. martin's-in-the-fields, london. his residuary estate, which amounted to £ , ($ , ), he entrusted to the provosts, bailiffs, ministers, and ordinary town-council of edinburgh for the erection of an institution to be called heriot's hospital, where a number of poor freemen's sons of the town should be educated.[ ] this foundation still exists, and the excellent management of those who have had to do with the endowment is shown by the fact that the income it now produces equals the whole sum of the original bequest. [footnote : william hone, "the every-day book", london, , vol. ii, cols. , .] this great scotch goldsmith fashioned a number of splendid rings for the queen. an old account furnished by heriot lists them as follows:[ ] a ring with a heart and serpent, all set about with diamonds; a ring with a single diamond, set in a heart betwixt two hands; a great ring in the form of a perssed hand and a perssed eye, all sett with diamonds; one great ring, in forme of a frog, all set with diamonds, price two-hundreth poundis; a ring of a burning heart set with diamondis; a ring in the forme af a scallope shell, set with a table diamond, and opening on the head; a ring of a love trophe set with diamondis; two rings, lyke black flowers, with a table diamond in each; a daissie ring sett with a table diamond; a ryng sett all over with diamondis, made in fashion of a lizard, l.; a ring set with diamonds, and opening on the head with the king's picture in that. [footnote : william hone, "every-day book", london, , vol. ii, cols. , .] heriot also lists a ring delivered about to margaret hartsyde, one of the royal household, describing it as "sett all about with diamondis, and a table diamond on the head"; that is, in the bezel. he states that he had been given to understand that this was by direction of her majesty. his precaution in making this note appears to have been fully justified, for this margaret hartsyde was tried in edinburgh, may , , on the charge of having purloined a pearl belonging to the queen and valued at £ . her excuse was that she had taken this and other pearls to adorn dolls for the amusement of the royal children, and that she did not expect the queen would ask for them. as, however, it was brought out in the trial that she had cleverly disguised some of the pearls she had taken, and had offered to sell them to the queen, she was condemned to imprisonment in blackness castle until the payment of a fine of £ , and to confinement in orkney during the remainder of her life. eleven years later, however, the king's advocate "produced a letter of rehabilitation and restitution of margaret hartsyde to her fame".[ ] [footnote : "every-day book", _loc. cit_.] in shakespeare's day the "goldsmiths" were also jewellers and gem dealers, and often money-lenders as well. the settings of the finest precious stones were at that time generally of gold, rarely of silver. platinum, the metal that now enjoys the greatest furore for diamond settings, was then unknown in europe; it was first brought to europe in , from south america, having been found in the alluvial deposits of the river pinto, in the district of choco, now forming part of the united states of colombia. the spaniards had named it _platina_, from its resemblance to _plata_, silver. the chief source in our time is russia, the richest deposits being those discovered in , on the iss, a tributary of the tura, in the urals. other valuable deposits are in the district of nizhni-tagilsk. platinum also occurs in brazil, california, and british columbia, associated with gold, as well as in borneo, new south wales, australia, and in new zealand. its use in gem-mountings began about , and from onward it has become more and more favored, until now it has almost entirely superseded gold in the finest jewelry, especially for diamond settings. long before the metal was known and used in europe, ornamental use of it was made in south america, in the district we have mentioned, the material not being fused, but simply forged out of the nuggets found in the deposits. that but few fine diamonds were in europe when shakespeare wrote has already been noted; indeed, the annual importation from india, then the only source, can hardly have exceeded $ , on an average, while at the present day the value of the diamonds from the great african mines imported into europe and america amounts to from $ , , to $ , , each year. in king james's reign, besides heriot, william herrick (brother of nicolas) and john spilman were appointed jewellers to the king, queen, and prince, the annual emoluments being £ annually. it is stated that herrick furnished jewels worth £ , to queen anne of denmark. such of her many jewels as were to be found when she died are said to have been left to her son, later charles i, and none to her daughter elizabeth, later queen of bohemia and ancestress of many of the sovereigns of europe, as well as of the present reigning house in england. unfortunately for her heir, a great part of the jewels had been embezzled, and could not be recovered, although models of many had been carefully preserved by william herrick, who swore that the originals had been delivered to the queen. less notable jewellers of king james's day were philip jacobson, arnold lulls, john acton, and john williams. one of them, arnold lulls, has left a fine set of contemporary drawings representing jewels of the epoch; these are now to be seen in the victoria and albert museum, london. as an instance of the value of some of the jewels of his design, it is recorded that the sum of £ was paid for a diamond jewel with pearl pendants and two dozen buttons, furnished to the king to be bestowed upon the queen at the christening of the princess mary in .[ ] [illustration: diamond cutter's shop, eighteenth century, in which the diamond-cutting mill is operated by "man-power". published in the universal magazine of knowledge and pleasure, by john hinton, england, july, ] [footnote : h. clifford smith, "jewellery", london, , p. .] while the jeweller's art in england was still under the influence of foreign goldsmiths in elizabeth's time, it had to a considerable extent emancipated itself from foreign control in the latter part of her reign and in that of her successor. in addition to george heriot, whom we have just noticed, several others are well worthy of mention, such as dericke anthony, affabel partridge, peter trender, and nicolas herrick,[ ] the father of the poet robert herrick, who makes many a telling use of the colors and charm of precious stones and pearls in his dainty poems. to these must be added sir john spilman, of german birth, who made many jewels at the royal command. [footnote : h. clifford smith, "jewellery", london, , pp. , , .] we should remember that for the cutting of precious stones steam-power was not then available, "man-power" being employed. a large turning wheel was pushed around by a man holding a bar extending from it. the motion of this large wheel was transmitted to other smaller ones. the number of revolutions per minute hardly exceeded a few hundred, while in modern times a speed of from to revolutions per minute is attained. the diamond cutting industry was largely in the hands of jews in lisbon. the gem-cutting processes were not greatly modified for many years after shakespeare's death, so that a representation of the wheel and mill used in gives a fairly good general idea of the _modus operandi_. the large wooden wheel, whose axis is the second pillar within the frame, is bent, and makes an elbow under the wheel to receive the impulsion of a bar that serves instead of a turn-handle. on the right side of the frame, where the boy stands, is the turn-handle which sets the wheel in motion by means of the elbow of its axis. so that if the wooden wheel be twenty times larger than the iron one, a hundred turns of the larger wheel will cause a thousand revolutions of the smaller one. the method of holding the diamond in place over the iron wheel, when in motion, so that it presses upon the latter and is polished thereby, is shown in the lower right-hand corner of the plate. the german traveller, paul hentzner, who visited england in , toward the end of elizabeth's life, describes her jewelling in the following words: "the queen had in her ears two pearls with very rich drops; she wore false hair and that red; upon her head she had a small crown; her bosom was uncovered, and she had on a necklace of exceedingly fine jewels. she was dressed in white silk, bordered with pearls of the size of beans, and over it a mantle of black silk shot with silver threads; her train was very long. instead of a chain, she had an oblong collar of gold and jewels". [illustration: from a portrait of queen elizabeth in the possession of his grace the duke of devonshire, k.g., hardwick hall. the queen has jewels in her hair, a pearl eardrop, and two necklaces, one fitting closely to the neck, the other falling over the breast. the stiff brocade skirt is embroidered with a wonderful array of aquatic birds and animals. on the left, the cushion of the chair of state is embroidered with the queen's monogram. surmounting the chair is a crystal ball. the original canvas measures x inches.] in addition to this display the traveller tells us that the queen's right hand was fairly sparkling with jewelled rings. aside from his portrayal of jewels in his numerous portraits, holbein ranked as the master designer of jewels in his day. many of the finest of these designs have been preserved for us and can be seen in the british museum, to which they were bequeathed by sir hans sloane in . there are separate pieces, usually pen-and-ink sketches. the execution of the jewels from these designs is believed to have been mainly done by hans of antwerp, known as hans anwarpe, a friend of holbein, who settled in london in , and was appointed goldsmith to king henry viii, for whom he produced many jewels for new year's gifts.[ ] [footnote : h. clifford smith, "jewellery", london [ ], pp. , .] in judging of the jewels figured in portraits we must remember that the artist has often modified them to bring them into greater harmony with their immediate surroundings. this, in some cases, may lead him to make of a somewhat inartistically designed jewel a beautifully proportioned one. again, he may be led to exaggerate the size of the precious stones or pearls, and to intensify or deepen their colors. a recent instance regards a portrait of the former queen of spain by one of the foremost spanish artists of our day. the royal lady was depicted wearing an enormous pearl; however, the artist informed the author that the real pearl was much smaller than the painted one, but that, in portraying it, a better decorative effect was obtained by increasing its size. whether holbein ( - ), with his dutch exactness of portrayal, was led into any similar exaggerations we can never tell, as little as we can know anything definite regarding the true size of the jewels shown in the portraits by the italian zucchero ( - ), the fleming lucas de heere ( - ), or by any other of the portrait painters of elizabeth's time. in a very modest way the addition of gilded scarf-pins, brooches, chains, etc., not owned by the sitters, was not uncommonly practised thirty or forty years ago, when colored tintypes were popular. these were painted on the photographs, much to the gratification of those who ordered them for distribution among their friends. the court-jewellers of france in shakespeare's day rivalled, though they did not excel, those of england. among them a prominent place belongs to francois dujardin (or desjardin), goldsmith of charles ix ( - ) and henri iii ( - ). when a verification and an inventory of the french crown jewels were made on august , , after the death of charles ix, the expert examination was entrusted to françois dujardin, who is termed "orfebvre et lapidaire du roy". the goldsmith's art was passed down from father to son in this family: a second f. dujardin (b. ca. ) mounted the parures made for elizabeth of austria, daughter of henri iv and maria de' medici. in the reign of henri iv and the succeeding regency of maria de' medici, josse de langerac, received as master goldsmith in , and the brothers rogier, are noted as leading goldsmiths who, besides executing many fine jewels, frequently made loans of money to the queen regent, and seem to have experienced great difficulty in securing full payment. corneille rogier set the jewels worn at her marriage by anne d'autriche, wife of louis xiii. two brothers, each bearing the name pierre courtois, are also noted in old records. one of them, at the time of his death, in , occupied two apartments with two shops in the louvre; the shop of the other had the sign "aux trois roys", probably referring to the "three kings of the east", the magi of the gospel, very appropriate patrons for goldsmiths.[ ] [footnote : germain bapst, "histoire des joyaux de la couronne de france", paris, , pp. , , , .] thierry badouer, a german goldsmith-jeweller, received from the french court, in , an order for , crowns' worth of jewels to be distributed as gifts at the approaching marriage of henri de navarre with marguerite de valois. he faithfully executed his part of the task and brought the jewels with him to paris, but before he had been able to deliver them to the royal treasury they were stolen from him during the confusion of the st. bartholomew massacre. eventually, in the reign of henri iv, his widow was partly reimbursed for the loss, receiving one-quarter of the amount of her claim.[ ] after the massacre of st. bartholomew, and as a result of it, many protestants and catholics left france for hanau, germany, where to this day they carry on the jeweller's art; and from this beginning hanau became a jeweller's centre. [footnote : op. cit., p. .] the best reproduction of the first folio of is the photographic facsimile, made in , of the copy formerly owned by the duke of devonshire and now in the possession of henry e. huntington, of new york.[ ] the original folio, prepared by the managers of shakespeare's company, john heminge and henry condell, bears the imprint of isaac jaggard and edward blount, the printing house being conducted by william jaggard and his son isaac. it is believed that an edition of five hundred copies was issued, at one pound per copy. that the publication was essentially a commercial venture, although it may also have been a labor of love for some of the editors, is brought out clearly and quaintly in the preface addressed to "the great variety of readers", and signed by heminge and condell. this reads that the book was printed at the charges of w. jaggard, ed. blount, i. southweeke, and w. apsley, . the following passage from the preface is well worth quoting, its spirit is so delightfully modern: the fate of all bookes depends upon your capacities, and not of your heads alone, but of your purses. well! it is now publique, & you wil stand for your priviledges, wee know: to read, and censure.[ ] do so, but buy it first. that doth best commend a booke the stationer sales. then, how odde soever your braines be, or your wisdomes, make your license the same and spare not.... but whatever you do, buy. censure will not drive a trade, nor make the jacke go. [footnote : "shakespeares comedies, histories, & tragedies, being a reproduction in facsimile of the first folio edition of , from the chatsworth copy in the possession of the duke of devonshire, k.g., with introduction and censure of copies by sidney lee". oxford, clarendon press, , xxxv pp. edition limited to numbered and signed copies.] [footnote : judge.] the chief credit for bringing together the materials for the first folio, in , is believed to be due to william jaggard. some ten years earlier he had acquired the printing-privileges of certain of the quartos. edward blount, whose name appears as publisher on the title page with that of isaac jaggard, was merely a stationer, so that the actual printing was solely under the charge of the latter, who seems, at this time, to have been entrusted with this department of the business. however, blount's services may have been valuable since he had better literary taste than the jaggards possessed. in spite of certain evident faults of proportion, the portrait of shakespeare engraved by martin droeshout for the title page of the folio bears internal evidence of being a fairly good likeness, for the face possesses a marked individuality. there is a belief that it was taken from the so-called "flower" portrait, now in the shakespeare memorial gallery at stratford-upon-avon, and which is conjectured to have been painted in , at least during shakespeare's lifetime, possibly by another martin droeshout, a fleming, uncle of the engraver of the same name. this portrait was discovered, painted on a panel at peckham rye, bearing the inscription "will shakespeare^n, ". that it should be the original from which the droeshout engraving was taken has been doubted, since it appears rather to resemble later states of the plate than earlier ones. while ben jonson, who had seen shakespeare so often, may have been partly moved to bestow undue praise upon the folio portrait, in the lines he furnished the publishers to be placed immediately facing it, by his wish to say a good word for their publication, he would scarcely have made use of such superlative terms had he not considered it to be at least a fairly good likeness. jonson's lines have been so often printed that few are unacquainted with them, but as illustrating the above remarks they can be repeated here, in the old spelling and form of the first folio: to the reader. this figure, that thou here seest put, it was for gentle shakespeare cut; wherein the graver has a strife with nature, to out-doo the life: o, could he but have drawne his wit as well in brasse, as he hath hit his face; the print would then surpasse all, that was ever write in brasse. but, since he cannot, reader, looke not on his picture, but his booke. b.i. a most attractive and instructive exhibition of reproductions of the portraits of shakespeare, or supposedly of him, was shown at the rooms of the grolier club, april - , . the catalogue[ ] embraces numbers, illustrating all the principal types. the exhibition also comprised the principal editions of the poet's plays, from the first folio of to the great variorum edition by dr. furness, begun in . [footnote : catalogue of an exhibition illustrative of the text of shakespeare's plays, as published in edited editions, together with a large collection of engraved portraits of the poet. new york, the grolier club, april - , , vi+ pp.] for the tercentenary of shakespeare's birth, celebrated in april, , a special commemorative medal was struck in england, designed by mr. j. moore. the obverse shows a profile head of the poet, in the modelling of which the artist seems to have been chiefly influenced by the stratford bust. this fundamental type he has not unskilfully combined with that of the droeshout print in the first folio, the dome-like forehead being evidently suggested by the latter. the nose is more accentuated than in the bust, and the mouth, though still small, is somewhat firmer. toward the edge of the field are disposed the titles of his various works, as though radiating from the head, and in the exergue is his signature, framed by a half-garland over which extends a mace. the tribute offered to shakespeare by the muses, figured on the reverse, is a rather stiff and conventional composition.[ ] [footnote : w. sharp ogden, "shakspere's portraits: painted, graven, and medallic", in the british numismatic journal, and proceedings of the british numismatic society, , london, , pp. - ; see p. .] for those who may wish to see the original form of the passages regarding precious stones in the text of the first folio, of , the page and column references have been given here. in this text the three sections into which the plays have been divided, comedies, histories, and tragedies, are separately paged; moreover, the pagination offers a number of irregularities. _troilus and cressida_, added at the end of the "histories", has page numbers on a couple of leaves neither connected with what precedes nor with what follows, the remainder of the pages bearing no figures; furthermore, there are several obvious, though unimportant, misprints. _pericles_, first issued in folio, in the third folio, of , is therein separately paged, as are the other of the plays attributed to shakespeare printed therein, in continuation of the series of the first and second folios. this play had, however, previously appeared six times in quarto in the years , , , , and . precious stones mentioned in the plays of shakespeare precious stones mentioned in the plays of shakespeare diamond i see how thine eye would emulate the diamond. _merry wives of windsor_, act iii, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. [ ], col. a, line . diamond give me the ring of mine you had at dinner, or, for my diamond, the chain you promised. _comedy of errors_, act iv, sc, . l. . "comedies", p. , col. b, lines , . diamond sir, i must have that diamond from you.-- there, take it. _comedy of errors_, act v, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. b, line . diamond a lady walled about with diamonds! _love's labour's lost_, act v, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. a, line . diamond a diamond gone, cost me two thousand ducats in frankfort! _merchant of venice_, act iii, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. a, line . diamond set this diamond safe in golden palaces, as it becomes. _henry vi_, pt. i, act v, sc. , l. . "histories", p. , col. b, line . diamond a heart it was, bound in with diamonds. _henry vi_, pt, ii, act iii, sc. , l. . "histories", p. , col. a, line . diamond not deck'd with diamonds and indian stones, nor to be seen. _henry vi_, pt. iii, act iii, sc. , l. . "histories", p. , col. b, line . diamond one day he gives us diamonds, next day stones. _timon of athens_, act iii, sc. , l. . "tragedies", p. , col. b, line . diamond this diamond he greets your wife withal. _macbeth_, act ii, sc. , l. . "tragedies", p. , col. a, line ii. diamond which parted thence, as pearls from diamonds dropp'd. _king lear_, act iv, sc. , l. . omitted in first folio. diamond this diamond was my mother's; take it, heart; but keep it till you woo another wife. _cymbeline_, act i, sc. , l. . "tragedies", p. , col. a, line . diamond she went before others i have seen, as that diamond of yours outlustres many i have beheld. _cymbeline_, act i, sc. , l. . "tragedies", p. , col. a, line . diamond i have not seen the most precious diamond that is, nor you the lady. _cymbeline_, act i, sc. , l. . "tragedies", p. , col. a, line . diamond i shall but lend my diamond till your return. _cymbeline_, act. i, sc. , l. . "tragedies", p. , col. b, line . diamond my ten thousand ducats are yours; so is your diamond too. _cymbeline_, act i, sc. , l. . "tragedies", p. , col. a, line . diamond it must be married to that your diamond. _cymbeline_, act ii, sc. , l. . "tragedies", p. [ ], col. a, lines , . diamond that diamond upon your finger, say, how came it yours? _cymbeline_, act v, sc. , l. . "tragedies", p. , col. a, line . diamond to me he seems like diamond to glass. _pericles_, act ii, sc. , l. . third folio, , p. , col. b, line ; separate pagination. diamond you shall, like diamonds, sit about his crown. _pericles_, act ii, sc. , l. . third folio, , p. , col. b, line . diamond the diamonds of a most praised water do appear, to make the world twice rich. _pericles_, act iii, sc. , l. . third folio, , p. , col. b, line . ruby the impression of keen whips i'ld wear as rubies. _measure for measure_, act ii, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. b, line . ruby her nose, all o'er embellished with rubies, carbuncles, sapphires. _comedy of errors_, act iii, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. a, line . ruby those be rubies, fairy favors. _midsummer night's dream_, act ii, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. a, line . ruby over thy wounds now do i prophesy,--which, like dumb mouths, do ope their ruby lips. _julius caæsar_, act iii, sc. , l. . "tragedies", p. , col. b, lines , . ruby and keep the natural ruby of your cheeks, when mine is blanch'd with fear. _macbeth_, act iii, sc. , l. . "tragedies", p. , col. b, line . ruby but kiss; one kiss! rubies unparagon'd, how dearly they do't! _cymbeline_, act ii, sc. , l. . "tragedies", p. , col. b, line . sapphire like sapphire, pearl and rich embroidery. _merry wives of windsor_, act v, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. a, line (last). sapphire her nose, all o'er embellished with rubies, carbuncles, sapphires. _comedy of errors_, act iii, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. a, line . chrysolite if heaven would make me such another world of one entire and perfect chrysolite. _othello_, act v, sc. , l. . "tragedies", p. , col. a, line . turquoise it was my turquoise; i had it of leah when i was a bachelor. _merchant of venice_, act iii, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. b, line . opal for thy mind is a very opal. _twelfth night_, act ii, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. b, line . agate (cameo) an agate very vilely cut. _much ado about nothing_, act iii, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. a, line . agate (cameo) his heart like an agate with your print impress'd. _love's labour's lost_, act ii, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. b, line (last). agate (cameo) i was never manned with an agate till now. _ii henry iv_, act i, sc. , l. . "histories", p. , col. b, line . agate (cameo) agate-ring, pirke-stocking, caddis-garter, smooth-tongue. _i henry iv_, act ii, sc. , l. . "histories", p. , col. a, line . agate (cameo) in shape no bigger than an agate-stone on the forefinger of an alderman. _romeo and juliet_, act i, sc. , l. . "tragedies", p. , col. a, lines , . amber her amber hair for foul hath amber quoted. _love's labour's lost_, act iv, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. a, line . amber with amber bracelets, beads, and all this knavery. _taming of the shrew_, act iv, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. b, line . amber their eyes purging thick amber and plum-tree gum. _hamlet_, act ii, sc. , l. . "tragedies", p. , col. b, line . coral of his bones are coral made. _the tempest_, act i, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. a, line . coral i saw her coral lips to move. _taming of the shrew_, act i, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. b, line . jet there is more difference between thy flesh and hers than between jet and ivory. _merchant of venice_, act iii, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. a, line . jet what color is my gown of?--black, forsooth: coal-black as jet. _ii henry vi_, act ii, sc. , l. . "histories", p. , col. b, line . jet two proper palfreys, black as jet, to hale thy vengeful waggon swift away. _titus andronicus_, act v, sc. , l. . "tragedies", p. , col. b, line . carbuncle her nose, all o'er embellished with rubies, carbuncles, sapphires. _comedy of errors_, act iii, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. a, line . carbuncle a carbuncle entire, as big as thou art, were not so rich a jewel. _coriolanus_, act i, sc. , l. . "tragedies", p. , col. b, line . carbuncles o'er sized with coagulate gore, with eyes like carbuncles. _hamlet_, act ii, sc. ii, l. . "tragedies", p. , col. b, line . carbuncle were it carbuncled like holy phoebus' car. _antony and cleopatra_, act iv, sc. , l. . "tragedies", p. , col. b, line . carbuncle had it been a carbuncle of phoebus' wheel. _cymbeline_, act v, sc. , l. . "tragedies", p. , col. b, line . emerald in emerald tufts, flowers purple, blue, and white. _merry wives of windsor_, act v, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. a, line . pearls full fathom five thy father lies; of his bones are coral made; those are pearls that were his eyes. _tempest_, act i, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. a, lines - . pearls she is mine own, and i as rich in having such a jewel as twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl. _two gentlemen of verona_, act ii, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. b, lines - . pearls a sea of melting pearl, which some call tears. _two gentlemen of verona_, act iii, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. b, line . pearls but pearls are fair; and the old saying is, black men are pearls in beauteous ladies' eyes 'tis true; such pearls as put out ladies' eyes. _two gentlemen of verona_, act v, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. b, lines - . pearls like sapphire, pearl and rich embroidery buckled below fair knighthood's bending knee. _merry wives of windsor_, act v, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. a, lines , (last). pearls laced with silver, set with pearls _much ado about nothing_, act iii, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. b, line . pearls fire enough for a flint, pearl enough for a swine. _love's labour's lost_, act iv, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. a, line . pearls this and these pearls to me sent longaville. _love's labour's lost_, act v, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. a, line . pearls will you have me, or your pearl again? neither of either. _love's labour's lost_, act v, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. b, line . pearls decking with liquid pearl the bladed grass. _midsummer night's dream_, act i, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. a, line . pearls i must go seek some dewdrops here and hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. _midsummer night's dream_, act ii, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. a, line . pearls that same dew, which sometime in the buds was wont to swell like round and orient pearls. _midsummer night's dream_, act iv, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. b, lines , . pearls rich honesty dwells like a miser, sir, in a poor house; as your pearl in your foul oyster. _as you like it_, act v, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. a, line . pearls their harness studded all with gold and pearl. _taming of the shrew_, introd., sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. b, line . pearls fine linen, turkey cushions boss'd with pearls valance of venice gold. _taming of the shrew_, act ii, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. b, line . pearls why, sir, what 'cerns it you if i wear pearl and gold? _taming of the shrew_, act v, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col a, line . pearls this pearl she gave me, i do feel't and see't. _twelfth night_, act iv, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. b, line . pearls draws those heaven-moving pearls from his poor eyes. _king john_, act ii, sc. , l. . "histories", p. , col. b, line . pearls our chains and our jewels.-- your brooches, pearls and ouches. _ii henry iv_, act ii, sc. , l. . "histories", p. , col. b, line . pearls the crown imperial, the intertissued robe of gold and pearl. _henry v_, act iv, sc. , l. . "histories", p. (bis, number repeated), col. b, line . pearls wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl, inestimable stones, unvalued jewels. _richard iii_, act i, sc. , l. . "histories", p. , col. a, line . pearls the liquid drops of tears that you have shed shall come again, transform'd to orient pearl. _richard iii_, act iv, sc. , l. . "histories", p. , col. a, lines , . pearls her bed is india; there she lies, a pearl. _troilus and cressida_, act i, sc. , l. . at end of "histories", page irregularly numbered , col. a, line . p. of facsimile. pearls she is a pearl whose price hath launch'd above a thousand ships. _troilus and cressida_, act ii, sc. , l. . unnumbered page, of facsimile, col. a, line . pearls i will be bright, and shine in pearl and gold. _titus andronicus_, act ii, sc. , l, . "tragedies", p. , col. b, line . pearls this is the pearl that pleased your empress' eye. _titus andronicus_, act v, sc. , l. . "tragedies", p. , col. a, line . pearls i see thee compass'd with thy kingdom's pearl. _macbeth_, act v, sc. , l. . "tragedies", p. , col. b, line . pearls hamlet, this pearl is thine. _hamlet_, act v, sc. , l. . "tragedies", p. , col. a, line . pearls what guests were in her eyes; which parted thence, as pearls from diamonds dropp'd. _lear_, act iv, sc. , l. . omitted in first folio. pearls like the base indian,[ ] threw a pearl away richer than all his tribe. _othello_, act v, sc. , l. . "tragedies", p. , col. b, line . [footnote : "iudean" in text.] pearls he kiss'd,--the last of many doubled kisses,-- this orient pearl. _antony and cleopatra_, act i, sc. , l. . "tragedies", p. , col. b, lines , . pearls i'll set thee in a shower of gold, and hail rich pearls upon thee. _antony and cleopatra_, act ii, sc. , l. . "tragedies", p. , col. b, lines , . rock-crystal did hold his eyes lock'd in her crystal looks. _two gentlemen of verona_, act ii, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. a, line . rock-crystal methough all his senses were lock'd in his eye as jewels in crystal for some prince to buy. _love's labour's lost_, act ii, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. a, lines , . rock-crystal one, her hairs were gold, crystal the other's eyes. _idem_, act iv, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , line . rock-crystal to what, my love, shall i compare thine eye? crystal is muddy. _midsummer night's dream_, act iii, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. a, line . rock-crystal with these crystal beads heaven shall be bribed to do him justice. _king john_, act ii, sc. , l. . "histories", p. , col. b, lines , . rock-crystal the more fair and crystal is the sky, the uglier seem the clouds that in it fly. _richard ii_, act i, sc. , l. . "histories", p. , col. a, line (last). rock-crystal go, clear thy crystals. _henry v_, act ii, sc. , l. . "histories", p. , col. b, line . rock-crystal comets, importing change of times and states, brandish your crystal tresses in the sky. _i henry vi_, act i, sc. , l. . "histories", p. , col. a, lines , . rock-crystal but in that crystal scales let there be weigh'd your lady's love against some other maid. _romeo and juliet_, act i, sc. , l. . "tragedies", p. , col. b, lines , . rock-crystal thy crystal window ope; look out. _cymbeline_, act v, sc. , l. . "tragedies", p. , col. a, line . the following table is arranged according to the frequency of precious stone mentions. the plays rank as follows: first[ ] probably published written . . _cymbeline_ (diamond , ruby , carbuncle , rock-crystal ). . . _love's labour's lost_ (pearl , rock-crystal , diamond , amber agate ). . . _merry wives of of (pearl , diamond , windsor_ emerald , sapphire ). . . _comedy of errors_ (diamond , ruby , sapphire , carbuncle ). . . _midsummer night's dream_ (pearl , ruby , rock-crystal ). . . _taming of the shrew_ (pearl , amber , coral ). . . _two gentlemen of verona_ (pearl , rock-crystal ). . . _titus andronicus_ (pearl , jet ). . . _hamlet_ (pearl, amber, carbuncle). . . _macbeth_ (diamond, ruby, pearl). . . _pericles_ (all diamond). . . _antony and cleopatra_ (pearl , carbuncle ). . . _romeo and juliet_ (rock-crystal, agate). . . _i henry vi_ (diamond and rock-crystal). . . _ii henry vi_ (diamond and jet). . - . _richard iii_ (both pearl). . . _merchant of venice_ (turquoise, jet). . . _king john_ (pearl, rock-crystal). . . _ii henry iv_ (pearl, agate). . . _henry v_ (pearl, crystal). . . _much ado about_ _nothing_ (pearl, agate). . . _twelfth night_ (pearl, opal). . . _troilus and cressida_ (both pearl). . . _othello_ (pearl, chrysolite). . . _lear_ (pearl, diamond). . . _tempest_ (pearl, coral). . . _iii henry vi_ (diamond). . . _richard ii_ (rock-crystal). . . _i henry iv_ (agate). . . _as you like it_ (pearl). . . _julius cæsar_ (ruby). . . _measure for measure_ (ruby). . . _timon of athens_ (diamond). . . _coriolanus_ (carbuncle). [footnote : data of first publication contributed by miss henrietta c. bartlett.] precious stones mentioned in the poems of shakespeare precious mentioned in poems of shakespeare. diamond the diamond--why 'twas beautiful and hard. "lover's complaint", l. . sapphire the heaven-hued sapphire and the opal blend with objects manifold. _idem_, l. . pearls her tears began to turn their tide, being prison'd in her eye like pearls in glass. "venus and adonis", l. . g, verso, l. , . pearls and wiped the brinish pearl from her bright eyes. "lucrece", l. . i , l. . pearls those round clear pearls of his, that move thy pity, are balls of quenchless fire to burn thy city. _idem_, l. . l. , verso, l. , . pearls of paled pearls and rubies red as blood. "lover's complaint", l. . pearls ah! but those tears are pearls which thy love sheds. sonnet xxxiv, l. . c , l. . pearls bright orient pearl, alack, too timely shaded! "passionate pilgrim", l. . b , l. . opal the heaven-hued sapphire and the opal blend with objects manifold. "lover's complaint", l. . ruby once more the ruby-colour'd portal open'd. "venus and adonis", l. . d ii, verso, l. . ruby of paled pearls and rubies red as blood. "lover's complaint", l. . emerald the deep-green emerald, in whose fresh regard weak sights their sickly radiance do amend. _idem_, l. . rock-crystal but hers through which the crystal tears gave light, shone like the moon in water seen by night. "venus and adonis", l. . d iii, l. , . rock-crystal nor thy soft hands, sweet lips, and crystal eyne. "venus and adonis", l. . e ii, l. . rock-crystal the crystal tide that from her two cheeks fair in the sweet channel of her bosom dropt. _idem_, l. . g, l. , . rock-crystal her eyes seen in the tears, tears in her eye; both crystals, where they view'd each other's sorrow. _idem_, l. , . g, l. , . rock-crystals through crystal walls each little mote will peep. "lucrece", l. . i , verso, l. . rock-crystal a closet never pierced with crystal eyes. sonnet xlvi, l. . d , verso, l. . rock-crystal favours from a maund[ ] she drew of amber, crystal, and of beaded jet. "lover's complaint", l. . [footnote : basket, or hamper.] rock-crystal who glazed with crystal gate the glowing roses. "lover's complaint", l. . amber with coral clasps and amber studs. "passionate pilgrim", l. . d , verso, l. . amber favours from a maund she drew of amber, crystal, and of beaded jet. "lover's complaint", l. . jet as above. coral that sweet coral mouth whose precious taste her thirsty lips well knew. "venus and adonis", l. . d iv, l. , . coral her alabaster skin, her coral lips, her snow white dimpled chin. "lucrece", l. . d , l. . coral like ivory conduits coral cisterns filling. _idem_, l. . i , verso, l. . coral coral is far more red than her lips' red. sonnet cxxx, l. . h , . . coral a belt of straw and ivy buds. with coral clasps and amber studs. "passionate pilgrim", . . d , verso, l. , .[ ] [footnote : references are here given to the original editions of "venus and adonis", (unique copy in the malone collection in the bodleian library, oxford); "lucrece", ; "passionate pilgrim", , and sonnets, . as there is no continuous pagination, the letters and numbers refer to the page signatures and to the line of the page.] while it cannot be regarded as certain that whenever shakespeare writes of jewels or of rings he means those in which precious stones were set, several of the passages more or less clearly indicate this, and we therefore present here the more characteristic of the lines in question: a death's face in a ring. _love's labour's lost_, act v, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. a, line . the dearest ring in venice will i give you. _merchant of venice_, act iv, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. b, line . _diana_. o behold this ring whose high respect and rich validity did lack a parallel; yet for all that he gave it to a commoner of the camp, if i be one. _count_. he blushes, and 'tis it: of six preceding ancestors, that gem, conferr'd by testament to the sequent issue, hath it been owned and worn. _all's well that ends well_, act v, sc. , l. - . "comedies", p. , col. a, lines - . my daughter! o my ducats! o my daughter! fled with a christian! o my christian ducats! justice! the law! my ducats and my daughter! a sealed bag, two sealed bags of ducats, of double ducats, stolen from me by my daughter! and jewels, two stones, two rich and precious stones, stolen by my daughter! justice! find the girl; she hath the stones upon her, and the ducats. _merchant of venice_, act ii, sc. , l. - . "comedies", p. , col. b, lines - . i would my daughter were dead at my foot, and the jewels in her ear! _merchant of venice_, act iii, sc. , l. . "comedies", p. , col. b, lines , . sweet are the uses of adversity, which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, wears yet a precious jewel in his head. _as you like it_, act ii, sc. , l. - . "comedies", p. , col. a, lines - . win her with gifts, if she respect not words: dumb jewels often in their silent kind more than quick words do move a woman's mind. _two gentlemen of verona_, act iii, sc. , l. - . "comedies", p. , col. a, lines - . i frown the while; and perchance wind up my watch, or play with my--some rich jewel. _twelfth night_, act ii, sc. , l. - . "comedies", p. , col. b, lines , . a jewel in a ten-times-barr'd-up chest is a bold spirit in a loyal breast. _king richard ii_, act i, sc. , l. , . "histories", p. , col. b, lines , . this royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle, this earth of majesty, this seat of mars, this other eden, demi-paradise, this fortress built by nature for herself against infection and the hand of war, this happy breed of men, this little world, this precious stone set in the silver sea, which serves it in the office of a wall or as a moat defensive to a house, against the envy of less happier lands, this blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this england. _king richard ii_, act ii, sc. , l. - . "histories", p. , col. b, lines - . in argument and proof of which contract, bear her this jewel, pledge of my affection. _i henry vi_, act v, sc. , l. , . "histories", p. , col. a, lines , . it seems she hangs upon the cheek of night, like a rich jewel in an ethiop's ear; beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear. _romeo and juliet_, act i, sc. , l. - . "tragedies", p. , col. b, lines - . but chiefly to take thence from her dead finger a precious ring, a ring that i must use in dear employment. _romeo and juliet_, act v, sc. , l. - . "tragedies", p. , col. a, lines - . a striking proof that shakespeare had no fear of tautology when he wished to strengthen the impression of a word by constant reiteration is given in the _merchant of venice_ (act v, sc. ), whence we have already quoted a few lines. the passage concerns the disposal by bassanio of a ring he had received from portia, and he answers her thus in the first folio text:[ ] _bassanio_. sweet _portia_, if you did know to whom i gave the ring, if you did know for whom i gave the ring, and would conceive for what i gave the ring, and how unwillingly i left the ring, when naught would be accepted but the ring, you would abate the strength of your displeasure. _portia._ if you had knowne the virtue of the ring, or halfe her worthinesse that gave the ring, or your owne honour to contains the ring, you would not then have parted with the ring. [footnote : first folio, "comedies", p. , col. b, lines - .] it was probably more than a coincidence that shakespeare's first printed book, "venus and adonis", was published, in , by a fellow-townsman, richard field, who had come up to london from stratford when a mere boy. undoubtedly, when shakespeare met him in the bustle of city life, the common memories of their quieter native town served at once as an introduction and as a link between them. field also published shakespeare's "lucrece" in the year . he had been a freeman of the stationers' company from february , , and died either in the year the first folio was issued, or in the succeeding year, . [illustration: printer's mark of richard field, as shown on the title-page of the first edition of shakespeare's "venus and adonis", , the unique copy of which is in the bodleian library, oxford. a hand emerging from a cloud upholds the "anchor of hope", about which are twined two laurel branches.] literature (back online soon in an extended version, also linking to free sources for education worldwide ... mooc's, educational materials,...) images generously made available by the bodleian library, oxford. the philosophical works of david hume. including all the essays, and exhibiting the more important alterations and corrections in the successive editions published by the author. in four volumes. vol. ii. edinburgh: printed for adam black and william tait; and charles tait, , fleet street, london. mdcccxxvi. contents of volume second. treatise of human nature. book ii.--of the passions. part i. of pride and humility. division of the subject of pride and humility, their objects and causes whence these objects and causes are derived of the relations of impressions and ideas of the influence of these relations on pride and humility limitations of this system of vice and virtue of beauty and deformity of external advantages and disadvantages of property and riches of the love of fame of pride and humility of animals part ii. of love and hatred. of the objects and causes of love and hatred experiments to confirm this system difficulties solved of the love of relations of our esteem for the rich and powerful of benevolence and anger of compassion of malice and envy of the mixture of benevolence and anger with compassion and malice of respect and contempt of the amorous passion, or love betwixt the sexes of love and hatred of animals part iii. of the will and direct passions. of liberty and necessity the same subject continued of the influencing motives of the will of the causes of the violent passions of the effects of custom of the influence of the imagination on the passions of contiguity and distance in space and time the same subject continued of the direct passions of curiosity, or the love of truth book iii.--of morals. part i. of virtue and vice in general. moral distinctions not derived from reason moral distinctions derived from a moral sense part ii. of justice and injustice. justice, whether a natural or artificial virtue? of the origin of justice and property of the rules which determine property of the transference of property by consent of the obligation of promises some farther reflections concerning justice and injustice of the origin of government of the source of allegiance of the measures of allegiance of the objects of allegiance of the laws of nations of chastity and modesty part iii. of the other virtues and vices. of the origin of the natural virtues and vices of greatness of mind of goodness and benevolence of natural abilities some farther reflections concerning the natural virtues conclusion of this book dialogues concerning natural religion appendix to the treatise of human nature book ii. of the passions part i. of pride and humility. section i. division of the subject. as all the perceptions of the mind may be divided into _impressions_ and _ideas_, so the impressions admit of another division into _original_ and _secondary_. this division of the impressions is the same with that which i formerly made use of[ ] when i distinguished them into impressions of _sensation_ and _reflection_. original impressions, or impressions of sensation, are such as, without any antecedent perception, arise in the soul, from the constitution of the body, from the animal spirits, or from the application of objects to the external organs. secondary, or reflective impressions, are such as proceed from some of these original ones, either immediately, or by the interposition of its idea. of the first kind are all the impressions of the senses, and all bodily pains and pleasures: of the second are the passions, and other emotions resembling them. 'tis certain that the mind, in its perceptions, must begin somewhere; and that since the impressions precede their correspondent ideas, there must be some impressions, which, without any introduction, make their appearance in the soul. as these depend upon natural and physical causes, the examination of them would lead me too far from my present subject, into the sciences of anatomy and natural philosophy. for this reason i shall here confine myself to those other impressions, which i have called secondary and reflective, as arising either from the original impressions, or from their ideas. bodily pains and pleasures are the source of many passions, both when felt and considered by the mind; but arise originally in the soul, or in the body, whichever you please to call it, without any preceding thought or perception. a fit of the gout produces a long train of passions, as grief, hope, fear; but is not derived immediately from any affection or idea. the reflective impressions may be divided into two kinds, viz. the _calm_ and the _violent_. of the first kind is the sense of beauty and deformity in action, composition, and external objects. of the second are the passions of love and hatred, grief and joy, pride and humility. this division is far from being exact. the raptures of poetry and music frequently rise to the greatest height; while those other impressions, properly called _passions_, may decay into so soft an emotion, as to become in a manner imperceptible. but as, in general, the passions are more violent than the emotions arising from beauty and deformity, these impressions have been commonly distinguished from each other. the subject of the human mind being so copious and various, i shall here take advantage of this vulgar and specious division, that i may proceed with the greater order; and, having said all i thought necessary concerning our ideas, shall now explain those violent emotions or passions, their nature, origin, causes and effects. when we take a survey of the passions, there occurs a division of them into _direct_ and _indirect_. by direct passions i understand such as arise immediately from good or evil, from pain or pleasure. by indirect, such as proceed from the same principles, but by the conjunction of other qualities. this distinction i cannot at present justify or explain any farther. i can only observe in general, that under the indirect passions i comprehend pride, humility, ambition, vanity, love, hatred, envy, pity, malice, generosity, with their dependents. and under the direct passions, desire, aversion, grief, joy, hope, fear, despair, and security. i shall begin with the former. [ ] book i. part i. sect. . section ii. of pride and humility, their objects and causes. the passions of _pride_ and _humility_ being simple and uniform impressions, 'tis impossible we can ever, by a multitude of words, give a just definition of them, or indeed of any of the passions. the utmost we can pretend to is a description of them, by an enumeration of such circumstances as attend them: but as these words, _pride_ and _humility_, are of general use, and the impressions they represent the most common of any, every one, of himself, will be able to form a just idea of them, without any danger of mistake. for which reason, not to lose time upon preliminaries, i shall immediately enter upon the examination of these passions. 'tis evident, that pride and humility, though directly contrary, have yet the same _object_. this object is self, or that succession of related ideas and impressions, of which we have an intimate memory and consciousness. here the view always fixes when we are actuated by either of these passions. according as our idea of ourself is more or less advantageous, we feel either of those opposite affections, and are elated by pride, or dejected with humility. whatever other objects may be comprehended by the mind, they are always considered with a view to ourselves; otherwise they would never be able either to excite these passions, or produce the smallest increase or diminution of them. when self enters not into the consideration, there is no room either for pride or humility. but though that connected succession of perceptions, which we call _self_ be always the object of these two passions, 'tis impossible it can be their _cause_, or be sufficient alone to excite them. for as these passions are directly contrary, and have the same object in common; were their object also their cause, it could never produce any degree of the one passion, but at the same time it must excite an equal degree of the other; which opposition and contrariety must destroy both. 'tis impossible a man can at the same time be both proud and humble; and where he has different reasons for these passions, as frequently happens, the passions either take place alternately, or, if they encounter, the one annihilates the other, as far as its strength goes, and the remainder only of that which is superior, continues to operate upon the mind. but in the present case neither of the passions could ever become superior; because, supposing it to be the view only of ourself which excited them, that being perfectly indifferent to either, must produce both in the very same proportion; or, in other words, can produce neither. to excite any passion, and at the same time raise an equal share of its antagonist, is immediately to undo what was done, and must leave the mind at last perfectly calm and indifferent. we must therefore make a distinction betwixt the cause and the object of these passions; betwixt that idea which excites them, and that to which they direct their view when excited. pride and humility, being once raised, immediately turn our attention to ourself, and regard that as their ultimate and final object; but there is something farther requisite in order to raise them: something, which is peculiar to one of the passions, and produces not both in the very same degree. the first idea that is presented to the mind is that of the cause or productive principle. this excites the passion connected with it; and that passion, when excited, turns our view to another idea, which is that of self. here then is a passion placed betwixt two ideas, of which the one produces it, and the other is produced by it. the first idea therefore represents the cause, the second the _object_ of the passion. to begin with the causes of pride and humility; we may observe, that their most obvious and remarkable property is the vast variety of _subjects_ on which they may be placed. every valuable quality of the mind, whether of the imagination, judgment, memory or disposition; wit, good sense, learning, courage, justice, integrity; all these are the causes of pride, and their opposites of humility. nor are these passions confined to the mind, but extend their view to the body likewise. a man may be proud of his beauty, strength, agility, good mien, address in dancing, riding, fencing, and of his dexterity in any manual business or manufacture. but this is not all. the passion, looking farther, comprehends whatever objects are in the least allied or related to us. our country, family, children, relations, riches, houses, gardens, horses, dogs, clothes; any of these may become a cause either of pride or of humility. from the consideration of these causes, it appears necessary we should make a new distinction in the causes of the passion, betwixt that _quality_ which operates, and the _subject_ on which it is placed. a man, for instance, is vain of a beautiful house which belongs to him, or which he has himself built and contrived. here the object of the passion is himself, and the cause is the beautiful house: which cause again is subdivided into two parts, viz. the quality, which operates upon the passion, and the subject, in which the quality inheres. the quality is the beauty, and the subject is the house, considered as his property or contrivance. both these parts are essential, nor is the distinction vain and chimerical. beauty, considered merely as such, unless placed upon something related to us, never produces any pride or vanity; and the strongest relation alone, without beauty, or something else in its place, has as little influence on that passion. since, therefore, these two particulars are easily separated, and there is a necessity for their conjunction, in order to produce the passion, we ought to consider them as component parts of the cause; and infix in our minds an exact idea of this distinction. section iii. whence these objects and causes are derived. being so far advanced as to observe a difference betwixt the _object_ of the passions and their _cause_, and to distinguish in the cause the _quality_, which operates on the passions, from the _subject_, in which it inheres; we now proceed to examine what determines each of them to be what it is, and assigns such a particular object and quality, and subject to these affections. by this means we shall fully understand the origin of pride and humility. 'tis evident, in the first place, that these passions are determined to have self for their _object_, not only by a natural, but also by an original property. no one can doubt but this property is _natural_, from the constancy and steadiness of its operations. 'tis always self, which is the object of pride and humility; and whenever the passions look beyond, 'tis still with a view to ourselves; nor can any person or object otherwise have any influence upon us. that this proceeds from an _original_ quality or primary impulse, will likewise appear evident, if we consider that 'tis the distinguishing characteristic of these passions. unless nature had given some original qualities to the mind, it could never have any secondary ones; because in that case it would have no foundation for action, nor could ever begin to exert itself. now these qualities, which we must consider as original, are such as are most inseparable from the soul, and can be resolved into no other: and such is the quality which determines the object of pride and humility. we may, perhaps, make it a greater question, whether the _causes_ that produce the passion, be as _natural_ as the object to which it is directed, and whether all that vast variety proceeds from caprice, or from the constitution of the mind. this doubt we shall soon remove, if we cast our eye upon human nature, and consider that, in all nations and ages, the same objects still give rise to pride and humility; and that upon the view even of a stranger, we can know pretty nearly what will either increase or diminish his passions of this kind. if there be any variation in this particular, it proceeds from nothing but a difference in the tempers and complexions of men, and is, besides, very inconsiderable. can we imagine it possible, that while human nature remains the same, men will ever become entirely indifferent to their power, riches, beauty or personal merit, and that their pride and vanity will not be affected by these advantages? but though the causes of pride and humility be plainly _natural_, we shall find, upon examination, that they are not _original_, and that 'tis utterly impossible they should each of them be adapted to these passions by a particular provision and primary constitution of nature. beside their prodigious number, many of them are the effects of art, and arise partly from the industry, partly from the caprice, and partly from the good fortune of men. industry produces houses, furniture, clothes. caprice determines their particular kinds and qualities. and good fortune frequently contributes to all this, by discovering the effects that result from the different mixtures and combinations of bodies. 'tis absurd therefore to imagine, that each of these was foreseen and provided for by nature, and that every new production of art, which causes pride or humility, instead of adapting itself to the passion by partaking of some general quality that naturally operates on the mind, is itself the object of an original principle, which till then lay concealed in the soul, and is only by accident at last brought to light. thus the first mechanic that invented a fine scrutoire, produced pride in him who became possessed of it, by principles different from those which made him proud of handsome chairs and tables. as this appears evidently ridiculous, we must conclude, that each cause of pride and humility is not adapted to the passions by a distinct original quality, but that there are some one or more circumstances common to all of them, on which their efficacy depends. besides, we find in the course of nature, that though the effects be many, the principles from which they arise are commonly but few and simple, and that 'tis the sign of an unskilful naturalist to have recourse to a different quality, in order to explain every different operation. how much more must this be true with regard to the human mind, which, being so confined a subject, may justly be thought incapable of containing such a monstrous heap of principles, as would be necessary to excite the passions of pride and humility, were each distinct cause adapted to the passion by a distinct set of principles! here, therefore, moral philosophy is in the same condition as natural, with regard to astronomy before the time of copernicus. the ancients, though sensible of that maxim, _that nature does nothing in vain_, contrived such intricate systems of the heavens, as seemed inconsistent with true philosophy, and gave place at last to something more simple and natural. to invent without scruple a new principle to every new phenomenon, instead of adapting it to the old; to overload our hypothesis with a variety of this kind, are certain proofs that none of these principles is the just one, and that we only desire, by a number of falsehoods, to cover our ignorance of the truth. section iv. of the relations of impressions and ideas. thus we have established two truths without any obstacle or difficulty, _that 'tis from natural principles this variety of causes excite pride and humility_, and _that 'tis not by a different principle each different cause is adapted to its passion_. we shall now proceed to inquire how we may reduce these principles to a lesser number, and find among the causes something common on which their influence depends. in order to this, we must reflect on certain properties of human nature, which, though they have a mighty influence on every operation both of the understanding and passions, are not commonly much insisted on by philosophers. the _first_ of these is the association of ideas, which i have so often observed and explained. 'tis impossible for the mind to fix itself steadily upon one idea for any considerable time; nor can it by its utmost efforts ever arrive at such a constancy. but however changeable our thoughts may be, they are not entirely without rule and method in their changes. the rule by which they proceed, is to pass from one object to what is resembling, contiguous to, or produced by it. when one idea is present to the imagination, any other, united by these relations naturally follows it, and enters with more facility by means of that introduction. the _second_ property i shall observe in the human mind is a like association of impressions. all resembling impressions are connected together, and no sooner one arises than the rest immediately follow. grief and disappointment give rise to anger, anger to envy, envy to malice, and malice to grief again, till the whole circle be completed. in like manner our temper, when elevated with joy, naturally throws itself into love, generosity, pity, courage, pride, and the other resembling affections. 'tis difficult for the mind, when actuated by any passion, to confine itself to that passion alone, without any change or variation. human nature is too inconstant to admit of any such regularity. changeableness is essential to it. and to what can it so naturally change as to affections or emotions, which are suitable to the temper, and agree with that set of passions which then prevail? 'tis evident then there is an attraction or association among impressions, as well as among ideas; though with this remarkable difference, that ideas are associated by resemblance, contiguity, and causation, and impressions only by resemblance. in the _third_ place, 'tis observable of these two kinds of association, that they very much assist and forward each other, and that the transition is more easily made where they both concur in the same object. thus, a man who, by an injury from another, is very much discomposed and ruffled in his temper, is apt to find a hundred subjects of discontent, impatience, fear, and other uneasy passions, especially if he can discover these subjects in or near the person who was the cause of his first passion. those principles which forward the transition of ideas here concur with those which operate on the passions; and both uniting in one action, bestow on the mind a double impulse. the new passion, therefore, must arise with so much greater violence, and the transition to it must be rendered so much more easy and natural. upon this occasion i may cite the authority of an elegant writer, who expresses himself in the following manner:--"as the fancy delights in every thing that is great, strange or beautiful, and is still more pleased the more it finds of these perfections in the _same_ object, so it is capable of receiving a new satisfaction by the assistance of another sense. thus, any continued sound, as the music of birds or a fall of waters, awakens every moment the mind of the beholder, and makes him more attentive to the several beauties of the place that lie before him. thus, if there arises a fragrancy of smells or perfumes, they heighten the pleasure of the imagination, and make even the colours and verdure of the landscape appear more agreeable; for the ideas of both senses recommend each other, and are pleasanter together than when they enter the mind separately: as the different colours of a picture, when they are well disposed, set off one another, and receive an additional beauty from the advantage of the situation." in this phenomenon we may remark the association both of impressions and ideas, as well as the mutual assistance they lend each other. section v. of the influence of these relations on pride and humility. these principles being established on unquestionable experience, i begin to consider how we shall apply them, by revolving over all the causes of pride and humility, whether these causes be regarded as the qualities that operate, or as the subjects on which the qualities are placed. in examining these _qualities_, i immediately find many of them to concur in producing the sensation of pain and pleasure, independent of those affections which i here endeavour to explain. thus the beauty of our person, of itself, and by its very appearance, gives pleasure as well as pride; and its deformity, pain as well as humility. a magnificent feast delights us, and a sordid one displeases. what i discover to be true in some instances, i _suppose_ to be so in all, and take it for granted at present, without any farther proof, that every cause of pride, by its peculiar qualities, produces a separate pleasure, and of humility a separate uneasiness. again, in considering the _subjects_, to which these qualities adhere, i make a new _supposition_, which also appears probable from many obvious instances, viz. that these subjects are either parts of ourselves, or something nearly related to us. thus the good and bad qualities of our actions and manners constitute virtue and vice, and determine our personal character, than which nothing operates more strongly on these passions. in like manner, 'tis the beauty or deformity of our person, houses, equipage, or furniture, by which we are rendered either vain or humble. the same qualities, when transferred to subjects, which bear us no relation, influence not in the smallest degree either of these affections. having thus in a manner supposed two properties of the causes of these affections, viz. that the _qualities_ produce a separate pain or pleasure, and that the _subjects_, on which the qualities are placed, are related to self; i proceed to examine the passions themselves, in order to find something in them correspondent to the supposed properties of their causes. _first_, i find, that the peculiar object of pride and humility is determined by an original and natural instinct, and that 'tis absolutely impossible, from the primary constitution of the mind, that these passions should ever look beyond self, or that individual person, of whose actions and sentiments each of us is intimately conscious. here at last the view always rests, when we are actuated by either of these passions; nor can we, in that situation of mind, ever lose sight of this object. for this i pretend not to give any reason; but consider such a peculiar direction of the thought as an original quality. the _second_ quality which i discover in these passions, and which i likewise consider as an original quality, is their sensations, or the peculiar emotions they excite in the soul, and which constitute their very being and essence. thus, pride is a pleasant sensation, and humility a painful; and upon the removal of the pleasure and pain, there is in reality no pride nor humility. of this our very feeling convinces us; and beyond our feeling, 'tis here in vain to reason or dispute. if i compare therefore these two _established_ properties of the passions, viz. their object, which is self, and their sensation, which is either pleasant or painful, to the two _supposed_ properties of the causes, viz. their relation to self, and their tendency to produce a pain or pleasure independent of the passion; i immediately find, that taking these suppositions to be just, the true system breaks in upon me with an irresistible evidence. that cause, which excites the passion, is related to the object, which nature has attributed to the passion; the sensation, which the cause separately produces, is related to the sensation of the passion: from this double relation of ideas and impressions, the passion is derived. the one idea is easily converted into its correlative; and the one impression into that which resembles and corresponds to it: with how much greater facility must this transition be made, where these movements mutually assist each other, and the mind receives a double impulse from the relations both of its impressions and ideas! that we may comprehend this the better, we must suppose that nature has given to the organs of the human mind a certain disposition fitted to produce a peculiar impression or emotion, which we call _pride_: to this emotion she has assigned a certain idea, viz. that of _self_, which it never fails to produce. this contrivance of nature is easily conceived. we have many instances of such a situation of affairs. the nerves of the nose and palate are so disposed, as in certain circumstances to convey such peculiar sensations to the mind: the sensations of lust and hunger always produce in us the idea of those peculiar objects, which are suitable to each appetite. these two circumstances are united in pride. the organs are so disposed as to produce the passion; and the passion, after its production, naturally produces a certain idea. all this needs no proof. 'tis evident we never should be possessed of that passion, were there not a disposition of mind proper for it; and 'tis as evident, that the passion always turns our view to ourselves, and makes us think of our own qualities and circumstances. this being fully comprehended, it may now be asked, _whether nature produces the passion immediately of herself, or whether she must be assisted by the cooperation of other causes_? for 'tis observable, that in this particular her conduct is different in the different passions and sensations. the palate must be excited by an external object, in order to produce any relish: but hunger arises internally, without the concurrence of any external object. but however the case may stand with other passions and impressions, 'tis certain that pride requires the assistance of some foreign object, and that the organs which produce it exert not themselves like the heart and arteries, by an original internal movement. for, _first_, daily experience convinces us, that pride requires certain causes to excite it, and languishes when unsupported by some excellency in the character, in bodily accomplishments, in clothes, equipage, or fortune. _secondly_, 'tis evident pride would be perpetual if it arose immediately from nature, since the object is always the same, and there is no disposition of body peculiar to pride, as there is to thirst and hunger. _thirdly_, humility is in the very same situation with pride; and therefore either must, upon this supposition, be perpetual likewise, or must destroy the contrary passion from the very first moment; so that none of them could ever make its appearance. upon the whole, we may rest satisfied with the foregoing conclusion, that pride must have a cause as well as an object, and that the one has no influence without the other. the difficulty, then, is only to discover this cause, and find what it is that gives the first motion to pride, and sets those organs in action which are naturally fitted to produce that emotion. upon my consulting experience, in order to resolve this difficulty, i immediately find a hundred different causes that produce pride; and upon examining these causes, i suppose, what at first i perceive to be probable, that all of them concur in two circumstances, which are, that of themselves they produce an impression allied to the passion, and are placed on a subject allied to the object of the passion. when i consider after this the nature of _relation_, and its effects both on the passions and ideas, i can no longer doubt upon these suppositions, that 'tis the very principle which gives rise to pride, and bestows motion on those organs, which, being naturally disposed to produce that affection, require only a first impulse or beginning to their action. any thing that gives a pleasant sensation, and is related to self, excites the passion of pride, which is also agreeable, and has self for its object. what i have said of pride is equally true of humility. the sensation of humility is uneasy, as that of pride is agreeable; for which reason the separate sensation arising from the causes must be reversed, while the relation to self continues the same. though pride and humility are directly contrary in their effects and in their sensations, they have notwithstanding the same object; so that 'tis requisite only to change the relation of impressions without making any change upon that of ideas. accordingly we find, that a beautiful house belonging to ourselves produces pride; and that the same house, still belonging to ourselves, produces humility, when by any accident its beauty is changed into deformity, and thereby the sensation of pleasure, which corresponded to pride, is transformed into pain, which is related to humility. the double relation between the ideas and impressions subsists in both cases, and produces an easy transition from the one emotion to the other. in a word, nature has bestowed a kind of attraction on certain impressions and ideas, by which one of them, upon its appearance, naturally introduces its correlative. if these two attractions or associations of impressions and ideas concur on the same object, they mutually assist each other, and the transition of the affections and of the imagination is made with the greatest ease and facility. when an idea produces an impression, related to an impression, which is connected with an idea related to the first idea, these two impressions must be in a manner inseparable, nor will the one in any case be unattended with the other. 'tis after this manner that the particular causes of pride and humility are determined. the quality which operates on the passion produces separately an impression resembling it; the subject to which the quality adheres is related to self, the object of the passion: no wonder the whole cause, consisting of a quality and of a subject, does so unavoidably give rise to the passion. to illustrate this hypothesis, we may compare it to that by which i have already explained the belief attending the judgments which we form from causation. i have observed, that in all judgments of this kind, there is always a present impression and a related idea; and that the present impression gives a vivacity to the fancy, and the relation conveys this vivacity, by an easy transition, to the related idea. without the present impression, the attention is not fixed, nor the spirits excited. without the relation, this attention rests on its first object, and has no farther consequence. there is evidently a great analogy betwixt that hypothesis, and our present one of an impression and idea, that transfuse themselves into another impression and idea by means of their double relation: which analogy must be allowed to be no despicable proof of both hypotheses. section vi. limitations of this system. but before we proceed farther in this subject, and examine particularly all the causes of pride and humility, 'twill be proper to make some limitations to the general system, _that all agreeable objects, related to ourselves by an association of ideas and of impressions, produce pride, and disagreeable ones, humility_: and these limitations are derived from the very nature of the subject. i. suppose an agreeable object to acquire a relation to self, the first passion that appears on this occasion is joy; and this passion discovers itself upon a slighter relation than pride and vain-glory. we may feel joy upon being present at a feast, where our senses are regaled with delicacies of every kind: but 'tis only the master of the feast, who, beside the same joy, has the additional passion of self-applause and vanity. 'tis true, men sometimes boast of a great entertainment, at which they have only been present; and by so small a relation convert their pleasure into pride: but however this must in general be owned, that joy arises from a more inconsiderable relation than vanity, and that many things, which are too foreign to produce pride, are yet able to give us a delight and pleasure. the reason of the difference may be explained thus. a relation is requisite to joy, in order to approach the object to us, and make it give us any satisfaction. but beside this, which is common to both passions, 'tis requisite to pride, in order to produce a transition from one passion to another, and convert the satisfaction into vanity. as it has a double task to perform, it must be endowed with double force and energy. to which we may add, that where agreeable objects bear not a very close relation to ourselves, they commonly do to some other person; and this latter relation not only excels, but even diminishes, and sometimes destroys the former, as we shall see afterwards.[ ] here then is the first limitation we must make to our general position, _that every thing related to us, which produces pleasure or pain, produces likewise pride or humility_. there is not only a relation required, but a close one, and a closer than is required to joy. ii. the second limitation is, that the agreeable or disagreeable object be not only closely related, but also peculiar to ourselves, or at least common to us with a few persons. 'tis a quality observable in human nature, and which we shall endeavour to explain afterwards, that every thing, which is often presented, and to which we have been long accustomed, loses its value in our eyes, and is in a little time despised and neglected. we likewise judge of objects more from comparison than from their real and intrinsic merit; and where we cannot by some contrast enhance their value, we are apt to overlook even what is essentially good in them. these qualities of the mind have an effect upon joy as well as pride; and 'tis remarkable, that goods, which are common to all mankind, and have become familiar to us by custom, give us little satisfaction, though perhaps of a more excellent kind than those on which, for their singularity, we set a much higher value. but though this circumstance operates on both these passions, it has a much greater influence on vanity. we are rejoiced for many goods, which, on account of their frequency, give us no pride. health, when it returns after a long absence, affords us a very sensible satisfaction; but is seldom regarded as a subject of vanity, because 'tis shared with such vast numbers. the reason why pride is so much more delicate in this particular than joy, i take to be as follows. in order to excite pride, there are always two objects we must contemplate, viz. the _cause_, or that object which produces pleasure; and self, which is the real object of the passion. but joy has only one object necessary to its production, viz. that which gives pleasure; and though it be requisite that this bear some relation to self, yet that is only requisite in order to render it agreeable; nor is self, properly speaking, the object of this passion. since, therefore, pride has, in a manner, two objects to which it directs our view, it follows, that where neither of them have any singularity, the passion must be more weakened upon that account than a passion which has only one object. upon comparing ourselves with others, as we are every moment apt to do, we find we are not in the least distinguished; and, upon comparing the object we possess, we discover still the same unlucky circumstance. by two comparisons so disadvantageous, the passion must be entirely destroyed. iii. the third limitation is, that the pleasant or painful object be very discernible and obvious, and that not only to ourselves but to others also. this circumstance, like the two foregoing, has an effect upon joy as well as pride. we fancy ourselves more happy, as well as more virtuous or beautiful, when we appear so to others; but are still more ostentatious of our virtues than of our pleasures. this proceeds from causes which i shall endeavour to explain afterwards. iv. the fourth limitation is derived from the inconstancy of the cause of these passions, and from the short duration of its connexion with ourselves. what is casual and inconstant gives but little joy, and less pride. we are not much satisfied with the thing itself; and are still less apt to feel any new degrees of self-satisfaction upon its account. we foresee and anticipate its change by the imagination, which makes us little satisfied with the thing: we compare it to ourselves, whose existence is more durable, by which means its inconstancy appears still greater. it seems ridiculous to infer an excellency in ourselves from an object which is of so much shorter duration, and attends us during so small a part of our existence. 'twill be easy to comprehend the reason why this cause operates not with the same force in joy as in pride; since the idea of self is not so essential to the former passion as to the latter. v. i may add, as a fifth limitation, or rather enlargement of this system, that _general rules_ have a great influence upon pride and humility, as well as on all the other passions. hence we form a notion of different ranks of men, suitable to the power or riches they are possessed of; and this notion we change not upon account of any peculiarities of the health or temper of the persons, which may deprive them of all enjoyment in their possessions. this may be accounted for from the same principles that explained the influence of general rules on the understanding. custom readily carries us beyond the just bounds in our passions as well as in our reasonings. it may not be amiss to observe on this occasion, that the influence of general rules and maxims on the passions very much contributes to facilitate the effects of all the principles, which we shall explain in the progress of this treatise. for 'tis evident, that if a person, full grown, and of the same nature with ourselves, were on a sudden transported into our world, he would be very much embarrassed with every object, and would not readily find what degree of love or hatred, pride or humility, or any other passion he ought to attribute to it. the passions are often varied by very inconsiderable principles; and these do not always play with a perfect regularity, especially on the first trial. but as custom and practice have brought to light all these principles, and have settled the just value of every thing; this must certainly contribute to the easy production of the passions, and guide us, by means of general established maxims, in the proportions we ought to observe in preferring one object to another. this remark may, perhaps, serve to obviate difficulties that may arise concerning some causes which i shall hereafter ascribe to particular passions, and which may be esteemed too refined to operate so universally and certainly as they are found to do. i shall close this subject with a reflection derived from these five limitations. this reflection is, that the persons who are proudest, and who, in the eye of the world, have most reason for their pride, are not always the happiest; nor the most humble always the most miserable, as may at first sight be imagined from this system. an evil may be real, though its cause has no relation to us: it may be real, without being peculiar: it may be real without showing itself to others: it may be real, without being constant: and it may be real, without falling under the general rules. such evils as these will not fail to render us miserable, though they have little tendency to diminish pride: and perhaps the most real and the most solid evils of life will be found of this nature. [ ] part. ii. sect. . section vii. of vice and virtue. taking these limitations along with us, let us proceed to examine the causes of pride and humility, and see whether in every case we can discover the double relations by which they operate on the passions. if we find that all these causes are related to self, and produce a pleasure or uneasiness separate from the passion, there will remain no farther scruple with regard to the present system. we shall principally endeavour to prove the latter point, the former being in a manner self-evident. to begin with _vice_ and _virtue_, which are the most obvious causes of these passions, 'twould be entirely foreign to my present purpose to enter upon the controversy, which of late years has so much excited the curiosity of the public, _whether these moral distinctions be founded on natural and original principles, or arise from interest and education_. the examination of this i reserve for the following book; and, in the mean time, shall endeavour to show, that my system maintains its ground upon either of these hypotheses, which will be a strong proof of its solidity. for, granting that morality had no foundation in nature, it must still be allowed, that vice and virtue, either from self-interest or the prejudices of education, produce in us a real pain and pleasure; and this we may observe to be strenuously asserted by the defenders of that hypothesis. every passion, habit, or turn of character (say they) which has a tendency to our advantage or prejudice, gives a delight or uneasiness; and 'tis from thence the approbation or disapprobation arises. we easily gain from the liberality of others, but are always in danger of losing by their avarice: courage defends us, but cowardice lays us open to every attack: justice is the support of society, but injustice, unless checked, would quickly prove its ruin: humility exalts, but pride mortifies us. for these reasons the former qualities are esteemed virtues, and the latter regarded as vices. now, since 'tis granted there is a delight or uneasiness still attending merit or demerit of every kind, this is all that is requisite for my purpose. but i go farther, and observe, that this moral hypothesis and my present system not only agree together, but also that, allowing the former to be just, 'tis an absolute and invincible proof of the latter. for if all morality be founded on the pain or pleasure which arises from the prospect of any loss or advantage that may result from our own characters, or from those of others, all the effects of morality must be derived from the same pain or pleasure, and, among the rest, the passions of pride and humility. the very essence of virtue, according to this hypothesis, is to produce pleasure, and that of vice to give pain. the virtue and vice must be part of our character, in order to excite pride or humility. what farther proof can we desire for the double relation of impressions and ideas? the same unquestionable argument may be derived from the opinion of those who maintain that morality is something real, essential, and founded on nature. the most probable hypothesis, which has been advanced to explain the distinction betwixt vice and virtue, and the origin of moral rights and obligations, is, that from a primary constitution of nature, certain characters and passions, by the very view and contemplation, produce a pain, and others in like manner excite a pleasure. the uneasiness and satisfaction are not only inseparable from vice and virtue, but constitute their very nature and essence. to approve of a character is to feel an original delight upon its appearance. to disapprove of it is to be sensible of an uneasiness. the pain and pleasure therefore being the primary causes of vice and virtue, must also be the causes of all their effects, and consequently of pride and humility, which are the unavoidable attendants of that distinction. but, supposing this hypothesis of moral philosophy should be allowed to be false, 'tis still evident that pain and pleasure, if not the causes of vice and virtue, are at least inseparable from them. a generous and noble character affords a satisfaction even in the survey; and when presented to us, though only in a poem or fable, never fails to charm and delight us. on the other hand, cruelty and treachery displease from their very nature; nor is it possible ever to reconcile us to these qualities, either in ourselves or others. thus, one hypothesis of morality is an undeniable proof of the foregoing system, and the other at worst agrees with it. but pride and humility arise not from these qualities alone of the mind, which, according to the vulgar systems of ethicks, have been comprehended as parts of moral duty, but from any other that has a connexion with pleasure and uneasiness. nothing flatters our vanity more than the talent of pleasing by our wit, good humour, or any other accomplishment; and nothing gives us a more sensible mortification than a disappointment in any attempt of that nature. no one has ever been able to tell what _wit_ is, and to show why such a system of thought must be received under that denomination, and such another rejected. 'tis only by taste we can decide concerning it, nor are we possessed of any other standard, upon which we can form a judgment of this kind. now, what is this _taste_, from which true and false wit in a manner receive their being, and without which no thought can have a title to either of these denominations? 'tis plainly nothing but a sensation of pleasure from true wit, and of uneasiness from false, without our being able to tell the reasons of that pleasure or uneasiness. the power of bestowing these opposite sensations is, therefore, the very essence of true and false wit, and consequently the cause of that pride or humility which arises from them. there may perhaps be some, who, being accustomed to the style of the schools and pulpit, and having never considered human nature in any other light, than that in which _they_ place it, may here be surprised to hear me talk of virtue as exciting pride, which they look upon as a vice; and of vice as producing humility, which they have been taught to consider as a virtue. but not to dispute about words, i observe, that by _pride_ i understand that agreeable impression, which arises in the mind, when the view either of our virtue, beauty, riches or power, makes us satisfied with ourselves; and that by _humility_ i mean the opposite impression. 'tis evident the former impression is not always vicious, nor the latter virtuous. the most rigid morality allows us to receive a pleasure from reflecting on a generous action; and 'tis by none esteemed a virtue to feel any fruitless remorses upon the thoughts of past villany and baseness. let us, therefore, examine these impressions, considered in themselves; and inquire into their causes, whether placed on the mind or body, without troubling ourselves at present with that merit or blame, which may attend them. section viii. of beauty and deformity. whether we consider the body as a part of ourselves, or assent to those philosophers, who regard it as something external, it must still be allowed to be near enough connected with us to form one of these double relations, which i have asserted to be necessary to the causes of pride and humility. wherever, therefore, we can find the other relation of impressions to join to this of ideas, we may expect with assurance either of these passions, according as the impression is pleasant or uneasy. but _beauty_ of all kinds gives us a peculiar delight and satisfaction; as _deformity_ produces pain, upon whatever subject it may be placed, and whether surveyed in an animate or inanimate object. if the beauty or deformity, therefore, be placed upon our own bodies, this pleasure or uneasiness must be converted into pride or humility, as having in this case all the circumstances requisite to produce a perfect transition of impressions and ideas. these opposite sensations are related to the opposite passions. the beauty or deformity is closely related to self, the object of both these passions. no wonder, then, our own beauty becomes an object of pride, and deformity of humility. but this effect of personal and bodily qualities is not only a proof of the present system, by showing that the passions arise not in this case without all the circumstances i have required, but may be employed as a stronger and more convincing argument. if we consider all the hypotheses which have been formed either by philosophy or common reason, to explain the difference betwixt beauty and deformity, we shall find that all of them resolve into this, that beauty is such an order and construction of parts, as, either by the _primary constitution_ of our nature, by _custom_, or by _caprice_, is fitted to give a pleasure and satisfaction to the soul. this is the distinguishing character of beauty, and forms all the difference betwixt it and deformity, whose natural tendency is to produce uneasiness. pleasure and pain, therefore, are not only necessary attendants of beauty and deformity, but constitute their very essence. and, indeed, if we consider that a great part of the beauty which we admire either in animals or in other objects is derived from the idea of convenience and utility, we shall make no scruple to assent to this opinion. that shape which produces strength is beautiful in one animal; and that which is a sign of agility, in another. the order and convenience of a palace are no less essential to its beauty than its mere figure and appearance. in like manner the rules of architecture require, that the top of a pillar should be more slender than its base, and that because such a figure conveys to us the idea of security, which is pleasant; whereas the contrary form gives us the apprehension of danger, which is uneasy. from innumerable instances of this kind, as well as from considering that beauty, like wit, cannot be defined, but is discerned only by a taste or sensation, we may conclude that beauty is nothing but a form, which produces pleasure, as deformity is a structure of parts which conveys pain; and since the power of producing pain and pleasure make in this manner the essence of beauty and deformity, all the effects of these qualities must be derived from the sensation; and among the rest pride and humility, which of all their effects are the most common and remarkable. this argument i esteem just and decisive; but in order to give greater authority to the present reasoning, let us suppose it false for a moment, and see what will follow. 'tis certain, then, that if the power of producing pleasure and pain forms not the essence of beauty and deformity, the sensations are at least inseparable from the qualities, and 'tis even difficult to consider them apart. now, there is nothing common to natural and moral beauty (both of which are the causes of pride), but this power of producing pleasure; and as a common effect always supposes a common cause, 'tis plain that pleasure must in both cases be the real and influencing cause of the passion. again, there is nothing originally different betwixt the beauty of our bodies and the beauty of external and foreign objects, but that the one has a near relation to ourselves, which is waiting in the other. this original difference, therefore, must be the cause of all their other differences, and, among the rest, of their different influence upon the passion of pride, which is excited by the beauty of our person, but is not affected in the least by that of foreign and external objects. placing then these two conclusions together, we find they compose the preceding system betwixt them, viz. that pleasure, as a related or resembling impression, when placed on a related object, by a natural transition produces pride, and its contrary, humility. this system, then, seems already sufficiently confirmed by experience, though we have not yet exhausted all our arguments. 'tis not the beauty of the body alone that produces pride, but also its strength and force. strength is a kind of power, and therefore the desire to excel in strength is to be considered as an inferior species of _ambition_. for this reason the present phenomenon will be sufficiently accounted for in explaining that passion. concerning all other bodily accomplishments, we may observe, in general, that whatever in ourselves is either useful, beautiful or surprising, is an object of pride, and its contrary of humility. now, 'tis obvious that every thing useful, beautiful or surprising, agrees in producing a separate pleasure, and agrees in nothing else. the pleasure, therefore, with relation to self, must be the cause of the passion. though it should not be questioned whether beauty be not something real, and different from the power of producing pleasure, it can never be disputed, that, as surprise is nothing but a pleasure arising from novelty, it is not, properly speaking, a quality in any object, but merely a passion or impression in the soul. it must therefore be from that impression that pride by a natural transition arises. and it arises so naturally, that there is nothing _in us, or belonging to us_, which produces surprise, that does not at the same time excite that other passion. thus, we are vain of the surprising adventures we have met with, the escapes we have made, and dangers we have been exposed to. hence the origin of vulgar lying; where men, without any interest, and merely out of vanity, heap up a number of extraordinary events, which are either the fictions of their brain, or, if true, have at least no connexion with themselves. their fruitful invention supplies them with a variety of adventures; and where that talent is wanting, they appropriate such as belong to others, in order to satisfy their vanity. in this phenomenon are contained two curious experiments, which, if we compare them together, according to the known rules, by which we judge of cause and effect in anatomy, natural philosophy, and other sciences, will be an undeniable argument for that influence of the double relations above-mentioned. by one of these experiments we find, that an object produces pride merely by the interposition of pleasure; and that because the quality by which it produces pride, is in reality nothing but the power of producing pleasure. by the other experiment we find, that the pleasure produces the pride by a transition along related ideas; because when we cut off that relation, the passion is immediately destroyed. a surprising adventure, in which we have been ourselves engaged, is related to us, and by that means produces pride: but the adventures of others, though they may cause pleasure, yet, for want of this relation of ideas, never excite that passion. what farther proof can be desired for the present system? there is only one objection to this system with regard to our body; which is, that though nothing be more agreeable than health, and more painful than sickness, yet commonly men are neither proud of the one, nor mortified with the other. this will easily be accounted for, if we consider the _second_ and _fourth_ limitations, proposed to our general system. it was observed, that no object ever produces pride or humility, if it has not something _peculiar_ to ourself; as also, that every cause of that passion must be in some measure _constant_, and hold some proportion to the duration of ourself, which is its object. now, as health and sickness vary incessantly to all men, and there is none who is _solely_ or _certainly_ fixed in either, these accidental blessings and calamities are in a manner separated from us, and are never considered as connected with our being and existence. and that this account is just, appears hence, that wherever a malady of any kind is so rooted in our constitution that we no longer entertain any hopes of recovery, from that moment it becomes an object of humility; as is evident in old men, whom nothing mortifies more than the consideration of their age and infirmities. they endeavour, as long as possible, to conceal their blindness and deafness, their rheums and gout; nor do they ever confess them without reluctance and uneasiness. and though young men are not ashamed of every headache or cold they fall into, yet no topic is so proper to mortify human pride, and make us entertain a mean opinion of our nature, than this, that we are every moment of our lives subject to such infirmities. this sufficiently proves that bodily pain and sickness are in themselves proper causes of humility; though the custom of estimating every thing by comparison more than by its intrinsic worth and value, makes us overlook these calamities, which we find to be incident to every one, and causes us to form an idea of our merit and character independent of them. we are ashamed of such maladies as affect others, and are either dangerous or disagreeable to them. of the epilepsy, because it gives a horror to every one present; of the itch, because it is infectious; of the king's evil, because it commonly goes to posterity. men always consider the sentiments of others in their judgment of themselves. this has evidently appeared in some of the foregoing reasonings, and will appear still more evidently, and be more fully explained afterwards. section ix. of external advantages and disadvantages. but though pride and humility have the qualities of our mind and body, that is _self_, for their natural and more immediate causes, we find by experience that there are many other objects which produce these affections, and that the primary one is, in some measure, obscured and lost by the multiplicity of foreign and extrinsic. we round a vanity upon houses, gardens, equipages, as well as upon personal merit and accomplishments; and though these external advantages be in themselves widely distant from thought or a person, yet they considerably influence even a passion, which is directed to that as its ultimate object. this happens when external objects acquire any particular relation to ourselves, and are associated or connected with us. a beautiful fish in the ocean, an animal in a desart, and indeed any thing that neither belongs, nor is related to us, has no manner of influence on our vanity, whatever extraordinary qualities it may be endowed with, and whatever degree of surprise and admiration it may naturally occasion. it must be some way associated with us in order to touch our pride. its idea must hang in a manner upon that of ourselves; and the transition from the one to the other must be easy and natural. but here 'tis remarkable, that though the relation of _resemblance_ operates upon the mind in the same manner as contiguity and causation, in conveying us from one idea to another, yet 'tis seldom a foundation either of pride or of humility. if we resemble a person in any of the valuable parts of his character, we must, in some degree, possess the quality in which we resemble him; and this quality we always choose to survey directly in ourselves, rather than by reflection in another person, when we would found upon it any degree of vanity. so that though a likeness may occasionally produce that passion, by suggesting a more advantageous idea of ourselves, 'tis there the view, fixes at last, and the passion finds its ultimate and final cause. there are instances, indeed, wherein men show a vanity in resembling a great man in his countenance, shape, air, or other minute circumstances, that contribute not in any degree to his reputation; but it must be confessed, that this extends not very far, nor is of any considerable moment in these affections. for this i assign the following reason. we can never have a vanity of resembling in trifles any person, unless he be possessed of very shining qualities, which give us a respect and veneration for him. these qualities, then, are, properly speaking, the causes of our vanity, by means of their relation to ourselves. now, after what manner are they related to ourselves? they are parts of the person we value, and, consequently, connected with these trifles; which are also supposed to be parts of him. these trifles are connected with the resembling qualities in us; and these qualities in us, being parts, are connected with the whole; and, by that means, form a chain of several links betwixt ourselves and the shining qualities of the person we resemble. but, besides that this multitude of relations must weaken the connexion, 'tis evident the mind, in passing from the shining qualities to the trivial ones, must, by that contrast, the better perceive the minuteness of the latter, and be, in some measure, ashamed of the comparison and resemblance. the relation, therefore, of contiguity, or that of causation, betwixt the cause and object of pride and humility, is alone requisite to give rise to these passions; and these relations are nothing else but qualities, by which the imagination is conveyed from one idea to another. now, let us consider what effect these can possibly have upon the mind, and by what means they become so requisite to the production of the passions. 'tis evident, that the association of ideas operates in so silent and imperceptible a manner, that we are scarce sensible of it, and discover it more by its effects than by any immediate feeling or perception. it produces no emotion, and gives rise to no new impression of any kind, but only modifies those ideas of which the mind was formerly possessed, and which it could recal upon occasion. from this reasoning, as well as from undoubted experience, we may conclude, that an association of ideas, however necessary, is not alone sufficient to give rise to any passion. 'tis evident, then, that when the mind feels the passion, either of pride or humility, upon the appearance of a related object, there is, beside the relation or transition of thought, an emotion, or original impression, produced by some other principle. the question is, whether the emotion first produced be the passion itself, or some other impression related to it. this question we cannot be long in deciding. for, besides all the other arguments with which this subject abounds, it must evidently appear, that the relation of ideas, which experience shows to be so requisite a circumstance to the production of the passion, would be entirely superfluous, were it not to second a relation of affections, and facilitate the transition from one impression to another. if nature produced immediately the passion of pride or humility, it would be completed in itself, and would require no farther addition or increase from any other affection. but, supposing the first emotion to be only related to pride or humility, 'tis easily conceived to what purpose the relation of objects may serve, and how the two different associations of impressions and ideas, by uniting their forces, may assist each other's operation. this is not only easily conceived, but, i will venture to affirm, 'tis the only manner in which we can conceive this subject. an easy transition of ideas, which, of itself, causes no emotion, can never be necessary, or even useful to the passions, but by forwarding the transition betwixt some related impressions. not to mention that the same object causes a greater or smaller degree of pride, not only in proportion to the increase or decrease of its qualities, but also to the distance or nearness of the relation, which is a clear argument for the transition of affections along the relation of ideas, since every change in the relation produces a proportionable change in the passion. thus one part of the preceding system, concerning the relations of ideas, is a sufficient proof of the other, concerning that of impressions; and is itself so evidently founded on experience, that 'twould be lost time to endeavour farther to prove it. this will appear still more evidently in particular instances. men are vain of the beauty of their country, of their county, of their parish. here the idea of beauty plainly produces a pleasure. this pleasure is related to pride. the object or cause of this pleasure is, by the supposition, related to self, or the object of pride. by this double relation of impressions and ideas, a transition is made from the one impression to the other. men are also vain of the temperature of the climate in which they were born; of the fertility of their native soil; of the goodness of the wines, fruits, or victuals, produced by it; of the softness or force of their language, with other particulars of that kind. these objects have plainly a reference to the pleasures of the senses, and are originally considered as agreeable to the feeling, taste, or hearing. how is it possible they could ever become objects of pride, except by means of that transition above explained? there are some that discover a vanity of an opposite kind, and affect to depreciate their own country, in comparison of those to which they have travelled. these persons find, when they are at home, and surrounded with their countrymen, that the strong relation betwixt them and their own nation is shared with so many, that 'tis in a manner lost to them; whereas their distant relation to a foreign country, which is formed by their having seen it and lived in it, is augmented by their considering how few there are who have done the same. for this reason they always admire the beauty, utility, and rarity of what is abroad, above what is at home. since we can be vain of a country, climate, or any inanimate object which bears a relation to us, 'tis no wonder we are vain of the qualities of those who are connected with us by blood or friendship. accordingly we find, that the very same qualities, which in ourselves produce pride, produce also, in a lesser degree, the same affection when discovered in persons related to us. the beauty, address, merit, credit, and honours of their kindred, are carefully displayed by the proud, as some of their most considerable sources of their vanity. as we are proud of riches in ourselves, so, to satisfy our vanity, we desire that every one, who has any connexion with us, should likewise be possessed of them, and are ashamed of any one that is mean or poor among our friends and relations. for this reason we remove the poor as far from us as possible; and as we cannot prevent poverty in some distant collaterals, and our forefathers are taken to be our nearest relations, upon this account every one affects to be of a good family, and to be descended from a long succession of rich and honourable ancestors. i have frequently observed, that those who boast of the antiquity of their families, are glad when they can join this circumstance, that their ancestors for many generations have been uninterrupted proprietors of the same portion of land, and that their family has never changed its possessions, or been transplanted into any other county or province. i have also observed, that 'tis an additional subject of vanity, when they can boast that these possessions have been transmitted through a descent composed entirely of males, and that the honours and fortune have never passed through any female. let us endeavour to explain these phenomena by the foregoing system. 'tis evident that, when any one boasts of the antiquity of his family, the subjects of his vanity are not merely the extent of time and number of ancestors, but also their riches and credit, which are supposed to reflect a lustre on himself on account of his relation to them. he first considers these objects; is affected by them in an agreeable manner; and then returning back to himself, through the relation of parent and child, is elevated with the passion of pride, by means of the double relation of impressions and ideas. since, therefore, the passion depends on these relations, whatever strengthens any of the relations must also increase the passion, and whatever weakens the relations must diminish the passion. now 'tis certain the identity of the possession strengthens the relation of ideas arising from blood and kindred, and conveys the fancy with greater facility from one generation to another, from the remotest ancestors to their posterity, who are both their heirs and their descendants. by this facility the impression is transmitted more entire, and excites a greater degree of pride and vanity. the case is the same with the transmission of the honours and fortune through a succession of males without their passing through any female. 'tis a quality of human nature, which we shall consider afterwards,[ ] that the imagination naturally turns to whatever is important and considerable; and where two objects are presented to it, a small and a great one, usually leaves the former, and dwells entirely upon the latter. as in the society of marriage, the male sex has the advantage above the female, the husband first engages our attention; and whether we consider him directly, or reach him by passing through related objects, the thought both rests upon him with greater satisfaction, and arrives at him with greater facility than his consort. 'tis easy to see, that this property must strengthen the child's relation to the father, and weaken that to the mother. for as all relations are nothing but a propensity to pass from one idea to another, whatever strengthens the propensity strengthens the relation; and as we have a stronger propensity to pass from the idea of the children to that of the father, than from the same idea to that of the mother, we ought to regard the former relation as the closer and more considerable. this is the reason why children commonly bear their father's name, and are esteemed to be of nobler or baser birth, according to _his_ family. and though the mother should be possessed of a superior spirit and genius to the father, as often happens, the _general rule_ prevails, notwithstanding the exception, according to the doctrine above explained. nay, even when a superiority of any kind is so great, or when any other reasons have such an effect, as to make the children rather represent the mother's family than the father's, the general rule still retains such an efficacy, that it weakens the relation, and makes a kind of break in the line of ancestors. the imagination runs not along them with facility, nor is able to transfer the honour and credit of the ancestors to their posterity of the same name and family so readily, as when the transition is conformable to the general rules, and passes from father to son, or from brother to brother. [ ] part ii. sect. . section x. of property and riches. but the relation which is esteemed the closest, and which, of all others, produces most commonly the passion of pride, is that of _property_. this relation 'twill be impossible for me fully to explain before i come to treat of justice and the other moral virtues. 'tis sufficient to observe on this occasion, that property may be defined, _such a relation betwixt a person and an object as permits him, but forbids any other, the free use and possession of it, without violating the laws of justice and moral equity_. if justice therefore be a virtue, which has a natural and original influence on the human mind, property may be looked upon as a particular species of _causation_; whether we consider the liberty it gives the proprietor to operate as he pleases upon the object, or the advantages which he reaps from it. 'tis the same case, if justice, according to the system of certain philosophers, should be esteemed an artificial and not a natural virtue. for then honour, and custom, and civil laws supply the place of natural conscience, and produce in some degree, the same effects. this, in the mean time, is certain, that the mention of the property naturally carries our thought to the proprietor, and of the proprietor to the property; which being a proof of a perfect relation of ideas, is all that is requisite to our present purpose. a relation of ideas, joined to that of impressions, always produces a transition of affections; and therefore, whenever any pleasure or pain arises from an object, connected with us by property, we may be certain, that either pride or humility must arise from this conjunction of relations, if the foregoing system be solid and satisfactory. and whether it be so or not, we may soon satisfy ourselves by the most cursory view of human life. every thing belonging to a vain man is the best that is any where to be found. his houses, equipage, furniture, clothes, horses, hounds, excel all others in his conceit; and 'tis easy to observe, that from the least advantage in any of these, he draws a new subject of pride and vanity. his wine, if you'll believe him, has a finer flavour than any other; his cookery is more exquisite; his table more orderly; his servant more expert; the air in which he lives more healthful; the soil he cultivates more fertile; his fruits ripen earlier, and to greater perfection; such a thing is remarkable for its novelty; such another for its antiquity: this is the workmanship of a famous artist, that belonged to such a prince or great man; all objects, in a word, that are useful, beautiful, or surprising, or are related to such, may, by means of property, give rise to this passion. these agree in giving pleasure, and agree in nothing else. this alone is common to them, and therefore must be the quality that produces the passion, which is their common effect. as every new instance is a new argument, and as the instances are here without number, i may venture to affirm, that scarce any system was ever so fully proved by experience, as that which i have here advanced. if the property of any thing that gives pleasure either by its utility, beauty, or novelty, produces also pride by a double relation of impressions and ideas; we need not be surprised that the power of acquiring this property should have the same effect. now, riches are to be considered as the power of acquiring the property of what pleases; and 'tis only in this view they have any influence on the passions. paper will, on many occasions, be considered as riches, and that because it may convey the power of acquiring money; and money is not riches, as it is a metal endowed with certain qualities of solidity, weight, and fusibility; but only as it has a relation to the pleasures and conveniences of life. taking then this for granted, which is in itself so evident, we may draw from it one of the strongest arguments i have yet employed to prove the influence of the double relations on pride and humility. it has been observed, in treating of the understanding, that the distinction which we sometimes make betwixt a _power_ and the _exercise_ of it, is entirely frivolous, and that neither man nor any other being ought ever to be thought possessed of any ability, unless it be exerted and put in action. but though this be strictly true in a just and _philosophical_ way of thinking, 'tis certain it is not _the philosophy_ of our passions, but that many things operate upon them by means of the idea and supposition of power, independent of its actual exercise. we are pleased when we acquire an ability of procuring pleasure, and are displeased when another acquires a power of giving pain. this is evident from experience; but in order to give a just explication of the matter, and account for this satisfaction and uneasiness, we must weigh the following reflections. 'tis evident the error of distinguishing power from its exercise proceeds not entirely from the scholastic doctrine of _free will_, which, indeed, enters very little into common life, and has but small influence on our vulgar and popular ways of thinking. according to that doctrine, motives deprive us not of free-will, nor take away our power of performing or forbearing any action. but according to common notions a man has no power, where very considerable motives lie betwixt him and the satisfaction of his desires, and determine him to forbear what he wishes to perform. i do not think i have fallen into my enemy's power when i see him pass me in the streets with a sword by his side, while i am, unprovided of any weapon. i know that the fear of the civil magistrate is as strong a restraint as any of iron, and that i am in as perfect safety as if he were chained or imprisoned. but when a person acquires such an authority over me, that not only there is no external obstacle to his actions, but also that he may punish or reward me as he pleases without any dread of punishment in his turn, i then attribute a full power to him, and consider myself as his subject or vassal. now, if we compare these two cases, that of a person who has very strong motives of interest or safety to forbear any action, and that of another who lies under no such obligation, we shall find, according to the philosophy explained in the foregoing book, that the only _known_ difference betwixt them lies in this, that in the former case we conclude, from _past experience_, that the person never will perform that action, and in the latter, that he possibly or probably will perform it. nothing is more fluctuating and inconstant on many occasions than the will of man; nor is there any thing but strong motives which can give us an absolute certainty in pronouncing concerning any of his future actions. when we see a person free from these motives, we suppose a possibility either of his acting or forbearing; and though, in general, we may conclude him to be determined by motives and causes, yet this removes not the uncertainty of our judgment concerning these causes, nor the influence of that uncertainty on the passions. since, therefore, we ascribe a power of performing an action to every one who has no very powerful motive to forbear it, and refuse it to such as have, it may justly be concluded, that _power_ has always a reference to its _exercise_, either actual or probable, and that we consider a person as endowed with any ability when we find, from past experience, that 'tis probable, or at least possible, he may exert it. and indeed, as our passions always regard the real existence of objects, and we always judge of this reality from past instances, nothing can be more likely of itself, without any farther reasoning, than that power consists in the possibility or probability of any action, as discovered by experience and the practice of the world. now, 'tis evident that, wherever a person is in such a situation with regard to me that there is no very powerful motive to deter him from injuring me, and consequently 'tis _uncertain_ whether he will injure me or not, i must be uneasy in such a situation, and cannot consider the possibility or probability of that injury without a sensible concern. the passions are not only affected by such events as are certain and infallible, but also in an inferior degree by such as are possible and contingent. and though perhaps i never really feel any harm, and discover by the event, that, philosophically speaking, the person never had any power of harming me, since he did not exert any, this prevents not my uneasiness from the preceding uncertainty. the agreeable passions may here operate as well as the uneasy, and convey a pleasure when i perceive a good to become either possible or probable by the possibility or probability of another's bestowing it on me, upon the removal of any strong motives which might formerly have hindered him. but we may farther observe, that this satisfaction increases, when any good approaches, in such a manner that it is in one's _own_ power to take or leave it, and there neither is any physical impediment, nor any very strong motive to hinder our enjoyment. as all men desire pleasure, nothing can be more probable than its existence when there is no external obstacle to the producing it, and men perceive no danger in following their inclinations. in that case their imagination easily anticipates the satisfaction, and conveys the same joy as if they were persuaded of its real and actual existence. but this accounts not sufficiently for the satisfaction which attends riches. a miser receives delight from his money; that is, from the _power_ it affords him of procuring all the pleasures and conveniences of life, though he knows he has enjoyed his riches for forty years without ever enjoying them; and consequently cannot conclude, by any species of reasoning, that the real existence of these pleasures is nearer, than if he were entirely deprived of all his possessions. but though he cannot form any such conclusion in a way of reasoning concerning the nearer approach of the pleasure, 'tis certain he _imagines_ it to approach nearer, whenever all external obstacles are removed, along with the more powerful motives of interest and danger, which oppose it. for farther satisfaction on this head, i must refer to my account of the will,[ ] where i shall explain that false sensation of liberty, which makes us imagine we can perform any thing that is not very dangerous or destructive. whenever any other person is under no strong obligations of interest to forbear any pleasure, we judge from _experience_, that the pleasure will exist, and that he will probably obtain it. but when ourselves are in that situation, we judge from an _illusion of the fancy_, that the pleasure is still closer and more immediate. the will seems to move easily every way, and casts a shadow or image of itself even to that side on which it did not settle. by means of this image the enjoyment seems to approach nearer to us, and gives us the same lively satisfaction as if it were perfectly certain and unavoidable. 'twill now be easy to draw this whole reasoning to a point, and to prove, that when riches produce any pride or vanity in their possessors, as they never fail to do, 'tis only by means of a double relation of impressions and ideas. the very essence of riches consists in the power of procuring the pleasures and conveniences of life. the very essence of this power consists in the probability of its exercise, and in its causing us to anticipate, by a _true_ or _false_ reasoning, the real existence of the pleasure. this anticipation of pleasure is, in itself, a very considerable pleasure; and as its cause is some possession or property which we enjoy, and which is thereby related to us, we here clearly see all the parts of the foregoing system most exactly and distinctly drawn out before us. for the same reason, that riches cause pleasure and pride, and poverty excites uneasiness and humility, power must produce the former emotions, and slavery the latter. power or an authority over others makes us capable of satisfying all our desires; as slavery, by subjecting us to the will of others, exposes us to a thousand wants and mortifications. 'tis here worth observing, that the vanity of power, or shame of slavery, are much augmented by the consideration of the persons over whom we exercise our authority, or who exercise it over us. for, supposing it possible to frame statues of such an admirable mechanism, that they could move and act in obedience to the will; 'tis evident the possession of them would give pleasure and pride, but not to such a degree as the same authority, when exerted over sensible and rational creatures, whose condition, being compared to our own, makes it seem more agreeable and honourable. comparison is in every case a sure method of augmenting our esteem of any thing. a rich man feels the felicity of his condition better by opposing it to that of a beggar. but there is a peculiar advantage in power, by the contrast, which is, in a manner, presented to us betwixt ourselves and the person we command. the comparison is obvious and natural: the imagination finds it in the very subject: the passage of the thought to its conception is smooth and easy. and that this circumstance has a considerable effect in augmenting its influence, will appear afterwards in examining the nature of _malice_ and _envy_. [ ] part iii. sect. . section xi. of the love of fame. but beside these original causes of pride and humility, there is a secondary one in the opinions of others, which has an equal influence on the affections. our reputation, our character, our name, are considerations of vast weight and importance; and even the other causes of pride, virtue, beauty and riches, have little influence, when not seconded by the opinions and sentiments of others. in order to account for this phenomenon, 'twill be necessary to take some compass, and first explain the nature of _sympathy_. no quality of human nature is more remarkable, both in itself and in its consequences, than that propensity we have to sympathize with others, and to receive by communication their inclinations and sentiments, however different from, or even contrary to, our own. this is not only conspicuous in children, who implicitly embrace every opinion proposed to them; but also in men of the greatest judgment and understanding, who find it very difficult to follow their own reason or inclination, in opposition to that of their friends and daily companions. to this principle we ought to ascribe the great uniformity we may observe in the humours and turn of thinking of those of the same nation; and 'tis much more probable, that this resemblance arises from sympathy, than from any influence of the soil and climate, which, though they continue invariably the same, are not able to preserve the character of a nation the same for a century together. a good-natured man finds himself in an instant of the same humour with his company; and even the proudest and most surly take a tincture from their countrymen and acquaintance. a cheerful countenance infuses a sensible complacency and serenity into my mind; as an angry or sorrowful one throws a sudden damp upon me. hatred, resentment, esteem, love, courage, mirth and melancholy; all these passions i feel more from communication, than from my own natural temper and disposition. so remarkable a phenomenon merits our attention, and must be traced up to its first principles. when any affection is infused by sympathy, it is at first known only by its effects, and by those external signs in the countenance and conversation, which convey an idea of it. this idea is presently converted into an impression, and acquires such a degree of force and vivacity, as to become the very passion itself, and produce an equal emotion as any original affection. however instantaneous this change of the idea into an impression may be, it proceeds from certain views and reflections, which will not escape the strict scrutiny of a philosopher, though they may the person himself who makes them. 'tis evident that the idea, or rather impression of ourselves, is always intimately present with us, and that our consciousness gives us so lively a conception of our own person, that 'tis not possible to imagine that any thing can in this particular go beyond it. whatever object, therefore, is related to ourselves, must be conceived with a like vivacity of conception, according to the foregoing principles; and though this relation should not be so strong as that of causation, it must still have a considerable influence. resemblance and contiguity are relations not to be neglected; especially when, by an inference from cause and effect, and by the observation of external signs, we are informed of the real existence of the object, which is resembling or contiguous. now, 'tis obvious that nature has preserved a great resemblance among all human creatures, and that we never remark any passion or principle in others, of which, in some degree or other, we may not find a parallel in ourselves. the case is the same with the fabric of the mind as with that of the body. however the parts may differ in shape or size, their structure and composition are in general the same. there is a very remarkable resemblance, which preserves itself amidst all their variety; and this resemblance must very much contribute to make us enter into the sentiments of others, and embrace them with facility and pleasure. accordingly we find, that where, beside the general resemblance of our natures, there is any peculiar similarity in our manners, or character, or country, or language, it facilitates the sympathy. the stronger the relation is betwixt ourselves and any object, the more easily does the imagination make the transition, and convey to the related idea the vivacity of conception, with which we always form the idea of our own person. nor is resemblance the only relation which has this effect, but receives new force from other relations that may accompany it. the sentiments of others have little influence when far removed from us, and require the relation of contiguity to make them communicate themselves entirely. the relations of blood, being a species of causation, may sometimes contribute to the same effect; as also acquaintance, which operates in the same manner with education and custom, as we shall see more fully afterwards.[ ] all these relations, when united together, convey the impression or consciousness of our own person to the idea of the sentiments or passions of others, and makes us conceive them in the strongest and most lively manner. it has been remarked in the beginning of this treatise, that all ideas are borrowed from impressions, and that these two kinds of perceptions differ only in the degrees of force and vivacity with which they strike upon the soul. the component parts of ideas and impressions are precisely alike. the manner and order of their appearance may be the same. the different degrees of their force and vivacity are, therefore, the only particulars that distinguish them: and as this difference may be removed, in some measure, by a relation betwixt the impressions and ideas, 'tis no wonder an idea of a sentiment or passion may by this means be so enlivened as to become the very sentiment or passion. the lively idea of any object always approaches its impression; and 'tis certain we may feel sickness and pain from the mere force of imagination, and make a malady real by often thinking of it. but this is most remarkable in the opinions and affections; and 'tis there principally that a lively idea is converted into an impression. our affections depend more upon ourselves, and the internal operations of the mind, than any other impressions; for which reason they arise more naturally from the imagination, and from every lively idea we form of them. this is the nature and cause of sympathy; and 'tis after this manner we enter so deep into the opinions and affections of others, whenever we discover them. what is principally remarkable in this whole affair, is the strong confirmation these phenomena give to the foregoing system concerning the understanding, and consequently to the present one concerning the passions, since these are analogous to each other. 'tis indeed evident, that when we sympathize with the passions and sentiments of others, these movements appear at first in _our_ mind as mere ideas, and are conceived to belong to another person, as we conceive any other matter of fact. 'tis also evident, that the ideas of the affections of others are converted into the very impressions they represent, and that the passions arise in conformity to the images we form of them. all this is an object of the plainest experience, and depends not on any hypothesis of philosophy. that science can only be admitted to explain the phenomena; though at the same time it must be confessed, they are so clear of themselves, that there is but little occasion to employ it. for, besides the relation of cause and effect, by which we are convinced of the reality of the passion with which we sympathize; besides this, i say, we must be assisted by the relations of resemblance and contiguity, in order to feel the sympathy in its full perfection. and since these relations can entirely convert an idea into an impression, and convey the vivacity of the latter into the former, so perfectly as to lose nothing of it in the transition, we may easily conceive how the relation of cause and effect alone, may serve to strengthen and enliven an idea. in sympathy there is an evident conversion of an idea into an impression. this conversion arises from the relation of objects to ourself. ourself is always intimately present to us. let us compare all these circumstances, and we shall find, that sympathy is exactly correspondent to the operations of our understanding; and even contains something more surprising and extraordinary. 'tis now time to turn our view from the general consideration of sympathy, to its influence on pride and humility, when these passions arise from praise and blame, from reputation and infamy. we may observe, that no person is ever praised by another for any quality which would not, if real, produce of itself a pride in the person possessed of it. the eulogiums either turn upon his power, or riches, or family, or virtue; all of which are subjects of vanity, that we have already explained and accounted for. 'tis certain, then, that if a person considered himself in the same light in which he appears to his admirer, he would first receive a separate pleasure, and afterwards a pride or self-satisfaction, according to the hypothesis above explained. now, nothing is more natural than for us to embrace the opinions of others in this particular, both from _sympathy_, which renders all their sentiments intimately present to us, and from _reasoning_, which makes us regard their judgment as a kind of argument for what they affirm. these two principles of authority and sympathy influence almost all our opinions, but must have a peculiar influence when we judge of our own worth and character. such judgments are always attended with passion;[ ] and nothing tends more to disturb our understanding, and precipitate us into any opinions, however unreasonable, than their connexion with passion, which diffuses itself over the imagination, and gives an additional force to every related idea. to which we may add, that, being conscious of great partiality in our own favour, we are peculiarly pleased with any thing that confirms the good opinion we have of ourselves, and are easily shocked with whatever opposes it. all this appears very probable in theory; but in order to bestow a full certainty on this reasoning, we must examine the phenomena of the passions, and see if they agree with it. among these phenomena we may esteem it a very favourable one to our present purpose, that though fame in general be agreeable, yet we receive a much greater satisfaction from the approbation of those whom we ourselves esteem and approve of, than of those whom we hate and despise. in like manner we are principally mortified with the contempt of persons upon whose judgment we set some value, and are, in a great measure, indifferent about the opinions of the rest of mankind. but if the mind received from any original instinct a desire of fame, and aversion to infamy, fame and infamy would influence us without distinction; and every opinion, according as it were favourable or unfavourable, would equally excite that desire or aversion. the judgment of a fool is the judgment of another person, as well as that of a wise man, and is only inferior in its influence on our own judgment. we are not only better pleased with the approbation of a wise man than with that of a fool, but receive an additional satisfaction from the former, when 'tis obtained after a long and intimate acquaintance. this is accounted for after the same manner. the praises of others never give us much pleasure, unless they concur with our own opinion, and extol us for those qualities in which we chiefly excel. a mere soldier little values the character of eloquence; a gownman, of courage; a bishop, of humour; or a merchant, of learning. whatever esteem a man may have for any quality, abstractedly considered, when he is conscious he is not possessed of it, the opinions of the whole world will give him little pleasure in that particular, and that because they never will be able to draw his own opinion after them. nothing is more usual than for men of good families, but narrow circumstances, to leave their friends and country, and rather seek their livelihood by mean and mechanical employments among strangers, than among those who are acquainted with their birth and education. we shall be unknown, say they, where we go. nobody will suspect from what family we are sprung. we shall be removed from all our friends and acquaintance, and our poverty and meanness will by that means sit more easy upon us. in examining these sentiments, i find they afford many very convincing arguments for my present purpose. first, we may infer from them that the uneasiness of being contemned depends on sympathy, and that sympathy depends on the relation of objects to ourselves, since we are most uneasy under the contempt of persons who are both related to us by blood and contiguous in place. hence we seek to diminish this sympathy and uneasiness by separating these relations, and placing ourselves in a contiguity to strangers, and at a distance from relations. secondly, we may conclude, that relations are requisite to sympathy, not absolutely considered as relations, but by their influence in converting our ideas of the sentiments of others into the very sentiments by means of the association betwixt the idea of their persons and that of our own. for here the relations of kindred and contiguity both subsist, but not being united in the same persons, they contribute in a less degree to the sympathy. thirdly, this very circumstance of the diminution of sympathy, by the separation of relations, is worthy of our attention. suppose i am placed in a poor condition among strangers, and consequently am but lightly treated; i yet find myself easier in that situation, than when i was every day exposed to the contempt of my kindred and countrymen. here i feel a double contempt; from my relations, but they are absent; from those about me, but they are strangers. this double contempt is likewise strengthened by the two relations of kindred and contiguity. but as the persons are not the same who are connected with me by those two relations, this difference of ideas separates the impressions arising from the contempt, and keeps them from running into each other. the contempt of my neighbours has a certain influence, as has also that of my kindred; but these influences are distinct and never unite, as when the contempt proceeds from persons who are at once both my neighbours and kindred. this phenomenon is analogous to the system of pride and humility above explained, which may seem so extraordinary to vulgar apprehensions. fourthly, a person in these circumstances naturally conceals his birth from those among whom he lives, and is very uneasy if any one suspects him to be of a family much superior to his present fortune and way of living. every thing in this world is judged of by comparison what is an immense fortune for a private gentleman, is beggary for a prince. a peasant would think himself happy in what cannot afford necessaries for a gentleman. when a man has either been accustomed to a more splendid way of living, or thinks himself entitled to it by his birth and quality, every thing below is disagreeable and even shameful; and 'tis with the greatest industry he conceals his pretensions to a better fortune. here he himself knows his misfortunes; but as those with whom he lives are ignorant of them, he has the disagreeable reflection and comparison suggested only by his own thoughts, and never receives it by a sympathy with others; which must contribute very much to his ease and satisfaction. if there be any objections to this hypothesis, _that the pleasure which we receive from praise arises from a communication of sentiments_, we shall find, upon examination, that these objections, when taken in a proper light, will serve to confirm it. popular fame may be agreeable even to a man who despises the vulgar; but 'tis because their multitude gives them additional weight and authority. plagiaries are delighted with praises, which they are conscious they do not deserve; but this is a kind of castle-building, where the imagination amuses itself with its own fictions, and strives to render them firm and stable by a sympathy with the sentiments of others. proud men are most shocked with contempt, though they do not most readily assent to it; but 'tis because of the opposition betwixt the passion, which is natural to them, and that received by sympathy. a violent lover, in like manner, is very much displeased when you blame and condemn his love; though 'tis evident your opposition can have no influence but by the hold it takes of himself, and by his sympathy with you. if he despises you, or perceives you are in jest, whatever you say has no effect upon him. [ ] part ii. sect. . [ ] book i. part iii. sect. . section xii. of the pride and humility of animals. thus, in whatever light we consider this subject, we may still observe, that the causes of pride and humility correspond exactly to our hypothesis, and that nothing can excite either of these passions, unless it be both related to ourselves, and produces a pleasure or pain independent of the passion. we have not only proved, that a tendency to produce pleasure or pain is common to all the causes of pride or humility, but also that 'tis the only thing which is common, and consequently is the quality by which they operate. we have farther proved, that the most considerable causes of these passions are really nothing but the power of producing either agreeable or uneasy sensations; and therefore that all their effects, and amongst the rest pride and humility, are derived solely from that origin. such simple and natural principles, founded on such solid proofs, cannot fail to be received by philosophers, unless opposed by some objections that have escaped me. 'tis usual with anatomists to join their observations and experiments on human bodies to those on beasts; and, from the agreement of these experiments, to derive an additional argument for any particular hypothesis. 'tis indeed certain, that where the structure of parts in brutes is the same as in men, and the operation of these parts also the same, the causes of that operation cannot be different; and that whatever we discover to be true of the one species, may be concluded, without hesitation, to be certain of the other. thus, though the mixture of humours, and the composition of minute parts, may justly be presumed to be somewhat different in men from what it is in mere animals, and therefore any experiment we make upon the one concerning the effects of medicines, will not always apply to the other, yet, as the structure of the veins and muscles, the fabric and situation of the heart, of the lungs, the stomach, the liver, and other parts, are the same or nearly the same in all animals, the very same hypothesis, which in one species explains muscular motion, the progress of the chyle, the circulation of the blood, must be applicable to every one; and, according as it agrees or disagrees with the experiments we may make in any species of creatures, we may draw a proof of its truth or falsehood on the whole. let us therefore apply this method of inquiry, which is found so just and useful in reasonings concerning the body, to our present anatomy of the mind, and see what discoveries we can make by it. in order to this, we must first show the correspondence of _passions_ in men and animals, and afterwards compare the _causes_, which produce these passions. 'tis plain, that almost in every species of creatures, but especially of the nobler kind, there are many evident marks of pride and humility. the very port and gait of a swan, or turkey, or peacock, show the high idea he has entertained of himself, and his contempt of all others. this is the more remarkable, that, in the two last species of animals, the pride always attends the beauty, and is discovered in the mule only. the vanity and emulation of nightingales in singing have been commonly remarked; as likewise that of horses in swiftness, of hounds in sagacity and smell, of the bull and cock in strength, and of every other animal in his particular excellency. add to this, that every species of creatures, which approach so often to man as to familiarize themselves with him, show an evident pride in his approbation, and are pleased with his praises and caresses, independent of every other consideration. nor are they the caresses of every one without distinction which give them this vanity, but those principally of the persons they know and love; in the same manner as that passion is excited in mankind. all these are evident proofs that pride and humility are not merely human passions, but extend themselves over the whole animal creation. the _causes_ of these passions are likewise much the same in beasts as in us, making a just allowance for our superior knowledge and understanding. thus, animals have little or no sense of virtue or vice; they quickly lose sight of the relations of blood; and are incapable of that of right and property: for which reason the causes of their pride and humility must lie solely in the body, and can never be placed either in the mind or external objects. but so far as regards the body, the same qualities cause pride in the animal as in the human kind; and 'tis on beauty, strength, swiftness, or some other useful or agreeable quality, that this passage is always founded. the next question is, whether, since those passions are the same, and arise from the same causes through the whole creation, the _manner_, in which the causes operate, be also the same. according to all rules of analogy, this is justly to be expected; and if we find upon trial, that the explication of these phenomena, which we make use of in one species, will not apply to the rest, we may presume that that explication, however specious, is in reality without foundation. in order to decide this question, let us consider, that there is evidently the same _relation_ of ideas, and derived from the same causes, in the minds of animals as in those of men. a dog, that has hid a bone, often forgets the place; but when brought to it, his thought passes easily to what he formerly concealed, by means of the contiguity, which produces a relation among his ideas. in like manner, when he has been heartily beat in any place, he will tremble on his approach to it, even though he discover no signs of any present danger. the effects of resemblance are not so remarkable; but as that relation makes a considerable ingredient in causation, of which all animals show so evident a judgment, we may conclude, that the three relations of resemblance, contiguity, and causation operate in the same manner upon beasts as upon human creatures. there are also instances of the relation of impressions, sufficient to convince us, that there is an union of certain affections with each other in the inferior species of creatures, as well as in the superior, and that their minds are frequently conveyed through a series of connected emotions. a dog, when elevated with joy, runs naturally into love and kindness, whether of his master or of the sex. in like manner, when full of pain and sorrow, he becomes quarrelsome and ill natured; and that passion, which at first was grief, is by the smallest occasion converted into anger. thus, all the internal principles that are necessary in us to produce either pride or humility, are common to all creatures; and since the causes, which excite these passions, are likewise the same, we may justly conclude, that these causes operate after the same _manner_ through the whole animal creation. my hypothesis is so simple, and supposes so little reflection and judgment, that 'tis applicable to every sensible creature; which must not only be allowed to be a convincing proof of its veracity, but, i am confident, will be found an objection to every other system. part ii. of love and hatred. section i. of the object and causes of love and hatred. 'tis altogether impossible to give any definition of the passions of _love_ and _hatred_; and that because they produce merely a simple impression, without any mixture or composition. 'twould be as unnecessary to attempt any description of them, drawn from their nature, origin, causes, and objects; and that both because these are the subjects of our present inquiry, and because these passions of themselves are sufficiently known from our common feeling and experience. this we have already observed concerning pride and humility, and here repeat it concerning love and hatred; and, indeed, there is so great a resemblance betwixt these two sets of passions, that we shall be obliged to begin with a kind of abridgment of our reasonings concerning the former, in order to explain the latter. as the immediate _object_ of pride and humility is self, or that identical person of whose thoughts, actions and sensations, we are intimately conscious; so the _object_ of love and hatred is some other person, of whose thoughts, actions and sensations, we are not conscious. this is sufficiently evident from experience. our love and hatred are always directed to some sensible being external to us; and when we talk of _self-love_, 'tis not in a proper sense, nor has the sensation it produces any thing in common with that tender emotion, which is excited by a friend or mistress. 'tis the same case with hatred. we may be mortified by our own faults and follies; but never feel any anger or hatred, except from the injuries of others. but though the object of love and hatred be always some other person, 'tis plain that the object is not, properly speaking, the _cause_ of these passions, or alone sufficient to excite them. for since love and hatred are directly contrary in their sensation, and have the same object in common, if that object were also their cause, it would produce these opposite passions in an equal degree; and as they must, from the very first moment, destroy each other, none of them would ever be able to make its appearance. there must, therefore, be some cause different from the object. if we consider the causes of love and hatred, we shall find they are very much diversified, and have not many things in common. the virtue, knowledge, wit, good sense, good humour of any person, produce love and esteem; as the opposite qualities, hatred and contempt. the same passions arise from bodily accomplishments, such as beauty, force, swiftness, dexterity; and from their contraries; as likewise from the external advantages and disadvantages of family, possessions, clothes, nation and climate. there is not one of these objects but what, by its different qualities, may produce love and esteem, or hatred and contempt. from the view of these causes we may derive a new distinction betwixt the _quality_ that operates, and the _subject_ on which it is placed. a prince that is possessed of a stately palace commands the esteem of the people upon that account; and that, _first_, by the beauty of the palace; and, _secondly_, by the relation of property, which connects it with him. the removal of either of these destroys the passion; which evidently proves that the cause is a compounded one. 'twould be tedious to trace the passions of love and hatred through all the observations which we have formed concerning pride and humility, and which are equally applicable to both sets of passions. 'twill be sufficient to _remark_, in general, that the object of love and hatred is evidently some thinking person; and that the sensation of the former passion is always agreeable, and of the latter uneasy. we may also _suppose_, with some show of probability, _that the cause of both these passions is always related to a thinking being_, and _that the cause of the former produces a separate pleasure, and of the latter a separate uneasiness_. one of these suppositions, viz. that the cause of love and hatred must be related to a person or thinking being, in order to produce these passions, is not only probable, but too evident to be contested. virtue and vice, when considered in the abstract; beauty and deformity, when placed on inanimate objects; poverty and riches, when belonging to a third person, excite no degree of love or hatred, esteem or contempt, towards those who have no relation to them. a person looking out at a window sees me in the street, and beyond me a beautiful palace, with which i have no concern: i believe none will pretend, that this person will pay me the same respect as if i were owner of the palace. 'tis not so evident at first sight, that a relation of impressions is requisite to these passions, and that because in the transition the one impression is so much confounded with the other, that they become in a manner undistinguishable. but as in pride and humility, we have easily been able to make the separation, and to prove, that every cause of these passions produces a separate pain or pleasure, i might here observe the same method with the same success, in examining particularly the several causes of love and hatred. but as i hasten to a full and decisive proof of these systems, i delay this examination for a moment; and in the mean time shall endeavour to convert to my present purpose all my reasonings concerning pride and humility, by an argument that is founded on unquestionable experience. there are few persons that are satisfied with their own character, or genius, or fortune, who are not desirous of showing themselves to the world, and of acquiring the love and approbation of mankind. now 'tis evident, that the very same qualities and circumstances, which are the causes of pride or self-esteem, are also the causes of vanity, or the desire of reputation; and that we always put to view those particulars with which in ourselves we are best satisfied. but if love and esteem were not produced by the same qualities as pride, according as these qualities are related to ourselves or others, this method of proceeding would be very absurd; nor could men expect a correspondence in the sentiments of every other person with those themselves have entertained. 'tis true, few can form exact systems of the passions, or make reflections on their general nature and resemblances. but without such a progress in philosophy, we are not subject to many mistakes in this particular, but are sufficiently guided by common experience, as well as by a kind of _presentation_, which tells us what will operate on others, by what we feel immediately in ourselves. since then the same qualities that produce pride or humility, cause love or hatred, all the arguments that have been employed to prove that the causes of the former passions excite a pain or pleasure independent of the passion, will be applicable with equal evidence to the causes of the latter. section ii. experiments to confirm this system. upon duly weighing these arguments, no one will make any scruple to assent to that conclusion i draw from them, concerning the transition along related impressions and ideas, especially as 'tis a principle in itself so easy and natural. but that we may place this system beyond doubt, both with regard to love and hatred, pride and humility, 'twill be proper to make some new experiments upon all these passions, as well as to recal a few of these observations which i have formerly touched upon. in order to make these experiments, let us suppose i am in company with a person, whom i formerly regarded without any sentiments either of friendship or enmity. here i have the natural and ultimate object of all these four passions placed before me. myself am the proper object of pride or humility; the other person of love or hatred. regard now with attention the nature of these passions, and their situation with respect to each other. 'tis evident here are four affections, placed as it were in a square, or regular connexion with, and distance from, each other. the passions of pride and humility, as well as those of love and hatred, are connected together by the identity of their object, which to the first set of passions is self, to the second some other person. these two lines of communication or connexion form two opposite sides of the square. again, pride and love are agreeable passions; hatred and humility uneasy. this similitude of sensation betwixt pride and love, and that betwixt humility and hatred, form a new connexion, and may be considered as the other two sides of the square. upon the whole, pride is connected with humility, love with hatred, by their objects or ideas: pride with love, humility with hatred, by their sensations or impressions. i say then, that nothing can produce any of these passions without bearing it a double relation, viz. of ideas to the object of the passion, and of sensation to the passion itself. this we must prove by our experiments. _first experiment_. to proceed with the greater order in these experiments, let us first suppose, that being placed in the situation above mentioned, viz. in company with some other person, there is an object presented, that has no relation either of impressions or ideas to any of these passions. thus, suppose we regard together an ordinary stone, or other common object, belonging to neither of us, and causing of itself no emotion, or independent pain and pleasure: 'tis evident such an object will produce none of these four passions. let us try it upon each of them successively. let us apply it to love, to hatred, to humility, to pride; none of them ever arises in the smallest degree imaginable. let us change the object as oft as we please, provided still we choose one that has neither of these two relations. let us repeat the experiment in all the dispositions of which the mind is susceptible. no object in the vast variety of nature will, in any disposition, produce any passion without these relations. _second experiment_. since an object that wants both these relations can ever produce any passion, let us bestow on it only one of these relations, and see what will follow. thus, suppose i regard a stone, or any common object that belongs either to me or my companion, and by that means acquires a relation of ideas to the object of the passions: 'tis plain that, to consider the matter _a priori_, no emotion of any kind can reasonably be expected. for, besides that a relation of ideas operates secretly and calmly on the mind, it bestows an equal impulse towards the opposite passions of pride and humility, love and hatred, according as the object belongs to ourselves or others; which opposition of the passions must destroy both, and leave the mind perfectly free from any affection or emotion. this reasoning _a priori_ is confirmed by experience. no trivial or vulgar object, that causes not a pain or pleasure independent of the passion, will ever, by its property or other relations, either to ourselves or others, be able to produce the affections of pride or humility, love or hatred. _third experiment_. 'tis evident, therefore, that a relation of ideas is not able alone to give rise to these affections. let us now remove this relation, and, in its stead, place a relation of impressions, by presenting an object, which is agreeable or disagreeable, but has no relation either to ourself or companion; and let us observe the consequences. to consider the matter first _a priori_, as in the preceding experiment, we may conclude that the object will have a small, but an uncertain connexion with these passions. for, besides that this relation is not a cold and imperceptible one, it has not the inconvenience of the relation of ideas, nor directs us with equal force to two contrary passions, which, by their opposition, destroy each other. but if we consider, on the other hand, that this transition from the sensation to the affection is not forwarded by any principle that produces a transition of ideas; but, on the contrary, that though the one impression be easily transfused into the other, yet the change of objects is supposed contrary to all the principles that cause a transition of that kind; we may from thence infer, that nothing will ever be a steady or durable cause of any passion that is connected with the passion merely by a relation of impressions. what our reason would conclude from analogy, after balancing these arguments, would be, that an object, which produces pleasure or uneasiness, but has no manner of connexion either with ourselves or others, may give such a turn to the disposition as that it may naturally fall into pride or love, humility or hatred, and search for other objects, upon which, by a double relation, it can found these affections; but that an object, which has only one of these relations, though the most advantageous one, can never give rise to any constant and established passion. most fortunately, all this reasoning is found to be exactly conformable to experience and the phenomena of the passions. suppose i were travelling with a companion through a country to which we are both utter strangers; 'tis evident, that if the prospects be beautiful, the roads agreeable, and the inns commodious, this may put me into good humour both with myself and fellow-traveller. but as we suppose that this country has no relation either to myself or friend, it can never be the immediate cause of pride or love; and, therefore, if i found not the passion on some other object that bears either of us a closer relation, my emotions are rather to be considered as the overflowings of an elevate or humane disposition, than as an established passion. the case is the same where the object produces uneasiness. _fourth experiment_. having found, that neither an object, without any relation of ideas or impressions, nor an object that has only one relation, can ever cause pride or humility, love or hatred; reason alone may convince us, without any farther experiment, that whatever has a double relation must necessarily excite these passions; since 'tis evident they must have some cause. but, to leave as little room for doubt as possible, let us renew our experiments, and see whether the event in this case answers our expectation. i chuse an object, such as virtue, that causes a separate satisfaction: on this object i bestow a relation to self; and find, that from this disposition of affairs there immediately arises a passion. but what passion? that very one of pride, to which this object bears a double relation. its idea is related to that of self, the object of the passion: the sensation it causes resembles the sensation of the passion. that i may be sure i am not mistaken in this experiment, i remove first one relation, then another, and find that each removal destroys the passion, and leaves the object perfectly indifferent. but i am not content with this. i make a still farther trial; and instead of removing the relation, i only change it for one of a different kind. i suppose the virtue to belong to my companion, not to myself; and observe what follows from this alteration. i immediately perceive the affections to wheel about, and leaving pride, where there is only one relation, viz. of impressions, fall to the side of love, where they are attracted by a double relation of impressions and ideas. by repeating the same experiment in changing anew the relation of ideas, i bring the affections back to pride; and, by a new repetition, i again place them at love or kindness. being fully convinced of the influence of this relation, i try the effects of the other; and, by changing virtue for vice, convert the pleasant impression which arises from the former, into the disagreeable one which proceeds from the latter. the effect still answers expectation. vice, when placed on another, excites, by means of its double relations, the passion of hatred, instead of love, which, for the same reason, arises from virtue. to continue the experiment, i change anew the relation of ideas, and suppose the vice to belong to myself. what follows? what is usual. a subsequent change of the passion from hatred to humility. this humility i convert into pride by a new change of the impression; and find, after all, that i have completed the round, and have by these changes brought back the passion to that very situation in which i first found it. but to make the matter still more certain, i alter the object; and, instead of vice and virtue, make the trial upon beauty and deformity, riches and poverty, power and servitude. each of these objects runs the circle of the passions in the same manner, by a change of their relations: and in whatever order we proceed, whether through pride, love, hatred, humility, or through humility, hatred, love, pride, the experiment is not in the least diversified. esteem and contempt, indeed, arise on some occasions instead of love and hatred; but these are, at the bottom, the same passions, only diversified by some causes, which we shall explain afterwards. _fifth experiment_. to give greater authority to these experiments, let us change the situation of affairs as much as possible, and place the passions and objects in all the different positions of which they are susceptible. let us suppose, beside the relations above mentioned, that the person, along with whom i make all these experiments, is closely connected with me either by blood or friendship. he is, we shall suppose, my son or brother, or is united to me by a long and familiar acquaintance. let us next suppose, that the cause of the passion acquires a double relation of impressions and ideas to this person; and let us see what the effects are of all these complicated attractions and relations. before we consider what they are in fact, let us determine what they ought to be, conformable to my hypothesis. 'tis plain, that, according as the impression is either pleasant or uneasy, the passion of love or hatred must arise towards the person who is thus connected to the cause of the impression by these double relations which i have all along required. the virtue of a brother must make me love him, as his vice or infamy must excite the contrary passion. but to judge only from the situation of affairs, i should not expect that the affections would rest there, and never transfuse themselves into any other impression. as there is here a person, who, by means of a double relation, is the object of my passion, the very same reasoning leads me to think the passion will be carried farther. the person has a relation of ideas to myself, according to the supposition; the passion of which he is the object, by being either agreeable or uneasy, has a relation of impressions to pride or humility. 'tis evident, then, that one of these passions must arise from the love or hatred. this is the reasoning i form in conformity to my hypothesis; and am pleased to find, upon trial, that every thing answers exactly to my expectation. the virtue or vice of a son or brother not only excites love or hatred, but, by a new transition from similar causes, gives rise to pride or humility. nothing causes greater vanity than any shining quality in our relations; as nothing mortifies us more than their vice or infamy. this exact conformity of experience to our reasoning is a convincing proof of the solidity of that hypothesis upon which we reason. _sixth experiment_. this evidence will be still augmented if we reverse the experiment, and, preserving still the same relations, begin only with a different passion. suppose that, instead of the virtue or vice of a son or brother, which causes first love or hatred, and afterwards pride or humility, we place these good or bad qualities on ourselves, without any immediate connexion with the person who is related to us, experience shows us, that, by this change of situation, the whole chain is broke, and that the mind is not conveyed from one passion to another, as in the preceding instance. we never love or hate a son or brother for the virtue or vice we discern in ourselves; though 'tis evident the same qualities in him give us a very sensible pride or humility. the transition from pride or humility to love or hatred, is not so natural as from love or hatred to pride or humility. this may at first sight be esteemed contrary to my hypothesis, since the relations of impressions and ideas are in both cases precisely the same. pride and humility are impressions related to love and hatred. myself am related to the person. it should therefore be expected, that like causes must produce like effects, and a perfect transition arise from the double relation, as in all other cases. this difficulty we may easily solve by the following reflections. 'tis evident that, as we are at all times intimately conscious of ourselves, our sentiments and passions, their ideas must strike upon us with greater vivacity than the ideas of the sentiments and passions of any other person. but every thing that strikes upon us with vivacity, and appears in a full and strong light, forces itself, in a manner, into our consideration, and becomes present to the mind on the smallest hint and most trivial relation. for the same reason, when it is once present, it engages the attention, and keeps it from wandering to other objects, however strong may be their relation to our first object. the imagination passes easily from obscure to lively ideas, but with difficulty from lively to obscure. in the one case the relation is aided by another principle; in the other case, 'tis opposed by it. now, i have observed, that those two faculties of the mind, the imagination and passions, assist each other in their operation when their propensities are similar, and when they act upon the same object. the mind has always a propensity to pass from a passion to any other related to it; and this propensity is forwarded when the object of the one passion is related to that of the other. the two impulses concur with each other, and render the whole transition more smooth and easy. but if it should happen, that, while the relation of ideas, strictly speaking, continues the same, its influence in causing a transition of the imagination should no longer take place, 'tis evident its influence on the passions must also cease, as being dependent entirely on that transition. this is the reason why pride or humility is not transfused into love or hatred with the same ease that the latter passions are changed into the former. if a person be my brother, i am his likewise: but though the relations be reciprocal, they have very different effects on the imagination. the passage is smooth and open from the consideration of any person related to us to that of ourself, of whom we are every moment conscious. but when the affections are once directed to ourself, the fancy passes not with the same facility from that object to any other person, how closely soever connected with us. this easy or difficult transition of the imagination operates upon the passions, and facilitates or retards their transition; which is a clear proof that these two faculties of the passions and imagination are connected together, and that the relations of ideas have an influence upon the affections. besides innumerable experiments that prove this, we here find, that even when the relation remains; if by any particular circumstance its usual effect upon the fancy in producing an association or transition of ideas is prevented, its usual effect upon the passions, in conveying us from one to another, is in like manner prevented. some may, perhaps, find a contradiction betwixt this phenomenon and that of sympathy, where the mind passes easily from the idea of ourselves to that of any other object related to us. but this difficulty will vanish, if we consider that in sympathy our own person is not the object of any passion, nor is there any thing that fixes our attention on ourselves, as in the present case, where we are supposed to be actuated, with pride or humility. ourself, independent of the perception of every other object, is in reality nothing; for which reason we must turn our view to external objects, and 'tis natural for us to consider with most attention such as lie contiguous to us, or resemble us. but when self is the object of a passion, 'tis not natural to quit the consideration of it till the passion be exhausted, in which case the double relations of impressions and ideas can no longer operate. _seventh experiment_. to put this whole reasoning to a farther trial, let us make a new experiment; and as we have already seen the effects of related passions and ideas, let us here suppose an identity of passions along with a relation of ideas; and let us consider the effects of this new situation. 'tis evident a transition of the passions from the one object to the other is here in all reason to be expected; since the relation of ideas is supposed still to continue, and an identity of impressions must produce a stronger connexion, than the most perfect resemblance that can be imagined. if a double relation, therefore, of impressions and ideas, is able to produce a transition from one to the other, much more an identity of impressions with a relation of ideas. accordingly, we find, that when we either love or hate any person, the passions seldom continue within their first bounds; but extend themselves towards all the contiguous objects, and comprehend the friends and relations of him we love or hate. nothing is more natural than to bear a kindness to one brother on account of our friendship for another, without any farther examination of his character. a quarrel with one person gives us a hatred for the whole family, though entirely innocent of that which displeases us. instances of this kind are every where to be met with. there is only one difficulty in this experiment which it will be necessary to account for, before we proceed any farther. 'tis evident, that though all passions pass easily from one object to another related to it, yet this transition is made with greater facility where the more considerable object is first presented, and the lesser follows it, than where this order is reversed, and the lesser takes the precedence. thus, 'tis more natural for us to love the son upon account of the father, than the father upon account of the son; the servant for the master, than the master for the servant; the subject for the prince, than the prince for the subject. in like manner we more readily contract a hatred against a whole family, where our first quarrel is with the head of it, than where we are displeased with a son, or servant, or some inferior member. in short, our passions, like other objects, descend with greater facility than they ascend. that we may comprehend wherein consists the difficulty of explaining this phenomenon, we must consider, that the very same reason, which determines the imagination to pass from remote to contiguous objects with more facility than from contiguous to remote, causes it likewise to change with more ease the less for the greater, than the greater for the less. whatever has the greatest influence is most taken notice of; and whatever is most taken notice of, presents itself most readily to the imagination. we are more apt to overlook in any subject what is trivial, than what appears of considerable moment; but especially if the latter takes the precedence, and first engages our attention. thus, if any accident makes us consider the satellites of jupiter, our fancy is naturally determined to form the idea of that planet; but if we first reflect on the principal planet, 'tis more natural for us to overlook its attendants. the mention of the provinces of any empire conveys our thought to the seat of the empire; but the fancy returns not with the same facility to the consideration of the provinces. the idea of the servant makes us think of the master; that of the subject carries our view to the prince. but the same relation has not an equal influence in conveying us back again. and on this is founded that reproach of cornelia to her sons, that they ought to be ashamed she should be more known by the title of the daughter of scipio, than by that of the mother of the gracchi. this was, in other words, exhorting them to render themselves as illustrious and famous as their grandfather, otherwise the imagination of the people, passing from her who was intermediate, and placed in an equal relation to both, would always leave them, and denominate her by what was more considerable and of greater moment. on the same principle is founded that common custom of making wives bear the name of their husbands, rather than husbands that of their wives; as also the ceremony of giving the precedency to those whom we honour and respect. we might find many other instances to confirm this principle, were it not already sufficiently evident. now, since the fancy finds the same facility in passing from the lesser to the greater, as from remote to contiguous, why does not this easy transition of ideas assist the transition of passions in the former case as well as in the latter? the virtues of a friend or brother produce first love, and then pride; because in that case the imagination passes from remote to contiguous, according to its propensity. our own virtues produce not first pride, and then love to a friend or brother; because the passage in that case would be from contiguous to remote, contrary to its propensity. but the love or hatred of an inferior, causes not readily any passion to the superior, though that be the natural propensity of the imagination: while the love or hatred of a superior, causes a passion to the inferior, contrary to its propensity. in short, the same facility of transition operates not in the same manner upon superior and inferior as upon contiguous and remote. these two phenomena appear contradictory, and require some attention to be reconciled. as the transition of ideas is here made contrary to the natural propensity of the imagination, that faculty must be overpowered by some stronger principle of another kind; and as there is nothing ever present to the mind but impressions and ideas, this principle must necessarily lie in the impressions. now, it has been observed, that impressions or passions are connected only by their resemblance, and that where any two passions place the mind in the same or in similar dispositions, it very naturally passes from the one to the other: as on the contrary, a repugnance in the dispositions produces a difficulty in the transition of the passions. but, 'tis observable, that this repugnance may arise from a difference of degree as well as of kind; nor do we experience a greater difficulty in passing suddenly from a small degree of love to a small degree of hatred, than from a small to a great degree of either of these affections. a man, when calm or only moderately agitated, is so different, in every respect, from himself, when disturbed with a violent passion, that no two persons can be more unlike; nor is it easy to pass from the one extreme to the other, without a considerable interval betwixt them. the difficulty is not less, if it be not rather greater in passing from the strong passion to the weak, than in passing from the weak to the strong, provided the one passion upon its appearance destroys the other, and they do not both of them exist at once. but the case is entirely altered, when the passions unite together, and actuate the mind at the same time. a weak passion, when added to a strong, makes not so considerable change in the disposition, as a strong when added to a weak; for which reason there is a closer connexion betwixt the great degree and the small, than betwixt the small degree and the great. the degree of any passion depends upon the nature of its object; and an affection directed to a person, who is considerable in our eyes, fills and possesses the mind much more than one, which has for its object a person we esteem of less consequence. here then, the contradiction betwixt the propensities of the imagination and passion displays itself. when we turn our thought to a great and a small object, the imagination finds more facility in passing from the small to the great, than from the great to the small; but the affections find a greater difficulty: and, as the affections are a more powerful principle than the imagination, no wonder they prevail over it, and draw the mind to their side. in spite of the difficulty of passing from the idea of great to that of little, a passion directed to the former produces always a similar passion towards the latter, when the great and little are related together. the idea of the servant conveys our thought most readily to the master; but the hatred or love of the master produces with greater facility anger or good will to the servant. the strongest passion in this case takes the precedence; and the addition of the weaker making no considerable change on the disposition, the passage is by that means rendered more easy and natural betwixt them. as, in the foregoing experiment, we found that a relation of ideas, which, by any particular circumstance, ceases to produce its usual effect of facilitating the transition of ideas, ceases likewise to operate on the passions; so, in the present experiment, we find the same property of the impressions. two different degrees of the same passion are surely related together; but if the smaller be first present, it has little or no tendency to introduce the greater; and that because the addition of the great to the little produces a more sensible alteration on the temper than the addition of the little to the great. these phenomena, when duly weighed, will be found convincing proofs of this hypothesis. and these proofs will be confirmed, if we consider the manner in which the mind here reconciles the contradiction i have observed betwixt the passions and the imagination. the fancy passes with more facility from the less to the greater, than from the greater to the less. but, on the contrary, a violent passion produces more easily a feeble than that does a violent. in this opposition, the passion in the end prevails over the imagination: but 'tis commonly by complying with it, and by seeking another quality, which may counterbalance that principle from whence the opposition arises. when we love the father or master of a family, we think of his children or servants. but when these are present with us, or when it lies any ways in our power to serve them, the nearness and contiguity in this case increases their magnitude, or at least removes that opposition which the fancy makes to the transition of the affections. if the imagination finds a difficulty in passing from greater to less, it finds an equal facility in passing from remote to contiguous, which brings the matter to an equality, and leaves the way open from the one passion to the other. _eighth experiment_. i have observed, that the transition from love or hatred to pride or humility, is more easy than from pride or humility to love or hatred; and that the difficulty which the imagination finds in passing from contiguous to remote, is the cause why we scarce have any instance of the latter transition of the affections. i must, however, make one exception, viz. when the very cause of the pride and humility is placed in some other person. for, in that case, the imagination is necessitated to consider the person, nor can it possibly confine its view to ourselves. thus, nothing more readily produces kindness and affection to any person than his approbation of our conduct and character; as, on the other hand, nothing inspires us with a stronger hatred than his blame or contempt. here, 'tis evident, that the original passion is pride or humility, whose object is self; and that this passion is transfused into love or hatred, whose object is some other person, notwithstanding the rule i have already established, _that the imagination passes with difficulty from contiguous to remote_. but the transition in this case is not made merely on account of the relation betwixt ourselves and the person; but because that very person is the real cause of our first passion, and, of consequence, is intimately connected with it. 'tis his approbation that produces pride, and disapprobation humility. no wonder, then, the imagination returns back again attended with the related passions of love and hatred. this is not a contradiction, but an exception to the rule; and an exception that arises from the same reason with the rule itself. such an exception as this is, therefore, rather a confirmation of the rule. and indeed, if we consider all the eight experiments i have explained, we shall find that the same principle appears in all of them, and that 'tis by means of a transition arising from a double relation of impressions and ideas, pride and humility, love and hatred are produced. an object without a relation,[ ] or with but one,[ ] never produces either of these passions; and 'tis found[ ] that the passion always varies in conformity to the relation. nay we may observe, that where the relation, by any particular circumstance, has not its usual effect of producing a transition either of ideas or of impressions,[ ] it ceases to operate upon the passions, and gives rise neither to pride nor love, humility nor hatred. this rule we find still to hold good, even under the appearance of its contrary;[ ] and as relation is frequently experienced to have no effect, which upon examination is found to proceed from some particular circumstance that prevents the transition; so, even in instances where that circumstance, though present, prevents not the transition, 'tis found to arise from some other circumstance which counterbalances it. thus, not only the variations resolve themselves into the general principle, but even the variations of these variations. [ ] first experiment. [ ] second and third experiments. [ ] fourth experiment. [ ] sixth experiment. [ ] seventh and eighth experiments. section iii. difficulties solved. after so many and such undeniable proofs drawn from daily experience and observation, it may seem superfluous to enter into a particular examination of all the causes of love and hatred. i shall therefore employ the sequel of this part, _first_, in removing some difficulties concerning particular causes of these passions; _secondly_, in examining the compound affections, which arise from the mixture of love and hatred with other emotions. nothing is more evident, than that any person acquires our kindness, or is exposed to our ill-will, in proportion to the pleasure or uneasiness we receive from him, and that the passions keep pace exactly with the sensations in all their changes and variations. whoever can find the means, either by his services, his beauty, or his flattery, to render himself useful or agreeable to us, is sure of our affections; as, on the other hand, whoever harms or displeases us never fails to excite our anger or hatred. when our own nation is at war with any other, we detest them under the character of cruel, perfidious, unjust, and violent; but always esteem ourselves and allies equitable, moderate, and merciful. if the general of our enemies be successful, 'tis with difficulty we allow him the figure and character of a man. he is a sorcerer; he has a communication with demons, as is reported of oliver cromwell and the duke of luxembourg; he is bloody-minded, and takes a pleasure in death and destruction. but if the success be on our side, our commander has all the opposite good qualities, and is a pattern of virtue, as well as of courage and conduct. his treachery we call policy; his cruelty is an evil inseparable from war. in short, every one of his faults we either endeavour to extenuate, or dignify it with the name of that virtue which approaches it. 'tis evident the same method of thinking rims through common life. there are some who add another condition, and require not only that the pain and pleasure arise from the person, but likewise that it arise knowingly, and with a particular design and intention. a man who wounds and harms us by accident, becomes not our enemy upon that account; nor do we think ourselves bound, by any ties of gratitude, to one who does us any service after the same manner. by the intention we judge of the actions; and, according as that is good or bad, they become causes of love or hatred. but here we must make a distinction. if that quality in another, which pleases or displeases, be constant and inherent in his person and character, it will cause love or hatred, independent of the intention: but otherwise a knowledge and design is requisite, in order to give rise to these passions. one that is disagreeable by his deformity or folly, is the object of our aversion, though nothing be more certain, than that he has not the least intention of displeasing us by these qualities. but if the uneasiness proceed not from a quality, but an action, which is produced and annihilated in a moment, 'tis necessary, in order to produce some relation, and connect this action sufficiently with the person, that it be derived from a particular forethought and design. 'tis not enough that the action arise from the person, and have him for its immediate cause and author. this relation alone is too feeble and inconstant to be a foundation for these passions. it reaches not the sensible and thinking part, and neither proceeds from any thing _durable_ in him, nor leaves any thing behind it, but passes in a moment, and is as if it had never been. on the other hand, an intention shows certain qualities, which, remaining after the action is performed, connect it with the person, and facilitate the transition of ideas from one to the other. we can never think of him without reflecting on these qualities, unless repentance and a change of life have produced an alteration in that respect; in which case the passion is likewise altered. this, therefore, is one reason why an intention is requisite to excite either love or hatred. but we must farther consider, that an intention, besides its strengthening the relation of ideas, is often necessary to produce a relation of impressions, and give rise to pleasure and uneasiness. for 'tis observable, that the principal part of an injury is the contempt and hatred which it shows in the person that injures us; and without that, the mere harm gives us a less sensible uneasiness. in like manner, a good office is agreeable, chiefly because it flatters our vanity, and is a proof of the kindness and esteem of the person who performs it. the removal of the intention removes the mortification in the one case, and vanity in the other; and must of course cause a remarkable diminution in the passions of love and hatred. i grant, that these effects of the removal of design, hatred, in diminishing the relations of impressions and ideas, are not entire, nor able to remove every degree of these relations. but then i ask, if the removal of design be able entirely to remove the passion of love and hatred? experience, i am sure, informs us of the contrary, nor is there any thing more certain than that men often fall into a violent anger for injuries which they themselves must own to be entirely involuntary and accidental. this emotion, indeed, cannot be of long continuance, but still is sufficient to show, that there is a natural connexion betwixt uneasiness and anger, and that the relation of impressions will operate upon a very small relation of ideas. but when the violence of the impression is once a little abated, the defect of the relation begins to be better felt; and as the character of a person is no wise interested in such injuries as are casual and involuntary, it seldom happens that on their account we entertain a lasting enmity. to illustrate this doctrine by a parallel instance, we may observe, that not only the uneasiness which proceeds from another by accident, has but little force to excite our passion, but also that which arises from an acknowledged necessity and duty. one that has a real design of harming us, proceeding not from hatred and ill will, but from justice and equity, draws not upon him our anger, if we be in any degree reasonable; notwithstanding he is both the cause, and the knowing cause, of our sufferings. let us examine a little this phenomenon. 'tis evident, in the first place, that this circumstance is not decisive; and though it may be able to diminish the passions, 'tis seldom it can entirely remove them. how few criminals are there who have no ill will to the person that accuses them, or to the judge that condemns them, even though they be conscious of their own deserts! in like manner our antagonist in a lawsuit, and our competitor for any office, are commonly regarded as our enemies, though we must acknowledge, if we would but reflect a moment, that their motive is entirely as justifiable as our own. besides we may consider, that when we receive harm from any person, we are apt to imagine him criminal, and 'tis with extreme difficulty we allow of his justice and innocence. this is a clear proof that, independent of the opinion of iniquity, any harm or uneasiness has a natural tendency to excite our hatred, and that afterwards we seek for reasons upon which we may justify and establish the passion. here the idea of injury produces not the passion, but arises from it. nor is it any wonder that passion should produce the opinion of injury; since otherwise it must suffer a considerable diminution, which all the passions avoid as much as possible. the removal of injury may remove the anger, without proving that the anger arises only from the injury. the harm and the justice are two contrary objects, of which the one has a tendency to produce hatred, and the other love; and 'tis according to their different degrees, and our particular turn of thinking, that either of the objects prevails and excites its proper passion. section iv. of the love of relations. having given a reason why several actions that cause a real pleasure or uneasiness excite not any degree, or but a small one, of the passion of love or hatred towards the actors, 'twill be necessary to show wherein consists the pleasure or uneasiness of many objects which we find by experience to produce these passions. according to the preceding system, there is always required a double relation of impressions and ideas betwixt the cause and effect, in order to produce either love or hatred. but though this be universally true, 'tis remarkable that the passion of love may be excited by only one _relation_ of a different kind, viz. betwixt ourselves and the object; or, more properly speaking, that this relation is always attended with both the others. whoever is united to us by any connexion is always sure of a share of our love, proportioned to the connexion, without inquiring into his other qualities. thus, the relation of blood produces the strongest tie the mind is capable of in the love of parents to their children, and a lesser degree of the same affection as the relation lessens. nor has consanguinity alone this effect, but any other relation without exception. we love our countrymen, our neighbours, those of the same trade, profession, and even name with ourselves. every one of these relations is esteemed some tie, and gives a title to a share of our affection. there is another phenomenon which is parallel to this, viz. that _acquaintance_, without any kind of relation, gives rise to love and kindness. when we have contracted a habitude and intimacy with any person, though in frequenting his company we have not been able to discover any very valuable quality of which he is possessed; yet we cannot forbear preferring him to strangers of whose superior merit we are fully convinced. these two phenomena of the effects of relation and acquaintance will give mutual light to each other, and may be both explained from the same principle. those who take a pleasure in declaiming against human nature have observed, that man is altogether insufficient to support himself, and that, when you loosen all the holds which he has of external objects, he immediately drops down into the deepest melancholy and despair. from this, say they, proceeds that continual search after amusement in gaming, in hunting, in business, by which we endeavour to forget ourselves, and excite our spirits from the languid state into which they fall when not sustained by some brisk and lively emotion. to this method of thinking i so far agree, that i own the mind to be insufficient, of itself, to its own entertainment, and that it naturally seeks after foreign objects which may produce a lively sensation, and agitate the spirits. on the appearance of such an object it awakes, as it were, from a dream; the blood flows with a new tide; the heart is elevated; and the whole man acquires a vigour which he cannot command in his solitary and calm moments. hence company is naturally so rejoicing, as presenting the liveliest of all objects, viz. a rational and thinking being like ourselves, who communicates to us all the actions of his mind, makes us privy to his inmost sentiments and affections, and lets us see, in the very instant of their production, all the emotions which are caused by any object. every lively idea is agreeable, but especially that of a passion, because such an idea becomes a kind of passion, and gives a more sensible agitation to the mind than any other image or conception. this being once admitted, all the rest is easy. for as the company of strangers is agreeable to us for _a short time_, by enlivening our thought, so the company of our relations and acquaintance must be peculiarly agreeable, because it has this effect in a greater degree, and is of more _durable_ influence. whatever is related to us is conceived in a lively manner by the easy transition from ourselves to the related object. custom also, or acquaintance, facilitates the entrance, and strengthens the conception of any object. the first case is parallel to our reasonings from cause and effect; the second to education. and as reasoning and education concur only in producing a lively and strong idea of any object, so is this the only particular which is common to relation and acquaintance. this must therefore be the influencing quality by which they produce all their common effects; and love or kindness being one of these effects, it must be from the force and liveliness of conception that the passion is derived. such a conception is peculiarly agreeable, and makes us have an affectionate regard for every thing that produces it, when the proper object of kindness and good will. 'tis obvious that people associate together according to their particular tempers and dispositions, and that men of gay tempers naturally love the gay, as the serious bear an affection to the serious. this not only happens where they remark this resemblance betwixt themselves and others, but also by the natural course of the disposition, and by a certain sympathy which always arises betwixt similar characters. where they remark the resemblance, it operates after the manner of a relation by producing a connexion of ideas. where they do not remark it, it operates by some other principle; and if this latter principle be similar to the former, it must be received as a confirmation of the foregoing reasoning. the idea of ourselves is always intimately present to us, and conveys a sensible degree of vivacity to the idea of any other object to which we are related. this lively idea changes by degrees into a real impression; these two kinds of perception being in a great measure the same, and differing only in their degrees of force and vivacity. but this change must be produced with the greater ease, that our natural temper gives us a propensity to the same impression which we observe in others, and makes it arise upon any slight occasion. in that case resemblance converts the idea into an impression, not only by means of the relation, and by transfusing the original vivacity into the related idea; but also by presenting such materials as take fire from the least spark. and as in both cases a love or affection from the resemblance, we may learn that a sympathy with others is agreeable only by giving an emotion to the spirits, since an easy sympathy and correspondent emotions are alone common to _relation, acquaintance_, and _resemblance_. the great propensity men have to pride may be considered as another similar phenomenon. it often happens, that after we have lived a considerable time in any city, however at first it might be disagreeable to us, yet as we become familiar with the objects, and contract an acquaintance, though merely with the streets and buildings, the aversion diminishes by degrees, and at last changes into the opposite passion. the mind finds a satisfaction and ease in the view of objects to which it is accustomed, and naturally prefers them to others, which, though perhaps in themselves more valuable, are less known to it. by the same quality of the mind we are seduced into a good opinion of ourselves, and of all objects that belong to us. they appear in a stronger light, are more agreeable, and consequently fitter subjects of pride and vanity than any other. it may not be amiss, in treating of the affection we bear our acquaintance and relations, to observe some pretty curious phenomena which attend it. 'tis easy to remark in common life, that children esteem their relation to their mother to be weakened, in a great measure, by her second marriage, and no longer regard her with the same eye as if she had continued in her state of widowhood. nor does this happen only when they have felt any inconveniences from her second marriage, or when her husband is much her inferior; but even without any of these considerations, and merely because she has become part of another family. this also takes place with regard to the second marriage of a father, but in a much less degree; and 'tis certain the ties of blood are not so much loosened in the latter case as by the marriage of a mother. these two phenomena are remarkable in themselves, but much more so when compared. in order to produce a perfect relation betwixt two objects, 'tis requisite, not only that the imagination be conveyed from one to the other, by resemblance, contiguity or causation, but also that it return back from the second to the first with the same ease and facility. at first sight this may seem a necessary and unavoidable consequence. if one object resemble another, the latter object must necessarily resemble the former. if one object be the cause of another, the second object is effect to its cause. 'tis the same with contiguity; and therefore the relation being always reciprocal, it may be thought, that the return of the imagination from the second to the first must also, in every case, be equally natural as its passage from the first to the second. but upon farther examination we shall easily discover our mistake. for supposing the second object, beside its reciprocal relation to the first, to have also a strong relation to a third object; in that case the thought, passing from the first object to the second, returns not back with the same facility, though the relation continues the same, but is readily carried on to the third object, by means of the new relation which presents itself, and gives a new impulse to the imagination. this new relation, therefore, weakens the tie betwixt the first and second objects. the fancy is, by its very nature, wavering and inconstant, and considers always two objects as more strongly related together, where it finds the passage equally easy both in going and returning, than where the transition is easy only in one of these motions. the double motion is a kind of a double tie, and binds the objects together in the closest and most intimate manner. the second marriage of a mother breaks not the relation of child and parent; and that relation suffices to convey my imagination from myself to her with the greatest ease and facility. but after the imagination is arrived at this point of view, it finds its object to be surrounded with so many other relations which challenge its regard, that it knows not which to prefer, and is at a loss what new object to pitch upon. the ties of interest and duty bind her to another family, and prevent that return of the fancy from her to myself which is necessary to support the union. the thought has no longer the vibration requisite to set it perfectly at ease, and indulge its inclination to change. it goes with facility, but returns with difficulty; and by that interruption finds the relation much weakened from what it would be were the passage open and easy on both sides. now, to give a reason why this effect follows not in in the same degree upon the second marriage of a father; we may reflect on what has been proved already, that though the imagination goes easily from the view of a lesser object to that of a greater, yet it returns not with the same facility from the greater to the less. when my imagination goes from myself to my father, it passes not so readily from him to his second wife, nor considers him as entering into a different family, but as continuing the head of that family of which i am myself a part. his superiority prevents the easy transition of the thought from him to his spouse, but keeps the passage still open for a return to myself along the same relation of child and parent. he is not sunk in the new relation he acquires; so that the double motion or vibration of thought is still easy and natural. by this indulgence of the fancy in its inconstancy, the tie of child and parent still preserves its full force and influence. a mother thinks not her tie to a son weakened because 'tis shared with her husband; nor a son his with a parent, because 'tis shared with a brother. the third object is here related to the first as well as to the second: so that the imagination goes and comes along all of them with the greatest facility. section v. of our esteem for the rich and powerful. nothing has a greater tendency to give us an esteem for any person than his power and riches, or a contempt, than his poverty and meanness: and as esteem and contempt are to be considered as species of love and hatred, 'twill be proper in this place to explain these phenomena. here it happens, most fortunately, that the greatest difficulty is, not to discover a principle capable of producing such an effect, but to chuse the chief and predominant among several that present themselves. the _satisfaction_ we take in the riches of others, and the _esteem_ we have for the possessors, may be ascribed to three different causes. _first_, to the objects they possess; such as houses, gardens, equipages, which, being agreeable in themselves, necessarily produce a sentiment of pleasure in every one that either considers or surveys them. _secondly_, to the expectation of advantage from the rich and powerful by our sharing their possessions. _thirdly_, to sympathy, which makes us partake of the satisfaction of every one that approaches us. all these principles may concur in producing the present phenomenon. the question is, to which of them we ought principally to ascribe it. 'tis certain that the first principle, viz. the reflection on agreeable objects, has a greater influence than what, at first sight, we may be apt to imagine. we seldom reflect on what is beautiful or ugly, agreeable or disagreeable, without an emotion of pleasure or uneasiness; and though these sensations appear not much, in our common indolent way of thinking, 'tis easy, either in reading or conversation, to discover them. men of wit always turn the discourse on subjects that are entertaining to the imagination; and poets never present any objects but such as are of the same nature. mr philips has chosen _cider_ for the subject of an excellent poem. beer would not have been so proper, as being neither so agreeable to the taste nor eye. but he would certainly have preferred wine to either of them, could his native country have afforded him so agreeable a liquor. we may learn from thence, that every thing which is agreeable to the senses, is also, in some measure, agreeable to the fancy, and conveys to the thought an image of that satisfaction, which it gives by its real application to the bodily organs. but, though these reasons may induce us to comprehend this delicacy of the imagination among the causes of the respect which we pay the rich and powerful, there are many other reasons that may keep us from regarding it as the sole or principal. for, as the ideas of pleasure can have an influence only by means of their vivacity, which makes them approach impressions, 'tis most natural those ideas should have that influence, which are favoured by most circumstances, and have a natural tendency to become strong and lively; such as our ideas of the passions and sensations of any human creature. every human creature resembles ourselves, and, by that means, has an advantage above any other object in operating on the imagination. besides, if we consider the nature of that faculty, and the great influence which all relations have upon it, we shall easily be persuaded, that however the ideas of the pleasant wines, music, or gardens, which the rich man enjoys, may become lively and agreeable, the fancy will not confine itself to them, but will carry its view to the related objects, and, in particular, to the person who possesses them. and this is the more natural, that the pleasant idea, or image, produces here a passion towards the person by means of his relation to the object; so that 'tis unavoidable but he must enter into the original conception, since he makes the object of the derivative passion. but if he enters into the original conception, and is considered as enjoying these agreeable objects, 'tis _sympathy_ which is properly the cause of the affection; and the _third_ principle is more powerful and universal than the _first_. add to this, that riches and power alone, even though unemployed, naturally cause esteem and respect; and, consequently, these passions arise not from the idea of any beautiful or agreeable objects. 'tis true money implies a kind of representation of such objects by the power it affords of obtaining them; and for that reason may still be esteemed proper to convey those agreeable images which may give rise to the passion. but as this prospect is very distant, 'tis more natural for us to take a contiguous object, viz. the satisfaction which this power affords the person who is possessed of it. and of this we shall be farther satisfied, if we consider that riches represent the goods of life only by means of the will which employs them; and therefore imply, in their very nature, an idea of the person, and cannot be considered without a kind of sympathy with his sensations and enjoyments. this we may confirm by a reflection which to some will perhaps appear too subtile and refined. i have already observed that power, as distinguished from its exercise, has either no meaning at all, or is nothing but a possibility or probability of existence, by which any object approaches to reality, and has a sensible influence on the mind. i have also observed, that this approach, by an illusion of the fancy, appears much greater when we ourselves are possessed of the power than when it is enjoyed by another; and that, in the former case, the objects seem to touch upon the very verge of reality, and convey almost an equal satisfaction as if actually in our possession. now i assert, that where we esteem a person upon account of his riches, we must enter into this sentiment of the proprietor, and that, without such a sympathy, the idea of the agreeable objects, which they give him the power to produce, would have but a feeble influence upon us. an avaricious man is respected for his money, though he scarce is possessed of a _power_; that is, there scarce is a _probability_ or even _possibility_ of his employing it in the acquisition of the pleasures and conveniences of life. to himself alone this power seems perfect and entire; and therefore we must receive his sentiments by sympathy, before we can have a strong intense idea of these enjoyments, or esteem him upon account of them. thus we have found, that the _first_ principle, viz. _the agreeable idea of those objects which riches afford the enjoyment of_, resolves itself in a great measure into the _third_, and becomes a _sympathy_ with the person we esteem or love. let us now examine the _second_ principle, viz. _the agreeable expectation of advantage_, and see what force we may justly attribute to it. 'tis obvious, that, though riches and authority undoubtedly give their owner a power of doing us service, yet this power is not to be considered as on the same footing with that which they afford him of pleasing himself, and satisfying his own appetites. self-love approaches the power and exercise very near each other in the latter case; but in order to produce a similar effect in the former, we must suppose a friendship and good-will to be conjoined with the riches. without that circumstance 'tis difficult to conceive on what we can found our hope of advantage from the riches of others, though there is nothing more certain than that we naturally esteem and respect the rich, even before we discover in them any such favourable disposition towards us. but i carry this farther, and observe, not only that we respect the rich and powerful where they show no inclination to serve us, but also when we lie so much out of the sphere of their activity, that they cannot even be supposed to be endowed with that power. prisoners of war are always treated with a respect suitable to their condition; and 'tis certain riches go very far towards fixing the condition of any person. if birth and quality enter for a share, this still affords us an argument of the same kind. for what is it we call a man of birth, but one who is descended from a long succession of rich and powerful ancestors, and who acquires our esteem by his relation to persons whom we esteem? his ancestors, therefore, though dead, are respected in some measure on account of their riches, and consequently without any kind of expectation. but not to go so far as prisoners of war and the dead to find instances of this disinterested esteem for riches, let us observe, with a little attention, those phenomena that occur to us in common life and conversation. a man who is himself of a competent fortune, upon coming into a company of strangers, naturally treats them with different degrees of respect and deference, as he is informed of their different fortunes and conditions; though 'tis impossible he can ever propose, and perhaps would not accept of any advantage from them. a traveller is always admitted into company, and meets with civility in proportion as his train and equipage speak him a man of great or moderate fortune. in short, the different ranks of men are in a great measure regulated by riches, and that with regard to superiors as well as inferiors, strangers as well as acquaintance. there is, indeed, an answer to these arguments, drawn from the influence of _general rules_. it may be pretended, that, being accustomed to expect succour and protection from the rich and powerful, and to esteem them upon that account, we extend the same sentiments to those who resemble them in their fortune, but from whom we can never hope for any advantage. the general rule still prevails, and, by giving a bent to the imagination draws along the passion, in the same manner as if its proper object were real and existent. but that this principle does not here take place, will easily appear, if we consider that, in order to establish a general rule, and extend it beyond its proper bounds, there is required a certain uniformity in our experience, and a great superiority of those instances, which are conformable to the rule, above the contrary. but here the case is quite otherwise. of a hundred men of credit and fortune i meet with, there is not perhaps one from whom i can expect advantage, so that 'tis impossible any custom can ever prevail in the present case. upon the whole, there remains nothing which can give us an esteem for power and riches, and a contempt for meanness and poverty, except the pride of _sympathy_, by which we enter into the sentiments of rich and poor, and partake of their pleasure and uneasiness. riches give satisfaction to their possessor; and this satisfaction is conveyed to the beholder by the imagination, which produces an idea resembling the original impression in force and vivacity. this agreeable idea or impression is connected with love, which is an agreeable passion. it proceeds from a thinking conscious being, which is the very object of love. from this relation of impressions, and identity of ideas, the passion arises according to my hypothesis. the best method of reconciling us to this opinion, is to take a general survey of the universe, and observe the force of sympathy through the whole animal creation, and the easy communication of sentiments from one thinking being to another. in all creatures that prey not upon others, and are not agitated with violent passions, there appears a remarkable desire of company, which associates them together, without any advantages they can ever propose to reap from their union. this is still more conspicuous in man, as being the creature of the universe who has the most ardent desire of society, and is fitted for it by the most advantages. we can form no wish which has not a reference to society. a perfect solitude is, perhaps, the greatest punishment we can suffer. every pleasure languishes when enjoyed apart from company, and every pain becomes more cruel and intolerable. whatever other passions we may be actuated by, pride, ambition, avarice, curiosity, revenge or lust, the soul or animating principle of them all is sympathy; nor would they have any force, were we to abstract entirely from the thoughts and sentiments of others. let all the powers and elements of nature conspire to serve and obey one man; let the sun rise and set at his command; the sea and rivers roll as he pleases, and the earth furnish spontaneously whatever may be useful or agreeable to him; he will still be miserable, till you give him some one person at least with whom he may share his happiness, and whose esteem and friendship he may enjoy. this conclusion, from a general view of human nature, we may confirm by particular instances, wherein the force of sympathy is very remarkable. most kinds of beauty are derived from this origin; and though our first object be some senseless inanimate piece of matter, 'tis seldom we rest there, and carry not our view to its influence on sensible and rational creatures. a man who shows us any house or building, takes particular care, among other things, to point out the convenience of the apartments, the advantages of their situation, and the little room lost in the stairs, anti-chambers and passages; and indeed 'tis evident the chief part of the beauty consists in these particulars. the observation of convenience gives pleasure, since convenience is a beauty. but after what manner does it give pleasure? 'tis certain our own interest is not in the least concerned; and as this is a beauty of interest, not of form, so to speak, it must delight us merely by communication, and by our sympathizing with the proprietor of the lodging. we enter into his interest by the force of imagination, and feel the same satisfaction that the objects naturally occasion in him. this observation extends to tables, chairs, scrutoires, chimneys, coaches, saddles, ploughs, and indeed to every work of art; it being an universal rule, that their beauty is chiefly derived from their utility, and from their fitness for that purpose, to which they are destined. but this is an advantage that concerns only the owner, nor is there any thing but sympathy, which can interest the spectator. 'tis evident that nothing renders a field more agreeable than its fertility, and that scarce any advantages of ornament or situation will be able to equal this beauty. 'tis the same case with particular trees and plants, as with the field on which they grow. i know not but a plain, overgrown with furze and broom, may be, in itself, as beautiful as a hill covered with vines or olive trees, though it will never appear so to one who is acquainted with the value of each. but this is a beauty merely of imagination, and has no foundation in what appears to the senses. fertility and value have a plain reference to use; and that to riches, joy, and plenty, in which, though we have no hope of partaking, yet we enter into them by the vivacity of the fancy, and share them in some measure with the proprietor. there is no rule in painting more reasonable than that of balancing the figures, and placing them with the greatest exactness on their proper centre of gravity. a figure which is not justly balanced is disagreeable; and that because it conveys the ideas of its fall, of harm, and of pain; which ideas are painful when by sympathy they acquire any degree of force and vivacity. add to this, that the principal part of personal beauty is an air of health and vigour, and such a construction of members as promises strength and activity. this idea of beauty cannot be accounted for but by sympathy. in general we may remark, that the minds of men are mirrors to one another, not only because they reflect each others emotions, but also because those rays of passions, sentiments and opinions, may be often reverberated, and may decay away by insensible degrees. thus, the pleasure which a rich man receives from his possessions, being thrown upon the beholder, causes a pleasure and esteem; which sentiments again being perceived and sympathized with, increase the pleasure of the possessor, and, being once more reflected, become a new foundation for pleasure and esteem in the beholder. there is certainly an original satisfaction in riches derived from that power which they bestow of enjoying all the pleasures of life; and as this is their very nature and essence, it must be the first source of all the passions which arise from them. one of the most considerable of these passions is that of love or esteem in others, which, therefore, proceeds from a sympathy with the pleasure of the possessor. but the possessor has also a secondary satisfaction in riches, arising from the love and esteem he acquires by them; and this satisfaction is nothing but a second reflection of that original pleasure which proceeded from himself. this secondary satisfaction or vanity becomes one of the principal recommendations of riches, and is the chief reason why we either desire them for ourselves, or esteem them in others. here then is a third rebound of the original pleasure, after which 'tis difficult to distinguish the images and reflections, by reason of their faintness and confusion. section vi. of benevolence and anger. ideas may be compared to the extension and solidity of matter and impressions, especially reflective ones, to colours, tastes, smells, and other sensible qualities. ideas never admit of a total union, but are endowed with a kind of impenetrability by which they exclude each other, and are capable of forming a compound by their conjunction, not by their mixture. on the other hand, impressions and passions are susceptible of an entire union, and, like colours, may be blended so perfectly together, that each of them may lose itself, and contribute only to vary that uniform impression which arises from the whole. some of the most curious phenomena of the human mind are derived from this property of the passions. in examining those ingredients which are capable of uniting with love and hatred, i begin to be sensible, in some measure, of a misfortune that has attended every system of philosophy with which the world has been yet acquainted. 'tis commonly found, that in accounting for the operations of nature by any particular hypothesis, among a number of experiments that quadrate exactly with the principles we would endeavour to establish, there is always some phenomenon which is more stubborn, and will not so easily bend to our purpose. we need not be surprised that this should happen in natural philosophy. the essence and composition of external bodies are so obscure, that we must necessarily, in our reasonings, or rather conjectures concerning them, involve ourselves in contradictions and absurdities. but as the perceptions of the mind are perfectly known, and i have used all imaginable caution in forming conclusions concerning them, i have always hoped to keep clear of those contradictions which have attended every other system. accordingly, the difficulty which i have at present in my eye is no wise contrary to my system, but only departs a little from that simplicity which has been hitherto its principal force and beauty. the passions of love and hatred are always followed by, or rather conjoined with, benevolence and anger. 'tis this conjunction which chiefly distinguishes these affections from pride and humility. for pride and humility are pure emotions in the soul, unattended with any desire, and not immediately exciting us to action. but love and hatred are not completed within themselves, nor rest in that emotion which they produce, but carry the mind to something farther. love is always followed by a desire of the happiness of the person beloved, and an aversion to his misery: as hatred produces a desire of the misery, and an aversion to the happiness of the person hated. so remarkable a difference betwixt these two sets of passions of pride and humility, love and hatred, which in so many other particulars correspond to each other, merits our attention. the conjunction of this desire and aversion with love and hatred may be accounted for by two different hypotheses. the first is, that love and hatred have not only a _cause_ which excites them, viz. pleasure and pain, and an _object_ to which they are directed, viz. a person or thinking being, but likewise an _end_ which they endeavour to attain, viz. the happiness or misery of the person beloved or hated; all which views, mixing together, make only one passion. according to this system, love is nothing but the desire of happiness to another person, and hatred that of misery. the desire and aversion constitute the very nature of love and hatred. they are not only inseparable, but the same. but this is evidently contrary to experience. for though 'tis certain we never love any person without desiring his happiness, nor hate any without wishing his misery, yet these desires arise only upon the ideas of the happiness or misery of our friend or enemy being presented by the imagination, and are not absolutely essential to love and hatred. they are the most obvious and natural sentiments of these affections, but not the only ones. the passions may express themselves in a hundred ways, and may subsist a considerable time, without our reflecting on the happiness or misery of their objects; which clearly proves that these desires are not the same with love and hatred, nor make any essential part of them. we may therefore infer, that benevolence and anger are passions different from love and hatred, and only conjoined with them by the original constitution of the mind. as nature has given to the body certain appetites and inclinations, which she increases, diminishes, or changes according to the situation of the fluids or solids, she has proceeded in the same manner with the mind. according as we are possessed with love or hatred, the correspondent desire of the happiness or misery of the person who is the object of these passions, arises in the mind, and varies with each variation of these opposite passions. this order of things, abstractedly considered, is not necessary. love and hatred might have been unattended with any such desires, or their particular connexion might have been entirely reversed. if nature had so pleased, love might have had the same effect as hatred, and hatred as love. i see no contradiction in supposing a desire of producing misery annexed to love, and of happiness to hatred. if the sensation of the passion and desire be opposite, nature could have altered the sensation without altering the tendency of the desire, and by that means made them compatible with each other. section vii. of compassion. but though the desire of the happiness or misery of others, according to the love or hatred we bear them, be an arbitrary and original instinct implanted in our nature, we find it may be counterfeited on many occasions, and may arise from secondary principles. _pity_ is a concern for, and _malice_ a joy in, the misery of others, without any friendship or enmity to occasion this concern or joy. we pity even strangers, and such as are perfectly indifferent to us: and if our ill-will to another proceed from any harm or injury, it is not, properly speaking, malice, but revenge. but if we examine these affections of pity and malice, we shall find them to be secondary ones, arising from original affections, which are varied by some particular turn of thought and imagination. 'twill be easy to explain the passion of _pity_, from the precedent reasoning concerning _sympathy_. we have a lively idea of every thing related to us. all human creatures are related to us by resemblance. their persons, therefore, their interests, their passions, their pains and pleasures, must strike upon us in a lively manner, and produce an emotion similar to the original one, since a lively idea is easily converted into an impression. if this be true in general, it must be more so of affliction and sorrow. these have always a stronger and more lasting influence than any pleasure or enjoyment. a spectator of a tragedy passes through a long train of grief, terror, indignation, and other affections, which the poet represents in the persons he introduces. as many tragedies end happily, and no excellent one can be composed without some reverses of fortune, the spectator must sympathize with all these changes, and receive the fictitious joy as well as every other passion. unless therefore it be asserted, that every distinct passion is communicated by a distinct original quality, and is not derived from the general principle of sympathy above explained, it must be allowed that all of them arise from that principle. to except any one in particular must appear highly unreasonable. as they are all first present in the mind of one person, and afterwards appear in the mind of another; and as the manner of their appearance, first as an idea, then as an impression, is in every case the same, the transition must arise from the same principle. i am at least sure, that this method of reasoning would be considered as certain, either in natural philosophy or common life. add to this, that pity depends, in a great measure, on the contiguity, and even sight of the object, which is a proof that 'tis derived from the imagination; not to mention that women and children are most subject to pity, as being most guided by that faculty. the same infirmity, which makes them faint at the sight of a naked sword, though in the hands of their best friend, makes them pity extremely those whom they find in any grief or affliction. those philosophers, who derive this passion from i know not what subtile reflections on the instability of fortune, and our being liable to the same miseries we behold, will find this observation contrary to them among a great many others, which it were easy to produce. there remains only to take notice of a pretty remarkable phenomenon of this passion, which is, that the communicated passion of sympathy sometimes acquires strength from the weakness of its original, and even arises by a transition from affections which have no existence. thus, when a person obtains any honourable office, or inherits a great fortune, we are always the more rejoiced for his prosperity, the less sense he seems to have of it, and the greater equanimity and indifference he shows in its enjoyment. in like manner, a man who is not dejected by misfortunes is the more lamented on account of his patience; and if that virtue extends so far as utterly to remove all sense of uneasiness, it still farther increases our compassion. when a person of merit falls into what is vulgarly esteemed a great misfortune, we form a notion of his condition; and, carrying our fancy from the cause to the usual effect, first conceive a lively idea of his sorrow, and then feel an impression of it, entirely overlooking that greatness of mind which elevates him above such emotions, or only considering it so far as to increase our admiration, love, and tenderness for him. we find from experience, that such a degree of passion is usually connected with such a misfortune; and though there be an exception in the present case, yet the imagination is affected by the _general rule_, and makes us conceive a lively idea of the passion, or rather feel the passion itself in the same manner as if the person were really actuated by it. from the same principles we blush for the conduct of those who behave themselves foolishly before us, and that though they show no sense of shame, nor seem in the least conscious of their folly. all this proceeds from sympathy, but 'tis of a partial kind, and views its objects only on one side, without considering the other, which has a contrary effect, and would entirely destroy that emotion which arises from the first appearance. we have also instances wherein an indifference and insensibility under misfortune increases our concern for the misfortunate, even though the indifference proceed not from any virtue and magnanimity. 'tis an aggravation of a murder, that it was committed upon persons asleep and in perfect security; as historians readily observe of any infant prince, who is captive in the hands of his enemies, that he is more worthy of compassion the less sensible he is of his miserable condition. as we ourselves are here acquainted with the wretched situation of the person, it gives us a lively idea and sensation of sorrow, which is the passion that _generally_ attends it; and this idea becomes still more lively, and the sensation more violent by a contrast with that security and indifference which we observe in the person himself. a contrast of any kind never fails to effect the imagination, especially when presented by the subject; and 'tis on the imagination that pity entirely depends.[ ] [ ] to prevent all ambiguity, i must observe, that where i oppose the imagination to the memory, i mean in general the faculty that presents our fainter ideas. in all other places, and particularly when it is opposed to the understanding, i understand the same faculty, excluding only our demonstrative and probable reasonings. section viii. of malice and envy. we must now proceed to account for the passion of _malice_, which imitates the effects of hatred as pity does those of love, and gives us a joy in the sufferings and miseries of others, without any offence or injury on their part. so little are men governed by reason in their sentiments and opinions, that they always judge more of objects by comparison than from their intrinsic worth and value. when the mind considers, or is accustomed to any degree of perfection, whatever falls short of it, though really estimable, has, notwithstanding, the same effect upon the passions as what is defective and ill. this is an _original_ quality of the soul, and similar to what we have every day experience of in our bodies. let a man heat one hand and cool the other; the same water will at the same time seem both hot and cold, according to the disposition of the different organs. a small degree of any quality, succeeding a greater, produces the same sensation as if less than it really is, and even sometimes as the opposite quality. any gentle pain that follows a violent one, seems as nothing, or rather becomes a pleasure; as, on the other hand, a violent pain succeeding a gentle one, is doubly grievous and uneasy. this no one can doubt of with regard to our passions and sensations. but there may arise some difficulty with regard to our ideas and objects. when an object augments or diminishes to the eye or imagination, from a comparison with others, the image and idea of the object are still the same, and are equally extended in the _retina_, and in the brain or organ of perception. the eyes refract the rays of light, and the optic nerves convey the images to the brain in the very same manner, whether a great or small object has preceded; nor does even the imagination alter the dimensions of its object on account of a comparison with others. the question then is, how, from the same impression, and the same idea, we can form such different judgments concerning the same object, and at one time admire its bulk, and at another despise its littleness? this variation in our judgments must certainly proceed from a variation in some perception; but as the variation lies not in the immediate impression or idea of the object, it must lie in some other impression that accompanies it. in order to explain this matter, i shall just touch upon two principles, one of which shall be more fully explained in the progress of this treatise; the other has been already accounted for. i believe it may safely be established for a general maxim, that no object is presented to the senses, nor image formed in the fancy, but what is accompanied with some emotion or movement of spirits proportioned to it; and however custom may make us insensible of this sensation, and cause us to confound it with the object or idea, 'twill be easy, by careful and exact experiments, to separate and distinguish them. for, to instance only in the cases of extension and number, 'tis evident that any very bulky object, such as the ocean, an extended plain, a vast chain of mountains, a wide forest; or any very numerous collection of objects, such as an army, a fleet, a crowd, excite in the mind a sensible emotion; and that the admiration which arises on the appearance of such objects is one of the most lively pleasures which human nature is capable of enjoying. now, as this admiration increases or diminishes by the increase or diminution of the objects, we may conclude, according to our foregoing principles,[ ] that 'tis a compound effect, proceeding from the conjunction of the several effects which arise from each part of the cause. every part, then, of extension, and every unite of number, has a separate emotion attending it when conceived by the mind; and though that emotion be not always agreeable, yet, by its conjunction with others, and by its agitating the spirits to a just pitch, it contributes to the production of admiration, which is always agreeable. if this be allowed with respect to extension and number, we can make no difficulty with respect to virtue and vice, wit and folly, riches and poverty, happiness and misery, and other objects of that kind, which are always attended with an evident emotion. the second principle i shall take notice of is that of our adherence to _general rules_; which has such a mighty influence on the actions and understanding, and is able to impose on the very senses. when an object is found by experience to be always accompanied with another, whenever the first object appears, though changed in very material circumstances, we naturally fly to the conception of the second, and form an idea of it in as lively and strong a manner, as if we had inferred its existence by the justest and most authentic conclusion of our understanding. nothing can undeceive us, not even our senses, which, instead of correcting this false judgment, are often perverted by it, and seem to authorize its errors. the conclusion i draw from these two principles, joined to the influence of comparison above-mentioned, is very short and decisive. every object is attended with some emotion proportioned to it; a great object with a great emotion, a small object with a small emotion. a great _object_, therefore, succeeding a small one, makes a great _emotion_ succeed a small one. now, a great emotion succeeding a small one becomes still greater, and rises beyond its ordinary proportion. but as there is a certain degree of an emotion which commonly attends every magnitude of an object, when the emotion increases, we naturally imagine that the object has likewise increased. the effect conveys our view to its usual cause, a certain degree of emotion to a certain magnitude of the object; nor do we consider, that comparison may change the emotion without changing any thing in the object. those who are acquainted with the metaphysical part of optics, and know how we transfer the judgments and conclusions of the understanding to the senses, will easily conceive this whole operation. but leaving this new discovery of an impression that secretly attends every idea, we must at least allow of that principle from whence the discovery arose, _that objects appear greater or less by a comparison with others_. we have so many instances of this, that it is impossible we can dispute its veracity; and 'tis from this principle i derive the passions of malice and envy. 'tis evident we must receive a greater or less satisfaction or uneasiness from reflecting on our own condition and circumstances, in proportion as they appear more or less fortunate or unhappy, in proportion to the degrees of riches, and power, and merit, and reputation, which we think ourselves possest of. now, as we seldom judge of objects from their intrinsic value, but form our notions of them from a comparison with other objects, it follows, that according as we observe a greater or less share of happiness or misery in others, we must make an estimate of our own, and feel a consequent pain or pleasure. the misery of another gives us a more lively idea of our happiness, and his happiness of our misery. the former, therefore, produces delight, and the latter uneasiness. here then is a kind of pity reverst, or contrary sensations arising in the beholder, from those which are felt by the person whom he considers. in general we may observe, that, in all kinds of comparison, an object makes us always receive from another, to which it is compared, a sensation contrary to what arises from itself in its direct and immediate survey. a small object makes a great one appear still greater. a great object makes a little one appear less. deformity of itself produces uneasiness, but makes us receive new pleasure by its contrast with a beautiful object, whose beauty is augmented by it; as, on the other hand, beauty, which of itself produces pleasure, makes us receive a new pain by the contrast with any thing ugly, whose deformity it augments. the case, therefore, must be the same with happiness and misery. the direct survey of another's pleasure naturally gives us pleasure, and therefore produces pain when compared with our own. his pain, considered in itself, is painful to us, but augments the idea of our own happiness, and gives us pleasure. nor will it appear strange, that we may feel a reverst sensation from the happiness and misery of others, since we find the same comparison may give us a kind of malice against ourselves, and make us rejoice for our pains, and grieve for our pleasures. thus, the prospect of past pain is agreeable, when we are satisfied with our present condition; as, on the other hand, our past pleasures give us uneasiness, when we enjoy nothing at present equal to them. the comparison being the same as when we reflect on the sentiments of others, must be attended with the same effects. nay, a person may extend this malice against himself, even to his present fortune, and carry it so far as designedly to seek affliction, and increase his pains and sorrows. this may happen upon two occasions. _first_, upon the distress and misfortune of a friend, or person dear to him. _secondly_, upon the feeling any remorses for a crime of which he has been guilty. 'tis from the principle of comparison that both these irregular appetites for evil arise. a person who indulges himself in any pleasure while his friend lies under affliction, feels the reflected uneasiness from his friend more sensibly by a comparison with the original pleasure which he himself enjoys. this contrast, indeed, ought also to enliven the present pleasure. but as grief is here supposed to be the predominant passion, every addition falls to that side, and is swallowed up in it, without operating in the least upon the contrary affection. 'tis the same case with those penances which men inflict on themselves for their past sins and failings. when a criminal reflects on the punishment he deserves, the idea of it is magnified by a comparison with his present ease and satisfaction, which forces him, in a manner, to seek uneasiness, in order to avoid so disagreeable a contrast. this reasoning will account for the origin of envy as well as of malice. the only difference betwixt these passions lies in this, that envy is excited by some present enjoyment of another, which, by comparison, diminishes our idea of our own: whereas malice is the unprovoked desire of producing evil to another, in order to reap a pleasure from the comparison. the enjoyment, which is the object of envy, is commonly superior to our own. a superiority naturally seems to overshade us, and presents a disagreeable comparison. but even in the case of an inferiority, we still desire a greater distance, in order to augment still more the idea of ourself. when this distance diminishes, the comparison is, less to our advantage, and consequently gives us less pleasure, and is even disagreeable. hence arises that species of envy which men feel, when they perceive their inferiors approaching or overtaking them in the pursuit of glory or happiness. in this envy we may see the effects of comparison twice repeated. a man, who compares himself to his inferior, receives a pleasure from the comparison; and when the inferiority decreases by the elevation of the inferior, what should only have been a decrease of pleasure, becomes a real pain, by a new comparison with its preceding condition. 'tis worthy of observation concerning that envy which arises from a superiority in others, that 'tis not the great disproportion betwixt ourself and another, which produces it; but, on the contrary, our proximity. a common soldier bears no such envy to his general as to his sergeant or corporal; nor does an eminent writer meet with so great jealousy in common hackney scribblers, as in authors that more nearly approach him. it may indeed be thought, that the greater the disproportion is, the greater must be the uneasiness from the comparison. but we may consider on the other hand, that the great disproportion cuts off the relation, and either keeps us from comparing ourselves, with what is remote from us, or diminishes the effects of the comparison. resemblance and proximity always produce a relation of ideas; and where you destroy these ties, however other accidents may bring two ideas together, as they have no bond or connecting quality to join them in the imagination, 'tis impossible they can remain long united, or have any considerable influence on each other. i have observed, in considering the nature of ambition, that the great feel a double pleasure in authority, from the comparison of their own condition with that of their slaves; and that this comparison has a double influence, because 'tis natural, and presented by the subject. when the fancy, in the comparison of objects, passes not easily from the one object to the other, the action of the mind is in a great measure broke, and the fancy, in considering the second object, begins, as it were, upon a new footing. the impression which attends every object, seems not greater in that case by succeeding a less of the same kind; but these two impressions are distinct, and produce their distinct effects, without any communication together. the want of relation in the ideas breaks the relation of the impressions, and by such a separation prevents their mutual operation and influence. to confirm this we may observe, that the proximity in the degree of merit is not alone sufficient to give rise to envy, but must be assisted by other relations. a poet is not apt to envy a philosopher, or a poet of a different kind, of a different nation, or a different age. all these differences prevent or weaken the comparison, and consequently the passion. this too is the reason why all objects appear great or little, merely by a comparison with those of the same species. a mountain neither magnifies nor diminishes a horse in our eyes; but when a flemish and a welsh horse are seen together, the one appears greater and the other less, then when viewed apart. from the same principle we may account for that remark of historians, that any party in a civil war always choose to call in a foreign enemy at any hazard, rather than submit to their fellow-citizens. guicciardin applies this remark to the wars in italy, where the relations betwixt the different states are, properly speaking, nothing but of name, language, and contiguity. yet even these relations, when joined with superiority, by making the comparison more natural, make it likewise more grievous, and cause men to search for some other superiority, which may be attended with no relation, and by that means may have a less sensible influence on the imagination. the mind quickly perceives its several advantages and disadvantages; and finding its situation to be most uneasy, where superiority is conjoined with other relations, seeks its repose as much as possible by their separation, and by breaking that association of ideas, which renders the comparison so much more natural and efficacious. when it cannot break the association, it feels a stronger desire to remove the superiority; and this is the reason why travellers are commonly so lavish of their praises to the chinese and persians, at the same time that they depreciate those neighbouring nations which may stand upon a foot of rivalship with their native country. these examples from history and common experience are rich and curious; but we may find parallel ones in the arts, which are no less remarkable. should an author compose a treatise, of which one part was serious and profound, another light and humorous, every one would condemn so strange a mixture, and would accuse him of the neglect of all rules of art and criticism. these rules of art are founded on the qualities of human nature; and the quality of human nature, which requires a consistency in every performance, is that which renders the mind incapable of passing in a moment from one passion and disposition to a quite different one. yet this makes us not blame mr prior for joining his alma and his solomon in the same volume; though that admirable poet has succeeded perfectly well in the gaiety of the one, as well as in the melancholy of the other. even supposing the reader should peruse these two compositions without any interval, he would feel little or no difficulty in the change of passions: why? but because he considers these performances as entirely different, and, by this break in the ideas, breaks the progress of the affections, and hinders the one from influencing or contradicting the other. an heroic and burlesque design, united in one picture, would be monstrous; though we place two pictures of so opposite a character in the same chamber, and even close by each other, without any scruple or difficulty. in a word, no ideas can affect each other, either by comparison, or by the passions they separately produce, unless they be united together by some relation which may cause an easy transition of the ideas, and consequently of the emotions or impressions attending the ideas, and may preserve the one impression in the passage of the imagination to the object of the other. this principle is very remarkable, because it is analogous to what we have observed both concerning the _understanding_ and the _passions_. suppose two objects to be presented to me, which are not connected by any kind of relation. suppose that each of these objects separately produces a passion, and that these two passions are in themselves contrary; we find from experience, that the want of relation in the objects or ideas hinders the natural contrariety of the passions, and that the break in the transition of the thought removes the affections from each other, and prevents their opposition. 'tis the same case with comparison; and from both these phenomena we may safely conclude, that the relation of ideas must forward the transition of impressions, since its absence alone is able to prevent it, and to separate what naturally should have operated upon each other. when the absence of an object or quality removes any usual or natural effect, we may certainly conclude that its presence contributes to the production of the effect. [ ] book i. part iii. sect. . section ix. of the mixture of benevolence and anger with compassion and malice. thus we have endeavoured to account for _pity_ and _malice_. both these affections arise from the imagination, according to the light in which it places its object. when our fancy considers directly the sentiments of others, and enters deep into them, it makes us sensible of all the passions it surveys, but in a particular manner of grief or sorrow. on the contrary, when we compare the sentiments of others to our own, we feel a sensation directly opposite to the original one, viz. a joy from the grief of others, and a grief from their joy. but these are only the first foundations of the affections of pity and malice. other passions are afterwards confounded with them. there is always a mixture of love or tenderness with pity, and of hatred or anger with malice. but it must be confessed, that this mixture seems at first sight to be contradictory to my system. for as pity is an uneasiness, and malice a joy, arising from the misery of others, pity should naturally, as in all other cases, produce hatred, and malice, love. this contradiction i endeavour to reconcile, after the following manner. in order to cause a transition of passions, there is required a double relation of impressions and ideas; nor is one relation sufficient to produce this effect. but that we may understand the full force of this double relation, we must consider, that 'tis not the present sensation alone or momentary pain or pleasure, which determines the character of any passion, but the whole bent or tendency of it from the beginning to the end. one impression may be related to another, not only when their sensations are resembling, as we have all along supposed in the preceding cases, but also when their impulses or directions are similar and correspondent. this cannot take place with regard to pride and humility, because these are only pure sensations, without any direction or tendency to action. we are, therefore, to look for instances of this peculiar relation of impressions only in such affections as are attended with a certain appetite or desire, such as those of love and hatred. benevolence, or the appetite which attends love, is a desire of the happiness of the person beloved, and an aversion to his misery, as anger, or the appetite which attends hatred, is a desire of the misery of the person hated, and an aversion to his happiness. a desire, therefore, of the happiness of another, and aversion to his misery, are similar to benevolence; and a desire of his misery and aversion to his happiness, are correspondent to anger. now, pity is a desire of happiness to another, and aversion to his misery, as malice is the contrary appetite. pity, then, is related to benevolence, and malice to anger; and as benevolence has been already found to be connected with love, by a natural and original quality, and anger with hatred, 'tis by this chain the passions of pity and malice are connected with love and hatred. this hypothesis is founded on sufficient experience. a man, who, from any motives, has entertained a resolution of performing an action, naturally runs into every other view or motive which may fortify that resolution, and give it authority and influence on the mind. to confirm us in any design, we search for motives drawn from interest, from honour, from duty. what wonder, then, that pity and benevolence, malice and anger, being the same desires arising from different principles, should so totally mix together as to be undistinguishable? as to the connexion betwixt benevolence and love, anger and hatred, being _original_ and primary, it admits of no difficulty. we may add to this another experiment, viz. that benevolence and anger, and, consequently, love and hatred, arise when our happiness or misery have any dependence on the happiness or misery of another person, without any farther relation. i doubt not but this experiment will appear so singular as to excuse us for stopping a moment to consider it. suppose that two persons of the same trade should seek employment in a town that is not able to maintain both, 'tis plain the success of one is perfectly incompatible with that of the other; and that whatever is for the interest of either is contrary to that of his rival, and so _vice versa_. suppose, again, that two merchants, though living in different parts of the world, should enter into co-partnership together, the advantage or loss of one becomes immediately the advantage or loss of his partner, and the same fortune necessarily attends both. now, 'tis evident, that, in the first case, hatred always follows upon the contrariety of interests; as, in the second, love arises from their union. let us consider to what principle we can ascribe these passions. 'tis plain they arise, not from the double relations of impressions and ideas, if we regard only the present sensation. for, taking the first case of rivalship, though the pleasure and advantage of an antagonist necessarily causes my pain and loss, yet, to counterbalance this, his pain and loss causes my pleasure and advantage; and, supposing him to be unsuccessful, i may, by this means, receive from him a superior degree of satisfaction. in the same manner the success of a partner rejoices me, but then his misfortunes afflict me in an equal proportion; and 'tis easy to imagine that the latter sentiment may, in some cases, preponderate. but whether the fortune of a rival or partner be good or bad, i always hate the former and love the latter. this love of a partner cannot proceed from the relation or connexion betwixt us, in the same manner as i love a brother or countryman. a rival has almost as close a relation to me as a partner. for, as the pleasure of the latter causes my pleasure, and his pain my pain; so the pleasure of the former causes my pain, and his pain my pleasure. the connexion, then, of cause and effect, is the same in both cases; and if, in the one case, the cause and effect has a farther relation of resemblance, they have that of contrariety in the other; which, being also a species of resemblance, leaves the matter pretty equal. the only explication, then, we can give of this phenomenon, is derived from that principle of a parallel direction above-mentioned. our concern for our own interest gives us a pleasure in the pleasure, and a pain in the pain of a partner, after the same manner as by sympathy we feel a sensation correspondent to those which appear in any person who is present with us. on the other hand, the same concern for our interest makes us feel a pain in the pleasure, and a pleasure in the pain of a rival; and, in short, the same contrariety of sentiments as arises from comparison and malice. since, therefore, a parallel direction of the affections, proceeding from interest, can give rise to benevolence or anger, no wonder the same parallel direction, derived from sympathy and from comparison, should have the same effect. in general we may observe, that 'tis impossible to do good to others, from whatever motive, without feeling some touches of kindness and good will towards them; as the injuries we do not only cause hatred in the person who suffers them, but even in ourselves. these phenomena, indeed, may in part be accounted for from other principles. but here there occurs a considerable objection, which 'twill be necessary to examine before we proceed any farther. i have endeavoured to prove that power and riches, or poverty and meanness, which give rise to love or hatred, without producing any original pleasure or uneasiness, operate upon us by means of a secondary sensation derived from a sympathy with that pain or satisfaction which they produce in the person who possesses them. from a sympathy with his pleasure there arises love; from that with his uneasiness, hatred. but 'tis a maxim which i have just now established, and which is absolutely necessary to the explication of the phenomena of pity and malice, "that 'tis not the present sensation or momentary pain or pleasure which determines the character of any passion, but the general bent or tendency of it from the beginning to the end." for this reason, pity or a sympathy with pain produces love, and that because it interests us in the fortunes of others, good or bad, and gives us a secondary sensation correspondent to the primary, in which it has the same influence with love and benevolence. since, then, this rule holds good in one case, why does it not prevail throughout, and why does sympathy in uneasiness ever produce any passion beside good will and kindness? is it becoming a philosopher to alter his method of reasoning, and run from one principle to its contrary, according to the particular phenomenon which he would explain? i have mentioned two different causes from which a transition of passion may arise, viz. a double relation of ideas and impressions, and, what is similar to it, a conformity in the tendency and direction of any two desires which arise from different principles. now i assert, that when a sympathy with uneasiness is weak, it produces hatred or contempt by the former cause; when strong, it produces love or tenderness by the latter. this is the solution of the foregoing difficulty, which seems so urgent; and this is a principle founded on such evident arguments, that we ought to have established it, even though it were not necessary to the explication of any phenomenon. 'tis certain, that sympathy is not always limited to the present moment, but that we often feel, by communication, the pains and pleasures of others which are not in being, and which we only anticipate by the force of imagination. for, supposing i saw a person perfectly unknown to me, who, while asleep in the fields, was in danger of being trod under foot by horses, i should immediately run to his assistance; and in this i should be actuated by the same principle of sympathy which makes me concerned for the present sorrows of a stranger. the bare mention of this is sufficient. sympathy being nothing but a lively idea converted into an impression, 'tis evident that, in considering the future possible or probable condition of any person, we may enter into it with so vivid a conception as to make it our own concern, and by that means be sensible of pains and pleasures which neither belong to ourselves, nor at the present instant have any real existence. but however we may look forward to the future in sympathizing with any person, the extending of our sympathy depends in a great measure upon our sense of his present condition. 'tis a great effort of imagination to form such lively ideas even of the present sentiments of others as to feel these very sentiments; but 'tis impossible we could extend this sympathy to the future without being aided by some circumstance in the present, which strikes upon us in a lively manner. when the present misery of another has any strong influence upon me, the vivacity of the conception is not confined merely to its immediate object, but diffuses its influence over all the related ideas, and gives me a lively notion of all the circumstances of that person, whether past, present, or future; possible, probable, or certain. by means of this lively notion i am interested in them, take part with them, and feel a sympathetic motion in my breast, conformable to whatever i imagine in his. if i diminish the vivacity of the first conception, i diminish that of the related ideas; as pipes can convey no more water than what arises at the fountain. by this diminution i destroy the future prospect which is necessary to interest me perfectly in the fortune of another. i may feel the present impression, but carry my sympathy no farther, and never transfuse the force of the first conception into my ideas of the related objects. if it be another's misery which is presented in this feeble manner, i receive it by communication, and am affected with all the passions related to it: but as i am not so much interested as to concern myself in his good fortune as well as his bad, i never feel the extensive sympathy, nor the passions related to _it_. now, in order to know what passions are related to these different kinds of sympathy, we must consider that benevolence is an original pleasure arising from the pleasure of the person beloved, and a pain proceeding from his pain: from which correspondence of impressions there arises a subsequent desire of his pleasure, and aversion to his pain. in order, then, to make a passion run parallel with benevolence, 'tis requisite we should feel these double impressions, correspondent to those of the person whom we consider; nor is any one of them alone sufficient for that purpose. when we sympathize only with one impression, and that a painful one, this sympathy is related to anger and to hatred, upon account of the uneasiness it conveys to us. but as the extensive or limited sympathy depends upon the force of the first sympathy, it follows that the passion of love or hatred depends upon the same principle. a strong impression, when communicated, gives a double tendency of the passions, which is related to benevolence and love by a similarity of direction, however painful the first impression might have been. a weak impression that is painful is related to anger and hatred by the resemblance of sensations. benevolence, therefore, arises from a great degree of misery, or any degree strongly sympathized with: hatred or contempt from a small degree, or one weakly sympathized with; which is the principle i intended to prove and explain. nor have we only our reason to trust to for this principle, but also experience. a certain degree of poverty produces contempt; but a degree beyond causes compassion and good will. we may undervalue a peasant or servant; but when the misery of a beggar appears very great, or is painted in very lively colours, we sympathize with him in his afflictions, and feel in our heart evident touches of pity and benevolence. the same object causes contrary passions, according to its different degrees. the passions, therefore, must depend upon principles that operate in such certain degrees, according to my hypothesis. the increase of the sympathy has evidently the same effect as the increase of the misery. a barren or desolate country always seems ugly and disagreeable, and commonly inspires us with contempt for the inhabitants. this deformity, however, proceeds in a great measure from a sympathy with the inhabitants, as has been already observed; but it is only a weak one, and reaches no farther than the immediate sensation, which is disagreeable. the view of a city in ashes conveys benevolent sentiments; because we there enter so deep into the interests of the miserable inhabitants, as to wish for their prosperity, as well as feel their adversity. but though the force of the impression generally produces pity and benevolence, 'tis certain that, by being carried too far, it ceases to have that effect. this, perhaps, may be worth our notice. when the uneasiness is either small in itself, or remote from us, it engages not the imagination, nor is able to convey an equal concern for the future and contingent good, as for the present and real evil. upon its acquiring greater force, we become so interested in the concerns of the person, as to be sensible both of his good and bad fortune; and from that complete sympathy there arises pity and benevolence. but 'twill easily be imagined, that where the present evil strikes with more than ordinary force, it may entirely engage our attention, and prevent that double sympathy above mentioned. thus we find, that though every one, but especially women, are apt to contract a kindness for criminals who go to the scaffold, and readily imagine them to be uncommonly handsome and well-shaped; yet one who is present at the cruel execution of the rack, feels no such tender emotions; but is in a manner overcome with horror, and has no leisure to temper this uneasy sensation by any opposite sympathy. but the instance which makes the most clearly for my hypothesis, is that wherein, by a change of the objects, we separate the double sympathy even from a middling degree of the passion; in which case we find that pity, instead of producing love and tenderness as usual, always gives rise to the contrary affection. when we observe a person in misfortune, we are affected with pity and love; but the author of that misfortune becomes the object of our strongest hatred, and is the more detested in proportion to the degree of our compassion. now, for what reason should the same passion of pity produce love to the person who suffers the misfortune, and hatred to the person who causes it; unless it be because, in the latter case, the author bears a relation only to the misfortune; whereas, in considering the sufferer, we carry our view on every side, and wish for his prosperity, as well as are sensible of his affliction? i shall just observe, before i leave the present subject, that this phenomenon of the double sympathy, and its tendency to cause love, may contribute to the production of the kindness which we naturally bear our relations and acquaintance. custom and relation make us enter deeply into the sentiments of others; and whatever fortune we suppose to attend them, is rendered present to us by the imagination, and operates as if originally our own. we rejoice in their pleasures, and grieve for their sorrows, merely from the force of sympathy. nothing that concerns them is indifferent to us; and as this correspondence of sentiments is the natural attendant of love, it readily produces that affection. section x. of respect and contempt. there now remains only to explain the passions of _respect_ and _contempt_, along with the _amorous_ affection, in order to understand all the passions which have any mixture of love or hatred. let us begin with respect and contempt. in considering the qualities and circumstances of others, we may either regard them as they really are in themselves; or may make a comparison betwixt them and our own qualities and circumstances; or may join these two methods of consideration. the good qualities of others, from the first point of view, produce love; from the second, humility; and, from the third, respect; which is a mixture of these two passions. their bad qualities, after the same manner, cause either hatred, or pride, or contempt, according to the light in which we survey them. that there is a mixture of pride in contempt, and of humility in respect, is, i think, too evident, from their very feeling or appearance, to require any particular proof. that this mixture arises from a tacit comparison of the person contemned or respected with ourselves, is no less evident. the same man may cause either respect, love, or contempt, by his condition and talents, according as the person who considers him, from his inferior, becomes his equal or superior. in changing the point of view, though the object may remain the same, its proportion to ourselves entirely alters; which is the cause of an alteration in the passions. these passions, therefore, arise from our observing the proportion, that is, from a comparison. i have already observed, that the mind has a much stronger propensity to pride than to humility, and have endeavoured, from the principles of human nature, to assign a cause for this phenomenon. whether my reasoning be received or not, the phenomenon is undisputed, and appears in many instances. among the rest, 'tis the reason why there is a much greater mixture of pride in contempt, than of humility in respect, and why we are more elevated with the view of one below us, than mortified with the presence of one above us. contempt or scorn has so strong a tincture of pride, that there scarce is any other passion discernible: whereas in esteem or respect, love makes a more considerable ingredient than humility. the passion of vanity is so prompt, that it rouses at the least call; while humility requires a stronger impulse to make it exert itself. but here it may reasonably be asked, why this mixture takes place only in some cases, and appears not on every occasion. all those objects which cause love, when placed on another person, are the causes of pride when transferred to ourselves; and consequently ought to be causes of humility as well as love while they belong to others, and are only compared to those which we ourselves possess. in like manner every quality, which, by being directly considered, produces hatred, ought always to give rise to pride by comparison, and, by a mixture of these passions of hatred and pride, ought to excite contempt or scorn. the difficulty then is, why any objects ever cause pure love or hatred, and produce not always the mixt passions of respect and contempt. i have supposed all along that the passions of love and pride, and those of humility and hatred, are similar in their sensations, and that the two former are always agreeable, and that the two latter painful. but though this be universally true, 'tis observable, that the two agreeable as well as the two painful passions, have some differences, and even contrarieties, which distinguish them. nothing invigorates and exalts the mind equally with pride and vanity; though at the same time love or tenderness is rather found to weaken and enfeeble it. the same difference is observable betwixt the uneasy passions. anger and hatred bestow a new force on all our thoughts and actions; while humility and shame deject and discourage us. of these qualities of the passions, 'twill be necessary to form a distinct idea. let us remember that pride and hatred invigorate the soul, and love and humility enfeeble it. from this it follows, that though the conformity betwixt love and hatred in the agreeableness of their sensation makes them always be excited by the same objects, yet this other contrariety is the reason why they are excited in very different degrees. genius and learning are _pleasant_ and _magnificent_ objects, and by both these circumstances are adapted to pride and vanity, but have a relation to love by their pleasure only. ignorance and simplicity are _disagreeable_ and _mean_, which in the same manner gives them a double connexion with humility, and a single one with hatred. we may, therefore, consider it as certain, that though the same object always produces love and pride, humility and hatred, according to its different situations, yet it seldom produces either the two former or the two latter passions in the same proportion. 'tis here we must seek for a solution of the difficulty above-mentioned, why any object ever excites pure love or hatred, and does not always produce respect or contempt, by a mixture of humility or pride. no quality in another gives rise to humility by comparison, unless it would have produced pride by being placed in ourselves; and, _vice versa_, no object excites pride by comparison, unless it would have produced humility by the direct survey. this is evident, objects always produce by _comparison_ a sensation directly contrary to their _original_ one. suppose, therefore, an object to be presented, which is peculiarly fitted to produce love, but imperfectly to excite pride, this object, belonging to another, gives rise directly to a great degree of love, but to a small one of humility by comparison; and consequently that latter passion is scarce felt in the compound, nor is able to convert the love into respect. this is the case with good nature, good humour, facility, generosity, beauty, and many other qualities. these have a peculiar aptitude to produce love in others; but not so great a tendency to excite pride in ourselves: for which reason the view of them, as belonging to another person, produces pure love, with but a small mixture of humility and respect. 'tis easy to extend the same reasoning to the opposite passions. before we leave this subject, it may not be amiss to account for a pretty curious phenomenon, viz. why we commonly keep at a distance such as we contemn, and allow not our inferiors to approach too near even in place and situation. it has already been observed, that almost every kind of ideas is attended with some emotion, even the ideas of number and extension, much more those of such objects as are esteemed of consequence in life, and fix our attention. 'tis not with entire indifference we can survey either a rich man or a poor one, but must feel some faint touches, at least, of respect in the former case, and of contempt in the latter. these two passions are contrary to each other; but in order to make this contrariety be felt, the objects must be someway related; otherwise the affections are totally separate and distinct, and never encounter. the relation takes place wherever the persons become contiguous; which is a general reason why we are uneasy at seeing such disproportioned objects as a rich man and a poor one, a nobleman and a porter, in that situation. this uneasiness, which is common to every spectator, must be more sensible to the superior; and that because the near approach of the inferior is regarded as a piece of ill breeding, and shows that he is not sensible of the disproportion, and is no way affected by it. a sense of superiority in another breeds in all men an inclination to keep themselves at a distance from him, and determines them to redouble the marks of respect and reverence, when they are obliged to approach him; and where they do not observe that conduct, 'tis a proof they are not sensible of his superiority. from hence too it proceeds, that any great _difference_ in the degrees of any quality is called a _distance_ by a common metaphor, which, however trivial it may appear, is founded on natural principles of the imagination. a great difference inclines us to produce a distance. the ideas of distance and difference are, therefore, connected together. connected ideas are readily taken for each other; and this is in general the source of the metaphor, as we shall have occasion to observe afterwards. section xi. of the amorous passion, or love betwixt the sexes. of all the compound passions which proceed from a mixture of love and hatred with other affections, no one better deserves our attention, than that love which arises betwixt the sexes, as well on account of its force and violence, as those curious principles of philosophy, for which it affords us an uncontestable argument. 'tis plain that this affection, in its most natural state, is derived from the conjunction of three different impressions or passions, viz. the pleasing sensation arising from beauty; the bodily appetite for generation; and a generous kindness or good will. the origin of kindness from beauty may be explained from the foregoing reasoning. the question is, how the bodily appetite is excited by it. the appetite of generation, when confined to a certain degree, is evidently of the pleasant kind, and has a strong connexion with all the agreeable emotions. joy, mirth, vanity, and kindness, are all incentives to this desire, as well as music, dancing, wine, and good cheer. on the other hand, sorrow, melancholy, poverty, humility are destructive of it. from this quality, 'tis easily conceived why it should be connected with the sense of beauty. but there is another principle that contributes to the same effect. i have observed that the parallel direction of the desires is a real relation, and, no less than a resemblance in their sensation, produces a connexion among them. that we may fully comprehend the extent of this relation, we must consider that any principal desire may be attended with subordinate ones, which are connected with it, and to which, if other desires are parallel, they are by that means related to the principal one. thus, hunger may oft be considered as the primary inclination of the soul, and the desire of approaching the meat as the secondary one, since 'tis absolutely necessary to the satisfying that appetite. if an object, therefore, by any separate qualities, inclines us to approach the meat, it naturally increases our appetite; as on the contrary, whatever inclines us to set our victuals at a distance, is contradictory to hunger, and diminishes our inclination to them. now, 'tis plain, that beauty has the first effect, and deformity the second; which is the reason why the former gives us a keener appetite for our victuals, and the latter is sufficient to disgust us at the most savoury dish that cookery has invented. all this is easily applicable to the appetite for generation. from these two relations, viz. resemblance and a parallel desire, there arises such a connexion betwixt the sense of beauty, the bodily appetite, and benevolence, that they become in a manner inseparable; and we find from experience, that 'tis indifferent which of them advances first, since any of them is almost sure to be attended with the related affections. one who is inflamed with lust, feels at least a momentary kindness towards the object of it, and at the same time fancies her more beautiful than ordinary; as there are many, who begin with kindness and esteem for the wit and merit of the person, and advance from that to the other passions. but the most common species of love is that which first arises from beauty, and afterwards diffuses itself into kindness, and into the bodily appetite. kindness or esteem, and the appetite to generation, are too remote to unite easily together. the one is, perhaps, the most refined passion of the soul, the other the most gross and vulgar. the love of beauty is placed in a just medium betwixt them, and partakes of both their natures; from whence it proceeds, that 'tis so singularly fitted to produce both. this account of love is not peculiar to my system, but is unavoidable on any hypothesis. the three affections which compose this passion are evidently distinct, and has each of them its distinct object. 'tis certain, therefore, that 'tis only by their relation they produce each other. but the relation of passions is not alone sufficient. 'tis likewise necessary there should be a relation of ideas. the beauty of one person never inspires us with love for another. this then is a sensible proof of the double relation of impressions and ideas. from one instance so evident as this we may form a judgment of the rest. this may also serve in another view to illustrate what i have insisted on concerning the origin of pride and humility, love and hatred. i have observed, that though self be the object of the first set of passions, and some other person of the second, yet these objects cannot alone be the causes of the passions, as having each of them a relation to two contrary affections, which must from the very first moment destroy each other. here then is the situation of the mind, as i have already described it. it has certain organs naturally fitted to produce a passion; that passion, when produced, naturally turns the view to a certain object. but this not being sufficient to produce the passion, there is required some other emotion, which, by a double relation of impressions and ideas, may set these principles in action, and bestow on them their first impulse. this situation is still more remarkable with regard to the appetite of generation. sex is not only the object, but also the cause of the appetite. we not only turn our view to it, when actuated by that appetite, but the reflecting on it suffices to excite the appetite. but as this cause loses its force by too great frequency, 'tis necessary it should be quickened by some new impulse; and that impulse we find to arise from the _beauty_ of the _person_; that is, from a double relation of impressions and ideas. since this double relation is necessary where an affection has both a distinct cause and object, how much more so where it has only a distinct object without any determinate cause! section xii. of the love and hatred of animals. but to pass from the passions of love and hatred, and from their mixtures and compositions, as they appear in man, to the same affections as they display themselves in brutes, we may observe, not only that love and hatred are common to the whole sensitive creation, but likewise that their causes, as above explained, are of so simple a nature that they may easily be supposed to operate on mere animals. there is no force of reflection or penetration required. every thing is conducted by springs and principles, which are not peculiar to man, or any one species of animals. the conclusion from this is obvious in favour of the foregoing system. love, in animals, has not for its only object animals of the same species, but extends itself farther, and comprehends almost every sensible and thinking being. a dog naturally loves a man above his own species, and very commonly meets with a return of affection. as animals are but little susceptible either of the pleasures or pains of the imagination, they can judge of objects only by the sensible good or evil which they produce, and from _that_ must regulate their affections towards them. accordingly we find, that by benefits or injuries we produce their love or hatred; and that, by feeding and cherishing any animal, we quickly acquire his affections; as by beating and abusing him we never fail to draw on us his enmity and ill-will. love in beasts is not caused so much by relation as in our species; and that because their thoughts are not so active as to trace relations, except in very obvious instances. yet 'tis easy to remark, that on some occasions it has a considerable influence upon them. thus, acquaintance, which has the same effect as relation, always produces love in animals, either to men or to each other. for the same reason, any likeness among them is the source of affection. an ox confined to a park with horses, will naturally join their company, if i may so speak, but always leaves it to enjoy that of his own species, where he has the choice of both. the affection of parents to their young proceeds from a peculiar instinct in animals, as well as in our species. 'tis evident that _sympathy_, or the communication of passions, takes place among animals, no less than among men. fear, anger, courage, and other affections, are frequently communicated from one animal to another, without their knowledge of that cause which produced the original passion. grief likewise is received by sympathy, and produces almost all the same consequences, and excites the same emotions, as in our species. the howlings and lamentations of a dog produce a sensible concern in his fellows. and 'tis remarkable, that though almost all animals use in play the same member, and nearly the same action as in fighting; a lion, a tiger, a cat, their paws; an ox, his horns; a dog, his teeth; a horse, his heels: yet they most carefully avoid harming their companion, even though they have nothing to fear from his resentment; which is an evident proof of the sense brutes have of each other's pain and pleasure. every one has observed how much more dogs are animated when they hunt in a pack, than when they pursue their game apart; and 'tis evident this can proceed from nothing but from sympathy. 'tis also well known to hunters, that this effect follows in a greater degree, and even in too great a degree, where too packs that are strangers to each other are joined together. we might, perhaps, be at a loss to explain this phenomenon, if we had not experience of a similar in ourselves. envy and malice are passions very remarkable in animals. they are perhaps more common than pity; as requiring less effort of thought and imagination. part iii. of the will and direct passions. section i. of liberty and necessity. we come now to explain the _direct_ passions, or the impressions which arise immediately from good or evil, from pain or pleasure. of this kind are, _desire and aversion, grief and joy, hope and fear._ of all the immediate effects of pain and pleasure, there is none more remarkable than the _will_; and though, properly speaking, it be not comprehended among the passions, yet, as the full understanding of its nature and properties is necessary to the explanation of them, we shall here make it the subject of our inquiry. i desire it may be observed, that, by the _will_, i mean nothing but _the internal impression we feel, and are conscious of, when we knowingly give rise to any new motion of our body, or new perception of our mind_. this impression, like the preceding ones of pride and humility, love and hatred, 'tis impossible to define, and needless to describe any farther; for which reason we shall cut off all those definitions and distinctions with which philosophers are wont to perplex rather than clear up this question; and entering at first upon the subject, shall examine that long-disputed question concerning _liberty and necessity_, which occurs so naturally in treating of the will. 'tis universally acknowledged that the operations of external bodies are necessary; and that, in the communication of their motion, in their attraction, and mutual cohesion, there are not the least traces of indifference or liberty. every object is determined by an absolute fate to a certain degree and direction of its motion, and can no more depart from that precise line in which it moves, than it can convert itself into an angel, or spirit, or any superior substance. the actions, therefore, of matter, are to be regarded as instances of necessary actions; and whatever is, in this respect, on the same footing with matter, must be acknowledged to be necessary. that we may know whether this be the case with the actions of the mind, we shall begin with examining matter, and considering on what the idea of a necessity in its operations are founded, and why we conclude one body or action to be the infallible cause of another. it has been observed already, that in no single instance the ultimate connexion of any objects is discoverable either by our senses or reason, and that we can never penetrate so far into the essence and construction of bodies, as to perceive the principle on which their mutual influence depends. 'tis their constant union alone with which we are acquainted; and 'tis from the constant union the necessity arises. if objects had not an uniform and regular conjunction with each other, we should never arrive at any idea of cause and effect; and even after all, the necessity which enters into that idea, is nothing but a determination of the mind to pass from one object to its usual attendant, and infer the existence of one from that of the other. here then are two particulars which we are to consider as essential to necessity, viz. the constant _union_ and the _inference_ of the mind; and wherever we discover these, we must acknowledge a necessity. as the actions of matter have no necessity but what is derived from these circumstances, and it is not by any insight into the essence of bodies we discover their connexion, the absence of this insight, while the union and inference remain, will never, in any case, remove the necessity. 'tis the observation of the union which produces the inference; for which reason it might be thought sufficient, if we prove a constant union in the actions of the mind, in order to establish the inference along with the necessity of these actions. but that i may bestow a greater force on my reasoning, i shall examine these particulars apart, and shall first prove from experience that our actions have a constant union with our motives, tempers, and circumstances, before i consider the inferences we draw from it. to this end a very slight and general view of the common course of human affairs will be sufficient. there is no light in which we can take them that does not confirm this principle. whether we consider mankind according to the difference of sexes, ages, governments, conditions, or methods of education; the same uniformity and regular operation of natural principles are discernible. like causes still produce like effects; in the same manner as in the mutual action of the elements and powers of nature. there are different trees which regularly produce fruit, whose relish is different from each other; and this regularity will be admitted as an instance of necessity and causes in external bodies. but are the products of guienne and of champagne more regularly different than the sentiments, actions, and passions of the two sexes, of which the one are distinguished by their force and maturity, the other by their delicacy and softness? are the changes of our body from infancy to old age more regular and certain than those of our mind and conduct? and would a man be more ridiculous, who would expect that an infant of four years old will raise a weight of three hundred pounds, than one who, from a person of the same age, would look for a philosophical reasoning, or a prudent and well concerted action? we must certainly allow, that the cohesion of the parts of matter arises from natural and necessary principles, whatever difficulty we may find in explaining them: and for a like reason we must allow, that human society is founded on like principles; and our reason in the latter case is better than even that in the former; because we not only observe that men _always_ seek society, but can also explain the principles on which this universal propensity is founded. for it is more certain that two flat pieces of marble will unite together, than two young savages of different sexes will copulate? do the children arise from this copulation more uniformly, than does the parents' care for their safety and preservation? and after they have arrived at years of discretion by the care of their parents, are the inconveniences attending their separation more certain than their foresight of these inconveniences, and their care of avoiding them by a close union and confederacy? the skin, pores, muscles, and nerves of a day-labourer, are different from those of a man of quality: so are his sentiments, actions, and manners. the different stations of life influence the whole fabric, external and internal; and these different stations arise necessarily, because uniformly, from the necessary and uniform principles of human nature. men cannot live without society, and cannot be associated without government. government makes a distinction of property, and establishes the different ranks of men. this produces industry, traffic, manufactures, lawsuits, war, leagues, alliances, voyages, travels, cities, fleets, ports, and all those other actions and objects which cause such a diversity, and at the same time maintain such an uniformity in human life. should a traveller, returning from a far country, tell us, that he had seen a climate in the fiftieth degree of northern latitude, where all the fruits ripen and come to perfection in the winter, and decay in the summer, after the same manner as in england they are produced and decay in the contrary seasons, he would find few so credulous as to believe him. i am apt to think a traveller would meet with as little credit, who should inform us of people exactly of the same character with those in plato's republic on the one hand, or those in hobbes's _leviathan_ on the other. there is a general course of nature in human actions, as well as in the operations of the sun and the climate. there are also characters peculiar to different nations and particular persons, as well as common to mankind. the knowledge of these characters is founded on the observation of an uniformity in the actions that flow from them; and this uniformity forms the very essence of necessity. i can imagine only one way of eluding this argument, which is by denying that uniformity of human actions, on which it is founded. as long as actions have a constant union and connexion with the situation and temper of the agent, however we may in words refuse to acknowledge the necessity, we really allow the thing. now, some may perhaps find a pretext to deny this regular union and connexion. for what is more capricious than human actions? what more inconstant than the desires of man? and what creature departs more widely, not only from right reason, but from his own character and disposition? an hour, a moment is sufficient to make him change from one extreme to another, and overturn what cost the greatest pain and labour to establish. necessity is regular and certain. human conduct is irregular and uncertain. the one therefore proceeds not from the other. to this i reply, that in judging of the actions of men we must proceed upon the same maxims, as when we reason concerning external objects. when any phenomena are constantly and invariably conjoined together, they acquire such a connexion in the imagination, that it passes from one to the other without any doubt or hesitation. but below this there are many inferior degrees of evidence and probability, nor does one single contrariety of experiment entirely destroy all our reasoning. the mind balances the contrary experiments, and, deducting the inferior from the superior, proceeds with that degree of assurance or evidence, which remains. even when these contrary experiments are entirely equal, we remove not the notion of causes and necessity; but, supposing that the usual contrariety proceeds from the operation of contrary and concealed causes, we conclude, that the chance or indifference lies only in our judgment on account of our imperfect knowledge, not in the things themselves, which are in every case equally necessary, though, to appearance, not equally constant or certain. no union can be more constant and certain than that of some actions with some motives and characters; and if, in other cases, the union is uncertain, 'tis no more than what happens in the operations of body; nor can we conclude any thing from the one irregularity which will not follow equally from the other. 'tis commonly allowed that madmen have no liberty. but, were we to judge by their actions, these have less regularity and constancy than the actions of wise men, and consequently are farther removed from necessity. our way of thinking in this particular is, therefore, absolutely inconsistent; but is a natural consequence of these confused ideas and undefined terms, which we so commonly make use of in our reasonings, especially on the present subject. we must now show, that, as the _union_ betwixt motives and actions has the same constancy as that in any natural operations, so its influence on the understanding is also the same, in _determining_ us to infer the existence of one from that of another. if this shall appear, there is no known circumstance that enters into the connexion and production of the actions of matter that is not to be found in all the operations of the mind; and consequently we cannot, without a manifest absurdity, attribute necessity to the one, and refuse it to the other. there is no philosopher, whose judgment is so rivetted to this fantastical system of liberty, as not to acknowledge the force of _moral evidence_, and both in speculation and practice proceed upon it as upon a reasonable foundation. now, moral evidence is nothing but a conclusion concerning the actions of men, derived from the consideration of their motives, temper, and situation. thus, when we see certain characters or figures described upon paper, we infer that the person who produced them would affirm such facts, the death of cæsar, the success of augustus, the cruelty of nero; and, remembering many other concurrent testimonies, we conclude that those facts were once really existent, and that so many men, without any interest, would never conspire to deceive us; especially since they must, in the attempt, expose themselves to the derision of all their contemporaries, when these facts were asserted to be recent and universally known. the same kind of reasoning runs through politics, war, commerce, economy, and indeed mixes itself so entirely in human life, that 'tis impossible to act or subsist a moment without having recourse to it. a prince who imposes a tax upon his subjects, expects their compliance. a general who conducts an army, makes account of a certain degree of courage. a merchant looks for fidelity and skill in his factor or supercargo. a man who gives orders for his dinner, doubts not of the obedience of his servants. in short, as nothing more nearly interests us than our own actions and those of others, the greatest part of our reasonings is employed in judgments concerning them. now i assert, that whoever reasons after this manner, does _ipso facto_ believe the actions of the will to arise from necessity, and that he knows not what he means when he denies it. all those objects, of which we call the one _cause_ and the other _effect_, considered in themselves, are as distinct and separate from each other as any two things in nature; nor can we ever, by the most accurate survey of them, infer the existence of the one from that of the other. 'tis only from experience and the observation of their constant union, that we are able to form this inference; and even after all, the inference is nothing but the effects of custom on the imagination. we must not here be content with saying, that the idea of cause and effect arises from objects constantly united; but must affirm, that 'tis the very same with the idea of these objects, and that the _necessary connexion_ is not discovered by a conclusion of the understanding, but is merely a perception of the mind. wherever, therefore, we observe the same union, and wherever the union operates in the same manner upon the belief and opinion, we have the idea of causes and necessity, though perhaps we may avoid those expressions. motion in one body, in all past instances that have fallen under our observation, is followed upon impulse by motion in another. 'tis impossible for the mind to penetrate farther. from this constant union it _forms_ the idea of cause and effect, and by its influence _feels_ the necessity. as there is the same constancy, and the same influence, in what we call moral evidence, i ask no more. what remains can only be a dispute of words. and indeed, when we consider how aptly _natural_ and _moral_ evidence cement together, and form only one chain of argument betwixt them, we shall make no scruple to allow, that they are of the same nature, and derived from the same principles. a prisoner, who has neither money nor interest, discover the impossibility of his escape, as well from the obstinacy of the gaoler, as from the walls and bars with which he is surrounded; and in all attempts for his freedom, chooses rather to work upon the stone and iron of the one, than upon the inflexible nature of the other. the same prisoner, when conducted to the scaffold, foresees his death as certainly from the constancy and fidelity of his guards, as from the operation of the axe or wheel. his mind runs along a certain train of ideas: the refusal of the soldiers to consent to his escape; the action of the executioner; the separation of the head and body, bleeding, convulsive motions, and death. here is a connected chain of natural causes and voluntary actions; but the mind feels no difference betwixt them in passing from one link to another; nor is less certain of the future event than if it were connected with the present impressions of the memory and senses by a train of causes cemented together by what we are pleased to call a _physical necessity_. the same experienced union has the same effect on the mind, whether the united objects be motives, volitions and actions, or figure and motion. we may change the names of things, but their nature and their operation on the understanding never change. i dare be positive no one will ever endeavour to refute these reasonings otherwise than by altering my definitions, and assigning a different meaning to the terms of _cause, and effect, and necessity, and liberty, and chance_. according to my definitions, necessity makes an essential part of causation; and consequently liberty, by removing necessity, removes also causes, and is the very same thing with chance. as chance is commonly thought to imply a contradiction, and is at least directly contrary to experience, there are always the same arguments against liberty or free-will. if any one alters the definitions, i cannot pretend to argue with him till i know the meaning he assigns to these terms. section ii. the same subject continued. i believe we may assign the three following reasons for the prevalence of the doctrine of liberty, however absurd it may be in one sense, and unintelligible in any other. first, after we have performed any action, though we confess we were influenced by particular views and motives, 'tis difficult for us to persuade ourselves we were governed by necessity, and that 'twas utterly impossible for us to have acted otherwise, the idea of necessity seeming to imply something of force, and violence, and constraint, of which we are not sensible. few are capable of distinguishing betwixt the liberty of _spontaneity_, as it is called in the schools, and the liberty of _indifference_; betwixt that which is opposed to violence, and that which means a negation of necessity and causes. the first is even the most common sense of the word; and as 'tis only that species of liberty which it concerns us to preserve, our thoughts have been principally turned towards it, and have almost universally confounded it with the other. secondly, there is a _false sensation or experience_ even of the liberty of indifference, which is regarded as an argument for its real existence. the necessity of any action, whether of matter or of the mind, is not properly a quality in the agent, but in any thinking or intelligent being, who may consider the action, and consists in the determination of his thought to infer its existence from some preceding objects: as liberty or chance, on the other hand, is nothing but the want of that determination, and a certain looseness, which we feel in passing or not passing from the idea of one to that of the other. now, we may observe, that though in reflecting on human actions, we seldom feel such a looseness or indifference, yet it very commonly happens, that, in performing the actions themselves, we are sensible of something like it: and as all related or resembling objects are readily taken for each other, this has been employed as a demonstrative, or even an intuitive proof of human liberty. we feel that our actions are subject to our will on most occasions, and imagine we feel that the will itself is subject to nothing; because when, by a denial of it, we are provoked to try, we feel that it moves easily every way, and produces an image of itself even on that side on which it did not settle. this image or faint motion, we persuade ourselves, could have been completed into the thing itself; because, should that be denied, we find, upon a second trial, that it can. but these efforts are all in vain; and whatever capricious and irregular actions we may perform, as the desire of showing our liberty is the sole motive of our actions, we can never free ourselves from the bonds of necessity. we may imagine we feel a liberty within ourselves, but a spectator can commonly infer our actions from our motives and character; and even where he cannot, he concludes in general that he might, were he perfectly acquainted with every circumstance of our situation and temper, and the most secret springs of our complexion and disposition. now, this is the very essence of necessity, according to the foregoing doctrine. a third reason why the doctrine of liberty has generally been better received in the world than its antagonist, proceeds from _religion_, which has been very unnecessarily interested in this question. there is no method of reasoning more common, and yet none more blameable, than in philosophical debates to endeavour to refute any hypothesis by a pretext of its dangerous consequences to religion and morality. when any opinion leads us into absurdities, 'tis certainly false; but 'tis not certain an opinion is false, because 'tis of dangerous consequence. such topics, therefore, ought entirely to be foreborn, as serving nothing to the discovery of truth, but only to make the person of an antagonist odious. this i observe in general, without pretending to draw any advantage from it. i submit myself frankly to an examination of this kind, and dare venture to affirm, that the doctrine of necessity, according to my explication of it, is not only innocent, but even advantageous to religion and morality. i define necessity two ways, conformable to the two definitions of _cause_, of which it makes an essential part. i place it either in the constant union and conjunction of like objects, or in the inference of the mind from the one to the other. now, necessity, in both these senses, has universally, though tacitly, in the schools, in the pulpit, and in common life, been allowed to belong to the will of man; and no one has ever pretended to deny, that we can draw inferences concerning human actions, and that those inferences are founded on the experienced union of like actions with like motives and circumstances. the only particular in which any one can differ from me is, either that perhaps he will refuse to call this necessity; but as long as the meaning is understood, i hope the word can do no harm; or, that he will maintain there is something else in the operations of matter. now, whether it be so or not, is of no consequence to religion, whatever it may be to natural philosophy. i may be mistaken in asserting, that we have no idea of any other connexion in the actions of body, and shall be glad to be farther instructed on that head: but sure i am, i ascribe nothing to the actions of the mind, but what must readily be allowed of. let no one, therefore, put an invidious construction on my words, by saying simply, that i assert the necessity of human actions, and place them on the same footing with the operations of senseless matter. i do not ascribe to the will that unintelligible necessity, which is supposed to lie in matter. but i ascribe to matter that intelligible quality, call it necessity or not, which the most rigorous orthodoxy does or must allow to belong to the will. i change, therefore, nothing in the received systems, with regard to the will, but only with regard to material objects. nay, i shall go farther, and assert, that this kind of necessity is so essential to religion and morality, that without it there must ensue an absolute subversion of both, and that every other supposition is entirely destructive to all laws, both _divine_ and _human_. 'tis indeed certain, that as all human laws are founded on rewards and punishments, 'tis supposed as a fundamental principle, that these motives have an influence on the mind, and both produce the good and prevent the evil actions. we may give to this influence what name we please; but as 'tis usually conjoined with the action, common sense requires it should be esteemed a cause, and be looked upon as an instance of that necessity, which i would establish. this reasoning is equally solid, when applied to _divine_ laws, so far as the deity is considered as a legislator, and is supposed to inflict punishment and bestow rewards with a design to produce obedience. but i also maintain, that even where he acts not in his magisterial capacity, is regarded as the avenger of crimes merely on account of their odiousness and deformity, not only 'tis impossible, without the necessary connexion of cause and effect in human actions, that punishments could be inflicted compatible with justice and moral equity; but also that it could ever enter into the thoughts of any reasonable being to inflict them. the constant and universal object of hatred or anger is a person or creature endowed with thought and consciousness; and when any criminal or injurious actions excite that passion, 'tis only by their relation to the person or connexion with him. but according to the doctrine of liberty or chance, this connexion is reduced to nothing, nor are men more accountable for those actions, which are designed and premeditated, than for such as are the most casual and accidental. actions are, by their very nature, temporary and perishing; and where they proceed not from some cause in the characters and disposition of the person who performed them, they infix not themselves upon him, and can neither redound to his honour, if good, nor infamy, if evil. the action itself may be blameable; it may be contrary to all the rules of morality and religion: but the person is not responsible for it; and as it proceeded from nothing in him that is durable or constant, and leaves nothing of that nature behind it, 'tis impossible he can, upon its account, become the object of punishment or vengeance. according to the hypothesis of liberty, therefore, a man is as pure and untainted, after having committed the most horrid crimes, as at the first moment of his birth, nor is his character any way concerned in his actions, since they are not derived from it, and the wickedness of the one can never be used as a proof of the depravity of the other. 'tis only upon the principles of necessity, that a person acquires any merit or demerit from his actions, however the common opinion may incline to the contrary. but so inconsistent are men with themselves, that though they often assert that necessity utterly destroys all merit and demerit either towards mankind or superior powers, yet they continue still to reason upon these very principles of necessity in all their judgments concerning this matter. men are not blamed for such evil actions as they perform ignorantly and casually, whatever may be their consequences. why? but because the causes of these actions are only momentary, and terminate in them alone. men are less blamed for such evil actions as they perform hastily and unpremeditately, than for such as proceed from thought and deliberation. for what reason? but because a hasty temper, though a constant cause in the mind, operates only by intervals, and infects not the whole character. again, repentance wipes off every crime, especially if attended with an evident reformation of life and manners. how is this to be accounted for? but by asserting that actions render a person criminal, merely as they are proofs of criminal passions or principles in the mind; and when, by any alteration of these principles, they cease to be just proofs, they likewise cease to be criminal. but according the doctrine of _liberty_ or _chance_, they never were just proofs, and consequently never were criminal. here then i turn to my adversary, and desire him to free his own system from these odious consequences before he charge them upon others. or, if he rather chooses that this question should be decided by fair arguments before philosophers, than by declamations before the people, let him return to what i have advanced to prove that liberty and chance are synonymous; and concerning the nature of moral evidence and the regularity of human actions. upon a review of these reasonings, i cannot doubt of an entire victory; and therefore, having proved that all actions of the will have particular causes, i proceed to explain what these causes are, and how they operate. section iii. of the influencing motives of the will. nothing is more usual in philosophy, and even in common life, than to talk of the combat of passion and reason, to give the preference to reason, and assert that men are only so far virtuous as they conform themselves to its dictates. every rational creature, 'tis said, is obliged to regulate his actions by reason; and if any other motive or principle challenge the direction of his conduct, he ought to oppose it, 'till it be entirely subdued, or at least brought to a conformity with that superior principle. on this method of thinking the greatest part of moral philosophy, ancient and modern, seems to be founded; nor is there an ampler field, as well for metaphysical arguments, as popular declamations, than this supposed pre-eminence of reason above passion. the eternity, invariableness, and divine origin of the former, have been displayed to the best advantage: the blindness, inconstancy, and deceitfulness of the latter, have been as strongly insisted on. in order to show the fallacy of all this philosophy, i shall endeavour to prove _first_, that reason alone can never be a motive to any action of the will; and _secondly_, that it can never oppose passion in the direction of the will. the understanding exerts itself after two different ways, as the judges from demonstration or probability; as it regards the abstract relations of our ideas, or those relations of objects of which experience only gives us information. i believe it scarce will be asserted, that the first species of reasoning alone is ever the cause of any action. as its proper province is the world of ideas, and as the will always places us in that of realities, demonstration and volition seem upon that account to be totally removed from each other. mathematics, indeed, are useful in all mechanical operations, and arithmetic in almost every art and profession: but 'tis not of themselves they have any influence. mechanics are the art of regulating the motions of bodies _to some designed end or purpose_; and the reason why we employ arithmetic in fixing the proportions of numbers, is only that we may discover the proportions of their influence and operation. a merchant is desirous of knowing the sum total of his accounts with any person: why? but that he may learn what sum will have the same _effects_ in paying his debt, and going to market, as all the particular articles taken together. abstract or demonstrative reasoning, therefore, never influences any of our actions, but only as it directs our judgment concerning causes and effects; which leads us to the second operation of the understanding. 'tis obvious, that when we have the prospect of pain or pleasure from any object, we feel a consequent emotion of aversion or propensity, and are carried to avoid or embrace what will give us this uneasiness or satisfaction. 'tis also obvious, that this emotion rests not here, but, making us cast our view on every side, comprehends whatever objects are connected with its original one by the relation of cause and effect. here then reasoning takes place to discover this relation; and according as our reasoning varies, our actions receive a subsequent variation. but 'tis evident, in this case, that the impulse arises not from reason, but is only directed by it. 'tis from the prospect of pain or pleasure that the aversion or propensity arises towards any object: and these emotions extend themselves to the causes and effects of that object, as they are pointed out to us by reason and experience. it can never in the least concern us to know, that such objects are causes, and such others effects, if both the causes and effects be indifferent to us. where the objects themselves do not affect us, their connexion can never give them any influence; and 'tis plain that, as reason is nothing but the discovery of this connexion, it cannot be by its means that the objects are able to affect us. since reason alone can never produce any action, or give rise to volition, i infer, that the same faculty is as incapable of preventing volition, or of disputing the preference with any passion or emotion. this consequence is necessary. 'tis impossible reason could have the latter effect of preventing, volition, but by giving an impulse in a contrary direction to our passion; and that impulse, had it operated alone, would have been able to produce volition. nothing can oppose or retard the impulse of passion, but a contrary impulse; and if this contrary impulse ever arises from reason, that latter faculty must have an original influence on the will, and must be able to cause, as well as hinder, any act of volition. but if reason has no original influence, 'tis impossible it can withstand any principle which has such an efficacy, or ever keep the mind in suspence a moment. thus, it appears, that the principle which opposes our passion, cannot be the same with reason, and is only called so in an improper sense. we speak not strictly and philosophically, when we talk of the combat of passion and of reason. reason is, and ought only to be, the slave of the passions, and can never pretend to any other office than to serve and obey them. as this opinion may appear somewhat extraordinary, it may not be improper to confirm it by some other considerations. a passion is an original existence, or, if you will, modification of existence, and contains not any representative quality, which renders it a copy of any other existence or modification. when i am angry, i am actually possest with the passion, and in that emotion have no more a reference to any other object, than when i am thirsty, or sick, or more than five feet high. 'tis impossible, therefore, that this passion can be opposed by, or be contradictory to, truth and reason; since this contradiction consists in the disagreement of ideas, considered as copies, with those objects which they represent. what may at first occur on this head is, that as nothing can be contrary to truth or reason, except what has a reference to it, and as the judgments of our understanding only have this reference, it must follow, that passions can be contrary to reason only, so far as they are _accompanied_ with some judgment or opinion. according to this principle, which is so obvious and natural, 'tis only in two senses that any affection can be called unreasonable. first, when a passion, such as hope or fear, grief or joy, despair or security, is founded on the supposition of the existence of objects, which really do not exist. secondly, when in exerting any passion in action, we choose means sufficient for the designed end, and deceive ourselves in our judgment of causes and effects. where a passion is neither founded on false suppositions, nor chooses means insufficient for the end, the understanding can neither justify nor condemn it. 'tis not contrary to reason to prefer the destruction of the whole world to the scratching of my finger. 'tis not contrary to reason for me to choose my total ruin, to prevent the least uneasiness of an indian, or person wholly unknown to me. 'tis as little contrary to reason to prefer even my own acknowledged lesser good to my greater, and have a more ardent affection for the former than the latter. a trivial good may, from certain circumstances, produce a desire superior to what arises from the greatest and most valuable enjoyment; nor is there any thing more extraordinary in this, than in mechanics to see one pound weight raise up a hundred by the advantage of its situation. in short, a passion must be accompanied with some false judgment, in order to its being unreasonable; and even then, 'tis not the passion, properly speaking, which is unreasonable, but the judgment. the consequences are evident. since a passion can never, in any sense, be called unreasonable, but when founded on a false supposition, or when it chuses means insufficient for the designed end, 'tis impossible, that reason and passion can ever oppose each other, or dispute for the government of the will and actions. the moment we perceive the falsehood of any supposition, or the insufficiency of any means, our passions yield to our reason without any opposition. i may desire any fruit as of an excellent relish; but whenever you convince me of my mistake, my longing ceases. i may will the performance of certain actions as means of obtaining any desired good; but as my willing of these actions is only secondary, and founded on the supposition that they are causes of the proposed effect; as soon as i discover the falsehood of that supposition, they must become indifferent to me. 'tis natural for one, that does not examine objects with a strict philosophic eye, to imagine, that those actions of the mind are entirely the same, which produce not a different sensation, and are not immediately distinguishable to the feeling and perception. reason, for instance, exerts itself without producing any sensible emotion; and except in the more sublime disquisitions of philosophy, or in the frivolous subtilties of the schools, scarce ever conveys any pleasure or uneasiness. hence it proceeds, that every action of the mind which operates with the same calmness and tranquillity, is confounded with reason by all those who judge of things from the first view and appearance. now 'tis certain there are certain calm desires and tendencies, which, though they be real passions, produce little emotion in the mind, and are more known by their effects than by the immediate feeling or sensation. these desires are of two kinds; either certain instincts originally implanted in our natures, such as benevolence and resentment, the love of life, and kindness to children; or the general appetite to good, and aversion to evil, considered merely as such. when any of these passions are calm, and cause no disorder in the soul, they are very readily taken for the determinations of reason, and are supposed to proceed from the same faculty with that which judges of truth and falsehood. their nature and principles have been supposed the same, because their sensations are not evidently different. beside these calm passions, which often determine the will, there are certain violent emotions of the same kind, which have likewise a great influence on that faculty. when i receive any injury from another, i often feel a violent passion of resentment, which makes me desire his evil and punishment, independent of all considerations of pleasure and advantage to myself. when i am immediately threatened with any grievous ill, my fears, apprehensions and aversions rise to a great height, and produce a sensible emotion. the common error of metaphysicians has lain in ascribing the direction of the will entirely to one of these principles, and supposing the other to have no influence. men often act knowingly against their interest; for which reason, the view of the greatest possible good does not always influence them. men often counteract a violent passion in prosecution of their interests and designs; 'tis not, therefore, the present uneasiness alone which determines them. in general we may observe, that both these principles, operate on the will; and where they are contrary, that either of them prevails, according to the _general_ character or _present_ disposition of the person. what we call strength of mind, implies the prevalence of the calm passions above the violent; though we may easily observe, there is no man so constantly possessed of this virtue, as never on any occasion to yield to the solicitations of passion and desire. from these variations of temper proceeds the great difficulty of deciding concerning the actions and resolutions of men, where there is any contrariety of motives and passions. section iv. of the causes of the violent passions. there is not in philosophy a subject of more nice speculation than this, of the different _causes_ and _effects_ of the calm and violent passions. 'tis evident, passions influence not the will in proportion to their violence, or the disorder they occasion in the temper; but, on the contrary, that when a passion has once become a settled principle of action, and is the predominant inclination of the soul, it commonly produces no longer any sensible agitation. as repeated custom and its own force have made every thing yield to it, it directs the actions and conduct without that opposition and emotion which so naturally attend every momentary gust of passion. we must, therefore, distinguish betwixt a calm and a weak passion; betwixt a violent and a strong one. but notwithstanding this, 'tis certain that, when we would govern a man, and push him to any action, 'twill commonly be better policy to work upon the violent than the calm passions, and rather take him by his inclination, than what is vulgarly called his _reason_. we ought to place the object in such particular situations as are proper to increase the violence of the passion. for we may observe, that all depends upon the situation of the object, and that a variation in this particular will be able to change the calm and the violent passions into each other. both these kinds of passions pursue good, and avoid evil; and both of them are increased or diminished by the increase or diminution of the good or evil. but herein lies the difference betwixt them: the same good, when near, will cause a violent passion, which, when remote, produces only a calm one. as this subject belongs very properly to the present question concerning the will, we shall here examine it to the bottom, and shall consider some of those circumstances and situations of objects, which render a passion either calm or violent. 'tis a remarkable property of human nature, that any emotion which attends a passion, is easily converted into it, though in their natures they be originally different from, and even contrary to, each other. 'tis true, in order to make a perfect union among the passions, there is always required a double relation of impressions and ideas; nor is one relation sufficient for that purpose. but though this be confirmed by undoubted experience, we must understand it with its proper limitations, and must regard the double relation as requisite only to make one passion produce another. when two passions are already produced by their separate causes, and are both present in the mind, they readily mingle and unite, though they have but one relation, and sometimes without any. the predominant passion swallows up the inferior, and converts it into itself. the spirits, when once excited, easily receive a change in their direction; and 'tis natural to imagine this change will come from the prevailing affection. the connexion is in many respects closer betwixt any two passions, than betwixt any passion and indifference. when a person is once heartily in love, the little faults and caprice of his mistress, the jealousies and quarrels to which that commerce is so subject, however unpleasant, and related to anger and hatred, are yet found to give additional force to the prevailing passion. 'tis a common artifice of politicians, when they would affect any person very much by a matter of fact, of which they intend to inform him, first to excite his curiosity, delay as long as possible the satisfying it, and by that means raise his anxiety and impatience to the utmost, before they give him a full insight into the business. they know that his curiosity will precipitate him into the passion they design to raise, and assist the object in its influence on the mind. a soldier advancing to the battle, is naturally inspired with courage and confidence, when he thinks on his friends and fellow-soldiers; and is struck with fear and terror, when he reflects on the enemy. whatever new emotion, therefore, proceeds from the former, naturally increases the courage; as the same emotion, proceeding from the latter, augments the fear, by the relation of ideas, and the conversion of the inferior emotion into the predominant. hence it is, that in martial discipline, the uniformity and lustre of our habit, the regularity of our figures and motions, with all the pomp and majesty of war, encourage ourselves and allies; while the same objects in the enemy strike terror into us, though agreeable and beautiful in themselves. since passions, however independent, are naturally transfused into each other, if they are both present at the same time, it follows, that when good or evil is placed in such a situation as to cause any particular emotion beside its direct passion of desire or aversion, that latter passion must acquire new force and violence. this happens, among other cases, whenever any object excites contrary passions. for 'tis observable that an opposition of passions commonly causes a new emotion in the spirits, and produces more disorder than the concurrence of any two affections of equal force. this new emotion is easily converted into the predominant passion, and increases its violence beyond the pitch it would have arrived at had it met with no opposition. hence we naturally desire what is forbid, and take a pleasure in performing actions, merely because they are unlawful. the notion of duty, when opposite to the passions, is seldom able to overcome them; and, when it fails of that effect, is apt rather to increase them, by producing an opposition in our motives and principles. the same effect follows, whether the opposition arises from internal motives or external obstacles. the passion commonly acquires new force and violence in both cases. the efforts which the mind makes to surmount the obstacle, excite the spirits and enliven the passion. uncertainty has the same influence as opposition. the agitation of the thought, the quick turns it makes from one view to another, the variety of passions which succeed each other, according to the different views; all these produce an agitation in the mind, and transfuse themselves into the predominant passion. there is not, in my opinion, any other natural cause why security diminishes the passions, than because it removes that uncertainty which increases them. the mind, when left to itself, immediately languishes, and, in order to preserve its ardour, must be every moment supported by a new flow of passion. for the same reason, despair, though contrary to security, has a like influence. 'tis certain, nothing more powerful animates any affection, than to conceal some part of its object by throwing it into a kind of shade, which, at the same time that it shows enough to prepossess us in favour of the object, leaves still some work for the imagination. besides, that obscurity is always attended with a kind of uncertainty; the effort which the fancy makes to complete the idea, rouses the spirits, and gives an additional force to the passion. as despair and security, though contrary to each other, produce the same effects, so absence is observed to have contrary effects, and, in different circumstances, either increases or diminishes our affections. the duc de la rochefoucault has very well observed, that absence destroys weak passions, but increases strong; as the wind extinguishes a candle, but blows up a fire. long absence naturally weakens our idea, and diminishes the passion; but where the idea is so strong and lively as to support itself, the uneasiness, arising from absence, increases the passion, and gives it new force and violence. section v. of the effects of custom. but nothing has a greater effect both to increase and diminish our passions, to convert pleasure into pain, and pain into pleasure, than custom and repetition. custom has two _original_ effects upon the mind, in bestowing a _facility_ in the performance of any action, or the conception of any object, and afterwards a _tendency or inclination_ towards it; and from these we may account for all its other effects, however extraordinary. when the soul applies itself to the performance of any action, or the conception of any object to which it is not accustomed, there is a certain unpliableness in the faculties, and a difficulty of the spirits moving in their new direction. as this difficulty excites the spirits, 'tis the source of wonder, surprise, and of all the emotions which arise from novelty, and is in itself very agreeable, like every thing which enlivens the mind to a moderate degree. but though surprise be agreeable in itself, yet, as it puts the spirits in agitation, it not only augments our agreeable affections, but also our painful, according to the foregoing principle, _that every emotion which precedes or attends a passion is easily converted into it_. hence, every thing that is new is most affecting, and gives us either more pleasure or pain than what, strictly speaking, naturally belongs to it. when it often returns upon us, the novelty wears off, the passions subside, the hurry of the spirits is over, and we survey the objects with greater tranquillity. by degrees, the repetition produces a facility, which is another very powerful principle of the human mind, and an infallible source of pleasure where the facility goes not beyond a certain degree. and here 'tis remarkable, that the pleasure which arises from a moderate facility has not the same tendency with that which arises from novelty, to augment the painful as well as the agreeable affections. the pleasure of facility does not so much consist in any ferment of the spirits, as in their orderly motion, which will sometimes be so powerful as even to convert pain into pleasure, and give us a relish in time for what at first was most harsh and disagreeable. but, again, as facility converts pain into pleasure, so it often converts pleasure into pain when it is too great, and renders the actions of the mind so faint and languid, that they are no longer able to interest and support it. and indeed scarce any other objects become disagreeable through custom, but such as are naturally attended with some emotion or affection, which is destroyed by the too frequent repetition. one can consider the clouds, and heavens, and trees, and stones, however frequently repeated, without ever feeling any aversion. but when the fair sex, or music, or good cheer, or any thing that naturally ought to be agreeable, becomes indifferent, it easily produces the opposite affection. but custom not only gives a facility to perform any action, but likewise an inclination and tendency towards it, where it is not entirely disagreeable, and can never be the object of inclination. and this is the reason why custom increases all _active_ habits, but diminishes _passive_, according to the observation of a late eminent philosopher. the facility takes off from the force of the passive habits by rendering the motion of the spirits faint and languid. but as in the active, the spirits are sufficiently supported of themselves, the tendency of the mind gives them new force, and bends them more strongly to the action. section vi. of the influence of the imagination on the passions. 'tis remarkable, that the imagination and affections have a close union together, and that nothing, which affects the former, can be entirely indifferent to the latter. wherever our ideas of good or evil acquire a new vivacity, the passions become more violent, and keep pace with the imagination in all its variations. whether this proceeds from the principle above-mentioned, _that any attendant emotion is easily converted into the predominant_, i shall not determine. 'tis sufficient for my present purpose, that we have many instances to confirm this influence of the imagination upon the passions. any pleasure with which we are acquainted, affects us more than any other which we own to be superior, but of whose nature we are wholly ignorant. of the one we can form a particular and determinate idea: the other we conceive under the general notion of pleasure; and 'tis certain, that the more general and universal any of our ideas are, the less influence they have upon the imagination. a general idea, though it be nothing but a particular one considered in a certain view, is commonly more obscure; and that because no particular idea, by which we represent a general one, is ever fixed or determinate, but may easily be changed for other particular ones, which will serve equally in the representation. there is a noted passage in the history of greece, which may serve for our present purpose. themistocles told the athenians, that he had formed a design, which would be highly useful to the public, but which 'twas impossible for him to communicate to them without ruining the execution, since its success depended entirely on the secrecy with which it should be conducted. the athenians, instead of granting him full power to act as he thought fitting, ordered him to communicate his design to aristides, in whose prudence they had an entire confidence, and whose opinion they were resolved blindly to submit to. the design of themistocles was secretly to set fire to the fleet of all the grecian commonwealths, which was assembled in a neighbouring port, and which, being once destroyed, would give the athenians the empire of the sea without any rival. aristides returned to the assembly, and told them, that nothing could be more advantageous than the design of themistocles; but at the same time that nothing could be more unjust: upon which the people unanimously rejected the project. a late celebrated historian[ ] admires this passage of ancient history as one of the most singular that is any where to be met with. "here," says he, "they are not philosophers, to whom 'tis easy in their schools to establish the finest maxims and most sublime rules of morality, who decide that interest ought never to prevail above justice. 'tis a whole people interested in the proposal which is made to them, who consider it as of importance to the public good, and who, notwithstanding, reject it unanimously, and without hesitation, merely because it is contrary to justice." for my part i see nothing so extraordinary in this proceeding of the athenians. the same reasons which render it so easy for philosophers to establish these sublime maxims, tend, in part, to diminish the merit of such a conduct in that people. philosophers never balance betwixt profit and honesty, because their decisions are general, and neither their passions nor imaginations are interested in the objects. and though, in the present case, the advantage was immediate to the athenians, yet as it was known only under the general notion of advantage, without being conceived by any particular idea, it must have had a less considerable influence on their imaginations, and have been a less violent temptation, than if they had been acquainted with all its circumstances: otherwise 'tis difficult to conceive, that a whole people, unjust and violent as men commonly are, should so unanimously have adhered to justice, and rejected any considerable advantage. any satisfaction which we lately enjoyed, and of which the memory is fresh and recent, operates on the will with more violence than another of which the traces are decayed, and almost obliterated. from whence does this proceed, but that the memory in the first case assists the fancy, and gives an additional force and vigour to its conceptions? the image of the past pleasure being strong and violent, bestows these qualities on the idea of the future pleasure, which is connected with it by the relation of resemblance. a pleasure which is suitable to the way of life in which we are engaged, excites more our desires and appetites than another which is foreign to it. this phenomenon may be explained from the same principle. nothing is more capable of infusing any passion into the mind, than eloquence, by which objects are represented in their strongest and most lively colours. we may of ourselves acknowledge, that such an object is valuable, and such another odious; but till an orator excites the imagination, and gives force to these ideas, they may have but a feeble influence either on the will or the affections. but eloquence is not always necessary. the bare opinion of another, especially when enforced with passion, will cause an idea of good or evil to have an influence upon us, which would otherwise have been entirely neglected. this proceeds from the principle of sympathy or communication; and sympathy, as i have already observed, is nothing but the conversion of an idea into an impression by the force of imagination. 'tis remarkable, that lively passions commonly attend a lively imagination. in this respect, as well as others, the force of the passion depends as much on the temper of the person, as the nature or situation of the object. i have already observed, that belief is nothing but a lively idea related to a present impression. this vivacity is a requisite circumstance to the exciting all our passions, the calm as well as the violent; nor has a mere fiction of the imagination any considerable influence upon either of them. 'tis too weak to take any hold of the mind, or be attended with emotion. [ ] mons. rollin. section vii. of contiguity and distance in space and time. there is an easy reason why every thing contiguous to us, either in space or time, should be conceived with a peculiar force and vivacity, and excel every other object in its influence on the imagination. ourself is intimately present to us, and whatever is related to self must partake of that quality. but where an object is so far removed as to have lost the advantage of this relation, why, as it is farther removed, its idea becomes still fainter and more obscure, would perhaps require a more particular examination. 'tis obvious that the imagination can never totally forget the points of space and time in which we are existent; but receives such frequent advertisements of them from the passions and senses, that, however it may turn its attention to foreign and remote objects, it is necessitated every moment to reflect on the present. 'tis also remarkable, that in the conception of those objects which we regard as real and existent, we take them in their proper order and situation, and never leap from one object to another, which is distant from it, without running over, at least in a cursory manner, all those objects which are interposed betwixt them. when we reflect, therefore, on any object distant from ourselves, we are obliged not only to reach it at first by passing through all the intermediate space betwixt ourselves and the object, but also to renew our progress every moment, being every moment recalled to the consideration of ourselves and our present situation. 'tis easily conceived, that this interruption must weaken the idea, by breaking the action of the mind, and hindering the conception from being so intense and continued, as when we reflect on a nearer object. the _fewer_ steps we make to arrive at the object, and the _smoother_ the road is, this diminution of vivacity is less sensibly felt, but still may be observed more or less in proportion to the degrees of distance and difficulty. here then we are to consider two kinds of objects, the contiguous and remote, of which the former, by means of their relation to ourselves, approach an impression in force and vivacity; the latter, by reason of the interruption in our manner of conceiving them, appear in a weaker and more imperfect light. this is their effect on the imagination. if my reasoning be just, they must have a proportionable effect on the will and passions. contiguous objects must have an influence much superior to the distant and remote. accordingly we find, in common life, that men are principally concerned about those objects which are not much removed either in space or time, enjoying the present, and leaving what is afar off to the care of chance and fortune. talk to a man of his condition thirty years hence, and he will not regard you. speak of what is to happen to-morrow, and he will lend you attention. the breaking of a mirror gives us more concern when at home, than the burning of a house when abroad, and some hundred leagues distant. but farther; though distance, both in space and time, has a considerable effect on the imagination, and by that means on the will and passions, yet the consequence of a removal in _space_ are much inferior to those of a removal in _time_. twenty years are certainly but a small distance of time in comparison of what history and even the memory of some may inform them of, and yet i doubt if a thousand leagues, or even the greatest distance of place this globe can admit of, will so remarkably weaken our ideas, and diminish our passions. a west india merchant will tell you, that he is not without concern about what passes in jamaica; though few extend their views so far into futurity, as to dread very remote accidents. the cause of this phenomenon must evidently lie in the different properties of space and time. without having recourse to metaphysics, any one may easily observe, that space or extension consists of a number of co-existent parts disposed in a certain order, and capable of being at once present to the sight or feeling. on the contrary, time or succession, though it consists likewise of parts, never presents to us more than one at once; nor is it possible for any two of them ever to co-existent. these qualities of the objects have a suitable effect on the imagination. the parts of extension being susceptible of an union to the senses, acquire an union in the fancy; and as the appearance of one part excludes not another, the transition or passage of the thought through the contiguous parts is by that means rendered more smooth and easy. on the other hand, the incompatibility of the parts of time in their real existence separates them in the imagination, and makes it more difficult for that faculty to trace any long succession or series of events. every part must appear single and alone, nor can regularly have entrance into the fancy without banishing what is supposed to have been immediately precedent. by this means any distance in time causes a greater interruption in the thought than an equal distance in space, and consequently weakens more considerably the idea, and consequently the passions; which depend in a great measure on the imagination, according to my system. there is another phenomenon of a like nature with the foregoing, viz. _the superior effects of the same distance in futurity above that in the past_. this difference with respect to the will is easily accounted for. as none of our actions can alter the past, 'tis not strange it should never determine the will. but with respect to the passions, the question is yet entire, and well worth the examining. besides the propensity to a gradual progression through the points of space and time, we have another peculiarity in our method of thinking, which concurs in producing this phenomenon. we always follow the succession of time in placing our ideas, and from the consideration of any object pass more easily to that which follows immediately after it, than to that which went before it. we may learn this, among other instances, from the order which is always observed in historical narrations. nothing but an absolute necessity can oblige an historian to break the order of time, and in his _narration_ give the precedence to an event, which was in _reality_ posterior to another. this will easily be applied to the question in hand, if we reflect on what i have before observed, that the present situation of the person is always that of the imagination, and that 'tis from thence we proceed to the conception of any distant object. when the object is past, the progression of the thought in passing to it from the present is contrary to nature, as proceeding from one point of time to that which is preceding, and from that to another preceding, in opposition to the natural course of the succession. on the other hand, when we turn our thought to a future object, our fancy flows along the stream of time, and arrives at the object of an order, which seems most natural, passing always from one point of time to that which is immediately posterior to it. this easy progression of ideas favours the imagination, and makes it conceive its object in a stronger and fuller light, than when we are continually opposed in our passage, and are obliged to overcome the difficulties arising from the natural propensity of the fancy. a small degree of distance in the past has, therefore, a greater effect in interrupting and weakening the conception, than a much greater in the future. from this effect of it on the imagination is derived its influence on the will and passions. there is another cause, which both contributes to the same effect, and proceeds from the same quality of the fancy, by which we are determined to trace the succession of time by a similar succession of ideas. when, from the present instant, we consider two points of time equally distant in the future and in the past, 'tis evident that, abstractedly considered, their relation to the present is almost equal. for as the future will _some time_ be present, so the past was _once_ present. if we could, therefore, remove this quality of the imagination, an equal distance in the past and in the future would have a similar influence. nor is this only true when the fancy remains fixed, and from the present instant surveys the future and the past; but also when it changes its situation, and places us in different periods of time. for as, on the one hand, in supposing ourselves existent in a point of time interposed betwixt the present instant and the future object, we find the future object approach to us, and the past retire and become more distant: so, on the other hand, in supposing ourselves existent in a point of time interposed betwixt the present and the past, the past approaches to us, and the future becomes more distant. but from the property of the fancy above mentioned, we rather choose to fix our thought on the point of time interposed betwixt the present and the future, than on that betwixt the present and the past. we advance rather than retard our existence; and, following what seems the natural succession of time, proceed from past to present, and from present to future; by which means we conceive the future as flowing every moment nearer us, and the past as retiring. an equal distance, therefore, in the past and in the future, has not the same effect on the imagination; and that because we consider the one as continually increasing, and the other as continually diminishing. the fancy anticipates the course of things, and surveys the object in that condition to which it tends, as well as in that which is regarded as the present. section viii. the same subject continued. thus, we have accounted for three phenomena, which seem pretty remarkable. why distance weakens the conception and passion: why distance in time has a greater effect than that in space: and why distance in past time has still a greater effect than that in future. we must now consider three phenomena, which seem to be in a manner the reverse of these: why a very great distance increases our esteem and admiration for an object: why such a distance in time increases it more than that in space: and a distance in past time more than that in future. the curiousness of the subject will, i hope, excuse my dwelling on it for some time. to begin with the first phenomenon, why a great distance increases our esteem and admiration for an object; 'tis evident that the mere view and contemplation of any greatness, whether successive or extended, enlarges the soul, and gives it a sensible delight and pleasure. a wide plain, the ocean, eternity, a succession of several ages; all these are entertaining objects, and excel every thing, however beautiful, which accompanies not its beauty with a suitable greatness. now, when any very distant object is presented to the imagination, we naturally reflect on the interposed distance, and by that means conceiving something great and magnificent, receive the usual satisfaction. but as the fancy passes easily from one idea to another related to it, and transports to the second all the passions excited by the first, the admiration, which is directed to the distance, naturally diffuses itself over the distant object. accordingly we find, that 'tis not necessary the object should be actually distant from us in order to cause our admiration; but that 'tis sufficient if, by the natural association of ideas, it conveys our view to any considerable distance. a great traveller, though in the same chamber, will pass for a very extraordinary person; as a greek medal, even in our cabinet, is always esteemed a valuable curiosity. here the object, by a natural transition, conveys our view to the distance; and the admiration which arises from that distance, by another natural transition, returns back to the object. but though every great distance produces an admiration for the distant object, a distance in time has a more considerable effect than that in space. ancient busts and inscriptions are more valued than japan tables: and, not to mention the greeks and romans, 'tis certain we regard with more veneration the old chaldeans and egyptians, than the modern chinese and persians; and bestow more fruitless pains to clear up the history and chronology of the former, than it would cost us to make a voyage, and be certainly informed of the character, learning, and government of the latter. i shall be obliged to make a digression in order to explain this phenomenon. 'tis a quality very observable in human nature, that any opposition which does not entirely discourage and intimidate us, has rather a contrary effect, and inspires us with a more than ordinary grandeur and magnanimity. in collecting our force to overcome the opposition, we invigorate the soul, and give it an elevation with which otherwise it would never have been acquainted. compliance, by rendering our strength useless, makes us insensible of it; but opposition awakens and employs it. this is also true in the inverse. opposition not only enlarges the soul; but the soul, when full of courage and magnanimity, in a manner seeks opposition. spumantemque dari pecora inter inertia votis optat aprum, aut fulvum descendere monte leonem. whatever supports and fills the passions is agreeable to us; as, on the contrary, what weakens and enfeebles them is uneasy. as opposition has the first effect, and facilitates the second, no wonder the mind, in certain dispositions, desires the former, and is averse to the latter. these principles have an effect on the imagination as well as on the passions. to be convinced of this, we need only consider the influence of _heights_ and _depths_ on that faculty. any great elevation of place communicates a kind of pride or sublimity of imagination, and gives a fancied superiority over those that lie below; and, _vice versa_, a sublime and strong imagination conveys the idea of ascent and elevation. hence it proceeds, that we associate, in a manner, the idea of whatever is good with that of height, and evil with lowness. heaven is supposed to be above, and hell below. a noble genius is called an elevate and sublime one. _atque udam spernit humum fugiente penna_. on the contrary, a vulgar and trivial conception is styled indifferently low or mean. prosperity is denominated ascent, and adversity descent. kings and princes are supposed to be placed at the top of human affairs; as peasants and day-labourers are said to be in the lowest stations. these methods of thinking and of expressing ourselves, are not of so little consequence as they may appear at first sight. 'tis evident to common sense, as well as philosophy, that there is no natural nor essential difference betwixt high and low, and that this distinction arises only from the gravitation of matter, which produces a motion from the one to the other. the very same direction, which in this part of the globe is called _ascent_, is denominated _descent_ in our antipodes; which can proceed from nothing but the contrary tendency of bodies. now 'tis certain, that the tendency of bodies, continually operating upon our senses, must produce, from custom, a like tendency in the fancy; and that when we consider any object situated in an ascent, the idea of its weight gives us a propensity to transport it from the place in which it is situated to the place immediately below it, and so on till we come to the ground, which equally stops the body and our imagination. for a like reason we feel a difficulty in mounting, and pass not without a kind of reluctance from the inferior to that which is situated above it; as if our ideas acquired a kind of gravity from their objects. as a proof of this, do we not find, that the facility, which is so much studied in music and poetry, is called the fall or cadency of the harmony or period; the idea of facility communicating to us that of descent, in the same manner as descent produces a facility? since the imagination, therefore, in running from low to high, finds an opposition in its internal qualities and principles, and since the soul, when elevated with joy and courage, in a manner seeks opposition, and throws itself with alacrity into any scene of thought or action where its courage meets with matter to nourish and employ it, it follows, that every thing which invigorates and enlivens the soul, whether by touching the passions or imagination, naturally conveys to the fancy this inclination for ascent, and determines it to run against the natural stream of its thoughts and conceptions. this aspiring progress of the imagination suits the present disposition of the mind; and the difficulty, instead of extinguishing its vigour and alacrity, has the contrary effect of sustaining and increasing it. virtue, genius, power and riches, are for this reason associated with height and sublimity, as poverty, slavery and folly, are conjoined with descent and lowness. were the case the same with us as milton represents it to be with the angels, to whom _descent is adverse_, and who _cannot sink without labour and compulsion_, this order of things would be entirely inverted; as appears hence, that the very nature of ascent and descent is derived from the difficulty and propensity, and consequently every one of their effects proceeds from that origin. all this is easily applied to the present question, why a considerable distance in time produces a greater veneration for the distant objects than a like removal in space. the imagination moves with more difficulty in passing from one portion of time to another, than in a transition through the parts of space; and that because space or extension appears united to our senses, while time or succession is always broken and divided. this difficulty, when joined with a small distance, interrupts and weakens the fancy, but has a contrary effect in a great removal. the mind, elevated by the vastness of its object, is still farther elevated by the difficulty of the conception, and, being obliged every moment to renew its efforts in the transition from one part of time to another, feels a more vigorous and sublime disposition than in a transition through the parts of space, where the ideas flow along with easiness and facility. in this disposition, the imagination, passing, as is usual, from the consideration of the distance to the view of the distant objects, gives us a proportionable veneration for it; and this is the reason why all the relicks of antiquity are so precious in our eyes, and appear more valuable than what is brought even from the remotest parts of the world. the third phenomenon i have remarked will be a full confirmation of this. 'tis not every removal in time which has the effect of producing veneration and esteem. we are not apt to imagine our posterity will excel us, or equal our ancestors. this phenomenon is the more remarkable, because any distance in futurity weakens not our ideas so much as an equal removal in the past. though a removal in the past, when very great, increases our passions beyond a like removal in the future, yet a small removal has a greater influence in diminishing them. in our common way of thinking we are placed in a kind of middle station betwixt the past and future; and as our imagination finds a kind of difficulty in running along the former, and a facility in following the course of the latter, the difficulty conveys the notion of ascent, and the facility of the contrary. hence we imagine our ancestors to be, in a manner, mounted above us, and our posterity to lie below us. our fancy arrives not at the one without effort, but easily reaches the other: which effort weakens the conception, where the distance is small; but enlarges and elevates the imagination, when attended with a suitable object. as on the other hand, the facility assists the fancy in a small removal, but takes off from its force when it contemplates any considerable distance. it may not be improper, before we leave this subject of the will, to resume, in a few words, all that has been said concerning it, in order to set the whole more distinctly before the eyes of the reader. what we commonly understand by _passion_ is a violent and sensible emotion of mind, when any good or evil is presented, or any object, which, by the original formation of our faculties, is fitted to excite an appetite. by _reason_ we mean affections of the very same kind with the former, but such as operate more calmly, and cause no disorder in the temper: which tranquillity leads us into a mistake concerning them, and causes us to regard them as conclusions only of our intellectual faculties. both the _causes_ and _effects_ of these violent and calm passions are pretty variable, and depend, in a great measure, on the peculiar temper and disposition of every individual. generally speaking, the violent passions have a more powerful influence on the will; though 'tis often found that the calm ones, when corroborated by reflection, and seconded by resolution, are able to control them in their most furious movements. what makes this whole affair more uncertain, is, that a calm passion may easily be changed into a violent one, either by a change of temper, or of the circumstances and situation of the object; as by the borrowing of force from any attendant passion, by custom, or by exciting the imagination. upon the whole, this struggle of passion and of reason, as it is called, diversifies human life, and makes men so different not only from each other, but also from themselves in different times. philosophy can only account for a few of the greater and more sensible events of this war; but must leave all the smaller and more delicate revolutions, as dependent on principles too fine and minute for her comprehension. section ix. of the direct passions. 'tis easy to observe, that the passions, both direct and indirect, are founded on pain and pleasure, and that, in order to produce an affection of any kind, 'tis only requisite to present some good or evil. upon the removal of pain and pleasure, there immediately follows a removal of love and hatred, pride and humility, desire and aversion, and of most of our reflective or secondary impressions. the impressions which arise from good and evil most naturally, and with the least preparation, are the _direct_ passions of desire and aversion, grief and joy, hope and fear, along with volition. the mind, by an _original_ instinct, tends to unite itself with the good, and to avoid the evil, though they be conceived merely in idea, and be considered as to exist in any future period of time. but supposing that there is an immediate impression of pain or pleasure, and _that_ arising from an object related to ourselves or others, this does not prevent the propensity or aversion, with the consequent emotions, but, by concurring with certain dormant principles of the human mind, excites the new impressions of pride or humility, love or hatred. that propensity which unites us to the object, or separates us from it, still continues to operate, but in conjunction with the _indirect_ passions which arise from a double relation of impressions and ideas. these indirect passions, being always agreeable or uneasy, give in their turn additional force to the direct passions, and increase our desire and aversion to the object. thus, a suit of fine clothes produces pleasure from their beauty; and this pleasure produces the direct passions, or the impressions of volition and desire. again, when these clothes are considered as belonging to ourself, the double relation conveys to us the sentiment of pride, which is an indirect passion; and the pleasure which attends that passion returns back to the direct affections, and gives new force to our desire or volition, joy or hope. when good is certain or probable, it produces _joy_. when evil is in the same situation, there arises _grief or sorrow_. when either good or evil is uncertain, it gives rise to _fear_ or _hope_, according to the degrees of uncertainty on the one side or the other. _desire_ arises from good considered simply; and _aversion_ is derived from evil. the _will_ exerts itself, when either the good or the absence of the evil may be attained by any action of the mind or body. beside good and evil, or, in other words, pain and pleasure, the direct passions frequently arise from a natural impulse or instinct, which is perfectly unaccountable. of this kind is the desire of punishment to our enemies, and of happiness to our friends; hunger, lust, and a few other bodily appetites. these passions, properly speaking, produce good and evil, and proceed not from them, like the other affections. none of the direct affections seem to merit our particular attention, except hope and fear, which we shall here endeavour to account for. 'tis evident that the very same event, which, by its certainty, would produce grief or joy, gives always rise to fear or hope, when only probable and uncertain. in order, therefore, to understand the reason why this circumstance makes such a considerable difference, we must reflect on what i have already advanced in the preceding book concerning the nature of probability. probability arises from an opposition of contrary chances or causes, by which the mind is not allowed to fix on either side, but is incessantly tost from one to another, and at one moment is determined to consider an object as existent, and at another moment as the contrary. the imagination or understanding, call it which you please, fluctuates betwixt the opposite views; and though perhaps it may be oftener turned to the one side than the other, 'tis impossible for it, by reason of the opposition of causes or chances, to rest on either. the _pro_ and _con_ of the question alternately prevail; and the mind, surveying the object in its opposite principles, finds such a contrariety as utterly destroys all certainty and established opinion. suppose, then, that the object, concerning whose reality we are doubtful, is an object either of desire or aversion, 'tis evident that, according as the mind turns itself either to the one side or the other, it must feel a momentary impression of joy or sorrow. an object, whose existence we desire, gives satisfaction, when we reflect on those causes which produce it; and, for the same reason, excites grief or uneasiness from the opposite consideration: so that as the understanding, in all probable questions, is divided betwixt the contrary points of view, the affections must in the same manner be divided betwixt opposite emotions. now, if we consider the human mind, we shall find, that, with regard to the passions, 'tis not of the nature of a wind-instrument of music, which, in running over all the notes, immediately loses the sound after the breath ceases; but rather resembles, a string-instrument, where, after each stroke, the vibrations still retain some sound, which gradually and insensibly decays. the imagination is extremely quick and agile; but the passions are slow and restive: for which reason, when any object is presented that affords a variety of views to the one, and emotions to the other, though the fancy may change its views with great celerity, each stroke will not produce a clear and distinct note of passion, but the one passion will always be mixt and confounded with the other. according as the probability inclines to good or evil, the passion of joy or sorrow predominates in the composition: because the nature of probability is to cast a superior number of views or chances on one side; or, which is the same thing, a superior number of returns of one passion; or, since the dispersed passions are collected into one, a superior degree of that passion. that is, in other words, the grief and joy being intermingled with each other, by means of the contrary views of the imagination, produce, by their union, the passions of hope and fear. upon this head there may be started a very curious question concerning that contrariety of passions which is our present subject. 'tis observable, that where the objects of contrary passions are presented at once, beside the increase of the predominant passion (which has been already explained, and commonly arises at their first shock or rencounter), it sometimes happens that both the passions exist successively, and by short intervals; sometimes, that they destroy each other, and neither of them takes place; and sometimes that both of them remain united in the mind. it may therefore be asked, by what theory we can explain these variations, and to what general principle we can reduce them. when the contrary passions arise from objects entirely different, they take place alternately, the want of relation in the ideas separating the impressions from each other, and preventing their opposition. thus, when a man is afflicted for the loss of a lawsuit, and joyful for the birth of a son, the mind running from the agreeable to the calamitous object, with whatever celerity it may perform this motion, can scarcely temper the one affection with the other, and remain betwixt them in a state of indifference. it more easily attains that calm situation, when the same event is of a mixt nature, and contains something adverse and something prosperous in its different circumstances. for in that case, both the passions, mingling with each other by means of the relation, become mutually destructive, and leave the mind in perfect tranquillity. but suppose, in the third place, that the object is not a compound of good or evil, but is considered as probable or improbable in any degree; in that case i assert, that the contrary passions will both of them be present at once in the soul, and, instead of destroying and tempering each other, will subsist together, and produce a third impression or affection by their union. contrary passions are not capable of destroying each other, except when their contrary movements exactly rencounter, and are opposite in their direction, as well as in the sensation they produce. this exact rencounter depends upon the relations of those ideas from which they are derived, and is more or less perfect, according to the degrees of the relation. in the case of probability, the contrary chances are so far related that they determine concerning the existence or non-existence of the same object. but this relation is far from being perfect, since some of the chances lie on the side of existence, and others on that of non-existence, which are objects altogether incompatible. 'tis impossible, by one steady view, to survey the opposite chances, and the events dependent on them; but 'tis necessary that the imagination should run alternately from the one to the other. each view of the imagination produces its peculiar passion, which decays away by degrees, and is followed by a sensible vibration after the stroke. the incompatibility of the views keeps the passions from shocking in a direct line, if that expression may be allowed; and yet their relation is sufficient to mingle their fainter emotions. 'tis after this manner that hope and fear arise from the different mixture of these opposite passions of grief and joy, and from their imperfect union and conjunction. upon the whole, contrary passions succeed each other alternately, when they arise from different objects; they mutually destroy each other, when they proceed from different parts of the same; and they subsist, both of them, and mingle together, when they are derived from the contrary and incompatible chances or possibilities on which any one object depends. the influence of the relations of ideas is plainly seen in this whole affair. if the objects of the contrary passions be totally different, the passions are like two opposite liquors in different bottles, which have no influence on each other. if the objects be intimately connected, the passions are like an _alkali_ and an _acid_, which, being mingled, destroy each other. if the relation be more imperfect, and consists in the contradictory views of the same object, the passions are like oil and vinegar, which, however mingled, never perfectly unite and incorporate. as the hypothesis concerning hope and fear carries its own evidence along with it, we shall be the more concise in our proofs. a few strong arguments are better than many weak ones. the passions of fear and hope may arise when the chances are equal on both sides, and no superiority can be discovered in the one above the other. nay, in this situation the passions are rather the strongest, as the mind has then the least foundation to rest upon, and is tossed with the greatest uncertainty. throw in a superior degree of probability to the side of grief, you immediately see that passion diffuse itself over the composition, and tincture it into fear. increase the probability, and by that means the grief, the fear prevails still more and more, till at last it runs insensibly, as the joy continually diminishes, into pure grief. after you have brought it to this situation, diminish the grief, after the same manner that you increased it, by diminishing the probability on that side, and you'll see the passion clear every moment, 'till it changes insensibly into hope; which again runs, after the same manner, by slow degrees, into joy, as you increase that part of the composition by the increase of the probability. are not these as plain proofs, that the passions of fear and hope are mixtures of grief and joy, as in optics 'tis a proof, that a coloured ray of the sun passing through a prism, is a composition of two others, when, as you diminish or increase the quantity of either, you find it prevail proportionably more or less in the composition? i am sure neither natural nor moral philosophy admits of stronger proofs. probability is of two kinds, either when the object is really in itself uncertain, and to be determined by chance; or when, though the object be already certain, yet 'tis uncertain to our judgment, which finds a number of proofs on each side of the question. both these kinds of probabilities cause fear and hope; which can only proceed from that property, in which they agree, viz. the uncertainty and fluctuation they bestow on the imagination by the contrariety of views which is common to both. 'tis a probable good or evil that commonly produces hope or fear; because probability, being a wavering and unconstant method of surveying an object, causes naturally a like mixture and uncertainty of passion. but we may observe, that wherever, from other causes, this mixture can be produced, the passions of fear and hope will arise, even though there be no probability; which must be allowed to be a convincing proof of the present hypothesis. we find that an evil, barely conceived as _possible_, does sometimes produce fear; especially if the evil be very great. a man cannot think of excessive pains and tortures without trembling, if he be in the least danger of suffering them. the smallness of the probability is compensated by the greatness of the evil; and the sensation is equally lively, as if the evil were more probable. one view or glimpse of the former has the same effect as several of the latter. but they are not only possible evils that cause fear, but even some allowed to be _impossible_; as when we tremble on the brink of a precipice, though we know ourselves to be in perfect security, and have it in our choice whether we will advance a step farther. this proceeds from the immediate presence of the evil, which influences the imagination in the same manner as the certainty of it would do; but being encountered by the reflection on our security, is immediately retracted, and causes the same kind of passion, as when, from a contrariety of chances, contrary passions are produced. evils that are _certain_ have sometimes the same effect in producing fear, as the possible or impossible. thus, a man in a strong prison well-guarded, without the least means of escape, trembles at the thought of the rack, to which he is sentenced. this happens only when the certain evil is terrible and confounding; in which case the mind continually rejects it with horror, while it continually presses in upon the thought. the evil is there fixed and established, but the mind cannot endure to fix upon it; from which fluctuation and uncertainty there arises a passion of much the same appearance with fear. but 'tis not only where good or evil is uncertain, as to its _existence_, but also as to its _kind_, that fear or hope arises. let one be told by a person, whose veracity he cannot doubt of, that one of his sons is suddenly killed, 'tis evident the passion this event would occasion, would not settle into pure grief, till he got certain information which of his sons he had lost. here there is an evil certain, but the kind of it uncertain: consequently the fear we feel on this occasion is without the least mixture of joy, and arises merely from the fluctuation of the fancy betwixt its objects. and though each side of the question produces here the same passion, yet that passion cannot settle, but receives from the imagination a tremulous and unsteady motion, resembling in its cause, as well as in its sensation, the mixture and contention of grief and joy. from these principles we may account for a phenomenon in the passions, which at first sight seems very extraordinary, viz. that surprise is apt to change into fear, and every thing that is unexpected affrights us. the most obvious conclusion from this is, that human nature is in general pusillanimous; since, upon the sudden appearance of any object, we immediately conclude it to be an evil, and, without waiting till we can examine its nature, whether it be good or bad, are at first affected with fear. this, i say, is the most obvious conclusion; but upon farther examination, we shall find that the phenomenon is otherwise to be accounted for. the suddenness and strangeness of an appearance naturally excite a commotion in the mind, like every thing for which we are not prepared, and to which we are not accustomed. this commotion, again, naturally produces a curiosity or inquisitiveness, which, being very violent, from the strong and sudden impulse of the object, becomes uneasy, and resembles in its fluctuation and uncertainty, the sensation of fear, or the mixed passions of grief and joy. this image of fear naturally converts into the thing itself, and gives us a real apprehension of evil, as the mind always forms its judgments more from its present disposition than from the nature of its objects. thus all kinds of uncertainty have a strong connexion with fear, even though they do not cause any opposition of passions by the opposite views and considerations they present to us. a person who has left his friend in any malady, will feel more anxiety upon his account, than if he were present, though perhaps he is not only incapable of giving him assistance, but likewise of judging of the event of his sickness. in this case, though the principle object of the passion, viz. the life or death of his friend, be to him equally uncertain when present as when absent; yet there are, a thousand little circumstances of his friend's situation and condition, the knowledge of which fixes the idea, and prevents that fluctuation and uncertainty so nearly allied to fear. uncertainty is, indeed, in one respect, as nearly allied to hope as to fear, since it makes an essential part in the composition of the former passion; but the reason why it inclines not to that side, is, that uncertainty alone is uneasy, and has a relation of impressions to the uneasy passions. 'tis thus our uncertainty concerning any minute circumstance relating to a person, increases our apprehensions of his death or misfortune. horace has remarked this phenomenon: ut assidens implumibus pullus avis serpentium allapsus timet, magis relictis; non, ut adsit, auxili latura plus presentibus. but this principle of the connexion of fear with uncertainty i carry farther, and observe, that any doubt produces that passion, even though it presents nothing to us on any side but what is good and desirable. a virgin, on her bridal-night goes to bed full of fears and apprehensions, though she expects nothing but pleasure of the highest kind, and what she has long wished for. the newness and greatness of the event, the confusion of wishes and joys, so embarrass the mind, that it knows not on what passion to fix itself; from whence arises a fluttering or unsettledness of the spirits, which being, in some degree, uneasy, very naturally degenerates into fear. thus we still find, that whatever causes any fluctuation or mixture of passions, with any degree of uneasiness, always produces fear, or at least a passion so like it, that they are scarcely to be distinguished. i have here confined myself to the examination of hope and fear in their most simple and natural situation, without considering all the variations they may receive from the mixture of different views and reflections. _terror, consternation, astonishment, anxiety_, and other passions of that kind, are nothing but different species and degrees of fear. 'tis easy to imagine how a different situation of the object, or a different turn of thought, may change even the sensation of a passion; and this may in general account for all the particular subdivisions of the other affections, as well as of fear. love may show itself in the shape of _tenderness, friendship, intimacy, esteem, good-will_, and in many other appearances; which at the bottom are the same affections, and arise from the same causes, though with a small variation, which it is not necessary to give any particular account of. 'tis for this reason i have all along confined myself to the principal passion. the same care of avoiding prolixity is the reason why i waive the examination of the will and direct passions, as they appear in animals; since nothing is more evident, than that they are of the same nature, and excited by the same causes as in human creatures. i leave this to the reader's own observation, desiring him at the same time to consider the additional force this bestows on the present system. section x. of curiosity, or the love of truth. but methinks we have been not a little inattentive to run over so many different parts of the human mind, and examine so many passions, without taking once into consideration that love of truth, which was the first source of all our inquiries. 'twill therefore be proper, before we leave this subject, to bestow a few reflections on that passion, and show its origin in human nature. 'tis an affection of so peculiar a kind, that it would have been impossible to have treated of it under any of those heads, which we have examined, without danger of obscurity and confusion. truth is of two kinds, consisting either in the discovery of the proportions of ideas, considered as such, or in the conformity of our ideas of objects to their real existence. 'tis certain that the former species of truth is not desired merely as truth, and that 'tis not the justness of our conclusions, which alone gives the pleasure. for these conclusions are equally just, when we discover the equality of two bodies by a pair of compasses, as when we learn it by a mathematical demonstration; and though in the one case the proofs be demonstrative, and in the other only sensible, yet generally speaking, the mind acquiesces with equal assurance in the one as in the other. and in an arithmetical operation, where both the truth and the assurance are of the same nature, as in the most profound algebraical problem, the pleasure is very inconsiderable, if rather it does not degenerate into pain: which is an evident proof, that the satisfaction, which we sometimes receive from the discovery of truth, proceeds not from it, merely as such, but only as endowed with certain qualities. the first and most considerable circumstance requisite to render truth agreeable, is the genius and capacity which is employed in its invention and discovery. what is easy and obvious is never valued; and even what is _in itself_ difficult, if we come to the knowledge of it without difficulty, and without any stretch of thought or judgment, is but little regarded. we love to trace the demonstrations of mathematicians; but should receive small entertainment from a person who should barely inform us of the proportions of lines and angles, though we reposed the utmost confidence both in his judgment and veracity. in this case 'tis sufficient to have ears to learn the truth. we never are obliged to fix our attention or exert our genius; which of all other exercises of the mind is the most pleasant and agreeable. but though the exercise of genius be the principal source of that satisfaction we receive from the sciences, yet i doubt if it be alone sufficient to give us any considerable enjoyment. the truth we discover must also be of some importance. 'tis easy to multiply algebraical problems to infinity, nor is there any end in the discovery of the proportions of conic sections; though few mathematicians take any pleasure in these researches, but turn their thoughts to what is more useful and important. now the question is, after what manner this utility and importance operate upon us? the difficulty on this head arises from hence, that many philosophers have consumed their time, have destroyed their health, and neglected their fortune, in the search of such truths, as they esteemed important and useful to the world, though it appeared from their whole conduct and behaviour, that they were not endowed with any share of public spirit, nor had any concern for the interests of mankind. were they convinced that their discoveries were of no consequence, they would entirely lose all relish for their studies, and that though the consequences be entirely indifferent to them; which seems to be a contradiction. to remove this contradiction, we must consider, that there are certain desires and inclinations, which go no farther than the imagination, and are rather the faint shadows and images of passions, than any real affections. thus, suppose a man, who takes a survey of the fortifications of any city; considers their strength and advantages, natural or acquired; observes the disposition and contrivance of the bastions, ramparts, mines, and other military works; 'tis plain that, in proportion as all these are fitted to attain their ends, he will receive a suitable pleasure and satisfaction. this pleasure, as it arises from the utility, not the form of the objects, can be no other than a sympathy with the inhabitants, for whose security all this art is employed; though 'tis possible that this person, as a stranger or an enemy, may in his heart have no kindness for them, or may even entertain a hatred against them. it may indeed be objected, that such a remote sympathy is a very slight foundation for a passion, and that so much industry and application, as we frequently observe in philosophers, can never be derived from so inconsiderable an original. but here i return to what i have already remarked, that the pleasure of study consists chiefly in the action of the mind, and the exercise of the genius and understanding in the discovery or comprehension of any truth. if the importance of the truth be requisite to complete the pleasure, 'tis not on account of any considerable addition which of itself it brings to our enjoyment, but only because 'tis in some measure requisite to fix our attention. when we are careless and inattentive, the same action of the understanding has no effect upon us, nor is able to convey any of that satisfaction which arises from it when we are in another disposition. but beside the action of the mind, which is the principal foundation of the pleasure, there is likewise required a degree of success in the attainment of the end, or the discovery of that truth we examine. upon this head i shall make a general remark, which may be useful on many occasions, viz. that where the mind pursues any end with passion, though that passion be not derived originally from the end, but merely from the action and pursuit, yet, by the natural course of the affections, we acquire a concern for the end itself, and are uneasy under any disappointment we meet with in the pursuit of it. this proceeds from the relation and parallel direction of the passions above-mentioned. to illustrate all this by a similar instance, i shall observe, that there cannot be two passions more nearly resembling each other than those of hunting and philosophy, whatever disproportion may at first sight appear betwixt them. 'tis evident, that the pleasure of hunting consists in the action of the mind and body; the motion, the attention, the difficulty, and the uncertainty. 'tis evident, likewise, that these actions must be attended with an idea of utility, in order to their having any effect upon us. a man of the greatest fortune, and the farthest removed from avarice, though he takes a pleasure in hunting after partridges and pheasants, feels no satisfaction in shooting crows and magpies; and that because he considers the first as fit for the table, and the other as entirely useless. here 'tis certain, that the utility or importance of itself causes no real passion, but is only requisite to support the imagination; and the same person who overlooks a ten times greater profit in any other subject, is pleased to bring home half a dozen woodcocks or plovers, after having employed several hours in hunting after them. to make the parallel betwixt hunting and philosophy more complete, we may observe, that though in both cases the end of our action may in itself be despised, yet, in the heat of the action, we acquire such an attention to this end, that we are very uneasy under any disappointments, and are sorry when we either miss our game, or fall into any error in our reasoning. if we want another parallel to these affections, we may consider the passion of gaming, which affords a pleasure from the same principles as hunting and philosophy. it has been remarked, that the pleasure of gaming arises not from interest alone, since many leave a sure gain for this entertainment; neither is it derived from the game alone, since the same persons have no satisfaction when they play for nothing; but proceeds from both these causes united, though separately they have no effect. 'tis here, as in certain chemical preparations, where the mixture of two clear and transparent liquids produces a third, which is opaque and coloured. the interest which we have in any game engages our attention, without which we can have no enjoyment, either in that or in any other action. our attention being once engaged, the difficulty, variety, and sudden reverses of fortune; still farther interest us; and 'tis from that concern our satisfaction arises. human life is so tiresome a scene, and men generally are of such indolent dispositions, that whatever amuses them, though by a passion mixed with pain, does in the main give them a sensible pleasure. and this pleasure is here increased by the nature of the objects, which, being sensible and of a narrow compass, are entered into with facility, and are agreeable to the imagination. the same theory that accounts for the love of truth in mathematics and algebra, may be extended to morals, politics, natural philosophy, and other studies, where we consider not the abstract relations of ideas, but their real connexions and existence. but beside the love of knowledge which displays itself in the sciences, there is a certain curiosity implanted in human nature, which is a passion derived from a quite different principle. some people have an insatiable desire of knowing the actions and circumstances of their neighbours, though their interest be no way concerned in them, and they must entirely depend on others for their information; in which case there is no room for study or application. let us search for the reason of this phenomenon. it has been proved at large, that the influence of belief is at once to enliven and infix any idea in the imagination, and prevent all kind of hesitation and uncertainty about it. both these circumstances are advantageous. by the vivacity of the idea we interest the fancy, and produce, though in a lesser degree, the same pleasure which arises from a moderate passion. as the vivacity of the idea gives pleasure, so its certainty prevents uneasiness, by fixing one particular idea in the mind, and keeping it from wavering in the choice of its objects. 'tis a quality of human nature which is conspicuous on many occasions, and is common both to the mind and body, that too sudden and violent a change is unpleasant to us, and that, however any objects may in themselves be indifferent, yet their alteration gives uneasiness. as 'tis the nature of doubt to cause a variation in the thought, and transport us suddenly from one idea to another, it must of consequence be the occasion of pain. this pain chiefly takes place where interest, relation, or the greatness and novelty of any event interests us in it. 'tis not every matter of fact of which we have a curiosity to be informed; neither are they such only as we have an interest to know. 'tis sufficient if the idea strikes on us with such force, and concerns us so nearly, as to give us an uneasiness in its instability and inconstancy. a stranger, when he arrives first at any town, may be entirely indifferent about knowing the history and adventures of the inhabitants; but as he becomes farther acquainted with them, and has lived any considerable time among them, he acquires the same curiosity as the natives. when we are reading the history of a nation, we may have an ardent desire of clearing up any doubt or difficulty that occurs in it; but become careless in such researches, when the ideas of these events are, in a great measure, obliterated. book iii. of morals. part i. of virtue and vice in general. section i. moral distinctions not derived from reason. there is an inconvenience which attends all abstruse reasoning, that it may silence, without convincing an antagonist, and requires the same intense study to make us sensible of its force, that was at first requisite for its invention. when we leave our closet, and engage in the common affairs of life, its conclusions seem to vanish like the phantoms of the night on the appearance of the morning; and 'tis difficult for us to retain even that conviction which we had attained with difficulty. this is still more conspicuous in a long chain of reasoning, where we must preserve to the end the evidence of the first propositions, and where we often lose sight of all the most received maxims, either of philosophy or common life. i am not, however, without hopes, that the present system of philosophy will acquire new force as it advances; and that our reasonings concerning _morals_ will corroborate whatever has been said concerning the _understanding_ and the _passions_. morality is a subject that interests us above all others; we fancy the peace of society to be at stake in every decision concerning it; and 'tis evident, that this concern must make our speculations appear more real and solid, than where the subject is in a great measure indifferent to us. what affects us, we conclude can never be a chimera; and, as our passion is engaged on the one side or the other, we naturally think that the question lies within human comprehension; which, in other cases of this nature, we are apt to entertain some doubt of. without this advantage, i never should have ventured upon a third volume of such abstruse philosophy, in an age wherein the greatest part of men seem agreed to convert reading into an amusement, and to reject every thing that requires any considerable degree of attention to be comprehended. it has been observed, that nothing is ever present to the mind but its perceptions; and that all the actions of seeing, hearing, judging, loving, hating, and thinking, fall under this denomination. the mind can never exert itself in any action which we may not comprehend under the term of _perception_; and consequently that term is no less applicable to those judgments by which we distinguish moral good and evil, than to every other operation of the mind. to approve of one character, to condemn another, are only so many different perceptions. now, as perceptions resolve themselves into two kinds, viz. _impressions_ and _ideas_, this distinction gives rise to a question, with which we shall open up our present inquiry concerning morals, _whether 'tis by means of our ideas or impressions we distinguish betwixt vice and virtue, and pronounce an action blameable or praiseworthy_? this will immediately cut off all loose discourses and declamations, and reduce us to something precise and exact on the present subject. those who affirm that virtue is nothing but a conformity to reason; that there are eternal fitnesses and unfitnesses of things, which are the same to every rational being that considers them; that the immutable measures of right and wrong impose an obligation, not only on human creatures, but also on the deity himself: all these systems concur in the opinion, that morality, like truth, is discerned merely by ideas, and by their juxtaposition and comparison. in order, therefore, to judge of these systems, we need only consider, whether it be possible, from reason alone, to distinguish betwixt moral good and evil, or whether there must concur some other principles to enable us to make that distinction. if morality had naturally no influence on human passions and actions, 'twere in vain to take such pains to inculcate it; and nothing would be more fruitless than that multitude of rules and precepts with which all moralists abound. philosophy is commonly divided into _speculative_ and _practical_; and as morality is always comprehended under the latter division, 'tis supposed to influence our passions and actions, and to go beyond the calm and indolent judgments of the understanding. and this is confirmed by common experience, which informs us, that men are often governed by their duties, and are deterred from some actions by the opinion of injustice, and impelled to others by that of obligation. since morals, therefore, have an influence on the actions and affections, it follows, that they cannot be derived from reason; and that because reason alone, as we have already proved, can never have any such influence. morals excite passions, and produce or prevent actions. reason of itself is utterly impotent in this particular. the rules of morality, therefore, are not conclusions of our reason. no one, i believe, will deny the justness of this inference; nor is there any other means of evading it, than by denying that principle, on which it is founded. as long as it is allowed, that reason has no influence on our passions and actions, 'tis in vain to pretend that morality is discovered only by a deduction of reason. an active principle can never be founded on an inactive; and it reason be inactive in itself, it must remain so in all its shapes and appearances, whether it exerts itself in natural or moral subjects, whether it considers the powers of external bodies, or the actions of rational beings. it would be tedious to repeat all the arguments, by which i have proved,[ ] that reason is perfectly inert, and can never either prevent or produce any action or affection. 'twill be easy to recollect what has been said upon that subject. i shall only recall on this occasion one of these arguments, which i shall endeavour to render still more conclusive, and more applicable to the present subject. reason is the discovery of truth or falsehood. truth or falsehood consists in an agreement or disagreement either to the _real_ relations of ideas, or to _real_ existence and matter of fact. whatever therefore is not susceptible of this agreement or disagreement, is incapable of being true or false, and can never be an object of our reason. now, 'tis evident our passions, volitions, and actions, are not susceptible of any such agreement or disagreement; being original facts and realities, complete in themselves, and implying no reference to other passions, volitions, and actions. 'tis impossible, therefore, they can be pronounced either true or false, and be either contrary or conformable to reason. this argument is of double advantage to our present purpose. for it proves _directly_, that actions do not derive their merit from a conformity to reason, nor their blame from a contrariety to it; and it proves the same truth more _indirectly_, by showing us, that as reason can never immediately prevent or produce any action by contradicting or approving of it, it cannot be the source of moral good and evil, which are found to have that influence. actions may be laudable or blameable; but they cannot be reasonable or unreasonable: laudable or blameable, therefore, are not the same with reasonable or unreasonable. the merit and demerit of actions frequently contradict, and sometimes control our natural propensities. but reason has no such influence. moral distinctions, therefore, are not the offspring of reason. reason is wholly inactive, and can never be the source of so active a principle as conscience, or a sense of morals. but perhaps it may be said, that though no will or action can be immediately contradictory to reason, yet we may find such a contradiction in some of the attendants of the action, that is, in its causes or effects. the action may cause a judgment, or may be _obliquely_ caused by one, when the judgment concurs with a passion; and by an abusive way of speaking, which philosophy will scarce allow of, the same contrariety may, upon that account, be ascribed to the action. how far this truth or falsehood may be the source of morals, 'twill now be proper to consider. it has been observed, that reason, in a strict and philosophical sense, can have an influence on our conduct only after two ways: either when it excites a passion, by informing us of the existence of something which is a proper object of it; or when it discovers the connexion of causes and effects, so as to afford us means of exerting any passion. these are the only kinds of judgment which can accompany our actions, or can be said to produce them in any manner; and it must be allowed, that these judgments may often be false and erroneous. a person may be affected with passion, by supposing a pain or pleasure to lie in an object, which has no tendency to produce either of these sensations, or which produces the contrary to what is imagined. a person may also take false measures for the attaining of his end, and may retard, by his foolish conduct, instead of forwarding the execution of any project. these false judgments may be thought to affect the passions and actions, which are connected with them, and may be said to render them unreasonable, in a figurative and improper way of speaking. but though this be acknowledged, 'tis easy to observe, that these errors are so far from being the source of all immorality, that they are commonly very innocent, and draw no manner of guilt upon the person who is so unfortunate as to fall into them. they extend not beyond a mistake of _fact_, which moralists have not generally supposed criminal, as being perfectly involuntary. i am more to be lamented than blamed, if i am mistaken with regard to the influence of objects in producing pain or pleasure, or if i know not the proper means of satisfying my desires. no one can ever regard such errors as a defect in my moral character. a fruit, for instance, that is really disagreeable, appears to me at a distance, and, through mistake, i fancy it to be pleasant and delicious. here is one error. i choose certain means of reaching this fruit, which are not proper for my end. here is a second error; nor is there any third one, which can ever possibly enter into our reasonings concerning actions. i ask, therefore, if a man in this situation, and guilty of these two errors, is to be regarded as vicious and criminal, however unavoidable they might have been? or if it be possible to imagine, that such errors are the sources of all immorality? and here it may be proper to observe, that if moral distinctions be derived from the truth or falsehood of those judgments, they must take place wherever we form the judgments; nor will there be any difference, whether the question be concerning an apple or a kingdom, or whether the error be avoidable or unavoidable. for as the very essence of morality is supposed to consist in an agreement or disagreement to reason, the other circumstances are entirely arbitrary, and can never either bestow on any action the character of virtuous or vicious, or deprive it of that character. to which we may add, that this agreement or disagreement, not admitting of degrees, all virtues and vices would of course be equal. should it be pretended, that though a mistake of _fact_ be not criminal, yet a mistake of _right_ often is; and that this may be the source of immorality: i would answer, that 'tis impossible such a mistake can ever be the original source of immorality, since it supposes a real right and wrong; that is, a real distinction in morals, independent of these judgments. a mistake, therefore, of right, may become a species of immorality; but 'tis only a secondary one, and is founded on some other antecedent to it. as to those judgments which are the _effects_ of our actions, and which, when false, give occasion to pronounce the actions contrary to truth and reason; we may observe, that our actions never cause any judgment, either true or false, in ourselves, and that 'tis only on others they have such an influence. 'tis certain that an action, on many occasions, may give rise to false conclusions in others; and that a person, who, through a window, sees any lewd behaviour of mine with my neighbour's wife, may be so simple as to imagine she is certainly my own. in this respect my action resembles somewhat a lie or falsehood; only with this difference, which is material, that i perform not the action with any intention of giving rise to a false judgment in another, but merely to satisfy my lust and passion. it causes, however, a mistake and false judgment by accident; and the falsehood of its effects may be ascribed, by some odd figurative way of speaking, to the action itself. but still i can see no pretext of reason for asserting, that the tendency to cause such an error is the first spring or original source of all immorality.[ ] thus, upon the whole, 'tis impossible that the distinction betwixt moral good and evil can be made by reason; since that distinction has an influence upon our actions, of which reason alone is incapable. reason and judgment may, indeed, be the mediate cause of an action, by prompting or by directing a passion; but it is not pretended that a judgment of this kind, either in its truth or falsehood, is attended with virtue or vise. and as to the judgments, which are caused by our judgments, they can still less bestow those moral qualities on the actions which are their causes. but, to be more particular, and to show that those eternal immutable fitnesses and unfitnesses of things cannot be defended by sound philosophy, we may weigh the following considerations. if the thought and understanding were alone capable of fixing the boundaries of right and wrong, the character of virtuous and vicious either must lie in some relations of objects, or must be a matter of fact which is discovered by our reasoning. this consequence is evident. as' the operations of human understanding divide themselves into two kinds, the comparing of ideas, and the inferring of matter of fact, were virtue discovered by the understanding, it must be an object of one of these operations; nor is there any third operation of the understanding which can discover it. there has been an opinion very industriously propagated by certain philosophers, that morality is susceptible of demonstration; and though no one has ever been able to advance a single step in those demonstrations, yet tis taken for granted that this science may be brought to an equal certainty with geometry or algebra. upon this supposition, vice and virtue must consist in some relations; since 'tis allowed on all hands, that no matter of fact is capable of being demonstrated. let us therefore begin with examining this hypothesis, and endeavour, if possible, to fix those moral qualities which have been so long the objects of our fruitless researches; point out distinctly the relations which constitute morality or obligation, that we may know wherein they consist, and after what manner we must judge of them. if you assert that vice and virtue consist in relations susceptible of certainty and demonstration, you must confine yourself to those _four_ relations which alone admit of that degree of evidence; and in that case you run into absurdities from which you will never be able to extricate yourself. for as you make the very essence of morality to lie in the relations, and as there is no one of these relations but what is applicable, not only to an irrational but also to an inanimate object, it follows, that even such objects must be susceptible of merit or demerit. _resemblance, contrariety, degrees in quality_, and _proportions in quantity and number_; all these relations belong as properly to matter, as to our actions, passions, and volitions. 'tis unquestionable, therefore, that morality lies not in any of these relations, nor the sense of it in their discovery.[ ] should it be asserted, that the sense of morality consists in the discovery of some relation distinct from these, and that our enumeration was not complete when we comprehended all demonstrable relations under four general heads; to this i know not what to reply, till some one be so good as to point out to me this new relation. 'tis impossible to refute a system which has never yet been explained. in such a manner of fighting in the dark, a man loses his blows in the air, and often places them where the enemy is not present. i must therefore, on this occasion, rest contented with requiring the two following conditions of any one that would undertake to clear up this system. _first_, as moral good and evil belong only to the actions of the mind, and are derived from our situation with regard to external objects, the relations from which these moral distinctions arise must lie only betwixt internal actions and external objects, and must not be applicable either to internal actions, compared among themselves, or to external objects, when placed in opposition to other external objects. for as morality is supposed to attend certain relations, if these relations could belong to internal actions considered singly, it would follow, that we might be guilty of crimes in ourselves, and independent of our situation with respect to the universe; and in like manner, if these moral relations could be applied to external objects, it would follow, that even inanimate beings would be susceptible of moral beauty and deformity. now, it seems difficult to imagine that any relation can be discovered betwixt our passions, volitions and actions, compared to external objects, which relation might not belong either to these passions and volitions, or to these external objects, compared among _themselves_. but it will be still more difficult to fulfil the _second_ condition, requisite to justify this system. according to the principles of those who maintain an abstract rational difference betwixt moral good and evil, and a natural fitness and unfitness of things, 'tis not only supposed, that these relations, being eternal and immutable, are the same, when considered by every rational creature, but their _effects_ are also supposed to be necessarily the same; and 'tis concluded they have no less, or rather a greater, influence in directing the will of the deity, than in governing the rational and virtuous of our own species. these two particulars are evidently distinct. 'tis one thing to know virtue, and another to conform the will to it. in order, therefore, to prove that the measures of right and wrong are eternal laws, _obligatory_ on every rational mind, 'tis not sufficient to show the relations upon which they are founded: we must also point out the connexion betwixt the relation and the will; and must prove that this connexion is so necessary, that in every well-disposed mind, it must take place and have its influence; though the difference betwixt these minds be in other respects immense and infinite. now, besides what i have already proved, that even in human nature no relation can ever alone produce any action; besides this, i say, it has been shown, in treating of the understanding, that there is no connexion of cause and effect, such as this is supposed to be, which is discoverable otherwise than by experience, and of which we can pretend to have any security by the simple consideration of the objects. all beings in the universe, considered in themselves, appear entirely loose and independent of each other. 'tis only by experience we learn their influence and connexion; and this influence we ought never to extend beyond experience. thus it will be impossible to fulfil the _first_ condition required to the system of eternal rational measures of right and wrong; because it is impossible to show those relations, upon which such a distinction may be founded: and 'tis as impossible to fulfil the _second_ condition; because we cannot prove _a priori_, that these relations, if they really existed and were perceived, would be universally forcible and obligatory. but to make these general reflections more clear and convincing, we may illustrate them by some particular instances, wherein this character of moral good or evil is the most universally acknowledged. of all crimes that human creatures are capable of committing, the most horrid and unnatural is ingratitude, especially when it is committed against parents, and appears in the more flagrant instances of wounds and death. this is acknowledged by all mankind, philosophers as well as the people; the question only arises among philosophers, whether the guilt or moral deformity of this action be discovered by demonstrative reasoning, or be felt by an internal sense, and by means of some sentiment, which the reflecting on such an action naturally occasions. this question will soon be decided against the former opinion, if we can show the same relations in other objects, without the notion of any guilt or iniquity attending them. reason or science is nothing but the comparing of ideas, and the discovery of their relations; and if the same relations have different characters, it must evidently follow, that those characters are not discovered merely by reason. to put the affair, therefore, to this trial, let us choose any inanimate object, such as an oak or elm; and let us suppose, that, by the dropping of its seed, it produces a sapling below it, which, springing up by degrees, at last overtops and destroys the parent tree: i ask, if, in this instance, there be wanting any relation which is discoverable in parricide or ingratitude? is not the one tree the cause of the other's existence; and the latter the cause of the destruction of the former, in the same manner as when a child murders his parent? 'tis not sufficient to reply, that a choice or will is wanting. for in the case of parricide, a will does not give rise to any _different_ relations, but is only the cause from which the action is derived; and consequently produces the _same_ relations, that in the oak or elm arise from some other principles. 'tis a will or choice that determines a man to kill his parent: and they are the laws of matter and motion, that determine a sapling to destroy the oak from which it sprung. here then the same relations have different causes; but still the relations are the same: and as their discovery is not in both cases attended with a notion of immorality, it follows, that that notion does not arise from such a discovery. but to choose an instance still more resembling; i would fain ask any one, why incest in the human species is criminal, and why the very same action, and the same relations in animals, have not the smallest moral turpitude and deformity? if it be answered, that this action is innocent in animals, because they have not reason sufficient to discover its turpitude; but that man, being endowed with that faculty, which _ought_ to restrain him to his duty, the same action instantly becomes criminal to him. should this be said, i would reply, that this is evidently arguing in a circle. for, before reason can perceive this turpitude, the turpitude must exist; and consequently is independent of the decisions of our reason, and is their object more properly than their effect. according to this system, then, every animal that has sense and appetite and will, that is, every animal must be susceptible of all the same virtues and vices, for which we ascribe praise and blame to human creatures. all the difference is, that our superior reason may serve to discover the vice or virtue, and by that means may augment the blame or praise: but still this discovery supposes a separate being in these moral distinctions, and a being which depends only on the will and appetite, and which, both in thought and reality, may be distinguished from reason. animals are susceptible of the same relations with respect to each other as the human species, and therefore would also be susceptible of the same morality, if the essence of morality consisted in these relations. their want of a sufficient degree of reason may hinder them from perceiving the duties and obligations of morality, but can never hinder these duties from existing; since they must antecedently exist, in order to their being perceived. reason must find them, and can never produce them. this argument deserves to be weighed, as being, in my opinion, entirely decisive. nor does this reasoning only prove, that morality consists not in any relations that are the objects of science; but if examined, will prove with equal certainty, that it consists not in any _matter of fact_, which can be discovered by the understanding. this is the _second_ part of our argument; and if it can be made evident, we may conclude, that morality is not an object of reason. but can there be any difficulty in proving, that vice and virtue are not matters of fact, whose existence we can infer by reason? take any action allowed to be vicious; wilful murder, for instance. examine it in all lights, and see if you can find that matter of fact, or real existence, which you call _vice_. in whichever way you take it, you find only certain passions, motives, volitions and thoughts. there is no other matter of fact in the case. the vice entirely escapes you, as long as you consider the object. you never can find it, till you turn your reflection into your own breast, and find a sentiment of disapprobation, which arises in you, towards this action. here is a matter of fact; but 'tis the object of feeling, not of reason. it lies in yourself, not in the object. so that when you pronounce any action or character to be vicious, you mean nothing, but that from the constitution of your nature you have a feeling or sentiment of blame from the contemplation of it. vice and virtue, therefore, may be compared to sounds, colours, heat and cold, which, according to modern philosophy, are not qualities in objects, but perceptions in the mind: and this discovery in morals, like that other in physics, is to be regarded as a considerable advancement of the speculative sciences; though, like that too, it has little or no influence on practice. nothing can be more real, or concern us more, than our own sentiments of pleasure and uneasiness; and if these be favourable to virtue, and unfavourable to vice, no more can be requisite to the regulation of our conduct and behaviour. i cannot forbear adding to these reasonings an observation, which may, perhaps, be found of some importance. in every system of morality which i have hitherto met with, i have always remarked, that the author proceeds for some time in the ordinary way of reasoning, and establishes the being of a god, or makes observations concerning human affairs; when of a sudden i am surprised to find, that instead of the usual copulations of propositions, _is_, and _is not_, i meet with no proposition that is not connected with an _ought_, or an _ought not_. this change is imperceptible; but is, however, of the last consequence. for as this _ought_, or _ought not_, expresses some new relation or affirmation, 'tis necessary that it should be observed and explained; and at the same time that a reason should be given, for what seems altogether inconceivable, how this new relation can be a deduction from others, which are entirely different from it. but as authors do not commonly use this precaution, i shall presume to recommend it to the readers; and am persuaded, that this small attention would subvert all the vulgar systems of morality, and let us see, that the distinction of vice and virtue is not founded merely on the relations of objects, nor is perceived by reason. [ ] book ii. part iii. sect. [ ] one might think it were entirely superfluous to prove this, if a late author, who has had the good fortune to obtain some reputation, had not seriously affirmed, that such a falsehood is the foundation of all guilt and moral deformity. that we may discover the fallacy of his hypothesis, we need only consider, that a false conclusion is drawn from an action, only by means of an obscurity of natural principles, which makes a cause be secretly interrupted in its operation, by contrary causes, and renders the connexion betwixt two objects uncertain and variable. now, as a like uncertainty and variety of causes take place, even in natural objects, and produce a like error in our judgment, if that tendency to produce error were the very essence of vice and immorality, it should follow, that even inanimate objects might be vicious and immoral. 'tis in vain to urge, that inanimate objects act without liberty and choice. for as liberty and choice are not necessary to make an action produce in us an erroneous conclusion, they can be, in no respect, essential to morality; and i do not readily perceive, upon this system, how they can ever come to be regarded by it. if the tendency to cause error be the origin of immorality, that tendency and immorality would in every case be inseparable. add to this, that if i had used the precaution of shutting the windows, while i indulged myself in those liberties with my neighbour's wife, i should have been guilty of no immorality; and that because my action, being perfectly concealed, would have had no tendency to produce any false conclusion. for the same reason, a thief, who steals in by a ladder at a window, and takes all imaginable care to cause no disturbance, is in no respect criminal. for either he will not be perceived, or if he be, 'tis impossible he can produce any error, nor will any one, from these circumstances, take him to be other than what he really is. 'tis well known, that those who are squint-sighted do very readily cause mistakes in others, and that we imagine they salute or are talking to one person, while they address themselves to another. are they, therefore, upon that account, immoral? besides, we may easily observe, that in all those arguments there is an evident reasoning in a circle. a person who takes possession of _another's_ goods, and uses them as his _own_, in a manner declares them to be his own; and this falsehood is the source of the immorality of injustice. but is property, or right, or obligation, intelligible without an antecedent morality? a man that is ungrateful to his benefactor, in a manner affirms that he never received any favours from him. but in what manner? is it because 'tis his duty to be grateful? but this supposes that there is some antecedent rule of duty and morals. is it because human nature is generally grateful, and makes us conclude that a man who does any harm, never received any favour from the person he harmed? but human nature is not so generally grateful as to justify such a conclusion; or, if it were, is an exception to a general rule in every case criminal, for no other reason than because it is an exception? but what may suffice entirely to destroy this whimsical system is, that it leaves us under the same difficulty to give a reason why truth is virtuous and falsehood vicious, as to account for the merit or turpitude of any other action. i shall allow, if you please, that all immorality is derived from this supposed falsehood in action, provided you can give me any plausible reason why such a falsehood is immoral. if you consider rightly of the matter, you will find yourself in the same difficulty as at the beginning. this last argument is very conclusive; because, if there be not an evident merit or turpitude annexed to this species of truth or falsehood, it can never have any influence upon our actions. for who ever thought of forbearing any action, because others might possibly draw false conclusions from it? or who ever performed any, that he might give rise to true conclusions? [ ] as a proof how confused our way of thinking on this subject commonly is, we may observe, that those who assert that morality is demonstrable, do not say that morality lies in the relations, and that the relations are distinguishable by reason. they only say, that reason can discover such an action, in such relations, to be virtuous, and such another vicious. it seems they thought it sufficient if they could bring the word relation into the proposition, without troubling themselves whether it was to the purpose or not. but here, i think, is plain argument. demonstrative reason discovers only relations. but that reason, according to this hypothesis, discovers also vice and virtue. these moral qualities, therefore, must be relations. when we blame any action, in any situation, the whole complicated object of action and situation must form certain relations, wherein the essence of vice consists. this hypothesis is not otherwise intelligible. for what does reason discover, when it pronounces any action vicious? does it discover a relation or a matter of fact? these questions are decisive, and must not be eluded. section ii. moral distinctions derived from a moral sense. thus the course of the argument leads us to conclude, that since vice and virtue are not discoverable merely by reason, or the comparison of ideas, it must be by means of some impression or sentiment they occasion, that we are able to mark the difference betwixt them. our decisions concerning moral rectitude and depravity are evidently perceptions; and as all perceptions are either impressions or ideas, the exclusion of the one is a convincing argument for the other. morality, therefore, is more properly felt than judged of; though this feeling or sentiment is commonly so soft and gentle that we are apt to confound it with an idea, according to our common custom of taking all things for the same which have any near resemblance to each other. the next question is, of what nature are these impressions, and after what manner do they operate upon us? here we cannot remain long in suspense, but must pronounce the impression arising from virtue to be agreeable, and that proceeding from vice to be uneasy. every moment's experience must convince us of this. there is no spectacle so fair and beautiful as a noble and generous action; nor any which gives us more abhorrence than one that is cruel and treacherous. no enjoyment equals the satisfaction we receive from the company of those we love and esteem; as the greatest of all punishments is to be obliged to pass our lives with those we hate or contemn. a very play or romance may afford us instances of this pleasure which virtue conveys to us; and pain, which arises from vice. now, since the distinguishing impressions by which moral good or evil is known, are nothing but _particular_ pains or pleasures, it follows, that in all inquiries concerning these moral distinctions, it will be sufficient to show the principles which make us feel a satisfaction or uneasiness from the survey of any character, in order to satisfy us why the character is laudable or blameable. an action, or sentiment, or character, is virtuous or vicious; why? because its view causes a pleasure or uneasiness of a particular kind. in giving a reason, therefore, for the pleasure or uneasiness, we sufficiently explain the vice or virtue. to have the sense of virtue, is nothing but to _feel_ a satisfaction of a particular kind from the contemplation of a character. the very _feeling_ constitutes our praise or admiration. we go no farther; nor do we inquire into the cause of the satisfaction. we do not infer a character to be virtuous, because it pleases; but in feeling that it pleases after such a particular manner, we in effect feel that it is virtuous. the case is the same as in our judgments concerning all kinds of beauty, and tastes, and sensations. our approbation is implied in the immediate pleasure they convey to us. i have objected to the system which establishes eternal rational measures of right and wrong, that 'tis impossible to show, in the actions of reasonable creatures, any relations which are not found in external objects; and therefore, if morality always attended these relations, 'twere possible for inanimate matter to become virtuous or vicious. now it may, in like manner, be objected to the present system, that if virtue and vice be determined by pleasure and pain, these qualities must, in every case, arise from the sensations; and consequently any object, whether animate or inanimate, rational or irrational, might become morally good or evil, provided it can excite a satisfaction or uneasiness. but though this objection seems to be the very same, it has by no means the same force in the one case as in the other. for, _first_, 'tis evident that, under the term _pleasure_, we comprehend sensations, which are very different from each other, and which have only such a distant resemblance as is requisite to, make them be expressed by the same abstract term. a good composition of music and a bottle of good wine equally produce pleasure; and, what is more, their goodness is determined merely by the pleasure. but shall we say, upon that account, that the wine is harmonious, or the music of a good flavour? in like manner, an inanimate object, and the character or sentiments of any person, may, both of them, give satisfaction; but, as the satisfaction is different, this keeps our sentiments concerning them from being confounded, and makes us ascribe virtue to the one and not to the other. nor is every sentiment of pleasure or pain which arises from characters and actions, of that _peculiar_ kind which makes us praise or condemn. the good qualities of an enemy are hurtful to us, but may, still command our esteem and respect. 'tis only when a character is considered in general, without reference to our particular interest, that it causes such a feeling or sentiment as denominates it morally good or evil. 'tis true, those sentiments from interest and morals are apt to be confounded, and naturally run into one another. it seldom happens that we do not think an enemy vicious, and can distinguish betwixt his opposition to our interest and real villany or baseness. but this hinders not but that the sentiments are in themselves distinct; and a man of temper and judgment may preserve himself from these illusions. in like manner, though 'tis certain a musical voice is nothing but one that naturally gives a _particular_ kind of pleasure; yet 'tis difficult for a man to be sensible that the voice of an enemy is agreeable, or to allow it to be musical. but a person of a fine ear, who has the command of himself, can separate these feelings, and give praise to what deserves it. _secondly_, we may call to remembrance the preceding system of the passions, in order to remark a still more considerable difference among our pains and pleasures. pride and humility, love and hatred, are excited, when there is any thing presented to us that both bears a relation to the object of the passion, and produces a separate sensation, related to the sensation of the passion. now, virtue and vice are attended with these circumstances. they must necessarily be placed either in ourselves or others, and excite either pleasure or uneasiness; and therefore must give rise to one of these four passions, which clearly distinguishes them from the pleasure and pain arising from inanimate objects, that often bear no relation to us; and this is, perhaps, the most considerable effect that virtue and vice have upon the human mind. it may now be asked, _in general_ concerning this pain or pleasure that distinguishes moral good and evil, _from what principle is it derived, and whence does it arise in the human mind_? to this i reply, _first_, that 'tis absurd to imagine that, in every particular instance, these sentiments are produced by an _original_ quality and _primary_ constitution. for as the number of our duties is in a manner infinite, 'tis impossible that our original instincts should extend to each of them, and from our very first infancy impress on the human mind all that multitude of precepts which are contained in the completest system of ethics. such a method of proceeding is not conformable to the usual maxims by which nature is conducted, where a few principles produce all that variety we observe in the universe, and every thing is carried on in the easiest and most simple manner. 'tis necessary, therefore, to abridge these primary impulses, and find some more general principles upon which all our notions of morals are founded. but, in the _second_ place, should it be asked, whether we ought to search for these principles in _nature_, or whether we must look for them in some other origin? i would reply, that our answer to this question depends upon the definition of the word nature, than which there is none more ambiguous and equivocal. if _nature_ be opposed to miracles, not only the distinction betwixt vice and virtue is natural, but also every event which has ever happened in the world, _excepting those miracles on which our religion is founded_. in saying, then, that the sentiments of vice and virtue are natural in this sense, we make no very extraordinary discovery. but _nature_ may also be opposed to rare and unusual; and in this sense of the word, which is the common one, there may often arise disputes concerning what is natural or unnatural; and one may in general affirm, that we are not possessed of any very precise standard by which these disputes can be decided. frequent and rare depend upon the number of examples we have observed; and as this number may gradually increase or diminish, 'twill be impossible to fix any exact boundaries betwixt them. we may only affirm on this head, that if ever there was any thing which could be called natural in this sense, the sentiments of morality certainly may; since there never was any nation of the world, nor any single person in any nation, who was utterly deprived of them, and who never, in any instance, showed the least approbation or dislike of manners. these sentiments are so rooted in our constitution and temper, that, without entirely confounding the human mind by disease or madness, 'tis impossible to extirpate and destroy them. but _nature_ may also be opposed to artifice, as well as to what is rare and unusual; and in this sense it may be disputed, whether the notions of virtue be natural or not. we readily forget, that the designs and projects and views of men are principles as necessary in their operation as heat and cold, moist and dry; but, taking them to be free and entirely our own, 'tis usual for us to set them in opposition to the other principles of nature. should it therefore be demanded, whether the sense of virtue be natural or artificial, i am of opinion that 'tis impossible for me at present to give any precise answer to this question. perhaps it will appear afterwards that our sense of some virtues is artificial, and that of others natural. the discussion of this question will be more proper, when we enter upon an exact detail of each particular vice and virtue.[ ] mean while, it may not be amiss to observe, from these definitions of _natural_ and _unnatural_, that nothing can be more unphilosophical than those systems which assert, that virtue is the same with what is natural, and vice with what is unnatural. for, in the first sense of the word, nature, as opposed to miracles, both vice and virtue are equally natural; and, in the second sense, as opposed to what is unusual, perhaps virtue will be found to be the most unnatural. at least it must be owned, that heroic virtue, being as unusual, is as little natural as the most brutal barbarity. as to the third sense of the word, 'tis certain that both vice and virtue are equally artificial and out of nature. for, however it may be disputed, whether the notion of a merit or demerit in certain actions, be natural or artificial, 'tis evident that the actions themselves are artificial, and are performed with a certain design and intention; otherwise they could never be ranked under any of these denominations. 'tis impossible, therefore, that the character of natural and unnatural can ever, in any sense, mark the boundaries of vice and virtue. thus we are still brought back to our first position, that virtue is distinguished by the pleasure, and vice by the pain, that any action, sentiment, or character, gives us by the mere view and contemplation. this decision is very commodious; because it reduces us to, this simple question, _why any action or sentiment, upon the general view or survey, gives a certain satisfaction or uneasiness_, in order to show the origin of its moral rectitude or depravity, without looking for any incomprehensible relations and qualities, which never did exist in nature, nor even in our imagination, by any clear and distinct conception? i flatter myself i have executed a great part of my present design by a state of the question, which appears to me so free from ambiguity and obscurity. [ ] in the following discourse, _natural_ is also opposed sometimes to _civil_, sometimes to _moral_. the opposition will always discover the sense in which it is taken. part ii. of justice and injustice. section i. justice, whether a natural or artificial virtue? i have already hinted, that our sense of every kind of virtue is not natural; but that there are some virtues that produce pleasure and approbation by means of an artifice or contrivance, which arises from the circumstances and necessity of mankind. of this kind i assert _justice_ to be; and shall endeavour to defend this opinion by a short, and, i hope, convincing argument, before i examine the nature of the artifice, from which the sense of that virtue is derived. 'tis evident that, when we praise any actions, we regard only the motives that produced them, and consider the actions as signs or indications of certain principles in the mind and temper. the external performance has no merit. we must look within to find the moral quality. this we cannot do directly; and therefore fix our attention on actions, as on external signs. but these actions are still considered as signs; and the ultimate object of our praise and approbation is the motive that produced them. after the same manner, when we require any action, or blame a person for not performing it, we always suppose that one in that situation should be influenced by the proper motive of that action, and we esteem it vicious in him to be regardless of it. if we find, upon inquiry, that the virtuous motive was still powerful over his breast, though checked in its operation by some circumstances unknown to us, we retract our blame, and have the same esteem for him, as if he had actually performed the action which we require of him. it appears, therefore, that all virtuous actions derive their merit only from virtuous motives, and are considered merely as signs of those motives. from this principle i conclude, that the first virtuous motive which bestows a merit on any action, can never be a regard to the virtue of that action, but must be some other natural motive or principle. to suppose, that the mere regard to the virtue of the action, may be the first motive which produced the action, and rendered it virtuous, is to reason in a circle. before we can have such a regard, the action must be really virtuous; and this virtue must be derived from some virtuous motive: and consequently, the virtuous motive must be different from the regard to the virtue of the action. a virtuous motive is requisite to render an action virtuous. an action must be virtuous before we can have a regard to its virtue. some virtuous motive, therefore, must be antecedent to that regard. nor is this merely a metaphysical subtilty; but enters into all our reasonings in common life, though perhaps we may not be able to place it in such distinct philosophical terms. we blame a father for neglecting his child. why? because it shows a want of natural affection, which is the duty of every parent. were not natural affection a duty, the care of children could not be a duty; and 'twere impossible we could have the duty in our eye in the attention we give to our offspring. in this case, therefore, all men suppose a motive to the action distinct from a sense of duty. here is a man that does many benevolent actions; relieves the distressed, comforts the afflicted, and extends his bounty even to the greatest strangers. no character can be more amiable and virtuous. we regard these actions as proofs of the greatest humanity. this humanity bestows a merit on the actions. a regard to this merit is, therefore, a secondary consideration, and derived from the antecedent principles of humanity, which is meritorious and laudable. in short, it may be established as an undoubted maxim, _that no action can be virtuous, or morally good, unless there be in human nature some motive to produce it distinct from the sense of its morality_. but may not the sense of morality or duty produce an action, without any other motive? i answer, it may; but this is no objection to the present doctrine. when any virtuous motive or principle is common in human nature, a person who feels his heart devoid of that motive, may hate himself upon that account, and may perform the action without the motive, from a certain sense of duty, in order to acquire, by practice, that virtuous principle, or at least to disguise to himself, as much as possible, his want of it. a man that really feels no gratitude in his temper, is still pleased to perform grateful actions, and thinks he has, by that means, fulfilled his duty. actions are at first only considered as signs of motives: but 'tis usual, in this case, as in all others, to fix our attention on the signs, and neglect, in some measure, the thing signified. but though, on some occasions, a person may perform an action merely out of regard to its moral obligation, yet still this supposes in human nature some distinct principles, which are capable of producing the action, and whose moral beauty renders the action meritorious. now, to apply all this to the present case; i suppose a person to have lent me a sum of money, on condition that it be restored in a few days; and also suppose, that after the expiration of the term agreed on, he demands the sum: i ask, _what reason or motive have i to restore the money_? it will perhaps be said, that my regard to justice, and abhorrence of villany and knavery, are sufficient reasons for me, if i have the least grain of honesty, or sense of duty and obligation. and this answer, no doubt, is just and satisfactory to man in his civilized state, and when trained up according to a certain discipline and education. but in his rude and more natural condition, if you are pleased to call such a condition natural, this answer would be rejected as perfectly unintelligible and sophistical. for one in that situation would immediately ask you, _wherein consists this honesty and justice, which you find in restoring a loan, and abstaining from the property of others_? it does not surely lie in the external action. it must, therefore, be placed in the motive from which the external action is derived. this motive can never be a regard to the honesty of the action. for 'tis a plain fallacy to say, that a virtuous motive is requisite to render an action honest, and, at the same time, that a regard to the honesty is the motive of the action. we can never have a regard to the virtue of an action, unless the action be antecedently virtuous. no action can be virtuous, but so far as it proceeds from a virtuous motive. a virtuous motive, therefore, must precede the regard to the virtue; and 'tis impossible that the virtuous motive and the regard to the virtue can be the same. 'tis requisite, then, to find some motive to acts of justice and honesty, distinct from our regard to the honesty; and in this lies the great difficulty. for should we say, that a concern for our private interest or reputation, is the legitimate motive to all honest actions: it would follow, that wherever that concern ceases, honesty can no longer have place. but 'tis certain that self-love, when it acts at its liberty, instead of engaging us to honest actions, is the source of all injustice and violence; nor can a man ever correct those vices, without correcting and restraining the _natural_ movements of that appetite. but should it be affirmed, that the reason or motive of such actions is the _regard to public interest_, to which nothing is more contrary than examples of injustice and dishonesty; should this be said, i would propose the three following considerations as worthy of our attention. _first_, public interest is not naturally attached to the observation of the rules of justice; but is only connected with it, after an artificial convention for the establishment of these rules, as shall be shown more at large hereafter. _secondly_, if we suppose that the loan was secret, and that it is necessary for the interest of the person, that the money be restored in the same manner (as when the lender would conceal his riches), in that case the example ceases, and the public is no longer interested in the actions of the borrower; though i suppose there is no moralist who will affirm that the duty and obligation ceases. _thirdly_, experience sufficiently proves that men, in the ordinary conduct of life, look not so far as the public interest, when they pay their creditors, perform their promises, and abstain from theft, and robbery, and injustice of every kind. that is a motive too remote and too sublime to affect the generality of mankind, and operate with any force in actions so contrary to private interest as are frequently those of justice and common honesty. in general, it may be affirmed, that there is no such passion in human minds as the love of mankind, merely as such, independent of personal qualities, of services, or of relation to ourself. 'tis true, there is no human, and indeed no sensible creature, whose happiness or misery does not, in some measure, affect us, when brought near us, and represented in lively colours: but this proceeds merely from sympathy, and is no proof of such an universal affection to mankind, since this concern extends itself beyond our own species. an affection betwixt the sexes is a passion evidently implanted in human nature; and this passion not only appears in its peculiar symptoms, but also in inflaming every other principle of affection, and raising a stronger love from beauty, wit, kindness, than what would otherwise flow from them. were there an universal love among all human creatures, it would appear after the same manner. any degree of a good quality would cause a stronger affection than the same degree of a bad quality would cause hatred; contrary to what we find by experience. men's tempers are different, and some have a propensity to the tender, and others to the rougher affections: but in the main, we may affirm, that man in general, or human nature, is nothing but the object both of love and hatred, and requires some other cause, which, by a double relation of impressions and ideas, may excite these passions. in vain would we endeavour to elude this hypothesis. there are no phenomena that point out any such kind affection to men, independent of their merit, and every other circumstance. we love company in general; but 'tis as we love any other amusement. an englishman in italy is a friend; a european in china; and perhaps a man would be beloved as such, were we to meet him in the moon. but this proceeds only from the relation to ourselves; which in these cases gathers force by being confined to a few persons. if public benevolence, therefore, or a regard to the interests of mankind, cannot be the original motive to justice, much less can _private benevolence_, or a _regard to the interests of the party concerned_, be this motive. for what if he be my enemy, and has given me just cause to hate him? what if he be a vicious man, and deserves the hatred of all mankind? what if he be a miser, and can make no use of what i would deprive him of? what if he be a profligate debauchee, and would rather receive harm than benefit from large possessions? what if i be in necessity, and have urgent motives to acquire something to my family? in all these cases, the original motive to justice would fail; and consequently the justice itself, and along with it all property, right, and obligation. a rich man lies under a moral obligation to communicate to those in necessity a share of his superfluities. were private benevolence the original motive to justice, a man would not be obliged to leave others in the possession of more than he is obliged to give them. at least, the difference would be very inconsiderable. men generally fix their affections more on what they are possessed of, than on what they never enjoyed: for this reason, it would be greater cruelty to dispossess a man of any thing, than not to give it him. but who will assert, that this is the only foundation of justice? besides, we must consider, that the chief reason why men attach themselves so much to their possessions, is, that they consider them as their property, and as secured to them inviolably by the laws of society. but this is a secondary consideration, and dependent on the preceding notions of justice and property. a man's property is supposed to be fenced against every mortal, in every possible case. but private benevolence is, and ought to be, weaker in some persons than in others; and in many, or indeed in most persons, must absolutely fail. private benevolence, therefore, is not the original motive of justice. from all this it follows, that we have no real or universal motive for observing the laws of equity, but the very equity and merit of that observance; and as no action can be equitable or meritorious, where it cannot arise from some separate motive, there is here an evident sophistry and reasoning in a circle. unless, therefore, we will allow that nature has established a sophistry, and rendered it necessary and unavoidable, we must allow, that the sense of justice and injustice is not derived from nature, but arises artificially, though necessarily, from education, and human conventions. i shall add, as a corollary to this reasoning, that since no action can be laudable or blameable, without some motives or impelling passions, distinct from the sense of morals, these distinct passions must have a great influence on that sense. 'tis according to their general force in human nature that we blame or praise. in judging of the beauty of animal bodies, we always carry in our eye the economy of a certain species; and where the limbs and features observe that proportion which is common to the species, we pronounce them handsome and beautiful. in like manner, we always consider the _natural_ and _usual_ force of the passions, when we determine concerning vice and virtue; and if the passions depart very much from the common measures on either side, they are always disapproved as vicious. a man naturally loves his children better than his nephews, his nephews better than his cousins, his cousins better than strangers, where every thing else is equal. hence arise our common measures of duty, in preferring the one to the other. our sense of duty always follows the common and natural course of our passions. to avoid giving offence, i must here observe, that when i deny justice to be a natural virtue, i make use of the word _natural_, only as opposed to _artificial_. in another sense of the word, as no principle of the human mind is more natural than a sense of virtue, so no virtue is more natural than justice. mankind is an inventive species; and where an invention is obvious and absolutely necessary, it may as properly be said to be natural as any thing that proceeds immediately from original principles, without the intervention of thought or reflection. though the rules of justice be _artificial_, they are not _arbitrary_. nor is the expression improper to call them _laws of nature_; if by natural we understand what is common to any species, or even if we confine it to mean what is inseparable from the species. section ii. of the origin of justice and property. we now proceed to examine two questions, viz. _concerning the manner in which the rules of justice are established by the artifice of men_; and _concerning the reasons which determine us to attribute to the observance or neglect of these rules a moral beauty and deformity_. these questions will appear afterwards to be distinct. we shall begin with the former. of all the animals with which this globe is peopled, there is none towards whom nature seems, at first sight, to have exercised more cruelty than towards man, in the numberless wants and necessities with which she has loaded him, and in the slender means which she affords to the relieving these necessities. in other creatures, these two particulars generally compensate each other. if we consider the lion as a voracious and carnivorous animal, we shall easily discover him to be very necessitous; but if we turn our eye to his make and temper, his agility, his courage, his arms and his force, we shall find that his advantages hold proportion with his wants. the sheep and ox are deprived of all these advantages; but their appetites are moderate, and their food is of easy purchase. in man alone this unnatural conjunction of infirmity and of necessity may be observed in its greatest perfection. not only the food which is required for his sustenance flies his search and approach, or at least requires his labour to be produced, but he must be possessed of clothes and lodging to defend him against the injuries of the weather; though, to consider him only in himself, he is provided neither with arms, nor force, nor other natural abilities which are in any degree answerable to so many necessities. 'tis by society alone he is able to supply his defects, and raise himself up to an equality with his fellow-creatures, and even acquire a superiority above them. by society all his infirmities are compensated; and though in that situation his wants multiply every moment upon him, yet his abilities are still more augmented, and leave him in every respect more satisfied and happy than 'tis possible for him, in his savage and solitary condition, ever to become. when every individual person labours apart, and only for himself, his force is too small to execute any considerable work; his labour being employed in supplying all his different necessities, he never attains a perfection in any particular art; and as his force and success are not at all times equal, the least failure in either of these particulars must be attended with inevitable ruin and misery. society provides a remedy for these _three_ inconveniences. by the conjunction of forces, our power is augmented; by the partition of employments, our ability increases; and by mutual succour, we are less exposed to fortune and accidents. 'tis by this additional _force, ability_, and _security_, that society becomes advantageous. but, in order to form society, 'tis requisite not only that it be advantageous, but also that men be sensible of these advantages; and 'tis impossible, in their wild uncultivated state, that by study and reflection alone they should ever be able to attain this knowledge. most fortunately, therefore, there is conjoined to those necessities, whose remedies are remote and obscure, another necessity, which, having a present and more obvious remedy, may justly be regarded as the first and original principle of human society. this necessity is no other than that natural appetite betwixt the sexes, which unites them together, and preserves their union, till a new tie takes place in their concern for their common offspring. this new concern becomes also a principle of union betwixt the parents and offspring, and forms a more numerous society, where the parents govern by the advantage of their superior strength and wisdom, and at the same time are restrained in the exercise of their authority by that natural affection which they bear their children. in a little time, custom and habit, operating on the tender minds of the children, makes them sensible of the advantages which they may reap from society, as well as fashions them by degrees for it, by rubbing off those rough comers and untoward affections which prevent their coalition. for it must be confest, that however the circumstances of human nature may render an union necessary, and however those passions of lust and natural affection may seem to render it unavoidable, yet there are other particulars in our _natural temper_, and in our _outward circumstances_, which are very incommodious, and are even contrary to the requisite conjunction. among the former we may justly esteem our _selfishness_ to be the most considerable. i am sensible that, generally speaking, the representations of this quality have been carried much too far; and that the descriptions which certain philosophers delight so much to form of mankind in this particular, are as wide of nature as any accounts of monsters which we meet with in fables and romances. so far from thinking that men have no affect ion for any thing beyond themselves, i am of opinion that, though it be rare to meet with one who loves any single person better than himself, yet 'tis as rare to meet with one in whom all the kind affections, taken together, do not overbalance all the selfish. consult common experience; do you not see, that though the whole expense of the family be generally under the direction of the master of it, yet there are few that do not bestow the largest part of their fortunes on the pleasures of their wives and the education of their children, reserving the smallest portion for their own proper use and entertainment? this is what we may observe concerning such as have those endearing ties; and may presume, that the case would be the same with others, were they placed in a like situation. but, though this generosity must be acknowledged to the honour of human nature, we may at the same time remark, that so noble an affection, instead of fitting men for large societies, is almost as contrary to them as the most narrow selfishness. for while each person loves himself better than any other single person, and in his love to others bears the greatest affection to his relations and acquaintance, this must necessarily produce an opposition of passions, and a consequent opposition of actions, which cannot but be dangerous to the new-established union. 'tis, however, worth while to remark, that this contrariety of passions would be attended with but small danger, did it not concur with a peculiarity in our _outward circumstances_, which affords it an opportunity of exerting itself. there are three different species of goods which we are possessed of; the internal satisfaction our minds; the external advantages of our body; and the enjoyment of such possessions as we have acquired by our industry and good fortune. we are perfectly secure in the enjoyment of the first. the second may be ravished from us, but can be of no advantage to him who deprives us of them. the last only are both exposed to the violence of others, and may be transferred without suffering any loss or alteration; while at the same time there is not a sufficient quantity of them to supply every one's desires and necessities. as the improvement, therefore, of these goods is the chief advantage of society, so the _instability_ of their possession, along with their _scarcity_, is the chief impediment. in vain should we expect to find, in _uncultivated nature_, a remedy to this inconvenience; or hope for any inartificial principle of the human mind which might control those partial affections, and make us overcome the temptations arising from our circumstances. the idea of justice can never serve to this purpose, or be taken for a natural principle, capable of inspiring men with an equitable conduct towards each other. that virtue, as it is now understood, would never have been dreamed of among rude and savage men. for the notion of injury or injustice implies an immorality or vice committed against some other person: and as every immorality is derived from some defect or unsoundness of the passions, and as this defect must be judged of, in a great measure, from the ordinary course of nature in the constitution of the mind, 'twill be easy to know whether we be guilty of any immorality with regard to others, by considering the natural and usual force of those several affections which are directed towards them. now, it appears that, in the original frame of our mind, our strongest attention is confined to ourselves; our next is extended to our relations and acquaintance; and 'tis only the weakest which reaches to strangers and indifferent persons. this partiality, then, and unequal affection, must not only have an influence on our behaviour and conduct in society, but even on our ideas of vice and virtue; so as to make us regard any remarkable transgression of such a degree of partiality, either by too great an enlargement or contraction of the affections, as vicious and immoral. this we may observe in our common judgments concerning actions, where we blame a person who either centres all his affections in his family, or is so regardless of them as, in any opposition of interest, to give the preference to a stranger or mere chance acquaintance. from all which it follows, that our natural uncultivated ideas of morality, instead of providing a remedy for the partiality of our affections, do rather conform themselves to that partiality, and give it an additional force and influence. the remedy, then, is not derived from nature, but from _artifice_; or, more properly speaking, nature provides a remedy, in the judgment and understanding, for what is irregular and incommodious in the affections. for when men, from their early education in society, have become sensible of the infinite advantages that result from it, and have besides acquired a new affection to company and conversation, and when they have observed, that the principal disturbance in society arises from those goods, which we call external, and from their looseness and easy transition from one person to another, they must seek for a remedy, by putting these goods, as far as possible, on the same footing with the fixed and constant advantages of the mind and body. this can be done after no other manner, than by a convention entered into by all the members of the society to bestow stability on the possession of those external goods, and leave every one in the peaceable enjoyment of what he may acquire by his fortune and industry. by this means, every one knows what he may safely possess; and the passions are restrained in their partial and contradictory motions. nor is such a restraint contrary to these passions; for, if so, it could never be entered into nor maintained; but it is only contrary to their heedless and impetuous movement. instead of departing from our own interest, or from that of our nearest friends, by abstaining from the possessions of others, we cannot better consult both these interests, than by such a convention; because it is by that means we maintain society, which is so necessary to their well-being and subsistence, as well as to our own. this convention is not of the nature of a _promise_; for even promises themselves, as we shall see afterwards, arise from human conventions. it is only a general sense of common interest; which sense all the members of the society express to one another, and which induces them to regulate their conduct by certain rules. i observe, that it will be for my interest to leave another in the possession of his goods, _provided_ he will act in the same manner with regard to me. he is sensible of a like interest in the regulation of his conduct. when this common sense of interest is mutually expressed, and is known to both, it produces a suitable resolution and behaviour. and this may properly enough be called a convention or agreement betwixt us, though without the interposition of a promise; since the actions of each of us have a reference to those of the other, and are performed upon the supposition that something is to be performed on the other part. two men who pull the oars of a boat, do it by an agreement or convention, though they have never given promises to each other. nor is the rule concerning the stability of possession the less derived from human conventions, that it arises gradually, and acquires force by a slow progression, and by our repeated experience of the inconveniences of transgressing it. on the contrary, this experience assures us still more, that the sense of interest has become common to all our fellows, and gives us a confidence of the future regularity of their conduct; and 'tis only on the expectation of this that our moderation and abstinence are founded. in like manner are languages gradually established by human conventions, without any promise. in like manner do gold and silver become the common measures of exchange, and are esteemed sufficient payment for what is of a hundred times their value. after this convention, concerning abstinence from the possessions of others, is entered into, and every one has acquired a stability in his possessions, there immediately arise the ideas of justice and injustice; as also those of _property, right_, and _obligation_. the latter are altogether unintelligible, without first understanding the former. our property is nothing but those goods, whose constant possession is established by the laws of society; that is, by the laws of justice. those, therefore, who make use of the words _property_, or _right_, or _obligation_, before they have explained the origin of justice, or even make use of them in that explication, are guilty of a very gross fallacy, and can never reason upon any solid foundation. a man's property is some object related to him. this relation is not natural, but moral, and founded on justice. 'tis very preposterous, therefore, to imagine that we can have any idea of property, without fully comprehending the nature of justice, and showing its origin in the artifice and contrivance of men. the origin of justice explains that of property. the same artifice gives rise to both. as our first and most natural sentiment of morals is founded on the nature of our passions, and gives the preference to ourselves and friends above strangers, 'tis impossible there can be naturally any such thing as a fixed right or property, while the opposite passions of men impel them in contrary directions, and are not restrained by any convention or agreement. no one can doubt that the convention for the distinction of property, and for the stability of possession, is of all circumstances the most necessary to the establishment of human society, and that, after the agreement for the fixing and observing of this rule, there remains little or nothing to be done towards settling a perfect harmony and concord. all the other passions, beside this of interest, are either easily restrained, or are not of such pernicious consequence when indulged. _vanity_ is rather to be esteemed a social passion, and a bond of union among men. _pity_ and _love_ are to be considered in the same light. and as to _envy_ and _revenge_, though pernicious, they operate only by intervals, and are directed against particular persons, whom we consider as our superiors or enemies. this avidity alone, of acquiring goods and possessions for ourselves and our nearest friends, is insatiable, perpetual, universal, and directly destructive of society. there scarce is any one who is not actuated by it; and there is no one who has not reason to fear from it, when it acts without any restraint, and gives way to its first and most natural movements. so that, upon the whole, we are to esteem the difficulties in the establishment of society to be greater or less, according to those we encounter in regulating and restraining this passion. 'tis certain, that no affection of the human mind has both a sufficient force and a proper direction to counterbalance the love of gain, and render men fit members of society, by making them abstain from the possessions of others. benevolence to strangers is too weak for this purpose; and as to the other passions, they rather inflame this avidity, when we observe, that the larger our possessions are, the more ability we have of gratifying all our appetites. there is no passion, therefore, capable of controlling the interested affection, but the very affection itself, by an alteration of its direction. now, this alteration must necessarily take place upon the least reflection; since 'tis evident that the passion is much better satisfied by its restraint than by its liberty, and that, in preserving society, we make much greater advances in the acquiring possessions, than in the solitary and forlorn condition which must follow upon violence and an universal license. the question, therefore, concerning the wickedness or goodness of human nature, enters not in the least into that other question concerning the origin of society; nor is there any thing to be considered but the degrees of men's sagacity or folly. for whether the passion of self-interest be esteemed vicious or virtuous, 'tis all a case, since itself alone restrains it; so that if it be virtuous, men become social by their virtue; if vicious, their vice has the same effect. now, as 'tis by establishing the rule for the stability of possession that this passion restrains itself, if that rule be very abstruse and of difficult invention, society must be esteemed in a manner accidental, and the effect of many ages. but if it be found, that nothing can be more simple and obvious than that rule; that every parent, in order to preserve peace among his children, must establish it; and that these first rudiments of justice must every day be improved, as the society enlarges: if all this appear evident, as it certainly must, we may conclude that 'tis utterly impossible for men to remain any considerable time in that savage condition which precedes society, but that his very first state and situation may justly be esteemed social. this, however, hinders not but that philosophers may, if they please, extend their reasoning to the supposed _state of nature_; provided they allow it to be a mere philosophical fiction, which never had, and never could have, any reality. human nature being composed of two principal parts, which are requisite in all its actions, the affections and understanding, 'tis certain that the blind motions of the former, without the direction of the latter, incapacitate men for society; and it may be allowed us to consider separately the effects that result from the separate operations of these two component parts of the mind. the same liberty may be permitted to moral, which is allowed to natural philosophers; and 'tis very usual with the latter to consider any motion as compounded and consisting of two parts separate from each other, though at the same time they acknowledge it to be in itself uncompounded and inseparable. this _state of nature_, therefore, is to be regarded as a mere fiction, not unlike that of the _golden age_ which poets have invented; only with this difference, that the former is described as full of war, violence and injustice; whereas the latter is painted out to us as the most charming and most peaceable condition that can possibly be imagined. the seasons, in that first age of nature, were so temperate, if we may believe the poets, that there was no necessity for men to provide themselves with clothes and houses as a security against the violence of heat and cold. the rivers flowed with wine and milk; the oaks yielded honey; and nature spontaneously produced her greatest delicacies. nor were these the chief advantages of that happy age. the storms and tempests were not alone removed from nature; but those more furious tempests were unknown to human breasts, which now cause such uproar, and engender such confusion. avarice, ambition, cruelty, selfishness, were never heard of: cordial affection, compassion, sympathy, were the only movements with which the human mind was yet acquainted. even the distinction of _mine_ and _thine_ was banished from that happy race of mortals, and carried with them the very notions of property and obligation, justice and injustice. this, no doubt, is to be regarded as an idle fiction; but yet deserves our attention, because nothing can more evidently show the origin of those virtues, which are the subjects of our present inquiry. i have already observed, that justice takes its rise from human conventions; and that these are intended as a remedy to some inconveniences, which proceed from the concurrence of certain _qualities_ of the human mind with the _situation_ of external objects. the qualities of the mind are _selfishness_ and _limited generosity_: and the situation of external objects is their _easy change_, joined to their _scarcity_ in comparison of the wants and desires of men. but however philosophers may have been bewildered in those speculations, poets have been guided more infallibly, by a certain taste or common instinct, which, in most kinds of reasoning, goes farther than any of that art and philosophy with which we have been yet acquainted. they easily perceived, if every man had a tender regard for another, or if nature supplied abundantly all our wants and desires, that the jealousy of interest, which justice supposes, could no longer have place; nor would there be any occasion for those distinctions and limits of property and possession, which at present are in use among mankind. increase to a sufficient degree the benevolence of men, or the bounty of nature, and you render justice useless, by supplying its place with much nobler virtues, and more valuable blessings. the selfishness of men is animated by the few possessions we have, in proportion to our wants; and 'tis to restrain this selfishness, that men have been obliged to separate themselves from the community, and to distinguish betwixt their own goods and those of others. nor need we have recourse to the fictions of poets to learn this; but, beside the reason of the thing, may discover the same truth by common experience and observation. 'tis easy to remark, that a cordial affection renders all things common among friends; and that married people, in particular, mutually lose their property, and are unacquainted with the _mine_ and _thine_, which are so necessary, and yet cause such disturbance in human society. the same effect arises from any alteration in the circumstances of mankind; as when there is such a plenty of any thing as satisfies all the desires of men: in which case the distinction of property is entirely lost, and every thing remains in common. this we may observe with regard to air and water, though the most valuable of all external objects; and may easily conclude, that if men were supplied with every thing in the same abundance, or if _every one_ had the same affection and tender regard for _every one_ as for himself, justice and injustice would be equally unknown among mankind. here then is a proposition, which, i think, may be regarded as certain, _that 'tis only from the selfishness and confined generosity of men, along with the scanty provision nature has made for his wants, that justice derives its origin_. if we look backward we shall find, that this proposition bestows an additional force on some of those observations which we have already made on this subject. _first_, we may conclude from it, that a regard to public interest, or a strong extensive benevolence, is not our first and original motive for the observation of the rules of justice; since 'tis allowed, that if men were endowed with such a benevolence, these rules would never have been dreamt of. _secondly_, we may conclude from the same principle, that the sense of justice is not founded on reason, or on the discovery of certain connexions and relations of ideas, which are eternal, immutable, and universally obligatory. for since it is confessed, that such an alteration as that above-mentioned, in the temper and circumstances of mankind, would entirely alter our duties and obligations, 'tis necessary upon the common system, _that the sense of virtue is derived from reason_, to show the change which this must produce in the relations and ideas. but 'tis evident, that the only cause why the extensive generosity of man, and the perfect abundance of every thing, would destroy the very idea of justice, is, because they render it useless; and that, on the other hand, his confined benevolence, and his necessitous condition, give rise to that virtue, only by making it requisite to the public interest, and to that of every individual. 'twas therefore a concern for our own and the public interest which made us establish the laws of justice; and nothing can be more certain, than that it is not any relation of ideas which gives us this concern, but our impressions and sentiments, without which every thing in nature is perfectly indifferent to us, and can never in the least affect us. the sense of justice, therefore, is not founded on our ideas, but on our impressions. _thirdly_, we may farther confirm the foregoing proposition, _that those impressions, which give rise to this sense of justice, are not natural to the mind of man, but arise from artifice and human conventions_. for, since any considerable alteration of temper and circumstances destroys equally justice and injustice; and since such an alteration has an effect only by changing our own and the public interest, it follows, that the first establishment of the rules of justice depends on these different interests. but if men pursued the public interest naturally, and with a hearty affection, they would never have dreamed of restraining each other by these rules; and if they pursued their own interest, without any precaution, they would run headlong into every kind of injustice and violence. these rules, therefore, are artificial, and seek their end in an oblique and indirect manner; nor is the interest which gives rise to them of a kind that could be pursued by the natural and inartificial passions of men. to make this more evident, consider, that, though the rules of justice are established merely by interest, their connexion with interest is somewhat singular, and is different from what may be observed on other occasions. a single act of justice is frequently contrary to _public interest_; and were it to stand alone, without being followed by other acts, may, in itself, be very prejudicial to society. when a man of merit, of a beneficent disposition, restores a great fortune to a miser, or a seditious bigot, he has acted justly and laudably; but the public is a real sufferer. nor is every single act of justice, considered apart, more conducive to private interest than to public; and 'tis easily conceived how a man may impoverish himself by a signal instance of integrity, and have reason to wish, that, with regard to that single act, the laws of justice were for a moment suspended in the universe. but, however single acts of justice may be contrary, either to public or private interest, 'tis certain that the whole plan or scheme is highly conducive, or indeed absolutely requisite, both to the support of society, and the well-being of every individual. 'tis impossible to separate the good from the ill. property must be stable, and must be fixed by general rules. though in one instance the public be a sufferer, this momentary ill is amply compensated by the steady prosecution of the rule, and by the peace and order which it establishes in society. and even every individual person must find himself a gainer on balancing the account; since, without justice, society must immediately dissolve, and every one must fall into that savage and solitary condition, which is infinitely worse than the worst situation that can possibly be supposed in society. when, therefore, men have had experience enough to observe, that, whatever may be the consequence of any single act of justice, performed by a single person, yet the whole system of actions concurred in by the whole society, is infinitely advantageous to the whole, and to every part, it is not long before justice and property take place. every member of society is sensible of this interest: every one expresses this sense to his fellows, along with the resolution he has taken of squaring his actions by it, on condition that others will do the same. no more is requisite to induce any one of them to perform an act of justice, who has the first opportunity. this becomes an example to others; and thus justice establishes itself by a kind of convention or agreement, that is, by a sense of interest, supposed to be common to all, and where every single act is performed in expectation that others are to perform the like. without such a convention, no one would ever have dreamed that there was such a virtue as justice, or have been induced to conform his actions to it. taking any single act, my justice may be pernicious in every respect; and 'tis only upon the supposition that others are to imitate my example, that i can be induced to embrace that virtue; since nothing but this combination can render justice advantageous, or afford me any motives to conform myself to its rules. we come now to the second question we proposed, viz. _why we annex the idea of virtue to justice, and of vice to injustice_. this question will not detain us long after the principles which we have already established. all we can say of it at present will be despatched in a few words: and for farther satisfaction, the reader must wait till we come to the _third_ part of this book. the natural obligation to justice, viz. interest, has been fully explained; but as to the _moral_ obligation, or the sentiment of right and wrong, 'twill first be requisite to examine the natural virtues, before we can give a full and satisfactory account of it. after men have found by experience, that their selfishness and confined generosity, acting at their liberty, totally incapacitate them for society; and at the same time have observed, that society is necessary to the satisfaction of those very passions, they are naturally induced to lay themselves under the restraint of such rules, as may render their commerce more safe and commodious. to the imposition, then, and observance of these rules, both in general, and in every particular instance, they are at first induced only by a regard to interest; and this motive, on the first formation of society, is sufficiently strong and forcible. but when society has become numerous, and has increased to a tribe or nation, this interest is more remote; nor do men so readily perceive that disorder and confusion follow upon every breach of these rules, as in a more narrow and contracted society. but though, in our own actions, we may frequently lose sight of that interest which we have in maintaining order, and may follow a lesser and more present interest, we never fail to observe the prejudice we receive, either mediately or immediately, from the injustice of others; as not being in that case either blinded by passion, or biassed by any contrary temptation. nay, when the injustice is so distant from us as no way to affect our interest, it still displeases us; because we consider it as prejudicial to human society, and pernicious to every one that approaches the person guilty of it. we partake of their uneasiness by _sympathy_; and as every thing which gives uneasiness in human actions, upon the general survey, is called vice, and whatever produces satisfaction, in the same manner, is denominated virtue, this is the reason why the sense of moral good and evil follows upon justice and injustice. and though this sense, in the present case, be derived only from contemplating the actions of others, yet we fail not to extend it even to our own actions. the _general rule_ reaches beyond those instances from which it arose; while, at the same time, we naturally _sympathize_ with others in the sentiments they entertain of us. though this progress of the sentiments be _natural_, and even necessary, 'tis certain, that it is here forwarded by the artifice of politicians, who, in order to govern men more easily, and preserve peace in human society, have endeavoured to produce an esteem for justice, and an abhorrence of injustice. this, no doubt, must have its effect; but nothing can be more evident, than that the matter has been carried too far by certain writers on morals, who seem to have employed their utmost efforts to extirpate all sense of virtue from among mankind. any artifice of politicians may assist nature in the producing of those sentiments, which she suggests to us, and may even, on some occasions, produce alone an approbation or esteem for any particular action; but 'tis impossible it should be the sole cause of the distinction we make betwixt vice and virtue. for if nature did not aid us in this particular, 'twould be in vain for politicians to talk of _honourable_ or _dishonourable, praiseworthy_ or _blameable_. these words would be perfectly unintelligible, and would no more have any idea annexed to them, than if they were of a tongue perfectly unknown to us. the utmost politicians can perform, is to extend the natural sentiments beyond their original bounds; but still nature must furnish the materials, and give us some notion of moral distinctions. as public praise and blame increase our esteem for justice, so private education and instruction contribute to the same effect. for as parents easily observe, that a man is the more useful, both to himself and others, the greater degree of probity and honour he is endowed with, and that those principles have, greater force when custom and education assist interest and reflection: for these reasons they are induced to inculcate on their children, from their earliest infancy, the principles of probity, and teach them to regard the observance of those rules by which society is maintained, as worthy and honourable, and their violation as base and infamous. by this means the sentiments of honour may take root in their tender minds, and acquire such firmness and solidity, that they may fall little short of those principles which are the most essential to our natures, and the most deeply radicated in our internal constitution. what farther contributes to increase their solidity, is the interest of our reputation, after the opinion, _that a merit or demerit attends justice or injustice_, is once firmly established among mankind. there is nothing which touches us more nearly than our reputation, and nothing on which our reputation more depends than our conduct with relation to the property of others. for this reason, every one who has any regard to his character, or who intends to live on good terms with mankind, must fix an inviolable law to himself, never, by any temptation, to be induced to violate those principles which are essential to a man of probity and honour. i shall make only one observation before i leave this subject, viz. that, though i assert that, in the _state of_ nature, or that imaginary state which preceded society, there be neither justice nor injustice, yet i assert not that it was allowable, in such a state, to violate the property of others. i only maintain, that there was no such thing as property; and consequently could be no such thing as justice or injustice. i shall have occasion to make a similar reflection with regard to _promises_, when i come to treat of them; and i hope this reflection, when duly weighed, will suffice to remove all odium from the foregoing opinions, with regard to justice and injustice. section iii. of the rules which determine property. though the establishment of the rule, concerning the stability of possession, be not only useful, but even absolutely necessary to human society, it can never serve to any purpose, while it remains in such general terms. some method must be shown, by which we may distinguish what particular goods are to be assigned to each particular person, while the rest of mankind are excluded from their possession and enjoyment. our next business, then, must be to discover the reasons which modify this general rule, and fit it to the common use and practice of the world. 'tis obvious, that those reasons are not derived from any utility or advantage, which either the _particular_ person or the public may reap from his enjoyment of any _particular_ goods, beyond what would result from the possession of them by any other person. 'twere better, no doubt, that every one were possessed of what is most suitable to him, and proper for his use: but besides, that this relation of fitness may be common to several at once, 'tis liable to so many controversies, and men are so partial and passionate in judging of these controversies, that such a loose and uncertain rule would be absolutely incompatible with the peace of human society. the convention concerning the stability of possession is entered into, in order to cut off all occasions of discord and contention; and this end would never be attained, were we allowed to apply this rule differently in every particular case, according to every particular utility which might be discovered in such an application. justice, in her decisions, never regards the fitness or unfitness of objects to particular persons, but conducts herself by more extensive views. whether a man be generous, or a miser, he is equally well received by her, and obtains, with the same facility, a decision in his favour, even for what is entirely useless to him. it follows, therefore, that the general rule, _that possession must be stable_, is not applied by particular judgments, but by other general rules, which must extend to the whole society, and be inflexible either by spite or favour. to illustrate this, i propose the following instance. i first consider men in their savage and solitary condition; and suppose that, being sensible of the misery of that state, and foreseeing the advantages that would result from society, they seek each other's company, and make an offer of mutual protection and assistance. i also suppose that they are endowed with such sagacity as immediately to perceive that the chief impediment to this project of society and partnership lies in the avidity and selfishness of their natural temper; to remedy which, they enter into a convention which for the stability of possession, and for mutual restraint and forbearance. i am sensible that this method of proceeding is not altogether natural; but, besides that, i here only suppose those reflections to be formed at once, which, in fact, arise insensibly and by degrees; besides this, i say, 'tis very possible that several persons, being by different accidents separated from the societies to which they formerly belonged, may be obliged to form a new society among themselves; in which case they are entirely in the situation above-mentioned. 'tis evident, then, that their first difficulty in this situation, after the general convention for the establishment of society, and for the constancy of possession, is, how to separate their possessions, and assign to each his particular portion, which he must for the future unalterably enjoy. this difficulty will not detain them long; but it must immediately occur to them, as the most natural expedient, that every one continue to enjoy what he is at present master of, and that property or constant possession be conjoined to the immediate possession. such is the effect of custom, that it not only reconciles us to any thing we have long enjoyed, but even gives us an affection for it, and makes us prefer it to other objects, which may be more valuable, but are less known to us. what has long lain under our eye, and has often been employed to our advantage, _that_ we are always the most unwilling to part with; but can easily live without possessions which we never have enjoyed, and are not accustomed to. 'tis evident, therefore, that men would easily acquiesce in this expedient, _that every one continue to enjoy what he is at present possessed of_; and this is the reason why they would so naturally agree in preferring it.[ ] but we may observe, that, though the rule of the assignment of property to the present possessor be natural, and by that means useful, yet its utility extends not beyond the first formation of society; nor would any thing be more pernicious than the constant observance of it; by which restitution would be excluded, and every injustice would be authorized and rewarded. we must, therefore, seek for some other circumstance, that may give rise to property after society is once established; and of this kind i find four most considerable, viz. occupation, prescription, accession, and succession. we shall briefly examine each of these, beginning with _occupation_. the possession of all external goods is changeable and uncertain; which is one of the most considerable impediments to the establishment of society, and is the reason why, by universal agreement, express or tacit, men restrain themselves by what we now call the rules of justice and equity. the misery of the condition which precedes this restraint, is the cause why we submit to that remedy as quickly as possible; and this affords us an easy reason why why annex the idea of property to the first possession, or to _occupation_. men are unwilling to leave property in suspense, even for the shortest time, or open the least door to violence and disorder. to which we may add, that the first possession always engages the attention most; and did we neglect it, there would be no colour of reason for assigning property to any succeeding possession.[ ] there remains nothing but to determine exactly what is meant by possession; and this is not so easy as may at first sight be imagined. we are said to be in possession of any thing, not only when we immediately touch it, but also when we are so situated with respect to it, as to have it in our power to use it; and may move, alter, or destroy it, according to our present pleasure or advantage. this relation, then, is a species of cause and effect; and as property is nothing but a stable possession, derived from the rules of justice, or the conventions of men, 'tis to be considered as the same species of relation. but here we may observe, that, as the power of using any object becomes more or less certain, according as the interruptions we may meet with are more or less probable; and as this probability may increase by insensible degrees, 'tis in many cases impossible to determine when possession begins or ends; nor is there any certain standard by which we can decide such controversies. a wild boar that falls into our snares, is deemed to be in our possession if it be impossible for him to escape. but what do we mean by impossible? how do we separate this impossibility from an improbability? and how distinguish that exactly from a probability? mark the precise limits of the one and the other, and show the standard, by which we may decide all disputes that may arise, and, as we find, by experience, frequently do arise upon this subject.[ ] but such disputes may not arise concerning the real existence of property and possession, but also concerning their extent; and these disputes are often susceptible of no decision, or can be decided by no other faculty than the imagination. a person who lands on the shore of a small island that is desart and uncultivated is deemed its possessor from the very first moment, and acquires the property of the whole; because the object is there bounded and circumscribed in the fancy, and at the same time is proportioned to the new possessor. the same person landing on a desart island as large as great britain, extends his property no farther than his immediate possession; though a numerous colony are esteemed the proprietors of the whole from the instant of their debarkment. but if it often happens that the title of first possession becomes obscure through time, and that 'tis impossible to determine many controversies which may arise concerning it; in that case, long possession or _prescription_ naturally takes place, and gives a person a sufficient property in any thing he enjoys. the nature of human society admits not of any great accuracy; nor can we always remount to the first origin of things, in order to determine their present condition. any considerable space of time sets objects at such a distance that they seem in a manner to lose their reality, and have as little influence on the mind as if they never had been in being. a man's title that is clear and certain at present, will seem obscure and doubtful fifty years hence, even though the facts on which it is founded should be proved with the greatest evidence and certainty. the same facts have not the same influence after so long an interval of time. and this may be received as a convincing argument for our preceding doctrine with regard to property and justice. possession during a long tract of time conveys a title to any object. but as 'tis certain that, however every thing be produced in time, there is nothing real that is produced by time, it follows, that property being produced by time, is not any thing real in the objects, but is the offspring of the sentiments, on which alone time is found to have any influence.[ ] we acquire the property of objects by _accession_, when they are connected in an intimate manner with objects that are already our property, and at the same time are inferior to them. thus, the fruits of our garden, the offspring of our cattle, and the work of our slaves, are all of them esteemed our property, even before possession. where objects are connected together in the imagination, they are apt to be put on the same footing, and are commonly supposed to be endowed with the same qualities. we readily pass from one to the other, and make no difference in our judgments concerning them, especially if the latter be inferior to the former. [ ] the right of _succession_ is a very natural one, from the presumed consent of the parent or near relation, and from the general interest of mankind, which requires that men's possessions should pass to those who are dearest to them, in order to render them more industrious and frugal. perhaps these causes are seconded by the influence of _relation_, or the association of ideas, by which we are naturally directed to consider the son after the parent's decease, and ascribe to him a title to his father's possessions. those goods must become the property of somebody: but _of whom_ is the question. here 'tis evident the person's children naturally present themselves to the mind; and being already connected to those possessions by means of their deceased parent, we are apt to connect them still farther by the relation of property. of this there are many parallel instances.[ ] [ ] no questions in philosophy are more difficult, than when a number of causes present themselves for the same phenomenon, to determine which is the principal and predominant. there seldom is any very precise argument to fix our choice, and men must be contented to be guided by a kind of taste or fancy, arising from analogy, and a comparison of similar instances. thus, in the present case, there are, no doubt, motives of public interest for most of the rules which determine property; but still i suspect, that these rules are principally fixed by the imagination, or the more frivolous properties of our thought and conception. i shall continue to explain these causes, leaving it to the reader's choice, whether he will prefer those derived from public utility, or those derived from the imagination. we shall begin with the right of the present possessor. 'tis a quality which i have already observed(*) in human nature, that when two objects appear in a close relation to each other, the mind is apt to ascribe to them any additional relation, in order to complete the union; and this inclination is so strong, as often to make us run into errors (such as that of the conjunction of thought and matter) if we find that they can serve to that purpose. many of our impressions are incapable of place or local position; and yet those very impressions we suppose to have a local conjunction with the impressions of sight and touch, merely because they are conjoined by causation, and are already united in the imagination. since, therefore, we can feign a new relation, and even an absurd one, in order to complete any union, 'twill easily be imagined, that if there be any relations which depend on the mind, 'twill readily conjoin them to any preceding relation, and unite, by a new bond, such objects as have already an union in the fancy. thus, for instance, we never fail, in our arrangement of bodies, to place those which are resembling in contiguity to each other, or at least in _correspondent_ points of view; because we feel a satisfaction in joining the relation of contiguity to that of resemblance, or the resemblance of situation to that of qualities. and this is easily accounted for from the known properties of human nature. when the mind is determined to join certain objects, but undetermined in its choice of the particular objects, it naturally turns its eye to such as are related together. they are already united in the mind: they present themselves at the same time to the conception; and instead of requiring any new reason for their conjunction, it would require a very powerful reason to make us overlook this natural affinity. this we shall have occasion to explain more fully afterwards when we come to treat of _beauty_. in the mean time, we may content ourselves with observing, that the same love of order and uniformity which arranges the books in a library, and the chairs in a parlour, contributes to the formation of society, and to the well-being of mankind, by modifying the general rule concerning the stability of possession. and as property forms a relation betwixt a person and an object, 'tis natural to found it on some preceding relation; and, as property is nothing but a constant possession, secured by the laws of society, 'tis natural to add it to the present possession, which is a relation that resembles it. for this also has its influence. if it be natural to conjoin till sorts of relations, 'tis more so to conjoin such relations as are resembling, and are related together. (*) book i. part iv. sect. [ ] some philosophers account for the right of occupation, by saying that every one has a property in his own labour; and when he joins that labour to any thing, it gives him the property of the whole: but, i. there are several kinds of occupation where we cannot be said to join our labour to the object we acquire: as when we possess a meadow by grazing our cattle upon it . this accounts for the matter by means of _accession_; which is taking a needless circuit. . we cannot be said to join our labour to any thing but in a figurative sense. properly speaking, we only make an alteration on it by our labour. this forms a relation betwixt us and the object; and thence arises the property, according to the preceding principles. [ ] if we seek a solution of these difficulties in reason and public interest, we never shall find satisfaction; and if we look for it in the imagination, 'tis evident, that the qualities which operate upon that faculty, run so insensibly and gradually into each other, that 'tis impossible to give them any precise bounds or termination. the difficulties on this head must increase, when we consider that our judgment alters very sensibly according to the subject, and that the same power and proximity will be deemed possession in one case, which is not esteemed such in another. a person who has hunted a hare to the last degree of weariness, would look upon it as an injustice for another to rush in before him, and seize his prey. but the same person, advancing to pluck an apple that hangs within his reach, has no reason to complain if another, more alert, passes him, and takes possession. what is the reason of this difference, but that immobility, not being natural to the hare, but the effect of industry, forms in that case a strong relation with the hunter, which is wanting in the other? here, then, it appears, that a certain and infallible power of enjoyment, without touch or some other sensible relation, often produces not property: and i farther observe, that a sensible relation, without any present power, is sometimes sufficient to give a title to any object. the sight of a thing is seldom a considerable relation, and is only regarded as such, when the object is hidden, or very obscure; in which case we find that the view alone conveys a property; according to that maxim, _that even a whole continent belongs to the nation which first discovered it_. 'tis however remarkable, that both in the case of discovery and that of possession, the first discoverer and possessor must join to the relation an intention of rendering himself proprietor, otherwise the relation will not have its effect; and that because the connexion in our fancy betwixt the property and the relation is not so great but that it requires to be helped by such an intention. from all these circumstances, 'tis easy to see how perplexed many questions may become concerning the acquisition of property by occupation; and the least effort of thought may present us with instances which are not susceptible of any reasonable decision. if we prefer examples which are real to such as are feigned, we may consider the following one, which is to be met with in almost every writer that has treated of the laws of nature. two grecian colonies, leaving their native country in search of new seats, were informed that a city near them was deserted by its inhabitants. to know the truth of this report, they despatched at once two messengers, one from each colony, who finding, on their approach, that the information was true, begun a race together, with an intention to take possession of the city, each of them for his countrymen. one of these messengers, finding that he was not an equal match for the other, launched his spear at the gates of the city, and was so fortunate as to fix it there before the arrival of his companion. this produced a dispute betwixt the two colonies, which of them was the proprietor of the empty city; and this dispute still subsists among philosophers. for my part, i find the dispute impossible to be decided, and that because the whole question hangs upon the fancy, which in this case is not possessed of any precise or determinate standard upon which it can give sentence. to make this evident, let us consider, that if these two persons had been simply members of the colonies, and not messengers or deputies, their actions would not have been of any consequence; since in that case their relation to the colonies would have been but feeble and imperfect. add to this, that nothing determined them to run to the gates rather than the walls or any other part of the city, but that the gates, being the most *obviated*, and remarkable part, satisfy the fancy best in taking them for the whole; as we find by the poets, who frequently draw their images and metaphors from them. besides, we may consider that the touch or contact of the one messenger is not properly possession, no more than the piercing the gates with the spear, but only forms a relation; and there is a relation in the other case equally obvious, though not perhaps of equal force. which of these relations, then, conveys a right and property, or whether any of them be sufficient for that effect, i leave to the decision of such as are wiser than myself. [ ] present possession is plainly a relation betwixt a person and an object; but is not sufficient to counterbalance the relation of first possession, unless the former be long and uninterrupted; in which case the relation is increased on the side of the present possession by the extent of time, and diminished on that of first possession by the distance. this change in the relation produces a consequent change in the property. [ ] this source of property can never be explained but from the imagination; and one may affirm, that the causes are here unmixed. we shall proceed to explain them more particularly, and illustrate them by examples from common life and experience. it has been observed above, that the mind has a natural propensity to join relations, especially resembling ones, and finds a kind of fitness and uniformity in such an union. from this propensity are derived these laws of nature, _that upon the first formation of society, property always follows the present possession_; and afterwards, _that it arises from first or from long possession_. now, we may easily observe, that relation is not confined merely to one degree; but that from an object that is related to us, we acquire a relation to every other object which is related to it, and so on, till the thought loses the chain by too long a progress. however the relation may weaken by each remove, 'tis not immediately destroyed; but frequently connects two objects by means of an intermediate one, which is related to both. and this principle is of such force as to give rise to the right of _accession_, and causes us to acquire the property, not only of such objects as we are immediately possessed of, but also of such as are closely connected with them. suppose a german, a frenchman, and a spaniard, to come into a room where there are placed upon the table three bottles of wine, rhenish, burgundy, and port; and suppose they should fall a quarrelling about the division of them, a person who was chosen for umpire would naturally, to show his impartiality, give every one the product of his own country; and this from a principle which, in some measure, is the source of those laws of nature that ascribe property to occupation, prescription and accession. in all these cases, and particularly that of accession, there is first a _natural_ union betwixt the idea of the person and that of the object, and afterwards a new and moral union produced by that right or property which we ascribe to the person. but here there occurs a difficulty which merits our attention, and may afford us an opportunity of putting to trial that singular method of reasoning which has been employed on the present subject. i have already observed, that the imagination passes with greater facility from little to great, than from great to little, and that the transition of ideas is always easier and smoother in the former case than in the latter. now, as the right of accession arises from the easy transition of ideas by which related objects are connected together, it should naturally be imagined that the right of accession must increase in strength, in proportion as the transition of ideas is performed with greater facility. it may therefore be thought; that when we have acquired the property of any small object, we shall readily consider any great object related to it as an accession, and as belonging to the proprietor of the small one; since the transition is in that case very easy from the small object to the great one, and should connect them together in the closest manner. but in fact the case is always found to be otherwise. the empire of great britain seems to draw along with it the dominion of the orkneys, the hebrides, the isle of man, and the isle of wight; but the authority over those lesser islands does not naturally imply any title to great britain. in short, a small object naturally follows a great one as its accession; but a great one is never supposed to belong to the proprietor of a small one related to it, merely on account of that property and relation. yet in this latter case the transition of ideas is smoother from the proprietor to the small object which is his property, and from the small object to the great one, than in the former case from the proprietor to the great object, and from the great one to the small. it may therefore be thought, that these phenomena are objections to the foregoing hypothesis, _that the ascribing of property to accession is nothing but an effect of the relations of ideas, and of the smooth transition of the imagination_. 'twill be easy to solve this objection, if we consider the agility and unsteadiness of the imagination, with the different views in which it is continually placing its objects. when we attribute to a person a property in two objects, we do not always pass from the person to one object, and from that to the other related to it. the objects being here to be considered as the property of the person, we are apt to join them together, and place them in the same light. suppose, therefore, a great and a small object to be related together, if a person be strongly related to the great object, he will likewise be strongly related to both the objects considered together, because he is related to the most considerable part. on the contrary, if he be only related to the small object, he will not be strongly related to both considered together, since his relation lies only with the most trivial part, which is not apt to strike us in any great degree when we consider the whole. and this is the reason why small objects become accessions to great ones, and not great to small. 'tis the general opinion of philosophers and civilians, that the sea is incapable of becoming the property of any nation; and that because 'tis impossible to take possession of it, or form any such distinct relation with it, as may be the foundation of property. where this reason ceases, property immediately takes place. thus, the most strenuous advocates for the liberty of the seas universally allow, that friths and bays naturally belong as an accession to the proprietors of the surrounding continent these have properly no more bond or union with the land than the _pacific_ ocean would have; but having an union in the fancy, and being at the same time _inferior_, they are of course regarded as an accession. the property of rivers, by the laws of most nations, and by the natural turn of our thought, is attributed to the proprietors of their banks, excepting such vast rivers as the rhine or the danube, which seem too large to the imagination to follow as an accession the property of the neighbouring fields. yet even these rivers are considered as the property of that nation through whose dominions they run; the idea of a nation being a suitable bulk to correspond with them, and bear them such a relation in the fancy. the accessions which are made to lands bordering upon rivers, follow the land, say the civilians, provided it be made by what they call _alluvion_, that is, insensibly and imperceptibly; which are circumstances that mightily assist the imagination in the conjunction. where there is any considerable portion torn at once from one bank, and joined to another, it becomes not his property whose land it falls on, till it unite with the land, and till the trees or plants have spread their roots into both. before that, the imagination does not sufficiently join them. there are other cases which somewhat resemble this of accession, but which, at the bottom, are considerably different, and merit our attention. of this kind is the conjunction of the properties of different persons, after such a manner as not to admit of _separation_. the question is, to whom the united mass must belong. where this conjunction is of such a nature as to admit of _division_, but not of _separation_, the decision is natural and easy. the whole mass must be supposed to be common betwixt the proprietors of the several parts, and afterwards must be divided according to the proportions of these parts. but here i cannot forbear taking notice of a remarkable subtilty of the roman law, in distinguishing betwixt _confusion_ and _commixtion_. confusion is an union of two bodies, such as different liquors, where the parts become entirely undistinguishable. commixtion is the blending of two bodies, such as two bushels of corn, where the parts remain separate in an obvious and visible manner. as in the latter case the imagination discovers not so entire an union as in the former, but is able to trace and preserve a distinct idea of the property of each; this is the reason why the _civil_ law, though it established an entire community in the case of _confusion_, and after that a proportional division, yet in the case of _commixtion_, supposes each of the proprietors to maintain a distinct right; however, necessity may at last force them to submit to the same division. _quod si frumentum titii frumento tuo mistum fuerit: siquidem ex voluntate vestra, communc est: quia singula corpora, id est, singula grana, quæ a cujusque propria fuerunt, ex consensu vestro communicata sunt. quod si casu id mistum fuerit, vel titius id miscuerit sine tua voluntate, non videtur id communc esse; quia singula corpora in sua substantia durant. sed nec magis istis casibus commune sit frumentum quam grex intelligitur esse communis, si pecora titii tuis pecoribus mista fuerint. sed si ab alterutro vestrum totum id frumentum retineatur, in rem quidem actio pro modo frumenti cujusque competit. arbitrio autem judicis, ut ipse æstimet quale cujusque frumentum fuerit_. inst. lib. ii. tit i. § . where the properties of two persons are united after such a manner as neither to admit of _division_ nor _separation_, as when one builds a house on another's ground, in that case the whole must belong to one of the proprietors; and here i assert, that it naturally is conceived to belong to the proprietor of the most considerable part. for, however the compound object may have a relation to two different persons, and carry our view at once to both of them, yet, as the most considerable part principally engages our attention, and by the strict union draws the inferior along it; for this reason, the whole bears a relation to the proprietor of that part, and is regarded as his property. the only difficulty is, what we shall be pleased to call the most considerable part, and most attractive to the imagination. this quality depends on several different circumstances which have little connexion with each other. one part of a compound object may become more considerable than another, either because it is more constant and durable; because it is of greater value; because it is more obvious and remarkable; because it is of greater extent; or because its existence is more separate and independent. 'twill be easy to conceive, that, as these circumstances may be conjoined and opposed in all the different ways, and according to all the different degrees, which can be imagined, there will result many cases where the reasons on both sides are so equally balanced, that 'tis impossible for us to give any satisfactory decision. here, then, is the proper business of municipal laws, to fix what the principles of human nature have left undetermined. the superficies yields to the soil, says the civil law: the writing to the paper: the canvas to the picture. these decisions do not well agree together, and are a proof of the contrariety of those principles from which they are derived. but of all the questions of this kind, the most curious is that which for so many ages divided the disciples of _proculus_ and _sabinus_. suppose a person should make a cup from the metal of another, or a ship from his wood, and suppose the proprietor of the metal or wood should demand his goods, the question is, whether he acquires a title to the cup or ship. _sabinus_ maintained the affirmative, and asserted, that the substance or matter is the foundation of all the qualities; that it is incorruptible and immortal, and therefore superior to the form, which is casual and dependent. on the other hand, _proculus_ observed, that the form is the most obvious and remarkable part, and that from it bodies are denominated of this or that particular species. to which he might have added, that the matter or substance is in most bodies so fluctuating and uncertain, that 'tis utterly impossible to trace it in all its changes. for my part, i know not from what principles such a controversy can be certainly determined. i shall therefore content myself with observing, that the decision of _trebonian_ seems to me pretty ingenious; that the cup belongs to the proprietor of the metal, because it can be brought back to its first form: but that the ship belongs to the author of its form, for a contrary reason. but, however ingenious this reason may seem, it plainly depends upon the fancy, which, by the possibility of such a reduction, finds a closer connexion and relation betwixt a cup and the proprietor of its metal, than betwixt a ship and the proprietor of its wood, where the substance is more fixed and unalterable. [ ] in examining the different titles to authority in government, we shall meet with many reasons to convince us that the right of succession depends, in a great measure, on the imagination. meanwhile i shall rest contented with observing one example, which belongs to the present subject. suppose that a person die without children, and that a dispute arises among his relations concerning his inheritance; 'tis evident, that if his riches be derived partly from his father, partly from his mother, the most natural way of determining such a dispute is, to divide his possessions, and assign each part to the family from whence it is derived. now, as the person is supposed to have been once the full and entire proprietor of those goods, i ask, what is it makes us find a certain equity and natural reason in this partition, except it be the imagination? his affection to these families does not depend upon his possessions; for which reason his consent can never be presumed precisely for such a partition. and as to the public interest, it seems not to be in the least concerned on the one side or the other. section iv. of the transference of property by consent. however useful, or even necessary, the stability of possession may be to human society, 'tis attended with very considerable inconveniences. the relation of fitness or suitableness ought never to enter into consideration, in distributing the properties of mankind; but we must govern ourselves by rules which are more general in their application, and more free from doubt and uncertainty. of this kind is _present_ possession upon the first establishment of society; and afterwards _occupation, prescription, accession_, and _succession_. as these depend very much on chance, they must frequently prove contradictory both to men's wants and desires; and persons and possessions must often be very ill adjusted. this is a grand inconvenience, which calls for a remedy. to apply one directly, and allow every man to seize by violence what he judges to be fit for him, would destroy society; and therefore the rules of justice seek some medium betwixt a rigid stability and this changeable and uncertain adjustment. but there is no medium better than that obvious one, that possession and property should always be stable, except when the proprietor consents to bestow them on some other person. this rule can have no ill consequence in occasioning wars and dissensions, since the proprietor's consent, who alone is concerned, is taken along in the alienation; and it may serve to many good purposes in adjusting property to persons. different parts of the earth produce different commodities; and not only so, but different men both are by nature fitted for different employments, and attain to greater perfection in any one, when they confine themselves to it alone. all this requires a mutual exchange and commerce; for which reason the translation of property by consent is founded on a law of nature, as well as its stability without such a consent. so far is determined by a plain utility and interest. but perhaps 'tis from more trivial reasons, that _delivery_, or a sensible transference of the object, is commonly required by civil laws, and also by the laws of nature, according to most authors, as a requisite circumstance in the translation of property. the property of an object, when taken for something real, without any reference to morality, or the sentiments of the mind, is a quality perfectly insensible, and even inconceivable; nor can we form any distinct notion, either of its stability or translation. this imperfection of our ideas is less sensibly felt with regard to its stability, as it engages less our attention, and is easily past over by the mind, without any scrupulous examination. but as the translation of property from one person to another is a more remarkable event, the defect of our ideas becomes more sensible on that occasion, and obliges us to turn ourselves on every side in search of some remedy. now, as nothing more enlivens any idea than a present impression, and a relation betwixt that impression and the idea; 'tis natural for us to seek some false light from this quarter. in order to aid the imagination in conceiving the transference of property, we take the sensible object, and actually transfer its possession to the person on whom we would bestow the property. the supposed resemblance of the actions, and the presence of this sensible delivery, deceive the mind, and make it fancy that it conceives the mysterious transition of the property. and that this explication of the matter is just, appears hence, that men have invented a _symbolical_ delivery, to satisfy the fancy where the real one is impracticable. thus the giving the keys of a granary, is understood to be the delivery of the corn contained in it: the giving of stone and earth represents the delivery of a manor. this is a kind of superstitious practice in civil laws, and in the laws of nature, resembling the _roman catholic_ superstitions in religion. as the _roman catholics_ represent the inconceivable mysteries of the _christian_ religion, and render them more present to the mind, by a taper, or habit, or grimace, which is supposed to resemble them; so lawyers and moralists have run into like inventions for the same reason, and have endeavoured by those means to satisfy themselves concerning the transference of property by consent. section v. of the obligation of promises. that the rule of morality, which enjoins the performance of promises, is not _natural_, will sufficiently appear from these two propositions, which i proceed to prove, viz. _that a promise would not be intelligible before human conventions had established it; and that even if it were intelligible, it would not be attended with any moral obligation_. i say, _first_, that a promise is not intelligible naturally, nor antecedent to human conventions; and that a man, unacquainted with society, could never enter into any engagements with another, even though they could perceive each other's thoughts by intuition. if promises be natural and intelligible, there must be some act of the mind attending these words, i _promise_; and on this act of the mind must the obligation depend. let us therefore run over all the faculties of the soul, and see which of them is exerted in our promises. the act of the mind, expressed by a promise, is not a _resolution_ to perform any thing; for that alone never imposes any obligation. nor is it a _desire_ of such a performance; for we may bind ourselves without such a desire, or even with an aversion, declared and avowed. neither is it the _willing_ of that action which we promise to perform; for a promise always regards some future time, and the will has an influence only on present actions. it follows, therefore, that since the act of the mind, which enters into a promise, and produces its obligation, is neither the resolving, desiring, nor willing any particular performance, it must necessarily be the _willing_ of that _obligation_ which arises from the promise. nor is this only a conclusion of philosophy, but is entirely conformable to our common ways of thinking and of expressing ourselves, when we say that we are bound by our own consent, and that the obligation arises from our mere will and pleasure. the only question then is, whether there be not a manifest absurdity in supposing this act of the mind, and such an absurdity as no man could fall into, whose ideas are not confounded with prejudice and the fallacious use of language. all morality depends upon our sentiments; and when any action or quality of the mind pleases us _after a certain manner_, we say it is virtuous; and when the neglect or non-performance of it displeases us _after a like manner_, we say that we lie under an obligation to perform it. a change of the obligation supposes a change of the sentiment; and a creation of a new obligation supposes some new sentiment to arise. but 'tis certain we can naturally no more change our own sentiments than the motions of the heavens; nor by a single act of our will, that is, by a promise, render any action agreeable or disagreeable, moral or immoral, which, without that act, would have produced contrary impressions, or have been endowed with different qualities. it would be absurd, therefore, to will any new obligation, that is, any new sentiment of pain or pleasure; nor is it possible that men could naturally fall into so gross an absurdity. a promise, therefore, is _naturally_ something altogether unintelligible, nor is there any act of the mind belonging to it.[ ] but, _secondly_, if there was any act of the mind belonging to it, it could not _naturally_ produce any obligation. this appears evidently from the foregoing reasoning. a promise creates a new obligation. a new obligation supposes new sentiments to arise. the will never creates new sentiments. there could not naturally, therefore, arise any obligation from a promise, even supposing the mind could fall into the absurdity of willing that obligation. the same truth may be proved still more evidently by that reasoning which proved justice in general to be an artificial virtue. no action can be required of us as our duty, unless there be implanted in human nature some actuating passion or motive capable of producing the action. this motive cannot be the sense of duty. a sense of duty supposes an antecedent obligation; and where an action is not required by any natural passion, it cannot be required by any natural obligation; since it may be omitted without proving any defect or imperfection in the mind and temper, and consequently without any vice. now, 'tis evident we have no motive leading us to the performance of promises, distinct from a sense of duty. if we thought that promises had no moral obligation, we never should feel any inclination to observe them. this is not the case with the natural virtues. though there was no obligation to relieve the miserable, our humanity would lead us to it; and when we omit that duty, the immorality of the omission arises from its being a proof that we want the natural sentiments of humanity. a father knows it to be his duty to take care of his children, but he has also a natural inclination to it. and if no human creature had that inclination, no one could lie under any such obligation. but as there is naturally no inclination to observe promises distinct from a sense of their obligation, it follows, that fidelity is no natural virtue, and that promises have no force antecedent to human conventions. if any one dissent from this, he must give a regular proof of these two propositions, viz. _that there is a peculiar act of the mind annexed to promises_; and _that consequent to this act of the mind, there arises an inclination to perform, distinct from a sense of duty_. i presume that it is impossible to prove either of these two points; and therefore i venture to conclude, that promises are human inventions, founded on the necessities and interests of society. in order to discover these necessities and interests, we must consider the same qualities of human nature which we have already found to give rise to the preceding laws of society. men being naturally selfish, or endowed only with a confined generosity, they are not easily induced to perform any action for the interest of strangers, except with a view to some reciprocal advantage, which they had no hope of obtaining but by such a performance. now, as it frequently happens that these mutual performances cannot be finished at the same instant, 'tis necessary that one party be contented to remain in uncertainty, and depend upon the gratitude of the other for a return of kindness. but so much corruption is there among men, that, generally speaking, this becomes but a slender security; and as the benefactor is here supposed to bestow his favours with a view to self-interest, this both takes off from the obligation, and sets an example of selfishness, which is the true mother of ingratitude. were we, therefore, to follow the natural course of our passions and inclinations, we should perform but few actions for the advantage of others from disinterested views, because we are naturally very limited in our kindness and affection; and we should perform as few of that kind out of regard to interest, because we cannot depend upon their gratitude. here, then, is the mutual commerce of good offices in a manner lost among mankind, and every one reduced to his own skill and industry for his well-being and subsistence. the invention of the law of nature, concerning the _stability_ of possession, has already rendered men tolerable to each other; that of the _transference_ of property and possession by consent has begun to render them mutually advantageous; but still these laws of nature, however strictly observed, are not sufficient to render them so serviceable to each other as by nature they are fitted to become. though possession be _stable_, men may often reap but small advantage from it, while they are possessed of a greater quantity of any species of goods than they have occasion for, and at the same time suffer by the want of others. the _transference_ of property, which is the proper remedy for this inconvenience, cannot remedy it entirely; because it can only take place with regard to such objects as are _present_ and _individual_, but not to such as are _absent_ or _general_. one cannot transfer the property of a particular house, twenty leagues distant, because the consent cannot be attended with delivery, which is a requisite circumstance. neither can one transfer the property of ten bushels of corn, or five hogsheads of wine, by the mere expression and consent, because these are only general terms, and have no direct relation to any particular heap of corn or barrels of wine. besides, the commerce of mankind is not confined to the barter of commodities, but may extend to services and actions, which we may exchange to our mutual interest and advantage. your corn is ripe to-day; mine will be so to-morrow. 'tis profitable for us both that i should labour with you to-day, and that you should aid me to-morrow. i have no kindness for you, and know you have as little for me. i will not, therefore, take any pains upon your account; and should i labour with you upon my own account, in expectation of a return, i know i should be disappointed, and that i should in vain depend upon your gratitude. here, then, i leave you to labour alone: you treat me in the same manner. the seasons change; and both of us lose our harvests for want of mutual confidence and security. all this is the effect of the natural and inherent principles and passions of human nature; and as these passions and principles are unalterable, it may be thought that our conduct, which depends on them, must be so too, and that 'twould be in vain, either for moralists or politicians, to tamper with us, or attempt to change the usual course of our actions, with a view to public interest. and, indeed, did the success of their designs depend upon their success in correcting the selfishness and ingratitude of men, they would never make any progress, unless aided by omnipotence, which is alone able to new-mould the human mind, and change its character in such fundamental articles. all they can pretend to is, to give a new direction to those natural passions, and teach us that we can better satisfy our appetites in an oblique and artificial manner, than by their headlong and impetuous motion. hence i learn to do a service to another, without bearing him any real kindness; because i foresee that he will return my service, in expectation of another of the same kind, and in order to maintain the same correspondence of good offices with me or with others. and accordingly, after i have served him, and he is in possession of the advantage arising, from my action, he is induced to perform his part, as foreseeing the consequences of his refusal. but though this self-interested commerce of men begins to take place, and to predominate in society, it does not entirely abolish the more generous and noble intercourse of friendship and good offices. i may still do services to such persons as i love, and am more particularly acquainted with, without any prospect of advantage; and they may make me a return in the same manner, without any view but that of recompensing my past services. in order, therefore, to distinguish those two different sorts of commerce, the interested and the disinterested, there is a _certain form of words_ invented for the former, by which we bind ourselves to the performance of any action. this form of words constitutes what we call a _promise_, which is the sanction of the interested commerce of mankind. when a man says _he promises any thing_, he in effect expresses a _resolution_ of performing it; and along with that, by making use of this _form of words,_, subjects himself to the penalty of never being trusted again in case of failure. a resolution is the natural act of the mind, which promises express; but were there no more than a resolution in the case, promises would only declare our former motives, and would not create any new motive or obligation. they are the conventions of men, which create a new motive, when experience has taught us that human affairs would be conducted much more for mutual advantage, were there certain _symbols_ or _signs_ instituted, by which we might give each other security of our conduct in any particular incident. after these signs are instituted, whoever uses them is immediately bound by his interest to execute his engagements, and must never expect to be trusted any more, if he refuse to perform what he promised. nor is that knowledge, which is requisite to make mankind sensible of this interest in the _institution_ and _observance_ of promises, to be esteemed superior to the capacity of human nature, however savage and uncultivated. there needs but a very little practice of the world, to make us perceive all these consequences and advantages. the shortest experience of society discovers them to every mortal; and when each individual perceives the same sense of interest in all his fellows, he immediately performs his part of any contract, as being assured that they will not be wanting in theirs. all of them, by concert, enter into a scheme of actions, calculated for common benefit, and agree to be true to their word; nor is there any thing requisite to form this concert or convention, but that every one have a sense of interest in the faithful fulfilling of engagements, and express that sense to other members of the society. this immediately causes that interest to operate upon them; and interest is the _first_ obligation to the performance of promises. afterwards a sentiment of morals concurs with interest, and becomes a new obligation upon mankind. this sentiment of morality, in the performance of promises, arises from the same principles as that in the abstinence from the property of others. _public interest, education_, and _the artifices of politicians_, have the same effect in both cases. the difficulties that occur to us in supposing a moral obligation to attend promises, we either surmount or elude. for instance, the expression of a resolution is not commonly supposed to be obligatory; and we cannot readily conceive how the making use of a certain form of words should be able to cause any material difference. here, therefore, we _feign_ a new act of the mind, which we call the _willing_ an obligation; and on this we suppose the morality to depend. but we have proved already, that there is no such act of the mind, and consequently, that promises impose no natural obligation. to confirm this, we may subjoin some other reflections concerning that will, which is supposed to enter into a promise, and to cause its obligation. 'tis evident, that the will alone is never supposed to cause the obligation, but must be expressed by words or signs, in order to impose a tie upon any man. the expression being once brought in as subservient to the will, soon becomes the principal part of the promise; nor will a man be less bound by his word, though he secretly give a different direction to his intention, and withhold himself both from a resolution, and from willing an obligation. but though the expression makes on most occasions the whole of the promise, yet it does not always so; and one who should make use of any expression of which he knows not the meaning, and which he uses without any intention of binding himself, would not certainly be bound by it. nay, though he knows its meaning, yet if he uses it in jest only, and with such signs as show evidently he has no serious intention of binding himself, he would not lie under any obligation of performance; but 'tis necessary that the words be a perfect expression of the will, without any contrary signs. nay, even this we must not carry so far as to imagine, that one, whom, by our quickness of understanding, we conjecture, from certain signs, to have an intention of deceiving us, is not bound by his expression or verbal promise, if we accept of it; but must limit this conclusion to those cases where the signs are of a different kind from those of deceit. all these contradictions are easily accounted for, if the obligation of promises be merely a human invention for the convenience of society; but will never be explained, if it be something _real_ and _natural_, arising from any action of the mind or body. i shall farther observe, that, since every new promise imposes a new obligation of morality on the person who promises, and since this new obligation arises from his will; 'tis one of the most mysterious and incomprehensible operations that can possibly be imagined, and may even be compared to _transubstantiation_, or _holy orders_,[ ] where a certain form of words, along with a certain intention, changes entirely the nature of an external object, and even of a human creature. but though these mysteries be so far alike, 'tis very remarkable that they differ widely in other particulars, and that this difference may be regarded as a strong proof of the difference of their origins. as the obligation of promises is an invention for the interest of society, 'tis warped into as many different forms as that interest requires, and even runs into direct contradictions, rather than lose sight of its object. but as those other monstrous doctrines are mere priestly inventions, and have no public interest in view, they are less disturbed in their progress by new obstacles; and it must be owned, that, after the first absurdity, they follow more directly the current of reason and good sense. theologians clearly perceived, that the external form of words, being mere sound, require an intention to make them have any efficacy; and that this intention being once considered as a requisite circumstance, its absence must equally prevent the effect, whether avowed or concealed, whether sincere or deceitful. accordingly, they have commonly determined, that the intention of the priest makes the sacrament, and that when he secretly withdraws his intention, he is highly criminal in himself; but still destroys the baptism, or communion, or holy orders. the terrible consequences of this doctrine were not able to hinder its taking place; as the inconvenience of a similar doctrine, with regard to promises, have prevented that doctrine from establishing itself. men are always more concerned about the present life than the future; and are apt to think the smallest evil which regards the former, more important than the greatest which regards the latter. we may draw the same conclusion, concerning the origin of promises, from the force which is supposed to invalidate all contracts, and to free us from their obligation. such a principle is a proof that promises have no natural obligation, and are mere artificial contrivances for the convenience and advantage of society. if we consider aright of the matter, force is not essentially different from any other motive of hope or fear, which may induce us to engage our word, and lay ourselves under any obligation. a man, dangerously wounded, who promises a competent sum to a surgeon to cure him, would certainly be bound to performance; though the case be not so much different from that of one who promises a sum to a robber, as to produce so great a difference in our sentiments of morality, if these sentiments were not built entirely on public interest and convenience. [ ] were morality discoverable by reason, and not by sentiment, 'twould be still more evident that promises could make no alteration upon it. morality is supposed to consist in relation. every new imposition of morality, therefore, must arise from some new relation of objects; and consequently the will could not produce immediately any change in morals, but could have that effect only by producing a change upon the objects. but as the moral obligation of a promise is the pure effect of the will, without the least change in any part of the universe, it follows, that promises have no natural obligation. should it be said, that this act of the will, being in effect a new object, produces new relations and new duties; i would answer, that this is a pure sophism, which may be detected by a very moderate share of accuracy and exactness. to will a new obligation, is to will a new relation of objects; and therefore, if this new relation of objects were formed by the volition itself, we should, in effect, will the volition, which is plainly absurd and impossible. the will has here no object to which it could tend, but must return upon itself in _infinitum_. the new obligation depends upon new relations. the new relations depend upon a new volition. the new volition has for object a new obligation, and consequently new relations, and consequently a new volition; which volition, again, has in view a new obligation, relation and volition, without any termination. 'tis impossible, therefore, we could ever will a new obligation; and consequently 'tis impossible the will could ever accompany a promise, or produce a new obligation of morality. [ ] i mean so far as holy orders are supposed to produce the _indelible character_. in other respects they are only a legal qualification. section vi. some farther reflections concerning justice and injustice. we have now run over the three fundamental laws of nature, _that of the stability of possession, of its transference by consent_, and _of the performance of promises_. 'tis on the strict observance of those three laws that the peace and security of human society entirely depend; nor is there any possibility of establishing a good correspondence among men, where these are neglected. society is absolutely necessary for the well-being of men; and these are as necessary to the supports of society. whatever restraint they may impose on the passions of men, they are the real offspring of those passions, and are only a more artful and more refined way of satisfying them. nothing is more vigilant and inventive than our passions; and nothing is more obvious than the convention for the observance of these rules. nature has, therefore, trusted this affair entirely to the conduct of men, and has not placed in the mind any peculiar original principles, to determine us to a set of actions, into which the other principles of our frame and constitution were sufficient to lead us. and to convince us the more fully of this truth, we may here stop a moment, and, from a review of the preceding reasonings, may draw some new arguments, to prove that those laws, however necessary, are entirely artificial, and of human invention; and consequently, that justice is an artificial, and not a natural virtue. i. the first argument i shall make use of is derived from the vulgar definition of justice. justice is commonly defined to be _a constant and perpetual will of giving every one his due_. in this definition 'tis supposed that there are such things as right and property, independent of justice, and antecedent to it; and that they would have subsisted, though men had never dreamt of practising such a virtue. i have already observed, in a cursory manner, the fallacy of this opinion, and shall here continue to open up, a little more distinctly, my sentiments on that subject. i shall begin with observing, that this quality, which we call _property_, is like many of the imaginary qualities of the _peripatetic_ philosophy, and vanishes upon a more accurate inspection into the subject, when considered apart from our moral sentiments, 'tis evident property does not consist in any of the sensible qualities of the object. for these may continue invariably the same, while the property changes. property, therefore, must consist in some relation of the object. but 'tis not in its relation with regard to other external and inanimate objects. for these may also continue invariably the same, while the property changes. this quality, therefore, consists in the relations of objects to intelligent and rational beings. but 'tis not the external and corporeal relation which forms the essence of property. for that relation may be the same betwixt inanimate objects, or with regard to brute creatures; though in those cases it forms no property. 'tis therefore in some internal relation that the property consists; that is, in some influence which the external relations of the object have on the mind and actions. thus, the external relation which we call _occupation_ or first possession, is not of itself imagined to be the property of the object, but only to cause its property. now, 'tis evident this external relation causes nothing in external objects, and has only an influence on the mind, by giving us a sense of duty in abstaining from that object, and in restoring it to the first possessor. these actions are properly what we call _justice_; and consequently 'tis on that virtue that the nature of property depends, and not the virtue on the property. if any one, therefore, would assert that justice is a natural virtue, and injustice a natural vice, he must assert, that abstracting from the notions of _property_ and _right_ and _obligation_, a certain conduct and train of actions, in certain external relations of objects, has naturally a moral beauty or deformity, and causes an original pleasure or uneasiness. thus, the restoring a man's goods to him is considered as virtuous, not because nature has annexed a certain sentiment of pleasure to such a conduct with regard to the property of others, but because she has annexed that sentiment to such a conduct, with regard to those external objects of which others have had the first or long possession, or which they have received by the consent of those who have had first or long possession. if nature has given us no such sentiment, there is not naturally, nor antecedent to human conventions, any such thing as property. now, though it seems sufficiently evident, in this dry and accurate consideration of the present subject, that nature has annexed no pleasure or sentiment of approbation to such a conduct, yet, that i may leave as little room for doubt as possible, i shall subjoin a few more arguments to confirm my opinion. _first_, if nature had given us a pleasure of this kind, it would have been as evident and discernible as on every other occasion; nor should we have found any difficulty to perceive, that the consideration of such actions, in such a situation, gives a certain pleasure and sentiment of approbation. we should not have been obliged to have recourse to notions of property in the definition of justice, and at the same time make use of the notions of justice in the definition of pro-property. this deceitful method of reasoning is a plain proof that there are contained in the subject some obscurities and difficulties which we are not able to surmount, and which we desire to evade by this artifice. _secondly_, those rules by which properties, rights and obligations are determined, have in them no marks of a natural origin, but many of artifice and contrivance. they are too numerous to have proceeded from nature; they are changeable by human laws; and have all of them a direct and evident tendency to public good, and the support of civil society. this last circumstance is remarkable upon two accounts. _first_, because, though the cause of the establishment of these laws had been a _regard_ for the public good, as much as the public good is their natural tendency, they would still have been artificial, as being purposely contrived, and directed to a certain end. _secondly_, because, if men had been endowed with such a strong regard for public good, they would never have restrained themselves by these rules; so that the laws of justice arise from natural principles, in a manner still more oblique and artificial. 'tis self-love which is their real origin; and as the self-love of one person is naturally contrary to that of another, these several interested passions are obliged to adjust themselves after such a manner as to concur in some system of conduct and behaviour. this system, therefore, comprehending the interest of each individual, is of course advantageous to the public, though it be not intended for that purpose by the inventors. ii. in the _second_ place, we may observe, that all kinds of vice and virtue run insensibly into each other, and may approach by such imperceptible degrees as will make it very difficult, if not absolutely impossible, to determine when the one ends and the other begins; and from this observation we may derive a new argument for the foregoing principle. for, whatever may be the case with regard to all kinds of vice and virtue, 'tis certain that rights, and obligations, and property, admit of no such insensible gradation, but that a man either has a full and perfect property, or none at all; and is either entirely obliged to perform any action, or lies under no manner of obligation. however civil laws may talk of a perfect _dominion_, and of an imperfect, 'tis easy to observe, that this arises from a fiction, which has no foundation in reason, and can never enter into our notions of natural justice and equity. a man that hires a horse, though but for a day, has as full a right to make use of it for that time, as he whom we call its proprietor has to make use of it any other day; and 'tis evident that, however the use may be bounded in time or degree, the right itself is not susceptible of any such gradation, but is absolute and entire, so far as it extends. accordingly, we may observe, that this right both arises and perishes in an instant; and that a man entirely acquires the property of any object by occupation, or the consent of the proprietor; and loses it by his own consent, without any of that insensible gradation which is remarkable in other qualities and relations. since, therefore, this is the case with regard to property, and rights, and obligations, i ask, how it stands with regard to justice and injustice? after whatever manner you answer this question, you run into inextricable difficulties. if you reply, that justice and injustice admit of degree, and run insensibly into each other, you expressly contradict the foregoing position, that obligation and property are not susceptible of such a gradation. these depend entirely upon justice and injustice, and follow them in all their variations. where the justice is entire, the property is also entire: where the justice is imperfect, the property must also be imperfect. and _vice versa_, if the property admit of no such variations, they must also be incompatible with justice. if you assent, therefore, to this last proposition, and assert that justice and injustice are not susceptible of degrees, you in effect assert that they are not _naturally_ either vicious or virtuous; since vice and virtue, moral good and evil, and indeed all _natural_ qualities, run insensibly into each other, and are on many occasions undistinguishable. and here it may be worth while to observe, that though abstract reasoning and the general maxims of philosophy and law establish this position, _that property, and right, and obligation, admit not of degrees_, yet, in our common and negligent way of thinking, we find great difficulty to entertain that opinion, and do even secretly embrace the contrary principle. an object must either be in the possession of one person or another. an action must either be performed or not. the necessity there is of choosing one side in these dilemmas, and the impossibility there often is of finding any just medium, oblige us, when we reflect on the matter, to acknowledge that all property and obligations are entire. but, on the other hand, when we consider the origin of property and obligation, and find that they depend on public utility, and sometimes on the propensity of the imagination, which are seldom entire on any side, we are naturally inclined to imagine that these moral relations admit of an insensible gradation. hence it is that in references, where the consent of the parties leave the referees entire masters of the subject, they commonly discover so much equity and justice on both sides as induces them to strike a medium, and divide the difference betwixt the parties. civil judges, who have not this liberty, but are obliged to give a decisive sentence on some one side, are often at a loss how to determine, and are necessitated to proceed on the most frivolous reasons in the world. half rights and obligations, which seem so natural in common life, are perfect absurdities in their tribunal; for which reason they are often obliged to take half arguments for whole ones, in order to terminate the affair one way or other. iii. the _third_ argument of this kind i shall make use of may be explained thus. if we consider the ordinary course of human actions, we shall find that the mind restrains not itself by any general and universal rules, but acts on most occasions as it is determined by its present motives and inclination. as each action is a particular individual event, it must proceed from particular principles, and from our immediate situation within ourselves, and with respect to the rest of the universe. if on some occasions we extend our motives beyond those very circumstances which gave rise to them, and form something like _general rides_ for our conduct, 'tis easy to observe that these rules are not perfectly inflexible, but allow of many exceptions. since, therefore, this is the ordinary course of human actions, we may conclude that the laws of justice, being universal and perfectly inflexible, can never be derived from nature, nor be the immediate offspring of any natural motive or inclination. no action can be either morally good or evil, unless there be some natural passion or motive to impel us to it, or deter us from it; and tis evident that the morality must be susceptible of all the same variations which are natural to the passion. here are two persons who dispute for an estate; of whom one is rich, a fool, and a bachelor; the other poor, a man of sense, and has a numerous family: the first is my enemy; the second my friend. whether i be actuated in this affair by a view to public or private interest, by friendship or enmity, i must be induced to do my utmost to procure the estate to the latter. nor would any consideration of the right and property of the persons be able to restrain me, were i actuated only by natural motives, without any combination or convention with others. for as all property depends on morality, and as all morality depends on the ordinary course of our passions and actions, and as these again are only directed by particular motives, 'tis evident such a partial conduct must be suitable to the strictest morality, and could never be a violation of property. were men, therefore, to take the liberty of acting with regard to the laws of society, as they do in every other affair, they would conduct themselves, on most occasions, by particular judgments, and would take into consideration the characters and circumstances of the persons, as well as the general nature of the question. but 'tis easy to observe, that this would produce an infinite confusion in human society, and that the avidity and partiality of men would quickly bring disorder into the world, if not restrained by some general and inflexible principles. 'twas therefore with a view to this inconvenience, that men have established those principles, and have agreed to restrain themselves by general rules, which are unchangeable by spite and favour, and by particular views of private or public interest. these rules, then, are artificially invented for a certain purpose, and are contrary to the common principles of human nature, which accommodate themselves to circumstances, and have no stated invariable method of operation. nor do i perceive how i can easily be mistaken in this matter. i see evidently, that when any man imposes on himself general inflexible rules in his conduct with others, he considers certain objects as their property, which he supposes to be sacred and inviolable. but no proposition can be more evident, than that property is perfectly unintelligible without first supposing justice and injustice; and that these virtues and vices are as unintelligible, unless we have motives, independent of the morality, to impel us to just actions, and deter us from unjust ones. let those motives, therefore, be what they will, they must accommodate themselves to circumstances, and must admit of all the variations which human affairs, in their incessant revolutions, are susceptible of. they are, consequently, a very improper foundation for such rigid inflexible rules as the laws of nature; and 'tis evident these laws can only be derived from human conventions, when men have perceived the disorders that result from following their natural and variable principles. upon the whole, then, we are to consider this distinction betwixt justice and injustice, as having two different foundations, viz. that of _interest_, when men observe, that 'tis impossible to live in society without restraining themselves by certain rules; and that of _morality_, when this interest is once observed, and men receive a pleasure from the view of such actions as tend to the peace of society, and an uneasiness from such as are contrary to it. 'tis the voluntary convention and artifice of men which makes the first interest take place; and therefore those laws of justice are so far to be considered as _artificial_. after that interest is once established and acknowledged, the sense of morality in the observance of these rules follows _naturally_, and of itself; though tis certain, that it is also augmented by a new _artifice_, and that the public instructions of politicians, and the private education of parents, contribute to the giving us a sense of honour and duty, in the strict regulation of our actions with regard to the properties of others. section vii. of the origin of government. nothing is more certain, than that men are in a great measure governed by interest, and that, even when they extend their concern beyond themselves, 'tis not to any great distance; nor is it usual for them, in common life, to look farther than their nearest friends and acquaintance. 'tis no less certain, that 'tis impossible for men to consult their interest in so effectual a manner, as by an universal and inflexible observance of the rules of justice, by which alone they can preserve society, and keep themselves from falling into that wretched and savage condition which is commonly represented as the _state of nature_. and as this interest which all men have in the upholding of society, and the observation of the rules of justice, is great, so is it palpable and evident, even to the most rude and uncultivated of the human race; and 'tis almost impossible for any one who has had experience of society, to be mistaken in this particular. since, therefore, men are so sincerely attached to their interest, and their interest is so much concerned in the observance of justice, and this interest is so certain and avowed, it may be asked, how any disorder can ever arise in society, and what principle there is in human nature so _powerful_ as to overcome so strong a passion, or so _violent_ as to obscure so clear a knowledge? it has been observed, in treating of the passions, that men are mightily governed by the imagination, and proportion their affections more to the light under which any object appears to them, than to its real and intrinsic value. what strikes upon them with a strong and lively idea commonly prevails above what lies in a more obscure light; and it must be a great superiority of value that is able to compensate this advantage. now, as every thing that is contiguous to us, either in space or time, strikes upon us with such an idea, it has a proportional effect on the will and passions, and commonly operates with more force than any object that lies in a more distant and obscure light. though we may be fully convinced, that the latter object excels the former, we are not able to regulate our actions by this judgment, but yield to the solicitations of our passions, which always plead in favour of whatever is near and contiguous. this is the reason why men so often act in contradiction to their known interest; and, in particular, why they prefer any trivial advantage that is present, to the maintenance of order in society, which so much depends on the observance of justice. the consequences of every breach of equity seem to lie very remote, and and are not liable to counterbalance any immediate advantage that may be reaped from it. they are, however, never the less real for being remote; and as all men are, in some degree, subject to the same weakness, it necessarily happens, that the violations of equity must become very frequent in society, and the commerce of men, by that means, be rendered very dangerous and uncertain. you have the same propension that i have in favour of what is contiguous above what is remote. you are, therefore, naturally carried to commit acts of injustice as well as me. your example both pushes me forward in this way by imitation, and also affords me a new reason for any breach of equity, by showing me, that i should be the cully of my integrity, if i alone should impose on myself a severe restraint amidst the licentiousness of others. this quality, therefore, of human nature, not only is very dangerous to society, but also seems, on a cursory view, to be incapable of any remedy. the remedy can only come from the consent of men; and if men be incapable of themselves to prefer remote to contiguous, they will never consent to any thing which would oblige them to such a choice, and contradict, in so sensible a manner, their natural principles and propensities. whoever chooses the means, chooses also the end; and if it be impossible for us to prefer what is remote, 'tis equally impossible for us to submit to any necessity which would oblige us to such a method of acting. but here 'tis observable, that this infirmity of human nature becomes a remedy to itself, and that we provide against our negligence about remote objects, merely because we are naturally inclined to that negligence. when we consider any objects at a distance, all their minute distinctions vanish, and we always give the preference to whatever is in itself preferable, without considering its situation and circumstances. this gives rise to what, in an improper sense, we call _reason_, which is a principle that is often contradictory to those propensities that display themselves upon the approach of the object. in reflecting on any action which i am to perform a twelvemonth hence, i always resolve to prefer the greater good, whether at that time it will be more contiguous or remote; nor does any difference in that particular make a difference in my present intentions and resolutions. my distance from the final determination makes all those minute differences vanish, nor am i affected by any thing but the general and more discernible qualities of good and evil. but on my nearer approach, those circumstances which i at first overlooked begin to appear, and have an influence on my conduct and affections. a new inclination to the present good springs up, and makes it difficult for me to adhere inflexibly to my first purpose and resolution. this natural infirmity i may very much regret, and i may endeavour, by all possible means, to free myself from it. i may have recourse to study and reflection within myself; to the advice of friends; to frequent meditation, and repeated resolution: and having experienced how ineffectual all these are, i may embrace with pleasure any other expedient by which i may impose a restraint upon myself, and guard against this weakness. the only, difficulty, therefore, is to find out this expedient, by which men cure their natural weakness, and lay themselves under the necessity of observing the laws of justice and equity, notwithstanding their violent propension to prefer contiguous to remote. 'tis evident such a remedy can never be effectual without correcting this propensity; and as 'tis impossible to change or correct any thing material in our nature, the utmost we can do is to change our circumstances and situation, and render the observance of the laws of justice our nearest interest, and their violation our most remote. but this being impracticable with respect to all mankind, it can only take place with respect to a few, whom we thus immediately interest in the execution of justice. these are the persons whom we call civil magistrates, kings and their ministers, our governors and rulers, who, being indifferent persons to the greatest part of the state, have no interest, or but a remote one, in any act of injustice; and, being satisfied with their present condition, and with their part in society, have an immediate interest in every execution of justice, which is so necessary to the upholding of society. here, then, is the origin of civil government and society. men are not able radically to cure, either in themselves or others, that narrowness of soul which makes them prefer the present to the remote. they cannot change their natures. all they can do is to change their situation, and render the observance of justice the immediate interest of some particular persons, and its violation their more remote. these persons, then, are not only induced to observe those rules in their own conduct, but also to constrain others to a like regularity, and enforce the dictates of equity through the whole society. and if it be necessary, they may also interest others more immediately in the execution of justice, and create a number of officers, civil and military, to assist them in their government. but this execution of justice, though the principal, is not the only advantage of government. as violent passion hinders men from seeing distinctly the interest they have in an equitable behaviour towards others, so it hinders them from seeing that equity itself, and gives them a remarkable partiality in their own favours. this inconvenience is corrected in the same manner as that above mentioned. the same persons who execute the laws of justice, will also decide all controversies concerning them; and, being indifferent to the greatest part of the society, will decide them more equitably than every one would in his own case. by means of these two advantages in the _execution_ and _decision_ of justice, men acquire a security against each other's weakness and passion, as well as against their own, and, under the shelter of their governors, begin to taste at ease the sweets of society and mutual assistance. but government extends farther its beneficial influence; and, not contented to protect men in those conventions they make for their mutual interest, it often obliges them to make such conventions, and forces them to seek their own advantage, by a concurrence in some common end or purpose. there is no quality in human nature which causes more fatal errors in our conduct, than that which leads us to prefer whatever is present to the distant and remote, and makes us desire objects more according to their situation than their intrinsic value. two neighbours may agree to drain a meadow, which they possess in common: because 'tis easy for them to know each other's mind; and each must perceive, that the immediate consequence of his failing in his part, is the abandoning the whole project. but 'tis very difficult, and indeed impossible, that a thousand persons should agree in any such action; it being difficult for them to concert so complicated a design, and still more difficult for them to execute it; while each seeks a pretext to free himself of the trouble and expense, and would lay the whole burden on others. political society easily remedies both these inconveniences. magistrates find an immediate interest in the interest of any considerable part of their subjects. they need consult nobody but themselves to form any scheme for the promoting of that interest. and as the failure of any one piece in the execution is connected, though not immediately, with the failure of the whole, they prevent that failure, because they find no interest in it, either immediate or remote. thus, bridges are built, harbours opened, ramparts raised, canals formed, fleets equipped, and armies disciplined, every where, by the care of government, which, though composed of men subject to all human infirmities, becomes, by one of the finest and most subtile inventions imaginable, a composition which is in some measure exempted from all these infirmities. section viii. of the source of allegiance. though government be an invention very advantageous, and even in some circumstances absolutely necessary to mankind, it is not necessary in all circumstances; nor is it impossible for men to preserve society for some time, without having recourse to such an invention. men, 'tis true, are always much inclined to prefer present interest to distant and remote; nor is it easy for them to resist the temptation of any advantage that they may immediately enjoy, in apprehension of an evil that lies at a distance from them; but still this weakness is less conspicuous where the possessions and the pleasures of life are few and of little value, as they always are in the infancy of society. an indian is but little tempted to dispossess another of his hut, or to steal his bow, as being already provided of the same advantages; and as to any superior fortune which may attend one above another in hunting and fishing, 'tis only casual and temporary, and will have but small tendency to disturb society. and so far am i from thinking with some philosophers, that men are utterly incapable of society without government, that i assert the first rudiments of government to arise from quarrels, not among men of the same society, but among those of different societies. a less degree of riches will suffice to this latter effect, is requisite for the former. men fear nothing from public war and violence but the resistance they meet with, which, because they share it in common, seems less terrible, and, because it comes from strangers, seems less pernicious in its consequences, than when they are exposed singly against one whose commerce is advantageous to them, and without whose society 'tis impossible they can subsist. now foreign war, to a society without government, necessarily produces civil war. throw any considerable goods among men, they instantly fall a quarrelling, while each strives to get possession of what pleases him, without regard to the consequences. in a foreign war, the most considerable of all goods, life and limbs, are at stake; and as every one shuns dangerous ports, seizes the best arms, seeks excuse for the slightest wounds, the laws, which may be well enough observed while men were calm, can now no longer take place, when they are in such commotion. this we find verified in the american tribes, where men live in concord and amity among themselves, without any established government, and never pay submission to any of their fellows, except in time of war, when their captain enjoys a shadow of authority, which he loses after their return from the field and the establishment of peace with the neighbouring tribes. this authority, however, instructs them in the advantages of government, and teaches them to have recourse to it, when, either by the pillage of war, by commerce, or by any fortuitous inventions, their riches and possessions have become so considerable as to make them forget, on every emergence, the interest they have in the preservation of peace and justice. hence we may give a plausible reason, among others, why all governments are at first monarchical, without any mixture and variety; and why republics arise only from the abuses of monarchy and despotic power. camps are the true mothers of cities; and as war cannot be administered, by reason of the suddenness of every exigency, without some authority in a single person, the same kind of authority naturally takes place in that civil government which succeeds the military. and this reason i take to be more natural than the common one derived from patriarchal government, or the authority of a father, which is said first to take place in one family, and to accustom the members of it to the government of a single person. the state of society without government is one of the most natural states of men, and must subsist with the conjunction of many families, and long after the first generation. nothing but an increase of riches and possessions could oblige men to quit it; and so barbarous and uninstructed are all societies on their first formation, that many years must elapse before these can increase to such a degree as to disturb men in the enjoyment of peace and concord. but though it be possible for men to maintain a small uncultivated society without government, 'tis impossible they should maintain a society of any kind without justice, and the observance of those three fundamental laws concerning the stability of possession, its translation by consent, and the performance of promises. these are therefore antecedent to government, and are supposed to impose an obligation, before the duty of allegiance to civil magistrates has once been thought of. nay, i shall go farther, and assert, that government, _upon its first establishment_, would naturally be supposed to derive its obligation from those laws of of nature, and, in particular, from that concerning the performance of promises. when men have once perceived the necessity of government to maintain peace and execute justice, they would naturally assemble together, would choose magistrates, determine their power, and _promise_ them obedience. as a promise is supposed to be a bond or security already in use, and attended with a moral obligation, 'tis to be considered as the original sanction of government, and as the source of the first obligation to obedience. this reasoning appears so natural, that it has become the foundation of our fashionable system of politics, and is in a manner the creed of a party amongst us, who pride themselves, with reason, on the soundness of their philosophy, and their liberty of thought. 'all men,' say they, 'are born free and equal: government and superiority can only be established by consent: the consent of men, in establishing government, imposes on them a new obligation, unknown to the laws of nature. men, therefore, are bound to obey their magistrates, only because they promise it; and if they had not given their word, either expressly or tacitly, to preserve allegiance, it would never have become a part of their moral duty. this conclusion, however, when carried so far as to comprehend government in all its ages and situations, is entirely erroneous; and i maintain, that though the duty of allegiance be at first grafted on the obligation of promises, and be for some time supported by that obligation, yet it quickly takes root of itself, and has an original obligation and authority, independent of all contracts. this is a principle of moment, which we must examine with care and attention, before we proceed any farther. 'tis reasonable for those philosophers who assert justice to be a natural virtue, and antecedent to human conventions, to resolve all civil allegiance into the obligation of a promise, and assert that 'tis our own consent alone which binds us to any submission to magistracy. for as all government is plainly an invention of men, and the origin of most governments is known in history, 'tis necessary to mount higher, in order to find the source of our political duties, if we would assert them to have any _natural_ obligation of morality. these philosophers, therefore, quickly observe, that society is as ancient as the human species, and those three fundamental laws of nature as ancient as society; so that, taking advantage of the antiquity and obscure origin of these laws, they first deny them to be artificial and voluntary inventions of men, and then seek to ingraft on them those other duties which are more plainly artificial. but being once undeceived in this particular, and having found that _natural_ as well as _civil_ justice derives its origin from human conventions, we shall quickly perceive how fruitless it is to resolve the one into the other, and seek, in the laws of nature, a stronger foundation for our political duties than interest and human conventions; while these laws themselves are built on the very same foundation. on whichever side we turn this subject, we shall find that these two kinds of duty are exactly on the same footing, and have the same source both of their _first invention_ and _moral obligation_. they are contrived to remedy like inconveniences, and acquire their moral sanction in the same manner, from their remedying those inconveniences. these are two points which we shall endeavour to prove as distinctly as possible. we have already shown, that men _invented_ the three fundamental laws of nature, when they observed the necessity of society to their mutual subsistence, and found that 'twas impossible to maintain any correspondence together, without some restraint on their natural appetites. the same self-love, therefore, which renders men so incommodious to each other, taking a new and more convenient direction, produces the rules of justice, and is the _first_ motive of their observance. but when men have observed, that though the rules of justice be sufficient to maintain any society, yet 'tis impossible for them, of themselves, to observe those rules in large and polished societies; they establish government as a new invention to attain their ends, and preserve the old, or procure new advantages, by a more strict execution of justice. so far, therefore, our _civil_ duties are connected with our _natural_, that the former are invented chiefly for the sake of the latter; and that the principal object of government is to constrain men to observe the laws of nature. in this respect, however, that law of nature, concerning the performance of promises, is only comprised along with the rest; and its exact observance is to be considered as an effect of the institution of government, and not the obedience to government as an effect of the obligation of a promise. though the object of our civil duties be the enforcing of our natural, yet the _first_[ ] motive of the invention, as well as performance of both, is nothing but self-interest; and since there is a separate interest in the obedience to government, from that in the performance of promises, we must also allow of a separate obligation. to obey the civil magistrate is requisite to preserve order and concord in society. to perform promises is requisite to beget mutual trust and confidence in the common offices of life. the ends, as well as the means, are perfectly distinct; nor is the one subordinate to the other. to make this more evident, let us consider, that men will often bind themselves by promises to the performance of what it would have been their interest to perform, independent of these promises; as when they would give others a fuller security, by superadding a new obligation of interest to that which they formerly lay under. the interest in the performance of promises, besides its moral obligation, is general, avowed, and of the last consequence in life. other interests may be more particular and doubtful; and we are apt to entertain a greater suspicion, that men may indulge their humour or passion in acting contrary to them. here, therefore, promises come naturally in play, and are often required for fuller satisfaction and security. but supposing those other interests to be as general and avowed as the interest in the performance of a promise, they will be regarded as on the same footing, and men will begin to repose the same confidence in them. now this is exactly the case with regard to our civil duties, or obedience to the magistrate; without which no government could subsist, nor any peace or order be maintained in large societies, where there are so many possessions on the one hand, and so many wants, real or imaginary, on the other. our civil duties, therefore, must soon detach themselves from our promises, and acquire a separate force and influence. the interest in both is of the very same kind; 'tis general, avowed, and prevails in all times and places. there is, then, no pretext of reason for founding the one upon the other, while each of them has a foundation peculiar to itself. we might as well resolve the obligation to abstain from the possessions of others, into the obligation of a promise, as that of allegiance. the interests are not more distinct in the one case than the other. a regard to property is not more necessary to natural society, than obedience is to civil society or government; nor is the former society more necessary to the being of mankind, than the latter to their well-being and happiness. in short, if the performance of promises be advantageous, so is obedience to government; if the former interest be general, so is the latter; if the one interest be obvious and avowed, so is the other. and as these two rules are founded on like obligations of interest, each of them must have a peculiar authority, independent of the other. but 'tis not only the _natural_ obligations of interest, which are distinct in promises and allegiance; but also the _moral_ obligations of honour and conscience: nor does the merit or demerit of the one depend in the least upon that of the other. and, indeed, if we consider the close connexion there is betwixt the natural and moral obligations, we shall find this conclusion to be entirely unavoidable. our interest is always engaged on the side of obedience to magistracy; and there is nothing but a great present advantage that can lead us to rebellion, by making us overlook the remote interest which we have in the preserving of peace and order in society. but though a present interest may thus blind us with regard to our own actions, it takes not place with regard to those of others; nor hinders them from appearing in their true colours, as highly prejudicial to public interest, and to our own in particular. this naturally gives us an uneasiness, in considering such seditious and disloyal actions, and makes us attach to them the idea of vice and moral deformity. 'tis the same principle which causes us to disapprove of all kinds of private injustice, and, in particular, of the breach of promises. we blame all treachery and breach of faith; because we consider, that the freedom and extent of human commerce depend entirely on a fidelity with regard to promises. we blame all disloyalty to magistrates; because we perceive that the execution of justice, in the stability of possession, its translation by consent, and the performance of promises, is impossible, without submission to government. as there are here two interests entirely distinct from each other, they must give rise to two moral obligations, equally separate and independent. though there was no such thing as a promise in the world, government would still be necessary in all large and civilized societies; and if promises had only their own proper obligation, without the separate sanction of government, they would have but little efficacy in such societies. this separates the boundaries of our public and private duties, and shows that the latter are more dependent on the former, than the former on the latter. _education_, and _the artifice of politicians_, concur to bestow a farther morality on loyalty, and to brand all rebellion with a greater degree of guilt and infamy. nor is it a wonder that politicians should be very industrious in inculcating such notions, where their interest is so particularly concerned. lest those arguments should not appear entirely conclusive (as i think they are), i shall have recourse to authority, and shall prove, from the universal consent of mankind, that the obligation of submission to government is not derived from any promise of the subjects. nor need any one wonder, that though i have all along endeavoured to establish my system on pure reason, and have scarce ever cited the judgment even of philosophers or historians on any article, i should now appeal to popular authority, and oppose the sentiments of the rabble to any philosophical reasoning. for it must be observed, that the opinions of men, in this case, carry with them a peculiar authority, and are, in a great measure, infallible. the distinction of moral good and evil is founded on the pleasure or pain which results from the view of any sentiment or character; and, as that pleasure or pain cannot be unknown to the person who feels it, it follows,[ ] that there is just so much vice or virtue in any character as every one places in it, and that 'tis impossible in this particular we can ever be mistaken. and, though our judgments concerning the _origin_ of any vice or virtue, be not so certain as those concerning their _degrees_, yet, since the question in this case regards not any philosophical origin of an obligation, but a plain matter of fact, 'tis not easily conceived how we can fall into an error. a man who acknowledges himself to be bound to another for a certain sum, must certainly know whether it be by his own bond, or that of his father; whether it be of his mere good will, or for money lent him; and under what conditions, and for what purposes, he has bound himself. in like manner, it being certain that there is a moral obligation to submit to government, because everyone thinks so; it must be as certain that this obligation arises not from a promise; since no one, whose judgment has not been led astray by too strict adherence to a system of philosophy, has ever yet dreamt of ascribing it to that origin. neither magistrates nor subjects have formed this idea of our civil duties. we find, that magistrates are so far from deriving their authority, and the obligation to obedience in their subjects, from the foundation of a promise or original contract, that they conceal, as far as possible, from their people, especially from the vulgar, that they have their origin from thence. were this the sanction of government, our rulers would never receive it tacitly, which is the utmost that can be pretended; since what is given tacitly and insensibly, can never have such influence on mankind as what is performed expressly and openly. a tacit promise is, where the will is signified by other more diffuse signs than those of speech; but a will there must certainly be in the case, and that can never escape the person's notice who exerted it, however silent or tacit. but were you to ask the far greatest part of the nation, whether they had ever consented to the authority of their rulers, or promised to obey them, they would be inclined to think very strangely of you; and would certainly reply, that the affair depended not on their consent, but that they were born to such an obedience. in consequence of this opinion, we frequently see them imagine such persons to be their natural rulers, as are at that time deprived of all power and authority, and whom no man, however foolish, would voluntarily choose; and this merely because they are in that line which ruled before, and in that decree of it which used to succeed: though perhaps in so distant a period, that scarce any man alive could ever have given any promise of obedience. has a government, then, no authority over such as these, because they never consented to it, and would esteem the very attempt of such a free choice a piece of arrogance and impiety? we find by experience, that it punishes them very freely for what it calls treason and rebellion, which, it seems, according to this system, reduces itself to common injustice. if you say, that by dwelling in its dominions, they in effect consented to the established government, i answer, that this can only be where they think the affair depends on their choice, which few or none beside those philosophers have ever yet imagined. it never was pleaded as an excuse for a rebel, that the first act he performed, after he came to years of discretion, was to levy war against the sovereign of the state; and that, while he was a child he could not bind himself by his own consent, and having become a man, showed plainly, by the first act he performed, that he had no design to impose on himself any obligation to obedience. we find, on the contrary, that civil laws punish this crime at the same age as any other which is criminal of itself, without our consent; that is, when the person is come to the full use of reason: whereas to this crime it ought in justice to allow some intermediate time, in which a tacit consent at least might be supposed. to which we may add, that a man living under an absolute government would owe it no allegiance; since, by its very nature, it depends not on consent. but as that is as _natural_ and _common_ a government as any, it must certainly occasion some obligation; and 'tis plain from experience, that men who are subjected to it do always think so. this is a clear proof, that we do not commonly esteem our allegiance to be derived from our consent or promise; and a farther proof is, that when our promise is upon any account expressly engaged, we always distinguish exactly betwixt the two obligations, and believe the one to add more force to the other, than in a repetition of the same promise. where no promise is given, a man looks not on his faith as broken in private matters, upon account of rebellion; but keeps those two duties of honour and allegiance perfectly distinct and separate. as the uniting of them was thought by these philosophers a very subtile invention, this is a convincing proof that 'tis not a true one; since no man can either give a promise, or be restrained by its sanction and obligation, unknown to himself. section ix. of the measures of allegiance. those political writers who have had recourse to a promise, or original contract, as the source of our allegiance to government, intended to establish a principle which is perfectly just and reasonable; though the reasoning upon which they endeavoured to establish it, was fallacious and sophistical. they would prove, that our submission to government admits of exceptions, and that an egregious tyranny in the rulers is sufficient to free the subjects from all ties of allegiance. since men enter into society, say they, and submit themselves to government by their free and voluntary consent, they must have in view certain advantages which they, propose to reap from it, and for which they are contented to resign their native liberty. there is therefore something mutual engaged on the part of the magistrate, viz. protection and security; and 'tis only by the hopes he affords of these advantages, that he can ever persuade men to submit to him. but when, instead of protection and security, they meet with tyranny and oppression, they are freed from their promises, (as happens in all conditional contracts), and return to that state of liberty which preceded the institution of government. men would never be so foolish as to enter into such engagements as should turn entirely to the advantage of others, without any view of bettering their own condition. whoever proposes to draw any profit from our submission, must engage himself, either expressly or tacitly, to make us reap some advantage from his authority; nor ought he to expect, that, without the performance of his part, we will ever continue in obedience. i repeat it: this conclusion is just, though the principles be erroneous; and i flatter myself, that i can establish the same conclusion on more reasonable principles. i shall not take such a compass, in establishing our political duties, as to assert that men perceive the advantages of government; that they institute government with a view to those advantages; that this institution requires a promise of obedience, which imposes a moral obligation to a certain degree, but, being conditional, ceases to be binding whenever the other contracting party performs not his part of the engagement. i perceive, that a promise itself arises entirely from human conventions, and is invented with a view to a certain interest. i seek, therefore, some such interest more immediately connected with government, and which may be at once the original motive to its institution, and the source of our obedience to it. this interest i find to consist in the security and protection which we enjoy in political society, and which we can never attain when perfectly free and independent. as the interest, therefore, is the immediate sanction of government, the one can have no longer being than the other; and whenever the civil magistrate carries his oppression so far as to render his authority perfectly intolerable, we are no longer bound to submit to it. the cause ceases; the effect must cease also. so far the conclusion is immediate and direct, concerning the _natural_ obligation which we have to allegiance. as to the _moral_ obligation, we may observe, that the maxim would here be false, that _when the cause ceases the effect must cease also_. for there is a principle of human nature, which we have frequently taken notice of, that men are mightily addicted to _general rules_, and that we often carry our maxims beyond those reasons which first induced us to establish them. where cases are similar in many circumstances, we are apt to put them on the same footing, without considering that they differ in the most material circumstances, and that the resemblance is more apparent than real. it may therefore be thought, that, in the case of allegiance, our moral obligation of duty will not cease, even though the natural obligation of interest, which is its cause, has ceased; and that men may be bound by _conscience_ to submit to a tyrannical government, against their own and the public interest. and indeed, to the force of this argument i so far submit, as to acknowledge, that general rules commonly extend beyond the principles on which they are founded; and that we seldom make any exception to them, unless that exception have the qualities of a general rule, and be founded on very numerous and common instances. now this i assert to be entirely the present case. when men submit to the authority of others, 'tis to procure themselves some security against the wickedness and injustice of men, who are perpetually carried, by their unruly passions, and by their present and immediate interest, to the violation of all the laws of society. but as this imperfection is inherent in human nature, we know that it must attend men in all their states and conditions; and that those whom we choose for rulers, do not immediately become of a superior nature to the rest of mankind, upon account of their superior power and authority. what we expect from them depends not on a change of their nature, but of their situation, when they acquire a more immediate interest in the preservation of order and the execution of justice. but, besides that this interest is only more immediate in the execution of justice among their subjects; besides this, i say, we may often expect, from the irregularity of human nature, that they will neglect even this immediate interest, and be transported by their passions into all the excesses of cruelty and ambition. our general knowledge of human nature, our observation of the past history of mankind, our experience of present times; all these causes must induce us to open the door of exceptions, and must make us conclude, that we may resist the more violent effects of supreme power without any crime or injustice. accordingly we may observe, that this is both the general practice and principle of mankind, and that no nation that could find any remedy, ever yet suffered the cruel ravages of a tyrant, or were blamed for their resistance. those who took up arms against dionysius or nero, or philip the second, have the favour of every reader in the perusal of their history; and nothing but the most violent perversion of common sense can ever lead us to condemn them. 'tis certain, therefore, that in all our notions of morals, we never entertain such an absurdity as that of passive obedience, but make allowances for resistance in the more flagrant instances of tyranny and oppression. the general opinion of mankind has some authority in all cases; but in this of morals 'tis perfectly infallible. nor is it less infallible, because men cannot distinctly explain the principles on which it is founded. few persons can carry on this train of reasoning: 'government is a mere human invention for the interest of society. where the tyranny of the governor removes this interest, it also removes the natural obligation to obedience. the moral obligation is founded on the natural, and therefore must cease where _that_ ceases; especially where the subject is such as makes us foresee very many occasions wherein the natural obligation may cease, and causes us to form a kind of general rule for the regulation of our conduct in such occurrences.' but though this train of reasoning be too subtile for the vulgar, 'tis certain that all men have an implicit notion of it, and are sensible that they owe obedience to government merely on account of the public interest; and, at the same time, that human nature is so subject to frailties and passions, as may easily pervert this institution, and change their governors into tyrants and public enemies. if the sense of public interest were not our original motive to obedience, i would fain ask, what other principle is there in human nature capable of subduing the natural ambition of men, and forcing them to such a submission? imitation and custom are not sufficient. for the question still recurs, what motive first produces those instances of submission which we imitate, and that train of actions which produces the custom? there evidently is no other principle than public interest; and if interest first produces obedience to government, the obligation to obedience must cease whenever the interest ceases in any great degree, and in a considerable number of instances. section x. of the objects of allegiance. but though, on some occasions, it may be justifiable, both in sound politics and morality, to resist supreme power, 'tis certain that, in the ordinary course of human affairs, nothing can be more pernicious and criminal; and that, besides the convulsions which always attend revolutions, such a practice tends directly to the subversion of all government, and the causing an universal anarchy and confusion among mankind. as numerous and civilized societies cannot subsist without government, so government is entirely useless without an exact obedience. we ought always to weigh the advantages which we reap from authority, against the disadvantages: and by this means we shall become more scrupulous of putting in practice the doctrine of resistance. the common rule requires submission; and 'tis only in cases of grievous tyranny and oppression, that the exception can take place. since, then, such a blind submission is commonly due to magistracy, the next question is, _to whom it is due, and whom we are to regard as our lawful magistrates_? in order to answer this question, let us recollect what we have already established concerning the origin of government and political society. when men have once experienced the impossibility of preserving any steady order in society, while every one is his own master, and violates or observes the laws of interest, according to his present interest or pleasure, they naturally run into the invention of government, and put it out of their own power, as far as possible, to transgress the laws of society. government, therefore, arises from the voluntary convention of men; and 'tis evident, that the same convention which establishes government, will also determine the persons who are to govern, and will remove all doubt and ambiguity in this particular. and the voluntary consent of men must here have the greater efficacy, that the authority of the magistrate does _at first_ stand upon the foundation of a promise of the subjects, by which they bind themselves to obedience, as in every other contract or engagement. the same promise, then, which binds them to obedience, ties them down to a particular person, and makes him the object of their allegiance. but when government has been established on this footing for some considerable time, and the separate interest which we have in submission has produced a separate sentiment of morality, the case is entirely altered, and a promise is no longer able to determine the particular magistrate; since it is no longer considered as the foundation of government. we naturally suppose ourselves born to submission; and imagine that such particular persons have a right to command, as we on our part are bound to obey. these notions of right and obligation are derived from nothing but the _advantage_ we reap from government, which gives us a repugnance to practise resistance ourselves, and makes us displeased with any instance of it in others. but here 'tis remarkable, that in this new state of affairs, the original sanction of government, which is _interest_, is not admitted to determine the persons whom we are to obey, as the original sanction did at first, when affairs were on the footing of a _promise_. a _promise_ fixes and determines the persons, without any uncertainty: but 'tis evident, that if men were to regulate their conduct in this particular, by the view of a peculiar _interest_, either public or private, they would involve themselves in endless confusion, and would render all government, in a great measure, ineffectual. the private interest of every one is different; and, though the public interest in itself be always one and the same, yet it becomes the source of as great dissensions, by reason of the different opinions of particular persons concerning it. the same interest, therefore, which causes us to submit to magistracy, makes us renounce itself in the choice of our magistrates, and binds us down to a certain form of government, and to particular persons, without allowing us to aspire to the utmost perfection in either. the case is here the same as in that law of nature concerning the stability of possession. 'tis highly advantageous, and even absolutely necessary to society, that possession should be stable; and this leads us to the establishment of such a rule: but we find, that were we to follow the same advantage, in assigning particular possessions to particular persons, we should disappoint our end, and perpetuate the confusion which that rule is intended to prevent. we must therefore proceed by general rules, and regulate ourselves by general interests, in modifying the law of nature concerning the stability of possession. nor need we fear, that our attachment to this law will diminish upon account of the seeming frivolousness of those interests by which it is determined. the impulse of the mind is derived from a very strong interest; and those other more minute interests serve only to direct the motion, without adding any thing to it, or diminishing from it. 'tis the same case with government. nothing is more advantageous to society than such an invention; and this interest is sufficient to make us embrace it with ardour and alacrity; though we are obliged afterwards to regulate and direct our devotion to government by several considerations which are not of the same importance, and to choose our magistrates without having in view any particular advantage from the choice. the _first_ of those principles i shall take notice of, as a foundation of the right of magistracy, is that which gives authority to all the most established governments of the world, without exception: i mean, _long possession_ in any one form of government, or succession of princes. 'tis certain, that if we remount to the first origin of every nation, we shall find, that there scarce is any race of kings, or form of a commonwealth, that is not primarily founded on usurpation and rebellion, and whose title is not at first worse than doubtful and uncertain. time alone gives solidity to their right; and, operating gradually on the minds of men, reconciles them to any authority, and makes it seem just and reasonable. nothing causes any sentiment to have a greater influence upon us than custom, or turns our imagination more strongly to any object. when we have been long accustomed to obey any set of men, that general instinct or tendency which we have to suppose a moral obligation attending loyalty, takes easily this direction, and chooses that set of men for its objects. 'tis interest which gives the general instinct; but 'tis custom which gives the particular direction. and here 'tis observable, that the same length of time has a different influence on our sentiments of morality, according to its different influence on the mind. we naturally judge of every thing by comparison; and since, in considering the fate of kingdoms and republics, we embrace a long extent of time, a small duration has not, in this case, a like influence on our sentiments, as when we consider any other object. one thinks he acquires a right to a horse, or a suit of clothes, in a very short time; but a century is scarce sufficient to establish any new government, or remove all scruples in the minds of the subjects concerning it. add to this, that a shorter period of time will suffice to give a prince a title to any additional power he may usurp, than will serve to fix his right, where the whole is an usurpation. the kings of france have not been possessed of absolute power for above two reigns; and yet nothing will appear more extravagant to frenchmen than to talk of their liberties. if we consider what has been said concerning _accession_, we shall easily account for this phenomenon. when there is no form of government established by _long_ possession, the _present_ possession is sufficient to supply its place, and may be regarded as the _second_ source of all public authority. right to authority is nothing but the constant possession of authority, maintained by the laws of society and the interests of mankind; and nothing can be more natural than to join this constant possession to the present one, according to the principles above mentioned. if the same principles did not take place with regard to the property of private persons, 'twas because these principles were counterbalanced by very strong considerations of interest; when we observed, that all restitution would by that means be prevented, and every violence be authorized and protected. and, though the same motives may seem to have force with regard to public authority, yet they are opposed by a contrary interest; which consists in the preservation of peace, and the avoiding of all changes, which, however they may be easily produced in private affairs, are unavoidably attended with bloodshed and confusion where the public is interested. any one who, finding the impossibility of accounting for the right of the present possessor, by any received system of ethics, should resolve to deny absolutely that right, and assert that it is not authorized by morality, would be justly thought to maintain a very extravagant paradox, and to shock the common sense and judgment of mankind. no maxim is more conformable, both to prudence and morals, than to submit quietly to the government which we find established in the country where we happen to live, without inquiring too curiously into its origin and first establishment. few governments will bear being examined so rigorously. how many kingdoms are there at present in the world, and how many more do we find in history, whose governors have no better foundation for their authority than that of present possession! to confine ourselves to the roman and grecian empire; is it not evident, that the long succession of emperors, from the dissolution of the roman liberty, to the final extinction of that empire by the turks, could not so much as pretend to any other title to the empire? the election of the senate was a mere form, which always followed the choice of the legions; and these were almost always divided in the different provinces, and nothing but the sword was able to terminate the difference. 'twas by the sword, therefore, that every emperor acquired, as well as defended, his right; and we must either say, that all the known world, for so many ages, had no government, and owed no allegiance to any one, or must allow, that the right of the stronger, in public affairs, is to be received as legitimate, and authorized by morality, when not opposed by any other title. the right of _conquest_ may be considered as a _third_ source of the title of sovereigns. this right resembles very much that of present possession, but has rather a superior force, being seconded by the notions of glory and honour which we ascribe to _conquerors_, instead of the sentiments of hatred and detestation which attend _usurpers_. men naturally favour those they love; and therefore are more apt to ascribe a right to successful violence, betwixt one sovereign and another, than to the successful rebellion of a subject against his sovereign.[ ] when neither long possession, nor present possession, nor conquest take place, as when the first sovereign who founded any monarchy dies; in that case, the right of _succession_ naturally prevails in their stead, and men are commonly induced to place the son of their late monarch on the throne, and suppose him to inherit his father's authority. the presumed consent of the father, the imitation of the succession to private families, the interest which the state has in choosing the person who is most powerful and has the most numerous followers; all these reasons lead men to prefer the son of their late monarch to any other person.[ ] these reasons have some weight; but i am persuaded, that, to one who considers impartially of the matter, 'twill appear that there concur some principles of the imagination along with those views of interest. the royal authority seems to be connected with the young prince even in his father's lifetime, by the natural transition of the thought, and still more after his death; so that nothing is more natural than to complete this union by a new relation, and by putting him actually in possession of what seems so naturally to belong to him. to confirm this, we may weigh the following phenomena, which are pretty curious in their kind. in elective monarchies, the right of succession has no place by the laws and settled custom; and yet its influence is so natural, that 'tis impossible entirely to exclude it from the imagination, and render the subjects indifferent to the son of their deceased monarch. hence, in some governments of this kind, the choice commonly falls on one or other of the royal family; and in some governments they are all excluded. those contrary phenomena proceed from the same principle. where the royal family is excluded, 'tis from a refinement in politics, which makes people sensible of their propensity to choose a sovereign in that family, and gives them a jealousy of their liberty, lest their new monarch, aided by this propensity, should establish his family, and destroy the freedom of elections for the future. the history of artaxerxes and the younger cyrus, may furnish us with some reflections to the same purpose. cyrus pretended a right to the throne above his elder brother, because he was born after his father's accession. i do not pretend that this reason was valid. i would only infer from it, that he would never have made use of such a pretext, were it not for the qualities of the imagination above-mentioned, by which we are naturally inclined to unite by a new relation whatever objects we find already united. artaxerxes had an advantage above his brother, as being the eldest son, and the first in succession; but cyrus was more closely related to the royal authority, as being begot after his father was invested with it. should it here be pretended, that the view of convenience may be the source of all the right of succession, and that men gladly take advantage of any rule by which they can fix the successor of their late sovereign, and prevent that anarchy and confusion which attends all new elections; to this i would answer, that i readily allow that this motive may contribute something to the effect; but at the same time i assert, that, without another principle, 'tis impossible such a motive should take place. the interest of a nation requires that the succession to the crown should be fixed one way or other; but 'tis the same thing to its interest in what way it be fixed; so that if the relation of blood had not an effect independent of public interest, it would never have been regarded without a positive law; and 'twould have been impossible that so many positive laws of different nations could ever have concurred precisely in the same views and intentions. this leads us to consider the _fifth_ source of authority, viz. _positive laws_, when the legislature establishes a certain form of government and succession of princes. at first sight, it may be thought that this must resolve into some of the preceding titles of authority. the legislative power, whence the positive law is derived, must either be established by original contract, long possession, present possession, conquest, or succession; and consequently the positive law must derive its force from some of those principles. but here 'tis remarkable, that though a positive law can only derive its force from these principles, yet it acquires not all the force of the principle from whence it is derived, but loses considerably in the transition, as it is natural to imagine. for instance, a government is established for many centuries on a certain system of laws, forms, and methods of succession. the legislative power, established by this long succession, changes, all on a sudden, the whole system of government, and introduces a new constitution in its stead. i believe few of the subjects will think themselves bound to comply with this alteration, unless it have an evident tendency to the public good, but will think themselves still at liberty to return to the ancient government. hence the notion of _fundamental_ laws, which are supposed to be unalterable by the will of the sovereign; and of this nature the salic law is understood to be in france. how far these fundamental laws extend, is not determined in any government, nor is it possible it ever should. there is such an insensible gradation from the most material laws to the most trivial, and from the most ancient laws to the most modern, that 'twill be impossible to set bounds to the legislative power, and determine how far it may innovate in the principles of government. that is the work more of imagination and passion than of reason. whoever considers the history of the several nations of the world, their revolutions, conquests, increase and diminution, the manner in which their particular governments are established, and the successive right transmitted from one person to another, will soon learn to treat very lightly all disputes concerning the rights of princes, and will be convinced that a strict adherence to any general rules, and the rigid loyalty to particular persons and families, on which some people set so high a value, are virtues that hold less of reason than of bigotry and superstition. in this particular, the study of history confirms the reasonings of true philosophy, which, showing us the original qualities of human nature, teaches us to regard the controversies in politics as incapable of any decision in most cases, and as entirely subordinate to the interests of peace and liberty. where the public good does not evidently demand a change, 'tis certain that the concurrence of all those titles, _original contract, long possession, present possession, succession_, and _positive laws_, forms the strongest title to sovereignty, and is justly regarded as sacred and inviolable. but when these titles are mingled and opposed in different degrees, they often occasion perplexity, and are less capable of solution from the arguments of lawyers and philosophers, than from the swords of the soldiery. who shall tell me, for instance, whether germanicus or drusus ought to have succeeded tiberius, had he died while they were both alive, without naming any of them for his successor? ought the right of adoption to be received as equivalent to that of blood, in a nation where it had the same effect in private families, and had already, in two instances, taken place in the public? ought germanicus to be esteemed the eldest son, because he was born before drusus; or the younger, because he was adopted after the birth of his brother? ought the right of the elder to be regarded in a nation, where the eldest brother had no advantage in the succession to private families? ought the roman empire at that time to be esteemed hereditary, because of two examples; or ought it, even so early, to be regarded as belonging to the stronger, or the present possessor, as being founded on so recent an usurpation? upon whatever principles we may pretend to answer these and such like questions, i am afraid we shall never be able to satisfy an impartial inquirer, who adopts no party in political controversies, and will be satisfied with nothing but sound reason and philosophy. but here an english reader will be apt to inquire concerning that famous _revolution_ which has had such a happy influence on our constitution, and has been attended with such mighty consequences. we have already remarked, that, in the case of enormous tyranny and oppression, 'tis lawful to take arms even against supreme power; and that, as government is a mere human invention, for mutual advantage and security, it no longer imposes any obligation, either natural or moral, when once it ceases to have that tendency. but though this _general_ principle be authorized by common sense, and the practice of all ages, 'tis certainly impossible for the laws, or even for philosophy, to establish any _particular_ rules by which we may know when resistance is lawful, and decide all controversies which may arise on that subject. this may not only happen with regard to supreme power, but 'tis possible, even in some constitutions, where the legislative authority is not lodged in one person, that there may be a magistrate so eminent and powerful as to oblige the laws to keep silence in this particular. nor would this silence be an effect only of their _respect_, but also of their _prudence_; since 'tis certain, that, in the vast variety of circumstances which occur in all governments, an exercise of power, in so great a magistrate, may at one time be beneficial to the public, which at another time would be pernicious and tyrannical. but notwithstanding this silence of the laws in limited monarchies, 'tis certain that the people still retain the right of resistance; since 'tis impossible, even in the most despotic governments, to deprive them of it. the same necessity of self-preservation, and the same motive of public good, give them the same liberty in the one case as in the other. and we may farther observe, that in such mixed governments, the cases wherein resistance is lawful must occur much oftener, and greater indulgence be given to the subjects to defend themselves by force of arms, than in arbitrary governments. not only where the chief magistrate enters into measures in themselves extremely pernicious to the public, but even when he would encroach on the other parts of the constitution, and extend his power beyond the legal bounds, it is allowable to resist and dethrone him; though such resistance and violence may, in the general tenor of the laws, be deemed unlawful and rebellious. for, besides that nothing is more essential to public interest than the preservation of public liberty, 'tis evident, that if such a mixed government be once supposed to be established, every part or member of the constitution must have a right of self-defence, and of maintaining its ancient bounds against the encroachment of every other authority. as matter would have been created in vain, were it deprived of a power of resistance, without which no part of it could preserve a distinct existence, and the whole might be crowded up into a single point; so 'tis a gross absurdity to suppose, in any government, a right without a remedy, or allow that the supreme power is shared with the people, without allowing that 'tis lawful for them to defend their share against every invader. those, therefore, who would seem to respect our free government, and yet deny the right of resistance, have renounced all pretensions to common sense, and do not merit a serious answer. it does not belong to my present purpose to show, that these general principles are applicable to the late _revolution_; and that all the rights and privileges which ought to be sacred to a free nation, were at that time threatened with the utmost danger. i am better pleased to leave this controverted subject, if it really admits of controversy, and to indulge myself in some philosophical reflections which naturally arise from that important event. _first_, we may observe, that should the _lords_ and _commons_ in our constitution, without any reason from public interest, either depose the king in being, or, after his death, exclude the prince, who, by laws and settled custom, ought to succeed, no one would esteem their proceedings legal, or think themselves bound to comply with them. but should the king, by his unjust practices, or his attempts for a tyrannical and despotic power, justly forfeit his legal, it then not only becomes morally lawful and suitable to the nature of political society to dethrone him; but, what is more, we are apt likewise to think, that the remaining members of the constitution acquire a right of excluding his next heir, and of choosing whom they please for his successor. this is founded on a very singular quality of our thought and imagination. when a king forfeits his authority, his heir ought naturally to remain in the same situation as if the king were removed by death; unless by mixing himself in the tyranny, he forfeit it for himself. but though this may seem reasonable, we easily comply with the contrary opinion. the deposition of a king, in such a government as ours, is certainly an act beyond all common authority; and an illegal assuming a power for public good, which, in the ordinary course of government, can belong to no member of the constitution. when the public good is so great and so evident as to justify the action, the commendable use of this license causes us naturally to attribute to the _parliament_ a right of using farther licenses; and the ancient bounds of the laws being once transgressed with approbation, we are not apt to be so strict in confining ourselves precisely within their limits. the mind naturally runs on with any train of action which it has begun; nor do we commonly make any scruple concerning our duty, after the first action of any kind which we perform. thus at the _revolution_, no one who thought the deposition of the father justifiable, esteemed themselves to be confined to his infant son; though, had that unhappy monarch died innocent at that time, and had his son, by any accident, been conveyed beyond seas, there is no doubt but a regency would have been appointed till he should come to age, and could be restored to his dominions. as the slightest properties of the imagination have an effect on the judgments of the people, it shows the wisdom of the laws and of the parliament to take advantage of such properties, and to choose the magistrates either in or out of a line, according as the vulgar will most naturally attribute authority and right to them. _secondly_, though the accession of the prince of orange to the throne, might at first give occasion to many disputes, and his title be contested, it ought not now to appear doubtful, but must have acquired a sufficient authority from those three princes who have succeeded him upon the same title. nothing is more usual, though nothing may, at first sight, appear more unreasonable, than this way of thinking. princes often _seem_ to acquire a right from their successors, as well as from their ancestors; and a king who, during his lifetime, might justly be deemed an usurper, will be regarded by posterity as a lawful prince, because he has had the good fortune to settle his family on the throne, and entirely change the ancient form of government. julius cæsar is regarded as the first roman emperor; while sylla and marius, whose titles were really the same as his, are treated as tyrants and usurpers. time and custom give authority to all forms of government, and all successions of princes; and that power, which at first was founded only on injustice and violence, becomes in time legal and obligatory. nor does the mind rest there; but, returning back upon its footsteps, transfers to their predecessors and ancestors that right which it naturally ascribes to the posterity, as being related together, and united in the imagination. the present king of france makes hugh capet a more lawful prince than cromwell; as the established liberty of the dutch is no inconsiderable apology for their obstinate resistance to philip the second. [ ] this proposition must hold strictly true with regard to every quality that is determined merely by sentiment. in what sense we can talk either of a _right_ or a _wrong_ taste in morals, eloquence, or beauty, shall be considered afterwards. in the mean time it may be observed, that there is such an uniformity in the _general_ sentiments of mankind, as to render such questions of but small importance. [ ] it is not here asserted, that _present possession_ or _conquest_ are sufficient to give a title against _long possession_ and _positive laws_: but only that they have some force, and will be able to cast the balance where the titles are otherwise equal, and will even be sufficient _sometimes_ to sanctify the weaker title. what degree of force they have is difficult to determine. i believe all moderate men will allow, that they have great force in all disputes concerning the rights of princes. [ ] to prevent mistakes i must observe, that this case of succession is not the same with that of hereditary monarchies, where custom has fixed the right of succession. these depend upon the principle of long possession above explained. section xi. of the laws of nations. when civil government has been established over the greatest part of mankind, and different societies have been formed contiguous to each other, there arises a new set of duties among the neighbouring states, suitable to the nature of that commerce which they carry on with each other. political writers tell us, that in every kind of intercourse a body politic is to be considered as one person; and indeed, this assertion is so far just, that different nations, as well as private persons, require mutual assistance; at the same time that their selfishness and ambition are perpetual sources of war and discord. but though nations in this particular resemble individuals, yet as they are very different in other respects, no wonder they regulate themselves by different maxims, and give rise to a new set of rules, which we call _the laws of nations_. under this head we may comprise the sacredness of the persons of ambassadors, the declaration of war, the abstaining from poisoned arms, with other duties of that kind, which are evidently calculated for the commerce that is peculiar to different societies. but though these rules be superadded to the laws of nature, the former do not entirely abolish the latter; and one may safely affirm, that the three fundamental rules of justice, the stability of possession, its transference by consent, and the performance of promises, are duties of princes as well as of subjects. the same interest produces the same effect in both cases. where possession has no stability, there must be perpetual war. where property is not transferred by consent, there can be no commerce. where promises are not observed, there can be no leagues nor alliances. the advantages, therefore, of peace, commerce, and mutual succour, make us extend to different kingdoms the same notions of justice which take place among individuals. there is a maxim very current in the world, which few politicians are willing to avow, but which has been authorized by the practice of all ages, _that there is a system of morals calculated for princes, much more free than that which ought to govern private persons_. 'tis evident this is not to be understood of the lesser _extent_ of public duties and obligations; nor will any one be so extravagant as to assert, that the most solemn treaties ought to have no force among princes. for as princes do actually form treaties among themselves, they must propose some advantage from the execution of them; and the prospect of such advantage for the future must engage them to perform their part, and must establish that law of nature. the meaning, therefore, of this political maxim is, that though the morality of princes has the same _extent_, yet it has not the same _force_ as that of private persons, and may lawfully be transgressed from a more trivial motive. however shocking such a proposition may appear to certain philosophers, 'twill be easy to defend it upon those principles, by which we have accounted for the origin of justice and equity. when men have found by experience that 'tis impossible to subsist without society, and that 'tis impossible to maintain society, while they give free course to their appetites; so urgent an interest quickly restrains their actions, and imposes an obligation to observe those rules which we call _the laws of justice_. this obligation of interest rests not here; but, by the necessary course of the passions and sentiments, gives rise to the moral obligation of duty; while we approve of such actions as tend to the peace of society, and disapprove of such as tend to its disturbance. the same _natural_ obligation of interest takes place among independent kingdoms, and gives rise to the same _morality_; so that no one of ever so corrupt morals will approve of a prince, who voluntarily, and of his own accord, breaks his word, or violates any treaty. but here we may observe, that though the intercourse of different states be advantageous, and even sometimes necessary, yet it is not so necessary nor advantageous as that among individuals, without which 'tis utterly impossible for human nature ever to subsist. since, therefore, the _natural_ obligation to justice, among different states, is not so strong as among individuals, the _moral_ obligation which arises from it must partake of its weakness; and we must necessarily give a greater indulgence to a prince or minister who deceives another, than to a private gentleman who breaks his word of honour. should it be asked, _what proportion these two species of morality bear to each other_? i would answer, that this is a question to which we can never give any precise answer; nor is it possible to reduce to numbers the proportion, which we ought to fix betwixt them. one may safely affirm, that this proportion finds itself without any art or study of men; as we may observe on many other occasions. the practice of the world goes farther in teaching us the degrees of our duty, than the most subtile philosophy which was ever yet invented. and this may serve as a convincing proof, that all men have an implicit notion of the foundation of those moral rules concerning natural and civil justice, and are sensible that they arise merely from human conventions, and from the interest which we have in the preservation of peace and order. for otherwise the diminution of the interest would never produce a relaxation of the morality, and reconcile us more easily to any transgression of justice among princes and republics, than in the private commerce of one subject with another. section xii. of chastity and modesty. if any difficulty attend this system concerning the laws of nature and nations, 'twill be with regard to the universal approbation or blame which follows their observance or transgression, and which some may not think sufficiently explained from the general interests of society. to remove, as far as possible, all scruples of this kind, i shall here consider another set of duties, viz. the _modesty_ and _chastity_ which belong to the fair sex: and i doubt not but these virtues will be found to be still more conspicuous instances of the operation of those principles which i have insisted on. there are some philosophers who attack the female virtues with great vehemence, and fancy they have gone very far in detecting popular errors, when they can show, that there is no foundation in nature for all that exterior modesty which we require in the expressions, and dress, and behaviour of the fair sex. i believe i may spare myself the trouble of insisting on so obvious a subject, and may proceed, without farther preparation, to examine after what manner such notions arise from education, from the voluntary conventions of men, and from the interest of society. whoever considers the length and feebleness of human infancy, with the concern which both sexes naturally have for their offspring, will easily perceive, that there must be an union of male and female for the education of the young, and that this union must be of considerable duration. but, in order to induce the men to impose on themselves this restraint, and undergo cheerfully all the fatigues and expenses to which it subjects them, they must believe that their children are their own, and that their natural instinct is not directed to a wrong object, when they give a loose to love and tenderness. now, if we examine the structure of the human body, we shall find, that this security is very difficult to be attained on our part; and that since, in the copulation of the sexes, the principle of generation goes from the man to the woman, an error may easily take place on the side of the former, though it be utterly impossible with regard to the latter. from this trivial and anatomical observation is derived that vast difference betwixt the education and duties of the two sexes. were a philosopher to examine the matter a _priori_, he would reason after the following manner. men are induced to labour for the maintenance and education of their children, by the persuasion that they are really their own; and therefore 'tis reasonable, and even necessary, to give them some security in this particular. this security cannot consist entirely in the imposing of severe punishments on any transgressions of conjugal fidelity on the part of the wife; since these public punishments cannot be inflicted without legal proof, which 'tis difficult to meet with in this subject. what restraint, therefore, shall we impose on women, in order to counterbalance so strong a temptation as they have to infidelity? there seems to be no restraint possible, but in the punishment of bad fame or reputation; a punishment which has a mighty influence on the human mind, and at the same time is inflicted by the world upon surmises and conjectures, and proofs that would never be received in any court of judicature. in order, therefore, to impose a due restraint on the female sex, we must attach a peculiar degree of shame to their infidelity, above what arises merely from its injustice, and must bestow proportionable praises on their chastity. but though this be a very strong motive to fidelity, our philosopher would quickly discover that it would not alone be sufficient to that purpose. all human creatures, especially of the female sex, are apt to overlook remote motives in favour of any present temptation: the temptation is here the strongest imaginable; its approaches are insensible and seducing; and a woman easily finds, or flatters herself she shall find, certain means of securing her reputation, and preventing all the pernicious consequences of her pleasures. 'tis necessary, therefore, that, beside the infamy attending such licenses, there should be some preceding backwardness or dread, which may prevent their first approaches, and may give the female sex a repugnance to all expressions, and postures, and liberties, that have an immediate relation to that enjoyment. such would be the reasonings of our speculative philosopher; but i am persuaded that, if he had not a perfect knowledge of human nature, he would be apt to regard them as mere chimerical speculations, and would consider the infamy attending infidelity, and backwardness to all its approaches, as principles that were rather to be wished than hoped for in the world. for what means, would he say, of persuading mankind that the transgressions of conjugal duty are more infamous than any other kind of injustice, when 'tis evident they are more excusable, upon account of the greatness of the temptation? and what possibility of giving a backwardness to the approaches of a pleasure to which nature has inspired so strong a propensity, and a propensity that 'tis absolutely necessary in the end to comply with, for the support of the species? but speculative reasonings, which cost so much pains to philosophers, are often formed by the world naturally, and without reflection; as difficulties which seem unsurmountable in theory, are easily got over in practice. those who have an interest in the fidelity of women, naturally disapprove of their infidelity, and all the approaches to it. those who have no interest are carried along with the stream. education takes possession of the ductile minds of the fair sex in their infancy. and when a general rule of this kind is once established, men are apt to extend it beyond those principles from which it first arose. thus, bachelors, however debauched, cannot choose but be shocked with any instance of lewdness or impudence in woman. and though all these maxims have a plain reference to generation, yet women past child-bearing have no more privilege in this respect than those who are in the flower of their youth and beauty. men have undoubtedly an implicit notion, that all those ideas of modesty and decency have a regard to generation; since they impose not the same laws, _with the same force_, on the male sex, where that reason takes not place. the exception is there obvious and extensive, and founded on a remarkable difference, which produces a clear separation and disjunction of ideas. but as the case is not the same with regard to the different ages of women, for this reason, though men know that these notions are founded on the public interest, yet the general rule carries us beyond the original principle, and makes us extend the notions of modesty over the whole sex, from their earliest infancy to their extremest old age and infirmity. courage, which is the point of honour among men, derives its merit in a great measure from artifice, as well as the chastity of women; though it has also some foundation in nature, as we shall see afterwards. as to the obligations which the male sex lie under with regard to chastity, we may observe that, according to the general notions of the world, they bear nearly the same proportion to the obligations of women, as the obligations of the law of nations do to those of the law of nature. 'tis contrary to the interest of civil society, that men should have an _entire_ liberty of indulging their appetites in venereal enjoyment; but as this interest is weaker than in the case of the female sex, the moral obligation arising from it must be proportionably weaker. and to prove this we need only appeal to the practice and sentiments of all nations and ages. part iii. of the other virtues and vices. section i. of the origin of the natural virtues and vices. we come now to the examination of such virtues and vices as are entirely natural, and have no dependence on the artifice and contrivance of men. the examination of these will conclude this system of morals. the chief spring or actuating principle of the human mind is pleasure or pain; and when these sensations are removed, both from our thought and feeling, we are in a great measure incapable of passion or action, of desire or volition. the most immediate effects of pleasure and pain are the propense and averse motions of the mind; which are diversified into volition, into desire and aversion, grief and joy, hope and fear, according as the pleasure or pain changes its situation, and becomes probable or improbable, certain or uncertain, or is considered as out of our power for the present moment. but when, along with this, the objects that cause pleasure or pain acquire a relation to ourselves or others, they still continue to excite desire and aversion, grief and joy; but cause, at the same time, the indirect passions of pride or humility, love or hatred, which in this case have a double relation of impressions and ideas to the pain or pleasure. we have already observed, that moral distinctions depend entirely on certain peculiar sentiments of pain and pleasure, and that whatever mental quality in ourselves or others gives us a satisfaction, by the survey or reflection, is of course virtuous; as every thing of this nature that gives uneasiness is vicious. now, since every quality in ourselves or others which gives pleasure, always causes pride or love, as every one that produces uneasiness excites humility or hatred, it follows, that these two particulars are to be considered as equivalent, with regard to our mental qualities, _virtue_ and the power of producing love or pride, _vice_ and the power of producing humility or hatred. in every case, therefore, we must judge of the one by the other, and may pronounce any _quality_ of the mind virtuous which causes love or pride, and any one vicious which causes hatred or humility. if any _action_ be either virtuous or vicious, 'tis only as a sign of some quality or character. it must depend upon durable principles of the mind, which extend over the whole conduct, and enter into the personal character. actions themselves, not proceeding from any constant principle, have no influence on love or hatred, pride or humility; and consequently are never considered in morality. this reflection is self-evident, and deserves to be attended to, as being of the utmost importance in the present subject. we are never to consider any single action in our inquiries concerning the origin of morals, but only the quality or character from which the action proceeded. these alone are _durable_ enough to affect our sentiments concerning the person. actions are indeed better indications of a character than words, or even wishes and sentiments; but 'tis only so far as they are such indications, that they are attended with love or hatred, praise or blame. to discover the true origin of morals, and of that love or hatred which arises from mental qualities, we must take the matter pretty deep, and compare some principles which have been already examined and explained. we may begin with considering anew the nature and force of _sympathy_. the minds of all men are similar in their feelings and operations; nor can any one be actuated by any affection of which all others are not in some degree susceptible. as in strings equally wound up, the motion of one communicates itself to the rest, so all the affections readily pass from one person to another, and beget correspondent movements in every human creature. when i see the _effects_ of passion in the voice and gesture of any person, my mind immediately passes from these effects to their causes, and forms such a lively idea of the passion as is presently converted into the passion itself. in like manner, when i perceive the causes of any emotion, my mind is conveyed to the effects, and is actuated with a like emotion. were i present at any of the more terrible operations of surgery, 'tis certain that, even before it begun, the preparation of the instruments, the laying of the bandages in order, the heating of the irons, with all the signs of anxiety and concern in the patient and assistants, would have a great effect upon my mind, and excite the strongest sentiments of pity and terror. no passion of another discovers itself immediately to the mind. we are only sensible of its causes or effects. from _these_ we infer the passion; and consequently _these_ give rise to our sympathy. our sense of beauty depends very much on this principle; and where any object has a tendency to produce pleasure in its possessor, it is always regarded as beautiful; as every object that has a tendency to produce pain, is disagreeable and deformed. thus, the conveniency of a house, the fertility of a field, the strength of a horse, the capacity, security, and swift-sailing of a vessel, form the principal beauty of these several objects. here the object, which is denominated beautiful, pleases only by its tendency to produce a certain effect. that effect is the pleasure or advantage of some other person. now, the pleasure of a stranger for whom we have no friendship, pleases us only by sympathy. to this principle, therefore, is owing the beauty which we find in every thing that is useful. how considerable a part this is of beauty will easily appear upon reflection. wherever an object has a tendency to produce pleasure in the possessor, or, in other words, is the proper _cause_ of pleasure, it is sure to please the spectator, by a delicate sympathy with the possessor. most of the works of art are esteemed beautiful, in proportion to their fitness for the use of man; and even many of the productions of nature derive their beauty from that source. handsome and beautiful, on most occasions, is not an absolute, but a relative quality, and pleases us by nothing but its tendency to produce an end that is agreeable.[ ] the same principle produces, in many instances, our sentiments of morals, as well as those of beauty. no virtue is more esteemed than justice, and no vice more detested than injustice; nor are there any qualities which go farther to the fixing the character, either as amiable or odious. now justice is a moral virtue, merely because it has that tendency to the good of mankind, and indeed is nothing but an artificial invention to that purpose. the same may be said of allegiance, of the laws of nations, of modesty, and of good manners. all these are mere human contrivances for the interest of society. and since there is a very strong sentiment of morals, which in all nations and all ages has attended them, we must allow that the reflecting on the tendency of characters and mental qualities is sufficient to give us the sentiments of approbation and blame. now, as the means to an end can only be agreeable where the end is agreeable, and as the good of society, where our own interest is not concerned, or that of our friends, pleases only by sympathy, it follows, that sympathy is the source of the esteem which we pay to all the artificial virtues. thus it appears, _that_ sympathy is a very powerful principle in human nature, _that_ it has a great influence on our taste of beauty, and _that_ it produces our sentiment of morals in all the artificial virtues. from thence we may presume, that it also gives rise to many of the other virtues, and that qualities acquire our approbation because of their tendency to the good of mankind. this presumption must become a certainty, when we find that most of those qualities which we _naturally_ approve of, have actually that tendency, and render a man a proper member of society; while the qualities which we _naturally_ disapprove of have a contrary tendency, and render any intercourse with the person dangerous or disagreeable. for having found, that such tendencies have force enough to produce the strongest sentiment of morals, we can never reasonably, in these cases, look for any other cause of approbation or blame; it being an inviolable maxim in philosophy, that where any particular cause is sufficient for an effect, we ought to rest satisfied with it, and ought not to multiply causes without necessity. we have happily attained experiments in the artificial virtues, where the tendency of qualities to the good of society is the _sole_ cause of our approbation, without any suspicion of the concurrence of another principle. from thence we learn the force of that principle. and where that principle may take place, and the quality approved of is really beneficial to society, a true philosopher will never require any other principle to account for the strongest approbation and esteem. that many of the natural virtues have this tendency to the good of society, no one can doubt of. meekness, beneficence, charity, generosity, clemency, moderation, equity, bear the greatest figure among the moral qualities, and are commonly denominated the _social_ virtues, to mark their tendency to the good of society. this goes so far, that some philosophers have represented all moral distinctions as the effect of artifice and education, when skilful politicians endeavoured to restrain the turbulent passions of men, and make them operate to the public good, by the notions of honour and shame. this system, however, is not consistent with experience. for, _first_, there are other virtues and vices beside those which have this tendency to the public advantage and loss. _secondly_, had not men a natural sentiment of approbation and blame, it could never be excited by politicians, nor would the words _laudable_ and _praiseworthy, blameable_ and _odious_, be any more intelligible than if they were a language perfectly unknown to us, as we have already observed. but though this system be erroneous, it may teach us that moral distinctions arise in a great measure from the tendency of qualities and characters to the interests of society, and that 'tis our concern for that interest which makes us approve or disapprove of them. now, we have no such extensive concern for society, but from sympathy; and consequently 'tis that principle which takes us so far out of ourselves as to give us the same pleasure or uneasiness in the characters of others, as if they had a tendency to our own advantage or loss. the only difference betwixt the natural virtues and justice lies in this, that the good which results from the former arises from every single act, and is the object of some natural passion; whereas a single act of justice, considered in itself, may often be contrary to the public good; and 'tis only the concurrence of mankind, in a general scheme or system of action, which is advantageous. when i relieve persons in distress, my natural humanity is my motive; and so far as my succour extends, so far have i promoted the happiness of my fellow-creatures. but if we examine all the questions that come before any tribunal of justice, we shall find that, considering each case apart, it would as often be an instance of humanity to decide contrary to the laws of justice as conformable to them. judges take from a poor man to give to a rich; they bestow on the dissolute the labour of the industrious; and put into the hands of the vicious the means of harming both themselves and others. the whole scheme, however, of law and justice is advantageous to the society; and 'twas with a view to this advantage that men, by their voluntary conventions, established it. after it is once established by these conventions, it is _naturally_ attended with a strong sentiment of morals, which can proceed from nothing but our sympathy with the interests of society. we need no other explication of that esteem which attends such of the natural virtues as have a tendency to the public good. i must farther add, that there are several circumstances which render this hypothesis much more probable with regard to the natural than the artificial virtues. 'tis certain, that the imagination is more affected by what is particular, than by what is general; and that the sentiments are always moved with difficulty, where their objects are in any degree loose and undetermined. now, every particular act of justice is not beneficial to society, but the whole scheme or system; and it may not perhaps be any individual person for whom we are concerned, who receives benefit from justice, but the whole society alike. on the contrary, every particular act of generosity, or relief of the industrious and indigent, is beneficial, and is beneficial to a particular person, who is not undeserving of it. 'tis more natural, therefore, to think that the tendencies of the latter virtue will affect our sentiments, and command our approbation, than those of the former; and therefore, since we find that the approbation of the former arises from their tendencies, we may ascribe, with better reason, the same cause to the approbation of the latter. in any number of similar effects, if a cause can be discovered for one, we ought to extend that cause to all the other effects which can be accounted for by it; but much more, if these other effects be attended with peculiar circumstances, which facilitate the operation of that cause. before i proceed farther, i must observe two remarkable circumstances in this affair, which may seem objections to the present system. the first may be thus explained. when any quality or character has a tendency to the good of mankind, we are pleased with it, and approve of it, because it presents the lively idea of pleasure; which idea affects us by sympathy, and is itself a kind of pleasure. but as this sympathy is very variable, it may be thought that our sentiments of morals must admit of all the same variations. we sympathize more with persons contiguous to us, than with persons remote from us; with our acquaintance, than with strangers; with our countrymen, than with foreigners. but notwithstanding this variation of our sympathy, we give the same approbation to the same moral qualities in china as in england. they appear equally virtuous, and recommend themselves equally to the esteem of a judicious spectator. the sympathy varies without a variation in our esteem. our esteem, therefore, proceeds not from sympathy. to this i answer, the approbation of moral qualities most certainly is not derived from reason, or any comparison of ideas; but proceeds entirely from a moral taste, and from certain sentiments of pleasure or disgust, which arise upon the contemplation and view of particular qualities or characters. now, 'tis evident that those sentiments, whencever they are derived, must vary according to the distance or contiguity of the objects; nor can i feel the same lively pleasure from the virtues of a person who lived in greece two thousand years ago, that i feel from the virtues of a familiar friend and acquaintance. yet i do not say that i esteem the one more than the other; and therefore, if the variation of the sentiment, without a variation of the esteem, be an objection, it must have equal force against every other system, as against that of sympathy. but to consider the matter aright, it has no force at all; and 'tis the easiest matter in the world to account for it. our situation with regard both to persons and things is in continual fluctuation; and a man that lies at a distance from us, may in a little time become a familiar acquaintance. besides, every particular man has a peculiar position with regard to others; and 'tis impossible we could ever converse together on any reasonable terms, were each of us to consider characters and persons only as they appear from his peculiar point of view. in order, therefore, to prevent those continual _contradictions_, and arrive at a more _stable_ judgment of things, we fix on some _steady_ and _general_ points of view, and always, in our thoughts, place ourselves in them, whatever may be our present situation. in like manner, external beauty is determined merely by pleasure; and 'tis evident a beautiful countenance cannot give so much pleasure, when seen at a distance of twenty paces, as when it is brought nearer us. we say not, however, that it appears to us less beautiful; because we know what effect it will have in such a position, and by that reflection we correct its momentary appearance. in general, all sentiments of blame or praise are variable, according to our situation of nearness or remoteness with regard to the person blamed or praised, and according to the present disposition of our mind. but these variations we regard not in our general decisions, but still apply the terms expressive of our liking or dislike, in the same manner as if we remained in one point of view. experience soon teaches us this method of correcting our sentiments, or at least of correcting our language, where the sentiments are more stubborn and unalterable. our servant, if diligent and faithful, may excite stronger sentiments of love and kindness than marcus brutus, as represented in history; but we say not, upon that account, that the former character is more laudable than the latter. we know that, were we to approach equally near to that renowned patriot, he would command a much higher degree of affection and admiration. such corrections are common with regard to all the senses; and indeed 'twere impossible we could ever make use of language, or communicate our sentiments to one another, did we not correct the momentary appearances of things, and overlook our present situation. 'tis therefore from the influence of characters and qualities upon those who have an intercourse with any person, that we blame or praise him. we consider not whether the persons affected by the qualities be our acquaintance or strangers, countrymen or foreigners. nay, we overlook our own interest in those general judgments, and blame not a man for opposing us in any of our pretensions, when his own interest is particularly concerned. we make allowance for a certain degree of selfishness in men, because we know it to be inseparable from human nature, and inherent in our frame and constitution. by this reflection we correct those sentiments of blame which so naturally arise upon any opposition. but however the general principle of our blame or praise may be corrected by those other principles, 'tis certain they are not altogether efficacious, nor do our passions often correspond entirely to the present theory. 'tis seldom men heartily love what lies at a distance from them, and what no way redounds to their particular benefit; as 'tis no less rare to meet with persons who can pardon another any opposition he makes to their interest, however justifiable that opposition may be by the general rules of morality. here we are contented with saying, that reason requires such an impartial conduct, but that 'tis seldom we can bring ourselves to it, and that our passions do not readily follow the determination of our judgment. this language will be easily understood, if we consider what we formerly said concerning that _reason_ which is able to oppose our passion, and which we have found to be nothing but a general calm determination of the passions, founded on some distant view or reflection. when we form our judgments of persons merely from the tendency of their characters to our own benefit, or to that of our friends, we find so many contradictions to our sentiments in society and conversation, and such an uncertainty from the incessant changes of our situation, that we seek some other standard of merit and demerit, which may not admit of so great variation. being thus loosened from our first station, we cannot afterwards fix ourselves so commodiously by any means as by a sympathy with those who have any commerce with the person we consider. this is far from being as lively as when our own interest is concerned, or that of our particular friends; nor has it such an influence on our love and hatred; but being equally conformable to our calm and general principles, 'tis said to have an equal authority over our reason, and to command our judgment and opinion. we blame equally a bad action which we read of in history, with one performed in our neighbourhood t'other day; the meaning of which is, that we know from reflection that the former action would excite as strong sentiments of disapprobation as the latter, were it placed in the same position. i now proceed to the _second_ remarkable circumstance which i proposed to take notice of. where a person is possessed of a character that in its natural tendency is beneficial to society, we esteem him virtuous, and are delighted with the view of his character, even though particular accidents prevent its operation, and incapacitate him from being serviceable to his friends and country. virtue in rags is still virtue; and the love which it procures attends a man into a dungeon or desart, where the virtue can no longer be exerted in action, and is lost to all the world. now, this may be esteemed an objection to the present system. sympathy interests us in the good of mankind; and if sympathy were the source of our esteem for virtue, that sentiment of approbation could only take place where the virtue actually attained its end, and was beneficial to mankind. where it fails of its end, 'tis only an imperfect means; and therefore can never acquire any merit from that end. the goodness of an end can bestow a merit on such means alone as are complete, and actually produce the end. to this we may reply, that where any object, in all its parts, is fitted to attain any agreeable end, it naturally gives us pleasure, and is esteemed beautiful, even though some external circumstances be wanting to render it altogether effectual. 'tis sufficient if every thing be complete in the object itself. a house that is contrived with great judgment for all the commodities of life, pleases us upon that account; though perhaps we are sensible, that no one will ever dwell in it. a fertile soil, and a happy climate, delight us by a reflection on the happiness which they would afford the inhabitants, though at present the country be desart and uninhabited. a man, whose limbs and shape promise strength and activity, is esteemed handsome, though condemned to perpetual imprisonment. the imagination has a set of passions belonging to it, upon which our sentiments of beauty much depend. these passions are moved by degrees of liveliness and strength, which are inferior to _belief_, and independent of the real existence of their objects. where a character is, in every respect, fitted to be beneficial to society, the imagination passes easily from the cause to the effect, without considering that there are still some circumstances wanting to render the cause a complete one. _general rules_ create a species of probability, which sometimes influences the judgment, and always the imagination. 'tis true, when the cause is complete, and a good disposition is attended with good fortune, which renders it really beneficial to society, it gives a stronger pleasure to the spectator, and is attended with a more lively sympathy. we are more affected by it; and yet we do not say that it is more virtuous, or that we esteem it more. we know that an alteration of fortune may render the benevolent disposition entirely impotent; and therefore we separate, as much as possible, the fortune from the disposition. the case is the same as when we correct the different sentiments of virtue, which proceed from its different distances from ourselves. the passions do not always follow our corrections; but these corrections serve sufficiently to regulate our abstract notions, and are alone regarded when we pronounce in general concerning the degrees of vice and virtue. 'tis observed by critics, that all words or sentences which are difficult to the pronunciation, are disagreeable to the ear. there is no difference, whether a man hear them pronounced, or read them silently to himself. when i run over a book with my eye, i imagine i hear it all; and also, by the force of imagination, enter into the uneasiness which the delivery of it would give the speaker. the uneasiness is not real; but, as such a composition of words has a natural tendency to produce it, this is sufficient to affect the mind with a painful sentiment, and render the discourse harsh and disagreeable. 'tis a similar case, where any real quality is, by accidental circumstances, rendered impotent, and is deprived of its natural influence on society. upon these principles we may easily remove any contradiction which may appear to be betwixt the _extensive sympathy_, on which our sentiments of virtue depend, and that _limited generosity_, which i have frequently observed to be natural to men, and which justice and property suppose, according to the precedent reasoning. my sympathy with another may give me the sentiment of pain and disapprobation, when any object is presented that has a tendency to give him uneasiness; though i may not be willing to sacrifice any thing of my own interest, or cross any of my passions, for his satisfaction. a house may displease me by being ill-contrived for the convenience of the owner; and yet i may refuse to give a shilling towards the rebuilding of it. sentiments must touch the heart to make them control our passions: but they need not extend beyond the imagination, to make them influence our taste. when a building seems clumsy and tottering to the eye, it is ugly and disagreeable; though we may be fully assured of the solidity of the workmanship. 'tis a kind of fear which causes this sentiment of disapprobation; but the passion is not the same with that which we feel when obliged to stand under a wall that we really think tottering and insecure. the _seeming tendencies_ of objects affect the mind: and the emotions they excite are of a like species with those which proceed from the _real consequences_ of objects, but their feeling is different. nay, these emotions are so different in their feeling, that they may often be contrary, without destroying each other; as when the fortifications of a city belonging to an enemy are esteemed beautiful upon account of their strength, though we could wish that they were entirely destroyed. the imagination adheres to the _general_ views of things, and distinguishes the feelings they produce from those which arise from our particular and momentary situation. if we examine the panegyrics that are commonly made of great men, we shall find, that most of the qualities which are attributed to them may be divided into two kinds, viz. such as make them perform their part in society; and such as render them serviceable to themselves, and enable them to promote their own interest. their _prudence, temperance, frugality, industry, assiduity, enterprise, dexterity_, are celebrated, as well as their _generosity_ and _humanity_. if we ever give an indulgence to any quality that disables a man from making a figure in life, 'tis to that of _indolence_, which is not supposed to deprive one of his parts and capacity, but only suspends their exercise; and that without any inconvenience to the person himself, since 'tis, in some measure, from his own choice. yet indolence is always allowed to be a fault, and a very great one, if extreme: nor do a man's friends ever acknowledge him to be subject to it, but in order to save his character in more material articles. he could make a figure, say they, if he pleased to give application: his understanding is sound, his conception quick, and his memory tenacious; but he hates business, and is indifferent about his fortune. and this a man sometimes may make even a subject of vanity, though with the air of confessing a fault: because he may think, that this incapacity for business implies much more noble qualities; such as a philosophical spirit, a fine taste, a delicate wit, or a relish for pleasure and society. but take any other case: suppose a quality that, without being an indication of any other good qualities, incapacitates a man _always_ for business, and is destructive to his interest; such as a blundering understanding, and a wrong judgment of every thing in life; inconstancy and irresolution; or a want of address in the management of men and business: these are all allowed to be imperfections in a character; and many men would rather acknowledge the greatest crimes, than have it suspected that they are in any degree subject to them. 'tis very happy, in our philosophical researches, when we find the same phenomenon diversified by a variety of circumstances; and by discovering what is common among them, can the better assure ourselves of the truth of any hypothesis we may make use of to explain it. were nothing esteemed virtue but what were beneficial to society, i am persuaded that the foregoing explication of the moral sense ought still to be received, and that upon sufficient evidence: but this evidence must grow upon us, when we find other kinds of virtue which will not admit of any explication except from that hypothesis. here is a man who is not remarkably defective in his social qualities; but what principally recommends him is his dexterity in business, by which he has extricated himself from the greatest difficulties, and conducted the most delicate affairs with a singular address and prudence. i find an esteem for him immediately to arise in me: his company is a satisfaction to me; and before i have any farther acquaintance with him, i would rather do him a service than another whose character is in every other respect equal, but is deficient in that particular. in this case, the qualities that please me are all considered as useful to the person, and as having a tendency to promote his interest and satisfaction. they are only regarded as means to an end, and please me in proportion to their fitness for that end. the end, therefore must be agreeable to me. but what makes the end agreeable? the person is a stranger: i am no way interested in him, nor lie under any obligation to him: his happiness concerns not me, farther than the happiness of every human, and indeed of every sensible creature; that is, it affects me only by sympathy. from that principle, whenever i discover his happiness and good, whether in its causes or effects, i enter so deeply into it, that it gives me a sensible emotion. the appearance of qualities that have a _tendency_ to promote it, have an agreeable effect upon my imagination, and command my love and esteem. this theory may serve to explain, why the same qualities, in all cases, produce both pride and love, humility and hatred; and the same man is always virtuous or vicious, accomplished or despicable to others, who is so to himself. a person in whom we discover any passion or habit, which originally is only incommodious to himself, becomes always disagreeable to us merely on its account; as, on the other hand, one whose character is only dangerous and disagreeable to others, can never be satisfied with himself, as long as he is sensible of that disadvantage. nor is this observable only with regard to characters and manners, but may be remarked even in the most minute circumstances. a violent cough in another gives us uneasiness; though in itself it does not in the least affect us. a man will be mortified if you tell him he has a stinking breath; though 'tis evidently no annoyance to himself. our fancy easily changes its situation; and, either surveying ourselves as we appear to others, or considering others as they feel themselves, we enter, by that means, into sentiments which no way belong to us, and in which nothing but sympathy is able to interest us. and this sympathy we sometimes carry so far, as even to be displeased with a quality commodious to us, merely because it displeases others, and makes us disagreeable in their eyes; though perhaps we never can have any interest in rendering ourselves agreeable to them. there have been many systems of morality advanced by philosophers in all ages; but if they are strictly examined, they may be reduced to two, which alone merit our attention. moral good and evil are certainly distinguished by our _sentiments_, not by _reason_: but these sentiments may arise either from the mere species or appearance of characters and passions, or from reflections on their tendency to the happiness of mankind, and of particular persons. my opinion is, that both these causes are intermixed in our judgments of morals; after the same manner as they are in our decisions concerning most kinds of external beauty: though i am also of opinion, that reflections on the tendencies of actions have by far the greatest influence, and determine all the great lines of our duty. there are, however, instances in cases of less moment, wherein this immediate taste or sentiment produces our approbation. wit, and a certain easy and disengaged behaviour, are qualities _immediately agreeable_ to others, and command their love and esteem. some of these qualities produce satisfaction in others by particular _original_ principles of human nature, which cannot be accounted for: odiers may be resolved into principles which are more general. this will best appear upon a particular inquiry. as some qualities acquire their merit from their being _immediately agreeable_ to others, without any tendency to public interest; so some are denominated virtuous from their being _immediately agreeable_ to the person himself, who possesses them. each of the passions and operations of the mind has a particular feeling, which must be either agreeable or disagreeable. the first is virtuous, the second vicious. this particular feeling constitutes the very nature of the passion; and therefore needs not be accounted for. but, however directly the distinction of vice and virtue may seem to flow from the immediate pleasure or uneasiness, which particular qualities cause to ourselves or others, 'tis easy to observe, that it has also a considerable dependence on the principle of _sympathy_ so often insisted on. we approve of a person who is possessed of qualities _immediately agreeable_ to those with whom he has any commerce, though perhaps we ourselves never reaped any pleasure from them. we also approve of one who is possessed of qualities that are _immediately agreeable_ to himself, though they be of no service to any mortal. to account for this, we must have recourse to the foregoing principles. thus, to take a general review of the present hypothesis: every quality of the mind is denominated virtuous which gives pleasure by the mere survey, as every quality which produces pain is called vicious. this pleasure and this pain may arise from four different sources. for we reap a pleasure from the view of a character which is naturally fitted to be useful to others, or to the person himself, or which is agreeable to others, or to the person himself. one may perhaps be surprised, that, amidst all these interests and pleasures, we should forget our own, which touch us so nearly on every other occasion. but we shall easily satisfy ourselves on this head, when we consider, that every particular person's pleasure and interest being different, 'tis impossible men could ever agree in their sentiments and judgments, unless they chose some common point of view, from which they might survey their object, and which might cause it to appear the same to all of them. now, in judging of characters, the only interest or pleasure which appears the same to every spectator, is that of the person himself whose character is examined, or that of persons who have a connexion with him. and, though such interests and pleasures touch us more faintly than our own, yet, being more constant and universal, they counterbalance the latter even in practice, and are alone admitted in speculation as the standard of virtue and morality. they alone produce that particular feeling or sentiment on which moral distinctions depend. as to the good or ill desert of virtue or vice, 'tis an evident consequence of the sentiments of pleasure or uneasiness. these sentiments produce love or hatred; and love or hatred, by the original constitution of human passion, is attended with benevolence or anger; that is, with a desire of making happy the person we love, and miserable the person we hate. we have treated of this more fully on another occasion. section ii. of greatness of mind. it may now be proper to illustrate this general system of morals, by applying it to particular instances of virtue and vice, and showing how their merit or demerit arises from the four sources here explained. we shall begin with examining the passions of _pride_ and _humility_, and shall consider the vice or virtue that lies in their excesses or just proportion. an excessive pride or overweening conceit of ourselves, is always esteemed vicious, and is universally hated, as modesty, or a just sense of our weakness, is esteemed virtuous, and procures the good will of every one. of the four sources of moral distinctions, this is to be ascribed to the _third_; viz. the immediate agreeableness and disagreeableness of a quality to others, without any reflections on the tendency of that quality. in order to prove this, we must have recourse to two principles, which are very conspicuous in human nature. the _first_ of these is the _sympathy_ and communication of sentiments and passions above mentioned. so close and intimate is the correspondence of human souls, that no sooner any person approaches me, than he diffuses on me all his opinions, and draws along my judgment in a greater or lesser degree. and though, on many occasions, my sympathy with him goes not so far as entirely to change my sentiments and way of thinking, yet it seldom is so weak as not to disturb the easy course of my thought, and give an authority to that opinion which is recommended to me by his assent and approbation. nor is it any way material upon what subject he and i employ our thoughts. whether we judge of an indifferent person, or of my own character, my sympathy gives equal force to his decision: and even his sentiments of his own merit make me consider him in the same light in which he regards himself. this principle of sympathy is of so powerful and insinuating a nature, that it enters into most of our sentiments and passions, and often takes place under the appearance of its contrary. for 'tis remarkable, that when a person opposes me in any thing which i am strongly bent upon, and rouses up my passion by contradiction, i have always a degree of sympathy with him, nor does my commotion proceed from any other origin. we may here observe an evident conflict or rencounter of opposite principles and passions. on the one side, there is that passion or sentiment which is natural to me; and 'tis observable, that the stronger this passion is, the greater is the commotion. there must also be some passion or sentiment on the other side; and this passion can proceed from nothing but sympathy. the sentiments of others can never affect us, but by becoming in some measure our own; in which case they operate upon us, by opposing and increasing our passions, in the very same manner as if they had been originally derived from our own temper and disposition. while they remain concealed in the minds of others, they can never have any influence upon us: and even when they are known, if they went no farther than the imagination or conception, that faculty is so accustomed to objects of every different kind, that a mere idea, though contrary to our sentiments and inclinations, would never alone be able to affect us. the _second_ principle i shall take notice of is that of _comparison_, or the variation of our judgments concerning objects, according to the proportion they bear to those with which we compare them. we judge more of objects by comparison than by their intrinsic worth and value; and regard every thing as mean, when set in opposition to what is superior of the same kind. but no comparison is more obvious than that with ourselves; and hence it is, that on all occasions it takes place, and mixes with most of our passions. this kind of comparison is directly contrary to sympathy in its operation, as we have observed in treating of _compassion and malice_.[ ] _in all kinds of comparison, an object makes us always receive from another, to which it is compared, a sensation contrary to what arises from itself in its direct and immediate survey. the direct survey of another's pleasure naturally gives us pleasure; and therefore produces pain, when compared with our own. his pain, considered in itself is painful; but augments the idea of our own happiness, and gives us pleasure_. since then those principles of sympathy, and a comparison with ourselves, are directly contrary, it may be worth while to consider, what general rules can be formed, beside the particular temper of the person, for the prevalence of the one or the other. suppose i am now in safety at land, and would willingly reap some pleasure from this consideration, i must think on the miserable condition of those who are at sea in a storm, and must endeavour to render this idea as strong and lively as possible, in order to make me more sensible of my own happiness. but whatever pains i may take, the comparison will never have an equal efficacy, as if i were really on the shore,[ ] and saw a ship at a distance tost by a tempest, and in danger every moment of perishing on a rock or sand-bank. but suppose this idea to become still more lively. suppose the ship to be driven so near me, that i can perceive distinctly the horror painted on the countenance of the seamen and passengers, hear their lamentable cries, see the dearest friends give their last adieu, or embrace with a resolution to perish in each other's arms: no man has so savage a heart as to reap any pleasure from such a spectacle, or withstand the motions of the tenderest compassion and sympathy. 'tis evident, therefore, there is a medium in this case; and that, if the idea be too faint, it has no influence by comparison; and on the other hand, if it be too strong, it operates on us entirely by sympathy, which is the contrary to comparison. sympathy being the conversion of an idea into an impression, demands a greater force and vivacity in the idea than is requisite to comparison. all this is easily applied to the present subject. we sink very much in our own eyes when in the presence of a great man, or one of a superior genius; and this humility makes a considerable ingredient in that _respect_ which we pay our superiors, according to our foregoing reasonings on that passion.[ ] sometimes even envy and hatred arise from the comparison; but in the greatest part of men, it rests at respect and esteem. as sympathy has such a powerful influence on the human mind, it causes pride to have in some measure the same effect as merit; and, by making us enter into those elevated sentiments which the proud man entertains of himself, presents that comparison, which is so mortifying and disagreeable. our judgment does not entirely accompany him in the flattering conceit in which he pleases himself; but still is so shaken as to receive the idea it presents, and to give it an influence above the loose conceptions of the imagination. a man who, in an idle humour, would form a notion of a person of a merit very much superior to his own, would not be mortified by that fiction: but when a man, whom we are really persuaded to be of inferior merit, is presented to us; if we observe in him any extraordinary degree of pride and self-conceit, the firm persuasion he has of his own merit, takes hold of the imagination, and diminishes us in our own eyes, in the same manner as if he were really possessed of all the good qualities which he so liberally attributes to himself. our idea is here precisely in that medium which is requisite to make it operate on us by comparison. were it accompanied with belief, and did the person appear to have the same merit which he assumes to himself, it would have a contrary effect, and would operate on us by sympathy. the influence of that principle would then be superior to that of comparison, contrary to what happens where the person's merit seems below his pretensions. the necessary consequence of these principles is, that pride, or an overweening conceit of ourselves, must be vicious; since it causes uneasiness in all men, and presents them every moment with a disagreeable comparison. 'tis a trite observation in philosophy, and even in common life and conversation, that 'tis our own pride, which makes us so much displeased with the pride of other people; and that vanity becomes insupportable to us merely because we are vain. the gay naturally associate themselves with the gay, and the amorous with the amorous; but the proud never can endure the proud, and rather seek the company of those who are of an opposite disposition. as we are all of us proud in some degree, pride is universally blamed and condemned by all mankind, as having a natural tendency to cause uneasiness in others by means of comparison. and this effect must follow the more naturally, that those, who have an ill-grounded conceit of themselves, are for ever making those comparisons; nor have they any other method of supporting their vanity. a man of sense and merit is pleased with himself, independent of all foreign considerations; but a fool must always find some person that is more foolish, in order to keep himself in good humour with his own parts and understanding. but though an overweening conceit of our own merit be vicious and disagreeable, nothing can be more laudable than to have a value for ourselves, where we really have qualities that are valuable. the utility and advantage of any quality to ourselves is a source of virtue, as well as its agreeableness to others; and 'tis certain, that nothing is more useful to us in the conduct of life, than a due degree of pride, which makes us sensible of our own merit, and gives us a confidence and assurance in all our projects and enterprises. whatever capacity any one may be endowed with, 'tis entirely useless to him, if he be not acquainted with it, and form not designs suitable to it. 'tis requisite on all occasions to know our own force; and were it allowable to err on either side, 'twould be more advantageous to over-rate our merit, than to form ideas of it below its just standard. fortune commonly favours the bold and enterprising; and nothing inspires us with more boldness than a good opinion of ourselves. add to this, that though pride, or self-applause, be sometimes disagreeable to others, 'tis always agreeable to ourselves; as, on the other hand, modesty, though it give pleasure to every one who observes it, produces often uneasiness in the person endowed with it. now, it has been observed, that our own sensations determine the vice and virtue of any quality, as well as those sensations, which it may excite in others. thus, self-satisfaction and vanity may not only be allowable, but requisite in a character. 'tis however certain, that good breeding and decency require that we should avoid all signs and expressions, which tend directly to show that passion. we have, all of us, a wonderful partiality for ourselves, and were we always to give vent to our sentiments in this particular, we should mutually cause the greatest indignation in each other, not only by the immediate presence of so disagreeable a subject of comparison, but also by the contrariety of our judgments. in like manner, therefore, as we establish the _laws of nature_, in order to secure property in society, and prevent the opposition of self-interest, we establish the _rules of good breeding_, in order to prevent the opposition of men's pride, and render conversation agreeable and offensive. nothing is more disagreeable than a man's overweening conceit of himself. every one almost has a strong propensity to this vice. no one can well distinguish _in himself_ betwixt the vice and virtue, or be certain that his esteem of his own merit is well-founded; for these reasons, all direct expressions of this passion are condemned; nor do we make any exception to this rule in favour of men of sense and merit. they are not allowed to do themselves justice openly in words, no more than other people; and even if they show a reserve and secret doubt in doing themselves justice in their own thoughts, they will be more applauded. that impertinent, and almost universal propensity of men, to overvalue themselves, has given us such a _prejudice_ against self-applause, that we are apt to condemn it by a _general rule_ wherever we meet with it; and 'tis with some difficulty we give a privilege to men of sense, even in their most secret thoughts. at least, it must be owned that some disguise in this particular is absolutely requisite; and that, if we harbour pride in our breasts, we must carry a fair outside, and have the appearance of modesty and mutual deference in all our conduct and behaviour. we must, on every occasion, be ready to prefer others to ourselves; to treat them with a kind of deference, even though they be our equals; to seem always the lowest and least in the company, where we are not very much distinguished above them; and if we observe these rules in our conduct, men will have more indulgence for our secret sentiments, when we discover them in an oblique manner. i believe no one who has any practice of the world, and can penetrate into the inward sentiments of men, will assert that the humility which good-breeding and decency require of us, goes beyond the outside, or that a thorough sincerity in this particular is esteemed a real part of our duty. on the contrary, we may observe, that a genuine and hearty pride, or self-esteem, if well concealed and well founded, is essential to the character of a man of honour, and that there is no quality of the mind which is more indispensably requisite to procure the esteem and approbation of mankind. there are certain deferences and mutual submissions which custom requires of the different ranks of men towards each other; and whoever exceeds in this particular, if through interest, is accused of meanness, if through ignorance, of simplicity. 'tis necessary, therefore, to know our rank and station in the world, whether it be fixed by our birth, fortune, employments, talents, or reputation. 'tis necessary to feel the sentiment and passion of pride in conformity to it, and to regulate our actions accordingly. and should it be said, that prudence may suffice to regulate our actions in this particular, without any real pride, i would observe, that here the object of prudence is to conform our actions to the general usage and custom; and that 'tis impossible those tacit airs of superiority should ever have been established and authorized by custom, unless men were generally proud, and unless that passion were generally approved, when well-grounded. if we pass from common life and conversation to history, this reasoning acquires new force, when we observe, that all those great actions and sentiments which have become the admiration of mankind, are founded on nothing but pride and self-esteem. 'go,' says alexander the great to his soldiers, when they refused to follow him to the indies, 'go tell your countrymen, that you left alexander completing the conquest of the world.' this passage was always particularly admired by the prince of condé, as we learn from st evremond. 'alexander,' said that prince, 'abandoned by his soldiers, among barbarians not yet fully subdued, felt in himself such a dignity and right of empire, that he could not believe it possible any one could refuse to obey him. whether in europe or in asia, among greeks or persians, all was indifferent to him; wherever he found men, he fancied he had found subjects.' in general, we may observe, that whatever we call _heroic virtue_, and admire under the character of greatness and elevation of mind, is either nothing but a steady and well-established pride and self-esteem, or partakes largely of that passion. courage, intrepidity, ambition, love of glory, magnanimity, and all the other shining virtues of that kind, have plainly a strong mixture of self-esteem in them, and derive a great part of their merit from that origin. accordingly we find, that many religious declaimers decry those virtues as purely pagan and natural, and represent to us the excellency of the _christian_ religion, which places humility in the rank of virtues, and corrects the judgment of the world, and even of philosophers, who so generally admire all the efforts of pride and ambition. whether this virtue of humility has been rightly understood, i shall not pretend to determine. i am content with the concession, that the world naturally esteems a well-regulated pride, which secretly animates our conduct, without breaking out into such indecent expressions of vanity as may offend the vanity of others. the merit of pride or self-esteem is derived from two circumstances, viz. its utility, and its agreeableness to ourselves; by which it capacitates us for business, and at the same time gives us an immediate satisfaction. when it goes beyond its just bounds, it loses the first advantage, and even becomes prejudicial; which is the reason why we condemn an extravagant pride and ambition, however regulated by the decorums of good-breeding and politeness. but as such a passion is still agreeable, and conveys an elevated and sublime sensation to the person who is actuated by it, the sympathy with that satisfaction diminishes considerably the blame which naturally attends its dangerous influence on our conduct and behaviour. accordingly we may observe, that an excessive courage and magnanimity, especially when it displays itself under the frowns of fortune, contributes in a great measure to the character of a hero, and will render a person the admiration of posterity, at the same time that it ruins his affairs, and leads him into dangers and difficulties with which otherwise he would never have been acquainted. heroism, or military glory, is much admired by the generality of mankind. they consider it as the most sublime kind of merit. men of cool reflection are not so sanguine in their praises of it. the infinite confusions and disorder which it has caused in the world, diminish much of its merit in their eyes. when they would oppose the popular notions on this head, they always paint out the evils which this supposed virtue has produced in human society; the subversion of empires, the devastation of provinces, the sack of cities. as long as these are present to us, we are more inclined to hate than admire the ambition of heroes. but when we fix our view on the person himself, who is the author of all this mischief, there is something so dazzling in his character, the mere contemplation of it so elevates the mind, that we cannot refuse it our admiration. the pain which we receive from its tendency to the prejudice of society, is overpowered by a stronger and more immediate sympathy. thus, our explication of the merit or demerit which attends the degrees of pride or self-esteem, may serve as a strong argument for the preceding hypothesis, by showing the effects of those principles above explained in all the variations of our judgments concerning that passion. nor will this reasoning be advantageous to us only by showing, that the distinction of vice and virtue arises from the _four_ principles of the _advantage_ and of the _pleasure_ of the _person himself_ and of _others_, but may also afford us a strong proof of some under parts of that hypothesis. no one who duly considers of this matter will make any scruple of allowing, that any piece of ill-breeding, or any expression of pride and haughtiness, is displeasing to us, merely because it shocks our own pride, and leads us by sympathy into a comparison which causes the disagreeable passion of humility. now, as an insolence of this kind is blamed even in a person who has always been civil to ourselves in particular, nay, in one whose name is only known to us in history, it follows that our disapprobation proceeds from a sympathy with others, and from the reflection that such a character is highly displeasing and odious to every one who converses or has any intercourse with the person possest of it. we sympathize with those people in their uneasiness; and as their uneasiness proceeds in part from a sympathy with the person who insults them, we may here observe a double rebound of the sympathy, which is a principle very similar to what we have observed on another occasion.[ ] [ ] decentior equus cujus astricta sunt ilia; sed idem velocior. pulcher aspectu sit athleta, cujus lacertos exercitatio expressit; idem certamini paratior. nunquam vero _species ab utilitate_ dividitur. sed hoc quidem discernere, modici judicii est.--quinct. lib. . [ ] book ii. part ii. sect . [ ] suavi mari magno turbantibus æquora ventis e terra magnum alterius spectare laborem; non quia vexari quenquam est jucunda voluptas, sed quibus ipse malis careas quia cernere suav'est.--_lucret_. [ ] book ii. part ii. sect . section iii. of goodness and benevolence. having thus explained the origin of that praise and approbation which attends every thing we call _great_ in human affections, we now proceed to give an account of their _goodness_, and show whence its merit is derived. when experience has once given us a competent knowledge of human affairs, and has taught us the proportion they bear to human passion, we perceive that the generosity of men is very limited, and that it seldom extends beyond their friends and family, or, at most, beyond their native country. being thus acquainted with the nature of man, we expect not any impossibilities from him; but confine our view to that narrow circle in which any person moves, in order to form a judgment of his moral character. when the natural tendency of his passions leads him to be serviceable and useful within his sphere, we approve of his character, and love his person, by a sympathy with the sentiments of those who have a more particular connexion with him. we are quickly obliged to forget get our own interest in our judgments of this kind, by reason of the perpetual contradictions we meet with in society and conversation, from persons that are not placed in the same situation, and have not the same interest with ourselves. the only point of view in which our sentiments concur with those of others, is when we consider the tendency of any passion to the advantage or harm of those who have any immediate connexion or intercourse with the person possessed of it. and though this advantage or harm be often very remote from ourselves, yet sometimes 'tis very near us, and interests us strongly by sympathy. this concern we readily extend to other cases that are resembling; and when these are very remote, our sympathy is proportionably weaker, and our praise or blame fainter and more doubtful. the case is here the same as in our judgments concerning external bodies. all objects seem to diminish by their distance; but though the appearance of objects to our senses be the original standard by which we judge of them, yet we do not say that they actually diminish by the distance; but, correcting the appearance by reflection, arrive at a more constant and established judgment concerning them. in like manner, though sympathy be much fainter than our concern for ourselves, and a sympathy with persons remote from us much fainter than that with persons near and contiguous, yet we neglect all these differences in our calm judgments concerning the characters of men. besides that we ourselves often change our situation in this particular, we every day meet with persons who are in a different situation from ourselves, and who could never converse with us on any reasonable terms, were we to remain constantly in that situation and point of view which is peculiar to us. the intercourse of sentiments, therefore, in society and conversation, makes us form some general unalterable standard by which we may approve or disapprove of characters and manners. and though the _heart_ does not always take part with those general notions, or regulate its love and hatred by them, yet are they sufficient for discourse, and serve all our purposes in company, in the pulpit, on the theatre, and in the schools. from these principles, we may easily account for that merit which is commonly ascribed to _generosity, humanity, compassion, gratitude, friendship, fidelity, zeal, disinterestedness, liberality_, and all those other qualities which form the character of good and benevolent. a propensity to the tender passions makes a man agreeable and useful in all the parts of life, and gives a just direction to all his other qualities, which otherwise may become prejudicial to society. courage and ambition, when not regulated by benevolence, are fit only to make a tyrant and public robber. 'tis the same case with judgment and capacity, and all the qualities of that kind. they are indifferent in themselves to the interests of society, and have a tendency to the good or ill of mankind, according as they are directed by these other passions. as love is _immediately agreeable_ to the person who is actuated by it, and hatred _immediately disagreeable_, this may also be a considerable reason why we praise all the passions that partake of the former, and blame all those that have any considerable share of the latter. 'tis certain we are infinitely touched with a tender sentiment, as well as with a great one. the tears naturally start in our eyes at the conception of it; nor can we forbear giving a loose to the same tenderness towards the person who exerts it. all this seems to me a proof that our approbation has, in these cases, an origin different from the prospect of utility and advantage, either to ourselves or others. to which we may add, that men naturally, without reflection, approve of that character which is most like their own. the man of a mild disposition and tender affections, in forming a notion of the most perfect virtue, mixes in it more of benevolence and humanity than the man of courage and enterprise, who naturally looks upon a certain elevation of the mind as the most accomplished character. this must evidently proceed from an _immediate_ sympathy, which men have with characters similar to their own. they enter with more warmth into such sentiments, and feel more sensibly the pleasure which arises from them. 'tis remarkable, that nothing touches a man of humanity more than any instance of extraordinary delicacy in love or friendship, where a person is attentive to the smallest concerns of his friend, and is willing to sacrifice to them the most considerable interest of his own. such delicacies have little influence on society; because they make us regard the greatest trifles: but they are the more engaging the more minute the concern is, and are a proof of the highest merit in any one who is capable of them. the passions are so contagious, that they pass with the greatest facility from one person to another, and produce correspondent movements in all human breasts. where friendship appears in very signal instances, my heart catches the same passion, and is warmed by those warm sentiments that display themselves before me. such agreeable, movements must give me an affection to every one that excites them. this is the case with every thing that is agreeable in any person. the transition from pleasure to love is easy: but the transition must here be still more easy; since the agreeable sentiment which is excited by sympathy, is love itself; and there is nothing required but to change the object. hence the peculiar merit of benevolence in all its shapes and appearances. hence even its weaknesses are virtuous and amiable; and a person, whose grief upon the loss of a friend were excessive, would be esteemed upon that account. his tenderness bestows a merit, as it does a pleasure, on his melancholy. we are not, however, to imagine that all the angry passions are vicious, though they are disagreeable. there is a certain indulgence due to human nature in this respect. anger and hatred are passions inherent in our very frame and constitution. the want of them, on some occasions, may even be a proof of weakness and imbecility. and where they appear only in a low degree, we not only excuse them because they are natural, but even bestow our applauses on them, because they are inferior to what appears in the greatest part of mankind. where these angry passions rise up to cruelty, they form the most detested of all vices. all the pity and concern which we have for the miserable sufferers by this vice, turns against the person guilty of it, and produces a stronger hatred than we are sensible of on any other occasion. even when the vice of inhumanity rises not to this extreme degree, our sentiments concerning it are very much influenced by reflections on the harm that results from it. and we may observe in general, that if we can find any quality in a person, which renders him incommodious to those who live and converse with him, we always allow it to be a fault or blemish, without any farther examination. on the other hand, when we enumerate the good qualities of any person, we always mention those parts of his character which render him a safe companion, an easy friend, a gentle master, an agreeable husband, or an indulgent father. we consider him with all his relations in society; and love or hate him, according as he affects those who have any immediate intercourse with him. and 'tis a most certain rule, that if there be no relation of life in which i could not wish to stand to a particular person, his character must so far be allowed to be perfect. if he be as little wanting to himself as to others, his character is entirely perfect. this is the ultimate test of merit and virtue. [ ] book ii. part ii. sect. . section iv. of natural abilities. no distinction is more usual in all systems of ethics, than that betwixt _natural abilities_ and _moral virtues_; where the former are placed on the same footing with bodily endowments, and are supposed to have no merit or moral worth annexed to them. whoever considers the matter accurately, will find, that a dispute upon this head would be merely a dispute of words, and that, though these qualities are not altogether of the same kind, yet they agree in the most material circumstances. they are both of them equally mental qualities: and both of them equally produce pleasure; and have of course an equal tendency to procure the love and esteem of mankind. there are few who are not as jealous of their character, with regard to sense and knowledge, as to honour and courage; and much more than with regard to temperance and sobriety. men are even afraid of passing for good-natured, lest _that_ should be taken for want of understanding; and often boast of more debauches than they have been really engaged in, to give themselves airs of fire and spirit. in short, the figure a man makes in the world, the reception he meets with in company, the esteem paid him by his acquaintance; all these advantages depend almost as much upon his good sense and judgment, as upon any other part of his character. let a man have the best intentions in the world, and be the farthest from all injustice and violence, he will never be able to make himself be much regarded, without a moderate share, at least, of parts and understanding. since then natural abilities, though perhaps inferior, yet are on the same footing, both as to their causes and effects, with those qualities which we call moral virtues, why should we make any distinction betwixt them? though we refuse to natural abilities the title of virtues, we must allow, that they procure the love and esteem of mankind; that they give a new lustre to the other virtues; and that a man possessed of them is much more entitled to our good will and services than one entirely void of them. it may indeed be pretended, that the sentiment of approbation which those qualities produce, besides its being _inferior_, is also somewhat _different_ from that which attends the other virtues. but this, in my opinion, is not a sufficient reason for excluding them from the catalogue of virtues. each of the virtues, even benevolence, justice, gratitude, integrity, excites a different sentiment or feeling in the spectator. the characters of cæsar and cato, as drawn by sallust, are both of them virtuous, in the strictest sense of the word, but in a different way: nor are the sentiments entirely the same which arise from them. the one produces love, the other esteem; the one is amiable, the other awful: we could wish to meet with the one character in a friend, the other character we would be ambitious of in ourselves. in like manner, the approbation which attends natural abilities, may be somewhat different to the feeling from that which arises from the other virtues, without making them entirely of a different species. and indeed we may observe, that the natural abilities, no more than the other virtues, produce not, all of them, the same kind of approbation. good sense and genius beget esteem; wit and humour excite love.[ ] those who represent the distinction betwixt natural abilities and moral virtues as very material, may say, that the former are entirely involuntary, and have therefore no merit attending them, as having no dependence on liberty and free will. but to this i answer, _first_, that many of those qualities which all moralists, especially the ancients, comprehend under the title of moral virtues, are equally involuntary and necessary with the qualities of the judgment and imagination. of this nature are constancy, fortitude, magnanimity; and, in short, all the qualities which form the _great_ man. i might say the same, in some degree, of the others; it being almost impossible for the mind to change its character in any considerable article, or cure itself of a passionate or splenetic temper, when they are natural to it. the greater degree there is of these blameable qualities, the more vicious they become, and yet they are the less voluntary. _secondly_, i would have any one give me a reason, why virtue and vice may not be involuntary, as well as beauty and deformity. these moral distinctions arise from the natural distinctions of pain and pleasure; and when we receive those feelings from the general consideration of any quality or character, we denominate it vicious or virtuous. now i believe no one will assert, that a quality can never produce pleasure or pain to the person who considers it, unless it be perfectly voluntary in the person who possesses it. _thirdly_, as to free will, we have shown that it has no place with regard to the actions, no more than the qualities of men. it is not a just consequence, that what is voluntary is free. our actions are more voluntary than our judgments; but we have not more liberty in the one than in the other. but, though this distinction betwixt voluntary and involuntary, be not sufficient to justify the distinction betwixt natural abilities and moral virtues, yet the former distinction will afford us a plausible reason, why moralists have invented the latter. men have observed, that, though natural abilities and moral qualities be in the main on the same footing, there is, however, this difference betwixt them, that the former are almost invariable by any art or industry; while the latter, or at least the actions that proceed from them, may be changed by the motives of rewards and punishment, praise and blame. hence legislators and divines and moralists have principally applied themselves to the regulating these voluntary actions, and have endeavoured to produce additional motives for being virtuous in that particular. they knew, that to punish a man for folly, or exhort him to be prudent and sagacious, would have but little effect; though the same punishments and exhortations, with regard to justice and injustice, might have a considerable influence. but as men, in common life and conversation, do not carry those ends in view, but naturally praise or blame whatever pleases or displeases them, they do not seem much to regard this distinction, but consider prudence under the character of virtue as well as benevolence, and penetration as well as justice. nay, we find that all moralists, whose judgment is not perverted by a strict adherence to a system, enter into the same way of thinking; and that the ancient moralists, in particular, made no scruple of placing prudence at the head of the cardinal virtues. there is a sentiment of esteem and approbation, which may be excited, in some degree, by any faculty of the mind, in its perfect state and condition; and to account for this sentiment is the business of _philosophers_. it belongs to _grammarians_ to examine what qualities are entitled to the denomination of _virtue_; nor will they find, upon trial, that this is so easy a task as at first sight they may be apt to imagine. the principal reason why natural abilities are esteemed, is because of their tendency to be useful to the person who is possessed of them. 'tis impossible to execute any design with success, where it is not conducted with prudence and discretion; nor will the goodness of our intentions alone suffice to procure us a happy issue to our enterprises. men are superior to beasts principally by the superiority of their reason; and they are the degrees of the same faculty, which set such an infinite difference betwixt one man and another. all the advantages of art are owing to human reason; and where fortune is not very capricious, the most considerable part of these advantages must fall to the share of the prudent and sagacious. when it is asked, whether a quick or a slow apprehension be most valuable? whether one, that at first view penetrates into a subject, but can perform nothing upon study; or a contrary character, which must work out every thing by dint of application? whether a clear head, or a copious invention? whether a profound genius, or a sure judgment? in short, what character, or peculiar understanding, is more excellent than another? 'tis evident we can answer none of these questions, without considering which of those qualities capacitates a man best for the world, and carries him farthest in any of his undertakings. there are many other qualities of the mind, whose merit is derived from the same origin. _industry, perseverance, patience, activity, vigilance, application, constancy_, with other virtues of that kind, which 'twill be easy to recollect, are esteemed valuable upon no other account than their advantage in the conduct of life. 'tis the same case with _temperance, frugality, economy, resolution_; as, on the other hand, _prodigality, luxury, irresolution, uncertainty_, are vicious, merely because they draw ruin upon us, and incapacitate us for business and action. as wisdom and good sense are valued because they are _useful_ to the person possessed of them, so _wit_ and _eloquence_ are valued because they are _immediately agreeable_ to others. on the other hand, _good humour_ is loved and esteemed, because it is _immediately agreeable_ to the person himself. 'tis evident, that the conversation of a man of wit is very satisfactory; as a cheerful good-humoured companion diffuses a joy over the whole company, from a sympathy with his gaiety. these qualities, therefore, being agreeable, they naturally beget love and esteem, and answer to all the characters of virtue. 'tis difficult to tell, on many occasions, what it is that renders one man's conversation so agreeable and entertaining, and another's so insipid and distasteful. as conversation is a transcript of the mind as well as books, the same qualities which render the one valuable must give us an esteem for the other. this we shall consider afterwards. in the mean time, it may be affirmed in general, that all the merit a man may derive from his conversation (which, no doubt, may be very considerable) arises from nothing but the pleasure it conveys to those who are present. in this view, _cleanliness_ is also to be regarded as a virtue, since it naturally renders us agreeable to others, and is a very considerable source of love and affection. no one will deny that a negligence in this particular is a fault; and as faults are nothing but smaller vices, and this fault can have no other origin than the uneasy sensation which it excites in others, we may in this instance, seemingly so trivial, clearly discover the origin of the moral distinction of vice and virtue in other instances. besides all those qualities which render a person lovely or valuable, there is also a certain _je-ne-sçai-quoi_ of agreeable and handsome that concurs to the same effect. in this case, as well as in that of wit and eloquence, we must have recourse to a certain sense, which acts without reflection, and regards not the tendencies of qualities and characters. some moralists account for all the sentiments of virtue by this sense. their hypothesis is very plausible. nothing but a particular inquiry can give the preference to any other hypothesis. when we find that almost all the virtues have such particular tendencies, and also find that these tendencies are sufficient alone to give a strong sentiment of approbation, we cannot doubt, after this, that qualities are approved of in proportion to the advantage which results from them. the _decorum_ or _indecorum_ of a quality, with regard to the age, or character, or station, contributes also to its praise or blame. this decorum depends in a great measure upon experience. 'tis usual to see men lose their levity as they advance in years. such a degree of gravity, therefore, and such years, are connected together in our thoughts. when we observe, them separated in any person's character, this imposes a kind of violence on our imagination, and is disagreeable. that faculty of the soul which, of all others, is of the least consequence to the character, and has the least virtue or vice in its several degrees, at the same time that it admits of a great variety of degrees, is the _memory_. unless it rise up to that stupendous height as to surprise us, or sink so low as in some measure to affect the judgment, we commonly take no notice of its variations, nor ever mention them to the praise or dispraise of any person. 'tis so far from being a virtue to have a good memory, that men generally affect to complain of a bad one; and, endeavouring to persuade the world that what they say is entirely of their own invention, sacrifice it to the praise of genius and judgment. yet, to consider the matter abstractedly,'twould be difficult to give a reason why the faculty of recalling past ideas with truth and clearness, should not have as much merit in it as the faculty of placing our present ideas in such an order as to form true propositions and opinions. the reason of the difference certainly must be, that the memory is exerted without any sensation of pleasure or pain, and in all its middling degrees serves almost equally well in business and affairs. but the least variations in the judgment are sensibly felt in their consequences; while at the same time that faculty is never exerted in any eminent degree, without an extraordinary delight and satisfaction. the sympathy with this utility and pleasure bestows a merit on the understanding; and the absence of it makes us consider the memory as a faculty very indifferent to blame or praise. before i leave this subject of _natural abilities_, i must observe, that perhaps one source of the esteem and affection which attends them, is derived from the _importance_ and _weight_ which they bestow on the person possessed of them. he becomes of greater consequence in life. his resolutions and actions affect a greater number of his fellow-creatures. both his friendship and enmity are of moment. and 'tis easy to observe, that whoever is elevated, after this manner, above the rest of mankind, must excite in us the sentiments of esteem and approbation. whatever is important engages our attention, fixes our thought, and is contemplated with satisfaction. the histories of kingdoms are more interesting than domestic stories; the histories of great empires more than those of small cities and principalities; and the histories of wars and revolutions more than those of peace and order. we sympathize with the persons that suffer, in all the various sentiments which belong to their fortunes. the mind is occupied by the multitude of the objects, and by the strong passions that display themselves. and this occupation or agitation of the mind is commonly agreeable and amusing. the same theory accounts for the esteem and regard we pay to men of extraordinary parts and abilities. the good and ill of multitudes are connected with their actions. whatever they undertake is important, and challenges our attention. nothing is to be overlooked and despised that regards them. and where any person can excite these sentiments, he soon acquires our esteem, unless other circumstances of his character render him odious and disagreeable. [ ] love and esteem are at the bottom the same passions, and arise from like causes. the qualities that produce both are agreeable, and give pleasure. but where this pleasure is severe and serious; or where its object is great, and makes a strong impression; or where it produces any degree of humility and awe: in all these cases, the passion which arises from the pleasure is more properly denominated esteem than love. benevolence attends both; but is connected with love in a more eminent degree. section v. some farther reflections concerning the natural virtues. it has been observed, in treating of the passions, that pride and humility, love and hatred, are excited by any advantages or disadvantages of the _mind, body_, or _fortune_; and that these advantages or disadvantages have that effect by producing a separate impression of pain or pleasure. the pain or pleasure which arises from the general survey or view of any action or quality of the _mind_, constitutes its vice or virtue, and gives rise to our approbation or blame, which is nothing but a fainter and more imperceptible love or hatred. we have assigned four different sources of this pain and pleasure; and, in order to justify more fully that hypothesis, it may here be proper to observe, that the advantages or disadvantages of the _body_ and of _fortune_, produce a pain or pleasure from the very same principles. the tendency of any object to be _useful_ to the person possessed of it, or to others; to convey _pleasure_ to him or to others; all these circumstances convey an immediate pleasure to the person who considers the object, and command his love and approbation. to begin with the advantages of the _body_; we may observe a phenomenon which might appear somewhat trivial and ludicrous, if any thing could be trivial which fortified a conclusion of such importance, or ludicrous, which was employed in a philosophical reasoning. 'tis a general remark, that those we call good _women's men_, who have either signalized themselves by their amorous exploits, or whose make of body promises any extraordinary vigour of that kind, are well received by the fair sex, and naturally engage the affections even of those whose virtue prevents any design of ever giving employment to those talents. here 'tis evident that the ability of such a person to give enjoyment, is the real source of that love and esteem he meets with among the females; at the same time that the women who love and esteem him have no prospect of receiving that enjoyment themselves, and can only be affected by means of their sympathy with one that has a commerce of love with him. this instance is singular, and merits our attention. another source of the pleasure we receive from considering bodily advantages, is their utility to the person himself who is possessed of them. 'tis certain, that a considerable part of the beauty of men, as well as of other animals, consists in such a conformation of members as we find by experience to be attended with strength and agility, and to capacitate the creature for any action or exercise. broad shoulders, a lank belly, firm joints, taper legs; all these are beautiful in our species, because they are signs of force and vigour, which, being advantages we naturally sympathize with, they convey to the beholder a share of that satisfaction they produce in the possessor. so far as to the _utility_ which may attend any quality of the body. as to the immediate _pleasure_, 'tis certain that an air of health, as well as of strength and agility, makes a considerable part of beauty; and that a sickly air in another is always disagreeable, upon account of that idea of pain and uneasiness which it conveys to us. on the other hand, we are pleased with the regularity of our own features, though it be neither useful to ourselves nor others; and 'tis necessary for us in some measure to set ourselves at a distance, to make it convey to us any satisfaction. we commonly consider ourselves as we appear in the eyes of others, and sympathize with the advantageous sentiments they entertain with regard to us. how far the advantages of _fortune_ produce esteem and approbation from the same principles, we may satisfy ourselves by reflecting on our precedent reasoning on that subject. we have observed, that our approbation of those who are possessed of the advantages of fortune, may be ascribed to three different causes. _first_, to that immediate pleasure which a rich man gives us, by the view of the beautiful clothes, equipage, gardens, or houses, which he possesses. _secondly_, to the advantage which we hope to reap from him by his generosity and liberality. _thirdly_, to the pleasure and advantage which he himself reaps from his possessions, and which produce an agreeable sympathy in us. whether we ascribe our esteem of the rich and great to one or all of these causes, we may clearly see the traces of those principles which give rise to the sense of vice and virtue. i believe most people, at first sight, will be inclined to ascribe our esteem of the rich to self-interest and the prospect of advantage. but as 'tis certain that our esteem or deference extends beyond any prospect of advantage to ourselves, 'tis evident that that sentiment must proceed from a sympathy with those who are dependent on the person we esteem and respect, and who have an immediate connexion with him. we consider him as a person capable of contributing to the happiness or enjoyment of his fellow-creatures, whose sentiments with regard to him we naturally embrace. and this consideration will serve to justify my hypothesis in preferring the _third_ principle to the other two, and ascribing our esteem of the rich to a sympathy with the pleasure and advantage which they themselves receive from their possessions. for as even the other two principles cannot operate to a due extent, or account for all the phenomena without having recourse to a sympathy of one kind or other, 'tis much more natural to choose that sympathy which is immediate and direct, than that which is remote and indirect. to which we may add, that where the riches or power are very great, and render the person considerable and important, in the world, tire esteem attending them may in part be ascribed to another source, distinct from these three, viz. their interesting the mind by a prospect of the multitude and importance of their consequences; though, in order to account for the operation of this principle, we must also have recourse to _sympathy_, as we have observed in the preceding section. it may not be amiss, on this occasion, to remark the flexibility of our sentiments, and the several changes they so readily receive from the objects with which they are conjoined. all the sentiments of approbation which attend any particular species of objects, have a great resemblance to each other, though derived from different sources; and, on the other hand, those sentiments, when directed to different objects, are different to the feeling, though derived from the same source. thus, the beauty of all visible objects causes a pleasure pretty much the same, though it be sometimes derived from the mere _species_ and appearance of the objects; sometimes from sympathy, and an idea of their utility. in like manner, whenever we survey the actions and characters of men, without any particular interest in them, the pleasure or pain which arises from the survey (with some minute differences) is in the main of the same kind, though perhaps there be a great diversity in the causes from which it is derived. on the other hand, a convenient house and a virtuous character cause not the same feeling of approbation, even though the source of our approbation be the same, and flow from sympathy and an idea of their utility. there is something very inexplicable in this variation of our feelings; but 'tis what we have experience of with regard to all our passions and sentiments. section vi. conclusion of this book. thus, upon the whole, i am hopeful that nothing is wanting to an accurate proof of this system of ethics. we are certain that sympathy is a very powerful principle in human nature. we are also certain that it has a great influence on our sense of beauty, when we regard external objects, as well as when we judge of morals. we find that it has force sufficient to give us the strongest sentiments of approbation, when it operates alone, without the concurrence of any other principle; as in the cases of justice, allegiance, chastity, and good manners. we may observe, that all the circumstances requisite for its operation are found in most of the virtues, which have, for the most part, a tendency to the good of society, or to that of the person possessed of them. if we compare all these circumstances, we shall not doubt that sympathy is the chief source of moral distinctions; especially when we reflect, that no objection can be raised against this hypothesis in one case, which will not extend to all cases. justice is certainly approved of, for no other reason than because it has a tendency to the public good; and the public good is indifferent to us, except so far as sympathy interests us in it. we may presume the like with regard to all the other virtues, which have a like tendency to the public good. they must derive all their merit from our sympathy with those who reap any advantage from them; as the virtues, which have a tendency to the good of the person possessed of them, derive their merit from our sympathy with him. most people will readily allow, that the useful qualities of the mind are virtuous, because of their utility. this way of thinking is so natural, and occurs on so many occasions, that few will make any scruple of admitting it. now, this being once admitted, the force of sympathy must necessarily be acknowledged. virtue is considered as means to an end. means to an end are only valued so far as the end is valued. but the happiness of strangers affects us by sympathy alone. to that principle, therefore, we are to ascribe the sentiment of approbation which arises from the survey of all those virtues that are useful to society, or to the person possessed of them. these form the most considerable part of morality. were it proper, in such a subject, to bribe the reader's assent, or employ any thing but solid argument, we are here abundantly supplied with topics to engage the affections. all lovers of virtue (and such we all are in speculation, however we may degenerate in practice) must certainly be pleased to see moral distinctions derived from so noble a source, which gives us a just notion both of the _generosity_ and _capacity_ of human nature. it requires but very little knowledge of human affairs to perceive, that a sense of morals is a principle inherent in the soul, and one of the most powerful that enters into the composition. but this sense must certainly acquire new force when, reflecting on itself, it approves of those principles from whence it is derived, and finds nothing but what is great and good in its rise and origin. those who resolve the sense of morals into original instincts of the human mind, may defend the cause of virtue with sufficient authority, but want the advantage which those possess who account for that sense by an extensive sympathy with mankind. according to their system, not only virtue must be approved of, but also the sense of virtue: and not only that sense, but also the principles from whence it is derived. so that nothing is presented on any side but what is laudable and good. this observation may be extended to justice, and the other virtues of that kind. though justice be artificial, the sense of its morality is natural. 'tis the combination of men in a system of conduct, which renders any act of justice beneficial to society. but when once it has that tendency, we _naturally_ approve of it; and if we did not so, 'tis impossible any combination or convention could ever produce that sentiment. most of the inventions of men are subject to change. they depend upon humour and caprice. they have a vogue for a time, and then sink into oblivion. it may perhaps be apprehended, that if justice were allowed to be a human invention, it must be placed on the same footing. but the cases are widely different. the interest on which justice is founded is the greatest imaginable, and extends to all times and places. it cannot possibly be served by any other invention. it is obvious, and discovers itself on the very first formation of society. all these causes render the rules of justice steadfast and immutable; at least, as immutable as human nature. and if they were founded on original instincts, could they have any greater stability? the same system may help us to form a just notion of the _happiness_, as well as of the _dignity_ of virtue, and may interest every principle of our nature in the embracing and cherishing that noble quality. who indeed does not feel an accession of alacrity in his pursuits of knowledge and ability of every kind, when he considers, that besides the advantages which immediately result from these acquisitions, they also give him a new lustre in the eyes of mankind, and are universally attended with esteem and approbation? and who can think any advantages of fortune a sufficient compensation for the least breach of the _social_ virtues, when he considers, that not only his character with regard to others, but also his peace and inward satisfaction entirely depend upon his strict observance of them; and that a mind will never be able to bear its own survey, that has been wanting in its parts to mankind and society? but i forbear insisting on this subject. such reflections require a work apart, very different from the genius of the present. the anatomist ought never to emulate the painter; nor in his accurate dissections and portraitures of the smaller parts of the human body, pretend to give his figures any graceful and engaging attitude or expression. there is even something hideous, or at least minute, in the views of things which he presents; and 'tis necessary the objects should be set more at a distance, and be more covered up from sight, to make them engaging to the eye and imagination. an anatomist, however, is admirably fitted to give advice to a painter; and 'tis even impracticable to excel in the latter art, without the assistance of the former. we must have an exact knowledge of the parts, their situation and connection, before we can design with any elegance or correctness. and thus the most abstract speculations concerning human nature, however cold and unentertaining, become subservient to _practical morality_; and may render this latter science more correct in its precepts, and more persuasive in its exhortations. see appendix at the end of the volume. dialogues concerning natural religion pamphilus to hermippus. it has been remarked, my hermippus, that though the ancient philosophers conveyed most of their instruction in the form of dialogue, this method of composition has been little practised in later ages, and has seldom succeeded in the hands of those who have attempted it. accurate and regular argument, indeed, such as is now expected of philosophical inquirers, naturally throws a man into the methodical and didactic manner; where he can immediately, without preparation, explain the point at which he aims; and thence proceed, without interruption, to deduce the proofs on which it is established. to deliver a *system in conversation, scarcely appears natural; and while the dialogue-writer desires, by departing from the direct style of composition, to give a freer air to his performance, and avoid the appearance of _author_ and _reader_, he is apt to run into a worse inconvenience, and convey the image of _pedagogue_ and _pupil_. or, if he carries on the dispute in the natural spirit of good company, by throwing in a variety of topics, and preserving a proper balance among the speakers, he often loses so much time in preparations and transitions, that the reader will scarcely think himself compensated, by all the graces of dialogue, for the order, brevity and precision, which are sacrificed to them. there are some subjects, however, to which dialogue-writing is peculiarly adapted, and where it is still preferable to the direct and simple method of composition. any point of doctrine, which is so _obvious_ that it scarcely admits of dispute, but at the same time so _important_ that it cannot be too often inculcated, seems to require some such method of handling it; where the novelty of the manner may compensate the triteness of the subject; where the vivacity of conversation may enforce the precept; and where the variety of lights, presented by various personages and characters, may appear neither tedious nor redundant. any question of philosophy, on the other hand, which is so _obscure_ and _uncertain_, that human reason, can reach no fixed determination with regard to it; if it should be treated at all, seems to lead us naturally into the style of dialogue and conversation. reasonable men may be allowed to differ, where no one can reasonably be positive: opposite sentiments, even without any decision, afford an agreeable amusement; and if the subject be curious and interesting, the book carries us, in a manner, into company; and unites the two greatest and purest pleasures of human life, study and society. happily, these circumstances are all to be found in the subject of natural religion. what truth so obvious, so certain, as the being of a god, which the most ignorant ages have acknowledged, for which the most refined geniuses have ambitiously striven to produce new proofs and arguments? what truth so important as this, which is the ground of all our hopes, the surest foundation of morality, the firmest support of society, and the only principle which ought never to be a moment absent from our thoughts and meditations? but, in treating of this obvious and important truth, what obscure questions occur concerning the nature of that divine being, his attributes, his decrees, his plan of providence? these have been always subjected to the disputations of men; concerning these human reason has not reached any certain determination. but these are topics so interesting, that we cannot restrain our restless inquiry with regard to them; though nothing but doubt, uncertainty and contradiction, have as yet been the result of our most accurate researches. this i had lately occasion to observe, while i passed, as usual, part of the summer season with cleanthes, and was present at those conversations of his with philo and demea, of which i gave you lately some imperfect account. your curiosity, you then told me, was so excited, that i must, of necessity, enter into a more exact detail of their reasonings, and display those various systems which they advanced with regard to so delicate a subject as that of natural religion. the remarkable contrast in their characters still farther raised your expectations; while you opposed the accurate philosophical turn of cleanthes to the careless scepticism of philo, or compared either of their dispositions with the rigid inflexible orthodoxy of demea. my youth rendered me a mere auditor of their disputes; and that curiosity, natural to the early season of life, has so deeply imprinted in my memory the whole chain and connexion of their arguments, that, i hope, i shall not omit or confound any considerable part of them in the recital. part i. after i joined the company, whom i found sitting in cleanthes's library, demea paid cleanthes some compliments on the great care which he took of my education, and on his unwearied perseverance and constancy in all his friendships. the father of pamphilus, said he, was your intimate friend: the son is your pupil; and may indeed be regarded as your adopted son, were we to judge by the pains which you bestow in conveying to him every useful branch of literature and science. you are no more wanting, i am persuaded, in prudence than in industry. i shall, therefore, communicate to you a maxim, which i have observed with regard to my own children, that i may learn how far it agrees with your practice. the method i follow in their education is founded on the saying of an ancient, 'that students of philosophy ought first to learn logics, then ethics, next physics, last of all the nature of the gods.'[ ] this science of natural theology, according to him, being the most profound and abstruse of any, required the maturest judgment in its students; and none but a mind enriched with all the other sciences, can safely be intrusted with it. are you so late, says philo, in teaching your children the principles of religion? is there no danger of their neglecting, or rejecting altogether those opinions of which they have heard so little during the whole course of their education? it is only as a science, replied demea, subjected to human reasoning and disputation, that i postpone the study of natural theology. to season their minds with early piety, is my chief care; and by continual precept and instruction, and i hope too by example, i imprint deeply on their tender minds an habitual reverence for all the principles of religion. while they pass through every other science, i still remark the uncertainty of each part; the eternal disputations of men; the obscurity of all philosophy; and the strange, ridiculous conclusions, which some of the greatest geniuses have derived from the principles of mere human reason. having thus tamed their mind to a proper submission and self-diffidence, i have no longer any scruple of opening to them the greatest mysteries of religion; nor apprehend any danger from that assuming arrogance of philosophy, which may lead them to reject the most established doctrines and opinions. your precaution, says, philo, of seasoning your childrens minds early with piety, is certainly very reasonable; and no more than is requisite in this profane and irreligious age. but what i chiefly admire in your plan of education, is your method of drawing advantage from the very principles of philosophy and learning, which, by inspiring pride and self-sufficiency, have commonly, in all ages, been found so destructive to the principles of religion. the vulgar, indeed, we may remark, who are unacquainted with science and profound inquiry, observing the endless disputes of the learned, have commonly a thorough contempt for philosophy; and rivet themselves the faster, by that means, in the great points of theology which have been taught them. those who enter a little into study and inquiry, finding many appearances of evidence in doctrines the newest and most extraordinary, think nothing too difficult for human reason; and, presumptuously breaking through all fences, profane the inmost sanctuaries of the temple. but cleanthes will, i hope, agree with me, that, after we have abandoned ignorance, the surest remedy, there is still one expedient left to prevent this profane liberty. let demea's principles be improved and cultivated: let us become thoroughly sensible of the weakness, blindness, and narrow limits of human reason: let us duly consider its uncertainty and endless contrarieties, even in subjects of common life and practice: let the errors and deceits of our very senses be set before us; the insuperable difficulties which attend first principles in all systems; the contradictions which adhere to the very ideas of matter, cause and effect, extension, space, time, motion; and in a word, quantity of all kinds, the object of the only science that can fairly pretend to any certainty or evidence. when these topics are displayed in their full light, as they are by some philosophers and almost all divines; who can retain such confidence in this frail faculty of reason as to pay any regard to its determinations in points so sublime, so abstruse, so remote from common life and experience? when the coherence of the parts of a stone, or even that composition of parts which renders it extended; when these familiar objects, i say, are so inexplicable, and contain circumstances so repugnant and contradictory; with what assurance can we decide concerning the origin of worlds, or trace their history from eternity to eternity? while philo pronounced these words, i could observe a smile in the countenance both of demea and cleanthes. that of demea seemed to imply an unreserved satisfaction in the doctrines delivered: but, in cleanthes's features, i could distinguish an air of finesse; as if he perceived some raillery or artificial malice in the reasonings of philo. you propose then, philo, said cleanthes, to erect religious faith on philosophical scepticism; and you think, that if certainty or evidence be expelled from every other subject of inquiry, it will all retire to these theological doctrines, and there acquire a superior force and authority. whether your scepticism be as absolute and sincere as you pretend, we shall learn by and by, when the company breaks up: we shall then see, whether you go out at the door or the window; and whether you really doubt if your body has gravity, or can be injured by its fall; according to popular opinion, derived from our fallacious senses, and more fallacious experience. and this consideration, demea, may, i think, fairly serve to abate our ill-will to this humorous sect of the sceptics. if they be thoroughly in earnest, they will not long trouble the world with their doubts, cavils, and disputes: if they be only in jest, they are, perhaps, bad railers; but can never be very dangerous, either to the state, to philosophy, or to religion. in reality, philo, continued he, it seems certain, that though a man, in a flush of humour, after intense reflection on the many contradictions and imperfections of human reason, may entirely renounce all belief and opinion, it is impossible for him to persevere in this total scepticism, or make it appear in his conduct for a few hours. external objects press in upon him; passions solicit him; his philosophical melancholy dissipates; and even the utmost violence upon his own temper will not be able, during any time, to preserve the poor appearance of scepticism. and for what reason impose on himself such a violence? this is a point in which it will be impossible for him ever to satisfy himself, consistently with his sceptical principles. so that, upon the whole, nothing could be more ridiculous than the principles of the ancient pyrrhonians; if in reality they endeavoured, as is pretended, to extend, throughout, the same scepticism which they had learned from the declamations of their schools, and which they ought to have confined to them. in this view, there appears a great resemblance between the sects of the stoics and pyrrhonians, though perpetual antagonists; and both of them seem founded on this erroneous maxim, that what a man can perform sometimes, and in some dispositions, he can perform always, and in every disposition. when the mind, by stoical reflections, is elevated into a sublime enthusiasm of virtue, and strongly smit with any _species_ of honour or public good, the utmost bodily pain and sufferings will not prevail over such a high sense of duty; and it is possible, perhaps, by its means, even to smile and exult in the midst of tortures. if this sometimes may be the case in fact and reality, much more may a philosopher, in his school, or even in his closet, work himself up to such an enthusiasm, and support in imagination the acutest pain or most calamitous event which he can possibly conceive. but how shall he support this enthusiasm itself? the bent of his mind relaxes, and cannot be recalled at pleasure; avocations lead him astray; misfortunes attack him unawares; and the _philosopher_ sinks by degrees into the _plebeian_. i allow of your comparison between the stoics and sceptics, replied philo. but you may observe, at the same time, that though the mind cannot, in stoicism, support the highest flights of philosophy, yet, even when it sinks lower, it still retains somewhat of its former disposition; and the effects of the stoic's reasoning will appear in his conduct in common life, and through the whole tenor of his actions. the ancient schools, particularly that of zeno, produced examples of virtue and constancy which seem astonishing to present times. vain wisdom all and false philosophy. yet with a pleasing sorcery could charm pain, for a while, or anguish; and excite fallacious hope, or arm the obdurate breast with stubborn patience, as with triple steel. in like manner, if a man has accustomed himself to sceptical considerations on the uncertainty and narrow limits of reason, he will not entirely forget them when he turns his reflection on other subjects; but in all his philosophical principles and reasoning, i dare not say in his common conduct, he will be found different from those, who either never formed any opinions in the case, or have entertained sentiments more favourable to human reason. to whatever length any one may push his speculative principles of scepticism, he must act, i own, and live, and converse, like other men; and for this conduct he is not obliged to give any other reason, than the absolute necessity he lies under of so doing. if he ever carries his speculations farther than this necessity constrains him, and philosophizes either on natural or moral subjects, he is allured by a certain pleasure and satisfaction which he finds in employing himself after that manner. he considers besides, that every one, even in common life, is constrained to have more or less of this philosophy; that from our earliest infancy we make continual advances in forming more general principles of conduct and reasoning; that the larger experience we acquire, and the stronger reason we are endued with, we always render our principles the more general and comprehensive; and that what we call _philosophy_ is nothing but a more regular and methodical operation of the same kind. to philosophize on such subjects, is nothing essentially different from reasoning on common life; and we may only expect greater stability, if not greater truth, from our philosophy, on account of its exacter and more scrupulous method of proceeding. but when we look beyond human affairs and the properties of the surrounding bodies: when we carry our speculations into the two eternities, before and after the present state of things; into the creation and formation of the universe; the existence and properties of spirits; the powers and operations, of one universal spirit existing without beginning and without end; omnipotent, omniscient, immutable, infinite and incomprehensible: we must be far removed from the smallest tendency to scepticism not to be apprehensive, that we have here got quite beyond the reach of our faculties. so long as we confine our speculations to trade, or morals, or politics, or criticism, we make appeals, every moment, to common sense and experience, which strengthen our philosophical conclusions, and remove, at least in part, the suspicion which we so justly entertain with regard to every reasoning that is very subtile and refined. but, in theological reasonings, we have not this advantage; while, at the same time, we are employed upon objects, which, we must be sensible, are too large for our grasp, and of all others require most to be familiarized to our apprehension. we are like foreigners in a strange country, to whom every thing must seem suspicious, and who are in danger every moment of transgressing against the laws and customs of the people with whom they live and converse. we know not how far we ought to trust our vulgar methods of reasoning in such a subject; since, even in common life, and in that province which is peculiarly appropriated to them, we cannot account for them, and are entirely guided by a kind of instinct or necessity in employing them. all sceptics pretend, that, if reason be considered in an abstract view, it furnishes invincible arguments against itself: and that we could never retain any conviction or assurance, on any subject, were not the sceptical reasonings so refined and subtile, that they are not able to counterpoise the more solid and more natural arguments derived from the senses and experience. but it is evident, whenever our arguments lose this advantage, and run wide of common life, that the most refined scepticism comes to be upon a footing with them, and is able to oppose and counterbalance them. the one has no more weight than the other. the mind must remain in suspense between them; and it is that very suspense or balance, which is the triumph of scepticism. but i observe, says cleanthes, with regard to you, philo, and all speculative sceptics, that your doctrine and practice are as much at variance in the most abstruse points of theory as in the conduct of common life. wherever evidence discovers itself, you adhere to it, notwithstanding your pretended scepticism; and i can observe, too, some of your sect to be as decisive as those who make greater professions of certainty and assurance. in reality, would not a man be ridiculous, who pretended to reject newton's explication of the wonderful phenomenon of the rainbow, because that explication gives a minute anatomy of the rays of light; a subject, forsooth, too refined for human comprehension? and what would you say to one, who, having nothing particular to object to the arguments of copernicus and galilæo for the motion of the earth, should withhold his assent, on that general principle, that these subjects were too magnificent and remote to be explained by the narrow and fallacious reason of mankind? there is indeed a kind of brutish and ignorant scepticism, as you well observed, which gives the vulgar a general prejudice against what they do not easily understand, and makes them reject every principle which requires elaborate reasoning to prove and establish it. this species of scepticism is fatal to knowledge, not to religion; since we find, that those who make greatest profession of it, give often their assent, not only to the great truths of theism and natural theology, but even to the most absurd tenets which a traditional superstition has recommended to them. they firmly believe in witches, though they will not believe nor attend to the most simple proposition of euclid. but the refined and philosophical sceptics fall into an inconsistence of an opposite nature. they push their researches into the most abstruse corners of science; and their assent attends them in every step, proportioned to the evidence which they meet with. they are even obliged to acknowledge, that the most abstruse and remote objects are those which are best explained by philosophy. light is in reality anatomized: the true system of the heavenly bodies is discovered and ascertained. but the nourishment of bodies by food is still an inexplicable mystery: the cohesion of the parts of matter is still incomprehensible. these sceptics, therefore, are obliged, in every question, to consider each particular evidence apart, and proportion their assent to the precise degree of evidence which occurs. this is their practice in all natural, mathematical, moral, and political science. and why not the same, i ask, in the theological and religious? why must conclusions of this nature be alone rejected on the general presumption of the insufficiency of human reason, without any particular discussion of the evidence? is not such an unequal conduct a plain proof of prejudice and passion? our senses, you say, are fallacious; our understanding erroneous; our ideas, even of the most familiar objects, extension, duration, motion, full of absurdities and contradictions. you defy me to solve the difficulties, or reconcile the repugnancies which you discover in them. i have not capacity for so great an undertaking: i have not leisure for it: i perceive it to be superfluous. your own conduct, in every circumstance, refutes your principles, and shows the firmest reliance on all the received maxims of science, morals, prudence, and behaviour. i shall never assent to so harsh an opinion as that of a celebrated writer,[ ] who says, that the sceptics are not a sect of philosophers: they are only a sect of liars. i may, however, affirm (i hope without offence), that they are a sect of jesters or railers. but for my part, whenever i find myself disposed to mirth and amusement, i shall certainly choose my entertainment of a less perplexing and abstruse nature. a comedy, a novel, or at most a history, seems a more natural recreation than such metaphysical subtilties and abstractions. in vain would the sceptic make a distinction between science and common life, or between one science and another. the arguments employed in all, if just, are of a similar nature, and contain the same force and evidence. or if there be any difference among them, the advantage lies entirely on the side of theology and natural religion. many principles of mechanics are founded on very abstruse reasoning; yet no man who has any pretensions to science, even no speculative sceptic, pretends to entertain the least doubt with regard to them. the copernican system contains the most surprising paradox, and the most contrary to our natural conceptions, to appearances, and to our very senses: yet even monks and inquisitors are now constrained to withdraw their opposition to it. and shall philo, a man of so liberal a genius and extensive knowledge, entertain any general undistinguished scruples with regard to the religious hypothesis, which is founded on the simplest and most obvious arguments, and, unless it meets with artificial obstacles, has such easy access and admission into the mind of man? and here we may observe, continued he, turning himself towards demea, a pretty curious circumstance in the history of the sciences. after the union of philosophy with the popular religion, upon the first establishment of christianity, nothing was more usual, among all religious teachers, than declamations against reason, against the senses, against every principle derived merely from human research and inquiry. all the topics of the ancient academics were adopted by the fathers; and thence propagated for several ages in every school and pulpit throughout christendom. the reformers embraced the same principles of reasoning, or rather declamation; and all panegyrics on the excellency of faith, were sure to be interlarded with some severe strokes of satire against natural reason. a celebrated prelate too,[ ] of the romish communion, a man of the most extensive learning, who wrote a demonstration of christianity, has also composed a treatise, which contains all the cavils of the boldest and most determined pyrrhonism. locke seems to have been the first christian who ventured openly to assert, that _faith_ was nothing but a species of _reason_; that religion was only a branch of philosophy; and that a chain of arguments, similar to that which established any truth in morals, politics, or physics, was always employed in discovering all the principles of theology, natural and revealed. the ill use which bayle and other libertines made of the philosophical scepticism of the fathers and first reformers, still farther propagated the judicious sentiment of mr locke: and it is now in a manner avowed, by all pretenders to reasoning and philosophy, that atheist and sceptic are almost synonymous. and as it is certain that no man is in earnest when he professes the latter principle, i would fain hope that there are as few who seriously maintain the former. don't you remember, said philo, the excellent saying of lord bacon on this head? that a little philosophy, replied cleanthes, makes a man an atheist: a great deal converts him to religion. that is a very judicious remark too, said philo. but what i have in my eye is another passage, where, having mentioned david's fool, who said in his heart there is no god, this great philosopher observes, that the atheists now-a-days have a double share of folly; for they are not contented to say in their hearts there is no god, but they also utter that impiety with their lips, and are thereby guilty of multiplied indiscretion and imprudence. such people, though they were ever so much in earnest, cannot, methinks, be very formidable. but though you should rank me in this class of fools, i cannot forbear communicating a remark that occurs to me, from the history of the religious and irreligious scepticism with which you have entertained us. it appears to me, that there are strong symptoms of priestcraft in the whole progress of this affair. during ignorant ages, such as those which followed the dissolution of the ancient schools, the priests perceived, that atheism, deism, or heresy of any kind, could only proceed from the presumptuous questioning of received opinions, and from a belief that human reason was equal to every thing. education had then a mighty influence over the minds of men, and was almost equal in force to those suggestions of the senses and common understanding, by which the most determined sceptic must allow himself to be governed. but at present, when the influence of education is much diminished, and men, from a more open commerce of the world, have learned to compare the popular principles of different nations and ages, our sagacious divines have changed their whole system of philosophy, and talk the language of stoics, platonists, and peripatetics, not that of pyrrhonians and academics. if we distrust human reason, we have now no other principle to lead us into religion. thus, sceptics in one age, dogmatists in another; whichever system best suits the purpose of these reverend gentlemen, in giving them an ascendant over mankind, they are sure to make it their favourite principle, and established tenet. it is very natural, said cleanthes, for men to embrace those principles, by which they find they can best defend their doctrines; nor need we have any recourse to priestcraft to account for so reasonable an expedient. and, surely nothing can afford a stronger presumption, that any set of principles are true, and ought to be embraced, than to observe that they tend to the confirmation of true religion, and serve to confound the cavils of atheists, libertines, and freethinkers of all denominations. [ ] chrysippus apud plut. de repug. stoicorum. [ ] l'art de penser. [ ] mons. huet. part ii. i must own, cleanthes, said demea, that nothing can more surprise me, than the light in which you have all along put this argument. by the whole tenor of your discourse, one would imagine that you were maintaining the being of a god, against the cavils of atheists and infidels; and were necessitated to become a champion for that fundamental principle of all religion. but this, i hope, is not by any means a question among us. no man, no man at least of common sense, i am persuaded, ever entertained a serious doubt with regard to a truth so certain and self-evident. the question is not concerning the *being, but the $nature of *god. this, i affirm, from the infirmities of human understanding, to be altogether incomprehensible and unknown to us. the essence of that supreme mind, his attributes, the manner of his existence, the very nature of his duration; these, and every particular which regards so divine a being, are mysterious to men. finite, weak, and blind creatures, we ought to humble ourselves in his august presence; and, conscious of our frailties, adore in silence his infinite perfections, which eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard, neither hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive. they are covered in a deep cloud from human curiosity: it is profaneness to attempt penetrating through these sacred obscurities: and, next to the impiety of denying his existence, is the temerity of prying into his nature and essence, decrees and attributes. but lest you should think that my _piety_ has here got the better of my _philosophy_, i shall support my opinion, if it needs any support, by a very great authority. i might cite all the divines, almost, from the foundation of christianity, who have ever treated of this or any other theological subject: but i shall confine myself, at present, to one equally celebrated for piety and philosophy. it is father malebranche, who, i remember, thus expresses himself.[ ] 'one ought not so much,' says he, 'to call god a spirit, in order to express positively what he is, as in order to signify that he is not matter. he is a being infinitely perfect: of this we cannot doubt. but in the same manner as we ought not to imagine, even supposing him corporeal, that he is clothed with a human body, as the anthropomorphites asserted, under colour that that figure was the most perfect of any; so, neither ought we to imagine that the spirit of god has human ideas, or bears any resemblance to our spirit, under colour that we know nothing more perfect than a human mind. we ought rather to believe, that as he comprehends the perfections of matter without being material.... he comprehends also the perfections of created spirits without being spirit, in the manner we conceive spirit: that his true name is, _he that is_; or, in other words, being without restriction, all being, the being infinite and universal.' after so great an authority, demea, replied philo, as that which you have produced, and a thousand more which you might produce, it would appear ridiculous in me to add my sentiment, or express my approbation of your doctrine. but surely, where reasonable men treat these subjects, the question can never be concerning the _being_, but only the _nature_, of the deity. the former truth, as you well observe, is unquestionable and self-evident. nothing exists without a cause; and the original cause of this universe (whatever it be) we call god; and piously ascribe to him every species of perfection. whoever scruples this fundamental truth, deserves every punishment which can be inflicted among philosophers, to wit, the greatest ridicule, contempt, and disapprobation. but as all perfection is entirely relative, we ought never to imagine that we comprehend the attributes of this divine being, or to suppose that his perfections have any analogy or likeness to the perfections of a human creature. wisdom, thought, design, knowledge; these we justly ascribe to him; because these words are honourable among men, and we have no other language or other conceptions by which we can express our adoration of him. but let us beware, lest we think that our ideas anywise correspond to his perfections, or that his attributes have any resemblance to these qualities among men. he is infinitely superior to our limited view and comprehension; and is more the object of worship in the temple, than of disputation in the schools. in reality, cleanthes, continued he, there is no need of having recourse to that affected scepticism so displeasing to you, in order to come at this determination. our ideas reach no farther than our experience: we have no experience of divine attributes and operations: i need not conclude my syllogism: you can draw the inference yourself. and it is a pleasure to me (and i hope to you too) that just reasoning and sound piety here concur in the same conclusion, and both of them establish the adorably mysterious and incomprehensible nature of the supreme being. not to lose any time in circumlocutions, said cleanthes, addressing himself to demea, much less in replying to the pious declamations of philo; i shall briefly explain how i conceive this matter. look round the world: contemplate the whole and every part of it: you will find it to be nothing but one great machine, subdivided into an infinite number of lesser machines, which again admit of subdivisions to a degree beyond what human senses and faculties can trace and explain. all these various machines, and even their most minute parts, are adjusted to each other with an accuracy which ravishes into admiration all men who have ever contemplated them. the curious adapting of means to ends, throughout all nature, resembles exactly, though it much exceeds, the productions of human contrivance; of human design, thought, wisdom, and intelligence. since therefore the effects resemble each other, we are led to infer, by all the rules of analogy, that the causes also resemble; and that the author of nature is somewhat similar to the mind of man, though possessed of much larger faculties, proportioned to the grandeur of the work which he has executed. by this argument _a posteriori_, and by this argument alone, do we prove at once the existence of a deity, and his similarity to human mind and intelligence. i shall be so free, cleanthes, said demea, as to tell you, that from the beginning i could not approve of your conclusion concerning the similarity of the deity to men; still less can i approve of the mediums by which you endeavour to establish it. what! no demonstration of the being of god! no abstract arguments! no proofs _a priori_! are these, which have hitherto been so much insisted on by philosophers, all fallacy, all sophism? can we reach no farther in this subject than experience and probability? i will not say that this is betraying the cause of a deity; but surely, by this affected candour, you give advantages to atheists, which they never could obtain by the mere dint of argument and reasoning. what i chiefly scruple in this subject, said philo, is not so much that all religious arguments are by cleanthes reduced to experience, as that they appear not to be even the most certain and irrefragable of that inferior kind. that a stone will fall, that fire will burn, that the earth has solidity, we have observed a thousand and a thousand times; and when any new instance of this nature is presented, we draw without hesitation the accustomed inference. the exact similarity of the cases gives us a perfect assurance of a similar event; and a stronger evidence is never desired nor sought after. but wherever you depart, in the least, from the similarity of the cases, you diminish proportionably the evidence; and may at last bring it to a very weak _analogy_, which is confessedly liable to error and uncertainty. after having experienced the circulation of the blood in human creatures, we make no doubt that it takes place in titius and mævius: but from its circulation in frogs and fishes, it is only a presumption, though a strong one, from analogy, that it takes place in men and other animals. the analogical reasoning is much weaker, when we infer the circulation of the sap in vegetables from our experience that the blood circulates in animals; and those, who hastily followed that imperfect analogy, are found, by more accurate experiments, to have been mistaken. if we see a house, cleanthes, we conclude, with the greatest certainty, that it had an architect or builder; because this is precisely that species of effect which we have experienced to proceed from that species of cause. but surely you will not affirm, that the universe bears such a resemblance to a house, that we can with the same certainty infer a similar cause, or that the analogy is here entire and perfect. the dissimilitude is so striking, that the utmost you can here pretend to is a guess, a conjecture, a presumption concerning a similar cause; and how that pretension will be received in the world, i leave you to consider. it would surely be very ill received, replied cleanthes; and i should be deservedly blamed and detested, did i allow, that the proofs of a deity amounted to no more than a guess or conjecture. but is the whole adjustment of means to ends in a house and in the universe so slight a resemblance? the economy of final causes? the order, proportion, and arrangement of every part? steps of a stair are plainly contrived, that human legs may use them in mounting; and this inference is certain and infallible. human legs are also contrived for walking and mounting; and this inference, i allow, is not altogether so certain, because of the dissimilarity which you remark; but does it, therefore, deserve the name only of presumption or conjecture? good god! cried demea, interrupting him, where are we? zealous defenders of religion allow, that the proofs of a deity fall short of perfect evidence! and you, philo, on whose assistance i depended in proving the adorable mysteriousness of the divine nature, do you assent to all these extravagant opinions of cleanthes? for what other name can i give them? or, why spare my censure, when such principles are advanced, supported by such an authority, before so young a man as pamphilus? you seem not to apprehend, replied philo, that i argue with cleanthes in his own way; and, by showing him the dangerous consequences of his tenets, hope at last to reduce him to our opinion. but what sticks most with you, i observe, is the representation which cleanthes has made of the argument _a posteriori_; and finding that that argument is likely to escape your hold and vanish into air, you think it so disguised, that you can scarcely believe it to be set in its true light. now, however much i may dissent, in other respects, from the dangerous principles of cleanthes, i must allow that he has fairly represented that argument; and i shall endeavour so to state the matter to you, that you will entertain no farther scruples with regard to it. were a man to abstract from every thing which he knows or has seen, he would be altogether incapable, merely from his own ideas, to determine what kind of scene the universe must be, or to give the preference to one state or situation of things above another. for as nothing which he clearly conceives could be esteemed impossible or implying a contradiction, every chimera of his fancy would be upon an equal footing; nor could he assign any just reason why he adheres to one idea or system, and rejects the others which are equally possible. again; after he opens his eyes, and contemplates the world as it really is, it would be impossible for him at first to assign the cause of any one event, much less of the whole of things, or of the universe. he might set his fancy a rambling; and she might bring him in an infinite variety of reports and representations. these would all be possible; but being all equally possible, he would never of himself give a satisfactory account for his preferring one of them to the rest. experience alone can point out to him the true cause of any phenomenon. now, according to this method of reasoning, demea, it follows, (and is, indeed, tacitly allowed by cleanthes himself), that order, arrangement, or the adjustment of final causes, is not of itself any proof of design; but only so far as it has been experienced to proceed from that principle. for aught we can know _a priori_, matter may contain the source or spring of order originally within itself, as well as mind does; and there is no more difficulty in conceiving, that the several elements, from an internal unknown cause, may fall into the most exquisite arrangement, than to conceive that their ideas, in the great universal mind, from a like internal unknown cause, fall into that arrangement. the equal possibility of both these suppositions is allowed. but, by experience, we find, (according to cleanthes), that there is a difference between them. throw several pieces of steel together, without shape or form; they will never arrange themselves so as to compose a watch. stone, and mortar, and wood, without an architect, never erect a house. but the ideas in a human mind, we see, by an unknown, inexplicable economy, arrange themselves so as to form the plan of a watch or house. experience, therefore, proves, that there is an original principle of order in mind, not in matter. from similar effects we infer similar causes. the adjustment of means to ends is alike in the universe, as in a machine of human contrivance. the causes, therefore, must be resembling. i was from the beginning scandalized, i must own, with this resemblance, which is asserted, between the deity and human creatures; and must conceive it to imply such a degradation of the supreme being as no sound theist could endure. with your assistance, therefore, demea, i shall endeavour to defend what you justly call the adorable mysteriousness of the divine nature, and shall refute this reasoning of cleanthes, provided he allows that i have made a fair representation of it. when cleanthes had assented, philo, after a short pause, proceeded in the following manner. that all inferences, cleanthes, concerning fact, are founded on experience; and that all experimental reasonings are founded on the supposition that similar causes prove similar effects, and similar effects similar causes; i shall not at present much dispute with you. but observe, i entreat you, with what extreme caution all just reasoners proceed in the transferring of experiments to similar cases. unless the cases be exactly similar, they repose no perfect confidence in applying their past observation to any particular phenomenon. every alteration of circumstances occasions a doubt concerning the event; and it requires new experiments to prove certainly, that the new circumstances are of no moment or importance. a change in bulk, situation, arrangement, age, disposition of the air, or surrounding bodies; any of these particulars may be attended with the most unexpected consequences: and unless the objects be quite familiar to us, it is the highest temerity to expect with assurance, after any of these changes, an event similar to that which before fell under our observation. the slow and deliberate steps of philosophers here, if any where, are distinguished from the precipitate march of the vulgar, who, hurried on by the smallest similitude, are incapable of all discernment or consideration. but can you think, cleanthes, that your usual phlegm and philosophy have been preserved in so wide a step as you have taken, when you compared to the universe houses, ships, furniture, machines, and, from their similarity in some circumstances, inferred a similarity in their causes? thought, design, intelligence, such as we discover in men and other animals, is no more than one of the springs and principles of the universe, as well as heat or cold, attraction or repulsion, and a hundred others, which fall under daily observation. it is an active cause, by which some particular parts of nature, we find, produce alterations on other parts. but can a conclusion, with any propriety, be transferred from parts to the whole? does not the great disproportion bar all comparison and inference? from observing the growth of a hair, can we learn any thing concerning the generation of a man? would the manner of a leaf's blowing, even though perfectly known, afford us any instruction concerning the vegetation of a tree? but, allowing that we were to take the _operations_ of one part of nature upon another, for the foundation of our judgment concerning the _origin_ of the whole, (which never can be admitted), yet why select so minute, so weak, so bounded a principle, as the reason and design of animals is found to be upon this planet? what peculiar privilege has this little agitation of the brain which we call _thought_, that we must thus make it the model of the whole universe? our partiality in our own favour does indeed present it on all occasions; but sound philosophy ought carefully to guard against so natural an illusion. so far from admitting, continued philo, that the operations of a part can afford us any just conclusion concerning the origin of the whole, i will not allow any one part to form a rule for another part, if the latter be very remote from the former. is there any reasonable ground to conclude, that the inhabitants of other planets possess thought, intelligence, reason, or any thing similar to these faculties in men? when nature has so extremely diversified her manner of operation in this small globe, can we imagine that she incessantly copies herself throughout so immense a universe? and if thought, as we may well suppose, be confined merely to this narrow corner, and has even there so limited a sphere of action, with what propriety can we assign it for the original cause of all things? the narrow views of a peasant, who makes his domestic economy the rule for the government of kingdoms, is in comparison a pardonable sophism. but were we ever so much assured, that a thought and reason, resembling the human, were to be found throughout the whole universe, and were its activity elsewhere vastly greater and more commanding than it appears in this globe; yet i cannot see, why the operations of a world constituted, arranged, adjusted, can with any propriety be extended to a world which is in its embryo-state, and is advancing towards that constitution and arrangement. by observation, we know somewhat of the economy, action, and nourishment of a finished animal; but we must transfer with great caution that observation to the growth of a foetus in the womb, and still more to the formation of an animalcule in the loins of its male parent. nature, we find, even from our limited experience, possesses an infinite number of springs and principles, which incessantly discover themselves on every change of her position and situation. and what new and unknown principles would actuate her in so new and unknown a situation as that of the formation of a universe, we cannot, without the utmost temerity, pretend to determine. a very small part of this great system, during a very short time, is very imperfectly discovered to us; and do we thence pronounce decisively concerning the origin of the whole? admirable conclusion! stone, wood, brick, iron, brass, have not, at this time, in this minute globe of earth, an order or arrangement without human art and contrivance; therefore the universe could not originally attain its order and arrangement, without something similar to human art. but is a part of nature a rule for another part very wide of the former? is it a rule for the whole? is a very small part a rule for the universe? is nature in one situation, a certain rule for nature in another situation vastly different from the former? and can you blame me, cleanthes, if i here imitate the prudent reserve of simonides, who, according to the noted story, being asked by hiero, _what god was_? desired a day to think of it, and then two days more; and after that manner continually prolonged the term, without ever bringing in his definition or description? could you even blame me, if i had answered at first, _that i did not know_, and was sensible that this subject lay vastly beyond the reach of my faculties? you might cry out sceptic and rallier, as much as you pleased: but having found, in so many other subjects much more familiar, the imperfections and even contradictions of human reason, i never should expect any success from its feeble conjectures, in a subject so sublime, and so remote from the sphere of our observation. when two _species_ of objects have always been observed to be conjoined together, i can _infer_, by custom, the existence of one wherever i _see_ the existence of the other; and this i call an argument from experience. but how this argument can have place, where the objects, as in the present case, are single, individual, without parallel, or specific resemblance, may be difficult to explain. and will any man tell me with a serious countenance, that an orderly universe must arise from some thought and art like the human, because we have experience of it? to ascertain this reasoning, it were requisite that we had experience of the origin of worlds; and it is not sufficient, surely, that we have seen ships and cities arise from human art and contrivance. philo was proceeding in this vehement manner, somewhat between jest and earnest, as it appeared to me, when he observed some signs of impatience in cleanthes, and then immediately stopped short. what i had to suggest, said cleanthes, is only that you would not abuse terms, or make use of popular expressions to subvert philosophical reasonings. you know, that the vulgar often distinguish reason from experience, even where the question relates only to matter of fact and existence; though it is found, where that _reason_ is properly analyzed, that it is nothing but a species of experience. to prove by experience the origin of the universe from mind, is not more contrary to common speech, than to prove the motion of the earth from the same principle. and a caviller might raise all the same objections to the copernican system, which you have urged against my reasonings. have you other earths, might he say, which you have seen to move? have.... yes! cried philo, interrupting him, we have other earths. is not the moon another earth, which we see to turn round its centre? is not venus another earth, where we observe the same phenomenon? are not the revolutions of the sun also a confirmation, from analogy, of the same theory? all the planets, are they not earths, which revolve about the sun? are not the satellites moons, which move round jupiter and saturn, and along with these primary planets round the sun? these analogies and resemblances, with others which i have not mentioned, are the sole proofs of the copernican system; and to you it belongs to consider, whether you have any analogies of the same kind to support your theory. in reality, cleanthes, continued he, the modern system of astronomy is now so much received by all inquirers, and has become so essential a part even of our earliest education, that we are not commonly very scrupulous in examining the reasons upon which it is founded. it is now become a matter of mere curiosity to study the first writers on that subject, who had the full force of prejudice to encounter, and were obliged to turn their arguments on every side in order to render them popular and convincing. but if we peruse galilæo's famous dialogues concerning the system of the world, we shall find, that that great genius, one of the sublimest that ever existed, first bent all his endeavours to prove, that there was no foundation for the distinction commonly made between elementary and celestial substances. the schools, proceeding from the illusions of sense, had carried this distinction very far; and had established the latter substances to be ingenerable, incorruptible, unalterable, impassible; and had assigned all the opposite qualities to the former. but galilæo, beginning with the moon, proved its similarity in every particular to the earth; its convex figure, its natural darkness when not illuminated, its density, its distinction into solid and liquid, the variations of its phases, the mutual illuminations of the earth and moon, their mutual eclipses, the inequalities of the lunar surface, &c. after many instances of this kind, with regard to all the planets, men plainly saw that these bodies became proper objects of experience; and that the similarity of their nature enabled us to extend the same arguments and phenomena from one to the other. in this cautious proceeding of the astronomers, you may read your own condemnation, cleanthes; or rather may see, that the subject in which you are engaged exceeds all human reason and inquiry. can you pretend to show any such similarity between the fabric of a house, find the generation of a universe? have you ever seen nature in any such situation as resembles the first arrangement of the elements? have worlds ever been formed under your eye; and have you had leisure to observe the whole progress of the phenomenon, from the first appearance of order to its final consummation? if you have, then cite your experience, and deliver your theory. [ ] recherche de la verité, liv. , cap. . part iii. how the most absurd argument, replied cleanthes, in the hands of a man of ingenuity and invention, may acquire an air of probability! are you not aware, philo, that it became necessary for copernicus and his first disciples to prove the similarity of the terrestrial and celestial matter; because several philosophers, blinded by old systems, and supported by some sensible appearances, had denied this similarity? but that it is by no means necessary, that theists should prove the similarity of the works of nature to those of art; because this similarity is self-evident and undeniable? the same matter, a like form; what more is requisite to show an analogy between their causes, and to ascertain the origin of all things from a divine purpose and intention? your objections, i must freely tell you, are no better than the abstruse cavils of those philosophers who denied motion; and ought to be refuted in the same manner, by illustrations, examples and instances, rather than by serious argument and philosophy. suppose, therefore, that an articulate voice were heard, in the clouds, much louder and more melodious than any which human art could ever reach: suppose, that this voice were extended in the same instant over all nations, and spoke to each nation in its own language and dialect: suppose, that the words delivered not only contain a just sense and meaning, but convey some instruction altogether worthy of a benevolent being, superior to mankind: could you possibly hesitate a moment concerning the cause of this voice? and must you not instantly ascribe it to some design or purpose? yet i cannot see but all the same objections (if they merit that appellation) which lie against the system of theism, may also be produced against this inference. might you not say, that all conclusions concerning fact were founded on experience: that when we hear an articulate voice in the dark, and thence infer a man, it is only the resemblance of the effects which leads us to conclude that there is a like resemblance in the cause: but that this extraordinary voice, by its loudness, extent, and flexibility to all languages, bears so little analogy to any human voice, that we have no reason to suppose any analogy in their causes: and consequently, that a rational, wise, coherent speech proceeded, you know not whence, from some accidental whistling of the winds, not from any divine reason or intelligence? you see clearly your own objections in these cavils, and i hope too you see clearly, that they cannot possibly have more force in the one case than in the other. but to bring the case still nearer the present one of the universe, i shall make two suppositions, which imply not any absurdity or impossibility. suppose that there is a natural, universal, invariable language, common to every individual of human race; and that books are natural productions, which perpetuate themselves in the same manner with animals and vegetables, by descent and propagation. several expressions of our passions contain a universal language: all brute animals have a natural speech, which, however limited, is very intelligible to their own species. and as there are infinitely fewer parts and less contrivance in the finest composition of eloquence, than in the coarsest organized body, the propagation of an iliad or Ã�neid is an easier supposition than that of any plant or animal. suppose, therefore, that you enter into your library, thus peopled by natural volumes, containing the most refined reason and most exquisite beauty; could you possibly open one of them, and doubt, that its original cause bore the strongest analogy to mind and intelligence? when it reasons and discourses; when it expostulates, argues, and enforces its views and topics; when it applies sometimes to the pure intellect, sometimes to the affections; when it collects, disposes, and adorns every consideration suited to the subject; could you persist in asserting, that all this, at the bottom, had really no meaning; and that the first formation of this volume in the loins of its original parent proceeded not from thought and design? your obstinacy, i know, reaches not that degree of firmness: even your sceptical play and wantonness would be abashed at so glaring an absurdity. but if there be any difference, philo, between this supposed case and the real one of the universe, it is all to the advantage of the latter. the anatomy of an animal affords many stronger instances of design than the perusal of livy or tacitus; and any objection which you start in the former case, by carrying me back to so unusual and extraordinary a scene as the first formation of worlds, the same objection has place on the supposition of our vegetating library. choose, then, your party, philo, without ambiguity or evasion; assert either that a rational volume is no proof of a rational cause, or admit of a similar cause to all the works of nature. let me here observe too, continued cleanthes, that this religious argument, instead of being weakened by that scepticism so much affected by you, rather acquires force from it, and becomes more firm and undisputed. to exclude all argument or reasoning of every kind, is either affectation or madness. the declared profession of every reasonable sceptic is only to reject abstruse, remote, and refined arguments; to adhere to common sense and the plain instincts of nature; and to assent, wherever any reasons strike him with so full a force that he cannot, without the greatest violence, prevent it. now the arguments for natural religion are plainly of this kind; and nothing but the most perverse, obstinate metaphysics can reject them. consider, anatomize the eye; survey its structure and contrivance; and tell me, from your own feeling, if the idea of a contriver does not immediately flow in upon you with a force like that of sensation. the most obvious conclusion, surely, is in favour of design; and it requires time, reflection, and study, to summon up those frivolous, though abstruse objections, which can support infidelity. who can behold the male and female of each species, the correspondence of their parts and instincts, their passions, and whole course of life before and after generation, but must be sensible, that the propagation of the species is intended by nature? millions and millions of such instances present themselves through every part of the universe; and no language can convey a more intelligible irresistible meaning, than the curious adjustment of final causes. to what degree, therefore, of blind dogmatism must one have attained, to reject such natural and such convincing arguments? some beauties in writing we may meet with, which seem contrary to rules, and which gain the affections, and animate the imagination, in opposition to all the precepts of criticism, and to the authority of the established masters of art. and if the argument for theism be, as you pretend, contradictory to the principles of logic; its universal, its irresistible influence proves clearly, that there may be arguments of a like irregular nature. whatever cavils may be urged, an orderly world, as well as a coherent, articulate speech, will still be received as an incontestable proof of design and intention. it sometimes happens, i own, that the religious arguments have not their due influence on an ignorant savage and barbarian; not because they are obscure and difficult, but because he never asks himself any question with regard to them. whence arises the curious structure of an animal? from the copulation of its parents. and these whence? from _their_ parents? a few removes set the objects at such a distance, that to him they are lost in darkness and confusion; nor is he actuated by any curiosity to trace them farther. but this is neither dogmatism nor scepticism, but stupidity: a state of mind very different from your sifting, inquisitive disposition, my ingenious friend. you can trace causes from effects: you can compare the most distant and remote objects: and your greatest errors proceed not from barrenness of thought and invention, but from too luxuriant a fertility, which suppresses your natural good sense, by a profusion of unnecessary scruples and objections. here i could observe, hermippus, that philo was a little embarrassed and confounded: but while he hesitated in delivering an answer, luckily for him, demea broke in upon the discourse, and saved his countenance. your instance, cleanthes, said he, drawn from books and language, being familiar, has, i confess, so much more force on that account: but is there not some danger too in this very circumstance; and may it not render us presumptuous, by making us imagine we comprehend the deity, and have some adequate idea of his nature and attributes? when i read a volume, i enter into the mind and intention of the author: i become him, in a manner, for the instant; and have an immediate feeling and conception of those ideas which revolved in his imagination while employed in that composition. but so near an approach we never surely can make to the deity. his ways are not our ways. his attributes are perfect, but incomprehensible. and this volume of nature contains a great and inexplicable riddle, more than any intelligible discourse or reasoning. the ancient platonists, you know, were the most religious and devout of all the pagan philosophers; yet many of them, particularly plotinus, expressly declare, that intellect or understanding is not to be ascribed to the deity; and that our most perfect worship of him consists, not in acts of veneration, reverence, gratitude, or love; but in a certain mysterious self-annihilation, or total extinction of all our faculties. these ideas are, perhaps, too far stretched; but still it must be acknowledged, that, by representing the deity as so intelligible and comprehensible, and so similar to a human mind, we are guilty of the grossest and most narrow partiality, and make ourselves the model of the whole universe. all the _sentiments_ of the human mind, gratitude, resentment, love, friendship, approbation, blame, pity, emulation, envy, have a plain reference to the state and situation of man, and are calculated for preserving the existence and promoting the activity of such a being in such circumstances. it seems, therefore, unreasonable to transfer such sentiments to a supreme existence, or to suppose him actuated by them; and the phenomena besides of the universe will not support us in such a theory. all our _ideas_ derived from the senses are confessedly false and illusive; and cannot therefore be supposed to have place in a supreme intelligence: and as the ideas of internal sentiment, added to those of the external senses, compose the whole furniture of human understanding, we may conclude, that none of the _materials_ of thought are in any respect similar in the human and in the divine intelligence. now, as to the _manner_ of thinking; how can we make any comparison between them, or suppose them any wise resembling? our thought is fluctuating, uncertain, fleeting, successive, and compounded; and were we to remove these circumstances, we absolutely annihilate its essence, and it would in such a case be an abuse of terms to apply to it the name of thought or reason. at least if it appear more pious and respectful (as it really is) still to retain these terms, when we mention the supreme being, we ought to acknowledge, that their meaning, in that case, is totally incomprehensible; and that the infirmities of our nature do not permit us to reach any ideas which in the least correspond to the ineffable sublimity of the divine attributes. part iv. it seems strange to me, said cleanthes, that you, demea, who are so sincere in the cause of religion, should still maintain the mysterious, incomprehensible nature of the deity, and should insist so strenuously that he has no manner of likeness or resemblance to human creatures. the deity, i can readily allow, possesses many powers and attributes of which we can have no comprehension: but if our ideas, so far as they go, be not just, and adequate, and correspondent to his real nature, i know not what there is in this subject worth insisting on. is the name, without any meaning, of such mighty importance? or how do you mystics, who maintain the absolute incomprehensibility of the deity, differ from sceptics or atheists, who assert, that the first cause of all is unknown and unintelligible? their temerity must be very great, if, after rejecting the production by a mind, i mean a mind resembling the human, (for i know of no other), they pretend to assign, with certainty, any other specific intelligible cause: and their conscience must be very scrupulous indeed, if they refuse to call the universal unknown cause a god or deity; and to bestow on him as many sublime eulogies and unmeaning epithets as you shall please to require of them. who could imagine, replied demea, that cleanthes, the calm philosophical cleanthes, would attempt to refute his antagonists by affixing a nickname to them; and, like the common bigots and inquisitors of the age, have recourse to invective and declamation, instead of reasoning? or does he not perceive, that these topics are easily retorted, and that anthropomorphite is an appellation as invidious, and implies as dangerous consequences, as the epithet of mystic, with which he has honoured us? in reality, cleanthes, consider what it is you assert when you represent the deity as similar to a human mind and understanding. what is the soul of man? a composition of various faculties, passions, sentiments, ideas; united, indeed, into one self or person, but still distinct from each other. when it reasons, the ideas, which are the parts of its discourse, arrange themselves in a certain form or order; which is not preserved entire for a moment, but immediately gives place to another arrangement. new opinions, new passions, new affections, new feelings arise, which continually diversify the mental scene, and produce in it the greatest variety and most rapid succession imaginable. how is this compatible with that perfect immutability and simplicity which all true theists ascribe to the deity? by the same act, say they, he sees past, present, and future: his love and hatred, his mercy and justice, are one individual operation: he is entire in every point of space; and complete in every instant of duration. no succession, no change, no acquisition, no diminution. what he is implies not in it any shadow of distinction or diversity. and what he is this moment he ever has been, and ever will be, without any new judgment, sentiment, or operation. he stands fixed in one simple, perfect state: nor can you ever gay, with any propriety, that this act of his is different from that other; or that this judgment or idea has been lately formed, and will give place, by succession, to any different judgment or idea. i can readily allow, said cleanthes, that those who maintain the perfect simplicity of the supreme being, to the extent in which you have explained it, are complete mystics, and chargeable with all the consequences which i have drawn from their opinion. they are, in a word, atheists, without knowing it for though it be allowed, that the deity possesses attributes of which we have no comprehension, yet ought we never to ascribe to him any attributes which are absolutely incompatible with that intelligent nature essential to him. a mind, whose acts and sentiments and ideas are not distinct and successive; one, that is wholly simple, and totally immutable, is a mind which has no thought, no reason, no will, no sentiment, no love, no hatred; or, in a word, is no mind at all. it is an abuse of terms to give it that appellation; and we may as well speak of limited extension without figure, or of number without composition. pray consider, said philo, whom you are at present inveighing against. you are honouring with the appellation of _atheist_ all the sound, orthodox divines, almost, who have treated of this subject; and you will at last be, yourself, found, according to your reckoning, the only sound theist in the world. but if idolaters be atheists, as, i think, may justly be asserted, and christian theologians the same, what becomes of the argument, so much celebrated, derived from the universal consent of mankind? but because i know you are not much swayed by names and authorities, i shall endeavour to show you, a little more distinctly, the inconveniences of that anthropomorphism, which you have embraced; and shall prove, that there is no ground to suppose a plan of the world to be formed in the divine mind, consisting of distinct ideas, differently arranged, in the same manner as an architect forms in his head the plan of a house which he intends to execute. it is not easy, i own, to see what is gained by this supposition, whether we judge of the matter by _reason_ or by _experience_. we are still obliged to mount higher, in order to find the cause of this cause, which you had assigned as satisfactory and conclusive. if _reason_ (i mean abstract reason, derived from inquiries _a priori_) be not alike mute with regard to all questions concerning cause and effect, this sentence at least it will venture to pronounce, that a mental world, or universe of ideas, requires a cause as much, as does a material world, or universe of objects; and, if similar in its arrangement, must require a similar cause. for what is there in this subject, which should occasion a different conclusion or inference? in an abstract view, they are entirely alike; and no difficulty attends the one supposition, which is not common to both of them. again, when we will needs force _experience_ to pronounce some sentence, even on these subjects which lie beyond her sphere, neither can she perceive any material difference in this particular, between these two kinds of worlds; but finds them to be governed by similar principles, and to depend upon an equal variety of causes in their operations. we have specimens in miniature of both of them. our own mind resembles the one; a vegetable or animal body the other. let experience, therefore, judge from these samples. nothing seems more delicate, with regard to its causes, than thought; and as these causes never operate in two persons after the same manner, so we never find two persons who think exactly alike. nor indeed does the same person think exactly alike at any two different periods of time. a difference of age, of the disposition of his body, of weather, of food, of company, of books, of passions; any of these particulars, or others more minute, are sufficient to alter the curious machinery of thought, and communicate to it very different movements and operations. as far as we can judge, vegetables and animal bodies are not more delicate in their motions, nor depend upon a greater variety or more curious adjustment of springs and principles. how, therefore, shall we satisfy ourselves concerning the cause of that being whom you suppose the author of nature, or, according to your system of anthropomorphism, the ideal world, into which you trace the material? have we not the same reason to trace that ideal world into another ideal world, or new intelligent principle? but if we stop, and go no farther; why go so far? why not stop at the material world? how can we satisfy ourselves without going on _in infinitum_? and, after all, what satisfaction is there in that infinite progression? let us remember the story of the indian philosopher and his elephant. it was never more applicable than to the present subject. if the material world rests upon a similar ideal world, this ideal world must rest upon some other; and so on, without end. it were better, therefore, never to look beyond the present material world. by supposing it to contain the principle of its order within itself, we really assert it to be god; and the sooner we arrive at that divine being, so much the better. when you go one step beyond the mundane system, you only excite an inquisitive humour which it is impossible ever to satisfy. to say, that the different ideas which compose the reason of the supreme being, fall into order of themselves, and by their own nature, is really to talk without any precise meaning. if it has a meaning, i would fain know, why it is not as good sense to say, that the parts of the material world fall into order of themselves and by their own nature. can the one opinion be intelligible, while the other is not so? we have, indeed, experience of ideas which fall into order of themselves, and without any _known_ cause. but, i am sure, we have a much larger experience of matter which does the same; as, in all instances of generation and vegetation, where the accurate analysis of the cause exceeds all human comprehension. we have also experience of particular systems of thought and of matter which have no order; of the first in madness, of the second in corruption. why, then, should we think, that order is more essential to one than the other? and if it requires a cause in both, what do we gain by your system, in tracing the universe of objects into a similar universe of ideas? the first step which we make leads us on for ever. it were, therefore, wise in us to limit all our inquiries to the present world, without looking farther. no satisfaction can ever be attained by these speculations, which so far exceed the narrow bounds of human understanding. it was usual with the peripatetics, you know, cleanthes, when the cause of any phenomenon was demanded, to have recourse to their _faculties_, or _occult qualities_; and to say, for instance, that bread, nourished by its nutritive faculty, and senna purged by its purgative. but it has been discovered, that this subterfuge was nothing but the disguise of ignorance; and that these philosophers, though less ingenuous, really said the same thing with the sceptics or the vulgar, who fairly confessed that they knew not the cause of these phenomena. in like manner, when it is asked, what cause produces order in the ideas of the supreme being; can any other reason be assigned by you, anthropomorphites, than that it is a _rational_ faculty, and that such is the nature of the deity? but why a similar answer will not be equally satisfactory in accounting for the order of the world, without having recourse to any such intelligent creator as you insist on, may be difficult to determine. it is only to say, that _such_ is the nature of material objects, and that they are all originally possessed of a _faculty_ of order and proportion. these are only more learned and elaborate ways of confessing our ignorance; nor has the one hypothesis any real advantage above the other, except in its greater conformity to vulgar prejudices. you have displayed this argument with great emphasis, replied cleanthes: you seem not sensible how easy it is to answer it. even in common life, if i assign a cause for any event, is it any objection, philo, that i cannot assign the cause of that cause, and answer every new question which may incessantly be started? and what philosophers could possibly submit to so rigid a rule? philosophers, who confess ultimate causes to be totally unknown; and are sensible, that the most refined principles into which they trace the phenomena, are still to them as inexplicable as these phenomena themselves are to the vulgar. the order and arrangement of nature, the curious adjustment of final causes, the plain use and intention of every part and organ; all these bespeak in the clearest language an intelligent cause or author. the heavens and the earth join in the same testimony: the whole chorus of nature raises one hymn to the praises of its creator. you alone, or almost alone, disturb this general harmony. you start abstruse doubts, cavils, and objections: you ask me, what is the cause of this cause? i know not; i care not; that concerns not me. i have found a deity; and here i stop my inquiry. let those go farther, who are wiser or more enterprising. i pretend to be neither, replied philo: and for that very reason, i should never perhaps have attempted to go so tar; especially when i am sensible, that i must at last be contented to sit down with the same answer, which, without farther trouble, might have satisfied me from the beginning. if i am still to remain in utter ignorance of causes, and can absolutely give an explication of nothing, i shall never esteem it any advantage to shove off for a moment a difficulty, which, you acknowledge, must immediately, in its full force, recur upon me. naturalists indeed very justly explain particular effects by more general causes, though these general causes themselves should remain in the end totally inexplicable; but they never surely thought it satisfactory to explain a particular effect by a particular cause, which was no more to be accounted for than the effect itself. an ideal system, arranged of itself, without a precedent design, is not a whit more explicable than a material one, which attains its order in a like manner; nor is there any more difficulty in the latter supposition than in the former. part v. but to show you still more inconveniences, continued philo, in your anthropomorphism, please to take a new survey of your principles. _like effects prove like causes_. this is the experimental argument; and this, you say too, is the sole theological argument. now, it is certain, that the liker the effects are which are seen, and the liker the causes which are inferred, the stronger is the argument. every departure on either side diminishes the probability, and renders the experiment less conclusive. you cannot doubt of the principle; neither ought you to reject its consequences. all the new discoveries in astronomy, which prove the immense grandeur and magnificence of the works of nature, are so many additional arguments for a deity, according to the true system of theism; but, according to your hypothesis of experimental theism, they become so many objections, by removing the effect still farther from all resemblance to the effects of human art and contrivance. for, if lucretius,[ ] even following the old system of the world, could exclaim, quis regere immensi summam, quis habere profundi indu manu validas potis est moderanter habenas? quis pariter coelos omnes convertere? et omnes ignibus ætheriis terras suffire feraces? omnibus inque locis esse omni tempore præsto? if tully[ ] esteemed this reasoning so natural, as to put it into the mouth of his epicurean: 'quibus enim oculis animi intueri potuit vester plato fabricam illam tanti operis, qua construi a deo atque ædificari mundum facit? quæ molito? quæ ferramenta? qui vectes? quæ machinæ? qui minstri tanti muneris fuerunt? quemadmodum autem obedire et parere voluntati architecti aer, ignis, aqua, terra potuerunt?' if this argument, i say, had any force in former ages, how much greater must it have at present, when the bounds of nature are so infinitely enlarged, and such a magnificent scene is opened to us? it is still more unreasonable to form our idea of so unlimited a cause from our experience of the narrow productions of human design and invention. the discoveries by microscopes, as they open a new universe in miniature, are still objections, according to you, arguments, according to me. the farther we push our researches of this kind, we are still led to infer the universal cause of all to be vastly different from mankind, or from any object of human experience and observation. and what say you to the discoveries in anatomy, chemistry, botany?... these surely are no objections, replied cleanthes; they only discover new instances of art and contrivance. it is still the image of mind reflected on us from innumerable objects. add, a mind _like the human_, said philo. i know of no other, replied cleanthes. and the liker the better, insisted philo. to be sure, said cleanthes. now, cleanthes, said philo, with an air of alacrity and triumph, mark the consequences. _first_, by this method of reasoning, you renounce all claim to infinity in any of the attributes of the deity. for, as the cause ought only to be proportioned to the effect, and the effect, so far as it falls under our cognizance, is not infinite; what pretensions have we, upon your suppositions, to ascribe that attribute to the divine being? you will still insist, that, by removing him so much from all similarity to human creatures, we give in to the most arbitrary hypothesis, and at the same time weaken all proofs of his existence. _secondly_, you have no reason, on your theory, for ascribing perfection to the deity, even in his finite capacity, or for supposing him free from every error, mistake, or incoherence, in his undertakings. there are many inexplicable difficulties in the works of nature, which, if we allow a perfect author to be proved _a priori_, are easily solved, and become only seeming difficulties, from the narrow capacity of man, who cannot trace infinite relations. but according to your method of reasoning, these difficulties become all real; and perhaps will be insisted on, as new instances of likeness to human art and contrivance. at least, you must acknowledge, that it is impossible for us to tell, from our limited views, whether this system contains any great faults, or deserves any considerable praise, if compared to other possible, and even real systems. could a peasant, if the Ã�neid were read to him, pronounce that poem to be absolutely faultless, or even assign to it its proper rank among the productions of human wit, he, who had never seen any other production? but were this world ever so perfect a production, it must still remain uncertain, whether all the excellences of the work can justly be ascribed to the workman. if we survey a ship, what an exalted idea must we form of the ingenuity of the carpenter who framed so complicated, useful, and beautiful a machine? and what surprise must we feel, when we find him a stupid mechanic, who imitated others, and copied an art, which, through a long succession of ages, after multiplied trials, mistakes, corrections, deliberations, and controversies, had been gradually improving? many worlds might have been botched and bungled, throughout an eternity, ere this system was struck out; much labour lost, many fruitless trials made; and a slow, but continued improvement carried on during infinite ages in the art of world-making. in such subjects, who can determine, where the truth; nay, who can conjecture where the probability lies, amidst a great number of hypotheses which may be proposed, and a still greater which may be imagined? and what shadow of an argument, continued philo, can you produce, from your hypothesis, to prove the unity of the deity? a great number of men join in building a house or ship, in rearing a city, in framing a commonwealth; why may not several deities combine in contriving and framing a world? this is only so much greater similarity to human affairs. by sharing the work among several, we may so much farther limit the attributes of each, and get rid of that extensive power and knowledge, which must be supposed in one deity, and which, according to you, can only serve to weaken the proof of his existence. and if such foolish, such vicious creatures as man, can yet often unite in framing and executing one plan, how much more those deities or demons, whom we may suppose several degrees more perfect! to multiply causes without necessity, is indeed contrary to true philosophy: but this principle applies not to the present case. were one deity antecedently proved by your theory, who were possessed of every attribute requisite to the production of the universe; it would be needless, i own, (though not absurd), to suppose any other deity existent. but while it is still a question, whether all these attributes are united in one subject, or dispersed among several independent beings, by what phenomena in nature can we pretend to decide the controversy? where we see a body raised in a scale, we are sure that there is in the opposite scale, however concealed from sight, some counterpoising weight equal to it; but it is still allowed to doubt, whether that weight be an aggregate of several distinct bodies, or one uniform united mass. and if the weight requisite very much exceeds any thing which we have ever seen conjoined in any single body, the former supposition becomes still more probable and natural. an intelligent being of such vast power and capacity as is necessary to produce the universe, or, to speak in the language of ancient philosophy, so prodigious an animal exceeds all analogy, and even comprehension. but farther, cleanthes: men are mortal, and renew their species by generation; and this is common to all living creatures. the two great sexes of male and female, says milton, animate the world. why must this circumstance, so universal, so essential, be excluded from those numerous and limited deities? behold, then, the theogony of ancient times brought back upon us. and why not become a perfect anthropomorphite? why not assert the deity or deities to be corporeal, and to have eyes, a nose, mouth, ears, &c.? epicurus maintained, that no man had ever seen reason but in a human figure; therefore the gods must have a human figure. and this argument, which is deservedly so much ridiculed by cicero, becomes, according to you, solid and philosophical. in a word, cleanthes, a man who follows your hypothesis is able perhaps to assert, or conjecture, that the universe, sometime, arose from something like design: but beyond that position he cannot ascertain one single circumstance; and is left afterwards to fix every point of his theology by the utmost license of fancy and hypothesis. this world, for aught he knows, is very faulty and imperfect, compared to a superior standard; and was only the first rude essay of some infant deity, who afterwards abandoned it, ashamed of his lame performance: it is the work only of some dependent, inferior deity; and is the object of derision to his superiors: it is the production of old age and dotage in some superannuated deity; and ever since his death, has run on at adventures, from the first impulse and active force which it received from him. you justly give signs of horror, demea, at these strange suppositions; but these, and a thousand more of the same kind, are cleanthes's suppositions, not mine. from the moment the attributes of the deity are supposed finite, all these have place. and i cannot, for my part, think that so wild and unsettled a system of theology is, in any respect, preferable to none at all. these suppositions i absolutely disown, cried cleanthes: they strike me, however, with no horror, especially when proposed in that rambling way in which they drop from you. on the contrary, they give me pleasure, when i see, that, by the utmost indulgence of your imagination, you never get rid of the hypothesis of design in the universe, but are obliged at every turn to have recourse to it. to this concession i adhere steadily; and this i regard as a sufficient foundation for religion. [ ] lib. xi. . [ ] de nat deor. lib. i. part vi. it must be a slight fabric, indeed, said demea, which can be erected on so tottering a foundation. while we are uncertain whether there is one deity or many; whether the deity or deities, to whom we owe our existence, be perfect or imperfect, subordinate or supreme, dead or alive, what trust or confidence can we repose in them? what devotion or worship address to them? what veneration or obedience pay them? to all the purposes of life the theory of religion becomes altogether useless: and even with regard to speculative consequences, its uncertainty, according to you, must render it totally precarious and unsatisfactory. to render it still more unsatisfactory, said philo, there occurs to me another hypothesis, which must acquire an air of probability from the method of reasoning so much insisted on by cleanthes. that like effects arise from like causes: this principle he supposes the foundation of all religion. but there is another principle of the same kind, no less certain, and derived from the same source of experience; that where several known circumstances are observed to be similar, the unknown will also be found similar. thus, if we see the limbs of a human body, we conclude that it is also attended with a human head, though hid from us. thus, if we see, through a chink in a wall, a small part of the sun, we conclude, that, were the wall removed, we should see the whole body. in short, this method of reasoning is so obvious and familiar, that no scruple can ever be made with regard to its solidity. now, if we survey the universe, so far as it falls under our knowledge, it bears a great resemblance to an animal or organized body, and seems actuated with a like principle of life and motion. a continual circulation of matter in it produces no disorder: a continual waste in every part is incessantly repaired: the closest sympathy is perceived throughout the entire system: and each part or member, in performing its proper offices, operates both to its own preservation and to that of the whole. the world, therefore, i infer, is an animal; and the deity is the soul of the world, actuating it, and actuated by it. you have too much learning, cleanthes, to be at all surprised at this opinion, which, you know, was maintained by almost all the theists of antiquity, and chiefly prevails in their discourses and reasonings. for though, sometimes, the ancient philosophers reason from final causes, as if they thought the world the workmanship of god; yet it appears rather their favourite notion to consider it as his body, whose organization renders it subservient to him. and it must be confessed, that, as the universe resembles more a human body than it does the works of human art and contrivance, if our limited analogy could ever, with any propriety, be extended to the whole of nature, the inference seems juster in favour of the ancient than the modern theory. there are many other advantages, too, in the former theory, which recommended it to the ancient theologians. nothing more repugnant to all their notions, because nothing more repugnant to common experience, than mind without body; a mere spiritual substance, which fell not under their senses nor comprehension, and of which they had not observed one single instance throughout all nature. mind and body they knew, because they felt both: an order, arrangement, organization, or internal machinery, in both, they likewise knew, after the same manner: and it could not but seem reasonable to transfer this experience to the universe; and to suppose the divine mind and body to be also coeval, and to have, both of them, order and arrangement naturally inherent in them, and inseparable from them. here, therefore, is a new species of _anthropomorphism_, cleanthes, on which you may deliberate; and a theory which seems not liable to any considerable difficulties. you are too much superior, surely, to _systematical prejudices_, to find any more difficulty in supposing an animal body to be, originally, of itself, or from unknown causes, possessed of order and organization, than in supposing a similar order to belong to mind. but the _vulgar prejudice_, that body and mind ought always to accompany each other, ought not, one should think, to be entirely neglected; since it is founded on _vulgar experience_, the only guide which you profess to follow in all these theological inquiries. and if you assert, that our limited experience is an unequal standard, by which to judge of the unlimited extent of nature; you entirely abandon your own hypothesis, and must thenceforward adopt our mysticism, as you call it, and admit of the absolute incomprehensibility of the divine nature. this theory, i own, replied cleanthes, has never before occurred to me, though a pretty natural one; and i cannot readily, upon so short an examination and reflection, deliver any opinion with regard to it. you are very scrupulous, indeed, said philo: were i to examine any system of yours, i should not have acted with half that caution and reserve, in starting objections and difficulties to it. however, if any thing occur to you, you will oblige us by proposing it. why then, replied cleanthes, it seems to me, that, though the world does, in many circumstances, resemble an animal body; yet is the analogy also defective in many circumstances the most material: no organs of sense; no seat of thought or reason; no one precise origin of motion and action. in short, it seems to bear a stronger resemblance to a vegetable than to an animal, and your inference would be so far inconclusive in favour of the soul of the world. but, in the next place, your theory seems to imply the eternity of the world; and that is a principle, which, i think, can be refuted by the strongest reasons and probabilities. i shall suggest an argument to this purpose, which, i believe, has not been insisted on by any writer. those, who reason from the late origin of arts and sciences, though their inference wants not force, may perhaps be refuted by considerations derived from the nature of human society, which is in continual revolution, between ignorance and knowledge, liberty and slavery, riches and poverty; so that it is impossible for us, from our limited experience, to foretel with assurance what events may or may not be expected. ancient learning and history seem to have been in great danger of entirely perishing after the inundation of the barbarous nations; and had these convulsions continued a little longer, or been a little more violent, we should not probably have now known what passed in the world a few centuries before us. nay, were it not for the superstition of the popes, who preserved a little jargon of latin, in order to support the appearance of an ancient and universal church, that tongue must have been utterly lost; in which case, the western world, being totally barbarous, would not have been in a fit disposition for receiving the greek language and learning, which was conveyed to them after the sacking of constantinople. when learning and books had been extinguished, even the mechanical arts would have fallen considerably to decay; and it is easily imagined, that fable or tradition might ascribe to them a much later origin than the true one. this vulgar argument, therefore, against the eternity of the world, seems a little precarious. but here appears to be the foundation of a better argument. lucullus was the first that brought cherry-trees from asia to europe; though that tree thrives so well in many european climates, that it grows in the woods without any culture. is it possible, that throughout a whole eternity, no european had ever passed into asia, and thought of transplanting so delicious a fruit into his own country? or if the tree was once transplanted and propagated, how could it ever afterwards perish? empires may rise and fall, liberty and slavery succeed alternately, ignorance and knowledge give place to each other; but the cherry-tree will still remain in the woods of greece, spain and italy, and will never be affected by the revolutions of human society. it is not two thousand years since vines were transplanted into france, though there is no climate in the world more favourable to them. it is not three centuries since horses, cows, sheep, swine, dogs, corn, were known in america. is it possible, that during the revolutions of a whole eternity, there never arose a columbus, who might open the communication between europe and that continent? we may as well imagine, that all men would wear stockings for ten thousand years, and never have the sense to think of garters to tie them. all these seem convincing proofs of the youth, or rather infancy, of the world; as being founded on the operation of principles more constant and steady than those by which human society is governed and directed. nothing less than a total convulsion of the elements will ever destroy all the european animals and vegetables which are now to be found in the western world. and what argument have you against such convulsions? replied philo. strong and almost incontestable proofs may be traced over the whole earth, that every part of this globe has continued for many ages entirely covered with water. and though order were supposed inseparable from matter, and inherent in it; yet may matter be susceptible of many and great revolutions, through the endless periods of eternal duration. the incessant changes, to which every part of it is subject, seem to intimate some such general transformations; though, at the same time, it is observable, that all the changes and corruptions of which we have ever had experience, are but passages from one state of order to another; nor can matter ever rest in total deformity and confusion. what we see in the parts, we may infer in the whole; at least, that is the method of reasoning on which you rest your whole theory. and were i obliged to defend any particular system of this nature, which i never willingly should do, i esteem none more plausible than that which ascribes an eternal inherent principle of order to the world, though attended with great and continual revolutions and alterations. this at once solves all difficulties; and if the solution, by being so general, is not entirely complete and satisfactory, it is at least a theory that we must sooner or later have recourse to, whatever system we embrace. how could things have been as they are, were there not an original inherent principle of order somewhere, in thought or in matter? and it is very indifferent to which of these we give the preference. chance has no place, on any hypothesis, sceptical or religious. every thing is surely governed by steady, inviolable laws. and were the inmost essence of things laid open to us, we should then discover a scene, of which, at present, we can have no idea. instead of admiring the order of natural beings, we should clearly see that it was absolutely impossible for them, in the smallest article, ever to admit of any other disposition. were any one inclined to revive the ancient pagan theology, which maintained, as we learn from hesiod, that this globe was governed by , deities, who arose from the unknown powers of nature: you would naturally object, cleanthes, that nothing is gained by this hypothesis; and that it is as easy to suppose all men animals, beings more numerous, but less perfect, to have sprung immediately from a like origin. push the same inference a step farther, and you will find a numerous society of deities as explicable as one universal deity, who possesses within himself the powers and perfections of the whole society. all these systems, then, of scepticism, polytheism, and theism, you must allow, on your principles, to be on a like footing, and that no one of them has any advantage over the others. you may thence learn the fallacy of your principles. part vii. but here, continued philo, in examining the ancient system of the soul of the world, there strikes me, all on a sudden, a new idea, which, if just, must go near to subvert all your reasoning, and destroy even your first inferences, on which you repose such confidence. if the universe bears a greater likeness to animal bodies and to vegetables, than to the works of human art, it is more probable that its cause resembles the cause of the former than that of the latter, and its origin ought rather to be ascribed to generation or vegetation, than to reason or design. your conclusion, even according to your own principles, is therefore lame and defective. pray open up this argument a little farther, said demea, for i do not rightly apprehend it in that concise manner in which you have expressed it. our friend cleanthes, replied philo, as you have heard, asserts, that since no question of fact can be proved otherwise than by experience, the existence of a deity admits not of proof from any other medium. the world, says he, resembles the works of human contrivance; therefore its cause must also resemble that of the other. here we may remark, that the operation of one very small part of nature, to wit man, upon another very small part, to wit that inanimate matter lying within his reach, is the rule by which cleanthes judges of the origin of the whole; and he measures objects, so widely disproportioned, by the same individual standard. but to waive all objections drawn from this topic, i affirm, that there are other parts of the universe (besides the machines of human invention) which bear still a greater resemblance to the fabric of the world, and which, therefore, afford a better conjecture concerning the universal origin of this system. these parts are animals and vegetables. the world plainly resembles more an animal or a vegetable, than it does a watch or a knitting-loom. its cause, therefore, it is more probable, resembles the cause of the former. the cause of the former is generation or vegetation. the cause, therefore, of the world, we may infer to be something similar or analogous to generation or vegetation. but how is it conceivable, said demea, that the world can arise from any thing similar to vegetation or generation? very easily, replied philo. in like manner as a tree sheds its seed into the neighbouring fields, and produces other trees; so the great vegetable, the world, or this planetary system, produces within itself certain seeds, which, being scattered into the surrounding chaos, vegetate into new worlds. a comet, for instance, is the seed of a world; and after it has been fully ripened, by passing from sun to sun, and star to star, it is at last tossed into the unformed elements which every where surround this universe, and immediately sprouts up into a new system. or if, for the sake of variety (for i see no other advantage), we should suppose this world to be an animal; a comet is the egg of this animal: and in like manner as an ostrich lays its egg in the sand, which, without any farther care, hatches the egg, and produces a new animal; so ... i understand you, says demea: but what wild, arbitrary suppositions are these! what _data_ have you for such extraordinary conclusions? and is the slight, imaginary resemblance of the world to a vegetable or an animal sufficient to establish the same inference with regard to both? objects, which are in general so widely different, ought they to be a standard for each other? right, cries philo: this is the topic on which i have all along insisted. i have still asserted, that we have no _data_ to establish any system of cosmogony. our experience, so imperfect in itself, and so limited both in extent and duration, can afford us no probable conjecture concerning the whole of things. but if we must needs fix on some hypothesis; by what rule, pray, ought we to determine our choice? is there any other rule than the greater similarity of the objects compared? and does not a plant or an animal, which springs from vegetation or generation, bear a stronger resemblance to the world, than does any artificial machine, which arises from reason and design? but what is this vegetation and generation of which you talk, said demea? can you explain their operations, and anatomize that fine internal structure on which they depend? as much, at least, replied philo, as cleanthes can explain the operations of reason, or anatomize that internal structure on which _it_ depends. but without any such elaborate disquisitions, when i see an animal, i infer, that it sprang from generation; and that with as great certainty as you conclude a house to have been reared by design. these words, _generation, reason_, mark only certain powers and energies in nature, whose effects are known, but whose essence is incomprehensible; and one of these principles, more than the other, has no privilege for being made a standard to the whole of nature. in reality, demea, it may reasonably be expected, that the larger the views are which we take of things, the better will they conduct us in our conclusions concerning such extraordinary and such magnificent subjects. in this little corner of the world alone, there are four principles, _reason, instinct, generation, vegetation_, which are similar to each other, and are the causes of similar effects. what a number of other principles may we naturally suppose in the immense extent and variety of the universe, could we travel from planet to planet, and from system to system, in order to examine each part of this mighty fabric? any one of these four principles above mentioned, (and a hundred others which lie open to our conjecture), may afford us a theory by which to judge of the origin of the world; and it is a palpable and egregious partiality to confine our view entirely to that principle by which our own minds operate. were this principle more intelligible on that account, such a partiality might be somewhat excuseable: but reason, in its internal fabric and structure, is really as little known to us as instinct or vegetation; and, perhaps, even that vague, undeterminate word, _nature_, to which the vulgar refer every thing, is not at the bottom more inexplicable. the effects of these principles are all known to us from experience; but the principles themselves, and their manner of operation, are totally unknown; nor is it less intelligible, or less conformable to experience, to say, that the world arose by vegetation, from a seed shed by another world, than to say that it arose from a divine reason or contrivance, according to the sense in which cleanthes understands it. but methinks, said demea, if the world had a vegetative quality, and could sow the seeds of new worlds into the infinite chaos, this power would be still an additional argument for design in its author. for whence could arise so wonderful a faculty but from design? or how can order spring from any thing which perceives not that order which it bestows? you need only look around you, replied philo, to satisfy yourself with regard to this question. a tree bestows order and organization on that tree which springs from it, without knowing the order; an animal in the same manner on its offspring; a bird on its nest; and instances of this kind are even more frequent in the world than those of order, which arise from reason and contrivance. to say, that all this order in animals and vegetables proceeds ultimately from design, is begging the question; nor can that great point be ascertained otherwise than by proving, _a priori_, both that order is, from its nature, inseparably attached to thought; and that it can never of itself, or from original unknown principles, belong to matter. but farther, demea; this objection which you urge can never be made use of by cleanthes, without renouncing a defence which he has already made against one of my objections. when i inquired concerning the cause of that supreme reason and intelligence into which he resolves every thing; he told me, that the impossibility of satisfying such inquiries could never be admitted as an objection in any species of philosophy. _we must stop somewhere_, says he; _nor is it ever within the reach of human capacity to explain ultimate causes, of show the last connections of any objects. it is sufficient, if any steps, so far as we go, are supported by experience and observation_. now, that vegetation and generation, as well as reason, are experienced to be principles of order in nature, is undeniable. if i rest my system of cosmogony on the former, preferably to the latter, it is at my choice. the matter seems entirely arbitrary. and when cleanthes asks me what is the cause of my great vegetative or generative faculty, i am equally entitled to ask him the cause of his great reasoning principle. these questions we have agreed to forbear on both sides; and it is chiefly his interest on the present occasion to stick to this agreement. judging by our limited and imperfect experience, generation has some privileges above reason: for we see every day the latter arise from the former, never the former from the latter. compare, i beseech you, the consequences on both sides. the world, say i, resembles an animal; therefore it is an animal, therefore it arose from generation. the steps, i confess, are wide; yet there is some small appearance of analogy in each step. the world, says cleanthes, resembles a machine; therefore it is a machine, therefore it arose from design. the steps are here equally wide, and the analogy less striking. and if he pretends to carry on _my_ hypothesis a step farther, and to infer design or reason from the great principle of generation, on which i insist; i may, with better authority, use the same freedom to push farther _his_ hypothesis, and infer a divine generation or theogony from his principle of reason. i have at least some faint shadow of experience, which is the utmost that can ever be attained in the present subject. reason, in innumerable instances, is observed to arise from the principle of generation, and never to arise from any other principle. hesiod, and all the ancient mythologists, were so struck with this analogy, that they universally explained the origin of nature from an animal birth, and copulation. plato too, so far as he is intelligible, seems to have adopted some such notion in his timæus. the brahmins assert, that the world arose from an infinite spider, who spun this whole complicated mass from his bowels, and annihilates afterwards the whole or any part of it, by absorbing it again, and resolving it into his own essence. here is a species of cosmogony, which appears to us ridiculous; because a spider is a little contemptible animal, whose operations we are never likely to take for a model of the whole universe. but still here is a new species of analogy, even in our globe. and were there a planet wholly inhabited by spiders, (which is very possible), this inference would there appear as natural and irrefragable as that which in our planet ascribes the origin of all things to design and intelligence, as explained by cleanthes. why an orderly system may not be spun from the belly as well as from the brain, it will be difficult for him to give a satisfactory reason. i must confess, philo, replied cleanthes, that of all men living, the task which you have undertaken, of raising doubts and objections, suits you best, and seems, in a manner, natural and unavoidable to you. so great is your fertility of invention, that i am not ashamed to acknowledge myself unable, on a sudden, to solve regularly such out-of-the-way difficulties as you incessantly start upon me: though i clearly see, in general, their fallacy and error. and i question not, but you are yourself, at present, in the same case, and have not the solution so ready as the objection: while you must be sensible, that common sense and reason are entirely against you; and that such whimsies as you have delivered, may puzzle, but never can convince us. part viii. what you ascribe to the fertility of my invention, replied philo, is entirely owing to the nature of the subject. in subjects adapted to the narrow compass of human reason, there is commonly but one determination, which carries probability or conviction with it; and to a man of sound judgment, all other suppositions, but that one, appear entirely absurd and chimerical. but in such questions as the present, a hundred contradictory views may preserve a kind of imperfect analogy; and invention has here full scope to exert itself. without any great effort of thought, i believe that i could, in an instant, propose other systems of cosmogony, which would have some faint appearance of truth; though it is a thousand, a million to one, if either yours or any one of mine be the true system. for instance, what if i should revive the old epicurean hypothesis? this is commonly, and i believe justly, esteemed the most absurd system that has yet been proposed; yet i know not whether, with a few alterations, it might not be brought to bear a faint appearance of probability. instead of supposing matter infinite, as epicurus did, let us suppose it finite. a finite number of particles is only susceptible of finite transpositions: and it must happen, in an eternal duration, that every possible order or position must be tried an infinite number of times. this world, therefore, with all its events, even the most minute, has before been produced and destroyed, and will again be produced and destroyed, without any bounds and limitations. no one, who has a conception of the powers of infinite, in comparison of finite, will ever scruple this determination. but this supposes, said demea, that matter can acquire motion, without any voluntary agent or first mover. and where is the difficulty, replied philo, of that supposition? every event, before experience, is equally difficult and incomprehensible; and every event, after experience, is equally easy and intelligible. motion, in many instances, from gravity, from elasticity, from electricity, begins in matter, without any known voluntary agent: and to suppose always, in these cases, an unknown voluntary agent, is mere hypothesis; and hypothesis attended with no advantages. the beginning of motion in matter itself is as conceivable _a priori_ as its communication from mind and intelligence. besides, why may not motion have been propagated by impulse through all eternity, and the same stock of it, or nearly the same, be still upheld in the universe? as much is lost by the composition of motion, as much is gained by its resolution. and whatever the causes are, the fact is certain, that matter is, and always has been, in continual agitation, as far as human experience or tradition reaches. there is not probably, at present, in the whole universe, one particle of matter at absolute rest. and this very consideration too, continued philo, which we have stumbled on in the course of the argument, suggests a new hypothesis of cosmogony, that is not absolutely absurd and improbable. is there a system, an order, an economy of things, by which matter can preserve that perpetual agitation which seems essential to it, and yet maintain a constancy in the forms which it produces? there certainly is such an economy; for this is actually the case with the present world. the continual motion of matter, therefore, in less than infinite transpositions, must produce this economy or order; and by its very nature, that order, when once established, supports itself, for many ages, if not to eternity. but wherever matter is so poized, arranged, and adjusted, as to continue in perpetual motion, and yet preserve a constancy in the forms, its situation must, of necessity, have all the same appearance of art and contrivance which we observe at present. all the parts of each form must have a relation to each other, and to the whole; and the whole itself must have a relation to the other parts of the universe; to the element in which the form subsists; to the materials with which it repairs its waste and decay; and to every other form which is hostile or friendly. a defect in any of these particulars destroys the form; and the matter of which it is composed is again set loose, and is thrown into irregular motions and fermentations, till it unite itself to some other regular form. if no such form be prepared to receive it, and if there be a great quantity of this corrupted matter in the universe, the universe itself is entirely disordered; whether it be the feeble embryo of a world in its first beginnings that is thus destroyed, or the rotten carcase of one languishing in old age and infirmity. in either case, a chaos ensues; till finite, though innumerable revolutions produce at last some forms, whose parts and organs are so adjusted as to support the forms amidst a continued succession of matter. suppose (for we shall endeavour to vary the expression), that matter were thrown into any position, by a blind, unguided force; it is evident that this first position must, in all probability, be the most confused and most disorderly imaginable, without any resemblance to those works of human contrivance, which, along with a symmetry of parts, discover an adjustment of means to ends, and a tendency to self-preservation. if the actuating force cease after this operation, matter must remain for ever in disorder, and continue an immense chaos, without any proportion or activity. but suppose that the actuating force, whatever it be, still continues in matter, this first position will immediately give place to a second, which will likewise in all probability be as disorderly as the first, and so on through many successions of changes and revolutions. no particular order or position ever continues a moment unaltered. the original force, still remaining in activity, gives a perpetual restlessness to matter. every possible situation is produced, and instantly destroyed. if a glimpse or dawn of order appears for a moment, it is instantly hurried away, and confounded, by that never-ceasing force which actuates every part of matter. thus the universe goes on for many ages in a continued succession of chaos and disorder. but is it not possible that it may settle at last, so as not to lose its motion and active force (for that we have supposed inherent in it), yet so as to preserve an uniformity of appearance, amidst the continual motion and fluctuation of its parts? this we find to be the case with the universe at present. every individual is perpetually changing, and every part of every individual; and yet the whole remains, in appearance, the same. may we not hope for such a position, or rather be assured of it, from the eternal revolutions of unguided matter; and may not this account for all the appearing wisdom and contrivance which is in the universe? let us contemplate the subject a little, and we shall find, that this adjustment, if attained by matter of a seeming stability in the forms, with a real and perpetual revolution or motion of parts, affords a plausible, if not a true solution of the difficulty. it is in vain, therefore, to insist upon the uses of the parts in animals or vegetables, and their curious adjustment to each other. i would fain know, how an animal could subsist, unless its parts were so adjusted? do we not find, that it immediately perishes whenever this adjustment ceases, and that its matter corrupting tries some new form? it happens indeed, that the parts of the world are so well adjusted, that some regular form immediately lays claim to this corrupted matter: and if it were not so, could the world subsist? must it not dissolve as well as the animal, and pass through new positions and situations, till in great, but finite succession, it fall at last into the present or some such order? it is well, replied cleanthes, you told us, that this hypothesis was suggested on a sudden, in the course of the argument. had you had leisure to examine it, you would soon have perceived the insuperable objections to which it is exposed. no form, you say, can subsist, unless it possess those powers and organs requisite for its subsistence: some new order or economy must be tried, and so on, without intermission; till at last some order, which can support and maintain itself, is fallen upon. but according to this hypothesis, whence arise the many conveniences and advantages which men and all animals possess? two eyes, two ears, are not absolutely necessary for the subsistence of the species. human race might have been propagated and preserved, without horses, dogs, cows, sheep, and those innumerable fruits and products which serve to our satisfaction and enjoyment. if no camels had been created for the use of man in the sandy deserts of africa and arabia, would the world have been dissolved? if no loadstone had been framed to give that wonderful and useful direction to the needle, would human society and the human kind have been immediately extinguished? though the maxims of nature be in general very frugal, yet instances of this kind are far from being rare; and any one of them is a sufficient proof of design, and of a benevolent design, which gave rise to the order and arrangement of the universe. at least, you may safely infer, said philo, that the foregoing hypothesis is so far incomplete and imperfect, which i shall not scruple to allow. but can we ever reasonably expect greater success in any attempts of this nature? or can we ever hope to erect a system of cosmogony, that will be liable to no exceptions, and will contain no circumstance repugnant to our limited and imperfect experience of the analogy of nature? your theory itself cannot surely pretend to any such advantage, even though you have run into _anthropomorphism_, the better to preserve a conformity to common experience. let us once more put into trial. in all instances which we have ever seen, ideas are copied from real objects, and are ectypal, not archetypal, to express myself in learned terms: you reverse this order, and give thought the precedence. in all instances which we have ever seen, thought has no influence upon matter, except where that matter is so conjoined with it as to have an equal reciprocal influence upon it. no animal can move immediately any thing but the members of its own body; and indeed, the equality of action and re-action seems to be an universal law of nature: but your theory implies a contradiction to this experience. these instances, with many more, which it were easy to collect, (particularly the supposition of a mind or system of thought that is eternal, or, in other words, an animal ingenerable and immortal); these instances, i say, may teach all of us sobriety in condemning each other, and let us see, that as no system of this kind ought ever to be received from a slight analogy, so neither ought any to be rejected on account of a small incongruity. for that is an inconvenience from which we can justly pronounce no one to be exempted. all religious systems, it is confessed, are subject to great and insuperable difficulties. each disputant triumphs in his turn; while he carries on an offensive war, and exposes the absurdities, barbarities, and pernicious tenets of his antagonist. but all of them, on the whole, prepare a complete triumph for the _sceptic_; who tells them, that no system ought ever to be embraced with regard to such subjects: for this plain reason, that no absurdity ought ever to be assented to with regard to any subject. a total suspense of judgment is here our only reasonable resource. and if every attack, as is commonly observed, and no defence, among theologians, is successful; how complete must be _his_ victory, who remains always, with all mankind, on the offensive, and has himself no fixed station or abiding city, which he is ever, on any occasion, obliged to defend? part ix. but if so many difficulties attend the argument _a posteriori_, said demea, had we not better adhere to that simple and sublime argument _a priori_, which, by offering to us infallible demonstration, cuts off at once all doubt and difficulty? by this argument, too, we may prove the infinity of the divine attributes, which, i am afraid, can never be ascertained with certainty from any other topic. for how can an effect, which either is finite, or, for aught we know, may be so; how can such an effect, i say, prove an infinite cause? the unity too of the divine nature, it is very difficult, if not absolutely impossible, to deduce merely from contemplating the works of nature; nor will the uniformity alone of the plan, even were it allowed, give us any assurance of that attribute. whereas the argument _a priori_.... you seem to reason, demea, interposed cleanthes, as if those advantages and conveniences in the abstract argument were full proofs of its solidity. but it is first proper, in my opinion, to determine what argument of this nature you choose to insist on; and we shall afterwards, from itself, better than from its _useful_ consequences, endeavour to determine what value we ought to put upon it. the argument, replied demea, which i would insist on, is the common one. whatever exists must have a cause or reason of its existence; it being absolutely impossible for any thing to produce itself, or be the cause of its own existence. in mounting up, therefore, from effects to causes, we must either go on in tracing an infinite succession, without any ultimate cause at all; or must at last have recourse to some ultimate cause, that is _necessarily_ existent: now, that the first supposition is absurd, may be thus proved. in the infinite chain or succession of causes and effects, each single effect is determined to exist by the power and efficacy of that cause which immediately preceded; but the whole eternal chain or succession, taken together, is not determined or caused by any thing; and yet it is evident that it requires a cause or reason, as much as any particular object which begins to exist in time. the question is still reasonable, why this particular succession of causes existed from eternity, and not any other succession, or no succession at all. if there be no necessarily existent being, any supposition which can be formed is equally possible; nor is there any more absurdity in nothing's having existed from eternity, than there is in that succession of causes which constitutes the universe. what was it, then, which determined something to exist rather than nothing, and bestowed being on a particular possibility, exclusive of the rest? _external causes_, there are supposed to be none. _chance_ is a word without a meaning. was it _nothing_? but that can never produce any thing. we must, therefore, have recourse to a necessarily existent being, who carries the reason of his existence in himself, and who cannot be supposed not to exist, without an express contradiction. there is, consequently, such a being; that is, there is a deity. i shall not leave it to philo, said cleanthes, though i know that the starting objections is his chief delight, to point out the weakness of this metaphysical reasoning. it seems to me so obviously ill-grounded, and at the same time of so little consequence to the cause of true piety and religion, that i shall myself venture to show the fallacy of it. i shall begin with observing, that there is an evident absurdity in pretending to demonstrate a matter of fact, or to prove it by any arguments _a priori_. nothing is demonstrable, unless the contrary implies a contradiction. nothing, that is distinctly conceivable, implies a contradiction. whatever we conceive as existent, we can also conceive as non-existent. there is no being, therefore, whose non-existence implies a contradiction. consequently there is no being, whose existence is demonstrable. i propose this argument as entirely decisive, and am willing to rest the whole controversy upon it. it is pretended that the deity is a necessarily existent being; and this necessity of his existence is attempted to be explained by asserting, that if we knew his whole essence or nature, we should perceive it to be as impossible for him not to exist, as for twice two not to be four. but it is evident that this can never happen, while our faculties remain the same as at present. it will still be possible for us, at any time, to conceive the non-existence of what we formerly conceived to exist; nor can the mind ever lie under a necessity of supposing any object to remain always in being; in the same manner as we lie under a necessity of always conceiving twice two to be four. the words, therefore, _necessary existence_, have no meaning; or, which is the same thing, none that is consistent. but farther, why may not die material universe be the necessarily existent being, according to this pretended explication of necessity? we dare not affirm that we know all the qualities of matter; and for aught we can determine, it may contain some qualities, which, were they known, would make its non-existence appear as great a contradiction as that twice two is five. i find only one argument employed to prove, that the material world is not the necessarily existent being; and this argument is derived from the contingency both of the matter and the form of the world. 'any particle of matter,' it is said,[ ] 'may be _conceived_ to be annihilated; and any form may be _conceived_ to be altered. such an annihilation or alteration, therefore, is not impossible.' but it seems a great partiality not to perceive, that the same argument extends equally to the deity, so far as we have any conception of him; and that the mind can at least imagine him to be non-existent, or his attributes to be altered. it must be some unknown, inconceivable qualities, which can make his non-existence appear impossible, or his attributes unalterable: and no reason can be assigned, why these qualities may not belong to matter. as they are altogether unknown and inconceivable, they can never be proved incompatible with it. add to this, that in tracing an eternal succession of objects, it seems absurd to inquire for a general cause or first author. how can any thing, that exists from eternity, have a cause, since that relation implies a priority in time, and a beginning of existence? in such a chain, too, or succession of objects, each part is caused by that which preceded it, and causes that which succeeds it. where then is the difficulty? but the whole, you say, wants a cause. i answer, that the uniting of these parts into a whole, like the uniting of several distinct countries into one kingdom, or several distinct members into one body, is performed merely by an arbitrary act of the mind, and has no influence on the nature of things. did i show you the particular causes of each individual in a collection of twenty particles of matter, i should think it very unreasonable, should you afterwards ask me, what was the cause of the whole twenty. this is sufficiently explained in explaining the cause of the parts. though the reasonings which you have urged, cleanthes, may well excuse me, said philo, from starting any farther difficulties, yet i cannot forbear insisting still upon another topic. it is observed by arithmeticians, that the products of compose always either , or some lesser product of , if you add together all the characters of which any of the former products is composed. thus, of , , , which are products of , you make by adding to , to , to . thus, is a product also of ; and if you add , , and , you make , a lesser product of .[ ] to a superficial observer, so wonderful a regularity may be admired as the effect either of chance or design: but a skilful algebraist immediately concludes it to be the work of necessity, and demonstrates, that it must for ever result from the nature of these numbers. is it not probable, i ask, that the whole economy of the universe is conducted by a like necessity, though no human algebra can furnish a key which solves the difficulty? and instead of admiring the order of natural beings, may it not happen, that, could we penetrate into the intimate nature of bodies, we should clearly see why it was absolutely impossible they could ever admit of any other disposition? so dangerous is it to introduce this idea of necessity into the present question! and so naturally does it afford an inference directly opposite to the religious hypothesis! but dropping all these abstractions, continued philo, and confining ourselves to more familiar topics, i shall venture to add an observation, that the argument _a priori_ has seldom been found very convincing, except to people of a metaphysical head, who have accustomed themselves to abstract reasoning, and who, finding from mathematics, that the understanding frequently leads to truth through obscurity, and, contrary to first appearances, have transferred the same habit of thinking to subjects where it ought not to have place. other people, even of good sense and the best inclined to religion, feel always some deficiency in such arguments, though they are not perhaps able to explain distinctly where it lies; a certain proof that men ever did, and ever will derive their religion from other sources than from this species of reasoning. [ ] dr clarke. [ ] république des lettres, août . part x. it is my opinion, i own, replied demea, that each man feels, in a manner, the truth of religion within his own breast, and, from a consciousness of his imbecility and misery, rather than from any reasoning, is led to seek protection from that being, on whom he and all nature is dependent. so anxious or so tedious are even the best scenes of life, that futurity is still the object of all our hopes and fears. we incessantly look forward, and endeavour, by prayers, adoration, and sacrifice, to appease those unknown powers, whom we find, by experience, so able to afflict and oppress us. wretched creatures that we are! what resource for us amidst the innumerable ills of life, did not religion, suggest some methods of atonement, and appease those terrors with which we are incessantly agitated and tormented? i am indeed persuaded, said philo, that the best, and indeed the only method of bringing every one to a due sense of religion, is by just representations of the misery and wickedness of men. and for that purpose a talent of eloquence and strong imagery is more requisite than that of reasoning and argument. for is it necessary to prove what every one feels within himself? it is only necessary to make us feel it, if possible, more intimately and sensibly. the people, indeed, replied demea, are sufficiently convinced of this great and melancholy truth. the miseries of life; the unhappiness of man; the general corruptions of our nature; the unsatisfactory enjoyment of pleasures, riches, honours; these phrases have become almost proverbial in all languages. and who can doubt of what all men declare from their own immediate feeling and experience? in this point, said philo, the learned are perfectly agreed with the vulgar; and in all letters, _sacred_ and _profane_, the topic of human misery has been insisted on with the most pathetic eloquence that sorrow and melancholy could inspire. the poets, who speak from sentiment, without a system, and whose testimony has therefore the more authority, abound in images of this nature. from homer down to dr young, the whole inspired tribe have ever been sensible, that no other representation of things would suit the feeling and observation of each individual. as to authorities, replied demea, you need not seek them. look round this library of cleanthes. i shall venture to affirm, that, except authors of particular sciences, such as chemistry or botany, who have no occasion to treat of human life, there is scarce one of those innumerable writers, from whom the sense of human misery has not, in some passage or other, extorted a complaint and confession of it. at least, the chance is entirely on that side; and no one author has ever, so far as i can recollect, been so extravagant as to deny it. there you must excuse me, said philo: leibnitz has denied it; and is perhaps the first[ ] who ventured upon so bold and paradoxical an opinion; at least, the first who made it essential to his philosophical system. and by being the first, replied demea, might he not have been sensible of his error? for is this a subject in which philosophers can propose to make discoveries especially in so late an age? and can any man hope by a simple denial (for the subject scarcely admits of reasoning), to bear down the united testimony of mankind, founded on sense and consciousness? and why should man, added he, pretend to an exemption from the lot of all other animals? the whole earth, believe me, philo, is cursed and polluted. a perpetual war is kindled amongst all living creatures. necessity, hunger, want, stimulate the strong and courageous: fear, anxiety, terror, agitate the weak and infirm. the first entrance into life gives anguish to the new-born infant and to its wretched parent: weakness, impotence, distress, attend each stage of that life: and it is at last finished in agony and horror. observe too, says philo, the curious artifices of nature, in order to embitter the life of every living being. the stronger prey upon the weaker, and keep them in perpetual terror and anxiety. the weaker too, in their turn, often prey upon the stronger, and vex and molest them without relaxation. consider that innumerable race of insects, which either are bred on the body of each animal, or, flying about, infix their stings in him. these insects have others still less than themselves, which torment them. and thus on each hand, before and behind, above and below, every animal is surrounded with enemies, which incessantly seek his misery and destruction. man alone, said demea, seems to be, in part, an exception to this rule. for by combination in society, he can easily master lions, tigers, and bears, whose greater strength and agility naturally enable them to prey upon him. on the contrary, it is here chiefly, cried philo, that the uniform and equal maxims of nature are most apparent. man, it is true, can, by combination, surmount all his _real_ enemies, and become master of the whole animal creation: but does he not immediately raise up to himself _imaginary_ enemies, the demons of his fancy, who haunt him with superstitious terrors, and blast every enjoyment of life? his pleasure, as he imagines, becomes, in their eyes, a crime: his food and repose give them umbrage and offence: his very sleep and dreams furnish new materials to anxious fear: and even death, his refuge from every other ill, presents only the dread of endless and innumerable woes. nor does the wolf molest more the timid flock, than superstition does the anxious breast of wretched mortals. besides, consider, demea: this very society, by which we surmount those wild beasts, our natural enemies; what new enemies does it not raise to us? what wo and misery does it not occasion? man is the greatest enemy of man. oppression, injustice, contempt, contumely, violence, sedition, war, calumny, treachery, fraud; by these they mutually torment each other; and they would soon dissolve that society which they had formed, were it not for the dread of still greater ills, which must attend their separation. but though these external insults, said demea, from animals, from men, from all the elements, which assault us, form a frightful catalogue of woes, they are nothing in comparison of those which arise within ourselves, from the distempered condition of our mind and body. how many lie under the lingering torment of diseases? hear the pathetic enumeration of the great poet. intestine stone and ulcer, colic-pangs, demoniac frenzy, moping melancholy, and moon-struck madness, pining atrophy, marasmus, and wide-wasting pestilence. dire was the tossing, deep the groans: *despair tended the sick, busiest from couch to couch. and over them triumphant *death his dart shook: but delay'd to strike, though oft invok'd with vows, as their chief good and final hope. the disorders of the mind, continued demea, though more secret, are not perhaps less dismal and vexatious. remorse, shame, anguish, rage, disappointment, anxiety, fear, dejection, despair; who has ever passed through life without cruel inroads from these tormentors? how many have scarcely ever felt any better sensations? labour and poverty, so abhorred by every one, are the certain lot of the far greater number; and those few privileged persons, who enjoy ease and opulence, never reach contentment or true felicity. all the goods of life united would not make a very happy man; but all the ills united would make a wretch indeed; and any one of them almost (and who can be free from every one?) nay often the absence of one good (and who can possess all?) is sufficient to render life ineligible. were a stranger to drop on a sudden into this world, i would show him, as a specimen of its ills, an hospital full of diseases, a prison crowded with malefactors and debtors, a field of battle strewed with carcases, a fleet foundering in the ocean, a nation languishing under tyranny, famine, or pestilence. to turn the gay side of life to him, and give him a notion of its pleasures; whether should i conduct him? to a ball, to an opera, to court? he might justly think, that i was only showing him a diversity of distress and sorrow. there is no evading such striking instances, said philo, but by apologies, which still farther aggravate the charge. why have all men, i ask, in all ages, complained incessantly of the miseries of life?.... they have no just reason, says one: these complaints proceed only from their discontented, repining, anxious disposition.... and can there possibly, i reply, be a more certain foundation of misery, than such a wretched temper? but if they were really as unhappy as they pretend, says my antagonist, why do they remain in life?.... not satisfied with life, afraid of death. this is the secret chain, say i, that holds us. we are terrified, not bribed to the continuance of our existence. it is only a false delicacy, he may insist, which a few refined spirits indulge, and which has, spread these complaints among the whole, nice of mankinds.... and what is this delicacy, i ask, which you blame? is it any thing but a greater sensibility to all the pleasures and pains of life? and if the man of a delicate, refined temper, by being so much more alive than the rest of the world, is only so much more unhappy, what judgment must we form in general of human life? let men remain at rest, says our adversary, and they will be easy. they are willing artificers of their own misery.... no! reply i: an anxious languor follows their repose; disappointment, vexation, trouble, their activity and ambition. i can observe something like what you mention in some others, replied cleanthes: but i confess i feel little or nothing of it in myself, and hope that it is not so common as you represent it. if you feel not human misery yourself, cried demea, i congratulate you on so happy a singularity. others, seemingly the most prosperous, have not been ashamed to vent their complaints in the most melancholy strains. let us attend to the great, the fortunate emperor, charles v., when, tired with human grandeur, he resigned all his extensive dominions into the hands of his son. in the last harangue which he made on that memorable occasion, he publicly avowed, _that the greatest prosperities which he had ever enjoyed, had been mixed with so many adversities, that he might truly say he had never enjoyed any satisfaction or contentment_. but did the retired life, in which he sought for shelter, afford him any greater happiness? if we may credit his son's account, his repentance commenced the very day of his resignation. cicero's fortune, from small beginnings, rose to the greatest lustre and renown; yet what pathetic complaints of the ills of life do his familiar letters, as well as philosophical discourses, contain? and suitably to his own experience, he introduces cato, the great, the fortunate cato, protesting in his old age, that had he a new life in his offer, he would reject the present. ask yourself, ask any of your acquaintance, whether they would live over again the last ten or twenty years of their life. no! but the next twenty, they say, will be better: and from the dregs of life, hope to receive what the first sprightly running could not give. thus at last they find (such is the greatness of human misery, it reconciles even contradictions), that they complain at once of the shortness of life, and of its vanity and sorrow. and is it possible, cleanthes, said philo, that after all these reflections, and infinitely more, which might be suggested, you can still persevere in your anthropomorphism, and assert the moral attributes of the deity, his justice, benevolence, mercy, and rectitude, to be of the same nature with these virtues in human creatures? his power we allow is infinite: whatever he wills is executed: but neither man nor any other animal is happy: therefore he does not will their happiness. his wisdom is infinite: he is never mistaken in choosing the means to any end: but the course of nature tends not to human or animal felicity: therefore it is not established for that purpose. through the whole compass of human knowledge, there are no inferences more certain and infallible than these. in what respect, then, do his benevolence and mercy resemble the benevolence and mercy of men? epicurus's old questions are yet unanswered. is he willing to prevent evil, but not able? then is he impotent. is he able, but not willing? then is he malevolent is he both able and willing? whence then is evil? you ascribe, cleanthes (and i believe justly), a purpose and intention to nature. but what, i beseech you, is the object of that curious artifice and machinery, which she has displayed in all animals? the preservation alone of individuals, and propagation of the species. it seems enough for her purpose, if such a rank be barely upheld in the universe, without any care or concern for the happiness of the members that compose it. no resource for this purpose: no machinery, in order merely to give pleasure or ease: no fund of pure joy and contentment: no indulgence, without some want or necessity accompanying it. at least, the few phenomena of this nature are overbalanced by opposite phenomena of still greater importance. our sense of music, harmony, and indeed beauty of all kinds, gives satisfaction, without being absolutely necessary to the preservation and propagation of the species. but what racking pains, on the other hand, arise from gouts, gravels, megrims, toothaches, rheumatisms, where the injury to the animal machinery is either small or incurable? mirth, laughter, play, frolic, seem gratuitous satisfactions, which have no farther tendency: spleen, melancholy, discontent, superstition, are pains of the same nature. how then does the divine benevolence display itself, in the sense of you anthropomorphites? none but we mystics, as you were pleased to call us, can account for this strange mixture of phenomena, by deriving it from attributes, infinitely perfect, but incomprehensible. and have you at last, said cleanthes smiling, betrayed your intentions, philo? your long agreement with demea did indeed a little surprise me; but i find you were all the while erecting a concealed battery against me. and i must confess, that you have now fallen upon a subject worthy of your noble spirit of opposition and controversy. if you can make out the present point, and prove mankind to be unhappy or corrupted, there is an end at once of all religion. for to what purpose establish the natural attributes of the deity, while the moral are still doubtful and uncertain? you take umbrage very easily, replied demea, at opinions the most innocent, and the most generally received, even amongst the religious and devout themselves: and nothing can be more surprising than to find a topic like this, concerning the wickedness and misery of man, charged with no less than atheism and profaneness. have not all pious divines and preachers, who have indulged their rhetoric on so fertile a subject; have they not easily, i say, given a solution of any difficulties which may attend it? this world is but a point in comparison of the universe; this life but a moment in comparison of eternity. the present evil phenomena, therefore, are rectified in other regions, and in some future period of existence. and the eyes of men, being then opened to larger views of things, see the whole connection of general laws; and trace with adoration, the benevolence and rectitude of the deity, through all the mazes and intricacies of his providence. no! replied cleanthes, no! these arbitrary suppositions can never be admitted, contrary to matter of fact, visible and uncontroverted. whence can any cause be known but from its known effects? whence can any hypothesis be proved but from the apparent phenomena? to establish one hypothesis upon another, is building entirely in the air; and the utmost we ever attain, by these conjectures and fictions, is to ascertain the bare possibility of our opinion; but never can we, upon such terms, establish its reality. the only method of supporting divine benevolence, and it is what i willingly embrace, is to deny absolutely the misery and wickedness of man. your representations are exaggerated; your melancholy views mostly fictitious; your inferences contrary to fact and experience. health is more common than sickness; pleasure than pain; happiness than misery. and for one vexation which we meet with, we attain, upon computation, a hundred enjoyments. admitting your position, replied philo, which yet is extremely doubtful, you must at the same time allow, that if pain be less frequent than pleasure, it is infinitely more violent and durable. one hour of it is often able to outweigh a day, a week, a month of our common insipid enjoyments; and how many days, weeks, and months, are passed by several in the most acute torments? pleasure, scarcely in one instance, is ever able to reach ecstasy and rapture; and in no one instance can it continue for any time at its highest pitch and altitude. the spirits evaporate, the nerves relax, the fabric is disordered, and the enjoyment quickly degenerates into fatigue and uneasiness. but pain often, good god, how often! rises to torture and agony; and the longer it continues, it becomes still more genuine agony and torture. patience is exhausted, courage languishes, melancholy seizes us, and nothing terminates our misery but the removal of its cause, or another event, which is the sole cure of all evil, but which, from our natural folly, we regard with still greater horror and consternation. but not to insist upon these topics, continued philo, though most obvious, certain, and important; i must use the freedom to admonish you, cleanthes, that you have put the controversy upon a most dangerous issue, and are unawares introducing a total scepticism into the most essential articles of natural and revealed theology. what! no method of fixing a just foundation for religion, unless we allow the happiness of human life, and maintain a continued existence even in this world, with all our present pains, infirmities, vexations, and follies, to be eligible and desirable! but this is contrary to every one's feeling and experience: it is contrary to an authority so established as nothing can subvert. no decisive proofs can ever be produced against this authority; nor is it possible for you to compute, estimate and compare, all the pains and all the pleasures in the lives of all men and of all animals: and thus, by your resting the whole system of religion on a point, which, from its very nature, must for ever be uncertain, you tacitly confess, that that system is equally uncertain. but allowing you what never will be believed, at least what you never possibly can prove, that animal, or at least human happiness, in this life, exceeds its misery, you have yet done nothing: for this is not, by any means, what we expect from infinite power, infinite wisdom, and infinite goodness. why is there any misery at all in the world? not by chance surely. from some cause then. is it from the intention of the deity? but he is perfectly benevolent. is it contrary to his intention? but he is almighty. nothing can shake the solidity of this reasoning, so short, so clear, so decisive; except we assert, that these subjects exceed all human capacity, and that our common measures of truth and falsehood are not applicable to them; a topic which i have all along insisted on, but which you have, from the beginning, rejected with scorn and indignation. but i will be contented to retire still from this intrenchment, for i deny that you can ever force me in it. i will allow, that pain or misery in man is _compatible_ with infinite power and goodness in the deity, even in your sense of these attributes: what are you advanced by all these concessions? a mere possible compatibility is not sufficient. you must _prove_ these pure, unmixt, and uncontrollable attributes from the present mixt and confused phenomena, and from these alone. a hopeful undertaking! were the phenomena ever so pure and unmixt, yet being finite, they would be insufficient for that purpose. how much more, where they are also so jarring and discordant! here, cleanthes, i find myself at ease in my argument. here i triumph. formerly, when we argued concerning the natural attributes of intelligence and design, i needed all my sceptical and metaphysical subtilty to elude your grasp. in many views of the universe, and of its parts, particularly the latter, the beauty and fitness of final causes strike us with such irresistible force, that all objections appear (what i believe they really are) mere cavils and sophisms; nor can we then imagine how it was ever possible for us to repose any weight on them. but there is no view of human life, or of the condition of mankind, from which, without the greatest violence, we can infer the moral attributes, or learn that infinite benevolence, conjoined with infinite power and infinite wisdom, which we must discover by the eyes of faith alone. it is your turn now to tug the labouring oar, and to support your philosophical subtilties against the dictates of plain reason and experience. [ ] that sentiment had been maintained by dr king, and some few others, before leibnitz, though by none of so great fame as that german philosopher. part xi. i scruple not to allow, said cleanthes, that i have been apt to suspect the frequent repetition of the word _infinite_, which we meet with in all theological writers, to savour more of panegyric than of philosophy; and that any purposes of reasoning, and even of religion, would be better served, were we to rest contented with more accurate and more moderate expressions. the terms, _admirable, excellent, superlatively great, wise_, and _holy_; these sufficiently fill the imaginations of men; and any thing beyond, besides that it leads into absurdities, has no influence on the affections or sentiments. thus, in the present subject, if we abandon all human analogy, as seems your intention, demea, i am afraid we abandon all religion, and retain no conception of the great object of our adoration. if we preserve human analogy, we must for ever find it impossible to reconcile any mixture of evil in the universe with infinite attributes; much less can we ever prove the latter from the former. but supposing the author of nature to be finitely perfect, though far exceeding mankind, a satisfactory account may then be given of natural and moral evil, and every untoward phenomenon be explained and adjusted. a less evil may then be chosen, in order to avoid a greater; inconveniences be submitted to, in order to reach a desirable end; and in a word, benevolence, regulated by wisdom, and limited by necessity, may produce just such a world as the present. you, philo, who are so prompt at starting views, and reflections, and analogies, i would gladly hear, at length, without interruption, your opinion of this new theory; and if it deserve our attention, we may afterwards, at more leisure, reduce it into form. my sentiments, replied philo, are not worth being made a mystery of; and therefore, without any ceremony, i shall deliver what occurs to me with regard to the present subject. it must, i think, be allowed, that if a very limited intelligence, whom we shall suppose utterly unacquainted with the universe, were assured, that it were the production of a very good, wise, and powerful being, however finite, he would, from his conjectures, form _beforehand_ a different notion of it from what we find it to be by experience; nor would he ever imagine, merely from these attributes of the cause, of which he is informed, that the effect could be so full of vice and misery and disorder, as it appears in this life. supposing now, that this person were brought into the world, still assured that it was the workmanship of such a sublime and benevolent being; he might, perhaps, be surprised at the disappointment; but would never retract his former belief, if founded on any very solid argument; since such a limited intelligence must be sensible of his own blindness and ignorance, and must allow, that there may be many solutions of those phenomena, which will for ever escape his comprehension. but supposing, which is the real case with regard to man, that this creature is not antecedently convinced of a supreme intelligence, benevolent, and powerful, but is left to gather such a belief from the appearances of things; this entirely alters the case, nor will he ever find any reason for such a conclusion. he may be fully convinced of the narrow limits of his understanding; but this will not help him in forming an inference concerning the goodness of superior powers, since he must form that inference from what he knows, not from what he is ignorant of. the more you exaggerate his weakness and ignorance, the more diffident you render him, and give him the greater suspicion that such subjects are beyond the reach of his faculties. you are obliged, therefore, to reason with him merely from the known phenomena, and to drop every arbitrary supposition or conjecture. did i show you a house or palace, where there was not one apartment convenient or agreeable; where the windows, doors, fires passages, stairs, and the whole economy of the building, were the source of noise, confusion, fatigue, darkness, and the extremes of heat and cold; you would certainly blame the contrivance, without any farther examination. the architect would in vain display his subtilty, and prove to you, that if this door or that window were altered, greater ills would ensue. what he says may be strictly true: the alteration of one particular, while the other parts of the building remain, may only augment the inconveniences. but still you would assert in general, that, if the architect had had skill and good intentions, he might have formed such a plan of the whole, and might have adjusted the parts in such a manner, as would have remedied all or most of these inconveniences. his ignorance, or even your own ignorance of such a plan, will never convince you of the impossibility of it. if you find any inconveniences and deformities in the building, you will always, without entering into any detail, condemn the architect. in short, i repeat the question: is the world, considered in general, and as it appears to us in this life, different from what a man, or such a limited being, would, _beforehand_, expect from a very powerful, wise, and benevolent deity? it must be strange prejudice to assert the contrary. and from thence i conclude, that however consistent the world may be, allowing certain suppositions and conjectures, with the idea of such a deity, it can never afford us an inference concerning his existence. the consistence is not absolutely denied, only the inference. conjectures, especially where infinity is excluded from the divine attributes, may perhaps be sufficient to prove a consistence, but can never be foundations for any inference. there seem to be _four_ circumstances, on which depend all, or the greatest part of the ills, that molest sensible creatures; and it is not impossible but all these circumstances may be necessary and unavoidable. we know so little beyond common life, or even of common life, that, with regard to the economy of a universe, there is no conjecture, however wild, which may not be just; nor any one, however plausible, which may not be erroneous. all that belongs to human understanding, in this deep ignorance and obscurity, is to be sceptical, or at least cautious, and not to admit of any hypothesis whatever, much less of any which is supported by no appearance of probability. now, this i assert to be the case with regard to all the causes of evil, and the circumstances on which it depends. none of them appear to human reason in the least degree necessary or unavoidable; nor can we suppose them such, without the utmost license of imagination. the _first_ circumstance which introduces evil, is that contrivance or economy of the animal creation, by which pains, as well as pleasures, are employed to excite all creatures to action, and make them vigilant in the great work of self-preservation. now pleasure alone, in its various degrees, seems to human understanding sufficient for this purpose. all animals might be constantly in a state of enjoyment: but when urged by any of the necessities of nature, such as thirst, hunger, weariness; instead of pain, they might feel a diminution of pleasure, by which they might be prompted to seek that object which is necessary to their subsistence. men pursue pleasure as eagerly as they avoid pain; at least, they might have been so constituted. it seems, therefore, plainly possible to carry on the business of life without any pain. why then is any animal ever rendered susceptible of such a sensation? if animals can be free from it an hour, they might enjoy a perpetual exemption from it; and it required as particular a contrivance of their organs to produce that feeling, as to endow them with sight, hearing, or any of the senses. shall we conjecture, that such a contrivance was necessary, without any appearance of reason? and shall we build on that conjecture as on the most certain truth? but a capacity of pain would not alone produce pain, were it not for the _second_ circumstance, viz. the conducting of the world by general laws; and this seems nowise necessary to a very perfect being. it is true, if every thing were conducted by particular volitions, the course of nature would be perpetually broken, and no man could employ his reason in the conduct of life. but might not other particular volitions remedy this inconvenience? in short, might not the deity exterminate all ill, wherever it were to be found; and produce all good, without any preparation, or long progress of causes and effects? besides, we must consider, that, according to the present economy of the world, the course of nature, though supposed exactly regular, yet to us appears not so, and many events are uncertain, and many disappoint our expectations. health and sickness, calm and tempest, with an infinite number of other accidents, whose causes are unknown and variable, have a great influence both on the fortunes of particular persons and on the prosperity of public societies; and indeed all human life, in a manner, depends on such accidents. a being, therefore, who knows the secret springs of the universe, might easily, by particular volitions, turn all these accidents to the good of mankind, and render the whole world happy, without discovering himself in any operation. a fleet, whose purposes were salutary to society, might always meet with a fair wind. good princes enjoy sound health and long life. persons born to power and authority, be framed with good tempers and virtuous dispositions. a few such events as these, regularly and wisely conducted, would change the face of the world; and yet would no more seem to disturb the course of nature, or confound human conduct, than the present economy of things, where the causes are secret, and variable, and compounded. some small touches given to caligula's brain in his infancy, might have converted him into a trajan. one wave, a little higher than the rest, by burying cæsar and his fortune in the bottom of the ocean, might have restored liberty to a considerable part of mankind. there may, for aught we know, be good reasons why providence interposes not in this manner; but they are unknown to us; and though the mere supposition, that such reasons exist, may be sufficient to _save_ the conclusion concerning the divine attributes, yet surely it can never be sufficient to _establish_ that conclusion. if every thing in the universe be conducted by general laws, and if animals be rendered susceptible of pain, it scarcely seems possible but some ill must arise in the various shocks of matter, and the various concurrence and opposition of general laws; but this ill would be very rare, were it not for the _third_ circumstance, which i proposed to mention, viz. the great frugality with which all powers and faculties are distributed to every particular being. so well adjusted are the organs and capacities of all animals, and so well fitted to their preservation, that, as far as history or tradition reaches, there appears not to be any single species which has yet been extinguished in the universe. every animal has the requisite endowments; but these endowments are bestowed with so scrupulous an economy, that any considerable diminution must entirely destroy the creature. wherever one power is increased, there is a proportional abatement in the others. animals which excel in swiftness are commonly defective in force. those which possess both are either imperfect in some of their senses, or are oppressed with the most craving wants. the human species, whose chief excellency is reason and sagacity, is of all others the most necessitous, and the most deficient in bodily advantages; without clothes, without arms, without food, without lodging, without any convenience of life, except what they owe to their own skill and industry. in short, nature seems to have formed an exact calculation of the necessities of her creatures; and, like a _rigid master_, has afforded them little more powers or endowments than what are strictly sufficient to supply those necessities. an _indulgent parent_ would have bestowed a large stock, in order to guard against accidents, and secure the happiness and welfare of the creature in the most unfortunate concurrence of circumstances. every course of life would not have been so surrounded with precipices, that the least departure from the true path, by mistake or necessity, must involve us in misery and ruin. some reserve, some fund, would have been provided to ensure happiness; nor would the powers and the necessities have been adjusted with so rigid an economy. the author of nature is inconceivably powerful: his force is supposed great, if not altogether inexhaustible: nor is there any reason, as far as we can judge, to make him observe this strict frugality in his dealings with his creatures. it would have been better, were his power extremely limited, to have created fewer animals, and to have endowed these with more faculties for their happiness and preservation. a builder is never esteemed prudent, who undertakes a plan beyond what his stock will enable him to finish. in order to cure most of the ills of human life, i require not that man should have the wings of the eagle, the swiftness of the stag, the force of the ox, the arms of the lion, the scales of the crocodile or rhinoceros; much less do i demand the sagacity of an angel or cherubim. i am contented to take an increase in one single power or faculty of his soul. let him be endowed with a greater propensity to industry and labour; a more vigorous spring and activity of mind; a more constant bent to business and application. let the whole species possess naturally an equal diligence with that which many individuals are able to attain by habit and reflection; and the most beneficial consequences, without any allay of ill, is the immediate and necessary result of this endowment. almost all the moral, as well as natural evils of human life, arise from idleness; and were our species, by the original constitution of their frame, exempt from this vice or infirmity, the perfect cultivation of land, the improvement of arts and manufactures, the exact execution of every office and duty, immediately follow; and men at once may fully reach that state of society, which is so imperfectly attained by the best regulated government. but as industry is a power, and the most valuable of any, nature seems determined, suitably to her usual maxims, to bestow it on men with a very sparing hand; and rather to punish him severely for his deficiency in it, than to reward him for his attainments. she has so contrived his frame, that nothing but the most violent necessity can oblige him to labour; and she employs all his other wants to overcome, at least in part, the want of diligence, and to endow him with some share of a faculty of which she has thought fit naturally to bereave him. here our demands may be allowed very humble, and therefore the more reasonable. if we required the endowments of superior penetration and judgment, of a more delicate taste of beauty, of a nicer sensibility to benevolence and friendship; we might be told, that we impiously pretend to break the order of nature; that we want to exalt ourselves into a higher rank of being; that the presents which we require, not being suitable to our state and condition, would only be pernicious to us. but it is hard; i dare to repeat it, it is hard, that being placed in a world so full of wants and necessities, where almost every being and element is either our foe or refuses its assistance ... we should also have our own temper to struggle with, and should be deprived of that faculty which can alone fence against these multiplied evils. the _fourth_ circumstance, whence arises the misery and ill of the universe, is the inaccurate workmanship of all the springs and principles of the great machine of nature. it must be acknowledged, that there are few parts of the universe, which seem not to serve some purpose, and whose removal would not produce a visible defect and disorder in the whole. the parts hang all together; nor can one be touched without affecting the rest, in a greater or less degree. but at the same time, it must be observed, that none of these parts or principles, however useful, are so accurately adjusted, as to keep precisely within those bounds in which their utility consists; but they are, all of them, apt, on every occasion, to run into the one extreme or the other. one would imagine, that this grand production had not received the last hand of the maker; so little finished is every part, and so coarse are the strokes with which it is executed. thus, the winds are requisite to convey the vapours along the surface of the globe, and to assist men in navigation: but how oft, rising up to tempests and hurricanes, do they become pernicious? rains are necessary to nourish all the plants and animals of the earth: but how often are they defective? how often excessive? heat is requisite to all life and vegetation; but is not always found in the due proportion. on the mixture and secretion of the humours and juices of the body depend the health and prosperity of the animal: but the parts perform not regularly their proper function. what more useful than all the passions of the mind, ambition, vanity love, anger? but how oft do they break their bounds, and cause the greatest convulsions in society? there is nothing so advantageous in the universe, but what frequently becomes pernicious, by its excess or defect; nor has nature guarded, with the requisite accuracy, against all disorder or confusion. the irregularity is never perhaps so great as to destroy any species; but is often sufficient to involve the individuals in ruin and misery. on the concurrence, then, of these _four_ circumstances, does all or the greatest part of natural evil depend. were all living creatures incapable of pain, or were the world administered by particular volitions, evil never could have found access into the universe: and were animals endowed with a large stock of powers and faculties, beyond what strict necessity requires; or were the several springs and principles of the universe so accurately framed as to preserve always the just temperament and medium; there must have been very little ill in comparison of what we feel at present. what then shall we pronounce on this occasion? shall we say that these circumstances are not necessary, and that they might easily have been altered in the contrivance of the universe? this decision seems too presumptuous for creatures so blind and ignorant. let us be more modest in our conclusions. let us allow, that, if the goodness of the diety (i mean a goodness like the human) could be established on any tolerable reasons _a priori_, these phenomena, however untoward, would not be sufficient to subvert that principle; but might easily, in some unknown manner, be reconcileable to it. but let us still assert, that as this goodness is not antecedently established, but must be inferred from the phenomena, there can be no grounds for such an inference, while there are so many ills in the universe, and while these ills might so easily have been remedied, as far as human understanding can be allowed to judge on such a subject. i am sceptic enough to allow, that the bad appearances, notwithstanding all my reasonings, may be compatible with such attributes as you suppose; but surely they can never prove these attributes. such a conclusion cannot result from scepticism, but must arise from the phenomena, and from our confidence in the reasonings which we deduce from these phenomena. look round this universe. what an immense profusion of beings, animated and organized, sensible and active! you admire this prodigious variety and fecundity. but inspect a little more narrowly these living existences, the only beings worth regarding. how hostile and destructive to each other! how insufficient all of them for their own happiness! how contemptible or odious to the spectator! the whole presents nothing but the idea of a blind nature, impregnated by a great vivifying principle, and pouring forth from her lap, without discernment or parental care, her maimed and abortive children! here the manichæan system occurs as a proper hypothesis to solve the difficulty: and no doubt, in some respects, it is very specious, and has more probability than the common hypothesis, by giving a plausible account of the strange mixture of good and ill which appears in life. but if we consider, on the other hand, the perfect uniformity and agreement of the parts of the universe, we shall not discover in it any marks of the combat of a malevolent with a benevolent being. there is indeed an opposition of pains and pleasures in the feelings of sensible creatures: but are not all the operations of nature carried on by an opposition of principles, of hot and cold, moist and dry, light and heavy? the true conclusion is, that the original source of all things is entirely indifferent to all these principles; and has no more regard to good above ill, than to heat above cold, or to drought above moisture, or to light above heavy. there may _four_ hypotheses be framed concerning the first causes of the universe: _that_ they are endowed with perfect goodness; _that_ they have perfect malice; _that_ they are opposite, and have both goodness and malice; _that_ they have neither goodness nor malice. mixt phenomena can never prove the two former unmixt principles; and the uniformity and steadiness of general laws seem to oppose the third. the fourth, therefore, seems by far the most probable. what i have said concerning natural evil will apply to moral, with little or no variation; and we have no more reason to infer, that the rectitude of the supreme being resembles human rectitude, than that his benevolence resembles the human. nay, it will be thought, that we have still greater cause to exclude from him moral sentiments, such as we feel them; since moral evil, in the opinion of many, is much more predominant above moral good than natural evil above natural good. but even though this should not be allowed, and though the virtue which is in mankind should be acknowledged much superior to the vice, yet so long as there is any vice at all in the universe, it will very much puzzle you anthropomorphites, how to account for it. you must assign a cause for it, without having recourse to the first cause. but as every effect must have a cause, and that cause another, you must either carry on the progression _in infinitum_, or rest on that original principle, who is the ultimate cause of all things.... hold! hold! cried demea: whither does your imagination hurry you? i joined in alliance with you, in order to prove the incomprehensible nature of the divine being, and refute the principles of cleanthes, who would measure every thing by human rule and standard. but i now find you running into all the topics of the greatest libertines and infidels, and betraying that holy cause which you seemingly espoused. are you secretly, then, a more dangerous enemy than cleanthes himself? and are you so late in perceiving it? replied cleanthes. believe me, demea, your friend philo, from the beginning, has been amusing himself at both our expense; and it must be confessed, that the injudicious reasoning of our vulgar theology has given him but too just a handle of ridicule. the total infirmity of human reason, the absolute incomprehensibility of the divine nature, the great and universal misery, and still greater wickedness of men; these are strange topics, surely, to be so fondly cherished by orthodox divines and doctors. in ages of stupidity and ignorance, indeed, these principles may safely be espoused; and perhaps no views of things are more proper to promote superstition, than such as encourage the blind amazement, the diffidence, and melancholy of mankind. but at present.... blame not so much, interposed philo, the ignorance of these reverend gentlemen. they know how to change their style with the times. formerly it was a most popular theological topic to maintain, that human life was vanity and misery, and to exaggerate all the ills and pains which are incident to men. but of late years, divines, we find, begin to retract this position; and maintain, though still with some hesitation, that there are more goods than evils, more pleasures than pains, even in this life. when religion stood entirely upon temper and education, it was thought proper to encourage melancholy; as indeed mankind never have recourse to superior powers so readily as in that disposition. but as men have now learned to form principles, and to draw consequences, it is necessary to change the batteries, and to make use of such arguments as will endure at least some scrutiny and examination. this variation is the same (and from the same causes) with that which i formerly remarked with regard to scepticism. thus philo continued to the last his spirit of opposition, and his censure of established opinions. but i could observe that demea did not at all relish the latter part of the discourse; and he took occasion soon after, on some pretence or other, to leave the company. part xii. after demea's departure, cleanthes and philo continued the conversation in the following manner. our friend, i am afraid, said cleanthes, will have little inclination to revive this topic of discourse, while you are in company; and to tell truth, philo, i should rather wish to reason with either of you apart on a subject so sublime and interesting. your spirit of controversy, joined to your abhorence of vulgar superstition, carries you strange lengths, when engaged in an argument; and there is nothing so sacred and venerable, even in your own eyes, which you spare on that occasion. i must confess, replied philo, that i am less cautious on the subject of natural religion than on any other; both because i know that i can never, on that head, corrupt the principles of any man of common sense; and because no one, i am confident, in whose eyes i appear a man of common sense, will ever mistake my intentions. you, in particular, cleanthes, with whom i live in unreserved intimacy; you are sensible, that notwithstanding the freedom of my conversation, and my love of singular arguments, no one has a deeper sense of religion impressed on his mind, or pays more profound adoration to the divine being, as he discovers himself to reason, in the inexplicable contrivance and artifice of nature. a purpose, an intention, a design, strikes every where the most careless, the most stupid thinker; and no man can be so hardened in absurd systems, as at all times to reject it. _that nature does nothing in vain_, is a maxim established in all the schools, merely from the contemplation of the works of nature, without any religious purpose; and, from a firm conviction of its truth, an anatomist, who had observed a new organ or canal, would never be satisfied till he had also discovered its use and intention. one great foundation of the copernican system is the maxim, _that nature acts by the simplest methods, and chooses the most proper means to any end_; and astronomers often, without thinking of it, lay this strong foundation of piety and religion. the same thing is observable in other parts of philosophy: and thus all the sciences almost lead us insensibly to acknowledge a first intelligent author; and their authority is often so much the greater, as they do not directly profess that intention. it is with pleasure i hear galen reason concerning the structure of the human body. the anatomy of a man, says he,[ ] discovers above different muscles; and whoever duly considers these, will find, that, in each of them, nature must have adjusted at least ten different circumstances, in order to attain the end which she proposed; proper figure, just magnitude, right disposition of the several ends, upper and lower position of the whole, the due insertion of the several nerves, veins, and arteries: so that, in the muscles alone, above several views and intentions must have been formed and executed. the bones he calculates to be : the distinct purposes aimed at in the structure of each, above forty. what a prodigious display of artifice, even in these simple and homogeneous parts! but if we consider the skin, ligaments, vessels, glandules, humours, the several limbs and members of the body; how must our astonishment rise upon us, in proportion to the number and intricacy of the parts so artificially adjusted! the farther we advance in these researches, we discover new scenes of art and wisdom: but descry still, at a distance, farther scenes beyond our reach; in the fine internal structure of the parts, in the economy of the brain, in the fabric of the seminal vessels. all these artifices are repeated in every different species of animal, with wonderful variety, and with exact propriety, suited to the different intentions of nature in framing each species. and if the infidelity of galen, even when these natural sciences were still imperfect, could not withstand such striking appearances, to what pitch of pertinacious obstinacy must a philosopher in this age have attained, who can now doubt of a supreme intelligence! could i meet with one of this species (who, i thank god, are very rare), i would ask him: supposing there were a god, who did not discover himself immediately to our senses, were it possible for him to give stronger proofs of his existence, than what appear on the whole face of nature? what indeed could such a divine being do, but copy the present economy of things; render many of his artifices so plain, that no stupidity could mistake them; afford glimpses of still greater artifices, which demonstrate his prodigious superiority above our narrow apprehensions; and conceal altogether a great many from such imperfect creatures? now, according to all rules of just reasoning, every fact must pass for undisputed, when it is supported by all the arguments which its nature admits of; even though these arguments be not, in themselves, very numerous or forcible: how much more, in the present case, where no human imagination can compute their number, and no understanding estimate their cogency! i shall farther add, said cleanthes, to what you have so well urged, that one great advantage of the principle of theism, is, that it is the only system of cosmogony which can be rendered intelligible and complete, and yet can throughout preserve a strong analogy to what we every day see and experience in the world. the comparison of the universe to a machine of human contrivance, is so obvious and natural, and is justified by so many instances of order and design in nature, that it must immediately strike all unprejudiced apprehensions, and procure universal approbation. whoever attempts to weaken this theory, cannot pretend to succeed by establishing in its place any other that is precise and determinate: it is sufficient for him if he start doubts and difficulties; and by remote and abstract views of things, reach that suspense of judgment, which is here the utmost boundary of his wishes. but, besides that this state of mind is in itself unsatisfactory, it can never be steadily maintained against such striking appearances as continually engage us into the religious hypothesis. a false, absurd system, human nature, from the force of prejudice, is capable of adhering to with obstinacy and perseverance: but no system at all, in opposition to a theory supported by strong and obvious reason, by natural propensity, and by early education, i think it absolutely impossible to maintain or defend. so little, replied philo, do i esteem this suspense of judgment in the present case to be possible, that i am apt to suspect there enters somewhat of a dispute of words into this controversy; more than is usually imagined. that the works of nature bear a great analogy to the productions of art, is evident; and according to all the rules of good reasoning, we ought to infer, if we argue at all concerning them, that their causes have a proportional analogy. but as there are also considerable differences, we have reason to suppose a proportional difference in the causes; and in particular, ought to attribute a much higher degree of power and energy to the supreme cause, than any we have ever observed in mankind. here then the existence of a *deity is plainly ascertained by reason: and if we make it a question, whether, on account of these analogies, we can properly call him a _mind_ or _intelligence_, notwithstanding the vast difference which may reasonably be supposed between him and human minds; what is this but a mere verbal controversy? no man can deny the analogies between the effects: to restrain ourselves from inquiring concerning the causes is scarcely possible. from this inquiry, the legitimate conclusion is, that the causes have also an analogy: and if we are not contented with calling the first and supreme cause a *god or *deity, but desire to vary the expression; what can we call him but *mind or $thought, to which he is justly supposed to bear a considerable resemblance? all men of sound reason are disgusted with verbal disputes, which abound so much in philosophical and theological inquiries; and it is found, that the only remedy for this abuse must arise from clear definitions, from the precision of those ideas which enter into any argument, and from the strict and uniform use of those terms which are employed. but there is a species of controversy, which, from the very nature of language and of human ideas, is involved in perpetual ambiguity, and can never, by any precaution or any definitions, be able to reach a reasonable certainty or precision. these are the controversies concerning the degrees of any quality or circumstance. men may argue to all eternity, whether hannibal be a great, or a very great, or a superlatively great man, what degree of beauty cleopatra possessed, what epithet of praise livy or thucydides is entitled to, without bringing the controversy to any determination. the disputants may here agree in their sense, and differ in the terms, or _vice versa_; yet never be able to define their terms, so as to enter into each other's meaning: because the degrees of these qualities are not, like quantity or number, susceptible of any exact mensuration, which may be the standard in the controversy. that the dispute concerning theism is of this nature, and consequently is merely verbal, or perhaps, if possible, still more incurably ambiguous, will appear upon the slightest inquiry. i ask the theist, if he does not allow, that there is a great and immeasurable, because incomprehensible difference between the _human_ and the _divine_ mind: the more pious he is, the more readily will he assent to the affirmative, and the more will he be disposed to magnify the difference: he will even assert, that the difference is of a nature which cannot be too much magnified. i next turn to the atheist, who, i assert, is only nominally so, and can never possibly be in earnest; and i ask him, whether, from the coherence and apparent sympathy in all the parts of this world, there be not a certain degree of analogy among all the operations of nature, in every situation and in every age; whether the rotting of a turnip, the generation of an animal, and the structure of human thought, be not energies that probably bear some remote analogy to each other: it is impossible he can deny it: he will readily acknowledge it. having obtained this concession, i push him still farther in his retreat; and i ask him, if it be not probable, that the principle which first arranged, and still maintains order in this universe, bears not also some remote inconceivable analogy to the other operations of nature, and, among the rest, to the economy of human mind and thought. however reluctant, he must give his assent. where then, cry i to both these antagonists, is the subject of your dispute? the theist allows, that the original intelligence is very different from human reason: the atheist allows, that the original principle of order bears some remote analogy to it. will you quarrel, gentlemen, about the degrees, and enter into a controversy, which admits not of any precise meaning, nor consequently of any determination? if you should be so obstinate, i should not be surprised to find you insensibly change sides; while the theist, on the one hand, exaggerates the dissimilarity between the supreme being, and frail, imperfect, variable, fleeting, and mortal creatures; and the atheist, on the other, magnifies the analogy among all the operations of nature, in every period, every situation, and every position. consider then, where the real point of controversy lies; and if you cannot lay aside your disputes, endeavour, at least, to cure yourselves of your animosity. and here i must also acknowledge, cleanthes, that as the works of nature have a much greater analogy to the effects of _our_ art and contrivance, than to those of _our_ benevolence and justice, we have reason to infer, that the natural attributes of the deity have a greater resemblance to those of men, than his moral have to human virtues. but what is the consequence? nothing but this, that the moral qualities of man are more defective in their kind than his natural abilities. for, as the supreme being is allowed to be absolutely and entirely perfect, whatever differs most from him, departs the farthest from the supreme standard of rectitude and perfection.[ ] these, cleanthes, are my unfeigned sentiments on this subject; and these sentiments, you know, i have ever cherished and maintained. but in proportion to my veneration for true religion, is my abhorrence of vulgar superstitions; and i indulge a peculiar pleasure, i confess, in pushing such principles, sometimes into absurdity, sometimes into impiety. and you are sensible, that all bigots, notwithstanding their great aversion to the latter above the former, are commonly equally guilty of both. my inclination, replied cleanthes, lies, i own, a contrary way. religion, however corrupted, is still better than no religion at all. the doctrine of a future state is so strong and necessary a security to morals, that we never ought to abandon or neglect it. for if and temporary rewards and punishments have so great an effect, as we daily find; how much greater must be expected from such as are infinite and eternal? how happens it then, said philo, if vulgar superstition be so salutary to society, that all history abounds so much with accounts of its pernicious consequences on public affairs? factions, civil wars, persecutions, subversions of government, oppression, slavery; these are the dismal consequences which always attend its prevalency over the minds of men. if the religious spirit be ever mentioned in any historical narration, we are sure to meet afterwards with a detail of the miseries which attend it. and no period of time can be happier or more prosperous, than those in which it is never regarded or heard of. the reason of this observation, replied cleanthes, is obvious. the proper office of religion is to regulate the heart of men, humanize their conduct, infuse the spirit of temperance, order, and obedience; and as its operation is silent, and only enforces the motives of morality and justice, it is in danger of being overlooked, and confounded with these other motives. when it distinguishes itself, and acts as a separate principle over men, it has departed from its proper sphere, and has become only a cover to faction and ambition. and so will all religion, said philo, except the philosophical and rational kind. your reasonings are more easily eluded than my facts. the inference is not just, because finite and temporary rewards and punishments have so great influence, that therefore such as are infinite and eternal must have so much greater. consider, i beseech you, the attachment which we have to present things, and the little concern which we discover for objects so remote and uncertain. when divines are declaiming against the common behaviour and conduct of the world, they always represent this principle as the strongest imaginable (which indeed it is); and describe almost all human kind as lying under the influence of it, and sunk into the deepest lethargy and unconcern about their religious interests. yet these same divines, when they refute their speculative antagonists, suppose the motives of religion to be so powerful, that, without them, it were impossible for civil society to subsist; nor are they ashamed of so palpable a contradiction. it is certain, from experience, that the smallest grain of natural honesty and benevolence has more effect on men's conduct, than the most pompous views suggested by theological theories and systems. a man's natural inclination works incessantly upon him; it is for ever present to the mind, and mingles itself with every view and consideration: whereas religious motives, where they act at all, operate only by starts and bounds; and it is scarcely possible for them to become altogether habitual to the mind. the force of the greatest gravity, say the philosophers, is infinitely small, in comparison of that of the least impulse: yet it is certain, that the smallest gravity will, in the end, prevail above a great impulse; because no strokes or blows can be repeated with such constancy as attraction and gravitation. another advantage of inclination: it engages on its side all the wit and ingenuity of the mind; and when set in opposition to religious principles, seeks every method and art of eluding them: in which it is almost always successful. who can explain the heart of man, or account for those strange salvos and excuses, with which people satisfy themselves, when they follow their inclinations in opposition to their religious duty? this is well understood in the world; and none but fools ever repose less trust in a man, because they hear, that from study and philosophy, he has entertained some speculative doubts with regard to theological subjects. and when we have to do with a man, who makes a great profession of religion and devotion, has this any other effect upon several, who pass for prudent, than to put them on their guard, lest they be cheated and deceived by him? we must farther consider, that philosophers, who cultivate reason and reflection, stand less in need of such motives to keep them under the restraint of morals; and that the vulgar, who alone may need them, are utterly incapable of so pure a religion as represents the deity to be pleased with nothing but virtue in human behaviour. the recommendations to the divinity are generally supposed to be either frivolous observances, or rapturous ecstasies, or a bigotted credulity. we need not run back into antiquity, or wander into remote regions, to find instances of this degeneracy. amongst ourselves, some have been guilty of that atrociousness, unknown to the egyptian and grecian superstitions, of declaiming in express terms, against morality; and representing it as a sure forfeiture of the divine favour, if the least trust or reliance be laid upon it. but even though superstition or enthusiasm should not put itself in direct opposition to morality; the very diverting of the attention, the raising up a new and frivolous species of merit, the preposterous distribution which it makes of praise and blame, must have the most pernicious consequences, and weaken extremely men's attachment to the natural motives of justice and humanity. such a principle of action likewise, not being any of the familiar motives of human conduct, acts only by intervals on the temper; and must be roused by continual efforts, in order to render the pious zealot satisfied with his own conduct, and make him fulfil his devotional task. many religious exercises are entered into with seeming fervour, where the heart, at the time, feels cold and languid: a habit of dissimulation is by degrees contracted; and fraud and falsehood become the predominant principle. hence the reason of that vulgar observation, that the highest zeal in religion and the deepest hypocrisy, so far from being inconsistent, are often or commonly united in the same individual character. the bad effects of such habits, even in common life, are easily imagined; but where the interests of religion are concerned, no morality can be forcible enough to bind the enthusiastic zealot. the sacredness of the cause sanctifies every measure which can be made use of to promote it. the steady attention alone to so important an interest as that of eternal salvation, is apt to extinguish the benevolent affections, and beget a narrow, contracted selfishness. and when such a temper is encouraged, it easily eludes all the general precepts of charity and benevolence. thus, the motives of vulgar superstition have no great influence on general conduct; nor is their operation favourable to morality, in the instances where they predominate. is there any maxim in politics more certain and infallible, than that both the number and authority of priests should be confined within very narrow limits; and that the civil magistrate ought, for ever, to keep his _fasces_ and _axes_ from such dangerous hands? but if the spirit of popular religion were so salutary to society, a contrary maxim ought to prevail. the greater number of priests, and their greater authority and riches, will always augment the religious spirit. and though the priests have the guidance of this spirit, why may we not expect a superior sanctity of life, and greater benevolence and moderation, from persons who are set apart for religion, who are continually inculcating it upon others, and who must themselves imbibe a greater share of it? whence comes it then, that, in fact, the utmost a wise magistrate can propose with regard to popular religions, is, as far as possible, to make a saving game of it, and to prevent their pernicious consequences with regard to society? every expedient which he tries for so humble a purpose is surrounded with inconveniences. if he admits only one religion among his subjects, he must sacrifice, to an uncertain prospect of tranquillity, every consideration of public liberty, science, reason, industry, and even his own independency. if he gives indulgence to several sects, which is the wiser maxim, he must preserve a very philosophical indifference to all of them, and carefully restrain the pretensions of the prevailing sect; otherwise he can expect nothing but endless disputes, quarrels, factions, persecutions, and civil commotions. true religion, i allow, has no such pernicious consequences: but we must treat of religion, as it has commonly been found in the world; nor have i any thing to do with that speculative tenet of theism, which, as it is a species of philosophy, must partake of the beneficial influence of that principle, and at the same time must lie under a like inconvenience, of being always confined to very few persons. oaths are requisite in all courts of judicature; but it is a question whether their authority arises from any popular religion. it is the solemnity and importance of the occasion, the regard to reputation, and the reflecting on the general interests of society, which are the chief restraints upon mankind. customhouse oaths and political oaths are but little regarded even by some who pretend to principles of honesty and religion; and a quaker's asseveration is with us justly put upon the same footing with the oath of any other person. i know, that polybius[ ] ascribes the infamy of greek faith to the prevalency of the epicurean philosophy: but i know also, that punic faith had as bad a reputation in ancient times as irish evidence has in modern; though we cannot account for these vulgar observations by the same reason. not to mention that greek faith was infamous before the rise of the epicurean philosophy; and euripides,[ ] in a passage which i shall point out to you, has glanced a remarkable stroke of satire against his nation, with regard to this circumstance. take care, philo, replied cleanthes, take care: push not matters too far: allow not your zeal against false religion to undermine your veneration for the true. forfeit not this principle, the chief, the only great comfort in life; and our principal support amidst all the attacks of adverse fortune. the most agreeable reflection, which it is possible for human imagination to suggest, is that of genuine theism, which represents us as the workmanship of a being perfectly good, wise, and powerful; who created us for happiness; and who, having implanted in us immeasurable desires of good, will prolong our existence to all eternity, and will transfer us into an infinite variety of scenes, in order to satisfy those desires, and render our felicity complete and durable. next to such a being himself (if the comparison be allowed), the happiest lot which we can imagine, is that of being under his guardianship and protection. these appearances, said philo, are most engaging and alluring; and with regard to the true philosopher, they are more than appearances. but it happens here, as in the former case, that, with regard to the greater part of mankind, the appearances are deceitful, and that the terrors of religion commonly prevail above its comforts. it is allowed, that men never have recourse to devotion so readily as when dejected with grief or depressed with sickness. is not this a proof, that the religious spirit is not so nearly allied to joy as to sorrow? but men, when afflicted, find consolation in religion, replied cleanthes. sometimes, said philo: but it is natural to imagine, that they will form a notion of those unknown beings, suitably to the present gloom and melancholy of their temper, when they betake themselves to the contemplation of them. accordingly, we find the tremendous images to predominate in all religions; and we ourselves, after having employed the most exalted expression in our descriptions of the deity, fall into the flattest contradiction in affirming that the damned are infinitely superior in number to the elect. i shall venture to affirm, that there never was a popular religion, which represented the state of departed souls in such a light, as would render it eligible for human kind that there should be such a state. these fine models of religion are the mere product of philosophy. for as death lies between the eye and the prospect of futurity, that event is so shocking to nature, that it must throw a gloom on all the regions which lie beyond it; and suggest to the generality of mankind the idea of cerberus and furies; devils, and torrents of fire and brimstone. it is true, both fear and hope enter into religion; because both these passions, at different times, agitate the human mind, and each of them forms a species of divinity suitable to itself. but when a man is in a cheerful disposition, he is fit for business, or company, or entertainment of any kind; and he naturally applies himself to these, and thinks not of religion. when melancholy and dejected, he has nothing to do but brood upon the terrors of the invisible world, and to plunge himself still deeper in affliction. it may indeed happen, that after he has, in this manner, engraved the religious opinions deep into his thought and imagination, there may arrive a change of health or circumstances, which may restore his good humour, and, raising cheerful prospects of futurity, make him run into the other extreme of joy and triumph. but still it must be acknowledged, that, as terror is the primary principle of religion, it is the passion which always predominates in it, and admits but of short intervals of pleasure. not to mention, that these fits of excessive, enthusiastic joy, by exhausting the spirits, always prepare the way for equal fits of superstitious terror and dejection; nor is there any state of mind so happy as the calm and equable. but this state it is impossible to support, where a man thinks that he lies in such profound darkness and uncertainty, between an eternity of happiness and an eternity of misery. no wonder that such an opinion disjoints the ordinary frame of the mind, and throws it into the utmost confusion. and though that opinion is seldom so steady in its operation as to influence all the actions; yet it is apt to make a considerable breach in the temper, and to produce that gloom and melancholy so remarkable in all devout people. it is contrary to common sense to entertain apprehensions or terrors upon account of any opinion whatsoever, or to imagine that we run any risk hereafter, by the freest use of our reason. such a sentiment implies both an _absurdity_ and an _inconsistency_. it is an absurdity to believe that the deity has human passions, and one of the lowest of human passions, a restless appetite for applause. it is an inconsistency to believe, that, since the deity has this human passion, he has not others also; and, in particular, a disregard to the opinions of creatures so much inferior. _to know god_, says seneca, _is to worship him_. all other worship is indeed absurd, superstitious, and even impious. it degrades him to the low condition of mankind, who are delighted with entreaty, solicitation, presents, and flattery. yet is this impiety the smallest of which superstition is guilty. commonly, it depresses the deity far below the condition of mankind; and represents him as a capricious demon, who exercises his power without reason and without humanity! and were that divine being disposed to be offended at the vices and follies of silly mortals, who are his own workmanship, ill would it surely fare with the votaries of most popular superstitions. nor would any of human race merit his _favour_, but a very few, the philosophical theists, who entertain, or rather indeed endeavour to entertain, suitable notions of his divine perfections: as the only persons entitled to his _compassion_ and _indulgence_ would be the philosophical sceptics, a sect almost equally rare, who, from a natural diffidence of their own capacity, suspend, or endeavour to suspend, all judgment with regard to such sublime and such extraordinary subjects. if the whole of natural theology, as some people seem to maintain, resolves itself into one simple, though somewhat ambiguous, at least undefined proposition, _that the cause or causes of order in the universe probably bear some remote analogy to human intelligence_: if this proposition be not capable of extension, variation, or more particular explication: if it affords no inference that affects human life, or can be the source of any action or forbearance: and if the analogy, imperfect as it is, can be carried no farther than to the human intelligence, and cannot be transferred, with any appearance of probability, to the other qualities of the mind; if this really be the case, what can the most inquisitive, contemplative, and religious man do more than give a plain, philosophical assent to the proposition, as often as it occurs, and believe that the arguments on which it is established exceed the objections which lie against it? some astonishment, indeed, will naturally arise from the greatness of the object; some melancholy from its obscurity; some contempt of human reason, that it can give no solution more satisfactory with regard to so extraordinary and magnificent a question. but believe me, cleanthes, the most natural sentiment which a well-disposed mind will feel on this occasion, is a longing desire and expectation that heaven would be pleased to dissipate, at least alleviate, this profound ignorance, by affording some more particular revelation to mankind, and making discoveries of the nature, attributes, and operations of the divine object of our faith. a person, seasoned with a just sense of the imperfections of natural reason, will fly to revealed truth with the greatest avidity: while the haughty dogmatist, persuaded that he can erect a complete system of theology by the mere help of philosophy, disdains any further aid, and rejects this adventitious instructor. to be a philosophical sceptic is, in a man of letters, the first and most essential step towards being a sound, believing christian; a proposition which i would willingly recommend to the attention of pamphilus: and i hope cleanthes will forgive me for interposing so far in the education and instruction of his pupil. cleanthes and philo pursued not this conversation much farther: and as nothing ever made greater impression on me, than all the reasonings of that day, so i confess, that, upon a serious review of the whole, i cannot but think, that philo's principles are more probable than demea's; but that those of cleanthes approach still nearer to the truth. [ ] de formatione foetus. [ ] it seems evident that the dispute between the sceptics and dogmatists is entirely verbal, or at least regards only the degrees of doubt and assurance which we ought to indulge with regard to all reasoning; and such disputes are commonly, at the bottom, verbal, and admit not of any precise determination. no philosophical dogmatist denies that there are difficulties both with regard to the senses and to all science, and that these difficulties are in a regular, logical method, absolutely insolvable. no sceptic denies that we lie under an absolute necessity, notwithstanding these difficulties, of thinking, and believing, and reasoning, with regard to all kinds of subjects, and even of frequently assenting with confidence and security. the only difference, then, between these sects, if they merit that name, is, that the sceptic, from habit, caprice, or inclination, insists most on the difficulties; the dogmatist, for like reasons, on the necessity. [ ] lib. vi. cap. . [ ] iphigenia in tauride. appendix to the treatise of human nature. there is nothing i would more willingly lay hold of, than an opportunity of confessing my errors; and should esteem such a return to truth and reason to be more honourable than the most unerring judgment. a man who is free from mistakes can pretend to no praises, except from the justness of his understanding; but a man who corrects his mistakes shows at once the justness of his understanding, and the candour and ingenuity of his temper. i have not yet been so fortunate as to discover any very considerable mistakes in the reasonings delivered in the preceding volumes, except on one article; but i have found by experience, that some of my expressions have not been so well chosen as to guard against all mistakes in the readers; and 'tis chiefly to remedy this defect i have subjoined the following appendix. we can never be induced to believe any matter of fact except where its cause or its effect is present to us; but what the nature is of that belief which arises from the relation of cause and effect, few have had the curiosity to ask themselves. in my opinion this dilemma is inevitable. either the belief is some new idea, such as that of _reality_ or _existence_, which we join to the simple conception of an object, or it is merely a peculiar _feeling_ or _sentiment_. that it is not a new idea, annexed to the simple conception, may be evinced from these two arguments. _first_, we have no abstract idea of existence, distinguishable and separable from the idea of particular objects. 'tis impossible, therefore, that this idea of existence can be annexed to the idea of any object, or form the difference betwixt a simple conception and belief. _secondly_, the mind has the command over all its ideas, and can separate, unite, mix, and vary them, as it pleases; so that, if belief consisted merely in a new idea annexed to the conception, it would be in a man's power to believe what he pleased. we may therefore conclude, that belief consists merely in a certain feeling or sentiment; in something that depends not on the will, but must arise from certain determinate causes and principles of which we are not masters. when we are convinced of any matter of fact, we do nothing but conceive it, along with a certain feeling, different from what attends the mere _reveries_ of the imagination. and when we express our incredulity concerning any fact, we mean, that the arguments for the fact produce not that feeling. did not the belief consist in a sentiment different from our mere conception, whatever objects were presented by the wildest imagination would be on an equal footing with the most established truths founded on history and experience. there is nothing but the feeling or sentiment to distinguish the one from the other. this, therefore, being regarded as an undoubted truth, that _belief is nothing but a peculiar feeling, different from the simple conception_, the next question that naturally occurs is, _what is the nature of this feeling or sentiment, and whether it be analogous to any other sentiment of the human mind_? this question is important. for if it be not analogous to any other sentiment, we must despair of explaining its causes, and must consider it as an original principle of the human mind. if it be analogous, we may hope to explain its causes from analogy, and trace it up to more general principles. now, that there is a greater firmness and solidity in the conceptions, which are the objects of conviction and assurance, than in the loose and indolent reveries of a castle-builder, every one will readily own. they strike upon us with more force; they are more present to us; the mind has a firmer hold of them, and is more actuated and moved by them. it acquiesces in them; and, in a manner, fixes and reposes itself on them. in short, they approach nearer to the impressions, which are immediately present to us; and are therefore analogous to many other operations of the mind. there is not, in my opinion, any possibility of evading this conclusion, but by asserting that belief, beside the simple conception, consists in some impression or feeling, distinguishable from the conception. it does not modify the conception, and render it more present and intense: it is only annexed to it, after the same manner that _will_ and _desire_ are annexed to particular conceptions of good and pleasure. but the following considerations will, i hope, be sufficient to remove this hypothesis. _first_, it is directly contrary to experience, and our immediate consciousness? all men have ever allowed reasoning to be merely an operation of our thoughts or ideas; and however those ideas may be varied to the feeling, there is nothing ever enters into our _conclusions_ but ideas, or our fainter conceptions. for instance, i hear at present a person's voice with whom i am acquainted, and this sound comes from the next room. this impression of my senses immediately conveys my thoughts to the person, along with all the surrounding objects. i paint them out to myself as existent at present, with the same qualities and relations that i formerly knew them possessed of. these ideas take faster hold of my mind, than the ideas of an enchanted castle. they are different to the feeling; but there is no distinct or separate impression attending them. 'tis the same case when i recollect the several incidents of a journey, or the events of any history. every particular fact is there the object of belief. its idea is modified differently from the loose reveries of a castle-builder: but no distinct impression attends every distinct idea, or conception of matter of fact. this is the subject of plain experience. if ever this experience can be disputed on any occasion, 'tis when the mind has been agitated with doubts and difficulties; and afterwards, upon taking the object in a new point of view, or being presented with a new argument, fixes and reposes itself in one settled conclusion and belief. in this case there is a feeling distinct and separate from the conception. the passage from doubt and agitation to tranquillity and repose, conveys a satisfaction and pleasure to the mind. but take any other case. suppose i see the legs and thighs of a person in motion, while some interposed object conceals the rest of his body. here 'tis certain, the imagination spreads out the whole figure. i give him a head and shoulders, and breast and neck. these members i conceive and believe him to be possessed of. nothing can be more evident, than that this whole operation is performed by the thought or imagination alone. the transition is immediate. the ideas presently strike us. their customary connexion with the present impression varies them and modifies them in a certain manner, but produces no act of the mind, distinct from this peculiarity of conception. let any one examine his own mind, and he will evidently find this to be the truth. _secondly_, whatever may be the case, with regard to this distinct impression, it must be allowed that the mind has a firmer hold, or more steady conception of what it takes to be matter of fact than of fictions. why then look any farther, or multiply suppositions without necessity? _thirdly_, we can explain the _causes_ of the firm conception, but not those of any separate impression. and not only so, but the causes of the firm conception exhaust the whole subject, and nothing is left to produce any other effect. an inference concerning a matter of fact is nothing but the idea of an object that is frequently conjoined, or is associated with a present impression. this is the whole of it. every part is requisite to explain, from analogy, the more steady conception; and nothing remains capable of producing any distinct impression. _fourthly_, the _effects_ of belief, in influencing the passions and imagination, can all be explained from the firm conception; and there is no occasion to have recourse to any other principle. these arguments, with many others, enumerated in the foregoing volumes, sufficiently prove, that belief only modifies the idea or conception; and renders it different to the feeling, without producing any distinct impression. thus, upon a general view of the subject, there appear to be two questions of importance, which we may venture to recommend to the consideration of philosophers, _whether there be any thing to distinguish belief from the simple conception, beside the feeling or sentiment_? and, _whether this feeling be any thing but a firmer conception, or a faster hold, that we take of the object_? if, upon impartial inquiry, the same conclusion that i have formed be assented to by philosophers, the next business is to examine the analogy which there is betwixt belief and other acts of the mind, and find the cause of the firmness and strength of conception; and this i do not esteem a difficult task. the transition from a present impression, always enlivens and strengthens any idea. when any object is presented, the idea of its usual attendant immediately strikes us, as something real and solid. 'tis _felt_ rather than conceived, and approaches the impression, from which it is derived, in its force and influence. this i have proved at large, and cannot add any new arguments. i had entertained some hopes, that however deficient our theory of the intellectual world might be, it would be free from those contradictions and absurdities, which seem to attend every explication, that human reason can give of the material world. but upon a more strict review of the section concerning _personal identity_, i find myself involved in such a labyrinth, that, i must confess, i neither know how to correct my former opinions, nor how to render them consistent. if this be not a good _general_ reason for scepticism, 'tis at least a sufficient one (if i were not already abundantly supplied) for me to entertain a diffidence and modesty in all my decisions. i shall propose the arguments on both sides, beginning with those that induced me to deny the strict and proper identity and simplicity of a self or thinking being. when we talk of _self_ or _subsistence_, we must have an idea annexed to these terms, otherwise they are altogether unintelligible. every idea is derived from preceding impressions; and we have no impression of self or substance, as something simple and individual. we have, therefore, no idea of them in that sense. whatever is distinct, is distinguishable, and whatever is distinguishable, is separable by the thought or imagination. all perceptions are distinct. they are, therefore, distinguishable, and separable, and may be conceived, as separately existent, and may exist separately, without any contradiction or absurdity. when i view this table and that chimney, nothing is present to me but particular perceptions, which are of a like nature with all the other perceptions. this is the doctrine of philosophers. but this table, which is present to me, and that chimney, may, and do exist separately. this is the doctrine of the vulgar, and implies no contradiction. there, is no contradiction, therefore, in extending the same doctrine to all the perceptions. in general, the following reasoning seems satisfactory. all ideas are borrowed from preceding perceptions. our ideas of objects, therefore, are derived from that source. consequently no proposition can be intelligible or consistent with regard to objects, which is not so with regard to perceptions. but 'tis intelligible and consistent to say, that objects exist distinct and independent, without any common _simple_ substance or subject of inhesion. this proposition, therefore, can never be absurd with regard to perceptions. when i turn my reflection on _myself_, i never can perceive this _self_ without some one or more perceptions; nor can i ever perceive any thing but the perceptions. 'tis the composition of these, therefore, which forms the self. we can conceive a thinking being to have either many or few perceptions. suppose the mind to be reduced even below the life of an oyster. suppose it to have only one perception, as of thirst or hunger. consider it in that situation. do you conceive any thing but merely that perception? have you any notion of _self_ or _substance_? if not, the addition of other perceptions can never give you that notion. the annihilation which some people suppose to follow upon death, and which entirely destroys this self, is nothing but an extinction of all particular perceptions; love and hatred, pain and pleasure, thought and sensation. these, therefore, must be the same with self, since the one cannot survive the other. is _self_ the same with _substance_? if it be, how can that question have place, concerning the subsistence of self, under a change of substance? if they be distinct, what is the difference betwixt them? for my part, i have a notion of neither, when conceived distinct from particular perceptions. philosophers begin to be reconciled to the principle, _that we have no idea of external substance, distinct from the ideas of particular qualities_. this must pave the way for a like principle with regard to the mind, _that we have no notion of it, distinct from the particular perception_. so far i seem to be attended with sufficient evidence. but having thus loosened all our particular perceptions, when i proceed to explain the principle of connexion, which binds them together, and makes us attribute to them a real simplicity and identity, i am sensible that my account is very defective, and that nothing but the seeming evidence of the precedent reasonings could have induced me to receive it. if perceptions are distinct existences, they form a whole only by being connected together. but no connexions among distinct existences are ever discoverable by human understanding. we only _feel_ a connexion or determination of the thought to pass from one object to another. it follows, therefore, that the thought alone feels personal identity, when reflecting on the train of past perceptions that compose a mind, the ideas of them are felt to be connected together, and naturally introduce each other. however extraordinary this conclusion may seem, it need not surprise us. most philosophers seem inclined to think, that personal identity _arises_ from consciousness, and consciousness is nothing but a reflected thought or perception. the present philosophy, therefore, has so far a promising aspect. but all my hopes vanish, when i come to explain the principles that unite our successive perceptions in our thought or consciousness. i cannot discover any theory, which gives me satisfaction on this head. in short, there are two principles which i cannot render consistent, nor is it in my power to renounce either of them, viz. _that all our distinct perceptions are distinct existences, and that the mind never perceives any real connexion among distinct existences_. did our perceptions either inhere in something simple and individual, or did the mind perceive some real connexion among them, there would be no difficulty in the case. for my part, i must plead the privilege of a sceptic, and confess, that this difficulty is too hard for my understanding. i pretend not, however, to pronounce it absolutely insuperable. others, perhaps, or myself, upon more mature reflections, may discover some hypothesis that will reconcile those contradictions. i shall also take this opportunity of confessing two other errors of less importance, which more mature reflection has discovered to me in my reasoning. the first may be found in vol. i. page , where i say, that the distance betwixt two bodies is known, among other things, by the angles which the rays of light flowing from the bodies make with each other. 'tis certain, that these angles are not known to the mind, and consequently can never discover the distance. the second error may be found in vol. i. p. , where i say, that two ideas of the same object can only be different by their different degrees of force and vivacity. i believe there are other differences among ideas, which cannot properly be comprehended under these terms. had i said, that two ideas of the same object can only be different by their different _feeling_, i should have been nearer the truth. end of volume second. http://www.archive.org/details/kantknowledge pricuoft transcriber's note: . text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_). . the original text includes greek characters. for this text version these letters have been replaced with transliterations represented within square brackets [greek: ]. also greek letters alpha and beta are represented as [alpha] and [beta] in this text. . a subscript is indicated by an underscore followed by the subscript in curly braces. for example, a_{ } indicates a with subscript . . footnotes have been moved to the end of the paragraph wherein they have been referred to. . other than the corrections listed above, printer's inconsistencies in spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been retained. kant's theory of knowledge by h. a. prichard fellow of trinity college, oxford oxford at the clarendon press henry frowde, m.a. publisher to the university of oxford london, edinburgh, new york toronto and melbourne preface this book is an attempt to think out the nature and tenability of kant's transcendental idealism, an attempt animated by the conviction that even the elucidation of kant's meaning, apart from any criticism, is impossible without a discussion on their own merits of the main issues which he raises. my obligations are many and great: to caird's _critical philosophy of kant_ and to the translations of meiklejohn, max müller, and professor mahaffy; to mr. j. a. smith, fellow of balliol college, and to mr. h. w. b. joseph, fellow of new college, for what i have learned from them in discussion; to mr. a. j. jenkinson, fellow of brasenose college, for reading and commenting on the first half of the ms.; to mr. h. h. joachim, fellow of merton college, for making many important suggestions, especially with regard to matters of translation; to mr. joseph, for reading the whole of the proofs and for making many valuable corrections; and, above all, to my wife for constant and unfailing help throughout, and to professor cook wilson, to have been whose pupil i count the greatest of philosophical good fortunes. some years ago it was my privilege to be a member of a class with which professor cook wilson read a portion of kant's _critique of pure reason_, and subsequently i have had the advantage of discussing with him several of the more important passages. i am especially indebted to him in my discussion of the following topics: the distinction between the sensibility and the understanding (pp. - , - , - ), the term 'form of perception' (pp. , , fin.- ), the _metaphysical exposition of space_ (pp. - ), inner sense (ch. v, and pp. - ), the _metaphysical deduction of the categories_ (pp. - ), kant's account of 'the reference of representations to an object' (pp. - ), an implication of perspective (p. ), the impossibility of a 'theory' of knowledge (p. ), and the points considered, pp. med.- med., med.- med., and . the views expressed in the pages referred to originated from professor cook wilson, though it must not be assumed that he would accept them in the form in which they are there stated. contents chapter i page the problem of the _critique_ chapter ii the sensibility and the understanding chapter iii space chapter iv phenomena and things in themselves note the first antinomy chapter v time and inner sense chapter vi knowledge and reality chapter vii the metaphysical deduction of the categories chapter viii the transcendental deduction of the categories chapter ix general criticism of the transcendental deduction of the categories chapter x the schematism of the categories chapter xi the mathematical principles chapter xii the analogies of experience chapter xiii the postulates of empirical thought note the refutation of idealism references a = first edition of the _critique of pure reason_. b = second edition of the _critique of pure reason_. prol. = kant's _prolegomena to any future metaphysic_. m = meiklejohn's translation of the _critique of pure reason_. mah. = mahaffy. translation of kant's _prolegomena to any future metaphysic_. (the pages referred to are those of the first edition; these are also to be found in the text of the second edition.) caird = caird's _critical philosophy of kant_. chapter i the problem of the _critique_ the problem of the _critique_ may be stated in outline and approximately in kant's own words as follows. human reason is called upon to consider certain questions, which it cannot decline, as they are presented by its own nature, but which it cannot answer. these questions relate to god, freedom of the will, and immortality. and the name for the subject which has to deal with these questions is metaphysics. at one time metaphysics was regarded as the queen of all the sciences, and the importance of its aim justified the title. at first the subject, propounding as it did a dogmatic system, exercised a despotic sway. but its subsequent failure brought it into disrepute. it has constantly been compelled to retrace its steps; there has been fundamental disagreement among philosophers, and no philosopher has successfully refuted his critics. consequently the current attitude to the subject is one of weariness and indifference. yet humanity cannot really be indifferent to such problems; even those who profess indifference inevitably make metaphysical assertions; and the current attitude is a sign not of levity but of a refusal to put up with the illusory knowledge offered by contemporary philosophy. now the objects of metaphysics, god, freedom, and immortality, are not objects of experience in the sense in which a tree or a stone is an object of experience. hence our views about them cannot be due to experience; they must somehow be apprehended by pure reason, i. e. by thinking and without appeal to experience. moreover, it is in fact by thinking that men have always tried to solve the problems concerning god, freedom, and immortality. what, then, is the cause of the unsatisfactory treatment of these problems and men's consequent indifference? it must, in some way, lie in a failure to attain the sure scientific method, and really consists in the neglect of an inquiry which should be a preliminary to all others in metaphysics. men ought to have begun with a critical investigation of pure reason itself. reason should have examined its own nature, to ascertain in general the extent to which it is capable of attaining knowledge without the aid of experience. this examination will decide whether reason is able to deal with the problems of god, freedom, and immortality at all; and without it no discussion of these problems will have a solid foundation. it is this preliminary investigation which the _critique of pure reason_ proposes to undertake. its aim is to answer the question, 'how far can reason go, without the material presented and the aid furnished by experience?' and the result furnishes the solution, or at least the key to the solution, of all metaphysical problems. kant's problem, then, is similar to locke's. locke states[ ] that his purpose is to inquire into the original, certainty, and extent of human knowledge; and he says, "if, by this inquiry into the nature of the understanding i can discover the powers thereof; how far they reach, to what things they are in any degree proportionate, and where they fail us; i suppose it may be of use to prevail with the busy mind of man, to be more cautious in meddling with things exceeding its comprehension; to stop when it is at the utmost extent of its tether; and to sit down in a quiet ignorance of those things, which, upon examination, are found to be beyond the reach of our capacities." thus, to use dr. caird's analogy,[ ] the task which both locke and kant set themselves resembled that of investigating a telescope, before turning it upon the stars, to determine its competence for the work. [ ] locke's _essay_, i, , §§ , . [ ] caird, i, . the above outline of kant's problem is of course only an outline. its definite formulation is expressed in the well-known question, 'how are _a priori_ synthetic judgements possible?'[ ] to determine the meaning of this question it is necessary to begin with some consideration of the terms '_a priori_' and 'synthetic'. [ ] b. , m. . while there is no difficulty in determining what kant would have recognized as an _a priori_ judgement, there is difficulty in determining what he meant by calling such a judgement _a priori_. the general account is given in the first two sections of the introduction. an _a priori_ judgement is introduced as something opposed to an _a posteriori_ judgement, or a judgement which has its source in experience. instances of the latter would be 'this body is heavy', and 'this body is hot'. the point of the word 'experience' is that there is direct apprehension of some individual, e. g. an individual body. to say that a judgement has its source in experience is of course to imply a distinction between the judgement and experience, and the word 'source' may be taken to mean that the judgement depends for its validity upon the experience of the individual thing to which the judgement relates. an _a priori_ judgement, then, as first described, is simply a judgement which is not _a posteriori_. it is independent of all experience; in other words, its validity does not depend on the experience of individual things. it might be illustrated by the judgement that all three-sided figures must have three angles. so far, then, no positive meaning has been given to _a priori_.[ ] [ ] kant is careful to exclude from the class of _a priori_ judgements proper what may be called relatively _a priori_ judgements, viz. judgements which, though not independent of all experience, are independent of experience of the facts to which they relate. "thus one would say of a man who undermined the foundations of his house that he might have known _a priori_ that it would fall down, i. e. that he did not need to wait for the experience of its actual falling down. but still he could not know this wholly _a priori_, for he had first to learn through experience that bodies are heavy and consequently fall, if their supports are taken away." (b. , m. .) kant then proceeds, not as we should expect, to state the positive meaning of _a priori_; but to give tests for what is _a priori_. since a test implies a distinction between itself and what is tested, it is implied that the meaning of _a priori_ is already known.[ ] [ ] it may be noted that in this passage (introduction, §§ and ) kant is inconsistent in his use of the term 'pure'. pure knowledge is introduced as a species of _a priori_ knowledge: "_a priori_ knowledge, if nothing empirical is mixed with it, is called pure". (b. , m. , .) and in accordance with this, the proposition 'every change has a cause' is said to be _a priori_ but impure, because the conception of change can only be derived from experience. yet immediately afterwards, pure, being opposed in general to empirical, can only mean _a priori_. again, in the phrase 'pure _a priori_' (b. fin., m. med.), the context shows that 'pure' adds nothing to '_a priori_', and the proposition 'every change must have a cause' is expressly given as an instance of pure _a priori_ knowledge. the inconsistency of this treatment of the causal rule is explained by the fact that in the former passage he is thinking of the conception of change as empirical, while in the latter he is thinking of the judgement as not empirical. at bottom in this passage 'pure' simply means _a priori_. the tests given are necessity and strict universality.[ ] since judgements which are necessary and strictly universal cannot be based on experience, their existence is said to indicate another source of knowledge. and kant gives as illustrations, ( ) any proposition in mathematics, and ( ) the proposition 'every change must have a cause'. [ ] in reality, these tests come to the same thing, for necessity means the necessity of connexion between the subject and predicate of a judgement, and since empirical universality, to which strict universality is opposed, means numerical universality, as illustrated by the proposition 'all bodies are heavy', the only meaning left for strict universality is that of a universality reached not through an enumeration of instances, but through the apprehension of a necessity of connexion. so far kant has said nothing which determines the positive meaning of _a priori_. a clue is, however, to be found in two subsequent phrases. he says that we may content ourselves with having established as a fact the pure use of our faculty of knowledge.[ ] and he adds that not only in judgements, but even in conceptions, is an _a priori_ origin manifest.[ ] the second statement seems to make the _a priori_ character of a judgement consist in its origin. as this origin cannot be experience, it must, as the first statement implies, lie in our faculty of knowledge. kant's point is that the existence of universal and necessary judgements shows that we must possess a faculty of knowledge capable of yielding knowledge without appeal to experience. the term _a priori_, then, has some reference to the existence of this faculty; in other words, it gives expression to a doctrine of 'innate ideas'. perhaps, however, it is hardly fair to press the phrase '_test_ of _a priori_ judgements'. if so, it may be said that on the whole, by _a priori_ judgements kant really means judgements which are universal and necessary, and that he regards them as implying a faculty which gives us knowledge without appeal to experience. [ ] b. , m. . [ ] ibid. we may now turn to the term 'synthetic judgement'. kant distinguishes analytic and synthetic judgements thus. in any judgement the predicate b either belongs to the subject a, as something contained (though covertly) in the conception a, or lies completely outside the conception a, although it stands in relation to it. in the former case the judgement is called analytic, in the latter synthetic.[ ] 'all bodies are extended' is an analytic judgement; 'all bodies are heavy' is synthetic. it immediately follows that only synthetic judgements extend our knowledge; for in making an analytic judgement we are only clearing up our conception of the subject. this process yields no new knowledge, for it only gives us a clearer view of what we know already. further, all judgements based on experience are synthetic, for it would be absurd to base an analytical judgement on experience, when to make the judgement we need not go beyond our own conceptions. on the other hand, _a priori_ judgements are sometimes analytic and sometimes synthetic. for, besides analytical judgements, all judgements in mathematics and certain judgements which underlie physics are asserted independently of experience, and they are synthetic. [ ] b. , m. . here kant is obviously right in vindicating the synthetic character of mathematical judgements. in the arithmetical judgement + = , the thought of certain units as a group of twelve is no mere repetition of the thought of them as a group of five added to a group of seven. though the same units are referred to, they are regarded differently. thus the thought of them as twelve means either that we think of them as formed by adding one unit to a group of eleven, or that we think of them as formed by adding two units to a group of ten, and so on. and the assertion is that the same units, which can be grouped in one way, can also be grouped in another. similarly, kant is right in pointing out that the geometrical judgement, 'a straight line between two points is the shortest,' is synthetic, on the ground that the conception of straightness is purely qualitative,[ ] while the conception of shortest distance implies the thought of quantity. [ ] straightness means identity of direction. it should now be an easy matter to understand the problem expressed by the question, 'how are _a priori_ synthetic judgements possible?' its substance may be stated thus. the existence of _a posteriori_ synthetic judgements presents no difficulty. for experience is equivalent to perception, and, as we suppose, in perception we are confronted with reality, and apprehend it as it is. if i am asked, 'how do i know that my pen is black or my chair hard?' i answer that it is because i see or feel it to be so. in such cases, then, when my assertion is challenged, i appeal to my experience or perception of the reality to which the assertion relates. my appeal raises no difficulty because it conforms to the universal belief that if judgements are to rank as knowledge, they must be made to conform to the nature of things, and that the conformity is established by appeal to actual experience of the things. but do _a priori_ synthetic judgements satisfy this condition? apparently not. for when i assert that every straight line is the shortest way between its extremities, i have not had, and never can have, experience of all possible straight lines. how then can i be sure that all cases will conform to my judgement? in fact, how can i anticipate my experience at all? how can i make an assertion about any individual until i have had actual experience of it? in an _a priori_ synthetic judgement the mind in some way, in virtue of its own powers and independently of experience, makes an assertion to which it claims that reality must conform. yet why should reality conform? _a priori_ judgements of the other kind, viz. analytic judgements, offer no difficulty, since they are at bottom tautologies, and consequently denial of them is self-contradictory and meaningless. but there is difficulty where a judgement asserts that a term b is connected with another term a, b being neither identical with nor a part of a. in this case there is no contradiction in asserting that a is not b, and it would seem that only experience can determine whether all a is or is not b. otherwise we are presupposing that things must conform to our ideas about them. now metaphysics claims to make _a priori_ synthetic judgements, for it does not base its results on any appeal to experience. hence, before we enter upon metaphysics, we really ought to investigate our right to make _a priori_ synthetic judgements at all. therein, in fact, lies the importance to metaphysics of the existence of such judgements in mathematics and physics. for it shows that the difficulty is not peculiar to metaphysics, but is a general one shared by other subjects; and the existence of such judgements in mathematics is specially important because there their validity or certainty has never been questioned.[ ] the success of mathematics shows that at any rate under certain conditions _a priori_ synthetic judgements are valid, and if we can determine these conditions, we shall be able to decide whether such judgements are possible in metaphysics. in this way we shall be able to settle a disputed case of their validity by examination of an undisputed case. the general problem, however, is simply to show what it is which makes _a priori_ synthetic judgements as such possible; and there will be three cases, those of mathematics, of physics, and of metaphysics. [ ] kant points out that this certainty has usually been attributed to the analytic character of mathematical judgements, and it is of course vital to his argument that he should be successful in showing that they are really synthetic. the outline of the solution of this problem is contained in the preface to the second edition. there kant urges that the key is to be found by consideration of mathematics and physics. if the question be raised as to what it is that has enabled these subjects to advance, in both cases the answer will be found to lie in a change of method. "since the earliest times to which the history of human reason reaches, mathematics has, among that wonderful nation the greeks, followed the safe road of a science. still it is not to be supposed that it was as easy for this science to strike into, or rather to construct for itself, that royal road, as it was for logic, in which reason has only to do with itself. on the contrary, i believe that it must have remained long in the stage of groping (chiefly among the egyptians), and that this change is to be ascribed to a _revolution_, due to the happy thought of one man, through whose experiment the path to be followed was rendered unmistakable for future generations, and the certain way of a science was entered upon and sketched out once for all.... a new light shone upon the first man (thales, or whatever may have been his name) who demonstrated the properties of the isosceles triangle; for he found that he ought not to investigate that which he saw in the figure or even the mere conception of the same, and learn its properties from this, but that he ought to produce the figure by virtue of that which he himself had thought into it _a priori_ in accordance with conceptions and had represented (by means of a construction), and that in order to know something with certainty _a priori_ he must not attribute to the figure any property other than that which necessarily follows from that which he has himself introduced into the figure, in accordance with his conception."[ ] [ ] b. x-xii, m. xxvi. here kant's point is as follows. geometry remained barren so long as men confined themselves either to the empirical study of individual figures, of which the properties were to be discovered by observation, or to the consideration of the mere conception of various kinds of figure, e. g. of an isosceles triangle. in order to advance, men had in some sense to produce the figure through their own activity, and in the act of constructing it to recognize that certain features were necessitated by those features which they had given to the figure in constructing it. thus men had to make a triangle by drawing three straight lines so as to enclose a space, and then to recognize that three angles must have been made by the same process. in this way the mind discovered a general rule, which must apply to all cases, because the mind itself had determined the nature of the cases. a property b follows from a nature a; all instances of a must possess the property b, because they have solely that nature a which the mind has given them and whatever is involved in a. the mind's own rule holds good in all cases, because the mind has itself determined the nature of the cases. kant's statements about physics, though not the same, are analogous. experiment, he holds, is only fruitful when reason does not follow nature in a passive spirit, but compels nature to answer its own questions. thus, when torricelli made an experiment to ascertain whether a certain column of air would sustain a given weight, he had previously calculated that the quantity of air was just sufficient to balance the weight, and the significance of the experiment lay in his expectation that nature would conform to his calculations and in the vindication of this expectation. reason, kant says, must approach nature not as a pupil but as a judge, and this attitude forms the condition of progress in physics. the examples of mathematics and physics suggest, according to kant, that metaphysics may require a similar revolution of standpoint, the lack of which will account for its past failure. an attempt should therefore be made to introduce such a change into metaphysics. the change is this. hitherto it has been assumed that our knowledge must conform to objects. this assumption is the real cause of the failure to extend our knowledge _a priori_, for it limits thought to the analysis of conceptions, which can only yield tautological judgements. let us therefore try the effect of assuming that objects must conform to our knowledge. herein lies the copernican revolution. we find that this reversal of the ordinary view of the relation of objects to the mind enables us for the first time to understand the possibility of _a priori_ synthetic judgements, and even to demonstrate certain laws which lie at the basis of nature, e. g. the law of causality. it is true that the reversal also involves the surprising consequence that our faculty of knowledge is incapable of dealing with the objects of metaphysics proper, viz. god, freedom, and immortality, for the assumption limits our knowledge to objects of possible experience. but this very consequence, viz. the impossibility of metaphysics, serves to test and vindicate the assumption. for the view that our knowledge conforms to objects as things in themselves leads us into an insoluble contradiction when we go on, as we must, to seek for the unconditioned; while the assumption that objects must, as phenomena, conform to our way of representing them, removes the contradiction[ ]. further, though the assumption leads to the denial of speculative knowledge in the sphere of metaphysics, it is still possible that reason in its practical aspect may step in to fill the gap. and the negative result of the assumption may even have a positive value. for if, as is the case, the moral reason, or reason in its practical aspect, involves certain postulates concerning god, freedom, and immortality, which are rejected by the speculative reason, it is important to be able to show that these objects fall beyond the scope of the speculative reason. and if we call reliance on these postulates, as being presuppositions of morality, faith, we may say that knowledge must be abolished to make room for faith. [ ] cf. pp. - . this answer to the main problem, given in outline in the preface, is undeniably plausible. yet examination of it suggests two criticisms which affect kant's general position. in the first place, the parallel of mathematics which suggests the 'copernican' revolution does not really lead to the results which kant supposes. advance in mathematics is due to the adoption not of any conscious assumption but of a certain procedure, viz. that by which we draw a figure and thereby see the necessity of certain relations within it. to preserve the parallel, the revolution in metaphysics should have consisted in the adoption of a similar procedure, and advance should have been made dependent on the application of an at least quasi-mathematical method to the objects of metaphysics. moreover, since these objects are god, freedom, and immortality, the conclusion should have been that we ought to study god, freedom, and immortality by somehow constructing them in perception and thereby gaining insight into the necessity of certain relations. success or failure in metaphysics would therefore consist simply in success or failure to see the necessity of the relations involved. kant, however, makes the condition of advance in metaphysics consist in the adoption not of a method of procedure but of an assumption, viz. that objects conform to the mind. and it is impossible to see how this assumption can assist what, on kant's theory, it ought to have assisted, viz. the study of god, freedom, and immortality, or indeed the study of anything. in geometry we presuppose that individual objects conform to the universal rules of relation which we discover. now suppose we describe a geometrical judgement, e. g. that two straight lines cannot enclose a space, as a mental law, because we are bound to think it true. then we may state the presupposition by saying that objects, e. g. individual pairs of straight lines, must conform to such a mental law. but the explicit recognition of this presupposition and the conscious assertion of it in no way assist the solution of particular geometrical problems. the presupposition is really a condition of geometrical thinking at all. without it there is no geometrical thinking, and the recognition of it places us in no better position for the study of geometrical problems. similarly, if we wish to think out the nature of god, freedom, and immortality, we are not assisted by assuming that these objects must conform to the laws of our thinking. we must presuppose this conformity if we are to think at all, and consciousness of the presupposition puts us in no better position. what is needed is an insight similar to that which we have in geometry, i. e. an insight into the necessity of the relations under consideration such as would enable us to see, for example, that being a man, as such, involves living for ever. kant has been led into the mistake by a momentary change in the meaning given to 'metaphysics'. for the moment he is thinking of metaphysics, not as the inquiry concerned with god, freedom, and immortality, but as the inquiry which has to deal with the problem as to how we can know _a priori_. this problem is assisted, at any rate prima facie, by the assumption that things must conform to the mind. and this assumption can be said to be suggested by mathematics, inasmuch as the mathematician presupposes that particular objects must correspond to the general rules discovered by the mind. from this point of view kant's only mistake, if the parallelism is to be maintained, is that he takes for an assumption which enables the mathematician to advance a metaphysical presupposition of the advance, on which the mathematician never reflects, and awareness of which would in no way assist his mathematics. in the second place the 'copernican' revolution is not strictly the revolution which kant supposes it to be. he speaks as though his aim is precisely to reverse the ordinary view of the relation of the mind to objects. instead of the mind being conceived as having to conform to objects, objects are to be conceived as having to conform to the mind. but if we consider kant's real position, we see that these views are only verbally contrary, since the word object refers to something different in each case. on the ordinary view objects are something outside the mind, in the sense of independent of it, and the ideas, which must conform to objects, are something within the mind, in the sense of dependent upon it. the conformity then is of something within the mind to something outside it. again, the conformity means that one of the terms, viz. the object, exists first and that then the other term, the idea, is fitted to or made to correspond to it. hence the real contrary of this view is that ideas, within the mind, exist first and that objects outside the mind, coming into existence afterwards, must adapt themselves to the ideas. this of course strikes us as absurd, because we always think of the existence of the object as the presupposition of the existence of the knowledge of it; we do not think the existence of the knowledge as the presupposition of the existence of the object. hence kant only succeeds in stating the contrary of the ordinary view with any plausibility, because in doing so he makes the term object refer to something which like 'knowledge' is within the mind. his position is that objects within the mind must conform to our general ways of knowing. for kant, therefore, the conformity is not between something within and something without the mind, but between two realities within the mind, viz. the individual object, as object of perception, i. e. a phenomenon, and our general ways of perceiving and thinking. but this view is only verbally the contrary of the ordinary view, and consequently kant does not succeed in reversing the ordinary view that we know objects independent of or outside the mind, by bringing our ideas into conformity with them. in fact, his conclusion is that we do not know this object, i. e. the thing in itself, at all. hence his real position should be stated by saying not that the ordinary view puts the conformity between mind and things in the wrong way, but that we ought not to speak of conformity at all. for the thing in itself being unknowable, our ideas can never be made to conform to it. kant then only reaches a conclusion which is apparently the reverse of the ordinary view by substituting another object for the thing in itself, viz. the phenomenon or appearance of the thing in itself to us. further, this second line of criticism, if followed out, will be found to affect his statement of the problem as well as that of its solution. it will be seen that the problem is mis-stated, and that the solution offered presupposes it to be mis-stated. his statement of the problem takes the form of raising a difficulty which the existence of _a priori_ knowledge presents to the ordinary view, according to which objects are independent of the mind, and ideas must be brought into conformity with them. in a synthetic _a priori_ judgement we claim to discover the nature of certain objects by an act of our thinking, and independently of actual experience of them. hence if a supporter of the ordinary view is asked to justify the conformity of this judgement or idea with the objects to which it relates, he can give no answer. the judgement having _ex hypothesi_ been made without reference to the objects, the belief that the objects must conform to it is the merely arbitrary supposition that a reality independent of the mind must conform to the mind's ideas. but kant, in thus confining the difficulty to _a priori_ judgements, implies that empirical judgements present no difficulty to the ordinary view; since they rest upon actual experience of the objects concerned, they are conformed to the objects by the very process through which they arise. he thereby fails to notice that empirical judgements present a precisely parallel difficulty. it can only be supposed that the conformity of empirical judgements to their objects is guaranteed by the experience upon which they rest, if it be assumed that in experience we apprehend objects as they are. but our experience or perception of individual objects is just as much mental as the thinking which originates _a priori_ judgements. if we can question the truth of our thinking, we can likewise question the truth of our perception. if we can ask whether our ideas must correspond to their objects, we can likewise ask whether our perceptions must correspond to them. the problem relates solely to the correspondence between something within the mind and something outside it; it applies equally to perceiving and thinking, and concerns all judgements alike, empirical as well as _a priori_. kant, therefore, has no right to imply that empirical judgements raise no problem, if he finds difficulty in _a priori_ judgements. he is only able to draw a distinction between them, because, without being aware that he is doing so, he takes account of the relation of the object to the subject in the case of an _a priori_ judgement, while in the case of an empirical judgement he ignores it. in other words, in dealing with the general connexion between the qualities of an object, he takes into account the fact that we are thinking it, but, in dealing with the perception of the coexistence of particular qualities of an object, he ignores the fact that we are perceiving it. further, that the real problem concerns all synthetic judgements alike is shown by the solution which he eventually reaches. his conclusion turns out to be that while both empirical and _a priori_ judgements are valid of phenomena, they are not valid of things in themselves; i. e. that of things in themselves we know nothing at all, not even their particular qualities. since, then, his conclusion is that even empirical judgements are not valid of things in themselves, it shows that the problem cannot be confined to _a priori_ judgements, and therefore constitutes an implicit criticism of his statement of the problem. must there not, however, be some problem peculiar to _a priori_ judgements? otherwise why should kant have been led to suppose that his problem concerned them only? further consideration will show that there is such a problem, and that it was only owing to the mistake indicated that kant treated this problem as identical with that of which he actually offered a solution. in the universal judgements of mathematics we apprehend, as we think, general rules of connexion which must apply to all possible cases. such judgements, then, presuppose a conformity between the connexions which we discover and all possible instances. now kant's treatment of this conformity as a conformity between our ideas and things has two implications. in the first place, it implies, as has been pointed out, that relation to the subject, as thinking, is taken into account in the case of the universal connexion, and that relation to the subject, as perceiving, is ignored in the case of the individual thing. in the second place, it implies that what is related to the subject as the object of its thought must be subjective or mental; that because we have to think the general connexion, the connexion is only our own idea, the conformity of things to which may be questioned. but the treatment, to be consistent, should take account of relation to the subject in both cases or in neither. if the former alternative be accepted, then the subjective character attributed by kant in virtue of this relation to what is object of thought, and equally attributable to what is object of perception, reduces the problem to that of the conformity in general of all ideas, including perceptions, within the mind to things outside it; and this problem does not relate specially to _a priori_ judgements. to discover the problem which relates specially to them, the other alternative must be accepted, that of ignoring relation to the subject in both cases. the problem then becomes 'what renders possible or is presupposed by the conformity of individual things to certain laws of connexion?' and, inasmuch as to deny the conformity is really to deny that there are laws of connexion,[ ] the problem reduces itself to the question, 'what is the presupposition of the existence of definite laws of connexion in the world?' and the only answer possible is that reality is a system or a whole of connected parts, in other words, that nature is uniform. thus it turns out that the problem relates to the uniformity of nature, and that the question 'how are _a priori_ synthetic judgements possible?' has in reality nothing to do with the problem of the relation of reality to the knowing subject, but is concerned solely with the nature of reality. [ ] to object that the laws in question, being laws which we have thought, may not be the true laws, and that therefore there may still be other laws to which reality conforms, is of course to reintroduce relation to the thinking subject. further, it is important to see that the alternative of ignoring relation to the subject is the right one, not only from the point of view of the problem peculiar to _a priori_ judgements, but also from the point of view of the nature of knowledge in general. perceiving and thinking alike presuppose that reality is immediately object of the mind, and that the act of apprehension in no way affects or enters into the nature of what we apprehend about reality. if, for instance, i assert on the strength of perception that this table is round, i imply that i see the table, and that the shape which i judge it to have is not affected by the fact that i am perceiving it; for i mean that the table really is round. if some one then convinces me that i have made a mistake owing to an effect of foreshortening, and that the table is really oval, i amend my assertion, not by saying that the table is round but only to my apprehension, but by saying that it looks round. thereby i cease to predicate roundness of the table altogether; for i mean that while it still looks round, it is not really so. the case of universal judgements is similar. the statement that a straight line is the shortest distance between its extremities means that it really is so. the fact is presupposed to be in no way altered by our having apprehended it. moreover, reality is here just as much implied to be directly object of the mind as it is in the case of the singular judgement. making the judgement consists, as we say, in _seeing_ the connexion between the direction between two points and the shortest distance between them. the connexion of real characteristics is implied to be directly object of thought.[ ] thus both perceiving and thinking presuppose that the reality to which they relate is directly object of the mind, and that the character of it which we apprehend in the resulting judgement is not affected or altered by the fact that we have had to perceive or conceive the reality.[ ] [ ] cf. bosanquet, _logic_, vol. ii, p. . [ ] in saying that a universal judgement is an immediate apprehension of fact, it is of course not meant that it can be actualized by itself or, so to say, _in vacuo_. its actualization obviously presupposes the presentation of individuals in perception or imagination. perception or imagination thus forms the necessary occasion of a universal judgement, and in that sense mediates it. moreover, the universal judgement implies an act of abstraction by which we specially attend to those universal characters of the individuals perceived or imagined, which enter into the judgement. but, though our apprehension of a universal connexion thus implies a process, and is therefore mediated, yet the connexion, when we apprehend it, is immediately our object. there is nothing between it and us. [ ] for a fuller discussion of the subject see chh. iv and vi. kant in the formulation of his problem implicitly admits this presupposition in the case of perception. he implies that empirical judgements involve no difficulty, because they rest upon the perception or experience of the objects to which they relate. on the other hand, he does not admit the presupposition in the case of conception, for he implies that in _a priori_ judgements we are not confronted with reality but are confined to our own ideas. hence we ought to ask why kant is led to adopt an attitude in the latter case which he does not adopt in the former. the answer appears to be twofold. in the first place, there is an inveterate tendency to think of universals, and therefore of the connexions between them, as being not objective realities[ ] but mere ideas. in other words, we tend to adopt the conceptualist attitude, which regards individuals as the only reality, and universals as mental fictions. in consequence, we are apt to think that while in perception, which is of the individual, we are confronted by reality, in universal judgements, in which we apprehend connexions between universals, we have before us mere ideas. kant may fairly be supposed to have been unconsciously under the influence of this tendency. in the second place, we apprehend a universal connexion by the operation of thinking. thinking is essentially an activity; and since activity in the ordinary sense in which we oppose action to knowledge originates something, we tend to think of the activity of thinking as also originating something, viz. that which is our object when we think. hence, since we think of what is real as independent of us and therefore as something which we may discover but can in no sense make, we tend to think of the object of thought as only an idea. on the other hand, what is ordinarily called perception, though it involves the activity of thinking, also involves an element in respect of which we are passive. this is the fact pointed to by kant's phrase 'objects are _given_ in perception'. in virtue of this passive element we are inclined to think that in perception we simply stand before the reality in a passive attitude. the reality perceived is thought to be, so to say, there, existing independently of us; relation to the subject is unnoticed because of our apparently wholly passive attitude. at times, and especially when he is thinking of the understanding as a faculty of spontaneity, kant seems to have been under the influence of this second tendency. [ ] i. e. as not having a place in the reality which, as we think, exists independently of the mind. the preceding summary of the problem of the _critique_ represents the account given in the two prefaces and the introduction. according to this account, the problem arises from the unquestioned existence of _a priori_ knowledge in mathematics and physics and the problematic existence of such knowledge in metaphysics, and kant's aim is to determine the range within which _a priori_ knowledge is possible. thus the problem is introduced as relating to _a priori_ knowledge as such, no distinction being drawn between its character in different cases. nevertheless the actual discussion of the problem in the body of the _critique_ implies a fundamental distinction between the nature of _a priori_ knowledge in mathematics and its nature in physics, and in order that a complete view of the problem may be given, this distinction must be stated. the 'copernican' revolution was brought about by consideration of the facts of mathematics. kant accepted as an absolute starting-point the existence in mathematics of true universal and necessary judgements. he then asked, 'what follows as to the nature of the objects known in mathematics from the fact that we really know them?' further, in his answer he accepted a distinction which he never examined or even questioned, viz. the distinction between things in themselves and phenomena.[ ] this distinction assumed, kant inferred from the truth of mathematics that things in space and time are only phenomena. according to him mathematicians are able to make the true judgements that they do make only because they deal with phenomena. thus kant in no way sought to _prove_ the truth of mathematics. on the contrary, he argued from the truth of mathematics to the nature of the world which we thereby know. the phenomenal character of the world being thus established, he was able to reverse the argument and to regard the phenomenal character of the world as _explaining_ the validity of mathematical judgements. they are valid, because they relate to phenomena. and the consideration which led kant to take mathematics as his starting-point seems to have been the self-evidence of mathematical judgements. as we directly apprehend their necessity, they admit of no reasonable doubt. [ ] cf. ch. iv. this distinction should of course have been examined by one whose aim it was to determine how far our knowledge can reach. [ ] for the self-evidence of mathematics to kant compare b. , m. and b. , m. . on the other hand, the general principles underlying physics, e. g. that every change must have a cause, or that in all change the quantum of matter is constant, appeared to kant in a different light. though certainly not based on experience, they did not seem to him self-evident.[ ] hence,[ ] in the case of these principles, he sought to give what he did not seek to give in the case of mathematical judgements, viz. a proof of their truth.[ ] the nerve of the proof lies in the contention that these principles are involved not merely in any general judgement in physics, e. g. 'all bodies are heavy,' but even in any singular judgement, e. g. 'this body is heavy,' and that the validity of singular judgements is universally conceded. thus here the fact upon which he takes his stand is not the admitted truth of the universal judgements under consideration, but the admitted truth of any singular judgement in physics. his treatment, then, of the universal judgements of mathematics and that of the principles underlying physics are distinguished by the fact that, while he accepts the former as needing no proof, he seeks to prove the latter from the admitted validity of singular judgements in physics. at the same time the acceptance of mathematical judgements and the proof of the _a priori_ principles of physics have for kant a common presupposition which distinguishes mathematics and physics from metaphysics. like universal judgements in mathematics, singular judgements in physics, and therefore the principles which they presuppose, are true only if the objects to which they relate are phenomena. both in mathematics and physics, therefore, it is a condition of _a priori_ knowledge that it relates to phenomena and not to things in themselves. but, just for this reason, metaphysics is in a different position; since god, freedom, and immortality can never be objects of experience, _a priori_ knowledge in metaphysics, and therefore metaphysics itself, is impossible. thus for kant the very condition, the realization of which justifies the acceptance of mathematical judgements and enables us to prove the principles of physics, involves the impossibility of metaphysics. [ ] this is stated b. , m. . it is also implied b. , m. , b. - , m. , and by the argument of the _analytic_ generally. [ ] this appears to be the real cause of the difference of treatment, though it is not the reason assigned by kant himself, cf. b. , m. - . [ ] his remarks about pure natural science in b. , m. and prol. § sub fin., do not represent the normal attitude of the _critique_. further, the distinction drawn between _a priori_ judgements in mathematics and in physics is largely responsible for the difficulty of understanding what kant means by _a priori_. his unfortunate tendency to explain the term negatively could be remedied if it could be held either that the term refers solely to mathematical judgements or that he considers the truth of the law of causality to be apprehended in the same way that we see that two and two are four. for an _a priori_ judgement could then be defined as one in which the mind, on the presentation of an individual in perception or imagination, and in virtue of its capacity of thinking, apprehends the necessity of a specific relation. but this definition is precluded by kant's view that the law of causality and similar principles, though _a priori_, are not self-evident. chapter ii the sensibility and the understanding the distinction between the sensibility and the understanding[ ] is to kant fundamental both in itself and in relation to the conclusions which he reaches. an outline, therefore, of this distinction must precede any statement or examination of the details of his position. unfortunately, in spite of its fundamental character, kant never thinks of questioning or criticizing the distinction in the form in which he draws it, and the presence of certain confusions often renders it difficult to be sure of his meaning. [ ] cf. b. , , , - , , - ; m. , , , - , . the distinction may be stated in his own words thus: "there are two stems of human knowledge, which perhaps spring from a common but to us unknown root, namely sensibility and understanding."[ ] "our knowledge springs from two fundamental sources of the mind; the first receives representations[ ] (receptivity for impressions); the second is the power of knowing an object by means of these representations (spontaneity of conceptions). through the first an object is _given_ to us; through the second the object is _thought_ in relation to the representation (which is a mere determination of the mind). perception and conceptions constitute, therefore, the elements of all our knowledge, so that neither conceptions without a perception in some way corresponding to them, nor perception without conceptions can yield any knowledge.... neither of these qualities has a preference over the other. without sensibility no object would be given to us, and without understanding no object would be thought. thoughts without content are empty, perceptions without conceptions are blind. hence it is as necessary for the mind to make its conceptions sensuous (i. e. to add to them the object in perception) as to make its perceptions intelligible (i. e. to bring them under conceptions). neither of these powers or faculties can exchange its function. the understanding cannot perceive, and the senses cannot think. only by their union can knowledge arise."[ ] [ ] b. , m. [ ] for the sake of uniformity _vorstellung_ has throughout been translated by 'representation', though sometimes, as in the present passage, it would be better rendered by 'presentation'. [ ] b. - , m. - . the distinction so stated appears straightforward and, on the whole,[ ] sound. and it is fairly referred to by kant as the distinction between the faculties of perceiving and conceiving or thinking, provided that the terms perceiving and conceiving or thinking be taken to indicate a distinction within perception in the ordinary sense of the word. his meaning can be stated thus: 'all knowledge requires the realization of two conditions; an individual must be presented to us in perception, and we as thinking beings must bring this individual under or recognize it as an instance of some universal. thus, in order to judge 'this is a house' or 'that is red' we need the presence of the house or of the red colour in perception, and we must 'recognize' the house or the colour, i. e. apprehend the individual as a member of a certain kind. suppose either condition unrealized. then if we suppose a failure to conceive, i. e. to apprehend the individual as a member of some kind, we see that our perception--if it could be allowed to be anything at all--would be blind i. e. indeterminate, or a mere 'blur'. what we perceived would be for us as good as nothing. in fact, we could not even say that we were perceiving. again, if we suppose that we had merely the conception of a house, and neither perceived nor had perceived an individual to which it applied, we see that the conception, being without application, would be neither knowledge nor an element in knowledge. moreover, the content of a conception is derived from perception; it is only through its relation to perceived individuals that we become aware of a universal. to know the meaning of 'redness' we must have experienced individual red things; to know the meaning of 'house' we must at least have had experience of individual men and of their physical needs. hence 'conceptions' without 'perceptions' are void or empty. the existence of conceptions presupposes experience of corresponding individuals, even though it also implies the activity of thinking in relation to these individuals.'[ ] [ ] cf. p. , note . [ ] kant's account implies that he has in view only empirical knowledge; in any case it only applies to empirical conceptions. further, it is true to say that as perceiving we are passive; we do not do anything. this, as has been pointed out, is the element of truth contained in the statement that objects are _given_ to us. on the other hand, it may be truly said that as conceiving, in the sense of bringing an individual under a universal, we are essentially active. this is presupposed by the notice or attention involved in perception ordinarily so called, i. e. perception in the full sense in which it includes conceiving as well as perceiving.[ ] kant, therefore, is justified in referring to the sensibility as a 'receptivity' and to the understanding as a 'spontaneity'. [ ] this distinction within perception is of course compatible with the view that the elements so distinguished are inseparable. the distinction, so stated, appears, as has been already said, intelligible and, in the main[ ], valid. kant, however, renders the elucidation of his meaning difficult by combining with this view of the distinction an incompatible and unwarranted theory of perception. he supposes,[ ] without ever questioning the supposition, that perception is due to the operation of things outside the mind, which act upon our sensibility and thereby produce sensations. on this supposition, what we perceive is not, as the distinction just stated implies, the thing itself, but a sensation produced by it. consequently a problem arises as to the meaning on this supposition of the statements 'by the sensibility objects are given to us' and 'by the understanding they are thought'. the former statement must mean that when a thing affects us there is a sensation. it cannot mean that by the sensibility we know that there exists a thing which causes the sensation, for this knowledge would imply the activity of thinking; nor can it mean that in virtue of the sensibility the thing itself is presented to us. the latter statement must mean that when sensation arises, the understanding judges that there is something causing it; and this assertion must really be _a priori_, because not dependent upon experience. unfortunately the two statements so interpreted are wholly inconsistent with the account of the functions of the sensibility and the understanding which has just been quoted. [ ] see p. , note . [ ] cf. b. , m. . further, this theory of perception has two forms. in its first form the theory is physical rather than metaphysical, and is based upon our possession of physical organs. it assumes that the reality to be apprehended is the world of space and time, and it asserts that by the action of bodies upon our physical organs our sensibility is affected, and that thereby sensations are originated in us. thereupon a problem arises. for if the contribution of the sensibility to our knowledge of the physical world is limited to a succession of sensations, explanation must be given of the fact that we have succeeded with an experience confined to these sensations in acquiring knowledge of a world which does not consist of sensations.[ ] kant, in fact, in the _aesthetic_ has this problem continually before him, and tries to solve it. he holds that the mind, by means of its forms of perception and its conceptions of the understanding, superinduces upon sensations, as data, spatial and other relations, in such a way that it acquires knowledge of the spatial world. [ ] cf. b. init., m. init.; b. , m. sub fin. an inherent difficulty, however, of this 'physical' theory of perception leads to a transformation of it. if, as the theory supposes, the cause of sensation is outside or beyond the mind, it cannot be known. hence the initial assumption that this cause is the physical world has to be withdrawn, and the cause of sensation comes to be thought of as the thing in itself of which we can know nothing. this is undoubtedly the normal form of the theory in kant's mind. it may be objected that to attribute to kant at any time the physical form of the theory is to accuse him of an impossibly crude confusion between things in themselves and the spatial world, and that he can never have thought that the cause of sensation, being as it is outside the mind, is spatial. but the answer is to be found in the fact that the problem just referred to as occupying kant's attention in the _aesthetic_ is only a problem at all so long as the cause of sensation is thought of as a physical body. for the problem 'how do we, beginning with mere sensation, come to know a spatial and temporal world?' is only a problem so long as it is supposed that the cause of sensation is a spatial and temporal world or a part of it, and that this world is what we come to know. if the cause of sensation, as being beyond the mind, is held to be unknowable and so not known to be spatial or temporal, the problem has disappeared. corroboration is given by certain passages[ ] in the _critique_ which definitely mention 'the senses', a term which refers to bodily organs, and by others[ ] to which meaning can be given only if they are taken to imply that the objects which affect our sensibility are not unknown things in themselves, but things known to be spatial. even the use of the plural in the term 'things in themselves' implies a tendency to identify the unknowable reality beyond the mind with bodies in space. for the implication that different sensations are due to different things in themselves originates in the view that different sensations are due to the operation of different spatial bodies. [ ] e. g. b. init., m. init., and b. fin., m. , lines , [for 'the sensuous faculty' should be substituted 'the senses']. [ ] e. g. b. , lines , ; m. , line ; a. , mah. ('even in the absence of the object'). cf. b. - , m. - (see pp. - , and note p. ), and b. - , m. - (see pp. - ). it is now necessary to consider how the distinction between the sensibility and the understanding contributes to articulate the problem 'how are _a priori_ synthetic judgements possible?' as has been pointed out, kant means by this question, 'how is it possible that the mind is able, in virtue of its own powers, to make universal and necessary judgements which anticipate its experience of objects?' to this question his general answer is that it is possible and only possible because, so far from ideas, as is generally supposed, having to conform to things, the things to which our ideas or judgements relate, viz. phenomena, must conform to the nature of the mind. now, if the mind's knowing nature can be divided into the sensibility and the understanding, the problem becomes 'how is it possible for the mind to make such judgements in virtue of its sensibility and its understanding?' and the answer will be that it is possible because the things concerned, i. e. phenomena, must conform to the sensibility and the understanding, i. e. to the mind's perceiving and thinking nature. but both the problem and the answer, so stated, give no clue to the particular _a priori_ judgements thus rendered possible nor to the nature of the sensibility and the understanding in virtue of which we make them. it has been seen, however, that the judgements in question fall into two classes, those of mathematics and those which form the presuppositions of physics. and it is kant's aim to relate these classes to the sensibility and the understanding respectively. his view is that mathematical judgements, which, as such, deal with spatial and temporal relations, are essentially bound up with our perceptive nature, i. e. with our sensibility, and that the principles underlying physics are the expression of our thinking nature, i. e. of our understanding. hence if the vindication of this relation between our knowing faculties and the judgements to which they are held to give rise is approached from the side of our faculties, it must be shown that our sensitive nature is such as to give rise to mathematical judgements, and that our understanding or thinking nature is such as to originate the principles underlying physics. again, if the account of this relation is to be adequate, it must be shown to be exhaustive, i. e. it must be shown that the sensibility and the understanding give rise to no other judgements. otherwise there may be other _a priori_ judgements bound up with the sensibility and the understanding which the inquiry will have ignored. kant, therefore, by his distinction between the sensibility and the understanding, sets himself another problem, which does not come into sight in the first formulation of the general question 'how are _a priori_ synthetic judgements possible?' he has to determine what _a priori_ judgements are related to the sensibility and to the understanding respectively. at the same time the distinction gives rise to a division within the main problem. his chief aim is to discover how it is that _a priori_ judgements are universally applicable. but, as kant conceives the issue, the problem requires different treatment according as the judgements in question are related to the sensibility or to the understanding. hence arises the distinction between the _transcendental aesthetic_ and the _transcendental analytic_, the former dealing with the _a priori_ judgements of mathematics, which relate to the sensibility, and the latter dealing with the _a priori_ principles of physics, which originate in the understanding. again, within each of these two divisions we have to distinguish two problems, viz. 'what _a priori_ judgements are essentially related to the faculty in question?' and 'how is it that they are applicable to objects?' it is important, however, to notice that the distinction between the sensibility and the understanding, in the form in which it serves as a basis for distinguishing the _aesthetic_ and the _analytic_, is not identical with or even compatible with the distinction, as kant states it when he is considering the distinction in itself and is not thinking of any theory which is to be based upon it. in the latter case the sensibility and the understanding are represented as inseparable faculties involved in _all_ knowledge.[ ] only from the union of both can knowledge arise. but, regarded as a basis for the distinction between the _aesthetic_ and the _analytic_, they are implied to be the source of different kinds of knowledge, viz. mathematics and the principles of physics. it is no answer to this to urge that kant afterwards points out that space as an object presupposes a synthesis which does not belong to sense. no doubt this admission implies that even the apprehension of spatial relations involves the activity of the understanding. but the implication is really inconsistent with the existence of the _aesthetic_ as a distinct part of the subject dealing with a special class of _a priori_ judgements. [ ] b. - , m. - ; cf. pp. - . [ ] b. note, m. note. chapter iii space it is the aim of the _aesthetic_ to deal with the _a priori_ knowledge which relates to the sensibility. this knowledge, according to kant, is concerned with space and time. hence he has to show _firstly_ that our apprehension of space and time is _a priori_, i. e. that it is not derived from experience but originates in our apprehending nature; and _secondly_ that within our apprehending nature this apprehension belongs to the sensibility and not to the understanding, or, in his language, that space and time are forms of perception or sensibility. further, if his treatment is to be exhaustive, he should also show _thirdly_ that space and time are the only forms of perception. this, however, he makes no attempt to do except in one passage,[ ] where the argument fails. the first two points established, kant is able to develop his main thesis, viz. that it is a condition of the validity of the _a priori_ judgements which relate to space and time that these are characteristics of phenomena, and not of things in themselves. [ ] b. , m. . it will be convenient to consider his treatment of space and time separately, and to begin with his treatment of space. it is necessary, however, first of all to refer to the term 'form of perception'. as kant conceives a form of perception, it involves three antitheses. ( ) as a _form_ of perception it is opposed, as a way or mode of perceiving, to particular perceptions. ( ) as a form or mode of _perception_ it is opposed to a form or mode of _conception_. ( ) as a form of _perception_ it is also opposed, as a way in which we apprehend things, to a way in which things are. while we may defer consideration of the second and third antitheses, we should at once give attention to the nature of the first, because kant confuses it with two other antitheses. there is no doubt that in general a _form_ of perception means for kant a general capacity of perceiving which, as such, is opposed to the actual perceptions in which it is manifested. for according to him our spatial perceptions are not foreign to us, but manifestations of our general perceiving nature; and this view finds expression in the assertion that space is a form of perception or of sensibility.[ ] [ ] cf. b. init., m. med. unfortunately, however, kant frequently speaks of this form of perception as if it were the same thing as the actual perception of empty space.[ ] in other words, he implies that such a perception is possible, and confuses it with a potentiality, i. e. the power of perceiving that which is spatial. the confusion is possible because it can be said with some plausibility that a perception of empty space--if its possibility be allowed--does not inform us about actual things, but only informs us what must be true of things, if there prove to be any; such a perception, therefore, can be thought of as a possibility of knowledge rather than as actual knowledge. [ ] e. g. b. , , m. ; b. , m. ; _prol._ §§ - . the commonest expression of the confusion is to be found in the repeated assertion that space is a pure perception. the second confusion is closely related to the first, and arises from the fact that kant speaks of space not only as a form of _perception_, but also as the form of _phenomena_ in opposition to sensation as their matter. "that which in the phenomenon corresponds to[ ] the sensation i term its matter; but that which effects that the manifold of the phenomenon can be arranged under certain relations i call the form of the phenomenon. now that in which alone our sensations can be arranged and placed in a certain form cannot itself be sensation. hence while the matter of all phenomena is only given to us _a posteriori_, their form [i. e. space] must lie ready for them all together _a priori_ in the mind."[ ] here kant is clearly under the influence of his theory of perception.[ ] he is thinking that, given the origination of sensations in us by the thing in itself, it is the business of the mind to arrange these sensations spatially in order to attain knowledge of the spatial world.[ ] space being, as it were, a kind of empty vessel in which sensations are arranged, is said to be the form of phenomena.[ ] moreover, if we bear in mind that ultimately bodies in space are for kant only spatial arrangements of sensations,[ ] we see that the assertion that space is the form of phenomena is only kant's way of saying that all bodies are spatial.[ ] now kant, in thus asserting that space is the form of phenomena, is clearly confusing this assertion with the assertion that space is a form of perception, and he does so in consequence of the first confusion, viz. that between a capacity of perceiving and an actual perception of empty space. for in the passage last quoted he continues thus: "i call all representations[ ] _pure_ (in the transcendental sense) in which nothing is found which belongs to sensation. accordingly there will be found _a priori_ in the mind the pure form of sensuous perceptions in general, wherein all the manifold of phenomena is perceived in certain relations. this pure form of sensibility will also itself be called _pure perception_. thus, if i abstract from the representation of a body that which the understanding thinks respecting it, such as substance, force, divisibility, &c., and also that which belongs to sensation, such as impenetrability, hardness, colour, &c., something is still left over for me from this empirical perception, viz. extension and shape. these belong to pure perception, which exists in the mind _a priori_, even without an actual object of the senses or a sensation, as a mere form of sensibility." here kant has passed, without any consciousness of a transition, from treating space as that in which the manifold of sensation is arranged to treating it as a capacity of perceiving. moreover, since kant in this passage speaks of space as a perception, and thereby identifies space with the perception of it,[ ] the confusion may be explained thus. the form of phenomena is said to be the space in which all sensations are arranged, or in which all bodies are; space, apart from all sensations or bodies, i. e. empty, being the object of a pure perception, is treated as identical with a pure perception, viz. the perception of empty space; and the perception of empty space is treated as identical with a capacity of perceiving that which is spatial.[ ] [ ] 'corresponds to' must mean 'is'. [ ] b. , m. . [ ] cf. pp. - . [ ] it is impossible, of course, to see how such a process can give us knowledge of the spatial world, for, whatever bodies in space are, they are not arrangements of sensations. nevertheless, kant's theory of perception really precludes him from holding that bodies are anything else than arrangements of sensations, and he seems at times to accept this view explicitly, e. g. b. , m. (quoted p. ), where he speaks of our representing sensations as external to and next to each other, and, therefore, as in different places. [ ] it may be noted that it would have been more natural to describe the particular shape of the phenomenon (i. e. the particular spatial arrangement of the sensations) rather than space as the form of the phenomenon; for the matter to which the form is opposed is said to be sensation, and that of which it is the matter is said to be the phenomenon, i. e. a body in space. [ ] cf. note , p. . [ ] cf. _prol._ § and p. . [ ] cf. p. , note . [ ] cf. p. , note . [ ] the same confusion (and due to the same cause) is implied _prol_. § , and b. (b), m. (b) first paragraph. cf. b. (b), m. (b). the existence of the confusion, however, is most easily realized by asking, 'how did kant come to think of space and time as the _only_ forms of perception?' it would seem obvious that the perception of _anything_ implies a form of perception in the sense of a mode or capacity of perceiving. to perceive colours implies a capacity for seeing; to hear noises implies a capacity for hearing. and these capacities may fairly be called forms of perception. as soon as this is realized, the conclusion is inevitable that kant was led to think of space and time as the only forms of perception, because in this connexion he was thinking of each as a form of phenomena, i. e. as something in which all bodies or their states are, or, from the point of view of our knowledge, as that in which sensuous material is to be arranged; for there is nothing except space and time in which such arrangement could plausibly be said to be carried out. as has been pointed out, kant's argument falls into two main parts, one of which prepares the way for the other. the aim of the former is to show _firstly_ that our apprehension of space is _a priori_, and _secondly_ that it belongs to perception and not to conception. the aim of the latter is to conclude from these characteristics of our apprehension of space that space is a property not of things in themselves but only of phenomena. these arguments may be considered in turn. the really valid argument adduced by kant for the _a priori_ character of our apprehension of space is based on the nature of geometrical judgements. the universality of our judgements in geometry is not based upon experience, i. e. upon the observation of individual things in space. the necessity of geometrical relations is apprehended directly in virtue of the mind's own apprehending nature. unfortunately in the present context kant ignores this argument and substitutes two others, both of which are invalid. . "space is no empirical conception[ ] which has been derived from external[ ] experiences. for in order that certain sensations may be related to something external to me (that is, to something in a different part of space from that in which i am), in like manner, in order that i may represent them as external to and next to each other, and consequently as not merely different but as in different places, the representation of space must already exist as a foundation. consequently, the representation of space cannot be borrowed from the relations of external phenomena through experience; but, on the contrary, this external experience is itself first possible only through the said representation."[ ] here kant is thinking that in order to apprehend, for example, that a is to the right of b we must first apprehend empty space. he concludes that our apprehension of space is _a priori_, because we apprehend empty space _before_ we become aware of the spatial relations of individual objects in it. [ ] _begriff_ (conception) here is to be understood loosely not as something opposed to _anschauung_ (perception), but as equivalent to the genus of which _anschauung_ and _begriff_ are species, i. e. _vorstellung_, which maybe rendered by 'representation' or 'idea', in the general sense in which these words are sometimes used to include 'thought' and 'perception'. [ ] the next sentence shows that 'external' means, not 'produced by something external to the mind', but simply 'spatial'. [ ] b. , m. - . to this the following reply may be made. (_a_) the term _a priori_ applied to an apprehension should mean, not that it arises prior to experience, but that its validity is independent of experience. (_b_) that to which the term _a priori_ should be applied is not the apprehension of empty space, which is individual, but the apprehension of the nature of space in general, which is universal. (_c_) we do not apprehend empty space before we apprehend individual spatial relations of individual bodies or, indeed, at any time. (_d_) though we come to apprehend _a priori_ the nature of space in general, the apprehension is not prior but posterior in time to the apprehension of individual spatial relations. (_e_) it does not follow from the temporal priority of our apprehension of individual spatial relations that our apprehension of the nature of space in general is 'borrowed from experience', and is therefore not _a priori_. . "we can never represent to ourselves that there is no space, though we can quite well think that no objects are found in it. it must, therefore, be considered as the condition of the possibility of phenomena, and not as a determination dependent upon them, and it is an _a priori_ representation, which necessarily underlies external phenomena."[ ] [ ] b. , m. . here the premise is simply false. if 'represent' or 'think' means 'believe', we can no more represent or think that there are no objects in space than that there is no space. if, on the other hand, 'represent' or 'think' means 'make a mental picture of', the assertion is equally false. kant is thinking of empty space as a kind of receptacle for objects, and the _a priori_ character of our apprehension of space lies, as before, in the supposed fact that in order to apprehend objects in space we must begin with the apprehension of empty space. the examination of kant's arguments for the _perceptive_ character of our apprehension of space is a more complicated matter. by way of preliminary it should be noticed that they presuppose the possibility in general of distinguishing features of objects which belong to the perception of them from others which belong to the conception of them. in particular, kant holds that our apprehension of a body as a substance, as exercising force and as divisible, is due to our understanding as conceiving it, while our apprehension of it as extended and as having a shape is due to our sensibility as perceiving it.[ ] the distinction, however, will be found untenable in principle; and if this be granted, kant's attempt to distinguish in this way the extension and shape of an object from its other features can be ruled out on general grounds. in any case, it must be conceded that the arguments fail by which he seeks to show that space in particular belongs to perception. [ ] b. , m. (quoted p. ). it is noteworthy ( ) that the passage contains no _argument_ to show that extension and shape are not, equally with divisibility, _thought_ to belong to an object, ( ) that impenetrability, which is here said to belong to sensation, obviously cannot do so, and ( ) that (as has been pointed out, p. ) the last sentence of the paragraph in question presupposes that we have a perception of empty space, and that this is a _form_ of perception. there appears to be no way of distinguishing perception and conception as the apprehension of different realities[ ] except as the apprehension of the individual and of the universal respectively. distinguished in this way, the faculty of perception is that in virtue of which we apprehend the individual, and the faculty of conception is that power of reflection in virtue of which a universal is made the explicit object of thought.[ ] if this be granted, the only test for what is perceived is that it is individual, and the only test for what is conceived is that it is universal. these are in fact the tests which kant uses. but if this be so, it follows that the various characteristics of objects cannot be divided into those which are perceived and those which are conceived. for the distinction between universal and individual is quite general, and applies to all characteristics of objects alike. thus, in the case of colour, we can distinguish colour in general and the individual colours of individual objects; or, to take a less ambiguous instance, we can distinguish a particular shade of redness and its individual instances. further, it may be said that perception is of the individual shade of red of the individual object, and that the faculty by which we become explicitly aware of the particular shade of red in general is that of conception. the same distinction can be drawn with respect to hardness, or shape, or any other characteristic of objects. the distinction, then, between perception and conception can be drawn with respect to any characteristic of objects, and does not serve to distinguish one from another. [ ] and _not_ as mutually involved in the apprehension of any individual reality. [ ] this distinction is of course different to that previously drawn _within_ perception in the full sense between perception in a narrow sense and conception (pp. - ). kant's arguments to show that our apprehension of space belongs to perception are two in number, and both are directed to show not, as they should, that space is a _form_ of perception, but that it is a _perception_.[ ] the first runs thus: "space is no discursive, or, as we say, general conception of relations of things in general, but a pure perception. for, in the first place, we can represent to ourselves only one space, and if we speak of many spaces we mean thereby only parts of one and the same unique space. again, these parts cannot precede the one all-embracing space as the component parts, as it were, out of which it can be composed, but can be thought only in it. space is essentially one; the manifold in it, and consequently the general conception of spaces in general, rests solely upon limitations."[ ] [ ] kant uses the phrase 'pure perception'; but 'pure' can only mean 'not containing sensation', and consequently adds nothing relevant. [ ] b. , m. . the concluding sentences of the paragraph need not be considered. here kant is clearly taking the proper test of perception. its object, as being an individual, is unique; there is only one of it, whereas any conception has a plurality of instances. but he reaches his conclusion by supposing that we first perceive empty space and then become aware of its parts by dividing it. parts of space are essentially limitations of the one space; therefore to apprehend them we must first apprehend space. and since space is _one_, it must be object of perception; in other words, space, in the sense of the one all-embracing space, i. e. the totality of individual spaces, is something perceived. the argument appears open to two objections. in the _first_ place, we do _not_ perceive space as a whole, and then, by dividing it, come to apprehend individual spaces. we perceive individual spaces, or, rather, individual bodies occupying individual spaces.[ ] we then apprehend that these spaces, as spaces, involve an infinity of other spaces. in other words, it is reflection on the general nature of space, the apprehension of which is involved in our apprehension of individual spaces or rather of bodies in space, which gives rise to the apprehension of the totality[ ] of spaces, the apprehension being an act, not of perception, but of thought or conception. it is necessary, then, to distinguish (_a_) individual spaces, which we perceive; (_b_) the nature of space in general, of which we become aware by reflecting upon the character of perceived individual spaces, and which we conceive; (_c_) the totality of individual spaces, the thought of which we reach by considering the nature of space in general. [ ] this contention is not refuted by the objection that our distinct apprehension of an individual space is always bound up with an indistinct apprehension of the spaces immediately surrounding it. for our indistinct apprehension cannot be supposed to be of the whole of the surrounding space. [ ] it is here assumed that a whole or a totality can be infinite. cf. p. . in the _second_ place, the distinctions just drawn afford no ground for distinguishing space as something perceived from any other characteristic of objects as something conceived; for any other characteristic admits of corresponding distinctions. thus, with respect to colour it is possible to distinguish (_a_) individual colours which we perceive; (_b_) colouredness in general, which we conceive by reflecting on the common character exhibited by individual colours and which involves various kinds or species of colouredness; (_c_) the totality of individual colours, the thought of which is reached by considering the nature of colouredness in general.[ ] [ ] for a possible objection and the answer thereto, see note, p. . both in the case of colour and in that of space there is to be found the distinction between universal and individual, and therefore also that between conception and perception. it may be objected that after all, as kant points out, there is only one space, whereas there are many individual colours. but the assertion that there is only one space simply means that all individual bodies in space are related spatially. this will be admitted, if the attempt be made to think of two bodies as in different spaces and therefore as not related spatially. moreover, there is a parallel in the case of colour, since individual coloured bodies are related by way of colour, e. g. as brighter and duller; and though such a relation is different from a relation of bodies in respect of space, the difference is due to the special nature of the universals conceived, and does not imply a difference between space and colour in respect of perception and conception. in any case, space as a whole is not object of perception, which it must be if kant is to show that space, as being one, is perceived; for space in this context must mean the totality of individual spaces. kant's second argument is stated as follows: "space is represented as an infinite _given_ magnitude. now every conception must indeed be considered as a representation which is contained in an infinite number of different possible representations (as their common mark), and which therefore contains these _under itself_, but no conception can, as such, be thought of as though it contained _in itself_ an infinite number of representations. nevertheless, space is so conceived, for all parts of space _ad infinitum_ exist simultaneously. consequently the original representation of space is an _a priori perception_ and not a _conception_." in other words, while a conception implies an infinity of individuals which come under it, the elements which constitute the conception itself (e. g. that of triangularity or redness) are not infinite; but the elements which go to constitute space are infinite, and therefore space is not a conception but a perception. though, however, space in the sense of the infinity of spaces may be said to contain an infinite number of spaces if it be meant that it _is_ these infinite spaces, it does not follow, nor is it true, that space in this sense is object of perception. the aim of the arguments just considered, and stated in § of the _aesthetic_, is to establish the two characteristics of our apprehension of space,[ ] from which it is to follow that space is a property of things only as they appear to us and not as they are in themselves. this conclusion is drawn in § . §§ and therefore complete the argument. § , a passage added in the second edition of the _critique_, interrupts the thought, for ignoring § , it once more establishes the _a priori_ and perceptive character of our apprehension of space, and independently draws the conclusion drawn in § . since, however, kant draws the final conclusion in the same way in § and in § , and since a passage in the _prolegomena_,[ ] of which § is only a summary, gives a more detailed account of kant's thought, attention should be concentrated on § , together with the passage in the _prolegomena_. [ ] viz. that it is _a priori_ and a pure perception. [ ] §§ - . it might seem at the outset that since the arguments upon which kant bases the premises for his final argument have turned out invalid, the final argument itself need not be considered. the argument, however, of § ignores the preceding arguments for the _a priori_ and perceptive character of our apprehension of space. it returns to the _a priori_ synthetic character of geometrical judgements, upon which stress is laid in the introduction, and appeals to this as the justification of the _a priori_ and perceptive character of our apprehension of space. the argument of § runs as follows: "geometry is a science which determines the properties of space synthetically and yet _a priori_. what, then, must be the representation of space, in order that such a knowledge of it may be possible? it must be originally perception, for from a mere conception no propositions can be deduced which go beyond the conception, and yet this happens in geometry. but this perception must be _a priori_, i. e. it must occur in us before all sense-perception of an object, and therefore must be pure, not empirical perception. for geometrical propositions are always apodeictic, i. e. bound up with the consciousness of their necessity (e. g. space has only three dimensions), and such propositions cannot be empirical judgements nor conclusions from them." "now how can there exist in the mind an external perception[ ] which precedes[ ] the objects themselves, and in which the conception of them can be determined _a priori_? obviously not otherwise than in so far as it has its seat in the subject only, as the formal nature of the subject to be affected by objects and thereby to obtain _immediate representation_, i. e. _perception_ of them, and consequently only as the form of the external sense in general."[ ] [ ] 'external perception' can only mean perception of what is spatial. [ ] _vorhergeht._ [ ] 'formal nature _to be affected by objects_' is not relevant to the context. here three steps are taken. from the _synthetic_ character of geometrical judgements it is concluded that space is not something which we _conceive_, but something which we _perceive_. from their _a priori_ character, i. e. from the consciousness of necessity involved, it is concluded that the perception of space must be _a priori_ in a new sense, that of taking place _before_ the perception of objects in it.[ ] from the fact that we perceive space before we perceive objects in it, and thereby are able to anticipate the spatial relations which condition these objects, it is concluded that space is only a characteristic of our perceiving nature, and consequently that space is a property not of things in themselves, but only of things as perceived by us.[ ] [ ] cf. b. , m. (a) fin., (b) second sentence. [ ] cf. b. , m. - . two points in this argument are, even on the face of it, paradoxical. firstly, the term _a priori_, as applied not to geometrical judgements but to the perception of space, is given a temporal sense; it means not something whose validity is independent of experience and which is the manifestation of the nature of the mind, but something which takes place before experience. secondly, the conclusion is not that the perception of space _is the manifestation of_ the mind's perceiving nature, but that it _is_ the mind's perceiving nature. for the conclusion is that space[ ] is the formal nature of the subject to be affected by objects, and therefore the form of the external sense in general. plainly, then, kant here confuses an actual perception and a form or way of perceiving. these points, however, are more explicit in the corresponding passage in the _prolegomena_.[ ] [ ] kant draws no distinction between space and the perception of space, or, rather, habitually speaks of space as a perception. no doubt he considers that his view that space is only a characteristic of phenomena justifies the identification of space and the perception of it. occasionally, however, he distinguishes them. thus he sometimes speaks of the representation of space (e. g. b. - , m. - ); in _prol._, § , he speaks of a pure perception of space and time; and in b. , m. , he says that our representation of space must be perception. but this language is due to the pressure of the facts, and not to his general theory; cf. pp. - . [ ] §§ - . it begins thus: "mathematics carries with it thoroughly apodeictic certainty, that is, absolute necessity, and, therefore, rests on no empirical grounds, and consequently is a pure product of reason, and, besides, is thoroughly synthetical. how, then, is it possible for human reason to accomplish such knowledge entirely _a priori_?... but we find that all mathematical knowledge has this peculiarity, that it must represent its conception previously in _perception_, and indeed _a priori_, consequently in a perception which is not empirical but pure, and that otherwise it cannot take a single step. hence its judgements are always _intuitive_.... this observation on the nature of mathematics at once gives us a clue to the first and highest condition of its possibility, viz. that there must underlie it _a pure perception_ in which it can exhibit or, as we say, _construct_ all its conceptions in the concrete and yet _a priori_. if we can discover this pure perception and its possibility, we may thence easily explain how _a priori_ synthetical propositions in pure mathematics are possible, and consequently also how the science itself is possible. for just as empirical perception enables us without difficulty to enlarge synthetically in experience the conception which we frame of an object of perception through new predicates which perception itself offers us, so pure perception also will do the same, only with the difference that in this case the synthetical judgement will be _a priori_ certain and apodeictic, while in the former case it will be only _a posteriori_ and empirically certain; for the latter [i. e. the empirical perception on which the _a posteriori_ synthetic judgement is based] contains only that which is to be found in contingent empirical perception, while the former [i. e. the pure perception on which the _a priori_ synthetic judgement is based] contains that which is bound to be found in pure perception, since, as _a priori_ perception, it is inseparably connected with the conception _before all experience_ or individual sense-perception." this passage is evidently based upon the account which kant gives in the _doctrine of method_ of the method of geometry.[ ] according to this account, in order to apprehend, for instance, that a three-sided figure must have three angles, we must draw in imagination or on paper an individual figure corresponding to the conception of a three-sided figure. we then see that the very nature of the act of construction involves that the figure constructed must possess three angles as well as three sides. hence, perception being that by which we apprehend the individual, a perception is involved in the act by which we form a geometrical judgement, and the perception can be called _a priori_, in that it is guided by our _a priori_ apprehension of the necessary nature of the act of construction, and therefore of the figure constructed. [ ] b. ff., m. ff. compare especially the following: "_philosophical_ knowledge is _knowledge of reason_ by means of _conceptions_; mathematical knowledge is knowledge by means of the _construction_ of conceptions. but the _construction_ of a conception means the _a priori_ presentation of a perception corresponding to it. the construction of a conception therefore demands a _non-empirical_ perception, which, therefore, as a perception, is an _individual_ object, but which none the less, as the construction of a conception (a universal representation), must express in the representation universal validity for all possible perceptions which come under that conception. thus i construct a triangle by presenting the object corresponding to the conception, either by mere imagination in pure perception, or also, in accordance with pure perception, on paper in empirical perception, but in both cases completely _a priori_, without having borrowed the pattern of it from any experience. the individual drawn figure is empirical, but nevertheless serves to indicate the conception without prejudice to its universality, because in this empirical perception we always attend only to the act of construction of the conception, to which many determinations, e. g. the magnitude of the sides and of the angles, are wholly indifferent, and accordingly abstract from these differences, which do not change the conception of the triangle." the account in the _prolegomena_, however, differs from that of the _doctrine of method_ in one important respect. it asserts that the perception involved in a mathematical judgement not only may, but must, be pure, i. e. must be a perception in which no spatial object is present, and it implies that the perception must take place _before_ all experience of actual objects.[ ] hence _a priori_, applied to perception, has here primarily, if not exclusively, the temporal meaning that the perception takes place _antecedently to all experience_.[ ] [ ] this becomes more explicit in § and ff. [ ] this is also, and more obviously, implied in §§ - . the thought of the passage quoted from the _prolegomena_ can be stated thus: 'a mathematical judgement implies the perception of an individual figure antecedently to all experience. this may be said to be the first condition of the possibility of mathematical judgements which is revealed by reflection. there is, however, a prior or higher condition. the perception of an individual figure involves as its basis another pure perception. for we can only construct and therefore perceive an individual figure in empty space. space is that _in which_ it must be constructed and perceived. a perception[ ] of empty space is, therefore, necessary. if, then, we can discover how this perception is possible, we shall be able to explain the possibility of _a priori_ synthetical judgements of mathematics.' [ ] _pure_ perception only means that the space perceived is empty. kant continues as follows: "but with this step the difficulty seems to increase rather than to lessen. for henceforward the question is '_how is it possible to perceive anything a priori?_' a perception is such a representation as would immediately depend upon the presence of the object. hence it seems impossible _originally_ to perceive _a priori_, because perception would in that case have to take place without an object to which it might refer, present either formerly or at the moment, and accordingly could not be perception.... how can _perception_ of the object precede the object itself?"[ ] kant here finds himself face to face with the difficulty created by the preceding section. perception, as such, involves the actual presence of an object; yet the pure perception of space involved by geometry--which, as pure, is the perception of empty space, and which, as the perception of empty space, is _a priori_ in the sense of temporally prior to the perception of actual objects--presupposes that an object is not actually present. [ ] _prol._ § . the solution is given in the next section. "were our perception necessarily of such a kind as to represent things _as they are in themselves_, no perception would take place _a priori_, but would always be empirical. for i can only know what is contained in the object in itself, if it is present and given to me. no doubt it is even then unintelligible how the perception of a present thing should make me know it as it is in itself, since its qualities cannot migrate over into my faculty of representation; but, even granting this possibility, such a perception would not occur _a priori_, i. e. before the object was presented to me; for without this presentation, no basis of the relation between my representation and the object can be imagined; the relation would then have to rest upon inspiration. it is therefore possible only in one way for my perception to precede the actuality of the object and to take place as _a priori_ knowledge, viz. _if it contains nothing but the form of the sensibility, which precedes in me, the subject, all actual impressions through which i am affected by objects_. for i can know _a priori_ that objects of the senses can only be perceived in accordance with this form of the sensibility. hence it follows that propositions which concern merely this form of sensuous perception will be possible and valid for objects of the senses, and in the same way, conversely, that perceptions which are possible _a priori_ can never concern any things other than objects of our senses." this section clearly constitutes the turning-point in kant's argument, and primarily expresses, in an expanded form, the central doctrine of § of the _aesthetic_, that an external perception anterior to objects themselves, and in which our conceptions of objects can be determined _a priori_, is possible, if, and only if, it has its seat in the subject as its formal nature of being affected by objects, and consequently as the form of the external sense in general. it argues that, since this is true, and since geometrical judgements involve such a perception anterior to objects, space must be only the[ ] form of sensibility. [ ] _the_ and not _a_, because, for the moment, time is ignored. now why does kant think that this conclusion follows? before we can answer this question we must remove an initial difficulty. in this passage kant unquestionably identifies a form of perception with an actual perception. it is at once an actual perception and a capacity of perceiving. this is evident from the words, "it is possible only in one way for my perception to precede the actuality of the object ... viz. _if it contains nothing but the form of the sensibility_."[ ] the identification becomes more explicit a little later. "a pure perception (of space and time) can underlie the empirical perception of objects, because it is nothing but the mere form of the sensibility, which precedes the actual appearance of the objects, in that it in fact first makes them possible. yet this faculty of perceiving _a priori_ affects not the matter of the phenomenon, i. e. that in it which is sensation, for this constitutes that which is empirical, but only its form, viz. space and time."[ ] his argument, however, can be successfully stated without this identification. it is only necessary to re-write his cardinal assertion in the form 'the perception of space must be nothing but the _manifestation_ of the form of the sensibility'. given this modification, the question becomes, 'why does kant think that the perception of empty space, involved by geometrical judgements, can be only a manifestation of our perceiving nature, and not in any way the apprehension of a real quality of objects?' the answer must be that it is because he thinks that, while in empirical perception a real object is present, in the perception of empty space a real object is not present. he regards this as proving that the latter perception is only of something subjective or mental. "space and time, by being pure _a priori_ perceptions, prove that they are mere forms of our sensibility which must precede all empirical perception, i. e. sense-perception of actual objects."[ ] his main conclusion now follows easily enough. if in perceiving empty space we are only apprehending a manifestation of our perceiving nature, what we apprehend in a geometrical judgement is really a law of our perceiving nature, and therefore, while it _must_ apply to our perceptions of objects or to objects as perceived, it _cannot_ apply to objects apart from our perception, or, at least, there is no ground for holding that it does so. [ ] _prol._, § . [ ] _prol._, § . [ ] _prol._, § . if, however, this fairly represents kant's thought, it must be allowed that the conclusion which he should have drawn is different, and even that the conclusion which he does draw is in reality incompatible with his starting-point. his starting-point is the view that the truth of geometrical judgements presupposes a perception of empty space, in virtue of which we can discover rules of spatial relation which must apply to all spatial objects subsequently perceived. his problem is to discover the presupposition of this presupposition. the proper answer must be, not that space is a form of sensibility or a way in which objects appear to us, but that space is the form of all objects, i. e. that all objects are spatial.[ ] for in that case they must be subject to the laws of space, and therefore if we can discover these laws by a study of empty space, the only condition to be satisfied, if the objects of subsequent perception are to conform to the laws which we discover, is that all objects should be spatial. nothing is implied which enables us to decide whether the objects are objects as they are in themselves or objects as perceived; for in either case the required result follows. if in empirical perception we apprehend things only as they appear to us, and if space is the form of them as they appear to us, it will no doubt be true that the laws of spatial relation which we discover must apply to things as they appear to us. but on the other hand, if in empirical perception we apprehend things as they are, and if space is their form, i. e. if things are spatial, it will be equally true that the laws discovered by geometry must apply to things as they are. [ ] kant expresses the assertion that space is the form of all objects by saying that space is the form of _phenomena_. this of course renders easy an unconscious transition from the thesis that space is the form of objects to the quite different thesis that space is the form of sensibility; cf. p. . again, kant's starting-point really commits him to the view that space is a characteristic of things as they are. for--paradoxical though it may be--his problem is to explain the possibility of _perceiving a priori_, i. e. of _perceiving_ the characteristics of an object anterior to the actual presence of the object in perception.[ ] this implies that _empirical_ perception, which involves the actual presence of the object, involves no difficulty; in other words, it is implied that empirical perception is of objects as they are. and we find kant admitting this to the extent of allowing _for the sake of argument_ that the perception of a present thing can make us know the thing as it is in itself.[ ] but if empirical perception gives us things as they are, and if, as is the case, and as kant really presupposes, the objects of empirical perception are spatial, then, since space is their form, the judgements of geometry must relate to things as they are. it is true that on this view kant's first presupposition of geometrical judgements has to be stated by saying that we are able to perceive a real characteristic of things in space, before we perceive the things; and, no doubt, kant thinks this impossible. according to him, when we perceive empty space no object is present, and therefore what is before the mind must be merely mental. but no greater difficulty is involved than that involved in the corresponding supposition required by kant's own view. it is really just as difficult to hold that we can perceive a characteristic of things as they appear to us _before_ they appear, as to hold that we can perceive a characteristic of them as they are in themselves _before_ we perceive them. [ ] cf. _prol._, section . [ ] _prol._, § (cf. p. ). the fact is that the real difficulty with which kant is grappling in the _prolegomena_ arises, not from the supposition that spatial bodies are things in themselves, but from the supposed presupposition of geometry that we must be able to perceive empty space before we perceive bodies in it. it is, of course, impossible to defend the perception of empty space, but _if_ it be maintained, the space perceived must be conceded to be not, as kant thinks, something mental or subjective, but a real characteristic of things. for, as has been pointed out, the paradox of pure perception is reached solely through the consideration that, while in empirical perception we perceive objects, in pure perception we do not, and since the objects of empirical perception are spatial, space must be a real characteristic of them. the general result of the preceding criticism is that kant's conclusion does not follow from the premises by which he supports it. it should therefore be asked whether it is not possible to take advantage of this hiatus by presenting the argument for the merely phenomenal character of space without any appeal to the possibility of perceiving empty space. for it is clear that what was primarily before kant, in writing the _critique_, was the _a priori_ character of geometrical judgements themselves, and not the existence of a perception of empty space which they were held to presuppose.[ ] [ ] the difficulty with which kant is struggling in the _prolegomena_, §§ - , can be stated from a rather different point of view by saying that the thought that geometrical judgements imply a perception of empty space led him to apply the term '_a priori_' to perception as well as to judgement. the term, _a priori_, applied to judgements has a valid meaning; it means, not that the judgement is made prior to all experience, but that it is not based upon experience, being originated by the mind in virtue of its own powers of thinking. applied to perception, however, '_a priori_' must mean prior to all experience, and, since the object of perception is essentially individual (cf. b. , m. ), this use of the term gives rise to the impossible task of explaining how a perception can take place prior to the actual experience of an individual in perception (cf. _prol._, § ). if, then, the conclusion that space is only the form of sensibility can be connected with the _a priori_ character of geometrical judgements without presupposing the existence of a perception of empty space, his position will be rendered more plausible. this can be done as follows. the essential characteristic of a geometrical judgement is not that it takes place prior to experience, but that it is not based upon experience. thus a judgement, arrived at by an activity of the mind in which it remains within itself and does not appeal to actual experience of the objects to which the judgement relates, is implied to hold good of those objects. if the objects were things as they are in themselves, the validity of the judgement could not be justified, for it would involve the gratuitous assumption that a necessity of thought is binding on things which _ex hypothesi_ are independent of the nature of the mind. if, however, the objects in question are things as perceived, they will be through and through conditioned by the mind's perceiving nature; and, consequently, if a geometrical rule, e. g. that a three-sided figure must have three angles, is really a law of the mind's perceiving nature, all individual perceptions, i. e. all objects as perceived by us, will necessarily conform to the law. therefore, in the latter case, and in that only, will the universal validity of geometrical judgements be justified. since, then, geometrical judgements are universally valid, space, which is that of which geometrical laws are the laws, must be merely a form of perception or a characteristic of objects as perceived by us. this appears to be the best form in which the substance of kant's argument, stripped of unessentials, can be stated. it will be necessary to consider both the argument and its conclusion. the argument, so stated, is undeniably plausible. nevertheless, examination of it reveals two fatal defects. in the first place, its starting-point is false. to kant the paradox of geometrical judgements lies in the fact that they are not based upon an appeal to experience of the things to which they relate. it is implied, therefore, that judgements which are based on experience involve no paradox, and for the reason that in experience we apprehend things as they are.[ ] in contrast with this, it is implied that in geometrical judgements the connexion which we apprehend is not real, i. e. does not relate to things as they are. otherwise, there would be no difficulty; if in geometry we apprehended rules of connexion relating to things as they are, we could allow without difficulty that the things must conform to them. no such distinction, however, can be drawn between _a priori_ and empirical judgements. for the necessity of connexion, e. g. between being a three-sided figure and being a three-angled figure, is as much a characteristic of things as the empirically-observed shape of an individual body, e. g. a table. geometrical judgements, therefore, cannot be distinguished from empirical judgements on the ground that in the former the mind remains within itself, and does not immediately apprehend fact or a real characteristic of reality.[ ] moreover, since in a geometrical judgement we do in fact think that we are apprehending a real connexion, i. e. a connexion which applies to things and to things as they are in themselves, to question the reality of the connexion is to question the validity of thinking altogether, and to do this is implicitly to question the validity of our thought about the nature of our own mind, as well as the validity of our thought about things independent of the mind. yet kant's argument, in the form in which it has just been stated, presupposes that our thought is valid at any rate when it is concerned with our perceptions of things, even if it is not valid when concerned with the things as they are in themselves. [ ] cf. p. . [ ] for the reasons which led kant to draw this distinction between empirical and _a priori_ judgements, cf. pp. - . this consideration leads to the second criticism. the supposition that space is only a form of perception, even if it be true, _in no way assists_ the explanation of the universal validity of geometrical judgements. kant's argument really confuses a _necessity_ of relation with the _consciousness of a necessity_ of relation. no doubt, if it be a law of our perceiving nature that, whenever we perceive an object as a three-sided figure, the object as perceived contains three angles, it follows that any object as perceived will conform to this law; just as if it be a law of things as they are in themselves that three-sided figures contain three angles, all three-sided figures will in themselves have three angles. but what has to be explained is the universal applicability, not of a law, but of a judgement about a law. for kant's real problem is to explain why _our judgement_ that a three-sided figure must contain three angles must apply to all three-sided figures. of course, if it be granted that in the judgement we apprehend the true law, the problem may be regarded as solved. but how are we to know that what we judge _is_ the true law? the answer is in no way facilitated by the supposition that the judgement relates to our perceiving nature. it can just as well be urged that what we think to be a necessity of our perceiving nature is not a necessity of it, as that what we think to be a necessity of things as they are in themselves is not a necessity of them. the best, or rather the only possible, answer is simply that that of which we apprehend the necessity must be true, or, in other words, that we _must_ accept the validity of thought. hence nothing is gained by the supposition that space is a form of sensibility. if what we judge to be necessary is, as such, valid, a judgement relating to things in themselves will be as valid as a judgement relating to our perceiving nature.[ ] [ ] the same criticism can be urged against kant's appeal to the necessity of _constructing_ geometrical figures. the conclusion drawn from the necessity of construction is stated thus: "if the object (the triangle) were something in itself without relation to you the subject, how could you say that that which lies necessarily in your subjective conditions of constructing a triangle must also necessarily belong to the triangle in itself?" (b. , m. ). kant's thought is that the laws of the mind's constructing nature must apply to objects, if, and only if, the objects are the mind's own construction. hence it is open to the above criticism if, in the criticism, 'construct' be substituted for 'perceive'. this difficulty is concealed from kant by his insistence on the _perception_ of space involved in geometrical judgements. this leads him at times to identify the judgement and the perception, and, therefore, to speak of the judgement as a perception. thus we find him saying that mathematical judgements are always _perceptive_,[ ] and that "it is only possible for my perception to precede the actuality of the object and take place as _a priori_ knowledge, if &c."[ ] hence, if, in addition, a geometrical judgement, as being a judgement about a necessity, be identified with a necessity of judging, the conformity of things to these universal judgements will become the conformity of things to rules or necessities of our judging, i. e. of our perceiving nature, and kant's conclusion will at once follow.[ ] unfortunately for kant, a geometrical judgement, however closely related to a perception, must itself, as the apprehension of what is necessary and universal, be an act of thought rather than of perception, and therefore the original problem of the conformity of things to our mind can be forced upon him again, even after he thinks that he has solved it, in the new form of that of the conformity within the mind of perceiving to thinking. [ ] _prol._, § . [ ] _prol._, § . [ ] cf. (_introduction_, b. xvii, m. xxix): "but if the object (as object of the senses) conforms to the nature of our faculty of perception, i can quite well represent to myself the possibility of _a priori_ knowledge of it [i. e. mathematical knowledge]." the fact is simply that the universal validity of geometrical judgements can in no way be 'explained'. it is not in the least explained or made easier to accept by the supposition that objects are 'phenomena'. these judgements must be accepted as being what we presuppose them to be in making them, viz. the direct apprehension of necessities of relation between real characteristics of real things. to explain them by reference to the phenomenal character of what is known is really--though contrary to kant's intention--to throw doubt upon their validity; otherwise, they would not need explanation. as a matter of fact, it is _impossible_ to question their validity. in the act of judging, doubt is impossible. doubt can arise only when we subsequently reflect and temporarily lose our hold upon the consciousness of necessity in judging.[ ] the doubt, however, since it is non-existent in our geometrical consciousness, is really groundless,[ ] and, therefore, the problem to which it gives rise is unreal. moreover if, _per impossibile_, doubt could be raised, it could not be set at rest. no vindication of a judgement in which we are conscious of a necessity could do more than take the problem a stage further back, by basing it upon some other consciousness of a necessity; and since this latter judgement could be questioned for precisely the same reason, we should only be embarking upon an infinite process. [ ] cf. descartes, _princ. phil._ i. § , and _medit._ v sub fin. [ ] the view that kinds of space other than that with which we are acquainted are possible, though usually held and discussed by mathematicians, belongs to them _qua_ metaphysicians, and not _qua_ mathematicians. we may now consider kant's conclusion in abstraction from the arguments by which he reaches it. it raises three main difficulties. in the first place, it is not the conclusion to be expected from kant's own standpoint. the phenomenal character of space is inferred, not from the fact that we make judgements at all, but from the fact that we make judgements of a particular kind, viz. _a priori_ judgements. from this point of view empirical judgements present no difficulty. it should, therefore, be expected that the qualities which we attribute to things in empirical judgements are not phenomenal, but belong to things as they are. kant himself implies this in drawing his conclusion concerning the nature of space. "space does not represent any quality of things in themselves or things in relation to one another; that is, it does not represent any determination of things which would attach to the objects themselves and would remain, even though we abstracted from all subjective conditions of perception. for neither absolute nor relative[ ] determinations of objects can be perceived prior to the existence of the things to which they belong, and therefore not _a priori_."[ ] it is, of course, implied that in experience, where we do not discover determinations of objects prior to the existence of the objects, we do apprehend determinations of things as they are in themselves, and not as they are in relation to us. thus we should expect the conclusion to be, not that all that we know is phenomenal--which is kant's real position--but that spatial (and temporal) relations alone are phenomenal, i. e. that they alone are the result of a transmutation due to the nature of our perceiving faculties.[ ] this conclusion would, of course, be absurd, for what kant considers to be the empirically known qualities of objects disappear, if the spatial character of objects is removed. moreover, kant is prevented by his theory of perception from seeing that this is the real solution of his problem, absurd though it may be. since perception is held to arise through the origination of sensations by things in themselves, empirical knowledge is naturally thought of as knowledge about sensations, and since sensations are palpably within the mind, and are held to be due to things in themselves, knowledge about sensations can be regarded as phenomenal. [ ] the first sentence shows that 'relative determinations' means, not 'determinations of objects in relation to us', but 'determinations of objects in relation to one another.' cf. b. , m. ; and b. fin., init., m. (where these meanings are confused). [ ] b. , m. . [ ] this conclusion is also to be expected because, inconsistently with his real view, kant is here (b. - , m. - ) under the influence of the presupposition of our ordinary consciousness that in perception we are confronted by things in themselves, known to be spatial, and not by appearances produced by unknown things in themselves. cf. (b. , m. ) "and thereby of obtaining immediate representation of them [i. e. objects];" and (b. , m. ) "the receptivity of the subject to be affected by objects necessarily precedes all perceptions of these objects." these sentences identify things in themselves and bodies in space, and thereby imply that in empirical perception we perceive things in themselves and as they _are_. on the other hand, if we consider kant's conclusion from the point of view, not of the problem which originates it, but of the distinction in terms of which he states it, viz. that between things as they are in themselves and things as perceived by us, we are led to expect the contrary result. since perception is the being affected by things, and since the nature of the affection depends upon the nature of our capacity of being affected, in _all_ perception the object will become distorted or transformed, as it were, by our capacity of being affected. the conclusion, therefore, should be that in all judgements, empirical as well as _a priori_, we apprehend things only as perceived. the reason why kant does not draw this conclusion is probably that given above, viz. that by the time kant reaches the solution of his problem empirical knowledge has come to relate to sensation only; consequently, it has ceased to occur to him that empirical judgements could possibly give us knowledge of things as they are. nevertheless, kant should not have retained in his formulation of the problem a distinction irreconcilable with his solution of it; and if he had realized that he was doing so he might have been compelled to modify his whole view. the second difficulty is more serious. if the truth of geometrical judgements presupposes that space is only a property of objects as perceived by us, it is a paradox that geometricians should be convinced, as they are, of the truth of their judgements. they undoubtedly think that their judgements apply to things as they are in themselves, and not merely as they appear to us. they certainly do not think that the relations which they discover apply to objects only as perceived. not only, therefore, do they not think that bodies in space are phenomena, but they do not even leave it an open question whether bodies are phenomena or not. hence, if kant be right, they are really in a state of illusion, for on his view the true geometrical judgement should include in itself the phenomenal character of spatial relations; it should be illustrated by expressing euclid i. in the form that the equality of the angles at the base of an isosceles triangle belongs to objects as perceived. kant himself lays this down. "the proposition 'all objects are beside one another in space' is valid under[ ] the limitation that these things are taken as objects of our sensuous perception. if i join the condition to the perception, and say 'all things, as external phenomena, are beside one another in space', the rule is valid universally, and without limitation."[ ] kant, then, is in effect allowing that it is possible for geometricians to make judgements, of the necessity of which they are convinced, and yet to be wrong; and that, therefore, the apprehension of the necessity of a judgement is no ground of its truth. it follows that the truth of geometrical judgements can no longer be accepted as a starting-point of discussion, and, therefore, as a ground for inferring the phenomenal character of space. [ ] a. reads 'only under' [ ] b. , m. . there seems, indeed, one way of avoiding this consequence, viz. to suppose that for kant it was an absolute starting-point, which nothing would have caused him to abandon, that only those judgements of which we apprehend the necessity are true. it would, of course, follow that geometricians would be unable to apprehend the necessity of geometrical judgements, and therefore to make such judgements, until they had discovered that things as spatial were only phenomena. it would not be enough that they should think that the phenomenal or non-phenomenal character of things as spatial must be left an open question for the theory of knowledge to decide. in this way the necessity of admitting the illusory character of geometry would be avoided. the remedy, however, is at least as bad as the disease. for it would imply that geometry must be preceded by a theory of knowledge, which is palpably contrary to fact. nor could kant accept it; for he avowedly bases his theory of knowledge, i. e. his view that objects as spatial are phenomena, upon the truth of geometry; this procedure would be circular if the making of true geometrical judgements was allowed to require the prior adoption of his theory of knowledge. the third difficulty is the most fundamental. kant's conclusion (and also, of course, his argument) presupposes the validity of the distinction between phenomena and things in themselves. if, then, this distinction should prove untenable in principle, kant's conclusion with regard to space must fail on general grounds, and it will even have been unnecessary to consider his arguments for it. the importance of the issue, however, requires that it should be considered in a separate chapter. note to page . the argument is not affected by the contention that, while the totality of spaces is infinite, the totality of colours or, at any rate, the totality of instances of some other characteristic of objects is finite; for this difference will involve no difference in respect of perception and conception. in both cases the apprehension that there is a totality will be reached in the same way, i. e. through the _conception_ of the characteristic in general, and the apprehension in the one case that the totality is infinite and in the other that it is finite will depend on the apprehension of the special nature of the characteristic in question. chapter iv phenomena and things in themselves the distinction between phenomena and things in themselves can be best approached by considering kant's formulation of the alternative views of the nature of space and time. "what are space and time? are they real existences? or are they merely determinations or relations of things, such, however, as would also belong to them in themselves, even if they were not perceived, or are they attached to the form of perception only, and consequently to the subjective nature of our mind, without which these predicates can never be attributed to any thing?"[ ] [ ] b. , m. . of these three alternatives, the first can be ignored. it is opposed to the second, and is the view that space and time are things rather than relations between things. this opposition falls within the first member of the wider opposition between things as they are in themselves and things as they are as perceived, and kant, and indeed any one, would allow that if space and time belong to things as they are in themselves and not to things only as perceived, they are relations between things rather than things. the real issue, therefore, lies between the second and third alternatives. are space and time relations between things which belong to them both in themselves and also as perceived by us, or are they relations which belong to things only as perceived? to this question we may at once reply that, inasmuch as it involves an impossible antithesis, it is wholly unreal. the thought of a property or a relation which belongs to things as perceived involves a contradiction. to take plato's example, suppose that we are looking at a straight stick, partially immersed in water. if we have not previously seen the stick, and are ignorant of the laws of refraction, we say that the stick is bent. if, however, we learn the effect of refraction, and observe the stick from several positions, we alter our assertion. we say that the stick is not really bent, but only looks or appears bent to us. but, if we reflect at all, we do not express our meaning by saying that the stick _is_ bent to us as perceiving, though not in reality.[ ] the word 'is' essentially relates to what really is. if, therefore, the phrase 'to us as perceiving' involves an opposition to the phrase 'in reality', as it must if it is to be a real qualification of 'is', it cannot rightly be added to the word 'is'. to put the matter more explicitly, the assertion that something _is_ so and so implies that it is so and so in itself, whether it be perceived or not, and therefore the assertion that something is so and so to us as perceiving, though not in itself, is a contradiction in terms. the phrase 'to us as perceiving', as a restriction upon the word 'is', merely takes back the precise meaning of the word 'is'. that to which the phrase can be added is not the word 'is', but the word 'looks' or 'appears'. we can rightly say that the stick looks or appears bent to us as perceiving. but even then the addition only helps to make explicit the essential meaning of 'appears', for 'appears' really means 'appears to us', and 'as perceiving' only repeats the meaning of 'appears' from the side of the perceiving subject as opposed to that of the object perceived. the essential point, however, is thereby brought out that the phrase 'to us as perceiving' essentially relates not to what a thing is, but to what it looks or appears to us. [ ] similarly, we do not say--if we mean what we say--of a man who is colour blind that an object which others call blue _is_ pink to him or to his perception, but that it _looks_ pink to him. what, then, is the proper statement of kant's view that space is a determination of things only as they appear to us, and not as they are in themselves? it should be said that things are not in reality spatial, but only look or appear spatial to us. it should not be said that they _are_ spatial for our perception, though not in themselves. thus the view properly stated implies that space is an illusion, inasmuch as it is not a real property of things at all. this implication, however, is precisely the conclusion which kant wishes to avoid. he takes infinite trouble to explain that he does not hold space and time to be illusions.[ ] though _transcendentally ideal_ (i. e. though they do not belong to things in themselves), they are _empirically real_. in other words, space and time are real relations of _something_, though not of things in themselves. [ ] b. , , - , - , - ; m. , - , - , - ; _prol._, § , remark iii. how, then, does kant obtain something of which space and time can be regarded as really relations? he reaches it by a transition which at first sight seems harmless. in stating the fact of perception he substitutes for the assertion that things appear so and so to us the assertion that things produce appearances in us. in this way, instead of an assertion which relates to the thing and states what it is not but only appears, he obtains an assertion which introduces a second reality distinct from the thing, viz. an appearance or phenomenon, and thereby he gains something other than the thing to which space can be attached as a real predicate. he thus gains something in respect of which, with regard to spatial relations we can be said to have _knowledge_ and not illusion. for the position now is that space, though not a property of things in themselves, _is_ a property of phenomena or appearances; in other words, that while things in themselves are not spatial, phenomena and appearances _are_ spatial. as evidence of this transition, it is enough to point out that, while he states the _problem_ in the form 'are things in themselves spatial or are they only spatial as appearing to us?'[ ] he usually states the _conclusion_ in the form 'space is the form of phenomena', i. e. phenomena are spatial. a transition is thereby implied from 'things as appearing' to 'appearances'. at the same time, it is clear that kant is not aware of the transition, but considers the expressions equivalent, or, in other words, fails to distinguish them. for both modes of stating the conclusion are to be found even in the same sentence. "this predicate [space] is applied to things only in so far as they appear to us, i. e. are objects of sensibility [i. e. phenomena]."[ ] again, the common phrase 'things as phenomena' implies the same confusion. moreover, if kant had realized that the transition was more than one of phraseology he must have seen that it was necessary to recast his argument. [ ] this is kant's way of putting the question which should be expressed by asking, 'are things spatial, or do they only look spatial?' [ ] b. , m. . cf. _prol._, § fin. with § init. it may be said, then, that kant is compelled to end with a different distinction from that with which he begins. he begins with the distinction between things as they are in themselves and things as they appear to us, the distinction relating to one and the same reality regarded from two different points of view. he ends with the distinction between two different realities, things-in-themselves,[ ] external to, in the sense of independent of, the mind, and phenomena or appearances within it. yet if his _argument_ is to be valid, the two distinctions should be identical, for it is the first distinction to which the argument appeals.[ ] in fact, we find him expressing what is to him the same distinction now in the one way and now in the other as the context requires. [ ] it should be noticed that 'things-in-themselves' and 'things as they are in themselves' have a different meaning. [ ] cf. p. and ff. the final form of kant's conclusion, then, is that while things in themselves are not, or, at least, cannot be known to be spatial, 'phenomena,' or the appearances produced in us by things in themselves, are spatial. unfortunately, the conclusion in this form is no more successful than it is in the former form, that things are spatial only as perceived. expressed by the formula 'phenomena are spatial', it has, no doubt, a certain plausibility; for the word 'phenomena' to some extent conceals the essentially mental character of what is asserted to be spatial. but the plausibility disappears on the substitution of 'appearances'--the true equivalent of kant's _erscheinungen_--for 'phenomena'. just as it is absurd to describe the fact that the stick only looks bent by saying that, while the stick is not bent, the appearance which it produces is bent, so it is, even on the face of it, nonsense to say that while things are not spatial, the appearances which they produce in us are spatial. for an 'appearance', being necessarily something mental, cannot possibly be said to be extended. moreover, it is really an abuse of the term 'appearance' to speak of appearances _produced by_ things, for this phrase implies a false severance of the appearance from the things which appear. if there are 'appearances' at all, they are appearances _of_ things and not appearances _produced by_ them. the importance of the distinction lies in the difference of implication. to speak of appearances produced by things is to imply that the object of perception is merely something mental, viz. an appearance. consequently, access to a non-mental reality is excluded; for a perception of which the object is something belonging to the mind's own being cannot justify an inference to something beyond the mind, and the result is inevitably solipsism. on the other hand, the phrase 'appearances of things', whatever defects it may have, at least implies that it is a non-mental reality which appears, and therefore that in perception we are in direct relation to it; the phrase, therefore, does not imply from the very beginning that the apprehension of a non-mental reality is impossible. the objection will probably be raised that this criticism is much too summary. we do, it will be said, distinguish in ordinary consciousness between appearance and reality. consequently there must be some form in which kant's distinction between things in themselves and phenomena and the conclusion based upon it are justified. moreover, kant's reiterated assertion that his view does not imply that space is an illusion, and that the distinction between the real and the illusory is possible _within_ phenomena, requires us to consider more closely whether kant may not after all be entitled to hold that space is not an illusion.[ ] [ ] cf. p. and ff. this objection is, of course, reasonable. no one can satisfy himself of the justice of the above criticisms until he has considered the real nature of the distinction between appearance and reality. this distinction must, therefore, be analysed. but before this is done it is necessary, in order to discover the real issue, to formulate the lines on which kant may be defended. 'the reality,' it may be urged, 'which ideally we wish to know must be admitted to exist _in itself_, in the sense of independently of the perception, and consequently its nature must be admitted to be independent of perception. ideally, then, our desire is to know things[ ] as they are in themselves, a desire sufficiently expressed by the assertion that we desire to know things, for to know them is to know them as they are, i. e. as they are independently of perception. again, since the reality which we desire to know consists of individuals, and since the apprehension of an individual implies perception, knowledge of reality requires perception. if in perception we apprehended reality as it is, no difficulty would arise. but we do not, for we are compelled to distinguish what things are, and what they look or appear; and what they appear essentially relates to perception. we perceive them as they look or appear and, therefore, not as they are, for what they look and what they are are _ex hypothesi_ distinguished. and this fact constitutes a fatal obstacle to knowledge in general. we cannot know anything as it _is_. at least the negative side of kant's position must be justified. we never can know things as they are in themselves. what then do we know? two alternative answers may be given. it may be held that the positive side of kant's position, though indefensible in the form that we know things as they appear to us, is valid in the form that we know what things look or appear. this, no doubt, implies that our ordinary beliefs about reality are illusory, for what things look is _ex hypothesi_ different from what they are. but the implication does not constitute an important departure from kant's view. for in any case only that is knowledge proper which relates to things as they are, and therefore the supposed knowledge of things as they appear may be discarded without serious loss. on the other hand, it may be held that the positive side of kant's position can be vindicated in the form that, while we do not know things in themselves,[ ] we do know the appearances which they produce in us. it is true that this view involves the difficulty of maintaining that appearances are spatial, but the difficulty is not insuperable. moreover, in this form the doctrine has the advantage that, unlike the former, it does not imply that the knowledge which we have is only of illusions, for instead of implying that our knowledge is merely knowledge of what things look but really are not, it implies that we know the real nature of realities of another kind, viz. of appearances. again, in this form of the view, it may be possible to vindicate kant's doctrine that the distinction between the real and the illusory is tenable within what we know, for it may be possible to distinguish within appearances between a 'real' appearance[ ] and an 'illusory' appearance.[ ]' [ ] 'things' is substituted for 'the reality which we believe to exist independently of perception' in order to conform to kant's language. the substitution, of course, has the implication--which kant took for granted--that the reality consists of a plurality of individuals. [ ] 'things in themselves' has here to be substituted for 'things as they are in themselves' in the statement of the negative side of the position, in order to express the proper antithesis, which is now that between two things, the one known and the other unknown, and not that between two points of view from which one and the same thing is known and not known respectively. [ ] _erscheinung._ [ ] _schein._ an implication of this defence should be noticed. the issue relates to the nature of space[ ], and may be stated in terms of it. for, since space is a presupposition of all other properties which the non-philosophical consciousness attributes to physical things, it makes no difference whether we say that things _only appear_ heavy, hard, in motion, &c., or whether we say that things _only appear_ spatial. in the same way it is a matter of indifference whether we say that, though things are not heavy, hard, &c., their appearances are so, or whether we say that, though things are not spatial, their appearances are so. the issue, then, concerns the possibility of maintaining either that things only appear spatial, or that the appearances which they produce are spatial, while the things themselves are not, or, at least cannot be known to be, spatial. [ ] we might add time also; but, for a reason which will appear later (p. ), it can be neglected. the tenability of these alternative positions has to be considered apart from the argument of the _aesthetic_, for this, as we have seen, breaks down. at the outset it is important to realize that these positions are the product of philosophical reflection, and constitute general theories of knowledge. as has been pointed out, the distinction between appearance and reality first arises in our ordinary or scientific consciousness.[ ] in this consciousness we are compelled to distinguish between appearance and reality with respect to the details of a reality which, as a whole, or, in principle, we suppose ourselves to know. afterwards in our philosophical consciousness we come to reflect upon this distinction and to raise the question whether it is not applicable to reality as a whole. we ask with respect to knowledge in general, and not merely with respect to certain particular items of knowledge, whether we know or can know reality, and not merely appearance. the two positions just stated are alternative ways of answering the question in the negative. they are, then, philosophical views based upon a distinction found in our ordinary consciousness. consequently, in order to decide whether the distinction will bear the superstructure placed upon it by the philosophical consciousness, it is necessary to examine the distinction as it exists in our ordinary consciousness. [ ] i. e. the consciousness for which the problems are those of science as opposed to philosophy. the distinction is applied in our ordinary consciousness both to the primary and to the secondary qualities of matter, i. e. to the size, shape, position and motion of physical bodies, and to their colour, warmth, &c. we say, for instance, that the moon looks[ ] or appears as large as the sun, though really it is much smaller. we say that railway lines, though parallel, look convergent, just as we say that the straight stick in water looks bent. we say that at sunset the sun, though really below the horizon, looks above it. again, we say that to a person who is colour blind the colour of an object looks different to what it really is, and that the water into which we put our hand may be warmer than it appears to our touch. [ ] 'looks' means 'appears to sight', and 'looks' is throughout used as synonymous with 'appear', where the instance under discussion relates to visual perception. the case of the primary qualities may be considered first. since the instances are identical in principle, and only differ in complexity, it will be sufficient to analyse the simplest, that of the apparent convergence of the railway lines. two points at once force themselves upon our notice. in the first place, we certainly suppose that we perceive the reality which we wish to know, i. e. the reality which, as we suppose, exists independently of our perception, and not an 'appearance' of it. it is, as we say, the real lines which we see. even the term 'convergent', in the assertion that the lines look convergent, conveys this implication. for 'convergent' is essentially a characteristic not of an appearance but of a reality, in the sense in which something independent of perception may be opposed as a reality to an 'appearance', which, as such, presupposes perception. we can say neither that an appearance is convergent, nor that the appearance of the lines is convergent. only a reality similar to the lines, e. g. two roads, can be said to be convergent. our ordinary thought, therefore, furnishes no ground for the view that the object of perception is not the thing, but merely an appearance of or produced by it. in the second place, the assertion that the lines _look_ convergent implies considerable knowledge of the real nature of the reality to which the assertion relates. both the terms 'lines' and 'convergent' imply that the reality _is_ spatial. further, if the context is such that we mean that, while the lines look convergent, we do not know their real relation, we imply that the lines really possess some characteristic which falls within the genus to which convergence belongs, i. e. we imply that they are convergent, divergent, or parallel. if, on the other hand, the context is such that we mean that the lines only look convergent, we imply that the lines are parallel, and therefore presuppose complete knowledge in respect of the very characteristic in regard to which we state what is only appearance. the assertion, then, in respect of a primary quality, that a thing looks so and so implies knowledge of its general character as spatial, and ignorance only of a detail; and the assertion that a thing only looks or appears so and so implies knowledge of the detail in question. attention may now be drawn to a general difficulty which may be raised with respect to the use of the terms 'looks' and 'appears'. it may be stated thus: 'if the lines are not convergent, how is it possible even to say that they _look_ convergent? must it not be implied that at least under _certain_ circumstances we should perceive the lines as they are? otherwise, why should we use the words 'look' or 'appear' at all? moreover, this implication can be pushed further; for if we maintain that we perceive the real lines, we may reasonably be asked whether we must not under _all_ circumstances perceive them as they are. it seems as though a reality cannot be perceived except as it is.' it is the view to which this difficulty gives rise which is mainly responsible for the doctrine that the object of perception is not the reality, but an appearance. since we do distinguish between what things look and what they are, it would seem that the object of perception cannot be the thing, but only an appearance produced by it. moreover, the doctrine gains in plausibility from the existence of certain illusions in the case of which the reality to which the illusion relates seems non-existent. for instance, if we look steadily at the flame of a candle, and then press one eyeball with a finger, we see, as we say, two candles;[ ] but since _ex hypothesi_ there is only one candle, it seems that what we see must be, not the candle, but two images or appearances produced by it. [ ] cf. dr. stout, on 'things and sensations' (_proceedings of the british academy_, vol. ii). this difficulty is raised in order to draw attention to the fact that, in the case of the railway lines, where it can be met on its own ground[ ], this is because, and only because, we believe space to be 'real', i. e. to be a characteristic of reality, and because we understand its nature. the distinction between the actual and the apparent angle made by two straight lines presupposes a limiting case in which they coincide. if the line of sight along which we observe the point of intersection of two lines is known to be at right angles to both lines, we expect, and rightly expect, to see the angle of intersection as it is. again, if we look at a short portion of two railway lines from a point known to be directly above them, and so distant that the effects of perspective are imperceptible, we can say that the lines look what they are, viz. parallel. thus, from the point of view of the difficulty which has been raised, there is this justification in general for saying that two lines _look_ parallel or _look_ at right angles, that we know that in certain cases what they look is identical with what they are. in the same way, assertions of the type that the moon _looks_ as large as the sun receive justification from our knowledge that two bodies of equal size and equally distant from the observer _are_ what they look, viz. of the same size. and in both cases the justification presupposes knowledge of the reality of space and also such insight into its nature as enables us to see that in certain cases there must be an identity between what things look and what they are in respect of certain spatial relations. again, in such cases we see that so far is it from being necessary to think that a thing must be perceived as it is, that it is not only possible but necessary to distinguish what a thing looks from what it is, and precisely in consequence of the nature of space. the visual perception of spatial relations from its very nature presupposes a particular point of view. though the perception itself cannot be spatial, it presupposes a particular point in space as a standpoint or point of view,[ ] and is therefore subject to conditions of perspective. this is best realized by considering the supposition that perfect visual powers would enable us to see the whole of a body at once, and that this perception would be possible if we had eyes situated all round the body. the supposition obviously breaks down through the impossibility of combining two or more points of view in one perception. but if visual perception is necessarily subject to conditions of perspective, the spatial relations of bodies can never look what they are except in the limiting case referred to. moreover, this distinction is perfectly intelligible, as we should expect from the necessity which we are under of drawing it. we understand perfectly why it is that bodies must, in respect of their spatial relations, look different to what they are, and we do so solely because we understand the nature of space, and therefore also the conditions of perspective involved in the perception of what is spatial. it is, therefore, needless to make the assertion 'two lines appear convergent' intelligible by converting the verb 'appears' into a substantive, viz. an 'appearance', and then making the assertion relate to an 'appearance'. for--apart from the fact that this would not achieve the desired end, since no suitable predicate could be found for the appearance--the assertion that the lines _look_ or _appear_ convergent is perfectly intelligible in itself, though not capable of being stated in terms of anything else.[ ] if we generalize this result, we may say that the distinction between appearance and reality, drawn with regard to the primary qualities of bodies, throughout presupposes the reality of space, and is made possible, and indeed necessary, by the nature of space itself. [ ] cf., however, p. and pp. - . [ ] this is, of course, not refuted by the reminder that we see with two eyes, and that these are in different places. [ ] it is important to notice that the proper formula to express what is loosely called 'an appearance' is 'a looks or appears b', and that this cannot be analysed into anything more simple and, in particular, into a statement about 'appearances'. even in the case of looking at the candle, there is no need to speak of two 'appearances' or 'images'. before we discover the truth, the proper assertion is 'the body which we perceive looks as if it were two candles', and, after we discover the truth, the proper assertion is 'the candle looks as if it were in two places'. we may now turn to the way in which we draw the distinction with respect to the secondary qualities of physical things. it must, it seems, be admitted that in our ordinary consciousness we treat these qualities as real qualities of bodies. we say that a bell is noisy; that sugar is sweet; that roses smell; that a mustard plaster is hot; that the sky is blue. it must also be admitted that in our ordinary consciousness we draw a distinction between appearance and reality _within_ these qualities, just as we do _within_ the primary qualities. just as we speak of the right or real shape of a body, so we speak of its right or real colour, taste, &c., and distinguish these from its apparent colours, taste, &c., to some individual. we thereby imply that these qualities are real qualities of bodies, and that the only difficulty is to determine the particular character of the quality in a given case. yet, as the history of philosophy shows, it takes but little reflection to throw doubt on the reality of these qualities. the doubt arises not merely from the apparent impossibility of finding a principle by which to determine the right or real quality in a given case, but also and mainly from misgivings as to the possible reality of heat, smell, taste, noise, and colour apart from a percipient. it must also be admitted that this misgiving is well founded; in other words, that these supposed real qualities do presuppose a percipient, and therefore cannot be qualities of things, since the qualities of a thing must exist independently of the perception of the thing.[ ] this will readily be allowed in the case of all the secondary qualities except colour. no one, it may reasonably be said, who is familiar with and really faces the issue, will maintain that sounds, smells, tastes, and sensations of touch exist apart from a sensitive subject. so much is this the case, that when once the issue is raised, it is difficult and, in the end, impossible to use the word 'appear' in connexion with these qualities. thus it is difficult and, in the end, impossible to say that a bell _appears_ noisy, or that sugar _appears_ sweet. we say, rather, that the bell and the sugar produce certain sensations[ ] in us. [ ] cf. pp. - , and . [ ] _not_ 'appearances'. the case of colour, however, is more difficult. from the closeness of its relation to the shape of bodies, it seems to be a real quality of bodies, and not something relative to a sensitive subject like the other secondary qualities. in fact, so intimate seems the relation of colour to the shape of bodies, that it would seem--as has, of course, often been argued--that if colour be relative to a sensitive subject, the primary qualities of bodies must also be relative to a sensitive subject, on the ground that shape is inseparable from colour.[ ] yet whether this be so or not, it must, in the end, be allowed that colour does presuppose a sensitive subject in virtue of its own nature, and quite apart from the difficulty--which is in itself insuperable--of determining the right colour of individual bodies. it must, therefore, be conceded that colour is not a quality of bodies. but if this be true, the use of the term 'look' or 'appear' in connexion with colour involves a difficulty which does not arise when it is used in connexion with the primary qualities. bodies undoubtedly look or appear coloured. now, as has already been suggested,[ ] the term 'look' seems to presuppose some identity between what a thing is and what it looks, and at least the possibility of cases in which they are what they look--a possibility which, as we have seen, is realized in the case of the primary qualities. yet, if colour is not a quality of bodies, then, with respect to colour, things look what they never are, or, in other words, are wholly different from what they look;[ ] and since it seems impossible to hold that colour is really a property of bodies, this conclusion must, in spite of its difficulty, be admitted to be true. [ ] cf. p. note. [ ] cf. p. . [ ] it is assumed that there is not even plausibility in the supposition of continuity or identity between colour proper and its physical conditions in the way of light vibrations. there remain, however, to be noticed two respects in which assertions concerning what things look in respect of colour agree with corresponding assertions in respect of the primary qualities. they imply that what we perceive is a reality, in the sense already explained.[ ] thus the assertion that the grass looks green implies that it is a reality which looks green, or, in other words, that the object of perception is a reality, and not an 'appearance'. again, such assertions imply that the reality about which the assertion is made is spatial. the term 'grass' implies extension, and only what is extended can be said to look coloured. if it be urged that what looks coloured need only _look_ extended, it may be replied that the two considerations which lead us to think that things only _look_ coloured presuppose that they _are_ spatial. for the two questions, the consideration of which leads to this conclusion, are, 'what is the right or real colour of an individual thing?' and 'has it really any colour at all, or does it only look coloured?' and neither question is significant unless the thing to which it refers is understood to be spatial. [ ] i. e. in the sense of something which exists independently of perception. we may now return to the main issue. is it possible to maintain either ( ) the position that only appearances are spatial and possess all the qualities which imply space, or ( ) the position that things only appear spatial and only appear or look as if they possessed the qualities which imply space? it may be urged that these questions have already been implicitly answered in the negative. for the division of the qualities of things into primary and secondary is exhaustive, and, as has been shown, the distinction between 'appearance' and 'reality', when drawn with respect to the primary qualities and to colour--the only secondary quality with respect to which the term 'appears' can properly be used[ ]--presupposes the reality of space. consequently, since we do draw the distinction, we must accept the reality of that which is the condition of drawing it at all. but even though this be conceded--and the concession is inevitable--the problem cannot be regarded as solved until we have discovered what it is in the nature of space which makes both positions untenable. moreover, the admission that in the case of colour there is no identity between what things look and what they are removes at a stroke much of the difficulty of one position, viz. that we only know what things look or appear, and not what they are. for the admission makes it impossible to maintain as a general principle that there must be some identity between what they look and what they are. consequently, it seems _possible_ that things should be wholly different from what they appear, and, if so, the issue cannot be decided on general grounds. what is in substance the same point may be expressed differently by saying that just as things only _look_ coloured, so things may only _look_ spatial. we are thus again[ ] led to see that the issue really turns on the nature of space and of spatial characteristics in particular. [ ] cf. pp. - . [ ] cf. p. . in discussing the distinction between the real and the apparent shape of bodies, it was argued that while the nature of space makes it necessary to distinguish in general between what a body looks and what it is, yet the use of the term _look_ receives justification from the existence of limiting cases in which what a thing looks and what it is are identical. the instances considered, however, related to qualities involving only two dimensions, e. g. convergence and bentness, and it will be found that the existence of these limiting cases is due solely to this restriction. if the assertion under consideration involves a term implying three dimensions, e. g. 'cubical' or 'cylindrical', there are no such limiting cases. since our visual perception is necessarily subject to conditions of perspective, it follows that although we can and do see a cube, we can never see it as it _is_. it _is_, so to say, in the way in which a child draws the side of a house, i. e. with the effect of perspective eliminated; but it never can be seen in this way. no doubt, our unreflective knowledge of the nature of perspective enables us to allow for the effect of perspective, and to ascertain the real shape of a solid object from what it looks when seen from different points. in fact, the habit of allowing for the effect of perspective is so thoroughly ingrained in human beings that the child is not aware that he is making this allowance, but thinks that he draws the side of the house as he sees it. nevertheless, it is true that we never see a cube as it is, and if we say that a thing looks cubical, we ought only to mean that it looks precisely what a thing looks which is a cube. it is obvious, however, that two dimensions are only an abstraction from three, and that the spatial relations of bodies, considered fully, involve three dimensions; in other words, spatial characteristics are, properly speaking, three-dimensional. it follows that terms which fully state spatial characteristics can never express what things look, but only what they are. a body may be cylindrical, and we may see a cylindrical body; but such a body can never, strictly speaking, _look_ cylindrical. the opposition, however, between what a thing _is_ and what it _looks_ implies that what it _is_ is independent of a percipient, for it is precisely correlation to a percipient which is implied by 'looking' or 'appearing'. in fact, it is the view that what a thing really is it is, independently of a percipient, that forms the real starting-point of kant's thought. it follows, then, that the spatial characteristics of things, and therefore space itself, must belong to what they are in themselves apart from a percipient, and not to what they look.[ ] consequently, it is so far from being true that we only know what things look and not what they are, that in the case of spatial relations we actually know what things are, even though they never look what they are. [ ] this consideration disposes of the view that, if colour is relative to perception, the primary qualities, as being inseparable from colour, must also be relative to perception; for it implies that the primary qualities cannot from their very nature be relative to perception. moreover, if the possibility of the separation of the primary qualities from colour is still doubted, it is only necessary to appeal to the blind man's ability to apprehend the primary qualities, though he may not even know what the word 'colour' means. of course, it must be admitted that some sensuous elements are involved in the apprehension of the primary qualities, but the case of the blind man shows that these may relate to sight instead of to touch. moreover, it, of course, does not follow from the fact that sensuous elements are inseparable from our perception of bodies that they belong to, and are therefore inseparable from, the bodies perceived. this conclusion, however, seems to present a double difficulty. it is admitted that we perceive things as they look, and not as they are. how, then, is it possible for the belief that things _are_ spatial to arise? for how can we advance from knowledge of what they look to knowledge of what they are but do not look? again, given that the belief has arisen, may it not after all be illusion? no vindication seems possible. for how can it be possible to base the knowledge of what things are, independently of perception, upon the knowledge of what they look? nevertheless, the answer is simple. in the case of the perception of what is spatial there is no transition _in principle_ from knowledge of what things look to knowledge of what things are, though there is continually such a transition _in respect of details_. it is, of course, often necessary, and often difficult, to determine the precise position, shape, &c., of a thing, and if we are to come to a decision, we must appeal to what the thing looks or appears under various conditions. but, from the very beginning, our consciousness of what a thing appears in respect of spatial characteristics implies the consciousness of it as spatial and therefore also as, in particular, three-dimensional. if we suppose the latter consciousness absent, any assertion as to what a thing appears in respect of spatial characteristics loses significance. thus, although there is a process by which we come to learn that railway lines are really parallel, there is no process by which we come to learn that they are really spatial. similarly, although there is a process by which we become aware that a body is a cube, there is no process by which we become aware that it has a solid shape of some kind; the process is only concerned with the determination of the precise shape of the body. the second difficulty is, therefore, also removed. for if assertions concerning the apparent shape, &c. of things presuppose the consciousness that the things _are_ spatial, to say that this consciousness may be illusory is to say that all statements concerning what things _appear_, in respect of spatial relations, are equally illusory. but, since it is wholly impossible to deny that we can and do state what things appear in this respect, the difficulty must fall to the ground. there remains to be answered the question whether kant's position is tenable in its other form, viz. that while we cannot say that reality is spatial, we can and must say that the appearances which it produces are spatial. this question, in view of the foregoing, can be answered as soon as it is stated. we must allow that reality is spatial, since, as has been pointed out, assertions concerning the apparent shape of things presuppose that they are spatial. we must equally allow that an appearance cannot be spatial. for on the one hand, as has just been shown, space and spatial relations can only qualify something the existence of which is not relative to perception, since it is impossible to perceive what is spatial as it is; and on the other hand an appearance, as being _ex hypothesi_ an appearance to some one, i. e. to a percipient, must be relative to perception. we may say, then, generally, that analysis of the distinction between appearance and reality, as it is actually drawn in our ordinary consciousness, shows the falsity of both forms of the philosophical agnosticism which appeals to the distinction. we know things; not appearances. we know what things are; and not merely what they appear but are not. we may also say that kant cannot possibly be successful in meeting, at least in respect of space, what he calls 'the easily foreseen but worthless objection that the ideality of space and of time would turn the whole sensible world into pure illusion'.[ ] for space, according to him, is not a property of things in themselves; it cannot, as has been shown, be a property of appearances; to say that it is a property of things as they appear to us is self-contradictory; and there is nothing else of which it can be said to be a property. [ ] _prol_., § , remark iii. (cf. p. note.) cf. the confused note b. , m. . (see dr. vaihinger's commentary on the _critique_, ii, ff.) in conclusion, it may be pointed out that the impossibility that space[ ] and spatial characteristics should qualify appearances renders untenable kant's attempt to draw a distinction between reality and appearance _within_ 'phenomena' or 'appearances'. the passage in which he tries to do so runs as follows: [ ] the case of time can be ignored, since, as will be seen later (pp. - ), the contention that space is 'ideal' really involves the admission that time is real. "we generally indeed distinguish in appearances that which essentially belongs to the perception of them, and is valid for every human sense in general, from that which belongs to the same perception accidentally, as valid not for the sensibility in general, but for a particular state or organization of this or that sense. accordingly, we are accustomed to say that the former is knowledge which represents the object itself, whilst the latter represents only the appearance of the same. this distinction, however, is only empirical. if we stop here (as is usual) and do not again regard that empirical perception as itself a mere phenomenon (as we ought to do), in which nothing which concerns a thing in itself is to be found, our transcendental distinction is lost; and in that case we are after all believing that we know things in themselves, although in the world of sense, investigate its objects as profoundly as we may, we have to do with nothing but appearances. thus we call the rainbow a mere appearance during a sunny shower, but the rain the thing in itself; and this is right, if we understand the latter conception only physically as that which in universal experience and under all different positions with regard to the senses is in perception so and so determined and not otherwise. but if we consider this empirical element[ ] in general, and inquire, without considering its agreement with every human sense, whether it represents an object in itself (not the raindrops, for their being phenomena by itself makes them empirical objects), the question of the relation of the representation to the object is transcendental; and not only are the raindrops mere appearances, but even their circular form, nay, even the space in which they fall, are nothing in themselves but mere modifications or fundamental dispositions of our sensuous perception; the transcendental object, however, remains unknown to us."[ ] [ ] _dieses empirische._ [ ] b. - , m. - . _erscheinung_ is here translated 'appearance'. kant's meaning is plain. he is anxious to justify the physical distinction made in our ordinary or non-philosophical consciousness between a thing in itself and a mere appearance,[ ] but at the same time to show that it falls within appearances, in respect of the philosophical distinction between things in themselves and appearances or phenomena. the physical distinction is the first of which we become aware, and it arises through problems connected with our senses. owing, presumably, to the contradictions which would otherwise ensue, the mind is forced to distinguish between things and the 'appearances' which they produce, and to recognize that they do not correspond. the discrepancy is due to the fact that our perceptions are conditioned by the special positions of our physical organs with regard to the object of perception, and we discover its real nature by making allowance for these special positions. we thereby advance in knowledge to the extent of overcoming an obstacle due to the nature of our senses. but, this obstacle overcome, philosophical reflection forces upon us another. the thing which we distinguish in our ordinary consciousness from its appearances is, after all, only another appearance; and although the physical problem is solved concerning its accordance with our special senses, there remains the philosophical problem as to whether this appearance need correspond to what in the end is the real thing, viz. that which exists in itself and apart from all perception. the only possible answer is that it need not. we therefore can only know appearances and not reality; in other words, we cannot have knowledge proper. at the same time, our knowledge of appearances is objective to the extent that the appearances in question are the same for every one, and for us on various occasions; for the effects due to special positions of our senses have been removed. if, therefore, we return to the physical distinction, we see that the 'things' to which it refers are only a special kind of appearance, viz. that which is the same for every one, and for us at all times. the physical distinction, then, being a distinction between one kind of appearance and another, falls within 'phenomena' or 'appearances'. [ ] it should be noticed that the passage is, in the main, expressed in terms of the distinction between 'things' and 'appearances', and not, as it should be, in terms of the distinction between what things are and what things appear or look. now the obvious objection to this line of thought is that the result of the second or metaphysical application of the distinction between reality and appearance is to destroy or annul the first or physical application of it. to oppose the rain, i. e. the raindrops as the thing in itself to the rainbow as a mere appearance is to imply that the rain is not an appearance. for though what is opposed to a _mere_ appearance may still be an appearance, it cannot be called an appearance at all if it be described as the thing in itself. if it be only another appearance, it is the same in principle as that to which it is opposed, and consequently cannot be opposed to it. thus, if kant means by the rain, in distinction from the rainbow, the appearance when, as we say, we see the circular raindrops, the title of this appearance to the term thing in itself is no better than that of the rainbow; it is, in fact, if anything, worse, for the appearance is actual only under exceptional circumstances. we may never see the raindrops thus, or in kant's language, have this 'appearance'; and therefore, in general, an appearance of this kind is not actual but only possible. the truth is that we can only distinguish something as the thing in itself from an appearance, so long as we mean by the thing in itself what kant normally means by it, viz. something which exists independently of perception and is not an appearance at all.[ ] that of which kant is really thinking, and which he _calls_ the appearance which is the thing, in distinction from a mere appearance, is not an appearance; on the contrary, it is the raindrops themselves, which he describes as circular and as falling through space, and which, as circular and falling, must exist and have these characteristics in themselves apart from a percipient. kant's formula for an empirical thing, i. e. a thing which is an appearance, viz. 'that which in universal experience and under all different positions with regard to the senses is in perception so and so determined', is merely an attempt to achieve the impossible, viz. to combine in one the characteristics of a thing and an appearance. while the reference to _perception_ and to _position with regard to the senses_ implies that what is being defined is an appearance, the reference to _universal_ experience, to _all_ positions with regard to the senses, and to that which _is so and so determined_ implies that it is a thing. but, plainly, mention of position with regard to the senses, if introduced at all, should refer to the _differences_ in perception due to the different position of the object in particular cases. there is nothing of which it can be said that we perceive it in the same way or that it looks the same from _all_ positions. when kant speaks of that which under _all_ different positions with regard to the senses is so and so determined, he is really referring to something in the consideration of which all reference to the senses has been discarded; it is what should be described as that which _in reality and apart from_ all positions with regard to the senses is so and so determined; and this, as such, cannot be an appearance. again, the qualification of 'is so and so determined' by 'in perception' is merely an attempt to treat as relative to perception, and so as an appearance, what is essentially independent of perception.[ ] kant, no doubt, is thinking of a real presupposition of the process by which we distinguish between the real and the apparent qualities of bodies, i. e. between what they are and what they appear. we presuppose that that quality is really, and not only apparently, a quality of a body, which we and every one, judging from what it looks under various conditions (i. e. 'in universal experience'), must believe it to possess in itself and independently of all perception. his mistake is that in formulating this presupposition he treats as an appearance, and so as relative to perception, just that which is being distinguished from what, as an appearance, is relative to perception. [ ] hence kant's protest (b. , m. ), against illustrating the ideality of space by the 'inadequate' examples of colour, taste, &c., must be unavailing. for his contention is that, while the assertion that space is not a property of things means that it is not a property of things in themselves, the assertion that colour, for example, is not a property of a rose only means that it is not a property of a thing in itself in an empirical sense, i. e. of an appearance of a special kind. [ ] cf. pp. - . underlying the mistake is the identification of perception with judgement. our apprehension of what things _are_ is essentially a matter of thought or judgement, and not of perception. we do not _perceive_[ ] but _think_ a thing as it is. it is true that we can follow kant's language so far as to say that our judgement that the portion of the great circle joining two points on the surface of a sphere is the shortest way between them _via_ the surface belongs essentially to the thinking faculty of every intelligent being, and also that it is valid for all intelligences, in the sense that they must all hold it to be true; and we can contrast this judgement with a perception of the portion of the great circle as something which, though it cannot be said to be invalid, still differs for different beings according to the position from which they perceive it. kant, however, treats the judgement as a _perception_; for if we apply his general assertion to this instance, we find him saying that what we judge the portion of the great circle to be essentially belongs to the _perception_ of it, and is valid for the _sensuous_ faculty of every human being, and that thereby it can be distinguished from what belongs to the same perception of a great circle accidentally, e. g. its apparent colour, which is valid only for a particular organization of this or that sense.[ ] in this way he correlates what the great circle really is, as well as what it looks, with perception, and so is able to speak of what it is for perception. but, in fact, what the great circle is, is correlated with thought, and not with perception; and if we raise kant's transcendental problem in reference not to perception but to thought, it cannot be solved in kant's agnostic manner. for it is a presupposition of thinking that things are in themselves what we think them to be; and from the nature of the case a presupposition of thinking not only cannot be rightly questioned, but cannot be questioned at all. [ ] cf. pp. - . [ ] in the _prol._, § , remark iii, kant carefully distinguishes judgement from perception, but destroys the effect of the distinction by regarding judgement as referring to what is relative to perception, viz. appearances. note on the first antinomy kant holds that the antinomy or contradiction which arises when we consider the character of the world as spatial and temporal, viz. that we are equally bound to hold that the world is infinite in space and time, and that it is finite in space and time, is due to regarding the world as a thing in itself. he holds that the contradiction disappears, as soon as it is recognized that the world is only a phenomenon, for then we find that we need only say that the world is _capable_ of being extended infinitely in respect of time and space.[ ] objects in space and time are only phenomena, and, as such, are actual only in perception. when we say that a past event, or that a body which we do not perceive, is real, we merely assert the possibility of a 'perception'. "all events from time immemorial prior to my existence mean nothing else than the possibility of prolonging the chain of experience from the present perception upwards to the conditions which determine this perception according to time."[ ] "that there may be inhabitants of the moon, although no one has ever seen them, must certainly be admitted, but this assertion only means that we could come upon them in the possible progress of experience."[ ] the contradictions, therefore, can be avoided by substituting for the actual infinity of space and time, as relating to things in themselves, the possible infinity of a series of 'perceptions'. [ ] b. - , m. . [ ] b. , m. . [ ] b. , m. . this contention, if successful, is clearly important. if it could be shown that the treatment of the world as a thing in itself is the source of a contradiction, we should have what at least would seem a strong, if not conclusive, ground for holding that the world is a phenomenon, and, consequently, that the distinction between phenomena and things in themselves is valid. professor cook wilson has, however, pointed out that kant's own doctrine does not avoid the difficulty. for, though, according to kant, the infinity of actual representations of spaces and times is only possible, yet the possibilities of these representations will be themselves infinite, and, as such, will give rise to contradictions similar to those involved in the infinity of space and time. moreover, as professor cook wilson has also pointed out, there is no contradiction involved in the thought of the world as spatial and temporal; for, as we see when we reflect, we always presuppose that space and time are infinite, and we are only tempted to think that they must be finite, because, when maintaining that the world must be a whole, we are apt to make the false assumption, without in any way questioning it, that any whole must be finite. chapter v time and inner sense the arguments by which kant seeks to show that time is not a determination of things in themselves but only a form of perception are, _mutatis mutandis_, identical with those used in his treatment of space.[ ] they are, therefore, open to the same criticisms, and need no separate consideration. [ ] cf. b. - , §§ , and (a), m. - , §§ , and (a) with b. - , § ( - ), and § ( ) to (a) inclusive, m. - , §§ , , and (a). the only qualification needed is that, since the parts of time cannot, like those of space, be said to exist simultaneously, b. § ( ), m. § , is compelled to appeal to a different consideration from that adduced in the parallel passage on space (b. § ( ), m. § , ). since, however, b. § ( ), m. § , introduces no new matter, but only appeals to the consideration already urged (b. § , , m. § , ), this difference can be neglected. b. § , m. § adds a remark about change which does not affect the main argument. time, however, according to kant, differs from space in one important respect. it is the form not of outer but of inner sense; in other words, while space is the form under which we perceive things, time is the form under which we perceive ourselves. it is upon this difference that attention must be concentrated. the existence of the difference at all is upon general grounds surprising. for since the arguments by which kant establishes the character of time as a form of perception run _pari passu_ with those used in the case of space, we should expect time, like space, to be a form under which we perceive things; and, as a matter of fact, it will be found that the only _argument_ used to show that time is the form of inner, as opposed to outer, sense is not only independent of kant's general theory of forms of sense, but is actually inconsistent with it.[ ] before, however, we attempt to decide kant's right to distinguish between inner and outer sense, we must consider the facts which were before kant's mind in making the distinction. [ ] b. (b), m. (b). see pp. - . these facts and, to a large extent, the frame of mind in which kant approached them, find expression in the passage in locke's _essay_, which explains the distinction between 'ideas of sensation' and 'ideas of reflection'. "whence has it [i. e. the mind] all the materials of reason and knowledge? to this i answer, in one word, from experience.... our observation, employed either about external, sensible objects, or about the internal operations of our minds, perceived and reflected on, by ourselves, is that which supplies our understandings with all the materials of thinking. these two are the fountains of knowledge...." "first, our senses, conversant about particular sensible objects, do convey into the mind several distinct perceptions of things, according to those various ways, wherein those objects do affect them: and thus we come by those ideas we have of yellow, white, heat, cold, soft, hard, bitter, sweet, and all those, which we call sensible qualities; which, when i say the senses convey into the mind, i mean, they, from external objects, convey into the mind what produces there those perceptions. this great source of most of the ideas we have, depending wholly upon our senses, and derived by them to the understanding, i call _sensation_." "secondly, the other fountain, from which experience furnisheth the understanding with ideas, is the perception of the operations of our own mind within us, as it is employed about the ideas it has got; which operations, when the soul comes to reflect on, and consider, do furnish the understanding with another set of ideas, which could not be had from things without; and such are perception, thinking, doubting, believing, reasoning, knowing, willing, and all the different actings of our own minds; which we being conscious of, and observing in ourselves, do, from these, receive into our understandings as distinct ideas, as we do from bodies affecting our senses. this source of ideas every man has wholly in himself; and though it be not sense as having nothing to do with external objects, yet it is very like it, and might properly enough be called internal sense. but, as i call the other sensation, so i call this _reflection_; the ideas it affords being such only as the mind gets, by reflecting on its own operations within itself."[ ] [ ] locke, _essay_, ii, , §§ - . here locke is thinking of the distinction between two attitudes of mind, which, however difficult it may be to state satisfactorily, must in some sense be recognized. the mind, undoubtedly, in virtue of its powers of perceiving and thinking--or whatever they may be--becomes through a temporal process aware of a spatial world in its varied detail. in the first instance, its attention is absorbed in the world of which it thus becomes aware; subsequently, however, it is in some way able to direct its attention away from this world to the activities in virtue of which it has become aware of this world, and in some sense to make itself its own object. from being conscious it becomes self-conscious. this process by which the mind turns its attention back upon itself is said to be a process of 'reflection'. while we should say that it is by perception that we become aware of things in the physical world, we should say that it is by reflection that we become aware of our activities of perceiving, thinking, willing, &c. whatever difficulties the thought of self-consciousness may involve, and however inseparable, and perhaps even temporally inseparable, the attitudes of consciousness and self-consciousness may turn out to be, the distinction between these attitudes must be recognized. the object of the former is the world, and the object of the latter is in some sense the mind itself; and the attitudes may be described as that of our ordinary, scientific, or unreflecting consciousness and that of reflection. the significance of locke's account of this distinction lies for our purposes in its anticipation of kant. he states the second attitude, as well as the first, in terms of sense. just as in our apprehension of the world things external to, in the sense of existing independently of, the mind are said to act on our physical organs or 'senses', and thereby to produce 'perceptions' in the mind, so the mind is said to become conscious of its own operations by 'sense'. we should notice, however, that locke hesitates to use the word 'sense' in the latter case, on the ground that it involves no operation of external things (presumably upon our physical organs), though he thinks that the difficulty is removed by calling the sense in question 'internal'. kant is thinking of the same facts, and also states them in terms of sense, though allowance must be made for the difference of standpoint, since for him 'sense', in the case of the external sense, refers not to the affection of our physical organs by physical bodies, but to the affection of the mind by things in themselves. things in themselves act on our minds and produce in them appearances, or rather sensations, and outer sense is the mind's capacity for being so affected by outer things, i. e. things independent of the mind. this is, in essentials, kant's statement of the attitude of consciousness, i. e. of our apprehension of the world which exists independently of the mind, and which, for him, is the world of things in themselves. he also follows locke in giving a parallel account of the attitude of self-consciousness. he asks, 'how can the subject perceive itself?' perception _in man_ is essentially passive; the mind must be _affected_ by that which it perceives. consequently, if the mind is to perceive itself, it must be affected by its own activity; in other words, there must be an inner sense, i. e. a capacity in virtue of which the mind is affected by itself.[ ] hence kant is compelled to extend his agnosticism to the knowledge of ourselves. just as we do not know things, but only the appearances which they produce in us,[ ] so we do not know ourselves, but only the appearances which we produce in ourselves; and since time is a mode of relation of these appearances, it is a determination not of ourselves, but only of the appearances due to ourselves. [ ] cf. b. fin., m. init. [ ] it is here assumed that this is kant's normal view of the phenomenal character of our knowledge. cf. p. . the above may be said to represent the train of thought by which kant arrived at his doctrine of time and the inner sense. it was reached by combining recognition of the fact that we come to be aware not only of the details of the physical world, but also of the successive process on our part by which we have attained this knowledge, with the view that our apprehension of this successive process is based on 'sense', just as is our apprehension of the world. but the question remains whether kant is, on his own principles, entitled to speak of an inner sense at all. according to him, knowledge begins with the production in us of sensations, or, as we ought to say in the present context, appearances by the action of things in themselves. these sensations or appearances can reasonably be ascribed to external sense. they may be ascribed to sense, because they arise through our being _affected_ by things in themselves. the sense may be called external, because the object affecting it is external to the mind, i. e. independent of it. in conformity with this account, internal sense must be the power of being affected by something internal to the mind, i. e. dependent upon the mind itself, and since being affected implies the activity of affecting, it will be the power of being affected by the mind's own activity.[ ] the activity will presumably be that of arranging spatially the sensations or appearances due to things in themselves.[ ] this activity must be said to produce an affection in us, the affection being an appearance due to ourselves. lastly, the mind must be said to arrange these appearances temporally. hence it will be said to follow that we know only the appearances due to ourselves and not ourselves, and that time is only a determination of these appearances.[ ] [ ] b. init., m. init. [ ] the precise nature of the activity makes no difference to the argument. [ ] in b. fin., m. fin. kant expresses his conclusion in the form that we know ourselves only as we appear to ourselves, and not as we are in ourselves (cf. p. ). the above account, and the criticism which immediately follows, can be adapted, _mutatis mutandis_, to this form of the view. the weakness of the position just stated lies on the surface. it provides no means of determining whether any affection produced in us is produced by ourselves rather than by the thing in itself; consequently we could never say that a given affection was an appearance due to _ourselves_, and therefore to _inner_ sense. on the contrary, we should ascribe all affections to things in themselves, and should, therefore, be unable to recognize an _inner_ sense at all. in order to recognize an inner sense we must know that certain affections are due to _our_ activity, and, to do this, we must know what the activity consists in--for we can only be aware that we are active by being aware of an activity of ours of a particular kind--and, therefore, we must know ourselves. unless, then, we know ourselves, we cannot call any affections internal. if, however, the doctrine of an internal sense is obviously untenable from kant's own point of view, why does he hold it? the answer is that, inconsistently with his general view, he continues to think of the facts as they really are, and that he is deceived by an ambiguity into thinking that the facts justify a distinction between internal and external sense. he brings forward only one argument to show that time is the form of the internal sense. "time is nothing else than the form of the internal sense, i. e. of the perception of ourselves and our inner state. for time cannot be any determination of external phenomena; it has to do neither with a shape nor a position; on the contrary, it determines the relation of representations in our internal state."[ ] [ ] b. (b), m. (b). to follow this argument it is first necessary to realize a certain looseness and confusion in the expression of it. the term 'external', applied to phenomena, has a double meaning. it must mean ( ) that of which the parts are external to one another, i. e. spatial; for the ground on which time is denied to be a determination of external phenomena is that it has nothing to do with a shape or a position. it must also mean ( ) external to, in the sense of independent of, the mind; for it is contrasted with our internal state, and if 'internal', applied to 'our state', is not to be wholly otiose, it can only serve to emphasize the contrast between our state and something external to in the sense of independent of us. again, 'phenomena,' in the phrase 'external phenomena', can only be an unfortunate expression for things independent of the mind, these things being here called phenomena owing to kant's view that bodies in space are phenomena. otherwise, 'phenomena' offers no contrast to 'our state' and to 'representations'. the passage, therefore, presupposes a distinction between states of ourselves and things in space, the former being internal to, or dependent upon, and the latter external to, or independent of, the mind. it should now be easy to see that the argument involves a complete _non sequitur_. the conclusion which is justified is that time is a form not of things but of our own states. for the fact to which he appeals is that while things, as being spatial, are not related temporally, our states are temporally related; and if 'a form' be understood as a mode of relation, this fact can be expressed by the formula 'time is a form not of things but of our own states', the corresponding formula in the case of space being 'space is a form not of our states but of things'. but the conclusion which kant desires to draw--and which he, in fact, actually draws--is the quite different conclusion that time is a form of _perception_ of our states, the corresponding conclusion in the case of space being that space is a form of perception of things. for time is to be shown to be the form of inner sense, i. e. the form of the perception of what is internal to ourselves, i. e. of our own states.[ ] the fact is that the same unconscious transition takes place in kant's account of time which, as we saw,[ ] takes place in his account of space. in the case of space, kant passes from the assertion that space is a form of things, in the sense that all things are spatially related--an assertion which he expresses by saying that space is the form of phenomena--to the quite different assertion that space is a form of perception, in the sense of a way in which we perceive things as opposed to a way in which things are. similarly, in the case of time, kant passes from the assertion that time is the form of our internal states, in the sense that all our states are temporally related, to the assertion that time is a way in which we perceive our states as opposed to a way in which our states really are. further, the two positions, which he thus fails to distinguish, are not only different, but incompatible. for if space is a form of things, and time is a form of our states, space and time cannot belong only to our mode of perceiving things and ourselves respectively, and not to the things and ourselves; for _ex hypothesi_ things _are_ spatially related, and our states _are_ temporally related. [ ] cf. b. (b) line , m. (b) line [ ] cf. pp. - . kant's procedure, therefore, may be summed up by saying that he formulates a view which is true but at the same time inconsistent with his general position, the view, viz. that while things in space are not temporally related, the acts by which we come to apprehend them are so related; and further, that he is deceived by the verbally easy transition from a legitimate way of expressing this view, viz. that time is the form of our states, to the desired conclusion that time is the form of inner sense. the untenable character of kant's position with regard to time and the knowledge of ourselves can be seen in another way. it is not difficult to show that, in order to prove that we do not know _things_, but only the appearances which they produce, we must allow that we do know _ourselves_, and not appearances produced by ourselves, and, consequently, that time is real and not phenomenal. to show this, it is only necessary to consider the objection which kant himself quotes against his view of time. the objection is important in itself, and kant himself remarks that he has heard it so unanimously urged by intelligent men that he concludes that it must naturally present itself to every reader to whom his views are novel. according to kant, it runs thus: "changes are real (this is proved by the change of our own representations, even though all external phenomena, together with their changes, be denied). now changes are only possible in time; therefore time is something real."[ ] and he goes on to explain why this objection is so unanimously brought, even by those who can bring no intelligible argument against the ideality of space. "the reason is that men have no hope of proving apodeictically the absolute reality of space, because they are confronted by idealism, according to which the reality of external objects is incapable of strict proof, whereas the reality of the object of our internal senses (of myself and my state) is immediately clear through consciousness. external objects might be mere illusion, but the object of our internal senses is to their mind undeniably something real."[ ] [ ] b. , m. . [ ] b. , m. . here, though kant does not see it, he is faced with a difficulty from which there is no escape. on the one hand, according to him, we do not know things in themselves, i. e. things independent of the mind. in particular, we cannot know that they are spatial; and the objection quoted concedes this. on the other hand, we do know phenomena or the appearances produced by things in themselves. phenomena or appearances, however, as he always insists, are essentially states or determinations of the mind. to the question, therefore, 'why are we justified in saying that we do know phenomena, whereas we do not know the things which produce them?' kant could only answer that it is because phenomena are dependent upon the mind, as being its own states.[ ] as the objector is made to say, 'the reality of the object of our internal senses (of myself and my state) is immediately clear through consciousness.' if we do not know things in themselves, because they are independent of the mind, we only know phenomena because they are dependent upon the mind. hence kant is only justified in denying that we know things in themselves if he concedes that we really know our own states, and not merely appearances which they produce. [ ] cf. p. . again, kant must allow--as indeed he normally does--that these states of ours are related by way of succession. hence, since these states are really our states and not appearances produced by our states, these being themselves unknown, time, as a relation of these states, must itself be real, and not a way in which we apprehend what is real. it must, so to say, be really in what we apprehend about ourselves, and not put into it by us as perceiving ourselves. the objection, then, comes to this. kant must at least concede that we undergo a succession of changing states, even if he holds that _things_, being independent of the mind, cannot be shown to undergo such a succession; consequently, he ought to allow that time is not a way in which we apprehend ourselves, but a real feature of our real states. kant's answer[ ] does not meet the point, and, in any case, proceeds on the untenable assumption that it is possible for the characteristic of a thing to belong to it as perceived, though not in itself.[ ] [ ] b. , m. med. [ ] cf. pp. - . chapter vi knowledge and reality kant's theory of space, and, still more, his theory of time, are bewildering subjects. it is not merely that the facts with which he deals are complex; his treatment of them is also complicated by his special theories of 'sense' and of 'forms of perception'. light, however, may be thrown upon the problems raised by the _aesthetic_, and upon kant's solution of them, in two ways. in the first place, we may attempt to vindicate the implication of the preceding criticism, that the very nature of knowledge presupposes the independent existence of the reality known, and to show that, in consequence, all idealism is of the variety known as subjective. in the second place, we may point out the way in which kant is misled by failing to realize ( ) the directness of the relation between the knower and the reality known, and ( ) the impossibility of transferring what belongs to one side of the relation to the other. the question whether any reality exists independently of the knowledge of it may be approached thus. the standpoint of the preceding criticism of kant may be described as that of the plain man. it is the view that the mind comes by a temporal process to apprehend or to know a spatial world which exists independently of it or of any other mind, and that the mind knows it as it exists in the independence. 'now this view,' it may be replied, 'is exposed to at least one fatal objection. it presupposes the possibility of knowing the thing in itself, i. e. something which exists independently of the mind which comes to know it. whatever is true, this is not. whatever be the criticism to which kant's doctrine is exposed in detail, it contains one inexpugnable thesis, viz. that the thing in itself cannot be known. unless the physical world stands in essential relation to the mind, it is impossible to understand how it can be known. this position being unassailable, any criticism of an idealistic theory must be compatible with it, and therefore confined to details. moreover, kant's view can be transformed into one which will defy criticism. its unsatisfactory character lies in the fact that in regarding the physical world as dependent on the mind, it really alters the character of the world by reducing the world to a succession of 'appearances' which, as such, can only be mental, i. e. can only belong to the mind's own being. bodies, as being really appearances in the mind, are regarded as on the level of transitory mental occurrences, and as thereby at least resembling feelings and sensations. this consequence, however, can be avoided by maintaining that the real truth after which kant was groping was that knower and known form an inseparable unity, and that, therefore, any reality which is not itself a knower, or the knowing of a knower, presupposes a mind which knows it. in that case nothing is suggested as to the special nature of the reality known, and, in particular, it is not implied to be a transitory element of the mind's own being. the contention merely attributes to any reality, conceived to have the special nature ordinarily attributed to it, the additional characteristic that it is known. consequently, on this view, the physical world can retain the permanence ordinarily attributed to it. to the objection that, at any rate, _our_ knowledge is transitory, and that if the world is relative to it the world also must be transitory, it may be replied--though with some sense of uneasiness--that the world must be considered relative not to us as knowers, but to a knower who knows always and completely, and whose knowing is in some way identical with ours. further, the view so transformed has two other advantages. in the first place, it renders it possible to dispense with what has been called the mrs. harris of philosophy, the thing in itself. as kant states his position, the thing in itself must be retained, for it is impossible to believe that there is no reality other than what is mental. but if the physical world need not be considered to be a succession of mental occurrences, it can be considered to be the reality which is not mental. in the second place, knowledge proper is vindicated, for on this view we do not know 'only' phenomena; we know the reality which is not mental, and we know it as it is, for it is as object of knowledge.' 'moreover, the contention must be true, and must form the true basis of idealism. for the driving force of idealism is furnished by the question, 'how can the mind and reality come into the relation which we call knowledge?' this question is unanswerable so long as reality is thought to stand in no essential relation to the knowing mind. consequently, in the end, knowledge and reality must be considered inseparable. again, even if it be conceded that the mind in some way gains access to an independent reality, it is impossible to hold that the mind can really know it. for the reality cannot in the relation of knowledge be what it is apart from this relation. it must become in some way modified or altered in the process. hence the mind cannot on this view know the reality as it is. on the other hand, if the reality is essentially relative to a knower, the knower knows it as it is, for what it is is what it is in this relation.' the fundamental objection, however, to this line of thought is that it contradicts the very nature of knowledge. knowledge unconditionally presupposes that the reality known exists independently of the knowledge of it, and that we know it as it exists in this independence. it is simply _impossible_ to think that any reality depends upon our knowledge of it, or upon any knowledge of it. if there is to be knowledge, there must first _be_ something to be known. in other words, knowledge is essentially discovery, or the finding of what already is. if a reality could only be or come to be in virtue of some activity or process on the part of the mind, that activity or process would not be 'knowing', but 'making' or 'creating', and to make and to know must in the end be admitted to be mutually exclusive.[ ] [ ] cf. pp. - . this presupposition that what is known exists independently of being known is quite general, and applies to feeling and sensation just as much as to parts of the physical world. it must in the end be conceded of a toothache as much as of a stone that it exists independently of the knowledge of it. there must be a pain to be attended to or noticed, which exists independently of our attention or notice. the true reason for asserting feeling and sensation to be dependent on the mind is that they presuppose not a knowing, but a feeling and a sentient subject respectively. again, it is equally presupposed that knowing in no way alters or modifies the thing known. we can no more think that in apprehending a reality we do not apprehend it as it is apart from our knowledge of it, than we can think that its existence depends upon our knowledge of it. hence, if 'things in themselves' means 'things existing independently of the knowledge of them', knowledge is essentially of 'things in themselves'. it is, therefore, unnecessary to consider whether idealism is assisted by the supposition of a non-finite knowing mind, correlated with reality as a whole. for reality must equally be independent of it. consequently, if the issue between idealism and realism is whether the physical world is or is not dependent on the mind, it cannot turn upon a dependence in respect of knowledge. that the issue does not turn upon knowledge is confirmed by our instinctive procedure when we are asked whether the various realities which we suppose ourselves to know depend upon the mind. our natural procedure is not to treat them simply as realities and to ask whether, as realities, they involve a mind to know them, but to treat them as realities of the particular kind to which they belong, and to consider relation to the mind of some kind other than that of knowledge. we should say, for instance, that a toothache or an emotion, as being a feeling, presupposes a mind capable of feeling, whose feeling it is; for if the mind be thought of as withdrawn, the pain or the feeling must also be thought of as withdrawn. we should say that an act of thinking presupposes a mind which thinks. we should, however, naturally deny that an act of thinking or knowing, in order to be, presupposes that it is known either by the thinker whose act it is, or by any other mind. in other words, we should say that knowing presupposes a mind, not as something which _knows_ the knowing, but as something which _does_ the knowing. again, we should naturally say that the shape or the weight of a stone is _not_ dependent on the mind which perceives the stone. the shape, we should say, would disappear with the disappearance of the stone, but would not disappear with the disappearance of the mind which perceives the stone. again, we should assert that the stone itself, so far from depending on the mind which perceives it, has an independent being of its own. we might, of course, find difficulty in deciding whether a reality of some particular kind, e. g. a colour, is dependent on a mind. but, in any case, we should think that the ground for decision lay in the special character of the reality in question, and should not treat it merely as a reality related to the mind as something known. we should ask, for instance, whether a colour, as a colour, involves a mind which sees, and not whether a colour, as a reality, involves its being known. our natural procedure, then, is to divide realities into two classes, those which depend on a mind, and may therefore be called mental, and those which do not, and to conclude that some realities depend upon the mind, while others do not. we thereby ignore a possible dependence of realities on their being known; for not only is the dependence which we recognize of some other kind, e. g. in respect of feeling or sentience, but if the dependence were in respect of knowledge, we could not distinguish in respect of dependence between one reality and another. further, if reality be allowed to exist independently of knowledge, it is easy to see that, from the idealist's point of view, kant's procedure was essentially right, and that all idealism, when pressed, must prove subjective; in other words, that the idealist must hold that the mind can only know what is mental and belongs to its own being, and that the so-called physical world is merely a succession of appearances. moreover, our instinctive procedure[ ] is justified. for, in the first place, since it is impossible to think that a reality depends for its existence upon being known, it is impossible to reach an idealistic conclusion by taking into account relation by way of knowledge; and if this be the relation considered, the only conclusion can be that all reality is independent of the mind. again, since knowledge is essentially of reality as it is apart from its being known, the assertion that a reality is dependent upon the mind is an assertion of the kind of thing which it is in itself, apart from its being known.[ ] and when we come to consider what we mean by saying of a reality that it depends upon the mind, we find we mean that it is in its own nature of such a kind as to disappear with the disappearance of the mind, or, more simply, that it is of the kind called mental. hence, we can only decide that a particular reality depends upon the mind by appeal to its special character. we cannot treat it simply as a reality the relation of which to the mind is solely that of knowledge. and we can only decide that all reality is dependent upon the mind by appeal to the special character of all the kinds of reality of which we are aware. hence, kant in the _aesthetic_, and berkeley before him, were essentially right in their procedure. they both ignored consideration of the world simply as a reality, and appealed exclusively to its special character, the one arguing that in its special character as spatial and temporal it presupposed a percipient, and the other endeavouring to show that the primary qualities are as relative to perception as the secondary. unfortunately for their view, in order to think of bodies in space as dependent on the mind, it is necessary to think of them as being in the end only certain sensations or certain combinations of sensations which may be called appearances. for only sensations or combinations of them can be thought of as at once dependent on the mind, and capable with any plausibility of being identified with bodies in space. in other words, in order to think of the world as dependent on the mind, we have to think of it as consisting only of a succession of appearances, and in fact berkeley, and, at certain times, kant, did think of it in this way. [ ] cf. p. . [ ] though not apart from relation to the mind of some other kind. that this is the inevitable result of idealism is not noticed, so long as it is supposed that the essential relation of realities to the mind consists in their being known; for, as we have seen, nothing is thereby implied as to their special nature. to say of a reality that it is essentially an object of knowledge is merely to add to the particular nature ordinarily attributed to the existent in question the further characteristic that it must be known.[ ] moreover, since in fact, though contrary to the theory, any reality exists independently of the knowledge of it, when the relation thought of between a reality and the mind is _solely_ that of knowledge, the realities can be thought of as independent of the mind. consequently, the physical world can be thought to have that independence of the mind which the ordinary man attributes to it, and, therefore, need not be conceived as only a succession of appearances. but the advantage of this form of idealism is really derived from the very fact which it is the aim of idealism in general to deny. for the conclusion that the physical world consists of a succession of appearances is only avoided by taking into account the relation of realities to the mind by way of knowledge, and, then, without being aware of the inconsistency, making use of the independent existence of the reality known. [ ] cf. p. . again, that the real contrary to realism is _subjective_ idealism is confirmed by the history of the theory of knowledge from descartes onwards. for the initial supposition which has originated and sustained the problem is that in knowledge the mind is, at any rate in the first instance, confined within itself. this supposition granted, it has always seemed that, while there is no difficulty in understanding the mind's acquisition of knowledge of what belongs to its own being, it is difficult, if not impossible, to understand how it can acquire knowledge of what does not belong to its own being. further, since the physical world is ordinarily thought of as something which does not belong to the mind's own being, the problem has always been not 'how is it possible to know anything?' but 'how is it possible to know a particular kind of reality, viz. the physical world?' moreover, in consequence of the initial supposition, any answer to this question has always presupposed that our apprehension of the physical world is indirect. since _ex hypothesi_ the mind is confined within itself, it can only apprehend a reality independent of it through something within the mind which 'represents' or 'copies' the reality; and it is perhaps hume's chief merit that he showed that no such solution is possible, or, in other words, that, on the given supposition, knowledge of the physical world is impossible. now the essential weakness of this line of thought lies in the initial supposition that the mind can only apprehend what belongs to its own being. it is as much a fact of our experience that we directly apprehend bodies in space, as that we directly apprehend our feelings and sensations. and, as has already been shown,[ ] what is spatial cannot be thought to belong to the mind's own being on the ground that it is relative to perception. further, if it is legitimate to ask, 'how can we apprehend what does not belong to our being?' it is equally legitimate to ask, 'how can we apprehend what does belong to our own being?' it is wholly arbitrary to limit the question to the one kind of reality. if a question is to be put at all, it should take the form, 'how is it possible to apprehend anything?' but this question has only to be put to be discarded. for it amounts to a demand to _explain_ knowledge; and any answer to it would involve the derivation of knowledge from what was not knowledge, a task which must be as impossible as the derivation of space from time or of colour from sound. knowledge is _sui generis_, and, as such, cannot be explained.[ ] [ ] cf. pp. - . [ ] this assertion, being self-evident, admits of no direct proof. a 'proof' can only take the form of showing that any supposed 'derivation' or 'explanation' of knowledge presupposes knowledge in that from which it derives it. professor cook wilson has pointed out that we must understand what knowing is in order to explain anything at all, so that any proposed explanation of knowing would necessarily presuppose that we understood what knowing is. for the general doctrine, cf. p. . moreover, it may be noted that the support which this form of idealism sometimes receives from an argument which uses the terms 'inside' and 'outside' the mind is unmerited. at first sight it seems a refutation of the plain man's view to argue thus: 'the plain man believes the spatial world to exist whether any one knows it or not. consequently, he allows that the world is outside the mind. but, to be known, a reality must be inside the mind. therefore, the plain man's view renders knowledge impossible.' but, as soon as it is realized that 'inside the mind' and 'outside the mind' are metaphors, and, therefore, must take their meaning from their context, it is easy to see that the argument either rests on an equivocation or assumes the point at issue. the assertion that the world is outside the mind, being only a metaphorical expression of the plain man's view, should only mean that the world is something independent of the mind, as opposed to something inside the mind, in the sense of dependent upon it, or mental. but the assertion that, to be known, a reality must be inside the mind, if it is to be incontestably true, should only mean that a reality, to be apprehended, must really be object of apprehension. and in this case 'being inside the mind', since it only means 'being object of apprehension', is not the opposite of 'being outside the mind' in the previous assertion. hence, on this interpretation, the second assertion is connected with the first only apparently and by an equivocation; there is really no argument at all. if, however, the equivocation is to be avoided, 'inside the mind' in the second assertion must be the opposite of 'outside the mind' in the first, and consequently the second must mean that a reality, to be known, must be dependent on the mind, or mental. but in that case the objection to the plain man's view is a _petitio principii_, and not an argument. nevertheless, the tendency to think that the only object or, at least, the only direct object of the mind is something mental still requires explanation. it seems due to a tendency to treat self-consciousness as similar to consciousness of the world. when in reflection we turn our attention away from the world to the activity by which we come to know it, we tend to think of our knowledge of the world as a reality to be apprehended similar to the world which we apprehended prior to reflection. we thereby implicitly treat this knowledge as something which, like the world, merely _is_ and is not the knowledge of anything; in other words, we imply that, so far from being knowledge, i. e. the knowing of a reality, it is precisely that which we distinguish from knowledge, viz. a reality to be known, although--since knowledge must be mental--we imply that it is a reality of the special kind called mental. but if the knowledge upon which we reflect is thus treated as consisting in a mental reality which merely _is_, it is implied that in this knowledge the world is not, at any rate directly, object of the mind, for _ex hypothesi_ a reality which merely _is_ and is not the knowledge of anything has no object. hence it comes to be thought that the only object or, at least, the only direct object of the mind is this mental reality itself, which is the object of reflection; in other words, that the only immediate object of the mind comes to be thought of as its own idea. the root of the mistake lies in the initial supposition--which, it may be noted, seems to underlie the whole treatment of knowledge by empirical psychology--that knowledge can be treated as a reality to be apprehended, in the way in which any reality which is not knowledge is a reality to be apprehended. we may now revert to that form of idealism which maintains that the essential relation of reality to the mind is that of _being known_, in order to consider two lines of argument by which it may be defended. according to the first of these, the view of the plain man either is, or at least involves, materialism; and materialism is demonstrably absurd. the plain man's view involves the existence of the physical world prior to the existence of the knowledge of it, and therefore also prior to the existence of minds which know it, since it is impossible to separate the existence of a knowing mind from its actual knowledge. from this it follows that mere matter, having only the qualities considered by the physicist, must somehow have originated or produced knowing and knowing minds. but this production is plainly impossible. for matter, possessing solely, as it does, characteristics bound up with extension and motion, cannot possibly have originated activities of a wholly different kind, or beings capable of exercising them. it may, however, be replied that the supposed consequence, though absurd, does not really follow from the plain man's realism. doubtless, it would be impossible for a universe consisting solely of the physical world to originate thought or beings capable of thinking. but the real presupposition of the coming into existence of human knowledge at a certain stage in the process of the universe is to be found in the pre-existence, not of a mind or minds which always actually knew, but simply of a mind or minds in which, under certain conditions, knowledge is necessarily actualized. a mind cannot be the product of anything or, at any rate, of anything but a mind. it cannot be a new reality introduced at some time or other into a universe of realities of a wholly different order. therefore, the presupposition of the present existence of knowledge is the pre-existence of a mind or minds; it is not implied that its or their knowledge must always have been actual. in other words, knowing implies the ultimate or unoriginated existence of beings possessed of the capacity to know. otherwise, knowledge would be a merely derivative product, capable of being stated in terms of something else, and in the end in terms of matter and motion. this implication is, however, in no wise traversed by the plain man's realism. for that implies, not that the existence of the physical world is prior to the existence of a mind, but only that it is prior to a mind's actual knowledge of the world. the second line of thought appeals to the logic of relation. it may be stated thus. if a term is relative, i. e. is essentially 'of' or relative to another, that other is essentially relative to it. just as a doctor, for instance, is essentially a doctor of a patient, so a patient is essentially the patient of a doctor. as a ruler implies subjects, so subjects imply a ruler. as a line essentially has points at its ends, so points are essentially ends of a line. now knowledge is essentially 'of' or relative to reality. reality, therefore, is essentially relative to or implies the knowledge of it. and this correlativity of knowledge and reality finds linguistic confirmation in the terms 'subject' and 'object'. for, linguistically, just as a subject is always the subject of an object, so an object is always the object of a subject. nevertheless, further analysis of the nature of relative terms, and in particular of knowledge, does not bear out this conclusion. to take the case of a doctor. it is true that if some one is healing, some one else is receiving treatment, i. e. is being healed; and 'patient' being the name for the recipient of treatment, we can express this fact by saying that a doctor is essentially the doctor of a patient. further, it is true that a recipient of treatment implies a giver of it, as much as a giver of it implies a recipient. hence we can truly say that since a doctor is the doctor of a patient, a patient is the patient of a doctor, meaning thereby that since that to which a doctor is relative is a patient, a patient must be similarly relative to a doctor. there is, however, another statement which can be made concerning a doctor. we can say that a doctor is a doctor of a human being who is ill, i. e. a sick man. but in this case we cannot go on to say that since a doctor is a doctor of a sick man, a sick man implies or is relative to a doctor. for we mean that the kind of reality capable of being related to a doctor as his patient is a sick man; and from this it does not follow that a reality of this kind does stand in this relation. doctoring implies a sick man; a sick man does not imply that some one is treating him. we can only say that since a doctor is the doctor of a sick man, a sick man implies the possibility of doctoring. in the former case the terms, viz. 'doctor' and 'patient', are inseparable because they signify the relation in question in different aspects. the relation is one fact which has two inseparable 'sides', and, consequently, the terms must be inseparable which signify the relation respectively from the point of view of the one side and from the point of view of the other. neither term signifies the nature of the elements which can stand in the relation. in the latter case, however, the terms, viz. 'doctor' and 'sick man', signify respectively the relation in question (in one aspect), and the nature of one of the elements capable of entering into it; consequently they are separable. now when it is said that knowledge is essentially knowledge of reality, the statement is parallel to the assertion that a doctor is essentially the doctor of a sick man, and not to the assertion that a doctor is essentially the doctor of a patient. it should mean that that which is capable of being related to a knower as his object is something which is or exists; consequently it cannot be said that since knowledge is of reality, reality must essentially be known. the parallel to the assertion that a doctor is the doctor of a patient is the assertion that knowledge is the knowledge of an object; for just as 'patient' means that which receives treatment from a doctor, so 'object' means that which is known. and here we _can_ go on to make the further parallel assertion that since knowledge is essentially the knowledge of an object, an object is essentially an object of knowledge. just as 'patient' means a recipient of treatment, or, more accurately, a sick man under treatment, so 'object' means something known, or, more accurately, a reality known. and 'knowledge' and 'object of knowledge', like 'doctor' and 'patient', indicate the same relation, though from different points of view, and, consequently, when we can use the one term, we can use the other. but to say that an object (i. e. a reality known) implies the knowledge of it is not to say that reality implies the knowledge of it, any more than to say that a patient implies a doctor is to say that a sick man implies a doctor. but a doctor, it might be objected, is not a fair parallel to knowledge or a knower. a doctor, though an instance of a relative term, is only an instance of one kind of relative term, that in which the elements related are capable of existing apart from the relation, the relation being one in which they can come to stand and cease to stand. but there is another kind of relative term, in which the elements related presuppose the relation, and any thought of these elements involves the thought of the relation. a universal, e. g. whiteness, is always the universal of certain individuals, viz. individual whites; an individual, e. g. this white, is always an individual of a universal, viz. whiteness. a genus is the genus of a species, and vice versa. a surface is the surface of a volume, and a volume implies a surface. a point is the end of a line, and a line is bounded by points. in such cases the very being of the elements related involves the relation, and, apart from the relation, disappears. the difference between the two kinds of relative terms can be seen from the fact that only in the case of the former kind can two elements be found of which we can say significantly that their relation is of the kind in question. we can say of two men that they are related as doctor and patient, or as father and son, for we can apprehend two beings as men without being aware of them as so related. but of no two elements is it possible to say that their relation is that of universal and individual, or of genus and species, or of surface and volume; for to apprehend elements which are so related we must apprehend them so related.[ ] to apprehend a surface is to apprehend a surface of a volume. to apprehend a volume is to apprehend a volume bounded by a surface. to apprehend a universal is to apprehend it as the universal of an individual, and vice versa.[ ] in the case of relations of this kind, the being of either element which stands in the relation is relative to that of the other; neither can be real without the other, as we see if we try to think of one without the other. and it is at least possible that knowledge and reality or, speaking more strictly, a knower and reality, are related in this way. [ ] it is, of course, possible to say significantly that two elements, a and b, are related as universal and individual, or as surface and volume, if we are trying to explain what we mean by 'universal and individual' or 'surface and volume'; but in that case we are elucidating the relationship through the already known relation of a and b, and are not giving information about the hitherto unknown relation of a and b. [ ] professor cook wilson has pointed out that the distinction between these two kinds of relation is marked in language in that, for instance, while we speak of the 'relation _of_ universal _and_ individual', we speak of 'the relation _between_ one man _and_ another', or of 'the relation _of_ one man _to_ another', using, however, the phrase 'the relation _of_ doctor _and_ patient', when we consider two men only as in that relation. i owe to him recognition of the fact that the use of the word 'relation' in connexion with such terms as 'universal and individual' is really justified. what is, however, at least a strong presumption against this view is to be found in the fact that while relations of the second kind are essentially non-temporal, the relation of knowing is essentially temporal. the relation of a universal and its individuals, or of a surface and the volume which it bounds, does not either come to be, or persist, or cease. on the other hand, it is impossible to think of a knowing which is susceptible of no temporal predicates and is not bound up with a process; and the thought of knowing as something which comes to be involves the thought that the elements which become thus related exist independently of the relation. moreover, the real refutation of the view lies in the fact that, when we consider what we really think, we find that we think that the relation between a knower and reality is not of the second kind. if we consider what we mean by 'a reality', we find that we mean by it something which is not correlative to a mind knowing it. it does not mean something the thought of which disappears with the thought of a mind actually knowing it, but something which, though it can be known by a mind, need not be actually known by a mind. again, just as we think of a reality as something which _can_ stand as object in the relation of knowledge, without necessarily being in this relation, so, as we see when we reflect, we think of a knowing mind as something which _can_ stand as subject in this relation without necessarily being in the relation. for though we think of the capacities which constitute the nature of a knowing mind as only recognized through their actualizations, i. e. through actual knowing, we think of the mind which is possessed of these capacities as something apart from their actualization. it is now possible to direct attention to two characteristics of perception and knowledge with which kant's treatment of space and time conflicts, and the recognition of which reveals his procedure in its true light. it has been already urged that both knowledge and perception--which, though not identical with knowledge, is presupposed by it--are essentially of _reality_. now, in the _first_ place, it is thereby implied that the relation between the mind and reality in knowledge or in perception is essentially direct, i. e. that there is no _tertium quid_ in the form of an 'idea' or a 'representation' between us as perceiving or knowing and what we perceive or know. in other words, it is implied that locke's view is wrong in principle, and, in fact, the contrary of the truth. in the _second_ place, it is implied that while the whole fact of perception includes the reality perceived and the whole fact of knowledge includes the reality known, since both perception and knowledge are 'of', and therefore inseparable from a reality, yet the reality perceived or known is essentially distinct from, and cannot be stated in terms of, the perception or the knowledge. just as neither perception nor knowledge can be stated in terms of the reality perceived or known from which they are distinguished, so the reality perceived or known cannot be stated in terms of the perception or the knowledge. in other words, the terms 'perception' and 'knowledge' ought to stand for the activities of perceiving and knowing respectively, and not for the reality perceived or known. similarly, the terms 'idea' and 'representation'--the latter of which has been used as a synonym for kant's _vorstellung_--ought to stand not for something thought of or represented, but for the act of thinking or representing. further, this second implication throws light on the proper meaning of the terms 'form of perception' and 'form of knowledge or of thought'. for, in accordance with this implication, a 'form of perception' and a 'form of knowledge' ought to refer to the nature of our acts of perceiving and knowing or thinking respectively, and not to the nature of the realities perceived or known. consequently, kant was right in making the primary antithesis involved in the term 'form of perception' that between a way in which we perceive and a way in which things are, or, in other words, between a characteristic of our perceiving nature and a characteristic of the reality perceived. moreover, kant was also right in making this distinction a real antithesis and not a mere distinction within one and the same thing regarded from two points of view. that which is a form of perception cannot also be a form of the reality and vice versa. thus we may illustrate a perceived form of perception by pointing out that our apprehension of the physical world ( ) is a temporal process, and ( ) is conditioned by perspective. both the succession and the conditions of perspective belong to the act of perception, and do not form part of the nature of the world perceived. and it is significant that in our ordinary consciousness it never occurs to us to attribute either the perspective or the time to the reality perceived. even if it be difficult in certain cases, as in that of colour, to decide whether something belongs to our act of perception or not, we never suppose that it can be _both_ a form of perception _and_ a characteristic of the reality perceived. we think that if it be the one, it cannot be the other. moreover, if we pass from perception to knowledge or thought--which in this context may be treated as identical--and seek to illustrate a form of knowledge or of thought, we may cite the distinction of logical subject and logical predicate of a judgement. the distinction as it should be understood--for it does not necessitate a difference of grammatical form--may be illustrated by the difference between the judgements 'chess is the _most trying of games_' and '_chess_ is the most trying of games'. in the former case 'chess' is the logical subject, in the latter case it is the logical predicate. now this distinction clearly does not reside in or belong to the reality about which we judge; it relates solely to the order of our approach in thought to various parts of its nature. for, to take the case of the former judgement, in calling 'chess' its subject, and 'most trying of games' its predicate, we are asserting that in this judgement we begin by apprehending the reality of which we are thinking as chess, and come to apprehend it as the most trying of games. in other words, the distinction relates solely to the order of our apprehension, and not to anything in the thing apprehended. in view of the preceding, it is possible to make clear the nature of certain mistakes on kant's part. in the first place, space, and time also, so far as we are thinking of the world, and not of our apprehension of it, as undergoing a temporal process, are essentially characteristics not of perception but of the reality perceived, and kant, in treating space, and time, so regarded, as forms of perception, is really transferring to the perceiving subject that which in the whole fact 'perception of an object' or 'object perceived' belongs to the object. again, if we go on to ask how kant manages to avoid drawing the conclusion proper to this transference, viz. that space and time are not characteristics of any realities at all, but belong solely to the process by which we come to apprehend them, we see that he does so because, in effect, he contravenes both the characteristics of perception referred to. for, in the first place, although in conformity with his theory he almost always _speaks_ of space and time in terms of perception,[ ] he consistently _treats_ them as features of the reality perceived, i. e. of phenomena. thus in arguing that space and time belong not to the understanding but to the sensibility, although he uniformly speaks of them as perceptions, his argument implies that they are objects of perception; for its aim, properly stated, is to show that space and time are not objects of thought but objects of perception. consequently, in his treatment of space and time, he refers to what are both to him and in fact objects of perception in terms of perception, and thereby contravenes the second implication of perception to which attention has been drawn. again, in the second place, if we go on to ask how kant is misled into doing this, we see that it is because he contravenes the first implication of perception. in virtue of his theory of perception[ ] he interposes a _tertium quid_ between the reality perceived and the percipient, in the shape of an 'appearance'. this _tertium quid_ gives him something which can plausibly be regarded as at once a perception and something perceived. for, though from the point of view of the thing in itself an appearance is an appearance or a perception of it, yet, regarded from the point of view of what it is in itself, an appearance is a reality perceived of the kind called mental. hence space and time, being characteristics of an appearance, can be regarded as at once characteristics of our perception of a reality, viz. of a thing in itself, and characteristics of a reality perceived, viz. an appearance. moreover, there is another point of view from which the treatment of bodies in space as appearances or phenomena gives plausibility to the view that space, though a form of perception, is a characteristic of a reality. when kant speaks of space as the form of phenomena the fact to which he refers is that all bodies are spatial.[ ] he means, not that space is a way in which we perceive something, but that it is a characteristic of things perceived, which he _calls_ phenomena, and which _are_ bodies. but, since in his statement of this fact he substitutes for bodies phenomena, which to him are perceptions, his statement can be put in the form 'space is _the form of perceptions_'; and the statement in this form is verbally almost identical with the statement that space is _a form of perception_. consequently, the latter statement, which _should_ mean that space is a way in which we perceive things, is easily identified with a statement of which the meaning is that space is a characteristic of something perceived.[ ] [ ] cf. p. , note . [ ] cf. p. and ff. [ ] cf. p. . [ ] it can be shown in the same way, _mutatis mutandis_ (cp. p. ), that the view that time, though the form of inner perception, is a characteristic of a reality gains plausibility from kant's implicit treatment of our states as appearances due to ourselves. again, kant's account of time will be found to treat something represented or perceived as also a perception. we find two consecutive paragraphs[ ] of which the aim is apparently to establish the contrary conclusions: ( ) that time is only the form of our internal state and not of external phenomena, and ( ) that time is the formal condition of all phenomena, external and internal. [ ] b. - (b) and (c), m. (b) and (c). to establish the first conclusion, kant argues that time has nothing to do with shape or position, but, on the contrary, determines the relation of representations in our internal state. his meaning is that we have a succession of perceptions or representations of bodies in space,[ ] and that while the bodies perceived are not related temporally, our perceptions or representations of them are so related. here 'representations' refers to our apprehension, and is distinguished from what is represented, viz. bodies in space. [ ] kant here refers to bodies by the term 'phenomena', but their character as phenomena is not relevant to his argument. how, then, does kant reach the second result? he remembers that bodies in space are 'phenomena', i. e. representations. he is, therefore, able to point out that all representations belong, as determinations of the mind, to our internal state, whether they have external things, i. e. bodies in space, for their objects or not, and that, consequently, they are subject to time. hence time is concluded to be the form of all phenomena. in this second argument, however, it is clear that kant has passed from his previous treatment of bodies in space as something represented or perceived to the treatment of them as themselves representations or perceptions.[ ] [ ] it may be noted that kant's assertion (b. , m. ) that time is the immediate condition of internal phenomena, and thereby also mediately the condition of external phenomena, does not help to reconcile the two positions. in conclusion, we may point out an insoluble difficulty in kant's account of time. his treatment of space and time as the forms of outer and inner sense respectively implies that, while spatial relations apply to the realities which we perceive, temporal relations apply solely to our perceptions of them. unfortunately, however, as kant in certain contexts is clearly aware, time also belongs to the realities perceived. the moon, for instance, moves round the earth. thus there are what may be called real successions as well as successions in our perception. further, not only are we aware of this distinction in general, but in particular cases we succeed in distinguishing a succession of the one kind from a succession of the other. yet from kant's standpoint it would be impossible to distinguish them in particular cases, and even to be aware of the distinction in general. for the distinction is possible only so long as a distinction is allowed between our perceptions and the realities perceived. but for kant this distinction has disappeared, for in the end the realities perceived are merely our perceptions; and time, if it be a characteristic of anything, must be a characteristic only of our perceptions. chapter vii the metaphysical deduction of the categories the aim of the _aesthetic_ is to answer the first question of the _critique_ propounded in the introduction, viz. 'how is pure mathematics possible?'[ ] the aim of the _analytic_ is to answer the second question, viz. 'how is pure natural science possible?' it has previously[ ] been implied that the two questions are only verbally of the same kind. since kant thinks of the judgements of mathematics as self-evident, and therefore as admitting of no reasonable doubt[ ], he takes their truth for granted. hence the question, 'how is pure mathematics possible?' means 'granted the truth of mathematical judgements, what inference can we draw concerning the nature of the reality to which they relate?'; and the inference is to proceed from the truth of the judgements to the nature of the reality to which they relate. kant, however, considers that the principles underlying natural science, of which the law of causality is the most prominent, are not self-evident, and consequently need proof.[ ] hence, the question, 'how is pure natural science possible?' means 'what justifies the assertion that the presuppositions of natural science are true?' and the inference is to proceed from the nature of the objects of natural science to the truth of the _a priori_ judgements which relate to them. [ ] b. , m. . [ ] pp. - . [ ] cf. p. , note . [ ] cf. p. , notes and . again, as kant rightly sees, the vindication of the presuppositions of natural science, to be complete, requires the discovery upon a definite principle of _all_ these presuppositions. the clue to this discovery he finds in the view that, just as the perceptions of space and time originate in the sensibility, so the _a priori_ conceptions and laws which underlie natural science originate in the understanding; for, on this view, the discovery of all the conceptions and laws which originate in the understanding will be at the same time the discovery of all the presuppositions of natural science. kant therefore in the _analytic_ has a twofold problem to solve. he has firstly to discover the conceptions and laws which belong to the understanding as such, and secondly to vindicate their application to individual things. moreover, although it is obvious that the conceptions and the laws of the understanding must be closely related,[ ] he reserves them for separate treatment. [ ] e. g. the conception of 'cause and effect', and the law that 'all changes take place according to the law of the connexion between cause and effect'. the _analytic_ is accordingly subdivided into the _analytic of conceptions_ and the _analytic of principles_. the _analytic of conceptions_, again, is divided into the _metaphysical deduction of the categories_, the aim of which is to discover the conceptions of the understanding, and the _transcendental deduction of the categories_, the aim of which is to vindicate their validity, i. e. their applicability to individual things. it should further be noticed that, according to kant, it is the connexion of the _a priori_ conceptions and laws underlying natural science with the _understanding_ which constitutes the main difficulty of the vindication of their validity, and renders necessary an answer of a different kind to that which would have been possible, if the validity of mathematical judgements had been in question. "we have been able above, with little trouble, to make comprehensible how the conceptions of space and time, although _a priori_ knowledge, must necessarily relate to objects and render possible a synthetic knowledge of them independently of all experience. for since an object can appear to us, i. e. be an object of empirical perception, only by means of such pure forms of sensibility, space and time are pure perceptions, which contain _a priori_ the condition of the possibility of objects as phenomena, and the synthesis in space and time has objective validity." "on the other hand, the categories of the understanding do not represent the conditions under which objects are given in perception; consequently, objects can certainly appear to us without their necessarily being related to functions of the understanding, and therefore without the understanding containing _a priori_ the conditions of these objects. hence a difficulty appears here, which we did not meet in the field of sensibility, viz. how _subjective conditions of thought_ can have _objective validity_, i. e. can furnish conditions of the possibility of all knowledge of objects; for phenomena can certainly be given us in perception without the functions of the understanding. let us take, for example, the conception of cause, which indicates a peculiar kind of synthesis in which on a something entirely different b is placed[ ] according to a law. it is not _a priori_ clear why phenomena should contain something of this kind ... and it is consequently doubtful _a priori_, whether such a conception is not wholly empty, and without any corresponding object among phenomena. for that objects of sensuous perception must conform to the formal conditions of the sensibility which lie _a priori_ in the mind is clear, since otherwise they would not be objects for us; but that they must also conform to the conditions which the understanding requires for the synthetical unity of thought is a conclusion the cogency of which it is not so easy to see. for phenomena might quite well be so constituted that the understanding did not find them in conformity with the conditions of its unity, and everything might lie in such confusion that, e. g. in the succession of phenomena, nothing might present itself which would offer a rule of synthesis, and so correspond to the conception of cause and effect, so that this conception would be quite empty, null, and meaningless. phenomena would none the less present objects to our perception, for perception does not in any way require the functions of thinking."[ ] [ ] _gesetzt._ [ ] b. - , m. - . this passage, if read in connexion with that immediately preceding it,[ ] may be paraphrased as follows: 'the argument of the _aesthetic_ assumes the validity of mathematical judgements, which as such relate to space and time, and thence it deduces the phenomenal character of space and time, and of what is contained therein. at the same time the possibility of questioning the validity of the law of causality, and of similar principles, may lead us to question even the validity of mathematical judgements. in the case of mathematical judgements, however, in consequence of their relation to perception, an answer is readily forthcoming. we need only reverse the original argument and appeal directly to the phenomenal character of space and time and of what is contained in them. objects in space and time, being appearances, must conform to the laws according to which we have appearances; and since space and time are only ways in which we perceive, or have appearances, mathematical laws, which constitute the general nature of space and time, are the laws according to which we have appearances. mathematical laws, then, constitute the general structure of appearances, and, as such, enter into the very being of objects in space and time. but the case is otherwise with the conceptions and principles underlying natural science. for the law of causality, for instance, is a law not of our perceiving but of our thinking nature, and consequently it is not presupposed in the presentation to us of objects in space and time. objects in space and time, being appearances, need conform only to the laws of our perceiving nature. we have therefore to explain the possibility of saying that a law of our thinking nature must be valid for objects which, as conditioned merely by our perceiving nature, are independent of the laws of our thinking; for phenomena might be so constituted as not to correspond to the necessities of our thought.' [ ] b. - , m. - . no doubt kant's _solution_ of this problem in the _analytic_ involves an emphatic denial of the central feature of this statement of it, viz. that phenomena may be given in perception without any help from the activity of the understanding.[ ] hence it may be urged that this passage merely expresses a temporary aberration on kant's part, and should therefore be ignored. nevertheless, in spite of this inconsistency, the view that phenomena may be given in perception without help from the activity of the understanding forms the basis of the difference of treatment which kant thinks necessary for the vindication of the judgements underlying natural science and for that of the judgements of mathematics. [ ] cf. b. - , m. , and b. note, m. note. we may now consider how kant 'discovers' the categories or conceptions which belong to the understanding as such.[ ] his method is sound in principle. he begins with an account of the understanding in general. he then determines its essential differentiations. finally, he argues that each of these differentiations involves a special conception, and that therefore these conceptions taken together constitute an exhaustive list of the conceptions which belong to the understanding. [ ] b. - , m. - . his account of the understanding is expressed thus: "the understanding was explained above only negatively, as a non-sensuous faculty of knowledge. now, independently of sensibility, we cannot have any perception; consequently, the understanding is no faculty of perception. but besides perception there is no other kind of knowledge, except through conceptions. consequently, the knowledge of every understanding, or at least of every human understanding, is a knowledge through conceptions,--not perceptive, but discursive. all perceptions, as sensuous, depend on affections; conceptions, therefore, upon functions. by the word function, i understand the unity of the act of arranging different representations under one common representation. conceptions, then, are based on the spontaneity of thinking, as sensuous perceptions are on the receptivity of impressions. now the understanding cannot make any other use of these conceptions than to judge by means of them. since no representation, except only the perception, refers immediately to the object, a conception is never referred immediately to an object, but to some other representation thereof, be that a perception or itself a conception. a judgement, therefore, is the mediate knowledge of an object, consequently the representation of a representation of it. in every judgement there is a conception which is valid for many representations, and among these also comprehends a given representation, this last being then immediately referred to the object. for example, in the judgement 'all bodies are divisible', our conception of the divisible refers to various other conceptions; among these, however, it is herein particularly referred to the conception of body, and this conception of body is referred to certain phenomena which present themselves to us. these objects, therefore, are mediately represented by the conception of divisibility. accordingly, all judgements are functions of unity in our representations, since, instead of an immediate, a higher representation, which comprehends this and several others, is used for the knowledge of the object, and thereby many possible items of knowledge are collected into one. but we can reduce all acts of the understanding to judgements, so that the _understanding_ in general can be represented as a _faculty of judging_."[ ] [ ] b. - , m. - . it is not worth while to go into all the difficulties of this confused and artificial passage. three points are clear upon the surface. in the first place, the account of the understanding now given differs from that given earlier in the _critique_[ ] in that, instead of merely distinguishing, it separates the sensibility and the understanding, and treats them as contributing, not two inseparable factors involved in all knowledge, but two kinds of knowledge. in the second place, the guise of argument is very thin, and while kant ostensibly _proves_, he really only _asserts_ that the understanding is the faculty of judgement. in the third place, in describing judgement kant is hampered by trying to oppose it as the mediate knowledge of an object to perception as the immediate knowledge of an object. a perception is said to relate immediately to an object; in contrast with this, a conception is said to relate immediately only to another conception or to a perception, and mediately to an object through relation to a perception, either directly or through another conception. hence a judgement, as being the use of a conception, viz. the predicate of the judgement, is said to be the mediate knowledge of an object. but if this distinction be examined, it will be found that two kinds of immediate relation are involved, and that the account of perception is not really compatible with that of judgement. when a perception is said to relate immediately to an object, the relation in question is that between a sensation or appearance produced by an object acting upon or affecting the sensibility and the object which produces it. but when a conception is said to relate immediately to another conception or to a perception, the relation in question is that of universal and particular, i. e. that of genus and species or of universal and individual. for the conception is said to be 'valid for' (i. e. to 'apply to') and to 'comprehend' the conception or perception to which it is immediately related; and again, when a conception is said to relate mediately to an object, the relation meant is its 'application' to the object, even though in this case the application is indirect. now if a perception to which a conception is related--either directly or indirectly through another conception--were an appearance produced by an object, the conception could never be related to the object in the sense required, viz. that it applies to it; for an appearance does not _apply to_ but is _produced_ by the object. consequently, when kant is considering a conception, and therefore also when he is considering a judgement, which is the use of a conception, he is really thinking of the perception to which it is related as an _object of_ perception, i. e. as a perceived individual, and he has ceased to think of a perception as an appearance produced by an object.[ ] hence in considering kant's account of a conception and of judgement, we should ignore his account of perception, and therefore also his statement that judgement is the mediate knowledge of an object. [ ] b. - , m. - . [ ] kant, in _illustrating_ the nature of a judgement, evades the difficulty occasioned by his account of perception, by illustrating a 'perception' by the 'conception of body', and 'objects' by 'certain phenomena'. he thereby covertly substitutes the relation of universal and individual for the relation of an appearance and the object which causes it. if we do so, we see that kant's account of judgement simply amounts to this: 'judgement is the use of a conception or 'universal'; the use of a conception or universal consists in bringing under it corresponding individuals or species. consequently, judgement is a function producing unity. if, for instance, we judge 'all bodies are divisible', we thereby unify 'bodies' with other kinds of divisible things by bringing them under the conception of divisibility; and if we judge 'this body is divisible' we thereby unify this divisible body with others by bringing it and them under the conception of divisibility.'[ ] again, since 'the understanding in general can be represented as a _faculty of judging_', it follows that the activity of the understanding consists in introducing unity into our representations, by bringing individuals or species--both these being representations--under the corresponding universal or conception.[ ] [ ] it is not kant's general account of judgement given in this passage, but the account of perception incompatible with it, which leads him to confine his illustrations to universal judgements. [ ] we may note three minor points. ( ) kant's definition of function as 'the unity of the act of arranging [i. e. the act which produces unity by arranging] different representations under a common representation' has no justification in its immediate context, and is occasioned solely by the forthcoming description of judgement. ( ) kant has no right to distinguish the activity which _originates_ conceptions, or upon which they depend, from the activity which _uses_ conceptions, viz. judgement. for the act of arranging diverse representations under a common representation which originates conceptions is the act of judgement as kant describes it. ( ) it is wholly artificial to speak of judgement as 'the representation of a representation of an object'. having explained the nature of the understanding, kant proceeds to take the next step. his aim being to connect the understanding with the categories, and the categories being a plurality, he has to show that the activity of judgement can be differentiated into several kinds, each of which must subsequently be shown to involve a special category. hence, solely in view of the desired conclusion, and in spite of the fact that he has described the activity of judgement as if it were always of the same kind, he passes in effect from the singular to the plural and asserts that 'all the functions of the understanding can be discovered, when we can completely exhibit the functions of unity in judgements'. after this preliminary transition, he proceeds to assert that, if we abstract in general from all content of a judgement and fix our attention upon the mere form of the understanding, we find that the function of thinking in a judgement can be brought under four heads, each of which contains three subdivisions. these, which are borrowed with slight modifications from formal logic, are expressed as follows.[ ] i. _quantity._ universal particular singular. ii. _quality._ affirmative negative infinite. iii. _relation._ categorical hypothetical disjunctive. iv. _modality._ problematic assertoric apodeictic. these distinctions, since they concern only the form of judgements, belong, according to kant, to the activity of judgement as such, and in fact constitute its essential differentiations. [ ] b. , m. . now, before we consider whether this is really the case, we should ask what answer kant's account of judgement would lead us to expect to the question 'what are all the functions of unity in judgement?' the question must mean 'what are the kinds of unity produced by judgement?' to this question three alternative answers are prima facie possible. ( ) there is only one kind of unity, that of a group of particulars unified through relation to the corresponding universal. the special unity produced will differ for different judgements, since it will depend upon the special universal involved. the kind or form of unity, however, will always be the same, viz. that of particulars related through the corresponding universal. for instance, 'plants' and 'trees' are unified respectively by the judgements 'this body is a plant' and 'this body is a tree'; for 'this body' is in the one case related to other 'plants' and in the other case to other 'trees'. and though the unity produced is different in each case, the kind of unity is the same; for plants and trees are, as members of a kind, unities of a special kind distinct from unities of another kind, such as the parts of a spatial or numerical whole. ( ) there are as many kinds of unity as there are universals. every group of particulars forms a unity of a special kind through relation to the corresponding universal. ( ) there are as many kinds of unity as there are highest universals or _summa genera_. these _summa genera_ are the most general sources of unity through which individuals are related in groups, directly or indirectly. the kinds of unity are therefore in principle the aristotelian categories, i. e. the highest forms of being under which all individuals fall. nevertheless, it is easy to see that the second and third answers should be rejected in favour of the first. for though, according to kant, a judgement unifies particulars by bringing them under a universal, the special universal involved in a given judgement belongs not to the judgement as such, but to the particulars unified. what belongs to the judgement as such is simply the fact that the particulars are brought under a universal. in other words, the judgement as such determines the kind of unity but not the particular unity. the judgements 'gold is a metal' and 'trees are green', considered merely as judgements and not as the particular judgements which they are, involve the same kind of unity, viz. that of particulars as particulars of a universal; for the distinction between 'metal' and 'green' is a distinction not of kinds of unity but of unities. moreover, to anticipate the discussion of kant's final conclusion, the moral is that kant's account of judgement should have led him to recognize that judgement involves the reality, not of any special universals or--in kant's language--conceptions, but of universality or conception as such. in other words, on his view of judgement the activity of the understanding implies simply that there _are_ universals or conceptions; it does not imply the existence of special conceptions which essentially belong to the understanding, e. g. that of 'cause' or 'plurality'.[ ] [ ] to this failure in kant's argument is due the difficulty in following his transition from 'function' to 'functions' of judgements. the judgement, as kant describes it, always does one and the same thing; it unifies particulars by bringing them under a universal. this activity does not admit of differentiation. if we now turn to the list of the activities of thought in judgement, borrowed from formal logic, we shall see that it is not in any way connected with kant's account of judgement.[ ] for if the kinds of judgement distinguished by formal logic are to be regarded as different ways of unifying, the plurality unified must be allowed to be not a special kind of group of particulars, but the two conceptions which constitute the terms of the judgement[ ]; and the unity produced must be allowed to be in no case a special form of the unity of particulars related through the corresponding universal. thus the particular judgement 'some coroners are doctors' must be said to unify the conceptions of 'coroner' and of 'doctor', and presumably by means of the conception of 'plurality'. again, the hypothetical judgement 'if it rains, the ground will be wet' must be said to unify the judgements 'it rains' and 'the ground will be wet', and presumably by means of the conception of 'reason and consequence'. in neither case can the act of unification be considered a special form of the act of recognizing particulars as particulars of the corresponding universal. the fact is that the distinctions drawn by formal logic are based on a view of judgement which is different from, and even incompatible with, kant's, and they arise from the attempt to solve a different problem. the problem before kant in describing judgement is to distinguish the understanding from the sensibility, i. e. thought from perception. hence he regards judgement as the act of unifying a manifold given in perception, directly, or indirectly by means of a conception. but this is not the problem with which formal logic is occupied. formal logic assumes judgement to be an act which relates material given to it in the shape of 'conceptions' or 'judgements' by analysis of this material, and seeks to discover the various modes of relation thereby effected. the work of judgement, however, cannot consist _both_ in relating particulars through a conception _and_ in relating two conceptions or judgements. [ ] moreover, the forms of judgement clearly lack the systematic character which kant claims for them. even if it be allowed that the subdivisions within the four main heads of quantity, quality, relation, and modality are based upon single principles of division, it cannot be said that the four heads themselves originate from a common principle. [ ] in the case of the third division, the plurality unified will be two prior judgements. it may be urged that this criticism only affects kant's argument, but not his conclusion. possibly, it may be said, the list of types of judgement borrowed from formal logic really expresses the essential differentiations of judgement, and, in that case, kant's only mistake is that he bases them upon a false or at least inappropriate account of judgement.[ ] moreover, since this list furnishes kant with the 'clue' to the categories, provided that it expresses the essential differentiations of judgement, the particular account of judgement upon which it is based is a matter of indifference. [ ] it may be noted that the account cannot be merely inappropriate to the general problem, if it be _incompatible_ with that assumed by formal logic. this contention leads us to consider the last stage of kant's argument, in which he deduces the categories in detail from his list of the forms of judgement. for it is clear that unless the forms of judgement severally involve the categories, it will not matter whether these forms are or are not the essential differentiations of judgement. kant's mode of connecting the categories in detail with the forms of judgement discovered by formal logic is at least as surprising as his mode of connecting the latter with the nature of judgement in general. since the twelve distinctions within the form of judgement are to serve as a clue to the conceptions which belong to the understanding, we naturally expect that each distinction will be found directly to involve a special conception or category, and that therefore, to discover the categories, we need only look for the special conception involved in each form of judgement.[ ] again, since the plurality unified in a judgement of each form is the two conceptions or judgements which form the matter of the judgement, we should expect the conception involved in each form of judgement to be merely the type of relationship established between these conceptions or judgements. this expectation is confirmed by a cursory glance at the table of categories.[ ] i. _of quantity._ unity plurality totality. ii. _of quality._ reality negation limitation. iii. _of relation._ inherence and subsistence (_substantia et accidens_) causality and dependence (_cause and effect_) community (_reciprocity between the agent and patient._) iv. _of modality._ possibility--impossibility existence--non-existence necessity--contingence. if we compare the first division of these categories with the first division of judgements we naturally think that kant conceived singular, particular, and universal judgements to unify their terms by means of the conceptions of 'one', of 'some', and of 'all' respectively; and we form corresponding, though less confident, expectations in the case of the other divisions. [ ] this expectation is confirmed by kant's view that judgement introduces unity into a plurality by means of a conception. this view leads us to expect that different forms of judgement--if there be any--will be distinguished by the different conceptions through which they unify the plurality; for it will naturally be the different conceptions involved which are responsible for the different kinds of unity effected. [ ] b. , m. . kant, however, makes no attempt to show that each form of judgement distinguished by formal logic involves a special conception. in fact, his view is that the activities of thought studied by formal logic do not originate or use any special conceptions at all. for his actual deduction of the categories[ ] is occupied in showing that although thought, when exercised under the conditions under which it is studied by formal logic, does not originate and use conceptions of its own, it is able under certain other conditions to originate and use such conceptions, i. e. categories.[ ] hence if we attend only to the professed procedure of the deduction, we are compelled to admit that the deduction not only excludes any use of the 'clue' to the categories, supposed to be furnished by formal logic, but even fails to deduce them at all. for it does not even nominally attempt to discover the categories in detail, but reverts to the prior task of showing merely that there are categories. doubtless kant thinks that the forms of judgement formulated by formal logic in some way _suggest_ the conceptions which become operative in thought under these other conditions. nevertheless, it is impossible to see how these forms of judgement can suggest these conceptions, unless they actually presuppose them. it is clear, however, that the professed link[ ] between the forms of judgement and the categories does not represent the actual process by which kant reached his list of categories; for he could never have reached any list of categories by an argument which was merely directed to show that there are categories. moreover, an inspection of the list shows that he actually reached it partly by noticing the conceptions which the forms of judgement seemed to presuppose, and partly by bearing in mind the general conceptions underlying physics which it was his ultimate aim to vindicate. since this is the case, and since the categories can only be connected with the forms of judgement by showing that they are presupposed in them, the proper question to be considered from the point of view of the metaphysical deduction is simply whether the forms of judgement really presuppose the categories.[ ] [ ] b. - , m. - . [ ] cf. p. . [ ] b. - , m. - . [ ] as we shall see later, the real importance of the passage in which kant professes to effect the transition from the forms of judgement to the categories (b. - , m. - ) lies in its introduction of a new and important line of thought, on which the transcendental deduction turns. consideration of it is therefore deferred to the next chapter. if, however, we examine the forms of judgement distinguished by formal logic, we find that they do not presuppose the categories. to see this, it is only necessary to examine the four main divisions of judgement _seriatim_. the first division of judgements is said to be a division in respect of quantity into singular, particular, and universal. so stated, the division is numerical. it is a division of judgements according as they make an assertion about one, more than one, or all the members of a kind. each species may be said to presuppose ( ) the conception of quantity, and ( ) a conception peculiar to itself: the first presupposing the conception of one member of a kind, the second that of more than one but less than all members of a kind, the third that of all members of a kind. moreover, a judgement of each kind may perhaps be said to relate the predicate conception to the subject conception by means of one of these three conceptions. the fundamental division, however, into which universal and singular judgements enter is not numerical at all, and ignores particular judgements altogether. it is that between such judgements as 'three-sided figures, as such, are three-angled' and 'this man is tall'. the essential distinction is that in the universal judgement the predicate term is apprehended to belong to the subject through our insight that it is necessitated by the nature of the subject term, while in the singular judgement our apprehension that the predicate term belongs to the subject is based upon the perception or experience of the coexistence of predicate and subject terms in a common subject. in other words, it is the distinction between an _a priori_ judgement and a judgement of perception.[ ] the merely numerically universal judgement, and the merely numerically particular judgement[ ] are simply aggregates of singular judgements, and therefore are indistinguishable in principle from the singular judgement. if then we ask what conceptions are really presupposed by the kinds of judgement which kant seeks to distinguish in the first division, we can only reply that the universal judgement presupposes the conception of a connected or systematic whole of attributes, and that the singular judgement presupposes the conception of the coexistence of two attributes in a common subject. neither kind of judgement presupposes the conception of quantity or the conceptions of unity, plurality, and totality. [ ] i owe this view of the distinction to professor cook wilson's lectures on logic. [ ] 'some coroners are doctors' of course in some contexts means, 'it is possible for a coroner to be a doctor,' and is therefore not numerical; but understood in this sense it is merely a weakened form of the universal judgement in which the connexion apprehended between subject and predicate terms is incomplete. the second division of judgements is said to be a division in respect of quality into affirmative, negative, and infinite, i. e. into species which may be illustrated by the judgements, 'a college is a place of education,' 'a college is not a hotel,' and 'a college is a not-hotel'. the conceptions involved are said to be those of reality, of negation, and of limitation respectively. the conception of limitation may be ignored, since the infinite judgement said to presuppose it is a fiction. on the other hand, the conceptions of reality and negation, even if their existence be conceded, cannot be allowed to be the conceptions presupposed. for when we affirm or deny, we affirm or deny of something not mere being, but being of a particular kind. the conceptions presupposed are rather those of identity and difference. it is only because differences fall within an identity that we can affirm, and it is only because within an identity there are differences that we can deny. the third division of judgements is said to be in respect of relation into categorical, hypothetical, and disjunctive judgements. here, again, the conclusion which kant desires is clearly impossible. the categorical judgement may be said to presuppose the conception of subject and attribute, but not that of substance and accident. the hypothetical judgement may be conceded to presuppose the conception of reason and consequence, but it certainly does not presuppose the conception of cause and effect.[ ] lastly, while the disjunctive judgement may be said to presuppose the conception of mutually exclusive species of a genus, it certainly does not presuppose the conception of reciprocal action between physical things. [ ] no doubt, as the schematism of the categories shows, kant does not think that the hypothetical judgement _directly_ involves the conception of cause and effect, i. e. of the relation of necessary succession between the various states of physical things. the point is, however, that the hypothetical judgement does not involve it at all. the fourth division of judgement is said to be in respect of modality into assertoric, problematic, and apodeictic, the conceptions involved being respectively those of possibility and impossibility, of actuality and non-actuality, and of necessity and contingence. now, from the point of view of kant's argument, these conceptions, like those which he holds to be involved in the other divisions of judgement, must be considered to relate to reality and not to our attitude towards it. considered in this way, they resolve themselves into the conceptions of-- ( ) the impossible (impossibility); ( ) the possible but not actual (possibility, nonexistence); ( ) the actual but not necessary (existence, contingence); ( ) the necessary (necessity). but since it must, in the end, be conceded that all fact is necessary, it is impossible to admit the reality of the conception of the possible but not actual, and of the actual but not necessary. there remain, therefore, only the conceptions of the necessary and of the impossible. in fact, however, the distinctions between the assertoric, the problematic, and the apodeictical judgement relate to our attitude to reality and not to reality, and therefore involve no different conceptions relating to reality. it must, therefore, be admitted that the 'metaphysical' deduction of the categories breaks down doubly. judgement, as kant describes it, does not involve the forms of judgement borrowed from formal logic as its essential differentiations; and these forms of judgement do not involve the categories. chapter viii the transcendental deduction of the categories the aim of the _transcendental deduction_ is to show that the categories, though _a priori_ as originating in the understanding, are valid, i. e. applicable to individual things. it is the part of the _critique_ which has attracted most attention and which is the most difficult to follow. the difficulty of interpretation is increased rather than diminished by the complete rewriting of this portion in the second edition. for the second version, though it does not imply a change of view, is undoubtedly even more obscure than the first. it indeed makes one new contribution to the subject by adding an important link in the argument,[ ] but the importance of the link is nullified by the fact that it is not really the link which it professes to be. the method of treatment adopted here will be to consider only the minimum of passages necessary to elucidate kant's meaning and to make use primarily of the first edition. [ ] cf. p. - . it is necessary, however, first to consider the passage in the _metaphysical deduction_ which nominally connects the list of categories with the list of forms of judgement.[ ] for its real function is to introduce a new and third account of knowledge, which forms the keynote of the _transcendental deduction_.[ ] [ ] b. - , m. - . cf. pp. - . [ ] the first two accounts are ( ) that of judgement given b. - , m. - , and ( ) that of judgement implicit in the view that the forms of judgement distinguished by formal logic are functions of unity. in a. , mah. , kant seems to imply--though untruly--that this new account coincides with the other two, which he does not distinguish. in this passage, the meaning of which it is difficult to state satisfactorily, kant's thought appears to be as follows: 'the activity of thought studied by formal logic relates by way of judgement conceptions previously obtained by an analysis of perceptions. for instance, it relates the conceptions of body and of divisibility, obtained by analysis of perceptions of bodies, in the judgement 'bodies are divisible'. it effects this, however, merely by analysis of the conception 'body'. consequently, the resulting knowledge or judgement, though _a priori_, is only analytic, and the conceptions involved originate not from thought but from the manifold previously analysed. but besides the conceptions obtained by analysis of a given manifold, there are others which belong to thought or the understanding as such, and in virtue of which thought originates synthetic _a priori_ knowledge, this activity of thought being that studied by transcendental logic. two questions therefore arise. firstly, how do these conceptions obtain a matter to which they can apply and without which they would be without content or empty? and, secondly, how does thought in virtue of these conceptions originate synthetic _a priori_ knowledge? the first question is easily answered, for the manifolds of space and time, i. e. individual spaces and individual times, afford matter of the kind needed to give these conceptions content. as perceptions (i. e. as objects of perception), they are that to which a conception can apply, and as pure or _a priori_ perceptions, they are that to which those conceptions can apply which are pure or _a priori_, as belonging to the understanding. the second question can be answered by considering the process by which this pure manifold of space and time enters into knowledge. all synthetic knowledge, whether empirical or _a priori_, requires the realization of three conditions. in the first place, there must be a manifold given in perception. in the second place, this manifold must be 'gone through, taken up, and combined'. in other words, if synthesis be defined as 'the act of joining different representations to one another and of including their multiplicity in one knowledge', the manifold must be subjected to an act of synthesis. this is effected by the imagination. in the third place, this synthesis produced by the imagination must be brought to a conception, i. e. brought under a conception which will constitute the synthesis a unity. this is the work of the understanding. the realization of _a priori_ knowledge, therefore, will require the realization of the three conditions in a manner appropriate to its _a priori_ character. there must be a pure or _a priori_ manifold; this is to be found in individual spaces and individual times. there must be an act of pure synthesis of this manifold; this is effected by the pure imagination. finally, this pure synthesis must be brought under a conception. this is effected by the pure understanding by means of its pure or a priori conceptions, i. e. the categories. this, then, is the process by which _a priori_ knowledge is originated. the activity of thought or understanding, however, which unites two conceptions in a judgement by analysis of them--this being the act studied by formal logic--is the same as that which gives unity to the synthesis of the pure manifold of perception--this being the act studied by transcendental logic. consequently, 'the same understanding, and indeed by the same activities whereby in dealing with conceptions it unifies them in a judgement by an act of analysis, introduces by means of the synthetical unity which it produces in the pure manifold of perception a content into its own conceptions, in consequence of which these conceptions are called pure conceptions of the understanding,'[ ] and we are entitled to say _a priori_ that these conceptions apply to objects because they are involved in the process by which we acquire _a priori_ knowledge of objects.' [ ] an interpretation of b. init., m. fin. a discussion of the various difficulties raised by the general drift of this passage, as well as by its details,[ ] is unnecessary, and would anticipate discussion of the _transcendental deduction_. but it is necessary to draw attention to three points. [ ] e. g. kant's arbitrary assertion that the operation of counting presupposes the conception of that number which forms the scale of notation adopted as the source of the unity of the synthesis. this is of course refuted among other ways by the fact that a number of units less than the scale of notation can be counted. in the first place, as has been said, kant here introduces--and introduces without warning--a totally new account of knowledge. it has its origin in his theory of perception, according to which knowledge begins with the production of sensations in us by things in themselves. since the spatial world which we come to know consists in a multiplicity of related elements, it is clear that the isolated data of sensation have somehow to be combined and unified, if we are to have this world before us or, in other words, to know it. moreover, since these empirical data are subject to space and time as the forms of perception, individual spaces and individual times, to which the empirical data will be related, have also to be combined and unified. on this view, the process of knowledge consists in combining certain data into an individual whole and in unifying them through a principle of combination.[ ] if the data are empirical, the resulting knowledge will be empirical; if the data are _a priori_, i. e. individual spaces and individual times, the resulting knowledge will be _a priori_.[ ] this account of knowledge is new, because, although it treats knowledge as a process or act of unifying a manifold, it describes a different act of unification. as kant first described the faculty of judgement,[ ] it unifies a group of particulars through relation to the corresponding universal. as formal logic, according to kant, treats the faculty of judgement, it unifies two conceptions or two prior judgements into a judgement. as kant now describes the faculty of judgement or thought, it unifies an empirical or an _a priori_ manifold of perception combined into an individual whole, through a conception which constitutes a principle of unity. the difference between this last account and the others is also shown by the fact that while the first two kinds of unification are held to be due to mere analysis of the material given to thought, the third kind of unification is held to be superinduced by thought, and to be in no way capable of being extracted from the material by analysis. further, this new account of knowledge does not replace the others, but is placed side by side with them. for, according to kant, there exist _both_ the activity of thought which relates two conceptions in a judgement,[ ] _and_ the activity by which it introduces a unity of its own into a manifold of perception. nevertheless, this new account of knowledge, or rather this account of a new kind of knowledge, must be the important one; for it is only the process now described for the first time which produces synthetic as opposed to analytic knowledge. [ ] cf. a. , mah. , 'knowledge is a totality of compared and connected representations.' [ ] no doubt kant would allow that at least some categories, e. g. the conception of cause and effect, are principles of synthesis of a manifold which at any rate contains an empirical element, but it _includes_ just one of the difficulties of the passage that it implies that _a priori_ knowledge either is, or involves, a synthesis of pure or _a priori_ elements. [ ] b. - , m. - . [ ] kant, of course, thinks of this activity of thought, as identical with that which brings particulars under a conception. in the second place, the passage incidentally explains why, according to kant, the forms of judgement distinguished by formal logic do not involve the categories.[ ] for its doctrine is that while thought, if exercised under the conditions under which it is studied by formal logic, can only analyse the manifold given to it, and so has, as it were, to borrow from the manifold the unity through which it relates the manifold,[ ] yet if an _a priori_ manifold be given to it, it can by means of a conception introduce into the manifold a unity of its own which could not be discovered by analysis of the manifold. thus thought as studied by formal logic merely analyses and consequently does not and cannot make use of conceptions of its own; it can use conceptions of its own only when an _a priori_ manifold is given to it to deal with. [ ] cf. pp. - . [ ] in bringing perceptions under a conception, thought, according to kant, finds the conception _in_ the perceptions by analysis of them, and in relating two conceptions in judgement, it determines the particular form of judgement by analysis of the conceptions. in the third place, there is great difficulty in following the part in knowledge assigned to the understanding. the synthesis of the manifold of perception is assigned to the imagination, a faculty which, like the new kind of knowledge, is introduced without notice. the business of the understanding is to 'bring this synthesis to conceptions' and thereby to 'give unity to the synthesis'. now the question arises whether 'the activity of giving unity to the synthesis' really means what it says, i. e. an activity which _unifies_ or _introduces a unity into_ the synthesis, or whether it only means an activity which _recognizes_ a unity already given to the synthesis by the imagination. prima facie kant is maintaining that the understanding really unifies, or introduces the principle of unity. for the twice-repeated phrase 'give unity to the synthesis' seems unmistakable in meaning, and the important rôle in knowledge is plainly meant to be assigned to the understanding. kant's language, however, is not decisive; for he speaks of the synthesis of the manifold as that which 'first produces a knowledge which indeed at first may be crude and confused and therefore needs _analysis_[ ]', and he says of the conceptions which give unity to the synthesis that 'they consist solely in the _representation_[ ] of this necessary synthetical unity'.[ ] again, 'to bring the synthesis to a conception' may well be understood to mean 'to recognize the synthesis as an instance of the conception'; and, since kant is speaking of knowledge, 'to give unity to the synthesis' may only mean 'to give unity to the synthesis _for us_', i. e. 'to make us aware of its unity'. moreover, consideration of what thought can possibly achieve with respect to a synthesis presented to it by the imagination renders it necessary to hold that the understanding only recognizes the unity of the synthesis. for if a synthesis has been effected, it must have been effected in accordance with a principle of construction or synthesis, and therefore it would seem that the only work left for the understanding is to discover the principle latent in the procedure of the imagination. at any rate, if the synthesis does not involve a principle of synthesis, it is impossible to see how thought can subsequently introduce a principle. the imagination, then, must be considered to have already introduced the principle of unity into the manifold by combining it in accordance with a conception or principle of combination, and the work of the understanding must be considered to consist in recognizing that the manifold has been thereby combined and unified through the conception. we are therefore obliged to accept one of two alternatives. _either_ the understanding merely renders the mind conscious of the procedure of a faculty different from itself, viz. the imagination, in which case the important rôle in knowledge, viz. the effecting of the synthesis according to a principle, is played by a faculty different from the understanding; _or_ the imagination is the understanding working unreflectively, and the subsequent process of bringing the synthesis to a conception is merely a process by which the understanding becomes conscious of its own procedure. moreover, it is the latter alternative which we must accept as more in accordance with the general tenor of kant's thought. for the synthesis of the imagination is essentially the outcome of activity or spontaneity, and, as such, it belongs to the understanding rather than to the sensibility; in fact we find kant in one place actually saying that 'it is one and the same spontaneity which at one time under the name of imagination, at another time under that of understanding, introduces connexion into the manifold of perception'.[ ] further, it should be noted that since the imagination must be the understanding working unreflectively, and since it must be that which introduces unity into the manifold, there is some justification for his use of language which implies that the understanding is the source of the unity, though it will not be so in the sense in which the passage under discussion might at first sight lead us to suppose. [ ] the italics are mine. [ ] the italics are mine. [ ] cf. the description of the imagination as 'blind'. [ ] b. note, m. note. cf. b. , m. . similarly at one point in the passage under discussion (b. fin., m. med.) the synthesis is expressly attributed to the spontaneity of thought. we can now turn to the argument of the _transcendental deduction_ itself. kant introduces it in effect by raising the question, 'how is it that, beginning with the isolated data of sense, we come to acquire knowledge?' his aim is to show ( ) that knowledge requires the performance of certain operations by the mind upon the manifold of sense; ( ) that this process is a condition not merely of knowledge, but also of self-consciousness; and ( ) that, since the manifold is capable of entering into knowledge, and since we are capable of being self-conscious, the categories, whose validity is implied by this process, are valid. kant begins by pointing out[ ] that all knowledge, _a priori_ as well as empirical, requires the manifold, produced successively in the mind, to be subjected to three operations. [ ] a. - , mah. - . . since the elements of the manifold are as given mere isolated units, and since knowledge is the apprehension of a unity of connected elements, the mind must first run through the multiplicity of sense and then grasp it together into a whole, i. e. into an image.[ ] this act is an act of synthesis; it is called 'the synthesis of apprehension' and is ascribed to the imagination. it must be carried out as much in respect of the pure or _a priori_ elements of space and time as in respect of the manifold of sensation, for individual spaces and times contain a multiplicity which, to be apprehended, must be combined.[ ] the necessity of this act of synthesis is emphasized in the second edition. "we cannot represent anything as combined in the object without having previously combined it ourselves. of all representations, _combination_ is the only one which cannot be given through objects,[ ] but can be originated only by the subject itself because it is an act of its own activity."[ ] [ ] cf. a. , mah. . [ ] 'combine' is used as the verb corresponding to 'synthesis'. [ ] i. e. given to us through the operation of things in themselves upon our sensibility. [ ] b. , m. . . since the data of perception are momentary, and pass away with perception, the act of grasping them together requires that the mind shall reproduce the past data in order to combine them with the present datum. "it is plain that if i draw a line in thought, or wish to think of the time from one midday to another, or even to represent to myself a certain number, i must first necessarily grasp in thought these manifold representations one after another. but if i were continually to lose from my thoughts the preceding representations (the first parts of the line, the preceding parts of time or the units successively represented), and were not to reproduce them, while i proceeded to the succeeding parts, there could never arise a complete representation, nor any of the thoughts just named, not even the first and purest fundamental representations of space and time."[ ] this act of reproduction is called 'the synthesis of reproduction in the imagination'.[ ] [ ] a. , mah. . [ ] the term 'synthesis' is undeserved, and is due to a desire to find a verbal parallel to the 'synthesis of apprehension in perception'. for the inappropriateness of 'reproduction' and of 'imagination' see pp. - . further, the necessity of reproduction brings to light a characteristic of the synthesis of apprehension. "it is indeed only an empirical law, according to which representations which have often followed or accompanied one another in the end become associated, and so form a connexion, according to which, even in the absence of the object, one of these representations produces a transition of the mind to another by a fixed rule. but this law of reproduction presupposes that phenomena themselves are actually subject to such a rule, and that in the manifold of their representations there is a concomitance or sequence, according to a fixed rule; for, without this, our empirical imagination would never find anything to do suited to its capacity, and would consequently remain hidden within the depths of the mind as a dead faculty, unknown to ourselves. if cinnabar were now red, now black, now light, now heavy, if a man were changed now into this, now into that animal shape, if our fields were covered on the longest day, now with fruit, now with ice and snow, then my empirical faculty of imagination could not even get an opportunity of thinking of the heavy cinnabar when there occurred the representation of red colour; or if a certain name were given now to one thing, now to another, or if the same thing were called now by one and now by another name, without the control of some rule, to which the phenomena themselves are already subject, no empirical synthesis of reproduction could take place." "there must then be something which makes this very reproduction of phenomena possible, by being the _a priori_ foundation of a necessary synthetical unity of them. but we soon discover it, if we reflect that phenomena are not things in themselves, but the mere play of our representations, which in the end resolve themselves into determinations of our internal sense. for if we can prove that even our purest _a priori_ perceptions afford us no knowledge, except so far as they contain such a combination of the manifold as renders possible a thoroughgoing synthesis of reproduction, then this synthesis of imagination is based, even before all experience, on _a priori_ principles, and we must assume a pure transcendental synthesis of the imagination which lies at the foundation of the very possibility of all experience (as that which necessarily presupposes the reproducibility of phenomena)."[ ] [ ] a. - , mah. - . in other words, the faculty of reproduction, if it is to get to work, presupposes that the elements of the manifold are parts of a necessarily related whole; or, as kant expresses it later, it presupposes the _affinity_ of phenomena; and this affinity in turn presupposes that the synthesis of apprehension by combining the elements of the manifold on certain principles makes them parts of a necessarily related whole.[ ] [ ] cf. a. , mah. ; a. - , mah. - ; and caird, i. - . for a fuller account of these presuppositions, and for a criticism of them, cf. ch. ix, p. and ff. . kant introduces the third operation, which he calls 'the synthesis of recognition in the conception',[ ] as follows: [ ] this title also is a misnomer due to the desire to give parallel titles to the three operations involved in knowledge. there is really only one synthesis referred to, and the title here should be 'the recognition of the synthesis in the conception'. "without consciousness that what we are thinking is identical with what we thought a moment ago, all reproduction in the series of representations would be in vain. for what we are thinking would be a new representation at the present moment, which did not at all belong to the act by which it was bound to have been gradually produced, and the manifold of the same would never constitute a whole, as lacking the unity which only consciousness can give it. if in counting i forget that the units which now hover before my mind have been gradually added by me to one another, i should not know the generation of the group through this successive addition of one to one, and consequently i should not know the number, for this conception consists solely in the consciousness of this unity of the synthesis." "the word 'conception'[ ] might itself lead us to this remark. for it is this _one_ consciousness which unites the manifold gradually perceived and then also reproduced into one representation. this consciousness may often be only weak, so that we connect it with the production of the representation only in the result but not in the act itself, i. e. immediately; but nevertheless there must always be one consciousness, although it lacks striking clearness, and without it conceptions, and with them knowledge of objects, are wholly impossible."[ ] [ ] _begriff._ [ ] a. - , mah. - . though the passage is obscure and confused, its general drift is clear. kant, having spoken hitherto only of the operation of the imagination in apprehension and reproduction, now wishes to introduce the understanding. he naturally returns to the thought of it as that which recognizes a manifold as unified by a conception, the manifold, however, being not a group of particulars unified through the corresponding universal or conception, but the parts of an individual image, e. g. the parts of a line or the constituent units of a number, and the conception which unifies it being the principle on which these parts are combined.[ ] his main point is that it is not enough for knowledge that we should combine the manifold of sense into a whole in accordance with a specific principle,[ ] but we must also be in some degree conscious of our continuously identical act of combination,[ ] this consciousness being at the same time a consciousness of the special unity of the manifold. for the conception which forms the principle of the combination has necessarily two sides; while from our point of view it is the principle according to which we combine and which makes our combining activity one, from the point of view of the manifold it is the special principle[ ] by which the manifold is made _one_. if i am to count a group of five units, i must not only add them, but also be conscious of my continuously identical act of addition, this consciousness consisting in the consciousness that i am successively taking units up to, and only up to, five, and being at the same time a consciousness that the units are acquiring the unity of being a group of five. it immediately follows, though kant does not explicitly say so, that all knowledge implies self-consciousness. for the consciousness that we have been combining the manifold on a certain definite principle is the consciousness of our identity throughout the process, and, from the side of the manifold, it is just that consciousness of the manifold as unified by being brought under a conception which constitutes knowledge. even though it is kant's view that the self-consciousness need only be weak and need only arise after the act of combination, when we are aware of its result, still, without it, there will be no consciousness of the manifold as unified through a conception and therefore no knowledge. moreover, if the self-consciousness be weak, the knowledge will be weak also, so that if it be urged that knowledge in the strictest sense requires the full consciousness that the manifold is unified through a conception, it must be allowed that knowledge in this sense requires a full or clear self-consciousness. [ ] cf. pp. - . [ ] that the combination proceeds on a specific principle only emerges in this account of the third operation. [ ] kant's example shows that this consciousness is not the mere consciousness of the act of combination as throughout identical, but the consciousness of it as an identical act of a particular kind. [ ] when kant says 'this conception [i. e. the conception of the number counted] consists in the consciousness of this unity of the synthesis', he is momentarily and contrary to his usual practice speaking of a conception in the sense of the activity of conceiving a universal, and not in the sense of the universal conceived. similarly in appealing to the meaning of _begriff_ (conception) he is thinking of 'conceiving' as the activity of combining a manifold through a conception. as is to be expected, however, the passage involves a difficulty concerning the respective functions of the imagination and the understanding. is the understanding represented as only recognizing a principle of unity introduced into the manifold by the imagination, or as also for the first time introducing a principle of unity? at first sight the latter alternative may seem the right interpretation. for he says that unless we were conscious that what we are thinking is identical with what we thought a moment ago, 'what we are thinking would _be_ a new representation which _did not at all belong_ to the act by which it was bound to have been gradually produced, and the manifold of the same _would never_ constitute a whole, as lacking the unity which only _consciousness can give it_.'[ ] again, in speaking of a conception--which of course implies the understanding--he says that 'it is this one consciousness which _unites_ the manifold gradually perceived and then reproduced into _one_ representation'.[ ] but these statements are not decisive, for he uses the term 'recognition' in his formula for the work of the understanding, and he illustrates its work by pointing out that in counting we must _remember_ that we have added the units. moreover, there is a consideration which by itself makes it necessary to accept the former interpretation. the passage certainly represents the understanding as recognizing the identical action of the mind in combining the manifold on a principle, whether or not it also represents the understanding as the source of this activity. but if it were the understanding which combined the manifold, there would be no synthesis which the imagination could be supposed to have performed,[ ] and therefore it could play no part in knowledge at all, a consequence which must be contrary to kant's meaning. further if, as the general tenor of the deduction shows, the imagination is really only the understanding working unreflectively,[ ] we are able to understand why kant should for the moment cease to distinguish between the imagination and the understanding, and consequently should use language which implies that the understanding both combines the manifold on a principle and makes us conscious of our activity in so doing. hence we may say that the real meaning of the passage should be stated thus: 'knowledge requires one consciousness which, as imagination, combines the manifold on a definite principle constituted by a conception,[ ] and, as understanding, is to some extent conscious of its identical activity in so doing, this self-consciousness being, from the side of the whole produced by the synthesis, the consciousness of the conception by which the manifold is unified.' [ ] the italics are mine. he does not say '_we should not be conscious_ of what we are thinking as the same representation and as belonging [greek: ktl]., _and we should not be conscious_ of the manifold as constituting a whole. [ ] the italics are mine. [ ] there could not, of course, be two syntheses, the one being and the other not being upon a principle. [ ] cf. pp. - . [ ] in view of kant's subsequent account of the function of the categories it should be noticed that, according to the present passage, the conception involved in an act of knowledge is the conception not of an 'object in general', but of 'an object of the particular kind which constitutes the individual whole produced by the combination a whole of the particular kind that it is of', and that, in accordance with this, the self-consciousness involved is not the mere consciousness that our combining activity is identical throughout, but the consciousness that it is an identical activity of a particular kind, e. g. that of counting five units. cf. pp. fin.- , - , and - . hitherto there has been no mention of an _object_ of knowledge, and since knowledge is essentially knowledge of an object, kant's next task is to give such an account of an object of knowledge as will show that the processes already described are precisely those which give our representations, i. e. the manifold of sense, relation to an object, and consequently yield knowledge. he begins by raising the question, 'what do we mean by the phrase 'an object of representations'?'[ ] he points out that a phenomenon, since it is a mere sensuous representation, and not a thing in itself existing independently of the faculty of representations, is just not an object. to the question, therefore, 'what is meant by an object corresponding to knowledge and therefore distinct from it?' we are bound to answer from the point of view of the distinction between phenomena and things in themselves, that the object is something in general = _x_, i. e. the thing in itself of which we know only _that_ it is and not _what_ it is. there is, however, another point of view from which we can say something more about an object of representations and the correspondence of our representations to it, viz. that from which we consider what is involved in the thought of the relation of knowledge or of a representation to its object. "we find that our thought of the relation of all knowledge to its object carries with it something of necessity, since its object is regarded as that which prevents our cognitions[ ] being determined at random or capriciously, and causes them to be determined _a priori_ in a certain way, because in that they are to relate to an object, they must necessarily also, in relation to it, agree with one another, that is to say, they must have that unity which constitutes the conception of an object."[ ] [ ] _vorstellung_ in the present passage is perhaps better rendered 'idea', but representation has been retained for the sake of uniformity. [ ] _erkenntnisse._ [ ] a. , mah. . kant's meaning seems to be this: 'if we think of certain representations, e. g. certain lines[ ] or the representations of extension, impenetrability, and shape,[ ] as related to an object, e. g. to an individual triangle or an individual body, we think that they must be mutually consistent or, in other words, that they must have the unity of being parts of a necessarily related whole or system, this unity in fact constituting the conception of an object in general, in distinction from the conception of an object of a particular kind. the latter thought in turn involves the thought of the object of representations as that which prevents them being anything whatever and in fact makes them parts of a system. the thought therefore of representations as related to an object carries with it the thought of a certain necessity, viz. the necessary or systematic unity introduced into the representations by the object. hence by an object of representations we mean something which introduces into the representations a systematic unity which constitutes the nature of an object in general, and the relatedness of representations to, or their correspondence with, an object involves their systematic unity.'[ ] [ ] cf. a. , mah. . [ ] cf. a. , mah. . [ ] it may be noticed that possession of the unity of a system does not really distinguish 'an object' from any other whole of parts, nor in particular from 'a representation'. any whole of parts must be a systematic unity. certain points, however, should be noticed. in the _first_ place, kant is for the moment tacitly ignoring his own theory of knowledge, in accordance with which the object proper, i. e. the thing in itself, is unknowable, and is reverting to the ordinary conception of knowledge as really _knowledge_ of its object. for the elements which are said, in virtue of being related to an object, to agree and to have the unity which constitutes the conception of an object must be elements of an object which we know; for if the assertion that they agree is to be significant, they must be determinate parts or qualities of the object, e. g. the sides of an individual triangle or the impenetrability or shape of an individual body, and therefore it is implied that we know that the object has these parts or qualities. in the _second_ place, both the problem which kant raises and the clue which he offers for its solution involve an impossible separation of knowledge or a representation from its object. kant begins with the thought of a phenomenon as a mere representation which, as mental, and as the representation of an object, is just not an object, and asks, 'what is meant by the object of it?' he finds the clue to the answer in the thought that though a representation or idea when considered in itself is a mere mental modification, yet, when considered as related to an object, it is subject to a certain necessity. in fact, however, an idea or knowledge is essentially an idea or knowledge of an object, and we are bound to think of it as such. there is no meaning whatever in saying that the thought of an idea as related to an object carries with it something of necessity, for to say so implies that it is possible to think of it as unrelated to an object. similarly there is really no meaning in the question, 'what is meant by an object corresponding to knowledge or to an idea?' for this in the same way implies that we can first think of an idea as unrelated to an object and then ask, 'what can be meant by an object corresponding to it?'[ ] in the _third_ place, kant only escapes the absurdity involved in the thought of a mere idea or a mere representation by treating representations either as parts or as qualities of an object. for although he speaks of our cognitions,[ ] i. e. of our representations, as being determined by the object, he says that they must agree, i. e. they must have that unity which constitutes the conception of an object, and he illustrates representations by the sides of an individual triangle and the impenetrability and shape of an individual body, which are just as 'objective' as the objects to which they relate. the fact is that he really treats a representation not as his problem requires that it should be treated, i. e. as a representation of something, but as something represented,[ ] i. e. as something of which we are aware, viz. a part or a quality of an object. in the _fourth_ place, not only is that which kant speaks of as related to an object really not a representation, but also--as we see if we consider the fact which kant has in mind--that to which he speaks of it as related is really not _an_ object but _one and the same object to which another so-called representation is related_. for what kant says is that representations as related to an object must agree among themselves. but this statement, to be significant, implies that the object to which various representations are related is _one and the same_. otherwise why should the representations agree? in view, therefore, of these last two considerations we must admit that the real thought underlying kant's statement should be expressed thus: 'we find that the thought that _two or more parts or qualities of an object_ relate to _one and the same object_ carries with it a certain necessity, since this object is considered to be that which _prevents these parts or qualities which we know it to possess_ from being determined at random, because by being related to _one and the same object_, they must agree among themselves.' the importance of the correction lies in the fact that what kant is stating is not what he thinks he is stating. he is really stating the implication of the thought that two or more qualities or parts of some object or other, which, as such, already relate to an object, relate to one and the same object. he thinks he is stating the implication of the thought that a representation which in itself has no relation to an object, has relation to an object. and since his problem is simply to determine what constitutes the relatedness to an object of that which in itself is a mere representation, the distinction is important; for it shows that he really elucidates it by an implication respecting something which already has relation to an object and is not a mental modification at all, but a quality or a part of an object. [ ] cf. pp. - . [ ] _erkenntnisse._ [ ] _vorgestellt._ kant continues thus: "but it is clear that, since we have to do only with the manifold of our representations, and the _x_, which corresponds to them (the object), since it is to be something distinct from all our representations, is for us nothing, the unity which the object necessitates can be nothing else than the formal unity of consciousness in the synthesis of the manifold of representations." [i. e. since the object which produces systematic unity in our representations is after all only the unknown thing in itself, viz. _x_,[ ] any of the parts or qualities of which it is impossible to know, that to which it gives unity can be only our representations and not its own parts or qualities. for, since we do not know any of its parts or qualities, these representations cannot be its parts or qualities. consequently, the unity produced by this _x_ can only be the formal unity of the combination of the manifold in consciousness.[ ]] "then and then only do we say that we know the object," [i. e. we know that the manifold relates to an object[ ]] "if we have produced synthetical unity in the manifold of perception. but this unity would be impossible, if the perception could not be produced by means of such a function of synthesis according to a rule as renders the reproduction of the manifold a priori necessary, and a conception in which the manifold unifies itself possible. thus we think a triangle as an object, in that we are conscious of the combination of three straight lines in accordance with a rule by which such a perception can at any time be presented. this _unity of the rule_ determines all the manifold and limits it to conditions which make the unity of apperception possible, and the conception of this unity is the representation of the object=_x_, which i think through the aforesaid predicates of a triangle." [i. e., apparently, 'to conceive this unity of the rule is to represent to myself the object _x_, i. e. the thing in itself,[ ] of which i come to think by means of the rule of combination.'] [ ] cf. p. , note . [ ] 'the formal unity' means not the unity peculiar to any particular synthesis, but the character shared by all syntheses of being a systematic whole. [ ] the final sense is the same whether 'object' be here understood to refer to the thing in itself or to a phenomenon. [ ] a comparison of this passage (a. - , mah. - ) with a. - , mah. - (which seems to reproduce a. - , mah. - ), b. - , m. and a. , mah. , seems to render it absolutely necessary to understand by _x_, and by the transcendental object, the thing in itself. cf. also b. , m. ('so soon as i raise my conception of an object to the transcendental meaning thereof, the house is not a thing in itself but only a phenomenon, i. e. a representation of which the transcendental object is unknown'), a. , mah. and a. , mah. . in this passage several points claim attention. in the _first_ place, it seems impossible to avoid the conclusion that in the second sentence the argument is exactly reversed. up to this point, it is the thing in itself which produces unity in our representations. henceforward it is we who produce the unity by our activity of combining the manifold. the discrepancy cannot be explained away, and its existence can only be accounted for by the exigencies of kant's position. when he is asking 'what is meant by the object (beyond the mind) corresponding to our representations?' he has to think of the unity of the representations as due to the object. but when he is asking 'how does the manifold of sense become unified?' his view that all synthesis is due to the mind compels him to hold that the unity is produced by us. in the _second_ place, the passage introduces a second object in addition to the thing in itself, viz. the phenomenal object, e. g. a triangle considered as a whole of parts unified on a definite principle.[ ] it is this object which, as the object that we know, is henceforward prominent in the first edition, and has exclusive attention in the second. the connexion between this object and the thing in itself appears to lie in the consideration that we are only justified in holding that the manifold of sense is related to a thing in itself when we have unified it and therefore know it to be a unity, and that to know it to be a unity is _ipso facto_ to be aware of it as related to a phenomenal object; in other words, the knowledge that the manifold is related to an object beyond consciousness is acquired through our knowledge of its relatedness to an object within consciousness. in the _third_ place, in view of kant's forthcoming vindication of the categories, it is important to notice that the process by which the manifold is said to acquire relation to an object is illustrated by a synthesis on a particular principle which constitutes the phenomenal object an object of a particular kind. the synthesis which enables us to recognize three lines as an object is not a synthesis based on general principles constituted by the categories, but a synthesis based on the particular principle that the three lines must be so put together as to form an enclosed space. moreover, it should be noticed that the need of a particular principle is really inconsistent with his view that relation to an object gives the manifold the systematic unity which constitutes the conception of an object, or that at least a [greek: hysteron proteron] is involved. for if the knowledge that certain representations form a systematic unity justifies our holding that they relate to an object, it would seem that in order to know that they relate to an object we need not know the special character of their unity. yet, as kant states the facts, we really have to know the special character of their unity in order to know that they possess systematic unity in general.[ ] _lastly_, it is easy to see the connexion of this account of an object of representations with the preceding account of the synthesis involved in knowledge. kant had said that knowledge requires a synthesis of the imagination in accordance with a definite principle, and the recognition of the principle of the synthesis by the understanding. from this point of view it is clear that the aim of the present passage is to show that this process yields knowledge of an object; for it shows that this process yields knowledge of a phenomenal object of a particular kind, e. g. of a triangle or of a body, and that this object as such refers to what after all is _the_ object, viz. the thing in itself. [ ] compare 'the object of our perceptions is merely that something of which the conception expresses such a necessity of synthesis' (a. , mah. ), and 'an object is that in the conception of which the manifold of a given perception is united' (b. , m. ). cf. also a. , mah. . [ ] kant's position is no doubt explained by the fact that since the object corresponding to our representations is the thing in itself, and since we only know that this is of the same kind in the case of every representation, it can only be thought of as producing systematic unity, and not a unity of a particular kind. the position is also in part due to the fact that the principles of synthesis involved by the phenomenal object are usually thought of by kant as the categories; these of course can only contribute a general kind of unity, and not the special kind of unity belonging to an individual object. the position reached by kant so far is this. knowledge, as being knowledge of an object, consists in a process by which the manifold of perception acquires relation to an object. this process again is a process of combination of the manifold into a systematic whole upon a definite principle, accompanied by the consciousness in some degree of the act of combination, and therefore also of the acquisition by the manifold of the definite unity which forms the principle of combination. in virtue of this process there is said to be 'unity of consciousness in the synthesis of the manifold', a phrase which the context justifies us in understanding as a condensed expression for a situation in which ( ) the manifold of sense is a unity of necessarily related parts, ( ) there is _consciousness_ of this unity, and ( ) the consciousness which combines and is conscious of combining the manifold, as being necessarily one and the same throughout this process, is itself a unity. kant then proceeds to introduce what he evidently considers the keystone of his system, viz. 'transcendental apperception.' "there is always a transcendental condition at the basis of any necessity. hence we must be able to find a transcendental ground of the unity of consciousness in the synthesis of the manifold of all our perceptions, and therefore also of the conceptions of objects in general, consequently also of all objects of experience, a ground without which it would be impossible to think any object for our perceptions; for this object is no more than that something, the conception of which expresses such a necessity of synthesis." "now this original and transcendental condition is no other than _transcendental apperception_. the consciousness of self according to the determinations of our state in internal sense-perception is merely empirical, always changeable; there can be no fixed or permanent self in this stream of internal phenomena, and this consciousness is usually called _internal sense_ or _empirical apperception_. that which is _necessarily_ to be represented as numerically identical cannot be thought as such by means of empirical data. the condition which is to make such a transcendental presupposition valid must be one which precedes all experience, and makes experience itself possible." "now no cognitions[ ] can occur in us, no combination and unity of them with one another, without that unity of consciousness which precedes all data of perception, and by relation to which alone all representation of objects is possible. this pure original unchangeable consciousness i shall call _transcendental apperception_. that it deserves this name is clear from the fact that even the purest objective unity, viz. that of _a priori_ conceptions (space and time) is only possible by relation of perceptions to it. the numerical unity of this apperception therefore forms the _a priori_ foundation of all conceptions, just as the multiplicity of space and time is the foundation of the perceptions of the sensibility."[ ] [ ] _erkenntnisse._ [ ] a. - , mah. - . the argument is clearly meant to be 'transcendental' in character; in other words, kant continues to argue from the existence of knowledge to the existence of its presuppositions. we should therefore expect the passage to do two things: firstly, to show what it is which is presupposed by the 'unity of consciousness in the synthesis of the manifold'[ ]; and secondly, to show that this presupposition deserves the title 'transcendental apperception'. unfortunately kant introduces 'transcendental apperception' after the manner in which he introduced the 'sensibility', the 'imagination' and the 'understanding', as if it were a term with which every one is familiar, and which therefore needs little explanation. to interpret the passage, it seems necessary to take it in close connexion with the preceding account of the three 'syntheses' involved in knowledge, and to bear in mind that, as a comparison of passages will show, the term 'apperception', which kant borrows from leibniz, always has for kant a reference to consciousness of self or self-consciousness. if this be done, the meaning of the passage seems to be as follows: [ ] we should have expected this to have been already accomplished. for according to the account already considered, it is we who by our imagination introduce necessity into the synthesis of the manifold and by our understanding become conscious of it. we shall therefore not be surprised to find that 'transcendental apperception' is really only ourselves as exercising imagination and understanding in a new guise. 'to vindicate the existence of a self which is necessarily one and the same throughout its representations, and which is capable of being aware of its own identity throughout, it is useless to appeal to that consciousness of ourselves which we have when we reflect upon our successive states. for, although in being conscious of our states we are conscious of ourselves we are not conscious of ourselves as unchanging. the self as going through successive states is changing, and even if in fact its states did not change, its identity would be only contingent; it need not continue unchanged. consequently, the only course possible is to show that the self-consciousness in question is presupposed in any experience or knowledge. now it is so presupposed. for, as we have already shown, the relation of representations to an object presupposes one consciousness which combines and unifies them, and is at the same time conscious of the identity of its own action in unifying them. this consciousness is the ground of the unity of consciousness in the synthesis of the manifold. it may fairly be called transcendental, because even a conception which relates to space or time, and therefore is the most remote from sensation, presupposes one consciousness which combines and unifies the manifold of space and time through the conception, and is conscious of the identity of its own action in so doing. it may, therefore, be regarded as the presupposition of _all_ conceiving or bringing a manifold under a conception, and therefore of all knowledge. consequently, since knowledge is possible, i. e. since the manifold of representations can be related to an object, there must be one self capable of being aware of its own identity throughout its representations.' at this point of kant's argument, however, there seems to occur an inversion of the thought. hitherto, kant has been arguing from the possibility of knowledge to the possibility of the consciousness of our own identity. but in the next paragraph he appears to reverse this procedure and to argue from the possibility of self-consciousness to the possibility of knowledge. "but it is just this transcendental unity of apperception[ ] which forms, from all possible phenomena which can be together in one experience, a connexion of them according to laws. for this unity of consciousness would be impossible, if the mind in the knowledge of the manifold could not become conscious of the identity of the function whereby it unites the manifold synthetically in one knowledge. consequently, the original and necessary consciousness of the identity of oneself is at the same time a consciousness of an equally necessary unity of the synthesis of all phenomena according to conceptions, i. e. according to rules which not only make them necessarily reproducible, but thereby determine an object for their perception, i. e. determine the conception of something in which they are necessarily connected. for the mind could not possibly think the identity of itself in the manifold of its representations, and this indeed _a priori_, if it had not before its eyes the identity of its action which subjects all synthesis of apprehension (which is empirical) to a transcendental unity, and first makes possible its connexion according to rules." [ ] kant seems here and elsewhere to use the phrase 'transcendental unity of apperception' as synonymous with 'transcendental apperception', the reason, presumably, being that transcendental apperception is a unity. the argument seems indisputably to be as follows: 'the mind is necessarily able to be aware of its own identity throughout its manifold representations. to be aware of this, it must be aware of the identity of the activity by which it combines the manifold of representations into a systematic whole. therefore it must be capable of combining, and of being conscious of its activity in combining, all phenomena which can be its representations into such a whole. but this process, from the point of view of the representations combined, is the process by which they become related to an object and so enter into knowledge. therefore, since we are capable of being conscious of our identity with respect to all phenomena which can be our representations, the process of combination and consciousness of combination which constitutes knowledge must be possible with respect to them.' thus the thought of this and the preceding paragraph seems to involve a circle. first the possibility of self-consciousness is deduced from the possibility of knowledge, and then the possibility of knowledge is deduced from the possibility of self-consciousness. an issue therefore arises, the importance of which can be seen by reference to the final aim of the 'deduction', viz. the vindication of the categories. the categories are 'fundamental conceptions which enable us to think objects in general[ ] for phenomena'[ ]; in other words, they are the principles of the synthesis by which the manifold of sense becomes related to an object. hence, if this be granted, the proof that the categories are applicable to objects consists in showing that the manifold can be subjected to this synthesis. the question therefore arises whether kant's real starting-point for establishing the possibility of this synthesis and therefore the applicability of the categories, is to be found in the possibility of knowledge, or in the possibility of self-consciousness, or in both. in other words, does kant start from the position that all representations must be capable of being related to an object, or from the position that we must be capable of being conscious of our identity with respect to all of them, or from both? [ ] _objecte überhaupt_, i. e. objects of any kind in distinction not from objects of a particular kind but from no objects at all. [ ] a. , mah. prima facie the second position is the more plausible basis for the desired conclusion. on the one hand, it does not seem obvious that the manifold _must_ be capable of being related to an object; for even if it be urged that otherwise we should have only 'a random play of representations, less than a dream'[ ], it may be replied, that this might be or might come to be the case. on the other hand, the fact that our representations are ours necessarily seems to presuppose that we are identical subjects of these representations, and recognition of this fact is the consciousness of our identity. [ ] a. , mah. . if we turn to the text for an answer to this question, we find that kant seems not only to use both starting-points, but even to regard them as equivalents. thus in introducing the categories[ ] kant begins by appealing to the necessity for knowledge that representations should relate to an object. [ ] a. - , mah. - . "unity of synthesis according to empirical conceptions would be purely contingent, and were these not based on a transcendental ground of unity, it would be possible for a confused crowd of phenomena to fill our soul, without the possibility of experience ever arising therefrom. but then also all relation of knowledge to objects would fall away, because knowledge would lack connexion according to universal and necessary laws; it would be thoughtless perception but never knowledge, and therefore for us as good as nothing." "the _a priori_ conditions of any possible experience whatever are at the same time conditions of the possibility of the objects of experience. now i assert that the above mentioned _categories_ are nothing but _the conditions of thinking in any possible experience_, just as _space and time_ are the _conditions of perception_ requisite for the same. the former therefore are also fundamental conceptions by which we think objects in general for phenomena, and are therefore objectively valid _a priori_--which is exactly what we wished to know." the next sentence, however, bases the necessity of the categories on the possibility of self-consciousness, without giving any indication that a change of standpoint is involved. "but the possibility, nay, even the necessity, of these categories rests on the relation which the whole sensibility, and with it also all possible phenomena, have to original apperception, a relation which forces everything to conform to the conditions of the thoroughgoing unity of self-consciousness, i. e. to stand under universal functions of synthesis, i. e. of synthesis according to conceptions, as that wherein alone apperception can prove _a priori_ its thorough-going and necessary identity." finally, the conclusion of the paragraph seems definitely to treat both starting-points as really the same.[ ] "thus the conception of a cause is nothing but a synthesis (of the consequent in the time series with other phenomena) _according to conceptions_; and without such a unity, which has its _a priori_ rule and subjects phenomena to itself, thorough-going and universal and therefore necessary unity of consciousness in the manifold of sense-perceptions would not be met with. but then also these perceptions would belong to no experience, consequently they would have no object, and would be nothing but a blind play of representations, less than a dream." [ ] cf. a. , mah. - and a. - , mah. - . the fact is that since for kant the synthesis of representations in accordance with the categories, accompanied by the consciousness of it, is at once the necessary and sufficient condition of the relatedness of representations to an object and of the consciousness of our identity with respect to them, it seems to him to be one and the same thing whether, in vindicating the synthesis, we appeal to the possibility of knowledge or to the possibility of self-consciousness, and it even seems possible to argue, _via_ the synthesis, from knowledge to self-consciousness and vice versa. nevertheless, it remains true that the vindication of the categories is different, according as it is based upon the possibility of relating representations to an object or upon the possibility of becoming self-conscious with respect to them. it also remains true that kant vindicates the categories in both ways. for while, in expounding the three so-called syntheses involved in knowledge, he is vindicating the categories from the point of view of knowledge, when he comes to speak of transcendental apperception, of which the central characteristic is the consciousness of self involved, there is a shifting of the centre of gravity. instead of treating representations as something which can become related to an object, he now treats them as something of which, as belonging to a self, the self must be capable of being conscious as its own, and argues that a synthesis in accordance with the categories is required for this self-consciousness. it must be admitted then--and the admission is only to be made with reluctance--that when kant reaches transcendental apperception, he really adopts a new starting-point,[ ] and that the passage which introduces transcendental apperception by showing it to be implied in knowledge[ ] only serves to conceal from kant the fact that, from the point of view of the deduction of the categories, he is really assuming without proof the possibility of self-consciousness with respect to all our representations, as a new basis for argument. [ ] the existence of this new starting-point is more explicit, a. - (and note), mah. (and note), and a. , mah. . [ ] a. , mah. . the approach to the categories from the side of self-consciousness is, however, more prominent in the second edition, and consequently we naturally turn to it for more light on this side of kant's position. there kant vindicates the necessity of the synthesis from the side of self-consciousness as follows:[ ] [ ] the main clauses have been numbered for convenience of reference. "[ .] it must be possible that the 'i think' should accompany all my representations; for otherwise something would be represented in me which could not be thought; in other words, the representation would be either impossible or at least for me nothing. [ .] that representation which can be given before all thought is called _perception_. all the manifold of perception has therefore a necessary relation to the 'i think' in the same subject in which this manifold is found. [ .] but this representation[ ] [i. e. the 'i think'] is an act of _spontaneity_, i. e. it cannot be regarded as belonging to sensibility. i call it _pure apperception_, to distinguish it from _empirical apperception_, or _original apperception_ also, because it is that self-consciousness which, while it gives birth to the representation 'i think', which must be capable of accompanying all others and is one and the same in all consciousness, cannot itself be accompanied by any other.[ ] [ .] i also call the unity of it the _transcendental_ unity of self-consciousness, in order to indicate the possibility of _a priori_ knowledge arising from it. for the manifold representations which are given in a perception would not all of them be _my_ representations, if they did not all belong to one self-consciousness, that is, as my representations (even though i am not conscious of them as such), they must necessarily conform to the condition under which alone they _can_ stand together in a universal self-consciousness, because otherwise they would not all belong to me. from this original connexion much can be concluded." [ ] this is an indisputable case of the use of representation in the sense of something represented or presented. [ ] i. e. consciousness of our identity is final; we cannot, for instance, go further back to a consciousness of the consciousness of our identity. [ .] "that is to say, this thorough-going identity of the apperception of a manifold given in perception contains a synthesis of representations,[ ] and is possible only through the consciousness of this synthesis.[ ] [ .] for the empirical consciousness which accompanies different representations is in itself fragmentary, and without relation to the identity of the subject. [ .] this relation, therefore, takes place not by my merely accompanying every representation with consciousness, but by my _adding_ one representation to another, and being conscious of the synthesis of them. [ .] consequently, only because i can connect a manifold of given representations _in one consciousness_, is it possible for me to represent to myself the _identity of consciousness in these representations_; i. e. the _analytical_ unity of apperception is possible only under the presupposition of a _synthetical_ unity. [ .] the thought, 'these representations given in perception belong all of them to me' is accordingly just the same as, 'i unite them in one self-consciousness, or at least can so unite them;' [ .] and although this thought is not itself as yet the consciousness of the _synthesis_ of representations, it nevertheless presupposes the possibility of this synthesis; that is to say, it is only because i can comprehend the manifold of representations in one consciousness, that i call them all _my_ representations; for otherwise i should have as many-coloured and varied a self as i have representations of which i am conscious. [ .] synthetical unity of the manifold of perceptions, as given _a priori_, is therefore the ground of the identity of apperception itself, which precedes _a priori_ all _my_ determinate thinking. [ .] but connexion does not lie in the objects, nor can it be borrowed from them through perception and thereby first taken up into the understanding, but it is always an operation of the understanding which itself is nothing more than the faculty of connecting _a priori_, and of bringing the manifold of given representations under the unity of apperception, which principle is the highest in all human knowledge." [ ] i understand this to mean 'this through and through identical consciousness of myself as the identical subject of a manifold given in perception involves a synthesis of representations'. [ ] the drift of the passage as a whole (cf. especially § ) seems to show that here 'the synthesis of representations' means 'their connectedness' and not 'the act of connecting them'. [ .] "now this principle of the necessary unity of apperception is indeed an identical, and therefore an analytical, proposition, but nevertheless it declares a synthesis of the manifold given in a perception to be necessary, without which the thorough-going identity of self-consciousness cannot be thought. [ .] for through the ego, as a simple representation, is given no manifold content; in perception, which is different from it, a manifold can only be given, and through _connexion_ in one consciousness it can be thought. an understanding, through whose self-consciousness all the manifold would _eo ipso_ be given, would _perceive_; our understanding can only _think_ and must seek its perception in the senses. [ .] i am, therefore, conscious of the identical self, in relation to the manifold of representations given to me in a perception, because i call all those representations _mine_, which constitute _one_. [ .] but this is the same as to say that i am conscious _a priori_ of a necessary synthesis of them, which is called the original synthetic unity of apperception, under which all representations given to me stand, but also under which they must be brought through a synthesis."[ ] [ ] b. - , m. - . though this passage involves many difficulties, the main drift of it is clear. kant is anxious to establish the fact that the manifold of sense must be capable of being combined on principles, which afterwards turn out to be the categories, by showing this to be involved in the fact that we must be capable of being conscious of ourselves as the identical subject of all our representations. to do this, he seeks to prove in the first paragraph that self-consciousness in this sense must be possible, and in the second that this self-consciousness presupposes the synthesis of the manifold. examination of the argument, however, shows that the view that self-consciousness must be possible is, so far as kant is concerned,[ ] an assumption for which kant succeeds in giving no reason at all, and that even if it be true, it cannot form a basis from which to deduce the possibility of the synthesis. [ ] cf. p. , note . before, however, we attempt to prove this, it is necessary to draw attention to three features of the argument. in the _first_ place, it implies a somewhat different account of self-consciousness to that implied in the passages of the first edition which we have already considered. self-consciousness, instead of being the consciousness of the identity of our activity in combining the manifold, is now primarily the consciousness of ourselves as identical subjects of all our representations, i. e. it is what kant calls the analytical unity of apperception; and consequently it is somewhat differently related to the activity of synthesis involved in knowledge. instead of being regarded as the consciousness of this activity, it is regarded as presupposing the consciousness of the product of this activity, i. e. of the connectedness[ ] of the manifold produced by the activity, this consciousness being what kant calls the synthetical unity of apperception.[ ] in the _second_ place, it is plain that kant's view is not that self-consciousness involves the consciousness of our representations as a connected whole, but that it involves the consciousness of them as capable of being connected by a synthesis. yet, if it is only because i can connect (and therefore apprehend as connected) a manifold of representations in one consciousness, that i can represent to myself the identity of consciousness in these representations, self-consciousness really requires the consciousness of our representations as _already_ connected; the mere consciousness of our representations as _capable_ of being connected would not be enough. the explanation of the inconsistency seems to lie in the fact that the synthetic unity of which kant is thinking is the unity of nature. for, as kant of course was aware, in our ordinary consciousness we do not apprehend the interconnexion of the parts of nature in detail, but only believe that there is such an interconnexion; consequently he naturally weakened the conclusion which he ought to have drawn, viz. that self-consciousness presupposes consciousness of the synthesis, in order to make it conform to the facts of our ordinary consciousness. yet, if his _argument_ is to be defended, its conclusion must be taken in the form that self-consciousness presupposes consciousness of the actual synthesis or connexion and not merely of the possibility of it. in the _third_ place, kant twice in this passage[ ] definitely makes the act of synthesis, which his argument maintains to be the condition of _consciousness of the identity_ of ourselves, the condition of the _identity_ of ourselves. the fact is that, on kant's view, the act of synthesis of the representations is really a condition of their belonging to one self, the self being presupposed to be a self capable of self-consciousness.[ ] [ ] more accurately, 'of the possibility of the connectedness'. [ ] the same view seems implied a. - , mah. . kant apparently thinks of this consciousness as also a self-consciousness (cf. § ), though it seems that he should have considered it rather as a condition of self-consciousness, cf. p. , note . [ ] sections and . [ ] cf. pp. - . we may now turn to the first of the two main points to be considered, viz. the reason given by kant for holding that self-consciousness must be possible. in the first paragraph (§§ - ) kant appears twice to state a reason, viz. in §§ and . what is meant by the first sentence, "it must be possible that the 'i think' should accompany all my representations; for otherwise something would be represented in me which could not be thought; in other words, the representation would either be impossible or at least for me nothing"? it is difficult to hold that 'my representations' here means objects of which i am aware, and that the thesis to be established is that i must be capable of being conscious of my own identity throughout all awareness or thought of objects. for the next sentence refers to perceptions as representations which can be given previously to all thought, and therefore, presumably, as something of which i am not necessarily aware. again, the ground adduced for the thesis would be in part a mere restatement of it, and in part nonsense. it would be 'otherwise something would be apprehended with respect to which i could not be aware that i was apprehending it; in other words, i could not apprehend it [since otherwise i could be aware that i was apprehending it]', the last words being incapable of any interpretation. it is much more probable that though kant is leading up to self-consciousness, the phrase 'i think' here refers not to 'consciousness that i am thinking', but to 'thinking'. he seems to mean 'it must be possible to apprehend all my 'affections' (i. e. sensations or appearances in me), for otherwise i should have an affection of which i could not be aware; in other words, there could be no such affection, or at least it would be of no possible importance to me.'[ ] and on this interpretation self-consciousness is not introduced till § , and then only surreptitiously. on neither interpretation, however, does kant give the vestige of a _reason_ for the possibility of self-consciousness. again, it seems clear that in § 'my representations', and 'representations which belong to me' mean objects of which i am aware (i. e. something presented); for he says of my representations, not that i may not be conscious of them--which he should have said if 'my representations' meant my mental affections of which i could become conscious--but that i may not be conscious of them as my representations. consequently in § he is merely asserting that i must be able to be conscious of my identity throughout my awareness of objects. so far, then, we find merely the _assertion_ that self-consciousness must be possible.[ ] [ ] a third alternative is to understand kant to be thinking of all thought as self-conscious, i. e. as thinking accompanied by the consciousness of thinking. but since in that case kant would be arguing from thinking as _thinking_, i. e. as apprehending objects, the possibility of self-consciousness would only be glaringly assumed. [ ] the same is true of a. and a. note, mah. , where kant also appears to be offering what he considers to be an argument. in the next paragraph[ ]--which is clearly meant to be the important one--kant, though he can hardly be said to be aware of it, seems to _assume_ that it is the very nature of a knowing self, not only to be identical throughout its thoughts or apprehendings, but to be capable of being conscious of its own identity. § runs: "the empirical consciousness which accompanies different representations is in itself fragmentary, and without relation to the identity of the subject." kant is saying that if there existed merely a consciousness of a which was not at the same time a consciousness of b and a consciousness of b which was not at the same time a consciousness of a, these consciousnesses would not be the consciousnesses belonging to one self. but this is only true, if the one self to which the consciousness of a and the consciousness of b are to belong must be capable of being aware of its own identity. otherwise it might be one self which apprehended a and then, forgetting a, apprehended b. no doubt in that case the self could not be aware of its own identity in apprehending a and in apprehending b, but none the less it would _be_ identical in so doing. we reach the same conclusion if we consider the concluding sentence of § . "it is only because i can comprehend the manifold of representations in one consciousness, that i call them all my representations; for otherwise i should have as many-coloured and varied a self as i have representations of which i am conscious." doubtless if i am to _be aware of_ myself as the same in apprehending a and b, then, in coming to apprehend b, i must continue to apprehend a, and therefore must apprehend a and b as related; and such a consciousness on kant's view involves a synthesis. but if i am merely to _be_ the same subject which apprehends a and b, or rather if the apprehension of a and that of b are merely to _be_ apprehensions on the part of one and the same subject, no such consciousness of a and b as related and, therefore, no synthesis is involved. [ ] §§ - . again, the third paragraph assumes the possibility of self-consciousness as the starting-point for argument. the thought[ ] seems to be this: 'for a self to be aware of its own identity, there must be a manifold in relation to which it can apprehend itself as one and the same throughout. an understanding which was perceptive, i. e. which originated objects by its own act of thinking, would necessarily by its own thinking originate a manifold in relation to which it could be aware of its own identity in thinking, and therefore its self-consciousness would need no synthesis. but our understanding, which is not perceptive, requires a manifold to be given to it, in relation to which it can be aware of its own identity by means of a synthesis of the manifold.' if this be the thought, it is clearly presupposed that _any_ understanding must be capable of being conscious of its own identity.[ ] [ ] cf. b. fin.- init., m. fin. [ ] b. init., m. fin. also assumes that it is impossible for a mind to be a unity without being able to be conscious of its unity. further, it is easy to see how kant came to take for granted the possibility of self-consciousness, in the sense of the consciousness of ourselves as the identical subject of all our representations. he approaches self-consciousness with the presupposition derived from his analysis of knowledge that our apprehension of a manifold does not consist in separate apprehensions of its elements, but is one apprehension or consciousness of the elements as related.[ ] he thinks of this as a general presupposition of all apprehension of a manifold, and, of course, to discover this presupposition is to be self-conscious. to recognize the oneness of our apprehension is to be conscious of our own identity.[ ] [ ] it is in consequence of this that the statement that 'a manifold of representations belongs to me' means, with the probable exception of § , not, 'i am aware of a, i am aware of b, i am aware of c,' but, 'i am aware, in one act of awareness, of a b c as related' (= abc are 'connected in' or 'belong to' one consciousness). cf. §§ , ('in one consciousness'), , ('in one consciousness'), and a. , mah. ('these representations only represent anything in me by belonging with all the rest to one consciousness [accepting erdmann's emendation _mit allen anderen_], in which at any rate they can be connected'). [ ] the above criticism of kant's thought has not implied that it may not be true that a knowing mind is, as such, capable of being aware of its own unity; the argument has only been that kant's proof is unsuccessful. again, to pass to the second main point to be considered,[ ] kant has no justification for arguing from the possibility of self-consciousness to that of the synthesis. this can be seen from the mere form of his argument. kant, as has been said, seems first to establish the possibility of self-consciousness, and thence to conclude that a synthesis must be possible. but if, as it is his point to urge, consciousness of our identity only takes place through consciousness of the synthesis, this method of argument must be invalid. it would clearly be necessary to know that the synthesis is possible, _before_ and _in order that_ we could know that self-consciousness is possible. an objector has only to urge that the manifold might be such that it could not be combined into a systematic whole, in order to secure the admission that in that case self-consciousness would not be possible. [ ] cf. p. . nevertheless, the passage under consideration may be said to lay bare an important presupposition of self-consciousness. it is true that self-consciousness would be impossible, if we merely apprehended the parts of the world in isolation. to be conscious that i who am perceiving c perceived b and a, i must be conscious at once of a, b, and c, in one act of consciousness or apprehension. to be conscious separately of a and b and c is not to be conscious of a and b and c. and, to be conscious of a and b and c in one act of consciousness, i must apprehend a, b, and c as related, i. e. as forming parts of a whole or system. hence it is only because our consciousness of a, b, and c is never the consciousness of a mere a, a mere b, and a mere c, but is always the consciousness of a b c as elements in one world that we can be conscious of our identity in apprehending a, b, and c. if _per impossibile_ our apprehension be supposed to cease to be an apprehension of a plurality of objects in relation, self-consciousness must be supposed to cease also. at the same time, it is impossible to argue from the consciousness of our identity in apprehending to the consciousness of what is apprehended as a unity, and thence to the existence of that unity. for, apart from the consideration that in fact all thinking presupposes the relatedness or--what is the same thing--the necessary relatedness of objects to one another, and that therefore any assertion to the contrary is meaningless, the consciousness of objects as a unity is a condition of the consciousness of our identity, and therefore any doubt that can be raised in regard to the former can be raised equally with regard to the latter. we may now pass to the concluding portion of the deduction. for the purpose of considering it, we may sum up the results of the preceding discussion by saying that kant establishes the synthesis of the manifold on certain principles by what are really two independent lines of thought. the manifold may be regarded either as something which, in order to enter into knowledge, must be given relation to an object, or as something with respect to which self-consciousness must be possible. regarded in either way, the manifold, according to kant, involves a process of synthesis on certain principles, which makes it a systematic unity. now kant introduces the categories by maintaining that they are the principles of synthesis in question. "i assert that the above mentioned _categories_ are nothing but the _conditions of thinking in a possible experience_.... they are fundamental conceptions by which we think objects in general for phenomena."[ ] a synthesis according to the categories is 'that wherein alone apperception can prove _a priori_ its thorough-going and necessary identity'.[ ] in the first edition this identification is simply asserted, but in the second kant offers a proof.[ ] [ ] a. , mah. . cf. a. , mah. . [ ] a. , mah. . [ ] cf. p. . before, however, we consider the proof, it is necessary to refer to a difficulty which seems to have escaped kant altogether. the preceding account of the synthesis involved in knowledge and in self-consciousness implies, as his illustrations conclusively show, that the synthesis requires a particular principle which constitutes the individual manifold a whole of a particular kind.[ ] but, if this be the case, it is clear that the categories, which are merely conceptions of an object in general, and are consequently quite general, cannot possibly be sufficient for the purpose. and since the manifold in itself includes no synthesis and therefore no principle of synthesis, kant fails to give any account of the source of the particular principles of synthesis required for particular acts of knowledge.[ ] this difficulty--which admits of no solution--is concealed from kant in two ways. in the first place, when he describes what really must be stated as the process by which parts or qualities of an object become related to an object of a particular kind, he thinks that he is describing a process by which representations become related to an object in general.[ ] secondly, he thinks of the understanding as the source of general principles of synthesis, individual syntheses and the particular principles involved being attributed to the imagination; and so, when he comes to consider the part played in knowledge by the understanding, he is apt to ignore the need of particular principles.[ ] hence, kant's proof that the categories are the principles of synthesis can at best be taken only as a proof that the categories, though not sufficient for the synthesis, are involved in it. [ ] cf. p. , note , and p. . [ ] cf. pp. - . [ ] cf. pp. - . [ ] cf. p. . the proof runs thus: "i could never satisfy myself with the definition which logicians give of a judgement in general. it is, according to them, the representation of a relation between two conceptions...." "but if i examine more closely the relation of given representations[ ] in every judgement, and distinguish it, as belonging to the understanding, from their relation according to the laws of the reproductive imagination (which has only subjective validity), i find that a judgement is nothing but the mode of bringing given representations under the _objective_ unity of apperception. this is what is intended by the term of relation 'is' in judgements, which is meant to distinguish the objective unity of given representations from the subjective. for this term indicates the relation of these representations to the original apperception, and also their _necessary unity_, even though the judgement itself is empirical, and therefore contingent, e. g. 'bodies are heavy.' by this i do not mean that these representations _necessarily_ belong _to each other_ in empirical perception, but that they belong to each other _by means of the necessary unity_ of apperception in the synthesis of perceptions, that is, according to principles of the objective determination of all our representations, in so far as knowledge can arise from them, these principles being all derived from the principle of the transcendental unity of apperception. in this way alone can there arise from this relation _a judgement_, that is, a relation which is _objectively valid_, and is adequately distinguished from the relation of the very same representations which would be only subjectively valid, e. g. according to laws of association. according to these laws, i could only say, 'if i carry a body, i feel an impression of weight', but not 'it, the body, _is_ heavy'; for this is tantamount to saying, 'these two representations are connected in the object, that is, without distinction as to the condition of the subject, and are not merely connected together in the perception, however often it may be repeated.'"[ ] [ ] _erkenntnisse_ here is clearly used as a synonym for representations. cf. a. , mah. . [ ] b. - , m. - ; cf. _prol._, §§ - . this ground for the identification of the categories with the principles of synthesis involved in knowledge may be ignored, as on the face of it unsuccessful. for the argument is that since the activity by which the synthesis is affected is that of judgement, the conceptions shown by the _metaphysical deduction_ to be involved in judgement must constitute the principles of synthesis. but it is essential to this argument that the present account of judgement and that which forms the basis of the _metaphysical deduction_ should be the same; and this is plainly not the case.[ ] judgement is now represented as an act by which we relate the manifold of sense in certain necessary ways as parts of the physical world,[ ] whereas in the _metaphysical_ _deduction_ it was treated as an act by which we relate conceptions; and kant now actually says that this latter account is faulty. hence even if the metaphysical deduction had successfully derived the categories from the account of judgement which it presupposed, the present argument would not justify the identification of the categories so deduced with the principles of synthesis. the fact is that kant's vindication of the categories is in substance independent of the _metaphysical deduction_. kant's real thought, as opposed to his formal presentation of it, is simply that when we come to consider what are the principles of synthesis involved in the reference of the manifold to an object, we find that they are the categories.[ ] the success, then, of this step in kant's vindication of the categories is independent of that of the metaphysical deduction, and depends solely upon the question whether the principles of synthesis involved in knowledge are in fact the categories. [ ] cf. caird, i. - note. [ ] we may notice in passing that this passage renders explicit the extreme difficulty of kant's view that 'the objective unity of apperception' is the unity of the parts of nature or of the physical world. how can the 'very same representations' stand at once in the subjective relation of association and in the objective relation which consists in their being related as parts of nature? there is plainly involved a transition from representation, in the sense of the apprehension of something, to representation, in the sense of something apprehended. it is objects apprehended which are objectively related; it is our apprehensions of objects which are associated, cf. pp. and - . current psychology seems to share kant's mistake in its doctrine of association of ideas, by treating the elements associated, which are really apprehensions of objects, as if they were objects apprehended. [ ] cf. a. , mah. ; b. , m. . the substance of kant's vindication of the categories may therefore be epitomized thus: 'we may take either of two starting-points. on the one hand, we may start from the fact that our experience is no mere dream, but an intelligent experience in which we are aware of a world of individual objects. this fact is conceded even by those who, like hume, deny that we are aware of any necessity of relation between these objects. we may then go on to ask how it comes about that, beginning as we do with a manifold of sense given in succession, we come to apprehend this world of individual objects. if we do so, we find that there is presupposed a synthesis on our part of the manifold upon principles constituted by the categories. to deny, therefore, that the manifold is so connected is implicitly to deny that we have an apprehension of objects at all. but the existence of this apprehension is plainly a fact which even hume did not dispute. on the other hand, we may start with the equally obvious fact that we must be capable of apprehending our own identity throughout our apprehension of the manifold of sense, and look for the presupposition of this fact. if we do this, we again find that there is involved a combination of the manifold according to the categories.' in conclusion, attention may be drawn to two points. in the first place, kant completes his account by at once emphasizing and explaining the paradoxical character of his conclusion. "accordingly, the order and conformity to law in the phenomena which we call _nature_ we ourselves introduce, and we could never find it there, if we, or the nature of our mind, had not originally placed it there."[ ] "however exaggerated or absurd then it may sound to say that the understanding itself is the source of the laws of nature and consequently of the formal unity of nature, such an assertion is nevertheless correct and in accordance with the object, i. e. with experience."[ ] the explanation of the paradox is found in the fact that objects of nature are phenomena. "but if we reflect that this nature is in itself nothing else than a totality[ ] of phenomena and consequently no thing in itself but merely a number of representations of the mind, we shall not be surprised that only in the radical faculty of all our knowledge, viz. transcendental apperception, do we see it in that unity through which alone it can be called object of all possible experience, i. e. nature."[ ] "it is no more surprising that the laws of the phenomena in nature must agree with the understanding and with its _a priori_ form, that is, its faculty of connecting the manifold in general, than that the phenomena themselves must agree with the _a priori_ form of our sensuous perception. for laws exist in the phenomena as little as phenomena exist in themselves; on the contrary, laws exist only relatively to the subject in which the phenomena inhere, so far as it has understanding, just as phenomena exist only relatively to the subject, so far as it has senses. to things in themselves their conformity to law would necessarily also belong independently of an understanding which knows them. but phenomena are only representations of things which exist unknown in respect of what they may be in themselves. but, as mere representations, they stand under no law of connexion except that which the connecting faculty prescribes."[ ] [ ] a. , mah. . [ ] a. , mah. . [ ] _inbegriff._ [ ] a. , mah. . [ ] b. , m. . in the second place, this last paragraph contains the real reason from the point of view of the deduction[ ] of the categories for what may be called the negative side of his doctrine, viz. that the categories only apply to objects of experience and not to things in themselves. according to kant, we can only say that certain principles of connexion apply to a reality into which we introduce the connexion. things in themselves, if connected, are connected in themselves and apart from us. hence there can be no guarantee that any principles of connexion which we might assert them to possess are those which they do possess. [ ] the main passage (b. - , m. - ), in which he argues that the categories do not apply to things in themselves, ignores the account of a conception as a principle of synthesis, upon which the deduction turns, and returns to the earlier account of a conception as something opposed to a perception, i. e. as that by which an object is thought as opposed to a perception by which an object is given. consequently, it argues merely that the categories, as conceptions, are empty or without an object, unless an object is given in perception, and that, since things in themselves are not objects of perception, the categories are no more applicable to things in themselves than are any other conceptions. chapter ix general criticism of the transcendental deduction of the categories the preceding account of kant's vindication of the categories has included much criticism. but the criticism has been as far as possible restricted to details, and has dealt with matters of principle only so far as has been necessary in order to follow kant's thought. we must now consider the position as a whole, even though this may involve some repetition.[ ] the general difficulties of the position may be divided into two kinds, ( ) difficulties involved in the working out of the theory, even if its main principles are not questioned, and ( ) difficulties involved in accepting its main principles at all. [ ] difficulties connected with kant's view of self-consciousness will be ignored, as having been sufficiently considered. the initial difficulty of the first kind, which naturally strikes the reader, concerns the possibility of performing the synthesis. the mind has certain general ways of combining the manifold, viz. the categories. but on general grounds we should expect the mind to possess only one mode of combining the manifold. for the character of the manifold to be combined cannot affect the mind's power of combination, and, if the power of the mind consists in combining, the combining should always be of the same kind. thus, suppose the manifold given to the mind to be combined consisted of musical notes, we could think of the mind's power of combination as exercised in combining the notes by way of succession, _provided that_ this be regarded as the only mode of combination. but if the mind were thought also capable of combining notes by way of simultaneity, we should at once be confronted with the insoluble problem of determining why the one mode of combination was exercised in any given case rather than the other. if, several kinds of synthesis being allowed, this difficulty be avoided by the supposition that, not being incompatible, they are all exercised together, we have the alternative task of explaining how the same manifold can be combined in each of these ways. as a matter of fact, kant thinks of manifolds of different kinds as combined or related in different ways; thus events are related causally and quantities quantitatively. but since, on kant's view, the manifold as given is unrelated and all combination comes from the mind, the mind should not be held capable of combining manifolds of different kinds differently. otherwise the manifold would in its own nature imply the need of a particular kind of synthesis, and would therefore not be unrelated. suppose, however, we waive the difficulty involved in the plurality of the categories. there remains the equally fundamental difficulty that any single principle of synthesis contains in itself no ground for the different ways of its application.[ ] suppose it to be conceded that in the apprehension of definite shapes we combine the manifold in accordance with the conception of figure, and, for the purpose of the argument, that the conception of figure can be treated as equivalent to the category of quantity. it is plain that we apprehend different shapes, e. g. lines[ ] and triangles[ ], of which, if we take into account differences of relative length of sides, there is an infinite variety, and houses,[ ] which may also have an infinite variety of shape. but there is nothing in the mind's capacity of relating the manifold by way of figure to determine it to combine a given manifold into a figure of one kind rather than into a figure of any other kind; for to combine the manifold into a particular shape, there is needed not merely the thought of a figure in general, but the thought of a definite figure. no 'cue' can be furnished by the manifold itself, for any such cue would involve the conception of a particular figure, and would therefore imply that the particular synthesis was implicit in the manifold itself, in which case it would not be true that all synthesis comes from the mind. [ ] cf. p. . [ ] b. , m. . [ ] a. , mah. . [ ] b. , m. . this difficulty takes a somewhat different form in the case of the categories of relation. to take the case of cause and effect, the conception of which, according to kant, is involved in our apprehension of a succession, kant's view seems to be that we become aware of two elements of the manifold a b as a succession of events in the world of nature by combining them as necessarily successive in a causal order, in which the state of affairs which precedes b and which contains a contains something upon which b must follow (i. e. a cause of b), which therefore makes it necessary that b must follow a.[ ] but if we are to do this, we must in some way succeed in selecting or picking out from among the elements of the manifold that element a which is to be thus combined with b. we therefore need something more than the category. it is not enough that we should think that b has a cause; we must think of something in particular as the cause of b, and we must think of it either as coexistent with, or as identical with, a. [ ] cf. pp. - . kant fails to notice this second difficulty,[ ] and up to a certain point avoids it owing to his distinction between the imagination and the understanding. for he thinks of the understanding as the source of general principles of synthesis, viz. the categories, and attributes individual syntheses to the imagination. hence the individual syntheses, which involve particular principles, are already effected before the understanding comes into play. but to throw the work of effecting individual syntheses upon the imagination is only to evade the difficulty. for in the end, as has been pointed out,[ ] the imagination must be the understanding working unreflectively, and, whether this is so or not, some account must be given of the way in which the imagination furnishes the particular principles of synthesis required. [ ] we should have expected kant to have noticed this difficulty in a. , mah. , where he describes what is involved in the relation of representations to an object, for his instance of representations becoming so related is the process of combining elements into a triangle, which plainly requires a synthesis of a very definite kind. for the reasons of his failure to notice the difficulty cf. p. . [ ] pp. - . the third and last main difficulty of the first kind concerns the relation of the elements of the manifold and the kinds of synthesis by which they are combined. this involves the distinction between relating in general and terms to be related. for to perform a synthesis is in general to relate, and the elements to be combined are the terms to be related.[ ] now it is only necessary to take instances to realize that the possibility of relating terms in certain ways involves two presuppositions, which concern respectively the general and the special nature of the terms to be related. [ ] 'to relate' is used rather than 'to recognize as related', in order to conform to kant's view of knowledge. but if it be desired to take the argument which follows in connexion with knowledge proper (cf. p. ), it is only necessary to substitute throughout 'to recognize as related' for 'to relate' and to make the other changes consequent thereon. in the first place, it is clear that the general nature of the terms must correspond with or be adapted to the general nature of the relationship to be effected. thus if two terms are to be related as more or less loud, they must be sounds, since the relation in question is one in respect of sound and not, e. g., of time or colour or space. similarly, terms to be related as right and left must be bodies in space, right and left being a spatial relation. again, only human beings can be related as parent and child. kant's doctrine, however, does not conform to this presupposition. for the manifold to be related consists solely of sensations, and of individual spaces, and perhaps individual times, as elements of pure perception; and such a manifold is not of the kind required. possibly individual spaces may be regarded as adequate terms to be related or combined into geometrical figures, e. g. into lines or triangles. but a house as a synthesis of a manifold cannot be a synthesis of spaces, or of times, or of sensations. its parts are bodies, which, whatever they may be, are neither sensations nor spaces nor times, nor combinations of them. in reality they are substances of a special kind. again, the relation of cause and effect is not a relation of sensations or spaces or times, but of successive states of physical things or substances, the relation consisting in the necessity of their succession. in the second place, it is clear that the special nature of the relation to be effected presupposes a special nature on the part of the terms to be related. if one sound is to be related to another by way of the octave, that other must be its octave. if one quantity is to be related to another as the double of it, that quantity must be twice as large as the other. in the same way, proceeding to kant's instances, we see that if we are to combine or relate a manifold into a triangle, and therefore into a triangle of a particular size and shape, the elements of the manifold must be lines, and lines of a particular size. if we are to combine a manifold into a house, and therefore into a house of a certain shape and size, the manifold must consist of bodies of a suitable shape and size. if we are to relate a manifold by way of necessary succession, the manifold must be such that it can be so related; in other words, if we are to relate an element x of the manifold with some other y as the necessary antecedent of x, there must be some definite element y which is connected with, and always occurs along with, x. to put the matter generally, we may say that the manifold must be adapted to or 'fit' the categories not only, as has been pointed out, in the sense that it must be of the right kind, but also in the sense that its individual elements must have that orderly character which enables them to be related according to the categories. now it is plain from kant's vindication of what he calls the affinity of phenomena,[ ] that he recognizes the existence of this presupposition. but the question arises whether this vindication can be successful. for since the manifold is originated by the thing in itself, it seems prima facie impossible to prove that the elements of the manifold must have affinity, and so be capable of being related according to the categories. before, however, we consider the chief passage in which kant tries to make good his position, we may notice a defence which might naturally be offered on his behalf. it might be said that he establishes the conformity of the manifold to the categories at least hypothetically, i. e. upon the supposition that the manifold is capable of entering into knowledge, and also upon the supposition that we are capable of being conscious of our identity with respect to it; for upon either supposition any element of the manifold must be capable of being combined with all the rest into one world of nature. moreover, it might be added that these suppositions are justified, for our experience is not a mere dream, but is throughout the consciousness of a world, and we are self-conscious throughout our experience; and therefore it is clear that the manifold does in fact 'fit' the categories. but the retort is obvious. any actual conformity of the manifold to the categories would upon this view be at best but an empirical fact, and, although, if the conformity ceased, we should cease to be aware of a world and of ourselves, no reason has been or can be given why the conformity should not cease. [ ] cf. a. - , mah. - (quoted pp. - ); a. , mah. ; a. - , mah. - . the passage in which kant vindicates the affinity of phenomena in the greatest detail is the following: "we will now try to exhibit the necessary connexion of the understanding with phenomena by means of the categories, by beginning from below, i. e. from the empirical end. the first that is given us is a phenomenon, which if connected with consciousness is called perception[ ].... but because every phenomenon contains a manifold, and consequently different perceptions are found in the mind scattered and single, a connexion of them is necessary, which they cannot have in mere sense. there is, therefore, in us an active power of synthesis of this manifold, which we call imagination, and the action of which, when exercised immediately upon perceptions, i call apprehension. the business of the imagination, that is to say, is to bring the manifold of intuition[ ] into an _image_; it must, therefore, first receive the impressions into its activity, i. e. apprehend them." [ ] _wahrnehmung._ [ ] _anschauung._ "but it is clear that even this apprehension of the manifold would not by itself produce an image and a connexion of the impressions, unless there were a subjective ground in virtue of which one perception, from which the mind has passed to another, is summoned to join that which follows, and thus whole series of perceptions are presented, i. e. a reproductive power of imagination, which power, however, is also only empirical." "but if representations reproduced one another at haphazard just as they happened to meet together, once more no determinate connexion would arise, but merely chaotic heaps of them, and consequently no knowledge would arise; therefore the reproduction of them must have a rule, according to which a representation enters into connexion with this rather than with another in the imagination. this subjective and _empirical_ ground of reproduction according to rules is called the _association_ of representations." "but now, if this unity of association had not also an objective ground, so that it was impossible that phenomena should be apprehended by the imagination otherwise than under the condition of a possible synthetic unity of this apprehension, it would also be a pure accident that phenomena were adapted to a connected system of human knowledge. for although we should have the power of associating perceptions, it would still remain wholly undetermined and accidental whether they were associable; and in the event of their not being so, a multitude of perceptions and even perhaps a whole sensibility would be possible, in which much empirical consciousness would be met with in my mind, but divided and without belonging to _one_ consciousness of myself, which however is impossible. for only in that i ascribe all perceptions to one consciousness (the original apperception) can i say of all of them that i am conscious of them. there must therefore be an objective ground, i. e. a ground to be recognized _a priori_ before all empirical laws of the imagination, on which rests the possibility, nay even the necessity, of a law which extends throughout all phenomena, according to which we regard them without exception as such data of the senses, as are in themselves associable and subjected to universal rules of a thorough-going connexion in reproduction. this objective ground of all association of phenomena i call the _affinity_ of phenomena. but we can meet this nowhere else than in the principle of the unity of apperception as regards all cognitions which are to belong to me. according to it, all phenomena without exception must so enter into the mind or be apprehended as to agree with the unity of apperception, which agreement would be impossible without synthetical unity in their connexion, which therefore is also objectively necessary." "the objective unity of all (empirical) consciousness in one consciousness (the original apperception) is therefore the necessary condition even of all possible perception, and the affinity of all phenomena (near or remote) is a necessary consequence of a synthesis in the imagination, which is _a priori_ founded upon rules." "the imagination is therefore also a power of _a priori_ synthesis, for which reason we give it the name of the productive imagination; and so far as it, in relation to all the manifold of the phenomenon, has no further aim than the necessary unity in the synthesis of the phenomenon, it can be called the transcendental function of the imagination. it is therefore strange indeed, but nevertheless clear from the preceding, that only by means of this transcendental function of the imagination does even the affinity of phenomena, and with it their association and, through this, lastly their reproduction according to laws, and consequently experience itself become possible, because without it no conceptions of objects would ever come together into one experience."[ ] [ ] a. - , mah. - . if it were not for the last two paragraphs[ ], we should understand this difficult passage to be substantially identical in meaning with the defence of the affinity of phenomena just given.[ ] we should understand kant to be saying ( ) that the synthesis which knowledge requires presupposes not merely a faculty of association on our part by which we reproduce elements of the manifold according to rules, but also an affinity on the part of the manifold to be apprehended, which enables our faculty of association to get to work, and ( ) that this affinity can be vindicated as a presupposition at once of knowledge and of self-consciousness. [ ] and also the first and last sentence of the fourth paragraph, where kant speaks not of 'phenomena which are to be apprehended', but of the 'apprehension of phenomena' as necessarily agreeing with the unity of apperception. [ ] p. . in view, however, of the fact that, according to the last two paragraphs, the affinity is due to the imagination,[ ] it seems necessary to interpret the passage thus: [ ] it should be noted that in the last paragraph but one kant does not say '_our knowledge_ that phenomena must have affinity is a consequence of _our knowledge_ that there must be a synthesis of the imagination', but 'the affinity of all phenomena is a consequence of a synthesis in the imagination'. and the last paragraph precludes the view that in making the latter statement he meant the former. cf. also a. , mah. . 'since the given manifold of sense consists of isolated elements, this manifold, in order to enter into knowledge, must be combined into an image. this combination is effected by the imagination, which however must first apprehend the elements one by one.' 'but this apprehension of the manifold by the imagination could produce no image, unless the imagination also possessed the power of reproducing past elements of the manifold, and, if knowledge is to arise, of reproducing them according to rules. this faculty of reproduction by which, on perceiving the element a, we are led to think of or reproduce a past element b--b being reproduced according to some rule--rather than c or d is called the faculty of association; and since the rules according to which it works depend on empirical conditions, and therefore cannot be anticipated _a priori_, it may be called the subjective ground of reproduction.' 'but if the image produced by association is to play a part in knowledge, the empirical faculty of reproduction is not a sufficient condition or ground of it. a further condition is implied, which may be called objective in the sense that it is _a priori_ and prior to all empirical laws of imagination. this condition is that the act by which the data of sense enter the mind or are apprehended, i. e. the act by which the imagination _apprehends and combines_ the data of sense into a sensuous image, must _make_ the elements such that they have affinity, and therefore such that they can subsequently be recognized as parts of a necessarily related whole.[ ] unless this condition is satisfied, even if we possessed the faculty of association, our experience would be a chaos of disconnected elements, and we could not be self-conscious, which is impossible. starting, therefore, with the principle that we must be capable of being self-conscious with respect to all the elements of the manifold, we can lay down _a priori_ that this condition is a fact.' [ ] on this interpretation 'entering the mind' or 'being apprehended' in the fourth paragraph does not refer merely to the apprehension of elements one by one, which is preliminary to the act of combining them, but includes the act by which they are combined. if so, kant's argument formally involves a circle. for in the second and third paragraphs he argues that the synthesis of perceptions involves reproduction according to rules, and then, in the fourth paragraph, he argues that this reproduction presupposes a synthesis of perceptions. we may, however, perhaps regard his argument as being in substance that knowledge involves _re_production by the imagination of elements capable of connexion, and that this reproduction involves _pro_duction by the imagination of the data of sense, which are to be reproduced, into an image. 'it follows, then, that the affinity or connectedness of the data of sense presupposed by the _re_production which is presupposed in knowledge, is actually produced by the _pro_ductive faculty of imagination, which, in combining the data into a sensuous image, gives them the unity required.' if, as it seems necessary to believe, this be the correct interpretation of the passage,[ ] kant is here trying to carry out to the full his doctrine that _all_ unity or connectedness comes from the mind's activity. he is maintaining that the imagination, acting _pro_ductively on the data of sense and thereby combining them into an image, gives the data a connectedness which the understanding can subsequently recognize. but to maintain this is, of course, only to throw the problem one stage further back. if reproduction, in order to enter into knowledge, implies a manifold which has such connexion that it is capable of being reproduced according to rules, so the production of sense-elements into a coherent image in turn implies sense-elements capable of being so combined. the act of combination cannot confer upon them or introduce into them a unity which they do not already possess. [ ] if the preceding interpretation (pp. - ) be thought the correct one, it must be admitted that kant's vindication of the affinity breaks down for the reason given, p. . the fact is that this step in kant's argument exhibits the final breakdown of his view that all unity or connectedness or relatedness is conferred upon the data of sense by the activity of the mind. consequently, this forms a convenient point at which to consider what seems to be the fundamental mistake of this view. the mistake stated in its most general form appears to be that, misled by his theory of perception, he regards 'terms' as given by things in themselves acting on the sensibility, and 'relations' as introduced by the understanding,[ ] whereas the fact is that in the sense in which terms can be said to be given, relations can and must also be said to be given. [ ] the understanding being taken to include the imagination, as being the faculty of _spontaneity_ in distinction from the _passive_ sensibility. to realize that this is the case, we need only consider kant's favourite instance of knowledge, the apprehension of a straight line. according to him, this presupposes that there is given to us a manifold, which--whether he admits it or not--must really be parts of the line, and that we combine this manifold on a principle involved in the nature of straightness. now suppose that the manifold given is the parts ab, bc, cd, de of the line ae. it is clearly only possible to recognize ab and bc as contiguous parts of a straight line, if we immediately apprehend that ab and bc form one line of which these parts are identical in direction. otherwise, we might just as well join ab and bc at a right angle, and in fact at any angle; we need not even make ab and bc contiguous.[ ] similarly, the relation of bc to cd and of cd to de must be just as immediately apprehended as the parts themselves. is there, however, any relation of which it could be said that it is not given, and to which therefore kant's doctrine might seem to apply? there is. suppose ab, bc, cd to be of such a size that, though we can see ab and bc, or bc and cd, together, we cannot see ab and cd together. it is clear that in this case we can only learn that ab and cd are parts of the same straight line through an inference. we have to infer that, because each is in the same straight line with bc, the one is in the same straight line with the other. here the fact that ab and cd are in the same straight line is not immediately apprehended. this relation, therefore, may be said not to be given; and, from kant's point of view, we could say that we introduce this relation into the manifold through our activity of thinking, which combines ab and cd together in accordance with the principle that two straight lines which are in the same line with a third are in line with one another. nevertheless, this case is no exception to the general principle that relations must be given equally with terms; for we only become aware of the relation between ab and cd, which is not given, because we are already aware of other relations, viz. those between ab and bc, and bc and cd, which are given. relations then, or, in kant's language, particular syntheses must be said to be given, in the sense in which the elements to be combined can be said to be given. [ ] in order to meet a possible objection, it may be pointed out that if ab and bc be given in isolation, the contiguity implied in referring to them as a_b_ and _b_c will not be known. further, we can better see the nature of kant's mistake in this respect, if we bear in mind that kant originally and rightly introduced the distinction between the sensibility and the understanding as that between the passive faculty by which an individual is given or presented to us and the active faculty by which we bring an individual under, or recognize it as an instance of a universal.[ ] for we then see that kant in the _transcendental deduction_, by treating what is given by the sensibility as terms and what is contributed by the understanding as relations, is really confusing the distinction between a relation and its terms with that between universal and individual; in other words, he says of terms what ought to be said of individuals, and of relations what ought to be said of universals. that the confusion is a confusion, and not a legitimate identification, it is easy to see. for, on the one hand, a relation between terms is as much an individual as either of the terms. that a body a is to the right of a body b is as much an individual fact as either a or b.[ ] and if terms, as being individuals, belong to perception and are given, in the sense that they are in an immediate relation to us, relations, as being individuals, equally belong to perception and are given. on the other hand, individual terms just as much as individual relations imply corresponding universals. an individual body implies 'bodiness', just as much as the fact that a body a is to the right of a body b implies the relationship of 'being to the right of something'. and if, as is the case, thinking or conceiving in distinction from perceiving, is that activity by which we recognize an individual, given in perception, as one of a kind, conceiving is involved as much in the apprehension of a term as in the apprehension of a relation. the apprehension of 'this red body' as much involves the recognition of an individual as an instance of a kind, i. e. as much involves an act of the understanding, as does the apprehension of the fact that it is brighter than some other body. [ ] cf. pp. - . [ ] i can attach no meaning to mr. bertrand russell's assertion that relations have no instances. see _the principles of mathematics_, § . kant has failed to notice this confusion for two reasons. in the first place, beginning in the _analytic_ with the thought that the thing in itself, by acting on our sensibility, produces isolated sense data, he is led to adopt a different view of the understanding from that which he originally gave, and to conceive its business as consisting in relating these data. in the second place, by distinguishing the imagination from the understanding, he is able to confine the understanding to being the source of universals or principles of relation in distinction from individual relations.[ ] since, however, as has been pointed out, and as kant himself sees at times, the imagination is the understanding working unreflectively, this limitation cannot be successful. [ ] cf. p. . there remain for consideration the difficulties of the second kind, i. e. the difficulties involved in accepting its main principles at all. these are of course the most important. throughout the deduction kant is attempting to formulate the nature of knowledge. according to him, it consists in an activity of the mind by which it combines the manifold of sense on certain principles and is to some extent aware that it does so, and by which it thereby gives the manifold relation to an object. now the fundamental and final objection to this account is that what it describes is not knowledge at all. the justice of this objection may be seen by considering the two leading thoughts underlying the view, which, though closely connected, may be treated separately. these are the thought of knowledge as a process by which representations acquire relation to an object, and the thought of knowledge as a process of synthesis. it is in reality meaningless to speak of 'a process by which representations or ideas acquire relation to an object'.[ ] the phrase must mean a process by which a mere apprehension, which, as such, is not the apprehension of an object, becomes the apprehension of an object. apprehension, however, is essentially and from the very beginning the apprehension of an object, i. e. of a reality apprehended. if there is no object which the apprehension is 'of', there is no apprehension. it is therefore wholly meaningless to speak of a process by which an apprehension _becomes_ the apprehension of an object. if when we reflected we were not aware of an object, i. e. a reality apprehended, we could not be aware of our apprehension; for our apprehension is the apprehension of it, and is itself only apprehended in relation to, though in distinction from, it. it is therefore impossible to suppose a condition of mind in which, knowing what 'apprehension' means, we proceed to ask, 'what is meant by an object of it?' and 'how does an apprehension become related to an object?'; for both questions involve the thought of a mere representation, i. e. of an apprehension which as yet is not the apprehension of anything. [ ] cf. p. , and pp. - . these questions, when their real nature is exhibited, are plainly absurd. kant's special theory, however, enables him to evade the real absurdity involved. for, according to his view, a representation is the representation or apprehension of something only from the point of view of the thing in itself. as an appearance or perhaps more strictly speaking as a sensation, it has also a being of its own which is not relative[ ]; and from this point of view it _is_ possible to speak of 'mere' representations and to raise questions which presuppose their reality.[ ] [ ] cf. p. init. [ ] the absurdity of the problem really propounded is also concealed from kant in the way indicated, pp. fin.- init. but this remedy, if remedy it can be called, is at least as bad as the disease. for, in the first place, the change of standpoint is necessarily illegitimate. an appearance or sensation is not from any point of view a representation in the proper sense, i. e. a representation or apprehension of something. it is simply a reality to be apprehended, of the special kind called mental. if it be called a representation, the word must have a new meaning; it must mean something represented, or presented,[ ] i. e. object of apprehension, with the implication that what is presented, or is object of apprehension, is mental or a modification of the mind. kant therefore only avoids the original absurdity by an illegitimate change of standpoint, the change being concealed by a tacit transition in the meaning of representation. in the second place, the change of standpoint only saves the main problem from being absurd by rendering it insoluble. for if a representation be taken to be an appearance or a sensation, the main problem becomes that of explaining how it is that, beginning with the apprehension of mere appearances or sensations, we come to apprehend an object, in the sense of an object in nature, which, as such, is not an appearance or sensation but a part of the physical world. but if the immediate object of apprehension were in this way confined to appearances, which are, to use kant's phrase, determinations of our mind, our apprehension would be limited to these appearances, and any apprehension of an object in nature would be impossible.[ ] in fact, it is just the view that the immediate object of apprehension consists in a determination of the mind which forms the basis of the solipsist position. kant's own solution involves an absurdity at least as great as that involved in the thought of a mere representation, in the proper sense of representation. for the solution is that appearances or sensations become related to an object, in the sense of an object in nature, by being combined on certain principles. yet it is plainly impossible to combine appearances or sensations into an object in nature. if a triangle, or a house, or 'a freezing of water'[ ] is the result of any process of combination, the elements combined must be respectively lines, and bricks, and physical events; these are objects in the sense in which the whole produced by the combination is an object, and are certainly not appearances or sensations. kant conceals the difficulty from himself by the use of language to which he is not entitled. for while his instances of objects are always of the kind indicated, he persists in calling the manifold combined 'representations', i. e. presented mental modifications. this procedure is of course facilitated for him by his view that nature is a phenomenon or appearance, but the difficulty which it presents to the reader culminates when he speaks of the very same representations as having both a subjective and an objective relation, i. e. as being both modifications of the mind and parts of nature.[ ] [ ] _vorgestellt._ [ ] cf. p. . [ ] b. , m. . [ ] b. - , m. - . cf. , note , and pp. - . we may now turn to kant's thought of knowledge as a process of synthesis. when kant speaks of synthesis, the kind of synthesis of which he usually is thinking is that of spatial elements into a spatial whole; and although he refers to other kinds, e. g. of units into numbers, and of events into a temporal series, nevertheless it is the thought of spatial synthesis which guides his view. now we must in the end admit that the spatial synthesis of which he is thinking is really the _construction_ or _making_ of spatial objects in the literal sense. it would be rightly illustrated by making figures out of matches or spelicans, or by drawing a circle with compasses, or by building a house out of bricks. further, if we extend this view of the process of which kant is thinking, we have to allow that the process of synthesis in which, according to kant, knowledge consists is that of making or constructing parts of the physical world, and in fact the physical world itself, out of elements given in perception.[ ] the deduction throughout presupposes that the synthesis is really _manufacture_, and kant is at pains to emphasize the fact. "the order and conformity to law in the phenomena which we call _nature_ we ourselves introduce, and we could not find it there, if we or the nature of our mind had not originally placed it there."[ ] he naturally rejoices in the manufacture, because it is just this which makes the categories valid. if knowing is really making, the principles of synthesis must apply to the reality known, because it is by these very principles that the reality is made. moreover, recognition of this fact enables us to understand certain features of his view which would otherwise be inexplicable. for if the synthesis consists in literal construction, we are able to understand why kant should think ( ) that in the process of knowledge the mind _introduces_ order into the manifold, ( ) that the mind is limited in its activity of synthesis by having to conform to certain principles of construction which constitute the nature of the understanding, and ( ) that the manifold of phenomena must possess affinity. if, for example, we build a house, it can be said ( ) that we introduce into the materials a plan or principle of arrangement which they do not possess in themselves, ( ) that the particular plan is limited by, and must conform to, the laws of spatial relation and to the general presuppositions of physics, such as the uniformity of nature, and ( ) that only such materials are capable of the particular combination as possess a nature suitable to it. moreover, if, for kant, knowing is really making, we are able to understand two other prominent features of his view. we can understand why kant should lay so much stress upon the 'recognition' of the synthesis, and upon the self-consciousness involved in knowledge. for if the synthesis of the manifold is really the making of an object, it results merely in the existence of the object; knowledge of it is still to be effected. consequently, knowledge of the object only finds a place in kant's view by the _recognition_ (on the necessity of which he insists) of the manifold as combined on a principle. this recognition, which kant considers only an element in knowledge, is really the knowledge itself. again, since the reality to be known is a whole of parts which we construct on a principle, we know that it is such a whole, and therefore that 'the manifold is related to one object', because, and only because, we know that we have combined the elements on a principle. self-consciousness therefore _must_ be inseparable from consciousness of an object. [ ] it is for this reason that the mathematical illustrations of the synthesis are the most plausible for his theory. while we can be said to construct geometrical figures, and while the construction of geometrical figures can easily be mistaken for the apprehension of them, we cannot with any plausibility be said to construct the physical world. [ ] a. , mah. . cf. the other passages quoted pp. - . the fundamental objection to this account of knowledge seems so obvious as to be hardly worth stating; it is of course that knowing and making are not the same. the very nature of knowing presupposes that the thing known is already made, or, to speak more accurately, already exists.[ ] in other words, knowing is essentially the discovery of what already is. even if the reality known happens to be something which we make, e. g. a house, the knowing it is distinct from the making it, and, so far from being identical with the making, presupposes that the reality in question is already made. music and poetry are, no doubt, realities which in some sense are 'made' or 'composed', but the apprehension of them is distinct from and presupposes the process by which they are composed. [ ] cf. ch. vi. how difficult it is to resolve knowing into making may be seen by consideration of a difficulty in the interpretation of kant's phrase 'relation of the manifold to an object', to which no allusion has yet been made. when it is said that a certain manifold is related to, or stands[ ] in relation to, an object, does the relatedness referred to consist in the fact that the manifold is combined into a whole, or in the fact that we are conscious of the combination, or in both? if we accept the first alternative we must allow that, while relatedness to an object implies a process of synthesis, yet the relatedness, and therefore the synthesis, have nothing to do with knowledge. for the relatedness of the manifold to an object will be the combination of the elements of the manifold as parts of an object constructed, and the process of synthesis involved will be that by which the object is constructed. this process of synthesis will have nothing to do with knowledge; for since it is merely the process by which the object is constructed, knowledge so far is not effected at all, and no clue is given to the way in which it comes about. if, however, we accept the second alternative, we have to allow that while relatedness to an object has to do with knowledge, yet it in no way implies a process of synthesis. for since in that case it consists in the fact that we are conscious of the manifold as together forming an object, it in no way implies that the object has been produced by a process of synthesis. kant, of course, would accept the third alternative. for, firstly, since it is knowledge which he is describing, the phrase 'relatedness to an object' cannot refer simply to the _existence_ of a combination of the manifold, and of a process by which it has been produced; its meaning must include _consciousness_ of the combination. in the second place, it is definitely his view that we cannot represent anything as combined in the object without having previously combined it ourselves.[ ] moreover, it is just with respect to this connexion between the synthesis and the consciousness of the synthesis that his reduction of knowing to making helps him; for to make an object, e. g. a house, is to make it consciously, i. e. to combine materials on a principle of which we are aware. since, then, the combining of which he speaks is really making, it seems to him impossible to combine a manifold without being aware of the nature of the act of combination, and therefore of the nature of the whole thereby produced.[ ] but though this is clearly kant's view, it is not justified. in the first place, 'relatedness of the manifold to an object' ought not to refer _both_ to its combination in a whole _and_ to our consciousness of the combination; and in strictness it should refer to the former only. for as referring to the former it indicates a relation of the manifold _to the object_, as being the parts of the object, and as referring to the latter it indicates a relation of the manifold _to us_, as being apprehended by us as the parts of the object. but two relations which, though they are of one and the same thing, are nevertheless relations of it to two different things, should not be referred to by the same phrase. moreover, since the relatedness is referred to as relatedness to an object, the phrase properly indicates the relation of the manifold to an object, and not to us as apprehending it. again, in the second place, kant cannot successfully maintain that the phrase is primarily a loose expression for our consciousness of the manifold as related to an object, and that since this implies a process of synthesis, the phrase may fairly include in its meaning the thought of the combination of the manifold by us into a whole. for although kant asserts--and with some plausibility--that we can only apprehend as combined what we have ourselves combined, yet when we consider this assertion seriously we see it to be in no sense true. [ ] a. , mah. . [ ] b. , m. . [ ] to say that 'combining', in the sense of making, _really_ presupposes consciousness of the nature of the whole produced, would be inconsistent with the previous assertion that even where the reality known is something made, the knowledge of it presupposes that the reality is already made. strictly speaking, the activity of combining presupposes consciousness not of the whole which we _succeed_ in producing, but of the whole which we _want_ to produce. it may be noted that, from the point of view of the above argument, the activity of combining presupposes actual consciousness of the act of combination and of its principle, and does not imply merely the possibility of it. kant, of course, does not hold this. the general conclusion, therefore, to be drawn is that the process of synthesis by which the manifold is said to become related to an object is a process not of knowledge but of construction in the literal sense, and that it leaves knowledge of the thing constructed still to be effected. but if knowing is obviously different from making, why should kant have apparently felt no difficulty in resolving knowing into making? three reasons may be given. in the first place, the very question, 'what does the process of knowing consist in?' at least suggests that knowing can be resolved into and stated in terms of something else. in this respect it resembles the modern phrase '_theory_ of knowledge'. moreover, since it is plain that in knowing we are active, the question is apt to assume the form, 'what do we _do_ when we know or think?' and since one of the commonest forms of doing something is to perform a physical operation on physical things, whereby we effect a recombination of them on some plan, it is natural to try to resolve knowing into this kind of doing, i. e. into making in a wide sense of the word. in the second place, kant never relaxed his hold upon the thing in itself. consequently, there always remained for him a reality which existed in itself and was not made by us. this was to him the fundamental reality, and the proper object of knowledge, although unfortunately inaccessible to _our_ faculties of knowing. hence to kant it did not seriously matter that an inferior reality, viz. the phenomenal world, was made by us in the process of knowing. in the third place, it is difficult, if not impossible, to read the _deduction_ without realizing that kant failed to distinguish knowing from that formation of mental imagery which accompanies knowing. the process of synthesis, if it is even to seem to constitute knowledge and to involve the validity of the categories, must really be a process by which we construct, and recognize our construction of, an individual reality in nature out of certain physical data. nevertheless, it is plain that what kant normally describes as the process of synthesis is really the process by which we construct an imaginary picture of a reality in nature not present to perception, i. e. by which we imagine to ourselves what it would look like if we were present to perceive it. this is implied by his continued use of the terms 'reproduction' and 'imagination' in describing the synthesis. to be aware of an object of past perception, it is necessary, according to him, that the object should be _re_produced. it is thereby implied that the object of our present awareness is not the object of past perception, but a mental image which copies or reproduces it. the same implication is conveyed by his use of the term 'imagination' to describe the faculty by which the synthesis is effected; for 'imagination' normally means the power of making a mental image of something not present to perception, and this interpretation is confirmed by kant's own description of the imagination as 'the faculty of representing an object even without its presence in perception'.[ ] further, that kant really fails to distinguish the construction of mental imagery from literal construction is shown by the fact that, although he insists that the formation of an image and reproduction are both necessary for knowledge, he does not consistently adhere to this. for his general view is that the elements combined and recognized as combined are the original data of sense, and not reproductions of them which together form an image, and his instances imply that the elements retained in thought, i. e. the elements of which we are aware subsequently to perception, are the elements originally perceived, e. g. the parts of a line or the units counted.[ ] moreover, in one passage kant definitely describes certain _objects_ of _perception_ taken together as an _image_ of that 'kind' of which, when taken together, they are an instance. "if i place five points one after another, . . . . . this is an image of the number five."[ ] now, if it be granted that kant has in mind normally the process of imagining, we can see why he found no difficulty in the thought of knowledge as construction. for while we cannot reasonably speak of making _an object of knowledge_, we can reasonably speak of making _a mental image_ through our own activity, and also of making it in accordance with the categories and the empirical laws which presuppose them. moreover, the ease with which it is possible to take the imagining which accompanies knowing for knowing[ ]--the image formed being taken to be the object known and the forming it being taken to be the knowing it--renders it easy to transfer the thought of construction to the knowledge itself. the only defect, however, under which the view labours is the important one that, whatever be the extent to which imagination must accompany knowledge, it is distinct from knowledge. to realize the difference we have only to notice that the process by which we present to ourselves in imagination realities not present to perception presupposes, and is throughout guided by, the knowledge of them. it should be noted, however, that, although the process of which kant is normally thinking is doubtless that of constructing mental imagery, his real view must be that knowledge consists in constructing a world out of the data of sense, or, more accurately, as his instances show, out of the objects of isolated perceptions, e. g. parts of a line or units to be counted. otherwise the final act of recognition would be an apprehension not of the world of nature, but of an image of it. [ ] b. , m. ; cf. also mah. , a. . [ ] cf. a. - , mah. - . the fact is that the appeal to reproduction is a useless device intended by kant--and by 'empirical psychologists'--to get round the difficulty of allowing that in the apprehension (in memory or otherwise) of a reality not present to perception, we are really aware of the reality. the difficulty is in reality due to a sensationalistic standpoint, avowed or unavowed, and the device is useless, because the assumption has in the end to be made, covertly or otherwise, that we are really aware of the reality in question. [ ] b. , m. . cf. the whole passage b. - , m. - (part quoted pp. - ), and p. . [ ] cf. locke and hume. 'this criticism,' it may be said, 'is too sweeping. it may be true that the process which kant describes is really making in the literal sense and not knowing, but kant's mistake may have been merely that of thinking of the wrong kind of synthesis. for both ordinary language and that of philosophical discussion imply that synthesis plays some part in knowledge. thus we find in ordinary language the phrases '_putting_ and _together_' and ' and _make_ '. even in philosophical discussions we find it said that a complex conception, e. g. gold, is a _synthesis_ of simple conceptions, e. g. yellowness, weight, &c.; that in judgement we _relate_ or _refer_ the predicate to the subject; and that in inference we _construct_ reality, though only mentally or ideally. further, in any case it is by thinking or knowing that the world comes to be _for us_; the more we think, the more of reality there is for us. hence at least the world _for us_ or _our_ world is due to our activity of knowing, and so is in some sense made by us, i. e. by our relating activity.' this position, however, seems in reality to be based on a simple but illegitimate transition, viz. the transition to the assertion that in knowing we relate, or combine, or construct from the assertion that in knowing we recognize as related, or combined, or constructed--the last two terms being retained to preserve the parallelism.[ ] while the latter assertion may be said to be true, although the terms 'combined' and 'constructed' should be rejected as misleading, the former assertion must be admitted to be wholly false, i. e. true in no sense whatever. moreover, the considerations adduced in favour of the position should, it seems, be met by a flat denial of their truth or, if not, of their relevance. for when it is said that _our_ world, or the world _for us_, is due to our activity of thinking, and so is in some sense _made_ by us, all that should be meant is that our _apprehending_ the world as whatever we apprehend it to be _presupposes_ activity on our part. but since the activity is after all only the activity itself of apprehending or knowing, this assertion is only a way of saying that apprehending or knowing is not a condition of mind which can be produced in us _ab extra_, but is something which we have to do for ourselves. nothing is implied to be made. if anything is to be said to be made, it must be not our world but our activity of apprehending the world; but even we and our activity of apprehending the world are not related as maker and thing made. again, to speak of a complex conception, e. g. gold, and to say that it involves a synthesis of simple conceptions by the mind is mere 'conceptualism'. if, as we ought to do, we replace the term 'conception' by 'universal', and speak of gold as a synthesis of universals, any suggestion that the mind performs the synthesis will vanish, for a 'synthesis of universals' will mean simply a connexion of universals. all that is mental is our apprehension of their connexion. again, in judgement we cannot be said to _relate_ predicate to subject. such an assertion would mean either that we relate a conception to a conception, or a conception to a reality[ ], or a reality to a reality; and, on any of these interpretations, it is plainly false. to retain the language of 'relation' or of 'combination' at all, we must say that in judgement we recognize real elements as related or combined. again, when we infer, we do not construct, ideally or otherwise. 'ideal construction'[ ] is a contradiction in terms, unless it refers solely to mental imagining, in which case it is not inference. construction which is not 'ideal', i. e. literal construction, plainly cannot constitute the nature of inference; for inference would cease to be inference, if by it we made, and did not apprehend, a necessity of connexion. again, the phrase ' and _make_ ' does not justify the view that in some sense we 'make' reality. it of course suggests that and are not until they are added, i. e. that the addition makes them .[ ] but the language is only appropriate when we are literally making a group of by physically placing pairs of bodies in one group. where we are counting, we should say merely that and _are_ . lastly, it must be allowed that the use of the phrase 'putting two and two together', to describe an inference from facts not quite obviously connected, is loose and inexact. if we meet a dog with a blood-stained mouth and shortly afterwards see a dead fowl, we may be said to put two and two together and to conclude thereby that the dog killed the fowl. but, strictly speaking, in drawing the inference we do not put anything together. we certainly do not put together the facts that the mouth of the dog is blood-stained and that the fowl has just been killed. we do not even put the premises together, i. e. our apprehensions of these facts. what takes place should be described by saying simply that seeing that the fowl is killed, we also remember that the dog's mouth was stained, and then apprehend a connexion between these facts. [ ] cf. caird, i. , where dr. caird speaks of 'the distinction of the activity of thought from the matter which it _combines or recognizes as combined_ in the idea of an object'. (the italics are mine.) the context seems to indicate that the phrase is meant to express the truth, and not merely kant's view. [ ] cf. the account of judgement in mr. bradley's _logic_. [ ] cf. the account of inference in mr. bradley's _logic_. [ ] cf. bradley, _logic_, pp. and . the fact seems to be that the thought of synthesis in no way helps to elucidate the nature of knowing, and that the mistake in principle which underlies kant's view lies in the implicit supposition that it is possible to elucidate the nature of knowledge by means of something other than itself. knowledge is _sui generis_ and therefore a 'theory' of it is impossible. knowledge is simply knowledge, and any attempt to state it in terms of something else must end in describing something which is not knowledge.[ ] [ ] cf. p. . chapter x the schematism of the categories as has already been pointed out,[ ] the _analytic_ is divided into two parts, the _analytic of conceptions_, of which the aim is to discover and vindicate the validity of the categories, and the _analytic of principles_, of which the aim is to determine the use of the categories in judgement. the latter part, which has now to be considered, is subdivided into two. it has, according to kant, firstly to determine the sensuous conditions under which the categories are used, and secondly to discover the _a priori_ principles involved in the categories, as exercised under these sensuous conditions, such, for instance, as the law that all changes take place according to the law of cause and effect. the first problem is dealt with in the chapter on the 'schematism of the pure conceptions of the understanding', the second in the chapter on the 'system of all principles of the pure understanding'. [ ] p. . we naturally feel a preliminary difficulty with respect to the existence of this second part of the _analytic_ at all. it seems clear that if the first part is successful, the second must be unnecessary. for if kant is in a position to lay down that the categories must apply to objects, no special conditions of their application need be subsequently determined. if, for instance, it can be laid down that the category of quantity must apply to objects, it is implied either that there are no special conditions of its application, or that they have already been discovered and shown to exist. again, to assert the applicability of the categories is really to assert the existence of principles, and in fact of just those principles which it is the aim of the _system of principles_ to prove. thus to assert the applicability of the categories of quantity and of cause and effect is to assert respectively the principles that all objects of perception are extensive quantities, and that all changes take place according to the law of cause and effect. the _deduction of the categories_ therefore, if successful, must have already proved the principles now to be vindicated; and it is a matter for legitimate surprise that we find kant in the _system of principles_ giving proofs of these principles which make no appeal to the _deduction of the categories_.[ ] on the other hand, for the existence of the account of the schematism of the categories kant has a better show of reason. for the conceptions derived in the _metaphysical deduction_ from the nature of formal judgement are in themselves too abstract to be the conceptions which are to be shown applicable to the sensible world, since all the latter involve the thought of time. thus, the conception of cause and effect derived from the nature of the hypothetical judgement includes no thought of time, while the conception of which he wishes to show the validity is that of necessary succession in time. hence the conceptions discovered by analysis of formal judgement have in some way to be rendered more concrete in respect of time. the account of the schematism, therefore, is an attempt to get out of the false position reached by appealing to formal logic for the list of categories. nevertheless, the mention of a sensuous condition under which alone the categories can be employed[ ] should have suggested to kant that the transcendental deduction was defective, and, in fact, in the second version of the transcendental deduction two paragraphs[ ] are inserted which take account of this sensuous condition. [ ] the cause of kant's procedure is, of course, to be found in the unreal way in which he isolates conception from judgement. [ ] b. , m. . [ ] b. §§ and , m. §§ and . the beginning of kant's account of schematism may be summarized thus: 'whenever we subsume an individual object of a certain kind, e. g. a plate, under a conception, e. g. a circle, the object and the conception must be homogeneous, that is to say, the individual must possess the characteristic which constitutes the conception, or, in other words, must be an instance of it. pure conceptions, however, and empirical perceptions, i. e. objects of empirical perception, are quite heterogeneous. we do not, for instance, perceive cases of cause and effect. hence the problem arises, 'how is it possible to subsume objects of empirical perception under pure conceptions?' the possibility of this subsumption presupposes a _tertium quid_, which is homogeneous both with the object of empirical perception and with the conception, and so makes the subsumption mediately possible. this _tertium quid_ must be, on the one side, intellectual and, on the other side, sensuous. it is to be found in a 'transcendental determination of time', i. e. a conception involving time and involved in experience. for in the first place this is on the one side intellectual and on the other sensuous, and in the second place it is so far homogeneous with the category which constitutes its unity that it is universal and rests on an _a priori_ rule, and so far homogeneous with the phenomenon that all phenomena are in time[ ]. such transcendental determinations of time are the schemata of the pure conceptions of the understanding.' kant continues as follows: [ ] it may be noted that the argument here really fails. for though phenomena as involving temporal relations, might possibly be said to be instances of a transcendental determination of time, the fact that the latter agrees with the corresponding category by being universal and _a priori_ does not constitute it homogeneous with the category, in the sense required for subsumption, viz. that it is an instance of or a species of the category. "the schema is in itself always a mere product of the imagination. but since the synthesis of the imagination has for its aim no single perception, but merely unity in the determination of the sensibility, the schema should be distinguished from the image. thus, if i place five points one after another, . . . . . this is an image of the number five. on the other hand, if i only just think a number in general--no matter what it may be, five or a hundred--this thinking is rather the representation of a method of representing in an image a group (e. g. a thousand), in conformity with a certain conception, than the image itself, an image which, in the instance given, i should find difficulty in surveying and comparing with the conception. now this representation of a general procedure of the imagination to supply its image to a conception, i call the schema of this conception." "the fact is that it is not images of objects, but schemata, which lie at the foundation of our pure sensuous conceptions. no image could ever be adequate to our conception of a triangle in general. for it would not attain the generality of the conception which makes it valid for all triangles, whether right-angled, acute-angled, &c., but would always be limited to one part only of this sphere. the schema of the triangle can exist nowhere else than in thought, and signifies a rule of the synthesis of the imagination in regard to pure figures in space. an object of experience or an image of it always falls short of the empirical conception to a far greater degree than does the schema; the empirical conception always relates immediately to the schema of the imagination as a rule for the determination of our perception in conformity with a certain general conception. the conception of 'dog' signifies a rule according to which my imagination can draw the general outline of the figure of a four-footed animal, without being limited to any particular single form which experience presents to me, or indeed to any possible image that i can represent to myself _in concreto_. this schematism of our understanding in regard to phenomena and their mere form is an art hidden in the depths of the human soul, whose true modes of action we are not likely ever to discover from nature and unveil. thus much only can we say: the _image_ is a product of the empirical faculty of the productive imagination, while the _schema_ of sensuous conceptions (such as of figures in space) is a product and, as it were, a monogram of the pure _a priori_ imagination, through which, and according to which, images first become possible, though the images must be connected with the conception only by means of the schema which they express, and are in themselves not fully adequate to it. on the other hand, the schema of a pure conception of the understanding is something which cannot be brought to an image; on the contrary, it is only the pure synthesis in accordance with a rule of unity according to conceptions in general, a rule of unity which the category expresses, and it is a transcendental product of the imagination which concerns the determination of the inner sense in general according to conditions of its form (time) with reference to all representations, so far as these are to be connected _a priori_ in one conception according to the unity of apperception."[ ] [ ] b. - , m. - . now, in order to determine whether schemata can constitute the desired link between the pure conceptions or categories and the manifold of sense, it is necessary to follow closely this account of a schema. kant unquestionably in this passage treats as a mental image related to a conception what really is, and what on his own theory ought to have been, an individual object related to a conception, i. e. an instance of it. in other words, he takes a mental image of an individual for the individual itself.[ ] on the one hand, he treats a schema of a conception throughout as the thought of a procedure of the imagination to present to the conception its _image_, and he opposes schemata not to objects but to _images_; on the other hand, his problem concerns subsumption under a conception, and what is subsumed must be an instance of the conception, i. e. an individual object of the kind in question.[ ] again, in asserting that if i place five points one after another, . . . . . this is an image of the number five, he is actually saying that an individual group of five points is an image of a group of five in general.[ ] further, if the process of schematizing is to enter--as it must--into knowledge of the phenomenal world, what kant here speaks of as the images related to a conception must be taken to be individual instances of the conception, whatever his language may be. for, in order to enter into knowledge, the process referred to must be that by which _objects of experience_ are constructed. hence the passage should be interpreted as if throughout there had been written for 'image' 'individual instance' or more simply 'instance'. again, the process of schematizing, although _introduced_ simply as a process by which an individual is to be subsumed indirectly under a conception, is assumed in the passage quoted to be a process of _synthesis_. hence we may say that the process of schematizing is a process by which we combine the manifold of perception into an individual whole in accordance with a conception, and that the schema of a conception is the thought of the rule of procedure on our part by which we combine the manifold in accordance with the conception, and so bring the manifold under the conception. thus the schema of the conception of is the thought of a process of synthesis by which we combine say groups of units into , and the schematizing of the conception of is the process by which we do so. here it is essential to notice three points. in the first place, the schema is a conception which relates not to the reality apprehended but to us. it is the thought of a rule of procedure on our part by which an instance of a conception is constructed, and not the thought of a characteristic of the reality constructed. for instance, the thought of a rule by which we can combine points to make is a thought which concerns us and not the points; it is only the conception corresponding to this schema, viz. the thought of , which concerns the points. in the second place, although the thought of time is involved in the schema, the succession in question lies not in the object, but in our act of construction or apprehension. in the third place, the schema presupposes the corresponding conception and the process of schematizing directly brings the manifold of perception under the conception. thus the thought of combining groups of units to make presupposes the thought of , and the process of combination brings the units under the conception of . [ ] cf. pp. - . the mistake is, of course, facilitated by the fact that 'objects in nature', being for kant only 'appearances', resemble mental images more closely than they do as usually conceived. [ ] cf. b. , m. . that individuals are really referred to is also implied in the assertion that 'the synthesis of imagination has for its aim no single _perception_, but merely unity in the determination of sensibility'. (the italics are mine.) [ ] two sentences treat individual objects and images as if they might be mentioned indifferently. "an object of experience or an image of it always falls short of the empirical conception to a far greater degree than does the schema." "the conception of a 'dog' signifies a rule according to which my imagination can draw the general outline of the figure of a four-footed animal without being limited to any single particular form which experience presents to me, or indeed to any possible image that i can represent to myself _in concreto_." if, however, we go on to ask what is required of schemata and of the process of schematizing, if they are to enable the manifold to be subsumed under the categories, we see that each of these three characteristics makes it impossible for them to fulfil this purpose. for firstly, an individual manifold a has to be brought under a category b. since _ex hypothesi_ this cannot be effected directly, there is needed a mediating conception c. c, therefore, it would seem, must be at once a species of b and a conception of which a is an instance. in any case c must be a conception relating to the reality to be known, and not to any process of knowing on our part, and, again, it must be more concrete than b. this is borne out by the list of the schemata of the categories. but, although a schema may be said to be more concrete than the corresponding conception, in that it presupposes the conception, it neither is nor involves a more concrete conception of an _object_ and in fact, as has been pointed out, relates not to the reality to be known but to the process on our part by which we construct or apprehend it.[ ] in the second place, the time in respect of which the category b has to be made more concrete must relate to the object, and not to the successive process by which we apprehend it, whereas the time involved in a schema concerns the latter and not the former. in the third place, from the point of view of the categories, the process of schematizing should be a process whereby we combine the manifold into a whole a in accordance with the conception c, and thereby render _possible_ the subsumption of a under the category b. if it be a process which actually subsumes the manifold under b, it will _actually_ perform that, the very impossibility of which has made it necessary to postulate such a process at all. for, according to kant, it is just the fact that the manifold cannot be subsumed directly under the categories that renders schematism necessary. yet, on kant's general account of a schema, the schematizing must actually bring a manifold under the corresponding conception. if we present to ourselves an individual triangle by successively joining three lines according to the conception of a triangle, i. e. so that they enclose a space, we are directly bringing the manifold, i. e. the lines, under the conception of a triangle. again, if we present to ourselves an instance of a group of by combining groups of units of any kind, we are directly bringing the units under the conception of . if this consideration be applied to the schematism of a category, we see that the process said to be necessary because a certain other process is impossible is the very process said to be impossible. [ ] it may be objected that, from kant's point of view, the thought of a rule of construction, and the thought of the principle of the whole to be constructed, are the same thing from different points of view. but if this be insisted on, the schema and its corresponding conception become the same thing regarded from different points of view; consequently the schema will not be a more concrete conception of an object than the corresponding conception, but it will be the conception itself. if, therefore, kant succeeds in finding schemata of the categories in detail in the sense in which they are required for the solution of his problem, i. e. in the sense of more concrete conceptions involving the thought of time and relating to objects, we should expect either that he ignores his general account of a schema, or that if he appeals to it, the appeal is irrelevant. this we find to be the case. his account of the first two transcendental schemata makes a wholly irrelevant appeal to the temporal process of synthesis on our part, while his account of the remaining schemata makes no attempt to appeal to it at all. "the pure _schema_ of _quantity_, as a conception of the understanding, is _number_, a representation which comprises the successive addition of one to one (homogeneous elements). accordingly, number is nothing else than the unity of the synthesis of the manifold of a homogeneous perception in general, in that i generate time itself in the apprehension of the perception."[ ] [ ] b. , m. . it is clear that this passage, whatever its precise interpretation may be,[ ] involves a confusion between the thought of counting and that of number. the thought of number relates to objects of apprehension and does not involve the thought of time. the thought of counting, which presupposes the thought of number, relates to our apprehension of objects and involves the thought of time; it is the thought of a successive process on our part by which we count the number of units contained in what we already know to consist of units.[ ] now we must assume that the schema of quantity is really what kant says it is, viz. number, or to express it more accurately, the thought of number, and not the thought of counting, with which he wrongly identifies it. for his main problem is to find conceptions which at once are more concrete than the categories and, at the same time, like the categories, relate to objects, and the thought of counting, though more concrete than that of number, does not relate to objects. three consequences follow. in the first place, although the schema of quantity, i. e. the thought of number, is more concrete than the thought of quantity,[ ] it is not, as it should be, more concrete in respect of time; for the thought of number does not include the thought of time. secondly, the thought of time is only introduced into the schema of quantity irrelevantly by reference to the temporal process of _counting_, by which we come to apprehend the number of a given group of units. thirdly, the schema of quantity is only in appearance connected with the nature of a schema in general, as kant describes it, by a false identification of the thought of number with the thought of the process on our part by which we count groups of units, i. e. numbers. [ ] the drift of the passage would seem to be this: 'if we are to present to ourselves an instance of a quantity, we must successively combine similar units until they form a quantity. this process involves the thought of a successive process by which we add units according to the conception of a quantity. this thought is the thought of number, and since by it we present to ourselves an instance of a quantity, it is the schema of quantity.' but if this be its drift, considerations of sense demand that it should be rewritten, at least to the following extent: 'if we are to present to ourselves an instance of a _particular_ quantity [which will really be a particular number, for it must be regarded as discrete, (cf. b. , m. fin., init.)] e. g. three, we must successively combine units until they form _that_ quantity. this process involves the thought of a successive process, by which we add units according to the conception of _that_ quantity. this thought is the thought of a particular number, and since by it we present to ourselves an instance of _that_ quantity, this thought is the schema of _that_ quantity.' if this rewriting be admitted to be necessary, it must be allowed that kant has confused (_a_) the thoughts of particular quantities and of particular numbers with those of quantity and of number in general respectively, (_b_) the thought of a particular quantity with that of a particular number (for the process referred to presupposes that the particular quantity taken is known to consist of a number of equal units) and (_c_) the thought of counting with that of number. [ ] this statement is, of course, not meant as a definition of counting, but as a means of bringing out the distinction between a process of counting and a number. [ ] for the thought of a number is the thought of a quantity of a special kind, viz. of a quantity made up of a number of similar units without remainder. the account of the schema of reality, the second category, runs as follows: "reality is in the pure conception of the understanding that which corresponds to a sensation in general, that therefore of which the conception in itself indicates a being (in time), while negation is that of which the conception indicates a not being (in time). their opposition, therefore, arises in the distinction between one and the same time as filled or empty. since time is only the form of perception, consequently of objects as phenomena, that which in objects corresponds to sensation is the transcendental matter of all objects as things in themselves (thinghood, reality).[ ] now every sensation has a degree or magnitude by which it can fill the same time, i. e. the internal sense, in respect of the same representation of an object, more or less, until it vanishes into nothing ( = = _negatio_). there is, therefore, a relation and connexion between reality and negation, or rather a transition from the former to the latter, which makes every reality representable as a _quantum_; and the schema of a reality, as the quantity of something so far as it fills time, is just this continuous and uniform generation of the reality in time, as we descend in time from the sensation which has a certain degree, down to the vanishing thereof, or gradually ascend from negation to the magnitude thereof."[ ] [ ] it is difficult to see how kant could meet the criticism that here, contrary to his intention, he is treating physical objects as things in themselves. cf. p. . [ ] b. - , m. - . this passage, if it be taken in connexion with the account of the anticipations of perception,[ ] seems to have the following meaning: 'in thinking of something as a reality, we think of it as that which corresponds to, i. e. produces, a sensation, and therefore as something which, like the sensation, is in time; and just as every sensation, which, as such, occupies time, has a certain degree of intensity, so has the reality which produces it. now to produce for ourselves an instance of a reality in this sense, we must add units of reality till a reality of the required degree is produced, and the thought of this method on our part of constructing an individual reality is the schema of reality.' but if this represents kant's meaning, the schema of reality relates only to our process of apprehension, and therefore is not a conception which relates to objects and is more concrete than the corresponding category in respect of time. moreover, it is matter for surprise that in the case of this category kant should have thought schematism necessary, for time is actually included in his own statement of the category. [ ] b. - , m. - . the account of the schemata of the remaining categories need not be considered. it merely _asserts_ that certain conceptions relating to objects and involving the thought of time are the schemata corresponding to the remaining categories, without any attempt to connect them with the nature of a schema. thus, the schema of substance is asserted to be the _permanence_ of the real _in time_, that of cause the _succession_ of the manifold, in so far as that succession is subjected to a rule, that of interaction the _coexistence_ of the determinations or accidents of one substance with those of another according to a universal rule.[ ] again, the schemata of possibility, of actuality and of necessity are said to be respectively the accordance of the synthesis of representations with the conditions of time in general, existence in a determined time, and existence of an object in all time. [ ] the italics are mine. the main confusion pervading the chapter is of course that between temporal relations which concern the process of apprehension and temporal relations which concern the realities apprehended. kant is continually referring to the former as if they were the latter. the cause of this confusion lies in kant's reduction of physical realities to representations. since, according to him, these realities are only our representations, all temporal relations are really relations of our representations, and these relations have to be treated at one time as relations of our apprehensions, and at another as relations of the realities apprehended, as the context requires. chapter xi the mathematical principles as has been pointed out,[ ] the aim of the second part of the _analytic of principles_ is to determine the _a priori_ principles involved in the use of the categories under the necessary sensuous conditions. these principles kant divides into four classes, corresponding to the four groups of categories, and he calls them respectively 'axioms of perception', 'anticipations of sense-perception', 'analogies of experience', and 'postulates of empirical thought'. the first two and the last two classes are grouped together as 'mathematical' and 'dynamical' respectively, on the ground that the former group concerns the perception of objects, i. e. their nature apprehended in perception, while the latter group concerns their existence, and that consequently, since assertions concerning the existence of objects presuppose the realization of empirical conditions which assertions concerning their nature do not, only the former possesses an absolute necessity and an immediate evidence such as is found in mathematics.[ ] [ ] p. . [ ] the assertion that all perceptions (i. e. all objects of perception) are extensive quantities relates, according to kant, to the nature of objects, while the assertion that an event must have a necessary antecedent affirms that such an antecedent must exist, but gives no clue to its specific nature. compare "but the existence of phenomena cannot be known _a priori_, and although we could be led in this way to infer the fact of some existence, we should not know this existence determinately, i. e. we could not anticipate the respect in which the empirical perception of it differed from that of other existences". (b. , m. ). kant seems to think that the fact that the dynamical principles relate to the existence of objects is a sufficient justification of their name. it needs but little reflection to see that the distinctions which kant draws between the mathematical and the dynamical principles must break down. these two groups of principles are not, as their names might suggest, principles within mathematics and physics, but presuppositions of mathematics and physics respectively. kant also claims appropriateness for the special terms used of each minor group to indicate the kind of principles in question, viz. 'axioms', 'anticipations', 'analogies', 'postulates'. but it may be noted as an indication of the artificiality of the scheme that each of the first two groups contains only one principle, although kant refers to them in the plural as axioms and anticipations respectively, and although the existence of three categories corresponding to each group would suggest the existence of three principles. the axiom of perception is that 'all perceptions are extensive quantities'. the proof of it runs thus: "an extensive quantity i call that in which the representation of the parts renders possible the representation of the whole (and therefore necessarily precedes it). i cannot represent to myself any line, however small it may be, without drawing it in thought, that is, without generating from a point all its parts one after another, and thereby first drawing this perception. precisely the same is the case with every, even the smallest, time.... since the pure perception in all phenomena is either time or space, every phenomenon as a perception is an extensive quantity, because it can be known in apprehension only by a successive synthesis (of part with part). all phenomena, therefore, are already perceived as aggregates (groups of previously given parts), which is not the case with quantities of every kind, but only with those which are represented and apprehended by us as _extensive_."[ ] [ ] b. - , m. . kant opposes an extensive quantity to an intensive quantity or a quantity which has a degree. "that quantity which is apprehended only as unity and in which plurality can be represented only by approximation to negation = , i call _intensive quantity_."[ ] the aspect of this ultimate distinction which underlies kant's mode of stating it is that only an extensive quantity is a whole, i. e. something made up of parts. thus a mile can be said to be made up of two half-miles, but a velocity of one foot per second, though comparable with a velocity of half a foot per second, cannot be said to be made up of two such velocities; it is essentially one and indivisible. hence, from kant's point of view, it follows that it is only an extensive magnitude which can, and indeed must, be apprehended through a successive synthesis of the parts. the proof of the axiom seems to be simply this: 'all phenomena as objects of perception are subject to the forms of perception, space and time. space and time are [homogeneous manifolds, and therefore] extensive quantities, only to be apprehended by a successive synthesis of the parts. hence phenomena, or objects of experience, must also be extensive quantities, to be similarly apprehended.' and kant goes on to add that it is for this reason that geometry and pure mathematics generally apply to objects of experience. [ ] b. , m. . we need only draw attention to three points. firstly, no justification is given of the term 'axiom'. secondly, the argument does not really appeal to the doctrine of the categories, but only to the character of space and time as forms of perception. thirdly, it need not appeal to space and time as forms of perception in the proper sense of ways in which we apprehend objects, but only in the sense of ways in which objects are related[ ]; in other words, it need not appeal to kant's theory of knowledge. the conclusion follows simply from the nature of objects as spatially and temporally related, whether they are phenomena or not. it may be objected that kant's thesis is that _all_ objects of perception are extensive quantities, and that unless space and time are allowed to be ways in which _we must perceive_ objects, we cannot say that all objects will be spatially and temporally related, and so extensive quantities. but to this it may be replied that it is only true that all objects of perception are extensive quantities if the term 'object of perception' be restricted to parts of the physical world, i. e. to just those realities which kant is thinking of as spatially and temporally related,[ ] and that this restriction is not justified, since a sensation or a pain which has only intensive quantity is just as much entitled to be called an object of perception. [ ] cf. pp. - . [ ] the context shows that kant is thinking only of such temporal relations as belong to the physical world, and not of those which belong to us as apprehending it. cf. p. . the anticipation of sense-perception consists in the principle that 'in all phenomena, the real, which is an object of sensation, has intensive magnitude, i. e. a degree'. the proof is stated thus: "apprehension merely by means of sensation fills only one moment (that is, if i do not take into consideration the succession of many sensations). sensation, therefore, as that in the phenomenon the apprehension of which is not a successive synthesis advancing from parts to a complete representation, has no extensive quantity; the lack of sensation in one and the same moment would represent it as empty, consequently = . now that which in the empirical perception corresponds to sensation is reality (_realitas phaenomenon_); that which corresponds to the lack of it is negation = . but every sensation is capable of a diminution, so that it can decrease and thus gradually vanish. therefore, between reality in the phenomenon and negation there exists a continuous connexion of many possible intermediate sensations, the difference of which from each other is always smaller than that between the given sensation and zero, or complete negation. that is to say, the real in the phenomenon has always a quantity, which, however, is not found in apprehension, since apprehension takes place by means of mere sensation in one moment and not by a successive synthesis of many sensations, and therefore does not proceed from parts to the whole. consequently, it has a quantity, but not an extensive quantity." "now that quantity which is apprehended only as unity, and in which plurality can be represented only by approximation to negation = , i call an _intensive quantity_. every reality, therefore, in a phenomenon has intensive quantity, that is, a degree."[ ] [ ] b. - , m. . in other words, 'we can lay down _a priori_ that all sensations have a certain degree of intensity, and that between a sensation of a given intensity and the total absence of sensation there is possible an infinite number of sensations varying in intensity from nothing to that degree of intensity. therefore the real, which corresponds to sensation, can also be said _a priori_ to admit of an infinite variety of degree.' though the principle established is of little intrinsic importance, the account of it is noticeable for two reasons. in the first place, although kant clearly means by the 'real corresponding to sensation' a body in space, and regards it as a phenomenon, it is impossible to see how he can avoid the charge that he in fact treats it as a thing in itself.[ ] for the correspondence must consist in the fact that the real causes or excites sensation in us, and therefore the real, i. e. a body in space, is implied to be a thing in itself. in fact, kant himself speaks of considering the real in the phenomenon as the cause of sensation,[ ] and, in a passage added in the second edition, after proving that sensation must have an intensive quantity, he says that, corresponding to the intensive quantity of sensation, an intensive quantity, i. e. _a degree of influence on sense_, must be attributed to all objects of sense-perception.[ ] the difficulty of consistently maintaining that the real, which corresponds to sensation, is a phenomenon is, of course, due to the impossibility of distinguishing between reality and appearance within phenomena.[ ] [ ] cf. p. note. [ ] b. , m. . [ ] b. , m. . the italics are mine. cf. from the same passage, "phenomena contain, over and above perception, the materials for some object (through which is represented something existing in space and time), i. e. they contain the real of sensation as a merely subjective representation of which we can only become conscious that _the subject is affected_, and which we relate _to an object in general_." (the italics are mine.) [ ] cf. pp. - . in the second place, kant expressly allows that in this anticipation we succeed in discovering _a priori_ a characteristic of sensation, although sensation constitutes that empirical element in phenomena, which on kant's general view cannot be apprehended _a priori_. "nevertheless, this anticipation of sense-perception must always be somewhat surprising to an inquirer who is used to transcendental reflection, and is thereby rendered cautious. it leads us to feel some misgiving as to whether the understanding can anticipate such a synthetic proposition as that respecting the degree of all that is real in phenomena, and consequently respecting the possibility of the internal distinction of sensation itself, if we abstract from its empirical quality. there remains, therefore, a problem not unworthy of solution, viz. 'how can the understanding pronounce synthetically and _a priori_ upon phenomena in this respect, and thus anticipate phenomena even in that which is specially and merely empirical, viz. that which concerns sensations?'"[ ] but although kant recognizes that the anticipation is surprising, he is not led to revise his general theory, as being inconsistent with the existence of the anticipation. he indeed makes an attempt[ ] to deal with the difficulty; but his solution consists not in showing that the anticipation is consistent with his general theory--as he should have done, if the theory was to be retained--but in showing that, in the case of the degree of sensation, we do apprehend the nature of sensation _a priori_. [ ] b. , m. ; cf. b. , m. . [ ] b. - , m. . strangely enough, hume finds himself face to face with what is in principle the same difficulty, and treats it in a not dissimilar way. "there is, however, one contradictory phenomenon, which may prove, that 'tis not absolutely impossible for ideas to go before their correspondent impressions. i believe it will readily be allow'd, that the several distinct ideas of colours, which enter by the eyes, or those of sounds, which are convey'd by the hearing, are really different from each other, tho' at the same time resembling. now if this be true of different colours, it must be no less so of the different shades of the same colour, that each of them produces a distinct idea, independent of the rest. for if this shou'd be deny'd, 'tis possible, by the continual gradation of shades, to run a colour insensibly into what is most remote from it; and if you will not allow any of the means to be different, you cannot without absurdity deny the extremes to be the same. suppose therefore a person to have enjoyed his sight for thirty years, and to have become perfectly well acquainted with colours of all kinds, excepting one particular shade of blue, for instance, which it never has been his fortune to meet with. let all the different shades of that colour, except that single one, be plac'd before him, descending gradually from the deepest to the lightest; 'tis plain that he will perceive a blank, where that shade is wanting, and will be sensible, that there is a greater distance in that place betwixt the contiguous colours, than in any other. now i ask, whether 'tis possible for him, from his own imagination, to supply this deficiency, and raise up to himself the idea of that particular shade, tho' it had never been conveyed to him by his senses? i believe there are few but will be of opinion that he can; and this may serve as a proof, that the simple ideas are not always derived from the correspondent impressions; tho' the instance is so particular and singular, that 'tis scarce worth our observing, and does not merit that for it alone we should alter our general maxim."[ ] [ ] hume, _treatise_, bk. i, part , § . chapter xii the analogies of experience each of the three categories of relation, i. e. those of substance and accident, of cause and effect, and of interaction between agent and patient involves, according to kant, a special principle, and these special principles he calls 'analogies of experience'. they are stated thus:[ ] ( ) in all changes of phenomena the substance is permanent, and its quantity in nature is neither increased nor diminished. ( ) all changes take place according to the law of the connexion of cause and effect. ( ) all substances, so far as they can be perceived in space as coexistent, are in complete interaction. the justification of the term _analogy_ of experience is as follows. in mathematics an analogy is a formula which asserts the equality of two _quantitative_ relations, and is such that, if three of the terms are given, we can discover the fourth, e. g. if we know that _a_ : _b_ = _c_ : _d_, and that _a_ = , _b_ = , _c_ = we can discover that _d_ = . but in philosophy an analogy is the assertion of the equality of two _qualitative_ relations and is such that, if three of the terms are given, we can discover, not the fourth, but only the relation of the third to the fourth, though at the same time we are furnished with a clue whereby to search for the fourth in experience. in this philosophical sense, the principles involved in the categories of relation are analogies. for instance, the principles of causality can be stated in the form 'any known event _x_ is to _some other_ event _y_, whatever it be, as effect to cause'; so stated, it clearly informs us not of the character of _y_ but only of the fact that there must be a _y_, i. e. a necessary antecedent, though at the same time this knowledge enables us to search in experience for the special character of _y_. [ ] the formulation of them in the first edition is slightly different. the principles to be established relate to the two kinds of temporal relation apprehended in the world of nature, viz. coexistence and succession. the _method_ of proof, which is to be gathered from the proofs themselves rather than from kant's general remarks[ ] on the subject, is the same in each case. kant expressly rejects any proof which is 'dogmatical' or 'from conceptions', e. g. any attempt to show that the very conception of change presupposes the thought of an identical subject of change.[ ] the proof is transcendental in character, i. e. it argues that the principle to be established is a condition of the possibility of _apprehending_ the temporal relation in question, e. g. that the existence of a permanent subject of change is presupposed in any _apprehension_ of change. it assumes that we become aware of sequences and coexistences in the world of nature by a process which begins with a succession of mere perceptions, i. e. perceptions which are so far not the perceptions of a sequence or of a coexistence or indeed of anything;[ ] and it seeks to show that this process involves an appeal to one of the principles in question--the particular principle involved depending on the temporal relation apprehended--and consequently, that since we do apprehend this temporal relation, which, as belonging to the world of nature, must be distinct from any temporal relation of our perceptions, the principle appealed to is valid. [ ] b. - , m. - ; and b. - , m. - . [ ] b. - , m. - ; b. , m. - . [ ] this assumption is of course analogous to the assumption which underlies the _transcendental deduction of the categories_, that knowledge begins with the successive origination in us of isolated data of sense. the proof of the first analogy is given somewhat differently in the first edition, and in a passage added in the second. the earlier version, which is a better expression of the attitude underlying kant's general remarks on the analogy, is as follows: "our _apprehension_ of the manifold of a phenomenon is always successive, and is therefore always changing. by it alone, therefore, we can never determine whether this manifold, as an object of experience, is coexistent or successive, unless there lies at the base of it something that exists _always_, that is, something _enduring_ and _permanent_, of which all succession and coexistence are nothing but so many ways (_modi_ of time) in which the permanent exists. only in the permanent, then, are time relations possible (for simultaneity and succession are the only relations in time); i. e. the permanent is the _substratum_ of the empirical representation of time itself, in which alone all time-determination is possible. permanence expresses in general time, as the persisting correlate of all existence of phenomena, of all change, and of all concomitance.... only through the permanent does _existence_ in different parts of the successive series of time gain a _quantity_ which we call _duration_. for, in mere succession, existence is always vanishing and beginning, and never has the least quantity. without this permanent, then, no time relation is possible. now, time in itself cannot be perceived[ ]; consequently this permanent in phenomena is the substratum of all time-determination, and therefore also the condition of the possibility of all synthetic unity of sense-perceptions, that is, of experience, and in this permanent all existence and all change in time can only be regarded as a mode of the existence of that which endures and is permanent. therefore in all phenomena the permanent is the object itself, i. e. the substance (_phenomenon_); but all that changes or can change belongs only to the way in which this substance or substances exist, consequently to their determinations."[ ] "accordingly since substance cannot change in existence, its quantity in nature can neither be increased nor diminished."[ ] the argument becomes plainer if it be realized that in the interval between the two editions, kant came to think that the permanent in question was matter or bodies in space.[ ] "we find that in order to give something _permanent_ in perception corresponding to the conception of _substance_ (and thereby to exhibit the objective reality of this conception), we need a perception _in space_ (of matter), because space alone has permanent determinations, while time, and consequently everything which is in the internal sense, is continually flowing."[ ] [ ] _wahrgenommen._ [ ] a. - and b. - , m. - . this formulation of the conclusion is adapted only to the form in which the first analogy is stated in the first edition, viz. "all phenomena contain the permanent (_substance_) as the object itself and the changeable as its mere determination, i. e. as a way in which the object exists." hence a sentence from the conclusion of the proof added in the second edition is quoted to elucidate kant's meaning; its doctrine is as legitimate a conclusion of the argument given in the first edition as of that peculiar to the second. [ ] b. , m. . [ ] cf. caird, i. - . [ ] b. , m. (in nd ed. only). cf. b. fin.- init., m. (in nd ed. only). kant's thought appears to be as follows: 'our apprehension of the manifold consists of a series of successive acts in which we apprehend its elements one by one and in isolation. this apprehension, therefore, does not enable us to determine that its elements are temporally related either as successive or as coexistent.[ ] in order to determine this, we must apprehend the elements of the manifold as related to something permanent. for a succession proper, i. e. a change, is a succession of states or determinations of something permanent or unchanging. a mere succession which is not a succession of states of something which remains identical is an unconnected series of endings and beginnings, and with respect to it, 'duration', which has meaning with regard to changes, i. e. successions proper, has no meaning at all. similarly, coexistence is a coexistence of states of two permanents. hence, to apprehend elements of the manifold as successive or coexistent, we must apprehend them in relation to a permanent or permanents. therefore, to apprehend a coexistence or a succession, we must perceive something permanent. but this permanent something cannot be time, for time cannot be perceived. it must therefore be a permanent in phenomena; and this must be the object itself or the substance of a phenomenon, i. e. the substratum of the changes which it undergoes, or that of which the elements of the manifold are states or modifications.[ ] consequently, there must be a permanent substance of a phenomenon, and the quantity of substances taken together must be constant.' [ ] the account of the first analogy as a whole makes it necessary to think that kant in the first two sentences of the proof quoted does not mean exactly what he says, what he says being due to a desire to secure conformity with his treatment of the second and third analogies. what he _says_ suggests ( ) that he is about to discuss the implications, not of the process by which we come to apprehend the manifold as temporally related in one of the two ways possible, i. e. either as successive or as coexistent, but of the process by which we decide whether the relation of the manifold which we already know to be temporal is that of succession or that of coexistence, and ( ) that the necessity for this process is due to the fact that our _apprehension_ of the manifold is always successive. the context, however, refutes both suggestions, and in any case it is the special function of the processes which involve the second and third analogies to determine the relations of the manifold as that of succession and that of coexistence respectively. [ ] cf. b. , m. (first half). now, if kant's thought has been here represented fairly, it is open to the following comments. in the first place, even if his position be right in the main, kant should not introduce the thought of the _quantity_ of substance, and speak of the quantity as constant. for he thereby implies that in a plurality of substances--if such a plurality can in the end be admitted--there may be total extinction of, or partial loss in, some, if only there be a corresponding compensation in others; whereas such extinction and creation would be inconsistent with the nature of a substance.[ ] even kant himself speaks of having established the impossibility of the origin and extinction of substance.[ ] [ ] i owe this comment to professor cook wilson. [ ] b. - , m. fin. in the second place, it is impossible to see how it can be legitimate for kant to speak of a permanent substratum of change at all.[ ] for phenomena or appearances neither are nor imply the substratum of which kant is thinking. they might be held to imply ourselves as the identical substratum of which they are successive states, but this view would be irrelevant to, if not inconsistent with, kant's doctrine. it is all very well to _say_ that the substratum is to be found in matter, i. e. in bodies in space,[ ] but the assertion is incompatible with the phenomenal character of the world; for the sensations or appearances produced in us by the thing in itself cannot be successive states of bodies in space. in the third place, in spite of kant's protests against any proof which is 'dogmatical' or 'from conceptions', such a proof really forms the basis of his thought. for if the argument is to proceed not from the nature of change as such but from the possibility of perceiving change, it must not take into account any implications of the possibility of perceiving change which rest upon implications of the nature of change as such. yet this is what the argument does. for the reason really given for the view that the apprehension of change involves the apprehension of the manifold as related to a permanent substratum is that a change, as such, implies a permanent substratum. it is only because change is held to imply a substratum that we are said to be able to apprehend a change only in relation to a substratum. moreover, shortly afterwards, kant, apparently without realizing what he is doing, actually uses what is, on the very face of it, the dogmatic method, and in accordance with it develops the implications of the perception of change. "upon this permanence is based the justification of the conception of _change_. coming into being and perishing are not changes of that which comes to be or perishes. change is but a mode of existence, which follows on another mode of existence of the same object. hence everything which changes _endures_ and only its _condition changes_.... change, therefore, can be perceived only in substances, and absolute coming to be or perishing, which does not concern merely a determination of the permanent, cannot be a possible perception."[ ] surely the fact that kant is constrained in spite of himself to use the dogmatic method is some indication that it is the right method. it is in reality impossible to make any discoveries about change, or indeed about anything, except by consideration of the nature of the thing itself; no study of the conditions under which it can be apprehended can throw any light upon its nature.[ ] lastly, although the supposition is not so explicit as the corresponding supposition made in the case of the other analogies, kant's argument really assumes, and assumes wrongly, the existence of a process by which, starting with the successive apprehension of elements of the manifold in isolation, we come to apprehend them as temporally related. [ ] the term 'permanent' is retained to conform to kant's language. strictly speaking, only a state of that which changes can be said to persist or to be permanent; for the substratum of change is not susceptible of any temporal predicates. cf. p. . [ ] b. , m. . [ ] b. - , m. . [ ] cf. pp. - . the deduction of the second and third analogies argues that the principles of causality and reciprocal action are involved respectively in the processes by which we become aware of successions and of coexistences in the world of nature. from this point of view it would seem that the first analogy is a presupposition of the others, and that the process which involves the first is presupposed by the process which involves the others. it would seem that it is only upon the conclusion of a process by which, beginning with the successive apprehension of elements of the manifold in isolation, we come to apprehend them as _either_ successive or coexistent elements in the world of nature, that there can arise a process by which we come to decide _whether_ the specific relation is that of succession or of coexistence. for if the latter process can take place independently of the former, i. e. if it can start from the successive apprehension of the manifold, the former process will be unnecessary, and in that case the vindication of the first analogy will be invalid. it is necessary, however, to distinguish between kant's nominal and his actual procedure. though he nominally regards the first analogy as the presupposition of the others,[ ] he really does not. for he does not in fact treat the process which involves the validity of the first analogy as an antecedent condition of the processes which involve the validity of the others. on the contrary, the latter processes begin _ab initio_ with the mere successive apprehension of the manifold, i. e. they begin at a stage where we are not aware of any relation in the physical world at all; and kant, in his account of them, nowhere urges that they involve the first analogy.[ ] [ ] cf. b. , m. ; b. - , m. - ; and caird, i. and ff. [ ] this is not disproved by b. - , m. - , which involves a different conception of cause and effect. moreover, just because kant does not face the difficulties involved in the thought of a process which begins in this way until he comes to vindicate causality, it is only when we come to this vindication that we realize the real nature of his deduction of the analogies, and, in particular, of that of the first. kant, prompted no doubt by his desire to answer hume, treats the principle of causality very fully. the length of the discussion, however, is due not so much to the complication of the argument as to kant's desire to make his meaning unmistakable; his account consists mainly in a repetition of what is substantially the same argument no less than five times. hence it will suffice to consider those passages which best express kant's meaning. at the same time, the prominence of the principle of causality in kant's theory, and in the history of philosophy generally, and also the way in which kant's treatment of it reveals the true nature of his general position, makes it necessary to consider these passages in some detail. hume had denied that we are justified in asserting any causal connexion, i. e. any necessity of succession in the various events which we perceive, but even this denial presupposed that we do apprehend particular sequences in the world of nature, and therefore that we succeed in distinguishing between a sequence of events in nature and a mere sequence of perceptions, such as is also to be found when we apprehend a coexistence of bodies in space. kant urges, in effect, that this denial renders it impossible to explain, as we should be able to do, the possibility of making the distinction in question, which even the denial itself presupposes that we make. holding, with hume, that in all cases of perception what we are directly aware of is a succession of perceptions, he contends that it is necessary to explain how in certain cases we succeed in passing from the knowledge of our successive perceptions to the knowledge of a succession in what we perceive. how is it that we know, when, as we say, we see a boat going down stream, that there is a succession in what we perceive, and not merely a succession in our perception of it, as is the case when, as we say, we see the parts of a house? hume, according to kant, cannot answer this question; he has only the right to say that in all cases we have a succession of perceptions; for in reality an answer to the question will show that the acquisition of this knowledge involves an appeal to the principle of causality. since, then, we do in fact, as even hume implicitly allowed, succeed in distinguishing between a succession in objects in nature and a succession in our apprehension of them, the law of causality must be true. "it is only under this presupposition (i. e. of causality) that even the experience of an event is possible."[ ] [ ] b. , m. . for the general view, cf. caird, i. - . kant begins[ ] his proof as follows: "our apprehension of the manifold of a phenomenon is always successive. the representations of the parts succeed one another. whether they succeed one another in the object also is a second point for reflection which is not contained in the first."[ ] but, before he can continue, the very nature of these opening sentences compels him to consider a general problem which they raise. the distinction referred to between a succession in our apprehensions or representations and a succession in the object implies an object distinct from the apprehensions or representations. what, then, can be meant by such an object? for prima facie, if we ignore the thing in itself as unknowable, there is no object; there are only representations. but, in that case, what can be meant by a succession in the object? kant is therefore once more[ ] forced to consider the question 'what is meant by object of representations?' although on this occasion with special reference to the meaning of a succession in the object; and the vindication of causality is bound up with the answer. the answer is stated thus: [ ] the preceding paragraph is an addition of the second edition. [ ] b. , m. . [ ] cf. a. - , mah. - , and pp. - and - . "now we may certainly give the name of object to everything, and even to every representation, so far as we are conscious thereof; but what this word may mean in the case of phenomena, not in so far as they (as representations) are objects, but in so far as they only indicate an object, is a question requiring deeper consideration. so far as they, as representations only, are at the same time objects of consciousness, they are not to be distinguished from apprehension, i. e. reception into the synthesis of imagination, and we must therefore say, 'the manifold of phenomena is always produced successively in the mind'. if phenomena were things in themselves, no man would be able to infer from the succession of the representations of their manifold how this manifold is connected in the object. for after all we have to do only with our representations; how things may be in themselves, without regard to the representations through which they affect us, is wholly outside the sphere of our knowledge. now, although phenomena are not things in themselves, and are nevertheless the only thing which can be given to us as data for knowledge, it is my business to show what kind of connexion in time belongs to the manifold in phenomena themselves, while the representation of this manifold in apprehension is always successive. thus, for example, the apprehension of the manifold in the phenomenon of a house which stands before me is successive. now arises the question, whether the manifold of this house itself is in itself also successive, which of course no one will grant. but, so soon as i raise my conceptions of an object to the transcendental meaning thereof, the house is not a thing in itself, but only a phenomenon, i. e. a representation, the transcendental object of which is unknown. what, then, am i to understand by the question, 'how may the manifold be connected in the phenomenon itself (which is nevertheless nothing in itself)?' here that which lies in the successive apprehension is regarded as representation, while the phenomenon which is given me, although it is nothing more than a complex of these representations, is regarded as the object thereof, with which my conception, drawn from the representations of apprehension, is to agree. it is soon seen that, since agreement of knowledge with the object is truth, we can ask here only for the formal conditions of empirical truth, and that the phenomenon, in opposition to the representations of apprehension, can only be represented as the object of the same, distinct therefrom, if it stands under a rule, which distinguishes it from every other apprehension, and which renders necessary a mode of conjunction of the manifold. that in the phenomenon which contains the condition of this necessary rule of apprehension is the object."[ ] [ ] b. - , m. - . cf. b. , m. . this passage is only intelligible if we realize the _impasse_ into which kant has been led by his doctrine that objects, i. e. realities in the physical world, are only representations or ideas. as has already been pointed out,[ ] an apprehension is essentially inseparable from a reality of which it is the apprehension. in other words, an apprehension is always the apprehension of a reality, and a reality apprehended, i. e. an object of apprehension, cannot be stated in terms of the apprehension of it. we never confuse an apprehension and its object; nor do we take the temporal relations which belong to the one for the temporal relations which belong to the other, for these relations involve different terms which are never confused, viz. apprehensions and the objects apprehended. now kant, by his doctrine of the unknowability of the thing in itself, has really deprived himself of an object of apprehension or, in his language, of an object of representations. for it is the thing in itself which is, properly speaking, the object of the representations of which he is thinking, i. e. representations of a reality in nature; and yet the thing in itself, being on his view inapprehensible, can never be for him an object in the proper sense, i. e. a reality apprehended. hence he is only able to state the fact of knowledge in terms of mere apprehensions, or ideas, or representations--the particular name is a matter of indifference--and consequently his efforts to recover an object of apprehension are fruitless. as a matter of fact, these efforts only result in the assertion that the object of representations consists in the representations themselves related in a certain necessary way. but this view is open to two fatal objections. in the first place, a complex of representations is just not an object in the proper sense, i. e. a reality apprehended. it essentially falls on the subject side of the distinction between an apprehension and the reality apprehended. the _complexity_ of a complex of representations in no way divests it of the character which it has as a complex of _representations_. in the second place, on this view the same terms have to enter at once into two incompatible relations. representations have to be related successively as our representations or apprehensions--as in fact they are related--and, at the same time, successively or otherwise, as the case may be, as parts of the object apprehended, viz. a reality in nature. in other words, the same terms have to enter into both a subjective and an objective relation, i. e. both a relation concerning us, the knowing subjects, and a relation concerning the object which we know.[ ] "a phenomenon in opposition to the representations of apprehension can only be represented as the object of the same, distinct therefrom, if it stands under a rule which distinguishes it from _every other_ apprehension, and renders necessary a mode of conjunction of the manifold."[ ] a representation, however, cannot be so related by a rule to another representation, for the rule meant relates to realities in nature, and, however much kant may try to maintain the contrary, two representations, not being realities in nature, cannot be so related. kant is in fact only driven to treat rules of nature as relating to representations, because there is nothing else to which he can regard them as relating. the result is that he is unable to justify the very distinction, the implications of which it is his aim to discover, and he is unable to do so for the very reason which would have rendered hume unable to justify it. like hume, he is committed to a philosophical vocabulary which makes it meaningless to speak of relations of objects at all in distinction from relations of apprehensions. it has been said that for kant the road to objectivity lay through necessity.[ ] but whatever kant may have thought, in point of fact there is no road to objectivity, and, in particular, no road through necessity. no necessity in the relation between two representations can render the relation objective, i. e. a relation between objects. no doubt the successive acts in which we come to apprehend the world are necessarily related; we certainly do not suppose their order to be fortuitous. nevertheless, their relations are not in consequence a relation of realities apprehended. [ ] pp. - ; cf. pp. and - . [ ] cf. p. , note , and p. . [ ] the italics are mine. [ ] caird, i. . kant only renders his own view plausible by treating an apprehension or representation as if it consisted in a sensation or an appearance. a sensation or an appearance, so far from being the apprehension of anything, is in fact a reality which can be apprehended, of the kind called mental. hence it can be treated as an object, i. e. something apprehended or presented, though not really as an object in nature. on the other hand, from the point of view of the thing in itself it can be treated as only an apprehension, even though it is an unsuccessful apprehension. thus, for kant, there is something which can with some plausibility be treated as an object as well as an apprehension, and therefore as capable of standing in both a subjective and an objective relation to other realities of the same kind.[ ] [ ] cf. pp. and . if we now turn to the passage under discussion, we find it easy to vindicate the justice of the criticism that kant, inconsistently with the distinction which he desires to elucidate, treats the same thing as at once the representation of an object and the object represented. he is trying to give such an account of 'object of representations' as will explain what is meant by a succession in an object in nature, i. e. a phenomenon, in distinction from the succession in our apprehension of it. in order to state this distinction at all, he has to speak of what enters into the two successions as different. "it is my business to show what sort of connexion in time belongs to the _manifold_ in phenomena themselves, while the _representation_ of this manifold in apprehension is always successive."[ ] here an element of the manifold is distinguished from the representation of it. yet kant, though he thus distinguishes them, repeatedly identifies them; in other words, he identifies a representation with that of which it is a representation, viz. an element in or part of the object itself. "_our apprehension_ of the manifold of the phenomenon is always successive. _the representations_ of the parts succeed one another. whether _they_ [i. e. _the representations_[ ]] succeed one another _in the object_ also, is a second point for reflection.... so far as they [i. e. phenomena], as representations only, are at the same time objects of consciousness, they are not to be distinguished from apprehension, i. e. reception into the synthesis of imagination, and we must therefore say, _'the manifold of phenomena_ is always produced successively in the mind'. if phenomena were things in themselves, no man would be able to infer from the succession of the representations how _this manifold_ is connected _in the object_.... the phenomenon, in opposition to the representations of apprehension, can only be represented as the object of the same, distinct therefrom, if it stands under a rule, which distinguishes _it_ from every _other_ representation and which renders necessary a mode of conjunction of the manifold."[ ] [ ] the italics are mine. [ ] this is implied both by the use of 'also' and by the context. [ ] the italics are mine. since kant in introducing his vindication of causality thus identifies elements in the object apprehended (i. e. the manifold of phenomena) with the apprehensions of them, we approach the vindication itself with the expectation that he will identify a causal rule, which consists in a necessity in the succession of objects, viz. of events in nature, with the necessity in the succession of our apprehensions of them. this expectation turns out justified. the following passage adequately expresses the vindication: "let us now proceed to our task. that something happens, i. e. that something or some state comes to be which before was not, cannot be empirically perceived, unless a phenomenon precedes, which does not contain in itself this state; for a reality which follows upon an empty time, and therefore a coming into existence preceded by no state of things, can just as little be apprehended as empty time itself. every apprehension of an event is therefore a perception which follows upon another perception. but because this is the case with all synthesis of apprehension, as i have shown above[ ] in the phenomenon of a house, the apprehension of an event is thereby not yet distinguished from other apprehensions. but i notice also, that if in a phenomenon which contains an event, i call the preceding state of my perception a, and the following state b, b can only follow a in apprehension, while the perception a cannot follow b but can only precede it. for example, i see a ship float down a stream. my perception of its place lower down follows upon my perception of its place higher up the course of the river, and it is impossible that in the apprehension of this phenomenon the vessel should be perceived first below and afterwards higher up the stream. here, therefore, the order in the sequence of perceptions in apprehension is determined, and apprehension is bound to this order. in the former example of a house, my perceptions in apprehension could begin at the roof and end at the foundation, or begin below and end above; in the same way they could apprehend the manifold of the empirical perception from left to right, or from right to left. accordingly, in the series of these perceptions, there was no determined order, which necessitated my beginning at a certain point, in order to combine the manifold empirically. but this rule is always to be found in the perception of that which happens, and it makes the order of the successive perceptions (in the apprehension of this phenomenon) _necessary_." [ ] b. - , m. (quoted p. ). "in the present case, therefore, i shall have to derive the _subjective sequence_ of apprehension from the _objective sequence_ of phenomena, for otherwise the former is wholly undetermined, and does not distinguish one phenomenon from another. the former alone proves nothing as to the connexion of the manifold in the object, for it is wholly arbitrary. the latter, therefore [i. e. the objective sequence of phenomena[ ]], will consist in that order of the manifold of the phenomenon, according to which the apprehension of the one (that which happens) follows that of the other (that which precedes) _according to a rule_. in this way alone can i be justified in saying of the phenomenon itself, and not merely of my apprehension, that a sequence is to be found therein, which is the same as to say that i cannot arrange my apprehension otherwise than in just this sequence." [ ] the sense is not affected if 'the latter' be understood to refer to the connexion of the manifold in the object. "in conformity with such a rule, therefore, there must exist in that which in general precedes an event the condition of a rule, according to which this event follows always and necessarily, but i cannot conversely go back from the event, and determine (by apprehension) that which precedes it. for no phenomenon goes back from the succeeding point of time to the preceding point, although it does certainly relate to _some preceding point of time_; on the other hand, the advance from a given time to the determinate succeeding time is necessary. therefore, because there certainly is something which follows, i must relate it necessarily to something else in general, which precedes, and upon which it follows in conformity with a rule, that is necessarily, so that the event, as the conditioned, affords certain indication of some condition, while this condition determines the event." "if we suppose that nothing precedes an event, upon which this event must follow in conformity with a rule, all sequence of perception would exist only in apprehension, i. e. would be merely subjective, but it would not thereby be objectively determined which of the perceptions must in fact be the preceding and which the succeeding one. we should in this manner have only a play of representations, which would not be related to any object, i. e. no phenomenon would be distinguished through our perception in respect of time relations from any other, because the succession in apprehension is always of the same kind, and so there is nothing in the phenomenon to determine the succession, so as to render a certain sequence objectively necessary. i could therefore not say that in the phenomenon two states follow each other, but only that one apprehension follows on another, a fact which is merely _subjective_ and does not determine any object, and cannot therefore be considered as knowledge of an object (not even in the phenomenon)." "if therefore we experience that something happens, we always thereby presuppose that something precedes, on which it follows according to a rule. for otherwise, i should not say of the object, that it follows, because the mere sequence in my apprehension, if it is not determined by a rule in relation to something preceding, does not justify the assumption of a sequence in the object. it is therefore always in reference to a rule, according to which phenomena are determined in their sequence (i. e. as they happen) by the preceding state, that i make my subjective synthesis (of apprehension) objective, and it is solely upon this presupposition that even the experience of something which happens is possible."[ ] [ ] b. - , m. - . the meaning of the first paragraph is plain. kant is saying that when we reflect upon the process by which we come to apprehend the world of nature, we can lay down two propositions. the first is that the process is equally successive whether the object apprehended be a succession in nature or a coexistence of bodies in space, so that the knowledge that we have a succession of apprehensions would not by itself enable us to decide whether the object of the apprehensions is a sequence or not. the second proposition is that, nevertheless, there is this difference between the succession of our apprehensions where we apprehend a succession and where we apprehend a coexistence, that in the former case, and in that only, the succession of our apprehensions is irreversible or, in other words, is the expression of a rule of order which makes it a necessary succession. so far we find no mention of causality, i. e. of a necessity of succession in objects, but only a necessity of succession in our apprehension of them. so far, again, we find no contribution to the problem of explaining how we distinguish between successive perceptions which are the perceptions of an event and those which are not. for it is reasonable to object that it is only possible to say that the order of our perceptions is irreversible, if and because we already know that what we have been perceiving is an event, and that therefore any attempt to argue from the irreversibility of our perceptions to the existence of a sequence in the object must involve a [greek: hysteron proteron]. and it is clear that, if irreversibility in our perceptions were the only irreversibility to which appeal could be made, even kant would not have supposed that the apprehension of a succession was reached through belief in an irreversibility. the next paragraph, of which the interpretation is difficult, appears to introduce a causal rule, i. e. an irreversibility in objects, by identifying it with the irreversibility in our perceptions of which kant has been speaking. the first step to this identification is taken by the assertion: "in the present case, therefore, i shall have to derive the subjective sequence of perceptions from the objective sequence of phenomena.... the latter will consist in the order of the _manifold of the phenomenon_, according to which _the apprehension_ of the one (that which happens) follows that of the other (that which precedes) according to a rule."[ ] here kant definitely implies that an objective sequence, i. e. an order or sequence of the _manifold_ of a phenomenon, consists in a sequence of _perceptions or apprehensions_ of which the order is necessary or according to a rule; in other words, that a succession of perceptions in the special case where the succession is necessary is a succession of events perceived.[ ] this implication enables us to understand the meaning of the assertion that 'we must therefore derive the subjective sequence of perceptions from the objective sequence of phenomena', and to see its connexion with the preceding paragraph. it means, 'in view of the fact that in all apprehensions of a succession, and in them alone, the sequence of perceptions is irreversible, we are justified in saying that a given sequence of perceptions is the apprehension of a succession, if we know that the sequence is irreversible; in that case we must be apprehending a real succession, for an irreversible sequence of perceptions _is_ a sequence of events perceived.' having thus implied that irreversibility of perceptions constitutes them events perceived, he is naturally enough able to go on to speak of the irreversibility of perceptions as if it were the same thing as an irreversibility of events perceived, and thus to bring in a causal rule. "in this way alone [i. e. only by deriving the subjective from the objective sequence] can i be justified in saying of the phenomenon itself, and not merely of my apprehension, that a sequence is to be found therein, _which is the same as to say_ that i cannot _arrange_ my apprehension otherwise than in just this sequence. in conformity with _such a rule_, therefore, there must exist in that which in general precedes _an event_ the condition of a rule, according to which _this event follows always and necessarily_."[ ] here the use of the word 'arrange'[ ] and the statement about the rule in the next sentence imply that kant has now come to think of the rule of succession as a causal rule relating to the objective succession. moreover, if any doubt remains as to whether kant really confuses the two irreversibilities or necessities of succession, it is removed by the last paragraph of the passage quoted. "if therefore we experience that something happens, we always thereby presuppose that something precedes on which _it_ follows according to a rule. for otherwise i should not say of the object that _it_ follows; because the mere succession of my apprehension, if _it_ is not determined by a rule in relation to something preceding, does not justify the assumption of a succession in the object. it is therefore always in reference to a rule, according to which _phenomena_ are determined in their sequence (i. e. as they happen) by the preceding state, that i make my subjective sequence (of apprehension) objective."[ ] the fact is simply that kant _must_ identify the two irreversibilities, because, as has been pointed out, he has only one set of terms to be related as irreversible, viz. the elements of the manifold, which have to be, from one point of view, elements of an object and, from another, representations or apprehensions of it. [ ] the italics are mine. 'according to which' does not appear to indicate that the two orders referred to are different. [ ] cf. b. fin., m. fin. [ ] the italics are mine [ ] _anstellen._ [ ] the italics are mine. as soon, therefore, as the real nature of kant's vindication of causality has been laid bare, it is difficult to describe it as an argument at all. he is anxious to show that in apprehending a b as a real or objective succession we presuppose that they are elements in a causal order of succession. yet in support of his contention he points only to the quite different fact that where we apprehend a succession a b, we think of the _perception_ of a and the _perception_ of b as elements in a necessary but subjective succession. before we attempt to consider the facts with which kant is dealing, we must refer to a feature in kant's account to which no allusion has been made. we should on the whole expect from the passage quoted that, in the case where we regard two perceptions a b as necessarily successive and therefore as constituting an objective succession, the necessity of succession consists in the fact that a is the cause of b. this, however, is apparently not kant's view; on the contrary, he seems to hold that, in thinking of a b as an objective succession, we presuppose not that a causes b, but only that the state of affairs which precedes b, and which therefore includes a, contains a cause of b, the coexistence or identity of this cause with a rendering the particular succession a b necessary. "thus [if i perceive that something happens] it arises that there comes to be an order among our representations in which the present (so far as it has taken place) points to some preceding state as a correlate, _though a still undetermined correlate_,[ ] of this event which is given, and this correlate relates to the event by determining the event as its consequence, and connects the event with itself necessarily in the series of time."[ ] [ ] the italics are mine. [ ] b. , m. . cf. b. , m. (first half) and b. , m. (second paragraph). the same implication is to be found in his formulation of the rule involved in the perception of an event, e. g. "in conformity with such a rule, there must exist in that which in general precedes an event, the condition of a rule, according to which this event follows always and necessarily." here the condition of a rule is the necessary antecedent of the event, whatever it may be. the fact is that kant is in a difficulty which he feels obscurely himself. he seems driven to this view for two reasons. if he were to maintain that a was necessarily the cause of b, he would be maintaining that all observed sequences are causal, i. e. that in them the antecedent and consequent are always cause and effect, which is palpably contrary to fact. again, his aim is to show that we become aware of a succession by presupposing the law of causality. this law, however, is quite general, and only asserts that _something_ must precede an event upon which it follows always and necessarily. hence by itself it palpably gives no means of determining whether this something is a rather than anything else.[ ] therefore if he were to maintain that the antecedent member of an apprehended objective succession must be thought of as its cause, the analogy would obviously provide no means of determining the antecedent member, and therefore the succession itself, for the succession must be the sequence of b upon some definite antecedent. on the other hand, the view that the cause of b need not be a only incurs the same difficulty in a rather less obvious form. for, even on this view, the argument implies that in order to apprehend two individual perceptions a b as an objective succession, we must know that a _must_ precede b, and the presupposition that b implies a cause in the state of affairs preceding b in no way enables us to say either that a coexists with the cause, or that it is identical with it, and therefore that it must precede b. [ ] cf. b. , m. , where kant points out that the determination of particular laws of nature requires experience. nevertheless, it cannot be regarded as certain that kant did not think of a, the apprehended antecedent of b, as necessarily the cause of b, for his language is both ambiguous and inconsistent. when he considers the apprehension of a succession from the side of the successive perceptions, he at least tends to think of a b as cause and effect;[ ] and it may well be that in discussing the problem from the side of the law of causality, he means the cause of b to be a, although the generality of the law compels him to refer to it as _something_ upon which b follows according to a rule. [ ] he definitely implies this, b. , m. . further, it should be noticed that to allow as kant, in effect, does elsewhere[ ], that experience is needed to determine the cause of b is really to concede that the apprehension of objective successions is _prior to_, and _presupposed by_, any process which appeals to the principle of causality; for if the principle of causality does not by itself enable us to determine the cause of b, it cannot do more than enable us to pick out the cause of b among events known to precede b independently of the principle. hence, from this point of view, there can be no process such as kant is trying to describe, and therefore its precise nature is a matter of indifference. [ ] cf. b. , m. , where kant points out that the determination of particular laws of nature requires experience. we may now turn to the facts. there is, it seems, no such thing as a process by which, beginning with the knowledge of successive apprehensions or representations, of the object of which we are unaware, we come to be aware of their object. still less is there a process--and it is really this which kant is trying to describe--by which, so beginning, we come to apprehend these successive representations as objects, i. e. as parts of the physical world, through the thought of them as necessarily related. we may take kant's instance of our apprehension of a boat going down stream. we do not first apprehend two perceptions of which the object is undetermined and then decide that their object is a succession rather than a coexistence. still less do we first apprehend two perceptions or representations and then decide that they are related as successive events in the physical world. from the beginning we apprehend a real sequence, viz. the fact that the boat having left one place is arriving at another; there is no process _to_ this apprehension. in other words, from the beginning we are aware of real elements, viz. of events in nature, and we are aware of them as really related, viz. as successive in nature. this must be so. for if we begin with the awareness of two mere perceptions, we could never thence reach the knowledge that their object was a succession, or even the knowledge that they had an object; nor, so beginning, could we become aware of the perceptions themselves as successive events in the physical world. for suppose, _per impossibile_, the existence of a process by which we come to be aware of two elements a and b as standing in a relation of sequence in the physical world. in the first place, a and b, with the awareness of which we begin, must be, and be known to be, real or objective, and not perceptions or apprehensions; otherwise we could never come to apprehend them as related in the physical world. in the second place, a and b must be, and be known to be, real with the reality of a physical event, otherwise we could never come to apprehend them as related by way of succession in the physical world. if a and b were bodies, as they are when we apprehend the parts of a house, they could never be apprehended as successive. in other words, the process by which, on kant's view, a and b become, and become known to be, events presupposes that they already are, and are known to be, events. again, even if it be granted that a and b are real events, it is clear that there can be no process by which we come to apprehend them as successive. for if we apprehended events a and b separately, we could never thence advance to the apprehension of their relation, or, in other words, we could never discover which came first. kant himself saw clearly that the perception of a followed by the perception of b does not by itself yield the perception that b follows a. in fact it was this insight which formed the starting-point of his discussion.[ ] unfortunately, instead of concluding that the apprehension of a succession is ultimate and underivable from a more primitive apprehension, he tried to formulate the nature of the process by which, starting from such a succession of perceptions, we reach the apprehension of a succession. the truth is simply that there is and can be no _process to_ the apprehension of a succession; in other words, that we do and must apprehend a real succession immediately or not at all. the same considerations can of course be supplied _mutatis mutandis_ to the apprehension of the coexistence of bodies in space, e. g. of the parts of a house. [ ] cf. b. , m. . it may be objected that this denial of the existence of the process which kant is trying to describe must at least be an overstatement. for the assertion that the apprehension of a succession or of a coexistence is immediate may seem to imply that the apprehension of the course of a boat or of the shape of a house involves no process at all; yet either apprehension clearly takes time and so must involve a process. but though a process is obviously involved, it is not a process from the apprehension of what is not a succession to the apprehension of a succession, but a process from the apprehension of one succession to that of another. it is the process by which we pass from the apprehension of one part of a succession which may have, and which it is known may have, other parts to the apprehension of what is, and what is known to be, another part of the same succession. moreover, the assertion that the apprehension of a succession must be immediate does not imply that it may not be reached by a process. it is not inconsistent with the obvious fact that to apprehend that the boat is now turning a corner is really to apprehend that what before was going straight is now changing its course, and therefore presupposes a previous apprehension of the boat's course as straight. it only implies that the apprehension of a succession, if reached by a process at all, is not reached by a process of which the starting-point is not itself the apprehension of a succession. nevertheless, a plausible defence of kant's treatment of causality can be found, which may be formulated thus: 'time, just as much as space, is a sphere within which we have to distinguish between appearance and reality. for instance, when moving in a lift, we see, as we say, the walls moving, while the lift remains stationary. when sitting in a train which is beginning to move out of a station, we see, as we say, another train beginning to move, although it is in fact standing still. when looking at distant trees from a fast train, we see, as we say, the buildings in the intermediate space moving backwards. in these cases the events seen are not real, and we only succeed in determining what is really happening, by a process which presupposes the law of causality. thus, in the last case we only believe that the intermediate buildings do not move, by realizing that, given the uniformity of nature, belief in their motion is incompatible with what we believe on the strength of experience of these buildings on other occasions and of the rest of the world. these cases prove the existence of a process which enables us, and is required to enable us, to decide whether a given change is objective or subjective, i. e. whether it lies in the reality apprehended or in our apprehension of it; and this process involves an appeal to causality. kant's mistake lay in his choice of illustrations. his illustrations implied that the process which involves causality is one by which we distinguish a succession in the object apprehended from another relation in the object, viz. a coexistence of bodies. but he ought to have taken illustrations which implied that the process is one by which we distinguish a succession in the object from a succession in our perception of it. in other words, the illustrations should, like those just given, have illustrated the process by which we distinguish an objective from a subjective change, and not a process by which we distinguish an objective change from something else also objective. consequently, kant's conclusion and his _general_ method of treatment are right, even if, misled by his instances, he supports his position by arguments which are wrong.' this defence is, however, open to the following reply: 'at first sight the cases taken undoubtedly seem to illustrate a process in which we seek to discover whether a certain change belongs to objects or only to our apprehension of them, and in which we appeal to causality in arriving at a decision. but this is only because we ignore the relativity of motion. to take the third case: our first statement of the facts is that we saw the intermediate buildings moving, but that subsequent reflection on the results of other experience forced us to conclude that the change perceived was after all only in our apprehension and not in the things apprehended. the statement, however, that we saw the buildings moving really assumes that we, the observers, were stationary; and it states too much. what we really perceived was a relative changing of position between us, the near buildings, and the distant trees. this is a fact, and the apprehension of it, therefore, does not afterwards prove mistaken. it is equally compatible with motion on the part of the trees, or of the buildings, or of the observers, or of a combination of them; and that for which an appeal to causality is needed is the problem of deciding which of these alternatives is correct. moreover, the perceived relative change of position is objective; it concerns the things apprehended. hence, in this case too, it can be said that we perceive an objective succession from the beginning, and that the appeal to causality is only needed to determine something further about it. it is useless to urge that to be aware of an event is to be aware of it in all its definiteness, and that this awareness admittedly involves an appeal to causality; for it is easy to see that unless our awareness of the relative motion formed the starting-point of any subsequent process in which we appealed to the law of causality, we could never use the law to determine which body really moved.' two remarks may be made in conclusion. in the first place, the basis of kant's account, viz. the view that in our apprehension of the world we advance from the apprehension of a succession of perceptions to the apprehension of objects perceived, involves a [greek: hysteron proteron]. as kant himself in effect urges in the _refutation of idealism_,[ ] self-consciousness, in the sense of the consciousness of the successive process in which we apprehend the world, is plainly only attained by reflecting upon our apprehension of the world. we first apprehend the world and only by subsequent reflection become aware of our activity in apprehending it. even if consciousness of the world must lead to, and so is in a sense inseparable from, self-consciousness, it is none the less its presupposition. [ ] cf. p. . in the second place, it seems that the true vindication of causality, like that of the first analogy, lies in the dogmatic method which kant rejects. it consists in insight into the fact that it is of the very nature of a physical event to be an element in a process of change undergone by a system of substances in space, this process being through and through necessary in the sense that any event (i. e. the attainment of any state by a substance) is the outcome of certain preceding events (i. e. the previous attainment of certain states by it and other substances), and is similarly the condition of certain subsequent events.[ ] to attain this insight, we have only to reflect upon what we really mean by a 'physical event'. the vindication can also be expressed in the form that the very _thought_ of a physical event presupposes the _thought_ of it as an element in a necessary process of change--provided, however, that no distinction is implied between the nature of a thing and what we think its nature to be. but to vindicate causality in this way is to pursue the dogmatic method; it is to argue from the nature, or, to use kant's phrase, from the conception, of a physical event. on the other hand, it seems that the method of arguing transcendentally, or from the possibility of perceiving events, must be doomed to failure in principle. for if, as has been argued to be the case,[ ] apprehension is essentially the apprehension of a reality as it exists independently of the apprehension of it, only those characteristics can be attributed to it, as characteristics which it must have if it is to be apprehended, which belong to it in its own nature or in virtue of its being what it is. it can only be because we think that a thing has some characteristic in virtue of its own nature, and so think 'dogmatically', that we can think that in apprehending it we must apprehend it as having that characteristic.[ ] [ ] this statement of course includes the third analogy. [ ] cf. chh. iv and vi. [ ] cf. p. . there remains to be considered kant's proof of the third analogy, i. e. the principle that all substances, so far as they can be perceived in space as coexistent, are in thorough-going interaction. the account is extremely confused, and it is difficult to extract from it a consistent view. we shall consider here the version added in the second edition, as being the fuller and the less unintelligible. "things are _coexistent_, when in empirical intuition[ ] the perception[ ] of the one can follow upon the perception of the other, and vice versa (which cannot occur in the temporal succession of phenomena, as we have shown in the second principle). thus i can direct my perception first to the moon and afterwards to the earth, or conversely, first to the earth and then to the moon, and because the perceptions of these objects can reciprocally follow each other, i say that they coexist. now coexistence is the existence of the manifold in the same time. but we cannot perceive time itself, so as to conclude from the fact that things are placed in the same time that the perceptions of them can follow each other reciprocally. the synthesis of the imagination in apprehension, therefore, would only give us each of these perceptions as existing in the subject when the other is absent and vice versa; but it would not give us that the objects are coexistent, i. e. that, if the one exists, the other also exists in the same time, and that this is necessary in order that the perceptions can follow each other reciprocally. hence there is needed a conception-of-the-understanding[ ] of the reciprocal sequence of the determinations of these things coexisting externally to one another, in order to say that the reciprocal succession of perceptions is grounded in the object, and thereby to represent the coexistence as objective. but the relation of substances in which the one contains determinations the ground of which is contained in the other is the relation of influence, and if, reciprocally, the former contains the ground of the determinations in the latter, it is the relation of community or interaction. consequently, the coexistence of substances in space cannot be known in experience otherwise than under the presupposition of their interaction; this is therefore also the condition of the possibility of things themselves as objects of experience."[ ] [ ] _anschauung._ [ ] _wahrnehmung._ [ ] _verstandesbegriff._ [ ] b. - , m. - . the proof begins, as we should expect, in a way parallel to that of causality. just as kant had apparently argued that we learn that a succession of perceptions is the perception of a sequence when we find the order of the perceptions to be irreversible, so he now definitely asserts that we learn that certain perceptions are the perceptions of a coexistence of bodies in space when we find that the order of the perceptions is reversible, or, to use kant's language, that there can be a reciprocal sequence of the perceptions. this beginning, if read by itself, seems as though it should also be the end. there seems nothing more which need be said. just as we should have expected kant to have completed his account of the apprehension of a succession when he pointed out that it is distinguished by the irreversibility of the perceptions, so here we should expect him to have said enough when he points out that the earth and the moon are said to be coexistent because our perceptions of them can follow one another reciprocally. the analogy, however, has in some way to be brought in, and to this the rest of the proof is devoted. in order to consider how this is done, we must first consider the nature of the analogy itself. kant speaks of 'a conception-of-the-understanding of the reciprocal sequence of the determinations of things which coexist externally to one another'; and he says that 'that relation of substances in which the one contains determinations, the ground of which is contained in the other substance, is the relation of influence'. his meaning can be illustrated thus. suppose two bodies, a, a lump of ice, and b, a fire, close together, yet at such a distance that they can be observed in succession. suppose that a passes through changes of temperature a_{ } a_{ } a_{ } ... in certain times, the changes ending in states [alpha]_{ } [alpha]_{ } [alpha]_{ } ..., and that b passes through changes of temperature b_{ } b_{ } b_{ } ... in the same times, the changes ending in states [beta]_{ } [beta]_{ } [beta]_{ }. suppose also, as we must, that a and b interact, i. e. that a in passing through its changes conditions the changes through which b passes, and therefore also the states in which b ends, and vice versa, so that a_{ } and [alpha]_{ } will be the outcome not of a_{ } and [alpha]_{ } alone, but of a_{ } and [alpha]_{ }, and b_{ } and [beta]_{ } jointly. then we can say ( ) that a and b are in the relation of influence, and also of interaction or reciprocal influence, in the sense that they _mutually_ (not alternately) determine one another's states. again, if we first perceive a in the state [alpha]_ by a perception a_{ }, then b in the state [beta]_{ } by a perception b_{ }, then a in the state [alpha]_{ } by a perception a_{ } and so on, we can speak ( ) of a reciprocal sequence of perceptions, in the sense of a sequence of perceptions in which alternately a perception of b follows a perception of a and a perception of a follows a perception of b; for first a perception of b, viz. b_{ }, follows a perception of a, viz. a_{ }, and then a perception of a, viz. a_{ }, follows a perception of b, viz. b_{ }. we can also speak ( ) of a reciprocal sequence of the determinations of two things in the sense of a necessary succession of states which _alternately_ are states of a and of b; for [alpha]_{ }, which is perceived first, can be said to contribute to determine [beta]_{ }, which is perceived next, and [beta]_{ } can be said to contribute to determine [alpha]_{ }, which is perceived next, and so on; and this reciprocal sequence can be said to be involved in the very nature of interaction. further, it can be said ( ) that if we perceive a and b alternately, and so only in the states [alpha]_{ } [alpha]_{ } ... [beta]_{ } [beta]_{ } ... respectively, we can only fill in the blanks, i. e. discover the states [alpha]_{ } [alpha]_{ } ... [beta]_{ } [beta]_{ } ... _coexistent_ with [beta]_{ } [beta]_{ } ... and [alpha]_{ } [alpha]_{ } ... respectively, if we presuppose the thought of interaction. for it is only possible to use the observed states as a clue to the unobserved states, if we presuppose that the observed states are members of a necessary succession of which the unobserved states are also members and therefore have partially determined and been determined by the observed states. hence it may be said that the determination of the unobserved states coexistent with the observed states presupposes the thought of interaction. how then does kant advance from the assertion that the apprehension of a coexistence requires the knowledge that our _perceptions_ can be reciprocally sequent to the assertion that it presupposes the thought that the _determinations of phenomena_ are reciprocally sequent? the passage in which the transition is effected is obscure and confused, but it is capable of interpretation as soon as we see that it is intended to run parallel to the proof of the second analogy which is added in the second edition.[ ] kant apparently puts to himself the question, 'how are we to know when we have a reciprocal sequence of perceptions from which we can infer a coexistence in what we perceived?' and apparently answers it thus: 'since we cannot perceive time, and therefore cannot perceive objects as dated in time with respect to one another, we cannot begin with the apprehension of the coexistence of two objects, and thence infer the possibility of reciprocal sequence in our perceptions. this being so, the synthesis of imagination in apprehension can indeed combine these perceptions [these now being really considered as determinations or states of an object perceived] in a reciprocal sequence, but there is so far no guarantee that the sequence produced by the synthesis is not an arbitrary product of the imagination, and therefore we cannot think of it as a reciprocal sequence in objects. in order to think of such a reciprocal sequence as not arbitrary but as constituting a real sequence in objects [ = 'as grounded in the object'], we must think of the states reciprocally sequent [as necessarily related and therefore] as successive states of two coexisting substances which interact or mutually determine one another's successive states. only then shall we be able to think of the coexistence of objects involved in the reciprocal sequence as an objective fact, and not merely as an arbitrary product of the imagination.' but, if this fairly expresses kant's meaning, his argument is clearly vitiated by two confusions. in the first place, it confuses a subjective sequence of perceptions which are alternately perceptions of a and of b, two bodies in space, with an objective sequence of perceived states of bodies, [alpha]_{ } [beta]_{ } [alpha]_{ } [beta]_{ }, which are alternately states of two bodies a and b, the same thing being regarded at once as a perception and as a state of a physical object. in the second place, mainly in consequence of the first confusion, it confuses the necessity that the perceptions of a and of b can follow one another alternately with the necessity of succession in the alternately perceived states of a and b as interacting. moreover, there is really a change in the cases under consideration. the case with which he begins, i. e. when he is considering merely the reciprocal sequence of perceptions, is the successive perceptions of two _bodies in space_ alternately, e. g. of the moon and the earth, the nature of their states at the time of perception not being in question. but the case with which he ends is the successive perception of the _states of two bodies_ alternately, e. g. of the states of the fire and of the lump of ice. moreover, it is only in the latter case that the objective relation apprehended is that of coexistence in the proper sense, and in the sense which kant intends throughout, viz. that of being contemporaneous in distinction from being successive. for when we say that two bodies, e. g. the moon and the earth, coexist, we should only mean that both exist, and not, as kant means, that they are contemporaneous. for to a substance, being as it is the substratum of changes, we can ascribe no temporal predicates. that which changes cannot be said either to begin, or to end, or to exist at a certain moment of time, or, therefore, to exist contemporaneously with, or after, or before anything else; it cannot even be said to persist through a portion of time or, to use the phrase of the first analogy, to be permanent. it will be objected that, though the cases are different, yet the transition from the one to the other is justified, for it is precisely kant's point that the existence together of two substances in space can only be discovered by consideration of their successive states under the presupposition that they mutually determine one another's states. "besides the mere fact of existence there must be something by which a determines the place in time for b, and conversely b the place for a, because only under this condition can these substances be empirically represented as coexistent."[ ] the objection, however, should be met by two considerations, each of which is of some intrinsic importance. in the first place, the apprehension of a body in space in itself involves the apprehension that it exists together with all other bodies in space, for the apprehension of something as spatial involves the apprehension of it as spatially related to, and therefore as existing together with, everything else which is spatial. no process, therefore, such as kant describes is required in order that we may learn that it exists along with some other body. in the second place, that for which the principle of interaction is really required is not, as kant supposes, the determination of the coexistence of an unperceived body with a perceived body, but the determination of that unperceived state of a body already known to exist which is coexistent with a perceived state of a perceived body. as has been pointed out, if we perceive a and b alternately in the states [alpha]_{ } [beta]_{ } [alpha]_{ } [beta]_{ } ... we need the thought of interaction to determine the nature of [beta]_{ } [alpha]_{ } [beta]_{ } [alpha]_{ } ... thus it appears that kant in his vindication of the third analogy omits altogether to notice the one process which really presupposes it. [ ] b. - , m. . [ ] b. , m. . chapter xiii the postulates of empirical thought the postulates of empirical thought, which correspond to the categories of modality, are stated as follows: " . that which agrees with the formal conditions of experience (according to perception and conceptions) is _possible_. . that which is connected with the material conditions of experience (sensation) is _actual_. . that of which the connexion with the actual is determined according to universal conditions of experience is _necessary_ (exists necessarily)."[ ] [ ] b. - , m. . these principles, described as only 'explanations of the conceptions of possibility, actuality, and necessity as employed in experience', are really treated as principles by which we decide what is possible, what is actual, and what is necessary. the three conceptions involved do not, according to kant, enlarge our knowledge of the nature of objects, but only 'express their relation to the faculty of knowledge'[ ]; i. e. they only concern our ability to apprehend an object whose nature is already determined for us otherwise as at least possible, or as real, or as even necessary. moreover, it is because these principles do not enlarge our knowledge of the nature of objects that they are called postulates; for a postulate in geometry, from which science the term is borrowed (e. g. that it is possible with a given line to describe a circle from a given point), does not augment the conception of the figure to which it relates, but only asserts the possibility of the conception itself.[ ] the discussion of these principles is described, contrary to the terminology adopted in the case of the preceding principles, as 'explanation' and not as 'proof'. the discussion, however, certainly includes a proof of them, for it is kant's main object to _prove_ that these principles constitute the general character of what can be asserted to be possible, actual, or necessary respectively. again, as before, the basis of proof lies in a theory of knowledge, and in particular in kant's theory of knowledge; for it consists in the principle that everything knowable must conform to the conditions involved in its being an object of possible experience. [ ] b. , m. . cf. b. - , m. - . [ ] b. - , m. - . to understand these principles and the proof of them, we must notice certain preliminary considerations. in the _first_ place, the very problem of distinguishing the possible, the actual, and the necessary presupposes the existence of distinctions which may prove open to question. it presupposes that something may be possible without being actual, and again that something may be actual without being necessary. in the _second_ place, kant's mode of approaching the problem assumes that we can begin with a conception of an object, e. g. of a man with six toes, and then ask whether the object of it is possible, whether, if possible, it is also actual, and whether, if actual, it is also necessary. in other words, it assumes the possibility of separating what is conceived from what is possible, and therefore _a fortiori_ from what is actual,[ ] and from what is necessary. _thirdly_, in this context, as in most others, kant in speaking of a conception is thinking, to use locke's phraseology, not of a 'simple' conception, such as that of equality or of redness, but of a 'complex' conception, such as that of a centaur, or of a triangle in the sense of a three-sided three-angled figure. it is the apprehension of a 'complex' of elements.[ ] _fourthly_, what is said to be possible, real, or necessary is not the conception but the corresponding object. the question is not, for instance, whether the conception of a triangle or of a centaur is possible, actual, or necessary, but whether a triangle or a centaur is possible, actual, or necessary. kant sometimes speaks loosely of conceptions as possible,[ ] but the terms which he normally and, from the point of view of his theory, rightly applies to conceptions are 'objectively real' and 'fictitious'.[ ] _lastly_, kant distinguishes 'objectively real' and 'fictitious' conceptions in two ways. he speaks of establishing the objective reality of a conception as consisting in establishing the possibility of a corresponding object,[ ] implying therefore that a fictitious conception is a conception of which the corresponding object is not known to be possible. again, he describes as fictitious new conceptions of substances, powers, and interactions, which we might form from the material offered to us by perception without borrowing from experience itself the example of their connexions, e. g. the conception of a power of the mind to perceive the future; and he says that the possibility of these conceptions (i. e. the possibility of corresponding objects) cannot, like that of the categories, be acquired _a priori_ through their being conditions on which all experience depends, but must be discovered empirically or not at all. of such conceptions he says that, without being based upon experience and its known laws, they are arbitrary syntheses which, although they contain no contradiction, have no claim to objective reality, and therefore to the possibility of corresponding objects.[ ] he implies, therefore, that the object of a conception can be said to be possible only when the conception is the apprehension of a complex of elements together with the apprehension--which, if not _a priori_, must be based upon experience--that they are connected. hence a conception may be regarded as 'objectively real', or as 'fictitious' according as it is the apprehension of a complex of elements accompanied by the apprehension that they are connected, or the apprehension of a complex of elements not so accompanied. [ ] the view that 'in the mere conception of a thing no sign of its existence is to be found' (b. , m. ) forms, of course, the basis of kant's criticism of the ontological argument for the existence of god. cf. _dialectic_, bk. ii, ch. iii, § . [ ] cf. 'a conception which includes in itself a synthesis' (b. med., m. med.). [ ] e. g. b. fin., m. fin.; b. med., m. init. the formulation which really expresses kant's thought is to be found b. med., m. fin.; b. init., m. fin.; b. med., m. init.; and b. med., m. init. [ ] _gedichtete._ [ ] b. init., m. fin. [ ] b. - , m. - . it is now possible to state kant's problem more precisely. with regard to a given complex conception he wishes to determine the way in which we can answer the questions ( ) 'has the conception a possible object to correspond to it', or, in other words, 'is the conception 'objectively real' or 'fictitious'?' ( ) 'given that a corresponding object is possible, is it also real?' ( ) 'given that it is real, is it also necessary?' the substance of kant's answer to this problem may be stated thus: 'the most obvious guarantee of the objective reality of a conception, i. e. of the possibility of a corresponding object, is the experience of such an object. for instance, our experience of water guarantees the objective reality of the conception of a liquid which expands as it solidifies. this appeal to experience, however, takes us beyond the possibility of the object to its reality, for the experience vindicates the possibility of the object only through its reality. moreover, here the basis of our assertion of possibility is only empirical, whereas our aim is to discover the conceptions of which the objects can be determined _a priori_ to be possible. what then is the answer to this, the real problem? to take the case of cause and effect, we cannot reach any conclusion by the mere study of the conception of cause and effect. for although the conception of a necessary succession contains no contradiction, the necessary succession of events is a mere arbitrary synthesis as far as our thought of it is concerned; we have no direct insight into the necessity. therefore we cannot argue from this conception to the possibility of a corresponding object, viz. a necessarily successive series of events in nature. we can, however, say that that synthesis is not arbitrary but necessary to which any object must conform, if it is to be an object of experience. from this point of view we can say that there must be a possible object corresponding to the conception of cause and effect, because only as subjected to this synthesis are there objects of experience at all. hence, if we take this point of view, we can say generally that all spatial and temporal conceptions, as constituting the conditions of perceiving in experience, and all the categories, as constituting the conditions of conceiving in experience, must have possible objects. in other words, 'that which agrees with the formal conditions of experience (according to perception and conceptions) is _possible_'. again, if we know that the object of a conception is possible, how are we to determine whether it is also actual? it is clear that, since we cannot advance from the mere conception, objectively real though it may be, to the reality of the corresponding object, we need perception. the case, however, where the corresponding object is directly perceived may be ignored, for it involves no inference or process of thought; the appeal is to experience alone. therefore the question to be considered is, 'how do we determine the actuality of the object of a conception comparatively _a priori_, i. e. without direct experience of it[ ]?' the answer must be that we do so by finding it to be 'connected with an actual perception in accordance with the analogies of experience'[ ]. for instance, we must establish the actuality of an object corresponding to the conception of a volcanic eruption by showing it to be involved, in accordance with the analogies (and with particular empirical laws), in the state of a place which we are now perceiving. in other words, we can say that 'that which is connected with the material conditions of existence (sensation) is _actual_'. finally, since we cannot learn the existence of any object of experience wholly _a priori_, but only relatively to another existence already given, the necessity of the existence of an object can never be known from conceptions, but only from its connexion with what is perceived; this necessity, however, is not the necessity of the existence of a substance, but only the necessity of connexion of an unobserved state of a substance with some observed state of a substance. therefore we can (and indeed must) say of an unobserved object corresponding to a conception, not only that it is real, but also that it is necessary, when we know it to be connected with a perceived reality 'according to universal conditions of experience'; but the necessity can be attributed only to states of substances and not to substances themselves.' [ ] cf. b. , m. and p. , note . [ ] b. , m. . throughout this account there runs one fatal mistake, that of supposing that we can separate our knowledge of things as possible, as actual, and as necessary. even if this supposition be tenable in certain cases,[ ] it is not tenable in respect of the objects of a complex conception, with which kant is dealing. if we know the object of a complex conception to be possible, we already know it to be actual, and if we know it to be actual, we already know it to be necessary. a complex conception in the proper sense is the apprehension of a complex of elements together with the apprehension of, or insight into, their connexion.[ ] thus, in the case of the conception of a triangle we see that the possession of three sides necessitates the possession of three angles. from such a conception must be distinguished kant's 'fictitious' conception, i. e. the apprehension of a complex of elements without the apprehension of connexion between them. thus, in the case of the conception of a man with six toes, there is no apprehension of connexion between the possession of the characteristics indicated by the term 'man' and the possession of six toes. in such a case, since we do not apprehend any connexion between the elements, we do not really 'conceive' or 'think' the object in question, e. g. a man with six toes. now in the case of a complex conception proper, it is impossible to think of a corresponding individual as only possible. the question 'is a triangle, in the sense of a figure with three sides and three angles, possible?' really means 'is it possible for a three-sided figure to have three angles?' to this question we can only answer that we see that a three-sided figure can have three angles, because we see that it must have, and therefore has, and can have, three angles; in other words, that we see a triangle in the sense in question to be possible, because we see it to be necessary, and, therefore, actual, and possible. it cannot be argued that our insight is limited to the fact that if there are three-sided figures they must be three-angled, and that therefore we only know a triangle in the sense in question to be possible. our apprehension of the fact that the possession of three sides necessitates the possession of three angles presupposes knowledge of the existence of three-sided figures, for it is only in an actual three-sided figure that we can apprehend the necessity. it may, however, be objected that the question ought to mean simply 'is a three-sided figure possible?' and that, understood in this sense, it cannot be answered in a similar way. nevertheless, a similar answer is the right answer. for the question 'is a three-sided figure possible?' really means 'is it possible for three straight lines to form a figure, i. e. to enclose a space?' and we can only answer it for ourselves by seeing that a group of three straight lines or directions, no two of which are parallel, must, as such, enclose a space, this insight presupposing the apprehension of an actual group of three straight lines. it may be said, therefore, that we can only determine the possibility of the object of a complex conception in the proper sense, through an act in which we apprehend its necessity and its actuality at once. it is only where conceptions are 'fictitious', and so not properly conceptions, that appeal to experience is necessary. the question 'is an object corresponding to the conception of a man with six toes possible?' presupposes the reality of man and asks whether any man can have six toes. if we understood the nature of man and could thereby apprehend either that the possession of six toes was, or that it was not, involved in one of the possible differentiations of man, we could decide the question of possibility _a priori_, i. e. through our conceiving alone without an appeal to experience; but we could do so only because we apprehended either that a certain kind of man with six toes was necessary and actual, or that such a man was impossible and not actual. if, however, as is the case, we do not understand the nature of man, we can only decide the question of possibility by an appeal to experience, i. e. to the experience of a corresponding object, or of an object from which the existence of such an object could be inferred. here, therefore--assuming the required experience to be forthcoming--we can appeal to kant's formula and say that we know that such a man, i. e. an object corresponding to the conception, is actual, as being connected with the material conditions of experience. but the perception which constitutes the material conditions of experience in the case in question is only of use because it carries us beyond possibility to actuality, and appeal to it is only necessary because the object is not really conceived or, in other words, because the so-called conception is not really a conception. [ ] for instance, it might at least be _argued_ that we know space to be actual without knowing it to be necessary. [ ] _not_ 'together with the apprehension _that_ the elements are connected'. cf. p. . kant really treats his 'objectively real' conceptions as if they were 'fictitious', even though he speaks of them as complete. consequently, his conceptions not being conceptions proper, he is necessarily led to hold that an appeal to experience is needed in order to establish the reality of a corresponding object. yet, this being so, he should have asked himself whether, without an appeal to perception, we could even say that a corresponding object was possible. that he did not ask this question is partly due to the fact that he attributes the form and the matter of knowledge to different sources, viz. to the mind and to things in themselves. while the conceptions involved in the forms of perception, space, and time, and also the categories are the manifestations of the mind's own nature, sensations, which form the matter of knowledge, are due to the action of things in themselves on our sensibility, and of this activity we can say nothing. hence, from the point of view of our mind--and since we do not know things in themselves, this is the only point of view we can take--the existence of sensations, and therefore of objects, which must be given in perception, is wholly contingent and only to be discovered through experience. on the other hand, since the forms of perception and conception necessarily determine in certain ways the nature of objects, _if_ there prove to be any objects, the conceptions involved may be thought to determine what objects are possible, even though the very existence of the objects is uncertain. nevertheless, on his own principles, kant should have allowed that, apart from perception, we could discover _a priori_ at least the reality, even if not the necessity, of the objects of these conceptions. for his general view is that the forms of perception and the categories are only actualized on the occasion of the stimulus afforded by the action of things in themselves on the sensibility. hence the fact that the categories and forms of perception are actualized--a fact implied in the very existence of the _critique_--involves the existence of objects corresponding to the categories and to the conceptions involved in the forms of perception. on kant's own principles, therefore, we could say _a priori_ that there must be objects corresponding to these conceptions, even though their nature in detail could only be filled in by experience.[ ] [ ] cf. caird, i. - . note on the refutation of idealism this well-known passage[ ] practically replaces a long section,[ ] contained only in the first edition, on the fourth paralogism of pure reason. its aim is to vindicate against 'idealism' the reality of objects in space, and it is for this reason inserted after the discussion of the second postulate. the interest which it has excited is due to kant's use of language which at least seems to imply that bodies in space are things in themselves, and therefore that here he really abandons his main thesis. [ ] b. - , m. - . cf. b. xxxix (note), m. xl (note). [ ] a. - , mah. - . idealism is the general name which kant gives to any view which questions or denies the reality of the physical world; and, as has been pointed out before,[ ] he repeatedly tries to defend himself against the charge of being an idealist in this general sense. this passage is the expression of his final attempt. kant begins by distinguishing two forms which idealism can take according as it regards the existence of objects in space as false and _impossible_, or as doubtful and _indemonstrable_. his own view, which regards their existence as certain and demonstrable, and which he elsewhere[ ] calls transcendental idealism, constitutes a third form. the first form is the dogmatic idealism of berkeley. this view, kant says, is unavoidable, if space be regarded as a property of things in themselves, and the basis of it has been destroyed in the _aesthetic_. the second form is the problematic idealism of descartes, according to which we are immediately aware only of our own existence, and belief in the existence of bodies in space can be only an inference, and an uncertain inference, from the immediate apprehension of our own existence. this view, according to kant, is the outcome of a philosophical attitude of mind, in that it demands that a belief should be proved, and apparently--to judge from what kant says of berkeley--it does not commit descartes to the view that bodies in space, if their reality can be vindicated, are things in themselves. [ ] cf. p. . [ ] a. , mah. ; cf. b. , m. . the assertion that the _aesthetic_ has destroyed the basis of berkeley's view, taken together with the drift of the _refutation_ as a whole, and especially of remark i, renders it clear that the _refutation_ is directed against descartes and not berkeley. kant regards himself as having already refuted berkeley's view, as he here states it, viz. that the existence of objects in space is _impossible_, on the ground that it arose from the mistake of supposing that space, if real at all, must be a property of things in themselves, whereas the _aesthetic_ has as he thinks, shown that space can be, and in point of fact is, a property of phenomena. he now wants to prove--compatibly with their character as phenomena--that the existence of bodies in space is not even, as descartes contends, _doubtful_. to prove this he seeks to show that descartes is wrong in supposing that we have no immediate experience of these objects. his method is to argue that reflection shows that internal experience presupposes external experience, i. e. that unless we were directly aware of spatial objects, we could not be aware of the succession of our own states, and consequently that it is an inversion to hold that we must reach the knowledge of objects in space, if at all, by an inference from the immediate apprehension of our own states. an examination of the proof itself, however, forces us to allow that kant, without realizing what he is doing, really abandons the view that objects in space are phenomena, and uses an argument the very nature of which implies that these objects are things in themselves. the proof runs thus: _theorem._ "the mere but empirically determined consciousness of my own existence proves the existence of objects in space external to me." "_proof._ i am conscious of my own existence as determined in time. all time-determination presupposes something permanent in perception.[ ] this permanent, however, cannot be an intuition[ ] in me. for all grounds of determination of my own existence, which can be found in me, are representations, and as such themselves need a permanent different from them, in relation to which their change and consequently my existence in the time in which they change can be determined.[ ] the perception of this permanent, therefore, is possible only through a _thing_ external to me, and not through the mere _representation_ of a thing external to me. consequently, the determination of my existence in time is possible only through the existence of actual things, which i perceive external to me. now consciousness in time is necessarily connected with the consciousness of the possibility of this time-determination; hence it is necessarily connected also with the existence of things external to me, as the condition of time-determination, i. e. the consciousness of my own existence, is at the same time an immediate consciousness of the existence of other things external to me."[ ] [ ] _wahrnehmung._ [ ] _anschauung._ [ ] the text has been corrected in accordance with kant's note in the preface to the second edition, b. xxxix, m. xl. [ ] b. - , m. . the nature of the argument is clear. 'in order to be conscious, as i am, of a determinate succession of my states, i must perceive something permanent as that in relation to which alone i can perceive my states as having a definite order.[ ] but this permanent cannot be a perception in me, for in that case it would only be a representation of mine, which, as such, could only be apprehended in relation to another permanent. consequently, this permanent must be a thing external to me and not a representation of a thing external to me. consequently, the consciousness of my own existence, which is necessarily a consciousness of my successive states, involves the immediate consciousness of things external to me.' [ ] cf. kant's proof of the first analogy. here there is no way of avoiding the conclusion that kant is deceived by the ambiguity of the phrase 'a thing external to me' into thinking that he has given a proof of the existence of bodies in space which is compatible with the view that they are only phenomena, although in reality the proof presupposes that they are things in themselves. in the 'proof', the phrase 'a thing external to me' must have a double meaning. it must mean a thing external to my body, i. e. any body which is not my body; in other words, it must be a loose expression for a body in space. for, though the 'proof' makes us appeal to the spatial character of things external to me, the _refutation_ as a whole, and especially remark ii, shows that it is of bodies in space that he is thinking throughout. the phrase must also, and primarily, mean a thing external to, in the sense of independent of, my mind, i. e. a thing in itself. for the nerve of the argument consists in the contention that the permanent the perception of which is required for the consciousness of my successive states must be a _thing_ external to me in opposition to the representation of a thing external to me, and a thing external to me in opposition to a thing external to me can only be a thing in itself. on the other hand, in kant's conclusion, 'a thing external to me' can only mean a body in space, this being supposed to be a phenomenon; for his aim is to establish the reality of bodies in space compatibly with his general view that they are only phenomena. the proof therefore requires that things external to me, in order that they may render possible the consciousness of my successive states, should have the very character which is withheld from them in the conclusion, viz. that of existing independently of me; in other words, if kant establishes the existence of bodies in space at all, he does so only at the cost of allowing that they are things in themselves.[ ] [ ] the ambiguity of the phrase 'external to me' is pointed out in the suppressed account of the fourth paralogism, where it is expressly declared that objects in space are only representations. (a. - , mah. ). possibly the introduction of an argument which turns on the view that they are not representations may have had something to do with the suppression. nevertheless, the _refutation_ may be considered to suggest the proper refutation of descartes. it is possible to ignore kant's demand for a permanent as a condition of the apprehension of our successive states, and to confine attention to his remark that he has shown that external experience is really immediate, and that only by means of it is the consciousness of our existence as determined in time possible.[ ] if we do so, we may consider the _refutation_ as suggesting the view that descartes' position is precisely an inversion of the truth; in other words, that our consciousness of the world, so far from being an uncertain inference from the consciousness of our successive states, is in reality a presupposition of the latter consciousness, in that this latter consciousness only arises through reflection upon the former, and that therefore descartes' admission of the validity of self-consciousness implicitly involves the admission _a fortiori_ of the validity of our consciousness of the world.[ ] [ ] b. , m. fin. [ ] cf. caird, i. and ff. oxford: printed at the clarendon press by horace hart, m.a. an essay concerning humane understanding in four books books i and ii by john locke quam bellum est velle confiteri potius nescire quod nescias, quam ista effutientem nauseare, atque ipsum sibi displicere. --cic. de natur. deor. . i. london: printed by eliz. holt, for thomas basset, at the george in fleet street, near st. dunstan’s church. mdcxc contents: [based on the d edition] epistle dedicatory to the earl of pembroke the epistle to the reader introduction book i. neither principles nor ideas are innate. i. no innate speculative principles ii. no innate practical principles iii. other considerations concerning innate principles, both speculative and practical book ii. of ideas. i. of ideas in general, and their original ii. of simple ideas iii. of simple ideas of sensation iv. idea of solidity v. of simple ideas of divers senses vi. of simple ideas of reflection ... vii. of simple ideas of both sensation and reflection viii. some further considerations concerning our simple ideas of sensation ix. of perception x. of retention xi. of discerning, and other operations of the mind xii. of complex ideas xiii. of simple modes:--and first, of the simple modes of the idea of space xiv. idea of duration and its simple modes xv. ideas of duration and expansion, considered together xvi. idea of number and its simple modes xvii. of the idea of infinity xviii. of other simple modes xix. of the modes of thinking xx. of modes of pleasure and pain xxi. of the idea of power xxii. of mixed modes xxiii. of our complex ideas of substances xxiv. of collective ideas of substances xxv. of ideas of relation xxvi. of ideas of cause and effect, and other relations xxvii. of ideas of identity and diversity xxviii. of ideas of other relations xxix. of clear and obscure, distinct and confused ideas xxx. of real and fantastical ideas xxxi. of adequate and inadequate ideas xxxii. of true and false ideas xxxiii. of the association of ideas to the right honourable thomas, earl of pembroke and montgomery, baron herbert of cardiff lord ross, of kendal, par, fitzhugh, marmion, st. quintin, and shurland; lord president of his majesty’s most honourable privy council; and lord lieutenant of the county of wilts, and of south wales. my lord, this treatise, which is grown up under your lordship’s eye, and has ventured into the world by your order, does now, by a natural kind of right, come to your lordship for that protection which you several years since promised it. it is not that i think any name, how great soever, set at the beginning of a book, will be able to cover the faults that are to be found in it. things in print must stand and fall by their own worth, or the reader’s fancy. but there being nothing more to be desired for truth than a fair unprejudiced hearing, nobody is more likely to procure me that than your lordship, who are allowed to have got so intimate an acquaintance with her, in her more retired recesses. your lordship is known to have so far advanced your speculations in the most abstract and general knowledge of things, beyond the ordinary reach or common methods, that your allowance and approbation of the design of this treatise will at least preserve it from being condemned without reading, and will prevail to have those parts a little weighed, which might otherwise perhaps be thought to deserve no consideration, for being somewhat out of the common road. the imputation of novelty is a terrible charge amongst those who judge of men’s heads, as they do of their perukes, by the fashion, and can allow none to be right but the received doctrines. truth scarce ever yet carried it by vote anywhere at its first appearance: new opinions are always suspected, and usually opposed, without any other reason but because they are not already common. but truth, like gold, is not the less so for being newly brought out of the mine. it is trial and examination must give it price, and not any antique fashion; and though it be not yet current by the public stamp, yet it may, for all that, be as old as nature, and is certainly not the less genuine. your lordship can give great and convincing instances of this, whenever you please to oblige the public with some of those large and comprehensive discoveries you have made of truths hitherto unknown, unless to some few, from whom your lordship has been pleased not wholly to conceal them. this alone were a sufficient reason, were there no other, why i should dedicate this essay to your lordship; and its having some little correspondence with some parts of that nobler and vast system of the sciences your lordship has made so new, exact, and instructive a draught of, i think it glory enough, if your lordship permit me to boast, that here and there i have fallen into some thoughts not wholly different from yours. if your lordship think fit that, by your encouragement, this should appear in the world, i hope it may be a reason, some time or other, to lead your lordship further; and you will allow me to say, that you here give the world an earnest of something that, if they can bear with this, will be truly worth their expectation. this, my lord, shows what a present i here make to your lordship; just such as the poor man does to his rich and great neighbour, by whom the basket of flowers or fruit is not ill taken, though he has more plenty of his own growth, and in much greater perfection. worthless things receive a value when they are made the offerings of respect, esteem, and gratitude: these you have given me so mighty and peculiar reasons to have, in the highest degree, for your lordship, that if they can add a price to what they go along with, proportionable to their own greatness, i can with confidence brag, i here make your lordship the richest present you ever received. this i am sure, i am under the greatest obligations to seek all occasions to acknowledge a long train of favours i have received from your lordship; favours, though great and important in themselves, yet made much more so by the forwardness, concern, and kindness, and other obliging circumstances, that never failed to accompany them. to all this you are pleased to add that which gives yet more weight and relish to all the rest: you vouchsafe to continue me in some degrees of your esteem, and allow me a place in your good thoughts, i had almost said friendship. this, my lord, your words and actions so constantly show on all occasions, even to others when i am absent, that it is not vanity in me to mention what everybody knows: but it would be want of good manners not to acknowledge what so many are witnesses of, and every day tell me i am indebted to your lordship for. i wish they could as easily assist my gratitude, as they convince me of the great and growing engagements it has to your lordship. this i am sure, i should write of the understanding without having any, if i were not extremely sensible of them, and did not lay hold on this opportunity to testify to the world how much i am obliged to be, and how much i am, my lord, your lordship’s most humble and most obedient servant, john locke dorset court, th of may, the epistle to the reader reader, i have put into thy hands what has been the diversion of some of my idle and heavy hours. if it has the good luck to prove so of any of thine, and thou hast but half so much pleasure in reading as i had in writing it, thou wilt as little think thy money, as i do my pains, ill bestowed. mistake not this for a commendation of my work; nor conclude, because i was pleased with the doing of it, that therefore i am fondly taken with it now it is done. he that hawks at larks and sparrows has no less sport, though a much less considerable quarry, than he that flies at nobler game: and he is little acquainted with the subject of this treatise--the understanding--who does not know that, as it is the most elevated faculty of the soul, so it is employed with a greater and more constant delight than any of the other. its searches after truth are a sort of hawking and hunting, wherein the very pursuit makes a great part of the pleasure. every step the mind takes in its progress towards knowledge makes some discovery, which is not only new, but the best too, for the time at least. for the understanding, like the eye, judging of objects only by its own sight, cannot but be pleased with what it discovers, having less regret for what has escaped it, because it is unknown. thus he who has raised himself above the alms-basket, and, not content to live lazily on scraps of begged opinions, sets his own thoughts on work, to find and follow truth, will (whatever he lights on) not miss the hunter’s satisfaction; every moment of his pursuit will reward his pains with some delight; and he will have reason to think his time not ill spent, even when he cannot much boast of any great acquisition. this, reader, is the entertainment of those who let loose their own thoughts, and follow them in writing; which thou oughtest not to envy them, since they afford thee an opportunity of the like diversion, if thou wilt make use of thy own thoughts in reading. it is to them, if they are thy own, that i refer myself: but if they are taken upon trust from others, it is no great matter what they are; they are not following truth, but some meaner consideration; and it is not worth while to be concerned what he says or thinks, who says or thinks only as he is directed by another. if thou judgest for thyself i know thou wilt judge candidly, and then i shall not be harmed or offended, whatever be thy censure. for though it be certain that there is nothing in this treatise of the truth whereof i am not fully persuaded, yet i consider myself as liable to mistakes as i can think thee, and know that this book must stand or fall with thee, not by any opinion i have of it, but thy own. if thou findest little in it new or instructive to thee, thou art not to blame me for it. it was not meant for those that had already mastered this subject, and made a thorough acquaintance with their own understandings; but for my own information, and the satisfaction of a few friends, who acknowledged themselves not to have sufficiently considered it. were it fit to trouble thee with the history of this essay, i should tell thee, that five or six friends meeting at my chamber, and discoursing on a subject very remote from this, found themselves quickly at a stand, by the difficulties that rose on every side. after we had awhile puzzled ourselves, without coming any nearer a resolution of those doubts which perplexed us, it came into my thoughts that we took a wrong course; and that before we set ourselves upon inquiries of that nature, it was necessary to examine our own abilities, and see what objects our understandings were, or were not, fitted to deal with. this i proposed to the company, who all readily assented; and thereupon it was agreed that this should be our first inquiry. some hasty and undigested thoughts, on a subject i had never before considered, which i set down against our next meeting, gave the first entrance into this discourse; which having been thus begun by chance, was continued by intreaty; written by incoherent parcels; and after long intervals of neglect, resumed again, as my humour or occasions permitted; and at last, in a retirement where an attendance on my health gave me leisure, it was brought into that order thou now seest it. this discontinued way of writing may have occasioned, besides others, two contrary faults, viz., that too little and too much may be said in it. if thou findest anything wanting, i shall be glad that what i have written gives thee any desire that i should have gone further. if it seems too much to thee, thou must blame the subject; for when i put pen to paper, i thought all i should have to say on this matter would have been contained in one sheet of paper; but the further i went the larger prospect i had; new discoveries led me still on, and so it grew insensibly to the bulk it now appears in. i will not deny, but possibly it might be reduced to a narrower compass than it is, and that some parts of it might be contracted, the way it has been writ in, by catches, and many long intervals of interruption, being apt to cause some repetitions. but to confess the truth, i am now too lazy, or too busy, to make it shorter. i am not ignorant how little i herein consult my own reputation, when i knowingly let it go with a fault, so apt to disgust the most judicious, who are always the nicest readers. but they who know sloth is apt to content itself with any excuse, will pardon me if mine has prevailed on me, where i think i have a very good one. i will not therefore allege in my defence, that the same notion, having different respects, may be convenient or necessary to prove or illustrate several parts of the same discourse, and that so it has happened in many parts of this: but waiving that, i shall frankly avow that i have sometimes dwelt long upon the same argument, and expressed it different ways, with a quite different design. i pretend not to publish this essay for the information of men of large thoughts and quick apprehensions; to such masters of knowledge i profess myself a scholar, and therefore warn them beforehand not to expect anything here, but what, being spun out of my own coarse thoughts, is fitted to men of my own size, to whom, perhaps, it will not be unacceptable that i have taken some pains to make plain and familiar to their thoughts some truths which established prejudice, or the abstractedness of the ideas themselves, might render difficult. some objects had need be turned on every side; and when the notion is new, as i confess some of these are to me; or out of the ordinary road, as i suspect they will appear to others, it is not one simple view of it that will gain it admittance into every understanding, or fix it there with a clear and lasting impression. there are few, i believe, who have not observed in themselves or others, that what in one way of proposing was very obscure, another way of expressing it has made very clear and intelligible; though afterwards the mind found little difference in the phrases, and wondered why one failed to be understood more than the other. but everything does not hit alike upon every man’s imagination. we have our understandings no less different than our palates; and he that thinks the same truth shall be equally relished by every one in the same dress, may as well hope to feast every one with the same sort of cookery: the meat may be the same, and the nourishment good, yet every one not be able to receive it with that seasoning; and it must be dressed another way, if you will have it go down with some, even of strong constitutions. the truth is, those who advised me to publish it, advised me, for this reason, to publish it as it is: and since i have been brought to let it go abroad, i desire it should be understood by whoever gives himself the pains to read it. i have so little affection to be in print, that if i were not flattered this essay might be of some use to others, as i think it has been to me, i should have confined it to the view of some friends, who gave the first occasion to it. my appearing therefore in print being on purpose to be as useful as i may, i think it necessary to make what i have to say as easy and intelligible to all sorts of readers as i can. and i had much rather the speculative and quick-sighted should complain of my being in some parts tedious, than that any one, not accustomed to abstract speculations, or prepossessed with different notions, should mistake or not comprehend my meaning. it will possibly be censured as a great piece of vanity or insolence in me, to pretend to instruct this our knowing age; it amounting to little less, when i own, that i publish this essay with hopes it may be useful to others. but, if it may be permitted to speak freely of those who with a feigned modesty condemn as useless what they themselves write, methinks it savours much more of vanity or insolence to publish a book for any other end; and he fails very much of that respect he owes the public, who prints, and consequently expects men should read, that wherein he intends not they should meet with anything of use to themselves or others: and should nothing else be found allowable in this treatise, yet my design will not cease to be so; and the goodness of my intention ought to be some excuse for the worthlessness of my present. it is that chiefly which secures me from the fear of censure, which i expect not to escape more than better writers. men’s principles, notions, and relishes are so different, that it is hard to find a book which pleases or displeases all men. i acknowledge the age we live in is not the least knowing, and therefore not the most easy to be satisfied. if i have not the good luck to please, yet nobody ought to be offended with me. i plainly tell all my readers, except half a dozen, this treatise was not at first intended for them; and therefore they need not be at the trouble to be of that number. but yet if any one thinks fit to be angry and rail at it, he may do it securely, for i shall find some better way of spending my time than in such kind of conversation. i shall always have the satisfaction to have aimed sincerely at truth and usefulness, though in one of the meanest ways. the commonwealth of learning is not at this time without master-builders, whose mighty designs, in advancing the sciences, will leave lasting monuments to the admiration of posterity: but every one must not hope to be a boyle or a sydenham; and in an age that produces such masters as the great huygenius and the incomparable mr. newton, with some others of that strain, it is ambition enough to be employed as an under-labourer in clearing the ground a little, and removing some of the rubbish that lies in the way to knowledge;--which certainly had been very much more advanced in the world, if the endeavours of ingenious and industrious men had not been much cumbered with the learned but frivolous use of uncouth, affected, or unintelligible terms, introduced into the sciences, and there made an art of, to that degree that philosophy, which is nothing but the true knowledge of things, was thought unfit or incapable to be brought into well-bred company and polite conversation. vague and insignificant forms of speech, and abuse of language, have so long passed for mysteries of science; and hard and misapplied words, with little or no meaning, have, by prescription, such a right to be mistaken for deep learning and height of speculation, that it will not be easy to persuade either those who speak or those who hear them, that they are but the covers of ignorance, and hindrance of true knowledge. to break in upon the sanctuary of vanity and ignorance will be, i suppose, some service to human understanding; though so few are apt to think they deceive or are deceived in the use of words; or that the language of the sect they are of has any faults in it which ought to be examined or corrected, that i hope i shall be pardoned if i have in the third book dwelt long on this subject, and endeavoured to make it so plain, that neither the inveterateness of the mischief, nor the prevalency of the fashion, shall be any excuse for those who will not take care about the meaning of their own words, and will not suffer the significancy of their expressions to be inquired into. i have been told that a short epitome of this treatise, which was printed in , was by some condemned without reading, because innate ideas were denied in it; they too hastily concluding, that if innate ideas were not supposed, there would be little left either of the notion or proof of spirits. if any one take the like offence at the entrance of this treatise, i shall desire him to read it through; and then i hope he will be convinced, that the taking away false foundations is not to the prejudice but advantage of truth, which is never injured or endangered so much as when mixed with, or built on, falsehood. in the second edition i added as followeth:-- the bookseller will not forgive me if i say nothing of this new edition, which he has promised, by the correctness of it, shall make amends for the many faults committed in the former. he desires too, that it should be known that it has one whole new chapter concerning identity, and many additions and amendments in other places. these i must inform my reader are not all new matter, but most of them either further confirmation of what i had said, or explications, to prevent others being mistaken in the sense of what was formerly printed, and not any variation in me from it. i must only except the alterations i have made in book ii. chap. xxi. what i had there written concerning liberty and the will, i thought deserved as accurate a view as i am capable of; those subjects having in all ages exercised the learned part of the world with questions and difficulties, that have not a little perplexed morality and divinity, those parts of knowledge that men are most concerned to be clear in. upon a closer inspection into the working of men’s minds, and a stricter examination of those motives and views they are turned by, i have found reason somewhat to alter the thoughts i formerly had concerning that which gives the last determination to the will in all voluntary actions. this i cannot forbear to acknowledge to the world with as much freedom and readiness; as i at first published what then seemed to me to be right; thinking myself more concerned to quit and renounce any opinion of my own, than oppose that of another, when truth appears against it. for it is truth alone i seek, and that will always be welcome to me, when or from whencesoever it comes. but what forwardness soever i have to resign any opinion i have, or to recede from anything i have writ, upon the first evidence of any error in it; yet this i must own, that i have not had the good luck to receive any light from those exceptions i have met with in print against any part of my book, nor have, from anything that has been urged against it, found reason to alter my sense in any of the points that have been questioned. whether the subject i have in hand requires often more thought and attention than cursory readers, at least such as are prepossessed, are willing to allow; or whether any obscurity in my expressions casts a cloud over it, and these notions are made difficult to others’ apprehensions in my way of treating them; so it is, that my meaning, i find, is often mistaken, and i have not the good luck to be everywhere rightly understood. of this the ingenious author of the discourse concerning the nature of man has given me a late instance, to mention no other. for the civility of his expressions, and the candour that belongs to his order, forbid me to think that he would have closed his preface with an insinuation, as if in what i had said, book ii. ch. xxvii, concerning the third rule which men refer their actions to, i went about to make virtue vice and vice virtue, unless he had mistaken my meaning; which he could not have done if he had given himself the trouble to consider what the argument was i was then upon, and what was the chief design of that chapter, plainly enough set down in the fourth section and those following. for i was there not laying down moral rules, but showing the original and nature of moral ideas, and enumerating the rules men make use of in moral relations, whether these rules were true or false: and pursuant thereto i tell what is everywhere called virtue and vice; which “alters not the nature of things,” though men generally do judge of and denominate their actions according to the esteem and fashion of the place and sect they are of. if he had been at the pains to reflect on what i had said, bk. i. ch. ii. sect. , and bk. ii. ch. xxviii. sect. , , and , he would have known what i think of the eternal and unalterable nature of right and wrong, and what i call virtue and vice. and if he had observed that in the place he quotes i only report as a matter of fact what others call virtue and vice, he would not have found it liable to any great exception. for i think i am not much out in saying that one of the rules made use of in the world for a ground or measure of a moral relation is--that esteem and reputation which several sorts of actions find variously in the several societies of men, according to which they are there called virtues or vices. and whatever authority the learned mr. lowde places in his old english dictionary, i daresay it nowhere tells him (if i should appeal to it) that the same action is not in credit, called and counted a virtue, in one place, which, being in disrepute, passes for and under the name of vice in another. the taking notice that men bestow the names of ‘virtue’ and ‘vice’ according to this rule of reputation is all i have done, or can be laid to my charge to have done, towards the making vice virtue or virtue vice. but the good man does well, and as becomes his calling, to be watchful in such points, and to take the alarm even at expressions, which, standing alone by themselves, might sound ill and be suspected. ‘tis to this zeal, allowable in his function, that i forgive his citing as he does these words of mine (ch. xxviii. sect. ii): “even the exhortations of inspired teachers have not feared to appeal to common repute, philip, iv. ;” without taking notice of those immediately preceding, which introduce them, and run thus: “whereby even in the corruption of manners, the true boundaries of the law of nature, which ought to be the rule of virtue and vice, were pretty well preserved. so that even the exhortations of inspired teachers,” &c. by which words, and the rest of that section, it is plain that i brought that passage of st. paul, not to prove that the general measure of what men called virtue and vice throughout the world was the reputation and fashion of each particular society within itself; but to show that, though it were so, yet, for reasons i there give, men, in that way of denominating their actions, did not for the most part much stray from the law of nature; which is that standing and unalterable rule by which they ought to judge of the moral rectitude and gravity of their actions, and accordingly denominate them virtues or vices. had mr. lowde considered this, he would have found it little to his purpose to have quoted this passage in a sense i used it not; and would i imagine have spared the application he subjoins to it, as not very necessary. but i hope this second edition will give him satisfaction on the point, and that this matter is now so expressed as to show him there was no cause for scruple. though i am forced to differ from him in these apprehensions he has expressed, in the latter end of his preface, concerning what i had said about virtue and vice, yet we are better agreed than he thinks in what he says in his third chapter (p. ) concerning “natural inscription and innate notions.” i shall not deny him the privilege he claims (p. ), to state the question as he pleases, especially when he states it so as to leave nothing in it contrary to what i have said. for, according to him, “innate notions, being conditional things, depending upon the concurrence of several other circumstances in order to the soul’s exerting them,” all that he says for “innate, imprinted, impressed notions” (for of innate ideas he says nothing at all), amounts at last only to this--that there are certain propositions which, though the soul from the beginning, or when a man is born, does not know, yet “by assistance from the outward senses, and the help of some previous cultivation,” it may afterwards come certainly to know the truth of; which is no more than what i have affirmed in my first book. for i suppose by the “soul’s exerting them,” he means its beginning to know them; or else the soul’s ‘exerting of notions’ will be to me a very unintelligible expression; and i think at best is a very unfit one in this, it misleading men’s thoughts by an insinuation, as if these notions were in the mind before the ‘soul exerts them,’ i. e. before they are known;--whereas truly before they are known, there is nothing of them in the mind but a capacity to know them, when the ‘concurrence of those circumstances,’ which this ingenious author thinks necessary ‘in order to the soul’s exerting them,’ brings them into our knowledge. p. i find him express it thus: ‘these natural notions are not so imprinted upon the soul as that they naturally and necessarily exert themselves (even in children and idiots) without any assistance from the outward senses, or without the help of some previous cultivation.’ here, he says, they ‘exert themselves,’ as p. , that the ‘soul exerts them.’ when he has explained to himself or others what he means by ‘the soul’s exerting innate notions,’ or their ‘exerting themselves;’ and what that ‘previous cultivation and circumstances’ in order to their being exerted are--he will i suppose find there is so little of controversy between him and me on the point, bating that he calls that ‘exerting of notions’ which i in a more vulgar style call ‘knowing,’ that i have reason to think he brought in my name on this occasion only out of the pleasure he has to speak civilly of me; which i must gratefully acknowledge he has done everywhere he mentions me, not without conferring on me, as some others have done, a title i have no right to. there are so many instances of this, that i think it justice to my reader and myself to conclude, that either my book is plainly enough written to be rightly understood by those who peruse it with that attention and indifferency, which every one who will give himself the pains to read ought to employ in reading; or else that i have written mine so obscurely that it is in vain to go about to mend it. whichever of these be the truth, it is myself only am affected thereby; and therefore i shall be far from troubling my reader with what i think might be said in answer to those several objections i have met with, to passages here and there of my book; since i persuade myself that he who thinks them of moment enough to be concerned whether they are true or false, will be able to see that what is said is either not well founded, or else not contrary to my doctrine, when i and my opposer come both to be well understood. if any other authors, careful that none of their good thoughts should be lost, have published their censures of my essay, with this honour done to it, that they will not suffer it to be an essay, i leave it to the public to value the obligation they have to their critical pens, and shall not waste my reader’s time in so idle or ill-natured an employment of mine, as to lessen the satisfaction any one has in himself, or gives to others, in so hasty a confutation of what i have written. the booksellers preparing for the fourth edition of my essay, gave me notice of it, that i might, if i had leisure, make any additions or alterations i should think fit. whereupon i thought it convenient to advertise the reader, that besides several corrections i had made here and there, there was one alteration which it was necessary to mention, because it ran through the whole book, and is of consequence to be rightly understood. what i thereupon said was this:-- clear and distinct ideas are terms which, though familiar and frequent in men’s mouths, i have reason to think every one who uses does not perfectly understand. and possibly ‘tis but here and there one who gives himself the trouble to consider them so far as to know what he himself or others precisely mean by them. i have therefore in most places chose to put determinate or determined, instead of clear and distinct, as more likely to direct men’s thoughts to my meaning in this matter. by those denominations, i mean some object in the mind, and consequently determined, i. e. such as it is there seen and perceived to be. this, i think, may fitly be called a determinate or determined idea, when such as it is at any time objectively in the mind, and so determined there, it is annexed, and without variation determined, to a name or articulate sound, which is to be steadily the sign of that very same object of the mind, or determinate idea. to explain this a little more particularly. by determinate, when applied to a simple idea, i mean that simple appearance which the mind has in its view, or perceives in itself, when that idea is said to be in it: by determined, when applied to a complex idea, i mean such an one as consists of a determinate number of certain simple or less complex ideas, joined in such a proportion and situation as the mind has before its view, and sees in itself, when that idea is present in it, or should be present in it, when a man gives a name to it. i say should be, because it is not every one, nor perhaps any one, who is so careful of his language as to use no word till he views in his mind the precise determined idea which he resolves to make it the sign of. the want of this is the cause of no small obscurity and confusion in men’s thoughts and discourses. i know there are not words enough in any language to answer all the variety of ideas that enter into men’s discourses and reasonings. but this hinders not but that when any one uses any term, he may have in his mind a determined idea, which he makes it the sign of, and to which he should keep it steadily annexed during that present discourse. where he does not, or cannot do this, he in vain pretends to clear or distinct ideas: it is plain his are not so; and therefore there can be expected nothing but obscurity and confusion, where such terms are made use of which have not such a precise determination. upon this ground i have thought determined ideas a way of speaking less liable to mistakes, than clear and distinct: and where men have got such determined ideas of all that they reason, inquire, or argue about, they will find a great part of their doubts and disputes at an end; the greatest part of the questions and controversies that perplex mankind depending on the doubtful and uncertain use of words, or (which is the same) indetermined ideas, which they are made to stand for. i have made choice of these terms to signify, ( ) some immediate object of the mind, which it perceives and has before it, distinct from the sound it uses as a sign of it. ( ) that this idea, thus determined, i.e. which the mind has in itself, and knows, and sees there, be determined without any change to that name, and that name determined to that precise idea. if men had such determined ideas in their inquiries and discourses, they would both discern how far their own inquiries and discourses went, and avoid the greatest part of the disputes and wranglings they have with others. besides this, the bookseller will think it necessary i should advertise the reader that there is an addition of two chapters wholly new; the one of the association of ideas, the other of enthusiasm. these, with some other larger additions never before printed, he has engaged to print by themselves, after the same manner, and for the same purpose, as was done when this essay had the second impression. in the sixth edition there is very little added or altered. the greatest part of what is new is contained in the twenty-first chapter of the second book, which any one, if he thinks it worth while, may, with a very little labour, transcribe into the margin of the former edition. essay concerning human understanding. introduction. . an inquiry into the understanding pleasant and useful. since it is the understanding that sets man above the rest of sensible beings, and gives him all the advantage and dominion which he has over them; it is certainly a subject, even for its nobleness, worth our labour to inquire into. the understanding, like the eye, whilst it makes us see and perceive all other things, takes no notice of itself; and it requires and art and pains to set it at a distance and make it its own object. but whatever be the difficulties that lie in the way of this inquiry; whatever it be that keeps us so much in the dark to ourselves; sure i am that all the light we can let in upon our minds, all the acquaintance we can make with our own understandings, will not only be very pleasant, but bring us great advantage, in directing our thoughts in the search of other things. . design. this, therefore, being my purpose--to inquire into the original, certainty, and extent of human knowledge, together with the grounds and degrees of belief, opinion, and assent;--i shall not at present meddle with the physical consideration of the mind; or trouble myself to examine wherein its essence consists; or by what motions of our spirits or alterations of our bodies we come to have any sensation by our organs, or any ideas in our understandings; and whether those ideas do in their formation, any or all of them, depend on matter or not. these are speculations which, however curious and entertaining, i shall decline, as lying out of my way in the design i am now upon. it shall suffice to my present purpose, to consider the discerning faculties of a man, as they are employed about the objects which they have to do with. and i shall imagine i have not wholly misemployed myself in the thoughts i shall have on this occasion, if, in this historical, plain method, i can give any account of the ways whereby our understandings come to attain those notions of things we have; and can set down any measures of the certainty of our knowledge; or the grounds of those persuasions which are to be found amongst men, so various, different, and wholly contradictory; and yet asserted somewhere or other with such assurance and confidence, that he that shall take a view of the opinions of mankind, observe their opposition, and at the same time consider the fondness and devotion wherewith they are embraced, the resolution and eagerness wherewith they are maintained, may perhaps have reason to suspect, that either there is no such thing as truth at all, or that mankind hath no sufficient means to attain a certain knowledge of it. . method. it is therefore worth while to search out the bounds between opinion and knowledge; and examine by what measures, in things whereof we have no certain knowledge, we ought to regulate our assent and moderate our persuasion. in order whereunto i shall pursue this following method:-- first, i shall inquire into the original of those ideas, notions, or whatever else you please to call them, which a man observes, and is conscious to himself he has in his mind; and the ways whereby the understanding comes to be furnished with them. secondly, i shall endeavour to show what knowledge the understanding hath by those ideas; and the certainty, evidence, and extent of it. thirdly, i shall make some inquiry into the nature and grounds of faith or opinion: whereby i mean that assent which we give to any proposition as true, of whose truth yet we have no certain knowledge. and here we shall have occasion to examine the reasons and degrees of assent. . useful to know the extent of our comprehension. if by this inquiry into the nature of the understanding, i can discover the powers thereof; how far they reach; to what things they are in any degree proportionate; and where they fail us, i suppose it may be of use to prevail with the busy mind of man to be more cautious in meddling with things exceeding its comprehension; to stop when it is at the utmost extent of its tether; and to sit down in a quiet ignorance of those things which, upon examination, are found to be beyond the reach of our capacities. we should not then perhaps be so forward, out of an affectation of an universal knowledge, to raise questions, and perplex ourselves and others with disputes about things to which our understandings are not suited; and of which we cannot frame in our minds any clear or distinct perceptions, or whereof (as it has perhaps too often happened) we have not any notions at all. if we can find out how far the understanding can extend its view; how far it has faculties to attain certainty; and in what cases it can only judge and guess, we may learn to content ourselves with what is attainable by us in this state. . our capacity suited to our state and concerns. for though the comprehension of our understandings comes exceeding short of the vast extent of things, yet we shall have cause enough to magnify the bountiful author of our being, for that proportion and degree of knowledge he has bestowed on us, so far above all the rest of the inhabitants of this our mansion. men have reason to be well satisfied with what god hath thought fit for them, since he hath given them (as st. peter says) [words in greek], whatsoever is necessary for the conveniences of life and information of virtue; and has put within the reach of their discovery, the comfortable provision for this life, and the way that leads to a better. how short soever their knowledge may come of an universal or perfect comprehension of whatsoever is, it yet secures their great concernments, that they have light enough to lead them to the knowledge of their maker, and the sight of their own duties. men may find matter sufficient to busy their heads, and employ their hands with variety, delight, and satisfaction, if they will not boldly quarrel with their own constitution, and throw away the blessings their hands are filled with, because they are not big enough to grasp everything. we shall not have much reason to complain of the narrowness of our minds, if we will but employ them about what may be of use to us; for of that they are very capable. and it will be an unpardonable, as well as childish peevishness, if we undervalue the advantages of our knowledge, and neglect to improve it to the ends for which it was given us, because there are some things that are set out of the reach of it. it will be no excuse to an idle and untoward servant, who would not attend his business by candle light, to plead that he had not broad sunshine. the candle that is set up in us shines bright enough for all our purposes. the discoveries we can make with this ought to satisfy us; and we shall then use our understandings right, when we entertain all objects in that way and proportion that they are suited to our faculties, and upon those grounds they are capable of being proposed to us; and not peremptorily or intemperately require demonstration, and demand certainty, where probability only is to be had, and which is sufficient to govern all our concernments. if we will disbelieve everything, because we cannot certainly know all things, we shall do much what as wisely as he who would not use his legs, but sit still and perish, because he had no wings to fly. . knowledge of our capacity a cure of scepticism and idleness. when we know our own strength, we shall the better know what to undertake with hopes of success; and when we have well surveyed the powers of our own minds, and made some estimate what we may expect from them, we shall not be inclined either to sit still, and not set our thoughts on work at all, in despair of knowing anything; nor on the other side, question everything, and disclaim all knowledge, because some things are not to be understood. it is of great use to the sailor to know the length of his line, though he cannot with it fathom all the depths of the ocean. it is well he knows that it is long enough to reach the bottom, at such places as are necessary to direct his voyage, and caution him against running upon shoals that may ruin him. our business here is not to know all things, but those which concern our conduct. if we can find out those measures, whereby a rational creature, put in that state in which man is in this world, may and ought to govern his opinions, and actions depending thereon, we need not to be troubled that some other things escape our knowledge. . occasion of this essay. this was that which gave the first rise to this essay concerning the understanding. for i thought that the first step towards satisfying several inquiries the mind of man was very apt to run into, was, to take a survey of our own understandings, examine our own powers, and see to what things they were adapted. till that was done i suspected we began at the wrong end, and in vain sought for satisfaction in a quiet and sure possession of truths that most concerned us, whilst we let loose our thoughts into the vast ocean of being; as if all that boundless extent were the natural and undoubted possession of our understandings, wherein there was nothing exempt from its decisions, or that escaped its comprehension. thus men, extending their inquiries beyond their capacities, and letting their thoughts wander into those depths where they can find no sure footing, it is no wonder that they raise questions and multiply disputes, which, never coming to any clear resolution, are proper only to continue and increase their doubts, and to confirm them at last in perfect scepticism. whereas, were the capacities of our understandings well considered, the extent of our knowledge once discovered, and the horizon found which sets the bounds between the enlightened and dark parts of things; between what is and what is not comprehensible by us, men would perhaps with less scruple acquiesce in the avowed ignorance of the one, and employ their thoughts and discourse with more advantage and satisfaction in the other. . what idea stands for. thus much i thought necessary to say concerning the occasion of this inquiry into human understanding. but, before i proceed on to what i have thought on this subject, i must here in the entrance beg pardon of my reader for the frequent use of the word idea, which he will find in the following treatise. it being that term which, i think, serves best to stand for whatsoever is the object of the understanding when a man thinks, i have used it to express whatever is meant by phantasm, notion, species, or whatever it is which the mind can be employed about in thinking; and i could not avoid frequently using it. i presume it will be easily granted me, that there are such ideas in men’s minds: every one is conscious of them in himself; and men’s words and actions will satisfy him that they are in others. our first inquiry then shall be,--how they come into the mind. book i--neither principles nor ideas are innate chapter i.--no innate speculative principles. . the way shown how we come by any knowledge, sufficient to prove it not innate. it is an established opinion amongst some men, that there are in the understanding certain innate principles; some primary notions, koivai evvoiai, characters, as it were stamped upon the mind of man; which the soul receives in its very first being, and brings into the world with it. it would be sufficient to convince unprejudiced readers of the falseness of this supposition, if i should only show (as i hope i shall in the following parts of this discourse) how men, barely by the use of their natural faculties may attain to all the knowledge they have, without the help of any innate impressions; and may arrive at certainty, without any such original notions or principles. for i imagine any one will easily grant that it would be impertinent to suppose the ideas of colours innate in a creature to whom god hath given sight, and a power to receive them by the eyes from external objects: and no less unreasonable would it be to attribute several truths to the impressions of nature, and innate characters, when we may observe in ourselves faculties fit to attain as easy and certain knowledge of them as if they were originally imprinted on the mind. but because a man is not permitted without censure to follow his own thoughts in the search of truth, when they lead him ever so little out of the common road, i shall set down the reasons that made me doubt of the truth of that opinion, as an excuse for my mistake, if i be in one; which i leave to be considered by those who, with me, dispose themselves to embrace truth wherever they find it. . general assent the great argument. there is nothing more commonly taken for granted than that there are certain principles, both speculative and practical, (for they speak of both), universally agreed upon by all mankind: which therefore, they argue, must needs be the constant impressions which the souls of men receive in their first beings, and which they bring into the world with them, as necessarily and really as they do any of their inherent faculties. . universal consent proves nothing innate. this argument, drawn from universal consent, has this misfortune in it, that if it were true in matter of fact, that there were certain truths wherein all mankind agreed, it would not prove them innate, if there can be any other way shown how men may come to that universal agreement, in the things they do consent in, which i presume may be done. . “what is is,” and “it is possible for the same thing to be and not to be,” not universally assented to. but, which is worse, this argument of universal consent, which is made use of to prove innate principles, seems to me a demonstration that there are none such: because there are none to which all mankind give an universal assent. i shall begin with the speculative, and instance in those magnified principles of demonstration, “whatsoever is, is,” and “it is impossible for the same thing to be and not to be”; which, of all others, i think have the most allowed title to innate. these have so settled a reputation of maxims universally received, that it will no doubt be thought strange if any one should seem to question it. but yet i take liberty to say, that these propositions are so far from having an universal assent, that there are a great part of mankind to whom they are not so much as known. . not on mind naturally imprinted, because not known to children, idiots, &c. for, first, it is evident, that all children and idiots have not the least apprehension or thought of them. and the want of that is enough to destroy that universal assent which must needs be the necessary concomitant of all innate truths: it seeming to me near a contradiction to say, that there are truths imprinted on the soul, which it perceives or understands not: imprinting, if it signify anything, being nothing else but the making certain truths to be perceived. for to imprint anything on the mind without the mind’s perceiving it, seems to me hardly intelligible. if therefore children and idiots have souls, have minds, with those impressions upon them, they must unavoidably perceive them, and necessarily know and assent to these truths; which since they do not, it is evident that there are no such impressions. for if they are not notions naturally imprinted, how can they be innate? and if they are notions imprinted, how can they be unknown? to say a notion is imprinted on the mind, and yet at the same time to say, that the mind is ignorant of it, and never yet took notice of it, is to make this impression nothing. no proposition can be said to be in the mind which it never yet knew, which it was never yet conscious of. for if any one may, then, by the same reason, all propositions that are true, and the mind is capable ever of assenting to, may be said to be in the mind, and to be imprinted: since, if any one can be said to be in the mind, which it never yet knew, it must be only because it is capable of knowing it; and so the mind is of all truths it ever shall know. nay, thus truths may be imprinted on the mind which it never did, nor ever shall know; for a man may live long, and die at last in ignorance of many truths which his mind was capable of knowing, and that with certainty. so that if the capacity of knowing be the natural impression contended for, all the truths a man ever comes to know will, by this account, be every one of them innate; and this great point will amount to no more, but only to a very improper way of speaking; which, whilst it pretends to assert the contrary, says nothing different from those who deny innate principles. for nobody, i think, ever denied that the mind was capable of knowing several truths. the capacity, they say, is innate; the knowledge acquired. but then to what end such contest for certain innate maxims? if truths can be imprinted on the understanding without being perceived, i can see no difference there can be between any truths the mind is capable of knowing in respect of their original: they must all be innate or all adventitious: in vain shall a man go about to distinguish them. he therefore that talks of innate notions in the understanding, cannot (if he intend thereby any distinct sort of truths) mean such truths to be in the understanding as it never perceived, and is yet wholly ignorant of. for if these words “to be in the understanding” have any propriety, they signify to be understood. so that to be in the understanding, and not to be understood; to be in the mind and never to be perceived, is all one as to say anything is and is not in the mind or understanding. if therefore these two propositions, “whatsoever is, is,” and “it is impossible for the same thing to be and not to be,” are by nature imprinted, children cannot be ignorant of them: infants, and all that have souls, must necessarily have them in their understandings, know the truth of them, and assent to it. . that men know them when they come to the use of reason answered. to avoid this, it is usually answered, that all men know and assent to them, when they come to the use of reason; and this is enough to prove them innate. i answer: . doubtful expressions, that have scarce any signification, go for clear reasons to those who, being prepossessed, take not the pains to examine even what they themselves say. for, to apply this answer with any tolerable sense to our present purpose, it must signify one of these two things: either that as soon as men come to the use of reason these supposed native inscriptions come to be known and observed by them; or else, that the use and exercise of men’s reason, assists them in the discovery of these principles, and certainly makes them known to them. . if reason discovered them, that would not prove them innate. if they mean, that by the use of reason men may discover these principles, and that this is sufficient to prove them innate; their way of arguing will stand thus, viz. that whatever truths reason can certainly discover to us, and make us firmly assent to, those are all naturally imprinted on the mind; since that universal assent, which is made the mark of them, amounts to no more but this,--that by the use of reason we are capable to come to a certain knowledge of and assent to them; and, by this means, there will be no difference between the maxims of the mathematicians, and theorems they deduce from them: all must be equally allowed innate; they being all discoveries made by the use of reason, and truths that a rational creature may certainly come to know, if he apply his thoughts rightly that way. . it is false that reason discovers them. but how can these men think the use of reason necessary to discover principles that are supposed innate, when reason (if we may believe them) is nothing else but the faculty of deducing unknown truths from principles or propositions that are already known? that certainly can never be thought innate which we have need of reason to discover; unless, as i have said, we will have all the certain truths that reason ever teaches us, to be innate. we may as well think the use of reason necessary to make our eyes discover visible objects, as that there should be need of reason, or the exercise thereof, to make the understanding see what is originally engraven on it, and cannot be in the understanding before it be perceived by it. so that to make reason discover those truths thus imprinted, is to say, that the use of reason discovers to a man what he knew before: and if men have those innate impressed truths originally, and before the use of reason, and yet are always ignorant of them till they come to the use of reason, it is in effect to say, that men know and know them not at the same time. . no use made of reasoning in the discovery of these two maxims. it will here perhaps be said that mathematical demonstrations, and other truths that are not innate, are not assented to as soon as proposed, wherein they are distinguished from these maxims and other innate truths. i shall have occasion to speak of assent upon the first proposing, more particularly by and by. i shall here only, and that very readily, allow, that these maxims and mathematical demonstrations are in this different: that the one have need of reason, using of proofs, to make them out and to gain our assent; but the other, as soon as understood, are, without any the least reasoning, embraced and assented to. but i withal beg leave to observe, that it lays open the weakness of this subterfuge, which requires the use of reason for the discovery of these general truths: since it must be confessed that in their discovery there is no use made of reasoning at all. and i think those who give this answer will not be forward to affirm that the knowledge of this maxim, “that it is impossible for the same thing to be and not to be,” is a deduction of our reason. for this would be to destroy that bounty of nature they seem so fond of, whilst they make the knowledge of those principles to depend on the labour of our thoughts. for all reasoning is search, and casting about, and requires pains and application. and how can it with any tolerable sense be supposed, that what was imprinted by nature, as the foundation and guide of our reason, should need the use of reason to discover it? . and if there were this would prove them not innate. those who will take the pains to reflect with a little attention on the operations of the understanding, will find that this ready assent of the mind to some truths, depends not, either on native inscription, or the use of reason, but on a faculty of the mind quite distinct from both of them, as we shall see hereafter. reason, therefore, having nothing to do in procuring our assent to these maxims, if by saying, that “men know and assent to them, when they come to the use of reason,” be meant, that the use of reason assists us in the knowledge of these maxims, it is utterly false; and were it true, would prove them not to be innate. . the coming of the use of reason not the time we come to know these maxims. if by knowing and assenting to them “when we come to the use of reason,” be meant, that this is the time when they come to be taken notice of by the mind; and that as soon as children come to the use of reason, they come also to know and assent to these maxims; this also is false and frivolous. first, it is false; because it is evident these maxims are not in the mind so early as the use of reason; and therefore the coming to the use of reason is falsely assigned as the time of their discovery. how many instances of the use of reason may we observe in children, a long time before they have any knowledge of this maxim, “that it is impossible for the same thing to be and not to be?” and a great part of illiterate people and savages pass many years, even of their rational age, without ever thinking on this and the like general propositions. i grant, men come not to the knowledge of these general and more abstract truths, which are thought innate, till they come to the use of reason; and i add, nor then neither. which is so, because, till after they come to the use of reason, those general abstract ideas are not framed in the mind, about which those general maxims are, which are mistaken for innate principles, but are indeed discoveries made and verities introduced and brought into the mind by the same way, and discovered by the same steps, as several other propositions, which nobody was ever so extravagant as to suppose innate. this i hope to make plain in the sequel of this discourse. i allow therefore, a necessity that men should come to the use of reason before they get the knowledge of those general truths; but deny that men’s coming to the use of reason is the time of their discovery. . by this they are not distinguished from other knowable truths. in the mean time it is observable, that this saying that men know and assent to these maxims “when they come to the use of reason,” amounts in reality of fact to no more but this,--that they are never known nor taken notice of before the use of reason, but may possibly be assented to some time after, during a man’s life; but when is uncertain. and so may all other knowable truths, as well as these which therefore have no advantage nor distinction from other by this note of being known when we come to the use of reason; nor are thereby proved to be innate, but quite the contrary. . if coming to the use of reason were the time of their discovery, it would not prove them innate. but, secondly, were it true that the precise time of their being known and assented to were, when men come to the use of reason; neither would that prove them innate. this way of arguing is as frivolous as the supposition itself is false. for, by what kind of logic will it appear that any notion is originally by nature imprinted in the mind in its first constitution, because it comes first to be observed and assented to when a faculty of the mind, which has quite a distinct province, begins to exert itself? and therefore the coming to the use of speech, if it were supposed the time that these maxims are first assented to, (which it may be with as much truth as the time when men come to the use of reason,) would be as good a proof that they were innate, as to say they are innate because men assent to them when they come to the use of reason. i agree then with these men of innate principles, that there is no knowledge of these general and self-evident maxims in the mind, till it comes to the exercise of reason: but i deny that the coming to the use of reason is the precise time when they are first taken notice of; and if that were the precise time, i deny that it would prove them innate. all that can with any truth be meant by this proposition, that men ‘assent to them when they come to the use of reason,’ is no more but this,--that the making of general abstract ideas, and the understanding of general names, being a concomitant of the rational faculty, and growing up with it, children commonly get not those general ideas, nor learn the names that stand for them, till, having for a good while exercised their reason about familiar and more particular ideas, they are, by their ordinary discourse and actions with others, acknowledged to be capable of rational conversation. if assenting to these maxims, when men come to the use of reason, can be true in any other sense, i desire it may be shown; or at least, how in this, or any other sense, it proves them innate. . the steps by which the mind attains several truths. the senses at first let in particular ideas, and furnish the yet empty cabinet, and the mind by degrees growing familiar with some of them, they are lodged in the memory, and names got to them. afterwards, the mind proceeding further, abstracts them, and by degrees learns the use of general names. in this manner the mind comes to be furnished with ideas and language, the materials about which to exercise its discursive faculty. and the use of reason becomes daily more visible, as these materials that give it employment increase. but though the having of general ideas and the use of general words and reason usually grow together, yet i see not how this any way proves them innate. the knowledge of some truths, i confess, is very early in the mind; but in a way that shows them not to be innate. for, if we will observe, we shall find it still to be about ideas, not innate, but acquired; it being about those first which are imprinted by external things, with which infants have earliest to do, which make the most frequent impressions on their senses. in ideas thus got, the mind discovers that some agree and others differ, probably as soon as it has any use of memory; as soon as it is able to retain and perceive distinct ideas. but whether it be then or no, this is certain, it does so long before it has the use of words; or comes to that which we commonly call “the use of reason.” for a child knows as certainly before it can speak the difference between the ideas of sweet and bitter (i.e. that sweet is not bitter), as it knows afterwards (when it comes to speak) that wormwood and sugarplums are not the same thing. . assent to supposed innate truths depends on having clear and distinct ideas of what their terms mean, and not on their innateness. a child knows not that three and four are equal to seven, till he comes to be able to count seven, and has got the name and idea of equality; and then, upon explaining those words, he presently assents to, or rather perceives the truth of that proposition. but neither does he then readily assent because it is an innate truth, nor was his assent wanting till then because he wanted the use of reason; but the truth of it appears to him as soon as he has settled in his mind the clear and distinct ideas that these names stand for. and then he knows the truth of that proposition upon the same ground and by the same means, that he knew before that a rod and a cherry are not the same thing; and upon the same ground also that he may come to know afterwards “that it is impossible for the same thing to be and not to be,” as shall be more fully shown hereafter. so that the later it is before any one comes to have those general ideas about which those maxims are; or to know the signification of those generic terms that stand for them; or to put together in his mind the ideas they stand for; the later also will it be before he comes to assent to those maxims;--whose terms, with the ideas they stand for, being no more innate than those of a cat or a weasel he must stay till time and observation have acquainted him with them; and then he will be in a capacity to know the truth of these maxims, upon the first occasion that shall make him put together those ideas in his mind, and observe whether they agree or disagree, according as is expressed in those propositions. and therefore it is that a man knows that eighteen and nineteen are equal to thirty-seven, by the same self-evidence that he knows one and two to be equal to three: yet a child knows this not so soon as the other; not for want of the use of reason, but because the ideas the words eighteen nineteen, and thirty-seven stand for, are not so soon got, as those which are signified by one, two, and three. . assenting as soon as proposed and understood, proves them not innate. this evasion therefore of general assent when men come to the use of reason, failing as it does, and leaving no difference between those supposed innate and other truths that are afterwards acquired and learnt, men have endeavoured to secure an universal assent to those they call maxims, by saying, they are generally assented to as soon as proposed, and the terms they are proposed in understood: seeing all men, even children, as soon as they hear and understand the terms, assent to these propositions, they think it is sufficient to prove them innate. for, since men never fail after they have once understood the words, to acknowledge them for undoubted truths, they would infer, that certainly these propositions were first lodged in the understanding, which, without any teaching, the mind, at the very first proposal immediately closes with and assents to, and after that never doubts again. . if such an assent be a mark of innate, then “that one and two are equal to three, that sweetness if not bitterness,” and a thousand the like, must be inate. in answer to this, i demand whether ready assent given to a proposition, upon first hearing and understanding the terms, be a certain mark of an innate principle? if it be not, such a general assent is in vain urged as a proof of them: if it be said that it is a mark of innate, they must then allow all such propositions to be innate which are generally assented to as soon as heard, whereby they will find themselves plentifully stored with innate principles. for upon the same ground, viz. of assent at first hearing and understanding the terms, that men would have those maxims pass for innate, they must also admit several propositions about numbers to be innate; and thus, that one and two are equal to three, that two and two are equal to four, and a multitude of other the like propositions in numbers, that everybody assents to at first hearing and understanding the terms, must have a place amongst these innate axioms. nor is this the prerogative of numbers alone, and propositions made about several of them; but even natural philosophy, and all the other sciences, afford propositions which are sure to meet with assent as soon as they are understood. that “two bodies cannot be in the same place” is a truth that nobody any more sticks at than at these maxims, that “it is impossible for the same thing to be and not to be,” that “white is not black,” that “a square is not a circle,” that “bitterness is not sweetness.” these and a million of such other propositions, as many at least as we have distinct, ideas of, every man in his wits, at first hearing, and knowing, what the names stand for, must necessarily assent to. if these men will be true to their own rule, and have assent at first hearing and understanding the terms to be a mark of innate, they must allow not only as many innate proposition as men have distinct ideas, but as many as men can make propositions wherein different ideas are denied one of another. since every proposition wherein one different idea is denied of another, will as certainly find assent at first hearing and understanding the terms as this general one, “it is impossible for the same thing to be and not to be,” or that which is the foundation of it and is the easier understood of the two, “the same is not different”; by which account they will have legions of innate propositions of this one sort, without mentioning any other. but, since no proposition can be innate unless the _ideas_ about which it is be innate, this will be to suppose all our ideas of colours, sounds, tastes, figure, &c., innate, than which there cannot be anything more opposite to reason and experience. universal and ready assent upon hearing and understanding the terms is, i grant, a mark of self-evidence; but self-evidence, depending not on innate impressions, but on something else, (as we shall show hereafter,) belongs to several propositions which nobody was yet so extravagant as to pretend to be innate. . such less general propositions known before these universal maxims. nor let it be said, that those more particular self-evident propositions, which are assented to at first hearing, as that “one and two are equal to three,” that “green is not red,” &c., are received as the consequences of those more universal propositions which are looked on as innate principles; since any one, who will but take the pains to observe what passes in the understanding, will certainly find that these, and the like less general propositions, are certainly known, and firmly assented to by those who are utterly ignorant of those more general maxims; and so, being earlier in the mind than those (as they are called) first principles, cannot owe to them the assent wherewith they are received at first hearing. . one and one equal to two, &c., not general nor useful answered. if it be said, that these propositions, viz. “two and two are equal to four,” “red is not blue,” &c., are not general maxims nor of any great use, i answer, that makes nothing to the argument of universal assent upon hearing and understanding. for, if that be the certain mark of innate, whatever propositions can be found that receives general assent as soon as heard understood, that must be admitted for an innate proposition as well as this maxim, “that it is impossible for the same thing to be and not to be,” they being upon this ground equal. and as to the difference of being more general, that makes this maxim more remote from being innate; those general and abstract ideas being more strangers to our first apprehensions than those of more particular self-evident propositions; and therefore it is longer before they are admitted, and assented to by the growing understanding. and as to the usefulness of these magnified maxims, that perhaps will not be found so great as is generally conceived, when it comes in its due place to be more fully considered. . these maxims not being known sometimes till proposed, proves them not innate. but we have not yet done with “assenting to propositions at first hearing and understanding their terms.” it is fit we first take notice that this, instead of being a mark that they are innate, is a proof of the contrary; since it supposes that several, who understand and know other things, are ignorant of these principles till they are proposed to them; and that one may be unacquainted with these truths till he hears them from others. for, if they were innate, what need they be proposed in order to gaining assent, when, by being in the understanding, by a natural and original impression, (if there were any such,) they could not but be known before? or doth the proposing them print them clearer in the mind than nature did? if so, then the consequence will be, that a man knows them better after he has been thus taught them than he did before. whence it will follow that these principles may be made more evident to us by others’ teaching than nature has made them by impression: which will ill agree with the opinion of innate principles, and give but little authority to them; but, on the contrary, makes them unfit to be the foundations of all our other knowledge; as they are pretended to be. this cannot be denied, that men grow first acquainted with many of these self-evident truths upon their being proposed: but it is clear that whosoever does so, finds in himself that he then begins to know a proposition, which he knew not before, and which from thenceforth he never questions; not because it was innate, but because the consideration of the nature of the things contained in those words would not suffer him to think otherwise, how, or whensoever he is brought to reflect on them. and if whatever is assented to at first hearing and understanding the terms must pass for an innate principle, every well-grounded observation, drawn from particulars into a general rule, must be innate. when yet it is certain that not all, but only sagacious heads, light at first on these observations, and reduce them into general propositions: not innate but collected from a preceding acquaintance and reflection on particular instances. these, when observing men have made them, unobserving men, when they are proposed to them cannot refuse their assent to. . implicitly known before proposing, signifies that the mind is capable of understanding them, or else signifies nothing. if it be said, the understanding hath an implicit knowledge of these principles, but not an explicit, before this first hearing (as they must who will say “that they are in the understanding before they are known,”) it will be hard to conceive what is meant by a principle imprinted on the understanding implicitly, unless it be this,--that the mind is capable of understanding and assenting firmly to such propositions. and thus all mathematical demonstrations, as well as first principles, must be received as native impressions on the mind; which i fear they will scarce allow them to be, who find it harder to demonstrate a proposition than assent to it when demonstrated. and few mathematicians will be forward to believe, that all the diagrams they have drawn were but copies of those innate characters which nature had engraven upon their minds. . the argument of assenting on first hearing, is upon a false supposition of no precedent teaching. there is, i fear, this further weakness in the foregoing argument, which would persuade us that therefore those maxims are to be thought innate, which men admit at first hearing; because they assent to propositions which they are not taught, nor do receive from the force of any argument or demonstration, but a bare explication or understanding of the terms. under which there seems to me to lie this fallacy, that men are supposed not to be taught nor to learn anything de novo; when, in truth, they are taught, and do learn something they were ignorant of before. for, first, it is evident that they have learned the terms, and their signification; neither of which was born with them. but this is not all the acquired knowledge in the case: the ideas themselves, about which the proposition is, are not born with them, no more than their names, but got afterwards. so that in all propositions that are assented to at first hearing, the terms of the proposition, their standing for such ideas, and the ideas themselves that they stand for, being neither of them innate, i would fain know what there is remaining in such propositions that is innate. for i would gladly have any one name that proposition whose terms or ideas were either of them innate. we by degrees get ideas and names, and learn their appropriated connexion one with another; and then to propositions made in such, terms, whose signification we have learnt, and wherein the agreement or disagreement we can perceive in our ideas when put together is expressed, we at first hearing assent; though to other propositions, in themselves as certain and evident, but which are concerning ideas not so soon or so easily got, we are at the same time no way capable of assenting. for, though a child quickly assents to this proposition, “that an apple is not fire,” when by familiar acquaintance he has got the ideas of those two different things distinctly imprinted on his mind, and has learnt that the names apple and fire stand for them; yet it will be some years after, perhaps, before the same child will assent to this proposition, “that it is impossible for the same thing to be and not to be”; because that, though perhaps the words are as easy to be learnt, yet the signification of them being more large, comprehensive, and abstract than of the names annexed to those sensible things the child hath to do with, it is longer before he learns their precise meaning, and it requires more time plainly to form in his mind those general ideas they stand for. till that be done, you will in vain endeavour to make any child assent to a proposition made up of such general terms; but as soon as ever he has got those ideas, and learned their names, he forwardly closes with the one as well as the other of the forementioned propositions: and with both for the same reason; viz. because he finds the ideas he has in his mind to agree or disagree, according as the words standing for them are affirmed or denied one of another in the proposition. but if propositions be brought to him in words which stand for ideas he has not yet in his mind, to such propositions, however evidently true or false in themselves, he affords neither assent nor dissent, but is ignorant. for words being but empty sounds, any further than they are signs of our ideas, we cannot but assent to them as they correspond to those ideas we have, but no further than that. but the showing by what steps and ways knowledge comes into our minds; and the grounds of several degrees of assent, being; the business of the following discourse, it may suffice to have only touched on it here, as one reason that made me doubt of those innate principles. . not innate because not universally assented to. to conclude this argument of universal consent, i agree with these defenders of innate principles,--that if they are innate, they must needs have universal assent. for that a truth should be innate and yet not assented to, is to me as unintelligible as for a man to know a truth and be ignorant of it at the same time. but then, by these men’s own confession, they cannot be innate; since they are not assented to by those who understand not the terms; nor by a great part of those who do understand them, but have yet never heard nor thought of those propositions; which, i think, is at least one half of mankind. but were the number far less, it would be enough to destroy universal assent, and thereby show these propositions not to be innate, if children alone were ignorant of them. . these maxims not the first known. but that i may not be accused to argue from the thoughts of infants, which are unknown to us, and to conclude from what passes in their understandings before they express it; i say next, that these two general propositions are not the truths that first possess the minds of children, nor are antecedent to all acquired and adventitious notions: which, if they were innate, they must needs be. whether we can determine it or no, it matters not, there is certainly a time when children begin to think, and their words and actions do assure us that they do so. when therefore they are capable of thought, of knowledge, of assent, can it rationally be supposed they can be ignorant of those notions that nature has imprinted, were there any such? can it be imagined, with any appearance of reason, that they perceive the impressions from things without, and be at the same time ignorant of those characters which nature itself has taken care to stamp within? can they receive and assent to adventitious notions, and be ignorant of those which are supposed woven into the very principles of their being, and imprinted there in indelible characters, to be the foundation and guide of all their acquired knowledge and future reasonings? this would be to make nature take pains to no purpose; or at least to write very ill; since its characters could not be read by those eyes which saw other things very well: and those are very ill supposed the clearest parts of truth, and the foundations of all our knowledge, which are not first known, and without which the undoubted knowledge of several other things may be had. the child certainly knows, that the nurse that feeds it is neither the cat it plays with, nor the blackmoor it is afraid of: that the wormseed or mustard it refuses, is not the apple or sugar it cries for: this it is certainly and undoubtedly assured of: but will any one say, it is by virtue of this principle, “that it is impossible for the same thing to be and not to be,” that it so firmly assents to these and other parts of its knowledge? or that the child has any notion or apprehension of that proposition at an age, wherein yet, it is plain, it knows a great many other truths? he that will say, children join in these general abstract speculations with their sucking-bottles and their rattles, may perhaps, with justice, be thought to have more passion and zeal for his opinion, but less sincerity and truth, than one of that age. . and so not innate. though therefore there be several general propositions that meet with constant and ready assent, as soon as proposed to men grown up, who have attained the use of more general and abstract ideas, and names standing for them; yet they not being to be found in those of tender years, who nevertheless know other things, they cannot pretend to universal assent of intelligent persons, and so by no means can be supposed innate;--it being impossible that any truth which is innate (if there were any such) should be unknown, at least to any one who knows anything else. since, if they are innate truths, they must be innate thoughts: there being nothing a truth in the mind that it has never thought on. whereby it is evident, if there be any innate truths, they must necessarily be the first of any thought on; the first that appear. . not innate, because they appear least, where what is innate shows itself clearest. that the general maxims we are discoursing of are not known to children, idiots, and a great part of mankind, we have already sufficiently proved: whereby it is evident they have not an universal assent, nor are general impressions. but there is this further argument in it against their being innate: that these characters, if they were native and original impressions, should appear fairest and clearest in those persons in whom yet we find no footsteps of them; and it is, in my opinion, a strong presumption that they are not innate, since they are least known to those in whom, if they were innate, they must needs exert themselves with most force and vigour. for children, idiots, savages, and illiterate people, being of all others the least corrupted by custom, or borrowed opinions; learning and education having not cast their native thoughts into new moulds; nor by superinducing foreign and studied doctrines, confounded those fair characters nature had written there; one might reasonably imagine that in their minds these innate notions should lie open fairly to every one’s view, as it is certain the thoughts of children do. it might very well be expected that these principles should be perfectly known to naturals; which being stamped immediately on the soul, (as these men suppose,) can have no dependence on the constitution or organs of the body, the only confessed difference between them and others. one would think, according to these men’s principles, that all these native beams of light (were there any such) should, in those who have no reserves, no arts of concealment, shine out in their full lustre, and leave us in no more doubt of their being there, than we are of their love of pleasure and abhorrence of pain. but alas, amongst children, idiots, savages, and the grossly illiterate, what general maxims are to be found? what universal principles of knowledge? their notions are few and narrow, borrowed only from those objects they have had most to do with, and which have made upon their senses the frequentest and strongest impressions. a child knows his nurse and his cradle, and by degrees the playthings of a little more advanced age; and a young savage has, perhaps, his head filled with love and hunting, according to the fashion of his tribe. but he that from a child untaught, or a wild inhabitant of the woods, will expect these abstract maxims and reputed principles of science, will, i fear find himself mistaken. such kind of general propositions are seldom mentioned in the huts of indians: much less are they to be found in the thoughts of children, or any impressions of them on the minds of naturals. they are the language and business of the schools and academies of learned nations accustomed to that sort of conversation or learning, where disputes are frequent; these maxims being suited to artificial argumentation and useful for conviction, but not much conducing to the discovery of truth or advancement of knowledge. but of their small use for the improvement of knowledge i shall have occasion to speak more at large, l. , c. . . recapitulation. i know not how absurd this may seem to the masters of demonstration. and probably it will hardly go down with anybody at first hearing. i must therefore beg a little truce with prejudice, and the forbearance of censure, till i have been heard out in the sequel of this discourse, being very willing to submit to better judgments. and since i impartially search after truth, i shall not be sorry to be convinced, that i have been too fond of my own notions; which i confess we are all apt to be, when application and study have warmed our heads with them. upon the whole matter, i cannot see any ground to think these two speculative maxims innate: since they are not universally assented to; and the assent they so generally find is no other than what several propositions, not allowed to be innate, equally partake in with them: and since the assent that is given them is produced another way, and comes not from natural inscription, as i doubt not but to make appear in the following discourse. and if these “first principles” of knowledge and science are found not to be innate, no other speculative maxims can (i suppose), with better right pretend to be so. chapter ii.--no innate practical principles . no moral principles so clear and so generally received as the forementioned speculative maxims. if those speculative maxims, whereof we discoursed in the foregoing chapter, have not an actual universal assent from all mankind, as we there proved, it is much more visible concerning practical principles, that they come short of an universal reception: and i think it will be hard to instance any one moral rule which can pretend to so general and ready an assent as, “what is, is”; or to be so manifest a truth as this, that “it is impossible for the same thing to be and not to be.” whereby it is evident that they are further removed from a title to be innate; and the doubt of their being native impressions on the mind is stronger against those moral principles than the other. not that it brings their truth at all in question. they are equally true, though not equally evident. those speculative maxims carry their own evidence with them: but moral principles require reasoning and discourse, and some exercise of the mind, to discover the certainty of their truth. they lie not open as natural characters engraved on the mind; which, if any such were, they must needs be visible by themselves, and by their own light be certain and known to everybody. but this is no derogation to their truth and certainty; no more than it is to the truth or certainty of the three angles of a triangle being equal to two right ones because it is not so evident as “the whole is bigger than a part,” nor so apt to be assented to at first hearing. it may suffice that these moral rules are capable of demonstration: and therefore it is our own faults if we come not to a certain knowledge of them. but the ignorance wherein many men are of them, and the slowness of assent wherewith others receive them, are manifest proofs that they are not innate, and such as offer themselves to their view without searching. . faith and justice not owned as principles by all men. whether there be any such moral principles, wherein all men do agree, i appeal to any who have been but moderately conversant in the history of mankind, and looked abroad beyond the smoke of their own chimneys. where is that practical truth that is universally received, without doubt or question, as it must be if innate? justice, and keeping of contracts, is that which most men seem to agree in. this is a principle which is thought to extend itself to the dens of thieves, and the confederacies of the greatest villains; and they who have gone furthest towards the putting off of humanity itself, keep faith and rules of justice one with another. i grant that outlaws themselves do this one amongst another: but it is without receiving these as the innate laws of nature. they practise them as rules of convenience within their own communities: but it is impossible to conceive that he embraces justice as a practical principle who acts fairly with his fellow-highwayman, and at the same time plunders or kills the next honest man he meets with. justice and truth are the common ties of society; and therefore even outlaws and robbers, who break with all the world besides, must keep faith and rules of equity amongst themselves; or else they cannot hold together. but will any one say, that those that live by fraud or rapine have innate principles of truth and justice which they allow and assent to? . objection: though men deny them in their practice, yet they admit them in their thoughts answered. perhaps it will be urged, that the tacit assent of their minds agrees to what their practice contradicts. i answer, first, i have always thought the actions of men the best interpreters of their thoughts. but, since it is certain that most men’s practices, and some men’s open professions, have either questioned or denied these principles, it is impossible to establish an universal consent, (though we should look for it only amongst grown men,) without which it is impossible to conclude them innate. secondly, it is very strange and unreasonable to suppose innate practical principles, that terminate only in contemplation. practical principles, derived from nature, are there for operation, and must produce conformity of action, not barely speculative assent to their truth, or else they are in vain distinguished from speculative maxims. nature, i confess, has put into man a desire of happiness and an aversion to misery: these indeed are innate practical principles which (as practical principles ought) do continue constantly to operate and influence all our actions without ceasing: these may be observed in all persons and all ages, steady and universal; but these are inclinations of the appetite to good, not impressions of truth on the understanding. i deny not that there are natural tendencies imprinted on the minds of men; and that from the very first instances of sense and perception, there are some things that are grateful and others unwelcome to them; some things that they incline to and others that they fly: but this makes nothing for innate characters on the mind, which are to be the principles of knowledge regulating our practice. such natural impressions on the understanding are so far from being confirmed hereby, that this is an argument against them; since, if there were certain characters imprinted by nature on the understanding, as the principles of knowledge, we could not but perceive them constantly operate in us and influence our knowledge, as we do those others on the will and appetite; which never cease to be the constant springs and motives of all our actions, to which we perpetually feel them strongly impelling us. . moral rules need a proof, ergo not innate. another reason that makes me doubt of any innate practical principles is, that i think there cannot any one moral rule be proposed whereof a man may not justly demand a reason: which would be perfectly ridiculous and absurd if they were innate; or so much as self-evident, which every innate principle must needs be, and not need any proof to ascertain its truth, nor want any reason to gain it approbation. he would be thought void of common sense who asked on the one side, or on the other side went to give a reason why “it is impossible for the same thing to be and not to be.” it carries its own light and evidence with it, and needs no other proof: he that understands the terms assents to it for its own sake or else nothing will ever be able to prevail with him to do it. but should that most unshaken rule of morality and foundation of all social virtue, “that should do as he would be done unto,” be proposed to one who never heard of it before, but yet is of capacity to understand its meaning; might he not without any absurdity ask a reason why? and were not he that proposed it bound to make out the truth and reasonableness of it to him? which plainly shows it not to be innate; for if it were it could neither want nor receive any proof; but must needs (at least as soon as heard and understood) be received and assented to as an unquestionable truth, which a man can by no means doubt of. so that the truth of all these moral rules plainly depends upon some other antecedent to them, and from which they must be deduced; which could not be if either they were innate or so much as self-evident. . instance in keeping compacts that men should keep their compacts is certainly a great and undeniable rule in morality. but yet, if a christian, who has the view of happiness and misery in another life, be asked why a man must keep his word, he will give this as a reason:--because god, who has the power of eternal life and death, requires it of us. but if a hobbist be asked why? he will answer:--because the public requires it, and the leviathan will punish you if you do not. and if one of the old philosophers had been asked, he would have answered:--because it was dishonest, below the dignity of a man, and opposite to virtue, the highest perfection of human nature, to do otherwise. . virtue generally approved not because innate, but because profitable. hence naturally flows the great variety of opinions concerning moral rules which are to be found among men, according to the different sorts of happiness they have a prospect of, or propose to themselves; which could not be if practical principles were innate, and imprinted in our minds immediately by the hand of god. i grant the existence of god is so many ways manifest, and the obedience we owe him so congruous to the light of reason, that a great part of mankind give testimony to the law of nature: but yet i think it must be allowed that several moral rules may receive from mankind a very general approbation, without either knowing or admitting the true ground of morality; which can only be the will and law of a god, who sees men in the dark, has in his hand rewards and punishments, and power enough to call to account the proudest offender. for, god having, by an inseparable connexion, joined virtue and public happiness together, and made the practice thereof necessary to the preservation of society, and visibly beneficial to all with whom the virtuous man has to do; it is no wonder that every one should not only allow, but recommend and magnify those rules to others, from whose observance of them he is sure to reap advantage to himself. he may, out of interest as well as conviction, cry up that for sacred, which, if once trampled on and profaned, he himself cannot be safe nor secure. this, though it takes nothing from the moral and eternal obligation which these rules evidently have, yet it shows that the outward acknowledgment men pay to them in their words proves not that they are innate principles: nay, it proves not so much as that men assent to them inwardly in their own minds, as the inviolable rules of their own practice; since we find that self-interest, and the conveniences of this life, make many men own an outward profession and approbation of them, whose actions sufficiently prove that they very little consider the lawgiver that prescribed these rules; nor the hell that he has ordained for the punishment of those that transgress them. . men’s actions convince us, that the rule of virtue is not their internal principle. for, if we will not in civility allow too much sincerity to the professions of most men, but think their actions to be the interpreters of their thoughts, we shall find that they have no such internal veneration for these rules, nor so full a persuasion of their certainty and obligation. the great principle of morality, ‘to do as one would be done to,’ is more commended than practised. but the breach of this rule cannot be a greater vice, than to teach others, that it is no moral rule, nor obligatory, would be thought madness, and contrary to that interest men sacrifice to, when they break it themselves. perhaps conscience will be urged as checking us for such breaches, and so the internal obligation and establishment of the rule be preserved. . conscience no proof of any innate moral rule. to which i answer, that i doubt not but, without being written on their hearts, many men may, by the same way that they come to the knowledge of other things, come to assent to several moral rules, and be convinced of their obligation. others also may come to be of the same mind, from their education, company, and customs of their country; which persuasion, however got, will serve to set conscience on work; which is nothing else but our own opinion or judgment of the moral rectitude or gravity of our own actions; and if conscience be a proof of innate principles, contraries may be innate principles; since some men with the same bent of conscience prosecute what others avoid. . instances of enormities practised without remorse. but i cannot see how any men should ever transgress those moral rules, with confidence and serenity, were they innate, and stamped upon their minds. view but an army at the sacking of a town, and see what observation or sense of moral principles, or what touch of conscience for all the outrages they do. robberies, murders, rapes, are the sports of men set at liberty from punishment and censure. have there not been whole nations, and those of the most civilized people, amongst whom the exposing their children, and leaving them in the fields to perish by want or wild beasts has been the practice; as little condemned or scrupled as the begetting them? do they not still, in some countries, put them into the same graves with their mothers, if they die in childbirth; or despatch them, if a pretended astrologer declares them to have unhappy stars? and are there not places where, at a certain age, they kill or expose their parents, without any remorse at all? in a part of asia, the sick, when their case comes to be thought desperate, are carried out and laid on the earth before they are dead; and left there, exposed to wind and weather, to perish without assistance or pity. it is familiar among the mingrelians, a people professing christianity, to bury their children alive without scruple. there are places where they eat their own children. the caribbees were wont to geld their children, on purpose to fat and eat them. and garcilasso de la vega tells us of a people in peru which were wont to fat and eat the children they got on their female captives, whom they kept as concubines for that purpose, and when they were past breeding, the mothers themselves were killed too and eaten. the virtues whereby the tououpinambos believed they merited paradise, were revenge, and eating abundance of their enemies. they have not so much as a name for god, and have no religion, no worship. the saints who are canonized amongst the turks, lead lives which one cannot with modesty relate. a remarkable passage to this purpose, out of the voyage of baumgarten, which is a book not every day to be met with, i shall set down at large, in the language it is published in. ibi (sc. prope belbes in aegypto) vidimus sanctum unum saracenicum inter arenarum cumulos, ita ut ex utero matris prodiit nudum sedentem. mos est, ut didicimus, mahometistis, ut eos, qui amentes et sine ratione sunt, pro sanctis colant et venerentur. insuper et eos, qui cum diu vitam egerint inquinatissimam, voluntariam demum poenitentiam et paupertatem, sanctitate venerandos deputant. ejusmodi vero genus hominum libertatem quandam effrenem habent, domos quos volunt intrandi, edendi, bibendi, et quod majus est, concumbendi; ex quo concubitu, si proles secuta fuerit, sancta similiter habetur. his ergo hominibus dum vivunt, magnos exhibent honores; mortuis vero vel templa vel monumenta extruunt amplissima, eosque contingere ac sepelire maximae fortunae ducunt loco. audivimus haec dicta et dicenda per interpretem a mucrelo nostro. insuper sanctum ilium, quern eo loco vidimus, publicitus apprime commendari, eum esse hominem sanctum, divinum ac integritate praecipuum; eo quod, nec faminarum unquam esset, nec puerorum, sed tantummodo asellarum concubitor atque mularum. (peregr. baumgarten, . ii. c. i. p. .) where then are those innate principles of justice, piety, gratitude, equity, chastity? or where is that universal consent that assures us there are such inbred rules? murders in duels, when fashion has made them honourable, are committed without remorse of conscience: nay, in many places innocence in this case is the greatest ignominy. and if we look abroad to take a view of men as they are, we shall find that they have remorse, in one place, for doing or omitting that which others, in another place, think they merit by. . men have contrary practical principles. he that will carefully peruse the history of mankind, and look abroad into the several tribes of men, and with indifferency survey their actions, will be able to satisfy himself, that there is scarce that principle of morality to be named, or, rule of virtue to be thought on, (those only excepted that are absolutely necessary to hold society together, which commonly too are neglected betwixt distinct societies,) which is not, somewhere or other, slighted and condemned by the general fashion of whole societies of men, governed by practical opinions and rules of living quite opposite to others. . whole nations reject several moral rules. here perhaps it will be objected, that it is no argument that the rule is not known, because it is broken. i grant the objection good where men, though they transgress, yet disown not the law; where fear of shame, censure, or punishment, carries the mark of some awe it has upon them. but it is impossible to conceive that a whole nation of men should all publicly reject and renounce what every one of them certainly and infallibly knew to be a law; for so they must who have it naturally imprinted on their minds. it is possible men may sometimes own rules of morality which in their private thoughts they do not believe to be true, only to keep themselves in reputation and esteem amongst those who are persuaded of their obligation. but it is not to be imagined that a whole society of men should publicly and professedly disown and cast off a rule which they could not in their own minds but be infallibly certain was a law; nor be ignorant that all men they should have to do with knew it to be such: and therefore must every one of them apprehend from others all the contempt and abhorrence due to one who professes himself void of humanity: and one who, confounding the known and natural measures of right and wrong, cannot but be looked on as the professed enemy of their peace and happiness. whatever practical principle is innate, cannot but be known to every one to be just and good. it is therefore little less than a contradiction to suppose, that whole nations of men should, both in their professions and practice, unanimously and universally give the lie to what, by the most invincible evidence, every one of them knew to be true, right, and good. this is enough to satisfy us that no practical rule which is anywhere universally, and with public approbation or allowance, transgressed, can be supposed innate.--but i have something further to add in answer to this objection. . the generally allowed breach of a rule proof that it is not innate. the breaking of a rule, say you, is no argument that it is unknown. i grant it: but the generally allowed breach of it anywhere, i say, is a proof that it is not innate. for example: let us take any of these rules, which, being the most obvious deductions of human reason, and conformable to the natural inclination of the greatest part of men, fewest people have had the impudence to deny or inconsideration to doubt of. if any can be thought to be naturally imprinted, none, i think, can have a fairer pretence to be innate than this: “parents, preserve and cherish your children.” when, therefore, you say that this is an innate rule, what do you mean? either that it is an innate principle which upon all occasions excites and directs the actions of all men; or else, that it is a truth which all men have imprinted on their minds, and which therefore they know and assent to. but in neither of these senses is it innate. first, that it is not a principle which influences all men’s actions, is what i have proved by the examples before cited: nor need we seek so far as the mingrelia or peru to find instances of such as neglect, abuse, nay, and destroy their children; or look on it only as the more than brutality of some savage and barbarous nations, when we remember that it was a familiar and uncondemned practice amongst the greeks and romans to expose, without pity or remorse, their innocent infants. secondly, that it is an innate truth, known to all men, is also false. for, “parents preserve your children,” is so far from an innate truth, that it is no truth at all: it being a command, and not a proposition, and so not capable of truth or falsehood. to make it capable of being assented to as true, it must be reduced to some such proposition as this: “it is the duty of parents to preserve their children.” but what duty is, cannot be understood without a law; nor a law be known or supposed without a lawmaker, or without reward and punishment; so that it is impossible that this, or any other, practical principle should be innate, i.e. be imprinted on the mind as a duty, without supposing the ideas of god, of law, of obligation, of punishment, of a life after this, innate: for that punishment follows not in this life the breach of this rule, and consequently that it has not the force of a law in countries where the generally allowed practice runs counter to it, is in itself evident. but these ideas (which must be all of them innate, if anything as a duty be so) are so far from being innate, that it is not every studious or thinking man, much less every one that is born, in whom they are to be found clear and distinct; and that one of them, which of all others seems most likely to be innate, is not so, (i mean the idea of god,) i think, in the next chapter, will appear very evident to any considering man. . if men can be ignorant of what is innate, certainty is not described by innate principles. from what has been said, i think we may safely conclude that whatever practical rule is in any place generally and with allowance broken, cannot be supposed innate; it being impossible that men should, without shame or fear, confidently and serenely, break a rule which they could not but evidently know that god had set up, and would certainly punish the breach of, (which they must, if it were innate,) to a degree to make it a very ill bargain to the transgressor. without such a knowledge as this, a man can never be certain that anything is his duty. ignorance or doubt of the law, hopes to escape the knowledge or power of the law-maker, or the like, may make men give way to a present appetite; but let any one see the fault, and the rod by it, and with the transgression, a fire ready to punish it; a pleasure tempting, and the hand of the almighty visibly held up and prepared to take vengeance, (for this must be the case where any duty is imprinted on the mind,) and then tell me whether it be possible for people with such a prospect, such a certain knowledge as this, wantonly, and without scruple, to offend against a law which they carry about them in indelible characters, and that stares them in the face whilst they are breaking it? whether men, at the same time that they feel in themselves the imprinted edicts of an omnipotent law-maker, can, with assurance and gaiety, slight and trample underfoot his most sacred injunctions? and lastly, whether it be possible that whilst a man thus openly bids defiance to this innate law and supreme lawgiver, all the bystanders, yea, even the governors and rulers of the people, full of the same sense both of the law and law-maker, should silently connive, without testifying their dislike or laying the least blame on it? principles of actions indeed there are lodged in men’s appetites; but these are so far from being innate moral principles, that if they were left to their full swing they would carry men to the overturning of all morality. moral laws are set as a curb and restraint to these exorbitant desires, which they cannot be but by rewards and punishments that will overbalance the satisfaction any one shall propose to himself in the breach of the law. if, therefore, anything be imprinted on the minds of all men as a law, all men must have a certain and unavoidable knowledge that certain and unavoidable punishment will attend the breach of it. for if men can be ignorant or doubtful of what is innate, innate principles are insisted on, and urged to no purpose; truth and certainty (the things pretended) are not at all secured by them; but men are in the same uncertain floating estate with as without them. an evident indubitable knowledge of unavoidable punishment, great enough to make the transgression very uneligible, must accompany an innate law; unless with an innate law they can suppose an innate gospel too. i would not here be mistaken, as if, because i deny an innate law i thought there were none but positive laws. there is a great deal of difference between an innate law, and a law of nature between something imprinted on our minds in their very original, and something that we, being ignorant of, may attain to the knowledge of, by the use and due application of our natural faculties. and i think they equally forsake the truth who, running into contrary extremes, either affirm an innate law, or deny that there is a law knowable by the light of nature, i.e. without the help of positive revelation. . those who maintain innate practical principles tell us not what they are. the difference there is amongst men in their practical principles is so evident that i think i need say no more to evince, that it will be impossible to find any innate moral rules by this mark of general assent; and it is enough to make one suspect that the supposition of such innate principles is but an opinion taken up at pleasure; since those who talk so confidently of them are so sparing to tell us which they are. this might with justice be expected from those men who lay stress upon this opinion; and it gives occasion to distrust either their knowledge or charity, who, declaring that god has imprinted on the minds of men the foundations of knowledge and the rules of living, are yet so little favourable to the information of their neighbours, or the quiet of mankind, as not to point out to them which they are, in the variety men are distracted with. but, in truth, were there any such innate principles there would be no need to teach them. did men find such innate propositions stamped on their minds, they would easily be able to distinguish them from other truths that they afterwards learned and deduced from them; and there would be nothing more easy than to know what, and how many, they were. there could be no more doubt about their number than there is about the number of our fingers; and it is like then every system would be ready to give them us by tale. but since nobody, that i know, has ventured yet to give a catalogue of them, they cannot blame those who doubt of these innate principles; since even they who require men to believe that there are such innate propositions, do not tell us what they are. it is easy to foresee, that if different men of different sects should go about to give us a list of those innate practical principles, they would set down only such as suited their distinct hypotheses, and were fit to support the doctrines of their particular schools or churches; a plain evidence that there are no such innate truths. nay, a great part of men are so far from finding any such innate moral principles in themselves, that, by denying freedom to mankind, and thereby making men no other than bare machines, they take away not only innate, but all moral rules whatsoever, and leave not a possibility to believe any such, to those who cannot conceive how anything can be capable of a law that is not a free agent. and upon that ground they must necessarily reject all principles of virtue, who cannot put morality and mechanism together, which are not very easy to be reconciled or made consistent. . lord herbert’s innate principles examined. when i had written this, being informed that my lord herbert had, in his book de veritate, assigned these innate principles, i presently consulted him, hoping to find in a man of so great parts, something that might satisfy me in this point, and put an end to my inquiry. in his chapter de instinctu naturali, i met with these six marks of his notitice communes:-- . prioritas. . independentia. . universalitas. . certitudo. . necessitas, i. e. as he explains it, faciunt ad hominis conservationem. . modus conformationis, i.e. assensus nulla interposita mora. and at the latter end of his little treatise de religione laici, he says this of these innate principles: adeo ut non uniuscujusvis religionis confinio arctentur quae ubique vigent veritates. sunt enim in ipsa mente caelitus descriptae, nullisque traditionibus, sive scriptis, sive non scriptis, obnoxiae, p. and veritates nostrae catholicae, quae tanquam indubia dei emata in foro interiori descriptae. thus, having given the marks of the innate principles or common notions, and asserted their being imprinted on the minds of men by the hand of god, he proceeds to set them down, and they are these:-- . esse aliquod supremum numen. . numen illud coli debere. . virtutem cum pietate conjunctam optimum esse rationem cultus divini. . resipiscendum esse a peccatis. . dari praemium vel paenam post hanc vitam transactam. though i allow these to be clear truths, and such as, if rightly explained, a rational creature can hardly avoid giving his assent to, yet i think he is far from proving them innate impressions in foro interiori descriptae. for i must take leave to observe:-- . these five either not all, or more than all, if there are any. first, that these five propositions are either not all, or more than all, those common notions written on our minds by the finger of god; if it were reasonable to believe any at all to be so written. since there are other propositions which, even by his own rules, have as just a pretence to such an original, and may be as well admitted for innate principles, as at least some of these five he enumerates, viz. ‘do as thou wouldst be done unto.’ and perhaps some hundreds of others, when well considered. . the supposed marks wanting. secondly, that all his marks are not to be found in each of his five propositions, viz. his first, second, and third marks agree perfectly to neither of them; and the first, second, third, fourth, and sixth marks agree but ill to his third, fourth, and fifth propositions. for, besides that we are assured from history of many men, nay whole nations, who doubt or disbelieve some or all of them, i cannot see how the third, viz. “that virtue joined with piety is the best worship of god,” can be an innate principle, when the name or sound virtue, is so hard to be understood; liable to so much uncertainty in its signification; and the thing it stands for so much contended about and difficult to be known. and therefore this cannot be but a very uncertain rule of human practice, and serve but very little to the conduct of our lives, and is therefore very unfit to be assigned as an innate practical principle. . of little use if they were innate. for let us consider this proposition as to its meaning, (for it is the sense, and not sound, that is and must be the principle or common notion,) viz. “virtue is the best worship of god,” i.e. is most acceptable to him; which, if virtue be taken, as most commonly it is, for those actions which, according to the different opinions of several countries, are accounted laudable, will be a proposition so far from being certain, that it will not be true. if virtue be taken for actions conformable to god’s will, or to the rule prescribed by god--which is the true and only measure of virtue when virtue is used to signify what is in its own nature right and good--then this proposition, “that virtue is the best worship of god,” will be most true and certain, but of very little use in human life: since it will amount to no more but this, viz. “that god is pleased with the doing of what he commands”;--which a man may certainly know to be true, without knowing what it is that god doth command; and so be as far from any rule or principle of his actions as he was before. and i think very few will take a proposition which amounts to no more than this, viz. “that god is pleased with the doing of what he himself commands,” for an innate moral principle written on the minds of all men, (however true and certain it may be,) since it teaches so little. whosoever does so will have reason to think hundreds of propositions innate principles; since there are many which have as good a title as this to be received for such, which nobody yet ever put into that rank of innate principles. . scarce possible that god should engrave principles in words of uncertain meaning. nor is the fourth proposition (viz. “men must repent of their sins”) much more instructive, till what those actions are that are meant by sins be set down. for the word peccata, or sins, being put, as it usually is, to signify in general ill actions that will draw punishment upon the doers, what great principle of morality can that be to tell us we should be sorry, and cease to do that which will bring mischief upon us; without knowing what those particular actions are that will do so? indeed this is a very true proposition, and fit to be inculcated on and received by those who are supposed to have been taught what actions in all kinds are sins: but neither this nor the former can be imagined to be innate principles; nor to be of any use if they were innate, unless the particular measures and bounds of all virtues and vices were engraven in men’s minds, and were innate principles also, which i think is very much to be doubted. and therefore, i imagine, it will scarcely seem possible that god should engrave principles in men’s minds, in words of uncertain signification, such as virtues and sins, which amongst different men stand for different things: nay, it cannot be supposed to be in words at all, which, being in most of these principles very general names, cannot be understood but by knowing the particulars comprehended under them. and in the practical instances, the measures must be taken from the knowledge of the actions themselves, and the rules of them,--abstracted from words, and antecedent to the knowledge of names; which rules a man must know, what language soever he chance to learn, whether english or japan, or if he should learn no language at all, or never should understand the use of words, as happens in the case of dumb and deaf men. when it shall be made out that men ignorant of words, or untaught by the laws and customs of their country, know that it is part of the worship of god not to kill another man; not to know more women than one not to procure abortion; not to expose their children; not to take from another what is his, though we want it ourselves, but on the contrary, relieve and supply his wants; and whenever we have done the contrary we ought to repent, be sorry, and resolve to do so no more;--when i say, all men shall be proved actually to know and allow all these and a thousand other such rules, all of which come under these two general words made use of above, viz. virtutes et peccata virtues and sins, there will be more reason for admitting these and the like, for common notions and practical principles. yet, after all, universal consent (were there any in moral principles) to truths, the knowledge whereof may be attained otherwise, would scarce prove them to be innate; which is all i contend for. . objection, innate principles may be corrupted, answered. nor will it be of much moment here to offer that very ready but not very material answer, viz. that the innate principles of morality may, by education, and custom, and the general opinion of those amongst whom we converse, be darkened, and at last quite worn out of the minds of men. which assertion of theirs, if true, quite takes away the argument of universal consent, by which this opinion of innate principles is endeavoured to be proved; unless those men will think it reasonable that their private persuasions, or that of their party, should pass for universal consent;--a thing not unfrequently done, when men, presuming themselves to be the only masters of right reason, cast by the votes and opinions of the rest of mankind as not worthy the reckoning. and then their argument stands thus:--“the principles which all mankind allow for true, are innate; those that men of right reason admit, are the principles allowed by all mankind; we, and those of our mind, are men of reason; therefore, we agreeing, our principles are innate”;--which is a very pretty way of arguing, and a short cut to infallibility. for otherwise it will be very hard to understand how there be some principles which all men do acknowledge and agree in; and yet there are none of those principles which are not, by depraved custom and ill education, blotted out of the minds of many men: which is to say, that all men admit, but yet many men do deny and dissent from them. and indeed the supposition of such first principles will serve us to very little purpose; and we shall be as much at a loss with as without them, if they may, by any human power--such as the will of our teachers, or opinions of our companions--be altered or lost in us: and notwithstanding all this boast of first principles and innate light, we shall be as much in the dark and uncertainty as if there were no such thing at all: it being all one to have no rule, and one that will warp any way; or amongst various and contrary rules, not to know which is the right. but concerning innate principles, i desire these men to say, whether they can or cannot, by education and custom, be blurred and blotted out; if they cannot, we must find them in all mankind alike, and they must be clear in everybody; and if they may suffer variation from adventitious notions, we must then find them clearest and most perspicuous nearest the fountain, in children and illiterate people, who have received least impression from foreign opinions. let them take which side they please, they will certainly find it inconsistent with visible matter of fact and daily observation. . contrary principles in the world. i easily grant that there are great numbers of opinions which, by men of different countries, educations, and tempers, are received and embraced as first and unquestionable principles; many whereof, both for their absurdity as well oppositions to one another, it is impossible should be true. but yet all those propositions, how remote soever from reason are so sacred somewhere or other, that men even of good understanding in other matters, will sooner part with their lives, and whatever is dearest to them, than suffer themselves to doubt, or others to question, the truth of them. . how men commonly come by their principles. this, however strange it may seem, is that which every day’s experience confirms; and will not, perhaps, appear so wonderful, if we consider the ways and steps by which it is brought about; and how really it may come to pass, that doctrines that have been derived from no better original than the superstition of a nurse, or the authority of an old woman, may, by length of time and consent of neighbours, grow up to the dignity of principles in religion or morality. for such, who are careful (as they call it) to principle children well, (and few there be who have not a set of those principles for them, which they believe in,) instil into the unwary, and as yet unprejudiced, understanding, (for white paper receives any characters,) those doctrines they would have them retain and profess. these being taught them as soon as they have any apprehension; and still as they grow up confirmed to them, either by the open profession or tacit consent of all they have to do with; or at least by those of whose wisdom, knowledge, and piety they have an opinion, who never suffer those propositions to be otherwise mentioned but as the basis and foundation on which they build their religion and manners, come, by these means, to have the reputation of unquestionable, self-evident, and innate truths. . principles supposed innate because we do not remember when we began to hold them. to which we may add, that when men so instructed are grown up, and reflect on their own minds, they cannot find anything more ancient there than those opinions, which were taught them before their memory began to keep a register of their actions, or date the time when any new thing appeared to them; and therefore make no scruple to conclude, that those propositions of whose knowledge they can find in themselves no original, were certainly the impress of god and nature upon their minds, and not taught them by any one else. these they entertain and submit to, as many do to their parents with veneration; not because it is natural: nor do children do it where they are not so taught; but because, having been always so educated, and having no remembrance of the beginning of this respect, they think it is natural. . how such principles come to be held. this will appear very likely, and almost unavoidable to come to pass, if we consider the nature of mankind and the constitution of human affairs; wherein most men cannot live without employing their time in the daily labours of their callings; nor be at quiet in their minds without some foundation or principle to rest their thoughts on. there is scarcely any one so floating and superficial in his understanding, who hath not some reverenced propositions, which are to him the principles on which he bottoms his reasonings, and by which he judgeth of truth and falsehood, right and wrong; which some, wanting skill and leisure, and others the inclination, and some being taught that they ought not to examine, there are few to be found who are not exposed by their ignorance, laziness, education, or precipitancy, to take them upon trust. . further explained. this is evidently the case of all children and young folk; and custom, a greater power than nature, seldom failing to make them worship for divine what she hath inured them to bow their minds and submit their understandings to, it is no wonder that grown men, either perplexed in the necessary affairs of life, or hot in the pursuit of pleasures, should not seriously sit down to examine their own tenets; especially when one of their principles is, that principles ought not to be questioned. and had men leisure, parts, and will, who is there almost that dare shake the foundations of all his past thoughts and actions, and endure to bring upon himself the shame of having been a long time wholly in mistake and error? who is there hardy enough to contend with the reproach which is everywhere prepared for those who dare venture to dissent from the received opinions of their country or party? and where is the man to be found that can patiently prepare himself to bear the name of whimsical, sceptical, or atheist; which he is sure to meet with, who does in the least scruple any of the common opinions? and he will be much more afraid to question those principles, when he shall think them, as most men do, the standards set up by god in his mind, to be the rule and touchstone of all other opinions. and what can hinder him from thinking them sacred, when he finds them the earliest of all his own thoughts, and the most reverenced by others? . a worship of idols. it is easy to imagine how, by these means, it comes to pass that men worship the idols that have been set up in their minds; grow fond of the notions they have been long acquainted with there; and stamp the characters of divinity upon absurdities and errors; become zealous votaries to bulls and monkeys, and contend too, fight, and die in defence of their opinions. _dum solos credit habendos esse deos, quos ipse colit_. for, since the reasoning faculties of the soul, which are almost constantly, though not always warily nor wisely employed, would not know how to move, for want of a foundation and footing, in most men, who through laziness or avocation do not, or for want of time, or true helps, or for other causes, cannot penetrate into the principles of knowledge, and trace truth to its fountain and original, it is natural for them, and almost unavoidable, to take up with some borrowed principles; which being reputed and presumed to be the evident proofs of other things, are thought not to need any other proof themselves. whoever shall receive any of these into his mind, and entertain them there with the reverence usually paid to principles, never venturing to examine them, but accustoming himself to believe them, because they are to be believed, may take up, from his education and the fashions of his country, any absurdity for innate principles; and by long poring on the same objects, so dim his sight as to take monsters lodged in his own brain for the images of the deity, and the workmanship of his hands. . principles must be examined. by this progress, how many there are who arrive at principles which they believe innate may be easily observed, in the variety of opposite principles held and contended for by all sorts and degrees of men. and he that shall deny this to be the method wherein most men proceed to the assurance they have of the truth and evidence of their principles, will perhaps find it a hard matter any other way to account for the contrary tenets, which are firmly believed, confidently asserted, and which great numbers are ready at any time to seal with their blood. and, indeed, if it be the privilege of innate principles to be received upon their own authority, without examination, i know not what may not be believed, or how any one’s principles can be questioned. if they may and ought to be examined and tried, i desire to know how first and innate principles can be tried; or at least it is reasonable to demand the marks and characters whereby the genuine innate principles may be distinguished from others: that so, amidst the great variety of pretenders, i may be kept from mistakes in so material a point as this. when this is done, i shall be ready to embrace such welcome and useful propositions; and till then i may with modesty doubt; since i fear universal consent, which is the only one produced, will scarcely prove a sufficient mark to direct my choice, and assure me of any innate principles. from what has been said, i think it past doubt, that there are no practical principles wherein all men agree; and therefore none innate. chapter iii.--other considerations concerning innate principles, both speculative and practical. . principles not innate, unless their ideas be innate had those who would persuade us that there are innate principles not taken them together in gross, but considered separately the parts out of which those propositions are made, they would not, perhaps, have been so forward to believe they were innate. since, if the ideas which made up those truths were not, it was impossible that the propositions made up of them should be innate, or our knowledge of them be born with us. for, if the ideas be not innate, there was a time when the mind was without those principles; and then they will not be innate, but be derived from some other original. for, where the ideas themselves are not, there can be no knowledge, no assent, no mental or verbal propositions about them. . ideas, especially those belonging to principles, not born with children if we will attentively consider new-born children, we shall have little reason to think that they bring many ideas into the world with them. for, bating perhaps some faint ideas of hunger, and thirst, and warmth, and some pains, which they may have felt in the womb, there is not the least appearance of any settled ideas at all in them; especially of ideas answering the terms which make up those universal propositions that are esteemed innate principles. one may perceive how, by degrees, afterwards, ideas come into their minds; and that they get no more, nor other, than what experience, and the observation of things that come in their way, furnish them with; which might be enough to satisfy us that they are not original characters stamped on the mind. . impossibility and identity not innate ideas “it is impossible for the same thing to be, and not to be,” is certainly (if there be any such) an innate principle. but can any one think, or will any one say, that “impossibility” and “identity” are two innate ideas? are they such as all mankind have, and bring into the world with them? and are they those which are the first in children, and antecedent to all acquired ones? if they are innate, they must needs be so. hath a child an idea of impossibility and identity, before it has of white or black, sweet or bitter? and is it from the knowledge of this principle that it concludes, that wormwood rubbed on the nipple hath not the same taste that it used to receive from thence? is it the actual knowledge of impossibile est idem esse, et non esse, that makes a child distinguish between its mother and a stranger; or that makes it fond of the one and flee the other? or does the mind regulate itself and its assent by ideas that it never yet had? or the understanding draw conclusions from principles which it never yet knew or understood? the names impossibility and identity stand for two ideas, so far from being innate, or born with us, that i think it requires great care and attention to form them right in our understandings. they are so far from being brought into the world with us, so remote from the thoughts of infancy and childhood, that i believe, upon examination it will be found that many grown men want them. . identity, an idea not innate. if identity (to instance that alone) be a native impression, and consequently so clear and obvious to us that we must needs know it even from our cradles, i would gladly be resolved by any one of seven, or seventy years old, whether a man, being a creature consisting of soul and body, be the same man when his body is changed? whether euphorbus and pythagoras, having had the same soul, were the same men, though they lived several ages asunder? nay, whether the cock too, which had the same soul, were not the same, with both of them? whereby, perhaps, it will appear that our idea of sameness is not so settled and clear as to deserve to be thought innate in us. for if those innate ideas are not clear and distinct, so as to be universally known and naturally agreed on, they cannot be subjects of universal and undoubted truths, but will be the unavoidable occasion of perpetual uncertainty. for, i suppose every one’s idea of identity will not be the same that pythagoras and thousands of his followers have. and which then shall be true? which innate? or are there two different ideas of identity, both innate? . what makes the same man? nor let any one think that the questions i have here proposed about the identity of man are bare empty speculations; which, if they were, would be enough to show, that there was in the understandings of men no innate idea of identity. he that shall with a little attention reflect on the resurrection, and consider that divine justice will bring to judgment, at the last day, the very same persons, to be happy or miserable in the other, who did well or ill in this life, will find it perhaps not easy to resolve with himself, what makes the same man, or wherein identity consists; and will not be forward to think he, and every one, even children themselves, have naturally a clear idea of it. . whole and part not innate ideas. let us examine that principle of mathematics, viz. that the whole is bigger than a part. this, i take it, is reckoned amongst innate principles. i am sure it has as good a title as any to be thought so; which yet nobody can think it to be, when he considers the ideas it comprehends in it, whole and part, are perfectly relative; but the positive ideas to which they properly and immediately belong are extension and number, of which alone whole and part are relations. so that if whole and part are innate ideas, extension and number must be so too; it being impossible to have an idea of a relation, without having any at all of the thing to which it belongs, and in which it is founded. now, whether the minds of men have naturally imprinted on them the ideas of extension and number, i leave to be considered by those who are the patrons of innate principles. . idea of worship not innate. that god is to be worshipped, is, without doubt, as great a truth as any that can enter into the mind of man, and deserves the first place amongst all practical principles. but yet it can by no means be thought innate, unless the ideas of god and worship are innate. that the idea the term worship stands for is not in the understanding of children, and a character stamped on the mind in its first original, i think will be easily granted, by any one that considers how few there be amongst grown men who have a clear and distinct notion of it. and, i suppose, there cannot be anything more ridiculous than to say, that children have this practical principle innate, “that god is to be worshipped,” and yet that they know not what that worship of god is, which is their duty. but to pass by this. . idea of god not innate. if any idea can be imagined innate, the idea of god may, of all others, for many reasons, be thought so; since it is hard to conceive how there should be innate moral principles, without an innate idea of a deity. without a notion of a law-maker, it is impossible to have a notion of a law, and an obligation to observe it. besides the atheists taken notice of amongst the ancients, and left branded upon the records of history, hath not navigation discovered, in these later ages, whole nations, at the bay of soldania, in brazil, and in the caribbee islands, &c., amongst whom there was to be found no notion of a god, no religion? nicholaus del techo, in literis ex paraquaria, de caiguarum conversione, has these words: reperi eam gentem nullum nomen habere quod deum, et hominis animam significet; nulla sacra habet, nulla idola. and perhaps, if we should with attention mind the lives and discourses of people not so far off, we should have too much reason to fear, that many, in more civilized countries, have no very strong and clear impressions of a deity upon their minds, and that the complaints of atheism made from the pulpit are not without reason. and though only some profligate wretches own it too barefacedly now; yet perhaps we should hear more than we do of it from others, did not the fear of the magistrate’s sword, or their neighbour’s censure, tie up people’s tongues; which, were the apprehensions of punishment or shame taken away, would as openly proclaim their atheism as their lives do. . the name of god not universal or obscure in meaning. but had all mankind everywhere a notion of a god, (whereof yet history tells us the contrary,) it would not from thence follow, that the idea of him was innate. for, though no nation were to be found without a name, and some few dark notions of him, yet that would not prove them to be natural impressions on the mind; no more than the names of fire, or the sun, heat, or number, do prove the ideas they stand for to be innate; because the names of those things, and the ideas of them, are so universally received and known amongst mankind. nor, on the contrary, is the want of such a name, or the absence of such a notion out of men’s minds, any argument against the being of a god; any more than it would be a proof that there was no loadstone in the world, because a great part of mankind had neither a notion of any such thing nor a name for it; or be any show of argument to prove that there are no distinct and various species of angels, or intelligent beings above us, because we have no ideas of such distinct species, or names for them. for, men being furnished with words, by the common language of their own countries, can scarce avoid having some kind of ideas of those things whose names those they converse with have occasion frequently to mention to them. and if they carry with it the notion of excellency, greatness, or something extraordinary; if apprehension and concernment accompany it; if the fear of absolute and irresistible power set it on upon the mind,--the idea is likely to sink the deeper, and spread the further; especially if it be such an idea as is agreeable to the common light of reason, and naturally deducible from every part of our knowledge, as that of a god is. for the visible marks of extraordinary wisdom and power appear so plainly in all the works of the creation, that a rational creature, who will but seriously reflect on them, cannot miss the discovery of a deity. and the influence that the discovery of such a being must necessarily have on the minds of all that have but once heard of it is so great, and carries such a weight of thought and communication with it, that it seems stranger to me that a whole nation of men should be anywhere found so brutish as to want the notion of a god, than that they should be without any notion of numbers, or fire. . ideas of god and idea of fire. the name of god being once mentioned in any part of the world, to express a superior, powerful, wise, invisible being, the suitableness of such a notion to the principles of common reason, and the interest men will always have to mention it often, must necessarily spread it far and wide; and continue it down to all generations: though yet the general reception of this name, and some imperfect and unsteady notions conveyed thereby to the unthinking part of mankind, prove not the idea to be innate; but only that they who made the discovery had made a right use of their reason, thought maturely of the causes of things, and traced them to their original; from whom other less considering people having once received so important a notion, it could not easily be lost again. . idea of god not innate. this is all could be inferred from the notion of a god, were it to be found universally in all the tribes of mankind, and generally acknowledged, by men grown to maturity in all countries. for the generality of the acknowledging of a god, as i imagine, is extended no further than that; which, if it be sufficient to prove the idea of god innate, will as well prove the idea of fire innate; since i think it may be truly said, that there is not a person in the world who has a notion of a god, who has not also the idea of fire. i doubt not but if a colony of young children should be placed in an island where no fire was, they would certainly neither have any notion of such a thing, nor name for it, how generally soever it were received and known in all the world besides; and perhaps too their apprehensions would be as far removed from any name, or notion, of a god, till some one amongst them had employed his thoughts to inquire into the constitution and causes of things, which would easily lead him to the notion of a god; which having once taught to others, reason, and the natural propensity of their own thoughts, would afterwards propagate, and continue amongst them. . suitable to god’s goodness, that all men should have an idea of him, therefore naturally imprinted by him, answered. indeed it is urged, that it is suitable to the goodness of god, to imprint upon the minds of men characters and notions of himself, and not to leave them in the dark and doubt in so grand a concernment; and also, by that means, to secure to himself the homage and veneration due from so intelligent a creature as man; and therefore he has done it. this argument, if it be of any force, will prove much more than those who use it in this case expect from it. for, if we may conclude that god hath done for men all that men shall judge is best for them, because it is suitable to his goodness so to do, it will prove, not only that god has imprinted on the minds of men an idea of himself, but that he hath plainly stamped there, in fair characters, all that men ought to know or believe of him; all that they ought to do in obedience to his will; and that he hath given them a will and affections conformable to it. this, no doubt, every one will think better for men, than that they should, in the dark, grope after knowledge, as st. paul tells us all nations did after god (acts xvii. ); than that their wills should clash with their understandings, and their appetites cross their duty. the romanists say it is best for men, and so suitable to the goodness of god, that there should be an infallible judge of controversies on earth; and therefore there is one. and i, by the same reason, say it is better for men that every man himself should be infallible. i leave them to consider, whether, by the force of this argument, they shall think that every man is so. i think it a very good argument to say,--the infinitely wise god hath made it so; and therefore it is best. but it seems to me a little too much confidence of our own wisdom to say,--‘i think it best; and therefore god hath made it so.’ and in the matter in hand, it will be in vain to argue from such a topic, that god hath done so, when certain experience shows us that he hath not. but the goodness of god hath not been wanting to men, without such original impressions of knowledge or ideas stamped on the mind; since he hath furnished man with those faculties which will serve for the sufficient discovery of all things requisite to the end of such a being; and i doubt not but to show, that a man, by the right use of his natural abilities, may, without any innate principles, attain a knowledge of a god, and other things that concern him. god having endued man with those faculties of knowledge which he hath, was no more obliged by his goodness to plant those innate notions in his mind, than that, having given him reason, hands, and materials, he should build him bridges or houses,--which some people in the world, however of good parts, do either totally want, or are but ill provided of, as well as others are wholly without ideas of god and principles of morality, or at least have but very ill ones; the reason in both cases being, that they never employed their parts, faculties, and powers industriously that way, but contented themselves with the opinions, fashions, and things of their country, as they found them, without looking any further. had you or i been born at the bay of soldania, possibly our thoughts and notions had not exceeded those brutish ones of the hottentots that inhabit there. and had the virginia king apochancana been educated in england, he had been perhaps as knowing a divine, and as good a mathematician as any in it; the difference between him and a more improved englishman lying barely in this, that the exercise of his faculties was bounded within the ways, modes, and notions of his own country, and never directed to any other or further inquiries. and if he had not any idea of a god, it was only because he pursued not those thoughts that would have led him to it. . ideas of god various in different men. i grant that if there were any ideas to be found imprinted on the minds of men, we have reason to expect it should be the notion of his maker, as a mark god set on his own workmanship, to mind man of his dependence and duty; and that herein should appear the first instances of human knowledge. but how late is it before any such notion is discoverable in children? and when we find it there, how much more does it resemble the opinion and notion of the teacher, than represent the true god? he that shall observe in children the progress whereby their minds attain the knowledge they have, will think that the objects they do first and most familiarly converse with are those that make the first impressions on their understandings; nor will he find the least footsteps of any other. it is easy to take notice how their thoughts enlarge themselves, only as they come to be acquainted with a greater variety of sensible objects; to retain the ideas of them in their memories; and to get the skill to compound and enlarge them, and several ways put them together. how, by these means, they come to frame in their minds an idea men have of a deity, i shall hereafter show. . contrary and inconsistent ideas of god under the same name. can it be thought that the ideas men have of god are the characters and marks of himself, engraven in their minds by his own finger, when we see that, in the same country, under one and the same name, men have far different, nay often contrary and inconsistent ideas and conceptions of him? their agreeing in a name, or sound, will scarce prove an innate notion of him. . gross ideas of god. what true or tolerable notion of a deity could they have, who acknowledged and worshipped hundreds? every deity that they owned above one was an infallible evidence of their ignorance of him, and a proof that they had no true notion of god, where unity, infinity, and eternity were excluded. to which, if we add their gross conceptions of corporeity, expressed in their images and representations of their deities; the amours, marriages, copulations, lusts, quarrels, and other mean qualities attributed by them to their gods; we shall have little reason to think that the heathen world, i.e. the greatest part of mankind, had such ideas of god in their minds as he himself, out of care that they should not be mistaken about him, was author of. and this universality of consent, so much argued, if it prove any native impressions, it will be only this:--that god imprinted on the minds of all men speaking the same language, a name for himself, but not any idea; since those people who agreed in the name, had, at the same time, far different apprehensions about the thing signified. if they say that the variety of deities worshipped by the heathen world were but figurative ways of expressing the several attributes of that incomprehensible being, or several parts of his providence, i answer: what they might be in the original i will not here inquire; but that they were so in the thoughts of the vulgar i think nobody will affirm. and he that will consult the voyage of the bishop of beryte, c. , (not to mention other testimonies,) will find that the theology of the siamites professedly owns a plurality of gods: or, as the abbe de choisy more judiciously remarks in his journal du voyage de siam, / , it consists properly in acknowledging no god at all. . idea of god not innate although wise men of all nations come to have it. if it be said, that wise men of all nations came to have true conceptions of the unity and infinity of the deity, i grant it. but then this, first, excludes universality of consent in anything but the name; for those wise men being very few, perhaps one of a thousand, this universality is very narrow. secondly, it seems to me plainly to prove, that the truest and best notions men have of god were not imprinted, but acquired by thought and meditation, and a right use of their faculties: since the wise and considerate men of the world, by a right and careful employment of their thoughts and reason, attained true notions in this as well as other things; whilst the lazy and inconsiderate part of men, making far the greater number, took up their notions by chance, from common tradition and vulgar conceptions, without much beating their heads about them. and if it be a reason to think the notion of god innate, because all wise men had it, virtue too must be thought innate; for that also wise men have always had. . odd, low, and pitiful ideas of god common among men. this was evidently the case of all gentilism. nor hath even amongst jews, christians, and mahometans, who acknowledged but one god, this doctrine, and the care taken in those nations to teach men to have true notions of a god, prevailed so far as to make men to have the same and the true ideas of him. how many even amongst us, will be found upon inquiry to fancy him in the shape of a man sitting in heaven; and to have many other absurd and unfit conceptions of him? christians as well as turks have had whole sects owning and contending earnestly for it,--that the deity was corporeal, and of human shape: and though we find few now amongst us who profess themselves anthropomorphites, (though some i have met with that own it,) yet i believe he that will make it his business may find amongst the ignorant and uninstructed christians many of that opinion. talk but with country people, almost of any age, or young people almost of any condition, and you shall find that, though the name of god be frequently in their mouths, yet the notions they apply this name to are so odd, low, and pitiful, that nobody can imagine they were taught by a rational man; much less that they were characters written by the finger of god himself. nor do i see how it derogates more from the goodness of god, that he has given us minds unfurnished with these ideas of himself, than that he hath sent us into the world with bodies unclothed; and that there is no art or skill born with us. for, being fitted with faculties to attain these, it is want of industry and consideration in us, and not of bounty in him, if we have them not. it is as certain that there is a god, as that the opposite angles made by the intersection of two straight lines are equal. there was never any rational creature that set himself sincerely to examine the truth of these propositions that could fail to assent to them; though yet it be past doubt that there are many men, who, having not applied their thoughts that way, are ignorant both of the one and the other. if any one think fit to call this (which is the utmost of its extent) universal consent, such an one i easily allow; but such an universal consent as this proves not the idea of god, any more than it does the idea of such angles, innate. . if the idea of god be not innate, no other can be supposed innate. since then though the knowledge of a god be the most natural discovery of human reason, yet the idea of him is not innate, as i think is evident from what has been said; i imagine there will be scarce any other idea found that can pretend to it. since if god hath set any impression, any character, on the understanding of men, it is most reasonable to expect it should have been some clear and uniform idea of himself; as far as our weak capacities were capable to receive so incomprehensible and infinite an object. but our minds being at first void of that idea which we are most concerned to have, it is a strong presumption against all other innate characters. i must own, as far as i can observe, i can find none, and would be glad to be informed by any other. . idea of substance not innate. i confess there is another idea which would be of general use for mankind to have, as it is of general talk as if they had it; and that is the idea of substance; which we neither have nor can have by sensation or reflection. if nature took care to provide us any ideas, we might well expect they should be such as by our own faculties we cannot procure to ourselves; but we see, on the contrary, that since, by those ways whereby other ideas are brought into our minds, this is not, we have no such clear idea at all; and therefore signify nothing by the word substance but only an uncertain supposition of we know not what, i. e. of something whereof we have no idea, which we take to be the substratum, or support, of those ideas we do know. . no propositions can be innate, since no ideas are innate. whatever then we talk of innate, either speculative or practical, principles, it may with as much probability be said, that a man hath pounds sterling in his pocket, and yet denied that he hath there either penny, shilling, crown, or other coin out of which the sum is to be made up; as to think that certain propositions are innate when the ideas about which they are can by no means be supposed to be so. the general reception and assent that is given doth not at all prove, that the ideas expressed in them are innate; for in many cases, however the ideas came there, the assent to words expressing the agreement or disagreement of such ideas, will necessarily follow. every one that hath a true idea of god and worship, will assent to this proposition, ‘that god is to be worshipped,’ when expressed in a language he understands; and every rational man that hath not thought on it to-day, may be ready to assent to this proposition to-morrow; and yet millions of men may be well supposed to want one or both those ideas to-day. for, if we will allow savages, and most country people, to have ideas of god and worship, (which conversation with them will not make one forward to believe,) yet i think few children can be supposed to have those ideas, which therefore they must begin to have some time or other; and then they will also begin to assent to that proposition, and make very little question of it ever after. but such an assent upon hearing, no more proves the ideas to be innate, than it does that one born blind (with cataracts which will be couched to-morrow) had the innate ideas of the sun, or light, or saffron, or yellow; because, when his sight is cleared, he will certainly assent to this proposition, “that the sun is lucid, or that saffron is yellow.” and therefore, if such an assent upon hearing cannot prove the ideas innate, it can much less the propositions made up of those ideas. if they have any innate ideas, i would be glad to be told what, and how many, they are. . no innate ideas in the memory. to which let me add: if there be any innate ideas, any ideas in the mind which the mind does not actually think on, they must be lodged in the memory; and from thence must be brought into view by remembrance; i. e. must be known, when they are remembered, to have been perceptions in the mind before; unless remembrance can be without remembrance. for, to remember is to perceive anything with memory, or with a consciousness that it was perceived or known before. without this, whatever idea comes into the mind is new, and not remembered; this consciousness of its having been in the mind before, being that which distinguishes remembering from all other ways of thinking. whatever idea was never perceived by the mind was never in the mind. whatever idea is in the mind, is, either an actual perception, or else, having been an actual perception, is so in the mind that, by the memory, it can be made an actual perception again. whenever there is the actual perception of any idea without memory, the idea appears perfectly new and unknown before to the understanding. whenever the memory brings any idea into actual view, it is with a consciousness that it had been there before, and was not wholly a stranger to the mind. whether this be not so, i appeal to every one’s observation. and then i desire an instance of an idea, pretended to be innate, which (before any impression of it by ways hereafter to be mentioned) any one could revive and remember, as an idea he had formerly known; without which consciousness of a former perception there is no remembrance; and whatever idea comes into the mind without that consciousness is not remembered, or comes not out of the memory, nor can be said to be in the mind before that appearance. for what is not either actually in view or in the memory, is in the mind no way at all, and is all one as if it had never been there. suppose a child had the use of his eyes till he knows and distinguishes colours; but then cataracts shut the windows, and he is forty or fifty years perfectly in the dark; and in that time perfectly loses all memory of the ideas of colours he once had. this was the case of a blind man i once talked with, who lost his sight by the small-pox when he was a child, and had no more notion of colours than one born blind. i ask whether any one can say this man had then any ideas of colours in his mind, any more than one born blind? and i think nobody will say that either of them had in his mind any ideas of colours at all. his cataracts are couched, and then he has the ideas (which he remembers not) of colours, de novo, by his restored sight, conveyed to his mind, and that without any consciousness of a former acquaintance. and these now he can revive and call to mind in the dark. in this case all these ideas of colours which, when out of view, can be revived with a consciousness of a former acquaintance, being thus in the memory, are said to be in the mind. the use i make of this is,--that whatever idea, being not actually in view, is in the mind, is there only by being in the memory; and if it be not in the memory, it is not in the mind; and if it be in the memory, it cannot by the memory be brought into actual view without a perception that it comes out of the memory; which is this, that it had been known before, and is now remembered. if therefore there be any innate ideas, they must be in the memory, or else nowhere in the mind; and if they be in the memory, they can be revived without any impression from without; and whenever they are brought into the mind they are remembered, i. e. they bring with them a perception of their not being wholly new to it. this being a constant and distinguishing difference between what is, and what is not in the memory, or in the mind;--that what is not in the memory, whenever it appears there, appears perfectly new and unknown before; and what is in the memory, or in the mind, whenever it is suggested by the memory, appears not to be new, but the mind finds it in itself, and knows it was there before. by this it may be tried whether there be any innate ideas in the mind before impression from sensation or reflection. i would fain meet with the man who, when he came to the use of reason, or at any other time, remembered any of them; and to whom, after he was born, they were never new. if any one will say, there are ideas in the mind that are not in the memory, i desire him to explain himself, and make what he says intelligible. . principles not innate, because of little use or little certainty. besides what i have already said, there is another reason why i doubt that neither these nor any other principles are innate. i that am fully persuaded that the infinitely wise god made all things in perfect wisdom, cannot satisfy myself why he should be supposed to print upon the minds of men some universal principles; whereof those that are pretended innate, and concern speculation, are of no great use; and those that concern practice, not self-evident; and neither of them distinguishable from some other truths not allowed to be innate. for, to what purpose should characters be graven on the mind by the finger of god, which are not clearer there than those which are afterwards introduced, or cannot be distinguished from them? if any one thinks there are such innate ideas and propositions, which by their clearness and usefulness are distinguishable from all that is adventitious in the mind and acquired, it will not be a hard matter for him to tell us which they are; and then every one will be a fit judge whether they be so or no. since if there be such innate ideas and impressions, plainly different from all other perceptions and knowledge, every one will find it true in himself. of the evidence of these supposed innate maxims, i have spoken already: of their usefulness i shall have occasion to speak more hereafter. . difference of men’s discoveries depends upon the different application of their faculties. to conclude: some ideas forwardly offer themselves to all men’s understanding; and some sorts of truths result from any ideas, as soon as the mind puts them into propositions: other truths require a train of ideas placed in order, a due comparing of them, and deductions made with attention, before they can be discovered and assented to. some of the first sort, because of their general and easy reception, have been mistaken for innate: but the truth is, ideas and notions are no more born with us than arts and sciences; though some of them indeed offer themselves to our faculties more readily than others; and therefore are more generally received: though that too be according as the organs of our bodies and powers of our minds happen to be employed; god having fitted men with faculties and means to discover, receive, and retain truths, according as they are employed. the great difference that is to be found in the notions of mankind is, from the different use they put their faculties to. whilst some (and those the most) taking things upon trust, misemploy their power of assent, by lazily enslaving their minds to the dictates and dominion of others, in doctrines which it is their duty carefully to examine, and not blindly, with an implicit faith, to swallow; others, employing their thoughts only about some few things, grow acquainted sufficiently with them, attain great degrees of knowledge in them, and are ignorant of all other, having never let their thoughts loose in the search of other inquiries. thus, that the three angles of a triangle are quite equal to two right ones is a truth as certain as anything can be, and i think more evident than many of those propositions that go for principles; and yet there are millions, however expert in other things, who know not this at all, because they never set their thoughts on work about such angles. and he that certainly knows this proposition may yet be utterly ignorant of the truth of other propositions, in mathematics itself, which are as clear and evident as this; because, in his search of those mathematical truths, he stopped his thoughts short and went not so far. the same may happen concerning the notions we have of the being of a deity. for, though there be no truth which a man may more evidently make out to himself than the existence of a god, yet he that shall content himself with things as he finds them in this world, as they minister to his pleasures and passions, and not make inquiry a little further into their causes, ends, and admirable contrivances, and pursue the thoughts thereof with diligence and attention, may live long without any notion of such a being. and if any person hath by talk put such a notion into his head, he may perhaps believe it; but if he hath never examined it, his knowledge of it will be no perfecter than his, who having been told, that the three angles of a triangle are equal to two right ones, takes it upon trust, without examining the demonstration; and may yield his assent as a probable opinion, but hath no knowledge of the truth of it; which yet his faculties, if carefully employed, were able to make clear and evident to him. but this only, by the by, to show how much our knowledge depends upon the right use of those powers nature hath bestowed upon us, and how little upon such innate principles as are in vain supposed to be in all mankind for their direction; which all men could not but know if they were there, or else they would be there to no purpose. and which since all men do not know, nor can distinguish from other adventitious truths, we may well conclude there are no such. . men must think and know for themselves. what censure doubting thus of innate principles may deserve from men, who will be apt to call it pulling up the old foundations of knowledge and certainty, i cannot tell;--i persuade myself at least that the way i have pursued, being conformable to truth, lays those foundations surer. this i am certain, i have not made it my business either to quit or follow any authority in the ensuing discourse. truth has been my only aim; and wherever that has appeared to lead, my thoughts have impartially followed, without minding whether the footsteps of any other lay that way or not. not that i want a due respect to other men’s opinions; but, after all, the greatest reverence is due to truth: and i hope it will not be thought arrogance to say, that perhaps we should make greater progress in the discovery of rational and contemplative knowledge, if we sought it in the fountain, in the consideration of things themselves; and made use rather of our own thoughts than other men’s to find it. for i think we may as rationally hope to see with other men’s eyes, as to know by other men’s understandings. so much as we ourselves consider and comprehend of truth and reason, so much we possess of real and true knowledge. the floating of other men’s opinions in our brains, makes us not one jot the more knowing, though they happen to be true. what in them was science, is in us but opiniatrety; whilst we give up our assent only to reverend names, and do not, as they did, employ our own reason to understand those truths which gave them reputation. aristotle was certainly a knowing man, but nobody ever thought him so because he blindly embraced, and confidently vented the opinions of another. and if the taking up of another’s principles, without examining them, made not him a philosopher, i suppose it will hardly make anybody else so. in the sciences, every one has so much as he really knows and comprehends. what he believes only, and takes upon trust, are but shreds; which, however well in the whole piece, make no considerable addition to his stock who gathers them. such borrowed wealth, like fairy money, though it were gold in the hand from which he received it, will be but leaves and dust when it comes to use. . whence the opinion of innate principles. when men have found some general propositions that could not be doubted of as soon as understood, it was, i know, a short and easy way to conclude them innate. this being once received, it eased the lazy from the pains of search, and stopped the inquiry of the doubtful concerning all that was once styled innate. and it was of no small advantage to those who affected to be masters and teachers, to make this the principle of principles,--that principles must not be questioned. for, having once established this tenet,--that there are innate principles, it put their followers upon a necessity of receiving some doctrines as such; which was to take them off from the use of their own reason and judgment, and put them on believing and taking them upon trust without further examination: in which posture of blind credulity, they might be more easily governed by, and made useful to some sort of men, who had the skill and office to principle and guide them. nor is it a small power it gives one man over another, to have the authority to be the dictator of principles, and teacher of unquestionable truths; and to make a man swallow that for an innate principle which may serve to his purpose who teacheth them. whereas had they examined the ways whereby men came to the knowledge of many universal truths, they would have found them to result in the minds of men from the being of things themselves, when duly considered; and that they were discovered by the application of those faculties that were fitted by nature to receive and judge of them, when duly employed about them. . conclusion. to show how the understanding proceeds herein is the design of the following discourse; which i shall proceed to when i have first premised, that hitherto,--to clear my way to those foundations which i conceive are the only true ones, whereon to establish those notions we can have of our own knowledge,--it hath been necessary for me to give an account of the reasons i had to doubt of innate principles. and since the arguments which are against them do, some of them, rise from common received opinions, i have been forced to take several things for granted; which is hardly avoidable to any one, whose task is to show the falsehood or improbability of any tenet;--it happening in controversial discourses as it does in assaulting of towns; where, if the ground be but firm whereon the batteries are erected, there is no further inquiry of whom it is borrowed, nor whom it belongs to, so it affords but a fit rise for the present purpose. but in the future part of this discourse, designing to raise an edifice uniform and consistent with itself, as far as my own experience and observation will assist me, i hope to erect it on such a basis that i shall not need to shore it up with props and buttresses, leaning on borrowed or begged foundations: or at least, if mine prove a castle in the air, i will endeavour it shall be all of a piece and hang together. wherein i warn the reader not to expect undeniable cogent demonstrations, unless i may be allowed the privilege, not seldom assumed by others, to take my principles for granted; and then, i doubt not, but i can demonstrate too. all that i shall say for the principles i proceed on is, that i can only appeal to men’s own unprejudiced experience and observation whether they be true or not; and this is enough for a man who professes no more than to lay down candidly and freely his own conjectures, concerning a subject lying somewhat in the dark, without any other design than an unbiassed inquiry after truth. book ii--of ideas chapter i.--of ideas in general, and their original. . idea is the object of thinking. every man being conscious to himself that he thinks; and that which his mind is applied about whilst thinking being the ideas that are there, it is past doubt that men have in their minds several ideas,--such as are those expressed by the words whiteness, hardness, sweetness, thinking, motion, man, elephant, army, drunkenness, and others: it is in the first place then to be inquired, how he comes by them? i know it is a received doctrine, that men have native ideas, and original characters, stamped upon their minds in their very first being. this opinion i have at large examined already; and, i suppose what i have said in the foregoing book will be much more easily admitted, when i have shown whence the understanding may get all the ideas it has; and by what ways and degrees they may come into the mind;--for which i shall appeal to every one’s own observation and experience. . all ideas come from sensation or reflection. let us then suppose the mind to be, as we say, white paper, void of all characters, without any ideas:--how comes it to be furnished? whence comes it by that vast store which the busy and boundless fancy of man has painted on it with an almost endless variety? whence has it all the materials of reason and knowledge? to this i answer, in one word, from experience. in that all our knowledge is founded; and from that it ultimately derives itself. our observation employed either, about external sensible objects, or about the internal operations of our minds perceived and reflected on by ourselves, is that which supplies our understandings with all the materials of thinking. these two are the fountains of knowledge, from whence all the ideas we have, or can naturally have, do spring. . the objects of sensation one source of ideas first, our senses, conversant about particular sensible objects, do convey into the mind several distinct perceptions of things, according to those various ways wherein those objects do affect them. and thus we come by those ideas we have of yellow, white, heat, cold, soft, hard, bitter, sweet, and all those which we call sensible qualities; which when i say the senses convey into the mind, i mean, they from external objects convey into the mind what produces there those perceptions. this great source of most of the ideas we have, depending wholly upon our senses, and derived by them to the understanding, i call sensation. . the operations of our minds, the other source of them. secondly, the other fountain from which experience furnisheth the understanding with ideas is,--the perception of the operations of our own mind within us, as it is employed about the ideas it has got;--which operations, when the soul comes to reflect on and consider, do furnish the understanding with another set of ideas, which could not be had from things without. and such are perception, thinking, doubting, believing, reasoning, knowing, willing, and all the different actings of our own minds;--which we being conscious of, and observing in ourselves, do from these receive into our understandings as distinct ideas as we do from bodies affecting our senses. this source of ideas every man has wholly in himself; and though it be not sense, as having nothing to do with external objects, yet it is very like it, and might properly enough be called internal sense. but as i call the other sensation, so i call this reflection, the ideas it affords being such only as the mind gets by reflecting on its own operations within itself. by reflection then, in the following part of this discourse, i would be understood to mean, that notice which the mind takes of its own operations, and the manner of them, by reason whereof there come to be ideas of these operations in the understanding. these two, i say, viz. external material things, as the objects of sensation, and the operations of our own minds within, as the objects of reflection, are to me the only originals from whence all our ideas take their beginnings. the term operations here i use in a large sense, as comprehending not barely the actions of the mind about its ideas, but some sort of passions arising sometimes from them, such as is the satisfaction or uneasiness arising from any thought. . all our ideas are of the one or of the other of these. the understanding seems to me not to have the least glimmering of any ideas which it doth not receive from one of these two. external objects furnish the mind with the ideas of sensible qualities, which are all those different perceptions they produce in us; and the mind furnishes the understanding with ideas of its own operations. these, when we have taken a full survey of them, and their several modes, and the compositions made out of them we shall find to contain all our whole stock of ideas; and that we have nothing in our minds which did not come in one of these two ways. let any one examine his own thoughts, and thoroughly search into his understanding; and then let him tell me, whether all the original ideas he has there, are any other than of the objects of his senses, or of the operations of his mind, considered as objects of his reflection. and how great a mass of knowledge soever he imagines to be lodged there, he will, upon taking a strict view, see that he has not any idea in his mind but what one of these two have imprinted;--though perhaps, with infinite variety compounded and enlarged by the understanding, as we shall see hereafter. . observable in children. he that attentively considers the state of a child, at his first coming into the world, will have little reason to think him stored with plenty of ideas, that are to be the matter of his future knowledge. it is by degrees he comes to be furnished with them. and though the ideas of obvious and familiar qualities imprint themselves before the memory begins to keep a register of time or order, yet it is often so late before some unusual qualities come in the way, that there are few men that cannot recollect the beginning of their acquaintance with them. and if it were worth while, no doubt a child might be so ordered as to have but a very few, even of the ordinary ideas, till he were grown up to a man. but all that are born into the world, being surrounded with bodies that perpetually and diversely affect them, variety of ideas, whether care be taken of it or not, are imprinted on the minds of children. light and colours are busy at hand everywhere, when the eye is but open; sounds and some tangible qualities fail not to solicit their proper senses, and force an entrance to the mind;--but yet, i think, it will be granted easily, that if a child were kept in a place where he never saw any other but black and white till he were a man, he would have no more ideas of scarlet or green, than he that from his childhood never tasted an oyster, or a pine-apple, has of those particular relishes. . men are differently furnished with these, according to the different objects they converse with. men then come to be furnished with fewer or more simple ideas from without, according as the objects they converse with afford greater or less variety; and from the operations of their minds within, according as they more or less reflect on them. for, though he that contemplates the operations of his mind, cannot but have plain and clear ideas of them; yet, unless he turn his thoughts that way, and considers them attentively, he will no more have clear and distinct ideas of all the operations of his mind, and all that may be observed therein, than he will have all the particular ideas of any landscape, or of the parts and motions of a clock, who will not turn his eyes to it, and with attention heed all the parts of it. the picture, or clock may be so placed, that they may come in his way every day; but yet he will have but a confused idea of all the parts they are made up of, till he applies himself with attention, to consider them each in particular. . ideas of reflection later, because they need attention. and hence we see the reason why it is pretty late before most children get ideas of the operations of their own minds; and some have not any very clear or perfect ideas of the greatest part of them all their lives. because, though they pass there continually, yet, like floating visions, they make not deep impressions enough to leave in their mind clear, distinct, lasting ideas, till the understanding turns inward upon itself, reflects on its own operations, and makes them the objects of its own contemplation. children when they come first into it, are surrounded with a world of new things which, by a constant solicitation of their senses, draw the mind constantly to them; forward to take notice of new, and apt to be delighted with the variety of changing objects. thus the first years are usually employed and diverted in looking abroad. men’s business in them is to acquaint themselves with what is to be found without; and so growing up in a constant attention to outward sensations, seldom make any considerable reflection on what passes within them, till they come to be of riper years; and some scarce ever at all. . the soul begins to have ideas when it begins to perceive. to ask, at what time a man has first any ideas, is to ask, when he begins to perceive;--having ideas, and perception, being the same thing. i know it is an opinion, that the soul always thinks, and that it has the actual perception of ideas in itself constantly, as long as it exists; and that actual thinking is as inseparable from the soul as actual extension is from the body; which if true, to inquire after the beginning of a man’s ideas is the same as to inquire after the beginning of his soul. for, by this account, soul and its ideas, as body and its extension, will begin to exist both at the same time. . the soul thinks not always; for this wants proofs. but whether the soul be supposed to exist antecedent to, or coeval with, or some time after the first rudiments of organization, or the beginnings of life in the body, i leave to be disputed by those who have better thought of that matter. i confess myself to have one of those dull souls, that doth not perceive itself always to contemplate ideas; nor can conceive it any more necessary for the soul always to think, than for the body always to move: the perception of ideas being (as i conceive) to the soul, what motion is to the body; not its essence, but one of its operations. and therefore, though thinking be supposed never so much the proper action of the soul, yet it is not necessary to suppose that it should be always thinking, always in action. that, perhaps, is the privilege of the infinite author and preserver of all things, who “never slumbers nor sleeps”; but is not competent to any finite being, at least not to the soul of man. we know certainly, by experience, that we sometimes think; and thence draw this infallible consequence,--that there is something in us that has a power to think. but whether that substance perpetually thinks or no, we can be no further assured than experience informs us. for, to say that actual thinking is essential to the soul, and inseparable from it, is to beg what is in question, and not to prove it by reason;--which is necessary to be done, if it be not a self-evident proposition. but whether this, “that the soul always thinks,” be a self-evident proposition, that everybody assents to at first hearing, i appeal to mankind. it is doubted whether i thought at all last night or no. the question being about a matter of fact, it is begging it to bring, as a proof for it, an hypothesis, which is the very thing in dispute: by which way one may prove anything, and it is but supposing that all watches, whilst the balance beats, think, and it is sufficiently proved, and past doubt, that my watch thought all last night. but he that would not deceive himself, ought to build his hypothesis on matter of fact, and make it out by sensible experience, and not presume on matter of fact, because of his hypothesis, that is, because he supposes it to be so; which way of proving amounts to this, that i must necessarily think all last night, because another supposes i always think, though i myself cannot perceive that i always do so. but men in love with their opinions may not only suppose what is in question, but allege wrong matter of fact. how else could any one make it an inference of mine, that a thing is not, because we are not sensible of it in our sleep? i do not say there is no soul in a man, because he is not sensible of it in his sleep; but i do say, he cannot think at any time, waking or sleeping, without being sensible of it. our being sensible of it is not necessary to anything but to our thoughts; and to them it is; and to them it always will be necessary, till we can think without being conscious of it. . it is not always conscious of it. i grant that the soul, in a waking man, is never without thought, because it is the condition of being awake. but whether sleeping without dreaming be not an affection of the whole man, mind as well as body, may be worth a waking man’s consideration; it being hard to conceive that anything should think and not be conscious of it. if the soul doth think in a sleeping man without being conscious of it, i ask whether, during such thinking, it has any pleasure or pain, or be capable of happiness or misery? i am sure the man is not; no more than the bed or earth he lies on. for to be happy or miserable without being conscious of it, seems to me utterly inconsistent and impossible. or if it be possible that the soul can, whilst the body is sleeping, have its thinking, enjoyments, and concerns, its pleasures or pain, apart, which the man is not conscious of nor partakes in,--it is certain that socrates asleep and socrates awake is not the same person; but his soul when he sleeps, and socrates the man, consisting of body and soul, when he is waking, are two persons: since waking socrates has no knowledge of, or concernment for that happiness or misery of his soul, which it enjoys alone by itself whilst he sleeps, without perceiving anything of it; no more than he has for the happiness or misery of a man in the indies, whom he knows not. for, if we take wholly away all consciousness of our actions and sensations, especially of pleasure and pain, and the concernment that accompanies it, it will be hard to know wherein to place personal identity. . if a sleeping man thinks without knowing it, the sleeping and waking man are two persons. the soul, during sound sleep, thinks, say these men. whilst it thinks and perceives, it is capable certainly of those of delight or trouble, as well as any other perceptions; and it must necessarily be conscious of its own perceptions. but it has all this apart: the sleeping man, it is plain, is conscious of nothing of all this. let us suppose, then, the soul of castor, while he is sleeping, retired from his body; which is no impossible supposition for the men i have here to do with, who so liberally allow life, without a thinking soul, to all other animals. these men cannot then judge it impossible, or a contradiction, that the body should live without the soul; nor that the soul should subsist and think, or have perception, even perception of happiness or misery, without the body. let us then, i say, suppose the soul of castor separated during his sleep from his body, to think apart. let us suppose, too, that it chooses for its scene of thinking the body of another man, v. g. pollux, who is sleeping without a soul. for, if castor’s soul can think, whilst castor is asleep, what castor is never conscious of, it is no matter what place it chooses to think in. we have here, then, the bodies of two men with only one soul between them, which we will suppose to sleep and wake by turns; and the soul still thinking in the waking man, whereof the sleeping man is never conscious, has never the least perception. i ask, then, whether castor and pollux, thus with only one soul between them, which thinks and perceives in one what the other is never conscious of, nor is concerned for, are not two as distinct persons as castor and hercules, or as socrates and plato were? and whether one of them might not be very happy, and the other very miserable? just by the same reason, they make the soul and the man two persons, who make the soul think apart what the man is not conscious of. for, i suppose nobody will make identity of persons to consist in the soul’s being united to the very same numerical particles of matter. for if that be necessary to identity, it will be impossible, in that constant flux of the particles of our bodies, that any man should be the same person two days, or two moments, together. . impossible to convince those that sleep without dreaming, that they think. thus, methinks, every drowsy nod shakes their doctrine, who teach that the soul is always thinking. those, at least, who do at any time sleep without dreaming, can never be convinced that their thoughts are sometimes for four hours busy without their knowing of it; and if they are taken in the very act, waked in the middle of that sleeping contemplation, can give no manner of account of it. . that men dream without remembering it, in vain urged. it will perhaps be said,--that the soul thinks even in the soundest sleep, but the memory retains it not. that the soul in a sleeping man should be this moment busy a thinking, and the next moment in a waking man not remember nor be able to recollect one jot of all those thoughts, is very hard to be conceived, and would need some better proof than bare assertion to make it be believed. for who can without any more ado, but being barely told so, imagine that the greatest part of men do, during all their lives, for several hours every day, think of something, which if they were asked, even in the middle of these thoughts, they could remember nothing at all of? most men, i think, pass a great part of their sleep without dreaming. i once knew a man that was bred a scholar, and had no bad memory, who told me he had never dreamed in his life, till he had that fever he was then newly recovered of, which was about the five or six and twentieth year of his age. i suppose the world affords more such instances: at least every one’s acquaintance will furnish him with examples enough of such as pass most of their nights without dreaming. . upon this hypothesis, the thoughts of a sleeping man ought to be most rational. to think often, and never to retain it so much as one moment, is a very useless sort of thinking; and the soul, in such a state of thinking, does very little, if at all, excel that of a looking-glass, which constantly receives variety of images, or ideas, but retains none; they disappear and vanish, and there remain no footsteps of them; the looking-glass is never the better for such ideas, nor the soul for, such thoughts. perhaps it will be said, that in a waking man the materials of the body are employed, and made use of, in thinking; and that the memory of thoughts is retained by the impressions that are made on the brain, and the traces there left after such thinking; but that in the thinking of the soul, which is not perceived in a sleeping man, there the soul thinks apart, and making no use of the organs of the body, leaves no impressions on it, and consequently no memory of such thoughts. not to mention again the absurdity of two distinct persons, which follows from this supposition, i answer, further,--that whatever ideas the mind can receive and contemplate without the help of the body, it is reasonable to conclude it can retain without the help of the body too; or else the soul, or any separate spirit, will have but little advantage by thinking. if it has no memory of its own thoughts; if it cannot lay them up for its own use, and be able to recall them upon occasion; if it cannot reflect upon what is past, and make use of its former experiences, reasonings, and contemplations, to what, purpose does it think? they who make the soul a thinking thing, at this rate, will not make it a much more noble being than those do whom they condemn, for allowing it to be nothing but the subtilist parts of matter. characters drawn on dust, that the first breath of wind effaces; or impressions made on a heap of atoms, or animal spirits, are altogether as useful, and render the subject as noble, as the thoughts of a soul that perish in thinking; that, once out of sight, are gone for ever, and leave no memory of themselves behind them. nature never makes excellent things for mean or no uses: and it is hardly to be conceived that our infinitely wise creator should make so admirable a faculty as the power of thinking, that faculty which comes nearest the excellency of his own incomprehensible being, to be so idly and uselessly employed, at least a fourth part of its time here, as to think constantly, without remembering any of those thoughts, without doing any good to itself or others, or being any way useful to any other part of the creation. if we will examine it, we shall not find, i suppose, the motion of dull and senseless matter, any where in the universe, made so little use of and so wholly thrown away. . on this hypothesis, the soul must have ideas not derived from sensation or reflection, of which there is no appearance. it is true, we have sometimes instances of perception whilst we are asleep, and retain the memory of those thoughts: but how extravagant and incoherent for the most part they are; how little conformable to the perfection and order of a rational being, those who are acquainted with dreams need not be told. this i would willingly be satisfied in,--whether the soul, when it thinks thus apart, and as it were separate from the body, acts less rationally than when conjointly with it, or no. if its separate thoughts be less rational, then these men must say, that the soul owes the perfection of rational thinking to the body: if it does not, it is a wonder that our dreams should be, for the most part, so frivolous and irrational; and that the soul should retain none of its more rational soliloquies and meditations. . if i think when i know it not, nobody else can know it. those who so confidently tell us that the soul always actually thinks, i would they would also tell us, what those ideas are that are in the soul of a child, before or just at the union with the body, before it hath received any by sensation. the dreams of sleeping men are, as i take it, all made up of the waking man’s ideas; though for the most part oddly put together. it is strange, if the soul has ideas of its own that it derived not from sensation or reflection, (as it must have, if it thought before it received any impressions from the body,) that it should never, in its private thinking, (so private, that the man himself perceives it not,) retain any of them the very moment it wakes out of them, and then make the man glad with new discoveries. who can find it reason that the soul should, in its retirement during sleep, have so many hours’ thoughts, and yet never light on any of those ideas it borrowed not from sensation or reflection; or at least preserve the memory of none but such, which, being occasioned from the body, must needs be less natural to a spirit? it is strange the soul should never once in a man’s whole life recall over any of its pure native thoughts, and those ideas it had before it borrowed anything from the body; never bring into the waking man’s view any other ideas but what have a tang of the cask, and manifestly derive their original from that union. if it always thinks, and so had ideas before it was united, or before it received any from the body, it is not to be supposed but that during sleep it recollects its native ideas; and during that retirement from communicating with the body, whilst it thinks by itself, the ideas it is busied about should be, sometimes at least, those more natural and congenial ones which it had in itself, underived from the body, or its own operations about them: which, since the waking man never remembers, we must from this hypothesis conclude either that the soul remembers something that the man does not; or else that memory belongs only to such ideas as are derived from the body, or the mind’s operations about them. . how knows any one that the soul always thinks? for if it be not a self-evident proposition, it needs proof. i would be glad also to learn from these men who so confidently pronounce that the human soul, or, which is all one, that a man always thinks, how they come to know it; nay, how they come to know that they themselves think, when they themselves do not perceive it. this, i am afraid, is to be sure without proofs, and to know without perceiving. it is, i suspect, a confused notion, taken up to serve an hypothesis; and none of those clear truths, that either their own evidence forces us to admit, or common experience makes it impudence to deny. for the most that can be said of it is, that it is possible the soul may always think, but not always retain it in memory. and i say, it is as possible that the soul may not always think; and much more probable that it should sometimes not think, than that it should often think, and that a long while together, and not be conscious to itself, the next moment after, that it had thought. . that a man should be busy in thinking, and yet not retain it the next moment, very improbable. to suppose the soul to think, and the man not to perceive it, is, as has been said, to make two persons in one man. and if one considers well these men’s way of speaking, one should be led into a suspicion that they do so. for those who tell us that the soul always thinks, do never, that i remember, say that a man always thinks. can the soul think, and not the man? or a man think, and not be conscious of it? this, perhaps, would be suspected of jargon in others. if they say the man thinks always, but is not always conscious of it, they may as well say his body is extended without having parts. for it is altogether as intelligible to say that a body is extended without parts, as that anything thinks without being conscious of it, or perceiving that it does so. they who talk thus may, with as much reason, if it be necessary to their hypothesis, say that a man is always hungry, but that he does not always feel it; whereas hunger consists in that very sensation, as thinking consists in being conscious that one thinks. if they say that a man is always conscious to himself of thinking, i ask, how they know it? consciousness is the perception of what passes in a man’s own mind. can another man perceive that i am conscious of anything, when i perceive it not myself? no man’s knowledge here can go beyond his experience. wake a man out of a sound sleep, and ask him what he was that moment thinking of. if he himself be conscious of nothing he then thought on, he must be a notable diviner of thoughts that can assure him that he was thinking. may he not, with more reason, assure him he was not asleep? this is something beyond philosophy; and it cannot be less than revelation, that discovers to another thoughts in my mind, when i can find none there myself. and they must needs have a penetrating sight who can certainly see that i think, when i cannot perceive it myself, and when i declare that i do not; and yet can see that dogs or elephants do not think, when they give all the demonstration of it imaginable, except only telling us that they do so. this some may suspect to be a step beyond the rosicrucians; it seeming easier to make one’s self invisible to others, than to make another’s thoughts visible to me, which are not visible to himself. but it is but defining the soul to be “a substance that always thinks,” and the business is done. if such definition be of any authority, i know not what it can serve for but to make many men suspect that they have no souls at all; since they find a good part of their lives pass away without thinking. for no definitions that i know, no suppositions of any sect, are of force enough to destroy constant experience; and perhaps it is the affectation of knowing beyond what we perceive, that makes so much useless dispute and noise in the world. . no ideas but from sensation and reflection, evident, if we observe children. i see no reason, therefore, to believe that the soul thinks before the senses have furnished it with ideas to think on; and as those are increased and retained, so it comes, by exercise, to improve its faculty of thinking in the several parts of it; as well as, afterwards, by compounding those ideas, and reflecting on its own operations, it increases its stock, as well as facility in remembering, imagining, reasoning, and other modes of thinking. . state of a child on the mother’s womb. he that will suffer himself to be informed by observation and experience, and not make his own hypothesis the rule of nature, will find few signs of a soul accustomed to much thinking in a new-born child, and much fewer of any reasoning at all. and yet it is hard to imagine that the rational soul should think so much, and not reason at all, and he that will consider that infants newly come into the world spend the greatest part of their time in sleep, and are seldom awake but when either hunger calls for the teat, or some pain (the most importunate of all sensations), or some other violent impression on the body, forces the mind to perceive and attend to it;--he, i say, who considers this, will perhaps find reason to imagine that a foetus in the mother’s womb differs not much from the state of a vegetable, but passes the greatest part of its time without perception or thought; doing very little but sleep in a place where it needs not seek for food, and is surrounded with liquor, always equally soft, and near of the same temper; where the eyes have no light, and the ears so shut up are not very susceptible of sounds; and where there is little or no variety, or change of objects, to move the senses. . the mind thinks in proportion to the matter it gets from experience to think about. follow a child from its birth, and observe the alterations that time makes, and you shall find, as the mind by the senses comes more and more to be furnished with ideas, it comes to be more and more awake; thinks more, the more it has matter to think on. after some time it begins to know the objects which, being most familiar with it, have made lasting impressions. thus it comes by degrees to know the persons it daily converses with, and distinguishes them from strangers; which are instances and effects of its coming to retain and distinguish the ideas the senses convey to it. and so we may observe how the mind, by degrees, improves in these; and advances to the exercise of those other faculties of enlarging, compounding, and abstracting its ideas, and of reasoning about them, and reflecting upon all these; of which i shall have occasion to speak more hereafter. . a man begins to have ideas when he first has sensation. what sensation is. if it shall be demanded then, when a man begins to have any ideas, i think the true answer is,--when he first has any sensation. for, since there appear not to be any ideas in the mind before the senses have conveyed any in, i conceive that ideas in the understanding are coeval with sensation; which is such an impression or motion made in some part of the body, as makes it be taken notice of in the understanding. . the original of all our knowledge. the impressions then that are made on our sense by outward objects that are extrinsical to the mind; and its own operations about these impressions, reflected on by itself, as proper objects to be contemplated by it, are, i conceive, the original of all knowledge. thus the first capacity of human intellect is,--that the mind is fitted to receive the impressions made on it; either through the senses by outward objects, or by its own operations when it reflects on them. this is the first step a man makes towards the discovery of anything, and the groundwork whereon to build all those notions which ever he shall have naturally in this world. all those sublime thoughts which tower above the clouds, and reach as high as heaven itself, take their rise and footing here: in all that great extent wherein the mind wanders, in those remote speculations it may seem to be elevated with, it stirs not one jot beyond those ideas which sense or reflection have offered for its contemplation. . in the reception of simple ideas, the understanding is for the most part passive. in this part the understanding is merely passive; and whether or no it will have these beginnings, and as it were materials of knowledge, is not in its own power. for the objects of our senses do, many of them, obtrude their particular ideas upon our minds whether we will or not; and the operations of our minds will not let us be without, at least, some obscure notions of them. no man can be wholly ignorant of what he does when he thinks. these simple ideas, when offered to the mind, the understanding can no more refuse to have, nor alter when they are imprinted, nor blot them out and make new ones itself, than a mirror can refuse, alter, or obliterate the images or ideas which the objects set before it do therein produce. as the bodies that surround us do diversely affect our organs, the mind is forced to receive the impressions; and cannot avoid the perception of those ideas that are annexed to them. chapter ii.--of simple ideas. . uncompounded appearances. the better to understand the nature, manner, and extent of our knowledge, one thing is carefully to be observed concerning the ideas we have; and that is, that some of them, are simple and some complex. though the qualities that affect our senses are, in the things themselves, so united and blended, that there is no separation, no distance between them; yet it is plain, the ideas they produce in the mind enter by the senses simple; and unmixed. for, though the sight and touch often take in from the same object, at the same time, different ideas;--as a man sees at once motion and colour; the hand feels softness and warmth in the same piece of wax: yet the simple ideas thus united in the same subject, are as perfectly distinct as those that come in by different senses. the coldness and hardness which a man feels in a piece of ice being as distinct ideas in the mind as the smell and whiteness of a lily; or as the taste of sugar, and smell of a rose. and there is nothing can be plainer to a man than the clear and distinct perception he has of those simple ideas; which, being each in itself uncompounded, contains in it nothing but one uniform appearance, or conception in the mind, and is not distinguishable into different ideas. . the mind can neither make nor destroy them. these simple ideas, the materials of all our knowledge, are suggested and furnished to the mind only by those two ways above mentioned, viz. sensation and reflection. when the understanding is once stored with these simple ideas, it has the power to repeat, compare, and unite them, even to an almost infinite variety, and so can make at pleasure new complex ideas. but it is not in the power of the most exalted wit, or enlarged understanding, by any quickness or variety of thought, to invent or frame one new simple idea in the mind, not taken in by the ways before mentioned: nor can any force of the understanding destroy those that are there. the dominion of man, in this little world of his own understanding being much what the same as it is in the great world of visible things; wherein his power, however managed by art and skill, reaches no farther than to compound and divide the materials that are made to his hand; but can do nothing towards the making the least particle of new matter, or destroying one atom of what is already in being. the same inability will every one find in himself, who shall go about to fashion in his understanding one simple idea, not received in by his senses from external objects, or by reflection from the operations of his own mind about them. i would have any one try to fancy any taste which had never affected his palate; or frame the idea of a scent he had never smelt: and when he can do this, i will also conclude that a blind man hath ideas of colours, and a deaf man true distinct notions of sounds. . only the qualities that affect the senses are imaginable. this is the reason why--though we cannot believe it impossible to god to make a creature with other organs, and more ways to convey into the understanding the notice of corporeal things than those five, as they are usually counted, which he has given to man--yet i think it is not possible for any man to imagine any other qualities in bodies, howsoever constituted, whereby they can be taken notice of, besides sounds, tastes, smells, visible and tangible qualities. and had mankind been made but with four senses, the qualities then which are the objects of the fifth sense had been as far from our notice, imagination, and conception, as now any belonging to a sixth, seventh, or eighth sense can possibly be;--which, whether yet some other creatures, in some other parts of this vast and stupendous universe, may not have, will be a great presumption to deny. he that will not set himself proudly at the top of all things, but will consider the immensity of this fabric, and the great variety that is to be found in this little and inconsiderable part of it which he has to do with, may be apt to think that, in other mansions of it, there may be other and different intelligent beings, of whose faculties he has as little knowledge or apprehension as a worm shut up in one drawer of a cabinet hath of the senses or understanding of a man; such variety and excellency being suitable to the wisdom and power of the maker. i have here followed the common opinion of man’s having but five senses; though, perhaps, there may be justly counted more;--but either supposition serves equally to my present purpose. chapter iii.--of simple ideas of sense. . division of simple ideas. the better to conceive the ideas we receive from sensation, it may not be amiss for us to consider them, in reference to the different ways whereby they make their approaches to our minds, and make themselves perceivable by us. first, then, there are some which come into our minds by one sense only. secondly, there are others that convey themselves into the mind by more senses than one. thirdly, others that are had from reflection only. fourthly, there are some that make themselves way, and are suggested to the mind by all the ways of sensation and reflection. we shall consider them apart under these several heads. ideas of one sense. there are some ideas which have admittance only through one sense, which is peculiarly adapted to receive them. thus light and colours, as white, red, yellow, blue; with their several degrees or shades and mixtures, as green, scarlet, purple, sea-green, and the rest, come in only by the eyes. all kinds of noises, sounds, and tones, only by the ears. the several tastes and smells, by the nose and palate. and if these organs, or the nerves which are the conduits to convey them from without to their audience in the brain,--the mind’s presence-room (as i may so call it)--are any of them so disordered as not to perform their functions, they have no postern to be admitted by; no other way to bring themselves into view, and be perceived by the understanding. the most considerable of those belonging to the touch, are heat and cold, and solidity: all the rest, consisting almost wholly in the sensible configuration, as smooth and rough; or else, more or less firm adhesion of the parts, as hard and soft, tough and brittle, are obvious enough. . few simple ideas have names. i think it will be needless to enumerate all the particular simple ideas belonging to each sense. nor indeed is it possible if we would; there being a great many more of them belonging to most of the senses than we have names for. the variety of smells, which are as many almost, if not more, than species of bodies in the world, do most of them want names. sweet and stinking commonly serve our turn for these ideas, which in effect is little more than to call them pleasing or displeasing; though the smell of a rose and violet, both sweet, are certainly very distinct ideas. nor are the different tastes, that by our palates we receive ideas of, much better provided with names. sweet, bitter, sour, harsh, and salt are almost all the epithets we have to denominate that numberless variety of relishes, which are to be found distinct, not only in almost every sort of creatures, but in the different parts of the same plant, fruit, or animal. the same may be said of colours and sounds. i shall, therefore, in the account of simple ideas i am here giving, content myself to set down only such as are most material to our present purpose, or are in themselves less apt to be taken notice of though they are very frequently the ingredients of our complex ideas; amongst which, i think, i may well account solidity, which therefore i shall treat of in the next chapter. chapter iv.--idea of solidity. . we receive this idea from touch. the idea of solidity we receive by our touch: and it arises from the resistance which we find in body to the entrance of any other body into the place it possesses, till it has left it. there is no idea which we receive more constantly from sensation than solidity. whether we move or rest, in what posture soever we are, we always feel something under us that supports us, and hinders our further sinking downwards; and the bodies which we daily handle make us perceive that, whilst they remain between them, they do, by an insurmountable force, hinder the approach of the parts of our hands that press them. that which thus hinders the approach of two bodies, when they are moved one towards another, i call solidity. i will not dispute whether this acceptation of the word solid be nearer to its original signification than that which mathematicians use it in. it suffices that i think the common notion of solidity will allow, if not justify, this use of it; but if any one think it better to call it impenetrability, he has my consent. only i have thought the term solidity the more proper to express this idea, not only because of its vulgar use in that sense, but also because it carries something more of positive in it than impenetrability; which is negative, and is perhaps more a consequence of solidity, than solidity itself. this, of all other, seems the idea most intimately connected with, and essential to body; so as nowhere else to be found or imagined, but only in matter. and though our senses take no notice of it, but in masses of matter, of a bulk sufficient to cause a sensation in us: yet the mind, having once got this idea from such grosser sensible bodies, traces it further, and considers it, as well as figure, in the minutest particle of matter that can exist; and finds it inseparably inherent in body, wherever or however modified. . solidity fills space. this is the idea which belongs to body, whereby we conceive it to fill space. the idea of which filling of space is,--that where we imagine any space taken up by a solid substance, we conceive it so to possess it, that it excludes all other solid substances; and will for ever hinder any other two bodies, that move towards one another in a straight line, from coming to touch one another, unless it removes from between them in a line not parallel to that which they move in. this idea of it, the bodies which we ordinarily handle sufficiently furnish us with. . distinct from space. this resistance, whereby it keeps other bodies out of the space which it possesses, is so great, that no force, how great soever, can surmount it. all the bodies in the world, pressing a drop of water on all sides, will never be able to overcome the resistance which it will make, soft as it is, to their approaching one another, till it be removed out of their way: whereby our idea of solidity is distinguished both from pure space, which is capable neither of resistance nor motion; and from the ordinary idea of hardness. for a man may conceive two bodies at a distance, so as they may approach one another, without touching or displacing any solid thing, till their superficies come to meet; whereby, i think, we have the clear idea of space without solidity. for (not to go so far as annihilation of any particular body) i ask, whether a man cannot have the idea of the motion of one single body alone, without any other succeeding immediately into its place? i think it is evident he can: the idea of motion in one body no more including the idea of motion in another, than the idea of a square figure in one body includes the idea of a square figure in another. i do not ask, whether bodies do so exist, that the motion of one body cannot really be without the motion of another. to determine this either way, is to beg the question for or against a vacuum. but my question is,--whether one cannot have the idea of one body moved, whilst others are at rest? and i think this no one will deny. if so, then the place it deserted gives us the idea of pure space without solidity; whereinto any other body may enter, without either resistance or protrusion of anything. when the sucker in a pump is drawn, the space it filled in the tube is certainly the same whether any other body follows the motion of the sucker or not: nor does it imply a contradiction that, upon the motion of one body, another that is only contiguous to it should not follow it. the necessity of such a motion is built only on the supposition that the world is full; but not on the distinct ideas of space and solidity, which are as different as resistance and not resistance, protrusion and not protrusion. and that men have ideas of space without a body, their very disputes about a vacuum plainly demonstrate, as is shown in another place. . from hardness. solidity is hereby also differenced from hardness, in that solidity consists in repletion, and so an utter exclusion of other bodies out of the space it possesses: but hardness, in a firm cohesion of the parts of matter, making up masses of a sensible bulk, so that the whole does not easily change its figure. and indeed, hard and soft are names that we give to things only in relation to the constitutions of our own bodies; that being generally called hard by us, which will put us to pain sooner than change figure by the pressure of any part of our bodies; and that, on the contrary, soft, which changes the situation of its parts upon an easy and unpainful touch. but this difficulty of changing the situation of the sensible parts amongst themselves, or of the figure of the whole, gives no more solidity to the hardest body in the world than to the softest; nor is an adamant one jot more solid than water. for, though the two flat sides of two pieces of marble will more easily approach each other, between which there is nothing but water or air, than if there be a diamond between them; yet it is not that the parts of the diamond are more solid than those of water, or resist more; but because the parts of water, being more easily separable from each other, they will, by a side motion, be more easily removed, and give way to the approach of the two pieces of marble. but if they could be kept from making place by that side motion, they would eternally hinder the approach of these two pieces of marble, as much as the diamond; and it would be as impossible by any force to surmount their resistance, as to surmount the resistance of the parts of a diamond. the softest body in the world will as invincibly resist the coming together of any other two bodies, if it be not put out of the way, but remain between them, as the hardest that can be found or imagined. he that shall fill a yielding soft body well with air or water, will quickly find its resistance. and he that thinks that nothing but bodies that are hard can keep his hands from approaching one another, may be pleased to make a trial, with the air inclosed in a football. the experiment, i have been told, was made at florence, with a hollow globe of gold filled with water, and exactly closed; which further shows the solidity of so soft a body as water. for the golden globe thus filled, being put into a press, which was driven by the extreme force of screws, the water made itself way through the pores of that very close metal, and finding no room for a nearer approach of its particles within, got to the outside, where it rose like a dew, and so fell in drops, before the sides of the globe could be made to yield to the violent compression of the engine that squeezed it. . on solidity depend impulse, resistance and protrusion. by this idea of solidity is the extension of body distinguished from the extension of space:--the extension of body being nothing but the cohesion or continuity of solid, separable, movable parts; and the extension of space, the continuity of unsolid, inseparable, and immovable parts. upon the solidity of bodies also depend their mutual impulse, resistance, and protrusion. of pure space then, and solidity, there are several (amongst which i confess myself one) who persuade themselves they have clear and distinct ideas; and that they can think on space, without anything in it that resists or is protruded by body. this is the idea of pure space, which they think they have as clear as any idea they can have of the extension of body: the idea of the distance between the opposite parts of a concave superficies being equally as clear without as with the idea of any solid parts between: and on the other side, they persuade themselves that they have, distinct from that of pure space, the idea of something that fills space, that can be protruded by the impulse of other bodies, or resist their motion. if there be others that have not these two ideas distinct, but confound them, and make but one of them, i know not how men, who have the same idea under different names, or different ideas under the same name, can in that case talk with one another; any more than a man who, not being blind or deaf, has distinct ideas of the colour of scarlet and the sound of a trumpet, could discourse concerning scarlet colour with the blind man i mentioned in another place, who fancied that the idea of scarlet was like the sound of a trumpet. . what solidity is. if any one asks me, what this solidity is, i send him to his senses to inform him. let him put a flint or a football between his hands, and then endeavour to join them, and he will know. if he thinks this not a sufficient explication of solidity, what it is, and wherein it consists; i promise to tell him what it is, and wherein it consists, when he tells me what thinking is, or wherein it consists; or explains to me what extension or motion is, which perhaps seems much easier. the simple ideas we have, are such as experience teaches them us; but if, beyond that, we endeavour by words to make them clearer in the mind, we shall succeed no better than if we went about to clear up the darkness of a blind man’s mind by talking; and to discourse into him the ideas of light and colours. the reason of this i shall show in another place. chapter v.--of simple ideas of divers senses. ideas received both by seeing and touching. the ideas we get by more than one sense are, of space or extension, figure, rest, and motion. for these make perceivable impressions, both on the eyes and touch; and we can receive and convey into our minds the ideas of the extension, figure, motion, and rest of bodies, both by seeing and feeling. but having occasion to speak more at large of these in another place, i here only enumerate them. chapter vi.--of simple ideas of reflection. simple ideas are the operations of mind about its other ideas. the mind receiving the ideas mentioned in the foregoing chapters from without, when it turns its view inward upon itself, and observes its own actions about those ideas it has, takes from thence other ideas, which are as capable to be the objects of its contemplation as any of those it received from foreign things. the idea of perception, and idea of willing, we have from reflection. the two great and principal actions of the mind, which are most frequently considered, and which are so frequent that every one that pleases may take notice of them in himself, are these two:-- perception, or thinking; and volition, or willing. the power of thinking is called the understanding, and the power of volition is called the will; and these two powers or abilities in the mind are denominated faculties. of some of the modes of these simple ideas of reflection, such as are remembrance, discerning, reasoning, judging, knowledge, faith, &c., i shall have occasion to speak hereafter. chapter vii.--of simple ideas of both sensation and reflection. . ideas of pleasure and pain. there be other simple ideas which convey themselves into the mind by all the ways of sensation and reflection, viz. pleasure or delight, and its opposite, pain, or uneasiness; power; existence; unity mix with almost all our other ideas. . delight or uneasiness, one or other of them, join themselves to almost all our ideas both of sensation and reflection: and there is scarce any affection of our senses from without, any retired thought of our mind within, which is not able to produce in us pleasure or pain. by pleasure and pain, i would be understood to signify, whatsoever delights or molests us; whether it arises from the thoughts of our minds, or anything operating on our bodies. for, whether we call it; satisfaction, delight, pleasure, happiness, &c., on the one side, or uneasiness, trouble, pain, torment, anguish, misery, &c., the other, they are still but different degrees of the same thing, and belong to the ideas of pleasure and pain, delight or uneasiness; which are the names i shall most commonly use for those two sorts of ideas. . as motives of our actions. the infinite wise author of our being, having given us the power over several parts of our bodies, to move or keep them at rest as we think fit; and also, by the motion of them, to move ourselves and other contiguous bodies, in which consist all the actions of our body: having also given a power to our minds, in several instances, to choose, amongst its ideas, which it will think on, and to pursue the inquiry of this or that subject with consideration and attention, to excite us to these actions of thinking and motion that we are capable of,--has been pleased to join to several thoughts, and several sensations a perception of delight. if this were wholly separated from all our outward sensations, and inward thoughts, we should have no reason to prefer one thought or action to another; negligence to attention, or motion to rest. and so we should neither stir our bodies, nor employ our minds, but let our thoughts (if i may so call it) run adrift, without any direction or design, and suffer the ideas of our minds, like unregarded shadows, to make their appearances there, as it happened, without attending to them. in which state man, however furnished with the faculties of understanding and will, would be a very idle, inactive creature, and pass his time only in a lazy, lethargic dream. it has therefore pleased our wise creator to annex to several objects, and the ideas which we receive from them, as also to several of our thoughts, a concomitant pleasure, and that in several objects, to several degrees, that those faculties which he had endowed us with might not remain wholly idle and unemployed by us. . an end and use of pain. pain has the same efficacy and use to set us on work that pleasure has, we being as ready to employ our faculties to avoid that, as to pursue this: only this is worth our consideration, that pain is often produced by the same objects and ideas that produce pleasure in us. this their near conjunction, which makes us often feel pain in the sensations where we expected pleasure, gives us new occasion of admiring the wisdom and goodness of our maker, who, designing the preservation of our being, has annexed pain to the application of many things to our bodies, to warn us of the harm that they will do, and as advices to withdraw from them. but he, not designing our preservation barely, but the preservation of every part and organ in its perfection, hath in many cases annexed pain to those very ideas which delight us. thus heat, that is very agreeable to us in one degree, by a little greater increase of it proves no ordinary torment: and the most pleasant of all sensible objects, light itself, if there be too much of it, if increased beyond a due proportion to our eyes, causes a very painful sensation. which is wisely and favourably so ordered by nature, that when any object does, by the vehemency of its operation, disorder the instruments of sensation, whose structures cannot but be very nice and delicate, we might, by the pain, be warned to withdraw, before the organ be quite put out of order, and so be unfitted for its proper function for the future. the consideration of those objects that produce it may well persuade us, that this is the end or use of pain. for, though great light be insufferable to our eyes, yet the highest degree of darkness does not at all disease them: because that, causing no disorderly motion in it, leaves that curious organ unarmed in its natural state. but yet excess of cold as well as heat pains us: because it is equally destructive to that temper which is necessary to the preservation of life, and the exercise of the several functions of the body, and which consists in a moderate degree of warmth; or, if you please, a motion of the insensible parts of our bodies, confined within certain bounds. . another end. beyond all this, we may find another reason why god hath scattered up and down several degrees of pleasure and pain, in all the things that environ and affect us; and blended them together in almost all that our thoughts and senses have to do with;--that we, finding imperfection, dissatisfaction, and want of complete happiness, in all the enjoyments which the creatures can afford us, might be led to seek it in the enjoyment of him with whom there is fullness of joy, and at whose right hand are pleasures for evermore. . goodness of god in annexing pleasure and pain to our other ideas. though what i have here said may not, perhaps, make the ideas of pleasure and pain clearer to us than our own experience does, which is the only way that we are capable of having them; yet the consideration of the reason why they are annexed to so many other ideas, serving to give us due sentiments of the wisdom and goodness of the sovereign disposer of all things, may not be unsuitable to the main end of these inquiries: the knowledge and veneration of him being the chief end of all our thoughts, and the proper business of all understandings. . ideas of existence and unity. existence and unity are two other ideas that are suggested to the understanding by every object without, and every idea within. when ideas are in our minds, we consider them as being actually there, as well as we consider things to be actually without us;--which is, that they exist, or have existence. and whatever we can consider as one thing, whether a real being or idea, suggests to the understanding the idea of unity. . idea of power. power also is another of those simple ideas which we receive from sensation and reflection. for, observing in ourselves that we do and can think, and that we can at pleasure move several parts of our bodies which were at rest; the effects, also, that natural bodies are able to produce in one another, occurring every moment to our senses,--we both these ways get the idea of power. . idea of succession. besides these there is another idea, which, though suggested by our senses, yet is more constantly offered to us by what passes in our minds; and that is the idea of succession. for if we look immediately into ourselves, and reflect on what is observable there, we shall find our ideas always, whilst we are awake, or have any thought, passing in train, one going and another coming, without intermission. . simple ideas the materials of all our knowledge. these, if they are not all, are at least (as i think) the most considerable of those simple ideas which the mind has, out of which is made all its other knowledge; all which it receives only by the two forementioned ways of sensation and reflection. nor let any one think these too narrow bounds for the capacious mind of man to expatiate in, which takes its flight further than the stars, and cannot be confined by the limits of the world; that extends its thoughts often even beyond the utmost expansion of matter, and makes excursions into that incomprehensible inane. i grant all this, but desire any one to assign any simple idea which is not received from one of those inlets before mentioned, or any complex idea not made out of those simple ones. nor will it be so strange to think these few simple ideas sufficient to employ the quickest thought, or largest capacity; and to furnish the materials of all that various knowledge, and more various fancies and opinions of all mankind, if we consider how many words may be made out of the various composition of twenty-four letters; or if, going one step further, we will but reflect on the variety of combinations that may be made with barely one of the above-mentioned ideas, viz. number, whose stock is inexhaustible and truly infinite: and what a large and immense field doth extension alone afford the mathematicians? chapter viii.--some further considerations concerning our simple ideas of sensation. . positive ideas from privative causes. concerning the simple ideas of sensation; it is to be considered,--that whatsoever is so constituted in nature as to be able, by affecting our senses, to cause any perception in the mind, doth thereby produce in the understanding a simple idea; which, whatever be the external cause of it, when it comes to be taken notice of by our discerning faculty, it is by the mind looked on and considered there to be a real positive idea in the understanding, as much as any other whatsoever; though, perhaps, the cause of it be but a privation of the subject. . ideas in the mind distinguished from that in things which gives rise to them. thus the ideas of heat and cold, light and darkness, white and black, motion and rest, are equally clear and positive ideas in the mind; though, perhaps, some of the causes which produce them are barely privations, in those subjects from whence our senses derive those ideas. these the understanding, in its view of them, considers all as distinct positive ideas, without taking notice of the causes that produce them: which is an inquiry not belonging to the idea, as it is in the understanding, but to the nature of the things existing without us. these are two very different things, and carefully to be distinguished; it being one thing to perceive and know the idea of white or black, and quite another to examine what kind of particles they must be, and how ranged in the superficies, to make any object appear white or black. . we may have the ideas when we are ignorant of their physical causes. a painter or dyer who never inquired into their causes hath the ideas of white and black, and other colours, as clearly, perfectly, and distinctly in his understanding, and perhaps more distinctly, than the philosopher who hath busied himself in considering their natures, and thinks he knows how far either of them is, in its cause, positive or privative; and the idea of black is no less positive in his mind than that of white, however the cause of that colour in the external object may be only a privation. . why a privative cause in nature may occasion a positive idea. if it were the design of my present undertaking to inquire into the natural causes and manner of perception, i should offer this as a reason why a privative cause might, in some cases at least, produce a positive idea; viz. that all sensation being produced in us only by different degrees and modes of motion in our animal spirits, variously agitated by external objects, the abatement of any former motion must as necessarily produce a new sensation as the variation or increase of it; and so introduce a new idea, which depends only on a different motion of the animal spirits in that organ. . negative names need not be meaningless. but whether this be so or not i will not here determine, but appeal to every one’s own experience, whether the shadow of a man, though it consists of nothing but the absence of light (and the more the absence of light is, the more discernible is the shadow) does not, when a man looks on it, cause as clear and positive idea in his mind, as a man himself, though covered over with clear sunshine? and the picture of a shadow is a positive thing. indeed, we have negative names, to which there be no positive ideas; but they consist wholly in negation of some certain ideas, as silence, invisible; but these signify not any ideas in the mind but their absence. . whether any ideas are due to causes really private. and thus one may truly be said to see darkness. for, supposing a hole perfectly dark, from whence no light is reflected, it is certain one may see the figure of it, or it may be painted; or whether the ink i write with makes any other idea, is a question. the privative causes i have here assigned of positive ideas are according to the common opinion; but, in truth, it will be hard to determine whether there be really any ideas from a privative cause, till it be determined, whether rest be any more a privation than motion. . ideas in the mind, qualities in bodies. to discover the nature of our ideas the better, and to, discourse of them intelligibly, it will be convenient to distinguish them as they are ideas or perceptions in our minds; and as they are modifications of matter in the bodies that cause such perceptions in us: that so we may not think (as perhaps usually is done) that they are exactly the images and resemblances of something inherent in the subject; most of those of sensation being in the mind no more the likeness of something existing without us, than the names that stand for them are the likeness of our ideas, which yet upon hearing they are apt to excite in us. . our ideas and the qualities of bodies. whatsoever the mind perceives in itself, or is the immediate object of perception, thought, or understanding, that i call idea; and the power to produce any idea in our mind, i call quality of the subject wherein that power is. thus a snowball having the power to produce in us the ideas of white, cold, and round,--the power to produce those ideas in us, as they are in the snowball, i call qualities; and as they are sensations or perceptions in our understandings, i call them ideas; which ideas, if i speak of sometimes as in the things themselves, i would be understood to mean those qualities in the objects which produce them in us. . primary qualities of bodies. concerning these qualities, we, i think, observe these primary ones in bodies that produce simple ideas in us, viz. solidity, extension, motion or rest, number or figure. these, which i call original or primary qualities of body, are wholly inseperable from it; and such as in all the alterations and changes it suffers, all the force can be used upon it, it constantly keeps; and such as sense constantly finds in every particle of matter which has bulk enough to be perceived; and the mind finds inseparable from every particle of matter, though less than to make itself singly be perceived by our senses: v.g. take a grain of wheat, divide it into two parts; each part has still solidity, extension, figure, and mobility: divide it again, and it retains still the same qualities; and so divide it on, till the parts become insensible; they must retain still each of them all those qualities. for division (which is all that a mill, or pestle, or any other body, does upon another, in reducing it to insensible parts) can never take away either solidity, extension, figure, or mobility from any body, but only makes two or more distinct separate masses of matter, of that which was but one before; all which distinct masses, reckoned as so many distinct bodies, after division, make a certain number. . [not in early editions] . how bodies produce ideas in us. the next thing to be considered is, how bodies operate one upon another; and that is manifestly by impulse, and nothing else. it being impossible to conceive that body should operate on what it does not touch (which is all one as to imagine it can operate where it is not), or when it does touch, operate any other way than by motion. . by motions, external, and in our organism. if then external objects be not united to our minds when they produce ideas therein; and yet we perceive these original qualities in such of them as singly fall under our senses, it is evident that some motion must be thence continued by our nerves, or animal spirits, by some parts of our bodies, to the brains or the seat of sensation, there to produce in our minds the particular ideas we have of them. and since the extension, figure, number, and motion of bodies of an observable bigness, maybe perceived at a distance by the sight, it is evident some singly imperceptible bodies must come from them; to the eyes, and thereby convey to the brain some motion; which produces these ideas which we have of them in us. . how secondary qualities produce their ideas. after the same manner that the ideas of these original qualities are produced in us, we may conceive that the ideas of secondary qualities are also produced, viz. by the operation of insensible particles on our senses. for, it being manifest that there are bodies and good store of bodies, each whereof are so small, that we cannot by any of our senses discover either their bulk, figure, or motion,--as is evident in the particles of the air and water, and others extremely smaller than those; perhaps as much smaller than the particles of air and water, as the particles of air and water are smaller than peas or hail-stones;--let us suppose at present that, the different motions and figures, bulk and number, of such particles, affecting the several organs of our senses, produce: in us those different sensations which we have from the colours and smells of bodies; v.g. that a violet, by the impulse of such insensible particles of matter, of peculiar figures and bulks, and in different degrees and modifications of their motions, causes the ideas of the blue colour, and sweet scent of that flower to be produced in our minds. it being no more impossible to conceive that god should annex such ideas to such motions, with which they have no similitude, than that he should annex the idea of pain to the motion of a piece of steel dividing our flesh, with which that idea hath no resemblance. . they depend on the primary qualities. what i have said concerning colours and smells may be understood also of tastes and sounds, and other the like sensible qualities; which, whatever reality we by mistake attribute to them, are in truth nothing in the objects themselves, but powers to produce various sensations in us; and depend on those primary qualities, viz. bulk, figure, texture, and motion of parts and therefore i call them secondary qualities. . ideas of primary qualities are resemblances; of secondary, not. from whence i think it easy to draw this observation,--that the ideas of primary qualities of bodies are resemblances of them, and their patterns do really exist in the bodies themselves, but the ideas produced in us by these secondary qualities have no resemblance of them at all. there is nothing like our ideas, existing in the bodies themselves. they are, in the bodies we denominate from them, only a power to produce those sensations in us: and what is sweet, blue, or warm in idea, is but the certain bulk, figure, and motion of the insensible parts, in the bodies themselves, which we call so. . examples. flame is denominated hot and light; snow, white and cold; and manna, white and sweet, from the ideas they produce in us. which qualities are commonly thought to be the same in those bodies that those ideas are in us, the one the perfect resemblance of the other, as they are in a mirror, and it would by most men be judged very extravagant if one should say otherwise. and yet he that will consider that the same fire that, at one distance produces in us the sensation of warmth, does, at a nearer approach, produce in us the far different sensation of pain, ought to bethink himself what reason he has to say--that this idea of warmth, which was produced in him by the fire, is actually in the fire; and his idea of pain, which the same fire produced in him the same way, is not in the fire. why are whiteness and coldness in snow, and pain not, when it produces the one and the other idea in us; and can do neither, but by the bulk, figure, number, and motion of its solid parts? . the ideas of the primary alone really exist. the particular bulk, number, figure, and motion of the parts of fire or snow are really in them,--whether any one’s senses perceive them or no: and therefore they may be called real qualities, because they really exist in those bodies. but light, heat, whiteness, or coldness, are no more really in them than sickness or pain is in manna. take away the sensation of them; let not the eyes see light or colours, nor the ear hear sounds; let the palate not taste, nor the nose smell, and all colours, tastes, odours, and sounds, as they are such particular ideas, vanish and cease, and are reduced to their causes, i.e. bulk, figure, and motion of parts. . the secondary exist in things only as modes of the primary. a piece of manna of a sensible bulk is able to produce in us the idea of a round or square figure; and by being removed from one place to another, the idea of motion. this idea of motion represents it as it really is in manna moving: a circle or square are the same, whether in idea or existence, in the mind or in the manna. and this, both motion and as figure, are really in the manna, whether we take notice of primary, them or no: this everybody is ready to agree to. besides, manna, by the bulk, figure, texture, and motion of its parts, has a power to produce the sensations of sickness, and sometimes of acute pains or gripings in us. that these ideas of sickness and pain are not in the manna, but effects of its operations on us, and are nowhere when we feel them not; this also every one readily agrees to. and yet men are hardly to be brought to think that sweetness and whiteness are not really in manna; which are but the effects of the operations of manna, by the motion, size, and figure of its particles, on the eyes and palate: as the pain and sickness caused by manna are confessedly nothing but the effects of its operations on the stomach and guts, by the size, motion, and figure of its insensible parts, (for by nothing else can a body operate, as has been proved): as if it could not operate on the eyes and palate, and thereby produce in the mind particular distinct ideas, which in itself it has not, as well as we allow it can operate on the guts and stomach, and thereby produce distinct ideas, which in itself it has not. these ideas, being all effects of the operations of manna on several parts of our bodies, by the size, figure, number, and motion of its parts;--why those produced by the eyes and palate should rather be thought to be really in the manna, than those produced by the stomach and guts; or why the pain and sickness, ideas that are the effect of manna, should be thought to be nowhere when they are not felt; and yet the sweetness and whiteness, effects of the same manna on other parts of the body, by ways equally as unknown, should be thought to exist in the manna, when they are not seen or tasted, would need some reason to explain. . examples. let us consider the red and white colours in porphyry. hinder light from striking on it, and its colours vanish; it no longer produces any such ideas in us: upon the return of light it produces these appearances on us again. can any one think any real alterations are made in the porphyry by the presence or absence of light; and that those ideas of whiteness and redness are really in porphryry in the light, when it is plain it has no colour in the dark? it has, indeed, such a configuration of particles, both night and day, as are apt, by the rays of light rebounding from some parts of that hard stone, to produce in us the idea of redness, and from others the idea of whiteness; but whiteness or redness are not in it at any time, but such a texture that hath the power to produce such a sensation in us. . pound an almond, and the clear white colour will be altered into a dirty one, and the sweet taste into an oily one. what real alteration can the beating of the pestle make in an body, but an alteration of the texture of it? . explains how water felt as cold by one hand may be warm to the other. ideas being thus distinguished and understood, we may be able to give an account how the same water, at the same time, may produce the idea of cold by one hand and of heat by the other: whereas it is impossible that the same water, if those ideas were really in it, should at the same time be both hot and cold. for, if we imagine warmth, as it is in our hands, to be nothing but a certain sort and degree of motion in the minute particles of our nerves or animal spirits, we may understand how it is possible that the same water may, at the same time, produce the sensations of heat in one hand and cold in the other; which yet figure never does, that never producing the idea of a square by one hand which has produced the idea of a globe by another. but if the sensation of heat and cold be nothing but the increase or diminution of the motion of the minute parts of our bodies, caused by the corpuscles of any other body, it is easy to be understood, that if that motion be greater in one hand than in the other; if a body be applied to the two hands, which has in its minute particles a greater motion than in those of one of the hands, and a less than in those of the other, it will increase the motion of the one hand and lessen it in the other; and so cause the different sensations of heat and cold that depend thereon. . an excursion into natural philosophy. i have in what just goes before been engaged in physical inquiries a little further than perhaps i intended. but, it being necessary to make the nature of sensation a little understood; and to make the difference between the qualities in bodies, and the ideas produced by them in the mind, to be distinctly conceived, without which it were impossible to discourse intelligibly of them;--i hope i shall be pardoned this little excursion into natural philosophy; it being necessary in our present inquiry to distinguish the primary and real qualities of bodies, which are always in them (viz. solidity, extension, figure, number, and motion, or rest, and are sometimes perceived by us, viz. when the bodies they are in are big enough singly to be discerned), from those secondary and imputed qualities, which are but the powers of several combinations of those primary ones, when they operate without being distinctly discerned;--whereby we may also come to know what ideas are, and what are not, resemblances of something really existing in the bodies we denominate from them. . three sorts of qualities on bodies. the qualities, then, that are in bodies, rightly considered are of three sorts:-- first, the bulk, figure, number, situation, and motion or rest of their solid parts. those are in them, whether we perceive them or not; and when they are of that size that we can discover them, we have by these an idea of the thing as it is in itself; as is plain in artificial things. these i call primary qualities. secondly, the power that is in any body, by reason of its insensible primary qualities, to operate after a peculiar manner on any of our senses, and thereby produce in us the different ideas of several colours, sounds, smells, tastes, &c. these are usually called sensible qualities. thirdly, the power that is in any body, by reason of the particular constitution of its primary qualities, to make such a change in the bulk, figure, texture, and motion of another body, as to make it operate on our senses differently from what it did before. thus the sun has a power to make wax white, and fire to make lead fluid. the first of these, as has been said, i think may be properly called real, original, or primary qualities; because they are in the things themselves, whether they are perceived or not: and upon their different modifications it is that the secondary qualities depend. the other two are only powers to act differently upon other things: which powers result from the different modifications of those primary qualities. . the first are resemblances; the second thought to be resemblances, but are not, the third neither are nor are thought so. but, though the two latter sorts of qualities are powers barely, and nothing but powers, relating to several other bodies, and resulting from the different modifications of the original qualities, yet they are generally otherwise thought of. for the second sort, viz. the powers to produce several ideas in us, by our senses, are looked upon as real qualities in the things thus affecting us: but the third sort are called and esteemed barely powers, v.g. the idea of heat or light, which we receive by our eyes, or touch, from the sun, are commonly thought real qualities existing in the sun, and something more than mere powers in it. but when we consider the sun in reference to wax, which it melts or blanches, we look on the whiteness and softness produced in the wax, not as qualities in the sun, but effects produced by powers in it. whereas, if rightly considered, these qualities of light and warmth, which are perceptions in me when i am warmed or enlightened by the sun, are no otherwise in the sun, than the changes made in the wax, when it is blanched or melted, are in the sun. they are all of them equally powers in the sun, depending on its primary qualities; whereby it is able, in the one case, so to alter the bulk, figure, texture, or motion of some of the insensible parts of my eyes or hands, as thereby to produce in me the idea of light or heat; and in the other, it is able so to alter the bulk, figure, texture, or motion of the insensible parts of the wax, as to make them fit to produce in me the distinct ideas of white and fluid. . why the secondary are ordinarily taken for real qualities and not for bare powers. the reason why the one are ordinarily taken for real qualities, and the other only for bare powers, seems to be because the ideas we have of distinct colours, sounds, &c. containing nothing at all in them of bulk, figure, or motion we are not apt to think them the effects of these primary qualities; which appear not, to our senses, to operate in their production, and with which they have not any apparent congruity or conceivable connexion. hence it is that we are so forward as to imagine, that those ideas are the resemblances of something really existing in the objects themselves since sensation discovers nothing of bulk, figure, or motion of parts in their production; nor can reason show how bodies by their bulk, figure, and motion, should produce in the mind the ideas of blue or yellow, &c. but, in the other case in the operations of bodies changing the qualities one of another, we plainly discover that the quality produced hath commonly no resemblance with anything in the thing producing it; wherefore we look on it as a bare effect of power. for, through receiving the idea of heat or light from the sun, we are apt to think it is a perception and resemblance of such a quality in the sun; yet when we see wax, or a fair face, receive change of colour from the sun, we cannot imagine that to be the reception or resemblance of anything in the sun, because we find not those different colours in the sun itself. for, our senses being able to observe a likeness or unlikeness of sensible qualities in two different external objects, we forwardly enough conclude the production of any sensible quality in any subject to be an effect of bare power, and not the communication of any quality which was really in the efficient, when we find no such sensible quality in the thing that produced it. but our senses, not being able to discover any unlikeness between the idea produced in us, and the quality of the object producing it, we are apt to imagine that our ideas are resemblances of something in the objects, and not the effects of certain powers placed in the modification of their primary qualities, with which primary qualities the ideas produced in us have no resemblance. . secondary qualities twofold; first, immediately perceivable; secondly, mediately perceivable. to conclude. beside those before-mentioned primary qualities in bodies, viz. bulk, figure, extension, number, and motion of their solid parts; all the rest, whereby we take notice of bodies, and distinguish them one from another, are nothing else but several powers in them, depending on those primary qualities; whereby they are fitted, either by immediately operating on our bodies to produce several different ideas in us; or else, by operating on other bodies, so to change their primary qualities as to render them capable of producing ideas in us different from what before they did. the former of these, i think, may be called secondary qualities immediately perceivable: the latter, secondary qualities, mediately perceivable. chapter ix.--of perception. . perception the first simple idea of reflection. perception, as it is the first faculty of the mind exercised about our ideas; so it is the first and simplest idea we have from reflection, and is by some called thinking in general. though thinking, in the propriety of the english tongue, signifies that sort of operation in the mind about its ideas, wherein the mind is active; where it, with some degree of voluntary attention, considers anything. for in bare naked perception, the mind is, for the most part, only passive; and what it perceives, it cannot avoid perceiving. . reflection alone can give us the idea of what perception is. what perception is, every one will know better by reflecting on what he does himself, when he sees, hears, feels, &c., or thinks, than by any discourse of mine. whoever reflects on what passes in his own mind cannot miss it. and if he does not reflect, all the words in the world cannot make him have any notion of it. . arises in sensation only when the mind notices the organic impression. this is certain, that whatever alterations are made in the body, if they reach not the mind; whatever impressions are made on the outward parts, if they are not taken notice of within, there is no perception. fire may burn our bodies with no other effect than it does a billet, unless the motion be continued to the brain, and there the sense of heat, or idea of pain, be produced in the mind; wherein consists actual perception. . impulse on the organ insufficient. how often may a man observe in himself, that whilst his mind is intently employed in the contemplation of some objects, and curiously surveying some ideas that are there, it takes no notice of impressions of sounding bodies made upon the organ of hearing, with the same alteration that uses to be for the producing the idea of sound? a sufficient impulse there may be on the organ; but it not reaching the observation of the mind, there follows no perception: and though the motion that uses to produce the idea of sound be made in the ear, yet no sound is heard. want of sensation, in this case, is not through any defect in the organ, or that the man’s ears are less affected than at other times when he does hear but that which uses to produce the idea, though conveyed in by the usual organ, not being taken notice of in the understanding, and so imprinting no idea in the mind, there follows no sensation. so that wherever there is sense of perception, there some idea is actually produced, and present in the understanding. . children, though they may have ideas in the womb, have none innate. therefore i doubt not but children, by the exercise of their senses about objects that affect them in the womb receive some few ideas before they are born, as the unavoidable effects, either of the bodies that environ them, or else of those wants or diseases they suffer; amongst which (if one may conjecture concerning things not very capable of examination) i think the ideas of hunger and warmth are two: which probably are some of the first that children have, and which they scarce ever part with again. . the effects of sensation in the womb. but though it be reasonable to imagine that children receive some ideas before they come into the world, yet these simple ideas are far from those innate principles which some contend for, and we, above, have rejected. these here mentioned, being the effects of sensation, are only from some affections of the body, which happen to them there, and so depend on something exterior to the mind; no otherwise differing in their manner of production from other ideas derived from sense, but only in the precedency of time. whereas those innate principles are supposed to be quite of another nature; not coming into the mind by any accidental alterations in, or operations on the body; but, as it were, original characters impressed upon it, in the very first moment of its being and constitution. . which ideas appear first is not evident, nor important. as there are some ideas which we may reasonably suppose may be introduced into the minds of children in the womb, subservient to the necessities of their life and being there: so, after they are born, those ideas are the earliest imprinted which happen to be the sensible qualities which first occur to them; amongst which light is not the least considerable, nor of the weakest efficacy. and how covetous the mind is to be furnished with all such ideas as have no pain accompanying them, may be a little guessed by what is observable in children new-born; who always turn their eyes to that part from whence the light comes, lay them how you please. but the ideas that are most familiar at first, being various according to the divers circumstances of children’s first entertainment in the world, the order wherein the several ideas come at first into the mind is very various, and uncertain also; neither is it much material to know it. . sensations often changed by the judgment. we are further to consider concerning perception, that the ideas we receive by sensation are often, in grown people, altered by the judgment, without our taking notice of it. when we set before our eyes a round globe of any uniform colour, v.g. gold, alabaster, or jet, it is certain that the idea thereby imprinted on our mind is of a flat circle, variously shadowed, with several degrees of light and brightness coming to our eyes. but we having, by use, been accustomed to perceive what kind of appearance convex bodies are wont to make in us; what alterations are made in the reflections of light by the difference of the sensible figures of bodies;--the judgment presently, by an habitual custom, alters the appearances into their causes. so that from that which is truly variety of shadow or colour, collecting the figure, it makes it pass for a mark of figure, and frames to itself the perception of a convex figure and an uniform colour; when the idea we receive from thence is only a plane variously coloured, as is evident in painting. to which purpose i shall here insert a problem of that very ingenious and studious promoter of real knowledge, the learned and worthy mr. molineux, which he was pleased to send me in a letter some months since; and it is this:--“suppose a man born blind, and now adult, and taught by his touch to distinguish between a cube and a sphere of the same metal, and nighly of the same bigness, so as to tell, when he felt one and the other, which is the cube, which the sphere. suppose then the cube and sphere placed on a table, and the blind man be made to see: quaere, whether by his sight, before he touched them, he could now distinguish and tell which is the globe, which the cube?” to which the acute and judicious proposer answers, “not. for, though he has obtained the experience of how a globe, how a cube affects his touch, yet he has not yet obtained the experience, that what affects his touch so or so, must affect his sight so or so; or that a protuberant angle in the cube, that pressed his hand unequally, shall appear to his eye as it does in the cube.”--i agree with this thinking gentleman, whom i am proud to call my friend, in his answer to this problem; and am of opinion that the blind man, at first sight, would not be able with certainty to say which was the globe, which the cube, whilst he only saw them; though he could unerringly name them by his touch, and certainly distinguish them by the difference of their figures felt. this i have set down, and leave with my reader, as an occasion for him to consider how much he may be beholden to experience, improvement, and acquired notions, where he thinks he had not the least use of, or help from them. and the rather, because this observing gentleman further adds, that “having, upon the occasion of my book, proposed this to divers very ingenious men, he hardly ever met with one that at first gave the answer to it which he thinks true, till by hearing his reasons they were convinced.” . this judgement apt to be mistaken for direct perception. but this is not, i think, usual in any of our ideas, but those received by sight. because sight, the most comprehensive of all our senses, conveying to our minds the ideas of light and colours, which are peculiar only to that sense; and also the far different ideas of space, figure, and motion, the several varieties whereof change the appearances of its proper object, viz. light and colours; we bring ourselves by use to judge of the one by the other. this, in many cases by a settled habit,--in things whereof we have frequent experience is performed so constantly and so quick, that we take that for the perception of our sensation which is an idea formed by our judgment; so that one, viz. that of sensation, serves only to excite the other, and is scarce taken notice of itself;--as a man who reads or hears with attention and understanding, takes little notice of the characters or sounds, but of the ideas that are excited in him by them. . how, by habit, ideas of sensation are unconsciously changed into ideas of judgment. nor need we wonder that this is done with so little notice, if we consider how quick the actions of the mind are performed. for, as itself is thought to take up no space to have no extension; so its actions seem to require no time but many of them seem to be crowded into an instant. i speak this in comparison to the actions of the body. any one may easily observe this in his own thoughts, who will take the pains to reflect on them. how, as it were in an instant, do our minds, with one glance, see all the parts of a demonstration, which may very well be called a long one, if we consider the time it will require to put it into words, and step by step show it another? secondly, we shall not be so much surprised that this is done in us with so little notice, if we consider how the facility which we get of doing things, by a custom of doing, makes them often pass in us without our notice. habits, especially such as are begun very early, come at last to produce actions in us, which often escape our observation. how frequently do we, in a day, cover our eyes with our eyelids, without perceiving that we are at all in the dark! men that, by custom, have got the use of a by-word, do almost in every sentence pronounce sounds which, though taken notice of by others, they themselves neither hear nor observe. and therefore it is not so strange, that our mind should often change the idea of its sensation into that of its judgment, and make one serve only to excite the other, without our taking notice of it. . perception puts the difference between animals and vegetables. this faculty of perception seems to me to be, that which puts the distinction betwixt the animal kingdom and the inferior parts of nature. for, however vegetables have, many of them, some degrees of motion, and upon the different application of other bodies to them, do very briskly alter their figures and motions, and so have obtained the name of sensitive plants, from a motion which has some resemblance to that which in animals follows upon sensation: yet i suppose it is all bare mechanism; and no otherwise produced than the turning of a wild oat-beard, by the insinuation of the particles of moisture, or the shortening of a rope, by the affusion of water. all which is done without any sensation in the subject, or the having or receiving any ideas. . perception in all animals. perception, i believe, is, in some degree, in all sorts of animals; though in some possibly the avenues provided by nature for the reception of sensations are so few, and the perception they are received with so obscure and dull, that it comes extremely short of the quickness and variety of sensation which is in other animals; but yet it is sufficient for, and wisely adapted to, the state and condition of that sort of animals who are thus made. so that the wisdom and goodness of the maker plainly appear in all the parts of this stupendous fabric, and all the several degrees and ranks of creatures in it. . according to their condition. we may, i think, from the make of an oyster or cockle, reasonably conclude that it has not so many, nor so quick senses as a man, or several other animals; nor if it had, would it, in that state and incapacity of transferring itself from one place to another, be bettered by them. what good would sight and hearing do to a creature that cannot move itself to or from the objects wherein at a distance it perceives good or evil? and would not quickness of sensation be an inconvenience to an animal that must lie still where chance has once placed it, and there receive the afflux of colder or warmer, clean or foul water, as it happens to come to it? . decay of perception in old age. but yet i cannot but think there is some small dull perception, whereby they are distinguished from perfect insensibility. and that this may be so, we have plain instances, even in mankind itself. take one in whom decrepit old age has blotted out the memory of his past knowledge, and clearly wiped out the ideas his mind was formerly stored with, and has, by destroying his sight, hearing, and smell quite, and his taste to a great degree, stopped up almost all the passages for new ones to enter; or if there be some of the inlets yet half open, the impressions made are scarcely perceived, or not at all retained. how far such an one (notwithstanding all that is boasted of innate principles) is in his knowledge and intellectual faculties above the condition of a cockle or an oyster, i leave to be considered. and if a man had passed sixty years in such a state, as it is possible he might, as well as three days, i wonder what difference there would be, in any intellectual perfections, between him and the lowest degree of animals. . perception the inlet of all materials of knowledge. perception then being the first step and degree towards knowledge, and the inlet of all the materials of it; the fewer senses any man, as well as any other creature, hath; and the fewer and duller the impressions are that are made by them; and the duller the faculties are that are employed about them,--the more remote are they from that knowledge which is to be found in some men. but this being in great variety of degrees (as may be perceived amongst men) cannot certainly be discovered in the several species of animals, much less in their particular individuals. it suffices me only to have remarked here,--that perception is the first operation of all our intellectual faculties, and the inlet of all knowledge in our minds. and i am apt too to imagine, that it is perception, in the lowest degree of it, which puts the boundaries between animals and the inferior ranks of creatures. but this i mention only as my conjecture by the by; it being indifferent to the matter in hand which way the learned shall determine of it. chapter x.--of retention. . contemplation the next faculty of the mind, whereby it makes a further progress towards knowledge, is that which i call retention; or the keeping of those simple ideas which from sensation or reflection it hath received. this is done two ways. first, by keeping the idea which is brought into it, for some time actually in view, which is called contemplation. . memory. the other way of retention is, the power to revive again in our minds those ideas which, after imprinting, have disappeared, or have been as it were laid aside out of sight. and thus we do, when we conceive heat or light, yellow or sweet,--the object being removed. this is memory, which is as it were the storehouse of our ideas. for, the narrow mind of man not being capable of having many ideas under view and consideration at once, it was necessary to have a repository, to lay up those ideas which, at another time, it might have use of. but, our ideas being nothing but actual perceptions in the mind, which cease to be anything; when there is no perception of them; this laying up of our ideas in the repository of the memory signifies no more but this,--that the mind has a power in many cases to revive perceptions which it has once had, with this additional perception annexed to them, that it has had them before. and in this sense it is that our ideas are said to be in our memories, when indeed they are actually nowhere;--but only there is an ability in the mind when it will to revive them again, and as it were paint them anew on itself, though some with more, some with less difficulty; some more lively, and others more obscurely. and thus it is, by the assistance of this faculty, that we are said to have all those ideas in our understandings which, though we do not actually contemplate yet we can bring in sight, and make appear again, and be the objects of our thoughts, without the help of those sensible qualities which first imprinted them there. . attention, repetition, pleasure and pain, fix ideas. attention and repetition help much to the fixing any ideas in the memory. but those which naturally at first make the deepest and most lasting impressions, are those which are accompanied with pleasure or pain. the great business of the senses being, to make us take notice of what hurts or advantages the body, it is wisely ordered by nature, as has been shown, that pain should accompany the reception of several ideas; which, supplying the place of consideration and reasoning in children, and acting quicker than consideration in grown men, makes both the old and young avoid painful objects with that haste which is necessary for their preservation; and in both settles in the memory a caution for the future. . ideas fade in the memory. concerning the several degrees of lasting, wherewith ideas are imprinted on the memory, we may observe,--that some of them have been produced in the understanding by an object affecting the senses once only, and no more than once; others, that have more than once offered themselves to the senses, have yet been little taken notice of: the mind, either heedless, as in children, or otherwise employed, as in men intent only on one thing; not setting the stamp deep into itself. and in some, where they are set on with care and repeated impressions, either through the temper of the body, or some other fault, the memory is very weak. in all these cases, ideas in the mind quickly fade, and often vanish quite out of the understanding, leaving no more footsteps or remaining characters of themselves than shadows do flying over fields of corn, and the mind is as void of them as if they had never been there. . causes of oblivion. thus many of those ideas which were produced in the minds of children, in the beginning of their sensation, (some of which perhaps, as of some pleasures and pains, were before they were born, and others in their infancy,) if in the future course of their lives they are not repeated again, are quite lost, without the least glimpse remaining of them. this may be observed in those who by some mischance have lost their sight when they were very young; in whom the ideas of colours having been but slightly taken notice of, and ceasing to be repeated, do quite wear out; so that some years after, there is no more notion nor memory of colours left in their minds, than in those of people born blind. the memory of some men, it is true, is very tenacious, even to a miracle. but yet there seems to be a constant decay of all our ideas, even of those which are struck deepest, and in minds the most retentive; so that if they be not sometimes renewed, by repeated exercise of the senses, or reflection on those kinds of objects which at first occasioned them, the print wears out, and at last there remains nothing to be seen. thus the ideas, as well as children, of our youth, often die before us: and our minds represent to us those tombs to which we are approaching; where, though the brass and marble remain, yet the inscriptions are effaced by time, and the imagery moulders away. the pictures drawn in our minds are laid in fading colours; and if not sometimes refreshed, vanish and disappear. how much the constitution of our bodies are concerned in this; and whether the temper of the brain makes this difference, that in some it retains the characters drawn on it like marble, in others like freestone, and in others little better than sand, i shall here inquire; though it may seem probable that the constitution of the body does sometimes influence the memory, since we oftentimes find a disease quite strip the mind of all its ideas, and the flames of a fever in a few days calcine all those images to dust and confusion, which seemed to be as lasting as if graved in marble. . constantly repeated ideas can scarce be lost. but concerning the ideas themselves, it is easy to remark, that those that are oftenest refreshed (amongst which are those that are conveyed into the mind by more ways than one) by a frequent return of the objects or actions that produce them, fix themselves best in the memory, and remain clearest and longest there; and therefore those which are of the original qualities of bodies, viz. solidity, extension, figure, motion, and rest; and those that almost constantly affect our bodies, as heat and cold; and those which are the affections of all kinds of beings, as existence, duration, and number, which almost every object that affects our senses, every thought which employs our minds, bring along with them;--these, i say, and the like ideas, are seldom quite lost, whilst the mind retains any ideas at all. . in remembering, the mind is often active. in this secondary perception, as i may so call it, or viewing again the ideas that are lodged in the memory, the mind is oftentimes more than barely passive; the appearance of those dormant pictures depending sometimes on the will. the mind very often sets itself on work in search of some hidden idea, and turns as it were the eye of the soul upon it; though sometimes too they start up in our minds of their own accord, and offer themselves to the understanding; and very often are roused and tumbled out of their dark cells into open daylight, by turbulent and tempestuous passions; our affections bringing ideas to our memory, which had otherwise lain quiet and unregarded. this further is to be observed, concerning ideas lodged in the memory, and upon occasion revived by the mind, that they are not only (as the word revive imports) none of them new ones, but also that the mind takes notice of them as of a former impression, and renews its acquaintance with them, as with ideas it had known before. so that though ideas formerly imprinted are not all constantly in view, yet in remembrance they are constantly known to be such as have been formerly imprinted; i.e. in view, and taken notice of before, by the understanding. . two defects in the memory, oblivion and slowness. memory, in an intellectual creature, is necessary in the next degree to perception. it is of so great moment, that, where it is wanting, all the rest of our faculties are in a great measure useless. and we in our thoughts, reasonings, and knowledge, could not proceed beyond present objects, were it not for the assistance of our memories; wherein there may be two defects:-- first, that it loses the idea quite, and so far it produces perfect ignorance. for, since we can know nothing further than we have the idea of it, when that is gone, we are in perfect ignorance. secondly, that it moves slowly, and retrieves not the ideas that it has, and are laid up in store, quick enough to serve the mind upon occasion. this, if it be to a great degree, is stupidity; and he who, through this default in his memory, has not the ideas that are really preserved there, ready at hand when need and occasion calls for them, were almost as good be without them quite, since they serve him to little purpose. the dull man, who loses the opportunity, whilst he is seeking in his mind for those ideas that should serve his turn, is not much more happy in his knowledge than one that is perfectly ignorant. it is the business therefore of the memory to furnish to the mind those dormant ideas which it has present occasion for; in the having them ready at hand on all occasions, consists that which we call invention, fancy, and quickness of parts. . a defect which belongs to the memory of man, as finite. these are defects we may observe in the memory of one man compared with another. there is another defect which we may conceive to be in the memory of man in general;--compared with some superior created intellectual beings, which in this faculty may so far excel man, that they may have constantly in view the whole scene of all their former actions, wherein no one of the thoughts they have ever had may slip out of their sight. the omniscience of god, who knows all things, past, present, and to come, and to whom the thoughts of men’s hearts always lie open, may satisfy us of the possibility of this. for who can doubt but god may communicate to those glorious spirits, his immediate attendants, any of his perfections; in what proportions he pleases, as far as created finite beings can be capable? it is reported of that prodigy of parts, monsieur pascal, that till the decay of his health had impaired his memory, he forgot nothing of what he had done, read, or thought, in any part of his rational age. this is a privilege so little known to most men, that it seems almost incredible to those who, after the ordinary way, measure all others by themselves; but yet, when considered, may help us to enlarge our thoughts towards greater perfections of it, in superior ranks of spirits. for this of monsieur pascal was still with the narrowness that human minds are confined to here,--of having great variety of ideas only by succession, not all at once. whereas the several degrees of angels may probably have larger views; and some of them be endowed with capacities able to retain together, and constantly set before them, as in one picture, all their past knowledge at once. this, we may conceive, would be no small advantage to the knowledge of a thinking man,--if all his past thoughts and reasonings could be always present to him. and therefore we may suppose it one of those ways, wherein the knowledge of separate spirits may exceedingly surpass ours. . brutes have memory. this faculty of laying up and retaining the ideas that are brought into the mind, several other animals seem to have to a great degree, as well as man. for, to pass by other instances, birds learning of tunes, and the endeavours one may observe in them to hit the notes right, put it past doubt with me, that they have perception, and retain ideas in their memories, and use them for patterns. for it seems to me impossible that they should endeavour to conform their voices to notes (as it is plain they do) of which they had no ideas. for, though i should grant sound may mechanically cause a certain motion of the animal spirits in the brains of those birds, whilst the tune is actually playing; and that motion may be continued on to the muscles of the wings, and so the bird mechanically be driven away by certain noises, because this may tend to the bird’s preservation; yet that can never be supposed a reason why it should cause mechanically--either whilst the tune is playing, much less after it has ceased--such a motion of the organs in the bird’s voice as should conform it to the notes of a foreign sound, which imitation can be of no use to the bird’s preservation. but, which is more, it cannot with any appearance of reason be supposed (much less proved) that birds, without sense and memory, can approach their notes nearer and nearer by degrees to a tune played yesterday; which if they have no idea of in their memory, is now nowhere, nor can be a pattern for them to imitate, or which any repeated essays can bring them nearer to. since there is no reason why the sound of a pipe should leave traces in their brains, which, not at first, but by their after-endeavours, should produce the like sounds; and why the sounds they make themselves, should not make traces which they should follow, as well as those of the pipe, is impossible to conceive. chapter xi.--of discerning, and other operations of the mind. . no knowledge without discernment. another faculty we may take notice of in our minds is that of discerning and distinguishing between the several ideas it has. it is not enough to have a confused perception of something in general. unless the mind had a distinct perception of different objects and their qualities, it would be capable of very little knowledge, though the bodies that affect us were as busy about us as they are now, and the mind were continually employed in thinking. on this faculty of distinguishing one thing from another depends the evidence and certainty of several, even very general, propositions, which have passed for innate truths;--because men, overlooking the true cause why those propositions find universal assent, impute it wholly to native uniform impressions; whereas it in truth depends upon this clear discerning faculty of the mind, whereby it perceives two ideas to be the same, or different. but of this more hereafter. . the difference of wit and judgment. how much the imperfection of accurately discriminating ideas one from another lies, either in the dulness or faults of the organs of sense; or want of acuteness, exercise, or attention in the understanding; or hastiness and precipitancy, natural to some tempers, i will not here examine: it suffices to take notice, that this is one of the operations that the mind may reflect on and observe in itself. it is of that consequence to its other knowledge, that so far as this faculty is in itself dull, or not rightly made use of, for the distinguishing one thing from another,--so far our notions are confused, and our reason and judgment disturbed or misled. if in having our ideas in the memory ready at hand consists quickness of parts; in this, of having them unconfused, and being able nicely to distinguish one thing from another, where there is but the least difference, consists, in a great measure, the exactness of judgment, and clearness of reason, which is to be observed in one man above another. and hence perhaps may be given some reason of that common observation,--that men who have a great deal of wit, and prompt memories, have not always the clearest judgment or deepest reason. for wit lying most in the assemblage of ideas, and putting those together with quickness and variety, wherein can be found any resemblance or congruity, thereby to make up pleasant pictures and agreeable visions in the fancy; judgment, on the contrary, lies quite on the other side, in separating carefully, one from another, ideas wherein can be found the least difference, thereby to avoid being misled by similitude, and by affinity to take one thing for another. this is a way of proceeding quite contrary to metaphor and allusion; wherein for the most part lies that entertainment and pleasantry of wit, which strikes so lively on the fancy, and therefore is so acceptable to all people, because its beauty appears at first sight, and there is required no labour of thought to examine what truth or reason there is in it. the mind, without looking any further, rests satisfied with the agreeableness of the picture and the gaiety of the fancy. and it is a kind of affront to go about to examine it, by the severe rules of truth and good reason; whereby it appears that it consists in something that is not perfectly conformable to them. . clearness alone hinders confusion. to the well distinguishing our ideas, it chiefly contributes that they be clear and determinate. and when they are so, it will not breed any confusion or mistake about them, though the senses should (as sometimes they do) convey them from the same object differently on different occasions, and so seem to err. for, though a man in a fever should from sugar have a bitter taste, which at another time would produce a sweet one, yet the idea of bitter in that man’s mind would be as clear and distinct from the idea of sweet as if he had tasted only gall. nor does it make any more confusion between the two ideas of sweet and bitter that the same sort of body produces at one time one, and at another time another idea by the taste, than it makes a confusion in two ideas of white and sweet, or white and round, that the same piece of sugar produces them both in the mind at the same time. and the ideas of orange-colour and azure, that are produced in the mind by the same parcel of the infusion of lignum nephritium, are no less distinct ideas than those of the same colours taken from two very different bodies. . comparing. the comparing them one with another, in respect of extent, degrees, time, place, or any other circumstances, is another operation of the mind about its ideas, and is that upon which depends all that large tribe of ideas comprehended under relation; which, of how vast an extent it is, i shall have occasion to consider hereafter. . brutes compare but imperfectly. how far brutes partake in this faculty, is not easy to determine. i imagine they have it not in any great degree, for, though they probably have several ideas distinct enough, yet it seems to me to be the prerogative of human understanding, when it has sufficiently distinguished any ideas, so as to perceive them to be perfectly different, and so consequently two, to cast about and consider in what circumstances they are capable to be compared. and therefore, i think, beasts compare not their ideas further than some sensible circumstances annexed to the objects themselves. the other power of comparing, which may be observed in men, belonging to general ideas, and useful only to abstract reasonings, we may probably conjecture beasts have not. . compounding. the next operation we may observe in the mind about its ideas is composition; whereby it puts together several of those simple ones it has received from sensation and reflection, and combines them into complex ones. under this of composition may be reckoned also that of enlarging, wherein, though the composition does not so much appear as in more complex ones, yet it is nevertheless a putting several ideas together, though of the same kind. thus, by adding several units together, we make the idea of a dozen; and putting together the repeated ideas of several perches, we frame that of a furlong. . brutes compound but little. in this also, i suppose, brutes come far short of man. for, though they take in, and retain together, several combinations of simple ideas, as possibly the shape, smell, and voice of his master make up the complex idea a dog has of him, or rather are so many distinct marks whereby he knows him; yet i do not think they do of themselves ever compound them, and make complex ideas. and perhaps even where we think they have complex ideas, it is only one simple one that directs them in the knowledge of several things, which possibly they distinguish less by their sight than we imagine. for i have been credibly informed that a bitch will nurse, play with, and be fond of young foxes, as much as, and in place of her puppies, if you can but get them once to suck her so long that her milk may go through them. and those animals which have a numerous brood of young ones at once, appear not to have any knowledge of their number; for though they are mightily concerned for any of their young that are taken from them whilst they are in sight or hearing, yet if one or two of them be stolen from them in their absence, or without noise, they appear not to miss them, or to have any sense that their number is lessened. . naming. when children have, by repeated sensations, got ideas fixed in their memories, they begin by degrees to learn the use of signs. and when they have got the skill to apply the organs of speech to the framing of articulate sounds, they begin to make use of words, to signify their ideas to others. these verbal signs they sometimes borrow from others, and sometimes make themselves, as one may observe among the new and unusual names children often give to things in the first use of language. . abstraction. the use of words then being to stand as outward mark of our internal ideas, and those ideas being taken from particular things, if every particular idea that we take up should have a distinct name, names must be endless. to prevent this, the mind makes the particular ideas received from particular objects to become general; which is done by considering them as they are in the mind such appearances,--separate from all other existences, and the circumstances of real existence, as time, place, or any other concomitant ideas. this is called abstraction, whereby ideas taken from particular beings become general representatives of all of the same kind; and their names general names, applicable to whatever exists conformable to such abstract ideas. such precise, naked appearances in the mind, without considering how, whence, or with what others they came there, the understanding lays up (with names commonly annexed to them) as the standards to rank real existences into sorts, as they agree with these patterns, and to denominate them accordingly. thus the same colour being observed to-day in chalk or snow, which the mind yesterday received from milk, it considers that appearance alone, makes it a representative of all of that kind; and having given it the name whiteness, it by that sound signifies the same quality wheresoever to be imagined or met with; and thus universals, whether ideas or terms, are made. . brutes abstract not. if it may be doubted whether beasts compound and enlarge their ideas that way to any degree; this, i think, i may be positive in,--that the power of abstracting is not at all in them; and that the having of general ideas is that which puts a perfect distinction betwixt man and brutes, and is an excellency which the faculties of brutes do by no means attain to. for it is evident we observe no footsteps in them of making use of general signs for universal ideas; from which we have reason to imagine that they have not the faculty of abstracting, or making general ideas, since they have no use of words, or any other general signs. . brutes abstract not, yet are nor bare machines. nor can it be imputed to their want of fit organs to frame articulate sounds, that they have no use or knowledge of general words; since many of them, we find, can fashion such sounds, and pronounce words distinctly enough, but never with any such application. and, on the other side, men who, through some defect in the organs, want words, yet fail not to express their universal ideas by signs, which serve them instead of general words, a faculty which we see beasts come short in. and, therefore, i think, we may suppose, that it is in this that the species of brutes are discriminated from man: and it is that proper difference wherein they are wholly separated, and which at last widens to so vast a distance. for if they have any ideas at all, and are not bare machines, (as some would have them,) we cannot deny them to have some reason. it seems as evident to me, that they do reason, as that they have sense; but it is only in particular ideas, just as they received them from their senses. they are the best of them tied up within those narrow bounds, and have not (as i think) the faculty to enlarge them by any kind of abstraction. . idiots and madmen. how far idiots are concerned in the want or weakness of any, or all of the foregoing faculties, an exact observation of their several ways of faultering would no doubt discover. for those who either perceive but dully, or retain the ideas that come into their minds but ill, who cannot readily excite or compound them, will have little matter to think on. those who cannot distinguish, compare, and abstract, would hardly be able to understand and make use of language, or judge or reason to any tolerable degree; but only a little and imperfectly about things present, and very familiar to their senses. and indeed any of the forementioned faculties, if wanting, or out of order, produce suitable defects in men’s understandings and knowledge. . difference between idiots and madmen. in fine, the defect in naturals seems to proceed from want of quickness, activity, and motion in the intellectual faculties, whereby they are deprived of reason; whereas madmen, on the other side, seem to suffer by the other extreme. for they do not appear to me to have lost the faculty of reasoning, but having joined together some ideas very wrongly, they mistake them for truths; and they err as men do that argue right from wrong principles. for, by the violence of their imaginations, having taken their fancies for realities, they make right deductions from them. thus you shall find a distracted man fancying himself a king, with a right inference require suitable attendance, respect, and obedience: others who have thought themselves made of glass, have used the caution necessary to preserve such brittle bodies. hence it comes to pass that a man who is very sober, and of a right understanding in all other things, may in one particular be as frantic as any in bedlam; if either by any sudden very strong impression, or long fixing his fancy upon one sort of thoughts, incoherent ideas have been cemented together so powerfully, as to remain united. but there are degrees of madness, as of folly; the disorderly jumbling ideas together is in some more, and some less. in short, herein seems to lie the difference between idiots and madmen: that madmen put wrong ideas together, and so make wrong propositions, but argue and reason right from them; but idiots make very few or no propositions, and reason scarce at all. . method followed in this explication of faculties. these, i think, are the first faculties and operations of the mind, which it makes use of in understanding; and though they are exercised about all its ideas in general, yet the instances i have hitherto given have been chiefly in simple ideas. and i have subjoined the explication of these faculties of the mind to that of simple ideas, before i come to what i have to say concerning complex ones, for these following reasons:-- first, because several of these faculties being exercised at first principally about simple ideas, we might, by following nature in its ordinary method, trace and discover them, in their rise, progress, and gradual improvements. secondly, because observing the faculties of the mind, how they operate about simple ideas,--which are usually, in most men’s minds, much more clear, precise, and distinct than complex ones,--we may the better examine and learn how the mind extracts, denominates, compares, and exercises, in its other operations about those which are complex, wherein we are much more liable to mistake. thirdly, because these very operations of the mind about ideas received from sensations, are themselves, when reflected on, another set of ideas, derived from that other source of our knowledge, which i call reflection; and therefore fit to be considered in this place after the simple ideas of sensation. of compounding, comparing, abstracting, &c., i have but just spoken, having occasion to treat of them more at large in other places. . the true beginning of human knowledge. and thus i have given a short, and, i think, true history of the first beginnings of human knowledge;--whence the mind has its first objects; and by what steps it makes its progress to the laying in and storing up those ideas, out of which is to be framed all the knowledge it is capable of: wherein i must appeal to experience and observation whether i am in the right: the best way to come to truth being to examine things as really they are, and not to conclude they are, as we fancy of ourselves, or have been taught by others to imagine. . appeal to experience. to deal truly, this is the only way that i can discover, whereby the ideas of things are brought into the understanding. if other men have either innate ideas or infused principles, they have reason to enjoy them; and if they are sure of it, it is impossible for others to deny them the privilege that they have above their neighbours. i can speak but of what i find in myself, and is agreeable to those notions, which, if we will examine the whole course of men in their several ages, countries, and educations, seem to depend on those foundations which i have laid, and to correspond with this method in all the parts and degrees thereof. . dark room. i pretend not to teach, but to inquire; and therefore cannot but confess here again,--that external and internal sensation are the only passages i can find of knowledge to the understanding. these alone, as far as i can discover, are the windows by which light is let into this dark room. for, methinks, the understanding is not much unlike a closet wholly shut from light, with only some little openings left, to let in external visible resemblances, or ideas of things without: which, would they but stay there, and lie so orderly as to be found upon occasion, it would very much resemble the understanding of a man, in reference to all objects of sight, and the ideas of them. these are my guesses concerning the means whereby the understanding comes to have and retain simple ideas, and the modes of them, with some other operations about them. i proceed now to examine some of these simple ideas an their modes a little more particularly. chapter xii.--of complex ideas. . made by the mind out of simple ones. we have hitherto considered those ideas, in the reception whereof the mind is only passive, which are those simple ones received from sensation and reflection before mentioned, whereof the mind cannot make one to itself, nor have any idea which does not wholly consist of them. as simple ideas are observed to exist in several combinations united together, so the mind has a power to consider several of them united together as one idea; and that not only as they are united in external objects, but as itself has joined them together. ideas thus made up of several simple ones put together, i call complex;--such as are beauty, gratitude, a man, an army, the universe; which, though complicated of various simple ideas, or complex ideas made up of simple ones, yet are, when the mind pleases, considered each by itself, as one entire thing, signified by one name. . made voluntarily. in this faculty of repeating and joining together its ideas, the mind has great power in varying and multiplying the objects of its thoughts, infinitely beyond what sensation or reflection furnished it with: but all this still confined to those simple ideas which it received from those two sources, and which are the ultimate materials of all its compositions. for simple ideas are all from things themselves, and of these the mind can have no more, nor other than what are suggested to it. it can have no other ideas of sensible qualities than what come from without [*dropped word] the senses; nor any ideas of other kind of operations of a thinking substance, than what it finds in itself. but when it has once got these simple ideas, it is not confined barely to observation, and what offers itself from without; it can, by its own power, put together those ideas it has, and make new complex ones, which it never received so united. . complex ideas are either of modes, substances, or relations. complex ideas, however compounded and decompounded, though their number be infinite, and the variety endless, wherewith they fill and entertain the thoughts of men; yet i think they may be all reduced under these three heads:-- . modes. . substances. . relations. . ideas of modes. first, modes i call such complex ideas which, however compounded, contain not in them the supposition of subsisting by themselves, but are considered as dependences on, or affections of substances;--such as are the ideas signified by the words triangle, gratitude, murder, &c. and if in this i use the word mode in somewhat a different sense from its ordinary signification, i beg pardon; it being unavoidable in discourses, differing from the ordinary received notions, either to make new words, or to use old words in somewhat a new signification; the later whereof, in our present case, is perhaps the more tolerable of the two. . simple and mixed modes of ideas. of these modes, there are two sorts which deserve distinct consideration:-- first, there are some which are only variations, or different combinations of the same simple idea, without the mixture of any other;--as a dozen, or score; which are nothing but the ideas of so many distinct units added together, and these i call simple modes as being contained within the bounds of one simple idea. secondly, there are others compounded of simple ideas of several kinds, put together to make one complex one;--v.g. beauty, consisting of a certain composition of colour and figure, causing delight to the beholder; theft, which being the concealed change of the possession of anything, without the consent of the proprietor, contains, as is visible, a combination of several ideas of several kinds: and these i call mixed modes. . ideas of substances, single or collective. secondly, the ideas of substances are such combinations of simple ideas as are taken to represent distinct particular things subsisting by themselves; in which the supposed or confused idea of substance, such as it is, is always the first and chief. thus if to substance be joined the simple idea of a certain dull whitish colour, with certain degrees of weight, hardness, ductility, and fusibility, we have the idea of lead; and a combination of the ideas of a certain sort of figure, with the powers of motion, thought and reasoning, joined to substance, make the ordinary idea of a man. now of substances also, there are two sorts of ideas:--one of single substances, as they exist separately, as of a man or a sheep; the other of several of those put together, as an army of men, or flock of sheep--which collective ideas of several substances thus put together are as much each of them one single idea as that of a man or an unit. . ideas of relation. thirdly, the last sort of complex ideas is that we call relation, which consists in the consideration and comparing one idea with another. of these several kinds we shall treat in their order. . the abstrusest ideas we can have are all from two sources. if we trace the progress of our minds, and with attention observe how it repeats, adds together, and unites its simple ideas received from sensation or reflection, it will lead us further than at first perhaps we should have imagined. and, i believe, we shall find, if we warily observe the originals of our notions, that even the most abstruse ideas, how remote soever they may seem from sense, or from any operations of our own minds, are yet only such as the understanding frames to itself, by repeating and joining together ideas that it had either from objects of sense, or from its own operations about them: so that those even large and abstract ideas are derived from sensation or reflection, being no other than what the mind, by the ordinary use of its own faculties, employed about ideas received from objects of sense, or from the operations it observes in itself about them, may, and does, attain unto. this i shall endeavour to show in the ideas we have of space, time, and infinity, and some few others that seem the most remote, from those originals. chapter xiii.--complex ideas of simple modes:--and first, of the simple modes of idea of space. . simple modes of simple ideas. though in the foregoing part i have often mentioned simple ideas, which are truly the materials of all our knowledge; yet having treated of them there, rather in the way that they come into the mind, than as distinguished from others more compounded, it will not be perhaps amiss to take a view of some of them again under this consideration, and examine those different modifications of the same idea; which the mind either finds in things existing, or is able to make within itself without the help of any extrinsical object, or any foreign suggestion. those modifications of any one simple idea (which, as has been said, i call simple modes) are as perfectly different and distinct ideas in the mind as those of the greatest distance or contrariety. for the idea of two is as distinct from that of one, as blueness from heat, or either of them from any number: and yet it is made up only of that simple idea of an unit repeated; and repetitions of this kind joined together make those distinct simple modes, of a dozen, a gross, a million. simple modes of idea of space. . idea of space. i shall begin with the simple idea of space. i have showed above, chap. , that we get the idea of space, both by our sight and touch; which, i think, is so evident, that it would be as needless to go to prove that men perceive, by their sight, a distance between bodies of different colours, or between the parts of the same body, as that they see colours themselves: nor is it less obvious, that they can do so in the dark by feeling and touch. . space and extension. this space, considered barely in length between any two beings, without considering anything else between them, is called distance: if considered in length, breadth, and thickness, i think it may be called capacity. when considered between the extremities of matter, which fills the capacity of space with something solid, tangible, and moveable, it is properly called extension. and so extension is an idea belonging to body only; but space may, as is evident, be considered without it. at least i think it most intelligible, and the best way to avoid confusion, if we use the word extension for an affection of matter or the distance of the extremities of particular solid bodies; and space in the more general signification, for distance, with or without solid matter possessing it. . immensity. each different distance is a different modification of space; and each idea of any different distance, or space, is a simple mode of this idea. men having, by accustoming themselves to stated lengths of space, which they use for measuring other distances--as a foot, a yard or a fathom, a league, or diameter of the earth--made those ideas familiar to their thoughts, can, in their minds, repeat them as often as they will, without mixing or joining to them the idea of body, or anything else; and frame to themselves the ideas of long, square, or cubic feet, yards or fathoms, here amongst the bodies of the universe, or else beyond the utmost bounds of all bodies; and, by adding these still one to another, enlarge their ideas of space as much as they please. the power of repeating or doubling any idea we have of any distance, and adding it to the former as often as we will, without being ever able to come to any stop or stint, let us enlarge it as much as we will, is that which gives us the idea of immensity. . figure. there is another modification of this idea, which is nothing but the relation which the parts of the termination of extension, or circumscribed space, have amongst themselves. this the touch discovers in sensible bodies, whose extremities come within our reach; and the eye takes both from bodies and colours, whose boundaries are within its view: where, observing how the extremities terminate,--either in straight lines which meet at discernible angles, or in crooked lines wherein no angles can be perceived; by considering these as they relate to one another, in all parts of the extremities of any body or space, it has that idea we call figure, which affords to the mind infinite variety. for, besides the vast number of different figures that do really exist in the coherent masses of matter, the stock that the mind has in its power, by varying the idea of space, and thereby making still new compositions, by repeating its own ideas, and joining them as it pleases, is perfectly inexhaustible. and so it can multiply figures in infinitum. . endless variety of figures. for the mind having a power to repeat the idea of any length directly stretched out, and join it to another in the same direction, which is to double the length of that straight line; or else join another with what inclination it thinks fit, and so make what sort of angle it pleases: and being able also to shorten any line it imagines, by taking from it one half, one fourth, or what part it pleases, without being able to come to an end of any such divisions, it can make an angle of any bigness. so also the lines that are its sides, of what length it pleases, which joining again to other lines, of different lengths, and at different angles, till it has wholly enclosed any space, it is evident that it can multiply figures, both in their shape and capacity, in infinitum; all which are but so many different simple modes of space. the same that it can do with straight lines, it can also do with crooked, or crooked and straight together; and the same it can do in lines, it can also in superficies; by which we may be led into farther thoughts of the endless variety of figures that the mind has a power to make, and thereby to multiply the simple modes of space. . place. another idea coming under this head, and belonging to this tribe, is that we call place. as in simple space, we consider the relation of distance between any two bodies or points; so in our idea of place, we consider the relation of distance betwixt anything, and any two or more points, which are considered as keeping the same distance one with another, and so considered as at rest. for when we find anything at the same distance now which it was yesterday, from any two or more points, which have not since changed their distance one with another, and with which we then compared it, we say it hath kept the same place: but if it hath sensibly altered its distance with either of those points, we say it hath changed its place: though, vulgarly speaking, in the common notion of place, we do not always exactly observe the distance from these precise points, but from larger portions of sensible objects, to which we consider the thing placed to bear relation, and its distance from which we have some reason to observe. . place relative to particular bodies. thus, a company of chess-men, standing on the same squares of the chess-board where we left them, we say they are all in the same place, or unmoved, though perhaps the chessboard hath been in the mean time carried out of one room into another; because we compared them only to the parts of the chess-board, which keep the same distance one with another. the chess-board, we also say, is in the same place it was, if it remain in the same part of the cabin, though perhaps the ship which it is in sails all the while. and the ship is said to be in the same place, supposing it kept the same distance with the parts of the neighbouring land; though perhaps the earth hath turned round, and so both chess-men, and board, and ship, have every one changed place, in respect of remoter bodies, which have kept the same distance one with another. but yet the distance from certain parts of the board being that which determines the place of the chess-men; and the distance from the fixed parts of the cabin (with which we made the comparison) being that which determined the place of the chess-board; and the fixed parts of the earth that by which we determined the place of the ship,--these things may be said to be in the same place in those respects: though their distance from some other things, which in this matter we did not consider, being varied, they have undoubtedly changed place in that respect; and we ourselves shall think so, when we have occasion to compare them with those other. . place relative to a present purpose. but this modification of distance we call place, being made by men for their common use, that by it they might be able to design the particular position of things, where they had occasion for such designation; men consider and determine of this place by reference to those adjacent things which best served to their present purpose, without considering other things which, to another purpose, would better determine the place of the same thing. thus in the chess-board, the use of the designation of the place of each chess-man being determined only within that chequered piece of wood, it would cross that purpose to measure it by anything else; but when these very chess-men are put up in a bag, if any one should ask where the black king is, it would be proper to determine the place by the part of the room it was in, and not by the chessboard; there being another use of designing the place it is now in, than when in play it was on the chessboard, and so must be determined by other bodies. so if any one should ask, in what place are the verses which report the story of nisus and euryalus, it would be very improper to determine this place, by saying, they were in such a part of the earth, or in bodley’s library: but the right designation of the place would be by the parts of virgil’s works; and the proper answer would be, that these verses were about the middle of the ninth book of his aeneids, and that they have been always constantly in the same place ever since virgil was printed: which is true, though the book itself hath moved a thousand times, the use of the idea of place here being, to know in what part of the book that story is, that so, upon occasion, we may know where to find it, and have recourse to it for use. . place of the universe. that our idea of place is nothing else but such a relative position of anything as i have before mentioned, i think is plain, and will be easily admitted, when we consider that we can have no idea of the place of the universe, though we can of all the parts of it; because beyond that we have not the idea of any fixed, distinct, particular beings, in reference to which we can imagine it to have any relation of distance; but all beyond it is one uniform space or expansion, wherein the mind finds no variety, no marks. for to say that the world is somewhere, means no more than that it does exist; this, though a phrase borrowed from place, signifying only its existence, not location: and when one can find out, and frame in his mind, clearly and distinctly the place of the universe, he will be able to tell us whether it moves or stands still in the undistinguishable inane of infinite space: though it be true that the word place has sometimes a more confused sense, and stands for that space which anybody takes up; and so the universe is in a place. the idea, therefore, of place we have by the same means that we get the idea of space, (whereof this is but a particular limited consideration,) viz. by our sight and touch; by either of which we receive into our minds the ideas of extension or distance. . extension and body not the same. there are some that would persuade us, that body and extension are the same thing, who either change the signification of words, which i would not suspect them of,--they having so severely condemned the philosophy of others, because it hath been too much placed in the uncertain meaning, or deceitful obscurity of doubtful or insignificant terms. if, therefore, they mean by body and extension the same that other people do, viz. by body something that is solid and extended, whose parts are separable and movable different ways; and by extension, only the space that lies between the extremities of those solid coherent parts, and which is possessed by them,--they confound very different ideas one with another; for i appeal to every man’s own thoughts, whether the idea of space be not as distinct from that of solidity, as it is from the idea of scarlet colour? it is true, solidity cannot exist without extension, neither can scarlet colour exist without extension, but this hinders not, but that they are distinct ideas. many ideas require others, as necessary to their existence or conception, which yet are very distinct ideas. motion can neither be, nor be conceived, without space; and yet motion is not space, nor space motion; space can exist without it, and they are very distinct ideas; and so, i think, are those of space and solidity. solidity is so inseparable an idea from body, that upon that depends its filling of space, its contact, impulse, and communication of motion upon impulse. and if it be a reason to prove that spirit is different from body, because thinking includes not the idea of extension in it; the same reason will be as valid, i suppose, to prove that space is not body, because it includes not the idea of solidity in it; space and solidity being as distinct ideas as thinking and extension, and as wholly separable in the mind one from another. body then and extension, it is evident, are two distinct ideas. for, . extension not solidity. first, extension includes no solidity, nor resistance to the motion of body, as body does. . the parts of space inseparable, both really and mentally. secondly, the parts of pure space are inseparable one from the other; so that the continuity cannot be separated, both neither really nor mentally. for i demand of any one to remove any part of it from another, with which it is continued, even so much as in thought. to divide and separate actually is, as i think, by removing the parts one from another, to make two superficies, where before there was a continuity: and to divide mentally is, to make in the mind two superficies, where before there was a continuity, and consider them as removed one from the other; which can only be done in things considered by the mind as capable of being separated; and by separation, of acquiring new distinct superficies, which they then have not, but are capable of. but neither of these ways of separation, whether real or mental, is, as i think, compatible to pure space. it is true, a man may consider so much of such a space as is answerable or commensurate to a foot, without considering the rest, which is, indeed, a partial consideration, but not so much as mental separation or division; since a man can no more mentally divide, without considering two superficies separate one from the other, than he can actually divide, without making two superficies disjoined one from the other: but a partial consideration is not separating. a man may consider light in the sun without its heat, or mobility in body without its extension, without thinking of their separation. one is only a partial consideration, terminating in one alone; and the other is a consideration of both, as existing separately. . the parts of space immovable. thirdly, the parts of pure space are immovable, which follows from their inseparability; motion being nothing but change of distance between any two things; but this cannot be between parts that are inseparable, which, therefore, must needs be at perpetual rest one amongst another. thus the determined idea of simple space distinguishes it plainly and sufficiently from body; since its parts are inseparable, immovable, and without resistance to the motion of body. . the definition of extension explains it not. if any one ask me what this space i speak of is, i will tell him when he tells me what his extension is. for to say, as is usually done, that extension is to have partes extra partes, is to say only, that extension is extension. for what am i the better informed in the nature of extension, when i am told that extension is to have parts that are extended, exterior to parts that are extended, i. e. extension consists of extended parts? as if one, asking what a fibre was, i should answer him,--that it was a thing made up of several fibres. would he thereby be enabled to understand what a fibre was better than he did before? or rather, would he not have reason to think that my design was to make sport with him, rather than seriously to instruct him? . division of beings into bodies and spirits proves not space and body the same. those who contend that space and body are the same, bring this dilemma:--either this space is something or nothing; if nothing be between two bodies, they must necessarily touch; if it be allowed to be something, they ask, whether it be body or spirit? to which i answer by another question, who told them that there was, or could be, nothing; but solid beings, which could not think, and thinking beings that were not extended?--which is all they mean by the terms body and spirit. . substance, which we know not, no proof against space without body. if it be demanded (as usually it is) whether this space, void of body, be substance or accident, i shall readily answer i know not; nor shall be ashamed to own my ignorance, till they that ask show me a clear distinct idea of substance. . different meanings of substance. i endeavour as much as i can to deliver myself from those fallacies which we are apt to put upon ourselves, by taking words for things. it helps not our ignorance to feign a knowledge where we have none, by making a noise with sounds, without clear and distinct significations. names made at pleasure, neither alter the nature of things, nor make us understand them, but as they are signs of and stand for determined ideas. and i desire those who lay so much stress on the sound of these two syllables, substance, to consider whether applying it, as they do, to the infinite, incomprehensible god, to finite spirits, and to body, it be in the same sense; and whether it stands for the same idea, when each of those three so different beings are called substances. if so, whether it will thence follow--that god, spirits, and body, agreeing in the same common nature of substance, differ not any otherwise than in a bare different modification of that substance; as a tree and a pebble, being in the same sense body, and agreeing in the common nature of body, differ only in a bare modification of that common matter, which will be a very harsh doctrine. if they say, that they apply it to god, finite spirit, and matter, in three different significations and that it stands for one idea when god is said to be a substance; for another when the soul is called substance; and for a third when body is called so;--if the name substance stands for three several distinct ideas, they would do well to make known those distinct ideas, or at least to give three distinct names to them, to prevent in so important a notion the confusion and errors that will naturally follow from the promiscuous use of so doubtful a term; which is so far from being suspected to have three distinct, that in ordinary use it has scarce one clear distinct signification. and if they can thus make three distinct ideas of substance, what hinders why another may not make a fourth? . substance and accidents of little use in philosophy. they who first ran into the notion of accidents, as a sort of real beings that needed something to inhere in, were forced to find out the word substance to support them. had the poor indian philosopher (who imagined that the earth also wanted something to bear it up) but thought of this word substance, he needed not to have been at the trouble to find an elephant to support it, and a tortoise to support his elephant: the word substance would have done it effectually. and he that inquired might have taken it for as good an answer from an indian philosopher,--that substance, without knowing what it is, is that which supports the earth, as take it for a sufficient answer and good doctrine from our european philosophers,--that substance, without knowing what it is, is that which supports accidents. so that of substance, we have no idea of what it is, but only a confused obscure one of what it does. . sticking on and under-propping. whatever a learned man may do here, an intelligent american, who inquired into the nature of things, would scarce take it for a satisfactory account, if, desiring to learn our architecture, he should be told that a pillar is a thing supported by a basis, and a basis something that supported a pillar. would he not think himself mocked, instead of taught, with such an account as this? and a stranger to them would be very liberally instructed in the nature of books, and the things they contained, if he should be told that all learned books consisted of paper and letters, and that letters were things inhering in paper, and paper a thing that held forth letters: a notable way of having clear ideas of letters and paper. but were the latin words, inhaerentia and substantio, put into the plain english ones that answer them, and were called sticking on and under-propping, they would better discover to us the very great clearness there is in the doctrine of substance and accidents, and show of what use they are in deciding of questions in philosophy. . a vacuum beyond the utmost bounds of body. but to return to our idea of space. if body be not supposed infinite, (which i think no one will affirm,) i would ask, whether, if god placed a man at the extremity of corporeal beings, he could not stretch his hand beyond his body? if he could, then he would put his arm where there was before space without body; and if there he spread his fingers, there would still be space between them without body. if he could not stretch out his hand, it must be because of some external hindrance; (for we suppose him alive, with such a power of moving the parts of his body that he hath now, which is not in itself impossible, if god so pleased to have it; or at least it is not impossible for god so to move him:) and then i ask,--whether that which hinders his hand from moving outwards be substance or accident, something or nothing? and when they have resolved that, they will be able to resolve themselves,--what that is, which is or may be between two bodies at a distance, that is not body, and has no solidity. in the mean time, the argument is at least as good, that, where nothing hinders, (as beyond the utmost bounds of all bodies,) a body put in motion may move on, as where there is nothing between, there two bodies must necessarily touch. for pure space between is sufficient to take away the necessity of mutual contact; but bare space in the way is not sufficient to stop motion. the truth is, these men must either own that they think body infinite, though they are loth to speak it out, or else affirm that space is not body. for i would fain meet with that thinking man that can in his thoughts set any bounds to space, more than he can to duration; or by thinking hope to arrive at the end of either. and therefore, if his idea of eternity be infinite, so is his idea of immensity; they are both finite or infinite alike. . the power of annihilation proves a vacuum. farther, those who assert the impossibility of space existing without matter, must not only make body infinite, but must also deny a power in god to annihilate any part of matter. no one, i suppose, will deny that god can put an end to all motion that is in matter, and fix all the bodies of the universe in a perfect quiet and rest, and continue them so long as he pleases. whoever then will allow that god can, during such a general rest, annihilate either this book or the body of him that reads it, must necessarily admit the possibility of a vacuum. for, it is evident that the space that was filled by the parts of the annihilated body will still remain, and be a space without body. for the circumambient bodies being in perfect rest, are a wall of adamant, and in that state make it a perfect impossibility for any other body to get into that space. and indeed the necessary motion of one particle of matter into the place from whence another particle of matter is removed, is but a consequence from the supposition of plenitude; which will therefore need some better proof than a supposed matter of fact, which experiment can never make out;--our own clear and distinct ideas plainly satisfying that there is no necessary connexion between space and solidity, since we can conceive the one without the other. and those who dispute for or against a vacuum, do thereby confess they have distinct ideas of vacuum and plenum, i. e. that they have an idea of extension void of solidity, though they deny its existence; or else they dispute about nothing at all. for they who so much alter the signification of words, as to call extension body, and consequently make the whole essence of body to be nothing but pure extension without solidity, must talk absurdly whenever they speak of vacuum; since it is impossible for extension to be without extension. for vacuum, whether we affirm or deny its existence, signifies space without body; whose very existence no one can deny to be possible, who will not make matter infinite, and take from god a power to annihilate any particle of it. . motion proves a vacuum. but not to go so far as beyond the utmost bounds of body in the universe, nor appeal to god’s omnipotency to find a vacuum, the motion of bodies that are in our view and neighbourhood seems to me plainly to evince it. for i desire any one so to divide a solid body, of any dimension he pleases, as to make it possible for the solid parts to move up and down freely every way within the bounds of that superficies, if there be not left in it a void space as big as the least part into which he has divided the said solid body. and if, where the least particle of the body divided is as big as a mustard-seed, a void space equal to the bulk of a mustard-seed be requisite to make room for the free motion of the parts of the divided body within the bounds of its superficies, where the particles of matter are , , less than a mustard-seed, there must also be a space void of solid matter as big as , , part of a mustard-seed; for if it hold in the one it will hold in the other, and so on in infinitum. and let this void space be as little as it will, it destroys the hypothesis of plenitude. for if there can be a space void of body equal to the smallest separate particle of matter now existing in nature, it is still space without body; and makes as great a difference between space and body as if it were mega chasma, a distance as wide as any in nature. and therefore, if we suppose not the void space necessary to motion equal to the least parcel of the divided solid matter, but to / or / of it, the same consequence will always follow of space without matter. . the ideas of space and body distinct. but the question being here,--whether the idea of space or extension be the same with the idea of body? it is not necessary to prove the real existence of a vacuum, but the idea of it; which it is plain men have when they inquire and dispute whether there be a vacuum or no. for if they had not the idea of space without body, they could not make a question about its existence: and if their idea of body did not include in it something more than the bare idea of space, they could have no doubt about the plenitude of the world; and it would be as absurd to demand, whether there were space without body, as whether there were space without space, or body without body, since these were but different names of the same idea. . extension being inseparable from body, proves it not the same. it is true, the idea of extension joins itself so inseparably with all visible, and most tangible qualities, that it suffers us to see no one, or feel very few external objects, without taking in impressions of extension too. this readiness of extension to make itself be taken notice of so constantly with other ideas, has been the occasion, i guess, that some have made the whole essence of body to consist in extension; which is not much to be wondered at, since some have had their minds, by their eyes and touch, (the busiest of all our senses,) so filled with the idea of extension, and, as it were, wholly possessed with it, that they allowed no existence to anything that had not extension. i shall not now argue with those men, who take the measure and possibility of all being only from their narrow and gross imaginations: but having here to do only with those who conclude the essence of body to be extension, because they say they cannot imagine any sensible quality of any body without extension,--i shall desire them to consider, that, had they reflected on their ideas of tastes and smells as much as on those of sight and touch; nay, had they examined their ideas of hunger and thirst, and several other pains, they would have found that they included in them no idea of extension at all, which is but an affection of body, as well as the rest, discoverable by our senses, which are scarce acute enough to look into the pure essences of things. . essences of things. if those ideas which are constantly joined to all others, must therefore be concluded to be the essence of those things which have constantly those ideas joined to them, and are inseparable from them; then unity is without doubt the essence of everything. for there is not any object of sensation or reflection which does not carry with it the idea of one: but the weakness of this kind of argument we have already shown sufficiently. . ideas of space and solidity distinct. to conclude: whatever men shall think concerning the existence of a vacuum, this is plain to me--that we have as clear an idea of space distinct from solidity, as we have of solidity distinct from motion, or motion from space. we have not any two more distinct ideas; and we can as easily conceive space without solidity, as we can conceive body or space without motion, though it be never so certain that neither body nor motion can exist without space. but whether any one will take space to be only a relation resulting from the existence of other beings at a distance; or whether they will think the words of the most knowing king solomon, ‘the heaven, and the heaven of heavens, cannot contain thee;’ or those more emphatical ones of the inspired philosopher st. paul, ‘in him we live, move, and have our being,’ are to be understood in a literal sense, i leave every one to consider: only our idea of space is, i think, such as i have mentioned, and distinct from that of body. for, whether we consider, in matter itself, the distance of its coherent solid parts, and call it, in respect of those solid parts, extension; or whether, considering it as lying between the extremities of any body in its several dimensions, we call it length, breadth, and thickness; or else, considering it as lying between any two bodies or positive beings, without any consideration whether there be any matter or not between, we call it distance;--however named or considered, it is always the same uniform simple idea of space, taken from objects about which our senses have been conversant; whereof, having settled ideas in our minds, we can revive, repeat, and add them one to another as often as we will, and consider the space or distance so imagined, either as filled with solid parts, so that another body cannot come there without displacing and thrusting out the body that was there before; or else as void of solidity, so that a body of equal dimensions to that empty or pure space may be placed in it, without the removing or expulsion of anything that was, there. . men differ little in clear, simple ideas. the knowing precisely what our words stand for, would, i imagine, in this as well as a great many other cases, quickly end the dispute. for i am apt to think that men, when they come to examine them, find their simple ideas all generally to agree, though in discourse with one another they perhaps confound one another with different names. i imagine that men who abstract their thoughts, and do well examine the ideas of their own minds, cannot much differ in thinking; however they may perplex themselves with words, according to the way of speaking of the several schools or sects they have been bred up in: though amongst unthinking men, who examine not scrupulously and carefully their own ideas, and strip them not from the marks men use for them, but confound them with words, there must be endless dispute, wrangling, and jargon; especially if they be learned, bookish men, devoted to some sect, and accustomed to the language of it, and have learned to talk after others. but if it should happen that any two thinking men should really have different ideas, i do not see how they could discourse or argue one with another. here i must not be mistaken, to think that every floating imagination in men’s brains is presently of that sort of ideas i speak of. it is not easy for the mind to put off those confused notions and prejudices it has imbibed from custom, inadvertency, and common conversation. it requires pains and assiduity to examine its ideas, till it resolves them into those clear and distinct simple ones, out of which they are compounded; and to see which, amongst its simple ones, have or have not a necessary connexion and dependence one upon another. till a man doth this in the primary and original notions of things, he builds upon floating and uncertain principles, and will often find himself at a loss. chapter xiv.--idea of duration and its simple modes. . duration is fleeting extension. there is another sort of distance, or length, the idea whereof we get not from the permanent parts of space, but from the fleeting and perpetually perishing parts of succession. this we call duration; the simple modes whereof are any different lengths of it whereof we have distinct ideas, as hours, days, years, &c., time and eternity. . its idea from reflection on the train of our ideas. the answer of a great man, to one who asked what time was: si non rogas intelligo, (which amounts to this; the more i set myself to think of it, the less i understand it,) might perhaps persuade one that time, which reveals all other things, is itself not to be discovered. duration, time, and eternity, are, not without reason, thought to have something very abstruse in their nature. but however remote these may seem from our comprehension, yet if we trace them right to their originals, i doubt not but one of those sources of all our knowledge, viz. sensation and reflection, will be able to furnish us with these ideas, as clear and distinct as many others which are thought much less obscure; and we shall find that the idea of eternity itself is derived from the same common original with the rest of our ideas. . nature and origin of the idea of duration. to understand time and eternity aright, we ought with attention to consider what idea it is we have of duration, and how we came by it. it is evident to any one who will but observe what passes in his own mind, that there is a train of ideas which constantly succeed one another in his understanding, as long as he is awake. reflection on these appearances of several ideas one after another in our minds, is that which furnishes us with the idea of succession: and the distance between any parts of that succession, or between the appearance of any two ideas in our minds, is that we call duration. for whilst we are thinking, or whilst we receive successively several ideas in our minds, we know that we do exist; and so we call the existence, or the continuation of the existence of ourselves, or anything else, commensurate to the succession of any ideas in our minds, the duration of ourselves, or any such other thing co-existent with our thinking. . proof that its idea is got from reflection on the train of our ideas. that we have our notion of succession and duration from this original, viz. from reflection on the train of ideas, which we find to appear one after another in our own minds, seems plain to me, in that we have no perception of duration but by considering the train of ideas that take their turns in our understandings. when that succession of ideas ceases, our perception of duration ceases with it; which every one clearly experiments in himself, whilst he sleeps soundly, whether an hour or a day, a month or a year; of which duration of things, while he sleeps or thinks not, he has no perception at all, but it is quite lost to him; and the moment wherein he leaves off to think, till the moment he begins to think again, seems to him to have no distance. and so i doubt not it would be to a waking man, if it were possible for him to keep only one idea in his mind, without variation and the succession of others. and we see, that one who fixes his thoughts very intently on one thing, so as to take but little notice of the succession of ideas that pass in his mind whilst he is taken up with that earnest contemplation, lets slip out of his account a good part of that duration, and thinks that time shorter than it is. but if sleep commonly unites the distant parts of duration, it is because during that time we have no succession of ideas in our minds. for if a man, during his sleep, dreams, and variety of ideas make themselves perceptible in his mind one after another, he hath then, during such dreaming, a sense of duration, and of the length of it. by which it is to me very clear, that men derive their ideas of duration from their reflections on the train of the ideas they observe to succeed one another in their own understandings; without which observation they can have no notion of duration, whatever may happen in the world. . the idea of duration applicable to things whilst we sleep. indeed a man having, from reflecting on the succession and number of his own thoughts, got the notion or idea of duration, he can apply that notion to things which exist while he does not think; as he that has got the idea of extension from bodies by his sight or touch, can apply it to distances, where no body is seen or felt. and therefore, though a man has no perception of the length of duration which passed whilst he slept or thought not; yet, having observed the revolution of days and nights, and found the length of their duration to be in appearance regular and constant, he can, upon the supposition that that revolution has proceeded after the same manner whilst he was asleep or thought not, as it used to do at other times, he can, i say, imagine and make allowance for the length of duration whilst he slept. but if adam and eve, (when they were alone in the world,) instead of their ordinary night’s sleep, had passed the whole twenty-four hours in one continued sleep, the duration of that twenty-four hours had been irrecoverably lost to them, and been for ever left out of their account of time. . the idea of succession not from motion. thus by reflecting on the appearing of various ideas one after another in our understandings, we get the notion of succession; which, if any one should think we did rather get from our observation of motion by our senses, he will perhaps be of my mind when he considers, that even motion produces in his mind an idea of succession no otherwise than as it produces there a continued train of distinguishable ideas. for a man looking upon a body really moving, perceives yet no motion at all unless that motion produces a constant train of successive ideas: v.g. a man becalmed at sea, out of sight of land, in a fair day, may look on the sun, or sea, or ship, a whole hour together, and perceive no motion at all in either; though it be certain that two, and perhaps all of them, have moved during that time a great way. but as soon as he perceives either of them to have changed distance with some other body, as soon as this motion produces any new idea in him, then he perceives that there has been motion. but wherever a man is, with all things at rest about him, without perceiving any motion at all,--if during this hour of quiet he has been thinking, he will perceive the various ideas of his own thoughts in his own mind, appearing one after another, and thereby observe and find succession where he could observe no motion. . very slow motions unperceived. and this, i think, is the reason why motions very slow, though they are constant, are not perceived by us; because in their remove from one sensible part towards another, their change of distance is so slow, that it causes no new ideas in us, but a good while one after another. and so not causing a constant train of new ideas to follow one another immediately in our minds, we have no perception of motion; which consisting in a constant succession, we cannot perceive that succession without a constant succession of varying ideas arising from it. . very swift motions unperceived. on the contrary, things that move so swift as not to affect the senses distinctly with several distinguishable distances of their motion, and so cause not any train of ideas in the mind, are not also perceived. for anything that moves round about in a circle, in less times than our ideas are wont to succeed one another in our minds, is not perceived to move; but seems to be a perfect entire circle of the matter or colour, and not a part of a circle in motion. . the train of ideas has a certain degree of quickness. hence i leave it to others to judge, whether it be not probable that our ideas do, whilst we are awake, succeed one another in our minds at certain distances; not much unlike the images in the inside of a lantern, turned round by the heat of a candle. this appearance of theirs in train, though perhaps it may be sometimes faster and sometimes slower, yet, i guess, varies not very much in a waking man: there seem to be certain bounds to the quickness and slowness of the succession of those ideas one to another in our minds, beyond which they can neither delay nor hasten. . real succession in swift motions without sense of succession. the reason i have for this odd conjecture is, from observing that, in the impressions made upon any of our senses, we can but to a certain degree perceive any succession; which, if exceeding quick, the sense of succession is lost, even in cases where it is evident that there is a real succession. let a cannon-bullet pass through a room, and in its way take with it any limb, or fleshy parts of a man, it is as clear as any demonstration can be, that it must strike successively the two sides of the room: it is also evident, that it must touch one part of the flesh first, and another after, and so in succession: and yet, i believe, nobody who ever felt the pain of such a shot, or heard the blow against the two distant walls, could perceive any succession either in the pain or sound of so swift a stroke. such a part of duration as this, wherein we perceive no succession, is that which we call an instant, and is that which takes up the time of only one idea in our minds, without the succession of another; wherein, therefore, we perceive no succession at all. . in slow motions. this also happens where the motion is so slow as not to supply a constant train of fresh ideas to the senses, as fast as the mind is capable of receiving new ones into it; and so other ideas of our own thoughts, having room to come into our minds between those offered to our senses by the moving body, there the sense of motion is lost; and the body, though it really moves, yet, not changing perceivable distance with some other bodies as fast as the ideas of our own minds do naturally follow one another in train, the thing seems to stand still; as is evident in the hands of clocks, and shadows of sun-dials, and other constant but slow motions, where, though, after certain intervals, we perceive, by the change of distance, that it hath moved, yet the motion itself we perceive not. . this train, the measure of other successions. so that to me it seems, that the constant and regular succession of ideas in a waking man, is, as it were, the measure and standard of all other successions. whereof if any one either exceeds the pace of our ideas, as where two sounds or pains, &c., take up in their succession the duration of but one idea; or else where any motion or succession is so slow, as that it keeps not pace with the ideas in our minds, or the quickness in which they take their turns, as when any one or more ideas in their ordinary course come into our mind, between those which are offered to the sight by the different perceptible distances of a body in motion, or between sounds or smells following one another,--there also the sense of a constant continued succession is lost, and we perceive it not, but with certain gaps of rest between. . the mind cannot fix long on one invariable idea. if it be so, that the ideas of our minds, whilst we have any there, do constantly change and shift in a continual succession, it would be impossible, may any one say, for a man to think long of any one thing. by which, if it be meant that a man may have one self-same single idea a long time alone in his mind, without any variation at all, i think, in matter of fact, it is not possible. for which (not knowing how the ideas of our minds are framed, of what materials they are made, whence they have their light, and how they come to make their appearances) i can give no other reason but experience: and i would have any one try, whether he can keep one unvaried single idea in his mind, without any other, for any considerable time together. . proof. for trial, let him take any figure, any degree of light or whiteness, or what other he pleases, and he will, i suppose, find it difficult to keep all other ideas out of his mind; but that some, either of another kind, or various considerations of that idea, (each of which considerations is a new idea,) will constantly succeed one another in his thoughts, let him be as wary as he can. . the extent of our power over the succession of our ideas. all that is in a man’s power in this case, i think, is only to mind and observe what the ideas are that take their turns in his understanding; or else to direct the sort, and call in such as he hath a desire or use of: but hinder the constant succession of fresh ones, i think he cannot, though he may commonly choose whether he will heedfully observe and consider them. . ideas, however made, include no sense of motion. whether these several ideas in a man’s mind be made by certain motions, i will not here dispute; but this i am sure, that they include no idea of motion in their appearance; and if a man had not the idea of motion otherwise, i think he would have none at all, which is enough to my present purpose; and sufficiently shows that the notice we take of the ideas of our own minds, appearing there one after another, is that which gives us the idea of succession and duration, without which we should have no such ideas at all. it is not then motion, but the constant train of ideas in our minds whilst we are waking, that furnishes us with the idea of duration; whereof motion no otherwise gives us any perception than as it causes in our minds a constant succession of ideas, as i have before showed: and we have as clear an idea of succession and duration, by the train of other ideas succeeding one another in our minds, without the idea of any motion, as by the train of ideas caused by the uninterrupted sensible change of distance between two bodies, which we have from motion; and therefore we should as well have the idea of duration were there no sense of motion at all. . time is duration set out by measures. having thus got the idea of duration, the next thing natural for the mind to do, is to get some measure of this common duration, whereby it might judge of its different lengths, and consider the distinct order wherein several things exist; without which a great part of our knowledge would be confused, and a great part of history be rendered very useless. this consideration of duration, as set out by certain periods and marked by certain measures or epochs, is that, i think, which most properly we call time. . a good measure of time must divide its whole duration into equal periods. in the measuring of extension, there is nothing more required but the application of the standard or measure we make use of to the thing of whose extension we would be informed. but in the measuring of duration this cannot be done, because no two different parts of succession can be put together to measure one another. and nothing being a measure of duration but duration, as nothing is of extension but extension, we cannot keep by us any standing, unvarying measure of duration, which consists in a constant fleeting succession, as we can of certain lengths of extension, as inches, feet, yards, &c., marked out in permanent parcels of matter. nothing then could serve well for a convenient measure of time, but what has divided the whole length of its duration into apparently equal portions, by constantly repeated periods. what portions of duration are not distinguished, or considered as distinguished and measured, by such periods, come not so properly under the notion of time; as appears by such phrases as these, viz. ‘before all time,’ and ‘when time shall be no more.’ . the revolutions of the sun and moon, the properest measures of time for mankind. the diurnal and annual revolutions of the sun, as having been, from the beginning of nature, constant, regular, and universally observable by all mankind, and supposed equal to one another, have been with reason made use of for the measure of duration. but the distinction of days and years having depended on the motion of the sun, it has brought this mistake with it, that it has been thought that motion and duration were the measure one of another. for men, in the measuring of the length of time, having been accustomed to the ideas of minutes, hours, days, months, years, &c., which they found themselves upon any mention of time or duration presently to think on, all which portions of time were measured out by the motion of those heavenly bodies, they were apt to confound time and motion; or at least to think that they had a necessary connexion one with another. whereas any constant periodical appearance, or alteration of ideas, in seemingly equidistant spaces of duration, if constant and universally observable, would have as well distinguished the intervals of time, as those that have been made use of. for, supposing the sun, which some have taken to be a fire, had been lighted up at the same distance of time that it now every day comes about to the same meridian, and then gone out again about twelve hours after, and that in the space of an annual revolution it had sensibly increased in brightness and heat, and so decreased again,--would not such regular appearances serve to measure out the distances of duration to all that could observe it, as well without as with motion? for if the appearances were constant, universally observable, in equidistant periods, they would serve mankind for measure of time as well were the motion away. . but not by their motion, but periodical appearances. for the freezing of water, or the blooming of a plant, returning at equidistant periods in all parts of the earth, would as well serve men to reckon their years by, as the motions of the sun: and in effect we see, that some people in america counted their years by the coming of certain birds amongst them at their certain seasons, and leaving them at others. for a fit of an ague; the sense of hunger or thirst; a smell or a taste; or any other idea returning constantly at equidistant periods, and making itself universally be taken notice of, would not fail to measure out the course of succession, and distinguish the distances of time. thus we see that men born blind count time well enough by years, whose revolutions yet they cannot distinguish by motions that they perceive not. and i ask whether a blind man, who distinguished his years either by the heat of summer, or cold of winter; by the smell of any flower of the spring, or taste of any fruit of the autumn, would not have a better measure of time than the romans had before the reformation of their calendar by julius caesar, or many other people, whose years, notwithstanding the motion of the sun, which they pretended to make use of, are very irregular? and it adds no small difficulty to chronology, that the exact lengths of the years that several nations counted by, are hard to be known, they differing very much one from another, and i think i may say all of them from the precise motion of the sun. and if the sun moved from the creation to the flood constantly in the equator, and so equally dispersed its light and heat to all the habitable parts of the earth, in days all of the same length without its annual variations to the tropics, as a late ingenious author supposes, i do not think it very easy to imagine, that (notwithstanding the motion of the sun) men should in the antediluvian world, from the beginning, count by years, or measure their time by periods that had no sensible mark very obvious to distinguish them by. . no two parts of duration can be certainly known to be equal. but perhaps it will be said,--without a regular motion, such as of the sun, or some other, how could it ever be known that such periods were equal? to which i answer,--the equality of any other returning appearances might be known by the same way that that of days was known, or presumed to be so at first; which was only by judging of them by the train of ideas which had passed in men’s minds in the intervals; by which train of ideas discovering inequality in the natural days, but none in the artificial days, the artificial days, or nuchthaemera, were guessed to be equal, which was sufficient to make them serve for a measure; though exacter search has since discovered inequality in the diurnal revolutions of the sun, and we know not whether the annual also be not unequal. these yet, by their presumed and apparent equality, serve as well to reckon time by (though not to measure the parts of duration exactly) as if they could be proved to be exactly equal. we must, therefore, carefully distinguish betwixt duration itself, and the measures we make use of to judge of its length. duration, in itself, is to be considered as going on in one constant, equal, uniform course: but none of the measures of it which we make use of can be known to do so, nor can we be assured that their assigned parts or periods are equal in duration one to another; for two successive lengths of duration, however measured, can never be demonstrated to be equal. the motion of the sun, which the world used so long and so confidently for an exact measure of duration, has, as i said, been found in its several parts unequal. and though men have, of late, made use of a pendulum, as a more steady and regular motion than that of the sun, or, (to speak more truly,) of the earth;--yet if any one should be asked how he certainly knows that the two successive swings of a pendulum are equal, it would be very hard to satisfy him that they are infallibly so; since we cannot be sure that the cause of that motion, which is unknown to us, shall always operate equally; and we are sure that the medium in which the pendulum moves is not constantly the same: either of which varying, may alter the equality of such periods, and thereby destroy the certainty and exactness of the measure by motion, as well as any other periods of other appearances; the notion of duration still remaining clear, though our measures of it cannot (any of them) be demonstrated to be exact. since then no two portions of succession can be brought together, it is impossible ever certainly to know their equality. all that we can do for a measure of time is, to take such as have continual successive appearances at seemingly equidistant periods; of which seeming equality we have no other measure, but such as the train of our own ideas have lodged in our memories, with the concurrence of other probable reasons, to persuade us of their equality. . time not the measure of motion one thing seems strange to me,--that whilst all men manifestly measured time by the motion of the great and visible bodies of the world, time yet should be defined to be the ‘measure of motion’: whereas it is obvious to every one who reflects ever so little on it, that to measure motion, space is as necessary to be considered as time; and those who look a little farther will find also the bulk of the thing moved necessary to be taken into the computation, by any one who will estimate or measure motion so as to judge right of it. nor indeed does motion any otherwise conduce to the measuring of duration, than as it constantly brings about the return of certain sensible ideas, in seeming equidistant periods. for if the motion of the sun were as unequal as of a ship driven by unsteady winds, sometimes very slow, and at others irregularly very swift; or if, being constantly equally swift, it yet was not circular, and produced not the same appearances,--it would not at all help us to measure time, any more than the seeming unequal motion of a comet does. . minutes, hours, days, and years are, then, no more minutes, hours, days, and years not necessary measures of duration, necessary to time or duration, than inches, feet, yards, and miles, marked out in any matter, are to extension. for, though we in this part of the universe, by the constant use of them, as of periods set out by the revolutions of the sun, or as known parts of such periods, have fixed the ideas of such lengths of duration in our minds, which we apply to all parts of time whose lengths we would consider; yet there may be other parts of the universe, where they no more use these measures of ours, than in japan they do our inches, feet, or miles; but yet something analogous to them there must be. for without some regular periodical returns, we could not measure ourselves, or signify to others, the length of any duration; though at the same time the world were as full of motion as it is now, but no part of it disposed into regular and apparently equidistant revolutions. but the different measures that may be made use of for the account of time, do not at all alter the notion of duration, which is the thing to be measured; no more than the different standards of a foot and a cubit alter the notion of extension to those who make use of those different measures. . our measure of time applicable to duration before time. the mind having once got such a measure of time as the annual revolution of the sun, can apply that measure to duration wherein that measure itself did not exist, and with which, in the reality of its being, it had nothing to do. for should one say, that abraham was born in the two thousand seven hundred and twelfth year of the julian period, it is altogether as intelligible as reckoning from the beginning of the world, though there were so far back no motion of the sun, nor any motion at all. for, though the julian period be supposed to begin several hundred years before there were really either days, nights, or years, marked out by any revolutions of the sun,--yet we reckon as right, and thereby measure durations as well, as if really at that time the sun had existed, and kept the same ordinary motion it doth now. the idea of duration equal to an annual revolution of the sun, is as easily applicable in our thoughts to duration, where no sun or motion was, as the idea of a foot or yard, taken from bodies here, can be applied in our thoughts to distances beyond the confines of the world, where are no bodies at all. . as we can measure space in our thoughts where there is no body. for supposing it were miles, or millions of miles, from this place to the remotest body of the universe, (for, being finite, it must be at a certain distance,) as we suppose it to be years from this time to the first existence of any body in the beginning of the world;--we can, in our thoughts, apply this measure of a year to duration before the creation, or beyond the duration of bodies or motion, as we can this measure of a mile to space beyond the utmost bodies; and by the one measure duration, where there was no motion, as well as by the other measure space in our thoughts, where there is no body. . the assumption that the world is neither boundless nor eternal. if it be objected to me here, that, in this way of explaining of time, i have begged what i should not, viz. that the world is neither eternal nor infinite; i answer, that to my present purpose it is not needful, in this place, to make use of arguments to evince the world to be finite both in duration and extension. but it being at least as conceivable as the contrary, i have certainly the liberty to suppose it, as well as any one hath to suppose the contrary; and i doubt not, but that every one that will go about it, may easily conceive in his mind the beginning of motion, though not of all duration, and so may come to a step and non ultra in his consideration of motion. so also, in his thoughts, he may set limits to body, and the extension belonging to it; but not to space, where no body is, the utmost bounds of space and duration being beyond the reach of thought, as well as the utmost bounds of number are beyond the largest comprehension of the mind; and all for the same reason, as we shall see in another place. . eternity. by the same means, therefore, and from the same original that we come to have the idea of time, we have also that idea which we call eternity; viz. having got the idea of succession and duration, by reflecting on the train of our own ideas, caused in us either by the natural appearances of those ideas coming constantly of themselves into our waking thoughts, or else caused by external objects successively affecting our senses; and having from the revolutions of the sun got the ideas of certain lengths of duration,--we can in our thoughts add such lengths of duration to one another, as often as we please, and apply them, so added, to durations past or to come. and this we can continue to do on, without bounds or limits, and proceed in infinitum, and apply thus the length of the annual motion of the sun to duration, supposed before the sun’s or any other motion had its being, which is no more difficult or absurd, than to apply the notion i have of the moving of a shadow one hour to-day upon the sun-dial to the duration of something last night, v. g. the burning of a candle, which is now absolutely separate from all actual motion; and it is as impossible for the duration of that flame for an hour last night to co-exist with any motion that now is, or for ever shall be, as for any part of duration, that was before the beginning of the world, to co exist with the motion of the sun now. but yet this hinders not but that, having the idea of the length of the motion of the shadow on a dial between the marks of two hours, i can as distinctly measure in my thoughts the duration of that candle-light last night, as i can the duration of anything that does now exist: and it is no more than to think, that, had the sun shone then on the dial, and moved after the same rate it doth now, the shadow on the dial would have passed from one hour-line to another whilst that flame of the candle lasted. . our measures of duration dependent on our ideas. the notion of an hour, day, or year, being only the idea i have of the length of certain periodical regular motions, neither of which motions do ever all at once exist, but only in the ideas i have of them in my memory derived from my senses or reflection; i can with the same ease, and for the same reason, apply it in my thoughts to duration antecedent to all manner of motion, as well as to anything that is but a minute or a day antecedent to the motion that at this very moment the sun is in. all things past are equally and perfectly at rest; and to this way of consideration of them are all one, whether they were before the beginning of the world, or but yesterday: the measuring of any duration by some motion depending not at all on the real co-existence of that thing to that motion, or any other periods of revolution, but the having a clear idea of the length of some periodical known motion, or other interval of duration, in my mind, and applying that to the duration of the thing i would measure. . the duration of anything need not be co-existent with the motion we measure it by. hence we see that some men imagine the duration of of the world, from its first existence to this present year , to have been years, or equal to annual revolutions of the sun, and others a great deal more; as the egyptians of old, who in the time of alexander counted , years from the reign of the sun; and the chinese now, who account the world , , years old, or more; which longer duration of the world, according to their computation, though i should not believe to be true, yet i can equally imagine it with them, and as truly understand, and say one is longer than the other, as i understand, that methusalem’s life was longer than enoch’s. and if the common reckoning of should be true, (as it may be as well as any other assigned,) it hinders not at all my imagining what others mean, when they make the world one thousand years older, since every one may with the same facility imagine (i do not say believe) the world to be , years old, as ; and may as well conceive the duration of , years as . whereby it appears that, to the measuring the duration of anything by time, it is not requisite that that thing should be co-existent to the motion we measure by, or any other periodical revolution; but it suffices to this purpose, that we have the idea of the length of any regular periodical appearances, which we can in our minds apply to duration, with which the motion or appearance never co-existed. . infinity in duration. for, as in the history of the creation delivered by moses, i can imagine that light existed three days before the sun was, or had any motion, barely by thinking that the duration of light before the sun was created was so long as (if the sun had moved then as it doth now) would have been equal to three of his diurnal revolutions; so by the same way i can have an idea of the chaos, or angels, being created before there was either light or any continued motion, a minute, an hour, a day, a year, or one thousand years. for, if i can but consider duration equal to one minute, before either the being or motion of any body, i can add one minute more till i come to sixty; and by the same way of adding minutes, hours, or years (i.e. such or such parts of the sun’s revolutions, or any other period whereof i have the idea) proceed in infinitum, and suppose a duration exceeding as many such periods as i can reckon, let me add whilst i will, which i think is the notion we have of eternity; of whose infinity we have no other notion than we have of the infinity of number, to which we can add for ever without end. . origin of our ideas of duration, and of the measures of it. and thus i think it is plain, that from those two fountains of all knowledge before mentioned, viz. reflection and sensation, we got the ideas of duration, and the measures of it. for, first, by observing what passes in our minds, how our ideas there in train constantly some vanish and others begin to appear, we come by the idea of succession. secondly, by observing a distance in the parts of this succession, we get the idea of duration. thirdly, by sensation observing certain appearances, at certain regular and seeming equidistant periods, we get the ideas of certain lengths or measures of duration, as minutes, hours, days, years, &c. fourthly, by being able to repeat those measures of time, or ideas of stated length of duration, in our minds, as often as we will, we can come to imagine duration,--where nothing does really endure or exist; and thus we imagine to-morrow, next year, or seven years hence. fifthly, by being able to repeat ideas of any length of time, as of a minute, a year, or an age, as often as we will in our own thoughts, and adding them one to another, without ever coming to the end of such addition, any nearer than we can to the end of number, to which we can always add; we come by the idea of eternity, as the future eternal duration of our souls, as well as the eternity of that infinite being which must necessarily have always existed. sixthly, by considering any part of infinite duration, as set out by periodical measures, we come by the idea of what we call time in general. chapter xv.--ideas of duration and expansion, considered together. . both capable of greater and less. though we have in the precedent chapters dwelt pretty long on the considerations of space and duration, yet, they being ideas of general concernment, that have something very abstruse and peculiar in their nature, the comparing them one with another may perhaps be of use for their illustration; and we may have the more clear and distinct conception of them by taking a view of them together. distance or space, in its simple abstract conception, to avoid confusion, i call expansion, to distinguish it from extension, which by some is used to express this distance only as it is in the solid parts of matter, and so includes, or at least intimates, the idea of body: whereas the idea of pure distance includes no such thing. i prefer also the word expansion to space, because space is often applied to distance of fleeting successive parts, which never exist together, as well as to those which are permanent. in both these (viz. expansion and duration) the mind has this common idea of continued lengths, capable of greater or less quantities. for a man has as clear an idea of the difference of the length of an hour and a day, as of an inch and a foot. . expansion not bounded by matter. the mind, having got the idea of the length of any part of expansion, let it be a span, or a pace, or what length you will, can, as has been said, repeat that idea, and so, adding it to the former, enlarge its idea of length, and make it equal to two spans, or two paces; and so, as often as it will, till it equals the distance of any parts of the earth one from another, and increase thus till it amounts to the distance of the sun or remotest star. by such a progression as this, setting out from the place where it is, or any other place, it can proceed and pass beyond all those lengths, and find nothing to stop its going on, either in or without body. it is true, we can easily in our thoughts come to the end of solid extension; the extremity and bounds of all body we have no difficulty to arrive at: but when the mind is there, it finds nothing to hinder its progress into this endless expansion; of that it can neither find nor conceive any end. nor let any one say, that beyond the bounds of body, there is nothing at all; unless he will confine god within the limits of matter. solomon, whose understanding was filled and enlarged with wisdom, seems to have other thoughts when he says, ‘heaven, and the heaven of heavens, cannot contain thee.’ and he, i think, very much magnifies to himself the capacity of his own understanding, who persuades himself that he can extend his thoughts further than god exists, or imagine any expansion where he is not. . nor duration by motion. just so is it in duration. the mind having got the idea of any length of duration, can double, multiply, and enlarge it, not only beyond its own, but beyond the existence of all corporeal beings, and all the measures of time, taken from the great bodies of all the world and their motions. but yet every one easily admits, that, though we make duration boundless, as certainly it is, we cannot yet extend it beyond all being. god, every one easily allows, fills eternity; and it is hard to find a reason why any one should doubt that he likewise fills immensity. his infinite being is certainly as boundless one way as another; and methinks it ascribes a little too much to matter to say, where there is no body, there is nothing. . why men more easily admit infinite duration than infinite expansion. hence i think we may learn the reason why every one familiarly and without the least hesitation speaks of and supposes eternity, and sticks not to ascribe infinity to duration; but it is with more doubting and reserve that many admit or suppose the infinity of space. the reason whereof seems to me to be this,--that duration and extension being used as names of affections belonging to other beings, we easily conceive in god infinite duration, and we cannot avoid doing so: but, not attributing to him extension, but only to matter, which is finite, we are apter to doubt of the existence of expansion without matter; of which alone we commonly suppose it an attribute. and, therefore, when men pursue their thoughts of space, they are apt to stop at the confines of body: as if space were there at an end too, and reached no further. or if their ideas, upon consideration, carry them further, yet they term what is beyond the limits of the universe, imaginary space: as if it were nothing, because there is no body existing in it. whereas duration, antecedent to all body, and to the motions which it is measured by, they never term imaginary: because it is never supposed void of some other real existence. and if the names of things may at all direct our thoughts towards the original of men’s ideas, (as i am apt to think they may very much,) one may have occasion to think by the name duration, that the continuation of existence, with a kind of resistance to any destructive force, and the continuation of solidity (which is apt to be confounded with, and if we will look into the minute anatomical parts of matter, is little different from, hardness) were thought to have some analogy, and gave occasion to words so near of kin as durare and durum esse. and that durare is applied to the idea of hardness, as well as that of existence, we see in horace, epod. xvi. ferro duravit secula. but, be that as it will, this is certain, that whoever pursues his own thoughts, will find them sometimes launch out beyond the extent of body, into the infinity of space or expansion; the idea whereof is distinct and separate from body and all other things: which may, (to those who please,) be a subject of further meditation. . time to duration is as place to expansion. time in general is to duration as place to expansion. they are so much of those boundless oceans of eternity and immensity as is set out and distinguished from the rest, as it were by landmarks; and so are made use of to denote the position of finite real beings, in respect one to another, in those uniform infinite oceans of duration and space. these, rightly considered, are only ideas of determinate distances from certain known points, fixed in distinguishable sensible things, and supposed to keep the same distance one from another. from such points fixed in sensible beings we reckon, and from them we measure our portions of those infinite quantities; which, so considered, are that which we call time and place. for duration and space being in themselves uniform and boundless, the order and position of things, without such known settled points, would be lost in them; and all things would lie jumbled in an incurable confusion. . time and place are taken for so much of either as are set out by the existence and motion of bodies. time and place, taken thus for determinate distinguishable portions of those infinite abysses of space and duration, set out or supposed to be distinguished from the rest, by marks and known boundaries, have each of them a twofold acceptation. first, time in general is commonly taken for so much of infinite duration as is measured by, and co-existent with, the existence and motions of the great bodies of the universe, as far as we know anything of them: and in this sense time begins and ends with the frame of this sensible world, as in these phrases before mentioned, ‘before all time,’ or, ‘when time shall be no more.’ place likewise is taken sometimes for that portion of infinite space which is possessed by and comprehended within the material world; and is thereby distinguished from the rest of expansion; though this may be more properly called extension than place. within these two are confined, and by the observable parts of them are measured and determined, the particular time or duration, and the particular extension and place, of all corporeal beings. . sometimes for so much of either as we design by measures taken from the bulk or motion of bodies. secondly, sometimes the word time is used in a larger sense, and is applied to parts of that infinite duration, not that were really distinguished and measured out by this real existence, and periodical motions of bodies, that were appointed from the beginning to be for signs and for seasons and for days and years, and are accordingly our measures of time; but such other portions too of that infinite uniform duration, which we upon any occasion do suppose equal to certain lengths of measured time; and so consider them as bounded and determined. for, if we should suppose the creation, or fall of the angels, was at the beginning of the julian period, we should speak properly enough, and should be understood if we said, it is a longer time since the creation of angels than the creation of the world, by years: whereby we would mark out so much of that undistinguished duration as we suppose equal to, and would have admitted, annual revolutions of the sun, moving at the rate it now does. and thus likewise we sometimes speak of place, distance, or bulk, in the great inane, beyond the confines of the world, when we consider so much of that space as is equal to, or capable to receive, a body of any assigned dimensions, as a cubic foot; or do suppose a point in it, at such a certain distance from any part of the universe. . they belong to all finite beings. where and when are questions belonging to all finite existences, and are by us always reckoned from some known parts of this sensible world, and from some certain epochs marked out to us by the motions observable in it. without some such fixed parts or periods, the order of things would be lost, to our finite understandings, in the boundless invariable oceans of duration and expansion, which comprehend in them all finite beings, and in their full extent belong only to the deity. and therefore we are not to wonder that we comprehend them not, and do so often find our thoughts at a loss, when we would consider them, either abstractly in themselves, or as any way attributed to the first incomprehensible being. but when applied to any particular finite beings, the extension of any body is so much of that infinite space as the bulk of the body takes up. and place is the position of any body, when considered at a certain distance from some other. as the idea of the particular duration of anything is, an idea of that portion of infinite duration which passes during the existence of that thing; so the time when the thing existed is, the idea of that space of duration which passed between some known and fixed period of duration, and the being of that thing. one shows the distance of the extremities of the bulk or existence of the same thing, as that it is a foot square, or lasted two years; the other shows the distance of it in place, or existence from other fixed points of space or duration, as that it was in the middle of lincoln’s inn fields, or the first degree of taurus, and in the year of our lord , or the th year of the julian period. all which distances we measure by preconceived ideas of certain lengths of space and duration,--as inches, feet, miles, and degrees, and in the other, minutes, days, and years, &c. . all the parts of extension are extension, and all the parts of duration are duration. there is one thing more wherein space and duration have a great conformity, and that is, though they are justly reckoned amongst our simple ideas, yet none of the distinct ideas we have of either is without all manner of composition: it is the very nature of both of them to consist of parts: but their parts being all of the same kind, and without the mixture of any other idea, hinder them not from having a place amongst simple ideas. could the mind, as in number, come to so small a part of extension or duration as excluded divisibility, that would be, as it were, the indivisible unit or idea; by repetition of which, it would make its more enlarged ideas of extension and duration. but, since the mind is not able to frame an idea of any space without parts, instead thereof it makes use of the common measures, which, by familiar use in each country, have imprinted themselves on the memory (as inches and feet; or cubits and parasangs; and so seconds, minutes, hours, days, and years in duration);--the mind makes use, i say, of such ideas as these, as simple ones: and these are the component parts of larger ideas, which the mind upon occasion makes by the addition of such known lengths which it is acquainted with. on the other side, the ordinary smallest measure we have of either is looked on as an unit in number, when the mind by division would reduce them into less fractions. though on both sides, both in addition and division, either of space or duration, when the idea under consideration becomes very big or very small, its precise bulk becomes very obscure and confused; and it is the number of its repeated additions or divisions that alone remains clear and distinct; as will easily appear to any one who will let his thoughts loose in the vast expansion of space, or divisibility of matter. every part of duration is duration too; and every part of extension is extension, both of them capable of addition or division in infinitum. but the least portions of either of them, whereof we have clear and distinct ideas, may perhaps be fittest to be considered by us, as the simple ideas of that kind out of which our complex modes of space, extension, and duration are made up, and into which they can again be distinctly resolved. such a small part in duration may be called a moment, and is the time of one idea in our minds, in the train of their ordinary succession there. the other, wanting a proper name, i know not whether i may be allowed to call a sensible point, meaning thereby the least particle of matter or space we can discern, which is ordinarily about a minute, and to the sharpest eyes seldom less than thirty seconds of a circle, whereof the eye is the centre. . their parts inseparable. expansion and duration have this further agreement, that, though they are both considered by us as having parts, yet their parts are not separable one from another, no not even in thought: though the parts of bodies from whence we take our measure of the one; and the parts of motion, or rather the succession of ideas in our minds, from whence we take the measure of the other, may be interrupted and separated; as the one is often by rest, and the other is by sleep, which we call rest too. . duration is as a line, expansion as a solid. but there is this manifest difference between them,--that the ideas of length which we have of expansion are turned every way, and so make figure, and breadth, and thickness; but duration is but as it were the length of one straight line, extended in infinitum, not capable of multiplicity, variation, or figure; but is one common measure of all existence whatsoever, wherein all things, whilst they exist, equally partake. for this present moment is common to all things that are now in being, and equally comprehends that part of their existence, as much as if they were all but one single being; and we may truly say, they all exist in the same moment of time. whether angels and spirits have any analogy to this, in respect to expansion, is beyond my comprehension: and perhaps for us, who have understandings and comprehensions suited to our own preservation, and the ends of our own being, but not to the reality and extent of all other beings, it is near as hard to conceive any existence, or to have an idea of any real being, with a perfect negation of all manner of expansion, as it is to have the idea of any real existence with a perfect negation of all manner of duration. and therefore, what spirits have to do with space, or how they communicate in it, we know not. all that we know is, that bodies do each singly possess its proper portion of it, according to the extent of solid parts; and thereby exclude all other bodies from having any share in that particular portion of space, whilst it remains there. . duration has never two parts together, expansion altogether. duration, and time which is a part of it, is the idea we have of perishing distance, of which no two parts exist together, but follow each other in succession; an expansion is the idea of lasting distance, all whose parts exist together and are not capable of succession. and therefore, though we cannot conceive any duration without succession, nor can put it together in our thoughts that any being does now exist to-morrow, or possess at once more than the present moment of duration; yet we can conceive the eternal duration of the almighty far different from that of man, or any other finite being. because man comprehends not in his knowledge or power all past and future things: his thoughts are but of yesterday, and he knows not what to-morrow will bring forth. what is once past he can never recall; and what is yet to come he cannot make present. what i say of man, i say of all finite beings; who, though they may far exceed man in knowledge and power, yet are no more than the meanest creature, in comparison with god himself. finite or any magnitude holds not any proportion to infinite. god’s infinite duration, being accompanied with infinite knowledge and infinite power, he sees all things, past and to come; and they are no more distant from his knowledge, no further removed from his sight, than the present: they all lie under the same view: and there is nothing which he cannot make exist each moment he pleases. for the existence of all things, depending upon his good pleasure, all things exist every moment that he thinks fit to have them exist. to conclude: expansion and duration do mutually embrace and comprehend each other; every part of space being in every part of duration, and every part of duration in every part of expansion. such a combination of two distinct ideas is, i suppose, scarce to be found in all that great variety we do or can conceive, and may afford matter to further speculation. chapter xvi.--idea of number. . number the simplest and most universal idea. amongst all the ideas we have, as there is none suggested to the mind by more ways, so there is none more simple, than that of unity, or one: it has no shadow of variety or composition in it: every object our senses are employed about; every idea in our understandings; every thought of our minds, brings this idea along with it. and therefore it is the most intimate to our thoughts, as well as it is, in its agreement to all other things, the most universal idea we have. for number applies itself to men, angels, actions, thoughts; everything that either doth exist or can be imagined. . its modes made by addition. by repeating this idea in our minds, and adding the repetitions together, we come by the complex ideas of the modes of it. thus, by adding one to one, we have the complex idea of a couple; by putting twelve units together we have the complex idea of a dozen; and so of a score or a million, or any other number. . each mode distinct. the simple modes of number are of all other the most distinct; every the least variation, which is an unit, making each combination as clearly different from that which approacheth nearest to it, as the most remote; two being as distinct from one, as two hundred; and the idea of two as distinct from the idea of three, as the magnitude of the whole earth is from that of a mite. this is not so in other simple modes, in which it is not so easy, nor perhaps possible for us to distinguish betwixt two approaching ideas, which yet are really different. for who will undertake to find a difference between the white of this paper and that of the next degree to it: or can form distinct ideas of every the least excess in extension? . therefore demonstrations in numbers the most precise. the clearness and distinctness of each mode of number from all others, even those that approach nearest, makes me apt to think that demonstrations in numbers, if they are not more evident and exact than in extension, yet they are more general in their use, and more determinate in their application. because the ideas of numbers are more precise and distinguishable than in extension; where every equality and excess are not so easy to be observed or measured; because our thoughts cannot in space arrive at any determined smallness beyond which it cannot go, as an unit; and therefore the quantity or proportion of any the least excess cannot be discovered; which is clear otherwise in number, where, as has been said, is as distinguishable from as from , though be the next immediate excess to . but it is not so in extension, where, whatsoever is more than just a foot or an inch, is not distinguishable from the standard of a foot or an inch; and in lines which appear of an equal length, one may be longer than the other by innumerable parts: nor can any one assign an angle, which shall be the next biggest to a right one. . names necessary to numbers. by the repeating, as has been said, the idea of an unit, and joining it to another unit, we make thereof one collective idea, marked by the name two. and whosoever can do this, and proceed on, still adding one more to the last collective idea which he had of any number, and gave a name to it, may count, or have ideas, for several collections of units, distinguished one from another, as far as he hath a series of names for following numbers, and a memory to retain that series, with their several names: all numeration being but still the adding of one unit more, and giving to the whole together, as comprehended in one idea, a new or distinct name or sign, whereby to know it from those before and after, and distinguish it from every smaller or greater multitude of units. so that he that can add one to one, and so to two, and so go on with his tale, taking still with him the distinct names belonging to every progression; and so again, by subtracting an unit from each collection, retreat and lessen them, is capable of all the ideas of numbers within the compass of his language, or for which he hath names, though not perhaps of more. for, the several simple modes of numbers being in our minds but so many combinations of units, which have no variety, nor are capable of any other difference but more or less, names or marks for each distinct combination seem more necessary than in any other sort of ideas. for, without such names or marks, we can hardly well make use of numbers in reckoning, especially where the combination is made up of any great multitude of units; which put together, without a name or mark to distinguish that precise collection, will hardly be kept from being a heap in confusion. . another reason for the necessity of names to numbers. this i think to be the reason why some americans i have spoken with, (who were otherwise of quick and rational parts enough,) could not, as we do, by any means count to ; nor had any distinct idea of that number, though they could reckon very well to . because their language being scanty, and accommodated only to the few necessaries of a needy, simple life, unacquainted either with trade or mathematics, had no words in it to stand for ; so that when they were discoursed with of those greater numbers, they would show the hairs of their head, to express a great multitude, which they could not number; which inability, i suppose, proceeded from their want of names. the tououpinambos had no names for numbers above ; any number beyond that they made out by showing their fingers, and the fingers of others who were present. and i doubt not but we ourselves might distinctly number in words a great deal further than we usually do, would we find out but some fit denominations to signify them by; whereas, in the way we take now to name them, by millions of millions of millions, &c., it is hard to go beyond eighteen, or at most, four and twenty, decimal progressions, without confusion. but to show how much distinct names conduce to our well reckoning, or having useful ideas of numbers, let us see all these following figures in one continued line, as the marks of one number: v. g. nonillions. octillions. septillions. sextillions. quintrillions. quartrillions. trillions. billions. millions. units. the ordinary way of naming this number in english, will be the often repeating of millions, of millions, of millions, of millions, of millions, of millions, of millions, of millions, (which is the denomination of the second six figures). in which way, it will be very hard to have any distinguishing notions of this number. but whether, by giving every six figures a new and orderly denomination, these, and perhaps a great many more figures in progression, might not easily be counted distinctly, and ideas of them both got more easily to ourselves, and more plainly signified to others, i leave it to be considered. this i mention only to show how necessary distinct names are to numbering, without pretending to introduce new ones of my invention. . why children number not earlier. thus children, either for want of names to mark the several progressions of numbers, or not having yet the faculty to collect scattered ideas into complex ones, and range them in a regular order, and so retain them in their memories, as is necessary to reckoning, do not begin to number very early, nor proceed in it very far or steadily, till a good while after they are well furnished with good store of other ideas: and one may often observe them discourse and reason pretty well, and have very clear conceptions of several other things, before they can tell twenty. and some, through the default of their memories, who cannot retain the several combinations of numbers, with their names, annexed in their distinct orders, and the dependence of so long a train of numeral progressions, and their relation one to another, are not able all their lifetime to reckon, or regularly go over any moderate series of numbers. for he that will count twenty, or have any idea of that number, must know that nineteen went before, with the distinct name or sign of every one of them, as they stand marked in their order; for wherever this fails, a gap is made, the chain breaks, and the progress in numbering can go no further. so that to reckon right, it is required, ( ) that the mind distinguish carefully two ideas, which are different one from another only by the addition or subtraction of one unit: ( ) that it retain in memory the names or marks of the several combinations, from an unit to that number; and that not confusedly, and at random, but in that exact order that the numbers follow one another. in either of which, if it trips, the whole business of numbering will be disturbed, and there will remain only the confused idea of multitude, but the ideas necessary to distinct numeration will not be attained to. . number measures all measurables. this further is observable in number, that it is that which the mind makes use of in measuring all things that by us are measurable, which principally are expansion and duration; and our idea of infinity, even when applied to those, seems to be nothing but the infinity of number. for what else are our ideas of eternity and immensity, but the repeated additions of certain ideas of imagined parts of duration and expansion, with the infinity of number; in which we can come to no end of addition? for such an inexhaustible stock, number (of all other our ideas) most clearly furnishes us with, as is obvious to every one. for let a man collect into one sum as great a number as he pleases, this multitude how great soever, lessens not one jot the power of adding to it, or brings him any nearer the end of the inexhaustible stock of number; where still there remains as much to be added, as if none were taken out. and this endless addition or addibility (if any one like the word better) of numbers, so apparent to the mind, is that, i think, which gives us the clearest and most distinct idea of infinity: of which more in the following chapter. chapter xvii.--of infinity. . infinity, in its original intention, attributed to space, duration, and number. he that would know what kind of idea it is to which we give the name of infinity, cannot do it better than by considering to what infinity is by the mind more immediately attributed; and then how the mind comes to frame it. finite and infinite seem to me to be looked upon by the mind as the modes of quantity, and to be attributed primarily in their first designation only to those things which have parts, and are capable of increase or diminution by the addition or subtraction of any the least part: and such are the ideas of space, duration, and number, which we have considered in the foregoing chapters. it is true, that we cannot but be assured, that the great god, of whom and from whom are all things, is incomprehensibly infinite: but yet, when we apply to that first and supreme being our idea of infinite, in our weak and narrow thoughts, we do it primarily in respect to his duration and ubiquity; and, i think, more figuratively to his power, wisdom, and goodness, and other attributes which are properly inexhaustible and incomprehensible, &c. for, when we call them infinite, we have no other idea of this infinity but what carries with it some reflection on, and imitation of, that number or extent of the acts or objects of god’s power, wisdom, and goodness, which can never be supposed so great, or so many, which these attributes will not always surmount and exceed, let us multiply them in our thoughts as far as we can, with all the infinity of endless number. i do not pretend to say how these attributes are in god, who is infinitely beyond the reach of our narrow capacities: they do, without doubt, contain in them all possible perfection: but this, i say, is our way of conceiving them, and these our ideas of their infinity. . the idea of finite easily got. finite then, and infinite, being by the mind looked on as modifications of expansion and duration, the next thing to be considered, is,--how the mind comes by them. as for the idea of finite, there is no great difficulty. the obvious portions of extension that affect our senses, carry with them into the mind the idea of finite: and the ordinary periods of succession, whereby we measure time and duration, as hours, days, and years, are bounded lengths. the difficulty is, how we come by those boundless ideas of eternity and immensity; since the objects we converse with come so much short of any approach or proportion to that largeness. . how we come by the idea of infinity. every one that has any idea of any stated lengths of space, as a foot, finds that he can repeat that idea; and joining it to the former, make the idea of two feet; and by the addition of a third, three feet; and so on, without ever coming to an end of his additions, whether of the same idea of a foot, or, if he pleases, of doubling it, or any other idea he has of any length, as a mile, or diameter of the earth, or of the orbis magnus: for whichever of these he takes, and how often soever he doubles, or any otherwise multiplies it, he finds, that, after he has continued his doubling in his thoughts, and enlarged his idea as much as he pleases, he has no more reason to stop, nor is one jot nearer the end of such addition, than he was at first setting out: the power of enlarging his idea of space by further additions remaining still the same, he hence takes the idea of infinite space. . our idea of space boundless. this, i think, is the way whereby the mind gets the idea of infinite space. it is a quite different consideration, to examine whether the mind has the idea of such a boundless space actually existing; since our ideas are not always proofs of the existence of things: but yet, since this comes here in our way, i suppose i may say, that we are apt to think that space in itself is actually boundless, to which imagination the idea of space or expansion of itself naturally leads us. for, it being considered by us, either as the extension of body, or as existing by itself, without any solid matter taking it up, (for of such a void space we have not only the idea, but i have proved, as i think, from the motion of body, its necessary existence,) it is impossible the mind should be ever able to find or suppose any end of it, or be stopped anywhere in its progress in this space, how far soever it extends its thoughts. any bounds made with body, even adamantine walls, are so far from putting a stop to the mind in its further progress in space and extension that it rather facilitates and enlarges it. for so far as that body reaches, so far no one can doubt of extension; and when we are come to the utmost extremity of body, what is there that can there put a stop, and satisfy the mind that it is at the end of space, when it perceives that it is not; nay, when it is satisfied that body itself can move into it? for, if it be necessary for the motion of body, that there should be an empty space, though ever so little, here amongst bodies; and if it be possible for body to move in or through that empty space;--nay, it is impossible for any particle of matter to move but into an empty space; the same possibility of a body’s moving into a void space, beyond the utmost bounds of body, as well as into a void space interspersed amongst bodies, will always remain clear and evident: the idea of empty pure space, whether within or beyond the confines of all bodies, being exactly the same, differing not in nature, though in bulk; and there being nothing to hinder body from moving into it. so that wherever the mind places itself by any thought, either amongst, or remote from all bodies, it can, in this uniform idea of space, nowhere find any bounds, any end; and so must necessarily conclude it, by the very nature and idea of each part of it, to be actually infinite. . and so of duration. as, by the power we find in ourselves of repeating, as often as we will, any idea of space, we get the idea of immensity; so, by being able to repeat the idea of any length of duration we have in our minds, with all the endless addition of number, we come by the idea of eternity. for we find in ourselves, we can no more come to an end of such repeated ideas than we can come to the end of number; which every one perceives he cannot. but here again it is another question, quite different from our having an idea of eternity, to know whether there were any real being, whose duration has been eternal. and as to this, i say, he that considers something now existing, must necessarily come to something eternal. but having spoke of this in another place, i shall say here no more of it, but proceed on to some other considerations of our idea of infinity. . why other ideas are not capable of infinity. if it be so, that our idea of infinity be got from the power we observe in ourselves of repeating, without end, our own ideas, it may be demanded,--why we do not attribute infinity to other ideas, as well as those of space and duration; since they may be as easily, and as often, repeated in our minds as the other: and yet nobody ever thinks of infinite sweetness or infinite whiteness, though he can repeat the idea of sweet or white, as frequently as those of a yard or a day? to which i answer,--all the ideas that are considered as having parts, and are capable of increase by the addition of an equal or less parts, afford us, by their repetition, the idea of infinity; because, with this endless repetition, there is continued an enlargement of which there can be no end. but for other ideas it is not so. for to the largest idea of extension or duration that i at present have, the addition of any the least part makes an increase; but to the perfectest idea i have of the whitest whiteness, if i add another of a less equal whiteness, (and of a whiter than i have, i cannot add the idea,) it makes no increase, and enlarges not my idea at all; and therefore the different ideas of whiteness, &c. are called degrees. for those ideas that consist of part are capable of being augmented by every addition of the least part; but if you take the idea of white, which one parcel of snow yielded yesterday to our sight, and another idea of white from another parcel of snow you see to-day, and put them together in your mind, they embody, as it were, all run into one, and the idea of whiteness is not at all increased and if we add a less degree of whiteness to a greater, we are so far from increasing, that we diminish it. those ideas that consist not of parts cannot be augmented to what proportion men please, or be stretched beyond what they have received by their senses; but space, duration, and number, being capable of increase by repetition, leave in the mind an idea of endless room for more; nor can we conceive anywhere a stop to a further addition or progression: and so those ideas alone lead our minds towards the thought of infinity. . difference between infinity of space, and space infinite. though our idea of infinity arise from the contemplation of quantity, and the endless increase the mind is able to make in quantity, by the repeated additions of what portions thereof it pleases; yet i guess we cause great confusion in our thoughts, when we join infinity to any supposed idea of quantity the mind can be thought to have, and so discourse or reason about an infinite quantity, as an infinite space, or an infinite duration. for, as our idea of infinity being, as i think, an endless growing idea, but the idea of any quantity the mind has, being at that time terminated in that idea, (for be it as great as it will, it can be no greater than it is,)--to join infinity to it, is to adjust a standing measure to a growing bulk; and therefore i think it is not an insignificant subtilty, if i say, that we are carefully to distinguish between the idea of the infinity of space, and the idea of a space infinite. the first is nothing but a supposed endless progression of the mind, over what repeated ideas of space it pleases; but to have actually in the mind the idea of a space infinite, is to suppose the mind already passed over, and actually to have a view of all those repeated ideas of space which an endless repetition can never totally represent to it; which carries in it a plain contradiction. . we have no idea of infinite space. this, perhaps, will be a little plainer, if we consider it in numbers. the infinity of numbers, to the end of whose addition every one perceives there is no approach, easily appears to any one that reflects on it. but, how clear soever this idea of the infinity of number be, there is nothing yet more evident than the absurdity of the actual idea of an infinite number. whatsoever positive ideas we have in our minds of any space, duration, or number, let them be ever so great, they are still finite; but when we suppose an inexhaustible remainder, from which we remove all bounds, and wherein we allow the mind an endless progression of thought, without ever completing the idea, there we have our idea of infinity: which, though it seems to be pretty clear when we consider nothing else in it but the negation of an end, yet, when we would frame in our minds the idea of an infinite space or duration, that idea is very obscure and confused, because it is made up of two parts, very different, if not inconsistent. for, let a man frame in his mind an idea of any space or number, as great as he will; it is plain the mind rests and terminates in that idea, which is contrary to the idea of infinity, which consists in a supposed endless progression. and therefore i think it is that we are so easily confounded, when we come to argue and reason about infinite space or duration, &c. because the parts of such an idea not being perceived to be, as they are, inconsistent, the one side or other always perplexes, whatever consequences we draw from the other; as an idea of motion not passing on would perplex any one who should argue from such an idea, which is not better than an idea of motion at rest. and such another seems to me to be the idea of a space, or (which is the same thing) a number infinite, i. e. of a space or number which the mind actually has, and so views and terminates in; and of a space or number, which, in a constant and endless enlarging and progression, it can in thought never attain to. for, how large soever an idea of space i have in my mind, it is no larger than it is that instant that i have it, though i be capable the next instant to double it, and so on in infinitum; for that alone is infinite which has no bounds; and that the idea of infinity, in which our thoughts can find none. . number affords us the clearest idea of infinity. but of all other ideas, it is number, as i have said, which i think furnishes us with the clearest and most distinct idea of infinity we are capable of. for, even in space and duration, when the mind pursues the idea of infinity, it there makes use of the ideas and repetitions of numbers, as of millions and millions of miles, or years, which are so many distinct ideas,--kept best by number from running into a confused heap, wherein the mind loses itself; and when it has added together as many millions, &c., as it pleases, of known lengths of space or duration, the clearest idea it can get of infinity, is the confused incomprehensible remainder of endless addible numbers, which affords no prospect of stop or boundary. . our different conceptions of the infinity of number contrasted with those of duration and expansion. it will, perhaps, give us a little further light into the idea we have of infinity, and discover to us, that it is nothing but the infinity of number applied to determinate parts, of which we have in our minds the distinct ideas, if we consider that number is not generally thought by us infinite, whereas duration and extension are apt to be so; which arises from hence,--that in number we are at one end, as it were: for there being in number nothing less than an unit, we there stop, and are at an end; but in addition, or increase of number, we can set no bounds: and so it is like a line, whereof one end terminating with us, the other is extended still forwards, beyond all that we can conceive. but in space and duration it is otherwise. for in duration we consider it as if this line of number were extended both ways--to an unconceivable, undeterminate, and infinite length; which is evident to anyone that will but reflect on what consideration he hath of eternity; which, i suppose, will find to be nothing else but the turning this infinity of number both ways, a parte ante and a parte post, as they speak. for, when we would consider eternity, a parte ante, what do we but, beginning from ourselves and the present time we are in, repeat in our minds ideas of years, or ages, or any other assignable portion of duration past, with a prospect of proceeding in such addition with all the infinity of number: and when we would consider eternity, a parte post, we just after the same rate begin from ourselves, and reckon by multiplied periods yet to come, still extending that line of number as before. and these two being put together, are that infinite duration we call eternity which, as we turn our view either way, forwards or backward appears infinite, because we still turn that way the infinite end of number, i.e. the power still of adding more. . how we conceive the infinity of space. the same happens also in space, wherein, conceiving ourselves to be, as it were, in the centre, we do on all sides pursue those indeterminable lines of number; and reckoning any way from ourselves, a yard, mile, diameter of the earth or orbis magnus,--by the infinity of number, we add others to them, as often as we will. and having no more reason to set bounds to those repeated ideas than we have to set bounds to number, we have that indeterminable idea of immensity. . infinite divisibility. and since in any bulk of matter our thoughts can never arrive at the utmost divisibility, therefore there is an apparent infinity to us also in that, which has the infinity also of number; but with this difference,--that, in the former considerations of the infinity of space and duration, we only use addition of numbers; whereas this is like the division of an unit into its fractions, wherein the mind also can proceed in infinitum, as well as in the former additions; it being indeed but the addition still of new numbers: though in the addition of the one, we can have no more the positive idea of a space infinitely great, than, in the division of the other, we can have the positive idea of a body infinitely little;--our idea of infinity being, as i may say, a growing or fugitive idea, still in a boundless progression, that can stop nowhere. . no positive idea of infinity. though it be hard, i think, to find anyone so absurd as to say he has the positive idea of an actual infinite number;--the infinity whereof lies only in a power still of adding any combination of units to any former number, and that as long and as much as one will; the like also being in the infinity of space and duration, which power leaves always to the mind room for endless additions;--yet there be those who imagine they have positive ideas of infinite duration and space. it would, i think, be enough to destroy any such positive idea of infinite, to ask him that has it,--whether he could add to it or no; which would easily show the mistake of such a positive idea. we can, i think, have no positive idea of any space or duration which is not made up of, and commensurate to, repeated numbers of feet or yards, or days and years; which are the common measures, whereof we have the ideas in our minds, and whereby we judge of the greatness of this sort of quantities. and therefore, since an infinite idea of space or duration must needs be made up of infinite parts, it can have no other infinity than that of number capable still of further addition; but not an actual positive idea of a number infinite. for, i think it is evident, that the addition of finite things together (as are all lengths whereof we have the positive ideas) can never otherwise produce the idea of infinite than as number does; which consisting of additions of finite units one to another, suggests the idea of infinite, only by a power we find we have of still increasing the sum, and adding more of the same kind; without coming one jot nearer the end of such progression. . how we cannot have a positive idea of infinity in quantity. they who would prove their idea of infinite to be positive, seem to me to do it by a pleasant argument, taken from the negation of an end; which being negative, the negation on it is positive. he that considers that the end is, in body, but the extremity or superficies of that body, will not perhaps be forward to grant that the end is a bare negative: and he that perceives the end of his pen is black or white, will be apt to think that the end is something more than a pure negation. nor is it, when applied to duration, the bare negation of existence, but more properly the last moment of it. but as they will have the end to be nothing but the bare negation of existence, i am sure they cannot deny but the beginning of the first instant of being, and is not by any body conceived to be a bare negation; and therefore, by their own argument, the idea of eternal, a parte ante, or of a duration without a beginning, is but a negative idea. . what is positive, what negative, in our idea of infinite. the idea of infinite has, i confess, something of positive in all those things we apply to it. when we would think of infinite space or duration, we at first step usually make some very large idea, as perhaps of millions of ages, or miles, which possibly we double and multiply several times. all that we thus amass together in our thoughts is positive, and the assemblage of a great number of positive ideas of space or duration. but what still remains beyond this we have no more a positive distinct notion of than a mariner has of the depth of the sea; where, having let down a large portion of his sounding-line, he reaches no bottom. whereby he knows the depth to be so many fathoms, and more; but how much the more is, he hath no distinct notion at all: and could he always supply new line, and find the plummet always sink, without ever stopping, he would be something in the posture of the mind reaching after a complete and positive idea of infinity. in which case, let this line be ten, or ten thousand fathoms long, it equally discovers what is beyond it, and gives only this confused and comparative idea, that this is not all, but one may yet go farther. so much as the mind comprehends of any space, it has a positive idea of: but in endeavouring to make it infinite,--it being always enlarging, always advancing,--the idea is still imperfect and incomplete. so much space as the mind takes a view of in its contemplation of greatness, is a clear picture, and positive in the understanding: but infinite is still greater. . then the idea of so much is positive and clear. . the idea of greater is also clear; but it is but a comparative idea, the idea of so much greater as cannot be comprehended. . and this is plainly negative: not positive. for he has no positive clear idea of the largeness of any extension, (which is that sought for in the idea of infinite), that has not a comprehensive idea of the dimensions of it: and such, nobody, i think, pretends to in what is infinite. for to say a man has a positive clear idea of any quantity, without knowing how great it is, is as reasonable as to say, he has the positive clear idea of the number of the sands on the sea-shore, who knows not how many there be, but only that they are more than twenty. for just such a perfect and positive idea has he of an infinite space or duration, who says it is larger than the extent or duration of ten, one hundred, one thousand, or any other number of miles, or years, whereof he has or can have a positive idea; which is all the idea, i think, we have of infinite. so that what lies beyond our positive idea towards infinity, lies in obscurity, and has the indeterminate confusion of a negative idea, wherein i know i neither do nor can comprehend all i would, it being too large for a finite and narrow capacity. and that cannot but be very far from a positive complete idea, wherein the greatest part of what i would comprehend is left out, under the undeterminate intimation of being still greater. for to say, that, having in any quantity measured so much, or gone so far, you are not yet at the end, is only to say that that quantity is greater. so that the negation of an end in any quantity is, in other words, only to say that it is bigger; and a total negation of an end is but carrying this bigger still with you, in all the progressions your thoughts shall make in quantity; and adding this idea of still greater to all the ideas you have, or can be supposed to have, of quantity. now, whether such an idea as that be positive, i leave any one to consider. . we have no positive idea of an infinite duration. i ask those who say they have a positive idea of eternity, whether their idea of duration includes in it succession, or not? if it does not, they ought to show the difference of their notion of duration, when applied to an eternal being, and to a finite; since, perhaps, there may be others as well as i, who will own to them their weakness of understanding in this point, and acknowledge that the notion they have of duration forces them to conceive, that whatever has duration, is of a longer continuance to-day than it was yesterday. if, to avoid succession in external existence, they return to the punctum stans of the schools, i suppose they will thereby very little mend the matter, or help us to a more clear and positive idea of infinite duration; there being nothing more inconceivable to me than duration without succession. besides, that punctum stans, if it signify anything, being not quantum, finite or infinite cannot belong to it. but, if our weak apprehensions cannot separate succession from any duration whatsoever, our idea of eternity can be nothing but of infinite succession of moments of duration wherein anything does exist; and whether any one has, or can have, a positive idea of an actual infinite number, i leave him to consider, till his infinite number be so great that he himself can add no more to it; and as long as he can increase it, i doubt he himself will think the idea he hath of it a little too scanty for positive infinity. . no complete idea of eternal being. i think it unavoidable for every considering, rational creature, that will but examine his own or any other existence, to have the notion of an eternal, wise being, who had no beginning: and such an idea of infinite duration i am sure i have. but this negation of a beginning, being but the negation of a positive thing, scarce gives me a positive idea of infinity; which, whenever i endeavour to extend my thoughts to, i confess myself at a loss, and i find i cannot attain any clear comprehension of it. . no positive idea of infinite space. he that thinks he has a positive idea of infinite space, will, when he considers it, find that he can no more have a positive idea of the greatest, than he has of the least space. for in this latter, which seems the easier of the two, and more within our comprehension, we are capable only of a comparative idea of smallness, which will always be less than any one whereof we have the positive idea. all our positive ideas of any quantity, whether great or little, have always bounds, though our comparative idea, whereby we can always add to the one, and take from the other, hath no bounds. for that which remains, either great or little, not being comprehended in that positive idea which we have, lies in obscurity; and we have no other idea of it, but of the power of enlarging the one and diminishing the other, without ceasing. a pestle and mortar will as soon bring any particle of matter to indivisibility, as the acutest thought of a mathematician; and a surveyor may as soon with his chain measure out infinite space, as a philosopher by the quickest flight of mind reach it or by thinking comprehend it; which is to have a positive idea of it. he that thinks on a cube of an inch diameter, has a clear and positive idea of it in his mind, and so can frame one of / , / , / , and so on, till he has the idea in his thoughts of something very little; but yet reaches not the idea of that incomprehensible littleness which division can produce. what remains of smallness is as far from his thoughts as when he first began; and therefore he never comes at all to have a clear and positive idea of that smallness which is consequent to infinite divisibility. . what is positive, what negative, in our idea of infinite. every one that looks towards infinity does, as i have said, at first glance make some very large idea of that which he applies it to, let it be space or duration; and possibly he wearies his thoughts, by multiplying in his mind that first large idea: but yet by that he comes no nearer to the having a positive clear idea of what remains to make up a positive infinite, than the country fellow had of the water which was yet to come, and pass the channel of the river where he stood: ‘rusticus expectat dum defluat amnis, at ille labitur, et labetur in omne volubilis aevum.’ . some think they have a positive idea of eternity, and not of infinite space. there are some i have met that put so much difference between infinite duration and infinite space, that they persuade themselves that they have a positive idea of eternity, but that they have not, nor can have any idea of infinite space. the reason of which mistake i suppose to be this--that finding, by a due contemplation of causes and effects, that it is necessary to admit some eternal being, and so to consider the real existence of that being as taken up and commensurate to their idea of eternity; but, on the other side, not finding it necessary, but, on the contrary, apparently absurd, that body should be infinite, they forwardly conclude that they can have no idea of infinite space, because they can have no idea of infinite matter. which consequence, i conceive, is very ill collected, because the existence of matter is no ways necessary to the existence of space, no more than the existence of motion, or the sun, is necessary to duration, though duration uses to be measured by it. and i doubt not but that a man may have the idea of ten thousand miles square, without any body so big, as well as the idea of ten thousand years, without any body so old. it seems as easy to me to have the idea of space empty of body, as to think of the capacity of a bushel without corn, or the hollow of a nut-shell without a kernel in it: it being no more necessary that there should be existing a solid body, infinitely extended, because we have an idea of the infinity of space, than it is necessary that the world should be eternal, because we have an idea of infinite duration. and why should we think our idea of infinite space requires the real existence of matter to support it, when we find that we have as clear an idea of an infinite duration to come, as we have of infinite duration past? though i suppose nobody thinks it conceivable that anything does or has existed in that future duration. nor is it possible to join our idea of future duration with present or past existence, any more than it is possible to make the ideas of yesterday, to-day, and to-morrow to be the same; or bring ages past and future together, and make them contemporary. but if these men are of the mind, that they have clearer ideas of infinite duration than of infinite space, because it is past doubt that god has existed from all eternity, but there is no real matter co-extended with infinite space; yet those philosophers who are of opinion that infinite space is possessed by god’s infinite omnipresence, as well as infinite duration by his eternal existence, must be allowed to have as clear an idea of infinite space as of infinite duration; though neither of them, i think, has any positive idea of infinity in either case. for whatsoever positive ideas a man has in his mind of any quantity, he can repeat it, and add it to the former, as easy as he can add together the ideas of two days, or two paces, which are positive ideas of lengths he has in his mind, and so on as long as he pleases: whereby, if a man had a positive idea of infinite, either duration or space, he could add two infinites together; nay, make one infinite infinitely bigger than another--absurdities too gross to be confuted. . supposed positive ideas of infinity, cause of mistakes. but yet if after all this, there be men who persuade themselves that they have clear positive comprehensive ideas of infinity, it is fit they enjoy their privilege: and i should be very glad (with some others that i know, who acknowledge they have none such) to be better informed by their communication. for i have been hitherto apt to think that the great and inextricable difficulties which perpetually involve all discourses concerning infinity,--whether of space, duration, or divisibility, have been the certain marks of a defect in our ideas of infinity, and the disproportion the nature thereof has to the comprehension of our narrow capacities. for, whilst men talk and dispute of infinite space or duration, as if they had as complete and positive ideas of them as they have of the names they use for them, or as they have of a yard, or an hour, or any other determinate quantity; it is no wonder if the incomprehensible nature of the thing they discourse of, or reason about, leads them into perplexities and contradictions, and their minds be overlaid by an object too large and mighty to be surveyed and managed by them. . all these are modes of ideas got from sensation and reflection. if i have dwelt pretty long on the consideration of duration, space, and number, and what arises from the contemplation of them,--infinity, it is possibly no more than the matter requires; there being few simple ideas whose modes give more exercise to the thoughts of men than those do. i pretend not to treat of them in their full latitude. it suffices to my design to show how the mind receives them, such as they are, from sensation and reflection; and how even the idea we have of infinity, how remote soever it may seem to be from any object of sense, or operation of our mind, has, nevertheless, as all our other ideas, its original there. some mathematicians perhaps, of advanced speculations, may have other ways to introduce into their minds ideas of infinity. but this hinders not but that they themselves, as well as all other men, got the first ideas which they had of infinity from sensation and reflection, in the method we have here set down. chapter xviii.--other simple modes. . other simple modes of simple ideas of sensation. though i have, in the foregoing chapters, shown how from simple ideas taken in by sensation, the mind comes to extend itself even to infinity; which, however it may of all others seem most remote from any sensible perception, yet at last hath nothing in it but what is made out of simple ideas: received into the mind by the senses, and afterwards there put together, by the faculty the mind has to repeat its own ideas; --though, i say, these might be instances enough of simple modes of the simple ideas of sensation, and suffice to show how the mind comes by them, yet i shall, for method’s sake, though briefly, give an account of some few more, and then proceed to more complex ideas. . simple modes of motion. to slide, roll, tumble, walk, creep, run, dance, leap, skip, and abundance of others that might be named, are words which are no sooner heard but every one who understands english has presently in his mind distinct ideas, which are all but the different modifications of motion. modes of motion answer those of extension; swift and slow are two different ideas of motion, the measures whereof are made of the distances of time and space put together; so they are complex ideas, comprehending time and space with motion. . modes of sounds. the like variety have we in sounds. every articulate word is a different modification of sound; by which we see that, from the sense of hearing, by such modifications, the mind may be furnished with distinct ideas, to almost an infinite number. sounds also, besides the distinct cries of birds and beasts, are modified by diversity of notes of different length put together, which make that complex idea called a tune, which a musician may have in his mind when he hears or makes no sound at all, by reflecting on the ideas of those sounds, so put together silently in his own fancy. . modes of colours. those of colours are also very various: some we take notice of as the different degrees, or as they were termed shades, of the same colour. but since we very seldom make assemblages of colours, either for use or delight, but figure is taken in also, and has its part in it, as in painting, weaving, needleworks, &c.;--those which are taken notice of do most commonly belong to mixed modes, as being made up of ideas of divers kinds, viz. figure and colour, such as beauty, rainbow, &c. . modes of tastes. all compounded tastes and smells are also modes, made up of the simple ideas of those senses. but they, being such as generally we have no names for, are less taken notice of, and cannot be set down in writing; and therefore must be left without enumeration to the thoughts and experience of my reader. . some simple modes have no names. in general it may be observed, that those simple modes which are considered but as different degrees of the same simple idea, though they are in themselves many of them very distinct ideas, yet have ordinarily no distinct names, nor are much taken notice of, as distinct ideas, where the difference is but very small between them. whether men have neglected these modes, and given no names to them, as wanting measures nicely to distinguish them; or because, when they were so distinguished, that knowledge would not be of general or necessary use, i leave it to the thoughts of others. it is sufficient to my purpose to show, that all our simple ideas come to our minds only by sensation and reflection; and that when the mood has them, it can variously repeat and compound them, and so make new complex ideas. but, though white, red, or sweet, &c. have not been modified, or made into complex ideas, by several combinations, so as to be named, and thereby ranked into species; yet some others of the simple ideas, viz. those of unity, duration, and motion, &c., above instanced in, as also power and thinking, have been thus modified to a great variety of complex ideas, with names belonging to them. . why some modes have, and others have not, names. the reason whereof, i suppose, has been this,--that the great concernment of men being with men one amongst another, the knowledge of men, and their actions, and the signifying of them to one another, was most necessary; and therefore they made ideas of actions very nicely modified, and gave those complex ideas names, that they might the more easily record and discourse of those things they were daily conversant in, without long ambages and circumlocutions; and that the things they were continually to give and receive information about might be the easier and quicker understood. that this is so, and that men in framing different complex ideas, and giving them names, have been much governed by the end of speech in general, (which is a very short and expedite way of conveying their thoughts one to another), is evident in the names which in several arts have been found out, and applied to several complex ideas of modified actions, belonging to their several trades, for dispatch sake, in their direction or discourses about them. which ideas are not generally framed in the minds of men not conversant about these operations. and thence the words that stand for them, by the greatest part of men of the same language, are not understood: v. g. coltshire, drilling, filtration, cohobation, are words standing for certain complex ideas, which being seldom in the minds of any but those few whose particular employments do at every turn suggest them to their thoughts, those names of them are not generally understood but by smiths and chymists; who, having framed the complex ideas which these words stand for, and having given names to them, or received them from others, upon hearing of these names in communication, readily conceive those ideas in their minds;-as by cohobation all the simple ideas of distilling, and the pouring the liquor distilled from anything back upon the remaining matter, and distilling it again. thus we see that there are great varieties of simple ideas, as of tastes and smells, which have no names; and of modes many more; which either not having been generally enough observed, or else not being of any great use to be taken notice of in the affairs and converse of men, they have not had names given to them, and so pass not for species. this we shall have occasion hereafter to consider more at large, when we come to speak of words. chapter xix.--of the modes of thinking. . sensation, remembrance, contemplation, &c., modes of thinking. when the mind turns its view inwards upon itself, and contemplates its own actions, thinking is the first that occurs. in it the mind observes a great variety of modifications, and from thence receives distinct ideas. thus the perception or thought which actually accompanies, and is annexed to, any impression on the body, made by an external object, being distinct from all other modifications of thinking, furnishes the mind with a distinct idea, which we call sensation;--which is, as it were, the actual entrance of any idea into the understanding by the senses. the same idea, when it again recurs without the operation of the like object on the external sensory, is remembrance: if it be sought after by the mind, and with pain and endeavour found, and brought again in view, it is recollection: if it be held there long under attentive consideration, it is contemplation: when ideas float in our mind without any reflection or regard of the understanding, it is that which the french call reverie; our language has scarce a name for it: when the ideas that offer themselves (for, as i have observed in another place, whilst we are awake, there will always be a train of ideas succeeding one another in our minds) are taken notice of, and, as it were, registered in the memory, it is attention: when the mind with great earnestness, and of choice, fixes its view on any idea, considers it on all sides, and will not be called off by the ordinary solicitation of other ideas, it is that we call intention or study: sleep, without dreaming, is rest from all these: and dreaming itself is the having of ideas (whilst the outward senses are stopped, so that they receive not outward objects with their usual quickness) in the mind, not suggested by any external objects, or known occasion; nor under any choice or conduct of the understanding at all: and whether that which we call ecstasy be not dreaming with the eyes open, i leave to be examined. . other modes of thinking. these are some few instances of those various modes of thinking, which the mind may observe in itself, and so have as distinct ideas of as it hath of white and red, a square or a circle. i do not pretend to enumerate them all, nor to treat at large of this set of ideas, which are got from reflection: that would be to make a volume. it suffices to my present purpose to have shown here, by some few examples, of what sort these ideas are, and how the mind comes by them; especially since i shall have occasion hereafter to treat more at large of reasoning, judging, volition, and knowledge, which are some of the most considerable operations of the mind, and modes of thinking. . the various degrees of attention in thinking. but perhaps it may not be an unpardonable digression, nor wholly impertinent to our present design, if we reflect here upon the different state of the mind in thinking, which those instances of attention, reverie, and dreaming, &c., before mentioned, naturally enough suggest. that there are ideas, some or other, always present in the mind of a waking man, every one’s experience convinces him; though the mind employs itself about them with several degrees of attention. sometimes the mind fixes itself with so much earnestness on the contemplation of some objects, that it turns their ideas on all sides; marks their relations and circumstances; and views every part so nicely and with such intention, that it shuts out all other thoughts, and takes no notice of the ordinary impressions made then on the senses, which at another season would produce very sensible perceptions: at other times it barely observes the train of ideas that succeed in the understanding, without directing and pursuing any of them: and at other times it lets them pass almost quite unregarded, as faint shadows that make no impression. . hence it is probable that thinking is the action, not the essence of the soul. this difference of intention, and remission of the mind in thinking, with a great variety of degrees between earnest study and very near minding nothing at all, every one, i think, has experimented in himself. trace it a little further, and you find the mind in sleep retired as it were from the senses, and out of the reach of those motions made on the organs of sense, which at other times produce very vivid and sensible ideas. i need not, for this, instance in those who sleep out whole stormy nights, without hearing the thunder, or seeing the lightning, or feeling the shaking of the house, which are sensible enough to those who are waking. but in this retirement of the mind from the senses, it often retains a yet more loose and incoherent manner of thinking, which we call dreaming. and, last of all, sound sleep closes the scene quite, and puts an end to all appearances. this, i think almost every one has experience of in himself, and his own observation without difficulty leads him thus far. that which i would further conclude from hence is, that since the mind can sensibly put on, at several times, several degrees of thinking, and be sometimes, even in a waking man, so remiss, as to have thoughts dim and obscure to that degree that they are very little removed from none at all; and at last, in the dark retirements of sound sleep, loses the sight perfectly of all ideas whatsoever: since, i say, this is evidently so in matter of fact and constant experience, i ask whether it be not probable, that thinking is the action and not the essence of the soul? since the operations of agents will easily admit of intention and remission: but the essences of things are not conceived capable of any such variation. but this by the by. chapter xx.--of modes of pleasure and pain. . pleasure and pain, simple ideas. amongst the simple ideas which we receive both from sensation and reflection, pain and pleasure are two very considerable ones. for as in the body there is sensation barely in itself, or accompanied with pain or pleasure, so the thought or perception of the mind is simply so, or else accompanied also with pleasure or pain, delight or trouble, call it how you please. these, like other simple ideas, cannot be described, nor their names defined; the way of knowing them is, as of the simple ideas of the senses, only by experience. for, to define them by the presence of good or evil, is no otherwise to make them known to us than by making us reflect on what we feel in ourselves, upon the several and various operations of good and evil upon our minds, as they are differently applied to or considered by us. . good and evil, what. things then are good or evil, only in reference to pleasure or pain. that we call good, which is apt to cause or increase pleasure, or diminish pain in us; or else to procure or preserve us the possession of any other good or absence of any evil. and, on the contrary, we name that evil which is apt to produce or increase any pain, or diminish any pleasure in us: or else to procure us any evil, or deprive us of any good. by pleasure and pain, i must be understood to mean of body or mind, as they are commonly distinguished; though in truth they be only different constitutions of the mind, sometimes occasioned by disorder in the body, sometimes by thoughts of the mind. . our passions moved by good and evil. pleasure and pain and that which causes them,--good and evil, are the hinges on which our passions turn. and if we reflect on ourselves, and observe how these, under various considerations, operate in us; what modifications or tempers of mind, what internal sensations (if i may so call them) they produce in us we may thence form to ourselves the ideas of our passions. . love. thus any one reflecting upon the thought he has of the delight which any present or absent thing is apt to produce in him, has the idea we call love. for when a man declares in autumn when he is eating them, or in spring when there are none, that he loves grapes, it is no more but that the taste of grapes delights him: let an alteration of health or constitution destroy the delight of their taste, and he then can be said to love grapes no longer. . hatred. on the contrary, the thought of the pain which anything present or absent is apt to produce in us, is what we call hatred. were it my business here to inquire any further than into the bare ideas of our passions, as they depend on different modifications of pleasure and pain, i should remark that our love and hatred of inanimate insensible beings is commonly founded on that pleasure and pain which we receive from their use and application any way to our senses though with their destruction. but hatred or love, to beings capable of happiness or misery, is often the uneasiness of delight which we find in ourselves, arising from their very being or happiness. thus the being and welfare of a man’s children or friends, producing constant delight in him, he is said constantly to love them. but it suffices to note, that our ideas of love and hatred are but the dispositions of the mind, in respect of pleasure and pain in general, however caused in us. . desire. the uneasiness a man finds in himself upon the absence of anything whose present enjoyment carries the idea of delight with it, is that we call desire; which is greater or less as that uneasiness is more or less vehement. where, by the by, it may perhaps be of some use to remark, that the chief, if not only spur to human industry and action is uneasiness. for whatsoever good is proposed, if its absence carries no displeasure or pain with it, if a man be easy and content without it, there is no desire of it, nor endeavour after it; there is no more but a bare velleity, the term used to signify the lowest degree of desire, and that which is next to none at all, when there is so little uneasiness in the absence of anything, that it carries a man no further than some faint wishes for it, without any more effectual or vigorous use of the means to attain it. desire also is stopped or abated by the opinion of the impossibility or unattainableness of the good proposed, as far as the uneasiness is cured or allayed by that consideration. this might carry our thoughts further, were it seasonable in this place. . joy. joy is a delight of the mind, from the consideration of the present or assured approaching possession of a good; and we are then possessed of any good, when we have it so in our power that we can use it when we please. thus a man almost starved has joy at the arrival of relief, even before he has the pleasure of using it: and a father, in whom the very well-being of his children causes delight, is always, as long as his children are in such a state, in the possession of that good; for he needs but to reflect on it, to have that pleasure. . sorrow. sorrow is uneasiness in the mind, upon the thought of a good lost, which might have been enjoyed longer; or the sense of a present evil. . hope. hope is that pleasure in the mind, which every one finds in himself, upon the thought of a probable future enjoyment of a thing which is apt to delight him. . fear. fear is an uneasiness of the mind, upon the thought of future evil likely to befal us. . despair. despair is the thought of the unattainableness of any good, which works differently in men’s minds, sometimes producing uneasiness or pain, sometimes rest and indolency. . anger. anger is uneasiness or discomposure of the mind, upon the receipt of any injury, with a present purpose of revenge. . envy. envy is an uneasiness of the mind, caused by the consideration of a good we desire obtained by one we think should not have had it before us. . what passions all men have. these two last, envy and anger, not being caused by pain and pleasure simply in themselves, but having in them some mixed considerations of ourselves and others, are not therefore to be found in all men, because those other parts, of valuing their merits, or intending revenge, is wanting in them. but all the rest, terminating purely in pain and pleasure, are, i think, to be found in all men. for we love, desire, rejoice, and hope, only in respect of pleasure; we hate, fear, and grieve, only in respect of pain ultimately. in fine, all these passions are moved by things, only as they appear to be the causes of pleasure and pain, or to have pleasure or pain some way or other annexed to them. thus we extend our hatred usually to the subject (at least, if a sensible or voluntary agent) which has produced pain in us; because the fear it leaves is a constant pain: but we do not so constantly love what has done us good; because pleasure operates not so strongly on us as pain, and because we are not so ready to have hope it will do so again. but this by the by. . pleasure and pain, what. by pleasure and pain, delight and uneasiness, i must all along be understood (as i have above intimated) to mean not only bodily pain and pleasure, but whatsoever delight or uneasiness is felt by us, whether arising from any grateful or unacceptable sensation or reflection. . removal or lessening of either. it is further to be considered, that, in reference to the passions, the removal or lessening of a pain is considered, and operates, as a pleasure: and the loss or diminishing of a pleasure, as a pain. . shame. the passions too have most of them, in most persons, operations on the body, and cause various changes in it; which not being always sensible, do not make a necessary part of the idea of each passion. for shame, which is an uneasiness of the mind upon the thought of having done something which is indecent, or will lessen the valued esteem which others have for us, has not always blushing accompanying it. . these instances to show how our ideas of the passions are got from sensation and reflection. i would not be mistaken here, as if i meant this as a discourse of the passions; they are many more than those i have here named: and those i have taken notice of would each of them require a much larger and more accurate discourse. i have only mentioned these here, as so many instances of modes of pleasure and pain resulting in our minds from various considerations of good and evil. i might perhaps have instanced in other modes of pleasure and pain, more simple than these; as the pain of hunger and thirst, and the pleasure of eating and drinking to remove them: the pain of teeth set on edge; the pleasure of music; pain from captious uninstructive wrangling, and the pleasure of rational conversation with a friend, or of well-directed study in the search and discovery of truth. but the passions being of much more concernment to us, i rather made choice to instance in them, and show how the ideas we have of them are derived from sensation or reflection. chapter xxi.--of power. . this idea how got. the mind being every day informed, by the senses, of the alteration of those simple ideas it observes in things without; and taking notice how one comes to an end, and ceases to be, and another begins to exist which was not before; reflecting also on what passes within itself, and observing a constant change of its ideas, sometimes by the impression of outward objects on the senses, and sometimes by the determination of its own choice; and concluding from what it has so constantly observed to have been, that the like changes will for the future be made in the same things, by like agents, and by the like ways,--considers in one thing the possibility of having any of its simple ideas changed, and in another the possibility of making that change; and so comes by that idea which we call power. thus we say, fire has a power to melt gold, i. e. to destroy the consistency of its insensible parts, and consequently its hardness, and make it fluid; and gold has a power to be melted; that the sun has a power to blanch wax, and wax a power to be blanched by the sun, whereby the yellowness is destroyed, and whiteness made to exist in its room. in which, and the like cases, the power we consider is in reference to the change of perceivable ideas. for we cannot observe any alteration to be made in, or operation upon anything, but by the observable change of its sensible ideas; nor conceive any alteration to be made, but by conceiving a change of some of its ideas. . power, active and passive. power thus considered is two-fold, viz. as able to make, or able to receive any change. the one may be called active, and the other passive power. whether matter be not wholly destitute of active power, as its author, god, is truly above all passive power; and whether the intermediate state of created spirits be not that alone which is capable of both active and passive power, may be worth consideration. i shall not now enter into that inquiry, my present business being not to search into the original of power, but how we come by the idea of it. but since active powers make so great a part of our complex ideas of natural substances, (as we shall see hereafter,) and i mention them as such, according to common apprehension; yet they being not, perhaps, so truly active powers as our hasty thoughts are apt to represent them, i judge it not amiss, by this intimation, to direct our minds to the consideration of god and spirits, for the clearest idea of active power. . power includes relation. i confess power includes in it some kind of relation (a relation to action or change,) as indeed which of our ideas of what kind soever, when attentively considered, does not. for, our ideas of extension, duration, and number, do they not all contain in them a secret relation of the parts? figure and motion have something relative in them much more visibly. and sensible qualities, as colours and smells, &c. what are they but the powers of different bodies, in relation to our perception, &c.? and, if considered in the things themselves, do they not depend on the bulk, figure, texture, and motion of the parts? all which include some kind of relation in them. our idea therefore of power, i think, may well have a place amongst other simple ideas, and be considered as one of them; being one of those that make a principal ingredient in our complex ideas of substances, as we shall hereafter have occasion to observe. . the clearest idea of active power had from spirit. of passive power all sensible things abundantly furnish us with sensible ideas, whose sensible qualities and beings we find to be in continual flux. and therefore with reason we look on them as liable still to the same change. nor have we of active power (which is the more proper signification of the word power) fewer instances. since whatever change is observed, the mind must collect a power somewhere able to make that change, as well as a possibility in the thing itself to receive it. but yet, if we will consider it attentively, bodies, by our senses, do not afford us so clear and distinct an idea of active power, as we have from reflection on the operations of our minds. for all power relating to action, and there being but two sorts of action whereof we have an idea, viz. thinking and motion, let us consider whence we have the clearest ideas of the powers which produce these actions. ( ) of thinking, body affords us no idea at all; it is only from reflection that we have that. ( ) neither have we from body any idea of the beginning of motion. a body at rest affords us no idea of any active power to move; and when it is set in motion itself, that motion is rather a passion than an action in it. for, when the ball obeys the motion of a billiard-stick, it is not any action of the ball, but bare passion. also when by impulse it sets another ball in motion that lay in its way, it only communicates the motion it had received from another, and loses in itself so much as the other received: which gives us but a very obscure idea of an active power of moving in body, whilst we observe it only to transfer, but not produce any motion. for it is but a very obscure idea of power which reaches not the production of the action, but the continuation of the passion. for so is motion in a body impelled by another; the continuation of the alteration made in it from rest to motion being little more an action, than the continuation of the alteration of its figure by the same blow is an action. the idea of the beginning of motion we have only from reflection on what passes in ourselves; where we find by experience, that, barely by willing it, barely by a thought of the mind, we can move the parts of our bodies, which were before at rest. so that it seems to me, we have, from the observation of the operation of bodies by our senses, but a very imperfect obscure idea of active power; since they afford us not any idea in themselves of the power to begin any action, either motion or thought. but if, from the impulse bodies are observed to make one upon another, any one thinks he has a clear idea of power, it serves as well to my purpose; sensation being one of those ways whereby the mind comes by its ideas: only i thought it worth while to consider here, by the way, whether the mind doth not receive its idea of active power clearer from reflection on its own operations, than it doth from any external sensation. . will and understanding two powers in mind or spirit. this, at least, i think evident,--that we find in ourselves a power to begin or forbear, continue or end several actions of our minds, and motions of our bodies, barely by a thought or preference of the mind ordering, or as it were commanding, the doing or not doing such or such a particular action. this power which the mind has thus to order the consideration of any idea, or the forbearing to consider it; or to prefer the motion of any part of the body to its rest, and vice versa, in any particular instance, is that which we call the will. the actual exercise of that power, by directing any particular action, or its forbearance, is that which we call volition or willing. the forbearance of that action, consequent to such order or command of the mind, is called voluntary. and whatsoever action is performed without such a thought of the mind, is called involuntary. the power of perception is that which we call the understanding. perception, which we make the act of the understanding, is of three sorts:-- . the perception of ideas in our minds. . the perception of the signification of signs. . the perception of the connexion or repugnancy, agreement or disagreement, that there is between any of our ideas. all these are attributed to the understanding, or perceptive power, though it be the two latter only that use allows us to say we understand. . faculties not real beings. these powers of the mind, viz. of perceiving, and of preferring, are usually called by another name. and the ordinary way of speaking is, that the understanding and will are two faculties of the mind; a word proper enough, if it be used, as all words should be, so as not to breed any confusion in men’s thoughts, by being supposed (as i suspect it has been) to stand for some real beings in the soul that performed those actions of understanding and volition. for when we say the will is the commanding and superior faculty of the soul; that it is or is not free; that it determines the inferior faculties; that it follows the dictates of the understanding, &c.,--though these and the like expressions, by those that carefully attend to their own ideas, and conduct their thoughts more by the evidence of things than the sound of words, may be understood in a clear and distinct sense--yet i suspect, i say, that this way of speaking of faculties has misled many into a confused notion of so many distinct agents in us, which had their several provinces and authorities, and did command, obey, and perform several actions, as so many distinct beings; which has been no small occasion of wrangling, obscurity, and uncertainty, in questions relating to them. . whence the ideas of liberty and necessity. every one, i think, finds in himself a power to begin or forbear, continue or put an end to several actions in himself. from the consideration of the extent of this power of the mind over the actions of the man, which everyone finds in himself, arise the ideas of liberty and necessity. . liberty, what. all the actions that we have any idea of reducing themselves, as has been said, to these two, viz. thinking and motion; so far as a man has power to think or not to think, to move or not to move, according to the preference or direction of his own mind, so far is a man free. wherever any performance or forbearance are not equally in a man’s power; wherever doing or not doing will not equally follow upon the preference of his mind directing it, there he is not free, though perhaps the action may be voluntary. so that the idea of liberty is, the idea of a power in any agent to do or forbear any particular action, according to the determination or thought of the mind, whereby either of them is preferred to the other: where either of them is not in the power of the agent to be produced by him according to his volition, there he is not at liberty; that agent is under necessity. so that liberty cannot be where there is no thought, no volition, no will; but there may be thought, there may be will, there may be volition, where there is no liberty. a little consideration of an obvious instance or two may make this clear. . supposes understanding and will. a tennis-ball, whether in motion by the stroke of a racket, or lying still at rest, is not by any one taken to be a free agent. if we inquire into the reason, we shall find it is because we conceive not a tennis-ball to think, and consequently not to have any volition, or preference of motion to rest, or vice versa; and therefore has not liberty, is not a free agent; but all its both motion and rest come under our idea of necessary, and are so called. likewise a man falling into the water, (a bridge breaking under him,) has not herein liberty, is not a free agent. for though he has volition, though he prefers his not falling to falling; yet the forbearance of that motion not being in his power, the stop or cessation of that motion follows not upon his volition; and therefore therein he is not free. so a man striking himself, or his friend, by a convulsive motion of his arm, which it is not in his power, by volition or the direction of his mind, to stop or forbear, nobody thinks he has in this liberty; every one pities him, as acting by necessity and constraint. . belongs not to volition. again: suppose a man be carried, whilst fast asleep, into a room where is a person he longs to see and speak with; and be there locked fast in, beyond his power to get out: he awakes, and is glad to find himself in so desirable company, which he stays willingly in, i. e. prefers his stay to going away. i ask, is not this stay voluntary? i think nobody will doubt it: and yet, being locked fast in, it is evident he is not at liberty not to stay, he has not freedom to be gone. so that liberty is not an idea belonging to volition, or preferring; but to the person having the power of doing, or forbearing to do, according as the mind shall choose or direct. our idea of liberty reaches as far as that power, and no farther. for wherever restraint comes to check that power, or compulsion takes away that indifferency of ability to act, or to forbear acting, there liberty, and our notion of it, presently ceases. . voluntary opposed to involuntary. we have instances enough, and often more than enough, in our own bodies. a man’s heart beats, and the blood circulates, which it is not in his power by any thought or volition to stop; and therefore in respect of these motions, where rest depends not on his choice, nor would follow the determination of his mind, if it should prefer it, he is not a free agent. convulsive motions agitate his legs, so that though he wills it ever so much, he cannot by any power of his mind stop their motion, (as in that odd disease called chorea sancti viti), but he is perpetually dancing; he is not at liberty in this action, but under as much necessity of moving, as a stone that falls, or a tennis-ball struck with a racket. on the other side, a palsy or the stocks hinder his legs from obeying the determination of his mind, if it would thereby transfer his body to another place. in all these there is want of freedom; though the sitting still, even of a paralytic, whilst he prefers it to a removal, is truly voluntary. voluntary, then, is not opposed to necessary but to involuntary. for a man may prefer what he can do, to what he cannot do; the state he is in, to its absence or change; though necessity has made it in itself unalterable. . liberty, what. as it is in the motions of the body, so it is in the thoughts of our minds: where any one is such, that we have power to take it up, or lay it by, according to the preference of the mind, there we are at liberty. a waking man, being under the necessity of having some ideas constantly in his mind, is not at liberty to think or not to think; no more than he is at liberty, whether his body shall touch any other or no, but whether he will remove his contemplation from one idea to another is many times in his choice; and then he is, in respect of his ideas, as much at liberty as he is in respect of bodies he rests on; he can at pleasure remove himself from one to another. but yet some ideas to the mind, like some motions to the body, are such as in certain circumstances it cannot avoid, nor obtain their absence by the utmost effort it can use. a man on the rack is not at liberty to lay by the idea of pain, and divert himself with other contemplations: and sometimes a boisterous passion hurries our thoughts, as a hurricane does our bodies, without leaving us the liberty of thinking on other things, which we would rather choose. but as soon as the mind regains the power to stop or continue, begin or forbear, any of these motions of the body without, or thoughts within, according as it thinks fit to prefer either to the other, we then consider the man as a free agent again. . wherever thought is wholly wanting, or the power to act or forbear according to the direction of thought, there necessity takes place. this, in an agent capable of volition, when the beginning or continuation of any action is contrary to that preference of his mind, is called compulsion; when the hindering or stopping any action is contrary to his volition, it is called restraint. agents that have no thought, no volition at all, are in everything necessary agents. . if this be so, (as i imagine it is,) i leave it to be considered, whether it may not help to put an end to that long agitated, and, i think, unreasonable, because unintelligible question, viz. whether man’s will be free or no? for if i mistake not, it follows from what i have said, that the question itself is altogether improper; and it is as insignificant to ask whether man’s will be free, as to ask whether his sleep be swift, or his virtue square: liberty being as little applicable to the will, as swiftness of motion is to sleep, or squareness to virtue. every one would laugh at the absurdity of such a question as either of these: because it is obvious that the modifications of motion belong not to sleep, nor the difference of figure to virtue; and when any one well considers it, i think he will as plainly perceive that liberty, which is but a power, belongs only to agents, and cannot be an attribute or modification of the will, which is also but a power. . volition. such is the difficulty of explaining and giving clear notions of internal actions by sounds, that i must here warn my reader, that ordering, directing, choosing, preferring, &c. which i have made use of, will not distinctly enough express volition, unless he will reflect on what he himself does when he wills. for example, preferring, which seems perhaps best to express the act of volition, does it not precisely. for though a man would prefer flying to walking, yet who can say he ever wills it? volition, it is plain, is an act of the mind knowingly exerting that dominion it takes itself to have over any part of the man, by employing it in, or withholding it from, any particular action. and what is the will, but the faculty to do this? and is that faculty anything more in effect than a power; the power of the mind to determine its thought, to the producing, continuing, or stopping any action, as far as it depends on us? for can it be denied that whatever agent has a power to think on its own actions, and to prefer their doing or omission either to other, has that faculty called will? will, then, is nothing but such a power. liberty, on the other side, is the power a man has to do or forbear doing any particular action according as its doing or forbearance has the actual preference in the mind; which is the same thing as to say, according as he himself wills it. . powers belonging to agents. it is plain then that the will is nothing but one power or ability, and freedom another power or ability so that, to ask, whether the will has freedom, is to ask whether one power has another power, one ability another ability; a question at first sight too grossly absurd to make a dispute, or need an answer. for, who is it that sees not that powers belong only to agents, and are attributes only of substances, and not of powers themselves? so that this way of putting the question (viz. whether the will be free) is in effect to ask, whether the will be a substance, an agent, or at least to suppose it, since freedom can properly be attributed to nothing else. if freedom can with any propriety of speech be applied to power, it may be attributed to the power that is in a man to produce, or forbear producing, motion in parts of his body, by choice or preference; which is that which denominates him free, and is freedom itself. but if any one should ask, whether freedom were free, he would be suspected not to understand well what he said; and he would be thought to deserve midas’s ears, who, knowing that rich was a denomination for the possession of riches, should demand whether riches themselves were rich. . how the will instead of the man is called free. however, the name faculty, which men have given to this power called the will, and whereby they have been led into a way of talking of the will as acting, may, by an appropriation that disguises its true sense, serve a little to palliate the absurdity; yet the will, in truth, signifies nothing but a power or ability to prefer or choose: and when the will, under the name of a faculty, is considered as it is, barely as an ability to do something, the absurdity in saying it is free, or not free, will easily discover itself. for, if it be reasonable to suppose and talk of faculties as distinct beings that can act, (as we do, when we say the will orders, and the will is free,) it is fit that we should make a speaking faculty, and a walking faculty, and a dancing faculty, by which these actions are produced, which are but several modes of motion; as well as we make the will and understanding to be faculties, by which the actions of choosing and perceiving are produced, which are but several modes of thinking. and we may as properly say that it is the singing faculty sings, and the dancing faculty dances, as that the will chooses, or that the understanding conceives; or, as is usual, that the will directs the understanding, or the understanding obeys or obeys not the will: it being altogether as proper and intelligible to say that the power of speaking directs the power of singing, or the power of singing obeys or disobeys the power of speaking. . this way of talking causes confusion of thought. this way of talking, nevertheless, has prevailed, and, as i guess, produced great confusion. for these being all different powers in the mind, or in the man, to do several actions, he exerts them as he thinks fit: but the power to do one action is not operated on by the power of doing another action. for the power of thinking operates not on the power of choosing, nor the power of choosing on the power of thinking; no more than the power of dancing operates on the power of singing, or the power of singing on the power of dancing, as any one who reflects on it will easily perceive. and yet this is it which we say when we thus speak, that the will operates on the understanding, or the understanding on the will. . powers are relations, not agents. i grant, that this or that actual thought may be the occasion of volition, or exercising the power a man has to choose; or the actual choice of the mind, the cause of actual thinking on this or that thing: as the actual singing of such a tune may be the cause of dancing such a dance, and the actual dancing of such a dance the occasion of singing such a tune. but in all these it is not one power that operates on another: but it is the mind that operates, and exerts these powers; it is the man that does the action; it is the agent that has power, or is able to do. for powers are relations, not agents: and that which has the power or not the power to operate, is that alone which is or is not free, and not the power itself. for freedom, or not freedom, can belong to nothing but what has or has not a power to act. . liberty belongs not to the will. the attributing to faculties that which belonged not to them, has given occasion to this way of talking: but the introducing into discourses concerning the mind, with the name of faculties, a notion of their operating, has, i suppose, as little advanced our knowledge in that part of ourselves, as the great use and mention of the like invention of faculties, in the operations of the body, has helped us in the knowledge of physic. not that i deny there are faculties, both in the body and mind: they both of them have their powers of operating, else neither the one nor the other could operate. for nothing can operate that is not able to operate; and that is not able to operate that has no power to operate. nor do i deny that those words, and the like, are to have their place in the common use of languages that have made them current. it looks like too much affectation wholly to lay them by: and philosophy itself, though it likes not a gaudy dress, yet, when it appears in public, must have so much complacency as to be clothed in the ordinary fashion and language of the country, so far as it can consist with truth and perspicuity. but the fault has been, that faculties have been spoken of and represented as so many distinct agents. for, it being asked, what it was that digested the meat in our stomachs? it was a ready and very satisfactory answer to say, that it was the digestive faculty. what was it that made anything come out of the body? the expulsive faculty. what moved? the motive faculty. and so in the mind, the intellectual faculty, or the understanding, understood; and the elective faculty, or the will, willed or commanded. this is, in short, to say, that the ability to digest, digested; and the ability to move, moved; and the ability to understand, understood. for faculty, ability, and power, i think, are but different names of the same things: which ways of speaking, when put into more intelligible words, will, i think, amount to thus much;--that digestion is performed by something that is able to digest, motion by something able to move, and understanding by something able to understand. and, in truth, it would be very strange if it should be otherwise; as strange as it would be for a man to be free without being able to be free. . but to the agent, or man. to return, then, to the inquiry about liberty, i think the question is not proper, whether the will be free, but whether a man be free. thus, i think, first, that so far as any one can, by the direction or choice of his mind, preferring the existence of any action to the non-existence of that action, and vice versa, make it to exist or not exist, so far he is free. for if i can, by a thought directing the motion of my finger, make it move when it was at rest, or vice versa, it is evident, that in respect of that i am free: and if i can, by a like thought of my mind, preferring one to the other, produce either words or silence, i am at liberty to speak or hold my peace: and as far as this power reaches, of acting or not acting, by the determination of his own thought preferring either, so far is a man free. for how can we think any one freer, than to have the power to do what he will? and so far as any one can, by preferring any action to its not being, or rest to any action, produce that action or rest, so far can he do what he will. for such a preferring of action to its absence, is the willing of it: and we can scarce tell how to imagine any being freer, than to be able to do what he wills. so that in respect of actions within the reach of such a power in him, a man seems as free as it is possible for freedom to make him. . in respect of willing, a man is not free. but the inquisitive mind of man, willing to shift off from himself, as far as he can, all thoughts of guilt, though it be by putting himself into a worse state than that of fatal necessity, is not content with this: freedom, unless it reaches further than this, will not serve the turn: and it passes for a good plea, that a man is not free at all, if he be not as free to will as he is to act what he wills. concerning a man’s liberty, there yet, therefore, is raised this further question, whether a man be free to will? which i think is what is meant, when it is disputed whether the will be free. and as to that i imagine. . how a man cannot be free to will. secondly, that willing, or volition, being an action, and freedom consisting in a power of acting or not acting, a man in respect of willing or the act of volition, when any action in his power is once proposed to his thoughts, as presently to be done, cannot be free. the reason whereof is very manifest. for, it being unavoidable that the action depending on his will should exist or not exist, and its existence or not existence following perfectly the determination and preference of his will, he cannot avoid willing the existence or non-existence of that action; it is absolutely necessary that he will the one or the other; i.e. prefer the one to the other: since one of them must necessarily follow; and that which does follow follows by the choice and determination of his mind; that is, by his willing it: for if he did not will it, it would not be. so that, in respect of the act of willing, a man is not free: liberty consisting in a power to act or not to act; which, in regard of volition, a man, has not. . liberty is freedom to execute what is willed. this, then, is evident, that a man is not at liberty to will, or not to will, anything in his power that he once considers of: liberty consisting in a power to act or to forbear acting, and in that only. for a man that sits still is said yet to be at liberty; because he can walk if he wills it. a man that walks is at liberty also, not because he walks or moves; but because he can stand still if he wills it. but if a man sitting still has not a power to remove himself, he is not at liberty; so likewise a man falling down a precipice, though in motion, is not at liberty, because he cannot stop that motion if he would. this being so, it is plain that a man that is walking, to whom it is proposed to give off walking, is not at liberty, whether he will determine himself to walk, or give off walking or not: he must necessarily prefer one or the other of them; walking or not walking. and so it is in regard of all other actions in our power they being once proposed, the mind has not a power to act or not to act, wherein consists liberty. the mind, in that case, has not a power to forbear willing; it cannot avoid some determination concerning them, let the consideration be as short, the thought as quick as it will, it either leaves the man in the state he was before thinking, or changes it; continues the action, or puts an end to it. whereby it is manifest, that it orders and directs one, in preference to, or with neglect of the other, and thereby either the continuation or change becomes unavoidably voluntary. . the will determined by something without it. since then it is plain that, in most cases, a man is not at liberty, whether he will or no, (for, when an action in his power is proposed to his thoughts, he cannot forbear volition; he must determine one way or the other;) the next thing demanded is,--whether a man be at liberty to will which of the two he pleases, motion or rest? this question carries the absurdity of it so manifestly in itself, that one might thereby sufficiently be convinced that liberty concerns not the will. for, to ask whether a man be at liberty to will either motion or rest, speaking or silence, which he pleases, is to ask whether a man can will what he wills, or be pleased with what he is pleased with? a question which, i think, needs no answer: and they who can make a question of it must suppose one will to determine the acts of another, and another to determine that, and so on in infinitum. . the ideas of liberty and volition must be defined. to avoid these and the like absurdities, nothing can be of greater use than to establish in our minds determined ideas of the things under consideration. if the ideas of liberty and volition were well fixed in our understandings, and carried along with us in our minds, as they ought, through all the questions that are raised about them, i suppose a great part of the difficulties that perplex men’s thoughts, and entangle their understandings, would be much easier resolved; and we should perceive where the confused signification of terms, or where the nature of the thing caused the obscurity. . freedom. first, then, it is carefully to be remembered, that freedom consists in the dependence of the existence, or not existence of any action, upon our volition of it; and not in the dependence of any action, or its contrary, on our preference. a man standing on a cliff, is at liberty to leap twenty yards downwards into the sea, not because he has a power to do the contrary action, which is to leap twenty yards upwards, for that he cannot do; but he is therefore free, because he has a power to leap or not to leap. but if a greater force than his, either holds him fast, or tumbles him down, he is no longer free in that case; because the doing or forbearance of that particular action is no longer in his power. he that is a close prisoner in a room twenty feet square, being at the north side of his chamber, is at liberty to walk twenty feet southward, because he can walk or not walk it; but is not, at the same time, at liberty to do the contrary, i.e. to walk twenty feet northward. in this, then, consists freedom, viz. in our being able to act or not to act, according as we shall choose or will. . what volition and action mean. secondly, we must remember, that volition or willing is an act of the mind directing its thought to the production of any action, and thereby exerting its power to produce it. to avoid multiplying of words, i would crave leave here, under the word action, to comprehend the forbearance too of any action proposed: sitting still, or holding one’s peace, when walking or speaking are proposed, though mere forbearances, requiring as much the determination of the will, and being as often weighty in their consequences, as the contrary actions, may, on that consideration, well enough pass for actions too: but this i say, that i may not be mistaken, if (for brevity’s sake) i speak thus. . what determines the will. thirdly, the will being nothing but a power in the mind to direct the operative faculties of a man to motion or rest as far as they depend on such direction; to the question, what is it determines the will? the true and proper answer is, the mind. for that which determines the general power of directing, to this or that particular direction, is nothing but the agent itself exercising the power it has that particular way. if this answer satisfies not, it is plain the meaning of the question, what determines the will? is this,--what moves the mind, in every particular instance, to determine its general power of directing, to this or that particular motion or rest? and to this i answer,--the motive for continuing in the same state or action, is only the present satisfaction in it; the motive to change is always some uneasiness: nothing setting us upon the change of state, or upon any new action, but some uneasiness. this is the great motive that works on the mind to put it upon action, which for shortness’ sake we will call determining of the will, which i shall more at large explain. . will and desire must not be confounded. but, in the way to it, it will be necessary to premise, that, though i have above endeavoured to express the act of volition, by choosing, preferring, and the like terms, that signify desire as well as volition, for want of other words to mark that act of the mind whose proper name is willing or volition; yet, it being a very simple act, whosoever desires to understand what it is, will better find it by reflecting on his own mind, and observing what it does when it wills, than by any variety of articulate sounds whatsoever. this caution of being careful not to be misled by expressions that do not enough keep up the difference between the will and several acts of the mind that are quite distinct from it, i think the more necessary, because i find the will often confounded with several of the affections, especially desire, and one put for the other; and that by men who would not willingly be thought not to have had very distinct notions of things, and not to have writ very clearly about them. this, i imagine, has been no small occasion of obscurity and mistake in this matter; and therefore is, as much as may be, to be avoided. for he that shall turn his thoughts inwards upon what passes in his mind when he wills, shall see that the will or power of volition is conversant about nothing but our own actions; terminates there; and reaches no further; and that volition is nothing but that particular determination of the mind, whereby, barely by a thought, the mind endeavours to give rise, continuation, or stop, to any action which it takes to be in its power. this, well considered, plainly shows that the will is perfectly distinguished from desire; which, in the very same action, may have a quite contrary tendency from that which our will sets us upon. a man, whom i cannot deny, may oblige me to use persuasions to another, which, at the same time i am speaking, i may wish may not prevail on him. in this case, it is plain the will and desire run counter. i will the action; that tends one way, whilst my desire tends another, and that the direct contrary way. a man who, by a violent fit of the gout in his limbs, finds a doziness in his head, or a want of appetite in his stomach removed, desires to be eased too of the pain of his feet or hands, (for wherever there is pain, there is a desire to be rid of it,) though yet, whilst he apprehends that the removal of the pain may translate the noxious humour to a more vital part, his will is never determined to any one action that may serve to remove this pain. whence it is evident that desiring and willing are two distinct acts of the mind; and consequently, that the will, which is but the power of volition, is much more distinct from desire. . uneasiness determines the will. to return, then, to the inquiry, what is it that determines the will in regard to our actions? and that, upon second thoughts, i am apt to imagine is not, as is generally supposed, the greater good in view; but some (and for the most part the most pressing) uneasiness a man is at present under. this is that which successively determines the will, and sets us upon those actions we perform. this uneasiness we may call, as it is, desire; which is an uneasiness of the mind for want of some absent good. all pain of the body, of what sort soever, and disquiet of the mind, is uneasiness: and with this is always joined desire, equal to the pain or uneasiness felt; and is scarce distinguishable from it. for desire being nothing but an uneasiness in the want of an absent good, in reference to any pain felt, ease is that absent good; and till that ease be attained, we may call it desire; nobody feeling pain that he wishes not to be eased of, with a desire equal to that pain, and inseparable from it. besides this desire of ease from pain, there is another of absent positive good; and here also the desire and uneasiness are equal. as much as we desire any absent good, so much are we in pain for it. but here all absent good does not, according to the greatness it has, or is acknowledged to have, cause pain equal to that greatness; as all pain causes desire equal to itself: because the absence of good is not always a pain, as the presence of pain is. and therefore absent good may be looked on and considered without desire. but so much as there is anywhere of desire, so much there is of uneasiness. . desire is uneasiness. that desire is a state of uneasiness, every one who reflects on himself will quickly find. who is there that has not felt in desire what the wise man says of hope, (which is not much different from it,) that it being ‘deferred makes the heart sick’; and that still proportionable to the greatness of the desire, which sometimes raises the uneasiness to that pitch, that it makes people cry out, ‘give me children,’ give me the thing desired, ‘or i die.’ life itself, and all its enjoyments, is a burden cannot be borne under the lasting and unremoved pressure of such an uneasiness. . the uneasiness of desire determines the will. good and evil, present and absent, it is true, work upon the mind. but that which immediately determines the will from time to time, to every voluntary action, is the uneasiness of desire, fixed on some absent good: either negative, as indolence to one in pain; or positive, as enjoyment of pleasure. that it is this uneasiness that determines the will to the successive voluntary actions, whereof the greatest part of our lives is made up, and by which we are conducted through different courses to different ends, i shall endeavour to show, both from experience, and the reason of the thing. . this is the spring of action. when a man is perfectly content with the state he is in--which is when he is perfectly without any uneasiness--what industry, what action, what will is there left, but to continue in it? of this every man’s observation will satisfy him. and thus we see our all-wise maker, suitably to our constitution and frame, and knowing what it is that determines the will, has put into man the uneasiness of hunger and thirst, and other natural desires, that return at their seasons, to move and determine their wills, for the preservation of themselves, and the continuation of their species. for i think we may conclude, that, if the bare contemplation of these good ends to which we are carried by these several uneasinesses had been sufficient to determine the will, and set us on work, we should have had none of these natural pains, and perhaps in this world little or no pain at all. ‘it is better to marry than to burn,’ says st. paul, where we may see what it is that chiefly drives men into the enjoyments of a conjugal life. a little burning felt pushes us more powerfully than greater pleasure in prospect draw or allure. . the greatest positive good determines not the will, but present uneasiness alone. it seems so established and settled a maxim, by the general consent of all mankind, that good, the greater good, determines the will, that i do not at all wonder that, when i first published my thoughts on this subject i took it for granted; and i imagine that, by a great many, i shall be thought more excusable for having then done so, than that now i have ventured to recede from so received an opinion. but yet, upon a stricter inquiry, i am forced to conclude that good, the greater good, though apprehended and acknowledged to be so, does not determine the will, until our desire, raised proportionably to it, makes us uneasy in the want of it. convince a man never so much, that plenty has its advantages over poverty; make him see and own, that the handsome conveniences of life are better than nasty penury: yet, as long as he is content with the latter, and finds no uneasiness in it, he moves not; his will never is determined to any action that shall bring him out of it. let a man be ever so well persuaded of the advantages of virtue, that it is as necessary to a man who has any great aims in this world, or hopes in the next, as food to life: yet, till he hungers or thirsts after righteousness, till he feels an uneasiness in the want of it, his will will not be determined to any action in pursuit of this confessed greater good; but any other uneasiness he feels in himself shall take place, and carry his will to other actions. on the other side, let a drunkard see that his health decays, his estate wastes; discredit and diseases, and the want of all things, even of his beloved drink, attends him in the course he follows: yet the returns of uneasiness to miss his companions, the habitual thirst after his cups at the usual time, drives him to the tavern, though he has in his view the loss of health and plenty, and perhaps of the joys of another life: the least of which is no inconsiderable good, but such as he confesses is far greater than the tickling of his palate with a glass of wine, or the idle chat of a soaking club. it is not want of viewing the greater good: for he sees and acknowledges it, and, in the intervals of his drinking hours, will take resolutions to pursue the greater good; but when the uneasiness to miss his accustomed delight returns, the greater acknowledged good loses its hold, and the present uneasiness determines the will to the accustomed action; which thereby gets stronger footing to prevail against the next occasion, though he at the same time makes secret promises to himself that he will do so no more; this is the last time he will act against the attainment of those greater goods. and thus he is, from time to time, in the state of that unhappy complainer, video meliora, proboque, deteriora sequor: which sentence, allowed for true, and made good by constant experience, may in this, and possibly no other way, be easily made intelligible. . because the removal of uneasiness is the first step to happiness. if we inquire into the reason of what experience makes so evident in fact, and examine, why it is uneasiness alone operates on the will, and determines it in its choice, we shall find that, we being capable but of one determination of the will to one action at once, the present uneasiness that we are under does naturally determine the will, in order to that happiness which we all aim at in all our actions. for, as much as whilst we are under any uneasiness, we cannot apprehend ourselves happy, or in the way to it; pain and uneasiness being, by every one, concluded and felt to be inconsistent with happiness, spoiling the relish even of those good things which we have: a little pain serving to mar all the pleasure we rejoiced in. and, therefore, that which of course determines the choice of our will to the next action will always be--the removing of pain, as long as we have any left, as the first and necessary step towards happiness. . because uneasiness alone is present. another reason why it is uneasiness alone determines the will, is this: because that alone is present and, it is against the nature of things, that what is absent should operate where it is not. it may be said that absent good may, by contemplation, be brought home to the mind and made present. the idea of it indeed may be in the mind and viewed as present there; but nothing will be in the mind as a present good, able to counterbalance the removal of any uneasiness which we are under, till it raises our desire; and the uneasiness of that has the prevalency in determining the will. till then, the idea in the mind of whatever is good is there only, like other ideas, the object of bare unactive speculation; but operates not on the will, nor sets us on work; the reason whereof i shall show by and by. how many are to be found that have had lively representations set before their minds of the unspeakable joys of heaven, which they acknowledge both possible and probable too, who yet would be content to take up with their happiness here? and so the prevailing uneasiness of their desires, let loose after the enjoyments of this life, take their turns in the determining their wills; and all that while they take not one step, are not one jot moved, towards the good things of another life, considered as ever so great. . because all who allow the joys of heaven possible, purse them not. were the will determined by the views of good, as it appears in contemplation greater or less to the understanding, which is the state of all absent good, and that which, in the received opinion, the will is supposed to move to, and to be moved by,--i do not see how it could ever get loose from the infinite eternal joys of heaven, once proposed and considered as possible. for, all absent good, by which alone, barely proposed, and coming in view, the will is thought to be determined, and so to set us on action, being only possible, but not infallibly certain, it is unavoidable that the infinitely greater possible good should regularly and constantly determine the will in all the successive actions it directs; and then we should keep constantly and steadily in our course towards heaven, without ever standing still, or directing our actions to any other end: the eternal condition of a future state infinitely outweighing the expectation of riches, or honour, or any other worldly pleasure which we can propose to ourselves, though we should grant these the more probable to be obtained: for nothing future is yet in possession, and so the expectation even of these may deceive us. if it were so that the greater good in view determines the will, so great a good, once proposed, could not but seize the will, and hold it fast to the pursuit of this infinitely greatest good, without ever letting it go again: for the will having a power over, and directing the thoughts, as well as other actions, would, if it were so, hold the contemplation of the mind fixed to that good. . but any great uneasiness is never neglected. this would be the state of the mind, and regular tendency of the will in all its determinations, were it determined by that which is considered and in view the greater good. but that it is not so, is visible in experience; the infinitely greatest confessed good being often neglected, to satisfy the successive uneasiness of our desires pursuing trifles. but, though the greatest allowed, even everlasting unspeakable, good, which has sometimes moved and affected the mind, does not stedfastly hold the will, yet we see any very great and prevailing uneasiness having once laid hold on the will, let it not go; by which we may be convinced, what it is that determines the will. thus any vehement pain of the body; the ungovernable passion of a man violently in love; or the impatient desire of revenge, keeps the will steady and intent; and the will, thus determined, never lets the understanding lay by the object, but all the thoughts of the mind and powers of the body are uninterruptedly employed that way, by the determination of the will, influenced by that topping uneasiness, as long as it lasts; whereby it seems to me evident, that the will, or power of setting us upon one action in preference to all others, is determined in us by uneasiness: and whether this be not so, i desire every one to observe in himself. . desire accompanies all uneasiness. i have hitherto chiefly instanced in the uneasiness of desire, as that which determines the will: because that is the chief and most sensible; and the will seldom orders any action, nor is there any voluntary action performed, without some desire accompanying it; which i think is the reason why the will and desire are so often confounded. but yet we are not to look upon the uneasiness which makes up, or at least accompanies, most of the other passions, as wholly excluded in the case. aversion, fear, anger, envy, shame, &c. have each their uneasinesses too, and thereby influence the will. these passions are scarce any of them, in life and practice, simple and alone, and wholly unmixed with others; though usually, in discourse and contemplation, that carries the name which operates strongest, and appears most in the present state of the mind. nay, there is, i think, scarce any of the passions to be found without desire joined with it. i am sure wherever there is uneasiness, there is desire. for we constantly desire happiness; and whatever we feel of uneasiness, so much it is certain we want of happiness; even in our own opinion, let our state and condition otherwise be what it will. besides, the present moment not being our eternity, whatever our enjoyment be, we look beyond the present, and desire goes with our foresight, and that still carries the will with it. so that even in joy itself, that which keeps up the action whereon the enjoyment depends, is the desire to continue it, and fear to lose it: and whenever a greater uneasiness than that takes place in the mind, the will presently is by that determined to some new action, and the present delight neglected. . the most pressing uneasiness naturally determines the will. but we being in this world beset with sundry uneasinesses, distracted with different desires, the next inquiry naturally will be,--which of them has the precedency in determining the will to the next action? and to that the answer is,--that ordinarily which is the most pressing of those that are judged capable of being then removed. for, the will being the power of directing our operative faculties to some action, for some end, cannot at any time be moved towards what is judged at that time unattainable: that would be to suppose an intelligent being designedly to act for an end, only to lose its labour; for so it is to act for what is judged not attainable; and therefore very great uneasinesses move not the will, when they are judged not capable of a cure: they in that case put us not upon endeavours. but, these set apart the most important and urgent uneasiness we at that time feel, is that which ordinarily determines the will, successively, in that train of voluntary actions which makes up our lives. the greatest present uneasiness is the spur to action, that is constantly most felt, and for the most part determines the will in its choice of the next action. for this we must carry along with us, that the proper and only object of the will is some action of ours, and nothing else. for we producing nothing by our willing it, but some action in our power, it is there the will terminates, and reaches no further. . all desire happiness. if it be further asked,--what it is moves desire? i answer,--happiness, and that alone. happiness and misery are the names of two extremes, the utmost bounds whereof we know not; it is what be in itself good; and what is apt to produce any degree of pain be evil; yet it often happens that we do not call it so when it comes in competition with a greater of its sort; because, when they come in competition, the degrees also of pleasure and pain have justly a preference. so that if we will rightly estimate what we call good and evil, we shall find it lies much in comparison: for the cause of every less degree of pain, as well as every greater degree of pleasure, has the nature of good, and vice versa. . [* missing] . what good is desired, what not. though this be that which is called good and evil, and all good be the proper object of desire in general; yet all good, even seen and confessed to be so, does not necessarily move every particular man’s desire; but only that part, or so much of it as is considered and taken to make a necessary part of his happiness. all other good, however great in reality or appearance, excites not a man’s desires who looks not on it to make a part of that happiness wherewith he, in his present thoughts, can satisfy himself. happiness, under this view, every one constantly pursues, and desires what makes any part of it: other things, acknowledged to be good, he can look upon without desire, pass by, and be content without. there is nobody, i think, so senseless as to deny that there is pleasure in knowledge: and for the pleasures of sense, they have too many followers to let it be questioned whether men are taken with them or no. now, let one man place his satisfaction in sensual pleasures, another in the delight of knowledge: though each of them cannot but confess, there is great pleasure in what the other pursues; yet, neither of them making the other’s delight a part of his happiness, their desires are not moved, but each is satisfied without what the other enjoys; and so his will is not determined to the pursuit of it. but yet, as soon as the studious man’s hunger and thirst make him uneasy, he, whose will was never determined to any pursuit of good cheer, poignant sauces, delicious wine, by the pleasant taste he has found in them, is, by the uneasiness of hunger and thirst, presently determined to eating and drinking, though possibly with great indifferency, what wholesome food comes in his way. and, on the other side, the epicure buckles to study, when shame, or the desire to recommend himself to his mistress, shall make him uneasy in the want of any sort of knowledge. thus, how much soever men are in earnest and constant in pursuit of happiness, yet they may have a clear view of good, great and confessed good, without being concerned for it, or moved by it, if they think they can make up their happiness without it. though as to pain, that they are always concerned for; they can feel no uneasiness without being moved. and therefore, being uneasy in the want of whatever is judged necessary to their happiness, as soon as any good appears to make a part of their portion of happiness, they begin to desire it. . why the greatest good is not always desired.` this, i think, any one may observe in himself and others,--that the greater visible good does not always raise men’s desires in proportion to the greatness it appears, and is acknowledged, to have: though every little trouble moves us, and sets us on work to get rid of it. the reason whereof is evident from the nature of our happiness and misery itself. all present pain, whatever it be, makes a part of our present misery: but all absent good does not at any time make a necessary part of our present happiness, nor the absence of it make a part of our misery. if it did, we should be constantly and infinitely miserable; there being infinite degrees of happiness which are not in our possession. all uneasiness therefore being removed, a moderate portion of good serve at present to content men; and a few degrees of pleasure in a succession of ordinary enjoyments, make up a happiness wherein they can be satisfied. if this were not so, there could be no room for those indifferent and visibly trifling actions, to which our wills are so often determined, and wherein we voluntarily waste so much of our lives; which remissness could by no means consist with a constant determination of will or desire to the greatest apparent good. that this is so, i think few people need go far from home to be convinced. and indeed in this life there are not many whose happiness reaches so far as to afford them a constant train of moderate mean pleasures, without any mixture of uneasiness; and yet they could be content to stay here for ever: though they cannot deny, but that it is possible there may be a state of eternal durable joys after this life, far surpassing all the good that is to be found here. nay, they cannot but see that it is more possible than the attainment and continuation of that pittance of honour, riches, or pleasure which they pursue, and for which they neglect that eternal state. but yet, in full view of this difference, satisfied of the possibility of a perfect, secure, and lasting happiness in a future state, and under a clear conviction that it is not to be had here,--whilst they bound their happiness within some little enjoyment or aim of this life, and exclude the joys of heaven from making any necessary part of it,--their desires are not moved by this greater apparent good, nor their wills determined to any action, or endeavour for its attainment. . why not being desired, it moves not the will. the ordinary necessities of our lives fill a great part of them with the uneasinesses of hunger, thirst, heat, cold, weariness, with labour, and sleepiness, in their constant returns, &c. to which, if, besides accidental harms, we add the fantastical uneasiness (as itch after honour, power, or riches, &c.) which acquired habits, by fashion, example, and education, have settled in us, and a thousand other irregular desires, which custom has made natural to us, we shall find that a very little part of our life is so vacant from these uneasinesses, as to leave us free to the attraction of remoter absent good. we are seldom at ease, and free enough from the solicitation of our natural or adopted desires, but a constant succession of uneasinesses out of that stock which natural wants or acquired habits have heaped up, take the will in their turns; and no sooner is one action dispatched, which by such a determination of the will we are set upon, but another uneasiness is ready to set us on work. for, the removing of the pains we feel, and are at present pressed with, being the getting out of misery, and consequently the first thing to be done in order to happiness,--absent good, though thought on, confessed, and appearing to be good, not making any part of this unhappiness in its absence, is justled out, to make way for the removal of those uneasinesses we feel; till due and repeated contemplation has brought it nearer to our mind, given some relish of it, and raised in us some desire: which then beginning to make a part of our present uneasiness, stands upon fair terms with the rest to be satisfied, and so, according to its greatness and pressure, comes in its turn to determine the will. . due consideration raises desire. and thus, by a due consideration, and examining any good proposed, it is in our power to raise our desires in a due proportion to the value of that good, whereby in its turn and place it may come to work upon the will, and be pursued. for good, though appearing and allowed ever so great, yet till it has raised desires in our minds, and thereby made us uneasy in its want, it reaches not our wills; we are not within the sphere of its activity, our wills being under the determination only of those uneasinesses which are present to us, which (whilst we have any) are always soliciting, and ready at hand, to give the will its next determination. the balancing, when there is any in the mind, being only, which desire shall be next satisfied, which uneasiness first removed. whereby it comes to pass that, as long as any uneasiness, any desire, remains in our mind, there is no room for good, barely as such, to come at the will, or at all to determine it. because, as has been said, the first step in our endeavours after happiness being to get wholly out of the confines of misery, and to feel no part of it, the will can be at leisure for nothing else, till every uneasiness we feel be perfectly removed: which, in the multitude of wants and desires we are beset with in this imperfect state, we are not like to be ever freed from in this world. . the power to suspend the prosecution of any desire makes way for consideration. there being in us a great many uneasinesses, always soliciting and ready to determine the will, it is natural, as i have said, that the greatest and most pressing should determine the will to the next action; and so it does for the most part, but not always. for, the mind having in most cases, as is evident in experience, a power to suspend the execution and satisfaction of any of its desires; and so all, one after another; is at liberty to consider the objects of them, examine them on all sides, and weigh them with others. in this lies the liberty man has; and from the not using of it right comes all that variety of mistakes, errors, and faults which we run into in the conduct of our lives, and our endeavours after happiness; whilst we precipitate the determination of our wills, and engage too soon, before due examination. to prevent this, we have a power to suspend the prosecution of this or that desire; as every one daily may experiment in himself. this seems to me the source of all liberty; in this seems to consist that which is (as i think improperly) called free-will. for, during this suspension of any desire, before the will be determined to action, and the action (which follows that determination) done, we have opportunity to examine, view, and judge of the good or evil of what we are going to do; and when, upon due examination, we have judged, we have done our duty, all that we can, or ought to do, in pursuit of our happiness; and it is not a fault, but a perfection of our nature, to desire, will, and act according to the last result of a fair examination. . to be determined by our own judgment, is no restraint to liberty. this is so far from being a restraint or diminution of freedom, that it is the very improvement and benefit of it; it is not an abridgment, it is the end and use of our liberty; and the further we are removed from such a determination, the nearer we are to misery and slavery. a perfect indifference in the mind, not determinable by its last judgment of the good or evil that is thought to attend its choice, would be so far from being an advantage and excellency of any intellectual nature, that it would be as great an imperfection, as the want of indifferency to act, or not to act, till determined by the will, would be an imperfection on the other side. a man is at liberty to lift up his hand to his head, or let it rest quiet: he is perfectly indifferent in either; and it would be an imperfection in him, if he wanted that power, if he were deprived of that indifferency. but it would be as great an imperfection, if he had the same indifferency, whether he would prefer the lifting up his hand, or its remaining in rest, when it would save his head or eyes from a blow he sees coming: it is as much a perfection, that desire, or the power of preferring, should be determined by good, as that the power of acting should be determined by the will; and the certainer such determination is, the greater is the perfection. nay, were we determined by anything but the last result of our own minds, judging of the good or evil of any action, we were not free. . the freest agents are so determined. if we look upon those superior beings above us, who enjoy perfect happiness, we shall have reason to judge that they are more steadily determined in their choice of good than we; and yet we have no reason to think they are less happy, or less free, than we are. and if it were fit for such poor finite creatures as we are to pronounce what infinite wisdom and goodness could do, i think we might say, that god himself cannot choose what is not good; the freedom of the almighty hinders not his being determined by what is best. . a constant determination to a pursuit of happiness no abridgment of liberty. but to give a right view of this mistaken part of liberty let me ask,--would any one be a changeling, because he is less determined by wise considerations than a wise man? is it worth the name of freedom to be at liberty to play the fool, and draw shame and misery upon a man’s self? if to break loose from the conduct of reason, and to want that restraint of examination and judgment which keeps us from choosing or doing the worse, be liberty, true liberty, madmen and fools are the only freemen: but yet, i think, nobody would choose to be mad for the sake of such liberty, but he that is mad already. the constant desire of happiness, and the constraint it puts upon us to act for it, nobody, i think, accounts an abridgment of liberty, or at least an abridgment of liberty to be complained of. god almighty himself is under the necessity of being happy; and the more any intelligent being is so, the nearer is its approach to infinite perfection and happiness. that, in this state of ignorance, we short-sighted creatures might not mistake true felicity, we are endowed with a power to suspend any particular desire, and keep it from determining the will, and engaging us in action. this is standing still, where we are not sufficiently assured of the way: examination is consulting a guide. the determination of the will upon inquiry, is following the direction of that guide: and he that has a power to act or not to act, according as such determination directs, is a free agent: such determination abridges not that power wherein liberty consists. he that has his chains knocked off, and the prison doors set open to him, is perfectly at liberty, because he may either go or stay, as he best likes, though his preference be determined to stay, by the darkness of the night, or illness of the weather, or want of other lodging. he ceases not to be free; though the desire of some convenience to be had there absolutely determines his preference, and makes him stay in his prison. . the necessity of pursuing true happiness the foundation of liberty. as therefore the highest perfection of intellectual nature lies in a careful and constant pursuit of true and solid happiness; so the care of ourselves, that we mistake not imaginary for real happiness, is the necessary foundation of our liberty. the stronger ties we have to an unalterable pursuit of happiness in general, which is our greatest good, and which as such, our desires always follow, the more are we free from any necessary determination of our will to any particular action, and from a necessary compliance with our desire, so upon any particular, and then appearing preferable good, till we have duly examined whether it has a tendency to, or be inconsistent with, our real happiness: and therefore, till we are as much informed upon this inquiry as the weight of the matter, and the nature of the case demands, we are, by the necessity of preferring and pursuing true happiness as our greatest good, obliged to suspend the satisfaction of our desires in particular cases. . power to suspend. this is the hinge on which turns the liberty of intellectual beings, in their constant endeavours after, and a steady prosecution of true felicity,--that they can suspend this prosecution in particular cases, till they have looked before them, and informed themselves whether that particular thing which is then proposed or desired lie in the way to their main end, and make a real part of that which is their greatest good. for, the inclination and tendency of their nature to happiness is an obligation and motive to them, to take care not to mistake or miss it; and so necessarily puts them upon caution, deliberation, and wariness, in the direction of their particular actions, which are the means to obtain it. whatever necessity determines to the pursuit of real bliss, the same necessity, with the same force, establishes suspense, deliberation, and scrutiny of each successive desire, whether the satisfaction of it does not interfere with our true happiness, and mislead us from it. this, as seems to me, is the great privilege of finite intellectual beings; and i desire it may be well considered, whether the great inlet and exercise of all the liberty men have, are capable of, or can be useful to them, and that whereon depends the turn of their actions, does not lie in this,--that they can suspend their desires, and stop them from determining their wills to any action, till they have duly and fairly examined the good and evil of it, as far forth as the weight of the thing requires. this we are able to do; and when we have done it, we have done our duty, and all that is in our power; and indeed all that needs. for, since the will supposes knowledge to guide its choice, all that we can do is to hold our wills undetermined, till we have examined the good and evil of what we desire. what follows after that, follows in a chain of consequences, linked one to another, all depending on the last determination of the judgment, which, whether it shall be upon a hasty and precipitate view, or upon a due and mature examination, is in our power; experience showing us, that in most cases, we are able to suspend the present satisfaction of any desire. . government of our passions the right improvement of liberty. but if any extreme disturbance (as sometimes it happens) possesses our whole mind, as when the pain of the rack, an impetuous uneasiness, as of love, anger, or any other violent passion, running away with us, allows us not the liberty of thought, and we are not masters enough of our own minds to consider thoroughly and examine fairly;--god, who knows our frailty, pities our weakness, and requires of us no more than we are able to do, and sees what was and what was not in our power, will judge as a kind and merciful father. but the forbearance of a too hasty compliance with our desires, the moderation and restraint of our passions, so that our understandings may be free to examine, and reason unbiassed, give its judgment, being that whereon a right direction of our conduct to true happiness depends; it is in this we should employ our chief care and endeavours. in this we should take pains to suit the relish of our minds to the true intrinsic good or ill that is in things; and not permit an allowed or supposed possible great and weighty good to slip out of our thoughts, without leaving any relish, any desire of itself there till, by a due consideration of its true worth, we have formed appetites in our minds suitable to it, and made ourselves uneasy in the want of it, or in the fear of losing it. and how much this is in every one’s power, by making resolutions to himself, such as he may keep, is easy for every one to try. nor let any one say, he cannot govern his passions, nor hinder them from breaking out, and carrying him into action; for what he can do before a prince or a great man, he can do alone, or in the presence of god, if he will. . how men come to pursue different, and often evil courses. from what has been said, it is easy to give an account how it comes to pass, that, though all men desire happiness, yet their wills carry them so contrarily; and consequently, some of them to what is evil. and to this i say, that the various and contrary choices that men make in the world do not argue that they do not all pursue good; but that the same thing is not good to every man alike. this variety of pursuits shows, that every one does not place his happiness in the same thing, or choose the same way to it. were all the concerns of man terminated in this life, why one followed study and knowledge, and another hawking and hunting: why one chose luxury and debauchery, and another sobriety and riches, would not be because every one of these did not aim at his own happiness; but because their happiness was placed in different things. and therefore it was a right answer of the physician to his patient that had sore eyes:--if you have more pleasure in the taste of wine than in the use of your sight, wine is good for you; but if the pleasure of seeing be greater to you than that of drinking, wine is naught. . all men seek happiness, but not of the same sort. the mind has a different relish, as well as the palate; and you will as fruitlessly endeavour to delight all men with riches or glory (which yet some men place their happiness in) as you would to satisfy all men’s hunger with cheese or lobsters; which, though very agreeable and delicious fare to some, are to others extremely nauseous and offensive: and many persons would with reason prefer the griping of an hungry belly to those dishes which are a feast to others. hence it was, i think, that the philosophers of old did in vain inquire, whether summum bonum consisted in riches, or bodily delights, or virtue, or contemplation: and they might have as reasonably disputed, whether the best relish were to be found in apples, plums, or nuts, and have divided themselves into sects upon it. for, as pleasant tastes depend not on the things themselves, but on their agreeableness to this or that particular palate, wherein there is great variety; so the greatest happiness consists in the having those things which produce the greatest pleasure, and in the absence of those which cause any disturbance, any pain. now these, to different men, are very different things. if, therefore, men in this life only have hope; if in this life only they can enjoy, it is not strange nor unreasonable, that they should seek their happiness by avoiding all things that disease them here, and by pursuing all that delight them; wherein it will be no wonder to find variety and difference. for if there be no prospect beyond the grave, the inference is certainly right--‘let us eat and drink,’ let us enjoy what we delight in, ‘for to-morrow we shall die.’ this, i think, may serve to show us the reason, why, though all men’s desires tend to happiness, yet they are not moved by the same object. men may choose different things, and yet all choose right; supposing them only like a company of poor insects; whereof some are bees, delighted with flowers and their sweetness; others beetles, delighted with other kinds of viands, which having enjoyed for a season, they would cease to be, and exist no more for ever. . [not in early editions] . why men choose what makes them miserable. what has been said may also discover to us the reason why men in this world prefer different things, and pursue happiness by contrary courses. but yet, since men are always constant and in earnest in matters of happiness and misery, the question still remains, how men come often to prefer the worse to the better; and to choose that, which, by their own confession, has made them miserable? . the causes of this. to account for the various and contrary ways men take, though all aim at being happy, we must consider whence the various uneasinesses that determine the will, in the preference of each voluntary action, have their rise:-- . from bodily pain. some of them come from causes not in our power; such as are often the pains of the body from want, disease, or outward injuries, as the rack, etc.; which, when present and violent, operate for the most part forcibly on the will, and turn the courses of men’s lives from virtue, piety, and religion, and what before they judged to lead to happiness; every one not endeavouring, or not being able, by the contemplation of remote and future good, to raise in himself desires of them strong enough to counterbalance the uneasiness he feels in those bodily torments, and to keep his will steady in the choice of those actions which lead to future happiness. a neighbouring country has been of late a tragical theatre from which we might fetch instances, if there needed any, and the world did not in all countries and ages furnish examples enough to confirm that received observation: necessitas cogit ad turpia; and therefore there is great reason for us to pray, ‘lead us not into temptation.’ . from wrong desires arising from wrong judgments. other uneasinesses arise from our desires of absent good; which desires always bear proportion to, and depend on, the judgment we make, and the relish we have of any absent good; in both which we are apt to be variously misled, and that by our own fault. . our judgment of present good or evil always right. in the first place, i shall consider the wrong judgments men make of future good and evil, whereby their desires are misled. for, as to present happiness and misery, when that alone comes into consideration, and the consequences are quite removed, a man never chooses amiss: he knows what best pleases him, and that he actually prefers. things in their present enjoyment are what they seem: the apparent and real good are, in this case, always the same. for the pain or pleasure being just so great and no greater than it is felt, the present good or evil is really so much as it appears. and therefore were every action of ours concluded within itself, and drew no consequences after it, we should undoubtedly never err in our choice of good: we should always infallibly prefer the best. were the pains of honest industry, and of starving with hunger and cold set together before us, nobody would be in doubt which to choose: were the satisfaction of a lust and the joys of heaven offered at once to any one’s present possession, he would not balance, or err in the determination of his choice. . our wrong judgments have regard to future good and evil only. but since our voluntary actions carry not all the happiness and misery that depend on them along with them in their present performance, but are the precedent causes of good and evil, which they draw after them, and bring upon us, when they themselves are past and cease to be; our desires look beyond our present enjoyments, and carry the mind out to absent good, according to the necessity which we think there is of it, to the making or increase of our happiness. it is our opinion of such a necessity that gives it its attraction: without that, we are not moved by absent good. for, in this narrow scantling of capacity which we are accustomed to and sensible of here, wherein we enjoy but one pleasure at once, which, when all uneasiness is away, is, whilst it lasts, sufficient to make us think ourselves happy, it is not all remote and even apparent good that affects us. because the indolency and enjoyment we have, sufficing for our present happiness, we desire not to venture the change; since we judge that we are happy already, being content, and that is enough. for who is content is happy. but as soon as any new uneasiness comes in, this happiness is disturbed, and we are set afresh on work in the pursuit of happiness. . from a wrong judgment of what makes a necessary part of their happiness. their aptness therefore to conclude that they can be happy without it, is one great occasion that men often are not raised to the desire of the greatest absent good. for, whilst such thoughts possess them, the joys of a future state move them not; they have little concern or uneasiness about them; and the will, free from the determination of such desires, is left to the pursuit of nearer satisfactions, and to the removal of those uneasinesses which it then feels, in its want of any longings after them. change but a man’s view of these things; let him see that virtue and religion are necessary to his happiness; let him look into the future state of bliss or misery, and see there god, the righteous judge, ready to ‘render to every man according to his deeds; to them who by patient continuance in well-doing seek for glory, and honour, and immortality, eternal life; but unto every soul that doth evil, indignation and wrath, tribulation and anguish.’ to him, i say, who hath a prospect of the different state of perfect happiness or misery that attends all men after this life, depending on their behaviour here, the measures of good and evil that govern his choice are mightily changed. for, since nothing of pleasure and pain in this life can bear any proportion to the endless happiness or exquisite misery of an immortal soul hereafter, actions in his power will have their preference, not according to the transient pleasure or pain that accompanies or follows them here, but as they serve to secure that perfect durable happiness hereafter. . a more particular account of wrong judgments. but, to account more particularly for the misery that men often bring on themselves, notwithstanding that they do all in earnest pursue happiness, we must consider how things come to be represented to our desires under deceitful appearances: and that is by the judgment pronouncing wrongly concerning them. to see how far this reaches, and what are the causes of wrong judgment, we must remember that things are judged good or bad in a double sense:-- first, that which is properly good or bad, is nothing but barely pleasure or pain. secondly, but because not only present pleasure and pain, but that also which is apt by its efficacy or consequences to bring it upon us at a distance, is a proper object of our desires, and apt to move a creature that has foresight; therefore things also that draw after them pleasure and pain, are considered as good and evil. . no one chooses misery willingly, but only by wrong judgment. the wrong judgment that misleads us, and makes the will often fasten on the worse side, lies in misreporting upon the various comparisons of these. the wrong judgment i am here speaking of is not what one man may think of the determination of another, but what every man himself must confess to be wrong. for, since i lay it for a certain ground, that every intelligent being really seeks happiness, which consists in the enjoyment of pleasure, without any considerable mixture of uneasiness; it is impossible any one should willingly put into his own draught any bitter ingredient, or leave out anything in his power that would tend to his satisfaction, and the completing of his happiness, but only by a wrong judgment. i shall not here speak of that mistake which is the consequence of invincible error, which scarce deserves the name of wrong judgment; but of that wrong judgment which every man himself must confess to be so. . men may err on comparing present and future. (i) therefore, as to present pleasure and pain, the mind, as has been said, never mistakes that which is really good or evil; that which is the greater pleasure, or the greater pain, is really just as it appears. but, though present pleasure and pain show their difference and degrees so plainly as not to leave room to mistake; yet, when we compare present pleasure or pain with future, (which is usually the case in most important determinations of the will,) we often make wrong judgments of them; taking our measures of them in different positions of distance. objects near our view are apt to be thought greater than those of a larger size that are more remote. and so it is with pleasures and pains: the present is apt to carry it; and those at a distance have the disadvantage in the comparison. thus most men, like spendthrift heirs, are apt to judge a little in hand better than a great deal to come; and so, for small matters in possession, part with greater ones in reversion. but that this is a wrong judgment every one must allow, let his pleasure consist in whatever it will: since that which is future will certainly come to be present; and then, having the same advantage of nearness, will show itself in its full dimensions, and discover his wilful mistake who judged of it by unequal measures. were the pleasure of drinking accompanied, the very moment a man takes off his glass, with that sick stomach and aching head which, in some men, are sure to follow not many hours after, i think nobody, whatever pleasure he had in his cups, would, on these conditions, ever let wine touch his lips; which yet he daily swallows, and the evil side comes to be chosen only by the fallacy of a little difference in time. but, if pleasure or pain can be so lessened only by a few hours’ removal, how much more will it be so by a further distance to a man that will not, by a right judgment, do what time will, i. e. bring it home upon himself, and consider it as present, and there take its true dimensions? this is the way we usually impose on ourselves, in respect of bare pleasure and pain, or the true degrees of happiness or misery: the future loses its just proportion, and what is present obtains the preference as the greater. i mention not here the wrong judgment, whereby the absent are not only lessened, but reduced to perfect nothing; when men enjoy what they can in present, and make sure of that, concluding amiss that no evil will thence follow. for that lies not in comparing the greatness of future good and evil, which is that we are here speaking of; but in another sort of wrong judgment, which is concerning good or evil, as it is considered to be the cause and procurement of pleasure or pain that will follow from it. . causes of our judging amiss when we compare present pleasure and pain with future. the cause of our judging amiss, when we compare our present pleasure or pain with future, seems to me to be the weak and narrow constitution of our minds. we cannot well enjoy two pleasures at once; much less any pleasure almost, whilst pain possesses us. the present pleasure, if it be not very languid, and almost none at all, fills our narrow souls, and so takes up the whole mind that it scarce leaves any thought of things absent: or if among our pleasures there are some which are not strong enough to exclude the consideration of things at a distance, yet we have so great an abhorrence of pain, that a little of it extinguishes all our pleasures. a little bitter mingled in our cup, leaves no relish of the sweet. hence it comes that, at any rate, we desire to be rid of the present evil, which we are apt to think nothing absent can equal; because, under the present pain, we find not ourselves capable of any the least degree of happiness. men’s daily complaints are a loud proof of this: the pain that any one actually feels is still of all other the worst; and it is with anguish they cry out,--‘any rather than this: nothing can be so intolerable as what i now suffer.’ and therefore our whole endeavours and thoughts are intent to get rid of the present evil, before all things, as the first necessary condition to our happiness; let what will follow. nothing, as we passionately think, can exceed, or almost equal, the uneasiness that sits so heavy upon us. and because the abstinence from a present pleasure that offers itself is a pain, nay, oftentimes a very great one, the desire being inflamed by a near and tempting object, it is no wonder that that operates after the same manner pain does, and lessens in our thoughts what is future; and so forces us, as it were blindfold, into its embraces. . absent good unable to counterbalance present uneasiness. add to this, that absent good, or, which is the same thing, future pleasure,--especially if of a sort we are unacquainted with,--seldom is able to counterbalance any uneasiness, either of pain or desire, which is present. for, its greatness being no more than what shall be really tasted when enjoyed, men are apt enough to lessen that; to make it give place to any present desire; and conclude with themselves that, when it comes to trial, it may possibly not answer the report or opinion that generally passes of it: they having often found that, not only what others have magnified, but even what they themselves have enjoyed with great pleasure and delight at one time, has proved insipid or nauseous at another; and therefore they see nothing in it for which they should forego a present enjoyment. but that this is a false way of judging, when applied to the happiness of another life, they must confess; unless they will say, god cannot make those happy he designs to be so. for that being intended for a state of happiness, it must certainly be agreeable to every one’s wish and desire: could we suppose their relishes as different there as they are here, yet the manna in heaven will suit every one’s palate. thus much of the wrong judgment we make of present and future pleasure and pain, when they are compared together, and so the absent considered as future. . wrong judgment in considering consequences of actions. (ii). as to things good or bad in their consequences, and by the aptness that is in them to procure us good or evil in the future, we judge amiss several ways. . when we judge that so much evil does not really depend on them as in truth there does. . when we judge that, though the consequence be of that moment, yet it is not of that certainty, but that it may otherwise fall out, or else by some means be avoided; as by industry, address, change, repentance, &c. that these are wrong ways of judging, were easy to show in every particular, if i would examine them at large singly: but i shall only mention this in general, viz. that it is a very wrong and irrational way of proceeding, to venture a greater good for a less, upon uncertain guesses; and before a due examination be made, proportionable to the weightiness of the matter, and the concernment it is to us not to mistake. this i think every one must confess, especially if he considers the usual cause of this wrong judgment, whereof these following are some:-- . causes of this. (i) ignorance: he that judges without informing himself to the utmost that he is capable, cannot acquit himself of judging amiss. (ii) inadvertency: when a man overlooks even that which he does know. this is an affected and present ignorance, which misleads our judgments as much as the other. judging is, as it were, balancing an account, and determining on which side the odds lie. if therefore either side be huddled up in haste, and several of the sums that should have gone into the reckoning be overlooked and left out, this precipitancy causes as wrong a judgment as if it were a perfect ignorance. that which most commonly causes this is, the prevalency of some present pleasure or pain, heightened by our feeble passionate nature, most strongly wrought on by what is present. to check this precipitancy, our understanding and reason were given us, if we will make a right use of them, to search and see, and then judge thereupon. how much sloth and negligence, heat and passion, the prevalency of fashion or acquired indispositions do severally contribute, on occasion, to these wrong judgments, i shall not here further inquire. i shall only add one other false judgment, which i think necessary to mention, because perhaps it is little taken notice of, though of great influence. . wrong judgment of what is necessary to our happiness. all men desire happiness, that is past doubt: but, as has been already observed, when they are rid of pain, they are apt to take up with any pleasure at hand, or that custom has endeared to them; to rest satisfied in that; and so being happy, till some new desire, by making them uneasy, disturbs that happiness, and shows them that they are not so, they look no further; nor is the will determined to any action in pursuit of any other known or apparent good. for since we find that we cannot enjoy all sorts of good, but one excludes another; we do not fix our desires on every apparent greater good, unless it be judged to be necessary to our happiness: if we think we can be happy without it, it moves us not. this is another occasion to men of judging wrong; when they take not that to be necessary to their happiness which really is so. this mistake misleads us, both in the choice of the good we aim at, and very often in the means to it, when it is a remote good. but, which way ever it be, either by placing it where really it is not, or by neglecting the means as not necessary to it;--when a man misses his great end, happiness, he will acknowledge he judged not right. that which contributes to this mistake is the real or supposed unpleasantness of the actions which are the way to this end; it seeming so preposterous a thing to men, to make themselves unhappy in order to happiness, that they do not easily bring themselves to it. . we can change the agreeableness or disagreeableness in things. the last inquiry, therefore, concerning this matter is,--whether it be in a man’s power to change the pleasantness and unpleasantness that accompanies any sort of action? and as to that, it is plain, in many cases he can. men may and should correct their palates, and give relish to what either has, or they suppose has none. the relish of the mind is as various as that of the body, and like that too may be altered; and it is a mistake to think that men cannot change the displeasingness or indifferency that is in actions into pleasure and desire, if they will do but what is in their power. a due consideration will do it in some cases; and practice, application, and custom in most. bread or tobacco may be neglected where they are shown to be useful to health, because of an indifferency or disrelish to them; reason and consideration at first recommends, and begins their trial, and use finds, or custom makes them pleasant. that this is so in virtue too, is very certain. actions are pleasing or displeasing, either in themselves, or considered as a means to a greater and more desirable end. the eating of a well-seasoned dish, suited to a man’s palate, may move the mind by the delight itself that accompanies the eating, without reference to any other end; to which the consideration of the pleasure there is in health and strength (to which that meat is subservient) may add a new gusto, able to make us swallow an ill-relished potion. in the latter of these, any action is rendered more or less pleasing, only by the contemplation of the end, and the being more or less persuaded of its tendency to it, or necessary connexion with it: but the pleasure of the action itself is best acquired or increased by use and practice. trials often reconcile us to that, which at a distance we looked on with aversion; and by repetitions wear us into a liking of what possibly, in the first essay, displeased us. habits have powerful charms, and put so strong attractions of easiness and pleasure into what we accustom ourselves to, that we cannot forbear to do, or at least be easy in the omission of, actions, which habitual practice has suited, and thereby recommends to us. though this be very visible, and every one’s experience shows him he can do so; yet it is a part in the conduct of men towards their happiness, neglected to a degree, that it will be possibly entertained as a paradox, if it be said, that men can make things or actions more or less pleasing to themselves; and thereby remedy that, to which one may justly impute a great deal of their wandering. fashion and the common opinion having settled wrong notions, and education and custom ill habits, the just values of things are misplaced, and the palates of men corrupted. pains should be taken to rectify these; and contrary habits change our pleasures, and give a relish to that which is necessary or conducive to our happiness. this every one must confess he can do; and when happiness is lost, and misery overtakes him, he will confess he did amiss in neglecting it, and condemn himself for it; and i ask every one, whether he has not often done so? . preference of vice to virtue a manifest wrong judgment. i shall not now enlarge any further on the wrong judgments and neglect of what is in their power, whereby men mislead themselves. this would make a volume, and is not my business. but whatever false notions, or shameful neglect of what is in their power, may put men out of their way to happiness, and distract them, as we see, into so different courses of life, this yet is certain, that morality established upon its true foundations, cannot but determine the choice in any one that will but consider: and he that will not be so far a rational creature as to reflect seriously upon infinite happiness and misery, must needs condemn himself as not making that use of his understanding he should. the rewards and punishments of another life which the almighty has established, as the enforcements of his law, are of weight enough to determine the choice against whatever pleasure or pain this life can show, where the eternal state is considered but in its bare possibility which nobody can make any doubt of. he that will allow exquisite and endless happiness to be but the possible consequence of a good life here, and the contrary state the possible reward of a bad one, must own himself to judge very much amiss if he does not conclude,--that a virtuous life, with the certain expectation of everlasting bliss, which may come, is to be preferred to a vicious one, with the fear of that dreadful state of misery, which it is very possible may overtake the guilty; or, at best, the terrible uncertain hope of annihilation. this is evidently so, though the virtuous life here had nothing but pain, and the vicious continual pleasure: which yet is, for the most part, quite otherwise, and wicked men have not much the odds to brag of, even in their present possession; nay, all things rightly considered, have, i think, even the worse part here. but when infinite happiness is put into one scale, against infinite misery in the other; if the worst that comes to the pious man, if he mistakes, be the best that the wicked can attain to, if he be in the right, who can without madness run the venture? who in his wits would choose to come within a possibility of infinite misery; which if he miss, there is yet nothing to be got by that hazard? whereas, on the other side, the sober man ventures nothing against infinite happiness to be got, if his expectation comes not to pass. if the good man be in the right, he is eternally happy; if he mistakes, he is not miserable, he feels nothing. on the other side, if the wicked man be in the right, he is not happy; if he mistakes, he is infinitely miserable. must it not be a most manifest wrong judgment that does not presently see to which side, in this case, the preference is to be given? i have forborne to mention anything of the certainty or probability of a future state, designing here to show the wrong judgment that any one must allow he makes, upon his own principles, laid how he pleases, who prefers the short pleasures of a vicious life upon any consideration, whilst he knows, and cannot but be certain, that a future life is at least possible. . recapitulation--liberty of indifferency. to conclude this inquiry into human liberty, which, as it stood before, i myself from the beginning fearing, and a very judicious friend of mine, since the publication, suspecting to have some mistake in it, though he could not particularly show it me, i was put upon a stricter review of this chapter. wherein lighting upon a very easy and scarce observable slip i had made, in putting one seemingly indifferent word for another that discovery opened to me this present view, which here, in this second edition, i submit to the learned world, and which, in short, is this: liberty is a power to act or not to act, according as the mind directs. a power to direct the operative faculties to motion or rest in particular instances is that which we call the will. that which in the train of our voluntary actions determines the will to any change of operation is some present uneasiness, which is, or at least is always accompanied with that of desire. desire is always moved by evil, to fly it: because a total freedom from pain always makes a necessary part of our happiness: but every good, nay, every greater good, does not constantly move desire, because it may not make, or may not be taken to make, any necessary part of our happiness. for all that we desire, is only to be happy. but, though this general desire of happiness operates constantly and invariably, yet the satisfaction of any particular desire can be suspended from determining the will to any subservient action, till we have maturely examined whether the particular apparent good which we then desire makes a part of our real happiness, or be consistent or inconsistent with it. the result of our judgment upon that examination is what ultimately determines the man; who could not be free if his will were determined by anything but his own desire, guided by his own judgment. . active and passive power, in motions and in thinking. true notions concerning the nature and extent of liberty are of so great importance, that i hope i shall be pardoned this digression, which my attempt to explain it has led me into. the ideas of will, volition, liberty, and necessity, in this chapter of power, came naturally in my way. in a former edition of this treatise i gave an account of my thoughts concerning them, according to the light i then had. and now, as a lover of truth, and not a worshipper of my own doctrines, i own some change of my opinion; which i think i have discovered ground for. in what i first writ, i with an unbiassed indifferency followed truth, whither i thought she led me. but neither being so vain as to fancy infallibility, nor so disingenuous as to dissemble my mistakes for fear of blemishing my reputation, i have, with the same sincere design for truth only, not been ashamed to publish what a severer inquiry has suggested. it is not impossible but that some may think my former notions right; and some (as i have already found) these latter; and some neither. i shall not at all wonder at this variety in men’s opinions: impartial deductions of reason in controverted points being so rare, and exact ones in abstract notions not so very easy especially if of any length. and, therefore, i should think myself not a little beholden to any one, who would, upon these or any other grounds, fairly clear this subject of liberty from any difficulties that may yet remain. . summary of our original ideas. and thus i have, in a short draught, given a view of our original ideas, from whence all the rest are derived, and of which they are made up; which, if i would consider as a philosopher, and examine on what causes they depend, and of what they are made, i believe they all might be reduced to these very few primary and original ones, viz. extension, solidity, mobility, or the power of being moved; which by our senses we receive from body: perceptivity, or the power of perception, or thinking; motivity, or the power of moving: which by reflection we receive from our minds. i crave leave to make use of these two new words, to avoid the danger of being mistaken in the use of those which are equivocal. to which if we add existence, duration, number, which belong both to the one and the other, we have, perhaps, all the original ideas on which the rest depend. for by these, i imagine, might be explained the nature of colours, sounds, tastes, smells, and all other ideas we have, if we had but faculties acute enough to perceive the severally modified extensions and motions of these minute bodies, which produce those several sensations in us. but my present purpose being only to inquire into the knowledge the mind has of things, by those ideas and appearances which god has fitted it to receive from them, and how the mind comes by that knowledge; rather than into their causes or manner of production, i shall not, contrary to the design of this essay, see myself to inquire philosophically into the peculiar constitution of bodies, and the configuration of parts, whereby they have the power to produce in us the ideas of their sensible qualities. i shall not enter any further into that disquisition; it sufficing to my purpose to observe, that gold or saffron has power to produce in us the idea of yellow, and snow or milk the idea of white, which we can only have by our sight without examining the texture of the parts of those bodies or the particular figures or motion of the particles which rebound from them, to cause in us that particular sensation, though, when we go beyond the bare ideas in our minds and would inquire into their causes, we cannot conceive anything else to be in any sensible object, whereby it produces different ideas in us, but the different bulk, figure, number, texture, and motion of its insensible parts. chapter xxii.--of mixed modes. . mixed modes, what. having treated of simple modes in the foregoing chapters, and given several instances of some of the most considerable of them, to show what they are, and how we come by them; we are now in the next place to consider those we call mixed modes; such are the complex ideas we mark by the names obligation, drunkenness, a lie, &c.; which consisting of several combinations of simple ideas of different kinds, i have called mixed modes, to distinguish them from the more simple modes, which consist only of simple ideas of the same kind. these mixed modes, being also such combinations of simple ideas as are not looked upon to be characteristical marks of any real beings that have a steady existence, but scattered and independent ideas put together by the mind, are thereby distinguished from the complex ideas of substances. . made by the mind. that the mind, in respect of its simple ideas, is wholly passive, and receives them all from the existence and operations of things, such as sensation or reflection offers them, without being able to make any one idea, experience shows us. but if we attentively consider these ideas i call mixed modes, we are now speaking of, we shall find their origin quite different. the mind often exercises an active power in making these several combinations. for, it being once furnished with simple ideas, it can put them together in several compositions, and so make variety of complex ideas, without examining whether they exist so together in nature. and hence i think it is that these ideas are called notions: as they had their original, and constant existence, more in the thoughts of men, than in the reality of things; and to form such ideas, it sufficed that the mind put the parts of them together, and that they were consistent in the understanding without considering whether they had any real being: though i do not deny but several of them might be taken from observation, and the existence of several simple ideas so combined, as they are put together in the understanding. for the man who first framed the idea of hypocrisy, might have either taken it at first from the observation of one who made show of good qualities which he had not; or else have framed that idea in his mind without having any such pattern to fashion it by. for it is evident that, in the beginning of languages and societies of men, several of those complex ideas, which were consequent to the constitutions established amongst them, must needs have been in the minds of men before they existed anywhere else; and that many names that stood for such complex ideas were in use, and so those ideas framed, before the combinations they stood for ever existed. . sometimes got by the explication of their names. indeed, now that languages are made, and abound with words standing for such combinations, an usual way of getting these complex ideas is, by the explication of those terms that stand for them. for, consisting of a company of simple ideas combined, they may, by words standing for those simple ideas, be represented to the mind of one who understands those words, though that complex combination of simple ideas were never offered to his mind by the real existence of things. thus a man may come to have the idea of sacrilege or murder, by enumerating to him the simple ideas which these words stand for; without ever seeing either of them committed. . the name ties the parts of mixed modes into one idea. every mixed mode consisting of many distinct simple ideas, it seems reasonable to inquire, whence it has its unity; and how such a precise multitude comes to make but one idea; since that combination does not always exist together in nature? to which i answer, it is plain it has its unity from an act of the mind, combining those several simple ideas together, and considering them as one complex one, consisting of those parts; and the mark of this union, or that which is looked on generally to complete it, is one name given to that combination. for it is by their names that men commonly regulate their account of their distinct species of mixed modes, seldom allowing or considering any number of simple ideas to make one complex one, but such collections as there be names for. thus, though the killing of an old man be as fit in nature to be united into one complex idea, as the killing a man’s father; yet, there being no name standing precisely for the one, as there is the name of parricide to mark the other, it is not taken for a particular complex idea, nor a distinct species of actions from that of killing a young man, or any other man. . the cause of making mixed modes. if we should inquire a little further, to see what it is that occasions men to make several combinations of simple ideas into distinct, and, as it were, settled modes, and neglect others, which in the nature of things themselves, have as much an aptness to be combined and make distinct ideas, we shall find the reason of it to be the end of language; which being to mark, or communicate men’s thoughts to one another with all the dispatch that may be, they usually make such collections of ideas into complex modes, and affix names to them, as they have frequent use of in their way of living and conversation, leaving others which they have but seldom an occasion to mention, loose and without names that tie them together: they rather choosing to enumerate (when they have need) such ideas as make them up, by the particular names that stand for them, than to trouble their memories by multiplying of complex ideas with names to them, which they seldom or never have any occasion to make use of. . why words in one language have none answering in another. this shows us how it comes to pass that there are in every language many particular words which cannot be rendered by any one single word of another. for the several fashions, customs, and manners of one nation, making several combinations of ideas familiar and necessary in one, which another people have had never an occasion to make, or perhaps so much as take notice of, names come of course to be annexed to them, to avoid long periphrases in things of daily conversation; and so they become so many distinct complex ideas in their minds. thus ostrakismos amongst the greeks, and proscriptio amongst the romans, were words which other languages had no names that exactly answered; because they stood for complex ideas which were not in the minds of the men of other nations. where there was no such custom, there was no notion of any such actions; no use of such combinations of ideas as were united, and, as it were, tied together, by those terms: and therefore in other countries there were no names for them. . and languages change. hence also we may see the reason, why languages constantly change, take up new and lay by old terms. because change of customs and opinions bringing with it new combinations of ideas, which it is necessary frequently to think on and talk about, new names, to avoid long descriptions, are annexed to them; and so they become new species of complex modes. what a number of different ideas are by this means wrapped up in one short sound, and how much of our time and breath is thereby saved, any one will see, who will but take the pains to enumerate all the ideas that either reprieve or appeal stand for; and instead of either of those names, use a periphrasis, to make any one understand their meaning. . mixed modes though i shall have occasion to consider this more at-large when i come to treat of words and their use, yet i could not avoid to take thus much notice here of the names of mixed modes; which being fleeting and transient combinations of simple ideas, which have but a short existence anywhere but in the minds of men, and there too have no longer any existence than whilst they are thought on, have not so much anywhere the appearance of a constant and lasting existence as in their names: which are therefore, in this sort of ideas, very apt to be taken for the ideas themselves. for, if we should inquire where the idea of a triumph or apotheosis exists, it is evident they could neither of them exist altogether anywhere in the things themselves, being actions that required time to their performance, and so could never all exist together; and as to the minds of men, where the ideas of these actions are supposed to be lodged, they have there too a very uncertain existence: and therefore we are apt to annex them to the names that excite them in us. . how we get the ideas of mixed modes. there are therefore three ways whereby we get these complex ideas of mixed modes:--( ) by experience and observation of things themselves: thus, by seeing two men mixed wrestle or fence, we get the idea of wrestling or fencing. ( ) by invention, or voluntary putting together of several simple ideas in our own minds: so he that first invented printing or etching, had an idea of it in his mind before it ever existed. ( ) which is the most usual way, by explaining the names of actions we never saw, or motions we cannot see; and by enumerating, and thereby, as it were, setting before our imaginations all those ideas which go to the making them up, and are the constituent parts of them. for, having by sensation and reflection stored our minds with simple ideas, and by use got the names that stand for them, we can by those means represent to another any complex idea we would have him conceive; so that it has in it no simple ideas but what he knows, and has with us the same name for. for all our complex ideas are ultimately resolvable into simple ideas, of which they are compounded and originally made up, though perhaps their immediate ingredients, as i may so say, are also complex ideas. thus, the mixed mode which the word lie stands for is made of these simple ideas:--( ) articulate sounds. ( ) certain ideas in the mind of the speaker. ( ) those words the signs of those ideas. ( ) those signs put together, by affirmation or negation, otherwise than the ideas they stand for are in the mind of the speaker. i think i need not go any further in the analysis of that complex idea we call a lie: what i have said is enough to show that it is made up of simple ideas. and it could not be but an offensive tediousness to my reader, to trouble him with a more minute enumeration of every particular simple idea that goes to this complex one; which, from what has been said, he cannot but be able to make out to himself. the same may be done in all our complex ideas whatsoever; which, however compounded and decompounded, may at last be resolved into simple ideas, which are all the materials of knowledge or thought we have, or can have. nor shall we have reason to fear that the mind is hereby stinted to too scanty a number of ideas, if we consider what an inexhaustible stock of simple modes number and figure alone afford us. how far then mixed modes, which admit of the various combinations of different simple ideas, and their infinite modes, are from being few and scanty, we may easily imagine. so that, before we have done, we shall see that nobody need be afraid he shall not have scope and compass enough for his thoughts to range in, though they be, as i pretend, confined only to simple ideas, received from sensation or reflection, and their several combinations. . motion, thinking, and power have been most modified. it is worth our observing, which of all our simple ideas have been most modified, and had most mixed ideas made out of them, with names given to them. and those have been these three:--thinking and motion (which are the two ideas which comprehend in them all action,) and power, from whence these actions are conceived to flow. these simple ideas, i say, of thinking, motion, and power, have been those which have been most modified; and out of whose modifications have been made most complex modes, with names to them. for action being the great business of mankind, and the whole matter about which all laws are conversant, it is no wonder that the several modes of thinking and motion should be taken notice of, the ideas of them observed, and laid up in the memory, and have names assigned to them; without which laws could be but ill made, or vice and disorders repressed. nor could any communication be well had amongst men without such complex ideas, with names to them: and therefore men have settled names, and supposed settled ideas in their minds, of modes of actions, distinguished by their causes, means, objects, ends, instruments, time, place, and other circumstances; and also of their powers fitted for those actions: v.g. boldness is the power to speak or do what we intend, before others, without fear or disorder; and the greeks call the confidence of speaking by a peculiar name, [word in greek]: which power or ability in man of doing anything, when it has been acquired by frequent doing the same thing, is that idea we name habit; when it is forward, and ready upon every occasion to break into action, we call it disposition. thus, testiness is a disposition or aptness to be angry. to conclude: let us examine any modes of action, v.g. consideration and assent, which are actions of the mind; running and speaking, which are actions of the body; revenge and murder, which are actions of both together, and we shall find them but so many collections of simple ideas, which, together, make up the complex ones signified by those names. . several words seeming to signify action, signify but the effect. power being the source from whence all action proceeds, the substances wherein these powers are, when they *[lost line??] exert this power into act, are called causes, and the substances which thereupon are produced, or the simple ideas which are introduced into any subject by the exerting of that power, are called effects. the efficacy whereby the new substance or idea is produced is called, in the subject exerting that power, action; but in the subject wherein any simple idea is changed or produced, it is called passion: which efficacy, however various, and the effects almost infinite, yet we can, i think, conceive it, in intellectual agents, to be nothing else but modes of thinking and willing; in corporeal agents, nothing else but modifications of motion. i say i think we cannot conceive it to be any other but these two. for whatever sort of action besides these produces any effects, i confess myself to have no notion nor idea of; and so it is quite remote from my thoughts, apprehensions, and knowledge; and as much in the dark to me as five other senses, or as the ideas of colours to a blind man. and therefore many words which seem to express some action, signify nothing of the action or modus operandi at all, but barely the effect, with some circumstances of the subject wrought on, or cause operating: v.g. creation, annihilation, contain in them no idea of the action or manner whereby they are produced, but barely of the cause, and the thing done. and when a countryman says the cold freezes water, though the word freezing seems to import some action, yet truly it signifies nothing but the effect, viz. that water that was before fluid is become hard and consistent, without containing any idea of the action whereby it is done. . mixed modes made also of other ideas than those of power and action. i think i shall not need to remark here that, though power and action make the greatest part of mixed modes, marked by names, and familiar in the minds and mouths of men, yet other simple ideas, and their several combinations, are not excluded: much less, i think, will it be necessary for me to enumerate all the mixed modes which have been settled, with names to them. that would be to make a dictionary of the greatest part of the words made use of in divinity, ethics, law, and politics, and several other sciences. all that is requisite to my present design, is to show what sort of ideas those are which i call mixed modes; how the mind comes by them; and that they are compositions made up of simple ideas got from sensation and reflection; which i suppose i have done. chapter xxiii.--of our complex ideas of substances. the mind being, as i have declared, furnished with a great number of the simple ideas, conveyed in by the senses as they are found in exterior things, or by reflection on its own operations, takes notice also that a certain number of these simple ideas go constantly together; which being presumed to belong to one thing, and words being suited to common apprehensions, and made use of for quick dispatch are called, so united in one subject, by one name; which, by inadvertency, we are apt afterward to talk of and consider as one simple idea, which indeed is a complication of many ideas together: because, as i have said, not imagining how these simple ideas can subsist by themselves, we accustom ourselves to suppose some substratum wherein they do subsist, and from which they do result, which therefore we call substance. . our obscure idea of substance in general. so that if any one will examine himself concerning his notion of pure substance in general, he will find he has no other idea of it at all, but only a supposition of he knows not what support of such qualities which are capable of producing simple ideas in us; which qualities are commonly called accidents. if any one should be asked, what is the subject wherein colour or weight inheres, he would have nothing to say, but the solid extended parts; and if he were demanded, what is it that solidity and extension adhere in, he would not be in a much better case than the indian before mentioned who, saying that the world was supported by a great elephant, was asked what the elephant rested on; to which his answer was--a great tortoise: but being again pressed to know what gave support to the broad-backed tortoise, replied--something, he knew not what. and thus here, as in all other cases where we use words without having clear and distinct ideas, we talk like children: who, being questioned what such a thing is, which they know not, readily give this satisfactory answer, that it is something: which in truth signifies no more, when so used, either by children or men, but that they know not what; and that the thing they pretend to know, and talk of, is what they have no distinct idea of at all, and so are perfectly ignorant of it, and in the dark. the idea then we have, to which we give the general name substance, being nothing but the supposed, but unknown, support of those qualities we find existing, which we imagine cannot subsist sine re substante, without something to support them, we call that support substantia; which, according to the true import of the word, is, in plain english, standing under or upholding. . of the sorts of substances. an obscure and relative idea of substance in general being thus made we come to have the ideas of particular sorts of substances, by collecting such combinations of simple ideas as are, by experience and observation of men’s senses, taken notice of to exist together; and are therefore supposed to flow from the particular internal constitution, or unknown essence of that substance. thus we come to have the ideas of a man, horse, gold, water, &c.; of which substances, whether any one has any other clear idea, further than of certain simple ideas co-existent together, i appeal to every one’s own experience. it is the ordinary qualities observable in iron, or a diamond, put together, that make the true complex idea of those substances, which a smith or a jeweller commonly knows better than a philosopher; who, whatever substantial forms he may talk of, has no other idea of those substances, than what is framed by a collection of those simple ideas which are to be found in them: only we must take notice, that our complex ideas of substances, besides all those simple ideas they are made up of, have always the confused idea of something to which they belong, and in which they subsist: and therefore when we speak of any sort of substance, we say it is a thing having such or such qualities; as body is a thing that is extended, figured, and capable of motion; spirit, a thing capable of thinking; and so hardness, friability, and power to draw iron, we say, are qualities to be found in a loadstone. these, and the like fashions of speaking, intimate that the substance is supposed always something besides the extension, figure, solidity, motion, thinking, or other observable ideas, though we know not what it is. . no clear or distinct idea of substance in general. hence, when we talk or think of any particular sort of corporeal substances, as horse, stone, &c., though the idea we have of either of them be but the complication or collection of those several simple ideas of sensible qualities, which we used to find united in the thing called horse or stone; yet, because we cannot conceive how they should subsist alone, nor one in another, we suppose them existing in and supported by some common subject; which support we denote by the name substance, though it be certain we have no clear or distinct idea of that thing we suppose a support. . as clear an idea of spiritual substance as of corporeal substance. the same thing happens concerning the operations of the mind, viz. thinking, reasoning, fearing, &c., which we concluding not to subsist of themselves, nor apprehending how they can belong to body, or be produced by it, we are apt to think these the actions of some other substance, which we call spirit; whereby yet it is evident that, having no other idea or notion of matter, but something wherein those many sensible qualities which affect our senses do subsist; by supposing a substance wherein thinking, knowing, doubting, and a power of moving, &c., do subsist, we have as clear a notion of the substance of spirit, as we have of body; the one being supposed to be (without knowing what it is) the substratum to those simple ideas we have from without; and the other supposed (with a like ignorance of what it is) to be the substratum to those operations we experiment in ourselves within. it is plain then, that the idea of corporeal substance in matter is as remote from our conceptions and apprehensions, as that of spiritual substance, or spirit: and therefore, from our not having, any notion of the substance of spirit, we can no more conclude its non-existence, than we can, for the same reason, deny the existence of body; it being as rational to affirm there is no body, because we have no clear and distinct idea of the substance of matter, as to say there is no spirit, because we have no clear and distinct idea of the substance of a spirit. . our ideas of particular sorts of substances. whatever therefore be the secret abstract nature of substance in general, all the ideas we have of particular distinct sorts of substances are nothing but several combinations of simple ideas, co-existing in such, though unknown, cause of their union, as makes the whole subsist of itself. it is by such combinations of simple ideas, and nothing else, that we represent particular sorts of substances to ourselves; such are the ideas we have of their several species in our minds; and such only do we, by their specific names, signify to others, v.g. man, horse, sun, water, iron: upon hearing which words, every one who understands the language, frames in his mind a combination of those several simple ideas which he has usually observed, or fancied to exist together under that denomination; all which he supposes to rest in and be, as it were, adherent to that unknown common subject, which inheres not in anything else. though, in the meantime, it be manifest, and every one, upon inquiry into his own thoughts, will find, that he has no other idea of any substance, v.g. let it be gold, horse, iron, man, vitriol, bread, but what he has barely of those sensible qualities, which he supposes to inhere; with a supposition of such a substratum as gives, as it were, a support to those qualities or simple ideas, which he has observed to exist united together. thus, the idea of the sun,--what is it but an aggregate of those several simple ideas, bright, hot, roundish, having a constant regular motion, at a certain distance from us, and perhaps some other: as he who thinks and discourses of the sun has been more or less accurate in observing those sensible qualities, ideas, or properties, which are in that thing which he calls the sun. . their active and passive powers a great part of our complex ideas of substances. for he has the perfectest idea of any of the particular sorts of substances, who has gathered, and put together, most of those simple ideas which do exist in it; among which are to be reckoned its active powers, and passive capacities, which, though not simple ideas, yet in this respect, for brevity’s sake, may conveniently enough be reckoned amongst them. thus, the power of drawing iron is one of the ideas of the complex one of that substance we call a loadstone; and a power to be so drawn is a part of the complex one we call iron: which powers pass for inherent qualities in those subjects. because every substance, being as apt, by the powers we observe in it, to change some sensible qualities in other subjects, as it is to produce in us those simple ideas which we receive immediately from it, does, by those new sensible qualities introduced into other subjects, discover to us those powers which do thereby mediately affect our senses, as regularly as its sensible qualities do it immediately: v. g. we immediately by our senses perceive in fire its heat and colour; which are, if rightly considered, nothing but powers in it to produce those ideas in us: we also by our senses perceive the colour and brittleness of charcoal, whereby we come by the knowledge of another power in fire, which it has to change the colour and consistency of wood. by the former, fire immediately, by the latter, it mediately discovers to us these several powers; which therefore we look upon to be a part of the qualities of fire, and so make them a part of the complex idea of it. for all those powers that we take cognizance of, terminating only in the alteration of some sensible qualities in those subjects on which they operate, and so making them exhibit to us new sensible ideas, therefore it is that i have reckoned these powers amongst the simple ideas which make the complex ones of the sorts of substances; though these powers considered in themselves, are truly complex ideas. and in this looser sense i crave leave to be understood, when i name any of these potentialities among the simple ideas which we recollect in our minds when we think of particular substances. for the powers that are severally in them are necessary to be considered, if we will have true distinct notions of the several sorts of substances. . and why. nor are we to wonder that powers make a great part of our complex ideas of substances; since their secondary qualities are those which in most of them serve principally to distinguish substances one from another, and commonly make a considerable part of the complex idea of the several sorts of them. for, our senses failing us in the discovery of the bulk, texture, and figure of the minute parts of bodies, on which their real constitutions and differences depend, we are fain to make use of their secondary qualities as the characteristical notes and marks whereby to frame ideas of them in our minds, and distinguish them one from another: all which secondary qualities, as has been shown, are nothing but bare powers. for the colour and taste of opium are, as well as its soporific or anodyne virtues, mere powers, depending on its primary qualities, whereby it is fitted to produce different operations on different parts of our bodies. . three sorts of ideas make our complex ones of corporeal substances. the ideas that make our complex ones of corporeal substances, are of these three sorts. first, the ideas of the primary qualities of things, which are discovered by our senses, and are in them even when we perceive them not; such are the bulk, figure, number, situation, and motion of the parts of bodies; which are really in them, whether we take notice of them or not. secondly, the sensible secondary qualities, which, depending on these, are nothing but the powers those substances have to produce several ideas in us by our senses; which ideas are not in the things themselves, otherwise than as anything is in its cause. thirdly, the aptness we consider in any substance, to give or receive such alterations of primary qualities, as that the substance so altered should produce in us different ideas from what it did before; these are called active and passive powers: all which powers, as far as we have any notice or notion of them, terminate only in sensible simple ideas. for whatever alteration a loadstone has the power to make in the minute particles of iron, we should have no notion of any power it had at all to operate on iron, did not its sensible motion discover it: and i doubt not, but there are a thousand changes, that bodies we daily handle have a power to cause in one another, which we never suspect, because they never appear in sensible effects. . powers thus make a great part of our complex ideas of particular substances. powers therefore justly make a great part of our complex ideas of substances. he that will examine his complex idea of gold, will find several of its ideas that make it up to be only powers; as the power of being melted, but of not spending itself in the fire; of being dissolved in aqua regia, are ideas as necessary to make up our complex idea of gold, as its colour and weight: which, if duly considered, are also nothing but different powers. for, to speak truly, yellowness is not actually in gold, but is a power in gold to produce that idea in us by our eyes, when placed in a due light: and the heat, which we cannot leave out of our ideas of the sun, is no more really in the sun, than the white colour it introduces into wax. these are both equally powers in the sun, operating, by the motion and figure of its sensible parts, so on a man, as to make him have the idea of heat; and so on wax, as to make it capable to produce in a man the idea of white. . the now secondary qualities of bodies would disappear, if we could discover the primary ones of their minute parts. had we senses acute enough to discern the minute particles of bodies, and the real constitution on which their sensible qualities depend, i doubt not but they would produce quite different ideas in us: and that which is now the yellow colour of gold, would then disappear, and instead of it we should see an admirable texture of parts, of a certain size and figure. this microscopes plainly discover to us; for what to our naked eyes produces a certain colour, is, by thus augmenting the acuteness of our senses, discovered to be quite a different thing; and the thus altering, as it were, the proportion of the bulk of the minute parts of a coloured object to our usual sight, produces different ideas from what it did before. thus, sand or pounded glass, which is opaque, and white to the naked eye, is pellucid in a microscope; and a hair seen in this way, loses its former colour, and is, in a great measure, pellucid, with a mixture of some bright sparkling colours, such as appear from the refraction of diamonds, and other pellucid bodies. blood, to the naked eye, appears all red; but by a good microscope, wherein its lesser parts appear, shows only some few globules of red, swimming in a pellucid liquor, and how these red globules would appear, if glasses could be found that could yet magnify them a thousand or ten thousand times more, is uncertain. . our faculties for discovery of the qualities and powers of substances suited to our state. the infinite wise contriver of us, and all things about us, hath fitted our senses, faculties, and organs, to the conveniences of life, and the business we have to do here. we are able, by our senses, to know and distinguish things: and to examine them so far as to apply them to our uses, and several ways to accommodate the exigences of this life. we have insight enough into their admirable contrivances and wonderful effects, to admire and magnify the wisdom, power and goodness of their author. such a knowledge as this which is suited to our present condition, we want not faculties to attain. but it appears not that god intended we should have a perfect, clear, and adequate knowledge of them: that perhaps is not in the comprehension of any finite being. we are furnished with faculties (dull and weak as they are) to discover enough in the creatures to lead us to the knowledge of the creator, and the knowledge of our duty; and we are fitted well enough with abilities to provide for the conveniences of living: these are our business in this world. but were our senses altered, and made much quicker and acuter, the appearance and outward scheme of things would have quite another face to us; and, i am apt to think, would be inconsistent with our being, or at least wellbeing, in the part of the universe which we inhabit. he that considers how little our constitution is able to bear a remove into part of this air, not much higher than that we commonly breathe in, will have reason to be satisfied, that in this globe of earth allotted for our mansion, the all-wise architect has suited our organs, and the bodies that are to affect them, one to another. if our sense of hearing were but a thousand times quicker than it is, how would a perpetual noise distract us. and we should in the quietest retirement be less able to sleep or meditate than in the middle of a sea-fight. nay, if that most instructive of our senses, seeing, were in any man a thousand or a hundred thousand times more acute than it is by the best microscope, things several millions of times less than the smallest object of his sight now would then be visible to his naked eyes, and so he would come nearer to the discovery of the texture and motion of the minute parts of corporeal things; and in many of them, probably get ideas of their internal constitutions: but then he would be in a quite different world from other people: nothing would appear the same to him and others: the visible ideas of everything would be different. so that i doubt, whether he and the rest of men could discourse concerning the objects of sight, or have any communication about colours, their appearances being so wholly different. and perhaps such a quickness and tenderness of sight could not endure bright sunshine, or so much as open daylight; nor take in but a very small part of any object at once, and that too only at a very near distance. and if by the help of such microscopical eyes (if i may so call them) a man could penetrate further than ordinary into the secret composition and radical texture of bodies, he would not make any great advantage by the change, if such an acute sight would not serve to conduct him to the market and exchange; if he could not see things he was to avoid, at a convenient distance; nor distinguish things he had to do with by those sensible qualities others do. he that was sharp-sighted enough to see the configuration of the minute particles of the spring of a clock, and observe upon what peculiar structure and impulse its elastic motion depends, would no doubt discover something very admirable: but if eyes so framed could not view at once the hand, and the characters of the hour-plate, and thereby at a distance see what o’clock it was, their owner could not be much benefited by that acuteness; which, whilst it discovered the secret contrivance of the parts of the machine, made him lose its use. . conjecture about the corporeal organs of some spirits. and here give me leave to propose an extravagant conjecture of mine, viz. that since we have some reason (if there be any credit to be given to the report of things that our philosophy cannot account for) to imagine, that spirits can assume to themselves bodies of different bulk, figure, and conformation of parts--whether one great advantage some of them have over us may not lie in this, that they can so frame and shape to themselves organs of sensation or perception, as to suit them to their present design, and the circumstances of the object they would consider. for how much would that man exceed all others in knowledge, who had but the faculty so to alter the structure of his eyes, that one sense, as to make it capable of all the several degrees of vision which the assistance of glasses (casually at first lighted on) has taught us to conceive? what wonders would he discover, who could so fit his eyes to all sorts of objects, as to see when he pleased the figure and motion of the minute particles in the blood, and other juices of animals, as distinctly as he does, at other times, the shape and motion of the animals themselves? but to us, in our present state, unalterable organs, so contrived as to discover the figure and motion of the minute parts of bodies, whereon depend those sensible qualities we now observe in them, would perhaps be of no advantage. god has no doubt made them so as is best for us in our present condition. he hath fitted us for the neighbourhood of the bodies that surround us, and we have to do with; and though we cannot, by the faculties we have, attain to a perfect knowledge of things, yet they will serve us well enough for those ends above-mentioned, which are our great concernment. i beg my reader’s pardon for laying before him so wild a fancy concerning the ways of perception of beings above us; but how extravagant soever it be, i doubt whether we can imagine anything about the knowledge of angels but after this manner, some way or other in proportion to what we find and observe in ourselves. and though we cannot but allow that the infinite power and wisdom of god may frame creatures with a thousand other faculties and ways of perceiving things without them than what we have, yet our thoughts can go no further than our own: so impossible it is for us to enlarge our very guesses beyond the ideas received from our own sensation and reflection. the supposition, at least, that angels do sometimes assume bodies, needs not startle us; since some of the most ancient and most learned fathers of the church seemed to believe that they had bodies: and this is certain, that their state and way of existence is unknown to us. . our specific ideas of substances. but to return to the matter in hand,--the ideas we have of substances, and the ways we come by them. i say, our specific ideas of substances are nothing else but a collection of certain number of simple ideas, considered as united in one thing. these ideas of substances, though they are commonly simple apprehensions, and the names of them simple terms, yet in effect are complex and compounded. thus the idea which an englishman signifies by the name swan, is white colour, long neck, red beak, black legs, and whole feet, and all these of a certain size, with a power of swimming in the water, and making a certain kind of noise, and perhaps, to a man who has long observed this kind of birds, some other properties: which all terminate in sensible simple ideas, all united in one common subject. . our ideas of spiritual substances, as clear as of bodily substances. besides the complex ideas we have of material sensible substances, of which i have last spoken,--by the simple ideas we have taken from those operations of our own minds, which we experiment daily in ourselves, as thinking, understanding, willing, knowing, and power of beginning motion, &c., co-existing in some substance, we are able to frame the complex idea of an immaterial spirit. and thus, by putting together the ideas of thinking, perceiving, liberty, and power of moving themselves and other things, we have as clear a perception and notion of immaterial substances as we have of material. for putting together the ideas of thinking and willing, or the power of moving or quieting corporeal motion, joined to substance, of which we have no distinct idea, we have the idea of an immaterial spirit; and by putting together the ideas of coherent solid parts, and a power of being moved joined with substance, of which likewise we have no positive idea, we have the idea of matter. the one is as clear and distinct an idea as the other: the idea of thinking, and moving a body, being as clear and distinct ideas as the ideas of extension, solidity, and being moved. for our idea of substance is equally obscure, or none at all, in both: it is but a supposed i know not what, to support those ideas we call accidents. it is for want of reflection that we are apt to think that our senses show us nothing but material things. every act of sensation, when duly considered, gives us an equal view of both parts of nature, the corporeal and spiritual. for whilst i know, by seeing or hearing, &c., that there is some corporeal being without me, the object of that sensation, i do more certainly know, that there is some spiritual being within me that sees and hears. this, i must be convinced, cannot be the action of bare insensible matter; nor ever could be, without an immaterial thinking being. . no idea of abstract substance either in body or spirit. by the complex idea of extended, figured, coloured, and all other sensible qualities, which is all that we know of it, we are as far from the idea of the substance of body, as if we knew nothing at all: nor after all the acquaintance and familiarity which we imagine we have with matter, and the many qualities men assure themselves they perceive and know in bodies, will it perhaps upon examination be found, that they have any more or clearer primary ideas belonging to body, than they have belonging to immaterial spirit. . cohesion of solid parts and impulse, the primary ideas peculiar to body. the primary ideas we have peculiar to body, as contradistinguished to spirit, are the cohesion of solid, and consequently separable, parts, and a power of communicating motion by impulse. these, i think, are the original ideas proper and peculiar to body; for figure is but the consequence of finite extension. . thinking and motivity the ideas we have belonging and peculiar to spirit, are thinking, and will, or a power of putting body into motion by thought, and, which is consequent to it, liberty. for, as body cannot but communicate its motion by impulse to another body, which it meets with at rest, so the mind can put bodies into motion, or forbear to do so, as it pleases. the ideas of existence, duration, and mobility, are common to them both. . spirits capable of motion. there is no reason why it should be thought strange that i make mobility belong to spirit; for having no other idea of motion, but change of distance with other beings that are considered as at rest; and finding that spirits, as well as bodies, cannot operate but where they are; and that spirits do operate at several times in several places, i cannot but attribute change of place to all finite spirits: (for of the infinite spirit i speak not here). for my soul, being a real being as well as my body, is certainly as capable of changing distance with any other body, or being, as body itself; and so is capable of motion. and if a mathematician can consider a certain distance, or a change of that distance between two points, one may certainly conceive a distance and a change of distance, between two spirits; and so conceive their motion, their approach or removal, one from another. . proof of this. every one finds in himself that his soul can think will, and operate on his body in the place where that is, but cannot operate on a body, or in a place, an hundred miles distant from it. nobody can imagine that his soul can think or move a body at oxford, whilst he is at london; and cannot but know, that, being united to his body, it constantly changes place all the whole journey between oxford and london, as the coach or horse does that carries him, and i think may be said to be truly all that while in motion or if that will not be allowed to afford us a clear idea enough of its motion, its being separated from the body in death, i think, will; for to consider it as going out of the body, or leaving it, and yet to have no idea of its motion, seems to me impossible. . god immoveable because infinite. if it be said by any one that it cannot change place, because it hath none, for the spirits are not in loco, but ubi; i suppose that way of talking will not now be of much weight to many, in an age that is not much disposed to admire, or suffer themselves to be deceived by such unintelligible ways of speaking. but if any one thinks there is any sense in that distinction, and that it is applicable to our present purpose, i desire him to put it into intelligible english; and then from thence draw a reason to show that immaterial spirits are not capable of motion. indeed motion cannot be attributed to god; not because he is an immaterial, but because he is an infinite spirit. . our complex idea of an immaterial spirit and our complex idea of body compared. let us compare, then, our complex idea of an immaterial spirit with our complex idea of body, and see whether there be any more obscurity in one than in the other, and in which most. our idea of body, as i think, is an extended solid substance, capable of communicating motion by impulse: and our idea of soul, as an immaterial spirit, is of a substance that thinks, and has a power of exciting motion in body, by willing, or thought. these, i think, are our complex ideas of soul and body, as contradistinguished; and now let us examine which has most obscurity in it, and difficulty to be apprehended. i know that people whose thoughts are immersed in matter, and have so subjected their minds to their senses that they seldom reflect on anything beyond them, are apt to say, they cannot comprehend a thinking thing which perhaps is true: but i affirm, when they consider it well, they can no more comprehend an extended thing. . cohesion of solid parts in body as hard to be conceived as thinking in a soul. if any one says he knows not what it is thinks in him, he means he knows not what the substance is of that thinking thing: no more, say i, knows he what the substance is of that solid thing. further, if he says he knows not how he thinks, i answer, neither knows he how he is extended, how the solid parts of body are united or cohere together to make extension. for though the pressure of the particles of air may account for the cohesion of several parts of matter that are grosser than the particles of air, and have pores less than the corpuscles of air, yet the weight or pressure of the air will not explain, nor can be a cause of the coherence of the particles of air themselves. and if the pressure of the aether, or any subtiler matter than the air, may unite, and hold fast together, the parts of a particle of air, as well as other bodies, yet it cannot make bonds for itself, and hold together the parts that make up every the least corpuscle of that materia subtilis. so that that hypothesis, how ingeniously soever explained, by showing that the parts of sensible bodies are held together by the pressure of other external insensible bodies, reaches not the parts of the aether itself; and by how much the more evident it proves, that the parts of other bodies are held together by the external pressure of the aether, and can have no other conceivable cause of their cohesion and union, by so much the more it leaves us in the dark concerning the cohesion of the parts of the corpuscles of the aether itself: which we can neither conceive without parts, they being bodies, and divisible, nor yet how their parts cohere, they wanting that cause of cohesion which is given of the cohesion of the parts of all other bodies. . not explained by an ambient fluid. but, in truth, the pressure of any ambient fluid, how great soever, can be no intelligible cause of the cohesion of the solid parts of matter. for, though such a pressure may hinder the avulsion of two polished superficies, one from another, in a line perpendicular to them, as in the experiment of two polished marbles; yet it can never in the least hinder the separation by a motion, in a line parallel to those surfaces. because the ambient fluid, having a full liberty to succeed in each point of space, deserted by a lateral motion, resists such a motion of bodies, so joined, no more than it would resist the motion of that body were it on all sides environed by that fluid, and touched no other body; and therefore, if there were no other cause of cohesion, all parts of bodies must be easily separable by such a lateral sliding motion. for if the pressure of the aether be the adequate cause of cohesion, wherever that cause operates not, there can be no cohesion. and since it cannot operate against a lateral separation, (as has been shown,) therefore in every imaginary plane, intersecting any mass of matter, there could be no more cohesion than of two polished surfaces, which will always, notwithstanding any imaginable pressure of a fluid, easily slide one from another. so that perhaps, how clear an idea soever we think we have of the extension of body, which is nothing but the cohesion of solid parts, he that shall well consider it in his mind, may have reason to conclude, that it is as easy for him to have a clear idea how the soul thinks as how body is extended. for, since body is no further, nor otherwise, extended, than by the union and cohesion of its solid parts, we shall very ill comprehend the extension of body, without understanding wherein consists the union and cohesion of its parts; which seems to me as incomprehensible as the manner of thinking, and how it is performed. we can as little understand how the parts cohere in extension as how our spirits perceive or move. . i allow it is usual for most people to wonder how any one should find a difficulty in what they think they every day observe. do we not see (will they be ready to say) the parts of bodies stick firmly together? is there anything more common? and what doubt can there be made of it? and the like, i say, concerning thinking and voluntary motion. do we not every moment experiment it in ourselves, and therefore can it be doubted? the matter of fact is clear, i confess; but when we would a little nearer look into it, both in the one and the other; and can as little understand how the parts of body cohere, as how we ourselves perceive or move. i would have any one intelligibly explain to me how the parts of gold, or brass, (that but now in fusion were as loose from one another as the particles of water, or the sands of an hour-glass,) come in a few moments to be so united, and adhere so strongly one to another, that the utmost force of men’s arms cannot separate them? a considering man will, i suppose, be here at a loss to satisfy his own, or another man’s understanding. . the cause of coherence of atoms in extended substances incomprehensible. the little bodies that compose that fluid we call water are so extremely small, that i have never heard of any one who, by a microscope, (and yet i have heard of some that have magnified to ten thousand; nay, to much above a hundred thousand times,) pretended to perceive their distinct bulk, figure, or motion; and the particles of water are also so perfectly loose one from another, that the least force sensibly separates them. nay, if we consider their perpetual motion, we must allow them to have no cohesion one with another; and yet let but a sharp cold come, and they unite, they consolidate; these little atoms cohere, and are not, without great force, separable. he that could find the bonds that tie these heaps of loose little bodies together so firmly; he that could make known the cement that makes them stick so fast one to another, would discover a great and yet unknown secret: and yet when that was done, would he be far enough from making the extension of body (which is the cohesion of its solid parts) intelligible, till he could show wherein consisted the union, or consolidation of the parts of those bonds or of that cement, or of the least particle of matter that exists. whereby it appears that this primary and supposed obvious quality of body will be found, when examined, to be as incomprehensible as anything belonging to our minds, and a solid extended substance as hard to be conceived as a thinking immaterial one, whatever difficulties some would raise against it. . the supposed pressure [*dropped word] explain cohesion is unintelligible. for, to extend our thoughts a little further, the pressure which is brought to explain the cohesion of bodies [*dropped line] considered, as no doubt it is, finite, let any one send his contemplation to the extremities of the universe, and there see what conceivable hoops, what bond he can imagine to hold this mass of matter in so close a pressure together; from whence steel has its firmness, and the parts of a diamond their hardness and indissolubility. if matter be finite, it must have its extremes; and there must be something to hinder it from scattering asunder. if, to avoid this difficulty, any one will throw himself into the supposition and abyss of infinite matter, let him consider what light he thereby brings to the cohesion of body, and whether he be ever the nearer making it intelligible, by resolving it into a supposition the most absurd and most incomprehensible of all other: so far is our extension of body (which is nothing but the cohesion of solid parts) from being clearer, or more distinct, when we would inquire into the nature, cause, or manner of it, than the idea of thinking. . communication of motion by impulse, or by thought, equally unintelligible. another idea we have of body is, the power of communication of motion by impulse; and of our souls, the power of exciting motion by thought. these ideas, the one of body, the other of our minds, every day’s experience clearly furnishes us with: but if here again we inquire how this is done, we are equally in the dark. for, in the communication of motion by impulse, wherein as much motion is lost to one body as is got to the other, which is the ordinariest case, we can have no other conception, but of the passing of motion out of one body into another; which, i think, is as obscure and inconceivable as how our minds move or stop our bodies by thought, which we every moment find they do. the increase of motion by impulse, which is observed or believed sometimes to happen, is yet harder to be understood. we have by daily experience clear evidence of motion produced both by impulse and by thought; but the manner how, hardly comes within our comprehension: we are equally at a loss in both. so that, however we consider motion, and its communication, either from body or spirit, the idea which belongs to spirit is at least as clear as that which belongs to body. and if we consider the active power of moving, or, as i may call it, motivity, it is much clearer in spirit than body; since two bodies, placed by one another at rest, will never afford us the idea of a power in the one to move the other, but by a borrowed motion: whereas the mind every day affords us ideas of an active power of moving of bodies; and therefore it is worth our consideration, whether active power be not the proper attribute of spirits, and passive power of matter. hence may be conjectured that created spirits are not totally separate from matter, because they are both active and passive. pure spirit, viz. god, is only active; pure matter is only passive; those beings that are both active and passive, we may judge to partake of both. but be that as it will, i think, we have as many and as clear ideas belonging to spirit as we have belonging to body, the substance of each being equally unknown to us; and the idea of thinking in spirit, as clear as of extension in body; and the communication of motion by thought, which we attribute to spirit, is as evident as that by impulse, which we ascribe to body. constant experience makes us sensible of both these, though our narrow understandings can comprehend neither. for, when the mind would look beyond those original ideas we have from sensation or reflection, and penetrate into their causes, and manner of production, we find still it discovers nothing but its own short-sightedness. . summary. to conclude. sensation convinces us that there are solid extended substances; and reflection, that there are thinking ones: experience assures us of the existence of such beings, and that the one hath a power to move body by impulse, the other by thought; this we cannot doubt of. experience, i say, every moment furnishes us with the clear ideas both of the one and the other. but beyond these ideas, as received from their proper sources, our faculties will not reach. if we would inquire further into their nature, causes, and manner, we perceive not the nature of extension clearer than we do of thinking. if we would explain them any further, one is as easy as the other; and there is no more difficulty to conceive how a substance we know not should, by thought, set body into motion, than how a substance we know not should, by impulse, set body into motion. so that we are no more able to discover wherein the ideas belonging to body consist, than those belonging to spirit. from whence it seems probable to me, that the simple ideas we receive from sensation and reflection are the boundaries of our thoughts; beyond which the mind, whatever efforts it would make, is not able to advance one jot; nor can it make any discoveries, when it would pry into the nature and hidden causes of those ideas. . our idea of spirit and our idea of body compared. so that, in short, the idea we have of spirit, compared with the idea we have of body, stands thus: the substance of spirits is unknown to us; and so is the substance of body equally unknown to us. two primary qualities or properties of body, viz. solid coherent parts and impulse, we have distinct clear ideas of: so likewise we know, and have distinct clear ideas, of two primary qualities or properties of spirit, viz. thinking, and a power of action; i.e. a power of beginning or stopping several thoughts or motions. we have also the ideas of several qualities inherent in bodies, and have the clear distinct ideas of them; which qualities are but the various modifications of the extension of cohering solid parts, and their motion. we have likewise the ideas of the several modes of thinking viz. believing, doubting, intending, fearing, hoping; all which are but the several modes of thinking. we have also the ideas of willing, and moving the body consequent to it, and with the body itself too; for, as has been shown, spirit is capable of motion. . the notion of spirit involves no more difficulty in it than that of body. lastly, if this notion of immaterial spirit may have, perhaps, some difficulties in it not easily to be explained, we have therefore no more reason to deny or doubt the existence of such spirits, than we have to deny or doubt the existence of body; because the notion of body is cumbered with some difficulties very hard, and perhaps impossible to be explained or understood by us. for i would fain have instanced anything in our notion of spirit more perplexed, or nearer a contradiction, than the very notion of body includes in it; the divisibility in infinitum of any finite extension involving us, whether we grant or deny it, in consequences impossible to be explicated or made in our apprehensions consistent; consequences that carry greater difficulty, and more apparent absurdity, than anything can follow from the notion of an immaterial knowing substance. . we know nothing of things beyond our simple ideas of them. which we are not at all to wonder at, since we having but some few superficial ideas of things, discovered to us only by the senses from without, or by the mind, reflecting on what it experiments in itself within, have no knowledge beyond that, much less of the internal constitution, and true nature of things, being destitute of faculties to attain it. and therefore experimenting and discovering in ourselves knowledge, and the power of voluntary motion, as certainly as we experiment, or discover in things without us, the cohesion and separation of solid parts, which is the extension and motion of bodies; we have as much reason to be satisfied with our notion of immaterial spirit, as with our notion of body, and the existence of the one as well as the other. for it being no more a contradiction that thinking should exist separate and independent from solidity, than it is a contradiction that solidity should exist separate and independent from thinking, they being both but simple ideas, independent one from another and having as clear and distinct ideas in us of thinking as of solidity, i know not why we may not as well allow a thinking thing without solidity, i.e. immaterial, to exist, as a solid thing without thinking, i.e. matter, to exist; especially since it is not harder to concieve how thinking should exist without matter, than how matter should think. for whensoever we would proceed beyond these simple ideas we have from sensation and reflection and dive further into the nature of things, we fall presently into darkness and obscurity, perplexedness and difficulties, and can discover nothing further but our own blindness and ignorance. but whichever of these complex ideas be clearest, that of body, or immaterial spirit, this is evident, that the simple ideas that make them up are no other than what we have received from sensation or reflection: and so is it of all our other ideas of substances, even of god himself. . our complex idea of god. for if we examine the idea we have of the incomprehensible supreme being, we shall find that we come by it the same way; and that the complex ideas we have both of god, and separate spirits, are made of the simple ideas we receive from reflection; v.g. having, from what we experiment in ourselves, got the ideas of existence and duration; of knowledge and power; of pleasure and happiness; and of several other qualities and powers, which it is better to have than to be without; when we would frame an idea the most suitable we can to the supreme being, we enlarge every one of these with our idea of infinity; and so putting them together, make our complex idea of god. for that the mind has such a power of enlarging some of its ideas, received from sensation and reflection, has been already shown. . our complex idea of god as infinite. if i find that i know some few things, and some of them, or all, perhaps imperfectly, i can frame an idea of knowing twice as many; which i can double again, as often as i can add to number; and thus enlarge my idea of knowledge, by extending its comprehension to all things existing, or possible. the same also i can do of knowing them more perfectly; i.e. all their qualities, powers, causes, consequences, and relations, &c., till all be perfectly known that is in them, or can any way relate to them: and thus frame the idea of infinite or boundless knowledge. the same may also be done of power, till we come to that we call infinite; and also of the duration of existance, without beginning or end, and so frame the idea of an eternal being. the degrees or extent wherein we ascribe existence, power, wisdom, and all other perfections (which we can have any ideas of) to that sovereign being, which we call g-d, being all boundless and infinite, we frame the best idea of him our minds are capable of: all which is done, i say, by enlarging those simple ideas we have taken from the operations of our own minds, by reflection; or by our senses, from exterior things, to that vastness to which infinity can extend them. . god in his own essence incognisable. for it is infinity, which, joined to our ideas of existence, power, knowledge, &c., makes that complex idea, whereby we represent to ourselves, the best we can, the supreme being. for, though in his own essence (which certainly we do not know, know, not knowing the real essence of a pebble, or a fly, or of our own selves) god be simple and uncompounded; yet i think i may say we have no other idea of him, but a complex one of existence, knowledge, power, happiness, &c., infinite and eternal: which are all distinct ideas, and some of them, being relative, are again compounded of others: all which being, as has been shown, originally got from sensation and reflection, go to make up the idea or notion we have of god. . no ideas in our complex ideas of spirits, but those got from sensation or reflection. this further is to be observed, that there is no idea we attribute to god, bating infinity, which is not also a part of our complex idea of other spirits. because, being capable of no other simple ideas, belonging to anything but body, but those which by reflection we receive from the operation of our own minds, we can attribute to spirits no other but what we receive from thence: and all the difference we can put between them, in our contemplation of spirits, is only in the several extents and degrees of their knowledge, power, duration, happiness, &c. for that in our ideas, as well of spirits as of other things, we are restrained to those we receive from sensation and reflection, is evident from hence,--that, in our ideas of spirits, how much soever advanced in perfection beyond those of bodies, even to that of infinite, we cannot yet have any idea of the manner wherein they discover their thoughts one to another: though we must necessarily conclude that separate spirits, which are beings that have perfecter knowledge and greater happiness than we, must needs have also a perfecter way of communicating their thoughts than we have, who are fain to make use of corporeal signs, and particular sounds; which are therefore of most general use, as being the best and quickest we are capable of. but of immediate communication having no experiment in ourselves, and consequently no notion of it at all, we have no idea how spirits, which use not words, can with quickness; or much less how spirits that have no bodies can be masters of their own thoughts, and communicate or conceal them at pleasure, though we cannot but necessarily suppose they have such a power. . recapitulation. and thus we have seen what kind of ideas we have of substances of all kinds, wherein they consist, and how we came by them. from whence, i think, it is very evident, first, that all our ideas of the several sorts of substances are nothing but collections of simple ideas: with a supposition of something to which they belong, and in which they subsist; though of this supposed something we have no clear distinct idea at all. secondly, that all the simple ideas, that thus united in one common substratum, make up our complex ideas of several sorts of substances, are no other but such as we have received from sensation or reflection. so that even in those which we think we are most intimately acquainted with, and that come nearest the comprehension of our most enlarged conceptions, we cannot go beyond those simple ideas. and even in those which seem most remote from all we have to do with, and do infinitely surpass anything we can perceive in ourselves by reflection; or discover by sensation in other things, we can attain to nothing but those simple ideas, which we originally received from sensation or reflection; as is evident in the complex ideas we have of angels, and particularly of god himself. thirdly, that most of the simple ideas that make up our complex ideas of substances, when truly considered, are only powers, however we are apt to take them for positive qualities; v.g. the greatest part of the ideas that make our complex idea of gold are yellowness, great weight, ductility, fusibility, and solubility in aqua regia, &c., all united together in an unknown substratum: all which ideas are nothing else but so many relations to other substances; and are not really in the gold, considered barely in itself, though they depend on those real and primary qualities of its internal constitution, whereby it has a fitness differently to operate, and be operated on by several other substances. chapter xxiv.--of collective ideas of substances. . a collective idea is one idea. besides these complex ideas of several single substances, as of man, horse, gold, violet, apple, &c., the mind hath also complex collective ideas of substances; which i so call, because such ideas are made up of many particular substances considered together, as united into one idea, and which so joined; are looked on as one; v. g. the idea of such a collection of men as make an army, though consisting of a great number of distinct substances, is as much one idea as the idea of a man: and the great collective idea of all bodies whatsoever, signified by the name world, is as much one idea as the idea of any the least particle of matter in it; it sufficing to the unity of any idea, that it be considered as one representation or picture, though made up of ever so many particulars. . made by the power of composing in the mind. these collective ideas of substances the mind makes, by its power of composition, and uniting severally either simple or complex ideas into one, as it does, by the same faculty, make the complex ideas of particular substances, consisting of an aggregate of divers simple ideas, united in one substance. and as the mind, by putting together the repeated ideas of unity, makes the collective mode, or complex idea, of any number, as a score, or a gross, &c.,--so, by putting together several particular substances, it makes collective ideas of substances, as a troop, an army, a swarm, a city, a fleet; each of which every one finds that he represents to his own mind by one idea, in one view; and so under that notion considers those several things as perfectly one, as one ship, or one atom. nor is it harder to conceive how an army of ten thousand men should make one idea than how a man should make one idea it being as easy to the mind to unite into one the idea of a great number of men, and consider it as one as it is to unite into one particular all the distinct ideas that make up the composition of a man, and consider them all together as one. . artificial things that are made up of distinct substances are our collective ideas. amongst such kind of collective ideas are to be counted most part of artificial things, at least such of them as are made up of distinct substances: and, in truth, if we consider all these collective ideas aright, as army, constellation, universe, as they are united into so many single ideas, they are but the artificial draughts of the mind; bringing things very remote, and independent on one another, into one view, the better to contemplate and discourse on them, united into one conception, and signified by one name. for there are no things so remote, nor so contrary, which the mind cannot, by this art of composition, bring into one idea; as is visible in that signified by the name universe. chapter xxv.--of relation. . relation, what. besides the ideas, whether simple or complex, that the mind has of things as they are in themselves, there are others it gets from their comparison one with another. the understanding, in the consideration of anything, is not confined to that precise object: it can carry any idea as it were beyond itself, or at least look beyond it, to see how it stands in conformity to any other. when the mind so considers one thing, that it does as it were bring it to, and set it by another, and carries its view from one to the other--this is, as the words import, relation and respect; and the denominations given to positive things, intimating that respect, and serving as marks to lead the thoughts beyond the subject itself denominated, to something distinct from it, are what we call relatives; and the things so brought together, related. thus, when the mind considers caius as such a positive being, it takes nothing into that idea but what really exists in caius; v.g. when i consider him as a man, i have nothing in my mind but the complex idea of the species, man. so likewise, when i say caius is a white man, i have nothing but the bare consideration of a man who hath that white colour. but when i give caius the name husband, i intimate some other person; and when i give him the name whiter, i intimate some other thing: in both cases my thought is led to something beyond caius, and there are two things brought into consideration. and since any idea, whether simple or complex, may be the occasion why the mind thus brings two things together, and as it were takes a view of them at once, though still considered as distinct: therefore any of our ideas may be the foundation of relation. as in the above-mentioned instance, the contract and ceremony of marriage with sempronia is the occasion of the denomination and relation of husband; and the colour white the occasion why he is said to be whiter than free-stone. . ideas of relations without correlative terms, not easily apprehended. these and the like relations, expressed by relative terms that have others answering them, with a reciprocal intimation, as father and son, bigger and less, cause and effect, are very obvious to every one, and everybody at first sight perceives the relation. for father and son, husband and wife, and such other correlative terms, seem so nearly to belong one to another, and, through custom, do so readily chime and answer one another in people’s memories, that, upon the naming of either of them, the thoughts are presently carried beyond the thing so named; and nobody overlooks or doubts of a relation, where it is so plainly intimated. but where languages have failed to give correlative names, there the relation is not always so easily taken notice of. concubine is, no doubt, a relative name, as well as wife: but in languages where this and the like words have not a correlative term, there people are not so apt to take them to be so, as wanting that evident mark of relation which is between correlatives, which seem to explain one another, and not to be able to exist, but together. hence it is, that many of those names, which, duly considered, do include evident relations, have been called external denominations. but all names that are more than empty sounds must signify some idea, which is either in the thing to which the name is applied, and then it is positive, and is looked on as united to and existing in the thing to which the denomination is given; or else it arises from the respect the mind finds in it to something distinct from it, with which it considers it, and then it includes a relation. . some seemingly absolute terms contain relations. another sort of relative terms there is, which are not looked on to be either relative, or so much as external denominations: which yet, under the form and appearance of signifying something absolute in the subject, do conceal a tacit, though less observable, relation. such are the seemingly positive terms of old, great, imperfect, &c., whereof i shall have occasion to speak more at large in the following chapters. . relation different from the things related. this further may be observed, that the ideas of relations may be the same in men who have far different ideas of the things that are related, or that are thus compared: v. g. those who have far different ideas of a man, may yet agree in the notion of a father; which is a notion superinduced to the substance, or man, and refers only to an act of that think called man whereby he contributed to the generation of one of his own kind, let man be what it will. . change of relation may be without any change in the things related. the nature therefore of relation consists in the referring or comparing two things one to another; from which comparison one of both comes to be denominated. and if either of those things be removed, or cease to be, the relation ceases, and the denomination consequent to it, though the other receive in itself no alteration at all; v.g. caius, whom i consider to-day as a father, ceases to be so to-morrow, only by the death of his son, without any alteration made in himself. nay, barely by the mind’s changing the object to which it compares anything, the same thing is capable of having contrary denominations at the same time: v.g. caius, compared to several persons, may truly be said to be older and younger, stronger and weaker, &c. . relation only betwixt two things. whatsoever doth or can exist, or be considered as one thing is positive: and so not only simple ideas and substances, but modes also, are positive beings: though the parts of which they consist are very often relative one to another: but the whole together considered as one thing, and producing in us the complex idea of one thing, which idea is in our minds, as one picture, though an aggregate of divers parts, and under one name, it is a positive or absolute thing, or idea. thus a triangle, though the parts thereof compared one to another be relative, yet the idea of the whole is a positive absolute idea. the same may be said of a family, a tune, &c.; for there can be no relation but betwixt two things considered as two things. there must always be in relation two ideas or things, either in themselves really separate, or considered as distinct, and then a ground or occasion for their comparison. . all things capable of relation. concerning relation in general, these things may be considered: first, that there is no one thing, whether simple idea, substance, mode, or relation, or name of either of them, which is not capable of almost an infinite number of considerations in reference to other things: and therefore this makes no small part of men’s thoughts and words: v.g. one single man may at once be concerned in, and sustain all these following relations, and many more, viz. father, brother, son, grandfather, grandson, father-in-law, son-in-law, husband, friend, enemy, subject, general, judge, patron, client, professor, european, englishman, islander, servant, master, possessor, captain, superior, inferior, bigger, less, older, younger, contemporary, like, unlike, &c., to an almost infinite number: he being capable of as many relations as there can be occasions of comparing him to other things, in any manner of agreement, disagreement, or respect whatsoever. for, as i said, relation is a way of comparing or considering two things [*dropped line] from that comparison; and sometimes giving even the relation itself a name. . our ideas of relations often clearer than of the subjects related. secondly, this further may be considered concerning relation, that though it be not contained in the real existence of things, but something extraneous and superinduced, yet the ideas which relative words stand for are often clearer and more distinct than of those substances to which they do belong. the notion we have of a father or brother is a great deal clearer and more distinct than that we have of a man; or, if you will, paternity is a thing whereof it is easier to have a clear idea, than of humanity; and i can much easier conceive what a friend is, than what god; because the knowledge of one action, or one simple idea, is oftentimes sufficient to give me the notion of a relation; but to the knowing of any substantial being, an accurate collection of sundry ideas is necessary. a man, if he compares two things together, can hardly be supposed not to know what it is wherein he compares them: so that when he compares any things together, he cannot but have a very clear idea of that relation. the ideas, then, of relations, are capable at least of being more perfect and distinct in our minds than those of substances. because it is commonly hard to know all the simple ideas which are really in any substance, but for the most part easy enough to know the simple ideas that make up any relation i think on, or have a name for: v.g. comparing two men in reference to one common parent, it is very easy to frame the ideas of brothers, without having yet the perfect idea of a man. for significant relative words, as well as others, standing only for ideas; and those being all either simple, or made up of simple ones, it suffices for the knowing the precise idea the relative term stands for, to have a clear conception of that which is the foundation of the relation; which may be done without having a perfect and clear idea of the thing it is attributed to. thus, having the notion that one laid the egg out of which the other was hatched, i have a clear idea of the relation of dam and chick between the two cassiowaries in st. james’s park; though perhaps i have but a very obscure and imperfect idea of those birds themselves. . relations all terminate in simple ideas. thirdly, though there be a great number of considerations wherein things may be compared one with another, and so a multitude of relations, yet they all terminate in, and are concerned about those simple ideas, either of sensation or reflection, which i think to be the whole materials of all our knowledge. to clear this, i shall show it in the most considerable relations that we have any notion of; and in some that seem to be the most remote from sense or reflection: which yet will appear to have their ideas from thence, and leave it past doubt that the notions we have of them are but certain simple ideas, and so originally derived from sense or reflection. . terms leading the mind beyond the subject denominated, are relative. fourthly, that relation being the considering of one thing with another which is extrinsical to it, it is evident that all words that necessarily lead the mind to any other ideas than are supposed really to exist in that thing to which the words are applied are relative words: v.g.a man, black, merry, thoughtful, thirsty, angry, extended; these and the like are all absolute, because they neither signify nor intimate anything but what does or is supposed really to exist in the man thus denominated; but father, brother, king, husband, blacker, merrier, &c., are words which, together with the thing they denominate, imply also something else separate and exterior to the existence of that thing. . all relatives made up of simple ideas. having laid down these premises concerning relation in general, i shall now proceed to show, in some instances, how all the ideas we have of relation are made up, as the others are, only of simple ideas; and that they all, how refined or remote from sense soever they seem, terminate at last in simple ideas. i shall begin with the most comprehensive relation, wherein all things that do, or can exist, are concerned, and that is the relation of cause and effect: the idea whereof, how derived from the two fountains of all our knowledge, sensation and reflection, i shall in the next place consider. chapter xxvi.--of cause and effect, and other relations. . whence the ideas of cause and effect got. in the notice that our senses take of the constant vicissitude of things, we cannot but observe that several particular, both qualities and substances, begin to exist; and that they receive this their existence from the due application and operation of some other being. from this observation we get our ideas of cause and effect. that which produces any simple or complex idea we denote by the general name, cause, and that which is produced, effect. thus, finding that in that substance which we call wax, fluidity, which is a simple idea that was not in it before, is constantly produced by the application of a certain degree of heat we call the simple idea of heat, in relation to fluidity in wax, the cause of it, and fluidity the effect. so also, finding that the substance, wood, which is a certain collection of simple ideas so called, by the application of fire, is turned into another substance, called ashes; i. e., another complex idea, consisting of a collection of simple ideas, quite different from that complex idea which we call wood; we consider fire, in relation to ashes, as cause, and the ashes, as effect. so that whatever is considered by us to conduce or operate to the producing any particular simple idea, or collection of simple ideas, whether substance or mode, which did not before exist, hath thereby in our minds the relation of a cause, and so is denominated by us. . creation generation, making alteration. having thus, from what our senses are able to discover in the operations of bodies on one another, got the notion of cause and effect, viz. that a cause is that which makes any other thing, either simple idea, substance, or mode, begin to be; and an effect is that which had its beginning from some other thing; the mind finds no great difficulty to distinguish the several originals of things into two sorts:-- first, when the thing is wholly made new, so that no part thereof did ever exist before; as when a new particle of matter doth begin to exist, in rerum natura, which had before no being, and this we call creation. secondly, when a thing is made up of particles, which did all of them before exist; but that very thing, so constituted of pre-existing particles, which, considered all together, make up such a collection of simple ideas, had not any existence before, as this man, this egg, rose, or cherry, &c. and this, when referred to a substance, produced in the ordinary course of nature by internal principle, but set on work by, and received from, some external agent, or cause, and working by insensible ways which we perceive not, we call generation. when the cause is extrinsical, and the effect produced by a sensible separation, or juxta-position of discernible parts, we call it making; and such are all artificial things. when any simple idea is produced, which was not in that subject before, we call it alteration. thus a man is generated, a picture made; and either of them altered, when any new sensible quality or simple idea is produced in either of them, which was not there before: and the things thus made to exist, which were not there before, are effects; and those things which operated to the existence, causes. in which, and all other cases, we may observe, that the notion of cause and effect has its rise from ideas received by sensation or reflection; and that this relation, how comprehensive soever, terminates at last in them. for to have the idea of cause and effect, it suffices to consider any simple idea or substance, as beginning to exist, by the operation of some other, without knowing the manner of that operation. . relations of time. time and place are also the foundations of very large relations; and all finite beings at least are concerned in them. but having already shown in another place how we get those ideas, it may suffice here to intimate, that most of the denominations of things received from time are only relations. thus, when any one says that queen elizabeth lived sixty-nine, and reigned forty-five years, these words import only the relation of that duration to some other, and mean no more but this, that the duration of her existence was equal to sixty-nine, and the duration of her government to forty-five annual revolutions of the sun; and so are all words, answering, how long? again, william the conqueror invaded england about the year ; which means this, that, taking the duration from our saviour’s time till now for one entire great length of time, it shows at what distance this invasion was from the two extremes; and so do all words of time answering to the question, when, which show only the distance of any point of time from the period of a longer duration, from which we measure, and to which we thereby consider it as related. . some ideas of time supposed positive and found to be relative. there are yet, besides those, other words of time, that ordinarily are thought to stand for positive ideas, which yet will, when considered, be found to be relative; such as are, young, old, &c., which include and intimate the relation anything has to a certain length of duration, whereof we have the idea in our minds. thus, having settled in our thoughts the idea of the ordinary duration of a man to be seventy years, when we say a man is young, we mean that his age is yet but a small part of that which usually men attain to; and when we denominate him old, we mean that his duration is ran out almost to the end of that which men do not usually exceed. and so it is but comparing the particular age or duration of this or that man, to the idea of that duration which we have in our minds, as ordinarily belonging to that sort of animals: which is plain in the application of these names to other things; for a man is called young at twenty years, and very young at seven years old: but yet a horse we call old at twenty, and a dog at seven years, because in each of these we compare their age to different ideas of duration, which are settled in our minds as belonging to these several sorts of animals, in the ordinary course of nature. but the sun and stars, though they have outlasted several generations of men, we call not old, because we do not know what period god hath set to that sort of beings. this term belonging properly to those things which we can observe in the ordinary course of things, by a natural decay, to come to an end in a certain period of time; and so have in our minds, as it were, a standard to which we can compare the several parts of their duration; and, by the relation they bear thereunto, call them young or old; which we cannot, therefore, do to a ruby or a diamond, things whose usual periods we know not. . relations of place and extension. the relation also that things have to one another in their places and distances is very obvious to observe; as above, below, a mile distant from charing-cross, in england, and in london. but as in duration, so in extension and bulk, there are some ideas that are relative which we signify by names that are thought positive; as great and little are truly relations. for here also, having, by observation, settled in our minds the ideas of the bigness of several species of things from those we have been most accustomed to, we make them as it were the standards, whereby to denominate the bulk of others. thus we call a great apple, such a one as is bigger than the ordinary sort of those we have been used to; and a little horse, such a one as comes not up to the size of that idea which we have in our minds to belong ordinarily to horses; and that will be a great horse to a welchman, which is but a little one to a fleming; they two having, from the different breed of their countries, taken several-sized ideas to which they compare, and in relation to which they denominate their great and their little. . absolute terms often stand for relations. so likewise weak and strong are but relative denominations of power, compared to some ideas we have at that time of greater or less power. thus, when we say a weak man, we mean one that has not so much strength or power to move as usually men have, or usually those of his size have; which is a comparing his strength to the idea we have of the usual strength of men, or men of such a size. the like when we say the creatures are all weak things; weak there is but a relative term, signifying the disproportion there is in the power of god and the creatures. and so abundance of words, in ordinary speech, stand only for relations (and perhaps the greatest part) which at first sight seem to have no such signification: v.g. the ship has necessary stores. necessary and stores are both relative words; one having a relation to the accomplishing the voyage intended, and the other to future use. all which relations, how they are confined to, and terminate in ideas derived from sensation or reflection, is too obvious to need any explication. chapter xxvii.--of identity and diversity. . wherein identity consists. another occasion the mind often takes of comparing, is the very being of things, when, considering anything as existing at any determined time and place, we compare it with itself existing at another time, and thereon form the ideas of identity and diversity. when we see anything to be in any place in any instant of time, we are sure (be it what it will) that it is that very thing, and not another which at that same time exists in another place, how like and undistinguishable soever it may be in all other respects: and in this consists identity, when the ideas it is attributed to vary not at all from what they were that moment wherein we consider their former existence, and to which we compare the present. for we never finding, nor conceiving it possible, that two things of the same kind should exist in the same place at the same time, we rightly conclude, that, whatever exists anywhere at any time, excludes all of the same kind, and is there itself alone. when therefore we demand whether anything be the same or no, it refers always to something that existed such a time in such a place, which it was certain, at that instant, was the same with itself, and no other. from whence it follows, that one thing cannot have two beginnings of existence, nor two things one beginning; it being impossible for two things of the same kind to be or exist in the same instant, in the very same place; or one and the same thing in different places. that, therefore, that had one beginning, is the same thing; and that which had a different beginning in time and place from that, is not the same, but diverse. that which has made the difficulty about this relation has been the little care and attention used in having precise notions of the things to which it is attributed. . identity of substances. we have the ideas but of three sorts of substances: . god. . finite intelligences. . bodies. first, god is without beginning, eternal, unalterable, and everywhere, and therefore concerning his identity there can be no doubt. secondly, finite spirits having had each its determinated time and place of beginning to exist, the relation to that time and place will always determine to each of them its identity, as long as it exists. thirdly, the same will hold of every particle of matter, to which no addition or subtraction of matter being made, it is the same. for, though these three sorts of substances, as we term them, do not exclude one another out of the same place, yet we cannot conceive but that they must necessarily each of them exclude any of the same kind out of the same place: or else the notions and names of identity and diversity would be in vain, and there could be no such distinctions of substances, or anything else one from another. for example: could two bodies be in the same place at the same time; then those two parcels of matter must be one and the same, take them great or little; nay, all bodies must be one and the same. for, by the same reason that two particles of matter may be in one place, all bodies may be in one place: which, when it can be supposed, takes away the distinction of identity and diversity of one and more, and renders it ridiculous. but it being a contradiction that two or more should be one, identity and diversity are relations and ways of comparing well founded, and of use to the understanding. . identity of modes and relations. all other things being but modes or relations ultimately terminated in substances, the identity and diversity of each particular existence of them too will be by the same way determined: only as to things whose existence is in succession, such as are the actions of finite beings, v. g. motion and thought, both which consist in a continued train of succession, concerning their diversity there can be no question: because each perishing the moment it begins, they cannot exist in different times, or in different places, as permanent beings can at different times exist in distant places; and therefore no motion or thought, considered as at different times, can be the same, each part thereof having a different beginning of existence. . principium individuationis. from what has been said, it is easy to discover what is so much inquired after, the principium individuationis; and that, it is plain, is existence itself; which determines a being of any sort to a particular time and place, incommunicable to two beings of the same kind. this, though it seems easier to conceive in simple substances or modes; yet, when reflected on, is not more difficult in compound ones, if care be taken to what it is applied: v.g. let us suppose an atom, i.e. a continued body under one immutable superficies, existing in a determined time and place; it is evident, that, considered in any instant of its existence, it is in that instant the same with itself. for, being at that instant what it is, and nothing else, it is the same, and so must continue as long as its existence is continued; for so long it will be the same, and no other. in like manner, if two or more atoms be joined together into the same mass, every one of those atoms will be the same, by the foregoing rule: and whilst they exist united together, the mass, consisting of the same atoms, must be the same mass, or the same body, let the parts be ever so differently jumbled. but if one of these atoms be taken away, or one new one added, it is no longer the same mass or the same body. in the state of living creatures, their identity depends not on a mass of the same particles, but on something else. for in them the variation of great parcels of matter alters not the identity: an oak growing from a plant to a great tree, and then lopped, is still the same oak; and a colt grown up to a horse, sometimes fat, sometimes lean, is all the while the same horse: though, in both these cases, there may be a manifest change of the parts; so that truly they are not either of them the same masses of matter, though they be truly one of them the same oak, and the other the same horse. the reason whereof is, that, in these two cases--a mass of matter and a living body--identity is not applied to the same thing. . identity of vegetables. we must therefore consider wherein an oak differs from a mass of matter, and that seems to me to be in this, that the one is only the cohesion of particles of matter any how united, the other such a disposition of them as constitutes the parts of an oak; and such an organization of those parts as is fit to receive and distribute nourishment, so as to continue and frame the wood, bark, and leaves, &c., of an oak, in which consists the vegetable life. that being then one plant which has such an organization of parts in one coherent body, partaking of one common life, it continues to be the same plant as long as it partakes of the same life, though that life be communicated to new particles of matter vitally united to the living plant, in a like continued organization conformable to that sort of plants. for this organization, being at any one instant in any one collection of matter, is in that particular concrete distinguished from all other, and is that individual life, which existing constantly from that moment both forwards and backwards, in the same continuity of insensibly succeeding parts united to the living body of the plant, it has that identity which makes the same plant, and all the parts of it, parts of the same plant, during all the time that they exist united in that continued organization, which is fit to convey that common life to all the parts so united. . identity of animals. the case is not so much different in brutes but that any one may hence see what makes an animal and continues it the same. something we have like this in machines, and may serve to illustrate it. for example, what is a watch? it is plain it is nothing but a fit organization or construction of parts to a certain end, which, when a sufficient force is added to it, it is capable to attain. if we would suppose this machine one continued body, all whose organized parts were repaired, increased, or diminished by a constant addition or separation of insensible parts, with one common life, we should have something very much like the body of an animal; with this difference, that, in an animal the fitness of the organization, and the motion wherein life consists, begin together, the motion coming from within; but in machines the force coming sensibly from without, is often away when the organ is in order, and well fitted to receive it. . the identity of man. this also shows wherein the identity of the same man consists; viz. in nothing but a participation of the same continued life, by constantly fleeting particles of matter, in succession vitally united to the same organized body. he that shall place the identity of man in anything else, but, like that of other animals, in one fitly organized body, taken in any one instant, and from thence continued, under one organization of life, in several successively fleeting particles of matter united to it, will find it hard to make an embryo, one of years, mad and sober, the same man, by any supposition, that will not make it possible for seth, ismael, socrates, pilate, st. austin, and caesar borgia, to be the same man. for if the identity of soul alone makes the same man; and there be nothing in the nature of matter why the same individual spirit may not be united to different bodies, it will be possible that those men, living in distant ages, and of different tempers, may have been the same man: which way of speaking must be from a very strange use of the word man, applied to an idea out of which body and shape are excluded. and that way of speaking would agree yet worse with the notions of those philosophers who allow of transmigration, and are of opinion that the souls of men may, for their miscarriages, be detruded into the bodies of beasts, as fit habitations, with organs suited to the satisfaction of their brutal inclinations. but yet i think nobody, could he be sure that the soul of heliogabalus were in one of his hogs, would yet say that hog were a man or heliogabalus. . idea of identity suited to the idea it is applied to. it is not therefore unity of substance that comprehends all sorts of identity, or will determine it in every case; but to conceive and judge of it aright, we must consider what idea the word it is applied to stands for: it being one thing to be the same substance, another the same man, and a third the same person, if person, man, and substance, are three names standing for three different ideas;--for such as is the idea belonging to that name, such must be the identity; which, if it had been a little more carefully attended to, would possibly have prevented a great deal of that confusion which often occurs about this matter, with no small seeming difficulties, especially concerning personal identity, which therefore we shall in the next place a little consider. . same man. an animal is a living organized body; and consequently the same animal, as we have observed, is the same continued life communicated to different particles of matter, as they happen successively to be united to that organized living body. and whatever is talked of other definitions, ingenious observation puts it past doubt, that the idea in our minds, of which the sound man in our mouths is the sign, is nothing else but of an animal of such a certain form. since i think i may be confident, that, whoever should see a creature of his own shape or make, though it had no more reason all its life than a cat or a parrot, would call him still a man; or whoever should hear a cat or a parrot discourse, reason, and philosophize, would call or think it nothing but a cat or a parrot; and say, the one was a dull irrational man, and the other a very intelligent rational parrot. . same man. for i presume it is not the idea of a thinking or rational being alone that makes the idea of a man in most people’s sense: but of a body, so and so shaped, joined to it; and if that be the idea of a man, the same successive body not shifted all at once, must, as well as the same immaterial spirit, go to the making of the same man. . personal identity. this being premised, to find wherein personal identity consists, we must consider what person stands for;--which, i think, is a thinking intelligent being, that has reason and reflection, and can consider itself as itself, the same thinking thing, in different times and places; which it does only by that consciousness which is inseparable from thinking, and, as it seems to me, essential to it: it being impossible for any one to perceive without perceiving that he does perceive. when we see, hear, smell, taste, feel, meditate, or will anything, we know that we do so. thus it is always as to our present sensations and perceptions: and by this every one is to himself that which he calls self:--it not being considered, in this case, whether the same self be continued in the same or divers substances. for, since consciousness always accompanies thinking, and it is that which makes every one to be what he calls self, and thereby distinguishes himself from all other thinking things, in this alone consists personal identity, i.e. the sameness of a rational being: and as far as this consciousness can be extended backwards to any past action or thought, so far reaches the identity of that person; it is the same self now it was then; and it is by the same self with this present one that now reflects on it, that that action was done. . consciousness makes personal identity. but it is further inquired, whether it be the same identical substance. this few would think they had reason to doubt of, if these perceptions, with their consciousness, always remained present in the mind, whereby the same thinking thing would be always consciously present, and, as would be thought, evidently the same to itself. but that which seems to make the difficulty is this, that this consciousness being interrupted always by forgetfulness, there being no moment of our lives wherein we have the whole train of all our past actions before our eyes in one view, but even the best memories losing the sight of one part whilst they are viewing another; and we sometimes, and that the greatest part of our lives, not reflecting on our past selves, being intent on our present thoughts, and in sound sleep having no thoughts at all, or at least none with that consciousness which remarks our waking thoughts,--i say, in all these cases, our consciousness being interrupted, and we losing the sight of our past selves, doubts are raised whether we are the same thinking thing, i.e. the same substance or no. which, however reasonable or unreasonable, concerns not personal identity at all. the question being what makes the same person; and not whether it be the same identical substance, which always thinks in the same person, which, in this case, matters not at all: different substances, by the same consciousness (where they do partake in it) being united into one person, as well as different bodies by the same life are united into one animal, whose identity is preserved in that change of substances by the unity of one continued life. for, it being the same consciousness that makes a man be himself to himself, personal identity depends on that only, whether it be annexed solely to one individual substance, or can be continued in a succession of several substances. for as far as any intelligent being can repeat the idea of any past action with the same consciousness it had of it at first, and with the same consciousness it has of any present action; so far it is the same personal self. for it is by the consciousness it has of its present thoughts and actions, that it is self to itself now, and so will be the same self, as far as the same consciousness can extend to actions past or to come; and would be by distance of time, or change of substance, no more two persons, than a man be two men by wearing other clothes to-day than he did yesterday, with a long or a short sleep between: the same consciousness uniting those distant actions into the same person, whatever substances contributed to their production. . personal identity in change of substance. that this is so, we have some kind of evidence in our very bodies, all whose particles, whilst vitally united to this same thinking conscious self, so that we feel when they are touched, and are affected by, and conscious of good or harm that happens to them, are a part of ourselves; i.e. of our thinking conscious self. thus, the limbs of his body are to every one a part of himself; he sympathizes and is concerned for them. cut off a hand, and thereby separate it from that consciousness he had of its heat, cold, and other affections, and it is then no longer a part of that which is himself, any more than the remotest part of matter. thus, we see the substance whereof personal self consisted at one time may be varied at another, without the change of personal identity; there being no question about the same person, though the limbs which but now were a part of it, be cut off. . personality in change of substance. but the question is, whether if the same substance which thinks be changed, it can be the same person; or, remaining the same, it can be different persons? and to this i answer: first, this can be no question at all to those who place thought in a purely material animal constitution, void of an immaterial substance. for, whether their supposition be true or no, it is plain they conceive personal identity preserved in something else than identity of substance; as animal identity is preserved in identity of life, and not of substance. and therefore those who place thinking in an immaterial substance only, before they can come to deal with these men, must show why personal identity cannot be preserved in the change of immaterial substances, or variety of particular immaterial substances, as well as animal identity is preserved in the change of material substances, or variety of particular bodies: unless they will say, it is one immaterial spirit that makes the same life in brutes, as it is one immaterial spirit that makes the same person in men; which the cartesians at least will not admit, for fear of making brutes thinking things too. . whether in change of thinking substances there can be one person. but next, as to the first part of the question, whether, if the same thinking substance (supposing immaterial substances only to think) be changed, it can be the same person? i answer, that cannot be resolved but by those who know there can what kind of substances they are that do think; and whether the consciousness of past actions can be transferred from one thinking substance to another. i grant were the same consciousness the same individual action it could not: but it being a present representation of a past action, why it may not be possible, that that may be represented to the mind to have been which really never was, will remain to be shown. and therefore how far the consciousness of past actions is annexed to any individual agent, so that another cannot possibly have it, will be hard for us to determine, till we know what kind of action it is that cannot be done without a reflex act of perception accompanying it, and how performed by thinking substances, who cannot think without being conscious of it. but that which we call the same consciousness, not being the same individual act, why one intellectual substance may not have represented to it, as done by itself, what it never did, and was perhaps done by some other agent--why, i say, such a representation may not possibly be without reality of matter of fact, as well as several representations in dreams are, which yet whilst dreaming we take for true--will be difficult to conclude from the nature of things. and that it never is so, will by us, till we have clearer views of the nature of thinking substances, be best resolved into the goodness of god; who, as far as the happiness or misery of any of his sensible creatures is concerned in it, will not, by a fatal error of theirs, transfer from one to another that consciousness which draws reward or punishment with it. how far this may be an argument against those who would place thinking in a system of fleeting animal spirits, i leave to be considered. but yet, to return to the question before us, it must be allowed, that, if the same consciousness (which, as has been shown, is quite a different thing from the same numerical figure or motion in body) can be transferred from one thinking substance to another, it will be possible that two thinking substances may make but one person. for the same consciousness being preserved, whether in the same or different substances, the personal identity is preserved. . whether, the same immaterial substance remaining, there can be two persons. as to the second part of the question, whether the same immaterial substance remaining, there may be two distinct persons; which question seems to me to be built on this,--whether the same immaterial being, being conscious of the action of its past duration, may be wholly stripped of all the consciousness of its past existence, and lose it beyond the power of ever retrieving it again: and so as it were beginning a new account from a new period, have a consciousness that cannot reach beyond this new state. all those who hold pre-existence are evidently of this mind; since they allow the soul to have no remaining consciousness of what it did in that pre-existent state, either wholly separate from body, or informing any other body; and if they should not, it is plain experience would be against them. so that personal identity, reaching no further than consciousness reaches, a pre-existent spirit not having continued so many ages in a state of silence, must needs make different persons. suppose a christian platonist or a pythagorean should, upon god’s having ended all his works of creation the seventh day, think his soul hath existed ever since; and should imagine it has revolved in several human bodies; as i once met with one, who was persuaded his had been the soul of socrates (how reasonably i will not dispute; this i know, that in the post he filled, which was no inconsiderable one, he passed for a very rational man, and the press has shown that he wanted not parts or learning;)--would any one say, that he, being not conscious of any of socrates’s actions or thoughts, could be the same person with socrates? let any one reflect upon himself, and conclude that he has in himself an immaterial spirit, which is that which thinks in him, and, in the constant change of his body keeps him the same: and is that which he calls himself: let his also suppose it to be the same soul that was in nestor or thersites, at the siege of troy, (for souls being, as far as we know anything of them, in their nature indifferent to any parcel of matter, the supposition has no apparent absurdity in it,) which it may have been, as well as it is now the soul of any other man: but he now having no consciousness of any of the actions either of nestor or thersites, does or can he conceive himself the same person with either of them? can he be concerned in either of their actions? attribute them to himself, or think them his own more than the actions of any other men that ever existed? so that this consciousness, not reaching to any of the actions of either of those men, he is no more one self with either of them than of the soul of immaterial spirit that now informs him had been created, and began to exist, when it began to inform his present body; though it were never so true, that the same spirit that informed nestor’s or thersites’ body were numerically the same that now informs his. for this would no more make him the same person with nestor, than if some of the particles of smaller that were once a part of nestor were now a part of this man the same immaterial substance, without the same consciousness, no more making the same person, by being united to any body, than the same particle of matter, without consciousness, united to any body, makes the same person. but let him once find himself conscious of any of the actions of nestor, he then finds himself the same person with nestor. . the body, as well as the soul, goes to the making of a man. and thus may we be able, without any difficulty, to conceive the same person at the resurrection, though in a body not exactly in make or parts the same which he had here,--the same consciousness going along with the soul that inhabits it. but yet the soul alone, in the change of bodies, would scarce to any one but to him that makes the soul the man, be enough to make the same man. for should the soul of a prince, carrying with it the consciousness of the prince’s past life, enter and inform the body of a cobbler, as soon as deserted by his own soul, every one sees he would be the same person with the prince, accountable only for the prince’s actions: but who would say it was the same man? the body too goes to the making the man, and would, i guess, to everybody determine the man in this case, wherein the soul, with all its princely thoughts about it, would not make another man: but he would be the same cobbler to every one besides himself. i know that, in the ordinary way of speaking, the same person, and the same man, stand for one and the same thing. and indeed every one will always have a liberty to speak as he pleases, and to apply what articulate sounds to what ideas he thinks fit, and change them as often as he pleases. but yet, when we will inquire what makes the same spirit, man, or person, we must fix the ideas of spirit, man, or person in our minds; and having resolved with ourselves what we mean by them, it will not be hard to determine, in either of them, or the like, when it is the same, and when not. . consciousness alone unites actions into the same person. but though the same immaterial substance or soul does not alone, wherever it be, and in whatsoever state, make the same man; yet it is plain, consciousness, as far as ever it can be extended--should it be to ages past--unites existences and actions very remote in time into the same person, as well as it does the existences and actions of the immediately preceding moment: so that whatever has the consciousness of present and past actions, is the same person to whom they both belong. had i the same consciousness that i saw the ark and noah’s flood, as that i saw an overflowing of the thames last winter, or as that i write now, i could no more doubt that i who write this now, that saw the thames overflowed last winter, and that viewed the flood at the general deluge, was the same self,--place that self in what substance you please--than that i who write this am the same myself now whilst i write (whether i consist of all the same substance material or immaterial, or no) that i was yesterday. for as to this point of being the same self, it matters not whether this present self be made up of the same or other substances--i being as much concerned, and as justly accountable for any action that was done a thousand years since, appropriated to me now by this self-consciousness, as i am for what i did the last moment. . self depends on consciousness, not on substance. self is that conscious thinking thing,--whatever substance made up of, (whether spiritual or material, simple or compounded, it matters not)--which is sensible or conscious of pleasure and pain, capable of happiness or misery, and so is concerned for itself, as far as that consciousness extends. thus every one finds that, whilst comprehended under that consciousness, the little finger is as much a part of himself as what is most so. upon separation of this little finger, should this consciousness go along with the little finger, and leave the rest of the body, it is evident the little finger would be the person, the same person; and self then would have nothing to do with the rest of the body. as in this case it is the consciousness that goes along with the substance, when one part is separate from another, which makes the same person, and constitutes this inseparable self: so it is in reference to substances remote in time. that with which the consciousness of this present thinking thing can join itself, makes the same person, and is one self with it, and with nothing else; and so attributes to itself, and owns all the actions of that thing, as its own, as far as that consciousness reaches, and no further; as every one who reflects will perceive. . persons, not substances, the objects of reward and punishment. in this personal identity is founded all the right and justice of reward and punishment; happiness and misery being that for which every one is concerned for himself, and not mattering what becomes of any substance, not joined to, or affected with that consciousness. for, as it is evident in the instance i gave but now, if the consciousness went along with the little finger when it was cut off, that would be the same self which was concerned for the whole body yesterday, as making part of itself, whose actions then it cannot but admit as its own now. though, if the same body should still live, and immediately from the separation of the little finger have its own peculiar consciousness, whereof the little finger knew nothing, it would not at all be concerned for it, as a part of itself, or could own any of its actions, or have any of them imputed to him. . which shows wherein personal identity consists. this may show us wherein personal identity consists: not in the identity of substance, but, as i have said, in the identity of consciousness, wherein if socrates and the present mayor of queenborough agree, they are the same person: if the same socrates waking and sleeping do not partake of the same consciousness, socrates waking and sleeping is not the same person. and to punish socrates waking for what sleeping socrates thought, and waking socrates was never conscious of, would be no more of right, than to punish one twin for what his brother-twin did, whereof he knew nothing, because their outsides were so like, that they could not be distinguished; for such twins have been seen. . absolute oblivion separates what is thus forgotten from the person, but not from the man. but yet possibly it will still be objected,--suppose i wholly lose the memory of some parts of my life, beyond a possibility of retrieving them, so that perhaps i shall never be conscious of them again; yet am i not the same person that did those actions, had those thoughts that i once was conscious of, though i have now forgot them? to which i answer, that we must here take notice what the word _i_ is applied to; which, in this case, is the man only. and the same man being presumed to be the same person, i is easily here supposed to stand also for the same person. but if it be possible for the same man to have distinct incommunicable consciousness at different times, it is past doubt the same man would at different times make different persons; which, we see, is the sense of mankind in the solemnest declaration of their opinions, human laws not punishing the mad man for the sober man’s actions, nor the sober man for what the mad man did,--thereby making them two persons: which is somewhat explained by our way of speaking in english when we say such an one is ‘not himself,’ or is ‘beside himself’; in which phrases it is insinuated, as if those who now, or at least first used them, thought that self was changed; the selfsame person was no longer in that man. . difference between identity of man and of person. but yet it is hard to conceive that socrates, the same individual man, should be two persons. to help us a little in this, we must consider what is meant by socrates, or the same individual man. first, it must be either the same individual, immaterial, thinking substance; in short, the same numerical soul, and nothing else. secondly, or the same animal, without any regard to an immaterial soul. thirdly, or the same immaterial spirit united to the same animal. now, take which of these suppositions you please, it is impossible to make personal identity to consist in anything but consciousness; or reach any further than that does. for, by the first of them, it must be allowed possible that a man born of different women, and in distant times, may be the same man. a way of speaking which, whoever admits, must allow it possible for the same man to be two distinct persons, as any two that have lived in different ages without the knowledge of one another’s thoughts. by the second and third, socrates, in this life and after it, cannot be the same man any way, but by the same consciousness; and so making human identity to consist in the same thing wherein we place personal identity, there will be difficulty to allow the same man to be the same person. but then they who place human identity in consciousness only, and not in something else, must consider how they will make the infant socrates the same man with socrates after the resurrection. but whatsoever to some men makes a man, and consequently the same individual man, wherein perhaps few are agreed, personal identity can by us be placed in nothing but consciousness, (which is that alone which makes what we call self,) without involving us in great absurdities. . but is not a man drunk and sober the same person? why else is he punished for the fact he commits when drunk, though he be never afterwards conscious of it? just as much the same person as a man that walks, and does other things in his sleep, is the same person, and is answerable for any mischief he shall do in it. human laws punish both, with a justice suitable to their way of knowledge;--because, in these cases, they cannot distinguish certainly what is real, what counterfeit: and so the ignorance in drunkenness or sleep is not admitted as a plea. but in the great day, wherein the secrets of all hearts shall be laid open, it may be reasonable to think, no one shall be made to answer for what he knows nothing of; but shall receive his doom, his conscience accusing or excusing him. . consciousness alone unites remote existences into one person. nothing but consciousness can unite remote existences into the same person: the identity of substance will not do it; for whatever substance there is, however framed, without consciousness there is no person: and a carcass may be a person, as well as any sort of substance be so, without consciousness. could we suppose two distinct incommunicable consciousnesses acting the same body, the one constantly by day, the other by night; and, on the other side, the same consciousness, acting by intervals, two distinct bodies: i ask, in the first case, whether the day and the night--man would not be two as distinct persons as socrates and plato? and whether, in the second case, there would not be one person in two distinct bodies, as much as one man is the same in two distinct clothings? nor is it at all material to say, that this same, and this distinct consciousness, in the cases above mentioned, is owing to the same and distinct immaterial substances, bringing it with them to those bodies; which, whether true or no, alters not the case: since it is evident the personal identity would equally be determined by the consciousness, whether that consciousness were annexed to some individual immaterial substance or no. for, granting that the thinking substance in man must be necessarily supposed immaterial, it is evident that immaterial thinking thing may sometimes part with its past consciousness, and be restored to it again: as appears in the forgetfulness men often have of their past actions; and the mind many times recovers the memory of a past consciousness, which it had lost for twenty years together. make these intervals of memory and forgetfulness to take their turns regularly by day and night, and you have two persons with the same immaterial spirit, as much as in the former instance two persons with the same body. so that self is not determined by identity or diversity of substance, which it cannot be sure of, but only by identity of consciousness. . not the substance with which the consciousness may be united. indeed it may conceive the substance whereof it is now made up to have existed formerly, united in the same conscious being: but, consciousness removed, that substance is no more itself, or makes no more a part of it, than any other substance; as is evident in the instance we have already given of a limb cut off, of whose heat, or cold, or other affections, having no longer any consciousness, it is no more of a man’s self than any other matter of the universe. in like manner it will be in reference to any immaterial substance, which is void of that consciousness whereby i am myself to myself: so that i cannot upon recollection join with that present consciousness whereby i am now myself, it is, in that part of its existence, no more myself than any other immaterial being. for, whatsoever any substance has thought or done, which i cannot recollect, and by my consciousness make my own thought and action, it will no more belong to me, whether a part of me thought or did it, than if it had been thought or done by any other immaterial being anywhere existing. . consciousness unites substances, material or spiritual, with the same personality. i agree, the more probable opinion is, that this consciousness is annexed to, and the affection of, one individual immaterial substance. but let men, according to their diverse hypotheses, resolve of that as they please. this every intelligent being, sensible of happiness or misery, must grant--that there is something that is himself, that he is concerned for, and would have happy; that this self has existed in a continued duration more than one instant, and therefore it is possible may exist, as it has done, months and years to come, without any certain bounds to be set to its duration; and may be the same self, by the same consciousness continued on for the future. and thus, by this consciousness he finds himself to be the same self which did such and such an action some years since, by which he comes to be happy or miserable now. in all which account of self, the same numerical substance is not considered a making the same self; but the same continued consciousness, in which several substances may have been united, and again separated from it, which, whilst they continued in a vital union with that wherein this consciousness then resided, made a part of that same self. thus any part of our bodies, vitally united to that which is conscious in us, makes a part of ourselves: but upon separation from the vital union by which that consciousness is communicated, that which a moment since was part of ourselves, is now no more so than a part of another man’s self is a part of me: and it is not impossible but in a little time may become a real part of another person. and so we have the same numerical substance become a part of two different persons; and the same person preserved under the change of various substances. could we suppose any spirit wholly stripped of all its memory of consciousness of past actions, as we find our minds always are of a great part of ours, and sometimes of them all; the union or separation of such a spiritual substance would make no variation of personal identity, any more than that of any particle of matter does. any substance vitally united to the present thinking being is a part of that very same self which now is; anything united to it by a consciousness of former actions, makes also a part of the same self, which is the same both then and now. . person a forensic term. person, as i take it, is the name for this self. wherever a man finds what he calls himself, there, i think, another may say is the same person. it is a forensic term, appropriating actions and their merit; and so belongs only to intelligent agents, capable of a law, and happiness, and misery. this personality extends itself beyond present existence to what is past, only by consciousness,--whereby it becomes concerned and accountable; owns and imputes to itself past actions, just upon the same ground and for the same reason as it does the present. all which is founded in a concern for happiness, the unavoidable concomitant of consciousness; that which is conscious of pleasure and pain, desiring that that self that is conscious should be happy. and therefore whatever past actions it cannot reconcile or appropriate to that present self by consciousness, it can be no more concerned in than if they had never been done: and to receive pleasure or pain, i.e. reward or punishment, on the account of any such action, is all one as to be made happy or miserable in its first being, without any demerit at all. for, supposing a man punished now for what he had done in another life, whereof he could be made to have no consciousness at all, what difference is there between that punishment and being created miserable? and therefore, conformable to this, the apostle tells us, that, at the great day, when every one shall ‘receive according to his doings, the secrets of all hearts shall be laid open.’ the sentence shall be justified by the consciousness all persons shall have, that they themselves, in what bodies soever they appear, or what substances soever that consciousness adheres to, are the same that committed those actions, and deserve that punishment for them. . suppositions that look strange are pardonable in our ignorance. i am apt enough to think i have, in treating of this subject, made some suppositions that will look strange to some readers, and possibly they are so in themselves. but yet, i think they are such as are pardonable, in this ignorance we are in of the nature of that thinking thing that is in us, and which we look on as ourselves. did we know what it was; or how it was tied to a certain system of fleeting animal spirits; or whether it could or could not perform its operations of thinking and memory out of a body organized as ours is; and whether it has pleased god that no one such spirit shall ever be united to any but one such body, upon the right constitution of whose organs its memory should depend; we might see the absurdity of some of those suppositions i have made. but taking, as we ordinarily now do (in the dark concerning these matters,) the soul of a man for an immaterial substance, independent from matter, and indifferent alike to it all; there can, from the nature of things, be no absurdity at all to suppose that the same soul may at different times be united to different bodies, and with them make up for that time one man: as well as we suppose a part of a sheep’s body yesterday should be a part of a man’s body to-morrow, and in that union make a vital part of meliboeus himself, as well as it did of his ram. . the difficulty from ill use of names. to conclude: whatever substance begins to exist, it must, during its existence, necessarily be the same: whatever compositions of substances begin to exist, during the union of those substances, the concrete must be the same: whatsoever mode begins to exist, during its existence it is the same: and so if the composition be of distinct substances and different modes, the same rule holds. whereby it will appear, that the difficulty or obscurity that has been about this matter rather rises from the names ill-used, than from any obscurity in things themselves. for whatever makes the specific idea to which the name is applied, if that idea be steadily kept to, the distinction of anything into the same and divers will easily be conceived, and there can arise no doubt about it. . continuance of that which we have made to be our complex idea of man makes the same man. for, supposing a rational spirit be the idea of a man, it is easy to know what is the same man, viz. the same spirit--whether separate or in a body--will be the same man. supposing a rational spirit vitally united to a body of a certain conformation of parts to make a man; whilst that rational spirit, with that vital conformation of parts, though continued in a fleeting successive body, remains, it will be the same man. but if to any one the idea of a man be but the vital union of parts in a certain shape; as long as that vital union and shape remain in a concrete, no otherwise the same but by a continued succession of fleeting particles, it will be the same man. for, whatever be the composition whereof the complex idea is made, whenever existence makes it one particular thing under any denomination, the same existence continued preserves it the same individual under the same denomination. chapter xxviii.--of other relations. . ideas of proportional relations. besides the before-mentioned occasions of time, place, and causality of comparing or referring things one to another, there are, as i have said, infinite others, some whereof i shall mention. first, the first i shall name is some one simple idea, which, being capable of parts or degrees, affords an occasion of comparing the subjects wherein it is to one another, in respect of that simple idea, v.g. whiter, sweeter, equal, more, &c. these relations depending on the equality and excess of the same simple idea, in several subjects, may be called, if one will, proportional; and that these are only conversant about those simple ideas received from sensation or reflection is so evident that nothing need be said to evince it. . natural relation. secondly, another occasion of comparing things together, or considering one thing, so as to include in that consideration some other thing, is the circumstances of their origin or beginning; which being not afterwards to be altered, make the relations depending thereon as lasting as the subjects to which they belong, v.g. father and son, brothers, cousin-germans, &c., which have their relations by one community of blood, wherein they partake in several degrees: countrymen, i.e. those who were born in the same country or tract of ground; and these i call natural relations: wherein we may observe, that mankind have fitted their notions and words to the use of common life, and not to the truth and extent of things. for it is certain, that, in reality, the relation is the same betwixt the begetter and the begotten, in the several races of other animals as well as men; but yet it is seldom said, this bull is the grandfather of such a calf, or that two pigeons are cousin-germans. it is very convenient that, by distinct names, these relations should be observed and marked out in mankind, there being occasion, both in laws and other communications one with another, to mention and take notice of men under these relations: from whence also arise the obligations of several duties amongst men: whereas, in brutes, men having very little or no cause to mind these relations, they have not thought fit to give them distinct and peculiar names. this, by the way, may give us some light into the different state and growth of languages; which being suited only to the convenience of communication, are proportioned to the notions men have, and the commerce of thoughts familiar amongst them; and not to the reality or extent of things, nor to the various respects might be found among them; nor the different abstract considerations might be framed about them. where they had no philosophical notions, there they had no terms to express them: and it is no wonder men should have framed no names for those things they found no occasion to discourse of. from whence it is easy to imagine why, as in some countries, they may have not so much as the name for a horse; and in others, where they are more careful of the pedigrees of their horses, than of their own, that there they may have not only names for particular horses, but also of their several relations of kindred one to another. . ideas of instituted or voluntary relations. thirdly, sometimes the foundation of considering things with reference to one another, is some act whereby any one comes by a moral right, power, or obligation to do something. thus, a general is one that hath power to command an army, and an army under a general is a collection of armed men obliged to obey one man. a citizen, or a burgher, is one who has a right to certain privileges in this or that place, all this sort depending upon men’s wills, or agreement in society, i call instituted, or voluntary; and may be distinguished from the natural, in that they are most, if not all of them, some way or other alterable, and separable from the persons to whom they have sometimes belonged, though neither of the substances, so related, be destroyed. now, though these are all reciprocal, as well as the rest, and contain in them a reference of two things one to the other; yet, because one of the two things often wants a relative name, importing that reference, men usually take no notice of it, and the relation is commonly overlooked: v. g. a patron and client are easily allowed to be relations, but a constable or dictator are not so readily at first hearing considered as such. because there is no peculiar name for those who are under the command of a dictator or constable, expressing a relation to either of them; though it be certain that either of them hath a certain power over some others, and so is so far related to them, as well as a patron is to his client, or general to his army. . ideas of moral relations. fourthly, there is another sort of relation, which is the conformity or disagreement men’s voluntary actions have to a rule to which they are referred, and by which they are judged of; which, i think, may be called moral relation, as being that which denominates our moral actions, and deserves well to be examined; there being no part of knowledge wherein we should be more careful to get determined ideas, and avoid, as much as may be, obscurity and confusion. human actions, when with their various ends, objects, manners, and circumstances, they are framed into distinct complex ideas, are, as has been shown, so many mixed modes, a great part whereof have names annexed to them. thus, supposing gratitude to be a readiness to acknowledge and return kindness received; polygamy to be the having more wives than one at once: when we frame these notions thus in our minds, we have there so many determined ideas of mixed modes. but this is not all that concerns our actions: it is not enough to have determined ideas of them, and to know what names belong to such and such combinations of ideas. we have a further and greater concernment, and that is, to know whether such actions, so made up, are morally good or bad. . moral good and evil. good and evil, as hath been shown, (b. ii. chap. xx. section , and chap. xxi. section ,) are nothing but pleasure or pain, or that which occasions or procures pleasure or pain to us. moral good and evil, then, is only the conformity or disagreement of our voluntary actions to some law, whereby good or evil is drawn on us, from the will and power of the law-maker; which good and evil, pleasure or pain, attending our observance or breach of the law by the decree of the law-maker, is that we call reward and punishment. . moral rules. of these moral rules or laws, to which men generally refer, and by which they judge of the rectitude or gravity of their actions, there seem to me to be three sorts, with their three different enforcements, or rewards and punishments. for, since it would be utterly in vain to suppose a rule set to the free actions of men, without annexing to it some enforcement of good and evil to determine his will, we must, wherever we suppose a law, suppose also some reward or punishment annexed to that law. it would be in vain for one intelligent being to set a rule to the actions of another, if he had it not in his power to reward the compliance with, and punish deviation from his rule, by some good and evil, that is not the natural product and consequence of the action itself. for that, being a natural convenience or inconvenience, would operate of itself, without a law. this, if i mistake not, is the true nature of all law, properly so called. . laws. the laws that men generally refer their actions to, to judge of their rectitude or obliquity, seem to me to be these three:-- . the divine law. . the civil law. . the law of opinion or reputation, if i may so call it. by the relation they bear to the first of these, men judge whether their actions are sins or duties; by the second, whether they be criminal or innocent; and by the third, whether they be virtues or vices. . divine law the measure of sin and duty. first, the divine law, whereby that law which god has set to the actions of men,--whether promulgated to them by the light of nature, or the voice of revelation. that god has given a rule whereby men should govern themselves, i think there is nobody so brutish as to deny. he has a right to do it; we are his creatures: he has goodness and wisdom to direct our actions to that which is best: and he has power to enforce it by rewards and punishments of infinite weight and duration in another life; for nobody can take us out of his hands. this is the only true touchstone of moral rectitude; and, by comparing them to this law, it is that men judge of the most considerable moral good or evil of their actions; that is, whether, as duties or sins, they are like to procure them happiness or misery from the hands of the almighty. . civil law the measure of crimes and innocence. secondly, the civil law--the rule set by the commonwealth to the actions of those who belong to it--is another rule to which men refer their actions; to judge whether they be criminal or no. this law nobody overlooks: the rewards and punishments that enforce it being ready at hand, and suitable to the power that makes it: which is the force of the commonwealth, engaged to protect the lives, liberties, and possessions of those who live according to its laws, and has power to take away life, liberty, or goods, from him who disobeys; which is the punishment of offences committed against his law. . philosophical law the measure of virtue and vice. thirdly, the law of opinion or reputation. virtue and vice are names pretended and supposed everywhere to stand for actions in their own nature right and wrong: and as far as they really are so applied, they so far are coincident with the divine law above mentioned. but yet, whatever is pretended, this is visible, that these names, virtue and vice, in the particular instances of their application, through the several nations and societies of men in the world, are constantly attributed only to such actions as in each country and society are in reputation or discredit. nor is it to be thought strange, that men everywhere should give the name of virtue to those actions, which amongst them are judged praiseworthy; and call that vice, which they account blamable: since otherwise they would condemn themselves, if they should think anything right, to which they allowed not commendation, anything wrong, which they let pass without blame. thus the measure of what is everywhere called and esteemed virtue and vice is this approbation or dislike, praise or blame, which, by a secret and tacit consent, establishes itself in the several societies, tribes, and clubs of men in the world: whereby several actions come to find credit or disgrace amongst them, according to the judgment, maxims, or fashion of that place. for, though men uniting into politic societies, have resigned up to the public the disposing of all their force, so that they cannot employ it against any fellow-citizens any further than the law of the country directs: yet they retain still the power of thinking well or ill, approving or disapproving of the actions of those whom they live amongst, and converse with: and by this approbation and dislike they establish amongst themselves what they will call virtue and vice. . the measure that man commonly apply to determine what they call virtue and vice. that this is the common measure of virtue and vice, will appear to any one who considers, that, though that passes for vice in one country which is counted a virtue, or at least not vice, in another, yet everywhere virtue and praise, vice and blame, go together. virtue is everywhere, that which is thought praiseworthy; and nothing else but that which has the allowance of public esteem is called virtue. virtue and praise are so united, that they are called often by the same name. sunt sua praemia laudi, says virgil; and so cicero, nihil habet natura praestantius, quam honestatem, quam laudem, quam dignitatem, quam decus, which he tells you are all names for the same thing. this is the language of the heathen philosophers, who well understood wherein their notions of virtue and vice consisted. and though perhaps, by the different temper, education, fashion, maxims, or interest of different sorts of men, it fell out, that what was thought praiseworthy in one place, escaped not censure in another; and so in different societies, virtues and vices were changed; yet, as to the main, they for the most part kept the same everywhere. for, since nothing can be more natural than to encourage with esteem and reputation that wherein every one finds his advantage, and to blame and discountenance the contrary; it is no wonder that esteem and discredit, virtue and vice, should, in a great measure, everywhere correspond with the unchangeable rule of right and wrong, which the law of god hath established; there being nothing that so directly and visible secures and advances the general good of mankind in this world, as obedience to the laws he had set them, and nothing that breeds such mischiefs and confusion, as the neglect of them. and therefore men, without renouncing all sense and reason, and their own interest, which they are so constantly true to, could not generally mistake, in placing their commendation and blame on that side that really deserved it not. nay, even those men whose practice was otherwise, failed not to give their approbation right, few being depraved to that degree as not to condemn, at least in others, the faults they themselves were guilty of; whereby, even in the corruption of manners, the true boundaries of the law of nature, which ought to be the rule of virtue and vice, were pretty well preferred. so that even the exhortations of inspired teachers, have not feared to appeal to common repute: ‘whatsoever is lovely, whatsoever is of good report, if there be any virtue, if there be any praise,’ &c. (phil. iv. .) . its inforcement is commendation and discredit. if any one shall imagine that i have forgot my own notion of a law, when i make the law, whereby men judge of virtue and vice, to be nothing else but the consent of private men, who have not authority enough to make a law: especially wanting that which is so necessary and essential to a law, a power to enforce it: i think i may say, that he who imagines commendation and disgrace not to be strong motives to men to accommodate themselves to the opinions and rules of those with whom they converse, seems little skilled in the nature or history of mankind: the greatest part whereof we shall find to govern themselves chiefly, if not solely, by this law of fashion; and so they do that which keeps them in reputation with their company, little regard the laws of god, or the magistrate. the penalties that attend the breach of god’s laws some, nay perhaps most men, seldom seriously reflect on: and amongst those that do, many, whilst they break the law, entertain thoughts of future reconciliation, and making their peace for such breaches. and as to the punishments due from the laws of the commonwealth, they frequently flatter themselves with the hopes of impunity. but no man escapes the punishment of their censure and dislike, who offends against the fashion and opinion of the company he keeps, and would recommend himself to. nor is there one of ten thousand, who is stiff and insensible enough, to bear up under the constant dislike and condemnation of his own club. he must be of a strange and unusual constitution, who can content himself to live in constant disgrace and disrepute with his own particular society. solitude many men have sought, and been reconciled to: but nobody that has the least thought or sense of a man about him, can live in society under the constant dislike and ill opinion of his familiars, and those he converses with. this is a burden too heavy for human sufferance: and he must be made up of irreconcileable contradictions, who can take pleasure in company, and yet be insensible of contempt and disgrace from his companions. . these three laws the rules of moral good and evil. these three then, first, the law of god; secondly, the law of politic societies; thirdly, the law of fashion, or private censure, are those to which men variously compare their actions: and it is by their conformity to one of these laws that they take their measures, when they would judge of their moral rectitude, and denominate their actions good or bad. . morality is the relation of voluntary actions to these rules. whether the rule to which, as to a touchstone, we bring our voluntary actions, to examine them by, and try their goodness, and accordingly to name them, which is, as it were, the mark of the value we set upon them: whether, i say, we take that rule from the fashion of the country, or the will of a law-maker, the mind is easily able to observe the relation any action hath to it, and to judge whether the action agrees or disagrees with the rule; and so hath a notion of moral goodness or evil, which is either conformity or not conformity of any action to that rule: and therefore is often called moral rectitude. this rule being nothing but a collection of several simple ideas, the conformity thereto is but so ordering the action, that the simple ideas belonging to it may correspond to those which the law requires. and thus we see how moral beings and notions are founded on, and terminated in, these simple ideas we have received from sensation or reflection. for example: let us consider the complex idea we signify by the word murder: and when we have taken it asunder, and examined all the particulars, we shall find them to amount to a collection of simple ideas derived from reflection or sensation, viz. first, from reflection on the operations of our own minds, we have the ideas of willing, considering, purposing beforehand, malice, or wishing ill to another; and also of life, or perception, and self-motion. secondly, from sensation we have the collection of those simple sensible ideas which are to be found in a man, and of some action, whereby we put an end to perception and motion in the man; all which simple ideas are comprehended in the word murder. this collection of simple ideas, being found by me to agree or disagree with the esteem of the country i have been bred in, and to be held by most men there worthy praise or blame, i call the action virtuous or vicious: if i have the will of a supreme invisible lawgiver for my rule, then, as i supposed the action commanded or forbidden by god, i call it good or evil, sin or duty: and if i compare it to the civil law, the rule made by the legislative power of the country, i call it lawful or unlawful, a crime or no crime. so that whencesoever we take the rule of moral actions; or by what standard soever we frame in our minds the ideas of virtues or vices, they consist only, and are made up of collections of simple ideas, which we originally received from sense or reflection: and their rectitude or obliquity consists in the agreement or disagreement with those patterns prescribed by some law. . moral actions may be regarded wither absolutely, or as ideas of relation. to conceive rightly of moral actions, we must take notice of them under this two-fold consideration. first, as they are in themselves, each made up of such a collection of simple ideas. thus drunkenness, or lying, signify such or such a collection of simple ideas, which i call mixed modes: and in this sense they are as much positive absolute ideas, as the drinking of a horse, or speaking of a parrot. secondly, our actions are considered as good, bad, or indifferent; and in this respect they are relative, it being their conformity to, or disagreement with some rule that makes them to be regular or irregular, good or bad; and so, as far as they are compared with a rule, and thereupon denominated, they come under relation. thus the challenging and fighting with a man, as it is a certain positive mode, or particular sort of action, by particular ideas, distinguished from all others, is called duelling: which, when considered in relation to the law of god, will deserve the name of sin; to the law of fashion, in some countries, valour and virtue; and to the municipal laws of some governments, a capital crime. in this case, when the positive mode has one name, and another name as it stands in relation to the law, the distinction may as easily be observed as it is in substances, where one name, v.g. man, is used to signify the thing; another, v.g. father, to signify the relation. . the denominations of actions often mislead us. but because very frequently the positive idea of the action, and its moral relation, are comprehended together under one name, and the same word made use of to express both the mode or action, and its moral rectitude or obliquity: therefore the relation itself is less taken notice of; and there is often no distinction made between the positive idea of the action, and the reference it has to a rule. by which confusion of these two distinct considerations under one term, those who yield too easily to the impressions of sounds, and are forward to take names for things, are often misled in their judgment of actions. thus, the taking from another what is his, without his knowledge or allowance, is properly called stealing: but that name, being commonly understood to signify also the moral gravity of the action, and to denote its contrariety to the law, men are apt to condemn whatever they hear called stealing, as an ill action, disagreeing with the rule of right. and yet the private taking away his sword from a madman, to prevent his doing mischief, though it be properly denominated stealing, as the name of such a mixed mode; yet when compared to the law of god, and considered in its relation to that supreme rule, it is no sin or transgression, though the name stealing ordinarily carries such an intimation with it. . relations innumerable, and only the most considerable here mentioned. and thus much for the relation of human actions to a law, which, therefore, i call moral relations. it would make a volume to go over all sorts of relations: it is not, therefore, to be expected that i should here mention them all. it suffices to our present purpose to show by these, what the ideas are we have of this comprehensive consideration called relation. which is so various, and the occasions of it so many, (as many as there can be of comparing things one to another,) that it is not very easy to reduce it to rules, or under just heads. those i have mentioned, i think, are some of the most considerable; and such as may serve to let us see from whence we get our ideas of relations, and wherein they are founded. but before i quit this argument, from what has been said give me leave to observe: . all relations terminate in simple ideas. first, that it is evident, that all relation terminates in, and is ultimately founded on, those simple ideas we have got from sensation or reflection: so that all we have in our thoughts ourselves, (if we think of anything, or have any meaning,) or would signify to others, when we use words standing for relations, is nothing but some simple ideas, or collections of simple ideas, compared one with another. this is so manifest in that sort called proportional, that nothing can be more. for when a man says ‘honey is sweeter than wax,’ it is plain that his thoughts in this relation terminate in this simple idea, sweetness; which is equally true of all the rest: though, where they are compounded, or decompounded, the simple ideas they are made up of, are, perhaps, seldom taken notice of: v.g. when the word father is mentioned: first, there is meant that particular species, or collective idea, signified by the word man; secondly, those sensible simple ideas, signified by the word generation; and, thirdly, the effects of it, and all the simple ideas signified by the word child. so the word friend, being taken for a man who loves and is ready to do good to another, has all these following ideas to the making of it up: first, all the simple ideas, comprehended in the word man, or intelligent being; secondly, the idea of love; thirdly, the idea of readiness or disposition; fourthly, the idea of action, which is any kind of thought or motion; fifthly, the idea of good, which signifies anything that may advance his happiness, and terminates at last, if examined, in particular simple ideas, of which the word good in general signifies any one; but, if removed from all simple ideas quite, it signifies nothing at all. and thus also all moral words terminate at last, though perhaps more remotely, in a collection of simple ideas: the immediate signification of relative words, being very often other supposed known relations; which, if traced one to another, still end in simple ideas. . we have ordinarily as clear a notion of the relation, as of the simple ideas in things on which it is founded. secondly, that in relations, we have for the most part, if not always, as clear a notion of the relation as we have of those simple ideas wherein it is founded: agreement or disagreement, whereon relation depends, being things whereof we have commonly as clear ideas as of any other whatsoever; it being but the distinguishing simple ideas, or their degrees one from another, without which we could have no distinct knowledge at all. for, if i have a clear idea of sweetness, light, or extension, i have, too, of equal, or more, or less, of each of these: if i know what it is for one man to be born of a woman, viz. sempronia, i know what it is for another man to be born of the same woman sempronia; and so have as clear a notion of brothers as of births, and perhaps clearer. for if i believed that sempronia digged titus out of the parsley-bed, (as they used to tell children,) and thereby became his mother; and that afterwards, in the same manner, she digged caius out of the parsley-bed, i had as clear a notion of the relation of brothers between them, as if i had all the skill of a midwife: the notion that the same woman contributed, as mother, equally to their births, (though i were ignorant or mistaken in the manner of it,) being that on which i grounded the relation; and that they agreed in the circumstance of birth, let it be what it will. the comparing them then in their descent from the same person, without knowing the particular circumstances of that descent, is enough to found my notion of their having, or not having, the relation of brothers. but though the ideas of particular relations are capable of being as clear and distinct in the minds of those who will duly consider them as those of mixed modes, and more determinate than those of substances: yet the names belonging to relation are often of as doubtful and uncertain signification as those of substances or mixed modes; and much more than those of simple ideas. because relative words, being the marks of this comparison, which is made only by men’s thoughts, and is an idea only in men’s minds, men frequently apply them to different comparisons of things, according to their own imaginations; which do not always correspond with those of others using the same name. . the notion of relation is the same, whether the rule any action is compared to be true or false. thirdly, that in these i call moral relations, i have a true notion of relation, by comparing the action with the rule, whether the rule be true or false. for if i measure anything by a yard, i know whether the thing i measure be longer or shorter than that supposed yard, though perhaps the yard i measure by be not exactly the standard: which indeed is another inquiry. for though the rule be erroneous, and i mistaken in it; yet the agreement or disagreement observable in that which i compare with, makes me perceive the relation. though, measuring by a wrong rule, i shall thereby be brought to judge amiss of its moral rectitude; because i have tried it by that which is not the true rule: yet i am not mistaken in the relation which that action bears to that rule i compare it to, which is agreement or disagreement. chapter xxix.--of clear and obscure, distinct and confused ideas. . ideas, some clear and distinct, others obscure and confused. having shown the original of our ideas, and taken a view of their several sorts; considered the difference between the simple and the complex; and observed how the complex ones are divided into those of modes, substances, and relations--all which, i think, is necessary to be done by any one who would acquaint himself thoroughly with the progress of the mind, in its apprehension and knowledge of things--it will, perhaps, be thought i have dwelt long enough upon the examination of ideas. i must, nevertheless, crave leave to offer some few other considerations concerning them. the first is, that some are clear and others obscure; some distinct and others confused. . clear and obscure explained by sight. the perception of the mind being most aptly explained by words relating to the sight, we shall best understand what is meant by clear and obscure in our ideas, by reflecting on what we call clear and obscure in the objects of sight. light being that which discovers to us visible objects, we give the name of obscure to that which is not placed in a light sufficient to discover minutely to us the figure and colours which are observable in it, and which, in a better light, would be discernible. in like manner, our simple ideas are clear, when they are such as the objects themselves from whence they were taken did or might, in a well-ordered sensation or perception, present them. whilst the memory retains them thus, and can produce them to the mind whenever it has occasion to consider them, they are clear ideas. so far as they either want anything of the original exactness, or have lost any of their first freshness, and are, as it were, faded or tarnished by time, so far are they obscure. complex ideas, as they are made up of simple ones, so they are clear, when the ideas that go to their composition are clear, and the number and order of those simple ideas that are the ingredients of any complex one is determinate and certain. . causes of obscurity. the causes of obscurity, in simple ideas, seem to be either dull organs; or very slight and transient impressions made by the objects; or else a weakness in the memory, not able to retain them as received. for to return again to visible objects, to help us to apprehend this matter. if the organs, or faculties of perception, like wax over-hardened with cold, will not receive the impression of the seal, from the usual impulse wont to imprint it; or, like wax of a temper too soft, will not hold it well, when well imprinted; or else supposing the wax of a temper fit, but the seal not applied with a sufficient force to make a clear impression: in any of these cases, the print left by the seal will be obscure. this, i suppose, needs no application to make it plainer. . distinct and confused, what. as a clear idea is that whereof the mind has such a full and evident perception, as it does receive from an outward object operating duly on a well-disposed organ, so a distinct idea is that wherein the mind perceives a difference from all other; and a confused idea is such an one as is not sufficiently distinguishable from another, from which it ought to be different. . objection. if no idea be confused, but such as is not sufficiently distinguishable from another from which it should be different, it will be hard, may any one say, to find anywhere a confused idea. for, let any idea be as it will, it can be no other but such as the mind perceives it to be; and that very perception sufficiently distinguishes it from all other ideas, which cannot be other, i.e. different, without being perceived to be so. no idea, therefore, can be undistinguishable from another from which it ought to be different, unless you would have it different from itself: for from all other it is evidently different. . confusion of ideas is in reference to their names. to remove this difficulty, and to help us to conceive aright what it is that makes the confusion ideas are at any time chargeable with, we must consider, that things ranked under distinct names are supposed different enough to be distinguished, that so each sort by its peculiar name may be marked, and discoursed of apart upon any occasion: and there is nothing more evident, than that the greatest part of different names are supposed to stand for different things. now every idea a man has, being visibly what it is, and distinct from all other ideas but itself; that which makes it confused, is, when it is such that it may as well be called by another name as that which it is expressed by; the difference which keeps the things (to be ranked under those two different names) distinct, and makes some of them belong rather to the one and some of them to the other of those names, being left out; and so the distinction, which was intended to be kept up by those different names, is quite lost. . defaults which make this confusion. the defaults which usually occasion this confusion, i think, are chiefly these following: first, complex ideas made up of too few simple ones. first, when any complex idea (for it is complex ideas that are most liable to confusion) is made up of too small a number of simple ideas, and such only as are common to other things, whereby the differences that make it deserve a different name, are left out. thus, he that has an idea made up of barely the simple ones of a beast with spots, has but a confused idea of a leopard; it not being thereby sufficiently distinguished from a lynx, and several other sorts of beasts that are spotted. so that such an idea, though it hath the peculiar name leopard, is not distinguishable from those designed by the names lynx or panther, and may as well come under the name lynx as leopard. how much the custom of defining of words by general terms contributes to make the ideas we would express by them confused and undetermined, i leave others to consider. this is evident, that confused ideas are such as render the use of words uncertain, and take away the benefit of distinct names. when the ideas, for which we use different terms, have not a difference answerable to their distinct names, and so cannot be distinguished by them, there it is that they are truly confused. . secondly, or their simple ones jumbled disorderly together. secondly, another fault which makes our ideas confused is, when, though the particulars that make up any idea are in number enough, yet they are so jumbled together, that it is not easily discernible whether it more belongs to the name that is given it than to any other. there is nothing properer to make us conceive this confusion than a sort of pictures, usually shown as surprising pieces of art, wherein the colours, as they are laid by the pencil on the table itself, mark out very odd and unusual figures, and have no discernible order in their position. this draught, thus made up of parts wherein no symmetry nor order appears, is in itself no more a confused thing, than the picture of a cloudy sky; wherein, though there be as little order of colours or figures to be found, yet nobody thinks it a confused picture. what is it, then, that makes it be thought confused, since the want of symmetry does not? as it is plain it does not: for another draught made barely in imitation of this could not be called confused. i answer, that which makes it be thought confused is, the applying it to some name to which it does no more discernibly belong than to some other: v.g. when it is said to be the picture of a man, or caesar, then any one with reason counts it confused; because it is not discernible in that state to belong more to the name man, or caesar, than to the name baboon, or pompey: which are supposed to stand for different ideas from those signified by man, or caesar. but when a cylindrical mirror, placed right, had reduced those irregular lines on the table into their due order and proportion, then the confusion ceases, and the eye presently sees that it is a man, or caesar; i.e. that it belongs to those names; and that it is sufficiently distinguishable from a baboon, or pompey; i.e. from the ideas signified by those names. just thus it is with our ideas, which are as it were the pictures of things. no one of these mental draughts, however the parts are put together, can be called confused (for they are plainly discernible as they are) till it be ranked under some ordinary name to which it cannot be discerned to belong, any more than it does to some other name of an allowed different signification. . thirdly, or their simple ones mutable and undetermined. thirdly, a third defect that frequently gives the name of confused to our ideas, is, when any one of them is uncertain and undetermined. thus we may observe men who, not forbearing to use the ordinary words of their language till they have learned their precise signification, change the idea they make this or that term stand for, almost as often as they use it. he that does this out of uncertainty of what he should leave out, or put into his idea of church, or idolatry, every time he thinks of either, and holds not steady to any one precise combination of ideas that makes it up, is said to have a confused idea of idolatry or the church: though this be still for the same reason as the former, viz. because a mutable idea (if we will allow it to be one idea) cannot belong to one name rather than another, and so loses the distinction that distinct names are designed for. . confusion without reference to names, hardly conceivable. by what has been said, we may observe how much names, as supposed steady signs of things, and by their difference to stand for, and keep things distinct that in themselves are different, are the occasion of denominating ideas distinct or confused, by a secret and unobserved reference the mind makes of its ideas to such names. this perhaps will be fuller understood, after what i say of words in the third book has been read and considered. but without taking notice of such a reference of ideas to distinct names, as the signs of distinct things, it will be hard to say what a confused idea is. and therefore when a man designs, by any name, a sort of things, or any one particular thing, distinct from all others, the complex idea he annexes to that name is the more distinct, the more particular the ideas are, and the greater and more determinate the number and order of them is, whereof it is made up. for, the more it has of these, the more it has still of the perceivable differences, whereby it is kept separate and distinct from all ideas belonging to other names, even those that approach nearest to it, and thereby all confusion with them is avoided. . confusion concerns always two ideas. confusion making it a difficulty to separate two things that should be separated, concerns always two ideas; and those most which most approach one another. whenever, therefore, we suspect any idea to be confused, we must examine what other it is in danger to be confounded with, or which it cannot easily be separated from; and that will always be found an idea belonging to another name, and so should be a different thing, from which yet it is not sufficiently distinct: being either the same with it, or making a part of it, or at least as properly called by that name as the other it is ranked under; and so keeps not that difference from that other idea which the different names import. . causes of confused ideas. this, i think, is the confusion proper to ideas; which still carries with it a secret reference to names. at least, if there be any other confusion of ideas, this is that which most of all disorders men’s thoughts and discourses: ideas, as ranked under names, being those that for the most part men reason of within themselves, and always those which they commune about with others. and therefore where there are supposed two different ideas, marked by two different names, which are not as distinguishable as the sounds that stand for them, there never fails to be confusion; and where any ideas are distinct as the ideas of those two sounds they are marked by, there can be between them no confusion. the way to prevent it is to collect and unite into one complex idea, as precisely as is possible, all those ingredients whereby it is differenced from others; and to them, so united in a determinate number and order, apply steadily the same name. but this neither accommodating men’s ease or vanity, nor serving any design but that of naked truth, which is not always the thing aimed at, such exactness is rather to be wished than hoped for. and since the loose application of names, to undetermined, variable, and almost no ideas, serves both to cover our own ignorance, as well as to perplex and confound others, which goes for learning and superiority in knowledge, it is no wonder that most men should use it themselves, whilst they complain of it in others. though i think no small part of the confusion to be found in the notions of men might, by care and ingenuity, be avoided, yet i am far from concluding it everywhere wilful. some ideas are so complex, and made up of so many parts, that the memory does not easily retain the very same precise combination of simple ideas under one name: much less are we able constantly to divine for what precise complex idea such a name stands in another man’s use of it. from the first of these, follows confusion in a man’s own reasonings and opinions within himself; from the latter, frequent confusion in discoursing and arguing with others. but having more at large treated of words, their defects, and abuses, in the following book, i shall here say no more of it. . complex ideas may be distinct in one part, and confused in another. our complex ideas, being made up of collections, and so variety of simple ones, may accordingly be very clear and distinct in one part, and very obscure and confused in another. in a man who speaks of a chiliaedron, or a body of a thousand sides, the ideas of the figure may be very confused, though that of the number be very distinct; so that he being able to discourse and demonstrate concerning that part of his complex idea which depends upon the number of thousand, he is apt to think he has a distinct idea of a chiliaedron; though it be plain he has no precise idea of its figure, so as to distinguish it, by that, from one that has but sides: the not observing whereof causes no small error in men’s thoughts, and confusion in their discourses. . this, if not heeded, causes confusion in our arguings. he that thinks he has a distinct idea of the figure of a chiliaedron, let him for trial sake take another parcel of the same uniform matter, viz. gold or wax of an equal bulk, and make it into a figure of sides. he will, i doubt not, be able to distinguish these two ideas one from another, by the number of sides; and reason and argue distinctly about them, whilst he keeps his thoughts and reasoning to that part only of these ideas which is contained in their numbers; as that the sides of the one could be divided into two equal numbers, and of the others not, &c. but when he goes about to distinguish them by their figure, he will there be presently at a loss, and not be able, i think, to frame in his mind two ideas, one of them distinct from the other, by the bare figure of these two pieces of gold; as he could, if the same parcels of gold were made one into a cube, the other a figure of five sides. in which incomplete ideas, we are very apt to impose on ourselves, and wrangle with others, especially where they have particular and familiar names. for, being satisfied in that part of the idea which we have clear; and the name which is familiar to us, being applied to the whole, containing that part also which is imperfect and obscure, we are apt to use it for that confused part, and draw deductions from it in the obscure part of its signification, as confidently as we do from the other. . instance in eternity. having frequently in our mouths the name eternity, we are apt to think we have a positive comprehensive idea of it, which is as much as to say, that there is no part of that duration which is not clearly contained in our idea. it is true that he that thinks so may have a clear idea of duration; he may also have a clear idea of a very great length of duration; he may also have a clear idea of the comparison of that great one with still a greater: but it not being possible for him to include in his idea of any duration, let it be as great as it will, the whole extent together of a duration, where he supposes no end, that part of his idea, which is still beyond the bounds of that large duration he represents to his own thoughts, is very obscure and undetermined. and hence it is that in disputes and reasonings concerning eternity, or any other infinite, we are very apt to blunder, and involve ourselves in manifest absurdities. . infinite divisibility of matter. in matter, we have no clear ideas of the smallness of parts much beyond the smallest that occur to any of our senses: and therefore, when we talk of the divisibility of matter in infinitum, though we have clear ideas of division and divisibility, and have also clear ideas of parts made out of a whole by division; yet we have but very obscure and confused ideas of corpuscles, or minute bodies, so to be divided, when, by former divisions, they are reduced to a smallness much exceeding the perception of any of our senses; and so all that we have clear and distinct ideas of is of what division in general or abstractedly is, and the relation of totum and pars: but of the bulk of the body, to be thus infinitely divided after certain progressions, i think, we have no clear nor distinct idea at all. for i ask any one, whether, taking the smallest atom of dust he ever saw, he has any distinct idea (bating still the number, which concerns not extension) betwixt the , th and the , , th part of it. or if he think he can refine his ideas to that degree, without losing sight of them, let him add ten cyphers to each of those numbers. such a degree of smallness is not unreasonable to be supposed; since a division carried on so far brings it no nearer the end of infinite division, than the first division into two halves does. i must confess, for my part, i have no clear distinct ideas of the different bulk or extension of those bodies, having but a very obscure one of either of them. so that, i think, when we talk of division of bodies in infinitum, our idea of their distinct bulks, which is the subject and foundation of division, comes, after a little progression, to be confounded, and almost lost in obscurity. for that idea which is to represent only bigness must be very obscure and confused, which we cannot distinguish from one ten times as big, but only by number: so that we have clear distinct ideas, we may say, of ten and one, but no distinct ideas of two such extensions. it is plain from hence, that, when we talk of infinite divisibility of body or extension, our distinct and clear ideas are only of numbers: but the clear distinct ideas of extension, after some progress of division, are quite lost; and of such minute parts we have no distinct ideas at all; but it returns, as all our ideas of infinite do, at last to that of number always to be added; but thereby never amounts to any distinct idea of actual infinite parts. we have, it is true, a clear idea of division, as often as we think of it; but thereby we have no more a clear idea of infinite parts in matter, than we have a clear idea of an infinite number, by being able still to add new numbers to any assigned numbers we have: endless divisibility giving us no more a clear and distinct idea of actually infinite parts, than endless addibility (if i may so speak) gives us a clear and distinct idea of an actually infinite number: they both being only in a power still of increasing the number, be it already as great as it will. so that of what remains to be added (wherein consists the infinity) we have but an obscure, imperfect, and confused idea; from or about which we can argue or reason with no certainty or clearness, no more than we can in arithmetic, about a number of which we have no such distinct idea as we have of or ; but only this relative obscure one, that, compared to any other, it is still bigger: and we have no more a clear positive idea of it, when we [dropped line*] than if we should say it is bigger than or : , , having no nearer a proportion to the end of addition or number than . for he that adds only to , and so proceeds, shall as soon come to the end of all addition, as he that adds , , to , , . and so likewise in eternity; he that has an idea of but four years, has as much a positive complete idea of eternity, as he that has one of , , of years: for what remains of eternity beyond either of these two numbers of years, is as clear to the one as the other; i.e. neither of them has any clear positive idea of it at all. for he that adds only years to , and so on, shall as soon reach eternity as he that adds , , of years, and so on; or, if he please, doubles the increase as often as he will: the remaining abyss being still as far beyond the end of all these progressions as it is from the length of a day or an hour. for nothing finite bears any proportion to infinite; and therefore our ideas, which are all finite, cannot bear any. thus it is also in our idea of extension, when we increase it by addition, as well as when we diminish it by division, and would enlarge our thoughts to infinite space. after a few doublings of those ideas of extension, which are the largest we are accustomed to have, we lose the clear distinct idea of that space: it becomes a confusedly great one, with a surplus of still greater; about which, when we would argue or reason, we shall always find ourselves at a loss; confused ideas, in our arguings and deductions from that part of them which is confused, always leading us into confusion. chapter xxx.--of real and fantastical ideas. . ideas considered in reference to their archetypes. besides what we have already mentioned concerning ideas, other considerations belong to them, in reference to things from whence they are taken, or which they may be supposed to represent; and thus, i think, they may come under a threefold distinction, and are:--first, either real or fantastical; secondly, adequate or inadequate; thirdly, true or false. first, by real ideas, i mean such as have a foundation in nature; such as have a conformity with the real being and existence of things, or with their archetypes. fantastical or chimerical, i call such as have no foundation in nature, nor have any conformity with that reality of being to which they are tacitly referred, as to their archetypes. if we examine the several sorts of ideas before mentioned, we shall find that, . simple ideas are all real appearances of things. first, our simple ideas are all real, all agree to the reality of things: not that they are all of them the images or representations of what does exist; the contrary whereof, in all but the primary qualities of bodies, hath been already shown. but, though whiteness and coldness are no more in snow than pain is; yet those ideas of whiteness and coldness, pain, &c., being in us the effects of powers in things without us, ordained by our maker to produce in us such sensations; they are real ideas in us, whereby we distinguish the qualities that are really in things themselves. for, these several appearances being designed to be the mark whereby we are to know and distinguish things which we have to do with, our ideas do as well serve us to that purpose, and are as real distinguishing characters, whether they be only constant effects, or else exact resemblances of something in the things themselves: the reality lying in that steady correspondence they have with the distinct constitutions of real beings. but whether they answer to those constitutions, as to causes or patterns, it matters not; it suffices that they are constantly produced by them. and thus our simple ideas are all real and true, because they answer and agree to those powers of things which produce them on our minds; that being all that is requisite to make them real, and not fictions at pleasure. for in simple ideas (as has been shown) the mind is wholly confined to the operation of things upon it, and can make to itself no simple idea, more than what it was received. . complex ideas are voluntary combinations. though the mind be wholly passive in respect of its simple ideas; yet, i think, we may say it is not so in respect of its complex ideas. for those being combinations of simple ideas put together, and united under one general name, it is plain that the mind of man uses some kind of liberty in forming those complex ideas: how else comes it to pass that one man’s idea of gold, or justice, is different from another’s, but because he has put in, or left out of his, some simple idea which the other has not? the question then is, which of these are real, and which barely imaginary combinations? what collections agree to the reality of things, and what not? and to this i say that, . mixed modes and relations, made of consistent ideas, are real. secondly, mixed modes and relations, having no other reality but what they have in the minds of men, there is nothing more required to this kind of ideas to make them real, but that they be so framed, that there be a possibility of existing conformable to them. these ideas themselves, being archetypes, cannot differ from their archetypes, and so cannot be chimerical, unless any one will jumble together in them inconsistent ideas. indeed, as any of them have the names of a known language assigned to them, by which he that has them in his mind would signify them to others, so bare possibility of existing is not enough; they must have a conformity to the ordinary signification of the name that is given them, that they may not be thought fantastical: as if a man would give the name of justice to that idea which common use calls liberality. but this fantasticalness relates more to propriety of speech, than reality of ideas. for a man to be undisturbed in danger, sedately to consider what is fittest to be done, and to execute it steadily, is a mixed mode, or a complex idea of an action which may exist. but to be undisturbed in danger, without using one’s reason or industry, is what is also possible to be; and so is as real an idea as the other. though the first of these, having the name courage given to it, may, in respect of that name, be a right or wrong idea; but the other, whilst it has not a common received name of any known language assigned to it, is not capable of any deformity, being made with no reference to anything but itself. . complex ideas of substances are real, when they agree with the existence of things. thirdly, our complex ideas of substances, being made all of them in reference to things existing without us, and intended to be representations of substances as they really are, are no further real than as they are such combinations of simple ideas as are really united, and co-exist in things without us. on the contrary, those are fantastical which are made up of such collections of simple ideas as were really never united, never were found together in any substance: v. g. a rational creature, consisting of a horse’s head, joined to a body of human shape, or such as the centaurs are described: or, a body yellow, very malleable, fusible, and fixed, but lighter than common water: or an uniform, unorganized body, consisting, as to sense, all of similar parts, with perception and voluntary motion joined to it. whether such substances as these can possibly exist or no, it is probable we do not know: but be that as it will, these ideas of substances, being made conformable to no pattern existing that we know; and consisting of such collections of ideas as no substance ever showed us united together, they ought to pass with us for barely imaginary: but much more are those complex ideas so, which contain in them any inconsistency or contradiction of their parts. chapter xxxi.--of adequate and inadequate ideas. . adequate ideas are such as perfectly represent their archetypes. of our real ideas, some are adequate, and some are inadequate. those i call adequate, which perfectly represent those archetypes which the mind supposes them taken from: which it intends them to stand for, and to which it refers them. inadequate ideas are such, which are but a partial or incomplete representation of those archetypes to which they are referred. upon which account it is plain, . adequate ideas are such as perfectly represent their archetypes. simple ideas all adequate. first, that all our simple ideas are adequate. because, being nothing but the effects of certain powers in things, fitted and ordained by god to produce such sensations in us, they cannot but be correspondent and adequate to those powers: and we are sure they agree to the reality of things. for, if sugar produce in us the ideas which we call whiteness and sweetness, we are sure there is a power in sugar to produce those ideas in our minds, or else they could not have been produced by it. and so each sensation answering the power that operates on any of our senses, the idea so produced is a real idea, (and not a fiction of the mind, which has no power to produce any simple idea); and cannot but be adequate, since it ought only to answer that power: and so all simple ideas are adequate. it is true, the things producing in us these simple ideas are but few of them denominated by us, as if they were only the causes of them; but as if those ideas were real beings in them. for, though fire be called painful to the touch, whereby is signified the power of producing in us the idea of pain, yet it is denominated also light and hot; as if light and heat were really something in the fire, more than a power to excite these ideas in us; and therefore are called qualities in or of the fire. but these being nothing, in truth, but powers to excite such ideas in us, i must in that sense be understood, when i speak of secondary qualities as being in things; or of their ideas as being the objects that excite them in us. such ways of speaking, though accommodated to the vulgar notions, without which one cannot be well understood, yet truly signify nothing but those powers which are in things to excite certain sensations or ideas in us. since were there no fit organs to receive the impressions fire makes on the sight and touch, nor a mind joined to those organs to receive the ideas of light and heat by those impressions from the fire or sun, there would yet be no more light or heat in the world than there would be pain if there were no sensible creature to feel it, though the sun should continue just as it is now, and mount aetna flame higher than ever it did. solidity and extension, and the termination of it, figure, with motion and rest, whereof we have the ideas, would be really in the world as they are, whether there were any sensible being to perceive them or no: and therefore we have reason to look on those as the real modifications of matter, and such as are the exciting causes of all our various sensations from bodies. but this being an inquiry not belonging to this place, i shall enter no further into it, but proceed to show what complex ideas are adequate, and what not. . modes are all adequate. secondly, our complex ideas of modes, being voluntary collections of simple ideas, which the mind puts together, without reference to any real archetypes, or standing patterns, existing anywhere, are and cannot but be adequate ideas. because they, not being intended for copies of things really existing, but for archetypes made by the mind, to rank and denominate things by, cannot want anything; they having each of them that combination of ideas, and thereby that perfection, which the mind intended they should: so that the mind acquiesces in them, and can find nothing wanting. thus, by having the idea of a figure with three sides meeting at three angles, i have a complete idea, wherein i require nothing else to make it perfect. that the mind is satisfied with the perfection of this its idea is plain, in that it does not conceive that any understanding hath, or can have, a more complete or perfect idea of that thing it signifies by the word triangle, supposing it to exist, than itself has, in that complex idea of three sides and three angles, in which is contained all that is or can be essential to it, or necessary to complete it, wherever or however it exists. but in our ideas of substances it is otherwise. for there, desiring to copy things as they really do exist, and to represent to ourselves that constitution on which all their properties depend, we perceive our ideas attain not that perfection we intend: we find they still want something we should be glad were in them; and so are all inadequate. but mixed modes and relations, being archetypes without patterns, and so having nothing to represent but themselves, cannot but be adequate, everything being so to itself. he that at first put together the idea of danger perceived, absence of disorder from fear, sedate consideration of what was justly to be done, and executing that without disturbance, or being deterred by the danger of it, had certainly in his mind that complex idea made up of that combination: and intending it to be nothing else but what is, nor to have in it any other simple ideas but what it hath, it could not also but be an adequate idea: and laying this up in his memory, with the name courage annexed to it, to signify to others, and denominate from thence any action he should observe to agree with it, had thereby a standard to measure and denominate actions by, as they agreed to it. this idea, thus made and laid up for a pattern, must necessarily be adequate, being referred to nothing else but itself, nor made by any other original but the good liking and will of him that first made this combination. . modes, in reference to settled names, may be inadequate. indeed another coming after, and in conversation learning from him the word courage, may make an idea, to which he gives the name courage, different from what the first author applied it to, and has in his mind when he uses it. and in this case, if he designs that his idea in thinking should be conformable to the other’s idea, as the name he uses in speaking is conformable in sound to his from whom he learned it, his idea may be very wrong and inadequate: because in this case, making the other man’s idea the pattern of his idea in thinking, as the other man’s word or sound is the pattern of his in speaking, his idea is so far defective and inadequate, as it is distant from the archetype and pattern he refers it to, and intends to express and signify by the name he uses for it; which name he would have to be a sign of the other man’s idea, (to which, in its proper use, it is primarily annexed,) and of his own, as agreeing to it: to which if his own does not exactly correspond, it is faulty and inadequate. . because then means, in propriety of speech, to correspond to the ideas in some other mind. therefore these complex ideas of modes, which they are referred by the mind, and intended to correspond to the ideas in the mind of some other intelligent being, expressed by the names we apply to them, they may be very deficient, wrong, and inadequate; because they agree not to that which the mind designs to be their archetype and pattern: in which respect only any idea of modes can be wrong, imperfect, or inadequate. and on this account our ideas of mixed modes are the most liable to be faulty of any other; but this refers more to proper speaking than knowing right. . ideas of substances, as referred to real essences, not adequate. thirdly, what ideas we have of substances, i have above shown. now, those ideas have in the mind a double reference: . sometimes they are referred to a supposed real essence of each species of things. . sometimes they are only designed to be pictures and representations in the mind of things that do exist, by ideas of those qualities that are discoverable in them. in both which ways these copies of those originals and archetypes are imperfect and inadequate. first, it is usual for men to make the names of substances stand for things as supposed to have certain real essences, whereby they are of this or that species: and names standing for nothing but the ideas that are in men’s minds, they must constantly refer their ideas to such real essences, as to their archetypes. that men (especially such as have been bred up in the learning taught in this part of the world) do suppose certain specific essences of substances, which each individual in its several kinds is made conformable to and partakes of, is so far from needing proof that it will be thought strange if any one should do otherwise. and thus they ordinarily apply the specific names they rank particular substances under, to things as distinguished by such specific real essences. who is there almost, who would not take it amiss if it should be doubted whether he called himself a man, with any other meaning than as having the real essence of a man? and yet if you demand what those real essences are, it is plain men are ignorant, and know them not. from whence it follows, that the ideas they have in their minds, being referred to real essences, as to archetypes which are unknown, must be so far from being adequate that they cannot be supposed to be any representation of them at all. the complex ideas we have of substances are, as it has been shown, certain collections of simple ideas that have been observed or supposed constantly to exist together. but such a complex idea cannot be the real essence of any substance; for then the properties we discover in that body would depend on that complex idea, and be deducible from it, and their necessary connexion with it be known; as all properties of a triangle depend on, and, as far as they are discoverable, are deducible from the complex idea of three lines including a space. but it is plain that in our complex ideas of substances are not contained such ideas, on which all the other qualities that are to be found in them do depend. the common idea men have of iron is, a body of a certain colour, weight, and hardness; and a property that they look on as belonging to it, is malleableness. but yet this property has no necessary connexion with that complex idea, or any part of it: and there is no more reason to think that malleableness depends on that colour, weight, and hardness, than that colour or that weight depends on its malleableness. and yet, though we know nothing of these real essences, there is nothing more ordinary than that men should attribute the sorts of things to such essences. the particular parcel of matter which makes the ring i have on my finger is forwardly by most men supposed to have a real essence, whereby it is gold; and from whence those qualities flow which i find in it, viz. its peculiar colour, weight, hardness, fusibility, fixedness, and change of colour upon a slight touch of mercury, &c. this essence, from which all these properties flow, when i inquire into it and search after it, i plainly perceive i cannot discover: the furthest i can go is, only to presume that, it being nothing but body, its real essence or internal constitution, on which these qualities depend, can be nothing but the figure, size, and connexion of its solid parts; of neither of which having any distinct perception at all can i have any idea of its essence: which is the cause that it has that particular shining yellowness; a greater weight than anything i know of the same bulk; and a fitness to have its colour changed by the touch of quicksilver. if any one will say, that the real essence and internal constitution, on which these properties depend, is not the figure, size, and arrangement or connexion of its solid parts, but something else, called its particular form, i am further from having any idea of its real essence than i was before. for i have an idea of figure, size, and situation of solid parts in general, though i have none of the particular figure, size, or putting together of parts, whereby the qualities above mentioned are produced; which qualities i find in that particular parcel of matter that is on my finger, and not in another parcel of matter, with which i cut the pen i write with. but, when i am told that something besides the figure, size, and posture of the solid parts of that body in its essence, something called substantial form, of that i confess i have no idea at all, but only of the sound form; which is far enough from an idea of its real essence or constitution. the like ignorance as i have of the real essence of this particular substance, i have also of the real essence of all other natural ones: of which essences i confess i have no distinct ideas at all; and, i am apt to suppose, others, when they examine their own knowledge, will find in themselves, in this one point, the same sort of ignorance. . because men know not the real essence of substances. now, then, when men apply to this particular parcel of matter on my finger a general name already in use, and denominate it gold, do they not ordinarily, or are they not understood to give it that name, as belonging to a particular species of bodies, having a real internal essence; by having of which essence this particular substance comes to be of that species, and to be called by that name? if it be so, as it is plain it is, the name by which things are marked as having that essence must be referred primarily to that essence; and consequently the idea to which that name is given must be referred also to that essence, and be intended to represent it. which essence, since they who so use the names know not, their ideas of substances must be all inadequate in that respect, as not containing in them that real essence which the mind intends they should. . ideas of substances, when regarded as collections of their qualities, are all inadequate. secondly, those who, neglecting that useless supposition of unknown real essences, whereby they are distinguished, endeavour to copy the substances that exist in the world, by putting together the ideas of those sensible qualities which are found co-existing in them, though they come much nearer a likeness of them than those who imagine they know not what real specific essences: yet they arrive not at perfectly adequate ideas of those substances they would thus copy into their minds: nor do those copies exactly and fully contain all that is to be found in their archetypes. because those qualities and powers of substances, whereof we make their complex ideas, are so many and various, that no man’s complex idea contains them all. that our complex ideas of substances do not contain in them all the simple ideas that are united in the things themselves is evident, in that men do rarely put into their complex idea of any substance all the simple ideas they do know to exist in it. because, endeavouring to make the signification of their names as clear and as little cumbersome as they can, they make their specific ideas of the sorts of substance, for the most part, of a few of those simple ideas which are to be found in them: but these having no original precedency, or right to be put in, and make the specific idea, more than others that are left out, it is plain that both these ways our ideas of substances are deficient and inadequate. the simple ideas whereof we make our complex ones of substances are all of them (bating only the figure and bulk of some sorts) powers; which being relations to other substances, we can never be sure that we know all the powers that are in any one body, till we have tried what changes it is fitted to give to or receive from other substances in their several ways of application: which being impossible to be tried upon any one body, much less upon all, it is impossible we should have adequate ideas of any substance made up of a collection of all its properties. . their powers usually make up our complex ideas of substances. whosoever first lighted on a parcel of that sort of substance we denote by the word gold, could not rationally take the bulk and figure he observed in that lump to depend on its real essence, or internal constitution. therefore those never went into his idea of that species of body; but its peculiar colour, perhaps, and weight, were the first he abstracted from it, to make the complex idea of that species. which both are but powers; the one to affect our eyes after such a manner, and to produce in us that idea we call yellow; and the other to force upwards any other body of equal bulk, they being put into a pair of equal scales, one against another. another perhaps added to these the ideas of fusibility and fixedness, two other passive powers, in relation to the operation of fire upon it; another, its ductility and solubility in aqua regia, two other powers, relating to the operation of other bodies, in changing its outward figure, or separation of it into insensible parts. these, or parts of these, put together, usually make the complex idea in men’s minds of that sort of body we call gold. . substances have innumerable powers not contained in our complex ideas of them. but no one who hath considered the properties of bodies in general, or this sort in particular, can doubt that this, called gold, has infinite other properties not contained in that complex idea. some who have examined this species more accurately could, i believe, enumerate ten times as many properties in gold, all of them as inseparable from its internal constitution, as its colour or weight: and it is probable, if any one knew all the properties that are by divers men known of this metal, there would be an hundred times as many ideas go to the complex idea of gold as any one man yet has in his; and yet perhaps that not be the thousandth part of what is to be discovered in it. the changes that that one body is apt to receive, and make in other bodies, upon a due application, exceeding far not only what we know, but what we are apt to imagine. which will not appear so much a paradox to any one who will but consider how far men are yet from knowing all the properties of that one, no very compound figure, a triangle; though it be no small number that are already by mathematicians discovered of it. . ideas of substances, being got only by collecting their qualities, are all inadequate. so that all our complex ideas of substances are imperfect and inadequate. which would be so also in mathematical figures, if we were to have our complex ideas of them, only by collecting their properties in reference to other figures. how uncertain and imperfect would our ideas be of an ellipsis, if we had no other idea of it, but some few of its properties? whereas, having in our plain idea the whole essence of that figure, we from thence discover those properties, and demonstratively see how they flow, and are inseparable from it. . simple ideas, [word in greek], and adequate. thus the mind has three sorts of abstract ideas or nominal essences: first, simple ideas, which are [word in greek] or copies; but yet certainly adequate. because, being intended to express nothing but the power in things to produce in the mind such a sensation, that sensation, when it is produced, cannot but be the effect of that power. so the paper i write on, having the power in the light (i speak according to the common notion of light) to produce in men the sensation which i call white, it cannot but be the effect of such a power in something without the mind; since the mind has not the power to produce any such idea in itself: and being meant for nothing else but the effect of such a power that simple idea is [* words missing] the sensation of white, in my mind, being the effect of that power which is in the paper to produce it, is perfectly adequate to that power; or else that power would produce a different idea. . ideas of substances are echthypa, and inadequate. secondly, the complex ideas of substances are ectypes, copies too; but not perfect ones, not adequate: which is very evident to the mind, in that it plainly perceives, that whatever collection of simple ideas it makes of any substance that exists, it cannot be sure that it exactly answers all that are in that substance. since, not having tried all the operations of all other substances upon it, and found all the alterations it would receive from, or cause in, other substances, it cannot have an exact adequate collection of all its active and passive capacities; and so not have an adequate complex idea of the powers of any substance existing, and its relations; which is that sort of complex idea of substances we have. and, after all, if we would have, and actually had, in our complex idea, an exact collection of all the secondary qualities or powers of any substance, we should not yet thereby have an idea of the essence of that thing. for, since the powers or qualities that are observable by us are not the real essence of that substance, but depend on it, and flow from it, any collection whatsoever of these qualities cannot be the real essence of that thing. whereby it is plain, that our ideas of substances are not adequate; are not what the mind intends them to be. besides, a man has no idea of substance in general, nor knows what substance is in itself. . ideas of modes and relations are archetypes, and cannot be adequate. thirdly, complex ideas of modes and relations are originals, and archetypes; are not copies, nor made after the pattern of any real existence, to which the mind intends them to be conformable, and exactly to answer. these being such collections of simple ideas that the mind itself puts together, and such collections that each of them contains in it precisely all that the mind intends that it should, they are archetypes and essences of modes that may exist; and so are designed only for, and belong only to such modes as, when they do exist, have an exact conformity with those complex ideas the ideas, therefore, of modes and relations cannot but be adequate. chapter xxxii.--of true and false ideas. . truth and falsehood properly belong to propositions, not to ideas. though truth and falsehood belong, in propriety of speech, only to propositions: yet ideas are oftentimes termed true or false (as what words are there that are not used with great latitude, and with some deviation from their strict and proper significations?) though i think that when ideas themselves are termed true or false, there is still some secret or tacit proposition, which is the foundation of that denomination: as we shall see, if we examine the particular occasions wherein they come to be called true or false. in all which we shall find some kind of affirmation or negation, which is the reason of that denomination. for our ideas, being nothing but bare appearances, or perceptions in our minds, cannot properly and simply in themselves be said to be true or false, no more than a single name of anything can be said to be true or false. . ideas and words may be said to be true, inasmuch as they really are ideas and words. indeed both ideas and words may be said to be true, in a metaphysical sense of the word truth; as all other things that any way exist are said to be true, i.e. really to be such as they exist. though in things called true, even in that sense, there is perhaps a secret reference to our ideas, looked upon as the standards of that truth; which amounts to a mental proposition, though it be usually not taken notice of. . no idea, as an appearance in the mind, either true or false. but it is not in that metaphysical sense of truth which we inquire here, when we examine, whether our ideas are capable of being true or false, but in the more ordinary acceptation of those words: and so i say that the ideas in our minds, being only so many perceptions or appearances there, none of them are false; the idea of a centaur having no more falsehood in it when it appears in our minds, than the name centaur has falsehood in it, when it is pronounced by our mouths, or written on paper. for truth or falsehood lying always in some affirmation or negation, mental or verbal, our ideas are not capable, any of them, of being false, till the mind passes some judgment on them; that is, affirms or denies something of them. . ideas referred to anything extraneous to them may be true or false. whenever the mind refers any of its ideas to anything extraneous to them, they are then capable to be called true or false. because the mind, in such a reference, makes a tacit supposition of their conformity to that thing; which supposition, as it happens to be true or false, so the ideas themselves come to be denominated. the most usual cases wherein this happens, are these following: . other men’s ideas; real existence; and supposed real essences, are what men usually refer their ideas to. first, when the mind supposes any idea it has conformable to that in other men’s minds, called by the same common name; v.g. when the mind intends or judges its ideas of justice, temperance, religion, to be the same with what other men give those names to. secondly, when the mind supposes any idea it has in itself to be conformable to some real existence. thus the two ideas of a man and a centaur, supposed to be the ideas of real substances, are the one true and the other false; the one having a conformity to what has really existed, the other not. thirdly, when the mind refers any of its ideas to that real constitution and essence of anything, whereon all its properties depend: and thus the greatest part, if not all our ideas of substances, are false. . the cause of such reference. these suppositions the mind is very apt tacitly to make concerning its own ideas. but yet, if we will examine it, we shall find it is chiefly, if not only, concerning its abstract complex ideas. for the natural tendency of the mind being towards knowledge; and finding that, if it should proceed by and dwell upon only particular things, its progress would be very slow, and its work endless; therefore, to shorten its way to knowledge, and make each perception more comprehensive, the first thing it does, as the foundation of the easier enlarging its knowledge, either by contemplation of the things themselves that it would know, or conference with others about them, is to bind them into bundles, and rank them so into sorts, that what knowledge it gets of any of them it may thereby with assurance extend to all of that sort; and so advance by larger steps in that which is its great business, knowledge. this, as i have elsewhere shown, is the reason why we collect things under comprehensive ideas, with names annexed to them, into genera and species; i.e. into kinds and sorts. . names of things supposed to carry in them knowledge of their essences. if therefore we will warily attend to the motions of the mind, and observe what course it usually takes in its way to knowledge, we shall i think find, that the mind having got an idea which it thinks it may have use of either in contemplation or discourse, the first thing it does is to abstract it, and then get a name to it; and so lay it up in its storehouse, the memory, as containing the essence of a sort of things, of which that name is always to be the mark. hence it is, that we may often observe that, when any one sees a new thing of a kind that he knows not, he presently asks, what it is; meaning by that inquiry nothing but the name. as if the name carried with it the knowledge of the species, or the essence of it; whereof it is indeed used as the mark, and is generally supposed annexed to it. . how men suppose that their ideas must correspond to things, and to the customary meanings of names. but this abstract idea, being something in the mind, between the thing that exists, and the name that is given to it; it is in our ideas that both the rightness of our knowledge, and the propriety and intelligibleness of our speaking, consists. and hence it is that men are so forward to suppose, that the abstract ideas they have in their minds are such as agree to the things existing without them, to which they are referred; and are the same also to which the names they give them do by the use and propriety of that language belong. for without this double conformity of their ideas, they find they should both think amiss of things in themselves, and talk of them unintelligibly to others. . simple ideas may be false, in reference to others of the same name, but are least liable to be so. first, then, i say, that when the truth of our ideas is judged of by the conformity they have to the ideas which other men have, and commonly signify by the same name, they may be any of them false. but yet simple ideas are least of all liable to be so mistaken. because a man, by his senses and every day’s observation, may easily satisfy himself what the simple ideas are which their several names that are in common use stand for; they being but few in number, and such as, if he doubts or mistakes in, he may easily rectify by the objects they are to be found in. therefore it is seldom that any one mistakes in his names of simple ideas, or applies the name red to the idea green, or the name sweet to the idea bitter: much less are men apt to confound the names of ideas belonging to different senses, and call a colour by the name of a taste, &c. whereby it is evident that the simple ideas they call by any name are commonly the same that others have and mean when they use the same names. . ideas of mixed modes most liable to be false in this sense. complex ideas are much more liable to be false in this respect; and the complex ideas of mixed modes, much more than those of substances; because in substances (especially those which the common and unborrowed names of any language are applied to) some remarkable sensible qualities, serving ordinarily to distinguish one sort from another, easily preserve those who take any care in the use of their words, from applying them to sorts of substances to which they do not at all belong. but in mixed modes we are much more uncertain; it being not so easy to determine of several actions, whether they are to be called justice or cruelty, liberality or prodigality. and so in referring our ideas to those of other men, called by the same names, ours may be false; and the idea in our minds, which we express by the word justice, may perhaps be that which ought to have another name. . or at least to be thought false. but whether or no our ideas of mixed modes are more liable than any sort to be different from those of other men, which are marked by the same names, this at least is certain. that this sort of falsehood is much more familiarly attributed to our ideas of mixed modes than to any other. when a man is thought to have a false idea of justice, or gratitude, or glory, it is for no other reason, but that his agrees not with the ideas which each of those names are the signs of in other men. . and why. the reason whereof seems to me to be this: that the abstract ideas of mixed modes, being men’s voluntary combinations of such a precise collection of simple ideas, and so the essence of each species being made by men alone, whereof we have no other sensible standard existing anywhere but the name itself, or the definition of that name; we having nothing else to refer these our ideas of mixed modes to, as a standard to which we would conform them, but the ideas of those who are thought to use those names in their most proper significations; and, so as our ideas conform or differ from them, they pass for true or false. and thus much concerning the truth and falsehood of our ideas, in reference to their names. . as referred to real existence, none of our ideas can be false but those of substances. secondly, as to the truth and falsehood of our ideas, in reference to the real existence of things. when that is made the standard of their truth, none of them can be termed false but only our complex ideas of substances. . first, simple ideas in this sense not false and why. first, our simple ideas, being barely such perceptions as god has fitted us to receive, and given power to external objects to produce in us by established laws and ways, suitable to his wisdom and goodness, though incomprehensible to us, their truth consists in nothing else but in such appearances as are produced in us, and must be suitable to those powers he has placed in external objects or else they could not be produced in us: and thus answering those powers, they are what they should be, true ideas. nor do they become liable to any imputation of falsehood, if the mind (as in most men i believe it does) judges these ideas to be in the things themselves. for god in his wisdom having set them as marks of distinction in things, whereby we may be able to discern one thing from another, and so choose any of them for our uses as we have occasion; it alters not the nature of our simple idea, whether we think that the idea of blue be in the violet itself, or in our mind only; and only the power of producing it by the texture of its parts, reflecting the particles of light after a certain manner, to be in the violet itself. for that texture in the object, by a regular and constant operation producing the same idea of blue in us, it serves us to distinguish, by our eyes, that from any other thing; whether that distinguishing mark, as it is really in the violet, be only a peculiar texture of parts, or else that very colour, the idea whereof (which is in us) is the exact resemblance. and it is equally from that appearance to be denominated blue, whether it be that real colour, or only a peculiar texture in it, that causes in us that idea: since the name, blue, notes properly nothing but that mark of distinction that is in a violet, discernible only by our eyes, whatever it consists in; that being beyond our capacities distinctly to know, and perhaps would be of less use to us, if we had faculties to discern. . though one man’s idea of blue should be different from another’s. neither would it carry any imputation of falsehood to our simple ideas, if by the different structure of our organs it were so ordered, that the same object should produce in several men’s minds different ideas at the same time; v.g. if the idea that a violet produced in one man’s mind by his eyes were the same that a marigold produced in another man’s, and vice versa. for, since this could never be known, because one man’s mind could not pass into another man’s body, to perceive what appearances were produced by those organs; neither the ideas hereby, nor the names, would be at all confounded, or any falsehood be in either. for all things that had the texture of a violet, producing constantly the idea that he called blue, and those which had the texture of a marigold, producing constantly the idea which he as constantly called yellow, whatever those appearances were in his mind; he would be able as regularly to distinguish things for his use by those appearances, and understand and signify those distinctions marked by the name blue and yellow, as if the appearances or ideas in his mind received from those two flowers were exactly the same with the ideas in other men’s minds. i am nevertheless very apt to think that the sensible ideas produced by any object in different men’s minds, are most commonly very near and undiscernibly alike. for which opinion, i think, there might be many reasons offered: but that being besides my present business, i shall not trouble my reader with them; but only mind him, that the contrary supposition, if it could be proved, is of little use, either for the improvement of our knowledge, or conveniency of life, and so we need not trouble ourselves to examine it. . simple ideas can none of them be false in respect of real existence. from what has been said concerning our simple ideas, i think it evident that our simple ideas can none of them be false in respect of things existing without us. for the truth of these appearances or perceptions in our minds consisting, as has been said, only in their being answerable to the powers in external objects to produce by our senses such appearances in us, and each of them being in the mind such as it is, suitable to the power that produced it, and which alone it represents, it cannot upon that account, or as referred to such a pattern, be false. blue and yellow, bitter or sweet, can never be false ideas: these perceptions in the mind are just such as they are there, answering the powers appointed by god to produce them; and so are truly what they are, and are intended to be. indeed the names may be misapplied, but that in this respect makes no falsehood in the ideas; as if a man ignorant in the english tongue should call purple scarlet. . secondly, modes not false cannot be false in reference to essences of things. secondly, neither can our complex ideas of modes, in reference to the essence of anything really existing, be false; because whatever complex ideas i have of any mode, it hath no reference to any pattern existing, and made by nature; it is not supposed to contain in it any other ideas than what it hath; nor to represent anything but such a complication of ideas as it does. thus, when i have the idea of such an action of a man who forbears to afford himself such meat, drink, and clothing, and other conveniences of life, as his riches and estate will be sufficient to supply and his station requires, i have no false idea; but such an one as represents an action, either as i find or imagine it, and so is capable of neither truth nor falsehood. but when i give the name frugality or virtue to this action, then it may be called a false idea, if thereby it be supposed to agree with that idea to which, in propriety of speech, the name of frugality doth belong, or to be conformable to that law which is the standard of virtue and vice. . thirdly, ideas of substances may be false in reference to existing things. thirdly, our complex ideas of substances, being all referred to patterns in things themselves, may be false. that they are all false, when looked upon as the representations of the unknown essences of things, is so evident that there needs nothing to be said of it. i shall therefore pass over that chimerical supposition, and consider them as collections of simple ideas in the mind, taken from combinations of simple ideas existing together constantly in things, of which patterns they are the supposed copies; and in this reference of them to the existence of things, they are false ideas:--( ) when they put together simple ideas, which in the real existence of things have no union; as when to the shape and size that exist together in a horse, is joined in the same complex idea the power of barking like a dog: which three ideas, however put together into one in the mind, were never united in nature; and this, therefore, may be called a false idea of a horse. ( ) ideas of substances are, in this respect, also false, when, from any collection of simple ideas that do always exist together, there is separated, by a direct negation, any other simple idea which is constantly joined with them. thus, if to extension, solidity, fusibility, the peculiar weightiness, and yellow colour of gold, any one join in his thoughts the negation of a greater degree of fixedness than is in lead or copper, he may be said to have a false complex idea, as well as when he joins to those other simple ones the idea of perfect absolute fixedness. for either way, the complex idea of gold being made up of such simple ones as have no union in nature, may be termed false. but, if he leaves out of this his complex idea that of fixedness quite, without either actually joining to or separating it from the rest in his mind, it is, i think, to be looked on as an inadequate and imperfect idea, rather than a false one; since, though it contains not all the simple ideas that are united in nature, yet it puts none together but what do really exist together. . truth or falsehood always supposes affirmation or negation. though, in compliance with the ordinary way of speaking, i have shown in what sense and upon what ground our ideas may be sometimes called true or false; yet if we will look a little nearer into the matter, in all cases where any idea is called true or false, it is from some judgment that the mind makes, or is supposed to make, that is true or false. for truth or falsehood, being never without some affirmation or negation, express or tacit, it is not to be found but where signs are joined or separated, according to the agreement or disagreement of the things they stand for. the signs we chiefly use are either ideas or words; wherewith we make either mental or verbal propositions. truth lies in so joining or separating these representatives, as the things they stand for do in themselves agree or disagree; and falsehood in the contrary, as shall be more fully shown hereafter. . ideas in themselves neither true nor false. any idea, then, which we have in our minds, whether conformable or not to the existence of things, or to any idea in the minds of other men, cannot properly for this alone be called false. for these representations, if they have nothing in them but what is really existing in things without, cannot be thought false, being exact representations of something: nor yet if they have anything in them differing from the reality of things, can they properly be said to be false representations, or ideas of things they do not represent. but the mistake and falsehood is: . but are false-- . when judged agreeable to another man’s idea, without being so. first, when the mind having any idea, it judges and concludes it the same that is in other men’s minds, signified by the same name; or that it is conformable to the ordinary received signification or definition of that word, when indeed it is not: which is the most usual mistake in mixed modes, though other ideas also are liable to it. . secondly, when judged to agree to real existence, when they do not. ( ) when it having a complex idea made up of such a collection of simple ones as nature never puts together, it judges it to agree to a species of creatures really existing; as when it joins the weight of tin to the colour, fusibility, and fixedness of gold. . thirdly, when judged adequate, without being so. ( ) when in its complex idea it has united a certain number of simple ideas that do really exist together in some sort of creatures, but has also left out others as much inseparable, it judges this to be a perfect complete idea of a sort of things which really it is not; v.g. having joined the ideas of substance, yellow, malleable, most heavy, and fusible, it takes that complex idea to be the complete idea of gold, when yet its peculiar fixedness, and solubility in aqua regia, are as inseparable from those other ideas, or qualities, of that body as they are one from another. . fourthly, when judged to represent the real essence. ( ) the mistake is yet greater, when i judge that this complex idea contains in it the real essence of any body existing; when at least it contains but some few of those properties which flow from its real essence and constitution. i say only some few of those properties; for those properties consisting mostly in the active and passive powers it has in reference to other things, all that are vulgarly known of any one body, of which the complex idea of that kind of things is usually made, are but a very few, in comparison of what a man that has several ways tried and examined it knows of that one sort of things; and all that the most expert man knows are but a few, in comparison of what are really in that body, and depend on its internal or essential constitution. the essence of a triangle lies in a very little compass, consists in a very few ideas: three lines including a space make up that essence: but the properties that flow from this essence are more than can be easily known or enumerated. so i imagine it is in substances; their real essences lie in a little compass, though the properties flowing from that internal constitution are endless. . ideas, when called false. to conclude, a man having no notion of anything without him, but by the idea he has of it in his mind, (which idea he has a power to call by what name he pleases,) he may indeed make an idea neither answering the reason of things, nor agreeing to the idea commonly signified by other people’s words; but cannot make a wrong or false idea of a thing which is no otherwise known to him but by the idea he has of it: v.g. when i frame an idea of the legs, arms, and body of a man, and join to this a horse’s head and neck, i do not make a false idea of anything; because it represents nothing without me. but when i call it a man or tartar, and imagine it to represent some real being without me, or to be the same idea that others call by the same name; in either of these cases i may err. and upon this account it is that it comes to be termed a false idea; though indeed the falsehood lies not in the idea, but in that tacit mental proposition, wherein a conformity and resemblance is attributed to it which it has not. but yet, if, having framed such an idea in my mind, without thinking either that existence, or the name man or tartar, belongs to it, i will call it man or tartar, i may be justly thought fantastical in the naming; but not erroneous in my judgment; nor the idea any way false. . more properly to be called right or wrong. upon the whole matter, i think that our ideas, as they are considered by the mind,--either in reference to the proper signification of their names; or in reference to the reality of things,--may very fitly be called right or wrong ideas, according as they agree or disagree to those patterns to which they are referred. but if any one had rather call them true or false, it is fit he use a liberty, which every one has, to call things by those names he thinks best; though, in propriety of speech, truth or falsehood will, i think, scarce agree to them, but as they, some way or other, virtually contain in them some mental proposition. the ideas that are in a man’s mind, simply considered, cannot be wrong; unless complex ones, wherein inconsistent parts are jumbled together. all other ideas are in themselves right, and the knowledge about them right and true knowledge; but when we come to refer them to anything, as to their patterns and archetypes then they are capable of being wrong, as far as they disagree with such archetypes. chapter xxxiii.--of the association of ideas. . something unreasonable in most men. there is scarce any one that does not observe something that seems odd to him, and is in itself really extravagant, in the opinions, reasonings, and actions of other men. the least flaw of this kind, if at all different from his own, every one is quick-sighted enough to espy in another, and will by the authority of reason forwardly condemn; though he be guilty of much greater unreasonableness in his own tenets and conduct, which he never perceives, and will very hardly, if at all, be convinced of. . not wholly from self-love. this proceeds not wholly from self-love, though that has often a great hand in it. men of fair minds, and not given up to the overweening of self-flattery, are frequently guilty of it; and in many cases one with amazement hears the arguings, and is astonished at the obstinacy of a worthy man, who yields not to the evidence of reason, though laid before him as clear as daylight. . not from education. this sort of unreasonableness is usually imputed to education and prejudice, and for the most part truly enough, though that reaches not the bottom of the disease, nor shows distinctly enough whence it rises, or wherein it lies. education is often rightly assigned for the cause, and prejudice is a good general name for the thing itself: but yet, i think, he ought to look a little further, who would trace this sort of madness to the root it springs from, and so explain it, as to show whence this flaw has its original in very sober and rational minds, and wherein it consists. . a degree of madness found in most men. i shall be pardoned for calling it by so harsh a name as madness, when it is considered that opposition to reason deserves that name, and is really madness; and there is scarce a man so free from it, but that if he should always, on all occasions, argue or do as in some cases he constantly does, would not be thought fitter for bedlam than civil conversation. i do not here mean when he is under the power of an unruly passion, but in the steady calm course of his life. that which will yet more apologize for this harsh name, and ungrateful imputation on the greatest part of mankind, is, that, inquiring a little by the bye into the nature of madness, (b. ii. ch. xi., section ,) i found it to spring from the very same root, and to depend on the very same cause we are here speaking of. this consideration of the thing itself, at a time when i thought not i the least on the subject which i am now treating of, suggested it to me. and if this be a weakness to which all men are so liable, if this be a taint which so universally infects mankind, the greater care should be taken to lay it open under its due name, thereby to excite the greater care in its prevention and cure. . from a wrong connexion of ideas. some of our ideas have a natural correspondence and connexion one with another: it is the office and excellency of our reason to trace these, and hold them together in that union and correspondence which is founded in their peculiar beings. besides this, there is another connexion of ideas wholly owing to chance or custom. ideas that in themselves are not all of kin, come to be so united in some men’s minds, that it is very hard to separate them; they always keep in company, and the one no sooner at any time comes into the understanding, but its associate appears with it; and if they are more than two which are thus united, the whole gang, always inseparable, show themselves together. . this connexion made by custom. this strong combination of ideas, not allied by nature, the mind makes in itself either voluntarily or by chance; and hence it comes in different men to be very different, according to their different inclinations, education, interests, &c. custom settles habits of thinking in the understanding, as well as of determining in the will, and of motions in the body: all which seems to be but trains of motions in the animal spirits, which, once set a going, continue in the same steps they have been used to; which, by often treading, are worn into a smooth path, and the motion in it becomes easy, and as it were natural. as far as we can comprehend thinking, thus ideas seem to be produced in our minds; or, if they are not, this may serve to explain their following one another in an habitual train, when once they are put into their track, as well as it does to explain such motions of the body. a musician used to any tune will find that, let it but once begin in his head, the ideas of the several notes of it will follow one another orderly in his understanding, without any care or attention, as regularly as his fingers move orderly over the keys of the organ to play out the tune he has begun, though his unattentive thoughts be elsewhere a wandering. whether the natural cause of these ideas, as well as of that regular dancing of his fingers be the motion of his animal spirits, i will not determine, how probable soever, by this instance, it appears to be so: but this may help us a little to conceive of intellectual habits, and of the tying together of ideas. . some antipathies an effect of it. that there are such associations of them made by custom, in the minds of most men, i think nobody will question, who has well considered himself or others; and to this, perhaps, might be justly attributed most of the sympathies and antipathies observable in men, which work as strongly, and produce as regular effects as if they were natural; and are therefore called so, though they at first had no other original but the accidental connexion of two ideas, which either the strength of the first impression, or future indulgence so united, that they always afterwards kept company together in that man’s mind, as if they were but one idea. i say most of the antipathies, i do not say all; for some of them are truly natural, depend upon our original constitution, and are born with us; but a great part of those which are counted natural, would have been known to be from unheeded, though perhaps early, impressions, or wanton fancies at first, which would have been acknowledged the original of them, if they had been warily observed. a grown person surfeiting with honey no sooner hears the name of it, but his fancy immediately carries sickness and qualms to his stomach, and he cannot bear the very idea of it; other ideas of dislike, and sickness, and vomiting, presently accompany it, and he is disturbed; but he knows from whence to date this weakness, and can tell how he got this indisposition. had this happened to him by an over-dose of honey when a child, all the same effects would have followed; but the cause would have been mistaken, and the antipathy counted natural. . influence of association to be watched educating young children. i mention this, not out of any great necessity there is in this present argument to distinguish nicely between natural and acquired antipathies; but i take notice of it for another purpose, viz. that those who have children, or the charge of their education, would think it worth their while diligently to watch, and carefully to prevent the undue connexion of ideas in the minds of young people. this is the time most susceptible of lasting impressions; and though those relating to the health of the body are by discreet people minded and fenced against, yet i am apt to doubt, that those which relate more peculiarly to the mind, and terminate in the understanding or passions, have been much less heeded than the thing deserves: nay, those relating purely to the understanding, have, as i suspect, been by most men wholly overlooked. . wrong connexion of ideas a great cause of errors. this wrong connexion in our minds of ideas in themselves loose and independent of one another, has such an influence, and is of so great force to set us awry in our actions, as well moral as natural, passions, reasonings, and notions themselves, that perhaps there is not any one thing that deserves more to be looked after. . as instance. the ideas of goblins and sprites have really no more to do with darkness than light: yet let but a foolish maid inculcate these often on the mind of a child, and raise them there together, possibly he shall never be able to separate them again so long as he lives, but darkness shall ever afterwards bring with it those frightful ideas, and they shall be so joined, that he can no more bear the one than the other. . another instance. a man receives a sensible injury from another, thinks on the man and that action over and over, and by ruminating on them strongly, or much, in his mind, so cements those two ideas together, that he makes them almost one; never thinks on the man, but the pain and displeasure he suffered comes into his mind with it, so that he scarce distinguishes them, but has as much an aversion for the one as the other. thus hatreds are often begotten from slight and innocent occasions, and quarrels propagated and continued in the world. . a third instance. a man has suffered pain or sickness in any place; he saw his friend die in such a room: though these have in nature nothing to do one with another, yet when the idea of the place occurs to his mind, it brings (the impression being once made) that of the pain and displeasure with it: he confounds them in his mind, and can as little bear the one as the other. . why time cures some disorders in the mind, which reason cannot cure. when this combination is settled, and while it lasts, it is not in the power of reason to help us, and relieve us from the effects of it. ideas in our minds, when they are there, will operate according to their natures and circumstances. and here we see the cause why time cures certain affections, which reason, though in the right, and allowed to be so, has not power over, nor is able against them to prevail with those who are apt to hearken to it in other cases. the death of a child that was the daily delight of its mother’s eyes, and joy of her soul, rends from her heart the whole comfort of her life, and gives her all the torment imaginable: use the consolations of reason in this case, and you were as good preach ease to one on the rack, and hope to allay, by rational discourses, the pain of his joints tearing asunder. till time has by disuse separated the sense of that enjoyment and its loss, from the idea of the child returning to her memory, all representations, though ever so reasonable, are in vain; and therefore some in whom the union between these ideas is never dissolved, spend their lives in mourning, and carry an incurable sorrow to their graves. . another instance of the effect of the association of ideas. a friend of mine knew one perfectly cured of madness by a very harsh and offensive operation. the gentleman who was thus recovered, with great sense of gratitude and acknowledgment owned the cure all his life after, as the greatest obligation he could have received; but, whatever gratitude and reason suggested to him, he could never bear the sight of the operator: that image brought back with it the idea of that agony which he suffered from his hands, which was too mighty and intolerable for him to endure. . more instances. many children, imputing the pain they endured at school to their books they were corrected for, so join those ideas together, that a book becomes their aversion, and they are never reconciled to the study and use of them all their lives after; and thus reading becomes a torment to them, which otherwise possibly they might have made the great pleasure of their lives. there are rooms convenient enough, that some men cannot study in, and fashions of vessels, which, though ever so clean and commodious, they cannot drink out of, and that by reason of some accidental ideas which are annexed to them, and make them offensive; and who is there that hath not observed some man to flag at the appearance, or in the company of some certain person not otherwise superior to him, but because, having once on some occasion got the ascendant, the idea of authority and distance goes along with that of the person, and he that has been thus subjected, is not able to separate them. . a curious instance. instances of this kind are so plentiful everywhere, that if i add one more, it is only for the pleasant oddness of it. it is of a young gentleman, who, having learnt to dance, and that to great perfection, there happened to stand an old trunk in the room where he learnt. the idea of this remarkable piece of household stuff had so mixed itself with the turns and steps of all his dances, that though in that chamber he could dance excellently well, yet it was only whilst that trunk was there; nor could he perform well in any other place, unless that or some such other trunk had its due position in the room. if this story shall be suspected to be dressed up with some comical circumstances, a little beyond precise nature, i answer for myself that i had it some years since from a very sober and worthy man, upon his own knowledge, as i report it; and i dare say there are very few inquisitive persons who read this, who have not met with accounts, if not examples, of this nature, that may parallel, or at least justify this. . influence of association on intellectual habits. intellectual habits and defects this way contracted, are not less frequent and powerful, though less observed. let the ideas of being and matter be strongly joined, either by education or much thought; whilst these are still combined in the mind, what notions, what reasonings, will there be about separate spirits? let custom from the very childhood have joined figure and shape to the idea of god, and what absurdities will that mind be liable to about the deity? let the idea of infallibility be inseparably joined to any person, and these two constantly together possess the mind; and then one body in two places at once, shall unexamined be swallowed for a certain truth, by an implicit faith, whenever that imagined infallible person dictates and demands assent without inquiry. . observable in the opposition between different sects of philosophy and of religion. some such wrong and unnatural combinations of ideas will be found to establish the irreconcilable opposition between different sects of philosophy and religion; for we cannot imagine every one of their followers to impose wilfully on himself, and knowingly refuse truth offered by plain reason. interest, though it does a great deal in the case, yet cannot be thought to work whole societies of men to so universal a perverseness, as that every one of them to a man should knowingly maintain falsehood: some at least must be allowed to do what all pretend to, i.e. to pursue truth sincerely; and therefore there must be something that blinds their understandings, and makes them not see the falsehood of what they embrace for real truth. that which thus captivates their reasons, and leads men of sincerity blindfold from common sense, will, when examined, be found to be what we are speaking of: some independent ideas, of no alliance to one another, are, by education, custom, and the constant din of their party, so coupled in their minds, that they always appear there together; and they can no more separate them in their thoughts than if they were but one idea, and they operate as if they were so. this gives sense to jargon, demonstration to absurdities, and consistency to nonsense, and is the foundation of the greatest, i had almost said of all the errors in the world; or, if it does not reach so far, it is at least the most dangerous one, since, so far as it obtains, it hinders men from seeing and examining. when two things, in themselves disjoined, appear to the sight constantly united; if the eye sees these things riveted which are loose, where will you begin to rectify the mistakes that follow in two ideas that they have been accustomed so to join in their minds as to substitute one for the other, and, as i am apt to think, often without perceiving it themselves? this, whilst they are under the deceit of it, makes them incapable of conviction, and they applaud themselves as zealous champions for truth, when indeed they are contending for error; and the confusion of two different ideas, which a customary connexion of them in their minds hath to them made in effect but one, fills their heads with false views, and their reasonings with false consequences. . conclusion. having thus given an account of the original, sorts, and extent of our ideas, with several other considerations about these (i know not whether i may say) instruments, or materials of our knowledge, the method i at first proposed to myself would now require that i should immediately proceed to show, what use the understanding makes of them, and what knowledge we have by them. this was that which, in the first general view i had of this subject, was all that i thought i should have to do: but, upon a nearer approach, i find that there is so close a connexion between ideas and words, and our abstract ideas and general words have so constant a relation one to another, that it is impossible to speak clearly and distinctly of our knowledge, which all consists in propositions, without considering, first, the nature, use, and signification of language; which, therefore, must be the business of the next book. end of volume i the problems of philosophy by bertrand russell preface in the following pages i have confined myself in the main to those problems of philosophy in regard to which i thought it possible to say something positive and constructive, since merely negative criticism seemed out of place. for this reason, theory of knowledge occupies a larger space than metaphysics in the present volume, and some topics much discussed by philosophers are treated very briefly, if at all. i have derived valuable assistance from unpublished writings of g. e. moore and j. m. keynes: from the former, as regards the relations of sense-data to physical objects, and from the latter as regards probability and induction. i have also profited greatly by the criticisms and suggestions of professor gilbert murray. chapter i. appearance and reality is there any knowledge in the world which is so certain that no reasonable man could doubt it? this question, which at first sight might not seem difficult, is really one of the most difficult that can be asked. when we have realized the obstacles in the way of a straightforward and confident answer, we shall be well launched on the study of philosophy--for philosophy is merely the attempt to answer such ultimate questions, not carelessly and dogmatically, as we do in ordinary life and even in the sciences, but critically, after exploring all that makes such questions puzzling, and after realizing all the vagueness and confusion that underlie our ordinary ideas. in daily life, we assume as certain many things which, on a closer scrutiny, are found to be so full of apparent contradictions that only a great amount of thought enables us to know what it is that we really may believe. in the search for certainty, it is natural to begin with our present experiences, and in some sense, no doubt, knowledge is to be derived from them. but any statement as to what it is that our immediate experiences make us know is very likely to be wrong. it seems to me that i am now sitting in a chair, at a table of a certain shape, on which i see sheets of paper with writing or print. by turning my head i see out of the window buildings and clouds and the sun. i believe that the sun is about ninety-three million miles from the earth; that it is a hot globe many times bigger than the earth; that, owing to the earth's rotation, it rises every morning, and will continue to do so for an indefinite time in the future. i believe that, if any other normal person comes into my room, he will see the same chairs and tables and books and papers as i see, and that the table which i see is the same as the table which i feel pressing against my arm. all this seems to be so evident as to be hardly worth stating, except in answer to a man who doubts whether i know anything. yet all this may be reasonably doubted, and all of it requires much careful discussion before we can be sure that we have stated it in a form that is wholly true. to make our difficulties plain, let us concentrate attention on the table. to the eye it is oblong, brown and shiny, to the touch it is smooth and cool and hard; when i tap it, it gives out a wooden sound. any one else who sees and feels and hears the table will agree with this description, so that it might seem as if no difficulty would arise; but as soon as we try to be more precise our troubles begin. although i believe that the table is 'really' of the same colour all over, the parts that reflect the light look much brighter than the other parts, and some parts look white because of reflected light. i know that, if i move, the parts that reflect the light will be different, so that the apparent distribution of colours on the table will change. it follows that if several people are looking at the table at the same moment, no two of them will see exactly the same distribution of colours, because no two can see it from exactly the same point of view, and any change in the point of view makes some change in the way the light is reflected. for most practical purposes these differences are unimportant, but to the painter they are all-important: the painter has to unlearn the habit of thinking that things seem to have the colour which common sense says they 'really' have, and to learn the habit of seeing things as they appear. here we have already the beginning of one of the distinctions that cause most trouble in philosophy--the distinction between 'appearance' and 'reality', between what things seem to be and what they are. the painter wants to know what things seem to be, the practical man and the philosopher want to know what they are; but the philosopher's wish to know this is stronger than the practical man's, and is more troubled by knowledge as to the difficulties of answering the question. to return to the table. it is evident from what we have found, that there is no colour which pre-eminently appears to be _the_ colour of the table, or even of any one particular part of the table--it appears to be of different colours from different points of view, and there is no reason for regarding some of these as more really its colour than others. and we know that even from a given point of view the colour will seem different by artificial light, or to a colour-blind man, or to a man wearing blue spectacles, while in the dark there will be no colour at all, though to touch and hearing the table will be unchanged. this colour is not something which is inherent in the table, but something depending upon the table and the spectator and the way the light falls on the table. when, in ordinary life, we speak of _the_ colour of the table, we only mean the sort of colour which it will seem to have to a normal spectator from an ordinary point of view under usual conditions of light. but the other colours which appear under other conditions have just as good a right to be considered real; and therefore, to avoid favouritism, we are compelled to deny that, in itself, the table has any one particular colour. the same thing applies to the texture. with the naked eye one can see the grain, but otherwise the table looks smooth and even. if we looked at it through a microscope, we should see roughnesses and hills and valleys, and all sorts of differences that are imperceptible to the naked eye. which of these is the 'real' table? we are naturally tempted to say that what we see through the microscope is more real, but that in turn would be changed by a still more powerful microscope. if, then, we cannot trust what we see with the naked eye, why should we trust what we see through a microscope? thus, again, the confidence in our senses with which we began deserts us. the shape of the table is no better. we are all in the habit of judging as to the 'real' shapes of things, and we do this so unreflectingly that we come to think we actually see the real shapes. but, in fact, as we all have to learn if we try to draw, a given thing looks different in shape from every different point of view. if our table is 'really' rectangular, it will look, from almost all points of view, as if it had two acute angles and two obtuse angles. if opposite sides are parallel, they will look as if they converged to a point away from the spectator; if they are of equal length, they will look as if the nearer side were longer. all these things are not commonly noticed in looking at a table, because experience has taught us to construct the 'real' shape from the apparent shape, and the 'real' shape is what interests us as practical men. but the 'real' shape is not what we see; it is something inferred from what we see. and what we see is constantly changing in shape as we move about the room; so that here again the senses seem not to give us the truth about the table itself, but only about the appearance of the table. similar difficulties arise when we consider the sense of touch. it is true that the table always gives us a sensation of hardness, and we feel that it resists pressure. but the sensation we obtain depends upon how hard we press the table and also upon what part of the body we press with; thus the various sensations due to various pressures or various parts of the body cannot be supposed to reveal _directly_ any definite property of the table, but at most to be _signs_ of some property which perhaps _causes_ all the sensations, but is not actually apparent in any of them. and the same applies still more obviously to the sounds which can be elicited by rapping the table. thus it becomes evident that the real table, if there is one, is not the same as what we immediately experience by sight or touch or hearing. the real table, if there is one, is not _immediately_ known to us at all, but must be an inference from what is immediately known. hence, two very difficult questions at once arise; namely, ( ) is there a real table at all? ( ) if so, what sort of object can it be? it will help us in considering these questions to have a few simple terms of which the meaning is definite and clear. let us give the name of 'sense-data' to the things that are immediately known in sensation: such things as colours, sounds, smells, hardnesses, roughnesses, and so on. we shall give the name 'sensation' to the experience of being immediately aware of these things. thus, whenever we see a colour, we have a sensation _of_ the colour, but the colour itself is a sense-datum, not a sensation. the colour is that _of_ which we are immediately aware, and the awareness itself is the sensation. it is plain that if we are to know anything about the table, it must be by means of the sense-data--brown colour, oblong shape, smoothness, etc.--which we associate with the table; but, for the reasons which have been given, we cannot say that the table is the sense-data, or even that the sense-data are directly properties of the table. thus a problem arises as to the relation of the sense-data to the real table, supposing there is such a thing. the real table, if it exists, we will call a 'physical object'. thus we have to consider the relation of sense-data to physical objects. the collection of all physical objects is called 'matter'. thus our two questions may be re-stated as follows: ( ) is there any such thing as matter? ( ) if so, what is its nature? the philosopher who first brought prominently forward the reasons for regarding the immediate objects of our senses as not existing independently of us was bishop berkeley ( - ). his _three dialogues between hylas and philonous, in opposition to sceptics and atheists_, undertake to prove that there is no such thing as matter at all, and that the world consists of nothing but minds and their ideas. hylas has hitherto believed in matter, but he is no match for philonous, who mercilessly drives him into contradictions and paradoxes, and makes his own denial of matter seem, in the end, as if it were almost common sense. the arguments employed are of very different value: some are important and sound, others are confused or quibbling. but berkeley retains the merit of having shown that the existence of matter is capable of being denied without absurdity, and that if there are any things that exist independently of us they cannot be the immediate objects of our sensations. there are two different questions involved when we ask whether matter exists, and it is important to keep them clear. we commonly mean by 'matter' something which is opposed to 'mind', something which we think of as occupying space and as radically incapable of any sort of thought or consciousness. it is chiefly in this sense that berkeley denies matter; that is to say, he does not deny that the sense-data which we commonly take as signs of the existence of the table are really signs of the existence of _something_ independent of us, but he does deny that this something is non-mental, that it is neither mind nor ideas entertained by some mind. he admits that there must be something which continues to exist when we go out of the room or shut our eyes, and that what we call seeing the table does really give us reason for believing in something which persists even when we are not seeing it. but he thinks that this something cannot be radically different in nature from what we see, and cannot be independent of seeing altogether, though it must be independent of _our_ seeing. he is thus led to regard the 'real' table as an idea in the mind of god. such an idea has the required permanence and independence of ourselves, without being--as matter would otherwise be--something quite unknowable, in the sense that we can only infer it, and can never be directly and immediately aware of it. other philosophers since berkeley have also held that, although the table does not depend for its existence upon being seen by me, it does depend upon being seen (or otherwise apprehended in sensation) by _some_ mind--not necessarily the mind of god, but more often the whole collective mind of the universe. this they hold, as berkeley does, chiefly because they think there can be nothing real--or at any rate nothing known to be real except minds and their thoughts and feelings. we might state the argument by which they support their view in some such way as this: 'whatever can be thought of is an idea in the mind of the person thinking of it; therefore nothing can be thought of except ideas in minds; therefore anything else is inconceivable, and what is inconceivable cannot exist.' such an argument, in my opinion, is fallacious; and of course those who advance it do not put it so shortly or so crudely. but whether valid or not, the argument has been very widely advanced in one form or another; and very many philosophers, perhaps a majority, have held that there is nothing real except minds and their ideas. such philosophers are called 'idealists'. when they come to explaining matter, they either say, like berkeley, that matter is really nothing but a collection of ideas, or they say, like leibniz ( - ), that what appears as matter is really a collection of more or less rudimentary minds. but these philosophers, though they deny matter as opposed to mind, nevertheless, in another sense, admit matter. it will be remembered that we asked two questions; namely, ( ) is there a real table at all? ( ) if so, what sort of object can it be? now both berkeley and leibniz admit that there is a real table, but berkeley says it is certain ideas in the mind of god, and leibniz says it is a colony of souls. thus both of them answer our first question in the affirmative, and only diverge from the views of ordinary mortals in their answer to our second question. in fact, almost all philosophers seem to be agreed that there is a real table: they almost all agree that, however much our sense-data--colour, shape, smoothness, etc.--may depend upon us, yet their occurrence is a sign of something existing independently of us, something differing, perhaps, completely from our sense-data, and yet to be regarded as causing those sense-data whenever we are in a suitable relation to the real table. now obviously this point in which the philosophers are agreed--the view that there _is_ a real table, whatever its nature may be--is vitally important, and it will be worth while to consider what reasons there are for accepting this view before we go on to the further question as to the nature of the real table. our next chapter, therefore, will be concerned with the reasons for supposing that there is a real table at all. before we go farther it will be well to consider for a moment what it is that we have discovered so far. it has appeared that, if we take any common object of the sort that is supposed to be known by the senses, what the senses _immediately_ tell us is not the truth about the object as it is apart from us, but only the truth about certain sense-data which, so far as we can see, depend upon the relations between us and the object. thus what we directly see and feel is merely 'appearance', which we believe to be a sign of some 'reality' behind. but if the reality is not what appears, have we any means of knowing whether there is any reality at all? and if so, have we any means of finding out what it is like? such questions are bewildering, and it is difficult to know that even the strangest hypotheses may not be true. thus our familiar table, which has roused but the slightest thoughts in us hitherto, has become a problem full of surprising possibilities. the one thing we know about it is that it is not what it seems. beyond this modest result, so far, we have the most complete liberty of conjecture. leibniz tells us it is a community of souls: berkeley tells us it is an idea in the mind of god; sober science, scarcely less wonderful, tells us it is a vast collection of electric charges in violent motion. among these surprising possibilities, doubt suggests that perhaps there is no table at all. philosophy, if it cannot _answer_ so many questions as we could wish, has at least the power of _asking_ questions which increase the interest of the world, and show the strangeness and wonder lying just below the surface even in the commonest things of daily life. chapter ii. the existence of matter in this chapter we have to ask ourselves whether, in any sense at all, there is such a thing as matter. is there a table which has a certain intrinsic nature, and continues to exist when i am not looking, or is the table merely a product of my imagination, a dream-table in a very prolonged dream? this question is of the greatest importance. for if we cannot be sure of the independent existence of objects, we cannot be sure of the independent existence of other people's bodies, and therefore still less of other people's minds, since we have no grounds for believing in their minds except such as are derived from observing their bodies. thus if we cannot be sure of the independent existence of objects, we shall be left alone in a desert--it may be that the whole outer world is nothing but a dream, and that we alone exist. this is an uncomfortable possibility; but although it cannot be strictly proved to be false, there is not the slightest reason to suppose that it is true. in this chapter we have to see why this is the case. before we embark upon doubtful matters, let us try to find some more or less fixed point from which to start. although we are doubting the physical existence of the table, we are not doubting the existence of the sense-data which made us think there was a table; we are not doubting that, while we look, a certain colour and shape appear to us, and while we press, a certain sensation of hardness is experienced by us. all this, which is psychological, we are not calling in question. in fact, whatever else may be doubtful, some at least of our immediate experiences seem absolutely certain. descartes ( - ), the founder of modern philosophy, invented a method which may still be used with profit--the method of systematic doubt. he determined that he would believe nothing which he did not see quite clearly and distinctly to be true. whatever he could bring himself to doubt, he would doubt, until he saw reason for not doubting it. by applying this method he gradually became convinced that the only existence of which he could be _quite_ certain was his own. he imagined a deceitful demon, who presented unreal things to his senses in a perpetual phantasmagoria; it might be very improbable that such a demon existed, but still it was possible, and therefore doubt concerning things perceived by the senses was possible. but doubt concerning his own existence was not possible, for if he did not exist, no demon could deceive him. if he doubted, he must exist; if he had any experiences whatever, he must exist. thus his own existence was an absolute certainty to him. 'i think, therefore i am,' he said (_cogito, ergo sum_); and on the basis of this certainty he set to work to build up again the world of knowledge which his doubt had laid in ruins. by inventing the method of doubt, and by showing that subjective things are the most certain, descartes performed a great service to philosophy, and one which makes him still useful to all students of the subject. but some care is needed in using descartes' argument. 'i think, therefore i am' says rather more than is strictly certain. it might seem as though we were quite sure of being the same person to-day as we were yesterday, and this is no doubt true in some sense. but the real self is as hard to arrive at as the real table, and does not seem to have that absolute, convincing certainty that belongs to particular experiences. when i look at my table and see a certain brown colour, what is quite certain at once is not '_i_ am seeing a brown colour', but rather, 'a brown colour is being seen'. this of course involves something (or somebody) which (or who) sees the brown colour; but it does not of itself involve that more or less permanent person whom we call 'i'. so far as immediate certainty goes, it might be that the something which sees the brown colour is quite momentary, and not the same as the something which has some different experience the next moment. thus it is our particular thoughts and feelings that have primitive certainty. and this applies to dreams and hallucinations as well as to normal perceptions: when we dream or see a ghost, we certainly do have the sensations we think we have, but for various reasons it is held that no physical object corresponds to these sensations. thus the certainty of our knowledge of our own experiences does not have to be limited in any way to allow for exceptional cases. here, therefore, we have, for what it is worth, a solid basis from which to begin our pursuit of knowledge. the problem we have to consider is this: granted that we are certain of our own sense-data, have we any reason for regarding them as signs of the existence of something else, which we can call the physical object? when we have enumerated all the sense-data which we should naturally regard as connected with the table, have we said all there is to say about the table, or is there still something else--something not a sense-datum, something which persists when we go out of the room? common sense unhesitatingly answers that there is. what can be bought and sold and pushed about and have a cloth laid on it, and so on, cannot be a _mere_ collection of sense-data. if the cloth completely hides the table, we shall derive no sense-data from the table, and therefore, if the table were merely sense-data, it would have ceased to exist, and the cloth would be suspended in empty air, resting, by a miracle, in the place where the table formerly was. this seems plainly absurd; but whoever wishes to become a philosopher must learn not to be frightened by absurdities. one great reason why it is felt that we must secure a physical object in addition to the sense-data, is that we want the same object for different people. when ten people are sitting round a dinner-table, it seems preposterous to maintain that they are not seeing the same tablecloth, the same knives and forks and spoons and glasses. but the sense-data are private to each separate person; what is immediately present to the sight of one is not immediately present to the sight of another: they all see things from slightly different points of view, and therefore see them slightly differently. thus, if there are to be public neutral objects, which can be in some sense known to many different people, there must be something over and above the private and particular sense-data which appear to various people. what reason, then, have we for believing that there are such public neutral objects? the first answer that naturally occurs to one is that, although different people may see the table slightly differently, still they all see more or less similar things when they look at the table, and the variations in what they see follow the laws of perspective and reflection of light, so that it is easy to arrive at a permanent object underlying all the different people's sense-data. i bought my table from the former occupant of my room; i could not buy _his_ sense-data, which died when he went away, but i could and did buy the confident expectation of more or less similar sense-data. thus it is the fact that different people have similar sense-data, and that one person in a given place at different times has similar sense-data, which makes us suppose that over and above the sense-data there is a permanent public object which underlies or causes the sense-data of various people at various times. now in so far as the above considerations depend upon supposing that there are other people besides ourselves, they beg the very question at issue. other people are represented to me by certain sense-data, such as the sight of them or the sound of their voices, and if i had no reason to believe that there were physical objects independent of my sense-data, i should have no reason to believe that other people exist except as part of my dream. thus, when we are trying to show that there must be objects independent of our own sense-data, we cannot appeal to the testimony of other people, since this testimony itself consists of sense-data, and does not reveal other people's experiences unless our own sense-data are signs of things existing independently of us. we must therefore, if possible, find, in our own purely private experiences, characteristics which show, or tend to show, that there are in the world things other than ourselves and our private experiences. in one sense it must be admitted that we can never prove the existence of things other than ourselves and our experiences. no logical absurdity results from the hypothesis that the world consists of myself and my thoughts and feelings and sensations, and that everything else is mere fancy. in dreams a very complicated world may seem to be present, and yet on waking we find it was a delusion; that is to say, we find that the sense-data in the dream do not appear to have corresponded with such physical objects as we should naturally infer from our sense-data. (it is true that, when the physical world is assumed, it is possible to find physical causes for the sense-data in dreams: a door banging, for instance, may cause us to dream of a naval engagement. but although, in this case, there is a physical cause for the sense-data, there is not a physical object corresponding to the sense-data in the way in which an actual naval battle would correspond.) there is no logical impossibility in the supposition that the whole of life is a dream, in which we ourselves create all the objects that come before us. but although this is not logically impossible, there is no reason whatever to suppose that it is true; and it is, in fact, a less simple hypothesis, viewed as a means of accounting for the facts of our own life, than the common-sense hypothesis that there really are objects independent of us, whose action on us causes our sensations. the way in which simplicity comes in from supposing that there really are physical objects is easily seen. if the cat appears at one moment in one part of the room, and at another in another part, it is natural to suppose that it has moved from the one to the other, passing over a series of intermediate positions. but if it is merely a set of sense-data, it cannot have ever been in any place where i did not see it; thus we shall have to suppose that it did not exist at all while i was not looking, but suddenly sprang into being in a new place. if the cat exists whether i see it or not, we can understand from our own experience how it gets hungry between one meal and the next; but if it does not exist when i am not seeing it, it seems odd that appetite should grow during non-existence as fast as during existence. and if the cat consists only of sense-data, it cannot be hungry, since no hunger but my own can be a sense-datum to me. thus the behaviour of the sense-data which represent the cat to me, though it seems quite natural when regarded as an expression of hunger, becomes utterly inexplicable when regarded as mere movements and changes of patches of colour, which are as incapable of hunger as a triangle is of playing football. but the difficulty in the case of the cat is nothing compared to the difficulty in the case of human beings. when human beings speak--that is, when we hear certain noises which we associate with ideas, and simultaneously see certain motions of lips and expressions of face--it is very difficult to suppose that what we hear is not the expression of a thought, as we know it would be if we emitted the same sounds. of course similar things happen in dreams, where we are mistaken as to the existence of other people. but dreams are more or less suggested by what we call waking life, and are capable of being more or less accounted for on scientific principles if we assume that there really is a physical world. thus every principle of simplicity urges us to adopt the natural view, that there really are objects other than ourselves and our sense-data which have an existence not dependent upon our perceiving them. of course it is not by argument that we originally come by our belief in an independent external world. we find this belief ready in ourselves as soon as we begin to reflect: it is what may be called an _instinctive_ belief. we should never have been led to question this belief but for the fact that, at any rate in the case of sight, it seems as if the sense-datum itself were instinctively believed to be the independent object, whereas argument shows that the object cannot be identical with the sense-datum. this discovery, however--which is not at all paradoxical in the case of taste and smell and sound, and only slightly so in the case of touch--leaves undiminished our instinctive belief that there _are_ objects _corresponding_ to our sense-data. since this belief does not lead to any difficulties, but on the contrary tends to simplify and systematize our account of our experiences, there seems no good reason for rejecting it. we may therefore admit--though with a slight doubt derived from dreams--that the external world does really exist, and is not wholly dependent for its existence upon our continuing to perceive it. the argument which has led us to this conclusion is doubtless less strong than we could wish, but it is typical of many philosophical arguments, and it is therefore worth while to consider briefly its general character and validity. all knowledge, we find, must be built up upon our instinctive beliefs, and if these are rejected, nothing is left. but among our instinctive beliefs some are much stronger than others, while many have, by habit and association, become entangled with other beliefs, not really instinctive, but falsely supposed to be part of what is believed instinctively. philosophy should show us the hierarchy of our instinctive beliefs, beginning with those we hold most strongly, and presenting each as much isolated and as free from irrelevant additions as possible. it should take care to show that, in the form in which they are finally set forth, our instinctive beliefs do not clash, but form a harmonious system. there can never be any reason for rejecting one instinctive belief except that it clashes with others; thus, if they are found to harmonize, the whole system becomes worthy of acceptance. it is of course _possible_ that all or any of our beliefs may be mistaken, and therefore all ought to be held with at least some slight element of doubt. but we cannot have _reason_ to reject a belief except on the ground of some other belief. hence, by organizing our instinctive beliefs and their consequences, by considering which among them is most possible, if necessary, to modify or abandon, we can arrive, on the basis of accepting as our sole data what we instinctively believe, at an orderly systematic organization of our knowledge, in which, though the _possibility_ of error remains, its likelihood is diminished by the interrelation of the parts and by the critical scrutiny which has preceded acquiescence. this function, at least, philosophy can perform. most philosophers, rightly or wrongly, believe that philosophy can do much more than this--that it can give us knowledge, not otherwise attainable, concerning the universe as a whole, and concerning the nature of ultimate reality. whether this be the case or not, the more modest function we have spoken of can certainly be performed by philosophy, and certainly suffices, for those who have once begun to doubt the adequacy of common sense, to justify the arduous and difficult labours that philosophical problems involve. chapter iii. the nature of matter in the preceding chapter we agreed, though without being able to find demonstrative reasons, that it is rational to believe that our sense-data--for example, those which we regard as associated with my table--are really signs of the existence of something independent of us and our perceptions. that is to say, over and above the sensations of colour, hardness, noise, and so on, which make up the appearance of the table to me, i assume that there is something else, of which these things are appearances. the colour ceases to exist if i shut my eyes, the sensation of hardness ceases to exist if i remove my arm from contact with the table, the sound ceases to exist if i cease to rap the table with my knuckles. but i do not believe that when all these things cease the table ceases. on the contrary, i believe that it is because the table exists continuously that all these sense-data will reappear when i open my eyes, replace my arm, and begin again to rap with my knuckles. the question we have to consider in this chapter is: what is the nature of this real table, which persists independently of my perception of it? to this question physical science gives an answer, somewhat incomplete it is true, and in part still very hypothetical, but yet deserving of respect so far as it goes. physical science, more or less unconsciously, has drifted into the view that all natural phenomena ought to be reduced to motions. light and heat and sound are all due to wave-motions, which travel from the body emitting them to the person who sees light or feels heat or hears sound. that which has the wave-motion is either aether or 'gross matter', but in either case is what the philosopher would call matter. the only properties which science assigns to it are position in space, and the power of motion according to the laws of motion. science does not deny that it _may_ have other properties; but if so, such other properties are not useful to the man of science, and in no way assist him in explaining the phenomena. it is sometimes said that 'light _is_ a form of wave-motion', but this is misleading, for the light which we immediately see, which we know directly by means of our senses, is _not_ a form of wave-motion, but something quite different--something which we all know if we are not blind, though we cannot describe it so as to convey our knowledge to a man who is blind. a wave-motion, on the contrary, could quite well be described to a blind man, since he can acquire a knowledge of space by the sense of touch; and he can experience a wave-motion by a sea voyage almost as well as we can. but this, which a blind man can understand, is not what we mean by _light_: we mean by _light_ just that which a blind man can never understand, and which we can never describe to him. now this something, which all of us who are not blind know, is not, according to science, really to be found in the outer world: it is something caused by the action of certain waves upon the eyes and nerves and brain of the person who sees the light. when it is said that light _is_ waves, what is really meant is that waves are the physical cause of our sensations of light. but light itself, the thing which seeing people experience and blind people do not, is not supposed by science to form any part of the world that is independent of us and our senses. and very similar remarks would apply to other kinds of sensations. it is not only colours and sounds and so on that are absent from the scientific world of matter, but also _space_ as we get it through sight or touch. it is essential to science that its matter should be in _a_ space, but the space in which it is cannot be exactly the space we see or feel. to begin with, space as we see it is not the same as space as we get it by the sense of touch; it is only by experience in infancy that we learn how to touch things we see, or how to get a sight of things which we feel touching us. but the space of science is neutral as between touch and sight; thus it cannot be either the space of touch or the space of sight. again, different people see the same object as of different shapes, according to their point of view. a circular coin, for example, though we should always _judge_ it to be circular, will _look_ oval unless we are straight in front of it. when we judge that it _is_ circular, we are judging that it has a real shape which is not its apparent shape, but belongs to it intrinsically apart from its appearance. but this real shape, which is what concerns science, must be in a real space, not the same as anybody's _apparent_ space. the real space is public, the apparent space is private to the percipient. in different people's _private_ spaces the same object seems to have different shapes; thus the real space, in which it has its real shape, must be different from the private spaces. the space of science, therefore, though _connected_ with the spaces we see and feel, is not identical with them, and the manner of its connexion requires investigation. we agreed provisionally that physical objects cannot be quite like our sense-data, but may be regarded as _causing_ our sensations. these physical objects are in the space of science, which we may call 'physical' space. it is important to notice that, if our sensations are to be caused by physical objects, there must be a physical space containing these objects and our sense-organs and nerves and brain. we get a sensation of touch from an object when we are in contact with it; that is to say, when some part of our body occupies a place in physical space quite close to the space occupied by the object. we see an object (roughly speaking) when no opaque body is between the object and our eyes in physical space. similarly, we only hear or smell or taste an object when we are sufficiently near to it, or when it touches the tongue, or has some suitable position in physical space relatively to our body. we cannot begin to state what different sensations we shall derive from a given object under different circumstances unless we regard the object and our body as both in one physical space, for it is mainly the relative positions of the object and our body that determine what sensations we shall derive from the object. now our sense-data are situated in our private spaces, either the space of sight or the space of touch or such vaguer spaces as other senses may give us. if, as science and common sense assume, there is one public all-embracing physical space in which physical objects are, the relative positions of physical objects in physical space must more or less correspond to the relative positions of sense-data in our private spaces. there is no difficulty in supposing this to be the case. if we see on a road one house nearer to us than another, our other senses will bear out the view that it is nearer; for example, it will be reached sooner if we walk along the road. other people will agree that the house which looks nearer to us is nearer; the ordnance map will take the same view; and thus everything points to a spatial relation between the houses corresponding to the relation between the sense-data which we see when we look at the houses. thus we may assume that there is a physical space in which physical objects have spatial relations corresponding to those which the corresponding sense-data have in our private spaces. it is this physical space which is dealt with in geometry and assumed in physics and astronomy. assuming that there is physical space, and that it does thus correspond to private spaces, what can we know about it? we can know _only_ what is required in order to secure the correspondence. that is to say, we can know nothing of what it is like in itself, but we can know the sort of arrangement of physical objects which results from their spatial relations. we can know, for example, that the earth and moon and sun are in one straight line during an eclipse, though we cannot know what a physical straight line is in itself, as we know the look of a straight line in our visual space. thus we come to know much more about the _relations_ of distances in physical space than about the distances themselves; we may know that one distance is greater than another, or that it is along the same straight line as the other, but we cannot have that immediate acquaintance with physical distances that we have with distances in our private spaces, or with colours or sounds or other sense-data. we can know all those things about physical space which a man born blind might know through other people about the space of sight; but the kind of things which a man born blind could never know about the space of sight we also cannot know about physical space. we can know the properties of the relations required to preserve the correspondence with sense-data, but we cannot know the nature of the terms between which the relations hold. with regard to time, our _feeling_ of duration or of the lapse of time is notoriously an unsafe guide as to the time that has elapsed by the clock. times when we are bored or suffering pain pass slowly, times when we are agreeably occupied pass quickly, and times when we are sleeping pass almost as if they did not exist. thus, in so far as time is constituted by duration, there is the same necessity for distinguishing a public and a private time as there was in the case of space. but in so far as time consists in an _order_ of before and after, there is no need to make such a distinction; the time-order which events seem to have is, so far as we can see, the same as the time-order which they do have. at any rate no reason can be given for supposing that the two orders are not the same. the same is usually true of space: if a regiment of men are marching along a road, the shape of the regiment will look different from different points of view, but the men will appear arranged in the same order from all points of view. hence we regard the order as true also in physical space, whereas the shape is only supposed to correspond to the physical space so far as is required for the preservation of the order. in saying that the time-order which events seem to have is the same as the time-order which they really have, it is necessary to guard against a possible misunderstanding. it must not be supposed that the various states of different physical objects have the same time-order as the sense-data which constitute the perceptions of those objects. considered as physical objects, the thunder and lightning are simultaneous; that is to say, the lightning is simultaneous with the disturbance of the air in the place where the disturbance begins, namely, where the lightning is. but the sense-datum which we call hearing the thunder does not take place until the disturbance of the air has travelled as far as to where we are. similarly, it takes about eight minutes for the sun's light to reach us; thus, when we see the sun we are seeing the sun of eight minutes ago. so far as our sense-data afford evidence as to the physical sun they afford evidence as to the physical sun of eight minutes ago; if the physical sun had ceased to exist within the last eight minutes, that would make no difference to the sense-data which we call 'seeing the sun'. this affords a fresh illustration of the necessity of distinguishing between sense-data and physical objects. what we have found as regards space is much the same as what we find in relation to the correspondence of the sense-data with their physical counterparts. if one object looks blue and another red, we may reasonably presume that there is some corresponding difference between the physical objects; if two objects both look blue, we may presume a corresponding similarity. but we cannot hope to be acquainted directly with the quality in the physical object which makes it look blue or red. science tells us that this quality is a certain sort of wave-motion, and this sounds familiar, because we think of wave-motions in the space we see. but the wave-motions must really be in physical space, with which we have no direct acquaintance; thus the real wave-motions have not that familiarity which we might have supposed them to have. and what holds for colours is closely similar to what holds for other sense-data. thus we find that, although the _relations_ of physical objects have all sorts of knowable properties, derived from their correspondence with the relations of sense-data, the physical objects themselves remain unknown in their intrinsic nature, so far at least as can be discovered by means of the senses. the question remains whether there is any other method of discovering the intrinsic nature of physical objects. the most natural, though not ultimately the most defensible, hypothesis to adopt in the first instance, at any rate as regards visual sense-data, would be that, though physical objects cannot, for the reasons we have been considering, be _exactly_ like sense-data, yet they may be more or less like. according to this view, physical objects will, for example, really have colours, and we might, by good luck, see an object as of the colour it really is. the colour which an object seems to have at any given moment will in general be very similar, though not quite the same, from many different points of view; we might thus suppose the 'real' colour to be a sort of medium colour, intermediate between the various shades which appear from the different points of view. such a theory is perhaps not capable of being definitely refuted, but it can be shown to be groundless. to begin with, it is plain that the colour we see depends only upon the nature of the light-waves that strike the eye, and is therefore modified by the medium intervening between us and the object, as well as by the manner in which light is reflected from the object in the direction of the eye. the intervening air alters colours unless it is perfectly clear, and any strong reflection will alter them completely. thus the colour we see is a result of the ray as it reaches the eye, and not simply a property of the object from which the ray comes. hence, also, provided certain waves reach the eye, we shall see a certain colour, whether the object from which the waves start has any colour or not. thus it is quite gratuitous to suppose that physical objects have colours, and therefore there is no justification for making such a supposition. exactly similar arguments will apply to other sense-data. it remains to ask whether there are any general philosophical arguments enabling us to say that, if matter is real, it must be of such and such a nature. as explained above, very many philosophers, perhaps most, have held that whatever is real must be in some sense mental, or at any rate that whatever we can know anything about must be in some sense mental. such philosophers are called 'idealists'. idealists tell us that what appears as matter is really something mental; namely, either (as leibniz held) more or less rudimentary minds, or (as berkeley contended) ideas in the minds which, as we should commonly say, 'perceive' the matter. thus idealists deny the existence of matter as something intrinsically different from mind, though they do not deny that our sense-data are signs of something which exists independently of our private sensations. in the following chapter we shall consider briefly the reasons--in my opinion fallacious--which idealists advance in favour of their theory. chapter iv. idealism the word 'idealism' is used by different philosophers in somewhat different senses. we shall understand by it the doctrine that whatever exists, or at any rate whatever can be known to exist, must be in some sense mental. this doctrine, which is very widely held among philosophers, has several forms, and is advocated on several different grounds. the doctrine is so widely held, and so interesting in itself, that even the briefest survey of philosophy must give some account of it. those who are unaccustomed to philosophical speculation may be inclined to dismiss such a doctrine as obviously absurd. there is no doubt that common sense regards tables and chairs and the sun and moon and material objects generally as something radically different from minds and the contents of minds, and as having an existence which might continue if minds ceased. we think of matter as having existed long before there were any minds, and it is hard to think of it as a mere product of mental activity. but whether true or false, idealism is not to be dismissed as obviously absurd. we have seen that, even if physical objects do have an independent existence, they must differ very widely from sense-data, and can only have a _correspondence_ with sense-data, in the same sort of way in which a catalogue has a correspondence with the things catalogued. hence common sense leaves us completely in the dark as to the true intrinsic nature of physical objects, and if there were good reason to regard them as mental, we could not legitimately reject this opinion merely because it strikes us as strange. the truth about physical objects _must_ be strange. it may be unattainable, but if any philosopher believes that he has attained it, the fact that what he offers as the truth is strange ought not to be made a ground of objection to his opinion. the grounds on which idealism is advocated are generally grounds derived from the theory of knowledge, that is to say, from a discussion of the conditions which things must satisfy in order that we may be able to know them. the first serious attempt to establish idealism on such grounds was that of bishop berkeley. he proved first, by arguments which were largely valid, that our sense-data cannot be supposed to have an existence independent of us, but must be, in part at least, 'in' the mind, in the sense that their existence would not continue if there were no seeing or hearing or touching or smelling or tasting. so far, his contention was almost certainly valid, even if some of his arguments were not so. but he went on to argue that sense-data were the only things of whose existence our perceptions could assure us; and that to be known is to be 'in' a mind, and therefore to be mental. hence he concluded that nothing can ever be known except what is in some mind, and that whatever is known without being in my mind must be in some other mind. in order to understand his argument, it is necessary to understand his use of the word 'idea'. he gives the name 'idea' to anything which is _immediately_ known, as, for example, sense-data are known. thus a particular colour which we see is an idea; so is a voice which we hear, and so on. but the term is not wholly confined to sense-data. there will also be things remembered or imagined, for with such things also we have immediate acquaintance at the moment of remembering or imagining. all such immediate data he calls 'ideas'. he then proceeds to consider common objects, such as a tree, for instance. he shows that all we know immediately when we 'perceive' the tree consists of ideas in his sense of the word, and he argues that there is not the slightest ground for supposing that there is anything real about the tree except what is perceived. its being, he says, consists in being perceived: in the latin of the schoolmen its '_esse_' is '_percipi_'. he fully admits that the tree must continue to exist even when we shut our eyes or when no human being is near it. but this continued existence, he says, is due to the fact that god continues to perceive it; the 'real' tree, which corresponds to what we called the physical object, consists of ideas in the mind of god, ideas more or less like those we have when we see the tree, but differing in the fact that they are permanent in god's mind so long as the tree continues to exist. all our perceptions, according to him, consist in a partial participation in god's perceptions, and it is because of this participation that different people see more or less the same tree. thus apart from minds and their ideas there is nothing in the world, nor is it possible that anything else should ever be known, since whatever is known is necessarily an idea. there are in this argument a good many fallacies which have been important in the history of philosophy, and which it will be as well to bring to light. in the first place, there is a confusion engendered by the use of the word 'idea'. we think of an idea as essentially something in somebody's mind, and thus when we are told that a tree consists entirely of ideas, it is natural to suppose that, if so, the tree must be entirely in minds. but the notion of being 'in' the mind is ambiguous. we speak of bearing a person in mind, not meaning that the person is in our minds, but that a thought of him is in our minds. when a man says that some business he had to arrange went clean out of his mind, he does not mean to imply that the business itself was ever in his mind, but only that a thought of the business was formerly in his mind, but afterwards ceased to be in his mind. and so when berkeley says that the tree must be in our minds if we can know it, all that he really has a right to say is that a thought of the tree must be in our minds. to argue that the tree itself must be in our minds is like arguing that a person whom we bear in mind is himself in our minds. this confusion may seem too gross to have been really committed by any competent philosopher, but various attendant circumstances rendered it possible. in order to see how it was possible, we must go more deeply into the question as to the nature of ideas. before taking up the general question of the nature of ideas, we must disentangle two entirely separate questions which arise concerning sense-data and physical objects. we saw that, for various reasons of detail, berkeley was right in treating the sense-data which constitute our perception of the tree as more or less subjective, in the sense that they depend upon us as much as upon the tree, and would not exist if the tree were not being perceived. but this is an entirely different point from the one by which berkeley seeks to prove that whatever can be immediately known must be in a mind. for this purpose arguments of detail as to the dependence of sense-data upon us are useless. it is necessary to prove, generally, that by being known, things are shown to be mental. this is what berkeley believes himself to have done. it is this question, and not our previous question as to the difference between sense-data and the physical object, that must now concern us. taking the word 'idea' in berkeley's sense, there are two quite distinct things to be considered whenever an idea is before the mind. there is on the one hand the thing of which we are aware--say the colour of my table--and on the other hand the actual awareness itself, the mental act of apprehending the thing. the mental act is undoubtedly mental, but is there any reason to suppose that the thing apprehended is in any sense mental? our previous arguments concerning the colour did not prove it to be mental; they only proved that its existence depends upon the relation of our sense organs to the physical object--in our case, the table. that is to say, they proved that a certain colour will exist, in a certain light, if a normal eye is placed at a certain point relatively to the table. they did not prove that the colour is in the mind of the percipient. berkeley's view, that obviously the colour must be in the mind, seems to depend for its plausibility upon confusing the thing apprehended with the act of apprehension. either of these might be called an 'idea'; probably either would have been called an idea by berkeley. the act is undoubtedly in the mind; hence, when we are thinking of the act, we readily assent to the view that ideas must be in the mind. then, forgetting that this was only true when ideas were taken as acts of apprehension, we transfer the proposition that 'ideas are in the mind' to ideas in the other sense, i.e. to the things apprehended by our acts of apprehension. thus, by an unconscious equivocation, we arrive at the conclusion that whatever we can apprehend must be in our minds. this seems to be the true analysis of berkeley's argument, and the ultimate fallacy upon which it rests. this question of the distinction between act and object in our apprehending of things is vitally important, since our whole power of acquiring knowledge is bound up with it. the faculty of being acquainted with things other than itself is the main characteristic of a mind. acquaintance with objects essentially consists in a relation between the mind and something other than the mind; it is this that constitutes the mind's power of knowing things. if we say that the things known must be in the mind, we are either unduly limiting the mind's power of knowing, or we are uttering a mere tautology. we are uttering a mere tautology if we mean by '_in_ the mind' the same as by '_before_ the mind', i.e. if we mean merely being apprehended by the mind. but if we mean this, we shall have to admit that what, _in this sense_, is in the mind, may nevertheless be not mental. thus when we realize the nature of knowledge, berkeley's argument is seen to be wrong in substance as well as in form, and his grounds for supposing that 'ideas'--i.e. the objects apprehended--must be mental, are found to have no validity whatever. hence his grounds in favour of idealism may be dismissed. it remains to see whether there are any other grounds. it is often said, as though it were a self-evident truism, that we cannot know that anything exists which we do not know. it is inferred that whatever can in any way be relevant to our experience must be at least capable of being known by us; whence it follows that if matter were essentially something with which we could not become acquainted, matter would be something which we could not know to exist, and which could have for us no importance whatever. it is generally also implied, for reasons which remain obscure, that what can have no importance for us cannot be real, and that therefore matter, if it is not composed of minds or of mental ideas, is impossible and a mere chimaera. to go into this argument fully at our present stage would be impossible, since it raises points requiring a considerable preliminary discussion; but certain reasons for rejecting the argument may be noticed at once. to begin at the end: there is no reason why what cannot have any _practical_ importance for us should not be real. it is true that, if _theoretical_ importance is included, everything real is of _some_ importance to us, since, as persons desirous of knowing the truth about the universe, we have some interest in everything that the universe contains. but if this sort of interest is included, it is not the case that matter has no importance for us, provided it exists even if we cannot know that it exists. we can, obviously, suspect that it may exist, and wonder whether it does; hence it is connected with our desire for knowledge, and has the importance of either satisfying or thwarting this desire. again, it is by no means a truism, and is in fact false, that we cannot know that anything exists which we do not know. the word 'know' is here used in two different senses. ( ) in its first use it is applicable to the sort of knowledge which is opposed to error, the sense in which what we know is _true_, the sense which applies to our beliefs and convictions, i.e. to what are called _judgements_. in this sense of the word we know _that_ something is the case. this sort of knowledge may be described as knowledge of _truths_. ( ) in the second use of the word 'know' above, the word applies to our knowledge of _things_, which we may call _acquaintance_. this is the sense in which we know sense-data. (the distinction involved is roughly that between _savoir_ and _connaître_ in french, or between _wissen_ and _kennen_ in german.) thus the statement which seemed like a truism becomes, when re-stated, the following: 'we can never truly judge that something with which we are not acquainted exists.' this is by no means a truism, but on the contrary a palpable falsehood. i have not the honour to be acquainted with the emperor of china, but i truly judge that he exists. it may be said, of course, that i judge this because of other people's acquaintance with him. this, however, would be an irrelevant retort, since, if the principle were true, i could not know that any one else is acquainted with him. but further: there is no reason why i should not know of the existence of something with which nobody is acquainted. this point is important, and demands elucidation. if i am acquainted with a thing which exists, my acquaintance gives me the knowledge that it exists. but it is not true that, conversely, whenever i can know that a thing of a certain sort exists, i or some one else must be acquainted with the thing. what happens, in cases where i have true judgement without acquaintance, is that the thing is known to me by _description_, and that, in virtue of some general principle, the existence of a thing answering to this description can be inferred from the existence of something with which i am acquainted. in order to understand this point fully, it will be well first to deal with the difference between knowledge by acquaintance and knowledge by description, and then to consider what knowledge of general principles, if any, has the same kind of certainty as our knowledge of the existence of our own experiences. these subjects will be dealt with in the following chapters. chapter v. knowledge by acquaintance and knowledge by description in the preceding chapter we saw that there are two sorts of knowledge: knowledge of things, and knowledge of truths. in this chapter we shall be concerned exclusively with knowledge of things, of which in turn we shall have to distinguish two kinds. knowledge of things, when it is of the kind we call knowledge by _acquaintance_, is essentially simpler than any knowledge of truths, and logically independent of knowledge of truths, though it would be rash to assume that human beings ever, in fact, have acquaintance with things without at the same time knowing some truth about them. knowledge of things by _description_, on the contrary, always involves, as we shall find in the course of the present chapter, some knowledge of truths as its source and ground. but first of all we must make clear what we mean by 'acquaintance' and what we mean by 'description'. we shall say that we have _acquaintance_ with anything of which we are directly aware, without the intermediary of any process of inference or any knowledge of truths. thus in the presence of my table i am acquainted with the sense-data that make up the appearance of my table--its colour, shape, hardness, smoothness, etc.; all these are things of which i am immediately conscious when i am seeing and touching my table. the particular shade of colour that i am seeing may have many things said about it--i may say that it is brown, that it is rather dark, and so on. but such statements, though they make me know truths about the colour, do not make me know the colour itself any better than i did before so far as concerns knowledge of the colour itself, as opposed to knowledge of truths about it, i know the colour perfectly and completely when i see it, and no further knowledge of it itself is even theoretically possible. thus the sense-data which make up the appearance of my table are things with which i have acquaintance, things immediately known to me just as they are. my knowledge of the table as a physical object, on the contrary, is not direct knowledge. such as it is, it is obtained through acquaintance with the sense-data that make up the appearance of the table. we have seen that it is possible, without absurdity, to doubt whether there is a table at all, whereas it is not possible to doubt the sense-data. my knowledge of the table is of the kind which we shall call 'knowledge by description'. the table is 'the physical object which causes such-and-such sense-data'. this describes the table by means of the sense-data. in order to know anything at all about the table, we must know truths connecting it with things with which we have acquaintance: we must know that 'such-and-such sense-data are caused by a physical object'. there is no state of mind in which we are directly aware of the table; all our knowledge of the table is really knowledge of truths, and the actual thing which is the table is not, strictly speaking, known to us at all. we know a description, and we know that there is just one object to which this description applies, though the object itself is not directly known to us. in such a case, we say that our knowledge of the object is knowledge by description. all our knowledge, both knowledge of things and knowledge of truths, rests upon acquaintance as its foundation. it is therefore important to consider what kinds of things there are with which we have acquaintance. sense-data, as we have already seen, are among the things with which we are acquainted; in fact, they supply the most obvious and striking example of knowledge by acquaintance. but if they were the sole example, our knowledge would be very much more restricted than it is. we should only know what is now present to our senses: we could not know anything about the past--not even that there was a past--nor could we know any truths about our sense-data, for all knowledge of truths, as we shall show, demands acquaintance with things which are of an essentially different character from sense-data, the things which are sometimes called 'abstract ideas', but which we shall call 'universals'. we have therefore to consider acquaintance with other things besides sense-data if we are to obtain any tolerably adequate analysis of our knowledge. the first extension beyond sense-data to be considered is acquaintance by _memory_. it is obvious that we often remember what we have seen or heard or had otherwise present to our senses, and that in such cases we are still immediately aware of what we remember, in spite of the fact that it appears as past and not as present. this immediate knowledge by memory is the source of all our knowledge concerning the past: without it, there could be no knowledge of the past by inference, since we should never know that there was anything past to be inferred. the next extension to be considered is acquaintance by _introspection_. we are not only aware of things, but we are often aware of being aware of them. when i see the sun, i am often aware of my seeing the sun; thus 'my seeing the sun' is an object with which i have acquaintance. when i desire food, i may be aware of my desire for food; thus 'my desiring food' is an object with which i am acquainted. similarly we may be aware of our feeling pleasure or pain, and generally of the events which happen in our minds. this kind of acquaintance, which may be called self-consciousness, is the source of all our knowledge of mental things. it is obvious that it is only what goes on in our own minds that can be thus known immediately. what goes on in the minds of others is known to us through our perception of their bodies, that is, through the sense-data in us which are associated with their bodies. but for our acquaintance with the contents of our own minds, we should be unable to imagine the minds of others, and therefore we could never arrive at the knowledge that they have minds. it seems natural to suppose that self-consciousness is one of the things that distinguish men from animals: animals, we may suppose, though they have acquaintance with sense-data, never become aware of this acquaintance. i do not mean that they _doubt_ whether they exist, but that they have never become conscious of the fact that they have sensations and feelings, nor therefore of the fact that they, the subjects of their sensations and feelings, exist. we have spoken of acquaintance with the contents of our minds as _self_-consciousness, but it is not, of course, consciousness of our _self_: it is consciousness of particular thoughts and feelings. the question whether we are also acquainted with our bare selves, as opposed to particular thoughts and feelings, is a very difficult one, upon which it would be rash to speak positively. when we try to look into ourselves we always seem to come upon some particular thought or feeling, and not upon the 'i' which has the thought or feeling. nevertheless there are some reasons for thinking that we are acquainted with the 'i', though the acquaintance is hard to disentangle from other things. to make clear what sort of reason there is, let us consider for a moment what our acquaintance with particular thoughts really involves. when i am acquainted with 'my seeing the sun', it seems plain that i am acquainted with two different things in relation to each other. on the one hand there is the sense-datum which represents the sun to me, on the other hand there is that which sees this sense-datum. all acquaintance, such as my acquaintance with the sense-datum which represents the sun, seems obviously a relation between the person acquainted and the object with which the person is acquainted. when a case of acquaintance is one with which i can be acquainted (as i am acquainted with my acquaintance with the sense-datum representing the sun), it is plain that the person acquainted is myself. thus, when i am acquainted with my seeing the sun, the whole fact with which i am acquainted is 'self-acquainted-with-sense-datum'. further, we know the truth 'i am acquainted with this sense-datum'. it is hard to see how we could know this truth, or even understand what is meant by it, unless we were acquainted with something which we call 'i'. it does not seem necessary to suppose that we are acquainted with a more or less permanent person, the same to-day as yesterday, but it does seem as though we must be acquainted with that thing, whatever its nature, which sees the sun and has acquaintance with sense-data. thus, in some sense it would seem we must be acquainted with our selves as opposed to our particular experiences. but the question is difficult, and complicated arguments can be adduced on either side. hence, although acquaintance with ourselves seems _probably_ to occur, it is not wise to assert that it undoubtedly does occur. we may therefore sum up as follows what has been said concerning acquaintance with things that exist. we have acquaintance in sensation with the data of the outer senses, and in introspection with the data of what may be called the inner sense--thoughts, feelings, desires, etc.; we have acquaintance in memory with things which have been data either of the outer senses or of the inner sense. further, it is probable, though not certain, that we have acquaintance with self, as that which is aware of things or has desires towards things. in addition to our acquaintance with particular existing things, we also have acquaintance with what we shall call _universals_, that is to say, general ideas, such as _whiteness_, _diversity_, _brotherhood_, and so on. every complete sentence must contain at least one word which stands for a universal, since all verbs have a meaning which is universal. we shall return to universals later on, in chapter ix; for the present, it is only necessary to guard against the supposition that whatever we can be acquainted with must be something particular and existent. awareness of universals is called _conceiving_, and a universal of which we are aware is called a _concept_. it will be seen that among the objects with which we are acquainted are not included physical objects (as opposed to sense-data), nor other people's minds. these things are known to us by what i call 'knowledge by description', which we must now consider. by a 'description' i mean any phrase of the form 'a so-and-so' or 'the so-and-so'. a phrase of the form 'a so-and-so' i shall call an 'ambiguous' description; a phrase of the form 'the so-and-so' (in the singular) i shall call a 'definite' description. thus 'a man' is an ambiguous description, and 'the man with the iron mask' is a definite description. there are various problems connected with ambiguous descriptions, but i pass them by, since they do not directly concern the matter we are discussing, which is the nature of our knowledge concerning objects in cases where we know that there is an object answering to a definite description, though we are not acquainted with any such object. this is a matter which is concerned exclusively with definite descriptions. i shall therefore, in the sequel, speak simply of 'descriptions' when i mean 'definite descriptions'. thus a description will mean any phrase of the form 'the so-and-so' in the singular. we shall say that an object is 'known by description' when we know that it is 'the so-and-so', i.e. when we know that there is one object, and no more, having a certain property; and it will generally be implied that we do not have knowledge of the same object by acquaintance. we know that the man with the iron mask existed, and many propositions are known about him; but we do not know who he was. we know that the candidate who gets the most votes will be elected, and in this case we are very likely also acquainted (in the only sense in which one can be acquainted with some one else) with the man who is, in fact, the candidate who will get most votes; but we do not know which of the candidates he is, i.e. we do not know any proposition of the form 'a is the candidate who will get most votes' where a is one of the candidates by name. we shall say that we have 'merely descriptive knowledge' of the so-and-so when, although we know that the so-and-so exists, and although we may possibly be acquainted with the object which is, in fact, the so-and-so, yet we do not know any proposition '_a_ is the so-and-so', where _a_ is something with which we are acquainted. when we say 'the so-and-so exists', we mean that there is just one object which is the so-and-so. the proposition '_a_ is the so-and-so' means that _a_ has the property so-and-so, and nothing else has. 'mr. a. is the unionist candidate for this constituency' means 'mr. a. is a unionist candidate for this constituency, and no one else is'. 'the unionist candidate for this constituency exists' means 'some one is a unionist candidate for this constituency, and no one else is'. thus, when we are acquainted with an object which is the so-and-so, we know that the so-and-so exists; but we may know that the so-and-so exists when we are not acquainted with any object which we know to be the so-and-so, and even when we are not acquainted with any object which, in fact, is the so-and-so. common words, even proper names, are usually really descriptions. that is to say, the thought in the mind of a person using a proper name correctly can generally only be expressed explicitly if we replace the proper name by a description. moreover, the description required to express the thought will vary for different people, or for the same person at different times. the only thing constant (so long as the name is rightly used) is the object to which the name applies. but so long as this remains constant, the particular description involved usually makes no difference to the truth or falsehood of the proposition in which the name appears. let us take some illustrations. suppose some statement made about bismarck. assuming that there is such a thing as direct acquaintance with oneself, bismarck himself might have used his name directly to designate the particular person with whom he was acquainted. in this case, if he made a judgement about himself, he himself might be a constituent of the judgement. here the proper name has the direct use which it always wishes to have, as simply standing for a certain object, and not for a description of the object. but if a person who knew bismarck made a judgement about him, the case is different. what this person was acquainted with were certain sense-data which he connected (rightly, we will suppose) with bismarck's body. his body, as a physical object, and still more his mind, were only known as the body and the mind connected with these sense-data. that is, they were known by description. it is, of course, very much a matter af chance which characteristics of a man's appearance will come into a friend's mind when he thinks of him; thus the description actually in the friend's mind is accidental. the essential point is that he knows that the various descriptions all apply to the same entity, in spite of not being acquainted with the entity in question. when we, who did not know bismarck, make a judgement about him, the description in our minds will probably be some more or less vague mass of historical knowledge--far more, in most cases, than is required to identify him. but, for the sake of illustration, let us assume that we think of him as 'the first chancellor of the german empire'. here all the words are abstract except 'german'. the word 'german' will, again, have different meanings for different people. to some it will recall travels in germany, to some the look of germany on the map, and so on. but if we are to obtain a description which we know to be applicable, we shall be compelled, at some point, to bring in a reference to a particular with which we are acquainted. such reference is involved in any mention of past, present, and future (as opposed to definite dates), or of here and there, or of what others have told us. thus it would seem that, in some way or other, a description known to be applicable to a particular must involve some reference to a particular with which we are acquainted, if our knowledge about the thing described is not to be merely what follows _logically_ from the description. for example, 'the most long-lived of men' is a description involving only universals, which must apply to some man, but we can make no judgements concerning this man which involve knowledge about him beyond what the description gives. if, however, we say, 'the first chancellor of the german empire was an astute diplomatist', we can only be assured of the truth of our judgement in virtue of something with which we are acquainted--usually a testimony heard or read. apart from the information we convey to others, apart from the fact about the actual bismarck, which gives importance to our judgement, the thought we really have contains the one or more particulars involved, and otherwise consists wholly of concepts. all names of places--london, england, europe, the earth, the solar system--similarly involve, when used, descriptions which start from some one or more particulars with which we are acquainted. i suspect that even the universe, as considered by metaphysics, involves such a connexion with particulars. in logic, on the contrary, where we are concerned not merely with what does exist, but with whatever might or could exist or be, no reference to actual particulars is involved. it would seem that, when we make a statement about something only known by description, we often _intend_ to make our statement, not in the form involving the description, but about the actual thing described. that is to say, when we say anything about bismarck, we should like, if we could, to make the judgement which bismarck alone can make, namely, the judgement of which he himself is a constituent. in this we are necessarily defeated, since the actual bismarck is unknown to us. but we know that there is an object b, called bismarck, and that b was an astute diplomatist. we can thus _describe_ the proposition we should like to affirm, namely, 'b was an astute diplomatist', where b is the object which was bismarck. if we are describing bismarck as 'the first chancellor of the german empire', the proposition we should like to affirm may be described as 'the proposition asserting, concerning the actual object which was the first chancellor of the german empire, that this object was an astute diplomatist'. what enables us to communicate in spite of the varying descriptions we employ is that we know there is a true proposition concerning the actual bismarck, and that however we may vary the description (so long as the description is correct) the proposition described is still the same. this proposition, which is described and is known to be true, is what interests us; but we are not acquainted with the proposition itself, and do not know it, though we know it is true. it will be seen that there are various stages in the removal from acquaintance with particulars: there is bismarck to people who knew him; bismarck to those who only know of him through history; the man with the iron mask; the longest-lived of men. these are progressively further removed from acquaintance with particulars; the first comes as near to acquaintance as is possible in regard to another person; in the second, we shall still be said to know 'who bismarck was'; in the third, we do not know who was the man with the iron mask, though we can know many propositions about him which are not logically deducible from the fact that he wore an iron mask; in the fourth, finally, we know nothing beyond what is logically deducible from the definition of the man. there is a similar hierarchy in the region of universals. many universals, like many particulars, are only known to us by description. but here, as in the case of particulars, knowledge concerning what is known by description is ultimately reducible to knowledge concerning what is known by acquaintance. the fundamental principle in the analysis of propositions containing descriptions is this: _every proposition which we can understand must be composed wholly of constituents with which we are acquainted_. we shall not at this stage attempt to answer all the objections which may be urged against this fundamental principle. for the present, we shall merely point out that, in some way or other, it must be possible to meet these objections, for it is scarcely conceivable that we can make a judgement or entertain a supposition without knowing what it is that we are judging or supposing about. we must attach _some_ meaning to the words we use, if we are to speak significantly and not utter mere noise; and the meaning we attach to our words must be something with which we are acquainted. thus when, for example, we make a statement about julius caesar, it is plain that julius caesar himself is not before our minds, since we are not acquainted with him. we have in mind some description of julius caesar: 'the man who was assassinated on the ides of march', 'the founder of the roman empire', or, perhaps, merely 'the man whose name was _julius caesar_'. (in this last description, _julius caesar_ is a noise or shape with which we are acquainted.) thus our statement does not mean quite what it seems to mean, but means something involving, instead of julius caesar, some description of him which is composed wholly of particulars and universals with which we are acquainted. the chief importance of knowledge by description is that it enables us to pass beyond the limits of our private experience. in spite of the fact that we can only know truths which are wholly composed of terms which we have experienced in acquaintance, we can yet have knowledge by description of things which we have never experienced. in view of the very narrow range of our immediate experience, this result is vital, and until it is understood, much of our knowledge must remain mysterious and therefore doubtful. chapter vi. on induction in almost all our previous discussions we have been concerned in the attempt to get clear as to our data in the way of knowledge of existence. what things are there in the universe whose existence is known to us owing to our being acquainted with them? so far, our answer has been that we are acquainted with our sense-data, and, probably, with ourselves. these we know to exist. and past sense-data which are remembered are known to have existed in the past. this knowledge supplies our data. but if we are to be able to draw inferences from these data--if we are to know of the existence of matter, of other people, of the past before our individual memory begins, or of the future, we must know general principles of some kind by means of which such inferences can be drawn. it must be known to us that the existence of some one sort of thing, a, is a sign of the existence of some other sort of thing, b, either at the same time as a or at some earlier or later time, as, for example, thunder is a sign of the earlier existence of lightning. if this were not known to us, we could never extend our knowledge beyond the sphere of our private experience; and this sphere, as we have seen, is exceedingly limited. the question we have now to consider is whether such an extension is possible, and if so, how it is effected. let us take as an illustration a matter about which none of us, in fact, feel the slightest doubt. we are all convinced that the sun will rise to-morrow. why? is this belief a mere blind outcome of past experience, or can it be justified as a reasonable belief? it is not easy to find a test by which to judge whether a belief of this kind is reasonable or not, but we can at least ascertain what sort of general beliefs would suffice, if true, to justify the judgement that the sun will rise to-morrow, and the many other similar judgements upon which our actions are based. it is obvious that if we are asked why we believe that the sun will rise to-morrow, we shall naturally answer 'because it always has risen every day'. we have a firm belief that it will rise in the future, because it has risen in the past. if we are challenged as to why we believe that it will continue to rise as heretofore, we may appeal to the laws of motion: the earth, we shall say, is a freely rotating body, and such bodies do not cease to rotate unless something interferes from outside, and there is nothing outside to interfere with the earth between now and to-morrow. of course it might be doubted whether we are quite certain that there is nothing outside to interfere, but this is not the interesting doubt. the interesting doubt is as to whether the laws of motion will remain in operation until to-morrow. if this doubt is raised, we find ourselves in the same position as when the doubt about the sunrise was first raised. the _only_ reason for believing that the laws of motion will remain in operation is that they have operated hitherto, so far as our knowledge of the past enables us to judge. it is true that we have a greater body of evidence from the past in favour of the laws of motion than we have in favour of the sunrise, because the sunrise is merely a particular case of fulfilment of the laws of motion, and there are countless other particular cases. but the real question is: do _any_ number of cases of a law being fulfilled in the past afford evidence that it will be fulfilled in the future? if not, it becomes plain that we have no ground whatever for expecting the sun to rise to-morrow, or for expecting the bread we shall eat at our next meal not to poison us, or for any of the other scarcely conscious expectations that control our daily lives. it is to be observed that all such expectations are only _probable_; thus we have not to seek for a proof that they _must_ be fulfilled, but only for some reason in favour of the view that they are _likely_ to be fulfilled. now in dealing with this question we must, to begin with, make an important distinction, without which we should soon become involved in hopeless confusions. experience has shown us that, hitherto, the frequent repetition of some uniform succession or coexistence has been a _cause_ of our expecting the same succession or coexistence on the next occasion. food that has a certain appearance generally has a certain taste, and it is a severe shock to our expectations when the familiar appearance is found to be associated with an unusual taste. things which we see become associated, by habit, with certain tactile sensations which we expect if we touch them; one of the horrors of a ghost (in many ghost-stories) is that it fails to give us any sensations of touch. uneducated people who go abroad for the first time are so surprised as to be incredulous when they find their native language not understood. and this kind of association is not confined to men; in animals also it is very strong. a horse which has been often driven along a certain road resists the attempt to drive him in a different direction. domestic animals expect food when they see the person who usually feeds them. we know that all these rather crude expectations of uniformity are liable to be misleading. the man who has fed the chicken every day throughout its life at last wrings its neck instead, showing that more refined views as to the uniformity of nature would have been useful to the chicken. but in spite of the misleadingness of such expectations, they nevertheless exist. the mere fact that something has happened a certain number of times causes animals and men to expect that it will happen again. thus our instincts certainly cause us to believe that the sun will rise to-morrow, but we may be in no better a position than the chicken which unexpectedly has its neck wrung. we have therefore to distinguish the fact that past uniformities _cause_ expectations as to the future, from the question whether there is any reasonable ground for giving weight to such expectations after the question of their validity has been raised. the problem we have to discuss is whether there is any reason for believing in what is called 'the uniformity of nature'. the belief in the uniformity of nature is the belief that everything that has happened or will happen is an instance of some general law to which there are no exceptions. the crude expectations which we have been considering are all subject to exceptions, and therefore liable to disappoint those who entertain them. but science habitually assumes, at least as a working hypothesis, that general rules which have exceptions can be replaced by general rules which have no exceptions. 'unsupported bodies in air fall' is a general rule to which balloons and aeroplanes are exceptions. but the laws of motion and the law of gravitation, which account for the fact that most bodies fall, also account for the fact that balloons and aeroplanes can rise; thus the laws of motion and the law of gravitation are not subject to these exceptions. the belief that the sun will rise to-morrow might be falsified if the earth came suddenly into contact with a large body which destroyed its rotation; but the laws of motion and the law of gravitation would not be infringed by such an event. the business of science is to find uniformities, such as the laws of motion and the law of gravitation, to which, so far as our experience extends, there are no exceptions. in this search science has been remarkably successful, and it may be conceded that such uniformities have held hitherto. this brings us back to the question: have we any reason, assuming that they have always held in the past, to suppose that they will hold in the future? it has been argued that we have reason to know that the future will resemble the past, because what was the future has constantly become the past, and has always been found to resemble the past, so that we really have experience of the future, namely of times which were formerly future, which we may call past futures. but such an argument really begs the very question at issue. we have experience of past futures, but not of future futures, and the question is: will future futures resemble past futures? this question is not to be answered by an argument which starts from past futures alone. we have therefore still to seek for some principle which shall enable us to know that the future will follow the same laws as the past. the reference to the future in this question is not essential. the same question arises when we apply the laws that work in our experience to past things of which we have no experience--as, for example, in geology, or in theories as to the origin of the solar system. the question we really have to ask is: 'when two things have been found to be often associated, and no instance is known of the one occurring without the other, does the occurrence of one of the two, in a fresh instance, give any good ground for expecting the other?' on our answer to this question must depend the validity of the whole of our expectations as to the future, the whole of the results obtained by induction, and in fact practically all the beliefs upon which our daily life is based. it must be conceded, to begin with, that the fact that two things have been found often together and never apart does not, by itself, suffice to _prove_ demonstratively that they will be found together in the next case we examine. the most we can hope is that the oftener things are found together, the more probable it becomes that they will be found together another time, and that, if they have been found together often enough, the probability will amount _almost_ to certainty. it can never quite reach certainty, because we know that in spite of frequent repetitions there sometimes is a failure at the last, as in the case of the chicken whose neck is wrung. thus probability is all we ought to seek. it might be urged, as against the view we are advocating, that we know all natural phenomena to be subject to the reign of law, and that sometimes, on the basis of observation, we can see that only one law can possibly fit the facts of the case. now to this view there are two answers. the first is that, even if _some_ law which has no exceptions applies to our case, we can never, in practice, be sure that we have discovered that law and not one to which there are exceptions. the second is that the reign of law would seem to be itself only probable, and that our belief that it will hold in the future, or in unexamined cases in the past, is itself based upon the very principle we are examining. the principle we are examining may be called the _principle of induction_, and its two parts may be stated as follows: (a) when a thing of a certain sort a has been found to be associated with a thing of a certain other sort b, and has never been found dissociated from a thing of the sort b, the greater the number of cases in which a and b have been associated, the greater is the probability that they will be associated in a fresh case in which one of them is known to be present; (b) under the same circumstances, a sufficient number of cases of association will make the probability of a fresh association nearly a certainty, and will make it approach certainty without limit. as just stated, the principle applies only to the verification of our expectation in a single fresh instance. but we want also to know that there is a probability in favour of the general law that things of the sort a are _always_ associated with things of the sort b, provided a sufficient number of cases of association are known, and no cases of failure of association are known. the probability of the general law is obviously less than the probability of the particular case, since if the general law is true, the particular case must also be true, whereas the particular case may be true without the general law being true. nevertheless the probability of the general law is increased by repetitions, just as the probability of the particular case is. we may therefore repeat the two parts of our principle as regards the general law, thus: (a) the greater the number of cases in which a thing of the sort a has been found associated with a thing of the sort b, the more probable it is (if no cases of failure of association are known) that a is always associated with b; b) under the same circumstances, a sufficient number of cases of the association of a with b will make it nearly certain that a is always associated with b, and will make this general law approach certainty without limit. it should be noted that probability is always relative to certain data. in our case, the data are merely the known cases of coexistence of a and b. there may be other data, which _might_ be taken into account, which would gravely alter the probability. for example, a man who had seen a great many white swans might argue, by our principle, that on the data it was _probable_ that all swans were white, and this might be a perfectly sound argument. the argument is not disproved by the fact that some swans are black, because a thing may very well happen in spite of the fact that some data render it improbable. in the case of the swans, a man might know that colour is a very variable characteristic in many species of animals, and that, therefore, an induction as to colour is peculiarly liable to error. but this knowledge would be a fresh datum, by no means proving that the probability relatively to our previous data had been wrongly estimated. the fact, therefore, that things often fail to fulfil our expectations is no evidence that our expectations will not _probably_ be fulfilled in a given case or a given class of cases. thus our inductive principle is at any rate not capable of being _disproved_ by an appeal to experience. the inductive principle, however, is equally incapable of being _proved_ by an appeal to experience. experience might conceivably confirm the inductive principle as regards the cases that have been already examined; but as regards unexamined cases, it is the inductive principle alone that can justify any inference from what has been examined to what has not been examined. all arguments which, on the basis of experience, argue as to the future or the unexperienced parts of the past or present, assume the inductive principle; hence we can never use experience to prove the inductive principle without begging the question. thus we must either accept the inductive principle on the ground of its intrinsic evidence, or forgo all justification of our expectations about the future. if the principle is unsound, we have no reason to expect the sun to rise to-morrow, to expect bread to be more nourishing than a stone, or to expect that if we throw ourselves off the roof we shall fall. when we see what looks like our best friend approaching us, we shall have no reason to suppose that his body is not inhabited by the mind of our worst enemy or of some total stranger. all our conduct is based upon associations which have worked in the past, and which we therefore regard as likely to work in the future; and this likelihood is dependent for its validity upon the inductive principle. the general principles of science, such as the belief in the reign of law, and the belief that every event must have a cause, are as completely dependent upon the inductive principle as are the beliefs of daily life all such general principles are believed because mankind have found innumerable instances of their truth and no instances of their falsehood. but this affords no evidence for their truth in the future, unless the inductive principle is assumed. thus all knowledge which, on a basis of experience tells us something about what is not experienced, is based upon a belief which experience can neither confirm nor confute, yet which, at least in its more concrete applications, appears to be as firmly rooted in us as many of the facts of experience. the existence and justification of such beliefs--for the inductive principle, as we shall see, is not the only example--raises some of the most difficult and most debated problems of philosophy. we will, in the next chapter, consider briefly what may be said to account for such knowledge, and what is its scope and its degree of certainty. chapter vii. on our knowledge of general principles we saw in the preceding chapter that the principle of induction, while necessary to the validity of all arguments based on experience, is itself not capable of being proved by experience, and yet is unhesitatingly believed by every one, at least in all its concrete applications. in these characteristics the principle of induction does not stand alone. there are a number of other principles which cannot be proved or disproved by experience, but are used in arguments which start from what is experienced. some of these principles have even greater evidence than the principle of induction, and the knowledge of them has the same degree of certainty as the knowledge of the existence of sense-data. they constitute the means of drawing inferences from what is given in sensation; and if what we infer is to be true, it is just as necessary that our principles of inference should be true as it is that our data should be true. the principles of inference are apt to be overlooked because of their very obviousness--the assumption involved is assented to without our realizing that it is an assumption. but it is very important to realize the use of principles of inference, if a correct theory of knowledge is to be obtained; for our knowledge of them raises interesting and difficult questions. in all our knowledge of general principles, what actually happens is that first of all we realize some particular application of the principle, and then we realize that the particularity is irrelevant, and that there is a generality which may equally truly be affirmed. this is of course familiar in such matters as teaching arithmetic: 'two and two are four' is first learnt in the case of some particular pair of couples, and then in some other particular case, and so on, until at last it becomes possible to see that it is true of any pair of couples. the same thing happens with logical principles. suppose two men are discussing what day of the month it is. one of them says, 'at least you will admit that _if_ yesterday was the th to-day must be the th.' 'yes', says the other, 'i admit that.' 'and you know', the first continues, 'that yesterday was the th, because you dined with jones, and your diary will tell you that was on the th.' 'yes', says the second; 'therefore to-day _is_ the th.' now such an argument is not hard to follow; and if it is granted that its premisses are true in fact, no one will deny that the conclusion must also be true. but it depends for its truth upon an instance of a general logical principle. the logical principle is as follows: 'suppose it known that _if_ this is true, then that is true. suppose it also known that this _is_ true, then it follows that that is true.' when it is the case that if this is true, that is true, we shall say that this 'implies' that, and that that 'follows from' this. thus our principle states that if this implies that, and this is true, then that is true. in other words, 'anything implied by a true proposition is true', or 'whatever follows from a true proposition is true'. this principle is really involved--at least, concrete instances of it are involved--in all demonstrations. whenever one thing which we believe is used to prove something else, which we consequently believe, this principle is relevant. if any one asks: 'why should i accept the results of valid arguments based on true premisses?' we can only answer by appealing to our principle. in fact, the truth of the principle is impossible to doubt, and its obviousness is so great that at first sight it seems almost trivial. such principles, however, are not trivial to the philosopher, for they show that we may have indubitable knowledge which is in no way derived from objects of sense. the above principle is merely one of a certain number of self-evident logical principles. some at least of these principles must be granted before any argument or proof becomes possible. when some of them have been granted, others can be proved, though these others, so long as they are simple, are just as obvious as the principles taken for granted. for no very good reason, three of these principles have been singled out by tradition under the name of 'laws of thought'. they are as follows: ( ) _the law of identity_: 'whatever is, is.' ( ) _the law of contradiction_: 'nothing can both be and not be.' ( ) _the law of excluded middle_: 'everything must either be or not be.' these three laws are samples of self-evident logical principles, but are not really more fundamental or more self-evident than various other similar principles: for instance, the one we considered just now, which states that what follows from a true premiss is true. the name 'laws of thought' is also misleading, for what is important is not the fact that we think in accordance with these laws, but the fact that things behave in accordance with them; in other words, the fact that when we think in accordance with them we think _truly_. but this is a large question, to which we must return at a later stage. in addition to the logical principles which enable us to prove from a given premiss that something is _certainly_ true, there are other logical principles which enable us to prove, from a given premiss, that there is a greater or less probability that something is true. an example of such principles--perhaps the most important example is the inductive principle, which we considered in the preceding chapter. one of the great historic controversies in philosophy is the controversy between the two schools called respectively 'empiricists' and 'rationalists'. the empiricists--who are best represented by the british philosophers, locke, berkeley, and hume--maintained that all our knowledge is derived from experience; the rationalists--who are represented by the continental philosophers of the seventeenth century, especially descartes and leibniz--maintained that, in addition to what we know by experience, there are certain 'innate ideas' and 'innate principles', which we know independently of experience. it has now become possible to decide with some confidence as to the truth or falsehood of these opposing schools. it must be admitted, for the reasons already stated, that logical principles are known to us, and cannot be themselves proved by experience, since all proof presupposes them. in this, therefore, which was the most important point of the controversy, the rationalists were in the right. on the other hand, even that part of our knowledge which is _logically_ independent of experience (in the sense that experience cannot prove it) is yet elicited and caused by experience. it is on occasion of particular experiences that we become aware of the general laws which their connexions exemplify. it would certainly be absurd to suppose that there are innate principles in the sense that babies are born with a knowledge of everything which men know and which cannot be deduced from what is experienced. for this reason, the word 'innate' would not now be employed to describe our knowledge of logical principles. the phrase '_a priori_' is less objectionable, and is more usual in modern writers. thus, while admitting that all knowledge is elicited and caused by experience, we shall nevertheless hold that some knowledge is _a priori_, in the sense that the experience which makes us think of it does not suffice to prove it, but merely so directs our attention that we see its truth without requiring any proof from experience. there is another point of great importance, in which the empiricists were in the right as against the rationalists. nothing can be known to _exist_ except by the help of experience. that is to say, if we wish to prove that something of which we have no direct experience exists, we must have among our premisses the existence of one or more things of which we have direct experience. our belief that the emperor of china exists, for example, rests upon testimony, and testimony consists, in the last analysis, of sense-data seen or heard in reading or being spoken to. rationalists believed that, from general consideration as to what must be, they could deduce the existence of this or that in the actual world. in this belief they seem to have been mistaken. all the knowledge that we can acquire _a priori_ concerning existence seems to be hypothetical: it tells us that if one thing exists, another must exist, or, more generally, that if one proposition is true, another must be true. this is exemplified by the principles we have already dealt with, such as '_if_ this is true, and this implies that, then that is true', or '_if_ this and that have been repeatedly found connected, they will probably be connected in the next instance in which one of them is found'. thus the scope and power of _a priori_ principles is strictly limited. all knowledge that something exists must be in part dependent on experience. when anything is known immediately, its existence is known by experience alone; when anything is proved to exist, without being known immediately, both experience and _a priori_ principles must be required in the proof. knowledge is called _empirical_ when it rests wholly or partly upon experience. thus all knowledge which asserts existence is empirical, and the only _a priori_ knowledge concerning existence is hypothetical, giving connexions among things that exist or may exist, but not giving actual existence. _a priori_ knowledge is not all of the logical kind we have been hitherto considering. perhaps the most important example of non-logical _a priori_ knowledge is knowledge as to ethical value. i am not speaking of judgements as to what is useful or as to what is virtuous, for such judgements do require empirical premisses; i am speaking of judgements as to the intrinsic desirability of things. if something is useful, it must be useful because it secures some end; the end must, if we have gone far enough, be valuable on its own account, and not merely because it is useful for some further end. thus all judgements as to what is useful depend upon judgements as to what has value on its own account. we judge, for example, that happiness is more desirable than misery, knowledge than ignorance, goodwill than hatred, and so on. such judgements must, in part at least, be immediate and _a priori_. like our previous _a priori_ judgements, they may be elicited by experience, and indeed they must be; for it seems not possible to judge whether anything is intrinsically valuable unless we have experienced something of the same kind. but it is fairly obvious that they cannot be proved by experience; for the fact that a thing exists or does not exist cannot prove either that it is good that it should exist or that it is bad. the pursuit of this subject belongs to ethics, where the impossibility of deducing what ought to be from what is has to be established. in the present connexion, it is only important to realize that knowledge as to what is intrinsically of value is _a priori_ in the same sense in which logic is _a priori_, namely in the sense that the truth of such knowledge can be neither proved nor disproved by experience. all pure mathematics is _a priori_, like logic. this was strenuously denied by the empirical philosophers, who maintained that experience was as much the source of our knowledge of arithmetic as of our knowledge of geography. they maintained that by the repeated experience of seeing two things and two other things, and finding that altogether they made four things, we were led by induction to the conclusion that two things and two other things would _always_ make four things altogether. if, however, this were the source of our knowledge that two and two are four, we should proceed differently, in persuading ourselves of its truth, from the way in which we do actually proceed. in fact, a certain number of instances are needed to make us think of two abstractly, rather than of two coins or two books or two people, or two of any other specified kind. but as soon as we are able to divest our thoughts of irrelevant particularity, we become able to see the general principle that two and two are four; any one instance is seen to be _typical_, and the examination of other instances becomes unnecessary.( ) ( ) cf. a. n. whitehead, _introduction to mathematics_ (home university library). the same thing is exemplified in geometry. if we want to prove some property of _all_ triangles, we draw some one triangle and reason about it; but we can avoid making use of any property which it does not share with all other triangles, and thus, from our particular case, we obtain a general result. we do not, in fact, feel our certainty that two and two are four increased by fresh instances, because, as soon as we have seen the truth of this proposition, our certainty becomes so great as to be incapable of growing greater. moreover, we feel some quality of necessity about the proposition 'two and two are four', which is absent from even the best attested empirical generalizations. such generalizations always remain mere facts: we feel that there might be a world in which they were false, though in the actual world they happen to be true. in any possible world, on the contrary, we feel that two and two would be four: this is not a mere fact, but a necessity to which everything actual and possible must conform. the case may be made clearer by considering a genuinely-empirical generalization, such as 'all men are mortal.' it is plain that we believe this proposition, in the first place, because there is no known instance of men living beyond a certain age, and in the second place because there seem to be physiological grounds for thinking that an organism such as a man's body must sooner or later wear out. neglecting the second ground, and considering merely our experience of men's mortality, it is plain that we should not be content with one quite clearly understood instance of a man dying, whereas, in the case of 'two and two are four', one instance does suffice, when carefully considered, to persuade us that the same must happen in any other instance. also we can be forced to admit, on reflection, that there may be some doubt, however slight, as to whether _all_ men are mortal. this may be made plain by the attempt to imagine two different worlds, in one of which there are men who are not mortal, while in the other two and two make five. when swift invites us to consider the race of struldbugs who never die, we are able to acquiesce in imagination. but a world where two and two make five seems quite on a different level. we feel that such a world, if there were one, would upset the whole fabric of our knowledge and reduce us to utter doubt. the fact is that, in simple mathematical judgements such as 'two and two are four', and also in many judgements of logic, we can know the general proposition without inferring it from instances, although some instance is usually necessary to make clear to us what the general proposition means. this is why there is real utility in the process of _deduction_, which goes from the general to the general, or from the general to the particular, as well as in the process of _induction_, which goes from the particular to the particular, or from the particular to the general. it is an old debate among philosophers whether deduction ever gives _new_ knowledge. we can now see that in certain cases, at least, it does do so. if we already know that two and two always make four, and we know that brown and jones are two, and so are robinson and smith, we can deduce that brown and jones and robinson and smith are four. this is new knowledge, not contained in our premisses, because the general proposition, 'two and two are four', never told us there were such people as brown and jones and robinson and smith, and the particular premisses do not tell us that there were four of them, whereas the particular proposition deduced does tell us both these things. but the newness of the knowledge is much less certain if we take the stock instance of deduction that is always given in books on logic, namely, 'all men are mortal; socrates is a man, therefore socrates is mortal.' in this case, what we really know beyond reasonable doubt is that certain men, a, b, c, were mortal, since, in fact, they have died. if socrates is one of these men, it is foolish to go the roundabout way through 'all men are mortal' to arrive at the conclusion that _probably_ socrates is mortal. if socrates is not one of the men on whom our induction is based, we shall still do better to argue straight from our a, b, c, to socrates, than to go round by the general proposition, 'all men are mortal'. for the probability that socrates is mortal is greater, on our data, than the probability that all men are mortal. (this is obvious, because if all men are mortal, so is socrates; but if socrates is mortal, it does not follow that all men are mortal.) hence we shall reach the conclusion that socrates is mortal with a greater approach to certainty if we make our argument purely inductive than if we go by way of 'all men are mortal' and then use deduction. this illustrates the difference between general propositions known _a priori_ such as 'two and two are four', and empirical generalizations such as 'all men are mortal'. in regard to the former, deduction is the right mode of argument, whereas in regard to the latter, induction is always theoretically preferable, and warrants a greater confidence in the truth of our conclusion, because all empirical generalizations are more uncertain than the instances of them. we have now seen that there are propositions known _a priori_, and that among them are the propositions of logic and pure mathematics, as well as the fundamental propositions of ethics. the question which must next occupy us is this: how is it possible that there should be such knowledge? and more particularly, how can there be knowledge of general propositions in cases where we have not examined all the instances, and indeed never can examine them all, because their number is infinite? these questions, which were first brought prominently forward by the german philosopher kant ( - ), are very difficult, and historically very important. chapter viii. how _a priori_ knowledge is possible immanuel kant is generally regarded as the greatest of the modern philosophers. though he lived through the seven years war and the french revolution, he never interrupted his teaching of philosophy at königsberg in east prussia. his most distinctive contribution was the invention of what he called the 'critical' philosophy, which, assuming as a datum that there is knowledge of various kinds, inquired how such knowledge comes to be possible, and deduced, from the answer to this inquiry, many metaphysical results as to the nature of the world. whether these results were valid may well be doubted. but kant undoubtedly deserves credit for two things: first, for having perceived that we have _a priori_ knowledge which is not purely 'analytic', i.e. such that the opposite would be self-contradictory, and secondly, for having made evident the philosophical importance of the theory of knowledge. before the time of kant, it was generally held that whatever knowledge was _a priori_ must be 'analytic'. what this word means will be best illustrated by examples. if i say, 'a bald man is a man', 'a plane figure is a figure', 'a bad poet is a poet', i make a purely analytic judgement: the subject spoken about is given as having at least two properties, of which one is singled out to be asserted of it. such propositions as the above are trivial, and would never be enunciated in real life except by an orator preparing the way for a piece of sophistry. they are called 'analytic' because the predicate is obtained by merely analysing the subject. before the time of kant it was thought that all judgements of which we could be certain _a priori_ were of this kind: that in all of them there was a predicate which was only part of the subject of which it was asserted. if this were so, we should be involved in a definite contradiction if we attempted to deny anything that could be known _a priori_. 'a bald man is not bald' would assert and deny baldness of the same man, and would therefore contradict itself. thus according to the philosophers before kant, the law of contradiction, which asserts that nothing can at the same time have and not have a certain property, sufficed to establish the truth of all _a priori_ knowledge. hume ( - ), who preceded kant, accepting the usual view as to what makes knowledge _a priori_, discovered that, in many cases which had previously been supposed analytic, and notably in the case of cause and effect, the connexion was really synthetic. before hume, rationalists at least had supposed that the effect could be logically deduced from the cause, if only we had sufficient knowledge. hume argued--correctly, as would now be generally admitted--that this could not be done. hence he inferred the far more doubtful proposition that nothing could be known _a priori_ about the connexion of cause and effect. kant, who had been educated in the rationalist tradition, was much perturbed by hume's scepticism, and endeavoured to find an answer to it. he perceived that not only the connexion of cause and effect, but all the propositions of arithmetic and geometry, are 'synthetic', i.e. not analytic: in all these propositions, no analysis of the subject will reveal the predicate. his stock instance was the proposition + = . he pointed out, quite truly, that and have to be put together to give : the idea of is not contained in them, nor even in the idea of adding them together. thus he was led to the conclusion that all pure mathematics, though _a priori_, is synthetic; and this conclusion raised a new problem of which he endeavoured to find the solution. the question which kant put at the beginning of his philosophy, namely 'how is pure mathematics possible?' is an interesting and difficult one, to which every philosophy which is not purely sceptical must find some answer. the answer of the pure empiricists, that our mathematical knowledge is derived by induction from particular instances, we have already seen to be inadequate, for two reasons: first, that the validity of the inductive principle itself cannot be proved by induction; secondly, that the general propositions of mathematics, such as 'two and two always make four', can obviously be known with certainty by consideration of a single instance, and gain nothing by enumeration of other cases in which they have been found to be true. thus our knowledge of the general propositions of mathematics (and the same applies to logic) must be accounted for otherwise than our (merely probable) knowledge of empirical generalizations such as 'all men are mortal'. the problem arises through the fact that such knowledge is general, whereas all experience is particular. it seems strange that we should apparently be able to know some truths in advance about particular things of which we have as yet no experience; but it cannot easily be doubted that logic and arithmetic will apply to such things. we do not know who will be the inhabitants of london a hundred years hence; but we know that any two of them and any other two of them will make four of them. this apparent power of anticipating facts about things of which we have no experience is certainly surprising. kant's solution of the problem, though not valid in my opinion, is interesting. it is, however, very difficult, and is differently understood by different philosophers. we can, therefore, only give the merest outline of it, and even that will be thought misleading by many exponents of kant's system. what kant maintained was that in all our experience there are two elements to be distinguished, the one due to the object (i.e. to what we have called the 'physical object'), the other due to our own nature. we saw, in discussing matter and sense-data, that the physical object is different from the associated sense-data, and that the sense-data are to be regarded as resulting from an interaction between the physical object and ourselves. so far, we are in agreement with kant. but what is distinctive of kant is the way in which he apportions the shares of ourselves and the physical object respectively. he considers that the crude material given in sensation--the colour, hardness, etc.--is due to the object, and that what we supply is the arrangement in space and time, and all the relations between sense-data which result from comparison or from considering one as the cause of the other or in any other way. his chief reason in favour of this view is that we seem to have _a priori_ knowledge as to space and time and causality and comparison, but not as to the actual crude material of sensation. we can be sure, he says, that anything we shall ever experience must show the characteristics affirmed of it in our _a priori_ knowledge, because these characteristics are due to our own nature, and therefore nothing can ever come into our experience without acquiring these characteristics. the physical object, which he calls the 'thing in itself',( ) he regards as essentially unknowable; what can be known is the object as we have it in experience, which he calls the 'phenomenon'. the phenomenon, being a joint product of us and the thing in itself, is sure to have those characteristics which are due to us, and is therefore sure to conform to our _a priori_ knowledge. hence this knowledge, though true of all actual and possible experience, must not be supposed to apply outside experience. thus in spite of the existence of _a priori_ knowledge, we cannot know anything about the thing in itself or about what is not an actual or possible object of experience. in this way he tries to reconcile and harmonize the contentions of the rationalists with the arguments of the empiricists. ( ) kant's 'thing in itself' is identical in _definition_ with the physical object, namely, it is the cause of sensations. in the properties deduced from the definition it is not identical, since kant held (in spite of some inconsistency as regards cause) that we can know that none of the categories are applicable to the 'thing in itself'. apart from minor grounds on which kant's philosophy may be criticized, there is one main objection which seems fatal to any attempt to deal with the problem of _a priori_ knowledge by his method. the thing to be accounted for is our certainty that the facts must always conform to logic and arithmetic. to say that logic and arithmetic are contributed by us does not account for this. our nature is as much a fact of the existing world as anything, and there can be no certainty that it will remain constant. it might happen, if kant is right, that to-morrow our nature would so change as to make two and two become five. this possibility seems never to have occurred to him, yet it is one which utterly destroys the certainty and universality which he is anxious to vindicate for arithmetical propositions. it is true that this possibility, formally, is inconsistent with the kantian view that time itself is a form imposed by the subject upon phenomena, so that our real self is not in time and has no to-morrow. but he will still have to suppose that the time-order of phenomena is determined by characteristics of what is behind phenomena, and this suffices for the substance of our argument. reflection, moreover, seems to make it clear that, if there is any truth in our arithmetical beliefs, they must apply to things equally whether we think of them or not. two physical objects and two other physical objects must make four physical objects, even if physical objects cannot be experienced. to assert this is certainly within the scope of what we mean when we state that two and two are four. its truth is just as indubitable as the truth of the assertion that two phenomena and two other phenomena make four phenomena. thus kant's solution unduly limits the scope of _a priori_ propositions, in addition to failing in the attempt at explaining their certainty. apart from the special doctrines advocated by kant, it is very common among philosophers to regard what is _a priori_ as in some sense mental, as concerned rather with the way we must think than with any fact of the outer world. we noted in the preceding chapter the three principles commonly called 'laws of thought'. the view which led to their being so named is a natural one, but there are strong reasons for thinking that it is erroneous. let us take as an illustration the law of contradiction. this is commonly stated in the form 'nothing can both be and not be', which is intended to express the fact that nothing can at once have and not have a given quality. thus, for example, if a tree is a beech it cannot also be not a beech; if my table is rectangular it cannot also be not rectangular, and so on. now what makes it natural to call this principle a law of _thought_ is that it is by thought rather than by outward observation that we persuade ourselves of its necessary truth. when we have seen that a tree is a beech, we do not need to look again in order to ascertain whether it is also not a beech; thought alone makes us know that this is impossible. but the conclusion that the law of contradiction is a law of _thought_ is nevertheless erroneous. what we believe, when we believe the law of contradiction, is not that the mind is so made that it must believe the law of contradiction. _this_ belief is a subsequent result of psychological reflection, which presupposes the belief in the law of contradiction. the belief in the law of contradiction is a belief about things, not only about thoughts. it is not, e.g., the belief that if we _think_ a certain tree is a beech, we cannot at the same time _think_ that it is not a beech; it is the belief that if the tree _is_ a beech, it cannot at the same time _be_ not a beech. thus the law of contradiction is about things, and not merely about thoughts; and although belief in the law of contradiction is a thought, the law of contradiction itself is not a thought, but a fact concerning the things in the world. if this, which we believe when we believe the law of contradiction, were not true of the things in the world, the fact that we were compelled to _think_ it true would not save the law of contradiction from being false; and this shows that the law is not a law of _thought_. a similar argument applies to any other _a priori_ judgement. when we judge that two and two are four, we are not making a judgement about our thoughts, but about all actual or possible couples. the fact that our minds are so constituted as to believe that two and two are four, though it is true, is emphatically not what we assert when we assert that two and two are four. and no fact about the constitution of our minds could make it _true_ that two and two are four. thus our _a priori_ knowledge, if it is not erroneous, is not merely knowledge about the constitution of our minds, but is applicable to whatever the world may contain, both what is mental and what is non-mental. the fact seems to be that all our _a priori_ knowledge is concerned with entities which do not, properly speaking, _exist_, either in the mental or in the physical world. these entities are such as can be named by parts of speech which are not substantives; they are such entities as qualities and relations. suppose, for instance, that i am in my room. i exist, and my room exists; but does 'in' exist? yet obviously the word 'in' has a meaning; it denotes a relation which holds between me and my room. this relation is something, although we cannot say that it exists _in the same sense_ in which i and my room exist. the relation 'in' is something which we can think about and understand, for, if we could not understand it, we could not understand the sentence 'i am in my room'. many philosophers, following kant, have maintained that relations are the work of the mind, that things in themselves have no relations, but that the mind brings them together in one act of thought and thus produces the relations which it judges them to have. this view, however, seems open to objections similar to those which we urged before against kant. it seems plain that it is not thought which produces the truth of the proposition 'i am in my room'. it may be true that an earwig is in my room, even if neither i nor the earwig nor any one else is aware of this truth; for this truth concerns only the earwig and the room, and does not depend upon anything else. thus relations, as we shall see more fully in the next chapter, must be placed in a world which is neither mental nor physical. this world is of great importance to philosophy, and in particular to the problems of _a priori_ knowledge. in the next chapter we shall proceed to develop its nature and its bearing upon the questions with which we have been dealing. chapter ix. the world of universals at the end of the preceding chapter we saw that such entities as relations appear to have a being which is in some way different from that of physical objects, and also different from that of minds and from that of sense-data. in the present chapter we have to consider what is the nature of this kind of being, and also what objects there are that have this kind of being. we will begin with the latter question. the problem with which we are now concerned is a very old one, since it was brought into philosophy by plato. plato's 'theory of ideas' is an attempt to solve this very problem, and in my opinion it is one of the most successful attempts hitherto made. the theory to be advocated in what follows is largely plato's, with merely such modifications as time has shown to be necessary. the way the problem arose for plato was more or less as follows. let us consider, say, such a notion as _justice_. if we ask ourselves what justice is, it is natural to proceed by considering this, that, and the other just act, with a view to discovering what they have in common. they must all, in some sense, partake of a common nature, which will be found in whatever is just and in nothing else. this common nature, in virtue of which they are all just, will be justice itself, the pure essence the admixture of which with facts of ordinary life produces the multiplicity of just acts. similarly with any other word which may be applicable to common facts, such as 'whiteness' for example. the word will be applicable to a number of particular things because they all participate in a common nature or essence. this pure essence is what plato calls an 'idea' or 'form'. (it must not be supposed that 'ideas', in his sense, exist in minds, though they may be apprehended by minds.) the 'idea' _justice_ is not identical with anything that is just: it is something other than particular things, which particular things partake of. not being particular, it cannot itself exist in the world of sense. moreover it is not fleeting or changeable like the things of sense: it is eternally itself, immutable and indestructible. thus plato is led to a supra-sensible world, more real than the common world of sense, the unchangeable world of ideas, which alone gives to the world of sense whatever pale reflection of reality may belong to it. the truly real world, for plato, is the world of ideas; for whatever we may attempt to say about things in the world of sense, we can only succeed in saying that they participate in such and such ideas, which, therefore, constitute all their character. hence it is easy to pass on into a mysticism. we may hope, in a mystic illumination, to see the ideas as we see objects of sense; and we may imagine that the ideas exist in heaven. these mystical developments are very natural, but the basis of the theory is in logic, and it is as based in logic that we have to consider it. the word 'idea' has acquired, in the course of time, many associations which are quite misleading when applied to plato's 'ideas'. we shall therefore use the word 'universal' instead of the word 'idea', to describe what plato meant. the essence of the sort of entity that plato meant is that it is opposed to the particular things that are given in sensation. we speak of whatever is given in sensation, or is of the same nature as things given in sensation, as a _particular_; by opposition to this, a _universal_ will be anything which may be shared by many particulars, and has those characteristics which, as we saw, distinguish justice and whiteness from just acts and white things. when we examine common words, we find that, broadly speaking, proper names stand for particulars, while other substantives, adjectives, prepositions, and verbs stand for universals. pronouns stand for particulars, but are ambiguous: it is only by the context or the circumstances that we know what particulars they stand for. the word 'now' stands for a particular, namely the present moment; but like pronouns, it stands for an ambiguous particular, because the present is always changing. it will be seen that no sentence can be made up without at least one word which denotes a universal. the nearest approach would be some such statement as 'i like this'. but even here the word 'like' denotes a universal, for i may like other things, and other people may like things. thus all truths involve universals, and all knowledge of truths involves acquaintance with universals. seeing that nearly all the words to be found in the dictionary stand for universals, it is strange that hardly anybody except students of philosophy ever realizes that there are such entities as universals. we do not naturally dwell upon those words in a sentence which do not stand for particulars; and if we are forced to dwell upon a word which stands for a universal, we naturally think of it as standing for some one of the particulars that come under the universal. when, for example, we hear the sentence, 'charles i's head was cut off', we may naturally enough think of charles i, of charles i's head, and of the operation of cutting off _his_ head, which are all particulars; but we do not naturally dwell upon what is meant by the word 'head' or the word 'cut', which is a universal: we feel such words to be incomplete and insubstantial; they seem to demand a context before anything can be done with them. hence we succeed in avoiding all notice of universals as such, until the study of philosophy forces them upon our attention. even among philosophers, we may say, broadly, that only those universals which are named by adjectives or substantives have been much or often recognized, while those named by verbs and prepositions have been usually overlooked. this omission has had a very great effect upon philosophy; it is hardly too much to say that most metaphysics, since spinoza, has been largely determined by it. the way this has occurred is, in outline, as follows: speaking generally, adjectives and common nouns express qualities or properties of single things, whereas prepositions and verbs tend to express relations between two or more things. thus the neglect of prepositions and verbs led to the belief that every proposition can be regarded as attributing a property to a single thing, rather than as expressing a relation between two or more things. hence it was supposed that, ultimately, there can be no such entities as relations between things. hence either there can be only one thing in the universe, or, if there are many things, they cannot possibly interact in any way, since any interaction would be a relation, and relations are impossible. the first of these views, advocated by spinoza and held in our own day by bradley and many other philosophers, is called _monism_; the second, advocated by leibniz but not very common nowadays, is called _monadism_, because each of the isolated things is called a _monad_. both these opposing philosophies, interesting as they are, result, in my opinion, from an undue attention to one sort of universals, namely the sort represented by adjectives and substantives rather than by verbs and prepositions. as a matter of fact, if any one were anxious to deny altogether that there are such things as universals, we should find that we cannot strictly prove that there are such entities as _qualities_, i.e. the universals represented by adjectives and substantives, whereas we can prove that there must be _relations_, i.e. the sort of universals generally represented by verbs and prepositions. let us take in illustration the universal _whiteness_. if we believe that there is such a universal, we shall say that things are white because they have the quality of whiteness. this view, however, was strenuously denied by berkeley and hume, who have been followed in this by later empiricists. the form which their denial took was to deny that there are such things as 'abstract ideas '. when we want to think of whiteness, they said, we form an image of some particular white thing, and reason concerning this particular, taking care not to deduce anything concerning it which we cannot see to be equally true of any other white thing. as an account of our actual mental processes, this is no doubt largely true. in geometry, for example, when we wish to prove something about all triangles, we draw a particular triangle and reason about it, taking care not to use any characteristic which it does not share with other triangles. the beginner, in order to avoid error, often finds it useful to draw several triangles, as unlike each other as possible, in order to make sure that his reasoning is equally applicable to all of them. but a difficulty emerges as soon as we ask ourselves how we know that a thing is white or a triangle. if we wish to avoid the universals _whiteness_ and _triangularity_, we shall choose some particular patch of white or some particular triangle, and say that anything is white or a triangle if it has the right sort of resemblance to our chosen particular. but then the resemblance required will have to be a universal. since there are many white things, the resemblance must hold between many pairs of particular white things; and this is the characteristic of a universal. it will be useless to say that there is a different resemblance for each pair, for then we shall have to say that these resemblances resemble each other, and thus at last we shall be forced to admit resemblance as a universal. the relation of resemblance, therefore, must be a true universal. and having been forced to admit this universal, we find that it is no longer worth while to invent difficult and unplausible theories to avoid the admission of such universals as whiteness and triangularity. berkeley and hume failed to perceive this refutation of their rejection of 'abstract ideas', because, like their adversaries, they only thought of _qualities_, and altogether ignored _relations_ as universals. we have therefore here another respect in which the rationalists appear to have been in the right as against the empiricists, although, owing to the neglect or denial of relations, the deductions made by rationalists were, if anything, more apt to be mistaken than those made by empiricists. having now seen that there must be such entities as universals, the next point to be proved is that their being is not merely mental. by this is meant that whatever being belongs to them is independent of their being thought of or in any way apprehended by minds. we have already touched on this subject at the end of the preceding chapter, but we must now consider more fully what sort of being it is that belongs to universals. consider such a proposition as 'edinburgh is north of london'. here we have a relation between two places, and it seems plain that the relation subsists independently of our knowledge of it. when we come to know that edinburgh is north of london, we come to know something which has to do only with edinburgh and london: we do not cause the truth of the proposition by coming to know it, on the contrary we merely apprehend a fact which was there before we knew it. the part of the earth's surface where edinburgh stands would be north of the part where london stands, even if there were no human being to know about north and south, and even if there were no minds at all in the universe. this is, of course, denied by many philosophers, either for berkeley's reasons or for kant's. but we have already considered these reasons, and decided that they are inadequate. we may therefore now assume it to be true that nothing mental is presupposed in the fact that edinburgh is north of london. but this fact involves the relation 'north of', which is a universal; and it would be impossible for the whole fact to involve nothing mental if the relation 'north of', which is a constituent part of the fact, did involve anything mental. hence we must admit that the relation, like the terms it relates, is not dependent upon thought, but belongs to the independent world which thought apprehends but does not create. this conclusion, however, is met by the difficulty that the relation 'north of' does not seem to _exist_ in the same sense in which edinburgh and london exist. if we ask 'where and when does this relation exist?' the answer must be 'nowhere and nowhen'. there is no place or time where we can find the relation 'north of'. it does not exist in edinburgh any more than in london, for it relates the two and is neutral as between them. nor can we say that it exists at any particular time. now everything that can be apprehended by the senses or by introspection exists at some particular time. hence the relation 'north of' is radically different from such things. it is neither in space nor in time, neither material nor mental; yet it is something. it is largely the very peculiar kind of being that belongs to universals which has led many people to suppose that they are really mental. we can think _of_ a universal, and our thinking then exists in a perfectly ordinary sense, like any other mental act. suppose, for example, that we are thinking of whiteness. then _in one sense_ it may be said that whiteness is 'in our mind'. we have here the same ambiguity as we noted in discussing berkeley in chapter iv. in the strict sense, it is not whiteness that is in our mind, but the act of thinking of whiteness. the connected ambiguity in the word 'idea', which we noted at the same time, also causes confusion here. in one sense of this word, namely the sense in which it denotes the _object_ of an act of thought, whiteness is an 'idea'. hence, if the ambiguity is not guarded against, we may come to think that whiteness is an 'idea' in the other sense, i.e. an act of thought; and thus we come to think that whiteness is mental. but in so thinking, we rob it of its essential quality of universality. one man's act of thought is necessarily a different thing from another man's; one man's act of thought at one time is necessarily a different thing from the same man's act of thought at another time. hence, if whiteness were the thought as opposed to its object, no two different men could think of it, and no one man could think of it twice. that which many different thoughts of whiteness have in common is their _object_, and this object is different from all of them. thus universals are not thoughts, though when known they are the objects of thoughts. we shall find it convenient only to speak of things _existing_ when they are in time, that is to say, when we can point to some time at which they exist (not excluding the possibility of their existing at all times). thus thoughts and feelings, minds and physical objects exist. but universals do not exist in this sense; we shall say that they _subsist_ or _have being_, where 'being' is opposed to 'existence' as being timeless. the world of universals, therefore, may also be described as the world of being. the world of being is unchangeable, rigid, exact, delightful to the mathematician, the logician, the builder of metaphysical systems, and all who love perfection more than life. the world of existence is fleeting, vague, without sharp boundaries, without any clear plan or arrangement, but it contains all thoughts and feelings, all the data of sense, and all physical objects, everything that can do either good or harm, everything that makes any difference to the value of life and the world. according to our temperaments, we shall prefer the contemplation of the one or of the other. the one we do not prefer will probably seem to us a pale shadow of the one we prefer, and hardly worthy to be regarded as in any sense real. but the truth is that both have the same claim on our impartial attention, both are real, and both are important to the metaphysician. indeed no sooner have we distinguished the two worlds than it becomes necessary to consider their relations. but first of all we must examine our knowledge of universals. this consideration will occupy us in the following chapter, where we shall find that it solves the problem of _a priori_ knowledge, from which we were first led to consider universals. chapter x. on our knowledge of universals in regard to one man's knowledge at a given time, universals, like particulars, may be divided into those known by acquaintance, those known only by description, and those not known either by acquaintance or by description. let us consider first the knowledge of universals by acquaintance. it is obvious, to begin with, that we are acquainted with such universals as white, red, black, sweet, sour, loud, hard, etc., i.e. with qualities which are exemplified in sense-data. when we see a white patch, we are acquainted, in the first instance, with the particular patch; but by seeing many white patches, we easily learn to abstract the whiteness which they all have in common, and in learning to do this we are learning to be acquainted with whiteness. a similar process will make us acquainted with any other universal of the same sort. universals of this sort may be called 'sensible qualities'. they can be apprehended with less effort of abstraction than any others, and they seem less removed from particulars than other universals are. we come next to relations. the easiest relations to apprehend are those which hold between the different parts of a single complex sense-datum. for example, i can see at a glance the whole of the page on which i am writing; thus the whole page is included in one sense-datum. but i perceive that some parts of the page are to the left of other parts, and some parts are above other parts. the process of abstraction in this case seems to proceed somewhat as follows: i see successively a number of sense-data in which one part is to the left of another; i perceive, as in the case of different white patches, that all these sense-data have something in common, and by abstraction i find that what they have in common is a certain relation between their parts, namely the relation which i call 'being to the left of'. in this way i become acquainted with the universal relation. in like manner i become aware of the relation of before and after in time. suppose i hear a chime of bells: when the last bell of the chime sounds, i can retain the whole chime before my mind, and i can perceive that the earlier bells came before the later ones. also in memory i perceive that what i am remembering came before the present time. from either of these sources i can abstract the universal relation of before and after, just as i abstracted the universal relation 'being to the left of'. thus time-relations, like space-relations, are among those with which we are acquainted. another relation with which we become acquainted in much the same way is resemblance. if i see simultaneously two shades of green, i can see that they resemble each other; if i also see a shade of red: at the same time, i can see that the two greens have more resemblance to each other than either has to the red. in this way i become acquainted with the universal _resemblance_ or _similarity_. between universals, as between particulars, there are relations of which we may be immediately aware. we have just seen that we can perceive that the resemblance between two shades of green is greater than the resemblance between a shade of red and a shade of green. here we are dealing with a relation, namely 'greater than', between two relations. our knowledge of such relations, though it requires more power of abstraction than is required for perceiving the qualities of sense-data, appears to be equally immediate, and (at least in some cases) equally indubitable. thus there is immediate knowledge concerning universals as well as concerning sense-data. returning now to the problem of _a priori_ knowledge, which we left unsolved when we began the consideration of universals, we find ourselves in a position to deal with it in a much more satisfactory manner than was possible before. let us revert to the proposition 'two and two are four'. it is fairly obvious, in view of what has been said, that this proposition states a relation between the universal 'two' and the universal 'four'. this suggests a proposition which we shall now endeavour to establish: namely, _all _a priori_ knowledge deals exclusively with the relations of universals_. this proposition is of great importance, and goes a long way towards solving our previous difficulties concerning _a priori_ knowledge. the only case in which it might seem, at first sight, as if our proposition were untrue, is the case in which an _a priori_ proposition states that _all_ of one class of particulars belong to some other class, or (what comes to the same thing) that _all_ particulars having some one property also have some other. in this case it might seem as though we were dealing with the particulars that have the property rather than with the property. the proposition 'two and two are four' is really a case in point, for this may be stated in the form 'any two and any other two are four', or 'any collection formed of two twos is a collection of four'. if we can show that such statements as this really deal only with universals, our proposition may be regarded as proved. one way of discovering what a proposition deals with is to ask ourselves what words we must understand--in other words, what objects we must be acquainted with--in order to see what the proposition means. as soon as we see what the proposition means, even if we do not yet know whether it is true or false, it is evident that we must have acquaintance with whatever is really dealt with by the proposition. by applying this test, it appears that many propositions which might seem to be concerned with particulars are really concerned only with universals. in the special case of 'two and two are four', even when we interpret it as meaning 'any collection formed of two twos is a collection of four', it is plain that we can understand the proposition, i.e. we can see what it is that it asserts, as soon as we know what is meant by 'collection' and 'two' and 'four'. it is quite unnecessary to know all the couples in the world: if it were necessary, obviously we could never understand the proposition, since the couples are infinitely numerous and therefore cannot all be known to us. thus although our general statement _implies_ statements about particular couples, _as soon as we know that there are such particular couples_, yet it does not itself assert or imply that there are such particular couples, and thus fails to make any statement whatever about any actual particular couple. the statement made is about 'couple', the universal, and not about this or that couple. thus the statement 'two and two are four' deals exclusively with universals, and therefore may be known by anybody who is acquainted with the universals concerned and can perceive the relation between them which the statement asserts. it must be taken as a fact, discovered by reflecting upon our knowledge, that we have the power of sometimes perceiving such relations between universals, and therefore of sometimes knowing general _a priori_ propositions such as those of arithmetic and logic. the thing that seemed mysterious, when we formerly considered such knowledge, was that it seemed to anticipate and control experience. this, however, we can now see to have been an error. _no_ fact concerning anything capable of being experienced can be known independently of experience. we know _a priori_ that two things and two other things together make four things, but we do _not_ know _a priori_ that if brown and jones are two, and robinson and smith are two, then brown and jones and robinson and smith are four. the reason is that this proposition cannot be understood at all unless we know that there are such people as brown and jones and robinson and smith, and this we can only know by experience. hence, although our general proposition is _a priori_, all its applications to actual particulars involve experience and therefore contain an empirical element. in this way what seemed mysterious in our _a priori_ knowledge is seen to have been based upon an error. it will serve to make the point clearer if we contrast our genuine _a priori_ judgement with an empirical generalization, such as 'all men are mortals'. here as before, we can _understand_ what the proposition means as soon as we understand the universals involved, namely _man_ and _mortal_. it is obviously unnecessary to have an individual acquaintance with the whole human race in order to understand what our proposition means. thus the difference between an _a priori_ general proposition and an empirical generalization does not come in the _meaning_ of the proposition; it comes in the nature of the _evidence_ for it. in the empirical case, the evidence consists in the particular instances. we believe that all men are mortal because we know that there are innumerable instances of men dying, and no instances of their living beyond a certain age. we do not believe it because we see a connexion between the universal _man_ and the universal _mortal_. it is true that if physiology can prove, assuming the general laws that govern living bodies, that no living organism can last for ever, that gives a connexion between _man_ and _mortality_ which would enable us to assert our proposition without appealing to the special evidence of _men_ dying. but that only means that our generalization has been subsumed under a wider generalization, for which the evidence is still of the same kind, though more extensive. the progress of science is constantly producing such subsumptions, and therefore giving a constantly wider inductive basis for scientific generalizations. but although this gives a greater _degree_ of certainty, it does not give a different _kind_: the ultimate ground remains inductive, i.e. derived from instances, and not an _a priori_ connexion of universals such as we have in logic and arithmetic. two opposite points are to be observed concerning _a priori_ general propositions. the first is that, if many particular instances are known, our general proposition may be arrived at in the first instance by induction, and the connexion of universals may be only subsequently perceived. for example, it is known that if we draw perpendiculars to the sides of a triangle from the opposite angles, all three perpendiculars meet in a point. it would be quite possible to be first led to this proposition by actually drawing perpendiculars in many cases, and finding that they always met in a point; this experience might lead us to look for the general proof and find it. such cases are common in the experience of every mathematician. the other point is more interesting, and of more philosophical importance. it is, that we may sometimes know a general proposition in cases where we do not know a single instance of it. take such a case as the following: we know that any two numbers can be multiplied together, and will give a third called their _product_. we know that all pairs of integers the product of which is less than have been actually multiplied together, and the value of the product recorded in the multiplication table. but we also know that the number of integers is infinite, and that only a finite number of pairs of integers ever have been or ever will be thought of by human beings. hence it follows that there are pairs of integers which never have been and never will be thought of by human beings, and that all of them deal with integers the product of which is over . hence we arrive at the proposition: 'all products of two integers, which never have been and never will be thought of by any human being, are over .' here is a general proposition of which the truth is undeniable, and yet, from the very nature of the case, we can never give an instance; because any two numbers we may think of are excluded by the terms of the proposition. this possibility, of knowledge of general propositions of which no instance can be given, is often denied, because it is not perceived that the knowledge of such propositions only requires a knowledge of the relations of universals, and does not require any knowledge of instances of the universals in question. yet the knowledge of such general propositions is quite vital to a great deal of what is generally admitted to be known. for example, we saw, in our early chapters, that knowledge of physical objects, as opposed to sense-data, is only obtained by an inference, and that they are not things with which we are acquainted. hence we can never know any proposition of the form 'this is a physical object', where 'this' is something immediately known. it follows that all our knowledge concerning physical objects is such that no actual instance can be given. we can give instances of the associated sense-data, but we cannot give instances of the actual physical objects. hence our knowledge as to physical objects depends throughout upon this possibility of general knowledge where no instance can be given. and the same applies to our knowledge of other people's minds, or of any other class of things of which no instance is known to us by acquaintance. we may now take a survey of the sources of our knowledge, as they have appeared in the course of our analysis. we have first to distinguish knowledge of things and knowledge of truths. in each there are two kinds, one immediate and one derivative. our immediate knowledge of things, which we called _acquaintance_, consists of two sorts, according as the things known are particulars or universals. among particulars, we have acquaintance with sense-data and (probably) with ourselves. among universals, there seems to be no principle by which we can decide which can be known by acquaintance, but it is clear that among those that can be so known are sensible qualities, relations of space and time, similarity, and certain abstract logical universals. our derivative knowledge of things, which we call knowledge by _description_, always involves both acquaintance with something and knowledge of truths. our immediate knowledge of _truths_ may be called _intuitive_ knowledge, and the truths so known may be called _self-evident_ truths. among such truths are included those which merely state what is given in sense, and also certain abstract logical and arithmetical principles, and (though with less certainty) some ethical propositions. our _derivative_ knowledge of truths consists of everything that we can deduce from self-evident truths by the use of self-evident principles of deduction. if the above account is correct, all our knowledge of truths depends upon our intuitive knowledge. it therefore becomes important to consider the nature and scope of intuitive knowledge, in much the same way as, at an earlier stage, we considered the nature and scope of knowledge by acquaintance. but knowledge of truths raises a further problem, which does not arise in regard to knowledge of things, namely the problem of _error_. some of our beliefs turn out to be erroneous, and therefore it becomes necessary to consider how, if at all, we can distinguish knowledge from error. this problem does not arise with regard to knowledge by acquaintance, for, whatever may be the object of acquaintance, even in dreams and hallucinations, there is no error involved so long as we do not go beyond the immediate object: error can only arise when we regard the immediate object, i.e. the sense-datum, as the mark of some physical object. thus the problems connected with knowledge of truths are more difficult than those connected with knowledge of things. as the first of the problems connected with knowledge of truths, let us examine the nature and scope of our intuitive judgements. chapter xi. on intuitive knowledge there is a common impression that everything that we believe ought to be capable of proof, or at least of being shown to be highly probable. it is felt by many that a belief for which no reason can be given is an unreasonable belief. in the main, this view is just. almost all our common beliefs are either inferred, or capable of being inferred, from other beliefs which may be regarded as giving the reason for them. as a rule, the reason has been forgotten, or has even never been consciously present to our minds. few of us ever ask ourselves, for example, what reason there is to suppose the food we are just going to eat will not turn out to be poison. yet we feel, when challenged, that a perfectly good reason could be found, even if we are not ready with it at the moment. and in this belief we are usually justified. but let us imagine some insistent socrates, who, whatever reason we give him, continues to demand a reason for the reason. we must sooner or later, and probably before very long, be driven to a point where we cannot find any further reason, and where it becomes almost certain that no further reason is even theoretically discoverable. starting with the common beliefs of daily life, we can be driven back from point to point, until we come to some general principle, or some instance of a general principle, which seems luminously evident, and is not itself capable of being deduced from anything more evident. in most questions of daily life, such as whether our food is likely to be nourishing and not poisonous, we shall be driven back to the inductive principle, which we discussed in chapter vi. but beyond that, there seems to be no further regress. the principle itself is constantly used in our reasoning, sometimes consciously, sometimes unconsciously; but there is no reasoning which, starting from some simpler self-evident principle, leads us to the principle of induction as its conclusion. and the same holds for other logical principles. their truth is evident to us, and we employ them in constructing demonstrations; but they themselves, or at least some of them, are incapable of demonstration. self-evidence, however, is not confined to those among general principles which are incapable of proof. when a certain number of logical principles have been admitted, the rest can be deduced from them; but the propositions deduced are often just as self-evident as those that were assumed without proof. all arithmetic, moreover, can be deduced from the general principles of logic, yet the simple propositions of arithmetic, such as 'two and two are four', are just as self-evident as the principles of logic. it would seem, also, though this is more disputable, that there are some self-evident ethical principles, such as 'we ought to pursue what is good'. it should be observed that, in all cases of general principles, particular instances, dealing with familiar things, are more evident than the general principle. for example, the law of contradiction states that nothing can both have a certain property and not have it. this is evident as soon as it is understood, but it is not so evident as that a particular rose which we see cannot be both red and not red. (it is of course possible that parts of the rose may be red and parts not red, or that the rose may be of a shade of pink which we hardly know whether to call red or not; but in the former case it is plain that the rose as a whole is not red, while in the latter case the answer is theoretically definite as soon as we have decided on a precise definition of 'red'.) it is usually through particular instances that we come to be able to see the general principle. only those who are practised in dealing with abstractions can readily grasp a general principle without the help of instances. in addition to general principles, the other kind of self-evident truths are those immediately derived from sensation. we will call such truths 'truths of perception', and the judgements expressing them we will call 'judgements of perception'. but here a certain amount of care is required in getting at the precise nature of the truths that are self-evident. the actual sense-data are neither true nor false. a particular patch of colour which i see, for example, simply exists: it is not the sort of thing that is true or false. it is true that there is such a patch, true that it has a certain shape and degree of brightness, true that it is surrounded by certain other colours. but the patch itself, like everything else in the world of sense, is of a radically different kind from the things that are true or false, and therefore cannot properly be said to be _true_. thus whatever self-evident truths may be obtained from our senses must be different from the sense-data from which they are obtained. it would seem that there are two kinds of self-evident truths of perception, though perhaps in the last analysis the two kinds may coalesce. first, there is the kind which simply asserts the _existence_ of the sense-datum, without in any way analysing it. we see a patch of red, and we judge 'there is such-and-such a patch of red', or more strictly 'there is that'; this is one kind of intuitive judgement of perception. the other kind arises when the object of sense is complex, and we subject it to some degree of analysis. if, for instance, we see a _round_ patch of red, we may judge 'that patch of red is round'. this is again a judgement of perception, but it differs from our previous kind. in our present kind we have a single sense-datum which has both colour and shape: the colour is red and the shape is round. our judgement analyses the datum into colour and shape, and then recombines them by stating that the red colour is round in shape. another example of this kind of judgement is 'this is to the right of that', where 'this' and 'that' are seen simultaneously. in this kind of judgement the sense-datum contains constituents which have some relation to each other, and the judgement asserts that these constituents have this relation. another class of intuitive judgements, analogous to those of sense and yet quite distinct from them, are judgements of _memory_. there is some danger of confusion as to the nature of memory, owing to the fact that memory of an object is apt to be accompanied by an image of the object, and yet the image cannot be what constitutes memory. this is easily seen by merely noticing that the image is in the present, whereas what is remembered is known to be in the past. moreover, we are certainly able to some extent to compare our image with the object remembered, so that we often know, within somewhat wide limits, how far our image is accurate; but this would be impossible, unless the object, as opposed to the image, were in some way before the mind. thus the essence of memory is not constituted by the image, but by having immediately before the mind an object which is recognized as past. but for the fact of memory in this sense, we should not know that there ever was a past at all, nor should we be able to understand the word 'past', any more than a man born blind can understand the word 'light'. thus there must be intuitive judgements of memory, and it is upon them, ultimately, that all our knowledge of the past depends. the case of memory, however, raises a difficulty, for it is notoriously fallacious, and thus throws doubt on the trustworthiness of intuitive judgements in general. this difficulty is no light one. but let us first narrow its scope as far as possible. broadly speaking, memory is trustworthy in proportion to the vividness of the experience and to its nearness in time. if the house next door was struck by lightning half a minute ago, my memory of what i saw and heard will be so reliable that it would be preposterous to doubt whether there had been a flash at all. and the same applies to less vivid experiences, so long as they are recent. i am absolutely certain that half a minute ago i was sitting in the same chair in which i am sitting now. going backward over the day, i find things of which i am quite certain, other things of which i am almost certain, other things of which i can become certain by thought and by calling up attendant circumstances, and some things of which i am by no means certain. i am quite certain that i ate my breakfast this morning, but if i were as indifferent to my breakfast as a philosopher should be, i should be doubtful. as to the conversation at breakfast, i can recall some of it easily, some with an effort, some only with a large element of doubt, and some not at all. thus there is a continual gradation in the degree of self-evidence of what i remember, and a corresponding gradation in the trustworthiness of my memory. thus the first answer to the difficulty of fallacious memory is to say that memory has degrees of self-evidence, and that these correspond to the degrees of its trustworthiness, reaching a limit of perfect self-evidence and perfect trustworthiness in our memory of events which are recent and vivid. it would seem, however, that there are cases of very firm belief in a memory which is wholly false. it is probable that, in these cases, what is really remembered, in the sense of being immediately before the mind, is something other than what is falsely believed in, though something generally associated with it. george iv is said to have at last believed that he was at the battle of waterloo, because he had so often said that he was. in this case, what was immediately remembered was his repeated assertion; the belief in what he was asserting (if it existed) would be produced by association with the remembered assertion, and would therefore not be a genuine case of memory. it would seem that cases of fallacious memory can probably all be dealt with in this way, i.e. they can be shown to be not cases of memory in the strict sense at all. one important point about self-evidence is made clear by the case of memory, and that is, that self-evidence has degrees: it is not a quality which is simply present or absent, but a quality which may be more or less present, in gradations ranging from absolute certainty down to an almost imperceptible faintness. truths of perception and some of the principles of logic have the very highest degree of self-evidence; truths of immediate memory have an almost equally high degree. the inductive principle has less self-evidence than some of the other principles of logic, such as 'what follows from a true premiss must be true'. memories have a diminishing self-evidence as they become remoter and fainter; the truths of logic and mathematics have (broadly speaking) less self-evidence as they become more complicated. judgements of intrinsic ethical or aesthetic value are apt to have some self-evidence, but not much. degrees of self-evidence are important in the theory of knowledge, since, if propositions may (as seems likely) have some degree of self-evidence without being true, it will not be necessary to abandon all connexion between self-evidence and truth, but merely to say that, where there is a conflict, the more self-evident proposition is to be retained and the less self-evident rejected. it seems, however, highly probable that two different notions are combined in 'self-evidence' as above explained; that one of them, which corresponds to the highest degree of self-evidence, is really an infallible guarantee of truth, while the other, which corresponds to all the other degrees, does not give an infallible guarantee, but only a greater or less presumption. this, however, is only a suggestion, which we cannot as yet develop further. after we have dealt with the nature of truth, we shall return to the subject of self-evidence, in connexion with the distinction between knowledge and error. chapter xii. truth and falsehood our knowledge of truths, unlike our knowledge of things, has an opposite, namely _error_. so far as things are concerned, we may know them or not know them, but there is no positive state of mind which can be described as erroneous knowledge of things, so long, at any rate, as we confine ourselves to knowledge by acquaintance. whatever we are acquainted with must be something; we may draw wrong inferences from our acquaintance, but the acquaintance itself cannot be deceptive. thus there is no dualism as regards acquaintance. but as regards knowledge of truths, there is a dualism. we may believe what is false as well as what is true. we know that on very many subjects different people hold different and incompatible opinions: hence some beliefs must be erroneous. since erroneous beliefs are often held just as strongly as true beliefs, it becomes a difficult question how they are to be distinguished from true beliefs. how are we to know, in a given case, that our belief is not erroneous? this is a question of the very greatest difficulty, to which no completely satisfactory answer is possible. there is, however, a preliminary question which is rather less difficult, and that is: what do we _mean_ by truth and falsehood? it is this preliminary question which is to be considered in this chapter. in this chapter we are not asking how we can know whether a belief is true or false: we are asking what is meant by the question whether a belief is true or false. it is to be hoped that a clear answer to this question may help us to obtain an answer to the question what beliefs are true, but for the present we ask only 'what is truth?' and 'what is falsehood?' not 'what beliefs are true?' and 'what beliefs are false?' it is very important to keep these different questions entirely separate, since any confusion between them is sure to produce an answer which is not really applicable to either. there are three points to observe in the attempt to discover the nature of truth, three requisites which any theory must fulfil. ( ) our theory of truth must be such as to admit of its opposite, falsehood. a good many philosophers have failed adequately to satisfy this condition: they have constructed theories according to which all our thinking ought to have been true, and have then had the greatest difficulty in finding a place for falsehood. in this respect our theory of belief must differ from our theory of acquaintance, since in the case of acquaintance it was not necessary to take account of any opposite. ( ) it seems fairly evident that if there were no beliefs there could be no falsehood, and no truth either, in the sense in which truth is correlative to falsehood. if we imagine a world of mere matter, there would be no room for falsehood in such a world, and although it would contain what may be called 'facts', it would not contain any truths, in the sense in which truths are things of the same kind as falsehoods. in fact, truth and falsehood are properties of beliefs and statements: hence a world of mere matter, since it would contain no beliefs or statements, would also contain no truth or falsehood. ( ) but, as against what we have just said, it is to be observed that the truth or falsehood of a belief always depends upon something which lies outside the belief itself. if i believe that charles i died on the scaffold, i believe truly, not because of any intrinsic quality of my belief, which could be discovered by merely examining the belief, but because of an historical event which happened two and a half centuries ago. if i believe that charles i died in his bed, i believe falsely: no degree of vividness in my belief, or of care in arriving at it, prevents it from being false, again because of what happened long ago, and not because of any intrinsic property of my belief. hence, although truth and falsehood are properties of beliefs, they are properties dependent upon the relations of the beliefs to other things, not upon any internal quality of the beliefs. the third of the above requisites leads us to adopt the view--which has on the whole been commonest among philosophers--that truth consists in some form of correspondence between belief and fact. it is, however, by no means an easy matter to discover a form of correspondence to which there are no irrefutable objections. by this partly--and partly by the feeling that, if truth consists in a correspondence of thought with something outside thought, thought can never know when truth has been attained--many philosophers have been led to try to find some definition of truth which shall not consist in relation to something wholly outside belief. the most important attempt at a definition of this sort is the theory that truth consists in _coherence_. it is said that the mark of falsehood is failure to cohere in the body of our beliefs, and that it is the essence of a truth to form part of the completely rounded system which is the truth. there is, however, a great difficulty in this view, or rather two great difficulties. the first is that there is no reason to suppose that only _one_ coherent body of beliefs is possible. it may be that, with sufficient imagination, a novelist might invent a past for the world that would perfectly fit on to what we know, and yet be quite different from the real past. in more scientific matters, it is certain that there are often two or more hypotheses which account for all the known facts on some subject, and although, in such cases, men of science endeavour to find facts which will rule out all the hypotheses except one, there is no reason why they should always succeed. in philosophy, again, it seems not uncommon for two rival hypotheses to be both able to account for all the facts. thus, for example, it is possible that life is one long dream, and that the outer world has only that degree of reality that the objects of dreams have; but although such a view does not seem inconsistent with known facts, there is no reason to prefer it to the common-sense view, according to which other people and things do really exist. thus coherence as the definition of truth fails because there is no proof that there can be only one coherent system. the other objection to this definition of truth is that it assumes the meaning of 'coherence' known, whereas, in fact, 'coherence' presupposes the truth of the laws of logic. two propositions are coherent when both may be true, and are incoherent when one at least must be false. now in order to know whether two propositions can both be true, we must know such truths as the law of contradiction. for example, the two propositions, 'this tree is a beech' and 'this tree is not a beech', are not coherent, because of the law of contradiction. but if the law of contradiction itself were subjected to the test of coherence, we should find that, if we choose to suppose it false, nothing will any longer be incoherent with anything else. thus the laws of logic supply the skeleton or framework within which the test of coherence applies, and they themselves cannot be established by this test. for the above two reasons, coherence cannot be accepted as giving the _meaning_ of truth, though it is often a most important _test_ of truth after a certain amount of truth has become known. hence we are driven back to _correspondence with fact_ as constituting the nature of truth. it remains to define precisely what we mean by 'fact', and what is the nature of the correspondence which must subsist between belief and fact, in order that belief may be true. in accordance with our three requisites, we have to seek a theory of truth which ( ) allows truth to have an opposite, namely falsehood, ( ) makes truth a property of beliefs, but ( ) makes it a property wholly dependent upon the relation of the beliefs to outside things. the necessity of allowing for falsehood makes it impossible to regard belief as a relation of the mind to a single object, which could be said to be what is believed. if belief were so regarded, we should find that, like acquaintance, it would not admit of the opposition of truth and falsehood, but would have to be always true. this may be made clear by examples. othello believes falsely that desdemona loves cassio. we cannot say that this belief consists in a relation to a single object, 'desdemona's love for cassio', for if there were such an object, the belief would be true. there is in fact no such object, and therefore othello cannot have any relation to such an object. hence his belief cannot possibly consist in a relation to this object. it might be said that his belief is a relation to a different object, namely 'that desdemona loves cassio'; but it is almost as difficult to suppose that there is such an object as this, when desdemona does not love cassio, as it was to suppose that there is 'desdemona's love for cassio'. hence it will be better to seek for a theory of belief which does not make it consist in a relation of the mind to a single object. it is common to think of relations as though they always held between two terms, but in fact this is not always the case. some relations demand three terms, some four, and so on. take, for instance, the relation 'between'. so long as only two terms come in, the relation 'between' is impossible: three terms are the smallest number that render it possible. york is between london and edinburgh; but if london and edinburgh were the only places in the world, there could be nothing which was between one place and another. similarly _jealousy_ requires three people: there can be no such relation that does not involve three at least. such a proposition as 'a wishes b to promote c's marriage with d' involves a relation of four terms; that is to say, a and b and c and d all come in, and the relation involved cannot be expressed otherwise than in a form involving all four. instances might be multiplied indefinitely, but enough has been said to show that there are relations which require more than two terms before they can occur. the relation involved in _judging_ or _believing_ must, if falsehood is to be duly allowed for, be taken to be a relation between several terms, not between two. when othello believes that desdemona loves cassio, he must not have before his mind a single object, 'desdemona's love for cassio', or 'that desdemona loves cassio ', for that would require that there should be objective falsehoods, which subsist independently of any minds; and this, though not logically refutable, is a theory to be avoided if possible. thus it is easier to account for falsehood if we take judgement to be a relation in which the mind and the various objects concerned all occur severally; that is to say, desdemona and loving and cassio must all be terms in the relation which subsists when othello believes that desdemona loves cassio. this relation, therefore, is a relation of four terms, since othello also is one of the terms of the relation. when we say that it is a relation of four terms, we do not mean that othello has a certain relation to desdemona, and has the same relation to loving and also to cassio. this may be true of some other relation than believing; but believing, plainly, is not a relation which othello has to _each_ of the three terms concerned, but to _all_ of them together: there is only one example of the relation of believing involved, but this one example knits together four terms. thus the actual occurrence, at the moment when othello is entertaining his belief, is that the relation called 'believing' is knitting together into one complex whole the four terms othello, desdemona, loving, and cassio. what is called belief or judgement is nothing but this relation of believing or judging, which relates a mind to several things other than itself. an _act_ of belief or of judgement is the occurrence between certain terms at some particular time, of the relation of believing or judging. we are now in a position to understand what it is that distinguishes a true judgement from a false one. for this purpose we will adopt certain definitions. in every act of judgement there is a mind which judges, and there are terms concerning which it judges. we will call the mind the _subject_ in the judgement, and the remaining terms the _objects_. thus, when othello judges that desdemona loves cassio, othello is the subject, while the objects are desdemona and loving and cassio. the subject and the objects together are called the _constituents_ of the judgement. it will be observed that the relation of judging has what is called a 'sense' or 'direction'. we may say, metaphorically, that it puts its objects in a certain _order_, which we may indicate by means of the order of the words in the sentence. (in an inflected language, the same thing will be indicated by inflections, e.g. by the difference between nominative and accusative.) othello's judgement that cassio loves desdemona differs from his judgement that desdemona loves cassio, in spite of the fact that it consists of the same constituents, because the relation of judging places the constituents in a different order in the two cases. similarly, if cassio judges that desdemona loves othello, the constituents of the judgement are still the same, but their order is different. this property of having a 'sense' or 'direction' is one which the relation of judging shares with all other relations. the 'sense' of relations is the ultimate source of order and series and a host of mathematical concepts; but we need not concern ourselves further with this aspect. we spoke of the relation called 'judging' or 'believing' as knitting together into one complex whole the subject and the objects. in this respect, judging is exactly like every other relation. whenever a relation holds between two or more terms, it unites the terms into a complex whole. if othello loves desdemona, there is such a complex whole as 'othello's love for desdemona'. the terms united by the relation may be themselves complex, or may be simple, but the whole which results from their being united must be complex. wherever there is a relation which relates certain terms, there is a complex object formed of the union of those terms; and conversely, wherever there is a complex object, there is a relation which relates its constituents. when an act of believing occurs, there is a complex, in which 'believing' is the uniting relation, and subject and objects are arranged in a certain order by the 'sense' of the relation of believing. among the objects, as we saw in considering 'othello believes that desdemona loves cassio', one must be a relation--in this instance, the relation 'loving'. but this relation, as it occurs in the act of believing, is not the relation which creates the unity of the complex whole consisting of the subject and the objects. the relation 'loving', as it occurs in the act of believing, is one of the objects--it is a brick in the structure, not the cement. the cement is the relation 'believing'. when the belief is _true_, there is another complex unity, in which the relation which was one of the objects of the belief relates the other objects. thus, e.g., if othello believes _truly_ that desdemona loves cassio, then there is a complex unity, 'desdemona's love for cassio', which is composed exclusively of the _objects_ of the belief, in the same order as they had in the belief, with the relation which was one of the objects occurring now as the cement that binds together the other objects of the belief. on the other hand, when a belief is _false_, there is no such complex unity composed only of the objects of the belief. if othello believes _falsely_ that desdemona loves cassio, then there is no such complex unity as 'desdemona's love for cassio'. thus a belief is _true_ when it _corresponds_ to a certain associated complex, and _false_ when it does not. assuming, for the sake of definiteness, that the objects of the belief are two terms and a relation, the terms being put in a certain order by the 'sense' of the believing, then if the two terms in that order are united by the relation into a complex, the belief is true; if not, it is false. this constitutes the definition of truth and falsehood that we were in search of. judging or believing is a certain complex unity of which a mind is a constituent; if the remaining constituents, taken in the order which they have in the belief, form a complex unity, then the belief is true; if not, it is false. thus although truth and falsehood are properties of beliefs, yet they are in a sense extrinsic properties, for the condition of the truth of a belief is something not involving beliefs, or (in general) any mind at all, but only the _objects_ of the belief. a mind, which believes, believes truly when there is a _corresponding_ complex not involving the mind, but only its objects. this correspondence ensures truth, and its absence entails falsehood. hence we account simultaneously for the two facts that beliefs (a) depend on minds for their _existence_, (b) do not depend on minds for their _truth_. we may restate our theory as follows: if we take such a belief as 'othello believes that desdemona loves cassio', we will call desdemona and cassio the _object-terms_, and loving the _object-relation_. if there is a complex unity 'desdemona's love for cassio', consisting of the object-terms related by the object-relation in the same order as they have in the belief, then this complex unity is called the _fact corresponding to the belief_. thus a belief is true when there is a corresponding fact, and is false when there is no corresponding fact. it will be seen that minds do not _create_ truth or falsehood. they create beliefs, but when once the beliefs are created, the mind cannot make them true or false, except in the special case where they concern future things which are within the power of the person believing, such as catching trains. what makes a belief true is a _fact_, and this fact does not (except in exceptional cases) in any way involve the mind of the person who has the belief. having now decided what we _mean_ by truth and falsehood, we have next to consider what ways there are of knowing whether this or that belief is true or false. this consideration will occupy the next chapter. chapter xiii. knowledge, error, and probable opinion the question as to what we mean by truth and falsehood, which we considered in the preceding chapter, is of much less interest than the question as to how we can know what is true and what is false. this question will occupy us in the present chapter. there can be no doubt that _some_ of our beliefs are erroneous; thus we are led to inquire what certainty we can ever have that such and such a belief is not erroneous. in other words, can we ever _know_ anything at all, or do we merely sometimes by good luck believe what is true? before we can attack this question, we must, however, first decide what we mean by 'knowing', and this question is not so easy as might be supposed. at first sight we might imagine that knowledge could be defined as 'true belief'. when what we believe is true, it might be supposed that we had achieved a knowledge of what we believe. but this would not accord with the way in which the word is commonly used. to take a very trivial instance: if a man believes that the late prime minister's last name began with a b, he believes what is true, since the late prime minister was sir henry campbell bannerman. but if he believes that mr. balfour was the late prime minister, he will still believe that the late prime minister's last name began with a b, yet this belief, though true, would not be thought to constitute knowledge. if a newspaper, by an intelligent anticipation, announces the result of a battle before any telegram giving the result has been received, it may by good fortune announce what afterwards turns out to be the right result, and it may produce belief in some of its less experienced readers. but in spite of the truth of their belief, they cannot be said to have knowledge. thus it is clear that a true belief is not knowledge when it is deduced from a false belief. in like manner, a true belief cannot be called knowledge when it is deduced by a fallacious process of reasoning, even if the premisses from which it is deduced are true. if i know that all greeks are men and that socrates was a man, and i infer that socrates was a greek, i cannot be said to _know_ that socrates was a greek, because, although my premisses and my conclusion are true, the conclusion does not follow from the premisses. but are we to say that nothing is knowledge except what is validly deduced from true premisses? obviously we cannot say this. such a definition is at once too wide and too narrow. in the first place, it is too wide, because it is not enough that our premisses should be _true_, they must also be _known_. the man who believes that mr. balfour was the late prime minister may proceed to draw valid deductions from the true premiss that the late prime minister's name began with a b, but he cannot be said to _know_ the conclusions reached by these deductions. thus we shall have to amend our definition by saying that knowledge is what is validly deduced from _known_ premisses. this, however, is a circular definition: it assumes that we already know what is meant by 'known premisses'. it can, therefore, at best define one sort of knowledge, the sort we call derivative, as opposed to intuitive knowledge. we may say: '_derivative_ knowledge is what is validly deduced from premisses known intuitively'. in this statement there is no formal defect, but it leaves the definition of _intuitive_ knowledge still to seek. leaving on one side, for the moment, the question of intuitive knowledge, let us consider the above suggested definition of derivative knowledge. the chief objection to it is that it unduly limits knowledge. it constantly happens that people entertain a true belief, which has grown up in them because of some piece of intuitive knowledge from which it is capable of being validly inferred, but from which it has not, as a matter of fact, been inferred by any logical process. take, for example, the beliefs produced by reading. if the newspapers announce the death of the king, we are fairly well justified in believing that the king is dead, since this is the sort of announcement which would not be made if it were false. and we are quite amply justified in believing that the newspaper asserts that the king is dead. but here the intuitive knowledge upon which our belief is based is knowledge of the existence of sense-data derived from looking at the print which gives the news. this knowledge scarcely rises into consciousness, except in a person who cannot read easily. a child may be aware of the shapes of the letters, and pass gradually and painfully to a realization of their meaning. but anybody accustomed to reading passes at once to what the letters mean, and is not aware, except on reflection, that he has derived this knowledge from the sense-data called seeing the printed letters. thus although a valid inference from the-letters to their meaning is possible, and _could_ be performed by the reader, it is not in fact performed, since he does not in fact perform any operation which can be called logical inference. yet it would be absurd to say that the reader does not _know_ that the newspaper announces the king's death. we must, therefore, admit as derivative knowledge whatever is the result of intuitive knowledge even if by mere association, provided there _is_ a valid logical connexion, and the person in question could become aware of this connexion by reflection. there are in fact many ways, besides logical inference, by which we pass from one belief to another: the passage from the print to its meaning illustrates these ways. these ways may be called 'psychological inference'. we shall, then, admit such psychological inference as a means of obtaining derivative knowledge, provided there is a discoverable logical inference which runs parallel to the psychological inference. this renders our definition of derivative knowledge less precise than we could wish, since the word 'discoverable' is vague: it does not tell us how much reflection may be needed in order to make the discovery. but in fact 'knowledge' is not a precise conception: it merges into 'probable opinion', as we shall see more fully in the course of the present chapter. a very precise definition, therefore, should not be sought, since any such definition must be more or less misleading. the chief difficulty in regard to knowledge, however, does not arise over derivative knowledge, but over intuitive knowledge. so long as we are dealing with derivative knowledge, we have the test of intuitive knowledge to fall back upon. but in regard to intuitive beliefs, it is by no means easy to discover any criterion by which to distinguish some as true and others as erroneous. in this question it is scarcely possible to reach any very precise result: all our knowledge of truths is infected with some degree of doubt, and a theory which ignored this fact would be plainly wrong. something may be done, however, to mitigate the difficulties of the question. our theory of truth, to begin with, supplies the possibility of distinguishing certain truths as _self-evident_ in a sense which ensures infallibility. when a belief is true, we said, there is a corresponding fact, in which the several objects of the belief form a single complex. the belief is said to constitute _knowledge_ of this fact, provided it fulfils those further somewhat vague conditions which we have been considering in the present chapter. but in regard to any fact, besides the knowledge constituted by belief, we may also have the kind of knowledge constituted by _perception_ (taking this word in its widest possible sense). for example, if you know the hour of the sunset, you can at that hour know the fact that the sun is setting: this is knowledge of the fact by way of knowledge of _truths_; but you can also, if the weather is fine, look to the west and actually see the setting sun: you then know the same fact by the way of knowledge of _things_. thus in regard to any complex fact, there are, theoretically, two ways in which it may be known: ( ) by means of a judgement, in which its several parts are judged to be related as they are in fact related; ( ) by means of _acquaintance_ with the complex fact itself, which may (in a large sense) be called perception, though it is by no means confined to objects of the senses. now it will be observed that the second way of knowing a complex fact, the way of acquaintance, is only possible when there really is such a fact, while the first way, like all judgement, is liable to error. the second way gives us the complex whole, and is therefore only possible when its parts do actually have that relation which makes them combine to form such a complex. the first way, on the contrary, gives us the parts and the relation severally, and demands only the reality of the parts and the relation: the relation may not relate those parts in that way, and yet the judgement may occur. it will be remembered that at the end of chapter xi we suggested that there might be two kinds of self-evidence, one giving an absolute guarantee of truth, the other only a partial guarantee. these two kinds can now be distinguished. we may say that a truth is self-evident, in the first and most absolute sense, when we have acquaintance with the fact which corresponds to the truth. when othello believes that desdemona loves cassio, the corresponding fact, if his belief were true, would be 'desdemona's love for cassio'. this would be a fact with which no one could have acquaintance except desdemona; hence in the sense of self-evidence that we are considering, the truth that desdemona loves cassio (if it were a truth) could only be self-evident to desdemona. all mental facts, and all facts concerning sense-data, have this same privacy: there is only one person to whom they can be self-evident in our present sense, since there is only one person who can be acquainted with the mental things or the sense-data concerned. thus no fact about any particular existing thing can be self-evident to more than one person. on the other hand, facts about universals do not have this privacy. many minds may be acquainted with the same universals; hence a relation between universals may be known by acquaintance to many different people. in all cases where we know by acquaintance a complex fact consisting of certain terms in a certain relation, we say that the truth that these terms are so related has the first or absolute kind of self-evidence, and in these cases the judgement that the terms are so related _must_ be true. thus this sort of self-evidence is an absolute guarantee of truth. but although this sort of self-evidence is an absolute guarantee of truth, it does not enable us to be _absolutely_ certain, in the case of any given judgement, that the judgement in question is true. suppose we first perceive the sun shining, which is a complex fact, and thence proceed to make the judgement 'the sun is shining'. in passing from the perception to the judgement, it is necessary to analyse the given complex fact: we have to separate out 'the sun' and 'shining' as constituents of the fact. in this process it is possible to commit an error; hence even where a _fact_ has the first or absolute kind of self-evidence, a judgement believed to correspond to the fact is not absolutely infallible, because it may not really correspond to the fact. but if it does correspond (in the sense explained in the preceding chapter), then it _must_ be true. the second sort of self-evidence will be that which belongs to judgements in the first instance, and is not derived from direct perception of a fact as a single complex whole. this second kind of self-evidence will have degrees, from the very highest degree down to a bare inclination in favour of the belief. take, for example, the case of a horse trotting away from us along a hard road. at first our certainty that we hear the hoofs is complete; gradually, if we listen intently, there comes a moment when we think perhaps it was imagination or the blind upstairs or our own heartbeats; at last we become doubtful whether there was any noise at all; then we _think_ we no longer hear anything, and at last we _know_ we no longer hear anything. in this process, there is a continual gradation of self-evidence, from the highest degree to the least, not in the sense-data themselves, but in the judgements based on them. or again: suppose we are comparing two shades of colour, one blue and one green. we can be quite sure they are different shades of colour; but if the green colour is gradually altered to be more and more like the blue, becoming first a blue-green, then a greeny-blue, then blue, there will come a moment when we are doubtful whether we can see any difference, and then a moment when we know that we cannot see any difference. the same thing happens in tuning a musical instrument, or in any other case where there is a continuous gradation. thus self-evidence of this sort is a matter of degree; and it seems plain that the higher degrees are more to be trusted than the lower degrees. in derivative knowledge our ultimate premisses must have some degree of self-evidence, and so must their connexion with the conclusions deduced from them. take for example a piece of reasoning in geometry. it is not enough that the axioms from which we start should be self-evident: it is necessary also that, at each step in the reasoning, the connexion of premiss and conclusion should be self-evident. in difficult reasoning, this connexion has often only a very small degree of self-evidence; hence errors of reasoning are not improbable where the difficulty is great. from what has been said it is evident that, both as regards intuitive knowledge and as regards derivative knowledge, if we assume that intuitive knowledge is trustworthy in proportion to the degree of its self-evidence, there will be a gradation in trustworthiness, from the existence of noteworthy sense-data and the simpler truths of logic and arithmetic, which may be taken as quite certain, down to judgements which seem only just more probable than their opposites. what we firmly believe, if it is true, is called _knowledge_, provided it is either intuitive or inferred (logically or psychologically) from intuitive knowledge from which it follows logically. what we firmly believe, if it is not true, is called _error_. what we firmly believe, if it is neither knowledge nor error, and also what we believe hesitatingly, because it is, or is derived from, something which has not the highest degree of self-evidence, may be called _probable opinion_. thus the greater part of what would commonly pass as knowledge is more or less probable opinion. in regard to probable opinion, we can derive great assistance from _coherence_, which we rejected as the _definition_ of truth, but may often use as a _criterion_. a body of individually probable opinions, if they are mutually coherent, become more probable than any one of them would be individually. it is in this way that many scientific hypotheses acquire their probability. they fit into a coherent system of probable opinions, and thus become more probable than they would be in isolation. the same thing applies to general philosophical hypotheses. often in a single case such hypotheses may seem highly doubtful, while yet, when we consider the order and coherence which they introduce into a mass of probable opinion, they become pretty nearly certain. this applies, in particular, to such matters as the distinction between dreams and waking life. if our dreams, night after night, were as coherent one with another as our days, we should hardly know whether to believe the dreams or the waking life. as it is, the test of coherence condemns the dreams and confirms the waking life. but this test, though it increases probability where it is successful, never gives absolute certainty, unless there is certainty already at some point in the coherent system. thus the mere organization of probable opinion will never, by itself, transform it into indubitable knowledge. chapter xiv. the limits of philosophical knowledge in all that we have said hitherto concerning philosophy, we have scarcely touched on many matters that occupy a great space in the writings of most philosophers. most philosophers--or, at any rate, very many--profess to be able to prove, by _a priori_ metaphysical reasoning, such things as the fundamental dogmas of religion, the essential rationality of the universe, the illusoriness of matter, the unreality of all evil, and so on. there can be no doubt that the hope of finding reason to believe such theses as these has been the chief inspiration of many life-long students of philosophy. this hope, i believe, is vain. it would seem that knowledge concerning the universe as a whole is not to be obtained by metaphysics, and that the proposed proofs that, in virtue of the laws of logic such and such things _must_ exist and such and such others cannot, are not capable of surviving a critical scrutiny. in this chapter we shall briefly consider the kind of way in which such reasoning is attempted, with a view to discovering whether we can hope that it may be valid. the great representative, in modern times, of the kind of view which we wish to examine, was hegel ( - ). hegel's philosophy is very difficult, and commentators differ as to the true interpretation of it. according to the interpretation i shall adopt, which is that of many, if not most, of the commentators and has the merit of giving an interesting and important type of philosophy, his main thesis is that everything short of the whole is obviously fragmentary, and obviously incapable of existing without the complement supplied by the rest of the world. just as a comparative anatomist, from a single bone, sees what kind of animal the whole must have been, so the metaphysician, according to hegel, sees, from any one piece of reality, what the whole of reality must be--at least in its large outlines. every apparently separate piece of reality has, as it were, hooks which grapple it to the next piece; the next piece, in turn, has fresh hooks, and so on, until the whole universe is reconstructed. this essential incompleteness appears, according to hegel, equally in the world of thought and in the world of things. in the world of thought, if we take any idea which is abstract or incomplete, we find, on examination, that if we forget its incompleteness, we become involved in contradictions; these contradictions turn the idea in question into its opposite, or antithesis; and in order to escape, we have to find a new, less incomplete idea, which is the synthesis of our original idea and its antithesis. this new idea, though less incomplete than the idea we started with, will be found, nevertheless, to be still not wholly complete, but to pass into its antithesis, with which it must be combined in a new synthesis. in this way hegel advances until he reaches the 'absolute idea', which, according to him, has no incompleteness, no opposite, and no need of further development. the absolute idea, therefore, is adequate to describe absolute reality; but all lower ideas only describe reality as it appears to a partial view, not as it is to one who simultaneously surveys the whole. thus hegel reaches the conclusion that absolute reality forms one single harmonious system, not in space or time, not in any degree evil, wholly rational, and wholly spiritual. any appearance to the contrary, in the world we know, can be proved logically--so he believes--to be entirely due to our fragmentary piecemeal view of the universe. if we saw the universe whole, as we may suppose god sees it, space and time and matter and evil and all striving and struggling would disappear, and we should see instead an eternal perfect unchanging spiritual unity. in this conception, there is undeniably something sublime, something to which we could wish to yield assent. nevertheless, when the arguments in support of it are carefully examined, they appear to involve much confusion and many unwarrantable assumptions. the fundamental tenet upon which the system is built up is that what is incomplete must be not self-subsistent, but must need the support of other things before it can exist. it is held that whatever has relations to things outside itself must contain some reference to those outside things in its own nature, and could not, therefore, be what it is if those outside things did not exist. a man's nature, for example, is constituted by his memories and the rest of his knowledge, by his loves and hatreds, and so on; thus, but for the objects which he knows or loves or hates, he could not be what he is. he is essentially and obviously a fragment: taken as the sum-total of reality he would be self-contradictory. this whole point of view, however, turns upon the notion of the 'nature' of a thing, which seems to mean 'all the truths about the thing'. it is of course the case that a truth which connects one thing with another thing could not subsist if the other thing did not subsist. but a truth about a thing is not part of the thing itself, although it must, according to the above usage, be part of the 'nature' of the thing. if we mean by a thing's 'nature' all the truths about the thing, then plainly we cannot know a thing's 'nature' unless we know all the thing's relations to all the other things in the universe. but if the word 'nature' is used in this sense, we shall have to hold that the thing may be known when its 'nature' is not known, or at any rate is not known completely. there is a confusion, when this use of the word 'nature' is employed, between knowledge of things and knowledge of truths. we may have knowledge of a thing by acquaintance even if we know very few propositions about it--theoretically we need not know any propositions about it. thus, acquaintance with a thing does not involve knowledge of its 'nature' in the above sense. and although acquaintance with a thing is involved in our knowing any one proposition about a thing, knowledge of its 'nature', in the above sense, is not involved. hence, ( ) acquaintance with a thing does not logically involve a knowledge of its relations, and ( ) a knowledge of some of its relations does not involve a knowledge of all of its relations nor a knowledge of its 'nature' in the above sense. i may be acquainted, for example, with my toothache, and this knowledge may be as complete as knowledge by acquaintance ever can be, without knowing all that the dentist (who is not acquainted with it) can tell me about its cause, and without therefore knowing its 'nature' in the above sense. thus the fact that a thing has relations does not prove that its relations are logically necessary. that is to say, from the mere fact that it is the thing it is we cannot deduce that it must have the various relations which in fact it has. this only _seems_ to follow because we know it already. it follows that we cannot prove that the universe as a whole forms a single harmonious system such as hegel believes that it forms. and if we cannot prove this, we also cannot prove the unreality of space and time and matter and evil, for this is deduced by hegel from the fragmentary and relational character of these things. thus we are left to the piecemeal investigation of the world, and are unable to know the characters of those parts of the universe that are remote from our experience. this result, disappointing as it is to those whose hopes have been raised by the systems of philosophers, is in harmony with the inductive and scientific temper of our age, and is borne out by the whole examination of human knowledge which has occupied our previous chapters. most of the great ambitious attempts of metaphysicians have proceeded by the attempt to prove that such and such apparent features of the actual world were self-contradictory, and therefore could not be real. the whole tendency of modern thought, however, is more and more in the direction of showing that the supposed contradictions were illusory, and that very little can be proved _a priori_ from considerations of what _must_ be. a good illustration of this is afforded by space and time. space and time appear to be infinite in extent, and infinitely divisible. if we travel along a straight line in either direction, it is difficult to believe that we shall finally reach a last point, beyond which there is nothing, not even empty space. similarly, if in imagination we travel backwards or forwards in time, it is difficult to believe that we shall reach a first or last time, with not even empty time beyond it. thus space and time appear to be infinite in extent. again, if we take any two points on a line, it seems evident that there must be other points between them however small the distance between them may be: every distance can be halved, and the halves can be halved again, and so on _ad infinitum_. in time, similarly, however little time may elapse between two moments, it seems evident that there will be other moments between them. thus space and time appear to be infinitely divisible. but as against these apparent facts--infinite extent and infinite divisibility--philosophers have advanced arguments tending to show that there could be no infinite collections of things, and that therefore the number of points in space, or of instants in time, must be finite. thus a contradiction emerged between the apparent nature of space and time and the supposed impossibility of infinite collections. kant, who first emphasized this contradiction, deduced the impossibility of space and time, which he declared to be merely subjective; and since his time very many philosophers have believed that space and time are mere appearance, not characteristic of the world as it really is. now, however, owing to the labours of the mathematicians, notably georg cantor, it has appeared that the impossibility of infinite collections was a mistake. they are not in fact self-contradictory, but only contradictory of certain rather obstinate mental prejudices. hence the reasons for regarding space and time as unreal have become inoperative, and one of the great sources of metaphysical constructions is dried up. the mathematicians, however, have not been content with showing that space as it is commonly supposed to be is possible; they have shown also that many other forms of space are equally possible, so far as logic can show. some of euclid's axioms, which appear to common sense to be necessary, and were formerly supposed to be necessary by philosophers, are now known to derive their appearance of necessity from our mere familiarity with actual space, and not from any _a priori_ logical foundation. by imagining worlds in which these axioms are false, the mathematicians have used logic to loosen the prejudices of common sense, and to show the possibility of spaces differing--some more, some less--from that in which we live. and some of these spaces differ so little from euclidean space, where distances such as we can measure are concerned, that it is impossible to discover by observation whether our actual space is strictly euclidean or of one of these other kinds. thus the position is completely reversed. formerly it appeared that experience left only one kind of space to logic, and logic showed this one kind to be impossible. now, logic presents many kinds of space as possible apart from experience, and experience only partially decides between them. thus, while our knowledge of what is has become less than it was formerly supposed to be, our knowledge of what may be is enormously increased. instead of being shut in within narrow walls, of which every nook and cranny could be explored, we find ourselves in an open world of free possibilities, where much remains unknown because there is so much to know. what has happened in the case of space and time has happened, to some extent, in other directions as well. the attempt to prescribe to the universe by means of _a priori_ principles has broken down; logic, instead of being, as formerly, the bar to possibilities, has become the great liberator of the imagination, presenting innumerable alternatives which are closed to unreflective common sense, and leaving to experience the task of deciding, where decision is possible, between the many worlds which logic offers for our choice. thus knowledge as to what exists becomes limited to what we can learn from experience--not to what we can actually experience, for, as we have seen, there is much knowledge by description concerning things of which we have no direct experience. but in all cases of knowledge by description, we need some connexion of universals, enabling us, from such and such a datum, to infer an object of a certain sort as implied by our datum. thus in regard to physical objects, for example, the principle that sense-data are signs of physical objects is itself a connexion of universals; and it is only in virtue of this principle that experience enables us to acquire knowledge concerning physical objects. the same applies to the law of causality, or, to descend to what is less general, to such principles as the law of gravitation. principles such as the law of gravitation are proved, or rather are rendered highly probable, by a combination of experience with some wholly _a priori_ principle, such as the principle of induction. thus our intuitive knowledge, which is the source of all our other knowledge of truths, is of two sorts: pure empirical knowledge, which tells us of the existence and some of the properties of particular things with which we are acquainted, and pure _a priori_ knowledge, which gives us connexions between universals, and enables us to draw inferences from the particular facts given in empirical knowledge. our derivative knowledge always depends upon some pure _a priori_ knowledge and usually also depends upon some pure empirical knowledge. philosophical knowledge, if what has been said above is true, does not differ essentially from scientific knowledge; there is no special source of wisdom which is open to philosophy but not to science, and the results obtained by philosophy are not radically different from those obtained from science. the essential characteristic of philosophy, which makes it a study distinct from science, is criticism. it examines critically the principles employed in science and in daily life; it searches out any inconsistencies there may be in these principles, and it only accepts them when, as the result of a critical inquiry, no reason for rejecting them has appeared. if, as many philosophers have believed, the principles underlying the sciences were capable, when disengaged from irrelevant detail, of giving us knowledge concerning the universe as a whole, such knowledge would have the same claim on our belief as scientific knowledge has; but our inquiry has not revealed any such knowledge, and therefore, as regards the special doctrines of the bolder metaphysicians, has had a mainly negative result. but as regards what would be commonly accepted as knowledge, our result is in the main positive: we have seldom found reason to reject such knowledge as the result of our criticism, and we have seen no reason to suppose man incapable of the kind of knowledge which he is generally believed to possess. when, however, we speak of philosophy as a _criticism_ of knowledge, it is necessary to impose a certain limitation. if we adopt the attitude of the complete sceptic, placing ourselves wholly outside all knowledge, and asking, from this outside position, to be compelled to return within the circle of knowledge, we are demanding what is impossible, and our scepticism can never be refuted. for all refutation must begin with some piece of knowledge which the disputants share; from blank doubt, no argument can begin. hence the criticism of knowledge which philosophy employs must not be of this destructive kind, if any result is to be achieved. against this absolute scepticism, no _logical_ argument can be advanced. but it is not difficult to see that scepticism of this kind is unreasonable. descartes' 'methodical doubt', with which modern philosophy began, is not of this kind, but is rather the kind of criticism which we are asserting to be the essence of philosophy. his 'methodical doubt' consisted in doubting whatever seemed doubtful; in pausing, with each apparent piece of knowledge, to ask himself whether, on reflection, he could feel certain that he really knew it. this is the kind of criticism which constitutes philosophy. some knowledge, such as knowledge of the existence of our sense-data, appears quite indubitable, however calmly and thoroughly we reflect upon it. in regard to such knowledge, philosophical criticism does not require that we should abstain from belief. but there are beliefs--such, for example, as the belief that physical objects exactly resemble our sense-data--which are entertained until we begin to reflect, but are found to melt away when subjected to a close inquiry. such beliefs philosophy will bid us reject, unless some new line of argument is found to support them. but to reject the beliefs which do not appear open to any objections, however closely we examine them, is not reasonable, and is not what philosophy advocates. the criticism aimed at, in a word, is not that which, without reason, determines to reject, but that which considers each piece of apparent knowledge on its merits, and retains whatever still appears to be knowledge when this consideration is completed. that some risk of error remains must be admitted, since human beings are fallible. philosophy may claim justly that it diminishes the risk of error, and that in some cases it renders the risk so small as to be practically negligible. to do more than this is not possible in a world where mistakes must occur; and more than this no prudent advocate of philosophy would claim to have performed. chapter xv. the value of philosophy having now come to the end of our brief and very incomplete review of the problems of philosophy, it will be well to consider, in conclusion, what is the value of philosophy and why it ought to be studied. it is the more necessary to consider this question, in view of the fact that many men, under the influence of science or of practical affairs, are inclined to doubt whether philosophy is anything better than innocent but useless trifling, hair-splitting distinctions, and controversies on matters concerning which knowledge is impossible. this view of philosophy appears to result, partly from a wrong conception of the ends of life, partly from a wrong conception of the kind of goods which philosophy strives to achieve. physical science, through the medium of inventions, is useful to innumerable people who are wholly ignorant of it; thus the study of physical science is to be recommended, not only, or primarily, because of the effect on the student, but rather because of the effect on mankind in general. thus utility does not belong to philosophy. if the study of philosophy has any value at all for others than students of philosophy, it must be only indirectly, through its effects upon the lives of those who study it. it is in these effects, therefore, if anywhere, that the value of philosophy must be primarily sought. but further, if we are not to fail in our endeavour to determine the value of philosophy, we must first free our minds from the prejudices of what are wrongly called 'practical' men. the 'practical' man, as this word is often used, is one who recognizes only material needs, who realizes that men must have food for the body, but is oblivious of the necessity of providing food for the mind. if all men were well off, if poverty and disease had been reduced to their lowest possible point, there would still remain much to be done to produce a valuable society; and even in the existing world the goods of the mind are at least as important as the goods of the body. it is exclusively among the goods of the mind that the value of philosophy is to be found; and only those who are not indifferent to these goods can be persuaded that the study of philosophy is not a waste of time. philosophy, like all other studies, aims primarily at knowledge. the knowledge it aims at is the kind of knowledge which gives unity and system to the body of the sciences, and the kind which results from a critical examination of the grounds of our convictions, prejudices, and beliefs. but it cannot be maintained that philosophy has had any very great measure of success in its attempts to provide definite answers to its questions. if you ask a mathematician, a mineralogist, a historian, or any other man of learning, what definite body of truths has been ascertained by his science, his answer will last as long as you are willing to listen. but if you put the same question to a philosopher, he will, if he is candid, have to confess that his study has not achieved positive results such as have been achieved by other sciences. it is true that this is partly accounted for by the fact that, as soon as definite knowledge concerning any subject becomes possible, this subject ceases to be called philosophy, and becomes a separate science. the whole study of the heavens, which now belongs to astronomy, was once included in philosophy; newton's great work was called 'the mathematical principles of natural philosophy'. similarly, the study of the human mind, which was a part of philosophy, has now been separated from philosophy and has become the science of psychology. thus, to a great extent, the uncertainty of philosophy is more apparent than real: those questions which are already capable of definite answers are placed in the sciences, while those only to which, at present, no definite answer can be given, remain to form the residue which is called philosophy. this is, however, only a part of the truth concerning the uncertainty of philosophy. there are many questions--and among them those that are of the profoundest interest to our spiritual life--which, so far as we can see, must remain insoluble to the human intellect unless its powers become of quite a different order from what they are now. has the universe any unity of plan or purpose, or is it a fortuitous concourse of atoms? is consciousness a permanent part of the universe, giving hope of indefinite growth in wisdom, or is it a transitory accident on a small planet on which life must ultimately become impossible? are good and evil of importance to the universe or only to man? such questions are asked by philosophy, and variously answered by various philosophers. but it would seem that, whether answers be otherwise discoverable or not, the answers suggested by philosophy are none of them demonstrably true. yet, however slight may be the hope of discovering an answer, it is part of the business of philosophy to continue the consideration of such questions, to make us aware of their importance, to examine all the approaches to them, and to keep alive that speculative interest in the universe which is apt to be killed by confining ourselves to definitely ascertainable knowledge. many philosophers, it is true, have held that philosophy could establish the truth of certain answers to such fundamental questions. they have supposed that what is of most importance in religious beliefs could be proved by strict demonstration to be true. in order to judge of such attempts, it is necessary to take a survey of human knowledge, and to form an opinion as to its methods and its limitations. on such a subject it would be unwise to pronounce dogmatically; but if the investigations of our previous chapters have not led us astray, we shall be compelled to renounce the hope of finding philosophical proofs of religious beliefs. we cannot, therefore, include as part of the value of philosophy any definite set of answers to such questions. hence, once more, the value of philosophy must not depend upon any supposed body of definitely ascertainable knowledge to be acquired by those who study it. the value of philosophy is, in fact, to be sought largely in its very uncertainty. the man who has no tincture of philosophy goes through life imprisoned in the prejudices derived from common sense, from the habitual beliefs of his age or his nation, and from convictions which have grown up in his mind without the co-operation or consent of his deliberate reason. to such a man the world tends to become definite, finite, obvious; common objects rouse no questions, and unfamiliar possibilities are contemptuously rejected. as soon as we begin to philosophize, on the contrary, we find, as we saw in our opening chapters, that even the most everyday things lead to problems to which only very incomplete answers can be given. philosophy, though unable to tell us with certainty what is the true answer to the doubts which it raises, is able to suggest many possibilities which enlarge our thoughts and free them from the tyranny of custom. thus, while diminishing our feeling of certainty as to what things are, it greatly increases our knowledge as to what they may be; it removes the somewhat arrogant dogmatism of those who have never travelled into the region of liberating doubt, and it keeps alive our sense of wonder by showing familiar things in an unfamiliar aspect. apart from its utility in showing unsuspected possibilities, philosophy has a value--perhaps its chief value--through the greatness of the objects which it contemplates, and the freedom from narrow and personal aims resulting from this contemplation. the life of the instinctive man is shut up within the circle of his private interests: family and friends may be included, but the outer world is not regarded except as it may help or hinder what comes within the circle of instinctive wishes. in such a life there is something feverish and confined, in comparison with which the philosophic life is calm and free. the private world of instinctive interests is a small one, set in the midst of a great and powerful world which must, sooner or later, lay our private world in ruins. unless we can so enlarge our interests as to include the whole outer world, we remain like a garrison in a beleagured fortress, knowing that the enemy prevents escape and that ultimate surrender is inevitable. in such a life there is no peace, but a constant strife between the insistence of desire and the powerlessness of will. in one way or another, if our life is to be great and free, we must escape this prison and this strife. one way of escape is by philosophic contemplation. philosophic contemplation does not, in its widest survey, divide the universe into two hostile camps--friends and foes, helpful and hostile, good and bad--it views the whole impartially. philosophic contemplation, when it is unalloyed, does not aim at proving that the rest of the universe is akin to man. all acquisition of knowledge is an enlargement of the self, but this enlargement is best attained when it is not directly sought. it is obtained when the desire for knowledge is alone operative, by a study which does not wish in advance that its objects should have this or that character, but adapts the self to the characters which it finds in its objects. this enlargement of self is not obtained when, taking the self as it is, we try to show that the world is so similar to this self that knowledge of it is possible without any admission of what seems alien. the desire to prove this is a form of self-assertion and, like all self-assertion, it is an obstacle to the growth of self which it desires, and of which the self knows that it is capable. self-assertion, in philosophic speculation as elsewhere, views the world as a means to its own ends; thus it makes the world of less account than self, and the self sets bounds to the greatness of its goods. in contemplation, on the contrary, we start from the not-self, and through its greatness the boundaries of self are enlarged; through the infinity of the universe the mind which contemplates it achieves some share in infinity. for this reason greatness of soul is not fostered by those philosophies which assimilate the universe to man. knowledge is a form of union of self and not-self; like all union, it is impaired by dominion, and therefore by any attempt to force the universe into conformity with what we find in ourselves. there is a widespread philosophical tendency towards the view which tells us that man is the measure of all things, that truth is man-made, that space and time and the world of universals are properties of the mind, and that, if there be anything not created by the mind, it is unknowable and of no account for us. this view, if our previous discussions were correct, is untrue; but in addition to being untrue, it has the effect of robbing philosophic contemplation of all that gives it value, since it fetters contemplation to self. what it calls knowledge is not a union with the not-self, but a set of prejudices, habits, and desires, making an impenetrable veil between us and the world beyond. the man who finds pleasure in such a theory of knowledge is like the man who never leaves the domestic circle for fear his word might not be law. the true philosophic contemplation, on the contrary, finds its satisfaction in every enlargement of the not-self, in everything that magnifies the objects contemplated, and thereby the subject contemplating. everything, in contemplation, that is personal or private, everything that depends upon habit, self-interest, or desire, distorts the object, and hence impairs the union which the intellect seeks. by thus making a barrier between subject and object, such personal and private things become a prison to the intellect. the free intellect will see as god might see, without a _here_ and _now_, without hopes and fears, without the trammels of customary beliefs and traditional prejudices, calmly, dispassionately, in the sole and exclusive desire of knowledge--knowledge as impersonal, as purely contemplative, as it is possible for man to attain. hence also the free intellect will value more the abstract and universal knowledge into which the accidents of private history do not enter, than the knowledge brought by the senses, and dependent, as such knowledge must be, upon an exclusive and personal point of view and a body whose sense-organs distort as much as they reveal. the mind which has become accustomed to the freedom and impartiality of philosophic contemplation will preserve something of the same freedom and impartiality in the world of action and emotion. it will view its purposes and desires as parts of the whole, with the absence of insistence that results from seeing them as infinitesimal fragments in a world of which all the rest is unaffected by any one man's deeds. the impartiality which, in contemplation, is the unalloyed desire for truth, is the very same quality of mind which, in action, is justice, and in emotion is that universal love which can be given to all, and not only to those who are judged useful or admirable. thus contemplation enlarges not only the objects of our thoughts, but also the objects of our actions and our affections: it makes us citizens of the universe, not only of one walled city at war with all the rest. in this citizenship of the universe consists man's true freedom, and his liberation from the thraldom of narrow hopes and fears. thus, to sum up our discussion of the value of philosophy; philosophy is to be studied, not for the sake of any definite answers to its questions, since no definite answers can, as a rule, be known to be true, but rather for the sake of the questions themselves; because these questions enlarge our conception of what is possible, enrich our intellectual imagination and diminish the dogmatic assurance which closes the mind against speculation; but above all because, through the greatness of the universe which philosophy contemplates, the mind also is rendered great, and becomes capable of that union with the universe which constitutes its highest good. bibliographical note the student who wishes to acquire an elementary knowledge of philosophy will find it both easier and more profitable to read some of the works of the great philosophers than to attempt to derive an all-round view from handbooks. the following are specially recommended: plato: _republic_, especially books vi and vii. descartes: _meditations_. spinoza: _ethics_. leibniz: _the monadology_. berkeley: _three dialogues between hylas and philonous_. hume: _enquiry concerning human understanding_. kant: _prolegomena to any future metaphysic_. theaetetus by plato translated by benjamin jowett introduction and analysis. some dialogues of plato are of so various a character that their relation to the other dialogues cannot be determined with any degree of certainty. the theaetetus, like the parmenides, has points of similarity both with his earlier and his later writings. the perfection of style, the humour, the dramatic interest, the complexity of structure, the fertility of illustration, the shifting of the points of view, are characteristic of his best period of authorship. the vain search, the negative conclusion, the figure of the midwives, the constant profession of ignorance on the part of socrates, also bear the stamp of the early dialogues, in which the original socrates is not yet platonized. had we no other indications, we should be disposed to range the theaetetus with the apology and the phaedrus, and perhaps even with the protagoras and the laches. but when we pass from the style to an examination of the subject, we trace a connection with the later rather than with the earlier dialogues. in the first place there is the connexion, indicated by plato himself at the end of the dialogue, with the sophist, to which in many respects the theaetetus is so little akin. ( ) the same persons reappear, including the younger socrates, whose name is just mentioned in the theaetetus; ( ) the theory of rest, which socrates has declined to consider, is resumed by the eleatic stranger; ( ) there is a similar allusion in both dialogues to the meeting of parmenides and socrates (theaet., soph.); and ( ) the inquiry into not-being in the sophist supplements the question of false opinion which is raised in the theaetetus. (compare also theaet. and soph. for parallel turns of thought.) secondly, the later date of the dialogue is confirmed by the absence of the doctrine of recollection and of any doctrine of ideas except that which derives them from generalization and from reflection of the mind upon itself. the general character of the theaetetus is dialectical, and there are traces of the same megarian influences which appear in the parmenides, and which later writers, in their matter of fact way, have explained by the residence of plato at megara. socrates disclaims the character of a professional eristic, and also, with a sort of ironical admiration, expresses his inability to attain the megarian precision in the use of terms. yet he too employs a similar sophistical skill in overturning every conceivable theory of knowledge. the direct indications of a date amount to no more than this: the conversation is said to have taken place when theaetetus was a youth, and shortly before the death of socrates. at the time of his own death he is supposed to be a full-grown man. allowing nine or ten years for the interval between youth and manhood, the dialogue could not have been written earlier than , when plato was about thirty-nine years of age. no more definite date is indicated by the engagement in which theaetetus is said to have fallen or to have been wounded, and which may have taken place any time during the corinthian war, between the years - . the later date which has been suggested, , when the athenians and lacedaemonians disputed the isthmus with epaminondas, would make the age of theaetetus at his death forty-five or forty-six. this a little impairs the beauty of socrates' remark, that 'he would be a great man if he lived.' in this uncertainty about the place of the theaetetus, it seemed better, as in the case of the republic, timaeus, critias, to retain the order in which plato himself has arranged this and the two companion dialogues. we cannot exclude the possibility which has been already noticed in reference to other works of plato, that the theaetetus may not have been all written continuously; or the probability that the sophist and politicus, which differ greatly in style, were only appended after a long interval of time. the allusion to parmenides compared with the sophist, would probably imply that the dialogue which is called by his name was already in existence; unless, indeed, we suppose the passage in which the allusion occurs to have been inserted afterwards. again, the theaetetus may be connected with the gorgias, either dialogue from different points of view containing an analysis of the real and apparent (schleiermacher); and both may be brought into relation with the apology as illustrating the personal life of socrates. the philebus, too, may with equal reason be placed either after or before what, in the language of thrasyllus, may be called the second platonic trilogy. both the parmenides and the sophist, and still more the theaetetus, have points of affinity with the cratylus, in which the principles of rest and motion are again contrasted, and the sophistical or protagorean theory of language is opposed to that which is attributed to the disciple of heracleitus, not to speak of lesser resemblances in thought and language. the parmenides, again, has been thought by some to hold an intermediate position between the theaetetus and the sophist; upon this view, the sophist may be regarded as the answer to the problems about one and being which have been raised in the parmenides. any of these arrangements may suggest new views to the student of plato; none of them can lay claim to an exclusive probability in its favour. the theaetetus is one of the narrated dialogues of plato, and is the only one which is supposed to have been written down. in a short introductory scene, euclides and terpsion are described as meeting before the door of euclides' house in megara. this may have been a spot familiar to plato (for megara was within a walk of athens), but no importance can be attached to the accidental introduction of the founder of the megarian philosophy. the real intention of the preface is to create an interest about the person of theaetetus, who has just been carried up from the army at corinth in a dying state. the expectation of his death recalls the promise of his youth, and especially the famous conversation which socrates had with him when he was quite young, a few days before his own trial and death, as we are once more reminded at the end of the dialogue. yet we may observe that plato has himself forgotten this, when he represents euclides as from time to time coming to athens and correcting the copy from socrates' own mouth. the narrative, having introduced theaetetus, and having guaranteed the authenticity of the dialogue (compare symposium, phaedo, parmenides), is then dropped. no further use is made of the device. as plato himself remarks, who in this as in some other minute points is imitated by cicero (de amicitia), the interlocutory words are omitted. theaetetus, the hero of the battle of corinth and of the dialogue, is a disciple of theodorus, the great geometrician, whose science is thus indicated to be the propaedeutic to philosophy. an interest has been already excited about him by his approaching death, and now he is introduced to us anew by the praises of his master theodorus. he is a youthful socrates, and exhibits the same contrast of the fair soul and the ungainly face and frame, the silenus mask and the god within, which are described in the symposium. the picture which theodorus gives of his courage and patience and intelligence and modesty is verified in the course of the dialogue. his courage is shown by his behaviour in the battle, and his other qualities shine forth as the argument proceeds. socrates takes an evident delight in 'the wise theaetetus,' who has more in him than 'many bearded men'; he is quite inspired by his answers. at first the youth is lost in wonder, and is almost too modest to speak, but, encouraged by socrates, he rises to the occasion, and grows full of interest and enthusiasm about the great question. like a youth, he has not finally made up his mind, and is very ready to follow the lead of socrates, and to enter into each successive phase of the discussion which turns up. his great dialectical talent is shown in his power of drawing distinctions, and of foreseeing the consequences of his own answers. the enquiry about the nature of knowledge is not new to him; long ago he has felt the 'pang of philosophy,' and has experienced the youthful intoxication which is depicted in the philebus. but he has hitherto been unable to make the transition from mathematics to metaphysics. he can form a general conception of square and oblong numbers, but he is unable to attain a similar expression of knowledge in the abstract. yet at length he begins to recognize that there are universal conceptions of being, likeness, sameness, number, which the mind contemplates in herself, and with the help of socrates is conducted from a theory of sense to a theory of ideas. there is no reason to doubt that theaetetus was a real person, whose name survived in the next generation. but neither can any importance be attached to the notices of him in suidas and proclus, which are probably based on the mention of him in plato. according to a confused statement in suidas, who mentions him twice over, first, as a pupil of socrates, and then of plato, he is said to have written the first work on the five solids. but no early authority cites the work, the invention of which may have been easily suggested by the division of roots, which plato attributes to him, and the allusion to the backward state of solid geometry in the republic. at any rate, there is no occasion to recall him to life again after the battle of corinth, in order that we may allow time for the completion of such a work (muller). we may also remark that such a supposition entirely destroys the pathetic interest of the introduction. theodorus, the geometrician, had once been the friend and disciple of protagoras, but he is very reluctant to leave his retirement and defend his old master. he is too old to learn socrates' game of question and answer, and prefers the digressions to the main argument, because he finds them easier to follow. the mathematician, as socrates says in the republic, is not capable of giving a reason in the same manner as the dialectician, and theodorus could not therefore have been appropriately introduced as the chief respondent. but he may be fairly appealed to, when the honour of his master is at stake. he is the 'guardian of his orphans,' although this is a responsibility which he wishes to throw upon callias, the friend and patron of all sophists, declaring that he himself had early 'run away' from philosophy, and was absorbed in mathematics. his extreme dislike to the heraclitean fanatics, which may be compared with the dislike of theaetetus to the materialists, and his ready acceptance of the noble words of socrates, are noticeable traits of character. the socrates of the theaetetus is the same as the socrates of the earlier dialogues. he is the invincible disputant, now advanced in years, of the protagoras and symposium; he is still pursuing his divine mission, his 'herculean labours,' of which he has described the origin in the apology; and he still hears the voice of his oracle, bidding him receive or not receive the truant souls. there he is supposed to have a mission to convict men of self-conceit; in the theaetetus he has assigned to him by god the functions of a man-midwife, who delivers men of their thoughts, and under this character he is present throughout the dialogue. he is the true prophet who has an insight into the natures of men, and can divine their future; and he knows that sympathy is the secret power which unlocks their thoughts. the hit at aristides, the son of lysimachus, who was specially committed to his charge in the laches, may be remarked by the way. the attempt to discover the definition of knowledge is in accordance with the character of socrates as he is described in the memorabilia, asking what is justice? what is temperance? and the like. but there is no reason to suppose that he would have analyzed the nature of perception, or traced the connexion of protagoras and heracleitus, or have raised the difficulty respecting false opinion. the humorous illustrations, as well as the serious thoughts, run through the dialogue. the snubnosedness of theaetetus, a characteristic which he shares with socrates, and the man-midwifery of socrates, are not forgotten in the closing words. at the end of the dialogue, as in the euthyphro, he is expecting to meet meletus at the porch of the king archon; but with the same indifference to the result which is everywhere displayed by him, he proposes that they shall reassemble on the following day at the same spot. the day comes, and in the sophist the three friends again meet, but no further allusion is made to the trial, and the principal share in the argument is assigned, not to socrates, but to an eleatic stranger; the youthful theaetetus also plays a different and less independent part. and there is no allusion in the introduction to the second and third dialogues, which are afterwards appended. there seems, therefore, reason to think that there is a real change, both in the characters and in the design. the dialogue is an enquiry into the nature of knowledge, which is interrupted by two digressions. the first is the digression about the midwives, which is also a leading thought or continuous image, like the wave in the republic, appearing and reappearing at intervals. again and again we are reminded that the successive conceptions of knowledge are extracted from theaetetus, who in his turn truly declares that socrates has got a great deal more out of him than ever was in him. socrates is never weary of working out the image in humorous details,--discerning the symptoms of labour, carrying the child round the hearth, fearing that theaetetus will bite him, comparing his conceptions to wind-eggs, asserting an hereditary right to the occupation. there is also a serious side to the image, which is an apt similitude of the socratic theory of education (compare republic, sophist), and accords with the ironical spirit in which the wisest of men delights to speak of himself. the other digression is the famous contrast of the lawyer and philosopher. this is a sort of landing-place or break in the middle of the dialogue. at the commencement of a great discussion, the reflection naturally arises, how happy are they who, like the philosopher, have time for such discussions (compare republic)! there is no reason for the introduction of such a digression; nor is a reason always needed, any more than for the introduction of an episode in a poem, or of a topic in conversation. that which is given by socrates is quite sufficient, viz. that the philosopher may talk and write as he pleases. but though not very closely connected, neither is the digression out of keeping with the rest of the dialogue. the philosopher naturally desires to pour forth the thoughts which are always present to him, and to discourse of the higher life. the idea of knowledge, although hard to be defined, is realised in the life of philosophy. and the contrast is the favourite antithesis between the world, in the various characters of sophist, lawyer, statesman, speaker, and the philosopher,--between opinion and knowledge,--between the conventional and the true. the greater part of the dialogue is devoted to setting up and throwing down definitions of science and knowledge. proceeding from the lower to the higher by three stages, in which perception, opinion, reasoning are successively examined, we first get rid of the confusion of the idea of knowledge and specific kinds of knowledge,--a confusion which has been already noticed in the lysis, laches, meno, and other dialogues. in the infancy of logic, a form of thought has to be invented before the content can be filled up. we cannot define knowledge until the nature of definition has been ascertained. having succeeded in making his meaning plain, socrates proceeds to analyze ( ) the first definition which theaetetus proposes: 'knowledge is sensible perception.' this is speedily identified with the protagorean saying, 'man is the measure of all things;' and of this again the foundation is discovered in the perpetual flux of heracleitus. the relativeness of sensation is then developed at length, and for a moment the definition appears to be accepted. but soon the protagorean thesis is pronounced to be suicidal; for the adversaries of protagoras are as good a measure as he is, and they deny his doctrine. he is then supposed to reply that the perception may be true at any given instant. but the reply is in the end shown to be inconsistent with the heraclitean foundation, on which the doctrine has been affirmed to rest. for if the heraclitean flux is extended to every sort of change in every instant of time, how can any thought or word be detained even for an instant? sensible perception, like everything else, is tumbling to pieces. nor can protagoras himself maintain that one man is as good as another in his knowledge of the future; and 'the expedient,' if not 'the just and true,' belongs to the sphere of the future. and so we must ask again, what is knowledge? the comparison of sensations with one another implies a principle which is above sensation, and which resides in the mind itself. we are thus led to look for knowledge in a higher sphere, and accordingly theaetetus, when again interrogated, replies ( ) that 'knowledge is true opinion.' but how is false opinion possible? the megarian or eristic spirit within us revives the question, which has been already asked and indirectly answered in the meno: 'how can a man be ignorant of that which he knows?' no answer is given to this not unanswerable question. the comparison of the mind to a block of wax, or to a decoy of birds, is found wanting. but are we not inverting the natural order in looking for opinion before we have found knowledge? and knowledge is not true opinion; for the athenian dicasts have true opinion but not knowledge. what then is knowledge? we answer ( ), 'true opinion, with definition or explanation.' but all the different ways in which this statement may be understood are set aside, like the definitions of courage in the laches, or of friendship in the lysis, or of temperance in the charmides. at length we arrive at the conclusion, in which nothing is concluded. there are two special difficulties which beset the student of the theaetetus: ( ) he is uncertain how far he can trust plato's account of the theory of protagoras; and he is also uncertain ( ) how far, and in what parts of the dialogue, plato is expressing his own opinion. the dramatic character of the work renders the answer to both these questions difficult. . in reply to the first, we have only probabilities to offer. three main points have to be decided: (a) would protagoras have identified his own thesis, 'man is the measure of all things,' with the other, 'all knowledge is sensible perception'? (b) would he have based the relativity of knowledge on the heraclitean flux? (c) would he have asserted the absoluteness of sensation at each instant? of the work of protagoras on 'truth' we know nothing, with the exception of the two famous fragments, which are cited in this dialogue, 'man is the measure of all things,' and, 'whether there are gods or not, i cannot tell.' nor have we any other trustworthy evidence of the tenets of protagoras, or of the sense in which his words are used. for later writers, including aristotle in his metaphysics, have mixed up the protagoras of plato, as they have the socrates of plato, with the real person. returning then to the theaetetus, as the only possible source from which an answer to these questions can be obtained, we may remark, that plato had 'the truth' of protagoras before him, and frequently refers to the book. he seems to say expressly, that in this work the doctrine of the heraclitean flux was not to be found; 'he told the real truth' (not in the book, which is so entitled, but) 'privately to his disciples,'--words which imply that the connexion between the doctrines of protagoras and heracleitus was not generally recognized in greece, but was really discovered or invented by plato. on the other hand, the doctrine that 'man is the measure of all things,' is expressly identified by socrates with the other statement, that 'what appears to each man is to him;' and a reference is made to the books in which the statement occurs;--this theaetetus, who has 'often read the books,' is supposed to acknowledge (so cratylus). and protagoras, in the speech attributed to him, never says that he has been misunderstood: he rather seems to imply that the absoluteness of sensation at each instant was to be found in his words. he is only indignant at the 'reductio ad absurdum' devised by socrates for his 'homo mensura,' which theodorus also considers to be 'really too bad.' the question may be raised, how far plato in the theaetetus could have misrepresented protagoras without violating the laws of dramatic probability. could he have pretended to cite from a well-known writing what was not to be found there? but such a shadowy enquiry is not worth pursuing further. we need only remember that in the criticism which follows of the thesis of protagoras, we are criticizing the protagoras of plato, and not attempting to draw a precise line between his real sentiments and those which plato has attributed to him. . the other difficulty is a more subtle, and also a more important one, because bearing on the general character of the platonic dialogues. on a first reading of them, we are apt to imagine that the truth is only spoken by socrates, who is never guilty of a fallacy himself, and is the great detector of the errors and fallacies of others. but this natural presumption is disturbed by the discovery that the sophists are sometimes in the right and socrates in the wrong. like the hero of a novel, he is not to be supposed always to represent the sentiments of the author. there are few modern readers who do not side with protagoras, rather than with socrates, in the dialogue which is called by his name. the cratylus presents a similar difficulty: in his etymologies, as in the number of the state, we cannot tell how far socrates is serious; for the socratic irony will not allow him to distinguish between his real and his assumed wisdom. no one is the superior of the invincible socrates in argument (except in the first part of the parmenides, where he is introduced as a youth); but he is by no means supposed to be in possession of the whole truth. arguments are often put into his mouth (compare introduction to the gorgias) which must have seemed quite as untenable to plato as to a modern writer. in this dialogue a great part of the answer of protagoras is just and sound; remarks are made by him on verbal criticism, and on the importance of understanding an opponent's meaning, which are conceived in the true spirit of philosophy. and the distinction which he is supposed to draw between eristic and dialectic, is really a criticism of plato on himself and his own criticism of protagoras. the difficulty seems to arise from not attending to the dramatic character of the writings of plato. there are two, or more, sides to questions; and these are parted among the different speakers. sometimes one view or aspect of a question is made to predominate over the rest, as in the gorgias or sophist; but in other dialogues truth is divided, as in the laches and protagoras, and the interest of the piece consists in the contrast of opinions. the confusion caused by the irony of socrates, who, if he is true to his character, cannot say anything of his own knowledge, is increased by the circumstance that in the theaetetus and some other dialogues he is occasionally playing both parts himself, and even charging his own arguments with unfairness. in the theaetetus he is designedly held back from arriving at a conclusion. for we cannot suppose that plato conceived a definition of knowledge to be impossible. but this is his manner of approaching and surrounding a question. the lights which he throws on his subject are indirect, but they are not the less real for that. he has no intention of proving a thesis by a cut-and-dried argument; nor does he imagine that a great philosophical problem can be tied up within the limits of a definition. if he has analyzed a proposition or notion, even with the severity of an impossible logic, if half-truths have been compared by him with other half-truths, if he has cleared up or advanced popular ideas, or illustrated a new method, his aim has been sufficiently accomplished. the writings of plato belong to an age in which the power of analysis had outrun the means of knowledge; and through a spurious use of dialectic, the distinctions which had been already 'won from the void and formless infinite,' seemed to be rapidly returning to their original chaos. the two great speculative philosophies, which a century earlier had so deeply impressed the mind of hellas, were now degenerating into eristic. the contemporaries of plato and socrates were vainly trying to find new combinations of them, or to transfer them from the object to the subject. the megarians, in their first attempts to attain a severer logic, were making knowledge impossible (compare theaet.). they were asserting 'the one good under many names,' and, like the cynics, seem to have denied predication, while the cynics themselves were depriving virtue of all which made virtue desirable in the eyes of socrates and plato. and besides these, we find mention in the later writings of plato, especially in the theaetetus, sophist, and laws, of certain impenetrable godless persons, who will not believe what they 'cannot hold in their hands'; and cannot be approached in argument, because they cannot argue (theat; soph.). no school of greek philosophers exactly answers to these persons, in whom plato may perhaps have blended some features of the atomists with the vulgar materialistic tendencies of mankind in general (compare introduction to the sophist). and not only was there a conflict of opinions, but the stage which the mind had reached presented other difficulties hardly intelligible to us, who live in a different cycle of human thought. all times of mental progress are times of confusion; we only see, or rather seem to see things clearly, when they have been long fixed and defined. in the age of plato, the limits of the world of imagination and of pure abstraction, of the old world and the new, were not yet fixed. the greeks, in the fourth century before christ, had no words for 'subject' and 'object,' and no distinct conception of them; yet they were always hovering about the question involved in them. the analysis of sense, and the analysis of thought, were equally difficult to them; and hopelessly confused by the attempt to solve them, not through an appeal to facts, but by the help of general theories respecting the nature of the universe. plato, in his theaetetus, gathers up the sceptical tendencies of his age, and compares them. but he does not seek to reconstruct out of them a theory of knowledge. the time at which such a theory could be framed had not yet arrived. for there was no measure of experience with which the ideas swarming in men's minds could be compared; the meaning of the word 'science' could scarcely be explained to them, except from the mathematical sciences, which alone offered the type of universality and certainty. philosophy was becoming more and more vacant and abstract, and not only the platonic ideas and the eleatic being, but all abstractions seemed to be at variance with sense and at war with one another. the want of the greek mind in the fourth century before christ was not another theory of rest or motion, or being or atoms, but rather a philosophy which could free the mind from the power of abstractions and alternatives, and show how far rest and how far motion, how far the universal principle of being and the multitudinous principle of atoms, entered into the composition of the world; which could distinguish between the true and false analogy, and allow the negative as well as the positive a place in human thought. to such a philosophy plato, in the theaetetus, offers many contributions. he has followed philosophy into the region of mythology, and pointed out the similarities of opposing phases of thought. he has also shown that extreme abstractions are self-destructive, and, indeed, hardly distinguishable from one another. but his intention is not to unravel the whole subject of knowledge, if this had been possible; and several times in the course of the dialogue he rejects explanations of knowledge which have germs of truth in them; as, for example, 'the resolution of the compound into the simple;' or 'right opinion with a mark of difference.' ... terpsion, who has come to megara from the country, is described as having looked in vain for euclides in the agora; the latter explains that he has been down to the harbour, and on his way thither had met theaetetus, who was being carried up from the army to athens. he was scarcely alive, for he had been badly wounded at the battle of corinth, and had taken the dysentery which prevailed in the camp. the mention of his condition suggests the reflection, 'what a loss he will be!' 'yes, indeed,' replies euclid; 'only just now i was hearing of his noble conduct in the battle.' 'that i should expect; but why did he not remain at megara?' 'i wanted him to remain, but he would not; so i went with him as far as erineum; and as i parted from him, i remembered that socrates had seen him when he was a youth, and had a remarkable conversation with him, not long before his own death; and he then prophesied of him that he would be a great man if he lived.' 'how true that has been; how like all that socrates said! and could you repeat the conversation?' 'not from memory; but i took notes when i returned home, which i afterwards filled up at leisure, and got socrates to correct them from time to time, when i came to athens'...terpsion had long intended to ask for a sight of this writing, of which he had already heard. they are both tired, and agree to rest and have the conversation read to them by a servant...'here is the roll, terpsion; i need only observe that i have omitted, for the sake of convenience, the interlocutory words, "said i," "said he"; and that theaetetus, and theodorus, the geometrician of cyrene, are the persons with whom socrates is conversing.' socrates begins by asking theodorus whether, in his visit to athens, he has found any athenian youth likely to attain distinction in science. 'yes, socrates, there is one very remarkable youth, with whom i have become acquainted. he is no beauty, and therefore you need not imagine that i am in love with him; and, to say the truth, he is very like you, for he has a snub nose, and projecting eyes, although these features are not so marked in him as in you. he combines the most various qualities, quickness, patience, courage; and he is gentle as well as wise, always silently flowing on, like a river of oil. look! he is the middle one of those who are entering the palaestra.' socrates, who does not know his name, recognizes him as the son of euphronius, who was himself a good man and a rich. he is informed by theodorus that the youth is named theaetetus, but the property of his father has disappeared in the hands of trustees; this does not, however, prevent him from adding liberality to his other virtues. at the desire of socrates he invites theaetetus to sit by them. 'yes,' says socrates, 'that i may see in you, theaetetus, the image of my ugly self, as theodorus declares. not that his remark is of any importance; for though he is a philosopher, he is not a painter, and therefore he is no judge of our faces; but, as he is a man of science, he may be a judge of our intellects. and if he were to praise the mental endowments of either of us, in that case the hearer of the eulogy ought to examine into what he says, and the subject should not refuse to be examined.' theaetetus consents, and is caught in a trap (compare the similar trap which is laid for theodorus). 'then, theaetetus, you will have to be examined, for theodorus has been praising you in a style of which i never heard the like.' 'he was only jesting.' 'nay, that is not his way; and i cannot allow you, on that pretence, to retract the assent which you have already given, or i shall make theodorus repeat your praises, and swear to them.' theaetetus, in reply, professes that he is willing to be examined, and socrates begins by asking him what he learns of theodorus. he is himself anxious to learn anything of anybody; and now he has a little question to which he wants theaetetus or theodorus (or whichever of the company would not be 'donkey' to the rest) to find an answer. without further preface, but at the same time apologizing for his eagerness, he asks, 'what is knowledge?' theodorus is too old to answer questions, and begs him to interrogate theaetetus, who has the advantage of youth. theaetetus replies, that knowledge is what he learns of theodorus, i.e. geometry and arithmetic; and that there are other kinds of knowledge--shoemaking, carpentering, and the like. but socrates rejoins, that this answer contains too much and also too little. for although theaetetus has enumerated several kinds of knowledge, he has not explained the common nature of them; as if he had been asked, 'what is clay?' and instead of saying 'clay is moistened earth,' he had answered, 'there is one clay of image-makers, another of potters, another of oven-makers.' theaetetus at once divines that socrates means him to extend to all kinds of knowledge the same process of generalization which he has already learned to apply to arithmetic. for he has discovered a division of numbers into square numbers, , , , etc., which are composed of equal factors, and represent figures which have equal sides, and oblong numbers, , , , , etc., which are composed of unequal factors, and represent figures which have unequal sides. but he has never succeeded in attaining a similar conception of knowledge, though he has often tried; and, when this and similar questions were brought to him from socrates, has been sorely distressed by them. socrates explains to him that he is in labour. for men as well as women have pangs of labour; and both at times require the assistance of midwives. and he, socrates, is a midwife, although this is a secret; he has inherited the art from his mother bold and bluff, and he ushers into light, not children, but the thoughts of men. like the midwives, who are 'past bearing children,' he too can have no offspring--the god will not allow him to bring anything into the world of his own. he also reminds theaetetus that the midwives are or ought to be the only matchmakers (this is the preparation for a biting jest); for those who reap the fruit are most likely to know on what soil the plants will grow. but respectable midwives avoid this department of practice--they do not want to be called procuresses. there are some other differences between the two sorts of pregnancy. for women do not bring into the world at one time real children and at another time idols which are with difficulty distinguished from them. 'at first,' says socrates in his character of the man-midwife, 'my patients are barren and stolid, but after a while they "round apace," if the gods are propitious to them; and this is due not to me but to themselves; i and the god only assist in bringing their ideas to the birth. many of them have left me too soon, and the result has been that they have produced abortions; or when i have delivered them of children they have lost them by an ill bringing up, and have ended by seeing themselves, as others see them, to be great fools. aristides, the son of lysimachus, is one of these, and there have been others. the truants often return to me and beg to be taken back; and then, if my familiar allows me, which is not always the case, i receive them, and they begin to grow again. there come to me also those who have nothing in them, and have no need of my art; and i am their matchmaker (see above), and marry them to prodicus or some other inspired sage who is likely to suit them. i tell you this long story because i suspect that you are in labour. come then to me, who am a midwife, and the son of a midwife, and i will deliver you. and do not bite me, as the women do, if i abstract your first-born; for i am acting out of good-will towards you; the god who is within me is the friend of man, though he will not allow me to dissemble the truth. once more then, theaetetus, i repeat my old question--"what is knowledge?" take courage, and by the help of god you will discover an answer.' 'my answer is, that knowledge is perception.' 'that is the theory of protagoras, who has another way of expressing the same thing when he says, "man is the measure of all things." he was a very wise man, and we should try to understand him. in order to illustrate his meaning let me suppose that there is the same wind blowing in our faces, and one of us may be hot and the other cold. how is this? protagoras will reply that the wind is hot to him who is cold, cold to him who is hot. and "is" means "appears," and when you say "appears to him," that means "he feels." thus feeling, appearance, perception, coincide with being. i suspect, however, that this was only a "facon de parler," by which he imposed on the common herd like you and me; he told "the truth" (in allusion to the title of his book, which was called "the truth") in secret to his disciples. for he was really a votary of that famous philosophy in which all things are said to be relative; nothing is great or small, or heavy or light, or one, but all is in motion and mixture and transition and flux and generation, not "being," as we ignorantly affirm, but "becoming." this has been the doctrine, not of protagoras only, but of all philosophers, with the single exception of parmenides; empedocles, heracleitus, and others, and all the poets, with epicharmus, the king of comedy, and homer, the king of tragedy, at their head, have said the same; the latter has these words-- "ocean, whence the gods sprang, and mother tethys." and many arguments are used to show, that motion is the source of life, and rest of death: fire and warmth are produced by friction, and living creatures owe their origin to a similar cause; the bodily frame is preserved by exercise and destroyed by indolence; and if the sun ceased to move, "chaos would come again." now apply this doctrine of "all is motion" to the senses, and first of all to the sense of sight. the colour of white, or any other colour, is neither in the eyes nor out of them, but ever in motion between the object and the eye, and varying in the case of every percipient. all is relative, and, as the followers of protagoras remark, endless contradictions arise when we deny this; e.g. here are six dice; they are more than four and less than twelve; "more and also less," would you not say?' 'yes.' 'but protagoras will retort: "can anything be more or less without addition or subtraction?"' 'i should say "no" if i were not afraid of contradicting my former answer.' 'and if you say "yes," the tongue will escape conviction but not the mind, as euripides would say?' 'true.' 'the thoroughbred sophists, who know all that can be known, would have a sparring match over this, but you and i, who have no professional pride, want only to discover whether our ideas are clear and consistent. and we cannot be wrong in saying, first, that nothing can be greater or less while remaining equal; secondly, that there can be no becoming greater or less without addition or subtraction; thirdly, that what is and was not, cannot be without having become. but then how is this reconcilable with the case of the dice, and with similar examples?--that is the question.' 'i am often perplexed and amazed, socrates, by these difficulties.' 'that is because you are a philosopher, for philosophy begins in wonder, and iris is the child of thaumas. do you know the original principle on which the doctrine of protagoras is based?' 'no.' 'then i will tell you; but we must not let the uninitiated hear, and by the uninitiated i mean the obstinate people who believe in nothing which they cannot hold in their hands. the brethren whose mysteries i am about to unfold to you are far more ingenious. they maintain that all is motion; and that motion has two forms, action and passion, out of which endless phenomena are created, also in two forms--sense and the object of sense--which come to the birth together. there are two kinds of motions, a slow and a fast; the motions of the agent and the patient are slower, because they move and create in and about themselves, but the things which are born of them have a swifter motion, and pass rapidly from place to place. the eye and the appropriate object come together, and give birth to whiteness and the sensation of whiteness; the eye is filled with seeing, and becomes not sight but a seeing eye, and the object is filled with whiteness, and becomes not whiteness but white; and no other compound of either with another would have produced the same effect. all sensation is to be resolved into a similar combination of an agent and patient. of either, taken separately, no idea can be formed; and the agent may become a patient, and the patient an agent. hence there arises a general reflection that nothing is, but all things become; no name can detain or fix them. are not these speculations charming, theaetetus, and very good for a person in your interesting situation? i am offering you specimens of other men's wisdom, because i have no wisdom of my own, and i want to deliver you of something; and presently we will see whether you have brought forth wind or not. tell me, then, what do you think of the notion that "all things are becoming"?' 'when i hear your arguments, i am marvellously ready to assent.' 'but i ought not to conceal from you that there is a serious objection which may be urged against this doctrine of protagoras. for there are states, such as madness and dreaming, in which perception is false; and half our life is spent in dreaming; and who can say that at this instant we are not dreaming? even the fancies of madmen are real at the time. but if knowledge is perception, how can we distinguish between the true and the false in such cases? having stated the objection, i will now state the answer. protagoras would deny the continuity of phenomena; he would say that what is different is entirely different, and whether active or passive has a different power. there are infinite agents and patients in the world, and these produce in every combination of them a different perception. take myself as an instance:--socrates may be ill or he may be well,--and remember that socrates, with all his accidents, is spoken of. the wine which i drink when i am well is pleasant to me, but the same wine is unpleasant to me when i am ill. and there is nothing else from which i can receive the same impression, nor can another receive the same impression from the wine. neither can i and the object of sense become separately what we become together. for the one in becoming is relative to the other, but they have no other relation; and the combination of them is absolute at each moment. (in modern language, the act of sensation is really indivisible, though capable of a mental analysis into subject and object.) my sensation alone is true, and true to me only. and therefore, as protagoras says, "to myself i am the judge of what is and what is not." thus the flux of homer and heracleitus, the great protagorean saying that "man is the measure of all things," the doctrine of theaetetus that "knowledge is perception," have all the same meaning. and this is thy new-born child, which by my art i have brought to light; and you must not be angry if instead of rearing your infant we expose him.' 'theaetetus will not be angry,' says theodorus; 'he is very good-natured. but i should like to know, socrates, whether you mean to say that all this is untrue?' 'first reminding you that i am not the bag which contains the arguments, but that i extract them from theaetetus, shall i tell you what amazes me in your friend protagoras?' 'what may that be?' 'i like his doctrine that what appears is; but i wonder that he did not begin his great work on truth with a declaration that a pig, or a dog-faced baboon, or any other monster which has sensation, is a measure of all things; then, while we were reverencing him as a god, he might have produced a magnificent effect by expounding to us that he was no wiser than a tadpole. for if sensations are always true, and one man's discernment is as good as another's, and every man is his own judge, and everything that he judges is right and true, then what need of protagoras to be our instructor at a high figure; and why should we be less knowing than he is, or have to go to him, if every man is the measure of all things? my own art of midwifery, and all dialectic, is an enormous folly, if protagoras' "truth" be indeed truth, and the philosopher is not merely amusing himself by giving oracles out of his book.' theodorus thinks that socrates is unjust to his master, protagoras; but he is too old and stiff to try a fall with him, and therefore refers him to theaetetus, who is already driven out of his former opinion by the arguments of socrates. socrates then takes up the defence of protagoras, who is supposed to reply in his own person--'good people, you sit and declaim about the gods, of whose existence or non-existence i have nothing to say, or you discourse about man being reduced to the level of the brutes; but what proof have you of your statements? and yet surely you and theodorus had better reflect whether probability is a safe guide. theodorus would be a bad geometrician if he had nothing better to offer.'...theaetetus is affected by the appeal to geometry, and socrates is induced by him to put the question in a new form. he proceeds as follows:--'should we say that we know what we see and hear,--e.g. the sound of words or the sight of letters in a foreign tongue?' 'we should say that the figures of the letters, and the pitch of the voice in uttering them, were known to us, but not the meaning of them.' 'excellent; i want you to grow, and therefore i will leave that answer and ask another question: is not seeing perceiving?' 'very true.' 'and he who sees knows?' 'yes.' 'and he who remembers, remembers that which he sees and knows?' 'very true.' 'but if he closes his eyes, does he not remember?' 'he does.' 'then he may remember and not see; and if seeing is knowing, he may remember and not know. is not this a "reductio ad absurdum" of the hypothesis that knowledge is sensible perception? yet perhaps we are crowing too soon; and if protagoras, "the father of the myth," had been alive, the result might have been very different. but he is dead, and theodorus, whom he left guardian of his "orphan," has not been very zealous in defending him.' theodorus objects that callias is the true guardian, but he hopes that socrates will come to the rescue. socrates prefaces his defence by resuming the attack. he asks whether a man can know and not know at the same time? 'impossible.' quite possible, if you maintain that seeing is knowing. the confident adversary, suiting the action to the word, shuts one of your eyes; and now, says he, you see and do not see, but do you know and not know? and a fresh opponent darts from his ambush, and transfers to knowledge the terms which are commonly applied to sight. he asks whether you can know near and not at a distance; whether you can have a sharp and also a dull knowledge. while you are wondering at his incomparable wisdom, he gets you into his power, and you will not escape until you have come to an understanding with him about the money which is to be paid for your release. but protagoras has not yet made his defence; and already he may be heard contemptuously replying that he is not responsible for the admissions which were made by a boy, who could not foresee the coming move, and therefore had answered in a manner which enabled socrates to raise a laugh against himself. 'but i cannot be fairly charged,' he will say, 'with an answer which i should not have given; for i never maintained that the memory of a feeling is the same as a feeling, or denied that a man might know and not know the same thing at the same time. or, if you will have extreme precision, i say that man in different relations is many or rather infinite in number. and i challenge you, either to show that his perceptions are not individual, or that if they are, what appears to him is not what is. as to your pigs and baboons, you are yourself a pig, and you make my writings a sport of other swine. but i still affirm that man is the measure of all things, although i admit that one man may be a thousand times better than another, in proportion as he has better impressions. neither do i deny the existence of wisdom or of the wise man. but i maintain that wisdom is a practical remedial power of turning evil into good, the bitterness of disease into the sweetness of health, and does not consist in any greater truth or superior knowledge. for the impressions of the sick are as true as the impressions of the healthy; and the sick are as wise as the healthy. nor can any man be cured of a false opinion, for there is no such thing; but he may be cured of the evil habit which generates in him an evil opinion. this is effected in the body by the drugs of the physician, and in the soul by the words of the sophist; and the new state or opinion is not truer, but only better than the old. and philosophers are not tadpoles, but physicians and husbandmen, who till the soil and infuse health into animals and plants, and make the good take the place of the evil, both in individuals and states. wise and good rhetoricians make the good to appear just in states (for that is just which appears just to a state), and in return, they deserve to be well paid. and you, socrates, whether you please or not, must continue to be a measure. this is my defence, and i must request you to meet me fairly. we are professing to reason, and not merely to dispute; and there is a great difference between reasoning and disputation. for the disputer is always seeking to trip up his opponent; and this is a mode of argument which disgusts men with philosophy as they grow older. but the reasoner is trying to understand him and to point out his errors to him, whether arising from his own or from his companion's fault; he does not argue from the customary use of names, which the vulgar pervert in all manner of ways. if you are gentle to an adversary he will follow and love you; and if defeated he will lay the blame on himself, and seek to escape from his own prejudices into philosophy. i would recommend you, socrates, to adopt this humaner method, and to avoid captious and verbal criticisms.' such, theodorus, is the very slight help which i am able to afford to your friend; had he been alive, he would have helped himself in far better style. 'you have made a most valorous defence.' yes; but did you observe that protagoras bade me be serious, and complained of our getting up a laugh against him with the aid of a boy? he meant to intimate that you must take the place of theaetetus, who may be wiser than many bearded men, but not wiser than you, theodorus. 'the rule of the spartan palaestra is, strip or depart; but you are like the giant antaeus, and will not let me depart unless i try a fall with you.' yes, that is the nature of my complaint. and many a hercules, many a theseus mighty in deeds and words has broken my head; but i am always at this rough game. please, then, to favour me. 'on the condition of not exceeding a single fall, i consent.' socrates now resumes the argument. as he is very desirous of doing justice to protagoras, he insists on citing his own words,--'what appears to each man is to him.' and how, asks socrates, are these words reconcileable with the fact that all mankind are agreed in thinking themselves wiser than others in some respects, and inferior to them in others? in the hour of danger they are ready to fall down and worship any one who is their superior in wisdom as if he were a god. and the world is full of men who are asking to be taught and willing to be ruled, and of other men who are willing to rule and teach them. all which implies that men do judge of one another's impressions, and think some wise and others foolish. how will protagoras answer this argument? for he cannot say that no one deems another ignorant or mistaken. if you form a judgment, thousands and tens of thousands are ready to maintain the opposite. the multitude may not and do not agree in protagoras' own thesis that 'man is the measure of all things;' and then who is to decide? upon his own showing must not his 'truth' depend on the number of suffrages, and be more or less true in proportion as he has more or fewer of them? and he must acknowledge further, that they speak truly who deny him to speak truly, which is a famous jest. and if he admits that they speak truly who deny him to speak truly, he must admit that he himself does not speak truly. but his opponents will refuse to admit this of themselves, and he must allow that they are right in their refusal. the conclusion is, that all mankind, including protagoras himself, will deny that he speaks truly; and his truth will be true neither to himself nor to anybody else. theodorus is inclined to think that this is going too far. socrates ironically replies, that he is not going beyond the truth. but if the old protagoras could only pop his head out of the world below, he would doubtless give them both a sound castigation and be off to the shades in an instant. seeing that he is not within call, we must examine the question for ourselves. it is clear that there are great differences in the understandings of men. admitting, with protagoras, that immediate sensations of hot, cold, and the like, are to each one such as they appear, yet this hypothesis cannot be extended to judgments or opinions. and even if we were to admit further,--and this is the view of some who are not thorough-going followers of protagoras,--that right and wrong, holy and unholy, are to each state or individual such as they appear, still protagoras will not venture to maintain that every man is equally the measure of expediency, or that the thing which seems is expedient to every one. but this begins a new question. 'well, socrates, we have plenty of leisure. yes, we have, and, after the manner of philosophers, we are digressing; i have often observed how ridiculous this habit of theirs makes them when they appear in court. 'what do you mean?' i mean to say that a philosopher is a gentleman, but a lawyer is a servant. the one can have his talk out, and wander at will from one subject to another, as the fancy takes him; like ourselves, he may be long or short, as he pleases. but the lawyer is always in a hurry; there is the clepsydra limiting his time, and the brief limiting his topics, and his adversary is standing over him and exacting his rights. he is a servant disputing about a fellow-servant before his master, who holds the cause in his hands; the path never diverges, and often the race is for his life. such experiences render him keen and shrewd; he learns the arts of flattery, and is perfect in the practice of crooked ways; dangers have come upon him too soon, when the tenderness of youth was unable to meet them with truth and honesty, and he has resorted to counter-acts of dishonesty and falsehood, and become warped and distorted; without any health or freedom or sincerity in him he has grown up to manhood, and is or esteems himself to be a master of cunning. such are the lawyers; will you have the companion picture of philosophers? or will this be too much of a digression? 'nay, socrates, the argument is our servant, and not our master. who is the judge or where is the spectator, having a right to control us?' i will describe the leaders, then: for the inferior sort are not worth the trouble. the lords of philosophy have not learned the way to the dicastery or ecclesia; they neither see nor hear the laws and votes of the state, written or recited; societies, whether political or festive, clubs, and singing maidens do not enter even into their dreams. and the scandals of persons or their ancestors, male and female, they know no more than they can tell the number of pints in the ocean. neither are they conscious of their own ignorance; for they do not practise singularity in order to gain reputation, but the truth is, that the outer form of them only is residing in the city; the inner man, as pindar says, is going on a voyage of discovery, measuring as with line and rule the things which are under and in the earth, interrogating the whole of nature, only not condescending to notice what is near them. 'what do you mean, socrates?' i will illustrate my meaning by the jest of the witty maid-servant, who saw thales tumbling into a well, and said of him, that he was so eager to know what was going on in heaven, that he could not see what was before his feet. this is applicable to all philosophers. the philosopher is unacquainted with the world; he hardly knows whether his neighbour is a man or an animal. for he is always searching into the essence of man, and enquiring what such a nature ought to do or suffer different from any other. hence, on every occasion in private life and public, as i was saying, when he appears in a law-court or anywhere, he is the joke, not only of maid-servants, but of the general herd, falling into wells and every sort of disaster; he looks such an awkward, inexperienced creature, unable to say anything personal, when he is abused, in answer to his adversaries (for he knows no evil of any one); and when he hears the praises of others, he cannot help laughing from the bottom of his soul at their pretensions; and this also gives him a ridiculous appearance. a king or tyrant appears to him to be a kind of swine-herd or cow-herd, milking away at an animal who is much more troublesome and dangerous than cows or sheep; like the cow-herd, he has no time to be educated, and the pen in which he keeps his flock in the mountains is surrounded by a wall. when he hears of large landed properties of ten thousand acres or more, he thinks of the whole earth; or if he is told of the antiquity of a family, he remembers that every one has had myriads of progenitors, rich and poor, greeks and barbarians, kings and slaves. and he who boasts of his descent from amphitryon in the twenty-fifth generation, may, if he pleases, add as many more, and double that again, and our philosopher only laughs at his inability to do a larger sum. such is the man at whom the vulgar scoff; he seems to them as if he could not mind his feet. 'that is very true, socrates.' but when he tries to draw the quick-witted lawyer out of his pleas and rejoinders to the contemplation of absolute justice or injustice in their own nature, or from the popular praises of wealthy kings to the view of happiness and misery in themselves, or to the reasons why a man should seek after the one and avoid the other, then the situation is reversed; the little wretch turns giddy, and is ready to fall over the precipice; his utterance becomes thick, and he makes himself ridiculous, not to servant-maids, but to every man of liberal education. such are the two pictures: the one of the philosopher and gentleman, who may be excused for not having learned how to make a bed, or cook up flatteries; the other, a serviceable knave, who hardly knows how to wear his cloak,--still less can he awaken harmonious thoughts or hymn virtue's praises. 'if the world, socrates, were as ready to receive your words as i am, there would be greater peace and less evil among mankind.' evil, theodorus, must ever remain in this world to be the antagonist of good, out of the way of the gods in heaven. wherefore also we should fly away from ourselves to them; and to fly to them is to become like them; and to become like them is to become holy, just and true. but many live in the old wives' fable of appearances; they think that you should follow virtue in order that you may seem to be good. and yet the truth is, that god is righteous; and of men, he is most like him who is most righteous. to know this is wisdom; and in comparison of this the wisdom of the arts or the seeming wisdom of politicians is mean and common. the unrighteous man is apt to pride himself on his cunning; when others call him rogue, he says to himself: 'they only mean that i am one who deserves to live, and not a mere burden of the earth.' but he should reflect that his ignorance makes his condition worse than if he knew. for the penalty of injustice is not death or stripes, but the fatal necessity of becoming more and more unjust. two patterns of life are set before him; the one blessed and divine, the other godless and wretched; and he is growing more and more like the one and unlike the other. he does not see that if he continues in his cunning, the place of innocence will not receive him after death. and yet if such a man has the courage to hear the argument out, he often becomes dissatisfied with himself, and has no more strength in him than a child.--but we have digressed enough. 'for my part, socrates, i like the digressions better than the argument, because i understand them better.' to return. when we left off, the protagoreans and heracliteans were maintaining that the ordinances of the state were just, while they lasted. but no one would maintain that the laws of the state were always good or expedient, although this may be the intention of them. for the expedient has to do with the future, about which we are liable to mistake. now, would protagoras maintain that man is the measure not only of the present and past, but of the future; and that there is no difference in the judgments of men about the future? would an untrained man, for example, be as likely to know when he is going to have a fever, as the physician who attended him? and if they differ in opinion, which of them is likely to be right; or are they both right? is not a vine-grower a better judge of a vintage which is not yet gathered, or a cook of a dinner which is in preparation, or protagoras of the probable effect of a speech than an ordinary person? the last example speaks 'ad hominen.' for protagoras would never have amassed a fortune if every man could judge of the future for himself. he is, therefore, compelled to admit that he is a measure; but i, who know nothing, am not equally convinced that i am. this is one way of refuting him; and he is refuted also by the authority which he attributes to the opinions of others, who deny his opinions. i am not equally sure that we can disprove the truth of immediate states of feeling. but this leads us to the doctrine of the universal flux, about which a battle-royal is always going on in the cities of ionia. 'yes; the ephesians are downright mad about the flux; they cannot stop to argue with you, but are in perpetual motion, obedient to their text-books. their restlessness is beyond expression, and if you ask any of them a question, they will not answer, but dart at you some unintelligible saying, and another and another, making no way either with themselves or with others; for nothing is fixed in them or their ideas,--they are at war with fixed principles.' i suppose, theodorus, that you have never seen them in time of peace, when they discourse at leisure to their disciples? 'disciples! they have none; they are a set of uneducated fanatics, and each of them says of the other that they have no knowledge. we must trust to ourselves, and not to them for the solution of the problem.' well, the doctrine is old, being derived from the poets, who speak in a figure of oceanus and tethys; the truth was once concealed, but is now revealed by the superior wisdom of a later generation, and made intelligible to the cobbler, who, on hearing that all is in motion, and not some things only, as he ignorantly fancied, may be expected to fall down and worship his teachers. and the opposite doctrine must not be forgotten:-- 'alone being remains unmoved which is the name for all,' as parmenides affirms. thus we are in the midst of the fray; both parties are dragging us to their side; and we are not certain which of them are in the right; and if neither, then we shall be in a ridiculous position, having to set up our own opinion against ancient and famous men. let us first approach the river-gods, or patrons of the flux. when they speak of motion, must they not include two kinds of motion, change of place and change of nature?--and all things must be supposed to have both kinds of motion; for if not, the same things would be at rest and in motion, which is contrary to their theory. and did we not say, that all sensations arise thus: they move about between the agent and patient together with a perception, and the patient ceases to be a perceiving power and becomes a percipient, and the agent a quale instead of a quality; but neither has any absolute existence? but now we make the further discovery, that neither white or whiteness, nor any sense or sensation, can be predicated of anything, for they are in a perpetual flux. and therefore we must modify the doctrine of theaetetus and protagoras, by asserting further that knowledge is and is not sensation; and of everything we must say equally, that this is and is not, or becomes or becomes not. and still the word 'this' is not quite correct, for language fails in the attempt to express their meaning. at the close of the discussion, theodorus claims to be released from the argument, according to his agreement. but theaetetus insists that they shall proceed to consider the doctrine of rest. this is declined by socrates, who has too much reverence for the great parmenides lightly to attack him. (we shall find that he returns to the doctrine of rest in the sophist; but at present he does not wish to be diverted from his main purpose, which is, to deliver theaetetus of his conception of knowledge.) he proceeds to interrogate him further. when he says that 'knowledge is in perception,' with what does he perceive? the first answer is, that he perceives sights with the eye, and sounds with the ear. this leads socrates to make the reflection that nice distinctions of words are sometimes pedantic, but sometimes necessary; and he proposes in this case to substitute the word 'through' for 'with.' for the senses are not like the trojan warriors in the horse, but have a common centre of perception, in which they all meet. this common principle is able to compare them with one another, and must therefore be distinct from them (compare republic). and as there are facts of sense which are perceived through the organs of the body, there are also mathematical and other abstractions, such as sameness and difference, likeness and unlikeness, which the soul perceives by herself. being is the most universal of these abstractions. the good and the beautiful are abstractions of another kind, which exist in relation and which above all others the mind perceives in herself, comparing within her past, present, and future. for example; we know a thing to be hard or soft by the touch, of which the perception is given at birth to men and animals. but the essence of hardness or softness, or the fact that this hardness is, and is the opposite of softness, is slowly learned by reflection and experience. mere perception does not reach being, and therefore fails of truth; and therefore has no share in knowledge. but if so, knowledge is not perception. what then is knowledge? the mind, when occupied by herself with being, is said to have opinion--shall we say that 'knowledge is true opinion'? but still an old difficulty recurs; we ask ourselves, 'how is false opinion possible?' this difficulty may be stated as follows:-- either we know or do not know a thing (for the intermediate processes of learning and forgetting need not at present be considered); and in thinking or having an opinion, we must either know or not know that which we think, and we cannot know and be ignorant at the same time; we cannot confuse one thing which we do not know, with another thing which we do not know; nor can we think that which we do not know to be that which we know, or that which we know to be that which we do not know. and what other case is conceivable, upon the supposition that we either know or do not know all things? let us try another answer in the sphere of being: 'when a man thinks, and thinks that which is not.' but would this hold in any parallel case? can a man see and see nothing? or hear and hear nothing? or touch and touch nothing? must he not see, hear, or touch some one existing thing? for if he thinks about nothing he does not think, and not thinking he cannot think falsely. and so the path of being is closed against us, as well as the path of knowledge. but may there not be 'heterodoxy,' or transference of opinion;--i mean, may not one thing be supposed to be another? theaetetus is confident that this must be 'the true falsehood,' when a man puts good for evil or evil for good. socrates will not discourage him by attacking the paradoxical expression 'true falsehood,' but passes on. the new notion involves a process of thinking about two things, either together or alternately. and thinking is the conversing of the mind with herself, which is carried on in question and answer, until she no longer doubts, but determines and forms an opinion. and false opinion consists in saying to yourself, that one thing is another. but did you ever say to yourself, that good is evil, or evil good? even in sleep, did you ever imagine that odd was even? or did any man in his senses ever fancy that an ox was a horse, or that two are one? so that we can never think one thing to be another; for you must not meet me with the verbal quibble that one--eteron--is other--eteron (both 'one' and 'other' in greek are called 'other'--eteron). he who has both the two things in his mind, cannot misplace them; and he who has only one of them in his mind, cannot misplace them--on either supposition transplacement is inconceivable. but perhaps there may still be a sense in which we can think that which we do not know to be that which we know: e.g. theaetetus may know socrates, but at a distance he may mistake another person for him. this process may be conceived by the help of an image. let us suppose that every man has in his mind a block of wax of various qualities, the gift of memory, the mother of the muses; and on this he receives the seal or stamp of those sensations and perceptions which he wishes to remember. that which he succeeds in stamping is remembered and known by him as long as the impression lasts; but that, of which the impression is rubbed out or imperfectly made, is forgotten, and not known. no one can think one thing to be another, when he has the memorial or seal of both of these in his soul, and a sensible impression of neither; or when he knows one and does not know the other, and has no memorial or seal of the other; or when he knows neither; or when he perceives both, or one and not the other, or neither; or when he perceives and knows both, and identifies what he perceives with what he knows (this is still more impossible); or when he does not know one, and does not know and does not perceive the other; or does not perceive one, and does not know and does not perceive the other; or has no perception or knowledge of either--all these cases must be excluded. but he may err when he confuses what he knows or perceives, or what he perceives and does not know, with what he knows, or what he knows and perceives with what he knows and perceives. theaetetus is unable to follow these distinctions; which socrates proceeds to illustrate by examples, first of all remarking, that knowledge may exist without perception, and perception without knowledge. i may know theodorus and theaetetus and not see them; i may see them, and not know them. 'that i understand.' but i could not mistake one for the other if i knew you both, and had no perception of either; or if i knew one only, and perceived neither; or if i knew and perceived neither, or in any other of the excluded cases. the only possibility of error is: st, when knowing you and theodorus, and having the impression of both of you on the waxen block, i, seeing you both imperfectly and at a distance, put the foot in the wrong shoe--that is to say, put the seal or stamp on the wrong object: or ndly, when knowing both of you i only see one; or when, seeing and knowing you both, i fail to identify the impression and the object. but there could be no error when perception and knowledge correspond. the waxen block in the heart of a man's soul, as i may say in the words of homer, who played upon the words ker and keros, may be smooth and deep, and large enough, and then the signs are clearly marked and lasting, and do not get confused. but in the 'hairy heart,' as the all-wise poet sings, when the wax is muddy or hard or moist, there is a corresponding confusion and want of retentiveness; in the muddy and impure there is indistinctness, and still more in the hard, for there the impressions have no depth of wax, and in the moist they are too soon effaced. yet greater is the indistinctness when they are all jolted together in a little soul, which is narrow and has no room. these are the sort of natures which have false opinion; from stupidity they see and hear and think amiss; and this is falsehood and ignorance. error, then, is a confusion of thought and sense. theaetetus is delighted with this explanation. but socrates has no sooner found the new solution than he sinks into a fit of despondency. for an objection occurs to him:--may there not be errors where there is no confusion of mind and sense? e.g. in numbers. no one can confuse the man whom he has in his thoughts with the horse which he has in his thoughts, but he may err in the addition of five and seven. and observe that these are purely mental conceptions. thus we are involved once more in the dilemma of saying, either that there is no such thing as false opinion, or that a man knows what he does not know. we are at our wit's end, and may therefore be excused for making a bold diversion. all this time we have been repeating the words 'know,' 'understand,' yet we do not know what knowledge is. 'why, socrates, how can you argue at all without using them?' nay, but the true hero of dialectic would have forbidden me to use them until i had explained them. and i must explain them now. the verb 'to know' has two senses, to have and to possess knowledge, and i distinguish 'having' from 'possessing.' a man may possess a garment which he does not wear; or he may have wild birds in an aviary; these in one sense he possesses, and in another he has none of them. let this aviary be an image of the mind, as the waxen block was; when we are young, the aviary is empty; after a time the birds are put in; for under this figure we may describe different forms of knowledge;--there are some of them in groups, and some single, which are flying about everywhere; and let us suppose a hunt after the science of odd and even, or some other science. the possession of the birds is clearly not the same as the having them in the hand. and the original chase of them is not the same as taking them in the hand when they are already caged. this distinction between use and possession saves us from the absurdity of supposing that we do not know what we know, because we may know in one sense, i.e. possess, what we do not know in another, i.e. use. but have we not escaped one difficulty only to encounter a greater? for how can the exchange of two kinds of knowledge ever become false opinion? as well might we suppose that ignorance could make a man know, or that blindness could make him see. theaetetus suggests that in the aviary there may be flying about mock birds, or forms of ignorance, and we put forth our hands and grasp ignorance, when we are intending to grasp knowledge. but how can he who knows the forms of knowledge and the forms of ignorance imagine one to be the other? is there some other form of knowledge which distinguishes them? and another, and another? thus we go round and round in a circle and make no progress. all this confusion arises out of our attempt to explain false opinion without having explained knowledge. what then is knowledge? theaetetus repeats that knowledge is true opinion. but this seems to be refuted by the instance of orators and judges. for surely the orator cannot convey a true knowledge of crimes at which the judges were not present; he can only persuade them, and the judge may form a true opinion and truly judge. but if true opinion were knowledge they could not have judged without knowledge. once more. theaetetus offers a definition which he has heard: knowledge is true opinion accompanied by definition or explanation. socrates has had a similar dream, and has further heard that the first elements are names only, and that definition or explanation begins when they are combined; the letters are unknown, the syllables or combinations are known. but this new hypothesis when tested by the letters of the alphabet is found to break down. the first syllable of socrates' name is so. but what is so? two letters, s and o, a sibilant and a vowel, of which no further explanation can be given. and how can any one be ignorant of either of them, and yet know both of them? there is, however, another alternative:--we may suppose that the syllable has a separate form or idea distinct from the letters or parts. the all of the parts may not be the whole. theaetetus is very much inclined to adopt this suggestion, but when interrogated by socrates he is unable to draw any distinction between the whole and all the parts. and if the syllables have no parts, then they are those original elements of which there is no explanation. but how can the syllable be known if the letter remains unknown? in learning to read as children, we are first taught the letters and then the syllables. and in music, the notes, which are the letters, have a much more distinct meaning to us than the combination of them. once more, then, we must ask the meaning of the statement, that 'knowledge is right opinion, accompanied by explanation or definition.' explanation may mean, ( ) the reflection or expression of a man's thoughts--but every man who is not deaf and dumb is able to express his thoughts--or ( ) the enumeration of the elements of which anything is composed. a man may have a true opinion about a waggon, but then, and then only, has he knowledge of a waggon when he is able to enumerate the hundred planks of hesiod. or he may know the syllables of the name theaetetus, but not the letters; yet not until he knows both can he be said to have knowledge as well as opinion. but on the other hand he may know the syllable 'the' in the name theaetetus, yet he may be mistaken about the same syllable in the name theodorus, and in learning to read we often make such mistakes. and even if he could write out all the letters and syllables of your name in order, still he would only have right opinion. yet there may be a third meaning of the definition, besides the image or expression of the mind, and the enumeration of the elements, viz. ( ) perception of difference. for example, i may see a man who has eyes, nose, and mouth;--that will not distinguish him from any other man. or he may have a snub-nose and prominent eyes;--that will not distinguish him from myself and you and others who are like me. but when i see a certain kind of snub-nosedness, then i recognize theaetetus. and having this sign of difference, i have knowledge. but have i knowledge or opinion of this difference; if i have only opinion i have not knowledge; if i have knowledge we assume a disputed term; for knowledge will have to be defined as right opinion with knowledge of difference. and so, theaetetus, knowledge is neither perception nor true opinion, nor yet definition accompanying true opinion. and i have shown that the children of your brain are not worth rearing. are you still in labour, or have you brought all you have to say about knowledge to the birth? if you have any more thoughts, you will be the better for having got rid of these; or if you have none, you will be the better for not fancying that you know what you do not know. observe the limits of my art, which, like my mother's, is an art of midwifery; i do not pretend to compare with the good and wise of this and other ages. and now i go to meet meletus at the porch of the king archon; but to-morrow i shall hope to see you again, theodorus, at this place. ... i. the saying of theaetetus, that 'knowledge is sensible perception,' may be assumed to be a current philosophical opinion of the age. 'the ancients,' as aristotle (de anim.) says, citing a verse of empedocles, 'affirmed knowledge to be the same as perception.' we may now examine these words, first, with reference to their place in the history of philosophy, and secondly, in relation to modern speculations. (a) in the age of socrates the mind was passing from the object to the subject. the same impulse which a century before had led men to form conceptions of the world, now led them to frame general notions of the human faculties and feelings, such as memory, opinion, and the like. the simplest of these is sensation, or sensible perception, by which plato seems to mean the generalized notion of feelings and impressions of sense, without determining whether they are conscious or not. the theory that 'knowledge is sensible perception' is the antithesis of that which derives knowledge from the mind (theaet.), or which assumes the existence of ideas independent of the mind (parm.). yet from their extreme abstraction these theories do not represent the opposite poles of thought in the same way that the corresponding differences would in modern philosophy. the most ideal and the most sensational have a tendency to pass into one another; heracleitus, like his great successor hegel, has both aspects. the eleatic isolation of being and the megarian or cynic isolation of individuals are placed in the same class by plato (soph.); and the same principle which is the symbol of motion to one mind is the symbol of rest to another. the atomists, who are sometimes regarded as the materialists of plato, denied the reality of sensation. and in the ancient as well as the modern world there were reactions from theory to experience, from ideas to sense. this is a point of view from which the philosophy of sensation presented great attraction to the ancient thinker. amid the conflict of ideas and the variety of opinions, the impression of sense remained certain and uniform. hardness, softness, cold, heat, etc. are not absolutely the same to different persons, but the art of measuring could at any rate reduce them all to definite natures (republic). thus the doctrine that knowledge is perception supplies or seems to supply a firm standing ground. like the other notions of the earlier greek philosophy, it was held in a very simple way, without much basis of reasoning, and without suggesting the questions which naturally arise in our own minds on the same subject. (b) the fixedness of impressions of sense furnishes a link of connexion between ancient and modern philosophy. the modern thinker often repeats the parallel axiom, 'all knowledge is experience.' he means to say that the outward and not the inward is both the original source and the final criterion of truth, because the outward can be observed and analyzed; the inward is only known by external results, and is dimly perceived by each man for himself. in what does this differ from the saying of theaetetus? chiefly in this--that the modern term 'experience,' while implying a point of departure in sense and a return to sense, also includes all the processes of reasoning and imagination which have intervened. the necessary connexion between them by no means affords a measure of the relative degree of importance which is to be ascribed to either element. for the inductive portion of any science may be small, as in mathematics or ethics, compared with that which the mind has attained by reasoning and reflection on a very few facts. ii. the saying that 'all knowledge is sensation' is identified by plato with the protagorean thesis that 'man is the measure of all things.' the interpretation which protagoras himself is supposed to give of these latter words is: 'things are to me as they appear to me, and to you as they appear to you.' but there remains still an ambiguity both in the text and in the explanation, which has to be cleared up. did protagoras merely mean to assert the relativity of knowledge to the human mind? or did he mean to deny that there is an objective standard of truth? these two questions have not been always clearly distinguished; the relativity of knowledge has been sometimes confounded with uncertainty. the untutored mind is apt to suppose that objects exist independently of the human faculties, because they really exist independently of the faculties of any individual. in the same way, knowledge appears to be a body of truths stored up in books, which when once ascertained are independent of the discoverer. further consideration shows us that these truths are not really independent of the mind; there is an adaptation of one to the other, of the eye to the object of sense, of the mind to the conception. there would be no world, if there neither were nor ever had been any one to perceive the world. a slight effort of reflection enables us to understand this; but no effort of reflection will enable us to pass beyond the limits of our own faculties, or to imagine the relation or adaptation of objects to the mind to be different from that of which we have experience. there are certain laws of language and logic to which we are compelled to conform, and to which our ideas naturally adapt themselves; and we can no more get rid of them than we can cease to be ourselves. the absolute and infinite, whether explained as self-existence, or as the totality of human thought, or as the divine nature, if known to us at all, cannot escape from the category of relation. but because knowledge is subjective or relative to the mind, we are not to suppose that we are therefore deprived of any of the tests or criteria of truth. one man still remains wiser than another, a more accurate observer and relater of facts, a truer measure of the proportions of knowledge. the nature of testimony is not altered, nor the verification of causes by prescribed methods less certain. again, the truth must often come to a man through others, according to the measure of his capacity and education. but neither does this affect the testimony, whether written or oral, which he knows by experience to be trustworthy. he cannot escape from the laws of his own mind; and he cannot escape from the further accident of being dependent for his knowledge on others. but still this is no reason why he should always be in doubt; of many personal, of many historical and scientific facts he may be absolutely assured. and having such a mass of acknowledged truth in the mathematical and physical, not to speak of the moral sciences, the moderns have certainly no reason to acquiesce in the statement that truth is appearance only, or that there is no difference between appearance and truth. the relativity of knowledge is a truism to us, but was a great psychological discovery in the fifth century before christ. of this discovery, the first distinct assertion is contained in the thesis of protagoras. probably he had no intention either of denying or affirming an objective standard of truth. he did not consider whether man in the higher or man in the lower sense was a 'measure of all things.' like other great thinkers, he was absorbed with one idea, and that idea was the absoluteness of perception. like socrates, he seemed to see that philosophy must be brought back from 'nature' to 'truth,' from the world to man. but he did not stop to analyze whether he meant 'man' in the concrete or man in the abstract, any man or some men, 'quod semper quod ubique' or individual private judgment. such an analysis lay beyond his sphere of thought; the age before socrates had not arrived at these distinctions. like the cynics, again, he discarded knowledge in any higher sense than perception. for 'truer' or 'wiser' he substituted the word 'better,' and is not unwilling to admit that both states and individuals are capable of practical improvement. but this improvement does not arise from intellectual enlightenment, nor yet from the exertion of the will, but from a change of circumstances and impressions; and he who can effect this change in himself or others may be deemed a philosopher. in the mode of effecting it, while agreeing with socrates and the cynics in the importance which he attaches to practical life, he is at variance with both of them. to suppose that practice can be divorced from speculation, or that we may do good without caring about truth, is by no means singular, either in philosophy or life. the singularity of this, as of some other (so-called) sophistical doctrines, is the frankness with which they are avowed, instead of being veiled, as in modern times, under ambiguous and convenient phrases. plato appears to treat protagoras much as he himself is treated by aristotle; that is to say, he does not attempt to understand him from his own point of view. but he entangles him in the meshes of a more advanced logic. to which protagoras is supposed to reply by megarian quibbles, which destroy logic, 'not only man, but each man, and each man at each moment.' in the arguments about sight and memory there is a palpable unfairness which is worthy of the great 'brainless brothers,' euthydemus and dionysodorus, and may be compared with the egkekalummenos ('obvelatus') of eubulides. for he who sees with one eye only cannot be truly said both to see and not to see; nor is memory, which is liable to forget, the immediate knowledge to which protagoras applies the term. theodorus justly charges socrates with going beyond the truth; and protagoras has equally right on his side when he protests against socrates arguing from the common use of words, which 'the vulgar pervert in all manner of ways.' iii. the theory of protagoras is connected by aristotle as well as plato with the flux of heracleitus. but aristotle is only following plato, and plato, as we have already seen, did not mean to imply that such a connexion was admitted by protagoras himself. his metaphysical genius saw or seemed to see a common tendency in them, just as the modern historian of ancient philosophy might perceive a parallelism between two thinkers of which they were probably unconscious themselves. we must remember throughout that plato is not speaking of heracleitus, but of the heracliteans, who succeeded him; nor of the great original ideas of the master, but of the eristic into which they had degenerated a hundred years later. there is nothing in the fragments of heracleitus which at all justifies plato's account of him. his philosophy may be resolved into two elements--first, change, secondly, law or measure pervading the change: these he saw everywhere, and often expressed in strange mythological symbols. but he has no analysis of sensible perception such as plato attributes to him; nor is there any reason to suppose that he pushed his philosophy into that absolute negation in which heracliteanism was sunk in the age of plato. he never said that 'change means every sort of change;' and he expressly distinguished between 'the general and particular understanding.' like a poet, he surveyed the elements of mythology, nature, thought, which lay before him, and sometimes by the light of genius he saw or seemed to see a mysterious principle working behind them. but as has been the case with other great philosophers, and with plato and aristotle themselves, what was really permanent and original could not be understood by the next generation, while a perverted logic carried out his chance expressions with an illogical consistency. his simple and noble thoughts, like those of the great eleatic, soon degenerated into a mere strife of words. and when thus reduced to mere words, they seem to have exercised a far wider influence in the cities of ionia (where the people 'were mad about them') than in the life-time of heracleitus--a phenomenon which, though at first sight singular, is not without a parallel in the history of philosophy and theology. it is this perverted form of the heraclitean philosophy which is supposed to effect the final overthrow of protagorean sensationalism. for if all things are changing at every moment, in all sorts of ways, then there is nothing fixed or defined at all, and therefore no sensible perception, nor any true word by which that or anything else can be described. of course protagoras would not have admitted the justice of this argument any more than heracleitus would have acknowledged the 'uneducated fanatics' who appealed to his writings. he might have said, 'the excellent socrates has first confused me with heracleitus, and heracleitus with his ephesian successors, and has then disproved the existence both of knowledge and sensation. but i am not responsible for what i never said, nor will i admit that my common-sense account of knowledge can be overthrown by unintelligible heraclitean paradoxes.' iv. still at the bottom of the arguments there remains a truth, that knowledge is something more than sensible perception;--this alone would not distinguish man from a tadpole. the absoluteness of sensations at each moment destroys the very consciousness of sensations (compare phileb.), or the power of comparing them. the senses are not mere holes in a 'trojan horse,' but the organs of a presiding nature, in which they meet. a great advance has been made in psychology when the senses are recognized as organs of sense, and we are admitted to see or feel 'through them' and not 'by them,' a distinction of words which, as socrates observes, is by no means pedantic. a still further step has been made when the most abstract notions, such as being and not-being, sameness and difference, unity and plurality, are acknowledged to be the creations of the mind herself, working upon the feelings or impressions of sense. in this manner plato describes the process of acquiring them, in the words 'knowledge consists not in the feelings or affections (pathemasi), but in the process of reasoning about them (sullogismo).' here, is in the parmenides, he means something not really different from generalization. as in the sophist, he is laying the foundation of a rational psychology, which is to supersede the platonic reminiscence of ideas as well as the eleatic being and the individualism of megarians and cynics. v. having rejected the doctrine that 'knowledge is perception,' we now proceed to look for a definition of knowledge in the sphere of opinion. but here we are met by a singular difficulty: how is false opinion possible? for we must either know or not know that which is presented to the mind or to sense. we of course should answer at once: 'no; the alternative is not necessary, for there may be degrees of knowledge; and we may know and have forgotten, or we may be learning, or we may have a general but not a particular knowledge, or we may know but not be able to explain;' and many other ways may be imagined in which we know and do not know at the same time. but these answers belong to a later stage of metaphysical discussion; whereas the difficulty in question naturally arises owing to the childhood of the human mind, like the parallel difficulty respecting not-being. men had only recently arrived at the notion of opinion; they could not at once define the true and pass beyond into the false. the very word doxa was full of ambiguity, being sometimes, as in the eleatic philosophy, applied to the sensible world, and again used in the more ordinary sense of opinion. there is no connexion between sensible appearance and probability, and yet both of them met in the word doxa, and could hardly be disengaged from one another in the mind of the greek living in the fifth or fourth century b.c. to this was often added, as at the end of the fifth book of the republic, the idea of relation, which is equally distinct from either of them; also a fourth notion, the conclusion of the dialectical process, the making up of the mind after she has been 'talking to herself' (theat.). we are not then surprised that the sphere of opinion and of not-being should be a dusky, half-lighted place (republic), belonging neither to the old world of sense and imagination, nor to the new world of reflection and reason. plato attempts to clear up this darkness. in his accustomed manner he passes from the lower to the higher, without omitting the intermediate stages. this appears to be the reason why he seeks for the definition of knowledge first in the sphere of opinion. hereafter we shall find that something more than opinion is required. false opinion is explained by plato at first as a confusion of mind and sense, which arises when the impression on the mind does not correspond to the impression made on the senses. it is obvious that this explanation (supposing the distinction between impressions on the mind and impressions on the senses to be admitted) does not account for all forms of error; and plato has excluded himself from the consideration of the greater number, by designedly omitting the intermediate processes of learning and forgetting; nor does he include fallacies in the use of language or erroneous inferences. but he is struck by one possibility of error, which is not covered by his theory, viz. errors in arithmetic. for in numbers and calculation there is no combination of thought and sense, and yet errors may often happen. hence he is led to discard the explanation which might nevertheless have been supposed to hold good (for anything which he says to the contrary) as a rationale of error, in the case of facts derived from sense. another attempt is made to explain false opinion by assigning to error a sort of positive existence. but error or ignorance is essentially negative--a not-knowing; if we knew an error, we should be no longer in error. we may veil our difficulty under figures of speech, but these, although telling arguments with the multitude, can never be the real foundation of a system of psychology. only they lead us to dwell upon mental phenomena which if expressed in an abstract form would not be realized by us at all. the figure of the mind receiving impressions is one of those images which have rooted themselves for ever in language. it may or may not be a 'gracious aid' to thought; but it cannot be got rid of. the other figure of the enclosure is also remarkable as affording the first hint of universal all-pervading ideas,--a notion further carried out in the sophist. this is implied in the birds, some in flocks, some solitary, which fly about anywhere and everywhere. plato discards both figures, as not really solving the question which to us appears so simple: 'how do we make mistakes?' the failure of the enquiry seems to show that we should return to knowledge, and begin with that; and we may afterwards proceed, with a better hope of success, to the examination of opinion. but is true opinion really distinct from knowledge? the difference between these he seeks to establish by an argument, which to us appears singular and unsatisfactory. the existence of true opinion is proved by the rhetoric of the law courts, which cannot give knowledge, but may give true opinion. the rhetorician cannot put the judge or juror in possession of all the facts which prove an act of violence, but he may truly persuade them of the commission of such an act. here the idea of true opinion seems to be a right conclusion from imperfect knowledge. but the correctness of such an opinion will be purely accidental; and is really the effect of one man, who has the means of knowing, persuading another who has not. plato would have done better if he had said that true opinion was a contradiction in terms. assuming the distinction between knowledge and opinion, theaetetus, in answer to socrates, proceeds to define knowledge as true opinion, with definite or rational explanation. this socrates identifies with another and different theory, of those who assert that knowledge first begins with a proposition. the elements may be perceived by sense, but they are names, and cannot be defined. when we assign to them some predicate, they first begin to have a meaning (onomaton sumploke logou ousia). this seems equivalent to saying, that the individuals of sense become the subject of knowledge when they are regarded as they are in nature in relation to other individuals. yet we feel a difficulty in following this new hypothesis. for must not opinion be equally expressed in a proposition? the difference between true and false opinion is not the difference between the particular and the universal, but between the true universal and the false. thought may be as much at fault as sight. when we place individuals under a class, or assign to them attributes, this is not knowledge, but a very rudimentary process of thought; the first generalization of all, without which language would be impossible. and has plato kept altogether clear of a confusion, which the analogous word logos tends to create, of a proposition and a definition? and is not the confusion increased by the use of the analogous term 'elements,' or 'letters'? for there is no real resemblance between the relation of letters to a syllable, and of the terms to a proposition. plato, in the spirit of the megarian philosophy, soon discovers a flaw in the explanation. for how can we know a compound of which the simple elements are unknown to us? can two unknowns make a known? can a whole be something different from the parts? the answer of experience is that they can; for we may know a compound, which we are unable to analyze into its elements; and all the parts, when united, may be more than all the parts separated: e.g. the number four, or any other number, is more than the units which are contained in it; any chemical compound is more than and different from the simple elements. but ancient philosophy in this, as in many other instances, proceeding by the path of mental analysis, was perplexed by doubts which warred against the plainest facts. three attempts to explain the new definition of knowledge still remain to be considered. they all of them turn on the explanation of logos. the first account of the meaning of the word is the reflection of thought in speech--a sort of nominalism 'la science est une langue bien faite.' but anybody who is not dumb can say what he thinks; therefore mere speech cannot be knowledge. and yet we may observe, that there is in this explanation an element of truth which is not recognized by plato; viz. that truth and thought are inseparable from language, although mere expression in words is not truth. the second explanation of logos is the enumeration of the elementary parts of the complex whole. but this is only definition accompanied with right opinion, and does not yet attain to the certainty of knowledge. plato does not mention the greater objection, which is, that the enumeration of particulars is endless; such a definition would be based on no principle, and would not help us at all in gaining a common idea. the third is the best explanation,--the possession of a characteristic mark, which seems to answer to the logical definition by genus and difference. but this, again, is equally necessary for right opinion; and we have already determined, although not on very satisfactory grounds, that knowledge must be distinguished from opinion. a better distinction is drawn between them in the timaeus. they might be opposed as philosophy and rhetoric, and as conversant respectively with necessary and contingent matter. but no true idea of the nature of either of them, or of their relation to one another, could be framed until science obtained a content. the ancient philosophers in the age of plato thought of science only as pure abstraction, and to this opinion stood in no relation. like theaetetus, we have attained to no definite result. but an interesting phase of ancient philosophy has passed before us. and the negative result is not to be despised. for on certain subjects, and in certain states of knowledge, the work of negation or clearing the ground must go on, perhaps for a generation, before the new structure can begin to rise. plato saw the necessity of combating the illogical logic of the megarians and eristics. for the completion of the edifice, he makes preparation in the theaetetus, and crowns the work in the sophist. many ( ) fine expressions, and ( ) remarks full of wisdom, ( ) also germs of a metaphysic of the future, are scattered up and down in the dialogue. such, for example, as ( ) the comparison of theaetetus' progress in learning to the 'noiseless flow of a river of oil'; the satirical touch, 'flavouring a sauce or fawning speech'; or the remarkable expression, 'full of impure dialectic'; or the lively images under which the argument is described,--'the flood of arguments pouring in,' the fresh discussions 'bursting in like a band of revellers.' ( ) as illustrations of the second head, may be cited the remark of socrates, that 'distinctions of words, although sometimes pedantic, are also necessary'; or the fine touch in the character of the lawyer, that 'dangers came upon him when the tenderness of youth was unequal to them'; or the description of the manner in which the spirit is broken in a wicked man who listens to reproof until he becomes like a child; or the punishment of the wicked, which is not physical suffering, but the perpetual companionship of evil (compare gorgias); or the saying, often repeated by aristotle and others, that 'philosophy begins in wonder, for iris is the child of thaumas'; or the superb contempt with which the philosopher takes down the pride of wealthy landed proprietors by comparison of the whole earth. ( ) important metaphysical ideas are: a. the conception of thought, as the mind talking to herself; b. the notion of a common sense, developed further by aristotle, and the explicit declaration, that the mind gains her conceptions of being, sameness, number, and the like, from reflection on herself; c. the excellent distinction of theaetetus (which socrates, speaking with emphasis, 'leaves to grow') between seeing the forms or hearing the sounds of words in a foreign language, and understanding the meaning of them; and d. the distinction of socrates himself between 'having' and 'possessing' knowledge, in which the answer to the whole discussion appears to be contained. ... there is a difference between ancient and modern psychology, and we have a difficulty in explaining one in the terms of the other. to us the inward and outward sense and the inward and outward worlds of which they are the organs are parted by a wall, and appear as if they could never be confounded. the mind is endued with faculties, habits, instincts, and a personality or consciousness in which they are bound together. over against these are placed forms, colours, external bodies coming into contact with our own body. we speak of a subject which is ourselves, of an object which is all the rest. these are separable in thought, but united in any act of sensation, reflection, or volition. as there are various degrees in which the mind may enter into or be abstracted from the operations of sense, so there are various points at which this separation or union may be supposed to occur. and within the sphere of mind the analogy of sense reappears; and we distinguish not only external objects, but objects of will and of knowledge which we contrast with them. these again are comprehended in a higher object, which reunites with the subject. a multitude of abstractions are created by the efforts of successive thinkers which become logical determinations; and they have to be arranged in order, before the scheme of thought is complete. the framework of the human intellect is not the peculium of an individual, but the joint work of many who are of all ages and countries. what we are in mind is due, not merely to our physical, but to our mental antecedents which we trace in history, and more especially in the history of philosophy. nor can mental phenomena be truly explained either by physiology or by the observation of consciousness apart from their history. they have a growth of their own, like the growth of a flower, a tree, a human being. they may be conceived as of themselves constituting a common mind, and having a sort of personal identity in which they coexist. so comprehensive is modern psychology, seeming to aim at constructing anew the entire world of thought. and prior to or simultaneously with this construction a negative process has to be carried on, a clearing away of useless abstractions which we have inherited from the past. many erroneous conceptions of the mind derived from former philosophies have found their way into language, and we with difficulty disengage ourselves from them. mere figures of speech have unconsciously influenced the minds of great thinkers. also there are some distinctions, as, for example, that of the will and of the reason, and of the moral and intellectual faculties, which are carried further than is justified by experience. any separation of things which we cannot see or exactly define, though it may be necessary, is a fertile source of error. the division of the mind into faculties or powers or virtues is too deeply rooted in language to be got rid of, but it gives a false impression. for if we reflect on ourselves we see that all our faculties easily pass into one another, and are bound together in a single mind or consciousness; but this mental unity is apt to be concealed from us by the distinctions of language. a profusion of words and ideas has obscured rather than enlightened mental science. it is hard to say how many fallacies have arisen from the representation of the mind as a box, as a 'tabula rasa,' a book, a mirror, and the like. it is remarkable how plato in the theaetetus, after having indulged in the figure of the waxen tablet and the decoy, afterwards discards them. the mind is also represented by another class of images, as the spring of a watch, a motive power, a breath, a stream, a succession of points or moments. as plato remarks in the cratylus, words expressive of motion as well as of rest are employed to describe the faculties and operations of the mind; and in these there is contained another store of fallacies. some shadow or reflection of the body seems always to adhere to our thoughts about ourselves, and mental processes are hardly distinguished in language from bodily ones. to see or perceive are used indifferently of both; the words intuition, moral sense, common sense, the mind's eye, are figures of speech transferred from one to the other. and many other words used in early poetry or in sacred writings to express the works of mind have a materialistic sound; for old mythology was allied to sense, and the distinction of matter and mind had not as yet arisen. thus materialism receives an illusive aid from language; and both in philosophy and religion the imaginary figure or association easily takes the place of real knowledge. again, there is the illusion of looking into our own minds as if our thoughts or feelings were written down in a book. this is another figure of speech, which might be appropriately termed 'the fallacy of the looking-glass.' we cannot look at the mind unless we have the eye which sees, and we can only look, not into, but out of the mind at the thoughts, words, actions of ourselves and others. what we dimly recognize within us is not experience, but rather the suggestion of an experience, which we may gather, if we will, from the observation of the world. the memory has but a feeble recollection of what we were saying or doing a few weeks or a few months ago, and still less of what we were thinking or feeling. this is one among many reasons why there is so little self-knowledge among mankind; they do not carry with them the thought of what they are or have been. the so-called 'facts of consciousness' are equally evanescent; they are facts which nobody ever saw, and which can neither be defined nor described. of the three laws of thought the first (all a = a) is an identical proposition--that is to say, a mere word or symbol claiming to be a proposition: the two others (nothing can be a and not a, and everything is either a or not a) are untrue, because they exclude degrees and also the mixed modes and double aspects under which truth is so often presented to us. to assert that man is man is unmeaning; to say that he is free or necessary and cannot be both is a half truth only. these are a few of the entanglements which impede the natural course of human thought. lastly, there is the fallacy which lies still deeper, of regarding the individual mind apart from the universal, or either, as a self-existent entity apart from the ideas which are contained in them. in ancient philosophies the analysis of the mind is still rudimentary and imperfect. it naturally began with an effort to disengage the universal from sense--this was the first lifting up of the mist. it wavered between object and subject, passing imperceptibly from one or being to mind and thought. appearance in the outward object was for a time indistinguishable from opinion in the subject. at length mankind spoke of knowing as well as of opining or perceiving. but when the word 'knowledge' was found how was it to be explained or defined? it was not an error, it was a step in the right direction, when protagoras said that 'man is the measure of all things,' and that 'all knowledge is perception.' this was the subjective which corresponded to the objective 'all is flux.' but the thoughts of men deepened, and soon they began to be aware that knowledge was neither sense, nor yet opinion--with or without explanation; nor the expression of thought, nor the enumeration of parts, nor the addition of characteristic marks. motion and rest were equally ill adapted to express its nature, although both must in some sense be attributed to it; it might be described more truly as the mind conversing with herself; the discourse of reason; the hymn of dialectic, the science of relations, of ideas, of the so-called arts and sciences, of the one, of the good, of the all:--this is the way along which plato is leading us in his later dialogues. in its higher signification it was the knowledge, not of men, but of gods, perfect and all sufficing:--like other ideals always passing out of sight, and nevertheless present to the mind of aristotle as well as plato, and the reality to which they were both tending. for aristotle as well as plato would in modern phraseology have been termed a mystic; and like him would have defined the higher philosophy to be 'knowledge of being or essence,'--words to which in our own day we have a difficulty in attaching a meaning. yet, in spite of plato and his followers, mankind have again and again returned to a sensational philosophy. as to some of the early thinkers, amid the fleetings of sensible objects, ideas alone seemed to be fixed, so to a later generation amid the fluctuation of philosophical opinions the only fixed points appeared to be outward objects. any pretence of knowledge which went beyond them implied logical processes, of the correctness of which they had no assurance and which at best were only probable. the mind, tired of wandering, sought to rest on firm ground; when the idols of philosophy and language were stripped off, the perception of outward objects alone remained. the ancient epicureans never asked whether the comparison of these with one another did not involve principles of another kind which were above and beyond them. in like manner the modern inductive philosophy forgot to enquire into the meaning of experience, and did not attempt to form a conception of outward objects apart from the mind, or of the mind apart from them. soon objects of sense were merged in sensations and feelings, but feelings and sensations were still unanalyzed. at last we return to the doctrine attributed by plato to protagoras, that the mind is only a succession of momentary perceptions. at this point the modern philosophy of experience forms an alliance with ancient scepticism. the higher truths of philosophy and religion are very far removed from sense. admitting that, like all other knowledge, they are derived from experience, and that experience is ultimately resolvable into facts which come to us through the eye and ear, still their origin is a mere accident which has nothing to do with their true nature. they are universal and unseen; they belong to all times--past, present, and future. any worthy notion of mind or reason includes them. the proof of them is, st, their comprehensiveness and consistency with one another; ndly, their agreement with history and experience. but sensation is of the present only, is isolated, is and is not in successive moments. it takes the passing hour as it comes, following the lead of the eye or ear instead of the command of reason. it is a faculty which man has in common with the animals, and in which he is inferior to many of them. the importance of the senses in us is that they are the apertures of the mind, doors and windows through which we take in and make our own the materials of knowledge. regarded in any other point of view sensation is of all mental acts the most trivial and superficial. hence the term 'sensational' is rightly used to express what is shallow in thought and feeling. we propose in what follows, first of all, like plato in the theaetetus, to analyse sensation, and secondly to trace the connexion between theories of sensation and a sensational or epicurean philosophy. paragraph i. we, as well as the ancients, speak of the five senses, and of a sense, or common sense, which is the abstraction of them. the term 'sense' is also used metaphorically, both in ancient and modern philosophy, to express the operations of the mind which are immediate or intuitive. of the five senses, two--the sight and the hearing--are of a more subtle and complex nature, while two others--the smell and the taste--seem to be only more refined varieties of touch. all of them are passive, and by this are distinguished from the active faculty of speech: they receive impressions, but do not produce them, except in so far as they are objects of sense themselves. physiology speaks to us of the wonderful apparatus of nerves, muscles, tissues, by which the senses are enabled to fulfil their functions. it traces the connexion, though imperfectly, of the bodily organs with the operations of the mind. of these latter, it seems rather to know the conditions than the causes. it can prove to us that without the brain we cannot think, and that without the eye we cannot see: and yet there is far more in thinking and seeing than is given by the brain and the eye. it observes the 'concomitant variations' of body and mind. psychology, on the other hand, treats of the same subject regarded from another point of view. it speaks of the relation of the senses to one another; it shows how they meet the mind; it analyzes the transition from sense to thought. the one describes their nature as apparent to the outward eye; by the other they are regarded only as the instruments of the mind. it is in this latter point of view that we propose to consider them. the simplest sensation involves an unconscious or nascent operation of the mind; it implies objects of sense, and objects of sense have differences of form, number, colour. but the conception of an object without us, or the power of discriminating numbers, forms, colours, is not given by the sense, but by the mind. a mere sensation does not attain to distinctness: it is a confused impression, sugkechumenon ti, as plato says (republic), until number introduces light and order into the confusion. at what point confusion becomes distinctness is a question of degree which cannot be precisely determined. the distant object, the undefined notion, come out into relief as we approach them or attend to them. or we may assist the analysis by attempting to imagine the world first dawning upon the eye of the infant or of a person newly restored to sight. yet even with them the mind as well as the eye opens or enlarges. for all three are inseparably bound together--the object would be nowhere and nothing, if not perceived by the sense, and the sense would have no power of distinguishing without the mind. but prior to objects of sense there is a third nature in which they are contained--that is to say, space, which may be explained in various ways. it is the element which surrounds them; it is the vacuum or void which they leave or occupy when passing from one portion of space to another. it might be described in the language of ancient philosophy, as 'the not-being' of objects. it is a negative idea which in the course of ages has become positive. it is originally derived from the contemplation of the world without us--the boundless earth or sea, the vacant heaven, and is therefore acquired chiefly through the sense of sight: to the blind the conception of space is feeble and inadequate, derived for the most part from touch or from the descriptions of others. at first it appears to be continuous; afterwards we perceive it to be capable of division by lines or points, real or imaginary. by the help of mathematics we form another idea of space, which is altogether independent of experience. geometry teaches us that the innumerable lines and figures by which space is or may be intersected are absolutely true in all their combinations and consequences. new and unchangeable properties of space are thus developed, which are proved to us in a thousand ways by mathematical reasoning as well as by common experience. through quantity and measure we are conducted to our simplest and purest notion of matter, which is to the cube or solid what space is to the square or surface. and all our applications of mathematics are applications of our ideas of space to matter. no wonder then that they seem to have a necessary existence to us. being the simplest of our ideas, space is also the one of which we have the most difficulty in ridding ourselves. neither can we set a limit to it, for wherever we fix a limit, space is springing up beyond. neither can we conceive a smallest or indivisible portion of it; for within the smallest there is a smaller still; and even these inconceivable qualities of space, whether the infinite or the infinitesimal, may be made the subject of reasoning and have a certain truth to us. whether space exists in the mind or out of it, is a question which has no meaning. we should rather say that without it the mind is incapable of conceiving the body, and therefore of conceiving itself. the mind may be indeed imagined to contain the body, in the same way that aristotle (partly following plato) supposes god to be the outer heaven or circle of the universe. but how can the individual mind carry about the universe of space packed up within, or how can separate minds have either a universe of their own or a common universe? in such conceptions there seems to be a confusion of the individual and the universal. to say that we can only have a true idea of ourselves when we deny the reality of that by which we have any idea of ourselves is an absurdity. the earth which is our habitation and 'the starry heaven above' and we ourselves are equally an illusion, if space is only a quality or condition of our minds. again, we may compare the truths of space with other truths derived from experience, which seem to have a necessity to us in proportion to the frequency of their recurrence or the truth of the consequences which may be inferred from them. we are thus led to remark that the necessity in our ideas of space on which much stress has been laid, differs in a slight degree only from the necessity which appears to belong to other of our ideas, e.g. weight, motion, and the like. and there is another way in which this necessity may be explained. we have been taught it, and the truth which we were taught or which we inherited has never been contradicted in all our experience and is therefore confirmed by it. who can resist an idea which is presented to him in a general form in every moment of his life and of which he finds no instance to the contrary? the greater part of what is sometimes regarded as the a priori intuition of space is really the conception of the various geometrical figures of which the properties have been revealed by mathematical analysis. and the certainty of these properties is immeasurably increased to us by our finding that they hold good not only in every instance, but in all the consequences which are supposed to flow from them. neither must we forget that our idea of space, like our other ideas, has a history. the homeric poems contain no word for it; even the later greek philosophy has not the kantian notion of space, but only the definite 'place' or 'the infinite.' to plato, in the timaeus, it is known only as the 'nurse of generation.' when therefore we speak of the necessity of our ideas of space we must remember that this is a necessity which has grown up with the growth of the human mind, and has been made by ourselves. we can free ourselves from the perplexities which are involved in it by ascending to a time in which they did not as yet exist. and when space or time are described as 'a priori forms or intuitions added to the matter given in sensation,' we should consider that such expressions belong really to the 'pre-historic study' of philosophy, i.e. to the eighteenth century, when men sought to explain the human mind without regard to history or language or the social nature of man. in every act of sense there is a latent perception of space, of which we only become conscious when objects are withdrawn from it. there are various ways in which we may trace the connexion between them. we may think of space as unresisting matter, and of matter as divided into objects; or of objects again as formed by abstraction into a collective notion of matter, and of matter as rarefied into space. and motion may be conceived as the union of there and not there in space, and force as the materializing or solidification of motion. space again is the individual and universal in one; or, in other words, a perception and also a conception. so easily do what are sometimes called our simple ideas pass into one another, and differences of kind resolve themselves into differences of degree. within or behind space there is another abstraction in many respects similar to it--time, the form of the inward, as space is the form of the outward. as we cannot think of outward objects of sense or of outward sensations without space, so neither can we think of a succession of sensations without time. it is the vacancy of thoughts or sensations, as space is the void of outward objects, and we can no more imagine the mind without the one than the world without the other. it is to arithmetic what space is to geometry; or, more strictly, arithmetic may be said to be equally applicable to both. it is defined in our minds, partly by the analogy of space and partly by the recollection of events which have happened to us, or the consciousness of feelings which we are experiencing. like space, it is without limit, for whatever beginning or end of time we fix, there is a beginning and end before them, and so on without end. we speak of a past, present, and future, and again the analogy of space assists us in conceiving of them as coexistent. when the limit of time is removed there arises in our minds the idea of eternity, which at first, like time itself, is only negative, but gradually, when connected with the world and the divine nature, like the other negative infinity of space, becomes positive. whether time is prior to the mind and to experience, or coeval with them, is (like the parallel question about space) unmeaning. like space it has been realized gradually: in the homeric poems, or even in the hesiodic cosmogony, there is no more notion of time than of space. the conception of being is more general than either, and might therefore with greater plausibility be affirmed to be a condition or quality of the mind. the a priori intuitions of kant would have been as unintelligible to plato as his a priori synthetical propositions to aristotle. the philosopher of konigsberg supposed himself to be analyzing a necessary mode of thought: he was not aware that he was dealing with a mere abstraction. but now that we are able to trace the gradual developement of ideas through religion, through language, through abstractions, why should we interpose the fiction of time between ourselves and realities? why should we single out one of these abstractions to be the a priori condition of all the others? it comes last and not first in the order of our thoughts, and is not the condition precedent of them, but the last generalization of them. nor can any principle be imagined more suicidal to philosophy than to assume that all the truth which we are capable of attaining is seen only through an unreal medium. if all that exists in time is illusion, we may well ask with plato, 'what becomes of the mind?' leaving the a priori conditions of sensation we may proceed to consider acts of sense. these admit of various degrees of duration or intensity; they admit also of a greater or less extension from one object, which is perceived directly, to many which are perceived indirectly or in a less degree, and to the various associations of the object which are latent in the mind. in general the greater the intension the less the extension of them. the simplest sensation implies some relation of objects to one another, some position in space, some relation to a previous or subsequent sensation. the acts of seeing and hearing may be almost unconscious and may pass away unnoted; they may also leave an impression behind them or power of recalling them. if, after seeing an object we shut our eyes, the object remains dimly seen in the same or about the same place, but with form and lineaments half filled up. this is the simplest act of memory. and as we cannot see one thing without at the same time seeing another, different objects hang together in recollection, and when we call for one the other quickly follows. to think of the place in which we have last seen a thing is often the best way of recalling it to the mind. hence memory is dependent on association. the act of recollection may be compared to the sight of an object at a great distance which we have previously seen near and seek to bring near to us in thought. memory is to sense as dreaming is to waking; and like dreaming has a wayward and uncertain power of recalling impressions from the past. thus begins the passage from the outward to the inward sense. but as yet there is no conception of a universal--the mind only remembers the individual object or objects, and is always attaching to them some colour or association of sense. the power of recollection seems to depend on the intensity or largeness of the perception, or on the strength of some emotion with which it is inseparably connected. this is the natural memory which is allied to sense, such as children appear to have and barbarians and animals. it is necessarily limited in range, and its limitation is its strength. in later life, when the mind has become crowded with names, acts, feelings, images innumerable, we acquire by education another memory of system and arrangement which is both stronger and weaker than the first--weaker in the recollection of sensible impressions as they are represented to us by eye or ear--stronger by the natural connexion of ideas with objects or with one another. and many of the notions which form a part of the train of our thoughts are hardly realized by us at the time, but, like numbers or algebraical symbols, are used as signs only, thus lightening the labour of recollection. and now we may suppose that numerous images present themselves to the mind, which begins to act upon them and to arrange them in various ways. besides the impression of external objects present with us or just absent from us, we have a dimmer conception of other objects which have disappeared from our immediate recollection and yet continue to exist in us. the mind is full of fancies which are passing to and fro before it. some feeling or association calls them up, and they are uttered by the lips. this is the first rudimentary imagination, which may be truly described in the language of hobbes, as 'decaying sense,' an expression which may be applied with equal truth to memory as well. for memory and imagination, though we sometimes oppose them, are nearly allied; the difference between them seems chiefly to lie in the activity of the one compared with the passivity of the other. the sense decaying in memory receives a flash of light or life from imagination. dreaming is a link of connexion between them; for in dreaming we feebly recollect and also feebly imagine at one and the same time. when reason is asleep the lower part of the mind wanders at will amid the images which have been received from without, the intelligent element retires, and the sensual or sensuous takes its place. and so in the first efforts of imagination reason is latent or set aside; and images, in part disorderly, but also having a unity (however imperfect) of their own, pour like a flood over the mind. and if we could penetrate into the heads of animals we should probably find that their intelligence, or the state of what in them is analogous to our intelligence, is of this nature. thus far we have been speaking of men, rather in the points in which they resemble animals than in the points in which they differ from them. the animal too has memory in various degrees, and the elements of imagination, if, as appears to be the case, he dreams. how far their powers or instincts are educated by the circumstances of their lives or by intercourse with one another or with mankind, we cannot precisely tell. they, like ourselves, have the physical inheritance of form, scent, hearing, sight, and other qualities or instincts. but they have not the mental inheritance of thoughts and ideas handed down by tradition, 'the slow additions that build up the mind' of the human race. and language, which is the great educator of mankind, is wanting in them; whereas in us language is ever present--even in the infant the latent power of naming is almost immediately observable. and therefore the description which has been already given of the nascent power of the faculties is in reality an anticipation. for simultaneous with their growth in man a growth of language must be supposed. the child of two years old sees the fire once and again, and the feeble observation of the same recurring object is associated with the feeble utterance of the name by which he is taught to call it. soon he learns to utter the name when the object is no longer there, but the desire or imagination of it is present to him. at first in every use of the word there is a colour of sense, an indistinct picture of the object which accompanies it. but in later years he sees in the name only the universal or class word, and the more abstract the notion becomes, the more vacant is the image which is presented to him. henceforward all the operations of his mind, including the perceptions of sense, are a synthesis of sensations, words, conceptions. in seeing or hearing or looking or listening the sensible impression prevails over the conception and the word. in reflection the process is reversed--the outward object fades away into nothingness, the name or the conception or both together are everything. language, like number, is intermediate between the two, partaking of the definiteness of the outer and of the universality of the inner world. for logic teaches us that every word is really a universal, and only condescends by the help of position or circumlocution to become the expression of individuals or particulars. and sometimes by using words as symbols we are able to give a 'local habitation and a name' to the infinite and inconceivable. thus we see that no line can be drawn between the powers of sense and of reflection--they pass imperceptibly into one another. we may indeed distinguish between the seeing and the closed eye--between the sensation and the recollection of it. but this distinction carries us a very little way, for recollection is present in sight as well as sight in recollection. there is no impression of sense which does not simultaneously recall differences of form, number, colour, and the like. neither is such a distinction applicable at all to our internal bodily sensations, which give no sign of themselves when unaccompanied with pain, and even when we are most conscious of them, have often no assignable place in the human frame. who can divide the nerves or great nervous centres from the mind which uses them? who can separate the pains and pleasures of the mind from the pains and pleasures of the body? the words 'inward and outward,' 'active and passive,' 'mind and body,' are best conceived by us as differences of degree passing into differences of kind, and at one time and under one aspect acting in harmony and then again opposed. they introduce a system and order into the knowledge of our being; and yet, like many other general terms, are often in advance of our actual analysis or observation. according to some writers the inward sense is only the fading away or imperfect realization of the outward. but this leaves out of sight one half of the phenomenon. for the mind is not only withdrawn from the world of sense but introduced to a higher world of thought and reflection, in which, like the outward sense, she is trained and educated. by use the outward sense becomes keener and more intense, especially when confined within narrow limits. the savage with little or no thought has a quicker discernment of the track than the civilised man; in like manner the dog, having the help of scent as well as of sight, is superior to the savage. by use again the inward thought becomes more defined and distinct; what was at first an effort is made easy by the natural instrumentality of language, and the mind learns to grasp universals with no more exertion than is required for the sight of an outward object. there is a natural connexion and arrangement of them, like the association of objects in a landscape. just as a note or two of music suffices to recall a whole piece to the musician's or composer's mind, so a great principle or leading thought suggests and arranges a world of particulars. the power of reflection is not feebler than the faculty of sense, but of a higher and more comprehensive nature. it not only receives the universals of sense, but gives them a new content by comparing and combining them with one another. it withdraws from the seen that it may dwell in the unseen. the sense only presents us with a flat and impenetrable surface: the mind takes the world to pieces and puts it together on a new pattern. the universals which are detached from sense are reconstructed in science. they and not the mere impressions of sense are the truth of the world in which we live; and (as an argument to those who will only believe 'what they can hold in their hands') we may further observe that they are the source of our power over it. to say that the outward sense is stronger than the inward is like saying that the arm of the workman is stronger than the constructing or directing mind. returning to the senses we may briefly consider two questions--first their relation to the mind, secondly, their relation to outward objects:-- . the senses are not merely 'holes set in a wooden horse' (theaet.), but instruments of the mind with which they are organically connected. there is no use of them without some use of words--some natural or latent logic--some previous experience or observation. sensation, like all other mental processes, is complex and relative, though apparently simple. the senses mutually confirm and support one another; it is hard to say how much our impressions of hearing may be affected by those of sight, or how far our impressions of sight may be corrected by the touch, especially in infancy. the confirmation of them by one another cannot of course be given by any one of them. many intuitions which are inseparable from the act of sense are really the result of complicated reasonings. the most cursory glance at objects enables the experienced eye to judge approximately of their relations and distance, although nothing is impressed upon the retina except colour, including gradations of light and shade. from these delicate and almost imperceptible differences we seem chiefly to derive our ideas of distance and position. by comparison of what is near with what is distant we learn that the tree, house, river, etc. which are a long way off are objects of a like nature with those which are seen by us in our immediate neighbourhood, although the actual impression made on the eye is very different in one case and in the other. this is a language of 'large and small letters' (republic), slightly differing in form and exquisitely graduated by distance, which we are learning all our life long, and which we attain in various degrees according to our powers of sight or observation. there is nor the consideration. the greater or less strain upon the nerves of the eye or ear is communicated to the mind and silently informs the judgment. we have also the use not of one eye only, but of two, which give us a wider range, and help us to discern, by the greater or less acuteness of the angle which the rays of sight form, the distance of an object and its relation to other objects. but we are already passing beyond the limits of our actual knowledge on a subject which has given rise to many conjectures. more important than the addition of another conjecture is the observation, whether in the case of sight or of any other sense, of the great complexity of the causes and the great simplicity of the effect. the sympathy of the mind and the ear is no less striking than the sympathy of the mind and the eye. do we not seem to perceive instinctively and as an act of sense the differences of articulate speech and of musical notes? yet how small a part of speech or of music is produced by the impression of the ear compared with that which is furnished by the mind! again: the more refined faculty of sense, as in animals so also in man, seems often to be transmitted by inheritance. neither must we forget that in the use of the senses, as in his whole nature, man is a social being, who is always being educated by language, habit, and the teaching of other men as well as by his own observation. he knows distance because he is taught it by a more experienced judgment than his own; he distinguishes sounds because he is told to remark them by a person of a more discerning ear. and as we inherit from our parents or other ancestors peculiar powers of sense or feeling, so we improve and strengthen them, not only by regular teaching, but also by sympathy and communion with other persons. . the second question, namely, that concerning the relation of the mind to external objects, is really a trifling one, though it has been made the subject of a famous philosophy. we may if we like, with berkeley, resolve objects of sense into sensations; but the change is one of name only, and nothing is gained and something is lost by such a resolution or confusion of them. for we have not really made a single step towards idealism, and any arbitrary inversion of our ordinary modes of speech is disturbing to the mind. the youthful metaphysician is delighted at his marvellous discovery that nothing is, and that what we see or feel is our sensation only: for a day or two the world has a new interest to him; he alone knows the secret which has been communicated to him by the philosopher, that mind is all--when in fact he is going out of his mind in the first intoxication of a great thought. but he soon finds that all things remain as they were--the laws of motion, the properties of matter, the qualities of substances. after having inflicted his theories on any one who is willing to receive them 'first on his father and mother, secondly on some other patient listener, thirdly on his dog,' he finds that he only differs from the rest of mankind in the use of a word. he had once hoped that by getting rid of the solidity of matter he might open a passage to worlds beyond. he liked to think of the world as the representation of the divine nature, and delighted to imagine angels and spirits wandering through space, present in the room in which he is sitting without coming through the door, nowhere and everywhere at the same instant. at length he finds that he has been the victim of his own fancies; he has neither more nor less evidence of the supernatural than he had before. he himself has become unsettled, but the laws of the world remain fixed as at the beginning. he has discovered that his appeal to the fallibility of sense was really an illusion. for whatever uncertainty there may be in the appearances of nature, arises only out of the imperfection or variation of the human senses, or possibly from the deficiency of certain branches of knowledge; when science is able to apply her tests, the uncertainty is at an end. we are apt sometimes to think that moral and metaphysical philosophy are lowered by the influence which is exercised over them by physical science. but any interpretation of nature by physical science is far in advance of such idealism. the philosophy of berkeley, while giving unbounded license to the imagination, is still grovelling on the level of sense. we may, if we please, carry this scepticism a step further, and deny, not only objects of sense, but the continuity of our sensations themselves. we may say with protagoras and hume that what is appears, and that what appears appears only to individuals, and to the same individual only at one instant. but then, as plato asks,--and we must repeat the question,--what becomes of the mind? experience tells us by a thousand proofs that our sensations of colour, taste, and the like, are the same as they were an instant ago--that the act which we are performing one minute is continued by us in the next--and also supplies abundant proof that the perceptions of other men are, speaking generally, the same or nearly the same with our own. after having slowly and laboriously in the course of ages gained a conception of a whole and parts, of the constitution of the mind, of the relation of man to god and nature, imperfect indeed, but the best we can, we are asked to return again to the 'beggarly elements' of ancient scepticism, and acknowledge only atoms and sensations devoid of life or unity. why should we not go a step further still and doubt the existence of the senses of all things? we are but 'such stuff as dreams are made of;' for we have left ourselves no instruments of thought by which we can distinguish man from the animals, or conceive of the existence even of a mollusc. and observe, this extreme scepticism has been allowed to spring up among us, not, like the ancient scepticism, in an age when nature and language really seemed to be full of illusions, but in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, when men walk in the daylight of inductive science. the attractiveness of such speculations arises out of their true nature not being perceived. they are veiled in graceful language; they are not pushed to extremes; they stop where the human mind is disposed also to stop--short of a manifest absurdity. their inconsistency is not observed by their authors or by mankind in general, who are equally inconsistent themselves. they leave on the mind a pleasing sense of wonder and novelty: in youth they seem to have a natural affinity to one class of persons as poetry has to another; but in later life either we drift back into common sense, or we make them the starting-points of a higher philosophy. we are often told that we should enquire into all things before we accept them;--with what limitations is this true? for we cannot use our senses without admitting that we have them, or think without presupposing that there is in us a power of thought, or affirm that all knowledge is derived from experience without implying that this first principle of knowledge is prior to experience. the truth seems to be that we begin with the natural use of the mind as of the body, and we seek to describe this as well as we can. we eat before we know the nature of digestion; we think before we know the nature of reflection. as our knowledge increases, our perception of the mind enlarges also. we cannot indeed get beyond facts, but neither can we draw any line which separates facts from ideas. and the mind is not something separate from them but included in them, and they in the mind, both having a distinctness and individuality of their own. to reduce our conception of mind to a succession of feelings and sensations is like the attempt to view a wide prospect by inches through a microscope, or to calculate a period of chronology by minutes. the mind ceases to exist when it loses its continuity, which though far from being its highest determination, is yet necessary to any conception of it. even an inanimate nature cannot be adequately represented as an endless succession of states or conditions. paragraph ii. another division of the subject has yet to be considered: why should the doctrine that knowledge is sensation, in ancient times, or of sensationalism or materialism in modern times, be allied to the lower rather than to the higher view of ethical philosophy? at first sight the nature and origin of knowledge appear to be wholly disconnected from ethics and religion, nor can we deny that the ancient stoics were materialists, or that the materialist doctrines prevalent in modern times have been associated with great virtues, or that both religious and philosophical idealism have not unfrequently parted company with practice. still upon the whole it must be admitted that the higher standard of duty has gone hand in hand with the higher conception of knowledge. it is protagoras who is seeking to adapt himself to the opinions of the world; it is plato who rises above them: the one maintaining that all knowledge is sensation; the other basing the virtues on the idea of good. the reason of this phenomenon has now to be examined. by those who rest knowledge immediately upon sense, that explanation of human action is deemed to be the truest which is nearest to sense. as knowledge is reduced to sensation, so virtue is reduced to feeling, happiness or good to pleasure. the different virtues--the various characters which exist in the world--are the disguises of self-interest. human nature is dried up; there is no place left for imagination, or in any higher sense for religion. ideals of a whole, or of a state, or of a law of duty, or of a divine perfection, are out of place in an epicurean philosophy. the very terms in which they are expressed are suspected of having no meaning. man is to bring himself back as far as he is able to the condition of a rational beast. he is to limit himself to the pursuit of pleasure, but of this he is to make a far-sighted calculation;--he is to be rationalized, secularized, animalized: or he is to be an amiable sceptic, better than his own philosophy, and not falling below the opinions of the world. imagination has been called that 'busy faculty' which is always intruding upon us in the search after truth. but imagination is also that higher power by which we rise above ourselves and the commonplaces of thought and life. the philosophical imagination is another name for reason finding an expression of herself in the outward world. to deprive life of ideals is to deprive it of all higher and comprehensive aims and of the power of imparting and communicating them to others. for men are taught, not by those who are on a level with them, but by those who rise above them, who see the distant hills, who soar into the empyrean. like a bird in a cage, the mind confined to sense is always being brought back from the higher to the lower, from the wider to the narrower view of human knowledge. it seeks to fly but cannot: instead of aspiring towards perfection, 'it hovers about this lower world and the earthly nature.' it loses the religious sense which more than any other seems to take a man out of himself. weary of asking 'what is truth?' it accepts the 'blind witness of eyes and ears;' it draws around itself the curtain of the physical world and is satisfied. the strength of a sensational philosophy lies in the ready accommodation of it to the minds of men; many who have been metaphysicians in their youth, as they advance in years are prone to acquiesce in things as they are, or rather appear to be. they are spectators, not thinkers, and the best philosophy is that which requires of them the least amount of mental effort. as a lower philosophy is easier to apprehend than a higher, so a lower way of life is easier to follow; and therefore such a philosophy seems to derive a support from the general practice of mankind. it appeals to principles which they all know and recognize: it gives back to them in a generalized form the results of their own experience. to the man of the world they are the quintessence of his own reflections upon life. to follow custom, to have no new ideas or opinions, not to be straining after impossibilities, to enjoy to-day with just so much forethought as is necessary to provide for the morrow, this is regarded by the greater part of the world as the natural way of passing through existence. and many who have lived thus have attained to a lower kind of happiness or equanimity. they have possessed their souls in peace without ever allowing them to wander into the region of religious or political controversy, and without any care for the higher interests of man. but nearly all the good (as well as some of the evil) which has ever been done in this world has been the work of another spirit, the work of enthusiasts and idealists, of apostles and martyrs. the leaders of mankind have not been of the gentle epicurean type; they have personified ideas; they have sometimes also been the victims of them. but they have always been seeking after a truth or ideal of which they fell short; and have died in a manner disappointed of their hopes that they might lift the human race out of the slough in which they found them. they have done little compared with their own visions and aspirations; but they have done that little, only because they sought to do, and once perhaps thought that they were doing, a great deal more. the philosophies of epicurus or hume give no adequate or dignified conception of the mind. there is no organic unity in a succession of feeling or sensations; no comprehensiveness in an infinity of separate actions. the individual never reflects upon himself as a whole; he can hardly regard one act or part of his life as the cause or effect of any other act or part. whether in practice or speculation, he is to himself only in successive instants. to such thinkers, whether in ancient or in modern times, the mind is only the poor recipient of impressions--not the heir of all the ages, or connected with all other minds. it begins again with its own modicum of experience having only such vague conceptions of the wisdom of the past as are inseparable from language and popular opinion. it seeks to explain from the experience of the individual what can only be learned from the history of the world. it has no conception of obligation, duty, conscience--these are to the epicurean or utilitarian philosopher only names which interfere with our natural perceptions of pleasure and pain. there seem then to be several answers to the question, why the theory that all knowledge is sensation is allied to the lower rather than to the higher view of ethical philosophy:-- st, because it is easier to understand and practise; ndly, because it is fatal to the pursuit of ideals, moral, political, or religious; rdly, because it deprives us of the means and instruments of higher thought, of any adequate conception of the mind, of knowledge, of conscience, of moral obligation. ... on the nature and limits of psychology. o gar arche men o me oide, teleute de kai ta metaxu ex ou me oide sumpeplektai, tis mechane ten toiauten omologian pote epistemen genesthai; plato republic. monon gar auto legeiv, osper gumnon kai aperemomenon apo ton onton apanton, adunaton. soph. since the above essay first appeared, many books on psychology have been given to the world, partly based upon the views of herbart and other german philosophers, partly independent of them. the subject has gained in bulk and extent; whether it has had any true growth is more doubtful. it begins to assume the language and claim the authority of a science; but it is only an hypothesis or outline, which may be filled up in many ways according to the fancy of individual thinkers. the basis of it is a precarious one,--consciousness of ourselves and a somewhat uncertain observation of the rest of mankind. its relations to other sciences are not yet determined: they seem to be almost too complicated to be ascertained. it may be compared to an irregular building, run up hastily and not likely to last, because its foundations are weak, and in many places rest only on the surface of the ground. it has sought rather to put together scattered observations and to make them into a system than to describe or prove them. it has never severely drawn the line between facts and opinions. it has substituted a technical phraseology for the common use of language, being neither able to win acceptance for the one nor to get rid of the other. the system which has thus arisen appears to be a kind of metaphysic narrowed to the point of view of the individual mind, through which, as through some new optical instrument limiting the sphere of vision, the interior of thought and sensation is examined. but the individual mind in the abstract, as distinct from the mind of a particular individual and separated from the environment of circumstances, is a fiction only. yet facts which are partly true gather around this fiction and are naturally described by the help of it. there is also a common type of the mind which is derived from the comparison of many minds with one another and with our own. the phenomena of which psychology treats are familiar to us, but they are for the most part indefinite; they relate to a something inside the body, which seems also to overleap the limits of space. the operations of this something, when isolated, cannot be analyzed by us or subjected to observation and experiment. and there is another point to be considered. the mind, when thinking, cannot survey that part of itself which is used in thought. it can only be contemplated in the past, that is to say, in the history of the individual or of the world. this is the scientific method of studying the mind. but psychology has also some other supports, specious rather than real. it is partly sustained by the false analogy of physical science and has great expectations from its near relationship to physiology. we truly remark that there is an infinite complexity of the body corresponding to the infinite subtlety of the mind; we are conscious that they are very nearly connected. but in endeavouring to trace the nature of the connexion we are baffled and disappointed. in our knowledge of them the gulf remains the same: no microscope has ever seen into thought; no reflection on ourselves has supplied the missing link between mind and matter...these are the conditions of this very inexact science, and we shall only know less of it by pretending to know more, or by assigning to it a form or style to which it has not yet attained and is not really entitled. experience shows that any system, however baseless and ineffectual, in our own or in any other age, may be accepted and continue to be studied, if it seeks to satisfy some unanswered question or is based upon some ancient tradition, especially if it takes the form and uses the language of inductive philosophy. the fact therefore that such a science exists and is popular, affords no evidence of its truth or value. many who have pursued it far into detail have never examined the foundations on which it rests. the have been many imaginary subjects of knowledge of which enthusiastic persons have made a lifelong study, without ever asking themselves what is the evidence for them, what is the use of them, how long they will last? they may pass away, like the authors of them, and 'leave not a wrack behind;' or they may survive in fragments. nor is it only in the middle ages, or in the literary desert of china or of india, that such systems have arisen; in our own enlightened age, growing up by the side of physics, ethics, and other really progressive sciences, there is a weary waste of knowledge, falsely so-called. there are sham sciences which no logic has ever put to the test, in which the desire for knowledge invents the materials of it. and therefore it is expedient once more to review the bases of psychology, lest we should be imposed upon by its pretensions. the study of it may have done good service by awakening us to the sense of inveterate errors familiarized by language, yet it may have fallen into still greater ones; under the pretence of new investigations it may be wasting the lives of those who are engaged in it. it may also be found that the discussion of it will throw light upon some points in the theaetetus of plato,--the oldest work on psychology which has come down to us. the imaginary science may be called, in the language of ancient philosophy, 'a shadow of a part of dialectic or metaphysic' (gorg.). in this postscript or appendix we propose to treat, first, of the true bases of psychology; secondly, of the errors into which the students of it are most likely to fall; thirdly, of the principal subjects which are usually comprehended under it; fourthly, of the form which facts relating to the mind most naturally assume. we may preface the enquiry by two or three remarks:-- ( ) we do not claim for the popular psychology the position of a science at all; it cannot, like the physical sciences, proceed by the inductive method: it has not the necessity of mathematics: it does not, like metaphysic, argue from abstract notions or from internal coherence. it is made up of scattered observations. a few of these, though they may sometimes appear to be truisms, are of the greatest value, and free from all doubt. we are conscious of them in ourselves; we observe them working in others; we are assured of them at all times. for example, we are absolutely certain, (a) of the influence exerted by the mind over the body or by the body over the mind: (b) of the power of association, by which the appearance of some person or the occurrence of some event recalls to mind, not always but often, other persons and events: (c) of the effect of habit, which is strongest when least disturbed by reflection, and is to the mind what the bones are to the body: (d) of the real, though not unlimited, freedom of the human will: (e) of the reference, more or less distinct, of our sensations, feelings, thoughts, actions, to ourselves, which is called consciousness, or, when in excess, self-consciousness: (f) of the distinction of the 'i' and 'not i,' of ourselves and outward objects. but when we attempt to gather up these elements in a single system, we discover that the links by which we combine them are apt to be mere words. we are in a country which has never been cleared or surveyed; here and there only does a gleam of light come through the darkness of the forest. ( ) these fragments, although they can never become science in the ordinary sense of the word, are a real part of knowledge and may be of great value in education. we may be able to add a good deal to them from our own experience, and we may verify them by it. self-examination is one of those studies which a man can pursue alone, by attention to himself and the processes of his individual mind. he may learn much about his own character and about the character of others, if he will 'make his mind sit down' and look at itself in the glass. the great, if not the only use of such a study is a practical one,--to know, first, human nature, and, secondly, our own nature, as it truly is. ( ) hence it is important that we should conceive of the mind in the noblest and simplest manner. while acknowledging that language has been the greatest factor in the formation of human thought, we must endeavour to get rid of the disguises, oppositions, contradictions, which arise out of it. we must disengage ourselves from the ideas which the customary use of words has implanted in us. to avoid error as much as possible when we are speaking of things unseen, the principal terms which we use should be few, and we should not allow ourselves to be enslaved by them. instead of seeking to frame a technical language, we should vary our forms of speech, lest they should degenerate into formulas. a difficult philosophical problem is better understood when translated into the vernacular. i.a. psychology is inseparable from language, and early language contains the first impressions or the oldest experience of man respecting himself. these impressions are not accurate representations of the truth; they are the reflections of a rudimentary age of philosophy. the first and simplest forms of thought are rooted so deep in human nature that they can never be got rid of; but they have been perpetually enlarged and elevated, and the use of many words has been transferred from the body to the mind. the spiritual and intellectual have thus become separated from the material--there is a cleft between them; and the heart and the conscience of man rise above the dominion of the appetites and create a new language in which they too find expression. as the differences of actions begin to be perceived, more and more names are needed. this is the first analysis of the human mind; having a general foundation in popular experience, it is moulded to a certain extent by hierophants and philosophers. (see introd. to cratylus.) b. this primitive psychology is continually receiving additions from the first thinkers, who in return take a colour from the popular language of the time. the mind is regarded from new points of view, and becomes adapted to new conditions of knowledge. it seeks to isolate itself from matter and sense, and to assert its independence in thought. it recognizes that it is independent of the external world. it has five or six natural states or stages:--( ) sensation, in which it is almost latent or quiescent: ( ) feeling, or inner sense, when the mind is just awakening: ( ) memory, which is decaying sense, and from time to time, as with a spark or flash, has the power of recollecting or reanimating the buried past: ( ) thought, in which images pass into abstract notions or are intermingled with them: ( ) action, in which the mind moves forward, of itself, or under the impulse of want or desire or pain, to attain or avoid some end or consequence: and ( ) there is the composition of these or the admixture or assimilation of them in various degrees. we never see these processes of the mind, nor can we tell the causes of them. but we know them by their results, and learn from other men that so far as we can describe to them or they to us the workings of the mind, their experience is the same or nearly the same with our own. c. but the knowledge of the mind is not to any great extent derived from the observation of the individual by himself. it is the growing consciousness of the human race, embodied in language, acknowledged by experience, and corrected from time to time by the influence of literature and philosophy. a great, perhaps the most important, part of it is to be found in early greek thought. in the theaetetus of plato it has not yet become fixed: we are still stumbling on the threshold. in aristotle the process is more nearly completed, and has gained innumerable abstractions, of which many have had to be thrown away because relative only to the controversies of the time. in the interval between thales and aristotle were realized the distinctions of mind and body, of universal and particular, of infinite and infinitesimal, of idea and phenomenon; the class conceptions of faculties and virtues, the antagonism of the appetites and the reason; and connected with this, at a higher stage of development, the opposition of moral and intellectual virtue; also the primitive conceptions of unity, being, rest, motion, and the like. these divisions were not really scientific, but rather based on popular experience. they were not held with the precision of modern thinkers, but taken all together they gave a new existence to the mind in thought, and greatly enlarged and more accurately defined man's knowledge of himself and of the world. the majority of them have been accepted by christian and western nations. yet in modern times we have also drifted so far away from aristotle, that if we were to frame a system on his lines we should be at war with ordinary language and untrue to our own consciousness. and there have been a few both in mediaeval times and since the reformation who have rebelled against the aristotelian point of view. of these eccentric thinkers there have been various types, but they have all a family likeness. according to them, there has been too much analysis and too little synthesis, too much division of the mind into parts and too little conception of it as a whole or in its relation to god and the laws of the universe. they have thought that the elements of plurality and unity have not been duly adjusted. the tendency of such writers has been to allow the personality of man to be absorbed in the universal, or in the divine nature, and to deny the distinction between matter and mind, or to substitute one for the other. they have broken some of the idols of psychology: they have challenged the received meaning of words: they have regarded the mind under many points of view. but though they may have shaken the old, they have not established the new; their views of philosophy, which seem like the echo of some voice from the east, have been alien to the mind of europe. d. the psychology which is found in common language is in some degree verified by experience, but not in such a manner as to give it the character of an exact science. we cannot say that words always correspond to facts. common language represents the mind from different and even opposite points of view, which cannot be all of them equally true (compare cratylus). yet from diversity of statements and opinions may be obtained a nearer approach to the truth than is to be gained from any one of them. it also tends to correct itself, because it is gradually brought nearer to the common sense of mankind. there are some leading categories or classifications of thought, which, though unverified, must always remain the elements from which the science or study of the mind proceeds. for example, we must assume ideas before we can analyze them, and also a continuing mind to which they belong; the resolution of it into successive moments, which would say, with protagoras, that the man is not the same person which he was a minute ago, is, as plato implies in the theaetetus, an absurdity. e. the growth of the mind, which may be traced in the histories of religions and philosophies and in the thoughts of nations, is one of the deepest and noblest modes of studying it. here we are dealing with the reality, with the greater and, as it may be termed, the most sacred part of history. we study the mind of man as it begins to be inspired by a human or divine reason, as it is modified by circumstances, as it is distributed in nations, as it is renovated by great movements, which go beyond the limits of nations and affect human society on a scale still greater, as it is created or renewed by great minds, who, looking down from above, have a wider and more comprehensive vision. this is an ambitious study, of which most of us rather 'entertain conjecture' than arrive at any detailed or accurate knowledge. later arises the reflection how these great ideas or movements of the world have been appropriated by the multitude and found a way to the minds of individuals. the real psychology is that which shows how the increasing knowledge of nature and the increasing experience of life have always been slowly transforming the mind, how religions too have been modified in the course of ages 'that god may be all and in all.' e pollaplasion, eoe, to ergon e os nun zeteitai prostatteis. f. lastly, though we speak of the study of mind in a special sense, it may also be said that there is no science which does not contribute to our knowledge of it. the methods of science and their analogies are new faculties, discovered by the few and imparted to the many. they are to the mind, what the senses are to the body; or better, they may be compared to instruments such as the telescope or microscope by which the discriminating power of the senses, or to other mechanical inventions, by which the strength and skill of the human body is so immeasurably increased. ii. the new psychology, whatever may be its claim to the authority of a science, has called attention to many facts and corrected many errors, which without it would have been unexamined. yet it is also itself very liable to illusion. the evidence on which it rests is vague and indefinite. the field of consciousness is never seen by us as a whole, but only at particular points, which are always changing. the veil of language intercepts facts. hence it is desirable that in making an approach to the study we should consider at the outset what are the kinds of error which most easily affect it, and note the differences which separate it from other branches of knowledge. a. first, we observe the mind by the mind. it would seem therefore that we are always in danger of leaving out the half of that which is the subject of our enquiry. we come at once upon the difficulty of what is the meaning of the word. does it differ as subject and object in the same manner? can we suppose one set of feelings or one part of the mind to interpret another? is the introspecting thought the same with the thought which is introspected? has the mind the power of surveying its whole domain at one and the same time?--no more than the eye can take in the whole human body at a glance. yet there may be a glimpse round the corner, or a thought transferred in a moment from one point of view to another, which enables us to see nearly the whole, if not at once, at any rate in succession. such glimpses will hardly enable us to contemplate from within the mind in its true proportions. hence the firmer ground of psychology is not the consciousness of inward feelings but the observation of external actions, being the actions not only of ourselves, but of the innumerable persons whom we come across in life. b. the error of supposing partial or occasional explanation of mental phenomena to be the only or complete ones. for example, we are disinclined to admit of the spontaneity or discontinuity of the mind--it seems to us like an effect without a cause, and therefore we suppose the train of our thoughts to be always called up by association. yet it is probable, or indeed certain, that of many mental phenomena there are no mental antecedents, but only bodily ones. c. the false influence of language. we are apt to suppose that when there are two or more words describing faculties or processes of the mind, there are real differences corresponding to them. but this is not the case. nor can we determine how far they do or do not exist, or by what degree or kind of difference they are distinguished. the same remark may be made about figures of speech. they fill up the vacancy of knowledge; they are to the mind what too much colour is to the eye; but the truth is rather concealed than revealed by them. d. the uncertain meaning of terms, such as consciousness, conscience, will, law, knowledge, internal and external sense; these, in the language of plato, 'we shamelessly use, without ever having taken the pains to analyze them.' e. a science such as psychology is not merely an hypothesis, but an hypothesis which, unlike the hypotheses of physics, can never be verified. it rests only on the general impressions of mankind, and there is little or no hope of adding in any considerable degree to our stock of mental facts. f. the parallelism of the physical sciences, which leads us to analyze the mind on the analogy of the body, and so to reduce mental operations to the level of bodily ones, or to confound one with the other. g. that the progress of physiology may throw a new light on psychology is a dream in which scientific men are always tempted to indulge. but however certain we may be of the connexion between mind and body, the explanation of the one by the other is a hidden place of nature which has hitherto been investigated with little or no success. h. the impossibility of distinguishing between mind and body. neither in thought nor in experience can we separate them. they seem to act together; yet we feel that we are sometimes under the dominion of the one, sometimes of the other, and sometimes, both in the common use of language and in fact, they transform themselves, the one into the good principle, the other into the evil principle; and then again the 'i' comes in and mediates between them. it is also difficult to distinguish outward facts from the ideas of them in the mind, or to separate the external stimulus to a sensation from the activity of the organ, or this from the invisible agencies by which it reaches the mind, or any process of sense from its mental antecedent, or any mental energy from its nervous expression. i. the fact that mental divisions tend to run into one another, and that in speaking of the mind we cannot always distinguish differences of kind from differences of degree; nor have we any measure of the strength and intensity of our ideas or feelings. j. although heredity has been always known to the ancients as well as ourselves to exercise a considerable influence on human character, yet we are unable to calculate what proportion this birth-influence bears to nurture and education. but this is the real question. we cannot pursue the mind into embryology: we can only trace how, after birth, it begins to grow. but how much is due to the soil, how much to the original latent seed, it is impossible to distinguish. and because we are certain that heredity exercises a considerable, but undefined influence, we must not increase the wonder by exaggerating it. k. the love of system is always tending to prevail over the historical investigation of the mind, which is our chief means of knowing it. it equally tends to hinder the other great source of our knowledge of the mind, the observation of its workings and processes which we can make for ourselves. l. the mind, when studied through the individual, is apt to be isolated--this is due to the very form of the enquiry; whereas, in truth, it is indistinguishable from circumstances, the very language which it uses being the result of the instincts of long-forgotten generations, and every word which a man utters being the answer to some other word spoken or suggested by somebody else. iii. the tendency of the preceding remarks has been to show that psychology is necessarily a fragment, and is not and cannot be a connected system. we cannot define or limit the mind, but we can describe it. we can collect information about it; we can enumerate the principal subjects which are included in the study of it. thus we are able to rehabilitate psychology to some extent, not as a branch of science, but as a collection of facts bearing on human life, as a part of the history of philosophy, as an aspect of metaphysic. it is a fragment of a science only, which in all probability can never make any great progress or attain to much clearness or exactness. it is however a kind of knowledge which has a great interest for us and is always present to us, and of which we carry about the materials in our own bosoms. we can observe our minds and we can experiment upon them, and the knowledge thus acquired is not easily forgotten, and is a help to us in study as well as in conduct. the principal subjects of psychology may be summed up as follows:-- a. the relation of man to the world around him,--in what sense and within what limits can he withdraw from its laws or assert himself against them (freedom and necessity), and what is that which we suppose to be thus independent and which we call ourselves? how does the inward differ from the outward and what is the relation between them, and where do we draw the line by which we separate mind from matter, the soul from the body? is the mind active or passive, or partly both? are its movements identical with those of the body, or only preconcerted and coincident with them, or is one simply an aspect of the other? b. what are we to think of time and space? time seems to have a nearer connexion with the mind, space with the body; yet time, as well as space, is necessary to our idea of either. we see also that they have an analogy with one another, and that in mathematics they often interpenetrate. space or place has been said by kant to be the form of the outward, time of the inward sense. he regards them as parts or forms of the mind. but this is an unfortunate and inexpressive way of describing their relation to us. for of all the phenomena present to the human mind they seem to have most the character of objective existence. there is no use in asking what is beyond or behind them; we cannot get rid of them. and to throw the laws of external nature which to us are the type of the immutable into the subjective side of the antithesis seems to be equally inappropriate. c. when in imagination we enter into the closet of the mind and withdraw ourselves from the external world, we seem to find there more or less distinct processes which may be described by the words, 'i perceive,' 'i feel,' 'i think,' 'i want,' 'i wish,' 'i like,' 'i dislike,' 'i fear,' 'i know,' 'i remember,' 'i imagine,' 'i dream,' 'i act,' 'i endeavour,' 'i hope.' these processes would seem to have the same notions attached to them in the minds of all educated persons. they are distinguished from one another in thought, but they intermingle. it is possible to reflect upon them or to become conscious of them in a greater or less degree, or with a greater or less continuity or attention, and thus arise the intermittent phenomena of consciousness or self-consciousness. the use of all of them is possible to us at all times; and therefore in any operation of the mind the whole are latent. but we are able to characterise them sufficiently by that part of the complex action which is the most prominent. we have no difficulty in distinguishing an act of sight or an act of will from an act of thought, although thought is present in both of them. hence the conception of different faculties or different virtues is precarious, because each of them is passing into the other, and they are all one in the mind itself; they appear and reappear, and may all be regarded as the ever-varying phases or aspects or differences of the same mind or person. d. nearest the sense in the scale of the intellectual faculties is memory, which is a mode rather than a faculty of the mind, and accompanies all mental operations. there are two principal kinds of it, recollection and recognition,--recollection in which forgotten things are recalled or return to the mind, recognition in which the mind finds itself again among things once familiar. the simplest way in which we can represent the former to ourselves is by shutting our eyes and trying to recall in what we term the mind's eye the picture of the surrounding scene, or by laying down the book which we are reading and recapitulating what we can remember of it. but many times more powerful than recollection is recognition, perhaps because it is more assisted by association. we have known and forgotten, and after a long interval the thing which we have seen once is seen again by us, but with a different feeling, and comes back to us, not as new knowledge, but as a thing to which we ourselves impart a notion already present to us; in plato's words, we set the stamp upon the wax. every one is aware of the difference between the first and second sight of a place, between a scene clothed with associations or bare and divested of them. we say to ourselves on revisiting a spot after a long interval: how many things have happened since i last saw this! there is probably no impression ever received by us of which we can venture to say that the vestiges are altogether lost, or that we might not, under some circumstances, recover it. a long-forgotten knowledge may be easily renewed and therefore is very different from ignorance. of the language learnt in childhood not a word may be remembered, and yet, when a new beginning is made, the old habit soon returns, the neglected organs come back into use, and the river of speech finds out the dried-up channel. e. 'consciousness' is the most treacherous word which is employed in the study of the mind, for it is used in many senses, and has rarely, if ever, been minutely analyzed. like memory, it accompanies all mental operations, but not always continuously, and it exists in various degrees. it may be imperceptible or hardly perceptible: it may be the living sense that our thoughts, actions, sufferings, are our own. it is a kind of attention which we pay to ourselves, and is intermittent rather than continuous. its sphere has been exaggerated. it is sometimes said to assure us of our freedom; but this is an illusion: as there may be a real freedom without consciousness of it, so there may be a consciousness of freedom without the reality. it may be regarded as a higher degree of knowledge when we not only know but know that we know. consciousness is opposed to habit, inattention, sleep, death. it may be illustrated by its derivative conscience, which speaks to men, not only of right and wrong in the abstract, but of right and wrong actions in reference to themselves and their circumstances. f. association is another of the ever-present phenomena of the human mind. we speak of the laws of association, but this is an expression which is confusing, for the phenomenon itself is of the most capricious and uncertain sort. it may be briefly described as follows. the simplest case of association is that of sense. when we see or hear separately one of two things, which we have previously seen or heard together, the occurrence of the one has a tendency to suggest the other. so the sight or name of a house may recall to our minds the memory of those who once lived there. like may recall like and everything its opposite. the parts of a whole, the terms of a series, objects lying near, words having a customary order stick together in the mind. a word may bring back a passage of poetry or a whole system of philosophy; from one end of the world or from one pole of knowledge we may travel to the other in an indivisible instant. the long train of association by which we pass from one point to the other, involving every sort of complex relation, so sudden, so accidental, is one of the greatest wonders of mind...this process however is not always continuous, but often intermittent: we can think of things in isolation as well as in association; we do not mean that they must all hang from one another. we can begin again after an interval of rest or vacancy, as a new train of thought suddenly arises, as, for example, when we wake of a morning or after violent exercise. time, place, the same colour or sound or smell or taste, will often call up some thought or recollection either accidentally or naturally associated with them. but it is equally noticeable that the new thought may occur to us, we cannot tell how or why, by the spontaneous action of the mind itself or by the latent influence of the body. both science and poetry are made up of associations or recollections, but we must observe also that the mind is not wholly dependent on them, having also the power of origination. there are other processes of the mind which it is good for us to study when we are at home and by ourselves,--the manner in which thought passes into act, the conflict of passion and reason in many stages, the transition from sensuality to love or sentiment and from earthly love to heavenly, the slow and silent influence of habit, which little by little changes the nature of men, the sudden change of the old nature of man into a new one, wrought by shame or by some other overwhelming impulse. these are the greater phenomena of mind, and he who has thought of them for himself will live and move in a better-ordered world, and will himself be a better-ordered man. at the other end of the 'globus intellectualis,' nearest, not to earth and sense, but to heaven and god, is the personality of man, by which he holds communion with the unseen world. somehow, he knows not how, somewhere, he knows not where, under this higher aspect of his being he grasps the ideas of god, freedom and immortality; he sees the forms of truth, holiness and love, and is satisfied with them. no account of the mind can be complete which does not admit the reality or the possibility of another life. whether regarded as an ideal or as a fact, the highest part of man's nature and that in which it seems most nearly to approach the divine, is a phenomenon which exists, and must therefore be included within the domain of psychology. iv. we admit that there is no perfect or ideal psychology. it is not a whole in the same sense in which chemistry, physiology, or mathematics are wholes: that is to say, it is not a connected unity of knowledge. compared with the wealth of other sciences, it rests upon a small number of facts; and when we go beyond these, we fall into conjectures and verbal discussions. the facts themselves are disjointed; the causes of them run up into other sciences, and we have no means of tracing them from one to the other. yet it may be true of this, as of other beginnings of knowledge, that the attempt to put them together has tested the truth of them, and given a stimulus to the enquiry into them. psychology should be natural, not technical. it should take the form which is the most intelligible to the common understanding, because it has to do with common things, which are familiar to us all. it should aim at no more than every reflecting man knows or can easily verify for himself. when simple and unpretentious, it is least obscured by words, least liable to fall under the influence of physiology or metaphysic. it should argue, not from exceptional, but from ordinary phenomena. it should be careful to distinguish the higher and the lower elements of human nature, and not allow one to be veiled in the disguise of the other, lest through the slippery nature of language we should pass imperceptibly from good to evil, from nature in the higher to nature in the neutral or lower sense. it should assert consistently the unity of the human faculties, the unity of knowledge, the unity of god and law. the difference between the will and the affections and between the reason and the passions should also be recognized by it. its sphere is supposed to be narrowed to the individual soul; but it cannot be thus separated in fact. it goes back to the beginnings of things, to the first growth of language and philosophy, and to the whole science of man. there can be no truth or completeness in any study of the mind which is confined to the individual. the nature of language, though not the whole, is perhaps at present the most important element in our knowledge of it. it is not impossible that some numerical laws may be found to have a place in the relations of mind and matter, as in the rest of nature. the old pythagorean fancy that the soul 'is or has in it harmony' may in some degree be realized. but the indications of such numerical harmonies are faint; either the secret of them lies deeper than we can discover, or nature may have rebelled against the use of them in the composition of men and animals. it is with qualitative rather than with quantitative differences that we are concerned in psychology. the facts relating to the mind which we obtain from physiology are negative rather than positive. they show us, not the processes of mental action, but the conditions of which when deprived the mind ceases to act. it would seem as if the time had not yet arrived when we can hope to add anything of much importance to our knowledge of the mind from the investigations of the microscope. the elements of psychology can still only be learnt from reflections on ourselves, which interpret and are also interpreted by our experience of others. the history of language, of philosophy, and religion, the great thoughts or inventions or discoveries which move mankind, furnish the larger moulds or outlines in which the human mind has been cast. from these the individual derives so much as he is able to comprehend or has the opportunity of learning. theaetetus persons of the dialogue: socrates, theodorus, theaetetus. euclid and terpsion meet in front of euclid's house in megara; they enter the house, and the dialogue is read to them by a servant. euclid: have you only just arrived from the country, terpsion? terpsion: no, i came some time ago: and i have been in the agora looking for you, and wondering that i could not find you. euclid: but i was not in the city. terpsion: where then? euclid: as i was going down to the harbour, i met theaetetus--he was being carried up to athens from the army at corinth. terpsion: was he alive or dead? euclid: he was scarcely alive, for he has been badly wounded; but he was suffering even more from the sickness which has broken out in the army. terpsion: the dysentery, you mean? euclid: yes. terpsion: alas! what a loss he will be! euclid: yes, terpsion, he is a noble fellow; only to-day i heard some people highly praising his behaviour in this very battle. terpsion: no wonder; i should rather be surprised at hearing anything else of him. but why did he go on, instead of stopping at megara? euclid: he wanted to get home: although i entreated and advised him to remain, he would not listen to me; so i set him on his way, and turned back, and then i remembered what socrates had said of him, and thought how remarkably this, like all his predictions, had been fulfilled. i believe that he had seen him a little before his own death, when theaetetus was a youth, and he had a memorable conversation with him, which he repeated to me when i came to athens; he was full of admiration of his genius, and said that he would most certainly be a great man, if he lived. terpsion: the prophecy has certainly been fulfilled; but what was the conversation? can you tell me? euclid: no, indeed, not offhand; but i took notes of it as soon as i got home; these i filled up from memory, writing them out at leisure; and whenever i went to athens, i asked socrates about any point which i had forgotten, and on my return i made corrections; thus i have nearly the whole conversation written down. terpsion: i remember--you told me; and i have always been intending to ask you to show me the writing, but have put off doing so; and now, why should we not read it through?--having just come from the country, i should greatly like to rest. euclid: i too shall be very glad of a rest, for i went with theaetetus as far as erineum. let us go in, then, and, while we are reposing, the servant shall read to us. terpsion: very good. euclid: here is the roll, terpsion; i may observe that i have introduced socrates, not as narrating to me, but as actually conversing with the persons whom he mentioned--these were, theodorus the geometrician (of cyrene), and theaetetus. i have omitted, for the sake of convenience, the interlocutory words 'i said,' 'i remarked,' which he used when he spoke of himself, and again, 'he agreed,' or 'disagreed,' in the answer, lest the repetition of them should be troublesome. terpsion: quite right, euclid. euclid: and now, boy, you may take the roll and read. euclid's servant reads. socrates: if i cared enough about the cyrenians, theodorus, i would ask you whether there are any rising geometricians or philosophers in that part of the world. but i am more interested in our own athenian youth, and i would rather know who among them are likely to do well. i observe them as far as i can myself, and i enquire of any one whom they follow, and i see that a great many of them follow you, in which they are quite right, considering your eminence in geometry and in other ways. tell me then, if you have met with any one who is good for anything. theodorus: yes, socrates, i have become acquainted with one very remarkable athenian youth, whom i commend to you as well worthy of your attention. if he had been a beauty i should have been afraid to praise him, lest you should suppose that i was in love with him; but he is no beauty, and you must not be offended if i say that he is very like you; for he has a snub nose and projecting eyes, although these features are less marked in him than in you. seeing, then, that he has no personal attractions, i may freely say, that in all my acquaintance, which is very large, i never knew any one who was his equal in natural gifts: for he has a quickness of apprehension which is almost unrivalled, and he is exceedingly gentle, and also the most courageous of men; there is a union of qualities in him such as i have never seen in any other, and should scarcely have thought possible; for those who, like him, have quick and ready and retentive wits, have generally also quick tempers; they are ships without ballast, and go darting about, and are mad rather than courageous; and the steadier sort, when they have to face study, prove stupid and cannot remember. whereas he moves surely and smoothly and successfully in the path of knowledge and enquiry; and he is full of gentleness, flowing on silently like a river of oil; at his age, it is wonderful. socrates: that is good news; whose son is he? theodorus: the name of his father i have forgotten, but the youth himself is the middle one of those who are approaching us; he and his companions have been anointing themselves in the outer court, and now they seem to have finished, and are coming towards us. look and see whether you know him. socrates: i know the youth, but i do not know his name; he is the son of euphronius the sunian, who was himself an eminent man, and such another as his son is, according to your account of him; i believe that he left a considerable fortune. theodorus: theaetetus, socrates, is his name; but i rather think that the property disappeared in the hands of trustees; notwithstanding which he is wonderfully liberal. socrates: he must be a fine fellow; tell him to come and sit by me. theodorus: i will. come hither, theaetetus, and sit by socrates. socrates: by all means, theaetetus, in order that i may see the reflection of myself in your face, for theodorus says that we are alike; and yet if each of us held in his hands a lyre, and he said that they were tuned alike, should we at once take his word, or should we ask whether he who said so was or was not a musician? theaetetus: we should ask. socrates: and if we found that he was, we should take his word; and if not, not? theaetetus: true. socrates: and if this supposed likeness of our faces is a matter of any interest to us, we should enquire whether he who says that we are alike is a painter or not? theaetetus: certainly we should. socrates: and is theodorus a painter? theaetetus: i never heard that he was. socrates: is he a geometrician? theaetetus: of course he is, socrates. socrates: and is he an astronomer and calculator and musician, and in general an educated man? theaetetus: i think so. socrates: if, then, he remarks on a similarity in our persons, either by way of praise or blame, there is no particular reason why we should attend to him. theaetetus: i should say not. socrates: but if he praises the virtue or wisdom which are the mental endowments of either of us, then he who hears the praises will naturally desire to examine him who is praised: and he again should be willing to exhibit himself. theaetetus: very true, socrates. socrates: then now is the time, my dear theaetetus, for me to examine, and for you to exhibit; since although theodorus has praised many a citizen and stranger in my hearing, never did i hear him praise any one as he has been praising you. theaetetus: i am glad to hear it, socrates; but what if he was only in jest? socrates: nay, theodorus is not given to jesting; and i cannot allow you to retract your consent on any such pretence as that. if you do, he will have to swear to his words; and we are perfectly sure that no one will be found to impugn him. do not be shy then, but stand to your word. theaetetus: i suppose i must, if you wish it. socrates: in the first place, i should like to ask what you learn of theodorus: something of geometry, perhaps? theaetetus: yes. socrates: and astronomy and harmony and calculation? theaetetus: i do my best. socrates: yes, my boy, and so do i; and my desire is to learn of him, or of anybody who seems to understand these things. and i get on pretty well in general; but there is a little difficulty which i want you and the company to aid me in investigating. will you answer me a question: 'is not learning growing wiser about that which you learn?' theaetetus: of course. socrates: and by wisdom the wise are wise? theaetetus: yes. socrates: and is that different in any way from knowledge? theaetetus: what? socrates: wisdom; are not men wise in that which they know? theaetetus: certainly they are. socrates: then wisdom and knowledge are the same? theaetetus: yes. socrates: herein lies the difficulty which i can never solve to my satisfaction--what is knowledge? can we answer that question? what say you? which of us will speak first? whoever misses shall sit down, as at a game of ball, and shall be donkey, as the boys say; he who lasts out his competitors in the game without missing, shall be our king, and shall have the right of putting to us any questions which he pleases...why is there no reply? i hope, theodorus, that i am not betrayed into rudeness by my love of conversation? i only want to make us talk and be friendly and sociable. theodorus: the reverse of rudeness, socrates: but i would rather that you would ask one of the young fellows; for the truth is, that i am unused to your game of question and answer, and i am too old to learn; the young will be more suitable, and they will improve more than i shall, for youth is always able to improve. and so having made a beginning with theaetetus, i would advise you to go on with him and not let him off. socrates: do you hear, theaetetus, what theodorus says? the philosopher, whom you would not like to disobey, and whose word ought to be a command to a young man, bids me interrogate you. take courage, then, and nobly say what you think that knowledge is. theaetetus: well, socrates, i will answer as you and he bid me; and if i make a mistake, you will doubtless correct me. socrates: we will, if we can. theaetetus: then, i think that the sciences which i learn from theodorus--geometry, and those which you just now mentioned--are knowledge; and i would include the art of the cobbler and other craftsmen; these, each and all of, them, are knowledge. socrates: too much, theaetetus, too much; the nobility and liberality of your nature make you give many and diverse things, when i am asking for one simple thing. theaetetus: what do you mean, socrates? socrates: perhaps nothing. i will endeavour, however, to explain what i believe to be my meaning: when you speak of cobbling, you mean the art or science of making shoes? theaetetus: just so. socrates: and when you speak of carpentering, you mean the art of making wooden implements? theaetetus: i do. socrates: in both cases you define the subject matter of each of the two arts? theaetetus: true. socrates: but that, theaetetus, was not the point of my question: we wanted to know not the subjects, nor yet the number of the arts or sciences, for we were not going to count them, but we wanted to know the nature of knowledge in the abstract. am i not right? theaetetus: perfectly right. socrates: let me offer an illustration: suppose that a person were to ask about some very trivial and obvious thing--for example, what is clay? and we were to reply, that there is a clay of potters, there is a clay of oven-makers, there is a clay of brick-makers; would not the answer be ridiculous? theaetetus: truly. socrates: in the first place, there would be an absurdity in assuming that he who asked the question would understand from our answer the nature of 'clay,' merely because we added 'of the image-makers,' or of any other workers. how can a man understand the name of anything, when he does not know the nature of it? theaetetus: he cannot. socrates: then he who does not know what science or knowledge is, has no knowledge of the art or science of making shoes? theaetetus: none. socrates: nor of any other science? theaetetus: no. socrates: and when a man is asked what science or knowledge is, to give in answer the name of some art or science is ridiculous; for the question is, 'what is knowledge?' and he replies, 'a knowledge of this or that.' theaetetus: true. socrates: moreover, he might answer shortly and simply, but he makes an enormous circuit. for example, when asked about the clay, he might have said simply, that clay is moistened earth--what sort of clay is not to the point. theaetetus: yes, socrates, there is no difficulty as you put the question. you mean, if i am not mistaken, something like what occurred to me and to my friend here, your namesake socrates, in a recent discussion. socrates: what was that, theaetetus? theaetetus: theodorus was writing out for us something about roots, such as the roots of three or five, showing that they are incommensurable by the unit: he selected other examples up to seventeen--there he stopped. now as there are innumerable roots, the notion occurred to us of attempting to include them all under one name or class. socrates: and did you find such a class? theaetetus: i think that we did; but i should like to have your opinion. socrates: let me hear. theaetetus: we divided all numbers into two classes: those which are made up of equal factors multiplying into one another, which we compared to square figures and called square or equilateral numbers;--that was one class. socrates: very good. theaetetus: the intermediate numbers, such as three and five, and every other number which is made up of unequal factors, either of a greater multiplied by a less, or of a less multiplied by a greater, and when regarded as a figure, is contained in unequal sides;--all these we compared to oblong figures, and called them oblong numbers. socrates: capital; and what followed? theaetetus: the lines, or sides, which have for their squares the equilateral plane numbers, were called by us lengths or magnitudes; and the lines which are the roots of (or whose squares are equal to) the oblong numbers, were called powers or roots; the reason of this latter name being, that they are commensurable with the former [i.e., with the so-called lengths or magnitudes] not in linear measurement, but in the value of the superficial content of their squares; and the same about solids. socrates: excellent, my boys; i think that you fully justify the praises of theodorus, and that he will not be found guilty of false witness. theaetetus: but i am unable, socrates, to give you a similar answer about knowledge, which is what you appear to want; and therefore theodorus is a deceiver after all. socrates: well, but if some one were to praise you for running, and to say that he never met your equal among boys, and afterwards you were beaten in a race by a grown-up man, who was a great runner--would the praise be any the less true? theaetetus: certainly not. socrates: and is the discovery of the nature of knowledge so small a matter, as just now said? is it not one which would task the powers of men perfect in every way? theaetetus: by heaven, they should be the top of all perfection! socrates: well, then, be of good cheer; do not say that theodorus was mistaken about you, but do your best to ascertain the true nature of knowledge, as well as of other things. theaetetus: i am eager enough, socrates, if that would bring to light the truth. socrates: come, you made a good beginning just now; let your own answer about roots be your model, and as you comprehended them all in one class, try and bring the many sorts of knowledge under one definition. theaetetus: i can assure you, socrates, that i have tried very often, when the report of questions asked by you was brought to me; but i can neither persuade myself that i have a satisfactory answer to give, nor hear of any one who answers as you would have him; and i cannot shake off a feeling of anxiety. socrates: these are the pangs of labour, my dear theaetetus; you have something within you which you are bringing to the birth. theaetetus: i do not know, socrates; i only say what i feel. socrates: and have you never heard, simpleton, that i am the son of a midwife, brave and burly, whose name was phaenarete? theaetetus: yes, i have. socrates: and that i myself practise midwifery? theaetetus: no, never. socrates: let me tell you that i do though, my friend: but you must not reveal the secret, as the world in general have not found me out; and therefore they only say of me, that i am the strangest of mortals and drive men to their wits' end. did you ever hear that too? theaetetus: yes. socrates: shall i tell you the reason? theaetetus: by all means. socrates: bear in mind the whole business of the midwives, and then you will see my meaning better:--no woman, as you are probably aware, who is still able to conceive and bear, attends other women, but only those who are past bearing. theaetetus: yes, i know. socrates: the reason of this is said to be that artemis--the goddess of childbirth--is not a mother, and she honours those who are like herself; but she could not allow the barren to be midwives, because human nature cannot know the mystery of an art without experience; and therefore she assigned this office to those who are too old to bear. theaetetus: i dare say. socrates: and i dare say too, or rather i am absolutely certain, that the midwives know better than others who is pregnant and who is not? theaetetus: very true. socrates: and by the use of potions and incantations they are able to arouse the pangs and to soothe them at will; they can make those bear who have a difficulty in bearing, and if they think fit they can smother the embryo in the womb. theaetetus: they can. socrates: did you ever remark that they are also most cunning matchmakers, and have a thorough knowledge of what unions are likely to produce a brave brood? theaetetus: no, never. socrates: then let me tell you that this is their greatest pride, more than cutting the umbilical cord. and if you reflect, you will see that the same art which cultivates and gathers in the fruits of the earth, will be most likely to know in what soils the several plants or seeds should be deposited. theaetetus: yes, the same art. socrates: and do you suppose that with women the case is otherwise? theaetetus: i should think not. socrates: certainly not; but midwives are respectable women who have a character to lose, and they avoid this department of their profession, because they are afraid of being called procuresses, which is a name given to those who join together man and woman in an unlawful and unscientific way; and yet the true midwife is also the true and only matchmaker. theaetetus: clearly. socrates: such are the midwives, whose task is a very important one, but not so important as mine; for women do not bring into the world at one time real children, and at another time counterfeits which are with difficulty distinguished from them; if they did, then the discernment of the true and false birth would be the crowning achievement of the art of midwifery--you would think so? theaetetus: indeed i should. socrates: well, my art of midwifery is in most respects like theirs; but differs, in that i attend men and not women; and look after their souls when they are in labour, and not after their bodies: and the triumph of my art is in thoroughly examining whether the thought which the mind of the young man brings forth is a false idol or a noble and true birth. and like the midwives, i am barren, and the reproach which is often made against me, that i ask questions of others and have not the wit to answer them myself, is very just--the reason is, that the god compels me to be a midwife, but does not allow me to bring forth. and therefore i am not myself at all wise, nor have i anything to show which is the invention or birth of my own soul, but those who converse with me profit. some of them appear dull enough at first, but afterwards, as our acquaintance ripens, if the god is gracious to them, they all make astonishing progress; and this in the opinion of others as well as in their own. it is quite clear that they never learned anything from me; the many fine discoveries to which they cling are of their own making. but to me and the god they owe their delivery. and the proof of my words is, that many of them in their ignorance, either in their self-conceit despising me, or falling under the influence of others, have gone away too soon; and have not only lost the children of whom i had previously delivered them by an ill bringing up, but have stifled whatever else they had in them by evil communications, being fonder of lies and shams than of the truth; and they have at last ended by seeing themselves, as others see them, to be great fools. aristeides, the son of lysimachus, is one of them, and there are many others. the truants often return to me, and beg that i would consort with them again--they are ready to go to me on their knees--and then, if my familiar allows, which is not always the case, i receive them, and they begin to grow again. dire are the pangs which my art is able to arouse and to allay in those who consort with me, just like the pangs of women in childbirth; night and day they are full of perplexity and travail which is even worse than that of the women. so much for them. and there are others, theaetetus, who come to me apparently having nothing in them; and as i know that they have no need of my art, i coax them into marrying some one, and by the grace of god i can generally tell who is likely to do them good. many of them i have given away to prodicus, and many to other inspired sages. i tell you this long story, friend theaetetus, because i suspect, as indeed you seem to think yourself, that you are in labour--great with some conception. come then to me, who am a midwife's son and myself a midwife, and do your best to answer the questions which i will ask you. and if i abstract and expose your first-born, because i discover upon inspection that the conception which you have formed is a vain shadow, do not quarrel with me on that account, as the manner of women is when their first children are taken from them. for i have actually known some who were ready to bite me when i deprived them of a darling folly; they did not perceive that i acted from goodwill, not knowing that no god is the enemy of man--that was not within the range of their ideas; neither am i their enemy in all this, but it would be wrong for me to admit falsehood, or to stifle the truth. once more, then, theaetetus, i repeat my old question, 'what is knowledge?'--and do not say that you cannot tell; but quit yourself like a man, and by the help of god you will be able to tell. theaetetus: at any rate, socrates, after such an exhortation i should be ashamed of not trying to do my best. now he who knows perceives what he knows, and, as far as i can see at present, knowledge is perception. socrates: bravely said, boy; that is the way in which you should express your opinion. and now, let us examine together this conception of yours, and see whether it is a true birth or a mere wind-egg:--you say that knowledge is perception? theaetetus: yes. socrates: well, you have delivered yourself of a very important doctrine about knowledge; it is indeed the opinion of protagoras, who has another way of expressing it. man, he says, is the measure of all things, of the existence of things that are, and of the non-existence of things that are not:--you have read him? theaetetus: o yes, again and again. socrates: does he not say that things are to you such as they appear to you, and to me such as they appear to me, and that you and i are men? theaetetus: yes, he says so. socrates: a wise man is not likely to talk nonsense. let us try to understand him: the same wind is blowing, and yet one of us may be cold and the other not, or one may be slightly and the other very cold? theaetetus: quite true. socrates: now is the wind, regarded not in relation to us but absolutely, cold or not; or are we to say, with protagoras, that the wind is cold to him who is cold, and not to him who is not? theaetetus: i suppose the last. socrates: then it must appear so to each of them? theaetetus: yes. socrates: and 'appears to him' means the same as 'he perceives.' theaetetus: true. socrates: then appearing and perceiving coincide in the case of hot and cold, and in similar instances; for things appear, or may be supposed to be, to each one such as he perceives them? theaetetus: yes. socrates: then perception is always of existence, and being the same as knowledge is unerring? theaetetus: clearly. socrates: in the name of the graces, what an almighty wise man protagoras must have been! he spoke these things in a parable to the common herd, like you and me, but told the truth, 'his truth,' (in allusion to a book of protagoras' which bore this title.) in secret to his own disciples. theaetetus: what do you mean, socrates? socrates: i am about to speak of a high argument, in which all things are said to be relative; you cannot rightly call anything by any name, such as great or small, heavy or light, for the great will be small and the heavy light--there is no single thing or quality, but out of motion and change and admixture all things are becoming relatively to one another, which 'becoming' is by us incorrectly called being, but is really becoming, for nothing ever is, but all things are becoming. summon all philosophers--protagoras, heracleitus, empedocles, and the rest of them, one after another, and with the exception of parmenides they will agree with you in this. summon the great masters of either kind of poetry--epicharmus, the prince of comedy, and homer of tragedy; when the latter sings of 'ocean whence sprang the gods, and mother tethys,' does he not mean that all things are the offspring, of flux and motion? theaetetus: i think so. socrates: and who could take up arms against such a great army having homer for its general, and not appear ridiculous? (compare cratylus.) theaetetus: who indeed, socrates? socrates: yes, theaetetus; and there are plenty of other proofs which will show that motion is the source of what is called being and becoming, and inactivity of not-being and destruction; for fire and warmth, which are supposed to be the parent and guardian of all other things, are born of movement and of friction, which is a kind of motion;--is not this the origin of fire? theaetetus: it is. socrates: and the race of animals is generated in the same way? theaetetus: certainly. socrates: and is not the bodily habit spoiled by rest and idleness, but preserved for a long time by motion and exercise? theaetetus: true. socrates: and what of the mental habit? is not the soul informed, and improved, and preserved by study and attention, which are motions; but when at rest, which in the soul only means want of attention and study, is uninformed, and speedily forgets whatever she has learned? theaetetus: true. socrates: then motion is a good, and rest an evil, to the soul as well as to the body? theaetetus: clearly. socrates: i may add, that breathless calm, stillness and the like waste and impair, while wind and storm preserve; and the palmary argument of all, which i strongly urge, is the golden chain in homer, by which he means the sun, thereby indicating that so long as the sun and the heavens go round in their orbits, all things human and divine are and are preserved, but if they were chained up and their motions ceased, then all things would be destroyed, and, as the saying is, turned upside down. theaetetus: i believe, socrates, that you have truly explained his meaning. socrates: then now apply his doctrine to perception, my good friend, and first of all to vision; that which you call white colour is not in your eyes, and is not a distinct thing which exists out of them. and you must not assign any place to it: for if it had position it would be, and be at rest, and there would be no process of becoming. theaetetus: then what is colour? socrates: let us carry the principle which has just been affirmed, that nothing is self-existent, and then we shall see that white, black, and every other colour, arises out of the eye meeting the appropriate motion, and that what we call a colour is in each case neither the active nor the passive element, but something which passes between them, and is peculiar to each percipient; are you quite certain that the several colours appear to a dog or to any animal whatever as they appear to you? theaetetus: far from it. socrates: or that anything appears the same to you as to another man? are you so profoundly convinced of this? rather would it not be true that it never appears exactly the same to you, because you are never exactly the same? theaetetus: the latter. socrates: and if that with which i compare myself in size, or which i apprehend by touch, were great or white or hot, it could not become different by mere contact with another unless it actually changed; nor again, if the comparing or apprehending subject were great or white or hot, could this, when unchanged from within, become changed by any approximation or affection of any other thing. the fact is that in our ordinary way of speaking we allow ourselves to be driven into most ridiculous and wonderful contradictions, as protagoras and all who take his line of argument would remark. theaetetus: how? and of what sort do you mean? socrates: a little instance will sufficiently explain my meaning: here are six dice, which are more by a half when compared with four, and fewer by a half than twelve--they are more and also fewer. how can you or any one maintain the contrary? theaetetus: very true. socrates: well, then, suppose that protagoras or some one asks whether anything can become greater or more if not by increasing, how would you answer him, theaetetus? theaetetus: i should say 'no,' socrates, if i were to speak my mind in reference to this last question, and if i were not afraid of contradicting my former answer. socrates: capital! excellent! spoken like an oracle, my boy! and if you reply 'yes,' there will be a case for euripides; for our tongue will be unconvinced, but not our mind. (in allusion to the well-known line of euripides, hippol.: e gloss omomoch e de thren anomotos.) theaetetus: very true. socrates: the thoroughbred sophists, who know all that can be known about the mind, and argue only out of the superfluity of their wits, would have had a regular sparring-match over this, and would have knocked their arguments together finely. but you and i, who have no professional aims, only desire to see what is the mutual relation of these principles,--whether they are consistent with each or not. theaetetus: yes, that would be my desire. socrates: and mine too. but since this is our feeling, and there is plenty of time, why should we not calmly and patiently review our own thoughts, and thoroughly examine and see what these appearances in us really are? if i am not mistaken, they will be described by us as follows:--first, that nothing can become greater or less, either in number or magnitude, while remaining equal to itself--you would agree? theaetetus: yes. socrates: secondly, that without addition or subtraction there is no increase or diminution of anything, but only equality. theaetetus: quite true. socrates: thirdly, that what was not before cannot be afterwards, without becoming and having become. theaetetus: yes, truly. socrates: these three axioms, if i am not mistaken, are fighting with one another in our minds in the case of the dice, or, again, in such a case as this--if i were to say that i, who am of a certain height and taller than you, may within a year, without gaining or losing in height, be not so tall--not that i should have lost, but that you would have increased. in such a case, i am afterwards what i once was not, and yet i have not become; for i could not have become without becoming, neither could i have become less without losing somewhat of my height; and i could give you ten thousand examples of similar contradictions, if we admit them at all. i believe that you follow me, theaetetus; for i suspect that you have thought of these questions before now. theaetetus: yes, socrates, and i am amazed when i think of them; by the gods i am! and i want to know what on earth they mean; and there are times when my head quite swims with the contemplation of them. socrates: i see, my dear theaetetus, that theodorus had a true insight into your nature when he said that you were a philosopher, for wonder is the feeling of a philosopher, and philosophy begins in wonder. he was not a bad genealogist who said that iris (the messenger of heaven) is the child of thaumas (wonder). but do you begin to see what is the explanation of this perplexity on the hypothesis which we attribute to protagoras? theaetetus: not as yet. socrates: then you will be obliged to me if i help you to unearth the hidden 'truth' of a famous man or school. theaetetus: to be sure, i shall be very much obliged. socrates: take a look round, then, and see that none of the uninitiated are listening. now by the uninitiated i mean the people who believe in nothing but what they can grasp in their hands, and who will not allow that action or generation or anything invisible can have real existence. theaetetus: yes, indeed, socrates, they are very hard and impenetrable mortals. socrates: yes, my boy, outer barbarians. far more ingenious are the brethren whose mysteries i am about to reveal to you. their first principle is, that all is motion, and upon this all the affections of which we were just now speaking are supposed to depend: there is nothing but motion, which has two forms, one active and the other passive, both in endless number; and out of the union and friction of them there is generated a progeny endless in number, having two forms, sense and the object of sense, which are ever breaking forth and coming to the birth at the same moment. the senses are variously named hearing, seeing, smelling; there is the sense of heat, cold, pleasure, pain, desire, fear, and many more which have names, as well as innumerable others which are without them; each has its kindred object,--each variety of colour has a corresponding variety of sight, and so with sound and hearing, and with the rest of the senses and the objects akin to them. do you see, theaetetus, the bearings of this tale on the preceding argument? theaetetus: indeed i do not. socrates: then attend, and i will try to finish the story. the purport is that all these things are in motion, as i was saying, and that this motion is of two kinds, a slower and a quicker; and the slower elements have their motions in the same place and with reference to things near them, and so they beget; but what is begotten is swifter, for it is carried to fro, and moves from place to place. apply this to sense:--when the eye and the appropriate object meet together and give birth to whiteness and the sensation connatural with it, which could not have been given by either of them going elsewhere, then, while the sight is flowing from the eye, whiteness proceeds from the object which combines in producing the colour; and so the eye is fulfilled with sight, and really sees, and becomes, not sight, but a seeing eye; and the object which combined to form the colour is fulfilled with whiteness, and becomes not whiteness but a white thing, whether wood or stone or whatever the object may be which happens to be coloured white. and this is true of all sensible objects, hard, warm, and the like, which are similarly to be regarded, as i was saying before, not as having any absolute existence, but as being all of them of whatever kind generated by motion in their intercourse with one another; for of the agent and patient, as existing in separation, no trustworthy conception, as they say, can be formed, for the agent has no existence until united with the patient, and the patient has no existence until united with the agent; and that which by uniting with something becomes an agent, by meeting with some other thing is converted into a patient. and from all these considerations, as i said at first, there arises a general reflection, that there is no one self-existent thing, but everything is becoming and in relation; and being must be altogether abolished, although from habit and ignorance we are compelled even in this discussion to retain the use of the term. but great philosophers tell us that we are not to allow either the word 'something,' or 'belonging to something,' or 'to me,' or 'this,' or 'that,' or any other detaining name to be used, in the language of nature all things are being created and destroyed, coming into being and passing into new forms; nor can any name fix or detain them; he who attempts to fix them is easily refuted. and this should be the way of speaking, not only of particulars but of aggregates; such aggregates as are expressed in the word 'man,' or 'stone,' or any name of an animal or of a class. o theaetetus, are not these speculations sweet as honey? and do you not like the taste of them in the mouth? theaetetus: i do not know what to say, socrates; for, indeed, i cannot make out whether you are giving your own opinion or only wanting to draw me out. socrates: you forget, my friend, that i neither know, nor profess to know, anything of these matters; you are the person who is in labour, i am the barren midwife; and this is why i soothe you, and offer you one good thing after another, that you may taste them. and i hope that i may at last help to bring your own opinion into the light of day: when this has been accomplished, then we will determine whether what you have brought forth is only a wind-egg or a real and genuine birth. therefore, keep up your spirits, and answer like a man what you think. theaetetus: ask me. socrates: then once more: is it your opinion that nothing is but what becomes?--the good and the noble, as well as all the other things which we were just now mentioning? theaetetus: when i hear you discoursing in this style, i think that there is a great deal in what you say, and i am very ready to assent. socrates: let us not leave the argument unfinished, then; for there still remains to be considered an objection which may be raised about dreams and diseases, in particular about madness, and the various illusions of hearing and sight, or of other senses. for you know that in all these cases the esse-percipi theory appears to be unmistakably refuted, since in dreams and illusions we certainly have false perceptions; and far from saying that everything is which appears, we should rather say that nothing is which appears. theaetetus: very true, socrates. socrates: but then, my boy, how can any one contend that knowledge is perception, or that to every man what appears is? theaetetus: i am afraid to say, socrates, that i have nothing to answer, because you rebuked me just now for making this excuse; but i certainly cannot undertake to argue that madmen or dreamers think truly, when they imagine, some of them that they are gods, and others that they can fly, and are flying in their sleep. socrates: do you see another question which can be raised about these phenomena, notably about dreaming and waking? theaetetus: what question? socrates: a question which i think that you must often have heard persons ask:--how can you determine whether at this moment we are sleeping, and all our thoughts are a dream; or whether we are awake, and talking to one another in the waking state? theaetetus: indeed, socrates, i do not know how to prove the one any more than the other, for in both cases the facts precisely correspond;--and there is no difficulty in supposing that during all this discussion we have been talking to one another in a dream; and when in a dream we seem to be narrating dreams, the resemblance of the two states is quite astonishing. socrates: you see, then, that a doubt about the reality of sense is easily raised, since there may even be a doubt whether we are awake or in a dream. and as our time is equally divided between sleeping and waking, in either sphere of existence the soul contends that the thoughts which are present to our minds at the time are true; and during one half of our lives we affirm the truth of the one, and, during the other half, of the other; and are equally confident of both. theaetetus: most true. socrates: and may not the same be said of madness and other disorders? the difference is only that the times are not equal. theaetetus: certainly. socrates: and is truth or falsehood to be determined by duration of time? theaetetus: that would be in many ways ridiculous. socrates: but can you certainly determine by any other means which of these opinions is true? theaetetus: i do not think that i can. socrates: listen, then, to a statement of the other side of the argument, which is made by the champions of appearance. they would say, as i imagine--can that which is wholly other than something, have the same quality as that from which it differs? and observe, theaetetus, that the word 'other' means not 'partially,' but 'wholly other.' theaetetus: certainly, putting the question as you do, that which is wholly other cannot either potentially or in any other way be the same. socrates: and must therefore be admitted to be unlike? theaetetus: true. socrates: if, then, anything happens to become like or unlike itself or another, when it becomes like we call it the same--when unlike, other? theaetetus: certainly. socrates: were we not saying that there are agents many and infinite, and patients many and infinite? theaetetus: yes. socrates: and also that different combinations will produce results which are not the same, but different? theaetetus: certainly. socrates: let us take you and me, or anything as an example:--there is socrates in health, and socrates sick--are they like or unlike? theaetetus: you mean to compare socrates in health as a whole, and socrates in sickness as a whole? socrates: exactly; that is my meaning. theaetetus: i answer, they are unlike. socrates: and if unlike, they are other? theaetetus: certainly. socrates: and would you not say the same of socrates sleeping and waking, or in any of the states which we were mentioning? theaetetus: i should. socrates: all agents have a different patient in socrates, accordingly as he is well or ill. theaetetus: of course. socrates: and i who am the patient, and that which is the agent, will produce something different in each of the two cases? theaetetus: certainly. socrates: the wine which i drink when i am in health, appears sweet and pleasant to me? theaetetus: true. socrates: for, as has been already acknowledged, the patient and agent meet together and produce sweetness and a perception of sweetness, which are in simultaneous motion, and the perception which comes from the patient makes the tongue percipient, and the quality of sweetness which arises out of and is moving about the wine, makes the wine both to be and to appear sweet to the healthy tongue. theaetetus: certainly; that has been already acknowledged. socrates: but when i am sick, the wine really acts upon another and a different person? theaetetus: yes. socrates: the combination of the draught of wine, and the socrates who is sick, produces quite another result; which is the sensation of bitterness in the tongue, and the motion and creation of bitterness in and about the wine, which becomes not bitterness but something bitter; as i myself become not perception but percipient? theaetetus: true. socrates: there is no other object of which i shall ever have the same perception, for another object would give another perception, and would make the percipient other and different; nor can that object which affects me, meeting another subject, produce the same, or become similar, for that too would produce another result from another subject, and become different. theaetetus: true. socrates: neither can i by myself, have this sensation, nor the object by itself, this quality. theaetetus: certainly not. socrates: when i perceive i must become percipient of something--there can be no such thing as perceiving and perceiving nothing; the object, whether it become sweet, bitter, or of any other quality, must have relation to a percipient; nothing can become sweet which is sweet to no one. theaetetus: certainly not. socrates: then the inference is, that we (the agent and patient) are or become in relation to one another; there is a law which binds us one to the other, but not to any other existence, nor each of us to himself; and therefore we can only be bound to one another; so that whether a person says that a thing is or becomes, he must say that it is or becomes to or of or in relation to something else; but he must not say or allow any one else to say that anything is or becomes absolutely:--such is our conclusion. theaetetus: very true, socrates. socrates: then, if that which acts upon me has relation to me and to no other, i and no other am the percipient of it? theaetetus: of course. socrates: then my perception is true to me, being inseparable from my own being; and, as protagoras says, to myself i am judge of what is and what is not to me. theaetetus: i suppose so. socrates: how then, if i never err, and if my mind never trips in the conception of being or becoming, can i fail of knowing that which i perceive? theaetetus: you cannot. socrates: then you were quite right in affirming that knowledge is only perception; and the meaning turns out to be the same, whether with homer and heracleitus, and all that company, you say that all is motion and flux, or with the great sage protagoras, that man is the measure of all things; or with theaetetus, that, given these premises, perception is knowledge. am i not right, theaetetus, and is not this your new-born child, of which i have delivered you? what say you? theaetetus: i cannot but agree, socrates. socrates: then this is the child, however he may turn out, which you and i have with difficulty brought into the world. and now that he is born, we must run round the hearth with him, and see whether he is worth rearing, or is only a wind-egg and a sham. is he to be reared in any case, and not exposed? or will you bear to see him rejected, and not get into a passion if i take away your first-born? theodorus: theaetetus will not be angry, for he is very good-natured. but tell me, socrates, in heaven's name, is this, after all, not the truth? socrates: you, theodorus, are a lover of theories, and now you innocently fancy that i am a bag full of them, and can easily pull one out which will overthrow its predecessor. but you do not see that in reality none of these theories come from me; they all come from him who talks with me. i only know just enough to extract them from the wisdom of another, and to receive them in a spirit of fairness. and now i shall say nothing myself, but shall endeavour to elicit something from our young friend. theodorus: do as you say, socrates; you are quite right. socrates: shall i tell you, theodorus, what amazes me in your acquaintance protagoras? theodorus: what is it? socrates: i am charmed with his doctrine, that what appears is to each one, but i wonder that he did not begin his book on truth with a declaration that a pig or a dog-faced baboon, or some other yet stranger monster which has sensation, is the measure of all things; then he might have shown a magnificent contempt for our opinion of him by informing us at the outset that while we were reverencing him like a god for his wisdom he was no better than a tadpole, not to speak of his fellow-men--would not this have produced an overpowering effect? for if truth is only sensation, and no man can discern another's feelings better than he, or has any superior right to determine whether his opinion is true or false, but each, as we have several times repeated, is to himself the sole judge, and everything that he judges is true and right, why, my friend, should protagoras be preferred to the place of wisdom and instruction, and deserve to be well paid, and we poor ignoramuses have to go to him, if each one is the measure of his own wisdom? must he not be talking 'ad captandum' in all this? i say nothing of the ridiculous predicament in which my own midwifery and the whole art of dialectic is placed; for the attempt to supervise or refute the notions or opinions of others would be a tedious and enormous piece of folly, if to each man his own are right; and this must be the case if protagoras' truth is the real truth, and the philosopher is not merely amusing himself by giving oracles out of the shrine of his book. theodorus: he was a friend of mine, socrates, as you were saying, and therefore i cannot have him refuted by my lips, nor can i oppose you when i agree with you; please, then, to take theaetetus again; he seemed to answer very nicely. socrates: if you were to go into a lacedaemonian palestra, theodorus, would you have a right to look on at the naked wrestlers, some of them making a poor figure, if you did not strip and give them an opportunity of judging of your own person? theodorus: why not, socrates, if they would allow me, as i think you will, in consideration of my age and stiffness; let some more supple youth try a fall with you, and do not drag me into the gymnasium. socrates: your will is my will, theodorus, as the proverbial philosophers say, and therefore i will return to the sage theaetetus: tell me, theaetetus, in reference to what i was saying, are you not lost in wonder, like myself, when you find that all of a sudden you are raised to the level of the wisest of men, or indeed of the gods?--for you would assume the measure of protagoras to apply to the gods as well as men? theaetetus: certainly i should, and i confess to you that i am lost in wonder. at first hearing, i was quite satisfied with the doctrine, that whatever appears is to each one, but now the face of things has changed. socrates: why, my dear boy, you are young, and therefore your ear is quickly caught and your mind influenced by popular arguments. protagoras, or some one speaking on his behalf, will doubtless say in reply,--good people, young and old, you meet and harangue, and bring in the gods, whose existence or non-existence i banish from writing and speech, or you talk about the reason of man being degraded to the level of the brutes, which is a telling argument with the multitude, but not one word of proof or demonstration do you offer. all is probability with you, and yet surely you and theodorus had better reflect whether you are disposed to admit of probability and figures of speech in matters of such importance. he or any other mathematician who argued from probabilities and likelihoods in geometry, would not be worth an ace. theaetetus: but neither you nor we, socrates, would be satisfied with such arguments. socrates: then you and theodorus mean to say that we must look at the matter in some other way? theaetetus: yes, in quite another way. socrates: and the way will be to ask whether perception is or is not the same as knowledge; for this was the real point of our argument, and with a view to this we raised (did we not?) those many strange questions. theaetetus: certainly. socrates: shall we say that we know every thing which we see and hear? for example, shall we say that not having learned, we do not hear the language of foreigners when they speak to us? or shall we say that we not only hear, but know what they are saying? or again, if we see letters which we do not understand, shall we say that we do not see them? or shall we aver that, seeing them, we must know them? theaetetus: we shall say, socrates, that we know what we actually see and hear of them--that is to say, we see and know the figure and colour of the letters, and we hear and know the elevation or depression of the sound of them; but we do not perceive by sight and hearing, or know, that which grammarians and interpreters teach about them. socrates: capital, theaetetus; and about this there shall be no dispute, because i want you to grow; but there is another difficulty coming, which you will also have to repulse. theaetetus: what is it? socrates: some one will say, can a man who has ever known anything, and still has and preserves a memory of that which he knows, not know that which he remembers at the time when he remembers? i have, i fear, a tedious way of putting a simple question, which is only, whether a man who has learned, and remembers, can fail to know? theaetetus: impossible, socrates; the supposition is monstrous. socrates: am i talking nonsense, then? think: is not seeing perceiving, and is not sight perception? theaetetus: true. socrates: and if our recent definition holds, every man knows that which he has seen? theaetetus: yes. socrates: and you would admit that there is such a thing as memory? theaetetus: yes. socrates: and is memory of something or of nothing? theaetetus: of something, surely. socrates: of things learned and perceived, that is? theaetetus: certainly. socrates: often a man remembers that which he has seen? theaetetus: true. socrates: and if he closed his eyes, would he forget? theaetetus: who, socrates, would dare to say so? socrates: but we must say so, if the previous argument is to be maintained. theaetetus: what do you mean? i am not quite sure that i understand you, though i have a strong suspicion that you are right. socrates: as thus: he who sees knows, as we say, that which he sees; for perception and sight and knowledge are admitted to be the same. theaetetus: certainly. socrates: but he who saw, and has knowledge of that which he saw, remembers, when he closes his eyes, that which he no longer sees. theaetetus: true. socrates: and seeing is knowing, and therefore not-seeing is not-knowing? theaetetus: very true. socrates: then the inference is, that a man may have attained the knowledge of something, which he may remember and yet not know, because he does not see; and this has been affirmed by us to be a monstrous supposition. theaetetus: most true. socrates: thus, then, the assertion that knowledge and perception are one, involves a manifest impossibility? theaetetus: yes. socrates: then they must be distinguished? theaetetus: i suppose that they must. socrates: once more we shall have to begin, and ask 'what is knowledge?' and yet, theaetetus, what are we going to do? theaetetus: about what? socrates: like a good-for-nothing cock, without having won the victory, we walk away from the argument and crow. theaetetus: how do you mean? socrates: after the manner of disputers (lys.; phaedo; republic), we were satisfied with mere verbal consistency, and were well pleased if in this way we could gain an advantage. although professing not to be mere eristics, but philosophers, i suspect that we have unconsciously fallen into the error of that ingenious class of persons. theaetetus: i do not as yet understand you. socrates: then i will try to explain myself: just now we asked the question, whether a man who had learned and remembered could fail to know, and we showed that a person who had seen might remember when he had his eyes shut and could not see, and then he would at the same time remember and not know. but this was an impossibility. and so the protagorean fable came to nought, and yours also, who maintained that knowledge is the same as perception. theaetetus: true. socrates: and yet, my friend, i rather suspect that the result would have been different if protagoras, who was the father of the first of the two brats, had been alive; he would have had a great deal to say on their behalf. but he is dead, and we insult over his orphan child; and even the guardians whom he left, and of whom our friend theodorus is one, are unwilling to give any help, and therefore i suppose that i must take up his cause myself, and see justice done? theodorus: not i, socrates, but rather callias, the son of hipponicus, is guardian of his orphans. i was too soon diverted from the abstractions of dialectic to geometry. nevertheless, i shall be grateful to you if you assist him. socrates: very good, theodorus; you shall see how i will come to the rescue. if a person does not attend to the meaning of terms as they are commonly used in argument, he may be involved even in greater paradoxes than these. shall i explain this matter to you or to theaetetus? theodorus: to both of us, and let the younger answer; he will incur less disgrace if he is discomfited. socrates: then now let me ask the awful question, which is this:--can a man know and also not know that which he knows? theodorus: how shall we answer, theaetetus? theaetetus: he cannot, i should say. socrates: he can, if you maintain that seeing is knowing. when you are imprisoned in a well, as the saying is, and the self-assured adversary closes one of your eyes with his hand, and asks whether you can see his cloak with the eye which he has closed, how will you answer the inevitable man? theaetetus: i should answer, 'not with that eye but with the other.' socrates: then you see and do not see the same thing at the same time. theaetetus: yes, in a certain sense. socrates: none of that, he will reply; i do not ask or bid you answer in what sense you know, but only whether you know that which you do not know. you have been proved to see that which you do not see; and you have already admitted that seeing is knowing, and that not-seeing is not-knowing: i leave you to draw the inference. theaetetus: yes; the inference is the contradictory of my assertion. socrates: yes, my marvel, and there might have been yet worse things in store for you, if an opponent had gone on to ask whether you can have a sharp and also a dull knowledge, and whether you can know near, but not at a distance, or know the same thing with more or less intensity, and so on without end. such questions might have been put to you by a light-armed mercenary, who argued for pay. he would have lain in wait for you, and when you took up the position, that sense is knowledge, he would have made an assault upon hearing, smelling, and the other senses;--he would have shown you no mercy; and while you were lost in envy and admiration of his wisdom, he would have got you into his net, out of which you would not have escaped until you had come to an understanding about the sum to be paid for your release. well, you ask, and how will protagoras reinforce his position? shall i answer for him? theaetetus: by all means. socrates: he will repeat all those things which we have been urging on his behalf, and then he will close with us in disdain, and say:--the worthy socrates asked a little boy, whether the same man could remember and not know the same thing, and the boy said no, because he was frightened, and could not see what was coming, and then socrates made fun of poor me. the truth is, o slatternly socrates, that when you ask questions about any assertion of mine, and the person asked is found tripping, if he has answered as i should have answered, then i am refuted, but if he answers something else, then he is refuted and not i. for do you really suppose that any one would admit the memory which a man has of an impression which has passed away to be the same with that which he experienced at the time? assuredly not. or would he hesitate to acknowledge that the same man may know and not know the same thing? or, if he is afraid of making this admission, would he ever grant that one who has become unlike is the same as before he became unlike? or would he admit that a man is one at all, and not rather many and infinite as the changes which take place in him? i speak by the card in order to avoid entanglements of words. but, o my good sir, he will say, come to the argument in a more generous spirit; and either show, if you can, that our sensations are not relative and individual, or, if you admit them to be so, prove that this does not involve the consequence that the appearance becomes, or, if you will have the word, is, to the individual only. as to your talk about pigs and baboons, you are yourself behaving like a pig, and you teach your hearers to make sport of my writings in the same ignorant manner; but this is not to your credit. for i declare that the truth is as i have written, and that each of us is a measure of existence and of non-existence. yet one man may be a thousand times better than another in proportion as different things are and appear to him. and i am far from saying that wisdom and the wise man have no existence; but i say that the wise man is he who makes the evils which appear and are to a man, into goods which are and appear to him. and i would beg you not to press my words in the letter, but to take the meaning of them as i will explain them. remember what has been already said,--that to the sick man his food appears to be and is bitter, and to the man in health the opposite of bitter. now i cannot conceive that one of these men can be or ought to be made wiser than the other: nor can you assert that the sick man because he has one impression is foolish, and the healthy man because he has another is wise; but the one state requires to be changed into the other, the worse into the better. as in education, a change of state has to be effected, and the sophist accomplishes by words the change which the physician works by the aid of drugs. not that any one ever made another think truly, who previously thought falsely. for no one can think what is not, or, think anything different from that which he feels; and this is always true. but as the inferior habit of mind has thoughts of kindred nature, so i conceive that a good mind causes men to have good thoughts; and these which the inexperienced call true, i maintain to be only better, and not truer than others. and, o my dear socrates, i do not call wise men tadpoles: far from it; i say that they are the physicians of the human body, and the husbandmen of plants--for the husbandmen also take away the evil and disordered sensations of plants, and infuse into them good and healthy sensations--aye and true ones; and the wise and good rhetoricians make the good instead of the evil to seem just to states; for whatever appears to a state to be just and fair, so long as it is regarded as such, is just and fair to it; but the teacher of wisdom causes the good to take the place of the evil, both in appearance and in reality. and in like manner the sophist who is able to train his pupils in this spirit is a wise man, and deserves to be well paid by them. and so one man is wiser than another; and no one thinks falsely, and you, whether you will or not, must endure to be a measure. on these foundations the argument stands firm, which you, socrates, may, if you please, overthrow by an opposite argument, or if you like you may put questions to me--a method to which no intelligent person will object, quite the reverse. but i must beg you to put fair questions: for there is great inconsistency in saying that you have a zeal for virtue, and then always behaving unfairly in argument. the unfairness of which i complain is that you do not distinguish between mere disputation and dialectic: the disputer may trip up his opponent as often as he likes, and make fun; but the dialectician will be in earnest, and only correct his adversary when necessary, telling him the errors into which he has fallen through his own fault, or that of the company which he has previously kept. if you do so, your adversary will lay the blame of his own confusion and perplexity on himself, and not on you. he will follow and love you, and will hate himself, and escape from himself into philosophy, in order that he may become different from what he was. but the other mode of arguing, which is practised by the many, will have just the opposite effect upon him; and as he grows older, instead of turning philosopher, he will come to hate philosophy. i would recommend you, therefore, as i said before, not to encourage yourself in this polemical and controversial temper, but to find out, in a friendly and congenial spirit, what we really mean when we say that all things are in motion, and that to every individual and state what appears, is. in this manner you will consider whether knowledge and sensation are the same or different, but you will not argue, as you were just now doing, from the customary use of names and words, which the vulgar pervert in all sorts of ways, causing infinite perplexity to one another. such, theodorus, is the very slight help which i am able to offer to your old friend; had he been living, he would have helped himself in a far more gloriose style. theodorus: you are jesting, socrates; indeed, your defence of him has been most valorous. socrates: thank you, friend; and i hope that you observed protagoras bidding us be serious, as the text, 'man is the measure of all things,' was a solemn one; and he reproached us with making a boy the medium of discourse, and said that the boy's timidity was made to tell against his argument; he also declared that we made a joke of him. theodorus: how could i fail to observe all that, socrates? socrates: well, and shall we do as he says? theodorus: by all means. socrates: but if his wishes are to be regarded, you and i must take up the argument, and in all seriousness, and ask and answer one another, for you see that the rest of us are nothing but boys. in no other way can we escape the imputation, that in our fresh analysis of his thesis we are making fun with boys. theodorus: well, but is not theaetetus better able to follow a philosophical enquiry than a great many men who have long beards? socrates: yes, theodorus, but not better than you; and therefore please not to imagine that i am to defend by every means in my power your departed friend; and that you are to defend nothing and nobody. at any rate, my good man, do not sheer off until we know whether you are a true measure of diagrams, or whether all men are equally measures and sufficient for themselves in astronomy and geometry, and the other branches of knowledge in which you are supposed to excel them. theodorus: he who is sitting by you, socrates, will not easily avoid being drawn into an argument; and when i said just now that you would excuse me, and not, like the lacedaemonians, compel me to strip and fight, i was talking nonsense--i should rather compare you to scirrhon, who threw travellers from the rocks; for the lacedaemonian rule is 'strip or depart,' but you seem to go about your work more after the fashion of antaeus: you will not allow any one who approaches you to depart until you have stripped him, and he has been compelled to try a fall with you in argument. socrates: there, theodorus, you have hit off precisely the nature of my complaint; but i am even more pugnacious than the giants of old, for i have met with no end of heroes; many a heracles, many a theseus, mighty in words, has broken my head; nevertheless i am always at this rough exercise, which inspires me like a passion. please, then, to try a fall with me, whereby you will do yourself good as well as me. theodorus: i consent; lead me whither you will, for i know that you are like destiny; no man can escape from any argument which you may weave for him. but i am not disposed to go further than you suggest. socrates: once will be enough; and now take particular care that we do not again unwittingly expose ourselves to the reproach of talking childishly. theodorus: i will do my best to avoid that error. socrates: in the first place, let us return to our old objection, and see whether we were right in blaming and taking offence at protagoras on the ground that he assumed all to be equal and sufficient in wisdom; although he admitted that there was a better and worse, and that in respect of this, some who as he said were the wise excelled others. theodorus: very true. socrates: had protagoras been living and answered for himself, instead of our answering for him, there would have been no need of our reviewing or reinforcing the argument. but as he is not here, and some one may accuse us of speaking without authority on his behalf, had we not better come to a clearer agreement about his meaning, for a great deal may be at stake? theodorus: true. socrates: then let us obtain, not through any third person, but from his own statement and in the fewest words possible, the basis of agreement. theodorus: in what way? socrates: in this way:--his words are, 'what seems to a man, is to him.' theodorus: yes, so he says. socrates: and are not we, protagoras, uttering the opinion of man, or rather of all mankind, when we say that every one thinks himself wiser than other men in some things, and their inferior in others? in the hour of danger, when they are in perils of war, or of the sea, or of sickness, do they not look up to their commanders as if they were gods, and expect salvation from them, only because they excel them in knowledge? is not the world full of men in their several employments, who are looking for teachers and rulers of themselves and of the animals? and there are plenty who think that they are able to teach and able to rule. now, in all this is implied that ignorance and wisdom exist among them, at least in their own opinion. theodorus: certainly. socrates: and wisdom is assumed by them to be true thought, and ignorance to be false opinion. theodorus: exactly. socrates: how then, protagoras, would you have us treat the argument? shall we say that the opinions of men are always true, or sometimes true and sometimes false? in either case, the result is the same, and their opinions are not always true, but sometimes true and sometimes false. for tell me, theodorus, do you suppose that you yourself, or any other follower of protagoras, would contend that no one deems another ignorant or mistaken in his opinion? theodorus: the thing is incredible, socrates. socrates: and yet that absurdity is necessarily involved in the thesis which declares man to be the measure of all things. theodorus: how so? socrates: why, suppose that you determine in your own mind something to be true, and declare your opinion to me; let us assume, as he argues, that this is true to you. now, if so, you must either say that the rest of us are not the judges of this opinion or judgment of yours, or that we judge you always to have a true opinion? but are there not thousands upon thousands who, whenever you form a judgment, take up arms against you and are of an opposite judgment and opinion, deeming that you judge falsely? theodorus: yes, indeed, socrates, thousands and tens of thousands, as homer says, who give me a world of trouble. socrates: well, but are we to assert that what you think is true to you and false to the ten thousand others? theodorus: no other inference seems to be possible. socrates: and how about protagoras himself? if neither he nor the multitude thought, as indeed they do not think, that man is the measure of all things, must it not follow that the truth of which protagoras wrote would be true to no one? but if you suppose that he himself thought this, and that the multitude does not agree with him, you must begin by allowing that in whatever proportion the many are more than one, in that proportion his truth is more untrue than true. theodorus: that would follow if the truth is supposed to vary with individual opinion. socrates: and the best of the joke is, that he acknowledges the truth of their opinion who believe his own opinion to be false; for he admits that the opinions of all men are true. theodorus: certainly. socrates: and does he not allow that his own opinion is false, if he admits that the opinion of those who think him false is true? theodorus: of course. socrates: whereas the other side do not admit that they speak falsely? theodorus: they do not. socrates: and he, as may be inferred from his writings, agrees that this opinion is also true. theodorus: clearly. socrates: then all mankind, beginning with protagoras, will contend, or rather, i should say that he will allow, when he concedes that his adversary has a true opinion--protagoras, i say, will himself allow that neither a dog nor any ordinary man is the measure of anything which he has not learned--am i not right? theodorus: yes. socrates: and the truth of protagoras being doubted by all, will be true neither to himself to any one else? theodorus: i think, socrates, that we are running my old friend too hard. socrates: but i do not know that we are going beyond the truth. doubtless, as he is older, he may be expected to be wiser than we are. and if he could only just get his head out of the world below, he would have overthrown both of us again and again, me for talking nonsense and you for assenting to me, and have been off and underground in a trice. but as he is not within call, we must make the best use of our own faculties, such as they are, and speak out what appears to us to be true. and one thing which no one will deny is, that there are great differences in the understandings of men. theodorus: in that opinion i quite agree. socrates: and is there not most likely to be firm ground in the distinction which we were indicating on behalf of protagoras, viz. that most things, and all immediate sensations, such as hot, dry, sweet, are only such as they appear; if however difference of opinion is to be allowed at all, surely we must allow it in respect of health or disease? for every woman, child, or living creature has not such a knowledge of what conduces to health as to enable them to cure themselves. theodorus: i quite agree. socrates: or again, in politics, while affirming that just and unjust, honourable and disgraceful, holy and unholy, are in reality to each state such as the state thinks and makes lawful, and that in determining these matters no individual or state is wiser than another, still the followers of protagoras will not deny that in determining what is or is not expedient for the community one state is wiser and one counsellor better than another--they will scarcely venture to maintain, that what a city enacts in the belief that it is expedient will always be really expedient. but in the other case, i mean when they speak of justice and injustice, piety and impiety, they are confident that in nature these have no existence or essence of their own--the truth is that which is agreed on at the time of the agreement, and as long as the agreement lasts; and this is the philosophy of many who do not altogether go along with protagoras. here arises a new question, theodorus, which threatens to be more serious than the last. theodorus: well, socrates, we have plenty of leisure. socrates: that is true, and your remark recalls to my mind an observation which i have often made, that those who have passed their days in the pursuit of philosophy are ridiculously at fault when they have to appear and speak in court. how natural is this! theodorus: what do you mean? socrates: i mean to say, that those who have been trained in philosophy and liberal pursuits are as unlike those who from their youth upwards have been knocking about in the courts and such places, as a freeman is in breeding unlike a slave. theodorus: in what is the difference seen? socrates: in the leisure spoken of by you, which a freeman can always command: he has his talk out in peace, and, like ourselves, he wanders at will from one subject to another, and from a second to a third,--if the fancy takes him, he begins again, as we are doing now, caring not whether his words are many or few; his only aim is to attain the truth. but the lawyer is always in a hurry; there is the water of the clepsydra driving him on, and not allowing him to expatiate at will: and there is his adversary standing over him, enforcing his rights; the indictment, which in their phraseology is termed the affidavit, is recited at the time: and from this he must not deviate. he is a servant, and is continually disputing about a fellow-servant before his master, who is seated, and has the cause in his hands; the trial is never about some indifferent matter, but always concerns himself; and often the race is for his life. the consequence has been, that he has become keen and shrewd; he has learned how to flatter his master in word and indulge him in deed; but his soul is small and unrighteous. his condition, which has been that of a slave from his youth upwards, has deprived him of growth and uprightness and independence; dangers and fears, which were too much for his truth and honesty, came upon him in early years, when the tenderness of youth was unequal to them, and he has been driven into crooked ways; from the first he has practised deception and retaliation, and has become stunted and warped. and so he has passed out of youth into manhood, having no soundness in him; and is now, as he thinks, a master in wisdom. such is the lawyer, theodorus. will you have the companion picture of the philosopher, who is of our brotherhood; or shall we return to the argument? do not let us abuse the freedom of digression which we claim. theodorus: nay, socrates, not until we have finished what we are about; for you truly said that we belong to a brotherhood which is free, and are not the servants of the argument; but the argument is our servant, and must wait our leisure. who is our judge? or where is the spectator having any right to censure or control us, as he might the poets? socrates: then, as this is your wish, i will describe the leaders; for there is no use in talking about the inferior sort. in the first place, the lords of philosophy have never, from their youth upwards, known their way to the agora, or the dicastery, or the council, or any other political assembly; they neither see nor hear the laws or decrees, as they are called, of the state written or recited; the eagerness of political societies in the attainment of offices--clubs, and banquets, and revels, and singing-maidens,--do not enter even into their dreams. whether any event has turned out well or ill in the city, what disgrace may have descended to any one from his ancestors, male or female, are matters of which the philosopher no more knows than he can tell, as they say, how many pints are contained in the ocean. neither is he conscious of his ignorance. for he does not hold aloof in order that he may gain a reputation; but the truth is, that the outer form of him only is in the city: his mind, disdaining the littlenesses and nothingnesses of human things, is 'flying all abroad' as pindar says, measuring earth and heaven and the things which are under and on the earth and above the heaven, interrogating the whole nature of each and all in their entirety, but not condescending to anything which is within reach. theodorus: what do you mean, socrates? socrates: i will illustrate my meaning, theodorus, by the jest which the clever witty thracian handmaid is said to have made about thales, when he fell into a well as he was looking up at the stars. she said, that he was so eager to know what was going on in heaven, that he could not see what was before his feet. this is a jest which is equally applicable to all philosophers. for the philosopher is wholly unacquainted with his next-door neighbour; he is ignorant, not only of what he is doing, but he hardly knows whether he is a man or an animal; he is searching into the essence of man, and busy in enquiring what belongs to such a nature to do or suffer different from any other;--i think that you understand me, theodorus? theodorus: i do, and what you say is true. socrates: and thus, my friend, on every occasion, private as well as public, as i said at first, when he appears in a law-court, or in any place in which he has to speak of things which are at his feet and before his eyes, he is the jest, not only of thracian handmaids but of the general herd, tumbling into wells and every sort of disaster through his inexperience. his awkwardness is fearful, and gives the impression of imbecility. when he is reviled, he has nothing personal to say in answer to the civilities of his adversaries, for he knows no scandals of any one, and they do not interest him; and therefore he is laughed at for his sheepishness; and when others are being praised and glorified, in the simplicity of his heart he cannot help going into fits of laughter, so that he seems to be a downright idiot. when he hears a tyrant or king eulogized, he fancies that he is listening to the praises of some keeper of cattle--a swineherd, or shepherd, or perhaps a cowherd, who is congratulated on the quantity of milk which he squeezes from them; and he remarks that the creature whom they tend, and out of whom they squeeze the wealth, is of a less tractable and more insidious nature. then, again, he observes that the great man is of necessity as ill-mannered and uneducated as any shepherd--for he has no leisure, and he is surrounded by a wall, which is his mountain-pen. hearing of enormous landed proprietors of ten thousand acres and more, our philosopher deems this to be a trifle, because he has been accustomed to think of the whole earth; and when they sing the praises of family, and say that some one is a gentleman because he can show seven generations of wealthy ancestors, he thinks that their sentiments only betray a dull and narrow vision in those who utter them, and who are not educated enough to look at the whole, nor to consider that every man has had thousands and ten thousands of progenitors, and among them have been rich and poor, kings and slaves, hellenes and barbarians, innumerable. and when people pride themselves on having a pedigree of twenty-five ancestors, which goes back to heracles, the son of amphitryon, he cannot understand their poverty of ideas. why are they unable to calculate that amphitryon had a twenty-fifth ancestor, who might have been anybody, and was such as fortune made him, and he had a fiftieth, and so on? he amuses himself with the notion that they cannot count, and thinks that a little arithmetic would have got rid of their senseless vanity. now, in all these cases our philosopher is derided by the vulgar, partly because he is thought to despise them, and also because he is ignorant of what is before him, and always at a loss. theodorus: that is very true, socrates. socrates: but, o my friend, when he draws the other into upper air, and gets him out of his pleas and rejoinders into the contemplation of justice and injustice in their own nature and in their difference from one another and from all other things; or from the commonplaces about the happiness of a king or of a rich man to the consideration of government, and of human happiness and misery in general--what they are, and how a man is to attain the one and avoid the other--when that narrow, keen, little legal mind is called to account about all this, he gives the philosopher his revenge; for dizzied by the height at which he is hanging, whence he looks down into space, which is a strange experience to him, he being dismayed, and lost, and stammering broken words, is laughed at, not by thracian handmaidens or any other uneducated persons, for they have no eye for the situation, but by every man who has not been brought up a slave. such are the two characters, theodorus: the one of the freeman, who has been trained in liberty and leisure, whom you call the philosopher,--him we cannot blame because he appears simple and of no account when he has to perform some menial task, such as packing up bed-clothes, or flavouring a sauce or fawning speech; the other character is that of the man who is able to do all this kind of service smartly and neatly, but knows not how to wear his cloak like a gentleman; still less with the music of discourse can he hymn the true life aright which is lived by immortals or men blessed of heaven. theodorus: if you could only persuade everybody, socrates, as you do me, of the truth of your words, there would be more peace and fewer evils among men. socrates: evils, theodorus, can never pass away; for there must always remain something which is antagonistic to good. having no place among the gods in heaven, of necessity they hover around the mortal nature, and this earthly sphere. wherefore we ought to fly away from earth to heaven as quickly as we can; and to fly away is to become like god, as far as this is possible; and to become like him, is to become holy, just, and wise. but, o my friend, you cannot easily convince mankind that they should pursue virtue or avoid vice, not merely in order that a man may seem to be good, which is the reason given by the world, and in my judgment is only a repetition of an old wives' fable. whereas, the truth is that god is never in any way unrighteous--he is perfect righteousness; and he of us who is the most righteous is most like him. herein is seen the true cleverness of a man, and also his nothingness and want of manhood. for to know this is true wisdom and virtue, and ignorance of this is manifest folly and vice. all other kinds of wisdom or cleverness, which seem only, such as the wisdom of politicians, or the wisdom of the arts, are coarse and vulgar. the unrighteous man, or the sayer and doer of unholy things, had far better not be encouraged in the illusion that his roguery is clever; for men glory in their shame--they fancy that they hear others saying of them, 'these are not mere good-for-nothing persons, mere burdens of the earth, but such as men should be who mean to dwell safely in a state.' let us tell them that they are all the more truly what they do not think they are because they do not know it; for they do not know the penalty of injustice, which above all things they ought to know--not stripes and death, as they suppose, which evil-doers often escape, but a penalty which cannot be escaped. theodorus: what is that? socrates: there are two patterns eternally set before them; the one blessed and divine, the other godless and wretched: but they do not see them, or perceive that in their utter folly and infatuation they are growing like the one and unlike the other, by reason of their evil deeds; and the penalty is, that they lead a life answering to the pattern which they are growing like. and if we tell them, that unless they depart from their cunning, the place of innocence will not receive them after death; and that here on earth, they will live ever in the likeness of their own evil selves, and with evil friends--when they hear this they in their superior cunning will seem to be listening to the talk of idiots. theodorus: very true, socrates. socrates: too true, my friend, as i well know; there is, however, one peculiarity in their case: when they begin to reason in private about their dislike of philosophy, if they have the courage to hear the argument out, and do not run away, they grow at last strangely discontented with themselves; their rhetoric fades away, and they become helpless as children. these however are digressions from which we must now desist, or they will overflow, and drown the original argument; to which, if you please, we will now return. theodorus: for my part, socrates, i would rather have the digressions, for at my age i find them easier to follow; but if you wish, let us go back to the argument. socrates: had we not reached the point at which the partisans of the perpetual flux, who say that things are as they seem to each one, were confidently maintaining that the ordinances which the state commanded and thought just, were just to the state which imposed them, while they were in force; this was especially asserted of justice; but as to the good, no one had any longer the hardihood to contend of any ordinances which the state thought and enacted to be good that these, while they were in force, were really good;--he who said so would be playing with the name 'good,' and would not touch the real question--it would be a mockery, would it not? theodorus: certainly it would. socrates: he ought not to speak of the name, but of the thing which is contemplated under the name. theodorus: right. socrates: whatever be the term used, the good or expedient is the aim of legislation, and as far as she has an opinion, the state imposes all laws with a view to the greatest expediency; can legislation have any other aim? theodorus: certainly not. socrates: but is the aim attained always? do not mistakes often happen? theodorus: yes, i think that there are mistakes. socrates: the possibility of error will be more distinctly recognised, if we put the question in reference to the whole class under which the good or expedient falls. that whole class has to do with the future, and laws are passed under the idea that they will be useful in after-time; which, in other words, is the future. theodorus: very true. socrates: suppose now, that we ask protagoras, or one of his disciples, a question:--o, protagoras, we will say to him, man is, as you declare, the measure of all things--white, heavy, light: of all such things he is the judge; for he has the criterion of them in himself, and when he thinks that things are such as he experiences them to be, he thinks what is and is true to himself. is it not so? theodorus: yes. socrates: and do you extend your doctrine, protagoras (as we shall further say), to the future as well as to the present; and has he the criterion not only of what in his opinion is but of what will be, and do things always happen to him as he expected? for example, take the case of heat:--when an ordinary man thinks that he is going to have a fever, and that this kind of heat is coming on, and another person, who is a physician, thinks the contrary, whose opinion is likely to prove right? or are they both right?--he will have a heat and fever in his own judgment, and not have a fever in the physician's judgment? theodorus: how ludicrous! socrates: and the vinegrower, if i am not mistaken, is a better judge of the sweetness or dryness of the vintage which is not yet gathered than the harp-player? theodorus: certainly. socrates: and in musical composition the musician will know better than the training master what the training master himself will hereafter think harmonious or the reverse? theodorus: of course. socrates: and the cook will be a better judge than the guest, who is not a cook, of the pleasure to be derived from the dinner which is in preparation; for of present or past pleasure we are not as yet arguing; but can we say that every one will be to himself the best judge of the pleasure which will seem to be and will be to him in the future?--nay, would not you, protagoras, better guess which arguments in a court would convince any one of us than the ordinary man? theodorus: certainly, socrates, he used to profess in the strongest manner that he was the superior of all men in this respect. socrates: to be sure, friend: who would have paid a large sum for the privilege of talking to him, if he had really persuaded his visitors that neither a prophet nor any other man was better able to judge what will be and seem to be in the future than every one could for himself? theodorus: who indeed? socrates: and legislation and expediency are all concerned with the future; and every one will admit that states, in passing laws, must often fail of their highest interests? theodorus: quite true. socrates: then we may fairly argue against your master, that he must admit one man to be wiser than another, and that the wiser is a measure: but i, who know nothing, am not at all obliged to accept the honour which the advocate of protagoras was just now forcing upon me, whether i would or not, of being a measure of anything. theodorus: that is the best refutation of him, socrates; although he is also caught when he ascribes truth to the opinions of others, who give the lie direct to his own opinion. socrates: there are many ways, theodorus, in which the doctrine that every opinion of every man is true may be refuted; but there is more difficulty in proving that states of feeling, which are present to a man, and out of which arise sensations and opinions in accordance with them, are also untrue. and very likely i have been talking nonsense about them; for they may be unassailable, and those who say that there is clear evidence of them, and that they are matters of knowledge, may probably be right; in which case our friend theaetetus was not so far from the mark when he identified perception and knowledge. and therefore let us draw nearer, as the advocate of protagoras desires; and give the truth of the universal flux a ring: is the theory sound or not? at any rate, no small war is raging about it, and there are combination not a few. theodorus: no small, war, indeed, for in ionia the sect makes rapid strides; the disciples of heracleitus are most energetic upholders of the doctrine. socrates: then we are the more bound, my dear theodorus, to examine the question from the foundation as it is set forth by themselves. theodorus: certainly we are. about these speculations of heracleitus, which, as you say, are as old as homer, or even older still, the ephesians themselves, who profess to know them, are downright mad, and you cannot talk with them on the subject. for, in accordance with their text-books, they are always in motion; but as for dwelling upon an argument or a question, and quietly asking and answering in turn, they can no more do so than they can fly; or rather, the determination of these fellows not to have a particle of rest in them is more than the utmost powers of negation can express. if you ask any of them a question, he will produce, as from a quiver, sayings brief and dark, and shoot them at you; and if you inquire the reason of what he has said, you will be hit by some other new-fangled word, and will make no way with any of them, nor they with one another; their great care is, not to allow of any settled principle either in their arguments or in their minds, conceiving, as i imagine, that any such principle would be stationary; for they are at war with the stationary, and do what they can to drive it out everywhere. socrates: i suppose, theodorus, that you have only seen them when they were fighting, and have never stayed with them in time of peace, for they are no friends of yours; and their peace doctrines are only communicated by them at leisure, as i imagine, to those disciples of theirs whom they want to make like themselves. theodorus: disciples! my good sir, they have none; men of their sort are not one another's disciples, but they grow up at their own sweet will, and get their inspiration anywhere, each of them saying of his neighbour that he knows nothing. from these men, then, as i was going to remark, you will never get a reason, whether with their will or without their will; we must take the question out of their hands, and make the analysis ourselves, as if we were doing geometrical problem. socrates: quite right too; but as touching the aforesaid problem, have we not heard from the ancients, who concealed their wisdom from the many in poetical figures, that oceanus and tethys, the origin of all things, are streams, and that nothing is at rest? and now the moderns, in their superior wisdom, have declared the same openly, that the cobbler too may hear and learn of them, and no longer foolishly imagine that some things are at rest and others in motion--having learned that all is motion, he will duly honour his teachers. i had almost forgotten the opposite doctrine, theodorus, 'alone being remains unmoved, which is the name for the all.' this is the language of parmenides, melissus, and their followers, who stoutly maintain that all being is one and self-contained, and has no place in which to move. what shall we do, friend, with all these people; for, advancing step by step, we have imperceptibly got between the combatants, and, unless we can protect our retreat, we shall pay the penalty of our rashness--like the players in the palaestra who are caught upon the line, and are dragged different ways by the two parties. therefore i think that we had better begin by considering those whom we first accosted, 'the river-gods,' and, if we find any truth in them, we will help them to pull us over, and try to get away from the others. but if the partisans of 'the whole' appear to speak more truly, we will fly off from the party which would move the immovable, to them. and if i find that neither of them have anything reasonable to say, we shall be in a ridiculous position, having so great a conceit of our own poor opinion and rejecting that of ancient and famous men. o theodorus, do you think that there is any use in proceeding when the danger is so great? theodorus: nay, socrates, not to examine thoroughly what the two parties have to say would be quite intolerable. socrates: then examine we must, since you, who were so reluctant to begin, are so eager to proceed. the nature of motion appears to be the question with which we begin. what do they mean when they say that all things are in motion? is there only one kind of motion, or, as i rather incline to think, two? i should like to have your opinion upon this point in addition to my own, that i may err, if i must err, in your company; tell me, then, when a thing changes from one place to another, or goes round in the same place, is not that what is called motion? theodorus: yes. socrates: here then we have one kind of motion. but when a thing, remaining on the same spot, grows old, or becomes black from being white, or hard from being soft, or undergoes any other change, may not this be properly called motion of another kind? theodorus: i think so. socrates: say rather that it must be so. of motion then there are these two kinds, 'change,' and 'motion in place.' theodorus: you are right. socrates: and now, having made this distinction, let us address ourselves to those who say that all is motion, and ask them whether all things according to them have the two kinds of motion, and are changed as well as move in place, or is one thing moved in both ways, and another in one only? theodorus: indeed, i do not know what to answer; but i think they would say that all things are moved in both ways. socrates: yes, comrade; for, if not, they would have to say that the same things are in motion and at rest, and there would be no more truth in saying that all things are in motion, than that all things are at rest. theodorus: to be sure. socrates: and if they are to be in motion, and nothing is to be devoid of motion, all things must always have every sort of motion? theodorus: most true. socrates: consider a further point: did we not understand them to explain the generation of heat, whiteness, or anything else, in some such manner as the following:--were they not saying that each of them is moving between the agent and the patient, together with a perception, and that the patient ceases to be a perceiving power and becomes a percipient, and the agent a quale instead of a quality? i suspect that quality may appear a strange and uncouth term to you, and that you do not understand the abstract expression. then i will take concrete instances: i mean to say that the producing power or agent becomes neither heat nor whiteness but hot and white, and the like of other things. for i must repeat what i said before, that neither the agent nor patient have any absolute existence, but when they come together and generate sensations and their objects, the one becomes a thing of a certain quality, and the other a percipient. you remember? theodorus: of course. socrates: we may leave the details of their theory unexamined, but we must not forget to ask them the only question with which we are concerned: are all things in motion and flux? theodorus: yes, they will reply. socrates: and they are moved in both those ways which we distinguished, that is to say, they move in place and are also changed? theodorus: of course, if the motion is to be perfect. socrates: if they only moved in place and were not changed, we should be able to say what is the nature of the things which are in motion and flux? theodorus: exactly. socrates: but now, since not even white continues to flow white, and whiteness itself is a flux or change which is passing into another colour, and is never to be caught standing still, can the name of any colour be rightly used at all? theodorus: how is that possible, socrates, either in the case of this or of any other quality--if while we are using the word the object is escaping in the flux? socrates: and what would you say of perceptions, such as sight and hearing, or any other kind of perception? is there any stopping in the act of seeing and hearing? theodorus: certainly not, if all things are in motion. socrates: then we must not speak of seeing any more than of not-seeing, nor of any other perception more than of any non-perception, if all things partake of every kind of motion? theodorus: certainly not. socrates: yet perception is knowledge: so at least theaetetus and i were saying. theodorus: very true. socrates: then when we were asked what is knowledge, we no more answered what is knowledge than what is not knowledge? theodorus: i suppose not. socrates: here, then, is a fine result: we corrected our first answer in our eagerness to prove that nothing is at rest. but if nothing is at rest, every answer upon whatever subject is equally right: you may say that a thing is or is not thus; or, if you prefer, 'becomes' thus; and if we say 'becomes,' we shall not then hamper them with words expressive of rest. theodorus: quite true. socrates: yes, theodorus, except in saying 'thus' and 'not thus.' but you ought not to use the word 'thus,' for there is no motion in 'thus' or in 'not thus.' the maintainers of the doctrine have as yet no words in which to express themselves, and must get a new language. i know of no word that will suit them, except perhaps 'no how,' which is perfectly indefinite. theodorus: yes, that is a manner of speaking in which they will be quite at home. socrates: and so, theodorus, we have got rid of your friend without assenting to his doctrine, that every man is the measure of all things--a wise man only is a measure; neither can we allow that knowledge is perception, certainly not on the hypothesis of a perpetual flux, unless perchance our friend theaetetus is able to convince us that it is. theodorus: very good, socrates; and now that the argument about the doctrine of protagoras has been completed, i am absolved from answering; for this was the agreement. theaetetus: not, theodorus, until you and socrates have discussed the doctrine of those who say that all things are at rest, as you were proposing. theodorus: you, theaetetus, who are a young rogue, must not instigate your elders to a breach of faith, but should prepare to answer socrates in the remainder of the argument. theaetetus: yes, if he wishes; but i would rather have heard about the doctrine of rest. theodorus: invite socrates to an argument--invite horsemen to the open plain; do but ask him, and he will answer. socrates: nevertheless, theodorus, i am afraid that i shall not be able to comply with the request of theaetetus. theodorus: not comply! for what reason? socrates: my reason is that i have a kind of reverence; not so much for melissus and the others, who say that 'all is one and at rest,' as for the great leader himself, parmenides, venerable and awful, as in homeric language he may be called;--him i should be ashamed to approach in a spirit unworthy of him. i met him when he was an old man, and i was a mere youth, and he appeared to me to have a glorious depth of mind. and i am afraid that we may not understand his words, and may be still further from understanding his meaning; above all i fear that the nature of knowledge, which is the main subject of our discussion, may be thrust out of sight by the unbidden guests who will come pouring in upon our feast of discourse, if we let them in--besides, the question which is now stirring is of immense extent, and will be treated unfairly if only considered by the way; or if treated adequately and at length, will put into the shade the other question of knowledge. neither the one nor the other can be allowed; but i must try by my art of midwifery to deliver theaetetus of his conceptions about knowledge. theaetetus: very well; do so if you will. socrates: then now, theaetetus, take another view of the subject: you answered that knowledge is perception? theaetetus: i did. socrates: and if any one were to ask you: with what does a man see black and white colours? and with what does he hear high and low sounds?--you would say, if i am not mistaken, 'with the eyes and with the ears.' theaetetus: i should. socrates: the free use of words and phrases, rather than minute precision, is generally characteristic of a liberal education, and the opposite is pedantic; but sometimes precision is necessary, and i believe that the answer which you have just given is open to the charge of incorrectness; for which is more correct, to say that we see or hear with the eyes and with the ears, or through the eyes and through the ears. theaetetus: i should say 'through,' socrates, rather than 'with.' socrates: yes, my boy, for no one can suppose that in each of us, as in a sort of trojan horse, there are perched a number of unconnected senses, which do not all meet in some one nature, the mind, or whatever we please to call it, of which they are the instruments, and with which through them we perceive objects of sense. theaetetus: i agree with you in that opinion. socrates: the reason why i am thus precise is, because i want to know whether, when we perceive black and white through the eyes, and again, other qualities through other organs, we do not perceive them with one and the same part of ourselves, and, if you were asked, you might refer all such perceptions to the body. perhaps, however, i had better allow you to answer for yourself and not interfere. tell me, then, are not the organs through which you perceive warm and hard and light and sweet, organs of the body? theaetetus: of the body, certainly. socrates: and you would admit that what you perceive through one faculty you cannot perceive through another; the objects of hearing, for example, cannot be perceived through sight, or the objects of sight through hearing? theaetetus: of course not. socrates: if you have any thought about both of them, this common perception cannot come to you, either through the one or the other organ? theaetetus: it cannot. socrates: how about sounds and colours: in the first place you would admit that they both exist? theaetetus: yes. socrates: and that either of them is different from the other, and the same with itself? theaetetus: certainly. socrates: and that both are two and each of them one? theaetetus: yes. socrates: you can further observe whether they are like or unlike one another? theaetetus: i dare say. socrates: but through what do you perceive all this about them? for neither through hearing nor yet through seeing can you apprehend that which they have in common. let me give you an illustration of the point at issue:--if there were any meaning in asking whether sounds and colours are saline or not, you would be able to tell me what faculty would consider the question. it would not be sight or hearing, but some other. theaetetus: certainly; the faculty of taste. socrates: very good; and now tell me what is the power which discerns, not only in sensible objects, but in all things, universal notions, such as those which are called being and not-being, and those others about which we were just asking--what organs will you assign for the perception of these notions? theaetetus: you are thinking of being and not being, likeness and unlikeness, sameness and difference, and also of unity and other numbers which are applied to objects of sense; and you mean to ask, through what bodily organ the soul perceives odd and even numbers and other arithmetical conceptions. socrates: you follow me excellently, theaetetus; that is precisely what i am asking. theaetetus: indeed, socrates, i cannot answer; my only notion is, that these, unlike objects of sense, have no separate organ, but that the mind, by a power of her own, contemplates the universals in all things. socrates: you are a beauty, theaetetus, and not ugly, as theodorus was saying; for he who utters the beautiful is himself beautiful and good. and besides being beautiful, you have done me a kindness in releasing me from a very long discussion, if you are clear that the soul views some things by herself and others through the bodily organs. for that was my own opinion, and i wanted you to agree with me. theaetetus: i am quite clear. socrates: and to which class would you refer being or essence; for this, of all our notions, is the most universal? theaetetus: i should say, to that class which the soul aspires to know of herself. socrates: and would you say this also of like and unlike, same and other? theaetetus: yes. socrates: and would you say the same of the noble and base, and of good and evil? theaetetus: these i conceive to be notions which are essentially relative, and which the soul also perceives by comparing in herself things past and present with the future. socrates: and does she not perceive the hardness of that which is hard by the touch, and the softness of that which is soft equally by the touch? theaetetus: yes. socrates: but their essence and what they are, and their opposition to one another, and the essential nature of this opposition, the soul herself endeavours to decide for us by the review and comparison of them? theaetetus: certainly. socrates: the simple sensations which reach the soul through the body are given at birth to men and animals by nature, but their reflections on the being and use of them are slowly and hardly gained, if they are ever gained, by education and long experience. theaetetus: assuredly. socrates: and can a man attain truth who fails of attaining being? theaetetus: impossible. socrates: and can he who misses the truth of anything, have a knowledge of that thing? theaetetus: he cannot. socrates: then knowledge does not consist in impressions of sense, but in reasoning about them; in that only, and not in the mere impression, truth and being can be attained? theaetetus: clearly. socrates: and would you call the two processes by the same name, when there is so great a difference between them? theaetetus: that would certainly not be right. socrates: and what name would you give to seeing, hearing, smelling, being cold and being hot? theaetetus: i should call all of them perceiving--what other name could be given to them? socrates: perception would be the collective name of them? theaetetus: certainly. socrates: which, as we say, has no part in the attainment of truth any more than of being? theaetetus: certainly not. socrates: and therefore not in science or knowledge? theaetetus: no. socrates: then perception, theaetetus, can never be the same as knowledge or science? theaetetus: clearly not, socrates; and knowledge has now been most distinctly proved to be different from perception. socrates: but the original aim of our discussion was to find out rather what knowledge is than what it is not; at the same time we have made some progress, for we no longer seek for knowledge in perception at all, but in that other process, however called, in which the mind is alone and engaged with being. theaetetus: you mean, socrates, if i am not mistaken, what is called thinking or opining. socrates: you conceive truly. and now, my friend, please to begin again at this point; and having wiped out of your memory all that has preceded, see if you have arrived at any clearer view, and once more say what is knowledge. theaetetus: i cannot say, socrates, that all opinion is knowledge, because there may be a false opinion; but i will venture to assert, that knowledge is true opinion: let this then be my reply; and if this is hereafter disproved, i must try to find another. socrates: that is the way in which you ought to answer, theaetetus, and not in your former hesitating strain, for if we are bold we shall gain one of two advantages; either we shall find what we seek, or we shall be less likely to think that we know what we do not know--in either case we shall be richly rewarded. and now, what are you saying?--are there two sorts of opinion, one true and the other false; and do you define knowledge to be the true? theaetetus: yes, according to my present view. socrates: is it still worth our while to resume the discussion touching opinion? theaetetus: to what are you alluding? socrates: there is a point which often troubles me, and is a great perplexity to me, both in regard to myself and others. i cannot make out the nature or origin of the mental experience to which i refer. theaetetus: pray what is it? socrates: how there can be false opinion--that difficulty still troubles the eye of my mind; and i am uncertain whether i shall leave the question, or begin over again in a new way. theaetetus: begin again, socrates,--at least if you think that there is the slightest necessity for doing so. were not you and theodorus just now remarking very truly, that in discussions of this kind we may take our own time? socrates: you are quite right, and perhaps there will be no harm in retracing our steps and beginning again. better a little which is well done, than a great deal imperfectly. theaetetus: certainly. socrates: well, and what is the difficulty? do we not speak of false opinion, and say that one man holds a false and another a true opinion, as though there were some natural distinction between them? theaetetus: we certainly say so. socrates: all things and everything are either known or not known. i leave out of view the intermediate conceptions of learning and forgetting, because they have nothing to do with our present question. theaetetus: there can be no doubt, socrates, if you exclude these, that there is no other alternative but knowing or not knowing a thing. socrates: that point being now determined, must we not say that he who has an opinion, must have an opinion about something which he knows or does not know? theaetetus: he must. socrates: he who knows, cannot but know; and he who does not know, cannot know? theaetetus: of course. socrates: what shall we say then? when a man has a false opinion does he think that which he knows to be some other thing which he knows, and knowing both, is he at the same time ignorant of both? theaetetus: that, socrates, is impossible. socrates: but perhaps he thinks of something which he does not know as some other thing which he does not know; for example, he knows neither theaetetus nor socrates, and yet he fancies that theaetetus is socrates, or socrates theaetetus? theaetetus: how can he? socrates: but surely he cannot suppose what he knows to be what he does not know, or what he does not know to be what he knows? theaetetus: that would be monstrous. socrates: where, then, is false opinion? for if all things are either known or unknown, there can be no opinion which is not comprehended under this alternative, and so false opinion is excluded. theaetetus: most true. socrates: suppose that we remove the question out of the sphere of knowing or not knowing, into that of being and not-being. theaetetus: what do you mean? socrates: may we not suspect the simple truth to be that he who thinks about anything, that which is not, will necessarily think what is false, whatever in other respects may be the state of his mind? theaetetus: that, again, is not unlikely, socrates. socrates: then suppose some one to say to us, theaetetus:--is it possible for any man to think that which is not, either as a self-existent substance or as a predicate of something else? and suppose that we answer, 'yes, he can, when he thinks what is not true.'--that will be our answer? theaetetus: yes. socrates: but is there any parallel to this? theaetetus: what do you mean? socrates: can a man see something and yet see nothing? theaetetus: impossible. socrates: but if he sees any one thing, he sees something that exists. do you suppose that what is one is ever to be found among non-existing things? theaetetus: i do not. socrates: he then who sees some one thing, sees something which is? theaetetus: clearly. socrates: and he who hears anything, hears some one thing, and hears that which is? theaetetus: yes. socrates: and he who touches anything, touches something which is one and therefore is? theaetetus: that again is true. socrates: and does not he who thinks, think some one thing? theaetetus: certainly. socrates: and does not he who thinks some one thing, think something which is? theaetetus: i agree. socrates: then he who thinks of that which is not, thinks of nothing? theaetetus: clearly. socrates: and he who thinks of nothing, does not think at all? theaetetus: obviously. socrates: then no one can think that which is not, either as a self-existent substance or as a predicate of something else? theaetetus: clearly not. socrates: then to think falsely is different from thinking that which is not? theaetetus: it would seem so. socrates: then false opinion has no existence in us, either in the sphere of being or of knowledge? theaetetus: certainly not. socrates: but may not the following be the description of what we express by this name? theaetetus: what? socrates: may we not suppose that false opinion or thought is a sort of heterodoxy; a person may make an exchange in his mind, and say that one real object is another real object. for thus he always thinks that which is, but he puts one thing in place of another; and missing the aim of his thoughts, he may be truly said to have false opinion. theaetetus: now you appear to me to have spoken the exact truth: when a man puts the base in the place of the noble, or the noble in the place of the base, then he has truly false opinion. socrates: i see, theaetetus, that your fear has disappeared, and that you are beginning to despise me. theaetetus: what makes you say so? socrates: you think, if i am not mistaken, that your 'truly false' is safe from censure, and that i shall never ask whether there can be a swift which is slow, or a heavy which is light, or any other self-contradictory thing, which works, not according to its own nature, but according to that of its opposite. but i will not insist upon this, for i do not wish needlessly to discourage you. and so you are satisfied that false opinion is heterodoxy, or the thought of something else? theaetetus: i am. socrates: it is possible then upon your view for the mind to conceive of one thing as another? theaetetus: true. socrates: but must not the mind, or thinking power, which misplaces them, have a conception either of both objects or of one of them? theaetetus: certainly. socrates: either together or in succession? theaetetus: very good. socrates: and do you mean by conceiving, the same which i mean? theaetetus: what is that? socrates: i mean the conversation which the soul holds with herself in considering of anything. i speak of what i scarcely understand; but the soul when thinking appears to me to be just talking--asking questions of herself and answering them, affirming and denying. and when she has arrived at a decision, either gradually or by a sudden impulse, and has at last agreed, and does not doubt, this is called her opinion. i say, then, that to form an opinion is to speak, and opinion is a word spoken,--i mean, to oneself and in silence, not aloud or to another: what think you? theaetetus: i agree. socrates: then when any one thinks of one thing as another, he is saying to himself that one thing is another? theaetetus: yes. socrates: but do you ever remember saying to yourself that the noble is certainly base, or the unjust just; or, best of all--have you ever attempted to convince yourself that one thing is another? nay, not even in sleep, did you ever venture to say to yourself that odd is even, or anything of the kind? theaetetus: never. socrates: and do you suppose that any other man, either in his senses or out of them, ever seriously tried to persuade himself that an ox is a horse, or that two are one? theaetetus: certainly not. socrates: but if thinking is talking to oneself, no one speaking and thinking of two objects, and apprehending them both in his soul, will say and think that the one is the other of them, and i must add, that even you, lover of dispute as you are, had better let the word 'other' alone (i.e. not insist that 'one' and 'other' are the same (both words in greek are called eteron: compare parmen.; euthyd.)). i mean to say, that no one thinks the noble to be base, or anything of the kind. theaetetus: i will give up the word 'other,' socrates; and i agree to what you say. socrates: if a man has both of them in his thoughts, he cannot think that the one of them is the other? theaetetus: true. socrates: neither, if he has one of them only in his mind and not the other, can he think that one is the other? theaetetus: true; for we should have to suppose that he apprehends that which is not in his thoughts at all. socrates: then no one who has either both or only one of the two objects in his mind can think that the one is the other. and therefore, he who maintains that false opinion is heterodoxy is talking nonsense; for neither in this, any more than in the previous way, can false opinion exist in us. theaetetus: no. socrates: but if, theaetetus, this is not admitted, we shall be driven into many absurdities. theaetetus: what are they? socrates: i will not tell you until i have endeavoured to consider the matter from every point of view. for i should be ashamed of us if we were driven in our perplexity to admit the absurd consequences of which i speak. but if we find the solution, and get away from them, we may regard them only as the difficulties of others, and the ridicule will not attach to us. on the other hand, if we utterly fail, i suppose that we must be humble, and allow the argument to trample us under foot, as the sea-sick passenger is trampled upon by the sailor, and to do anything to us. listen, then, while i tell you how i hope to find a way out of our difficulty. theaetetus: let me hear. socrates: i think that we were wrong in denying that a man could think what he knew to be what he did not know; and that there is a way in which such a deception is possible. theaetetus: you mean to say, as i suspected at the time, that i may know socrates, and at a distance see some one who is unknown to me, and whom i mistake for him--then the deception will occur? socrates: but has not that position been relinquished by us, because involving the absurdity that we should know and not know the things which we know? theaetetus: true. socrates: let us make the assertion in another form, which may or may not have a favourable issue; but as we are in a great strait, every argument should be turned over and tested. tell me, then, whether i am right in saying that you may learn a thing which at one time you did not know? theaetetus: certainly you may. socrates: and another and another? theaetetus: yes. socrates: i would have you imagine, then, that there exists in the mind of man a block of wax, which is of different sizes in different men; harder, moister, and having more or less of purity in one than another, and in some of an intermediate quality. theaetetus: i see. socrates: let us say that this tablet is a gift of memory, the mother of the muses; and that when we wish to remember anything which we have seen, or heard, or thought in our own minds, we hold the wax to the perceptions and thoughts, and in that material receive the impression of them as from the seal of a ring; and that we remember and know what is imprinted as long as the image lasts; but when the image is effaced, or cannot be taken, then we forget and do not know. theaetetus: very good. socrates: now, when a person has this knowledge, and is considering something which he sees or hears, may not false opinion arise in the following manner? theaetetus: in what manner? socrates: when he thinks what he knows, sometimes to be what he knows, and sometimes to be what he does not know. we were wrong before in denying the possibility of this. theaetetus: and how would you amend the former statement? socrates: i should begin by making a list of the impossible cases which must be excluded. ( ) no one can think one thing to be another when he does not perceive either of them, but has the memorial or seal of both of them in his mind; nor can any mistaking of one thing for another occur, when he only knows one, and does not know, and has no impression of the other; nor can he think that one thing which he does not know is another thing which he does not know, or that what he does not know is what he knows; nor ( ) that one thing which he perceives is another thing which he perceives, or that something which he perceives is something which he does not perceive; or that something which he does not perceive is something else which he does not perceive; or that something which he does not perceive is something which he perceives; nor again ( ) can he think that something which he knows and perceives, and of which he has the impression coinciding with sense, is something else which he knows and perceives, and of which he has the impression coinciding with sense;--this last case, if possible, is still more inconceivable than the others; nor ( ) can he think that something which he knows and perceives, and of which he has the memorial coinciding with sense, is something else which he knows; nor so long as these agree, can he think that a thing which he knows and perceives is another thing which he perceives; or that a thing which he does not know and does not perceive, is the same as another thing which he does not know and does not perceive;--nor again, can he suppose that a thing which he does not know and does not perceive is the same as another thing which he does not know; or that a thing which he does not know and does not perceive is another thing which he does not perceive:--all these utterly and absolutely exclude the possibility of false opinion. the only cases, if any, which remain, are the following. theaetetus: what are they? if you tell me, i may perhaps understand you better; but at present i am unable to follow you. socrates: a person may think that some things which he knows, or which he perceives and does not know, are some other things which he knows and perceives; or that some things which he knows and perceives, are other things which he knows and perceives. theaetetus: i understand you less than ever now. socrates: hear me once more, then:--i, knowing theodorus, and remembering in my own mind what sort of person he is, and also what sort of person theaetetus is, at one time see them, and at another time do not see them, and sometimes i touch them, and at another time not, or at one time i may hear them or perceive them in some other way, and at another time not perceive them, but still i remember them, and know them in my own mind. theaetetus: very true. socrates: then, first of all, i want you to understand that a man may or may not perceive sensibly that which he knows. theaetetus: true. socrates: and that which he does not know will sometimes not be perceived by him and sometimes will be perceived and only perceived? theaetetus: that is also true. socrates: see whether you can follow me better now: socrates can recognize theodorus and theaetetus, but he sees neither of them, nor does he perceive them in any other way; he cannot then by any possibility imagine in his own mind that theaetetus is theodorus. am i not right? theaetetus: you are quite right. socrates: then that was the first case of which i spoke. theaetetus: yes. socrates: the second case was, that i, knowing one of you and not knowing the other, and perceiving neither, can never think him whom i know to be him whom i do not know. theaetetus: true. socrates: in the third case, not knowing and not perceiving either of you, i cannot think that one of you whom i do not know is the other whom i do not know. i need not again go over the catalogue of excluded cases, in which i cannot form a false opinion about you and theodorus, either when i know both or when i am in ignorance of both, or when i know one and not the other. and the same of perceiving: do you understand me? theaetetus: i do. socrates: the only possibility of erroneous opinion is, when knowing you and theodorus, and having on the waxen block the impression of both of you given as by a seal, but seeing you imperfectly and at a distance, i try to assign the right impression of memory to the right visual impression, and to fit this into its own print: if i succeed, recognition will take place; but if i fail and transpose them, putting the foot into the wrong shoe--that is to say, putting the vision of either of you on to the wrong impression, or if my mind, like the sight in a mirror, which is transferred from right to left, err by reason of some similar affection, then 'heterodoxy' and false opinion ensues. theaetetus: yes, socrates, you have described the nature of opinion with wonderful exactness. socrates: or again, when i know both of you, and perceive as well as know one of you, but not the other, and my knowledge of him does not accord with perception--that was the case put by me just now which you did not understand. theaetetus: no, i did not. socrates: i meant to say, that when a person knows and perceives one of you, his knowledge coincides with his perception, he will never think him to be some other person, whom he knows and perceives, and the knowledge of whom coincides with his perception--for that also was a case supposed. theaetetus: true. socrates: but there was an omission of the further case, in which, as we now say, false opinion may arise, when knowing both, and seeing, or having some other sensible perception of both, i fail in holding the seal over against the corresponding sensation; like a bad archer, i miss and fall wide of the mark--and this is called falsehood. theaetetus: yes; it is rightly so called. socrates: when, therefore, perception is present to one of the seals or impressions but not to the other, and the mind fits the seal of the absent perception on the one which is present, in any case of this sort the mind is deceived; in a word, if our view is sound, there can be no error or deception about things which a man does not know and has never perceived, but only in things which are known and perceived; in these alone opinion turns and twists about, and becomes alternately true and false;--true when the seals and impressions of sense meet straight and opposite--false when they go awry and crooked. theaetetus: and is not that, socrates, nobly said? socrates: nobly! yes; but wait a little and hear the explanation, and then you will say so with more reason; for to think truly is noble and to be deceived is base. theaetetus: undoubtedly. socrates: and the origin of truth and error is as follows:--when the wax in the soul of any one is deep and abundant, and smooth and perfectly tempered, then the impressions which pass through the senses and sink into the heart of the soul, as homer says in a parable, meaning to indicate the likeness of the soul to wax (kerh kerhos); these, i say, being pure and clear, and having a sufficient depth of wax, are also lasting, and minds, such as these, easily learn and easily retain, and are not liable to confusion, but have true thoughts, for they have plenty of room, and having clear impressions of things, as we term them, quickly distribute them into their proper places on the block. and such men are called wise. do you agree? theaetetus: entirely. socrates: but when the heart of any one is shaggy--a quality which the all-wise poet commends, or muddy and of impure wax, or very soft, or very hard, then there is a corresponding defect in the mind--the soft are good at learning, but apt to forget; and the hard are the reverse; the shaggy and rugged and gritty, or those who have an admixture of earth or dung in their composition, have the impressions indistinct, as also the hard, for there is no depth in them; and the soft too are indistinct, for their impressions are easily confused and effaced. yet greater is the indistinctness when they are all jostled together in a little soul, which has no room. these are the natures which have false opinion; for when they see or hear or think of anything, they are slow in assigning the right objects to the right impressions--in their stupidity they confuse them, and are apt to see and hear and think amiss--and such men are said to be deceived in their knowledge of objects, and ignorant. theaetetus: no man, socrates, can say anything truer than that. socrates: then now we may admit the existence of false opinion in us? theaetetus: certainly. socrates: and of true opinion also? theaetetus: yes. socrates: we have at length satisfactorily proven beyond a doubt there are these two sorts of opinion? theaetetus: undoubtedly. socrates: alas, theaetetus, what a tiresome creature is a man who is fond of talking! theaetetus: what makes you say so? socrates: because i am disheartened at my own stupidity and tiresome garrulity; for what other term will describe the habit of a man who is always arguing on all sides of a question; whose dulness cannot be convinced, and who will never leave off? theaetetus: but what puts you out of heart? socrates: i am not only out of heart, but in positive despair; for i do not know what to answer if any one were to ask me:--o socrates, have you indeed discovered that false opinion arises neither in the comparison of perceptions with one another nor yet in thought, but in union of thought and perception? yes, i shall say, with the complacence of one who thinks that he has made a noble discovery. theaetetus: i see no reason why we should be ashamed of our demonstration, socrates. socrates: he will say: you mean to argue that the man whom we only think of and do not see, cannot be confused with the horse which we do not see or touch, but only think of and do not perceive? that i believe to be my meaning, i shall reply. theaetetus: quite right. socrates: well, then, he will say, according to that argument, the number eleven, which is only thought, can never be mistaken for twelve, which is only thought: how would you answer him? theaetetus: i should say that a mistake may very likely arise between the eleven or twelve which are seen or handled, but that no similar mistake can arise between the eleven and twelve which are in the mind. socrates: well, but do you think that no one ever put before his own mind five and seven,--i do not mean five or seven men or horses, but five or seven in the abstract, which, as we say, are recorded on the waxen block, and in which false opinion is held to be impossible; did no man ever ask himself how many these numbers make when added together, and answer that they are eleven, while another thinks that they are twelve, or would all agree in thinking and saying that they are twelve? theaetetus: certainly not; many would think that they are eleven, and in the higher numbers the chance of error is greater still; for i assume you to be speaking of numbers in general. socrates: exactly; and i want you to consider whether this does not imply that the twelve in the waxen block are supposed to be eleven? theaetetus: yes, that seems to be the case. socrates: then do we not come back to the old difficulty? for he who makes such a mistake does think one thing which he knows to be another thing which he knows; but this, as we said, was impossible, and afforded an irresistible proof of the non-existence of false opinion, because otherwise the same person would inevitably know and not know the same thing at the same time. theaetetus: most true. socrates: then false opinion cannot be explained as a confusion of thought and sense, for in that case we could not have been mistaken about pure conceptions of thought; and thus we are obliged to say, either that false opinion does not exist, or that a man may not know that which he knows;--which alternative do you prefer? theaetetus: it is hard to determine, socrates. socrates: and yet the argument will scarcely admit of both. but, as we are at our wits' end, suppose that we do a shameless thing? theaetetus: what is it? socrates: let us attempt to explain the verb 'to know.' theaetetus: and why should that be shameless? socrates: you seem not to be aware that the whole of our discussion from the very beginning has been a search after knowledge, of which we are assumed not to know the nature. theaetetus: nay, but i am well aware. socrates: and is it not shameless when we do not know what knowledge is, to be explaining the verb 'to know'? the truth is, theaetetus, that we have long been infected with logical impurity. thousands of times have we repeated the words 'we know,' and 'do not know,' and 'we have or have not science or knowledge,' as if we could understand what we are saying to one another, so long as we remain ignorant about knowledge; and at this moment we are using the words 'we understand,' 'we are ignorant,' as though we could still employ them when deprived of knowledge or science. theaetetus: but if you avoid these expressions, socrates, how will you ever argue at all? socrates: i could not, being the man i am. the case would be different if i were a true hero of dialectic: and o that such an one were present! for he would have told us to avoid the use of these terms; at the same time he would not have spared in you and me the faults which i have noted. but, seeing that we are no great wits, shall i venture to say what knowing is? for i think that the attempt may be worth making. theaetetus: then by all means venture, and no one shall find fault with you for using the forbidden terms. socrates: you have heard the common explanation of the verb 'to know'? theaetetus: i think so, but i do not remember it at the moment. socrates: they explain the word 'to know' as meaning 'to have knowledge.' theaetetus: true. socrates: i should like to make a slight change, and say 'to possess' knowledge. theaetetus: how do the two expressions differ? socrates: perhaps there may be no difference; but still i should like you to hear my view, that you may help me to test it. theaetetus: i will, if i can. socrates: i should distinguish 'having' from 'possessing': for example, a man may buy and keep under his control a garment which he does not wear; and then we should say, not that he has, but that he possesses the garment. theaetetus: it would be the correct expression. socrates: well, may not a man 'possess' and yet not 'have' knowledge in the sense of which i am speaking? as you may suppose a man to have caught wild birds--doves or any other birds--and to be keeping them in an aviary which he has constructed at home; we might say of him in one sense, that he always has them because he possesses them, might we not? theaetetus: yes. socrates: and yet, in another sense, he has none of them; but they are in his power, and he has got them under his hand in an enclosure of his own, and can take and have them whenever he likes;--he can catch any which he likes, and let the bird go again, and he may do so as often as he pleases. theaetetus: true. socrates: once more, then, as in what preceded we made a sort of waxen figment in the mind, so let us now suppose that in the mind of each man there is an aviary of all sorts of birds--some flocking together apart from the rest, others in small groups, others solitary, flying anywhere and everywhere. theaetetus: let us imagine such an aviary--and what is to follow? socrates: we may suppose that the birds are kinds of knowledge, and that when we were children, this receptacle was empty; whenever a man has gotten and detained in the enclosure a kind of knowledge, he may be said to have learned or discovered the thing which is the subject of the knowledge: and this is to know. theaetetus: granted. socrates: and further, when any one wishes to catch any of these knowledges or sciences, and having taken, to hold it, and again to let them go, how will he express himself?--will he describe the 'catching' of them and the original 'possession' in the same words? i will make my meaning clearer by an example:--you admit that there is an art of arithmetic? theaetetus: to be sure. socrates: conceive this under the form of a hunt after the science of odd and even in general. theaetetus: i follow. socrates: having the use of the art, the arithmetician, if i am not mistaken, has the conceptions of number under his hand, and can transmit them to another. theaetetus: yes. socrates: and when transmitting them he may be said to teach them, and when receiving to learn them, and when receiving to learn them, and when having them in possession in the aforesaid aviary he may be said to know them. theaetetus: exactly. socrates: attend to what follows: must not the perfect arithmetician know all numbers, for he has the science of all numbers in his mind? theaetetus: true. socrates: and he can reckon abstract numbers in his head, or things about him which are numerable? theaetetus: of course he can. socrates: and to reckon is simply to consider how much such and such a number amounts to? theaetetus: very true. socrates: and so he appears to be searching into something which he knows, as if he did not know it, for we have already admitted that he knows all numbers;--you have heard these perplexing questions raised? theaetetus: i have. socrates: may we not pursue the image of the doves, and say that the chase after knowledge is of two kinds? one kind is prior to possession and for the sake of possession, and the other for the sake of taking and holding in the hands that which is possessed already. and thus, when a man has learned and known something long ago, he may resume and get hold of the knowledge which he has long possessed, but has not at hand in his mind. theaetetus: true. socrates: that was my reason for asking how we ought to speak when an arithmetician sets about numbering, or a grammarian about reading? shall we say, that although he knows, he comes back to himself to learn what he already knows? theaetetus: it would be too absurd, socrates. socrates: shall we say then that he is going to read or number what he does not know, although we have admitted that he knows all letters and all numbers? theaetetus: that, again, would be an absurdity. socrates: then shall we say that about names we care nothing?--any one may twist and turn the words 'knowing' and 'learning' in any way which he likes, but since we have determined that the possession of knowledge is not the having or using it, we do assert that a man cannot not possess that which he possesses; and, therefore, in no case can a man not know that which he knows, but he may get a false opinion about it; for he may have the knowledge, not of this particular thing, but of some other;--when the various numbers and forms of knowledge are flying about in the aviary, and wishing to capture a certain sort of knowledge out of the general store, he takes the wrong one by mistake, that is to say, when he thought eleven to be twelve, he got hold of the ring-dove which he had in his mind, when he wanted the pigeon. theaetetus: a very rational explanation. socrates: but when he catches the one which he wants, then he is not deceived, and has an opinion of what is, and thus false and true opinion may exist, and the difficulties which were previously raised disappear. i dare say that you agree with me, do you not? theaetetus: yes. socrates: and so we are rid of the difficulty of a man's not knowing what he knows, for we are not driven to the inference that he does not possess what he possesses, whether he be or be not deceived. and yet i fear that a greater difficulty is looking in at the window. theaetetus: what is it? socrates: how can the exchange of one knowledge for another ever become false opinion? theaetetus: what do you mean? socrates: in the first place, how can a man who has the knowledge of anything be ignorant of that which he knows, not by reason of ignorance, but by reason of his own knowledge? and, again, is it not an extreme absurdity that he should suppose another thing to be this, and this to be another thing;--that, having knowledge present with him in his mind, he should still know nothing and be ignorant of all things?--you might as well argue that ignorance may make a man know, and blindness make him see, as that knowledge can make him ignorant. theaetetus: perhaps, socrates, we may have been wrong in making only forms of knowledge our birds: whereas there ought to have been forms of ignorance as well, flying about together in the mind, and then he who sought to take one of them might sometimes catch a form of knowledge, and sometimes a form of ignorance; and thus he would have a false opinion from ignorance, but a true one from knowledge, about the same thing. socrates: i cannot help praising you, theaetetus, and yet i must beg you to reconsider your words. let us grant what you say--then, according to you, he who takes ignorance will have a false opinion--am i right? theaetetus: yes. socrates: he will certainly not think that he has a false opinion? theaetetus: of course not. socrates: he will think that his opinion is true, and he will fancy that he knows the things about which he has been deceived? theaetetus: certainly. socrates: then he will think that he has captured knowledge and not ignorance? theaetetus: clearly. socrates: and thus, after going a long way round, we are once more face to face with our original difficulty. the hero of dialectic will retort upon us:--'o my excellent friends, he will say, laughing, if a man knows the form of ignorance and the form of knowledge, can he think that one of them which he knows is the other which he knows? or, if he knows neither of them, can he think that the one which he knows not is another which he knows not? or, if he knows one and not the other, can he think the one which he knows to be the one which he does not know? or the one which he does not know to be the one which he knows? or will you tell me that there are other forms of knowledge which distinguish the right and wrong birds, and which the owner keeps in some other aviaries or graven on waxen blocks according to your foolish images, and which he may be said to know while he possesses them, even though he have them not at hand in his mind? and thus, in a perpetual circle, you will be compelled to go round and round, and you will make no progress.' what are we to say in reply, theaetetus? theaetetus: indeed, socrates, i do not know what we are to say. socrates: are not his reproaches just, and does not the argument truly show that we are wrong in seeking for false opinion until we know what knowledge is; that must be first ascertained; then, the nature of false opinion? theaetetus: i cannot but agree with you, socrates, so far as we have yet gone. socrates: then, once more, what shall we say that knowledge is?--for we are not going to lose heart as yet. theaetetus: certainly, i shall not lose heart, if you do not. socrates: what definition will be most consistent with our former views? theaetetus: i cannot think of any but our old one, socrates. socrates: what was it? theaetetus: knowledge was said by us to be true opinion; and true opinion is surely unerring, and the results which follow from it are all noble and good. socrates: he who led the way into the river, theaetetus, said 'the experiment will show;' and perhaps if we go forward in the search, we may stumble upon the thing which we are looking for; but if we stay where we are, nothing will come to light. theaetetus: very true; let us go forward and try. socrates: the trail soon comes to an end, for a whole profession is against us. theaetetus: how is that, and what profession do you mean? socrates: the profession of the great wise ones who are called orators and lawyers; for these persuade men by their art and make them think whatever they like, but they do not teach them. do you imagine that there are any teachers in the world so clever as to be able to convince others of the truth about acts of robbery or violence, of which they were not eye-witnesses, while a little water is flowing in the clepsydra? theaetetus: certainly not, they can only persuade them. socrates: and would you not say that persuading them is making them have an opinion? theaetetus: to be sure. socrates: when, therefore, judges are justly persuaded about matters which you can know only by seeing them, and not in any other way, and when thus judging of them from report they attain a true opinion about them, they judge without knowledge, and yet are rightly persuaded, if they have judged well. theaetetus: certainly. socrates: and yet, o my friend, if true opinion in law courts and knowledge are the same, the perfect judge could not have judged rightly without knowledge; and therefore i must infer that they are not the same. theaetetus: that is a distinction, socrates, which i have heard made by some one else, but i had forgotten it. he said that true opinion, combined with reason, was knowledge, but that the opinion which had no reason was out of the sphere of knowledge; and that things of which there is no rational account are not knowable--such was the singular expression which he used--and that things which have a reason or explanation are knowable. socrates: excellent; but then, how did he distinguish between things which are and are not 'knowable'? i wish that you would repeat to me what he said, and then i shall know whether you and i have heard the same tale. theaetetus: i do not know whether i can recall it; but if another person would tell me, i think that i could follow him. socrates: let me give you, then, a dream in return for a dream:--methought that i too had a dream, and i heard in my dream that the primeval letters or elements out of which you and i and all other things are compounded, have no reason or explanation; you can only name them, but no predicate can be either affirmed or denied of them, for in the one case existence, in the other non-existence is already implied, neither of which must be added, if you mean to speak of this or that thing by itself alone. it should not be called itself, or that, or each, or alone, or this, or the like; for these go about everywhere and are applied to all things, but are distinct from them; whereas, if the first elements could be described, and had a definition of their own, they would be spoken of apart from all else. but none of these primeval elements can be defined; they can only be named, for they have nothing but a name, and the things which are compounded of them, as they are complex, are expressed by a combination of names, for the combination of names is the essence of a definition. thus, then, the elements or letters are only objects of perception, and cannot be defined or known; but the syllables or combinations of them are known and expressed, and are apprehended by true opinion. when, therefore, any one forms the true opinion of anything without rational explanation, you may say that his mind is truly exercised, but has no knowledge; for he who cannot give and receive a reason for a thing, has no knowledge of that thing; but when he adds rational explanation, then, he is perfected in knowledge and may be all that i have been denying of him. was that the form in which the dream appeared to you? theaetetus: precisely. socrates: and you allow and maintain that true opinion, combined with definition or rational explanation, is knowledge? theaetetus: exactly. socrates: then may we assume, theaetetus, that to-day, and in this casual manner, we have found a truth which in former times many wise men have grown old and have not found? theaetetus: at any rate, socrates, i am satisfied with the present statement. socrates: which is probably correct--for how can there be knowledge apart from definition and true opinion? and yet there is one point in what has been said which does not quite satisfy me. theaetetus: what was it? socrates: what might seem to be the most ingenious notion of all:--that the elements or letters are unknown, but the combination or syllables known. theaetetus: and was that wrong? socrates: we shall soon know; for we have as hostages the instances which the author of the argument himself used. theaetetus: what hostages? socrates: the letters, which are the clements; and the syllables, which are the combinations;--he reasoned, did he not, from the letters of the alphabet? theaetetus: yes; he did. socrates: let us take them and put them to the test, or rather, test ourselves:--what was the way in which we learned letters? and, first of all, are we right in saying that syllables have a definition, but that letters have no definition? theaetetus: i think so. socrates: i think so too; for, suppose that some one asks you to spell the first syllable of my name:--theaetetus, he says, what is so? theaetetus: i should reply s and o. socrates: that is the definition which you would give of the syllable? theaetetus: i should. socrates: i wish that you would give me a similar definition of the s. theaetetus: but how can any one, socrates, tell the elements of an element? i can only reply, that s is a consonant, a mere noise, as of the tongue hissing; b, and most other letters, again, are neither vowel-sounds nor noises. thus letters may be most truly said to be undefined; for even the most distinct of them, which are the seven vowels, have a sound only, but no definition at all. socrates: then, i suppose, my friend, that we have been so far right in our idea about knowledge? theaetetus: yes; i think that we have. socrates: well, but have we been right in maintaining that the syllables can be known, but not the letters? theaetetus: i think so. socrates: and do we mean by a syllable two letters, or if there are more, all of them, or a single idea which arises out of the combination of them? theaetetus: i should say that we mean all the letters. socrates: take the case of the two letters s and o, which form the first syllable of my own name; must not he who knows the syllable, know both of them? theaetetus: certainly. socrates: he knows, that is, the s and o? theaetetus: yes. socrates: but can he be ignorant of either singly and yet know both together? theaetetus: such a supposition, socrates, is monstrous and unmeaning. socrates: but if he cannot know both without knowing each, then if he is ever to know the syllable, he must know the letters first; and thus the fine theory has again taken wings and departed. theaetetus: yes, with wonderful celerity. socrates: yes, we did not keep watch properly. perhaps we ought to have maintained that a syllable is not the letters, but rather one single idea framed out of them, having a separate form distinct from them. theaetetus: very true; and a more likely notion than the other. socrates: take care; let us not be cowards and betray a great and imposing theory. theaetetus: no, indeed. socrates: let us assume then, as we now say, that the syllable is a simple form arising out of the several combinations of harmonious elements--of letters or of any other elements. theaetetus: very good. socrates: and it must have no parts. theaetetus: why? socrates: because that which has parts must be a whole of all the parts. or would you say that a whole, although formed out of the parts, is a single notion different from all the parts? theaetetus: i should. socrates: and would you say that all and the whole are the same, or different? theaetetus: i am not certain; but, as you like me to answer at once, i shall hazard the reply, that they are different. socrates: i approve of your readiness, theaetetus, but i must take time to think whether i equally approve of your answer. theaetetus: yes; the answer is the point. socrates: according to this new view, the whole is supposed to differ from all? theaetetus: yes. socrates: well, but is there any difference between all (in the plural) and the all (in the singular)? take the case of number:--when we say one, two, three, four, five, six; or when we say twice three, or three times two, or four and two, or three and two and one, are we speaking of the same or of different numbers? theaetetus: of the same. socrates: that is of six? theaetetus: yes. socrates: and in each form of expression we spoke of all the six? theaetetus: true. socrates: again, in speaking of all (in the plural) is there not one thing which we express? theaetetus: of course there is. socrates: and that is six? theaetetus: yes. socrates: then in predicating the word 'all' of things measured by number, we predicate at the same time a singular and a plural? theaetetus: clearly we do. socrates: again, the number of the acre and the acre are the same; are they not? theaetetus: yes. socrates: and the number of the stadium in like manner is the stadium? theaetetus: yes. socrates: and the army is the number of the army; and in all similar cases, the entire number of anything is the entire thing? theaetetus: true. socrates: and the number of each is the parts of each? theaetetus: exactly. socrates: then as many things as have parts are made up of parts? theaetetus: clearly. socrates: but all the parts are admitted to be the all, if the entire number is the all? theaetetus: true. socrates: then the whole is not made up of parts, for it would be the all, if consisting of all the parts? theaetetus: that is the inference. socrates: but is a part a part of anything but the whole? theaetetus: yes, of the all. socrates: you make a valiant defence, theaetetus. and yet is not the all that of which nothing is wanting? theaetetus: certainly. socrates: and is not a whole likewise that from which nothing is absent? but that from which anything is absent is neither a whole nor all;--if wanting in anything, both equally lose their entirety of nature. theaetetus: i now think that there is no difference between a whole and all. socrates: but were we not saying that when a thing has parts, all the parts will be a whole and all? theaetetus: certainly. socrates: then, as i was saying before, must not the alternative be that either the syllable is not the letters, and then the letters are not parts of the syllable, or that the syllable will be the same with the letters, and will therefore be equally known with them? theaetetus: you are right. socrates: and, in order to avoid this, we suppose it to be different from them? theaetetus: yes. socrates: but if letters are not parts of syllables, can you tell me of any other parts of syllables, which are not letters? theaetetus: no, indeed, socrates; for if i admit the existence of parts in a syllable, it would be ridiculous in me to give up letters and seek for other parts. socrates: quite true, theaetetus, and therefore, according to our present view, a syllable must surely be some indivisible form? theaetetus: true. socrates: but do you remember, my friend, that only a little while ago we admitted and approved the statement, that of the first elements out of which all other things are compounded there could be no definition, because each of them when taken by itself is uncompounded; nor can one rightly attribute to them the words 'being' or 'this,' because they are alien and inappropriate words, and for this reason the letters or elements were indefinable and unknown? theaetetus: i remember. socrates: and is not this also the reason why they are simple and indivisible? i can see no other. theaetetus: no other reason can be given. socrates: then is not the syllable in the same case as the elements or letters, if it has no parts and is one form? theaetetus: to be sure. socrates: if, then, a syllable is a whole, and has many parts or letters, the letters as well as the syllable must be intelligible and expressible, since all the parts are acknowledged to be the same as the whole? theaetetus: true. socrates: but if it be one and indivisible, then the syllables and the letters are alike undefined and unknown, and for the same reason? theaetetus: i cannot deny that. socrates: we cannot, therefore, agree in the opinion of him who says that the syllable can be known and expressed, but not the letters. theaetetus: certainly not; if we may trust the argument. socrates: well, but will you not be equally inclined to disagree with him, when you remember your own experience in learning to read? theaetetus: what experience? socrates: why, that in learning you were kept trying to distinguish the separate letters both by the eye and by the ear, in order that, when you heard them spoken or saw them written, you might not be confused by their position. theaetetus: very true. socrates: and is the education of the harp-player complete unless he can tell what string answers to a particular note; the notes, as every one would allow, are the elements or letters of music? theaetetus: exactly. socrates: then, if we argue from the letters and syllables which we know to other simples and compounds, we shall say that the letters or simple elements as a class are much more certainly known than the syllables, and much more indispensable to a perfect knowledge of any subject; and if some one says that the syllable is known and the letter unknown, we shall consider that either intentionally or unintentionally he is talking nonsense? theaetetus: exactly. socrates: and there might be given other proofs of this belief, if i am not mistaken. but do not let us in looking for them lose sight of the question before us, which is the meaning of the statement, that right opinion with rational definition or explanation is the most perfect form of knowledge. theaetetus: we must not. socrates: well, and what is the meaning of the term 'explanation'? i think that we have a choice of three meanings. theaetetus: what are they? socrates: in the first place, the meaning may be, manifesting one's thought by the voice with verbs and nouns, imaging an opinion in the stream which flows from the lips, as in a mirror or water. does not explanation appear to be of this nature? theaetetus: certainly; he who so manifests his thought, is said to explain himself. socrates: and every one who is not born deaf or dumb is able sooner or later to manifest what he thinks of anything; and if so, all those who have a right opinion about anything will also have right explanation; nor will right opinion be anywhere found to exist apart from knowledge. theaetetus: true. socrates: let us not, therefore, hastily charge him who gave this account of knowledge with uttering an unmeaning word; for perhaps he only intended to say, that when a person was asked what was the nature of anything, he should be able to answer his questioner by giving the elements of the thing. theaetetus: as for example, socrates...? socrates: as, for example, when hesiod says that a waggon is made up of a hundred planks. now, neither you nor i could describe all of them individually; but if any one asked what is a waggon, we should be content to answer, that a waggon consists of wheels, axle, body, rims, yoke. theaetetus: certainly. socrates: and our opponent will probably laugh at us, just as he would if we professed to be grammarians and to give a grammatical account of the name of theaetetus, and yet could only tell the syllables and not the letters of your name--that would be true opinion, and not knowledge; for knowledge, as has been already remarked, is not attained until, combined with true opinion, there is an enumeration of the elements out of which anything is composed. theaetetus: yes. socrates: in the same general way, we might also have true opinion about a waggon; but he who can describe its essence by an enumeration of the hundred planks, adds rational explanation to true opinion, and instead of opinion has art and knowledge of the nature of a waggon, in that he attains to the whole through the elements. theaetetus: and do you not agree in that view, socrates? socrates: if you do, my friend; but i want to know first, whether you admit the resolution of all things into their elements to be a rational explanation of them, and the consideration of them in syllables or larger combinations of them to be irrational--is this your view? theaetetus: precisely. socrates: well, and do you conceive that a man has knowledge of any element who at one time affirms and at another time denies that element of something, or thinks that the same thing is composed of different elements at different times? theaetetus: assuredly not. socrates: and do you not remember that in your case and in that of others this often occurred in the process of learning to read? theaetetus: you mean that i mistook the letters and misspelt the syllables? socrates: yes. theaetetus: to be sure; i perfectly remember, and i am very far from supposing that they who are in this condition have knowledge. socrates: when a person at the time of learning writes the name of theaetetus, and thinks that he ought to write and does write th and e; but, again, meaning to write the name of theododorus, thinks that he ought to write and does write t and e--can we suppose that he knows the first syllables of your two names? theaetetus: we have already admitted that such a one has not yet attained knowledge. socrates: and in like manner be may enumerate without knowing them the second and third and fourth syllables of your name? theaetetus: he may. socrates: and in that case, when he knows the order of the letters and can write them out correctly, he has right opinion? theaetetus: clearly. socrates: but although we admit that he has right opinion, he will still be without knowledge? theaetetus: yes. socrates: and yet he will have explanation, as well as right opinion, for he knew the order of the letters when he wrote; and this we admit to be explanation. theaetetus: true. socrates: then, my friend, there is such a thing as right opinion united with definition or explanation, which does not as yet attain to the exactness of knowledge. theaetetus: it would seem so. socrates: and what we fancied to be a perfect definition of knowledge is a dream only. but perhaps we had better not say so as yet, for were there not three explanations of knowledge, one of which must, as we said, be adopted by him who maintains knowledge to be true opinion combined with rational explanation? and very likely there may be found some one who will not prefer this but the third. theaetetus: you are quite right; there is still one remaining. the first was the image or expression of the mind in speech; the second, which has just been mentioned, is a way of reaching the whole by an enumeration of the elements. but what is the third definition? socrates: there is, further, the popular notion of telling the mark or sign of difference which distinguishes the thing in question from all others. theaetetus: can you give me any example of such a definition? socrates: as, for example, in the case of the sun, i think that you would be contented with the statement that the sun is the brightest of the heavenly bodies which revolve about the earth. theaetetus: certainly. socrates: understand why:--the reason is, as i was just now saying, that if you get at the difference and distinguishing characteristic of each thing, then, as many persons affirm, you will get at the definition or explanation of it; but while you lay hold only of the common and not of the characteristic notion, you will only have the definition of those things to which this common quality belongs. theaetetus: i understand you, and your account of definition is in my judgment correct. socrates: but he, who having right opinion about anything, can find out the difference which distinguishes it from other things will know that of which before he had only an opinion. theaetetus: yes; that is what we are maintaining. socrates: nevertheless, theaetetus, on a nearer view, i find myself quite disappointed; the picture, which at a distance was not so bad, has now become altogether unintelligible. theaetetus: what do you mean? socrates: i will endeavour to explain: i will suppose myself to have true opinion of you, and if to this i add your definition, then i have knowledge, but if not, opinion only. theaetetus: yes. socrates: the definition was assumed to be the interpretation of your difference. theaetetus: true. socrates: but when i had only opinion, i had no conception of your distinguishing characteristics. theaetetus: i suppose not. socrates: then i must have conceived of some general or common nature which no more belonged to you than to another. theaetetus: true. socrates: tell me, now--how in that case could i have formed a judgment of you any more than of any one else? suppose that i imagine theaetetus to be a man who has nose, eyes, and mouth, and every other member complete; how would that enable me to distinguish theaetetus from theodorus, or from some outer barbarian? theaetetus: how could it? socrates: or if i had further conceived of you, not only as having nose and eyes, but as having a snub nose and prominent eyes, should i have any more notion of you than of myself and others who resemble me? theaetetus: certainly not. socrates: surely i can have no conception of theaetetus until your snub-nosedness has left an impression on my mind different from the snub-nosedness of all others whom i have ever seen, and until your other peculiarities have a like distinctness; and so when i meet you to-morrow the right opinion will be re-called? theaetetus: most true. socrates: then right opinion implies the perception of differences? theaetetus: clearly. socrates: what, then, shall we say of adding reason or explanation to right opinion? if the meaning is, that we should form an opinion of the way in which something differs from another thing, the proposal is ridiculous. theaetetus: how so? socrates: we are supposed to acquire a right opinion of the differences which distinguish one thing from another when we have already a right opinion of them, and so we go round and round:--the revolution of the scytal, or pestle, or any other rotatory machine, in the same circles, is as nothing compared with such a requirement; and we may be truly described as the blind directing the blind; for to add those things which we already have, in order that we may learn what we already think, is like a soul utterly benighted. theaetetus: tell me; what were you going to say just now, when you asked the question? socrates: if, my boy, the argument, in speaking of adding the definition, had used the word to 'know,' and not merely 'have an opinion' of the difference, this which is the most promising of all the definitions of knowledge would have come to a pretty end, for to know is surely to acquire knowledge. theaetetus: true. socrates: and so, when the question is asked, what is knowledge? this fair argument will answer 'right opinion with knowledge,'--knowledge, that is, of difference, for this, as the said argument maintains, is adding the definition. theaetetus: that seems to be true. socrates: but how utterly foolish, when we are asking what is knowledge, that the reply should only be, right opinion with knowledge of difference or of anything! and so, theaetetus, knowledge is neither sensation nor true opinion, nor yet definition and explanation accompanying and added to true opinion? theaetetus: i suppose not. socrates: and are you still in labour and travail, my dear friend, or have you brought all that you have to say about knowledge to the birth? theaetetus: i am sure, socrates, that you have elicited from me a good deal more than ever was in me. socrates: and does not my art show that you have brought forth wind, and that the offspring of your brain are not worth bringing up? theaetetus: very true. socrates: but if, theaetetus, you should ever conceive afresh, you will be all the better for the present investigation, and if not, you will be soberer and humbler and gentler to other men, and will be too modest to fancy that you know what you do not know. these are the limits of my art; i can no further go, nor do i know aught of the things which great and famous men know or have known in this or former ages. the office of a midwife i, like my mother, have received from god; she delivered women, i deliver men; but they must be young and noble and fair. and now i have to go to the porch of the king archon, where i am to meet meletus and his indictment. to-morrow morning, theodorus, i shall hope to see you again at this place. produced from images generously made available by the internet archive.) shakspere & typography _by william blades_ new york: edited & reprinted by _the winthrop press_ for _the american type founders company_ md ccc xc vii _the_ introduction in the good old days when printing was better recognized as a mystery than as an art, one could call a printer 'a man of letters' without being guilty of a pun. books were for the few then, and the man who would print them must be somewhat of a scholar himself. to-day, amid the whirr of many presses, and the hurrying to and fro of the printing office, the printer finds little or no time for literary pursuits, despite the fact that printing is, in very truth, the handmaid of literature. it is the more admirable, therefore, when a successful printer attains to a degree of scholarship--particularly scholarship in matters that enlighten and dignify his own handicraft. such a printer was _william blades_. during fifty years of active business life he contributed to the history of printing, a goodly number of books and a mass of miscellaneous articles. among these is the most complete and authoritative life of caxton, england's first printer, representing an immense amount of study and research. the book from which the following pages are reprinted is perhaps the least familiar of blades' works, and it evidently was written as a literary recreation. the thought that reading it may afford recreation to those busied about the making of books, and the comparative scarcity of the only edition, are the excuses for reprinting the more interesting portion. the first chapter (merely a resumé of the theories that have been advanced by various professions and callings to claim shakspere for their own) has been omitted; likewise the appendix, which is a suggestion that many of the obscurities in the text of shakspere may be cleared up by a study of the typographical errors in the first editions. with these exceptions, the work is given here entire, and, it is hoped, in such form as accords with the spirit of the author, whose tastes were those of the scholarly printer. _editorial dept. the winthrop press, lafayette place, n. y. november, _ _the preface_ _the first chapter of this tractate is designed to show, in a succinct manner, the numerous and contradictory theories concerning shakspere's special knowledge, the evidence for which has been created by 'selecting' certain words and phrases from the mass of his writings._ _the second and third chapters, erected on a similar basis of 'selection', are intended to prove that shakspere had an intimate and special knowledge of typography._ _old printers can still call to mind that period of our history when a stalwart pressman, on his way to work, ran considerable risk in the streets of london of being seized by another kind of pressmen, viz., the press-gang, and forced_ nolens volens _into the service of the king. some readers (not printers) may think that i have exercised over quotations from shakspere's works a similar compulsion, by pressing into my service passages whose bearing is by no means in a typographical direction. they may even go so far as to strain somewhat the self-accusation of falstaff (henry iv, iv, ), and bring against me the charge that_ _i have misused the king's press most damnably, by printing such evidences._ _i can only reply that if, notwithstanding a careful consideration of the proofs here laid before him, the reader should consider my case 'not proven', i must submit with all humility to his penetration and judgment._ _at the same time, since my proofs that shakspere was a printer are at least quite as conclusive as the evidence brought forward by others to demonstrate that he was doctor, lawyer, soldier, sailor, catholic, atheist, thief, i would claim as a right that my opponent, having rejected my theory that he was a printer, should be consistent, and at once, reject all theories which attribute to him special knowledge, and repose upon the simple belief that shakspere, the actor and playwright, was a man of surpassing genius, of keen observation, and never-failing memory._ w. b. i. shakspere in the printing office in november, , the company acting at the blackfriars theatre thought it would be advantageous to their interests to send in to the privy council a memorial, certifying that they had never given cause of displeasure by introducing upon the stage 'matters of state or religion'. the actors who signed this memorial styled themselves 'her majesty's poor players', and among them appears the name of william shakspere. we here meet the poet's name for the first time after he had left his home at stratford-on-avon, about four years previously. what his employment had been in the intervening period is a question which few of his biographers have cared to ask, and which not one has answered. it is usually supposed that immediately upon his arrival in london he became in some way associated with the stage,--but there is no evidence of this. on the contrary, we shall give reasons for believing that coming to london poor, needy, and in search of employment, he was immediately taken into the service of vautrollier the printer. thomas vautrollier, entitled in his patents 'typographus londinensis, in claustro vulgo blackfriers commorans', was a frenchman who came to england at the commencement of queen elizabeth's reign. he was admitted a brother of the stationers' company in , and commenced business as printer and publisher in blackfriars, working in the same premises up to the time of his death, which occurred in . his character as a scholar stands high, and his workmanship is excellent. he had a privilege, or monopoly, for the printing and sale of certain books, as all the chief printers then had. shortly before his death he married his daughter to richard field, who for this reason, and because he succeeded to the premises and business of the widow, is erroneously supposed by ames to have served his apprenticeship to vautrollier. but why bring in the name of richard field? the reply is important. field was shakspere's own townsman, and being of about the same age and social rank, the boys probably grew up together as playfellows. field's father, henry field, was a tanner at stratford-on-avon, and halliwell says 'a friend of shakspere's family'. early in young field came up to london, and at michaelmas was apprenticed for seven years to george bishop, printer and publisher. being in the same trade as vautrollier, field would naturally become acquainted with him; and in , a year after he was out of his time, he married vautrollier's daughter. here, then, we seem to have a missing link supplied in the chain of shakspere's history. in shakspere came up to london in a 'needy' state. to whom would he be more likely to apply than to his old playmate richard field. field, a young man nearly out of his apprenticeship, on terms of intimacy with vautrollier, could do nothing better than recommend him to the father of his future wife. once introduced we may be sure that shakspere, with his fund of wit and good humour, would always be a welcome guest; and that this friendly feeling was maintained between him and the vautrollier-field families receives confirmation from the fact that richard field, who succeeded to the shop and business soon after the death of his father-in-law, actually put to press the two first printed works of the great poet, the 'venus and adonis', , and the 'lucrece', . here then, in vautrollier's employ, perhaps as a press-reader, perhaps as an assistant in the shop, perchance as both, we imagine shakspere to have spent about three years upon his first arrival in the metropolis. placed thus in blackfriars, close to the theatre, close to the taverns, close to the inns of court, and in what was then a fashionable neighbourhood, shakspere enjoyed excellent opportunities of acquiring a knowledge of men and manners. field did not succeed vautrollier immediately upon his death. his widow endeavoured for some time to carry on the business alone; but for some unknown reason the stationers' company withheld their license; and after a fruitless effort to obtain it, she was succeeded by her son-in-law. these business changes would probably be the occasion of which shakspere eagerly availed himself to join the players at the neighbouring theatre. the sonnets, although not printed until , are generally acknowledged to be among shakspere's earliest efforts, and we cannot help imagining that sonnet xxiv was written while in the employment of vautrollier; or at any rate, while the shop, hung round with prints, was fresh in the poet's memory. may be some of their warmth was inspired by the charms of the buxom widow herself who was apostrophised by the poet when wishing her to find where your true image _pictured_ lies, which in my bosom's _shop_ is hanging still, that hath his _windows_ glazed with thine eyes. _sonnet_ xxiv. at any rate, we have here in three lines as many metaphors, and all derived from just such employment as we suppose shakspere at that time to have been engaged in. then, again, to a printer's widow, not over young, what more telling than the following reference? or what strong hand can hold time's swift foot back? or who his spoil of beauty can forbid? o, none, unless this miracle have might, that in _black ink_ my love may still shine bright. _sonnet_ lxvi. note here, that the jet black ink which everybody admires in old manuscripts was much too thick for a running hand, and had long been superseded by a writing fluid which, in the th century, was far from equalling the bright gloss of printing ink. before turning to the internal evidence supplied by shakspere's writings in support of our theory, let us glance at the list of works printed and published by vautrollier, and see if shakspere reflected any trace of their influence upon his mind. from herbert's 'typographical antiquities' we find that in the 'shop' would be the two following works: _a brief introduction to music. collected by p. delamote, a frenchman; licensed._ _london_, vo., . _discursus cantiones; quæ ab argumento sacræ vocantur, quinque et sex partivm. autoribus thoma tallisio et guilielmo birdo. cum privilegio._ _london_, oblong quarto, . delamote's introduction, as well as the sacred songs by tallis and bird, were vautrollier's copyright, and we have already seen how intimate an acquaintance shakspere had with music. might not the above works have been the mine from which he obtained his knowledge? of religious works, vautrollier printed and published several, all in accordance with the principles of the great reformation, and the writer who argued that from his intimate knowledge of the tenets of calvin, shakspere must have been himself a calvinist, would have found sufficient explanation of his special knowledge in the following books from vautrollier's press: _the neu testament, with diversities of reading and profitable annotations. an epistle by j. calvin, prefixed._ to., : _institutio christianæ religionis, joanne caluino authorè._ vo., _london_, : and _the institution of christian religion_ [not in herbert's ames] _written in latine, by mr. john calvine, and translated into english by thomas norton. imprinted at london, by thomas vautrollier._ vo., . this last contains an epistle to the reader by john calvin, as well as an address headed _typographus lectori_. of each of the above works several editions were published. in one of his pedantic speeches holofernes exclaims: venetia! venetia! chi non te vede non ti pretia. old mantuan! old mantuan! who understandeth thee not, loveth thee not. _love's labour lost_, iv, . where did shakspere learn his italian, which, although then a court language, he quotes but rarely, and in an awkward manner? surely at second-hand, and probably quoting the phrases current at the period, or still more probably from conning in his spare moments: _an italian grammer, written in latin by m. scipio lentulo: and turned into englishe by henry grantham. typis tho. vautrolerij._ _london_, mo., . this was put to press again in . in vautrollier's 'shop' he would also have often in his hands: _campo di fior; or else the flourie field of foure languages, for the furtherance of the learners of the latine, french, english, but chiefly of the italian tongue. imprinted at london, by thos. vautrollier, dwelling in the black friers by ludgate._ mo., . here, again, we have a very extensive italian vocabulary upon all common subjects quite sufficient for an occasional quotation; as to the plots taken from italian sources, such as 'romeo and juliet', it seems to be now generally admitted that shakspere in every instance followed the english translations. but shakspere knew also a little french, and uses a few colloquial sentences here and there. in one play indeed, _henry v_, iii. , there is a short scene between the princess and her attendant, in alternate french and english, which reads almost like a page of a vocabulary. shakspere's knowledge of latin was apparently about the same in extent; and for the uses to which he has applied both tongues, the _flourie field of four languages_, already quoted as the source of his italian, would be quite sufficient. if not, he had the opportunity of consulting under his master's roof _a treatise on french verbs._ vo., . _a most easie, perfect, and absolute way to learne the frenche tongue._ vo., ; and _phrases linguæ latinæ._ vo., ; the last compiled from the writings of that great printer, aldus manutius. some of shakspere's biographers have maintained that he must have been acquainted with plutarch and other classical writers, because he quotes from their works. dr. farmer in his masterly essay on the learning of shakspere, has shown that the poet took all his quotations, even to the blunders, from the edition of plutarch, in english, printed and published by vautrollier, a year or two before we suppose that shakspere entered into his service: _plutarch's lives, from the french of amyott, by sir tho. north. licensed._ folio, . moreover, vautrollier, who was a good scholar, appears to have had a great liking for ovid. he printed _ovid's metamorphoses_, _ovid's epistles_, and _ovid's art of love_. now it is a notable fact that although shakspere, unlike contemporary writers who abound in classical allusions, scarcely ever mentions a latin poet, and still more seldom a greek poet, yet he quotes ovid several times: as ovid, be an outcast quite abjured. _taming of the shrew_, i, . _tit._ lucius, what book is that she tosseth so? _luc._ grandsire, 'tis ovid's metamorphoses. _titus_, iv, . i am here with thee and thy goats as the most capricious poet, honest ovid was among the goths. _as you like it_, iii, . ovidius naso was the man. _love's labour lost_, iv, . of _cicero's oration_ vautrollier issued several editions, and had the privilege 'ad imprimendum solum' granted him; and to this work also, on at least two occasions, shakspere refers: hath read to thee sweet poetry and tully's orator. _titus_, iv, . sweet tully. _ henry vi_, iv, . the fact to be noted with reference to these classical quotations is this: shakspere quotes those latin authors, and those only, of which vautrollier had a 'license'; and makes no reference to other and popular writers, such as virgil, pliny, aurelius, and terence, editions of whose works vautrollier was not allowed to issue, but all of which, and especially the last, were great favorites in the sixteenth century, as is shown by the numerous editions which issued from the presses of vautrollier's fellow-craftsmen. among other publications of vautrollier was an english translation of _ludovico guicciardini's description of the low countries_, originally printed in . in this work is one of the earliest accounts of the invention of printing at haarlem, which is thus described in the batavia of adrianus junius, . 'this person [coster] during his afternoon walk, in the vicinity of haarlem, amused himself with cutting letters out of the _bark_ of the beech tree, and with these, the _characters_ being inverted as in seals, he printed small sentences.' the idea is cleverly adapted by orlando: these trees shall be my _books_, and in their _barks_ my thoughts i'll _character_. _as you like it_, iii, . lastly, it would be an interesting task to compare the mad folk of shakspere, most of whom have the melancholy fit, with _a treatise of melancholie: containing the causes thereof and reasons of the strange effects it worketh in our minds and bodies._ _london_, vo., . this was printed by vautrollier, and probably read carefully for press by the youthful poet. the disinclination of shakspere to see his plays in print has often been noticed by his biographers, and is generally accounted for by the theory that reading the plays in print would diminish the desire to hear them at the theatre. this is a very unsatisfactory reason, and not so plausible as the supposition that, sickened with reading other people's proofs for a livelihood, he shrunk from the same task on his own behalf. his contemporaries do not appear to have shared in the same typographical aversion. the plays of ben jonson and beaumont and fletcher were all printed in the life-time of their authors. francis quarles had the satisfaction and pride of seeing all his works in printed form, and showed his appreciation and knowledge of typography by the following quaint lines, which we quote from the first edition, literatim: _on a printing-house._ the _world's_ a _printing-house_: our _words_, our _thoughts_, our _deeds_, are _characters_ of sev'rall sizes: each _soule_ is a compos'ter; of whose faults the levits are correctors: heav'n revises; _death_ is the _common press_; fro whence, being driven, w' are gathered _sheet_ by _sheet_, & bound for _heaven_. from _divine fancies_, , lib. iv, p. . ii. the technicalities of printing, as used by shakspere nature endows no man with knowledge, and although a quick apprehension may go far toward making the true lover of nature a botanist, zoologist, or entomologist, and although the society of 'men of law', of doctors, or of musicians may, with the help of a good memory, store a man's mind with professional phraseology, yet the _opportunity_ of learning must be there; and no argument can be required to prove that, however highly endowed with genius or imagination, no one could evolve from his internal consciousness the terms, the customs, or the working implements of a trade with which he was unacquainted. if, then, we find shakspere's mind familiar with the technicalities of such an art as printing--an art which, in his day, had no such connecting links with the common needs and daily pleasures of the people, as now--if we find him using its terms and referring frequently to its customs, our claims to call him a printer stand upon a firmer base than those of the lawyer, the doctor, the soldier, or the divine; and we have strong grounds for asking the reader's thoughtful attention to some quotations and arguments, which, if not conclusive that shakspere was a printer, afford indubitable evidence of his having become at some period of his career practically acquainted with the details of a printing office. we propose, then, to carefully examine the works of the poet for any internal evidence of typographical knowledge which they may afford. but here, at the outset, we are met by obvious difficulties. would shakspere, or any poet have made use of trade terms and technical words, or have referred to customs peculiar to and known by only a very small class of the community in plays addressed to the general public? they might have been familiar enough to the mind of the writer, but would certainly have sounded very strange in the ears of the public. shakspere was too artistic and too wise to have committed so glaring a blunder. his technical terms are used unintentionally, and with the most charming unconsciousness. therefore, when we meet with a word or phrase in common use by printers, it is so amalgamated with the context, that although some other form of expression would have been chosen had not shakspere been a printer, yet the general reader or hearer is not struck by any incongruity of language. what simile could be more natural for a printer-poet to use or more appropriate for the public to hear than this: your mother was most true to wedlock, prince; for she did _print_ your royal father off, conceiving you. _winter's tale_, v, . here, surely, the printer's daily experience of the exact agreement between the face of the type and the impression it yields must have suggested the image. printers in shakspere's time often had patents granted them by which the monopoly of certain works was secured; and unscrupulous printers frequently braved all the pains and penalties to which they were liable by pirating such editions. it is this carelessness of consequences which is glanced at by mistress ford when debating with mistress page concerning the insult put upon them by the heavy old knight, sir john falstaff: he cares not what he puts into the press when he would put us two. _merry wives_, ii, . what printer is there who has put to press a second edition of a book working page for page in a smaller type and shorter measure but will recognise the typographer's reminiscences in the following description of leontes' babe by paulina: behold, my lords, although the _print_ be little, the whole _matter_ and _copy_ of the father ... the very _mould_ and _frame_ of hand, nail, finger. _winter's tale_, ii, . is it conceivable that a sentence of four lines containing five distinct typographical words, three of which are especially technical, could have proceeded from the brain of one not intimately acquainted with typography? again, would costard have so gratuitously used a typographical idea, had not the poet's mind been teeming with them? i will do it, sir, in print. _love's labour lost_, iii, . the deep indentation made on the receiving paper when the strong arm of a lusty pressman had pulled the bar with too great vigour is glanced at here: think when we talk of horses that you see them _printing_ their proud hoofs i' the receiving earth. _henry v_, chorus. the frequency with which the words _print_ or _imprint_ are used is very noticeable: the story that is _printed_ in her blood. _much ado about nothing_, iv, . i love a ballad in _print_. _winter's tale_, iv, . she did _print_ your royal father off conceiving you. _winter's tale_, v, . you are but as a _form_ in wax, by him _imprinted_. _midsummer-night's dream_, i, . his heart ... with your _print impressed_. _love's labour lost_, ii, . i will do it, sir, in _print_. _love's labour lost_, iii, . this weak _impress_ of love. _two gentlemen of verona_, iii, . to _print_ thy sorrows plain. _titus andronicus_, iv, . sink thy knee i' the earth; of thy deep duty, more _impression_ show. _coriolanus_, v, . some more time must wear the _print_ of his remembrance out. _cymbeline_, ii, . the _impressure_. _twelfth night_, ii, . he will _print_ them, out of doubt. _merry wives of windsor_, ii, . we quarrel in _print_, by the book. _as you like it_, v, . let it _stamp_ wrinkles in her brow. _lear_, i, . his sword death's _stamp_. _coriolanus_, ii, . hear how deftly title-pages are treated: _sim._ knights, to say you're welcome were superfluous. to place upon the _volume_ of your deeds, as in a _title-page_, your worth of arms, were more than you expect, or more than's fit. _pericles_, ii, . hear, too, northumberland, who thus addresses the bearer of fearful news: this man's brow, like to a _title-leaf_, foretells the nature of a tragic _volume_. _ henry iv_, i, . evidently shakspere had a good idea of what a title-page should contain. from title to preface is but a turn of the leaf, and its introductory character is thus noticed: is but a _preface_ of her worthy praise, the chief perfections of that lovely dame. _ henry vi_, v, . we must not forget a well-known passage about the introduction of printing to england, which has caused much discussion. it is where jack cade accuses lord saye: thou hast most traitorously corrupted the youth of the realm in erecting a grammar-school: and whereas, before, our forefathers had no other books but the score and the tally, thou hast caused printing to be used; and, contrary to the king, his crown, and dignity, thou hast built a paper mill. _ henry vi_, iv, . the early-invented fable of faustus, and the assistance given him by the devil in the multiplication of the first printed bibles (certainly a most short-sighted step on the part of his satanic majesty) had got fixed in the minds of the populace, and created among the ignorant a prejudice against the printing-press, and it was to this feeling jack cade appealed. all our chroniclers place the erection of a printing-press in england some years too early, but no one except shakspere has put the date so far back as , the date of jack cade's insurrection: it is simply a blunder; but it was the printing-press and its introduction to this country that was in the author's brain, and the _exact_ date of that event was unknown, being probably as difficult to arrive at then as it is now.[ ] we have already noticed in how simple a manner originated that grand discovery which, instead of one perishable manuscript, produced numberless printed books, and thus enabled mankind to perpetuate for ever the knowledge they had gained. the real superiority of the press over the pen was the easy multiplication of copies, and this was the idea in the poet's brain when he wrote: she carved thee for her seal and meant thereby thou shouldst _print more_ nor let that copy die. _sonnet_ xi. type-founding has in these days arrived at such perfection, that most of the blemishes and faults common in shakspere's time are now unknown. under the old system of hand moulds a type founder was sure when commencing work to cast a certain number of imperfect letters, because until the mould by use got warmed, the liquid metal solidified too soon, and the body or shank of the type was shrunk, and became no inappropriate emblem of an old man's limbs whose hose would be a world too wide for his shrunk shank. _as you like it_, ii, . the names of the various sizes of type in the sixteenth century were few compared with our modern list; canon, great primer, pica, long primer, and brevier almost complete the catalogue; and however familiar shakspere may have been with their names, it is difficult to imagine any scene in which these technical names could be introduced with propriety. yet, of one, nonpareil, a new small type first introduced from holland about , and which for its beauty and excellence was much admired, shakspere seems to have conceived a most favorable idea. prospero, praising his daughter, calls her 'a nonpareil' (_tempest_, act iii, sc. ); olivia is the 'nonpareil of beauty' (_twelfth night_, act i, scene ); and posthumus speaks of imogen as the 'nonpareil of her time' (_cymbeline_, act ii, scene ). the exactitude and precision of everything connected with the arrangement of printing from types is curiously hinted at by touchstone, when describing the preciseness of the courtiers' quarrels: we quarrel _in print by the book_. _as you like it_, v, ; that is, no step was taken except according to acknowledged rules. it often happens when a book comes to its last sheet that the text runs short, and two or three blank or vacant pages remain at the end. in the middle of one of these it is usual to place the typographer's imprint. what compositor is there who has rejoiced in such _fat_ pages[ ] but will not at once recognise the following allusion: the _vacant_ leaves thy mind's _imprint_ will bear, and of this _book_ this learning mayst thou taste. _sonnet_ lxxvii. people with a grievance write now-a-days to the newspapers, in hope of redress. in shakspere's time the only method to make wrongs public and to show up abuses was by the _broadside_, in prose or rhyme, passing from hand to hand. many of these have survived to the present day, and are treasured up as curious relics of a by-gone age. they were frequently libellous and grievously personal, and hence the point of pistol's remark: fear we broadsides? _ henry iv_, ii, . we must not think here that the naval 'broadside'--a volley of guns from the broadside of a ship--is meant. shakspere does not use the word once in that sense, nor was it a conversational word in his time. that pistol was indeed thinking of a printed broad sheet is evident from the whole sentence, which, although composed of disjointed exclamations continues with the following expressions, both strongly suggestive of the composing room or reader's closet: come we to full points here? and are etceteras nothing? _ henry iv_, ii, . 'come we to full points here?' this question is often a puzzler for both compositor and reader. indeed, few things cause more disagreements between author and printer than the very loose ideas held by the former concerning punctuation. some writers, like dickens in his early days, insist upon ornamenting their sentences with little dashes and big dashes, with colons where commas should be, and with _points_ that seem impossible. _pericles_, v, . in vain does the printer declare that in altering the author's unregulated punctuation, no levelled malice infests one _comma_, _timon_, i, , the irate author exclaims, that he puts the _period_ often from his place, _lucrece_, l. , and adds, 'follow my _point_ and period ... ill or well. _lear_, iv, . you find not the apostrophes, and so miss the accent. _love's labour lost_, iv, . wherefore stand you on nice points? _ henry vi_, iv, . the printer has no resource but compliance, which, however, unless the affront be very severe, will soon stand a comma 'tween their amities, _hamlet_, v, , and thus heal the breach, and end all happily with mutual notes of admiration. _winter's tale_, v, . 'and are etceteras nothing?' what a typographical question! and probably the only occasion on which so unpoetical a figure has done duty in any drama. the &c. makes an insignificant appearance in either ms. or type, and yet how often it stands for whole pages of matter. hence the point of the question. if a book is folio, and two pages of type have been composed, they are placed in proper position upon the imposing stone, and enclosed within an iron or steel frame called a 'chase', small wedges of hard wood termed 'coigns' or 'quoins' being driven in at opposite sides to make all tight. by the four opposing coigns, which the world together joins. _pericles_, iii, . this is just the description of a forme in folio where two quoins on one side are always opposite to two quoins on the other, thus together joining and tightening all the separate stamps. in a quaint allegorical poem, published anonymously about the year , in which the mystery of man's redemption is symbolised by the mystery of printing, the author commences thus: great blest master printer, come into thy composing-room; and after 'spiritualising' the successive operations of the workman thus touches upon the quoins: let the quoins be thy sure election, which admits of no rejection; with which our souls being joined about, not the least grace can then fall out. here, the idea of joining together by quoins so that nothing shall fall out, is just the same as in the couplet quoted from shakspere. the tightening of these quoins by means of a wooden-headed mallet, (there is no more conceit in him than is in a mallet, _ henry iv_, ii, ), is called 'locking up', an exclusively technical term. the expression, however, occurs in 'measure for measure', iv, , fast locked up in sleep, where the idea conveyed is the same. the 'forme' worked off and the metal chase removed, leaving the pages 'naked', affords the poet the following simile, which although not carrying to the popular ear any typographical meaning, was doubtless suggested by shakspere's former experience of the workshop: and he but _naked_ though _locked up_ in steel. _ henry vi_, iii, . the primary idea of 'locking up' had, doubtless, reference to 'armour'; the secondary to printing, as shown by the use of the word 'naked'. the forme then went to the press-room, where considerable ingenuity was required to make 'register'; that is, to print one side so exactly upon the other, that when the sheet was held up to the light the lines on each side would exactly back one another. the accuracy of judgment required for this is thus glanced at: _eno._ but let the world rank me in _register_ a master-leaver and a fugitive. _antony and cleopatra_, iv, . when the green-eyed othello takes his wife's hand and exclaims: here's a young and sweating devil, _othello_, iii, , we fail at first to catch the idea of the poet in calling a hand a 'devil'; but take the word as synonymous with 'messenger', and we see at once how the moist plump palm of desdemona suggested to the intensely jealous husband the idea of its having been the lascivious messenger of her impure desires. in this sense of 'messenger', the word 'devil' has a special fitness; for it is, and always has been among printers, _and printers only_, another word for 'errand-boy'. in olden times, when speed was required, a boy stood at the off-side of the press, and as soon as the frisket was raised, whipped the printed sheet off the tympan. when not at work, he ran on messages between printer and author, who, on account of his inky defilement, dubbed him 'devil'. all printers' boys go now by the same name: old lucifer, both kind and civil, to ev'ry printer lends a devil; but balancing accounts each winter, for ev'ry devil takes a printer. moxon, in , quotes it as an old trade word, and it was doubtless the same in shakspere's time, a century earlier, as it is now two centuries later. but where could shakspere have picked up the word if not in the printing-office? any one accustomed to collate old mss. must have noticed how very seldom the copyist would, in transcribing, add nothing and omit nothing. if what the scribe considered a good idea entered his mind while his pen was travelling over the page, he was a very modest penman indeed, if he did not incorporate it in the text. from this cause, and from genuine unintentional blunders, the texts of all the old authors had become gradually very corrupt--a source of great trouble to the early printers. with this in his mind shakspere defines it as one of the qualities of time to blot old books and alter their contents. _lucrece_, l. . many of vautrollier's publications must have been printed from discolored old manuscripts; and these papers shakspere, if he read 'proof' for his employer, would have to study carefully. does he call this to mind in sonnet xvii? my papers yellowed with their age. was it, after admiring some beautifully illuminated horæ, that he wrote: o that record could with a backward look, e'en of five hundred courses of the sun; show me your image in some antique book, since mind at first in character was done. _sonnet_ lix. does the poet refer to its wonderfully burnished gold initials, and the red dominical letters which he must often have seen in the printed calendars, when he exclaims in tones of admiration: my red dominical--my golden letter! _love's labour lost_, v, . the old calendar had a _golden number_ and a _dominical letter_, but not a _golden letter_, which last must refer specifically to the practice of gilding important initials. 'golden letters' are mentioned in 'king john', iii, , and in 'pericles', iv, , while the red initials, which were common to both manuscripts and printed books of the fifteenth century, are made by shakspere the death warrant of the unfortunate clerk of chatham, against whom is brought the fatal accusation that he has a book in his pocket with red letters in 't. _ henry vi_, iv, . in shakspere's time, as we have already noticed (p. , ante), the press laboured under great restrictions. all books with a profitable circulation were monopolised by favored stationers or printers who held special patents or licenses from the crown. thus reynold wolfe, in , held a monopoly of all books printed in hebrew, greek, or latin. seres was privileged to print all psalters, primers, and prayer books; denham might print the new testament in welch; others held grants for scholastic or legal books, for almanacs, and even for broadsides, or as the grant says 'for any piece of paper printed on one side of the sheet only'. in these favored books it was customary to place the patent granting the monopoly at the end, as a 'caveat' for other printers, and occasionally the phrase 'cum privilegio ad imprimendum solum' would appear in a conspicuous part of the title. among the printers in london, who secured such special privileges, was vautrollier, shakspere's presumed employer. 'in the sixteenth year of elizabeth, th june, ', says ames, 'a patent or license was granted him which he often printed at the end of the new testament'; this was a monopoly of beza's new testament which vautrollier had the privilege 'ad imprimendum solum', for the term of ten years. we have already seen the curious connection between the products of vautrollier's press and the writings of shakspere, and we now plainly perceive what was floating in the poet's brain when he placed the following speech in biondello's mouth, who urges lucentio to marry bianca, while her father and the pedant are discussing the marriage treaty: _luc._ and what of all this? _bion._ i cannot tell; expect they are busied about a counterfeit[ ] assurance: take your assurance of her _cum privilegio ad imprimendum solum_: to the church;--take the priest, clerk, and some sufficient honest witnesses. _taming of the shrew_, iv, . these protective privileges, 'ad imprimendum solum', instead of a benefit were a great hindrance to the growth of printing. many master-printers even then felt them to be so, and by all legal and sometimes illegal means, tried to procure the abolition of laws which were oppressive and restrictive. they saw works of merit die out of memory for want of enterprise in the patentee--they saw folly, in the shape of a star-chamber, controlling skill; or as shakspere himself expresses it, art made tongue-tied by authority, and folly (doctor-like),[ ] controlling skill. _sonnet_ lxvi. shakspere abounds in kisses of every hue, from shadowy, frozen, and judas kisses, to holy, true, gentle, tender, warm, sweet, loving, dainty, kind, soft, long, hard, zealous, burning, and even the unrequited kiss: but my kisses bring again seals of love, but seal'd in vain. _measure for measure_, iii, . the 'burning' kiss might be thought passionate and even durable enough for any extremity--yet shakspere prefers, perhaps from an unconscious association of ideas, the durability of which _printing_ is the emblem when he makes the goddess of love exclaim: pure lips, sweet seals on my soft lips _imprinted_. _venus and adonis_, l. . the same idea of durability is expressed in the cry of henry's guilty queen, when parting with suffolk: oh, could this kiss be _printed_ on thy hand! _ henry vi_, iii, . the idea has been still further developed in the following anonymous quatrain: a printer's kisses. _print_ on my lips another kiss, the picture of my glowing passion. nay, this wont do--nor this, nor this; but now--ay, that's a _proof impression_. many of vautrollier's publications went through several editions. in the 'merry wives', ii, , mistress page says: these are of the second edition, and well can we imagine shakspere handing volumes to a buyer with the same remark, or asking some patron with whom he was a favourite: com'st thou with deep premeditated lines, with written pamphlet studiously devised? _ henry vi_, iii, . as the author entered with a roll of 'copy' in his hand. in the deep mine from which the foregoing quotations have been dug, many others would doubtless reward a more careful search. as it is, numerous allusions, which, though plain to a printer, would seem too forced to the general public, have been passed over. enough, however, has probably been brought forward to justify the belief pourtrayed in the title-page, viz.: _that shakspere must have passed some of his early years in a printing-office._ finis footnotes: [ ] _the exact date was probably as difficult to arrive at then as now._ the arrival of william caxton in england may, with a certainty of being near the truth, be placed in - , the date given by most writers being a misconception of the language used by caxton in the preface to the chess-book. the art on its first introduction was looked upon suspiciously by the people, few of whom could read, its chief patrons being a few of the more educated among the nobles and the rich burghers of london. another mistake is to suppose that caxton printed in westminster abbey. his printing-office was a tenement to the south-east of the abbey church; its sign was the 'red-pale', and caxton rented it of the abbot. there is evidence to show that caxton and the abbot were on distant terms of amity--none to show that the ecclesiastic encouraged or patronised the printer, notwithstanding dean stanley's assertions in a sermon lately preached by him in westminster abbey. the _only_ occasion upon which caxton mentions the abbot is to this effect--that the abbot, not being able himself to read a passage in old ms., sent it to caxton, with a request that he would translate it. (see _the life and typography of william caxton_, by william blades. vols., to. london, - .) [ ] _fat pages._ 'fat' as a conventional word is not confined to printers. 'a _fat_ living' is a phrase not unknown among churchmen, and is used in the same sense by the compositor, who charges the master-printer for the _fat_ pages, in which no work appears, at the same rate as if they were full. [ ] this word 'counterfeit' in the sense of 'reprint' or 'duplicate', is certainly not used now-a-days by english printers; yet i find this in marahren's parallel list of technical typographical terms:--'counterfeit, to, or to reprint, v., nachdrucken.--ré-imprimer.' with bibliographers the word is still retained; _e.g._ 'lyons counterfeits of the aldine editions.' [ ] _and folly (doctor-like) controlling skill._ it is worth noting, that in none of the various volumes written to show shakspere's knowledge of medicine and medical men, has the truth of this passage been brought forward in evidence. generously made available by the internet archive.) university of nebraska studies in language, literature and criticism number astronomical lore in chaucer by florence m. grimm, a. m. _assistant in the university of nebraska library_ editorial committee louise pound, ph. d., department of english h. b. alexander, ph. d., department of philosophy f. w. sanford, a. b., department of latin. lincoln contents i. astronomy in the middle ages ii. chaucer's scientific knowledge iii. chaucer's cosmology iv. chaucer's astronomy v. astrological lore in chaucer appendix astronomical lore in chaucer i astronomy in the middle ages the conspicuousness of astronomical lore in the poetry of chaucer is due to its importance in the life of his century. in the mediaeval period, astronomy (or 'astrology,' for the two names were used indifferently to cover the same subject) was one of the vital interests of men. the ordinary man of the middle ages knew much more than do most men to-day about the phenomena of the heavens; conveniences such as clocks, almanacs, and charts representing celestial phenomena were rare, and direct observations of the apparent movements and the relative positions of the heavenly bodies were necessary for the regulation of man's daily occupations. furthermore, the belief in a geocentric system of the universe, which in chaucer's century was almost universally accepted, was of vast significance in man's way of thinking. accepting this view, all the heavenly bodies seemed to have been created for the sole benefit of man, inhabiting the central position in the universe; their movements, always with reference to the earth as a center, brought to man light, heat, changes of season--all the conditions that made human life possible on the earth. not only did the man of the middle ages see in the regular movements of the celestial spheres the instruments by which god granted him physical existence, but in the various aspects of heavenly phenomena he saw the governing principles of his moral life. the arrangement of the heavenly bodies with regard to one another at various times was supposed to exert undoubted power over the course of terrestrial events. each planet was thought to have special attributes and a special influence over men's lives. venus was the planet of love, mars, of war and hostility, the sun, of power and honor, and so forth. each was mysteriously connected with a certain color, with a metal, too, the alchemists said, and each had special power over some organ of the human body. the planet's influence was believed to vary greatly according to its position in the heavens, so that to determine a man's destiny accurately it was necessary to consider the aspect of the whole heavens, especially at the moment of his birth, but also at other times. this was called "casting the horoscope" and was regarded as of great importance in enabling a man to guard against threatening perils or bad tendencies, and to make the best use of favorable opportunities. it is not astonishing, then, that the great monuments of literature in the mediaeval period and even much later are filled with astronomical and astrological allusions; for these are but reflections of vital human interests of the times. the greatest poetical work of the middle ages, dante's _divina commedia_, is rich in astronomical lore, and its dramatic action is projected against a cosmographical background reflecting the view of dante's contemporaries as to the structure of the world. milton, writing in the seventeenth century, bases the cosmology of his _paradise lost_ in the main on the ptolemaic system, but makes adam and the archangel raphael discuss the relative merits of this system and the heliocentric view of the universe. the latter had been brought forth by copernicus a century earlier, but even in milton's day had not yet succeeded in supplanting the old geocentric cosmology. the view of the universe which we find reflected in chaucer's poetry is chiefly based on the ptolemaic system of astronomy, though it shows traces of very much more primitive cosmological ideas. the ptolemaic system owes its name to the famous alexandrian astronomer of the second century a. d., claudius ptolemy, but is based largely on the works and discoveries of the earlier greek philosophers and astronomers, especially eudoxus, hipparchus, and aristarchus, whose investigations ptolemy compiled and, along some lines, extended. ptolemaic astronomy was a purely geometrical or mathematical system which represented the observed movements and relative positions of the heavenly bodies so accurately that calculations as to their positions at any given time could be based upon it. ptolemy agreed with his contemporaries in the opinion that to assign causes for the celestial movements was outside the sphere of the astronomer. this was a proper field of philosophy; and the decisions of philosophers, especially those of aristotle, were regarded as final, and their teaching as the basis upon which observed phenomena should be described. according to the ptolemaic system the earth is a motionless sphere fixed at the center of the universe. it can have no motion, for there must be some fixed point in the universe to which all the motions of the heavenly bodies may be referred; if the earth had motion, it was argued, this would be proportionate to the great mass of the earth and would cause objects and animals to fly off into the air and be left behind. ptolemy believed this reason sufficient to make untenable the idea of a rotatory motion of the earth, although he was fully aware that to suppose such a motion of the earth would simplify exceedingly the representations of the celestial movements. it did not occur to him that to suppose the earth's atmosphere to participate in its motion would obviate this difficulty. the earth was but a point in comparison with the immense sphere to which the stars were attached and which revolved about the earth once in every twenty-four hours, imparting its motion to sun, moon, and planets, thus causing day and night and the rising and setting of the heavenly bodies. the irregular motions of the planets were accounted for by supposing them to move on circles of small spheres called 'epicycles', the centres of which moved around the 'deferents', or circles of large spheres which carried the planets in courses concentric to the star sphere. by giving each of the planets an epicycle and deferent of the proper relative size and velocity the varied oscillations of the planets, as far as they could be followed by means of the simple instruments then in use, were almost perfectly accounted for. though it was a purely mathematical system which only attempted to give a basis for computing celestial motions, ptolemaic astronomy is of great importance historically as it remained the foundation of theoretical astronomy for more than years. throughout the long dark centuries of the middle ages it survived in the studies of the retired students of the monasteries and of the few exceptionally enlightened men who still had some regard for pagan learning in the days when many of the church fathers denounced it as heretical. ptolemy was the last of the great original greek astronomers. the alexandrian school produced, after him, only copyists and commentators, and the theoretical astronomy of the greeks, so highly perfected in ptolemy's _almagest_, was for many centuries almost entirely neglected. the roman state gave no encouragement to the study of theoretical astronomy and produced no new school of astronomy. although it was the fashion for a roman to have a smattering of greek astronomy, and famous latin authors like cicero, seneca, strabo and pliny wrote on astronomy, yet the romans cared little for original investigations and contributed nothing new to the science. the romans, however, appreciated the value of astronomy in measuring time, and applied to the alexandrian school to satisfy their practical need for a calendar. what julius caesar obtained from the alexandrian sosigenes, he greatly improved and gave to the empire, as the calendar which, with the exception of the slight change made by gregory xiii, we still use. the pseudo-astronomical science of astrology, or the so-called 'judicial astronomy' was pursued during the roman empire and throughout the middle ages with much greater zeal than theoretical astronomy. the interest in astrology, to be sure, encouraged the study of observational astronomy to a certain extent; for the casting of horoscopes to foretell destinies required that the heavenly bodies be observed and methods of calculating their positions at any time or place be known. but there was no desire to inquire into the underlying laws of the celestial motions or to investigate the real nature of the heavenly phenomena. if the roman state did not encourage astronomy, the roman church positively discouraged it. the bible became and long remained the sole authority recognized by the church fathers as to the constitution of the universe. by many of the patristics ptolemaic astronomy was despised; not because it did not describe accurately the observed phenomena of the heavens, for it did this in a way that could scarcely have been improved upon with the facilities for observation then available; and not because it was founded upon the false assumption that the earth is the motionless center of the universe about which all heavenly bodies revolve; but because there was no authority in scripture for such a system, and it could not possibly be made consistent with the cosmology of genesis. allegorical descriptions of the universe based on the scriptures held almost complete sway over the mediaeval mind. the whole universe was represented allegorically by the tabernacle and its furniture. the earth was flat and rectangular like the table of shew bread, and surrounded on all four sides by the ocean. the walls of heaven beyond this supported the firmament shaped like a half-cylinder. angels moved the sun, moon, and stars across the firmament and let down rain through its windows from the expanse of water above. by no means all of the early church fathers were wholly without appreciation of the fruits of greek astronomical science. origen and clement of alexandria, while believing in the scriptural allegories, tried to reconcile them with the results of pagan learning. in the west, ambrose of milan and later augustine, were at least not opposed to the idea of the earth's sphericity, and of the existence of antipodes, although they could not get away from the queer notion of the waters above the firmament. a few enlightened students like philoponus of alexandria, isidore of seville, the venerable bede, and irish scholars like fergil and dicuil, studied the greek philosophers and accepted some of the pagan scientific teachings. fortunately the study of those ancient latin writers whose works had preserved some of the astronomy of the greeks had taken firm root among the patient scholars of the monasteries, and slowly but steadily the geocentric system of cosmology was making its way back into the realm of generally accepted fact, so that by the ninth century it was the system adopted by nearly all scholars. about the year began the impetus to learning which culminated in the great revival of the renaissance. one cause of this intellectual awakening was the contact of europe with arab culture through the crusades and through the saracens in sicily and the moors in spain. the arabian influence resulted in an increased sense of the importance of astronomy and astrology; for, while the scholars of the christian world had been devising allegorical representations of the world based on sacred literature, the arabian scholars had been delving into greek science, translating ptolemy and aristotle, and trying to make improvements upon ptolemaic astronomy. the spheres of the planets, which ptolemy had almost certainly regarded as purely symbolical, the arabs conceived as having concrete existence. this made it necessary to add a ninth sphere to the eight mentioned by ptolemy; for it was thought sufficient that the eighth sphere should carry the stars and give them their slow movement of precession from west to east. this ninth sphere was the outermost of all and it originated the "prime motion" by communicating to all the inner spheres its diurnal revolution from east to west. in mediaeval astronomy it came to be known as the _primum mobile_ or "first movable," while a tenth and motionless sphere was added as the abode of god and redeemed souls. the sun and moon were included among the planets, which revolved about the earth in the order moon, mercury, venus, sun, mars, jupiter, saturn. at first the astronomy taught in the universities was based on latin translations of arabic commentaries and paraphrases of aristotle, which had made their way into europe through the moors in spain. for several centuries aristotle represented in the eyes of most scholastics "the last possibility of wisdom and learning." but by the middle of the thirteenth century ptolemy began to be rediscovered. the ptolemaic system of planetary motions was briefly described in a handbook compiled by john halifax of holywood, better known as sacrobosco. roger bacon wrote on the spheres, the use of the astrolabe, and astrology, following ptolemy in his general ideas about the universe. the great mediaeval scholar and philosopher, thomas aquinas, was also familiar with the ptolemaic system; but to most of the men of the thirteenth century ptolemy's works remained quite unknown. the real revival of greek astronomy took place in the fourteenth century when scholars began to realize that new work in astronomy must be preceded by a thorough knowledge of the astronomy of the alexandrian school as exhibited in the _syntaxis_ of ptolemy. it was then that greek and latin manuscripts of works on astronomy began to be eagerly sought for and deciphered, and a firm foundation constructed for the revival of theoretical astronomy. ii chaucer's scientific knowledge it was in the fourteenth century that chaucer lived and wrote, and his interest in astronomical lore is, therefore, not surprising. although the theories of astronomy current in chaucer's century have been made untenable by the _de revolutionibus orbium_ of copernicus, and by kepler's discovery of the laws of planetary motion; although the inaccurate and unsatisfactory methods of astronomical investigation then in use have been supplanted by the better methods made possible through galileo's invention of the telescope and through the modern use of spectrum analysis; yet, of all scientific subjects, the astronomy of that period could most nearly lay claim to the name of science according to the present acceptation of the term. for, as we have seen, the interest in astrology during the middle ages had fostered the study of observational astronomy, and this in turn had furnished the science a basis of fact and observation far surpassing in detail and accuracy that of any other subject. practically all of chaucer's writings contain some reference to the movements and relative positions of the heavenly bodies, and to their influence on human and mundane affairs, and in some of his works, especially the treatise on _the astrolabe_, a very technical and detailed knowledge of astronomical and astrological lore is displayed. there is every reason to suppose that, so far as it satisfied his purposes, chaucer had made himself familiar with the whole literature of astronomical science. his familiarity with ptolemaic astronomy is shown in his writings both by specific mention[ ] of the name of ptolemy and his _syntaxis_, commonly known as the 'almagest,' and by many more general astronomical references. even more convincing evidence of chaucer's knowledge of the scientific literature of his time is given in his _treatise on the astrolabe_. according to skeat, part i and at least two-thirds of part ii are taken, with some expansion and alteration, from a work on the astrolabe by messahala[ ], called, in the latin translation which chaucer used, "compositio et operatio astrolabie." this work may have been ultimately derived from a sanskrit copy, but from chaucer's own words in the _prologue to the astrolabe_[ ] it is clear that he made use of the latin work. the rest of part ii may have been derived from some general compendium of astronomical and astrological knowledge, or from some other of the treatises on the astrolabe which chaucer says were common in his time.[ ] other sources mentioned by chaucer in _the astrolabe_ are the calendars of john some and nicholas lynne, carmelite friars who wrote calendars constructed for the meridian of oxford[ ]; and of the arabian astronomer abdilazi alkabucius.[ ] in _the frankeleyns tale_ chaucer mentions the tabulae toletanae,[ ] a set of tables composed by order of alphonso x, king of castile, and so called because they were adapted to the city of toledo. works which served chaucer not as sources of information on scientific subjects but as models for the treatment of astronomical lore in literature were the _de consolatione philosophiae_ of boethius, which chaucer translated and often made use of in his poetry; and the works of dante, whose influence on chaucer, probably considerable, has been pointed out by several writers, notably rambeau[ ] who discusses the parallels between _the hous of fame_ and the _divina commedia_. iii chaucer's cosmology chaucer wrote no poetical work having a cosmographical background as completely set forth as is that in dante's _divine comedy_ or that in milton's _paradise lost_. although his cosmological references are often incidental they are not introduced in a pedantic manner. whenever they are not parts of interpolations from other writers his use of them is due to their intimate relation to the life his poetry portrays or to his appreciation of their poetic value. when chaucer says, for example, that the sun has grown old and shines in capricorn with a paler light than is his wont, he is not using a merely conventional device for showing that winter has come, but is expressing this fact in truly poetic manner and in words quite comprehensible to the men of his day, who were accustomed to think of time relations in terms of heavenly phenomena. popular and scientific views of the universe in chaucer's century were by no means the same. the untaught man doubtless still thought of the earth as being flat, as it appears to be, as bounded by the waters of the ocean, and as covered by a dome-like material firmament through which the waters above sometimes came as rain; while, as we have seen, by the fourteenth century among scholars the geocentric system of astronomy was firmly established and the spheres and epicycles of ptolemy were becoming more widely known. it is the view held by the educated men of his century that chaucer's poetry chiefly reflects. . _the celestial spheres and their movements_ when we read chaucer we are transported into a world in which the heavenly bodies and their movements seem to bear a more intimate relation to human life than they do in the world in which we live. the thought of the revolving spheres carrying sun, moon, and planets, regulating light and heat on the earth, and exercising a mysterious influence over terrestrial events and human destiny was a sublime conception and one that naturally appealed to the imagination of a poet. chaucer was impressed alike by the vastness of the revolving spheres in comparison to the earth's smallness, by their orderly arrangement, and by the unceasing regularity of their appearance which seemed to show that they should eternally abide. in the _parlement of foules_ he interpolates a passage from cicero's _somnium scipionis_ in which africanus appears to the sleeping scipio, points out to him the insignificance of our little earth when compared with the vastness of the heavens and then admonishes him to regard the things of this world as of little importance when compared with the joys of the heavenly life to come.[ ] "than shewed he him the litel erthe, that heer is, at regard of the hevenes quantite; and after shewed he him the nyne speres." the regular arrangement of the planetary spheres clings often to the poet's fancy and he makes many allusions to their order in the heavens. he speaks of mars as "the thridde hevenes lord above"[ ] and of venus as presiding over the "fifte cercle."[ ] in _troilus and criseyde_ the poet invokes venus as the adorning light of the third heaven.[ ] "o blisful light, of which the bemes clere adorneth al the thridde hevene faire!"[ ] mediaeval astronomers as we have seen, imagined nine spheres, each of the seven innermost carrying with it one of the planets in the order mentioned below; the eighth sphere was that of the fixed stars, and to account for the precession of the equinoxes, men supposed it to have a slow motion from west to east, round the axis of the zodiac; the ninth or outermost sphere they called the _primum mobile_, or the sphere of first motion, and supposed it to revolve daily from east to west, carrying all the other spheres with it. the thought of the two outer spheres, the _primum mobile_, whirling along with it all the inner spheres, and the firmament, bearing hosts of bright stars, seems to have appealed strongly to the poet's imagination. in the _tale of the man of lawe_ the _primum mobile_ is described as crowding and hurling in diurnal revolution from east to west all the spheres that would naturally follow the slow course of the zodiac from west to east.[ ] elsewhere the _primum mobile_ is called the "whele that bereth the sterres" and is said to turn the heavens with a "ravisshing sweigh:" "o thou maker of the whele that bereth the sterres, which that art y-fastned to thy perdurable chayer, and tornest the hevene with a ravisshing sweigh, and constreinest the sterres to suffren thy lawe;"[ ] the firmament, which in chaucer is not restricted to the eighth sphere but generally refers to the whole expanse of the heavens, is many times mentioned by chaucer; and its appearance on clear or cloudy nights, its changing aspects before an impending storm or with the coming of dawn, beautifully described.[ ] . _the harmony of the spheres_ some of the cosmological ideas reflected in chaucer's writings can be traced back to systems older than the ptolemaic. the beautiful fancy that the universe is governed by harmony had its origin in the philosophy of the pythagoreans in the fourth century b. c., and continued to appeal to men's imagination until the end of the middle ages. it was thought that the distances of the planetary spheres from one another correspond to the intervals of a musical scale and that each sphere as it revolves sounds one note of the scale. when asked why men could not hear the celestial harmony, the pythagoreans said: a blacksmith is deaf to the continuous, regular beat of the hammers in his shop; so we are deaf to the music which the spheres have been sending forth from eternity. in ancient and mediaeval cosmology it was only the seven spheres of the planets that were generally supposed to participate in this celestial music; but the poets have taken liberties with this idea and have given it to us in forms suiting their own fancies. milton bids all the celestial spheres join in the heavenly melody: "ring out, ye crystal spheres, once bless our human ears, if ye have power to touch our senses so; and let your silver chime move in melodious time, and let the base of heaven's deep organ blow; and with your ninefold harmony, make up full consort to the angelic symphony."[ ] shakespeare lets every orb of the heavens send forth its note as it moves: "there's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st but in his motion like an angel sings, still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins;"[ ] chaucer, too, makes all nine spheres participate: "and after that the melodye herde he that cometh of thilke speres thryes three, that welle is of musyke and melodye in this world heer, and cause of armonye."[ ] only in unusual circumstances can the music of the spheres be heard by mortal ears. in the lines just quoted the celestial melody is heard during a dream or vision. in _troilus and criseyde_, after troilus' death his spirit is borne aloft to heaven whence he beholds the celestial orbs and hears the melody sent forth as they revolve: "and ther he saugh, with ful avysement, the erratik sterres, herkeninge armonye with sownes fulle of hevenish melodye."[ ] . _the cardinal points and the regions of the world_ more primitive in origin than the harmony of the spheres are references to the four elements, to the divisions of the world, and to the cardinal points or quarters of the earth. of these, probably the most primitive is the last. the idea of four cardinal points, the "before," the "behind," the "right," and the "left," later given the names north, south, east, and west, appears among peoples in their very earliest stages of civilization, and because of its great usefulness has remained and probably will remain throughout the history of the human race. only one of chaucer's many references to the cardinal points need be mentioned. in the _man of lawes tale_ (b. ff.) the cardinal points are first suggested by an allusion to the four 'spirits of tempest,' which were supposed to have their respective abodes in the four quarters of earth, and then specifically named in the lines following: "who bad the foure spirits of tempest, that power han tanoyen land and see, 'bothe north and south, and also west and est, anoyeth neither see, ne land, ne tree?'" of almost equal antiquity are ideas of the universe as a threefold world having heaven above, earth below, and a region of darkness and gloom beneath the earth. chaucer usually speaks of the threefold world, the "tryne compas," as comprising heaven, earth and sea. thus in the _knightes tale_:[ ] "'o chaste goddesse of the wodes grene, to whom bothe hevene and erthe and see is sene, quene of the regne of pluto derk and lowe,'" fame's palace is said to stand midway between heaven, earth and sea: "hir paleys stant, as i shal seye, right even in middes of the weye betwixen hevene, erthe, and see;"[ ] again in _the seconde nonnes tale_, the name 'tryne compas' is used of the threefold world and the three regions are mentioned: "that of the tryne compas lord and gyde is, whom erthe and see and heven, out of relees, ay herien;"[ ] . _heaven, hell and purgatory_ in mediaeval cosmology ideas of heaven, hell, and purgatory, as more or less definitely located regions where the spirits of the dead were either rewarded or punished eternally, or were purged of their earthly sins in hope of future blessedness, play an important part. according to dante's poetic conception hell was a conical shaped pit whose apex reached to the center of the earth, purgatory was a mountain on the earth's surface on the summit of which was located the garden of eden or the earthly paradise, and heaven was a motionless region beyond space and time, the motionless sphere outside of the _primum mobile_, called the empyrean. chaucer's allusions to heaven, hell and purgatory are frequent but chiefly incidental and give no such definite idea of their location as we find in the _divine comedy_. the nearest chaucer comes to indicating the place of heaven is in _the parlement of foules_, - , where africanus speaks of heaven and then points to the galaxy: "and rightful folk shal go, after they dye, to heven; and shewed him the galaxye." chaucer describes heaven as "swift and round and burning", thus to some extent departing from the conception of it usually held in his time: "and right so as thise philosophres wryte that heven is swift and round and eek brenninge, right so was fayre cecilie the whyte."[ ] in using the terms "swift and round" chaucer must have been thinking of the _primum mobile_ which, as we have seen, was thought to have a swift diurnal motion from east to west. his use of the epithet "burning" is in conformity with the mediaeval conception of the empyrean, or heaven of pure light as it is described by dante. chaucer does not describe the form and location of hell as definitely as does dante, but the idea which he presents of it by incidental allusions, whether or not this was the view of it he himself held, is practically the one commonly held in his day. that hell is located somewhere within the depths of the earth is suggested in the _knightes tale_;[ ]-- "his felawe wente and soghte him down in helle;" and in the _man of lawes tale_;[ ] "o serpent under femininitee, lyk to the serpent depe in helle y-bounde," in the _persones tale_ hell is described as a horrible pit to which no natural light penetrates, filled with smoking flames and presided over by devils who await an opportunity to draw sinful souls to their punishment.[ ] elsewhere in the same tale the parson describes hell as a region of disorder, the only place in the world not subject to the universal laws of nature, and attributes this idea of it to job: "and eek iob seith: that 'in helle is noon ordre of rule.' and al-be-it so that god hath creat alle thinges in right ordre, and no-thing with-outen ordre, but alle thinges been ordeyned and nombred; yet nathelees they that been dampned been no-thing in ordre, ne holden noon ordre."[ ] the word purgatory seldom occurs in a literal sense in chaucer's poetry, but the figurative use of it is frequent. when the wife of bath is relating her experiences in married life she tells us that she was her fourth husband's purgatory.[ ] the old man, ianuarie[ ], contemplating marriage, fears that he may lose hope of heaven hereafter, because he will have his heaven here on earth in the joys of wedded life. his friend iustinus sarcastically tells him that perhaps his wife will be his purgatory, god's instrument of punishment, so that when he dies his soul will skip to heaven quicker than an arrow from the bow. to arcite, released from prison on condition that he never again enter theseus' lands, banishment will be a worse fate than the purgatory of life imprisonment, for then even the sight of emelye will be denied him: "he seyde, 'allas that day that i was born! now is my prison worse than biforn; now is me shape eternally to dwelle noght in purgatorie, but in helle.'"[ ] the idea of purgatory, not as a place definitely located like dante's mount of purgatory, but rather as a period of punishment and probation, is expressed in these lines from _the parlement of foules_ ( - ): "'but brekers of the lawe, soth to seyne, and lecherous folk, after that they be dede, shul alwey whirle aboute therthe in peyne, til many a world be passed, out of drede, and than, for-yeven alle hir wikked dede, than shul they come unto that blisful place, to which to comen god thee sende his grace!'" chaucer uses the idea of paradise for poetical purposes quite as often as that of purgatory. he expresses the highest degree of earthly beauty or joy by comparing it with paradise. criseyde's face is said to be like the image of paradise.[ ] again, in extolling the married life, the poet says that its virtues are such "'that in this world it is a paradys.'"[ ] and later in the same tale, woman is spoken of as "mannes help and his confort, his paradys terrestre and his disport."[ ] when aeneas reaches carthage he "is come to paradys out of the swolow of helle, and thus in ioye remembreth him of his estat in troye."[ ] chaucer mentions paradise several times in its literal sense as the abode of adam and eve before their fall. in the _monkes tale_ we are told that adam held sway over all paradise excepting one tree.[ ] again, the pardoner speaks of the expulsion of adam and eve from paradise: "adam our fader, and his wyf also, fro paradys to labour and to wo were driven for that vyce, it is no drede; for whyl that adam fasted, as i rede, he was in paradys; and whan that he eet of the fruyt defended on the tree, anon he was out-cast to we and peyne."[ ] . _the four elements._ the idea of four elements[ ] has its origin in the attempts of the early greek cosmologists to discover the ultimate principle of reality in the universe. thales reached the conclusion that this principle was water, anaximines, that it was air, and heracleitus, fire, while parmenides supposed two elements, fire or light, subtle and rarefied, and earth or night, dense and heavy. empedocles of agrigentum (about b. c.) assumed as primary elements all four--fire, air, water, and earth--of which each of his predecessors had assumed only one or two. to explain the manifold phenomena of nature he supposed them to be produced by combinations of the elements in different proportions through the attractive and repulsive forces of 'love' and 'discord.' this arbitrary assumption of four elements, first made by empedocles, persisted in the popular imagination throughout the middle ages and is, like other cosmological ideas of antiquity, sometimes reflected in the poetry of the time. the elements in mediaeval cosmology were assigned to a definite region of the universe. being mortal and imperfect they occupied four spheres below the moon, the elemental region or region of imperfection, as distinguished from the ethereal region above the moon. immediately within the sphere of the moon came that of fire, below this the air, then water, and lowest of all the solid sphere of earth. fire being the most ethereal of the elements constantly tends to rise upward, while earth sinks towards the center of the universe. this contrast is a favorite idea with dante, who says in the _paradiso_ i. - : "'wherefore they move to diverse ports o'er the great sea of being, and each one with instinct given it to bear it on. this beareth the fire toward the moon; this is the mover in the hearts of things that die; this doth draw the earth together and unite it.'" elsewhere dante describes the lightning as fleeing its proper place when it strikes the earth: "'but lightning, fleeing its proper site, ne'er darted as dost thou who art returning thither.'"[ ] and again: "'so from this course sometimes departeth the creature that hath power, thus thrust, to swerve to-ward some other part, (even as fire may be seen to dart down from the cloud) if its first rush be wrenched aside to earth by false seeming pleasure.'"[ ] the same thought of the tendency of fire to rise and of earth to sink is found in chaucer's translation of boethius:[ ] "thou bindest the elements by noumbres proporcionables, ... that the fyr, that is purest, ne flee nat over hye, ne that the hevinesse ne drawe nat adoun over-lowe the erthes that ben plounged in the wateres." chaucer does not make specific mention of the spheres of the elements, but he tells us plainly that each element has been assigned its proper region from which it may not escape: "for with that faire cheyne of love he bond the fyr, the eyr, the water, and the lond in certeyn boundes, that they may nat flee;"[ ] the position of the elements in the universe is nevertheless made clear without specific reference to their respective spheres. the spirit of the slain troilus ascends through the spheres to the seventh heaven, leaving behind the elements: "and whan that he was slayn in this manere, his lighte goost ful blisfully is went up to the holownesse of the seventh spere, in converse letinge every element."[ ] "every element" here obviously means the sphere of each element; "holownesse" means concavity and "in convers" means 'on the reverse side.' the meaning of the passage is, then, that troilus' spirit ascends to the concave side of the seventh sphere from which he can look down upon the spheres of the elements, which have their convex surfaces towards him. this passage is of particular interest for the further reason that it shows that even in chaucer's century people still thought of the spheres as having material existence. the place and order of the elements is more definitely suggested in a passage from _boethius_ in which philosophical contemplation is figuratively described as an ascent of thought upward through the spheres: "'i have, forsothe, swifte fetheres that surmounten the heighte of hevene. when the swifte thought hath clothed it-self in the fetheres, it despyseth the hateful erthes, and surmounteth the roundnesse of the grete ayr; and it seeth the cloudes behinde his bak; and passeth the heighte of the region of the fyr, that eschaufeth by the swifte moevinge of the firmament, til that he areyseth him in-to the houses that beren the sterres, and ioyneth his weyes with the sonne phebus, and felawshipeth the wey of the olde colde saturnus.'"[ ] in this passage all the elemental regions except that of water are alluded to and in the order which, in the middle ages, they were supposed to follow. when in the _hous of fame_, chaucer is borne aloft into the heavens by jupiter's eagle, he is reminded of this passage in boethius and alludes to it: "and tho thoughte i upon boece, that writ, 'a thought may flee so hye, with fetheres of philosophye, to passen everich element; and whan he hath so fer y-went, than may be seen, behind his bak, cloud, and al that i of spak.'"[ ] empedocles, as we have seen, taught that the variety in the universe was caused by the binding together of the four elements in different proportions through the harmonizing principle of love, or by their separation through hate, the principle of discord. we find this idea also reflected in chaucer who obviously got it from boethius. love is the organizing principle of the universe; if the force of love should in any wise abate, all things would strive against each other and the universe be transformed into chaos.[ ] the elements were thought to be distinguished from one another by peculiar natures or attributes. thus the nature of fire was _hot_ and _dry_, that of water _cold_ and _moist_, that of air _cold_ and _dry_, and that of earth _hot_ and _moist_.[ ] chaucer alludes to these distinguishing attributes of the elements a number of times, as, for example, in _boethius_, iii.: metre . ff.: "thou bindest the elements by noumbres proporciounables, that the colde thinges mowen acorden with the hote thinges, and the drye thinges with the moiste thinges"; in conclusion it should be said that all creatures occupying the elemental region or realm of imperfection below the moon were thought to have been created not directly by god but by nature as his "vicaire" or deputy, or, in other words, by an inferior agency. chaucer alludes to this in _the parlement of foules_ briefly thus: "nature, the vicaire of thalmyghty lorde, that hoot, cold, hevy, light, (and) moist and dreye hath knit by even noumbre of acorde,"[ ] and more at length in _the phisiciens tale_. chaucer says of the daughter of virginius that nature had formed her of such excellence that she might have said of her creation: "'lo! i, nature, thus can i forme and peynte a creature, whan that me list; who can me countrefete? pigmalion noght, though he ay forge and bete, or grave, or peynte; for i dar wel seyn, apelles, zanzis, sholde werche in veyn, outher to grave or peynte or forge or bete, if they presumed me to countrefete. for he that is the former principal hath maked me his vicaire general, to forme and peynten erthely creaturis right as me list, and ech thing in my cure is under the mone, that may wane and waxe, and for my werk right no-thing wol i axe; my lord and i ben ful of oon accord; i made hir to the worship of my lord.'"[ ] what is of especial interest for our purposes is found in the five lines of this passage beginning "for he that is the former principal," etc. "former principal" means 'creator principal' or the chief creator. god is the chief creator; therefore there must be other or inferior creators. nature is a creator of inferior rank whom god has made his "vicaire" or deputy and whose work it is to create and preside over all things beneath the sphere of the moon. iv chaucer's astronomy chaucer's treatment of astronomical lore in his poetry differs much from his use of it in his prose writings. in poetical allusions to heavenly phenomena, much attention to detail and a pedantic regard for accuracy would be inappropriate. references to astronomy in chaucer's poetry are, as a rule rather brief, specific but not technical, often purely conventional but always truly poetic. there are, indeed, occasional passages in chaucer's poetry showing so detailed a knowledge of observational[ ] astronomy that they would seem astonishing and, to many people, out of place, in modern poetry. they were not so in chaucer's time, when the exigencies of practical life demanded of the ordinary man a knowledge of astronomy far surpassing that possessed by most of our contemporaries. harry bailly in the _introduction to the man of lawes tale_ determines the day of the month and hour of the day by making calculations from the observed position of the sun in the sky, and from the length of shadows, although, says chaucer, "he were not depe expert in lore."[ ] such references to technical details of astronomy as we find in this passage are, however, not common in chaucer's poetry; in his _treatise on the astrolabe_, on the other hand, a professedly scientific work designed to instruct his young son louis in those elements of astronomy and astrology that were necessary for learning the use of the astrolabe, we have sufficient evidence that he was thoroughly familiar with the technical details of the astronomical science of his day. in chaucer's poetry the astronomical references employed are almost wholly of two kinds: references showing the time of day or season of the year at which the events narrated are supposed to take place; and figurative allusions for purposes of illustration or comparison. figurative uses of astronomy in chaucer vary from simple similes as in the _prologue to the canterbury tales_, where the friar's eyes are compared to twinkling stars[ ] to extended allegories like the _compleynt of mars_ in which the myth of venus and mars is related by describing the motions of the planets venus and mars for a certain period during which venus overtakes mars, they are in conjunction[ ] for a short time, and then venus because of her greater apparent velocity leaves mars behind. one of the most magnificent astronomical figures employed by chaucer is in the _hous of fame_. chaucer looks up into the heavens and sees a great golden eagle near the sun, a sight so splendid that men could never have beheld its equal 'unless the heaven had won another sun:' "hit was of golde, and shone so bright, that never saw men such a sighte, but-if the heven hadde y-wonne al newe of golde another sonne; so shoon the egles fethres brighte, and somwhat dounward gan hit lighte."[ ] besides mentioning the heavenly bodies in time references and figurative allusions, chaucer also employs them often in descriptions of day and night, of dawn and twilight, and of the seasons. it is with a poet's joy in the warm spring sun that he writes: "bright was the day, and blew the firmament, phebus of gold his stremes doun hath sent, to gladen every flour with his warmnesse."[ ] and with a poet's delight in the new life and vigor that nature puts forth when spring comes that he writes the lines: "forgeten had the erthe his pore estat of winter, that him naked made and mat, and with his swerd of cold so sore greved; now hath the atempre sonne al that releved that naked was, and clad hit new agayn."[ ] chaucer's astronomical allusions, then, except in the _treatise on the astrolabe_ and in his translation of _boethius de consolatione philosophiae_, in which a philosophical interest in celestial phenomena is displayed, are almost invariably employed with poetic purpose. these poetical allusions to heavenly phenomena, however, together with the more technical and detailed references in chaucer's prose works give evidence of a rather extensive knowledge of astronomy. with all of the important observed movements of the heavenly bodies he was perfectly familiar and it is rather remarkable how many of these he uses in his poetry without giving one the feeling that he is airing his knowledge. . _the sun_ of all the heavenly bodies the one most often mentioned and employed for poetic purposes by chaucer is the sun. chaucer has many epithets for the sun, but speaks of him perhaps most often in the classical manner as phebus or apollo. he is called the "golden tressed phebus"[ ] or the "laurer-crowned phebus;"[ ] and when he makes mars flee from venus' palace he is called the "candel of ielosye."[ ] in the following passage chaucer uses three different epithets for the sun within two lines: "the dayes honour, and the hevenes ye, the nightes fo, al this clepe i the sonne, gan westren faste, and dounward for to wrye, as he that hadde his dayes cours y-ronne;"[ ] sometimes chaucer gives the sun the various accessories with which classical myth had endowed him--the four swift steeds, the rosy chariot and fiery torches: "and phebus with his rosy carte sone gan after that to dresse him up to fare."[ ] "'now am i war that pirous and tho swifte stedes three, which that drawen forth the sonnes char, hath goon some by-path in despyt of me;'"[ ] "phebus, that was comen hastely within the paleys-yates sturdely, with torche in honde, of which the stremes brighte on venus chambre knokkeden ful lighte."[ ] almost always when chaucer wishes to mention the time of day at which the events he is relating take place, he does so by describing the sun's position in the sky or the direction of his motion. we can imagine that chaucer often smiled as he did this, for he sometimes humorously apologizes for his poetical conceits and conventions by expressing his idea immediately afterwards in perfectly plain terms. such is the case in the passage already quoted where chaucer refers to the sun by the epithets "dayes honour," "hevenes ye," and "nightes fo" and then explains them by saying "al this clepe i the sonne;" and in the lines: "til that the brighte sonne loste his hewe; for thorisonte hath reft the sonne his light;" explained by the simple words: "this is as muche to seye as it was night."[ ] thus it is that chaucer's poetic references to the apparent daily motion of the sun about the earth are nearly always simply in the form of allusions to his rising and setting. canacee in the _squieres tale_, (f. ff.) is said to rise at dawn, looking as bright and fresh as the spring sun risen four degrees from the horizon. "up ryseth fresshe canacee hir-selve, as rody and bright as dooth the yonge sonne, that in the ram[ ] is four degrees up-ronne; noon hyer was he, whan she redy was;" many of these references to the rising and setting of the sun might be mentioned, if space permitted, simply for their beauty as poetry. one of the most beautiful is the following: "and fyry phebus ryseth up so brighte, that al the orient laugheth of the lighte, and with his stremes dryeth in the greves the silver dropes, hanging on the leves."[ ] when, in the _canterbury tales_, the manciple has finished his tale, chaucer determines the time by observing the position of the sun and by making calculations from the length of his own shadow: "by that the maunciple hadde his tale al ended, the sonne fro the south lyne was descended so lowe, that he nas nat, to my sighte, degrees nyne and twenty as in highte. foure of the clokke it was tho, as i gesse; for eleven foot, or litel more or lesse, my shadwe was at thilke tyme, as there, of swich feet as my lengthe parted were in six feet equal of porporcioun."[ ] we must not omit mention of the humorous touch with which chaucer, in the mock heroic tale of _chanticleer and the fox_ told by the nun's priest, makes even the rooster determine the time of day by observing the altitude of the sun in the sky: "chauntecleer, in al his pryde, his seven wyves walkyng by his syde, caste up his eyen to the brighte sonne, that in the signe of taurus hadde y-ronne twenty degrees and oon, and somewhat more; and knew by kynde, and by noon other lore, that it was pryme, and crew with blisful stevene. 'the sonne,' he sayde, 'is clomben up on hevene fourty degrees and oon, and more, y-wis.'"[ ] moreover, this remarkable rooster observed that the sun had passed the twenty-first degree in taurus, and we are told elsewhere that he knew each ascension of the equinoctial and crew at each; that is, he crew every hour, as ° of the equinoctial correspond to an hour: "wel sikerer was his crowing in his logge, than is a clokke, or an abbey orlogge. by nature knew he ech ascencioun[ ] of th' equinoxial in thilke toun; for whan degrees fiftene were ascended, thanne crew he, that it mighte nat ben amended."[ ] chaucer announces the approach of evening by describing the position and appearance of the sun more often than any other time of the day. in the _legend of good women_ he speaks of the sun's leaving the south point[ ] of his daily course and approaching the west: "whan that the sonne out of the south gan weste,"[ ] and again of his westward motion in the lines: "and whan that hit is eve, i rene blyve, as sone as ever the sonne ginneth weste,"[ ] elsewhere chaucer refers to the setting of the sun by saying that he has completed his "ark divine" and may no longer remain on the horizon,[ ] or by saying that the 'horizon has bereft the sun of his light.'[ ] chaucer's references to the daily motion of the sun about the earth are apt to sound to us like purely poetical figures, so accustomed are we to refer to the sun, what we know to be the earth's rotatory motion, by speaking of his apparent daily motion thus figuratively as if it were real. chaucer's manner of describing the revolution of the heavenly bodies about the earth and his application of poetic epithets to them are figurative, but the motion itself was meant literally and was believed in by the men of his century, because only the geocentric system of astronomy was then known. if chaucer had been in advance of his century in this respect there would certainly be some hint of the fact in his writings. references in chaucer to the sun's yearly motion are in the same sense literal. the apparent motion of the sun along the ecliptic,[ ] which we know to be caused by the earth's yearly motion in an elliptical orbit around the sun, was then believed to be an actual movement of the sun carried along by his revolving sphere. like the references to the sun's daily movements those that mention his yearly motion along the ecliptic are also usually time references. the season of the year is indicated by defining the sun's position among the signs of the zodiac. the canterbury pilgrims set out on their journey in april when "the yonge sonne hath in the ram his halfe course y-ronne."[ ] in describing the month of may, chaucer does not fail to mention the sun's position in the zodiac: "in may, that moder is of monthes glade, that fresshe floures, blewe, and whyte, and rede, ben quike agayn, that winter dede made, and ful of bawme is fletinge every mede; whan phebus doth his brighte bemes sprede right in the whyte bole, it so bitidde as i shal singe, on mayes day the thridde,"[ ] etc. the effect of the sun's declination in causing change of seasons[ ] is mentioned a number of times in chaucer's poetry. the poet makes a general reference to the fact in a passage of exquisite beauty from _troilus and criseyde_ where he says that the sun has thrice returned to his lofty position in the sky and melted away the snows of winter: "the golden-tressed phebus heighe on-lofte thryes hadde alle with his bemes shene the snowes molte, and zephirus as ofte y-brought ayein the tendre leves grene, sin that the sone of ecuba the quene bigan to love hir first, for whom his sorwe was al, that she departe sholde a-morwe."[ ] more interesting astronomically but of less interest as poetry is his reference to the sun's declination and its effect on the seasons in the _frankeleyns tale_, because here chaucer uses the word 'declination' and states that it is the cause of the seasons. the reference is the beginning of aurelius' prayer to apollo, or the sun: "'apollo, god and governour of every plaunte, herbe, tree and flour, that yevest, after thy declinacioun, to ech of hem his tyme and his sesoun, as thyn herberwe chaungeth lowe or hye;'"[ ] once again in the _frankeleyns tale_ chaucer refers to the sun's declination and the passage of the seasons: "phebus wex old, and hewed lyk latoun,[ ] that in his hote declinacioun shoon as the burned gold with stremes brighte; but now in capricorn adoun he lighte, wher-as he shoon ful pale, i dar wel seyn."[ ] chaucer is here contrasting the sun's appearance in summer and winter. in his hot declination (his greatest northward declination in cancer, about june ) he shines as burnished gold, but when he reaches capricornus, his greatest southward declination (about december ) he appears 'old' and has a dull coppery color, no longer that of brilliant gold. . _the moon_ from those references to the moon that occur in chaucer's poetry alone, it would be impossible to determine just how much he knew of the peculiarities of her apparent movements; for he alludes to the moon's motion and positions much less frequently and with much less detail than to those of the sun. but a passage in the prologue to the _astrolabe_ leaves it without doubt that chaucer was quite familiar with lunar phenomena. in stating what the treatise is to contain, he says of the fourth part: "the whiche ferthe partie in special shal shewen a table of the verray moeving of the mone from houre to houre, every day and in every signe, after thyn almenak; upon which table ther folwith a canon, suffisant to teche as wel the maner of the wyrking of that same conclusioun, as to knowe in oure orizonte with which degree of the zodiac that the mone ariseth in any latitude;"[ ] as a matter of fact the treatise as first contemplated by chaucer was never finished; only the first two parts were written. but chaucer would scarcely have written thus definitely of his plan for the fourth part of the work unless he had had fairly complete knowledge of the phenomena connected with the moon's movements. the moon, in chaucer's imagination, must have occupied rather an insignificant position among the heavenly bodies as far as appealing to his sense of beauty was concerned, for we find in his poetry no descriptions of her appearance that can compare with his descriptions of the sun or even of the stars. he speaks of moonrise in the most general way: "hit fil, upon a night, when that the mone up-reysed had her light, this noble quene un-to her reste wente;"[ ] he applies to her only a few epithets, the most eulogistic of which is "lucina the shene."[ ] in comparing the sun with the other heavenly bodies the poet mentions the moon among the rest without distinction, as inferior to the sun: "for i dar swere, withoute doute, that as the someres sonne bright is fairer, clerer, and hath more light than any planete, (is) in heven, the mone, or the sterres seven, for al the worlde, so had she surmounted hem alle of beaute," etc.[ ] on the other hand, the stars are elsewhere said to be like small candles in comparison with the moon: "and cleer as (is) the mone-light, ageyn whom alle the sterres semen but smale candels, as we demen."[ ] whenever chaucer mentions the moon's position in the heavens he does so by reference to the signs of the zodiac[ ] and, as in the case of the sun, usually with the purpose of showing time. in the _marchantes tale_ he expresses the passage of four days thus: "the mone that, at noon, was, thilke day that ianuarie hath wedded fresshe may, in two of taur, was in-to cancre gliden; so long hath maius in hir chambre biden,"[ ] and a few lines further on he states the fact explicitly: "the fourthe day compleet fro noon to noon, whan that the heighe masse was y-doon, in halle sit this ianuarie, and may as fresh as is the brighte someres day."[ ] when criseyde leaves troilus to go to the greek army she promises to return to troy within the time that it will take the moon to pass from aries through leo, that is, within ten days: "'and trusteth this, that certes, herte swete, er phebus suster, lucina the shene, the leoun passe out of this ariete, i wol ben here, with-outen any wene. i mene, as helpe me iuno, hevenes quene, the tenthe day, but-if that deeth me assayle, i wol yow seen, with-outen any fayle.'"[ ] but while the moon is quickly traversing the part of her course from aries to leo, criseyde, pressed by diomede, is changing her mind about returning to troy, and by the appointed tenth day has decided to remain with the greeks: "and cynthea[ ] hir char-hors over-raughte to whirle out of the lyon, if she mighte; and signifer[ ] his candeles shewed brighte, whan that criseyde un-to hir bedde wente in-with hir fadres faire brighte tente. . . . . . . . . . . . . and thus bigan to brede the cause why, the sothe for to telle, that she tok fully purpos for to dwelle."[ ] the passage of time is also indicated in chaucer's poetry by reference to the recurrence of the moon's phases. in the _legend of good women_, phillis writes to the false demophon saying that the moon has passed through its phases four times since he went away and thrice since the time he promised to return: "'your anker, which ye in our haven leyde, highte us, that ye wolde comen, out of doute, or that the mone ones wente aboute. but tymes foure the mone hath hid her face sin thilke day ye wente fro this place, and foure tymes light the world again.'"[ ] chaucer refers more often to the phases of the moon than to any other lunar phenomenon, but most of these references to her phases are used for the sake of comparison or illustration and give us little idea of the extent of chaucer's knowledge. mars in his 'compleynt' says that the lover "hath ofter wo then changed is the mone."[ ] the rumors in the house of fame are given times of waxing and waning like the moon: "thus out at holes gonne wringe every tyding streight to fame; and she gan yeven eche his name, after hir disposicioun, and yaf hem eek duracioun, some to wexe and wane sone, as dooth the faire whyte mone, and leet hem gon."[ ] chaucer briefly describes the crescent moon by calling her "the bente mone with hir hornes pale."[ ] in troilus' prayer to the moon, the line "'i saugh thyn hornes olde eek by the morwe,'"[ ] is practically the only one in which chaucer gives any hint of the times at which the moon in her various phases may be seen. the phase of the 'new moon,' when the moon is in conjunction with the sun (i. e., between the earth and the sun, so that we cannot see the illuminated hemisphere of the moon) is mentioned in the same poem: "right sone upon the chaunging of the mone, whan lightles is the world a night or tweyne."[ ] there is a very definite description of three of the moon's phases in the following passage from _boethius_:[ ] "so that the mone som-tyme shyning with hir ful hornes, meting with alle the bemes of the sonne hir brother, hydeth the sterres that ben lesse; and som-tyme, whan the mone, pale with hir derke hornes, approcheth the sonne, leseth hir lightes;" the moon 'shining with her full horns' means with her horns filled up as at full moon when she is in a position opposite both earth and sun so that she reflects upon the earth all the rays of the sun. the moon "with derke hornes" refers of course to the waning moon, a thin crescent near the sun and almost obscured in his light, which approaching nearer the sun is entirely lost to our view in his rays and becomes the new moon. chaucer's most interesting references to the moon are found in the prayer of aurelius to the sun in the _frankeleyns tale_. dorigen has jestingly promised to have pity on aurelius as soon as he shall remove all the rocks from along the coast of brittany, and aurelius prays to the sun, or apollo, to help him by enlisting the aid of the moon, in accomplishing this feat. the sun's sister, lucina, or the moon, is chief goddess of the sea; just as she desires to follow the sun and be quickened and illuminated by him, so the sea desires to follow her: "'your blisful suster, lucina the shene, that of the see is chief goddesse and quene, though neptunus have deitee in the see, yet emperesse aboven him is she: ye knowen wel, lord, that right as hir desyr is to be quiked and lightned of your fyr, for which she folweth yow ful bisily, right so the see desyreth naturelly to folwen hir, as she that is goddesse bothe in the see and riveres more and lesse.'"[ ] in calling lucina chief goddess of the sea and speaking of the sea's desire to follow her, chaucer is, of course alluding to the moon's effect upon the tides; and in the line: "'is to be quiked and lightned of your fyr,'" the reference is to the fact that the moon derives her light from the sun. instead of leaving it to the sun-god to find a way of removing the rocks for him, aurelius proceeds to give explicit instructions as to how this may be accomplished. as the highest tides occur when the moon is in opposition or in conjunction with the sun, if the moon could only be kept in either of these positions with regard to the sun for a long enough time, so great a flood would be produced, aurelius thinks, that the rocks would be washed away. so he prays phebus to induce the moon to slacken her speed at her next opposition in leo and for two years to traverse her sphere with the same (apparent) velocity as that of the sun, thus remaining in opposition with him: "'wherfore, lord phebus, this is my requeste-- do this miracle, or do myn herte breste-- that now, next at this opposicioun, which in the signe shal be of the leoun, as preyeth hir so greet a flood to bringe, that fyve fadme at the leeste it overspringe the hyeste rokke in armorik briteyne; and lat this flood endure yeres tweyne; . . . . . . . . . preye hir she go no faster cours than ye, i seye, preyeth your suster that she go no faster cours than ye thise yeres two. than shal she been evene atte fulle alway, and spring-flood laste bothe night and day.'"[ ] references to eclipses of the moon occur seldom in chaucer. in the second part of the _romaunt of the rose_, which is included in complete editions of chaucer's works but which he almost certainly did not write, there is a description of a lunar eclipse and of its causes. fickleness in love is compared to an eclipse: "for it shal chaungen wonder sone, and take eclips right as the mone, whan she is from us (y)-let thurgh erthe, that bitwixe is set the sonne and hir, as it may falle, be it in party, or in alle; the shadowe maketh her bemis merke, and hir hornes to shewe derke, that part where she hath lost hir lyght of phebus fully, and the sight; til, whan the shadowe is overpast, she is enlumined ageyn as faste, thurgh brightnesse of the sonne bemes that yeveth to hir ageyn hir lemes."[ ] this passage is so clear that it needs no explanation. an eclipse of the moon, since it is caused by the passing of the moon into the shadow of the earth, can only take place when the moon is full, that is, in _opposition_ to the sun. this fact is suggested in a reference in _boethius_ to a lunar eclipse: "the hornes of the fulle mone wexen pale and infect by the boundes of the derke night;"[ ] in the next lines chaucer mentions the fact that the stars which are lost to sight in the bright rays of the full moon become visible during an eclipse: "and ... the mone, derk and confuse, discovereth the sterres that she hadde y-covered by hir clere visage."[ ] . _the planets_ all the planets that are easily visible to the unaided eye were known in chaucer's time and are mentioned in his writings, some of them many times. these planets are mercury, venus, mars, jupiter, and saturn. according to the ptolemaic system, which as we have seen, held sway in the world of learning during chaucer's century, the sun and moon were also held to be planets, and all were supposed to revolve around the earth in concentric rings, the moon being nearest the earth, and the sun between venus and mars. the circular orbit of each planet was called its "deferent" and upon the deferent moved, not the planet itself, but an imaginary planet, represented by a point. the real planet moved upon a smaller circle called the "epicycle" whose center was the moving point representing the imaginary planet. the deferent of each planet was supposed to be traced as a great circle upon a transparent separate crystal sphere; and all of the crystal spheres revolved once a day around an axis passing through the poles of the heavens. as the sun and moon did not show the same irregularities[ ] of motion as the planets, ptolemy supposed these two bodies to have deferents but no epicycles. later investigators complicated the system by adding further secondary imaginary planets, revolving in ptolemy's epicycles and with the actual planets attached to additional corresponding epicycles. they even supposed the moon to have one, perhaps two epicycles and we shall find this notion reflected in chaucer. the eighth sphere had neither deferent nor epicycle but to it were attached the fixed stars. this sphere as we have seen earlier, revolved slowly from west to east to account for the precession of the equinoxes, while a ninth sphere, the _primum mobile_, imparted to all the inner spheres their diurnal motion from east to west. chaucer's poetical references to the planets, as we have found to be true in the case of the sun and moon, do not give us satisfactory evidence of the extent of his knowledge, but occasional passages from his prose works again throw light on these allusions. chaucer refers to the planets in general as 'the seven stars,' as, for instance, in the lines: "and with hir heed she touched hevene, ther as shynen sterres sevene."[ ] and "to have mo floures, swiche seven as in the welken sterres be."[ ] chaucer was undoubtedly familiar with the irregularities of the planetary movements, and with the theory of epicycles by which these irregular movements were in his day explained, although it is not from his poetry that we can learn the fact. he uses the word 'epicycle' only once in all his works. in the _astrolabe_ when comparing the moon's motion with that of the other planets, he says: "for sothly, the mone moeveth the contrarie from othere planetes as in hir episicle, but in non other manere."[ ] in the _astrolabe_[ ] chaucer explains a method of determining whether a planet's motion is retrograde or direct.[ ] the altitude of the planet and of any fixed star, is taken, and several nights later at the time when the fixed star has the same altitude as at the previous observation, the planet's altitude is again observed. if the planet is on the right or east side of the meridian, and its second altitude is less than its first, then the planet's motion is direct. if the planet is on the left or west side of the meridian, and has a smaller altitude at the second observation than at the first, then the planet's motion is retrograde. if the planet is on the east side of the meridional line when its altitude is taken and the second altitude is greater than the first, it is retrograde; and if it is on the west side and its second altitude is greater, it is direct. this method would be correct were it not that a change in the planet's declination or angular distance from the celestial equator might render the conclusions incorrect. chaucer mentions the irregularity of planetary movements in _boethius_ also when he says: "and whiche sterre in hevene useth wandering recourses, y-flit by dyverse speres."[ ] the expression "y-flit by dyverse speres" may have reference only to the one motion of the planets, that is, their motion concentric to the star-sphere; or it may be used to include also their epicyclic motion. skeat interprets the expression in the former way; but the context, it seems, would justify interpreting the words "dyverse speres" as meaning the various spheres of the planets to-gether with their epicycles; i. e., both deferents and epicycles. of all the planets, that most often mentioned by chaucer is venus, partly, no doubt, because of her greater brilliance, but probably in the main because of her greater astrological importance; for few of chaucer's references to venus, or to any other planet, indeed, are without astrological significance. chaucer refers to venus, in the classical manner, as hesperus when she appears as evening[ ] star and as lucifer when she is seen as the morning star: "and that the eve-sterre hesperus, which that in the firste tyme of the night bringeth forth hir colde arysinges, cometh eft ayein hir used cours, and is pale _by the morwe_ at the rysing of the sonne, and is thanne cleped lucifer."[ ] her appearance as morning star is again mentioned in the same work: "and after that lucifer the day-sterre hath chased awey the derke night, the day the fairere ledeth the rosene hors _of the sonne_,"[ ] and in _troilus and criseyde_ where it is said that "lucifer, the dayes messager, gan for to ryse, and out hir bemes throwe;"[ ] elsewhere in the same poem her appearance as evening star is mentioned but she is not this time called hesperus: "the brighte venus folwede and ay taughte the wey, ther brode phebus doun alighte;"[ ] occasionally venus is called cytherea, from the island near which greek myth represented her as having arisen from the sea. thus in the _knightes tale_: "he roos, to wenden on his pilgrimage un-to the blisful citherea benigne, i mene venus, honurable and digne."[ ] and in the _parlement of foules_; "citherea! thou blisful lady swete,"[ ] the relative positions of the different planets in the heavens is suggested by allusions to the different sizes of their spheres and to their different velocities. in the _compleynt of mars_ the comparative sizes and velocities of the spheres of mercury, venus and mars are made the basis for most of the action of the poem. the greater the sphere or orbit of a planet, the slower is its apparent motion. thus mars in his large sphere moves about half as fast as venus and in the poem it is planned that when mars reaches the next palace[ ] of venus, he shall by virtue of his slower motion, wait for her to overtake him: "that mars shal entre, as faste as he may glyde, into hir nexte paleys, to abyde, walking his cours til she had him a-take, and he preyde hir to haste hir for his sake."[ ] venus in compassion for his solitude hastens to overtake her knight: "she hath so gret compassion of hir knight, that dwelleth in solitude til she come; . . . . . . . . . wherefore she spedde hir as faste in her weye, almost in oon day, as he dide in tweye."[ ] when phebus comes into the palace with his fiery torch, mars will not flee and cannot hide, so he girds himself with sword and armour and bids venus flee. phebus, who in chaucer's time was regarded as the fourth planet, can overtake mars but not venus because his sphere is between theirs and his motion is consequently slower than that of venus but faster than that of mars: "flee wolde he not, ne mighte him-selven hyde. he throweth on his helm of huge wighte, and girt him with his swerde; and in his honde his mighty spere, as he was wont to fighte, he shaketh so that almost it to-wonde; ful hevy he was to walken over londe; he may not holde with venus companye, but bad hir fleen, lest phebus hir espye. "o woful mars! alas! what mayst thou seyn, that in the paleys of thy disturbaunce art left behinde, in peril to be sleyn? . . . . . . . . that thou nere swift, wel mayst thou wepe and cryen."[ ] in spite of his sorrow, mars patiently continues to follow venus, lamenting as he goes that his sphere is so large: "he passeth but oo steyre in dayes two, but ner the les, for al his hevy armure, he foloweth hir that is his lyves cure;[ ] . . . . . . . after he walketh softely a pas, compleyning, that hit pite was to here. he seyde, 'o lady bright, venus! alas! that ever so wyde a compass is my spere! alas! whan shal i mete yow, herte dere,'" etc.[ ] meanwhile venus has passed on to mercury's palace where he soon overtakes her and receives her as his friend:[ ] "hit happed for to be, that, whyl that venus weping made hir mone, cylenius, ryding in his chevauche, fro venus valance mighte his paleys see, and venus he salueth, and maketh chere, and hir receyveth as his frend ful dere."[ ] mercury's palace was the sign gemini and venus' valance, probably meaning her detrimentum or the sign opposite her palace, was aries. 'chevauche' means an equestrian journey or ride, and is here used in the sense of 'swift course.' the passage, then, simply refers to the swift motion by which in a very short time mercury passes from aries to a position near enough to that of venus in gemini so that he can see her and give her welcome. mercury's sphere being the smallest of the planets, his motion is also the swiftest. the size of jupiter's orbit is not mentioned in chaucer and that of saturn's only once. in the _knightes tale_ saturn, addressing venus, speaks of the great distance that he traverses with his revolving sphere but does not compare the size of his sphere with those of the other planets: "'my dere doghter venus,' quod saturne, 'my cours, that hath so wyde for to turne, hath more power than wot any man.'"[ ] besides the reference in the _compleynt of mars_ to the conjunction of venus and mars[ ], there are occasional references in chaucer to conjunctions of other planets. in the _astrolabe_[ ] chaucer explains a method of determining in what position in the heavens a conjunction of the sun and moon takes place, when the time of the conjunction is known. a conjunction of the moon with saturn and jupiter is mentioned in _troilus and criseyde_, in the lines: "the bente mone with hir hornes pale, saturne, and iove, in cancro ioyned were,"[ ] . _the galaxy_ the galaxy or milky way, which stretches across the heavens like a broad band whitish in color caused by closely crowded stars, has appealed to men's imagination since very early times. its resemblance to a road or street has been suggested in the names given to it by many peoples. ovid called it _via lactea_ and the roman peasants, _strada di roma_; pilgrims to spain referred to it as the _road to santiago_; dante refers to it as "the white circle commonly called st. janus's way"[ ]; and the english had two names for it, _walsingham way_ and _watling-street_. chaucer twice mentions the galaxy; once in the _parlement of foules_, where africanus shows scipio the location of heaven by pointing to the galaxy: "and rightful folk shal go, after they dye, to heven; and shewed him the galaxye."[ ] in the _hous of fame_, the golden eagle who bears chaucer through the heavens toward fame's palace, points out to him the galaxy and then relates the myth of phaeton driving the chariot of the sun, a story traditionally associated with the milky way: 'now,' quod he tho, 'cast up thyn ye; see yonder, lo, the galaxye, which men clepeth the milky wey, for hit is whyt: and somme, parfey, callen hit watlinge strete: that ones was y-brent with hete, whan the sonnes sone, the rede, that highte pheton, wolde lede algate his fader cart, and gye. the cart-hors gonne wel espye that he ne coude no governaunce, and gonne for to lepe and launce, and beren him now up, now doun, til that he saw the scorpioun, which that in heven a signe is yit. and he, for ferde, loste his wit, of that, and lest the reynes goon of his hors; and they anoon gonne up to mounte, and doun descende til bothe the eyr and erthe brende; til iupiter, lo, atte laste, him slow, and fro the carte caste.'[ ] in narrating this story here, chaucer may have been imitating dante who refers to the myth in the _divine comedy_: "what time abandoned phaeton the reins, whereby the heavens, as still appears, were scorched,"[ ] and states its source and the use made of it by some philosophers in the _convivio_: "for the pythagoreans affirmed that the sun at one time wandered in its course, and in passing through other regions not suited to sustain its heat, set on fire the place through which it passed; and so these traces of the conflagration remain there. and i believe that they were influenced by the fable of phaeton, which ovid tells at the beginning of the second book of the _metamorphoses_."[ ] v astrological lore in chaucer astrology, though resembling a science in that it makes use of observation and seeks to establish laws governing its data, is in reality a faith or creed. it had its beginning, so tradition tells us, in the faith of the ancient babylonians in certain astral deities who exerted an influence upon terrestrial events and human life. the basis of this faith was not altogether illogical but contained a germ of truth. of all the heavenly bodies, the sun exerted the most obvious effect upon the earth; the sun brought day and night, summer and winter; his rays lured growing things from mother earth and so gave sustenance to mankind. but to the ancient peoples of the orient the sun was also often a baneful power; he could destroy as well as give life. therefore, the ancients came to look upon the sun as a great and powerful god to be worshipped and propitiated by men. and if the sun was such a power, it was natural to believe that all the other bright orbs of the sky were lesser divinities who exercised more limited powers on the earth. from this beginning, based, as we have seen, on a germ of fact, by the power of his imagination and credulity, man extended more and more the powers of these sidereal divinities, attributing to their volition and influence all the most insignificant as well as the most important terrestrial events. and if the heavenly bodies, by revolving about the earth in ceaseless harmony, effected the recurrence of day and night and of the seasons, and if their configurations were responsible for the minutest events in nature, was it not natural to suppose that, besides affecting man thus indirectly, they also influenced him directly and were responsible for his conduct and for the very qualities of his mind and soul? perhaps the astonishing variety of the influences that the celestial bodies, from ancient until modern times, were supposed to exercise over the world and the life of mankind can be accounted for by imagining some such process of thought to have been involved in the beginnings of astrology. it was but a step from faith in stellar influence on our earth to the belief that, as the heavenly movements were governed by immutable laws, so their influence upon the world would follow certain laws and its effects in the future could be determined as certainly as could the coming revolutions and conjunctions of the stars. out of this two-fold belief was evolved a complex system of divination, the origin of which was forgotten as men, believing in it, invented reasons for believing, pretending that their faith was founded on a long series of observations. the chaldeans believed that in discovering the unceasing regularity of the celestial motions, they had found the very laws of life and they built upon this conviction a mass of absolutely rigid dogmas. but when experience belied these dogmas, unable to realize the falsity of their presuppositions and to give up their faith in the divine stars, the astrologers invented new dogmas to explain the old ones, thus piling up a body of complicated and often contradictory doctrines that will ever be to the student a source of perplexity and astonishment. on its philosophical side astrology was a system of astral theology developed, not by popular thought, but through the careful observations and speculations of learned priests and scholars. it was a purely eastern science which came into being on the chaldean plains and in the nile valley. as far as we know, it was entirely unknown to any of the primitive aryan races, from hindostan to scandinavia. astrology as a system of divination never gained a foothold in greece during the brightest period of her intellectual life. but the dogma of astral divinity was zealously maintained by the greatest of greek philosophers. plato, the great idealist, whose influence upon the theology of the ancient and even of the modern world was more profound than that of any other thinker, called the stars "visible gods" ranking them just below the supreme eternal being; and to plato these celestial gods were infinitely superior to the anthropomorphic gods of the popular religion, who resembled men in their passions and were superior to them only in beauty of form and in power. aristotle defended with no less zeal the doctrine of the divinity of the stars, seeing in them eternal substances, principles of movement, and therefore divine beings. in the hellenistic period, zeno, the stoic, and his followers proclaimed the supremacy of the sidereal divinities even more strongly than the schools of plato and aristotle had done. the stoics conceived the world as a great organism whose "sympathetic" forces constantly interacted upon one another, governed by reason which was of the essence of ethereal fire, the primordial substance of the universe. to the stars, the purest manifestation of the power of this ethereal substance, were attributed the greatest influence and the loftiest divine qualities. the stoics developed the doctrine of fatalism, which is the inevitable outcome of faith in stellar influence on human life, to its consequences; yet they proved by facts that fatalism is not incompatible with active and virtuous living. by the end of the roman imperial period astrology had transformed paganism, replacing the old society of immortals who were scarcely superior to mortals, except in being exempted from old age and death, by faith in the eternal beings who ran their course in perfect harmony throughout the ages, whose power, regulated by the unvarying celestial motions, extended over all the earth and determined the destiny of the whole human race. astrology, as a science and a system of divination, exerted a profound influence over the mediaeval mind. no court was without its practicing astrologer and the universities all had their professors of astrology. the practice of astrology was an essential part of the physician's profession, and before prescribing for a patient it was thought quite as important to determine the positions of the planets as the nature of the disease.[ ] interesting evidence of this fact is found in the _prologue to the canterbury tales_ where chaucer speaks of the doctour's knowledge and use of astrology as if it were his chief excellence as a physician: "in al this world ne was ther noon him lyk to speke of phisik and of surgerye; for he was grounded in astronomye. he kepte his pacient a ful greet del in houres, by his magik naturel. wel coude he fortunen the ascendent of his images for his pacient."[ ] yet in spite of the esteem in which astrological divination was held by most people in the middle ages, dante, the greatest exponent of the thought and learning of that period, shows practically no knowledge of the technical and practical side of astrology. when he refers to the specific effects of the planets it is only to those most familiarly known, and he nowhere uses such technical terms as "houses" or "aspects" of planets. but dante, like the great philosophers of the earlier periods, was undoubtedly influenced by the philosophical doctrines of astrology, and a general belief in the influence of the celestial spheres upon human life was deeply rooted in his mind. to him the ceaseless and harmonious movements of the celestial bodies were the manifestations and instruments of god's providence, and were ordained by the first mover to govern the destinies of the earth and human life. we can see this conviction of dante's with perfect certainty when we read the _divina commedia_. for dante's poetry is highly subjective; on every page his own personal thoughts and feelings are revealed quite openly. chaucer's poetry, on the other hand, is objective; he tells us almost nothing directly about himself and what we learn of him in his writings is almost entirely by inference. chaucer's frequent use of astrology in his poetry would make it hard to believe that he was not considerably influenced by its philosophical aspects, at least in the general way that dante was. part and parcel of the dramatic action in most of his poems is the idea of stellar influences. yet we cannot assert, with the same assurance that we can say it of dante, that chaucer believed, even in a general way, in the influence of the stars on human life. in dante's poetry, as we have said, the poet himself is always before us. chaucer, with socratic irony, always makes it plain to the reader that his attitude is purely objective, that he is only the narrator of what he has seen or dreamed, only the copyist of another's story. even when chaucer makes himself one of the protagonists, as in the _hous of fame_ and the _canterbury tales_, it is only that his narrative may be the more convincing. he tells a story and makes its protagonists actually live before us, as individual men and women. it is possible to imagine all of his use of astrology in his poetry not as the reflection of his own faith in its cosmic philosophy, but the expression of his genius for understanding people and truthfully describing life and character. considerable discussion as to chaucer's attitude towards astrology has been called forth by passages in which he speaks in words of scorn with regard to some of the practices and magic arts that were often used in connection with astrology. in the _astrolabe_ after describing somewhat at length the favorable and unfavorable positions of planets he says: "natheles, thise ben observauncez of iudicial matiere and rytes of payens, in which my spirit ne hath no feith, ne no knowing of hir horoscopum."[ ] again in the _franklin's tale_ he speaks in a similar disdainful tone of astrological magic: "he him remembred that, upon a day, at orliens in studie a book he say of magik naturel, which his felawe, that was that tyme a bacheler of lawe, al were he ther to lerne another craft, had prively upon his desk y-laft; which book spak muchel of the operaciouns, touchinge the eighte and twenty mansiouns that longen to the mone, and swich folye, as in our dayes is not worth a flye: for holy chirches feith in our bileve ne suffreth noon illusion us to greve."[ ] and elsewhere in the same tale he writes: "so atte laste he hath his tyme y-founde to maken his iapes and his wreccednesse of switch a supersticious cursednesse."[ ] here follows a long description of the clerk's instruments and astrological observances, ending in the lines "for swiche illusiouns and swiche meschaunces as hethen folk used in thilke dayes; for which no lenger maked he delayes, but thurgh his magik, for a wyke or tweye, it seemed that alle the rokkes were aweye."[ ] on the strength of these passages professor t. r. lounsbury[ ] holds that chaucer was far ahead of most of his contemporaries in his attitude toward the superstitious practices connected with the astrology of his day; that his attitude toward judicial astrology was one of total disbelief and scorn; and he even goes so far as to say that chaucer was guilty of a breach of artistic workmanship in expressing his disbelief so scornfully in a tale in which the very climax of the dramatic action depends upon a feat of astrological magic. a more satisfactory interpretation of the passages quoted above is advanced by professor j. s. p. tatlock,[ ] who shows that chaucer has taken great pains to place the setting of the _franklin's tale_ in ancient times and that he, in common with most of the educated men of his day, disapproved of the practices (except sometimes when employed for good purposes as, e. g. in the physician's profession) and the practicians of judicial astrology in his own day, but thought of the feats and observances of astrological magic as having been possible and efficacious in ancient times. according to this view chaucer's attitude was one of disapproval rather than disbelief, and his disapproval was not for the general theory of astrology, but for the shady observances and quackery connected with its application to the problems of life in his time. it is to be noted, further, that wherever chaucer speaks in the strongest terms against astrological observances he also uses religious language. this fact may point to a wise caution on his part lest his evident interest in astrology, (which was closely associated with magic, and hence, indirectly, with sorcery) might involve him in difficulties with mother church; and, as professor tatlock has pointed out, there is no reason to suppose that chaucer's religious expressions in these passages are insincere. the _franklin's tale_ falls in the group of tales called by professor kittredge the "marriage group,"[ ] that in which the wife of bath is the most conspicuous figure. the wife of bath's tale had aroused a rather heated controversy among a number of the canterbury pilgrims on the subject of the respective duties and relations of wives and husbands. if the critics have been right in placing the _franklin's tale_ where they do, it was chaucer's purpose to have the franklin soothe the ruffled feelings of certain members of the party by telling a tale in which a husband (and wife), a squire, and a clerk, all prove themselves capable of truly generous behavior. if the tale was to accomplish its purpose the clerk must accomplish his magic feat of removing the rocks from the coast of brittany, and must in the end generously refuse to accept pay from the squire when he learned that the latter had been too magnanimous to profit from his services. by setting the tale in pagan times, chaucer was able to express the scorn he felt for certain superstitious practices in his own time without debasing one of his chief characters, one of the three rivals in magnanimity, and so spoiling the noble temper of the story and entirely defeating its purpose. thus the astrological passages in the _franklin's tale_ do not suggest total disbelief in astrology on chaucer's part, and much less do they show him to have been lacking in true artistic sense. probably his attitude toward astrology was about this: he was very much interested in it, perhaps in much the same way that dante was, because of the philosophical ideas at the basis of astrology and out of curiosity as to the problems of free will, providence, and so on, that naturally arose from it. for the shady practices and quackery connected with its use in his own day he had nothing but scorn. but while chaucer was at one with the educated men of his century in his attitude toward astrology, and with them had a strong distaste for certain aspects of judicial astrology, nevertheless he made wide use of the greater faith of the majority of people of his time in portraying character in his poetry. for men's ideas and beliefs constitute a very important part of their character, and chaucer knew this very well. men believed that whatever happened to them, whether fortunate or unfortunate, could in some way be traced to the influence of the stars, the agents and instruments of destiny. the configuration of the heavens at the moment of one's birth was considered especially important, since the positions and interrelations of the different celestial bodies at this time could determine the most momentous events of one's life. now the nature of the influence exerted by the different stars, especially the planets and zodiacal constellations, varied greatly. mars and venus, for instance, bestowed vastly different qualities upon the soul that was coming into being. moreover, the power exerted by a planet or constellation fluctuated considerably according to its position. each planet had in the zodiac a position of greatest and a position of least power called its 'exaltation' and 'depression.' furthermore, the 'aspect' or angular distance of one planet from another altered its influence in various ways. if mars and jupiter, for instance, were in trine or sextile aspect the portent was favorable, if in opposition, it was unfavorable.[ ] these ideas are frequently expressed in chaucer, when the characters seek to understand their misfortunes or to justify their conduct by tracing them back to the determinations of the heavens at their birth. when palamon and arcite have been thrown into prison the latter pleads with his companion to have patience; this misfortune was fixed upon them at the time of their birth by the disposition of the planets and constellations, and complaining is of no avail: "'for goddes love, tak al in pacience our prisoun, for it may non other be; fortune hath yeven us this adversitee. som wikke aspect or disposicioun of saturne, by sum constellacioun hath yeven us this, al-though we hadde it sworn; so stood the heven whan that we were born; we moste endure it: this is the short and pleyn.'"[ ] in the _man of lawes tale_ the effect of the stars at the time of a man's nativity is discussed somewhat at length. the man of law predicts the fate of the sultan by saying that the destiny written in the stars had perhaps allotted to him death through love: "paraventure in thilke large book which that men clepe the heven, y-writen was with sterres, whan that he his birthe took, that he for love shulde han his deeth, allas! for in the sterres, clerer than is glas, is writen, god wot, who-so coude it rede, the deeth of every man, withouten drede."[ ] then he mentions the names of various ancient heroes whose death, he says was written in the stars "er they were born:" "in sterres, many a winter ther-biforn, was written the deeth of ector, achilles, of pompey, iulius, er they were born; the stryf of thebes; and of ercules, of sampson, turnus, and of socrates the deeth; but mennes wittes been so dulle, that no wight can wel rede it atte fulle."[ ] when criseyde learns that she is to be sent to the greeks in exchange for antenor she attributes her misfortune to the stars: "'alas!' quod she, 'out of this regioun i, woful wrecche and infortuned wight, and born in corsed constellacioun, mot goon, and thus departen fro my knight;'"[ ] in the _legend of good women_ we are told that hypermnestra was "born to all good things" or qualities, and then the various influences of the particular planets upon her destiny are mentioned: "the whiche child, of hir nativitee, to alle gode thewes born was she, as lyked to the goddes, or she was born, that of the shefe she sholde be the corn; the wirdes, that we clepen destinee, hath shapen her that she mot nedes be pitouse, sadde, wyse, and trewe as steel; and to this woman hit accordeth weel. for, though that venus yaf her great beautee, with jupiter compouned so was she that conscience, trouthe, and dreed of shame, and of hir wyfhood for to keep her name, this, thoughte her, was felicitee as here. and rede mars was, that tyme of the yere, so feble, that his malice is him raft, repressed hath venus his cruel craft; what with venus and other oppressioun of houses, mars his venim is adoun, that ypermistra dar nat handle a knyf in malice, thogh she sholde lese her lyf. but natheles, as heven gan tho turne, to badde aspectes hath she of saturne, that made her for to deyen in prisoun, as i shal after make mencioun."[ ] the purpose of this astrological passage is plainly to show why hypermnestra was doomed to die in prison. the qualities given her by the planets, as shown by her horoscope, were such that she was unable to violate a wife's duty and kill her husband in order to save her own life.[ ] venus gave her great beauty and was also influential in repressing the influence of mars who would have given her fighting qualities if his influence had been strong. the myth of the amour between venus and mars, which chaucer makes the basis of his poem the _compleynt of mars_, would explain why venus was able to influence mars in this way. the feeble influence of mars at hypermnestra's nativity is accounted for also in another way. his influence is feeble because of the time of year and through the "oppressioun of houses" both of which amount to the same thing, namely, a position in the zodiac in which his power is at a minimum.[ ] the influence of jupiter, we are told, was to give hypermnestra conscience, truth, and wifely loyalty. that of saturn was evil and the cause of her death in prison. the specific influences of saturn are mentioned in detail in the _knightes tale_. almost all the ills imaginable are attributable to his power: "'my dere doghter venus,' quod saturne, 'my cours, that hath so wyde for to turne, hath more power than wot any man. myn is the drenching in the see so wan; myn is the prison in the derke cote; myn is the strangling and hanging by the throte; the murmure, and the cherles rebelling, the groyning, and the pryvee empoysoning; i do vengeance and pleyn correccioun whyl i dwelle in the signe of the leoun. myn is the ruine of the hye halles, the falling of the toures and of the walles up-on the mynour or the carpenter. i slow sampsoun in shaking the piler; and myne be the maladyes colde, the derke tresons, and the castes olde; my loking is the fader of pestilence.'"[ ] in the line, "myn is the prison in the derke cote;" imprisonment is for the second time attributed to saturn's influence. in an earlier passage in the _knightes tale_[ ], (see p. ) it is suggested when palamon and arcite's imprisonment is said to be due to 'some wicked aspect or disposition of saturn' at the time of their birth. later in the story palamon specifically states that his imprisonment is through saturn: "but i mot been in prison thurgh saturne,"[ ] that mars and saturn were generally regarded as planets of evil influence is shown by a passage in the _astrolabe_. chaucer has just explained what the 'ascendant', means in astrology. it is that degree of the zodiac that at the given time is seen upon the eastern horizon. now, chaucer says, the ascendant may be 'fortunate or unfortunate,' thus: "a fortunat ascendent clepen they whan that no wykkid planete, as saturne or mars, or elles the tail of the dragoun, is in the house of the assendent, ne that no wikked planets have non aspects of enemite up-on the assendent;"[ ] the wife of bath attributes the two principal qualities of her disposition, amorousness and pugnaciousness, to the planets venus and mars: "for certes, i am al venerien in felinge, and myn herte is marcien. venus me yaf my lust, my likerousnesse, and mars yaf me my sturdy hardinesse. myn ascendent was taur, and mars ther-inne. allas! allas! that ever love was sinne! i folwed ay myn inclinacioun by vertu of my constellacioun."[ ] a little later in her _prologue_ the wife contrasts the influences of mercury and venus. as a jibe at the clerk who was in the company of canterbury pilgrims she has just said that clerks cannot possibly speak well of wives, and that women could tell tales of clerks if they would. she upholds her statement thus: wives are the children of venus, clerks, of mercury, two planets that are 'in their working full contrarious:' "the children of mercurie and of venus been in hir wirking ful contrarious; mercurie loveth wisdom and science, and venus loveth ryot and dispence. and, for hir diverse disposicioun, ech falleth in otheres exaltacioun; and thus, got woot! mercurie is desolat in pisces, wher venus is exaltat; and venus falleth ther mercurie is reysed; therefore no womman of no clerk is preysed."[ ] venus has her exaltation in the sign in which mercury has his depression. therefore the two signs have opposite virtues and influences, and the children of one can see little good in the children of the other. we have seen how the stars were supposed to control human destiny by bestowing certain qualities upon souls at birth. we shall next consider how they were thought to influence men more indirectly, through their effects on terrestrial events. certain positions of the heavenly bodies with regard to one another could cause heavy rains. the clerk in the _milleres tale_ predicts a great rain through observation of the moon's position: "'now john,' quod nicholas, 'i wol nat lye; i have y-founde in myn astrologye, as i have loked in the mone bright, that now, a monday next, at quarter-night, shal falle a reyn and that so wilde and wood, that half so greet was never noes flood.'"[ ] such predictions as this were, however, by no means always believed in even by uneducated people. in this case, for the purposes of the story, the flood does not take place. the carpenter, john, is taken in because the story requires it, but nicholas is a quack pure and simple, and of course the miller who tells the story has no delusions. in _troilus and criseyde_ we are told that the moon's conjunction with jupiter and saturn caused a heavy rain. pandarus had the day before suspected that there was to be rain from the condition of the moon: "right sone upon the chaunging of the mone, whan lightles is the world a night or tweyne, and that the welken shoop him for to reyne, he streight a-morwe un-to his nece wente;"[ ] and on the next night the rain came: "the bente mone with hir hornes pale, saturne, and iove, in cancro ioyned were, that swich a rayn from hevene gan avale, that every maner womman that was there hadde of that smoky reyn a verray fere;"[ ] perhaps the moon alone in cancer, which was her mansion, would have caused a rain, and it was the additional presence of saturn and jupiter that made it such a heavy downpour. chaucer humorously makes use of this astrological superstition that the planets cause rains in the _lenvoy a scogan_: "to-broken been the statuts hye in hevene that creat were eternally to dure, sith that i see the brighte goddes sevene mow wepe and wayle, and passioun endure, as may in erthe a mortal creature. allas, fro whennes may this thing procede? of whiche errour i deye almost for drede."[ ] here it is not the planets' positions that cause the rain, but the planets are weeping as mortals do and their tears are the rain. in the next stanza we learn that even venus, from whose sphere divine law once decreed no tear should ever fall, is weeping so that mortals are about to be drenched. and it is all scogan's fault! "by worde eterne whylom was hit shape that fro the fifte cercle, in no manere, ne mighte a drope of teres doun escape. but now so wepeth venus in hir spere, that with hir teres she wol drenche us here. allas! scogan! this is for thyn offence! thou causest this deluge of pestilence."[ ] so the ultimate cause of the rain was scogan's offense. and in the next stanza we learn what that offence was. instead of vowing to serve his lady forever, though his love is unrequited, scogan has rebelled against the law of love: "hast thou not seyd, in blaspheme of this goddes, through pryde, or through thy grete rakelnesse, swich thing as in the lawe of love forbode is? that, for thy lady saw nat thy distresse, therefor thou yave hir up at michelmesse!"[ ] i have said that chaucer makes wide use of the astrological beliefs of his century in portraying character and have shown how some of the strange astrological ideas of the people of his time are reflected in chaucer's poetry. it remains to consider somewhat more closely the relations between astrological faith and conduct, and chaucer's application of these relations to the dramatic action in his poems. the inevitable logical outcome of astrological faith is the doctrine of necessity. the invariability of the celestial motions suggested to early astrologers that there must be a higher power transcending and controlling them, and this power could be none other than necessity. but, since the stars by their movements and positions were the regulators of mundane events and human affairs, it followed that human destiny on the earth was also under the sway of this relentless power of necessity or fate. now it was the stoics alone who developed a thorough-going fatalism and at the same time made it consistent with practical life and virtue. they taught that man could best find himself in complete submission to the divine law of destiny. the early babylonian astrologers who originated the doctrine of necessity did not develop it to its logical consequences. reasoning from certain very unusual occurrences that sometimes took place in the heavens, such as the appearance of comets, meteors and falling stars, they reached the conclusion that divine will at times arbitrarily interfered in the destined course of nature. so priests foretold future events from the configuration of the heavens, but professed ability to ward off threatened evils by spells and incantations, or, by purifications and sacrifices, to make the promised blessings more secure. now the fatalism of chaucer's characters is something like this. the general belief in the determination of human destiny by fortune or necessity is present and is expressed usually at moments of deep despair, when the longings of the heart and the struggles of the will have been relentlessly thwarted. when the trojans decree that criseyde must go to the greeks in exchange for antenor, troilus pleads with fortune: "than seyde he thus, 'fortune! allas the whyle! what have i doon, what have i thus a-gilt? how mightestow for reuthe me bigyle? is ther no grace, and shall i thus be spilt? shal thus criseyde awey, for that thou wilt? allas! how maystow in thyn herte finde to been to me thus cruel and unkinde? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . allas! fortune! if that my lyf in ioye displesed hadde un-to thy foule envye, why ne haddestow my fader, king of troye, by-raft the lyf, or doon my bretheren dye, or slayn my-self, that thus compleyne and crye, i, combre-world, that may of no-thing serve, but ever dye, and never fulle sterve?'"[ ] but there is present, too, in spite of all obstacles and defeats, an undying hope that somehow--by prayers and sacrifices to the celestial powers, or by the choice of astrologically favorable times of doing things--that somehow the course of human lives, mapped out at birth by the stars under the control of relentless destiny, may be altered. so the characters in chaucer's poems pray to the orbs of the sky to help in their undertakings. the love-lorn troilus undertakes scarcely a single act without first beseeching some one of the celestial powers for help. when he has confessed his love to pandarus and the latter has promised to help him, troilus prays to venus: "'now blisful venus helpe, er that i sterve, of thee, pandare, i may som thank deserve.'"[ ] and when the first step has been taken and he knows that criseyde is not ill disposed to be his friend at least, he praises venus, looking up to her as a flower to the sun: "but right as floures, thorugh the colde of night y-closed, stoupen on hir stalkes lowe, redressen hem a-yein the sonne bright, and spreden on hir kinde cours by rowe; right so gan tho his eyen up to throwe this troilus, and seyde, 'o venus dere, thy might, thy grace, y-heried be it here!'"[ ] when troilus is about to undertake a step that will either win or lose criseyde he prays to all the planetary gods, but especially to venus, begging her to overcome by her aid whatever evil influences the planets exercised over him in his birth: "'yit blisful venus, this night thou me enspyre,' quod troilus, 'as wis as i thee serve, and ever bet and bet shal, til i sterve. and if i hadde, o venus ful of murthe, aspectes badde of mars or of saturne, or thou combust[ ] or let were in my birthe, thy fader prey al thilke harm disturne.'"[ ] troilus does not forget to praise venus when criseyde is won at last: "than seyde he thus, 'o, love, o, charitee, thy moder eek, citherea the swete, after thy-self next heried be she, venus mene i, the wel-willy planete;'"[ ] and after criseyde has gone away to the greeks, it is to venus still that the lover utters his lament and prayer, saying that without the guidance of her beams he is lost: "'o sterre, of which i lost have al the light, with herte soor wel oughte i to bewayle, that ever derk in torment, night by night, toward my deeth with wind in stere i sayle; for which the tenthe night if that i fayle the gyding of thy bemes brighte an houre, my ship and me caribdis wol devoure:'"[ ] another effect of astrological faith on conduct was the choice of times for doing things of importance with reference to astrological conditions. when a man wished to set out on any enterprise of importance he very often consulted the positions of the stars to see if the time was propitious. thus in the _squieres tale_ it is said that the maker of the horse of brass "wayted many a constellacioun, er he had doon this operacioun;"[ ] that is, he waited carefully for the moment when the stars would be in the most propitious position, so that his undertaking would have the greatest possible chance of success. pandarus goes to his niece criseyde to plead for troilus at a time when the moon is favorably situated in the heavens: "and gan to calle, and dresse him up to ryse, remembringe him his erand was to done from troilus, and eek his greet empryse; and caste and knew in good plyt was the mone-- to doon viage, and took his wey ful sone un-to his neces paleys ther bi-syde."[ ] the kind of fatalism that chaucer's characters, as a rule, represent is well illustrated in the story of palamon and arcite, told by the knight in the _canterbury tales_. these two young nobles of thebes, cousins by relationship, are captured by theseus, king of athens, and imprisoned in the tower of his palace. from the window of the tower palamon espies the king's beautiful sister emelye walking in the garden and instantly falls in love. arcite, seeing his cousin's sudden pallor and hearing his exclamation which, chaucer says, sounded "as though he stongen were un-to the herte."[ ] thinks that palamon is complaining because of his imprisonment and urges him to bear in patience the decree of the heavens: "'for goddes love, tak al in pacience our prisoun, for it may non other be; fortune hath yeven us this adversitee. som wikke aspect or disposicioun of saturne, by sum constellacioun, hath yeven us this, al-though we hadde it sworn; so stood the heven whan that we were born; we moste endure it; this is the short and pleyn.'"[ ] this is the doctrine of necessity, and it suggests the stoic virtue of submission to fate; yet arcite's attitude toword his misfortune is not truly stoic, for there is none of that joy in submission here that the stoic felt in surrendering himself to the will of the powers above. arcite would resist fate if he could. palamon explains the cause of his woe and when arcite looks out and sees emelye he too falls a victim to love. then palamon knits his brows in righteous indignation. did he not love the beautiful lady first and trust his secret to his cousin and sworn brother? and was it not arcite's duty and solemn pledge to help and not hinder him in his love? arcite's defence shows that the fatalism that dominates his thought is a fatalism that excuses him for doing as he pleases: love knows no law, but is a law unto itself. therefore he must needs love emelye. "wostow nat wel the olde clerkes sawe, that 'who shal yeve a lover any lawe?' love is a gretter lawe, by my pan, than may be yeve to any erthly man. and therefore positif lawe and swich decree is broke al-day for love, in ech degree. a man moot nedes love, maugree his heed."[ ] when arcite is released from prison but banished from athens with the threat of death should he return, both men are utterly unhappy, arcite, because he can no longer see emelye, and palamon because he fears that arcite will return to athens with a band of kinsmen to aid him, and carry off emelye by force. after arcite has gone palamon reproaches the gods for determining the destiny of men so irrevocably without consulting their wishes or their deserts: "'o cruel goddes, that governe this world with binding of your word eterne, and wryten in the table of athamaunt your parlement, and your eterne graunt, what is mankinde more un-to yow holde than is the sheep, that rouketh in the folde?'"[ ] many a man, palamon says, suffers sickness, imprisonment and other misfortunes unjustly because of the inexorable destiny imposed upon him by the gods. even the lot of the beasts is better, for they do as they will and have nothing to suffer for it after death; whereas man must suffer both in this life and the next. this, surely, is not willing submission to fate. after some years palamon escapes from prison and encounters arcite, who has returned in disguise and become theseus' chief squire. they arrange to settle their differences by a duel next day. but destiny was guiding theseus' conduct too, so the narrator of the story says, and was so powerful that it caused a coincidence that might not happen again in a thousand years: "the destinee, ministre general, that executeth in the world over-al the purveyaunce, that god hath seyn biforn, so strong it is, that, though the world had sworn the contrarie of a thing, by ye or nay, yet somtyme it shal fallen on a day that falleth nat eft with-inne a thousand yere. for certeinly, our appetytes here, be it of werre, or pees, or hate, or love, al is this reuled by the sighte above."[ ] theseus goes hunting and with him, the queen and emelye. they of course interrupt the duel between palamon and arcite. through the intercession of the two women the duelists are pardoned and it is arranged that they settle their dispute by a tournament set for about a year later. on the morning before the tournament palamon, arcite, and emelye all go, at different hours, to pray and sacrifice to their respective patron deities. the times of their prayers are chosen according to astrological considerations, each going to pray in the hour[ ] that was considered sacred to the planet with which his patron deity was identified. palamon prays to venus only that he may win his love, whether by victory or defeat in the tournament makes no difference to him. after his sacrifices are completed, the statute of venus shakes and palamon, regarding this as a favorable sign goes away with glad heart. arcite prays mars for victory and is answered by a portent even more favorable than that given to palamon. not only does the statue of mars tremble so that his coat of mail resounds, but the very doors of the temple shake, the fire on the altar burns more brightly and arcite hears the word "victory" uttered in a low dim murmur. emelye does not want to be given in marriage to any man and so she prays to diana[ ], as the protectress of maidenhood, to keep her a maid. diana, the goddess, appears in her characteristic form as a huntress and tells emelye that the gods have decreed her marriage either to palamon or to arcite, but that it cannot yet be revealed to which one she is to be given. but now there is trouble in heaven. venus has promised that palamon shall have his love, and mars has promised arcite the victory. how are both promises to be fulfilled? chaucer humorously expresses the dilemma thus: "and richt anon swich stryf ther is bigonne for thilke graunting, in the hevene above, bitwixe venus, the goddesse of love, and mars, the sterne god armipotente, that iupiter was bisy it to stente; til that the pale saturnus the colde, that knew so manye of aventures olde, fond in his old experience an art, that he ful sone hath plesed every part."[ ] we had almost forgotten that all the gods to whom prayers have been uttered and sacrifices offered were anything more than pagan gods. but now, by the reference to saturn, "the pale saturnus the colde" suggesting the dimness of his appearance in the sky, we are reminded that these gods are also planets. but, to resume the story, saturn finds the remedy for the embarrassing situation. he rehearses his powers and then tells venus that her knight shall have his lady, but that mars shall be able to help his knight also. "'my dere doghter venus,' quod saturne, 'my cours, that hath so wyde for to turne, hath more power that wot any man. . . . . . . . . now weep namore, i shal doon diligence that palamon, that is thyn owne knight, shal have his lady, as thou hast him hight. though mars shal helpe his knight, yet nathelees bitwixe yow ther moot be som tyme pees, al be ye noght of o complexioun, that causeth al day swich divisioun.'"[ ] when the appointed time for the tourney arrives, in order that no means of securing the god's favor and so assuring success may be left untried, arcite, with his knights, enters through the gate of mars, his patron deity, and palamon through that of venus. palamon is defeated in the fight but saturn fulfills his promise to venus by inducing pluto to send an omen which frightens arcite's horse causing an accident in which arcite is mortally injured. in the end palamon wins emelye. although the scene of this story is laid in ancient athens, the characters are plainly mediaeval knights and ladies. throughout the poem, as in many of chaucer's writings, there is a curious mingling of pagan and christian elements, a strange juxtaposition of astrological notions, greek anthropomorphism and mediaeval christian philosophy. but pervading the whole is the idea of determinism, of the inability of the human will to struggle successfully against the destiny imposed by the powers of heaven, or against the capricious wills of the gods. chaucer had too keen a sense of humor, too sympathetic an outlook on life not to see the irony in the ceaseless spectacle of mankind dashing itself against the relentless wall of circumstances, fate, or what you will, in undying hope of attaining the unattainable. he saw the humor in this maelstrom of human endeavor--and he saw the tragedy too. the _knightes tale_ presents largely, i think, the humorous side of it, _troilus and criseyde_, the tragic, although there is some tragedy in the _knightes tale_ and some comedy in _troilus_. it was fate that troilus should love criseyde, that he should win her love for a time, and that in the end he should be deserted by her. from the very first line of the poem we know that he is doomed to sorrow: "the double sorwe of troilus to tellen, that was the king priamus sone of troye, in lovinge, how his aventures fellen fro we to wele, and after out of ioye, my purpos is, er that i parte fro ye."[ ] the tragedy of troilus is also the tragedy of criseyde, for even at the moment of forsaking troilus for diomede she is deeply unhappy over her unfaithfulness; but circumstance is as much to blame as her own yielding nature, for troilus' fate is bound up with the inexorable doom of troy, and she could not return to him if she would. there is no doubt that chaucer feels the tragedy of the story as he writes. in his proem to the first book he invokes one of the furies to aid him in his task: "thesiphone, thou help me for tendyte thise woful vers, that wepen as i wryte!"[ ] throughout the poem he disclaims responsibility for what he narrates, saying that he is simply following his author and that, once begun, somehow he must keep on. in the proem to the second book he says: "wherefore i nil have neither thank ne blame of al this werk, but pray you mekely, disblameth me, if any word be lame, for as myn auctor seyde, so seye i."[ ] and concludes the proem with the words,-- "but sin i have begonne, myn auctor shal i folwen, if i conne."[ ] when fortune turns her face away from troilus, and chaucer must tell of the loss of criseyde his heart bleeds and his pen trembles with dread of what he must write: "but al to litel, weylawey the whyle, lasteth swich ioye, y-thonked be fortune! that semeth trewest, whan she wol bygyle, and can to foles so hir song entune, that she hem hent and blent, traytour comune; and whan a wight is from hir wheel y-throwe, than laugheth she, and maketh him the mowe. from troilus she gan hir brighte face awey to wrythe, and took of him non hede, but caste him clene oute of his lady grace, and on hir wheel she sette up diomede; for which right now myn herte ginneth blede, and now my penne, allas! with which i wryte, quaketh for drede of that i moot endyte."[ ] chaucer tells of criseyde's faithlessness reluctantly, reminding the reader often that so the story has it: "and after this the story telleth us, that she him yaf the faire baye stede, the which she ones wan of troilus; and eek a broche (and that was litel nede) that troilus was, she yaf this diomede. and eek, the bet from sorwe him to releve, she made him were a pencel of hir sleve. i finde eek in the stories elles-where, whan through the body hurt was diomede of troilus, tho weep she many a tere, whan that she saugh his wyde woundes blede; and that he took to kepen him good hede, and for to hele him of his sorwes smerte, men seyn, i not, that she yaf him hir herte."[ ] and in the end for very pity he tries to excuse her: "ne me ne list this sely womman chyde ferther than the story wol devyse, hir name, allas! is publisshed so wyde, that for hir gilt it oughte y-now suffyse. and if i mighte excuse hir any wyse, for she so sory was for hir untrouthe, y-wis, i wolde excuse hir yet for routhe."[ ] we have said that chaucer's attitude toward the philosophical aspects of astrology is hard to determine because in most of his poems he takes an impersonal ironic point of view towards the actions he describes or the ideas he presents. his attitude toward the idea of destiny is not so hard to determine. fortune, the executrix of the fates through the influence of the heavens rules men's lives; they are the herdsmen, we are their flocks: "but o, fortune, executrice of wierdes, o influences of thise hevenes hye! soth is, that, under god, ye ben our hierdes, though to us bestes been the causes wrye."[ ] perhaps chaucer did not mean this literally. but one is tempted to think that he, like dante, thought of the heavenly bodies in their spheres as the ministers and instruments of a providence that had foreseen and ordained all things. appendix i. most of the terms at present used to describe the movements of the heavenly bodies were used in chaucer's time and occur very frequently in his writings. the significance of chaucer's references will then be perfectly clear, if we keep in mind that the modern astronomer's description of the _apparent_ movements of the star-sphere and of the heavenly bodies individually would have been to chaucer a description of _real_ movements. when we look up into the sky on a clear night the stars and planets appear to be a host of bright dots on the concave surface, unimaginably distant, of a vast hollow sphere at the canter of which we seem to be. astronomers call this expanse of the heavens with its myriad bright stars the _celestial sphere_ or the _star sphere_, and have imagined upon its surface various systems of circles. in descriptions of the earth's relation to the celestial sphere it is customary to disregard altogether the earth's diameter which is comparatively infinitesimal. if we stand on a high spot in the open country and look about us in all directions the earth seems to meet the sky in a circle which we call the _terrestrial horizon_. now if we imagine a plane passing through the center of the earth and parallel to the plane in which the terrestrial horizon lies, and if we imagine this plane through the earth's center extended outward in all directions to an infinite distance, it would cut the celestial sphere in a great circle which astronomers call the _celestial horizon_. on the celestial horizon are the north, east, south and west points. the plane of the celestial horizon is, of course, different for different positions of the observer on the earth. if we watch the sky for some time, or make several observations on the same night, we notice, by observing the changing positions of the constellations, that the stars move very slowly across the blue dome above us. the stars that rise due east of us do not, in crossing the dome of the sky, pass directly over our heads but, from the moment that we first see them, curve some distance to the south, and, after passing their highest point in the heavens, turn toward the north and set due west. a star rising due east appears to move more rapidly than one rising some distance to the north or south of the east point, because it crosses a higher point in the heavens and has, therefore, a greater distance to traverse in the same length of time. when we observe the stars in the northern sky, we discover that many of them never set but seem to be moving around an apparently fixed point at somewhat more than an angle of °[ ] above the northern horizon and very near the north star. these are called _circum-polar stars_. the whole celestial sphere, in other words, appears to be revolving about an imaginary axis passing through this fixed point, which is called the _north pole_ of the heavens, through the center of the earth and through an invisible pole (the south pole of the heavens) exactly opposite the visible one. this apparent revolution of the whole star sphere, as we know, is caused by the earth's rotation on its axis once every twenty-four hours from west to east. chaucer and his contemporaries believed it to be the actual revolution of the nine spheres from east to west about the earth as a center. [illustration: fig. .] for determining accurately the position of stars on the celestial sphere astronomers make use of various circles which can be made clear by a few simple diagrams. in figure , the observer is imagined to be at o. then the circle nesw is the celestial horizon, which we have described above. z, the point immediately above the observer is called the _zenith_, and z', the point immediately underneath, as indicated by a plumb line at rest, is the _nadir_. the line pop' is the imaginary axis about which the star-sphere appears to revolve, and p and p' are the poles of the heavens. the north pole p is elevated, for our latitude, at an angle of approximately ° from the north point on the horizon. pp' is called the _polar axis_ and it is evident that the earth's axis extended infinitely would coincide with this axis of the heavens. in measuring positions of stars with reference to the horizon astronomers use the following circles: any great circle of the celestial sphere whose plane passes through the zenith and nadir is called a _vertical circle_. the verticle circle spnz', passing through the poles and meeting the horizon in the north and south points, n and s, is called the _meridian circle_, because the sun is on this circle at true mid-day. the _meridian_ is the plane in which this circle lies. the vertical circle, ez'wz, whose plane is at right angles to the meridian, is called the _prime vertical_ and it intersects the horizon at the east and west points, e and w. these circles, and the measurements of positions of heavenly bodies which involve their use, were all employed in chaucer's time and are referred to in his writings.[ ] the distance of a star from the horizon, measured on a vertical circle, toward the zenith is called the star's _altitude_. a star reaches its greatest altitude when on the part of the meridional circle between the south point of the horizon, s, and the north pole, p. a star seen between the north pole and the north point on the horizon, that is, on the arc pn, must obviously be a _circum-polar star_ and would have its highest altitude when between the pole and the zenith, or on the arc pz. when a star reaches the meridian in its course across the celestial sphere it is said to _culminate_ or reach its _culmination_. the highest altitude of any star would therefore be represented by the arc of the meridional circle between the star and the south point of the horizon. this is called the star's _meridian altitude_. the _azimuth_ of a star is its angular distance from the south point, measured westward on the horizon, to a vertical circle passing through the star. the _amplitude_ of a star is its distance from the prime vertical, measured on the horizon, north or south. for the other measurements used by astronomers in observations of the stars still other circles on the celestial sphere must be imagined. we know that the earth's surface is divided into halves, called the northern and southern hemispheres, by an imaginary circle called the _equator_, whose plane passes through the center of the earth and is perpendicular to the earth's axis. if the plane of the earth's equator were infinitely extended it would describe upon the celestial sphere a great circle which would divide that sphere into two hemispheres, just as the plane of the terrestrial equator divides the earth into two hemispheres. this great circle on the celestial sphere is called the _celestial equator_, or, by an older name, the _equatorial_, the significance of which we shall see presently. a star rising due east would traverse this great circle of the celestial sphere and set due west. the path of such a star is represented in figure by the great circle emwm', which also represents the celestial equator. all stars rise and set following circles whose planes are parallel to that of the celestial equator and these circles of the celestial sphere are smaller and smaller the nearer they are to the pole, so that stars very near the pole appear to be encircling it in very small concentric circles. stars in an area around the north celestial pole, whose limits vary with the position of the observer never set for an observer in the northern hemisphere. there is a similar group of stars around the south pole for an observer in the southern hemisphere. [illustration: fig. .] the angle of elevation of the celestial equator to the horizon varies according to the position of the observer. if, for example, the observer were at the north pole of the earth, the north celestial pole would be directly above him and would therefore coincide with the zenith; this would obviously make the celestial equator and the horizon also coincide. if the observer should pass slowly from the pole to the terrestrial equator it is clear that the two circles would no longer coincide and that the angle between them would gradually widen until it reached °. then the zenith would be on the celestial equator and the north and south poles of the heavens would be on the horizon. we have still to define a great circle of the celestial sphere that is of equal importance with the celestial equator and the celestial horizon. this is the sun's apparent yearly path, or the _ecliptic_. we know that the earth revolves about the sun once yearly in an orbit that is not entirely round but somewhat eliptical. now since the earth, the sun, and the earth's orbit around the sun are always in one plane, it follows that to an observer on the earth the sun would appear to be moving around the earth instead of the earth around the sun. the sun's apparent path, moreover, would be in the plane of the earth's orbit and when projected against the celestial sphere, which is infinite in extent, would appear as a great circle of that sphere. this great circle of the celestial sphere is the ecliptic. the sun must always appear to be on this circle, not only at all times of the year but at all hours of the day; for as the sun rises and sets, the ecliptic rises and sets also, since the earth's rotation causes an apparent daily revolution not only of the sun, moon, and planets but also of the fixed stars and so of the whole celestial sphere and of all the circles whose positions upon it do not vary. the ecliptic is inclined to the celestial equator approximately - / °, an angle which obviously measures the inclination of the plane of the earth's equator to the plane of its orbit, since the celestial equator and the ecliptic are great circles on the celestial sphere formed by extending the planes of the earth's equator and its orbit to an infinite distance. since both the celestial equator and the ecliptic are great circles of the celestial sphere each dividing it into equal parts, it is evident that these two circles must intersect at points exactly opposite each other on the celestial sphere. these points are called the vernal and the autumnal equinoxes. we shall next define the astronomical measurements that correspond to terrestrial latitude and longitude. for some reason astronomers have not, as we might expect, applied to these measurements the terms 'celestial longitude' and 'celestial latitude.' these two terms are now practically obsolete, having been used formerly to denote angular distance north or south of the ecliptic and angular distance measured east and west along circles parallel to the ecliptic. the measurements that correspond in astronomy to terrestrial latitude and longitude are called _declination_ and _right ascension_ and are obviously made with reference to the celestial equator, not the ecliptic. for taking these measurements astronomers employ circles on the celestial sphere perpendicular to the plane of the celestial equator and passing through the poles of the heavens. these are called _hour circles_. the hour circle of any star is the great circle passing through it and perpendicular to the plane of the equator. the angular distance of a star from the equator measured along its hour circle, is called the star's declination and is northern or southern according as the star is in the northern or southern of the two hemispheres into which the plane of the equator divides the celestial sphere. it is evident that declination corresponds exactly to terrestrial latitude. right ascension, corresponding to terrestrial longitude, is the angular distance of a heavenly body from the vernal equinox measured on the celestial equator eastward to the hour circle passing through the body. the _hour angle_ of a star is the angular distance measured on the celestial equator from the meridian to the foot of the hour circle passing through the star. [illustration: fig. .] it remains to describe in greater detail the apparent movements of the sun and the sun's effect upon the seasons. in figure , the great circle mwm'e represents the equinoctial and xvx'a the ecliptic. the point x represents the farthest point south that the sun reaches in its apparent journey around the earth, and this point is called the _winter solstice_, because, for the northern hemisphere the sun reaches this point in mid-winter. when the sun is south of the celestial equator its apparent daily path is the same as it would be for a star so situated. thus its daily path at the time of the winter solstice, about december , can be represented by the circle xmn'. the arc gxh represents the part of the sun's path that would be above the horizon, showing that night would last much longer than day and the rays of the sun would strike the northern hemisphere of the earth more indirectly than when the sun is north of the equator. as the sun passes along the ecliptic from x toward v, the part of its daily path that is above the horizon gradually increases until at v, the vernal equinox, the sun's path would, roughly speaking, coincide with the celestial equator so that half of it would be above the horizon and half below and day and night would be of equal length. this explains why the celestial equator was formerly called the equinoctial (chaucer's term for it). as the sun passes on toward x' its daily arc continues to increase and the days to grow longer until at x' it reaches its greatest declination north of the equator and we have the longest day, june , the summer solstice. when the sun reaches this point, its rays strike the northern hemisphere more directly than at any other time causing the hot or summer season in this hemisphere. next the sun's daily arc begins to decrease, day and night to become more nearly equal, at a the autumnal equinox[ ] is reached and the sun again shapes its course towards the point of maximum declination south of the equator. the two points of maximum declination are called _solstices_. the two small circles of the celestial sphere, parallel to the equator, which pass through the two points where the sun's declination is greatest, are called _tropics_; the one in the northern hemisphere is called the _tropic of cancer_, that in the southern hemisphere, the _tropic of capricorn_. they correspond to circles on the earth's surface having the same names. ii. by "artificial day" chaucer means the time during which the sun is above the horizon, the period from sunrise to sunset. the arc of the artificial day may mean the extent or duration of it, as measured on the rim of an astrolabe, or it may mean (as here), the arc extending from the point of sunrise to that of sunset. see _astrolabe_ ii. . there has been some controversy among editors as to the correctness of the date occurring in this passage, some giving it as the th instead of the th. in discussing the accuracy of the reading "eightetethe" skeat throws light also upon the accuracy of the rest of the passage considered from an astronomical point of view. he says (vol. , p. ): "the key to the whole matter is given by a passage in chaucer's 'astrolabe,' pt. ii, ch. , where it is clear that chaucer (who, however merely translates from messahala) actually confuses the hour-angle with the azimuthal arc (see appendix i); that is, he considered it correct to find the hour of the day by noting _the point of the horizon_ over which the sun appears to stand, and supposing this point to advance, with a _uniform_, not a _variable_, motion. the host's method of proceeding was this. wanting to know the hour, he observed how far the sun had moved southward along the horizon since it rose, and saw that it had gone more than half-way from the point of sunrise to the exact southern point. now the th of april in chaucer's time answers to the th of april at present. on april , , the sun rose at hr. m., and set at hr. m., giving a day of about hr. m., the fourth part of which is at hr. m., or, with sufficient exactness, at _half past eight_. this would leave a whole hour and a half to signify chaucer's 'half an houre and more', showing that further explanation is still necessary. the fact is, however, that the host reckoned, as has been said, in another way, viz. by observing the sun's position _with reference to the horizon_. on april the sun was in the th degree of taurus at that date, as we again learn from chaucer's treatise. set this th degree of taurus on the east horizon on a globe, and it is found to be degrees to the north of the east point, or degrees from the south. the half of this at degrees from the south; and the sun would seem to stand above this th degree, as may be seen even upon a globe, at about a quarter past nine; but mr. brae has made the calculation, and shows that it was at _twenty minutes past nine_. this makes chaucer's 'half an houre and more' to stand for _half an hour and ten minutes_; an extremely neat result. but this we can check again by help of the host's _other_ observation. he _also_ took note, that the lengths of a shadow and its object were equal, whence the sun's altitude must have been degrees. even a globe will shew that the sun's altitude, when in the th degree of taurus, and at o'clock in the morning, is somewhere about or degrees. but mr. brae has calculated it exactly, and his result is, that the sun attained its altitude of degrees at _two minutes to ten_ exactly. this is even a closer approximation than we might expect, and leaves no doubt about the right date being the _eighteenth_ of april." thus it appears that chaucer's method of determining the date was incorrect but his calculations in observing the sun's position were quite accurate. for fuller particulars see chaucer's _astrolabe_, ed. skeat (e. e. t. s.) preface, p. . iii. it was customary in ancient times and even as late as chaucer's century to determine the position of the sun, moon, or planets at any time by reference to the signs of the zodiac. the _zodiac_ is an imaginary belt of the celestial sphere, extending ° on each side of the ecliptic, within which the orbits of the sun, moon, and planets appear to lie. the zodiac is divided into twelve equal geometric divisions ° in extent called _signs_ to each of which a fanciful name is given. the signs were once identical with twelve constellations along the zodiac to which these fanciful names were first applied. since the signs are purely geometric divisions and are counted from the spring equinox in the direction of the sun's progress through them, and since through the precession of the equinoxes the whole series of signs shifts westward about one degree in seventy-two years, the signs and constellations no longer coincide. beginning with the sign in which the vernal equinox lies the names of the zodiacal signs are aries (ram), taurus (bull), gemini (twins), cancer (crab), leo (lion), virgo (virgin), libra (scales), scorpio (scorpion), sagittarius (archer), aquarius (water-carrier), and pisces (fishes). in this passage, the line "that in the ram is four degrees up-ronne" indicates the date march . this can be seen by reference to figure in skeat's edition of chaucer's _astrolabe_ (e. e. t. s.) the astrolabe was an instrument for making observations of the heavenly bodies and calculating time from these observations. the most important part of the kind of astrolabe described by chaucer was a rather heavy circular plate of metal from four to seven inches in diameter, which could be suspended from the thumb by a ring attached loosely enough so as to allow the instrument to assume a perpendicular position. one side of this plate was flat and was called the _back_, and it is this part that figure represents. the back of the astrolabe planisphere contained a series of concentric rings representing in order beginning with the outermost ring: the four quadrants of a circle each divided into ninety degrees; the signs of the zodiac divided into thirty degrees each; the days of the year, the circle being divided, for this purpose, into - / equal parts; the names of the months, the number of days in each, and the small divisions which represent each day, which coincide exactly with those representing the days of the year; and lastly the saints' days, with their sunday-letters. the purpose of the signs of the zodiac is to show the position of the sun in the ecliptic at different times. therefore, if we find on the figure the fourth degree of aries and the day of the month corresponding to it, we have the date march as nearly as we can determine it by observing the intricate divisions in the figure. the next passage "noon hyer was he, whan she redy was" means evidently, 'he was no higher than this (i. e. four degrees) above the horizon when she was ready'; that is, it was a little past six. the method used in determining the time of day by observation of the sun's position is explained in the astrolabe ii, and . first the sun's altitude is found by means of the revolving rule at the back of the astrolabe. the rule, a piece of metal fitted with sights, is moved up and down until the rays of the sun shine directly through the sights. then, by means of the degrees marked on the back of the astrolabe, the angle of elevation of the rule is determined, giving the altitude of the sun. the rest of the process involves the use of the _front_ of the astrolabe. this side of the circular plate, shown in fig. , had a thick rim with a wide depression in the middle. on the rim were three concentric circles, the first showing the letters a to z, representing the twenty-four hours of the day, and the two innermost circles giving the degrees of the four quadrants. the depressed central part of the front was marked with three circles, the 'tropicus cancri', the 'aequinoctialis,' and the 'tropicus capricorni'; and with the cross-lines from north to south, and from east to west. there were besides several thin plates or discs of metal of such a size as exactly to drop into the depression spoken of. the principal one of these was the 'rete' and is shown in fig. . "it consisted of a circular ring marked with the zodiacal signs, subdivided into degrees, with narrow branching limbs both within and without this ring, having smaller branches or tongues terminating in points, each of which denoted the exact position of some well-known star. * * * the 'rete' being thus, as it were, a skeleton plate, allows the 'tropicus cancri,' etc., marked upon the body of the instrument, to be partially seen below it. * * * but it was more usual to interpose between the 'rete' and the body of the instrument (called the 'mother') another thin plate or disc, such as that in fig. , so that portions of this latter plate could be seen beneath the skeleton-form of the 'rete' (i. ). these plates were called by chaucer 'tables', and sometimes an instrument was provided with several of them, differently marked, for use in places having different latitudes. the one in fig. is suitable for the latitude of oxford (nearly). the upper part, above the horizon obliquus, is marked with circles of altitude (i. ), crossed by incomplete arcs of azimuth tending to a common centre, the zenith (i. )." [skeat, _introduction to the astrolabe_, pp. lxxiv-lxxv.] now suppose we have taken the sun's altitude by § (pt. ii of the _astrolabe_) and found it to be - / °. "as the altitude was taken by the back of the astrolabe, turn it over, and then let the _rete_ revolve westward until the st point of aries is just within the altitude-circle marked , allowing for the / degree by guess. this will bring the denticle near the letter c, and the first point of aries near x, which means a.m." [skeat's note on the _astrolabe_ ii. , pp. - ]. iv. chaucer would know the altitude of the sun simply by inspection of an astrolabe, without calculation. skeat has explained this passage in his _preface to chaucer's astrolabe_ (e. e. t. s.), p. lxiii, as follows: "besides saying that the sun was ° high, chaucer says that his shadow was to his height in the proportion of to . changing this proportion, we can make it that of to - / ; that is, the point of the _umbra versa_ (which is reckoned by twelfth parts) is - / or - / nearly. (umbra recta and umbra versa were scales on the back of the astrolabe used for computing the altitudes of heavenly bodies from the height and shadows of objects. the _umbra recta_ was used where the angle of elevation of an object was greater than °; the _umbra versa_, where it was less.) this can be verified by fig. ; for a straight edge, laid across from the th degree above the word 'occidens,' and passing through the center, will cut the scale of umbra versa between the th and th points. the sun's altitude is thus established as ° above the western horizon, beyond all doubt." v. _herberwe_ means 'position.' chaucer says here, then, that the sun according to his declination causing his position to be low or high in the heavens, brings about the seasons for all living things. in the _astrolabe_, i. , there is a very interesting passage explaining in detail, declination, the solstices and equinoxes, and change of seasons. chaucer is describing the front of the astrolabe. he says: "the plate under thy rite is descryved with principal cercles; of whiche the leste is cleped the cercle of cancer, by-cause that the heved of cancer turneth evermor consentrik up-on the same cercle. (this corresponds to the tropic of cancer on the celestial sphere, which marks the greatest northern declination of the sun.) in this heved of cancer is the grettest declinacioun northward of the sonne. and ther-for is he cleped the solsticioun of somer; whiche declinacioun, aftur ptholome, is degrees and minutes, as wel in cancer as in capricorne. (the greatest declination of the sun measures the obliquity of the ecliptic, which is slightly variable. in chaucer's time it was about ° ', and in the time of ptolemy about ° '. ptolemy assigns it too high a value.) this signe of cancre is cleped the tropik of somer, of _tropos_, that is to seyn 'agaynward'; for thanne by-ginneth the sonne to passe fro us-ward. (see fig. in skeat's _preface to the astrolabe_, vol. iii, or e. e. t. s. vol. .) the middel cercle in wydnesse, of thise , is cleped the cercle equinoxial (the celestial equator of the celestial sphere); up-on whiche turneth evermo the hedes of aries and libra. (these are the two signs in which the ecliptic crosses the equinoctial.) and understond wel, that evermo this cercle equinoxial turneth iustly fro verrey est to verrey west; as i have shewed thee in the spere solide. (as the earth rotates daily from west to east, the celestial sphere appears to us to revolve about the earth once every twenty-four hours from east to west. chaucer, of course, means here that the equinoctial actually revolves with the _primum mobile_ instead of only appearing to revolve.) this same cercle is cleped also the weyere, _equator_, of the day; for whan the sonne is in the hevedes of aries and libra, than ben the dayes and the nightes ilyke of lengthe in al the world. and ther-fore ben thise two signes called equinoxies. the wydeste of thise three principal cercles is cleped the cercle of capricorne, by-cause that the heved of capricorne turneth evermo consentrix up-on the same cercle. (that is to say, the tropic of capricorn meets the ecliptic in the sign capricornus, or, in other words, the sun attains its greatest declination southward when in the sign capricornus.) in the heved of this for-seide capricorne is the grettest declinacioun southward of the sonne, and ther-for is it cleped the solsticioun of winter. this signe of capricorne is also cleped the tropik of winter, for thanne byginneth the sonne to come agayn to us-ward." vi. the moon's orbit around the earth is inclined at an angle of about ° to the earth's orbit around the sun. the moon, therefore, appears to an observer on the earth as if traversing a great circle of the celestial sphere just as the sun appears to do; and the moon's real orbit projected against the celestial sphere appears as a great circle similar to the ecliptic. this great circle in which the moon appears to travel will, therefore, be inclined to the ecliptic at an angle of ° and the moon will appear in its motion never far from the ecliptic; it will always be within the zodiac which extends eight or nine degrees on either side of the ecliptic. the angular velocity of the moon's motion in its projected great circle is much greater than that of the sun in the ecliptic. both bodies appear to move in the same direction, from west to east; but the solar apparent revolution takes about a year averaging ° daily, while the moon completes a revolution from any fixed star back to the same star in about - / days, making an average daily angular motion of about °. the actual daily angular motion of the moon varies considerably; hence in trying to test out chaucer's references to lunar angular velocity it would not be correct to make use only of the average angular velocity since his references apply to specific times and therefore the variation in the moon's angular velocity must be taken into account. vii. on the line "in two of taur," etc., skeat has the following note: "tyrwhitt unluckily altered _two_ to _ten_, on the plea that 'the time (_four days complete_, l. ) is not sufficient for the moon to pass from the second degree of taurus into cancer? and he then proceeds to shew this, taking the _mean_ daily motion of the moon as being degrees, minutes, and seconds. but, as mr. brae has shewn, in his edition of chaucer's astrolabe, p. , footnote, it is a mistake to reckon here the moon's _mean_ motion; we must rather consider her _actual_ motion. the question is simply, can the moon move from the nd degree of taurus to the st of cancer (through degrees) in four days? mr. brae says decidedly, that examples of such motion are to be seen 'in every almanac.' for example, in the nautical almanac, in june, , the moon's longitude at noon was ° ' on the th, and ° ' on the th; i. e., the moon was in the _first_ of taurus on the former day, and in the _first_ of cancer on the latter day, at the same hour; which gives (very nearly) a degree more of change of longitude than we here require. the mss all have _two_ or _tuo_, and they are quite right. the motion of the moon is so variable that the mean motion affords no safe guide." [skeat, _notes to the canterbury tales_, p. .] viii. the moon's "waxing and waning" is due to the fact that the moon is not self-luminous but receives its light from the sun and to the additional fact that it makes a complete revolution around the earth with reference to the sun in - / days. when the earth is on the side of the moon that faces the sun we see the full moon, that is, the whole illuminated hemisphere. but when we are on the side of the moon that is turned away from the sun we face its unilluminated hemisphere and we say that we have a 'new moon.' once in every - / days the earth is in each of these positions with reference to the moon and, of course, in the interval of time between these two phases we are so placed as to see larger or smaller parts of the illuminating hemisphere of the moon, giving rise to the other visible phases. when the moon is between the earth and the sun she is said to be in _conjunction_, and is invisible to us for a few nights. this is the phase called _new moon_. as she emerges from conjunction we see the moon as a delicate crescent in the west just after sunset and she soon sets below the horizon. half of the moon's surface is illuminated, but we can see only a slender edge with the horns turned away from the sun. the crescent appears a little wider each night, and, as the moon recedes ° further from the sun each night, she sets correspondingly later, until in her first quarter half of the illuminated hemisphere is turned toward us. as the moon continues her progress around the earth she gradually becomes gibbous and finally reaches a point in the heavens directly opposite the sun when she is said to be in _opposition_, her whole illumined hemisphere faces us and we have _full moon_. she then rises in the east as the sun sets in the west and is on the meridian at midnight. as the moon passes from opposition, the portion of her illuminated hemisphere visible to us gradually decreases, she rises nearly an hour later each evening and in the morning is seen high in the western sky after sunrise. at her _third quarter_ she again presents half of her illuminated surface to us and continues to decrease until we see her in crescent form again. but now her position with reference to the sun is exactly the reverse of her position as a waxing crescent, so that her horns are now turned toward the west away from the sun, and she appears in the eastern sky just before sunrise. the moon again comes into conjunction and is lost in the sun's rays and from this point the whole process is repeated. ix. that the apparent motions of the sun and moon are not so complicated as those of the planets will be clear at once if we remember that the sun's apparent motion is caused by our seeing the sun projected against the celestial sphere in the ecliptic, the path cut out by the plane of the earth's orbit, while in the case of the moon, what we see is the moon's actual motion around the earth projected against the celestial sphere in the great circle traced by the moon's own orbital plane produced to an indefinite extent. these motions are further complicated by the rotation of the earth on its own axis, causing the rising and setting of the sun and the moon. these two bodies, however, always appear to be moving directly on in their courses, each completing a revolution around the earth in a definite time, the sun in a year, the moon in - / days. what we see in the case of the planets, on the other hand, is a complex motion compounded of the effects of the earth's daily rotation, its yearly revolution around the sun, and the planets' own revolutions in different periods of time in elliptical orbits around the sun. these complex planetary motions are characterized by the peculiar oscillations known as 'direct' and 'retrograde' movements. [illustration: fig. .] the motion of a planet is said to be _direct_ when it moves in the direction of the succession of the zodiacal signs; _retrograde_ when in the contrary direction. all of the planets have periods of retrograde and direct motion, though their usual direction is direct, from west to east. retrograde motion can be explained by reference to the accompanying diagrams. in fig. , the outer circle represents the path of the zodiac on the celestial sphere. let the two inner circles represent the orbits of the earth and an inferior planet, venus, around the sun, at s. (an _inferior_ planet is one whose orbit around the sun is within that of the earth. a _superior_ planet is one whose orbit is outside that of the earth.) v, v' and v", and e, e', and e" are successive positions of the two planets in their orbits, the arc vv" being longer than the arc ee" because the nearer a planet is to the sun, the greater is its velocity. then when venus is at v and the earth at e, we shall see venus projected on the celestial sphere at v{ }. when venus has passed on to v' the earth will have passed to e' and we shall see venus on the celestial sphere at v{ }. the apparent motion of the planet thus far will have been direct, from west to east in the order of the signs. but when venus is at v" and the earth at e" venus will be seen at v{ } having apparently moved back about two signs in a direction the reverse of that taken at first. this is called the planet's retrograde motion. at some point beyond v", the planet will appear to stop moving for a very short period and then resume its direct motion. in fig. , the outer arc again represents the path of the zodiac on the celestial sphere. the smaller arcs represent the orbits of the superior planet, mars, and the earth around the sun, s. at the point of opposition of mars (when mars and the sun are at opposite points in the heavens to an observer on the earth) we should see mars projected on the zodiac at m{ }. after a month mars will be at m' and the earth at e', so that in its apparent motion mars will have retrograded to m{ }. after three months from opposition mars will be at m" and the earth at e", making mars appear at m{ } on the celestial sphere, its motion having changed from retrograde to direct. [illustration: fig. .] both figures and take no account of the fact that the earth's orbit and those of the planets are not in exactly the same planes. remembering this fact we see at once that the apparent oscillations of the planets are not back and forth in a straight line but in curves and spirals. it is easy to see why the apparent motions of the planets were accounted for by deferents and epicycles, before the copernican system revealed the true nature of the solar system as heliocentric and not geocentric. selected bibliography berry, arthur, _a short history of astronomy_. new york. . bryant, w. w., _a history of astronomy_. london. . cumont, franz, _astrology and religion among the greeks and romans_. new york. . cushman, h. e., _a beginner's history of philosophy_. boston. . dreyer, j. l. e., _history of the planetary systems from thales to kepler_. cambridge. . evershed, m. a., _dante and the early astronomers_. london. . gomperz, t., _greek thinkers, a history of ancient philosophy_. new york. . gore j. ellard, _astronomical essays, historical and descriptive_. london. . hinks, a. r., _astronomy_. london. . jacoby, harold, _astronomy_. new york. . jastrow, morris, "astrology," _encyclopaedia britannica_ ii, - . lea, h. c., _history of the inquisition of the middle ages_. new york. . iii. - . orchard, t. n., _milton's astronomy_. new york. . taylor, h. o., _the mediaeval mind_. vols. new york. . todd, mabel l., _steele's popular astronomy_. new york. . traill, h. d., _social england_. new york and london. . wallace, a. r., _man's place in the universe_. london. . white, a. d., _warfare of science with theology_. new york and london. . i. . * * * * * chaucer, _the complete works of geoffrey chaucer_. w. w. skeat, edit. clarendon press. . chaucer, _treatise on the astrolabe_, a. e. brae, edit. london. . _cambridge history of english literature, the_, ed. by a. w. ward and a. r. waller. vol. ii. . ten brink, bernard, _history of english literature_. vol. ii. new york. . courthope, w. j., _literary history of the english people_. vol. i. new york. . hadow, grace e., _chaucer and his times_. new york. . hammond, eleanor p., _chaucer: a bibliographical manual_. new york. . jusserand, j. j., _history of english poetry_. vol. ii. london. . kittredge, g. l., _chaucer and his poetry_. harvard university press. . legouis, emile, _geoffrey chaucer_. trans. by l. lailavoix. london. . lounsbury, t. r., _studies in chaucer_. new york. . morley, henry, _english writers_. vol. v. london. ff. root, robert k., _the poetry of chaucer_. boston and new york. . tatlock, john s. p., "astrology and magic in chaucer's _franklin's tale_." kittredge anniversary papers. . tatlock, john s. p., _the scene of the franklin's tale visited_. chaucer society publications. . footnotes: [ ] the name of ptolemy occurs once in _the somnours tale_ (d. ): "as wel as euclide or (as) ptholomee." and once in _the astrolabe_, i. . : "whiche declinacioun, aftur ptholome, is degrees and minutes, as wel in cancer as in capricorne." the _almagest_ is mentioned in _the milleres tale_ (a. ): "his almageste and bokes grete and smale," twice in _the wif of bathes prologue_ occur both the name of the _almagest_ and that of its author: "'who-so that nil be war by othere men, by him shul othere men corrected be. the same wordes wryteth ptholomee; rede in his almageste, and take it there.'" (d. - ) "of alle men y-blessed moot he be, the wyse astrologien dan ptholome, that seith this proverbe in his almageste, 'of alle men his wisdom is the hyeste, that rekketh never who hath the world in honde.'" (d. - ) professor lounsbury (_studies in chaucer_, ii p. and pp. - ) has difficulty in explaining why chaucer makes the wife of bath attribute these moral maxims to ptolemy. he is inclined to think that chaucer, so to speak, was napping when he put these utterances into the mouth of the wife of bath; yet elsewhere he acknowledges that the supposition of confused memory on chaucer's part in this case is hard to reconcile with the knowledge he elsewhere displays of ptolemy's work. i think it very probable that chaucer's seeming slip here is deliberate art. the wife of bath is one of chaucer's most humorous creations and the blunders he here attributes to her are quite in keeping with her character. from her fifth husband, who was a professional scholar and a wide reader, she has picked up a store of scattered and incomplete information about books and names, and she loses no opportunity for displaying it. at any rate, whether or not chaucer had read the _almagest_ in translation, his many cosmological and astronomical references show clearly his acquaintance with the ptolemaic system of astronomy. [ ] an arabian scholar of the eighth century. [ ] . ff. "this tretis, divided in fyve parties, wole i shewe thee under ful lighte rewles and naked wordes in english; for latin ne canstow yit but smal, my lyte sone." [ ] "and lowis, yif so be that i shewe thee in my lighte english as trewe conclusiouns touching this matere, and naught only as trewe but as many and as subtil conclusiouns as ben shewed in latin in any commune tretis of the astrolabie, con me the more thank;" _prologue to the astrolabe_, - . [ ] skeat, _notes on the astrolabe, prologue_, . "warton says that 'john some and nicholas lynne' were both carmelite friars, and wrote calendars constructed for the meridian of oxford. he adds that nicholas lynne is said to have made several voyages to the most northerly parts of the world, charts of which he presented to edward iii. these charts are, however, lost." [ ] _the astrolabe_, i. . . according to warton the work in question is an introduction to judicial astronomy. (lounsbury, ii. .) [ ] f. . "his tables toletanes forth he broght." [ ] _englische studien_ iii . see also j. s. p. tatlock, "chaucer and dante," in _modern philology_, iii, . . [ ] _parlement of foules_, - . [ ] _compleynt of mars_, . [ ] _lenvoy de chaucer a scogan_, - . "by worde eterne whylom was hit shape that fro the fifte cercle, in no manere, ne mighte a drope of teres doun escape. but now so wepeth venus in hir spere, that with hir teres she wol drenche us here." [ ] since chaucer calls mars the lord of the third heaven and elsewhere speaks of venus as presiding over that sphere it is evident that he sometimes reckons from the earth outwards, and sometimes from the outer sphere of saturn towards the earth. the regular order of the planets, counting from the earth, was supposed to be as follows: moon, mercury, venus, sun, mars, jupiter, saturn, making mars the third from the last. [ ] iii. - . [ ] "o firste moevyng cruel firmament, with thy diurnal sweigh that crowdest ay and hurlest al from est til occident, that naturelly wolde holde another way." (b. - ) chaucer does not use the term 'firmament' with sole reference to the star-sphere. here it clearly refers to the _primum mobile_; it often applies to the whole expanse of the heavens. [ ] _boethius_, book i: metre v, - . the conception of god as the creator and unmoved mover of the universe originated in the philosophy of aristotle, who was the one great authority, aside from scripture and the church fathers, recognized by the middle ages. god's abode was thought to be in the empyrean, the motionless sphere beyond the ninth, and the last heaven. this is the meaning in the reference to the eternal throne ("perdurable chayer") of god. [ ] many of these beautiful descriptions, however, are not strictly chaucer's own, since they occur in his translation of boethius. it will suffice to quote one of these descriptions: "and, right by ensaumple as the sonne is hid whan the sterres ben clustred (_that is to seyn, whan sterres ben covered with cloudes_) by a swifte winde that highte chorus, and that the firmament stant derked by wete ploungy cloudes, and that the sterres nat apperen up-on hevene, so that the night semeth sprad up-on erthe: yif thanne the wind that highte borias, y-sent out of the caves of the contres of trace, beteth this night (_that is to seyn, chaseth it a-wey_), and descovereth the closed day: than shyneth phebus y-shaken with sodein light, and smyteth with his bemes in mervelinge eyen." (_boethius_, book i.: metre iii. - .) [ ] _hymn on the nativity_, xiii. [ ] _the merchant of venice_, act. v. sc. i. [ ] _parlement of foules_, - . [ ] _troilus and criseyde_, v. - . [ ] a. - . [ ] _hous of fame_, ii. ff. [ ] _seconde nonnes tale_, g. - . [ ] _the seconde nonnes tale_, g. - . [ ] a. . [ ] b. ff. [ ] _the persones tale_, i. ff.: "ther shal the sterne and wrothe luge sitte above, and under him the horrible put of helle open to destroyen him that moot biknowen hise sinnes, whiche sinnes openly been shewed biforn god and biforn every creature. and on the left syde, mo develes than herte may bithinke, for to harie and drawe the sinful soules to the pyne of helle. and with-inne the hertes of folk shal be the bytinge conscience, and withoute-forth shal be the world al brenninge." [ ] _the persones tale_, i. - . [ ] _the wife of bath's prologue_, d. . [ ] _the marchantes tale_, e. ff. [ ] _the knightes tale_, a. - . [ ] _troilus and criseyde_, bk. iv. . [ ] _marchantes tale_, e. . [ ] _ibid._ e. - . [ ] _the legend of good women_, iii. ff. [ ] _the monkes tale_, b. . [ ] _the pardoneres tale_, c. - . [ ] in the time of hamurabi, , years before christ, the chaldeans worshipped as beneficent or formidable powers, the earth, that may give or refuse sustenance to man, the waters that fertilize or devastate, the winds that blow from the four quarters of the world, fire that warms or devours and all forces of nature which, in their sidereal religion, they confounded with the stars, giving them the generic name of 'elements.' but the system that recognizes only four elements as the original sources of all that exists in nature, was created by the greek philosophers. see f. cumont, _astrology and religion among the greeks and romans_ ( ), p. . [ ] _paradiso_ i. - . [ ] _paradiso_ i. - . [ ] book iii.: metre ix. ff. [ ] _the knightes tale_, a. - . [ ] _troilus and criseyde_, v. - . [ ] _boethius_, book iv.; metre i. l ff. [ ] _the hous of fame_, ii. - . [ ] _boethius_, book ii.: metre viii. l. ff. "that the world with stable feith varieth acordable chaunginges; that the contrarious qualitee of elements holden among hemself aliaunce perdurable; ... --al this acordaunce of things is bounden with love, that governeth erthe and see, and hath also commaundements to the hevenes. and yif this love slakede the brydeles, alle things that now loven hem to-gederes wolden maken a bataile continuely, and stryven to fordoon the fasoun of this worlde, the whiche they now leden in acordable feith by faire moevinges." the thought of love as the harmonizing bond between diverse elements is dealt with more poetically in _troilus and criseyde_, bk. iii. - . "'love, that of erthe and see hath governaunce, love, that his hestes hath in hevene hye, . . . . . . . . . . that that the world with feyth, which that is stable, dyverseth so his stoundes concordinge, that elements that been so discordable holden a bond perpetuely duringe. that phebus mote his rosy day forth bringe, and that the mone hath lordship over the nightes, al this doth love; ay heried be his mightes!'" [ ] skeat, _notes to boethius_, ii.: metre , . . [ ] . - . [ ] _the phisiciens tale_, c. - . [ ] see appendix, i. [ ] b. l ff. "our hoste sey wel that the brighte sonne the ark of his artificial day had ronne the fourthe part, and half an houre, and more; and though he were not depe expert in lore, he wiste it was the eightetethe day of april, that is messager to may; and sey wel that the shadwe of every tree was as in lengthe the same quantitee that was the body erect that caused it. and therefor by the shadwe he took his wit that phebus, which that shoon so clere and brighte, degrees was fyve and fourty clombe on highte; and for that day, as in that latitude, it was ten of the clokke, he gan conclude, and sodeynly he plighte his hors aboute." for chaucer's accuracy in this reference see appendix ii. [ ] _prologue_, - . [ ] planets are said to be in conjunction with one another when they appear as one object or very close together within a limited area of the sky. [ ] _the hous of fame_, book i. - . cf. dante, _paradiso_ i. - : "i not long endured him, nor yet so little but that i saw him sparkle all around, like iron issuing molten from the furnace. and, of a sudden, meseemed that day was added unto day, as though he who hath the power, had adorned heaven with a second sun." [ ] _the marchantes tale_, e. - . [ ] _prologue to the legend of good women_, - . [ ] _troilus and criseyde_, v. . [ ] _ibid._ v, . [ ] _compleynt of mars_, . the epithet "candel of ielosye" is an allusion to the classical myth according to which phoebus (the sun), having discovered the amour between mars and venus, revealed it to vulcan thus arousing him to jealousy. [ ] _troilus and criseyde_, ii, - . [ ] _ibid._ v. - . [ ] _troilus and criseyde_, iii. - . [ ] _compleynt of mars_, - . [ ] _frankeleyns tale_, f. - . [ ] see appendix iii. [ ] _knightes tale_, a. - . [ ] _parson's prologue_, i. - . see appendix iv. [ ] _nonne preestes tale_, b. - . chaucer has already indicated the date as may by saying that march is complete and thirty-two days have passed besides. (l. ). that the sun would on may have passed the st degree of aries can be verified by reference to fig. in skeat's _introduction to the astrolabe_. a straight edge ing may would cross the circle of the zodiacal signs at a point a little past the st degree of aries. [ ] ascension means 'ascending degree.' [ ] _nonne preestes tale_, b. - . [ ] the sun reaches his farthest point to the south at noon when on the meridian. see appendix i. [ ] _prologue_, . [ ] _ibid._ - . [ ] _marchantes tale_, e. - . [ ] _frankeleyns tale_, f. - . [ ] see appendix i. ff., ff. [ ] _prologue to the canterbury tales_, a. - . at the beginning of april the sun is a little past the middle of aries and at the beginning of may, roughly speaking, he is in the middle of taurus. thus the sun in april runs a half-course in aries and a half-course in taurus. chaucer means here that the former of these half-courses is completed, so that it is some time after the eleventh of april. [ ] _troilus and criseyde_, ii. - . on the third of may, in chaucer's time, the sun would be past the twentieth degree of taurus. [ ] the sun's declination means his angular distance north or south of the celestial equator. the solstices mark his maximum declination north or south. see appendix i. ff. [ ] v. - . [ ] _frankeleyns tale_, f. - . see appendix v. [ ] latoun was a compound metal containing chiefly copper and zinc. [ ] f. - . [ ] _astrolabe_, _prologue_, - . [ ] _legend of good women_, iii. - . [ ] _troilus and criseyde_, iv. . [ ] _book of the duchesse_, - . [ ] _romaunt of the rose_, - . [ ] see appendix vi. [ ] _marchantes tale_, e. - . to pass from the second degree of taurus into cancer the moon would have to traverse the remaining twenty-eight degrees of taurus, thirty of gemini and at least one of cancer, making ° of the zodiac in all. for the moon to do this is possible, as skeat has shown. see appendix vii. [ ] _marchantes tale_, e. - . [ ] _troilus and criseyde_, iv. - . chaucer's reference to the moon's motion is again correct. it would, in fact, take the moon about ten days to pass from aries through leo, traversing four signs, taurus, gemini, cancer, and leo, or about one-third of the whole zodiac. see skeat, _notes to troilus and criseyde_, p. . [ ] the moon. [ ] the 'sign-bearer'; that is, the zodiac. his candles are of course the stars and planets that appear in the zodiac. [ ] _troilus and criseyde_, v. - ; - . [ ] _legend of good women_, - . [ ] _compleynt of mars_, . [ ] _hous of fame_, - . [ ] _troilus and criseyde_, iii. . [ ] _ibid._ v. . "by the morwe" means 'early in the morning.' [ ] _troilus and criseyde_, iii. edt-ej. see appendix viii. p. . [ ] book i.: metre v. - . [ ] _frankeleyns tale_, f. - . [ ] _frankeleyns tale_, f. - . skeat explains the lines: "next at this opposicioun, which in the signe shal be of the leoun," thus: earlier in the poem (l. ) may is mentioned and it is on this date that the events narrated so far are supposed to have taken place. in may the sun is in taurus, so that the moon at her next opposition would have to be in the opposite sign, scorpio. the reference must mean therefore:--"at the next opposition that takes place with the sun in leo," not the very next one with the sun in taurus, nor the next with the sun in gemini or cancer. this reason for waiting until there should be an opposition with the sun in leo, was astrological. leo was the _mansion_ of the sun, so that the sun's power when in that sign would be greatest. [ ] b. - . [ ] book iv.: metre v. - . [ ] ibid. - . [ ] see appendix ix. p. ff. [ ] _hous of fame_, iii. - . [ ] _book of the duchesse_, iii. - . [ ] _astrolabe_, ii. . - . the attempt to explain the moon's motion by supposing her to move in an epicycle was hopelessly wrong. chaucer means here simply that the moon's motion in her deferent is direct like that of the other planets (their apparent motion is in the direction west to east except at short periods of retrogression) but that the moon's direction of motion in her epicycle is the reverse of that of the other planets. [ ] ii. . [ ] see appendix ix. p. ff. [ ] book i: metre ii. - . [ ] mercury and venus are always seen either just before sunrise or just after sunset because their distances from the sun are so comparatively small. [ ] _boethius_, bk. i.: metre v. - . [ ] _ibid._ bk. iii.: metre i. - . [ ] _troilus and criseyde_, bk. iii. - . [ ] _ibid._ v. - . [ ] a. - . [ ] . [ ] this is an astrological term. a _palace_, _mansion_ or _house_ was that zodiacal sign in which a planet was supposed to be peculiarly at home. [ ] _compleynt of mars_, - . mars is to hurry until he reaches venus' palace and then advance as slowly as possible, to wait for her. evidently chaucer was aware of the varying apparent velocities of planetary motions. [ ] _ibid._ - . when venus overtakes mars they are in conjunction. [ ] _ibid._ - . [ ] that is, the motions of both planets are direct, not retrograde. [ ] _ibid._ - . [ ] _ibid._ - . [ ] that is, the two planets appear very close together in the sky. [ ] _knightes tale_, a. - . [ ] - : "the grete ioye that was betwix hem two, whan they be met, ther may no tunge telle." [ ] ii. . [ ] iii. - . [ ] _convivio_, ii. xv. . [ ] - . [ ] _hous of fame_, ii. - . [ ] _inferno_, xvii. - . [ ] _convivio_, ii. xv. - . [ ] mrs. john evershed, _dante and the early astronomers_, p. . [ ] _prologue to the canterbury tales_, a. - . [ ] ii. . - . [ ] f. - . [ ] f. - . [ ] f. - . [ ] _studies in chaucer_, vol. ii. , ff. [ ] "the scene of _the franklin's tale_ visited," _chaucer society publications_, ( ); "astrology and magic in chaucer's _franklin's tale_;" _kittredge anniversary papers_ ( ). [ ] _chaucer and his poetry_, p. , ff. [ ] the principal aspects were conjunction, sextile, quartile, trine, and opposition, corresponding respectively to the angular distances °, °, °, ° and °. [ ] _knightes tale_, a. - . [ ] _tale of the man of lawe_, b. - . [ ] _ibid._ - . [ ] _troilus and criseyde_, iv. - . [ ] ix. - . [ ] her father, egistes, because he feared her husband, bade her kill him by cutting his throat, and threatened her with death if she refused. [ ] in astrology the signs of the zodiac were called 'houses' or 'mansions' and each was assigned to a particular planet. when a planet was in its house or mansion, its power was very great. each of the planets had also a sign called its 'exaltation' and in this sign its power was greatest of all. the sign opposite a planet's mansion was called its 'fall' and that opposite its exaltation was called its 'depression'; these were the positions of least influence. mars' mansions were aries and scorpio; his exaltation, capricornus; his fall, libra and taurus, and his depression, cancer. at the time of hypermnestra's birth, then, we may suppose that mars was in libra, taurus or in cancer. if he was in libra or taurus, his influence would be suppressed by venus, as these signs were in her mansions. [ ] _knightes tale_, a. - . [ ] _ibid._ - . [ ] _ibid._ . [ ] _astrolabe_, ii. . - . the term "hous" is here used in a different sense from that in the passage explained above, p. . the whole heavens were divided into twelve portions by great circles passing through the north and south points of the horizon. the one of these just rising was called the 'house of the ascendant.' [ ] _wife of bath's prologue_, d. - . the line "myn ascendent was taur, and mars ther-inne" means that at the time of her birth taurus was just rising in the east and mars was in this sign, and as taurus was the mansion of venus, the influences of the two planets would be mingled. [ ] d. - . [ ] a. - . [ ] iii. - . [ ] iii. - . [ ] - . [ ] - . [ ] - . [ ] _troilus and criseyde_, iv. - ; - . [ ] i. - . [ ] ii. - . [ ] a planet was said to be _combust_ when its light was extinguished by proximity to the sun. when venus and mercury were 'combust' their influence was lost. [ ] iii. - . it is sometimes hard to determine whether the beings prayed to are pagan gods and goddesses or heavenly bodies. this passage makes it clear that the planets were identified with the pagan divinities. in the rest of this prayer troilus addresses mars, mercury, jupiter, etc., as gods, referring in each case to some love affair, from ancient myth, that may win the god's sympathy and help. [ ] iii. - . the "wel-willy planete" means the propitious or favorable one. [ ] v. - . troilus needs the aid of venus especially on the tenth night after criseyde's departure, because she had promised to return on that night. [ ] f. - . [ ] ii. - . [ ] _knightes tale_, a. . [ ] _ibid._ - . [ ] a. - . [ ] a. - . [ ] a. - . this is the mediaeval christian idea of destiny or the fore-knowledge of god, and is appropriately uttered here by the knight. [ ] a. ff; ff; ff. [ ] diana was called _luna_ (or the moon) in heaven, on earth, _diana_ or _lucina_, and in hell, _proserpina_. [ ] a. - . [ ] a. - ; - . [ ] _troilus and criseyde_, i. - . [ ] _ibid._ i. - . [ ] ii. - . [ ] ii. - . [ ] iv. - . [ ] v. - . [ ] v. - . [ ] _troilus and criseyde_, iii. - . [ ] for chaucer's locality, °. [ ] see the _astrolabe_, i. , . vertical circles are called _azimuths_ by chaucer. [ ] strictly speaking, the equinoxes and solstices are each simply an instant of time. transcriber's notes: passages in italics are indicated by _italics_. subscripted characters are indicated by {subscript}. gutenberg (this book was produced from scanned images of public domain material from the google books project.) the philosophy of spiritual activity a modern philosophy of life developed by scientific methods by rudolf steiner ph.d. (vienna) being an enlarged and revised edition of "the philosophy of freedom," together with the original thesis on "truth and science" authorized translation by professor & mrs. r. f. alfred hoernlÉ g. p. putnam's sons london & new york editor's note the following pages are a translation of dr. steiner's philosophie der freiheit, which was published in germany some twenty years ago. the edition was soon exhausted, and has never been reprinted; copies are much sought after but very difficult to obtain. the popularity of dr. steiner's later works upon ethics, mysticism, and kindred subjects has caused people to forget his earlier work upon philosophy in spite of the fact that he makes frequent references to this book and it contains the germs of which many of his present views are the logical outcome. for the above reasons, and with the author's sanction, i have decided to publish a translation. i have had the good fortune to have been able to secure as joint translators mrs. hoernlé, who, after graduating in the university of the cape of good hope, continued her studies in the universities of cambridge, leipzig, paris, and bonn, and her husband, mr. r. f. alfred hoernlé, assistant professor of philosophy at harvard university, u.s.a., formerly jenkyns exhibitioner, balliol college, oxford, their thorough knowledge of philosophy and their complete command of the german and english languages enabling them to overcome the difficulty of finding adequate english equivalents for the terms of german philosophy. i am glad to seize this opportunity of acknowledging my indebtedness to these two, without whom this publication could not have been undertaken. harry collison. march . editor's note to second edition in dr. steiner published a revised edition of the philosophie der freiheit. for the translation of the new passages added to, and of the incidental changes made in, this revised edition i am indebted to mr. hoernlé, now professor of philosophy in the armstrong college (newcastle-upon-tyne), university of durham. at the author's request i have changed the title to philosophy of spiritual activity, and throughout the entire work "freedom" should be taken to mean "spiritual activity." dr. steiner's ph. d. thesis on "truth and science," originally published as a prelude to the philosophy of freedom, has, with his consent, been translated for this edition and been added at the end of this volume. h. c. march . contents chap. page preface to the revised edition ( ) xi the theory of freedom i conscious human action ii why the desire for knowledge is fundamental iii thought as the instrument of knowledge iv the world as percept v our knowledge of the world vi human individuality vii are there limits to knowledge? the reality of freedom viii the factors of life ix the idea of freedom x monism and the philosophy of spiritual activity xi world-purpose and life-purpose (the destiny of man) xii moral imagination (darwin and morality) xiii the value of life (optimism and pessimism) xiv the individual and the genus ultimate questions xv the consequences of monism truth and science i preliminary observations ii the fundamental problem of kant's theory of knowledge iii theory of knowledge since kant iv the starting-points of the theory of knowledge v knowledge and reality vi theory of knowledge without presuppositions versus fichte's theory of science vii concluding remarks: epistemological viii concluding remarks: practical appendices i addition to revised edition of "the philosophy of freedom" ii revised introduction to "the philosophy of freedom" iii preface to original edition of "truth and science" iv introduction to original edition of "truth and science" preface to the revised edition ( ) there are two fundamental problems in the life of the human mind, to one or other of which everything belongs that is to be discussed in this book. one of these problems concerns the possibility of attaining to such a view of the essential nature of man as will serve as a support for whatever else comes into his life by way of experience or of science, and yet is subject to the suspicion of having no support in itself and of being liable to be driven, by doubt and criticism, into the limbo of uncertainties. the other problem is this: is man, as voluntary agent, entitled to attribute freedom to himself, or is freedom a mere illusion begotten of his inability to recognise the threads of necessity on which his volition, like any natural event, depends? it is no artificial tissue of theories which provokes this question. in a certain mood it presents itself quite naturally to the human mind. and it is easy to feel that a mind lacks something of its full stature which has never once confronted with the utmost seriousness of inquiry the two possibilities--freedom or necessity. this book is intended to show that the spiritual experiences which the second problem causes man to undergo, depend upon the position he is able to take up towards the first problem. an attempt will be made to prove that there is a view concerning the essential nature of man which can support the rest of knowledge; and, further, an attempt to point out how with this view we gain a complete justification for the idea of free will, provided only that we have first discovered that region of the mind in which free volition can unfold itself. the view to which we here refer is one which, once gained, is capable of becoming part and parcel of the very life of the mind itself. the answer given to the two problems will not be of the purely theoretical sort which, once mastered, may be carried about as a mere piece of memory-knowledge. such an answer would, for the whole manner of thinking adopted in this book, be no real answer at all. the book will not give a finished and complete answer of this sort, but point to a field of spiritual experience in which man's own inward spiritual activity supplies a living answer to these questions, as often as he needs one. whoever has once discovered the region of the mind where these questions arise, will find precisely in his actual acquaintance with this region all that he needs for the solution of his two problems. with the knowledge thus acquired he may then, as desire or fate dictate, adventure further into the breadths and depths of this unfathomable life of ours. thus it would appear that there is a kind of knowledge which proves its justification and validity by its own inner life as well as by the kinship of its own life with the whole life of the human mind. this is how i conceived the contents of this book when i first wrote it twenty-five years ago. to-day, once again, i have to set down similar sentences if i am to characterise the leading thoughts of my book. at the original writing i contented myself with saying no more than was in the strictest sense connected with the fundamental problems which i have outlined. if anyone should be astonished at not finding in this book as yet any reference to that region of the world of spiritual experience of which i have given an account in my later writings, i would ask him to bear in mind that it was not my purpose at that time to set down the results of spiritual research, but first to lay the foundations on which such results can rest. the philosophy of spiritual activity contains no special results of this spiritual sort, as little as it contains special results of the natural sciences. but what it does contain is, in my judgment, indispensable for anyone who desires a secure foundation for such knowledge. what i have said in this book may be acceptable even to some who, for reasons of their own, refuse to have anything to do with the results of my researches into the spiritual realm. but anyone who finds something to attract him in my inquiries into the spiritual realm may well appreciate the importance of what i was here trying to do. it is this: to show that open-minded consideration simply of the two problems which i have indicated and which are fundamental for all knowledge, leads to the view that man lives in the midst of a genuine spiritual world. the aim of this book is to demonstrate, prior to our entry upon spiritual experience, that knowledge of the spiritual world is a fact. this demonstration is so conducted that it is never necessary, in order to accept the present arguments, to cast furtive glances at the experiences on which i have dwelt in my later writings. all that is necessary is that the reader should be willing and able to adapt himself to the manner of the present discussions. thus it seems to me that in one sense this book occupies a position completely independent of my writings on strictly spiritual matters. yet in another sense it seems to be most intimately connected with them. these considerations have moved me now, after a lapse of twenty-five years, to re-publish the contents of this book in the main without essential alterations. i have only made additions of some length to a number of chapters. the misunderstandings of my argument with which i have met seemed to make these more detailed elaborations necessary. actual changes of text have been made by me only where it seemed to me now that i had said clumsily what i meant to say a quarter of a century ago. (only malice could find in these changes occasion to suggest that i have changed my fundamental conviction.) for many years my book has been out of print. in spite of the fact, which is apparent from what i have just said, that my utterances of twenty-five years ago about these problems still seem to me just as relevant today, i hesitated a long time about the completion of this revised edition. again and again i have asked myself whether i ought not, at this point or that, to define my position towards the numerous philosophical theories which have been put forward since the publication of the first edition. yet my preoccupation in recent years with researches into the purely spiritual realm prevented my doing as i could have wished. however, a survey, as thorough as i could make it, of the philosophical literature of the present day has convinced me that such a critical discussion, alluring though it would be in itself, would be out of place in the context of what my book has to say. all that, from the point of view of the philosophy of spiritual activity, it seemed to me necessary to say about recent philosophical tendencies may be found in the second volume of my riddles of philosophy. rudolf steiner. april . the theory of freedom i conscious human action is man free in action and thought, or is he bound by an iron necessity? there are few questions on which so much ingenuity has been expended. the idea of freedom has found enthusiastic supporters and stubborn opponents in plenty. there are those who, in their moral fervour, label anyone a man of limited intelligence who can deny so patent a fact as freedom. opposed to them are others who regard it as the acme of unscientific thinking for anyone to believe that the uniformity of natural law is broken in the sphere of human action and thought. one and the same thing is thus proclaimed, now as the most precious possession of humanity, now as its most fatal illusion. infinite subtlety has been employed to explain how human freedom can be consistent with determinism in nature of which man, after all, is a part. others have been at no less pains to explain how such a delusion as this could have arisen. that we are dealing here with one of the most important questions for life, religion, conduct, science, must be clear to every one whose most prominent trait of character is not the reverse of thoroughness. it is one of the sad signs of the superficiality of present-day thought, that a book which attempts to develop a new faith out of the results of recent scientific research (david friedrich strauss, der alte und neue glaube), has nothing more to say on this question than these words: "with the question of the freedom of the human will we are not concerned. the alleged freedom of indifferent choice has been recognised as an empty illusion by every philosophy worthy of the name. the determination of the moral value of human conduct and character remains untouched by this problem." it is not because i consider that the book in which it occurs has any special importance that i quote this passage, but because it seems to me to express the only view to which the thought of the majority of our contemporaries is able to rise in this matter. every one who has grown beyond the kindergarten-stage of science appears to know nowadays that freedom cannot consist in choosing, at one's pleasure, one or other of two possible courses of action. there is always, so we are told, a perfectly definite reason why, out of several possible actions, we carry out just one and no other. this seems quite obvious. nevertheless, down to the present day, the main attacks of the opponents of freedom are directed only against freedom of choice. even herbert spencer, in fact, whose doctrines are gaining ground daily, says, "that every one is at liberty to desire or not to desire, which is the real proposition involved in the dogma of free will, is negatived as much by the analysis of consciousness, as by the contents of the preceding chapters" (the principles of psychology, part iv, chap. ix, par. ). others, too, start from the same point of view in combating the concept of free will. the germs of all the relevant arguments are to be found as early as spinoza. all that he brought forward in clear and simple language against the idea of freedom has since been repeated times without number, but as a rule enveloped in the most sophisticated arguments, so that it is difficult to recognise the straightforward train of thought which is alone in question. spinoza writes in a letter of october or november, , "i call a thing free which exists and acts from the pure necessity of its nature, and i call that unfree, of which the being and action are precisely and fixedly determined by something else. thus, e.g., god, though necessary, is free because he exists only through the necessity of his own nature. similarly, god knows himself and all else as free, because it follows solely from the necessity of his nature that he knows all. you see, therefore, that for me freedom consists not in free decision, but in free necessity. "but let us come down to created things which are all determined by external causes to exist and to act in a fixed and definite manner. to perceive this more clearly, let us imagine a perfectly simple case. a stone, for example, receives from an external cause acting upon it a certain quantity of motion, by reason of which it necessarily continues to move, after the impact of the external cause has ceased. the continued motion of the stone is due to compulsion, not to the necessity of its own nature, because it requires to be defined by the impact of an external cause. what is true here for the stone is true also for every other particular thing, however complicated and many-sided it may be, namely, that everything is necessarily determined by external causes to exist and to act in a fixed and definite manner. "now, pray, assume that this stone during its motion thinks and knows that it is striving to the best of its power to continue in motion. this stone which is conscious only of its striving and is by no means indifferent, will believe that it is absolutely free, and that it continues in motion for no other reason than its own will to continue. now this is that human freedom which everybody claims to possess and which consists in nothing but this, that men are conscious of their desires, but ignorant of the causes by which they are determined. thus the child believes that he desires milk of his own free will, the angry boy regards his desire for vengeance as free, and the coward his desire for flight. again, the drunken man believes that he says of his own free will what, sober again, he would fain have left unsaid, and as this prejudice is innate in all men, it is difficult to free oneself from it. for, although experience teaches us often enough that man least of all can temper his desires, and that, moved by conflicting passions, he perceives the better and pursues the worse, yet he considers himself free because there are some things which he desires less strongly, and some desires which he can easily inhibit through the recollection of something else which it is often possible to recall." it is easy to detect the fundamental error of this view, because it is so clearly and definitely expressed. the same necessity by which a stone makes a definite movement as the result of an impact, is said to compel a man to carry out an action when impelled thereto by any cause. it is only because man is conscious of his action, that he thinks himself to be its originator. in doing so, he overlooks the fact that he is driven by a cause which he must obey unconditionally. the error in this train of thought is easily brought to light. spinoza, and all who think like him, overlook the fact that man not only is conscious of his action, but also may become conscious of the cause which guides him. anyone can see that a child is not free when he desires milk, nor the drunken man when he says things which he later regrets. neither knows anything of the causes, working deep within their organisms, which exercise irresistible control over them. but is it justifiable to lump together actions of this kind with those in which a man is conscious not only of his actions but also of their causes? are the actions of men really all of one kind? should the act of a soldier on the field of battle, of the scientific researcher in his laboratory, of the statesman in the most complicated diplomatic negotiations, be placed on the same level with that of the child when he desires milk? it is, no doubt, true that it is best to seek the solution of a problem where the conditions are simplest. but lack of ability to see distinctions has before now caused endless confusion. there is, after all, a profound difference between knowing the motive of my action and not knowing it. at first sight this seems a self-evident truth. and yet the opponents of freedom never ask themselves whether a motive of action which i recognise and understand, is to be regarded as compulsory for me in the same sense as the organic process which causes the child to cry for milk. eduard von hartmann, in his phänomenologie des sittlichen bewusstseins (p. ), asserts that the human will depends on two chief factors, the motives and the character. if one regards men as all alike, or at any rate the differences between them as negligible, then their will appears as determined from without, viz., by the circumstances with which they come in contact. but if one bears in mind that men adopt an idea as the motive of their conduct, only if their character is such that this idea arouses a desire in them, then men appear as determined from within and not from without. now, because an idea, given to us from without, must first in accordance with our characters be adopted as a motive, men believe that they are free, i.e., independent of external influences. the truth, however, according to eduard von hartmann, is that "even though we must first adopt an idea as a motive, we do so not arbitrarily, but according to the disposition of our characters, that is, we are anything but free." here again the difference between motives, which i allow to influence me only after i have consciously made them my own, and those which i follow without any clear knowledge of them, is absolutely ignored. this leads us straight to the standpoint from which the subject will be treated here. have we any right to consider the question of the freedom of the will by itself at all? and if not, with what other question must it necessarily be connected? if there is a difference between conscious and unconscious motives of action, then the action in which the former issue should be judged differently from the action which springs from blind impulse. hence our first question will concern this difference, and on the result of this inquiry will depend what attitude we ought to take up towards the question of freedom proper. what does it mean to have knowledge of the motives of one's actions? too little attention has been paid to this question, because, unfortunately, man who is an indivisible whole has always been torn asunder by us. the agent has been divorced from the knower, whilst he who matters more than everything else, viz., the man who acts because he knows, has been utterly overlooked. it is said that man is free when he is controlled only by his reason, and not by his animal passions. or, again, that to be free means to be able to determine one's life and action by purposes and deliberate decisions. nothing is gained by assertions of this sort. for the question is just whether reason, purposes, and decisions exercise the same kind of compulsion over a man as his animal passions. if, without my doing, a rational decision occurs in me with the same necessity with which hunger and thirst happen to me, then i must needs obey it, and my freedom is an illusion. another form of expression runs: to be free means, not that we can will what we will, but that we can do what we will. this thought has been expressed with great clearness by the poet-philosopher robert hamerling in his atomistik des willens. "man can, it is true, do what he wills, but he cannot will what he wills, because his will is determined by motives! he cannot will what he wills? let us consider these phrases more closely. have they any intelligible meaning? does freedom of will, then, mean being able to will without ground, without motive? what does willing mean if not to have grounds for doing, or striving to do, this rather than that? to will anything without ground or motive would mean to will something without willing it. the concept of motive is indissolubly bound up with that of will. without the determining motive the will is an empty faculty; it is the motive which makes it active and real. it is, therefore, quite true that the human will is not 'free,' inasmuch as its direction is always determined by the strongest motive. but, on the other hand, it must be admitted that it is absurd to speak, in contrast with this 'unfreedom,' of a conceivable 'freedom' of the will, which would consist in being able to will what one does not will" (atomistik des willens, p. ff.). here, again, only motives in general are mentioned, without taking into account the difference between unconscious and conscious motives. if a motive affects me, and i am compelled to act on it because it proves to be the "strongest" of its kind, then the idea of freedom ceases to have any meaning. how should it matter to me whether i can do a thing or not, if i am forced by the motive to do it? the primary question is, not whether i can do a thing or not when impelled by a motive, but whether the only motives are such as impel me with absolute necessity. if i must will something, then i may well be absolutely indifferent as to whether i can also do it. and if, through my character, or through circumstances prevailing in my environment, a motive is forced on me which to my thinking is unreasonable, then i should even have to be glad if i could not do what i will. the question is, not whether i can carry out a decision once made, but how i come to make the decision. what distinguishes man from all other organic beings is his rational thought. activity is common to him with other organisms. nothing is gained by seeking analogies in the animal world to clear up the concept of freedom as applied to the actions of human beings. modern science loves these analogies. when scientists have succeeded in finding among animals something similar to human behaviour, they believe they have touched on the most important question of the science of man. to what misunderstandings this view leads is seen, for example, in the book die illusion der willensfreiheit, by p. ree, , where, on page , the following remark on freedom appears: "it is easy to explain why the movement of a stone seems to us necessary, while the volition of a donkey does not. the causes which set the stone in motion are external and visible, while the causes which determine the donkey's volition are internal and invisible. between us and the place of their activity there is the skull cap of the ass.... the causal nexus is not visible and is therefore thought to be non-existent. the volition, it is explained, is, indeed, the cause of the donkey's turning round, but is itself unconditioned; it is an absolute beginning." here again human actions in which there is a consciousness of the motives are simply ignored, for ree declares, "that between us and the sphere of their activity there is the skull cap of the ass." as these words show, it has not so much as dawned on ree that there are actions, not indeed of the ass, but of human beings, in which the motive, become conscious, lies between us and the action. ree demonstrates his blindness once again a few pages further on, when he says, "we do not perceive the causes by which our will is determined, hence we think it is not causally determined at all." but enough of examples which prove that many argue against freedom without knowing in the least what freedom is. that an action of which the agent does not know why he performs it, cannot be free goes without saying. but what of the freedom of an action about the motives of which we reflect? this leads us to the question of the origin and meaning of thought. for without the recognition of the activity of mind which is called thought, it is impossible to understand what is meant either by knowledge of something or by action. when we know what thought in general means, it will be easier to see clearly the role which thought plays in human action. as hegel rightly says, "it is thought which turns the soul, common to us and animals, into spirit." hence it is thought which we may expect to give to human action its characteristic stamp. i do not mean to imply that all our actions spring only from the sober deliberations of our reason. i am very far from calling only those actions "human" in the highest sense, which proceed from abstract judgments. but as soon as our conduct rises above the sphere of the satisfaction of purely animal desires, our motives are always shaped by thoughts. love, pity, and patriotism are motives of action which cannot be analysed away into cold concepts of the understanding. it is said that here the heart, the soul, hold sway. this is no doubt true. but the heart and the soul create no motives. they presuppose them. pity enters my heart when the thought of a person who arouses pity had appeared in my consciousness. the way to the heart is through the head. love is no exception. whenever it is not merely the expression of bare sexual instinct, it depends on the thoughts we form of the loved one. and the more we idealise the loved one in our thoughts, the more blessed is our love. here, too, thought is the father of feeling. it is said that love makes us blind to the failings of the loved one. but the opposite view can be taken, namely that it is precisely for the good points that love opens the eyes. many pass by these good points without notice. one, however, perceives them, and just because he does, love awakens in his soul. what else has he done except perceive what hundreds have failed to see? love is not theirs, because they lack the perception. from whatever point we regard the subject, it becomes more and more clear that the question of the nature of human action presupposes that of the origin of thought. i shall, therefore, turn next to this question. ii why the desire for knowledge is fundamental zwei seelen wohnen, ach! in meiner brust, die eine will sich von der andern trennen; die eine hält, in derber liebeslust, sich an die welt mit klammernden organen; die andre hebt gewaltsam sich vom dust zu den gefilden hoher ahnen. [ ] faust i, - . in these words goethe expresses a trait which is deeply ingrained in human nature. man is not a self-contained unity. he demands ever more than the world, of itself, offers him. nature has endowed us with needs; among them are some the satisfaction of which she leaves to our own activity. however abundant the gifts which we have received, still more abundant are our desires. we seem born to dissatisfaction. and our desire for knowledge is but a special instance of this unsatisfied striving. suppose we look twice at a tree. the first time we see its branches at rest, the second time in motion. we are not satisfied with this observation. why, we ask, does the tree appear to us now at rest, then in motion? every glance at nature evokes in us a multitude of questions. every phenomenon we meet presents a new problem to be solved. every experience is to us a riddle. we observe that from the egg there emerges a creature like the mother animal, and we ask for the reason of the likeness. we observe a living being grow and develop to a determinate degree of perfection, and we seek the conditions of this experience. nowhere are we satisfied with the facts which nature spreads out before our senses. everywhere we seek what we call the explanation of these facts. the something more which we seek in things, over and above what is immediately given to us in them, splits our whole being into two parts. we become conscious of our opposition to the world. we oppose ourselves to the world as independent beings. the universe has for us two opposite poles: self and world. we erect this barrier between ourselves and the world as soon as consciousness is first kindled in us. but we never cease to feel that, in spite of all, we belong to the world, that there is a connecting link between it and us, and that we are beings within, and not without, the universe. this feeling makes us strive to bridge over this opposition, and ultimately the whole spiritual striving of mankind is nothing but the bridging of this opposition. the history of our spiritual life is a continuous seeking after union between ourselves and the world. religion, art, and science follow, one and all, this goal. the religious man seeks in the revelation, which god grants him, the solution of the world problem, which his self, dissatisfied with the world of mere phenomena, sets him as a task. the artist seeks to embody in his material the ideas which are his self, that he may thus reconcile the spirit which lives within him and the outer world. he, too, feels dissatisfied with the world of mere appearances, and seeks to mould into it that something more which his self supplies and which transcends appearances. the thinker searches for the laws of phenomena. he strives to master by thought what he experiences by observation. only when we have transformed the world-content into our thought-content do we recapture the connection which we had ourselves broken off. we shall see later that this goal can be reached only if we penetrate much more deeply than is often done into the nature of the scientist's problem. the whole situation, as i have here stated it, meets us, on the stage of history, in the conflict between the one-world theory, or monism, and the two-world theory, or dualism. dualism pays attention only to the separation between the self and the world, which the consciousness of man has brought about. all its efforts consist in a vain struggle to reconcile these opposites, which it calls now mind and matter, now subject and object, now thought and appearance. the dualist feels that there must be a bridge between the two worlds, but is not able to find it. in so far as man is aware of himself as "i," he cannot but put down this "i" in thought on the side of spirit; and in opposing to this "i" the world, he is bound to reckon on the world's side the realm of percepts given to the senses, i.e., the material world. in doing so, man assigns a position to himself within this very antithesis of spirit and matter. he is the more compelled to do so because his own body belongs to the material world. thus the "i," or ego, belongs as a part to the realm of spirit; the material objects and processes which are perceived by the senses belong to the "world." all the riddles which belong to spirit and matter, man must inevitably rediscover in the fundamental riddle of his own nature. monism pays attention only to the unity and tries either to deny or to slur over the opposites, present though they are. neither of these two points of view can satisfy us, for they do not do justice to the facts. the dualist sees in mind (self) and matter (world) two essentially different entities, and cannot therefore understand how they can interact with one another. how should mind be aware of what goes on in matter, seeing that the essential nature of matter is quite alien to mind? or how in these circumstances should mind act upon matter, so as to translate its intentions into actions? the most absurd hypotheses have been propounded to answer these questions. however, up to the present the monists are not in a much better position. they have tried three different ways of meeting the difficulty. either they deny mind and become materialists; or they deny matter in order to seek their salvation as spiritualists; or they assert that, even in the simplest entities in the world, mind and matter are indissolubly bound together, so that there is no need to marvel at the appearance in man of these two modes of existence, seeing that they are never found apart. materialism can never offer a satisfactory explanation of the world. for every attempt at an explanation must begin with the formation of thoughts about the phenomena of the world. materialism, thus, begins with the thought of matter or material processes. but, in doing so, it is ipso facto confronted by two different sets of facts, viz., the material world and the thoughts about it. the materialist seeks to make these latter intelligible by regarding them as purely material processes. he believes that thinking takes place in the brain, much in the same way that digestion takes place in the animal organs. just as he ascribes mechanical, chemical, and organic processes to nature, so he credits her in certain circumstances with the capacity to think. he overlooks that, in doing so, he is merely shifting the problem from one place to another. instead of to himself he ascribes the power of thought to matter. and thus he is back again at his starting-point. how does matter come to think of its own nature? why is it not simply satisfied with itself and content to accept its own existence? the materialist has turned his attention away from the definite subject, his own self, and occupies himself with an indefinite shadowy somewhat. and here the old problem meets him again. the materialistic theory cannot solve the problem; it can only shift it to another place. what of the spiritualistic theory? the pure spiritualist denies to matter all independent existence and regards it merely as a product of spirit. but when he tries to apply this theory to the solution of the riddle of his own human nature, he finds himself caught in a tight place. over against the "i," or ego, which can be ranged on the side of spirit, there stands directly the world of the senses. no spiritual approach to it seems open. it has to be perceived and experienced by the ego with the help of material processes. such material processes the ego does not discover in itself, so long as it regards its own nature as exclusively spiritual. from all that it achieves by its own spiritual effort, the sensible world is ever excluded. it seems as if the ego had to concede that the world would be a closed book to it, unless it could establish a non-spiritual relation to the world. similarly, when it comes to acting, we have to translate our purposes into realities with the help of material things and forces. we are, therefore, dependent on the outer world. the most extreme spiritualist, or, if you prefer it, idealist, is johann gottlieb fichte. he attempts to deduce the whole edifice of the world from the "ego." what he has actually accomplished is a magnificent thought-picture of the world, without any empirical content. as little as it is possible for the materialist to argue the mind away, just as little is it possible for the idealist to do without the outer world of matter. when man directs his theoretical reflection upon the ego, he perceives, in the first instance, only the work of the ego in the conceptual elaboration of the world of ideas. hence a philosophy the direction of which is spiritualistic, may feel tempted, in view of man's own essential nature, to acknowledge nothing of spirit except this world of ideas. in this way spiritualism becomes one-sided idealism. instead of going on to penetrate through the world of ideas to the spiritual world, idealism identifies the spiritual world with the world of ideas itself. as a result, it is compelled to remain fixed with its world-view in the circle of the activity of the ego, as if it were bewitched. a curious variant of idealism is to be found in the theory which f. a. lange has put forward in his widely read history of materialism. he holds that the materialists are quite right in declaring all phenomena, including our thoughts, to be the product of purely material processes, but, in turn, matter and its processes are for him themselves the product of our thinking. "the senses give us only the effects of things, not true copies, much less the things themselves. but among these mere effects we must include the senses themselves together with the brain and the molecular vibrations which we assume to go on there." that is, our thinking is produced by the material processes, and these by our thinking. lange's philosophy is thus nothing more than the philosophical analogon of the story of honest baron münchhausen, who holds himself up in the air by his own pigtail. the third form of monism is that which finds even in the simplest real (the atom) the union of both matter and mind. but nothing is gained by this either, except that the question, the origin of which is really in our consciousness, is shifted to another place. how comes it that the simple real manifests itself in a two-fold manner, if it is an indivisible unity? against all these theories we must urge the fact that we meet with the basal and fundamental opposition first in our own consciousness. it is we ourselves who break away from the bosom of nature and contrast ourselves as self with the world. goethe has given classic expression to this in his essay nature. "living in the midst of her (nature) we are strangers to her. ceaselessly she speaks to us, yet betrays none of her secrets." but goethe knows the reverse side too: "mankind is all in her, and she in all mankind." however true it may be that we have estranged ourselves from nature, it is none the less true that we feel we are in her and belong to her. it can be only her own life which pulses also in us. we must find the way back to her again. a simple reflection may point this way out to us. we have, it is true, torn ourselves away from nature, but we must none the less have carried away something of her in our own selves. this quality of nature in us we must seek out, and then we shall discover our connection with her once more. dualism neglects to do this. it considers the human mind as a spiritual entity utterly alien to nature and attempts somehow to hitch it on to nature. no wonder that it cannot find the coupling link. we can find nature outside of us only if we have first learnt to know her within us. the natural within us must be our guide to her. this marks out our path of inquiry. we shall attempt no speculations concerning the interaction of mind and matter. we shall rather probe into the depths of our own being, to find there those elements which we saved in our flight from nature. the examination of our own being must bring the solution of the problem. we must reach a point where we can say, "this is no longer merely 'i,' this is something which is more than 'i.'" i am well aware that many who have read thus far will not consider my discussion in keeping with "the present state of science." to such criticism i can reply only that i have so far not been concerned with any scientific results, but simply with the description of what every one of us experiences in his own consciousness. that a few phrases have slipped in about attempts to reconcile mind and the world has been due solely to the desire to elucidate the actual facts. i have therefore made no attempt to give to the expressions "self," "mind," "world," "nature," the precise meaning which they usually bear in psychology and philosophy. the ordinary consciousness ignores the sharp distinctions of the sciences, and so far my purpose has been solely to record the facts of everyday experience. i am concerned, not with the way in which science, so far, has interpreted consciousness, but with the way in which we experience it in every moment of our lives. iii thought as the instrument of knowledge when i observe how a billiard ball, when struck, communicates its motion to another, i remain entirely without influence on the process before me. the direction and velocity of the motion of the second ball is determined by the direction and velocity of the first. as long as i remain a mere spectator, i can say nothing about the motion of the second ball until after it has happened. it is quite different when i begin to reflect on the content of my observations. the purpose of my reflection is to construct concepts of the process. i connect the concept of an elastic ball with certain other concepts of mechanics, and consider the special circumstances which obtain in the instance in question. i try, in other words, to add to the process which takes place without my interference, a second process which takes place in the conceptual sphere. this latter process is dependent on me. this is shown by the fact that i can rest content with the observation, and renounce all search for concepts if i have no need of them. if, therefore, this need is present, then i am not content until i have established a definite connection among the concepts, ball, elasticity, motion, impact, velocity, etc., so that they apply to the observed process in a definite way. as surely as the occurrence of the observed process is independent of me, so surely is the occurrence of the conceptual process dependent on me. we shall have to consider later whether this activity of mine really proceeds from my own independent being, or whether those modern physiologists are right who say that we cannot think as we will, but that we must think exactly as the thoughts and thought-connections determine, which happen to be in our minds at any given moment. (cp. ziehen, leitfaden der physiologischen psychologie, jena, , p. .) for the present we wish merely to establish the fact that we constantly feel obliged to seek for concepts and connections of concepts, which stand in definite relation to the objects and processes which are given independently of us. whether this activity is really ours, or whether we are determined to it by an unalterable necessity, is a question which we need not decide at present. what is unquestionable is that the activity appears, in the first instance, to be ours. we know for certain that concepts are not given together with the objects to which they correspond. my being the agent in the conceptual process may be an illusion; but there is no doubt that to immediate observation i appear to be active. our present question is, what do we gain by supplementing a process with a conceptual counterpart? there is a far-reaching difference between the ways in which, for me, the parts of a process are related to one another before, and after, the discovery of the corresponding concepts. mere observation can trace the parts of a given process as they occur, but their connection remains obscure without the help of concepts. i observe the first billiard ball move towards the second in a certain direction and with a certain velocity. what will happen after the impact i cannot tell in advance. i can once more only watch it happen with my eyes. suppose someone obstructs my view of the field where the process is happening, at the moment when the impact occurs, then, as mere spectator, i remain ignorant of what goes on. the situation is very different, if prior to the obstructing of my view i have discovered the concepts corresponding to the nexus of events. in that case i can say what occurs, even when i am no longer able to observe. there is nothing in a merely observed process or object to show its relation to other processes or objects. this relation becomes manifest only when observation is combined with thought. observation and thought are the two points of departure for all the spiritual striving of man, in so far as he is conscious of such striving. the workings of common sense, as well as the most complicated scientific researches, rest on these two fundamental pillars of our minds. philosophers have started from various ultimate antitheses, idea and reality, subject and object, appearance and thing-in-itself, ego and non-ego, idea and will, concept and matter, force and substance, the conscious and the unconscious. it is, however, easy to show that all these antitheses are subsequent to that between observation and thought, this being for man the most important. whatever principle we choose to lay down, we must either prove that somewhere we have observed it, or we must enunciate it in the form of a clear concept which can be re-thought by any other thinker. every philosopher who sets out to discuss his fundamental principles, must express them in conceptual form and thus use thought. he therefore indirectly admits that his activity presupposes thought. we leave open here the question whether thought or something else is the chief factor in the development of the world. but it is at any rate clear that the philosopher can gain no knowledge of this development without thought. in the occurrence of phenomena thought may play a secondary part, but it is quite certain that it plays a chief part in the construction of a theory about them. as regards observation, our need of it is due to our organisation. our thought about a horse and the object "horse" are two things which for us have separate existences. the object is accessible to us only by means of observation. as little as we can construct a concept of a horse by mere staring at the animal, just as little are we able by mere thought to produce the corresponding object. in time observation actually precedes thought. for we become familiar with thought itself in the first instance by observation. it was essentially a description of an observation when, at the beginning of this chapter, we gave an account of how thought is kindled by an objective process and transcends the merely given. whatever enters the circle of our experiences becomes an object of apprehension to us first through observation. all contents of sensations, all perceptions, intuitions, feelings, acts of will, dreams and fancies, images, concepts, ideas, all illusions and hallucinations, are given to us through observation. but thought as an object of observation differs essentially from all other objects. the observation of a table, or a tree, occurs in me as soon as those objects appear within the horizon of my field of consciousness. yet i do not, at the same time, observe my thought about these things. i observe the table, but i carry on a process of thought about the table without at the same moment observing this thought-process. i must first take up a standpoint outside of my own activity, if i want to observe my thought about the table, as well as the table. whereas the observation of things and processes, and the thinking about them, are everyday occurrences making up the continuous current of my life, the observation of the thought-process itself is an exceptional attitude to adopt. this fact must be taken into account, when we come to determine the relations of thought as an object of observation to all other objects. we must be quite clear about the fact that, in observing the thought-processes, we are applying to them a method which is our normal attitude in the study of all other objects in the world, but which in the ordinary course of that study is usually not applied to thought itself. someone might object that what i have said about thinking applies equally to feeling and to all other mental activities. thus it is said that when, e.g., i have a feeling of pleasure, the feeling is kindled by the object, but it is this object i observe, not the feeling of pleasure. this objection, however, is based on an error. pleasure does not stand at all in the same relation to its object as the concept constructed by thought. i am conscious, in the most positive way, that the concept of a thing is formed through my activity; whereas a feeling of pleasure is produced in me by an object in a way similar to that in which, e.g., a change is caused in an object by a stone which falls on it. for observation, a pleasure is given in exactly the same way as the event which causes it. the same is not true of concepts. i can ask why an event arouses in me a feeling of pleasure. but i certainly cannot ask why an occurrence causes in me a certain number of concepts. the question would be simply meaningless. in thinking about an occurrence, i am not concerned with it as an effect on me. i learn nothing about myself from knowing the concepts which correspond to the observed change caused in a pane of glass by a stone thrown against it. but i do learn something about myself when i know the feeling which a certain occurrence arouses in me. when i say of an object which i perceive, "this is a rose," i say absolutely nothing about myself; but when i say of the same thing that "it causes a feeling of pleasure in me," i characterise not only the rose, but also myself in my relation to the rose. there can, therefore, be no question of putting thought and feeling on a level as objects of observation. and the same could easily be shown of other activities of the human mind. unlike thought, they must be classed with any other observed objects or events. the peculiar nature of thought lies just in this, that it is an activity which is directed solely on the observed object and not on the thinking subject. this is apparent even from the way in which we express our thoughts about an object, as distinct from our feelings or acts of will. when i see an object and recognise it as a table, i do not as a rule say, "i am thinking of a table," but, "this is a table." on the other hand, i do say, "i am pleased with the table." in the former case, i am not at all interested in stating that i have entered into a relation with the table; whereas, in the second case, it is just this relation which matters. in saying, "i am thinking of a table," i adopt the exceptional point of view characterised above, in which something is made the object of observation which is always present in our mental activity, without being itself normally an observed object. the peculiar nature of thought consists just in this, that the thinker forgets his thinking while actually engaged in it. it is not thinking which occupies his attention, but rather the object of thought which he observes. the first point, then, to notice about thought is that it is the unobserved element in our ordinary mental life. the reason why we do not notice the thinking which goes on in our ordinary mental life is no other than this, that it is our own activity. whatever i do not myself produce appears in my field of consciousness as an object; i contrast it with myself as something the existence of which is independent of me. it forces itself upon me. i must accept it as the presupposition of my thinking. as long as i think about the object, i am absorbed in it, my attention is turned on it. to be thus absorbed in the object is just to contemplate it by thought. i attend, not to my activity, but to its object. in other words, whilst i am thinking i pay no heed to my thinking which is of my own making, but only to the object of my thinking which is not of my making. i am, moreover, in exactly the same position when i adopt the exceptional point of view and think of my own thought-processes. i can never observe my present thought, i can only make my past experiences of thought-processes subsequently the objects of fresh thoughts. if i wanted to watch my present thought, i should have to split myself into two persons, one to think, the other to observe this thinking. but this is impossible. i can only accomplish it in two separate acts. the observed thought-processes are never those in which i am actually engaged but others. whether, for this purpose, i make observations on my own former thoughts, or follow the thought-processes of another person, or finally, as in the example of the motions of the billiard balls, assume an imaginary thought-process, is immaterial. there are two things which are incompatible with one another: productive activity and the theoretical contemplation of that activity. this is recognised even in the first book of moses. it represents god as creating the world in the first six days, and only after its completion is any contemplation of the world possible: "and god saw everything that he had made and, behold, it was very good." the same applies to our thinking. it must be there first, if we would observe it. the reason why it is impossible to observe the thought-process in its actual occurrence at any given moment, is the same as that which makes it possible for us to know it more immediately and more intimately than any other process in the world. just because it is our own creation do we know the characteristic features of its course, the manner in which the process, in detail, takes place. what in the other spheres of observation we can discover only indirectly, viz., the relevant objective nexus and the relations of the individual objects, that is known to us immediately in the case of thought. i do not know off-hand why, for perception, thunder follows lightning, but i know immediately, from the content of the two concepts, why my thought connects the concept of thunder with that of lightning. it does not matter for my argument whether my concepts of thunder and lightning are correct. the connection between the concepts i have is clear to me, and that through the very concepts themselves. this transparent clearness in the observation of our thought-processes is quite independent of our knowledge of the physiological basis of thought. i am speaking here of thought in the sense in which it is the object of our observation of our own mental activity. for this purpose it is quite irrelevant how one material process in my brain causes or influences another, whilst i am carrying on a process of thought. what i observe, in studying a thought-process, is, not what process in my brain connects the concept of thunder with that of lightning, but what is my reason for bringing these two concepts into a definite relation. introspection shows that, in linking thought with thought, i am guided by their content, not by the material processes in the brain. this remark would be quite superfluous in a less materialistic age than ours. to-day, however, when there are people who believe that, when we know what matter is, we shall know also how it thinks, it is necessary to affirm the possibility of speaking of thought without trespassing on the domain of brain physiology. many people to-day find it difficult to grasp the concept of thought in its purity. anyone who challenges the account of thought which i have given here, by quoting cabanis' statement that "the brain secretes thoughts as the liver does gall or the spittle-glands spittle, etc." simply does not know of what i am talking. he attempts to discover thought by the same method of mere observation which we apply to the other objects that make up the world. but he cannot find it in this way, because, as i have shown, it eludes just this ordinary observation. whoever cannot transcend materialism lacks the ability to throw himself into the exceptional attitude i have described, in which he becomes conscious of what in all other mental activity remains unconscious. it is as useless to discuss thought with one who is not willing to adopt this attitude, as it would be to discuss colour with a blind man. let him not imagine, however, that we regard physiological processes as thought. he fails to explain thought, because he is not even aware that it is there. for every one, however, who has the ability to observe thought, and with good will every normal man has this ability, this observation is the most important he can make. for he observes something which he himself produces. he is not confronted by what is to begin with a strange object, but by his own activity. he knows how that which he observes has come to be. he perceives clearly its connections and relations. he gains a firm point from which he can, with well-founded hopes, seek an explanation of the other phenomena of the world. the feeling that he had found such a firm foundation, induced the father of modern philosophy, descartes, to base the whole of human knowledge on the principle, "i think, therefore i am." all other things, all other processes, are independent of me. whether they be truth, or illusion, or dream, i know not. there is only one thing of which i am absolutely certain, for i myself am the author of its indubitable existence; and that is my thought. whatever other origin it may have in addition, whether it come from god or from elsewhere, of one thing i am sure, that it exists in the sense that i myself produce it. descartes had, to begin with, no justification for reading any other meaning into his principle. all he had a right to assert was that, in apprehending myself as thinking, i apprehend myself, within the world-system, in that activity which is most uniquely characteristic of me. what the added words "therefore i am" are intended to mean has been much debated. they can have a meaning on one condition only. the simplest assertion i can make of a thing is, that it is, that it exists. what kind of existence, in detail, it has, can in no case be determined on the spot, as soon as the thing enters within the horizon of my experience. each object must be studied in its relations to others, before we can determine the sense in which we can speak of its existence. an experienced process may be a complex of percepts, or it may be a dream, an hallucination, etc. in short, i cannot say in what sense it exists. i can never read off the kind of existence from the process itself, for i can discover it only when i consider the process in its relation to other things. but this, again, yields me no knowledge beyond just its relation to other things. my inquiry touches firm ground only when i find an object, the reason of the existence of which i can gather from itself. such an object i am myself in so far as i think, for i qualify my existence by the determinate and self-contained content of my thought-activity. from here i can go on to ask whether other things exist in the same or in some other sense. when thought is made an object of observation, something which usually escapes our attention is added to the other observed contents of the world. but the usual manner of observation, such as is employed also for other objects, is in no way altered. we add to the number of objects of observation, but not to the number of methods. when we are observing other things, there enters among the world-processes--among which i now include observation--one process which is overlooked. there is present something different from every other kind of process, something which is not taken into account. but when i make an object of my own thinking, there is no such neglected element present. for what lurks now in the background is just thought itself over again. the object of observation is qualitatively identical with the activity directed upon it. this is another characteristic feature of thought-processes. when we make them objects of observation, we are not compelled to do so with the help of something qualitatively different, but can remain within the realm of thought. when i weave a tissue of thoughts round an independently given object, i transcend my observation, and the question then arises, what right have i to do this? why do i not passively let the object impress itself on me? how is it possible for my thought to be relevantly related to the object? these are questions which every one must put to himself who reflects on his own thought-processes. but all these questions lapse when we think about thought itself. we then add nothing to our thought that is foreign to it, and therefore have no need to justify any such addition. schelling says: "to know nature means to create nature." if we take these words of the daring philosopher of nature literally, we shall have to renounce for ever all hope of gaining knowledge of nature. for nature after all exists, and if we have to create it over again, we must know the principles according to which it has originated in the first instance. we should have to borrow from nature as it exists the conditions of existence for the nature which we are about to create. but this borrowing, which would have to precede the creating, would be a knowing of nature, and would be this even if after the borrowing no creation at all were attempted. the only kind of nature which it would be possible to create without previous knowledge, would be a nature different from the existing one. what is impossible with nature, viz., creation prior to knowledge, that we accomplish in the act of thought. were we to refrain from thinking until we had first gained knowledge of it, we should never think at all. we must resolutely think straight ahead, and then afterwards by introspective analysis gain knowledge of our own processes. thus we ourselves create the thought-processes which we then make objects of observation. the existence of all other objects is provided for us without any activity on our part. my contention that we must think before we can make thought an object of knowledge, might easily be countered by the apparently equally valid contention that we cannot wait with digesting until we have first observed the process of digestion. this objection would be similar to that brought by pascal against descartes, when he asserted we might also say "i walk, therefore i am." certainly i must digest resolutely and not wait until i have studied the physiological process of digestion. but i could only compare this with the analysis of thought if, after digestion, i set myself not to analyse it by thought, but to eat and digest it. it is not without reason that, while digestion cannot become the object of digestion, thought can very well become the object of thought. this then is indisputable, that in thinking we have got hold of one bit of the world-process which requires our presence if anything is to happen. and that is the very point that matters. the very reason why things seem so puzzling is just that i play no part in their production. they are simply given to me, whereas i know how thought is produced. hence there can be no more fundamental starting-point than thought from which to regard all world-processes. i should like still to mention a widely current error which prevails with regard to thought. it is often said that thought, in its real nature, is never experienced. the thought-processes which connect our perceptions with one another, and weave about them a network of concepts, are not at all the same as those which our analysis afterwards extracts from the objects of perception, in order to make them the object of study. what we have unconsciously woven into things is, so we are told, something widely different from what subsequent analysis recovers out of them. those who hold this view do not see that it is impossible to escape from thought. i cannot get outside thought when i want to observe it. we should never forget that the distinction between thought which goes on unconsciously and thought which is consciously analysed, is a purely external one and irrelevant to our discussion. i do not in any way alter a thing by making it an object of thought. i can well imagine that a being with quite different sense-organs, and with a differently constructed intelligence, would have a very different idea of a horse from mine, but i cannot think that my own thought becomes different because i make it an object of knowledge. i myself observe my own processes. we are not talking here of how my thought-processes appear to an intelligence different from mine, but how they appear to me. in any case, the idea which another mind forms of my thought cannot be truer than the one which i form myself. only if the thought-processes were not my own, but the activity of a being quite different from me, could i maintain that, notwithstanding my forming a definite idea of these thought-processes, their real nature was beyond my comprehension. so far, there is not the slightest reason why i should regard my thought from any other point of view than my own. i contemplate the rest of the world by means of thought. how should i make of my thought an exception? i think i have given sufficient reasons for making thought the starting-point for my theory of the world. when archimedes had discovered the lever, he thought he could lift the whole cosmos out of its hinges, if only he could find a point of support for his instrument. he needed a point which was self-supporting. in thought we have a principle which is self-subsisting. let us try, therefore, to understand the world starting with thought as our basis. thought can be grasped by thought. the question is whether by thought we can also grasp something other than thought. i have so far spoken of thought without taking any account of its vehicle, the human consciousness. most present-day philosophers would object that, before there can be thought, there must be consciousness. hence we ought to start, not from thought, but from consciousness. there is no thought, they say without consciousness. in reply i would urge that, in order to clear up the relation between thought and consciousness, i must think about it. hence i presuppose thought. one might, it is true, retort that, though a philosopher who wishes to understand consciousness, naturally makes use of thought, and so far presupposes it, in the ordinary course of life thought arises within consciousness and therefore presupposes that. were this answer given to the world-creator, when he was about to create thought, it would, without doubt, be to the point. thought cannot, of course, come into being before consciousness. the philosopher, however, is not concerned with the creation of the world, but with the understanding of it. hence he is in search of the starting-point, not for creation, but for the understanding of the world. it seems to me very strange that philosophers are reproached for troubling themselves, above all, about the correctness of their principles, instead of turning straight to the objects which they seek to understand. the world-creator had above all to know how to find a vehicle for thought; the philosopher must seek a firm basis for the understanding of what is given. what does it help us to start with consciousness and make it an object of thought, if we have not first inquired how far it is possible at all to gain any knowledge of things by thought? we must first consider thought quite impartially without relation to a thinking subject or to an object of thought. for subject and object are both concepts constructed by thought. there is no denying that thought must be understood before anything else can be understood. whoever denies this, fails to realise that man is not the first link in the chain of creation but the last. hence, in order to explain the world by means of concepts, we cannot start from the elements of existence which came first in time, but we must begin with those which are nearest and most intimately connected with us. we cannot, with a leap, transport ourselves to the beginning of the world, in order to begin our analysis there, but we must start from the present and see whether we cannot advance from the later to the earlier. as long as geology fabled fantastic revolutions to account for the present state of the earth, it groped in darkness. it was only when it began to study the processes at present at work on the earth, and from these to argue back to the past, that it gained a firm foundation. as long as philosophy assumes all sorts of principles, such as atom, motion, matter, will, the unconscious, it will hang in the air. the philosopher can reach his goal only if he adopts that which is last in time as first in his theory. this absolutely last in the world-process is thought. there are people who say it is impossible to ascertain with certainty whether thought is right or wrong, and that, so far, our starting-point is a doubtful one. it would be just as intelligent to raise doubts as to whether a tree is in itself right or wrong. thought is a fact, and it is meaningless to speak of the truth or falsity of a fact. i can, at most, be in doubt as to whether thought is rightly employed, just as i can doubt whether a certain tree supplies wood adapted to the making of this or that useful object. it is just the purpose of this book to show how far the application of thought to the world is right or wrong. i can understand anyone doubting whether, by means of thought, we can gain any knowledge of the world, but it is unintelligible to me how anyone can doubt that thought in itself is right. addition to the revised edition ( ). in the preceding discussion i have pointed out the importance of the difference between thinking and all other activities of mind. this difference is a fact which is patent to genuinely unprejudiced observation. an observer who does not try to see the facts without preconception will be tempted to bring against my argumentation such objections as these: when i think about a rose, there is involved nothing more than a relation of my "i" to the rose, just as when i feel the beauty of the rose. there subsists a relation between "i" and object in thinking precisely as there does, e.g., in feeling or perceiving. those who urge this objection fail to bear in mind that it is only in the activity of thinking that the "i," or ego, knows itself to be identical, right into all the ramifications of the activity, with that which does the thinking. of no other activity of mind can we say the same. for example, in a feeling of pleasure it is easy for a really careful observer to discriminate between the extent to which the ego knows itself to be identical with what is active in the feeling, and the extent to which there is something passive in the ego, so that the pleasure is merely something which happens to the ego. the same applies to the other mental activities. the main thing is not to confuse the "having of images" with the elaboration of ideas by thinking. images may appear in the mind dream-wise, like vague intimations. but this is not thinking. true, someone might now urge: if this is what you mean by "thinking," then your thinking contains willing, and you have to do, not with mere thinking, but with the will to think. however, this would justify us only in saying: genuine thinking must always be willed thinking. but this is quite irrelevant to the characterisation of thinking as this has been given in the preceding discussion. let it be granted that the nature of thinking necessarily implies its being willed, the point which matters is that nothing is willed which, in being carried out, fails to appear to the ego as an activity completely its own and under its own supervision. indeed, we must say that thinking appears to the observer as through and through willed, precisely because of its nature as above defined. if we genuinely try to master all the facts which are relevant to a judgment about the nature of thinking, we cannot fail to observe that, as a mental activity, thinking has the unique character which is here in question. a reader of whose powers the author of this book has a very high opinion, has objected that it is impossible to speak about thinking as we are here doing, because the supposed observation of active thinking is nothing but an illusion. in reality, what is observed is only the results of an unconscious activity which lies at the basis of thinking. it is only because, and just because, this unconscious activity escapes observation, that the deceptive appearance of the self-existence of the observed thinking arises, just as when an illumination by means of a rapid succession of electric sparks makes us believe that we see a movement. this objection, likewise, rests solely on an inaccurate view of the facts. the objection ignores that it is the ego itself which, identical with the thinking, observes from within its own activity. the ego would have to stand outside the thinking in order to suffer the sort of deception which is caused by an illumination with a rapid succession of electric sparks. one might say rather that to indulge in such an analogy is to deceive oneself wilfully, just as if someone, seeing a moving light, were obstinately to affirm that it is being freshly lit by an unknown hand at every point where it appears. no, whoever is bent on seeing in thought anything else than an activity produced--and observable by--the ego has first to shut his eyes to the plain facts that are there for the looking, in order then to invent a hypothetical activity as the basis of thinking. if he does not wilfully blind himself, he must recognise that all these "hypothetical additions" to thinking take him away from its real nature. unprejudiced observation shows that nothing is to be counted as belonging to the nature of thinking except what is found in thinking itself. it is impossible to discover the cause of thinking by going outside the realm of thought. iv the world as percept the products of thinking are concepts and ideas. what a concept is cannot be expressed in words. words can do no more than draw our attention to the fact that we have concepts. when someone perceives a tree, the perception acts as a stimulus for thought. thus an ideal element is added to the perceived object, and the perceiver regards the object and its ideal complement as belonging together. when the object disappears from the field of his perception, the ideal counterpart alone remains. this latter is the concept of the object. the wider the range of our experience, the larger becomes the number of our concepts. moreover, concepts are not by any means found in isolation one from the other. they combine to form an ordered and systematic whole. the concept "organism," e.g., combines with those of "development according to law," "growth," and others. other concepts based on particular objects fuse completely with one another. all concepts formed from particular lions fuse in the universal concept "lion." in this way, all the separate concepts combine to form a closed, conceptual system within which each has its special place. ideas do not differ qualitatively from concepts. they are but fuller, more saturated, more comprehensive concepts. i attach special importance to the necessity of bearing in mind, here, that i make thought my starting-point, and not concepts and ideas which are first gained by means of thought. these latter presuppose thought. my remarks regarding the self-dependent, self-sufficient character of thought cannot, therefore, be simply transferred to concepts. (i make special mention of this, because it is here that i differ from hegel, who regards the concept as something primary and ultimate.) concepts cannot be derived from perception. this is apparent from the fact that, as man grows up, he slowly and gradually builds up the concepts corresponding to the objects which surround him. concepts are added to perception. a philosopher, widely read at the present day (herbert spencer), describes the mental process which we perform upon perception as follows: "if, when walking through the fields some day in september, you hear a rustle a few yards in advance, and on observing the ditch-side where it occurs, see the herbage agitated, you will probably turn towards the spot to learn by what this sound and motion are produced. as you approach there flutters into the ditch a partridge; on seeing which your curiosity is satisfied--you have what you call an explanation of the appearances. the explanation, mark, amounts to this--that whereas throughout life you have had countless experiences of disturbance among small stationary bodies, accompanying the movement of other bodies among them, and have generalised the relation between such disturbances and such movements, you consider this particular disturbance explained on finding it to present an instance of the like relation" (first principles, part i, par. ). a closer analysis leads to a very different description from that here given. when i hear a noise, my first demand is for the concept which fits this percept. without this concept, the noise is to me a mere noise. whoever does not reflect further, hears just the noise and is satisfied with that. but my thought makes it clear to me that the noise is to be regarded as an effect. thus it is only when i combine the concept of effect with the percept of a noise that i am led to go beyond the particular percept and seek for its cause. the concept of "effect" calls up that of "cause," and my next step is to look for the agent, which i find, say, in a partridge. but these concepts, cause and effect, can never be gained through mere perception, however many instances we bring under review. perception evokes thought, and it is this which shows me how to link separate experiences together. if one demands of a "strictly objective science" that it should take its data from perception alone, one must demand also that it abandon all thought. for thought, by its very nature, transcends the objects of perception. it is time now to pass from thought to the thinker. for it is through the thinker that thought and perception are combined. the human mind is the stage on which concept and percept meet and are linked to one another. in saying this, we already characterise this (human) consciousness. it mediates between thought and perception. in perception the object appears as given, in thought the mind seems to itself to be active. it regards the thing as object and itself as the thinking subject. when thought is directed upon the perceptual world we have consciousness of objects; when it is directed upon itself we have self-consciousness. human consciousness must, of necessity, be at the same time self-consciousness, because it is a consciousness which thinks. for, when thought contemplates its own activity it makes an object for study of its own essential nature, it makes an object of itself as subject. it is important to note here that it is only by means of thinking that i am able to determine myself as subject and contrast myself with objects. therefore thinking must never be regarded as a merely subjective activity. thinking transcends the distinction of subject and object. it produces these two concepts just as it produces all others. when, therefore, i, as thinking subject, refer a concept to an object, we must not regard this reference as something purely subjective. it is not the subject, but thought, which makes the reference. the subject does not think because it is a subject, rather it conceives itself to be a subject because it can think. the activity of consciousness, in so far as it thinks, is thus not merely subjective. rather it is neither subjective nor objective; it transcends both these concepts. i ought never to say that i, as an individual subject, think, but rather that i, as subject, exist myself by the grace of thought. thought thus takes me out of myself and relates me to objects. at the same time it separates me from them, inasmuch as i, as subject, am set over against the objects. it is just this which constitutes the double nature of man. his thought embraces himself and the rest of the world. but by this same act of thought he determines himself also as an individual, in contrast with the objective world. we must next ask ourselves how the other element, which we have so far simply called the perceptual object and which comes, in consciousness, into contact with thought, enters into thought at all? in order to answer this question, we must eliminate from the field of consciousness everything which has been imported by thought. for, at any moment, the content of consciousness is always shot through with concepts in the most various ways. let us assume that a being with fully developed human intelligence originated out of nothing and confronted the world. all that it there perceived before its thought began to act would be the pure content of perception. the world so far would appear to this being as a mere chaotic aggregate of sense-data, colours, sounds, sensations of pressure, of warmth, of taste, of smell, and, lastly, feelings of pleasure and pain. this mass constitutes the world of pure unthinking perception. over against it stands thought, ready to begin its activity as soon as it can find a point of attack. experience shows that the opportunity is not long in coming. thought is able to draw threads from one sense-datum to another. it brings definite concepts to bear on these data and thus establishes a relation between them. we have seen above how a noise which we hear is connected with another content by our identifying the first as the effect of the second. if now we recollect that the activity of thought is on no account to be considered as merely subjective, then we shall not be tempted to believe that the relations thus established by thought have merely subjective validity. our next task is to discover by means of thought what relation the above-mentioned immediate sense-data have to the conscious subject. the ambiguity of current speech makes it advisable for me to come to an agreement with my readers concerning the meaning of a word which i shall have to employ in what follows. i shall apply the name "percepts" to the immediate sense-data enumerated above, in so far as the subject consciously apprehends them. it is, then, not the process of perception, but the object of this process which i call the "percept." i reject the term "sensation," because this has a definite meaning in physiology which is narrower than that of my term "percept." i can speak of feeling as a percept, but not as a sensation in the physiological sense of the term. before i can have cognisance of my feeling it must become a percept for me. the manner in which, through observation, we gain knowledge of our thought-processes is such that when we first begin to notice thought, it too may be called a percept. the unreflective man regards his percepts, such as they appear to his immediate apprehension, as things having a wholly independent existence. when he sees a tree he believes that it stands in the form which he sees, with the colours of all its parts, etc., there on the spot towards which his gaze is directed. when the same man sees the sun in the morning appear as a disc on the horizon, and follows the course of this disc, he believes that the phenomenon exists and occurs (by itself) exactly as he perceives it. to this belief he clings until he meets with further percepts which contradict his former ones. the child who has as yet had no experience of distance grasps at the moon, and does not correct its first impression as to the real distance until a second percept contradicts the first. every extension of the circle of my percepts compels me to correct my picture of the world. we see this in everyday life, as well as in the mental development of mankind. the picture which the ancients made for themselves of the relation of the earth to the sun and other heavenly bodies, had to be replaced by another when copernicus found that it contradicted percepts which in those early days were unknown. a man who had been born blind said, when operated on by dr. franz, that the idea of the size of objects which he had formed before his operation by his sense of touch was a very different one. he had to correct his tactual percepts by his visual percepts. how is it that we are compelled to make these continual corrections in our observations? a single reflection supplies the answer to this question. when i stand at one end of an avenue, the trees at the other end, away from me, seem smaller and nearer together than those where i stand. but the scene which i perceive changes when i change the place from which i am looking. the exact form in which it presents itself to me is, therefore, dependent on a condition which inheres, not in the object, but in me, the percipient. it is all the same to the avenue where i stand. but the picture of it which i receive depends essentially on my standpoint. in the same way, it makes no difference to the sun and the planetary system that human beings happen to perceive them from the earth; but the picture of the heavens which human beings have is determined by the fact that they inhabit the earth. this dependence of our percepts on our points of observation is the easiest kind of dependence to understand. the matter becomes more difficult when we realise further that our perceptual world is dependent on our bodily and mental organisation. the physicist teaches us that within the space in which we hear a sound there are vibrations of the air, and that there are vibrations also in the particles of the body which we regard as the cause of the sound. these vibrations are perceived as sounds only if we have normally constructed ears. without them the whole world would be for us for ever silent. again, the physiologist teaches us that there are men who perceive nothing of the wonderful display of colours which surrounds us. in their world there are only degrees of light and dark. others are blind only to one colour, e.g., red. their world lacks this colour tone, and hence it is actually a different one from that of the average man. i should like to call the dependence of my perceptual world on my point of observation "mathematical," and its dependence on my organisation "qualitative." the former determines proportions of size and mutual distances of my percepts, the latter their quality. the fact that i see a red surface as red--this qualitative determination--depends on the structure of my eye. my percepts, then, are in the first instance subjective. the recognition of the subjective character of our percepts may easily lead us to doubt whether there is any objective basis for them at all. when we know that a percept, e.g., that of a red colour or of a certain tone, is not possible without a specific structure of our organism, we may easily be led to believe that it has no being at all apart from our subjective organisation, that it has no kind of existence apart from the act of perceiving of which it is the object. the classical representative of this theory is george berkeley, who held that from the moment we realise the importance of a subject for perception, we are no longer able to believe in the existence of a world apart from a conscious mind. "some truths there are so near and obvious to the mind that man need only open his eyes to see them. such i take this important one to be, viz., that all the choir of heaven and the furniture of the earth--in a word, all those bodies which compose the mighty frame of the world--have not any subsistence without a mind; that their being is to be perceived or known; that consequently, so long as they are not actually perceived by me, or do not exist in my mind or that of any other created spirit, they must either have no existence at all or else subsist in the mind of some eternal spirit" (berkeley, of the principles of human knowledge, part i, section ). on this view, when we take away the act of perceiving, nothing remains of the percept. there is no colour when none is seen, no sound when none is heard. extension, form, and motion exist as little as colour and sound apart from the act of perception. we never perceive bare extension or shape. these are always joined with colour or some other quality, which are undoubtedly dependent on the subject. if these latter disappear when we cease to perceive, the former, being connected with them, must disappear likewise. if it is urged that, even though figure, colour, sound, etc., have no existence except in the act of perception, yet there must be things which exist apart from perception and which are similar to the percepts in our minds, then the view we have mentioned would answer, that a colour can be similar only to a colour, a figure to a figure. our percepts can be similar only to our percepts and to nothing else. even what we call a thing is nothing but a collection of percepts which are connected in a definite way. if i strip a table of its shape, extension, colour, etc.--in short, of all that is merely my percepts--then nothing remains over. if we follow this view to its logical conclusion, we are led to the assertion that the objects of my perceptions exist only through me, and only in as far as, and as long as, i perceive them. they disappear with my perceiving and have no meaning apart from it. apart from my percepts i know of no objects and cannot know of any. no objection can be made to this assertion as long as we take into account merely the general fact that the percept is determined in part by the organisation of the subject. the matter would be far otherwise if we were in a position to say what part exactly is played by our perceiving in the occurrence of a percept. we should know then what happens to a percept whilst it is being perceived, and we should also be able to determine what character it must possess before it comes to be perceived. this leads us to turn our attention from the object of a perception to the subject of it. i am aware not only of other things but also of myself. the content of my perception of myself consists, in the first instance, in that i am something stable in contrast with the ever coming and going flux of percepts. the awareness of myself accompanies in my consciousness the awareness of all other percepts. when i am absorbed in the perception of a given object i am, for the time being, aware only of this object. next i become aware also of myself. i am then conscious, not only of the object, but also of my self as opposed to and observing the object. i do not merely see a tree, i know also that it is i who see it. i know, moreover, that some process takes place in me when i observe a tree. when the tree disappears from my field of vision, an after-effect of this process remains, viz., an image of the tree. this image has become associated with my self during my perception. my self has become enriched; to its content a new element has been added. this element i call my idea of the tree. i should never have occasion to talk of ideas, were i not aware of my own self. percepts would come and go; i should let them slip by. it is only because i am aware of my self, and observe that with each perception the content of the self is changed, that i am compelled to connect the perception of the object with the changes in the content of my self, and to speak of having an idea. that i have ideas is in the same sense matter of observation to me as that other objects have colour, sound, etc. i am now also able to distinguish these other objects, which stand over against me, by the name of the outer world, whereas the contents of my perception of my self form my inner world. the failure to recognise the true relation between idea and object has led to the greatest misunderstandings in modern philosophy. the fact that i perceive a change in myself, that my self undergoes a modification, has been thrust into the foreground, whilst the object which causes these modifications is altogether ignored. in consequence it has been said that we perceive, not objects, but only our ideas. i know, so it is said, nothing of the table in itself, which is the object of my perception, but only of the changes which occur within me when i perceive a table. this theory should not be confused with the berkeleyan theory mentioned above. berkeley maintains the subjective nature of my perceptual contents, but he does not say that i can know only my own ideas. he limits my knowledge to my ideas because, on his view, there are no objects other than ideas. what i perceive as a table no longer exists, according to berkeley, when i cease to look at it. this is why berkeley holds that our percepts are created directly by the omnipotence of god. i see a table because god causes this percept in me. for berkeley, therefore, nothing is real except god and human spirits. what we call the "world" exists only in spirits. what the naïve man calls the outer world, or material nature, is for berkeley non-existent. this theory is confronted by the now predominant kantian view which limits our knowledge of the world to our ideas, not because of any conviction that nothing beyond these ideas exists, but because it holds that we are so organised that we can have knowledge only of the changes within our own selves, not of the things-in-themselves which are the causes of these changes. this view concludes from the fact that i know only my own ideas, not that there is no reality independent of them, but only that the subject cannot have direct knowledge of such reality. the mind can merely "through the medium of its subjective thoughts imagine it, conceive it, know it, or perhaps also fail to know it" (o. liebmann, zur analysis der wirklichkeit, p. ). kantians believe that their principles are absolutely certain, indeed immediately evident, without any proof. "the most fundamental principle which the philosopher must begin by grasping clearly, consists in the recognition that our knowledge, in the first instance, does not extend beyond our ideas. our ideas are all that we immediately have and experience, and just because we have immediate experience of them the most radical doubt cannot rob us of this knowledge. on the other hand, the knowledge which transcends my ideas--taking ideas here in the widest possible sense, so as to include all psychical processes--is not proof against doubt. hence, at the very beginning of all philosophy we must explicitly set down all knowledge which transcends ideas as open to doubt." these are the opening sentences of volkelt's book on kant's theory of knowledge. what is here put forward as an immediate and self-evident truth is, in reality, the conclusion of a piece of argument which runs as follows. naïve common sense believes that things, just as we perceive them, exist also outside our minds. physics, physiology, and psychology, however, teach us that our percepts are dependent on our organisation, and that therefore we cannot know anything about external objects except what our organisation transmits to us. the objects which we perceive are thus modifications of our organisation, not things-in-themselves. this line of thought has, in fact, been characterised by ed. von hartmann as the one which leads necessarily to the conviction that we can have direct knowledge only of our own ideas (cp. his grundproblem der erkenntnistheorie, pp. - ). because outside our organisms we find vibrations of particles and of air, which are perceived by us as sounds, it is concluded that what we call sound is nothing more than a subjective reaction of our organisms to these motions in the external world. similarly, colour and heat are inferred to be merely modifications of our organisms. and, further, these two kinds of percepts are held to be the effects of processes in the external world which are utterly different from what we experience as heat or as colour. when these processes stimulate the nerves in the skin of my body, i perceive heat; when they stimulate the optical nerve i perceive light and colour. light, colour, and heat, then, are the reactions of my sensory nerves to external stimuli. similarly, the sense of touch reveals to me, not the objects of the outer world, but only states of my own body. the physicist holds that bodies are composed of infinitely small particles called molecules, and that these molecules are not in direct contact with one another, but have definite intervals between them. between them, therefore, is empty space. across this space they act on one another by attraction and repulsion. if i put my hand on a body, the molecules of my hand by no means touch those of the body directly, but there remains a certain distance between body and hand, and what i experience as the body's resistance is nothing but the effect of the force of repulsion which its molecules exert on my hand. i am absolutely external to the body and experience only its effects on my organism. the theory of the so-called specific nervous energy, which has been advanced by j. müller, supplements these speculations. it asserts that each sense has the peculiarity that it reacts to all external stimuli in only one definite way. if the optic nerve is stimulated, light sensations result, irrespective of whether the stimulation is due to what we call light, or to mechanical pressure, or an electrical current. on the other hand, the same external stimulus applied to different senses gives rise to different sensations. the conclusion from these facts seems to be, that our sense-organs can give us knowledge only of what occurs in themselves, but not of the external world. they determine our percepts, each according to its own nature. physiology shows, further, that there can be no direct knowledge even of the effects which objects produce on our sense-organs. through his study of the processes which occur in our own bodies, the physiologist finds that, even in the sense-organs, the effects of the external process are modified in the most diverse ways. we can see this most clearly in the case of eye and ear. both are very complicated organs which modify the external stimulus considerably, before they conduct it to the corresponding nerve. from the peripheral end of the nerve the modified stimulus is then conducted to the brain. here the central organs must in turn be stimulated. the conclusion is, therefore, drawn that the external process undergoes a series of transformations before it reaches consciousness. the brain processes are connected by so many intermediate links with the external stimuli, that any similarity between them is out of the question. what the brain ultimately transmits to the soul is neither external processes, nor processes in the sense-organs, but only such as occur in the brain. but even these are not apprehended immediately by the soul. what we finally have in consciousness are not brain processes at all, but sensations. my sensation of red has absolutely no similarity with the process which occurs in the brain when i sense red. the sensation, again, occurs as an effect in the mind, and the brain process is only its cause. this is why hartmann (grundproblem der erkenntnistheorie, p. ) says, "what the subject experiences is therefore only modifications of his own psychical states and nothing else." however, when i have sensations, they are very far as yet from being grouped in those complexes which i perceive as "things." only single sensations can be transmitted to me by the brain. the sensations of hardness and softness are transmitted to me by the organ of touch, those of colour and light by the organ of sight. yet all these are found united in one object. this unification must, therefore, be brought about by the soul itself; that is, the soul constructs things out of the separate sensations which the brain conveys to it. my brain conveys to me singly, and by widely different paths, the visual, tactual, and auditory sensations which the soul then combines into the idea of a trumpet. thus, what is really the result of a process (i.e., the idea of a trumpet), is for my consciousness the primary datum. in this result nothing can any longer be found of what exists outside of me and originally stimulated my sense-organs. the external object is lost entirely on the way to the brain and through the brain to the soul. it would be hard to find in the history of human speculation another edifice of thought which has been built up with greater ingenuity, and which yet, on closer analysis, collapses into nothing. let us look a little closer at the way it has been constructed. the theory starts with what is given in naïve consciousness, i.e., with things as perceived. it proceeds to show that none of the qualities which we find in these things would exist for us, had we no sense-organs. no eye--no colour. therefore, the colour is not, as yet, present in the stimulus which affects the eye. it arises first through the interaction of the eye and the object. the latter is, therefore, colourless. but neither is the colour in the eye, for in the eye there is only a chemical, or physical, process which is first conducted by the optic nerve to the brain, and there initiates another process. even this is not yet the colour. that is only produced in the soul by means of the brain process. even then it does not yet appear in consciousness, but is first referred by the soul to a body in the external world. there i finally perceive it, as a quality of this body. we have travelled in a complete circle. we are conscious of a coloured object. that is the starting-point. here thought begins its construction. if i had no eye, the object would be, for me, colourless. i cannot, therefore, attribute the colour to the object. i must look for it elsewhere. i look for it, first, in the eye--in vain; in the nerve--in vain; in the brain--in vain once more; in the soul--here i find it indeed, but not attached to the object. i recover the coloured body only on returning to my starting-point. the circle is completed. the theory leads me to identify what the naïve man regards as existing outside of him, as really a product of my mind. as long as one stops here everything seems to fit beautifully. but we must go over the argument once more from the beginning. hitherto i have used, as my starting-point, the object, i.e., the external percept of which up to now, from my naïve standpoint, i had a totally wrong conception. i thought that the percept, just as i perceive it, had objective existence. but now i observe that it disappears with my act of perception, that it is only a modification of my mental state. have i, then, any right at all to start from it in my arguments? can i say of it that it acts on my soul? i must henceforth treat the table of which formerly i believed that it acted on me, and produced an idea of itself in me, as itself an idea. but from this it follows logically that my sense-organs, and the processes in them are also merely subjective. i have no right to talk of a real eye but only of my idea of an eye. exactly the same is true of the nerve paths, and the brain processes, and even of the process in the soul itself, through which things are supposed to be constructed out of the chaos of diverse sensations. if assuming the truth of the first circle of argumentation, i run through the steps of my cognitive activity once more, the latter reveals itself as a tissue of ideas which, as such, cannot act on one another. i cannot say that my idea of the object acts on my idea of the eye, and that from this interaction results my idea of colour. but it is necessary that i should say this. for as soon as i see clearly that my sense-organs and their activity, my nerve- and soul-processes, can also be known to me only through perception, the argument which i have outlined reveals itself in its full absurdity. it is quite true that i can have no percept without the corresponding sense-organ. but just as little can i be aware of a sense-organ without perception. from the percept of a table i can pass to the eye which sees it, or the nerves in the skin which touches it, but what takes place in these i can, in turn, learn only from perception. and then i soon perceive that there is no trace of similarity between the process which takes place in the eye and the colour which i see. i cannot get rid of colour sensations by pointing to the process which takes place in the eye whilst i perceive a colour. no more can i re-discover the colour in the nerve- or brain-processes. i only add a new percept, localised within the organism, to the first percept which the naïve man localises outside of his organism. i only pass from one percept to another. moreover, there is a break in the whole argument. i can follow the processes in my organism up to those in my brain, even though my assumptions become more and more hypothetical as i approach the central processes of the brain. the method of external observation ceases with the process in my brain, more particularly with the process which i should observe, if i could treat the brain with the instruments and methods of physics and chemistry. the method of internal observation, or introspection, begins with the sensations, and includes the construction of things out of the material of sense-data. at the point of transition from brain process to sensation, there is a break in the sequence of observation. the theory which i have here described, and which calls itself critical idealism, in contrast to the standpoint of naïve common sense which it calls naïve realism, makes the mistake of characterising one group of percepts as ideas, whilst taking another group in the very same sense as the naïve realism which it apparently refutes. it establishes the ideal character of percepts by accepting naïvely, as objectively valid facts, the percepts connected with one's own body; and, in addition, it fails to see that it confuses two spheres of observation, between which it can find no connecting link. critical idealism can refute naïve realism only by itself assuming, in naïve-realistic fashion, that one's own organism has objective existence. as soon as the idealist realises that the percepts connected with his own organism stand on exactly the same footing as those which naïve realism assumes to have objective existence, he can no longer use the former as a safe foundation for his theory. he would, to be consistent, have to regard his own organism also as a mere complex of ideas. but this removes the possibility of regarding the content of the perceptual world as a product of the mind's organisation. one would have to assume that the idea "colour" was only a modification of the idea "eye." so-called critical idealism can be established only by borrowing the assumptions of naïve realism. the apparent refutation of the latter is achieved only by uncritically accepting its own assumptions as valid in another sphere. this much, then, is certain: analysis within the world of percepts cannot establish critical idealism, and, consequently, cannot strip percepts of their objective character. still less is it legitimate to represent the principle that "the perceptual world is my idea" as self-evident and needing no proof. schopenhauer begins his chief work, the world as will and idea, with the words: "the world is my idea--this is a truth which holds good for everything that lives and knows, though man alone can bring it into reflective and abstract consciousness. if he really does this, he has attained to philosophical wisdom. it then becomes clear and certain to him that what he knows is not a sun and an earth, but only an eye that sees a sun, a hand that feels an earth; that the world which surrounds him is there only in idea, i.e., only in relation to something else, the consciousness which is himself. if any truth can be asserted a priori, it is this: for it is the expression of the most general form of all possible and thinkable experience, a form which is more general than time, or space, or causality, for they all presuppose it ..." (the world as will and idea, book i, par. ). this whole theory is wrecked by the fact, already mentioned above, that the eyes and the hand are just as much percepts as the sun and the earth. using schopenhauer's vocabulary in his own sense, i might maintain against him that my eye which sees the sun, and my hand which feels the earth, are my ideas just like the sun and the earth themselves. that, put in this way, the whole theory cancels itself, is clear without further argument. for only my real eye and my real hand, but not my ideas "eye" and "hand," could own the ideas "sun" and "earth" as modifications. yet it is only in terms of these ideas that critical idealism has the right to speak. critical idealism is totally unable to gain an insight unto the relation of percept to idea. it cannot make the separation, mentioned on p. , between what happens to the percept in the process of perception and what must be inherent in it prior to perception. we must therefore attempt this problem in another way. v our knowledge of the world from the foregoing considerations it follows that it is impossible to prove, by analysis of the content of our perceptions, that our percepts are ideas. this is supposed to be proved by showing that, if the process of perceiving takes place in the way in which we conceive it in accordance with the naïve-realistic assumptions concerning the psychological and physiological constitution of human individuals, then we have to do, not with things themselves, but merely with our ideas of things. now, if naïve realism, when consistently thought out, leads to results which directly contradict its presuppositions, then these presuppositions must be discarded as unsuitable for the foundation of a theory of the world. in any case, it is inadmissible to reject the presuppositions and yet accept the consequences, as the critical idealist does who bases his assertion that the world is my idea on the line of argument indicated above. (eduard von hartmann gives in his work das grundproblem der erkenntnistheorie a full account of this line of argument.) the truth of critical idealism is one thing, the persuasiveness of its proofs another. how it stands with the former, will appear later in the course of our argument, but the persuasiveness of its proofs is nil. if one builds a house, and the ground floor collapses whilst the first floor is being built, then the first floor collapses too. naïve realism and critical idealism are related to one another like the ground floor to the first floor in this simile. for one who holds that the whole perceptual world is only an ideal world, and, moreover, the effect of things unknown to him acting on his soul, the real problem of knowledge is naturally concerned, not with the ideas present only in the soul, but with the things which lie outside his consciousness, and which are independent of him. he asks, how much can we learn about them indirectly, seeing that we cannot observe them directly? from this point of view, he is concerned, not with the connection of his conscious percepts with one another, but with their causes which transcend his consciousness and exist independently of him, whereas the percepts, on his view, disappear as soon as he turns his sense-organs away from the things themselves. our consciousness, on this view, works like a mirror from which the pictures of definite things disappear the very moment its reflecting surface is not turned towards them. if, now, we do not see the things themselves, but only their reflections, we must obtain knowledge of the nature of the former indirectly by drawing conclusions from the character of the latter. the whole of modern science adopts this point of view, when it uses percepts only as a means of obtaining information about the motions of matter which lie behind them, and which alone really "are." if the philosopher, as critical idealist, admits real existence at all, then his sole aim is to gain knowledge of this real existence indirectly by means of his ideas. his interest ignores the subjective world of ideas, and pursues instead the causes of these ideas. the critical idealist can, however, go even further and say, i am confined to the world of my own ideas and cannot escape from it. if i conceive a thing beyond my ideas, this concept, once more, is nothing but my idea. an idealist of this type will either deny the thing-in-itself entirely or, at any rate, assert that it has no significance for human minds, i.e., that it is as good as non-existent since we can know nothing of it. to this kind of critical idealist the whole world seems a chaotic dream, in the face of which all striving for knowledge is simply meaningless. for him there can be only two sorts of men: ( ) victims of the illusion that the dreams they have woven themselves are real things, and ( ) wise men who see through the nothingness of this dream world, and who gradually lose all desire to trouble themselves further about it. from this point of view, even one's own personality may become a mere dream phantom. just as during sleep there appears among my dream-images an image of myself, so in waking consciousness the idea of my own self is added to the idea of the outer world. i have then given to me in consciousness, not my real self, but only my idea of my self. whoever denies that things exist, or, at least, that we can know anything of them, must also deny the existence, respectively the knowledge, of one's own personality. this is how the critical idealist comes to maintain that "all reality transforms itself into a wonderful dream, without a life which is the object of the dream, and without a mind which has the dream; into a dream which is nothing but a dream of itself." (cp. fichte, die bestimmung des menschen.) whether he who believes that he recognises immediate experience to be a dream, postulates nothing behind this dream, or whether he relates his ideas to actual things, is immaterial. in both cases life itself must lose all scientific interest for him. however, whereas for those who believe that the whole of accessible reality is exhausted in dreams, all science is an absurdity, for those who feel compelled to argue from ideas to things, science consists in studying these things-in-themselves. the first of these theories of the world may be called absolute illusionism, the second is called transcendental realism [ ] by its most rigorously logical exponent, eduard von hartmann. these two points of view have this in common with naïve realism, that they seek to gain a footing in the world by means of an analysis of percepts. within this sphere, however, they are unable to find any stable point. one of the most important questions for an adherent of transcendental realism would have to be, how the ego constructs the world of ideas out of itself. a world of ideas which was given to us, and which disappeared as soon as we shut our senses to the external world, might provoke an earnest desire for knowledge, in so far as it was a means for investigating indirectly the world of the self-existing self. if the things of our experience were "ideas," then our everyday life would be like a dream, and the discovery of the true facts like waking. even our dream-images interest us as long as we dream and, consequently, do not detect their dream character. but as soon as we wake, we no longer look for the connections of our dream-images among themselves, but rather for the physical, physiological, and psychological processes which underlie them. in the same way, a philosopher who holds the world to be his idea, cannot be interested in the reciprocal relations of the details within the world. if he admits the existence of a real ego at all, then his question will be, not how one of his ideas is associated with another, but what takes place in the soul which is independent of these ideas, while a certain train of ideas passes through his consciousness. if i dream that i am drinking wine which makes my throat burn, and then wake up with a fit of coughing (cp. weygandt, entstehung der träume, ) i cease, the moment i wake, to be interested in the dream-experience for its own sake. my attention is now concerned only with the physiological and psychological processes by means of which the irritation which causes me to cough, comes to be symbolically expressed in the dream. similarly, once the philosopher is convinced that the given world consists of nothing but ideas, his interest is bound to switch from them at once to the soul which is the reality lying behind them. the matter is more serious, however, for the illusionist who denies the existence of an ego behind the "ideas," or at least holds this ego to be unknowable. we might very easily be led to such a view by the reflection that, in contrast to dreaming, there is the waking state in which we have the opportunity to detect our dreams, and to realise the real relations of things, but that there is no state of the self which is related similarly to our waking conscious life. every adherent of this view fails entirely to see that there is, in fact, something which is to mere perception what our waking experience to our dreams. this something is thought. the naïve man cannot be charged with failure to perceive this. he accepts life as it is, and regards things as real just as they present themselves to him in experience. the first step, however, which we take beyond this standpoint can be only this, that we ask how thought is related to perception. it makes no difference whether or no the percept, as given to me, has a continuous existence before and after i perceive it. if i want to assert anything whatever about it, i can do so only with the help of thought. when i assert that the world is my idea, i have enunciated the result of an act of thought, and if my thought is not applicable to the world, then my result is false. between a percept and every kind of judgment about it there intervenes thought. the reason why, in our discussion about things, we generally overlook the part played by thought, has already been given above (p. ). it lies in the fact that our attention is concentrated only on the object about which we think, but not at the same time on the thinking itself. the naïve mind, therefore, treats thought as something which has nothing to do with things, but stands altogether aloof from them and makes its theories about them. the theory which the thinker constructs concerning the phenomena of the world is regarded, not as part of the real things, but as existing only in men's heads. the world is complete in itself even without this theory. it is all ready-made and finished with all its substances and forces, and of this ready-made world man makes himself a picture. whoever thinks thus need only be asked one question. what right have you to declare the world to be complete without thought? does not the world cause thoughts in the minds of men with the same necessity as it causes the blossoms on plants? plant a seed in the earth. it puts forth roots and stem, it unfolds into leaves and blossoms. set the plant before yourselves. it connects itself, in your minds, with a definite concept. why should this concept belong any less to the whole plant than leaf and blossom? you say the leaves and blossoms exist quite apart from an experiencing subject. the concept appears only when a human being makes an object of the plant. quite so. but leaves and blossoms also appear on the plant only if there is soil in which the seed can be planted, and light and air in which the blossoms and leaves can unfold. just so the concept of a plant arises when a thinking being comes into contact with the plant. it is quite arbitrary to regard the sum of what we experience of a thing through bare perception as a totality, a whole, while that which thought reveals in it is regarded as a mere accretion which has nothing to do with the thing itself. if i am given a rosebud to-day, the percept that offers itself to me is complete only for the moment. if i put the bud into water, i shall to-morrow get a very different picture of my object. if i watch the rosebud without interruption, i shall see to-day's state gradually change into to-morrow's through an infinite number of intermediate stages. the picture which presents itself to me at any one moment is only a chance section out of the continuous process of growth in which the object is engaged. if i do not put the bud into water, a whole series of states, the possibility of which lay in the bud, will not be realised. similarly, i may be prevented to-morrow from watching the blossom further, and thus carry away an incomplete picture of it. it would be a quite unscientific and arbitrary judgment which declared of any haphazard appearance of a thing, this is the thing. to regard the sum of perceptual appearances as the thing is no more legitimate. it might be quite possible for a mind to receive the concept at the same time as, and together with, the percept. to such a mind it would never occur that the concept did not belong to the thing. it would have to ascribe to the concept an existence indivisibly bound up with the thing. let me make myself clearer by another example. if i throw a stone horizontally through the air, i perceive it in different places at different times. i connect these places so as to form a line. mathematics teaches me to distinguish various kinds of lines, one of which is the parabola. i know a parabola to be a line which is produced by a point moving according to a certain well-defined law. if i analyse the conditions under which the stone thrown by me moves, i find that the line of its flight is identical with the line i know as a parabola. that the stone moves exactly in a parabola is a result of the given conditions and follows necessarily from them. the form of the parabola belongs to the whole phenomenon as much as any other feature of it. the hypothetical mind described above which has no need of the roundabout way of thought, would find itself presented, not only with a sequence of visual percepts at different points, but, as part and parcel of these phenomena, also with the parabolic form of the line of flight, which we can add to the phenomenon only by an act of thought. it is not due to the real objects that they appear to us at first without their conceptual sides, but to our mental organisation. our whole organisation functions in such a way that in the apprehension of every real thing the relevant elements come to us from two sources, viz., from perception and from thought. the nature of things is indifferent to the way i am organised for apprehending them. the breach between perception and thought exists only from the moment that i confront objects as spectator. but which elements do, and which do not, belong to the objects, cannot depend on the manner in which i obtain my knowledge of them. man is a being with many limitations. first of all, he is a thing among other things. his existence is in space and time. hence but a limited portion of the total universe can ever be given to him. this limited portion, however, is linked up with other parts on every side both in time and in space. if our existence were so linked with things that every process in the object world were also a process in us, there would be no difference between us and things. neither would there be any individual objects for us. all processes and events would then pass continuously one into the other. the cosmos would be a unity and a whole complete in itself. the stream of events would nowhere be interrupted. but owing to our limitations we perceive as an individual object what, in truth, is not an individual object at all. nowhere, e.g., is the particular quality "red" to be found by itself in abstraction. it is surrounded on all sides by other qualities to which it belongs, and without which it could not subsist. for us, however, it is necessary to isolate certain sections of the world and to consider them by themselves. our eye can seize only single colours one after another out of a manifold colour-complex, our understanding only single concepts out of a connected conceptual system. this isolation is a subjective act, which is due to the fact that we are not identical with the world-process, but are only things among other things. it is of the greatest importance for us to determine the relation of ourselves, as things, to all other things. the determining of this relation must be distinguished from merely becoming conscious of ourselves. for this self-awareness we depend on perception just as we do for our awareness of any other thing. the perception of myself reveals to me a number of qualities which i combine into an apprehension of my personality as a whole, just as i combine the qualities, yellow, metallic, hard, etc., in the unity "gold." this kind of self-consciousness does not take me beyond the sphere of what belongs to me. hence it must be distinguished from the determination of myself by thought. just as i determine by thought the place of any single percept of the external world in the whole cosmic system, so i fit by an act of thought what i perceive in myself into the order of the world-process. my self-observation restricts me within definite limits, but my thought has nothing to do with these limits. in this sense i am a two-sided being. i am contained within the sphere which i apprehend as that of my personality, but i am also the possessor of an activity which, from a higher standpoint, determines my finite existence. thought is not individual like sensation and feeling; it is universal. it receives an individual stamp in each separate human being only because it comes to be related to his individual feelings and sensations. by means of these particular colourings of the universal thought, individual men are distinguished from one another. there is only one single concept of "triangle." it is quite immaterial for the content of this concept whether it is in a's consciousness or in b's. it will, however, be grasped by each of the two minds in its own individual way. this thought conflicts with a common prejudice which is very hard to overcome. the victims of this prejudice are unable to see that the concept of a triangle which my mind grasps is the same as the concept which my neighbour's mind grasps. the naïve man believes himself to be the creator of his concepts. hence he believes that each person has his private concepts. one of the first things which philosophic thought requires of us is to overcome this prejudice. the one single concept of "triangle" does not split up into many concepts because it is thought by many minds. for the thought of the many is itself a unity. in thought we have the element which welds each man's special individuality into one whole with the cosmos. in so far as we sense and feel (perceive), we are isolated individuals; in so far as we think, we are the all-one being which pervades everything. this is the deeper meaning of our two-sided nature. we are conscious of an absolute principle revealing itself in us, a principle which is universal. but we experience it, not as it issues from the centre of the world, but rather at a point on the periphery. were the former the case, we should know, as soon as ever we became conscious, the solution of the whole world problem. but since we stand at a point on the periphery, and find that our own being is confined within definite limits, we must explore the region which lies beyond our own being with the help of thought, which is the universal cosmic principle manifesting itself in our minds. the fact that thought, in us, reaches out beyond our separate existence and relates itself to the universal world-order, gives rise to the desire for knowledge in us. beings without thought do not experience this desire. when they come in contact with other things no questions arise for them. these other things remain external to such beings. but in thinking beings the concept confronts the external thing. it is that part of the thing which we receive not from without, but from within. to assimilate, to unite, the two elements, the inner and the outer, that is the function of knowledge. the percept, thus, is not something finished and self-contained, but one side only of the total reality. the other side is the concept. the act of cognition is the synthesis of percept and concept. and it is only the union of percept and concept which constitutes the whole thing. the preceding discussion shows clearly that it is futile to seek for any other common element in the separate things of the world than the ideal content which thinking supplies. all attempts to discover any other principle of unity in the world than this internally coherent ideal content, which we gain for ourselves by the conceptual analysis of our percepts, are bound to fail. neither a personal god, nor force, nor matter, nor the blind will (of schopenhauer and hartmann), can be accepted by us as the universal principle of unity in the world. these principles all belong only to a limited sphere of our experience. personality we experience only in ourselves, force and matter only in external things. the will, again, can be regarded only as the expression of the activity of our finite personalities. schopenhauer wants to avoid making "abstract" thought the principle of unity in the world, and seeks instead something which presents itself to him immediately as real. this philosopher holds that we can never solve the riddle of the world so long as we regard it as an "external" world. "in fact, the meaning for which we seek of that world which is present to us only as our idea, or the transition from the world as mere idea of the knowing subject to whatever it may be besides this, would never be found if the investigator himself were nothing more than the pure knowing subject (a winged cherub without a body). but he himself is rooted in that world: he finds himself in it as an individual, that is to say, his knowledge, which is the necessary supporter of the whole world as idea, is yet always given through the medium of a body, whose affections are, as we have shown, the starting-point for the understanding in the perception of that world. his body is, for the pure knowing subject, an idea like every other idea, an object among objects. its movements and actions are so far known to him in precisely the same way as the changes of all other perceived objects, and would be just as strange and incomprehensible to him if their meaning were not explained for him in an entirely different way.... the body is given in two entirely different ways to the subject of knowledge, who becomes an individual only through his identity with it. it is given as an idea in intelligent perception, as an object among objects and subject to the laws of objects. and it is also given in quite a different way as that which is immediately known to every one, and is signified by the word 'will.' every true act of his will is also at once and without exception a movement of his body. the act of will and the movement of the body are not two different things objectively known, which the bond of causality unites; they do not stand in the relation of cause and effect; they are one and the same, but they are given in entirely different ways--immediately, and again in perception for the understanding." (the world as will and idea, book , § .) schopenhauer considers himself entitled by these arguments to hold that the will becomes objectified in the human body. he believes that in the activities of the body he has an immediate experience of reality, of the thing-in-itself in the concrete. against these arguments we must urge that the activities of our body become known to us only through self-observation, and that, as such, they are in no way superior to other percepts. if we want to know their real nature, we can do so only by means of thought, i.e., by fitting them into the ideal system of our concepts and ideas. one of the most deeply rooted prejudices of the naïve mind is the opinion that thinking is abstract and empty of any concrete content. at best, we are told, it supplies but an "ideal" counterpart of the unity of the world, but never that unity itself. whoever holds this view has never made clear to himself what a percept apart from concepts really is. let us see what this world of bare percepts is. a mere juxtaposition in space, a mere succession in time, a chaos of disconnected particulars--that is what it is. none of these things which come and go on the stage of perception has any connection with any other. the world is a multiplicity of objects without distinctions of value. none plays any greater part in the nexus of the world than any other. in order to realise that this or that fact has a greater importance than another we must go to thought. as long as we do not think, the rudimentary organ of an animal which has no significance in its life, appears equal in value to its more important limbs. the particular facts reveal their meaning, in themselves and in their relations with other parts of the world, only when thought spins its threads from thing to thing. this activity of thinking has always a content. for it is only through a perfectly definite concrete content that i can know why the snail belongs to a lower type of organisation than the lion. the mere appearance, the percept, gives me no content which could inform me as to the degree of perfection of the organisation. thought contributes this content to the percept from the world of concepts and ideas. in contrast with the content of perception which is given to us from without, the content of thought appears within our minds. the form in which thought first appears in consciousness we will call "intuition." intuition is to thoughts what observation is to percepts. intuition and observation are the sources of our knowledge. an external object which we observe remains unintelligible to us, until the corresponding intuition arises within us which adds to the reality those sides of it which are lacking in the percept. to anyone who is incapable of supplying the relevant intuitions, the full nature of the real remains a sealed book. just as the colour-blind person sees only differences of brightness without any colour qualities, so the mind which lacks intuition sees only disconnected fragments of percepts. to explain a thing, to make it intelligible, means nothing else than to place it in the context from which it has been torn by the peculiar organisation of our minds, described above. nothing can possibly exist cut off from the universe. hence all isolation of objects has only subjective validity for minds organised like ours. for us the universe is split up into above and below, before and after, cause and effect, object and idea, matter and force, object and subject, etc. the objects which, in observation, appear to us as separate, become combined, bit by bit, through the coherent, unified system of our intuitions. by thought we fuse again into one whole all that perception has separated. an object presents riddles to our understanding so long as it exists in isolation. but this is an abstraction of our own making and can be unmade again in the world of concepts. except through thought and perception nothing is given to us directly. the question now arises as to the interpretation of percepts on our theory. we have learnt that the proof which critical idealism offers for the subjective nature of percepts collapses. but the exhibition of the falsity of the proof is not, by itself, sufficient to show that the doctrine itself is an error. critical idealism does not base its proof on the absolute nature of thought, but relies on the argument that naïve realism, when followed to its logical conclusion, contradicts itself. how does the matter appear when we recognise the absoluteness of thought? let us assume that a certain percept, e.g., red, appears in consciousness. to continued observation, the percept shows itself to be connected with other percepts, e.g., a certain figure, temperature, and touch-qualities. this complex of percepts i call an object in the world of sense. i can now ask myself: over and above the percepts just mentioned, what else is there in the section of space in which they are? i shall then find mechanical, chemical, and other processes in that section of space. i next go further and study the processes which take place between the object and my sense-organs. i shall find oscillations in an elastic medium, the character of which has not the least in common with the percepts from which i started. i get the same result if i trace further the connection between sense-organs and brain. in each of these inquiries i gather new percepts, but the connecting thread which binds all these spatially and temporally separated percepts into one whole, is thought. the air vibrations which carry sound are given to me as percepts just like the sound. thought alone links all these percepts one to the other and exhibits them in their reciprocal relations. we have no right to say that over and above our immediate percepts there is anything except the ideal nexus of precepts (which thought has to reveal). the relation of the object perceived to the perceiving subject, which relation transcends the bare percept, is therefore purely ideal, i.e., capable of being expressed only through concepts. only if it were possible to perceive how the object of perception affects the perceiving subject, or, alternatively, only if i could watch the construction of the perceptual complex through the subject, could we speak as modern physiology, and the critical idealism which is based on it, speak. their theory confuses an ideal relation (that of the object to the subject) with a process of which we could speak only if it were possible to perceive it. the proposition, "no colour without a colour-sensing eye," cannot be taken to mean that the eye produces the colour, but only that an ideal relation, recognisable by thought, subsists between the percept "colour" and the percept "eye." to empirical science belongs the task of ascertaining how the properties of the eye and those of the colours are related to one another; by means of what structures the organ of sight makes possible the perception of colours, etc. i can trace how one percept succeeds another and how one is related to others in space, and i can formulate these relations in conceptual terms, but i can never perceive how a percept originates out of the non-perceptible. all attempts to seek any relations between percepts other than conceptual relations must of necessity fail. what then is a percept? this question, asked in this general way, is absurd. a percept appears always as a perfectly determinate, concrete content. this content is immediately given and is completely contained in the given. the only question one can ask concerning the given content is, what it is apart from perception, that is, what it is for thought. the question concerning the "what" of a percept can, therefore, only refer to the conceptual intuition which corresponds to the percept. from this point of view, the problem of the subjectivity of percepts, in the sense in which the critical idealists debate it, cannot be raised at all. only that which is experienced as belonging to the subject can be termed "subjective." to form a link between subject and object is impossible for any real process, in the naïve sense of the word "real," in which it means a process which can be perceived. that is possible only for thought. for us, then, "objective" means that which, for perception, presents itself as external to the perceiving subject. as subject of perception i remain perceptible to myself after the table which now stands before me has disappeared from my field of observation. the perception of the table has produced a modification in me which persists like myself. i preserve an image of the table which now forms part of my self. modern psychology terms this image a "memory-idea." now this is the only thing which has any right to be called the idea of the table. for it is the perceptible modification of my own mental state through the presence of the table in my visual field. moreover, it does not mean a modification in some "ego-in-itself" behind the perceiving subject, but the modification of the perceiving subject itself. the idea is, therefore, a subjective percept, in contrast with the objective percept which occurs when the object is present in the perceptual field. the false identification of the subjective with this objective percept leads to the misunderstanding of idealism: the world is my idea. our next task must be to define the concept of "idea" more nearly. what we have said about it so far does not give us the concept, but only shows us where in the perceptual field ideas are to be found. the exact concept of "idea" will also make it possible for us to obtain a satisfactory understanding of the relation of idea and object. this will then lead us over the border-line, where the relation of subject to object is brought down from the purely conceptual field of knowledge into concrete individual life. once we know how we are to conceive the world, it will be an easy task to adapt ourselves to it. only when we know to what object we are to devote our activity can we put our whole energy into our actions. addition to the revised edition ( ). the view which i have here outlined may be regarded as one to which man is led as it were spontaneously, as soon as he begins to reflect about his relation to the world. he then finds himself caught in a system of thoughts which dissolves for him as fast as he frames it. the thoughts which form this system are such that the purely theoretical refutation of them does not exhaust our task. we have to live through them, in order to understand the confusion into which they lead us, and to find the way out. they must figure in any discussion of the relation of man to the world, not for the sake of refuting others whom one believes to be holding mistaken views about this relation, but because it is necessary to understand the confusion in which all first efforts at reflection about such a relation are apt to issue. one needs to learn by experience how to refute oneself with respect to these first reflections. this is the point of view from which the arguments of the preceding chapter are to be understood. whoever tries to work out for himself a theory of the relation of man to the world, becomes aware of the fact that he creates this relation, at least in part, by forming ideas about the things and events in the world. in consequence, his attention is deflected from what exists outside in the world and directed towards his inner world, the realm of his ideas. he begins to say to himself, it is impossible for me to stand in relation to any thing or event, unless an idea appears in me. from this fact, once noticed, it is but a step to the theory: all that i experience is only my ideas; of the existence of a world outside i know only in so far as it is an idea in me. with this theory, man abandons the standpoint of naïve realism which he occupies prior to all reflection about his relation to the world. so long as he stands there, he believes that he is dealing with real things, but reflection about himself drives him away from this position. reflection does not reveal to his gaze a real world such as naïve consciousness claims to have before it. reflection reveals to him only his ideas; they interpose themselves between his own nature and a supposedly real world, such as the naïve point of view confidently affirms. the interposition of the world of ideas prevents man from perceiving any longer such a real world. he must suppose that he is blind to such a reality. thus arises the concept of a "thing-in-itself" which is inaccessible to knowledge. so long as we consider only the relation to the world into which man appears to enter through the stream of his ideas, we can hardly avoid framing this type of theory. yet we cannot remain at the point of view of naïve realism except at the price of closing our minds artificially to the desire for knowledge. the existence of this desire for knowledge about the relation of man to the world proves that the naïve point of view must be abandoned. if the naïve point of view yielded anything which we could acknowledge as truth, we could not experience this desire. but mere abandonment of the naïve point of view does not lead to any other view which we could regard as true, so long as we retain, without noticing it, the type of theory which the naïve point of view imposes on us. this is the mistake made by the man who says, i experience only my ideas, and though i think that i am dealing with real things, i am actually conscious of nothing but my ideas of real things. i must, therefore, suppose that genuine realities, "things-in-themselves," exist only outside the boundary of my consciousness; that they are inaccessible to my immediate knowledge; but that they somehow come into contact with me and influence me so as to make a world of ideas arise in me. whoever thinks thus, duplicates in thought the world before him by adding another. but, strictly he ought to begin his whole theorising over again with regard to this second world. for the unknown "thing-in-itself," in its relation to man's own nature, is conceived in exactly the same way as is the known thing of the naïvely realistic point of view. there is only one way of escaping from the confusion into which one falls, by critical reflection on this naïve point of view. this is to observe that, at the very heart of everything we can experience, be it within the mind or outside in the world of perception, there is something which does not share the fate of an idea interposing itself between the real event and the contemplating mind. this something is thinking. with regard to thinking we can maintain the point of view of naïve realism. if we mistakenly abandon it, it is only because we have learnt that we must abandon it for other mental activities, but overlook that what we have found to be true for other activities, does not apply to thinking. when we realise this, we gain access to the further insight that, in thinking and through thinking, man necessarily comes to know the very thing to which he appears to blind himself by interposing between the world and himself the stream of his ideas. a critic highly esteemed by the author of this book has objected that this discussion of thinking stops at a naïvely realistic theory of thinking, as shown by the fact that the real world and the world of ideas are held to be identical. however, the author believes himself to have shown in this very discussion that the validity of "naïve realism," as applied to thinking, results inevitably from an unprejudiced study of thinking; and that naïve realism, in so far as it is invalid for other mental activities, is overcome through the recognition of the true nature of thinking. vi human individuality philosophers have found the chief difficulty in the explanation of ideas in the fact that we are not identical with the external objects, and yet our ideas must have a form corresponding to their objects. but on closer inspection it turns out that this difficulty does not really exist. we certainly are not identical with the external things, but we belong together with them to one and the same world. the stream of the universal cosmic process passes through that segment of the world which, to my perception, is myself as subject. so far as my perception goes, i am, in the first instance, confined within the limits bounded by my skin. but all that is contained within the skin belongs to the cosmos as a whole. hence, for a relation to subsist between my organism and an object external to me, it is by no means necessary that something of the object should slip into me, or make an impression on my mind, like a signet-ring on wax. the question, how do i gain knowledge of that tree ten feet away from me, is utterly misleading. it springs from the view that the boundaries of my body are absolute barriers, through which information about external things filters into me. the forces which are active within my body are the same as those which exist outside. i am, therefore, really identical with the objects; not, however, i in so far as i am subject of perception, but i in so far as i am a part within the universal cosmic process. the percept of the tree belongs to the same whole as my self. the universal cosmic process produces alike, here the percept of the tree, and there the percept of my self. were i a world-creator instead of a world-knower, subject and object (percept and self) would originate in one act. for they condition one another reciprocally. as world-knower i can discover the common element in both, so far as they are complementary aspects of the world, only through thought which by means of concepts relates the one to the other. the most difficult to drive from the field are the so-called physiological proofs of the subjectivity of our percepts. when i exert pressure on the skin of my body, i experience it as a pressure sensation. this same pressure can be sensed as light by the eye, as sound by the ear. i experience an electrical shock by the eye as light, by the ear as sound, by the nerves of the skin as touch, and by the nose as a smell of phosphorus. what follows from these facts? only this: i experience an electrical shock, or, as the case may be, a pressure followed by a light, or a sound, or, it may be, a certain smell, etc. if there were no eye present, then no light quality would accompany the perception of the mechanical vibrations in my environment; without the presence of the ear, no sound, etc. but what right have we to say that in the absence of sense-organs the whole process would not exist at all? all those who, from the fact that an electrical process causes a sensation of light in the eye, conclude that what we sense as light is only a mechanical process of motion, forget that they are only arguing from one percept to another, and not at all to something altogether transcending percepts. just as we can say that the eye perceives a mechanical process of motion in its surroundings as light, so we can affirm that every change in an object, determined by natural law, is perceived by us as a process of motion. if i draw twelve pictures of a horse on the circumference of a rotating disc, reproducing exactly the positions which the horse's body successively assumes in movement, i can, by rotating the disc, produce the illusion of movement. i need only look through an opening in such a way that, at regular intervals, i perceive the successive positions of the horse. i perceive, not separate pictures of twelve horses, but one picture of a single galloping horse. the above-mentioned physiological facts cannot, therefore, throw any light on the relation of percept to idea. hence, we must seek a relation some other way. the moment a percept appears in my field of consciousness, thought, too, becomes active in me. a member of my thought-system, a definite intuition, a concept, connects itself with the percept. when, next, the percept disappears from my field of vision, what remains? the intuition, with the reference to the particular percept which it acquired in the moment of perception. the degree of vividness with which i can subsequently recall this reference depends on the manner in which my mental and bodily organism is working. an idea is nothing but an intuition related to a particular percept; it is a concept which was once connected with a certain percept, and which retains this reference to the percept. my concept of a lion is not constructed out of my percepts of a lion; but my idea of a lion is formed under the guidance of the percepts. i can teach someone to form the concept of a lion without his ever having seen a lion, but i can never give him a living idea of it without the help of his own perception. an idea is therefore nothing but an individualised concept. and now we can see how real objects can be represented to us by ideas. the full reality of a thing is present to us in the moment of observation through the combination of concept and percept. the concept acquires by means of the percept an individualised form, a relation to this particular percept. in this individualised form which carries with it, as an essential feature, the reference to the percept, it continues to exist in us and constitutes the idea of the thing in question. if we come across a second thing with which the same concept connects itself, we recognise the second as being of the same kind as the first; if we come across the same thing twice, we find in our conceptual system, not merely a corresponding concept, but the individualised concept with its characteristic relation to this same object, and thus we recognise the object again. the idea, then, stands between the percept and the concept. it is the determinate concept which points to the percept. the sum of my ideas may be called my experience. the man who has the greater number of individualised concepts will be the man of richer experience. a man who lacks all power of intuition is not capable of acquiring experience. the objects simply disappear again from the field of his consciousness, because he lacks the concepts which he ought to bring into relation with them. on the other hand, a man whose faculty of thought is well developed, but whose perception functions badly owing to his clumsy sense-organs, will be no better able to gain experience. he can, it is true, by one means and another acquire concepts; but the living reference to particular objects is lacking to his intuitions. the unthinking traveller and the student absorbed in abstract conceptual systems are alike incapable of acquiring a rich experience. reality presents itself to us as the union of percept and concept; and the subjective representation of this reality presents itself to us as idea. if our personality expressed itself only in cognition, the totality of all that is objective would be contained in percept, concept and idea. however, we are not satisfied merely to refer percepts, by means of thinking, to concepts, but we relate them also to our private subjectivity, our individual ego. the expression of this relation to us as individuals is feeling, which manifests itself as pleasure and pain. thinking and feeling correspond to the two-fold nature of our being to which reference has already been made. by means of thought we take an active part in the universal cosmic process. by means of feeling we withdraw ourselves into the narrow precincts of our own being. thought links us to the world; feeling leads us back into ourselves and thus makes us individuals. were we merely thinking and perceiving beings, our whole life would flow along in monotonous indifference. could we only know ourselves as selves, we should be totally indifferent to ourselves. it is only because with self-knowledge we experience self-feeling, and with the perception of objects pleasure and pain, that we live as individuals whose existence is not exhausted by the conceptual relations in which they stand to the rest of the world, but who have a special value in themselves. one might be tempted to regard the life of feeling as something more richly saturated with reality than the apprehension of the world by thought. but the reply to this is that the life of feeling, after all, has this richer meaning only for my individual self. for the universe as a whole my feelings can be of value only if, as percepts of myself, they enter into connection with a concept and in this roundabout way become links in the cosmos. our life is a continual oscillation between our share in the universal world-process and our own individual existence. the farther we ascend into the universal nature of thought where the individual, at last, interests us only as an example, an instance, of the concept, the more the character of something individual, of the quite determinate, unique personality, becomes lost in us. the farther we descend into the depths of our own private life and allow the vibrations of our feelings to accompany all our experiences of the outer world, the more we cut ourselves off from the universal life. true individuality belongs to him whose feelings reach up to the farthest possible extent into the region of the ideal. there are men in whom even the most general ideas still bear that peculiar personal tinge which shows unmistakably their connection with their author. there are others whose concepts come before us as devoid of any trace of individual colouring as if they had not been produced by a being of flesh and blood at all. even ideas give to our conceptual life an individual stamp. each one of us has his special standpoint from which he looks out on the world. his concepts link themselves to his percepts. he has his own special way of forming general concepts. this special character results for each of us from his special standpoint in the world, from the way in which the range of his percepts is dependent on the place in the whole where he exists. the conditions of individuality here indicated, we call the milieu. this special character of our experience must be distinguished from another which depends on our peculiar organisation. each of us, as we know, is organised as a unique, fully determined individual. each of us combines special feelings, and these in the most varying degrees of intensity, with his percepts. this is just the individual element in the personality of each of us. it is what remains over when we have allowed fully for all the determining factors in our milieu. a life of feeling, wholly devoid of thought, would gradually lose all connection with the world. but man is meant to be a whole, and knowledge of objects will go hand-in-hand for him with the development and education of the feeling-side of his nature. feeling is the means whereby, in the first instance, concepts gain concrete life. vii are there any limits to knowledge? we have established that the elements for the explanation of reality are to be taken from the two spheres of perception and thought. it is due, as we have seen, to our organisation that the full totality of reality, including our own selves as subjects, appears at first as a duality. knowledge transcends this duality by fusing the two elements of reality, the percept and the concept, into the complete thing. let us call the manner in which the world presents itself to us, before by means of knowledge it has taken on its true nature, "the world of appearance," in distinction from the unified whole composed of percept and concept. we can then say, the world is given to us as a duality (dualism), and knowledge transforms it into a unity (monism). a philosophy which starts from this basal principle may be called a monistic philosophy, or monism. opposed to this is the theory of two worlds, or dualism. the latter does not, by any means, assume merely that there are two sides of a single reality, which are kept apart by our organisation, but that there are two worlds totally distinct from one another. it then tries to find in one of these two worlds the principle of explanation for the other. dualism rests on a false conception of what we call knowledge. it divides the whole of reality into two spheres, each of which has its own laws, and it leaves these two worlds standing outside one another. it is from a dualism such as this that there arises the distinction between the object of perception and the thing-in-itself, which kant introduced into philosophy, and which, to the present day, we have not succeeded in expelling. according to our interpretation, it is due to the nature of our organisation that a particular object can be given to us only as a percept. thought transcends this particularity by assigning to each percept its proper place in the world as a whole. as long as we determine the separate parts of the cosmos as percepts, we are simply following, in this sorting out, a law of our subjective constitution. if, however, we regard all percepts, taken together, merely as one part, and contrast with this a second part, viz., the things-in-themselves, then our philosophy is building castles-in-the-air. we are then engaged in mere playing with concepts. we construct an artificial opposition, but we can find no content for the second of these opposites, seeing that no content for a particular thing can be found except in perception. every kind of reality which is assumed to exist outside the sphere of perception and conception must be relegated to the limbo of unverified hypotheses. to this category belongs the "thing-in-itself." it is, of course, quite natural that a dualistic thinker should be unable to find the connection between the world-principle which he hypothetically assumes and the facts that are given in experience. for the hypothetical world-principle itself a content can be found only by borrowing it from experience and shutting one's eyes to the fact of the borrowing. otherwise it remains an empty and meaningless concept, a mere form without content. in this case the dualistic thinker generally asserts that the content of this concept is inaccessible to our knowledge. we can know only that such a content exists, but not what it is. in either case it is impossible to transcend dualism. even though one were to import a few abstract elements from the world of experience into the content of the thing-in-itself, it would still remain impossible to reduce the rich concrete life of experience to those few elements, which are, after all, themselves taken from experience. du bois-reymond lays it down that the imperceptible atoms of matter produce sensation and feeling by means of their position and motion, and then infers from this premise that we can never find a satisfactory explanation of how matter and motion produce sensation and feeling, for "it is absolutely and for ever unintelligible that it should be other than indifferent to a number of atoms of carbon, hydrogen, and nitrogen, etc., how they lie and move, how they lay or moved, or how they will lie and will move. it is in no way intelligible how consciousness can come into existence through their interaction." this conclusion is characteristic of the whole tendency of this school of thought. position and motion are abstracted from the rich world of percepts. they are then transferred to the fictitious world of atoms. and then we are astonished that we fail to evolve concrete life out of this principle of our own making, which we have borrowed from the world of percepts. that the dualist, working as he does with a completely empty concept of the thing-in-itself, can reach no explanation of the world, follows from the very definition of his principle which has been given above. in any case, the dualist finds it necessary to set impassable barriers to our faculty of knowledge. a follower of the monistic theory of the world knows that all he needs to explain any given phenomenon in the world is to be found within this world itself. what prevents him from finding it can be only chance limitations in space and time, or defects of his organisation, i.e., not of human organisation in general, but only of his own. it follows from the concept of knowledge, as defined by us, that there can be no talk of any limits of knowledge. knowledge is not a concern of the universe in general, but one which men must settle for themselves. external things demand no explanation. they exist and act on one another according to laws which thought can discover. they exist in indivisible unity with these laws. but we, in our self-hood, confront them, grasping at first only what we have called percepts. however, within ourselves we find the power to discover also the other part of reality. only when the self has combined for itself the two elements of reality which are indivisibly bound up with one another in the world, is our thirst for knowledge stilled. the self is then again in contact with reality. the presuppositions for the development of knowledge thus exist through and for the self. it is the self which sets itself the problems of knowledge. it takes them from thought, an element which in itself is absolutely clear and transparent. if we set ourselves questions which we cannot answer, it must be because the content of the questions is not in all respects clear and distinct. it is not the world which sets questions to us, but we who set them to ourselves. i can imagine that it would be quite impossible for me to answer a question which i happened to find written down somewhere, without knowing the universe of discourse from which the content of the question is taken. in knowledge we are concerned with questions which arise for us through the fact that a world of percepts, conditioned by time, space, and our subjective organisation, stands over against a world of concepts expressing the totality of the universe. our task consists in the assimilation to one another of these two spheres, with both of which we are familiar. there is no room here for talking about limits of knowledge. it may be that, at a particular moment, this or that remains unexplained because, through chance obstacles, we are prevented from perceiving the things involved. what is not found to-day, however, may easily be found to-morrow. the limits due to these causes are only contingent, and must be overcome by the progress of perception and thought. dualism makes the mistake of transferring the opposition of subject and object, which has meaning only within the perceptual world, to pure conceptual entities outside this world. now the distinct and separate things in the perceptual world remain separated only so long as the perceiver refrains from thinking. for thought cancels all separation and reveals it as due to purely subjective conditions. the dualist, therefore, transfers to entities transcending the perceptual world abstract determinations which, even in the perceptual world, have no absolute, but only relative, validity. he thus divides the two factors concerned in the process of knowledge, viz., percept and concept, into four: ( ) the object in itself; ( ) the percept which the subject has of the object; ( ) the subject; ( ) the concept which relates the percept to the object in itself. the relation between subject and object is "real"; the subject is really (dynamically) influenced by the object. this real process does not appear in consciousness. but it evokes in the subject a response to the stimulation from the object. the result of this response is the percept. this, at length, appears in consciousness. the object has an objective (independent of the subject) reality, the percept a subjective reality. this subjective reality is referred by the subject to the object. this reference is an ideal one. dualism thus divides the process of knowledge into two parts. the one part, viz., the production of the perceptual object by the thing-in-itself, he conceives of as taking place outside consciousness, whereas the other, the combination of percept with concept and the latter's reference to the thing-in-itself, takes place, according to him, in consciousness. with such presuppositions, it is clear why the dualist regards his concepts merely as subjective representations of what is really external to his consciousness. the objectively real process in the subject by means of which the percept is produced, and still more the objective relations between things-in-themselves, remain for the dualist inaccessible to direct knowledge. according to him, man can get only conceptual representations of the objectively real. the bond of unity which connects things-in-themselves with one another, and also objectively with the individual minds (as things-in-themselves) of each of us, exists beyond our consciousness in a divine being of whom, once more, we have merely a conceptual representation. the dualist believes that the whole world would be dissolved into a mere abstract scheme of concepts, did he not posit the existence of real connections beside the conceptual ones. in other words, the ideal principles which thinking discovers are too airy for the dualist, and he seeks, in addition, real principles with which to support them. let us examine these real principles a little more closely. the naïve man (naïve realist) regards the objects of sense-experience as realities. the fact that his hands can grasp, and his eyes see, these objects is for him sufficient guarantee of their reality. "nothing exists that cannot be perceived" is, in fact, the first axiom of the naïve man; and it is held to be equally valid in its converse: "everything which is perceived exists." the best proof for this assertion is the naïve man's belief in immortality and in ghosts. he thinks of the soul as a fine kind of matter perceptible by the senses which, in special circumstances, may actually become visible to the ordinary man (belief in ghosts). in contrast with this, his real, world, the naïve realist regards everything else, especially the world of ideas, as unreal, or "merely ideal." what we add to objects by thinking is merely thoughts about the objects. thought adds nothing real to the percept. but it is not only with reference to the existence of things that the naïve man regards perception as the sole guarantee of reality, but also with reference to the existence of processes. a thing, according to him, can act on another only when a force actually present to perception issues from the one and acts upon the other. the older physicists thought that very fine kinds of substances emanate from the objects and penetrate through the sense-organs into the soul. the actual perception of these substances is impossible only because of the coarseness of our sense-organs relatively to the fineness of these substances. in principle, the reason for attributing reality to these substances was the same as that for attributing it to the objects of the sensible world, viz., their kind of existence, which was conceived to be analogous to that of perceptual reality. the self-contained being of ideas is not thought of by the naïve mind as real in the same sense. an object conceived "merely in idea" is regarded as a chimera until sense-perception can furnish proof of its reality. in short, the naïve man demands, in addition to the ideal evidence of his thinking, the real evidence of his senses. in this need of the naïve man lies the ground for the origin of the belief in revelation. the god whom we apprehend by thought remains always merely our idea of god. the naïve consciousness demands that god should manifest himself in ways accessible to the senses. god must appear in the flesh, and must attest his godhead to our senses by the changing of water into wine. even knowledge itself is conceived by the naïve mind as a process analogous to sense-perception. things, it is thought, make an impression on the mind, or send out copies of themselves which enter through our senses, etc. what the naïve man can perceive with his senses he regards as real, and what he cannot perceive (god, soul, knowledge, etc.) he regards as analogous to what he can perceive. on the basis of naïve realism, science can consist only in an exact description of the content of perception. concepts are only means to this end. they exist to provide ideal counterparts of percepts. with the things themselves they have nothing to do. for the naïve realist only the individual tulips, which we can see, are real. the universal idea of tulip is to him an abstraction, the unreal thought-picture which the mind constructs for itself out of the characteristics common to all tulips. naïve realism, with its fundamental principle of the reality of all percepts, contradicts experience, which teaches us that the content of percepts is of a transitory nature. the tulip i see is real to-day; in a year it will have vanished into nothingness. what persists is the species "tulip." this species is, however, for the naïve realist merely an idea, not a reality. thus this theory of the world finds itself in the paradoxical position of seeing its realities arise and perish, while that which, by contrast with its realities, it regards as unreal endures. hence naïve realism is compelled to acknowledge the existence of something ideal by the side of percepts. it must include within itself entities which cannot be perceived by the senses. in admitting them, it escapes contradicting itself by conceiving their existence as analogous to that of objects of sense. such hypothetical realities are the invisible forces by means of which the objects of sense-perception act on one another. another such reality is heredity, the effects of which survive the individual, and which is the reason why from the individual a new being develops which is similar to it, and by means of which the species is maintained. the soul, the life-principle permeating the organic body, is another such reality which the naïve mind is always found conceiving in analogy to realities of sense-perception. and, lastly, the divine being, as conceived by the naïve mind, is such a hypothetical entity. the deity is thought of as acting in a manner exactly corresponding to that which we can perceive in man himself, i.e., the deity is conceived anthropomorphically. modern physics traces sensations back to the movements of the smallest particles of bodies and of an infinitely fine substance, called ether. what we experience, e.g., as warmth is a movement of the parts of a body which causes the warmth in the space occupied by that body. here again something imperceptible is conceived on the analogy of what is perceptible. thus, in terms of perception, the analogon to the concept "body" is, say, the interior of a room, shut in on all sides, in which elastic balls are moving in all directions, impinging one on another, bouncing on and off the walls, etc. without such assumptions the world of the naïve realist would collapse into a disconnected chaos of percepts, without mutual relations, and having no unity within itself. it is clear, however, that naïve realism can make these assumptions only by contradicting itself. if it would remain true to its fundamental principle, that only what is perceived is real, then it ought not to assume a reality where it perceives nothing. the imperceptible forces of which perceptible things are the bearers are, in fact, illegitimate hypotheses from the standpoint of naïve realism. but because naïve realism knows no other realities, it invests its hypothetical forces with perceptual content. it thus transfers a form of existence (the existence of percepts) to a sphere where the only means of making any assertion concerning such existence, viz., sense-perception, is lacking. this self-contradictory theory leads to metaphysical realism. the latter constructs, beside the perceptible reality, an imperceptible one which it conceives on the analogy of the former. metaphysical realism is, therefore, of necessity dualistic. wherever the metaphysical realist observes a relation between perceptible things (mutual approach through movement, the entrance of an object into consciousness, etc.), there he posits a reality. however, the relation of which he becomes aware cannot be perceived but only expressed by means of thought. the ideal relation is thereupon arbitrarily assimilated to something perceptible. thus, according to this theory, the world is composed of the objects of perception which are in ceaseless flux, arising and disappearing, and of imperceptible forces by which the perceptible objects are produced, and which are permanent. metaphysical realism is a self-contradictory mixture of naïve realism and idealism. its forces are imperceptible entities endowed with the qualities proper to percepts. the metaphysical realist has made up his mind to acknowledge in addition to the sphere for the existence of which he has an instrument of knowledge in sense-perception, the existence of another sphere for which this instrument fails, and which can be known only by means of thought. but he cannot make up his mind at the same time to acknowledge that the mode of existence which thought reveals, viz., the concept (or idea), has equal rights with percepts. if we are to avoid the contradiction of imperceptible percepts, we must admit that, for us, the relations which thought traces between percepts can have no other mode of existence than that of concepts. if one rejects the untenable part of metaphysical realism, there remains the concept of the world as the aggregate of percepts and their conceptual (ideal) relations. metaphysical realism, then, merges itself in a view of the world according to which the principle of perceptibility holds for percepts, and that of conceivability for the relations between the percepts. this view of the world has no room, in addition to the perceptual and conceptual worlds, for a third sphere in which both principles, the so-called "real" principle and the "ideal" principle, are simultaneously valid. when the metaphysical realist asserts that, beside the ideal relation between the perceived object and the perceiving subject, there must be a real relation between the percept as "thing-in-itself" and the subject as "thing-in-itself" (the so-called individual mind), he is basing his assertion on the false assumption of a real process, imperceptible but analogous to the processes in the world of percepts. further, when the metaphysical realist asserts that we stand in a conscious ideal relation to our world of percepts, but that to the real world we can have only a dynamic (force) relation, he repeats the mistake we have already criticised. we can talk of a dynamic relation only within the world of percepts (in the sphere of the sense of touch), but not outside that world. let us call the view which we have just characterised, and into which metaphysical realism merges when it discards its contradictory elements, monism, because it combines one-sided realism and idealism into a higher unity. for naïve realism, the real world is an aggregate of percepts; for metaphysical realism, reality belongs not only to percepts but also to imperceptible forces; monism replaces forces by ideal relations which are supplied by thought. these relations are the laws of nature. a law of nature is nothing but the conceptual expression for the connection of certain percepts. monism is never called upon to ask whether there are any principles of explanation for reality other than percepts and concepts. the monist knows that in the whole realm of the real there is no occasion for this question. in the perceptual world, as immediately apprehended, he sees one-half of reality; in the union of this world with the world of concepts he finds full reality. the metaphysical realist might object that, relatively to our organisation, our knowledge may be complete in itself, that no part may be lacking, but that we do not know how the world appears to a mind organised differently from our own. to this the monist will reply, maybe there are intelligences other than human; and maybe also that their percepts are different from ours, if they have perception at all. but this is irrelevant to me for the following reasons. through my perceptions, i.e., through this specifically human mode of perception, i, as subject, am confronted with the object. the nexus of things is thereby broken. the subject reconstructs the nexus by means of thought. in doing so it re-inserts itself into the context of the world as a whole. as it is only through the self, as subject, that the whole appears rent in two between percept and concept, the reunion of those two factors will give us complete knowledge. for beings with a different perceptual world (e.g., if they had twice our number of sense-organs) the nexus would appear broken in another place, and the reconstruction would accordingly have to take a form specifically adapted to such beings. the question concerning the limits of knowledge troubles only naïve and metaphysical realism, both of which see in the contents of mind only ideal representations of the real world. for, to these theories, whatever falls outside the subject is something absolute, a self-contained whole, and the subject's mental content is a copy which is wholly external to this absolute. the completeness of knowledge depends on the greater or lesser degree of resemblance between the representation and the absolute object. a being with fewer senses than man will perceive less of the world, one with more senses will perceive more. the former's knowledge will, therefore, be less complete than the latter's. for monism, the situation is different. the point where the unity of the world appears to be rent asunder into subject and object depends on the organisation of the percipient. the object is not absolute but merely relative to the nature of the subject. the bridging of the gap, therefore, can take place only in the quite specific way which is characteristic of the human subject. as soon as the self, which in perception is set over against the world, is again re-inserted into the world-nexus by constructive thought, all further questioning ceases, having been but a result of the separation. a differently constituted being would have a differently constituted knowledge. our own knowledge suffices to answer the questions which result from our own mental constitution. metaphysical realism must ask, what is it that gives us our percepts? what is it that stimulates the subject? monism holds that percepts are determined by the subject. but in thought the subject has, at the same time, the instrument for transcending this determination of which it is itself the author. the metaphysical realist is faced by a further difficulty when he seeks to explain the similarity of the world-views of different human individuals. he has to ask himself, how is it that my theory of the world, built up out of subjectively determined percepts and out of concepts, turns out to be the same as that which another individual is also building up out of these same two subjective factors? how, in any case, is it possible for me to argue from my own subjective view of the world to that of another human being? the metaphysical realist thinks he can infer the similarity of the subjective world-views of different human beings from their ability to get on with one another in practical life. from this similarity of world-views he infers further the likeness to one another of individual minds, meaning by "individual mind" the "i-in-itself" underlying each subject. we have here an inference from a number of effects to the character of the underlying causes. we believe that after we have observed a sufficiently large number of instances, we know the connection sufficiently to know how the inferred causes will act in other instances. such an inference is called an inductive inference. we shall be obliged to modify its results, if further observation yields some unexpected fact, because the character of our conclusion is, after all, determined only by the particular details of our actual observations. the metaphysical realist asserts that this knowledge of causes, though restricted by these conditions, is quite sufficient for practical life. inductive inference is the fundamental method of modern metaphysical realism. at one time it was thought that out of concepts we could evolve something that would no longer be a concept. it was thought that the metaphysical reals, which metaphysical realism after all requires, could be known by means of concepts. this method of philosophising is now out of date. instead it is thought that from a sufficiently large number of perceptual facts we can infer the character of the thing-in-itself which lies behind these facts. formerly it was from concepts, now it is from percepts, that the realist seeks to evolve the metaphysically real. because concepts are before the mind in transparent clearness, it was thought that we might deduce from them the metaphysically real with absolute certainty. percepts are not given with the same transparent clearness. each fresh one is a little different from others of the same kind which preceded it. in principle, therefore, anything inferred from past experience is somewhat modified by each subsequent experience. the character of the metaphysically real thus obtained can therefore be only relatively true, for it is open to correction by further instances. the character of von hartmann's metaphysics depends on this methodological principle. the motto on the title-page of his first important book is, "speculative results gained by the inductive method of science." the form which the metaphysical realist at the present day gives to his things-in-themselves is obtained by inductive inferences. consideration of the process of knowledge has convinced him of the existence of an objectively-real world-nexus, over and above the subjective world which we know by means of percepts and concepts. the nature of this reality he thinks he can determine by inductive inferences from his percepts. addition to the revised edition ( ). the unprejudiced study of experience, in perceiving and conceiving, such as we have attempted to describe it in the preceding chapters, is liable to be interfered with again and again by certain ideas which spring from the soil of natural science. thus, taking our stand on science, we say that the eye perceives in the spectrum colours from red to violet. but beyond violet there lie rays within the compass of the spectrum to which corresponds, not a colour perceived by the eye, but a chemical effect. similarly, beyond the rays which make us perceive red, there are rays which have only heat effects. these and similar phenomena lead, on reflection, to the view that the range of man's perceptual world is defined by the range of his senses, and that he would perceive a very different world if he had additional, or altogether different, senses. those who like to indulge in far-roaming fancies in this direction, for which the brilliant discoveries of recent scientific research provide a highly tempting occasion, may well be led to confess that nothing enters the field of man's observation except what can affect his senses, as these have been determined by his whole organisation. man has no right to regard his percepts, limited as these are by his organisation, as in any way a standard to which reality must conform. every new sense would confront him with a different picture of reality. within its proper limits, this is a wholly justified view. but if anyone lets himself be confused by this view in the unprejudiced study of the relation of percept and concept, as set forth in these chapters, he blocks the path for himself to a knowledge of man and the world which is rooted in reality. the experience of the essential nature of thought, i.e., the active construction of the world of concepts, is something wholly different from the experience of a perceptible object through the senses. whatever additional senses man might have, not one would give him reality, if his thinking did not organise with its concepts whatever he perceived by means of such a sense. every sense, whatever its kind, provided only it is organised by thought, enables man to live right in the real. the fancy-picture of other perceptual worlds, made possible by other senses, has nothing to do with the problem of how it is that man stands in the midst of reality. we must clearly understand that every perceptual picture of the world owes its form to the physical organisation of the percipient, but that only the percepts which have been organised by the living labour of thought lead us into reality. fanciful speculations concerning the way the world would appear to other than human souls, can give us no occasion to want to understand man's relation to the world. such a desire comes only with the recognition that every percept presents only a part of the reality it contains, and that, consequently, it leads us away from its own proper reality. this recognition is supplemented by the further one that thinking leads us into the part of reality which the percept conceals in itself. another difficulty in the way of the unprejudiced study of the relation we have here described, between percept and concept as elaborated by thought, may be met with occasionally, when in the field of physics the necessity arises of speaking, not of immediately perceptible elements, but of non-perceptible magnitudes, such as, e.g., lines of electric or magnetic force. it may seem as if the elements of reality of which physicists speak, had no connection either with what is perceptible, or with the concepts which active thinking has elaborated. yet such a view would depend on self-deception. the main point is that all the results of physical research, except illegitimate hypotheses which ought to be excluded, have been gained through perceiving and conceiving. entities which are seemingly non-perceptible, are referred by the physicists' sound instinct for knowledge to the field in which actual percepts lie, and they are dealt with in thought by means of the concepts which are commonly applied in this field. the magnitudes in a field of electric or magnetic force are reached, in their essence, by no other cognitive process than the one which connects percept and concept.--an increase or a modification of human senses would yield a different perceptual picture, an enrichment or a modification of human experience. but genuine knowledge could be gained out of this new experience only through the mutual co-operation of concept and percept. the deepening of knowledge depends on the powers of intuition which express themselves in thinking (see page ). intuition may, in those experiences in which thinking expresses itself, dive either into deeper or shallower levels of reality. an expansion of the perceptual picture may supply stimuli for, and thus indirectly promote, this diving of intuition. but this diving into the depth, through which we attain reality, ought never to be confused with the contrast between a wider and a narrower perceptual picture, which always contains only half of reality, as that is conditioned by the structure of the knower's organism. those who do not lose themselves in abstractions will understand how for a knowledge of human nature the fact is relevant, that physics must infer the existence, in the field of percepts, of elements to which no sense is adapted as it is to colour or sound. human nature, taken concretely, is determined not only by what, in virtue of his physical organisation, man opposes to himself as immediate percept, but also by all else which he excludes from this immediate percept. just as life needs unconscious sleep alongside of conscious waking experience, so man's experience of himself needs over and above the sphere of his sense-perception another sphere--and a much bigger one--of non-perceptible elements belonging to the same field from which the percepts of the senses come. implicitly all this was already laid down in the original argument of this book. the author adds the present amplification of the argument, because he has found by experience that some readers have not read attentively enough. it is to be remembered, too, that the idea of perception, developed in this book, is not to be confused with the idea of external sense-perception which is but a special case of the former. the reader will gather from what has preceded, but even more from what will be expounded later, that everything is here taken as "percept" which sensuously or spiritually enters into man's experience, so long as it has not yet been seized upon by the actively constructed concept. no "senses," as we ordinarily understand the term, are necessary in order to have percepts of a psychical or spiritual kind. it may be urged that this extension of ordinary usage is illegitimate. but the extension is absolutely indispensable, unless we are to be prevented by the current sense of a word from enlarging our knowledge of certain realms of facts. if we use "percept" only as meaning "sense-percept," we shall never advance beyond sense-percepts to a concept fit for the purposes of knowledge. it is sometimes necessary to enlarge a concept in order that it may get its appropriate meaning within a narrower field. again, it is at times necessary to add to the original content of a concept, in order that the original thought may be justified or, perhaps, readjusted. thus we find it said here in this book: "an idea is nothing but an individualised concept." it has been objected that this is a solecism. but this terminology is necessary if we are to find out what an idea really is. how can we expect any progress in knowledge, if every one who finds himself compelled to readjust concepts, is to be met by the objection: "this is a solecism"? the reality of freedom viii the factors of life let us recapitulate the results gained in the previous chapters. the world appears to man as a multiplicity, as an aggregate of separate entities. he himself is one of these entities, a thing among things. of this structure of the world we say simply that it is given, and inasmuch as we do not construct it by conscious activity, but simply find it, we say that it consists of percepts. within this world of percepts we perceive ourselves. this percept of self would remain merely one among many other percepts, did it not give rise to something which proves capable of connecting all percepts one with another and, therefore, the aggregate of all other percepts with the percept of self. this something which emerges is no longer a mere percept; neither is it, like percepts, simply given. it is produced by our activity. it appears, in the first instance, bound up with what each of us perceives as his self. in its inner significance, however, it transcends the self. it adds to the separate percepts ideal determinations, which, however, are related to one another, and which are grounded in a whole. what self-perception yields is ideally determined by this something in the same way as all other percepts, and placed as subject, or "i," over against the objects. this something is thought, and the ideal determinations are the concepts and ideas. thought, therefore, first manifests itself in connection with the percept of self. but it is not merely subjective, for the self characterises itself as subject only with the help of thought. this relation of the self to itself by means of thought is one of the fundamental determinations of our personal lives. through it we lead a purely ideal existence. by means of it we are aware of ourselves as thinking beings. this determination of our lives would remain a purely conceptual (logical) one, if it were not supplemented by other determinations of our selves. our lives would then exhaust themselves in establishing ideal connections between percepts themselves, and between them and ourselves. if we call this establishment of an ideal relation an "act of cognition," and the resulting condition of ourselves "knowledge," then, assuming the above supposition to be true, we should have to consider ourselves as beings who merely apprehend or know. the supposition is, however, untrue. we relate percepts to ourselves not merely ideally, through concepts, but also, as we have already seen, through feeling. in short, the content of our lives is not merely conceptual. the naïve realist holds that the personality actually lives more genuinely in the life of feeling than in the purely ideal activity of knowledge. from his point of view he is quite right in interpreting the matter in this way. feeling plays on the subjective side exactly the part which percepts play on the objective side. from the principle of naïve realism, that everything is real which can be perceived, it follows that feeling is the guarantee of the reality of one's own personality. monism, however, must bestow on feeling the same supplementation which it considers necessary for percepts, if these are to stand to us for reality in its full nature. for monism, feeling is an incomplete reality, which, in the form in which it first appears to us, lacks as yet its second factor, the concept or idea. this is why, in actual life, feelings, like percepts, appear prior to knowledge. at first, we have merely a feeling of existence; and it is only in the course of our gradual development, that we attain to the point at which the concept of self emerges from within the blind mass of feelings which fills our existence. however, what for us does not appear until later, is from the first indissolubly bound up with our feelings. this is how the naïve man comes to believe that in feeling he grasps existence immediately, in knowledge only mediately. the development of the affective life, therefore, appears to him more important than anything else. not until he has grasped the unity of the world through feeling will he believe that he has comprehended it. he attempts to make feeling rather than thought the instrument of knowledge. now a feeling is entirely individual, something equivalent to a percept. hence a philosophy of feeling makes a cosmic principle out of something which has significance only within my own personality. anyone who holds this view attempts to infuse his own self into the whole world. what the monist strives to grasp by means of concepts the philosopher of feeling tries to attain through feeling, and he looks on his own felt union with objects as more immediate than knowledge. the tendency just described, the philosophy of feeling, is mysticism. the error in this view is that it seeks to possess by immediate experience what must be known, that it seeks to develop feeling, which is individual, into a universal principle. a feeling is a purely individual activity. it is the relation of the external world to the subject, in so far as this relation finds expression in a purely subjective experience. there is yet another expression of human personality. the self, through thought, takes part in the universal world-life. through thought it establishes purely ideal (conceptual) relations between percepts and itself, and between itself and percepts. in feeling, it has immediate experience of the relation of objects to itself as subject. in will, the opposite is the case. in volition, we are concerned once more with a percept, viz., that of the individual relation of the self to what is objective. whatever in the act of will is not an ideal factor, is just as much mere object of perception as is any object in the external world. nevertheless, the naïve realist believes here again that he has before him something far more real than can ever be attained by thought. he sees in the will an element in which he is immediately aware of an activity, a causation, in contrast with thought which afterwards grasps this activity in conceptual form. on this view, the realisation by the self of its will is a process which is experienced immediately. the adherent of this philosophy believes that in the will he has really got hold of one end of reality. whereas he can follow other occurrences only from the outside by means of perception, he is confident that in his will he experiences a real process quite immediately. the mode of existence presented to him by the will within himself becomes for him the fundamental reality of the universe. his own will appears to him as a special case of the general world-process; hence the latter is conceived as a universal will. the will becomes the principle of reality just as, in mysticism, feeling becomes the principle of knowledge. this kind of theory is called voluntarism (thelism). it makes something which can be experienced only individually the dominant factor of the world. voluntarism can as little be called scientific as can mysticism. for both assert that the conceptual interpretation of the world is inadequate. both demand, in addition to a principle of being which is ideal, also a principle which is real. but as perception is our only means of apprehending these so-called real principles, the assertion of mysticism and voluntarism coincides with the view that we have two sources of knowledge, viz., thought and perception, the latter finding individual expression as will and feeling. since the immediate experiences which flow from the one source cannot be directly absorbed into the thoughts which flow from the other, perception (immediate experience) and thought remain side by side, without any higher form of experience to mediate between them. beside the conceptual principle to which we attain by means of knowledge, there is also a real principle which must be immediately experienced. in other words, mysticism and voluntarism are both forms of naïve realism, because they subscribe to the doctrine that the immediately perceived (experienced) is real. compared with naïve realism in its primitive form, they are guilty of the yet further inconsistency of accepting one definite form of perception (feeling, respectively will) as the exclusive means of knowing reality. yet they can do this only so long as they cling to the general principle that everything that is perceived is real. they ought, therefore, to attach an equal value to external perception for purposes of knowledge. voluntarism turns into metaphysical realism, when it asserts the existence of will also in those spheres of reality in which will can no longer, as in the individual subject, be immediately experienced. it assumes hypothetically that a principle holds outside subjective experience, for the existence of which, nevertheless, subjective experience is the sole criterion. as a form of metaphysical realism, voluntarism is open to the criticism developed in the preceding chapter, a criticism which makes it necessary to overcome the contradictory element in every form of metaphysical realism, and to recognise that the will is a universal world-process only in so far as it is ideally related to the rest of the world. addition to the revised edition ( ). the difficulty of seizing the essential nature of thinking by observation lies in this, that it has generally eluded the introspecting mind all too easily by the time that the mind tries to bring it into the focus of attention. nothing but the lifeless abstract, the corpse of living thought, then remains for inspection. when we consider only this abstract, we find it hard, by contrast, to resist yielding to the mysticism of feeling, or, again, to the metaphysics of will, both of which are "full of life." we are tempted to regard it as odd that anyone should want to seize the essence of reality in "mere thoughts." but if we once succeed in really holding fast the living essence of thinking, we learn to understand that the self-abandonment to feelings, or the intuiting of the will, cannot even be compared with the inward wealth of this life of thinking, which we experience as within itself ever at rest, yet at the same time ever in movement. still less is it possible to rank will and feeling above thinking. it is owing precisely to this wealth, to this inward abundance of experience, that the image of thinking which presents itself to our ordinary attitude of mind, should appear lifeless and abstract. no other activity of the human mind is so easily misapprehended as thinking. will and feeling still fill the mind with warmth even when we live through them again in memory. thinking all too readily leaves us cold in recollection; it is as if the life of the mind had dried out. but this is really nothing but the strongly marked shadow thrown by its luminous, warm nature penetrating deeply into the phenomena of the world. this penetration is effected by the activity of thinking with a spontaneous outpouring of power--a power of spiritual love. there is no room here for the objection that thus to perceive love in the activity of thinking is to endow thinking with a feeling and a love which are not part of it. this objection is, in truth, a confirmation of the view here advocated. if we turn towards the essential nature of thinking, we find in it both feeling and will, and both these in their most profoundly real forms. if we turn away from thinking and towards "mere" feeling and will, these lose for us their genuine reality. if we are willing to make of thinking an intuitive experience, we can do justice, also, to experiences of the type of feeling and will. but the mysticism of feeling and the metaphysics of will do not know how to do justice to the penetration of reality which partakes at once of intuition and of thought. they conclude but too readily that they themselves are rooted in reality, but that the intuitive thinker, untouched by feeling, blind to reality, forms out of "abstract thoughts" a shadowy, chilly picture of the world. ix the idea of freedom the concept "tree" is conditioned for our knowledge by the percept "tree." there is only one determinate concept which i can select from the general system of concepts and apply to a given percept. the connection of concept and percept is mediately and objectively determined by thought in conformity with the percept. the connection between a percept and its concept is recognised after the act of perception, but the relevance of the one to the other is determined by the character of each. very different is the result when we consider knowledge, and, more particularly, the relation of man to the world which occurs in knowledge. in the preceding chapters the attempt has been made to show that an unprejudiced examination of this relation is able to throw light on its nature. a correct understanding of this examination leads to the conclusion that thinking may be intuitively apprehended in its unique, self-contained nature. those who find it necessary, for the explanation of thinking as such, to invoke something else, e.g., physical brain-processes, or unconscious spiritual processes lying behind the conscious thinking which they observe, fail to grasp the facts which an unprejudiced examination yields. when we observe our thinking, we live during the observation immediately within the essence of a spiritual, self-sustaining activity. indeed, we may even affirm that if we want to grasp the essential nature of spirit in the form in which it immediately presents itself to man, we need but look at our own self-sustaining thinking. for the study of thinking two things coincide which elsewhere must always appear apart, viz., concept and percept. if we fail to see this, we shall be unable to regard the concepts which we have elaborated in response to percepts as anything but shadowy copies of these percepts, and we shall take the percepts as presenting to us reality as it really is. we shall, further, build up for ourselves a metaphysical world after the pattern of the world of percepts. we shall, each according to his habitual ideas, call this world a world of atoms, or of will, or of unconscious spirit, and so on. and we shall fail to notice that all the time we have been doing nothing but erecting hypothetically a metaphysical world modeled on the world we perceive. but if we clearly apprehend what thinking consists in, we shall recognise that percepts present to us only a portion of reality, and that the complementary portion which alone imparts to reality its full character as real, is experienced by us in the organisation of percepts by thought. we shall regard all thought, not as a shadowy copy of reality, but as a self-sustaining spiritual essence. we shall be able to say of it, that it is revealed to us in consciousness through intuition. intuition is the purely spiritual conscious experience of a purely spiritual content. it is only through intuition that we can grasp the essence of thinking. to win through, by means of unprejudiced observation, to the recognition of this truth of the intuitive essence of thinking requires an effort. but without this effort we shall not succeed in clearing the way for a theory of the psycho-physical organisation of man. we recognise that this organisation can produce no effect whatever on the essential nature of thinking. at first sight this seems to be contradicted by patent and obvious facts. for ordinary experience, human thinking occurs only in connection with, and by means of, such an organisation. this dependence on psycho-physical organisation is so prominent that its true bearing can be appreciated by us only if we recognise, that in the essential nature of thinking this organisation plays no part whatever. once we appreciate this, we can no longer fail to notice how peculiar is the relation of human organisation to thought. for this organisation contributes nothing to the essential nature of thought, but recedes whenever thought becomes active. it suspends its own activity, it yields ground. and the ground thus set free is occupied by thought. the essence which is active in thought has a two-fold function: first it restricts the human organisation in its own activity; next, it steps into the place of that organisation. yes, even the former, the restriction of human organisation, is an effect of the activity of thought, and more particularly of that part of it which prepares the manifestation of thinking. this explains the sense in which thinking has its counterpart in the organisation of the body. once we perceive this, we can no longer misapprehend the significance for thinking of this physical counterpart. when we walk over soft ground our feet leave deep tracks in the soil. we shall not be tempted to say that the forces of the ground, from below, have formed these tracks. we shall not attribute to these forces any share in the production of the tracks. just so, if with open minds we observe the essential nature of thinking, we shall not attribute any share in that nature to the traces in the physical organism which thinking produces in preparing its manifestation through the body. [ ] an important question, however, confronts us here. if human organisation has no part in the essential nature of thinking, what is its function within the whole nature of man? well, the effects of thinking upon this organisation have no bearing upon the essence of thinking, but they have a bearing upon the origin of the "i," or ego-consciousness, through thinking. thinking, in its unique character, constitutes the real ego, but it does not constitute, as such, the ego-consciousness. to see this we have but to study thinking with an open mind. the ego is to be found in thinking. the ego-consciousness arises through the traces which, in the sense above explained, the activity of thinking impresses upon our general consciousness. the ego-consciousness thus arises through the physical organisation. this view must not, however, be taken to imply that the ego-consciousness, once it has arisen, remains dependent on the physical organisation. on the contrary, once it exists it is taken up into thought and shares henceforth thought's spiritual self-subsistence. the ego-consciousness is built upon human organisation. the latter is the source of all acts of will. following out the direction of the preceding exposition, we can gain insight into the connection of thought, conscious ego, and act of will, only by studying first how an act of will issues from human organisation. [ ] in a particular act of will we must distinguish two factors: the motive and the spring of action. the motive is a factor of the nature of concept or idea; the spring of action is the factor in will which is directly determined in the human organisation. the conceptual factor, or motive, is the momentary determining cause of an act of will; the spring of action is the permanent determining factor in the individual. the motive of an act of will can be only a pure concept, or else a concept with a definite relation to perception, i.e., an idea. universal and individual concepts (ideas) become motives of will by influencing the human individual and determining him to action in a particular direction. one and the same concept, however, or one and the same idea, influence different individuals differently. they determine different men to different actions. an act of will is, therefore, not merely the outcome of a concept or an idea, but also of the individual make-up of human beings. this individual make-up we will call, following eduard von hartmann, the "characterological disposition." the manner in which concept and idea act on the characterological disposition of a man gives to his life a definite moral or ethical stamp. the characterological disposition consists of the more or less permanent content of the individual's life, that is, of his habitual ideas and feelings. whether an idea which enters my mind at this moment stimulates me to an act of will or not, depends on its relation to my other ideal contents, and also to my peculiar modes of feeling. my ideal content, in turn, is conditioned by the sum total of those concepts which have, in the course of my individual life, come in contact with percepts, that is, have become ideas. this, again, depends on my greater or lesser capacity for intuition, and on the range of my perception, that is, on the subjective and objective factors of my experiences, on the structure of my mind and on my environment. my affective life more especially determines my characterological disposition. whether i shall make a certain idea or concept the motive for action will depend on whether it gives me pleasure or pain. these are the factors which we have to consider in an act of will. the immediately present idea or concept, which becomes the motive, determines the end or the purpose of my will; my characterological disposition determines me to direct my activity towards this end. the idea of taking a walk in the next half-hour determines the end of my action. but this idea is raised to the level of a motive only if it meets with a suitable characterological disposition, that is, if during my past life i have formed the ideas of the wholesomeness of walking and the value of health; and, further, if the idea of walking is accompanied by a feeling of pleasure. we must, therefore, distinguish ( ) the possible subjective dispositions which are likely to turn given ideas and concepts into motives, and ( ) the possible ideas and concepts which are capable of so influencing my characterological disposition that an act of will results. the former are for morality the springs of action, the latter its ends. the springs of action in the moral life can be discovered by analysing the elements of which individual life is composed. the first level of individual life is that of perception, more particularly sense-perception. this is the stage of our individual lives in which a percept translates itself into will immediately, without the intervention of either a feeling or a concept. the spring of action here involved may be called simply instinct. our lower, purely animal, needs (hunger, sexual intercourse, etc.) find their satisfaction in this way. the main characteristic of instinctive life is the immediacy with which the percept starts off the act of will. this kind of determination of the will, which belongs originally only to the life of the lower senses, may, however, become extended also to the percepts of the higher senses. we may react to the percept of a certain event in the external world without reflecting on what we do, and without any special feeling connecting itself with the percept. we have examples of this especially in our ordinary conventional intercourse with men. the spring of this kind of action is called tact or moral good taste. the more often such immediate reactions to a percept occur, the more the agent will prove himself able to act purely under the guidance of tact; that is, tact becomes his characterological disposition. the second level of human life is feeling. definite feelings accompany the percepts of the external world. these feelings may become springs of action. when i see a hungry man, my pity for him may become the spring of my action. such feelings, for example, are modesty, pride, sense of honour, humility, remorse, pity, revenge, gratitude, piety, loyalty, love, and duty. [ ] the third and last level of life is to have thoughts and ideas. an idea or a concept may become the motive of an action through mere reflection. ideas become motives because, in the course of my life, i regularly connect certain aims of my will with percepts which recur again and again in a more or less modified form. hence it is that, with men who are not wholly without experience, the occurrence of certain percepts is always accompanied also by the consciousness of ideas of actions, which they have themselves carried out in similar cases or which they have seen others carry out. these ideas float before their minds as determining models in all subsequent decisions; they become parts of their characterological disposition. we may give the name of practical experience to the spring of action just described. practical experience merges gradually into purely tactful behaviour. that happens, when definite typical pictures of actions have become so closely connected in our minds with ideas of certain situations in life, that, in any given instance, we omit all deliberation based on experience and pass immediately from the percept to the action. the highest level of individual life is that of conceptual thought without reference to any definite perceptual content. we determine the content of a concept through pure intuition on the basis of an ideal system. such a concept contains, at first, no reference to any definite percepts. when an act of will comes about under the influence of a concept which refers to a percept, i.e., under the influence of an idea, then it is the percept which determines our action indirectly by way of the concept. but when we act under the influence of pure intuitions, the spring of our action is pure thought. as it is the custom in philosophy to call pure thought "reason," we may perhaps be justified in giving the name of practical reason to the spring of action characteristic of this level of life. the clearest account of this spring of action has been given by kreyenbühl (philosophische monatshefte, vol. xviii, no. ). in my opinion his article on this subject is one of the most important contributions to present-day philosophy, more especially to ethics. kreyenbühl calls the spring of action, of which we are treating, the practical a priori i.e., a spring of action issuing immediately from my intuition. it is clear that such a spring of action can no longer be counted in the strictest sense as part of the characterological disposition. for what is here effective in me as a spring of action is no longer something purely individual, but the ideal, and hence universal, content of my intuition. as soon as i regard this content as the valid basis and starting-point of an action, i pass over into willing, irrespective of whether the concept was already in my mind beforehand, or whether it only occurs to me immediately before the action, that is, irrespective of whether it was present in the form of a disposition in me or not. a real act of will results only when a present impulse to action, in the form of a concept or idea, acts on the characterological disposition. such an impulse thereupon becomes the motive of the will. the motives of moral conduct are ideas and concepts. there are moralists who see in feeling also a motive of morality; they assert, e.g., that the end of moral conduct is to secure the greatest possible quantity of pleasure for the agent. pleasure itself, however, can never be a motive; at best only the idea of pleasure can act as motive. the idea of a future pleasure, but not the feeling itself, can act on my characterological disposition. for the feeling does not yet exist in the moment of action; on the contrary, it has first to be produced by the action. the idea of one's own or another's well-being is, however, rightly regarded as a motive of the will. the principle of producing the greatest quantity of pleasure for oneself through one's action, that is, to attain individual happiness, is called egoism. the attainment of this individual happiness is sought either by thinking ruthlessly only of one's own good, and striving to attain it even at the cost of the happiness of other individuals (pure egoism), or by promoting the good of others, either because one anticipates indirectly a favourable influence on one's own happiness through the happiness of others, or because one fears to endanger one's own interest by injuring others (morality of prudence). the special content of the egoistical principle of morality will depend on the ideas which we form of what constitutes our own, or others', good. a man will determine the content of his egoistical striving in accordance with what he regards as one of life's good things (luxury, hope of happiness, deliverance from different evils, etc.). further, the purely conceptual content of an action is to be regarded as yet another kind of motive. this content has no reference, like the idea of one's own pleasure, solely to the particular action, but to the deduction of an action from a system of moral principles. these moral principles, in the form of abstract concepts, may guide the individual's moral life without his worrying himself about the origin of his concepts. in that case, we feel merely the moral necessity of submitting to a moral concept which, in the form of law, controls our actions. the justification of this necessity we leave to those who demand from us moral subjection, that is, to those whose moral authority over us we acknowledge (the head of the family, the state, social custom, the authority of the church, divine revelation). we meet with a special kind of these moral principles when the law is not proclaimed to us by an external authority, but comes from our own selves (moral autonomy). in this case we believe that we hear the voice, to which we have to submit ourselves, in our own souls. the name for this voice is conscience. it is a great moral advance when a man no longer takes as the motive of his action the commands of an external or internal authority, but tries to understand the reason why a given maxim of action ought to be effective as a motive in him. this is the advance from morality based on authority to action from moral insight. at this level of morality, a man will try to discover the demands of the moral life, and will let his action be determined by this knowledge. such demands are ( ) the greatest possible happiness of humanity as a whole purely for its own sake, ( ) the progress of civilisation, or the moral development of mankind towards ever greater perfection, ( ) the realisation of individual moral ends conceived by an act of pure intuition. the greatest possible happiness of humanity as a whole will naturally be differently conceived by different people. the above-mentioned maxim does not imply any definite idea of this happiness, but rather means that every one who acknowledges this principle strives to do all that, in his opinion, most promotes the good of the whole of humanity. the progress of civilisation is seen to be a special application of the moral principle just mentioned, at any rate for those to whom the goods which civilisation produces bring feelings of pleasure. however, they will have to pay the price of progress in the destruction and annihilation of many things which also contribute to the happiness of humanity. it is, however, also possible that some men look upon the progress of civilisation as a moral necessity, quite apart from the feelings of pleasure which it brings. if so, the progress of civilisation will be a new moral principle for them, different from the previous one. both the principle of the public good, and that of the progress of civilisation, alike depend on the way in which we apply the content of our moral ideas to particular experiences (percepts). the highest principle of morality which we can conceive, however, is that which contains, to start with, no such reference to particular experiences, but which springs from the source of pure intuition and does not seek until later any connection with percepts, i.e., with life. the determination of what ought to be willed issues here from a point of view very different from that of the previous two principles. whoever accepts the principle of the public good will in all his actions ask first what his ideals contribute to this public good. the upholder of the progress of civilisation as the principle of morality will act similarly. there is, however, a still higher mode of conduct which, in a given case, does not start from any single limited moral ideal, but which sees a certain value in all moral principles, always asking whether this or that principle is more important in a particular case. it may happen that a man considers in certain circumstances the promotion of the public good, in others that of the progress of civilisation, and in yet others the furthering of his own private good, to be the right course, and makes that the motive of his action. but when all other grounds of determination take second place, then we rely, in the first place, on conceptual intuition itself. all other motives now drop out of sight, and the ideal content of an action alone becomes its motive. among the levels of characterological disposition, we have singled out as the highest that which manifests itself as pure thought, or practical reason. among the motives, we have just singled out conceptual intuition as the highest. on nearer consideration, we now perceive that at this level of morality the spring of action and the motive coincide, i.e., that neither a predetermined characterological disposition, nor an external moral principle accepted on authority, influence our conduct. the action, therefore, is neither a merely stereotyped one which follows the rules of a moral code, nor is it automatically performed in response to an external impulse. rather it is determined solely through its ideal content. for such an action to be possible, we must first be capable of moral intuitions. whoever lacks the capacity to think out for himself the moral principles that apply in each particular case, will never rise to the level of genuine individual willing. kant's principle of morality: act so that the principle of your action may be valid for all men--is the exact opposite of ours. his principle would mean death to all individual action. the norm for me can never be what all men would do, but rather what it is right for me to do in each special case. a superficial criticism might urge against these arguments: how can an action be individually adapted to the special case and the special situation, and yet at the same time be ideally determined by pure intuition? this objection rests on a confusion of the moral motive with the perceptual content of an action. the latter, indeed, may be a motive, and is actually a motive when we act for the progress of culture, or from pure egoism, etc., but in action based on pure moral intuition it never is a motive. of course, my self takes notice of these perceptual contents, but it does not allow itself to be determined by them. the content is used only to construct a theoretical concept, but the corresponding moral concept is not derived from the object. the theoretical concept of a given situation which faces me, is a moral concept also only if i adopt the standpoint of a particular moral principle. if i base all my conduct on the principle of the progress of civilisation, then my way through life is tied down to a fixed route. from every occurrence which comes to my notice and attracts my interest there springs a moral duty, viz., to do my tiny share towards using this occurrence in the service of the progress of civilisation. in addition to the concept which reveals to me the connections of events or objects according to the laws of nature, there is also a moral label attached to them which contains for me, as a moral agent, ethical directions as to how i have to conduct myself. at a higher level these moral labels disappear, and my action is determined in each particular instance by my idea; and more particularly by the idea which is suggested to me by the concrete instance. men vary greatly in their capacity for intuition. in some, ideas bubble up like a spring, others acquire them with much labour. the situations in which men live, and which are the scenes of their actions, are no less widely different. the conduct of a man will depend, therefore, on the manner in which his faculty of intuition reacts to a given situation. the aggregate of the ideas which are effective in us, the concrete content of our intuitions, constitute that which is individual in each of us, notwithstanding the universal character of our ideas. in so far as this intuitive content has reference to action, it constitutes the moral substance of the individual. to let this substance express itself in his life is the moral principle of the man who regards all other moral principles as subordinate. we may call this point of view ethical individualism. the determining factor of an action, in any concrete instance, is the discovery of the corresponding purely individual intuition. at this level of morality, there can be no question of general moral concepts (norms, laws). general norms always presuppose concrete facts from which they can be deduced. but facts have first to be created by human action. when we look for the regulating principles (the conceptual principles guiding the actions of individuals, peoples, epochs), we obtain a system of ethics which is not a science of moral norms, but rather a science of morality as a natural fact. only the laws discovered in this way are related to human action as the laws of nature are related to particular phenomena. these laws, however, are very far from being identical with the impulses on which we base our actions. if we want to understand how man's moral will gives rise to an action, we must first study the relation of this will to the action. for this purpose we must single out for study those actions in which this relation is the determining factor. when i, or another, subsequently review my action we may discover what moral principles come into play in it. but so long as i am acting, i am influenced, not by these moral principles, but by my love for the object which i want to realise through my action. i ask no man and no moral code, whether i shall perform this action or not. on the contrary, i carry it out as soon as i have formed the idea of it. this alone makes it my action. if a man acts because he accepts certain moral norms, his action is the outcome of the principles which compose his moral code. he merely carries out orders. he is a superior kind of automaton. inject some stimulus to action into his mind, and at once the clock-work of his moral principles will begin to work and run its prescribed course, so as to issue in an action which is christian, or humane, or unselfish, or calculated to promote the progress of culture. it is only when i follow solely my love for the object, that it is i, myself, who act. at this level of morality, i acknowledge no lord over me, neither an external authority, nor the so-called voice of my conscience. i acknowledge no external principle of my action, because i have found in myself the ground for my action, viz., my love of the action. i do not ask whether my action is good or bad; i perform it, because i am in love with it. my action is "good" when, with loving intuition, i insert myself in the right way into the world-nexus as i experience it intuitively; it is "bad" when this is not the case. neither do i ask myself how another man would act in my position. on the contrary, i act as i, this unique individuality, will to act. no general usage, no common custom, no general maxim current among men, no moral norm guides me, but my love for the action. i feel no compulsion, neither the compulsion of nature which dominates me through my instincts, nor the compulsion of the moral commandments. my will is simply to realise what in me lies. those who hold to general moral norms will reply to these arguments that, if every one has the right to live himself out and to do what he pleases, there can be no distinction between a good and a bad action; every fraudulent impulse in me has the same right to issue in action as the intention to serve the general good. it is not the mere fact of my having conceived the idea of an action which ought to determine me as a moral agent, but the further examination of whether it is a good or an evil action. only if it is good ought i to carry it out. this objection is easily intelligible, and yet it had its root in what is but a misapprehension of my meaning. my reply to it is this: if we want to get at the essence of human volition, we must distinguish between the path along which volition attains to a certain degree of development, and the unique character which it assumes as it approaches its goal. it is on the path towards the goal that the norms play a legitimate part. the goal consists in the realisation of moral aims which are apprehended by pure intuition. man attains such aims in proportion as he is able to rise at all to the level at which intuition grasps the ideal content of the world. in any particular volition, other elements will, as a rule, be mixed up, as motives or springs of action, with such moral aims. but, for all that, intuition may be, wholly or in part, the determining factor in human volition. what we ought to do, that we do. we supply the stage upon which duty becomes deed. it is our own action which, as such, issues from us. the impulse, then, can only be wholly individual. and, in fact, only a volition which issues out of intuition can be individual. it is only in an age in which immature men regard the blind instincts as part of a man's individuality, that the act of a criminal can be described as living out one's individuality in the same sense, in which the embodiment in action of a pure intuition can be so described. the animal instinct which drives a man to a criminal act does not spring from intuition, and does not belong to what is individual in him, but rather to that which is most general in him, to that which is equally present in all individuals. the individual element in me is not my organism with its instincts and feelings, but rather the unified world of ideas which reveals itself through this organism. my instincts, cravings, passions, justify no further assertion about me than that i belong to the general species man. the fact that something ideal expresses itself in its own unique way through these instincts, passions, and feelings, constitutes my individuality. my instincts and cravings make me the sort of man of whom there are twelve to the dozen. the unique character of the idea, by means of which i distinguish myself within the dozen as "i," makes of me an individual. only a being other than myself could distinguish me from others by the difference in my animal nature. by thought, i.e., by the active grasping of the ideal element working itself out through my organism, i distinguish myself from others. hence it is impossible to say of the action of a criminal that it issues from the idea within him. indeed, the characteristic feature of criminal actions is precisely that they spring from the non-ideal elements in man. an act the grounds for which lie in the ideal part of my individual nature is free. every other act, whether done under the compulsion of nature or under the obligation imposed by a moral norm, is unfree. that man alone is free who in every moment of his life is able to obey only himself. a moral act is my act only when it can be called free in this sense. so far we are concerned here with the presuppositions under which an act of will is felt to be free; the sequel will show how this purely ethical concept of freedom is realised in the essential nature of man. action on the basis of freedom does not exclude, but include, the moral laws. it only shows that it stands on a higher level than actions which are dictated by these laws. why should my act serve the general good less well when i do it from pure love of it, than when i perform it because it is a duty to serve the general good? the concept of duty excludes freedom, because it will not acknowledge the right of individuality, but demands the subjection of individuality to a general norm. freedom of action is conceivable only from the standpoint of ethical individualism. but how about the possibility of social life for men, if each aims only at asserting his own individuality? this question expresses yet another objection on the part of moralism wrongly understood. the moralist believes that a social community is possible only if all men are held together by a common moral order. this shows that the moralist does not understand the community of the world of ideas. he does not realise that the world of ideas which inspires me is no other than that which inspires my fellow-men. this identity is, indeed, but a conclusion from our experience of the world. however, it cannot be anything else. for if we could recognise it in any other way than by observation, it would follow that universal norms, not individual experience, were dominant in its sphere. individuality is possible only if every individual knows others only through individual observation. i differ from my neighbour, not at all because we are living in two entirely different mental worlds, but because from our common world of ideas we receive different intuitions. he desires to live out his intuitions, i mine. if we both draw our intuitions really from the world of ideas, and do not obey mere external impulses (physical or moral), then we cannot but meet one another in striving for the same aims, in having the same intentions. a moral misunderstanding, a clash of aims, is impossible between men who are free. only the morally unfree who blindly follow their natural instincts or the commands of duty, turn their backs on their neighbours, if these do not obey the same instincts and the same laws as themselves. to live in love of action and to let live in understanding of the other's volition, this is the fundamental maxim of the free man. he knows no other "ought" than that with which his will intuitively puts itself in harmony. how he shall will in any given case, that will be determined for him by the range of his ideas. if sociability were not deeply rooted in human nature, no external laws would be able to inoculate us with it. it is only because human individuals are akin in spirit that they can live out their lives side by side. the free man lives out his life in the full confidence that all other free men belong to one spiritual world with himself, and that their intentions will coincide with his. the free man does not demand agreement from his fellow-men, but he expects it none the less, believing that it is inherent in human nature. i am not referring here to the necessity for this or that external institution. i refer to the disposition, to the state of mind, through which a man, aware of himself as one of a group of fellow-men for whom he cares, comes nearest to living up to the ideal of human dignity. there are many who will say that the concept of the free man which i have here developed, is a chimera nowhere to be found realised, and that we have got to deal with actual human beings, from whom we can expect morality only if they obey some moral law, i.e., if they regard their moral task as a duty and do not simply follow their inclinations and loves. i do not deny this. only a blind man could do that. but, if so, away with all this hypocrisy of morality! let us say simply that human nature must be compelled to act as long as it is not free. whether the compulsion of man's unfree nature is effected by physical force or through moral laws, whether man is unfree because he indulges his unmeasured sexual desire, or because he is bound tight in the bonds of conventional morality, is quite immaterial. only let us not assert that such a man can rightly call his actions his own, seeing that he is driven to them by an external force. but in the midst of all this network of compulsion, there arise free spirits who, in all the welter of customs, legal codes, religious observances, etc., learn to be true to themselves. they are free in so far as they obey only themselves; unfree in so far as they submit to control. which of us can say that he is really free in all his actions? yet in each of us there dwells something deeper in which the free man finds expression. our life is made up of free and unfree actions. we cannot, however, form a final and adequate concept of human nature without coming upon the free spirit as its purest expression. after all, we are men in the fullest sense only in so far as we are free. this is an ideal, many will say. doubtless; but it is an ideal which is a real element in us working up to the surface of our nature. it is no ideal born of mere imagination or dream, but one which has life, and which manifests itself clearly even in the least developed form of its existence. if men were nothing but natural objects, the search for ideals, that is, for ideas which as yet are not actual but the realisation of which we demand, would be an impossibility. in dealing with external objects the idea is determined by the percept. we have done our share when we have recognised the connection between idea and percept. but with a human being the case is different. the content of his existence is not determined without him. his concept of his true self as a moral being (free spirit) is not a priori united objectively with the perceptual content "man," so that knowledge need only register the fact subsequently. man must by his own act unite his concept with the percept "man." concept and percept coincide with one another in this instance, only in so far as the individual himself makes them coincide. this he can do only if he has found the concept of the free spirit, that is, if he has found the concept of his own self. in the objective world, a boundary-line is drawn by our organisation between percept and concept. knowledge breaks down this barrier. in our subjective nature this barrier is no less present. the individual overcomes it in the course of his development, by embodying his concept of himself in his outward existence. hence man's moral life and his intellectual life lead him both alike to his two-fold nature, perception (immediate experience) and thought. the intellectual life overcomes his two-fold nature by means of knowledge, the moral life succeeds through the actual realisation of the free spirit. every being has its inborn concept (the laws of its being and action), but in external objects this concept is indissolubly bound up with the percept, and separated from it only in the organisation of human minds. in human beings concept and percept are, at first, actually separated, to be just as actually reunited by them. someone might object that to our percept of a man there corresponds at every moment of his life a definite concept, just as with external objects. i can construct for myself the concept of an average man, and i may also have given to me a percept to fit this pattern. suppose now i add to this the concept of a free spirit, then i have two concepts for the same object. such an objection is one-sided. as object of perception i am subject to perpetual change. as a child i was one thing, another as a youth, yet another as a man. moreover, at every moment i am different, as percept, from what i was the moment before. these changes may take place in such a way that either it is always only the same (average) man who exhibits himself in them, or that they represent the expression of a free spirit. such are the changes which my actions, as objects of perception, undergo. in the perceptual object "man" there is given the possibility of transformation, just as in the plant-seed there lies the possibility of growth into a fully developed plant. the plant transforms itself in growth, because of the objective law of nature which is inherent in it. the human being remains in his undeveloped state, unless he takes hold of the material for transformation within him and develops himself through his own energy. nature makes of man merely a natural being; society makes of him a being who acts in obedience to law; only he himself can make a free man of himself. at a definite stage in his development nature releases man from her fetters; society carries his development a step further; he alone can give himself the final polish. the theory of free morality, then, does not assert that the free spirit is the only form in which man can exist. it looks upon the freedom of the spirit only as the last stage in man's evolution. this is not to deny that conduct in obedience to norms has its legitimate place as a stage in development. the point is that we cannot acknowledge it to be the absolute standpoint in morality. for the free spirit transcends norms, in the sense that he is insensible to them as commands, but regulates his conduct in accordance with his impulses (intuitions). when kant apostrophises duty: "duty! thou sublime and mighty name, that dost embrace nothing charming or insinuating, but requirest submission," thou that "holdest forth a law ... before which all inclinations are dumb, even though they secretly counterwork it," [ ] then the free spirit replies: "freedom! thou kindly and humane name, which dost embrace within thyself all that is morally most charming, all that insinuates itself most into my humanity, and which makest me the servant of nobody, which holdest forth no law, but waitest what my inclination itself will proclaim as law, because it resists every law that is forced upon it." this is the contrast of morality according to law and according to freedom. the philistine who looks upon the state as embodied morality is sure to look upon the free spirit as a danger to the state. but that is only because his view is narrowly focused on a limited period of time. if he were able to look beyond, he would soon find that it is but on rare occasions that the free spirit needs to go beyond the laws of his state, and that it never needs to confront them with any real contradiction. for the laws of the state, one and all, have had their origin in the intuitions of free spirits, just like all other objective laws of morality. there is no traditional law enforced by the authority of a family, which was not, once upon a time, intuitively conceived and laid down by an ancestor. similarly the conventional laws of morality are first of all established by particular men, and the laws of the state are always born in the brain of a statesman. these free spirits have set up laws over the rest of mankind, and only he is unfree who forgets this origin and makes them either divine commands, or objective moral duties, or--falsely mystical--the authoritative voice of his own conscience. he, on the other hand, who does not forget the origin of laws, but looks for it in man, will respect them as belonging to the same world of ideas which is the source also of his own moral intuitions. if he thinks his intuitions better than the existing laws, he will try to put them into the place of the latter. if he thinks the laws justified, he will act in accordance with them as if they were his own intuitions. man does not exist in order to found a moral order of the world. anyone who maintains that he does, stands in his theory of man still at that same point, at which natural science stood when it believed that a bull has horns in order that it may butt. scientists, happily, have cast the concept of objective purposes in nature into the limbo of dead theories. for ethics, it is more difficult to achieve the same emancipation. but just as horns do not exist for the sake of butting, but butting because of horns, so man does not exist for the sake of morality, but morality exists through man. the free man acts morally because he has a moral idea, he does not act in order to be moral. human individuals are the presupposition of a moral world order. the human individual is the fountain of all morality and the centre of all life. state and society exist only because they have necessarily grown out of the life of individuals. that state and society, in turn, should react upon the lives of individuals, is no more difficult to comprehend, than that the butting which is the result of the existence of horns, reacts in turn upon the further development of the horns, which would become atrophied by prolonged disuse. similarly, the individual must degenerate if he leads an isolated existence beyond the pale of human society. that is just the reason why the social order arises, viz., that it may react favourably upon the individual. x monism and the philosophy of spiritual activity the naïve man who acknowledges nothing as real except what he can see with his eyes and grasp with his hands, demands for his moral life, too, grounds of action which are perceptible to his senses. he wants some one who will impart to him these grounds of action in a manner that his senses can apprehend. he is ready to allow these grounds of action to be dictated to him as commands by anyone whom he considers wiser or more powerful than himself, or whom he acknowledges, for whatever reason, to be a power superior to himself. this accounts for the moral principles enumerated above, viz., the principles which rest on the authority of family, state, society, church, and god. the most narrow-minded man still submits to the authority of some single fellow-man. he who is a little more progressive allows his moral conduct to be dictated by a majority (state, society). in every case he relies on some power which is present to his senses. when, at last, the conviction dawns on someone that his authorities are, at bottom, human beings just as weak as himself, then he seeks refuge with a higher power, with a divine being, whom, in turn, he endows with qualities perceptible to the senses. he conceives this being as communicating to him the ideal content of his moral life by way of his senses--believing, for example, that god appears in the flaming bush, or that he moves about among men in manifest human shape, and that their ears can hear his voice telling them what they are to do and what not to do. the highest stage of development which naïve realism attains in the sphere of morality is that at which the moral law (the moral idea) is conceived as having no connection with any external being, but, hypothetically, as being an absolute power in one's own consciousness. what man first listened to as the voice of god, to that he now listens as an independent power in his own mind which he calls conscience. this conception, however, takes us already beyond the level of the naïve consciousness into the sphere where moral laws are treated as independent norms. they are there no longer made dependent on a human mind, but are turned into self-existent metaphysical entities. they are analogous to the visible-invisible forces of metaphysical realism. hence also they appear always as a corollary of metaphysical realism, which seeks reality, not in the part which human nature, through its thinking, plays in making reality what it is, but which hypothetically posits reality over and above the facts of experience. hence these extra-human moral norms always appear as corollaries of metaphysical realism. for this theory is bound to look for the origin of morality likewise in the sphere of extra-human reality. there are different possible views of its origin. if the thing-in-itself is unthinking and acts according to purely mechanical laws, as modern materialism conceives that it does, then it must also produce out of itself, by purely mechanical necessity, the human individual and all that belongs to him. on that view the consciousness of freedom can be nothing more than an illusion. for whilst i consider myself the author of my action, it is the matter of which i am composed and the movements which are going on in it that determine me. i imagine myself free, but actually all my actions are nothing but the effects of the metabolism which is the basis of my physical and mental organisation. it is only because we do not know the motives which compel us that we have the feeling of freedom. "we must emphasise that the feeling of freedom depends on the absence of external compelling motives." "our actions are as much subject to necessity as our thoughts" (ziehen, leitfaden der physiologischen psychologie, pp. , ff.). [ ] another possibility is that some one will find in a spiritual being the absolute lying behind all phenomena. if so, he will look for the spring of action in some kind of spiritual power. he will regard the moral principles which his reason contains as the manifestation of this spiritual being, which pursues in men its own special purposes. moral laws appear to the dualist, who holds this view, as dictated by the absolute, and man's only task is to discover, by means of his reason, the decisions of the absolute and to carry them out. for the dualist, the moral order of the world is the visible symbol of the higher order that lies behind it. our human morality is a revelation of the divine world-order. it is not man who matters in this moral order but reality in itself, that is, god. man ought to do what god wills. eduard von hartmann, who identifies reality, as such, with god, and who treats god's existence as a life of suffering, believes that the divine being has created the world in order to gain, by means of the world, release from his infinite suffering. hence this philosopher regards the moral evolution of humanity as a process, the function of which is the redemption of god. "only through the building up of a moral world-order on the part of rational, self-conscious individuals is it possible for the world-process to approximate to its goal." "real existence is the incarnation of god. the world-process is the passion of god who has become flesh, and at the same time the way of redemption for him who was crucified in the flesh; and morality is our co-operation in the shortening of this process of suffering and redemption" (hartmann, phänomenologie des sittlichen bewusstseins, § ). on this view, man does not act because he wills, but he must act because it is god's will to be redeemed. whereas the materialistic dualist turns man into an automaton, the action of which is nothing but the effect of causality according to purely mechanical laws, the spiritualistic dualist (i.e., he who treats the absolute, the thing-in-itself, as a spiritual something in which man with his conscious experience has no share), makes man the slave of the will of the absolute. neither materialism, nor spiritualism, nor in general metaphysical realism which infers, as true reality, an extra-human something which it does not experience, have any room for freedom. naïve and metaphysical realism, if they are to be consistent, have to deny freedom for one and the same reason, viz., because, for them, man does nothing but carry out, or execute, principles necessarily imposed upon him. naïve realism destroys freedom by subjecting man to authority, whether it be that of a perceptible being, or that of a being conceived on the analogy of perceptible beings, or, lastly, that of the abstract voice of conscience. the metaphysician, content merely to infer an extra-human reality, is unable to acknowledge freedom because, for him, man is determined, mechanically or morally, by a "thing-in-itself." monism will have to admit the partial justification of naïve realism, with which it agrees in admitting the part played by the world of percepts. he who is incapable of producing moral ideas through intuition must receive them from others. in so far as a man receives his moral principles from without he is actually unfree. but monism ascribes to the idea the same importance as to the percept. the idea can manifest itself only in human individuals. in so far as man obeys the impulses coming from this side he is free. but monism denies all justification to metaphysics, and consequently also to the impulses of action which are derived from so-called "things-in-themselves." according to the monistic view, man's action is unfree when he obeys some perceptible external compulsion; it is free when he obeys none but himself. there is no room in monism for any kind of unconscious compulsion hidden behind percept and concept. if anybody maintains of the action of a fellow-man that it has not been freely done, he is bound to produce within the visible world the thing or the person or the institution which has caused the agent to act. and if he supports his contention by an appeal to causes of action lying outside the real world of our percepts and thoughts, then monism must decline to take account of such an assertion. according to the monistic theory, then, man's action is partly free, partly unfree. he is conscious of himself as unfree in the world of percepts, and he realises in himself the spirit which is free. the moral laws which his inferences compel the metaphysician to regard as issuing from a higher power have, according to the upholder of monism, been conceived by men themselves. to him the moral order is neither a mere image of a purely mechanical order of nature nor of the divine government of the world, but through and through the free creation of men. it is not man's business to realise god's will in the world, but his own. he carries out his own decisions and intentions, not those of another being. monism does not find behind human agents a ruler of the world, determining them to act according to his will. men pursue only their own human ends. moreover, each individual pursues his own private ends. for the world of ideas realises itself, not in a community, but only in individual men. what appears as the common goal of a community is nothing but the result of the separate volitions of its individual members, and most commonly of a few outstanding men whom the rest follow as their leaders. each one of us has it in him to be a free spirit, just as every rosebud is potentially a rose. monism, then, is in the sphere of genuinely moral action the true philosophy of freedom. being also a philosophy of reality, it rejects the metaphysical (unreal) restriction of the free spirit as emphatically as it acknowledges the physical and historical (naïvely real) restrictions of the naïve man. inasmuch as it does not look upon man as a finished product, exhibiting in every moment of his life his full nature, it considers idle the dispute whether man, as such, is free or not. it looks upon man as a developing being, and asks whether, in the course of this development, he can reach the stage of the free spirit. monism knows that nature does not send forth man ready-made as a free spirit, but that she leads him up to a certain stage, from which he continues to develop still as an unfree being, until he reaches the point where he finds his own self. monism perceives clearly that a being acting under physical or moral compulsion cannot be truly moral. it regards the stages of automatic action (in accordance with natural impulses and instincts), and of obedient action (in accordance with moral norms), as a necessary propædeutic for morality, but it understands that it is possible for the free spirit to transcend both these transitory stages. monism emancipates man in general from all the self-imposed fetters of the maxims of naïve morality, and from all the externally imposed maxims of speculative metaphysicians. the former monism can as little eliminate from the world as it can eliminate percepts. the latter it rejects, because it looks for all principles of explanation of the phenomena of the world within that world and not outside it. just as monism refuses even to entertain the thought of cognitive principles other than those applicable to men (p. ), so it rejects also the concept of moral maxims other than those originated by men. human morality, like human knowledge, is conditioned by human nature, and just as beings of a higher order would probably mean by knowledge something very different from what we mean by it, so we may assume that other beings would have a very different morality. for monists, morality is a specifically human quality, and freedom the human way being moral. . addition to the revised edition ( ). in forming a judgment about the argument of the two preceding chapters, a difficulty may arise from what may appear to be a contradiction. on the one side, we have spoken of the experience of thinking as one the significance of which is universal and equally valid for every human consciousness. on the other side, we have pointed out that the ideas which we realise in moral action and which are homogeneous with those that thinking elaborates, manifest themselves in every human consciousness in a uniquely individual way. if we cannot get beyond regarding this antithesis as a "contradiction," and if we do not recognise that in the living intuition of this actually existing antithesis a piece of man's essential nature reveals itself, we shall not be able to apprehend in the true light either what knowledge is or what freedom is. those who think of concepts as nothing more than abstractions from the world of percepts, and who do not acknowledge the part which intuition plays, cannot but regard as a "pure contradiction" the thought for which we have here claimed reality. but if we understand how ideas are experienced intuitively in their self-sustaining essence, we see clearly that, in knowledge, man lives and enters into the world of ideas as into something which is identical for all men. on the other hand, when man derives from that world the intuitions for his voluntary actions, he individualises a member of the world of ideas by that same activity which he practises as a universally human one in the spiritual and ideal process of cognition. the apparent contradiction between the universal character of cognitive ideas and the individual character of moral ideas becomes, when intuited in its reality, a living concept. it is a criterion of the essential nature of man that what we intuitively apprehend of his nature oscillates, like a living pendulum, between knowledge which is universally valid, and individualised experience of this universal content. those who fail to perceive the one oscillation in its real character, will regard thinking as a merely subjective human activity. for those who are unable to grasp the other oscillation, man's activity in thinking will seem to lose all individual life. knowledge is to the former, the moral life to the latter, an unintelligible fact. both will fall back on all sorts of ideas for the explanation of the one or of the other, because both either do not understand at all how thinking can be intuitively experienced, or, else, misunderstand it as an activity which merely abstracts. . addition to the revised edition ( ). on page i have spoken of materialism. i am well aware that there are thinkers, like the above-mentioned th. ziehen, who do not call themselves materialists at all, but yet who must be called so from the point of view adopted in this book. it does not matter whether a thinker says that for him the world is not restricted to merely material being, and that, therefore, he is not a materialist. no, what matters is whether he develops concepts which are applicable only to material being. anyone who says, "our action, like our thought, is necessarily determined," lays down a concept which is applicable only to material processes, but not applicable either to what we do or to what we are. and if he were to think out what his concept implies, he would end by thinking materialistically. he saves himself from this fate only by the same inconsistency which so often results from not thinking one's thoughts out to the end. it is often said nowadays that the materialism of the nineteenth century is scientifically dead. but in truth it is not so. it is only that nowadays we frequently fail to notice that we have no other ideas than those which apply only to the material world. thus recent materialism is disguised, whereas in the second half of the nineteenth century it openly flaunted itself. towards a theory which apprehends the world spiritually the camouflaged materialism of the present is no less intolerant than the self-confessed materialism of the last century. but it deceives many who think they have a right to reject a theory of the world in terms of spirit, on the ground that the scientific world-view "has long ago abandoned materialism." xi world-purpose and life-purpose (the destiny of man) among the manifold currents in the spiritual life of humanity there is one which we must now trace, and which we may call the elimination of the concept of purpose from spheres to which it does not belong. adaptation to purpose is a special kind of sequence of phenomena. such adaptation is genuinely real only when, in contrast to the relation of cause and effect in which the antecedent event determines the subsequent, the subsequent event determines the antecedent. this is possible only in the sphere of human actions. man performs actions which he first presents to himself in idea, and he allows himself to be determined to action by this idea. the consequent, i.e., the action, influences by means of the idea the antecedent, i.e., the human agent. if the sequence is to have purposive character, it is absolutely necessary to have this circuitous process through human ideas. in the process which we can analyse into cause and effect, we must distinguish percept from concept. the percept of the cause precedes the percept of the effect. cause and effect would simply stand side by side in our consciousness, if we were not able to connect them with one another through the corresponding concepts. the percept of the effect must always be consequent upon the percept of the cause. if the effect is to have a real influence upon the cause, it can do so only by means of the conceptual factor. for the perceptual factor of the effect simply does not exist prior to the perceptual factor of the cause. whoever maintains that the flower is the purpose of the root, i.e., that the former determines the latter, can make good this assertion only concerning that factor in the flower which his thought reveals in it. the perceptual factor of the flower is not yet in existence at the time when the root originates. in order to have a purposive connection, it is not only necessary to have an ideal connection of consequent and antecedent according to law, but the concept (law) of the effect must really, i.e., by means of a perceptible process, influence the cause. such a perceptible influence of a concept upon something else is to be observed only in human actions. hence this is the only sphere in which the concept of purpose is applicable. the naïve consciousness, which regards as real only what is perceptible, attempts, as we have repeatedly pointed out, to introduce perceptible factors even where only ideal factors can actually be found. in sequences of perceptible events it looks for perceptible connections, or, failing to find them, it imports them by imagination. the concept of purpose, valid for subjective actions, is very convenient for inventing such imaginary connections. the naïve mind knows how it produces events itself, and consequently concludes that nature proceeds likewise. in the connections of nature which are purely ideal it finds, not only invisible forces, but also invisible real purposes. man makes his tools to suit his purposes. on the same principle, so the naïve realist imagines, the creator constructs all organisms. it is but slowly that this mistaken concept of purpose is being driven out of the sciences. in philosophy, even at the present day, it still does a good deal of mischief. philosophers still ask such questions as, what is the purpose of the world? what is the function (and consequently the purpose) of man? etc. monism rejects the concept of purpose in every sphere, with the sole exception of human action. it looks for laws of nature, but not for purposes of nature. purposes of nature, no less than invisible forces (p. ), are arbitrary assumptions. but even life-purposes which man does not set up for himself, are, from the standpoint of monism, illegitimate assumptions. nothing is purposive except what man has made so, for only the realisation of ideas originates anything purposive. but an idea becomes effective, in the realistic sense, only in human actions. hence life has no other purpose or function than the one which man gives to it. if the question be asked, what is man's purpose in life? monism has but one answer: the purpose which he gives to himself. i have no predestined mission in the world; my mission, at any one moment, is that which i choose for myself. i do not enter upon life's voyage with a fixed route mapped out for me. ideas are realised only by human agents. consequently, it is illegitimate to speak of the embodiment of ideas by history. all such statements as "history is the evolution of man towards freedom," or "the realisation of the moral world-order," etc., are, from a monistic point of view, untenable. the supporters of the concept of purpose believe that, in surrendering it, they are forced to surrender also all unity and order in the world. listen, for example, to robert hamerling (atomistik des willens, vol. ii, p. ): "as long as there are instincts in nature, so long is it foolish to deny purposes in nature. just as the structure of a limb of the human body is not determined and conditioned by an idea of this limb, floating somewhere in mid-air, but by its connection with the more inclusive whole, the body, to which the limb belongs, so the structure of every natural object, be it plant, animal, or man, is not determined and conditioned by an idea of it floating in mid-air, but by the formative principle of the more inclusive whole of nature which unfolds and organises itself in a purposive manner." and on page of the same volume we read: "teleology maintains only that, in spite of the thousand misfits and miseries of this natural life, there is a high degree of adaptation to purpose and plan unmistakable in the formations and developments of nature--an adaptation, however, which is realised only within the limits of natural laws, and which does not tend to the production of some imaginary fairy-land, in which life would not be confronted by death, growth by decay, with all the more or less unpleasant, but quite unavoidable, intermediary stages between them. when the critics of teleology oppose a laboriously collected rubbish-heap of partial or complete, imaginary or real, maladaptations to a world full of wonders of purposive adaptation, such as nature exhibits in all her domains, then i consider this just as amusing----" what is here meant by purposive adaptation? nothing but the consonance of percepts within a whole. but, since all percepts are based upon laws (ideas), which we discover by means of thinking, it follows that the orderly coherence of the members of a perceptual whole is nothing more than the ideal (logical) coherence of the members of the ideal whole which is contained in this perceptual whole. to say that an animal or a man is not determined by an idea floating in mid-air is a misleading way of putting it, and the view which the critic attacks loses its apparent absurdity as soon as the phrase is put right. an animal certainly is not determined by an idea floating in mid-air, but it is determined by an idea inborn in it and constituting the law of its nature. it is just because the idea is not external to the natural object, but is operative in it as its very essence, that we cannot speak here of adaptation to purpose. those who deny that natural objects are determined from without (and it does not matter, in this context, whether it be by an idea floating in mid-air or existing in the mind of a creator of the world), are the very men who ought to admit that such an object is not determined by purpose and plan from without, but by cause and law from within. a machine is produced in accordance with a purpose, if i establish a connection between its parts which is not given in nature. the purposive character of the combinations which i effect consists just in this, that i embody my idea of the working of the machine in the machine itself. in this way the machine comes into existence as an object of perception embodying a corresponding idea. natural objects have a very similar character. whoever calls a thing purposive because its form is in accordance with plan or law may, if he so please, call natural objects also purposive, provided only that he does not confuse this kind of purposiveness with that which belongs to a subjective human action. in order to have a purpose, it is absolutely necessary that the efficient cause should be a concept, more precisely a concept of the effect. but in nature we can nowhere point to concepts operating as causes. a concept is never anything but the ideal nexus of cause and effect. causes occur in nature only in the form of percepts. dualism may talk of cosmic and natural purposes. wherever for our perception there is a nexus of cause and effect according to law, there the dualist is free to assume that we have but the image of a nexus in which the absolute has realised its purposes. for monism, on the other hand, the rejection of an absolute reality implies also the rejection of the assumption of purposes in world and nature. addition to the revised edition ( ). no one who, with an open mind, has followed the preceding argument, will come to the conclusion that the author, in rejecting the concept of purpose for extra-human facts, intended to side with those thinkers who reject this concept in order to be able to regard, first, everything outside human action and, next, human action itself, as a purely natural process. against such misunderstanding the author should be protected by the fact that the process of thinking is in this book represented as a purely spiritual process. the reason for rejecting the concept of purpose even for the spiritual world, so far as it lies outside human action, is that in this world there is revealed something higher than a purpose, such as is realised in human life. and when we characterise as erroneous the attempt to conceive the destiny of the human race as purposive according to the pattern of human purposiveness, we mean that the individual adopts purposes, and that the result of the total activity of humanity is composed of these individual purposes. this result is something higher than its component parts, the purposes of individual men. xii moral imagination (darwin and morality) a free spirit acts according to his impulses, i.e., intuitions, which his thought has selected out of the whole world of his ideas. for an unfree spirit, the reason why he singles out a particular intuition from his world of ideas, in order to make it the basis of an action, lies in the perceptual world which is given to him, i.e., in his past experiences. he recalls, before making a decision, what some one else has done, or recommended as proper in an analogous case, or what god has commanded to be done in such a case, etc., and he acts on these recollections. a free spirit dispenses with these preliminaries. his decision is absolutely original. he cares as little what others have done in such a case as what commands they have laid down. he has purely ideal (logical) reasons which determine him to select a particular concept out of the sum of his concepts, and to realise it in action. but his action will belong to perceptible reality. consequently, what he achieves will coincide with a definite content of perception. his concept will have to be realised in a concrete particular event. as a concept it will not contain this event as particular. it will refer to the event only in its generic character, just as, in general, a concept is related to a percept, e.g., the concept lion to a particular lion. the link between concept and percept is the idea (cp. pp. ff). to the unfree spirit this intermediate link is given from the outset. motives exist in his consciousness from the first in the form of ideas. whenever he intends to do anything he acts as he has seen others act, or he obeys the instructions he receives in each separate case. hence authority is most effective in the form of examples, i.e., in the form of traditional patterns of particular actions handed down for the guidance of the unfree spirit. a christian models his conduct less on the teaching than on the pattern of the saviour. rules have less value for telling men positively what to do than for telling them what to leave undone. laws take on the form of universal concepts only when they forbid actions, not when they prescribe actions. laws concerning what we ought to do must be given to the unfree spirit in wholly concrete form. clean the street in front of your door! pay your taxes to such and such an amount to the tax-collector! etc. conceptual form belongs to laws which inhibit actions. thou shalt not steal! thou shalt not commit adultery! but these laws, too, influence the unfree spirit only by means of a concrete idea, e.g., the idea of the punishments attached by human authority, or of the pangs of conscience, or of eternal damnation, etc. even when the motive to an action exists in universal conceptual form (e.g., thou shalt do good to thy fellow-men! thou shalt live so that thou promotest best thy welfare!), there still remains to be found, in the particular case, the concrete idea of the action (the relation of the concept to a content of perception). for a free spirit who is not guided by any model nor by fear of punishment, etc., this translation of the concept into an idea is always necessary. concrete ideas are formed by us on the basis of our concepts by means of the imagination. hence what the free spirit needs in order to realise his concepts, in order to assert himself in the world, is moral imagination. this is the source of the free spirit's action. only those men, therefore, who are endowed with moral imagination are, properly speaking, morally productive. those who merely preach morality, i.e., those who merely excogitate moral rules without being able to condense them into concrete ideas, are morally unproductive. they are like those critics who can explain very competently how a work of art ought to be made, but who are themselves incapable of the smallest artistic production. moral imagination, in order to realise its ideas, must enter into a determinate sphere of percepts. human action does not create percepts, but transforms already existing percepts and gives them a new character. in order to be able to transform a definite object of perception, or a sum of such objects, in accordance with a moral idea, it is necessary to understand the object's law (its mode of action which one intends to transform, or to which one wants to give a new direction). further, it is necessary to discover the procedure by which it is possible to change the given law into the new one. this part of effective moral activity depends on knowledge of the particular world of phenomena with which one has got to deal. we shall, therefore, find it in some branch of scientific knowledge. moral action, then, presupposes, in addition to the faculty of moral concepts [ ] and of moral imagination, the ability to alter the world of percepts without violating the natural laws by which they are connected. this ability is moral technique. it may be learnt in the same sense in which science in general may be learnt. for, in general, men are better able to find concepts for the world as it is, than productively to originate out of their imaginations future, and as yet non-existing, actions. hence, it is very well possible for men without moral imagination to receive moral ideas from others, and to embody these skilfully in the actual world. vice versa, it may happen that men with moral imagination lack technical skill, and are dependent on the service of other men for the realisation of their ideas. in so far as we require for moral action knowledge of the objects upon which we are about to act, our action depends upon such knowledge. what we need to know here are the laws of nature. these belong to the natural sciences, not to ethics. moral imagination and the faculty of moral concepts can become objects of theory only after they have first been employed by the individual. but, thus regarded, they no longer regulate life, but have already regulated it. they must now be treated as efficient causes, like all other causes (they are purposes only for the subject). the study of them is, as it were, the natural science of moral ideas. ethics as a normative science, over and above this science, is impossible. some would maintain the normative character of moral laws at least in the sense that ethics is to be taken as a kind of dietetic which, from the conditions of the organism's life, deduces general rules, on the basis of which it hopes to give detailed directions to the body (paulsen, system der ethik). this comparison is mistaken, because our moral life cannot be compared with the life of the organism. the behaviour of the organism occurs without any volition on our part. its laws are fixed data in our world; hence we can discover them and apply them when discovered. moral laws, on the other hand, do not exist until we create them. we cannot apply them until we have created them. the error is due to the fact that moral laws are not at every moment new creations, but are handed down by tradition. those which we take over from our ancestors appear to be given like the natural laws of the organism. but it does not follow that a later generation has the right to apply them in the same way as dietetic rules. for they apply to individuals, and not, like natural laws, to specimens of a genus. considered as an organism, i am such a generic specimen, and i shall live in accordance with nature if i apply the laws of my genus to my particular case. as a moral agent i am an individual and have my own private laws. [ ] the view here upheld appears to contradict that fundamental doctrine of modern natural science which is known as the theory of evolution. but it only appears to do so. by evolution we mean the real development of the later out of the earlier in accordance with natural law. in the organic world, evolution means that the later (more perfect) organic forms are real descendants of the earlier (imperfect) forms, and have grown out of them in accordance with natural laws. the upholders of the theory of organic evolution believe that there was once a time on our earth, when we could have observed with our own eyes the gradual evolution of reptiles out of proto-amniotes, supposing that we could have been present as men, and had been endowed with a sufficiently long span of life. similarly, evolutionists suppose that man could have watched the development of the solar system out of the primordial nebula of the kant-laplace hypothesis, if he could have occupied a suitable spot in the world-ether during that infinitely long period. but no evolutionist will dream of maintaining that he could from his concept of the primordial amnion deduce that of the reptile with all its qualities, even if he had never seen a reptile. just as little would it be possible to derive the solar system from the concept of the kant-laplace nebula, if this concept of an original nebula had been formed only from the percept of the nebula. in other words, if the evolutionist is to think consistently, he is bound to maintain that out of earlier phases of evolution later ones really develop; that once the concept of the imperfect and that of the perfect have been given, we can understand the connection. but in no case will he admit that the concept formed from the earlier phases is, in itself, sufficient for deducing from it the later phases. from this it follows for ethics that, whilst we can understand the connection of later moral concepts with earlier ones, it is not possible to deduce a single new moral idea from earlier ones. the individual, as a moral being, produces his own content. this content, thus produced, is for ethics a datum, as much as reptiles are a datum for natural science. reptiles have evolved out of the proto-amniotes, but the scientist cannot manufacture the concept of reptiles out of the concept of the proto-amniotes. later moral ideas evolve out of the earlier ones, but ethics cannot manufacture out of the moral principles of an earlier age those of a later one. the confusion is due to the fact that, as scientists, we start with the facts before us, and then make a theory about them, whereas in moral action we first produce the facts ourselves, and then theorise about them. in the evolution of the moral world-order we accomplish what, at a lower level, nature accomplishes: we alter some part of the perceptual world. hence the ethical norm cannot straightway be made an object of knowledge, like a law of nature, for it must first be created. only when that has been done can the norm become an object of knowledge. but is it not possible to make the old a measure for the new? is not every man compelled to measure the deliverances of his moral imagination by the standard of traditional moral principles? if he would be truly productive in morality, such measuring is as much an absurdity as it would be an absurdity if one were to measure a new species in nature by an old one and say that reptiles, because they do not agree with the proto-amniotes, are an illegitimate (degenerate) species. ethical individualism, then, so far from being in opposition to the theory of evolution, is a direct consequence of it. haeckel's genealogical tree, from protozoa up to man as an organic being, ought to be capable of being worked out without a breach of natural law, and without a gap in its uniform evolution, up to the individual as a being with a determinate moral nature. but, whilst it is quite true that the moral ideas of the individual have perceptibly grown out of those of his ancestors, it is also true that the individual is morally barren, unless he has moral ideas of his own. the same ethical individualism which i have developed on the basis of the preceding principles, might be equally well developed on the basis of the theory of evolution. the final result would be the same; only the path by which it was reached would be different. that absolutely new moral ideas should be developed by the moral imagination is for the theory of evolution no more inexplicable than the development of one animal species out of another, provided only that this theory, as a monistic world-view, rejects, in morality as in science, every transcendent (metaphysical) influence. in doing so, it follows the same principle by which it is guided in seeking the causes of new organic forms in forms already existing, but not in the interference of an extra-mundane god, who produces every new species in accordance with a new creative idea through supernatural interference. just as monism has no use for supernatural creative ideas in explaining living organisms, so it is equally impossible for it to derive the moral world-order from causes which do not lie within the world. it cannot admit any continuous supernatural influence upon moral life (divine government of the world from the outside), nor an influence either through a particular act of revelation at a particular moment in history (giving of the ten commandments), or through god's appearance on the earth (divinity of christ [ ]). moral processes are, for monism, natural products like everything else that exists, and their causes must be looked for in nature, i.e., in man, because man is the bearer of morality. ethical individualism, then, is the crown of the edifice that darwin and haeckel have erected for natural science. it is the theory of evolution applied to the moral life. anyone who restricts the concept of the natural from the outset to an artificially limited and narrowed sphere, is easily tempted not to allow any room within it for free individual action. the consistent evolutionist does not easily fall a prey to such a narrow-minded view. he cannot let the process of evolution terminate with the ape, and acknowledge for man a supernatural origin. again, he cannot stop short at the organic reactions of man and regard only these as natural. he has to treat also the life of moral self-determination as the continuation of organic life. the evolutionist, then, in accordance with his fundamental principles, can maintain only that moral action evolves out of the less perfect forms of natural processes. he must leave the characterisation of action, i.e., its determination as free action, to the immediate observation of each agent. all that he maintains is only that men have developed out of non-human ancestors. what the nature of men actually is must be determined by observation of men themselves. the results of this observation cannot possibly contradict the history of evolution. only the assertion that the results are such as to exclude their being due to a natural world-order would contradict recent developments in the natural sciences. [ ] ethical individualism, then, has nothing to fear from a natural science which understands itself. observation yields freedom as the characteristic quality of the perfect form of human action. freedom must be attributed to the human will, in so far as the will realises purely ideal intuitions. for these are not the effects of a necessity acting upon them from without, but are grounded in themselves. when we find that an action embodies such an ideal intuition, we feel it to be free. freedom consists in this character of an action. what, then, from the standpoint of nature are we to say of the distinction, already mentioned above (p. ), between the two statements, "to be free means to be able to do what you will," and "to be able, as you please, to strive or not to strive is the real meaning of the dogma of free will"? hamerling bases his theory of free will precisely on this distinction, by declaring the first statement to be correct but the second to be an absurd tautology. he says, "i can do what i will, but to say i can will what i will is an empty tautology." whether i am able to do, i.e., to make real, what i will, i.e., what i have set before myself as my idea of action, that depends on external circumstances and on my technical skill (cp. p. ). to be free means to be able to determine by moral imagination out of oneself those ideas (motives) which lie at the basis of action. freedom is impossible if anything other than i myself (whether a mechanical process or god) determines my moral ideas. in other words, i am free only when i myself produce these ideas, but not when i am merely able to realise the ideas which another being has implanted in me. a free being is one who can will what he regards as right. whoever does anything other than what he wills must be impelled to it by motives which do not lie in himself. such a man is unfree in his action. accordingly, to be able to will, as you please, what you consider right or wrong means to be free or unfree as you please. this is, of course, just as absurd as to identify freedom with the faculty of doing what one is compelled to will. but this is just what hamerling maintains when he says, "it is perfectly true that the will is always determined by motives, but it is absurd to say that on this ground it is unfree; for a greater freedom can neither be desired nor conceived than the freedom to realise oneself in proportion to one's own power and strength of will." on the contrary, it is well possible to desire a greater freedom and that a true freedom, viz., the freedom to determine for oneself the motives of one's volitions. under certain conditions a man may be induced to abandon the execution of his will; but to allow others to prescribe to him what he shall do--in other words, to will what another and not what he himself regards as right--to this a man will submit only when he does not feel free. external powers may prevent me from doing what i will, but that is only to condemn me to do nothing or to be unfree. not until they enslave my spirit, drive my motives out of my head, and put their own motives in the place of mine, do they really aim at making me unfree. that is the reason why the church attacks not only the mere doing, but especially the impure thoughts, i.e., motives of my action. and for the church all those motives are impure which she has not herself authorised. a church does not produce genuine slaves until her priests turn themselves into advisers of consciences, i.e., until the faithful depend upon the church, i.e., upon the confessional, for the motives of their actions. addition to revised edition ( ). in these chapters i have given an account of how every one may experience in his actions something which makes him aware that his will is free. it is especially important to recognise that we derive the right to call an act of will free from the experience of an ideal intuition realising itself in the act. this can be nothing but a datum of observation, in the sense that we observe the development of human volition in the direction towards the goal of attaining the possibility of just such volition sustained by purely ideal intuition. this attainment is possible because the ideal intuition is effective through nothing but its own self-dependent essence. where such an intuition is present in the mind, it has not developed itself out of the processes in the organism (cp. pp. ff.), but the organic processes have retired to make room for the ideal processes. observation of an act of will which embodies an intuition shows that out of it, likewise, all organically necessary activity has retired. the act of will is free. no one can observe this freedom of will who is unable to see how free will consists in this, that, first, the intuitive factor lames and represses the necessary activity of the human organism, and then puts in its place the spiritual activity of a will guided by ideas. only those who are unable to observe these two factors in the free act of will believe that every act of will is unfree. those who are able to observe them win through to the recognition that man is unfree in so far as he fails to repress organic activity completely, but that this unfreedom is tending towards freedom, and that this freedom, so far from being an abstract ideal, is a directive force inherent in human nature. man is free in proportion as he succeeds in realising in his acts of will the same disposition of mind, which possesses him when he is conscious in himself of the formation of purely ideal (spiritual) intuitions. xiii the value of life (optimism and pessimism) a counterpart of the question concerning the purpose and function of life (cp. pp. ff.) is the question concerning its value. we meet here with two mutually opposed views, and between them with all conceivable attempts at compromise. one view says that this world is the best conceivable which could exist at all, and that to live and act in it is a good of inestimable value. everything that exists displays harmonious and purposive co-operation and is worthy of admiration. even what is apparently bad and evil may, from a higher point of view, be seen to be a good, for it represents an agreeable contrast with the good. we are the more able to appreciate the good when it is clearly contrasted with evil. moreover, evil is not genuinely real; it is only that we perceive as evil a lesser degree of good. evil is the absence of good, it has no positive import of its own. the other view maintains that life is full of misery and agony. everywhere pain outweighs pleasure, sorrow outweighs joy. existence is a burden, and non-existence would, from every point of view, be preferable to existence. the chief representatives of the former view, i.e., optimism, are shaftesbury and leibnitz; the chief representatives of the second, i.e., pessimism, are schopenhauer and eduard von hartmann. leibnitz says the world is the best of all possible worlds. a better one is impossible. for god is good and wise. a good god wills to create the best possible world, a wise god knows which is the best possible. he is able to distinguish the best from all other and worse possibilities. only an evil or an unwise god would be able to create a world worse than the best possible. whoever starts from this point of view will find it easy to lay down the direction which human action must follow, in order to make its contribution to the greatest good of the universe. all that man need do will be to find out the counsels of god and to act in accordance with them. if he knows what god's purposes are concerning the world and the human race, he will be able, for his part, to do what is right. and he will be happy in the feeling that he is adding his share to all the other good in the world. from this optimistic standpoint, then, life is worth living. it is such as to stimulate us to co-operate with, and enter into, it. quite different is the picture schopenhauer paints. he thinks of ultimate reality not as an all-wise and all-beneficent being, but as blind striving or will. eternal striving, ceaseless craving for satisfaction which yet is ever beyond reach, these are the fundamental characteristics of all will. for as soon as we have attained what we want, a fresh need springs up, and so on. satisfaction, when it occurs, endures always only for an infinitesimal time. the whole rest of our lives is unsatisfied craving, i.e., discontent and suffering. when at last blind craving is dulled, every definite content is gone from our lives. existence is filled with nothing but an endless ennui. hence the best we can do is to throttle all desires and needs within us and exterminate the will. schopenhauer's pessimism leads to complete inactivity; its moral aim is universal idleness. by a very different argument von hartmann attempts to establish pessimism and to make use of it for ethics. he attempts, in keeping with the fashion of our age, to base his world-view on experience. by observation of life he hopes to discover whether there is more pain or more pleasure in the world. he passes in review before the tribunal of reason whatever men consider to be happiness and a good, in order to show that all apparent satisfaction turns out, on closer inspection, to be nothing but illusion. it is illusion when we believe that in health, youth, freedom, sufficient income, love (sexual satisfaction), pity, friendship and family life, honour, reputation, glory, power, religious edification, pursuit of science and of art, hope of a life after death, participation in the advancement of civilisation--that in all these we have sources of happiness and satisfaction. soberly considered, every enjoyment brings much more evil and misery than pleasure into the world. the disagreeableness of "the morning after" is always greater than the agreeableness of intoxication. pain far outweighs pleasure in the world. no man, even though relatively the happiest, would, if asked, wish to live through this miserable life a second time. now, since hartmann does not deny the presence of an ideal factor (wisdom) in the world, but, on the contrary, grants to it equal rights with blind striving (will), he can attribute the creation of the world to his absolute being only on condition that he makes the pain in the world subserve a world-purpose that is wise. but the pain of created beings is nothing but god's pain itself, for the life of nature as a whole is identical with the life of god. an all-wise being can aim only at release from pain, and since all existence is pain, at release from existence. hence the purpose of the creation of the world is to transform existence into the non-existence which is so much better. the world-process is nothing but a continuous battle against god's pain, a battle which ends with the annihilation of all existence. the moral life for men, therefore, will consist in taking part in the annihilation of existence. the reason why god has created the world is that through the world he may free himself from his infinite pain. the world must be regarded, "as it were, as an itching eruption on the absolute," by means of which the unconscious healing power of the absolute rids itself of an inward disease; or it may be regarded "as a painful drawing-plaster which the all-one applies to itself in order first to divert the inner pain outwards, and then to get rid of it altogether." human beings are members of the world. in their sufferings god suffers. he has created them in order to split up in them his infinite pain. the pain which each one of us suffers is but a drop in the infinite ocean of god's pain (hartmann, phänomenologie des sittlichen bewusstseins, pp. ff.). it is man's duty to permeate his whole being with the recognition that the pursuit of individual satisfaction (egoism) is a folly, and that he ought to be guided solely by the task of assisting in the redemption of god by unselfish service of the world-process. thus, in contrast with the pessimism of schopenhauer, that of von hartmann leads us to devoted activity in a sublime cause. but what of the claim that this view is based on experience? to strive after satisfaction means that our activity reaches out beyond the actual content of our lives. a creature is hungry, i.e., it desires satiety, when its organic functions demand for their continuation the supply of fresh life-materials in the form of nourishment. the pursuit of honour consists in that a man does not regard what he personally does or leaves undone as valuable unless it is endorsed by the approval of others from without. the striving for knowledge arises when a man is not content with the world which he sees, hears, etc., so long as he has not understood it. the fulfilment of the striving causes pleasure in the individual who strives, failure causes pain. it is important here to observe that pleasure and pain are attached only to the fulfilment or non-fulfilment of my striving. the striving itself is by no means to be regarded as a pain. hence, if we find that, in the very moment in which a striving is fulfilled, at once a new striving arises, this is no ground for saying that pleasure has given birth to pain, because enjoyment in every case gives rise to a desire for its repetition, or for a fresh pleasure. i can speak of pain only when desire runs up against the impossibility of fulfilment. even when an enjoyment that i have had causes in me the desire for the experience of a greater, more subtle, and more exotic pleasure, i have no right to speak of this desire as a pain caused by the previous pleasure until the means fail me to gain the greater and more subtle pleasure. i have no right to regard pleasure as the cause of pain unless pain follows on pleasure as its consequence by natural law, e.g., when a woman's sexual pleasure is followed by the suffering of child-birth and the cares of nursing. if striving caused pain, then the removal of striving ought to be accompanied by pleasure. but the very reverse is true. to have no striving in one's life causes boredom, and boredom is always accompanied by displeasure. now, since it may be a long time before a striving meets with fulfilment, and since, in the interval, it is content with the hope of fulfilment, we must acknowledge that there is no connection in principle between pain and striving, but that pain depends solely on the non-fulfilment of the striving. schopenhauer, then, is wrong, in any case, in regarding desire or striving (will) as being in principle the source of pain. in truth, the very reverse of this is correct. striving (desire) is in itself pleasurable. who does not know the pleasure which is caused by the hope of a remote but intensely desired enjoyment? this pleasure is the companion of all labour, the results of which will be enjoyed by us only in the future. it is a pleasure which is wholly independent of the attainment of the end. for when the aim has been attained, the pleasure of satisfaction is added as a fresh thrill to the pleasure of striving. if anyone were to argue that the pain caused by the non-attainment of an aim is increased by the pain of disappointed hope, and that thus, in the end, the pain of non-fulfilment will still always outweigh the utmost possible pleasure of fulfilment, we shall have to reply that the reverse may be the case, and that the recollection of past pleasure at a time of unsatisfied desire will as often mitigate the displeasure of non-satisfaction. whoever at the moment when his hopes suffer shipwreck exclaims, "i have done my part," proves thereby my assertion. the blessed feeling of having willed the best within one's powers is ignored by all who make every unsatisfied desire an occasion for asserting that, not only has the pleasure of fulfilment been lost, but that the enjoyment of the striving itself has been destroyed. the satisfaction of a desire causes pleasure and its non-satisfaction causes pain. but we have no right to infer from this fact that pleasure is nothing but the satisfaction of a desire, and pain nothing but its non-satisfaction. both pleasure and pain may be experienced without being the consequence of desire. all illness is pain not preceded by any desire. if anyone were to maintain that illness is unsatisfied desire for health, he would commit the error of regarding the inevitable and unconscious wish not to fall ill as a positive desire. when some one receives a legacy from a rich relative of whose existence he had not the faintest idea, he experiences a pleasure without having felt any preceding desire. hence, if we set out to inquire whether the balance is on the side of pleasure or of pain, we must allow in our calculation for the pleasure of striving, the pleasure of the satisfaction of striving, and the pleasure which comes to us without any striving whatever. on the debit side we shall have to enter the displeasure of boredom, the displeasure of unfulfilled striving, and, lastly, the displeasure which comes to us without any striving on our part. under this last heading we shall have to put also the displeasure caused by work that has been forced upon us, not chosen by ourselves. this leads us to the question, what is the right method for striking the balance between the credit and the debit columns? eduard von hartmann asserts that reason holds the scales. it is true that he says (philosophie des unbewussten, th edition, vol. ii. p. ): "pain and pleasure exist only in so far as they are actually being felt." it follows that there can be no standard for pleasure other than the subjective standard of feeling. i must feel whether the sum of my disagreeable feelings, contrasted with my agreeable feelings, results in me in a balance of pleasure or of pain. but, notwithstanding this, von hartmann maintains that "though the value of the life of every being can be set down only according to its own subjective measure, yet it follows by no means that every being is able to compute the correct algebraic sum of all the feelings of its life--or, in other words, that its total estimate of its own life, with regard to its subjective feelings, should be correct." but this means that rational estimation of feelings is reinstated as the standard of value. [ ] it is because von hartmann holds this view that he thinks it necessary, in order to arrive at a correct valuation of life, to clear out of the way those factors which falsify our judgment about the balance of pleasure and of pain. he tries to do this in two ways: first, by showing that our desire (instinct, will) operates as a disturbing factor in the sober estimation of feeling-values; e.g., whereas we ought to judge that sexual enjoyment is a source of evil, we are beguiled by the fact that the sexual instinct is very strong in us, into pretending to experience a pleasure which does not occur in the alleged intensity at all. we are bent on indulging ourselves, hence we do not acknowledge to ourselves that the indulgence makes us suffer. secondly, von hartmann subjects feelings to a criticism designed to show, that the objects to which our feelings attach themselves reveal themselves as illusions when examined by reason, and that our feelings are destroyed from the moment that our constantly growing insight sees through the illusions. von hartmann, then, conceives the matter as follows. suppose an ambitious man wants to determine clearly whether, up to the moment of his inquiry, there has been a surplus of pleasure or of pain in his life. he has to eliminate two sources of error that may affect his judgment. being ambitious, this fundamental feature of his character will make him see all the pleasures of the public recognition of his achievements larger than they are, and all the insults suffered through rebuffs smaller than they are. at the time when he suffered the rebuffs he felt the insults just because he is ambitious, but in recollection they appear to him in a milder light, whereas the pleasures of recognition to which he is so much more susceptible leave a far deeper impression. undeniably, it is a real benefit to an ambitious man that it should be so, for the deception diminishes his pain in the moment of self-analysis. but, none the less, it falsifies his judgments. the sufferings which he now reviews as through a veil were actually experienced by him in all their intensity. hence he enters them at a wrong valuation on the debit side of his account. in order to arrive at a correct estimate, an ambitious man would have to lay aside his ambition for the time of his inquiry. he would have to review his past life without any distorting glasses before his mind's eye, else he will resemble a merchant who, in making up his books, enters among the items on the credit side his own zeal in business. but von hartmann goes even further. he says the ambitious man must make clear to himself that the public recognition which he craves is not worth having. by himself, or with the guidance of others, he must attain the insight that rational beings cannot attach any value to recognition by others, seeing that "in all matters which are not vital questions of development, or which have not been definitely settled by science," it is always as certain as anything can be "that the majority is wrong and the minority right." "whoever makes ambition the lode-star of his life puts the happiness of his life at the mercy of so fallible a judgment" (philosophie des unbewussten, vol. ii, p. ). if the ambitious man acknowledges all this to himself, he is bound to regard all the achievements of his ambition as illusions, including even the feelings which attach themselves to the satisfaction of his ambitious desires. this is the reason why von hartmann says that we must also strike out of the balance-sheet of our life-values whatever is seen to be illusory in our feelings of pleasure. what remains after that represents the sum-total of pleasure in life, and this sum is so small compared with the sum-total of pain that life is no enjoyment and non-existence preferable to existence. but whilst it is immediately evident that the interference of the instinct of ambition produces self-deception in striking the balance of pleasures and thus leads to a false result, we must none the less challenge what von hartmann says concerning the illusory character of the objects to which pleasure is attached. for the elimination, from the credit-side of life, of all pleasurable feelings which accompany actual or supposed illusions would positively falsify the balance of pleasure and of pain. an ambitious man has genuinely enjoyed the acclamations of the multitude, irrespective of whether subsequently he himself, or some other person, recognises that this acclamation is an illusion. the pleasure, once enjoyed, is not one whit diminished by such recognition. consequently the elimination of all these "illusory" feelings from life's balance, so far from making our judgment about our feelings more correct, actually cancels out of life feelings which were genuinely there. and why are these feelings to be eliminated? he who has them derives pleasure from them; he who has overcome them, gains through the experience of self-conquest (not through the vain emotion: what a noble fellow i am! but through the objective sources of pleasure which lie in the self-conquest) a pleasure which is, indeed, spiritualised, but none the less valuable for that. if we strike feelings from the credit side of pleasure in our account, on the ground that they are attached to objects which turn out to have been illusory, we make the value of life dependent, not on the quantity, but on the quality of pleasure, and this, in turn, on the value of the objects which cause the pleasure. but if i am to determine the value of life only by the quantity of pleasure or pain which it brings, i have no right to presuppose something else by which first to determine the positive or negative value of pleasure. if i say i want to compare quantity of pleasure and quantity of pain, in order to see which is greater, i am bound to bring into my account all pleasures and pains in their actual intensities, regardless of whether they are based on illusions or not. if i credit a pleasure which rests on an illusion with a lesser value for life than one which can justify itself before the tribunal of reason, i make the value of life dependent on factors other than mere quantity of pleasure. whoever, like eduard von hartmann, puts down pleasure as less valuable when it is attached to a worthless object, is like a merchant who enters the considerable profits of a toy-factory at only one-quarter of their real value on the ground that the factory produces nothing but playthings for children. if the point is simply to weigh quantity of pleasure against quantity of pain, we ought to leave the illusory character of the objects of some pleasures entirely out of account. the method, then, which von hartmann recommends, viz., rational criticism of the quantities of pleasure and pain produced by life, has taught us so far how we are to get the data for our calculation, i.e., what we are to put down on the one side of our account and what on the other. but how are we to make the actual calculation? is reason able also to strike the balance? a merchant makes a miscalculation when the gain calculated by him does not balance with the profits which he has demonstrably enjoyed from his business or is still expecting to enjoy. similarly, the philosopher will undoubtedly have made a mistake in his estimate, if he cannot demonstrate in actual feeling the surplus of pleasure or, as the case may be, of pain which his manipulation of the account may have yielded. for the present i shall not criticise the calculations of those pessimists who support their estimate of the value of the world by an appeal to reason. but if we are to decide whether to carry on the business of life or not, we shall demand first to be shown where the alleged balance of pain is to be found. here we touch the point where reason is not in a position by itself to determine the surplus of pleasure or of pain, but where it must exhibit this surplus in life as something actually felt. for man reaches reality not through concepts by themselves, but through the interpenetration of concepts and percepts (and feelings are percepts) which thinking brings about (cp. pp. ff.). a merchant will give up his business only when the loss of goods, as calculated by his accountant, is actually confirmed by the facts. if the facts do not bear out the calculation, he asks his accountant to check the account once more. that is exactly what a man will do in the business of life. if a philosopher wants to prove to him that the pain is far greater than the pleasure, but that he does not feel it so, then he will reply: "you have made a mistake in your theorisings; repeat your analysis once more." but if there comes a time in a business when the losses are really so great that the firm's credit no longer suffices to satisfy the creditors, bankruptcy results, even though the merchant may avoid keeping himself informed by careful accounts about the state of his affairs. similarly, supposing the quantity of pain in a man's life became at any time so great that no hope (credit) of future pleasure could help him to get over the pain, the bankruptcy of life's business would inevitably follow. now the number of those who commit suicide is relatively small compared with the number of those who live bravely on. only very few men give up the business of life because of the pain involved. what follows? either that it is untrue to say that the quantity of pain is greater than the quantity of pleasure, or that we do not make the continuation of life dependent on the quantity of felt pleasure or pain. in a very curious way, eduard von hartmann's pessimism, having concluded that life is valueless because it contains a surplus of pain, yet affirms the necessity of going on with life. this necessity lies in the fact that the world-purpose mentioned above (p. ) can be achieved only by the ceaseless, devoted labour of human beings. but so long as men still pursue their egoistical appetites they are unfit for this devoted labour. it is not until experience and reason have convinced them that the pleasures which egoism pursues are incapable of attainment, that they give themselves up to their proper task. in this way the pessimistic conviction is offered as the fountain of unselfishness. an education based on pessimism is to exterminate egoism by convincing it of the hopelessness of achieving its aims. according to this view, then, the striving for pleasure is fundamentally inherent in human nature. it is only through the insight into the impossibility of satisfaction that this striving abdicates in favour of the higher tasks of humanity. it is, however, impossible to say of this ethical theory, which expects from the establishment of pessimism a devotion to unselfish ends in life, that it really overcomes egoism in the proper sense of the word. the moral ideas are said not to be strong enough to dominate the will until man has learnt that the selfish striving after pleasure cannot lead to any satisfaction. man, whose selfishness desires the grapes of pleasure, finds them sour because he cannot attain them, and so he turns his back on them and devotes himself to an unselfish life. moral ideals, then, according to the opinion of pessimists, are too weak to overcome egoism, but they establish their kingdom on the territory which previous recognition of the hopelessness of egoism has cleared for them. if men by nature strive after pleasure but are unable to attain it, it follows that annihilation of existence and salvation through non-existence are the only rational ends. and if we accept the view that the real bearer of the pain of the world is god, it follows that the task of men consists in helping to bring about the salvation of god. to commit suicide does not advance, but hinders, the realisation of this aim. god must rationally be conceived as having created men for the sole purpose of bringing about his salvation through their action, else would creation be purposeless. every one of us has to perform his own definite task in the general work of salvation. if he withdraws from the task by suicide, another has to do the work which was intended for him. somebody else must bear in his stead the agony of existence. and since in every being it is, at bottom, god who is the ultimate bearer of all pain, it follows that to commit suicide does not in the least diminish the quantity of god's pain, but rather imposes upon god the additional difficulty of providing a substitute. this whole theory presupposes that pleasure is the standard of value for life. now life manifests itself through a number of instincts (needs). if the value of life depended on its producing more pleasure than pain, an instinct would have to be called valueless which brought to its owner a balance of pain. let us, if you please, inspect instinct and pleasure, in order to see whether the former can be measured by the latter. and lest we give rise to the suspicion that life does not begin for us below the sphere of the "aristocrats of the intellect," we shall begin our examination with a "purely animal" need, viz., hunger. hunger arises when our organs are unable to continue functioning without a fresh supply of food. what a hungry man desires, in the first instance, is to have his hunger stilled. as soon as the supply of nourishment has reached the point where hunger ceases, everything has been attained that the food-instinct craves. the pleasure which is connected with satiety consists, to begin with, in the removal of the pain which is caused by hunger. but to the mere food-instinct there is added a further need. for man does not merely desire to restore, by the consumption of food, the disturbance in the functioning of his organs, or to get rid of the pain of hunger, but he seeks to effect this to the accompaniment of pleasurable sensations of taste. when he feels hungry, and is within half an hour of a meal to which he looks forward with pleasure, he avoids spoiling his enjoyment of the better food by taking inferior food which might satisfy his hunger sooner. he needs hunger in order to get the full enjoyment out of his meal. thus hunger becomes for him at the same time a cause of pleasure. supposing all the hunger in the world could be satisfied, we should get the total quantity of pleasure which we owe to the existence of the desire for nourishment. but we should still have to add the additional pleasure which gourmets gain by cultivating the sensibility of their taste-nerves beyond the common measure. the greatest conceivable value of this quantity of pleasure would be reached, if no need remained unsatisfied which was in any way connected with this kind of pleasure, and if with the smooth of pleasure we had not at the same time to take a certain amount of the rough of pain. modern science holds the view that nature produces more life than it can maintain, i.e., that nature also produces more hunger than it is able to satisfy. the surplus of life thus produced is condemned to a painful death in the struggle for existence. granted that the needs of life are, at every moment of the world-process, greater than the available means of satisfaction, and that the enjoyment of life is correspondingly diminished, yet such enjoyment as actually occurs is not one whit reduced thereby. wherever a desire is satisfied, there the corresponding quantity of pleasure exists, even though in the creature itself which desires, or in its fellow-creatures, there are a large number of unsatisfied instincts. what is diminished is, not the quantity, but the "value" of the enjoyment of life. if only a part of the needs of a living creature find satisfaction, it experiences still a corresponding pleasure. this pleasure is inferior in value in proportion as it is inadequate to the total demand of life within a given group of desires. we might represent this value as a fraction, the numerator of which is the actually experienced pleasure, whilst the denominator is the sum-total of needs. this fraction has the value when the numerator and the denominator are equal, i.e., when all needs are also satisfied. the fraction becomes greater than when a creature experiences more pleasure than its desires demand. it becomes smaller than when the quantity of pleasure falls short of the sum-total of desires. but the fraction can never have the value so long as the numerator has any value at all, however small. if a man were to make up the account before his death and to distribute in imagination over the whole of life the quantity belonging to a particular instinct (e.g., hunger), as well as the demands of this instinct, then the total pleasure which he has experienced might have only a very small value, but this value would never become altogether nil. if the quantity of pleasure remains constant, then with every increase in the needs of the creature the value of the pleasure diminishes. the same is true for the totality of life in nature. the greater the number of creatures in proportion to those which are able fully to satisfy their instincts, the smaller is the average pleasure-value of life. the cheques on life's pleasure which are drawn in our favour in the form of our instincts, become increasingly less valuable in proportion as we cannot expect to cash them at their full face value. suppose i get enough to eat on three days and am then compelled to go hungry for another three days, the actual pleasure on the three days of eating is not thereby diminished. but i have now to think of it as distributed over six days, and this reduces its "value" for my food-instinct by half. the same applies to the quantity of pleasure as measured by the degree of my need. suppose i have hunger enough for two sandwiches and can only get one, the pleasure which this one gives me has only half the value it would have had if the eating of it had stilled my hunger. this is the way in which we determine the value of a pleasure in life. we determine it by the needs of life. our desires supply the measure; pleasure is what is measured. the pleasure of stilling hunger has value only because hunger exists, and it has determinate value through the proportion which it bears to the intensity of the hunger. unfulfilled demands of our life throw their shadow even upon fulfilled desires, and thus detract from the value of pleasurable hours. but we may speak also of the present value of a feeling of pleasure. this value is the smaller, the more insignificant the pleasure is in proportion to the duration and intensity of our desire. a quantity of pleasure has its full value for us when its duration and degree exactly coincide with our desire. a quantity of pleasure which is smaller than our desire diminishes the value of the pleasure. a quantity which is greater produces a surplus which has not been demanded and which is felt as pleasure only so long as, whilst enjoying the pleasure, we can correspondingly increase the intensity of our desire. if we are not able to keep pace in the increase of our desire with the increase in pleasure, then pleasure turns into displeasure. the object which would otherwise satisfy us, when it assails us unbidden makes us suffer. this proves that pleasure has value for us only so long as we have desires by which to measure it. an excess of pleasurable feeling turns into pain. this may be observed especially in those men whose desire for a given kind of pleasure is very small. in people whose desire for food is dulled, eating easily produces nausea. this again shows that desire is the measure of value for pleasure. now pessimism might reply that an unsatisfied desire for food produces, not only the pain of a lost enjoyment, but also positive ills, agony, and misery in the world. it appeals for confirmation to the untold misery of all who are harassed by anxieties about food, and to the vast amount of pain which for these unfortunates results indirectly from their lack of food. and if it wants to extend its assertion also to non-human nature, it can point to the agonies of animals which, in certain seasons, die from lack of food. concerning all these evils the pessimist maintains that they far outweigh the quantity of pleasure which the food-instinct brings into the world. there is no doubt that it is possible to compare pleasure and pain one with another, and determine the surplus of the one or the other as we determine commercial gain or loss. but if pessimists think that a surplus on the side of pain is a ground for inferring that life is valueless, they fall into the mistake of making a calculation which in actual life is never made. our desire, in any given case, is directed to a particular object. the value of the pleasure of satisfaction, as we have seen, will be the greater in proportion as the quantity of the pleasure is greater relatively to the intensity of our desire. [ ] it depends, further, on this intensity how large a quantity of pain we are willing to bear in order to gain the pleasure. we compare the quantity of pain, not with the quantity of pleasure, but with the intensity of our desire. he who finds great pleasure in eating will, by reason of his pleasure in better times, be more easily able to bear a period of hunger than one who does not derive pleasure from the satisfaction of the instinct for food. a woman who wants a child compares the pleasures resulting from the possession of a child, not with the quantities of pain due to pregnancy, birth, nursing, etc., but with her desire for the possession of the child. we never aim at a certain quantity of pleasure in the abstract, but at concrete satisfaction of a perfectly determinate kind. when we are aiming at a definite object or a definite sensation, it will not satisfy us to be offered some other object or some other sensation, even though they give the same amount of pleasure. if we desire satisfaction of hunger, we cannot substitute for the pleasure which this satisfaction would bring a pleasure equally great but produced by a walk. only if our desire were, quite generally, for a certain quantity of pleasure, would it have to die away at once if this pleasure were unattainable except at the price of an even greater quantity of pain. but because we desire a determinate kind of satisfaction, we experience the pleasure of realisation even when, along with it, we have to bear an even greater pain. the instincts of living beings tend in a determinate direction and aim at concrete objects, and it is just for this reason that it is impossible, in our calculations, to set down as an equivalent factor the quantities of pain which we have to bear in the pursuit of our object. provided the desire is sufficiently intense to be still to some degree in existence even after having overcome the pain--however great that pain, taken in the abstract, may be--the pleasure of satisfaction may still be enjoyed to its full extent. the desire, therefore, does not measure the pain directly against the pleasure which we attain, but indirectly by measuring the pain (proportionately) against its own intensity. the question is not whether the pleasure to be gained is greater than the pain, but whether the desire for the object at which we aim is greater than the inhibitory effect of the pain which we have to face. if the inhibition is greater than the desire, the latter yields to the inevitable, slackens, and ceases to strive. but inasmuch as we strive after a determinate kind of satisfaction, the pleasure we gain thereby acquires an importance which makes it possible, once satisfaction has been attained, to allow in our calculation for the inevitable pain only in so far as it has diminished the intensity of our desire. if i am passionately fond of beautiful views, i never calculate the amount of pleasure which the view from the mountain-top gives me as compared directly with the pain of the toilsome ascent and descent; but i reflect whether, after having overcome all difficulties, my desire for the view will still be sufficiently intense. thus pleasure and pain can be made commensurate only mediately through the intensity of the desire. hence the question is not at all whether there is a surplus of pleasure or of pain, but whether the desire for pleasure is sufficiently intense to overcome the pain. a proof for the accuracy of this view is to be found in the fact, that we put a higher value on pleasure when it has to be purchased at the price of great pain than when it simply falls into our lap like a gift from heaven. when sufferings and agonies have toned down our desire and yet after all our aim is attained, then the pleasure is all the greater in proportion to the intensity of the desire that has survived. now it is just this proportion which, as i have shown (p. ), represents the value of the pleasure. a further proof is to be found in the fact that all living creatures (including men) develop their instincts as long as they are able to bear the opposition of pains and agonies. the struggle for existence is but a consequence of this fact. all living creatures strive to expand, and only those abandon the struggle whose desires are throttled by the overwhelming magnitude of the difficulties with which they meet. every living creature seeks food until sheer lack of food destroys its life. man, too, does not turn his hand against himself until, rightly or wrongly, he believes that he cannot attain those aims in life which alone seem to him worth striving for. so long as he still believes in the possibility of attaining what he thinks worth striving for, he will battle against all pains and miseries. philosophy would have to convince man that striving is rational only when pleasure outweighs pain, for it is his nature to strive for the attainment of the objects which he desires, so long as he can bear the inevitable incidental pain, however great that may be. such a philosophy, however, would be mistaken, because it would make the human will dependent on a factor (the surplus of pleasure over pain) which, at first, is wholly foreign to man's point of view. the original measure of his will is his desire, and desire asserts itself as long as it can. if i am compelled, in purchasing a certain quantity of apples, to take twice as many rotten ones as sound ones--because the seller wishes to clear out his stock--i shall not hesitate a moment to take the bad apples as well, if i put so high a value on the smaller quantity of good apples that i am prepared, in addition to the purchase price, to bear also the expense for the transportation of the rotten goods. this example illustrates the relation between the quantities of pleasure and of pain which are caused by a given instinct. i determine the value of the good apples, not by subtracting the sum of the good from that of the bad ones, but by the fact that, in spite of the presence of the bad ones, i still attach a value to the good ones. just as i leave out of account the bad apples in the enjoyment of the good ones, so i surrender myself to the satisfaction of a desire after having shaken off the inevitable pains. supposing even pessimism were in the right with its assertion that the world contains more pain than pleasure, it would nevertheless have no influence upon the will, for living beings would still strive after such pleasure as remains. the empirical proof that pain overbalances pleasure is indeed effective for showing up the futility of that school of philosophy, which looks for the value of life in a surplus of pleasure (eudæmonism), but not for exhibiting the will, as such, as irrational. for the will is not set upon a surplus of pleasure, but on whatever quantity of pleasure remains after subtracting the pain. this remaining pleasure still appears always as an object worth pursuing. an attempt has been made to refute pessimism by asserting that it is impossible to determine by calculation the surplus of pleasure or of pain in the world. the possibility of every calculation depends on our being able to compare the things to be calculated in respect of their quantity. every pain and every pleasure has a definite quantity (intensity and duration). further, we can compare pleasurable feelings of different kinds one with another, at least approximately, with regard to their intensity. we know whether we derive more pleasure from a good cigar or from a good joke. no objection can be raised against the comparability of different pleasures and pains in respect of their intensity. the thinker who sets himself the task of determining the surplus of pleasure or pain in the world, starts from presuppositions which are undeniably legitimate. it is possible to maintain that the pessimistic results are false, but it is not possible to doubt that quantities of pleasure and pain can be scientifically estimated, and that the surplus of the one or the other can thereby be determined. it is incorrect, however, to assert that from this calculation any conclusions can be drawn for the human will. the cases in which we really make the value of our activity dependent on whether pleasure or pain shows a surplus, are those in which the objects towards which our activity is directed are indifferent to us. if it is a question whether, after the day's work, i am to amuse myself by a game or by light conversation, and if i am totally indifferent what i do so long as it amuses me, then i simply ask myself: what gives me the greatest surplus of pleasure? and i abandon the activity altogether if the scales incline towards the side of displeasure. if we are buying a toy for a child we consider, in selecting, what will give him the greatest pleasure, but in all other cases we are not determined exclusively by considerations of the balance of pleasure. hence, if pessimistic thinkers believe that they are preparing the ground for an unselfish devotion to the work of civilisation, by demonstrating that there is a greater quantity of pain than of pleasure in life, they forget altogether that the human will is so constituted that it cannot be influenced by this knowledge. the whole striving of men is directed towards the greatest possible satisfaction that is attainable after overcoming all difficulties. the hope of this satisfaction is the basis of all human activity. the work of every single individual and the whole achievement of civilisation have their roots in this hope. the pessimistic theory of ethics thinks it necessary to represent the pursuit of pleasure as impossible, in order that man may devote himself to his proper moral tasks. but these moral tasks are nothing but the concrete natural and spiritual instincts; and he strives to satisfy these notwithstanding all incidental pain. the pursuit of pleasure, then, which the pessimist sets himself to eradicate is nowhere to be found. but the tasks which man has to fulfil are fulfilled by him because from his very nature he wills to fulfil them. the pessimistic system of ethics maintains that a man cannot devote himself to what he recognises as his task in life until he has first given up the desire for pleasure. but no system of ethics can ever invent other tasks than the realisation of those satisfactions which human desires demand, and the fulfilment of man's moral ideas. no ethical theory can deprive him of the pleasure which he experiences in the realisation of what he desires. when the pessimist says, "do not strive after pleasure, for pleasure is unattainable; strive instead after what you recognise to be your task," we must reply that it is human nature to strive to do one's tasks, and that philosophy has gone astray in inventing the principle that man strives for nothing but pleasure. he aims at the satisfaction of what his nature demands, and the attainment of this satisfaction is to him a pleasure. pessimistic ethics, in demanding that we should strive, not after pleasure, but after the realisation of what we recognise as our task, lays its finger on the very thing which man wills in virtue of his own nature. there is no need for man to be turned inside out by philosophy, there is no need for him to discard his nature, in order to be moral. morality means striving for an end so long as the pain connected with this striving does not inhibit the desire for the end altogether; and this is the essence of all genuine will. ethics is not founded on the eradication of all desire for pleasure, in order that, in its place, bloodless moral ideas may set up their rule where no strong desire for pleasure stands in their way, but it is based on the strong will, sustained by ideal intuitions, which attains its end even when the path to it is full of thorns. moral ideals have their root in the moral imagination of man. their realisation depends on the desire for them being sufficiently intense to overcome pains and agonies. they are man's own intuitions. in them his spirit braces itself to action. they are what he wills, because their realisation is his highest pleasure. he needs no ethical theory first to forbid him to strive for pleasure and then to prescribe to him what he shall strive for. he will, of himself, strive for moral ideals provided his moral imagination is sufficiently active to inspire him with the intuitions, which give strength to his will to overcome all resistance. if a man strives towards sublimely great ideals, it is because they are the content of his will, and because their realisation will bring him an enjoyment compared with which the pleasure which inferior spirits draw from the satisfaction of their commonplace needs is a mere nothing. idealists delight in translating their ideals into reality. anyone who wants to eradicate the pleasure which the fulfilment of human desires brings, will have first to degrade man to the position of a slave who does not act because he wills, but because he must. for the attainment of the object of will gives pleasure. what we call the good is not what a man must do, but what he wills to do when he unfolds the fulness of his nature. anyone who does not acknowledge this must deprive man of all the objects of his will, and then prescribe to him from without what he is to make the content of his will. man values the satisfaction of a desire because the desire springs from his own nature. what he attains is valuable because it is the object of his will. if we deny any value to the ends which men do will, then we shall have to look for the ends that are valuable among objects which men do not will. a system of ethics, then, which is built up on pessimism has its root in the contempt for man's moral imagination. only he who does not consider the individual human mind capable of determining for itself the content of its striving, can look for the sum and substance of will in the craving for pleasure. a man without imagination does not create moral ideas; they must be imparted to him. physical nature sees to it that he seeks the satisfaction of his lower desires; but for the development of the whole man the desires which have their origin in the spirit are fully as necessary. only those who believe that man has no such spiritual desires at all can maintain that they must be imparted to him from without. on that view it will also be correct to say that it is man's duty to do what he does not will to do. every ethical system which demands of man that he should suppress his will in order to fulfil tasks which he does not will, works, not with the whole man, but with a stunted being who lacks the faculty of spiritual desires. for a man who has been harmoniously developed, the so-called ideas of the good lie, not without, but within the range of his will. moral action consists, not in the extirpation of one's individual will, but in the fullest development of human nature. to regard moral ideals as attainable only on condition that man destroys his individual will, is to ignore the fact that these ideals are as much rooted in man's will as the satisfaction of the so-called animal instincts. it cannot be denied that the views here outlined may easily be misunderstood. immature youths without any moral imagination like to look upon the instincts of their half-developed natures as the full substance of humanity, and reject all moral ideas which they have not themselves originated, in order that they may "live themselves out" without restriction. but it goes without saying that a theory which holds for a fully developed man does not hold for half-developed boys. anyone who still requires to be brought by education to the point where his moral nature breaks through the shell of his lower passions, cannot expect to be measured by the same standard as a mature man. but it was not my intention to set down what a half-fledged youth requires to be taught, but the essential nature of a mature man. my intention was to demonstrate the possibility of freedom, which becomes manifest, not in actions physically or psychically determined, but in actions sustained; by spiritual intuitions. every mature man is the maker of his own value. he does not aim at pleasure, which comes to him as a gift of grace on the part of nature or of the creator; nor does he live for the sake of what he recognises as duty, after he has put away from him the desire for pleasure. he acts as he wills, that is, in accordance with his moral intuitions; and he finds in the attainment of what he wills the true enjoyment of life. he determines the value of his life by measuring his attainments against his aims. an ethical system which puts "ought" in the place of "will," duty in the place of inclination, is consistent in determining the value of man by the ratio between the demands of duty and his actual achievements. it applies to man a measure that is external to his own nature. the view which i have here developed points man back to himself. it recognises as the true value of life nothing except what each individual regards as such by the measure of his own will. a value of life which the individual does not recognise is as little acknowledged by my views as a purpose of life which does not spring from the value thus recognised. my view looks upon the individual as his own master and the assessor of his own value. addition to the revised edition ( ). the argument of this chapter is open to misapprehension by those who obstinately insist on the apparent objection, that the will, as such, is the irrational factor in man, and that its irrationality should be exhibited in order to make man see, that the goal of his moral endeavour ought to be his ultimate emancipation from will. precisely such an illusory objection has been brought against me by a competent critic who urged that it is the business of the philosopher to make good what animals and most men thoughtlessly forget, viz., to strike a genuine balance of life's account. but the objection ignores precisely the main point. if freedom is to be realised, the will in human nature must be sustained by intuitive thinking. at the same time we find that the will may also be determined by factors other than intuition, and that morality and its work can have no other root than the free realisation of intuition issuing from man's essential nature. ethical individualism is well fitted to exhibit morality in its full dignity. it does not regard true morality as the outward conformity of the will to a norm. morality, for it, consists in the actions which issue from the unfolding of man's moral will as an integral part of his whole nature, so that immorality appears to man as a stunting and crippling of his nature. xiv the individual and the genus the view that man is a wholly self-contained, free individuality stands in apparent conflict with the facts, that he appears as a member of a natural whole (race, tribe, nation, family, male or female sex), and that he acts within a whole (state, church, etc.). he exhibits the general characteristics of the community to which he belongs, and gives to his actions a content which is defined by the place which he occupies within a social whole. this being so, is any individuality left at all? can we regard man as a whole in himself, in view of the fact that he grows out of a whole and fits as a member into a whole? the character and function of a member of a whole are defined by the whole. a tribe is a whole, and all members of the tribe exhibit the peculiar characteristics which are conditioned by the nature of the tribe. the character and activity of the individual member are determined by the character of the tribe. hence the physiognomy and the conduct of the individual have something generic about them. when we ask why this or that in a man is so or so, we are referred from the individual to the genus. the genus explains why something in the individual appears in the form observed by us. but man emancipates himself from these generic characteristics. he develops qualities and activities the reason for which we can seek only in himself. the generic factors serve him only as a means to develop his own individual nature. he uses the peculiarities with which nature has endowed him as material, and gives them a form which expresses his own individuality. we seek in vain for the reason of such an expression of a man's individuality in the laws of the genus. we are dealing here with an individual who can be explained only through himself. if a man has reached the point of emancipation from what is generic in him, and we still attempt to explain all his qualities by reference to the character of the genus, then we lack the organ for apprehending what is individual. it is impossible to understand a human being completely if one makes the concept of the genus the basis of one's judgment. the tendency to judge according to the genus is most persistent where differences of sex are involved. man sees in woman, woman in man, almost always too much of the generic characteristics of the other's sex, and too little of what is individual in the other. in practical life this does less harm to men than to women. the social position of women is, in most instances, so low because it is not determined by the individual characteristics of each woman herself, but by the general ideas which are current concerning the natural function and needs of woman. a man's activity in life is determined by his individual capacity and inclination, whereas a woman's activity is supposed to be determined solely by the fact that she is just a woman. woman is to be the slave of the generic, of the general idea of womanhood. so long as men debate whether woman, from her "natural disposition," is fitted for this, that, or the other profession, the so-called woman's question will never advance beyond the most elementary stage. what it lies in woman's nature to strive for had better be left to woman herself to decide. if it is true that women are fitted only for that profession which is theirs at present, then they will hardly have it in them to attain any other. but they must be allowed to decide for themselves what is conformable to their nature. to all who fear an upheaval of our social structure, should women be treated as individuals and not as specimens of their sex, we need only reply that a social structure in which the status of one-half of humanity is unworthy of a human being stands itself in great need of improvement. [ ] anyone who judges human beings according to their generic character stops short at the very point beyond which they begin to be individuals whose activity rests on free self-determination. whatever lies short of this point may naturally become matter for scientific study. thus the characteristics of race, tribe, nation, and sex are the subject-matter of special sciences. only men who are simply specimens of the genus could possibly fit the generic picture which the methods of these sciences produce. but all these sciences are unable to get as far as the unique character of the single individual. where the sphere of freedom (thinking and acting) begins, there the possibility of determining the individual according to the laws of his genus ceases. the conceptual content which man, by an act of thought, has to connect with percepts, in order to possess himself fully of reality (cp. pp. ff.), cannot be fixed by anyone once and for all, and handed down to humanity ready-made. the individual must gain his concepts through his own intuition. it is impossible to deduce from any concept of the genus how the individual ought to think; that depends singly and solely on the individual himself. so, again, it is just as impossible to determine, on the basis of the universal characteristics of human nature, what concrete ends the individual will set before himself. anyone who wants to understand the single individual must penetrate to the innermost core of his being, and not stop short at those qualities which he shares with others. in this sense every single human being is a problem. and every science which deals only with abstract thoughts and generic concepts is but a preparation for the kind of knowledge which we gain when a human individual communicates to us his way of viewing the world, and for that other kind of knowledge which each of us gains from the content of his own will. wherever we feel that here we are dealing with a man who has emancipated his thinking from all that is generic, and his will from the grooves typical of his kind, there we must cease to call in any concepts of our own making if we would understand his nature. knowledge consists in the combination by thought of a concept and a percept. with all other objects the observer has to gain his concepts through his intuition. but if the problem is to understand a free individuality, we need only to take over into our own minds those concepts by which the individual determines himself, in their pure form (without admixture). those who always mix their own ideas into their judgment on another person can never attain to the understanding of an individuality. just as the free individual emancipates himself from the characteristics of the genus, so our knowledge of the individual must emancipate itself from the methods by which we understand what is generic. a man counts as a free spirit in a human community only to the degree in which he has emancipated himself, in the way we have indicated, from all that is generic. no man is all genus, none is all individuality; but every man gradually emancipates a greater or lesser sphere of his being, both from the generic characteristics of animal life, and from the laws of human authorities which rule him despotically. in respect of that part of his nature for which man is not able to win this freedom for himself, he forms a member within the organism of nature and of spirit. he lives, in this respect, by the imitation of others, or in obedience to their command. but ethical value belongs only to that part of his conduct which springs from his intuitions. and whatever moral instincts man possesses through the inheritance of social instincts, acquire ethical value through being taken up into his intuitions. in such ethical intuitions all moral activity of men has its root. to put this differently: the moral life of humanity is the sum-total of the products of the moral imagination of free human individuals. this is monism's confession of faith. ultimate questions xv the consequences of monism an explanation of nature on a single principle, or, in other words, monism, derives from human experience all the material which it requires for the explanation of the world. in the same way, it looks for the springs of action also within the world of observation, i.e., in that human part of nature which is accessible to our self-observation, and more particularly in the moral imagination. monism declines to seek outside that world the ultimate grounds of the world which we perceive and think. for monism, the unity which reflective observation adds to the manifold multiplicity of percepts, is identical with the unity which the human desire for knowledge demands, and through which this desire seeks entrance into the physical and spiritual realms. whoever looks for another unity behind this one, only shows that he fails to perceive the coincidence of the results of thinking with the demands of the instinct for knowledge. a particular human individual is not something cut off from the universe. he is a part of the universe, and his connection with the cosmic whole is broken, not in reality, but only for our perception. at first we apprehend the human part of the universe as a self-existing thing, because we are unable to perceive the cords and ropes by which the fundamental forces of the cosmos keep turning the wheel of our life. all who remain at this perceptual standpoint see the part of the whole as if it were a truly independent, self-existing thing, a monad which gains all its knowledge of the rest of the world in some mysterious manner from without. but monism has shown that we can believe in this independence only so long as thought does not gather our percepts into the network of the conceptual world. as soon as this happens, all partial existence in the universe, all isolated being, reveals itself as a mere appearance due to perception. existence as a self-contained totality can be predicated only of the universe as a whole. thought destroys the appearances due to perception and assigns to our individual existence a place in the life of the cosmos. the unity of the conceptual world which contains all objective percepts, has room also within itself for the content of our subjective personality. thought gives us the true structure of reality as a self-contained unity, whereas the multiplicity of percepts is but an appearance conditioned by our organisation (cp. pp. ff.). the recognition of the true unity of reality, as against the appearance of multiplicity, is at all times the goal of human thought. science strives to apprehend our apparently disconnected percepts as a unity by tracing their inter-relations according to natural law. but, owing to the prejudice that an inter-relation discovered by human thought has only a subjective validity, thinkers have sought the true ground of unity in some object transcending the world of our experience (god, will, absolute spirit, etc.). further, basing themselves on this prejudice, men have tried to gain, in addition to their knowledge of inter-relations within experience, a second kind of knowledge transcending experience, which should reveal the connection between empirical inter-relations and those realities which lie beyond the limits of experience (metaphysics). the reason why, by logical thinking, we understand the nexus of the world, was thought to be that an original creator has built up the world according to logical laws, and, similarly, the ground of our actions was thought to lie in the will of this original being. it was overlooked that thinking embraces in one grasp the subjective and the objective, and that it communicates to us the whole of reality in the union which it effects between percept and concept. only so long as we contemplate the laws which pervade and determine all percepts, in the abstract form of concepts, do we indeed deal only with something purely subjective. but this subjectivity does not belong to the content of the concept which, by means of thought, is added to the percept. this content is taken, not from the subject, but from reality. it is that part of reality which is inaccessible to perception. it is experience, but not the kind of experience which comes from perception. those who cannot understand that the concept is something real, have in mind only the abstract form, in which we fix and isolate the concept. but in this isolation, the concept is as much dependent solely on our organisation as is the percept. the tree which i perceive, taken in isolation by itself, has no existence; it exists only as a member in the immense mechanism of nature, and is possible only in real connection with nature. an abstract concept, taken by itself, has as little reality as a percept taken by itself. the percept is that part of reality which is given objectively, the concept that part which is given subjectively (by intuition; cp. pp. ff.). our mental organisation breaks up reality into these two factors. the one factor is apprehended by perception, the other by intuition. only the union of the two, which consists of the percept fitted according to law into its place in the universe, is reality in its full character. if we take mere percepts by themselves, we have no reality but only a disconnected chaos. if we take the laws which determine percepts by themselves, we have nothing but abstract concepts. reality is not to be found in the abstract concept. it is revealed to the contemplative act of thought which regards neither the concept by itself nor the percept by itself, but the union of both. even the most orthodox idealist will not deny that we live in the real world (that, as real beings, we are rooted in it); but he will deny that our knowledge, by means of its ideas, is able to grasp reality as we live it. as against this view, monism shows that thought is neither subjective nor objective, but a principle which holds together both these sides of reality. the contemplative act of thought is a cognitive process which belongs itself to the sequence of real events. by thought we overcome, within the limits of experience itself, the one-sidedness of mere perception. we are not able by means of abstract conceptual hypotheses (purely conceptual speculation) to puzzle out the nature of the real, but in so far as we find for our percepts the right concepts we live in the real. monism does not seek to supplement experience by something unknowable (transcending experience), but finds reality in concept and percept. it does not manufacture a metaphysical system out of pure concepts, because it looks upon concepts as only one side of reality, viz., the side which remains hidden from perception, but is meaningless except in union with percepts. but monism gives man the conviction that he lives in the world of reality, and has no need to seek beyond the world for a higher reality. it refuses to look for absolute reality anywhere but in experience, because it recognises reality in the very content of experience. monism is satisfied with this reality, because it knows that our thought points to no other. what dualism seeks beyond the world of experience, that monism finds in this world itself. monism shows that our knowledge grasps reality in its true nature, not in a purely subjective image. it holds the conceptual content of the world to be identical for all human individuals (cp. pp. ff.). according to monistic principles, every human individual regards every other as akin to himself, because it is the same world-content which expresses itself in all. in the single conceptual world there are not as many concepts of "lion" as there are individuals who form the thought of "lion," but only one. and the concept which a adds to the percept of "lion" is identical with b's concept except so far as, in each case, it is apprehended by a different perceiving subject (cp. p. ). thought leads all perceiving subjects back to the ideal unity in all multiplicity, which is common to them all. there is but one ideal world, but it realises itself in human subjects as in a multiplicity of individuals. so long as man apprehends himself merely by self-observation, he looks upon himself as this particular being, but so soon as he becomes conscious of the ideal world which shines forth within him, and which embraces all particulars within itself, he perceives that the absolute reality lives within him. dualism fixes upon the divine being as that which permeates all men and lives in them all. monism finds this universal divine life in reality itself. the ideal content of another subject is also my content, and i regard it as a different content only so long as i perceive, but no longer when i think. every man embraces in his thought only a part of the total world of ideas, and so far, individuals are distinguished one from another also by the actual contents of their thought. but all these contents belong to a self-contained whole, which comprises within itself the thought-contents of all men. hence every man, in so far as he thinks, lays hold of the universal reality which pervades all men. to fill one's life with such thought-content is to live in reality, and at the same time to live in god. the thought of a beyond owes its origin to the misconception of those who believe that this world cannot have the ground of its existence in itself. they do not understand that, by thinking, they discover just what they demand for the explanation of the perceptual world. this is the reason why no speculation has ever produced any content which has not been borrowed from reality as it is given to us. a personal god is nothing but a human being transplanted into the beyond. schopenhauer's will is the human will made absolute. hartmann's unconscious, made up of idea and will, is but a compound of two abstractions drawn from experience. exactly the same is true of all other transcendent principles. the truth is that the human mind never transcends the reality in which it lives. indeed, it has no need to transcend it, seeing that this world contains everything that is required for its own explanation. if philosophers declare themselves finally content when they have deduced the world from principles which they borrow from experience and then transplant into an hypothetical beyond, the same satisfaction ought to be possible, if these same principles are allowed to remain in this world to which they belong anyhow. all attempts to transcend the world are purely illusory, and the principles transplanted into the beyond do not explain the world any better than the principles which are immanent in it. when thought understands itself, it does not demand any such transcendence at all, for there is no thought-content which does not find within the world a perceptual content, in union with which it can form a real object. the objects of imagination, too, are contents which have no validity, until they have been transformed into ideas that refer to a perceptual content. through this perceptual content they have their place in reality. a concept the content of which is supposed to lie beyond the world which is given to us, is an abstraction to which no reality corresponds. thought can discover only the concepts of reality; in order to find reality itself, we need also perception. an absolute being for which we invent a content, is a hypothesis which no thought can entertain that understands itself. monism does not deny ideal factors; indeed, it refuses to recognise as fully real a perceptual content which has no ideal counterpart, but it finds nothing within the whole range of thought that is not immanent within this world of ours. a science which restricts itself to a description of percepts, without advancing to their ideal complements, is, for monism, but a fragment. but monism regards as equally fragmentary all abstract concepts which do not find their complement in percepts, and which fit nowhere into the conceptual net that embraces the whole perceptual world. hence it knows no ideas referring to objects lying beyond our experience and supposed to form the content of purely hypothetical metaphysics. whatever mankind has produced in the way of such ideas monism regards as abstractions from experience, whose origin in experience has been overlooked by their authors. just as little, according to monistic principles, are the ends of our actions capable of being derived from the beyond. so far as we can think them, they must have their origin in human intuition. man does not adopt the purposes of an objective (transcendent) being as his own individual purposes, but he pursues the ends which his own moral imagination sets before him. the idea which realises itself in an action is selected by the agent from the single ideal world and made the basis of his will. consequently his action is not a realisation of commands which have been thrust into this world from the beyond, but of human intuitions which belong to this world. for monism there is no ruler of the world standing outside of us and determining the aim and direction of our actions. there is for man no transcendent ground of existence, the counsels of which he might discover, in order thence to learn the ends to which he ought to direct his action. man must rest wholly upon himself. he must himself give a content to his action. it is in vain that he seeks outside the world in which he lives for motives of his will. if he is to go at all beyond the satisfaction of the natural instincts for which mother nature has provided, he must look for motives in his own moral imagination, unless he finds it more convenient to let them be determined for him by the moral imagination of others. in other words, he must either cease acting altogether, or else act from motives which he selects for himself from the world of his ideas, or which others select for him from that same world. if he develops at all beyond a life absorbed in sensuous instincts and in the execution of the commands of others, then there is nothing that can determine him except himself. he has to act from a motive which he gives to himself and which nothing else can determine for him except himself. it is true that this motive is ideally determined in the single world of ideas; but in actual fact it must be selected by the agent from that world and translated into reality. monism can find the ground for the actual realisation of an idea through human action only in the human being himself. that an idea should pass into action must be willed by man before it can happen. such a will consequently has its ground only in man himself. man, on this view, is the ultimate determinant of his action. he is free. . addition to the revised edition ( ). in the second part of this book the attempt has been made to justify the conviction that freedom is to be found in human conduct as it really is. for this purpose it was necessary to sort out, from the whole sphere of human conduct, those actions with respect to which unprejudiced self-observation may appropriately speak of freedom. these are the actions which appear as realisations of ideal intuitions. no other actions will be called free by an unprejudiced observer. however, open-minded self-observation compels man to regard himself as endowed with the capacity for progress on the road towards ethical intuitions and their realisation. yet this open-minded observation of the ethical nature of man is, by itself, insufficient to constitute the final court of appeal for the question of freedom. for, suppose intuitive thinking had itself sprung from some other essence; suppose its essence were not grounded in itself, then the consciousness of freedom, which issues from moral conduct, would prove to be a mere illusion. but the second part of this book finds its natural support in the first part, which presents intuitive thinking as an inward spiritual activity which man experiences as such. to appreciate through experience this essence of thinking is equivalent to recognising the freedom of intuitive thinking. and once we know that this thinking is free, we know also the sphere within which will may be called free. we shall regard man as a free agent, if on the basis of inner experience we may attribute to the life of intuitive thinking a self-sustaining essence. whoever cannot do this will be unable to discover any wholly unassailable road to the belief in freedom. the experience to which we here refer reveals in consciousness intuitive thinking, the reality of which does not depend merely on our being conscious of it. freedom, too, is thereby revealed as the characteristic of all actions which issue from the intuitions of consciousness. . addition to the revised edition ( ). the argumentation of this book is built up on the fact of intuitive thinking, which may be experienced in a purely spiritual way, and which every perception inserts into reality so that reality comes thereby to be known. all that this book aimed at presenting was the result of a survey from the basis of our experience of intuitive thinking. however, the intention also was to emphasise the systematic interpretation which this thinking, as experienced by us, demands. it demands that we shall not deny its presence in cognition as a self-sustaining experience. it demands that we acknowledge its capacity for experiencing reality in co-operation with perception, and that we do not make it seek reality in a world outside experience and accessible only to inference, in the face of which human thinking would be only a subjective activity. this view characterises thinking as that factor in man through which he inserts himself spiritually into reality. (and, strictly, no one should confuse this kind of world-view, which is based on thinking as directly experienced, with mere rationalism.) but, on the other hand, the whole tenor of the preceding argumentation shows that perception yields a determination of reality for human knowledge only when it is taken hold of in thinking. outside of thinking there is nothing to characterise reality for what it is. hence we have no right to imagine that sense-perception is the only witness to reality. whatever comes to us by way of perception on our journey through life, we cannot but expect. the only point open to question would be whether, from the exclusive point of view of thinking as we intuitively experience it, we have a right to expect that over and above sensuous perception there is also spiritual perception. this expectation is justified. for, though intuitive thinking is, on the one hand, an active process taking place in the human mind, it is, on the other hand, also a spiritual perception mediated by no sense-organ. it is a perception in which the percipient is himself active, and a self-activity which is at the same time perceived. in intuitive thinking man enters a spiritual world also as a percipient. whatever within this world presents itself to him as percept in the same way in which the spiritual world of his own thinking so presents itself, that is recognised by him as constituting a world of spiritual perception. this world of spiritual perception we may suppose to be standing in the same relation to thinking as does, on the sensuous side, the world of sense-perception. man does not experience the world of spiritual perception as an alien something, because he is already familiar in his intuitive thinking with an experience of purely spiritual character. with such a world of spiritual perception a number of the writings are concerned which i have published since this present book appeared. the philosophy of spiritual activity lays the philosophical foundation for these later writings. for it attempts to show that in the very experience of thinking, rightly understood, we experience spirit. this is the reason why it appears to the author that no one will stop short of entering the world of spiritual perception who has been able to adopt, in all seriousness, the point of view of the philosophy of spiritual activity. true, logical deduction--by syllogisms--will not extract out of the contents of this book the contents of the author's later books. but a living understanding of what is meant in this book by "intuitive thinking" will naturally prepare the way for living entry into the world of spiritual perception. truth and science [ ] i preliminary observations theory of knowledge aims at being a scientific investigation of the very fact which all other sciences take for granted without examination, viz., knowing or knowledge-getting itself. to say this is to attribute to it, from the very start, the character of being the fundamental philosophical discipline. for, it is only this discipline which can tell us what value and significance belong to the insight gained by the other sciences. in this respect it is the foundation for all scientific endeavour. but, it is clear that the theory of knowledge can fulfil its task only if it works without any presuppositions of its own, so far as that is possible in view of the nature of human knowledge. this is probably conceded on all sides. and yet, a more detailed examination of the better-known epistemological systems reveals that, at the very starting-point of the inquiry, there is made a whole series of assumptions which detract considerably from the plausibility of the rest of the argument. in particular, it is noticeable how frequently certain hidden assumptions are made in the very formulation of the fundamental problems of epistemology. but, if a science begins by misstating its problems, we must despair from the start of finding the right solution. the history of the sciences teaches us that countless errors, from which whole epochs have suffered, are to be traced wholly and solely to the fact that certain problems were wrongly formulated. for illustrations there is no need to go back to aristotle or to the ars magna lulliana. there are plenty of examples in more recent times. the numerous questions concerning the purposes of the rudimentary organs of certain organisms could be correctly formulated only after the discovery of the fundamental law of biogenesis had created the necessary conditions. as long as biology was under the influence of teleological concepts, it was impossible to put these problems in a form permitting a satisfactory answer. what fantastic ideas, for example, were current concerning the purpose of the so-called pineal gland, so long as it was fashionable to frame biological questions in terms of "purpose." an answer was not achieved until the solution of the problem was sought by the method of comparative anatomy, and scientists asked whether this organ might not be merely a residual survival in man from a lower evolutionary level. or, to mention yet another example, consider the modifications in certain physical problems after the discovery of the laws of the mechanical equivalents of heat and of the conservation of energy! in short, the success of scientific investigations depends essentially upon the investigator's ability to formulate his problems correctly. even though the theory of knowledge, as the presupposition of all other sciences, occupies a position very different from theirs, we may yet expect that for it, too, successful progress in its investigations will become possible only when the fundamental questions have been put in the correct form. the following discussions aim, in the first place, at such a formulation of the problem of knowledge as will do justice to the character of the theory of knowledge as a discipline which is without any presuppositions whatever. their secondary aim is to throw light on the relation of j. g. fichte's wissenschaftslehre to such a fundamental philosophical discipline. the reason why precisely fichte's attempt to provide an absolutely certain basis for the sciences will be brought into closer relation with our own philosophical programme, will become clear of itself in the course of our investigation. ii the fundamental problem of kant's theory of knowledge it is usual to designate kant as the founder of the theory of knowledge in the modern sense. against this view it might plausibly be argued that the history of philosophy records prior to kant numerous investigations which deserve to be regarded as something more than mere beginnings of such a science. thus volkelt, in his fundamental work on the theory of knowledge, [ ] remarks that the critical treatment of this discipline took its origin already with locke. but in the writings of even older philosophers, yes, even in the philosophy of ancient greece, discussions are to be found which at the present day are usually undertaken under the heading of theory of knowledge. however, kant has revolutionised all problems under this head from their very depths up, and, following him, numerous thinkers have worked them through so thoroughly that all the older attempts at solutions may be found over again either in kant himself or else in his successors. hence, for the purposes of a purely systematic, as distinct from a historical, study of the theory of knowledge, there is not much danger of omitting any important phenomenon by taking account only of the period since kant burst upon the world with his critique of pure reason. all previous epistemological achievements are recapitulated during this period. the fundamental question of kant's theory of knowledge is, how are synthetic judgments a priori possible? let us consider this question for a moment in respect of its freedom from presuppositions. kant asks the question precisely because he believes that we can attain unconditionally certain knowledge only if we are able to prove the validity of synthetic judgments a priori. he says: "should this question be answered in a satisfactory way, we shall at the same time learn what part reason plays in the foundation and completion of those sciences which contain a theoretical a priori knowledge of objects;" [ ] and, further, "metaphysics stands and falls with the solution of this problem, on which, therefore, the very existence of metaphysics absolutely depends." [ ] are there any presuppositions in this question, as formulated by kant? yes, there are. for the possibility of a system of absolutely certain knowledge is made dependent on its being built up exclusively out of judgments which are synthetic and acquired independently of all experience. "synthetic" is kant's term for judgments in which the concept of the predicate adds to the concept of the subject something which lies wholly outside the subject, "although it stands in some connection with the subject," [ ] whereas in "analytic" judgments the predicate affirms only what is already (implicitly) contained in the subject. this is not the place for considering the acute objections which johannes rehmke [ ] brings forward against this classification of judgments. for our present purpose, it is enough to understand that we can attain to genuine knowledge only through judgments which add to one concept another the content of which was not, for us at least, contained in that of the former. if we choose to call this class of judgments, with kant, "synthetic," we may agree that knowledge in judgment form is obtainable only where the connection of predicate and subject is of this synthetic sort. but, the case is very different with the second half of kant's question, which demands that these judgments are to be formed a priori, i.e., independently of all experience. for one thing, it is altogether possible [ ] that such judgments do not occur at all. at the start of the theory of knowledge we must hold entirely open the question, whether we arrive at any judgments otherwise than by experience, or only by experience. indeed, to unprejudiced reflection the alleged independence of experience seems from the first to be impossible. for, let the object of our knowledge be what it may--it must, surely, always present itself to us at some time in an immediate and unique way; in short, it must become for us an experience. mathematical judgments, too, are known by us in no other way than by our experiencing them in particular concrete cases. even if, with otto liebmann, [ ] for example, we treat them as founded upon a certain organisation of our consciousness, this empirical character is none the less manifest. we shall then say that this or that proposition is necessarily valid, because the denial of its truth would imply the denial of our consciousness, but the content of a proposition can enter our knowledge only by its becoming an experience for us in exactly the same way in which a process in the outer world of nature does so. let the content of such a proposition include factors which guarantee its absolute validity, or let its validity be based on other grounds--in either case, i can possess myself of it only in one way and in no other: it must be presented to me in experience. this is the first objection to kant's view. the other objection lies in this, that we have no right, at the outset of our epistemological investigations, to affirm that no absolutely certain knowledge can have its source in experience. without doubt, it is easily conceivable that experience itself might contain a criterion guaranteeing the certainty of all knowledge which has an empirical source. thus, kant's formulation of the problem implies two presuppositions. the first is that we need, over and above experience, another source of cognitions. the second is that all knowledge from experience has only conditional validity. kant entirely fails to realise that these two propositions are open to doubt, that they stand in need of critical examination. he takes them over as unquestioned assumptions from the dogmatic philosophy of his predecessors and makes them the basis of his own critical inquiries. the dogmatic thinkers assume the validity of these two propositions and simply apply them in order to get from each the kind of knowledge which it guarantees. kant assumed their validity and only asks, what are the conditions of their validity? but, what if they are not valid at all? in that case, the edifice of kantian doctrine lacks all foundation whatever. the whole argumentation of the five sections which precede kant's formulation of the problem, amounts to an attempt to prove that the propositions of mathematics are synthetic. [ ] but, precisely the two presuppositions which we have pointed out are retained as mere assumptions in his discussions. in the introduction to the second edition of the critique of pure reason we read, "experience can tell us that a thing is so and so, but not that it cannot be otherwise," and, "experience never bestows on its judgments true or strict universality, but only the assumed and relative universality of induction." [ ] in prologomena, [ ] we find it said, "first, as regards the sources of metaphysics, the very concept of metaphysics implies that they cannot be empirical. the principles of metaphysics (where the term 'principles' includes, not merely its fundamental propositions, but also its fundamental concepts), can never be gained from experience, for the knowledge of the metaphysician has precisely to be, not physical, but 'metaphysical,' i.e., lying beyond the reach of experience." lastly kant says in the critique of pure reason: "the first thing to notice is, that no truly mathematical judgments are empirical, but always a priori. they carry necessity on their very face, and therefore cannot be derived from experience. should anyone demur to this, i am willing to limit my assertion to the propositions of pure mathematics, which, as everybody will admit, are not empirical judgments, but perfectly pure a priori knowledge." [ ] we may open the critique of pure reason wherever we please, we shall always find that in all its discussions these two dogmatic propositions are taken for granted. cohen [ ] and stadler [ ] attempt to prove that kant has established the a priori character of the propositions of mathematics and pure natural science. but all that kant tries to do in the critique may be summed up as follows. the fact that mathematics and pure natural science are a priori sciences implies that the "form" of all experience has its ground in the subject. hence, all that is given by experience is the "matter" of sensations. this matter is synthesised by the forms, inherent in the mind, into the system of empirical science. it is only as principles of order for the matter of sense that the formal principles of the a priori theories have function and significance. they make empirical science possible, but they cannot transcend it. these formal principles are nothing but the synthetic judgments a priori, which therefore extend, as conditions of all possible empirical knowledge, as far as that knowledge but no further. thus, the critique of pure reason, so far from proving the a priori character of mathematics and pure natural science, does but delimit the sphere of their applicability on the assumption that their principles must become known independently of experience. indeed, kant is so far from attempting a proof of the a priori character of these principles, that he simply excludes that part of mathematics (see the quotation above) in which, even according to his view, that character might be called in question, and confines himself to the part in which he thinks he can infer the a priori character from the bare concepts involved. johannes volkelt, too, comes to the conclusion that "kant starts from the explicit presupposition" that "there actually does exist knowledge which is universal and necessary." he goes on to remark, "this presupposition which kant has never explicitly questioned, is so profoundly contradictory to the character of a truly critical theory of knowledge, that the question must be seriously put whether the critique is to be accepted as critical theory of knowledge at all." volkelt does, indeed, decide that there are good grounds for answering this question in the affirmative, but still, as he says, "this dogmatic assumption does disturb the critical attitude of kant's epistemology in the most far-reaching way." [ ] in short, volkelt, too, finds that the critique of pure reason is not a theory of knowledge free from all assumptions. in substantial agreement with our view are also the views of o. liebmann, [ ] holder, [ ] windelband, [ ] ueberweg, [ ] eduard von hartmann, [ ] and kuno fischer, [ ] all of whom acknowledge that kant makes the a priori character of pure mathematics and physics the basis of his whole argumentation. the propositions that we really have knowledge which is independent of all experience, and that experience can furnish knowledge of only relative universality, could be accepted by us as valid only if they were conclusions deduced from other propositions. it would be absolutely necessary for these propositions to be preceded by an inquiry into the essential nature of experience, as well as by another inquiry into the essential nature of knowing. the former might justify the first, the latter the second, of the above two propositions. it would be possible to reply to the objections which we have urged against the critique of pure reason, as follows. it might be said that every theory of knowledge must first lead the reader to the place where the starting-point, free from all presuppositions, is to be found. for, the knowledge which we have at any given moment of our lives is far removed from this starting-point, so that we must first be artificially led back to it. now, it is true that some such mutual understanding between author and reader concerning the starting-point of the science is necessary in all theory of knowledge. but such an understanding ought on no account to go beyond showing how far the alleged starting-point of knowing is truly such. it ought to consist of purely self-evident, analytic propositions. it ought not to lay down any positive, substantial affirmations which influence, as in kant, the content of the subsequent argumentation. moreover, it is the duty of the epistemologist to show that the starting-point which he alleges is really free from all presuppositions. but all this has nothing to do with the essential nature of that starting-point. it lies wholly outside the starting-point and makes no affirmations about it. at the beginning of mathematical instruction, too, the teacher must exert himself to convince the pupil of the axiomatic character of certain principles. but no one will maintain that the content of the axioms is in any way made dependent on these prior discussions of their axiomatic character. [ ] in exactly the same way, the epistemologist, in his introductory remarks, ought to show the method by which we can reach a starting-point free from all presuppositions. but the real content of the starting-point ought to be independent of the reflections by which it is discovered. there is, most certainly, a wide difference between such an introduction to the theory of knowledge and kant's way of beginning with affirmations of quite definite, dogmatic character. iii theory of knowledge since kant kant's mistaken formulation of the problem has had a greater or lesser influence on all subsequent students of the theory of knowledge. for kant, the view that all objects which are given to us in experience are ideas in our minds is a consequence of his theory of the a priori. for nearly all his successors, it has become the first principle and starting-point of their epistemological systems. it is said that the first and most immediate truth is, simply and solely, the proposition that we know our own ideas. this has come to be a well-nigh universal conviction among philosophers. g. e. schulze maintains in his Ænesidemus, as early as , that all our cognitions are mere ideas and that we can never transcend our ideas. schopenhauer puts forward, with all the philosophical pathos which distinguishes him, the view that the permanent achievement of kant's philosophy is the thesis that "the world is my idea." to eduard von hartmann this thesis is so incontestable, that he addresses his treatise, kritische grundlegung des transcendentalen realismus, exclusively to readers who have achieved critical emancipation from the naïve identification of the world of perception with the thing-in-itself. he demands of them that they shall have made clear to themselves the absolute heterogeneity of the object of perception which through the act of representation has been given as a subjective and ideal content of consciousness, and of the thing-in-itself which is independent of the act of representation and of the form of consciousness and which exists in its own right. his readers are required to be thoroughly convinced that the whole of what is immediately given to us consists of ideas. [ ] in his latest work on theory of knowledge, hartmann does, indeed, attempt to give reasons for this view. what value should be attached to these reasons by an unprejudiced theory of knowledge will appear in the further course of our discussions. otto liebmann posits as the sacrosanct first principle of the theory of knowledge the proposition, "consciousness cannot transcend itself." [ ] volkelt has called the proposition that the first and most immediate truth is the limitation of all our knowledge, in the first instance, to our own ideas exclusively, the positivistic principle of knowledge. he regards only those theories of knowledge as "in the fullest sense critical" which "place this principle, as the only fixed starting-point of philosophy, at the head of their discussions and then consistently think out its consequences." [ ] other philosophers place other propositions at the head of the theory of knowledge, e.g., the proposition that its real problem concerns the relation between thought and being, and the possibility of a mediation between them; [ ] or that it concerns the way in which being becomes an object of consciousness; [ ] and many others. kirchmann starts from two epistemological axioms, "whatever is perceived is," and, "whatever is self-contradictory, is not." [ ] according to e. l. fischer, knowledge is the science of something actual, something real, [ ] and he criticises this dogma as little as does goering who asserts similarly, "to know means always to know something which is. this is a fact which cannot be denied either by scepticism or by kant's critical philosophy." [ ] these two latter thinkers simply lay down the law: this is what knowledge is. they do not trouble to ask themselves with what right they do it. but, even if these various propositions were correct, or led to correct formulations of the problem, it would still be impossible to discuss them at the outset of the theory of knowledge. for, they all belong, as positive and definite cognitions, within the realm of knowledge. to say that my knowledge extends, in the first instance, only to my ideas, is to express in a perfectly definite judgment something which i know. in this judgment i qualify the world which is given to me by the predicate "existing in the form of idea." but how am i to know, prior to all knowledge, that the objects given to me are ideas? the best way to convince ourselves of the truth of the assertion that this proposition has no right to be put at the head of the theory of knowledge, is to retrace the way which the human mind must follow in order to reach this proposition, which has become almost an integral part of the whole modern scientific consciousness. the considerations which have led to it are systematically summarised, with approximate exhaustiveness, in part i of eduard von hartmann's treatise, das grundproblem der erkenntnistheorie. his statement, there, may serve as a sort of guiding-thread for us in our task of reviewing the reasons which may lead to the acceptance of this proposition. these reasons are physical, psycho-physical, physiological, and properly philosophical. the physicist is led by observation of the phenomena which occur in our environment when, e.g., we experience a sensation of sound, to the view that there is nothing in these phenomena which in the very least resembles what we perceive immediately as sound. outside, in the space which surrounds us, nothing is to be found except longitudinal oscillations of bodies and of the air. thence it is inferred that what in ordinary life we call "sound" or "tone" is nothing but the subjective reaction of our organism to these wave-like oscillations. similarly, it is inferred that light and colour and heat are purely subjective. the phenomena of colour-dispersion, of refraction, of interference, of polarisation, teach us that to the just-mentioned sensations there correspond in the outer space certain transverse oscillations which we feel compelled to ascribe, in part to the bodies, in part to an immeasurably fine, elastic fluid, the "ether." further, the physicist is driven by certain phenomena in the world of bodies to abandon the belief in the continuity of objects in space, and to analyse them into systems of exceedingly minute particles (molecules, atoms), the size of which, relatively to the distances between them, is immeasurably small. thence it is inferred that all action of bodies on each other is across the empty intervening space, and is thus a genuine actio in distans. the physicist believes himself justified in holding that the action of bodies on our senses of touch and temperature does not take place through direct contact, because there must always remain a definite, if small, distance between the body and the spot on the skin which it is said to "touch." thence it is said to follow that what we sense as hardness or heat in bodies is nothing but the reactions of the end-organs of our touch- and temperature-nerves to the molecular forces of bodies which act upon them across empty space. these considerations from the sphere of physics are supplemented by the psycho-physicists with their doctrine of specific sense-energies. j. müller has shown that every sense can be affected only in its own characteristic way as determined by its organisation, and that its reaction is always of the same kind whatever may be the external stimulus. if the optical nerve is stimulated, light-sensations are experienced by us regardless of whether the stimulus was pressure, or an electric current, or light. on the other hand, the same external phenomena produce quite different sensations according as they are perceived by different senses. from these facts the inference has been drawn that there occurs only one sort of phenomenon in the external world, viz., motions, and that the variety of qualities of the world we perceive is essentially a reaction of our senses to these motions. according to this view, we do not perceive the external world as such, but only the subjective sensations which it evokes in us. physiology adds its quota to the physical arguments. physics deals with the phenomena which occur outside our organisms and which correspond to our percepts. physiology seeks to investigate the processes which go on in man's own body when a certain sensation is evoked in him. it teaches us that the epidermis is wholly insensitive to the stimuli in the external world. thus, e.g., if external stimuli are to affect the end-organs of our touch-nerves on the surface of our bodies, the oscillations which occur outside our bodies have to be transmitted through the epidermis. in the case of the senses of hearing and of sight, the external motions have, in addition, to be modified by a number of structures in the sense-organs, before they reach the nerves. the nerves have to conduct the effects produced in the end-organs up to the central organ, and only then can take place the process by means of which purely mechanical changes in the brain produce sensations. it is clear that the stimulus which acts upon the sense-organs is so completely changed by the transformations which it undergoes, that every trace of resemblance between the initial impression on the sense-organs and the final sensation in consciousness must be obliterated. hartmann sums up the outcome of these considerations in these words: "this content of consciousness consists, originally, of sensations which are the reflex responses of the soul to the molecular motions in the highest cortical centres, but which have not the faintest resemblance to the molecular motions by which they are elicited." if we think this line of argument through to the end, we must agree that, assuming it to be correct, there survives in the content of our consciousness not the least element of what may be called "external existence." to the physical and physiological objections against so-called "naïve realism" hartmann adds some further objections which he describes as philosophical in the strict sense. a logical examination of the physical and physiological objections reveals that, after all, the desired conclusion can be reached only if we start from the existence and nexus of external objects, just as these are assumed by the ordinary naïve consciousness, and then inquire how this external world can enter the consciousness of beings with organisms such as ours. we have seen that every trace of such an external world is lost on the way from the impression on the sense-organ to the appearance of the sensation in our consciousness, and that in the latter nothing survives except our ideas. hence, we have to assume that the picture of the external world which we actually have, has been built up by the soul on the basis of the sensations given to it. first, the soul constructs out of the data of the senses of touch and sight a picture of the world in space, and then the sensations of the other senses are fitted into this space-system. when we are compelled to think of a certain complex of sensations as belonging together, we are led to the concept of substance and regard substance as the bearer of sense-qualities. when we observe that some sense-qualities disappear from a substance and that others appear in their place, we ascribe this event in the world of phenomena to a change regulated by the law of causality. thus, according to this view, our whole world-picture is composed of subjective sensations which are ordered by the activity of our own souls. hartmann says, "what the subject perceives is always only modifications of its own psychic states and nothing else." [ ] now let us ask ourselves, how do we come by such a view? the bare skeleton of the line of thought which leads to it is as follows. supposing an external world exists, we do not perceive it as such but transform it through our organisation into a world of ideas. this is a supposition which, when consistently thought out, destroys itself. but is this reflection capable of supporting any positive alternative? are we justified in regarding the world, which is given to us, as the subjective content of ideas because the assumptions of the naïve consciousness, logically followed out, lead to this conclusion? our purpose is, rather, to exhibit these assumptions themselves as untenable. yet, so far we should have found only that it is possible for a premise to be false and yet for the conclusion drawn from it to be true. granted that this may happen, yet we can never regard the conclusion as proved by means of that premise. it is usual to apply the title of "naïve realism" to the theory which accepts as self-evident and indubitable the reality of the world-picture which is immediately given to us. the opposite theory, which regards this world as merely the content of our consciousness, is called "transcendental idealism." hence, we may sum up the outcome of the above discussion by saying, "transcendental idealism demonstrates its own truth, by employing the premises of the naïve realism which it seeks to refute." transcendental idealism is true, if naïve realism is false. but the falsity of the latter is shown only by assuming it to be true. once we clearly realise this situation, we have no choice but to abandon this line of argument and to try another. but are we to trust to good luck, and experiment about until we hit by accident upon the right line? this is eduard von hartmann's view when he believes himself to have shown the validity of his own epistemological standpoint, on the ground that his theory explains the phenomena whereas its rivals do not. according to his view, the several philosophical systems are engaged in a sort of struggle for existence in which the fittest is ultimately accepted as victor. but this method appears to us to be unsuitable, if only for the reason that there may well be several hypotheses which explain the phenomena equally satisfactorily. hence, we had better keep to the above line of thought for the refutation of naïve realism, and see where precisely its deficiency lies. for, after all, naïve realism is the view from which we all start out. for this reason alone it is advisable to begin by setting it right. when we have once understood why it must be defective, we shall be led upon the right path with far greater certainty than if we proceed simply at haphazard. the subjectivism which we have sketched above is the result of the elaboration of certain facts by thought. thus, it takes for granted that, from given facts as starting-point, we can by consistent thinking, i.e., by logical combination of certain observations, gain correct conclusions. but our right thus to employ our thinking remains unexamined. there, precisely, lies the weakness of this method. whereas naïve realism starts from the unexamined assumption that the contents of our perceptual experience have objective reality, the idealism just described starts from the no less unexamined conviction that by the use of thought we can reach conclusions which are scientifically valid. in contrast to naïve realism, we may call this point of view "naïve rationalism." in order to justify this term, it may be well to insert here a brief comment on the concept of the "naïve." a. döring, in his essay Über den begriff des naiven realismus, [ ] attempts a more precise determination of this concept. he says, "the concept of the naïve marks as it were the zero-point on the scale of our reflection upon our own activity. in content the naïve may well coincide with the true, for, although the naïve is unreflecting and, therefore, uncritical or a-critical, yet this lack of reflection and criticism excludes only the objective assurance of truth. it implies the possibility and the danger of error, but it does not imply the necessity of error. there are naïve modes of feeling and willing as there are naïve modes of apprehending and thinking, in the widest sense of the latter term. further, there are naïve modes of expressing these inward states in contrast with their repression or modification through consideration for others and through reflection. naïve activity is not influenced, at least not consciously, by tradition, education, or imposed rule. it is in all spheres (as its root nativus, brings out), unconscious, impulsive, instinctive, dæmonic activity." starting from this account, we will try to determine the concept of the naïve still more precisely. in every activity we may consider two aspects--the activity itself and our consciousness of its conformity to a law. we may be wholly absorbed in the former, without caring at all for the latter. the artist is in this position, who does not know in reflective form the laws of his creative activity but yet practises these laws by feeling and sense. we call him "naïve." but there is a kind of self-observation which inquires into the laws of one's own activity and which replaces the naïve attitude, just described, by the consciousness of knowing exactly the scope and justification of all one does. this we will call "critical." this account seems to us best to hit off the meaning of this concept which, more or less clearly understood, has since kant acquired citizen-rights in the world of philosophy. critical reflection is, thus, the opposite of naïve consciousness. we call an attitude "critical" which makes itself master of the laws of its own activity in order to know how far it can rely on them and what are their limits. theory of knowledge can be nothing if not a critical science. its object is precisely the most subjective activity of man--knowing. what it aims at exhibiting is the laws to which knowing conforms. hence, the naïve attitude is wholly excluded from this science. its claim to strength lies precisely in that it achieves what many minds, interested in practice rather than in theory, pride themselves on never having attempted, viz., "thinking about thought." iv the starting-points of the theory of knowledge at the beginning of an epistemological inquiry we must, in accordance with the conclusions we have reached, put aside everything which we have come to know. for, knowledge is something which man has produced, something which he has originated by his activity. if the theory of knowledge is really to extend the light of its explanation over the whole field of what we know, it must set out from a point which has remained wholly untouched by cognitive activity--indeed which rather furnishes the first impulse for this activity. the point at which we must start lies outside of what we know. it cannot as yet itself be an item of knowledge. but we must look for it immediately prior to the act of cognition, so that the very next step which man takes shall be a cognitive act. the method for determining this absolutely first starting-point must be such that nothing enters into it which is already the result of cognitive activity. there is nothing but the immediately-given world-picture with which we can make a start of this sort. this means the picture of the world which is presented to man before he has in any way transformed it by cognitive activity, i.e., before he has made the very least judgment about it or submitted it to the very smallest determination by thinking. what thus passes initially through our minds and what our minds pass through--this incoherent picture which is not yet differentiated into particular elements, in which nothing seems distinguished from, nothing related to, nothing determined by, anything else, this is the immediately-given. on this level of existence--if the phrase is permissible--no object, no event, is as yet more important or more significant than any other. the rudimentary organ of an animal, which, in the light of the knowledge belonging to a higher level of existence, is perhaps seen to be without any importance whatever for the development and life of the animal, comes before us with the same claim to our attention as the noblest and most necessary part of the organism. prior to all cognitive activity nothing in our picture of the world appears as substance, nothing as quality, nothing as cause or as effect. the contrasts of matter and spirit, of body and soul, have not yet arisen. every other predicate, too, must be kept away from the world-picture presented at this level. we may think of it neither as reality nor as appearance, neither as subjective nor as objective, neither as necessary nor as contingent. we cannot decide at this stage whether it is "thing-in-itself" or mere "idea." for, we have seen already that the conclusions of physics and physiology, which lead us to subsume the given under one or other of the above heads, must not be made the basis on which to build the theory of knowledge. suppose a being with fully-developed human intelligence were to be suddenly created out of nothing and confronted with the world, the first impression made by the world on his senses and his thought would be pretty much what we have here called the immediately-given world-picture. of course, no actual man at any moment of his life has nothing but this original world-picture before him. in his mental development there is nowhere a sharp line between pure, passive reception of the given from without and the cognitive apprehension of it by thought. this fact might suggest critical doubts concerning our method of determining the starting-point of the theory of knowledge. thus, e.g., eduard von hartmann remarks: "we do not ask what is the content of consciousness of a child just awakening to conscious life, nor of an animal on the lowest rung of the ladder of organisms. for, of these things philosophising man has no experience, and, if he tries to reconstruct the content of consciousness of beings on primitive biogenetic or ontogenetic levels, he cannot but base his conclusions on his own personal experience. hence, our first task is to determine what is the content of consciousness which philosophising man discovers in himself when he begins his philosophical reflection." [ ] but, the objection to this view is that the picture of the world with which we begin philosophical reflection, is already qualified by predicates which are the results solely of knowledge. we have no right to accept these predicates without question. on the contrary, we must carefully extract them from out of the world-picture, in order that it may appear in its purity without any admixture due to the process of cognition. in general, the dividing line between what is given and what is added by cognition cannot be identified with any single moment of human development, but must be drawn artificially. but this can be done at every level of development, provided only we divide correctly what is presented to us prior to cognition, without any determination by thinking, from what is made of it by cognition. now, it may be objected that we have already piled up a whole host of thought-determinations in the very process of extracting the alleged primitive world-picture out of the complete picture into which man's cognitive elaboration has transformed it. but, in defence we must urge that all our conceptual apparatus was employed, not for the characterisation of the primitive world-picture, nor for the determination of its qualities, but solely for the guidance of our analysis, in order to lead it to the point where knowledge recognises that it began. hence, there can be no question of the truth or error, correctness or incorrectness, of the reflections which, according to our view, precede the moment which brings us to the starting-point of the theory of knowledge. their purpose is solely to guide us conveniently to that point. nobody who is about to occupy himself with epistemological problems, stands at the same time at what we have rightly called the starting-point of knowledge, for his knowledge is already, up to a certain degree, developed. nothing but analysis with the help of concepts enables us to eliminate from our developed knowledge all the gains of cognitive activity and to determine the starting-point which precedes all such activity. but the concepts thus employed have no cognitive value. they have the purely negative task to eliminate out of our field of vision whatever is the result of cognitive activity and to lead us to the point where this activity first begins. the present discussions point the way to those primitive beginnings upon which the cognitive activity sets to work, but they form no part of such activity. thus, whatever theory of knowledge has to say in the process of determining the starting-point, must be judged, not as true or false, but only as fit or unfit for this purpose. error is excluded, too, from that starting-point itself. for, error can begin only with the activity of cognition; prior to this, it cannot occur. this last proposition is compatible only with the kind of theory of knowledge which sets out from our line of thought. for, a theory which sets out from some object (or subject) with a definite conceptual determination is liable to error from the very start, viz., in this very determination. whether this determination is justified or not, depends on the laws which the cognitive act establishes. this is a question to which only the course of the epistemological inquiry itself can supply the answer. all error is excluded only when i can say that i have eliminated all conceptual determinations which are the results of my cognitive activity, and that i retain nothing but what enters the circle of my experience without any activity on my part. where, on principle, i abstain from every positive affirmation, there i cannot fall into error. from the epistemological point of view, error can occur only within the sphere of cognitive activity. an illusion of the senses is no error. the fact that the rising moon appears to us bigger than the moon overhead is not an error, but a phenomenon fully explained by the laws of nature. an error would result only, if thought, in ordering the data of perception, were to put a false interpretation on the "bigger" or "smaller" size of the moon. but such an interpretation would lie within the sphere of cognitive activity. if knowledge is really to be understood in its essential nature, we must, without doubt, begin our study of it at the point where it originates, where it starts. moreover, it is clear that whatever precedes its starting-point has no legitimate place in any explanatory theory of knowledge, but must simply be taken for granted. it is the task of science, in its several branches, to study the essential nature of all that we are here taking for granted. our aim, here, is not to acquire specific knowledge of this or that, but to investigate knowledge as such. we must first understand the act of cognition, before we can judge what significance to attach to the affirmations about the content of the world which come to be made in the process of getting to know that content. for this reason, we abstain from every attempt to determine what is immediately-given, so long as we are ignorant of the relation of our determinations to what is determined by them. not even the concept of the "immediately-given" affirms any positive determination of what precedes cognition. its only purpose is to point towards the given, to direct our attention upon it. here, at the starting-point of the theory of knowledge, the term merely expresses, in conceptual form, the initial relation of the cognitive activity to the world-content. the choice of this term allows even for the case that the whole world-content should turn out to be nothing but a figment of our own "ego," i.e., that the most extreme subjectivism should be right. for, of course, subjectivism does not express a fact which is given. it can, at best, be only the result of theoretical considerations. its truth, in other words, needs to be established by the theory of knowledge. it cannot serve as the presupposition of that theory. this immediately-given world-content includes everything which can appear within the horizon of our experience, in the widest sense of this term, viz., sensations, percepts, intuitions, feelings, volitions, dreams, fancies, representations, concepts, ideas. illusions, too, and hallucinations stand at this level exactly on a par with other elements of the world-content. only theoretical considerations can teach us in what relations illusions, etc., stand to other percepts. a theory of knowledge which starts from the assumption that all the experiences just enumerated are contents of our consciousness, finds itself confronted at once by the question: how do we transcend our consciousness so as to apprehend reality? where is the jumping-board which will launch us from the subjective into the trans-subjective? for us, the situation is quite different. for us, consciousness and the idea of the "ego" are, primarily, only items in the immediately-given, and the relation of the latter to the two former has first to be discovered by knowledge. we do not start from consciousness in order to determine the nature of knowledge, but, vice versa, we start from knowledge in order to determine consciousness and the relation of subject to object. seeing that, at the outset, we attach no predicates whatever to the given, we are bound to ask: how is it that we are able to determine it at all? how is it possible to start knowledge anywhere at all? how do we come to designate one item of the world-content, as, e.g., percept, another as concept, a third as reality, others as appearance, as cause, as effect? how do we come to differentiate ourselves from what is "objective," and to contrast "ego" and "non-ego?" we must discover the bridge which leads from the picture of the world as given to the picture of it which our cognitive activity unfolds. but the following difficulty confronts us. so long as we do nothing but passively gaze at the given, we can nowhere find a point which knowledge can take hold of and from which it can develop its interpretations. somewhere in the given we must discover the spot where we can get to work, where something homogeneous to cognition meets us. if everything were merely given, we should never get beyond the bare gazing outwards into the external world and a no less bare gazing inwards into the privacy of our inner world. we should, at most, be able to describe, but never to understand, the objects outside of us. our concepts would stand in a purely external, not in an internal, relation to that to which they apply. if there is to be knowledge, everything depends on there being, somewhere within the given, a field in which our cognitive activity does not merely presuppose the given, but is at work in the very heart of the given itself. in other words, the very strictness with which we hold fast the given, as merely given, must reveal that not everything is given. our demand for the given turns out to have been one which, in being strictly maintained, partially cancels itself. we have insisted on the demand, lest we should arbitrarily fix upon some point as the starting-point of the theory of knowledge, instead of making a genuine effort to discover it. in our sense of the word "given," everything may be given, even what in its own innermost nature is not given. that is to say, the latter presents itself, in that case, to us purely formally as given, but reveals itself, on closer inspection, for what it really is. the whole difficulty in understanding knowledge lies in that we do not create the world-content out of ourselves. if we did so create it, there would be no knowledge at all. only objects which are given can occasion questions for me. objects which i create receive their determinations by my act. hence, i do not need to ask whether these determinations are true or false. this, then, is the second point in our theory of knowledge. it consists in the postulate that there must, within the sphere of the given, be a point at which our activity does not float in a vacuum, at which the world-content itself enters into our activity. we have already determined the starting-point of the theory of knowledge by assigning it a place wholly antecedent to all cognitive activity, lest we should distort that activity by some prejudice borrowed from among its own results. now we determine the first step in the development of our knowledge in such a way that, once more, there can be no question of error or incorrectness. for, we affirm no judgment about anything whatsoever, but merely state the condition which must be fulfilled if knowledge is to be acquired at all. it is all-important that we should, with the most complete critical self-consciousness, keep before our minds the fact that we are postulating the very character which that part of the world-content must possess on which our cognitive activity can begin to operate. nothing else is, in fact, possible. as given, the world-content is wholly without determinations. no part of it can by itself furnish the impulse for order to begin to be introduced into the chaos. hence, cognitive activity must issue its edict and declare what the character of that part is to be. such an edict in no way infringes the character of the given as such. it introduces no arbitrary affirmation into science. for, in truth, it affirms nothing. it merely declares that, if the possibility of knowledge is to be explicable at all, we need to look for a field like the one above described. if there is such a field, knowledge can be explained; if not, not. we began our theory of knowledge with the "given" as a whole; now we limit our requirement to the singling out of a particular field within the given. let us come to closer grips with this requirement. where within the world-picture do we find something which is not merely given, but is given only in so far as it is at the same time created by the cognitive activity? we need to be absolutely clear that this creative activity must, in its turn, be given to us in all its immediacy. no inferences must be required in order to know that it occurs. thence it follows, at once, that sense-data do not meet our requirement. for, the fact that they do not occur without our activity is known to us, not immediately, but as an inference from physical and physiological arguments. on the other hand, we do know immediately that it is only in and through the cognitive act that concepts and ideas enter into the sphere of the immediately-given. hence, no one is deceived concerning the character of concepts and ideas. it is possible to mistake a hallucination for an object given from without, but no one is ever likely to believe that his concepts are given without the activity of his own thinking. a lunatic will regard as real, though they are in fact unreal, only things and relations which have attached to them the predicate of "actuality," but he will never say of his concepts and ideas that they have come into the world without his activity. everything else in our world-picture is such that it must be given, if it is to be experienced by us. only of our concepts and ideas is the opposite true: they must be produced by us, if they are to be experienced. they, and only they, are given in a way which might be called intellectual intuition. kant and the modern philosophers who follow him deny altogether that man possesses this kind of intuition, on the ground that all our thinking refers solely to objects and is absolutely impotent to produce anything out of itself, whereas in intellectual intuition form and matter must be given together. but, is not precisely this actually the case with pure concepts and ideas? [ ] to see this, we must consider them purely in the form in which, as yet, they are quite free from all empirical content. in order, e.g., to comprehend the pure concept of causality, we must go, not to a particular instance of causality nor to the sum of all instances, but to the pure concept itself. particular causes and effects must be discovered by investigation in the world, but causality as a form of thought must be created by ourselves before we can discover causes in the world. if we hold fast to kant's thesis that concepts without percepts are empty, it becomes unintelligible how the determination of the given by concepts is to be possible. for, suppose there are given two items of the world-content, a and b. in order to find a relation between them, i must be guided in my search by a rule of determinate content. such a rule i can only create in the act of cognition itself. i cannot derive it from the object, because it is only with the help of the rule that the object is to receive its determinations. such a rule, therefore, for the determination of the real has its being wholly in purely conceptual form. before passing on, we must meet a possible objection. it might seem as if in our argument we had unconsciously assigned a prominent part to the idea of the "ego," or the "personal subject," and as if we employed this idea in the development of our line of thought, without having established our right to do so. for example, we have said that "we produce concepts," or that "we make this or that demand." but these are mere forms of speech which play no part in our argument. that the cognitive act is the act of, and originates in, an "ego," can, as we have already pointed out, be affirmed only as an inference in the process of knowledge itself. strictly, we ought at the outset to speak only of cognitive activity without so much as mentioning a cognitive agent. for, all that has been established so far amounts to no more than this, ( ) that something is "given," and ( ) that at a certain point within the "given" there originates the postulate set forth above; also, that concepts and ideas are the entities which answer to that postulate. this is not to deny that the point at which the postulate originates is the "ego." but, in the first instance, we are content to establish these two steps in the theory of knowledge in their abstract purity. v knowledge and reality concepts and ideas, then, though themselves part of the given, yet at the same time take us beyond the given. thus, they make it possible to determine also the nature of the other modes of cognitive activity. by means of a postulate, we have selected a special part out of the given world-picture, because it is the very essence of knowledge to proceed from a part with just this character. thus, we have made the selection solely in order to be able to understand knowledge. but, we must clearly confess to ourselves that by this selection we have artificially torn in two the unity of the given world-picture. we must bear in mind that the part which we have divorced from the given still continues, quite apart from our postulate and independently of it, to stand in a necessary connection with the world as given. this fact determines the next step forward in the theory of knowledge. it will consist in restoring the unity which we have destroyed in order to show how knowledge is possible. this restoration will consist in thinking about the world as given. the act of thinking about the world actually effects the synthesis of the two parts of the given world-content--of the given which we survey up to the horizon of our experience, and of the part which, in order to be also given, must be produced by us in the activity of cognition. the cognitive act is the synthesis of these two factors. in every single cognitive act the one factor appears as something produced in the act itself and as added to the other factor which is the pure datum. it is only at the very start of the theory of knowledge that the factor which otherwise appears as always produced, appears also as given. to think about the world is to transmute the given world by means of concepts and ideas. thinking, thus, is in very truth the act which brings about knowledge. knowledge can arise only if thinking, out of itself, introduces order into the content of the world as given. thinking is itself an activity which produces a content of its own in the moment of cognition. hence, the content cognised, in so far as it has its origin solely in thinking, offers no difficulty to cognition. we need only observe it, for in its essential nature it is immediately given to us. the description of thinking is also the science of thinking. in fact, logic was never anything but a description of the forms of thinking, never a demonstrative science. for, demonstration occurs only when there is a synthesis of the products of thinking with a content otherwise given. hence, gideon spicker is quite right when he says in his book, lessing's weltanschauung (p. ): "we have no means of knowing, either empirically or logically, whether the results of thinking, as such, are true." we may add that, since demonstration already presupposes thinking, thinking itself cannot be demonstrated. we can demonstrate a particular fact, but we cannot demonstrate the process of demonstrating itself. we can only describe what a demonstration is. all logical theory is wholly empirical. logic is a science which consists only of observation. but if we want to get to know anything over and above our thinking, we can do so only with the help of thinking. that is to say, our thinking must apply itself to something given and transform its chaotic into a systematic connection with the world-picture. thinking, then, in its application to the world as given, is a formative principle. the process is as follows. first, thinking selects certain details out of the totality of the given. for, in the given, there are strictly no individual details, but only an undifferentiated continuum. next, thinking relates the selected details to each other according to the forms which it has itself produced. and, lastly, it determines what follows from this relation. the act of relating two distinct items of the world-content to each other does not imply that thinking arbitrarily determines something about them. thinking waits and sees what is the spontaneous consequence of the relation established. with this consequence we have at last some degree of knowledge of the two selected items of the world-content. suppose the world-content reveals nothing of its nature in response to the establishment of such a relation, then the effort of thinking must miscarry, and a fresh effort must take its place. all cognitions consist in this, that two or more items of the given are brought into relation with each other by us and that we apprehend what follows from this relation. without doubt, many of our efforts of thinking miscarry, not only in the sciences, as is amply proved by their history, but also in ordinary life. but in the simple cases of mistake which are, after all, the commonest, the correct thought so rapidly replaces the incorrect, that the latter is never, or rarely, noticed. kant, in his theory of the "synthetic unity of apperception," had an inkling of this activity of thought in the systematic organisation of the world-content, as we have here developed it. but his failure to appreciate clearly the real function of thinking is revealed by the fact, that he believes himself able to deduce the a priori laws of pure natural science from the rules according to which this synthetic activity proceeds. kant has overlooked that the synthetic activity of thinking is merely the preparation for the discovery of natural laws properly so-called. suppose we select two items, a and b, from the given. for knowledge to arise of a nexus according to law between a and b, the first requirement is that thinking should so relate a and b, that the relation may appear to us as given. thus, the content proper of the law of nature is derived from what is given, and the sole function of thinking is to establish such relations between the items of the world-picture that the laws to which they are subject become manifest. the pure synthetic activity of thinking is not the source of any objective laws whatever. we must inquire what part thinking plays in the formation of our scientific world-picture as distinct from the merely given one. it follows from our account that thinking supplies the formal principle of the conformity of phenomena to law. suppose, in our example above, that a is the cause, b the effect. unless thinking were able to produce the concept of causality, we should never be able to know that a and b were causally connected. but, in order that we may know, in the given case, that a is the cause and b the effect, it is necessary for a and b to possess the characteristics which we mean when we speak of cause and effect. a similar analysis applies to the other categories of thought. it will be appropriate to notice here in a few words hume's discussion of causality. according to hume, the concepts of cause and effect have their origin solely in custom. we observe repeatedly that one event follows another and become accustomed to think of them as causally connected, so that we expect the second to occur as soon as we have observed the first. this theory, however, springs from a totally mistaken view of the causal relation. suppose for several days running i observe the same person whenever i step out of the door of my house, i shall gradually form the habit of expecting the temporal sequence of the two events. but, it will never occur to me to think that there is any causal connection between my own appearance and that of the other person at the same spot. i shall call in aid essentially other items of the world-content in order to explain the coincidence of these events. in short, we determine the causal nexus of two events, not according to their temporal sequence, but according to the essential character of the items of the world-content which we call, respectively, cause and effect. from this purely formal activity of our thinking in the construction of the scientific picture of the world, it follows that the content of every cognition cannot be fixed a priori in advance of observation (in which thinking comes to grips with the given), but must be derived completely and exhaustively from observation. in this sense, all our cognitions are empirical. nor is it possible to see how it could be otherwise. for, kant's judgments a priori are at bottom, not cognitions, but postulates. on kant's principles, all we can ever say is only this, that if a thing is to become the object of possible experience, it must conform to these laws. they are, therefore, rules which the subject prescribes to all objects. but, we should rather expect cognitions of the given to have their source, not in the constitution of the subject, but in that of the object. thinking makes no a priori affirmations about the given. but it creates the forms, on the basis of which the conformity of phenomena to law becomes manifest a posteriori. from our point of view, it is impossible to determine anything a priori about the degree of certainty belonging to a judgment which embodies knowledge thus gained. for, certainty, too, derives from nothing other than the given. perhaps it will be objected that observation never establishes anything except that a certain nexus of phenomena actually occurs, but not that it must occur, and will always occur, in like conditions. but, this suggestion, too, is in error. for any nexus which i apprehend between elements in the world-picture is, on our principles, nothing but what is grounded in these elements themselves. it is not imported into these elements by thinking, but belongs to them essentially, and must, therefore, necessarily exist whenever they themselves exist. only a view which regards all scientific research as nothing but the endeavour to correlate the facts of experience by means of principles which are subjective and external to the facts, can hold that the nexus of a and b may to-day obey one law and to-morrow another (j. s. mill). on the other hand, if we see clearly that the laws of nature have their source in the given, and that, therefore, the nexus of phenomena essentially depends upon, and is determined by, them, we shall never think of talking of a "merely relative universality" of the laws which are derived from observation. this is, of course, not to assert that any given law which we have once accepted as correct, must be absolutely valid. but when, later, a negative instance overthrows a law, the reason is, not that the law from the first could be inferred only with relative universality, but that it had not at first been inferred correctly. a genuine law of nature is nothing but the formulation of a nexus in the given world-picture, and it exists as little without the facts which it determines, as these exist without it. above, we have laid down that it is the essence of the cognitive activity to transmute, by thinking, the given world-picture by means of concepts and ideas. what follows from this fact? if the immediately-given were a totality complete in itself, the work which thinking does upon it in cognition would be both impossible and unnecessary. we should simply accept the given, as it is, and be satisfied with it as such. cognitive activity is possible only because in the given something lies hidden which does not yet reveal itself so long as we gaze at the given in its immediacy, but which becomes manifest with the aid of the order which thinking introduces. prior to the work of thinking, the given does not possess the fulness of its own complete nature. this point becomes still more obvious by considering in greater detail the two factors involved in the act of cognition. the first factor is the given. "being given" is not a quality of the given, but merely a term expressing its relation to the second factor in the act of cognition. this second factor, viz., the conceptual content of the given, is found by our thought in the act of cognition to be necessarily connected with the given. two questions arise: ( ) where are the given and the concept differentiated? ( ) where are they united? the answer to these two questions is to be found, beyond any doubt, in the preceding discussions. they are differentiated solely in the act of cognition. they are united in the given. thence it follows necessarily that the conceptual content is but a part of the given, and that the act of cognition consists in re-uniting with each other the two parts of the world-picture which are, at first, given to it in separation. the given world-picture thus attains its completion only through that mediate kind of givenness which thinking brings about. in its original immediacy the world-picture is altogether incomplete. if the conceptual content were from the first united with the given in our world-picture, there would be no cognition. for, no need could ever arise of transcending the given. so, again, if by thinking and in thinking we could create the whole world-content, once more there would be no cognition. for, what we create ourselves we do not need to cognise. hence, cognition exists because the world-content is given to us originally in a form which is incomplete, which does not contain it as a whole, but which, over and above what it presents immediately, owns another, no less essential, aspect. this second aspect of the world-content--an aspect not originally given--is revealed by cognition. pure thinking presents in the abstract, not empty forms, but a sum of determinations (categories) which serve as forms for the rest of the world-content. the world-content can be called reality only in the form which it acquires through cognition and in which both aspects of it are united. vi theory of knowledge without presuppositions versus fichte's theory of science so far, we have determined the idea of knowledge. this idea is given immediately in the human consciousness whenever it functions cognitively. to the "ego," as the centre [ ] of consciousness, are given immediately external and internal perceptions, as well as its own existence. the ego feels impelled to find more in the given than it immediately contains. over against the given world, a second world, the world of thinking, unfolds itself for the ego and the ego unites these two by realising, of its own free will, the idea of knowledge which we have determined. this accounts for the fundamental difference between the way in which in the objects of human consciousness itself the concept and the immediately-given unite to form reality in its wholeness, and the way in which their union obtains in the rest of the world-content. for every other part of the world-content we must assume that the union of the two factors is original and necessary from the first, and that it is only for cognition, when cognition begins, that an artificial separation has supervened, but that cognition in the end undoes the separation in keeping with the original and essential unity of the object-world. for consciousness the case is quite otherwise. here the union exists only when it is achieved by the living activity of consciousness itself. with every other kind of object, the separation of the two factors is significant, not for the object, but only for knowledge. their union is here original, their separation derivative. cognition effects a separation only because it must first separate before it can achieve union by its own methods. but, for consciousness, the concept and the given are originally separate. union is here derivative, and that is why cognition has the character which we have described. just because in consciousness idea and given appear in separation, does the whole of reality split itself for consciousness into these two factors. and, again, just because consciousness can bring about the union of the two factors only by its own activity, can it reach full reality only by performing the act of cognition. the remaining categories (ideas) would be necessarily united with the corresponding lands of the given, even if they were not taken up into cognition. but the idea of cognition can be united with the given which corresponds to it, only by the activity of consciousness. real consciousness exists only in realising itself. with these remarks we believe ourselves to be sufficiently equipped for laying bare the root-error of fichte's wissenschaftslehre and, at the same time, for supplying the key to the understanding of it. fichte is among all kant's successors the one who has felt most vividly that nothing but a theory of consciousness can supply the foundation for all the sciences. but he never clearly understood why this is so. he felt that the act which we have called the second step in the theory of knowledge and which we have formulated as a postulate, must really be performed by the "ego." this may be seen, e.g., from the following passage. "the theory of science, then, arises, as itself a systematic discipline, just as do all possible sciences in so far as they are systematic, through a certain act of freedom, the determinate function of which is, more particularly, to make us conscious of the characteristic activity of intelligence as such. the result of this free act is that the necessary activity of intelligence, which in itself already is form, is further taken up as matter into a fresh form of cognition or consciousness." [ ] what does fichte here mean by the activity of the "intelligence," when we translate what he has obscurely felt into clear concepts? nothing but the realisation of the idea of knowledge, taking place in consciousness. had this been perfectly clear to fichte, he ought to have expressed his view simply by saying, "it is the task of the theory of science to bring cognition, in so far as it is still an unreflective activity of the 'ego,' into reflective consciousness; it has to show that the realisation of the idea of cognition in actual fact is a necessary activity of the 'ego.'" fichte tries to determine the activity of the "ego." he declares "that the being, the essence of which consists solely in this that it posits itself as existing, is the ego as absolute subject." [ ] this positing of the ego is for fichte the original, unconditioned act "which lies at the basis of all the rest of consciousness." [ ] it follows that the ego, in fichte's sense, can likewise begin all its activity only through an absolute fiat of the will. but, it is impossible for fichte to supply any sort of content for this activity which his "ego" absolutely posits. for, fichte can name nothing upon which this activity might direct itself, or by which it might be determined. his ego is supposed to perform an act. yes, but what is it to do? fichte failed to define the concept of cognition which the ego is to realise, and, in consequence, he struggled in vain to find any way of advancing from his absolute act to the detailed determinations of the ego. nay, in the end he declares that the inquiry into the manner of this advance lies outside the scope of his theory. in his deduction of the idea of cognition he starts neither from an absolute act of the ego, nor from one of the non-ego, but from a state of being determined which is, at the same time, an act of determining. his reason for this is that nothing else either is, or can be, immediately contained in consciousness. his theory leaves it wholly vague what determines, in turn, this determination. and it is this vagueness which drives us on beyond fichte's theory into the practical part of the wissenschaftslehre. [ ] but, by this turn fichte destroys all knowledge whatsoever. for, the practical activity of the ego belongs to quite a different sphere. the postulate which we have put forward above can, indeed, be realised--so much is clear--only by a free act of the ego. but, if this act is to be a cognitive act, the all-important point is that its voluntary decision should be to realise the idea of cognition. it is, no doubt, true that the ego by its own free will can do many other things as well. but, what matters for the epistemological foundation of the sciences is not a definition of what it is for the ego to be free, but of what it is to know. fichte has allowed himself to be too much influenced by his subjective tendency to present the freedom of human personality in the brightest light. harms, in his address on the philosophy of fichte (p. ), rightly remarks, "his world-view is predominantly and exclusively ethical, and the same character is exhibited by his theory of knowledge." knowledge would have absolutely nothing to do, if all spheres of reality were given in their totality. but, seeing that the ego, so long as it has not been, by thinking, inserted into its place in the systematic whole of the world-picture, exists merely as an immediately-given something, it is not enough merely to point out what it does. fichte, however, believes that all we need to do concerning the ego is to seek and find it. "we have to seek and find the absolutely first, wholly unconditioned principle of all human knowledge. being absolutely first, this principle admits neither of proof nor of determination." [ ] we have seen that proof and determination are out of place solely as applied to the content of pure logic. but the ego is a part of reality, and this makes it necessary to establish that this or that category is actually to be found in the given. fichte has failed to do this. and this is the reason why he has given such a mistaken form to his theory of science. zeller remarks [ ] that the logical formulæ by means of which fichte seeks to reach the concept of the ego, do but ill disguise his predetermined purpose at any price to reach this starting-point for his theory. this comment applies to the first form ( ) which fichte gave to his wissenschaftslehre. taking it, then, as established that fichte, in keeping with the whole trend of his philosophical thinking, could not, in fact, rest content with any other starting-point for knowledge than an absolute and arbitrary act, we have the choice between only two ways of making this start intelligible. the one way was to seize upon some one among the empirical activities of consciousness and to strip off, one by one, all the characteristics of it which do not follow originally from its essential nature, until the pure concept of the ego had been crystallised out. the other way was to begin, straightway, with the original activity of the ego, and to exhibit its nature by introspection and reflection. fichte followed the first way at the outset of his philosophical thinking, but in the course of it he gradually switched over to the other. basing himself upon kant's "synthesis of transcendental apperception," fichte concluded that the whole activity of the ego in the synthesis of the matter of experience proceeds according to the forms of the judgment. to judge is to connect a predicate with a subject--an act of which the purely formal expression is a = a. this proposition would be impossible if the x which connects predicate and subject, did not rest upon a power to affirm unconditionally. for, the proposition does not mean, "a exists"; it means, "if a exists, then there exists a." thus, a is most certainly not affirmed absolutely. hence, if there is to be an absolute, unconditionally valid affirmation, there is no alternative but to declare the act of affirming itself to be absolute. whereas a is conditioned, the affirming of a is unconditioned. this affirming is the act of the ego which, thus, possesses the power to affirm absolutely and without conditions. in the proposition, a = a, the one a is affirmed only on condition of the other being presupposed. moreover, the affirming is an act of the ego. "if a is affirmed in the ego, it is affirmed." [ ] this connection is possible only on condition that there is in the ego something always self-identical, which effects the transition from the one a to the other. the above-mentioned x is this self-identical aspect of the ego. the ego which affirms the one a is the same ego as that which affirms the other a. this is to say ego = ego. but this proposition, expressed in judgment-form, "if the ego is, it is," is meaningless. for, the ego is not affirmed on condition of another ego having been presupposed, but it presupposes itself. in short, the ego is absolute and unconditioned. the hypothetical judgment-form which is the form of all judgments, so long as the absolute ego is not presupposed, changes for the ego into the form of the categorical affirmation of existence, "i am unconditionally." fichte has another way of putting this: "the ego originally affirms its own existence." [ ] clearly, this whole deduction is nothing but a sort of elementary school-drill by means of which fichte tries to lead his readers to the point at which they will perceive for themselves the unconditioned activity of the ego. his aim is to put clearly before their eyes that fundamental activity of the ego in the absence of which there is no such thing as an ego at all. let us now look back, once more, over fichte's line of thought. on closer inspection, it becomes obvious that it contains a leap--a leap, moreover, which throws grave doubts upon the correctness of his theory of the original act of the ego. what precisely is it that is absolute in the affirmation of the ego? take the judgment, "if a exists, then there exists a." the a is affirmed by the ego. so far there is no room for doubt. but, though the act is unconditioned, yet the ego must affirm something in particular. it cannot affirm an "activity in general and as such"; it can affirm only a particular, determinate activity. in short, the affirmation must have a content. but, it cannot derive this content from itself, for else we should get nothing but affirmations of acts of affirmation in infinitum. hence, there must be something which is realised by this affirming, by this absolute activity of the ego. if the ego does not seize upon something given in order to affirm it, it can do nothing at all, and, consequently, it cannot affirm either. this is proved, too, by fichte's proposition, "the ego affirms its own existence." "existence," here, is a category. thus, we are back at our own position: the activity of the ego consists in that it affirms, of its own free will, the concepts and ideas inherent in the given. if fichte had not unconsciously been determined to exhibit the ego as "existing," he would have got nowhere at all. if, instead, he had built up the concept of cognition, he would have reached the true starting-point of the theory of knowledge, viz., "the ego affirms the act of cognition." because fichte failed to make clear to himself what determines the activity of the ego, he fixed simply upon the affirmation of its own existence as the character of that activity. but, this is at once to restrict the absolute activity of the ego. for, if nothing is unconditioned except the ego's affirmation of its own existence, then every other activity of the ego is conditioned. moreover, the way is cut off for passing from the unconditioned to the conditioned. if the ego is unconditioned only in the affirmation of its own existence, then at once there is cut off all possibility of affirming by an original act anything other than its own existence. hence, the necessity arises to assign a ground for all the other activities of the ego. but fichte, as we have seen above, sought for such a ground in vain. this is the reason why he shifted to the second of the two ways, indicated above, for the deduction of the ego. already in , in his erste einleitung in die wissenschaftslehre, he recommends self-observation as the right method for studying the ego in its true, original character. "observe and watch thyself, turn thy eye away from all that surrounds thee and look into thyself--this is the first demand which philosophy makes upon its disciple. the topic of our discourse, is, not anything outside thyself, but thyself alone." [ ] this introduction to the theory of science is, in truth, in one way much superior to the other. for, self-observation does not make us acquainted with the activity of the ego one-sidedly in a fixed direction. it exhibits that activity, not merely as affirming its own existence, but as striving, in its many-sided development, to comprehend by thinking the world-content which is immediately-given. to self-observation, the ego reveals itself as engaged in building up its world-picture by the synthesis of the given with concepts. but, anyone who has not accompanied us in our line of thought above, and who, consequently, does not know that the ego can grasp the whole content of reality only on condition of applying its thought-forms to the given, is liable to regard cognition as a mere process of spinning the world out of the ego itself. hence, for fichte the world-picture tends increasingly to become a construction of the ego. he emphasises more and more that the main point in the wissenschaftslehre is to awaken the sense which is able to watch the ego in this constructing of its world. he who is able thus to watch stands, for fichte, on a higher level of knowledge than he who has eyes only for the finished construct, the ready-made world. if we fix our eyes only on the world of objects, we fail to perceive that, but for the creative activity of the ego, that world would not exist. if, on the other hand, we watch the ego in its constructive activity, we understand the ground of the finished world-picture. we know how it has come to be what it is. we understand it as the conclusion for which we have the premises. the ordinary consciousness sees only what has been affirmed, what has been determined thus or thus. it lacks the insight into the premises, into the grounds why an affirmation is just as it is and not otherwise. to mediate the knowledge of these premises is, according to fichte, the task of a wholly new sense. this is expressed most clearly in the einleitungsvorlesungen in die wissenschaftslehre. [ ] "my theory presupposes a wholly novel inward sense-organ, by means of which a new world is given which does not exist for the ordinary man at all." or, again, "the world of this novel sense, and thereby this sense itself, are hereby for the present clearly determined: it is the world in which we see the premises on which is grounded the judgment, 'something exists'; it is the ground of existence which, just because it is the ground of existence, cannot, in its turn, be said to be or to be an existence." [ ] but, here, too, fichte lacks clear insight into the activity of the ego. he has never worked his way through to it. that is why his wissenschaftslehre could not become what else, from its whole design, it ought to have become, viz., a theory of knowledge as the fundamental discipline of philosophy. for, after it had once been recognised that the activity of the ego must be affirmed by the ego itself, it was very easy to think that the activity receives its determination also from the ego. but how else can this happen except we assign a content to the purely formal activity of the ego? if the ego is really to import a content into its activity which, else, is wholly undetermined, then the nature of that content must also be determined. for, failing this, it could at best be realised only by some "thing-in-itself" in the ego, of which the ego would be the instrument, but not by the ego itself. if fichte had attempted to furnish this determination, he would have been led to the concept of cognition which it is the task of the ego to realise. fichte's wissenschaftslehre proves that even the acutest thinker fails to make fruitful contributions to any philosophical discussion, unless he lays hold of the correct thought-form (category, idea) which, supplemented by the given, yields reality. such a thinker is like a man who fails to hear the most glorious melodies which are being played for him, because he has no ear for tunes. if we are to determine the nature of consciousness, as given, we must be able to rise to, and make our own, the "idea of consciousness." at one point fichte is actually quite close to the true view. he declares, in the einleitungen zur wissenschaftslehre ( ), that there are two theoretical systems, viz., dogmatism, for which the ego is determined by the objects, and idealism, for which the objects are determined by the ego. both are, according to him, established as possible theories of the world; both can be developed into self-consistent systems. but, if we throw in our lot with dogmatism, we must abandon the independence of the ego and make it dependent on the "thing-in-itself." if we do not want to do this, we must adopt idealism. the philosopher's choice between these two systems is left by fichte wholly to the preference of the ego. but he adds that if the ego desires to preserve its independence, it will give up the belief in external things and surrender itself to idealism. but, what fichte forgot was the consideration that the ego cannot make any genuine, well-grounded decision or choice, unless something is presupposed which helps the ego to choose. all the ego's attempts at determination remain empty and without content, if the ego does not find something wholly determinate and full of content, which enables it to determine the given, and thereby also to choose between idealism and dogmatism. this "something wholly determinate and full of content" is, precisely, the world of thought. and the determination of the given by thinking is, precisely, what we call cognition. we may take fichte where we please--everywhere we find that his line of thought at once gets meaning and substance, as soon as we conceive his grey, empty activity of the ego to be filled and regulated by what we have called "the process of cognition." the fact that the ego is free to enter into activity out of itself, makes it possible for it, by free self-determination, to realise the category of cognition, whereas in the rest of the world all categories are connected by objective necessity with the given which corresponds to them. the investigation of the nature of free self-determination will be the task of ethics and metaphysics, based on our theory of knowledge. these disciplines, too, will have to debate the question whether the ego is able to realise other ideas, besides the idea of cognition. but, that the realisation of the idea of cognition issues from a free act has been made sufficiently clear in the course of our discussions above. for, the synthesis, effected by the ego, of the immediately-given and of the form of thought appropriate to it, which two factors of reality remain otherwise always divorced from each other in consciousness, can be brought about only by an act of freedom. moreover, our arguments throw, in another way, quite a fresh light on critical idealism. to any close student of fichte's system it will appear as if fichte cared for nothing so much as for the defence of the proposition, that nothing can enter the ego from without, that nothing can appear in the ego which was not the ego's own original creation. now, it is beyond all dispute that no type of idealism will ever be able to derive from within the ego that form of the world-content which we have called "the immediately-given." for, this form can only be given; it can never be constructed by thinking. in proof of this, it is enough to reflect that, even if the whole series of colours were given to us except one, we should not be able to fill in that one out of the bare ego. we can form an image of the most remote countries, though we have never seen them, provided we have once personally experienced, as given, the details which go to form the image. we then build up the total picture, according to the instructions supplied to us, out of the particular facts which we have ourselves experienced. but we shall strive in vain to invent out of ourselves even a single perceptual element which has never appeared within the sphere of what has been given to us. it is one thing to be merely acquainted with the world; it is another to have knowledge of its essential nature. this nature, for all that it is closely identified with the world-content, does not become clear to us unless we build up reality ourselves out of the given and the forms of thought. the real "what" of the given comes to be affirmed for the ego only through the ego itself. the ego would have no occasion to affirm the nature of the given for itself, if it did not find itself confronted at the outset by the given in wholly indeterminate form. thus, the essential nature of the world is affirmed, not apart from, but through, the ego. the true form of reality is not the first form in which it presents itself to the ego, but the last form which it receives through the activity of the ego. that first form is, in fact, without any importance for the objective world and counts only as the basis for the process of cognition. hence, it is not the form given to the world by theory which is subjective, but rather the form in which the world is originally given to the ego. if, following volkelt and others, we call the given world "experience," our view amounts to saying: the world-picture presents itself, owing to the constitution of our consciousness, in subjective form as experience, but science completes it and makes its true nature manifest. our theory of knowledge supplies the basis for an idealism which, in the true sense of the word, understands itself. it supplies good grounds for the conviction that thinking brings home to us the essential nature of the world. nothing but thinking can exhibit the relations of the parts of the world-content, be it the relation of the heat of the sun to the stone which it warms, or the relation of the ego to the external world. thinking alone has the function of determining all things in their relations to each other. the objection might still be urged by the followers of kant, that the determination, above-described, of the given holds, after all, only for the ego. our reply must be, consistently with our principles, that the distinction between ego and outer world, too, holds only within the given, and that, therefore, it is irrelevant to insist on the phrase, "for the ego," in the face of the activity of thinking which unites all opposites. the ego, as divorced from the outer world, disappears completely in the process of thinking out the nature of the world. hence it becomes meaningless still to talk of determinations which hold only for the ego. vii concluding remarks: epistemological we have laid the foundations of the theory of knowledge as the science of the significance of all human knowledge. it alone clears up for us the relation of the contents of the separate sciences to the world. it enables us, with the help of the sciences, to attain to a philosophical world-view. positive knowledge is acquired by us through particular cognitions; what the value of our knowledge is, considered as knowledge of reality, we learn through the theory of knowledge. by holding fast strictly to this principle, and by employing no particular cognitions in our argumentation, we have transcended all one-sided world-views. one-sidedness, as a rule, results from the fact that the inquiry, instead of concentrating on the process of cognition itself, busies itself about some object of that process. if our arguments are sound, dogmatism must abandon its "thing-in-itself" as fundamental principle, and subjective idealism its "ego," for both these owe their determinate natures in their relation to each other first to thinking. scepticism must give up its doubts whether the world can be known, for there is no room for doubt with reference to the "given," because it is as yet untouched by any of the predicates which cognition confers on it. on the other hand, if scepticism were to assert that thinking can never apprehend things as they are, its assertion, being itself possible only through thinking, would be self-contradictory. for, to justify doubt by thinking is to admit by implication that thinking can produce grounds sufficient to establish certainty. lastly, our theory of knowledge transcends both one-sided empiricism and one-sided rationalism in uniting both at a higher level. thus it does justice to both. it justifies empiricism by showing that all positive knowledge about the given is obtainable only through direct contact with the given. and rationalism, too, receives its due in our argument, seeing that we hold thinking to be the necessary and exclusive instrument of knowledge. the world-view which has the closest affinity to ours, as we have here built it up on epistemological foundations, is that of a. e. biedermann. [ ] but biedermann requires for the justification of his point of view dogmatic theses which are quite out of place in theory of knowledge. thus, e.g., he works with the concepts of being, substance, space, time, etc., without having first analysed the cognitive process by itself. instead of establishing the fact that the cognitive process consists, to begin with, only of the two elements, the given and thought, he talks of the kinds of being of the real. for example, in section , he says: "every content of consciousness includes within itself two fundamental facts--it presents to us, as given, two kinds of being which we contrast with each other as sensuous and spiritual, thing-like and idea-like, being." and in section : "whatever has a spatio-temporal existence, exists materially; that which is the ground of all existence and the subject of life has an idea-like existence, is real as having an ideal being." this sort of argument belongs, not to the theory of knowledge, but to metaphysics, which latter presupposes theory of knowledge as its foundation. we must admit that biedermann's doctrine has many points of similarity with ours; but our method has not a single point of contact with his. hence, we have had no occasion to compare our position directly with his. biedermann's aim is to gain an epistemological standpoint with the help of a few metaphysical axioms. our aim is to reach, through an analysis of the process of cognition, a theory of reality. and we believe that we have succeeded in showing, that all the disputes between philosophical systems result from the fact that their authors have sought to attain knowledge about some object or other (thing, self, consciousness, etc.), without having first given close study to that which alone can throw light on whatever else we know, viz., the nature of knowledge itself. viii concluding remarks: practical the aim of the preceding discussions has been to throw light on the relation of our personality, as knower, to the objective world. what does it signify for us to possess knowledge and science? this was the question to which we sought the answer. we have seen that it is just in our knowing that the innermost kernel of the world manifestly reveals itself. the harmony, subject to law, which reigns throughout the whole world, reveals itself precisely in human cognition. it is, therefore, part of the destiny of man to elevate the fundamental laws of the world, which do indeed regulate the whole of existence but which would never become existent in themselves, into the realm of realities which appear. this precisely is the essential nature of knowledge that in it the world-ground is made manifest which in the object-world can never be discovered. knowing is--metaphorically speaking--a continual merging of one's life into the world-ground. such a view is bound to throw light also on our practical attitude towards life. our conduct is, in its whole character, determined by our moral ideals. these are the ideas we have of our tasks in life, or, in other words, of the ends which we set ourselves to achieve by our action. our conduct is a part of the total world-process. consequently, it, too, is subject to the universal laws which regulate this process. now, every event in the universe has two sides which must be distinguished: its external sequence in time and space, and its internal conformity to law. the apprehension of this conformity of human conduct to law is but a special case of knowledge. hence, the conclusions at which we have arrived concerning the nature of knowledge must apply to this sort of knowledge, too. to apprehend oneself as a person who acts is to possess the relevant laws of conduct, i.e., the moral concepts and ideals, in the form of knowledge. it is this knowledge of the conformity of our conduct to law which makes our conduct truly ours. for, in that case, the conformity is given, not as external to the object in which the action appears, but as the very substance of the object engaged in living activity. the "object," here, is our own ego. if the ego has with its knowledge really penetrated the essential nature of conduct, then it feels that it is thereby master of its conduct. short of this, the laws of conduct confront us as something external. they master us. what we achieve, we achieve under the compulsion which they wield over us. but this compulsion ceases, as soon as their alien character has been transformed into the ego's very own activity. thereafter, the law no longer rules over us, but rules in us over the actions which issue from our ego. to perform an act in obedience to a law which is external to the agent is to be unfree. to perform it in obedience to the agent's own law is to be free. to gain knowledge of the laws of one's own conduct is to become conscious of one's freedom. the process of cognition is, thus, according to our arguments, the process of the development of freedom. not all human conduct has this character. there are many cases in which we do not know the laws of our conduct. this part of our conduct is the unfree part of our activity. over against it stands the part the laws of which we make completely our own. this is the realm of freedom. it is only in so far as our life falls into this realm that it can be called moral. to transform the actions which are unfree into actions which are free--this is the task of self-development for every individual, this is likewise the task of the whole human race. thus, the most important problem for all human thinking is to conceive man as a personality grounded upon itself and free. appendices appendix i addition to the revised edition of "the philosophy of freedom," . various criticisms on the part of philosophers with which this book met immediately upon its publication, induce me to add to this revised edition the following brief statement. i can well understand that there are readers who are interested in the rest of the book, but who will look upon what follows as a tissue of abstract concepts which to them is irrelevant and makes no appeal. they may, if they choose, leave this brief statement unread. but in philosophy problems present themselves which have their origin rather in certain prejudices on the thinker's part than in the natural progression of normal human thinking. with the main body of this book it seems to me to be the duty of every one to concern himself, who is striving for clearness about the essential nature of man and his relation to the world. what follows is rather a problem the discussion of which certain philosophers demand as necessary to a treatment of the topics of this book, because these philosophers, by their whole way of thinking, have created certain difficulties which do not otherwise occur. if i were to pass by these problems entirely, certain people would be quick to accuse me of dilettantism, etc. the impression would thus be created that the author of the views set down in this book has not thought out his position with regard to these problems because he has not discussed them in his book. the problem to which i refer is this: there are thinkers who find a particular difficulty in understanding how another mind can act on one's own. they say: the world of my consciousness is a closed circle within me; so is the world of another's consciousness within him. i cannot look into the world of another's mind. how, then, do i know that he and i are in a common world? the theory according to which we can from the conscious world infer an unconscious world which never can enter consciousness, attempts to solve this difficulty as follows. the world, it says, which i have in my consciousness is the representation in me of a real world to which my consciousness has no access. in this transcendent world exist the unknown agents which cause the world in my consciousness. in it, too, exists my own real self, of which likewise i have only a representation in my consciousness. in it, lastly, exists the essential self of the fellow-man who confronts me. whatever passes in the consciousness of my fellow-man corresponds to a reality in his transcendent essence which is independent of his consciousness. his essential nature acts in that realm which, on this theory, is equally beyond consciousness. thus an impression is made in my consciousness which represents there what is present in another's consciousness and wholly beyond the reach of my direct awareness. clearly the point of this theory is to add to the world accessible to my consciousness an hypothetical world which is to my immediate experience inaccessible. this is done to avoid the supposed alternative of having to say that the external world, which i regard as existing before me, is nothing but the world of my consciousness, with the absurd--solipsistic--corollary that other persons likewise exist only within my consciousness. several epistemological tendencies in recent speculation have joined in creating this problem. but it is possible to attain to clearness about it by surveying the situation from the point of view of spiritual perception which underlies the exposition of this book. what is it that, in the first instance, i have before me when i confront another person? to begin with, there is the sensuous appearance of the other's body, as given in perception. to this we might add the auditory perception of what he is saying, and so forth. all this i apprehend, not with a passive stare, but by the activity of my thinking which is set in motion. through the thinking with which i now confront the other person, the percept of him becomes, as it were, psychically transparent. as my thinking apprehends the percept, i am compelled to judge that what i perceive is really quite other than it appears to the outer senses. the sensuous appearance, in being what it immediately is, reveals something else which it is mediately. in presenting itself to me as a distinct object, it, at the same time, extinguishes itself as a mere sensuous appearance. but in thus extinguishing itself it reveals a character which, so long as it affects me, compels me as a thinking being to extinguish my own thinking and to put its thinking in the place of mine. its thinking is then apprehended by my thinking as an experience like my own. thus i have really perceived another's thinking. for the immediate percept, in extinguishing itself as sensuous appearance, is apprehended by my thinking. it is a profess which passes wholly in my consciousness and consists in this, that the other's thinking takes the place of my thinking. the self-extinction of the sensuous appearance actually abolishes the separation between the spheres of the two consciousnesses. in my own consciousness this fusion manifests itself in that, so long as i experience the contents of the other's consciousness, i am aware of my own consciousness as little as i am aware of it in dreamless sleep. just as my waking consciousness is eliminated from the latter, so are the contents of my own consciousness eliminated from my perception of the contents of another's consciousness. two things tend to deceive us about the true facts. the first is that, in perceiving another person, the extinction of the contents of one's own consciousness is replaced not, as in sleep, by unconsciousness, but by the contents of the other's consciousness. the other is that my consciousness of my own self oscillates so rapidly between extinction and recurrence, that these alternations usually escape observation. the whole problem is to be solved, not through artificial construction of concepts, involving an inference from what is in consciousness to what always must transcend consciousness, but through genuine experience of the connection between thinking and perceiving. the same remark applies to many other problems which appear in philosophical literature. philosophers should seek the road to unprejudiced spiritual observation, instead of hiding reality behind an artificial frontage of concepts. in a monograph by eduard von hartmann on "the ultimate problems of epistemology and metaphysics" (in the zeitschrift für philosophie und philosophische kritik, vol. , p. ), my philosophy of spiritual activity has been classed with the philosophical tendency which seeks to build upon an "epistemological monism." eduard von hartmann rejects this position as untenable, for the following reasons. according to the point of view maintained in his monograph, there are only three possible positions in the theory of knowledge. the first consists in remaining true to the naïve point of view, which regards objects of sense-perception as real things existing outside the human mind. this, urges von hartmann, implies a lack of critical reflection. i fail to realise that with all my contents of consciousness i remain imprisoned in my own consciousness. i fail to perceive that i am dealing, not with a "table-in-itself," but only with a phenomenon in my own consciousness. if i stop at this point of view, or if for whatever reasons i return to it, i am a naïve realist. but this whole position is untenable, for it ignores that consciousness has no other objects than its own contents. the second position consists in appreciating this situation and confessing it to oneself. as a result, i become a transcendental idealist. as such, says von hartmann, i am obliged to deny that a "thing-in-itself" can ever appear in any way within the human mind. but, if developed with unflinching consistency, this view ends in absolute illusionism. for the world which confronts me is now transformed into a mere sum of contents of consciousness, and, moreover, of contents of my private consciousness. the objects of other human minds, too, i am then compelled to conceive--absurdly enough--as present solely in my own consciousness. hence, the only tenable position, according to von hartmann, is the third, viz., transcendental realism. on this view, there are "things-in-themselves," but consciousness can have no dealings with them by way of immediate experience. existing beyond the sphere of human consciousness, they cause, in a way of which we remain unconscious, the appearance of objects in consciousness. these "things-in-themselves" are known only by inference from the contents of consciousness, which are immediately experienced but for that very reason, purely ideal. eduard von hartmann maintains in the monograph cited above, that "epistemological monism"--for such he takes my point of view to be--is bound to declare itself identical with one or other of the above three positions; and that its failure to do so is due only to its inconsistency in not drawing the actual consequences of its presuppositions. the monograph goes on to say: "if we want to find out which epistemological position a so-called epistemological monist occupies, all we have to do is to put to him certain questions and compel him to answer them. for, out of his own initiative, no monist will condescend to state his views on these points, and likewise he will seek to dodge in every way giving a straight answer to our questions, because every answer he may give will betray that epistemological monism does not differ from one or other of the three positions. our questions are the following: ( ) are things continuous or intermittent in their existence? if the answer is 'continuous,' we have before us some one of the forms of naïve realism. if the answer is 'intermittent,' we have transcendental idealism. but if the answer is: 'they are, on the one hand, continuous, viz., as contents of the absolute mind, or as unconscious ideas, or as permanent possibilities of perception, but, on the other hand, intermittent, viz., as contents of finite consciousness,' we recognise transcendental realism. ( ) when three persons are sitting at a table, how many distinct tables are there? the naïve realist answers 'one'; the transcendental idealist answers 'three'; but the transcendental realist answers 'four.' this last answer does, indeed, presuppose that it is legitimate to group together in the single question, 'how many tables?' things so unlike each other as the one table which is the 'thing-in-itself' and the three tables which are the objects of perception in the three perceivers' minds. if this seems too great a licence to anyone, he will have to answer 'one and three,' instead of 'four.' ( ) when two persons are alone together in a room, how many distinct persons are there? if you answer 'two'--you are a naïve realist. if you answer 'four,' viz., in each of the two minds one 'i' and one 'other,' you are a transcendental idealist. if you answer 'six,' viz., two persons as 'things-in-themselves' and four persons as ideal objects in the two minds, you are a transcendental realist. in order to show that epistemological monism is not one of these three positions, we should have to give other answers than the above to each of these three questions. but i cannot imagine what answers these could be." the answers of the philosophy of spiritual activity would have to be: ( ) whoever apprehends only what he perceives of a thing and mistakes these percepts for the reality of the thing, is a naïve realist. he does not realise that, strictly, he ought to regard these perceptual contents as existing only so long as he is looking at the objects, so that he ought to conceive the objects before him as intermittent. as soon, however, as it becomes clear to him that reality is to be met with only in the percepts which are organised by thinking, he attains to the insight that the percepts which appear as intermittent events, reveal themselves as continuously in existence as soon as they are interpreted by the constructions of thought. hence continuity of existence must be predicated of the contents of perception which living thought has organised. only that part which is only perceived, not thought, would have to be regarded as intermittent if--which is not the case--there were such a part. ( ) when three persons are sitting at a table, how many distinct tables are there? there is only one table. but so long as the three persons stop short at their perceptual images, they ought to say: "these percepts are not the reality at all." as soon as they pass on to the table as apprehended by thinking, there is revealed to them the one real table. they are then united with their three contents of consciousness in this one reality. ( ) when two persons are alone together in a room, how many distinct persons are there? most assuredly there are not six--not even in the sense of the transcendental realist's theory--but only two. only, at first, each person has nothing but the unreal percept of himself and of the other person. there are four such percepts, the presence of which in the minds of the two persons is the stimulus for the apprehension of reality by their thinking. in this activity of thinking each of the two persons transcends the sphere of his own consciousness. a living awareness of the consciousness of the other person as well as of his own arises in each. in these moments of living awareness the persons are as little imprisoned within their consciousness as they are in sleep. but at other moments consciousness of this identification with the other returns, so that each person, in the experience of thinking, apprehends consciously both himself and the other person. i know that a transcendental realist describes this view as a relapse into naïve realism. but, then, i have already pointed out in this book that naïve realism retains its justification for our thinking as we actually experience it. the transcendental realist ignores the true situation in the process of cognition completely. he cuts himself off from the facts by a tissue of concepts and entangles himself in it. moreover, the monism which appears in the philosophy of spiritual activity ought not to be labelled "epistemological," but, if an epithet is wanted, then a "monism of thought." all this has been misunderstood by eduard von hartmann. ignoring all that is specific in the argumentation of the philosophy of spiritual activity, he has charged me with having attempted to combine hegel's universalistic panlogism with hume's individualistic phenomenalism (zeitschrift für philosophie, vol. , p. , note). but, in truth, the philosophy of spiritual activity has nothing whatever to do with the two positions which it is accused of trying to combine. (this, too, is the reason why i could feel no interest in polemics against, e.g., the epistemological monism of johannes rehmke. the point of view of the philosophy of spiritual activity is simply quite different from what eduard von hartmann and others call "epistemological monism.") appendix ii revised introduction to "philosophy of freedom." the following chapter reproduces, in all essentials, the pages which stood as a sort of "introduction" in the first edition of this book. inasmuch as it rather reflects the mood out of which i composed this book twenty-five years ago, than has any direct bearing on its contents, i print it here as an "appendix." i do not want to omit it altogether, because the suggestion keeps cropping up that i want to suppress some of my earlier writings on account of my later works on spiritual matters. our age is one which is unwilling to seek truth anywhere but in the depths of human nature. [ ] of the following two well-known paths described by schiller, it is the second which will to-day be found most useful: wahrheit suchen wir beide, du aussen im leben, ich innen in dem herzen, und so findet sie jeder gewiss. ist das auge gesund, so begegnet es aussen dem schöpfer ist es das herz, dann gewiss spiegelt es innen die welt. [ ] a truth which comes to us from without bears ever the stamp of uncertainty. conviction attaches only to what appears as truth to each of us in our own hearts. truth alone can give us confidence in developing our powers. he who is tortured by doubts finds his powers lamed. in a world the riddle of which baffles him, he can find no aim for his activity. we no longer want to believe; we want to know. belief demands the acceptance of truths which we do not wholly comprehend. but the individuality which seeks to experience everything in the depths of its own being, is repelled by what it cannot understand. only that knowledge will satisfy us which springs from the inner life of the personality, and submits itself to no external norm. again, we do not want any knowledge which has encased itself once and for all in hide-bound formulas, and which is preserved in encyclopædias valid for all time. each of us claims the right to start from the facts that lie nearest to hand, from his own immediate experiences, and thence to ascend to a knowledge of the whole universe. we strive after certainty in knowledge, but each in his own way. our scientific theories, too, are no longer to be formulated as if we were unconditionally compelled to accept them. none of us would wish to give a scientific work a title like fichte's a pellucid account for the general public concerning the real nature of the newest philosophy. an attempt to compel the readers to understand. nowadays there is no attempt to compel anyone to understand. we claim no agreement from anyone whom a distinct individual need does not drive to a certain view. we do not seek nowadays to cram facts of knowledge even into the immature human being, the child. we seek rather to develop his faculties in such a way that his understanding may depend no longer on our compulsion, but on his will. i am under no illusion concerning the characteristics of the present age. i know how many flaunt a manner of life which lacks all individuality and follows only the prevailing fashion. but i know also that many of my contemporaries strive to order their lives in the direction of the principles i have indicated. to them i would dedicate this book. it does not pretend to offer the "only possible" way to truth, it only describes the path chosen by one whose heart is set upon truth. the reader will be led at first into somewhat abstract regions, where thought must draw sharp outlines, if it is to reach secure conclusions. but he will also be led out of these arid concepts into concrete life. i am fully convinced that one cannot do without soaring into the ethereal realm of abstraction, if one's experience is to penetrate life in all directions. he who is limited to the pleasures of the senses misses the sweetest enjoyments of life. the oriental sages make their disciples live for years a life of resignation and asceticism before they impart to them their own wisdom. the western world no longer demands pious exercises and ascetic practices as a preparation for science, but it does require a sincere willingness to withdraw oneself awhile from the immediate impressions of life, and to betake oneself into the realm of pure thought. the spheres of life are many and for each there develops a special science. but life itself is one, and the more the sciences strive to penetrate deeply into their separate spheres, the more they withdraw themselves from the vision of the world as a living whole. there must be one supreme science which seeks in the separate sciences the elements for leading men back once more to the fullness of life. the scientific specialist seeks in his studies to gain a knowledge of the world and its workings. this book has a philosophical aim: science itself is here infused with the life of an organic whole. the special sciences are stages on the way to this all-inclusive science. a similar relation is found in the arts. the composer in his work employs the rules of the theory of composition. this latter is an accumulation of principles, knowledge of which is a necessary presupposition for composing. in the act of composing, the rules of theory become the servants of life, of reality. in exactly the same way philosophy is an art. all genuine philosophers have been artists in concepts. human ideas have been the medium of their art, and scientific method their artistic technique. abstract thinking thus gains concrete individual life. ideas turn into life-forces. we have no longer merely a knowledge about things, but we have now made knowledge a real, self-determining organism. our consciousness, alive and active, has risen beyond a mere passive reception of truths. how philosophy, as an art, is related to freedom; what freedom is; and whether we do, or can, participate in it--these are the principal problems of my book. all other scientific discussions are put in only because they ultimately throw light on these questions which are, in my opinion, the most intimate that concern mankind. these pages offer a "philosophy of freedom." all science would be nothing but the satisfaction of idle curiosity did it not strive to enhance the existential value of human personality. the true value of the sciences is seen only when we are shown the importance of their results for humanity. the final aim of an individuality can never be the cultivation of any single faculty, but only the development of all capacities which slumber within us. knowledge has value only in so far as it contributes to the all-round unfolding of the whole nature of man. this book, therefore, does not conceive the relation between science and life in such a way that man must bow down before the world of ideas and devote his powers to its service. on the contrary, it shows that he takes possession of the world of ideas in order to use them for his human aims, which transcend those of mere science. man must confront ideas as master, lest he become their slave. appendix iii preface to the original edition of "truth and science" contemporary philosophy suffers from a morbid belief in kant. to help towards our emancipation from this belief is the aim of the present essay. it would indeed be criminal to try and minimise the debt which the development of german philosophy owes to kant's immortal work. but it is high time to acknowledge that the only way of laying the foundations for a truly satisfying view of the world and of human life is to put ourselves in decisive opposition to the spirit of kant. what is it that kant has achieved? he has shown that the transcendent ground of the world which lies beyond the data of our senses and the categories of our reason, and which his predecessors sought to determine by means of empty concepts, is inaccessible to our knowledge. from this he concluded that all our scientific thinking must keep within the limits of possible experience, and is incapable of attaining to knowledge of the transcendent and ultimate ground of the world, i.e., of the "thing-in-itself." but what if this "thing-in-itself," this whole transcendent ground of the world, should be nothing but a fiction? it is easy to see that this is precisely what it is. an instinct inseparable from human nature impels us to search for the innermost essence of things, for their ultimate principles. it is the basis of all scientific enquiry. but, there is not the least reason to look for this ultimate ground outside the world of our senses and of our spirit, unless a thorough and comprehensive examination of this world should reveal within it elements which point unmistakably to an external cause. the present essay attempts to prove that all the principles which we need in order to explain our world and make it intelligible, are within reach of our thought. thus, the assumption of explanatory principles lying outside our world turns out to be the prejudice of an extinct philosophy which lived on vain dogmatic fancies. this ought to have been kant's conclusion, too, if he had really enquired into the powers of human thought. instead, he demonstrated in the most complicated way that the constitution of our cognitive faculties does not permit us to reach the ultimate principles which lie beyond our experience. but we have no reason whatever for positing these principles in any such beyond. thus kant has indeed refuted "dogmatic" philosophy, but he has put nothing in its place. hence, all german philosophy which succeeded kant has evolved everywhere in opposition to him. fichte, schelling, hegel simply ignored the limits fixed by kant for our knowledge and sought the ultimate principles, not beyond, but within, the world accessible to human reason. even schopenhauer, though he does declare the conclusions of kant's critique of pure reason to be eternal and irrefutable truths, cannot avoid seeking knowledge of the ultimate grounds of the world along paths widely divergent from those of his master. but the fatal mistake of all these thinkers was that they sought knowledge of ultimate truths, without having laid the foundation for such an enterprise in a preliminary investigation of the nature of knowledge itself. hence, the proud intellectual edifices erected by fichte, schelling and hegel have no foundation to rest on. the lack of such foundations reacts most unfavourably upon the arguments of these thinkers. ignorant of the importance of the world of pure ideas and of its relation to the realm of sense-perception, they built error upon error, one-sidedness upon one-sidedness. no wonder that their over-bold systems proved unable to withstand the storms of an age which recked nothing of philosophy. no wonder that many good things in these systems were pitilessly swept away along with the errors. to remedy the defect which has just been indicated is the purpose of the following investigations. they will not imitate kant by explaining what our minds can not know: their aim is to show what our minds can know. the outcome of these investigations is that truth is not, as the current view has it, an ideal reproduction of a some real object, but a free product of the human spirit, which would not exist anywhere at all unless we ourselves produced it. it is not the task of knowledge to reproduce in conceptual form something already existing independently. its task is to create a wholly new realm which, united with the world of sense-data, ends by yielding us reality in the full sense. in this way, man's supreme activity, the creative productivity of his spirit, finds its organic place in the universal world-process. without this activity it would be impossible to conceive the world-process as a totality complete in itself. man does not confront the world-process as a passive spectator who merely copies in his mind the events which occur, without his participation, in the cosmos without. he is an active co-creator in the world-process, and his knowledge is the most perfect member of the organism of the universe. this view carries with it an important consequence for our conduct, for our moral ideals. these, too, must be regarded, not as copies of an external standard, but as rooted within us. similarly, we refuse to look upon our moral laws as the behests of any power outside us. we know no "categorical imperative" which, like a voice from the beyond, prescribes to us what to do or to leave undone. our moral ideals are our own free creations. all we have to do is to carry out what we prescribe to ourselves as the norm of our conduct. thus, the concept of truth as a free act leads to a theory of morals based on the concept of a perfectly free personality. these theses, of course, are valid only for that part of our conduct the laws of which our thinking penetrates with complete comprehension. so long as the laws of our conduct are merely natural motives or remain obscure to our conceptual thinking, it may be possible from a higher spiritual level to perceive how far they are founded in our individuality, but we ourselves experience them as influencing us from without, as compelling us to action. every time that we succeed in penetrating such a motive with clear understanding, we make a fresh conquest in the realm of freedom. the relation of these views to the theory of eduard von hartmann, who is the most significant figure in contemporary philosophy, will be made clear to the reader in detail in the course of this essay, especially as regards the problem of knowledge. a prelude to a philosophy of spiritual activity--this is what the present essay offers. that philosophy itself, completely worked out, will shortly follow. the ultimate aim of all science is to increase the value of existence for human personality. whoever does not devote himself to science with this aim in view is merely modelling himself in his own work upon some master. if he "researches," it is merely because that happens to be what he has been taught to do. but not for him is the title of a "free thinker." the sciences are seen in their true value only when philosophy explains the human significance of their results. to make a contribution to such an explanation was my aim. but, perhaps, our present-day science scorns all philosophical vindication! if so, two things are certain. one is that this essay of mine is superfluous. the other is that modern thinkers are lost in the wood and do not know what they want. in concluding this preface, i cannot omit a personal observation. up to now i have expounded all my philosophical views on the basis of goethe's world-view, into which i was first introduced by my dear and revered teacher, karl julius schröer, who to me stands in the very forefront of goethe-students, because his gaze is ever focussed beyond the particular upon the universal ideas. but, with this essay i hope to have shown that the edifice of my thought is a whole which has its foundations in itself and which does not need to be derived from goethe's world-view. my theories, as they are here set forth and as they will presently be amplified in the philosophy of spiritual activity, have grown up in the course of many years. nothing but a deep sense of gratitude leads me to add that the affectionate sympathy of the specht family in vienna, during the period when i was the tutor of its children, provided me with an environment, than which i could not have wished a better, for the development of my ideas. in the same spirit, i would add, further, that i owe to the stimulating conversations with my very dear friend, miss rosa mayreder, of vienna, the mood which i needed for putting into final form many of the thoughts which i have sketched provisionally as germs of my philosophy of spiritual activity. her own literary efforts, which express the sensitive and high-minded nature of a true artist, are likely before long to be presented to the public. vienna, december, . appendix iv introduction to original edition of "truth and science" the aim of the following discussions is to reduce the act of cognition, by analysis, to its ultimate elements and thus to discover a correct formulation of the problem of knowledge and a way to its solution. they criticise all theories of knowledge which are based on kant's line of thought, in order to show that along this road no solution of the problem of knowledge can ever be found. it is, however, due to the fundamental spade-work which volkelt has done in his thorough examination of the concept of experience, [ ] to acknowledge that without his preliminary labours the precise determination, which i have here attempted of the concept of the given would have been very much more difficult. however, we are cherishing the hope that we have laid the foundations for our emancipation from the subjectivism which attaches to all theories of knowledge that start from kant. we believe ourselves to have achieved this emancipation through showing that the subjective form, in which the picture of the world presents itself to the act of cognition, prior to its elaboration by science, is nothing but a necessary stage of transition which is overcome in the very process of knowledge itself. for us, experience, so-called, which positivism and neo-kantianism would like to represent as the only thing which is certain, is precisely the most subjective of all. in demonstrating this, we also show that objective idealism is the inevitable conclusion of a theory of knowledge which understands itself. it differs from the metaphysical and absolute idealism of hegel in this, that it seeks in the subject of knowledge the ground for the diremption of reality into given existence and concept, and that it looks for the reconciliation of this divorce, not in an objective world-dialectic, but in the subjective process of cognition. the present writer has already once before advocated this point of view in print, viz., in the outlines of a theory of knowledge (berlin and stuttgart, ). however, that book differs essentially in method from the present essay, and it also lacks the analytic reduction of knowledge to its ultimate elements. notes [ ] two souls, alas! reside within my breast, and each withdraws from, and repels, its brother. one with tenacious organs holds in love and clinging lust the world in its embraces; the other strongly sweeps, this dust above, into the high ancestral spaces. faust, part i, scene . (bayard taylor's translation.) [ ] knowledge is transcendental when it is aware that nothing can be asserted directly about the thing-in-itself but makes indirect inferences from the subjective which is known to the unknown which lies beyond the subjective (transcendental). the thing-in-itself is, according to this view, beyond the sphere of the world of immediate experience; in other words, it is transcendent. our world can, however, be transcendentally related to the transcendent. hartmann's theory is called realism because it proceeds from the subjective, the mental, to the transcendent, the real. [ ] the way in which the above view has influenced psychology, physiology, etc., in various directions has been set forth by the author in works published after this book. here he is concerned only with characterising the results of an open-minded study of thinking itself. [ ] the passage from page down to this point has been added, or rewritten, for the present revised edition. ( ). [ ] a complete catalogue of the principles of morality (from the point of view of metaphysical realism) may be found in eduard von hartmann's phänomenologie des sittlichen bewusstseins. [ ] translation by abbott, kant's theory of ethics, p. ; critique of pure practical reason, chap. iii. [ ] for the manner in which i have here spoken of "materialism," and for the justification of so speaking of it, see the addition at the end of this chapter. [ ] only a superficial critic will find in the use of the word "faculty," in this and other passages, a relapse into the old-fashioned doctrine of faculties of the soul. [ ] when paulsen, p. of the book mentioned above, says: "different natural endowments and different conditions of life demand both a different bodily and also a different mental and moral diet," he is very close to the correct view, but yet he misses the decisive point. in so far as i am an individual, i need no diet. dietetic means the art of bringing a particular specimen into harmony with the universal laws of the genus. but as an individual i am not a specimen of a genus. [ ] the editor would call the reader's attention to the fact that this book was written in . for many years dr. steiner's efforts have been chiefly concentrated in upholding the divinity of christ consistently with the broader lines of the christian churches. [ ] we are entitled to speak of thoughts (ethical ideas) as objects of observation. for, although the products of thinking do not enter the field of observation, so long as the thinking goes on, they may well become objects of observation subsequently. in this way we have gained our characterisation of action. [ ] those who want to settle by calculation whether the sum total of pleasure or that of pain is bigger, ignore that they are subjecting to calculation something which is nowhere experienced. feeling does not calculate, and what matters for the real valuing of life is what we really experience, not what results from an imaginary calculation. [ ] we disregard here the case where excessive increase of pleasure turns pleasure into pain. [ ] immediately upon the publication of this book ( ), critics objected to the above arguments that, even now, within the generic character of her sex, a woman is able to shape her life individually, just as she pleases, and far more freely than a man who is already de-individualised, first by the school, and later by war and profession. i am aware that this objection will be urged to-day, even more strongly. none the less, i feel bound to let my sentences stand, in the hope that there are readers who appreciate how violently such an objection runs counter to the concept of freedom advocated in this book, and who will interpret my sentences above by another standard than that of man's loss of individuality through school and profession. [ ] the preface and introduction to the original edition of "truth and science" are printed as appendix iii and appendix iv at the end of this volume. [ ] l.c., p. . [ ] cf. kant, critique of pure reason, intr. to nd edit., section vi. [ ] prolegomena, section v. [ ] critique of pure reason, intr., section iv. [ ] cf. his analyse der wirklichkeit, gedanken und tatsachen. [ ] "possible" here means merely conceivable. [ ] cf. die welt als wahrnehmung und begriff, pp. ff. [ ] this attempt, by the way, is one which the objections of robert zimmermann (Über kant's mathematisches vorurteil und dessen folgen) show to be, if not wholly mistaken, at least highly questionable. [ ] critique of pure reason, intr. to nd edit., section ii. [ ] cf. kant's theorie der erfahrung, pp. ff. [ ] l.c., section v. [ ] cf. kant's theorie der erfahrung, pp. ff. [ ] cf. die grundsätze der reinen erkenntnistheorie in der kantischen philosophie, p. . [ ] l.c., p. . [ ] zur analyse der wirklichkeit, pp. ff. [ ] darstellung der kantischen erkenntnistheorie, p. . [ ] vierteljahrsschrift für wissenschaftliche philosophie, , p. . [ ] system der logik, rd edit., pp. ff. [ ] kritische grundlagen des transcendentalen realismus, pp. - . [ ] geschichte der neueren philosophie, vol. v., p. . volkelt is mistaken about fischer when he says (kant's erkenntnistheorie, p. , n.) that "it is not clear from fischer's account whether, in his opinion, kant takes for granted only the psychological fact of the occurrence of universal and necessary judgments, but also their objective validity and truth." for, in the passage referred to above, fischer says that the chief difficulty of the critique of pure reason is to be found in the fact that "its fundamental positions rest on certain presuppositions" which "have to be granted if the rest is to be valid." these presuppositions consist for fischer, too, in this, that "first the fact of knowledge is affirmed," and then analysis reveals the cognitive faculties "by means of which that fact itself is explained." [ ] how far our own epistemological discussions conform to this method, will be shown in section iv, "the starting-points of the theory of knowledge." [ ] l.c., preface, p. x. [ ] zur analyse der wirklichkeit (strassburg, ), p. . [ ] kant's erkenntnistheorie, section i. [ ] a. dorner, das menschliche erkennen (berlin, ). [ ] rehmke, l.c. [ ] die lehre vom wissen (berlin, ). [ ] die grundfragen der erkenntnistheorie (mainz, ) p. . [ ] system der kritischen philosophie, i. teil, p. . [ ] das grundproblem der erkenntnistheorie, p. . [ ] philosophische monatshefte, vol. xxvi ( ), p. . [ ] das grundproblem der erkenntnistheorie, p. . [ ] by "concept" i mean a rule for the synthesis of the disconnected data of perception into a unity. causality, e.g., is a "concept." by "idea" i mean nothing but a concept of richer connotation. "organism," taken quite generally, is an example of an "idea." [ ] it ought not to be necessary to say that the term "centre," here, is not intended to affirm a theory concerning the nature of consciousness, but is used merely as a shorthand expression for the total physiognomy of consciousness. [ ] fichte's sämtliche werke, vol. i, p. . [ ] l.c., vol. i, p. . [ ] l.c., vol. i, p. . [ ] l.c., vol. i, p. . [ ] l.c., vol. i, p. . [ ] geschichte der philosophie, p. . [ ] fichte, sämtliche werke, vol. i, p. . [ ] l.c., vol. i, p. . [ ] l.c., vol. i, p. . [ ] delivered in the autumn of at the university of berlin. see nachgelassene werke, vol. i, p. . [ ] l.c., vol. i, p. . [ ] cf. his christliche dogmatik, nd edit., - . the epistemological arguments are in vol. i. an exhaustive discussion of his point of view has been furnished by e. von hartmann. see his kritische wanderungen durch die philosophie der gegenwart, pp. ff. [ ] only the very first opening sentences (in the first edition) of this argument have been altogether omitted here, because they seem to me to-day wholly irrelevant. but the rest of the chapter seems to me even to day relevant and necessary, in spite, nay, because, of the scientific bias of contemporary thought. [ ] truth seek we both--thou in the life without thee and around; i in the heart within. by both can truth alike be found. the healthy eye can through the world the great creator track; the healthy heart is but the glass which gives creation back. bulwer. 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[transcriber's note: all footnotes have been gathered at the end of the text.] sir walter scott as a critic of literature by margaret ball, ph.d. new york the columbia university press copyright, by the columbia university press printed from type november, press of the new era printing company lancaster, pa. preface the lack of any adequate discussion of scott's critical work is a sufficient reason for the undertaking of this study, the subject of which was suggested to me more than three years ago by professor trent of columbia university. we still use critical essays and monumental editions prepared by the author of the waverley novels, but the criticism has been so overshadowed by the romances that its importance is scarcely recognized. it is valuable in itself, as well as in the opportunity it offers of considering the relation of the critical to the creative mood, an especially interesting problem when it is presented concretely in the work of a great writer. no complete bibliography of scott's writings has been published, and perhaps none is possible in the case of an author who wrote so much anonymously. the present attempt includes some at least of the books and articles commonly left unnoticed, which are chiefly of a critical or scholarly character. i am glad to record my gratitude to professor william allan neilson, now of harvard university, and to professors a.h. thorndike, w.w. lawrence, g.p. krapp, and j.e. spingarn, of columbia, for suggestions in connection with various parts of the work. from the beginning professor trent has helped me constantly by his advice as well as by the inspiration of his scholarship, and my debt to him is one which can be understood only by the many students who have known his kindness. mount holyoke college, june, . contents chapter i. introduction: an outline of scott's literary career chapter ii. scott's qualifications as critic chapter iii. scott's work as student and editor in the field of literary history . the mediaeval period (a) minstrelsy of the scottish border (b) studies in the romances (c) other studies in mediaeval literature . the drama . the seventeenth century: dryden . the eighteenth century (a) swift (b) the somers tracts (c) the lives of the novelists, and comments on other eighteenth century writers chapter iv. scott's criticism of his contemporaries chapter v. scott as a critic of his own work chapter vi. scott's position as critic appendices i. bibliography of scott, annotated ii. list of books quoted index a dated list of scott's books, aside from the poems and novels, and of the principal works which he edited (periodical criticism not included). - minstrelsy of the scottish border (edited). sir tristrem (edited). original memoirs written during the great civil war; the life of sir h. slingsby, and memoirs of capt. hodgson (edited). memoirs of capt. carleton (edited). the works of john dryden (edited). memoirs of robert carey, earl of monmouth, and fragmenta regalia (edited). queenhoo hall, a romance; and ancient times, a drama (edited). the state papers and letters of sir ralph sadler (edited). - the somers tracts (edited). memoirs of the court of charles ii, by count grammont (edited). secret history of the court of james the first (edited). memoirs of the reign of king charles i, by sir philip warwick (edited). the works of jonathan swift (edited). - the border antiquities of england and scotland. paul's letters. essay on chivalry. essay on the drama. - provincial antiquities and picturesque scenery of scotland. trivial poems and triolets by patrick carey (edited). northern memoirs, calculated for the meridian of scotland; and the contemplative and practical angler (edited). - the novelists' library (edited). chronological notes of scottish affairs from till (edited). military memoirs of the great civil war (edited). essay on romance. letters of malachi malagrowther on the currency. the life of napoleon buonaparte. tales of a grandfather, first series. religious discourses, by a layman. proceedings in the court-martial held upon john, master of sinclair, etc. (edited). memorials of george bannatyne (edited). tales of a grandfather, second series. - the "opus magnum" (novels, tales, and romances, with introductions and notes by the author). tales of a grandfather, third series. letters on demonology and witchcraft. history of scotland. tales of a grandfather, fourth series. trial of duncan terig, etc. (edited). * * * * * the journal of sir walter scott. familiar letters of sir walter scott. chapter i introduction importance of a study of scott's critical and scholarly work--connection between his creative work and his criticism--chronological view of his literary career. scott's critical work has become inconspicuous because of his predominant fame as an imaginative writer; but what it loses on this account it perhaps gains in the special interest attaching to criticism formulated by a great creative artist. one phase of his work is emphasized and explained by the other, and we cannot afford to ignore his criticism if we attempt fairly to comprehend his genius as a poet and novelist. the fact that he is the subject of one of the noblest biographies in our language only increases our obligation to become acquainted with his own presentation of his artistic principles. but though criticism by so great and voluminous a writer is valuable mainly because of the important relation it bears to his other work, and because of the authority it derives from this relation, scott's scholarly and critical writings are individual enough in quality and large enough in extent to demand consideration on their own merits. yet this part of his achievement has received very little attention from biographers and critics. lockhart's book is indeed full of materials, and contains also some suggestive comment on the facts presented; but as the passing of time has made an estimation of scott's power more safe, students have lost interest in his work as a critic, and recent writers have devoted little attention to this aspect of the great man of letters.[ ] the present study is an attempt to show the scope and quality of scott's critical writings, and of such works, not exclusively or mainly critical, as exhibit the range of his scholarship. for it is impossible to treat his criticism without discussing his scholarship; since, lightly as he carried it, this was of consequence in itself and in its influence on all that he did. the materials for analysis are abundant; and by rearrangement and special study they may be made to contribute both to the history of criticism and to our comprehension of the power of a great writer. in considering him from this point of view we are bound to remember the connection between the different parts of his vocation. in him, more than in most men of letters, the critic resembled the creative writer, and though the critical temperament seems to show itself but rarely in his romances, we find that the characteristic absence of precise and conscious art is itself in harmony with his critical creed. the relation between the different parts of scott's literary work is exemplified by the subjects he treated, for as a critic he touched many portions of the field, which in his capacity of poet and novelist he occupied in a different way. he was a historical critic no less than a historical romancer. a larger proportion of his criticism concerns itself with the eighteenth century, perhaps, than of his fiction,[ ] and he often wrote reviews of contemporary literature, but on the whole the literature with which he dealt critically was representative of those periods of time which he chose to portray in novel and poem. this evidently implies great breadth of scope. yet scott's vivid sense of the past had its bounds, as professor masson pointed out.[ ] it was the "gothic" past that he venerated. the field of his studies, chronologically considered, included the period between his own time and the crusades; and geographically, was in general confined to england and scotland, with comparatively rare excursions abroad. when, in his novels, he carried his scottish or english heroes out of britain into foreign countries, he was apt to bestow upon them not only a special endowment of british feeling, but also a portion of that interest in their native literature which marked the taste of their creator. we find that the personages in his books are often distinguished by that love of stirring poetry, particularly of popular and national poetry, which was a dominant trait in scott's whole literary career. with scotland and with popular poetry any discussion of sir walter properly begins. the love of scottish minstrelsy first awakened his literary sense, and the stimulus supplied by ballads and romances never lost its force. we may say that the little volumes of ballad chap-books which he collected and bound up before he was a dozen years old suggested the future editor, as the long poem on the conquest of grenada, which he is said to have written and burned when he was fifteen, foreshadowed the poet and romancer. yet scott's career as an author began rather late. he published a few translations when he was twenty-five years old, but his first notable work, the _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, did not appear until - , when he was over thirty. this book, the outgrowth of his early interest in ballads and his own attempts at versifying, exhibited both his editorial and his creative powers. it led up to the publication of two important volumes which contained material originally intended to form part of the _minstrelsy_, but which outgrew that work. these were the edition of the old metrical romance _sir tristrem_, which showed scott as a scholar, and the _lay of the last minstrel_, the first of scott's own metrical romances. so far his literary achievement was all of one kind, or of two or three kinds closely related. in this first period of his literary life, perhaps even more than later, his editorial impulse, his scholarly activity, was closely connected with the inspiration for original writing. the _lay of the last minstrel_ was the climax of this series of enterprises. with the publication of the _minstrelsy_, scott of course became known as a literary antiquary. he was naturally called upon for help when the _edinburgh review_ was started a few weeks afterwards, especially as jeffrey, who soon became the editor, had long been his friend. the articles that he wrote during and were of a sort that most evidently connected itself with the work he had been doing: reviews, for example, of southey's _amadis de gaul_, and of ellis's _early english poetry_. during - the range of his reviewing became wider and he included some modern books, especially two or three which offered opportunity for good fun-making. about , however, his aversion to the political principles which dominated the _edinburgh review_ became so strong that he refused to continue as a contributor, and only once, years later, did he again write an article for that periodical. in the same year, , scott supplied with editorial apparatus and issued anonymously _original memoirs written during the great civil war_, the first of what proved to be a long list of publications having historical interest, sometimes reprints, sometimes original editions from old manuscripts, to which he contributed a greater or less amount of material in the shape of introductions and notes. these were undertaken in a few cases for money, in others simply because they struck him as interesting and useful labors. it is easy to trace the relation of this to his other work, particularly to the novels. he once wrote to a friend, "the editing a new edition of _somers's tracts_ some years ago made me wonderfully well acquainted with the little traits which marked parties and characters in the seventeenth century, and the embodying them is really an amusing task."[ ] among the works which he edited in this way the number of historical memoirs is noticeable. after the volume that has been mentioned as the first, he prepared another book of _memoirs of the great civil war_; and we find in the list a _secret history of the court of james i._, _memoirs of the reign of king charles i._, count grammont's _memoirs of the court of charles ii._, _a history of queen elizabeth's favourites_, etc. such books as these, besides furnishing material for his novels, led scott to acquire a mass of information that enabled him to perform with great facility and with admirable results whatever editorial work he might choose to undertake. these labors scott always considered as trifles to be dispatched in the odd moments of his time, but the great edition of _dryden's complete works_, which he began to prepare soon after the _minstrelsy_ appeared, was more important. this, next to the _minstrelsy_, was probably the most notable of all scott's editorial enterprises. it was published in eighteen volumes in , the year in which _marmion_ also appeared. when the poet was reproached by one of his friends for not working more steadily at his vocation, he replied, "the public, with many other properties of spoiled children, has all their eagerness after novelty, and were i to dedicate my time entirely to poetry they would soon tire of me. i must therefore, i fear, continue to edit a little."[ ] his interest in scholarly pursuits appears even in his first attempt at writing prose fiction, since joseph strutt's unfinished romance, _queenhoo hall_, for which scott wrote a conclusion, is of consequence only on account of the antiquarian learning which it exhibits. having become seriously alarmed over the political influence of the _edinburgh review_, scott was active in forwarding plans for starting a strong rival periodical in london, and saw the establishment of the _quarterly review_. by that time he had done a considerable amount of work in practically every kind except the novel, and he was recognized as a most efficient assistant and adviser in any such enterprise as the promoters of the _quarterly_ were undertaking. moreover, his own writings were prominent among the books which supplied material for the reviewer. he worked hard for the first volume. but after that year he wrote little for the _quarterly_ until , and again little until after lockhart became editor in . from that time until he was an occasional contributor. was the year of _waverley_. before that the poems had been appearing in rapid succession, and scott had been busy with the _works of swift_, which came out also in . the thirteen volumes of the edition of _somers' tracts_, already mentioned, and several smaller books, bore further witness to his editorial energy. the last of the long poems was published in , about the same time with _guy mannering_, the second novel, and after that the novels continued to appear with that rapidity which constitutes one of the chief facts of scott's literary career. for a few years after this period he did comparatively little in the way of editorial work, but his odd moments were occupied in writing about history, travels, and antiquities.[ ] in scott wrote the _lives of the novelists_, which appeared the next year in ballantyne's _novelists' library_. by this time he had begun, with _ivanhoe_, to strike out from the scottish field in which all his first novels had been placed. the martial pomp prominent in this novel reflects the eager interest with which he was at that time following his son's opening career in the army; just as _marmion_, written by the young quartermaster of the edinburgh light horse, also expresses the military ardor which was so natural to scott, and which reminds us of his remark that in those days a regiment of dragoons was tramping through his head day and night. probably we might trace many a reason for his literary preoccupations at special times besides those that he has himself commented upon. in the case of the critical work, however, the matter was usually determined for him by circumstances of a much less intimate sort, such as the appeal of an editor or the appearance of a book which excited his special interest. when scott was obliged to make as much money as possible he wrote novels and histories rather than criticism. his _life of napoleon buonaparte_, which appeared in nine volumes in , enabled him to make the first large payment on the debts that had fallen upon him in the financial crash of the preceding year, and the _tales of a grandfather_ were among the most successful of his later books. his critical biographies and many of his other essays were brought together for the first time in , and issued under the title of _miscellaneous prose works_. the world of books was making his life weary with its importunate demands in those years when he was writing to pay his debts, and it is pleasant to see that some of his later reviews discussed matters that were not less dear to his heart because they were not literary. the articles on fishing, on ornamental gardening, on planting waste lands, remind us of the observation he once made, that his oaks would outlast his laurels. by this time the "author of waverley" was no longer the "unknown." his business complications compelled him to give his name to the novels, and with the loss of a certain kind of privacy he gained the freedom of which later he made such fortunate use in annotating his own works. from the beginning of until the end of his life in , scott was engaged, in the intervals of other occupations, in writing these introductions and notes for his novels, for an edition which he always called the _opus magnum_. this was a pleasant task, charmingly done. indeed we may call it the last of those great editorial labors by which scott's fame might live unsupported by anything else. first came the _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, then the editions of dryden and swift. next we may count the _lives of the novelists_, even in the fragmentary state in which the failure of the _novelists' library_ left them; and finally the _opus magnum_. when, in addition, we remember the mass of his critical work written for periodicals, and the number of minor volumes he edited, it becomes evident that a study of scott which disregards this part of his work can present only a one-sided view of his achievement. and the qualities of his abundant criticism, especially its large fresh sanity, seem to make it worthy of closer analysis than it usually receives, not only because it helps to reveal scott's genius, but also on account of the historical and ethical importance which always attaches to the ideals, literary and other, of a noble man and a great writer. chapter ii scott's qualifications as critic wide reading scott's first qualification--scott the antiquary--character of his interest in history--his imagination--his knowledge of practical affairs--common-sense in criticism--cheerfulness, good-humor, and optimism--general aspect of scott's critical work. wide and appreciative reading was scott's first qualification for critical work. a memory that retained an incredible amount of what he read was the second. one of the severest censures he ever expressed was in regard to godwin, who, he thought, undertook to do scholarly work without adequate equipment. "we would advise him," scott said in his review of godwin's _life of chaucer_, "in future to read before he writes, and not merely while he is writing." scott himself had accumulated a store of literary materials, and he used them according to the dictates of a temperament which had vivid interests on many sides. we may distinguish three points of view which were habitual to scott, and which determined the direction of his creative work, as well as the tone of his criticism. these were--as all the world knows--the historical, the romantic, the practical. he was, as he often chose to call himself, an antiquary; he felt the appeal of all that was old and curious. but he was much more than that. the typical antiquary has his mind so thoroughly devoted to the past that the present seems remote to him. the sheer intellectual capacity of such a man as scott might be enough to save him from such a limitation, for he could give to the past as much attention as an ordinary man could muster, and still have interest for contemporary affairs; but his capacity was not all that saved scott. he viewed the past always as filled with living men, whose chief occupation was to think and feel rather than to provide towers and armor for the delectation of future antiquaries.[ ] a sympathetic student of his work has said, "there is ... throughout the poetry of this author, even when he leads us to the remotest wildernesses and the most desolate monuments of antiquity, a constant reference to the feelings of man in his social condition."[ ] the past, to the author of _kenilworth_, was only the far end of the present, and he believed that the most useful result of the study of history is a comprehension of the real quality of one's own period and a wisdom in the conduct of present day affairs.[ ] the favorite pursuits of scott's youth indicate that his characteristic taste showed itself early; indeed it is said that he retained his boyish traits more completely than most people do. we can trace much of his love of the past to the family traditions which made the adventurous life of his ancestors vividly real to him. the annals of the scotts were his earliest study, and he developed such an affection for his freebooting grandsires that in his manhood he confessed to an unconquerable liking for the robbers and captains of banditti of his romances, characters who could not be prevented from usurping the place of the heroes. "i was always a willing listener to tales of broil and battle and hubbub of every kind," he wrote in later life, "and now i look back upon it, i think what a godsend i must have been while a boy to the old trojans of , nay , who used to frequent my father's house, and who knew as little as i did for what market i was laying up the raw materials of their oft-told tales."[ ] what attracted him in his boyhood, and what continued to attract him, was the picturesque incident, the color of the past, the mere look of its varied activity. the philosophy of history was gradually revealed to him, however, and his generalizing faculty found congenial employment in tracing out the relation of men to movements, of national impulses to world history. but however much he might exercise his analytical powers, history was never abstract to him, nor did it require an effort for him to conjure up scenes of the past. an acquaintance with the stores of early literature served to give him the spirit of remote times as well as to feed his literary tastes. on this side he had an ample equipment for critical work, conditioned, of course, by the other qualities of his mind, which determined how the equipment should be used. that scott was not a dull digger in heaps of ancient lore was owing to his imaginative power,--the second of the qualities which we have distinguished as dominating his literary temperament. "i can see as many castles in the clouds as any man," he testified.[ ] a recent writer has said that scott had more than any other man that ever lived a sense of the romantic, and adds that his was that true romance which "lies not upon the outside of life, but absolutely in the centre of it."[ ] the situations and the very objects that he described have the power of stirring the romantic spirit in his readers because he was alive to the glamour surrounding anything which has for generations been connected with human thoughts and emotions. the subjectivity which was so prominent an element in the romanticism of shelley, keats, and byron, does not appear in scott's work. nor was his sense of the mystery of things so subtle as that of coleridge. but scott, rather than coleridge, was the interpreter to his age of the romantic spirit, for the ordinary person likes his wonders so tangible that he may know definitely the point at which they impinge upon his consciousness. in scott's work the point of contact is made clear: the author brings his atmosphere not from another world but from the past, and with all its strangeness it has no unearthly quality. in general the romance of his nature is rather taken for granted than insisted on, for there are the poems and the novels to bear witness to that side of his temperament; and the surprising thing is that such an author was a business man, a large landowner, an industrious lawyer.[ ] scott's imaginative sense, which clothed in fine fancies any incident or scene presented, however nakedly, to his view, accounts in part for his notorious tendency to overrate the work of other writers, especially those who wrote stories in any form. this explanation was hinted at by sir walter himself, and formulated by lockhart; it seems a fairly reasonable way of accounting for a trait that at first appears to indicate only a foolish excess of good-nature. this rich and active imagination, which scott brought to bear on everything he read, perhaps explains also his habit of paying little attention to carefully worked out details, and of laying almost exclusive emphasis upon main outlines. when he was writing his _life of napoleon_, he said in his _journal_: "better a superficial book which brings well and strikingly together the known and acknowledged facts, than a dull boring narrative, pausing to see further into a mill-stone at every moment than the nature of the mill-stone admits."[ ] probably his high gift of imagination made him a little impatient with the remoter reaches of the analytic faculties. any sustained exercise of the pure reason was outside his province, reasonable as he was in everyday affairs. he preferred to consider facts, and to theorize only so far as was necessary to establish comfortable relations between the facts,--never to the extent of trying to look into the center of a mill-stone. it was not unusual for him to make very acute observations in the spheres of ethics, economics, and psychology, and to use them in explaining any situation which might seem to require their assistance; but these remarks were brief and incidental, and bore a very definite relation to the concrete ideas they were meant to illustrate. scott was a business man as well as an antiquary and a poet. mr. palgrave thought lockhart went too far in creating the impression that scott could detach his mind from the world of imagination and apply its full force to practical affairs.[ ] yet the oversight of lands and accounts and of all ordinary matters was so congenial to him, and his practical activities were on the whole conducted with so much spirit and capability, that after emphasizing his preoccupation with the poetic aspects of the life of his ancestors, we must turn immediately about and lay stress upon his keen judgment in everyday affairs. to a school-boy poet he once wrote: "i would ... caution you against an enthusiasm which, while it argues an excellent disposition and a feeling heart, requires to be watched and restrained, though not repressed. it is apt, if too much indulged, to engender a fastidious contempt for the ordinary business of the world, and gradually to render us unfit for the exercise of the useful and domestic virtues which depend greatly upon our not exalting our feelings above the temper of well-ordered and well-educated society."[ ] he phrased the same matter differently when he said: "'i'd rather be a kitten and cry, mew!' than write the best poetry in the world on condition of laying aside common-sense in the ordinary transactions and business of the world."[ ] "he thought," said lockhart, "that to spend some fair portion of every day in any matter-of-fact occupation is good for the higher faculties themselves in the upshot."[ ] whether or not we consider this the ideal theory of life for a poet, we find it reasonable to suppose that a critic will be the better critic if he preserve some balance between matter-of-fact occupation and the exercise of his higher faculties. sir walter's maxim applies well to himself at least, and an analysis of his powers as a critic derives some light from it. the thing that is waiting to be said is of course that his criticism is distinguished by common-sense. whether common-sense should really predominate in criticism might perhaps be debated; the quality indicates, indeed, not only the excellence but also the limitations of his method. for example, scott was rather too much given to accepting popular favor as the test of merit in literary work, and though the clamorously eager reception of his own books was never able to raise his self-esteem to a very high pitch, it seems to have been the only thing that induced him to respect his powers in anything like an appreciative way.[ ] his instinct and his judgment agreed in urging him to avoid being a man of "mere theory,"[ ] and he sought always to test opinions by practical standards. more or less connected with his good sense are other qualities which also had their effect upon his critical work,--his cheerfulness, his sweet temper and human sympathy, his modesty, his humor, his independence of spirit, and his enthusiastic delight in literature. that his cheerfulness was a matter of temperament we cannot doubt, but it was also founded on principle. he had remarkable power of self-control.[ ] his opinion that it is a man's duty to live a happy life appears rather quaintly in the sermonizing with which he felt called upon to temper the admiration expressed in his articles on _childe harold_, and it is implicit in many of his biographical studies. his own amiability of course influenced all his work. satire he considered objectionable, "a woman's fault,"[ ] as he once called it; though he did not feel himself "altogether disqualified for it by nature."[ ] "i have refrained, as much as human frailty will permit, from all satirical composition,"[ ] he said. for satire he seems to have substituted that kind of "serious banter, a style hovering between affected gravity and satirical slyness," which has been pointed out as characteristic of him.[ ] washington irving noticed a similar tone in all his familiar conversations about local traditions and superstitions.[ ] he was really optimistic, except on some political questions. in his _lives of the novelists_ he shows that he thought manners and morals had improved in the previous hundred years; and none of his reviews exhibits the feeling so common among men of letters in all ages, that their own times are intellectually degenerate. it is true that he looked back to the days of blair, hume, adam smith, robertson, and ferguson, as the "golden days of edinburgh,"[ ] but those golden days were no farther away than his own boyhood, and he had felt the exhilaration of the stimulating society which he praised. one of his contemporaries spoke of scott's own works as throwing "a literary splendour over his native city";[ ] and george ticknor said of him, "he is indeed the lord of the ascendant now in edinburgh, and well deserves to be, for i look upon him to be quite as remarkable in intercourse and conversation, as he is in any of his writings, even in his novels."[ ] but he could hardly be expected to perceive the luster surrounding his own personality, and this one instance of regret for former days counts little against the abundant evidence that he thought the world was improving. yet of all his contemporaries he was probably the one who looked back at the past with the greatest interest. the impression made by the author of _waverley_ upon the mind of a young enthusiast of his own time is too delightful to pass over without quotation. "he has no eccentric sympathies or antipathies"; wrote j.l. adolphus, "no maudlin philanthropy or impertinent cynicism; no nondescript hobby-horse; and with all his matchless energy and originality of mind, he is content to admire popular books, and enjoy popular pleasures; to cherish those opinions which experience has sanctioned; to reverence those institutions which antiquity has hallowed; and to enjoy, admire, cherish, and reverence all these with the same plainness, simplicity, and sincerity as our ancestors did of old."[ ] by temperament, then, scott was enthusiastic over the past and cheerful in regard to his own day; he was imaginative, practical, genial; and these traits must be taken into account in judging his critical writings. these and other qualities may be deduced from the most superficial study of his creative work. the mere bulk of that work bears witness to two things: first that scott was primarily a creative writer; again, that he was of those who write much rather than minutely. it is obvious that to attack details would be easy. and since he was only secondarily a critic, it is natural that his critical opinions should not have been erected into any system. but while they are essentially desultory, they are the ideas of a man whose information and enthusiasm extended through a wide range of studies; and they are rendered impressive by the abundance, variety, and energy, which mark them as characteristic of scott. chapter iii scott's work as student and editor in the field of literary history the mediaeval period _minstrelsy of the scottish border_ scott's early interest in ballads--casual origin of the _minstrelsy_--importance of the book in scott's career--plan of the book--mediaeval scholarship of scott's time--his theory as to the origin of ballads and their deterioration--his attitude toward the work of previous editors--his method of forming texts--kinds of changes he made--his qualifications for emending old poetry--modern imitations of the ballad included in the _minstrelsy_--remarks on the ballad style--impossibility of a scientific treatment of folk-poetry in scott's time--real importance of the _minstrelsy_. we think of the _border minstrelsy_ as the first work which resulted from the preparation of scott's whole youth, between the days when he insisted on shouting the lines of _hardyknute_ into the ears of the irate clergyman making a parish call, and the time when he and his equally ardent friends gathered their ballads from the lips of old women among the hills. but we have seen that the inspiration for his first attempts at writing poetry came only indirectly from the ballads of his own country. we learn from the introduction to the third part of the _minstrelsy_ that some of the young men of scott's circle in edinburgh were stimulated by what the novelist, henry mackenzie, told them of the beauties of german literature, to form a class for the study of that language. this was when scott was twenty-one, but it was still four years before he found himself writing those translations which mark the sufficiently modest beginning of his literary career. his enthusiasm for german literature was not at first tempered by any critical discrimination, if we may judge from the opinions of one or two of his friends who labored to point out to him the extravagance and false sentiment which he was too ready to admire along with the real genius of some of his models.[ ] apparently their efforts were useful, for in a review written in we find scott, in a remark on bürger, referring to "the taste for outrageous sensibility, which disgraces most german poetry."[ ] his special interest in the germans was an early mood which seems not to have returned. after the process of translation had discovered to him his verse-making faculty, he naturally passed on to the writing of original poems, and circumstances of a half accidental sort determined that the scottish ballads which he had always loved should absorb his attention for the next two or three years. the publication of a book of ballads was first suggested by scott as an opportunity for his friend ballantyne to exhibit his skill as a printer and so increase his business. "i have been for years collecting old border ballads," scott remarked, "and i think i could with little trouble put together such a selection from them as might make a neat little volume to sell for four or five shillings."[ ] from this casual proposition resulted _the minstrelsy of the scottish border_, published in three volumes in - and often revised and reissued during the editor's lifetime. this book and the prefaces to his own novels are likely to be thought of first when scott is spoken of as a critic. the connection between the _minstrelsy_ and the novels has often been pointed out, ever since the day of the contemporary who, on reading the ballads with their introductions, exclaimed that in that book were the elements of a hundred historical romances.[ ] the interest of the earlier work is undoubtedly multiplied by the associations in the light of which we read it--associations connected with the editor's whole experience as an author, from the _lay of the last minstrel_ to _castle dangerous_. important as the _minstrelsy_ is from the point of view of literary criticism, the material of its introductions is chiefly historical. the introduction in the original edition gives an account of life on the border in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, with the outlines of many of the events that stimulated ballad-making, and an analysis of the temper of the marchmen among whom this kind of poetry flourished; then by special introductions and notes to the poems an attempt is made to explain both the incidents on which they seem to have been founded, and parallel cases that appear in tradition or record. some enthusiastic comment is included, of the kind that was so natural to scott, on the effect of ballad poetry upon a spirited and warlike people. the writer continues: "but it is not the editor's present intention to enter upon a history of border poetry; a subject of great difficulty, and which the extent of his information does not as yet permit him to engage in." it was, in fact, nearly thirty years later[ ] that scott wrote the _remarks on popular poetry_ which since that date have formed an introduction to the book, as well as the essay, _on imitations of the ancient ballad_, which at present precedes the third part. the more purely literary side of the editor's duty--leaving out of account the modern poems written by scott and others--was exhibited chiefly in the construction of texts, a matter of which i shall speak later, after considering his views of the origin and character of folk-poetry in general. but first we may recall the fact that scott was following a fairly well established vogue in giving scholarly attention to ancient popular poetry. a revival of interest in the study of mediaeval literature had been stimulated in england by the publication of percy's _reliques_ in and warton's _history of english poetry_ in . in there were enough well-known antiquaries to keep scott from being in any sense lonely. among them joseph ritson[ ] was the most learned, but he was crotchety in the extreme; and while his notions as to research were in advance of his time, his controversial style resembled that of the seventeenth century. george ellis,[ ] on the other hand, was distinguished by an eighteenth-century urbanity, and his combination of learning and good taste fitted him to influence a broader public than that of specialists. at the same time he was a delightful and stimulating friend to other scholars. southey was becoming known as an authority on the history and literature of the spanish peninsula. a review in the _quarterly_ a dozen years later mentions these three,--ellis, scott, and southey,--as "good men and true" to serve as guides in the remote realms of literature.[ ] ellis's friend, john hookham frere, had great abilities but was an incurable dillettante. scott particularly admired a middle-english version of _the battle of brunanburgh_ which frere wrote in his school-boy days, and considered him an authoritative critic of mediaeval english poetry. robert surtees[ ] and francis douce[ ] were antiquaries of some importance, and both, like all the others named, were friends of scott. mr. herford calls this period a day of "specimens" and extracts: "mediaeval romance was studied in ellis's _specimens_," he says, "the elizabethan drama in lamb's, literary history at large in d'israeli's gently garrulous compilations of its 'quarrels,' 'amenities,' 'calamities,' and 'curiosities.'"[ ] but the scholarship of the time on the whole is worthy of respect. in the case of ballads and romances notable work had been done before scott entered the field,[ ] and he and his contemporaries were carrying out the promise of the half century before them--continuing the work that percy and warton had begun. among the problems connected with ballad study, that which arises first is naturally the question of origins. scott made no attempt to formulate a theory different in any main element from that which was held by his predecessors. he agreed with percy that ballads were composed and sung by minstrels, and based his discussion on the materials brought forward by percy and ritson for use in their great controversy.[ ] ritson himself never doubted that ballads were composed and sung by individual authors, though he might refuse to call them minstrels. the idea of communal authorship, which jacob grimm was to suggest only half a dozen years after the first edition of the _minstrelsy_, would doubtless have been rejected by scott, even if he had considered it. but we have no evidence that he did so. probably he did not, as he never felt the need of a new theory.[ ] scott's opinion in regard to the transmission of ballads followed naturally from his theory of their origin. his aristocratic instincts perhaps helped to determine his belief that ballads were composed by gifted minstrels, and that they had deteriorated in the process of being handed down by recitation. he called tradition "a sort of perverted alchymy which converts gold into lead." "all that is abstractedly poetical," he said, "all that is above the comprehension of the merest peasant, is apt to escape in frequent repetition; and the _lacunae_ thus created are filled up either by lines from other ditties or from the mother wit of the reciter or singer. the injury, in either case, is obvious and irreparable."[ ] from this point of view scott considered that the ballads were only getting their rights when a skilful hand gave them such a retouching as should enable them to appear in something of what he called their original vigor.[ ] we may learn what qualities he considered necessary for an editor in this field, from the latter part of his _remarks on popular poetry_, in which he discusses previous attempts to collect english and scottish ballads. of percy he speaks in the highest terms, here and elsewhere. we have seen that he felt a strong sympathy with percy's desire to dress up the ballads and make them as attractive to the public as their intrinsic charms render them to their friends. he did not of course realize the extent to which the bishop reworked his materials, as the publication of the folio manuscript has since revealed it, and ritson's captious remarks on the subject were naturally discounted on the score of their ill-temper. but it is not to be doubted that ritson had an appreciable effect on scott's attitude, by stirring him up to some comprehension of the things that might be said in favor even of dull accuracy. ritson's collections are cited in their place, with a tribute to the extreme fidelity of their editor. it is a pity that this accurate scholar could not have had a sufficient amount of literary taste, to say nothing of good manners, to inspire others with a fuller trust in his method. scott expresses impatience with him for seeming to prefer the less effective text in many instances, "as if a poem was not more likely to be deteriorated than improved by passing through the mouths of many reciters."[ ] he admitted, however, that it was not in his own period necessary to rework the ballads as much as bishop percy had done, since the _reliques_ had already created an audience for popular poetry. his purpose evidently was to steer a middle course between such graceful but sophisticated versions as were given in the _reliques_, and the exact transcript of everything to be gathered from tradition, whether interesting or not, that was attempted by ritson. in his later revisions he gave way more than at first to his natural impulse in favor of the added graces which he could supply.[ ] it is easy to see how his own contributions of word and phrase might slip in, since his avowed method was to collate the different texts secured from manuscripts or recitation or both, and so to give what to his mind was the worthiest version. believing that the ballads had been composed by men not unlike himself, he assumed, in the manner well known to classical text-critics, that his familiarity with the conditions of the ancient social order gave him some license for changing here and there a word or a line. in determining which stanzas or lines to choose, when choice was possible, he was guided by his antiquarian knowledge and by the general principle of selecting the most poetic rendering among those at his command. this was his way of showing his respect for the minstrel bards of whom he was fond of considering himself a successor. so far it is perfectly easy to take his point of view. but it is more difficult to reconcile his practice with his professions. we find this declaration in the forefront of the book: "no liberties have been taken either with the recited or written copies of these ballads, farther than that, where they disagreed, which is by no means unusual, the editor, in justice to the author, has uniformly preserved what seemed to him the best or most poetical rendering of the passage.... some arrangement was also occasionally necessary to recover the rhyme, which was often, by the ignorance of the reciters, transposed or thrown into the middle of the line. with these freedoms, which were essentially necessary to remove obvious corruptions and fit the ballads for the press, the editor presents them to the public, under the complete assurance that they carry with them the most indisputable marks of their authenticity."[ ] in the face of this fair announcement we are surprised, to say the least, at the number of lines and stanzas which scholars have discovered to be of scott's own composition.[ ] occasionally his notes give some slight indication of his method of treatment, as for instance this, on _the dowie dens of yarrow_: "the editor found it easy to collect a variety of copies; but very difficult indeed to select from them such a collated edition as might in any degree suit the taste of 'these more light and giddy-paced times.'" notes on some others of the ballads say that "a few conjectural emendations have been found necessary," but no one of these remarks would seem really ingenuous in a modern scholar when we consider how far the "conjectural emendations" extended. moreover, changes were often made without the slightest clue in introduction or note.[ ] the case was complicated for scott by the poetical tastes of his assistants. leyden[ ] was apparently quite capable of taking down a ballad from recitation in such a way as to produce a more finished poem than one would expect a traditional ballad to be. and hogg,[ ] who supplied several ballads from the recitations of his mother and other old people, was probably still less strict. "sure no man," he is quoted as having said, "will think an old song the worse of being somewhat harmonious."[ ] yet it is easy to see that scott's friends might have acted differently if his own practice had favored absolute fidelity to the texts. a remark in scott's review of evans's _old ballads_ seems a pretty definite arraignment of his own procedure. "it may be asked by the severer antiquary of the present day, why an editor, thinking it necessary to introduce such alterations in order to bring forth a new, beautiful, and interesting sense from a meagre or corrupted original, did not in good faith to his readers acquaint them with the liberties he had taken and make them judge whether in so doing he transgressed his limits. we answer that unquestionably such would be the express duty of a modern editor, but such were not the rules of the service when dr. percy first opened the campaign."[ ] one wonders whether the "rules of the service" did not in scott's opinion occasionally permit a little wilful mystification. the case of _kinmont willie_ tempts one to such an explanation. besides the capital instance of his anonymity as regards the novels, scott several times seemed to amuse himself in perplexing the public. there was the case of the _bridal of triermain_, which he tried by means of various careful devices to pass off as the work of a friend. but perhaps the best example appears in connection with _the fortunes of nigel_. he first designed the material of that book for a series of "private letters" purporting to have been written in the reign of james i., but when he had finally complied with the advice of his friends and used it for a novel, he said to lockhart, "you were all quite right: if the letters had passed for genuine, they would have found favour only with a few musty antiquaries."[ ] this suggests comparison with the conduct of his friend robert surtees, who palmed off upon him three whole ballads of his own and got them inserted in the _minstrelsy_ as ancient, with a plausible tale concerning the circumstances of their recovery. surtees, one is interested to observe, never dared tell scott the truth, and scott always accepted the ballads as genuine--a lack of discernment rather compromising in an editor, though one may perhaps excuse him on the ground of his confidence in his brother antiquary.[ ] in one direction scott seems to have been more conscientious than we might be inclined to suppose after seeing the discrepancy between the standard of exactness that his own statements lead us to expect and the results that actually appear. i believe that he intended to preserve the manuscript texts just as he received them, and that he would have wished to have them given to the public when the public was prepared to want them. to support this theory we have first the fact that most of his own emendations have been traced by means of the manuscripts which he used.[ ] it is significant that in speaking of a poet who had altered a manuscript to suit a revised reading he grew indignant over that fault far more than over the mere change in the published version. _the raid of the reidswire_, he said, "first appeared in allan ramsay's _evergreen_, but some liberties have been taken by him in transcribing it; and, what is altogether unpardonable, the manuscript, which is itself rather inaccurate, has been interpolated to favour his readings; of which there remain obvious marks."[ ] scott said also that the time had come for the publication of percy's folio manuscript; though we must believe that he would not have wished to see the manuscript published until the ballads had become familiar to the world in what he considered a beautified form. the changes scott made were usually in style rather than in substance. often he merely substituted an archaic word for a modern one; but often whole lines and longer passages offered temptations which the poet in him could not resist, and he "improved" lavishly. for example, we have his note on _earl richard_--"the best verses are here selected from both copies, and some trivial alterations have been adopted from tradition,"--with the comment by mr. henderson--"the emendations of scott are so many, and the majority relate so entirely to style, that no mere tradition could have supplied them."[ ] his versions are in general characterized by a smoothness and precision of meter which to the student of ballads is very suspicious. but he seems occasionally to have altered or supplied incidents as well as phrases. the historical event which furnished the purpose for the expedition of sir patrick spens seems to have been introduced into the ballad by scott, and mr. henderson thinks that "when the deeds of his ancestors were concerned it was impossible for him to resist the temptation to employ some of his own minstrel art on their behalf."[ ] certainly scott's qualifications for evolving true poetry out of the crude fragments that sometimes served as a basis formed a very unusual combination when they were united with his knowledge of early history and literature. he had such confidence in his own powers in this direction that he at one time intended to write a series of imitations of scottish poets of different periods, from thomas the rhymer down, and thus to exhibit changes in language as well as variations in literary style.[ ] he evidently thought that the ballads as they appeared in the _minstrelsy_ were truer to their originals than were the copies he was able to procure from recitation. lockhart gives him precisely the kind of praise he would have desired, in saying, "from among a hundred corruptions he seized with instinctive tact the primitive diction and imagery."[ ] it is evident that scott's public did not wish him to be more careful than he was in discriminating between new and old matter. one of his moments of strict veracity seems even to have occasioned some annoyance to the writer of the _edinburgh_ article, who apparently preferred to believe in the antiquity of _the flowers of the forest_ rather than to learn that "the most positive evidence" proved its modern origin. the editor's introduction to the poem seems perfectly clear; he names his authority and quotes two verses which are ancient;[ ] but the reviewer says with a perverse irritability: "mr. scott would have done well to tell us how much he deems ancient, and to give us the 'positive evidence' that convinced him _the whole_ was not so."[ ] this review was, however, for the most part favorable. the fact that scott included modern imitations of the ballad in his book is another indication that his attitude was like that of his predecessors.[ ] doubtless these helped the _minstrelsy_ to sell, but a more modern taste would choose to put them in a place by themselves, not in a collection of old ballads. an essay on _imitations of the ancient ballad_ was written, as were the _remarks on popular poetry_, for the edition. it is chiefly interesting for its autobiographical matter, though it also contains criticisms of burns and other writers of ballad poetry--"a species of literary labour which the author has himself pursued with some success."[ ] scott's statement that the ballad style was very popular at the time he began to write, and that he followed the prevailing fashion, was one of many examples of his modesty, taken in connection with the remark in another part of the essay to the effect that this style "had much to recommend it, especially as it presented considerable facilities to those who wished at as little exertion or trouble as possible to attain for themselves a certain degree of literary reputation." to complete the comparison, however, we need an observation found in one of scott's reviews, on the spurious ballad poetry, full of false sentiment, sometimes written in the eighteenth century. "it is the very last refuge of those who can do nothing better in the shape of verse; and a man of genius should disdain to invade the province of these dawdling rhymers."[ ] scott's criticism of ballad style probably suffered from his interest in modern imitations of ballads. perhaps also the real quality of ancient popular poetry was a little obscured for him by his belief that it was written by professional or semi-professional poets. if he wrote _kinmont willie_, he succeeded in catching the right tone better than anyone since him has been able to do, but even in this poem there are turns of phrase that remind one of the _lay of the last minstrel_ rather than of the true folk-song.[ ] after his first attempts at versifying he received from william taylor, of norwich, who had made an earlier translation of bürger's _lenore_, a letter of hearty praise intermingled with very sensible remarks about the tendency in some parts of scott's _chase_ toward too great elaboration.[ ] scott's answer was as follows: "i do not ... think quite so severely of the darwinian style, as to deem it utterly inconsistent with the ballad, which, at least to judge from the examples left us by antiquity, admits in some cases of a considerable degree of decoration. still, however, i do most sincerely agree with you, that this may be very easily overdone, and i am far from asserting that this may not be in some degree my own case; but there is scarcely so nice a line to distinguish, as that which divides true simplicity from flatness and _sternholdianism_ (if i may be allowed to coin the word), and therefore it is not surprising, that in endeavouring to avoid the latter, so young and inexperienced a rhymer as myself should sometimes have deviated also from the former."[ ] this was scott's earliest stage as a man of letters, and he evidently learned more about ballads later. but there appears in much of his criticism on the subject a limitation which may be assigned partly to his time, and partly, no doubt, to the fact that he was a poet and could not forget all the sophistications of his art. the true nature of ballad poetry could hardly be understood until scholars had investigated the structure of primitive society in a way that scott's contemporaries were not at all prepared to do. even scott, with all his intelligent interest in bygone institutions and modes of expression, could hardly have foreseen the anthropological researches which the problem of literary origins has since demanded. we do not find, then, that scott's work on ballads was marked by any special originality in point of view or method. _the minstrelsy of the scottish border_ was a notable book because it did better what other men had tried to do, and especially because of the charm and effectiveness of its historical comment. it was more trustworthy than percy's collection and more graceful than ritson's; it was richer than other books of the kind in what people cared to have when they wanted ballads, and yet was not, for its time, over-sophisticated. scott's conclusions cannot now be accepted without question, but the illustrations with which he sets them forth and the wide reading and sincere love of folk-poetry which evidently lie behind them produce a pleasant effect of ripe and reasonable judgment. the admirable qualities of the book were at once recognized by competent critics, and it will always be studied with enthusiasm by scholars as well as by the uncritical lover of ballads. _studies in the romances_ scott's theory as to the connection between ballads and romances--his early fondness for romances--his acquaintance with romance languages--his work on the _sir tristrem_--value of his edition--special quality of scott's interest in the middle ages--general theories expressed in the body of his work on romances--his type of scholarship. ballads and romances are so closely related that scott's early and lasting interest in the one form naturally grew out of his interest in the other. he held the theory that "the romantic ballads of later times are for the most part abridgments of the ancient metrical romances, narrated in a smoother stanza and more modern language."[ ] it is not surprising, then, that a considerable body of his critical work has to do with the subject of mediaeval romance. throughout his boyhood scott read all the fairy tales, eastern stories, and romances of knight-errantry that fell in his way. when he was about thirteen, he and a young friend used to spend hours reading together such authors as spenser, ariosto, and boiardo.[ ] he remembered the poems so well that weeks or months afterwards he could repeat whole pages that had particularly impressed him. somewhat later the two boys improvised similar stories to recite to each other, scott being the one who proposed the plan and the more successful in carrying it out. with this same friend he studied italian and began to read the italian poets in the original. in his autobiography he says:[ ] "i had previously renewed and extended my knowledge of the french language, from the same principle of romantic research. tressan's romances, the bibliothèque bleue, and bibliothèque de romans, were already familiar to me, and i now acquired similar intimacy with the works of dante, boiardo, pulci, and other eminent italian authors." writing some years later he remarked: "i was once the most enormous devourer of the italian romantic poetry, which indeed is the only poetry of their country which i ever had much patience for; for after all that has been said of petrarch and his school, i am always tempted to exclaim like honest christopher sly, 'marvellous good matter, would it were done.' but with charlemagne and his paladins i could dwell forever."[ ] scott learned languages easily, and he read spanish with about as much facility as italian. don quixote seems often to be the guide with whom he chooses to traverse the fields of romance.[ ] in scott's boyhood one of his teachers noticed that he could follow and enjoy the meaning of what he read in latin better than many of his school-fellows who knew more about the language, and it was the same all through his life--he got what he wanted from foreign literatures with very little trouble. scott constantly refers to the work of percy, warton, tressan,[ ] ritson, and ellis, in the study of ancient romances, but in editing _sir tristrem_ he made one part of the field his own, and became the authority whom he felt obliged to quote in the essay on romance. thomas the rhymer of erceldoune was at first an object of interest to scott because of the ballad of _true thomas_ and the traditions concerning him that floated about the countryside. the "rhymer's glen" was afterwards a cherished possession of scott's own on the abbotsford estate. in the advocates' library at edinburgh, of which scott was in appointed a curator, was an important manuscript that contained among other metrical romances one professing to be a copy of that written by thomas of erceldoune on sir tristrem. from a careful piecing together of evidence furnished by this poem and by robert of brunne, with the assistance of certain legal documents which supplied dates, scott built up about the old poet a theory that he elaborated in his edition of _sir tristrem_, published in , and that continued to interest him vividly as long as he lived. it reappears in many of his critical writings[ ] and also in the novels. in the _bride of lammermoor_ ravenswood goes to his death in compliance with the prophecy of thomas quoted by the superstitious caleb balderstone. and in _castle dangerous_ bertram, who is unconvincing perhaps because he is endowed with the literary and antiquarian tastes of a walter scott himself, is actuated by an irrepressible desire to discover works of the rhymer. scott's edition of _sir tristrem_ gives--besides the text, introduction, and notes--a short conclusion written by himself in imitation of the original poet's style. much of his theory has fallen. he considered this _sir tristrem_ to be the first of the written versions of that story, a supposition that was not long tenable. the poem is now known to be based upon a french original, and many scholars think the name erceldoune was arbitrarily inserted by the english translator; though mr. mcneill, the latest editor, thinks there is a "reasonable probability" in favor of scott's opinion that the author was the historic thomas, who flourished in the thirteenth century. it is important, however, that scott's scholarship in the matter passed muster at that time with such men as ellis, who wrote the review in the _edinburgh_, in which he said, "upon the whole we are much disposed to adopt the general inferences drawn by mr. scott from his authorities, and have great pleasure in bearing testimony to the very uncommon diligence which he has evinced in collecting curious materials, and to the taste and sagacity with which he has employed them.... with regard to the notes, they contain an almost infinite variety of curious information, which had been hitherto unknown or unnoticed."[ ] john hookham frere said, as quoted in a letter by ellis, "i consider _sir tristrem_ as by far the most interesting work that has as yet been published on the subject of our earliest poets."[ ] scott's opinions were in thought to be of sufficient importance, either from their own merits or on account of his later fame, to call forth a dissertation appended to the edition of warton's _history of english poetry_ published in that year. the first edition of the text swarms with errors, according to kölbing,[ ] a recent editor of the romance, and later editions are still very inaccurate.[ ] it could hardly be expected that a man with scott's habits of mind would edit a text accurately. but no one of that period was competent to construct a text that would seem satisfactory now. the study of english philology was not sufficiently developed in that direction, nor did scholars appreciate either the difficulties or the requirements of text-criticism. it is not to be wondered at that scott failed, in this instance as well as afterwards in the case of the text of dryden, to give a version that would stand the minute scrutiny of later scholarship. his sympathies were rather with the scholar who opens the store of old poetry to the public, than with him who uses his erudition simply for the benefit of erudite people. the diction of the middle ages was interesting to him only as it reflected the customs and emotions of its period. he used the romances as authorities on ancient manners. the _chronicles_ of froissart, because they give "a knowledge of mankind,"[ ] were almost as much a hobby with him as thomas the rhymer, and in this case also he endows characters in his novels with his own fondness for the ancient writer.[ ] the fruit of scott's acquaintance with froissart appears prominently in his essay on _chivalry_ and in various introductions to ballads in the _minstrelsy_, as well as in the novels of chivalry. scott at one time proposed to publish an edition of malory, but abandoned the project on learning that southey had the same thing in mind.[ ] the first periodical review scott ever published was on the subject of the _amadis de gaul_, as translated by southey and by rose. the article is long and very carefully constructed, and expresses many ideas on the subject of the mediaeval romance in general that reappear again and again, particularly in the essay on _romance_ written in for the _encyclopædia britannica_. among these general ideas that found frequent expression in his critical writings, one which in the light of his creative work becomes particularly interesting to us is his judgment on the distinctions between metrical and prose romances. he always preferred the poems, though he was so interested in the prose stories that he talked about them with much enthusiasm, and it sometimes seems as if he liked best the kind he happened to be analyzing at the moment. other matters that necessarily presented themselves when he was treating the subject of romance were the problem of the sources of narrative material, especially the perplexed question concerning the development of the arthurian cycle, and the problem, already discussed in connection with ballads, concerning the character of minstrels. the minstrels reappear throughout scott's studies in mediaeval literature, and were perhaps more interesting to him than any other part of the subject. though, as we have seen, he formulated a compromise between the opposing opinions of percy and ritson, no one who reads the description of the last minstrel can doubt what was the picture that he preferred to carry in his mind. his ideas on the subject of the origin and diffusion of narrative material were those of the sensible man trying to look at the matter in a reasonable way. here again he adopted an attitude of compromise, in that he admitted the partial truth of various theories which he considered erroneous only in so far as any one of them was stretched beyond its proper compass. "romance," he said, "was like a compound metal, derived from various mines, and in the different specimens of which one metal or other was alternately predominant."[ ] on the subject of the arthurian cycle, the origin of which has never ceased to be matter for debate, he held essentially the opinions that the highest french authority has adopted that celtic traditions were the foundation, and that the metrical romances preceded those in prose.[ ] the important offices of french poets in giving form to the story he underestimated. when he said, "it is now completely proved, that the earliest and best french romances were composed for the meridian of the english court,"[ ] he fell into the error that has not always been avoided by scholars who have since written on the subject, of feeling certitude about a proposition in which there is no certainty. scott's work on romances, though it does not always rise above commonplaceness, escapes the perfunctory quality of hack writing by virtue of his keen interest in the subject. he continued to like this prosaic kind of literary task even while he was writing novels with the most wonderful facility. we may judge not only by the fact that he continued to write reviews at intervals throughout his life, but by an explicit reference in his _journal_: "i toiled manfully at the review till two o'clock, commencing at seven. i fear it will be uninteresting, but i like the muddling work of antiquities, and besides wish to record my sentiments with regard to the gothic question."[ ] it is evident that scott did not himself find the "muddling work of antiquities" dull, because he realized, emotionally as well as intellectually, the life of past times. this led him to form broader views than the ordinary student constructs out of his knowledge of special facts. an admirable illustration of this characteristic occurs in the essay on romance, at the point where scott is discussing the social position of the minstrels, in the light of what percy and ritson had said on the subject. he goes on: "in fact, neither of these excellent antiquaries has cast a general or philosophic glance on the necessary condition of a set of men, who were by profession the instruments of the pleasure of others during a period of society such as was presented in the middle ages." there follows a detailed and very interesting account of what the writer's own "philosophic glance" leads him to believe. the method is useful but dangerous; in the same essay occurs an amusing example of what philosophy may do when it is given free rein. within two pages appear these conflicting statements: "the metrical romances, though in some instances sent to the press, were not very fit to be published in this form. the dull amplifications, which passed well enough in the course of a half-heard recitation, became intolerable when subjected to the eye." "the metrical romances in some instances indeed ran to great length, but were much exceeded in that particular by the folios which were written on the same or similar topics by their prose successors. probably the latter judiciously reflected that a book which addresses itself only to the eyes may be laid aside when it becomes tiresome to the reader; whereas it may not always have been so easy to stop the minstrel in the full career of his metrical declamation." flaws like this may be picked in the details of scott's method, just as we may sometimes find fault with the lapses in his mediaeval scholarship. we do him no injustice when we say that aside from certain aspects of his work on the ballads and _sir tristrem_, his achievement was that of a popularizer of learning. but if he lacked some of the authority of erudition, he escaped also the induration of pedantry. in writing of remote and dimly known periods, critics are perhaps most apt to show their defects of temper, and scott often commented on the acerbity of spirit which such studies seem to induce. "antiquaries," he said, "are apt to be both positive and polemical upon the very points which are least susceptible of proof, and which are least valuable if the truth could be ascertained; and which therefore we would gladly have seen handled with more diffidence and better temper in proportion to their uncertainty."[ ] of ritson he says many times in one form or another that his "severe accuracy was connected with an unhappy eagerness and irritability of temper." scott rode his own hobbies with an expansive cheerfulness that did not at all hinder them from being essentially serious. _other studies in mediaeval literature_ scott's attitude on the ossianic controversy--his slight acquaintance with other northern literatures--anglo-saxon scholarship of the time--character of his familiarity with middle-english poetry--his opinions in regard to chaucer--general importance of scott's work on mediaeval literature. part of scott's critical work on mediaeval literature falls outside the limits of the two divisions we have been considering--those of ballad and romance. he knew comparatively little about the early poetry of the northern nations, but at some points his knowledge of scottish literature made the transition fairly easy to the literature of other teutonic peoples. but he was especially bound to be interested in the gaelic, for a scotsman of his day could hardly avoid forming an opinion in regard to the ossianic controversy then raging with what scott thought must be its final violence. he did not understand the gaelic language,[ ] but he had a vivid interest in the highlanders. the picturesque quality of their customs made it natural enough for him to use them in his novels, and by the "sheer force of genius," says mr. palgrave, who considers this scott's greatest achievement, "he united the sympathies of two hostile races."[ ] as early as scott had written for the speculative society an essay on the authenticity of ossian's poems, and one of his articles for the _edinburgh review_ in was on the same subject, occasioned by a couple of important documents which supported opposite sides, and which, he said, set the question finally at issue. this article represents scott the critic in a typical attitude. the material was almost altogether furnished in the works which he was surveying.[ ] his task was to distinguish the essential points of the problem, to state them plainly, and to weigh the evidence on each side. in this he shows notable clearness of thought, and also, throughout the rather long treatment of a complicated subject, great lucidity in arrangement and statement. he was led by this study to change the opinion which he had held in common with most of his countrymen, and to adopt the belief that the poems were essentially creations of macpherson, with only the names and some parts of the story adopted from the gaelic.[ ] other references to ossian occur in scott's writings, and it is evident in this case, as in many others, that an investigation of the matter in his early career, whether from original or from secondary sources, gave him material for allusion and comment throughout his life. for, as we have constant occasion to remark in studying scott, with a very definite grasp of concrete fact he combined a vigorous generalizing power, and all the parts of his knowledge were actively related. he seems to have made little preparation for some of his most interesting reviews, but to have utilized in them the store gathered in his mind for other purposes. of the northern teutonic languages scott had slight knowledge, though he was always interested in the northern literatures. in a review of the _poems of william herbert_, of which the part most interesting to the reviewer consisted of translations from the icelandic, scott says: "we do not pretend any great knowledge of norse; but we have so far traced the 'runic rhyme' as to be sensible how much more easy it is to give a just translation of that poetry into english than into latin." in the same review we find him saying, after a slight discussion of the style of scaldic poetry, "the other translations are generally less interesting than those from the icelandic. there is, however, one poem from the danish, which i transcribe as an instance how very clearly the ancient popular ballad of that country corresponds with our own." so we see him drawing from all sources fuel for his favorite fire--the study of ballads. very characteristically also scott suggests that the author should extend his researches to the popular poetry of scandinavia, "which we cannot help thinking is the real source of many of the tales of our minstrels."[ ] it seems probable that scott's acquaintance with northern literatures came partly through his ill-fated amanuensis, henry weber.[ ] his acknowledgement in the introduction to _sir tristrem_ would indicate this, taken together with other references by scott to weber's attainments. scott could hardly be called a student of anglo-saxon, though he was perhaps able to read the language. his remarks on the subject may, however, mean simply that he was familiar with early middle english.[ ] in his essay on romance he referred to sharon turner's account of the story of beowulf, but called the poem caedmon, and made no correction when he added the later footnote in regard to conybeare's fuller and more interesting analysis published in .[ ] the researches of these men indicate the state of anglo-saxon scholarship in england. sharon turner's very inaccurate description of _beowulf_ was published in . danish scholars made the first translations of the poem, but no one could give a really scholarly text or translation until the year after scott died, when the first edition by j.m. kemble appeared. there were students of the language, however, who were doing good work in feeling their way toward a comprehension of its special qualities. one of these was george ellis. in his _specimens_ he published examples of anglo-saxon and middle-english poetry, and his information was helpful in enlarging scott's outlook. scott's own knowledge of anglo-saxon literature did not amount to enough to be of importance by itself, but it served perhaps to fortify the basis of his generalizations about all early poetry. a review of the _life and works of chatterton_ gave scott an opportunity to discuss the characteristics of middle-english poetry, but his general thesis, that the rowley poems exhibit graces and refinements which are in marked contrast to the tenuity of idea and tautology of expression found in genuine works of the period, is supported by an argument which seems to be based on a characterization of the romances rather than on a close acquaintance with other middle-english poetry. we notice a similar quality in what scott says elsewhere concerning frere's translation into chaucerian english of the _battle of brunanburgh_: "this appears to us an exquisite imitation of the antiquated english poetry, not depending on an accumulation of hard words like the language of rowley, which in everything else is refined and harmonious poetry, nor upon an agglomeration of consonants in the orthography, the resource of later and more contemptible forgers, but upon the style itself, upon its alternate strength and weakness, now nervous and concise, now diffuse and eked out by the feeble aid of expletives."[ ] of middle-english poets other than chaucer and the author or translator of _sir tristrem_, laurence minot was the one to whom scott alluded most frequently, doubtless because in ritson's edition of minot that poet had become more accessible than most of his contemporaries. whatever detailed work scott did on the poetry of this period was chiefly in connection with _sir tristrem_, which has naturally been considered in relation with his other studies in romances. scott's familiarity with chaucer appears in his numerous quotations from that poet, but usually the passages are cited to illustrate mediaeval manners rather than for any specifically literary purpose. yet there are chaucer enthusiasts among the characters of _woodstock_ and _peveril of the peak_.[ ] chaucer's fame was well enough established so that scott seems on the whole to have taken his merit for granted, and not to have said much about it except in casual references.[ ] among general readers he must have been comparatively little known, however, notwithstanding the respect paid him by scholars. in we find scott writing to ellis that his scheme for editing a collection of the british poets had fallen through, for, he said, "my plan was greatly too liberal to stand the least chance of being adopted by the trade at large, as i wished them to begin with chaucer. the fact is, i never expected they would agree to it."[ ] scott's review of godwin's _life of chaucer_, one of the best known of his periodical essays, is altogether concerned with the manner in which godwin did his work, and so exhibits scott's ideas on the subject of biography and his methods of reviewing rather than his attitude towards chaucer's poetry. his most definite remarks concerning chaucer are to be found in his comments upon dryden's _fables_, as for example: "the knight's tale, whether we consider chaucer's original poem, or the spirited and animated version of dryden, is one of the best pieces of composition in our language";[ ] "of all chaucer's multifarious powers, none is more wonderful than the humour with which he touched upon natural frailty, and the truth with which he describes the inward feelings of the human heart."[ ] yet he once called _troilus and criseyde_ "a somewhat dull poem."[ ] _the cock and the fox_, on the other hand, he speaks of as "a poem which, in grave ironical narrative, liveliness of illustration, and happiness of humorous description, yields to none that ever was written."[ ] in estimating the importance of scott's studies on any one period we have to think of them as part of a greater whole. the wide range of his investigations would evidently make it impossible to expect a complete treatment of all the subjects he might choose to discuss, and we have found, in fact, that his criticism of mediaeval literature led to systematic results in no other lines than those of the ballad and the romance. but these were large and important matters. moreover, to all that he wrote in connection with the middle ages there attaches a special interest; for with that work he made his real start in literature; and it reflected the peculiarly delightful vein in his own nature which was constant from youth to age, and which gave to his poems and novels some of their most brilliant qualities.[ ] the drama scott's fondness for the drama and his acquaintance with actors--his ideas about plot structure--his own dramatic experiments--his opinion of the theaters of his day--his knowledge of english dramatic literature--familiarity with elizabethan plays shown in his novels--his essay on the drama--ancient drama--french drama--dramatic unities--german drama--elizabethan drama--shakspere--ben jonson--dryden and other restoration dramatists--morality of theater-going--character of scott's interest in the drama. like most of his characteristics, scott's taste for the theater was exhibited in his childhood. we find him reverting, in a review written in ,[ ] to his rapturous emotions on the occasion of seeing his first play; and in the private theatricals which he and his brothers and sister performed in the family dining-room he was always the manager. in he was active in helping to bring out in edinburgh the _family legend_ of his friend joanna baillie.[ ] one of the actors on that occasion was daniel terry,[ ] who became an intimate friend of scott's. for terry scott wrote _the doom of devorgoil_, but the piece was not found suitable for presentation. several of the novels were more successfully dramatized by the same friend, so that we find the "author" humorously complaining in the "introductory epistle" to _the fortunes of nigel_, "i believe my muse would be _terry_fied into treading the stage even if i should write a sermon." among scott's friends were several other actors, particularly mrs. siddons and her brother john kemble, and the comedian charles mathews. in scott's review of _kelly's reminiscences and the life of kemble_ we find recorded many of the discriminations he was fond of making in regard to the talents of particular actors. in his childhood scott felt well qualified to take the part of richard iii., for he considered that his limp "would do well enough to represent the hump."[ ] after a similar fashion we find him commenting on the improbabilities of the tragedy of _douglas_: "but the spectator should, and indeed must, make considerable allowances if he expects to receive pleasure from the drama. he must get his mind, according to tony lumpkin's phrase, into 'a concatenation accordingly,'[ ] since he cannot reasonably expect that scenes of deep and complicated interest shall be placed before him, in close succession, without some force being put upon ordinary probability; and the question is not, how far you have sacrificed your judgment in order to accommodate the fiction, but rather, what is the degree of delight you have received in return."[ ] scott disclaimed any special knowledge of stage-craft. "i know as little about the division of a drama as the spinster about the division of a battle, to use iago's simile,"[ ] he once wrote to a friend. yet as a critic he had of course some general ideas about the making of plays, without having worked out any subtle theories on the subject. in criticising a play by allan cunningham, who had asked for his judgment on it, he remarked first that the plot was ill-combined. "if the mind can be kept upon one unbroken course of interest, the effect even in perusal is more gratifying. i have always considered this as the great secret in dramatic poetry, and conceive it one of the most difficult exercises of the invention possible, to conduct a story through five acts, developing it gradually in every scene, so as to keep up the attention, yet never till the very conclusion permitting the nature of the catastrophe to become visible,--and all the while to accompany this by the necessary delineation of character and beauty of language."[ ] and again he said to the same person, "i hope you will make another dramatic attempt; and in that case i would strongly recommend that you should previously make a model or skeleton of your incidents, dividing them regularly into scenes and acts, so as to insure the dependence of one circumstance upon another, and the simplicity and union of your whole story."[ ] here we find scott giving advice which by his own admission he was not himself able to follow in the composition of fiction. "i never could lay down a plan, or having laid it down i never could adhere to it," he wrote in his journal[ ]. and the "author" in the introductory epistle to _nigel_ remarks, "it may pass for one good reason for not writing a play, that i cannot form a plot." the few experiments that he made he did not seem to regard seriously at any time, though he was rather favorably impressed on rereading the _doom of devorgoil_ after it had lain unused for several years.[ ] of _halidon hill_ he said, "it is designed to illustrate military antiquities and the manners of chivalry. the drama (if it can be called one) is in no particular either designed or calculated for the stage."[ ] he seems to have been "often urged" to write plays, if one may trust captain clutterbuck's authority, and the effectiveness of the many poetical mottoes improvised by the author of waverley for the chapters of his novels, and subscribed "old play,"[ ] was naturally used as an argument.[ ] scott's own judgment in the matter was expressed thus: "nothing so easy when you are full of an author, as to write a few lines in his taste and style; the difficulty is to keep it up. besides, the greatest success would be but a spiritless imitation, or, at best, what the italians call a _centone_ [_sic_] from shakspeare."[ ] when elliston became manager of drury lane in he applied to scott for plays, but without effect.[ ] scott seems never to have felt any concern over the fact that the dramatized versions of his novels were often very poor, but hazlitt wished that he would "not leave it to others to mar what he has sketched so admirably as a ground-work," for he saw no good reason why the author of waverley could not write "a first-rate tragedy as well, as so many first-rate novels."[ ] scott felt that to write for the stage in his day was a thankless and almost degrading occupation. "avowedly i will never write for the stage; if i do, 'call me horse.'" he said in a letter to terry.[ ] again in a letter to southey: "i do not think the character of the audience in london is such that one could have the least pleasure in pleasing them.... on the whole, i would far rather write verses for mine honest friend punch and his audience";[ ] and to a would-be tragedian he said: "in the present day there is only one reason which seems to me adequate for the encountering the plague of trying to please a set of conceited performers and a very motley audience,--i mean the want of money."[ ] this degraded condition of the london stage scott thought to be a consequence of limiting the number of theaters. we can hardly suppose, however, that he was pessimistic in regard to the written drama of his day, when he could say of byron, "there is one who, to judge from the dramatic sketch he has given us in manfred, must be considered as a match for aeschylus, even in his sublimest moods of horror";[ ] or when he could place joanna baillie in the same class with shakspere[ ]. scott probably did much reading in the drama in his early life. we know that by he had "long since" annotated his copy of beaumont and fletcher sufficiently so that he wished to offer it to gifford, who, scott erroneously understood, was about to edit their dramas.[ ] the edition of dryden, published in , shows familiarity with elizabethan as well as restoration dramatists. he seems to have had first-hand knowledge of such men as ford, webster, marston, brome, shirley, chapman, and dekker, whom he mentions as being "little known to the general readers of the present day, even by name."[ ] but was the very year in which appeared lamb's _specimens of english dramatic poets_ and coleridge's first course of lectures on shakspere. the old dramatists were beginning to come to their own, through the sympathetic appreciation of the romantic critics. scott never refers, however, to the work of lamb, coleridge, or hazlitt[ ] in this field and we conclude that his researches in dramatic literature were the recreation of a man who realized that his business lay in another direction. but in preparing the _dryden_, he doubtless read more widely in restoration drama than he would otherwise have done. throughout his life he continued to read plays at intervals, as we know from occasional references in the _journal_; but after the _dryden_ appeared we can point to no time in his career when such reading was his especial occupation. his familiarity with elizabethan drama he showed even more emphatically than by serious critical writings on the subject, in his fragments from mythical "old plays,"[ ] in his frequent references to single plays, and in the substance of some of the novels, particularly _the fortunes of nigel_ and _woodstock_, which make use of settings, situations, and characterizations suggested by the drama.[ ] mr. lang says of _the fortunes of nigel_, "the scenes in alsatia are a distinct gain to literature, a pearl rescued from the unread mass of shadwell."[ ] his serious critical writings on the subject comprise little else than his _essay on the drama_, which appeared in the supplement to the _encyclopædia britannica_, published in , and the discussions given in connection with dryden's plays.[ ] although the essay was written ten years later than the _dryden_, we have no reason to think that scott changed his views or added greatly to his knowledge in the interval, and using these two sources we may discuss his account of the drama in general without regard to the particular date at which his opinions were expressed. his exposition in the _essay on the drama_ rested on the basis furnished by a historical study of the stage. he did not, of course, pretend to have formed his own conclusions on all points, and we find him quoting from various authorities, sometimes naming them and sometimes only indicating, perhaps, that he was "abridging from the best antiquaries." this, however, was chiefly in connection with the ancient drama. as i have already remarked, we do not find him referring to recent studies on the english drama. and though scott had forgotten all his greek we observe that he is bold enough to disagree with "the ingenious schlegel" in regard to the comparative value of the greek new comedy. in his treatment of the ancient drama the main point for note is the success with which he gives a broad and connected view of the subject. his account of the drama in france needs correction in certain respects,[ ] but it seems to indicate some first-hand knowledge and very definite opinions. he quotes molière frequently throughout his writings, and always speaks of him with admiration; but with no other french dramatist does he seem to have been familiar to such a degree. judging french tragic poets too much from the shaksperian point of view, he was not prepared to do them justice.[ ] on the dramatic unities, of which he remarked, "aristotle says so little and his commentators and followers talk so much," scott wrote, here and elsewhere, with decision and vivacity. the unities of time and place he calls "fopperies," though time and place, he admits, are not to be lightly changed.[ ] he connects the whole discussion with the study of theatrical conditions, and never bows down to authority as such. he says, "surely it is of less consequence merely to ascertain what was the practice of the ancients, than to consider how far such practice is founded upon truth, good taste, and general effect"; and again, "aristotle would probably have formulated different rules if he had written in our time." and though he adopted and applied to the drama the horatian dictum that the end of poetry is to instruct and delight, it was not because horace and a long line of critics had said it, but because he thought it was true. doubtless his phrase would have been different if he had not taken what was lying nearest, but his habit was never carefully to avoid the common phrase. his general opinion of french drama was decidedly unfavorable, and he thought it was doubtful whether their plays would ever be any nearer to nature. "that nation," he observes calmly, "is so unfortunate as to have no poetical language." his remarks on german drama are general in character, though we know that in his early days he was much interested in translating contemporary german plays. his version of goethe's _goetz von berlichingen_ was the most important of these translations. a letter of scott's contains the following reference to this play:[ ] "the publication of goetz was a great era ... in german literature, and served completely to free them from the french follies of unities and decencies of the scene, and gave an impulse to their dramas which was unique of its kind. since that, they have been often stark mad but never, i think, stupid. they either divert you by taking the most brilliant leaps through the hoop, or else by tumbling into the custard, as the newspapers averred the champion did at the lord mayor's dinner." when he is on english ground we can best trace scott's individual opinions, yet even here he reflects some of the limitations of the less enlightened scholarship of his time, especially in connection with early elizabethan writers. he passes from _ferrex and porrex_[ ] and _gammer gurton's needle_ directly to shakspere, and quite omits marlowe and the other immediate predecessors. he was not ignorant of their existence, for against a statement of dryden's that shakspere was the first to use blank verse we find in scott's edition the note,--"this is a mistake. marlowe and several other dramatic authors used blank verse before the days of shakespeare";[ ] and one of his youthful notebooks contains this comment on _faustus_: "a very remarkable thing. grand subject--end grand."[ ] in scott intended to write an article for the _quarterly review_ on peele, greene, and webster, and in asking alexander dyce to have webster's works sent to him he said, "marlowe and others i have,--and some acquaintance with the subject, though not much."[ ] webster he considered "one of the best of our ancient dramatists." the proposed article was never written, because of scott's final illness. in spite of his statement that "the english stage might be considered equally without rule and without model when shakspeare arose," scott did not seem inclined to leave the great man altogether unaccounted for, as some critics have preferred to do, for he says, "the effect of the genius of an individual upon the taste of a nation is mighty; but that genius in its turn is formed according to the opinions prevalent at the period when it comes into existence." these opinions, however, scott assigns very vaguely to the influence of "a nameless crowd of obscure writers," and thinks it fortunate that shakspere was unacquainted with classical rules. the critic had evidently made no attempt to define the influence of particular writers upon shakspere. his criticism is at some points purely conventional, as for instance when he calls the poet "that powerful magician, whose art could fascinate us even by means of deformity itself "; but on the whole scott seems to write about shakspere in a very reasonable and discriminating way. he has a good deal to say of ben jonson, in other places as well as in this essay on the drama.[ ] he was evidently well acquainted with that poet, and admired him without liking him. somewhere he calls him "the dry and dogged jonson,"[ ] and again he speaks of his genius in very high terms. the contrast between shakspere and jonson moved him even to epigram:[ ] "in reading shakespeare we often meet passages so congenial to our nature and feelings that, beautiful as they are, we can hardly help wondering they did not occur to ourselves; in studying jonson, we have often to marvel how his conceptions could have occurred to any human being." it was characteristic of scott to note the fact that shakspere wrote rapidly, jonson slowly, for he was fond of getting support for his theory that rapid writing is the better. as early as scott referred to _the changeling_ as "an old play which contains some passages horribly striking,"[ ] and in so doing voiced, as mr. swinburne says, "the first word of modern tribute to the tragic genius of thomas middleton."[ ] scott also praised massinger highly, especially for his strength in characterization, and once called him "the most gentleman-like of all the old english dramatists."[ ] he discussed beaumont and fletcher sympathetically, for he knew them well and frequently quoted from them. he named shirley, ford, webster, and dekker in a group, and spoke of the singular profusion of talents devoted in this period to the writing of plays, an observation which is made more explicitly later in the _journal_, when he has just been reading an old play which, he says, "worthless in the extreme, is, like many of the plays in the beginning of the seventeenth century, written to a good tune. the dramatic poets of that time seem to have possessed as joint-stock a highly poetical and abstract tone of language, so that the worst of them often remind you of the very best."[ ] this circumstance he accounts for by a reference to the audiences, and this in turn he seems to ascribe partly to the great number of theaters then open in london. he dwells so much on the evils of limiting the number of play-houses to two or three, that we may fairly consider it one of his hobbies, and it is possible that he had some slight influence toward increasing that public opposition to the theatrical monopoly which finally, in , resulted in the nullification of the patents. scott's discussion of restoration drama is admirably vigorous and clear. he probably simplified the matter too much at some points, indeed, as for example in over-estimating the influence exerted upon the stage by charles ii. and his french tastes, and in tracing the origin of the french drama to romances. but in general his facts are right and his deductions fair. mr. saintsbury has accused him of depreciating dryden's plays, especially the comedies, out of disgust at their indecency; yet in judging the period as a whole he seems to discriminate sufficiently between indelicacy and dulness. "the talents of otway," he says, "in his scenes of passionate affection rival, at least, and sometimes excel those of shakspeare." again: "the comedies of congreve contain probably more wit than was ever before embodied upon the stage; each word was a jest, and yet so characteristic that the repartee of the servant is distinguished from that of the master; the jest of the cox-comb from that of the humorist or fine gentleman of the piece." lesser writers of the time are also sympathetically characterized,--shadwell, for instance, whom he thought to be commonly underestimated.[ ] the heroic play scott discussed vivaciously in more than one connection, for, as we should expect, his sense of humor found its absurdities tempting.[ ] on the rant in the _conquest of granada_ he remarked, "dryden's apology for these extravagances seems to be that almanzor is in a passion. but although talking nonsense is a common effect of passion, it seems hardly one of those consequences adapted to show forth the character of a hero in theatrical representation."[ ] scott's opinion of the form of these plays appears in the following comment: "we doubt if, with his utmost efforts, [molière] could have been absolutely dull, without the assistance of a pastoral subject and heroic measure."[ ] concerning the indecency of the literature of the period scott wrote emphatically. he was much troubled by the problem of whether to publish dryden's works without any cutting, and came near taking ellis's advice to omit some portions, but he finally adhered to his original determination: "in making an edition of a man of genius's works for libraries and collections ... i must give my author as i find him, and will not tear out the page, even to get rid of the blot, little as i like it."[ ] the question of the morality of theater-going was one scott felt obliged to discuss when he was writing upon the drama. he found its vindication, characteristically, in a universal human trait,--the impulse toward mimicry and impersonation,--and in the good results that may be supposed to attend it. in naming these he lays what seems like undue stress on the teaching of history by the drama, in language that might quite as well be applied to historical novels. his argument on the literary side also is stated in a somewhat too sweeping way:--"had there been no drama, shakespeare would, in all likelihood, have been but the author of _venus and adonis_ and of a few sonnets forgotten among the numerous works of the elizabethan age, and otway had been only the compiler of fantastic odes."[ ] a final plea, in favor of the stage as a democratic agency--though this of course is not scott's phrasing--seems slightly unusual for him, although not essentially out of character. "the entertainment," he says, "which is the subject of general enjoyment, is of a nature which tends to soften, if not to level, the distinction of ranks."[ ] in another mood he admitted the greater likelihood that immoral plays would injure the public character than that moral plays would elevate it.[ ] it is sufficiently apparent to any student of scott's work that he was personally very fond of the drama. many of the literary references and allusions which appear in great abundance throughout his writings are from plays, and show, as we have seen, a wide acquaintance with english dramatic writers, from shakspere to such comparatively little-known playwrights as suckling and cowley. in the _letters of malachi malagrowther on the currency_, for example, scott's unusual range of reading reveals itself even in connection with a subject remote from his ordinary field, and here as elsewhere he shows himself prone to quote from the drama.[ ] but scott was interested in plays for what he found in them of characters and manners, of witty and sententious speech, of situations and incidents, and only secondarily in the technical aspects of the drama. reading his novels we could guess that he would care more for the concrete elements of a play than for the orderly march of events through the various stages of a formally proper construction. in this respect he differs from coleridge; but indeed the two men may be contrasted at almost every point. in summing up this part of scott's criticism we must remember also that it was chiefly incidental. perhaps whatever qualities it exhibits are on this account particularly characteristic: at any rate his opinions on the drama were the reaction of an unusually capable mind upon a department of literature in which his reading was all the more fruitful because it followed the lines of a natural inclination. the seventeenth century _dryden_ scott's preparations for his edition of dryden--wide scope of the work--scott's estimation of dryden--grounds for putting dryden above chaucer and spenser--admirable style of the biography--comments by scott on other seventeenth century writers. the edition of _dryden's complete works_ deserves further notice, especially since only eight of the eighteen volumes are occupied with the plays, and these have less commentary than other parts of the works. in scott wrote to his friend george ellis, "my critical notes will not be very numerous but i hope to illustrate the political poems, as _absalom and achitophel_, the _hind and panther_, etc., with some curious annotations. i have already made a complete search among some hundred pamphlets of that pamphlet-writing age, and with considerable success, as i have found several which throw light on my author."[ ] he added that another edition of dryden was proposed, and ellis wrote in answer, "with regard to your competitors, i feel perfectly at my ease, because i am convinced that though you should generously furnish them with all the materials, they would not know how to use them; _non cuivis hominum contingit_ to write critical notes that anyone will read."[ ] when scott's dryden was reëdited and reissued in - by professor saintsbury, the new editor said: "it certainly deserves the credit of being one of the best-edited books on a great scale in english, save in one particular,--the revision of the text."[ ] the elaborate historical notes are left untouched, as being "in general thoroughly trustworthy,"[ ] though the editor considers them somewhat excessive, especially as sometimes containing illustrative material from perfectly worthless contemporaries. on the other hand, the "explanation of word and phrase is a little defective."[ ] the most notable quality of the _life of dryden_ which composes the first of the eighteen volumes is its breadth of scope. scott's aim may best be given in his own words in the advertisement: "the general critical view of dryden's works being sketched by johnson with unequalled felicity, and the incidents of his life accurately discussed and ascertained by malone, something seemed to remain for him who should consider these literary productions in their succession, as actuated by, and operating upon, the taste of an age where they had so predominant influence; and who might, at the same time, connect the life of dryden with the history of his publications, without losing sight of the fate and character of the individual."[ ] errors of judgment appear in places; sometimes they are due to the imperfect scholarship of the time; sometimes they arise from prejudices of scott's own. in the very first chapter we find him condemning lyly and all writers of "conceited" language--particularly of course the metaphysicals--with a thoroughness that a truly catholic critic ought probably to avoid. scott had a constitutional dislike for a labored style, and at the same time a fondness for the direct and straightforward way of looking at things. so, though he was open to the emotional appeal of a poem like _christabel_, he took no pleasure in the devious processes by which the cold intellect has sometimes tried to give fresh interest to familiar words and ideas. they quite prevented him from seeing the passion in the work of donne, for example, and he considered all metaphysical poets, in so far as they showed the traits of their class, to be without poetical feeling. scott placed dryden after shakspere and milton as third in the list of english writers. i think he would even have been willing to say that dryden was the third as a poet. for greatly as he admired chaucer, scott did not feel chaucer's full power, and indeed it was only beginning to be possible to read chaucer with any appreciation of his metrical excellence. spenser, of whom he once wrote: "no author, perhaps, ever possessed and combined in so brilliant a degree the requisite qualities of a poet,"[ ] was more of a favorite with scott than chaucer. but at another time he spoke of drayton as possessing perhaps equal powers of poetry,[ ] and he seems to have felt that spenser becomes tedious through the continued use of his difficult stanza and even more because of the "languor of a continued allegory."[ ] in comparing his judgments on spenser and dryden we may conclude that the critic found more in the later poet of that solid intellectual basis which he emphasizes in characterizing him. "this power of ratiocination," says scott, "of investigating, discovering, and appreciating that which is really excellent, if accompanied with the necessary command of fanciful illustration and elegant expression, is the most interesting quality which can be possessed by a poet."[ ] again he lays emphasis on dryden's versatility,--greater, he says, than that of shakspere and milton. in _old mortality_ dryden is referred to as "the great high-priest of all the nine." scott would have called this another point of his superiority over spenser, if he had made the comparison. yet he saw dryden's deficiencies. "it was a consequence of his mental acuteness that his dramatic personages often philosophized and reasoned when they ought only to have felt,"[ ] scott remarks and he frequently deplores dryden's failure "in expressing the milder and more tender passions."[ ] of dryden's great gift of style, scott speaks in the highest terms. "with this power," he says, "dryden's poetry was gifted in a degree surpassing in modulated harmony that of all who had preceded him and inferior to none that has since written english verse [_sic_]. he first showed"--and here we see scott's eighteenth-century affinities--"that the english language was capable of uniting smoothness and strength."[ ] such criticism as scott gives on specific parts of dryden's work is clear-cut, fair for the most part, and has the sanity and reasonableness which are the most noticeable qualities of his criticism in general. it would be easier to find illustrations of shrewdness than of subtlety among his notes, but his discriminations are often effective and satisfying. his discussion, for example, of prologues and epilogues considered in relation to the theatrical conditions which determined their character is admirable.[ ] a note on "the cant of supposing that the _iliad_ contained an obvious and intentional moral"[ ] is also full of sense and vigor, but these qualities are so thoroughly diffused through the work that there is no need of particularizing. his praise of _alexander's feast_ may be referred to, however, as showing his characteristic delight in objective poetry.[ ] as a lyric poet, he says, dryden "must be allowed to have no equal."[ ] the peculiarly congenial qualities of the subject may have had something to do with the fact that the style in which the _life of dryden_ is written is noticeably better than that of scott's ordinary work. it is marked with a care and accuracy that were not, unfortunately, habitual to him. perhaps it was an advantage that when he wrote the book he had not yet become altogether familiar with his own facility; certainly the substance and the manner of treatment unite in making this the most important of his critical biographies. various references indicate that scott was acquainted in at least a general way with english writers throughout the whole of dryden's century. he speaks of the poems of phineas fletcher as containing "many passages fully equal to spenser"[ ]; he says that cowley "is now ... undeservedly forgotten"[ ]; he calls _hudibras_ "the most witty poem that ever was written,"[ ] but says, "the perpetual scintillation of butler's wit is too dazzling to be delightful"[ ]; he talks of waller and quotes from him[ ]; he refers to the charming quality of isaac walton's work;[ ] and he adopts samuel pepys as a familiar acquaintance.[ ] these references occur mostly in the _dryden_ or in the novels, and we may conclude that the work for the _dryden_ gathered up and strengthened all scott's acquaintance with the literature of the seventeenth century, from shakspere and milton down to writers of altogether minor importance; and gave him material for many of the allusions that appear in his later work. it is probably true that there are more quotations from dryden in scott's books than from any other one author,[ ] though lines from shakspere occurred more often in his conversation and familiar letters. the eighteenth century _swift_ the preparation of _swift's complete works_--comparison of the _dryden_ and the _swift_--the bibliographical problem presented by swift's works--inaccuracies in the biography--scott's success in portraying a perplexing temperament--judicious quality of his literary criticism. as soon as the _dryden_ was completed scott was offered twice as much money as he had received for that work, for a similar edition of swift.[ ] he readily undertook the task, and in the midst of many other editorial engagements set to work upon it. the preparation of the book extended over the six years during which scott ran the greater part of his poetical career. on its appearance one of his friends expressed the feeling which every student of scott must have had in regard to the large editorial labors that he undertook, in saying, "i am delighted and surprised; for how a person of your turn could wade through, and so accurately analyze what you have done (namely, all the dull things calculated to illustrate your author), seems almost impossible, and a prodigy in the history of the human mind."[ ] the work was first published in . ten years later it was revised and reissued; and scott's _swift_ has, like his _dryden_, been the standard edition of that author ever since. in each case scott had to deal with an important and varied body of literature in the two fields of poetry and prose, though the proportions were different; and in each case he had occasion for illustrative historical annotations of the kind that he wrote with unrivalled facility. he was master of the political intrigues of queen anne's reign no less completely than of the circumstances which gave rise to _absalom and achitophel_, and the fact that his notes are less voluminous in the _swift_ is probably to be accounted for by the comparative absence of quaintness in the literary and social fashions of the eighteenth century. the peculiar conditions under which swift's writings had appeared, and his remarkable indifference to literary fame, gave the editor opportunity to look for material which had not before been included in his works. the diligent search of scott and his various correspondents enabled him to add about thirty poems, between sixty and seventy letters from swift, and about sixteen other small pieces. the most noteworthy item among these additions was the correspondence between swift and miss vanhomrigh, of which only a very small part had previously been made public.[ ] scott's notes seem to indicate that most of the necessary searching through newspapers and obscure pamphlets for forgotten work of swift was performed by "obliging correspondents," and that the editor himself had only to pass judgment on what was brought to his attention. this impression may arise largely from his cordiality in expressing indebtedness to his helpers, but it is certain that his position as a popular poet gave scott the assistance of many people who would not have been enlisted in the work by an ordinary editor. but scott had the difficult task of deciding whether the unauthenticated pieces were to be assigned to swift. the bibliography of swift is still so uncertain that it is impossible to say how many of the small pamphlets in verse and prose added in this edition are really his work.[ ] scott had good reason for his additions in most cases, though sometimes, as he was aware, the dean had merely revised the work of other people. the editor was occasionally over-credulous in attributing pieces to swift, but he was perhaps oftener too generous in giving room to things which he knew had very little claim to be considered swift's work. when he was in doubt he chose to err on the safe side, according to the principles set forth in the following note on the _letter from dr. tripe to nestor ironside_: "the piece contains a satirical description of steele's person, and should the editor be mistaken in conjecturing that swift contributed to compose it, may nevertheless, at this distance of time, merit preservation as a literary curiosity."[ ] the ample space afforded by the nineteen volumes of the book gives room to arbuthnot's _history of john bull_--because it was "usually published in swift's works,"--to the verses addressed to the dean and those written in memory of him, as well as to the prose and verse miscellanies of pope and swift, and the miscellanies and _jeux d'esprit_ of swift and sheridan. swift's correspondence fills the last four and a half volumes. the biography, which occupies the first volume, is admirable in tone, but the facts scott gives are less to be relied upon than the inferences and conclusions he derives from them. he corresponded with persons who were in a position to know about swift from his friends and acquaintances, and probably he trusted too much to these "original sources." we find, as perhaps the most noteworthy instance, that the marriage to stella is stated as an ascertained fact, on authority that is not now considered convincing. later biographers of swift,--sir henry craik, leslie stephen, mr. churton collins,--have borne witness to the human interest of scott's biography, and its preeminence, in spite of inaccuracies, among all the lives of swift that have been written. but mr. churton collins thinks scott did not present a really clear view of swift's mysterious character, and craik says he took only the conventional attitude towards swift's politics, misanthropy, and religion. the charge indicates scott's weakness, and perhaps also much of his strength, as a biographer and critic, for he had no prejudice against the conventional as such, and was never anxious to exhibit special "insight" of any kind. yet i think his portrayal of swift has seemed to most readers a clear presentation of a real and comprehensible character.[ ] scott's remark when he undertook the work, that swift was of his early favorites,[ ] seems surprising when one remembers how his genial nature recoiled from misanthropy and cynicism; but his treatment of the dean was so sympathetic that jeffrey thought him decidedly too lenient, and was moved to express righteous indignation in the pages of the _edinburgh review_.[ ] the rebuke was unnecessary, for scott did not omit to record swift's failings and to express wholesomely vigorous opinions concerning them, though he felt that they ought to be looked upon as evidences of disease rather than of guilt. he felt also, with perhaps some excess of charity but surely not such as could be in the least harmful, that "if the dean's principles were misanthropical, his practice was benevolent. few have written so much with so little view either to fame or to profit, or to aught but benefit to the public."[ ] jeffrey's condemnation of scott's point of view was mingled with just praise. he said of the biography: "it is quite fair and moderate in politics; and perhaps rather too indulgent and tender towards individuals of all descriptions,--more full, at least, of kindness and veneration for genius and social virtue, than of indignation at baseness and profligacy. altogether it is not much like the production of a mere man of letters, or a fastidious speculator in sentiment and morality; but exhibits throughout, and in a very pleasing form, the good sense and large toleration of a man of the world." the very practical motives that inspired most of swift's pamphlets would naturally attract scott. probably it was the remembrance of the _drapier's letters_ that suggested to him a similar form of protest against proposed changes in the scottish currency; certainly the _letters of malachi malagrowther_ had an effect comparable to that of swift's more consummately ingenious appeal. another quality in swift's work that would naturally arouse scott's admiration was the remarkable directness and lucidity of the style. scott appreciated the originality force of swift, even when it was used in the service of satire. sometimes, he says, "the intensity of his satire gives to his poetry a character of emphatic violence which borders upon grandeur."[ ] the editor's discussion of _gulliver's travels_ an acute and illuminating little essay, contains one comment that gives an amusing revelation of his point of view. he says in regard to the fourth part of the story: "it is some consolation to remark that the fiction on which this libel on human nature rests is in every respect gross and improbable, and, far from being entitled to the praise due to the management of the first two parts, is inferior in plan even to the third."[ ] this is a sound verdict, even if it does contain an extra-literary element. scott surpassed most of his contemporaries, except the younger romantic writers, in his ability to eliminate irrelevant considerations in estimating any literary work; and if occasionally his strong moral feeling appears in his criticism, it serves to remind us how much less often this happens than a knowledge of his temperament would lead us to expect. in spite of the qualities in his subject that might naturally bias scott's judgment, his criticism throughout this edition of swift seems on the whole very judicious. it defines the literary importance and brings out plainly the power of a man whose work presents unusual perplexities to the critic. _the somers tracts_ character of the collection and of scott's work on it--occasional carelessness--purpose of the notes--scott's attitude towards these studies. while scott was working on his _dryden_ and before he began the _swift_ he undertook to edit the great collection which had been published fifty years before as _somers' tracts_. his task was to arrange, revise, and annotate pamphlets which represented every reign from elizabeth to george i. he grouped them chronologically by reigns, and separated them further into sections under the headings,--ecclesiastical, historical, civil, military, miscellaneous; he also added eighty-one pamphlets, all written before the time of james ii. the largest number of additions in any one section was historical and had reference to stafford. among the miscellaneous tracts that he incorporated were derrick's _image of ireland_ from a copy in the advocates' library, and gosson's _school of abuse_. scott's statement in the advertisement as to why he did not omit any of the original collection shows his unpedantic attitude toward the kind of studies which he was encouraging by the republication of this series. he says: "when the variety of literary pursuits, and the fluctuation of fashionable study is considered, it may seem rash to pass a hasty sentence of exclusion, even upon the dullest and most despised of the essays which this ample collection offers to the public. there may be among the learned, even now, individuals to whom the rabbinical lore of hugh broughton presents more charms than the verses of homer; and a future day may arise when tracts on chronology will bear as high a value among antiquaries as 'greene's groats' worth of wit,' or 'george peele's jests,' the present respectable objects of research and reverence." in editing this collection scott made little attempt to decide disputed problems of authorship when the explanation did not lie upon the surface. indeed the following note regarding the tract called _a new test of the church of england's loyalty_ shows that he sometimes neglected very obvious sources of information, for the piece is given in one of defoe's own collections of his works: "this defence of whiggish loyalty," says scott, "seems to have been written by the celebrated daniel de foe, a conjecture which is strengthened by the frequent reference to his poem of the true-born englishman."[ ] he was not often so careless, but the rapidity and range of his work during these years undoubtedly gave occasion for more than one lapse of accuracy, while at the same time it perhaps increased the effectiveness of his comment. his notes and introductions vary in length according to the requirements of the case, for he aimed to provide such material as would prevent the necessity of reference to other works. matters that were obscure he explained, and he wrote little comment on those that were generally understood. when he left himself so free a hand he could indulge his personal tastes somewhat also, and we are not surprised to find an especial abundance of notes on an account of the gowrie conspiracy which presented a perplexing problem in scottish history. the connection of _somers' tracts_ with other things that scott did has already been remarked upon.[ ] that he found some sort of stimulation in all his scholarly employments is sufficiently evident to anyone who studies his work as a whole, and this fact might well serve as a motive for such study. yet it is only fair to remember that scott was not a novelist during these years when he was performing his most laborious editorial tasks. we are accustomed to think of the brilliant use he was afterwards to make of the knowledge he was gaining, but the motives which influenced him were those of the man whose interest in literature and history makes scholarly work seem the most natural way of earning money. "these are studies, indeed, proverbially dull," he once wrote, speaking of horace walpole's antiquarian researches, "but it is only when they are pursued by those whose fancies nothing can enliven."[ ] _the lives of the novelists, and comments on other eighteenth century writers_ the _novelists' library_--writers discussed--value of the _lives_--general tone of competence in these essays--scott's catholic taste--points of special interest in the discussion--relations of the novel and the drama--supernatural machinery in novels--mistakes in the criticism of defoe--realism--motive in the novel--aim of the prefaces--scott's familiarity with eighteenth century literature. it has already been said that a large part of scott's critical work concerned itself with the eighteenth century. of his greater editorial labors two may be considered as belonging to that period, for ballantyne's _novelists' library_, though an enterprise which was commercially a failure and which consequently remained incomplete, may from the point of view of scott's contributions fitly be compared with the _dryden_ and the _swift_. such parts as were published appeared in . the bulk of the volumes and the small type in which they were printed were considered to be the cause of their failure, and it was not until the critical biographies were extracted and published separately, by galignani the parisian bookseller, in , that they seem to have attracted notice. scott wrote these _lives of the novelists_ at a time when his hands were full of literary projects, altogether for john ballantyne's benefit. the author afterwards spoke of them as "rather flimsily written,"[ ] but we may surmise that to the fact that they were not the result of special study is due something of their ripeness of reflection and breadth of generalization. "they contain a large assemblage of manly and sagacious remarks on human life and manners,"[ ] wrote the _quarterly_ reviewer. the writers considered were all british, with the exception of lesage. the choice, or at least the arrangement, seems more or less haphazard. richardson, fielding, and smollett naturally began the group, and sterne followed after an interval. johnson and goldsmith were treated briefly, for the prefaces were to be proportioned to the amount of work by each author included in the text. horace walpole, clara reeve, and mrs. radcliffe represented the gothic romance. charles johnstone, robert bage, and richard cumberland were among the inferior writers included. henry mackenzie, who was still living and was a personal friend of scott, completes the list so far as it went before the series was terminated by the publisher's death. when scott's _miscellaneous prose works_ were collected he added the lives of charlotte smith and defoe, but in each of these cases the biographical portion was by another hand, the criticism being his own.[ ] the study of the novel as a _genre_ was naturally undeveloped at that time. dunlop's _history of prose fiction_ had appeared in , evidently a much more ambitious attempt than scott's; but scott could treat the british novelists with comparative freedom from the trammels of any established precedent. of course his position as one who had struck out a wonderful new path in the writing of novels gave to his reflections on other novelists a very special interest. the _lives of the novelists_ are not to be neglected even now, and this is the more to be insisted on because the criticism of novels has been practiced with increasing zeal since scott himself has become a classic and since his successors have made this field of literature more varied and popular, if not greater, than the first masters made it. a recent writer on eighteenth century literature says: "by far the best criticism of the eighteenth century novelists will be found in the prefatory notices contributed by scott to ballantyne's _novelists' library_."[ ] but the same writer adds: "sir walter scott, indeed, considered _fathom_ superior to _jonathan wild_, an opinion which must always remain one of the mysteries of criticism."[ ] this comment indicates that there was no lack of assuredness in scott's treatment, and we do indeed find a very pleasant tone of competence which, though liable to error as in the exaggerated praise bestowed upon smollett, gives much of their effectiveness to the criticisms. the quality appears elsewhere in scott's critical work, but it is perhaps especially noticeable here. for example, we find this dictum: "there is no book in existence, in which so much of the human character, under all its various shades and phases, is described in so few words, as in the _diable boiteux_."[ ] the illustration is perhaps a trifle extreme, for scott is not often really dogmatic. from this point of view as from others we naturally make the comparison with johnson's _lives of the poets_, and we find that without being so sententious, so admirably compact in style, scott is also not so dictatorial. we cannot accuse scott of liking any one kind of novel to the exclusion of others. he ranks _clarissa harlowe_ very high;[ ] he says _tom jones_ is "truth and human nature itself."[ ] _the vicar of wakefield_ he calls "one of the most delicious morsels of fictitious composition on which the human mind was ever employed." "we return to it again and again," he says, "and bless the memory of an author who contrives so well to reconcile us to human nature."[ ] he praises _tristram shandy_, calling uncle toby and his faithful squire, "the most delightful characters in the work, or perhaps in any other."[ ] the quiet fictions of maria edgeworth and jane austen, the exciting tales of mrs. radcliffe, the sentiment of sterne, even the satires of bage,--all pleased him in one way or another. scott's autobiography contains the following comment on his boyish tastes in the matter of novels: "the whole jemmy and jenny jessamy tribe i abhorred, and it required the art of burney, or the feeling of mackenzie, to fix my attention upon a domestic tale. but all that was adventurous and romantic i devoured without much discrimination."[ ] in later life he learned to exercise his judgment in regard to stories of adventure not less than those of the "domestic" sort, and perhaps the liking for quiet tales grew upon him; at any rate his taste seems remarkably catholic. the most interesting portions of the _lives of the novelists_ are those which show us, by the frequent recurrence of the same subjects, what parts of the theory of novel-writing had particularly engaged scott's attention. for example we find him discussing, most fully in the _life of fielding_, the reasons why a successful novelist is likely not to be a successful playwright. the way in which he looks at the matter suggests that he was thinking quite as much of the probability of failure in his own case should he begin to write plays, as of the subject of the memoir; for fielding wrote his plays before his novels, but the argument assumes a man who writes good novels first and bad plays afterwards. one of his statements seems rather curious and hard to explain,--"though a good acting play may be made by selecting a plot and characters from a novel, yet scarce any effort of genius could render a play into a narrative romance." perhaps he expected the "terryfied" versions of _guy mannering_ and _rob roy_ to hold the stage longer than fate has permitted them to do. from another point of view also he was interested in the connection of the novel and the drama. he felt that the direction of the drama in the modern period had been largely determined by the influence of successful novels; and he probably overestimated the effect of the "romances of calprenède and scudéri" on heroic tragedy.[ ] a subject which recurs even oftener than that of the distinction between drama and novel is the question of supernatural machinery in novels. horace walpole is commended for giving us ghosts without furnishing explanations. indeed the _castle of otranto_ is highly praised;[ ] but so also is mrs. radcliffe's work, except on the one point of the attempt to rationalize mysteries. the kind of romance which she "introduced"[ ] is compared with the melodrama, and its particular mode of appeal is analyzed in very interesting fashion. in the _life of clara reeve_ the proper treatment of ghosts is discussed at length, for that author had contended that ghosts should be very mild and of "sober demeanour." scott justifies her practice, but not her theory, on the following grounds: "what are the limits to be placed to the reader's credulity, when those of common-sense and ordinary nature are at once exceeded? the question admits only one answer, namely, that the author himself, being in fact the magician, shall evoke no spirits whom he is not capable of endowing with manners and language corresponding to their supernatural character." scott writes with much enthusiasm about defoe's famous little ghost-story, _the apparition of mrs. veal_, praising defoe's wonderful skill in making the unreal seem credible. in connection with this tale scott developed a very interesting anecdote to explain the fact that drelincourt's _defence against the fear of death_ is recommended by the apparition. "drelincourt's book," he says, "being neglected, lay a dead stock on the hands of the publisher. in this emergency he applied to de foe to assist him (by dint of such means as were then, as well as now, pretty well understood in the literary world) in rescuing the unfortunate book from the literary death to which general neglect seemed about to consign it." scott goes on to assert that the story was simply a consummately clever advertising device. he may have found the germ of his hypothesis in a bookseller's tradition, but he states it as an assured fact, and doubtless believed it firmly because it seemed so beautifully reasonable. his explanation became the basis of later statements on the subject, and now obliges everyone who discusses defoe to supply a contradiction; for the truth is that drelincourt's book was so highly popular as to have gone through several editions before the ghost of mrs. veal mentioned it. moreover, if scott's little tale was fictitious, defoe's, on the other hand, was really a reporter's version of an experience actually related by the person to whom he assigns it, and his skill in achieving verisimilitude was perhaps in this case less wonderful than his critics have generally supposed.[ ] on the subject of realism, scott was not in general very rigid. in his _life of richardson_ he says: "it is unfair to tax an author too severely upon improbabilities, without conceding which his story could have no existence; and we have the less title to do so, because, in the history of real life, that which is actually true bears often very little resemblance to that which is probable."[ ] but this is perhaps only a plea for one kind of realism. he also refers to the question of historical "keening," and concludes that it is possible to have so much accuracy that the public will refuse to be interested, as _lear_ would hardly be popular on the stage if the hero were represented in the bearskin and paint which a briton of his time doubtless wore.[ ] the motive of the novel is a subject which naturally engages the attention of the novelist-critic. romantic fiction, he thinks may have sufficient justification if it acts as an opiate for tired spirits. a significant antithesis between his point of view in this matter and the more common attitude taken by critics in his time is illustrated by two reviews of mrs. shelley's _frankenstein_, to which we may refer, though the book was later than those included in the _novelists' library_. scott wrote in _blackwood's_: "we ... congratulate our readers upon a novel which excites new reflections and untried sources of emotion."[ ] the _quarterly_ reviewer took the opposite and more conservative attitude and expressed himself thus: "our taste and our judgment alike revolt at this kind of writing, and the greater the ability with which it may be executed the worse it is--it inculcates no lesson of conduct, manners, or morality; it cannot mend, and will not even amuse its readers, unless their taste has been deplorably vitiated--it fatigues the feelings without interesting the understanding; it gratuitously harasses the heart, and wantonly adds to the store, already too great, of painful sensations."[ ] in general scott minimizes the effect of any moral that may be expressed in the novel, but occasionally he seems inconsistent, when he is talking of sentiments that are peculiarly distasteful to him.[ ] but his thesis is that "the direct and obvious moral to be deduced from a fictitious narrative is of much less consequence to the public than the mode in which the story is treated in the course of its details."[ ] in the _life of fielding_ he says of novels: "the best which can be hoped is that they may sometimes instruct the youthful mind by real pictures of life, and sometimes awaken their better feelings and sympathies by strains of generous sentiment, and tales of fictitious woe. beyond this point they are a mere elegance, a luxury contrived for the amusement of polished life." he conceived that his prefaces might be useful to warn readers against any ill effects that might otherwise result from the reading of the accompanying texts; and our comments on the _lives of the novelists_ may fitly close with a quotation which shows the writer's attitude toward the novels and his own criticisms upon them. the passage is taken from the _life of bage_. "we did not think it proper to reject the works of so eminent an author from this collection, merely on account of speculative errors.[ ] we have done our best to place a mark on these; and as we are far from being of opinion that the youngest and most thoughtless derive their serious opinions from productions of this nature, we leave them for our reader's amusement, trusting that he will remember that a good jest is no argument; that the novelist, like the master of a puppet-show, has his drama under his absolute authority, and shapes the events to favour his own opinions; and that whether the devil flies away with punch, or punch strangles the devil, forms no real argument as to the comparative power of either one or other, but only indicates the special pleasure of the master of the motion." scott was deeply in sympathy with the literature of the century within which he was born. to the evidence of his _swift_ and of the _lives of the novelists_ it may be added that he contemplated making a complete edition of pope, and that he professed to like _london_ and _the vanity of human wishes_ the best of all poems. james ballantyne said, rather ambiguously, "i think i never saw his countenance more indicative of high admiration than while reciting aloud from those productions."[ ] in one of his letters scott spoke of the "beautiful and feeling verses by dr. johnson to the memory of his humble friend levett, ... which with me, though a tolerably ardent scotchman, atone for a thousand of his prejudices."[ ] not only did he admire the great biography, but he called boswell "such a biographer as no man but [johnson] ever had, or ever deserved to have."[ ] but he once said that many of the _ramblers_ were "little better than a sort of pageant, where trite and obvious maxims are made to swagger in lofty and mystic language, and get some credit only because they are not understood."[ ] among other eighteenth century writers, addison is distinguished by high praise in a few casual references,[ ] but scott once admitted that he did not like addison so much as he felt to be proper.[ ] a collection of prior's poems scott calls "an english classic of the first order."[ ] he speaks of parnell as "an admirable man and elegant poet,"[ ] and mentions "the ponderous, persevering, and laborious dullness of sir richard blackmore."[ ] but these observations are of little importance except as they indicate that scott had read the authors of the eighteenth century and acquiesced in the conventional judgments upon them. it is seldom in his brief and casual comments that scott is particularly interesting as a critic, except when he is speaking of living writers, for he lacked the gift of conciseness. when he has a large canvas he is at his best, and this he has in the principal works described in this chapter:--_the minstrelsy of the scottish border_, the _works of dryden_, the _works of swift_, and the _lives of the novelists_. chapter iv scott's criticism of his contemporaries scott's freedom from literary jealousy--his disapproval of the typical reviewer's attitude--jeffrey, gifford, and lockhart--his own practice in regard to reviewing--his informal critical remarks--opportunity for favorable judgments afforded by the number of important writers in his period. poets--burns--coleridge--relation of _christabel_ to scott's work--scott's dislike for extreme romanticism--wordsworth--southey--scott's review of _kehama_--byron--scott's opinion of byron's character--campbell--moore--allan cunningham--hogg--crabbe--joanna baillie--matthew lewis--scott's judgment on his early taste for poetry--absence of comment on the work of lamb, landor, hunt, hazlitt, and dequincey. novelists--jane austen--maria edgeworth--cooper--personal relations between scott and cooper--scott's verdict on americans in general--washington irving--goethe--fouqué--scott's interest in men of action. to study scott's relations with contemporary writers is a very pleasant task because nothing shows better the greatness of his heart. his admirable freedom from literary jealousy was an innate virtue which he deliberately increased by cultivation, taking care, also, never to subject himself to the conditions which he thought accounted for the faults of pope, who had "neither the business nor the idleness of life to divide his mind from his parnassian pursuits."[ ] "those who have not his genius may be so far compensated by avoiding his foibles," scott said; and some years later he wrote,--"when i first saw that a literary profession was to be my fate, i endeavoured by all efforts of stoicism to divest myself of that irritable degree of sensibility--or, to speak plainly, of vanity--which makes the poetical race miserable and ridiculous."[ ] the record of his life clearly shows that his kindness towards other men of letters was not limited to words. one who received his good offices has written,--"the sternest words i ever heard him utter were concerning a certain poet: 'that man,' he said, 'has had much in his power, but he never befriended rising genius yet.'"[ ] we may safely say that scott enjoyed liking the work of other men. "i am most delighted with praise from those who convince me of their good taste by admiring the genius of my contemporaries,"[ ] he once wrote to southey. it is commonly supposed that scott's amiability led him into absurd excesses of praise for the works of his fellow-craftsmen, and indeed he did say some very surprising things. but when all his references to any one man are brought together, they will be found, with a few exceptions, pretty fairly to characterize the writer. his _obiter dicta_ must be read in the light of one another, and in the light, also, of his known principles. temperamentally modest about his own work, he was also habitually optimistic, and the combination gave him an utterly different quality from that of the typical _edinburgh_ or _quarterly_ critics. his disapproval of their point of view he expressed more than once.[ ] it seemed to him futile and ungentlemanly for the anonymous reviewer to seek primarily for faults, or "to wound any person's feelings ... unless where conceit or false doctrine strongly calls for reprobation."[ ] "where praise can be conscientiously mingled in a larger proportion than blame," he said, "there is always some amusement in throwing together our ideas upon the works of our fellow-labourers." he thought, indeed, that vituperative and satiric criticism was defeating its own end, in the case of the _edinburgh review_ since it was overworked to the point of monotony. such criticism he considered futile as well on this account as because he thought it likely to have an injurious effect on the work of really gifted writers. an admirer of both jeffrey and scott, who once heard a conversation between the two men, has recorded a distinction which is exactly what we should expect.[ ] he says: "jeffrey, for the most part, entertained us, when books were under discussion, with the detection of faults, blunders, absurdities, or plagiarisms: scott took up the matter where he left it, recalled some compensating beauty or excellence for which no credit had been allowed, and by the recitation, perhaps, of one fine stanza, set the poor victim on his legs again." on jeffrey scott's verdict was, "there is something in his mode of reasoning that leads me greatly to doubt whether, notwithstanding the vivacity of his imagination, he really has any _feeling_ of poetical genius, or whether he has worn it all off by perpetually sharpening his wit on the grindstone of criticism."[ ] his comment on gifford's reviews was to the effect that people were more moved to dislike the critic for his savagery than the guilty victim whom he flagellated.[ ] in the early days of _blackwood's magazine_ scott often tried to repress lockhart's "wicked wit,"[ ] and when lockhart became editor of the _quarterly_ his father-in-law did not always approve of his work. "don't like his article on sheridan's life,"[ ] says the _journal_. "there is no breadth in it, no general views, the whole flung away in smart but party criticism. now, no man can take more general and liberal views of literature than j.g.l."[ ] with these opinions, scott was not likely often to undertake the reviewing of books that did not, in one way or another interest him or move his admiration; and he would lay as much stress as possible on their good points. gifford told him that "fun and feeling" were his forte.[ ] in his early days he was probably somewhat influenced by jeffrey's method, and his articles on todd's _spenser_ and godwin's _life of chaucer_ indicate that he could occasionally adopt something of the tone of the _edinburgh review_. years afterwards he refused to write an article that lockhart wanted for the _quarterly_, saying, "i cannot write anything about the author unless i know it can hurt no one alive"[ ] but for the first volume of the _quarterly_ he reviewed sir john carr's _caledonian sketches_ in a way that sharon turner seriously objected to, because it made sir john seem ridiculous.[ ] some of scott's critics would perhaps apply one of the strictures to himself: "although sir john quotes horace, he has yet to learn that a wise man should not admire too easily; for he frequently falls into a state of wonderment at what appears to us neither very new nor very extraordinary."[ ] but if admiration seems to characterize too great a proportion of scott's critical work, it is because he usually preferred to ignore such books as demanded the sarcastic treatment which he reprehended, but which he felt perfectly capable of applying when he wished. speaking of a fulsome biography he once said, "i can no more sympathize with a mere eulogist than i can with a ranting hero upon the stage; and it unfortunately happens that some of our disrespect is apt, rather unjustly, to be transferred to the subject of the panegyric in the one case, and to poor cato in the other."[ ] besides scott's formal reviews, we find cited as evidence of his extreme amiability his letters, his journal, and the remarks he made to friends in moments of enthusiasm. these do indeed contain some sweeping statements, but in almost every case one can see some reason, other than the desire to be obliging, why he made them. he was not double-faced. one of the nearest approaches to it seems to have been in the case of miss seward's poetry, for which he wrote such an introduction as hardly prepares the reader for the remark he made to miss baillie, that most of it was "absolutely execrable." his comment in the edition of the poems--the publication of which miss seward really forced upon him as a dying request--is sedulously kind, and in _waverley_ he quotes from her a couple of lines which he calls "beautiful." but the essay is most carefully guarded, and throughout it the editor implies that the woman was more admirable than the poetry. personally, indeed, he seems to have liked and admired her.[ ] the catalogue of scott's contemporaries is so full of important names that his genius for the enjoyment of other men's work had a wide opportunity to display itself without becoming absurd. an argument early used to prove that scott was the author of _waverley_ was the frequency of quotation in the novels from all living poets except scott himself, and he felt constrained to throw in a reference or two to his own poetry in order to weaken the force of the evidence.[ ] the reader is irresistibly reminded of the following description, given by lockhart in a letter to his wife, of a morning walk taken by wordsworth and scott in company: "the unknown was continually quoting wordsworth's poetry and wordsworth ditto, but the great laker never uttered one syllable by which it might have been intimated to a stranger that your papa had ever written a line either of verse or prose since he was born."[ ] scott's opinions in regard to his fellow craftsmen may best be given largely in his own words--words which cannot fail to be interesting, however little evidence they show of any attempt to make them quotable. in considering scott's estimation of his contemporaries it is chronologically proper to mention burns first. as a boy of fifteen scott met burns, an event which filled him with the suitable amount of awe. he was most favorably impressed with the poet's appearance and with everything in his manner. the boy thought, however, that "burns' acquaintance with english poetry was rather limited, and also, that having twenty times the abilities of allan ramsay and of ferguson, he talked of them with too much humility as his models."[ ] scott's admiration of burns was always expressed in the highest and, if one may say so, the most affectionate terms. he refused to let himself be named "in the same day" with burns.[ ] "long life to thy fame and peace to thy soul, rob burns!" he exclaimed, in his _journal_; "when i want to express a sentiment which i feel strongly, i find the phrase in shakespeare--or thee."[ ] on another day he compared burns with shakspere as excelling all other poets in "the power of exciting the most varied and discordant emotions with such rapid transitions."[ ] again, "the jolly beggars, for humorous description and nice discrimination of character, is inferior to no poem of the same length in the whole range of english poetry."[ ] scott wished that burns might have carried out his plan of dramatic composition, and regretted, from that point of view, the excessive labor at songs which in the nature of things could not all be masterpieces.[ ] of writers who were more precisely contemporaries of scott, the lake poets and byron are the most important. the precedence ought to be given to coleridge because of the suggestion scott caught from a chance recitation of _christabel_ for the meter he made so popular in the _lay_.[ ] fragments from _christabel_ are quoted or alluded to so often in the novels[ ] and throughout scott's work that we should conclude it had made a greater impression upon him than any other single poem written in his own time, if lockhart had not spoken of wordsworth's sonnet on neidpath castle as one which scott was perhaps fondest of quoting.[ ] _christabel_ is not the only one of coleridge's poems which scott used for allusion or reference, but it was the favorite. "he is naturally a grand poet," scott once wrote to a friend. "his verses on love, i think, are among the most beautiful in the english language. let me know if you have seen them, as i have a copy of them as they stood in their original form, which was afterwards altered for the worse."[ ] the _ancient mariner_ also made a decided impression on him, if we judge from the fact that he quoted from it several times.[ ] scott evidently felt that coleridge was a most tantalizing poet, and once intimated that future generations would in regard to him feel something like milton's desire "to call up him who left half told the story of cambuscan bold."[ ] "no man has all the resources of poetry in such profusion, but he cannot manage them so as to bring out anything of his own on a large scale at all worthy of his genius.... his fancy and diction would have long ago placed him above all his contemporaries, had they been under the direction of a sound judgment and a steady will."[ ] such, in effect, was the opinion that scott always expressed concerning coleridge, and it is practically that of posterity. in _the monastery_ coleridge is called "the most imaginative of our modern bards." in another connection, after speaking of the "exquisite powers of poetry he has suffered to remain uncultivated," scott adds, "let us be thankful for what we have received, however. the unfashioned ore, drawn from so rich a mine, is worth all to which art can add its highest decorations, when drawn from less abundant sources."[ ] these remarks are worth quoting, not only because of their wisdom, but also because scott had small personal acquaintance with coleridge and was rather repelled than attracted by what he knew of the character of the author of _christabel_. his praises cannot in this case be called the tribute of friendship, and his own remarkable power of self-control might have made him a stern judge of coleridge's shortcomings. one of his most interesting comments on coleridge is contained in a discussion of byron's _darkness_, a poem which to his mind recalled "the wild, unbridled, and fiery imagination of coleridge."[ ] _darkness_ is characterized as a mass of images and ideas, unarranged, and the critic goes on to warn the author against indulging in this sort of poetry. he says: "the feeling of reverence which we entertain for that which is difficult of comprehension, gives way to weariness whenever we begin to suspect that it cannot be distinctly comprehended by anyone.... the strength of poetical conception and beauty of diction bestowed upon such prolusions [_sic_], is as much thrown away as the colors of a painter, could he take a cloud of mist or a wreath of smoke for his canvas." it is disappointing that we have no comment from scott upon shelley's poetry, but we can imagine what is would have been.[ ] scott's position as the great popularizer of the romantic movement in poetry makes particularly interesting his very evident though not often expressed repugnance to the more extreme development of that movement. wordsworth's peculiar theory of poetry seemed to scott superfluous and unnecessary, though he was never, so far as we can judge, especially irritated by it.[ ] of wordsworth and southey he wrote to miss seward: "were it not for the unfortunate idea of forming a new school of poetry, these men are calculated to give it a new impulse; but i think they sometimes lose their energy in trying to find not a better but a different path from what has been travelled by their predecessors."[ ] scott paid tribute in the introduction to _the antiquary_ to as much of wordsworth's poetical creed as he could acquiesce in when he said, "the lower orders are less restrained by the habit of suppressing their feelings, and ... i agree with my friend wordsworth that they seldom fail to express them in the strongest and most powerful language." in a letter to southey scott calls wordsworth "a great master of the passions,"[ ] and in his _journal_ he said: his imagination "is naturally exquisite, and highly cultivated by constant exercise."[ ] at another time he compared wordsworth and southey as scholars and commented on the "freshness, vivacity, and spring" of wordsworth's mind.[ ] the personal relations between scott and wordsworth were, as wordsworth's tribute in _yarrow revisited_ would indicate, those of affectionate intimacy. and if scott took exception to wordsworth's choice of subjects and manner, wordsworth used the same freedom in disagreeing with scott's poetical ideals. "thank you," he wrote in , "for _marmion_, which i have read with lively pleasure. i think your end has been attained. that it is not in every respect the end which i should wish you to purpose to yourself, you will be well aware, from what you know of my notions of composition, both as to matter and manner."[ ] when, in , chantrey was about to exhibit together his busts of the two poets, scott wrote: "i am happy my effigy is to go with that of wordsworth, for (differing from him in very many points of taste) i do not know a man more to be venerated for uprightness of heart and loftiness of genius. why he will sometimes choose to crawl upon all fours, when god has given him so noble a countenance to lift to heaven, i am as little able to account for as for his quarrelling (as you tell me) with the wrinkles which time and meditation have stamped his brow withal."[ ] these remarks upon wordsworth and coleridge touch merely the fringe of the subject, and indeed we do not find that scott exercised any such sublimated ingenuity in appreciating these men as has often been considered essential. we can see that he admired certain parts of their work intensely, but we look in vain for any real analysis of their quality. but as he never had occasion to write essays upon their poetry, it is perhaps hardly fair to expect anything more than the general remarks that we actually do find, and as far as they go they are satisfactory. like most of his distinguished contemporaries, scott held the work of southey in surprisingly high estimation.[ ] southey, more than anyone else except wordsworth, and more than wordsworth in some ways, was the "real poet" of the period, devoting his whole heart to literature and his whole time to literary pursuits. scott commented on the fact, saying, "southey's ideas are all poetical," and, "in this respect, as well as in many others, he is a most striking and interesting character."[ ] nevertheless scott found it easy to criticise southey's poems adversely, as we may see from his correspondence. writing to miss seward he pointed out flaws in the story and the characterization of _madoc_,[ ] yet after repeated readings he saw enough to convince him that _madoc_ would in the future "assume his real place at the feet of milton."[ ] _thalaba_ was one of the poems he liked to have read aloud on sunday evenings.[ ] a review of _the curse of kehama_, in which he seemed to express the opinion that this surpassed the poet's previous work, illustrates his professed creed as to criticism. he wrote to ellis concerning his article: "what i could i did, which was to throw as much weight as possible upon the beautiful passages, of which there are many, and to slur over the absurdities, of which there are not a few.... this said _kehama_ affords cruel openings for the quizzers, and i suppose will get it roundly in the _edinburgh review_. i could have made a very different hand of it, indeed, had the order of the day been _pour déchirer_."[ ] if scott had to make an effort in writing the review, he made it with abundant energy. some absurdities are indeed mentioned, but various particular passages are characterized in the most enthusiastic way, with such phrases as "horribly sublime," "impressive and affecting," "reminds us of the satan of milton, yet stands the comparison," "all the gloomy power of dante." it may be noted that scott used milton's name rather freely in comparisons, and that for dante his admiration was altogether unimpassioned,[ ] but the review, after all, is on the whole very laudatory.[ ] in it scott awards to southey the palm for a surpassing share of imagination, which he elsewhere gave to coleridge. possibly scott was the less inclined to be severe over the absurdities of _kehama_ because southey agreed with his own theory as to the evil of fastidious corrections.[ ] at any rate he seems to have been quite sincere in saying to southey, in connection with the poet-laureateship which, according to scott's suggestion, was offered to him in , "i am not such an ass as not to know that you are my better in poetry, though i have had, probably but for a time, the tide of popularity in my favour."[ ] much as scott admired southey, wordsworth, and coleridge, he considered byron the great poetical genius of the period. he once spoke of byron as the only poet of transcendent talents that england had had since dryden.[ ] at another time his comment was: "he wrote from impulse, never from effort; and therefore i have always reckoned burns and byron the most genuine poetical geniuses of my time, and half a century before me. we have ... many men of high poetical talent, but none, i think, of that ever-gushing and perennial fountain of natural water."[ ] the likenesses between byron's poetical manner and scott's own must have made it easy for the elder poet to recognize the power of the younger, since scott was innocent of all repining or envy over the fact which he so freely acknowledged in later years, that byron "beat" him out of the field.[ ] from the time of the appearance of the first two cantos of _childe harold_ he acknowledged the author's "extraordinary power,"[ ] and even before that he had tried to soften jeffrey's harsh treatment of _hours of idleness_.[ ] in he was ready to say, "byron hits the mark where i don't even pretend to fledge my arrow."[ ] it was byron, rather than scott, who realized the debt of the new popular favorite to the old; and their personal relations were of the pleasantest, though they were never intimate as scott was with southey and wordsworth. as poets, scott and byron seem to have understood each other thoroughly.[ ] none of the other great poets of the period did justice to scott, nor did he succeed so well in defining the power of any of the others. his first review of _childe harold_ is the most important of all his articles on the poetry of his time; and his remarks written at the death of lord byron, though brief, are not less full of good judgment. originality, spontaneity, and the ability and inclination to write rapidly were traits scott admired most in byron, and in the vigor and beauty of the poems he found the fine flower of all these qualities. "we cannot but repeat our conviction," he says, "that poetry, being, in its higher classes, an art which has for its elements sublimity and unaffected beauty, is more liable than any other to suffer from the labour of polishing.... it must be remembered that we speak of the higher tones of composition; there are others of a subordinate character where extreme art and labour are not bestowed in vain. but we cannot consider over-anxious correction as likely to be employed with advantage upon poems like those of lord byron, which have for their object to rouse the imagination and awaken the passions."[ ] byron's temperament was far from being of a sort that scott could admire, though he was very susceptible to his personal charm: "byron's countenance is a thing to dream of," he once said;[ ] but he felt that popular estimation did byron injustice. his articles on this poet contain some of his most characteristic moral reflections. something of byron's gloominess scott attributes to the sensitive poetic organization which he felt that byron had in an extreme degree; but more to the perverted habit of looking within rather than around upon the realities of life, in which providence intended men to find their happiness. the philosophy is not novel or brilliant; it is only very sincere and very just; and it supplies to scott's criticism of byron that element of moral reflection which we feel was necessary to the occasion.[ ] but though scott never failed to express disapproval of byron's attitude toward life, he kept his criticism on this point essentially distinct from his judgment on the poetry. in a way it was impossible to separate the two subjects, and the public demanded some discussion of the man when his poetry was reviewed. but scott's verdict on the importance of the poems as such was unaffected by his disapproval of the author's point of view. he praised _don juan_ no less heartily than _childe harold_. his criticism of _don juan_ is, however, to be gathered only from short and incidental remarks, as he never reviewed the poem. a satire written by r.p. gillies is commemorated thus in scott's _journal_: "this poem goes to the tune of _don juan_, but it is the champagne after it has stood two days with the cork drawn."[ ] he called byron "as various in composition as shakspeare himself"; and added, "this will be admitted by all who are acquainted with his _don juan_.... neither _childe harold_, nor any of the most beautiful of byron's earlier tales, contain more exquisite morsels of poetry than are to be found scattered through the cantos of _don juan_."[ ] the defence of _cain_ which scott wrote in accepting the dedication of that poem to himself is well known.[ ] he calls it a "very grand and tremendous drama," and continues, "byron has certainly matched milton on his own ground. some part of the language is bold, and may shock one class of readers, whose tone will be adopted by others out of affectation or envy. but then they must condemn the _paradise lost_, if they have a mind to be consistent." scott's comments on byron are closely paralleled by those of goethe, who considered that byron had the greatest talent of any man of his century.[ ] the opinions of continental critics in general were similar. among english critics matthew arnold aroused many protests when he ranked byron as one of the two greatest english poets of the nineteenth century, but his views seem perfectly rational now; and though he remarked upon the extravagance of scott's phrases his own verdict was not very unlike that we have been considering. scott's enthusiasm about the literature of his own time seems natural enough when we consider that the list of his notable contemporaries is far from exhausted after burns, the lake poets, and byron have been named. campbell was a poet of whose powers he thought very highly, but who, he believed had given only a sample of the great things he might do if he would cease to "fear the shadow of his own reputation." before he wrote about byron scott had given in his review of _gertrude of wyoming_ an exposition of his opinion as to the dangers of extreme care in revision. "the truth is," he says, "that an author cannot work upon a beautiful poem beyond a certain point without doing it real and irreparable injury in more respects than one."[ ] he felt that campbell had worked, in many cases, beyond the "certain point." for the "impetuous lyric sally," like the _mariners of england_ and the _battle of the baltic_, scott rightly thought that campbell excelled all his contemporaries. moore was another lyrist whose poetry scott greatly admired. in moore's case, as in southey's, the contemporary estimate was higher than can now be maintained, but moore is to-day underrated. from what scott says about him we conclude that the man's personality and his way of singing added much to the exquisiteness of his songs. "he seems almost to think in music," scott said, "the notes and words are so happily suited to each other";[ ] and, "it would be a delightful addition to life if t.m. had a cottage within two miles of one."[ ] allan cunningham was a young protege of scott whose songs, "its hame and it's hame," and "a wet sheet and a flowing sea," seemed to him "among the best going."[ ] another poet who received scott's good offices was hogg, whose relations with the greater man are described so vividly and at some points so amusingly by lockhart. scott called him a "wonderful creature for his opportunities."[ ] for the poet crabbe, scott, like byron and wordsworth,[ ] had a steady and high admiration. in the sunday evening readings that lockhart describes as being so pleasant a feature of the life of the family in edinburgh, crabbe was perhaps the chief standing resource after shakspere.[ ] his work was particularly recommended to the young people of the family,[ ] and when the venerable poet visited the scotts in , he was received as a man whom they always looked upon as nobly gifted. scott once wrote of him: "i think if he had cultivated the sublime and the pathetic instead of the satirical cast of poetry, he must have stood very high (as indeed he does at any rate) on the list of british poets. his _sir eustace grey_ and _the hall of justice_ indicate prodigious talent."[ ] scott did not like crabbe's choice of subjects,[ ] but he appreciated the "force and vigour" of a poet whom students of our own day are once more beginning to admire, after a period during which he was practically ignored. scott's very high estimation of joanna baillie has already been mentioned.[ ] in this case as in many others he was proud and happy in the personal friendship of the writer whose works he admired. he once wrote to miss edgeworth: "i have always felt the value of having access to persons of talent and genius to be the best part of a literary man's prerogative."[ ] almost the earliest of the writers for whose friendship scott felt grateful was matthew lewis, famed as the author of _the monk_. lewis was also something of a poet, and was really helpful to scott in giving him advice on literary subjects. though scott perceived that lewis's talents "would not stand much creaming"[ ] he continued to regard him as one who had had high imagination and a "finer ear for rhythm than byron's." scott felt that his own taste in respect to poetry became more rigorous as he grew older. in in a letter to miss baillie he commented on mrs. hemans as "somewhat too poetical for my taste--too many flowers, i mean, and too little fruit--but that may be the cynical criticism of an elderly gentleman; for it is certain that when i was young i read verses of every kind with infinitely more indulgence, because with more pleasure than i can now do--the more shame for me now to refuse the complaisance which i have had so often to solicit."[ ] similarly he speaks in the preface to _kenilworth_ of having once been delighted with the poems of mickle and langhorne: "there is a period in youth when the mere power of numbers has a more strong effect on ear and imagination than in after-life." with these comments we may put lockhart's sagacious remark: "his propensity to think too well of other men's works sprung, of course, mainly from his modesty and good nature; but the brilliancy of his imagination greatly sustained the delusion. it unconsciously gave precision to the trembling outline, and life and warmth to the vapid colours before him."[ ] this and his kindness would account for the latter half of the observation made by his publisher: "i like well scott's ain bairns--but heaven preserve me from those of his fathering."[ ] i have found no reference to landor, a poet whom southey and wordsworth read with eagerness, but mr. forster makes this statement in his _biography of landor_: "among landor's papers i found a list, prepared by himself, of resemblances to passages of his own writing to be found in scott's _tales of the crusaders_. there were several from _gebir_.... the poem had made a great impression on scott, who read it at southey's suggestion."[ ] forster also notes the fact that southey, in a letter to scott written in , spoke very highly of landor's _count julian_.[ ] i am similarly unable to cite any comment by scott on the writings of lamb. was it because scott's genius clung to scotland and lamb's to london, that the two seemed so little to notice each other? it does seem odd that scott never refers to the delightful _specimens of english dramatic poets_. at one time lamb wrote to sir walter asking a contribution toward a fund that was being raised to help william godwin out of pecuniary troubles, and scott replied, through the artist haydon, with a cheque for ten pounds and a pleasant message to mr. lamb, "whom i should be happy to see in scotland, though i have not forgotten his metropolitan preference of houses to rocks, and citizens to wild rustics and highland men."[ ] hazlitt and hunt were two other writers whose literary work scott ignored.[ ] this, as well as his neglect of lamb's and dequincey's essays, may be due largely to the fact that he seldom read newspapers and magazines, and these writers were journalists and contributors to periodicals. voracious reader as scott was, he had to economize time somewhere, and the hours saved from papers could be given to books. we do find one or two references to these men as political writers. scott hoped lockhart would learn, as editor of the _quarterly_, to despise petty adversaries, for "to take notice of such men as hazlitt and hunt in the _quarterly_ would be to introduce them into a world which is scarce conscious of their existence."[ ] among novelists, those of scott's contemporaries to whom he gave the highest praise were women. this is, however to be expected, and it is natural to find jane austen receiving the highest praise of all; since scott was emphatically not of the tribe of critics who are able to appreciate only one kind of novel or poem. her novels seemed to grow upon him and he read them often. it was in connection with her "exquisite touch" that he was moved to reflect, in the words so often quoted from his _journal_, "the big bow-wow strain i can do myself like any now going."[ ] among the expressions of admiration which occur in his review of _emma_,[ ] scott records a characteristic bit of protest in regard to the tendency of miss austen and other novelists to make prudence the guiding motive of all their favorite young women characters, especially in matters of the heart. he did not like this pushing out of cupid to make way for so moderate a virtue as prudence; he thought that it is often good for young people to fall in love without regard to worldly considerations. scott rated miss edgeworth nearly as high as miss austen, and hers is the added honor of having inspired the author of _waverley_ with a desire to emulate her power.[ ] with these two novelists he associated miss ferrier, as well as the somewhat earlier writer, fanny burney.[ ] aside from these women and henry mackenzie, perhaps the highest praise that scott bestowed on any contemporary novelist was given to cooper. here, as in the case of byron, scott seemed to ignore the other writer's indebtedness to himself. he speaks, in the general preface to the waverley novels, of "that striking field in which mr. cooper has achieved so many triumphs"; and at another time calls him "the justly celebrated american novelist." in his _journal_ he comments on _the red rover_[ ] and _the prairie_;[ ] _the pilot_ he recommends warmly in a letter to miss edgeworth.[ ] the personal relations between "the scotch and american lions," as scott called himself and cooper, when they met in parisian society in ,[ ] had some interesting consequences. cooper suggested to scott that he try to secure for himself part of the profits arising from the publication of his works in america, by entering them as the property of some citizen.[ ] they finally concluded to substitute for this plan one suggested by scott, which involved the writing by the author of waverley, of a letter addressed to cooper, to be transmitted by him to some american publisher who would undertake the publication of an authorized edition of which half the profits should go to the author. future works were to be sent over to this publisher in advance of their appearance in england. the letter was really an appeal to the justice of the american people, and contained an allusion to the publication of irving's works in england according to a plan very similar to that proposed by scott. but the scheme failed here in america, and apparently the letter was not made public until cooper, irritated by the appearance in lockhart's _life of scott_ of sir walter's comments on his personal manner,[ ] explained the affair (except the reason for dropping the plan), and published the correspondence in the _knickerbocker magazine_ for april, .[ ] later in the same year cooper wrote a severe review of the biography of scott, attacking his character in a way that seems absurdly exaggerated.[ ] yet charles sumner seems to have thought that cooper made his points, and mr. lounsbury is inclined to agree with him.[ ] one of the milder strictures in cooper's review was as follows "as he was ambitious of, so was he careful to preserve, his personal popularity, of which we have a striking proof in the studied kindnesses that for years were laid before this country in deeds and words, as compared with his real acts and sentiments toward america and americans which are now revealed in his letters." a passage which doubtless roused cooper's ire may be quoted. of the americans scott said, in a letter to miss edgeworth, "they are a people possessed of very considerable energy, quickened and brought into eager action by an honourable love of their country and pride in their institutions; but they are as yet rude in their ideas of social intercourse, and totally ignorant, speaking generally, of all the art of good breeding, which consists chiefly in a postponement of one's own petty wishes or comforts to those of others. by rude questions and observations, an absolute disrespect to other people's feelings, and a ready indulgence of their own, they make one feverish in their company, though perhaps you may be ashamed to confess the reason. but this will wear off and is already wearing away. men, when they have once got benches, will soon fall into the use of cushions. they are advancing in the lists of our literature, and they will not be long deficient in the _petite morale_, especially as they have, like ourselves, the rage for travelling."[ ] scott liked george ticknor,[ ] and he called washington irving "one of the best and pleasantest acquaintances i have made this many a day."[ ] in later life he congratulated himself on having from the first foreseen irving's success.[ ] when we remember also that scott quotes from poor richard,[ ] refers to cotton mather's _magnalia_,[ ] and speaks of "the american brown" as one whose novels might be reprinted in england,[ ] we ought probably to conclude that his acquaintance with our literature was as comprehensive as could have been expected. among continental writers belonging to his period, goethe was very properly the one for whom scott had the strongest admiration. but we find comparatively few references to his reading the great german after the early period of translation. throughout lockhart's _life of scott_ it is evident that the biographer had a more thorough acquaintance with goethe than had scott, and it seems probable that the younger man influenced the elder in his judgment on _faust_ and on goethe's character. in the introduction to _quentin durward_ we find an interesting comment on goethe's success in creating a really wicked mephistopheles, who escapes the noble dignity that milton and byron gave to their pictures of satan. goethe and scott exchanged letters once in ,[ ] and it was a personal grief to sir walter that the german poet's death prevented a visit scott proposed to make him in . in _anne of geierstein_ goethe is called "an author born to arouse the slumbering fame of his country";[ ] and in the _journal_ scott characterizes him as "the ariosto at once and almost the voltaire of germany."[ ] the suggestion for the character of fenella in _peveril of the peak_ was taken from goethe, as we learn by scott's acknowledgment in the introduction. another german from whom scott borrowed a suggestion--this time for the unlucky "white lady of avenel"--was the baron de la motte fouqué. scott was evidently interested in his work, though he thought fouqué sometimes used such a profusion of historical and antiquarian lore that readers would find it difficult to follow the narrative.[ ] sir walter asked his son to tell the baroness de la motte fouqué that he had been much interested in her writings and those of the baron, and added, "it will be civil, for folks like to know that they are known and respected beyond the limits of their own country."[ ] in the literary circles of paris scott more than once experienced the pleasure of finding himself "known and respected" by foreigners,[ ] and he had intimate relations with men of letters in london. on one of his visits there he saw byron almost every morning for some time, at the house of murray the publisher. in edinburgh society scott was naturally a prominent figure, being noted for his fund of anecdote and his superior gifts in presiding at dinners. but however much his kindly personal feeling is reflected in his comments on the literary work of his friends, he was too well-balanced to assume anything of the patronizing tone that such success as his might have made natural to another sort of man. his fellow-poets thought him a delightful person whom they liked so much that they could almost forgive the preposterous success of his facile and unimportant poetry. his full-blooded enjoyment of life and literature tempered without obscuring his critical instinct, and though he was "willing to be pleased by those who were desirous to give pleasure",[ ] he noted the weak points of men to whose power he gladly paid tribute. wordsworth, coleridge, southey, and byron, whom he classed as the great english poets of his time, may, with the exception of southey, be given the places he assigned to them. in regard to byron, scott expressed a critical estimate that the public is only now getting ready to accept after a long period of depreciating byron's genius. the men whose work scott judged fairly and sympathetically represent widely different types. with some of them he was connected by the new impulse that they were imparting to english poetry, but he was so close to the transition period that he could look backward to his predecessors with no sense of strangeness. he was never inclined to quarrel with the "erroneous system" of a poem which he really liked. his comments on byron's _darkness_ suggest that if he had read more than he did of shelley and others among his younger contemporaries he might have found much to reprehend, but he held that "we must not limit poetical merit to the class of composition which exactly suits one's own particular taste."[ ] among novelists even less than among poets can we trace a "school" to which he paid special allegiance. he read and enjoyed all sorts of good stories, growing in this respect more catholic in his tastes, though perhaps more severe in his standards, as he grew older. in speaking of scott's relations with his contemporaries, we must especially remember his ardent interest in those realities of life which he considered greater than the greatest books. in one of his reviews he laid stress on the merit of writing on contemporary events,[ ] and he seemed to think there was too little of such celebration. there are many evidences of his great admiration for those of his contemporaries who were men of action, but it is sufficient to remember that the only man in whose presence scott felt abashed was the duke of wellington, for he counted that famous commander the greatest man of his time. chapter v scott as a critic of his own work lack of dogmatism about his own work--harmony between his talents and his tastes--his conviction of the value of spontaneity and abundance--merits of a rapid meter--greater care necessary in verse writing a reason why he turned to prose--his attitude in regard to revision--modesty about his own work--his opinion of the popular judgment--importance of novelty--rivalry with byron--scott's attempts to keep ahead of his imitators--devices to secure novelty--his resolution to write history--historical motives of his novels--his comments on the use of historical material--his verdict in regard to his descriptive abilities and methods--lack of emphasis on the ethical aspect of his work--his judgment on the position of the novel in literature. "scott is invariably his own best critic," says mr. andrew lang.[ ] of this scott was not himself in the least convinced, and when we recall how, to please his printer, james ballantyne, he tacked on a last scene to _rokeby_, resuscitated the dead athelstane in _ivanhoe_, and eliminated the main motive of _st. ronan's well_, we wish he had been more uniformly inclined to trust his own critical judgment. he never scheduled the qualities of his own genius. a man who could sincerely say what he did about literary immortality would not be apt to develop any dogma in regard to his artistic achievement. "let me please my own generation," he said, "and let those that come after us judge of their taste and my performances as they please; the anticipation of their neglect or censure will affect me very little."[ ] his opinions about his own work are to be deduced largely from casual remarks scattered through his letters and journals. his introductions to his novels, in the _opus magnum_, are valuable sources, however, and the "epistle" preceding _the fortunes of nigel_ is a mine of material, though, unlike the later introductions, it was written "according to the trick," when he was still preserving his anonymity. we have an article which he wrote for the _quarterly_ on two of his own books, the review of _tales of my landlord_.[ ] his criticism of the work of other people is also very helpful in this connection, since from it we may learn what qualities he wished to find in poetry and in the novel, as well as in history, biography, and criticism, the fields in which he did much, though less famous work. the student of his criticism is struck at once by the fact that the qualities which scott particularly admired in literature were those for which he was himself preëminent. yet he cannot be accused, as poe may be, of constructing a theory that those types of art were greatest which he found himself most skilful in exemplifying. scott's nature was of that most efficient kind that enables a man to do such things as he likes to see done. we cannot argue that he was incapable of attending to minute niceties and on this account chose to emphasize the large qualities of literature. for notwithstanding that lack of delicacy which characterized his physical senses and which we might therefore conclude would affect his literary discernment, we have among his small poems some that show his power, occasionally at least, to satisfy the most fastidious critic of detail. evidently he could write in more than one style, and though the style he used most is undoubtedly that which was most natural to him, it was also that which he thought, on other grounds than the character of his own talents, best worth while. yet he had so little vanity in regard to his own work that he could hardly understand his success, though it depended on those very qualities which, in other authors, excited his utmost admiration. one of his fundamental opinions about literary work was that to write much and with abundant spontaneity is better than to polish minutely. over and over again we find this idea expressed, most noticeably in connection with the poet campbell, whom scott could scarcely forgive for making so little use of his poetical gifts. he applauded the much-criticised fertility of byron, whose genius was in that respect akin to his own. "i never knew name or fame burn brighter by over-chary keeping of it,"[ ] scott said. the greatest writers he observed, have been the most voluminous. his position was one that could be fortified by inductive reasoning, contrasting in this respect with theories which seem plausible only until they are tested by actual facts, as, for example, poe's idea that long poems lose effectiveness by their length. but perhaps scott did not sufficiently take into account the circular nature of his argument; for since the world has refused to consider the men very great who "never spoke out," the truth is not so much that a great man ought to write copiously as that if a man does not write copiously he will not be counted great. scott seemed to think it was mere wilfulness that prevented a man of such gifts as campbell's from writing abundantly. the corresponding disadvantages of rapid composition were of course evident to him. from the first appearance of the _lay_ to the end of his career he lamented his inability to plan a story in an orderly manner and follow out the scheme; he admitted also that "the misfortune of writing fast is that one cannot at the same time write concisely."[ ] of _marmion_ he told southey, "i had not time to write the poem shorter."[ ] his grief on these points seems qualified, however, by a conviction that he could not write with deliberation and method and still produce the effect of vivacious spontaneity. he thought fielding was almost the only novelist who had thoroughly succeeded in combining these various admirable qualities,[ ] and he said in this connection, "to demand equal correctness and felicity in those who may follow in the track of that illustrious novelist, would be to fetter too much the power of giving pleasure, by surrounding it with penal rules; since of this sort of light literature it may be especially said--_tout genre est permis, hors le genre ennuyeux_."[ ] "to confess to you the truth," says the "author" in the introductory epistle to _nigel_, "the works and passages in which i have succeeded, have uniformly been written with the greatest rapidity; and when i have seen some of these placed in opposition with others, and commended as more highly finished, i could appeal to pen and standish, that the parts in which i have come feebly off were by much the more laboured." he attempted to write _rokeby_ with great care, but threw the first version into the fire because he concluded that he had "corrected the spirit out of it, as a lively pupil is sometimes flogged into a dunce by a severe schoolmaster."[ ] he was better satisfied with the result when he resumed his pen in his "old cossack manner."[ ] similarly he writes of john home's tragedy, _douglas_, that the finest scene was, "we learn with pleasure but without surprise," unchanged from the first draft;[ ] and elsewhere he speaks of the greater chance for popularity of the "bold, decisive, but light-touched strain of poetry or narrative in literary composition," over the "more highly-wrought performance."[ ] a good exposition of scott's real opinion in regard to his own style is to be found in his review of _tales of my landlord_. some parts of the article were probably inserted by his friend william erskine, but the section i quote bears unmistakable evidence that it was written by the author himself, for it expresses that combined reprobation and approval of his style which is amusingly characteristic of him. he says: "our author has told us that it was his object to present a series of scenes and characters connected with scotland in its past and present state, and we must own that his stories are so slightly constructed as to remind us of the showman's thread with which he draws up his pictures and presents them successively to the eye of the spectator.... against this slovenly indifference we have already remonstrated, and we again enter our protest.... we are the more earnest in this matter, because it seems that the author errs chiefly from carelessness. there may be something of system in it, however, for we have remarked, that with an attention which amounts even to affectation, he has avoided the common language of narrative and thrown his story, as much as possible, into a dramatic shape. in many cases this has added greatly to the effect, by keeping both the actors and action continually before the reader and placing him, in some measure, in the situation of an audience at a theater, who are compelled to gather the meaning of the scene from what the dramatis personae say to each other, and not from any explanation addressed immediately to themselves. but though the author gain this advantage, and thereby compel the reader to think of the personages of the novel and not of the writer, yet the practice, especially pushed to the extent we have noticed, is a principal cause of the flimsiness and incoherent texture of which his greatest admirers are compelled to complain."[ ] lockhart points out that the fruit of scott's study of dryden may have been to fortify his opinion as to what the greatness of literature really consists in, and applies to scott himself some of the phrases used in the characterization of the earlier poet. "'rapidity of conception, a readiness of expressing every idea, without losing anything by the way'; 'perpetual animation and elasticity of thought'; and language 'never laboured, never loitering, never (in dryden's own phrase) cursedly confined,'" are set over against "pointed and nicely turned lines, sedulous study, and long and repeated correction and revision," and are pronounced the superior virtues.[ ] the concluding paragraph of scott's review of a poem on the battle of talavera exemplifies his use of this doctrine. "we have shunned, in the present instance," he says, "the unpleasant task of pointing out and dwelling upon individual inaccuracies. there are several hasty expressions, flat lines, and deficient rhymes, which prove to us little more than that the composition was a hurried one. these, in a poem of a different description, we should have thought it our duty to point out to the notice of the author. but after all it is the spirit of a poet that we consider as demanding our chief attention; and upon its ardour or rapidity must finally hinge our applause or condemnation."[ ] scott's opinions about meters reflect the same taste. he persuaded himself, when he was writing _the lady of the lake_, that the eight-syllable line is "more congenial to the english language--more favourable to narrative poetry at least--than that which has been commonly termed heroic verse,"[ ] and he proceeded to show that the first half-dozen lines of pope's _iliad_ were each "bolstered out" with a superfluous adjective. "the case is different in descriptive poetry," he added, "because there epithets, if they are happily selected, are rather to be sought after than avoided.... but if in narrative you are frequently compelled to tag your substantives with adjectives, it must frequently happen that you are forced upon those that are merely commonplaces." he mentions other beauties of his favorite verse,--the opportunities for variation by double rhyme and by occasionally dropping a syllable, and the correspondence between the length of line and our natural intervals between punctuation,--but gives as his final excuse for using it his "better knack at this 'false gallop' of verse." the argument is ingenious enough, but his analysis of heroic verse has only a limited application, and his last reason probably was, as he was candid enough to admit, the most weighty. george ellis replied to his defence thus: "i don't think, after all the eloquence with which you plead for your favourite metre, that you really like it from any other motive than that _sainte paresse_--that delightful indolence--which induces one to delight in those things which we can do with the least fatigue."[ ] this seems hardly a fair return for the poet's appeal to ellis in one of the epistles of _marmion_:[ ] "come listen! bold in thy applause, the bard shall scorn pedantic laws." another introduction in the same poem is given up to a justification of the author's "unconfined" style, on the score of his love for the wild songs of his own country and the freedom of his early training.[ ] scott practically never rewrote his prose, and the result gave hazlitt opportunity to say:[ ] "we should think the writer could not possibly read the manuscript after he has once written it, or overlook the press."[ ] his habit of carrying two trains of thought on together was also responsible for slips in diction and syntax. an amanuensis working for him noticed this peculiarity, and scott said in his _journal_: "there must be two currents of ideas going on in my mind at the same time.... i always laugh when i hear people say, do one thing at once. i have done a dozen things at once all my life."[ ] but the making of poetry required more attention. "verse i write twice, and sometimes three times over,"[ ] he said, and one is moved to wonder whether the distaste for writing poetry, that he professed about , arose largely from a growing aversion to what he probably considered extreme care in composition.[ ] a series of three comments on his own poetry may be given to illustrate his widely varying moods in regard to it. they are all taken from letters written not far from the time when _marmion_ was published. "as for poetry, it is very little labour to me; indeed 'twere pity of my life should i spend much time on the light and loose sort of poetry which alone i can pretend to write."[ ] "i believe no man now alive writes more rapidly than i do (no great recommendation), but i never think of making verses till i have a sufficient stock of poetical ideas to supply them."[ ] "if i ever write another poem, i am determined to make every single couplet of it as perfect as my uttermost care and attention can possibly effect."[ ] in spite of this momentary resolution to take more pains with his next poem, he was unable to do so when the time came; or if, as in the case of _rokeby_ he did make the attempt, the results seemed to him unsatisfactory. yet verse required much more careful finishing than prose, even when it was written by scott, and this fact has been too little emphasized in discussions of his transition from verse to prose romances. scott's temperamental aversion to revising what he had once written was evidently sanctioned by his literary creed. near the end of his life he recalled how he had submitted one of his earliest poems to the criticism of several acquaintances, with the consequence that after he had adopted their suggestions, hardly a line remained unaltered, and yet the changes failed to satisfy the critics.[ ] he said: "this unexpected result, after about a fortnight's anxiety, led me to adopt a rule from which i have seldom departed during more than thirty years of literary life. when a friend whose judgment i respect has decided and upon good advisement told me that a manuscript was worth nothing, or at least possessed no redeeming qualities sufficient to atone for its defects, i have generally cast it aside; but i am little in the custom of paying attention to minute criticisms or of offering such to any friend who may do me the honour to consult me. i am convinced that, in general, in removing even errors of a trivial or venial kind, the character of originality is lost, which, upon the whole, may be that which is most valuable in the production." this position appears doubly significant when we remember that it was assumed by a man who had only the slightest possible amount of paternal jealousy in regard to his writings.[ ] scott did not always adhere to this resolution, for he did accept criticism and make alterations, more in compliance with the wishes of james ballantyne, his friend and printer, than to meet the desires of anyone else. he considered that ballantyne represented the ordinary popular taste, and he was ready to make some sacrifice of his own judgment in order to satisfy his public. he sent the conclusion of _rokeby_ to ballantyne with this note: "dear james,--i send you this out of deference to opinions so strongly expressed, but still retaining my own, that it spoils one effect without producing another." when one of his books was adversely criticised by the public he received the judgment with open mind, and often analyzed it with much acuteness. the introduction to _the monastery_ is a good example of frank, though not servile, submission to the decree of public opinion. that he was deeply impressed with his blunder in managing the white lady of avenel may be surmised from the fact that in several later discussions of the effect of supernatural apparitions in novels, he emphasized the necessity of keeping them sufficiently infrequent to preserve an atmosphere of mystery. of _the monastery_ he said: "i agree with the public in thinking the work not very interesting; but it was written with as much care as the others--that is, with no care at all."[ ] but sometimes he felt inclined to rebel against a popular verdict, as when norna, in _the pirate_, was said to be a mere copy of meg merrilies.[ ] in his later days he grew more and more unsure of himself, as he felt compelled to work at his topmost speed. his _journal_ for has the following record in regard to a review he was writing: "i began to warm in my gear, and am about to awake the whole controversy of goth and celt. i wish i may not make some careless blunders."[ ] the criticisms of "j.b." became more frequent and more irritating to him as he felt a growing inability to achieve precision in details.[ ] when lockhart pointed out some lapses in his style, he wrote in his _journal_, "well! i will try to remember all this, but after all i write grammar as i speak, to make my meaning known, and a solecism in point of composition, like a scotch word in speaking, is indifferent to me."[ ] until he felt his powers failing, he was for the most part at once good-natured and independent in his manner of receiving criticism. whether or not he agreed with the opinion expressed, he usually thought that what he had once written might best stand, though he might be influenced in later work by the advice that had been given.[ ] "i am sensible that if there be anything good about my poetry or prose either," scott wrote, in a passage that has often been quoted, "it is a hurried frankness of composition which pleases soldiers, sailors and young people of bold and active disposition."[ ] i have tried to show that this quality was one which he not only enjoyed, in his own work and in that of other writers, but that as a critic he very seriously approved of it. yet in spite of his belief that the greatest literature is not the result of slow and painful labor, it was probably the ease with which he wrote which led him to undervalue his own work. however we may account for it, he found difficulty in regarding himself as a great author.[ ] when this modesty of his came into conflict with the other opinion that he had always been inclined to hold--that the popularity of books is a test of their merit--the result is amusing. he was impelled at times to utter contemptuous words about the foolishness of the public, and of course he could not help being moved also in the other direction--to believe there was more in his writings than he had realized. in one mood he said, "i thank god i can write ill enough for the present taste";[ ] and "i have very little respect for that dear _publicum_ whom i am doomed to amuse, like goody trash in _bartholomew fair_, with rattles and gingerbread; and i should deal very uncandidly with those who may read my confessions were i to say i knew a public worth caring for, or capable of distinguishing the nicer beauties of composition. they weigh good and evil qualities by the pound. get a good name and you may write trash. get a bad one and you may write like homer, without pleasing a single reader."[ ] looking back from the end of his career to the time when _the lady of the lake_ was in the height of its success, he wrote: "it must not be supposed that i was either so ungrateful or so superabundantly candid as to despise or scorn the value of those whose voice had elevated me so much higher than my own opinion told me i deserved. i felt, on the contrary, the more grateful to the public as receiving that from partiality which i could not have claimed from merit; and i endeavoured to deserve the partiality by continuing such exertions as i was capable of for their amusement."[ ] the perfect respectability of these remarks tempts the reader to set over against them this earlier observation by the same writer in the guise of chrystal croftangry, "one thing i have learned in life--never to speak sense when nonsense will answer the purpose as well."[ ] whatever scott might think of the worth of public admiration, he frankly attempted to write what would be popular. he had none of the feeling which has characterized many very interesting men of letters, that the desire for self-expression is the one motive of the author; his personal literary impulse, on the contrary, was always guided by the thought of the audience whom he was addressing. "no one shall find me rowing against the stream," says the "author" in the introductory epistle to _nigel_. "i care not who knows it--i write for general amusement; and though i will never aim at popularity by what i think unworthy means, i will not, on the other hand, be pertinacious in the defence of my own errors against the voice of the public." of his last "apoplectic books," he wrote, "i am ashamed, for the first time in my life, of the two novels, but since the pensive public have taken them, there is no more to be said but to eat my pudding and to hold my tongue."[ ] early in his career he seems to have felt that he could make a good deal of money by writing, if he should wish.[ ] towards the end he said, "i know that no literary speculation ever succeeded with me but where my own works were concerned; and that, on the other hand, these have rarely failed."[ ] the popularity of his own books was so great that they required a special category. he seemed to be incapable of ascribing their success to extraordinary excellence, and he settled down to the opinion that it was simply their novelty that the public cared for. the enthusiastic welcome given him by the irish when he visited dublin caused him to say in one of his letters, "were it not from the chilling recollection that novelty is easily substituted for merit, i should think, like the booby in steele's play,[ ] that i had been kept back, and that there was something more about me than i had ever been led to suspect."[ ] he assumed that he had studied popular taste enough to have some knowledge of its shiftings, so that he might "set every sail towards the breeze."[ ] "i may be mistaken," he once wrote, "but i do think the tale of elspat m'tavish in my bettermost manner, but j.b. roars for chivalry. he does not quite understand that everything may be overdone in this world, or sufficiently estimate the necessity of novelty. the highlanders have been off the field now for some time."[ ] his comment on _ivanhoe_ was still more emphatic. "novelty is what this giddy-paced time demands imperiously, and i certainly studies as much as i could to get out of the old beaten track, leaving those who like to keep the road, which i have rutted pretty well."[ ] believing from the beginning of his career that novelty was the chief merit of his work, he was prepared to live up to his principles. so it was that when he was "beaten" by byron in metrical romances, he dropped with hardly a regret, so far as we can judge, the kind of writing in which he had attained such remarkable popularity, and turned to another kind. "since one line has failed, we must just stick to something else," he remarked, calmly.[ ] this was when the small sales of _the lord of the isles_ as compared with the earlier poems warned scott and his publisher in a very tangible way that the field had been captured by byron. at this time _waverley_ was in the market and _guy mannering_ was in process of composition. though it was to his poetry that he chose to give his name, scott had little reason to feel forlorn, as the sale of the novels from the very beginning was a pretty effective consolation for any possible hurt to his vanity. he could have owned them as his at any moment, had he chosen to do so. he did not read criticisms of his books, but was satisfied, as one of his friends observed, "to accept the intense avidity with which his novels are read, the enormous and continued sale of his works, as a sufficient commendation of them."[ ] in the case of byron, as always when the public approved the works of one of his brother authors, he considered the popular judgment right. scott did not altogether stop writing poetry, however, as is sometimes supposed. _the field of waterloo_ and _harold the dauntless_ were both written after this time; and the mottoes and lyrics in the novels compose a delightful body of verse. the fact seems to be that he lost zest for writing long poems, partly because of the favor with which byron's poems were received, and his own consequent feeling of inferiority in poetic composition; partly because of his discovery of the greater ease with which he could write prose, and the greater scope it gave him. the more ambitious attempts among the poems which he wrote after are comparative failures. but the poetry in his nature prevented him from entirely giving over the composition of verse, and he found real delight in the occasional writing of short pieces that required no continued effort. they were usually made to be used in the novels, for after the publication of _guy mannering_ novel-writing became specifically scott's occupation.[ ] the price of his success in any direction was that he was unable to keep his field to himself. having set a fashion, he was more than once annoyed by the crowd who wrote in his style and made him feel the necessity of striking out a new line.[ ] it was comparatively easy for the vigorous man who wrote _waverley_, but in the end, when through his losses he was more than ever obliged to hit the popular taste, to feel that he must find a new style seemed a hard fate. yet he meant to be beforehand in the race. this is the record in his _journal_: "hard pressed as i am by these imitators, who must put the thing out of fashion at last, i consider, like a fox at his last shifts, whether there be a way to dodge them--some new device to throw them off, and have a mile or two of free ground while i have legs and wind left to use it. there is one way to give novelty: to depend for success on the interest of a well-contrived story. but woe's me! that requires thought, consideration--the writing out a regular plan or plot--above all, the adhering to one--which i never can do, for the ideas rise as i write, and bear such a disproportioned extent to that which each occupied at the first concoction, that (cocksnowns!) i shall never be able to take the trouble; and yet to make the world stare, and gain a new march ahead of them all! well, something we still will do."[ ] by an easy extension of his principle, he came to believe that novelty would always succeed for a time. the opinion is expressed often in his reviews, and in his journal and letters is applied to his own work. so it was that when any one of his books seemed partially to fail with the public, his immediate impulse was to look for something new to be done.[ ] one of his schemes was a work on popular superstitions, projected when _quentin durward_ seemed to be falling flat; but the success of the novel made the immediate execution of the plan unnecessary.[ ] it was largely his desire to secure variety that encouraged him to undertake historical writing. he had also a theory about how history should be written, and so he felt that the novelty would consist in something more than the fact that the author of waverley had taken a new line. he wished, as thackeray did later when he proposed to write a history of the age of queen anne, to use in an avowedly serious book the material with which he had stored his imagination; and he believed he could present it with a vivacity that was not characteristic of professional historians. the success of the first series of _tales of a grandfather_ served to confirm the opinion he had expressed about them,--"i care not who knows it, i think well of them. nay, i will hash history with anybody, be he who he will."[ ] scott had a very just sense of the value of his great stores of information. he did say that he would give one half his knowledge if so he might put the other half upon a well-built foundation,[ ] but as years went on he learned to use with ease the accumulations of knowledge which in his youth had proved often unwieldy; and more than once he congratulated himself that he beat his imitators by possessing historical and antiquarian lore which they could only acquire by "reading up."[ ] though he testified that in the beginning of his first novel he described his own education, he could hardly apply to himself what is there said of waverley, that, "while he was thus permitted to read only for the gratification of his amusement, he foresaw not that he was losing forever the opportunity of acquiring habits of firm and assiduous application, of gaining the art of controlling, directing, and concentrating the powers of his mind for earnest investigation."[ ] it was otherwise with scott himself. the result of the wide and desultory reading of his youth, acting upon a remarkably strong memory, was to put him into the position, as he says, of "an ignorant gamester, who kept a good hand until he knew how to play it."[ ] so it was that he said of those who followed his lead in writing historical novels, "they may do their fooling with better grace; but i, like sir andrew aguecheek, do it more natural."[ ] his knowledge of history and antiquities was that part of his intellectual equipment in which he seemed to take most pride. he had the highest opinion of the value of historical study for ripening men's judgment of current affairs,[ ] and indeed there were few relations of life in which an acquaintance with history did not seem to him indispensable. but he felt that historical writing had not been adapted "to the demands of the increased circles among which literature does already find its way."[ ] accordingly he resolved to use in the service of history that "knack ... for selecting the striking and interesting points out of dull details," which he felt was his endowment.[ ] the original introduction to the _tales of the crusaders_ has the following burlesque announcement of his intention, in the words of the eidolon chairman: "i intend to write the most wonderful book which the world ever read--a book in which every incident shall be incredible, yet strictly true--a work recalling recollections with which the ears of this generation once tingled, and which shall be read by our children with an admiration approaching to incredulity. such shall be the _life of napoleon_, by the _author of waverley_." he wished to controvert "the vulgar opinion that the flattest and dullest mode of detailing events must uniformly be that which approaches nearest to the truth."[ ] there is no doubt that his histories are readable, yet we feel that southey was right in his comment on the _life of napoleon_,--"it was not possible that sir walter could keep up as a historian the character which he had obtained as a novelist; and in the first announcement of this 'life' he had, not very wisely, promised something as stimulating as his novels. alas! he forgot that there could be no stimulus of curiosity in it."[ ] a recent critic has said, "scott lost half his power of vitalizing the past when he sat down formally to record it--when he turned from his marvellous recreation of james i. to give a laboured but very ordinary portrait of napoleon."[ ] his partial failure in this instance may have been due to an unfortunate choice of subject. only a few years before he wrote the book scott had been thinking of napoleon as a "tyrannical monster,"[ ] a "singular emanation of the evil principle,"[ ] "the arch-enemy of mankind,"[ ]--phrases which, in spite of their vividness, hardly seem to promise a life-like portrayal of the man.[ ] in one notable respect, scott's conception of how history should be written was very modern: he would depict the life of the people, not simply the actions of kings and statesmen. his historical novels, said carlyle, "taught all men this truth, which looks like a truism, and yet was as good as unknown to writers of history and others, till so taught: that the bygone ages of the world were actually filled by living men, not by protocols, state-papers, controversies, and abstractions of men."[ ] one who has the academic notion that a novel, to be great, must be written with no ulterior purpose, is almost startled to observe how definitely scott considered it the function of his novels to portray ancient manners. speaking of old romances as a source which we may use for studying about our ancestors, he said: "from the romance, we learn what they were; from the history, what they did: and were we to be deprived of one of these two kinds of information, it might well be made a question, which is most useful or interesting."[ ] he wished to make his own romances serve much the same purpose as those written in the midst of the customs which they unconsciously reflected. of _waverley_ he said, "it may really boast to be a tolerably faithful portrait of scottish manners."[ ] he interrupts the story of _the pirate_ to describe the charm of the leaden heart, and offers this excuse: "as this simple and original remedy is peculiar to the isles of thule, it were unpardonable not to preserve it at length, in a narrative connected with scottish antiquities."[ ] his comment on _ivanhoe_ was as follows: "i am convinced that however i myself may fail in the ensuing attempt, yet, with more labour in collecting, or more skill in using, the materials within his reach, illustrated as they have been by the labours of dr. henry, of the late mr. strutt, and above all, of mr. sharon turner, an abler hand would have been successful."[ ] scott's early reading was only the basis for the research that he undertook afterwards.[ ] much of this later study was accomplished when he was engaged upon such books as _somers' tracts_, _dryden's_ and _swift's works_, and the other historical publications that make the bibliography of scott so surprising to the ordinary reader; but some of his investigations were undertaken specifically for the novels. the _literary correspondence_ of his publisher, archibald constable, contains many evidences of scott's efforts, assisted often by constable, to get antiquarian and topographical details correct in the novels. in constable suggested that sir walter write a story of the time of james i. of england, and was told, "if you can suggest anything about the period i will be happy to hear from you; you are always happy in your hints."[ ] some years earlier the author and the publisher had a correspondence concerning a series of letters on the history of scotland which the former was planning to write, and which he wished to publish anonymously for the following reason: "i have not the least doubt that i will make a popular book, for i trust it will be both interesting and useful; but i never intended to engage in any proper historical labour, for which i have neither time, talent, nor inclination.... in truth it would take ten years of any man's life to write such a history of scotland as he should put his name to."[ ] he called his _napoleon_ "the most severe and laborious undertaking which choice or accident ever placed on my shoulders."[ ] more than once scott expresses the opinion that though novels may be useful to arouse curiosity about history, and to impart some knowledge to people who will not do any serious thinking, they may, on the other hand, work harm by satisfying with their superficial information those who would otherwise read history.[ ] it seems as if he designed the _life of napoleon_ and the _history of scotland_ for a new reading class that the novels had been creating, and as if he wished to make the step of transition not too long. we can almost fancy them as a series of graded books arranged to lead the people of great britain up to a sufficient height of historical information. the _tales of a grandfather_ were intended for the beginners who had never been infected by the common heresy concerning the dulness of history, and who were blessed with sufficiently active imagination to make the sugar-coating of fiction superfluous.[ ] but great as was the interest that scott took in the historical aspect of his work, his artistic sense guided his use of materials, and he was well aware of the danger of over-working the mine. the principles on which he chose periods and events to represent are illustrated in many of the introductions. of _the fortunes of nigel_ he said: "the reign of james i., in which george heriot flourished, gave unbounded scope to invention in the fable, while at the same time it afforded greater variety and discrimination of character than could, with historical consistency, have been introduced if the scene had been laid a century earlier."[ ] his first published attempt at fiction-writing was a conclusion to the novel, _queenhoo-hall_,[ ] of which his opinion was that it would never be popular because antiquarian knowledge was displayed in it too liberally. "the author," he says, "forgot ... that extensive neutral ground, the large proportion, that is, of manners and sentiments which are common to us and to our ancestors, having been handed down unaltered from them to us, or which, arising out of the principles of our common nature, must have existed in either state of society."[ ] scott's practice in regard to the language of his historical novels was based on much the same theory. he intended to admit "no word or turn of phraseology betraying an origin directly modern,"[ ] but to avoid obsolete words for the most part; and he never attempted to follow with fidelity the style of the exact age of which he was writing. the translation of froissart by lord berners seemed to him a sufficiently good model to serve for the whole mediaeval period.[ ] in his review of _tales of my landlord_ he says of the proem to his book: "it is written in the quaint style of that prefixed by gay to his _pastorals_, being, as johnson terms it, 'such imitation as he could obtain of obsolete language, and by consequence, in a style that was never written or spoken in any age or place.'" his _journal_ contains observations on several historical novels which were of little consequence, as, for example, on one by a mr. bell,--"he goes not the way to write it; he is too general, and not sufficiently minute";[ ] and on _the spae-wife_, by galt,--"he has made his story difficult to understand, by adopting a region of history little known."[ ] on the other hand he remarked, when someone had suggested a number of historical subjects to him,--"people will not consider that a thing may already be so well told in history, that romance ought not in prudence to meddle with it";[ ] and at another time he spoke of "the usual habit of antiquarians," to "neglect what is useful for things that are merely curious."[ ] aside from the familiar knowledge of ancient manners which he thought enabled him to give his tales the necessary touch of novelty, and from the "hurried frankness," or spontaneity of style which endowed them with vitality, scott believed that his talents included a special knack at description. he felt, however, that a sense of the picturesque in action was a different thing from a similar perception in regard to scenery, and that though the first was natural to him, he was obliged to use effort to develop the second.[ ] some study of drawing in his youth helped him to comprehend the demands of perspective, and he endeavored to carry out the principle of describing a scene in the way in which it would naturally strike the spectator, neither overloading with confused detail nor over-emphasizing what should be subordinate.[ ] that his plan was consciously adopted may be seen from his discussion of byron's skill in description and from his comments on the descriptive passages of the mediaeval romances.[ ] at the same time he understood the advantages of the realistic method. on one occasion he stated as his creed, "that in nature herself no two scenes were exactly alike, and that whoever copied truly what was before his eyes would possess the same variety in his descriptions, and exhibit apparently an imagination as boundless as the range of nature in the scenes he recorded; whereas, whoever trusted to imagination would soon find his own mind circumscribed and contracted to a few favourite images, and the repetition of these would sooner or later produce that very monotony and barrenness which had always haunted descriptive poetry in the hands of any but the patient worshippers of truth."[ ] wordsworth disapproved of scott's method in description. he is quoted as having said: "nature does not permit an inventory to be made of her charms! he should have left his pencil and note-book at home [and] fixed his eye as he walked with a reverent attention on all that surrounded him."[ ] somewhat like a rejoinder sounds another remark of scott's, in phrases that wordsworth would have detested. scott said cheerfully, "as to the actual study of nature, if you mean the landscape gardening of poetry ... i can get on quite as well from recollection, while sitting in the parliament house, as if wandering through wood and wold."[ ] at another time he said, "if a man will paint from nature, he will be likely to amuse those who are daily looking at it."[ ] though scott prided himself somewhat on his descriptive powers he realized that he could not do his best work on minute canvases. we have already seen how he contrasted himself with jane austen. "the exquisite touch," he said, "which renders ordinary commonplace things and characters interesting from the truth of the description and the sentiment, is denied to me."[ ] of scott's opinion in regard to the ethical effect of novels, i have already spoken.[ ] the fact that he refused to use the conventional plea of a desire to improve public morals, and that he understood how little a reader is really influenced by the exalted sentiments of heroes of fiction, gave carlyle a fit of righteous indignation;[ ] but it is futile to say that scott "had no message to deliver to the world." he might have retorted, in the words which he once used about homer,--"doubtless an admirable moral may be often extracted from his poem; because it contains an accurate picture of human nature, which can never be truly presented without conveying a lesson of instruction. but it may shrewdly be suspected that the moral was as little intended by the author as it would have been the object of an historian, whose work is equally pregnant with morality, though a detail of facts be only intended."[ ] it was a comfort to scott at the end of his life to reflect that the tendency of all he had written was morally good,[ ] and we can well believe that he was pleased by the enthusiastic tribute of his young critic, j.l. adolphus, who said of his books: "there is not an unhandsome action or degrading sentiment recorded of any person who is recommended to the full esteem of the reader."[ ] that scott considered poetical power very important for a writer of novels, he made evident in his _lives of the novelists_. mr. herford has said, but surely without good reason, that scott wholly lacked the sense of mystery, and that in this respect mrs. radcliffe was more modern than he.[ ] yet it was scott who censured mrs. radcliffe for explaining her mysteries. he had a vein of superstition in his nature, too, about which he might have said, using the words given to a character in one of his stories,--"it soothes my imagination, without influencing my reason or conduct."[ ] a liking for the wonderful and terrible, which he felt from his earliest childhood, was one manifestation of a poetical temperament which is so apparent that there is no need of reciting the evidence. the poetical qualities in the waverley novels gave adolphus one of his favorite arguments in the attempt to prove that scott was the author. yet scott seemed to feel that his position as a writer of popular fiction, however much the novel is capable of being the vehicle of imagination and poetical power, was not a really high one. james ballantyne persuaded him to omit from one of his introductions a passage that seemed to belittle the occupation of his life,[ ] but in the introduction to _the abbot_ he wrote: "though it were worse than affectation to deny that my vanity was satisfied at my success in the department in which chance had in some measure enlisted me, i was nevertheless far from thinking that the novelist or romance-writer stands high in the ranks of literature." the ideal which he set for himself is indicated in the following passage of his article on _tales of my landlord_: "if ... the features of an age gone by can be recalled in a spirit of delineation at once faithful and striking ... the composition is in every point of view dignified and improved; and the author, leaving the light and frivolous associates with whom a careless observer would be disposed to ally him, takes his seat on the bench of the historians of his time and country." he once expressed the opinion that the historical romance approaches, in some measure, when it is nobly executed, to the epic in poetry.[ ] when a medal of scott, engraved from the bust by chantrey, was struck off, he suggested the motto which was used: "bardorum citharas patrio qui reddidit istro," and said, "because i am far more vain of having been able to fix some share of public attention upon the ancient poetry and manners of my country, than of any original efforts which i have been able to make in literature."[ ] the following commendation, which he wrote for a book of portraits accompanied by essays, might be made to apply to his novels: "it is impossible for me to conceive a work which ought to be more interesting to the present age than that which exhibits before our eyes our 'fathers as they lived'"[ ] he felt strongly the value and importance of past manners, faiths and ideals for the present, and from this point of view took satisfaction in the social and ethical teaching of his novels. on the whole, scott's opinions about his own work fitted well with his general literary principles, except that his modesty inclined him to discount his own performance while he overestimated that of others. with this qualification we may remember that he always spoke sensibly about his work, without affectation, and with abundant geniality. we are reminded of the comment on molière quoted by scott from a french writer,--"he had the good fortune to escape the most dangerous fault of an author writing upon his own compositions, and to exhibit wit, where some people would only have shown vanity and self-conceit."[ ] chapter vi scott's position as critic comparison of scott with jeffrey and with the romantic critics--his criticism largely appreciative--romantic in special cases and augustan in attitude--comparison with coleridge--scott's respect for the verdict of the public--his opinion that elucidation is the function of criticism--use of historical illustration--hesitation about analysing poetry--political criticism--verdict of his contemporaries on his criticism--influence as a critic--literary prophecies--character of his critical work as a whole--his attitude towards it--lack of system--broad fields he covered--his greatness a reason for the importance of his criticism. important as scott's poetry was in the english romantic revival, as a critic he can hardly be counted among the romanticists. his attitude, nevertheless, differed radically from that of the school represented by jeffrey and gifford. we have already seen that he disliked their manner of reviewing, and that he was conscious of complete disagreement with jeffrey in regard to poetic ideals. of jeffrey mr. gates has said: "[he] rarely _appreciates_ a piece of literature.... he is always for or against his author; he is always making points."[ ] that scott was influenced in his early critical work by the tone of the _edinburgh review_ is undeniable, but temperamentally he was inclined to give any writer a fair chance to stir his emotions; and he did not adopt the magisterial mood that dictated the famous remark, "this will never do." scott's style lacked the adroitness and pungency which helped jeffrey successfully to take the attitude of the censor, and which made his satire triumphant among his contemporaries. scott declined, moreover, to cultivate skill in a method which he considered unfair. compared with jeffrey's his criticism wanted incisiveness, but it wears better. the period was transitional, and jeffrey did not go so far as scott in breaking away from the dictation of his predecessors. but his attitude was on the whole more modern than the reader would infer from the following sentence in one of his earliest reviews: "poetry has this much at least in common with religion, that its standards were fixed long ago by certain inspired writers, whose authority it is no longer lawful to call in question."[ ] he considered himself rather an interpreter of public opinion than a judge defining ancient legislation, but he used the opinion of himself and like-minded men as an unimpeachable test of what the greater public ought to believe in regard to literature. we may remember that the enthusiasm over the elizabethan dramatists which seems a special property of lamb and hazlitt, and which scott shared, was characteristic also of jeffrey himself. it was jeffrey's dogmatism and his repugnance to certain fundamental ideas which were to become dominant in the poetry of the nineteenth century that lead us to consider him one of the last representatives of the eighteenth century critical tradition. scott praised the augustan writers as warmly as jeffrey did, but he was more hospitable to the newer literary impulse. "perhaps the most damaging accusation that can be made against jeffrey as a critic," says mr. gates, "is inability to read and interpret the age in which he lived."[ ] scott's criticism was largely appreciative, but appreciative on a somewhat different plane from that of the contemporary critics whom we are accustomed to place in a more modern school: hazlitt, hunt, lamb, and coleridge. his judgments were less delicate and subtle than the judgments of these men were apt to be, and more "reasonable" in the eighteenth-century sense; they were marked, however, by a regard for the imagination that would have seemed most unreasonable to many men of the eighteenth century. scott had not a fixed theory of literature which could dominate his mind when he approached any work. he was open-minded, and in spite of his extreme fondness for the poetry of dr. johnson he was apt to be on the romantic side in any specific critical utterance. we have seen also that he resembled the romanticists in his power to disengage his verdicts on literature from ethical considerations. on the other hand he seems always to have deferred to the standard authorities of the classical criticism of his time when his own knowledge was not sufficient to guide him. in discussing roscommon's essay on translated verse he wrote: "it must be remembered that the rules of criticism, now so well known as to be even trite and hackneyed, were then almost new to the literary world."[ ] perhaps the main reason why one would not class scott's critical work with that of the romanticists is that he had no desire to proclaim a new era in creative literature or in criticism. like the romanticists he was ready to substitute "for the absolute method of judging by reference to an external standard of 'taste,' a method at once imaginative and historical";[ ] yet he talked less about imagination than about good sense. the comparison with boileau suggests itself, for scott admired that critic in the conventional fashion, calling him "a supereminent authority,"[ ] and boileau also had said much about "reason and good sense." but scott had an appreciation of the _furor poeticus_ that made "good sense" quite a different thing to him from what it was to boileau. he did not say, moreover, that the poet should be supremely characterized by good sense, but that the critic, recognizing the facts about human emotion, should make use of that quality. the subjective process by which experience is transmuted into literature engaged scott's attention very little: in this respect also he stands apart from the newer school of critics. the metaphysical description of imagination or fancy interested him less than the piece of literature in which these qualities were exhibited. his own mental activities were more easily set in motion than analysed, and the introspective or philosophical attitude of mind was unnatural to him. because of his adoption of the historical method of studying literature, and the similarity of many of his judgments to those which were in general characteristic of the romantic school, we may say that scott's criticism looks forward; but it shows the influence of the earlier period in its acceptance of traditional judgments based on external standards which disregarded the nature of the creative process. from coleridge scott is separated in the most definite way. coleridge began at the foundation, building up a set of principles such as the new impulse in literature seemed to demand. scott preferred the concrete, and was stimulated by the particular book to express opinions that would never have come to his mind as the result of pursuing a train of unembodied ideas. coleridge's judgments, moreover, would be unaffected by public estimation, for he sought to found them on the spiritual and philosophic consciousness that exists apart from the crowd.[ ] scott, on the other hand, was ready to use popular judgment as an important test of his opinions. coleridge himself pointed out another interesting contrast. he wrote: "dear sir walter scott and myself were exact, but harmonious opposites in this;--that every old ruin, hill, river, or tree, called up in his mind a host of historical or biographical associations, ... whereas, for myself, notwithstanding dr. johnson, i believe i should walk over the plain of marathon without taking more interest in it than in any other plain of similar features."[ ] we might perhaps say that coleridge's affection was given to ideas, scott's, to objects; hence coleridge was a critic of literary principles and theories, scott a critic of individual books and writers. it follows that scott was on the whole an impressionistic critic. a study of his personality is essential to a consideration of his critical work, for he was not so much a systematic student of literature, guided by fixed principles, as a man of a certain temperament who read particular things and made particular remarks about them as he felt inclined. the inconsistencies and contradictions which would naturally result from such a procedure are occasionally noticeable, but they are fewer than would occur in the work of a less well-balanced man than himself. his ideas about criticism were influenced by his feeling that the judgment of the public would after all take its own course, and that it was in the long run the best criterion. he used his opinion that an author, even in his own lifetime, commonly receives fair treatment from the public, as an argument against establishing in england any literary body having the power of pensioning literary men.[ ] on this subject he said, "there is ... really no occasion for encouraging by a society the competition of authors. the land is before them, and if they really have merit they seldom fail to conquer their share of public applause and private profit.... i cannot, in my knowledge of letters, recollect more than two men whose merit is undeniable while, i am afraid, their circumstances are narrow. i mean coleridge and maturin." scott's whole attitude toward criticism shows that he felt its supreme function to be elucidation. it should also, he believed, warn the world against books that were foolish, or pernicious, intellectually or morally; but unless there were good reason for issuing such warnings the bad books should be ignored and the good treated sympathetically, not without such discrimination as should distinguish between the better and the worse in them, but with emphasis on the better. his literary creed, though not formulated into a system, was conscious and fairly definite; but it consisted of general principles which never resolved themselves into intricate subtleties requiring great space for their development. scott could not think in that way, and he felt convinced that such thinking was useless and worse than useless. a magazine-writer of his own period who said of him,--"the author of _waverley_, we apprehend, has neither the patience nor the disposition requisite for writing philosophically upon any subject,"[ ] was mistaken, for much of scott's criticism, without making any pretensions, is really philosophical. but any fine-drawn analysis seemed to him to serve the vanity of the critic rather than the need of the public; and he despised that arrogance in the critic which leads him to assume to direct literary taste. historical illustration was that kind of editorial work which he found most congenial, and which harmonized best with his critical principles; for when he could bring definite facts to the service of elucidation he felt that he was doing something worth while. among all the introductions and annotations that we have from his hand, including those of the _dryden_ and the _swift_, this kind of explanation greatly predominates over the more strictly literary comment; in his reviews, also, it is evident that he seized every opportunity for turning from literary to historical discussion. he was in the habit of "embroidering the subject, whatever it might be, with lively anecdotic illustration,"[ ] as one of his biographers says. we are not to conclude that in writing on specifically literary subjects he felt ill at ease. he felt, on the contrary, that the objection lay in the too great ease with which the critic might become dictatorial. he was fond enough of details when they were concrete and vital. the facts of literary history were in this category to him, as distinguished from the notions of literary theory; and we find that his critical principles are apt to appear incidentally among remarks on what seemed to him the more tangible and important facts of literary and social history. the books he chose to review were chiefly those which gave him a chance to use his historical information and imagination. his ideas were concrete, as those of a great novelist must inevitably be. indeed the dividing line between creative work and criticism seems often to be obliterated in scott's literary discussions, since he was inclined to amplify and illustrate instead of dissecting the book under consideration. as a critic he was distinguished by the qualities which appear in his novels, and which may be described in hazlitt's words, as "the most amazing retentiveness of memory, and vividness of conception of what would happen, be seen, and felt by everybody in given circumstances."[ ] scott felt that there was especial danger of futile theorizing in the criticism of poetry. in writing about _alexander's feast_ he discussed for a moment the possibility of detecting points at which the author had paused in his work, but almost immediately he stopped himself with the characteristic remark--"there may be something fanciful ... in this reasoning, which i therefore abandon to the reader's mercy; only begging him to observe, that we have no mode of estimating the exertions of a quality so capricious as a poetic imagination."[ ] early in his career he gave this rather over-amiable explanation of the fact that he had never undertaken to review poetry: "i am sensible there is a greater difference of tastes in that department than in any other, and that there is much excellent poetry which i am not nowadays able to read without falling asleep, and which would nevertheless have given me great pleasure at an earlier period of my life. now i think there is something hard in blaming the poor cook for the fault of our own palate or deficiency of appetite."[ ] we have seen that he did review poetry afterwards, but that he was inclined to do it with the least possible emphasis on the specifically aesthetic elements. on the subject of novel-writing he developed a somewhat fuller critical theory, but here also his discussions concerned themselves rather with the kind of ideas set forth than with the manner of presentation. it does indeed seem as if scott's feelings were more easily aroused to the point of formulating "laws" in the field of political criticism than in that which appears to us his more legitimate sphere. he has his fling, to be sure, at madame de staël, because she "lived and died in the belief that revolutions were to be effected, and countries governed, by a proper succession of clever pamphlets."[ ] but in proposing the establishment of the _quarterly review_ he made no secret of the fact that his motives were political. the literary aspect of the periodical was thought of as a subordinate, though a necessary and not unimportant phase of the undertaking. the _letters of malachi malagrowther_ contain some very definite maxims on the subject of political economy, and just as decided are the remarks made in the last of _paul's letters_, as well as in the _life of napoleon_ and elsewhere, as to how louis xviii. ought to set about the task of calming his distracted kingdom of france. but however emphatic scott may be in the comments on government which appear throughout his writings, he was as strongly averse in this matter as in literary affairs to any separation of philosophy from fact: his maxims are always derived from experience. the following statement of opinion is typical: "in legislating for an ancient people, the question is not, what is the best possible system of law, but what is the best they can bear. their habitudes and prejudices must always be respected; and, whenever it is practicable, those prejudices, instead of being destroyed, ought to be taken as the basis of the new regulations."[ ] it was scott's political creed that roused the ire of such men as hazlitt and hunt, though they may also have been exasperated at the unprecedented success of poetry which seemed so facile and so superficial to them as scott's. leigh hunt calls him "a poet of a purely conventional order," "a bitter and not very large-minded politician," "a critic more agreeable than subtle."[ ] but scott's politics may be looked at in another way. "in his patriotism," says mr. courthope, "his passionate love of the past, and his reverence for established authority, literary or political, scott is the best representative among english men of letters of conservatism in its most generous form."[ ] though it seems to have been a common opinion among the literary men of his own time that scott's criticism was superficial, his knowledge of mediaeval literature was, as we have seen, recognized and respected. favorable comments by his contemporaries on other parts of his critical work are not difficult to find. for example, gifford wrote to murray in regard to the article on _lady suffolk's correspondence_: "scott's paper is a clever, sensible thing--the work of a man who knows what he is about."[ ] isaac d'israeli made the following observation on another of scott's papers: "the article on pepys, after so many have been written, is the only one which, in the most charming manner possible, shows the real value of these works, which i can assure you many good scholars have no idea of."[ ] a more recent verdict may be set beside those just quoted, and it is in perfect agreement with them. "his critical faculty," says professor saintsbury, "if not extraordinarily subtle, was always as sound and shrewd as it was good-natured."[ ] scott's influence as a critic was not very great, but his creative work exerted a strong influence on criticism as well as on the whole intellectual life of his age. his own novels demanded of the critic that kind of appreciation of the large qualities and negligence of the small which he had insisted on considering the function of criticism; and they became a fact in literature which determined to some degree the attitude taken toward ephemeral ideas. newman notes the popularity of scott's novels as one of the influences which prepared the ground for the tractarian movement, for scott enriched the visions of men by his pictures of the past, gave them noble ideas, and created a desire for a greater richness of spiritual life.[ ] much of his criticism also was inspired by the wish to construct an adequate picture of the past; so far it worked in the same direction with the novels. its most important offices aside from this were perhaps to present large and kindly views of literature and literary characters, especially through biographical essays; and to ameliorate somewhat the prevailing asperity of periodical criticism. a man of scott's temperament was little likely to set himself up for a prophet, and probably no literary prophecies of his were in the least influential. though he sometimes boasted that he understood the varying currents of popular taste, his experience in the publishing business taught him the fallibility of his impressions when the work of writers other than himself was concerned. he once wrote,--"the friends who know me best, and to whose judgment i am myself in the constant habit of trusting, reckon me a very capricious and uncertain judge of poetry; and i have had repeated occasion to observe that i have often failed in anticipating the reception of poetry from the public."[ ] but it is beyond the strength of flesh and blood to resist saying things about the future sometimes, and scott occasionally yielded to the temptation, helped, no doubt, by his amiability. southey's _madoc_, however, has not yet assumed that place at the feet of milton which, as we have seen, he ventured to predict for it. yet, if we may trust the memory of one of his friends, scott foresaw the literary success of two of his greatest contemporaries. r.p. gillies said in his _recollections_: "i remember well how correct scott's impressions were of such beginners in the literary world as had not then acquired any fixed character. of lord byron he had from the first a favourable impression.... of wordsworth he always spoke favourably, insisting that he was a true poet, but predicting that it would be long ere his works obtained the praise which they merited from the public."[ ] scott explicitly prided himself on two of his prophecies: that washington irving would make a name for himself, and that sir arthur wellesley would become known as an extraordinary man. though scott's critical work is comparatively little known, and though it presents no solidly organized front by which the public may be impressed, the opinions of so notable a writer have always had a certain weight. mr. churton collins thinks scott's judgment on dunbar has led modern editors to indulge in very exaggerated statements concerning the merit of that poet.[ ] a heavier charge has been laid at scott's door on the score of his edition of the _memoirs of captain carleton_. he concluded on very insufficient evidence, says colonel parnell, that these memoirs were genuinely historical, published them as such, and by the weight of his opinion falsified "the whole stream of nineteenth-century history bearing on the reign of queen anne."[ ] stanhope, macaulay, and other historians were ready to accept scott's judgment without further investigation, it seems; and if the accusation be true we may conclude that his influence as a critic has reached farther than might at first sight appear. yet we may be content to follow his lead in general, except in those bits of enthusiasm over his friends which bear witness to a generously optimistic nature rather than to a rigid critical attitude such as we should hardly demand in any case from a man of letters commenting on his contemporaries and friends. george ticknor was greatly impressed by the "right-mindedness" of the young sophia scott,[ ] and we may fairly adopt the word to describe the father whom she so much resembled. there was in him, as carlyle said, "such a sunny current of true humour and humanity, a free joyful sympathy with so many things; what of fire he had all lying so beautifully latent, as radical latent heat, as fruitful internal warmth of life;--a most robust, healthy man!"[ ] writers upon scott have made much, perhaps too much, of his feeling that his position as a landed gentleman was more enviable than his prominence as a writer. the point would be of greater consequence if it performed so important a function in explaining his work as has commonly been assigned to it. we are told that he wrote much and hastily because he wanted money to establish and support an estate; but the truth is that if he wrote at all he had to write in this way. he justly believed that he could do his best work so. yet it was a natural result of his facility that he should look upon the literature he produced as of comparatively little moment. some of his remarks about his critical work, however, show that he really regarded creative writing as the business of his life, and that in contrast with it he considered his criticism a relief from more arduous labor. after the publication of _marmion_ he wrote: "i have done with poetry for some time--it is a scourging crop, and ought not to be hastily repeated. editing, therefore, may be considered as a green crop of turnips or peas, extremely useful for those whose circumstances do not admit of giving their farm a summer fallow."[ ] after years of novel-writing he said of writing a review, "no one that has not laboured as i have done on imaginary topics can judge of the comfort afforded by walking on all-fours, and being grave and dull."[ ] from what scott said about dryden as a critic we may conclude that the unsystematic character of his own scholarly work may have been a matter of principle as well as inclination. "dryden," he wrote, "forebore, from prudence, indolence, or a regard for the freedom of parnassus, to erect himself into a legislator."[ ] the words remind us of comments made upon scott's own work, as for example by professor masson, who spoke of "the shrewdness and sagacity of some of his critical prefaces to his novels, where he discusses principles of literature without seeming to call them such."[ ] scott was quick to notice "cant and slang"[ ] in the professional language of men in all arts; and he valued most highly the remarks of those whose intelligence had not been overlaid by a conventional pedantry. knowing that criticism was not the main business of his life, we are inclined to be surprised at the broad fields which he seemed to have no hesitation in entering upon. his remarkable memory doubtless had something to do with this, but he lived in a period when generalization was more possible and more permissible than it is in this era of special monographs. the large tendencies and characteristics that he traced in his essay on romance, for instance, are undoubtedly to be qualified at numberless points, but writing when he did, scott was comparatively untroubled by these limitations. moreover, he had the gift of seeing things broadly, so that in essentials his survey remains true. but the amount of his work is almost as astonishing as its scope and variety. he could accomplish so much only by disregarding details of form; and that he did so we know from our study of his principles of composition, confirmed by the evidence of the passages from him that have here been quoted. it is clear, also, that he was not limited by that "horror of the obvious," which, as mr. saintsbury says, "bad taste at all times has taken for a virtue."[ ] beyond this we have to fall back for explanation on the unusual qualities of his mind. an observing friend said of him that, "with a degree of patience and quietude which are seldom combined with much energy, he could get through an incredible extent of literary labour."[ ] every quality which made scott a great man contributes to the interest and importance of his criticism. such a body of criticism, formulated by a large creative genius, would be of special consequence if it served merely as the basis for a study of his other work, a commentary on the principles which underlay his whole literary achievement. but it would be strange if a man of scott's intellectual personality could write criticism which was not important in itself, and we can only account for the general neglect of this part of his work by considering how large a place his poems and novels give him in the history of our literature. if he deserves a still larger place, we may remember with satisfaction that as a man he was great enough to support honorably any distinction won by his mind. appendix i. bibliography the bibliography of scott's writings is given in three parts, as follows: . books which scott wrote or edited, or to which he was an important contributor. the list is chronological. . contributions to periodicals. . books which contain letters written by scott. these titles are arranged approximately in the order of their importance from the point of view of a study of scott. . _books which scott wrote or edited, or to which he was an important contributor_. (in the following list the first editions of the poems and novels are noted without bibliographical details. in the case of other works the main facts in regard to publication are given; and an attempt is made to indicate the nature of the books named, unless they have been discussed in the text.) the chase and william and helen. (translated from bürger.) goetz of berlichingen. (translated from goethe.) apology for tales of terror. twelve copies were privately printed, to exhibit the work of the ballantyne press at kelso. the title was occasioned by the delay in the publication of matthew lewis's tales of terror, and the little book contains poems which scott had contributed to that work. (the contents are named in the catalogue of the centenary exhibition.) the eve of st. john, a border ballad. - minstrelsy of the scottish border; consisting of historical and romantic ballads, collected in the southern counties of scotland; with a few of modern date founded upon local tradition. vols. vols. i and , kelso, ; vol. , edinburgh, . second edition, . the book was republished frequently before , when it was included in the collected edition of scott's poems. it has also been reprinted independently since then several times. the latest and most complete edition is that published in , edited by t.f. henderson. other books in which part of scott's ballad material was used in such a way as to give his name a place on the title-page are named below: kinmont willie: a border ballad, with an historical introduction, by sir walter scott. (carlisle tracts no. ) carlisle, . a ballad book by c.k. sharpe. mdcccxxiii. reprinted with notes and ballads from the unpublished manuscripts of c.k. sharpe and sir walter scott ... edited by ... d. laing. edinburgh, . sir tristrem: a metrical romance of the thirteenth century, by thomas of ercildoune, called the rhymer. edited from the auchinleck manuscript by walter scott. edinburgh. only copies of sir tristrem were printed in the form in which scott had intended to publish it, without the expurgation which his friends insisted upon. (_letters to r. polwhele_, etc., p. ; _lockhart_, i. ). the following book contains a part of the same material: a penni worth of witte, florice and blancheflour, and other pieces of ancient english poetry, selected from the auchinleck manuscript. (with an account of the auchinleck manuscript by sir walter scott) edinburgh, . printed for the abbotsford club. the lay of the last minstrel. original memoirs written during the great civil war; being the life of sir h. slingsby, and memoirs of capt. hodgson. with notes, etc. edinburgh. [edited by scott anonymously.] ballads and lyrical pieces. [poems which had already appeared in various collections.] marmion. memoirs of captain carleton, ... including anecdotes of the war in spain under the earl of peterborough, ... written by himself. edinburgh. ( vo, but copies were printed on large paper.) [edited by scott anonymously.] scott was probably mistaken in considering this to be a genuine autobiography. (see col. parnell's argument in _the english historical review_, vi: .) it has been attributed to defoe, and col. parnell attributes it to swift, but the question of its authorship is still unsolved. the book was first published in , but scott used the edition of , which he was so inaccurate as to take for the original edition; and as at that date defoe had long been dead and swift had lost his mind, the possibility of attributing it to either of them naturally would not occur to him. scott wrote scarcely any notes, but his short introduction contains some interesting general reflections which are quoted by lockhart. the works of john dryden, now first collected; illustrated with notes, historical, critical and explanatory, and a life of the author, by walter scott, esq. vols. london. second edition, vols., edinburgh, . another edition, revised and corrected by george saintsbury, edinburgh, - . the life of john dryden ( to, only copies printed). memoirs of john dryden, paris, . memoirs of robert carey, earl of monmouth, written by himself, and fragmenta regalia, being a history of queen elizabeth's favourites, by sir robert naunton. with explanatory annotations. edinburgh. [edited by scott anonymously.] scott contributed no introductions, but his notes are copious, especially with regard to the history of the border. this is one of the books of which scott is reported to have said to his publisher, mr. constable, "did i not do hodgson, carey, carleton, etc., to serve you; and did i ever ask or receive any remuneration?" (_ballantyne's refutation_, etc., p. .) queenhoo-hall, a romance; and ancient times, a drama. by the late joseph strutt, author of rural sports and pastimes of the people of england. [edited by scott, who wrote a conclusion for queenhoo-hall. this conclusion is given in an appendix to the introduction of waverley.] edinburgh. the state papers and letters of sir ralph sadler ... edited by arthur clifford ... to which is added a memoir of the life of sir ralph sadler, with historical notes, by walter scott, esq. vols. edinburgh. (also the same work in vols., with same date.) the biography is included in all the editions of scott's prose works. the life of edward lord herbert of cherbury, written by himself. with a prefatory memoir. edinburgh; printed by james ballantyne & co. for john ballantyne & co. and john murray. (a reprint of walpole's edition, with the prefatory memoir added.) it is a question whether scott edited this book, but it has been ascribed to him, and is given under his name without hesitation in the british museum catalogue. the prefatory memoir is short and largely made up of quotations, but it sounds as if scott might have written it. the book is one to which he often refers. mr. sidney lee, in his edition of the autobiography, says merely, "walpole's edition was reprinted in , , and in ." reprinted in the universal library: biography, vol. i, london, . - a collection of scarce and valuable tracts on the most interesting and entertaining subjects: but chiefly such as relate to the history and constitution of these kingdoms. selected from an infinite number in print and manuscript, in the royal, cotton, sion, and other public, as well as private, libraries; particularly that of the late lord somers. the second edition, revised, augmented, and arranged by walter scott, esq. vols. london. there are some additions. scott says in the advertisement: "the memoirs of the wars in the low countries by the gallant williams, and the very singular account of ireland by derrick, are the most curious of those now published for the first time.... the introductory remarks and notes have been added by the present editor, at the expense of some time and labour. it is needless to observe, that both have been expended upon a humble and unambitious, though not, it is hoped, an useless task. the object of the introductions was to present such a short and summary view of the circumstances under which the historical and controversial tracts were respectively written, as to prevent the necessity of referring to other works. such therefore, as refer to events of universal notoriety are but slightly and generally mentioned; such as concern less remarkable points of history are more fully explained. the notes are in general illustrative of obscure passages, or brief notices of authorities, whether corroborative or contradictory of the text." the following book contains a part of the same material: the image of irelande with a discoverie of woodkarne. by john derricke, . with notes by sir walter scott. edited by john small. edinburgh, . (see _somers' tracts_, vol. i.) english minstrelsy. being a selection of fugitive poetry from the best english authors, with some original pieces hitherto unpublished. vols. edinburgh. the centenary catalogue says that scott and his friend william erskine edited this book together. in the advertisement the publishers (john ballantyne & co.) say: "to one eminent individual, whose name they do not venture to particularize, they are indebted for most valuable assistance in selection, arrangement, and contribution; and to that individual they take this opportunity to present the humble tribute of their thanks, for a series of kindnesses, of which that now acknowledged is among the least." there is no critical apparatus. the book contains original poems by scott, southey, rogers, joanna baillie, and others not so well known. the lady of the lake. memoirs of the duke of sully. translated from the french [by charlotte lennox] ... a new edition ... corrected, with additional notes, some letters of henry the great, and a brief historical introduction embellished with portraits. vols. london. another edition, vols. london , has these words on the title-page: "a new edition, revised and corrected; with additional notes, and an historical introduction, attributed to sir walter scott." i have found no external evidence that scott was the editor. the introduction sounds as if scott wrote it, but that so much work could have been done by him without occasioning any record seems unlikely. there is a historical introduction of pp., and copious notes. the book is one with which scott was familiar. see memoirs of robert carey, pp. and . the poetical works of anna seward, with extracts from her literary correspondence. edited by walter scott, esq. vols. edinburgh. the biographical preface is given in the miscellaneous prose works. the notes are by miss seward. ancient british drama, in three volumes. london. (printed for william miller, by james ballantyne & co., edinburgh.) i find no evidence that scott was the editor of this book, but it is sometimes ascribed to him in library catalogues. it contains merely a two-page introduction and brief notes, and a collection of plays. (see above, p. , note.) the modern british drama, in five volumes. london. (printed for william miller, by james ballantyne & co., edinburgh.) vols. i and ii, tragedies, with introduction in vol. i. vols. iii and iv, comedies, with introduction in vol. iii. vol. v, operas and farces, with introduction. these volumes apparently belong to the same collection as the ancient british drama, noted above, and the external evidence for scott's authorship is the same. but the introductions are fuller, and they sound very much like scott. (see above, p. , note.) the vision of don roderick. memoirs of the court of charles ii, by count grammont. with numerous additions and illustrations. london. [edited by scott.] reprinted in , , . this last edition, in the bohn library, has about pp. of historical notes. secret history of the court of james the first. with notes and introductory remarks. vols. edinburgh. [edited by scott anonymously.] the book contains . osborne's traditional memoirs; . sir anthony welldon's court and character of king james; . aulicus coquinariae; . sir edward peyton's divine catastrophe of the house of stuarts. rokeby. memoirs of the reign of king charles i., by sir philip warwick. edinburgh. [edited by scott anonymously.] the bridal of triermain. illustrations of northern antiquities from the earlier teutonic and scandinavian romances, by robert jamieson ... with an abstract of the eyrbyggja-saga; being the early annals of that district of iceland lying around the promontory called sudefells, by walter scott. edinburgh. see also northern antiquities by p.h. mallet, london, ; and the edition in bohn's library, . lockhart says: "any one who examines the share of the work which goes under weber's name will see that scott had a considerable hand in that also. the rhymed versions from the _nibelungen lied_ came, i can have no doubt, from his pen." (_lockhart_, ii, .) the works of jonathan swift, containing additional letters, tracts, and poems, not hitherto published; with notes and a life of the author, by walter scott. vols. edinburgh. second edition, revised, edinburgh, . memoirs of jonathan swift, paris, . the letting of humour's blood in the head vaine, etc. by samuel rowlands. edinburgh. [edited by scott. his name is not given, but the advertisement is dated at abbotsford.] this is an exact reproduction of the edition, except for the addition of a few pages containing the advertisement and the notes. another edition was printed in . waverley. - the border antiquities of england and scotland; comprising specimens of architecture and sculpture, and other vestiges of former ages, accompanied by descriptions. together with illustrations of remarkable incidents in border history and tradition, and original poetry. by walter scott, esq. vols. to. london. another edition, in vols. folio, london, . lockhart says the introduction to this work was written in , but this is a mistake, for it is in the first volume, which was published in . the lord of the isles. guy mannering. the field of waterloo. the secret commonwealth of elves, fauns, and fairies, by robert kirk. the attribution of this to scott rests on a letter by george ticknor, in allibone's dictionary (vol. ii, p. ) in which he says: "kirk's secret commonwealth, a curious tract, of about a hundred quarto pages, on fairy superstitions and second sight, originally published in , and of which, in , mr. scott had caused a hundred copies to be privately printed by the ballantynes, with additions, a circumstance, i think, not noted by lockhart." mr. lang thinks the book was never printed until . (see his edition, london, ). this edition of copies was made, he says, from a manuscript copy preserved in the advocates' library, for longman & co. he quotes one of scott's references to the book, but does not intimate that scott was the editor. memorie of the somervilles; being a history of the baronial house of somerville, by james, eleventh lord somerville. vols. edinburgh. [edited by scott anonymously.] the additions by the editor consist of a short preface and abundant notes. paul's letters to his kinsfolk. edinburgh. these letters were anonymous, but scott was always recognized as the author of them. they are contained in the miscellaneous prose works. the antiquary. tales of my landlord. first series: the black dwarf. old mortality. harold the dauntless. rob roy. tales of my landlord. second series: the heart of midlothian. burt's letters from the north of scotland ... the fifth edition, with a large appendix, containing various important historical documents, hitherto unpublished; with an introduction and notes, by the editor, r. jamieson ... and the history of donald the hammerer, from an authentic account of the family of invernahyle (by scott: see a note accompanying the text). vols. london. scott's contribution is short. see also appendix iv, which is taken "from a manuscript in the possession of the gartmore family, communicated by walter scott esq." scott's name had become so valuable that the publishers tried to put it on the title-page of this book, to his great indignation. (see _constable_, iii, iii, - .) - the encyclopædia britannica: supplement. [for this work scott wrote the following essays:] chivalry, published in ; the drama, published in ; romance, published in . (these are given in the miscellaneous prose works.) tales of my landlord. third series: the bride of lammermoor. a legend of montrose. the visionary, by somnambulus. (a political satire in three letters, republished from the edinburgh weekly journal.) edinburgh. description of the regalia of scotland. edinburgh. this has been reprinted many times. it was included also in provincial antiquities. ivanhoe. - the provincial antiquities and picturesque scenery of scotland, with descriptive illustrations by sir walter scott, bart. [first published in ten parts between and .] vols. london, . to. the monastery. the abbot. memorials of the haliburtons. edinburgh. [edited by scott anonymously.] copies were printed in , and more in . reprinted, london, , for the royal historical society, in genealogical memoirs of the family of sir walter scott, bart., of abbotsford, by the rev. charles rogers, ll.d. trivial poems and triolets. written in obedience to mrs. tomkin's commands. by patrick carey. london. [edited by scott. his name is not given, but the introduction is dated at abbotsford.] a thin to, with a short introduction and a few notes. a part of the material had been used in the edinburgh annual register for . northern memoirs, calculated for the meridian of scotland. to which is added the contemplative and practical angler. writ in the year . by richard franck. a new edition, with preface and notes. edinburgh. [edited by scott.] kenilworth. the pirate. - the novelists' library. edited, with prefatory memoirs, by sir walter scott. vols. london. also lives of the novelists, vols., paris, . a recent edition is that published, with an introduction by austin dobson, by the oxford university press (no. in the world's classics). when these lives were issued among the miscellaneous prose works some of the biographical prefaces were put with them, and also biographical notices, reprinted from the edinburgh weekly journal, of charles duke of buccleuch and queensberry, john lord somerville, king george iii, lord byron, and the duke of york. i give below the names of certain books in which scott's biographies were utilized, but the list is probably far from complete: an account of the death and funeral procession of frederick duke of york, etc. to which is subjoined sir walter scott's character of his royal highness. by john sykes. newcastle, . the life and opinions of tristram shandy, gentleman. by laurence sterne, a.m., with a life of the author, by sir walter scott. paris, . (baudry's foreign library.) beauties of sterne, with some account of his writings by sir walter scott. amsterdam, . select works of smollett. memoir by sir w. scott. philadelphia, . the novels and miscellaneous works of daniel de foe. with a biographical memoir of the author, literary prefaces to the various pieces, illustrative notes, etc., including all contained in the edition attributed to the late sir walter scott, with considerable additions. vols., london, . the novels and miscellaneous works of daniel de foe. with prefaces and notes, including those attributed to sir walter scott. vols., london, - . (bonn's british classics.) the rambler, by samuel johnson ll.d., with a sketch of the author's life by sir walter scott. vols., london, ? chronological notes of scottish affairs, from till ; being chiefly taken from the diary of lord fountainhall. edinburgh. [edited by scott.] see historical notices of scotish affairs, selected from the manuscripts of sir john lauder of fountainhall, bart. vols. edinburgh, , printed for the bannatyne club. here scott's edition is referred to, and his introduction is reprinted. the book was re-edited because scott did not use the original manuscript, but an interpolated transcript, and he had no means for accurately determining the original text. halidon hill, a dramatic sketch. macduff's cross (in joanna baillie's poetical miscellanies). military memoirs of the great civil war. being the military memoirs of john gwynne; and an account of the earl of glencairn's expedition, as general of his majesty's forces, in the highlands of scotland, in the years and , by a person who was eye and ear witness to every transaction.... edinburgh. [edited by scott. his name is not given, but the introduction is dated at abbotsford.] there are some notes, and a short historical introduction. sketch of the life and character of the late lord kinneder. [edited by scott. a postscript says: "this notice was chiefly drawn up by the late mr. hay donaldson."] edinburgh. only a few copies were printed, for private distribution. the fortunes of nigel. peveril of the peak. quentin durward. st. ronan's well. lays of the lindsays, being poems by the ladies of the house of balcarras. edinburgh. [edited by scott, and designed as a contribution to the bannatyne club, but suppressed after being printed.] redgauntlet. auld robin gray; a ballad. by the rt. honourable lady anne barnard, born lady anne lindsay, of balcarras. [edited by scott for the bannatyne club.] tales of the crusaders: the betrothed. the talisman. letters of malachi malagrowther on the currency. (to the editor of the edinburgh weekly journal.) parts. edinburgh. woodstock. ? shakspeare [edited by scott and lockhart?], volumes ii, iii, and iv, without title page and date. printed by james ballantyne & co. scott and lockhart began in or to prepare an edition of shakspere. in jan., , constable wrote to a london bookseller: "it gives me great pleasure to tell you that the first sheet of sir walter scott's shakspeare is now in type ... this i expect will be a first-rate property." (_constable's correspondence_, ii, .) at the time of constable's bankruptcy in there was a disagreement in regard to the ownership of the property. scott wrote to lockhart, may , , "what do you about shakspeare? constable's creditors seem desirous to carry it on. certainly their bankruptcy breaks the contract. for me _c'est égal_: i have nothing to do with the emoluments, and i can with very little difficulty discharge my part of the matter, which is the prolegomena, and life and times." (lang's _lockhart_, i, .) in the question of carrying on the work was still undecided, and it was also mentioned in a letter in . (lang's _lockhart_ ii, and ). the project was ultimately abandoned, and the fate of that part of the work which was actually in print is unknown. in the barton collection in the boston public library is preserved what is perhaps a unique copy of three volumes of the set of ten that scott and lockhart undertook to prepare. but as the books are bound up without title-pages, and as the commentary contains nothing that would determine its authorship, the attribution is probable rather than certain. these volumes include twelve of the comedies. on the fly-leaf of one of them is a note written by mr. rodd, a london bookseller. he says: "i purchased these three volumes from a sale at edinburgh. they were entered in the catalogue as 'shakespeare's works, edited by sir walter scott and lockhart, vols. ii, in, iv, all published, _unique_'." it was not positively known that such a work had been planned until the publication of constable's _correspondence_ in . at that time justin winsor wrote a letter to the _boston advertiser_ (march , ) in which he said: "the account of the barton collection, which was printed fifteen years ago, contained the earliest public mention, i believe, of the supposition that scott ever engaged in such a work, which this life of constable now renders certain. these later corroborative statements give a peculiar interest to the volumes which are now in this library and which are perhaps the only ones of the edition now in existence." the introductions to the plays are each only a page or two long, and are mainly, like the notes, compilations. the book corresponds fairly well with the description given in _constable_. (see vol. iii, pp. , , - , , , , , , , . see also lang's _lockhart_, i, - , - , and lang's introduction to _peveril of the peak_.) the life of napoleon buonaparte, emperor of the french. with a preliminary view of the french revolution. by the author of waverley. vols. edinburgh. chronicles of the canongate. first series: the highland widow. the two drovers. the surgeon's daughter memoirs of the marchioness de la rochejaquelin. translated from the french. edinburgh. (constable's miscellany, vol. v. introduction and notes by scott.) the miscellaneous prose works of sir walter scott. vols. edinburgh, , and boston, . vols. paris, - . vols. london, - . (containing many of the reviews contributed by scott to periodicals.) same, first vols. (omitting the letters on demonology and witchcraft.) edinburgh, - , , and . vols. paris, - . vols. paris, ? vols. edinburgh, - , , and . - the bannatyne miscellany; containing original papers and tracts relating to the history and literature of scotland. (edited by sir walter scott, d. laing, and t. thomson.) vols. tales of a grandfather. first series. vols. edinburgh. religious discourses. by a layman. london. two sermons written by sir walter for george huntly gordon, then a probationer. afterwards published by gordon, with the author's permission, to raise money. chronicles of the canongate. second series: the fair maid of perth. proceedings in the court-martial held upon john, master of sinclair, captain-lieutenant in preston's regiment, for the murder of ensign schaw of the same regiment, and captain schaw, of the royals, october, ; with correspondence respecting that transaction. edinburgh. edited by sir walter scott and presented by him to the roxburghe club. some of the same material seems to have been used in the book named below: memoirs of the insurrection in , by john, master of sinclair. with notes by sir walter scott. edinburgh, , printed for the abbotsford club. papers relative to the regalia of scotland. edinburgh. edited by sir walter scott and presented to the members of the bannatyne club by william bell, esq. memorials of george bannatyne, - . edited by sir walter scott for the bannatyne club. edinburgh. scott wrote the memoir of george bannatyne which occupies the first pages of the book. this memoir is also to be found in the publications of the hunterian club, part , published in . anne of geierstein. tales of a grandfather. second series. - novels, tales, and romances, with introductions and notes by the author. (the "opus magnum.") the same material is used in the following books: introductions and notes and illustrations to the novels, tales, and romances of the author of waverley. vols., edinburgh, . autobiography of sir walter scott. philadelphia, . anderson, in his bibliography of scott, gives this as a supposititious work, but with the exception of the title it is genuine, for it is simply the piecing together of scott's introductions to his novels. tales of a grandfather. third series. the doom of devorgoil, and auchindrane or the ayrshire tragedy. letters on demonology and witchcraft, addressed to j.g. lockhart, esq. london. (the family library.) other editions: new york, ; london, and , (illustrated by cruikshank); london , with an introduction by henry morley. included in the vol. edition of the miscellaneous prose works, but not in the vol. edition. poems, with prefaces by the author. vols. introductory remarks on popular poetry (prefixed to minstrelsy, vol. i) and essay on imitations of the ancient ballad (prefixed to minstrelsy, vol. iii). these essays were printed in and attached to the edition of the poems then on sale. they were first regularly included in the edition of . the history of scotland. (lardner's cabinet cyclopedia.) vols. london. [not in the miscellaneous prose works.] tales of a grandfather. fourth series. history of france. the life of samuel johnson, ll.d., including a journal of his tour to the hebrides, by james boswell, esq. new edition with numerous anecdotes and notes by the right hon. john wilson croker, m.p.... vols. london. [scott wrote and signed the notes for the tour to the hebrides.] trial of duncan terig, alias clerk, and alexander bane macdonald, for the murder of arthur davis, sergeant in general guise's regiment of foot. june, a.d. . edinburgh. "to the members of the bannatyne club, this copy of a trial, involving a curious point of evidence, is presented, by walter scott." there is an introduction of pages, giving the story of the crime, and bringing together instances from literature and history of the evidence of ghosts being cited in trials. that is the "curious point of evidence" referred to. the proceedings of the court are then reprinted without annotation. tales of my landlord. fourth series: count robert of paris. castle dangerous. two bannatyne garlands from abbotsford. this little book was prepared for members of the bannatyne club by the secretary, d. laing. it contains two ballads--of which one is ancient and one a modern imitation written by robert surtees--annotated by scott. reliquiae trottosienses, or catalogue of the gabions of the late jonathan oldbuck. (partially published in _harper's magazine_ for april, : vol. lxxviii, pp. - . this fragment describing the main apartments at abbotsford is the only part of the reliquiae trottosienses that has been printed. there is a short introduction by mary monica maxwell scott.) the same material was included in the following book: abbotsford, the personal relics and antiquarian treasures of sir walter scott, described by the hon. mary monica maxwell scott. london, . the journal of sir walter scott, from the original manuscript at abbotsford. (edited by david douglas.) vols. edinburgh. second edition, . large extracts from this journal had previously been published in lockhart's life of scott. . _contributions to periodicals_. (a) reviews (most of these essays are reprinted in the and volume editions of scott's miscellaneous prose works. articles not included in that collection are marked by a note indicating the evidence on which they are attributed to scott.) amadis de gaul, translated by southey and by rose. (_edinburgh review_, october. vol. iii.) sibbald's chronicle of scottish poetry. (_edinburgh_, october. vol. iii. not in m.p.w. see lockhart, vol. i, p. .) godwin's life of chaucer. (_edinburgh_, january. vol. iii.) ellis's specimens of the early english poets. (_edinburgh_, april. vol. iv.) the life and works of chatterton. (_edinburgh_, april. vol. iv.) johnes's translation of froissart. (_edinburgh_, january. vol. v.) colonel thornton's sporting tour. (_edinburgh_, january. vol. v.) fleetwood, a novel by william godwin. (_edinburgh_, april. vol. vi.) the new practice of cookery. (_edinburgh_, july. vol. vi.) the ossianic poems. (_edinburgh_, july. vol. vi. not in m.p.w. see lockhart, vol. i, p. .) todd's edition of spenser. (_edinburgh_, october. vol. vii.) ellis's specimens of english romance, and ritson's ancient english metrical romances. (_edinburgh_, january. vol. vii.) the miseries of human life. [by rev. james beresford.] (_edinburgh_, october. vol. ix.) miscellaneous poetry by the hon. william herbert. (_edinburgh_, october. vol. ix.) reliques of burns, collected by r.h. cromek. (_quarterly review_, february. vol. i.) southey's translation of the cid. (_quarterly_, february. vol. i.) sir john carr's caledonian sketches. (_quarterly_, february. vol. i.) campbell's gertrude of wyoming and other poems. (_quarterly_, may. vol. i.) john de lancaster, a novel by richard cumberland. (_quarterly_, may. vol. i.) the battles of talavera, a poem [by john wilson croker]. (_quarterly_, november. vol. ii.) the fatal revenge or the family of montorio, a romance [by c.r. maturin]. (_quarterly_, may. vol. iii.) collections of ballads and songs by r.h. evans and john aiken. (_quarterly_, may. vol. iii.) southey's curse of kehama. (_quarterly_, february. vol. v.) emma and other novels by jane austen. (_quarterly_, october. vol. xiv. not in m.p.w. see lockhart, vol. iv, p. .) the culloden papers. (_quarterly_, january. vol. xiv.) childe harold, canto iii, and other poems by lord byron. (_quarterly_, october. vol. xvi.) tales of my landlord. [probably written with the help of william erskine. see lockhart, vol. iii, p. . see also the introduction to waverley, written in .] (_quarterly_, january. vol. xvi.) douglas on military bridges. (_quarterly_, may. vol. xviii. not in m.p.w. see lockhart, vol. iii, p. .) kirkton's history of the church of scotland, edited by c.k. sharpe. (_quarterly_, may. vol. xviii.) letters from horace walpole to george montague. (_quarterly_, april. vol. xix. not in m.p.w. see memoir of john murray, vol. ii, p. .) childe harold, canto iv. (_quarterly_, april. vol. xix.) women or pour et contre, a tale [by c.r. maturin]. (_edinburgh_, june. vol. xxx.) frankenstein, a novel [by mrs. shelley]. (_blackwood_, march. vol. ii.) remarks on general gourgaud's narrative. (_blackwood_, november. vol. iv. not in m.p.w. see lockhart, vol. iii, p. .) the correspondence of lady suffolk. (_quarterly_, january. vol. xxx.) pepys' diary. (_quarterly_, march. vol. xxxiii.) boaden's life of kemble, and kelly's reminiscences. (_quarterly_, june. vol. xxxiv.) the omen [by john galt]. (_blackwood_, july. vol. xx.) mackenzie's life and works of john home. (_quarterly_, june. vol. xxxvi.) the forester's guide, by robert monteath. on planting waste lands. (_quarterly_, october. vol. xxxvi.) on the supernatural in fictitious composition, and particularly on the works of hoffman. (_foreign quarterly review_, july. vol. i.) see also contes fantastiques de e.t.a. hoffmann, traduits de l'allemand par m. loève-veimars, et précédés d'une notice historique sur hoffmann par walter scott. paris, . vols. the planter's guide, by sir henry steuart. on landscape gardening. (_quarterly_, march. vol. xxxvii.) sir humphrey davy's salmonia or days of fly-fishing. (_quarterly_, october. vol. xxxviii.) molière. (_foreign quarterly review_, february. vol. ii.) hajji baba in england; and the kuzzilbash, a tale of khorasan. (_quarterly_, january. vol. xxxix.) ritson's annals of the caledonians, picts, and scots, etc. (_quarterly_, july. vol. xli.) tytler's history of scotland. (_quarterly_, november. vol. xli.) revolutions of naples in and . (_foreign quarterly review_, august. vol. iv. not in m.p.w. see journal, vol. i, p. , and vol. ii, p. .) southey's life of john bunyan. (_quarterly_, october. vol. xliii.) pitcairn's ancient criminal trials. (_quarterly_, february. vol. xliv.) (b) contributions to the edinburgh annual register (the dates given are those on the volumes. in most cases the book was issued about a year and a half after the nominal date. most of scott's contributions are unsigned. those which were afterwards included in the collected edition of his poems are in this list marked "poems"; in other cases (unless the article is signed) a note is made of the reason for attributing it to scott). vol. i, part . the bard's incantation. poems. to a lady, with flowers from a roman wall. poems. the violet. poems. hunting song. poems. the resolve. poems. view of the changes proposed and adopted in the administration of justice in scotland. (see _lockhart_, vol. ii, p. .) living poets of great britain. (from internal evidence i think this article may have been written by scott, and am sure that he dictated many of the opinions it expresses, if he is not responsible for the whole.) vol. ii, part . the vision of don roderick. (reprinted from the first edition.) poems. epitaph designed for a monument to be erected in lichfield cathedral to the rev. thomas seward. poems. cursory remarks upon the french order of battle, particularly in the campaigns of buonaparte. (see _lockhart_, vol. ii, p. .) periodical criticism. (from internal evidence i am sure that this was written by scott. the style is decidedly more interesting than that of the article on the poets, in the volume for the preceding year.) the inferno of altisidora. (this immediately follows the article on periodical criticism, and is a burlesque sketch on the same subject. it serves to introduce the following imitations, respectively, of crabbe, moore, and scott himself.) the poacher. "oh say not, my love, with that mortified air." the vision of triermain. vol. iii, part . account of the poems of patrick carey, a poet of the seventeenth century. (afterwards prefixed to the volume of carey's poems published in . see _lockhart_, vol. ii, pp. - .) vol. iv, part . biographical memoir of john leyden, m.d. (in the miscellaneous prose works.) vol. v, part . extracts from a journal kept during a coasting voyage through the scottish islands. (published in complete form in _lockhart_, vol. ii.) vol. vi. the dance of death. poems. romance of dunois, from the french. poems. song for the anniversary meeting of the pitt club of scotland. poems. song on the lifting of the banner of the house of buccleuch, at a great football match on carterhaugh. poems. vol. vii. historical review of the year. (see _lockhart_, vol. iii, p. .) vol. viii. historical review of the year. (see _lockhart_, vol. iii, p. .) the search after happiness, or the quest of sultaun solimaun. (reprinted from the _sale-room_. see _lockhart_, vol. iii, pp. - .) vol. ix. the noble moringer. translated from the german. poems. (see also the introduction to _the betrothed_.) vol. x. farewell address, spoken by mr. kemble to the edinburgh theatre, on the th march, . (reprinted from the _sale-room_. ) poems. vol. xvii. to mons. alexandre. (c) contributions to other periodicals scott contributed frequently to _the edinburgh weekly journal_, edited and published by james ballantyne. some of the articles are reprinted in the miscellaneous prose works. lockhart reprints in the life scott's account of the coronation of george iv., and his reply to general gourgaud. scott also contributed to _the sale-room_, a weekly paper edited and published by john ballantyne from january to july , ( numbers). (see _lockhart_, vol. iii, p. .) to _the keepsake_, an annual, scott contributed in the tapestried chamber, my aunt margaret's mirror, and the laird's jock, and in the house of aspen. in _blackwood's edinburgh magazine_, vol. i, appeared three articles entitled "notices concerning the scottish gypsies," for which scott furnished a large part of the material. (numbers for april, may, and september, .) lockhart says that scott dictated to thomas pringle "a collection of anecdotes concerning scottish gypsies, which attracted a good deal of notice." the first article refers to "mr. walter scott, a gentleman to whose distinguished assistance and advice we have been on the present occasion very peculiarly indebted, and who has not only furnished us with many interesting particulars himself, but has also obligingly directed us to other sources of curious information." scott quotes from the first of the three articles in his review of _tales of my landlord_, and he afterwards used the same anecdotes in the introduction to _guy mannering_. . _books which contain letters written by scott_. (as there is no complete collection of scott's letters it has been thought wise to name the various sources, so far as the letters have appeared at all in print, from which such a collection might be made. the list includes only those books or articles in which letters were published for the first time; yet it is probably far from exhaustive. notes are given in regard to the number or kind of the letters from scott to be found in some of the less-known books.) memoirs of sir walter scott, by j.g. lockhart. edinburgh, vols. - . vols. . abridged edition . the edition referred to throughout this study is that published by macmillan and company in volumes, . familiar letters of sir walter scott [edited by d. douglas]. vols. edinburgh, . letters and recollections of sir walter scott, by mrs. hughes (of uffington), edited by horace g. hutchinson. london, . (first published in _the century_, xliv: and ; july and august, .) the life and letters of john gibson lockhart, by andrew lang, from abbotsford and milton lockhart mss. and other original sources. vols. london, . these volumes contain many letters from scott to lockhart. memoir and correspondence of the late john murray, with an account of the origin and progress of the house, - , by samuel smiles. vols. london, . this book contains many letters from scott to murray, who published some of scott's works and was the proprietor of the _quarterly review_. archibald constable and his literary correspondents. a memorial by his son thomas constable. vols. edinburgh, . the third volume is wholly taken up with an account of scott's relations with constable, his publisher, and many letters are given. see also vol. ii, pages and . [the ballantyne and lockhart pamphlets.] i. refutation of the misstatements and calumnies contained in mr. lockhart's life of sir walter scott, bart., respecting the messrs. ballantyne, by the trustees and son of the late mr. james ballantyne. ( .) ii. the ballantyne humbug handled by the author of the life of sir walter scott. ( .) iii. reply to mr. lockhart's pamphlet, entitled "the ballantyne-humbug handled," etc. ( .) the two last pamphlets contain numerous letters of scott's. for a history of scott's publishing operations these pamphlets should be studied in connection with the memoirs of lockhart, murray, and constable. annals of a publishing house; william blackwood and his sons, their magazine and friends. by mrs. oliphant. rd edition, vols. edinburgh, . about half a dozen letters not elsewhere published are given in this book. letters from and to charles kirkpatrick sharpe, esq., edited by alexander allardyce, with a memoir by rev. w.k.r. bedford. vols. edinburgh, . lockhart wrote to sharpe in : "he had preserved so many letters of yours.... that i must suppose the correspondence was considered by himself as one not of the common sort." (vol. ii, p. .) both men were authors and antiquaries, and their letters as given in this book illustrate their favorite studies. lady louisa stuart. selections from her manuscripts, edited by hon. james home. london, . (one section of the book is entitled "unpublished letters of sir walter scott and lady louisa stuart.") abbotsford notanda, by robert carruthers. subjoined to the life of sir walter scott by robert chambers, edited by w. chambers. london, . letters from scott to hogg and laidlaw are included. memorials of coleorton, being letters from coleridge, wordsworth and his sister, southey, and sir walter scott, to sir george and lady beaumont of coleorton, leicestershire, to . edited, with introduction and notes, by william knight. vols. boston, . the second volume contains three letters by scott. the letters of sir walter scott and charles kirkpatrick sharpe to robert chambers, - . with original memoranda of sir walter scott, etc. [edited by c.e.s. chambers.] edinburgh, . reminiscences of sir walter scott, by john gibson. edinburgh, . besides nine letters from scott this book gives in full a memorial written by him in regard to the claim of constable's trustee on _woodstock_ and _napoleon_. traditions and recollections, domestic, clerical, and literary; in which are included letters of charles ii, cromwell, fairfax, edgecumbe, macaulay, wolcot, opie, whitaker, gibbon, buller, courtenay, moore, downman, drewe, seward, darwin, cowper, hayley, hardinge, sir walter scott, and other distinguished characters. by the rev. r. polwhele. vols. london, . vol. ii. contains five letters from scott. letters of sir walter scott, addressed to the rev. r. polwhele; d. gilbert, esq.; francis douce, esq.; etc. london, . twenty-eight letters from scott are given, of which at least one had previously been published. a memoir of the life and writings of the late william taylor of norwich, ... containing his correspondence of many years with the late robert southey, esq., and original letters from sir walter scott, and other eminent literary men. compiled and edited by j.w. robberds, f.g.s., of norwich. vols. london, . vol. i. contains two letters from scott, of which the second has decided critical interest. see pp. - . vol. ii. has one letter from scott. see p. . memoirs of sir william knighton, bart. g.c.h. ... including his correspondence with many distinguished personages. by lady knighton. philadelphia, . fourteen letters from scott are given. letters between james ellis, esq., and walter scott, esq. newcastle-upon-tyne, . the letters from scott are two in number. haydon's correspondence and table-talk, with a memoir by his son, frederick wordsworth haydon. vols., london, . the first volume contains a few letters by scott. the life and letters of washington irving, by his nephew, pierre m. irving. vols., new york, . vol. i, p. , contains a letter to brevoort; pp. - , - and - contain three letters to irving. memorials of james hogg, by m.g. garden. london, . four letters by scott are included. memoirs of a literary veteran, including sketches and anecdotes of the most distinguished literary characters from to , by r.p. gillies. vols. london, . vol. ii, pp. - , contains three letters from scott; vol. iii, pp. - , contains one. sir walter scott. the story of his life, by r. shelton mackenzie. boston, . see p. for a letter not published elsewhere. byron's letters and journals. rowland e. prothero, ed. vols., london, - . see vol. vi, p. for a letter of scott's not published elsewhere. catalogue of the exhibition held at edinburgh in july and august, , on occasion of the commemoration of the centenary of the birth of sir walter scott. edinburgh, . this catalogue contains notices of the autograph letters which were exhibited, and prints a few of the letters. a critical dictionary of english literature and british and american authors.... by s. austin allibone. vols. philadelphia, . two letters from scott to ticknor are given in the article on scott. fragments of voyages and travel, by basil hall. third series. chapter i. contains a letter written by scott in the original manuscript of _the antiquary_, explaining why the author particularly liked that novel. letters, hitherto unpublished, written by members of sir walter scott's family to their old governess. edited, with an introduction and notes, by the warden of wadham college, oxford. london, . see pp. - for a letter from scott, and pp. - for a note of instructions in regard to his daughter sophia's history lessons. correspondence between j. fenimore cooper and sir walter scott. _the knickerbocker magazine_, xi: ; april, . the letter from scott to cooper quoted above, p. , is here given. fiction, fair and foul. by john ruskin. _nineteenth century_, viii: ; august, . a footnote on pp. - contains fragments of five letters from scott to the builder of abbotsford. wordsworth's poetical works. edited by william knight. ii vols. edinburgh, . see the index. vol. xi, p. has a letter from scott which i think had not previously been published. vol. x, p. , gives one which lockhart quotes "very imperfectly," according to prof. knight. portraits of illustrious personages of great britain ... with biographical and historical memoirs of their lives and actions, by edmund lodge. london, . vol. i contains, in the appendix to the preface, a letter from scott to the publisher, dated th march . (see _lockhart_, v, .) the life and letters of maria edgeworth, edited by augustus j.c. hare. vols. boston, . this contains a few letters of scott's, but only one which is not published elsewhere. a short account of successful exertions in behalf of the fatherless and widows after the war in ; containing letters from mr. wilberforce, sir walter scott, marshal blücher, etc. by rudolf ackermann. oxford, . there is only one letter by scott. the courser's manual, etc., by t. goodlake. . this book contains one letter by scott, dated th october, , about an old scottish poem entitled "the last words of bonny heck." (see _lockhart_, v. , for what is doubtless the same letter.) the chimney-sweeper's friend and climbing-boy's album. arranged by james montgomery. london, . the preface contains part of a letter from scott, in which he describes the construction of the chimneys at abbotsford. (see _lockhart_, iv. - .) appendix ii. . _bibliographies of scott_ allibone, s.a. dictionary of british and american authors and literature. vols. phil., . anderson, j.p. bibliography of scott, in the life of scott by c.d. yonge (great writers series). london, . lockhart's life of scott; the centenary catalogue (see above, p. ); the british museum catalogue; the dictionary of national biography. . _a partial list of the books used in the preparation of this study_, aside from those given in the bibliography of scott's works. (see particularly the list of books which contain letters written by scott: appendix i. .) adolphus, j.l. letters to richard heber, esq., containing critical remarks on the series of novels beginning with "waverley," and an attempt to ascertain their author. second edition. london, . aitken, g.a., ed. romances and narratives by daniel defoe. vols. london, . arnold, matthew. byron. in essays in criticism. second series. london, . carlyle, thomas. sir walter scott. in critical and miscellaneous essays. vols. london, . chambers, e.k. the mediaeval stage. vols. oxford, . chesterton, g.k. varied types. new york, . child, francis j. english and scottish popular ballads. vols. boston, - . english and scottish popular ballads, edited from the collection of francis james child by helen child sargent and george lyman kittredge. boston, . clemens, s.l. (mark twain). life on the mississippi. boston, . cockburn, henry. memorials of his time. edinburgh, . coleridge, s.t. specimens of the table talk of samuel taylor coleridge. vols. london, . letters of samuel taylor coleridge, edited by e.h. coleridge. vols. boston, . collins, j. churton. ephemera critica. london, . courthope, w.j. a history of english poetry. vols. new york, - . the liberal movement in english literature. london, . cunningham, allan. life of scott. boston, . dowden, edward. life of percy bysshe shelley. vols. london, . fitzgerald, percy. new history of the english stage, from the restoration to the liberty of the theatres, in connection with the patent houses. vols. london, . forster, john. walter savage landor, a biography. vols. london, . freeman, e.a. the history of the norman conquest of england. vols. new york, . gates, l.e. three studies in literature. new york, . gillies, r.p. recollections of sir walter scott. (republished in book form from _fraser's magazine_, sept., nov., dec. , and jan., .) hazlitt, william. collected works, edited by a.r. waller and arnold glover. vols. london, - . (spirit of the age, vol. iv; plain speaker, vol. vii; dramatic essays, vol. viii.) herford, c.h. the age of wordsworth. (handbooks of english literature.) london, . hogg, james, ed. jacobite relics of scotland, being the songs, airs, and legends of the adherents of the house of stuart. vols. edinburgh, - . domestic manners and private life of sir walter scott. glasgow, . hudson, w.h. sir walter scott, london, . hunt, j.h. leigh. autobiography; with reminiscences of friends and contemporaries. vols. new york, . feast of the poets. london, . lord byron and some of his contemporaries. second edition. vols. london, . hutton, r.h. sir walter scott. (english men of letters.) new york, . irving, washington. abbotsford and newstead abbey. (first volume of the "crayon miscellany.") london, . lang, andrew. sir walter scott (literary lives). new york, . border edition of the waverley novels, vols. london, - . laing, malcolm, ed. poems of ossian, containing the poetical works of james macpherson in prose and verse. vols. edinburgh, . legaré, h.s. writings.... edited by his sister. charleston, s.c., . lounsbury, t.r. james fenimore cooper. (american men of letters.) boston, . maigron, louis. le roman historique à l'Ã�poque romantique: essai sur l'influence de walter scott. paris, . masson, david. british novelists and their styles. cambridge, eng., . matthews, brander. the historical novel, etc. new york, . meteyard, eliza. a group of englishmen ( - ), being records of the younger wedgwoods and their friends. london, . millar, j.h. the mid-eighteenth century. (periods of european literature.) new york, . moore, thomas. letters and journals of lord byron, with notices of his life. vols. london, . myers, f.w.h. wordsworth. (english men of letters.) new york, . newman, j.h. apologia pro vita sua. london, . nichol, john. byron. (english men of letters.) new york, . palgrave, f.t. biographical and critical memoir of sir walter scott. (in poetical works of scott. london, , macmillan and company.) paris, gaston. la littérature française au moyen age. paris, . percy, w. reliques of ancient english poetry, consisting of old heroic ballads, songs, and other pieces of our earlier poets (chiefly of the lyric kind) together with some few of later date. vols. london, . pierce, e.l. memoirs and letters of charles sumner. vols. boston, . ruskin, john. modern painters. new edition, vols. london, . saintsbury, george. life of scott. (famous scots series.) new york. [ .] a history of criticism and literary taste in europe.... vols. new york, - . scott, temple, ed. the prose works of jonathan swift, d.d. (bohn's standard library.) london, - . southey, robert. selections from the letters of robert southey, edited by john wood warter. vols. london, . stephen, leslie. english literature and society in the eighteenth century. (ford lectures, .) london, . swift. (english men of letters.) new york, . taine, h.a. histoire de la littérature anglaise. vols. paris, - . ticknor, george. life, letters, and journals of george ticknor. sixth edition. vols. boston, . white, a.d. autobiography. vols. new york, . wylie, l.j. studies in the evolution of english criticism. boston, . . _periodicals and articles referred to, aside from the articles written by scott._ _the bibliographer_: notes for a bibliography of swift, by stanley lane-poole. vol. vi, pp. - . _the edinburgh review_: review of the minstrelsy of the scottish border, vol. i, pp. - ; review of sir tristrem, vol. iv, pp. - ; review of scott's edition of swift, vol. xxvii, pp. - ; border ballads, vol. cciii, pp. - . _the english historical review_: dean swift and the memoirs of captain carleton, by col. the hon. arthur parnell, r.e. vol. vi, pp. - . _fraser's magazine_: review of letters on demonology and witchcraft, vol. ii, pp. - . _the knickerbocker magazine_: review by j. fenimore cooper of lockhart's life of scott, vol. xii, pp. ff. _macmillan's magazine_: the historical novel: scott and dumas, by prof. saintsbury, vol. lxx, pp. - . _the nineteenth century_: defoe's "apparition of mrs. veal," by g.a. aitken, vol. xxxvii, pp. ff. _the quarterly review_: review of dunlop's history of fiction, vol. xiii, pp. - ; review of frankenstein, vol. xviii, pp. - ; review of the lives of the novelists, vol. xxxiv, pp. - . index. _abbot, the_, , , _abbotsford and newstead abbey_, , _abbotsford, described by the hon. mary monica maxwell scott_, _abbotsford notanda_, _absalom and achitophel_, , - , _account of the death of frederick, duke of york, an_, addison, joseph, adolphus, j.l., see _letters to heber_ aeschylus, _age of wordsworth, the_, , , , , , _aiken's collection of songs_, scott's review of, , aitken, g.a., , , _alastor_, _alexander's feast_, , allibone, s.a., , , , _amadis de gaul_, scott's review of, , , , , _ancient british drama_, , - _ancient criminal trials_, scott's review of, , , _ancient english metrical romances_, scott's review of, , _ancient mariner, the_, - _ancient times_, anderson, j.p., see _bibliography of scott_ _annals of a publishing house_, _annals of the caledonians_, etc., scott's review of, _anne of geierstein_, , , , , _antiquary, the_, , , , , , _apologia_, newman's, , _apology for tales of terror_, _apparition of mrs. veal, the_, - , arbuthnot, john, ariosto, , aristotle, , arnold, matthew, - , _auchindrane, or the ayrshire tragedy_, _auchinleck manuscript, the_, , _auld robin gray_, austen, jane, , , _autobiography of scott_, bage, robert, , , baillie, joanna, , , , , , , , _ballad book, the_, , _ballads and lyrical pieces_, _ballantyne and lockhart pamphlets, the_, , _bannatyne, memoir of_, , _bannatyne miscellany, the_, barnard, lady anne, _bartholomew fair_, _battle of brunanburgh, the_, , _battles of talavera_, scott's review of, , - , beaumont and fletcher, , , , , _beggar's bush, the_, _beggar's opera, the_, _beowulf_, berners, john, lord, _betrothed, the_, , _bibliographer, the_, , _bibliography of scott_, anderson's, _bibliothèque bleue_, _bibliothèque de romans_, _black dwarf, the_, , , , blackmore, sir richard, _blackwood's edinburgh magazine_, , , , , , blair, hugh, _boaden's life of kemble_, scott's review of, , , , boiardo, boileau, _border antiquities_, boswell, james, , _brennoralt_, _bridal of triermain, the_, , _bride of lammermoor, the_, , , _british novelists and their styles_, , , brome, richard, broughton, hugh, brown, charles brockden, buchan, peter, bunyan, scott's review of southey's life of, , bürger, gottfried, , , burney, fanny, burns, robert, , , , , _burt's letters from the north of scotland_, butler, samuel, byron, george gordon, lord, , , , - , , - , , , , , , , , , , , , , , _cadyow castle_, _cain_, _caledonian sketches_, scott's review of, , calprenède, , campbell, thomas, , , , carey, patrick, _carey, robert, memoirs of_, , _carleton, captain, memoirs of_, , , , carlyle, thomas, , , , carr, sir john, , cartwright, william, _castle dangerous_, , , _castle of otranto, the_, _catalogue of the centenary exhibition_, , , , chambers, e.k., , chambers, robert, , , _changeling, the_, chapman, george, _chase, the_, , chatterton, scott's review of the life and works of, , chaucer, , - , , chesterton, g.k., , _childe harold_, , , , , , , child, francis j., , , , _chimney-sweeper's friend_, _chivalry_, essay on, , , _christabel_, , - , christie, w.d., _chronicles of the canongate_, , , , , , _chronological notes of scottish affairs_, _chrononhotonthologos_, _cid, the_, scott's review of, , _clarissa harlowe_, clemens, samuel l., , clifford, arthur, _cock and the fox, the_, cockburn, henry, , coleridge, samuel taylor, , , , - , - , , , , , , , collins, churton, , - , colvin, sidney, congreve, william, , _conquest of granada, the_, _constable, archibald, literary correspondence of_, , , , , , , , , , , , , conybeare, john j., cooper, j. fenimore, , - , , _correspondence of lady suffolk_, scott's review of, , _count julian_, _count robert of paris_, _courser's manual, the_, courthope, w.j., , , cowley, abraham, , cowper, william, crabbe, george, , craik, sir henry, _critic, the_, croker, j.w., , _cromek's reliques of burns_, scott's review of, , , _culloden papers_, scott's review of, , cumberland, richard, , cunningham, allan, - , - , , _curse of kehama, the_, scott's review of, , , dante, , _darkness_, - davy, sir humphrey, see _salmonia_ _dean swift and the memoirs of captain carleton_, , , , defoe, daniel, , , - , - , , dekker, thomas, , _demonology and witchcraft, letters on_, , , , , dequincey, thomas, derrick, john, , _description of the regalia of scotland_, _diable boiteux, le_, _dictionary of british and american authors_, , , , d'israeli, isaac, , _domestic manners and private life of sir walter scott_, , _don juan_, donne, john, _don quixote_, _doom of devorgoil, the_, - , , douce, francis, _douglas_, , , douglas, david, , _douglas on military bridges_, scott's review of, dowden, prof. edward, , _drama_, essay on, , - , , _drapier's letters, the_, drayton, michael, drelincourt's _defence_, etc., - dryden, john, , - , , , _dryden's works_, edited by scott, , , , , - , , , - , - , , , , , , , , , , dunbar, william, , - dunlop, j.c., , dyce, alexander, eberty, felix, edgeworth, maria, , , , , , , _edinburgh annual register, the_, , , , , , , , - _edinburgh review_, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , _edinburgh weekly journal, the_, , , , elliott, hon. fitzwilliam, ellis, george, , , , , , , , , , , ellis, james, letters of scott to, _emma_, scott's review of, , _encyclopædia britannica_, , , , _english and scottish popular ballads_, , , , _english historical review, the_, , , , _english literature and society in the eighteenth century_, , _english minstrelsy_, _ephemera critica_, - , _evans's old ballads_, scott's review of, , _eve of st. john, the_, , _evergreen, the_, _eyrbyggja saga, the_, , _fables_, dryden's, - , _fair maid of perth, the_, _fair maid of the inn, the_, _family legend, the_, _familiar letters of sir walter scott_, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , _fatal revenge, the_, scott's review of, _faust_, _faustus_, _ferdinand, count fathom_, fergusson, robert, _ferrex and porrex_, ferrier, susan, fielding, henry, , , - , - , _field of waterloo, the_, , fitzgerald, percy, , _fleetwood_, scott's review of, fletcher, john, , , , , fletcher, phineas, ford, john, , _foreign quarterly review_, , , , , , _forester's guide, the_, scott's review of, forster, john, , , - , _fortunes of nigel, the_, , , , , , , , , , , , , , fouqué, baron de la motte, _fragmenta regalia_, , _fragments of voyages and travel_, france, anatole, franck, richard, _frankenstein_, , , , _fraser's magazine_, , , , , , , , freeman, edward, , , frere, john hookham, , froissart, , , galt, john, , _gammer gurton's needle_, gates, prof. l.e., , , gay, john, _gebir_, _gertrude of wyoming_, scott's review of, , , gibson, john, gifford, william, , , , , , gilfillan, george, gillies, r.p., , , , , , , , , _glenfinlas_, godwin, william, , , _godwin's life of chaucer_, scott's review of, , , , , goethe, , , - , , _goetz von berlichingen_, , goldsmith, oliver, , gosson, stephen, _gourgaud's narrative, remarks on_, grammont, count, , _gray brother, the_, greene, robert, , grimm, jacob, _groat's-worth of wit_, _group of englishmen, a_, , _gulliver's travels_, _guy mannering_, , , , , , , , , , _gwynne, john, military memoirs of_, _hajji baba in england_, scott's review of, _halidon hill_, , _hall of justice, the_, _harold the dauntless_, , _harper's magazine_, hawkesworth, john, haydon, b.r., , hazlitt, william, , , , , , , , , _heart of midlothian, the_, , , _heber, richard, letters to_, , - , , , , , , , , , , hemans, mrs. felicia, henderson's edition of _the minstrelsy of the scottish border_, , , - , , , , henry, robert, herbert, lord, of cherbury, herbert, william, scott's review of the poems of, , , , herford, c.h., see _age of wordsworth_ _highland widow, the_, , _hind and the panther, the_, _history of criticism_, saintsbury's, , _history of english poetry_, courthope's, , _history of english poetry_, warton's, , , , _history of john bull_, _history of prose fiction_, dunlop's, , _history of queen elizabeth's favourites_, , _history of scotland_, scott's, , _history of scotland_, tytler's, scott's review of, , , _history of the church of scotland_, defoe's, _history of the church of scotland_, sharpe's kirkton's, scott's review of, _history of the norman conquest of england_, , , _history of the years and _, , _hodgson, captain, memoirs of_, , hoffman, scott's review of the works of, , , , hogg, james, , , , , , home, scott's review of the life of, , , , , homer, , , , horace, , _hours of idleness_, _house of aspen, the_, _hudibras_, hudson, w.h., , hughes, mrs., , hume, david, hunt, leigh, , , , , hutton, r.h., , hutchinson, h.g., , _iliad, the_, , _illustrations of northern antiquities_, _image of ireland, the_, , _imitations of the ancient ballad_, essay on, , , , , , , _indian emperor, the_, _introductions, etc., to the novels, tales, and romances, of the author of waverley_, irving, washington, , , , - , , , , _ivanhoe_, , , , , , , , , _jacobite relics_, , jamieson, robert, , , jeffrey, francis, , , , , , - _jests of george peele_, _jonathan wild_, _john de lancaster_, scott's review of, _johnes's froissart_, scott's review of, , johnson, samuel, , , , , , , - , , , , , johnstone, charles, _jolly beggars, the_, jonson, ben, , , , _journal of a tour to the hebrides_, _journal, scott's_, , , , , , , , , , , (see the footnotes for the many references not here indexed) _judicial reform_, essay on, , keats, john, , _keepsake, the_, _kelly's reminiscences_, scott's review of, , , , kemble, scott's review of the life of, , , , kemble, j.m., _kenilworth_, , , , _kinmont willie_, , , , kirk, robert, , _kirkton's history, etc._, scott's review of, _knickerbocker's history of new york_, _knickerbocker magazine, the_, , , knight, prof. william, see _memorials of coleorton_, and _wordsworth_ _knight's tale, the_, _knighton, sir william, memoirs of_, , kölbing, e., , _kuzzilbash, the_, scott's review of, _lady of the lake, the_, , , , , , _lady suffolk's correspondence_, scott's review of, , _laird's jock, the_, laing, malcolm, , lamb, charles, , , , , _landor_, forster's _life of_, , , - , _landscape gardening_, see _planter's guide_ lane-poole, stanley, , lang, andrew, _border edition of the waverley novels_, , , , , _life of lockhart_, , , , , , _life of scott_, , , , , _secret commonwealth of elves, fauns, and fairies_, langhorne, john, _lay of the last minstrel, the_, , , , , , _lays of the lindsays_, lee, sidney, lee, william, legaré, h.s., , _legend of montrose, a_, , lennox, charlotte, _lenore_, , le sage, , _letter from dr. tripe to nestor ironside_, _letters of malachi malagrowther on the currency_, , , , , _letters of sir walter scott_, - , see also _familiar letters_, hutchinson, polwhele, and stuart, lady louisa _letters on demonology and witchcraft_, , , , _letters to richard heber, etc._, , - , , , , , , , , , , _letting of humour's blood in the head vaine, the_, _levett, robert, verses on the death of_, lewis, matthew, , - , leyden, john, , , _liberal movement in english literature, the_, , _life of napoleon buonaparte, the_, , , , , - , , , , _life on the mississippi_, , _life of sir walter scott, the_, see cunningham, gilfillan, hudson, hutton, lang, lockhart, mackenzie, and saintsbury _littérature française au moyen age, la_, , _little french lawyer, the_, _lives of the novelists_, , , , - , , , , _lives of the poets_, _living poets of great britain_, article on, , _livre de mon ami, le_, , lockhart, john gibson, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , _lockhart's life of scott_, , , , , , , , - , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , (see the footnotes for the many references not here indexed) lodge, edmund, , _london_, _lord byron and some of his contemporaries_, - , _lord of the isles, the_, , lounsbury, prof. t.r., , , _love_, lyly, john, macaulay, t.b., _macduff's cross_, mackenzie, colin, mackenzie, henry, , , , , see also home, john mackenzie, r. shelton, , , , , _macmillan's magazine_, , , mcneill, g.p., macpherson, james, , , _madoc_, _magnalia_, maigron, louis, , _malachi malagrowther, letters of_, , , , , malone, edmund, , malory, _manfred_, , mark twain, , marlowe, christopher, _marmion_, , , , , , , , , , , marston, john, _masque of owls, the_, massinger, philip, masson, david, , , mather, cotton, matthews, prof. brander, , maturin, c.r., , , _mediaeval stage, the_, , _memoirs of a literary veteran_, , _memoirs of captain carleton_, , , - , _memoirs of captain hodgson_, , _memoirs of robert carey_, , _memoirs of the court of charles ii._, , _memoirs of the insurrection in _, _memoirs of the duke of sully_, _memoirs of the marchioness de la rochejaquelin_, _memoirs of the reign of king charles i._, , _memorials of coleorton_, _memorials of george bannatyne_, , _memorials of his time_, cockburn's, , _memorials of james hogg_, _memorials of the haliburtons_, _memorie of the somervilles_, _merry devil of edmonton, the_, meteyard, eliza, , _mezeray's history of france_, mickle, w.j., middleton, thomas, , _mid-eighteenth century, the_, , millar, j.h., , _military bridges_, scott's review of, _military memoirs of the great civil war_, , milton, , , , , , , , , minot, laurence, _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, , , , - , , , , , - , , _mirror for magistrates, the_, _miscellaneous prose works_, scott's, , , , , , , , , , , , , , _miseries of human life_, scott's review of, _modern british drama, the_, , _modern painters_, , , molière, , , , , _monastery, the_, , , , _monk, the_, moore, thomas, , , , _murray, john, memoir and correspondence of_, , , , , , , , , _my aunt margaret's mirror_, , myers, f.w.h., , _mysterious mother, the_, _napoleon_, scott's _life of_, , , , , - , , , , nash, thomas, naunton, sir robert, _neidpath castle_, wordsworth's sonnet on, _new history of the english stage_, , newman, j.h., , _new practice of cookery, the_, scott's review of, _new test of the church of england's loyalty, a_, nichol, john, , nichols, john, _nineteenth century, the_, , , _norman conquest of england, the_, , , _northern antiquities_, , _northern memoirs_, _notices concerning the scottish gypsies_, _novelists' library, the_, , , - , _ode on scottish music_, _oedipe_, _old mortality_, , , , , , , oliphant, mrs., _omen, the_, scott's review of, _opus magnum, the_, , , _original memoirs written during the great civil war_, , ossian, - , , otway, thomas, , , _paradise lost_, _palamon and arcite_, palgrave, francis, , , _papers relative to the regalia of scotland_, paris, gaston, , parnell, col., the hon. arthur, , , , parnell, thomas, _paul's letters to his kinsfolk_, , , , , peele, george, _penni worth of wit, a_, pepys, samuel, , , percy, thomas, , , , , , , , , , , , _periodical criticism_, article on, petrarch, _peveril of the peak_, , , pierce, e.l., _pilot, the_, _pioneers, the_, _pinner of wakefield, the_, _pirate, the_, , , - , _pitcairn's ancient criminal trials_, scott's review of, , , _planter's guide, the_, scott's review of, _planting waste lands_, scott's review of, _plays on the passions_, poe, edgar allan, , _poems, with prefaces by the author_, polwhele, r., letters of scott to, , , _poor richard's almanac_, pope, alexander, , , , , , _popular poetry, remarks on_, , , , , _portraits of illustrious personages_, , _prairie, the_, prior, matthew, _proceedings in the court-martial, etc._, _provincial antiquities_, , , , pulci, _quarterly review_, , - , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , _queenhoo hall_, , , _quentin durward_, , , , , radcliffe, mrs. anne, , , , _rambler, the_, , ramsay, allan, , _recollections of sir walter scott_, r.p. gillies', , , , , _redgauntlet_, , , _red rover, the_, reeve, clara, , , _religio laici_, _religious discourses by a layman_, _reliquiae trottosienses_, _reliques of burns_, scott's review of, , , _remarks on gen. gourgaud's narrative_, _remarks on popular poetry_, , , , , _remarks on the death of lord byron_, , _reminiscences of sir walter scott_, john gibson's, _revolutions of naples_, article on, richardson, samuel, , - , , ritson, joseph, , , , , , , , , , , , robert of brunne, robertson, william, robinson, crabbe, _rob roy_, , , rogers, samuel, _rokeby_, , , , , _romance_, essay on, , , - , , , , _roman historique à l'Ã�poque romantique, le_, , roscommon, earl of, rose, w.s., , , rowlands, samuel, rowley, , ruskin, john, , , , sackville, thomas, - _sadler, sir ralph, state papers and letters of_, _saint ronan's well_, , , , , , saintsbury, prof. george, , , , , , , , , , , _sale-room, the_, , _salmonia_, scott's review of, schlegel, _school of abuse, the_, scott, temple, , scudéri, , _secret commonwealth, the_, , _secret history of one year, the_, _secret history of the court of james i._, , , severn, joseph, seward, anne, , , , , shadwell, thomas, , shakspere, , , , , - , , , , , , , , , - sharpe, c.k., , , , , , , , , , , , shelley, mrs. mary, , shelley, p.b., , , , , sheridan, thomas, shirley, james, , _short account of successful exertions, etc._, _sibbald's chronicle_, scott's review of, , _sir eustace grey_, _sir john oldcastle_, _sir tristrem_, , - , , , , , , _sketch book, the_, _sketch of lord kinneder_, _slingsby, sir h., life of_, smith, adam, smith, charlotte, smollett, tobias, , , _somers tracts, the_, , , , , - , , somerville, lord, southerne, thomas, southey, robert, , , , , , , , , , - , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , _spae-wife, the_, _specimens of early english romances_, scott's review of, , _specimens of english dramatic poets_, , , _specimens of the early english poets_, scott's review of, , , spenser, , , staël, mme. de, stanhope, philip, earl, steele, sir richard, , stephen, sir leslie, , , , sterne, laurence, , , , _story of rimini, the_, strutt, joseph, , , _stuart, lady louisa, letters of_, , , , , _studies in the evolution of english criticism_, , suckling, sir john, , _sumner, charles, memoirs and letters of_, , _supernatural in fictitious composition, the_, _surgeon's daughter, the_, surtees, robert, , , , swift, deane, swift, jonathan, - , , - , _swift's works_, edited by scott, , , - , , , , , , taine, h.a., , _tales of a grandfather_, , , , , , _tales of my landlord_, , , - , , , , , , , _tales of the crusaders_, , , _talisman, the_, _tapestried chamber, the_, , taylor, william, , _tender husband, the_, terry, daniel, , thackeray, w.m., , _thalaba_, , thomas the rhymer, , , - , thorkelin, _thornton's sporting tour_, scott's review of, _three studies in literature_, , , ticknor, george, , , , , , tieck, tierry, _todd's spenser_, scott's review of, , , _tom jones_, _traditions and recollections, etc._, tressan, , _trial of duncan terig, the_, , _tristram shandy_, , _trivial poems and triolets_, _troilus and criseyde_, _true-born englishman, the_, _trustworthiness of border ballads, the_, , turner, sharon, , _two bannatyne garlands_, _two drovers, the_, _tytler's history of scotland_, scott's review of, , , _varied types_, , _vanity of human wishes, the_, _venis and adonis_, _vicar of wakefield, the_, _virgin queen, the_, _visionary, the_, _vision of don roderick, the_, , voltaire, , waldron, francis, _wallenstein_, , waller, edmund, walpole, horace, , , , , , walpole, robert, walton, isaac, - _war song of the royal edinburgh light dragoons_, warton, joseph, warton, thomas, , , , warter, j.w., , warwick, sir philip, _waverley_, , , , , , , , , , , , weber, henry, , , webster, john, , , white, hon. andrew, d., , _william and helen_, wilson, john, , _women_, scott's review of, _women pleased_, _woodstock_, , , , , wordsworth, william, , , - , , , , , , , , , , wylie, l.j., , _yarrow revisited_, [footnote : mr. hutton's _life of scott_, in the english men of letters series, contains no chapter nor any extended passage on scott's critical and scholarly work, though there is a chapter on "scott's morality and religion," and one on "scott as a politician." this, like the other short biographies of scott, is professedly a compilation, so far as its facts are concerned, from lockhart's book. the lives of scott by gilfillan and by mackenzie, published about the time of the scott centenary in , are longer than hutton's, but contain no more extended references to the critical writings. mackenzie's book out of nearly five hundred pages gives only one to a discussion of the edition of dryden, and half a page to an account of the establishment of the _quarterly review_. gilfillan characterizes the critical work in almost as short a space, but with a good deal of judgment. the german biography of scott contemporary with these, by dr. felix eberty, is concerned with the man rather than his works. of later lives of scott, prof. saintsbury's gives, in proportion to its length, more space than any other to scott's critical work, but the book has only a hundred and fifty-five pages in all. another recent biographer, mr. w.h. hudson, says of scott's editorial and critical work, "these exertions, though they call for passing record, occupy a minor place in his story"; and he gives them only "passing record." mr. andrew lang's still more recent and briefer _sir walter scott_ devotes only a few lines here and there to comment on scott as a critic, and contains hardly even a reference to the little-known volumes that he edited.] [footnote : ten of scott's twenty-seven novels (counting the first series of _chronicles of the canongate_ as one) have scenes laid in the eighteenth century. they are as follows, arranged approximately in the order of their periods: _the bride of lammermoor_, _the pirate_, _the black dwarf_, _rob roy_, _the heart of midlothian_, _waverley_, _guy mannering_, _redgauntlet_, _chronicles of the canongate (first series)_, _the antiquary_. the long poems all found their setting in earlier periods.] [footnote : _british novelists and their styles_, pp. - .] [footnote : _familiar letters_, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : see particularly _paul's letters; provincial antiquities_; and the histories of the years and , each a respectable volume, written for the _edinburgh annual register_.] [footnote : ruskin's remark that "the excellence of scott's work is precisely in proportion to the degree in which it is sketched from present nature," should not necessarily lead on to the condemnation which follows: "he does not see how anything is to be got out of the past but confusion, old iron on drawing-room chairs, and serious inconvenience to dr. heavysterne." (_modern painters_, part iv, ch. , § .)] [footnote : _letters to richard heber_, etc. (by j.l. adolphus), pp. - .] [footnote : mr. herford distinguishes two lines of romantic sentiment--"the one pursuing the image of the past as a refuge from reality, the other as a portion of it: the mediaevalism of tieck and the mediaevalism of scott." _the age of wordsworth_, introduction, p. xxiv, note.] [footnote : _letters of lady louisa stuart_, p. .] [footnote : _journal_, vol. i, p. ; _lockhart_, vol. v, p. . the edition of lockhart's _life of scott_ to which reference is made throughout this study is that in five volumes, published by macmillan & co. in the "library of english classics."] [footnote : chesterton, _varied types_, pp. - .] [footnote : the fact that scott was a clerk of the court of sessions is remembered less frequently than the fact that he had business complications. but this employment of his, which could be undertaken only by a lawyer, occupied a large proportion of his time during twenty-four years. he once wrote, "i cannot work well after i have had four or five hours of the court, for though the business is trifling, yet it requires constant attention, which is at length exhausting." (_constable's correspondence_, vol. iii, p. .) again he wrote, "i saw it reported that joseph hume said i composed novels at the clerk's table; but joseph hume said what neither was nor could be correct, as any one who either knew what belonged to composing novels, or acting as clerk to a court of justice, would easily have discovered." (_memoirs of sir william knighton_, p. .)] [footnote : _journal_, vol. i, p. ; _lockhart_, vol. iv, p. .] [footnote : see the memoir prefixed to the globe edition of scott's poems.] [footnote : _familiar letters_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. iii, p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : cooper measured his own success by the same test. at the conclusion of the letter to the publisher with which _the pioneers_ originally opened he said he should look to his publisher for "the only true account of the reception of his book." (lounsbury's _life of cooper_, pp. - .)] [footnote : _napoleon_, vol. i, ch. .] [footnote : "he fixed his attention on his employments without the slightest consideration for his own feelings of whatever kind, either in regard to state of health or domestic sorrows." (_memoirs of a literary veteran_, by r.p. gillies, vol. iii, p. .)] [footnote : _familiar letters_, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : _familiar letters_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _journal_, vol. , p. ; _lockhart_, vol. v, p. .] [footnote : _letters to heber_, p. .] [footnote : irving's _abbotsford_.] [footnote : _life, letters, and journals of george ticknor_, vol. i, p. . see also scott's review of the _life of home_; and _lockhart_, vol. iii, p. .] [footnote : _cockburn's memorials_, p. .] [footnote : _ticknor_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _letters to heber_, p. ; _lockhart_, vol. iii, p. .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : review of _poems of william herbert_, _edinburgh review_, october, .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. i, pp. - .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : in .] [footnote : ritson's principal works were as follows: _select collection of english songs_ ( ); _pieces of ancient popular poetry from authentic manuscripts and old printed copies_ ( ); _ancient songs from the time of henry iii. to the revolution_ ( ); _scottish songs with the genuine music_ ( ); _poems by laurence minot_ ( ); _robin hood poems_ ( ); _ancient english metrical romances_ ( ).] [footnote : ellis published his _specimens of the early english poets_ in , and it was reissued with the addition of the introduction in and . he edited also way's translations of the fabliaux ( ), and _specimens of early english romances in metre_ ( ).] [footnote : review of dunlop's _history of fiction_, july, .] [footnote : the _magnum opus_ of robert surtees was his _history of durham_, published - .] [footnote : douce published _illustrations of shakespeare_ in . later he edited _arnold's chronicle; judicium, a pageant_; and a metrical _life of st. robert_. the two latter, which appeared in and , were done for the roxburghe club. in he also wrote some notes for warton's _history of english poetry_.] [footnote : _age of wordsworth_, p. .] [footnote : a number of volumes containing old ballads together with modern imitations had been published both before and after the appearance of percy's _reliques_, but ritson's collections were the first, except percy's, to treat the material in a scholarly way.] [footnote : the discussion centered upon the social and literary position of minstrels. the first edition of the _reliques of ancient english poetry_, published in , contained an essay on the history of minstrelsy, and one on the origin of the metrical romances, which, taken together, says mr. courthope, "may be said to furnish the first generalized theory of the nature of mediaeval poetry." (_history of english poetry_, vol. i, p. .) percy considered the minstrels as the authors of the compositions which they sang to the harp, and as holding a dignified social position similar to that of the anglo-saxon scôp or the old norse scald. this theory was vigorously attacked by joseph ritson in the preface of his _select collection of english songs_ in , and again in his _ancient english metrical romances_ in , and in his essay on the ancient english minstrels in ancient songs and ballads ( ). ritson contended that minstrels were musical performers of a low class, or even acrobats, and that they were not literary composers. scott used his knowledge of ballads and romances and the customs depicted in them to reinforce his own decision that the truth lay somewhere between the two extremes. he pointed out that the word may have covered a wide variety of professional entertainers. a modern comment (by e.k. chambers, in _the mediaeval stage_, vol. i, p. ) seems like an echo of scott: "this general antithesis between the higher and lower minstrelsy may now, perhaps, be regarded as established. it was the neglect of it, surely, that led to that curious and barren logomachy between percy and ritson, in which neither of the disputants can be said to have had hold of more than a bare half of the truth."] [footnote : scott's theory as to the authorship of ballads is even now held by mr. courthope. at the end of his chapter on minstrelsy, in _the history of english poetry_, he thus sums up the matter: "all the evidence cited in this chapter shows that, so far from the ballad being a spontaneous product of popular imagination, it was a type of poem adapted by the professors of the declining art of minstrelsy, from the romances once in favour with the educated classes. everything in the ballad--matter, form, composition--is the work of the minstrel; all that the people do is to remember and repeat what the minstrel has put together." this statement represents a position which is actively assailed by the adherents of the communal origin theory. another critical idea which originated in germany, and in which scott had no interest, though he knew something about it, was the wolffian hypothesis in regard to the homeric poems. he once heard coleridge expound the subject, but failed to join in the discussion. (_journal_, vol. ii, p. ; _lockhart_, vol. v, p. .) he said the theory could never be held by any _poet_. see a note by lockhart on the essay on _popular poetry_. henderson's edition of _minstrelsy_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : review of cromek's _reliques of burns_. _quarterly review_, february, .] [footnote : "no one but burns ever succeeded in patching up old scottish songs with any good effect," scott wrote in his _journal_ (vol. ii, p. ). and in his review of cromek's _reliques of burns_ he said on the same subject of scottish songs: "few, whether serious or humorous, past through his hands without receiving some of those magic touches which, without greatly altering the song, restored its original spirit, or gave it more than it had ever possessed." (_quarterly_, february, .)] [footnote : _remarks on popular poetry_, henderson's edition of _minstrelsy_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : henderson's edition of _minstrelsy_, vol. i, p. xix.] [footnote : henderson's edition of _minstrelsy_, vol. i, pp. - .] [footnote : the matter may be traced in child's collection of ballads, or more easily in the latest edition of the _minstrelsy_, edited by t.f. henderson and published in four volumes in . mr. henderson's views of ballad origins are quite in accord with scott's own, but he notes the points at which scott failed to follow any originals. there seems to be some reason to believe, however, though mr. henderson does not say so, that scott wrote _kinmont willie_ without any originals at all, except the very similar situations in three or four other ballads. see the introduction by professor kittredge to the abridged edition of child's ballads, edited by himself and helen child sargent. it is unnecessary to give here any detailed account of scott's procedure, as the matter has been thoroughly worked out by students of ballads. a few examples may be given as illustrations, however. in _the dowie dens of yarrow_ (henderson's edition, vol. iii, p. ) lines out of the are noted by mr. henderson as either changed or added by scott. scott writes (beginning of fifth stanza), "as he gaed up the tennies bank" for "as he gaed up yon high, high hill," and we find from a note of lockhart's that _the tennies_ is the name of a farm belonging to the duke of buccleuch. in the sixth stanza scott changes the lines, "o ir ye come to drink the wine as we hae done before, o?" to "o come ye here to part your land, the bonnie forest thorough?" in the seventeenth stanza he changes, "a better rose will never spring than him i've lost on yarrow?" to "a fairer rose did never bloom than now lies cropp'd on yarrow." in _jellon grame_ (vol. iii, p. ), mr. henderson notes changes in different lines, and points out whole stanzas, out of the , that are interpolated. in the _gay goss-hawk_ (vol. iii, p. ) stanzas out of are noted as probably wholly or mainly by scott, and stanzas were changed by him. sometimes his alterations occurred in every line of a stanza. it is probable that scott changed _jamie telfer_ enough to make the scotts take the place of prominence that had been held by the elliotts in the original form of the story. see _the trustworthiness of border ballads as exemplified by 'jamie telfer i' the fair dodhead' and other ballads_; by lieut.-col. the hon. fitzwilliam elliott. reviewed in _edinburgh review_, no. , p. (october, ).] [footnote : see the examples given in the preceding note. most of the changes there spoken of were made without annotation.] [footnote : this extraordinary young man was poet and scholar on his own account by , though he was four years younger than scott. his erudition in many fields was remarkable, and he was as enthusiastic as scott himself about scotch poetry, and was the chief assistant in gathering ballads for the _minstrelsy_. he also collected the material for the essay on fairies in the second volume, which was especially praised by the reviewer in the _edinburgh review_ (january, ). leyden's chief fame was derived from his wonderfully varied activities in india, from to his early death in . any reader of lockhart's _life of scott_ or of scott's delightful little memoir, published first in the _edinburgh annual register_ for , and included in the _miscellaneous prose works_, must feel that the uncouth young genius is a familiar acquaintance.] [footnote : the ettrick shepherd, who, after reading the first two volumes of the _minstrelsy_, sought an acquaintance with scott, and offered assistance which was gladly made use of in the preparation of the third volume. scott in his turn provided much of the material for hogg's _jacobite relics_, published in . the following note on one of the songs in that work adds to the reader's doubts concerning the accuracy of scott's texts: "i have not altered a word from the manuscript, which is in the handwriting of an amanuensis of mr. scott's, the most incorrect transcriber, perhaps, that ever tried the business." (_jacobite relics_, vol. i, p. . note on song lxiii.)] [footnote : henderson's edition of the _minstrelsy_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _quarterly_, may, .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. iii, p. .] [footnote : still more striking evidence that scott lacked an infallible sense of the difference between genuine and spurious ballad material is afforded by his comments on peter buchan's collection, which is now considered particularly untrustworthy. he thought that with two or three exceptions the pieces in the book were genuine, and said: "i scarce know anything so easily discovered as the piecing and patching of an old ballad; the darns in a silk stocking are not more manifest." (_correspondence of c.k. sharpe_, vol. ii, p. .)] [footnote : scott's manuscript collections of ballads dropped partially out of sight after his death, and it was only about that their magnitude and importance became known. professor child and later editors have found them of very great service. (on child's use of the abbotsford materials, see the advertisement to part viii of his collection, contained in volume iv.) in appeared a reprint of the _ballad book_ of c.k. sharpe, "with notes and ballads from the unpublished manuscripts of c.k. sharpe and sir walter scott," but the contributions from scott's papers did not amount to much. scott's materials were at the service of his friend for use in the original edition of the _ballad book_, published in . see _sharpe's correspondence_, vol. ii, pp. , and , for letters from scott on this subject.] [footnote : note on _the raid of the reidswire_, in the _minstrelsy_.] [footnote : henderson's edition of the _minstrelsy_, vol. iii, p. .] [footnote : henderson's edition of the _minstrelsy_, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : first edition of the _minstrelsy_, vol. ii, pp. - .] [footnote : _edinburgh review_, january, .] [footnote : the _minstrelsy_ is arranged in three parts: i., historical ballads; ii., romantic ballads; iii., imitations of the ballad. the first part is preceded by the introductory remarks on popular poetry, and by the historical introduction. the second part is preceded by the essay on the fairies of popular superstition; and the third by the essay on imitations of the ancient ballad. the poems by scott given in this third part are as follows: _thomas the rhymer_ (parts and ), _glenfinlas_, _the eve of st. john_, _cadyow castle_, _the gray brother_, _war song of the royal edinburgh light dragoons_. besides these there are three poems by john leyden (and he has also an _ode on scottish music_ preceding the romantic ballads), two by c.k. sharpe, three by john marriott, who was tutor to the children of the duke of buccleuch, and one each by matthew lewis, anna seward, dr. jamieson, colin mackenzie, j.b.s. morritt, and an unnamed author. in the other parts of the book there are a few imitations, notably the three by surtees--_lord ewine_, the _death of featherstonhaugh_, and _barthram's dirge_, which scott supposed were old; and one or two like the _flowers of the forest_, which he noted as largely modern, or which he had found, after arranging his material, to be wholly modern. nearly forty old ballads were published in the _minstrelsy_ for the first time.] [footnote : _remarks on popular poetry_, conclusion.] [footnote : review of the poems of william herbert. _edinburgh review_, october, .] [footnote : stanzas - , and , are noted by child as particularly suspicious. "basnet," which occurs in stanza , is not a very common word in ballads. it is used in _the lay_, canto i., stanza , and in _marmion_, canto vi, st. .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _memoir of william taylor_, vol. i, pp. - , and see _sharpe's correspondence_, vol. i, pp. - , for a letter to sharpe on a similar point.] [footnote : _minstrelsy_, introduction to _lord thomas and fair annie_.] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. i, pp. - .] [footnote : _familiar letters_, vol. i, p. . see also _lockhart_, vol. v, p. .] [footnote : sometime before (probably a good while before, but the date cannot be fixed), scott began a translation of _don quixote_, and afterwards gave the work over to lockhart, who completed it. see _constable's correspondence_, vol. iii, p. .] [footnote : louis-elizabeth de la vergne, comte de tressan, was born in and died in . in early life he was sent to rome on diplomatic business, and it is said that in the vatican library he acquired his taste for the literature of chivalry. his chief works were _amadis de gaules_ ( ); _roland furieux_ (translated from the italian, ); _corps d'extraits romans de chevalerie_ ( ). his translations were partly adaptations, and were far from being rendered with precision.] [footnote : see particularly his article on ellis's and ritson's _metrical romances_ (_edinburgh review_, january, ), the essay on _romance_, and _remarks on popular poetry_ in the _minstrelsy_.] [footnote : _edinburgh review_, july, . ellis and scott had had much correspondence on _sir tristrem_, and it was ellis's queries that first led scott into the detailed investigation which resulted in the separate publication of the work. he had intended to print it in the _minstrelsy_ (_lockhart_, vol. i. p. ). the letters are given in _lockhart_, vol. i.] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _die nordische und die englische version der tristan-sage_--ii. _sir tristrem_. heilbronn, . mr. george p. mcneill's edition of _sir tristrem_ was printed for the scottish text society, edinburgh, .] [footnote : kölbing thinks scott probably hired a transcriber who knew nothing of middle english--a usual method of procedure in the beginning of the nineteenth century. in later editions more errors were introduced by the carelessness of printers, until, after , when the book was included in the complete editions of scott's poems, the text was collated with the manuscript. but it was still far from correct. kölbing enumerates about a hundred and thirty mistakes (see his introduction, p. xvii). of these i took twenty-one at random, and found that eight of them did not occur in the edition--in other words, the person who collated the text nearly thirty years after scott or his hired transcriber had done it was far from infallible. a few illustrations may be given of mistakes that occur in both the and the editions: l. , _send_ is given for _sent_; l. , _telle_ for _tel_; l. , _how_ for _hou_; l. , _mak_ for _make_; l. , _leuedi_ for _leuedy_; l. , _wende sche weren_ for _whende sche were_; l. . _have_ for _han_; l. , _as_ for _als_.] [footnote : review of johnes's translation of froissart, _edinburgh review_, january, .] [footnote : waverley, and claverhouse in _old mortality_.] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. i, pp. and . _familiar letters_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _essay on romance_.] [footnote : see gaston paris, _la littérature française au moyen age_, ère partie, ch. iv.] [footnote : review of _metrical romances_, _edinburgh review_, january, .] [footnote : _journal_, vol. ii, pp. - .] [footnote : _essay on romance_.] [footnote : _familiar letters_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : memoir in the globe edition of scott's poems.] [footnote : scott adopted the conclusions of malcolm laing, who edited macpherson's poems and adduced parallel passages from "a mass of poetry, enough to serve any six gentle readers for their lifetime," as the reviewer says. the most of these parallels were found in "homer, virgil, and their two translators; milton, thomson, young, gray, mason, home, and the english bible." although he was convinced by the argument, scott saw that the editor was in some cases misled by his own ingenuity.] [footnote : later, however (in the essay on imitations of the ancient ballad, ), he said: "in their spirit and diction they nearly resemble fragments of poetry extant in gaelic." by this time he was probably reverting to the earlier opinion which had made the more vivid impression.] [footnote : for the _northern antiquities_, edited by robert jamieson and published in , scott wrote an abstract of the _eyrbyggja saga_, using, as one would conclude from his introductory words, the latin version made by thorkelin, who published the saga in . the purpose of the publication required the historical and antiquarian rather than the literary point of view, and accordingly we find scott's notes occupied with historical comment.] [footnote : in weber came to edinburgh in a deplorable condition of poverty, and was employed and assisted in literary work by scott during the following nine years. in he was seized with insanity, and challenged scott, across the study table, to an immediate duel with pistols. scott supported weber during the remaining five years of his life in an insane hospital. he was much liked by the scott family. scott rated his learning very highly, and gave him valuable assistance in various literary projects. weber's chief publications were: _metrical romances of the thirteenth, fourteenth, and sixteenth centuries_, with introduction, notes and glossary ( ); _dramatic works of john ford_, with introduction and explanatory notes ( ); _works of beaumont and fletcher_, with introduction and explanatory notes ( ): to this scott's notes were the most valuable contribution; _illustrations of northern antiquities_ ( ), with jamieson and scott.] [footnote : see his essay on _imitations of the ancient ballad_.] [footnote : _illustrations of anglo-saxon poetry, translated by the vicar of batheaston_. conybeare had died two years before the publication of the book.] [footnote : review of ellis's _specimens_, _edinburgh review_, april, .] [footnote : bletson and richard ganlesse.] [footnote : but see the dictum quoted by scott in a somewhat over-emphatic way from ellis's _specimens of the early english poets_, to the effect that chaucer's "peculiar ornaments of style, consisting in an affectation of splendour, and especially of latinity," were perhaps his special contribution to the improvement of english poetry. (_edinburgh review_, april, .) scott said of dunbar, "this darling of the scottish muses has been justly raised to a level with chaucer by every judge of poetry to whom his obsolete language has not rendered him unintelligible." (_memoir of bannatyne_, p. .) after naming the various qualities in which dunbar was chaucer's rival, he pronounces the scottish poet inferior in the use of pathos. the relative position here assigned to the two poets seems to be rather an exaltation of dunbar than a degradation of chaucer.] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _dryden_, vol. xi, p. .] [footnote : _dryden_, vol. xi, p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. vi, p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. xi, p. .] [footnote : the discussion of popular superstitions given in the introduction to the _minstrelsy_ and in the essay on fairies, which is prefixed to the ballad of _young tamlane_, suggests comparison with the _letters on demonology and witchcraft_ which scott wrote in the year before he died. he collected a remarkable library in regard to superstition, and thought at various times of making a book on the subject, but the project was pushed aside for other matters until . the _letters_ which he wrote then are full of pleasant anecdote and judicious comment, and though they lack the vigor of his earlier work they have remained fairly popular. an edition of kirk's _secret commonwealth of elves and fairies_, published in , has been attributed to scott. (see below, the bibliography of books edited by scott.) reviews of his which have not been mentioned in this chapter, but which naturally connect themselves with the subjects here discussed, are the following: _the culloden papers_--an account of the highland clans, largely narrative (_quarterly_, january, ); ritson's _annals of the caledonians, picts and scots_--an article of more than forty pages, discussing the early history of scotland and the historians who have written upon it (_quarterly_, july, ); tytler's _history of scotland_--an article similar to that on ritson's book (_quarterly_, november, ); pitcairn's _ancient criminal trials_--a long article, which begins with an extended digression on booksellers and collectors and on the roxburghe and bannatyne clubs (_quarterly_, february, ); sibbald's _chronicle of scottish poetry_--merely a series of notes on special points (_edinburgh review_, october, ); southey's _chronicle of the cid_ (_quarterly_, february, ). for the _encyclopædia britannica_ scott wrote an essay on chivalry, as well as the one on romance to which reference has been made.] [footnote : review of _kelly's reminiscences and the life of kemble_, _quarterly review_, june, .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : terry had been educated as an architect, and his knowledge and taste were of assistance to scott in connection with the building and furnishing of abbotsford. after he played chiefly in london. in his version of _guy mannering_, the first of his adaptations from scott, was presented. before this he had taken the part of roderick dhu in two dramatic versions of _the lady of the lake_. in he was the first david deans in his adaptation of _the heart of midlothian_. six years later he became manager of the adelphi theater, in association with f.h. yates. at this time scott became terry's security for £ , a sum which he was afterward obliged to pay with the addition of £ for which the credit of james ballantyne was pledged. when financial embarrassment caused terry to retire from the management his mental and physical powers gave way, and he died of paralysis in . terry admired scott so much that he learned to imitate his facial expression, his speech and his handwriting.] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : the phrase, which was a favorite one of scott's, is spoken not by tony lumpkin, but by one of his tavern companions. scott's use of it is an indication of the way in which he was familiar with the drama. very likely he never reread the play after his youth, but his strong memory doubtless retained a pretty definite impression of it.] [footnote : _review of the life and works of john home_, _quarterly_, june, .] [footnote : _familiar letters_, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. iii, p. . it may be noted that this criticism does not show much dramatic insight.] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. iii, pp. - .] [footnote : _journal_, vol. i, p. ; _lockhart_, vol. iv, p. .] [footnote : _journal_, vol. i, p. ; _lockhart_, vol. iv, p. .] [footnote : advertisement to _halidon hill_. when the publisher cadell closed a bargain with scott in five minutes for _halidon hill_, giving him £ , he wrote as follows to his partner: "my views were these: here is a commencement of a series of dramatic writings--let us begin by buying them out." (_constable's correspondence_, vol. iii, p. .)] [footnote : "that well-written, but very didactic 'old play'," as adolphus calls it. (_letters to heber_, p. .)] [footnote : introductory epistle to _nigel_.] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. v, p. .] [footnote : fitzgerald's _new history of the english stage_, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : _dramatic essays_, hazlitt's _works_, vol. viii, p. .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. iii. p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. iii. p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. iii. p. .] [footnote : _essay on the drama_.] [footnote : in he wrote to a friend: "we have miss baillie here at present, who is certainly the best dramatic writer whom britain has produced since the days of shakspeare and massinger." (_fam. let._, vol. i. p. .) but wilson also put joanna baillie next to shakspere, and quite seriously. the article in the _dictionary of national biography_, on joanna baillie says that when the first volume of _plays on the passions_ was published anonymously in , walter scott was at first suspected of being the author. but as scott had done nothing to give him a literary reputation in , the assertion is incredible. it seems to be based on the following very inexact statement in _chambers's biographical dictionary of eminent scotsmen._ (vol. v, art. _joanna baillie_.) "rich though the period was in poetry, this work made a great impression, and a new edition of it was soon required. the writer was sought for among the most gifted personages of the day, and the illustrious scott, with others then equally appreciated, was suspected as the author."] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _life of dryden_, ch. i. in _guy mannering_ and _the antiquary_, the first two novels in which scott habitually used mottoes to head his chapters, most of the selections are from plays. eighteen plays of shakspere are represented by twenty-nine quotations. other mottoes are from _the merry devil of edmonton_, from jonson, from fletcher (_the little french lawyer_, _women pleased_, _the fair maid of the inn_, _the beggar's bush_), from brome, dekker, middleton and rowley, cartwright, otway, southerne, _the beggar's opera_, walpole's _mysterious mother_, _the critic_, _chrononhotonthologos_, joanna baillie. for the latter part of _the antiquary_ many of the mottoes were composed by scott himself. _kenilworth_ presents a similar list, with some variations: jonson's _masque of owls_ was used, more than one play by beaumont and fletcher, waldron's _virgin queen_, _wallenstein_, and _douglas_. in _st. ronan's well_ there is a larger proportion of non-dramatic mottoes, as in most of the later novels, but we find represented nine of shakspere's plays and one of beaumont and fletcher's. _the legend of montrose_ (chapter xiv) has a motto from suckling's _brennoralt_. in _anne of geierstein_ ten of shakspere's plays were drawn upon, and _manfred_ was twice used. scott made his chapters much longer in these later novels, and used fewer mottoes, but the evidence of the selections would seem to indicate that he had lost something of his early familiarity with dramatic literature.] [footnote : hazlitt's _characters of shakespeare's plays_ appeared in ; his _lectures on the dramatic literature of the age of queen elizabeth_ in .] [footnote : scott first began to fabricate occasional mottoes for his chapters during the composition of _the antiquary_ in .] [footnote : saintsbury in _macmillan's magazine_, lxx: . scott's style in many sages is strongly colored by the influence of shakspere.] [footnote : introduction by lang to _the fortunes of nigel_.] [footnote : it is possible that among the various jobs of editing undertaken by scott with a view to keeping the ballantyne types busy, were certain collections of dramas. _ancient british drama_, in three volumes, and _modern british drama_, in five volumes, published in and , are sometimes attributed to scott in library catalogues, but on what authority it seems impossible to discover. there is almost no commentary in the _ancient british drama_, but the _modern british drama_ contains three brief introductions which i believe were written by scott. they show a striking likeness to some parts of the _essay on the drama_ written several years later, and it is not probable that scott took his criticism ready-made from another author. in the preface to the _ancient british drama_ we find this statement: "the present publication is intended to form, with _the british drama_ and _shakspeare_, a complete and uniform collection in ten volumes of the best english plays." the shakspeare here referred to is doubtless that of which constable the publisher afterwards spoke in his correspondence with scott as "ballantyne's shakespeare," and scott had no hand in the editorship. (_constable's correspondence_, vol. iii, p. .) it is true, however, as r.s. mackenzie says in his _life of scott_, that scott "had not only meditated, but partly executed an edition of shakespeare." the work was suggested by constable in , was begun in or , and three volumes of the proposed ten were printed by the time of constable's financial crash in the beginning of . the project was sometime afterwards abandoned, and the printed sheets, which apparently were not bound up, disappeared from view. the first volume was to be a life of shakspere by scott, and this was probably not begun at all. of the commentary in the other volumes, scott was to have the oversight but lockhart was to do most of the work. it was not designed that the critical apparatus should to any great degree represent original ideas furnished by lockhart or scott, but the book was to be "a sensible shakespeare, in which the useful and readable notes should be condensed and separated from the trash." (see the discussion of the matter in letters between scott and his publisher given in the third volume of _constables correspondence_. see also lang's _life of lockhart_, vol. i, p. , and vol. ii, p. , and mackenzie's _life of scott_, pp. - .) the boston public library contains three volumes which are thought to be a unique copy of so much of the scott-lockhart shakspere as was printed. (see below, the bibliography of books edited by scott.) scott's notes on beaumont and fletcher, which he had wished in to offer to gifford, were actually used by weber in his _beaumont and fletcher_, published about , an edition which was characterized by scott as "too carelessly done to be reputable." (_lockhart_, vol. iv, p. .)] [footnote : he seems to have connected heroic plays too closely with "the romances of calprenède and scudéri." see his introduction to _the indian emperor_, dryden, vol. ii, pp. - ; also vol. i, p. , and vol. vi, p. . on his opinion in regard to the relation between novels and plays see below, pp. - .] [footnote : see his comment on corneille's _oedipe_, _dryden_, vol. vi, p. and mr. saintsbury's note.] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. iii, p. .] [footnote : hutchinson's _letters of scott_, p. .] [footnote : that scott admired sackville greatly is evident from more than one comment. of _ferrex and porrex_ he says, "in sackville's part of the play, which comprehends the two last acts, there is some poetry worthy of the author of the sublime induction to the mirror of magistrates." (_dryden_, vol. ii, p. .) elsewhere scott calls sackville "a beautiful poet." (_fragmenta regalia_, p. . _secret history of the court of james i._, vol. i, p. , note.)] [footnote : _dryden_, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. i, p. . see also vol. iii, p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. v, p. .] [footnote : see, for example, _hawthornden_, in _provincial antiquities_.] [footnote : _dryden_, vol. xv, p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : note on _sir tristrem_, fytte ii., stanza .] [footnote : see middleton's plays in the mermaid edition: introduction, vol. i, pp. viii-ix.] [footnote : ticknor, in allibone's _dictionary_, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : _journal_, vol. i, p. ; _lockhart_, vol. v, p. .] [footnote : see scott's article on molière, _foreign quarterly review_, february, .] [footnote : _essay on drama_; _dryden_, vol. i, p. ff., vol. ii, pp. - , vol. iv, p. .] [footnote : _dryden_, vol. iv, p. .] [footnote : article on molière, _foreign quarterly review_, february, .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : review of _kelly's reminiscences and the life of kemble_, _quarterly review_, june, .] [footnote : _ibid._] [footnote : _dryden_, vol. vi, p. .] [footnote : _in provincial antiquities_ (borthwick castle). scott cites parallels from _sir john oldcastle, the pinner of wakefield_, and one of nash's pamphlets, for a curious incident in scottish history.] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. i, p. . this search among seventeenth century pamphlets may have suggested to scott the need of a new edition of _somers' tracts_. apparently he arranged with the publishers in to undertake this task, but the first volume did not appear till . (_lockhart_, vol. ii, p. , and see below, pp. - , for an account of scott's edition of the _tracts_.) some of his materials for the _dryden_ were taken from this collection, but more from the luttrell collection, to which he refers in the advertisement.] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. i, p. . scott's _dryden_ appeared in , and with some slight changes in ; as reëdited by mr. saintsbury it was published in - . it was the first complete and uniform edition of dryden's works, and it remains the only one. the dramatic works had appeared in folio in . they were edited by congreve in , and scott used congreve's text. the non-dramatic poems were also published in in folio. they appeared in more convenient forms in , , and , but of these editions only the last was reasonably complete. in the critical and miscellaneous prose works were edited by malone, who added a life of dryden which has furnished a large part of the material used by biographers since his time. this biography was badly written, but with johnson's brilliant essay it was the only life of dryden before scott's that was worth considering. an edition of dryden's poems, with notes by joseph warton and others, appeared in , but seems to have been prepared before scott's edition was published. the text of this is very incorrect. since then the non-dramatic poems have been published several times. mr. christie said in his preface to the globe edition: "sir walter scott's is the last important edition of dryden, as it is indeed still the only general collection of his works; and it is to be regretted that that distinguished man did not give as much pains to the purification of dryden's text as he did to his excellent biography and to the notes which enrich the edition."] [footnote : editor's preface.] [footnote : _dryden_, vol. ix, p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. ix, p. .] [footnote : in this connection scott's review of todd's edition of spenser is interesting. he takes exception to the lack of an appearance of continuity in the biography, caused by the long quotations included in the body of the narrative; and censures the editor for not having used the history of italian poetry in elucidating spenser's work. (_edinburgh review_, october, .)] [footnote : review of todd's _spenser_.] [footnote : _dryden_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _familiar letters_, vol. i, p. ; and _dryden_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _dryden_, vol. i, pp. - .] [footnote : _dryden_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, p. . mr. saintsbury thinks that scott's prefatory introductions to the plays are often "both meagre and depreciatory"; also that scott's judgment on dryden's letters is rather harsh, for him, and that after he had begun to write novels he would not have been so impatient of remarks on "turkeys, marrow-puddings, and bacon."] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. x, p. ff.] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. xiv, pp. and .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : in order to give a more specific view of scott's methods, two or three of the introductions to well-known poems may be briefly analysed. the introduction to _absalom and achitophel_ occupies / pages, of which about / are given to quotation from a tract which scott thought furnished the argument to dryden, and which was unnoticed by any former commentator. scott's remarks follow this outline: position of the poem in literature, and history of its composition; origin of the particular allegory as applied to modern politics; a parallel use of the allegory (with a quotation from _somers' tracts_ in illustrations); aptness of the allegory; merits of the satire--treatment of monmouth and other main characters; changes in the second edition to mitigate the satire; characterization of the poem as having few flights of imagination but much correctness of taste as well as fire and spirit; other objections by johnson refuted; success of the poem; history of the first publication and of the replies and congratulatory poems; editions, and latin versions. the notes on this poem are historical and very full, but the introduction contains as much literary as historical comment. _religio laici_ is prefaced by pages of introduction, in which are discussed the motive of the writing, the argument, the title, the purpose of the poem, and its reputation. dryden's style in didactic poetry is compared with cowper's, to the disadvantage of the later poet. the introduction to _the hind and the panther_ is pages long, and discusses the history of the period as well as the argument of the poem, its style, the subject of fables in general, and the effects the poem produced. the notes on this poem are copious. as he discussed the _fables_ in the _life of dryden_, scott gave them no general introduction, and for each poem he wrote only a slight preface, telling something of the source and pointing out special beauties. his notes vary greatly in abundance. those on _palamon and arcite_, _e.g._, are brief, explaining terms of chivalry and heraldry, but not giving literary or linguistic comment.] [footnote : _dryden_, vol. xiii, p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. xii, p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. x, p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. i, p. . see also _st. ronan's well_, vol. i, p. , and various mottoes in the novels. the edition of the novels used for reference is that published in edinburgh ( ) in volumes.] [footnote : _dryden_, vol. x, p. .] [footnote : for example see _anne of geierstein_, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : _letters to heber_, p. .] [footnote : the price offered for the _swift_ was £ . this must have been a rather rash speculation on the publisher's part, as there had been several editions of swift's works published. the first appeared in twelve volumes in , edited by hawkesworth. deane swift, hawkesworth, and others, added thirteen more volumes in the course of the next twenty-five years, and when the whole was completed it was reissued in three different sizes. in an edition in seventeen volumes was published, edited by thomas sheridan. in the edition by nichols was published, and it reappeared in and in . hawkesworth and thomas sheridan supplied biographies which leslie stephen characterized by saying that hawkesworth's gave no new material and that sheridan's was "pompous and dull." (preface to leslie stephen's _life of swift_.)] [footnote : _correspondence of c.k. sharpe_, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : this correspondence consisted of letters from swift, and "vanessa."] [footnote : a comparison of the index with the bibliography in the _dictionary of national biography_ and with mr. stanley lane-poole's _notes for a bibliography of swift_ (_bibliographer_, vi: - ) shows that scott was usually right in his judgment on the main articles. but since mr. lane-poole ends his list thus: "and numerous short poems, trifles, characters and short pieces," it is evident that one cannot carry the investigation far without undertaking to make a complete bibliography of swift. mr. temple scott says, in the advertisement of his edition of swift's prose works, begun in , that since sir walter's edition of "there has been no serious attempt to grapple with the difficulties which then prevented and which still beset the attainment of a trustworthy and substantially complete text."] [footnote : _swift_, vol. iv, p. . two more of scott's comments may be given, further to illustrate his method. "this piece [william crowe's address to her majesty, _swift_, vol. xii, p. ] and those which follow, were first extracted by the learned dr. barrett, of trinity college, dublin, from the lanesborough and other manuscripts. i have retained them from internal evidence, as i have discarded some articles upon the same score." "the following poems [poems given as "ascribed to swift," vol. x, p. ] are extracted from the manuscript of lord lanesborough, called the whimsical medley. they are here inserted in deference to the opinion of a most obliging correspondent, who thinks they are juvenile attempts of swift. i own i cannot discover much internal evidence in support of the supposition."] [footnote : colonel parnell, writing in the _english historical review_ on "dean swift and the memoirs of captain carleton," has spoken of the biography as "this most partial, verbose, and inaccurate account of the dean's life and writings." he says also that in editing _carleton's memoirs_ scott adopted, without investigation and in the face of evidence, johnson's opinion that the memoirs were genuine; that scott was mistaken about the date of the first edition and misquoted the title page; and that his "glowing account" of lord peterborough, in the introduction, was amplified (without acknowledgment) from a panegyric by dr. birch in "houbraken's heads." (_english historical review_, january, ; vi: . for a further reference to the article see below, p. .)] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : september, .] [footnote : _swift_ vol. xvii, p. , note.] [footnote : _life of swift_, conclusion.] [footnote : _swift_, vol. xi, p. .] [footnote : vol. ix, p. . the tract had already been correctly assigned. a similar note on another tract indicates more careful research on the part of the editor. the paper is _a secret history of one year_, which had commonly been attributed to robert walpole. scott says: "this tract in not to found in mr. coxe's list of sir robert walpole's publications, nor in that given by his son, the earl of oxford, in the royal and noble authors.... it does not seem at all probable that walpole should at this crisis have thought it proper to advocate these principles." (vol. xiii, p. .) the piece is now attributed to defoe.] [footnote : see above, p. .] [footnote : _horace walpole_, in _lives of the novelists_.] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. iii, p. .] [footnote : _quarterly_, september, .] [footnote : see his explanation, in the articles themselves.] [footnote : _the mid-eighteenth century_, by j.h. millar, p. , note.] [footnote : _ibid._, p. . scott compares fielding and smollett at some length in the _life of smollett_.] [footnote : _life of le sage_.] [footnote : _life of richardson_.] [footnote : _life of fielding_.] [footnote : _life of goldsmith_. as we might expect, scott speaks rather too favorably of goldsmith's hack work in history and science.] [footnote : _life of sterne_.] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : see above, p. , note.] [footnote : see also the introductory epistle to _ivanhoe_; and the review of _walpole's letters_. "in attaining his contemporary triumph," says mr. brander matthews, "scott owed more to horace walpole than to maria edgeworth." _the historical novel_, p. .] [footnote : scott uses the word.] [footnote : mr. g.a. aitken has given convincing evidence that the story was not invented by defoe. mr. aitken also shows the falsity of scott's statement that drelincourt's book was in need of advertising, as william lee, in his _life of defoe_, had previously done. (see _the nineteenth century_, xxxvii: . january, ; and also aitken's edition of defoe's _romances and narratives_, vol. xv, introduction.) a passage from defoe's _history of the church of scotland_ is quoted in the review of _tales of my landlord_, by scott, who says that it probably suggested one of the scenes in _old mortality_. scott there speaks of defoe's "liveliness of imagination," and says he "excelled all others in dramatizing a story, and presenting it as if in actual speech and action before the reader." (_quarterly review_, january, .)] [footnote : see also _the fortunes of nigel_, vol. ii, pp. - .] [footnote : _life of clara reeve_.] [footnote : blackwood, march, .] [footnote : _quarterly_, may, .] [footnote : see a reference to voltaire and other french authors; _napoleon_, vol. i, ch. .] [footnote : _life of richardson_.] [footnote : we gather from scott's article that he considered the following to be the chief "speculative errors" of bage: he was an infidel; he misrepresented different classes of society, thinking the high tyrannical and the low virtuous and generous; his system of ethics was founded on philosophy instead of religion; he was inclined to minimize the importance of purity in women; he considered tax-gatherers extortioners, and soldiers, licensed murderers.] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : familiar letters, vol. i, p. . in his _george the third_, thackeray said: "do you remember the verses--the sacred verses--which johnson wrote on the death of his humble friend levett?" (biographical edition of thackeray, vol. vii, p. .)] [footnote : _life of johnson_.] [footnote : introduction to _chronicles of the canongate_.] [footnote : _dryden_, vol. xi, p. , note; review of the _life and works of john home_, _quarterly_, june, .] [footnote : _familiar letters_, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : _swift_, vol. xvi, p. , note. on one of the last sad days before sir walter left scotland for his italian journey he quoted in full prior's poem on mezeray's history of france. (_lockhart_, vol. v, pp. - .)] [footnote : _swift_, vol. iii, p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. xiii, p. .] [footnote : _correspondence of c.k. sharpe_, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : _journal_, vol. i, p. ; _lockhart_, vol. iv, p. .] [footnote : allan cunningham's _life of scott_, p. .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : see the satirical paragraph in his review of _gertrude of wyoming_, on the habits of reviewers in general. "we are perfectly aware," he says, "that, according to the modern canons of criticism, the reviewer is expected to show his immense superiority to the author reviewed, and at the same time to relieve the tediousness of narration, by turning the epic, dramatic, moral story before him into quaint and lively burlesque." (_quarterly_, may, .) in his review of the _life and works of john home_ he speaks of "the hackneyed rules of criticism, which, having crushed a hundred poets, will never, it may be prophesied, create, or assist in creating, a single one." (_quarterly_, june, .)] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. i, p. . for a further comparison of scott and jeffrey as critics see below, pp. - .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. v, p. .] [footnote : _journal_, vol. ii, p. ] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. i, p. ] [footnote : in general scott admired lockhart. "i have known the most able men of my time," he once wrote, "and i never met any one who had such ready command of his own mind, and possessed in a greater degree the power of making his talents available upon the shortest notice, and upon any subject." (_life of murray_, vol. ii, p. .) but in lockhart's earlier days scott said, "i am sometimes angry with him for an exuberant love of fun in his light writings, which he has caught, i think, from wilson, a man of greater genius than himself perhaps, but who disputes with low adversaries, which i think a terrible error, and indulges in a sort of humour which exceeds the bounds of playing at ladies and gentlemen, a game to which i have been partial all my life." (_letters of lady louisa stuart_, p. .)] [footnote : _familiar letters_, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : lang's _lockhart_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _life of murray_, vol. i, pp. - .] [footnote : _quarterly_, february, .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : scott wrote a poetical epitaph for the burial place of miss seward and her father. see _edinburgh annual register_, vol. ii, pt. . in the introduction to _the tapestried chamber_, scott said, "it was told to me many years ago by the late miss anna seward, who, among other accomplishments that rendered her an amusing inmate in a country house, had that of recounting narratives of this sort with very considerable effect; much greater, indeed, than anyone would be apt to guess from the style of her written performances." it must be remembered that miss seward was one of the first persons of any literary note, outside of edinburgh, to show an interest in scott's work, and he committed himself to admiration of her poetry when he was still in a rather uncritical stage. in regard to his later feeling about her see _recollections_, by r.p. gillies, _fraser's_, xiii: , january, .] [footnote : j.l. adolphus, in an interesting passage in his _letters to heber on the authorship of waverley_, noted many of the references to contemporary poets. see pp. - . see also hazlitt's _spirit of the age_, art. _sir walter scott_] [footnote : _familiar letters_, vol. ii, p. . see also a similar anecdote in forster's _life of landor_, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. i, pp. - .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : _journal_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : review of _cromek's reliques of burns_, _quarterly_, february, .] [footnote : _ibid._] [footnote : _ibid._] [footnote : crabbe robinson, in his diary (quoted by knight in his edition of wordsworth, vol. x, p. ), says that coleridge and his friends "consider scott as having stolen the verse" of _christabel_. on this point see also a letter by coleridge, given in meteyard's _group of englishmen_, pp. - . in coleridge wrote to southey: "i did not over-hugely admire the 'lay of the last minstrel,' but saw no likeness whatever to the 'christabel,' much less any improper resemblance." (_letters of coleridge_, ed. by e.h. coleridge, vol. ii, p. .) yet mr. lang seems to think that in this matter scott "showed something of the deficient sense of _meum_ and _tuum_ which marked his freebooting ancestors." (_sir walter scott_, p. .) apparently scott never dreamed that the matter could be looked at in this way. in lockhart's _scott_ (vol. ii, pp. - ) we find described an occasion on which the two men once met in london, when they were asked, with other poets who were present, to recite from their unpublished writings. coleridge complied with the request, but scott said he had nothing of his own and would repeat some stanzas he had seen in a newspaper. the poem was criticised adversely in spite of scott's protests, till coleridge lost patience and exclaimed, "let mr. scott alone; i wrote the poem." coleridge's lines: "the knight's bones are dust and his good sword rust, his soul is with the saints, i trust," are probably much better known as they appear in _ivanhoe_, incorrectly quoted, than in their proper form. scott also added a note on coleridge in this connection. (_ivanhoe_, chapter viii.)] [footnote : but apparently not in any earlier than _the black dwarf_, which was written in , the year in which the poem was published. it was about that scott heard _christabel_ recited. see _familiar letters_, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _familiar letters_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : see _letters to heber_, p. ; _on imitations of the ancient ballad_; _lockhart_, vol. iii, pp. and ; _quentin durward_, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : note in _the abbot_.] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. iii, p. .] [footnote : note in _st. ronan's well_. see also the comment on _wallenstein_ in _paul's letters_, letter xv.] [footnote : review of _childe harold_, _canto iii_, _quarterly_, october, .] [footnote : in scott wrote a review of _frankenstein_ in which it appears that he thought shelley was the author. shelley had sent the book with a note in which he said that it was the work of a friend and he had merely seen it through the press; and scott took this for the conventional evasion so often resorted to by authors. (see mr. lang's note in his introduction to the waverley novels, p. lxxxvi.) scott praises the substance and style of the book, and advises the author to cultivate his poetical powers, in words which make it evident that he did not know shelley as a poet, though _alastor_ had appeared in . scott also praises _frankenstein_ in his article on hoffmann. in reading scott's novels i have noted two reminiscences of the line, "one word is too often profaned." they are to be found in _old mortality_, vol. ii, p. , and in _redgauntlet_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _journal_, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : _familiar letters_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _familiar letters_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _journal_, vol. i, p. ] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : i quote from the letter as given in knight's _wordsworth_, vol. ii, p. . prof. knight says that lockhart quotes the letter less exactly (vol. i, p. .)] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. iii, p. .] [footnote : even byron admired southey. he once wrote, "his prose is perfect. of his poetry there are various opinions: there is, perhaps, too much of it for the present generation; posterity will probably select. he has _passages_ equal to anything." (byron's _letters and journals_, ed. prothero, vol. ii, p. .) shelley also had a high opinion of southey's work. (dowden's _life of shelley_, vol. i, p. , and pp. - .) landor liked _madoc_ and _thalaba_ so much that, when he found southey hesitating to write more poems of a similar kind because they did not pay, he offered to bear the expense of the publication. southey refused the assistance, but was stimulated by the kindness and considered landor's encouragement responsible for his later work in poetry. (forster's _life of landor_, vol. i, pp. - .)] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. i, p. ; see also _edinburgh annual register_ for , part , p. .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. iii, p. .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : in his youth scott read dante with other italian authors, but he did not become well acquainted with him, and later even expressed dislike for his work. (see _lockhart_, vol. v, p. .) in he wrote to w.s. rose, "i will subscribe for dante with all pleasure, on condition you do not insist on my reading him." (_fam. let._, vol. ii, p. .)] [footnote : it may be interesting to have southey's comment on the same article. (see _southey's letters_, vol. ii, p. .) he says, "bedford has seen the review which scott has written of it, and which, from his account, though a very friendly one, is, like that of the 'cid,' very superficial. he sees nothing but the naked story; the moral feeling which pervades it has escaped him. i do not know whether bedford will be able to get a paragraph interpolated touching upon this, and showing that there is some difference between a work of high imagination and a story of mere amusement." either bedford was mistaken in saying that scott had ignored the moral aspect of the poem, or else he succeeded in getting a passage interpolated, for the review is sufficiently definite on that point.] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. v, p. .] [footnote : _journal_, vol. i, p. ; _lockhart_, vol. iv, p. .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. v, p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : introduction to _marmion_; _lockhart_, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : byron did not altogether approve of scott's poetry, but he felt its effectiveness. in his "reply to blackwood's edinburgh magazine," byron wrote: "what have we got instead [of following pope]? a deluge of flimsy and unintelligible romances, imitated from scott and myself, who have both made the best of our bad materials and erroneous system."] [footnote : review of _childe harold_, _canto iii_, _quarterly_, october, .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. iii, p. .] [footnote : it should be remembered also that scott's first review of _childe harold_ appeared at a time when all england was condemning byron for his treatment of lady byron, and that the article was thought by many to be altogether too lenient. byron wrote to murray expressing his pleasure in the review before he knew who was responsible for it, and some years later he wrote to scott as follows: "to have been recorded by you in such a manner would have been a proud memorial at any time, but at such a time ... was something still higher to my self-esteem.... had it been a common criticism, however eloquent or panegyrical, i should have felt pleased, undoubtedly, and grateful, but not to the extent which the extraordinary good-heartedness of the whole proceeding must induce in any mind capable of such sensations." (_byron's letters and journals_, vol. vi, p. .) see _lockhart_, vol. ii, p. , for quotations from byron showing his admiration for scott. an interesting contrast between the characters of the two poets is drawn by h.s. legaré. (see his _collected writings_, vol. ii, p. .)] [footnote : _journal_, vol. i, p. ] [footnote : _remarks on the death of lord byron_.] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. iii, p. ] [footnote : see nichol's _byron_ (english men of letters), p. ; and arnold's essay on byron.] [footnote : _quarterly review_, may, .] [footnote : _familiar letters_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _journal_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. v, p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : byron said, "crabbe's the man, but he has got a coarse and impracticable subject." (moore's _life and letters of byron_, vol. iv, pp. - .) leslie stephen remarks that crabbe "was admired by byron in his rather wayward mood of pope-worship, as the last representative of the legitimate school." (_english literature and society in the th century_, p. .)] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. iii, p. .] [footnote : the reader will at once recall the ingenuous remark of sophia scott when she was asked, shortly after its appearance, how she liked _the lady of the lake_. she said, "oh, i have not read it; papa says there's nothing so bad for young people as reading bad poetry." (_lockhart_, vol. ii, p. . see also the _life of irving_, vol. i, p. .)] [footnote : _familiar letters_, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : _correspondence of c.k. sharpe_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : see _marmion_, introduction to canto iii, and other passages noted by adolphus in the _letters to heber_, p. . see also _familiar letters_, vol. i, p. , and the passage in _lockhart_ (vol. ii, p. ), in which james ballantyne reports scott as saying to him, "if you wish to speak of a real poet, joanna baillie is now the highest genius of our country."] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. iii, p. .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. v, p. ; also vol. i, p. ; and _constable's correspondence_, vol. iii, p. .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. iv, p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. v, p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : _forster_, vol. i, p. , note.] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _haydon's correspondence_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : hunt says scott was interested in reading _the story of rimini_. see hunt's _autobiography_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _journal_, vol. i, p. . scott wrote as follows to lockhart after the appearance of _lord byron and some of his contemporaries_: "hunt has behaved like a hyena to byron, whom he has dug up to girn and howl over him in the same breath." mr. lang makes this comment: "leigh hunt ... had gone out of his way to insult sir walter and to make the most baseless insinuations against him. scott probably never mentioned leigh hunt's name publicly in his life, and he refers to the insults neither in his correspondence nor in his _journal_." (lang's _life of lockhart_, vol. ii, pp. and .) hunt evidently thought that scott was partly responsible for the articles in _blackwood_ on the cockney school. he says, "unfortunately some of the knaves were not destitute of talent: the younger were tools of older ones who kept out of sight." (hunt's _lord byron_, etc., vol. i, p. .) in his _autobiography_, hunt says, "sir walter scott confessed to mr. severn at rome that the truth respecting keats had prevailed." (vol. ii, p. .) mr. lang points out that though colvin said of scott (in his _life of keats_) "that he was in some measure privy to the cockney school outrages seems certain," he afterwards recanted the statement. (in his edition of _keats's letters_, p. , note. see lang's _lockhart_, vol. i, pp. - .) scott invited lamb to abbotsford when lamb was looked upon as a leader of the cockney school. (lang's _scott_, p. .)] [footnote : _journal_, vol. i, p. ; _lockhart_, vol. iv, p. , and vol. v, p. .] [footnote : _quarterly_, october, .] [footnote : postscript to _waverley_, and general introduction.] [footnote : for references to the group of women novelists who were so successful in depicting manners, see the _life of charlotte smith_; the postscript to _waverley_; the introduction to _st. ronan's well_; _journal_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _journal_, vol. ii, p. iii.] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. iv, .] [footnote : _journal_, vol. i, p. ; _lockhart_, vol. v, p. .] [footnote : _journal_, vol. i, p. ; _lockhart_, vol. v, p. .] [footnote : the reference as given by lockhart is as follows: "this man, who has shown so much genius, has a good deal of the manners, or want of manners, peculiar to his countrymen." (_lockhart_, vol. v, p. .) cooper observes in regard to this point: "the manners of most europeans strike us as exaggerated, while we appear cold to them. sir walter scott was certainly so obliging as to say many flattering things to me, which i, as certainly, did not repay in kind. as johnson said of his interview with george the third, it was not for me to bandy compliments with my sovereign. at that time the diary was a sealed book to the world, and i did not know the importance he attached to such civilities." it is a pity that the transcriber of the passage in the _journal_ changed "manner," which was the word scott wrote, to the more objectionable "manners." (_journal_, vol. i, p. .)] [footnote : scott's letter was substantially as follows: "i have considered in all its bearings the matter which your kindness has suggested. upon many former occasions i have been urged by my friends in america to turn to some advantage the sale of my writings in your country, and render that of pecuniary avail as an individual which i feel as the highest compliment as an author. i declined all these proposals, because the sale of this country produced me as much profit as i desired, and more--far more--than i deserved. but my late heavy losses have made my situation somewhat different, and have rendered it a point of necessity and even duty to neglect no means of making the sale of my works effectual to the extrication of my affairs, which can be honorably and honestly resorted to. if therefore mr. carey, or any other publishing gentleman of credit and character, should think it worth while to accept such an offer, i am willing to convey to him the exclusive right of publishing the _life of napoleon_, and my future works in america, making it always a condition, which indeed will be dictated by the publisher's own interest, that this monopoly shall not be used for the purpose of raising the price of the work to my american readers, but only for that of supplying the public at the usual terms.... "at any rate, if what i propose should not be found of force to prevent piracy, i cannot but think from the generosity and justice of american feeling, that a considerable preference would be given in the market to the editions emanating directly from the publisher selected by the author, and in the sale of which the author had some interest. "if the scheme shall altogether fail, it at least infers no loss, and therefore is, i think, worth the experiment. it is a fair and open appeal to the liberality, perhaps in some sort to the justice, of a great people; and i think i ought not in the circumstances to decline venturing upon it. i have done so manfully and openly, though not perhaps without some painful feelings, which however are more than compensated by the interest you have taken in this unimportant matter, of which i will not soon lose the recollection." (_knickerbocker magazine_, vol. xi, p. ff., april, .)] [footnote : _knickerbocker_, vol. xii, p. ff., october, .] [footnote : in a letter written in january, , sumner said, speaking of cooper's article, "i think a proper castigation is applied to the vulgar minds of scott and lockhart." (see _memoir and letters of charles sumner_, by edward l. pierce, vol. ii, p. ; and lounsbury's _cooper_, p. .)] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. iv, pp. - .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. iii, p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. iii, p. , note; _fam. let._, vol. i, p. . "walter scott was the first transatlantic author to bear witness to the merit of knickerbocker," wrote p.m. irving in his _life of washington irving_. henry brevoort presented scott with a copy of the second edition in , and received this reply: "i beg you to accept my best thanks for the uncommon degree of entertainment which i have received from the most excellently jocose history of new york. i am sensible that as a stranger to american parties and politics i must lose much of the concealed satire of the piece, but i must own that looking at the simple and obvious meaning only, i have never read anything so closely resembling the style of dean swift, as the annals of diedrich knickerbocker.... i think too there are passages which indicate that the author possesses powers of a different kind, and has some touches which remind me much of sterne." (_life of irving_, vol. i, p. .) when, in , irving needed money, he wrote to scott for advice about publishing the _sketch book_ in england. "scott was the only literary man," he says, "to whom i felt that i could talk about myself and my petty concerns with the confidence and freedom that i would to an old friend--nor was i deceived. from the first moment that i mentioned my work to him in a letter, he took a decided and effective interest in it, and has been to me an invaluable friend." (vol. i, p. .) at this time scott asked irving to accept the editorship of a political newspaper in edinburgh, an offer which irving of course refused. (_fam. let._, vol. ii, p. ; _life of irving_, vol. i, pp. - , and vol. iii, pp. - .) scott called the _sketch book_ "positively beautiful." he was by some people supposed to be the author. in this connection it was said of him that his "very numerous disguises," and his "well-known fondness for literary masquerading, seem to have gained him the advantage of being suspected as the author of every distinguished work that is published." (letter by lady lyttleton, in _life of irving_, vol. ii, p. .)] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. iii, p. ; _life of irving_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. iv, p. .] [footnote : _letters on demonology and witchcraft_, letter ii.] [footnote : _constable's correspondence_, vol. iii, p. .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. v, pp. - .] [footnote : vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _journal_, vol. i, p. ; _lockhart_, vol. v, p. . see also _journal_, vol. ii, pp. - .] [footnote : review of hoffmann's novels, _foreign quarterly review_, july, .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. iv, p. .] [footnote : m. maigron says, speaking of the vogue of scott in france: "on peut affirmer mème que, de à , aucun nom français ne fut en france aussi connu et aussi glorieux." (_le roman historique à l'Ã�poque romantique_, p. . see also pp. - .)] [footnote : the phrase is quoted from scott's article on the _life and works of john home_, in which it is applied to home's critical work. the same idea occurs frequently in scott's books, as indicating one of the finest graces of life. it was one which sir walter was foremost in practicing in all his social relations.] [footnote : he was talking about pope. see the _recollections_, by r.p. gillies, _fraser's_, xii: (sept., ).] [footnote : review of _the battles of talavera_, _quarterly_, november, .] [footnote : editor's introduction to _montrose_, border edition of the waverley novels.] [footnote : _familiar letters_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _quarterly_, january, . scott evidently wrote this article chiefly for the purpose of defending the historical accuracy of _old mortality_. he also wished to show that _the black dwarf_ was founded on fact; and he devoted some space, as will appear in the passage quoted below (pp. - ), to a discussion of the artistic aspects of these and the earlier waverly novels.] [footnote : _journal_, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : _familiar letters_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : introductory epistle to _nigel_; _fam. let._, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : introduction to the _monastery_.] [footnote : _familiar letters_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _rokeby_, canto vi, stanza ; _waverley_, vol. ii, pp. - ; _journal_, vol. , p. ; _lockhart_, vol. iv, pp. - .] [footnote : review of the _life and works of john home_, _quarterly_, june, .] [footnote : review of southery's _life of bunyan_, _quarterly_, october, .] [footnote : _quarterly_, january, .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. ii, pp. - .] [footnote : _quarterly_, november, .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : epistle prefixed to canto v.] [footnote : epistle prefixed to canto iii.] [footnote : hazlitt's _spirit of the age_, art. _sir walter scott_; see _letters to heber_, p. ff.] [footnote : it is hard to say just how much he accomplished by the proof-reading, which, to judge by his journal, he habitually performed. he wrote to kirkpatrick sharpe in , after seeing a new number of the _quarterly_: "i am a little disconcerted with the appearance of one or two of my own articles, which i have had no opportunity to revise in proof." (_sharpe's correspondence_, vol. i, p. .) lockhart gives an interesting sample of a sheet of scott's poetry tentatively revised by ballantyne and reworked by the author. (_lockhart_, vol. iii, pp. - .) it is certain that ballantyne made many suggestions, some of which scott accepted and some of which he summarily rejected. in hogg's _domestic manners of scott_ we find the following account of what the printer said when hogg reported that sir walter was to correct some proofs for him: "he correct them for you! lord help you and him both! i assure you if he had nobody to correct after him, there would be a bonny song through the country. he is the most careless and incorrect writer that ever was born, for a voluminous and popular writer, and as for sending a proof sheet to him, we may as well keep it in the office. he never heeds it.... he will never look at either your proofs or his own, unless it be for a few minutes amusement" (pp. - ). when he wrote to miss baillie that he had read the proofs of a play of hers which was being published in edinburgh, he added, "but this will not ensure their being altogether correct, for in despite of great practice, ballantyne insists i have a bad eye." (_familiar letters_, vol. i, p. .)] [footnote : _journal_, vol. ii, p. ; also and ; _lockhart_, vol. v, pp. and .] [footnote : _journal_, vol. i, p. ; _lockhart_, vol. iv, p. .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. iv, pp. and .] [footnote : _familiar letters_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : essay on _imitations of the ancient ballad_.] [footnote : a friend of scott's once wrote to him, "you are the only author i ever yet knew to whom one might speak plain about the faults found with his works." (_familiar letters_, vol. i, p. .) he took great pains, contrary to his usual custom, in revising and correcting the _malachi malagrowther_ papers, but these were argumentative and in an altogether different class from his poems and novels; and besides he felt a special responsibility in writing upon a public matter "far more important than anything referring to [his] fame or fortune alone." (_lockhart_, vol. iv, p. .)] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. iii, p. .] [footnote : introduction to the _pirate_.] [footnote : _journal_, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : this was, of course, an effect of overwork and disease. irving quotes scott as saying: "it is all nonsense to tell a man that his mind is not affected, when his body is in this state." (_irving's life_, vol. ii, p. .)] [footnote : _journal_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : see _lockhart_, vol. ii, pp. - .] [footnote : _journal_, vol. i, pp. - ; _lockhart_, vol. v, p. .] [footnote : see _familiar letters_, vol. ii, p. ; _lockhart_, vol. i, p. ; vol. iv, pp. and ; vol. v, pp. , , .] [footnote : _correspondence of c.k. sharpe_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _journal_, vol. ii, p. . in the _edinburgh annual register_ for (published ) is an article on the _living poets of great britain_, which if not written by scott was evidently influenced by him. speaking of southey, campbell and scott, the writer says: "were we set to classify their respective admirers we should be apt to say that those who feel poetry most enthusiastically prefer southey; those who try it by the most severe rules admire campbell; while the general mass of readers prefer to either the border poet. in this arrangement we should do mr. scott no injustice, because we assign to him in the number of suffrages what we deny him in their value." he once wrote to miss baillie, "no one can both eat his cake and have his cake, and i have enjoyed too extensive popularity in this generation to be entitled to draw long-dated bills upon the applause of the next." (_familiar letters_, vol. i, p. .) but in the introductory epistle to _nigel_ he said, "it has often happened that those who have been best received in their own time have also continued to be acceptable to posterity. i do not think so ill of the present generation as to suppose that its present favour necessarily infers future condemnation."] [footnote : introduction to the _lady of the lake_; _lockhart_, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : introduction to _chronicles of the canongate_.] [footnote : _journal_, vol. ii, p .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. v, p. .] [footnote : see speech of humphry gubbin, in _the tender husband_, act i, sc. .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. iv, p ; see also _familiar letters_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. ii, pp. and .] [footnote : _journal_, vol. i, p. ; _lockhart_, vol. v, p. .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. iii, p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. iv, p. .] [footnote : when constable was proposing to publish the poetry of the novels separately, scott wrote to him that it was beyond his own power to distinguish what was original from what was borrowed, and suggested the following advertisement for the book: "we believe by far the greater part of the poetry interspersed through these novels to be original compositions by the author. at the same time the reader will find passages which are quoted from other authors, and may probably debit more of these than our more limited reading has enabled us to ascertain. indeed, it is our opinion that some of the following poetry is neither entirely original nor altogether borrowed, but consists in some instances of passages from other authors, which the author has not hesitated to alter considerably, either to supply defects of his own memory, or to adapt the quotation more explicitly and aptly to the matter in hand." (_constable's correspondence_, vol. iii, pp. - .)] [footnote : "i have taught nearly a hundred gentlemen to fence very nearly, if not altogether, as well as myself," he said. (_journal_, vol. i, p. . see also pp. - .)] [footnote : _journal_, vol. i, pp. - ; _lockhart_, vol. v, p. .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. iv, pp. and ; vol. v, p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. iv, p. .] [footnote : _journal_, vol. ii, p. , and _lockhart_, vol. v, p. .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. i, pp. - .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. iii, p. .] [footnote : _waverley_, vol. i, pp. - . see also mackenzie's _life of scott_, p. .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _journal_, vol. i, pp. - ; _lockhart_, vol. v, p. . see also his review of godwin's _life of chaucer_.] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. iv, p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. iv, p. .] [footnote : _journal_, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : review of tytler's _history of scotland_, _quarterly_, november, .] [footnote : _southey's letters_, vol. iv, p. .] [footnote : herford's _age of wordsworth_, pp. - .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : _paul's letters_, letter xvi.] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : on goethe's favorable opinion of the _napoleon_, see a letter given in the appendix to scott's _journal_ (vol. ii, pp. - and note).] [footnote : carlyle's _essay on scott_. see also taine's _history of english literature_, introduction, i.] [footnote : review of _metrical romances_, _edinburgh review_, january, .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : _the pirate_, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : introductory epistle to _ivanhoe_. freeman, in his _norman conquest_, vigorously attacks _ivanhoe_ for its unwarranted picture of the relations between saxons and normans in the thirteenth century. (vol. v, pp. - .)] [footnote : mr. lang points out that he made many written notes of his reading, as we should hardly expect a man of his unrivalled memory to do. (_life of scott_, p. .)] [footnote : _constable's correspondence_, vol. iii, p. .] [footnote : _constable's correspondence_, vol. iii, pp. - .] [footnote : _letters of lady louisa stuart_, p. .] [footnote : mr. lang's theory that scott was responsible for a decline in serious reading cannot be either proved or refuted completely, but more than one man has given personal testimony concerning the stimulating effect of the waverley novels. thierry's _norman conquest_ was directly inspired by _ivanhoe_, and with _ivanhoe_ is condemned by freeman for its mistaken views. mr. andrew d. white says in his _autobiography_ that _quentin durward_ and _anne of geierstein_ led him to see the first that he had ever clearly discerned of the great principles that "lie hidden beneath the surface of events"--"the secret of the centralization of power in europe, and of the triumph of monarchy over feudalism." (vol. i, pp. - .)] [footnote : scott had theories as to what children's books ought to be. they should stir the imagination, he said, instead of simply imparting knowledge as certain scientific books attempted to do. (_lockhart_, vol. ii, p. .) but he seriously objected to any attempt to write down to the understanding of children. of the _tales of a grandfather_ he said: "i will make, if possible, a book that a child shall understand, yet a man will feel some temptation to peruse, should he chance to take it up." (_lockhart_, vol. v, p. . see also _ib._, vol. i, p. .) anatole france has expressed ideas about children's books which are practically the same as those of scott. (see _le livre de mon ami_, me partie: "a madame d * * *.")] [footnote : introduction to _the fortunes of nigel_.] [footnote : see the introduction to _waverley_.] [footnote : introductory epistle to _ivanhoe_.] [footnote : _ibid._ in _old mortality_, claverhouse was made to use the phrase "sentimental speeches," but when lady louisa stuart pointed out to scott that the word "sentimental" was modern, he struck it out of the second edition.] [footnote : introductory epistle to _ivanhoe_. for other references to the use of a moderately antique diction see the essays on walpole and clara reeve in _lives of the novelists_, and the review of southey's _amadis de gaul_, _edinburgh review_, october, .] [footnote : _journal_, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : introduction to _chronicles of the canongate_. see also _letters to heber_, pp. - , and ; and ruskin's analysis of scott's descriptions: _modern painters_, part iv, ch. , § ff.] [footnote : see particularly his reviews of _childe harold_, _canto iii_, _quarterly_, october, ; and of southey's translation of the _amadis de gaul_, _edinburgh review_, october, .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. ii, pp. - .] [footnote : quoted in _wordsworth_ (english men of letters) by f.w.h. myers, p. .] [footnote : _recollections of scott_, by r.p. gillies. _fraser's_, xii: .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. iii, p. .] [footnote : _journal_, vol. i, p. , and vol. ii, p. ; _lockhart_, vol. iv, p. , and vol. v, p. .] [footnote : in the discussion of _lives of the novelists_.] [footnote : see his _essay on scott_.] [footnote : _dryden_, vol. xiv, p. .] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. v, p. , and introductory epistle to _nigel_.] [footnote : _letters to heber_, p. .] [footnote : _op. cit._, p. .] [footnote : _my aunt margaret's mirror_.] [footnote : _journal_, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : review of hoffmann's novels, _foreign quarterly review_, july, .] [footnote : _letters to r. polwhele_, etc., p. .] [footnote : lodge's _illustrious personages_, preface.] [footnote : article on molière, _foreign quarterly review_, february, .] [footnote : _three studies in literature_, p. .] [footnote : _edinburgh review_, no. , october, : review of _thalaba_.] [footnote : _three studies in literature_, p. .] [footnote : _dryden_, vol. xi, p. .] [footnote : herford, _op. cit._, pp. - .] [footnote : _essay on the drama_.] [footnote : wylie, _studies in criticism_, pp. - .] [footnote : _table talk_, august , . _works_, vol. vi, p. .] [footnote : _familiar letters_, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : article on scott's _demonology and witchcraft_, _fraser's_, december, .] [footnote : mackenzie's _life of scott_, p. .] [footnote : _the plain speaker_, hazlitt's _works_, vol. vii, p. .] [footnote : _dryden_, vol. i, p. . see above, pp. - .] [footnote : _familiar letters_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _life of bage_, in _novelists' library_.] [footnote : _essay on judicial reform_, _edinburgh annual register_, vol. i, pt. , p. . everyone knows that scott was a decided tory, and it is commonly supposed that he was an extremely prejudiced partisan. but he closes a political passage in _woodstock_ with these words: "we hasten to quit political reflections, the rather that ours, we believe, will please neither whig nor tory." (end of chapter .) from the definitions of whig and tory given in the _tales of a grandfather_, no one could guess his politics. (chapter .)] [footnote : leigh hunt's _autobiography_, vol. i, p. . see also pp. - , and the notes on his _feast of the poets_.] [footnote : courthope's _liberal movement_, p. .] [footnote : _life of murray_, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, vol. ii, p. ] [footnote : _macmillan's magazine_, lxx: .] [footnote : newman's _apologia_, pp. - . mark twain thinks the influence of the novels was pernicious. he says: "a curious exemplification of the power of a single book for good or harm is shown in the effects wrought by don quixote and those wrought by ivanhoe. the first swept the world's admiration for the mediaeval chivalry-silliness out of existence; and the other restored it.... sir walter had so large a hand in making southern character, as it existed before the war, that he is in great measure responsible for the war." (_life on the mississippi_, ch. xlvi.)] [footnote : _familiar letters_, vol. i, pp. - . see also his remarks upon booksellers in his review of pitcairn's _ancient criminal trials_, _quarterly_, february, .] [footnote : _fraser's_, xiii: .] [footnote : essay on dunbar in _ephemera critica_.] [footnote : _english historical review_, vi: .] [footnote : _life, letters and journals of george ticknor_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : carlyle's _essay on scott_.] [footnote : _lockhart_, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : _journal_, vol. ii, p. ; _lockhart_, vol. v, p. .] [footnote : _dryden_, vol. i, conclusion.] [footnote : _british novelists and their styles_, p. .] [footnote : _journal_, vol. ii, p. ; _lockhart_, vol. v, p. .] [footnote : _history of criticism_, vol. i, p. .] [footnote : _recollections of scott_ by r.p. gillies, _fraser's_, xii: .] generously made available by columbia university.) mr. bennett and mrs. brown virginia woolf published by leonard and virginia woolf at the hogarth press tavistock square london w.c.i mr. bennett and mrs. brown[ ] it seems to me possible, perhaps desirable, that i may be the only person in this room who has committed the folly of writing, trying to write, or failing to write, a novel. and when i asked myself, as your invitation to speak to you about modern fiction made me ask myself, what demon whispered in my ear and urged me to my doom, a little figure rose before me--the figure of a man, or of a woman, who said, "my name is brown. catch me if you can." most novelists have the same experience. some brown, smith, or jones comes before them and says in the most seductive and charming way in the world, "come and catch me if you can." and so, led on by this will-o'-the-wisp, they flounder through volume after volume, spending the best years of their lives in the pursuit, and receiving for the most part very little cash in exchange. few catch the phantom; most have to be content with a scrap of her dress or a wisp of her hair. my belief that men and women write novels because they are lured on to create some character which has thus imposed itself upon them has the sanction of mr. arnold bennett. in an article from which i will quote he says: "the foundation of good fiction is character-creating and nothing else. . . . style counts; plot counts; originality of outlook counts. but none of these counts anything like so much as the convincingness of the characters. if the characters are real the novel will have a chance; if they are not, oblivion will be its portion. . . ." and he goes on to draw the conclusion that we have no young novelists of first-rate importance at the present moment, because they are unable to create characters that are real, true, and convincing. these are the questions that i want with greater boldness than discretion to discuss to-night. i want to make out what we mean when we talk about "character" in fiction; to say something about the question of reality which mr. bennett raises; and to suggest some reasons why the younger novelists fail to create characters, if, as mr. bennett asserts, it is true that fail they do. this will lead me, i am well aware, to make some very sweeping and some very vague assertions. for the question is an extremely difficult one. think how little we know about character--think how little we know about art. but, to make a clearance before i begin, i will suggest that we range edwardians and georgians into two camps; mr. wells, mr. bennett, and mr. galsworthy i will call the edwardians; mr. forster, mr. lawrence, mr. strachey, mr. joyce, and mr. eliot i will call the georgians. and if i speak in the first person, with intolerable egotism, i will ask you to excuse me. i do not want to attribute to the world at large the opinions of one solitary, ill-informed, and misguided individual. my first assertion is one that i think you will grant--that every one in this room is a judge of character. indeed it would be impossible to live for a year without disaster unless one practised character-reading and had some skill in the art. our marriages, our friendships depend on it; our business largely depends on it; every day questions arise which can only be solved by its help. and now i will hazard a second assertion, which is more disputable perhaps, to the effect that on or about december human character changed. i am not saying that one went out, as one might into a garden, and there saw that a rose had flowered, or that a hen had laid an egg. the change was not sudden and definite like that. but a change there was, nevertheless; and, since one must be arbitrary, let us date it about the year . the first signs of it are recorded in the books of samuel butler, in _the way of all flesh_ in particular; the plays of bernard shaw continue to record it. in life one can see the change, if i may use a homely illustration, in the character of one's cook. the victorian cook lived like a leviathan in the lower depths, formidable, silent, obscure, inscrutable; the georgian cook is a creature of sunshine and fresh air; in and out of the drawing-room, now to borrow _the daily herald_, now to ask advice about a hat. do you ask for more solemn instances of the power of the human race to change? read the _agamemnon_, and see whether, in process of time, your sympathies are not almost entirely with clytemnestra. or consider the married life of the carlyles, and bewail the waste, the futility, for him and for her, of the horrible domestic tradition which made it seemly for a woman of genius to spend her time chasing beetles, scouring saucepans, instead of writing books. all human relations have shifted--those between masters and servants, husbands and wives, parents and children. and when human relations change there is at the same time a change in religion, conduct, politics, and literature. let us agree to place one of these changes about the year . i have said that people have to acquire a good deal of skill in character-reading if they are to live a single year of life without disaster. but it is the art of the young. in middle age and in old age the art is practised mostly for its uses, and friendships and other adventures and experiments in the art of reading character are seldom made. but novelists differ from the rest of the world because they do not cease to be interested in character when they have learnt enough about it for practical purposes. they go a step further; they feel that there is something permanently interesting in character in itself. when all the practical business of life has been discharged, there is something about people which continues to seem to them of overwhelming importance, in spite of the fact that it has no bearing whatever upon their happiness, comfort, or income. the study of character becomes to them an absorbing pursuit; to impart character an obsession. and this i find it very difficult to explain: what novelists mean when they talk about character, what the impulse is that urges them so powerfully every now and then to embody their view in writing. so, if you will allow me, instead of analysing and abstracting, i will tell you a simple story which, however pointless, has the merit of being true, of a journey from richmond to waterloo, in the hope that i may show you what i mean by character in itself; that you may realise the different aspects it can wear; and the hideous perils that beset you directly you try to describe it in words. one night some weeks ago, then, i was late for the train and jumped into the first carriage i came to. as i sat down i had the strange and uncomfortable feeling that i was interrupting a conversation between two people who were already sitting there. not that they were young or happy. far from it. they were both elderly, the woman over sixty, the man well over forty. they were sitting opposite each other, and the man, who had been leaning over and talking emphatically to judge by his attitude and the flush on his face, sat back and became silent. i had disturbed him, and he was annoyed. the elderly lady, however, whom i will call mrs. brown, seemed rather relieved. she was one of those clean, threadbare old ladies whose extreme tidiness--everything buttoned, fastened, tied together, mended and brushed up--suggests more extreme poverty than rags and dirt. there was something pinched about her--a look of suffering, of apprehension, and, in addition, she was extremely small. her feet, in their clean little boots, scarcely touched the floor. i felt that she had nobody to support her; that she had to make up her mind for herself; that, having been deserted, or left a widow, years ago, she had led an anxious, harried life, bringing up an only son, perhaps, who, as likely as not, was by this time beginning to go to the bad. all this shot through my mind as i sat down, being uncomfortable, like most people, at travelling with fellow passengers unless i have somehow or other accounted for them. then i looked at the man. he was no relation of mrs. brown's i felt sure; he was of a bigger, burlier, less refined type. he was a man of business i imagined, very likely a respectable corn-chandler from the north, dressed in good blue serge with a pocket-knife and a silk handkerchief, and a stout leather bag. obviously, however, he had an unpleasant business to settle with mrs. brown; a secret, perhaps sinister business, which they did not intend to discuss in my presence. "yes, the crofts have had very bad luck with their servants," mr. smith (as i will call him) said in a considering way, going back to some earlier topic, with a view to keeping up appearances. "ah, poor people," said mrs. brown, a trifle condescendingly. "my grandmother had a maid who came when she was fifteen and stayed till she was eighty" (this was said with a kind of hurt and aggressive pride to impress us both perhaps). "one doesn't often come across that sort of thing nowadays," said mr. smith in conciliatory tones. then they were silent. "it's odd they don't start a golf club there--i should have thought one of the young fellows would," said mr. smith, for the silence obviously made him uneasy. mrs. brown hardly took the trouble to answer. "what changes they're making in this part of the world," said mr. smith looking out of the window, and looking furtively at me as he did do. it was plain, from mrs. brown's silence, from the uneasy affability with which mr. smith spoke, that he had some power over her which he was exerting disagreeably. it might have been her son's downfall, or some painful episode in her past life, or her daughter's. perhaps she was going to london to sign some document to make over some property. obviously against her will she was in mr. smith's hands. i was beginning to feel a great deal of pity for her, when she said, suddenly and inconsequently, "can you tell me if an oak-tree dies when the leaves have been eaten for two years in succession by caterpillars?" she spoke quite brightly, and rather precisely, in a cultivated, inquisitive voice. mr. smith was startled, but relieved to have a safe topic of conversation given him. he told her a great deal very quickly about plagues of insects. he told her that he had a brother who kept a fruit farm in kent. he told her what fruit farmers do every year in kent, and so on, and so on. while he talked a very odd thing happened. mrs. brown took out her little white handkerchief and began to dab her eyes. she was crying. but she went on listening quite composedly to what he was saying, and he went on talking, a little louder, a little angrily, as if he had seen her cry often before; as if it were a painful habit. at last it got on his nerves. he stopped abruptly, looked out of the window, then leant towards her as he had been doing when i got in, and said in a bullying, menacing way, as if he would not stand any more nonsense, "so about that matter we were discussing. it'll be all right? george will be there on tuesday?" "we shan't be late," said mrs. brown, gathering herself together with superb dignity. mr. smith said nothing. he got up, buttoned his coat, reached his bag down, and jumped out of the train before it had stopped at clapham junction. he had got what he wanted, but he was ashamed of himself; he was glad to get out of the old lady's sight. mrs. brown and i were left alone together. she sat in her corner opposite, very clean, very small, rather queer, and suffering intensely. the impression she made was overwhelming. it came pouring out like a draught, like a smell of burning. what was it composed of--that overwhelming and peculiar impression? myriads of irrelevant and incongruous ideas crowd into one's head on such occasions; one sees the person, one sees mrs. brown, in the centre of all sorts of different scenes. i thought of her in a seaside house, among queer ornaments: sea-urchins, models of ships in glass cases. her husband's medals were on the mantelpiece. she popped in and out of the room, perching on the edges of chairs, picking meals out of saucers, indulging in long, silent stares. the caterpillars and the oak-trees seemed to imply all that. and then, into this fantastic and secluded life, in broke mr. smith. i saw him blowing in, so to speak, on a windy day. he banged, he slammed. his dripping umbrella made a pool in the hall. they sat closeted together. and then mrs. brown faced the dreadful revelation. she took her heroic decision. early, before dawn, she packed her bag and carried it herself to the station. she would not let smith touch it. she was wounded in her pride, unmoored from her anchorage; she came of gentlefolks who kept servants--but details could wait. the important thing was to realise her character, to steep oneself in her atmosphere. i had no time to explain why i felt it somewhat tragic, heroic, yet with a dash of the flighty, and fantastic, before the train stopped, and i watched her disappear, carrying her bag, into the vast blazing station. she looked very small, very tenacious; at once very frail and very heroic. and i have never seen her again, and i shall never know what became of her. the story ends without any point to it. but i have not told you this anecdote to illustrate either my own ingenuity or the pleasure of travelling from richmond to waterloo. what i want you to see in it is this. here is a character imposing itself upon another person. here is mrs. brown making someone begin almost automatically to write a novel about her. i believe that all novels begin with an old lady in the corner opposite. i believe that all novels, that is to say, deal with character, and that it is to express character--not to preach doctrines, sing songs, or celebrate the glories of the british empire, that the form of the novel, so clumsy, verbose, and undramatic, so rich, elastic, and alive, has been evolved. to express character, i have said; but you will at once reflect that the very widest interpretation can be put upon those words. for example, old mrs. brown's character will strike you very differently according to the age and country in which you happen to be born. it would be easy enough to write three different versions of that incident in the train, an english, a french, and a russian. the english writer would make the old lady into a 'character'; he would bring out her oddities and mannerisms; her buttons and wrinkles; her ribbons and warts. her personality would dominate the book. a french writer would rub out all that; he would sacrifice the individual mrs. brown to give a more general view of human nature; to make a more abstract, proportioned, and harmonious whole. the russian would pierce through the flesh; would reveal the soul--the soul alone, wandering out into the waterloo road, asking of life some tremendous question which would sound on and on in our ears after the book was finished. and then besides age and country there is the writer's temperament to be considered. you see one thing in character, and i another. you say it means this, and i that. and when it comes to writing each makes a further selection on principles of his own. thus mrs. brown can be treated in an infinite variety of ways, according to the age, country, and temperament of the writer. but now i must recall what mr. arnold bennett says. he says that it is only if the characters are real that the novel has any chance of surviving. otherwise, die it must. but, i ask myself, what is reality? and who are the judges of reality? a character may be real to mr. bennett and quite unreal to me. for instance, in this article he says that dr. watson in _sherlock holmes_ is real to him: to me dr. watson is a sack stuffed with straw, a dummy, a figure of fun. and so it is with character after character--in book after book. there is nothing that people differ about more than the reality of characters, especially in contemporary books. but if you take a larger view i think that mr. bennett is perfectly right. if, that is, you think of the novels which seem to you great novels--_war and peace, vanity fair, tristram shandy, madame bovary, pride and prejudice, the mayor of casterbridge, villette_--if you think of these books, you do at once think of some character who has seemed to you so real (i do not by that mean so lifelike) that it has the power to make you think not merely of it itself, but of all sorts of things through its eyes--of religion, of love, of war, of peace, of family life, of balls in county towns, of sunsets, moonrises, the immortality of the soul. there is hardly any subject of human experience that is left out of _war and peace_ it seems to me. and in all these novels all these great novelists have brought us to see whatever they wish us to see through some character. otherwise, they would not be novelists; but poets, historians, or pamphleteers. but now let us examine what mr. bennett went on to say--he said that there was no great novelist among the georgian writers because they cannot create characters who are real, true, and convincing. and there i cannot agree. there are reasons, excuses, possibilities which i think put a different colour upon the case. it seems so to me at least, but i am well aware that this is a matter about which i am likely to be prejudiced, sanguine, and near-sighted. i will put my view before you in the hope that you will make it impartial, judicial, and broad-minded. why, then, is it so hard for novelists at present to create characters which seem real, not only to mr. bennett, but to the world at large? why, when october comes round, do the publishers always fail to supply us with a masterpiece? surely one reason is that the men and women who began writing novels in or thereabouts had this great difficulty to face--that there was no english novelist living from whom they could learn their business. mr. conrad is a pole; which sets him apart, and makes him, however admirable, not very helpful. mr. hardy has written no novel since . the most prominent and successful novelists in the year were, i suppose, mr. wells, mr. bennett, and mr. galsworthy. now it seems to me that to go to these men and ask them to teach you how to write a novel--how to create characters that are real--is precisely like going to a bootmaker and asking him to teach you how to make a watch. do not let me give you the impression that i do not admire and enjoy their books. they seem to me of great value, and indeed of great necessity. there are seasons when it is more important to have boots than to have watches. to drop metaphor, i think that after the creative activity of the victorian age it was quite necessary, not only for literature but for life, that someone should write the books that mr. wells, mr. bennett, and mr. galsworthy have written. yet what odd books they are! sometimes i wonder if we are right to call them books at all. for they leave one with so strange a feeling of incompleteness and dissatisfaction. in order to complete them it seems necessary to do something--to join a society, or, more desperately, to write a cheque. that done, the restlessness is laid, the book finished; it can be put upon the shelf, and need never be read again. but with the work of other novelists it is different. _tristram shandy_ or _pride and prejudice_ is complete in itself; it is self-contained; it leaves one with no desire to do anything, except indeed to read the book again, and to understand it better. the difference perhaps is that both sterne and jane austen were interested in things in themselves; in character in itself; in the book in itself. therefore everything was inside the book, nothing outside. but the edwardians were never interested in character in itself; or in the book in itself. they were interested in something outside. their books, then, were incomplete as books, and required that the reader should finish them, actively and practically, for himself. perhaps we can make this clearer if we take the liberty of imagining a little party in the railway carriage--mr. wells, mr. galsworthy, mr. bennett are travelling to waterloo with mrs. brown. mrs. brown, i have said, was poorly dressed and very small. she had an anxious, harassed look. i doubt whether she was what you call an educated woman. seizing upon all these symptoms of the unsatisfactory condition of our primary schools with a rapidity to which i can do no justice, mr. wells would instantly project upon the windowpane a vision of a better, breezier, jollier, happier, more adventurous and gallant world, where these musty railway carriages and fusty old women do not exist; where miraculous barges bring tropical fruit to camberwell by eight o'clock in the morning; where there are public nurseries, fountains, and libraries, dining-rooms, drawing-rooms, and marriages; where every citizen is generous and candid, manly and magnificent, and rather like mr. wells himself. but nobody is in the least like mrs. brown. there are no mrs. browns in utopia. indeed i do not think that mr. wells, in his passion to make her what she ought to be, would waste a thought upon her as she is. and what would mr. galsworthy see? can we doubt that the walls of doulton's factory would take his fancy? there are women in that factory who make twenty-five dozen earthenware pots every day. there are mothers in the mile end road who depend upon the farthings which those women earn. but there are employers in surrey who are even now smoking rich cigars while the nightingale sings. burning with indignation, stuffed with information, arraigning civilisation, mr. galsworthy would only see in mrs. brown a pot broken on the wheel and thrown into the corner. mr. bennett, alone of the edwardians, would keep his eyes in the carriage. he, indeed, would observe every detail with immense care. he would notice the advertisements; the pictures of swanage and portsmouth; the way in which the cushion bulged between the buttons; how mrs. brown wore a brooch which had cost three-and-ten-three at whitworth's bazaar; and had mended both gloves--indeed the thumb of the left-hand glove had been replaced. and he would observe, at length, how this was the non-stop train from windsor which calls at richmond for the convenience of middle-class residents, who can afford to go to the theatre but have not reached the social rank which can afford motor-cars, though it is true, there are occasions (he would tell us what), when they hire them from a company (he would tell us which). and so he would gradually sidle sedately towards mrs. brown, and would remark how she had been left a little copyhold, not freehold, property at datchet, which, however, was mortgaged to mr. bungay the solicitor--but why should. i presume to invent mr. bennett? does not mr. bennett write novels himself? i will open the first book that chance puts in my way--_hilda lessways._ let us see how he makes us feel that hilda is real, true, and convincing, as a novelist should. she shut the door in a soft, controlled way, which showed the constraint of her relations with her mother. she was fond of reading _maud_; she was endowed with the power to feel intensely. so far, so good; in his leisurely, surefooted way mr. bennett is trying in these first pages, where every touch is important, to show us the kind of girl she was. but then he begins to describe, not hilda lessways, but the view from her bedroom window, the excuse being that mr. skellorn, the man who collects rents, is coming along that way. mr. bennett proceeds: "the bailiwick of turnhill lay behind her; and all the murky district of the five towns, of which turnhill is the northern outpost, lay to the south. at the foot of chatterley wood the canal wound in large curves on its way towards the undefiled plains of cheshire and the sea. on the canal-side, exactly opposite to hilda's window, was a flour-mill, that sometimes made nearly as much smoke as the kilns and the chimneys closing the prospect on either hand. from the flour-mill a bricked path, which separated a considerable row of new cottages from their appurtenant gardens, led straight into lessways street, in front of mrs. lessways' house. by this path mr. skellorn should have arrived, for he inhabited the farthest of the cottages." one line of insight would have done more than all those lines of description; but let them pass as the necessary drudgery of the novelist. and now--where is hilda? alas. hilda is still looking out of the window. passionate and dissatisfied as she was, she was a girl with an eye for houses. she often compared this old mr. skellorn with the villas she saw from her bedroom window. therefore the villas must be described. mr. bennett proceeds: "the row was called freehold villas: a consciously proud name in a district where much of the land was copyhold and could only change owners subject to the payment of 'fines,' and to the feudal consent of a 'court' presided over by the agent of a lord of the manor. most of the dwellings were owned by their occupiers, who, each an absolute monarch of the soil, niggled in his sooty garden of an evening amid the flutter of drying shirts and towels. freehold villas symbolised the final triumph of victorian economics, the apotheosis of the prudent and industrious artisan. it corresponded with a building society secretary's dream of paradise. and indeed it was a very real achievement. nevertheless, hilda's irrational contempt would not admit this." heaven be praised, we cry! at last we are coming to hilda herself. but not so fast. hilda may have been this, that, and the other; but hilda not only looked at houses, and thought of houses; hilda lived in a house. and what sort of a house did hilda live in? mr. bennett proceeds: "it was one of the two middle houses of a detached terrace of four houses built by her grandfather lessways, the teapot manufacturer; it was the chief of the four, obviously the habitation of the proprietor of the terrace. one of the corner houses comprised a grocer's shop, and this house had been robbed of its just proportion of garden so that the seigneurial garden-plot might be triflingly larger than the other. the terrace was not a terrace of cottages, but of houses rated at from twenty-six to thirty-six pounds a year; beyond the means of artisans and petty insurance agents and rent-collectors. and further, it was well built, generously built; and its architecture, though debased, showed some faint traces of georgian amenity. it was admittedly the best row of houses in that newly settled quarter of the town. in coming to it out of freehold villas mr. skellorn obviously came to something superior, wider, more liberal. suddenly hilda heard her mother's voice. . . ." but we cannot hear her mother's voice, or hilda's voice; we can only hear mr. bennett's voice telling us facts about rents and freeholds and copyholds and fines. what can mr. bennett be about? i have formed my own opinion of what mr. bennett is about--he is trying to make us imagine for him; he is trying to hypnotise us into the belief that, because he has made a house, there must be a person living there. with all his powers of observation, which are marvellous, with all his sympathy and humanity, which are great, mr. bennett has never once looked at mrs. brown in her corner. there she sits in the corner of the carriage--that carriage which is travelling, not from richmond to waterloo, but from one age of english literature to the next, for mrs. brown is eternal, mrs. brown is human nature, mrs. brown changes only on the surface, it is the novelists who get in and out--there she sits and not one of the edwardian writers has so much as looked at her. they have looked very powerfully, searchingly, and sympathetically out of the window; at factories, at utopias, even at the decoration and upholstery of the carriage; but never at her, never at life, never at human nature. and so they have developed a technique of novel-writing which suits their purpose; they have made tools and established conventions which do their business. but those tools are not our tools, and that business is not our business. for us those conventions are ruin, those tools are death. you may well complain of the vagueness of my language. what is a convention, a tool, you may ask, and what do you mean by saying that mr. bennett's and mr. wells's and mr. galsworthy's conventions are the 'wrong conventions for the georgian's? the question is difficult: i will attempt a short cut. a convention in writing is not much different from a convention in manners. both in life and in literature it is necessary to have some means of bridging the gulf between the hostess and her unknown guest on the one hand, the writer and his unknown reader on the other. the hostess bethinks her of the weather, for generations of hostesses have established the fact that this is a subject of universal interest in which we all believe. she begins by saying that we are having a wretched may, and, having thus got into touch with her unknown guest, proceeds to matters of greater interest. so it is in literature. the writer must get into touch with his reader by putting before him something which he recognises, which therefore stimulates his imagination, and makes him willing to co-operate in the far more difficult business of intimacy. and it is of the highest importance that this common meeting-place should be reached easily, almost instinctively, in the dark, with one's eyes shut. here is mr. bennett making use of this common ground in the passage which i have quoted. the problem before him was to make us believe in the reality of hilda lessways. so he began, being an edwardian, by describing accurately and minutely the sort of house hilda lived in, and the sort of house she saw from the window. house property was the common ground from which the edwardians found it easy to proceed to intimacy. indirect as it seems to us, the convention worked admirably, and thousands of hilda lessways were launched upon the world by this means. for that age and generation, the convention was a good one. but now, if you will allow me to pull my own anecdote to pieces, you will see how keenly i felt the lack of a convention, and how serious a matter it is when the tools of one generation are useless for the next. the incident had made a great impression on me. but how was i to transmit it to you? all i could do was to report as accurately as i could what was said, to describe in detail what was worn, to say, despairingly, that all sorts of scenes rushed into my mind, to proceed to tumble them out pell-mell, and to describe this vivid, this overmastering impression by likening it to a draught or a smell of burning. to tell you the truth, i was also strongly tempted to manufacture a three-volume novel about the old lady's son, and his adventures crossing the atlantic, and her daughter, and how she kept a milliner's shop in westminster, the past life of smith himself, and his house at sheffield, though such stories seem to me the most dreary, irrelevant, and humbugging affairs in the world. but if i had done that i should have escaped the appalling effort of saying what i meant. and to have got at what i meant i should have had to go back and back and back; to experiment with one thing and another; to try this sentence and that, referring each word to my vision, matching it as exactly as possible, and knowing that somehow i had to find a common ground between us, a convention which would not seem to you too odd, unreal, and far-fetched to believe in. i admit that i shirked that arduous undertaking. i let my mrs. brown slip through my fingers. i have told you nothing whatever about her. but that is partly the great edwardians' fault. i asked them--they are my elders and betters--how shall i begin to describe this woman's character? and they said, "begin by saying that her father kept a shop in harrogate. ascertain the rent. ascertain the wages of shop assistants in the year . discover what her mother died of. describe cancer. describe calico. describe----" but i cried, "stop! stop!" and i regret to say that i threw that ugly, that clumsy, that incongruous tool out of the window, for i knew that if i began describing the cancer and the calico, my mrs. brown, that vision to which i cling though i know no way of imparting it to you, would have been dulled and tarnished and vanished for ever. that is what i mean by saying that the edwardian tools are the wrong ones for us to use. they have laid an enormous stress upon the fabric of things. they have given us a house in the hope that we may be able to deduce the human beings who live there. to give them their due, they have made that house much better worth living in. but if you hold that novels are in the first place about people, and only in the second about the houses they live in, that is the wrong way to set about it. therefore, you see, the georgian writer had to begin by throwing away the method that was in use at the moment. he was left alone there facing mrs. brown without any method of conveying her to the reader. but that is inaccurate. a writer is never alone. there is always the public with him--if not on the same seat, at least in the compartment next door. now the public is a strange travelling companion. in england it is a very suggestible and docile creature, which, once you get it to attend, will believe implicitly what it is told for a certain number of years. if you say to the public with sufficient conviction, "all women have tails, and all men humps," it will actually learn to see women with tails and men with humps, and will think it very revolutionary and probably improper if you say "nonsense. monkeys have tails and camels humps. but men and women have brains, and they have hearts; they think and they feel,"--that will seem to it a bad joke, and an improper one into the bargain. but to return. here is the british public sitting by the writer's side and saying in its vast and unanimous way, "old women have houses. they have fathers. they have incomes. they have servants. they have hot water bottles. that is how we know that they are old women. mr. wells and mr. bennett and mr. galsworthy have always taught us that this is the way to recognise them. but now with your mrs. brown--how are we to believe in her? we do not even know whether her villa was called albert or balmoral; what she paid for her gloves; or whether her mother died of cancer or of consumption. how can she be alive? no; she is a mere figment of your imagination." and old women of course ought to be made of freehold villas and copyhold estates, not of imagination. the georgian novelist, therefore, was in an awkward predicament. there was mrs. brown protesting that she was different, quite different, from what people made out, and luring the novelist to her rescue by the most fascinating if fleeting glimpse of her charms; there were the edwardians handing out tools appropriate to house building and house breaking; and there was the british public asseverating that they must see the hot water bottle first. meanwhile the train was rushing to that station where we must all get out. such, i think, was the predicament in which the young georgians found themselves about the year . many of them--i am thinking of mr. forster and mr. lawrence in particular--spoilt their early work because, instead of throwing away those tools, they tried to use them. they tried to compromise. they tried to combine their own direct sense of the oddity and significance of some character with mr. galsworthy's knowledge of the factory acts, and mr. bennett's knowledge of the five towns. they tried it, but they had too keen, too overpowering a sense of mrs. brown and her peculiarities to go on trying it much longer. something had to be done. at whatever cost of life, limb, and damage to valuable property mrs. brown must be rescued, expressed, and set in her high relations to the world before the train stopped and she disappeared for ever. and so the smashing and the crashing began. thus it is that we hear all round us, in poems and novels and biographies, even in newspaper articles and essays, the sound of breaking and falling, crashing and destruction. it is the prevailing sound of the georgian age--rather a melancholy one if you think what melodious days there have been in the past, if you think of shakespeare and milton and keats or even of jane austen and thackeray and dickens; if you think of the language, and the heights to which it can soar when free, and see the same eagle captive, bald, and croaking. in view of these facts--with these sounds in my ears and these fancies in my brain--i am not going to deny that mr. bennett has some reason when he complains that our georgian writers are unable to make us believe that our characters are real. i am forced to agree that they do not pour out three immortal masterpieces with victorian regularity every autumn. but instead of being gloomy, i am sanguine. for this state of things is, i think, inevitable whenever from hoar old age or callow youth the convention ceases to be a means of communication between writer and reader, and becomes instead an obstacle and an impediment. at the present moment we are suffering, not from decay, but from having no code of manners which writers and readers accept as a prelude to the more exciting intercourse of friendship. the literary convention of the time is so artificial--you have to talk about the weather and nothing but the weather throughout the entire visit--that, naturally, the feeble are tempted to outrage, and the strong are led to destroy the very foundations and rules of literary society. signs of this are everywhere apparent. grammar is violated; syntax disintegrated; as a boy staying with an aunt for the weekend rolls in the geranium bed out of sheer desperation as the solemnities of the sabbath wear on. the more adult writers do not, of course, indulge in such wanton exhibitions of spleen. their sincerity is desperate, and their courage tremendous; it is only that they do not know which to use, a fork or their fingers. thus, if you read mr. joyce and mr. eliot you will be struck by the indecency of the one, and the obscurity of the other. mr. joyce's indecency in _ulysses_ seems to me the conscious and calculated indecency of a desperate man who feels that in order to breathe he must break the windows. at moments, when the window is broken, he is magnificent. but what a waste of energy! and, after all, how dull indecency is, when it is not the overflowing of a superabundant energy or savagery, but the determined and public-spirited act of a man who needs fresh air! again, with the obscurity of mr. eliot. i think that mr. eliot has written some of the loveliest single lines in modern poetry. but how intolerant he is of the old usages and politenesses of society--respect for the weak, consideration for the dull! as i sun myself upon the intense and ravishing beauty of one of his lines, and reflect that i must make a dizzy and dangerous leap to the next, and so on from line to line, like an acrobat flying precariously from bar to bar, i cry out, i confess, for the old decorums, and envy the indolence of my ancestors who, instead of spinning madly through mid-air, dreamt quietly in the shade with a book. again, in mr. strachey's books, "eminent victorians" and "queen victoria," the effort and strain of writing against the grain and current of the times is visible too. it is much less visible, of course, for not only is he dealing with facts, which are stubborn things, but he has fabricated, chiefly from eighteenth-century material, a very discreet code of manners of his own, which allows him to sit at table with the highest in the land and to say a great many things under cover of that exquisite apparel which, had they gone naked, would have been chased by the men-servants from the room. still, if you compare "eminent victorians" with some of lord macaulay's essays, though you will feel that lord macaulay is always wrong, and mr. strachey always right, you will also feel a body, a sweep, a richness in lord macaulay's essays which show that his age was behind him; all his strength went straight into his work; none was used for purposes of concealment or of conversion. but mr. strachey has had to open our eyes before he made us see; he has had to search out and sew together a very artful manner of speech; and the effort, beautifully though it is concealed, has robbed his work of some of the force that should have gone into it, and limited his scope. for these reasons, then, we must reconcile ourselves to a season of failures and fragments. we must reflect that where so much strength is spent on finding a way of telling the truth the truth itself is bound to reach us in rather an exhausted and chaotic condition. ulysses, queen victoria, mr. prufrock--to give mrs. brown some of the names she has made famous lately--is a little pale and dishevelled by the time her rescuers reach her. and it is the sound of their axes that we hear--a vigorous and stimulating sound in my ears--unless of course you wish to sleep, when, in the bounty of his concern. providence has provided a host of writers anxious and able to satisfy your needs. thus i have tried, at tedious length, i fear, to answer some of the questions which i began by asking. i have given an account of some of the difficulties which in my view beset the georgian writer in all his forms. i have sought to excuse him. may i end by venturing to remind you of the duties and responsibilities that are yours as partners in this business of writing books, as companions in the railway carriage, as fellow travellers with mrs. brown? for she is just as visible to you who remain silent as to us who tell stories about her. in the course of your daily life this past week you have had far stranger and more interesting experiences than the one i have tried to describe. you have overheard scraps of talk that filled you with amazement. you have gone to bed at night bewildered by the complexity of your feelings. in one day thousands of ideas have coursed through your brains; thousands of emotions have met, collided, and disappeared in astonishing disorder. nevertheless, you allow the writers to palm off upon you a version of all this, an image of mrs. brown, which has no likeness to that surprising apparition whatsoever. in your modesty you seem to consider that writers are of different blood and bone from yourselves; that they know more of mrs. brown than you do. never was there a more fatal mistake. it is this division between reader and writer, this humility on your part, these professional airs and graces on ours, that corrupt and emasculate the books which should be the healthy offspring of a close and equal alliance between us. hence spring those sleek, smooth novels, those portentous and ridiculous biographies, that milk and watery criticism, those poems melodiously celebrating the innocence of roses and sheep which pass so plausibly for literature at the present time. your part is to insist that writers shall come down off their plinths and pedestals, and describe beautifully if possible, truthfully at any rate, our mrs. brown. you should insist that she is an old lady of unlimited capacity and infinite variety; capable of appearing in any place; wearing any dress; saying anything and doing heaven knows what. but the things she says and the things she does and her eyes and her nose and her speech and her silence have an overwhelming fascination, for she is, of course, the spirit we live by, life itself. but do not expect just at present a complete and satisfactory presentment of her. tolerate the spasmodic, the obscure, the fragmentary, the failure. your help is invoked in a good cause. for i will make one final and surpassingly rash prediction--we are trembling on the verge of one of the great ages of english literature. but it can only be reached if we are determined never, never to desert mrs. brown. [footnote : a paper read to the heretics, cambridge, on may , .] [transcriber's note: italicized text is indicated with _underscores_; bolded text with +plus signs+.] [frontispiece: the late christopher wilson] shakespeare and music by christopher wilson london "the stage" office york street, covent garden, w.c. {v} contents page christopher wilson: a memoir . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vii introductory . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xi antony and cleopatra . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . as you like it . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the comedy of errors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . coriolanus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . cymbeline . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . hamlet . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . king henry iv. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . henry viii. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . julius caesar . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . king lear . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . macbeth . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . measure for measure . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the merchant of venice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the merry wives of windsor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . a midsummer night's dream . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . much ado about nothing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . othello . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . king richard iii. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . romeo and juliet . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the taming of the shrew . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the tempest . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . timon of athens . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . twelfth night . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the two gentlemen of verona . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the winter's tale . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . shakespeare's songs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . {vii} christopher wilson a memoir (reprinted, by kind permission of the editor, from _the musical times_ of april , ) when christopher wilson published his master-song, "come away, death," in , _the times_ said of it that it was "all that such a song should be--fantastic, yet deeply pathetic, _and as musicianly as a work by a mendelssohn scholar ought to be_." the words italicised remain true of all that this gifted composer left us; and the pity of it is that for various reasons, some of which will appear in the present notice, so little of his work has been printed. "chris" wilson, as he was known to hosts of friends in bohemian circles, was born at melbourne, in derbyshire, on october , . he came of musical stock on both sides. many stories, based on undoubted fact, are current as to the boy's proficiency on the pianoforte, even before he reached his teens; and while at derby school, where his headmaster was j. r. sterndale bennett, a son of the composer, he played for the eleven--a somewhat rare combination of talents. there was never a doubt as to young christopher's future calling; and his brilliant career at the academy more than fulfilled his early promise. he carried off no fewer than three bronze and three silver medals, and was at the end of his third year awarded three certificates: for the pianoforte, harmony, and sight-singing. he also gained the agnes zimmermann prize. wilson received every encouragement from the principal, sir alexander mackenzie, while his professors for harmony and {viii} composition, pianoforte, and viola (his second subject) were mr frank davenport (his uncle), mr oscar beringer, and mr walenn, respectively. no one was surprised when he capped all his previous successes by carrying off the mendelssohn scholarship in . he went abroad--as winners of the british prix de rome usually do--and studied under wüllner at cologne, von herzogenberg at berlin, and widor at paris. his gifts were appreciated by his foreign teachers as they had been at home. the beautiful suite for strings (since, , published by schott) was performed at cologne at one of the principal concerts--a compliment that had been paid to only one young englishman before him, arthur sullivan. moreover, he was selected by wüllner to "coach" a tenor at the opera in the part of tristan--no small distinction. there can be no question that wilson brought back to england one great asset[ ]: he had heard all the great operas over and over again, and it was as a composer and conductor for the theatre that he was destined to make his mark. his sense of the stage and of atmosphere and his love for everything relating to the theatre were remarkably keen; so his success in this sphere was not surprising. his gifts were quickly recognised by sir frank benson, mr oscar asche, miss ellen terry, mr and mrs fred terry, mr otho stuart, mr waller, and others; for the two first named he acted as musical director for well over ten years. apart from the numerous shakespearian productions for which he wrote the music, his most striking successes were obtained in _kismet, the pied piper of hamelin_, and the greek plays. in these latter he made no more use of the ancient modes than mendelssohn had done; but the result was highly effective and true to atmosphere. {ix} opinions are bound to differ as to the comparative merit of the music written for the shakespeare plays: on the whole, perhaps, _king lear, richard ii., antony and cleopatra, much ado about nothing, the merchant of venice_, and _measure for measure_ mark his highest level of achievement. wilson was, of course, acquainted with all the traditional music, of which he availed himself whenever he considered it suitable; the numerous gaps he filled in with unerring taste and skill. future searchers in the british museum catalogue may consider his output relatively small, in spite of the fact that he died in his forty-fifth year. but it should be remembered that incidental music of this kind, apart from the lyrics, mostly remains in ms. none the less, one may rest assured that its spirit and traditions will live on, and that much of it will be handed on by successive conductors for the enjoyment of future generations. his published works include, besides those mentioned elsewhere in this memoir, settings of "on the ground," "take, oh take those lips away" ( ), and a duet, "it was a lover and his lass" ( ); "rest in peace" (words by w. melville, ); "if we may not meet" (h. kendall, ); "roses for my lady" (harold begbie, ); "to a nosegay" (e. broad, ); "there lived a singer" (swinburne, ); "when roses blush" (e. lyall swete, ); "i bring thee roses" (f. stayton, ); "ave maria" for s.a.t.b. (unaccompanied--organ part for rehearsal only-- ); three duets and a song from _kismet_ ( ); and a novelette in d for the piano, ( ). of the unpublished works, the most important are the music to a wordless play "inconstant pierrot" (the _scenario_ by sidney dark); a second suite for strings; a mass; a pianoforte quartet; two string quartets; two violin sonatas; and a number of lyrics (including several by shakespeare and a fine setting of browning's "prospice"). he also wrote the music for two pageants. during the last year of his life, when his health was beginning to fail, wilson worked much at the british {x} museum on a series of papers for _the stage_, dealing with shakespeare and the host of composers who have set him to music; here his knowledge and experience, if not unrivalled, were certainly unsurpassed. of these articles, five had appeared up to the time of his death: ( ) and ( ), introductory and "a midsummer night's dream" (october and november , ); ( ) and ( ), "macbeth" (december and december , ); ( ), "romeo and juliet" (february , ). the last of the series was published eleven days before the end came suddenly--for "chris" died of heart failure in the early morning of february . a few hours before he fell asleep he was asked to write the music for the forthcoming production by miss doris keane of this same play of _romeo and juliet_--a pathetic coincidence! anyone anxious to form some faint idea of "chris" wilson's delightful personality, his kindness to all, his utter selflessness, his childlike simplicity of nature, and his humour, should read the two articles on his experiences as a conductor which he contributed to _the stage_ in . but it is the humbler members of his orchestras who probably know more of his goodness of heart than even his most intimate friends; and it is their testimony he would have valued most highly. it should be added that he was a widely-read man, and possessed a sound knowledge of art and of architecture. a fine tribute to his memory was paid him by his brother savages--among whom he had spent so many happy hours--on the saturday night of the week in which he died, when mr george baker sang his "come away, death" with an effect that will never be forgotten by those who were present. [ ] another natural result of his stay in germany was that his interest in the folk-songs of that country was stimulated; and he edited for messrs boosey the volume of "german folk-songs" in their imperial edition, the english versions being by his friend paul england ( ). wilson's accompaniments and harmonies to these are models of what such things should be; and a notable feature of the collection is that it contains a large proportion of songs that had never been translated into english. {xi} introductory when i first contemplated writing these articles it seemed to me to be a very interesting, amusing, and pleasant job indeed. i had seen a great number of shakespeare's plays, read some of them, and written or conducted music for most. all i had to do, i thought, was to jot down a few notes of what i had heard or read, and out of them make a readable couple of columns. i began to make the notes, and swiftly it dawned upon me what an enormous task i had taken on. i found that nearly every composer, great or small, since shakespeare's time had been inspired, directly or indirectly, by our poet. true, handel avoided him (i can find no trace of shakespeare in the opera _julius cæsar_), and i don't suppose bach ever heard of him; but i feel sure that beethoven's "coriolan" overture owes something to shakespeare as well as to von collin, the direct author of the play. but when the plays began to be translated and circulated abroad, composers all over europe came under his extraordinary influence, and began composing music to his plays or about characters in them. no music to the plays by contemporary composers has survived. most people associate him with purcell, locke, robert johnson, bannister, or pelham humphrey; but all these were born some years after his death, except johnson, whose settings of "where the bee sucks" and "full fathom five" are supposed to be the original; but, as johnson was only twelve years old when shakespeare died, _the tempest_ must have been produced without these songs, or johnson must have been more than usually {xii} precocious. the _encyclopaedia britannica_ definitely says that johnson's settings are the original. there are many theories to account for the singular absence of contemporary musical settings of shakespeare's lyrics: a quite possible one being that he wrote his songs to popular tunes of the day, which everyone knew and no one troubled to write down and print. many of our great revue composers hammer out the tune first and then get some versifier to write words to it. anyhow, if one is going to produce shakespeare's plays and only use settings composed for the original productions, one would have very little music; and, as he was always calling for music, both in his stage directions and from the mouths of his characters, the performances might please the stage society, but certainly would not have pleased the author. musically, there are many ways of producing shakespeare's plays. one is the absolutely "correct" method--that is, to play _the tempest_, say, with the precocious johnson's two songs only. another way, not so "correct," would be to use the precocious one's two songs, and also use contemporary music not written originally for the words, but adapted by the producer. yet another way is the "broad-minded," and includes any setting of shakespeare's words written within a hundred years or so. this method is still roughly described as elizabethan, but if you include yet another hundred years the music is called shakespearian. after that you get the old english wardour street variety, and, later still, the tambourin school. to some people a liberal tambourin part in two-four time denotes "old english" music: [illustration: fragment of music] (the same figure on the tambourin with the tinkling bells, is called "eastern.") a quite good method is to use the best of all the written music and make it into a hotch-potch. this is really a very practical way, and often gives good results. finally, {xiii} one takes the whole music written specially for one play by one composer of any period, and does it as written, with no addition or alteration: this is an ideal method very rarely put into practice. even when commissioning a living composer, managers try to bring in a favourite number by arne or horn, and, unless the composer is a very strong or a very rich man, his musical scheme will be broken by some well-known tune not in the least in the style of the rest of his music. it is difficult to persuade the average shakespearian producer that shakespeare, arne, sir henry bishop, and horn were not great friends who used to meet daily at the mermaid tavern to discuss incidental music. christopher wilson. { } shakespeare and music antony and cleopatra there is a long list of operas under the names _cléopâtre_ and _kleopatra_ in clément et larousse's _dictionnaire lyrique_, and in riemann's _opernhandbuch_, but it is doubtful if a single one of them can be said to be founded on shakespeare's _antony and cleopatra_. there seems material in it for hundreds of operas, but no one seems to have been inspired to write them. +sir henry bishop+ has certainly written an "epicedium," or funeral dirge, for the end of the play, for the production at covent garden; but though no author's name save shakespeare's appears on the title-page, i can trace no text of shakespeare's in this "epicedium." it was produced in november , and grove's _dictionary of music and musicians_ does not mention it. it was sung at the end of the play, and is for chorus, orchestra, solo tenor and baritone. the first and second choruses are laments of the soldiers over antony's death; then the solo baritone tells the chorus not to be ashamed of shedding tears, and the chorus sentimentalise over his bravery and generosity. the tenor sings of how he (antony) was deserted by mars and neptune, and tells them to bury the lovers together. the final chorus is quite cheerful. everyone seems pleased with the monument that has been erected, and "the shout of warriors thunders o'er the tomb." it is not a very dignified production, and i should not have paid much attention to it but for the fact that so little has been written musical on this subject that i thought some of my readers might be interested by this slight and incongruous work. { } +k. h. graun+ in composed an overture to this play which is, i think, the earliest known work on the subject. the only available copy of the score is in berlin, and, at the time of writing, rather difficult to get at. graun was born in , at wahrenbrück, saxony, and is one of the few celebrated composers who were famous operatic singers before they were composers. his oratorio _the death of jesus_ takes the same place in germany as handel's _messiah_ does here in england. +august enna+, a danish composer, wrote an opera founded on shakespeare's play, which was produced at the royal opera house, copenhagen, in ; but, with the exception of the overture, none of it has been performed in london. the overture was played under sir henry wood by the queen's hall orchestra on july , . the opera was not a success in copenhagen, in spite of the popularity of the composer and the natural sympathy he would receive from his compatriots. the critics said that he was obviously too much under the double influence of wagner and verdi, and, though admiring his prodigious technique in orchestration, gave him otherwise but faint praise. enna was born may , . he was largely self-taught; but, with the help of niels gade, won the ancker scholarship, a sort of danish "prix de rome," which enabled him to study in germany and acquire a considerable technique--a useful possession for a modern grand-opera composer. +rodolphe kreutzer+, whose violin exercises have driven thousands of amateurs nearly to suicide, composed a "grand historic ballet" on _antony and cleopatra_, which was produced in vienna, but the date is as uncertain as the work's connection with shakespeare's play. it would seem impossible to anyone who has seen or read the play not to have been influenced by it to a certain extent, and as kreutzer was born in he may have seen or read some translation; but he does not appear to have gathered { } the slightest glimmer of the tragedy of antony and cleopatra, and he was content to compose a whole series of numbers, all equally banal, not one of them suggesting for a single moment either of the great lovers or the surroundings. the only redeeming feature of a long and tedious work is that there is no attempt at wardour street egyptian music. +hector berlioz+ made his third unsuccessful attempt on the prix de rome with a cantata on this subject. though not founded on a scene or scenes from shakespeare's play, it was undoubtedly inspired by the poet. berlioz describes the action as follows:--"the subject was, cleopatra after actium; dying in convulsions, she invokes the spirit of the pharaohs, demanding, criminal though she be, whether she dare claim a place beside them in their mighty tombs. it was a magnificent theme, and i had often pondered over juliet's 'but if, when i am laid into the tomb,' which is, at least in terror of approaching death, analogous to the appeal of the egyptian queen." berlioz himself says: "i think it deserved the prize." and i am sure it did; but the grand prix was not awarded that year, so that the composer had to wait twelve months before winning the coveted honour. he afterwards used the music, unchanged, for that curious but interesting work _lelio_. "the vision of cleopatra," a "tragic poem for orchestra, soli, and chorus," words by gerald cumberland, music by +havergal brian+, is inscribed to the southport triennial festival, who gave it its first performance. though not an actual setting of a scene or scenes from this play, the work owes much to shakespearian inspiration. for instance, though antony and cleopatra belong to anyone, iris and charmian, who appear in this work, are essentially shakespeare's creations. this "tragic poem" is scored for a very large orchestra, and two choruses, one large, the other small. in addition to the usual full modern orchestra, there are two extra _ad lib._ horn parts, making six, and four { } trumpet parts. for the sake of "oriental colour," the percussion list is so unusually heavy that i must quote it: glockenspiel, tympani, bass drum, side drum, triangle, castanets, indian drum, gong, large cymbals, and small cymbals--rather a healthy lot when they all get going! the work opens with a slave dance, _allegro con fuoco_, and is marked double _pianissimo_. after a few introductory bars (twelve), the dance proper begins, still very softly and in a curious syncopated rhythm. according to the composer's directions the dance grows "gradually wild and riotous," then comes a slower passage marked "yearning," followed by a long _stringendo_ passage leading to the climax, "wild and uneven"; this presently dies away, and iris and charmian have a long duet, the chorus occasionally breaking in, telling how the "queen is sick for antony," and how "once more venus and bacchus meet, and all the world stands still to watch the bliss of living gods." the music here is very difficult; the rhythm changes often, every other bar, as does the key; the intervals are strangely unexpected, and the singer can look for no help from the orchestra. a passage marked "in regal martial style" ushers in the lovers, and we have a long vivid duet. cleopatra sings a lengthy mystic solo, which is followed by an ominous chorus, at the end of which antony seems to have died, for cleopatra sings a very powerful dirge for him:-- now all is finished, all is done, my world is dead; and he whose glory shamed the sun lies shamed instead. these lips that frenzied him with love have death bestowed. the finale is marked "marche funèbre," and is a short chorus, dirge-like in feeling, rounding up the work effectively. it is a very interesting composition, difficult and most complicated, very restless and disjointed, to most { } ears singularly unmelodious and unsatisfactory, yet, at the same time, full of novel effects, and to that extent certainly worth study; but i suspect that none of it ever got on the southport barrel organs. unfortunately, i cannot get hold of +dr ethel smyth's+ overture of this name, but mr j. a. fuller-maitland, in his _english music in the nineteenth century_, writes: "ethel smyth's genius lies in the direction of strong and even virile work; her overture 'antony and cleopatra,' given at the crystal palace and the london symphony concerts, showed that she understood all the resources of the orchestra, and that she was no amateur." the last six words seem hardly necessary. the composer has since proved her worth in her two operas, _the wreckers_ and _the boatswain's mate_. +schubert's+ setting of "come, thou monarch of the vine" is not so successful as his "who is sylvia?" or "hark, the lark." it is a straight, robust song, mostly in unison. there is a quite unnecessary second verse added by one "n. n." other but not important settings of these words are by william linley, , for solo boy and male chorus; bishop, , for three male voices; and weiss, , for bass solo. +michael balling's+ music for frank benson's production of _antony and cleopatra_ contains, among other very good music, a baritone song to these words, with male chorus. unfortunately, he did not write an overture or _entr'actes_, but his cæsar and antony marches are full of contrasted character, and his "rose procession" for the last "gaudy night" is really beautiful. sir henry bishop set these words to a s.a.t.b. quartet and full chorus, and by repeating each line several times, and most of the words pretty often, has made quite a long and uninteresting number out of it. +thomas chilcot+ in published a setting of these { } words for a tenor voice. it is a good florid song, with a running accompaniment for strings. the composer omits the fifth line of the lyric for some reason i cannot understand. surely the poem is very short as it is. in setting it he certainly seems to have found it so, as he repeats several sentences. the line he cuts makes rather a good refrain--"cup us till the world goes round"--and most composers make their effect here. +miss frances allitsen+ has composed for madame clara butt a "scena"; the text chiefly from shakespeare, the words of the aria by thomas s. collier. it is supposed to be the death scene of cleopatra, and the words are a sad jumble of odd lines taken from here and there. the music is very pretentious, and obviously not written round cleopatra, but round madame butt's exceptional voice. the prayer to isis and osiris, with its un-shakespearian rhymes of "supplication" and "desolation," would sound quite right with small verbal alterations in any methodist chapel. the aria is vocal and to a certain extent melodious in a "ballad concert" manner, but it is utterly lacking in dignity. a long recitative follows in which nearly every note has an accent on it; cleopatra applies the asp to a _tremolo_ accompaniment, and finally dies, singing a series of accented high notes, as if the asp were hurting a good deal; and a few bars of minor chords bring the work to a close. { } as you like it _as you like it_ has not been dealt with much by musicians, though one of them, sir henry bishop, has been very hard upon it. the earliest known opera on the subject is by +francesco maria veracini+. it was produced under the title of _rosalinda_ during the composer's visit to london in . mr w. barclay squire, in his article on shakespearian operas, mentions three operas of this name, by capelli, ziani, and j. c. smith, but adds that they have no connection with shakespeare's comedy. +bishop's+ pasticcio opera on this subject was produced at the royal, covent garden, in . the overture is a potpourri of so-called shakespearian songs, simply harmonised and roughly hung together. the first number is a duet for rosalind and celia, "whilst inconstant fortune smiled," words freely adapted from _the passionate pilgrim_. there is nothing much to say about it: it seems quite innocuous, but very dull. rosalind's song, which she sings after having fallen in love with orlando, is a setting of the th sonnet, minus the two last lines. it is again quite dull. celia has a long and depressing aria in praise of friendship, the words taken from the rd sonnet. after these numbers it is quite refreshing to come across a cheerful male-voice hunting glee--"even as the sun" is the title--the words being taken from _venus and adonis_. there are the usual horn effects, _fortissimo_ chorus effects, and _pianissimo_ echoes, all the old tricks, but put together by a good old hand, bishop. dr arne's setting of "under the greenwood tree" follows for amiens, and a beautiful setting it is. touchstone, in this version, is a tenor (somehow i never fancied him as a tenor), and sings a bright little { } song, "fair was my love," from _the passionate pilgrim_. this is followed by a trio for rosalind, celia, and touchstone, beginning "crabbed age and youth," the words again taken from _the passionate pilgrim_ (what a useful poem it is to pasticcio opera composers!). this trio is a very simple one. the first verse consists of alternate phrases by the three singers, who then all sing together, over and over again, the line "for methinks thou stay'st too long." a welcome relief is dr arne's broad, flowing setting of "blow, blow, thou winter wind," by far the best to these words. the next number is a terrible setting by bishop of the first eight lines of the th sonnet, "low in the orient when the gracious light," for male voices. silvius now has a sentimental song to words taken, slightly altered, from _venus and adonis_. the situation is inverted: silvius sings venus's words reproaching adonis, to phoebe; but bishop is undaunted, and "oh thou obdurate flint, hard as steel" is addressed to a woman! (by the way, shakespeare wrote "art," not "oh.") rosalind sings a sentimental ballad to the words from _venus and adonis_ beginning "if love had lent you twenty thousand tongues," of no great importance. dr arne's beautiful setting of "when daisies pied," from _love's labour's lost_, is another welcome relief, and i remember in several modern revivals of this play managers introducing this song when they had a rosalind able to sing well enough. the next number is a march and dance for the procession of hymen, and is for orchestra only. it is a good example of absolutely straight writing, with no bother about the romance or mystery of the masque of hymen--a good workaday march in d major and common time. this is followed by the last number, words actually from _as you like it_. hymen, who in the original production was played by a boy, sings "then is there mirth in heaven," a long, tedious, florid song, full of endless repetitions of single words. it is a curious fact that the beautiful lyric, "it was a lover and his lass," does not occur in this version, though really part of the original play. { } it was a great pity that sir george alexander did not commission +edward german+ to write the whole of his music for the _as you like it_ revival at the st james's, instead of the masque only. this masque is so very good that one would like to have an overture and full _entr'actes_, but one must be thankful for what one has got. the work is in four movements. first, an introduction, very quiet and moderately slow, leading to the "woodland dance" in the minor, beginning very quietly, but working up to twelve _ff_ bars in the middle, and then dying away. the second number is a very graceful "children's dance," _piano_ throughout, most melodious, and very delicately scored. the last number, "rustic dance," is the longest and most important. it begins _allegro con spirito_ and _fortissimo_, and keeps it up till the first episode, which is in the same time, but _pianissimo_ and in the minor. soon this is worked up to a big _forte rallentando_ effect, which leads into the last theme, _pianissimo_ to begin with, getting quicker and quicker and more _crescendo_ to the coda, which is _presto fortissimo_. this is by far the most effective of the movements, but the "children's dance" is the most beautiful. mr german's setting of "it was a lover and his lass," one of the best of this lyric, was not composed for this production. +clarence lucas's+ overture to the comedy is one of the few purely orchestral works associated with _as you like it_. it begins very brightly, the first theme being a rollicking one in old english style. this is developed until we come to the second subject, which is much slower, and is first played on the clarinet. the whole overture is really in valse time, and the second half of the second theme makes a most interesting syncopated valse. the first half ends with a horn passage, suggesting the banished duke and his friends hunting. there are no new themes. those which i have described are taken through their phases in various keys, and the work comes to a sparkling finish by means of a _presto_ coda. it is a very lively comedy overture, and not at all difficult to perform. { } the comedy of errors i must just copy the whole of the title-page of +sir henry bishop's+ operatic version of _the comedy of errors_. nothing could give any idea of what shakespeare has been through save an analysis of the music that follows, but i can only touch on that. "the overture, songs, two duets, and glees in shakespeare's _comedy of errors_, performed at the theatre royal, covent garden; the words selected entirely from shakespeare's plays, poems, and sonnets. the music composed and the whole adapted and compressed from the score for the voice and pianoforte by sir henry r. bishop, composer and director of the music to the theatre royal, covent garden." i have written this down just as it was printed. i was so overwhelmed by it that i felt sure that neither i nor anyone else could improve upon it. i knew there was only one bit of the play set to music--and not a very beautiful example either--in the ordinary anthologies of shakespeare's music. it is by dr kemp, who died in . he chose these few lines from act ii., scene , lines - , but bishop, very wisely, does not touch these lines. he brings in every kind of song and tune, from, as he puts it, "shakespeare's plays, poems, and sonnets," with no reference to the play for which he was composing music. the overture is of the "potpourri" style. after four bars of slow music the theme of ophelia's song in _hamlet_, "how shall i my true love know?", is played. a few bars afterwards a theme from _the tempest_, then a very cheerful subject from _macbeth_, followed by a bright little thing from _the winter's tale_. then comes an old tune for "when that i was" { } (_twelfth night_); next a melody from _the tempest_ and "st valentine's day" lead pleasantly into the catch, "which is the properest day to drink," from _twelfth night_, all preparing the way for "under the greenwood tree" (_as you like it_). after this theme is given a fair chance, a subject from _the winter's tale_ is produced, followed by "blow, blow," from _as you like it_. a sad little bit from _macbeth_, succeeded by a very bright coda from _the winter's tale_, brings the overture to a conclusion. but why call it the "overture to _the comedy of errors_"? there is not a suggestion or a line in this overture, except the one on the title-page, that has anything to do with the play to which that is supposed to be the opening, though it is beautifully printed as "_comedy of errors_ overture." no one minds bishop writing a potpourri overture and calling it "shakespeariana," but why call it "the comedy of errors"?--unless he wishes the title to describe the overture, not the overture the play. the first vocal number in this strange work is a setting of "it was a lover," from _as you like it_. it is a simple but quite pretty song. the next is a song for antipholus of ephesus, words selected from shakespeare's sonnets; it is called "beauty's valuation," and is a good example of the composer's worst manner. then comes a strange setting of "blow, blow," from _as you like it_. the melody of the first part is by dr arne and the refrain by mr stephens, the whole arranged for four male voices by bishop; it makes a strange medley! after this one is not surprised to find the "willow song" from _othello_ sung by adriana to quite a cheerful tune. dr arne's "under the greenwood tree," arranged for a male quartet by bishop, follows. the next number is a curious duet for ceremon and antipholus of ephesus to the words beginning "saint witnold footed thrice the world," from _king lear_ (act iii., scene ). there is no attempt to bring out the weirdness of these strange words. bishop then composed a very obvious duet for tenor and baritone, with effective _cantabile_ { } passages and plenty of pauses and shakes. adriana now sings bishop's setting of "come live with me" (marlowe), quite the prettiest number in the opera, though the words seem a little bold for her, and more suited to the nameless character, the last in shakespeare's cast. luciana then sings sir henry's "favourite cavatina," "sweet rose, fair flower," words culled from _the passionate pilgrim_, but ascribed by bishop to the sonnets. perhaps this was a "favourite cavatina." the publisher says so, and ought to know, having bought it; but i cannot say i really like it. the third act is brought to a brilliant finish by bishop's famous glee from _as you like it_, "what shall he have who killed the deer?" the fourth act begins cheerfully by adriana singing the composer's "take, oh take those lips away," which is really a very bad setting. _the passionate pilgrim_ is again drawn upon for the next number, a duet for adriana and luciana. this is a feeble affair rather in horn's "i know a bank" manner, and the words are again attributed to "the sonnets." sir henry appears to have no more idea of what a sonnet really is than the london editor who asked a poet for a sonnet "not more than a hundred lines long." a pleasant change is caused by the glee party singing "come, thou monarch of the vine," from _antony and cleopatra_, as an unaccompanied trio. luciana now sings "the springtime of love," words from _the two gentlemen of verona_, a good florid vocal soprano solo; and the opera finishes with "lo, here the gentle lark," from _venus and adonis_, with flute _obbligato_. this is too well known to need description. i daresay it made as good an end as any other that bishop could have devised. i have written at some length on this musical "pasticcio," as this kind of opera is called, because it presents strange points of interest. the persistent way in which no single line from _the comedy of errors_ was set to music for this production is only equalled by the manner in which purcell did not set a line of shakespeare in his _fairy { } queen_. whenever modern critics point out the faults in our occasional shakespearian productions, one can always say, "remember , the year of the first performance of this atrocity." it is not surprising to find that sir henry bishop was knighted (in these days he might get the o.b.e.); but it is odd that he should have succeeded dr crotch in the chair of music at oxford. { } coriolanus despite the fact that clément and larousse, the french musical operatic historians, give no fewer than seven italian operas entitled _coriolanus_, and mention four more, unfortunately not one of them is founded on shakespeare's play. one great overture that is always associated with the play was not composed directly for shakespeare's drama but for a work on the same subject by baron von collin, a viennese dramatist. m. h. laboix _fils_, the celebrated french musical critic, in his essay, "les traducteurs de shakespeare en musique," says: "among symphonic works it is not possible to avoid mentioning beethoven's 'coriolan overture,' and we should have placed it in the front rank if a scruple did not require us to refer only to music directly inspired by shakespeare." in spite of the character of grandeur and majesty which gives it its stamp, the overture "coriolanus" was not composed for the english tragedy, and a little story will serve to show this. a german poet, von collin, had written a play, _coriolanus_. to give relief to his tragedy, he took it to the composer of _fidelio_ and prayed him to write an overture. perhaps beethoven knew the english _coriolanus_; perhaps the stern roman pleased him so much by reason of his vindictive and indomitable character that one night, so say the historians, sufficed the composer to provide the magnificent pages that serve to preface the work for which we have to thank von collin. the critics have found, with reason, the striking connection between shakespeare's play and beethoven's overture; but if the anecdote be true, these analogies are a proof of that intimate tie which binds { } together great men of genius. the overture is too well known to require analysis. everyone will remember the austere opening, the turbulent principal theme, the perfect melody of the second theme, the wonderful fiery development, and the exquisite _morendo_ at the end. beethoven, one feels, must have known shakespeare's _coriolanus_. of real incidental music composed for this play very little has survived. most managers were content to play the beethoven overture if the orchestra was large enough, and to get through with a couple of marches--one for the romans and one for the volscians,--a few fanfares, and a little soft music to illustrate the "home life" of the hero. not so sir henry irving, all honour to him. he commissioned +sir alexander mackenzie+ to write special music, which it is my privilege to discuss now. the composer has made his incidental music into a suite of four movements. the first number is called "prelude," and is in c minor and common time. it opens with a vigorous, decisive chromatic theme lasting only for nine bars, and is followed by a very tender and beautiful subject for strings, which is soon developed, in an animated manner, into a _forte_ passage, that quickly dies down and enables a tranquil melody for wood wind and harp to be heard. after a little while the trumpets enter with a rapid fanfare figure, which quickly spreads over the rest of the orchestra, and works up finely to the return of the first theme _fortissimo_. all these themes are now finely treated in various ways by the composer, and the movement ends with a brilliant coda in the major. the second number is a march in d major. after a quiet introduction for strings _pizzicato_, the violins give out a martial theme very quietly, and presently the wood wind joins in, and a graceful, rather florid theme for the wood is added; then comes the first theme again, and the march ends with some _piano_ trumpet fanfares. the trio is in the minor and slower; its theme is broad and flowing, and at its end sir alexander introduces a longish piece of complex development music { } working to the first march theme, which is played for the first time _fortissimo_, but soon gets _piano_ again. the coda is quite short and quiet, with a reference to the trio: the music gets slower and slower, and ends _pianissimo_. the third number is a funeral march. the opening theme is practically the same as the few bars of the prelude, but is developed more lyrically. the middle part, or trio, is even more solemn; there is a very impressive kettledrum effect, and a fateful subject is played on trombone and cornet in octaves against a strong string passage. the first part is repeated with very little alteration, and the end is fitly funereal. the fourth and last number is by far the most descriptive of the suite; it is called "voces populi," and gives, musically, the effect of an angry crowd being gradually stirred up to great heights of wrath. this is followed by an expressive _affettuoso_ theme, mostly for the violins, leading to a new melody, very triumphant and happy, but soon broken in upon by the murmuring of the people, this time sounding even more ominous. after a short appearance of the _affettuoso_ theme the movement finishes triumphantly on the third theme in a great blaze of music. no stage music could be more in keeping with the true meaning of the play; it is all on a very high and important level, and is most worthy of its distinguished composer. it is of this _coriolanus_ production that a very good story is told. after the final dress rehearsal two stage hands were discovered outside the stage door reading through the day-bill. one said: "scenery designed by sir laurence alma tadema; music composed by sir alexander mackenzie; produced by sir henry irving--three knights. about all it will ---- well run." unfortunately, owing to no fault of the music, this prophecy was not very far out. { } cymbeline during my researches in shakespearian music, operatic or other, i have been often hindered by the strange titles under which works were hidden. having a smattering of french, german, latin, and a tiny bit of italian, i could recognise _the merchant of venice_ under the title of _il mercante di venezia_, or _der kaufman von venedig_, or _shylock_; but why _jessica_? yet there is an opera founded on that play, called _jessica_, by a frenchman named louis deffès. _romeo and juliet_ is easy to discover under the title _i capuletti ed i montecchi_; but why _les amants de verone_? _much ado about nothing_ one "spots" at once under the title _beaucoup de bruit pour rien_, or _béatrice et bénédict_; but why _hero_ or _ero_? _the tempest_ is easily discovered as _la tempesta_, _die geisterinsel_, _der sturm_, or _miranda_, as is _the winter's tale_ as _wintermärchen_ or _conte d'hiver_; but why did max bruch call his opera on the same subject _hermione_? _twelfth night_ is easy to find as _was ihr wollt_, not so easy as _cesario_. under the fine-sounding title, _ricardus, angliæ rex, ab henrico richmondæ comite vita, simul et regno exitus_, we find an old friend, _richard iii._; and _timone misantropo_ almost sounds like a pet name for _timon of athens_. the title _macbetto_ is a very thin and seemingly purposeless disguise for _macbeth_; and _king lear_ is generally called _cordelia_, operatically. _the merry wives of windsor_ is called severally _le vieux coquet, falstaff, falstaff, ossia letre burle, die lustigen weibervon windsor_; and _antony and cleopatra_ is generally named after the lady. but the greatest surprise i received was when i { } discovered, lurking under the name of _dinah_, shakespeare's _cymbeline_! it is an opera in four acts, book by michel carré, jun., and paul choudens, music by +edmond missa+. carré _fils_ is the son of the well-known librettist of _faust_ and _romeo_ fame, and choudens is connected with choudens fils, who publish this opera; but concerning the composer, grove and riemann are silent. the opera was produced at the comedie parisienne, on june , , and was not a success. there are only five characters, and a chorus of lords and courtesans. the scene is laid in venice during the middle ages. the characters are mentano (posthumus), iachimo, philario, dinah (imogen), and flora, a courtesan, a high soprano, not occurring in shakespeare's text. cymbeline and the rest of shakespeare's characters are cut. boiled down, the plot is (i will give shakespeare's names):--posthumus is the lover and beloved of imogen; they are not married secretly, as in the play; iachimo is so madly in love with imogen that he forces a quarrel on posthumus, and they fight. just as posthumus is about to fall under the furious attack of iachimo, philario enters and separates them. iachimo then offers to lay his entire fortune that, within twenty-four hours, he will bring to posthumus the bracelet the latter had given to imogen, as proof that he is her lover. posthumus accepts the wager. in the second act iachimo creeps into imogen's sleeping chamber and steals the bracelet. at the appointed hour posthumus realises that, in one fell swoop, he has lost his fortune and his mistress. from this point the action becomes very obscure, involved, and difficult to follow. somehow or other imogen and posthumus realise the truth; philario mortally wounds iachimo in a duel, and the curtain falls on iachimo apologising handsomely for his shocking behaviour. it will be noted that there is very little shakespeare in this version, but, really, i have given all there is; and were it not that the librettists have carefully said, "d'aprés _cymbeline_ de shakespeare," few people would have noticed it. it is a mystery to me why { } the authors changed the beautiful name of imogen into dinah. i have always associated the name of dinah with coon songs and the kitten in _through the looking-glass_. the first act opens in venice with a canal at the back of the stage. the gondoliers sing a bad mascagni chorus, and flora enters singing in imitation italian style. all flora's part is written in this manner, and unfortunately the composer has chosen a very bad model to imitate--good mascagni is good, but bad is----! the music is in a curious jumble of styles: sometimes italian, sometimes pseudo-modern french, with occasional attempts at wagnerian imitations--missa's constant use of intentional consecutive fifths becomes very wearing after a time. the music in the masked-ball scene is pretty, and the duet in which flora tempts posthumus is melodious, though the situation is rather comic. imogen's song at the opening of the second act is the best number in the piece, and it is followed by a really good bit of pantomime music while she is preparing for bed; but on the entrance of iachimo all becomes vulgar again. in the last act iachimo dies to the tune to which imogen prepared to go to bed; and if anyone, hearing it, should remember where he heard it before, it might raise a quiet smile. the music is admirably suited to the libretto. both are in the worst possible taste, and the words "d'aprés _cymbeline_ de shakespeare" seem rather in the nature of an outrage. still, it is the only opera i can find on the subject, and perhaps on the whole i am glad; a few more _cymbeline_ operas in this style might smash the _entente cordiale_. with the notable exception of the lyric, "hark, hark, the lark," beautifully set to music by +schubert+, very little attention has been paid by important composers to the songs in _cymbeline_. true, more than a dozen composers, dating from to the present day, have set those words, and also the exquisite lyric "fear no more the heat of the sun," but with indifferent success. an interesting story { } of the composition of "hark, hark, the lark," by schubert, is told by the composer's old friend doppler. "returning from a sunday stroll with some friends through the village of währing, he (schubert) saw a friend sitting at a table in the beer-garden of one of the taverns. the friend, when they joined him, had a volume of shakespeare on the table. schubert seized it and began to read; but, before he had turned over many pages, pointed to 'hark, hark, the lark,' and exclaimed, 'such a lovely melody has come into my head, if i had but some music paper.' someone drew a few staves on the back of the bill of fare; and there, amid the hubbub of the beer-garden, that beautiful song, so perfectly fitting the words, so skilful and happy in its accompaniment, came into perfect existence." two other songs probably followed the same evening: the drinking-song from _antony and cleopatra_, marked "währing, july ," and _who is sylvia?_ of the same date--a very good day's work. as for the other settings of these lyrics, +g. a. macfarren's+ part-songs for s.a.t.b. are, as is usual with him, very musicianly but not inspired. { } hamlet _hamlet_ offers great scope for composers to show their virtues and their limitations, and a large number have done so from graun, , to the present day. this is the more curious, as there are fewer references to music in the text or the stage directions than in most of the plays. true, there are many fanfares, ophelia's mad songs, and the gravedigger's song in the last act; but, as a whole, music is kept in a very subordinate position. i can find no trace of contemporary incidental music for this play. i should like to hear a real hamlet tucket. from the text, we know that whenever king claudius drank a cup of rhenish a trumpet and a kettle-drum played a flourish, and a cannon was fired to let the danes know exactly what the king was doing at that time. but, alas! i can find no trace of a real contemporary hamlet fanfare. the versions still in use in this country of ophelia's mad songs and the first gravedigger's song are supposed to be the originals, handed down by aural tradition from mother to daughter, from father to son; but i know something of the wonderful things, transformations, etc., that appear as the result of aural tradition. i have heard zulus singing what the ordinary white visitor to africa is told are native folk-songs; but these i have been able to trace from their sources, though the original composers, messrs moody and sankey, would have some difficulty in recognising their own inspired tunes! it is well known, if a story is repeated from one to the other by a number of people, how strangely the last version varies from the original. if this is so in words, how much more so must it be in music, { } where the varying compass of the voices must be taken into consideration: the singer substituting a high note for a low note that he cannot touch, or _vice versâ_. still, the songs in _hamlet_ may bear a general likeness to the songs sung in the first production. i wonder! of course, an enormous amount of incidental music has been composed for _hamlet_. every producer must have some ghost music, fanfares, a king's march for the play scene, and a funeral march for ophelia. also scene music helps to pass the time during the frequent scene changes that are necessary in this play, and this has been done and re-done by hundreds of composers, orchestrators, arrangers, and hack workers. but this stuff is mostly ephemeral, and at the end of the run or the tour the music goes to the stores in a basket (the remnants that have been collected from the orchestra), and is heard no more; unless, indeed, the stage manager thinks that perhaps the _hamlet_ march would suit a situation in the new modern patriotic play just about to be produced, or, with the assistance of a tam-tam, could be converted into a grand oriental march for the forthcoming production of _ali baba_. on the other hand, several important producers have commissioned celebrated composers to write for them. thus, sir herbert tree asked sir george henschel to do the music for his production, and, what is more, actually allowed it to be played more or less as written. sir frank benson's music was obtained with the scenery and props, prompt books, etc., when he took over the company from bentley, and is rather a hotch-potch. it has been added to from time to time, but it is beyond improvement. the otho stuart-h. b. irving-oscar asche _hamlet_ music was insignificant. +hamilton clark's+ music to sir henry irving's production i cannot find, even at the british museum, but i remember it well as thoroughly sound, effective incidental music, a great help to the play, and never obtrusive. the +henschel+ music was far more complicated. tree produced _hamlet_ at the haymarket in january . the { } prelude is a solemn _largo_ movement, lasting about five minutes, with nothing very distinctive about it. the ghost music is the usual 'cello and bass effect, long _pianissimo_ holding notes (octaves), with plenty of pauses. the cock-crowing imitation on the oboe is most effective. the triple _piano_, high b flat, triplet dropping an octave, gives a most realistic effect. the next number is very important. it is called "danish march," and i take sir george henschel's word for it that it is one. it is very long, and serves to bring the king, queen, and court on and off whenever necessary. the prelude to act ii. is called "ophelia," and is quite conventionally _affettuoso_. the fanfares are all good. there is a prelude to act iii., _allegro impetuoso_, but it has no label, and might suit hamlet or laertes equally well. the prelude to act iv., called "ophelia's death," is a funeral march for muted strings and _timpani_. there is very effective melodrama music while the queen describes ophelia's death, muted strings _pianissimo_, and the clarinets playing broken snatches of the mad songs. the prelude to act v. is a pastorale for full orchestra, and the churchyard music is for solo organ on stage. at the end of the whole play, at the cue "and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest," a female chorus on the stage sings, in three parts, "good-night, sweet prince, good-night," which makes a pretty ending. i gather this was sir herbert tree's idea. in addition to the fine "fantasy overture," which i discuss later as a separate piece of orchestral music, +tschaikowsky+ composed an overture, _entr'actes_, and full incidental music for _hamlet_. it was written for a special production at petrograd, and is much the finest music for the play. the whole is composed for small orchestra, double wood wind, two horns, two trumpets, trombone, and drums, and these limitations seem to have suited tschaikowsky's genius particularly well. the overture is founded on the themes of the "fantasy overture," but is considerably shorter. the ghost music is very { } awe-inspiring and original, very _piano_, deep notes on the trombone and trumpets, combined with strange, eccentric scale passages on the clarinets. the fanfares throughout are particularly fine, the first being an elaborate and long flourish in nine-eight rhythm, scored for the full brass, but, curiously enough, without kettledrums; nor are these used in any of the subsequent fanfares. now, shakespeare in his text makes hamlet say (act i., scene ), "the king doth wake to-night, and takes his rouse, keeps wassail, and the swaggering upspring reels. and, as he drains his draughts of rhenish down, the kettledrum and trumpet thus bray out the triumph of his pledge." and, later (act v., scene ), the king says, "give me the cups; and let the kettle to the trumpet speak, the trumpet to the cannoneer without," etc. now, this seems to me to be a strange omission. it cannot have been done intentionally. perhaps in the russian version the text is altered and the kettledrum missed out. of course, the side-drum is generally used in england, because it is easy to take on the stage, and our managers do not like hiring extra stage kettledrums; but this would scarcely apply to petrograd or moscow. no. is a powerful piece of melodrama music, mostly on the hamlet theme, on the solo bassoon at first, and subsequently taken up by the clarinets, all on their low register: a very sinister number this. no. is another melodrama, very _agitato_, scored for _pizzicato_ strings and bassoon, with a very curious and ominous kettledrum figure, frequently repeated. the _entr'acte_ between acts i. and ii. is marked _allegro semplice_; it is a graceful waltz, very characteristic of the composer, and is obviously meant for ophelia. then comes a strange fanfare for two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, and tamburino: this is long and florid, rather like a street march. no. is a long florid fanfare for two trumpets; the first leading off with the theme, and the second following a bar or so later, in canon style: this is a most interesting fanfare. the _entr'acte_ between acts ii. and iii. is a beautifully melodious movement for strings only, sad, and exquisitely written { } for the instruments. the melodrama music in this act is the same as in the first act. before act iv. is an _élégie_ for strings: one of the most beautiful works of the kind ever written. tschaikowsky has composed several elegies for this combination of instruments, but none better than this. nothing more ideal as preparation for the ophelia scenes could be imagined. next follow ophelia's songs. these are all freshly set by the composer in folk-song manner, accompanied very delicately by the orchestra. before the last act comes the funeral march, very striking, very _funèbre_, very dignified, and very wistful; in all, a perfect piece of elegiac writing, than which nothing more thoroughly in keeping with the spirit of the play could be imagined. it is on the same lines as berlioz's "marche funèbre" in the same situation. the gravedigger's song is newly set, to a lively and very russian-sounding tune, accompanied by full orchestra; but i doubt the wisdom of having orchestral accompaniment either to ophelia's songs or to the grave-digger's single one. a long and florid fanfare for two trumpets accompanies the king's toast to hamlet (without kettledrums). the funeral march is repeated at hamlet's death, and the martial music for fortinbras is in splendid contrast. it is a short, quick movement, only nineteen bars in length, marked _allegro risoluto_, and makes a great end to the play. the music is absolutely worthy of the play, and is a perfect example of what incidental music should be. sir johnston forbes-robertson was wise enough to use nearly all this music in his fine production. he did not adopt tschaikowsky's settings for ophelia's songs or the gravedigger's, but used the so-called traditional ones, and i am sure he was right here. but why, after having played the great funeral march as an _entr'acte_, he did not use it again, as directed by the composer, for hamlet's funeral procession, i can't understand. instead, he used a march by +carl armbruster+, quite good in its way, but very pale after tschaikowsky. still, it was a praise-worthy act of sir johnston to use the large amount of the { } music he did, and he deserves great thanks for only interpolating one number. unfortunately, the music composed by +norman o'neill+ for martin harvey's production of _hamlet_ in is as yet unpublished. mr o'neill wrote the entire score. he had already composed an overture built on the themes on which he draws largely for the incidental music in this production, and he uses the overture itself in its entirety as a prelude to the second act, under the title "prelude, _hamlet_." the prelude for the first act is sombre, quiet, and brooding, with a very curious cuckoo effect at the end, which is repeated in the subsequent ghost music. of course, i do not know the habits of the danish cuckoo, but obviously, according to mr o'neill, he is either a very late or a very early bird. perhaps he is cracking an elizabethan wheeze at the expense of the ghost's widow's unholy marriage. the big processional march for the entrance of the king and court is, curiously enough, not founded on the king's theme, but on hamlet's theme from the overture now used as the prelude to the second act. the scene-change music before ophelia's first scene is founded on "how shall i my true love know?", with varied accompaniment, sometimes simple, sometimes complex, and once as clarinet solo with harp accompaniment. at the cue, "held his wont to walk," there is a fanfare for the clarinet, but, as in most incidental music, no kettledrums. the ghost music in this act is all founded on the hamlet theme. the prelude to act ii. is, as i have said, the overture proper. it begins with the hamlet theme, _allegro maestoso_, very bold and rhythmic, which suddenly breaks off with a _pianissimo_ suggestion of "how shall i my true love know?", which is used as the second subject, and very much developed. these themes are worked out in a complex manner, and there is a curious fanfare effect before the coda, which is marked _grandioso_, in the major key, and is very triumphant. the players come on to perform their tragedy to a pretty little tune, { } quite light and graceful, played on the oboe and clarinet, which has a quaint and interesting effect. before act iii. (the arrangement of the scenes is according to mr harvey's stage version) is an _entr'acte_ entitled "ophelia," founded on her traditional songs; but i wish mr o'neill would use more of his original melodies. an _entr'acte_ entitled "laertes" is a fine, vigorous number. in the last number of all, on the cue "the rest is silence," we have the hamlet theme in the major, with sweeping arpeggios for the harp, a gradual crescendo to a _fortissimo grandioso_ finish to the act. this makes a fine theatrical curtain. +karl heinrich graun+, court musician to frederick the great, composed an overture and incidental music to _hamlet_; but as the only known score is in the court library at berlin, it is impossible, at the time of writing, to get hold of it.[ ] robert browning's abt vogler (+abbé georg joseph vogler+) composed an overture and incidental music for this play for a production at mannheim in . born at würzburg in , he was educated by the jesuits at that town, and soon became a famous musician. he was ordained priest at rome in , but still continued his career as a composer and organ virtuoso. he was a famous teacher also, weber and meyerbeer being his best pupils. some very good incidental music to this play was written by +victorin de joncières+ for alexandre dumas and paul meurice's version. the composer was born in paris in , and entered the paris conservatoire, but left suddenly, as he disagreed with his counterpoint master, leborne (a very conservative musician), concerning { } richard wagner, who had just given his first concert in paris. this work consists of an overture, march, _entr'actes_, and melodramas. it was performed at the grand, nantes, on september , , the composer conducting the orchestra, and the part of hamlet being played by mme. judith, ex-sociétaire of the comédie française. when the play was produced the following year at the gaieté in paris, this excellent music was for some strange reason refused by m. perrier, the producer. the earliest known opera on _hamlet_ is by +francesco gasparini+, and was produced in venice in and in london at the queen's in . the composer was born near lucca in , and was a pupil of archangelo corelli, the celebrated violinist and composer. the libretto is by apostolo zeno, and the work is in three acts. the style is very much like corelli's, florid and melodious. dr burney, the musical historian, who wrote a _general history of music and musicians from the earliest ages to the present period_, has a short account of this opera in the fourth volume of his work. he does not seem to like it. he writes (in ): "_hamlet_, in italian, _ambleto_; written by apostolo zeno, and set for the venetian theatre, , by francesco gasparini, was brought on our stage under the conduct of nicolini, who dedicated the poem to the earl of portland. there is very little resemblance in the conduct of this drama to shakespeare's tragedy of the same name, though both seem to have been drawn from the same source, the danish history of saxo grammaticus. but if zeno is much inferior to our divine shakespeare, in variety of character, knowledge of the human heart, and genius in its most unlimited acceptation, his drama is exempt from all the absurdities and improprieties which critics, insensible to the effects of music, had leisure to find in former operas." so much for the libretto. for the music, there is an overture, ending in a jig; but whether the curtain rises on the last note of this dance for the "rampart" scene, is not shown in the score. dr burney { } seems to like the music even less than the libretto. he writes: "there are few songs, however, in this opera which would please modern judges of music either by their melody or harmony." and on the whole i agree with the doctor. though _hamlet_ has been treated many times operatically, the only setting that is ever performed is that of +ambroise thomas+, in five acts, book by carré and barbier, produced in paris . boito did the libretto for faccio's _hamlet_, produced in genoa , but i cannot get a copy. anyway, boito's libretto would certainly be the best _hamlet_ one ever written. after gasparini comes a whole list of names of _hamlet_ composers, much too tedious to quote, the only interesting name between him and faccio being +domenico scarlatti+, the famous harpsichord player and composer, whose opera was produced in rome, . thomas's prelude is very short, and obviously connected with the supernatural happenings at elsinore. the opening chorus is bright, and all in praise of the king and queen. everyone seems happy until hamlet and ophelia come on, and their first duet opens very sadly. all through this work one gets glimpses of familiar quotations, but there is no close adherence to shakespeare; rather have mm. carré and barbier followed in the paths of shadwell, davenant, and colley cibber. laertes, on his entrance, sings a very stirring patriotic song, and manages to get away without any advice from polonius. the part of polonius is mercilessly cut down to almost nothing. fancy a singing polonius! scene is a very serviceable ghost scene, with the clock striking twelve, fanfares and plenty of _tremolo_; and the operatic version gives a very fair idea of the original scene. act ii. opens with a short prelude on one of ophelia's themes, and then there is a long recitative and aria for her (ophelia). i do not think it would be wise or expedient { } to give an exact analysis of this work, so i will pass over with but few references. act iv. begins with a long and complicated ballet, which is about the changes of weather from which we suffer, and ophelia's "mad scene" comes in the midst of it. the tyranny of the grand-opera ballet is one of the most cramping things that have ever helped to ruin the fine spontaneity of dramatic art. everyone knows how wagner fought against it, and of the final _débâcle_ in paris. wagner, as a sop to the jockey club and napoleon iii., put a ballet in _tannhäuser_, but it was a logical ballet, and in keeping with the general idea of the opera. but because it was performed in the only possible place in the work where it was suitable, the parisians hooted the opera off the stage. so why should not ambroise thomas have put a ballet in _hamlet_? wagner gave way to his producer, but was firm as to where the ballet should come. the ballet ran on from the overture, and there was no question of a superimposed ballet. the paris ballet music, wagner using the _tannhäuser_ melodies with the _tristan_ technique, is one of the most interesting of all wagner's struggles against what he loathed so much. in spite of his giving way to the paris convention, the ballet was a failure, because he would have it in the first act; but it still serves to remind us english people that we are not the only inartistic nation in the world, though we seldom sing pæans in our own praise. a very entertaining innovation of our french adapters is that instead of hamlet telling the players how to act, or in opera how to sing, he calls for wine, and sings a merry drinking song, which probably pleased the performers much more than a free singing lesson or a few tips on elocution. i should very much like to see how wagner would have treated this scene. i feel sure he would have made hamlet tell the singing players to use the italian _bel canto_ production, but, at the same time, to sing the words as if they meant something and were not as unimportant as the perpetual a--a--a of the singing exercises. { } the usual end of the opera differs a little from shakespeare's. the queen, laertes, and polonius live, and hamlet is crowned king of denmark to music very similar to that which is sung in the first act, in praise of claudius and his queen. but there is another ending sometimes played to this opera. it is an ending that ought to make cibber blush! sir alexander mackenzie told me he saw this closing scene in paris. the poor, unimaginative, bourgeois english producer could never rise to such latin heights. here it is:--at the end of the play, ophelia marries hamlet, and the ghost, with full melodrama-musical accompaniment, gives them his blessing. it is a dull thing to be a simple anglo-saxon! one of the most interesting things about this opera is that hamlet is a bass-baritone; very few people would believe this unless they heard the opera, or saw it in black and white in the score. a very interesting opera on this subject is +aristide hignard's+ lyric drama in five acts, book by pierre de garal. the composer finished the score in the well-founded hope of a speedy production, neither he nor his friends knowing that ambroise thomas's work on the same subject was already accepted and being rehearsed at the opéra, paris, which fact upset all his hopes. in this deeply studied work the composer had made an effort to discover a new form, and believed that he had succeeded. the new form consisted in this, says m. hignard in his preface to the score: in the vocal part of his work he interpolates declamation, replacing the recitatives, and fully backed by the orchestra. this procedure, which massenet employed much later in _manon_, was undoubtedly new then, and the honour of inventing it falls distinctly to hignard. the composer was so disappointed at not being first in the field, that even before the production and subsequent success of his colleague's opera he abandoned all hopes of producing his work on the stage in paris, but published the score, not only to make it known but also to prove that it had { } been conceived by him at the same time as his illustrious _confrère's_ opera. after twenty years it saw the light in his native town of nantes, and its success gave some consolation to its composer for his earlier disappointment. clément and larousse, in their account of it, say: "this _hamlet_ is remarkable in more than name. in it one finds much music of a real and high inspiration; in the numbers it is necessary to mention, the platform scenes are treated very dramatically; the beautiful septuor which follows the play scene, and particularly the music that accompanies the funeral of ophelia, when the composer finds music of great pathos, are most suitable. the _entr'actes_, ballets, and character passages make delightful episodes, being full of charm and grace, and very picturesque in colouring. to sum up, it is the work of an artist, always learned, and does great honour to the hand that signed it." grove's _dictionary of music_ does not mention this composer's name, but riemann says he was born in nantes, may , , was a pupil of halévy at the paris conservatoire, composed much music, including several comic operas, and died at vernon in . +franco faccio+ had the inestimable boon of the services of boito as librettist for his _hamlet_ opera. faccio was born , at verona, and at the age of fifteen entered the conservatoire at milan. he and boito fought together in the garibaldian army in - , after the opera had been successfully produced at the teatro carlo felice, genoa, on may , ; it was revived at the scala in , but was a failure. the work is called _amleto_, a lyrical tragedy in four acts. "dubita pur che brillino (sortita d'ophelia)" is a sort of paraphrase of hamlet's letter:-- doubt thou the stars are fire, doubt that the sun doth move, doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt i love. it is quite a beautiful song, very melodious and dramatic, and in a style of its own. ophelia is a high soprano. there { } is a fine drinking song for the king and queen, hamlet, and ophelia, with a chorus of courtiers. after an ironic recitative, mostly addressed to hamlet, the king leads off singing very solemnly and slowly the words "requie ai defunti," and immediately afterwards in a most lively style, "e colmisi d'almo liquor la tazza." then slowly and solemnly again, "oriam per essi," and quickly, "e calice sia vittima ed altar." the song now continues as a very lively bolero, until just before the end of the first verse, when the king sings, solemnly again, "requie ai defunti," and the chorus brings the first verse to a close with shouts for the king. the queen has the next verse just on the same lines as the king's verse. hamlet and ophelia both have serious asides in the next verse, but the chorus does not notice them, and finishes up the number in a fine, reckless operatic way. the second part of the first act opens in a remote part of the castle ramparts. the night is very dark, but the light in the banqueting-hall can be seen in the distance. the opening music is intensely dramatic; the 'cellos are divided into five parts, and while the orchestra in front are playing this most tragic music, one can hear occasionally, beautifully blending with the rest of the score, the lively strains of the king's private band playing in the great dining-hall. dramatically the ghost enters just as the lively music is dominating. hamlet, in an impassioned outburst, calls on the ghost for an explanation; and, beginning very quietly, the ghost works himself up to a tremendous pitch of excitement in telling his story. finally he disappears, and his voice is heard below the stage singing "giurate" ("swear"). hamlet, horatio, and marcellus finish the act singing, _pianissimo_, "de profundis clamavi." this is indeed a fine concerted number, and much the most dramatic in any of the _hamlet_ operas. the famous soliloquy, "essere, o non essere!" ("to be, or not to be!"), is faithfully and dramatically set, a strange 'cello part giving singular point to the words "to die, to sleep." hamlet and ophelia have a very elaborate duet in this act, the former pretending to be mad. the king and queen also have a duet, entitled { } "vieni, compagna," a very pretty, melodious, and light number. the third act opens with the king's prayer; the orchestra plays a long and solemn introduction, and the prayer is beautiful and dignified. the last number is a trio for queen, hamlet, and ghost. hamlet upbraids his mother in bolero rhythm, to which she replies tragically, and then the ghost appears, and the dance rhythm stops suddenly. they sing a grim trio, and the act finishes in a tragic manner. the next number is called "the madness of ophelia." she sings a touching, sad little song, sometimes quite frivolous, but always pathetic, laertes and the king joining in now and again. this is broken in upon by the populace, who have revolted, and wander about singing songs of pillage and sacking. ophelia finishes by laughing quite madly, and hamlet first, and then the king, says "unfortunate one." unluckily, this is the last published number, so one has to guess how the opera ends, as there is no copy of the libretto to be found in the british museum library. mr w. barclay squire, in his contribution to _homage to shakespeare_, says of the work: "it had the advantage of an admirable libretto, in which shakespeare's tragedy was closely followed." hence one concludes that the opera ends more or less in the same way as shakespeare's play. an interesting opera on this subject is +alexandre stadtfeldt's+ lyric drama _hamlet_, book by jules guillaume. the composer, a belgian, was a distinguished pupil of the brussels conservatoire, winning the prix de rome in . as he was unable to produce his opera in his native country, he had the libretto translated into german, and the work was performed with success at bonn in , and subsequently at weimar. _hamlet_, +franz liszt's+ great symphonic poem, was one of the latest of the series, being composed in . it was first performed at sondershausen in . the work is { } planned on a large scale, and is very difficult to perform. so far as i can find out, it is the only shakespearian work of the composer, but it is a very important one. the main key of the work is b minor, and the greater part of it passionate and _agitato_. the prelude opens slowly, sombrely, and _piano_, with occasional sudden _crescendos_ and _sforzatos_, and significant tremolo string passages, marked "stormy" in the score. then comes the principal theme, a quick, passionate subject, given out by the violins, and presently taken up by the rest of the orchestra. this is quickly followed by a strongly marked theme, allotted to the full strings in unison, and these subjects are developed until the ophelia music is heard. this, naturally, is very different from the preceding music, being slow, _piano_, with a violin solo accompanied by _piano_ wood wind. it is soon broken in upon by the hamlet music, first on the bassoons, marked "ironical" in the score, and later repeated by the rest of the wood wind. one fresh theme is introduced, also _agitato_, and this thematic material suffices for the composer. after much excitement and working up, we get a return to the slow opening, followed by an _à funèbre_ episode, founded on the hamlet motive, which finishes the whole movement. the end is very tragic, and the whole a notable and interesting addition to our modern shakespearian music. +tschaikowsky's+ phantasie overture, _hamlet_, is dedicated to edvard grieg. it is really a great work, full of dignity, strength, and beauty. the twelve o'clock effect is curiously given by twelve _sforzato_ semibreves on muted horns, beginning _pianissimo_, and swelling up until the twelfth note is given triple _fortissimo_. the first subject is energetic, obviously for hamlet, with his mind very much made up; but gradually the theme gets more and more undecided and vacillating, and leads to the second theme, ophelia, a beautiful and tender subject given out by the oboe. the whole development is long, complicated, and interesting; towards the end a strange quasi-_funèbre_ theme is given out on the brass and drums, closely followed by a long passage { } for full orchestra, marked triple _fortissimo_, culminating in a chord for the wind marked with five _f_'s. then comes a very solemn and dignified ending, strings muted and everything dying away to a whisper. this work is one of the finest commentaries on the play ever written. +berlioz's+ contributions to _hamlet_ music consist of two numbers: a ballad for two female voices, entitled "la mort d'ophélie," done into english by the rev. j. troutbeck under the title "ophelia"; and a funeral march for the last scene in the play. the words of the ballad are by berlioz, and are a description of ophelia's last hours, her wandering by the brook making fantastic wreaths, with many very ingenious references to shakespeare's scene so beautifully described by the queen in the play. naturally, the music is throughout exquisitely sad, and is beautifully descriptive of ophelia's death. it is not at all difficult to perform, and very melodious; i cannot understand why ladies' choral societies do not take it up. the "marche funèbre" is not in ordinary march form. there are no trios in it; it is all the development of one theme. it begins _pianissimo_ in a minor, and ends _pianissimo_ in the same key. it has a monotonous bass throughout, and berlioz uses all kinds of drums with his usual weird skill. the impression of many men marching slowly and solemnly must be realised by even the most unimaginative hearer, and it is a work that requires no programme. it tells its own story absolutely to anyone who cares to hear it. there is a tremendous _fortissimo_ triumphant effect in the middle, the bass stalking up and down in slow dotted notes, while the rest of the orchestra sustains a slow, heavy melody. after a terrific triple _forte_ effect, there is a dead silence; then a long, deep, sustained note; then occur about twenty bars of the most hopelessly despairing music i have ever heard, and then the drums again take up their dreadful figure; and so the whole march winds to a close. it does not end on any note of hope. there is no thought of a glorious resurrection--all is lost, hopeless, despairing. it { } would make a splendid _entr'acte_ played before the last act of _hamlet_, and would put the audience into exactly the proper state of mind. the march should be oftener used on occasions of national mourning. +edward alexander macdowell+, the best-known american composer, wrote two symphonic poems for orchestra entitled _hamlet_ and _ophelia_. these works are dedicated jointly to henry irving and ellen terry. the composer was born in new york in , but studied mostly in france and germany, afterwards teaching at the conservatoires of darmstadt and wiesbaden. in these two poems there is no attempt to tell any story. the _hamlet_ one is naturally more excited than the _ophelia_; but as there seem to be no ghost, king, or any of the accustomed secondary characters, i presume that the composer means exactly what he says, viz. that the one represents his conception of hamlet, and the other that of ophelia. the result is two excellent, if rather dull, works. the theme for french horn at the beginning of the ophelia poem is the most striking in either of the pieces, and is the only melody that stands out at all. it is also very skilfully developed. +edward german's+ symphonic poem, _hamlet_, dedicated to hans richter, the conductor, was first produced at the birmingham festival of . the composer, in a preface to the printed copy, says: "in this symphonic poem the composer has endeavoured to depict the character of hamlet as stern and relentless, yet in this mood alternately hesitating and impetuous. the influence of this character may be said to dominate the entire work. hamlet's love for ophelia is overpowered by his doubts, his distrust of the queen, and his determination to avenge the murder of his father. his fury reaches its height as he stabs the king. the poison which hamlet has received from the weapon of laertes now begins to take effect, and hence to the end the music is descriptive of the ebbing away of his life." this gives the reader a very fair idea of edward { } german's work. it is planned on a large scale for a large orchestra, and is quite the most important serious work that mr german has given us. it opens with a picture of night, sombre and serious, followed by the inevitable bell tolling twelve. then a short _agitato_ episode leads to a bold theme entitled "hamlet" in the score. shortly afterwards come a very pleading ophelia theme for clarinet and harp, and a fine _pomposo_ march theme for the king. all these are freely worked out, and in the middle of this development occurs a very touching episode called "death of ophelia." mr german, following his own programme, works now for his great climax, the killing of claudius by hamlet, after which the music grows slower and slower and more and more _piano_ till it finally dies away. it is a beautiful and ambitious work, and well worthy of the colossal theme that it is founded upon. it is a great credit to british musicianship, and i only wish it could be heard oftener. i have frequently wished that +grieg+ had composed music for _hamlet_. in several productions i have heard numbers from his _sigurd jörsalfar_ suite, played as _entr'actes_, and sometimes as incidental music, and they always sounded exactly in keeping with the feeling and atmosphere of the play. i have just discovered the reason. his master and fellow-countryman, niels gade, had composed a _hamlet_ overture, and grieg, unlike some of our modern english composers, who freely set poems and stories immortalised by handel, was a very modest man, and left his master alone in the field, to our great loss. some time ago sir frederick bridge unearthed in the pepys library at cambridge a strange setting of the soliloquy "to be, or not to be," for bass voice, viol de gamba, and lute. pepys is supposed to have had the music specially composed for him, but, unfortunately, the composer's name is still unknown. "it is a broad, declamatory { } setting" (says _the times_), "something in the manner adopted by pelham humphrey and blow in their sacred recitatives; and though it does not differ from a great deal of contemporary music, it is as much more effective as it is less pretentious than the strange setting of the same words in thomas's version. there is a vague reference to this in the _diary_: 'dined at home very well, and spent all the afternoon with my wife within doors, and getting a speech out of hamlet, "to be, or not to be," without book.'" [ ] as will be gathered from a similar passage on page and from others that need not be specified, it is clear that christopher wilson, had he been spared, would have filled in various gaps before the publication of his papers in permanent book-form. { } king henry iv there have been several operas composed about this king when he was prince of wales, but only one of them, +mercadante's+ _gioventu di enrico v._, milan, , has any connection with shakespeare's play. verdi's _falstaff_ opera contains some bits from the _henry iv._ plays which i am dealing with under _the merry wives of windsor_. the most important modern work on this subject is "_falstaff_, symphonic study in c minor, with two interludes in a minor, composed by +sir edward elgar+, op. ." the work is dedicated to landon ronald, was composed for the leeds musical festival, and was produced there, the composer conducting, on october , . sir edward, in a foreword, says: "we must dismiss from our minds the falstaff of _the merry wives of windsor_ and turn to the falstaff of _henry iv._, parts one and two." a literary civil servant, maurice morgan, wrote a defence of sir john from the general accusation of cowardice, which has, to some extent, helped the composer's inspiration. this essay was published in , and contains several most interesting passages. in one place, quoted by elgar, he writes: "...a conception, hardly less complex, hardly less wonderful, than that of hamlet"; and again: "he is a character made up by shakespeare entirely of incongruities, a man at once young and old, enterprising and fat, a dupe and a wit, harmless and wicked, meek in principle and resolute by constitution, cowardly in appearance and brave in reality: a knave, a gentleman and a soldier, without either dignity, decency, or honour." this is the complicated character that sir edward sets out to portray in music. { } mr gilbert webb, who made the analytical notes for the performance at the albert hall sunday concerts on december , , divides the work into four parts:--( ) falstaff and prince henry. ( ) eastcheap, gadshill, the boar's head. ( ) falstaff's march. the return through gloucestershire. the new king. the hurried ride to london. ( ) king henry v.'s progress. the repudiation of falstaff and his death--and this seems a very wise division. the work opens with a boisterous theme given out on the bass instruments, depicting the mature falstaff in the height of his fame or infamy, as you will. it would be impossible in my limited space to follow the ramifications of this immensely complicated work. it is a pageant of falstaff's life and death. of the two interludes mentioned in the title, the first is headed in the score, "dream interlude." "jack falstaff, now sir john, a boy and page to thomas mowbray, duke of norfolk." the music here is very quiet, melodious, and graceful. the second interlude represents justice shallow's orchard, and is again very calm and reposeful. there is much fine march music for the king's coronation procession, and the meeting between the king and his old companion is graphically and tragically described. the work ends sadly, the various characteristic themes already used being heard again, but in much sadder mode: mistress quickly's beautiful account of sir john's death (in _henry v._) is very touchingly musicked, and the work closes on a _pianissimo_ chord. it would take a long pamphlet to describe this symphonic poem, and it must be heard and studied often and deeply to be appreciated properly. { } henry viii +john liptrot hatton+, born at margate, wrote an overture and incidental music for _henry viii._, dedicated to mrs charles kean, and performed at the princess's. the overture begins with a slow introduction of a sugary type, followed by a very obvious _allegro_. the themes here are not of much value, and the development does not invest them with any great interest. there is no attempt at character drawing, and the only things standing out in the overture, except its dullness, are a few scale passages for the bells. the first _entr'acte_ is called "a maske-dance," interrupted at intervals by henry's love-song to anne boleyn. the dance part has a strange likeness to a number by edward german, but the trio episodes representing henry's love-making are quite sad and sentimental. the number ends with the dance music. the next section is headed "shakespeare's favourite tune" (lightie love ladies), and old dances, and opens with a bright country dance called "wolsey's wild," followed by another six-eight country dance, "sellinger's round," very graceful, with again a dash of edward german. this is followed by a rather contrapuntal arrangement of the well-known old morris-dance, and the whole movement finishes with "lightie love ladies," said by the publishers and hatton to be "shakespeare's favourite tune." it is a broad, simple melody, flowing in style, and, for all i know, may have been shakespeare's favourite tune; but i cannot trace it in any shakespeare reference book. the next _entr'acte_ is a prelude and air with variations. the air { } and variations, five in number, are made after the fashion of mendelssohn's works in the same form, though simple. there is nothing outstanding about the whole movement. the third and fourth _entr'actes_ are both marches: the first in the minor, the second in the major key. both are good working marches with the regular trios, and call for no comment. the setting of "orpheus with his lute" is interesting. it is written for soprano and contralto; it was first sung by the misses broughton, two celebrated artists. the composer, in the phrasing of the first two lines, actually makes sense of them--a very rare thing to happen to the musician setting these words; but afterwards he falls from grace. with only a fair number of repetitions he gets to the end of the second verse, but then goes back to the first, and finishes at the end of it, utterly failing to see how right fletcher or shakespeare was in concluding with the perfect lines, "killing care and grief of heart, fall asleep or hearing die." sir henry irving showed good judgment in commissioning +edward german+ to write the music for his great revival of _henry viii_. the composer took full advantage of his opportunity, and the music for this play contains certainly the most popular numbers that mr german has ever composed. i need hardly say that i mean the famous "three dances," well known and popular throughout the world. i once heard them in germany, under the extraordinary title of "three german dances from saint saëns's _henry viii._," but they were these three all the same--the morris dance, the shepherd's dance, and the torch dance. they are too familiar to call for any more attention from me, so i will pass on to the rest of the music. the overture is a strong and vigorous work, full of striking themes and ideas. the first subject is just right for the king, bluff and overbearing in style, but full of real strength. the second theme in the relative minor { } is very pathetic, and in strong contrast to the first. then comes a third subject, a very decided march tune, which is used later on in the prelude to act ii. these themes are all well and skilfully developed, and the whole overture finishes brilliantly with a coda on the "henry viii." _motif_, the music getting faster and faster until the end. the prelude to the second act is called "intermezzo funèbre," and the opening is exactly in the manner of a funeral march, while the trio has a very graceful subject. this is beautifully broken in upon by the funeral theme, which finally wins a very unequal battle. for the prelude to act iii. mr german writes a very pretty, graceful movement, quite in his own style, full of melody and good musicianship. the prelude to act iv. is a march in the conventional form, brilliantly scored and most effective from an orchestral point of view; but the ideas do not seem so fresh as those in the remainder of the music, and the whole gives rather a theatrical effect. still, it is a very good march. the prelude to act v. is a "thanksgiving hymn" for the birth of princess, afterwards queen, elizabeth, and is good, stirring patriotic english music; the melodies broad and flowing and the harmonies diatonic--a perfect "thanksgiving hymn," in fact. there is a very delightful trio for three of the queen's ladies (words actually from the play): "orpheus with his lute." this trio, which was dedicated to miss ellen terry, who was playing the queen in this revival, is a beautiful example of the composer's happy knack of fitting music to exquisite words, and adding melody and real vocal part-writing. this number again is very easy to sing, and deserves much greater publicity. on the whole, edward german's music to _henry viii._ is about the most successful modern example of english incidental theatre music. there is, with him, no question of writing down to a theatre audience (generally very unmusical), but a deep knowledge of the play and a very useful knowledge of the stage and how music can help it practically. as performed at the lyceum, { } the music was never preponderating, but was always there and always right at the proper moment; and, of course, the "three dances" are rightly immortal. +sir arthur sullivan's+ "incidental music to _henry viii._" in its published form is much slighter, but i have never heard it in its entirety. much of it is still, unfortunately, in manuscript, but those portions published by metzler are very interesting. the "graceful dance" is still very popular (it seems strange that dances in this piece are always winners), and is frequently played in theatres and restaurants; and the king's song, "youth will have dalliance," is one of the composer's best songs. i really ought not to touch on it here, as shakespeare was not the author of the words, but the song is so much associated with the play that i cannot help myself; and even though shakespeare did not write the words, henry viii. did, and, anyway, he was in the period. that versatile king, poet, and theologian also wrote music, and very beautiful music, to his own lyrics. the opening music in my edition of the score consists of a long fanfare leading up to a not very dignified march, rather recalling happy old savoy days than the shakespeare or shakespeare-fletcher drama. the second theme is also rather of the cheap variety, and the third is reminiscent of rossini; but i am certain that, judging from the high level of excellence shown in the "graceful dance" and "king's song," much very beautiful music is hidden away in manuscript. sullivan's setting of "orpheus with his lute" is one of the most beautiful songs in the english language. it is a very early work of the composer, written long before the rest of his _henry viii._ music. the accompaniment is strangely reminiscent of schubert's _who is sylvia?_ +macfarren's+ part-song to the same words is also beautiful, and gives the words their real meaning when properly sung and phrased. the lyric is difficult to set, and when set difficult to sing. most singers give one the idea that { } orpheus made trees with his lute. it is not always the singer's fault, as several composers give this effect. the blame is also a little with shakespeare or fletcher for separating the word "trees" so far from the word "bow." since writing the above, i hear, on the best authority, that of the late dr f. j. furnivall, that fletcher undoubtedly wrote the lyric: so to him is due the blame of misleading simple composers. { } julius cÆsar mr barclay squire, in his contribution to the _book of homage to shakespeare_, , entitled "shakespearian operas," says concerning julius cæsar: "there are innumerable operas, mostly of the eighteenth century, on julius cæsar, as to which riemann and clément and larousse may be consulted; but it is very doubtful whether any of them are founded on shakespeare." i myself went through handel's opera on the subject, but when i discovered that cleopatra had an important part in the work i put it on one side: i always funk trying to connect a cæsar and cleopatra opera with the shakespeare play. perhaps handel was merely anticipating bernard shaw's brilliant _cæsar and cleopatra_, but, any way, handel was not dreaming of shakespeare's work. _a list of songs and passages in shakespeare which have been set to music_, compiled by greenhill, harrison, and f. j. furnivall, does not give one line which has been treated musically. of incidental music very little remains; schumann's overture i treat of later, and von bülow's i cannot find in the museum library or anywhere else; but +raymond rôze's+ orchestral suite, _julius cæsar_, based on the music he composed for sir herbert tree's revival at his majesty's on january , , is published and easily obtainable. the overture commences with cæsar's "march motive," and here is shown an absolute freedom from wardour street roman music: it is quite as modern as mr rôze { } could be. the next episode appears to be the conspirators' music; it is _agitato_, but of a curious mendelssohnian simplicity, and leads to a naïve wagnerian theme, in which the characteristic slow turn is used with great effect. this runs into the cæsar march theme _pianissimo_, with harp effects, leading up to a brilliant coda on the cæsar _motif_, with a moving bass and full orchestral effects for the close. the prelude to act ii. is a very emotional piece of music, sometimes dramatic, often melodramatic, but always exciting and comfortably away from any thought of the historic period. the prelude to act iii. opens with a fine broad theme for the brass, much of which, curiously enough, might possibly have been played on trumpets of cæsar's time. after this, mr rôze naturally takes a rest from his museum researches, and the rest of the prelude is quite innocent of anything that would remind a roman centurion, if he came to life now, of his past existence: it is most modern in the manner, and professor ebenezer prout, had mr rôze shown him the score, would probably have told him to "run away and try to be a better boy." still, there are excellent points in this music, and i wish that more of it were published. +robert schumann's+ _julius cæsar_ overture, op. , is a fine example of the composer's sonorous and sombre style. any musician on hearing it could guess the composer's name at first shot, but i defy anyone to guess its title. there is no attempt at ancient roman effects, the style being much the same as that of his _manfred_ overture, written some years earlier. it opens in the minor key with a strongly marked theme, rather in the nature of a fanfare; this is followed by a very beautiful schumannesque syncopated passage. the second subject, for the horns, is again highly characteristic of the composer; the whole work finishes very brilliantly in the major. i cannot see any connection between this work and shakespeare's play, the overture having quite a happy { } ending; but perhaps it represents an early phase in cæsar's life before he met too many "lean and hungry" men. the whole piece is most effective on the orchestra, in schumann's own particular way, which i like, but most modern critics heartily dislike. it is very seldom performed, but i should much like to hear it in front of a production of the play. { } king lear very few composers have had the temerity to lay hands on _king lear_. with the notable exception of berlioz, no composer of the first rank seems to have touched it. at one time verdi thought very seriously of making it the subject of an opera, and it is much to be regretted that the project was never carried out. with boito as librettist, what a work verdi might have turned out in his golden old age! +berlioz+ began his _roi lear_ overture at nice while he was holding the grand prix de rome, but was stopped by the king of sardinia's police as a spy. the composer's habit of writing music without a piano did not please them at all; so he was sent for and interrogated by the chief of the secret police. "you wander about with a book in your hands; are you making plans?" "yes, the plan of an overture to _king lear_." "who is this king lear?" "a wretched old english king," etc. "you cannot possibly compose wandering about the beach with only a pencil and paper and no piano; so tell me where you wish to go, and your passports shall be made out." "then i will go back to rome, and, by your leave, continue to compose without a piano." berlioz finished the overture in may , but it was years before it made any success, and it has never been popular in france. some years afterwards berlioz was invited to conduct a { } concert of his works at löwenberg for the prince of hohenzollern-hechingen. at the rehearsal the orchestra played the score "with such spirit, smoothness, and precision that i said to myself in amazement, not having heard the piece for ten or twelve years, 'it is tremendous; can i really have written it?'" i am quoting from berlioz's autobiography. the overture begins _andante_ with a bold theme for basses, and the whole of the opening is composed in a much more simple manner than one is accustomed to expect from berlioz. a beautiful cantabile theme soon appears on the oboe, the opening is repeated _fortissimo_, and then comes the real berlioz. this episode is fiery and _agitato_, leading on to the beautiful cordelia music. the rest of the work is very long and complicated, but no new melodies are introduced. there are no labels; each hearer must read his own meaning into it; but by keeping the idea of lear in one's mind it is not difficult to get a very shrewd notion of what the composer is driving at. +konradin kreutzer+ composed an opera on this tragedy entitled _cordelia_. it is in one act, the libretto by p. wolff. it was first produced at donaueschingen in . the composer was born at baden in , and was a prolific writer. the only number i can find is the overture, which is an ordinary straightforward composition, that suggests cordelia just as much as it would julius cæsar or charlie chaplin; i cannot understand why such music should ever be written. in the _athenæum_ of june , , occurs the following passage:-- "according to _le ménestrel_, a complete libretto of _king lear_ in +verdi's+ handwriting has been discovered among his papers. this confirms the report that he had intended to write an opera on the subject." _antonio bazzini_, the eminent violinist, composed a fine concert overture to _king lear_, which was performed { } twice at the crystal palace--in and . it is really more of a symphonic poem than an overture, but it has no definite programme. most of the work is very sombre and grim, as befitting its title. i have rarely seen a more restless work from the point of view of _tempo_, and its tonality is constantly changing. it is not in the least the kind of work one would expect from the composer of the popular "ronde des lutins" for violin, which is the only piece of his generally known here; but bazzini was really a serious-minded composer, and was professor of composition in, and subsequently director of, the famous conservatoire of milan. this overture is one of his mature works, and, though the themes are obviously of italian origin, the development of them shows signs of german influence. the whole work is very interesting and uncommon. +felix weingartner+, whose symphonic poem _king lear_ is, after berlioz's overture, the most important work on this subject, was born at zara (dalmatia) in , and is one of the most distinguished of living conductors. the score was published in , and performed in england at the london musical festival on may , . the composer, in his own account of the work, says that it is not to be regarded as depicting the march of events as they occur in the drama (after the manner of programme music), its form being designed rather on the lines of early examples of the overture. the poem opens with a broad _fortissimo_ theme, showing the king in his pomp and state. this is followed by a crawling theme, signifying the malignant attitude of many at the court. these two subjects struggle together, with a third, the love theme, hovering over all. the _motif_ of the king in his glory is repeated, but this time the evil influence music gets the better of it. a beautiful theme follows--cordelia; but the king does not understand it, and soon lear curses his daughter in a fine dramatic passage. this section is succeeded by a terrific storm, with thunder and lightning; the king's theme is { } played in a wildly contorted form to show that he has become mad. the beautiful cordelia music now comes to comfort him, and the two are reconciled, but their happiness does not last long. the work ends most tragically. the whole is a very reverent and masterly attempt on the part of a first-rate musician to set down in musical notation the effect of this stupendous tragedy on a finely-balanced brain. { } macbeth of the tragedies, _macbeth_, for some strange reason, is more associated with incidental music than any of the others. "the celebrated music introduced into the tragedy of _macbeth_, commonly attributed to +matthew locke+," as novello describes it in his edition, is associated in the minds of a great number of people with shakespeare's play. i have known the work since i was a child. it used to be very popular at village and school breaking-up concerts. i never could understand its village popularity, but i know boys liked some of the strong words in it, and sang them with great gusto. it was sung in nearly all stage productions until about twenty years ago, and is very much missed by local choristers when not performed with the piece on tour. i remember how very disappointed the local chorus-master was to find that sir frank benson was not using it in his later years. the chorus-master thought its absence would spoil the whole play. i have been through the text of davenant's version, to which locke wrote the music, and can discover only four consecutive lines and some odd words of shakespeare's in the whole work. how it persisted through all those years is a great mystery. the music is not even interesting. the four lines immortalised are:-- black spirits and white, red spirits and gray, mingle, mingle, mingle, mingle, you that mingle may. for many years this music was falsely attributed to purcell, but musical historians have finally cleared purcell of all { } connection with it; though long ago he got even with locke by writing an elegy on his death. daniel purcell, uncle of henry, also wrote some _macbeth_ music. +john eccles+ wrote music for a revival at drury lane in ; and +richard leveridge+, composer of "the roast beef of old england" (a song which should be popular if revived now) and "all in the downs," also wrote music for the second act in . to come to more modern times, +sullivan's+ music is perhaps the best. composed for sir henry irving's great production at the lyceum, it was an instant success. the overture, a very elaborate work, is often done on concert platforms. the whole of the music is most effective, and perfectly suited to the play. subsequently, sir henry gave readings of the play on tour with ellen terry, for which they travelled a full band of sixty performers for sullivan's music. +michael balling+, one time musical director for sir frank benson, and subsequently for cosima wagner at bayreuth, where he conducted _the ring_ and _parsival_, composed some very clever music for his old chief's production, very modern in feeling and permeated with scottish atmosphere: the witch music being very grim and mysterious, and in the cauldron scene very clearly bringing in a suggestion of locke's "mingle, mingle." the banquet music (strings only) is bagpipey, and the marches for macbeth and macduff are stirring and in strong contrast, while there is fine battle music for the close. unfortunately, he wrote no overture or _entr'actes_. several operas have been founded on this theme, the most notable being +verdi's+ _macbetto_, produced on march , , at the pergola, florence. unfortunately, verdi was not so lucky in his librettist as he was in the cases of { } _otello_ and _falstaff_, when he had the invaluable assistance of arrigo boito, perhaps the greatest librettist who ever lived, with the exception of wagner. piave's book is not very inspiring. the opera was never a success. verdi could not see macbeth as a tenor, and bravely made him a dramatic baritone. the italian could not understand a grand opera in which the hero was not a tenor; and the only tenor, macduff, comes on late in the evening. it is a great pity, as there is much fine music in the work, though very little of shakespeare's _macbeth_ gets through. the very italian singing and dancing witches seem out of place on a blasted heath, and the ballet of scottish retainers savours of a warmer clime than that of the north of scotland. still, the work should be revived. +hippolyte andré jean baptiste chelard+ was born in paris in , and subsequently won the grand prix de rome. he was one of those frenchmen, like berlioz later, whose music was thought little of in paris but was much admired in munich and london. the adaptation of this play for the french lyric stage was not suitable, especially at the opera house, where the action and words are the most important things to the public; and chelard found that his harmonies, simple enough to our modern ears, were too complex for the parisian audience. he left paris and went to munich, where he revised the whole opera most carefully, and made a great success of it; the result being that he became court capellmeister and dedicated the score to the bavarian king, his patron. the rest of his life he divided between failure in paris and success abroad, again very like his so much greater compatriot, hector berlioz. in this opera, for the first time, so far as i know, the witches are given names--elsie, nona, and groem. i think the last a good name for a witch, but i should not dream of calling shakespeare's first or second witch elsie or nona. i don't think rouget de lisle, the librettist, better known as the poet and composer of the "marseillaise," ought to have done this. the opera is in three acts, and opens with the { } conventional overture of the period--as composed by second-rate musicians, quite harmless; but one expects something more from a _macbeth_ overture. the witches have some effective trios, some of them unaccompanied; and one of their motives was used by liszt, who knew chelard at weimar, and taken from liszt by wagner for use in the _walküre_. it comes quite as a surprise in its original place in this _macbeth_. _macbeth's_ march is fine and sombre, and the ballet music is quite exciting. one number is marked _tempo d' inglese_, though why a franco-scottish dance, produced in germany, should be in english time i cannot understand. the choruses are broadly written, and the music, though mostly very florid, is often dramatic. there is a tremendously difficult and florid song for mezzo-soprano in the third act for a character called moina, a friend of lady macbeth, and the prelude to this act is a long duet-cadenza for harp and flute. it has nothing to do with the plot, and must have been put in to please two friends who were excellent players or had valuable patrons. the librettist does not stick too closely to shakespeare's story; in fact, he gives duncan a daughter, the moina just mentioned, and introduces the sleep-walking scene before duncan's death. when the opera was performed in london in , mme. schroeder-devrient, for so long wagner's favourite singer, actress, and companion, sang the part of lady macbeth. an amusing story is told of chelard's _macbeth_ by fitzgerald, tenderer into english verse of the _rubáiyát of omar khayyám_. in one of his letters to the celebrated actress, fanny kemble, niece of john philip of that name, he writes: "you may know there is a french opera of _macbeth_, by chelard. this was being played at the dublin theatre--viardot, i think, the heroine. however that may be, the curtain drew up for the sleep-walking scene; doctor and nurse were there, while a long mysterious symphony went on--till a voice from the gallery called out to the leader of the band, levey--'whist, lavy, my dear--tell us now--is it a boy or a girl?'" { } surely the world's operatic tragedy is that +beethoven+ never completed his _macbeth_. he composed sketches for an overture and chorus to libretto by j. von collin, who also, as we have seen, wrote the play _coriolan_, which inspired one of beethoven's greatest overtures. +wilhelm taubert's+ opera _macbeth_ was produced in berlin in , libretto by f. eggers. it is in five acts, and begins with an overture in scoto-german style. the curtain rises on the blasted heath, the three witches, two sopranos and one alto, singing in a very spirited manner. macbeth enters, and the music closely follows the original plot. the second scene is in macbeth's castle at inverness, lady macbeth being discovered alone, having received her husband's letter. this is really very dramatic music; and when a servant announces that duncan is coming that very night, taubert gives one a fine thrill. duncan enters and is heartily cheered by macbeth's retainers, and all exit save macbeth and his lady, who soon make arrangements for king duncan's long sleep. the act ends _pianissimo_ in a sombre manner. in the second act there is much festal music, a great procession of bards playing harps, and much singing of "hail, macbeth, hail!" now comes a scoto-german characteristic dance, towards the end of which macbeth hears from the murderer that banquo is dead, but that his son has escaped. the music gets louder and wilder at the end of this dialogue, and the dance finishes with great abandon. macbeth summons his guests to the banquet, and macduff (tenor), with harp, sings a song in praise of scotland and macbeth, the chorus joining in heartily. at the end of the song banquo's ghost appears and spoils macbeth's party. this act also ends _piano_, lady macbeth taking a very remorseful macbeth to have a nice quiet rest. the third act takes place in the witches' cave. hecate (tenor) and chorus are with the witches. macbeth enters and is told about birnam wood. the music here is very impressive. the witches raise up the ghosts of the eight { } kings, and they pass macbeth to a sort of funeral march; this also is very striking. the scene ends with a terrific hubbub, which gradually dies away, the curtain rising on birnam wood and a male chorus singing "o scotland, poor fatherland, how has fate treated you!" it is a very sentimental bit of work, and must often draw tears; but i don't think real scotsmen would be caring about it. after this sad opening we are prepared for macduff's entrance. he is full of the news of the murder of his wife and children, and is very vocal about it. the chorus sympathise, and the act closes by malcolm, fleance, macduff, and male chorus vowing vengeance on macbeth. the third act begins with the sleep-walking scene. the doctor and lady-in-waiting are there, and presently lady macbeth enters, and, keeping closely to the original text, the act finishes again _pianissimo_. the scene of the last act is in a chamber near dunsinane. a harper sings a good imitation of a scottish song, and then the wood of birnam seems to move nearer and nearer. lady macbeth appears in the last scene of all, and sings a very dramatic aria, welcoming the advent of the birnam wood, and firmly believing in the immortality of macbeth; but macduff kills him, and all he says to his wife is "farewell, my wife, eternal sleep is welcome." the witches make a short appearance here, singing "he had the crown, we have the king," and malcolm is crowned; and the chorus spread themselves, hailing their new king. by this time they must have become accustomed to hailing new kings. already they have sung in praise of duncan and macbeth, and now, quite easily, they adapt their vocal transports to malcolm, and are very scoto-germanic in their efforts. still, the opera has very good points, and should not die. the latest opera on this subject is the gigantic lyric drama in a prologue and three acts, each act having two scenes, by +ernest bloch+, poem by edmond fleg, after shakespeare. this work was produced at the opéra comique, paris, { } , under the direction of albert carré. i can find nothing about the composer in any dictionary of music, but, judging from the score, he is a modern of moderns. the work is planned on an heroic scale, and is appallingly difficult to perform, the time and key changing, sometimes every bar, during long passages: moreover, the composer seems very fond of putting in an odd five-four bar unexpectedly. the opera opens with a prelude, depicting the blasted heath, and the witches enter one by one. they are, severally, soprano, mezzo, and contralto. during their trio distant drums and muted trumpet are heard announcing the near presence of macbeth, banquo, and the army. they gradually get nearer, and finally, with a burst of grim, significant music, the mortals enter to three horrible chords and a sinister figure in the bass. at the words, "glamis, and thane of cawdor! the greatest is behind," the orchestra plays a solemn theme curiously reminiscent of the valhalla _motif_ in wagner's _ring_. so ends the prologue; the orchestra conveys one to macbeth's castle, and the curtain rises just as he has finished telling lady macbeth about his interview with the three witches on the heath. this ingenious device saves the time generally used in the latter scene, and also saves the audience hearing macbeth's account of his meeting with the witches, which they have already heard. further, it allows macbeth to be present when the servant announces the advent of king duncan, which makes a strong dramatic point, and is admirably emphasised by the fine duncan theme ringing out in the brass. it would take hundreds of pages to explain in detail this enormous and complicated work, so i will just touch on a few points of outstanding interest. duncan's entrance is finely managed, and his dignified thanks and praise of macbeth and his lady are calmly and peacefully set, in great contrast to all that has gone before. in the duet (macbeth and lady macbeth) which follows, the composer emphasises the scorn of the lady for her undecided husband, and the passage, "i have nourished children at my breast, and i know it is sweet," has a { } concentrated bitterness in it that is not often found in music. a very elaborate and beautiful orchestral scene-change interlude, founded on the duncan theme, quiet and very calm, brings us to a court in macbeth's castle. it is moonlight, and all is still until macbeth begins the dagger soliloquy, which is set with great force. the porter's song is very elaborate, and the composer has an explanation, in a footnote to the score, in which he says: "the character of the song of the porter is this:--the porter is drunk. he really hears the knocking. he listens, but his troubled brain confuses reality and fiction, and the hammering blows awaken in him the memory of a familiar song. in each verse you get a suggestion of this old song, and only at the last verse he realises that he must open the door." the situation is held with great intensity. the song is long; there are three verses, each richly varied, and i should think it is one of the most difficult songs to sing ever written. a great _ensemble_ number, for principals and chorus, very dramatic and brilliantly written technically, nearly finishes the act; but by a happy device the crowd rush into the king's chamber, leaving the stage empty save for an old man. the music fades away, the great bell continues to toll, and the ancient sings, very quietly, "i can recall all that has happened for seventy years; i have seen terrible hours and strange things, but i have never seen a night comparable to this night." (i translate roughly.) curtain falls slowly. the second act opens in macbeth's castle, himself as king. the opening orchestral introduction is very regal, but macbeth's subsequent soliloquy shows how doubtful he is of himself. a fine series of fanfares brings on lennox and his followers to the banquet. the music for the appearance of banquo is most suggestive; in fact, in suiting the music to the words or situation bloch is never at fault. the last witch scene, with the procession of kings, is awe-inspiring, as is lady macbeth's sleep-walking scene and macbeth's "to-morrow and to-morrow" monologue. the tragic feeling never ceases until the very death of macbeth, when the curtain falls slowly. { } this is, i know, a very inadequate description of a most tragic opera, but i have no more space. there are no separate numbers, save the porter's song, which could be detached from the rest of the work. the opera must be taken as an entity or not at all. there are no attempts at sustained, beautiful melody; everything is sacrificed to the drama. there are no effective bits from a singer's point of view, and mr arthur godfrey would have some difficulty in writing a really popular selection founded on this work. for a perfect performance, wonderful acting, singing, orchestral playing, and _mise-en-scène_ are absolutely essential. it requires months of the most careful rehearsal, but the result would justify all the time and labour spent over it. it should be a great privilege to take the smallest part in a performance of such a stupendous tragedy. it is the general custom of amateurs to sneer at +spohr+. true, he was the finest classical violinist of his time, but that cannot account for the general abuse from which he suffers: there must be something else. the something else seems to me to be the curious foresight he had with regard to richard wagner's works. when no one, save liszt, would hear them or of them, dear old-fashioned classical spohr risked his whole reputation to produce operas by this young art--and practical--revolutionary at his theatre at cassel. there was something very splendid about him. among the enormous quantity of music he has written there is one overture, "macbeth," to which i wish to draw attention; it is short, it is conventional, but there is a lot of the real feeling of _macbeth_ in it. i don't say for an instant that this is an epic, but it is a very excellent piece of work and quite worthy of the great man, if not great composer, who devised it. in some editions of +robert schumann's+ pianoforte works the "novelette," op. , no. , is headed with these words from _macbeth_: "when shall we three meet again?" they certainly fit in with the first phrase of the movement, { } and the whole sounds very like a witches' dance, but there is no mention of the words in peters' edition. i hope it is true, as that gives us another piece of schumann's shakespearian music in addition to the _julius cæsar_ overture and the last clown's song from _twelfth night_. +raff's+ "macbeth" overture is quite one of his most successful works. it opens with a dance of the witches, mostly for flute and piccolo at first, but getting very wild later; then there is a sort of dialogue between macbeth (wood wind and horns) and witches (their own dance). these themes are developed with considerable skill, and a new one (lady macbeth) is added, as are some odd little bits of a sort of scottish character. there is fine fight-music near the end, and the final triumph of macduff is celebrated with a very cheerful noise. this overture would make an admirable opening for an elaborate stage performance of _macbeth_. +henry hugo pierson+ was an english composer, born at oxford, , but is still unknown to the majority of his fellow-countrymen. after leaving cambridge he studied in germany, where he became very intimate with mendelssohn. meyerbeer, spohr, and schumann were all his friends and admirers; and in he succeeded sir henry bishop as professor of music at edinburgh, but very soon resigned, and settled down in germany, marrying a german literary lady, caroline leonhardt. the inordinate mendelssohn-worship of his day rendered england a difficult home for a modern english composer: so he changed the spelling of his name from pearson to pierson, settled down in his adopted country, and died at leipsic, january , . his symphonic poem, "macbeth," op. , was once performed at the crystal palace concerts, but has been very thoroughly neglected since. it is real modern programme music, and scored for a very large orchestra, including a solo part for the cornet-à-pistons and a military drum. the symphonic poem opens at act ii., scene , and is headed { } with the words, "hours dreadful and strange things." the music is very slow and mysterious, but works up to a climax on the words of the witches, "fair is foul and foul is fair." then comes, very _piano_, "the march of the scottish army"--a most characteristic piece, the tune on the high wood wind, drones on the bassoons, and great use made of the military drum. this works up to a tremendous _fortissimo_, and dies away mysteriously before banquo's words:-- what are these, so withered and so wild in their attire, that look not like th' inhabitants o' th' earth, and yet are on't? a curious and interesting effect is here made by the tenor trombone, clarinet, and cornet taking the parts of the three witches, and playing the themes that fit what the witches are supposed to speak. i mean the three "all hail" speeches. the orchestration is full of sinister mystery here; but, on macbeth's words, "two truths are told as happy prologue to the swelling act of the imperial theme," the music becomes, for a time, triumphant, though very wild, and breaks off suddenly for a lady macbeth scene. she is reading macbeth's letter, and these words are printed in the score: "this have i thought good to deliver thee. lay it to thy heart, and fare thee well." the subjects here used are the witches' prophetic theme and a passionate lady macbeth one. all the music in this section is highly emotional, dramatic, and brilliantly clever. on macbeth's words, "if it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly," a gruesome little passage for strings and bassoons heralds the king's feast music, consisting of curious disjointed wood-wind passages, till macbeth's words, "is this a dagger which i see before me?", when the music seems to drive him to the murder. after the words, "hear it not, duncan; for it is a knell that summons thee to heaven or to hell," there are two intensely dramatic bars; and then, _pianissimo_, is heard the witches' prophetic _motif_ on the cornet and horn--a fine { } bit of musical word-painting. now comes the longest episode in the work, a magnificent witches' dance, the composer employing nearly every resource of the modern orchestra. then, in the distance, is heard the march of the english army, very stirring and martial. at the end of this passage, macbeth says: "it's ripe for shaking, and the powers above put on their instruments." here a great stirring is made in the orchestra, and a cry (violin solo) is heard:-- _macbeth_: wherefore was that cry? _seyton_: the queen, my lord, is dead. very piteous and poignant music is used in this passage, broken in upon by the strains of battle. at the words, "blow, wind, come, wrack! at least we'll die with harness on our back," the music dies down for the familiar dialogue between macbeth and macduff concerning the gynæcological manner of the latter's birth, and a few more bars of fight music finish off the former. the sound dies down. the prophetic theme is heard very faintly on the trombone and finally on the horn; the music gets softer and slower, and so fades away. i have written at special length about this composer, because it seems so strange that an english musician, a harrow and cambridge man, and a pupil of attwood and corfe, should have been so much in advance of his time and especially of his country. born, as we saw, in , he was only six years younger than mendelssohn, and forty years old when sir henry bishop died. he was four years younger than liszt, and doubtless got the general idea of the symphonic poem form, or want of form, from the elder master. he was two years younger than wagner, yet his earlier compositions are far in advance, musically, of wagner's early work. it seems deplorable that this remarkable english composer should be so utterly ignored by his countrymen. +richard strauss's+ magnificent symphonic poem on this theme must take a very high place in the musical { } commentary on _macbeth_. it is scored for the largest possible orchestra, and every known musical device in orchestration or harmony is to be found in this enormous and complicated score. the poem begins sombrely, but almost at once there breaks in a short fanfare, which occurs repeatedly throughout the work. immediately after the fanfare the first subject is announced on the brass, and the whole work gets going. strauss prints a short speech of lady macbeth's beginning, "hie thee hither, that i may pour my spirits in thine ear; and chastise with the valour of my tongue all that impedes thee from the golden round." in the score the music here is marked "wildly _appassionato_," though _pianissimo_ (strauss here uses the device of _tremolo_ strings playing on the bridge with great effect). afterwards he introduces a long, broad, and very beautiful theme, the sort of theme which his detractors are always challenging him to write, and which he is always writing. strauss gives no definite programme in his score, and it is up to anyone hearing it to make his own; but one could not go very far wrong. there is no need to describe the various developments, thematic and harmonic, which take place in the themes before the end of this work. it is long. ninety pages of closely printed full score take some time to play, and a longer time to describe in detail: so i content myself with saying that anyone can get a fine, convincing picture of the life and death of macbeth by hearing this work and not bothering whether a certain theme means duncan, bloody child, bleeding sergeant, macbeth, or lady macbeth. { } measure for measure +wagner's+ one known contribution to shakespearian music is his two-act opera, _das liebesverbot_, founded on _measure for measure_, and not, as so many people think, on _love's labour's lost_. it is his second complete opera, and, for reasons i will explain later, was only once performed; now, seeing that the composer, according to some authorities, apparently destroyed all of it except a couple of numbers, it may never be done again. wagner planned the libretto during the summer of , while on holiday at teplitz. he had lately heard auber's _masaniello_ at leipsic, and was astonished at the effect of the striking scenes and rapid action of this opera. could he not improve on auber's music and produce an opera in which the action should be equally swift? he took _measure for measure_, changed the scene from vienna to sicily, "where a german governor, aghast at the incomprehensible laziness of its populace, attempts to carry out a puritanical reform and lamentably fails." (the words in quotation marks are taken from wagner's article on this opera in volume vii. of his prose works, as with the other quotations that follow.) the score of the opera was finished while the composer was musical director at the town theatre of magdeburg, during the winter of - . wagner had the right to claim a benefit performance, and, having an excellent troupe of singers at his disposal, decided to produce his opera at this benefit. "in spite of a royal subsidy and the intervention of a theatre committee, our worthy director was in a perennial state of bankruptcy," says wagner, "and before the end of the season the most popular member of { } the company, in spite of the unpunctuality of the payment of their salaries and the offer of better engagements elsewhere." wagner modestly says: "it was only through my being a favourite with the whole opera company that i induced the singers not merely to stay until the end of march, but also to undertake the study of my opera, most exhausting in view of the briefness of the time." he only had ten days for all the various rehearsals. he says: "notwithstanding that it had been quite impossible to drive them into a little conscious settledness of memory, i finally reckoned on a miracle to be wrought by my own acquired dexterity as conductor." this does not bear out the general opinion held in london as to wagner's conducting. during his season as conductor of the philharmonic in , he had very severe opposition with which to contend, especially that of the musical critics chorley and davison (the _athenæum_ and the _times_); but i should think wagner was a pretty useful conductor, to judge from his article about conducting. wagner kept the company together at rehearsal by singing all their parts and shouting the necessary action, forgetting that this could not be done at the public performance. at the general rehearsal wagner's conducting, gesticulation, shouting, and prompting kept things together, but at the performance, before a crowded house, there was utter chaos. unfortunately, wagner had allowed the manager, herr bethmann, to have the receipts of the _première_ as his benefit; and at the second performance, wagner's benefit, there were few in the audience, and a free fight, amusingly described by him, was waged behind the scenes. it takes wagner six pages of closely printed prose to give a _résumé_ of the plot, and it would be impossible in my present space to do more than comment on some of the changes. the duke, who is the most indefatigable talker in shakespeare's play, becomes a king, who never even appears. angelo becomes a german governor, who tries to foist german puritanism on the hot-blooded sicilians. there is no moated grange for mariana, who in wagner's version is { } a fellow-novice of isabella. neither king nor duke ever appearing, isabella marries lucio--a strange alteration to make. isabella, to save her brother claudio, arranges an appointment with the german governor at the carnival (wagner's idea), and sends mariana instead. they are discovered, and the governor expects to be executed for his ill-treatment of mariana, when news is heard of the king's arrival in harbour. in wagner's words, "everyone decides to go in full carnival attire to greet the beloved prince, who surely will be pleased to see how ill the sour puritanism of the germans becomes the heat of sicily. the word goes round! gay festivals delight him more than all the gloomy edicts. frederick, with his newly married wife mariana, has to head the procession; the novice, isabella, lost to the cloister for ever, makes the second pair with lucio." this is wagner's ending, and anyone who knows the original text can get a fair idea of his alterations. with the few, but very important, exceptions i have mentioned, he sticks fairly closely to shakespeare's text. in regard to the troubles concerning the production, much has been amusingly written by wagner. the police took offence at the title "forbidden love." the production was for the last week before easter, when only serious pieces were performed. wagner assured the magistrate that it was founded on a serious play by shakespeare, and, not having read further than the title, the official passed the opera on condition that the title was changed to _the novice of palermo_. wagner says: "in the magdeburg performance, remarkably enough, i had nothing at all to suffer from the dubious character of my opera text; the story remained utterly unknown to the audience, on account of its thoroughly vague representation." of his benefit performance the composer says: "whether a few seats were filled at the commencement of the overture i can scarcely judge. about a quarter of an hour earlier the only people i could see in the stalls were my landlady and her husband, and, strange to say, a polish jew in full costume! i was hoping for an increase in the audience { } notwithstanding, when suddenly the most unheard-of scenes took place in the wings. the husband of my primadonna (isabella) had fallen upon the second tenor, a very pretty young man, who sang my 'claudio,' and against whom the offended husband had long nursed a secret grudge. it seems that having convinced himself of the nature of the audience when he accompanied me to the curtain, the lady's husband deemed the longed-for hour arrived for taking vengeance on his wife's admirer without damage to the theatrical enterprise. claudio was so badly cuffed and beaten by him that the unhappy wretch had to escape to the cloak-room with bleeding face. isabella was told of it, rushed in despair at her raging husband, and received such blows from him that she fell into convulsions." there was a general free fight, all the company paying off old scores. the principals were unable to proceed with the performance, the manager made the usual speech about unforeseen obstacles, and the performance did not take place. this is the correct account of the exciting second and last performance, told almost in wagner's own words, of the composer's only shakespearian opera. of the music, grove says the score is in the possession of the king of bavaria at munich. in the british museum there is a copy of a carnival song and chorus, very bright and spirited, but with no trace of the later wagner. there is also a "carnival scene" for pianoforte, founded on motives from the opera, by geo. kirchner. unfortunately, the first half of this fantasia is the song i have just noticed, with elaborate bravura passages for the piano, but the middle episode is much more like the real man. it is a fairly slow, melodious passage, full of interesting modulations, quite foreshadowing what the composer might do. if the rest of the work is up to this form, and if the score is really in munich, i hope that it will be published, and performed with better luck than at wagner's "benefit." as there has been so little music composed for this play, i will give a short account of as many settings as i can find of the solitary lyric contained in it. probably the { } first setting of these words was by +dr john wilson+, born at faversham, , who is supposed to have sung balthazar in _much ado about nothing_, and other similar parts, and to have been mentioned by name in the first folio edition of shakespeare's plays. in this edition ( ) the stage direction runs, "enter the prince, leonato, claudio, and jacke wilson." this particular song is published in playford's _select ayres and dialogues_, published in for one, two, or three voices, to the theorbo-lute or bass-viol. the words are beautifully set to a quaint and pathetic air, and there is no verbal repetition. dr wilson adds the second verse, "hide, o hide those hills of snow," by fletcher, to make the song an ordinary length, without futile repetition. the next setting is by +john weldon+, pupil of henry purcell, born at chichester, january , , and educated at eton. this song is interesting, but very florid, and the words are dreadfully ill-treated. weldon only sets the verse attributed to shakespeare. the music was on sale at "the golden harp and hoboy" in catherine street. our music-sellers do not call their shops by such pretty names now. next on our list comes +johann ernst galliard+, happily named as a composer of theatre music, one of our earliest german "peaceful penetrators." born at zelle, hanover, in , he soon emigrated to england, where he successfully composed operas and much dramatic music, including this pretty little song, which was published in . he was organist at somerset house, and, i suppose, played the organ while the clerks filled in birth certificates and made out income-tax forms. he died in london in . +thomas chilcot+, composer of the next version of these words, was organist at bath abbey from until he died ( ). this song was published in , and is a good example of the period, slightly florid, but very melodious, { } with a charming accompaniment for stringed orchestra. it is a song that would repay careful study on the part of a high tenor. the second fletcher verse is added in this version. of +christopher dixon+, the composer of the next setting, no mention is made in grove's _dictionary of music and musicians_, and all that seems to be known of him is that he was called "of york," and some cantatas and songs of his are in the british museum library. this song, published in , has a flowing, rather sad melody, and the second verse is again used. a glee for male voices to these words was published about . it was composed by either +tommaso+ or +giuseppe giordani+, two composer-brothers--probably by the former, who was born at naples in and migrated to dublin in , and wrote a great deal of music to english lyrics. this glee is a charming setting. the part-writing is always graceful, and often very ingenious, the inner parts melodious and interesting, and the whole effective. the composer has adapted this glee for mezzo-soprano solo with harpsichord accompaniment, and a very pretty song it makes. +jackson of exeter+, as he was generally called, who wrote the celebrated church service known as jackson in f, has set these words as a duet, with harpsichord accompaniment. the first verse only is taken, but the composer "rings the changes" on the words to such an unhappy extent that it makes quite a long number. simple, melodious, and graceful, like nearly all of jackson's secular music, it is not of much value as a serious setting of the words. strangely enough, it is marked _allegro molto_, and, should this instruction be carried out literally, the effect would be very curious, taking the words into consideration. the composer was born at exeter in , and this duet was published in . he was a { } keen landscape painter, and imitated the style of his friend gainsborough. +w. tindal+, whose setting was published in , is not mentioned in grove's _dictionary_, and seems to have composed very little music. six vocal pieces, of which this is no. , and eight english, spanish, and scottish ballads, one of which is a quaint setting of part of hamlet's love-letter, "but never doubt i love," are all the compositions of his i can find. this duet is full of clever bits of imitation and good contrapuntal part-writing, and is melodious as well. tindal also repeats the words almost _ad nauseam_, and only uses the first verse. +sir john andrew stevenson+, mus.d., composed a glee on these words, which was published in , but is of no great merit. all that i can discover about +luffman atterbury+ is that he was a carpenter before he became a musician, was a musician-in-ordinary to george iii., sang at the handel commemoration of , and died in . he composed one beautiful piece of music, a round in three parts to the first verse of these words, which is really a perfect gem. the melody is simple and beautiful, the counter-melodies are equally taking, and the part-writing is very skilful. what more can one desire? { } the merchant of venice very few composers seem to have been attracted by _the merchant of venice_, though in the last act occurs one of the most beautiful eulogies of music in the world--the lines are too familiar to quote. i can only trace two operas on the subject. the first is _il mercante di venezia_, by +ciro pinsuti+, produced at bologna, november , . it is in four acts, and the libretto is by g. t. cimino, who very freely adapted shakespeare's story. the work opens with a short overture-prelude of no very great importance, and the curtain rises on a street in venice with chorus singing and gondolas floating by. presently portia appears in a gondola with the prince of morocco, playing the lute. she sings a greeting to venice and its inhabitants, and exits with the prince, who has not a singing or speaking part in the opera. but bassanio and antonio have observed her, and the former has fallen in love with her and tells antonio about it. they exit, and the chorus, cunningly knowing that shylock is about to enter, sings a derisive anti-semitic song. shylock tells them that he is following a really inoffensive industry, but no one seems to believe him. it would be wearisome to follow the plot too closely here. shylock has a terrific aria about his daughter's elopement, after which the pound of flesh contract is made; and this scene is really impressive. then there is a long trio between the three--shylock, antonio, and bassanio--which makes a brilliant finale to the first act. act ii. opens at belmont. portia is wondering about her father's will, and she sings quite a long and florid song { } about it. bassanio enters and declares his love, and a long and impassioned duet follows, at the end of which is a lengthy fanfare, succeeded by the strangest caricature of mendelssohn's wedding march i have ever heard. the rhythm is exactly the same, and the melody and harmony are almost identical. this brings on poor morocco again. the casket business, very much shortened, takes place, and bassanio, as usual, wins. then comes the march again, this time quite frankly called "marcia nuziale," and the act finishes with the bad news of antonio and bassanio's hurried exit to try to save him. the third act discovers shylock in a bad temper, still singing about his daughter's elopement. (really shakepeare's construction was not quite so bad as his adapters seem to think.) afterwards a chorus of jews comes on and sings hymns at shylock. this seems to make him even more angry. the trial scene is very much curtailed, and portia "comes to the 'osses" very much more quickly than shakespeare lets her. the fourth and last act opens with a long and elaborate choral ballet, at the end of which (jessica and lorenzo being cut out) portia and company soon finish off the plot; but, for some probably operatic reason, the full chorus is at belmont, and, what is stranger, the chorus of jews break in on it with yiddish hymns. at the back of the stage a ship is seen on which is shylock. the jews and christians continue singing, but gradually the christians win, the jews dying away as the christians become more vociferous. so the curtain slowly falls. it is a strange and interesting work, and not without some dramatic touches. the themes are mostly cheap and _banal_, and there is little or no dignity about the part of shylock; but the work is noteworthy if only for the fact that it is the only opera but one ever written or in any way produced on _the merchant of venice_. also shylock has one thing in his favour--he is not a tenor. +louis deffès+, a french composer, born at toulouse, { } july , , also composed an opera on this subject, in four acts, calling it _jessica_. the libretto is by jules ardevies. the work was first performed on march , , at the composer's birthplace. m. deffès was a pupil of the paris conservatoire, where he studied under halévy and subsequently won the prix de rome. the librettist has taken the elements of his dramatic poem from shakespeare's play, but has, owing to musical exigencies, very much cut down the work. on the other hand, he introduces a tragic dénouement that had no place in shakespeare's drama. to this book the composer has written most moving and dramatic music, which produced a deep effect on the audience when first performed. this opera was to have been called _shylock_ and brought out at the opéra comique, where the work had been accepted; but circumstances decided otherwise. among the prominent numbers that stand out in the first act are the song of antonio, "c'était le soir," and the fine finale. in the second act jessica has a charming cavatina, and a very interesting duet with shylock, who also has a fine song in this act. in the third act, at the culminating point of the work, is a delicious chorus of swallows (at the first performance beautifully sung by a chorus of young lady pupils from the toulouse conservatoire); a poetic dream reverie by portia; and a charming ballet; the act ending with a brilliantly written quintet. in the fourth act are serious songs for jessica and shylock, the whole ending with a dramatic version of the trial scene. the first performance was a veritable triumph for the composer, who, at the age of seventy-nine, an old pupil of the toulouse conservatoire, an old prix de rome man, and the composer of a dozen works produced in paris, had returned to his native town to produce the opera and to take over the direction of the school of music at which he had begun his studies. as regards incidental music, every production of this play must have some. there must be masque music for { } lorenzo and jessica to elope to; there must be a setting of "tell me where is fancy bred"; and portia has her own private orchestra at belmont. but most of the specially composed music for the _merchant_ remains in manuscript. +sullivan+ wrote a very elaborate masque for the calvert production at manchester, much of which is published. there is a long and very viennese valse, full of melody and grace, and a grotesque dance for pierrots and harlequins, with a highly comic cadenza for the bassoon. the bounce is the most familiar number, as it is frequently played as an _entr'acte_ in the theatre. it is very attractive, but not at all a bourrée on the old accepted lines. there is also a melodious serenata in the rarely used key of e flat minor. these few numbers are all that have been printed. +engelbert humperdinck+ wrote music for reinhardt's production of this play in berlin at the deutsches theater. this version of the play begins with a barcarolle sung by a tenor behind the act-drop as the curtain goes up. this, oddly enough, is sung in italian, and the words are not by shakespeare. portia is discovered playing the lute in the second scene, cleverly imitated by humperdinck on the harp. before the second act is a very stately saraband. for the prince of morocco's entrance there is no attempt at eastern local colour. obviously the prince in this version did not bring his own band, and trusted to portia's private orchestra for his effects, and they did not know his national anthem; so he only gets an ordinary flourish, two trumpets and kettledrums. the same thing happens to aragon, only the fanfare is different though in the same key. the march is very wild, working up to a great climax, and then dying away to nothing. "tell me where is fancy bred" is set as a duet for soprano and contralto with female chorus, and makes a beautiful number. after this there is nothing till the last act. the curtain goes up to exquisite music, which lasts till the end of the play. { } it is very lightly scored, strings, harps, solo violin, and horns, and every word can be heard through it: so it makes a perfect ending for the whole play. i have never read of this music being performed in england, but i can very strongly recommend it to any future producer of _the merchant of venice_. for mr arthur bourchier's production at the garrick +frederick rosse+ composed a great deal of music, some of which is published. it is very good stage music, and admirably suited to the production it was written for. there is a prelude to the first act, ending with a sort of barcarolle; then a melodious intermezzo, entitled "portia"; an oriental march for morocco (evidently the prince brought his own band for this production); a second prelude, rather sickly sentimental; a good stirring march for the doge; and a pretty setting of "tell me where is fancy bred" for contralto, baritone, and harp--very serviceable and useful music all of it. but somehow the play itself does not seem to get the best out of musicians. +gabriel fauré+, the distinguished french musician, who composed the fine incidental music for mrs patrick campbell's production of _pelléas el mélisande_, also wrote incidental music to edmond haraucourt's version of _the merchant of venice_, called by him _shylock_. there are not many numbers, but all of them are interesting. the first is a prelude and serenade for light baritone to words of m. haraucourt's; very graceful and melodious, but unconnected with shakespeare's plot. the words begin, "oh les filles, venez les filles aux voix douces." the first _entr'acte_, in march time, opens with trumpets. there is a flowing trio founded on the same subject, and then back to the beginning for the close--a very pleasant little interlude. now comes a so-called madrigal, not in the english sense of a contrapuntal number in several vocal parts, but a very pretty sentimental song, the words, again by m. haraucourt, "celle que j'aime a de beauté," being { } charmingly set for baritone once more. the "Épithalme" or "bridal song" is for orchestra only; it is a solemn adagio movement, almost too sombre for such a comedy as m. haraucourt makes of _the merchant_. the love music is in nocturne form, and is chiefly a duet for solo violin and 'cello. the last number, headed "finale," is a brilliant quasi-scherzo movement in triple time--rather in the manner of a valse-scherzo. this is the longest and most elaborate section of the suite, finishing with a well-developed coda. altogether fauré's _shylock_ is an interesting, though rather slight, addition to our very scanty amount of music for this play. { } the merry wives of windsor it is a curious thing that, though critics are unanimous in saying that _the merry wives of windsor_ is the weakest comedy shakespeare ever wrote, it has directly inspired one opera of first-class importance--verdi's _falstaff_, by some considered the finest comic opera in the world; also nicolai's _merry wives of windsor_, a first-rate opera in the second division, as it were, still constantly played in germany, and here by the carl rosa opera company; and balfe's comic opera _falstaff_, produced at her majesty's, july , . this work is not so easy to place; it is essentially italian music, and shows how wonderfully adaptable balfe's genius was. +braham, parry,+ and +horn+ wrote numbers for a musical version of this play, which was produced in london in , but i cannot trace the score nor any of the numbers. we will take +balfe's+ opera first. there was a fine cast for the first production--grisi, rubini, tamburini, with lablache as falstaff: so the work had every opportunity, as far as singers were concerned, but it never passed into the opera repertory, and few people now have heard of it. perhaps the libretto by s. m. maggioni may have helped _falstaff_ into its present oblivion. the work opens with a conventional overture, a slow introduction and a quick second part, getting quicker towards the end--the sort of overture that would suit almost any comedy-opera as well as _the merry wives_. after the overture comes a duet for page and ford; then falstaff's entrance and song. { } it is impossible to follow the plot clearly, as there is a great deal of spoken dialogue; but all the principals have very "fat" bits. the composer was obviously writing for singers whom he knew well, and he did not bother much about character, colour, windsor, or queen elizabeth's time; everything is perfectly vocal, and the melodies are quite pleasant. balfe certainly had a wonderful gift for melody, but there is no drama at all in the work. parts of it would sound quite well in a concert-hall, but i could not trust it on the stage. at the end, instead of fairies tormenting sir john, a chorus of witches is introduced for that purpose, and they do it quite effectively. the work ends with a brilliant ensemble for the principals and chorus, with grisi "coloraturing" all over the place. the opera is only in two acts, so a good deal of plot is omitted; still, the work is interesting, if merely from the fact that balfe is the only british composer who has written an opera, _the bohemian girl_, which has been played, and is being played, all over the world. it is the fashion for "superior people" to sneer at balfe, but _the bohemian girl_ is the sole english opera in the international repertory. +nicolai's+ opera, _die lustigen weiber von windsor_, book by mosenthal, produced at berlin in , is now a classic. the overture is quite beautiful; the second subject so attracted wagner that he "pinched" it and put it into the _meistersinger_. the libretto is very well done, too. although none of the rest of the opera quite reaches this high level, all is very good. after the overture, mistress page and mistress ford enter with their letters, and the plot gets under way at once. no tiresome preliminary chorus, but straight to the story. in this charming duet is hatched the plot for the undoing of falstaff. fenton is made into a much larger and more important _rôle_ than shakespeare conceived; in point of fact, he is the solo tenor lover, and much very pretty music is given to him. all sir john's music is very expressive { } of the man, and, though vocal, is suited to the character. with the exception of the enlargement of master fenton's part, nicolai's librettist sticks closely to shakespeare's text; but there are occasional excrescences, mostly harmless. at the opening of the second act, falstaff sings a song, with male chorus, the words of which begin with the famous clown's song at the end of _twelfth night_, "when that i was and a little tiny boy"; but after a few lines it grows into a drinking song. anyway, there's some shakespeare in it, and it is a first-rate number. the third act opens with a ballad about herne the hunter and his oak for mistress "reich" (ford). it is a very weird and effective song, and in excellent contrast to the music which has preceded it. sweet anne page also has much more to do in this version of the story than in shakespeare's; but in opera one must have young lovers, and falstaff and mistresses ford and page are not quite romantic enough for the average opera audience. the grotesque music for slender and dr caius is wonderfully done, and full of quiet humour. after the "herne" ballad sweet anne page sings a long and almost tiresome aria, but this is followed by the moon chorus scene, which opens with the same _motif_ as the overture. the orchestra plays the beautiful melody, and the chorus sustains long, _pianissimo_ six-part harmonies. the whole effect is very fine. next comes a ballet with chorus of fairies, also on themes used in the overture. whenever nicolai employs a theme from the overture the whole work seems to rise in value and become quite first-rate. with fenton disguised as oberon, king of the fairies, and anne page as titania, falstaff is "put through the hoops," even as he is in shakespeare's play, and a very melodious trio begins the finale. this is sung by the three ladies--anne, mistress page, and mistress ford. near the end falstaff joins in, and for the last fourteen bars principals and chorus sing an _ensemble_. it is indeed a very merry work, and curiously shakespearian; all the parts are showy to sing and to act, the { } music, though full of character, is thoroughly vocal, and the orchestration is never too heavy for the singers. as a comic opera it is quite one of the best in the world, and fully deserves its place in the repertory of opera for all time. we now come to the third opera founded on _the merry wives of windsor_, +verdi's+ _falstaff_, libretto by boito. after the production of _otello_, , the composer was silent operatically; but in , at the age of eighty, he produced _falstaff_, and astounded the entire musical world. the work was produced at the scala, milan, february , and its success was instantaneous. the book by boito is, as the score says, "derived from shakespeare's _merry wives of windsor_, and from certain passages of _henry iv._ having relation to the personality of falstaff," and is a masterpiece of construction and adaptation. the opera is in three acts, each act being in two parts. shallow, page, slender, sir hugh, nym, simple, and rugby all go. certain lines have to be transposed. for instance, in act i, scene , caius speaks shallow's lines, beginning "you have beaten my men"; but these things are necessary in converting a five-act comedy, with two scenes, into a three-act lyrical comedy with six scenes. sweet anne page becomes annetta ford, and her part and master fenton's are much written up; in fact, they become a very pretty pair of lovers, and their frequent love-duets are beautifully melodious, and never sentimental. bardolph (tenor) becomes an important part, and he pursues his old master after his dismissal with the utmost malignancy. the scene is windsor in the time of henry iv. falstaff is a baritone. victor maurel, the great french baritone, created the part. as is usual with this composer's later work, there is no overture, the curtain rising on the interior of the garter inn at the fourth bar of an _allegro vivace_. sir john has just sealed the two love-letters. dr caius (tenor) enters angrily and abuses falstaff nearly in shallow's words; falstaff pays no attention, but calls for sherry, and in a brilliant scene the doctor accuses falstaff and his followers { } of making him drunk and robbing him. after caius's exit, sir john calls for his bill and sings a song of his wandering from inn to inn, following the light shed by bardolph's nose, and setting forth how much it has cost him (falstaff) to get it into its present condition. he then produces the letters, and pistol and bardolph refuse to bear them. falstaff bundles them out of the room and the scene ends. the whole of the music in these comedy scenes is as light as air, the action is wonderfully swift, and every nuance in the words is reflected in the orchestration. it is only necessary to comment on a few features, as the original story is so well known and boito follows it fairly closely now. there are no real numbers that can be separated from the main body; no songs or concerted pieces that it would be wise to perform apart from the context: the whole work is so welded into one homogeneous whole that it would be sacrilege to do scraps on the concert platform. there are no numbers, like the "preis" song or hans sachs' soliloquies from wagner's great comic opera, that can be performed with great effect at concerts: with verdi's _falstaff_ it is all or nothing. the reading of the letter by mistress ford makes a fine comic effect, and the unaccompanied quartet for the four ladies--page, ford, sweet anne, and mrs quickly--that follows it is a rare bit of vocal writing. the concerted writing throughout is splendid--the counterpoint is _never_ obtrusive, but always there,--and the orchestration a wonderful combination of lightness and strength. to return to the plot. falstaff comes only once to ford's house, and is thrown out of a window into the thames, so never escapes as the wise woman of brentford. a very amusing effect, though not in shakespeare, is obtained during ford's mad search for sir john. fenton and anne page have hidden behind a curtain. in the middle of the fearful din everyone is making there comes a sudden pause, during which the lovers kiss audibly. ford at once thinks it is sir john and his wife, creeps up to the arras, jerks it aside, and discloses his daughter and her forbidden lover, { } much to ford's anger and the lovers' mutual embarrassment! during this act falstaff sings to mistress ford the fine song about his youth, "once i was page to the duke of norfolk." though verdi does not use the _leit-motif_ in the ordinary sense of the word, much use is made of a triplet figure. mistress quickly employs it first to announce to sir john his appointment with mistress ford. it is used by sir john when he announces to ford, disguised as brook, his appointment with ford's wife. unfortunately, the original italian cannot be, or has not been, rendered into the same number of syllables in the english version (i am speaking of ricordi's edition), so there is one syllable missing, which spoils the whole effect. this figure is used wonderfully as an accompaniment during the duet that follows, and the eighty-year-old composer gets heaps of natural boyish fun (though technically marvellous) out of those six notes. the first part of the third act opens with, for verdi, quite a long introduction, _agitato_ in nature, on the theme that interrupts falstaff's love-making in the previous act. the scene is the exterior of the garter inn. falstaff is alone, and sings his famous soliloquy on the wicked, treacherous world. he calls for wine, drinks deeply, and begins to feel better. he mixes the sack with the thames water he has swallowed, and sings, "how sweet it is to drink good wine while basking in the sunshine." mistress quickly comes on, and makes the appointment for herne's oak at midnight. she begins the story of herne the hunter very impressively, and mistress page finishes it. the next and last scene takes place a little before midnight, at the oak in windsor park. anne page and fenton open with a love-duet, and as the bell strikes twelve sir john enters wearing a pair of antlers. after a short scene with mistress page, anne page is heard as fairy queen summoning her wood nymphs, dryads, and goblins. falstaff falls on his face, and the fairies enter. there is a long and beautiful sort of choral ballet, in which falstaff is badly treated by everyone, especially by bardolph. in { } the hubbub dr caius elopes with bardolph disguised as anne page, and fenton and anne manage to get ford's consent to their marriage. then comes the great moment of all. all parties are reconciled; ford invites everyone to carouse at his house, and sir john falstaff leads off with the subject of the great choral fugue that forms the finale. the words begin, "jesting is man's vocation," etc. fenton takes the answer, then dame quickly, then mistress ford. at first the orchestration is very light, but as the rest join in it grows heavier. mistress page then enters with the subject, followed by sweet anne in _stretto_, pistol meanwhile starting with the counter-subject, closely followed by ford, with dr caius in _stretto_. it would take too long to describe the ramifications of this, as browning says of another, "mountainous fugue," but it is one of the most superb pieces of vocal fugal writing extant, and makes one of the finest endings to an opera the brain of man has ever conceived. the idea of having a great fugue in eight and ten parts, with a full chorus and orchestra, quite independent of the solo parts, to finish a comic opera was a stroke of genius that could only have occurred to a supreme mind, and could only have been carried out by one of the great musical and dramatic geniuses of the world. it is extraordinarily successful, and its daring is gloriously vindicated. let those lovers of musical comedy, ragtime, and sentimental ballads who sneer at fugue, counterpoint, form, and technique hear this, and wonder. it does not sound very complicated or difficult, but really it is quite as complex as the finale of mozart's "jupiter" symphony, the "cum sancto spiritu" from bach's b minor mass, or the great fugato finale from the third act of wagner's _meistersinger_. verdi and mozart make the numbers i have spoken of sound simple and almost easy; bach and wagner sound as difficult as they are, and all are equally difficult at bedrock. i have written a great deal on this work, though no number of pages of mine could do any kind of justice to { } it; but if i have helped one reader to a little fuller understanding of this great comic opera i shall have "acquired grace," and, anyhow, that is something. in , at the lyric, paris, +adolphe adam+ produced his one-act comic opera _falstaffe_, with a libretto by mm. saint georges and leunen. he was born in paris in , and was a pupil of boieldieu at the conservatoire. the music is very light and fairly melodious, but quite unambitious, and has been described by a french musical critic, very justly, as mediocre. there is a valse in it which was popular for a time, and a few catchy numbers, but the critic was right--mediocre is the word. there is a song by +j. l. hatton+ entitled "falstaff's song: give me a cup of sack, boy." but i cannot find the words in my edition of shakespeare's plays and poems. it begins: a full, flowing cup of old sack give me, boy; for sack clears the head, clears the heart. i don't think the words are shakespeare's, in spite of the printed title-page before me. the music is in the composer's well-known "simon the cellarer" style; only, unfortunately, the tune is not so good. the words get sillier as the song continues, so that if i had been the boy i should have given the singer prussic acid instead of the sack he so repeatedly calls for. { } a midsummer night's dream from a musical point of view one of the most important of shakespeare's plays is _a midsummer night's dream_. it is possible to use nothing but mendelssohn's music for this play, but i have never heard it in england without additional numbers. sir frank benson, in his poetical production, used all the original music, but also included a song by cooke, "over hill, over dale," for the first singing fairy, and a duet, "i know a bank," by horn, for first and second singing fairies: the latter a very boring work and quite out of keeping with the rest of the music. there is no reason why these words should be sung at all: they should be spoken by oberon. sir herbert tree had them sung to the tune of "auf flügeln des gesanges"--certainly by mendelssohn, but the effect was very distressing. most producers use the spring song and bee's wedding as fairy dances, and this effect is quite legitimate and absolutely in the picture with the rest of the score. mendelssohn is at the top of his form in this music, and here is no shakespearian old english wardour street style: it is just mendelssohn at his best, and a very good best it is. with careful arrangement it can be played on a small orchestra, and is a tremendous help to the success of the play. there is bound to be a long wait between the first and second acts--the change from athens to the forest--and weber's overture to _oberon_ is very effective here; and, although scored much more brilliantly than the mendelssohn music, does not seem out of place, and fills in what would else be a very tiresome interval. several { } english composers have set the fairy chorus, "you spotted snakes," as a glee for mixed voices; but i never quite fancy fairies singing tenor or bass, and consider mendelssohn was very wise to stick to women's and children's voices only. +mendelssohn+ was only seventeen when he wrote the overture, but the rest of the music was composed much later, at the request of the king of prussia, and first produced at the new palace, potsdam, in . his critical german friends took him much to task for wasting such beautiful music on such a foolish play, but i don't think he ever regretted it. there is a fine ophicleide part in the overture, giving the idea of the clumsy bottom among the fairies. mendelssohn chose this instrument because it blends with no other instrument on earth, and really knew what he was doing; but, because of its very quality of tone, for which he chose it, modern conductors have cut it out and substituted a bass trombone or tuba, both of which blend quite prettily with the other instruments. i am speaking of a few years ago; there are hardly any ophicleide players left now. i suppose the great majority of christians in the world have been "mendelssohned," as kipling has it, out of church once in their lives, and i daresay that is why many people talk sniffily about the "wedding march." i am going to make a dreadful confession. once at a small theatre i did the whole of the mendelssohn music to the _dream_, excepting the scherzo, on a band of eighteen, and it didn't sound half bad. the parts were carefully cross-cued, and everyone was very busy, but i was very proud of the general effect. of course, the orchestra was almost beneath the stage, which was a great help. the players--they were picked men--consisted of single wood wind, one horn, two trumpets, one trombone, and drums, four first violins, two second, viola, 'cello, and bass. incidentally we threw in weber's _oberon_ overture. i know this sounds like vandalism to read about, but it didn't sound so in the theatre. { } +purcell+ wrote music to a perversion of the _dream_ produced in (see above, p. ), and in some strange manner managed not to set a single line of shakespeare. +john christopher smith+, composer of an opera called _the fairies_, founded on _a midsummer night's dream_, was born at anspach in , but came to england as a boy with his father, who was handel's treasurer and agent for the sale of his music. at the age of thirteen he became a pupil of handel, and, when his master went blind, his amanuensis. _the fairies_ was produced in , and on the title-page of the score is written, "the words taken from shakespeare," but not by whom. also, unfortunately, as was the manner at the time, the name of the singer is printed, but not that of the character; however, it is usually possible to get a fairly shrewd idea, from the gist of the words, who is singing. this music is strictly handelian, though the score as a whole shows greater pains and industry than is generally displayed by his great master. the overture has an introduction, fugue, tuneful minuet, and a fine march in d major after the manner of handel's _scipio_ march. the first song is for tenor, with trumpet _obbligato_, and, i think, must be intended for theseus. the words run, "pierce the air with sounds of joy, come hymen with the winged boy, bring song and dance and revelry." from this i take it that theseus was preparing for his wedding. it is a very stirring, florid air, and, given a robust tenor and a first-rate trumpeter, makes a good opening for the opera. helena sings next a song with a very pathetic middle part, saying how she scorns to hide her love. lysander (baritone) has a brisk song about the joys of country life, followed by helena, singing, sadly, "o hermia fair; o happy, happy fair"; and mr smith sets four lines of shakespeare's text. hermia's next air is not very interesting, so we will pass on to a graceful setting of the words, "love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind," sung by helena or hermia, i can't settle which; { } the words are correct text, and very respectfully set. puck, taken by a boy, now sings, "where the bee sucks"--quite a new setting to me, and a charming one, too. here follows an orchestral interlude, called "sinfonia," for strings, with two independent oboe parts. i don't know if it is meant to be played with the curtain up for business, but rather think it is intended for scene-change music. titania sings a very "fairy" song, words not by shakespeare, to her fairies, telling them to follow her; and oberon, a boy singer, does the same office, in a florid air, for his fairies. helena, who seems to have too much to do, now has another pathetic song; titania sings herself to sleep with "you spotted snakes," with slight verbal alterations to make sense. the human lovers become rather tedious here, as they do sometimes in the play; they have several sentimental love-songs and duets, so we welcome oberon and his fairies. his number, "now until the break of day," is really beautiful and most fairylike, and brings the second act to a charming close. oberon sings "flower of this purple dye" to a solemn _largo_ melody, and the mortals take up the tale again. oberon sings a setting of "sigh no more, ladies" very interestingly, and sticks closely to the text; it certainly might have been written by handel, but is none the worse for that. puck sings "up and down" to thoroughly suitable music while he chases the foolish lovers about the forest; after which titania obliges with "orpheus with his lute," with oboe _obbligato_, quite one of the best numbers in the piece and one of the best settings of these much ill-used lines--the close of the second verse is exquisitely done. a hunting "sinfonia" heralds the last scene, with a couple of fine solo horn parts. this introduces a bold march for the entrance of theseus, who has a lusty hunting-song with an elaborate orchestral accompaniment. hermia now has an unnecessary song, "love's a tempest," and the opera closes joyfully with a solo and chorus to the words "hail to love and welcome joy." so ends a work i should very much like to have seen. there is no sign of the clowns in { } the score, so i fear smith's librettist cut them out; but the music is all by one composer and all in one style. there is none of the horrible jostling of periods that annoys one in bishop's pasticcio shakespearian operas, and the text is quite as near the original as bishop's. if christopher smith omitted the clowns, his fellow-countryman, +john frederick lampe+, composed a mock-opera, entitled _pyramus and thisbe_, the words freely taken from shakespeare, which was produced at the theatre royal, covent garden, in . johann friedrich lampe was born at helmstadt, saxony, in . he came to england as a bassoon player at the opera, and married isabella young, a famous singer, sister of dr arne's wife. he soon settled down in london as a composer, and made a tremendous success with his opera _the dragon of wantly_, written in imitation of the famous _beggar's opera_, and burlesquing current italian operas. this pyramus mock-opera consists of an overture and thirteen numbers. the overture is a delightfully fresh and original composition, very melodious, with quaint rhythms, and finishing with a very plaintive movement for strings and oboes. wall (a tenor) has the first song, words not by shakespeare, explaining his duties; it is good burlesque, and great point is made of repeating the word "whispering" seventeen times, making fun of the italian method of the time somewhat heavily but amusingly. pyramus (tenor) has a mock-dignified entrance, and sings an elaborate burlesque song on shakespeare's words, "and thou, o wall, o sweet and lovely wall, that stands between her father's ground and mine, show me thy chink that i may blink through with mine eyne." no other words are used in this long song, and the effect should be very comic, and also irritating to lampe's contemporaries. pyramus proceeds with a second song, "o wicked wall," using the last two lines only of his speech in the original text. thisbe, the part taken by mrs lampe, now enters and sings about her love for pyramus in a little amorous song, again not by shakespeare. the lovers now have a { } duet, called the first whispering duet, to the words, "not cephalus to procris was so true"; a short spirited duet, "i go without delay," takes them off; and the lion enters and roars pleasantly in florid baritone passages. the moon (tenor) enters and sings of the joys of drinking and loving in the sky. thisbe has a lament, so well written that it hardly seems a burlesque at all. pyramus, thinking her dead, sings a furious mock-heroic song, "approach, ye furies," followed by "now am i dead," a beautiful plaintive burlesque with _obbligato_ parts for two oboes. thisbe sings her lament, "these lily lips, this cherry nose," to a sad little tune; however, for some curious reason not explained in the text, neither of the lovers dies, but they finish the burlesque off with a very bright and cheerful duet to the words, "thus folding, beholding, caressing, possessing, my thisbe, my dear, we'll live out the year." as there is no spoken dialogue in my copy of this work, i don't know how the author gets over the death of pyramus and thisbe: doubtless he has some ingenious way out of it. some of the fun is quite shakespearian, and some is very german, but the whole little mock-opera is amusing and worth a few hours' study. the orchestration is simple and good, and the vocal writing, as was nearly always the case in this period, is excellent. +sir henry bishop's+ operatic version of this play is the first of his series of pasticcio operas founded on shakespeare's plays. it was produced at the theatre royal, covent garden, in , and is a wonderful hotch-potch of musical styles from handel to bishop. the overture is in four distinct movements, none of which seem to have any bearing on the play or each other; and not one is used later in the opera. the whole appears to be entirely detached from the rest of the production. the first song (hermia) is still sometimes heard; it is by bishop, and is a melodious setting of the passage beginning "by the simplicity of venus' doves." the next number is a trio and chorus for the { } clowns, beginning "most noble duke." quince, snout, and bottom all have little solos, but i can't trace the words--i think they were by some contemporary of bishop's; the tune is by arne and bishop, but is not very valuable. the next song is for the first fairy and by dr cooke. the words do not occur in the play or in any other work of shakespeare's; they are just the conventional fairy-song words about fairy rings, lightly trip it o'er the green, but the musical setting is charming. the fairy march by bishop is the same as in his _as you like it_, beginning _pianissimo_ and finishing with about fifty bars of such vulgar _fortissimo_ noise as would have frightened away any number of fairies. demetrius has the next song: it is by bishop, but the words are not shakespeare's. the words, "but ne'er recall my love," are repeated thirteen times, and the tune is insignificant. the next number is a "grand recitative air and chorus" for oberon and the fairies; again the words are not by shakespeare, but are of the "trip it" and "so nimbly" school; the music is by bishop and dr cooke, and cooke's part is the better. demetrius (tenor) sings helena's beautiful words, "o happy fair, your eyes are lodestars," to a graceful melody of bishop's: this number is still heard occasionally. the duet that follows between demetrius and hermia is by bishop, and the words are by anon.; it is a maudlin piece of work, words and music admirably fitted. oberon's beautiful speech, "flower of the purple dye," is set to music by our old friend smith, with ineffective additions by bishop, as a song for oberon. the second act ends with a recitative for the fourth fairy, a dance and a chorus welcoming the little indian boy. in the third act is a quartet for the four solo fairies by bishop, words anonymous and very bad, which takes the curtain up. oberon sings his speech, "be as thou wast wont to be," to music by battishill and bishop, a very graceful melody; and this is followed by a hunting chorus about spartan hounds, music by bishop, poet unnamed. an anonymous character sings handel's "hush, ye pretty warbling choir," from _acis and galatea_. the effect should { } be amazing in this wilderness of bad music. demetrius now has a song by bishop, to "original words," called "sweet cheerful hope," but as it is of no particular value we will pass on to a real piece of shakespeare from this very play, a setting by bishop for oberon and chorus of the words "to the best bride bed will we," finishing with the chorus "in theseus' house give glimmering light," or, as shakespeare more happily phrases it, "through the house," etc. hermia now sings a song, words by some ruffian unnamed, to hippolyta and her amazons about freedom; very poor, pretentious stuff. the opera ends with a so-called characteristic march, beginning with the entrance of the cretans, followed by the thebans, amazons, the centaurs, the argo, the labyrinth, the minotaur--a sort of grand historical pageant of theseus' life. the music by bishop is not in the least descriptive of any of these varied things and persons i have catalogued; one expects some rather special music for a centaur, a labyrinth, and especially a minotaur, but one is disappointed. +mr cecil sharp+ arranged and composed the incidental music and songs for granville barker's most interesting production of this play at the savoy, january . in a striking preface he points out that not a single note of contemporary music for the songs in this play has been preserved; he debates the possibility of using contemporary tunes and fitting the words to them, of having fake music composed, and of commissioning a composer to write entirely new music. he rejects all these propositions, and plumps for using folk-songs. he says: "by using folk-music in the shakespeare play we shall then be mating like with like, the drama which is for all time with the music which is for all time." whether the result at the savoy was successful or not i leave to the judgment of the many people who saw the production. unfortunately, mr sharp does not indicate very clearly when he has arranged, composed, or adapted the tunes in the printed score. the first musical number occurs in act ii., scene , a dance, song, { } and chorus; the dance is to the melody of that interesting old folk-tune "sellenger's round," and the baritone solo is, i am sure, by mr sharp, as is the following chorus. the words, which fit in too neatly for it to be an adaptation, are the familiar "you spotted snakes"; but, though he is bitter with mendelssohn for repeating "so good night" so often, he cheerfully cuts out one "lul-la," surely a grievous thing to do for one so correct! the next number is bottom's song, "the ousel cock so black of hue," and is, presumably, by mr sharp, as only the melody is printed, and i don't see how anyone can have a copyright (it is marked copyright) in a folk-song tune. i don't think it is an improvement on the so-called traditional tune to which i have always been accustomed. the next number is for orchestra alone, and occurs in act iv., scene ; it is called "still music," and the melody is the old folk-song, "the sprig of thyme," collected and arranged by mr sharp. the bergamask dance, act v., scene , is one of the numerous versions of "green sleeves," collected and arranged by mr sharp. the wedding march is on the tune "lord willoughby," arranged by mr sharp, and is certainly a great change from the one usually associated with this situation. the love charm seems to have gone all wrong again, and even theseus and hippolyta seem to have soured on one another. as for the other lovers----! even the _tierce de picardie_ fails to liven up the last bar. the song and dance in the same scene and act are composed by mr sharp, and, following the glorious tradition of sir henry bishop in the pasticcio operas, the words "roses, their sharp spines being gone" do not appear in the play. they are not by shakespeare, but from fletcher's _two noble kinsmen_. the final number is a traditional dance arranged by mr sharp, but from what source he does not say; it is rather a sad little tune, followed by the more lively "nonsuch," and finishing off with "sellenger's round," which was the first musical number. it would be an interesting point to discover whether shakespeare would have preferred this very "correct" { } musical setting to mendelssohn's now derided one. i rather think that mendelssohn's overture and scherzo would have appealed to him. there seems to me to be very little in this play, with its frequent classical allusions, that calls for folk-music, and artificial simplicity in a production of a play so full of elizabethan artifice seems utterly out of place. { } much ado about nothing the most successful opera founded on _much ado about nothing_ is +berlioz's+ two-act work entitled _béatrice et bénédict_, produced at baden, . the composer wrote his own libretto for this, and it is an ingenious one. the first reference we get to the work is in a letter to his greatest friend, humbert ferrand, dated november : "i am getting on with a one-act opera for baden written round shakespeare's _much ado about nothing_. it is called _béatrice et bénédict_; i promise there shall not be 'much ado' in the shape of noise in it. benayet, the king of baden, wants it next year." a very interesting point is made here in the little joke about "noise." berlioz had long been accused by critics and public of using too large orchestras. he was very careful to put down in his scores the exact number of each instrument that he required, and the ignorant, non-musical person cannot understand that thirty violins playing _pianissimo_ are still _pianissimo_ and are infinitely more beautiful than sixteen or eight. berlioz composed this work, "little opera" he calls it, immensely quickly, and complains that ideas come to him so fast that he has not time to write them down. in a letter to his sailor son, louis, dated november , he says: "you ask how i manage to crowd a shakespeare's five acts into one. i have taken only one subject from the play--the part in which beatrice and benedick, who detest each other, are mutually persuaded of each other's love, whereby they are inspired with a true passion. the idea is really comic." i don't { } quite understand what he means by the last sentence: it is certainly a comedy idea, but not to me comic. perhaps the translation of the original may be somewhat free: i have not the french original version by me, so i quote from the volume in dent's "everyman's library." it will be noticed that the original idea of a one-act opera is abandoned. the work was produced in two acts, and was a great success. writing again to his son he says: "_beatrice_ was applauded from end to end, and i was recalled more times than i can count"; and to his friend h. ferrand: "i am just home from baden, where _beatrice_ is a real triumph." he speaks of his "radiant singers." he says: "people are finding out that i have melody; that i can be gay--in fact, really comic; that i am not noisy." benayet, whom berlioz humorously calls "king of baden," was the director of the new opera house, and he treated the composer most generously financially, and lavishly as regards scenery and dresses--a thing to which he was not accustomed: so he ennobled him thus. the whole _beatrice_ episode is one of the happiest in a not very happy life. coming to the music itself, the overture is not long, but an admirable comedy overture, beautifully scored. the first number is a drinking-song in praise of the wine of syracuse, sung by a bass called somarone, a creation of berlioz, with a spirited chorus. a fine chorus welcomes the return of the victorious don pedro. there is a very pretty "siciliana," followed by a song in praise of claudio, sung by hero. after this, the hero and heroine have most of the work; and on their finally agreeing to get married, much simple fun is made by the rest of the characters. the so-called "maidens' duet" became a very popular number. in this work are two four-part choruses called "Épithalme grotesque," composed in _capella_ style. the end is very bright, and the whole opera though difficult to sing and play, is not expensive to mount. i cannot trace a performance of this work here in london, { } but it would be well worth the attention of the carl rosa opera company; for even if it has been produced, it must have been a long time ago, and it would be perfectly fresh now. the opera has been performed more frequently in germany than anywhere else. it was given at weimar and stuttgart under the composer's direction, and the last important production was under mottl. +sir charles villiers stanford's+ opera, _much ado about nothing_, has nothing in common with berlioz's _béatrice et bénédict_, and very little in common with shakespeare's work of the same name. the libretto is by julian sturgis, and the work was produced at covent garden in may , and also at the stadt theater, leipsic, april , with a german translation by john bernhoff. berlioz took a single episode for his opera in two acts, and worked it out logically, ignoring everything that had nothing to do with his own plot, which was "beatrice and benedick." sturgis and stanford bring in nearly all shakespeare's characters, but these say and sing things that would have made shakespeare turn in his grave if he could have heard them there. when debussy wanted to set maeterlinck's _pelléas et mélisande_, he set every word of the original play and made a perfect work of art. when richard strauss made an opera of oscar wilde's _salome_, he did the same thing, and, however much some of us may dislike it, no one can deny that he turned out a very perfect art-work, as regards form and brilliance. he produced a great opera, unpleasant from some points of view, but, judged as a whole, a real achievement. he trusted in his librettist and was justified in his trust. stanford did not trust in shakespeare as much as he did in julian sturgis, and his trust was very much betrayed. touching on the opera purely from a musical point of view, there is much very pleasant music in it. there is no overture, and the first act begins just before the masque. the male chorus sings "sigh no more, ladies" as the curtain rises. { } almost at once don john and borachio begin the plot. claudio and benedick enter, claudio immediately disclosing his love for hero, the story of the play being pretty closely followed. leonato now makes a tardy effort to welcome don pedro and the rest, and a masque begins with a very stately saraband. then, according to stage directions, "enter a pomp of clowns and country girls," who dance a morris-dance, while the chorus sings about spring and maying. the masque ends with hero, crowned queen of summer, singing a very graceful welcome to the princes. claudio, as in shakespeare, thinks the prince is wooing for himself, and sings a tragic farewell to hero and love, with many repetitions of the words "farewell" and "love." beatrice and benedick then have their little comedy scene, and the prince explains to claudio that he has won hero for him, and gives him some solemn advice. all the principals join in and sing a fine sextet, don john on the bottom line singing with the others, but with sinister significance, that he will mar their music presently. the prince announces his intention of making beatrice and benedick fall in love with each other, and the four conspirators, hero, claudio, pedro, and leonato, sing a quartet about it, finishing with a great number of "with a fa-la-la's." don john says he will cross the wedding, and in a few words tells borachio to meet hero's gentlewoman, margaret, that night, and he will bring the prince and claudio. the doors of the supper-room are thrown open and a procession of guests comes out, with hero and claudio in the centre, the chorus singing "sigh no more, ladies," until the curtain comes down on the first act. the second act opens with a short orchestral introduction. the scene is leonato's garden near hero's window. claudio sings a typical serenade, at the end of which hero comes out on the balcony, and they have a long love-duet. benedick then enters, and sings a lengthy and very clever soliloquy about love and ladies; and then hero, pedro, and claudio, in a vocal trio, describe the love of beatrice for { } benedick, the last-named listening as in the play. the scene ends with a very bright trio by the conspirators about having snared their bird. the next episode sticks closely to shakespeare. don john guides pedro and claudio to hero's window; they see borachio embrace margaret, and claudio makes up his mind to denounce hero in the church. the act ends excitedly by claudio rushing off, followed by don pedro and don john, and the curtain quickly falls. the third act opens tempestuously on the orchestra, typifying claudio's bitter thoughts. he is discovered alone in the church, where he sings a grim and very dramatic quasi-recitative about hero's fall from grace. the bells are now heard--only three, f, g, a, and the organ begins, acolytes lighting the altar candles. the church fills, friars start the hymn outside to the words, "mater dulce carmen lenis," the bells going right through the hymn with excellent effect. then comes claudio's denunciation of hero and his refusal to marry her; she swoons, and everyone leaves the church except hero, beatrice, benedick, leonato, and the friar. the friar, in a fine bass number (beautifully sung at covent garden by pol plançon), explains his plan of pretending that hero has died of shame at the false accusation. benedick promises to challenge claudio, and during this scene a funeral bell is heard, and a procession of the misericordia fraternity crosses the stage carrying a bier and singing "miserere mei deus" as it passes out of sight. benedick sings very solemnly "and so farewell" (i don't quite see why, because benedick knows hero is not dead), and the curtain comes down to _fortissimo_ music on a very effective third act. the last act takes place in messina, near the burial-ground of leonato's family. the music to open is not at all gloomy, as it is to introduce seacole, dogberry, and verges. curiously enough, verges is a silent performer, or, as he is called in the bill of the play, a "persona muta." the watch come straight to the point. they have caught borachio telling of his doings, and the movement follows { } very closely shakespeare's development of the episode. benedick comes on, tries to make a song in beatrice's honour, fails (just as he did in shakespeare), but finally sings quite a good song about "morning, spring-a (sic) ring-a (sic) and chantecleer." don pedro and claudio enter; benedick delivers his challenge and they prepare to fight, when don pedro comes between them. dogberry, verges, watchmen with borachio, bound, enter, and all the villainy of don john is explained. the friar enters; claudio begs forgiveness, and the friar produces the living hero without any of shakespeare's pretence that she was another daughter. claudio at once sings a song to hero, calling her angel of pity, and sentimentalising over her for quite a long time. hero joins in the general soppiness, and, after a great high-note effect on the part of both, beatrice and benedick break in with their comedy scene, in which they agree to get married, to shouts of "how dost thou, benedick, the married man!" the principals and chorus all join in singing "sigh no more, ladies," which finally brings down the curtain very brightly on a charming comedy opera; the music vastly superior to the book. it was a brave attempt of sir charles stanford, but he was beaten by his librettist every time. it is not my intention to give mr sturgis's perversions of shakespeare; but why not have followed the original text whenever possible, and cut anything that would have made the work too long? some of the paraphrases are quite as long as the original, but how lamentably weak! if only sturgis had used shakespeare and a large blue pencil! of course, the whole text is too long to set for an opera--even as a play it is too long; but to rewrite immortal phrases and put them into such obvious opera libretto form (of the worst period) was a foolish thing to do, and will kill stanford's heroic attempt to achieve english grand opera whenever it is performed. mr sturgis touched no phrase of shakespeare's that he did not degrade; there is really no reason why the libretto of a modern opera should be written in rhyming couplets. { } there are two other operas on this subject, but neither has yet been performed in england: _beaucoup de bruit pour rien_, by +p. puget+ (paris, ); and _ero_, by +c. podesta+ (cremona, ), about the latter of which i regret i can obtain no details. the former, an opera in four acts and five scenes, libretto taken from shakespeare's play by edouard blau, music by paul puget, was first performed at the opéra comique, paris, on march , . as a whole, the librettist adheres closely to his text, with the exception of the omission of dogberry and verges; and i don't think that anyone except an englishman could possibly understand two such thoroughly british characters. in this work they would only make the serious parts seem ridiculous. the last scene of the last act is novel, and owes very little to shakespeare. hero is lying on a mortuary bed before the altar of the cathedral; claudio enters, throws open the great doors, and, in the presence of all, makes a humble confession of his mistake and begs for pardon. he swears to consecrate himself to her, and puts on her finger a ring. at the touch of his hand hero comes slowly from her faint, and the piece finishes happily. it is a very good libretto, and quite as near the original text as an opera can be expected to be. to this libretto m. puget has composed some very beautiful music. the prelude to the first act is full of happy characterisation, though rather short. the duet, hero and beatrice, sung while they present flowers to don pedro, is melodious and simple; and in this act there is a very pretty sicilian song and dance. in the second act a madrigal, sung by benedick, is charming and very delicately scored, as is also a quartet for pedro, leonato, benedick, and beatrice. in the third act, the scene of the arrival of the bridal cortege at the cathedral, with fine organ and orchestral effects, is very impressive; and in the last scene, the long monologue, addressed by claudio to the crowd, is broadly phrased and very pathetic in its dignity: but it is unfortunately largely overscored. the one serious blot on the work is the tendency of the composer to { } over-weight the singers. the opera earned a very well-deserved success. +edward german's+ overture and incidental music for sir george alexander's production of _much ado_ at the st james's, , is german at his best. the overture is mostly very bright, the first theme being really a saltarello. the second _motif_, hero and claudio, is naturally more sentimental and subdued. don pedro has a fine theme (the third subject of the overture), which is afterwards used for his entrance. these themes are all blended and woven together, and the whole ends with a brilliant coda, in saltarello style again. there is a very pretty movement, _alla siciliana_, called "leonato's garden"; while the dogberry music is in a hurried, flurried manner, quite indicating the fussy old constable. the bourrée and gigue are very well known on the concert platform. the former is one of the prettiest old english dances that edward german has ever given us. the _grandioso_ effect of the first theme coming in augmentation for the coda is wonderfully good, and makes a really brilliant ending. in the gigue, also, german is in his happiest vein; but i fear that a great deal of the incidental music is still in manuscript. { } othello rossini's _otello_, produced at naples, , is the earliest grand opera on the subject. for many years it enjoyed great popularity. but in , in milan, was produced verdi's tragic masterpiece, and the earlier composer's work died a very natural death. many serious critics have said that verdi's is the great tragedy opera of the world, but, anyhow, it is a great tragic opera. the incidental music composed for stage productions of the play has never been of very much importance. there is supposed to be a traditional setting of the "willow song," sung by desdemona; but, as shakespeare did not even write the words of the said song, merely quoting a few lines from a long poem given in its entirety by bishop percy in his invaluable _reliques_, this setting, even if contemporary, has not much to do with our subject, "shakespeare and music." the other songs, "king stephen was a worthy peer," and "let me the canakin clink, clink," are both probably quotations from older songs; while the so-called "traditional" tunes are very like the so-called "traditional" etc. in other plays by the master. in point of fact, i have often heard an old actor sing the king stephen lyric to the same tune as the first gravedigger's song in _hamlet_, and the two bear a very close resemblance to the traditional tune of "the babes in the wood." still, the so-called traditional (i am tired of writing the word) setting of "a poor soul sat sighing" is a very exquisite thing, and worthy of its place in any production of the play. but the purity of its _melodic line_ would probably stand out in contrast to its modern { } associates, if introduced into a modern version of the incidental music; so it is as well to leave it honourably alone, and write a new setting more in keeping with the rest of one's music. +dvorák's+ fine _othello_ overture is fairly well known in concert-halls, but is too long and elaborate for theatre use. it is scored for full orchestra with harp, and an important part for english horn. the opening is slow and _pianissimo_, muted strings giving out an almost hymn-like subject, occasionally broken in upon by anticipation of the real principal theme. this is developed very dramatically, and leads skilfully into the first subject proper--a very quick, bright, one-in-a-bar theme, with tragic suggestions in it. the second subject is of a more peaceful character, and the work slows down for a while. the long development is mostly very strenuous, but just before the end are some beautiful sad passages full of tragedy and pathos. the end is _fortissimo_ and _accelerando_, with a curious sequence of passing notes in the melody against a very rough chord, repeatedly struck by the rest of the orchestra. though a little long, this overture is full of dramatic and melodic interest, and is, so far as i know, the only composition directly founded on our dramatist by this composer. +raff's+ "othello" overture is a fine though uninspired work. +rossini's+ grand three-act opera, _otello_, libretto by the marquis berio, enjoyed a long run of popularity. it was first produced at the teatro del fondo in the autumn of . originally othello, roderigo, and iago were all great tenor parts; but later, rossini, realising the difficulty of getting three tenors of high standing to sing together, rewrote the part of iago for baritone. the work made an enormous impression, and was soon being played over all europe. in many ways it was much in advance of its time, the composer writing his own { } ornaments and embellishments, and often successfully investing them with real dramatic meaning. in the last act the librettist introduces a new character who sings a barcarolle to dante's celebrated words, "nessun maggior do lore." this is one of the most beautiful things in the work. it is for tenor. the librettist does not attempt to adapt shakespeare's tragedy, but is content to take enough plot and situations for a conventional italian libretto, and he succeeds in doing this very well. the overture is studiously conventional, but some of the numbers are very beautiful. the duet between desdemona and emilia, "vorrei che il tuo pensiero," is strikingly lovely; and the quintet in the finale of the first act is a fine piece of writing, the insistently-recurring ascending scale of brabantio to the words "il barbaro tenor" having a terrific effect. the duet, othello and iago, in the second act, is full of melodic beauty and dramatic moments. desdemona's great aria, "assisa a pie d'un salice," is really beautiful, and the end of the opera is truly dramatic. the whole work is unquestionably rossini's greatest opera, with the exception of _william tell_. +verdi's+ "lyrical drama in four acts," book by arrigo boito, is on a very different plane. here we have the finest opera-librettist, with the possible exception of richard wagner, collaborating with one of the greatest dramatic composers of all time on a subject by the dramatist of all time--and a stupendous work is the result. the comparative slowness of the sung as against the spoken word has necessitated much cutting, but with great technical skill boito has devised a wonderful book, as true to shakespeare as is possible in a libretto. the work was first produced at the scala, milan, february , . the english translation is by francis hueffer, for a long time musical critic of the _times_. the success was immediate, and the opera at once passed into the world-repertory. there is no overture, and the whole action of the piece { } takes place in cyprus. in the original production tamagno and maurel were othello and iago. after two and a half bars of _fortissimo_ orchestral music, the curtain rises on a tavern with an arbour. in the background is the sea. it is night, and a storm is raging. it is really shakespeare's act ii., scene . iago, cassio, montano, roderigo, and chorus are watching othello's ship, buffeting the waves, making slowly for harbour. eventually othello lands, and explains that the ocean has overwhelmed the turk, and the war is over. othello goes into the castle, and the chorus celebrate the happy news, the storm gradually dying away. no finer opening for an opera has ever been devised, and it is remarkable how the composer and librettist have managed to sustain this high level right through the four acts of the work. iago and roderigo, following closely the original text, conspire against othello, and the crowd make a bonfire in the background. cassio enters and joins a group of soldiers, and the crowd light the bonfire and sing a chorus in praise of fire generally; at the end of which iago tempts cassio to drink, and sings an enlargement of "and let me the canakin clink," the chorus joining in the refrain. cassio gets very drunk, and the shakespeare text is closely followed. towards the end of the fight othello has a magnificent entrance. he stops the strife with the words, "lay down your arms." after a tremendous _fortissimo_ chord on the orchestra there is a long and most significant pause. then othello has a beautiful but most distressing scene with cassio. all exit save desdemona and othello, who sing an exquisite and passionate love-duet, which finishes the first act. near the beginning of the second act iago has his first long soliloquy: very grim, but most dramatic. the duet between othello and iago that follows, in which iago sows the seeds of jealousy, carries the action forward swiftly, and the "green-ey'd monster" lines are impressively set. at the close of the scene a chorus is heard singing softly, "off," accompanied by two notes (tonic and dominant) on { } the cornamusa, or "bay-pipes." grove is silent on the subject of the cornamusa; but riemann, in his _dictionary of music_, says it is "an old italian kind of schalmey," "also similar to the word bagpipe": so that "bay-pipe" is obviously a misprint for bagpipe in my edition of this work. the schalmey or schalmei was the predecessor of the oboe. this accompaniment is added to by mandolins and guitars on the stage, and gradually the whole orchestra joins in. the chorus is peaceful and melodious, and makes a strong dramatic contrast to what has gone before and what follows. at the end of this chorus desdemona intercedes with othello in cassio's favour, and really fans the flame of jealousy; othello denounces desdemona, and the act ends with a dramatic duet between othello and his betrayer. the third act has a somewhat longer orchestral prelude than the first two, but the librettist gets to work very swiftly none the less. the handkerchief business is immediately begun. a long duet between desdemona and othello follows, the former very loving, the latter very ironical, the whole culminating in a magnificent passage in which othello sings the words, "i mistook you ... for that strumpet of venice who has married othello." desdemona is overwhelmed with horror, and othello pushes her out of the room. there is great trumpeting from all sides of the stage, and, to a chorus of welcome by the cypriotes, the venetian ambassadors enter, bringing othello's letter of recall. after a big chorus and ensemble, othello and his ancient are left alone; the former gets more and more excited, and finally swoons. iago jeers at the fallen othello, the chorus, behind, sings "hail, othello," and on this situation, to a great music of trumpets, the curtain falls. the fourth act opens with a short orchestral prelude on the subject of the "willow song," which comes a little later. the scene is desdemona's bedroom, and she and emilia are discovered. after a short dialogue, desdemona sings the "willow song." for sheer beauty this is the most exquisite thing in the work: it is a wonderful piece of pure lyrical writing. emilia says "good night," and { } exits. desdemona intones to a sustained accompaniment a "hail, mary," and then sings a beautiful prayer. she lies down on the bed, and long-sustained high chords are heard on the orchestra. these cease, and a sinister motive on the lowest bass notes is heard _pianissimo_. at the first note othello is seen standing on the threshold of a secret door. to a certain musical figure he lays his scimitar on the table. he stands before the candle, doubtful whether to blow it out or not; he goes to the bed; he stops himself; he raises the curtains and looks for a long time at the sleeping desdemona; he kisses her once, again, again, and she wakens. it must be understood that until desdemona wakens not a word is spoken, but the whole action is fitted to the most dramatic and speaking music, and the effect is awe-inspiring. he tells her to pray, as he does not want to kill her soul; and after a short duet he stifles her, and she utters a shriek. this arouses emilia, who knocks three times on the door--othello still gazing at desdemona--three times again, and yet again. each knock is as carefully written down in the score as if it were a part for a musical instrument--verdi is so thorough. finally othello opens the door. desdemona manages to gasp out, "i have been slain unjustly, i die here guiltless," and expires. emilia shouts for help, and ludovico, cassio, iago, and others enter. all is explained to the unfortunate othello, who suddenly stabs himself. as he is dying he sings the perfect words, "i kissed thee ere i killed thee;--no way but this, killing myself, to die upon a kiss." mr hueffer has slightly altered the last six words, but i have ventured to put back shakespeare's original text; in fact, i could not have put down the translator's variant. on these immortal words, sung _pianissimo_, the curtain falls on this great art-work. the perfect combination of verdi and boito, and the sympathy of both with shakespeare, are amongst the wonders of the world to me. the art of collaboration has never, to my knowledge, been brought to such a pitch of perfection except in the case of _falstaff_, the work of the { } same trio. george meredith, in one of his letters, dated , with reference to his friend professor w. g. plimmer, a well-known amateur musician, writes: "he has got a score of _othello_ to play to me; says it is wagner and water; would seem to say it is verdi-gris of wagner"; which shows that the professor may have been some sort of a musician, but was certainly an amateur. some critics endeavour to trace the influence of wagner on verdi's later operas, but i think it was the composer's own rich development in his later years that made his last two operas stand out so much from the rest of his operatic work. of course, wagner's influence on his contemporaries, especially the younger ones, was, and is still, enormous in germany. but though it is quite easy to trace the harmonic and melodic influence of wagner on humperdinck or strauss, i quite fail to see either influence on verdi. the two operas are the natural result of a glorious old age. +arnold krug+, born at hamburg, has written an interesting symphonic prologue to this play. after the usual slow introduction, we start away with a good, quick, syncopated theme for strings, soon added to by wood wind (evidently the fiery othello). then comes the gentle desdemona theme, which persists for a long time, after which the music gets really exciting. iago works othello up to a frenzy of jealousy; desdemona's gentle explanations are overborne. after a strong climax her end comes, followed shortly afterwards by othello's. the coda is a short _morendo_ episode, in the major, and very peaceful. though this work is by no manner of means great, it is not without interest, and it is one of the few purely abstract compositions we have on this play. +zdenko fibich+, who has composed a very interesting symphonic poem on the theme, was a leader of the "young czech" musical movement. he was born on december , , at seborschity, near tschlau, and was taught music at prague and leipsic. this is his first symphonic { } poem, but it is a very interesting example of the composer's method. though there is no definite programme, fibich quotes several passages from the play to indicate his intentions. the first is:-- ... rude am i in my speech, and little bless'd with the set phrase of peace. here there is a fanfare for trumpets and horns working into a strong, rough military march. music descriptive of othello's many adventures follows, until he says:-- this only is the witchcraft i have us'd-- here comes the lady; let her witness it. then the desdemona melody, oboe solo, harp, and strings, makes its appearance. this is really a beautiful theme, perfectly orchestrated, and it just expresses desdemona's character. her words, written in the score, are: "i saw othello's visage in his mind; and to his honours and his valiant parts did i my soul and fortunes consecrate." presently comes iago with his "jealousy" _motif_, which struggles for a long time with desdemona's "innocent" theme, but finally wins. the music is intensely dramatic here: the clash of wills, iago's and othello's, and the sweet personality of desdemona, all struggling for predominance. finally the trombone and tuba blaze out, _fortissimo_ and _grandioso_, the jealousy theme in octaves. the music dies away, and for the last time the desdemona melody is heard very _piano_. four short, violently _forte_ bars follow (the brass having the theme), and the work ends with a solo _pianissimo_ chord on the harp. the end is most curious, such an immense amount of meaning being got into the last fifteen bars. the whole work makes a fine piece of vivid orchestral tone-painting, and the music distinctly derives from shakespeare's text, and is worthy of it. the last words quoted are othello's: "i kissed thee ere i killed thee;--no way but this, killing myself, to die upon a kiss." { } sir herbert tree commissioned +samuel coleridge taylor+ to write the music for his revival of _othello_ at his majesty's. the composer has made a suite for orchestra out of the numbers written for this production. the first section is called just a dance. this is strictly oriental in character, full of movement and excitement. the second number is a "children's intermezzo," and is very simple in character. no touch of the orient here. no. is a funeral march in g minor, mostly written on two ground basses, one for the march and one for the trio. it is a fine broad movement, working up to a great climax in the middle and dying away very effectively afterwards. the setting of the famous "willow song" is simple and beautiful. { } king richard iii the play of _richard iii._ has not attracted musicians. i can only trace one opera founded on it--that by the french composer, +gervais bernard salvayre+, produced at petrograd. this work was a dead failure, its chief faults--noisiness and an amalgamation of different styles, from meyerbeer to verdi--being so prominent that it was only performed a few times. concerning two other works, which i have not been able to find, a few bare _data_ are given below. of incidental music, specially composed, much has been written, but most of it is unimportant. many producers seem to have been content with a funeral march and a liberal use of fanfares; but the late richard mansfield, the anglo-american actor-manager, had the good sense to commission +edward german+ to compose the music for his production at the globe in , and the result is a fine overture and some very effective and appropriate incidental music. the overture is in strict form. it opens _maestoso_, the richard iii. theme being given out _forte_. it is a sinister subject, well suited to the character shakespeare drew, if not in agreement with our modern whitewashing historians. after this short introduction the overture proper starts, with richard's _motif_ on the violins, _allegro molto_, accompanied by _tremolo_ strings. this is worked up to a fine _fortissimo_, and prepares the way for the second theme, "the princes." here we have a tender melody, again suited to the author's picture of the characters, but not at all { } like the horrible little prigs one generally sees in these parts in the theatre. personally i have every sympathy with richard for killing the princes whenever i see them on the stage! this theme is worked up to a fine climax, and then the very clever development begins. the subjects are well mixed and blended, and the overture comes to an end in a very brilliant manner. in the incidental music the first number is the king henry theme, a plaintive minor melody; then the lady anne _motif_, also plaintive, but not minor. the lord mayor theme is a mock dignified march, marked "quaintly" in the score. the number called "on the way to chertsey" is in the "old english style," and foreshadows the famous "henry viii. dances" that followed. "in the tower" is naturally sombre, very ominous and fateful. the "entrance of the young duke of york" is a pretty, boyish, scherzo-like little number; and "in baynard castle" is a serious, organ-like piece of music all on a pedal, and rather like a conventional postlude. "richmond's march" is also serious, and is marked "religiose," an allusion to his well-known habit of praying! the processional march, played as queen elizabeth and train enter the tower, is a fine, pompous, thoroughly english march, as is fitting for the occasion; and the "intermezzo funèbre," played as king henry's funeral procession approaches, is all its name promises. the work ends with a short "victory theme." this score, which was the first incidental music written by edward german, then musical director at the globe, made quite a sensation, and abundantly justified mansfield's selection of his composer. +frederick smetana+, born march , , perhaps the greatest bohemian musician, wrote a great symphonic poem on this play. it is a very elaborate work and laid out for a very large orchestra. the composer gives no definite programme, but the music throughout is very dramatic and full of tragic interest. after a few quiet introductory { } bars the basses give out the principal theme quietly, but working quickly up to a _fortissimo_. this subject, with slight changes, dominates the entire work; it is a grim, characteristic, sinister theme, and a splendid one to develop. almost immediately it has been announced the answering _motif_, plaintive and melodious, follows, and for a long time these are the only subjects used. after a good working-up, a four-note figure of the theme is taken by itself and developed into a great march tune, typical of the king in his pomp. after this, one new subject is introduced--a breathless, syncopated, _agitato_ phrase, which, worked up with the other theme, develops into a magnificent coda, marked "vittorioso" in the score--victory for richmond, i suppose. the last few bars are again grim, the same four notes from richard's theme broken in upon by two sharp _fortissimo_ chords. this is indeed a welcome addition to our scanty stock of _richard iii._ music. it is a symphonic poem in the grand manner, and worthy to stand with the greatest works in that class. this work was first performed in england at the first henschel concert, st james's hall, november , . all that is known of an opera bearing the impressive title of _ricardus impius, angliæ rex, ab henrico richmondæ comite vita simul et regno exitus_, is that it was a drama in latin, music by jean d'eberlin, and was produced by the students of the benedictine convent at salzburg on september , . the composer, +johann ernst eberlin+, was born at jettingen, bavaria, , and died at salzburg, austria, in . he was court organist to the prince bishop of the latter town, and chief organist to the cathedral. he composed an immense amount of church and organ music. the other work unknown to me is +canepa's+ _riccardo iii._ (milan, ). { } romeo and juliet it is a curious fact that, though _romeo and juliet_ contains more exquisite lyrical passages than almost any other play of shakespeare, there is no song or lyric in it. anyone except romeo would have hired a quartet, or anyway, one singer, to serenade juliet under her balcony; but she remains unserenaded. even the four lines beginning "when griping grief" (sung by peter in act iv., scene ) are not shakespeare's, but quoted by him from richard edwards's _paradise of daintee devices_, and sung to a so-called traditional tune. but if there is no song like "sigh no more, ladies," or "who is sylvia?", there is little doubt that a greater number of composers have been inspired (more or less) by this tragedy than by any other of shakespeare's subjects if we except _hamlet_. a mere list of the names is imposing. the most popular work is, no doubt, gounod's opera _roméo et juliette_. the book, which adheres fairly closely to the original play, is by barbier and carré, and the work was first performed at the lyrique, paris, on april , . the characters are the same as those of shakespeare's play, with the addition of stephano, page to romeo (mez. sop.), and gregorio, a watchman. the waltz in act i. is a very popular _coloratura_ soprano song, but is not in the least the kind of thing the real capulet would have allowed the real juliet to sing to his guests. mercutio's queen mab scena is very effective, as are the balcony duet and the prelude to the fifth act. but the most successful and to my mind the most shakespearian character in the whole opera is friar laurence, a conception full of dignity and pathos. pol plançon was { } magnificent in this part. taken altogether, gounod has turned out a very successful french grand opera, which will hold its place in opera repertories for many years to come. the only other opera on this story that has had any great success is +bellini's+ work in three acts, _i capuletti ed i montecchi_, book by romani, produced at venice, march , . it is a real bellini, full of florid arias, word repetitions, bravura passages, cadenzas, and all the vocal gymnastics so beloved of his period; but the music, as a whole, would fit any story quite as badly as it does that of romeo and juliet. the overture is rather curious. the first subject, second subject, development, recapitulation, and coda are all in the same key, that of d major. the effect is overwhelming. it is a perfect tonic orgy. an amusing account of this opera is given by berlioz in his _autobiography_. during the time he held the prix de rome, passing through florence, he heard some strangers at a _table d'hôte_ talking of bellini's _montecchi_, which was soon to be given. he writes: "not only did they praise the music, but also the libretto. italians as a rule care so little for the words of an opera that i was surprised, and thought--at last i shall hear an opera worthy of that glorious play. what a subject it is! simply made for music. the ball at capulet's house, where young romeo first sees his dearly loved one; the street fight at which tybalt presides, patron of anger and revenge; that indescribable night-scene at juliet's balcony; the witty sallies of mercutio; the prattle of the nurse; the solemnity of the friar trying to soothe the conflicting elements; the awful catastrophe; and the reconciliation of the rival families over the bodies of the ill-fated lovers. i hurried to the pergola theatre. what a disappointment! no ball, no mercutio, no babbling nurse, no balcony scene, no shakespeare! and romeo sung by a small _thin_ woman, juliet by a tall stout one. why, in the name of all things musical--why?" { } i will just enumerate the remainder of the operatic settings, giving date and place of production and names of composer and librettist. it is rather a formidable list, but one never hears any of the works mentioned, save those of steibelt and vaccaj, at the outside; and as for bellini's version, it would scarcely be possible to hear it anywhere out of italy. _romeo e giulietta_, a serious opera in three acts, by +zingarelli+, was composed in milan and first performed in that city ( ). it was produced in paris in , and had some success. nicolò antonio zingarelli was born in naples, . he was celebrated in his lifetime, and was thought much of by haydn, who prophesied a great career for him. according to coppa, his librettist, he wrote the opera in "forty hours less than ten days." he composed a cantata for the birmingham festival of , and, as he could not take it to england himself, entrusted it to his pupil costa. this was michael costa's first introduction to the english public. hence the philharmonic pitch and loud orchestral playing from which we suffered for so many years. the two most celebrated numbers in the opera are the duet "dunque mio ben" for soprano and contralto, and the air "ombra adorata aspetta." the emperor napoleon i. was unable to hide his emotion when he heard this song, especially when sung by crescentini (romeo); who achieved so great a success with this melody that he persuaded himself that he was the real composer. this fable obtained, very unjustly, some credence from the general public. the last time the emperor heard crescentini sing this song he was so affected that he sent him from his own breast the order of the iron crown, and gave the composer an order for a mass for the imperial chapel that should not last longer than twenty minutes. he had it rehearsed in his presence, and was so pleased that he gave the musician francs. zingarelli was an enormously productive composer, and wrote a great number of operas, as well as quantities of church and chamber music, but one { } seldom hears his name now. his music is still sung in provincial catholic churches. _roméo et juliette_, an opera in three acts, book by m. de ségur, music by +daniel steibelt+, was produced at the theatre feydeau, , just four months after the production of a work on the same subject by monnel and dalayrac, _all for love_, or _roméo et juliette_. in spite of this clashing, the opera was a success. it had been refused by the academy of music, so the authors cut the recitatives, put in prose dialogue, and produced the piece as an _opéra comique_. the _moniteur_ of september describes the music as "learned, but laboured and ugly." however, the public loved it, and other critics say it had power and originality and distinguished voluptuous melody. juliette's song, "the calm of the night," and the quartet, "graces, virtues," held their own for a long time; as did the funeral chorus at the end of the second act. in , at the théâtre italien de paris, in milan, +nicolò vaccaj+ produced his opera on the same subject. it is one of the composer's best efforts, the finest scene being that at the tomb. the air, "ah, se tu dormi svegliati," is pathetic and passionate. the last act of this work is often substituted for the last act of the bellini opera already dealt with, as the latter composer's fourth act is very weak. nicolò vaccaj was born at tolentino in . he spent some years in london, where he was a very successful singing teacher. he wrote a great amount of music, but none of it is very distinguished. the +marquis richard d'ivry+ composed an opera on this subject, produced in paris in . he was a gifted amateur, born, february , , at beaune (côte-d'or), and composed several other operas. this one was dedicated to edward vii. when he was prince of wales, and was called _les amants de verone_, a lyric drama in five acts, words and music by d'ivry. the music, not at all { } ambitious, is tuneful and simple. the most important number is the farewell duet between romeo and juliet in the second act. a critic, writing of this work, says: "it is a pity that the author has not corrected in his poem those vulgar expressions that disfigure it, and in his music those old-fashioned formulas (_peu nouvelles_)." as i have only the piano solo copy before me, i cannot speak on the first complaint; but on the second i agree with the critic. the work is amateurish and old-fashioned, often in the abusive sense of the word, but it is certainly melodious and generally unpretentious. each act has quite a pretty and effective prelude, and the occasional dances are graceful. +pietro carlo guglielmi's+ opera on this play, _romeo e giulietta_, was produced in london in . the composer was born at naples in . there are several detached numbers in the british museum library. they are just the ordinary italian opera music of the time. the wonder of the story does not seem to have made the slightest impression on the composer, who proceeds calmly on his conventional way, after one interesting burst of originality: he actually makes romeo a bass baritone! after this one is not so surprised to find juliet a deep mezzo, nearly a contralto. to make up for the lack of tenor interest, the part of paris is made quite important, and among other numbers he is given a very effective duet with juliet. one of juliet's songs is described as "the favourite prayer," and is quite a good example of the conventional operatic music of the period; as is romeo's song with chorus, in which he strives to quiet the street-quarrel between the rival houses. the love duets with juliet are thoroughly vocal; and the trios, called "favourite" again, for the lovers and the friar, and for bianca and the lovers, are pretty melodious stuff, but utterly lacking any sense of drama. of the non-operatic works on this subject, +berlioz's+ symphony _romeo and juliet_ is by far the greatest. { } during the six years that hector berlioz was a student at the paris conservatoire, the two influences that affected him and his work most, according to his own memoirs, were those of william shakespeare and ludwig van beethoven. it is interesting and strange that perhaps the greatest of all french musicians should have been so profoundly moved by the plays of an english poet and the music of a dutch musician. i speak of beethoven here intentionally as dutch, because his father was dutch, and had only lived in germany two years when beethoven was born; and i consider that a man takes his nationality from his father and not from his actual birthplace. beethoven could certainly have played cricket for the rhineland on a strict birth qualification; but he was distinctly of dutch blood, and took the precaution of leaving germany for austria as soon as he could. finally came another influence to drive berlioz further into the arms of shakespeare but not of beethoven--also a foreign one, that of henrietta smithson, the irish actress. she was playing shakespeare heroines at the odeon early in . he fell madly in love with her and went to see her whenever she played, just as our modern gilded youths haunt the stalls every night to see their favourite musical-comedy actress; the only difference being that berlioz saw his dear one in many different and exquisite characters, while our youths hear their favourites say the same few lines or sing the same little song every night of the year. berlioz composed music for her and gave concerts of his own compositions in her honour (the latter must have bored her very much, judging from the attitude of the average actress towards serious music--and miss smithson, from all accounts, was not a great actress); and finally he married her. they lived together as unhappily as possible for several years, and then parted; but at least one great art work was the result of their union: i mean the fifth symphony. "roméo et juliette, symphonic dramatique avec choeurs, solos de chant, et prologue en récitatif choral, op. ," to give it its full title, was finished in , produced in at the conservatoire, and { } repeated three times within a short period. the work had a very mixed reception. berlioz was never popular in paris or among his own countrymen; but all admitted that the general conception was colossal. it is now regarded as a classic throughout the world, but it is a big undertaking to produce. little bits of it "would never please" as _entr'actes_ or incidental music to a production of the play in london. the words are by berlioz, inspired by shakespeare, and versified by emil deschamps; and the work is dedicated to paganini, who a little earlier had presented berlioz with twenty thousand francs to show his admiration for the earlier symphonie fantastique. berlioz says in his autobiography: "i remember in one of my campagna rides with mendelssohn (this was during his tenure of the prix de rome) expressing my surprise that no one had ever written a scherzo on shakespeare's sparkling little poem, _queen mab_. he, too, was surprised, and i was very sorry i had put the idea into his head. for years i lived in dread that he had used it: for he would have made it impossible, or at any rate very risky, for anyone to attempt to do it after him. luckily he forgot." this was a very generous tribute to mendelssohn's power as a fairy-music composer, coming from a musician in no very great sympathy with his style. this symphony is scored for a very large orchestra. the first movement consists of a fine musical imitation of a street fight, culminating in the entrance of the prince (on the full bass), who stops the fight. then comes a choral prologue for contraltos and basses, giving a rough idea of the plot. then a queen mab scene for tenor and chorus, and a great concert and ball given at the capulets'. this finishes the second part. the third part is the love scene (balcony scene as we call it) in capulet's garden. there is some very exquisite love-music here; and the whole movement, which is really the so-called "slow movement" of the conventional symphony, is very beautiful. the fourth section (scherzo) is called "queen mab," and is one of those delicate, gossamer, fairylike works in which berlioz { } so excels. then come choral music for the funeral cortege of juliet, and romeo's invocation at the tomb of the capulets. the finale takes place in the graveyard: montagues and capulets are both there, friar laurence explains everything, and there is reconciliation between the rival houses, ending in their swearing over the graves to be friends for ever. i know this is a very bald account. the work should be heard to be understood fairly; but a very interesting couple of hours can be spent by a musician on the full score of this work in the british museum reading-room. the text is given in both french and german. wagner, in his letters from paris, , says of berlioz: "he has no friend deemed worthy to be asked for counsel, none he would permit to draw his notice to this or that sin against form in his works. in regard to this, i was filled with regret by a hearing of his symphony, _roméo et juliette_. amid the most brilliant inventions, this work is heaped with such a mass of trash and solecisms that i could not repress the wish that berlioz had shown this composition before performance to some such man as cherubini, who, without doing its originality the slightest harm, would certainly have had the wit to rid it of a quantity of disfigurements.... wherefore berlioz will always remain imperfect, and, maybe, shine as nothing but a transient marvel." there is some sound though exaggerated criticism in these sentences; but wagner could not have known on what sort of terms cherubini and berlioz were. that the latter could submit a work for correction to the former is impossible for anyone knowing anything about their personal and artistic relations to consider for a moment. still, the personal criticism of one great composer by another is always interesting and informing. tschaikowsky's overture-fantaisie, _roméo et juliette_, is scored for an ordinary symphony orchestra with horn and harp. it is very modern and very emotional, and at times almost hysterical. the work begins in a quasi-organ manner, but the first subject is very bold. whether { } it is to express montague or capulet i don't know. it seems too robust to express my idea of romeo, but it may be tschaikowsky's. the second subject is obviously juliet, and the two themes are developed to the end, which, curiously enough, for the last few bars is quite lively. the work makes a very interesting contrast to berlioz, but i suspect that the great frenchman had a deeper insight into shakespeare's poem than the russian. tschaikowsky's work could be done without any mention of romeo and juliet or shakespeare; berlioz's could not. +joseph joachim raff+, a composer whose name is unfortunately mostly associated with the well-known or notorious cavatina, is a much underrated man. he was an indefatigable worker and an outstanding example of the fatuity of carlyle's definition of genius. undoubtedly raff was no genius, but he was a composer of far from common ability. his four shakespearian overtures, of which the one to _romeo and juliet_ is the first, are all most interesting. they are not absolute programme music. they give the idea more than the story, but are none the worse for that. the romeo overture opens with a fine broad theme for the horns, swiftly followed by a somewhat suave melody for the strings, the other instruments gradually joining in. the middle part is quite tragic, and the whole is carried out to a well-constructed finish. without achieving great music, raff rises to certain heights in this overture. +hugo pierson's+ concert overture _romeo and juliet_, op. , is very interesting, but not so much so as his symphonic poem _macbeth_, which i described at some length in an earlier section. composed for a large orchestra, it opens with a short _allegro appassionato_ introduction; but this soon changes to a graceful theme typical of the luxurious life of verona, broken in upon occasionally by suggestion of the hate between the rival houses of montague and capulet. this is followed by an amorous subject typical of romeo, and by a gay theme for the great dance. the { } balcony scene is beautifully portrayed. the remainder of the music becomes high tragedy, and it remains so till the very end. the overture is quite short and not so difficult as most of pierson's work, and it is full of melody and broad orchestral effects. the themes are all original, as is their treatment, and the tonality is interesting though difficult to follow. +edward german+ composed the whole of the music for forbes-robertson's production of _romeo and juliet_ at the lyceum, september , and also dedicated it to him. it is a complete piece of work, admirably carried out and suited for the occasion. it opens with a fine sombre prelude, showing the atmosphere of hate which was brooding over the otherwise pleasant town of verona. this feeling of hate and the love-music are the two most important themes in the prelude, which finishes up with six bars, _religioso_, to suggest the tomb. for the remainder of the music mr german has himself made a selection of themes containing all that is of the most importance. the curtain music for the first act is a broad theme in common time, which serves to open the scene and is otherwise harmless. then comes the peter _motif_--a good old english comedy theme with an excellent descending bass. the march which follows is a thoroughly good old english march of the kind to which mr german has accustomed us. the capulets' reception music and juliet's theme (i am quoting mr german) are graceful six-eight numbers, and if taken a little faster than marked would make excellent old english country dances. even at the proper time one expects to see shepherds, not great ladies and gentlemen. the love _motif_ is sombre enough--mr german never seems to give his lovers time to be happy; but the nurse theme is a real bit of german at his best, and is very welcome. the music for paris at the tomb of juliet is necessarily sad, and the death theme, the last number, is quite in keeping with the end of shakespeare's tragedy. there is a charming nocturne which makes a very effective { } _entr'acte_, delicately scored and very original. the pastoral, again, is a delightful composition. but the best number, to my mind, is the pavane. here mr german has got the real romeo-juliet-shakespeare atmosphere, and in this simple dance has done more to express in music what shakespeare was showing to us than in his complicated prelude or in the rest of the incidental music. this pavane is a real gem. +joseph holbrooke's+ poem for chorus and orchestra, _queen mab_, was first performed at the leeds festival in . the chorus part is _ad lib._, but if properly performed makes a very effective addition to the fairly large orchestra that mr holbrooke has scored for. the opening is in the guise of a scherzo, very brilliant and difficult; then comes a long slow episode; then much development; and finally the entrance of the chorus. the time is _adagio_, and the words begin, "arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon," ending six lines afterwards. these lines are repeated again and again, quite in the so-called old-fashioned style; the chorus dies away; and the orchestra finishes the work with a coda _fortissimo_. queen mab has long since disappeared. +johann severin svendsen+, born , christiania, wrote a _romeo and juliet_ overture, but there is no copy of it in the british museum. the following operas are mentioned in mr barclay squire's interesting article on shakespearian operas, from the book _homage to shakespeare_, . as they more or less complete the list, i mention them; but i cannot find copies of them or any reference as to their comparative merits, or otherwise:--dramma per musica, in acts, pub. berlin in , with no composer's name; opera by benda, gotha, ; t. g. schwanenberg, leipzig, ; l. marescalchi, rome, ; von rumling, munich, ; porta, paris, ; schuster, vienna, { } . this article gives a fairly complete list of the music inspired by our play. it seems curious that with so magnificent a theme only one composer--berlioz, of course--should have risen to absolutely supreme heights. i suppose his work is performed very occasionally; whereas gounod's is in every operatic repertory in the world. { } the taming of the shrew this play seems, on the whole, to have been very much avoided by musicians. there must be a certain amount of music in any work of shakespeare, but producers appear to have been content to use old stuff and adapt it for this piece. +noel johnson+ wrote some very pretty music for the asche-brayton production; but sir frank benson's version had hardly any music in it: just a dance (the beautiful rigadoon, by rameau), a gavotte by handel, and a song by sir henry bishop, "should he upbraid"--words not from the _shrew_, nor even by shakespeare. a musical version, chiefly by +braham+ and +t. s. cooke+, was produced in london in . but the really important work on the subject is +hermann goetz's+ opera, _der widerspenstigen zähmung_, produced at mannheim, , book by joseph victor erdmann. this work is goetz's only complete opera, as, unfortunately for music, he died at the early age of thirty-five, in the height of his powers. his _taming of the shrew_ is still in the repertory of the german opera-houses. the characters have the same names as in the play--katharina and bianca, sopranos; hortensio and lucentio, bass and tenor; baptista and grumio, basses; the tailor, tenor; and petruchio, baritone. the work begins with a full concert overture, a capital number, which would make an excellent opening for any production of the play. the themes are bold, striking, and original, though the composer shows throughout the { } strong influence of schumann. the opera is in four acts, the first taking place in a street outside baptista's house. lucentio, with guitar, is singing a sentimental ballad, occasionally interrupted by baptista's servants, who rush from the house singing "the devil is loose in the house." baptista asks them what is the matter, and the servants at once give notice on account of katharina's outrageous behaviour. there is nothing much of shakespeare in this act, but it makes a brilliant opening to the opera. katharina then comes on the balcony and tells the people how good she is going to be. the neighbours all join in, and there is a beautiful bit of choral work for principals, neighbours, and chorus. all exit except lucentio; the chorus in the house sing an unaccompanied sort of evening hymn, the music dies away, the lights in baptista's house go out, and lucentio serenades bianca. presently she appears on the balcony, and they sing a beautiful love duet, say good-night, and exit. hortensio arrives to serenade her also, and quarrels with lucentio, and the pair of them make such a noise that they waken poor old baptista, who appears at the house door in his dressing-gown, with a light, still wondering if he will ever get any peace. petruchio enters to a very blustering tune (the petruchio _motif_, i call it). they make themselves known to each other, and petruchio, in a beautiful and melodious song, describes his deeds in the past, just as in the play, and says what a poor opinion he has of the power of a woman's tongue. the act ends very happily, with petruchio promising to woo and win katharina. the second act starts with a short prelude, _sostenuto_ and slow, and as the curtain goes up katharina and bianca begin their quarrel scene, mostly on the former's part. bianca produces a guitar and plays, while her sister says she will live and die a maid. petruchio enters and woos the shrew in a dramatic duet, and the act closes with a fine _ensemble_ for the principals. the third act opens, after hardly any orchestral introduction, with a quartet for bianca, lucentio, hortensio, { } and baptista, lamenting the absence of the bridegroom. katharina joins in, very scornful about him, and the wedding guests enter, singing how difficult it is to have a wedding without a bridegroom. then comes the familiar lesson scene. lucentio sings the first lines of the first book of the _Æneid_, with his own additions. hortensio also sings to his guitar--a method of music-teaching that even bianca can see through; and then baptista enters, and, in a very lively number, gives the news of petruchio's return. he arrives, more bluff and hearty than ever, clad in eccentric clothes, and hurries his bride-to-be to the church. the domestics of baptista's house sing a chorus, showing how glad they are that katharina is finally married and got rid of. the bridal party returns, and petruchio announces his intention of departing at once. the close of the act must be very effective, according to the stage directions, when properly done. grumio brings in two horses. petruchio springs on one, grumio rides off on the second, the chorus and principals singing lustily the while. the fourth and last act opens with a male chorus, petruchio's servants being bullied by grumio, awaiting their master's return. the bridal pair make a fine entrance, and, as in the play, the husband finds fault with all the food, and sends it away. katharina is left alone, and sings a beautiful and pathetic soliloquy on her difficult position. grumio introduces the tailor, and there is a very amusing quartet for the four. after this the action is much hurried. the changed katharina arrives at her father's house; her father congratulates his son-in-law on the admirable way in which he has reformed katharina; everyone is pleased, especially the servants of baptista, and the whole work ends with a joyous _ensemble_, making a very brilliant close to the opera. the opera was refused by innumerable managers, but was finally staged by ernst frank at mannheim, , where its success was immediate and decisive. the next year it was performed at vienna, leipsic, berlin, and other { } german towns, and it was also produced in london at a matinée at drury lane, october , . in it was revived by the carl rosa company at her majesty's, minnie hauk taking the part of katharina. it very well deserves a revival at the present day. every note of it would be fresh to nine hundred and ninety-nine opera-goers out of a thousand. all the parts are good, and ample scope is given for brilliant singing. { } the tempest of all the plays _the tempest_ has been most popular with musicians. the earliest music to _the tempest_ is generally believed to be by +robert johnson+, who wrote settings of "where the bee sucks" and "full fathom five." the _encyclopædia britannica_ is quite definite on the subject; but as johnson was born in , and shakespeare died in , and had left off writing plays for several years before his death, johnson must, as i said in the introduction, have been something of a musical prodigy. the next in order seems to be +matthew locke's+ instrumental music to an operatic version of _the tempest_ (based on dryden-davenant), played in london in . this work was revived and revised with additional numbers by +henry purcell+ in . the exquisite "come unto these yellow sands" was one of the additional numbers. in both of these adaptations the words are very much altered, or "improved," as the theatre people of the time thought; but a very good hotch-potch version can be made by taking the best numbers mentioned, scoring them lightly, and having them sung simply and not operatically. +arne's+ "where the bee sucks" is his best work, and, i think, the most beautiful of all the settings. +john christopher smith+, handel's pupil and amanuensis, composed two operas on _the tempest_, one of which was produced in london in . the overture is the usual { } one of the period; but ariel's storm song, which opens the first act, beginning with a long orchestral prelude, is a very original piece of work. it is a dramatic recitative with elaborate orchestral accompaniment to the words, slightly adapted, from ariel's speech to prospero in act i., scene . the following numbers have no connection with shakespeare's play, a delightful setting of "come unto these yellow sands," for ariel, being the next shakespearian lyric taken--this for high soprano with strings, very florid but melodious; and the music for "full fathom five" is also very much in keeping with the words. caliban (baritone) sings "no more dams i'll make for fish" to a rollicking tune, and follows it with a curious song called "the owl is abroad." the words are not by shakespeare, but it is said that it was a great favourite with audiences. ariel's song, "before you can say come and go," is very gracefully set, and has a charming _obbligato_ part for the violin; but prospero's recitative, "now doth my project gather to a head," is shakespeare's blank verse set to music. the duet ends peacefully and happily with a duet for ferdinand and miranda about "gentle love, innocence, and chaste desire." on the whole the work is disappointing. one could have done with a little more shakespeare and less of christopher smith's own librettist; but it contains much charming music, some of which would sound very fresh if revived now. +john davy+, a west-countryman, born at exeter, , composed an overture and other music for _the tempest_. it is dedicated to the memory of john philip kemble, and includes songs by arne, purcell, and linley. the overture is a very simple affair, bringing in purcell's "where the bee sucks" and "come unto these yellow sands," and is, therefore, not so independent of the rest of the music as the overture of this period usually is. after the overture comes +linley's+ graceful setting of "o, bid your faithful ariel fly," sung in prospero's cave { } by ariel (the words by dr laurence). then follows a very simple so-called symphony by davy, all very quiet and peaceful, going into linley's horrible "storm chorus." christopher smith's caliban song is introduced after the "storm"--"no more dams i'll make for fish," which has a very cheerful tune; and purcell's beautiful settings of "come unto these yellow sands" and "full fathom five" follow. between acts i. and ii. davy introduced a symphony by himself, consisting of a very simple largo, followed by an equally simple rondo. the song and chorus that follow are by purcell, to words by dryden, beginning "king fortune smiles," which, like the next song by the same authors, are too interesting to pass over in silence, though neither has any real connection with shakespeare. the music for the appearance of fairies is by purcell, to words by dryden, "where does the black fiend ambition reside?", and is for two bass voices and chorus, with an interesting solo bassoon part. the opening of the third act consists of a very pretty symphony by davy, in the form of an air with variations. the only musical number in this act consists of a song, very grotesque in style, for caliban, words by ben jonson, music by christopher smith. the prelude to the fourth act is in march rhythm, a pleasant, cheerful piece of music, composed by davy. the setting of "where the bee sucks" is arne's delightful one, and is sung by ariel, repeated by a quartet, with added words and the music much elaborated, while, according to the stage directions, ariel and the spirits ascend into the sky. this is the last number, but the untiring linley has added an appendix consisting of two songs for ariel, "while you here do snoring lie" and "ere you can say come and go," and a duet for juno and ceres, entitled "honour, riches, marriage, blessing"; all with words by shakespeare from this play--quite a concession on the part of a composer of this period, especially of t. linley himself. between r. johnson's time and the present day i can { } trace twenty operas on this subject, but none of them has held the stage. the only modern one that was produced in london seems to be +halévy's+ two-act opera _la tempesta_, book by scribe, produced at her majesty's in italian. the story of how this work came to be composed is rather interesting. in october , mendelssohn gave a grand concert at munich, and was so successful that he received a commission to compose an opera for the munich theatre. he consulted with immerman as to the libretto, and arranged with him for one founded on _the tempest_. the composer and librettist, however, soon quarrelled, and the opera scheme lay dormant for some time. about the middle of october mendelssohn was in communication with lumley, lessee of her majesty's, for an opera, libretto by scribe, on the same subject. mendelssohn did not like this libretto, and finally turned it down; and jacques françois fromental elias, "a jew whose real name was levy," as grove's _dictionary_ prettily phrases it, then set the libretto. halévy was born in paris, , and studied at the conservatoire under cherubini. having won the second prize twice, he finally carried off the grand prix de rome itself. the opera was produced at her majesty's, london, on june , , and made an enormous success. the first act is opened by a chorus of air spirits, who obey the orders of ariel. sleeping sylphs are wakened, and make together a most poetic choreographic effect, which is repeated again in the first tableau summoned by prospero. carlotta grisi acted with great success as ariel in this work, and lablache was terrible and grotesque, though sometimes tender, as caliban. sontag was the miranda, and the whole performance was conducted by our own michael balfe. the most popular numbers in the score were the cavatina, "parmi una voce mormore"; the duet, "s' odio, orror di me non hai"; and the finale to the second act, which is full of movement and originality. a lyrical drama, after shakespeare, by armand silvestre { } and pierre berton, music by +victor alphonse duvernoy+, was produced in the salle du chatelet on november , . this remarkable work won the grand prix for musical composition offered every two years by the town of paris. it obtained a very well-deserved success at the first public performance for its great qualities of form and style. much of the opera was greatly applauded, especially the duet of ferdinand and miranda, "parle encore, que ta voix m'enivre," the dramatic trio, "courbe-toi, vaincu sous la chaîne," the very original song of caliban, the symphonic music descriptive of miranda's sleep, the prelude to the third act, and the pretty ballet air of the sylphs. larousse, the musical historian, says that it is a truly interesting work, and certainly produces a grand effect on the stage. the composer of this opera was born in paris, . +zdenko fibich's+ three-act opera, _boûre_, or _der sturm_ ( ), is a recent opera on this subject, and is by far the most modern in treatment. all shakespeare's principal characters are present, and the libretto is very ingenious. there is no overture proper, but a fairly long orchestral introduction opens the first act; it consists of very furious storm music, with prospero's principal theme hammered out on the bass brass. as the curtain rises, prospero and miranda are discovered watching the storm; the storm dies away, and miranda, in a very melodious passage, asks her father all about it, and what has happened to the sailors and the ship which they have both seen in great difficulties. in a very dignified quasi-recitative passage prospero tells her that the storm is of his own planning, and he then relates much of the story of his life and wrongs. though long, the orchestral accompaniment to this is so interesting and varied that no one could be bored by it. at the end prospero puts miranda to sleep, and after a beautiful orchestral interlude summons ariel, who tells him in charming musical phrase what she has done with ship and sailors, and then exits to a delicate orchestral { } passage for wood wind. prospero awakes miranda, and sends her into his cave; then he calls for caliban, who presently appears to a grotesque tune played on the basses. to characteristic music he grumbles at his perpetual labour, till prospero, angry, sends him off. ariel and a spirit chorus now lure alonzo and the rest, by their singing, to where prospero is, and totally bewilder them; a very beautiful _ensemble_ follows for chorus and principals, which finishes on the exit of all except prospero and miranda. ariel returns bringing ferdinand, whom miranda recognises as the being she had seen in her dream. ariel sings a very pretty adaptation of "full fathom five," and the two lovers-to-be make friends, prospero looking on unseen. suddenly prospero breaks in upon them very angrily, and displays to ferdinand some of his miraculous powers, causing lightning and thunder, and finally paralysing him. this is all done to a most effective and appropriate setting, and the curtain falls on the first act to a fine dramatic situation, much heightened by excellent music. the second act opens with a fairly long orchestral prelude; it is on a dominant pedal, fifty-five bars in length, and depicts the depths of a tropical forest. ferdinand sings, and is presently joined by miranda. now we have a really amusing comedy scene for trinculo, stephano, and caliban, the last-named having an excellent grotesque song, in which the others join. the drinking scene is very well set to music, the part of caliban being strongly marked and individual. ariel breaks in on this festive scene with her spirit chorus, and the comedians exit. gonzalo and the other nobles enter, and, as in the play, spirits bring mysterious food and drink, and strange music is everywhere heard. all this is capitally done. ariel, in a dramatic manner, denounces them all as "men of sin." prospero then enters, to a fine _maestoso_ bass movement, explaining everything; and the act finishes with a solemn march, to which all the spirits of earth, air, fire, and water enter and do homage to prospero. { } the last act opens with a long prelude signifying prospero's magic powers. sometimes we get charming light ariel music, sometimes music suggesting a deeper, more awful, kind of magic, and sometimes a grotesquely comic dance rhythm, which is, nevertheless, almost sad, suggesting poor caliban. it is altogether a most interesting prelude, and would make an excellent concert number by itself. the curtain rises on prospero's cave to mysterious sounds; alchemical instruments are scattered about, and great books in ancient bindings lie on the table. prospero and ariel are discovered. the spirit tells him that caliban and his friends are going to kill him in his sleep. ferdinand and miranda enter hand in hand, and prospero summons the spirits, who sing sweetly to the lovers. presently caliban and his friends enter, and ariel and the other spirits chase them away jeeringly. ariel claims liberty; and, to sonorous music, prospero renounces his magic arts. with a great musical noise his cave disappears, and the scene changes to the landscape of the first act. in the rocky cove alonzo's ship is ready to sail; prospero calls on ariel for the last time; and, to solemn tones, all the mortals enter from different parts of the stage. the end is now very near. ariel is set free; prospero promises all a comfortable, safe voyage; the sailors sing of the joys of home life; and the curtain falls to the spirits singing of their new freedom. the caliban and spirit music is the best part of the opera. all the mysterious magical effects are most impressively done, but the composer is not so happy with his lovers. the orchestral interludes are excellent, and the many choruses of unseen spirits are most melodious, and not too difficult. +alfred m. hale+, a very progressive young composer, has written an opera on this subject, parts of which were performed at the queen's hall on february , . among the numbers given was a duet for miranda and ferdinand. a well-known musical critic writes as follows concerning this number: "mr hale has written vocal parts { } in the style of an intoned conversation; no really vocal phrases are apparent, but the text is moaned to a vague backing of orchestral activity. occasionally one heard snatches of _tristan_ or _pelléas_. all is vast, vague, and vacuous. mr hale's orchestra breathes with its mouth wide open." so we will leave it at that. +sullivan's+ _tempest_ contains some of his finest music. composed at leipsic when he was mendelssohn scholar, it has all the freshness of youth and none of its immaturity. it was first performed at the crystal palace, june , , and was enthusiastically received, charles dickens complimenting the young composer very highly. though not written expressly for the theatre, the music can be used almost as it stands; but i have never heard it without additional numbers. when it was adopted for henrietta hodson's production, sullivan's "where the bee sucks" was cut out and arne's substituted. arne's setting is his best work, and, in my opinion, the most beautiful of all the versions extant; but sullivan's is fine too, and the former did not blend with the rest of the score but stood out and spoilt the whole musical scheme. +taubert+ wrote capital incidental music for this play, but i have never heard it without additional numbers. sir frank benson used a great deal of this setting in his production of _the tempest_, but he made use of much other music as well. in his version the play began with a "storm chorus" by haydn, supposed to have been inspired by his first (a bad) crossing to england; at least, this was the tradition in the benson company. then he went on to taubert for "come unto these yellow sands" and "full fathom five," both very pretty arrangements for ariel (soprano) and chorus; back to arne for "where the bee sucks," and to sullivan for "honour, riches." a song for ariel, "oh, bid thy faithful ariel fly," by t. linley, was interpolated, the words not even by shakespeare. for the closing scenes, sir frank returned to { } taubert; and if the whole affair was a hotchpotch, it was a very agreeable one. the last, and quite the most important, music written for _the tempest_ since sullivan's time is humperdinck's. +engelbert humperdinck+ is well known in england as the composer of the opera _hänsel und gretel_, the scores of _königskinder_ and _the miracle_, but few english people know his shakespearian works. his music to _the tempest_ was first heard at a great production of the play in berlin at the neue schauspielhaus on october , . it consists of a long prelude, running into storm melodrama music for the whole of the first scene, calming down beautifully for miranda's first entrance. all the lyrics and choruses are set, and in all there are eighteen important numbers. the music is difficult, and the chorus and orchestra must be on a large scale; but it would make a very interesting production if it could be done exactly as the composer devised it, with no added numbers, extra lyrics, or pseudo-elizabethan bilge. here are ninety pages of closely printed pianoforte score; enough, surely, for the most old-fashioned producer without additional numbers. very effective use is made of the male and female chorus, singing _bouche fermée_ instead of the orchestra playing, as melodrama music. ariel's "where the bee sucks" is a charming setting, and the choruses and dances are most carefully and reverentially done. there is no german equivalent to shadwell, davenant, or dryden. here we have nothing but the exact text of shakespeare, and really it seems quite enough. the prospero _motif_, a fanfare, occurring frequently, holds the entire work together, and the magic music would be a great help to any shakespeare production. i hope one day to see a straight production of this play with the music as composed. +berlioz+ was early attracted to _the tempest_, and even called one of the ladies he adored--miss moke, subsequently { } mme. pleyel--ariel. at the end of , after the failure at rehearsal of the symphonie fantastique, he was asked to write something for girard, conductor of the théâtre italien. he then composed his fantasia with choruses on _the tempest_, but girard at once saw it was too big for his theatre and could only be done at the opéra. there was to be a concert for the artists' benevolent fund, and the work was accepted for performance by the director of the academy, m. loubbert, of whose care and kindness during the production berlioz speaks most highly. he quotes shakespeare about him (he often quoted shakespeare), saying to a friend, "he was a man, horatio." i cannot do better than transcribe the composer's interesting account of the first performance, taken from his _autobiography_: "all went splendidly at rehearsal; everything seemed to smile, when, with my usual luck, an hour before the concert, there broke over paris the worst storm that had been known for fifty years. the streets were flooded, practically impassable, and for the first half of the concert when my _tempest_, damned _tempest_, was being played, there were not more than three hundred people in the place." just berlioz's luck! something nearly always went wrong with his work in paris. in london, petrograd, berlin, anywhere else, he was immensely successful, but in paris never quite a success, even at the height of his fame. the second performance, the following year, was much less unfortunate. of the work itself berlioz writes: "it is new, fresh, grand, sweet, tender, surprising." it is a pity composers do not tell us more often what they think of their own works. i mean in autobiographies and signed articles, of course; not, as has sometimes happened, in inspired articles written by their friends, or in anonymous ones written by themselves. to come to the work itself, berlioz incorporated it in his _lelio_, or _the return to life_ (lyric melodrama). this is one of the most extraordinary hotchpotches in all music. it begins with a ballad by goethe, then there is a long apostrophe to shakespeare, then a brigand's song and { } chorus, then a song of bliss; finally, the composer, lelio or berlioz, decides to write a fantasia on _the tempest_, and calls on shakespeare to stand by him. the orchestra and chorus then perform the fantasia. it is scored for full orchestra, but also for two pianos _à quatre mains_. the first number is a chorus of air spirits, soprani, alti, and tenori-- and calling on miranda to come to her destined husband. (this is a rough translation.) after this comes a long orchestral interlude with a great _crescendo_ and _diminuendo_, returning again to the miranda chorus. the next is also a long orchestral interlude, introducing caliban. the chorus shout _fortissimo_ at him, calling him "orrido monstro," which, i believe, means "horrid monster." after another long orchestral bit, the chorus again begins about miranda, and sings a farewell chant to her as she is leaving the island. the coda is marked _più animato confuoco_, and keeps up _animato_ to the end. whether it is supposed to show general relief on the part of the inhabitants of the island on the departure of prospero and the rest of the mortals, or sorrow for the same reason, i do not profess to know. lelio (berlioz) says a few words to the performers, finishing, "you have indeed made progress, so much so that we may henceforth attempt works of greater depth than this feeble sketch." but this "feeble sketch" makes a very difficult work to tackle; and if berlioz had developed it, heaven only knows where we should end! _la tempête, fantaisie pour orchestre_ by +p. tschaikowsky+, is a very long and complicated symphonic poem, with a definite programme. it really tells a good deal of the story of shakespeare's play-poem. it opens with "the sea." after a few preliminary bars for wind, the strings _pianissimo_, and very much divided, play without any change of expression for fifty-three bars, and for the same number of bars the bass is f, with occasional changes to f sharp. it is a wonderful tone picture of a calm sea. then comes ariel, very light and feathery, presently ordered to bring about a great storm: and it comes--quite one of the most terrific { } in all music. the storm having calmed down, we get the love-music of ferdinand and miranda--very timid music, but finally swelling up to a fine _forte_ effect; however, before this happens there is an amusing dialogue (if one may use the word) between ariel and caliban. to most impressive music, prospero surrenders his magic powers, and the mortals quit the island. the sea music starts again just as in the opening, and the work ends on a perfectly calm sea even as it began. it is, of course, as with all the composer's greater works, very difficult, and scored for a large orchestra; but its effects are certain, and it is grateful to conduct or play. the storm is undoubtedly one of the most graphic imitations of nature in all musical art. +frederick corder's+ concert overture "prospero" is a very good example of the composer's work. it was produced in , and the _motto_ is from _the tempest_, act iii., scene : "what harmony is this? my good friends, hark!" it opens with a _forte_ theme for trombones and tuba, obviously prospero himself; followed by flute solo, again obviously ariel, accompanied by _pianissimo_ violin (very high sustained chords) and harp. these two subjects hold a sort of dialogue in which prospero has the last word till the _allegro con fuoco_ commences. this theme is a very high, swift, semiquaver passage for violins, with some occasional help from the wood wind. it leads to a subject for 'cello of quite a melodic, easy-going character, which might easily be ferdinand, and, as the first violins join in, miranda. then enters prospero with his trombones against this sweetness, and the drama of the overture begins--prospero drowns his books, ariel is heard singing joyfully, but somewhat sadly, and, in the end, the spirits of the island, free at last, are heard in a great rejoicing. i wish mr corder had written even the vaguest programme for this overture. i have tried to write one, but i may be wrong the whole time; anyway, i have done my best, and { } can heartily express my great admiration for the overture and the attitude it takes according to my reading of the play. mr corder has also set "come unto these yellow sands" and "full fathom five" for soprano and female chorus, with harps for the first number, and contralto and orchestra for the second; both are melodious and effective, though there is much repetition of the words. +j. f. duggan+, born , died , whose name does not appear in any musical biographical dictionary that i can find, has done a couple of interesting settings of songs for caliban. the first, curiously enough, is for a tenor: i have often thought of caliban musically, but never as a tenor; still, here it is. the words begin, "no more dams i'll make for fish," and the setting is quite appropriately grotesque. the second is elaborate. it was first sung by sir charles santley, to whom it was dedicated, and is for high baritone. the words begin, "art thou afeared?" and the music is quite decorative in its harmonic progressions, and gives points quite excellently to the curious lines in which caliban describes the musical wonders of the island to trinculo and stephano, while ariel plays on his tabor and pipe. this song was published in , and that is the only further biographical detail i can give. +clarence lucas+, a canadian composer (b. ), has written a very brilliant scherzo for piano solo, entitled "ariel." he has taken as his motto shakespeare's words, "on the bat's back i do fly," and has certainly illustrated the familiar passage with great dexterity. it is a gossamer piece of work, and, though difficult, is highly effective. it bears strong traces of the composer's years of study at the paris conservatoire. +joseph spaight+, a clever young english composer, has written a string quartet called "ariel," which is really very interesting. the work is divided into eight sections, { } each one expressing some ariel episode in the play. the episodes are described in a few words, such as "on a ship in a storm," "invisible," "playing time on tabor and pipe and leading caliban, stephano, and trinculo away." they are highly descriptive, but one may well question whether the string quartet is the proper vehicle for such programme music. { } timon of athens the only opera mentioned by mr barclay squire that might have been founded on this play is _timone, misantropo_, by the +emperor leopold i.+, produced at vienna in . leopold i., emperor of the west, was born in , and educated by the jesuits for the church, and he probably learned music from them. i have read fine biographies of him; but though i find he was not a really good ruler, there is no mention of his gifts as a musician. it would be interesting to discover a copy of an opera, libretto by the king of dramatists, music by the emperor of the west, king of hungary and bohemia; but with the exception of the name and the date i can discover no record of the work at all: not even a popular selection for the pianoforte--leopold-liszt! in , thomas shadwell produced his version of _timon of athens_, under the title "the history of timon of athens, the man hater, made into a play by thomas shadwell." of the atrocities committed by the adapter on shakespeare in this version it is not easy to speak with restraint. suffice it to say that ten years after the production shadwell became poet laureate! the masque in act i. is written entirely by shadwell, with music by +henry purcell+. whether this work comes legitimately within the scope of my theme i am not certain. undoubtedly the author and composer must have been under the influence of, if not inspired by, shakespeare: as we have so little music for this strange play, i will therefore make a short analysis of the masque. julian marshall, in his foreword to the purcell { } society's edition, says: "this work was not well calculated to inspire the genius of purcell. written to order, and perhaps in some haste, the score is slight in character and design." there are several beautiful numbers. the work consists of an overture and thirteen numbers. the first part of the overture is taken from the "trumpet sonata," and is fairly familiar to lovers of purcell. the duet for two nymphs that follows is preceded by a "symphonie of pipes" to imitate birds: this is played on two flutes with a very pretty effect. the bass song, "return, revolting rebels," sung by bacchus, has a fine bold melody; and a slow trio in the minor is in strong contrast to the principal theme. the best chorus is "who can resist such mighty charms?", which, though simple in construction, has some fine broad effects. the last duet and chorus, for cupid and bacchus, is very bright and melodious, composed in six-four time, and makes a merry end to the masque. after the epilogue comes a "curtain tune on a ground," for strings only--by far the most interesting number in the piece. the persistent use of the idiom of "false relation" throughout the whole piece gives it a curious interest; and the contrapuntal and harmonic devices are also quite elaborate. i should think there is more of the real timon in this one number than in all shadwell's perversions. { } twelfth night in spite of its great poetical beauties, _twelfth night_ has not attracted many composers. there is only one opera that i can trace, and that is _cesario_, by +k. g. wilhelm taubert+, produced in berlin at the royal opera house in . there is no attempt to foster the delusion that anyone who is not next door to an idiot could ever mistake sebastian for viola, or _vice versâ_. viola, in this version, is a soprano, and her brother a tenor-baritone, so it is hard to understand how even orsino was taken in; but he was (and he a baritone, not a tenor!). the opera opens with an overture, conventional and not very characteristic, and the curtain rises on a scene in illyria, near orsino's palace. a chorus of maidens, wives, sailors, children, and musicians is discovered, singing a very bright and melodious number, which, though very tuneful, does not help the action at all. the second scene opens with storm music bringing on viola and the sea captain. the librettist, emil taubert, does not adhere any too closely to the original, so i will just describe the most effective numbers. sir toby's drinking song in the first act is a thoroughly good german drinking song, with the usual low bass e for the end; and directly afterwards sir andrew has a grotesque love-song with no little humour in it. in the fourth scene there is a very sentimental duet between viola and orsino. as the work progresses we get farther and farther away from shakespeare, and so i leave the only opera founded on this exquisite play. i { } think a great deal of its weakness is due to the librettist cutting out feste, the clown. there is no "come away, death," "o mistress mine," or "when that i was." so it is with pleasure that i turn to +humperdinck's+ delightful music for reinhardt's production at the deutsches theater, berlin, produced on october , . the first scene is in orsino's court (as in shakespeare), and gives the whole romantic atmosphere of the rest of the play. most producers begin with the short scene of viola's shipwreck, thus cunningly avoiding the whole idea of the plot. two violins, viola, and viol-da-gamba are discovered playing the music of "o mistress mine" on the stage; and if it is impossible to obtain a viol-da-gamba, the composer allows one to use a violoncello. also there is a guitar off the stage. the text is closely followed. the setting ('cello solo) for the words "if music be the food of love" is very beautiful; and until the duke's words, "enough, no more," the incidental music fits in with every shade of expression in that perfect monologue. the next number is the serenade for the clown (feste). he is supposed to accompany himself on the guitar, but the guitar part is cued in for the harp if the singing-actor has not enough skill on the instrument. it is a very charming song, not in the least like the settings of the same words to which we are all so accustomed, but none the worse for that. the catch "hold thy peace" is a perfect canon at the unison, sung by sir toby, sir andrew, and the clown. all the verses in the kitchen scene are set to music, the versatile clown playing the accompaniments on his ever-ready guitar. in act ii., scene , no expensive prima-donna is called upon to sing "come away, death." orsino simply sends for feste, and tells his orchestra to play the tune while they are all waiting. when the clown does arrive to sing the song the audience has been played into the exact mood shakespeare wanted; and the number, lovely as it is, gets a better chance of { } success than if the orchestra had been playing something quite different (as i have often heard), or an entirely new character, a singing woman, had been introduced for this special number. feste sings "hey, robin, jolly robin" and "i am gone, sir," to specially composed music still accompanied by the guitar, and there are two settings by humperdinck of the epilogue song, "when that i was." both are written for feste; but the first one is accompanied only by the guitar, while the second has an elaborate orchestral accompaniment. you can take your choice; both settings are equally good. this music, both in form and expression, is, perhaps, the ideal music for a shakespearian production. nothing is forced on the hearer. when shakespeare wanted music he said so, either in his stage directions or in the text. this is exactly what humperdinck has given us. never to my knowledge has shakespeare's text been so reverently treated by any composer or producer. i often think that it is not entirely the fault of the composer of shakespearian music that so much of it is superfluous; perhaps a little blame may lie with the actor-manager-producer, who must have a march to bring him on and take him off at every entrance or exit. +sir alexander mackenzie's+ delightful _twelfth night_ overture was first produced at a richter concert in . though it is not exactly programme music, sir alexander gives occasional quotations on the score indicating his intentions. the opening is labelled act ii., scene , malvolio (taking up letter), "by my life, this is my lady's hand." the 'cellos, basses, and violas play a unison quaver passage of introduction, and malvolio obviously speaks through the medium of a bassoon. the clarinets and the rest of the wood wind join in, the strings sustaining an accompaniment; and so the first episode finishes. the next is labelled act ii., scene , sir toby, "why, thou hast put him in such a dream that when the image of { } it leaves him he must run mad." then comes, to my idea, the triumphal music of malvolio. this is quickly followed by a label, act ii., scene , sir toby, "shall we rouse the night owl in a catch?" and for a few moments we have bright sounds of revelry; but very swiftly the music gets slow and _piano_, and presently we return to act i., and the words on the score are, "o, she that hath a heart of that frame, to pay this debt but to a brother," etc. this subject is very beautiful, and admirably portrays orsino's love for cesario. after this comes a bright, melodious episode working up to a _fortissimo_ climax. then we have another label, act iv., scene , malvolio, "fool, there never was a man so notoriously abused. i am as well in my wits as thou art." the music then proceeds in _fugato_ manner for a long time, and there are no more directions or quotations from the text in the score till towards the end. this is now the regular coda, and very brilliant it is. but just before the close one finds the label, act v., scene , malvolio, "i'll be revenged on the whole pack of you"; the original malvolio _motif_ being played by the violas and 'cellos and taken up by the rest of the orchestra. the whole finishes _fortissimo_ and very cheerfully. there is a curious kettledrum solo in the third bar before the end. taken all round, this overture is quite one of the best shakespearian commentaries extant. without being in the least pedantic, it has a smack of the period; and as a sheer, joyous bit of comedy it ranks very high in the repertory of shakespearian music. +sir henry bishop's+ third pasticcio opera was founded on _twelfth night_. it was produced at the royal, drury lane, in . contrary to his usual custom there is no overture, and the first number is a song for viola with bassoon _obbligato_ to the words, "full many a glorious morning" from the rd sonnet. the first half is very unlike the composer's usual manner, but in the second he soon gets back to his original style. the next number is a quintet with words from _the two gentlemen { } of verona_--"who is sylvia?" the melody of the first verse is by ravenscroft ( ), that of the second by morley ( ), and the whole is arranged by sir henry; so there is not much unity of style about it, though if well sung and unaccompanied it should be effective. the duet "orpheus with his lute," words by fletcher, for viola and olivia, is really too bad; and with pleasure we turn to a quartet by thomas ford ( ) and d. calcott ( ). it is called "come o'er the brook, besse, to me." the first line is from _king lear_, act ii., scene , but in the text it is "bourne" not "brook." the rest of the lines are spurious. the first verse is by ford, the second by calcott, and the whole arranged by bishop; but this time he has thrown in a harmonica part, the first that i have met with in this orchestration. the quartet and chorus at the end of the second act are by bishop; the words, some of them from the second part of _henry iv._, and some spurious. the whole finale is very pretentious and of no real musical value. in act iii. we have the inevitable cavatina, "take all my loves," from the sonnet no. , sung by olivia. it is a most sugary song; only a few lines are taken, and repeated _ad nauseam_. the duet olivia and viola, called "cesario," is adapted by bishop from a work i cannot trace (by a certain winter). the only composer of that name in any musical biography is peter von winter, born at mannheim in , and pupil of browning's celebrated abt vogler. the words are a very corrupt version of olivia's speech in act iii., scene of this very play, and the music sometimes fits in and sometimes does not. kit marlowe's "crabbed age and youth," set by bishop for olivia, has a fine cadenza duet with the flute, but is otherwise not notable; and "bid me discourse," which follows, is too well known to need mention. an old setting of the clown's song, "when that i was," is arranged by bishop for the finale. viola and olivia have one chorus to themselves, very _rubato_. the melody and chorus are frequently changed, rhythmically and melodically, but it { } makes a good finish to a very extraordinary mix-up of styles and composers. true to his ideals, bishop does not use "come away, death," or "o mistress mine," two of the loveliest lyrics in the language--i suppose because they happen to occur in _twelfth night_! during his second visit to london, +haydn+ composed his single contribution to shakespearian song. it is contained in the set of six "original canzonets, composed for an english lady of position." the words are from _twelfth night_, beginning "she never told her love," and the song is very pathetic. curiously enough for the period, the words "smiling at grief" are the only ones repeated. the canzonet opens with a long symphony for piano. the voice part is melodious and vocal; the harmonies are more complicated than is usual with haydn, and there is more liberal use made of the chord of the diminished seventh than one looks for in his work. the voice part is of just an octave's range, and there are no aggressive _coloratura_ passages or high notes. the only work of +johannes brahms+ in which i can trace the direct inspiration of shakespeare is his setting of the clown's song, "come away, death," from _twelfth night_, for trio of female voices, harp, and two horns. this is an exquisite little work, very complete; there is hardly any repetition of the words: just at the end brahms repeats "to weep there," but that is all. the combination of female voices, harp, and horns seems on paper to be rather eccentric, but in practice it is admirable, used as skilfully as brahms has used it. this trio was not written for the play. in any decent production the song must be given to feste, but how often is it? time after time i have seen a strange woman in tights dragged on to sing one of the numerous wardour street versions, and no one seems to mind. without this song, the whole character of feste, one of the best of all the shakespearian clowns, sinks into almost nothingness. { } perhaps somewhere, hidden away in some old music catalogue, i may find something more of brahms in relation to shakespeare. indeed, i hope so. what a hamlet overture he could have written! the bridal song, "roses, their sharp spines being gone," and graceful dance (malvolio), composed for sir herbert tree's revival of _twelfth night_, make one wish that the composer, +paul rubens+, had devoted more time to this kind of work. the words, by fletcher, are beautifully set; and though there is no attempt at intentional archaism, there is an inimitable quaintness about this song, and the graceful dance which always accompanies malvolio's entrances and exits, that is hard to find in modern shakespearian music. +augustus barratt's+ setting of "come away, death," in the same production, is very beautiful. +frederick corder's+ version of the same lyric for a trio of female voices and piano is a sad little number; but i wish he would set the words straight, without repetitions. +sir charles villiers stanford's+ settings of the "clown's songs" in _twelfth night_ were not written for any special production, and were first sung by mr plunket greene. there is no needless repetition of the words, every syllable being given its exact musical value; so, from several points of view these versions are nearly perfect. the first, "o mistress mine," has a flowing though not very significant melody, and a graceful accompaniment. the second, "come away, death," is naturally of a very sombre nature, the harmonies being rather more elaborate than in the other two songs. the last lyric, "the rain it raineth every day," is, to my mind, much the best of the three. it is a very merry song, and the major effect and the little florid voice passage at the end make a charming close. unfortunately, sir charles omits the last verse but one. { } +dr arne's+ setting is beautiful. it has a curious burden to it, in the accompaniment only; but the words are sadly chopped about. +sullivan's+ "o mistress mine" is quite one of his most effective songs; and there is a beautiful flowing _obbligato_ in the accompaniment which suggests that sir andrew, who played on the "viol-de-gamboys," was playing it for the clown. +j. l. hatton's+ setting of "when that i was" is quite pretty, but he plays the deuce with the words. the exquisitely quaint first line, "when that i was and a little tiny boy" becomes "when i was a tiny boy"; the last verse but one is entirely omitted; and the last verse of all is quite spoilt. there can be no possible excuse for hatton or anyone else changing "but that's all one; our play is done, and we'll strive to please you every day," into "but that's all one, our song is done, for the rain it raineth every day." this song, for tenor solo and four-part male chorus, won a prize given by the melodists' club. i suppose it was a word-distorting contest, and i congratulate the judges on a fine decision. +samuel coleridge taylor's+ setting of "o mistress mine" is interesting in several ways. it is not in the least like any other musical version of the same words, and, though they are set quite straightforwardly, the general effect is curiously bizarre. the accompaniment is in the style of a guitar serenade, which is, of course, thoroughly in keeping with the stage situation, although the song itself was not composed for any special stage performance. { } the two gentlemen of verona with the exception of the perfect lyric "who is sylvia?" composers have left this play severely alone; but +sir henry bishop+ certainly produced a pasticcio opera on _the two gentlemen of verona_ at the royal, covent garden, in . the work is the usual jumble of words from the plays, poems, and sonnets, set to music for the most part by bishop. there is an overture which is really a string of tunes, mostly in c major, not labelled by the composer, and which do not occur later in the opera. it is a very bad example of a very bad class of so-called overture. the first song is a setting of the fifth to the twelfth lines of the sonnet no. , sung by a character called philippe, who does not appear in shakespeare's play. it was performed by a master longhurst, a boy of some importance in his time, as he is mentioned by name in several books of reference regarding this song. the song in question is not worth very much, but is a good example of how a perfect sonnet may be transformed into a very indifferent song. this is followed by a duet for philippe and julia, with words from shakespeare's nd sonnet, but the first line is unhappily changed from "but do thy worst to steal thyself away," into "save, though you strive to steal yourself away." the improvement is obvious! and the musical setting quite in keeping with the improvement in the text; only a few lines of the poem are sung, but oh! how often repeated! sylvia has a great show in the next number. it is an extraordinary perversion of the sonnet no. , "oh, never say that i was false of heart," a poem that any { } decent-minded pirate or burglar would have left alone. still, sir henry rushes in with what is officially described as a bravura song. certainly only lines - and - are set to music, but how the few words are contorted! in the coda sylvia sings on the word "all," fourteen bars first and then fifteen! a society for the protection of sonnets should certainly be formed. the ever-useful _passionate pilgrim_ is used for a mixture of dr arne and bishop as an unaccompanied quartet, "good night, good rest," and we will leave it at that; but the following number cannot be lightly treated. it is difficult to forgive a composer who seizes on the perfect sonnet in the world and writes a "solo brilliante" on the first four lines. these are certainly correctly printed, save that the word "curse" (shakespeare) is transformed into "moan" (bishop), and lines - , with endless repetitions, are dragged in for the second half. this solo ends with a long cadenza for voice and flute, the voice only using the first half of the word "heaven"; there are just thirty bars on the syllable "hea-"! the four-part round, "to see his face," words from _venus and adonis_ (only the first four lines of stanza are set), is an ingenious and entertaining piece of work, and should be most effective. for some strange reason, "who is sylvia?" is set as a quintet, with julia on the top line. the first half of the melody is by bishop, but the second half is believed to be by rousseau; anyhow, no one would quarrel now as to how to apportion the requisite blame; the "dishonours" appear to be equally divided, except that rousseau, being a swiss, could not be expected to show so tender a regard for shakespeare as shakespeare's own fellow-countryman bishop did. the cavatina sung by julia is to the first eight lines of the rd sonnet; and the male chorus, "now the hungry lion roars," is, of course, from one of puck's speeches in _a midsummer night's dream_, but is sadly cut and altered. the duet, "on a day," words from _love's labour's lost_, and also _the passionate pilgrim_, is another "i know a { } bank"-like thing, and quite as uninteresting. julia's next song, "should he upbraid," is familiar to all, and the words are founded on a speech of baptista in _the taming of the shrew_. the finale is a duet by sylvia and julia, assisted by the full chorus: its title is "how like a winter," and the words are partly adapted, very freely, from the first four lines of the th sonnet, and from the masque in _as you like it_. a stranger jumble of words could hardly be conceived; yet this opera was quite successful, and no one seemed to think any the worse of bishop, who was mainly responsible for its monstrosities. +dr arne's+ version of "who is sylvia?" is really a very charming song, very melodious, very vocal, and full of delicate grace-notes. the last verse is set as a trio, but can be sung as a solo without spoiling the composer's intentions; in fact, he says it may be done without additional voices. +macfarren's+ part-song is very good--i mean sir george's, not walter's. both have set the words. but the best setting of "who is sylvia?" must for ever remain +schubert's+--one of the perfect songs of the world. { } the winter's tale there is only one opera, _hermione_, by +max bruch+, founded on _the winter's tale_, and very little other music has been inspired by it, though the story possesses great operatic possibilities. +engelbert humperdinck's+ music for the reinhardt production in berlin, september , , is, as usual with his incidental music, perfectly appropriate--not a superfluous note in it; and also as usual in these productions, shakespeare's act i., scene , is reinhardt's. before the rise of the curtain an orchestra of wood wind, horns, and harp plays soft and solemn music (called "tafelmusik" in the score) behind the scenes, and the orchestra continues till a fanfare of trumpets announces the entrance of leontes, hermione, and their suite. there is no more music until we come to act iii., scene , when, to open the court of justice scene, we have a broad, dignified fanfare, _quasi marcia_, scored for trombones, tuba, and drums, and part of this is played at the end of the scene. this is the motive associated with the oracle. at the end of act iii., scene , time, a chorus, enters, and solemn music plays during his speech, composed in the manner of the oracle. in the meantime, an act-change has been made, and without pause the curtain rises on the fourth act; the music dying away as polixenes and camillo speak, swelling up on their exit and running into the symphony of autolycus's song, "when daffodils begin to peer." this is very beautifully set, and the composer adds the verse from the end of the scene, which makes six verses { } instead of five; but this is quite legitimate, as the last verse is obviously part of the whole lyric, though separated from the rest by some dialogue. the music to open the fourth scene is called "sunday bells." i confess i don't understand why it is introduced, unless it be to cover a scene-change, and i can find no mention of bells or sunday in the text; but i am quite sure there is some good reason for this number, apart from its own beauty. it is _pianissimo_, scored for very high tremolo violins, celesta bells, and harp; and i should very much like to know exactly what it means in its present position in the play. now comes a long and elaborate march of shepherds and shepherdesses, beginning in march time, four in a bar; then the time changes to two in a bar, and a very wild dance follows. again the time changes, to mazurka rhythm now, three in a bar, and a very graceful dance in this time follows; finally we return to the fast two-in-a-bar passage, and the whole dance finishes with a coda, during which the music gets faster and faster to the end. the whole number makes a short ballet, with plenty of rhythmic changes. it is most effective, as well as being part of shakespeare's plot. almost immediately comes autolycus's song, "lawn as white as driven snow"; this also is very carefully set. the next number is very interesting. it is a trio, sung by autolycus, dorcas, and mopsa, accompanied by a _bouche fermée_ male-voice chorus--not singing the usual slow, sustained harmonies, but a quick four-part syncopated rhythm. this is a very ingenious number. after a little dialogue comes autolycus's last song, "will you buy any tape?" to a simple tune with an elaborate accompaniment. the satyrs' dance that follows is a good example of strong but grotesque dance music in its first theme, but the trio is sensuous and suave, and the number finishes with a repetition of the first theme and a short but brilliant coda on the same melody. in the last scene of the fifth act we have music { } again. paulina says, "music, awake not; strike!" and very mysterious music is played until hermione moves; then occurs a fine theme for brass and strings, while hermione descends from the pedestal; after which, with a few pauses, the music continues to the end, when the curtain falls very slowly on shakespeare's own last words. the melodrama music here is so superlatively good that one hardly notices it, such is its absolute tightness. the situation, dramatically, is so strong that, though the music also is very individual, it does not for a moment counteract the strength of effect of the closing scene, but just helps it to a complete finish. rarely has shakespeare been better served by his acolytes. { } shakespeare's songs +william linley+, born , edited two volumes octavo of settings to shakespeare's lyrics, called _dramatic songs_. some of them are by purcell, arne, etc.; but unfortunately the majority are by the editor, who seems to have had no exaggerated respect for shakespeare's text, but a very high opinion of his own powers. mr linley has some very naïve remarks to make in the observations printed after the preface. writing of the lyrics sung by feste in _twelfth night_, he says: "though there is a whimsical point about them, they are not inelegantly written." (this of "come away, death"!) linley proceeds: "shakespeare evidently meant that it should be sung with pathetic expression, but one is not prepared to relish it from the clown; and there is nothing ludicrous in the words, and the plaintive wildness which they seem to demand from the music could not, by any aid of preparation, be given by the clown so as to produce a feeling of melancholy--it would be more likely to excite laughter." after these preliminary remarks, one may expect anything from our editor; and when one remembers the exquisite pathos of mr courtice pounds' singing of +augustus barratt's+ setting at his majesty's one can smile at the pretentious want of knowledge displayed in linley's short introduction. his own setting, which is before me, is sorry stuff. words and phrases are repeated over and over again. he does not even set the first sentence correctly; he says, "come away, death, come away," and continues his "improvement" throughout the song. { } the same kind of thing occurs throughout his two volumes; but it is interesting to note that for a long time it was considered a standard work, and roffe, so late as , speaks of it in his +handbook of shakespeare music+ as "a happily conceived work." it is a curious thing that the lyrics in the plays most popular with composers are either frankly not by shakespeare or are very doubtful. the one most frequently chosen, "take, oh take those lips away," from +measure for measure+, has been set, according to roffe ( ), seventeen times; and, according to a work not quite truthfully describing itself as _a list of all the songs and passages in shakespeare which have been set to music_, thirty times. now, the second verse, "hide, oh hide," is undoubtedly by fletcher, from _the bloody brother_, and it is likely that shakespeare merely quoted the first verse without acknowledgment, as he often did. the next in order is "orpheus with his lute." roffe gives it sixteen settings, and _a list of all the songs, etc._, twenty-two; the latter boldly states, "by john fletcher." act iii., scene is part of the fletcher portion of _henry viii_. "shakespeare wrote only -½ of the lines of the play; the rest are fletcher's." the editors responsible for this note are f. j. furnivall and w. g. stone. "come live with me" (_merry wives_) has been set, according to roffe, sixteen times, and according to the "list" eighteen--the words being quoted from kit marlowe. "the willow" song from _othello_ (roffe six and the "list" eleven) is much older than shakespeare, and is quoted by him from a long poem now in percy's _reliques_. very naturally, since these dates ( and ) many other settings of songs from shakespeare's plays have been made. still, these four, two certainly not shakespeare's and two quite doubtful shakespeares, keep ahead in the list of music composed for or concerning the plays. i have referred to the "list," and think it only fair to give an account of it. it was published for "the new shakespeare society," and compiled by j. greenhill, the { } rev. w. a. harrison, and f. j. furnivall; but unfortunately it was published in , and has not been brought up to date. here one may find that composers were not content with juggling and altering shakespeare's perfect lyrics, but chose chunks of blank verse and snippets of sonnets to set, for no earthly purpose that i can see. some of the composers' selections are quite incomprehensible. why +r. j. stevens+ should have chosen prospero's magnificent lines, beginning "the cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces," and made them into a glee for s.a.t.t.b.b., passes my wit to understand. also, why +sir henry bishop+ chose sonnet , "oh, never say that i was false of heart" (lines - and - ), or sonnet , "when in disgrace with fortune" (lines - and - ), with several verbal alterations. all this tends to show that the composer could not have had the smallest conception of the sonnet form, to cut and chop it about as he has done. personally, i think that no sonnet ought to be set to music, but i know that quite good musical authorities differ from me, and i am content to say that either the whole sonnet or none of it must be set. it is impossible to cut a word or a sentence out of a sonnet without spoiling its form and balance; and, if these essentials are gone, how can it make a perfect song? { } index adam, adolphe, . alexander, sir george, , . allitsen, frances, . alma-tadema, . ardevies, jules, . armbruster, carl, . arne, dr, xiii, , , , , , - , , , , , . asche, oscar, , . atterbury, luffman, . attwood, . auber, . bach, xi, . balfe, , , . balling, , . bannister, xi. barbier, , . barker, granville, . barratt, augustus, , . battishill, . bavaria, king of, , . bazzini, , . beecham, sir thomas, . beethoven, xi, , , , . bellini, , . benayet, , . benda, . benson, sir frank, , , , , , , . bentley, . berio, marquis de, . berlioz, , , , - , , , , , - , , - . berlioz, louis, . bernhoff, . berton, . bethmann, . bishop, sir henry, xiii, , , , , - , , , , - , , - , - , . blau, . bloch, , . blow, . boieldieu, . boito, , , , , , , , . bourchier, . braham, , . brahms, , . brayton, lily, . brian, havergal, . bridge, . broughton, the misses, . browning, robert, , , . bruch, max, , . bülow, von, . burney, dr, , . butt, clara, . callcott, d., . calvert, . campbell, mrs patrick, . canepa, . capelli, . carlyle, . carré, albert, . carré, michel, , , . chaplin, . chelard, , . cherubini, , . chilcot, t., , . chorley, . choudens, paul, . cibber, colley, , . cimino, g. t., . clark, hamilton, . clément, , , , . coleridge taylor, , . collier, j., . collin, baron von, xi, , . cooke, dr, , , , . coppa, . corder, frederick, , , . corelli, archangelo, . corfe, . costa, . crescentini, . crotch, . cumberland, . cummings, w. h., . dalayrac, . dante, . davenant, , , , . davison, . davy, , . debussy, . deffès, l., , , . dent, . déschamps, . dickens, c., . d'ivry, marquis, . dixon, c., . doppler, . dryden, , , . duggan, . dumas, a., . duvernoy, a., . dvorák, . eberlin, j. e., . eccles, john, . edward vii., . edwards, richard, . eggers, j., . elgar, sir edward, . elias, j. f., . enna, august, . erdmann, j. v., . faccio, , . fauré, g., , . ferrand, h., , . fibich, zdenko, , , . fitzgerald, . fleg, . fletcher, , , , , , , , , . forbes-robertson, , . ford, t., . frank, ernst, . frederick the great, . fuller-maitland, . furnivall, f. j., , , , . gade, , . gainsborough, . galliard, . garal, pierre de, . gasparini, , . george iii., . german, e., , , , - , , , , , . giordani, . girard, . godfrey, a., . goethe, . goetz, . gounod, , , . graun, , , . greene, plunket, . greenhill, , . grieg, , . grisi, , , . grove, , , , , , , , . guglielmi, . guillaume, . hale, , . halévy, , , . handel, xi, , , , , , , , , , , . haraucourt, , . harrison, , . hatton, , , . hauk, minnie, . haydn, , , . henry viii., . henschel, sir george, , , . hignard, a., . hodson, henrietta, . hohenzollern-hechingen, prince of, . holbrooke, joseph, . horn, xiii, , , . hueffer, francis, , . humperdinck, , , , , , , . humphrey, xi, . immerman, . irving, sir henry, , , , , , . irving, h. b., . jackson, . johnson, noel, . johnson, robert, xi, xii, , . joncières, victorin de, . jonson, ben, . judith, mme., . kean, mrs c., . kemble, fanny, . kemble, j. p., , . kemp, dr, . kipling, . kirchner, , . kreutzer, k., . kreutzer, r., . krug, arnold, . lablache, , . laboix, . lampe, j. f., . lampe, mrs, . larousse, , , , , . laurence, dr, . leborne, . lennen, . leonhardt, caroline, . leopold i., . leveridge, . levey, . linley, , , , , . lisle, rouget de, . liszt, , , , . locke, xi, , , . longhurst, master, . loubbert, . lucas, , . lumley, . macdowell, e. a., . macfarren, , , . mackenzie, sir a. c., , , , . maeterlinck, . maggioni, . mansfield, richard, , . marescalchi, . marlowe, , , . marshall, julian, . martin harvey, sir john, , . mascagni, . massenet, . maurel, victor, , . mendelssohn, , , , , , , , , , . mercadante, . meredith, george, . metzler, . meurice, paul, . meyerbeer, , , . missa, , . moke, miss, . monnel, . moody, . morgan, m., . morley, . mosenthal, . mozart, . napoleon i., . nicolai, , , . nicolini, . novello, . o'neill, , . paganini, . parry, . pelham, . pepys, . percy, bishop, , . perrier, . peters, . piave, . pierson, h. h., , , . pinsuti, c., . plançon, pol, , . playford, . pleyel, mme., . plimmer, w. g., . podesta, c., . porta, . portland, earl of, . pounds, courtice, . prout, e., . prussia, king of, . puget, p., . purcell, dan, , . purcell, h., xi, , , , , , , , , , , , . raff, , , . rameau, . ravenscroft, . reinhardt, , , . richter, , . ricordi, . riemann, , , , , . roffe, . romani, . ronald, landon, . rosa, carl, , . rosse, frederick, . rossini, , , , . rousseau, . rôze, raymond, , . rubens, paul, . rubini, . rumling, von, . saint georges, . saint saëns, . salvayre, . sankey, . santley, sir charles, . sardinia, king of, . scarlatti, d., . schott, . schroeder-devrient, . schubert, , , , , . schumann, , , , , . schuster, . schwanenberg, . scribe, . ségur, . shadwell, , , , , . sharp, cecil, . shaw, bernard, . silvestre, a., . smetana, . smith, j. c., , - , - . smithson, henrietta, . smyth, dr ethel, . sontag, . spaight, . spohr, - . squire, barclay, , , , , . stadfeldt, . stanford, sir charles v., , , . steibelt, , . stephens, . stevens, . stevenson, sir john, . stone, . strauss, r., , , , . stuart, otho, . sturgis, julian, , . sullivan, sir arthur, , , , , , . svendsen, . tamagno, . tamburini, . taubert, emil, . taubert, wilhelm, , , , . taylor, coleridge, , . terry, ellen, , , . thomas, ambroise, , , . tindal, w., . tree, sir herbert, , , , , , . troutbeck, the rev. j., . tschaikowsky, , , , , , . vaccaj, n., , . verdi, , , , , , , , - , , , , , . veracini, f. m., . viardot, mme., , . vogler, abt, , . wagner, , , , , , , , , - , , , , , , . wagner, cosima, . webb, gilbert, . weber, , , . weingartner, f., . weiss, . weldon, john, . wilde, oscar, . wilson, dr john, . winter, peter von, . wolff, . wood, sir henry, . young, isabella, . zeno, apostolo, . ziani, . zingarelli, . printed in great britain by neill and co., ltd., edinburgh. produced from scanned images of public domain material from the google print project.) transcriber's note the contents are placed after the introductory. a list of changes to the original publication is given at the end. in jail with charles dickens. in jail with charles dickens by alfred trumble editor of "the collector" illustrated london suckling & galloway copyright, , by francis p. harper. printed in america. introductory. readers of charles dickens must all have remarked the deep and abiding interest he took in that grim accessory to civilization, the prison. he not only went jail hunting whenever opportunity offered, but made a profound study of the rules, practices and abuses of these institutions. penology was, in fact, one of his hobbies, and some of the most powerful passages in his books are those which have their scene of action laid within the shadow of the gaol. it was this fact which led to the compilation of the papers comprised in the present volume. the writer had been a student of dickens from the days when the publication of his novels in serial form was a periodical event. when he first visited england, many of the landmarks which the novelist had, in a manner, made historical, were still in existence, but of the principal prisons which figure in his works newgate was the only one which existed in any approximation to its integrity. the fleet and the king's bench were entirely swept away; of the marshalsea only a few buildings remained, converted to ordinary uses. in this country, however, the two jails which interested him, still remain, with certain changes that do not impair their general conformance to his descriptions. these papers, therefore, consist of personal knowledge, as a voluntary visitor, be it understood, of newgate. the tombs in new york, and the eastern district penitentiary in philadelphia, supplemented by references to the records. for the fleet, marshalsea, and kings bench, the writer is indebted to the chronicles and descriptions of peter cunningham, john timbs, leigh hunt, and other ingenious and interesting historians of the london of the early victorian era. in connection with the paper relating to the eastern district penitentiary of philadelphia, his thanks are due for the assistance and information rendered by mr. michael j. cassidy, the warden. alfred trumble. new york, march . contents. chapter i. newgate without, chapter ii. newgate within, chapter iii. the fleet prison, chapter iv. the marshalsea, chapter v. the king's bench, chapter vi. the new york tombs, chapter vii. philadelphia's bastile, in jail with charles dickens. chapter i. newgate without. newgate was the first prison to which charles dickens gave any literary attention. an account of a visit to it appears among the early "sketches by boz." it is also the only one of the london jails of which he has left us graphic descriptions, or briefer, spirited sketches, which preserves to-day so much of its original character as to be identifiable in detail by the student of his works. the fleet and the king's bench have disappeared. the marshalsea may only be recognized by slight surviving landmarks. but the sombre and sullen bulk of newgate rears itself in the heart of london, a sinister monument to the horrors bred by a civilization rotten of its own over-ripeness, in the forcing-bed of the most magnificent, wonderful and monstrously terrible city of the world. if external gloom could exercise an influence to deter anyone from the commission of crime of which it is a part of the penalty, newgate would never have any inmates. surrounded at the time of my introductory visit to it, as an accidental but not legally involuntary visitor, by low public-houses, poor shops and a tumble-down market, all bearing the grime of age and the marks of decay, as if the frown of the great jail had blighted them; with the foul, miry lane of newgate street, and the scarcely-cleaner old bailey, alive with muddy carts and shabby people, skulking roughs, draggled women and squalling children, no man who had no business there would care, once having seen it, to seek it out again. being then new in london, i had been begriming myself among the old books of st. paul's churchyard until i was tired and thirsty, and strolling along ludgate hill in quest of refreshment, turned into the second street i came to. a few steps more and i found myself stopping at another street corner to look at an immense and grim mass of gray stone towering loftily in the fog, with little windows here and there along its frowning wall. they were so small that they might have been mere spaces where the builders had forgotten to put in a block of granite, if it had not been for the strong, rusty bars that crossed them. i asked a man who came out of a public-house wiping his mouth on the back of his hand what place that was. he stared at me in evident amazement for a minute, and then said, shortly, in an aggravated tone of voice, poking a finger, still moist from his libation, at it, like a dagger: "newgate, that is." he went along, shaking his head in a dubious way and looking back several times at me, clearly either suspicious of the genuineness of my stupendous ignorance, or unable to comprehend how anyone could be ignorant of the identity of the famous jail. i have no doubt that it was vastly stupid of me. in fact, i experienced a certain feeling of contempt for myself, now that i knew what the place was, and that it was the place of which i had read so much that i almost had its history by heart; but after all, london is a "very considerable-sized town," as i once had a chicago acquaintance generously admit, and one could scarcely be expected to know it like a guide-book, within forty-eight hours after making first acquaintance with its bitter beer, its bloody beef, and its beds into whose coverlids the essence of the fog seemed to have penetrated, if, indeed, the sheets were not woven out of the fog itself. newgate, in its external appearance, at least, is an ideal prison. its aspect, whether purposely or through the adaptation of its construction to its uses, is thoroughly jail-like. the few openings in the walls, the empty blind niches, which might have been left there for statues of great felons never set up in them; the entrance, with its festooned fetters carved in stone as an ornament to the gloomy and forbidding portal, all are appropriate to and a significant part of it. within a few feet of where i stood when i viewed it first was the spot where the scaffold used to be put up. here, on the occasion of an execution, as one may read in chapter of "oliver twist," the space before the prison was cleared, and a few strong barriers painted black thrown across the road to break the pressure of the crowd, while the more favored portion of the audience occupied every post of vantage, at windows and housetops, that commanded a view of the ghastly show. here, as oliver noted when he came away from his last interview with fagin at the dawn of day: "a great multitude had already assembled; the windows were filled with people smoking and playing cards to beguile the time; the crowd was pushing, quarreling and joking. everything told of life and animation, but one dark cluster of objects in the very centre of all--the black stage, the crossbeam, the rope, and all the hideous apparatus of death." prisoners of old were executed on tyburn hill in public, or on some occasions, when it was especially desired to enforce an example, as close as possible to the scene of guilt. those who were punished for participation in the gordon riots of were swung off in the various parts of the city where their crimes were committed. in the common places of execution were changed to the old bailey, in front of newgate. there the first culprit was executed on december of that year. hanging was brisk when george iii was king. between february and december, , ninety-six persons suffered by the trap arrangement now in common use the world over, which was then known as the "new drop." previous to that time it had been the custom to perch the candidates for the halter on a cart, which was driven from under them at the fatal signal, while someone hung on to their legs to choke them more speedily and surely--an expeditious practice quite frequently resorted to by judge lynch in america in after years, and still not entirely out of use for extemporaneous executions. in "barnaby rudge" (volume , chapter ) dickens gives the most detailed description of a newgate execution which occurs in his works. the passage is well worth quoting at length: "the time wore on. the noises in the streets became less frequent by degrees until the silence was scarcely broken, save by the bells in the church towers marking the progress, softer and more stealthily while the city slumbered, of that great watcher with the hoary head, who never sleeps or rests. in the brief interval of darkness and repose which feverish towns enjoy, all busy sounds were hushed; and those who awoke from dreams lay listening in their beds, and longed for dawn, and wished the dead of the night were passed. "into the street, outside the gaol's main wall, workmen came straggling, at this solemn hour, in groups of two or three, and, meeting in the centre, cast their tools upon the ground and spoke in whispers. others soon issued from the gaol itself, bearing on their shoulders planks and beams: these materials being all brought forth, the rest bestirred themselves, and the dull sound of hammers began to echo through the stillness. "here and there among this knot of laborers, one with a lantern or a smoky link stood by to light his fellows at their work; and by its doubtful aid some might be seen dimly, taking up the pavement of the road, while others held upright great posts, or fixed them in holes thus made for their reception. some dragged slowly on toward the rest an empty cart, which they brought rumbling from the prison yard, while others erected strong barriers across the street. all were busily engaged. their dusky figures moving to and fro at that unusual hour, so active and so silent, might have been taken for those of shadowy creatures toiling at midnight on some ghostly, unsubstantial work, which, like themselves, would vanish with the first gleam of day, and leave but morning mist and vapor. "while it was yet dark a few lookers-on collected, who had plainly come there for that purpose and intended to remain; even those who had to pass the spot on their way to some other place, lingered, and lingered yet, as though the attraction of that were irresistible. meanwhile the noise of the saw and mallet went on briskly, mingled with the clattering of boards on the stone pavement of the road, and sometimes with the workmen's voices as they called to one another. whenever the chimes of the neighboring church were heard--and that was every quarter of an hour--a strong sensation, instantaneous and indescribable, but perfectly obvious, seemed to pervade them all. "gradually a faint brightness appeared in the east, and the air, which had been very warm through the night, felt cool and chilly. though there was no daylight yet, the darkness was diminished, and the stars looked pale. the prison, which had been a mere black mass, with little shape or form, put on its usual aspect; and ever and anon a solitary watchman could be seen upon its roof, stopping to look down upon the preparations in the street. this man, from forming, as it were, a part of the gaol, and knowing, or being supposed to know, all that was passing within, became an object of much interest, and was eagerly looked for, and as awfully pointed out as if he had been a spirit. "by and by the feeble light grew stronger, and the houses, with their signboards and inscriptions, stood plainly out in the dull gray of the morning. heavy stage-wagons crawled from the inn yard opposite, and travelers peeped out, and, as they rolled sluggishly away, cast many a backward look toward the gaol. and now the sun's first beams came glancing into the street, and the night's work, which in its various stages and in the varied fancies of the lookers-on had taken a hundred shapes, wore its own proper form--a scaffold and gibbet. "as the warmth of the cheerful day began to shed itself upon the scanty crowd the murmur of tongues was heard, shutters were thrown open, the blinds drawn up, and those who had slept in rooms over against the prison, where places to see the execution were let at high prices, rose hastily from their beds. in some of the houses people were busy taking out the window-sashes for the better accommodation of the spectators; in others, the spectators were already seated, and beguiling the time with cards, or drink, or jokes among themselves. some had purchased seats upon the housetops, and were already crawling to their stations from parapet and garret window. some were yet bargaining for good places, and stood in them in a state of indecision, gazing at the slowly-swelling crowd, and at the workmen as they rested listlessly against the scaffold--affecting to listen with indifference to the proprietor's eulogy of the commanding view his house afforded, and the surpassing cheapness of his terms. "a fairer morning never shone. from the roofs and the upper stories of the buildings the spires of the city churches and the great cathedral dome were visible, rising up beyond the prison into the blue sky, and clad in the color of light summer clouds, and showing in the clear atmosphere their every scrap of tracery and fretwork, and every niche and loophole. all was lightness, brightness and promise, excepting in the street below, into which (for it lay yet in the shadow) the eye looked down into a dark trench, where, in the midst of so much life and hope and renewal of existence, stood the terrible instrument of death. it seemed as if the very sun forbore to look upon it. "but it was better, grim and sombre in the shade, than when, the day being more advanced, it stood confessed in full glare and glory of the sun, with its black paint blistering and its nooses dangling in the light like loathsome garlands. it was better in the solitude and gloom of midnight, with a few forms clustering about it, than in the freshness and the stir of the morning, the centre of an eager crowd. it was better haunting the street like a spectre, when men were in their beds, and influencing, perchance, the city's dreams, than braving the broad day, and thrusting its obscene presence upon the waking senses. "five o'clock had struck--six, seven and eight. along the two main streets, at either end of the crossway, a living stream had now set in, rolling to the marts of gain and business. carts, coaches, wagons, trucks and barrows, forced a passage through the outskirts of the throng and clattered onward in the same direction. some of these, which were public conveyances, and had come from a short distance in the country, stopped, and the driver pointed to the gibbet with his whip, though he might have spared himself the pains, for the heads of all the passengers were turned that way without his help, and the coach windows were stuck full of staring eyes. in some of the carts and wagons women might be seen, glancing fearfully at the same unsightly thing; and even little children were held up above the peoples' heads to see what kind of a toy a gallows was and to learn how men were hanged. "two rioters were to die before the prison, who had been concerned in the attack upon it; and one directly after in bloomsbury square. at nine o'clock a strong body of military marched into the street, and formed and lined a narrow passage into holborn, which had been indifferently kept all night by constables. through this another cart was brought (the one already mentioned had been employed in the construction of the scaffold), and wheeled up to the prison gate. these preparations made, the soldiers stood at ease; the officers lounged to and fro in the alley they had made, or talked together at the scaffold's foot; and the concourse which had been rapidly augmenting for some hours, and still received additions every minute, waited with an impatience which increased with every chime of st. sepulchre's clock for twelve at noon. "up to this time they had been very quiet, comparatively silent, save when the arrival of some new party at a window, hitherto unoccupied, gave them something to look at or to talk of. but, as the hour approached, a buzz and a hum arose, which, deepening every moment, soon swelled into a roar, and seemed to fill the air. no words, or even voices, could be distinguished in this clamor, nor did they speak much to each other; though such as were better informed on the topic than the rest would tell their neighbors, perhaps, that they might know the hangman when he came out, by his being the shorter one; and that the man that was to suffer with him was named hugh; and that it was barnaby rudge who would be hanged in bloomsbury square. "the hum grew, as the time drew near, so loud that those who were at the windows could not hear the church clock strike, though it was close at hand. nor had they any need to hear it either, for they could see it in the peoples' faces. so surely as another quarter chimed there was a movement in the crowd--as if something had passed over it--as if the light upon them had been changed--in which the fact was readable as on a brazen dial, figured by a giant's hand. three-quarters past eleven. the murmur now was deafening, yet every man seemed mute. look where you would among the crowd, you saw strained eyes and lips compressed; it would have been difficult for the most vigilant observer to point this way or that, and say that yonder man had cried out. it were as easy to detect the motion of the lips in a sea-shell. "three-quarters past eleven. many spectators who had retired from the windows came back refreshed, as though their watch had just begun. those who had fallen asleep aroused themselves; and every person in the crowd made one last effort to better his position, which caused a press against the sturdy barriers that made them bend and yield like twigs. the officers, who until now had kept together, fell into their several positions, and gave the words of command. swords were drawn, muskets shouldered, and the bright steel, winding its way among the crowd, gleamed and glittered in the sun like a river. along this shining path two men were hurrying on, leading a horse, which was speedily harnessed to the cart at the prison door. then a profound silence replaced the tumult that had so long been gathering, and a breathless pause ensued. every window was now choked up with heads; the housetops teemed with people clinging to chimneys, peering over gable-ends, and holding on where the sudden loosening of any brick or stone would dash them down into the street. the church-tower, the church-roof, the churchyard, the prison-leads, the very waterspouts and lampposts, every inch of room swarmed with human life. "at the first stroke of twelve the prison bell began to toll. then the roar, mingled now with cries of 'hats off!' and 'poor fellows!'--and, from some specks in the great concourse, with a shriek or groan--burst forth again. it was terrible to see--if anyone in that distraction of excitement could have seen--the world of eager eyes all strained upon the scaffold and the beam." the newgate gallows in "barnaby rudge" was set up for the ruffian hugh, the bastard of sir john chester and his gypsy light-o-love, and for dennis the hangman, who had been concerned as leaders in the attack on the prison by the gordon rioters. "two cripples--both were boys--one with a leg of wood, one who dragged his twisted body along with the help of a crutch, were hanged in bloomsbury square, where they had helped to sack lord mansfield's house, and other rioters in other parts of the town, in despoiling which they had been conspicuous." it may be recalled that the mother of hugh herself had died on the scaffold, at tyburn, for the crime of passing forged notes. to descend from the realm of romance to that of reality, the most memorable executions in the old bailey were those of mrs. phipoe, the murderess, in ; of governor wall of trinidad, for murder, on jan. , ; of halloway and haggerty, the murderers, on feb. , , when thirty spectators were trampled to death; of bellingham, the assassin of a member of parliament, percival, on may , ; of the cato street conspirators, who were cut down and decapitated on the scaffold in the presence of the multitude, on may , ; of fauntleroy, the banker, hanged for forging in ; of the assassin greenacre, in ; of courvoiser, who murdered lord william russell, in ; and of franz müller, the railway murderer, who was extradited from this country, as will doubtless be remembered by many, and sent to his doom in . that same year seven pirates were also suspended in the old bailey. since then executions have been carried out privately within the walls of the prison. a contemporary of dickens, in the "ingoldsby legends," has given us a picture, in a different vein, of the same period and subject. he has told us, in his own rattling verse, how my lord tomnoddy, having nothing to do, and being deucedly bored, learned from his faithful tiger tim that greenacre was to be hanged at newgate; here was indeed a sensation for his lordship: "to see a man swing, at the end of a string, with his neck in a noose, will be quite a new thing." so he hires the whole first floor of the magpie and stump, opposite the jail, and invites his friends to come and help him see a man die in his shoes. they help him so effectually during the night, what with "cold fowl and cigars, pickled onions in jars, welsh rabbits and kidney, rare work for jaws, and very large lobsters with fine claws," and the like, not to mention gin-toddy and cold and hot punch, that they fall asleep and lose the show after all, when, as they cannot have the man hung over again, they go home to bed in hackney coaches and a state of deep disgust. another contemporary, of more ample renown, thackeray to wit, gave some attention to the matter. in july, , he published, in frazer's magazine, a paper called "going to see a man hanged." the man was courvoiser; and thackeray, unlike lord tomnoddy, did not fall asleep over the feast, and so did see him mount the scaffold. surgeons' hall used to stand close to newgate and the old bailey, and the victims of the halter were handed over to the doctors for dissection. the corpse of wicked lord ferrers, who was executed in at tyburn for murdering his steward, was taken in his own landau and six to the burgeons' theatre to be cut up. after having been disemboweled, in conformance with the sentence, the body of the bad lord was put on show in the first floor window, to be hissed and hooted at by the mob. the account of the ferrers execution, by the way, provides a curious picture of the time. ferrers dressed himself in his wedding suit to be hanged. he had the harness of his horses decorated with ribbons. on the way to tyburn from the tower, my lord intimated a desire for some wine, being thirsty. the sheriff, who was in the coach with him, declined to allow him to refresh himself. "then," said the earl, taking a bite of pigtail tobacco from a plug which he had in his pocket, "i must be content with this." he harbored no malice against the sheriff, however, for he presented him with his watch as they neared tyburn. to the chaplain he gave five guineas, and to the executioner the same sum. the executioner had to pull him by the legs to effectually strangle him, and while the body swung for an hour on the gallows, the sheriffs and their friends had luncheon on the platform within reach of it. "the executioners fought for the rope," says the chronicler, "and the one who lost it, cried." but we have wandered far from newgate in this wicked company. old newgate, upon a portion of whose site the present jail stands, was built in the reign of king john. it derived its name from the fact that london was then a walled city, and the jail was erected close to the newest gate in the fortification. it was, in fact, at first a mere tower or appendage of the gate. newgate was used as a state prison long before the tower. one of the many captives of this sort which it held was william penn. the founder of pennsylvania spent six months there for the atrocious offense of street preaching. defoe spent some time here on account of a political tract, and wrote several others while in confinement. dr. dodd wrote his successful comedy, "sir roger de coverly," in newgate. one of the last persons confined here for political offense was mr. hobhouse, afterward lord broughton. the street used to be filled with people when he took his exercise on the roof, who watched and cheered at his hat, which was all they could see of him above the wall. an odd circumstance about mr. hobhouse's imprisonment is that byron had prophesied it in the remark that "having foamed himself into a reformer, he would subside in newgate." among the famous prisoners here we find savage, the poet, for murder; jack sheppard, whose remarkable escape, very much exaggerated upon fact, you may have read of from mr. ainsworth's pen; and jonathan wild, who, by the by, once lived nearly opposite the court-house, in the old bailey; catherine hayes, the abandoned heroine of thackeray's novel; mrs. brownrigg, the fiend who tortured her serving-maids; astlett, the bank of england clerk, who committed forgeries for over $ , , , and many more. lord george gordon, familiar to all who have read "barnaby rudge," died in , of gaol-fever, in one of the cells of newgate, after several years of confinement, for libelling the queen of france. the poor, mad lord, whose rioters had turned the jail into a ruin once, found it strong enough to hold him and his fantastic visions securely in the end. here is dickens's description of the attack upon the prison, caused by him, commencing in the second volume of "barnaby rudge," chapter fifth. "it was about six o'clock in the evening when a vast mob poured into lincoln's inn fields by every avenue, and divided, evidently in pursuance of a previous design, into several parties. it must not be understood that this arrangement was known to the whole crowd, but that it was the work of a few leaders, who, mingling with these men as they came upon the ground, and calling to them to fall into this or that party, effected it as rapidly as if it had been determined on by a council of the whole number, and every man had known his place. "it was perfectly notorious to the assemblage that the largest body, which comprehended about two-thirds of the whole, was designed for the attack on newgate. it comprehended all the rioters who had been conspicuous in any of their former proceedings; all those whom they recommended as daring hands and fit for the work; all those whose companions had been taken in the riots; and a great number of people who were relatives or friends of the felons in the gaol. this last class included not only the most desperate and utterly abandoned villains in london, but some who were comparatively innocent. there was more than one woman there, disguised in man's attire, and bent on the rescue of a child or a brother. there were the two sons of a man who lay under the sentence of death, and who was to be executed, along with three others, the next day but one. there was a great party of boys, whose fellow pickpockets were in the prison; and, at the skirts of all, a score of miserable women, outcasts from the world, seeking to release some other fellow creature as miserable as themselves, or moved by general sympathy, perhaps, god knows, with all who were without hope and wretched. "old swords, and pistols without ball or powder; sledge-hammers, knives, axes, saws, and weapons pillaged from the butcher shops; a forest of iron bars and wooden clubs; long ladders for scaling the walls, each carried on the shoulders of a dozen men; lighted torches, tow smeared with pitch, and tar, and brimstone; staves roughly plucked from a fence and paling; and even crutches taken from crippled beggars on the streets composed their arms. when all was ready, hugh and dennis, with simon tappertit between them, led the way. roaring and chafing like an angry sea, the crowd pressed after them." they halt upon the way to drag gabriel varden from his shop, in order to compel him to pick the lock of the prison gate. they march him at the head of the mob to the jail. they find that their visit was not wholly unexpected, "for the governor's house, which fronted the street, was strongly barricaded, the wicket of the prison gate was closed up, and at no loophole or grating was any person to be seen." the governor, inspecting the mob from the roof of his house, is summoned to surrender his charge. he refuses. the rabble call on the locksmith to pick the locks. he defies them, and is dragged away barely in time to save his life by joe willets and edward chester, who are in the mob in disguise. then the assault on the jail begins. "hammers began to rattle on the walls, and every man strove to reach the prison and be among the foremost rank. fighting their way through the press and struggle as desperately as if they were in the midst of the enemies rather than their own friends, the two men retreated with the blacksmith between them, and dragged him through the very heart of the concourse. "and now the strokes begin to fall like hail upon the gate and on the strong building; for those who could not reach the door spent their fierce rage on any thing, even on the great blocks of stone, which shivered their weapons into fragments, and made their hands and arms tingle as if the walls were active in their resistance and dealt them back their blows. the clash of the iron ringing upon iron mingled with the deafening tumult, and sounded high above it, as the great sledge-hammers rattled on the nailed and plated door; the sparks flew off in showers; men worked in gangs, and at short intervals relieved each other, that all their strength might be devoted to the work; but there stood the portal still, as grim and dark and as strong as ever, and, saving for the dints on its shattered surface, quite unchanged. "while some brought all their energies to bear upon this toilsome task, and some, rearing ladders against the prison, tried to clamber to the summit of the walls they were too short to scale; and some, again, engaged a body of police, and beat them back and trod them under foot by force of numbers; others besieged the house on which the gaoler had appeared, and, driving in the door, brought out his furniture and piled it up against the prison gate to make a low fire which should burn it down. as soon as this device was understood, all those who had labored hitherto cast down their tools and helped to swell the heap, which reached half way across the street, and was so high that those who threw more fuel on the top got up by ladders. when all the keeper's goods were flung upon this costly pile to the last fragment, they smeared it with pitch and tar and rosin they had brought, and sprinkled it with turpentine. to all the woodwork round the prison doors they did the like, leaving not a joist or a beam untouched. this infernal christening performed, they fired the pile with lighted matches and with blazing tow, and then stood by and waited the result. "the furniture being very dry, and rendered more combustible by wax and oil, besides the arts they had used, took fire at once. the flames roared high and fiercely, blackening the prison wall and twining up its lofty front like burning serpents. at first they crowded around the blaze, and vented their exultation only in their looks; but when it grew hotter and fiercer; when it crackled and leaped, and roared like a great furnace; when it shone upon the opposite houses, and lighted up not only the pale and wondering faces at the windows, but the inmost corners of each habitation; when through the deep red heat and glow the fire was seen sporting and toying with the door, now clinging to its obdurate surface, now gliding off with fierce inconstancy and roaring high into the sky, anon returning to fold it in its burning grasp and lure it to its ruin; when it shone and gleamed so brightly that the church clock of st. sepulchre's, so often pointing to the hour of death, was legible as in broad day, and the vane upon its steeple-top glittered in the unwonted light like some thing richly jeweled; when blackened stone and sombre brick grew ruddy in the deep reflection, and windows shone like burnished gold, dotting the longest distance in the fiery vista with their specks of brightness; when wall and tower and roof and chimney-stack seemed drunk, and in the flickering glare appeared to reel and stagger; when scores of objects, never seen before, burst out upon the view, and things the most familiar put on some new aspect, then the mob began to join the whirl, and with loud yells and shouts and clamor, such as is happily seldom heard, bestirred themselves to feed the fire and keep it at its height. "although the heat was so intense that the paint on the houses over against the prison parched and crackled up, and swelling into boils, as it were, from an excess of torture, broke and crumbled away; although the glass fell from the window sashes, and the lead and iron on the roofs blistered the incautious hand that touched them, and the sparrows in the eaves took wing, and, rendered giddy by the smoke, fell fluttering down upon the blazing pile, still the fire was tended increasingly by busy hands, and round it men were going always. they never slackened in their zeal or kept aloof, but pressed upon the flames so hard that those in front had much ado to save themselves from being thrust in; if one man swooned or dropped, a dozen struggled for his place, and that, although they knew the pain and thirst and pressure to be unendurable. those who fell down in fainting fits and were crushed or hurt were carried to an inn yard close at hand and dashed with water from a pump, of which buckets full were passed from man to man among the crowd; but such was the strong desire of all to drink, and such the fighting to be first, that, for the most part, the whole contents were spilled upon the ground, without the lips of a man being moistened. "meanwhile, and in the midst of all the roar and outcry, those who were nearest to the pile heaped up again the burning fragments that came toppling down, and racked the fire about the door, which, although a sheet of flame, was still a door, fast locked and barred, and kept them out. great pieces of burning wood were passed, besides, above the people's heads to such as stood above the ladders, and some of these, climbing up to the topmost stave, and holding on with one hand by the prison wall, exerted all their skill and force to cast these firebrands on the roof or down into the yards within. in many instances their efforts were successful, which occasioned a new and appalling addition to the horrors of the scene, for the prisoners within, seeing from between their bars that the fire caught in many places and thrived fiercely, and being all locked up in strong cells for the night, began to know that they were in danger of being burnt alive. this terrible fear, spreading from cell to cell and from yard to yard, vented itself in such dismal cries and wailings, and in such dreadful shrieks for help, that the whole gaol resounded with the noise, which was loudly heard even above the shouting of the mob and roaring of the flames, and was so full of agony and despair that it made the boldest tremble. "it was remarkable that these cries began in that quarter of the gaol which fronted newgate street, where it was well known that the men who were to suffer death on thursday were confined. and not only were these four, who had a short time to live, the first to whom the dread of being burnt occurred, but they were, throughout, the most importunate of all; for they could be plainly heard, notwithstanding the great thickness of the walls, crying that the wind set that way, and that the flames would shortly reach them; and calling to officers of the gaol to come and quench the fire from a cistern which was in their yard, and full of water. judging from what the crowds from without the walls could hear from time to time, these four doomed wretches never ceased to call for help; and that with as much distraction, and in as great a frenzy of attachment to existence, as though each had an honored, happy life before him, instead of eight-and-forty hours of miserable imprisonment, and then a violent and shameful death. "but the anguish and suffering of the two sons of one of these men, when they heard, or fancied they heard, their father's voice, is past description. after wringing their hands, and rushing to and fro as if they were stark mad, one mounted on the shoulders of his brother, and tried to clamber up the face of the high wall, guarded at the top with spikes and points of iron. and when he fell among the crowd he was not deterred by his bruises, but mounted up again, and fell again, and when he found the feat impossible began to beat the stones and tear them with his hands, as if he could in that way make a breach in the strong building and force a passage in. at last they cleft their way among the mob about the door, though many men, a dozen times their match, had tried in vain to do so, and were seen in, yes in, the fire, striving to pry it down with crowbars. "nor were they alone affected by the outcry from within the prison. the women who were looking on shrieked loudly, beat their hands together, stopped their ears and many fainted; the men who were not near the walls and active in the siege, rather than do nothing, tore up the pavement of the street, and did so with a haste and fury that could not have been surpassed if that had been their gaol and they were near their object. not one living creature in the throng was for an instant still. the whole great mass were mad. "a shout! another! another yet, though few knew why or what it meant. but those around the gate had seen it slowly yield and drop from its topmost hinge. it hung on that side but by one, but it was upright still, because of the bar and its having sunk of its own weight into the heap of ashes at its foot. there was now a gap at the top of the doorway through which could be descried a gloomy passage, cavernous and dark. pile up the fire! "it burnt fiercely. the door was red hot and the gap wider. they vainly tried to shield their faces with their hands, and standing, as if in readiness for a spring, watched the place. dark figures, some crawling on their hands and knees, some carried in the arms of others, were seen to pass along the roof. it was plain that the gaol could hold out no longer. the keeper and his officers and their wives and children were escaping. pile up the fire! "the door sank down again; it settled deeper in the cinders, tottered, yielded, was down. "as they shouted again they fell back for a moment and left a clear space about the fire that lay between them and the gaol entry. hugh leaped upon the blazing heap, and scattering a train of sparks into the air, and making the dark lobby glitter with those that hung upon his dress, dashed into the gaol. "the hangman followed. and then so many rushed upon their track that the fire got trodden down and thinly strewed about the street; but there was no need of it now, for, inside and out, the prison was in flames." the rioters celebrated the capture of newgate in roaring style. they commanded and compelled the citizens all around the place to illuminate their houses from bottom to top, as if for a glorious national event, and at a time of public gayety and joy. "when this last task had been achieved the shouts and cries grew fainter; the clank of the fetters, which had resounded on all sides as the prisoners escaped, was heard no more; all the noises of the crowd subsided into a hoarse and sullen murmur as it passed into the distance; and when the human tide had rolled away, a melancholy heap of smoking ruins marked the spot where it had lately chafed and roared." among the spectators of the capture of newgate was the poet crabbe, then a young man seeking his fortune in london, and he has left a description of it in his journal. dr. johnson records the fact that "on wednesday i walked with dr. scott (lord stowell) to look at newgate and found it in ruins, with the fire yet glowing. as i went by, the protestants were plundering the sessions house in the old bailey. there were not, i believe, a hundred; but they did their work at leisure, in full security, without sentinels, without trepidation, as men lawfully employed, in full day." at the period of the gordon riots, newgate was in the course of reconstruction. the present prison was designed by george dance, r. a., the architect of the mansion house and other public buildings. the famous lord mayor beckford, father of the author of "vathek," laid the foundation stone on may , , this being his last public act. work seems to have progressed slowly on it, for the newer portion was only in part completed when the gordon mob stormed the older sections. this event served as a warning, however. within two years newgate was in stronger shape than ever; and substantially in the shape which, after the passage of more than a century, it still presents to the world. newgate serves to london the purpose of a reception prison for offenders awaiting trial and for those condemned to death, and the executions of the great city are performed within its walls. the old bailey court, which is an adjunct to it, is practically a part of the mountain of masonry which sends its bleak shadow over newgate street and the old bailey. it is separated from it only by a yard, across which prisoners are led to be tried. the court-house, known colloquially, in london, as the old bailey, and politely as the central criminal court, was built in , was destroyed with newgate in the gordon riots, but rebuilt and enlarged in by the taking in of surgeons' hall. the court is a square hall, with a gallery for visitors. at one side is the chief seat for the judge, with a canopy overhead surmounted by the royal arms, and a gilded sheathed sword on the crimson wall. opposite is the prisoners' dock, with the stairs descending into the covered passageway, which gives access by the way of the press yard to newgate. to the left of the dock is the witness-stand, and further to the left the jury box. the counsel occupy the body of the court below. the old bailey court formerly sat at seven in the morning, but now sittings do not commence until ten. it tries crimes of every kind, from treason to petty larceny and offenses on the high seas, but only the heaviest ones are brought to judgment before this branch of the sessions. what is called the new court, adjoining the old one, sits upon the lighter misdemeanors. the judges at the old bailey are nominally the lord mayor, who is, in fact, only a gorgeous dummy to open the court with true dignity, the sheriff, the lord chancellor, and a long list of judges, aldermen, recorders and so on. of these the real judges are the recorder and common sergeant, and the judge of the sheriff's court. the law judges take part when knotty legal questions come in dispute, or when the trial is for a capital offense which may cost the prisoner his life. a curious old custom at the bailey is that one alderman must be present at every sitting of the court. above the old court is a stately dining-room where, during the old bailey sittings, the sheriffs used to give judges and court officials, and a few privileged visitors, dinners of rump steak and marrow puddings, according to a bill of fare provided by custom. the custom, i believe, is kept up still. there are two dinners, at and o'clock respectively, and a historic court chaplain is told of who for ten years ate both of these meals each day. there is a reverse to this pleasant picture of the old bailey. for many years it was a most unhealthy place to hold court in. the jail fevers which decimated newgate's population always found their way into the court room. in the fever caused the death of several judges and lord mayor pennant himself, and whenever there was an epidemic there are records of its effect among the potentates of the old bailey. in chapter of "a tale of two cities," in connection with the trial of charles darnay, dickens writes of the old bailey court: "they hanged at tyburn in those days, so the street outside of newgate had not obtained the infamous notoriety that has since attached to it. but the gaol was a vile place, in which most kinds of debauchery and villainy were practiced, and where dire diseases were bred, that came into the court with the prisoners, and sometimes rushed straight from the dock at my lord chief justice himself, and pulled him off the bench. it had more than once happened that the judge in the black cap pronounced his own doom as certainly as the prisoner's, and even died before him." in the course of the same chapter he describes the accused as standing quiet and attentive, with his hands resting on the slab of wood forming the shelf of the prisoner's dock, "so composedly that they had not displaced a leaf of the herbs with which it was strewn. the court was all bestrewn with herbs, and sprinkled with vinegar, as a precaution against gaol air and gaol fever." in , mr. ackerman, one of the keepers, testified before the house of commons, which had the question of rebuilding the prison before it, that in the spring of , the jail distemper had spread to the sessions house, now the old bailey, and had caused the death, in addition to two judges, and the lord mayor already alluded to, of several of the jury and others to the number of over sixty persons. the surroundings of newgate are full of historical memories. just off giltspur street, but a step away, is cock lane, where the ghost walked. along newgate street, going from the old bailey to cheapside, was the noble old charity of christ's hospital, otherwise famous as the blue-coat school, rich in works of art and richer in the recollections of such scholars within its cloisters as coleridge, charles lamb, leigh hunt, richardson, who wrote "clarissa harlowe," and many more. along the same street opens queen's head passage, in which dolly's chop-house, which is a part of the commercial history of england, stands, and ivy lane, where dr. johnson established his club of that name. newgate market, between newgate street and paternoster row, is the great meat market of london. it is what is known as the carcass market, and for many years was the chief source of slaughtered meat supply to the retail butchers of london. at a certain hour of the morning newgate street was a veritable butchers' exchange. newgate market was originally a meat market, but its convenient proximity to smithfield, which lies on the other side of newgate, only a few streets off, led to its conversion to its later uses. smithfield was the historic cattle market of london. here in the past were slaughtered beasts for food, and men and women for their opinions. the beasts had the better part of the bargain. they were killed before they were cooked. the human victims of smithfield shambles were roasted and boiled alive. in chapter of "oliver twist" we find a description of smithfield when sykes is carrying oliver off to assist in the burglary at chertsey. "it was market morning. the ground was covered nearly ankle deep with filth and mire, and a thick steam perpetually rising from the reeking bodies of the cattle, and mingling with the fog, which seemed to rest upon the chimney tops, hung heavily above. all the pens in the centre of the large area, and as many temporary ones as could be crowded into the vacant space, were filled with sheep; tied up to posts by the gutter side were long lines of beasts and oxen three or four deep. countrymen, butchers, drovers, hawkers, boys, thieves, idlers, vagabonds of every low grade, were mingled together in a dense mass; the whistling of the drovers, the barking of the dogs, the bellowing and the plunging of the oxen, the bleating of the sheep, the grunting and the squeaking of the pigs, the cries of the hawkers, the shouts, oaths, and quarreling on all sides, the ringing of bells and roar of voices that issued from every public house, the crowding, pushing, driving, beating, whooping, yelling, the hideous and discordant din that resounded from every corner of the market, and the unwashed, unshaven, squalid and dirty figures constantly running to and fro, and bursting in and out of the throng, rendered it a stunning and bewildering scene which quite confounded the senses." it may be remembered too, vide "great expectations," chapter , that when pip came up to london to find his guardian, mr. jaggers, he beguiled that time while awaiting his return to his office by wandering about the neighborhood, and so "came into smithfield, and the shameful place being all asmear with filth and fat and blood and foam, seemed to stick to me. so i rubbed it off with all possible speed by turning into a street where i saw the great black dome of st. paul's bulging at me from behind a grim stone building which a bystander said was newgate prison." whenever he writes of the jail, he does so in the same spirit. his earliest impressions of it struck the keynote for his whole life's view of it. what those early impressions were one may discover in that paper of the "sketches by boz" which, in their collected shape, bears the number , and has for title, "criminal courts." "we shall never forget the mingled feelings of awe and respect with which we used to gaze on the exterior of newgate in our schoolboy days. how dreadful its rough, heavy walls, and how massive the doors appeared to us--the latter looking as if they were made for the express purpose of letting people in and never letting them out again. then the fetters over the debtor's door, which we used to think were a bona fide set of irons just hung up there for convenience sake, ready to be taken down at a moment's notice and rivetted on the limbs of some refractory felon. we were never tired wondering how the hackney coachman on the opposite stand could cut jokes in the presence of such horrors, and drink pots of half-and-half so near the last drop. "often have we strayed here in session's time to catch a glimpse of the whipping place or that dark building on one side of the yard in which is kept the gibbet with all of its dreadful apparatus, and on the door of which we half expected to see a brass plate with the inscription, 'mr. ketch,' for we never imagined that the distinguished functionary could by possibility live anywhere else. the days of those childish dreams have passed away, and with them many other boyish ideas of gayer nature. but we shall retain so much of our original feeling that to this hour we never pass the building without something like a shudder." chapter ii. newgate within. the entrance to newgate is through the keeper's lodge, which, with the house in which the keeper lives, occupies the centre of what has been well called "this vast quarry of stone." it fronts on the old bailey. the prisoner's quarters are in the wings, which extend from either side of the keeper's quarters. in the gloomy office, men with that indescribable prison air all such officials bear, lounge about, and come and go on business. there is iron everywhere, from the huge bolts on the outer doors, and the door inside of them, to the barred windows and other doors beyond number, that open and shut with a sullen clangor that goes echoing through the stone passages as if it would never die away. the smell of the jail is as powerful in its way as these evidences of its actual strength. it blows into your face in a strong breath when the door opens for you, and you find it lingering about you hours after your visit has been made. some scientist ought to analyze this odor of the prison. it is unique. a soldier's barracks, a hospital, a ship's forecastle--all places, in short, where men live in close quarters--have an odor that tells of their origin; but the scent of the jail is different from all, and as horrible as the thing it recalls to you whenever you breathe it, or fancy you do. "what london pedestrian is there," writes dickens, in chapter in the "sketches by boz," "who has not, at some time or other, cast a hurried glance through the wicket at which the prisoners are admitted into this gloomy mansion, and surveyed the few objects he could discern, with an indescribable feeling of curiosity. the thick door, plated with iron, and mounted with spikes just low enough to enable you to see leaning over them an ill-looking fellow, in a broad-brimmed hat, belcher handkerchief and top-boots; with a brown coat, something between a great-coat and a 'sporting' jacket, on his back, and an immense key in his left hand. perhaps you are lucky enough to pass just as the gate is being opened; then, you see on the other side of the lodge another gate, the image of its predecessor, and two or three more turnkeys, who look like multiplications of the first one, seated around a fire, which just lights up the white-washed apartment sufficiently to enable you to catch a glimpse of these different objects." in the next paper of the same series, he conducts us within the lodge. "one side is plentifully garnished with a choice collection of heavy sets of irons, including those worn by the redoubtable jack sheppard--genuine; and those said to have been graced by the sturdy limbs of the no less celebrated dick turpin--doubtful. from this lodge a heavy oaken gate, bound with iron, studded with nails of the same material, and guarded by another turnkey, opens on a few steps, if we remember right, which terminate in a narrow and dismal stone passage, running parallel with the old bailey and leading to the different yards, through a number of tortuous and intricate windings, guarded in their turn by huge gates and gratings, whose appearance is sufficient to dispel at once the slightest hope of escape that any newcomer may have entertained; and the very recollection of which, on eventually traversing the place again, involves one in a maze of confusion." the old newgate which the gordon rioters sacked was a horrible place. the cells were mere black caves, which riddled the tremendous masonry like a stone honeycomb. in these at one time, while a contagious fever was raging, prisoners were confined. the captives were packed in these dens like slaves in the hold of their prison-ship. mrs. frye describes the women as "swearing, gaming, fighting, singing, dancing, drinking, and dressing up in men's clothes," and as late as gambling with cards, dice and draughts was common among the male prisoners. jail distempers now and then purged this sink of vileness of a portion of its inmates, till at last, in , the reconstruction of its cellular system was completed. even with that, however, newgate is anything but a perfect jail. in the earlier dickens era it preserved many of its ancient characteristics. in "great expectations," when wemmick takes pip to visit it, we read: "at that time gaols were much neglected, and the period of exaggerated reaction consequent on all public wrong-doing--and which is always its longest and heaviest punishment--was still far off. so, felons were not lodged and fed better than soldiers (to say nothing of paupers), and seldom set fire to their prisons with the excusable object of improving the flavor of their soup. it was visiting time when wemmick took me in; and a potman was going his rounds with beer; and the prisoners behind the bars in the yards were buying beer, and talking to friends; and a frowsy, ugly, disorderly, depressing scene it was." the earlier description, "a visit to newgate," in the boz "sketches," thus depicts the women's side of the jail: "the buildings in the prison--or in other words the different wards--form a square, of which the four sides abut respectively on the old bailey, the old college of physicians (now forming a part of newgate market), the sessions house and newgate street. the intermediate space is divided into several paved yards, in which the prisoners take such air and exercise as can be had in such a place. these yards, with the exception of that in which the prisoners under the sentence of death are confined, run parallel with newgate street, and consequently from the old bailey, as it were, to newgate market. turning to the right, we came to a door composed of thick bars of wood, through which were discernible, passing to and fro in a narrow yard, some twenty women. one side of this yard is railed at a considerable distance, and formed into a kind of iron cage, about five feet and ten inches in height, roofed at the top, and defended in the front by iron bars, from which the friends of the female prisoners communicate with them. two or three women were standing at different parts of the grating conversing with their friends, but a very large portion of the prisoners appeared to have no friends at all, beyond such of their old companions as might happen to be within the walls. we were conducted up a clean and well lighted flight of stone steps to one of the wards. a description of one is a description of the whole. "it was in a spacious, bare, whitewashed apartment, lighted, of course, by windows looking into the interior of the prison, but far more light and airy than one could reasonably expect to find in such a situation. there was a large fire, with a deal table before it, round which ten or a dozen women were seated on wooden forms at dinner. along both sides of the room ran a shelf; below it, at regular intervals, a row of large hooks were fixed in the wall, on each of which was hung the sleeping mat of a prisoner; her rug and blanket being folded up, and placed on the shelf above. at night these mats are placed upon the floor, each beneath the hook on which it hangs during the day; and the ward is made to thus answer the purposes both of a day room and a sleeping apartment. over the fireplace was a large sheet of pasteboard, on which were displayed a variety of texts from scripture, which were also scattered about the room in scraps about the size and shape of the copy slips which are used in schools. on the table was a sufficient provision of a kind of stewed beef and brown bread, in pewter dishes which are kept perfectly bright, and displayed on shelves in great order and regularity when not in use. "in every ward of the female side a wards-woman is appointed to preserve order, and a similar regulation is adopted among the males. the wards-men and wards-women are all prisoners, selected for good conduct. they alone are allowed the privilege of sleeping on bedsteads: a small stump bedstead being placed in every ward for the purpose." this, in itself, was a vast improvement on the style of the last century in newgate. then the prisoner had no comfort unless he paid roundly for it. his cell contained a stone bench or two, on which the first comer might make his bed. the rest slept on the floor. once in a great while a truss of straw was tossed in to them, as it might have been to a beast in a stall. this straw remained until it rotted to a pulp. then another truss was used to scatter over it. so, in time, the prisoners slept on a veritable dunghill, the compost being generally left to fester till it bred a fever, when it would be carted off, to disseminate the germs of disease which it had engendered, outside the jail walls; and the same process was begun over again. in the matter of cleanliness a change for the better had been made in dickens's time; but one great evil of the jail was the herding together of the prisoners in the wards. here the possibly innocent learned evil lessons from the guilty; the depraved could deprave those not yet wholly debased; the gaol became, in short, not so much a place of punishment for crime as a powerful breeder of it, and many a man and boy, and woman and girl, who went into newgate for a trivial offense, emerged from it a full-fledged and incorrigible lawbreaker. so outrageous did this condition of things become that many thoughtful men began seriously to question whether the means of restricting crime, as practiced in newgate, were not really worse than the crime itself. in the sketch already quoted, dickens says: "they (the men's wards) are provided, like the wards of the women's side, with mats and rugs, which are disposed of in the same manner during the day; the only very striking difference between their appearance and that of the wards inhabited by the women is the utter absence of employment. huddled on two opposite forms by the fireside sit twenty men, perhaps; here a boy in livery; there a man in a rough great-coat and top-boots; further on, a desperate-looking fellow in his shirtsleeves, with an old scotch cap upon his shaggy head; near him again, a tall ruffian in a smock-frock; next to him a miserable being of distressed appearance, with his head resting on his hand--all alike in one respect, all idle and listless; when they do leave the fire, sauntering moodily about, lounging in the windows, or leaning against the wall, vacantly swinging their bodies to and fro. with the exception of an old man reading a newspaper, in two or three instances this was the case in every ward we entered. the only communication these men have with their friends is through two close iron gratings, with an intermediate space of about a yard in width between the two, so that nothing can be handed across, nor can the prisoner have any communication by touch with the person who visits him. the married men have a separate grating at which to see their wives, but its construction is the same." when the prisoners had visitors a keeper always sat in the space between the gratings, so that private communication was practically impossible. the only exception was made in favor of lawyers in visiting their clients; but prisoners of note could secure the privilege of privacy through the pressure of official influence on the head keeper. in fact, during later years an effort, only partially successful, was made in newgate to grade the prisoners according to their criminal standard, and to keep the classes apart. so, persistent and desperate offenders were assigned to one ward and those less confirmed in crime to another, while boys and youths were separated from the older prisoners, whose influence on them could not be but for evil. under the more humane management of the present century newgate was even provided with a school. "a portion of the prison," says boz, in his "visit," "is set apart for boys under fourteen years of age." "in a tolerable sized room, in which were writing materials and some copybooks, was the school-master with a couple of his pupils; the remainder having been fetched from an adjoining apartment, the whole were drawn up in a line for our inspection. there were fourteen of them in all, some with shoes, some without; some in pinafores without jackets, others in jackets without pinafores, and one in scarce anything at all. the whole number, without an exception, we believe, had been committed for trial on charges of pocket-picking; and fourteen such terrible little faces we never beheld. there was not a glance of honesty, not a wink expressive of anything but the gallows and the hulks, in the whole collection. as to anything like shame or contrition, that was entirely out of the question. they were evidently quite gratified at being thought worth the trouble of looking at; their idea appeared to be that we had come to see newgate as a grand affair, and that they were an indispensable part of the show; and every boy as he 'fell in' to the line actually seemed as pleased and important as if he had done something excessively meritorious in getting there at all." dickens had made a close study of this type of london gamin, as we have discovered in his artful dodger, master bates, and other demoralizing and diverting characterizations. in the boz sketch called "criminal courts" he describes the trial of such an imp at the old bailey court: "a boy of thirteen is tried, say, for picking the pocket of some subject of her majesty, and the offense is about as clearly proved as an offense can be. he is called upon for his defence, and contents himself with a little declamation about the jurymen and his country; asserts that all the witnesses have committed perjury, and hints that the police force generally have entered into a conspiracy against him. however probable his statement may be, it fails to convince the court, and some such scene as the following takes place: "court: have you any witnesses to speak for your character, boy? "boy: yes, my lord; fifteen gen'lm'n is a vaten outside, and vos avaten all day yesterday, vich they told me the night afore my trial vos a coming on. "court: inquire for these witnesses. "here a stout beadle runs out, and vociferates for the witness at the very top of his voice; for you hear his cry grow fainter and fainter as he descends the steps into the courtyard below. after an absence of five minutes he returns, very warm and hoarse, and informs the court of what he knew perfectly well before--namely, that there are no such witnesses in attendance. hereupon the boy sets up a most awful howling, screws the lower part of the palms of his hands into the corners of his eyes, and endeavors to look the picture of injured innocence. the jury at once find him 'guilty,' and his endeavors to squeeze out a tear are redoubled. the governor of the gaol then states, in reply to an inquiry from the bench, that the prisoner has been under his care twice before. this the urchin resolutely denies in some such terms as: 's'elp me, gen'lm'n, i never vos in trouble afore--indeed, my lord, i never vos. it's all a howen to my having a twin brother, vich has wrongfully got into trouble, and vich is so exactly like me, that no one ever knows the difference atween us.' "this representation, like the defence, fails in producing the desired effect, and the boy is sentenced, perhaps, to seven years' transportation. finding it impossible to excite compassion, he gives vent to his feelings in an imprecation bearing reference to the eyes of 'old big vig,' and as he declines to take the trouble of walking from the dock, is forthwith carried out, congratulating himself on having succeeded in giving everybody as much trouble as possible." in a similar vein, when the artful dodger falls into the toils ("oliver twist," chapter ) he asserts himself. "it was indeed mr. dawkins, who, shuffling into the office with the big coat sleeves tucked up as usual, his left hand in his pocket, and his hat in his right hand, preceded the gaoler, with a rolling gait altogether indescribable, and taking his place in the dock, requested in an audible voice to know what he was placed in 'that 'ere disgraceful situation for.' "'hold your tongue, will you?' said the gaoler. "'i'm an englishman, ain't i?' rejoined the dodger. 'where are my privileges?' "'you'll get your privileges soon enough,' retorted the gaoler, 'and pepper with 'em.' "'we'll see what the secretary of state for the home affairs has got to say to the beaks, if i don't,' replied mr. dawkins. "'now then. wot is this here business? i shall thank the madg'strates to dispose of this little affair, and not to keep me while they read the paper, for i've got an appointment with a gentleman in the city, and as i'm a man of my word and very punctual in business matters, he'll go away if i ain't there to my time, and then p'raps there won't be an action for damages against them as kept me away. oh, no, certainly not.' "at this point the dodger, with a show of being very particular with a view to the proceedings to be had thereafter, desired the gaoler to communicate 'the names of them two files as was on the bench,' which so tickled the spectators, that they laughed almost as heartily as master bates could have done if he had heard the request. "'silence there,' cried the gaoler. "'what is this?' inquired one of the magistrates. "'a pocket-picketing case, your worship.' "'has the boy ever been here before?' "'he ought to have been, a many times,' replied the gaoler. 'he has been pretty well everywhere else. i know him well, your worship.' "'oh, you know me, do you?' cried the artful, making a note of the statement. 'werry good. that's a case of deformation of character, any way.' "here there was another laugh, and another cry for silence. "'now then, where are the witnesses?' said the clerk. "'ah, that's right,' added the dodger. 'where are they? i should like to see 'em.' "this wish was immediately gratified, for a policeman stepped forward who had seen the prisoner attempt the pocket of an unknown gentleman in the crowd, and indeed take a handkerchief therefrom, which, being a very old one, he deliberately put back again, after trying it on his own countenance. for this reason he took the dodger into custody as soon as he could get near him, and the said dodger being searched, had upon his person a silver snuff-box, with the owner's name engraved upon the lid. this gentleman had been discovered upon reference to the court guide, and being then and there present, swore that the snuff-box was his, and that he had missed it on the previous day, the moment he had disengaged himself from the crowd before referred to. he had also remarked a young gentleman in the throng, particularly active in making his way about, and that the young gentleman was the prisoner before him. "'have you anything to ask this witness, boy?' said the magistrate. "'i wouldn't abase myself by descending to hold no conversation with him,' replied the dodger. "'have you anything to say at all?' "'do you hear his worship ask if you've anything to say?' inquired the gaoler, nudging the silent dodger with his elbow. "'i beg your pardon,' said the dodger, looking up with an air of abstraction. "'did you mean to say anything, you young shaver?' "'no,' replied the dodger, 'not here, for this ain't the shop for justice; besides which, my attorney is a breakfasting this morning with the wice-president of the house of commons; but i shall have something to say elsewhere, and so will he, and so will a wery numerous and 'spectable circle of acquaintances as'll make them beaks wish they'd never been born, or that they'd got their footman to hang 'em up to their own hat-pegs afore they let 'em come out this morning to try it upon me. i'll----' "'there. he's fully committed,' interposed the clerk. 'take him away.' "'oh, ah. i'll come on,' replied the dodger, brushing his hat with the palm of his hand. 'ah (to the bench) it's no use your looking frightened; i won't show you no mercy, not a ha'porth of it. you'll pay for this, my fine fellers. i wouldn't be you for something; i wouldn't go free now, if you was to fall down on your knees and ask me. here, carry me off to prison. take me away.' "with these last words, the dodger suffered himself to be led off by the collar, threatening, till he got into the yard, to make a parliamentary business of it, and then grinning in the officer's face with glee and self approval." to such scholars as these, all the schools that could be crowded into newgate would be of no avail. their biographies are summed up by magwitch, in "great expectations," who, blandly admitting to have been brought up to be "a warmint," says: "'in gaol and out of gaol, in gaol and out of gaol, in gaol and out of gaol. that's my life. i've been done everything to, pretty well--except hanged. i've been locked up as much as a silver tea-kettle. i've been carted here and carted there, and put out of this town and put out of that town. i've no more notion where i was born than you have, if so much. i first became aware of myself down in essex, a-thieving turnips for a living. summun had run away from me--a man, a tinker--and he'd took the fire with him and left me very cold. "'i knowed my name to be magwitch, christened abel. how did i know it? much as i knowed the birds' names in the hedges to be chaffinch, sparrer, thrush. i might have thought that it was all lies together, only, as the birds' names come out true, i suppose mine did. "'so fur as i could find, there warn't a soul that see young abel magwitch, with as little on him as in him, but what caught fright at him, and either drove him off or took him up. i was took up, took up, took up, to that extent that i reg'larly growed up took up.'" one of the most curious episodes of newgate is connected with the hanging of the rev. w. dodd, for forgery, on friday, june , . the clerical malefactor preached his own funeral sermon in the chapel of the prison before he was led out to die, the text being from acts xv, . the theatre of this remarkable valedictory went up in the smoke of the gordon riots, but there is a chapel in the reconstructed jail: "situated," says boz, "at the back of the governor's house; the latter having no windows looking into the interior of the prison. whether the associations connected with the place--the knowledge that here a portion of the burial is, on some dreadful occasions, performed over the quick and not over the dead--cast over it a still more gloomy and sombre air than art has imparted to it, we know not, but its appearance is very striking. the meanness of its appointments--the bare scanty pulpit, with the paltry painted pillars on either side--the women's gallery with its great heavy curtains--the men's with its unpainted benches and dingy front--the tottering little table at the altar, with the commandments on the wall above it, scarcely legible through lack of paint, and dust and damp--so unlike the velvet and gilding, the marble and the wood of a modern church--are strange and striking. there is one object, too, which rivets the attention and fascinates the gaze, and from which we may turn horror-stricken in vain, for the recollection of it will haunt us waking and sleeping for a long time afterward. immediately below the reading desk, on the floor of the chapel, and forming the most conspicuous object in the little area, is the 'condemned pew': a huge black pen in which the wretched people, who are singled out for death, are placed on the last sunday preceding their execution, in sight of all their fellow prisoners, from many of whom they may have been separated but a week before, to hear prayers for their own souls, to join in the responses of their own burial service, and to listen to an address warning their recent companions to take example by their own fate and urging themselves, while there is yet time--nearly four-and-twenty hours--to 'turn and flee from the wrath to come.' at one time--and at no distant period either--the coffins of the men about to be executed, were placed in that pew, upon the seat by their side, during the whole service." the chapel has been rearranged since the time in which boz wrote, and the ghastliest part of its show done away with. in the condemned ward boz found "five-and-twenty or thirty prisoners, all under sentence of death, awaiting the result of the recorder's report--men of all ages and appearances, from a hardened old offender with swarthy face and grizzly beard of three days' growth, to a handsome boy not fourteen years old, and of singularly youthful appearance even for that age, who had been condemned for burglary." it must be remembered that they hanged men for all sorts of offenses in england then, which made the population of the condemned ward abundant around sessions time, when the trials were on. the death penalty was as common then as it is now rare in its infliction. "the room was large, airy and clean. one or two decently dressed men were brooding with a dejected air over the fire; several little groups of two or three had been engaged in conversation at the upper end of the room, or in the windows; and the remainder were crowded around a young man seated at a table, who appeared to be engaged in teaching the younger ones to write. on the table lay a testament, but there were no tokens of its having been in recent use. in the press-room below were the men, the nature of whose offense rendered it necessary to separate them, even from their companions in guilt. it is a long sombre room, with two windows sunk in the stone wall, and here the wretched men are pinioned on the mornings of their execution, before moving toward the scaffold." "a few paces up the yard," he goes on, "and forming a continuation of the building, lie the condemned cells. the entrance is by a narrow and obscure staircase, leading to a dark passage, in which a charcoal stove casts a lurid light over the objects in its immediate vicinity, and diffuses something like a warmth around. prior to the recorder's report being made, all the prisoners under the sentence of death are removed from the day room at five o'clock in the afternoon, and locked up in these cells, where they are allowed a candle until ten o'clock; and here they remain until seven the next morning. when the warrant for the prisoner's execution arrives, he is removed to the cells, and confined in one of them until he leaves it for the scaffold. he is at liberty to walk in the yard; but both in the walks and in his cell, he is constantly attended by a turnkey, who never leaves him on any pretence." the cell was "a stone dungeon eight feet long by six feet wide, with a bench at the upper end, under which were a common rug, a bible and a prayer-book. an iron candle-stick was fixed into the wall at the side; and a small high window at the back admitted as much air and light as could struggle in between a double row of heavy, crossed iron bars." it was in one of these dens ("oliver twist," chapter ) that fagin spent his last hours. "they led him through a paved room under the court, where some prisoners were waiting till their turns came, and others were talking to their friends, who crowded around a gate which looked into the open yard. there was nobody there to speak to him; but, as he passed, the prisoners fell back to render him more visible to the people who were clinging to the bars; and they assailed him with opprobrious names, and screeched and hissed. he shook his fist, and would have spat upon them; but his conductors hurried him on, through a gloomy passage lighted by a few dim lamps, into the interior of the prison. "here he was searched, that he might not have about him the means of anticipating the law; this ceremony performed, they led him to one of the condemned cells, and left him there--alone. "he sat down on a stone bench opposite the door, which served for a seat and bedstead; and casting his bloodshot eyes upon the ground, tried to collect his thoughts. after a while, he began to remember a few disjointed fragments of what the judge had said; though it seemed to him, at the time, that he could not hear a word. these gradually fell into their proper places, and by degrees suggested more; so that in a little time he had the whole almost as it was delivered. to be hanged by the neck, till he was dead--that was the end. to be hanged by the neck till he was dead. "as it came on very dark, he began to think of all the men he had known who had died upon the scaffold; some of them through his means. they rose up, in such quick succession, that he could hardly count them. he had seen some of them die--and had joked, too, because they died with prayers upon their lips. with what a rattling noise the drop went down; and how suddenly they changed from strong and vigorous men to dangling heaps of clothes. "some of them might have inhabited that very cell--sat upon that very spot. it was very dark; why didn't they bring a light? the cell had been built for many years. scores of men must have passed their last hours there. it was like sitting in a vault strewn with dead bodies--the cap, the noose, the pinioned arms, the faces that he knew, even beneath that hideous veil. light--light. "at length, when his hands were raw with beating against the heavy door and walls, two men appeared: one bearing a candle, which he thrust into an iron candle-stick fixed against the wall; the other dragging a mattress on which to pass the night; for the prisoner was to be left alone no more. "then came night--dark, dismal, silent night. other watchers are glad to hear the clocks strike, for they tell of life and coming day. to the jew they brought despair. the boom of every iron bell came laden with one deep, hollow sound--death. what availed the noise and bustle of cheerful morning, which penetrated even there, to him? it was another form of knell, with mockery added to its warning. "the day passed off--day. there was no day; it was gone as soon as come--and night came on again; night so long, and yet so short, long in its dreadful silence, and short in its fleeting hours. at one time he raved and blasphemed; and at another howled and tore his hair. venerable men of his own persuasion had come to pray beside him, but he had driven them away with curses. they renewed their charitable efforts, and he beat them off. "saturday night. he had only one more night to live, and as he thought of this, the day broke--sunday. "it was not until the night of this last awful day, that a withering sense of his helpless, desperate state came in its full intensity upon his blighted soul; not that he had ever held any defined or positive hope of mercy, but that he had never been able to consider more than dim probability of dying so soon. he had spoken little to either of the two men, who relieved each other in attendance upon him; and they, for their parts, made no efforts to arouse his attention. he sat there, awake, but dreaming. now he started up, every minute, and with gasping mouth and burning skin, hurried to and fro in such a paroxysm of fear and wrath that even they--used to such sights--recoiled from him with horror. he grew so terrible, at last, in all the tortures of his evil conscience that one man could not bear to sit there, eyeing him alone; and so the two kept watch together. "he cowered down upon his stone bed, and thought of the past. he had been wounded with some missiles from the crowd on the day of his capture, and his head was bandaged with a linen cloth. his red hair hung down upon his bloodless face; his beard was torn and twisted into knots; his eyes shone with a terrible light; his unwashed flesh crackled with the fever that burnt him up. eight--nine--ten. if it was not a trick to frighten him, and those were the real hours treading on each other's heels, where would he be, when they came around again? eleven! another struck, before the voice of the previous hour had ceased to vibrate. at eight, he would be the only mourner in his own funeral train; at eleven---- "those dreadful walls of newgate, which had hidden so much misery and unspeakable anguish, not only from the eyes, but, too often and too long, from the thoughts, of men, never held so dreaded a spectre as that. the few who lingered as they passed, and wondered what the man was doing, who was to be hung to-morrow, would have slept but ill that night if they could have but seen him. "from early in the evening until nearly midnight, little groups of two and three presented themselves at the lodge-gate, and inquired, with anxious faces, whether any reprieve had been received. these being answered in the negative, communicated the welcome intelligence to the clusters in the street, who pointed out to one another the door from which he must come out, and showed where the scaffold would be built, and, walking with unwilling steps away, turned back to conjure up the scene. by degrees they fell off, one by one; and for an hour in the dead of the night, the street was left to solitude and darkness." when mr. brownlow and oliver appeared at the wicket, and presented an order of admission to the prisoner, signed by one of the sheriffs, they were immediately admitted to the lodge. "the condemned criminal was seated on his bed, rocking himself from side to side, with a countenance more like that of a snared beast than the face of a man. his mind was evidently wandering to his old life, for he continued to mutter, without appearing conscious of their presence otherwise than as a part of his vision. "'fagin,' said the gaoler. "'that's me,' cried the jew, falling, instantly into the attitude of listening he assumed upon his trial. 'an old man, my lord; a very old man.' "'here,' said the turnkey, laying his hand upon his breast to keep him down. 'here's somebody wants to see you, to ask you some questions, i suppose. fagin, fagin, are you a man?' "'i shan't be one long,' replied the jew, looking up with a face retaining no human expression but rage and terror. 'strike them all dead! what right have they to butcher me?'" since hanging by wholesale went out in england, newgate has had no use for condemned wards, nor for its great number of condemned cells. the former are now broken up into cells, or used as exercise rooms or offices. most of the latter are now punishment cells, in which refractory prisoners are confined. the demoralizing system of confinement in gangs has been done away with also, the cells in which the prisoners froze in cold weather have been made comfortable, and the standard of the management of the jail raised in every way. such prisoners as may be condemned to death--there are only a few a year now, where in dickens's boyhood there were several every week--are kept apart from their fellows and from each other. they are confined in an ordinary cell until they are convicted. then they are transferred to a strong cell in the old condemned cell ward, and thence they travel to the scaffold. between the old bailey court house and the condemned ward of newgate is a yard called the press yard. the name has a hideous origin. this spot was for many years the scene of one of the most terrible tortures ever inflicted by the cruelty of man upon his kind, the awful torture of "pressing to death." this torture was imposed on prisoners held for higher crimes, like treason and felonies, who refused to answer in court. nowadays, this would be construed into contempt of court. until a century ago it was held an offense so hideous as to warrant death by torture. nowadays we do not ask a prisoner to criminate himself. then, if he did not, he was tortured; if he did he was punished anyway. the prisoner condemned to be pressed was stripped naked, except, for decency's sake, a cloth around the loins, and laid on his back on the pavement. then iron weights were piled upon a board placed on his body, in increasing number, and on a diet of three morsels of bread a day and three draughts of water, he was left to perish miserably. he never needed a full day's rations. sometimes he lasted for hours, and at others, as in the case of mayor strangeways, who was pressed for the murder of john fussel in , he died in a few moments. this poor wretch was stoned by the mob in the prison yard while undergoing the torture. highwaymen, house-breakers, forgers, utterers of forged and counterfeit money, as well as murderers and traitors, were pressed to death. brutal and callous as the era was, the shocking practice excited such denunciation in time that the victims were finally subjected to the torture privately in the room known as the press room whose door opens into the press yard. but the practice of pressing was kept up until as late as . the press yard to this day is devoted to quite as gloomy and deadly, if less revolting, service under sanction of the law. it is here that the executions of newgate are performed. the gallows is set up close to the door out of which the prisoner is brought. there is no march to the gibbet through a throng of spectators as in most of our own jails. the doomed man gets his last glimpse of the sky through a stone funnel down which no ray of sunlight ever finds its way. as far as i remember, from my london days, the only sign the outer world has of the work going on within the prison walls is the hoisting of a black flag over the lodge, and i know not if even this ceremonial is still observed. from the gallows to the grave in newgate used to be but a step. there was an old burying ground in the prison, now disused, which was opened in . thistlewood and the other cato street conspirators were the first criminals buried in it. they were buried in the night on the day of their execution, without services, and many others like them in after years. a pit and a shroud of quicklime were the appropriate newgate epitaph. the ingenious fancy of mr. ainsworth has made jack sheppard's escape from newgate one of the chief episodes of his famous book. the simple facts of his hero's evasion from the gaol are much less romantic, considering the number of prisoners it held. the escapes from newgate were very few, and in almost every instance they owed a great measure of their success to the connivance of officials within the walls. until the tidal wave of prison reform swept it clean of its old, corrupt practices, newgate was managed largely for the benefit and profit of its guardians, from the keeper down. each official was an adept at the art of extortion, and every palm that held a key was troubled with the itch. the prisoner could purchase most things he might desire, and even the chance of liberty was not beyond price. it was only the chance to be sure; his keeper would wink at the effort, but he must take the risk of being stopped upon his way by others, unless he could fairly buy his passage from his dungeon to the lodge gate. a few--a very few--did this, and got away. generally the escapes were mere attempts, frustrated before the last barrier was passed. the most remarkable escape made from the prison, because it was accomplished without aid within or without the walls, was that of the sweep. this ruffian, from practice in his trade of climbing chimneys, actually contrived to scale the rough stone wall in an angle of one of the jail yards, by working himself up with his back and feet, until he reached the leads, over which he made his way to the roof of a house in newgate street, which he entered through the scuttle, and so went down stairs and into the street. since that time the inner walls of newgate have been smoothed, so that even a fly could not crawl up them, and spiked at the top to make assurance doubly sure. chapter iii. the fleet prison. half a century ago, a stroller about the london streets whose loiterings carried him to the fleet market, could not but notice in the brick wall that extended along what is now entitled farringdon street, facing the market, a wide-grated window, set in a framework of granite blocks. under the arched top of the framework, between it and the grating, a stone slab or panel bore the carved inscription: "please remember poor debtors, having no allowance." through the grating one might look into a squalid, dark room, with a rough wooden bench fastened to one wall, and during the hours of daylight some miserable human creature, like a caged and starved beast, always glared from behind the bars upon the street, repeating, in the voice of wheedling mendicancy, the appeal cut in the stone above his head. there was a broad sill to the window, and an opening in the bars, like those of the counter windows in a modern bank, through which the jailed beggar could pass out and draw in a wooden box, in which the charitably inclined might drop an obolus as they passed by. this was what was called "the grate" of the fleet prison, one of the wickedest and most pestilential gaols that ever cursed the earth; and the grimmest satire upon this jail into which men were thrust for not paying money which they owed, was that among these debtors there were many whose absolute inability to pay was demonstrated by the fact that they would, literally, have starved there but for the chance charity of the public. apropos of this point dickens, in chapter xiv, volume ii, of "pickwick," says: "the poor side of the debtors' prison is, as its name imports, that in which the most miserable and abject class of debtors are confined. a prisoner, having declared upon the poor, pays neither rent nor chummage. his fees upon entering and leaving the gaol are reduced in amount, and he becomes entitled to a share of some small quantities of food--to provide which a few charitable persons have, from time to time, left trifling legacies in their wills. most of our readers will remember that, until a very few years past, there was a kind of iron cage in the wall of the fleet prison, within which was posted some man who, from time to time, rattled a money box, and exclaimed in a mournful voice: 'pray remember the poor debtors.' the receipts of this box, when there were any, were divided among the poor prisoners, and the men on the poor side relieved each other in this degrading office. "although this custom has been abolished and the cage is now boarded up, the miserable and destitute condition of these unhappy persons remains the same. we no longer suffer them to appeal at the prison gates to the charity and compassion of the passers-by; but we still have unblotted on leaves of our statute-book, for the reverence and admiration of the succeeding ages, the just and wholesome law which declares that the sturdy felon shall be fed and clothed, and that the penniless debtor shall be left to die in starvation and nakedness. this is no fiction. not a week passes over our heads but, in every one of our prisons for debt, some of these men must inevitably expire in the slow agonies of want, if they were not relieved by their fellow prisoners." the custom of beggary at the prison gate, it may as well be remarked here, was a relic of the ancient prison of the fleet, to which allusion is made in several of the old english comedies. leigh hunt, in his pleasant divagations upon london called "the town," remarks upon the practice in connection with ludgate prison, and, indeed, it was common to all the town jails in which debtors were incarcerated, without municipal provisions for their support. in the last century, as john timbs tells us, there was additional provision for the relief of the paupers of the prison, in what was known as the "running box." in this case a man ran to and fro in the neighboring streets to the prison, shaking a box, and begging passengers to put money into it for the poor prisoners in the fleet, while on his back he carried a capacious covered basket, to hold such broken victuals as the charitable might choose to spare for him. hard by the paupers' grating of the fleet was a grimy and gloomy doorway, heavily framed in stone, which, like the brick of the prison wall, sweated a sort of fungoid scum, originally a rank, unhealthy green in color, but, thanks to london fogs and soft-coal smoke, soon converted into the semblance of a thin glaze or varnish of liquid soot. the door stone was worn as smooth as glass, and even in the fairest weather was perilously greased with street slime. on either panel of the doorway was carved a huge numerical figure. the rude wit of the town called this the "fleet halter," which, once it was about a man's neck, held him almost as tight and fast as its rival noose at tyburn. fastidious debtors who preferred to preserve a fiction of respectability in their correspondence, were wont to have their letters addressed to them at fleet market, for was the halter-hinting number of the gateway to the gaol. it was through this gateway that the tipstaff preceded mr. pickwick, as you may read in chapter xii. of the second volume which chronicles that immortal gentleman's adventures, "looking over his shoulder to see that his charge was following close at his heels;" and in the gate-lodge, which they entered through a door at the left, mr. pickwick sat for his portrait to the assembled turnkeys, so that he might be remembered should he take the fancy to stroll out of the doors without a license. there was in this lodge "a heavy gate guarded by a stout turnkey with the key in his hand," and when mr. pickwick's likeness was completed, he passed through this inner gate, and down a short flight of steps, and "found himself, for the first time in his life, within the walls of a debtor's prison." the fleet in those days consisted principally of one long brick pile, which ran parallel with the fleet market, now farringdon street, with an open court around it, bounded by a lofty wall, over which, here and there, one could see the sooty chimney-tops and the smoky sky. the buildings were four stories in height above the ground, with a story half under ground among the foundations. no architectural art had been wasted on the exterior of the structure, and no sanitary ingenuity or sentimental seeking after the comfort of the inmates had been expended upon the interior. the one aim of the constructors had been to so divide the space as to cram within it the greatest possible number of persons. to this end, each floor was traversed by a single hallway or passage, "a long narrow gallery, dirty and low, and very dimly lighted by a window at each remote end," on either hand of which opened doors of innumerable single rooms, which rarely, however, failed to do duty as lodgings for less than several tenants. the floors, as mr. tom roker explained to mr. pickwick when he inducted him into the prison, were distinguished as the hall flight, the coffee-room flight, the third flight and the top flight. all the rooms on these floors were let by the week, at prices adjusted to their presumed desirability and the capacity of the lessee's purse, and governed by the number of tenants who entered upon them. the basement rooms, even, formed a source of revenue to the warden. this sunken story, which received its light from the low-browed windows whose sills were level with the slabs of the prison yard, was known as bartholomew fair. here misery might welter in its offal at the fee of one-and-threepence a week if it still held itself above the abject degradation of the common side, whose inmates took their turn at begging at the grate. the common side was a building apart from the main range, which latter was known as the warden side. here there was no rent to pay. the prisoners bunked in gangs, like emigrants on an ocean passage. as to bartholomew fair, let dickens describe it himself (vide "pickwick," chapter xiii, volume ii): "'oh!' replied mr. pickwick, looking down a dark and filthy staircase which appeared to lead to a range of damp and gloomy stone vaults beneath the ground, 'and these, i suppose, are the little cellars where the prisoners keep their small quantities of coals? unpleasant places to have to go down to, but very convenient, i daresay.' 'yes, i shouldn't wonder if they was convenient,' replied mr. roker, 'seeing that a few people live there pretty snug. that's the fair, that is!' 'my friend,' said mr. pickwick, 'you don't really mean to say that human beings live down these wretched dungeons?' 'don't?' replied mr. roker, with indignant astonishment; 'why shouldn't i?' 'live down there?' exclaimed mr. pickwick. 'live down there? yes, and die down there, too, wery often.'" nominally, each prisoner in the fleet on the warden side was entitled to a room at the charge of s. d. a week. actually, however, he never got one on any floor above the level of bartholomew fair. each room was made to quarter from two to four tenants in the space designed for one, so that it, at full seasons, actually produced at least a crown a week rental. this system, which was excused on the plea of overcrowding of the jail by commitments of the courts, was called "chummage," and the system produced another curious practice of prison life. if one or more prisoners occupied a room and another was "chummed" on them, they could buy him off by paying him a few shillings a week, and so keep the room to themselves. he, out of the money they paid him, paid in his turn for inferior quarters elsewhere. thus, a prisoner who was willing to pay full rent for a room to the warden, and buy off anyone who might be chummed upon him, could have a dirty box of a chamber to himself, at the average cost of a first-class parlor and bedroom outside the walls. prisoners who had been a certain number of years in the jail had a prescriptive right to a room to themselves, and most of these rented their apartments at good rates to new comers, and took beds for themselves in the common lodgings. when mr. pickwick entered the fleet as a resident (vide volume ii, chapter xiv) he was chummed on " in the third," whose door was to be distinguished by the likeness of a man being hung and smoking a pipe the while, done in chalk upon the panel. not liking his company of three here he, as may be recalled, rented the room of a chancery prisoner, in which he settled down. for the use of this room he paid £ a week, and for the furniture, which he hired from a keeper, £ s. more. these figures may serve as an indication of the rates prevailing in the fleet fifteen years before it was demolished. the episode of mr. pickwick's investigatory experiences in this connection is worth quoting, as a part of the panorama of prison life. there was only one man in the room upon which he was chummed, and he "was leaning out of the window as far as he could without overbalancing himself, endeavoring, with great perseverance, to spit upon the crown of the hat of a personal friend upon the parade below." he expressed his disgust at having had the newcomer chummed upon him, and summoned his two room-mates, who were a bankrupt butcher and a drunken chaplain out of orders, the expectoratory gentleman himself being a professional blackleg. "'it's an aggravating thing, just as we got the beds so snug,' said the chaplain, looking at the dirty mattresses, each rolled up in a blanket, which occupied one corner of the room during the day, and formed a kind of slab on which were placed an old cracked basin, ewer and soap-dish of common yellow earthenware with a blue flower; 'very aggravating.' "mr. martin (the butcher) expressed the same opinion, in rather stronger terms. "mr. simpson (the 'leg) after having let a variety of expletive adjectives loose upon society, without any substantive to accompany them, tucked up his sleeves and began to wash greens for dinner. "while this was going on mr. pickwick had been eyeing the room, which was filthily dirty and smelt intolerably close. there was no vestige of either carpet, curtain or blind. there was not even a closet in it. unquestionably, there were but few things to put away if there had been one, but, however few in number, or small in individual amount, still, remnants of loaves, and pieces of cheese, and damp towels, and scraps of meat, and articles of wearing apparel, mutilated crockery, and bellows without nozzles, and toasting-forks without prongs, do present somewhat of an uncomfortable appearance when they are scattered about the floor of a small apartment, which is the common sitting and sleeping room of three idle men. "'i suppose that this can be managed somehow,' said the butcher, after a pretty long silence. 'what will you take to go out?' "'i beg your pardon,' replied mr. pickwick, 'what did you say? i hardly understood you.' "'what will you take to be paid out?' said the butcher. 'the regular chummage is two-and-six; will you take three bob?' "'and a bender,' suggested the clerical gentleman. "'well, i don't mind that; it's only a twopence apiece more,' said mr. martin; 'what do you say now? we'll pay you out for three-and-sixpence a week; come!' "'and stand a gallon of beer down,' chimed in mr. simpson. 'there!' "'and drink it on the spot,' said the chaplain; 'now!' "after this introductory preface the three chums informed mr. pickwick, in a breath, that money was in the fleet just what money was out of it; that it would instantly procure him almost anything he desired; and that supposing he had it, and had no objection to spend it; if he only signified his wish to have a room to himself, he might take possession of one, furnished and fitted to boot, in half an hour's time. "with this the parties separated, very much to their mutual satisfaction, mr. pickwick once more retracing his steps to the lodge, and the three companions adjourned to the coffee-room, there to expend the five shillings which the clerical gentleman, with admirable prudence and foresight, had borrowed of him for the purpose. "'i knowed it,' said mr. roker with a chuckle, when mr. pickwick stated the object with which he had returned. 'lord, why didn't you say at first that you was willing to come down handsome?'" those who could afford to sleep well in the fleet, as sleeping went in such places, might feed well enough, too. they could be served in the coffee-room, and if they preferred to eat in privacy, there was a cookshop in the prison; and there were, besides, messengers who could be sent on errands of purchase outside the walls. in every case the charges were extortionate, for the one object of the prison was to squeeze the debtor dry by fair means or foul. but when the law sanctions such outrages as the fleet itself, the minor offenses by which the greater burden is mitigated to its victims may be condoned. there was a taproom in the prison where beer and wine were to be had, but the traffic in spirits was forbidden, and even the conveyance of them to the prisoners from without prohibited under heavy penalties; "and such commodities being highly prized by the ladies and gentlemen confined therein" ("pickwick" volume ii, chapter xvii), "it had occurred to some speculative turnkey to connive, for certain remunerative considerations, at two or three prisoners retailing the favorite articles of gin for their own profit and advantage." the spirit dispensaries were known in the jargon of the jail as "whistling-shops," and what with the strong waters they provided, and the malt liquors of the taproom, it was safe to assume that the bulk of such prisoners in the fleet as were not dying for the want of sufficient food were perishing of a superfluity of drink. the poor debtors who still had the price of "a chamber-pot of coals" and a scrag of mutton, could have it in from the market and cook it for themselves in their rooms or, for a penny or two, at the common kitchen in the prison-yard. in default of sufficient capital to this end they must live off bread and cheese, or cold meat, or hope, or, as many doubtless did, on the porter from the taproom. to secure the means of subsistence and indulgence they begged from the visitors. the sharper old residents borrowed from the shallower newcomers, and, as a matter of course, theft went hand in hand with mendicancy. of this shadowy side of a picture, dark enough, in all conscience, in its lightest spots, dickens gives us a glimpse in chapter xiv of volume ii, where mr. pickwick encounters mr. alfred jingle on the common side, and mr. jeb trotter, returning from pawning his master's last coat, with a scrap of meat for his dinner. and mr. jingle's own summary of the prevailing state of things at that period and place may serve as a description of the condition and prospects of his neighbors. "'lived on a pair of boots--whole fortnight. silk umbrella--ivory handle--week. nothing soon--lie in bed--starve--die--inquest--little bone-house--poor prisoner--common necessaries--hush it up--gentlemen of jury--warden's tradesmen--keep it snug--natural death--coroner's order--workhouse funeral--serve him right--all over--drop the curtain.'" in the son of the architect, dance, who built old buckingham house and guy's hospital, was imprisoned in the fleet for debt. he wrote and published a poem called "the humors of the fleet," which has an interest for comparison with what the prison became later. the book had a frontispiece showing the prison-yard, a newcomer treating the jailer and cook and others to drink; racket-players at their game; and in one corner of the yard a pump and a tree. when the fleet was rebuilt after the riots, there were two exercise grounds within the walls. one, the smaller, was on the side toward farringdon street, denominated and called "the painted ground," from the fact of its walls having once displayed the "semblances of various men-of-war in full sail, and other artistical effects, produced, in bygone days, by some imprisoned draughtsman in his leisure hours." on the other side of the prison was the larger yard where racket was played and games of skittles bowled beneath a shed. here might be seen the characterless "characters" of the place, in which every prison is sure to abound. smokers and other idlers loitered about the steps leading to the racket ground, draining their pots as they watched the game. here mr. smangle "made a light and wholesome breakfast on a couple of cigars" mr. pickwick had paid for, and here mr. weller, with a pint of beer and the day before yesterday's paper, divided his time between dipping into the news and the noggin, the skittle game and the affections of a young lady who was peeling potatoes at one of the jail windows, on that memorable morning when mr. stiggins called upon him and sampled the port wine in the coffee-room snuggery. here you might hear the roar of the great babel without; and from the same point see one or two of its churches aspiring above the 'chevaux-de-frise' of the prison walls. there was a torrent-like fury about the busy hum of the town in contrast with the stagnant life within the brick walls; and, as if to keep up the mockery, they verged upon the yard of the belle sauvage inn, where travelers constantly came and went on their journeys, free, if they chose, to roam around the world. in chapter xvii of volume ii, dickens sketches a vivid picture of the daily scene in the jail-yard. "sauntering or sitting about, in every possible attitude of listless idleness, were a number of debtors, the major part of whom were waiting in prison until their day of 'going up' before the insolvent court should arrive, while others had been remanded for various terms, which they were idling away as they best could. some were shabby, some were smart, many dirty, a few clean; but there they all lounged, and loitered, and slunk about, with as little spirit or purpose as the beasts in the menagerie. lolling from the windows which commanded a view of this promenade were a number of persons, some in noisy conversation with their acquaintances below, and others playing bat all with some adventurous throwers outside, and others looking on at the racket players, or watching the boys as they cried the game. dirty, slipshod women passed and repassed on their way to the cooking house in one corner of the yard; children screamed, and fought, and played together in another; the tumbling of the skittles and the shouts of the players mingled perpetually with these and a hundred other sounds, and all was noise and tumult." to this picture of the fleet by day, it is worth while to add one of the after dark, from chapter xii, of volume ii. "it was getting dark; that is to say, a few gas jets were kindled in this place, which was never light, by way of compliment to the evening which had set in outside. as it was rather warm some of the tenants of the numerous little rooms which opened into the gallery on either hand set their doors ajar. mr. pickwick peeped into them, as he passed along, with curiosity and interest. here, four or five great hulking fellows, just visible through a cloud of tobacco smoke, were engaged in noisy and riotous conversation over half-emptied pots of beer, or playing at all fours with a very greasy pack of cards. in the adjourning room some solitary tenant might be seen poring, by the light of a feeble tallow candle, over a bundle of soiled and tattered papers, yellow with dust, and dropping with age, writing, for the hundredth time, some lengthened statement of his grievances for the perusal of some great man whose eyes it would never reach, or whose heart it would never touch. in a third a man and his wife and a whole crowd of children might be seen making up a scanty bed on the ground, or upon a few chairs for the younger ones to pass the night in. and in a fourth, and a fifth, and a sixth, and a seventh the noise, and the beer, and the tobacco smoke, and the cards all came over again in greater force than before. in the galleries themselves, and more especially on the staircases, there lingered a great number of people who came there, some because their rooms were foul and hot, and the greater part because they were restless and uncomfortable and not possessed with the secret of knowing exactly what to do with themselves. there were many classes of people here, from the laboring man and his fustian jacket to the broken-down spendthrift in his shawl dressing-gown, most appropriately out at the elbows; but there was the same air about them all--a sort of listless, gaol-bird, careless swagger; a vagabondish, who's-afraid sort of bearing which is wholly indescribable in words, but which any man can understand in a moment, if he wish, by setting foot in the nearest debtors' prison, and looking at the very first group of people he sees there." the fleet prison was staggering along on its last legs, like some gouty monster whose swollen joints were rotting asunder of internal corruption, when dickens gave it a place in the fiction of picturesque fact. but it had a long history behind it, a history dating from the time when the fleet creek, now a noisome sewer under the foundations of the jail, was a pretty little river, winding down from a verdant and fertile country. when the town had grown toward and around it, the fleet river had become silted and clogged up into a foul and sluggish stream, and was such a nuisance that it was arched over, and a market built upon the arches. but below the market it still remained an open stream, where colliers' barges unloaded their cargoes at sea-coal lane, and what is now bridge street was a sluggish, polluted canal, whose reek infected the air. the gaol took its name from the stream upon whose banks it was built. the exact date of its foundation is unknown, but by various records it was formerly held in conjunction with the manor of leveland, in kent, and with "the king's house at westminster," the whole being a part of the ancient possessions of the see of canterbury, traceable in a grant from the archbishop lanfranc, soon after the accession of william the conqueror. the wardenship or sergeantcy of the prison was anciently held by several eminent personages, who also had custody of the king's palace at westminster. it was "a place," in the worst sense of the phrase, for, as long ago as , the persons to whom the warden had underlet it were guilty of cruelty and extortion, crimes, however, quite characteristic of the court of star chamber, of which the fleet was at this time the prison. up to this period its history is little better than a sealed book, the burning of the prison by the followers of wat tyler seeming to have been the only very noticeable event during the above interval. in the reigns of edward vi and of mary, the fleet was tenanted by several victims of religious bigotry. one of the most venerated of british martyrs, bishop hopper, was twice committed to the fleet, which he only quitted in for the stake and the fire, in the chief town in his diocese, gloucester. his captivity was truly wretched; he slept upon "a little pad of straw" with a rotten covering; "his chamber was vile and stinking," just as it might have been had he been a poor debtor in . the fees belonging to the warden of the fleet and his officers, in the reign of elizabeth, were very heavy. an archbishop, duke or duchess had to pay for a commitment fee and the first week's "dyett," £ s.; a lord, spiritual or temporal, £ s. d.; a knight, £ ; an esquire, £ s. d.; and even a poor man in the wards, "that hath a part at the box, to pay for his fee, having no dyett, s. d." the warden's charge for lawful license "to go abroad" was d. per diem. thus, as may be seen, the fleecing and flayings, the inhumanities and the injustices which characterized the later years of the prison were hereditary to it. from the reign of elizabeth to the sixteenth year of king charles i, , the star chamber court was in full activity, and several bishops and other persons of distinction were imprisoned in the fleet for their religious opinions. thither, too, were consigned political victims of the star chamber, two of the most interesting cases of this period being those of prynne and lilburne. prynne was taken out of the prison, and, after suffering pillory, branding, and mutilation of the nose and ears, was remanded to the fleet. lilburne--"freeborn john"--and his printer were committed to the fleet for libel and sedition; and the former was "smartly whipped" at the cart's tail, from the prison to the pillory place between westminster hall and the star chamber; and he was subsequently "doubled ironed" in the prison wards. another tenant of the fleet at this period was james howel, the author of the "familiar letters," several of which are dated from the prison. from a letter "to the earl of b----," from the fleet, nov. , , we gather that howel was arrested "one morning betimes" by five men armed with "swords, pistols and bils," and some days after committed to the fleet; and he says, "as far as i see, i must lie at anchor in this fleet a long time, unless some gentle gale blow thence to make me launch out." then we find him consoling himself in the reflection that the english "people" are in effect but prisoners, as all other islanders are. there are other letters by howel, dated from the fleet in - and . the prison was burnt on september , , during the great fire, when the prisoners were removed to carom or caroon house, in south lambeth, until the fleet was rebuilt on the original site. after the abolition of the star chamber, in , the fleet had become a prison for debtors only, and for contempt of the court of chancery, common pleas and exchequer. it appears that the prison had been used for the confinement of debtors from the th century, at least, a petition from john trauncy, a debtor in the fleet, a. d. , being still preserved. when the star chamber was abolished, the warden's power of exacting enormous fees by putting in irons does not appear to have ceased also, for the wardens continued to exercise their tyranny, "not only in extorting exorbitant fees, but in oppressing prisoners for debt, by loading them with irons, worse than if the star chamber were still existing." in the cruelties and the extortions of the wardens were made public, but it was not until that the enormity of the system of mismanagement came fully before the public, and indescribable was the excitement and horror it caused. a parliamentary committee was then appointed, and the result of their labors was the committal of wardens bambridge and huggins, and some of their servants, to newgate. they were tried for different murders, yet all escaped by the verdict of "not guilty." hogarth has, however, made them immortal in their infamy, in his picture of bambridge under examination, whilst a prisoner is explaining how he has been tortured. twenty years after, it is said, bambridge cut his throat. in consequence of these proceedings the court of common pleas, january , , established a new list of fees to be taken, and modified the rules and orders for the government of the fleet. the rents, perquisites, and profits of the office at the above period were £ , s. d. per annum. james gambier succeeded bambridge in the wardenship, was succeeded by john garth, and to him followed john eyles, and in eyles's son succeeded him in the office, which he held for sixty-two years. he was succeeded in by his deputy, nixon, who died in . the next appointed was w. r. h. brown, he being the last of the wardens of the prison. in the riots of the fleet was destroyed by fire, and the prisoners liberated by the mob; consequently a great part of the papers and prison records were lost, though there remain scattered books and documents of several centuries back. although he does not deal specifically with the attack on the prison at this period, dickens in "barnaby rudge" (volume ii, chapter ii) gives a brief but picturesque description of the surroundings of the gaol as they were at the time of the gordon riots. "fleet market at that time was a long, irregular row of wooden sheds and pent houses occupying the centre of what is now called farringdon street. they were jumbled together in a most unsightly fashion in the middle of the road to the great obstruction of the thoroughfare and the annoyance of passengers who were fain to make their way as best they could among the carts, barrows, baskets, trucks, casks, hulks, and benches, and to jostle with porters, hucksters, wagoners and a motley crowd of buyers, sellers, pickpockets, vagrants and idlers. the air was perfumed with the stench of rotten leaves and faded fruit, the refuse of the butchers' stalls, and offal and garbage of a hundred kinds. it was indispensable to most public conveniences in those days that they should be public nuisances likewise, and fleet market maintained the principle to admiration." further on, in chapter ix of the same work, he summarizes a peculiar episode in the history of the gaol at the same period. "the gates of the king's bench and the fleet prison, being opened at the usual hour, were found to have notices affixed to them announcing that the rioters would come that night to burn them down. the wardens, too well knowing the likelihood there was of this promise being fulfilled, were fain to set their prisoners at liberty, and gave them leave to move their goods; so all day such of them as had any furniture were occupied in conveying it, some to this place, some to that, and not a few to the brokers' shops, where they gladly sold it for any wretched price those gentry chose to give. there were some broken men among these debtors who had been in gaol so long, and were so miserable and destitute of friends, so dead to the world, and utterly forgotten and uncared for, that they implored their gaolers not to set them free, and to send them, if need were to some other place of custody. but they refusing to comply, lest they should incur the anger of the mob, turned them into the streets where they wandered up and down, hardly remembering the ways untrodden by their feet so long, and crying--such abject things those rotten-hearted gaols had made them--as they slunk off in their rags and dragged their slipshod feet along the pavement." in spite of the concession of the warden, the mob, as has been stated, burned the fleet down, and it was in the successor to the den which had risen on the ruins left by the great fire of that mr. pickwick prosecuted his studies of prison life and character. among the curiosities of the london archives are over a ton of books registering the fleet marriages between and , which are in the registry office of the bishop of london, where they were deposited by the government, which purchased them in . these fleet marriages were the scandal and disgrace of their time. while they lasted the debtor's gaol was the gretna green of london. there were no end of hard-living parsons flung into the fleet for debt, and as these men were always paupers in purse, they were put to strange shifts to keep themselves in meat and drink--especially the latter. the idea to convert clandestine marriages into a source of gain, once originated, with men who had neither money, character or liberty to lose, was not long in spreading. at first the ceremony was performed within the prison chapel. then they became too numerous and the business too extensive for the confines of the gaol, and every tavern around the prison had its marriage mill, and a parson who in the rules of the prison was permitted to go at large within certain limits, to grind the mill for anyone who listed. these clerical vagabonds employed touts, who roved about the market and the adjacent streets drumming up custom for the parson, who sat swigging while he waited for trade, very much as the slop-shop salesman of to-day seeks for custom passing on the sidewalk. tennant relates that in walking the street in his youth, on the side next to this prison: "i have often been tempted by the question, 'sir, will you be pleased to walk in and be married.'" along this most lawless space was frequently hung up the sign of a male and female hand conjoined, with "marriages performed within" written beneath. a dirty fellow invited you in. the parson was seen walking before his shop, a squalid, profligate figure, clad in a tattered plaid night-gown, with a fiery face, and ready to couple you for a dram of gin or roll of tobacco. "the grub street journal," in january, , says: "there are a set of drunken, swearing parsons, with their myrmidons, who wear black coats and pretend to be clerks and registers of the fleet, and who ply about ludgate hill, pulling or forcing people to some peddling ale-house or brandy shop to be married; even on a sunday stopping them as they go to church and almost tearing the clothes off their backs." competition in the business was fierce. while the fleet parsons sent their pullers-in forth to scour the streets, they hung their signs out in the windows under the shadow of the prison wall. thus at one corner might be seen a window, "weddings performed here cheap." the business was advertised in the newspapers. the marriage taverns lined fleet lane and fleet ditch. two of them--the bull and garter and the king's head--were kept by warders of the prison. the parson and the landlord divided the fee between them, after deducting a shilling for the tout who brought the customers in. if a marriage was desired to be secret it was not entered on the register of the house. otherwise it was, for a small fee, written down in a book which each tavern kept. thus a profligate man could victimize a confiding girl with impunity. men and women might commit bigamy at will, since any name they chose to give, along with their fee, satisfied the parson, and they could have the "ceremony" kept unregistered, or dated back as they chose. the law held a married woman free of the responsibility of her debts, while a single woman could be arrested and locked up for them. all a woman of free life had to do to defraud her creditors was to get some man to marry her at the fleet. then she could not be prosecuted. as for the man, the creditors had to find him before they could proceed against him. women of quality who had led extravagant lives did not hesitate at the same shift. there were parsons who kept husbands in hire at five shillings each. there is record of one fellow having been "married" to four women in one day. there is also a record of women, dressed as men, being hired out as mock husbands for the occasion. all classes were fish for the fleet parson's net. drunken sailors and soldiers were united to the gin-perfumed fairies of the market; roués fetched their silly, girlish victims in coaches to the altar reeking of stale beer and brandy; and great men of the realm utilized the functions of the clerical mountebanks to a similar result. in five months--from october, , to february, -- , marriages were recorded at the fleet. how many went unrecorded can only be surmised. the church strove in vain to eradicate the scandal, and it required an act of parliament to put an end to it in . the fleet marriages provided dickens with no material, although other and less distinguished romancers have found use for them, with more or less effect. in fact, dickens rarely wrote without a distinct object, and in "pickwick," desultory and irregular as the thread of the narrative is, he had such a purpose when he took the fleet in hand. at the time he wrote of it ( ) the monstrosity was at its worst. the prevalent system of imprisonment for debt rendered the hideous gaol a tool at the hands of a vengeful enemy, and in those of a rapacious and dishonest man. the outrages to which it lent itself, at the call of swindling lawyers and commercial extortioners, had commenced to attract public attention. that the chapters on the fleet in "pickwick" bore a share in arousing the general indignation which forced the government into action cannot be questioned. they shaped the popular sentiment and gave it a war-cry. but the good work was not to be done in a day. it required an act of parliament, debated on and contested with the usual ponderous procrastinativeness, to rid the earth of the fleet. the act was at last passed in , and by it the prison was abolished, and its inmates were drafted into the queen's prison. the fleet was later sold to the corporation of the city of london, and in the spring of it was razed to the ground. its site to-day is marked by business buildings, whose ceaseless industry makes a strange monument for the stagnant and idle life of which the spot was once the scene. chapter iv. the marshalsea. it was a good seven years--or an evil seven--for many a poor debtor, after the fleet was legislated out of existence, before its younger brother on the other side of the river followed it. the marshalsea was not officially abolished until , and even then it escaped the doom of extinction meted out to the fleet, and prolonged its material existence into our own day. what had been a frowsy jail became a frowsy shelter for a community scarcely poorer than that which had once inhabited it; albeit this newer community enjoyed the advantage of being miserable in freedom from the restrain of barred windows and spike-topped walls. of the prison, dickens sketches a good description in chapter of the first volume of "little dorrit." "thirty years ago," he says, "there stood, a few doors short of the church of st. george, in the borough of southwark, on the left-hand side of the way going southward, the marshalsea prison. it was an oblong pile of barrack buildings, partitioned into squalid rooms standing back to back, so that there were no back rooms; environed by a narrow paved yard, hemmed by high walls duly spiked on the top. itself a close and confined prison for debtors, it contained within it a much closer and more confined gaol for smugglers. offenders against the revenue laws, and defaulters to the excise or customs, who had incurred fines which they were unable to pay, were supposed to be incarcerated behind an iron-plated door, closing up a second prison, consisting of a strong cell or two, and a blind alley some yard and a half wide, which formed the mysterious termination of the very limited skittle ground in which the marshalsea debtors bowled down their troubles. supposed to be incarcerated there, because the time had rather outgrown the strong cells and the blind alley. in practice they come to be considered a little too bad, though in theory they were quite as good as ever; which may be observed to be the case at the present day with other cells that are not at all strong, and with other blind alleys that are stone blind. hence the smugglers habitually consorted with the debtors (who received them with open arms) except at certain constitutional moments when somebody came from some office, to go through the form of overlooking something, which neither he nor anybody else knew anything about. on these truly british occasions, the smugglers, if any, made a feint of walking into the strong cells and the blind alley, while this somebody pretended to do his something, and made a reality of walking out again as soon as he hadn't done it--nearly epitomising the administration of the most of the public affairs in our own right, tight little island." the marshalsea had several notable neighbors in its own line of trade. one of these was horsemonger lane gaol, the county jail for surrey. it was a sturdy, thick-set prison, with a massive-looking lodge and powerful walls. executions took place on the roof of the lodge, the gallows being set up there, and the drop cut in the roof itself. these hangings were a popular show in their day, and the tenants of the houses across the way from the jail used to reap a harvest by letting their front windows to sightseers. it is said that they would commonly make a year's rent, and often more, out of the morbid curiosity of the town on one of these occasions. what the occasions were like, dickens has left us an idea in his famous letter to the "times," on the occasion of the execution of the mannings, husband and wife, on november , . dickens and john foster attended this ghastly raree-show. here is a description of it: "i was a witness to the execution of the mannings in horsemonger lane. i went there with the intention of observing the crowd gathered to behold it, and i had excellent opportunities of doing so; at intervals all through the night, and continuously from daybreak until the spectacle was over. i believe that a sight so inconceivably awful as the wickedness and levity of the immense crowd collected at that execution could be imagined by no man, and could be presented in no heathen land under the sun. the horrors of the gibbet and of the crime which brought these wretched murderers to it, faded in my mind before the atrocious bearing, looks and language of the assembled spectators. when i came upon the scene, at midnight, the shrillness of the cries and howls that were raised from time to time, denoting that they came from a concourse of boys and girls already assembled in the best places, made my blood run cold. as the night went on, screeching and laughing and yelling, in strong chorus of parodies on negro melodies, with substitutions of 'mrs. manning' for 'susannah,' and the like, were added to these. when the day dawned, thieves, low prostitutes, ruffians and vagabonds of every kind flocked on to the ground, with every variety of offensive and foul behaviour. fightings, faintings, whistlings, imitations of punch, brutal jokes, tumultuous demonstrations of indecent delight when swooning women were dragged out of the crowd by the police with their dresses disordered, gave a new zest to the general entertainment. when the sun rose brightly, as it did, it gilded the thousands upon thousands of upturned faces, so inexpressibly odious in their brutal mirth or callousness, that a man had cause to feel ashamed of the shape he wore, and to shrink from himself, as fashioned in the image of the devil. when the two miserable creatures who attracted all this ghastly sight about them were turned quivering into the air, there was no more emotion, no more pity, no more thought that two immortal souls had gone to judgment, no more restraint in any of the previous obscenities than if the name of christ had never been heard in the world, and there was no belief among men but that they perished like beasts. i have seen, habitually, some of the sources of general contamination and corruption, and i think there are not many phases of london life that could surprise me. i am solemnly convinced that nothing that ingenuity could devise to be done in this city, in the same compass of time, could work such ruin as one public execution, and i stand astounded and appalled by the wickedness it exhibits. i do not believe that any community can prosper where such a scene of horror and demoralization as was enacted this morning outside horsemonger lane gaol is presented at the very doors of the good citizens, and is passed by unknown or forgotten." this letter created a tremendous sensation, and started a whole flood of literature, condemnatory and demanding the abolishment of public hangings; but they were not finally done away with until nearly twenty years later. apropos of horsemonger lane, readers of "little dorrit" may recall that it was here that john chivery resided, assisting his mother "in the conduct of a snug tobacco business, which could usually command a neat connection within the college walls"--the college being a polite title for the marshalsea, whose inmates were, by natural association, technically known among themselves as collegians. "the tobacco business around the corner of horsemonger lane was carried on in a rural establishment one story high, which had the benefit of the air from the yards of the horsemonger lane gaol, and the advantage of a retired walk under the wall of that pleasant establishment. the business was of too modest a character to support a life-sized highlander, but it maintained a little one on the bracket on the door post, who looked like a fallen cherub that had found it necessary to take to a kilt." it was from the stock of this establishment that john chivery produced the cigars of which he made a sunday offering on the altar of the father of the marshalsea, who not only "took the cigars and was glad to get them," but "sometimes even condescended to walk up and down the yard with the donor, and benignantly smoke one in his society." it was also from this establishment that he issued forth on the memorable sunday, "neatly attired in a plum-colored coat, with as large a collar of black velvet as his figure could carry; a silken waistcoat, bedecked with golden sprigs, a chaste neckerchief much in vogue in that day, representing a preserve of lilac pheasants on a buff ground; pantaloons, so highly decorated with side stripes that each leg was a three-stringed lute; and a hat of state, very high and hard," not to mention a pair of white kid gloves, and a cane like a little finger post, surmounted by an ivory hand, to propose to little dorrit on the iron bridge. another of the famous southwark gaols was the king's bench, but in justice to mr. micawber, it demands a chapter to itself. to return to the marshalsea, it may be remarked that dickens knew it by such early experience that he was qualified to write about it, even more exhaustively than he did in "little dorrit." while he was still a boy, in , his father endured a period of compulsory retirement behind its lock, and the future chronicler of the jail lodged in a cheap garret near by, an episode of his life which he has introduced in "david copperfield," in connection with the micawbers and the king's bench. every morning, as soon as the gates were opened, the boy went to the marshalsea, where his mother had joined his father, to breakfast. in the evening he would go to the jail from the blacking factory, where he was employed, to get his supper. the family got along quite gayly while the elder dickens's affairs were in the courts. he had an income on which they lived and kept a servant, a workhouse girl, from whom the novelist is said to have drawn his character of the marchioness in "old curiosity shop." the girl and the boy had to leave the prison before ten, when the gate was locked for the night, and they became great friends. on holidays he would go to the seminary on tenterden street, where his sister fanny was at school, and fetch her to spend the day in the family circle, escorting her back in the evening. how freely he used his marshalsea experiences in "david copperfield," and transferred to mr. micawber the actualities of his own family life, may be appreciated from the passage, written by himself and quoted by foster, relating to his first visit to his father in the jail: "my father was waiting for me in the lodge, and we went up to his room (on the top story but one) and cried very much, and he told me, i remember, to take warning by the marshalsea, and to observe that if any man had twenty pounds a year, and spent nineteen pounds nineteen shillings and sixpence, he would be happy; but that a shilling spent the other way would make him wretched. i see the fire we sat before now, with two bricks in the rusted grate, one on each side to prevent its burning too many coals. some other debtor shared the room with him, who came in by-and-by; and, as the dinner was a joint-stock repast, i was sent up to captain porter in the room overhead, with mr. dickens's compliments, and i was his son, and could he, captain p., lend me a knife and fork. captain p. lent me a knife and fork, with his compliments in return. there was a very dirty lady in his room, and two wan girls, his daughters, with shock heads of hair. i thought i should not have liked to borrow captain porter's comb. the captain himself was in the last extremities of shabbiness, and if i could draw at all, i would draw an accurate portrait of the old, old brown great-coat he wore, with no other coat below it. his whiskers were large. i saw his bed rolled up in a corner, and what plates and dishes and pots he had on a shelf; and i knew (god knows how) that the two girls with the shock heads were captain porter's natural children, and that the dirty lady was not married to captain p. my timid, wondering station on his threshold was not occupied more than a couple of minutes, i daresay; but i came down into the room below with all this as surely in my knowledge as the knife and fork were in my hand." it was into this familiar scene that dickens introduced mr. william dorrit, a very amiable and very helpless middle-aged gentleman, who was "going out again directly. necessarily he was going out again directly, because the marshalsea lock never turned upon a debtor who was not. he brought in a portmanteau with him, which he doubted it worth while to unpack, he was so perfectly clear--like all the rest of them, the turnkey on the lock said--that he was going out again directly. he was a shy, retiring man, well-looking, though in an effeminate style; with a mild voice, curling hair, and irresolute hands--rings upon the fingers those days, not one of which was left" upon them a little while after--when the drunken doctor, fetched in haste, ushered little dorrit into the world, with the assistance of mrs. bangham and the brandy bottle. the doctor was a type of one class of tenants to be found in every debtors' prison. he lived in a wretched, ill-smelling room under the roof, with a puffy, red-faced chum, who helped to pass the time playing all fours, with pipe and brandy trimmings. "the doctor's friend was in the positive stage of hoarseness, puffiness, all fours, tobacco, dirt and brandy; the doctor in the comparative--hoarser, puffier, more red-faced, more all foury, tobaccoer, dirtier and brandier. the doctor was amazingly shabby in a torn, darned, rough weather sea jacket, out at the elbows, and eminently short of buttons (he had been in his time the experienced surgeon carried by a passenger ship), the dirtiest white trowsers conceivable by mortal man, carpet slippers and no visible linen. 'childbed?' said the doctor (to mr. dorrit, who had come to summon him) 'i'm the boy!' with that the doctor took a comb from the chimneypiece, and stuck his hair upright--which appeared to be his way of washing himself--produced a professional case or chest, of the most abject appearance, from the cupboard where his cup and saucer and coals were, settled his chin in a frowsy wrapper round his neck, and became a ghastly medical scarecrow." to enter the public establishment of which he was destined to become the patriarch, mr. william dorrit had passed through an open outer gate on high street in the borough, to give southwark its more familiar name; had crossed a little court-yard, ascended a couple of stone steps, traversed a narrow entry, and been admitted by a string of locked doors into the prison lodge. here he had waited, as the form and practice of the proceeding required, until his arrival was registered, and the tipstaff, who had kindly guided and guarded his feet to this harbor of refuge from the cares of the world which works for a living, had received a receipt for his safe delivery. through another door at the rear of the lodge, which was built in the wall of the jail itself, he was conducted to what was to be his home for half the lifetime allotted to mortal man. before him was the jail court, the aristocratic court, where the pump was; and facing the lofty wall which divided it from the street, the barrack, on the next to the top floor of which he found the shabby room in which the child of the marshalsea was to be born. debtors were playing at racket and skittles in the court, and grouped around the entrance to the snuggery or tap-room at the further end of the barrack. there were "the collegian in the dressing gown, who had no coat, the stout greengrocer collegian in the corduroy kneebreeches, who had no cares, the collegian in the seaside slippers, who had no shoes, and the lean clerk collegian in buttonless black, who had no hopes; the man with many children and many burdens, whose failure astonished everybody; the man of no children and large resources, whose failure astonished nobody; the people who were always going out to-morrow, and always putting it off; the slatternly women at the windows, gossiping shrilly, the smudgy children playing noisily; all those people in fine who belong to such a place, not forgetting the nondescript messengers, go-betweens and errand runners, who formed a class by themselves." every debtors' prison had its corps of such attendants, who came and went in the service of the inmates whose liberty ended at the lodge door. "the shabbiness of these attendants upon shabbiness, the poverty of the insolvent waiters on insolvency, was a sight to see. such threadbare coats and trowsers, such fusty gowns and shawls, such squashed hats and bonnets, such boots and shoes, such umbrellas and walking sticks, never were seen in rag fair. all of them wore the cast-off clothes of other men and women; were made up of patches and pieces of other peoples' individuality, and had no sartorial existence of their own proper. their walk was the walk of a race apart. they had a peculiar way of doggedly slinking around the corner, as if they were eternally going to the pawnbroker's. when they coughed, they coughed like people accustomed to be forgotten on the doorsteps and draughty passages, waiting for answers to letters in faded ink, which gave the recipients of those manuscripts great mental disturbance and no satisfaction. as they eyed the stranger in passing, they eyed him with borrowing eyes--hungry, sharp, speculative as to his softness if they were accredited to him, and the likelihood of his standing something handsome. mendicity on commission stooped in their high shoulders, shambled in their unsteady legs, buttoned and pinned and darned and dragged their clothes, frayed their button-holes, leaked out of their figures in dirty ends of tape, and issued from their mouths in alcoholic breathings." in spite of occasional touches such as this, the comparative brightness of dickens's picture of the marshalsea, as contrasted with the gloom and horror of his delineation of the fleet, has been frequently commented upon, but there was a reason for this in fact. squalid and miserable enough the marshalsea was, but it was still more merciful and humane a house of confinement than the other. extortions were common to all such places, but they were carried to their worst extent at the fleet. the marshalsea, moreover, was a smaller prison, its population came and went at shorter intervals than that of the fleet, and it did not include so heavy a percentage of the baser elements of society as festered in the social cesspool opposite the fleet market. very few debtors remained in the gaol for an extended period. the average generation of a marshalsea prisoner was, as dickens himself says, three months. the case of the father of marshalsea--which, by the way, was based on that of a real prisoner in the last century--was unique. "the affairs of this debtor were perplexed by a partnership of which he knew no more than that he had invested money in it, by legal matters of assignment and settlement, conveyance here and conveyance there, suspicion of unlawful preference of creditors in this direction, and of mysterious spiriting away of property in that." in short, mr. william dorrit's affairs were so tangled up that even the lawyers could not untwist them, and finally they gave him up, and in the inextricable entanglement he remained fettered to the marshalsea as if he had never been a part of any world beyond its confining wall. "crushed at first by his imprisonment" (vide chapter , volume i, "little dorrit"), "he had soon found a dull relief in it. he was under lock and key; but the lock and key that kept him in kept numbers of his troubles out. if he had been a man with strength of purpose to face these troubles and fight them, he might have broken the net that held him, or broken his heart; but, being what he was, he languidly slipped into this smooth descent and never took one step upward. he had unpacked the portmanteau long ago; and his elder children played regularly about the yard, and everyone knew the baby and claimed a kind of proprietorship in her." the title conferred upon him by a turnkey he came to hear with pride, and under it he levied the tribute of selfish and ungrateful beggary upon the goodnatured subjects over whom he presumed to rule. there was a certain snugness about the marshalsea which was not to be found in the fleet. there the company was too numerous and heterogeneous to form any social combination. in the smaller prison a specie of club system was kept up. the tap-room, or snuggery, was a public room where meat and drink might be procured, and where a fire was maintained for the use of the prisoners who did not wish to cook in their rooms. the furnace was kept fed by assessment of those who used it. at the club, which met nightly, each man paid his own scot. the requisite for membership was the possession of the price of the potations served to the member. the club was of indefinite proportions and individuality. its members came with the tipstaves and went with the orders of release issued by the courts. the general form of its management was that which used to be known as the "free and easy." if any person present was a mimic, a singer, a musician, or otherwise gifted with a pleasing or popular accomplishment, he might be called upon to display it for the general good. poor debtors, who could do something to amuse, might have their beer free at the charge of the more solvent collegians whom they consented to divert. there is a legend of a comedian, broken down by drink, who was sent to the marshalsea and who lived off the fat of the jail for several years, until he died of it, all through the discreet application of his mimetic and comic powers in the snuggery club. once in a while the club would perform a piece of serious business. sometimes it would draft a memorial against imprisonment for debt to the throne or judges, which neither throne nor judges saw or read, of course. sometimes it would issue patriotic manifestoes to parliament, of which parliament remained equally ignorant. when a popular member secured his release the club would present him with a memorial, properly engrossed and framed, of its esteem. mr. dorrit received such a memorial when he came into his fortune and resigned his paternal supremacy over the college; and in return he treated the whole jail to a refection in the pump yard, as you may read in the last chapter of the first volume of the record of his prison patriarchy. but one drop of bitterness flavored the cup of the marshalsea club. its festivities were limited by the public hours of the prison. the clangor of the jail bell announced the closing of the gates at ten o'clock at night, and warned all visitors to retire or be locked in until morning. such experience befell mr. arthur clennam when he made his first visit to the dorrits' at home. "the stoppage of the bell, and the quiet in the prison, were a warning to depart. but he had remained too late. the inner gate was locked and the lodge closed. this brought them to the tavern establishment at the upper end of the prison, where the collegians had just vacated their social evening club. the apartment on the ground floor in which it was held was the snuggery: the presidential tribune of the chairman, the pewter pots, glasses, pipes, tobacco ashes and general flavor of members were still as that convivial institution had left them on its adjournment. the snuggery had two of the qualities popularly held to be essential for grog for ladies, in respect that it was hot and strong; but in the third point of analogy, requiring plenty of it, the snuggery was defective; being but a cooped-up apartment. "the unaccustomed visitor from the outside naturally assumed everybody to be prisoners--landlord, waiter, barmaid, potboy and all. whether they were or not did not appear; but they all had a weedy look. the keeper of the chandler's shop in the front parlor, who took in gentlemen boarders, lent his assistance in making the bed. he had been a tailor in his time, and had kept a phaeton, he said. it was evident, from the general tone of the whole party, that they had come to regard insolvency as the normal state of mankind, and the payment of debts a disease that occasionally broke out. in this strange scene, and with these strange spectres flitting about him, arthur clennam looked on the preparations as if they were a part of a dream. pending the while the long initiated tip, with an awful enjoyment of the snuggery's resources, pointed out the common kitchen fire maintained by subscription of the collegians, the boiler for hot water, supported in the same manner, and other premises generally tending to the deduction that the way to be healthy, wealthy and wise was to come to the marshalsea. "the two tables put together in a corner were, at length, converted into a very fair bed; and the stranger was left to the windsor chairs, the presidential tribune, the beery atmosphere, sawdust, pipelights, spittoons and repose. but the last item was long, long, long in linking itself to the rest. the novelty of the place, the coming upon it without preparation, the sense of being locked up, kept him waking and unhappy. speculations, too, bearing on the strangest relations towards the prison, but always concerning the prison, ran like nightmares through his mind while he lay awake. whether coffins were kept ready for people who might die there, where they were kept, how they were kept, where people who died in prison were buried, how they were taken out, what forms were observed, whether an implacable creditor could arrest the dead? as to escaping, what chances were there of escape? whether a prisoner could scale the walls with a cord and grapple? how he would descend on the other side; whether he could alight on a housetop, steal down a staircase, let himself out at a door, and get lost in the crowd? as to fire in the prison, if one were to break out while he lay there? "the morning light was in no hurry to climb the prison wall and look in at the snuggery windows; and when it did come, it would have been more welcome if it had come alone, instead of bringing a rush of rain with it. but the equinoctial gales were blowing out at sea, and the impartial southwest wind, in its flight, would not neglect even the narrow marshalsea. while it roared through the steeple of st. george's church, and twirled all the cowls in the neighborhood, it made a swoop to beat the southwark smoke into the gaol; and, plunging down the chimneys of the few collegians who were yet lighting their fires, half suffocated them. "heartily glad to see the morning through little rested by the night, he turned out as soon as he could distinguish objects about him, and paced the yard for two heavy hours before the gaol was opened. the walls were so near to one another, and the wild clouds hurried over them so fast, that it gave him a sensation like the beginning of seasickness to look up at the gusty sky. the rain, carried aslant by flaws of wind, blackened that side of the central building which he had visited last night, but left a narrow dry trough under the lee of the wall, where he walked up and down among the waifs of straw and dust and paper, the waste droppings of the pumps and the stray leaves of yesterday's greens. it was as haggard a view of life as a man need look upon." by the arrangement of the walls, all that the prisoners in the marshalsea could see out of doors was the sky. the view from the barred windows of the uppermost rooms was cut off by the higher line of the wall topped with its chevaux-de-frise. but little dorrit's own room, being in the warden's house, had a somewhat freer prospect. "a garret and a marshalsea garret without compromise was little dorrit's room," but "the housetops and the distant country hills were discernible over the walls in the clear morning." since the prison has been put to ordinary uses, such of the wall as is left has been lowered so that the view except from the lower windows is not obstructed. the sharp and cruel spikes that reddened in the sunrise like the bloody fangs of a savage beast, are gone. poverty looks out of the old windows without having to peep between iron bars, and in the prison where the smugglers did not abide a factory is busy. the place, when i saw it, had changed but little since dickens himself visited it in , and wrote: "i found the outer front court-yard, often mentioned here, metamorphosed into a butter shop; and i then almost gave up every brick of the gaol for lost. wandering, however, down a certain adjacent 'angel court, leading to bermondsey,' i came to 'marshalsea place,' the houses in which i recognized; not only the great block of the former prison, but as preserving the rooms that arose in my mind's eye when i became little dorrit's biographer. a little further on, i found the older and smaller wall, which used to inclose the pent-up inner prison, where nobody was put except for ceremony. but whosoever goes into marshalsea place, turned out of angel court, leading to bermondsey, will find his feet on the very paving stones of the extinct marshalsea gaol; will see its narrow yard to the right and to the left, very little altered, if at all, except that the walls were lowered when the place got free; will look upon the rooms in which the debtors lived; and will stand among the crowding ghosts of many years." the marshalsea has a history nearly as ancient as the fleet. stow tells us that it was so called as "pertaining to the marshalls of england." in it were confined all manners of marauders, with a special tendency towards persons who had been guilty of piracy and other offenses on the high seas. some authorities place its foundation as far back as the twelfth century. it was a prison of considerable extent in , when a mob of sailors broke into it and murdered a gentleman who had been incarcerated there for killing one of their comrades in a pot-house brawl. three years later, wat tyler, in the course of his rebellion, seized and hanged the marshal of the marshalsea. the official title of the warden of the prison was, by the way, marshal. when bishop bonner was deprived of his see of london for his adherence to the church of rome, he was sent to the marshalsea. he lived there ten years, and there dying, in , he was buried at midnight in st. george's church hard by. this ancient prison occupied another site on the same street as the later structure. under henry viii, mary, and elizabeth, it was the second prison in importance in london, being inferior only to the tower. here christopher brooke, the poet, was confined for being concerned in the wedding of dr. donne, and here george wither was a prisoner for one of his satires against the government aggressions and the abuse of the royal prerogative. the nonconformist confessors were divided up among the southwark prisons, and the marshalsea received its share of them. john udall, the puritan martyr, fell a victim to its gaol fever. its blight extended through many generations, and the shadow of its walls darkened many useful lives for no crime worse than the accident of failure that may come to any man. a false system ground its abject shabbiness, its haggard anxiety, and hopeless stupor of energies, into natures that might, but for it, have triumphed over care, and converted the defeat of to-day into the victory of to-morrow. "changeless and barren, looking ignorantly at all seasons with its fixed, pinched face of poverty and care, the prison had not a touch of any of these beauties in it. blossom what would, its bricks and bars bore uniformly the same dead crop." long before "little dorrit" was projected, dickens introduced the marshalsea to his readers; even before he introduced the fleet, indeed. the ceremony was performed in volume i chapter of the "pickwick papers," in the sketch called "the old man's tale about the queer client." here is the passage: "in the borough high street, near st. george's church, and on the same side of the way, stands, as most people know, the smallest of our debtors' prisons--the marshalsea. although in later times it has been a very different place from the sink of filth and dirt it once was, even its improved condition holds out but little temptation to the extravagant or consolation to the improvident. the condemned felon has as good a yard for air and exercise in newgate as the insolvent debtor in the marshalsea prison. "it may be my fancy, or it may be that i cannot separate the place from the old recollections associated with it, but this part of london i cannot bear. the street is broad, the shops are spacious, the noise of the passing vehicles, the footsteps of a perpetual stream of people--all the busy sounds of traffic resound in it from morn to midnight, but the streets around are mean and close; poverty and debauchery lie festering in the crowded alleys; want and misfortune are penned up in the narrow prison; an air of gloom and dreariness seems, in my eyes at least, to hang about the scene, and to impart to it a squalid and sickly hue. "many eyes that have long since closed in the grave, have looked around upon that scene lightly enough, when entering the gate of the old marshalsea prison for the first time; for despair seldom comes with the first severe shock of misfortune. a man has confidence in untried friends, he remembers the many offers of assistance so freely made by his boon companions when he wanted them not, he has hope--the hope of happy inexperience--and however he may bend beneath the first shock, it springs up in his bosom, and flourishes there for a brief space, until it droops beneath the blight of disappointment and neglect. how soon have those same eyes, deeply sunken in the head, glared from faces wasted with famine, and sallow from confinement, in days when it was no figure of speech to say that the debtors rotted in prison, with no hope of release, and no prospect of liberty. the atrocity in its full extent no longer exists, but there is enough of it left to give rise to occurrences that make the heart bleed." chapter v. the king's bench. in the "pickwick papers" the fleet prison was made to serve as an important feature of the story. in "little dorrit," the story as far as its human interest, humor and pathos are concerned, centres in the marshalsea. the introduction of the king's bench into "david copperfield" is entirely episodic, but it makes one of the most brilliant chapters in the book, and, from its personal connection with the author's own life, one of the most important. that dickens drew largely on his own experience for the material in "david copperfield" has been abundantly shown by many commentators. without being an autobiography, the book gives one many glimpses into the real life of its author. he transfers scenes and changes names a trifle, as he was fond of doing, but the private memoranda furnished by him of his early toil and trials afford a key to much that one reads in "copperfield" in the flimsy disguise of fiction. thus, he adapts the knowledge of the marshalsea, which he acquired while his father was a prisoner there, to the fictitious figure and fortunes of old dorrit; and he bestows on mr. micawber, in the king's bench, the traits displayed by his father in the marshalsea. a recent compiler of odds and ends of dickens personalia, sapiently undertakes to show that the elder dickens must have been incarcerated in the king's bench and not in the marshalsea, because mr. micawber was locked up there. unfortunately for this arrangement, dickens himself had distinctly disproved it in advance. some years before he wrote "copperfield"--probably before he even thought of writing it--he jotted down a number of personal facts, many of which were used in forster's biography. these notes demonstrate positively that in it, as in "dorrit," he pursued his favorite plan of interchanging occurrences, scenes and characters, without, however, departing from the main facts, which he had grafted in this fashion on the inventions of his fantasy. at the very commencement of the king's bench interlude in "david copperfield" this becomes apparent. "at last mr. micawber's difficulties came to a crisis, and he was arrested one morning and carried over to the king's bench prison in the borough. he told me, as he went out of the house, that the god of day had now gone down upon him--and i really thought his heart was broken, and mine too. but i heard, afterwards, that he was seen to play a lively game of skittles before noon. "on the first sunday after he was taken there i was to go and see him and have dinner with him. i was to ask my way to such a place, and just short of that place i should see such another place, and just short of that i should see a yard, which i was to cross, and keep straight on until i saw a turnkey. all this i did, and when at last i did see a turnkey (poor little fellow that i was), and thought how, when roderick random was in a debtor's prison, there was a man there with nothing on but an old rug, the turnkey swam before my dimmed eyes and my beating heart. "mr. micawber was waiting for me within the gate, and we went up to his room (top story but one) and cried very much. he solemnly conjured me, i remember, to take warning by his fate; and to observe that if a man had twenty pounds a year for his income, and spent nineteen pounds, nineteen shillings and sixpence, he would be happy, but that if he spent twenty pounds one he would be miserable. after which he borrowed a shilling from me for porter, gave me a written order on mrs. micawber for the amount and put away his pocket handkerchief and cheered up. "we sat before a little fire, with two bricks put within the rusted grate, one on each side, to prevent its burning too many coals until another debtor, who shared the room with mr. micawber, came in from the bakehouse with a loin of mutton, which was our joint stock repast. then i was sent up to 'captain hopkins,' in the room overhead, with mr. micawber's compliments, and i was his young friend, and would captain hopkins lend me a knife and fork. "captain hopkins lent me a knife and fork with his compliments to mr. micawber. there was a very dirty little lady in his little room, and two wan girls, his daughters, with shock heads of hair. i thought it was better to borrow captain hopkins's knife and fork than captain hopkins's comb. the captain himself was in the last extremity of shabbiness, with large whiskers, and an old, old brown great coat, with no other coat below it. i saw his bed rolled up in a corner; and what plates and dishes and pots he had, on a shelf; and i divined (god only knows how) that though the two girls with the shock heads of hair were captain hopkins's children, the dirty little lady was not married to captain hopkins. my timid station on the threshold was not occupied more than a couple of minutes at most; but i came down again with all this in my knowledge as surely as the knife and fork were in my hand." compare this with dickens's description of his actual visit to his father in the marshalsea. the difference is only that of a slight rounding off or modifying of a sentence in the "copperfield" version. in the case of captain hopkins, whose real name was captain porter, one may note how the actual suggested the fictitious title. the association between porter and hops is evident and direct. the real experiences of the dickens's, at this period, in and out of jail, parallel those credited to the micawbers. mrs. dickens and the family camped in gower street just as mrs. micawber and the children camped in windsor terrace. the dickenses even had a workhouse girl for servant, like the micawbers, and little charles made journeys to the pawnshop and the old book-stall in real life, just as david did in the story. throughout this portion of biography and book the entries go side by side. for example: charles dickens. "at last my mother and her encampment in gower street north, broke up and went to live in the marshalsea. the key of the house was sent back to the landlord, who was very glad to get it; and i (small cain that i was, except that i had never done harm to anyone) was handed over as a lodger to a reduced old lady, long known to our family, in little college street, camden town. i felt keenly living so cut off from my parents, my brothers and sisters. one sunday night i remonstrated with my father on this head, so pathetically and with so many tears, that his kind nature gave away. a back attic was found for me at the house of an insolvent court-agent, who lived in lant street, in the borough, where bob sawyer lodged many years afterwards. a bed and bedding were sent over for me and made up on the floor. the little window had a pleasant prospect of a timber yard; and when i took possession of my new abode i thought it was a paradise." david copperfield. "at last mrs. micawber resolved to move into the prison, where mr. micawber had now secured a room to himself. so i took the key of the house to the landlord, who was very glad to get it; and the beds were sent over to the king's bench, except mine, for which a little room was hired outside the walls in the neighborhood of that institution, very much to my satisfaction, since the micawbers and i had become too used to one another in our troubles to part. the orfling was likewise accommodated with an inexpensive lodging in the same neighborhood. mine was a quiet back garret, with a sloping roof, commanding a pleasant prospect of a timber yard; and when i took possession of it, with the reflection that mr. micawber's troubles had come to a crisis at last, i thought it quite a paradise." as dickens told forster, his family had no want of bodily comforts in the marshalsea. his father's income, still going on, was amply sufficient for that; and in every respect, indeed, but elbow room, they lived more comfortably in prison than they had done for a long time while out of it. as he told the public in "david copperfield": "i was now relieved of much of the weight of mr. and mrs. micawber's cares; for some relatives or friends had engaged to help them at their present pass, and they lived more comfortably in the prison than they had lived for a long time out of it." as forster tells us, directly from dickens's own statements to him: "they were waited on still by the maid-of-all-work from bayham street, the orphan girl of the chatham workhouse, from whose sharp little worldly and also kindly ways he took his first impression of the marchioness in the 'old curiosity shop.' she also had a lodging in the neighborhood that she might be early on the scene of her duties; and when charles met her, as he would do occasionally, in his lounging place by london bridge, he would occupy the time before the gates opened by telling her quite astonishing fictions about the wharves and the tower." as david copperfield tells us: "i used to breakfast with them, now, in virtue of some arrangement, of which i have forgotten the details. i forget, too, at what hour the gates were opened in the morning, admitting of my going in, but i know that i was often up at six o'clock, and that my favorite lounging place in the interval was the old london bridge, where i was wont to sit in one of the stone recesses, watching the people go by, or to look over the balustrades at the sun shining in the water, and lighting up the golden flame on the top of the monument. the orfling met me here sometimes, to be told some astonishing fictions respecting the wharves and the tower; of which, i can say no more than i hope i believed them myself. in the evening i used to go back to the prison, and walk up and down the parade with mr. micawber; or play casino with mrs. micawber and hear reminiscences of her mamma and her papa." charles dickens's father's "attempts to avoid going through the courts having failed, all needful ceremonies had to be undertaken to obtain the benefit of the insolvent debtors' act." mrs. micawber informed david that "her family had decided that mr. micawber should apply for his release under the insolvent debtors' act, which would set him free, she expected, in about six weeks." the elder dickens, while awaiting his discharge from the marshalsea, had drawn up a petition to the throne for the appropriation of a sum of money to enable the prisoners to drink his majesty's health on his majesty's forthcoming birthday. "i mention the circumstance," writes dickens in his autobiographical jottings, "because it illustrates to me my early interest in observing people. when i went to the marshalsea of a night, i was always delighted to hear from my mother what she knew about the histories of the different debtors in the prison; and when i heard of this approaching ceremony, i was so anxious to see them all come in, one after another (though i knew the greater part of them already, to speak to, and they me), that i got leave of absence on purpose, and established myself in the corner near the petition. it was stretched out, i recollect, on a great ironing board, under the window, which in another part of the room made a bedstead at night. the internal regulations of the place, for cleanliness and order, and for the government of a common room in the ale-house, where hot water and some means of cooking, and a good fire, were provided for all who paid a very small subscription, were excellently administered by a governing committee of debtors, of which my father was chairman for the time being. as many of the principal officers of this body as could be got into the small room without filling it up supported him, in front of the petition; and my old friend, captain porter (who had washed himself to do honor to the solemn occasion), stationed himself close to it, to read it to all who were unacquainted with its contents. the door was then thrown open, and they began to come in, in long file, several waiting on the landing outside, while one entered, affixed his signature, and went out. to everybody in succession captain porter said: 'would you like to hear it read?' if he weakly showed the least disposition to hear it, captain porter, in a loud, sonorous voice, gave him every word of it. i remember a certain luscious roll he gave to such words as majesty--gracious majesty--your gracious majesty's unfortunate subjects--your majesty's well-known munificence--as if the words were something real in his mouth, and delicious to taste; my poor father meanwhile listening with a little of an author's vanity, and contemplating (not severely) the spikes on the opposite wall. whatever was comical in this scene, and whatever was pathetic, i sincerely believe i perceived in my corner, whether i demonstrated it or not, quite as well as i should perceive it now. i made out my own little character and story for every man who put his name to the sheet of paper. i might be able to do that now, more truly; not more earnestly or with closer interest. their different peculiarities of dress, of face, of gait, of manner, were written indelibly upon my memory. i would rather have seen it than the best play ever played; and i thought about it afterwards over the pots of paste-blacking, often and often. when i looked, with my mind's eye, into the fleet prison during mr. pickwick's incarceration, i wonder whether half-a-dozen men were wanting from the marshalsea crowd that came filing in again to the sound of captain porter's voice." here is the same scene, transferred to the king's bench. "by way of going in for anything that might be on the cards, i call to mind that mr. micawber, about this time, composed a petition to the house of commons, praying for an alteration of the law of imprisonment for debt. i set down this remembrance here, because it is an instance to myself of the manner in which i fitted my old books to my altered life, and made stories for myself out of the streets, and out of men and women; and how some main points in the character i shall unconsciously develop, i suppose, in writing my life, were gradually forming all the time. "there was a club in the prison, in which mr. micawber, as a gentleman, was a great authority. mr. micawber had stated his idea of this petition to the club, and the club had strongly approved the same. wherefore mr. micawber (who was a thoroughly good-natured man, and as active a creature about anything but his own affairs as ever existed, and never so happy as when he was busy about something that could never be any profit to him) set to work at the petition, invented it, engrossed it on an immense sheet of paper, spread it out on the table, and appointed a time for all the club, and all within the wall if they chose, to come up to his room and sign it. "when i heard of this approaching ceremony, i was so anxious to see them all come in, one after another, though i knew the greater part of them already, and they me, that i got an hour's leave of absence from murdstone and grinby's, and established myself in a corner for that purpose. as many of the principal members of the club as could be got into the small room without filling it supported mr. micawber in front of the petition, while my old friend captain hopkins (who had washed himself to do honor to the solemn occasion) stationed himself close to it, to read it to all who were unacquainted with its contents. the door was then thrown open, and the general population began to come in, in a long file; several waiting outside, while one entered, affixed his signature, and went out. to everybody in succession captain hopkins said: 'have you read it?' 'no.' 'would you like to hear it read?' if he weakly showed the least disposition to hear it, captain hopkins, in a loud, sonorous voice, gave him every word of it. the captain would have read it , times if , people would have heard him, one by one. i remember a certain luscious roll he gave to such phrases as; 'the peoples' representatives in parliament assembled,' 'your petitioners therefore approach your honorable house,' 'his gracious majesty's unfortunate subjects,' as if the words were something real in his mouth and delicious to taste, mr. micawber, meanwhile, listening with a little of an author's vanity and contemplating (not severely) the spikes on the opposite wall. "as i walked to and fro daily between southwark and blackfriars, and lounged about at meal times in obscure streets, the stones of which may, for anything i know, be worn at this moment by my childish feet, i wondered how many of these people were wanting in the crowd that used to come filing before me in review again, to the echo of captain hopkins's voice. when my thoughts go back now to that slow agony of my youth, i wonder how much of the histories i invented for such people hangs like a mist of fancy over well-remembered facts. when i tread the old ground, i do not wonder that i seem to see and pity, going on before me, an innocent romantic boy, making his imaginative world out of such strange experiences and sordid things." the fortunate acquisition of a legacy of considerable amount released the elder dickens from the marshalsea. "in due time mr. micawber's petition was ripe for hearing, and that gentleman was ordered to be discharged under the act. mr. micawber returned to the king's bench when his case was over, as some fees were to be settled, and some formalities observed, before he could be actually released. the club received him with transport, and held a harmonic meeting that evening in his honor; while mrs. micawber and i had a lamb's fry in private, surrounded by the sleeping family." but you may read all there is to be read of the micawbers and the king's bench in the first volume of "david copperfield," chapters and , and compare it, if you choose, with the early passages of "the life of charles dickens," by john forster, volume i. dickens's presentations of the fleet and the marshalsea had, it will be noted, the interest of description as well as of personal association with the characters of the stories for which they provided a part of the scenario. the king's bench is an entirely personal episode. the figure of mr. micawber obscures all view of the prison. it poses on the merest suggestion of a background of barred windows and spiked walls. for this there are two reasons to be found. in the first place, all of the debtors' prisons of london were alike in their general features. they differed only in degrees and details of misery. in the fleet and in the marshalsea dickens had exposed all that fell within his vocation to expose. moreover, the necessity for invoking public obloquy upon the dens had passed away with the revision of the laws for debt. to have elaborated the material details of the life in the king's bench would have been to repeat a twice-told tale. apart from this, dickens had made no special study of the king's bench prison. his memories of the marshalsea were indelibly imprinted on his mind. it had been a part of his own life. he had explored the fleet with the purpose of lending what aid he could toward its abolishment. his boyish wanderings had made him familiar enough with the external aspect of the king's bench, and he had visited it on at least one occasion when an acquaintance was incarcerated there. but, after the fleet and marshalsea, its familiar features made no appeal to him. what could he say or write of it that had not been said or written by him already? the king's bench prison of micawber's time stood in the borough road. it was much more roomy and endurable than the marshalsea, and much less wretched than the fleet. it was enclosed by a wall thirty-five feet high, garnished with the usual chevaux-de-frise, and was entered through a stone lodge three stories in height. the jail buildings themselves carried four stories, and were broken up into nearly rooms, with a chapel, and out-buildings for officials and for cookery and other necessities. the courtyard was comparatively spacious, and was especially famous for its racket games. some champion scores of the day were scored by the collegians at the king's bench, who certainly had time enough for practice to perfect themselves in the sport. like the fleet and the marshalsea, the king's bench had its tap-room and its coffee-room, its poor side and its pay side, and its club, which nightly, over a pipe and pot, forgot for a few hours that the jail yard was not all out-of-doors. the prison derived its title from the fact that it was the gaol of the high court of justice, over which royalty was supposed to sit as supreme judge. so it became the queen's bench when england was ruled by a queen, and under the commonwealth, when royalty was not recognized, bore the name of the upper bench prison. the original king's bench prison was situated in southwark as early as the reign of richard ii. it was broken into and sacked by the kentish rebels under wat tyler, who, on this occasion, performed a similar service to the old marshalsea close at hand. it was to the king's bench that chief justice gascoigne so intrepidly committed the prince of wales, afterward henry v; and down to the time of oldys the room in which the wild young crony of sir john falstaff spent his term in gaol, was known as the prince of wales's chamber. the old king's bench seems to have been a decidedly easy-going jail. in we learn from the chronicles that the prisoners used to eat in a little low parlor next the street, and that they always had an audience staring at them through the barred windows, such as nowadays honors the repasts of the wild beasts in the zoo. during this year the prisoners petitioned for an enlargement of the prison and for a chapel, both of which requests seem to have been granted. defoe, who sampled the king's bench as well as newgate and the fleet, describes it as "not near so good" as the latter little prison, and complained that "to a man who had money the bench was only the name of a prison." indeed, the license of the seventeenth and the eighteenth centuries in the king's bench would be hardly credible to persons accustomed only to the rigid discipline of modern jail management. in all the debtors' gaols of this period, the gambler and the swindler, the pickpocket, and even the footpads, who robbed by violence, plied their trades. drunkenness was universal, and the commitment of loose women and the freedom of entry from without made worse debaucheries than those of the bottle easy of indulgence. at certain periods of their history the prisons seem to have been nothing less than vast bagnio-taverns, only the restriction upon the egress of the debtors distinguishing them from the common resorts of the town. the authorities of the jail were not supersensitive in their morality, provided their purses were kept filled. wealth might riot, if it paid the piper, as readily and freely as poverty might rot for the wherewithal to buy a crust of bread. roderick random's naked debtor shivering in a scrap of worn-out carpet was no fiction of the king's bench, nor captain blazer's banquets to his fair friends from over the river a romance. smollet knew the bench well enough. he had spent a term of probation behind its walls, and wrote "sir launcelot greaves" within its rules. john wilkes lay by the heels for one of his libels under its smoky roof, and hither came the mob to release him in . the mob assembled in st. george's field for the purpose, and thus in the gordon rioters gathered, who, a few days later, burst the prison gates and turned prisoners loose before they put the rotten and reeking old jail to the torch. combe was a prisoner under the rules of the king's bench when he wrote "dr. syntax," and haydon drew his idea of "the mock election" from a burlesque enacted among the prisoners while he was locked up in the jail for debt. a volume could be filled with the curious and characteristic events and personal episodes of the prison from the days of wat tyler down to , when the last debtor passed out at the lodge gate, and the brief career of the king's bench as a military prison began. its history covered really that of two prisons, for after the attack of by the rioters, the old site was abandoned and another chosen for the rebuilding of the jail. in one of dickens's last strolls in southwark, he noticed the fact that no vestige of the king's bench remained, but that a huge structure devoted to model homes for workingmen redeemed its unlamented grave from the uselessness which had made it a blight during many centuries. in chapter of volume of "nicholas nickleby," by the way, dickens adverts to a feature of the law of which the king's bench was one of the outgrowths, in connection with the first visit of nicholas to madeline bray. "the place to which mr. cheeryble had directed him was a row of mean and not over cleanly houses, situated within the 'rules' of the king's bench prison, and not many hundred paces distant from the obelisk in st. george's fields. the rules are a certain liberty adjoining the prison, and comprising some dozen streets in which debtors who can raise money to pay large fees, from which their creditors do not derive any benefit, are permitted to reside by the wise provisions of the same enlightened laws which leave the debtor who can raise no money to starve in gaol, without food, clothing, lodging, or warmth, which are provided for felons convicted of the most atrocious crimes that can disgrace humanity. there are many pleasant fictions of the law in constant operation, but there is not one so pleasant or practically humorous as that which supposes every man to be of equal value in its impartial eye, and the benefits of all laws to be equally obtainable by all men, without the smallest reference to the furniture of their pockets. "to the row of houses indicated to him by mr. charles cheeryble, nicholas directed his steps without much troubling his head about such matters as these; and at this row of houses--after traversing a very dirty and dusty suburb of which minor theatricals, shell-fish, ginger-beer, spring vans, green grocery and brokers' shops appeared to compose the main and most prominent features--he at length arrived with a palpitating heart. there were small gardens in the front which, being wholly neglected in all other respects, served as little pens for the dust to collect in, until the wind came around the corner and blew it down the road. opening the rickety gate which, dangling on its broken hinges, before one of these, half admitted and half repulsed the visitor, nicholas knocked at the street door with a faltering hand. "it was, in truth, a shabby house outside, with very dim parlor windows and very small show of blinds, and very dirty muslin curtain dangling across the lower panes on very loose and limp strings. neither, when the door was opened, did the inside appear to belie the outward promise, as there was a faded carpeting on the stairs and faded oil-cloth in the passage; in addition to which discomforts a gentleman ruler was smoking hard in the front parlor (though it was not yet noon), while the lady of the house was busily engaged in turpentining the disjointed fragments of a tent-bedstead at the door of the back parlor, as if in preparation for the reception of some new lodger who had been fortunate enough to engage it." the fleet had its rules like the king's bench, but there was no such legalized stretching of the bounds of confinement tolerated at the marshalsea. there the prisoner was supposed to remain a close prisoner within the walls until the courts ordained his release. in fact, however, if he had money he might buy sly periods of liberty under the eye of the keeper, and this abuse of his office brought the marshal and his subordinates many a sovereign above their legitimate emoluments. one young gentleman of sporting proclivities, who was committed to the marshalsea while his lawyer was settling up the wreck of his handsome patrimonial estate, afterwards published an account of his experiences as a detained debtor. from this it appears that during the entire term of his detention he was a regular spectator at the cock fights, dog fights and prize fights, of the day, and that he kept his wherry on the thames, and went out for a row whenever he felt the need of air and exercise. the keeper who accompanied him on these excursions, and who was of a sporting turn himself, left the prison to enter his employ, and was his faithful henchman at the time he printed his book, in the most genteel and elegant style, for circulation among his friends. it is curious to note that even to our own day, and in our own country, this system of prison favoritism is not entirely unknown. if a man is arrested on a judgment for debt, he can, if he knows the way, save himself from being locked up for a night at least by paying the sheriff's deputy for it. to be sure the deputy will have to be in his company until he is duly handed over at ludlow street jail, and properly receipted for, but there are such things as double bedded rooms in new york hotels. in the same way, it is shrewdly suspected, prisoners in ludlow street who can pay for it can enjoy a night out once in a while. it used to be so at least; and by the evidence brought out by investigations in the past it was not even an unusual occurrence. it is popularly believed, by the way, that there is no such thing in new york state as imprisonment for debt. some native realist in the line of fiction ought to take a turn over to the east side of the commercial metropolis of the united states, and weave his experiences of the ludlow street cage into some such shape as dickens did his of the fleet, the marshalsea, and the king's bench. chapter vi. the new york tombs. dickens may fairly be said to have begun his sight-seeing in america by going to jail. he commenced with those in boston, and wherever else he found a prison he had a look at it. the interest he took in penal reform, which rendered him familiar with nearly every gaol in england, did not desert him when he made his first voyage across the atlantic. in the "american notes," among a number of minor and comparatively unimportant observations, most of which are, in fact, long out of date, and lost in the changed conditions of jail construction, discipline and government, there are two descriptions, which retain their interest. the first in order of occurrence in the book, relates to a prison as famous throughout america as newgate is in great britain, and which, indeed, is the closest approach we have to the gloomy criminal cage of london. you may find it in a description of a walk about new york in chapter : "what is this dismal-fronted pile of bastard egyptian, like an enchanter's palace in a melodrama? a famous prison called the tombs. shall we go in? "so. a long, narrow and lofty building, stove-heated as usual, with four galleries, one above the other, going round it, and communicating by stairs. between the two sides of each gallery, and in its center, a bridge for the greater convenience of crossing. on each of these bridges sits a man, dozing or reading, or talking to an idle companion. on each tier are two opposite rows of small iron doors. they look like furnace doors, but are cold and black, as though the fires within had all gone out. some two or three are open, and women with drooping heads bent down are talking to the inmates. the whole is lighted by a skylight, but it is fast closed; and from the roof there dangle, limp and drooping, two useless windsails. "a man with keys appears to show us round. a good-looking fellow, and in his way civil and obliging. "'are those black doors the cells?' "'yes' "'are they all full?' "'well, they're pretty nigh full, and that's a fact and no two ways about it.' "'those at the bottom are unwholesome, surely.' "'why, we do only put colored people in 'em. that's the truth.' "'when do the prisoners take exercise?' "'well, they do without it pretty much.' "'do they never walk in the yard?' "'considerable seldom.' "'sometimes, i suppose?' "'well, it's rare they do. they keep pretty bright without it.' "'but suppose a man were here for a twelve-month? i know this is only a prison for criminals who are charged with some grave offenses, while they are awaiting trial, or are under remand, but the law affords criminals many means of delay. what with motions for new trials, arrest of judgment and what not, a prisoner might be here for twelve months, i take it, might he not?' "'well, i guess he might.' "'do you mean to say that in all that time he would never come out at that little iron door for exercise?' "'he might walk some, perhaps--not much.' "'will you open one of the doors?' "'all, if you like.' "the fastenings jar and rattle, and one of the doors turns slowly on its hinges. let us look in. a small, bare cell, into which the light enters through a high chink in the wall. there is a rude means of washing, a table, and a bedstead. upon the latter sits a man of sixty, reading. he looks up for a moment, gives an impatient, dogged shake, and fixes his eyes upon his book again. as we withdraw our heads the door closes on him, and is fastened as before. this man has murdered his wife and will probably be hanged. "'how long has he been here?' "'a month.' "'when will he be tried?' "'next term.' "'when is that?' "'next month.' "'in england, if a man is under sentence of death even, he has air and exercise at certain periods of the day.' "'possible?' "with what stupendous and untranslatable coolness he says this, and how loungingly he leads on to the woman's side, making, as he goes, a kind of castanet of the key on the stair rail. "each cell-door on this side has a square aperture in it. some of the women peep anxiously through it at the sound of footsteps; others shrink away in shame. for what offense can that lonely child, of ten or twelve years old, be shut up here? oh, that boy? he is the son of a prisoner we saw just now; is a witness against his father, and is detained here for safe keeping until the trial, that's all. "but it is a dreadful place for the child to pass the long days and nights in. this is rather hard treatment for a young witness, is it not? what says our conductor? "'well, it ain't a very rowdy life, and that's a fact.' "again he clinks his metal castanet and leads us leisurely away. i have a question to ask him as we go. "'pray, why do they call this place the tombs?' "'well, it's the cant name.' "'i know it is. why?' "'some suicides happened here when it was first built. i expect it came about from that.'" it did not "come about from that" by any means. the tombs was a comparatively new prison when dickens saw it first. it was erected under an authorization of the common council of the city of new york, issued in . at that time, mr. john l. stevens, of the hoboken family who still keep up seigneurial state on the bank of the hudson, having recently returned from an extended tour through asia and the holy land, issued an account of his travels, with many illustrations of the rare and curious things he had seen. among these was a representation of an ancient egyptian tomb, accompanied by a full and accurate description. the majestic proportions and sombre beauty of this mortuary structure so impressed the committee of the common council who had the selection of plans for the new jail that they adopted it as their model, and the general appearance and construction of the building was made to conform as closely as the necessities of its use permitted to stevens's design. as it stands it is probably the finest specimen of egyptian architecture of its order to be found outside of egypt itself, and the filth, squalor and grimy ugliness that hem it in only serve to accentuate its architectural beauty. its official title is the city prison, but the one by which it is best known was derived from the character of the edifice in "stevens's travels," after which it was planned. from an artistic point of view the selection of a site for the tombs was singularly unfortunate. at the date of its erection its location was upon the upper outskirts of the city. now the town has grown beyond it miles upon miles. for years it stood in the heart of the lowest and most dangerous criminal district. even now its surroundings of tenement-houses, workshops, dirty streets harboring dirty shops of the basest order, are anything but inviting to the sightseer. through leonard and franklin streets, which bound its lower and upper ends, one catches eastward glimpses of baxter street festooned with the sidewalk displays of the old clo' shops, and westward sees the passing life of broadway. elm street in the rear and centre street in front of it abound in sour-savored groggeries and the shabby hang-dog offices of the lower order of criminal lawyers who practice at the bar of the tombs court. the streets swarm with the children of the tenements, which line them with towering piles of unclean brick and mortar; and the pedestrians who navigate them, and who hang about the outside of the prison, as if held there by a spell and only awaiting their turn to pass within its walls, are for the most part of that skulking, evil class which knows the interior of the jail quite as well as its outer barriers, and the ways which lead to its frowning gate. for many years the passenger traffic of the new york central railroad was embarked at a depot occupying the block above the tombs. travelers were here taken on board cars which were dragged by mules or horses up to fourth avenue and twenty-sixth street, where the locomotive replaced the teams as a motor. as the town grew the railroad removed its station to the site of the present madison square garden building, and converted the old depot into a freight-house, in and out of which lines of cars drawn by long tandems of mules clanked day and night the year round. now the freight depot is gone, and an enormous granite structure, which accommodates the various criminal courts, rises on its site. between this building and the tombs an enclosed bridge for the passage of prisoners to and from court spans the street. the tombs itself was built in the basin of a little lake which was once one of the romantic spots of manhattan island, and a favorite resort of the angler and the pleasure seeker. the lake was known as the collect pond, a corruption of the dutch title "kalckhoek," or shell point, from a beach of shells which existed on its margin. the collect was a fresh-water pond, fed by natural springs, and having an outlet by small streams into both the north and east rivers. thus the pond and its creeks actually cut manhattan island in half and made two islands of it. there were pleasure houses on the hillocks around the collect, and on an island, in its centre, the city powder house was erected. the course of time worked the usual changes upon it for the worse. tanners set up their tan pits near it, the city garbage was dumped into it, and among the marshes to the eastward the criminal colony, since infamous as the five points, commenced to form itself. there was still water enough in it in for john fitch to experiment in navigating the first steamboat america ever saw, but a few years later, to give employment to clamorous and starving labor, at a period of industrial and commercial stagnation, the city ordered the hills around it to be leveled and the pond filled up with the earth removed from them. in spite of the reduction of the ground to the westward, the site remained much lower than the grade of broadway, and the tombs roof is scarcely above the line of that thoroughfare. to support the ponderous mass of maine granite, which constituted the prison, a forest of piles was sunk deep in the sodden soil. the work of construction occupied five years, so that the prison had been in use scarcely four years when dickens made his visit to it--and, while its outer walls remain substantially the same, its internal construction has been vastly augmented and improved. when he saw it the city watch-house occupied part of the building; and he makes a record of a night visit to "those black sties" where "men and women, against whom no crime is proved, lie all night in perfect darkness, surrounded by the noisome vapors which encircle that flagging lamp you light us with, and breathing this filthy and offensive stench." the watch-house was on the franklin street side of the jail, and was long kept up as a police station. now it is used as a common room for the confinement of vagrants and drunkards picked up on the streets, pending their confinement to the penal institutions. of another old and hideous institution which one cannot disassociate with the tombs, in spite of the abolition of it which has been decreed by law, dickens wrote: "the prison yard, in which he pauses now, has been the scene of terrible performances. into this narrow, grave-like place men are brought out to die. the wretched creature stands beneath the gibbet on the ground; the rope is about his neck; and when the sign is given a weight at its other end comes running down and swings him up into the air--a corpse. the law requires that there be present at this dismal spectacle the judge, the jury, and citizens to the amount of twenty-five. from the community it is hidden. to the dissolute and bad the thing remains a frightful mystery. between the criminal and them the prison wall is interposed as a thick and gloomy veil. it is the curtain to his bed of death, his winding sheet and grave. from him it shuts out life and all the motives to unrepenting hardihood in that last hour, which its mere sight and presence is often all sufficient to sustain. there are no bold eyes to make him bold; no ruffians to uphold a ruffian's name before. all beyond the pitiless stone wall is unknown space." at the time of dickens's visit ( ) london was still the scene of public hangings, and the privacy with which the executions in the tombs were conducted furnished him with a text for one of his protests against the existing state of things at home. the tombs hangings were private, as he stated, but they were not unattended by morbid interest on the part of the mob. on the morning of an execution, the obscene streets all about would swarm with obscene life. from their festering dens in the five points, and from the remoter haunts of vice and crime which had grown up with the growth of the town, the social banditti came in a scowling, ribald and revolting legion. they camped on doorsteps before dawn, and all the groggeries drove a roaring trade. they beguiled the time with gloating reminiscences of their criminal lives, and watched the jail roof for a signal that the ghastly work within was done. curiously enough, nature had provided them with a sign as certain as the running up of the black flag upon the wall of newgate. a great number of pigeons had found lodgment in the tombs yard, nesting in cotes which had been put up for them along the inner jail walls and in the eaves of the buildings themselves. long immunity from human aggressions had rendered them fearless, and when the audience gathered for an execution, under the gray shadow of the jail walls, the pigeons were equally certain to assemble, cooing and pluming themselves in the sunlight above. when, at the fatal moment, the heavy thud of the executioner's axe denoted the severing of the cord which supported the counterweights and sent the victim whirling to his death, the birds, startled by the sound, would rise upward in flurried flight, circle about a couple of times and settle at their perches again. it was by this confused and frightened movement of the pigeons above the walls that the waiting rabble knew the unseen tragedy of the law was done. a moment later the race of reporters and messenger boys from the prison gate to the newspaper offices close by would begin, and in half an hour all the ghastly details of the event, described with such circumstantiality and such sensational exaggeration as the horror-hungry public was expected to crave for, would be hawked at every street corner and carried by swift runners and overdriven wagons to the most distant quarters of the town. to such extreme was this practice stretched that, on the occasions of later executions in the tombs, reporters would actually be sent to spend the night in prison, and to record the last hours of a worthless brute whose just doom should have been a swift death and complete oblivion. evil as the influence of a public hanging may have been, it may be doubted if it was any worse than the practice of the press in investing the attendant circumstances of a vile and dangerous wretch's end with the mock heroism of cheap bravado and the clap-trap sentiment of literary fustian. the law providing for the execution of criminals by electricity, and in secret, has performed one public service, at least, in doing away with these outdoor gatherings at the tombs on hanging day. chapter vii. philadelphia's bastile. in philadelphia dickens made a special request for permission to visit the great prison of the state, remarking that it and the falls of niagara were the two objects he most wished to see in america. exceptional facilities were afforded him to gratify his desire, and make his investigation as thorough as he chose. nothing was concealed from him, and his account and opinion of the eastern state penitentiary ("american notes," chapter ) created a vast deal of comment in their day. he put himself on record as a violent opponent of the solitary system, and while he intended to make this chapter the strongest, it was really one of the weakest in the book. he had assailed the outrages of the debtors' prisons of london manfully. over the philadelphia system he became almost hysterical. in the former he had actual evils and wrongs and outrages to combat. in the latter his grievance was largely founded on sentimentality and purely personal feeling. he describes his visit: "in the outskirts stands a great prison called the eastern penitentiary, conducted on a plan peculiar to the state of pennsylvania. the system here is rigid, strict and hopeless solitary confinement. i believe it, in its effects, to be cruel and wrong. "i was accompanied to this prison by two gentlemen officially connected with its management, and passed the day in going from cell to cell and talking with the inmates. every facility was afforded me that the utmost courtesy could suggest. nothing was concealed or hidden from my view, and every piece of information that i sought was openly and frankly given. the perfect order of the building cannot be praised too highly, and of the excellent motives of all who are immediately concerned in the administration of the system there can be no kind of question. "between the body of the prison and the outer wall there is a spacious garden. entering it by a wicket in the massive gate, we pursued the path before us to its other termination, and passed into a large chamber, from which seven long passages radiate. on either side of each is a long, long row of low cell-doors with a certain number over every one. above a gallery of cells like those below, except that they have no narrow yard attached (as those in the ground tier have), and are somewhat smaller. the possession of two of these is supposed to compensate for the absence of so much air and exercise as can be had in the dull strip attached to each of the others, in an hour's time every day; and, therefore, every prisoner in this upper story has two cells, adjoining and communicating with each other. "standing at the central point and looking down these dreary passages, the dull repose and quiet that prevails is awful. occasionally there is a drowsy sound from some lone weaver's shuttle or shoemaker's last, but it is stilled by the thick walls and heavy dungeon door, and only serves to make the general stillness more profound. over the head and face of every prisoner who comes into this melancholy house a black hood is drawn; and in this dark shroud, an emblem of the curtain dropped between him and the living world, he is led to the cell from which he never again comes forth until his whole term of imprisonment has expired. he never hears of wife or children, home or friends; the life or death of any single creature. he sees the prison officers, but, with that exception, he never looks upon a human countenance, or hears a human voice. he is a man buried alive, to be dug out in the slow rounds of years, and, in the meantime, dead to everything but torturing anxieties and horrible despair. "his name, and crime, and term of suffering are unknown, even to the officer who delivers him his daily food. there is a number over his cell-door, and in a book, of which the governor of the prison has one copy and the moral instructor another, this is the index to his history. beyond these pages the prison has no record of his existence; and though he live to be in the same cell ten weary years, he has no means of knowing, down to the very last hour, in what part of the building it is situated; what kind of men there are about him; whether in the long winter nights there are living people near, or he is in some lonely corner of the great gaol, with walls and passages, and iron doors between him and the nearest sharer in its solitary horrors. "every cell has double doors--the outer one of sturdy oak, the other of grated iron, wherein there is a trap through which his food is handed. he has a bible and a slate and pencil, and, under certain restrictions, has sometimes other books, provided for the purpose, and pen and ink and paper. his razor, plate and can, and basin hang upon the wall, or shine upon the little shelf. fresh water is laid on in every cell, and he can draw it at his pleasure. during the day his bedstead turns up against the wall and leaves more space for him to work in. his loom, or bench, or wheel is there, and there he labors, sleeps and wakes and counts the seasons as they change, and grows old." over the inmates of this philadelphia gaol dickens exuded a great deal of sympathy and sentiment. he invested each man he wrote about with a pathos that made good reading at any rate, and no doubt sincerely believed all that he wrote. to a man of a convivial and companionable nature like himself the idea of a life of solitude was naturally horrible. to a man fond of long walks among other men the enforced absence of exercise as well as of companionship was naturally dreadful. to charles dickens, in short, a term of imprisonment in the eastern penitentiary would unquestionably have been the cruelest torture. he would, in all likelihood, have worn his life out speedily here, like a wild bird in a cage, or have laid violent hands upon himself, or have become a madman. to the felons whom he visited, men for the most part of blunt sensibilities and brutal natures, he credited the same qualities as belonged to his own refined and sensitive composition, and he put himself in their place and spoke for them from his own standpoint. how far he was led astray by this was shown by the case of the character long known as "dickens's dutchman." of this fellow he wrote: "in another cell there was a german, sentenced to five years' imprisonment for larceny, two of which had just expired. with colors procured in the same manner (extracted from dyed yarn given him to weave) he had painted every inch of the walls and ceiling quite beautifully. he had laid out the few feet of ground behind him with exquisite neatness, and had made a little bed in the centre, that looked, by the bye, like a grave. the taste and ingenuity he had displayed in everything was most extraordinary, and yet a more dejected, heartbroken, wretched creature it would be difficult to imagine. i never saw such a picture of forlorn affliction and distress of mind. my heart bled for him, and when the tears ran down his cheeks, and he took one of the visitors aside to ask, with his trembling hands nervously clutching at his coat to detain him, whether there was no hope of his dismal sentence being commuted, the spectacle was really too painful to witness. i never saw or heard any kind of misery that impressed me more than the wretchedness of this man." this was the dickensesque of it, and it gave its unfortunate subject an international notoriety. now mark the plain, unvarnished facts. the name of "dickens's dutchman" was charles langheimer. he was sentenced to the eastern penitentiary for the first time on may , , and it was while he was serving this term that dickens saw him. on june , , he came back on a year's sentence, and on feb. , , he was a third time convicted, for two years on this occasion. on april , , he came again for a year, on march , , he was returned for two years, on sept. , , and on april , , he began two terms of a year each. on sept. , , he received a three years' term, and he was no sooner through with this than he was once more convicted and sent up for a year, in . in the intervals of the sixteen years he spent in this one prison, since his first conviction, he had served five terms in other prisons, three in the county jail, of philadelphia, one in the baltimore penitentiary, and one in new york. in plain english, the man was a confirmed pauper and thief. he lived by mendicancy, and from time to time he would commit some larceny, for which offense all his sentences were imposed on him, merely in order to be sent to jail to be cared for--just as he might have gone on a vacation from his regular and miserable life upon the chance of charity. in view of dickens's positive and unqualified expression of sentiment in regard to him, the most curious fact of his life remains to be noted. this is that, fourteen years after dickens's own death, he returned voluntarily to the penitentiary, where he had ended a year's term only a few months before, and begged to be taken in. this place, so dreadful to the impressionable novelist, was the only approach to home the poor wretch knew. he was in a deplorable condition, was nearly eighty years of age, and had a horror of the almshouse. the inspectors consented that he should have his wish, and he was cared for for a month, until his death, which occurred on march , . it is interesting to know that dickens died at the age of fifty-eight years. this "picture of forlorn affliction and distress of mind," this "dejected, heartbroken, wretched creature," who was born eight years before dickens, survived him nearly twice that period, and outlived him, in the mere number of his years, by twenty-two. it may be remembered, in connection with the fleet prison episode of "pickwick," that sam weller adverts to the almost identical case of an old prisoner, to whom the jail had become such a home that the fear of being locked out of it eventually deterred him from taking the sly tastes of liberty which the turnkeys were willing to allow him. the eastern state penitentiary is, in this day, admitted to be one of the model penal institutions of the world. when built it was in the northern suburb, but it is now in the heart of philadelphia. it occupies an entire block, comprising ten or twelve acres, and its site was originally known as cherry hill, a name which is often locally applied to the jail itself. the ground is elevated, and from the gateway tower a fine panorama of the vast city, spreading about for miles, may be obtained. all that is visible externally is a massive granite wall, some thirty-five feet high, slightly relieved or buttressed with towers at the angles and on the front. the enclosure is square, and the entrance, in the centre of the front wall, is by a lofty portal, defended by a heavy outer gate, in which there is a wicket, and an inner gate, and dominated by a tower taller than the others. within the walls the ranges of cells radiate from an octagonal central building, which is crowned with an observatory. to simplify the description it may be said that this central building forms the hub from which branch branch forth the spokes of this enormous wheel. a system of lighting the entire grounds by night is provided in a lantern of special ingenious construction, in the tower below the observatory or lookout. there are some detached buildings on the grounds, used for mechanical and culinary purposes. the living apartments of the warden and his family, offices, etc., are in the front building. the outer and inner gates of the prison are never opened at the same time. even a visitor or an official becomes in a manner a prisoner when he leaves the street. dickens's general description of the prison is good enough, but some of his statements are more picturesque than precise. prisoners are not shut off from intercourse by letter, or even personally, with their families. they do see various persons connected with the prison, although they cannot see other prisoners. even this, which dickens thought so cruel, and the concealment of their faces when they are brought in to the jail, is a precaution born of benevolence and mercy. the idea is that after a man has served a term at cherry hill and been discharged he may go where he will, and if he wishes to live an honest life no man can point him out as an ex-convict. except in the private record of the prison, known only and accessible only to a few responsible persons, john jimpson never existed in the eastern state penitentiary. the keepers, the doctor, the jail attendants only knew him as no. . the librarian never issued books to john jimpson, but to no. . the nurses in the infirmary never attended him when he was sick, but cared for no. . no one but the warden knew whether the letters sent to him by his wife or family or friends were meant for no. or no. . as far as the stigma of his crime and its punishment can be effaced it is effaced. he loses his social identity when he enters the prison, and puts it on when he comes out, like a new suit of clothes. it is a rule of the prison that each convict, when he enters, shall be taught a useful trade, if he has not one already. he then has a daily task set, and all that he can or cares to produce above this task is credited to him, and the money is paid to him when he departs. the illiterate convicts are taught to read and write. those who display intelligence are encouraged to cultivate it. convicts of superior education--such, for instance, as can produce literary work or paint pictures--are permitted the means to do so. the entire system of the prison is reformatory as well as punitive; the idea is not merely to cage a social beast, but to tame him and train him, so that he may be of use to the world when he has served his term of isolation. the idea of separate confinement--the philadelphia idea, as it has been called--originated nearly a century ago. in an admirable sketch of the origin and history of the eastern district penitentiary, compiled by mr. richard vaux, president of the board of inspectors, the history of pennsylvania's system of prison discipline and management is given in brief but interesting style. in the common jail of philadelphia was as horrible a den as the worst of london jails at its worst. an attempt was made by richard wistar, one of the famous family of that name, to reform it, but in the british army occupied the city and the good work was, perforce, suspended. in it was taken up again, and the philadelphia prison society was formed. the first president of the society was bishop william white, the first protestant episcopal archbishop of pennsylvania, and he held the office for forty years. the society's first work was to have the chain gangs, employed at cleaning the streets and repairing the roads, abolished. the next was to secure a separation of the sexes in the common jail. then the separation of actual criminals and of persons merely accused but not yet found guilty of crime demanded attention. so, by degrees, the idea of separate confinement took shape. in a law was passed by which this principle was put to the test, and finally, in , the legislature authorized the construction of the state penitentiary for the eastern district of pennsylvania. at this date the site of the present penitentiary was a farm, remarkable for its grove of fine cherry trees. it belonged to the warner family. the farm-house was a cheery old colonial mansion, and it is worth noting that when the warners sold the land they reserved the right to remove the mantels and fireplaces from the house. the place was purchased in . the plans of several competing architects were submitted to the board appointed by the legislature, and that of john haviland was selected. the cornerstone of the penitentiary was laid in , and it was opened for the reception of convicts in . up to that time about $ , had been expended on it, but since then the necessary enlargements and improvements have brought its cost up to probably $ , , or more. if dickens could revisit it in the flesh to-day he would find it a much more extensive establishment than the one he criticised so severely and unjustly; and his confidence in himself would perhaps be shaken when he read the record of his woebegone "dutchman." the end. transcriber's note list of changes from the printed edition (in parentheses the original text): p. : removed stray period (when george iii. was king) p. : "others" for "other" (while others erected) p. : "workmen's" for "workmens'" (with the workmens' voices) p. : "street" for "stret" (marched into the stret) p. : "landau" for "landeau" (in his own landeau and six) p. : "ladders" for "ladlers" (long ladlers for scaling) p. : "besieged" for "beseiged" (others beseiged the house) p. : "buckets full" for "bucketsfull" (of which bucketsfull were passed) p. : "sergeant" for "sargeant" (recorder and common sargeant) p. : "indescribable" for "indiscribable" (with an indiscribable feeling) p. : inserted space (forming a part of newgatemarket) p. : added final closing quote mark (as much trouble as possible.) p. : added period (werry good that's a case) p. : added final closing quote mark (i should like to see 'em.) p. : removed final closing quote mark (the prisoner before him.") p. : added final period (i suppose mine did) p. : "pew" for "pen" (the 'condemned pen') p. : "huge" for "hugh" (a hugh black pen) p. : removed duplicate "desperate" (helpless, desperate, desperate state) p. : added period (linen cloth his red) p. : changed opening double quote to single quote ("here's somebody) p. : "divagations" for "divigations" (in his pleasant divigations) p. : "preferred" for "prefered" (debtors who prefered to preserve) p. : added period (the charge of s. d a week) p. : "gallon" for "galllon" (and stand a galllon) p. : "wat" for "watt" (followers of watt tyler) p. : added period (£ s d.) p. : added period ( s d.) p. : "westminster" for "westminister" (between westminister hall) p. : guessed "are" as missing word (there other letters by howel) p. : removed duplicate "of" (the shadow of of the prison) p. : "made" for "maade" (when he maade his first visit) p. : "clennam" for "clenham" (arthur clenham looked) p. : added missing opening quote (i came to marshalsea place,') p. : added missing comma after "porter" (for porter gave me) p. : "handkerchief" for "handerchief" (his pocket handerchief) p. : removed duplicate "to" (a room to to himself) p. : apostrophe for comma (insolvent debtors, act) p. : added missing opening quote ('no.' would you like) p. : "hopkins's" for "hopkin's" (of captain hopkin's voice) p. : "rotten" for "rotton" (the rotton and reeking) p. : "huge" for "hugh" (but that a hugh structure) p. : "dickens's" for "dicken's" (at the time of dicken's visit) my schools and schoolmasters. _morrison and gibb, edinburgh,_ _printers to her majesty's stationery office._ [illustration: hugh miller] my schools and schoolmasters or the story of my education. by hugh miller, author of 'the old red sandstone,' 'footprints of the creator,' etc. etc. [illustration: logo] edinburgh: w. p. nimmo, hay, & mitchell. . contents. chapter i. page a sailor's early career--first marriage--escape from shipwreck--second love--traits of character, chapter ii. childhood and childish visions--a father's death--favourite books--sketch of two maternal uncles, chapter iii. dawn of patriotism--cromarty grammar school--prevalent amusements--old francie--earliest geological researches, chapter iv. uncle sandy as a naturalist--important discovery--cromarty sutors and their caves--expedition to the 'doocot'--difficulties and dangers--sensation produced, chapter v. a would-be patroness--boyish games--first friendship--visit to the highlands--geologizing in the gruids--ossian-worship, chapter vi. cousin george and cousin william--excursion with cousin walter--painful accident--family bereavements--links between the present and the past, chapter vii. subscription school--vacation delights--forays and fears--quarrel with the schoolmaster--poetical revenge--johnstone the forester, chapter viii. choice of a calling--disappointment to relatives--old red sandstone quarry--depression and walking-sleep--temptations of toil--friendship with william ross, chapter ix. life in the bothie--mad bell--mournful history--singular intimacy--manners and customs of north-country masons, chapter x. evening walks--lines on a sun-dial--a haunted stream--insect transformations--jock moghoal--musings, chapter xi. an antiquary in humble life--poor danie--proficiency in porridge-making--depressed health--a good omen--close of apprenticeship, chapter xii. swimming the conon--click-clack the carter--loch maree--fitting up a barrack--highland characteristics, chapter xiii. the brothers fraser--flora of the northern hebrides--diving in the gareloch--sabbaths in flowerdale woods--causes of highland distress, chapter xiv. a cragsman's death--providential escape--property in leith--first sight of edinburgh--peter m'craw--niddry woods--researches among the coal measures, chapter xv. a worthy seceder--the hero of the squad--apology for fanaticism--strikes--recollections of the theatre, chapter xvi. great fires in edinburgh--dr. colquhoun--dr. m'crie--return to the north--stanzas written at sea--geological dreams, chapter xvii. religious phases--true centre of christianity--bearing of geology upon theological belief--delicate health--a gipsy wedding, chapter xviii. convalescence--pursuit of algeology--jock gordon--theory of idiocy--mr. stewart of cromarty, chapter xix. stone-cutting at inverness--a jilted lover--the _osars_--death of uncle james--farewell letter from william ross, chapter xx. publication of poems--newspaper criticisms--walsh the lecturer--enlarged circle of friends--miss dunbar of boath, chapter xxi. arenaceous formations--antiquity of the earth--tremendous hurricane--_loligo vulgare_--researches amid the lias--interesting discoveries, chapter xxii. religious controversies--ecclesiastical dispute--cholera--preventive measures--reform bill, chapter xxiii. visitors in the churchyard--the ladies' walk--first interview--friendship--love--second visit to edinburgh--linlithgow bank--favourable reception of "scenes and legends"--marriage, chapter xxiv. married life at cromarty--ichthyolitic deposit of old red sandstone--correspondence with agassiz and murchison--happy evenings--death of eldest child, chapter xxv. voluntary principle--position of the establishment--letter to lord brougham--invitation to edinburgh--editorship of the _witness_--introduction to dr. chalmers--visit from an old friend--removal to edinburgh, to the reader. it is now nearly a hundred years since goldsmith remarked, in his little educational treatise, that "few subjects have been more frequently written upon than the education of youth." and during the century which has well-nigh elapsed since he said so, there have been so many more additional works given to the world on this fertile topic, that their number has been at least doubled. almost all the men who ever taught a few pupils, with a great many more who never taught any, deem themselves qualified to say something original on education; and perhaps few books of the kind have yet appeared, however mediocre their general tone, in which something worthy of being attended to has not actually been said. and yet, though i have read not a few volumes on the subject, and have dipped into a great many more, i never yet found in them the sort of direction or encouragement which, in working out my own education, i most needed. they insisted much on the various modes of teaching others, but said nothing--or, what amounted to the same thing, nothing to the purpose--on the best mode of teaching one's-self. and as my circumstances and position, at the time when i had most occasion to consult them, were those of by much the largest class of the people of this and every other civilized country--for i was one of the many millions who need to learn, and yet have no one to teach them--i could not help deeming the omission a serious one. i have since come to think, however, that a formal treatise on self-culture might fail to supply the want. curiosity must be awakened ere it can be satisfied; nay, once awakened, it never fails in the end fully to satisfy itself; and it has occurred to me, that by simply laying before the working men of the country the "story of my education," i may succeed in first exciting their curiosity, and next, occasionally at least, in gratifying it also. they will find that by far the best schools i ever attended are schools open to them all--that the best teachers i ever had are (though severe in their discipline) always easy of access--and that the special _form_ at which i was, if i may say so, most successful as a pupil, was a form to which i was drawn by a strong inclination, but at which i had less assistance from my brother men, or even from books, than at any of the others. there are few of the natural sciences which do not lie quite as open to the working men of britain and america as geology did to me. my work, then, if i have not wholly failed in it, may be regarded as a sort of educational treatise, thrown into the narrative form, and addressed more especially to working men. they will find that a considerable portion of the scenes and incidents which it records read their lesson, whether of encouragement or warning, or throw their occasional lights on peculiarities of character or curious natural phenomena, to which their attention might be not unprofitably directed. should it be found to possess an interest to any other class, it will be an interest chiefly derivable from the glimpses which it furnishes of the inner life of the scottish people, and its bearing on what has been somewhat clumsily termed "the condition-of-the-country question." my sketches will, i trust, be recognised as true to fact and nature. and as i have never perused the autobiography of a working man of the more observant type, without being indebted to it for new facts and ideas respecting the circumstances and character of some portion of the people with which i had been less perfectly acquainted before, i can hope that, regarded simply as the memoir of a protracted journey through _districts_ of society not yet very sedulously explored, and scenes which few readers have had an opportunity of observing for themselves, my story may be found to possess some of the interest which attaches to the narratives of travellers who see what is not often seen, and know, in consequence, what is not generally known. in a work cast into the autobiographic form, the writer has always much to apologize for. with himself for his subject, he usually tells not only more than he ought, but also, in not a few instances, more than he intends. for, as has been well remarked, whatever may be the character which a writer of his own memoirs is desirous of assuming, he rarely fails to betray the real one. he has almost always his unintentional revelations, that exhibit peculiarities of which he is not conscious, and weaknesses which he has failed to recognise as such; and it will no doubt be seen that what is so generally done in works similar to mine, i have not escaped doing. but i cast myself full on the good-nature of the reader. my aims have, i trust, been honest ones; and should i in any degree succeed in rousing the humbler classes to the important work of self-culture and self-government, and in convincing the higher that there are instances in which working men have at least as legitimate a claim to their respect as to their pity, i shall not deem the ordinary penalties of the autobiographer a price too high for the accomplishment of ends so important. my schools and schoolmasters or the story of my education. chapter i. "ye gentlemen of england, who live at home at ease, oh, little do ye think upon the dangers of the seas."--old song. rather more than eighty years ago, a stout little boy, in his sixth or seventh year, was despatched from an old-fashioned farm-house in the upper part of the parish of cromarty, to drown a litter of puppies in an adjacent pond. the commission seemed to be not in the least congenial. he sat down beside the pool, and began to cry over his charge; and finally, after wasting much time in a paroxysm of indecision and sorrow, instead of committing the puppies to the water, he tucked them up in his little kilt, and set out by a blind pathway which went winding through the stunted heath of the dreary maolbuoy common, in a direction opposite to that of the farm-house--his home for the two previous twelvemonths. after some doubtful wandering on the waste, he succeeded in reaching, before nightfall, the neighbouring seaport town, and presented himself, laden with his charge, at his mother's door. the poor woman--a sailor's widow, in very humble circumstances--raised her hands in astonishment: "oh, my unlucky boy," she exclaimed, "what's this?--what brings you here?" "the little doggies, mither," said the boy; "i couldna drown the little doggies; and i took them to you." what afterwards befell the "little doggies," i know not; but trivial as the incident may seem, it exercised a marked influence on the circumstances and destiny of at least two generations of creatures higher in the scale than themselves. the boy, as he stubbornly refused to return to the farm-house, had to be sent on shipboard, agreeably to his wish, as a cabin-boy; and the writer of these chapters was born, in consequence, a sailor's son, and was rendered, as early as his fifth year, mainly dependent for his support on the sedulously plied but indifferently remunerated labours of his only surviving parent, at the time a sailor's widow. the little boy of the farm-house we a descended from a long line of seafaring men,--skilful and adventurous sailors,--some of whom had coasted along the scottish shores as early as the times of sir andrew wood and the "bold bartons," and mayhap helped to man that "verrie monstrous schippe the great michael," that "cumbered all scotland to get her to sea." they had taken as naturally to the water as the newfoundland dog or the duckling. that waste of life which is always so great in the naval profession had been more than usually so in the generation just passed away. of the boy's two uncles, one had sailed round the world with anson, and assisted in burning paita, and in boarding the manilla galleon; but on reaching the english coast he mysteriously disappeared, and was never more heard of. the other uncle, a remarkably handsome and powerful man,--or, to borrow the homely but not inexpressive language in which i have heard him described, "as _pretty_ a fellow as ever stepped in shoe-leather,"--perished at sea in a storm; and several years after, the boy's father, when entering the firth of cromarty, was struck overboard, during a sudden gust, by the boom of his vessel, and, apparently stunned by the blow, never rose again. shortly after, in the hope of screening her son from what seemed to be the hereditary fate, his mother had committed the boy to the charge of a sister, married to a farmer of the parish, and now the mistress of the farm-house of ardavell; but the family death was not to be so avoided; and the arrangement terminated, as has been seen, in the transaction beside the pond. in course of time the sailor boy, despite of hardship and rough usage, grew up into a singularly robust and active man, not above the middle size,--for his height never exceeded five feet eight inches,--but broad-shouldered, deep-chested, strong-limbed, and so compact of bone and muscle, that in a ship of the line, in which he afterwards sailed, there was not, among five hundred able-bodied seamen, a man who could lift so great a weight, or grapple with him on equal terms. his education had been but indifferently cared for at home: he had, however, been taught to read by a female cousin, a niece of his mother's, who, like her too, was both the daughter and the widow of a sailor; and for his cousin's only child, a girl somewhat younger than himself, he had contracted a boyish affection, which in a stronger form continued to retain possession of him after he grew up. in the leisure thrown on his-hands in long indian and chinese voyages, he learned to write; and profited so much by the instructions of a comrade, an intelligent and warm-hearted though reckless irishman, that he became skilful enough to keep a log-book, and to take a reckoning with the necessary correctness,--accomplishments far from common at the time among ordinary sailors. he formed, too, a taste for reading. the recollection of his cousin's daughter may have influenced him, but he commenced life with a determination to rise in it,--made his first money by storing up instead of drinking his grog,--and, as was common in those times, drove a little trade with the natives of foreign parts in articles of curiosity and vertu, for which, i suspect, the custom-house dues were not always paid. with all his scotch prudence, however, and with much kindliness of heart and placidity of temper there was some wild blood in his veins, derived, mayhap, from one or two buccaneering ancestors, that, when excited beyond the endurance point, became sufficiently formidable; and which, on at least one occasion, interfered very considerably with his plans and prospects. on a protracted and tedious voyage in a large east indiaman, he had, with the rest of the crew, been subjected to harsh usage by a stern, capricious captain; but, secure of relief on reaching port, he had borne uncomplainingly with it all. his comrade and quondam teacher, the irishman, was, however, less patient; and for remonstrating with the tyrant, as one of a deputation of the seamen, in what was deemed a mutinous spirit, he was laid hold of, and was in the course of being ironed down to the deck under a tropical sun, when his quieter comrade, with his blood now heated to the boiling point, stepped aft, and with apparent calmness re-stated the grievance. the captain drew a loaded pistol from his belt; the sailor struck up his hand; and, as the bullet whistled through the rigging above, he grappled with him, and disarmed him in a trice. the crew rose, and in a few minutes the ship was all their own. but having failed to calculate on such a result, they knew not what to do with their charge; and, acting under the advice of their new leader, who felt to the full the embarrassing nature of the position, they were content simply to demand the redress of their grievances as their terms of surrender; when, untowardly for their claims, a ship of war hove in sight, much in want of men, and, bearing down on the indiaman, the mutiny was at once suppressed, and the leading mutineers sent aboard the armed vessel, accompanied by a grave charge, and the worst possible of characters. luckily for them, however, and especially luckily for the irishman and his friend, the war-ship was so weakened by scurvy, at that time the untamed pest of the navy, that scarce two dozen of her crew could do duty aloft a fierce tropical tempest, too, which broke out not long after, pleaded powerfully in their favour; and the affair terminated in the ultimate promotion of the irishman to the office of ship-schoolmaster, and of his scotch comrade to the captaincy of the foretop. my narrative abides with the latter. he remained for several years aboard a man-of-war, and, though not much in love with the service, did his duty in both storm and battle. he served in the action off the dogger-bank,--one of the last naval engagements fought ere the manoeuvre of breaking the line gave to british valour its due superiority, by rendering all our great sea-battles decisive; and a comrade who sailed in the same vessel, and from whom, when a boy, i have received kindness for my father's sake, has told me that, their ship being but indifferently manned at the time, and the extraordinary personal strength and activity of his friend well known, he had a station assigned him at his gun against two of the crew, and that during the action he actually outwrought them both. at length, however, the enemy drifted to leeward to refit; and when set to repair the gashed and severed rigging, such was his state of exhaustion, in consequence of the previous overstrain on every nerve and muscle, that he had scarce vigour enough left to raise the marlingspike employed in the work to the level of his face. suddenly, when in this condition, a signal passed along the line, that the dutch fleet, already refitted, was bearing down to renew the engagement. a thrill like that of an electric shock passed through the frame of the exhausted sailor; his fatigue at once left him; and, vigorous and strong as when the action first began, he found himself able, as before, to run out against his two comrades the one side of a four-and-twenty pounder. the instance is a curious one of the influence of that "spirit" which, according to the wise king, enables a man to "sustain his infirmity." it may be well not to inquire too curiously regarding the mode in which this effective sailor quitted the navy. the country had borrowed his services without consulting his will; and he, i suspect, reclaimed them on his own behalf without first asking leave. i have been told by my mother that he found the navy very intolerable;--the mutiny at the nore had not yet meliorated the service to the common sailor. among other hardships, he had been oftener than once under not only very harsh, but also very incompetent officers; and on one occasion, after toiling on the foreyard in a violent night-squall, with some of the best seamen aboard, in fruitless attempts to furl up the sail, he had to descend, cap in hand, at the risk of a flogging, and humbly implore the boy-lieutenant in charge that he should order the vessel's head to be laid in a certain direction. luckily for him, the advice was taken by the young gentleman, and in a few minutes the sail was furled. he left his ship one fine morning, attired in his best, and having on his head a three-cornered hat, with tufts of lace at the corners, which i well remember, from the circumstance that it had long after to perform an important part in certain boyish masquerades at christmas and the new year; and as he had taken effective precautions for being reported missing in the evening, he got clear off. of some of the after-events of his life i retain such mere fragmentary recollections, dissociated from date and locality, as might be most readily seized on by the imagination of a child. at one time, when engaged in one of his indian voyages, he was stationed during the night, accompanied by but a single comrade, in a small open boat, near one of the minor mouths of the ganges; and he had just fallen asleep on the beams, when he was suddenly awakened by a violent motion, as if his skiff were capsizing. starting up, he saw in the imperfect light a huge tiger, that had swam, apparently, from the neighbouring jungle, in the act of boarding the boat. so much was he taken aback, that though a loaded musket lay beside him, it was one of the loose beams, or _foot-spars_, used as fulcrums for the feet in rowing, that he laid hold of as a weapon; but such was the blow he dealt to the paws of the creature, as they rested on the gunwale, that it dropped off with a tremendous snarl, and he saw it no more. on another occasion, he was one of three men sent with despatches to some indian port in a boat, which, oversetting in the open sea in a squall, left them for the greater part of three days only its upturned bottom for their resting-place. and so thickly during that time did the sharks congregate around them, that though a keg of rum, part of the boat's stores, floated for the first two days within a few yards of them, and they had neither meat nor drink, none of them, though they all swam well, dared attempt regaining it. they were at length relieved by a spanish vessel, and treated with such kindness, that the subject of my narrative used ever after to speak well of the spaniards, as a generous people, destined ultimately to rise. he was at one time so reduced by scurvy, in a vessel half of whose crew had been carried off by the disease, that, though still able to do duty on the tops, the pressure of his finger left for several seconds a dent in his thigh, as if the muscular flesh had become of the consistency of dough. at another time, when overtaken in a small vessel by a protracted tempest, in which "for many days neither sun nor moon appeared," he continued to retain his hold of the helm for twelve hours after every other man aboard was utterly prostrated and down, and succeeded, in consequence, in weathering the storm for them all. and after his death, a nephew of my mother's, a young man who had served his apprenticeship under him, was treated with great kindness on the spanish main, for his sake, by a west indian captain, whose ship and crew he had saved, as the captain told the lad, by boarding them in a storm, at imminent risk to himself, and working their vessel into port, when, in circumstances of similar exhaustion, they were drifting full upon an iron-bound shore. many of my other recollections of this manly sailor are equally fragmentary in their character; but there is a distinct bit of picture in them all, that strongly impressed the boyish fancy. when not much turned of thirty, the sailor returned to his native town, with money enough, hardly earned, and carefully kept, to buy a fine large sloop, with which he engaged in the coasting trade; and shortly after he married his cousin's daughter. he found his cousin, who had supported herself in her widowhood by teaching a school, residing in a dingy, old-fashioned house, three rooms in length, but with the windows of its second story half-buried in the eaves, that had been left her by their mutual grandfather, old john feddes, one of the last of the buccaneers. it had been built, i have every reason to believe, with spanish gold; not, however, with a great deal of it, for, notwithstanding its six rooms, it was a rather humble erection, and had now fallen greatly into disrepair. it was fitted up with some of the sailor's money, and, after his marriage, became his home,--a home rendered all the happier by the presence of his cousin, now rising in years, and who, during her long widowhood, had sought and found consolation, amid her troubles and privations, where it was surest to be found. she was a meek-spirited, sincerely pious woman; and the sailor, during his more distant voyages,--for he sometimes traded with ports of the baltic on the one hand, and with those of ireland and the south of england on the other,--had the comfort of knowing that his wife, who had fallen into a state of health chronically delicate, was sedulously tended and cared for by a devoted mother. the happiness which he would have otherwise enjoyed was, however, marred in some degree by his wife's great delicacy of constitution, and ultimately blighted by two unhappy accidents. he had not lost the nature which had been evinced at an early age beside the pond: for a man who had often looked death in the face, he had remained nicely tender of human life, and had often hazarded his own in preserving that of others; and when accompanied, on one occasion, by his wife and her mother to his vessel, just previous to sailing, he had unfortunately to exert himself in her presence, in behalf of one of his seamen, in a way that gave her constitution a shock from which it never recovered. a clear frosty moonlight evening had set in; the pier-head was glistening with new-formed ice; and one of the sailors, when engaged in casting over a haulser which he had just loosed, missed footing on the treacherous margin, and fell into the sea. the master knew his man could not swim; a powerful seaward tide sweeps past the place with the first hours of ebb; there was not a moment to be lost; and, hastily throwing off his heavy greatcoat, he plunged after him, and in an instant the strong current swept them both out of sight. he succeeded, however, in laying hold of the half-drowned man, and, striking with him from out the perilous tideway into an eddy, with a herculean effort he regained the quay. on reaching it, his wife lay insensible in the arms of her mother; and as she was at the time in the delicate condition incidental to married women, the natural consequence followed, and she never recovered the shock, but lingered for more than a twelve-mouth, the mere shadow of her former self; when a second event, as untoward as the first, too violently shook the fast ebbing sands, and precipitated her dissolution. a prolonged tempest from the stormy north-east had swept the moray firth of its shipping, and congregated the stormbound vessels by scores in the noble harbour of cromarty, when the wind chopped suddenly round, and they all set out to sea,--the sloop of the master among the rest. the other vessels kept the open firth; but the master, thoroughly acquainted with its navigation, and in the belief that the change of wind was but temporary, went on hugging the land on the weather side, till, as he had anticipated, the breeze set full into the old quarter, and increased into a gale. and then, when all the rest of the fleet had no other choice left them than just to scud back again, he struck out into the firth in a long tack, and, doubling kinnaird's head and the dreaded buchan ness, succeeded in making good his voyage south. next morning the wind-bound vessels were crowding the harbour of refuge as before, and only his sloop was amissing. the first war of the french revolution had broken out at the time; it was known there were several french privateers hovering on the coast; and the report went abroad that the missing sloop had been captured by the french. there was a weather-brained tailor in the neighbourhood, who used to do very odd things, especially, it was said, when the moon was at the full, and whom the writer remembers from the circumstance that he fabricated for him his first jacket, and that, though he succeeded in sewing on one sleeve to the hole at the shoulder, where it ought to be, he committed the slight mistake of sewing on the other sleeve to one of the pocket-holes. poor andrew fern had heard that his townsman's sloop had been captured by a privateer, and, fidgety with impatience till he had communicated the intelligence where he thought it would tell most effectively, he called on the master's wife, to ask whether she had not heard that all the wind-bound vessels had got back again save the master's, and to wonder no one had yet told her that, if _his_ had not got back, it was simply because it had been taken by the french. the tailor's communication told more powerfully than he could have anticipated: in less than a week after, the master's wife was dead; and long ere her husband's return she was lying in the quiet family burying-place, in which--so heavy were the drafts made by accident and violent death on the family--the remains of none of the male members had been deposited for more than a hundred years. the mother, now left, by the death of her daughter, to a dreary solitude, sought to relieve its tedium, during the absence of her son-in-law when on his frequent voyages, by keeping, as she had done ere his return from foreign parts, a humble school. it was attended by two little girls, the children of a distant relation but very dear friend, the wife of a tradesman of the place,--a woman, like herself, of sincere though unpretending piety. their similarity of character in this respect could hardly be traced to their common ancestor. he was the last curate of the neighbouring parish of nigg; and, though not one of those intolerant episcopalian ministers that succeeded in rendering their church thoroughly hateful to the scottish people,--for he was a simple, easy man, of much good nature,--he was, if tradition speak true, as little religious as any of them. in one of the earlier replies to that curious work, "scotch presbyterian eloquence displayed," i find a nonsensical passage from one of the curate's sermons, given as a set-off against the presbyterian nonsense adduced by the other side. "mr. james m'kenzie, curate of nigg in ross," says the writer, "describing eternity to his parishioners, told them that in that state they would be immortalized, so that nothing could hurt them: a slash of a broadsword could not hurt you, saith he; nay, a cannon-ball would play but _baff_ on you." most of the curate's descendants were stanch presbyterians, and animated by a greatly stronger spirit than his; and there were none of them stancher in their presbyterianism than the two elderly women who counted kin from him in the fourth degree, and who, on the basis of a common faith, had become attached friends. the little girls were great favourites with the schoolmistress; and when, as she rose in years, her health began to fail, the elder of the two removed from her mother's house, to live with, and take care of her; and the younger, who was now shooting up into a pretty young woman, used, as before, to pass much of her time with her sister and her old mistress. meanwhile the shipmaster was thriving. he purchased a site for a house beside that of his buccaneering grandfather, and built for himself and his aged relative a respectable dwelling, which cost him about four hundred pounds, and entitled his son, the writer, to exercise the franchise, on the passing, considerably more than thirty years after, of the reform bill. the new house was, however, never to be inhabited by its builder; for, ere it was fully finished, he was overtaken by a sad calamity, that, to a man of less energy and determination, would have been ruin, and in consequence of which he had to content himself with the old house as before, and almost to begin the world anew. i have now reached a point in my narrative at which, from my connexion with the two little girls,--both of whom still live in the somewhat altered character of women far advanced in life,--i can be as minute in its details as i please; and the details of the misadventure which stripped the shipmaster of the earnings of long years of carefulness and toil, blended as they are with what an old critic might term a curious _machinery_ of the supernatural, seem not unworthy of being given unabridged. early in november , two vessels--the one a smack in the london and inverness trade, the other the master's square-rigged sloop--lay wind-bound for a few days on their passage north, in the port of peterhead. the weather, which had been stormy and unsettled, moderated towards the evening of the fifth day of their detention; and the wind chopping suddenly into the east, both vessels loosed from their moorings, and, as a rather gloomy day was passing into still gloomier night, they bore out to sea. the breeze soon freshened into a gale; the gale swelled into a hurricane, accompanied by a thick snow-storm: and when, early next morning, the smack opened the firth, she was staggering under her storm-jib, and a mainsail reefed to the cross. whatever wind may blow, there is always shelter within the sutors; and she was soon riding at anchor in the roadstead; but she had entered the bay alone; and when day broke, and for a brief interval the driving snow-rack cleared up towards the east, no second sail appeared in the offing. "poor miller!" exclaimed the master of the smack; "if he does not enter the firth ere an hour, he will never enter it at all. good sound vessel, and better sailor never stepped between stem and stern; but last night has, i fear, been too much for him. he should have been here long ere now." the hour passed; the day itself wore heavily away in gloom and tempest; and as not only the master, but also all the crew of the sloop, were natives of the place, groups of the town's-folk might be seen, so long as the daylight lasted, looking out into the storm from the salient points of the old coast-line that, rising immediately behind the houses, commands the firth. but the sloop came not, and before they had retired to their homes, a second night had fallen, dark and tempestuous as the first. ere morning the weather moderated: a keen frost bound up the wind in its icy fetters; and during the following day, though a heavy swell continued to roll shorewards between the sutors, and sent up its white foam high against the cliffs, the surface of the sea had become glassy and smooth. but the day wore on, and evening again fell; and even the most sanguine relinquished all hope of ever again seeing the sloop or her crew. there was grief in the master's dwelling,--grief in no degree the less poignant from the circumstance that it was the tearless, uncomplaining grief of rigid old age. her two youthful friends and their mother watched with the widow, now, as it seemed, left alone in the world. the town-clock had struck the hour of midnight, and still she remained as if fixed to her seat, absorbed in silent, stupifying sorrow, when a heavy foot was heard pacing along the now silent street. it passed, and anon returned; ceased for a moment nearly opposite the window; then approached the door, where there was a second pause; and then there succeeded a faltering knock, that struck on the very hearts of the inmates within. one of the girls sprang up, and on undoing the bolt, shrieked out, as the door fell open, "o mistress, here is jack grant the mate!" jack, a tall, powerful seaman, but apparently in a state of utter exhaustion, staggered, rather than walked in, and flung himself into a chair. "jack," exclaimed the old woman, seizing him convulsively by both his hands, "where's my cousin?--where's hugh?" "the master's safe and well," said jack; "but the poor _friendship_ lies in _spales_ on the bar of findhorn." "god be praised!" ejaculated the widow. "let the gear go!" i have often heard jack's story related in jack's own words, at a period of life when repetition never tires; but i am not sure that i can do it the necessary justice now. "we left peterhead," he said, "with about half a cargo of coal,--for we had lightened ship a day or two before,--and the gale freshened as the night came on. we made all tight, however; and though the snow-drift was so blinding in the thick of the shower that i could scarce see my hand before me, and though it soon began to blow great guns, we had given the land a good offing, and the hurricane blew the right way. just as we were loosening from the quay, a poor young woman, much knocked up, with a child in her arms, had come to the vessel's side, and begged hard of master to take her aboard. she was a soldier's wife, and was travelling to join her husband at fort-george; but she was already worn out and penniless, she said; and now, as a snow-storm threatened to block up the roads, she could neither stay where she was, nor pursue her journey. her infant, too,--she was sure, if she tried to force her way through the hills, it would perish in the snow. the master, though unwilling to cumber us with a passenger in such weather, was induced, out of pity for the poor destitute creature, to take her aboard. and she was now with her child, all alone, below in the cabin i was stationed a-head on the out-look beside the foresail _horse_: the night had grown pitch dark; and the lamp in the binnacle threw just light enough through the grey of the shower to show me the master at the helm. he looked more anxious, i thought, than i had almost ever seen him before, though i have been with him, mistress, in bad weather; and all at once i saw he had got company, and strange company too, for such a night: there was a woman moving round him, with a child in her arms. i could see her as distinctly as ever i saw anything,--now on the one side, now on the other,--at one time full in the light, at another half lost in the darkness. that, i said to myself, must be the soldier's wife and her child; but how in the name of wonder can the master allow a woman to come on deck in such a night as this, when we ourselves have just enough ado to keep footing? he takes no notice of her neither, but keeps looking on, quite in his wont, at the binnacle. 'master,' i said, stepping up to him, 'the woman had surely better go below.' 'what woman, jack?' said he; 'our passenger, you may be sure, is nowhere else.' i looked round, mistress, and found he was quite alone, and that the companion-head was hasped down. there came a cold sweat all over me. 'jack,' said the master, 'the night is getting worse, and the roll of the waves heightening every moment. i'm convinced, too, our cargo is shifting: as the last sea struck us, i could hear the coals rattle below; and see how stiffly we heel to the larboard. say nothing, however, to the men, but have all your wits about you; and look, meanwhile, to the boat-tackle and the oars. i have seen a boat live in as bad a night as this.' as he spoke, a blue light from above glimmered on the deck. we looked up, and saw a dead-fire sticking to the cross-trees. 'it's all over with us now, master,' said i. 'nay, man,' replied the master, in his easy, humorous way, which i always like well enough except in bad weather, and then i see his humour is served out like his extra grog, to keep up hearts that have cause enough to get low,--'nay, man,' he said, 'we can't afford to let your grandmother board us to-night. if you will insure _me_ against the shifting coal, i'll be your guarantee against the dead-light. why, it's as much a natural appearance, man, as a flash of lightning. away to your berth, and keep up a good heart: we can't be far from covesea now, where, when once past the skerries, the swell will take off; and then, in two short hours, we may be snug within the sutors.' i had scarcely reached my berth a-head, mistress, when a heavy sea struck us on the starboard quarter, almost throwing us on our beam-ends. i could hear the rushing of the coals below, as they settled on the larboard side; and though the master set us full before the wind, and gave instant orders to lighten every stitch of sail,--and it was but little sail we had at the time to lighten,--still the vessel did not rise, but lay unmanageable as a log, with her gunwale in the water. on we drifted, however, along the south coast, with little expectation save that every sea would send us to the bottom; until, in the first grey of the morning, we found ourselves among the breakers of the terrible bar of findhorn. and shortly after, the poor _friendship_ took the ground right on the edge of the quicksands, for she would neither stay nor wear; and as she beat hard against the bottom, the surf came rolling over half-mast high. "just as we struck," continued jack, "the master made a desperate effort to get into the cabin. the vessel couldn't miss, we saw, to break up and fill; and though there was little hope of any of us ever setting foot ashore, he wished to give the poor woman below a chance with the rest. all of us but himself, mistress, had got up into the shrouds, and so we could see round us a bit; and he had just laid his hand on the companion-hasp to undo the door, when i saw a tremendous sea coming rolling towards us, like a moving wall, and shouted on him to hold fast. he sprang to the weather back-stay, and laid hold. the sea came tumbling on, and, breaking full twenty feet over his head, buried him for a minute's space in the foam. we thought we should never see him more; but when it cleared away, there was he still, with his iron grip on the stay, though the fearful wave had water-logged the _friendship_ from bow to stem, and swept her companion-head as cleanly off by the deck as if it had been cut with a saw. no human aid could avail the poor woman and her baby. master could hear the terrible choking noise of her dying agony right under his feet, with but a two-inch plank between; and the sounds have haunted him ever since. but even had he succeeded in getting her on deck, she could not possibly have survived, mistress. for five long hours we clung to the rigging, with the seas riding over us all the time like wild horses; and though we could see, through the snow-drift and the spray, crowds on the shore, and boats lying thick beside the pier, none dared venture out to assist us, till near the close of the day, when the wind fell with the falling tide, and we were brought ashore, more dead than alive, by a volunteer crew from the harbour. the unlucky _friendship_ began to break up under us ere mid-day, and we saw the corpse of the drowned woman, with the dead infant still in its arms, come floating out through a hole in the side. but the surf soon tore mother and child asunder, and we lost sight of them as they drifted away to the west. master would have crossed the firth himself this morning to relieve your mind, but being less worn out than any of us, he thought it best to remain in charge of the wreck." such, in effect, was the narrative of jack grant, the mate. the master, as i have said, had well-nigh to commence the world anew, and was on the eve of selling his new house at a disadvantage, in order to make up the sum necessary for providing himself with a new vessel, when a friend interposed, and advanced him the balance required. he was assisted, too, by a sister in leith, who was in tolerably comfortable circumstances; and so he got a new sloop, which, though not quite equal in size to the one he had lost, was built wholly of oak, every plank and beam of which he had superintended in the laying down, and a prime sailer to boot; and so, though he had to satisfy himself with the accommodation of the old domicile, with its little rooms and its small windows, and to let the other house to a tenant, he began to thrive again as before. meanwhile his aged cousin was gradually sinking. the master was absent on one of his longer voyages, and she too truly felt that she could not survive till his return. she called to her bedside her two young friends, the sisters, who had been unwearied in their attentions to her, and poured out her blessing on them; first on the elder, and then on the younger. "but as for you, harriet," she added, addressing the latter, "there waits for you one of the best blessings of this world also--the blessings of a good husband: you will be a gainer in the end, even in this life, through your kindness to the poor childless widow." the prophecy was a true one: the old woman had shrewdly marked where the eyes of her cousin had been falling of late; and in about a twelvemonth after her death her young friend and pupil had become the master's wife. there was a very considerable disparity between their ages,--the master was forty-four, and his wife only eighteen,--but never was there a happier marriage. the young wife was simple, confiding, and affectionate; and the master of a soft and genial nature, with a large amount of buoyant humour about him, and so equable of temper, that, during six years of wedded life, his wife never saw him angry but once. i have heard her speak of the exceptional instance, however, as too terrible to be readily forgotten. she had accompanied him on ship-board, during their first year of married life, to the upper parts of the cromarty firth, where his sloop was taking in a cargo of grain, and lay quietly embayed within two hundred yards of the southern shore. his mate had gone away for the night to the opposite side of the bay, to visit his parents, who resided in that neighbourhood; and the remaining crew consisted of but two seamen, both young and somewhat reckless men, and the ship-boy. taking the boy with them to keep the ship's boat afloat, and wait their return, the two sailors went ashore, and, setting out for a distant public-house, remained there drinking till a late hour. there was a bright moon overhead, but the evening was chilly and frosty; and the boy, cold, tired, and half-overcome by sleep, after waiting on till past midnight, shoved off the boat, and, making his way to the vessel, got straightway into his hammock and fell asleep. shortly after, the two men came to the shore much the worse of liquor; and, failing to make themselves heard by the boy, they stripped off their clothes, and chilly as the night was, swam aboard. the master and his wife had been for hours snug in their bed, when they were awakened by the screams of the boy: the drunken men were unmercifully bastinading him with a rope's end apiece. the master, hastily rising, had to interfere in his behalf, and with the air of a man who knew that remonstrance in the circumstances would be of little avail, he sent them both off to their hammocks. scarcely, however, had he again got into bed, when he was a second time aroused by the cries of the boy, uttered on this occasion in the shrill tones of agony and terror; and, promptly springing up, now followed by his wife, he found the two sailors again belabouring the boy, and that one of them, in his blind fury, had laid hold of a rope-end, armed, as is common on shipboard, with an iron thimble or ring, and that every blow produced a wound. the poor boy was streaming over with blood. the master, in the extremity of his indignation, lost command of himself. rushing in, the two men were in a moment dashed against the deck;--they seemed powerless in his hands as children; and had not his wife, although very unfit at the time for mingling in a fray, run in and laid hold of him,--a movement which calmed him at once,--it was her serious impression that, unarmed as he was, he would have killed them both upon the spot. there are, i believe, few things more formidable than the unwonted anger of a good-natured man. chapter ii. "three stormy nights and stormy days we tossed upon the raging main; and long we strove our barque to save, but all our striving was in vain."--lowe. i was born, the first child of this marriage, on the th day of october , in the low, long house built by my great-grandfather the buccaneer. my memory awoke early. i have recollections which date several months ere the completion of my third year; but, like those of the golden age of the world, they are chiefly of a mythologic character. i remember, for instance, getting out unobserved one day to my father's little garden, and seeing there a minute duckling covered with soft yellow hair, growing out of the soil by its feet, and beside it a plant that bore as its flowers a crop of little mussel shells of a deep red colour. i know not what prodigy of the vegetable kingdom produced the little duckling; but the plant with the shells must, i think, have been a scarlet runner, and the shells themselves the papilionaceous blossoms. i have a distinct recollection, too,--but it belongs to a later period,--of seeing my ancestor, old john feddes the buccaneer, though he must have been dead at the time considerably more than half a century. i had learned to take an interest in his story, as preserved and told in the antique dwelling which he had built more than a hundred years before. to forget a love disappointment, he had set out early in life for the spanish main, where, after giving and receiving some hard blows, he succeeded in filling a little bag with dollars and doubloons; and then coming home, he found his old sweetheart a widow, and so much inclined to listen to reason, that she ultimately became his wife. there were some little circumstances in his history which must have laid hold of my imagination; for i used over and over to demand its repetition; and one of my first attempts at a work of art was to scrabble his initials with my fingers, in red paint, on the house-door. one day, when playing all alone at the stair-foot--for the inmates of the house had gone out--something extraordinary had caught my eye on the landing-place above; and looking up, there stood john feddes--for i somehow instinctively divined that it was none other than he--in the form of a large, tall, very old man, attired in a light-blue greatcoat he seemed to be steadfastly regarding me with apparent complacency; but i was sadly frightened; and for years after, when passing through the dingy, ill-lighted room out of which i inferred he had come, i used to feel not at all sure that i might not tilt against old john in the dark. i retain vivid recollections of the joy which used to light up the household on my father's arrival; and i remember that i learned to distinguish for myself his sloop when in the offing, by the two slim stripes of white which ran along her sides, and her two square topsails. i have my golden memories, too, of splendid toys that he used to bring home with him,--among the rest, of a magnificent four-wheeled waggon of painted tin, drawn by four wooden horses and a string; and of getting it into a quiet corner, immediately on its being delivered over to me, and there breaking up every wheel and horse, and the vehicle itself, into their original bits, until not two of the pieces were left sticking together. further, i still remember my disappointment at not finding something curious within at least the horses and the wheels; and as unquestionably the main enjoyment derivable from such things is to be had in the breaking of them, i sometimes wonder that our ingenious toymen do not fall upon the way of at once extending their trade, and adding to its philosophy, by putting some of their most brilliant things where nature puts the nut-kernel,--inside. i shall advert to but one other recollection of this period. i have a dreamlike memory of a busy time, when men with gold lace on their breasts, and at least one gentleman with golden epaulets on his shoulders, used to call at my father's house, and fill my newly acquired pockets with coppers; and how they wanted, it was said, to bring my father along with them, to help them to sail their great vessel; but he preferred remaining, it was added, with his own little one. a ship of war, under the guidance of an unskilful pilot, had run aground on a shallow flat on the opposite side of the firth, known as the _inches_; and as the flood of a stream tide was at its height at the time, and straightway began to fall off, it was found, after lightening her of her guns and the greater part of her stores, that she still stuck fast. my father, whose sloop had been pressed into the service, and was loaded to the gunwale with the ordnance, had betrayed an unexpected knowledge of the points of a large war-vessel; and the commander, entering into conversation with him, was so impressed by his skill, that he placed his ship under his charge, and had his confidence repaid by seeing her hauled off into deep water in a single tide. knowing the nature of the bottom,--a soft arenaceous mud, which if beat for some time by the foot or hand, resolved itself into a sort of quicksand, half-sludge, half-water, which, when covered by a competent depth of sea, could offer no effectual resistance to a ship's keel,--the master had set half the crew to run in a body from side to side, till, by the motion generated in this way, the portion of the bank immediately beneath was beaten soft; and then the other moiety of the men, tugging hard on kedge and haulser, drew the vessel off a few feet at a time, till at length, after not a few repetitions of the process, she floated free. of course, on a harder bottom the expedient would not have availed; but so struck was the commander by its efficacy and originality, and by the extent of the master's professional resources, that he strongly recommended him to part with his sloop, and enter the navy, where he thought he had influence enough, he said, to get him placed in a proper position. but as the master's previous experience of the service had been of a very disagreeable kind, and as his position, as at once master and owner of the vessel he sailed, was at least an independent one, he declined acting on the advice. such are some of my earlier recollections. but there was a time of sterner memories at hand. the kelp trade had not yet attained to the importance which it afterwards acquired, ere it fell before the first approaches of free trade; and my father, in collecting a supply for the leith glass works, for which he occasionally acted both as agent and shipmaster, used sometimes to spend whole months amid the hebrides, sailing from station to station, and purchasing here a few tons and there a few hundredweights, until he had completed his cargo. in his last kelp voyage he had been detained in this way from the close of august till the end of october; and at length, deeply laden, he had threaded his way round cape wrath, and through the pentland and across the moray firths, when a severe gale compelled him to seek shelter in the harbour of peterhead. from that port, on the th of november , he wrote my mother the last letter she ever received from him; for on the day after he sailed from it there arose a terrible tempest, in which many seamen perished, and he and his crew were never more heard of. his sloop was last seen by a brother townsman and shipmaster, who, ere the storm came on, had been fortunate enough to secure an asylum for his barque in an english harbour on an exposed portion of the coast. vessel after vessel had been coming ashore during the day; and the beach was strewed with wrecks and dead bodies; but he had marked his townsman's sloop in the offing from mid-day till near evening, exhausting every nautical shift and expedient to keep aloof from the shore; and at length, as the night was falling, the skill and perseverance exerted seemed successful; for, clearing a formidable headland that had lain on the lee for hours, and was mottled with broken ships and drowned men, the sloop was seen stretching out in a long tack into the open sea. "miller's seamanship has saved him once more!" said matheson, the cromarty skipper, as, quitting his place of outlook, he returned to his cabin; but the night fell tempestuous and wild, and no vestige of the hapless sloop was ever after seen. it was supposed that, heavy laden, and labouring in a mountainous sea, she must have started a plank and foundered. and thus perished,--to borrow from the simple eulogium of his seafaring friends, whom i heard long after condoling with my mother,--"one of the best sailors that ever sailed the moray firth." the fatal tempest, as it had prevailed chiefly on the eastern coasts of england and the south of scotland, was represented in the north by but a few bleak, sullen days, in which, with little wind, a heavy ground-swell came rolling in coastwards from the cast, and sent up its surf high against the precipices of the northern sutor. there were no forebodings in the master's dwelling; for his peterhead letter--a brief but hopeful missive--had been just received; and my mother was sitting, on the evening after, beside the household fire, plying the cheerful needle, when the house door, which had been left unfastened, fell open, and i was despatched from her side to shut it. what follows must be regarded as simply the recollection, though a very vivid one, of a boy who had completed his fifth year only a mouth before. day had not wholly disappeared, but it was fast posting on to night, and a grey haze spread a neutral tint of dimness over every more distant object, but left the nearer ones comparatively distinct, when i saw at the open door, within less than a yard of my breast, as plainly as ever i saw anything, a dissevered hand and arm stretched towards me. hand and arm were apparently those of a female: they bore a livid and sodden appearance; and directly fronting me, where the body ought to have been, there was only blank, transparent space, through which i could see the dim forms of the objects beyond. i was fearfully startled, and ran shrieking to my mother, telling what i had seen; and the house-girl whom she next sent to shut the door, apparently affected by my terror, also returned frightened, and said that she too had seen the woman's hand; which, however, did not seem to be the case. and finally, my mother going to the door, saw nothing, though she appeared much impressed by the extremeness of my terror and the minuteness of my description. i communicate the story, as it lies fixed in my memory, without attempting to explain it. the supposed apparition may have been merely a momentary affection of the eye, of the nature described by sir walter scott in his "demonology," and sir david brewster in his "natural magic." but if so, the affection was one of which i experienced no after-return; and its coincidence, in the case, with the probable time of my father's death, seems at least curious. there followed a dreary season, on which i still look back in memory, as on a prospect which, sunshiny and sparkling for a time, has become suddenly enveloped in cloud and storm. i remember my mother's long fits of weeping, and the general gloom of the widowed household; and how, after she had sent my two little sisters to bed,--for such had been the increase of the family,--and her hands were set free for the evening, she used to sit up late at night engaged as a seamstress, in making pieces of dress for such of the neighbours as chose to employ her. my father's new house lay untenanted at the time; and though his sloop had been partially insured, the broker with whom he dealt was, it would seem, on the verge of insolvency, and having raised objections to paying the money, it was long ere any part of it could be realized. and so, with all my mother's industry, the household would have fared out ill, had it not been for the assistance lent her by her two brothers, industrious, hard-working men, who lived with their aged parents, and an unmarried sister, about a bow-shot away, and now not only advanced her money as she needed it, but also took her second child, the elder of my two sisters, a docile little girl of three years, to live with them. i remember i used to go wandering disconsolately about the harbour at this season, to examine the vessels which had come in during the night; and that i oftener than once set my mother a-crying, by asking her why the shipmasters who, when my father was alive, used to stroke my head and slip halfpence into my pockets, never now took any notice of me, or gave me anything? she well knew that the shipmasters--not an ungenerous class of men--had simply failed to recognise their old comrade's child; but the question was only too suggestive, notwithstanding, of both her own loss and mine. i used, too, to climb, day after day, a grassy protuberance of the old coast-line immediately behind my mother's house, that commands a wide reach of the moray firth, and to look wistfully out, long after every one else had ceased to hope, for the sloop with the two stripes of white and the two square topsails. but months and years passed by, and the white stripes and the square topsails i never saw. the antecedents of my father's life impressed me more powerfully during my boyhood than at least aught i acquired at school; and i have submitted them to the reader at considerable length, as not only curious in themselves, but as forming a first chapter in the story of my education. and the following stanzas, written at a time when, in opening manhood, i was sowing my wild oats in verse, may serve to show that they continued to stand out in bold relief on my memory, even after i had grown up:-- "round albyn's western shores, a lonely skiff is coasting slow:--the adverse winds detain: and now she rounds secure the dreaded cliff,[ ] whose horrid ridge beats back the northern main; and now the whirling pentland roars in rain her stern beneath, for favouring breezes rise; the green isles fade, whitens the watery plain. o'er the vexed waves with meteor speed she flies. till moray's distant hills o'er the blue waves arise. who guides that vessel's wanderings o'er the wave; a patient, hardy man, of thoughtful brow; serene and warm of heart, and wisely brave, and sagely skill'd, when gurly breezes blow, to press through angry waves the adventurous prow. age hath not quell'd his strength, nor quench'd desire of generous deed, nor chill'd his bosom's glow; yet to a better world his hopes aspire. ah! this must sure be thee! all hail, my honoured sire! alas! thy latest voyage draws near a close, for death broods voiceless in the darkening sky; subsides the breeze; the untroubled waves repose; the scene is peaceful all. can death be nigh, when thus, mute and unarm'd, his vassals lie? mark ye that cloud! there toils the imprisoned gale; e'en now it comes, with voice uplifted high; resound the shores, harsh screams the rending sail, and roars th' amazed wave, and bursts the thunder peal! three days the tempest raged; on scotia's shore wreck piled on wreck, and corse o'er corse was thrown; her rugged cliffs were red with clotted gore; her dark caves echoed back th' expiring moan; and luckless maidens mourned their lovers gone, and friendless orphans cried in vain for bread; and widow'd mothers wandered forth alone;-- restore, o wave, they cried,--restore our dead! and then the breast they bared, and beat th' unsheltered head. of thee, my sire, what mortal tongue can tell! no friendly bay thy shattered barque received; ev'n when thy dust reposed in ocean cell, strange baseless tales of hope thy friends deceived which oft they doubted sad, or gay believed. at length, when deeper, darker, wax'd the gloom, hopeless they grieved; but 'twas in vain they grieved: if god be truth, 'tis sure no voice of doom, that bids the accepted soul its robes of joy assume." i had been sent, previous to my father's death, to a dame's school, where i was taught to pronounce my letters to such effect in the old scottish mode, that still, when i attempt spelling a word aloud, which is not often,--for i find the process a perilous one,--the _aa's_ and _ee's_, and _uh's_ and _vaus_, return upon me and i have to translate them with no little hesitation as i go along, into the more modish sounds. a knowledge of the letters themselves i had already acquired by studying the signposts of the place,--rare works of art, that excited my utmost admiration, with jugs, and glasses, and bottles, and ships, and loaves of bread upon them; all of which could, as the artists had intended, be actually recognised. during my sixth year i spelt my way, under the dame, through the shorter catechism, the proverbs, and the new testament, and then entered upon her highest form, as a member of the bible class; but all the while the process of acquiring learning had been a dark one, which i slowly mastered, in humble confidence in the awful wisdom of the schoolmistress, not knowing whither it tended, when at once my mind awoke to the meaning of that most delightful of all narratives,--the story of joseph. was there ever such a discovery made before! i actually found out for myself, that the art of reading is the art of finding stories in books, and from that moment reading became one of the most delightful of my amusements. i began by getting into a corner at the dismissal of the school, and there conning over to myself the new-found story of joseph; nor did one perusal serve; the other scripture stories followed,--in especial, the story of samson and the philistines, of david and goliath, of the prophets elijah and elisha; and after these came the new testament stories and parables. assisted by my uncles, i began to collect a library in a box of birch-bark about nine inches square, which i found quite large enough to contain a great many immortal works,--jack the giant-killer, and jack and the bean-stalk, and the yellow dwarf, and blue beard, and sinbad the sailor, and beauty and the beast, and aladdin and the wonderful lamp, with several others of resembling character. those intolerable nuisances the useful-knowledge books had not yet arisen, like tenebrious stars, on the educational horizon, to darken the world, and shed their blighting influence on the opening intellect of the "youth-hood;" and so, from my rudimental books--books that made themselves truly such by their thorough assimilation with the rudimental mind--i passed on, without being conscious of break or line of division, to books on which the learned are content to write commentaries and dissertations, but which i found to be quite as nice children's books as any of the others. old homer wrote admirably for little folk, especially in the odyssey; a copy of which,--in the only true translation extant,--for, judging from its surpassing interest, and the wrath of critics, such i hold that of pope to be,--i found in the house of a neighbour. next came the iliad; not, however, in a complete copy, but represented by four of the six volumes of bernard lintot. with what power, and at how early an age, true genius impresses! i saw, even at this immature period, that no other writer could cast a javelin with half the force of homer. the missiles went whizzing athwart his pages; and i could see the momentary gleam of the steel, ere it buried itself deep in brass and bull-hide. i next succeeded in discovering for myself a child's book, of not less interest than even the iliad, which might, i was told, be read on sabbaths, in a magnificent old edition of the "pilgrim's progress," printed on coarse whity-brown paper, and charged with numerous woodcuts, each of which occupied an entire page, that, on principles of economy, bore letter-press on the other side. and such delightful prints as these were! it must have been some such volume that sat for its portrait to wordsworth, and which he so exquisitely describes as "profuse in garniture of wooden cuts, strange and uncouth; dire faces, figures dire, sharp-knee'd, sharp elbow'd, and lean-ankled too, with long and ghastly shanks,--forms which, once seen, could never be forgotten." in process of time i had devoured, besides these genial works robinson crusoe, gulliver's travels, ambrose on angels, the "judgment chapter" in howie's scotch worthies, byron's narrative, and the adventures of philip quarll, with a good many other adventures and voyages, real and fictitious, part of a very miscellaneous collection of books made by my father. it was a melancholy little library to which i had fallen heir. most of the missing volumes had been with the master aboard his vessel when he perished. of an early edition of cook's voyages, all the volumes were now absent save the first; and a very tantalizing romance, in four volumes,--mrs. ratcliff's "mysteries of udolpho," was represented by only the earlier two. small as the collection was, it contained some rare books,--among the rest, a curious little volume, entitled "the miracles of nature and art," to which we find dr. johnson referring, in one of the dialogues chronicled by boswell, as scarce even in his day, and which had been published, he said, some time in the seventeenth century by a bookseller whose shop hung perched on old london bridge, between sky and water. it contained, too, the only copy i ever saw of the "memoirs of a protestant condemned to the galleys of france for his religion,"--a work interesting from the circumstance that--though it bore another name on its title-page--it had been translated from the french for a few guineas by poor goldsmith, in his days of obscure literary drudgery, and exhibited the peculiar excellencies of his style. the collection boasted, besides, of a curious old book, illustrated by very uncouth plates, that detailed the perils and sufferings of an english sailor who had spent his best years of life as a slave in morocco. it had its volumes of sound theology, too, and of stiff controversy,--flavel's works, and henry's commentary, and hutchinson on the lesser prophets, and a very old treatise on the revelation, with the title-page away, and blind jameson's volume on the hierarchy, with first editions of naphthali, the cloud of witnesses, and the hind let loose. but with these solid authors i did not venture to grapple until long after this time. of the works of fact and incident which it contained, those of the voyagers were my especial favourites. i perused with avidity the voyages of anson, drake, raleigh, dampier, and captain woods rogers; and my mind became so filled with conceptions of what was to be seen and done in foreign parts, that i wished myself big enough to be a sailor, that i might go and see coral islands and burning mountains, and hunt wild beasts and fight battles. i have already made mention of my two maternal uncles; and referred, at least incidentally, to their mother, as the friend and relative of my fathers aged cousin, and, like her, a great-grand-child of the last curate of nigg. the curate's youngest daughter had been courted and married by a somewhat wild young farmer, of the clan ross, but who was known, like the celebrated highland outlaw, from the colour of his hair, as roy, or the red. donald roy was the best club-player in the district; and as king james's "book of sports" was not deemed a very bad one in the semi-celtic parish of nigg, the games in which donald took part were usually played on the sabbath. about the time of the revolution, however, he was laid hold of by strong religious convictions, heralded, say the traditions of the district, by events that approximated in character to the supernatural; and donald became the subject of a mighty change. there is a phase of the religious character, which in the south of scotland belongs to the first two ages of presbytery, but which disappeared ere its third establishment under william of nassau, that we find strikingly exemplified in the welches, pedens, and cargills of the times of the persecution, and in which a sort of wild machinery of the supernatural was added to the commoner aspects of a living christianity. the men in whom it was exhibited were seers of visions and dreamers of dreams; and, standing on the very verge of the natural world, they looked far into the world of spirits, and had at times their strange glimpses of the distant and the future. to the north of the grampians, as if born out of due season, these seers pertain to a later age. they flourished chiefly in the early part of the last century; for it is a not uninstructive fact, that in the religious history of scotland, the eighteenth century of the highland and semi-highland districts of the north corresponded in many of its traits to the seventeenth century of the saxon-peopled districts of the south; and donald roy was one of the most notable of the class. the anecdotes regarding him which still float among the old recollections of ross-shire, if transferred to peden or welch, would be found entirely in character with the strange stories that inlay the biographies of these devoted men, and live so enduringly in the memory of the scottish people. living, too, in an age in which, like the covenanters of a former century, the highlander still retained his weapons, and knew how to use them, donald had, like the patons, hackstons, and balfours of the south, his dash of the warlike spirit; and after assisting his minister, previous to the rebellion of , in what was known as the great religious revival of nigg, he had to assist him, shortly after, in pursuing a band of armed caterans, that, descending from the hills, swept the parish of its cattle. and coming up with the outlaws in the gorge of a wild highland glen, no man of his party was more active in the fray that followed than old donald, or exerted himself to better effect in re-capturing the cattle. i need scarce add, that he was an attached member of the church of scotland: but he was not destined to die in her communion. donald's minister, john balfour of nigg--a man whose memory is still honoured in the north--died in middle life, and an unpopular presentee was obtruded on the people. the policy of robertson prevailed at the time; gillespie had been deposed only four years previous, for refusing to assist in the disputed settlement of inverkeithing; and four of the nigg presbytery, overawed by the stringency of the precedent, repaired to the parish church to conduct the settlement of the obnoxious licentiate, and introduce him to the parishioners. they found, however, only an empty building; and, notwithstanding the ominous absence of the people, they were proceeding in shame and sorrow with their work, when a venerable man, far advanced in life, suddenly appeared before them, and, solemnly protesting against the utter mockery of such a proceeding, impressively declared, "that if they settled a man to the _walls_ of that kirk, the blood of the parish of nigg would be required at their hands." both dr. hetherington and dr. merle d'aubigné record the event; but neither of these accomplished historians seems to have been aware of the peculiar emphasis which a scene that would have been striking in any circumstances derived from the character of the protester--old donald roy. the presbytery, appalled, stopt short in the middle of its work; nor was it resumed till an after day, when, at the command of the moderate majority of the church--a command not unaccompanied by significant reference to-the fate of gillespie--the forced settlement was consummated. donald, who carried the entire parish with him, continued to cling to the national church for nearly ten years after, much befriended by one of the most eminent and influential divines of the north--fraser of alness--the author of a volume on sanctification, still regarded as a standard work by scottish theologians. but as neither the people nor their leader ever entered on any occasion the parish church, or heard the obnoxious presentee, the presbytery at length refused to tolerate the irregularity by extending to them as before the ordinary church privileges; and so they were lost to the establishment, and became seceders. and in the communion of that portion of the secession known as the burghers, donald died several years after, at a patriarchal old age. among his other descendants, he had three grand-daughters, who were left orphans at an early age by the death of both their parents, and whom the old man, on their bereavement, had brought to his dwelling to live with him. they had small portions apiece, derived from his son-in-law, their father, which did not grow smaller under the care of donald; and as each of the three was married in succession out of his family, he added to all his other kindnesses the gift of a gold ring. they had been brought up under his eye sound in the faith; and donald's ring had, in each case, a mystic meaning;--they were to regard it, he told them, as the wedding ring of their _other husband_, the head of the church, and to be faithful spouses to him in their several households. nor did the injunction, nor the significant symbol with which it was accompanied, prove idle in the end. they all brought the savour of sincere piety into their families. the grand-daughter with whom the writer was more directly connected, had been courted and married by an honest and industrious but somewhat gay young tradesman, but she proved, under god, the means of his conversion; and their children, of whom eight grew up to be men and women, were reared in decent frugality, and the exercise of honest principles carefully instilled. her husband's family had, like that of my paternal ancestors, been a seafaring one. his father, after serving for many years on shipboard, passed the latter part of his life as one of the armed boatmen that, during the last century, guarded the coasts in behalf of the revenue; and his only brother, the boatman's son, an adventurous young sailor had engaged in admiral vernon's unfortunate expedition, and left his bones under the walls of carthagena; but he himself pursued the peaceful occupation of a shoemaker, and, in carrying on his trade, usually employed a few journeymen, and kept a few apprentices. in course of time the elder daughters of the family married, and got households of their own; but the two sons, my uncles, remained under the roof of their parents, and at the time when my father perished, they were both in middle life. and, deeming themselves called on to take his place in the work of instruction and discipline, i owed to them much more of my real education than to any of the teachers whose schools i afterwards attended. they both bore a marked individuality of character, and were much the reverse of commonplace or vulgar men. my elder uncle, james, added to a clear head and much native sagacity, a singularly retentive memory, and great thirst of information. he was a harness-maker, and wrought for the farmers of an extensive district of country; and as he never engaged either journeyman or apprentice, but executed all his work with his own hands, his hours of labour, save that he indulged in a brief pause as the twilight came on, and took a mile's walk or so, were usually protracted from six o'clock in the morning till ten at night. such incessant occupation left him little time for reading; but he often found some one to read beside him during the day; and in the winter evenings his portable bench used to be brought from his shop at the other end of the dwelling, into the family sitting-room, and placed beside the circle round the hearth, where his brother alexander, my younger uncle, whose occupation left his evenings free, would read aloud from some interesting volume for the general benefit,--placing himself always at the opposite side of the bench, so as to share in the light of the worker. occasionally the family circle would be widened by the accession of from two to three intelligent neighbours, who would drop in to listen; and then the book, after a space, would be laid aside, in order that its contents might be discussed in conversation. in the summer months uncle james always spent some time in the country, in looking after and keeping in repair the harness of the farmers for whom he wrought; and during his journeys and twilight walks on these occasions there was not an old castle, or hill-fort, or ancient encampment, or antique ecclesiastical edifice, within twenty miles of the town, which he had not visited and examined over and over again. he was a keen local antiquary; knew a good deal about the architectural styles of the various ages, at a time when these subjects were little studied or known; and possessed more traditionary lore, picked up chiefly in his country journeys, than any man i ever knew. what he once heard he never forgot; and the knowledge which he had acquired he could communicate pleasingly and succinctly, in a style which, had he been a writer of books, instead of merely a reader of them, would have had the merit of being clear and terse, and more laden with meaning than words. from his reputation for sagacity, his advice used to be much sought after by the neighbours in every little difficulty that came their way; and the counsel given was always shrewd and honest. i never knew a man more entirely just in his dealings than uncle james, or who regarded every species of meanness with a more thorough contempt. i soon learned to bring my story-books to his workshop, and became, in a small way, one of his _readers_,--greatly more, however, as may be supposed, on my own account than his. my books were not yet of the kind which he would have chosen for himself; but he took an interest in _my_ interest; and his explanations of all the hard words saved me the trouble of turning over a dictionary. and when tired of reading, i never failed to find rare delight in his anecdotes and old-world stories, many of which were not to be found in books, and all of which, without apparent effort on his own part, he could render singularly amusing. of these narratives, the larger part died with him; but a portion of them i succeeded in preserving in a little traditionary work published a few years after his death. i was much a favourite with uncle james,--even more, i am disposed to think, on my father's account than on that of his sister, my mother. my father and he had been close friends for years; and in the vigorous and energetic sailor he had found his _beau-idéal_ of a man. my uncle alexander was of a different cast from his brother both in intellect and temperament; but he was characterized by the same strict integrity; and his religious feelings, though quiet and unobtrusive, were perhaps more deep. james was somewhat of a humorist, and fond of a good joke. alexander was grave and serious; and never, save on one solitary occasion, did i know him even attempt a jest. on hearing an intelligent but somewhat eccentric neighbour observe, that "all flesh is grass," in a strictly physical sense, seeing that all the flesh of the herbivorous animals is elaborated from vegetation, and all the flesh of the carnivorous animals from that of the herbivorous ones, uncle sandy remarked that, knowing, as he did, the piscivorous habits of the cromarty folk, he should surely make an exception in his generalization, by admitting that in at least one village "all flesh is fish." my uncle had acquired the trade of the cartwright, and was employed in a workshop at glasgow at the time the first war of the french revolution broke out; when, moved by some such spirit as possessed his uncle,--the victim of admiral vernon's unlucky expedition,--or old donald roy, when he buckled himself to his highland broadsword, and set out in pursuit of the caterans,--he entered the navy. and during the eventful period which intervened between the commencement of the war and the peace of , there was little either suffered or achieved by his countrymen in which he had not a share. he sailed with nelson; witnessed the mutiny at the nore; fought under admiral duncan at camperdown, and under sir john borlase warren at loch swilly; assisted in capturing the généroux and guillaume tell, two french ships of the line; was one of the seamen who, in the egyptian expedition, were drafted out of lord keith's fleet to supply the lack of artillerymen in the army of sir ralph abercromby; had a share in the danger and glory of the landing in egypt; and fought in the battle of th march, and in that which deprived our country of one of her most popular generals. he served, too, at the siege of alexandria. and then, as he succeeded in procuring his discharge during the short peace of , he returned home with a small sum of hardly-earned prize-money, heartily sick of war and bloodshed. i was asked not long ago by one of his few surviving comrades, whether my uncle had ever told me that _their_ gun was the first landed in egypt, and the first dragged up the sand-bank immediately over the beach, and how hot it grew under their hands, as, with a rapidity unsurpassed along the line, they poured out in thick succession its iron discharges upon the enemy. i had to reply in the negative. all my uncle's narratives were narratives of what he had seen--not of what he had done; and when, perusing, late in life, one of his favourite works--dr. keith's "signs of the times"--he came to the chapter in which that excellent writer describes the time of hot naval warfare which immediately followed the breaking out of war, as the period in which the second vial was poured out on the sea, and in which the waters "became as the blood of a dead man, so that every living soul died in the sea," i saw him bend his head in reverence as he remarked, "prophecy, i find, gives to all our glories but a single verse, and it is a verse of judgment." uncle sandy, however, did not urge the peace principles which he had acquired amid scenes of death and carnage, into any extravagant consequences; and on the breaking out, in , of the second war of the revolution, when napoleon threatened invasion from brest and boulogne, he at once shouldered his musket as a volunteer. he had not his brother's fluency of speech; but his narratives of what he had seen were singularly truthful and graphic; and his descriptions of foreign plants and animals, and of the aspect of the distant regions which he had visited, had all the careful minuteness of those of a dampier. he had a decided turn for natural history. my collection contains a murex, not unfrequent in the mediterranean, which he found time enough to transfer, during the heat of the landing in egypt, from the beach to his pocket; and the first ammonite i ever saw was a specimen, which i still retain, that he brought home with him from one of the liassic deposits of england. early on the sabbath evenings i used regularly to attend at my uncle's with two of my maternal cousins, boys of about my own age, and latterly with my two sisters, to be catechized, first on the shorter catechism, and then on the mother's catechism of willison. on willison my uncles always cross-examined us, to make sure that we understood the short and simple questions; but, apparently regarding the questions of the shorter catechism as seed sown for a future day, they were content with having them well fixed in our memories. there was a sabbath class taught in the parish church at the time by one of the elders; but sabbath-schools my uncles regarded as merely compensatory institutions, highly creditable to the teachers, but very discreditable indeed to the parents and relatives of the taught; and so they of course never thought of sending us there. later in the evening, after a short twilight walk, for which the sedentary occupation of my uncle james formed an apology, but in which my uncle alexander always shared, and which usually led them into solitary woods, or along an unfrequented sea-shore, some of the old divines were read; and i used to take my place in the circle, though, i am afraid, not to much advantage. i occasionally caught a fact, or had my attention arrested for a moment by a simile or metaphor; but the trains of close argument, and the passages of dreary "application," were always lost. footnote: [ ] cape wrath. chapter iii. "at wallace' name what scottish blood but boils up in a spring-tide flood! oft have our fearless fathers strode by wallace' side, still pressing onward, red wat shod, or glorious died."--burns. i first became thoroughly a scot some time in my tenth year; and the consciousness of country has remained tolerably strong within me ever since. my uncle james had procured for me from a neighbour the loan of a common stall-edition of blind harry's "wallace," as modernized by hamilton; but after reading the first chapter,--a piece of dull genealogy, broken into very rude rhyme,--i tossed the volume aside as uninteresting; and only resumed it at the request of my uncle, who urged that, simply for _his_ amusement and gratification, i should read some three or four chapters more. accordingly, the three or four chapters more i did read;--i read "how wallace killed young selbie the constable's son;" "how wallace fished in irvine water;" and "how wallace killed the churl with his own staff in ayr;" and then uncle james told me, in the quiet way in which he used to make a joke tell, that the book seemed to be rather a rough sort of production, filled with accounts of quarrels and bloodshed, and that i might read no more of it unless i felt inclined. but i now did feel inclined very strongly, and read on with increasing astonishment and delight. i was intoxicated with the fiery narratives of the blind minstrel,--with his fierce breathings of hot, intolerant patriotism, and his stories of astonishing prowess; and, glorying in being a scot, and the countryman of wallace and the graham, i longed for a war with the southron, that the wrongs and sufferings of these noble heroes might yet be avenged. all i had previously heard and read of the marvels of foreign parts, of the glories of modern battles, seemed tame and commonplace, compared with the incidents in the life of wallace; and i never after vexed my mother by wishing myself big enough to be a sailor. my uncle sandy, who had some taste for the refinements of poetry, would fain have led me on from the exploits of wallace to the "life of the bruce," which, in the form of a not very vigorous imitation of dryden's "virgil," by one harvey, was bound up in the same volume, and which my uncle deemed the better-written life of the two. and so far as the mere amenities of style were concerned, he was, i daresay, right. but i could not agree with him. harvey was by much too fine and too learned for me; and it was not until some years after, when i was fortunate enough to pick up one of the later editions of barbour's "bruce," that the hero-king of scotland assumed his right place in my mind beside its hero-guardian. there are stages of development in the immature youth of individuals, that seem to correspond with stages of development in the immature youth of nations; and the recollections of this early time enable me, in some measure, to understand how it was that, for hundreds of years, blind harry's "wallace," with its rude and naked narrative, and its exaggerated incident, should have been, according to lord hailes, the bible of the scotch people. i quitted the dame's school at the end of the first twelvemonth, after mastering that grand acquirement of my life,--the art of holding converse with books; and was transferred straightforth to the grammar school of the parish, at which there attended at this time about a hundred and twenty boys, with a class of about thirty individuals more, much looked down upon by the others, and not deemed greatly worth the counting, seeing that it consisted of only _lassies_. and here, too, the early individual development seems nicely correspondent with an early national one. in his depreciatory estimate of contemporary woman, the boy is always a true savage. the old parish school of the place had been nobly situated in a snug corner, between the parish churchyard and a thick wood; and from the interesting centre which it formed, the boys, when tired of making dragoon-horses of the erect head-stones, or of leaping along the flat-laid memorials, from end to end of the grave-yard, "without touching grass," could repair to the taller trees, and rise in the world by climbing among them. as, however, they used to encroach, on these latter occasions, upon the laird's pleasure-grounds, the school had been removed ere my time to the sea-shore; where, though there were neither tombstones nor trees, there were some balancing advantages, of a kind which perhaps only boys of the old school could have adequately appreciated. as the school-windows fronted the opening of the firth, not a vessel could enter the harbour that we did not see; and, improving through our opportunities, there was perhaps no educational institution in the kingdom in which all sorts of barques and carvels, from the fishing yawl to the frigate, could be more correctly drawn on the slate, or where any defect in hulk or rigging, in some faulty delineation, was surer of being more justly and unsparingly criticised. further, the town, which drove a great trade in salted pork at the time, had a killing-place not thirty yards from the school-door, where from eighty to a hundred pigs used sometimes to die for the general good in a single day; and it was a great matter to hear, at occasional intervals, the roar of death outside rising high over the general murmur within, or to be told by some comrade, returned from his five minutes' leave of absence, that a hero of a pig had taken three blows of the hatchet ere it fell, and that even after its subjection to the sticking process, it had got hold of jock keddie's hand in its mouth, and almost smashed his thumb. we learned, too, to know, from our signal opportunities of observation, not only a good deal about pig-anatomy,--especially about the detached edible parts of the animal, such as the spleen and the pancreas, and at least one other very palatable viscus besides,--but became knowing also about the _take_ and curing of herrings. all the herring boats during the fishing season passed our windows on their homeward way to the harbour; and, from their depth in the water, we became skilful enough to predicate the number of crans aboard of each with wonderful judgment and correctness. in days of good general fishings, too, when the curing-yards proved too small to accommodate the quantities brought ashore, the fish used to be laid in glittering heaps opposite the school-house door; and an exciting scene, that combined the bustle of the workshop with the confusion of the crowded fair, would straightway spring up within twenty yards of the forms at which we sat, greatly to our enjoyment, and, of course, not a little to our instruction. we could see, simply by peering over book or slate, the curers going about rousing their fish with salt, to counteract the effects of the dog-day sun; bevies of young women employed as gutters, and horridly incarnadined with blood and viscera, squatting around the heaps, knife in hand, and plying with busy fingers their well-paid labours, at the rate of sixpence per hour; relays of heavily-laden fish-wives bringing ever and anon fresh heaps of herrings in their creels; and outside of all, the coopers hammering as if for life and death,--now tightening hoops, and now slackening them, and anon caulking with bulrush the leaky seams. it is not every grammar school in which such lessons are taught as those in which all were initiated, and in which all became in some degree accomplished, in the grammar school of cromarty! the building in which we met was a low, long, straw-thatched cottage, open from gable to gable, with a mud floor below, and an unlathed roof above; and stretching along the naked rafters, which, when the master chanced to be absent for a few minutes, gave noble exercise in climbing, there used frequently to lie a helm, or oar, or boathook, or even a foresail,--the spoil of some hapless peat-boat from the opposite side of the firth. the highland boatmen of ross had carried on a trade in peats for ages with the saxons of the town; and as every boat owed a long-derived perquisite of twenty peats to the grammar school, and as payment was at times foolishly refused, the party of boys commissioned by the master to exact it almost always succeeded, either by force or stratagem, in securing and bringing along with them, in behalf of the institution, some spar, or sail, or piece of rigging, which, until redeemed by special treaty, and the payment of the peats, was stowed up over the rafters. these peat-expeditions, which were intensely popular in the school, gave noble exercise to the faculties. it was always a great matter to see, just as the school met, some observant boy appear, cap in hand, before the master, and intimate the fact of an arrival at the shore, by the simple words, "peat-boat, sir." the master would then proceed to name a party, more or less numerous, according to the exigency; but it seemed to be matter of pretty correct calculation that, in the cases in which the peat claim was disputed, it required about twenty boys to bring home the twenty peats, or, lacking these, the compensatory sail or spar. there were certain ill-conditioned boatmen who almost always resisted, and who delighted to tell us--invariably, too, in very bad english--that our perquisite was properly the hangman's perquisite,[ ] made over to us because we were _like him_; not seeing--blockheads as they were!--that the very admission established in full the rectitude of our claim, and gave to us, amid our dire perils and faithful contendings, the strengthening consciousness of a just quarrel. in dealing with these recusants, we used ordinarily to divide our forces into two bodies, the larger portion of the party filling their pockets with stones, and ranging themselves on some point of vantage, such as the pier-head; and the smaller stealing down as near the boat as possible, and mixing themselves up with the purchasers of the peats. we then, after due warning, opened fire upon the boatmen; and, when the pebbles were hopping about them like hailstones, the boys below commonly succeeded in securing, under cover of the fire, the desired boathook or oar. and such were the ordinary circumstances and details of this piece of spartan education; of which a townsman has told me he was strongly reminded when boarding, on one occasion, under cover of a well-sustained discharge of musketry, the vessel of an enemy that had been stranded on the shores of berbice. the parish schoolmaster was a scholar and an honest man, and if a boy really wished to learn, _he_ certainly could teach him. he had attended the classes at aberdeen during the same sessions as the late dr. mearns, and in mathematics and the languages had disputed the prize with the doctor; but he had failed to get on equally well in the world; and now, in middle life, though a licentiate of the church, he had settled down to be what he subsequently remained--the teacher of a parish school. there were usually a few grown-up lads under his tuition--careful sailors, that had stayed ashore during the winter quarter to study navigation as a science,--or tall fellows, happy in the patronage of the great, who, in the hope of being made excisemen, had come to school to be initiated in the mysteries of gauging,--or grown young men, who, on second thoughts, and somewhat late in the day, had recognised the church as their proper vocation; and these used to speak of the master's acquirements and teaching ability in the very highest terms. he himself, too, could appeal to the fact, that no teacher in the north had ever sent more students to college, and that his better scholars almost always got on well in life. but then, on the other hand, the pupils who wished to do nothing--a description of individuals that comprised fully two-thirds of all the younger ones--were not required to do much more than they wished; and parents and guardians were loud in their complaints that he was no suitable schoolmaster for them; though the boys themselves usually thought him quite suitable enough. he was in the habit of advising the parents or relations of those he deemed his clever lads, to give them a classical education; and meeting one day with uncle james, he urged that i should be put on latin. i was a great reader, he said; and he found that when i missed a word in my english tasks, i almost always substituted a synonym in the place of it. and so, as uncle james had arrived, on data of his own, at a similar conclusion, i was transferred from the english to the latin form, and, with four other boys, fairly entered on the "rudiments." i laboured with tolerable diligence for a day or two; but there was no one to tell me what the rules meant, or whether they really meant anything; and when i got on as far as _penna_, a pen, and saw how the changes were rung on one poor word, that did not seem to be of more importance in the old language than in the modern one, i began miserably to flag, and to long for my english reading, with its nice amusing stories, and its picture-like descriptions. the rudiments was by far the dullest book i had ever seen. it embodied no thought that i could perceive,--it certainly contained no narrative,--it was a perfect contrast to not only the "life and adventures of sir william wallace," but to even the voyages of cook and anson. none of my class-fellows were by any means bright;--they had been all set on latin without advice of the master; and yet, when he learned, which he soon did, to distinguish and call us up to our tasks by the name of the "heavy class," i was, in most instances, to be found at its nether end. shortly after, however, when we got a little farther on, it was seen that i had a decided turn for translation. the master, good simple man that he was, always read to us in english, as the school met, the piece of latin given us as our task for the day; and as my memory was strong enough to carry away the whole translation in its order, i used to give him back in the evening, word for word, his own rendering, which satisfied him on most occasions tolerably well. there were none of us much looked after; and i soon learned to bring books of amusement to the school with me, which, amid the babel confusion of the place, i contrived to read undetected. some of them, save in the language in which they were written, were identical with the books proper to the place. i remember perusing by stealth in this way, dryden's "virgil," and the "ovid" of dryden and his friends; while ovid's own "ovid," and virgil's own "virgil," lay beside me, sealed up in the fine old tongue, which i was thus throwing away my only chance of acquiring. one morning, having the master's english rendering of the day's task well fixed in my memory, and no book of amusement to read, i began gossiping with my nearest class-fellow, a very tall boy, who ultimately shot up into a lad of six feet four, and who on most occasions sat beside me, as lowest in the form save one. i told him about the tall wallace and his exploits; and so effectually succeeded in awakening his curiosity, that i had to communicate to him, from beginning to end, every adventure recorded by the blind minstrel. my story-telling vocation once fairly ascertained, there was, i found, no stopping in my course. i had to tell all the stories i ever heard or read; all my father's adventures, so far as i knew them, and all my uncle sandy's,--with the story of gulliver, and philip quarll, and robinson crusoe,--of sinbad, and ulysses, and mrs. radcliffe's heroine emily, with, of course, the love-passages left out; and at length, after weeks and months of narrative, i found my available stock of acquired fact and fiction fairly exhausted. the demand on the part of my class-fellows was, however, as great and urgent as ever; and, setting myself, in the extremity of the case, to try my ability of original production, i began to dole out to them by the hour and the diet, long extempore biographies, which proved wonderfully popular and successful. my heroes were usually warriors like wallace, and voyagers like gulliver, and dwellers in desolate islands like robinson crusoe; and they had not unfrequently to seek shelter in huge deserted castles, abounding in trap-doors and secret passages, like that of udolpho. and finally, after much destruction of giants and wild beasts, and frightful encounters with magicians and savages, they almost invariably succeeded in disentombing hidden treasures to an enormous amount, or in laying open gold mines, and then passed a luxurious old age, like that of sinbad the sailor, at peace with all mankind, in the midst of confectionery and fruits. the master had a tolerably correct notion of what was going on in the "heavy class;"--the stretched-out necks, and the heads clustered together, always told their own special story when i was engaged in telling mine; but, without hating the child, he spared the rod, and simply did what he sometimes allowed himself to do--bestowed a nickname upon me. i was the _sennachie_, he said; and as the sennachie i might have been known so long as i remained under his charge, had it not been that, priding himself upon his gaelic, he used to bestow upon the word the full celtic pronunciation, which, agreeing but ill with the teutonic mouths of my school-fellows, militated against its use; and so the name failed to take. with all my carelessness, i continued to be a sort of favourite with the master; and, when at the general english lesson, he used to address to me little quiet speeches, vouchsafed to no other pupil, indicative of a certain literary ground common to us, on which the others had not entered. "that, sir," he has said, after the class had just perused, in the school collection, a _tatler_ or _spectator_,--"that, sir, is a good paper;--it's an _addison_;" or, "that's one of steele's, sir;" and on finding in my copy-book, on one occasion, a page filled with rhymes, which i had headed "poem on care," he brought it to his desk, and, after reading it carefully over, called me up, and with his closed penknife, which served as a pointer, in the one hand, and the copy-book brought down to the level of my eyes in the other, began his criticism. "that's bad grammar, sir," he said, resting the knife-handle on one of the lines; "and here's an ill-spelt word; and there's another; and you have not at all attended to the punctuation; but the general sense of the piece is good,--very good indeed, sir." and then he added, with a grim smile, "_care_, sir, is, i daresay, as you remark, a very bad thing; but you may safely bestow a little more of it on your spelling and your grammar." the school, like almost all the other grammar-schools of the period in scotland, had its yearly cock-fight, preceded by two holidays and a half, during which the boys occupied themselves in collecting and bringing up their cocks. and such always was the array of fighting birds mustered on the occasion, that the day of the festival, from morning till night, used to be spent in fighting out the battle. for weeks after it had passed, the school-floor would continue to retain its deeply-stained blotches of blood, and the boys would be full of exciting narratives regarding the glories of gallant birds, who had continued to fight until both their eyes had been picked out, or who, in the moment of victory, had dropped dead in the middle of the cock-pit. the yearly fight was the relic of a barbarous age; and, in at least one of its provisions, there seemed evidence that it was that of an intolerant age also: every pupil at school, without exemption, had his name entered on the subscription-list, as a cock-fighter, and was obliged to pay the master at the rate of twopence per head, ostensibly for leave to bring his birds to the pit; but, amid the growing humanities of a better time, though the twopences continued to be exacted, it was no longer imperative to bring the birds; and availing myself of the liberty i never brought any. nor, save for a few minutes, on two several occasions, did i ever attend the fight. had the combat been one among the boys themselves, i would readily enough have done my part, by meeting with any opponent of my years and standing; but i could not bear to look at the bleeding birds. and so i continued to pay my yearly sixpence, as a holder of three cocks,--the lowest sum deemed in any degree genteel,--but remained simply a fictitious or paper cock-fighter, and contributed in no degree to the success of the _head-stock_ or leader, to whose party, in the general division of the school, it was my lot to fall. neither, i must add, did i learn to take an interest in the sacrificial orgies of the adjoining slaughter-house. a few of the chosen school-boys were permitted by the killers to exercise at times the privilege of knocking down a pig, and even, on rare occasions, to essay the sticking; but i turned with horror from both processes; and if i drew near at all, it was only when some animal, scraped and cleaned, and suspended from the beam, was in the course of being laid open by the butcher's knife, that i might mark the forms of the viscera, and the positions which they occupied. to my dislike of the annual cock-fight my uncles must have contributed. they were loud in their denunciations of the enormity; and on one occasion, when a neighbour was unlucky enough to remark, in extenuation, that the practice had been handed down to us by pious and excellent men, who seemed to see nothing wrong in it, i saw the habitual respect for the old divines give way, for at least a moment. uncle sandy hesitated under apparent excitement; but, quick and fiery as lightning, uncle james came to his rescue. "yes, excellent men!" said my uncle, "but the excellent men of a rude and barbarous age; and, in some parts of their character, tinged by its barbarity. for the cock-fight which these excellent men have bequeathed to us, they ought to have been sent to bridewell for a week, and fed upon bread and water." uncle james was, no doubt, over hasty, and felt so a minute after; but the practice of fixing the foundations of ethics on a _they themselves did it_, much after the manner in which the schoolmen fixed the foundations of their nonsensical philosophy on a "_he himself said it_," is a practice which, though not yet exploded in even very pure churches, is always provoking, and not quite free from peril to the worthies, whether dead or alive, in whose precedents the moral right is made to rest. in the class of minds represented among the people by that of uncle james, for instance, it would be much easier to bring down even the old divines, than to bring up cock-fighting. my native town had possessed, for at least an age or two previous to that of my boyhood, its sprinkling of intelligent, book-consulting mechanics and tradesfolk; and as my acquaintance gradually extended among their representatives and descendants, i was permitted to rummage, in the pursuit of knowledge, delightful old chests and cupboards, filled with tattered and dusty volumes. the moiety of my father's library which remained to me consisted of about sixty several works; my uncle possessed about a hundred and fifty more; and there was a literary cabinet-maker in the neighbourhood, who had once actually composed a poem of thirty lines on the hill of cromarty, whose collection of books, chiefly poetical, amounted to from about eighty to a hundred. i used to be often at nights in the workshop of the cabinet-maker, and was sometimes privileged to hear him repeat his poem. there was not much admiration of poets or poetry in the place; and my praise, though that of a very young critic, had always the double merit of being both ample and sincere. i knew the very rocks and trees which his description embraced,--had heard the birds to which he referred, and seen the flowers; and as the hill had been of old a frequent scene of executions, and had borne the gallows of the sheriffdom on its crest, nothing could be more definite than the grave reference, in his opening line, to "the verdant rising of the _gallow_-hill." and so i thought a very great deal of his poem, and what i thought i said; and he, on the other hand, evidently regarded me as a lad of extraordinary taste and discernment for my years. there was another mechanic in the neighbourhood,--a house-carpenter, who, though not a poet, was deeply read in books of all kinds, from the plays of farquhar to the sermons of flavel; and as both his father and grandfather--the latter, by the way, a porteous-mob man, and the former a personal friend of poor fergusson the poet--had also been readers and collectors of books, he possessed a whole pressful of tattered, hard-working volumes, some of them very curious ones; and to me he liberally extended, what literary men always value, "the full freedom of the press." but of all my occasional benefactors in this way, by far the greatest was poor old francie, the retired clerk and supercargo. francie was naturally a man of fair talent and active curiosity. nor was he by any means deficient in acquirement. he wrote and figured well, and knew a good deal about at least the theory of business; and when articled in early life to a cromarty merchant and shopkeeper, it was with tolerably fair prospects of getting on in the world. he had, however, a certain infirmity of brain, which rendered both talent and acquirement of but little avail, and that began to manifest itself very early. while yet an apprentice, on ascertaining that the way was clear, he used, though grown a tall lad, to bolt out from behind the counter into the middle of a green directly opposite, and there, joining in the sports of some group of youngsters, which the place rarely wanted, he would play out half a game at marbles, or honey-pots, or hy-spy, and, when he saw his master or a customer approaching, bolt back again the thing was not deemed seemly; but francie, when spoken to on the subject, could speak as sensibly as any young person of his years. he needed relaxation, he used to say, though he never suffered it to interfere with his proper business; and where was there safer relaxation to be found than among innocent children? this, of course, was eminently rational, and even virtuous. and so, when his term of apprenticeship had expired, francie was despatched, not without hope of success, to newfoundland,--where he had relations extensively engaged in the fishing trade,--to serve as one of their clerks. he was found to be a competent clerk; but unluckily there was but little known of the interior of the island at the time; and some of the places most distant from st. john's, such as the bay and river of exploits, bore tempting names; and so, after francie had made many inquiries at the older inhabitants regarding what was to be seen amid the scraggy brushwood and broken rocks of the inner country, a morning came in which he was reported missing at the office; and little else could be learned respecting him, than that at early dawn he had been seen setting out for the woods, provided with staff and knapsack. he returned in about a week, worn out and half-starved. he had not been so successful as he had anticipated, he said, in providing himself by the way with food, and so he had to turn back ere he could reach the point on which he had previously determined; but he was sure he would be happier in his next journey. it was palpably unsafe to suffer him to remain exposed to the temptation of an unexplored country; and as his friends and superiors at st. john's had just laden a vessel with fish for the italian market during lent, francie was despatched with her as supercargo, to look after the sales, in a land of which every footbreadth had been familiar to men for thousands of years, and in which it was supposed he would have no inducement to wander. francie, however, had read much about italy; and finding, on landing at leghorn, that he was within a short distance of pisa, he left ship and cargo to take care of themselves, and set out on foot to see the famous hanging tower, and the great marble cathedral. and tower and cathedral he did see: but it was meanwhile found that he was not quite suited for a supercargo; and he had shortly after to return to scotland, where his friends succeeded in establishing him in the capacity of clerk and overseer upon a small property in forfarshire, which was farmed by the proprietor on what was then the newly introduced modern system. he was acquainted, however, with the classical description of glammis castle, in the letters of the poet gray; and after visiting the castle, he set out to examine the ancient encampment at ardoch--the _lindum_ of the romans. finally, all hopes of getting him settled at a distance being given up by his friends, he had to fall back upon cromarty, where he was yet once more appointed to a clerkship. the establishment with which he was now connected was a large hempen manufactory; and it was his chief employment to register the quantities of hemp given out to the spinners, and the number of hanks of yarn into which they had converted it, when given in. he soon, however, began to take long walks; and the old women, with their yarn, would be often found accumulated, ere his return, by tens and dozens at his office-door. at length, after taking a very long walk indeed, for it stretched from near the opening to the head of the cromarty firth, a distance of about twenty miles, and included in its survey the antique tower of kinkell and the old castle of craighouse, he was relieved from the duties of his clerkship, and left to pursue his researches undisturbed, on a small annuity, the gift of his friends. he was considerably advanced in life ere i knew him, profoundly grave, and very taciturn, and, though he never discussed politics, a mighty reader of the newspapers. "oh! this is terrible," i have heard him exclaim, when on one occasion a snow storm had blocked up both the coast and the highland roads for a week together, and arrested the northward course of the mails,--"it is terrible to be left in utter ignorance of the public business of the country!" francie, whom every one called mr. ---- to his face, and always francie when his back was turned, chiefly because it was known he was punctilious on the point, and did not like the more familiar term, used in the winter evenings to be a regular member of the circle that met beside my uncle james's work-table. and, chiefly through the influence, in the first instance, of my uncles, i was permitted to visit him in his own room--a privilege enjoyed by scarce any one else--and even invited to borrow his books. his room--a dark and melancholy chamber, grey with dust--always contained a number of curious but not very rare things, which he had picked up in his walks--prettily coloured fungi--vegetable monstrosities of the commoner kind, such as "fause craws' nests," and flattened twigs of pine--and with these, as the representatives of another department of natural science, fragments of semi-transparent quartz or of glittering feldspar, and sheets of mica a little above the ordinary size. but the charm of the apartment lay in its books. francie was a book-fancier, and lacked only the necessary wealth to be in the possession of a very pretty collection. as it was, he had some curious volumes; among others, a first-edition copy of the "nineteen years' travels of william lithgow," with an ancient woodcut, representing the said william in the background, with his head brushing the skies, and, far in front, two of the tombs which covered the heroes of ilium, barely tall enough to reach half-way to his knee, and of the length, in proportion to the size of the traveller, of ordinary octavo volumes. he had black-letter books, too, on astrology, and on the planetary properties of vegetables; and an ancient book on medicine, that recommended as a cure for the toothache a bit of the jaw of a suicide, well triturated; and, as an infallible remedy for the falling-sickness, an ounce or two of the brains of a young man, carefully dried over the fire. better, however, than these, for at least my purpose, he had a tolerably complete collection of the british essayists, from addison to mackenzie, with the "essays" and "citizen of the world" of goldsmith; several interesting works of travels and voyages, translated from the french; and translations from the german, of lavater, zimmerman, and klopstock. he had a good many of the minor poets too; and i was enabled to cultivate, mainly from his collection, a tolerably adequate acquaintance with the wits of the reign of queen anne. poor francie was at bottom a kindly and honest man; but the more intimately one knew him, the more did the weakness and brokenness of his intellect appear. his mind was a labyrinth without a clue, in whose recesses there lay stored up a vast amount of book-knowledge, that could never be found when wanted, and was of no sort of use to himself, or any one else. i got sufficiently into his confidence to be informed, under the seal of strict secrecy, that he contemplated producing a great literary work, whose special character he had not quite determined, but which was to be begun a few years hence. and when death found him, at an age which did not fall far short of the allotted threescore and ten, the great unknown work was still an undefined idea, and had still to be begun. there were several other branches of my education going on at this time outside the pale of the school, in which, though i succeeded in amusing myself, i was no trifler. the shores of cromarty are strewed over with water-rolled fragments of the primary rocks, derived chiefly from the west during the ages of the boulder clay; and i soon learned to take a deep interest in sauntering over the various pebble-beds when shaken up by recent storms, and in learning to distinguish their numerous components. but i was sadly in want of a vocabulary; and as, according to cowper, "the growth of what is excellent is slow," it was not until long after that i bethought me of the obvious enough expedient of representing the various species of simple rocks, by certain numerals, and the compound ones by the numerals representative of each separate component, ranged, as in vulgar fractions, along a medial line, with the figures representative of the prevailing materials of the mass above, and those representative of the materials in less proportions below. though, however, wholly deficient in the signs proper to represent what i knew, i soon acquired a considerable quickness of eye in distinguishing the various kinds of rock, and tolerably definite conceptions of the generic character of the porphyries, granites, gneisses, quartz-rocks, clay-slates, and mica-schists, which everywhere strewed the beach. in the rocks of mechanical origin i was at this time much less interested; but in individual, as in general history, mineralogy almost always precedes geology. i was fortunate enough to discover, one happy morning, among the lumber and debris of old john feddes's dark room, an antique-fashioned hammer, which had belonged, my mother told me, to old john himself more than a hundred years before. it was an uncouth sort of implement, with a handle of strong black oak, and a short, compact head, square on the one face and oblong on the other. and though it dealt rather an obtuse blow, the temper was excellent, and the haft firmly set; and i went about with it, breaking into all manner of stones, with great perseverance and success. i found, in a large-grained granite, a few sheets of beautiful black mica, that, when split exceedingly thin, and pasted between slips of mica of the ordinary kind, made admirably-coloured eye-glasses, that converted the landscapes around into richly-toned drawings in sepia; and numerous crystals of garnet embedded in mica-schist, that were, i was sure, identical with the stones set in a little gold brooch, the property of my mother. to this last surmise, however, some of the neighbours to whom i showed my prize demurred. the stones in my mother's brooch were precious stones, they said; whereas what _i_ had found was merely a "stone upon the shore." my friend the cabinet-maker went so far as to say that the specimen was but a mass of plum-pudding stone, and its dark-coloured enclosures simply the currants; but then, on the other hand, uncle sandy took my view of the matter: the stone was not plum-pudding stone, he said: he had often seen plum-pudding stone in england, and knew it to be a sort of rough conglomerate of various components; whereas my stone was composed of a finely-grained silvery substance, and the crystals which it contained were, he was sure, gems like those in the brooch, and, so far as he could judge, real garnets. this was a great decision; and, much encouraged in consequence, i soon ascertained that garnets are by no means rare among the pebbles of the cromarty shore. nay, so mixed up are they with its sands even,--a consequence of the abundance of the mineral among the primary rocks of ross,--that after a heavy surf has beaten the exposed beach of the neighbouring hill, there may be found on it patches of comminuted garnet, from one to three square yards in extent, that resemble, at a little distance, pieces of crimson carpeting, and nearer at hand, sheets of crimson bead-work, and of which almost every point and particle is a gem. from some unexplained circumstance, connected apparently with the specific gravity of the substance, it separates in this style from the general mass, on coasts much beaten by the waves; but the garnets of these curious pavements, though so exceedingly abundant, are in every instance exceedingly minute. i never detected in them a fragment greatly larger than a pin-head; but it was always with much delight that i used to fling myself down on the shore beside some newly-discovered patch, and bethink me, as i passed my fingers along the larger grains, of the heaps of gems in aladdin's cavern, or of sinbad's valley of diamonds. the hill of cromarty formed at this time at once my true school and favourite play-ground; and if my master did wink at times harder than master ought, when i was playing truant among its woods or on its shores, it was, i believe, whether he thought so or no, all for the best. my uncle sandy had, as i have already said, been bred a cartwright; but finding, on his return, after his seven years' service on board a man-of-war, that the place had cartwrights enough for all the employment, he applied himself to the humble but not unremunerative profession of a sawyer, and used often to pitch his saw-pit, in the more genial seasons of the year, among the woods of the hill. i remember, he never failed setting it down in some pretty spot, sheltered from the prevailing winds under the lee of some fern-covered rising ground or some bosky thicket, and always in the near neighbourhood of a spring; and it used to be one of my most delightful exercises to find out for myself among the thick woods, in some holiday journey of exploration, the place of a newly-formed pit. with the saw-pit as my baseline of operations, and secure always of a share in uncle sandy's dinner, i used to make excursions of discovery on every side,--now among the thicker tracts of wood, which bore among the town-boys, from the twilight gloom that ever rested in their recesses, the name of "the dungeons;" and anon to the precipitous sea-shore, with its wild cliffs and caverns. the hill of cromarty is one of a chain belonging to the great ben nevis line of elevation; and, though it occurs in a sandstone district, is itself a huge primary mass, upheaved of old from the abyss, and composed chiefly of granitic gneiss and a red splintery horn-stone. it contains also numerous veins and beds of hornblend rock and chlorite-schist, and of a peculiar-looking granite, of which the quartz is white as milk, and the feldspar red as blood. when still wet by the receding tide, these veins and beds seem as if highly polished, and present a beautiful aspect; and it was always with great delight that i used to pick my way among them, hammer in hand, and fill my pockets with specimens. there was one locality which i in especial loved. no path runs the way. on the one side, an abrupt iron-tinged promontory, so remarkable for its human-like profile, that it seems part of a half-buried sphinx, protrudes into the deep green water. on the other--less prominent, for even at full tide the traveller can wind between its base and the sea--there rises a shattered and ruined precipice, seamed with blood-red ironstone, that retains on its surface the bright metallic gleam, and amid whose piles of loose and fractured rock one may still detect fragments of stalactite. the stalactite is all that remains of a spacious cavern, which once hollowed the precipice, but which, more than a hundred years before, had tumbled down during a thunder-storm, when filled with a flock of sheep, and penned up the poor creatures for ever. the space between these headlands forms an irregular crescent of great height, covered with wood a-top, and amid whose lichened crags, and on whose steep slopes, the hawthorn, and bramble, and wild rasp, and rock strawberry, take root, with many a scraggy shrub and sweet wild flower besides; while along its base lie huge blocks of green hornblend, on a rude pavement of granitic gneiss, traversed at one point, for many yards, by a broad vein of milk-white quartz. the quartz vein formed my central point of attraction in this wild paradise. the white stone, thickly traversed by threads of purple and red, is a beautiful though unworkable rock; and i soon ascertained that it is flanked by a vein of feldspar broader than itself, of a brick-red tint, and the red stone flanked, in turn, by a drab-coloured vein of the same mineral, in which there occur in great abundance masses of a homogeneous mica,--mica not existing in lamina, but, if i may use the term, as a sort of micaceous felt. it would almost seem as if some gigantic experimenter of the old world had set himself to separate into their simple mineral components the granitic rocks of the hill, and that the three parallel veins were the results of his labour. such, however, was not the sort of idea which they at this time suggested to me. i had read in sir walter raleigh's voyage to guiana, the poetic description of that upper country in which the knight's exploration of the river corale terminated, and where, amid lovely prospects of rich valleys, and wooded hills, and winding waters, almost every rock bore on its surface the yellow gleam of gold. true, according to the voyager, the precious metal was itself absent. but sir walter, on afterwards showing "some of the stones to a spaniard of the caraccas, was told by him they were _la madre de oro_, that is, the mother of gold, and that the mine itself was further in the ground." and though the quartz vein of the cromarty hill contained no metal more precious than iron, and but little even of that, it was, i felt sure, the "mother" of something very fine. as for silver, i was pretty certain i had found the "mother" of _it_, if not, indeed, the precious metal itself, in a cherty boulder, enclosing numerous cubes of rich galena; and occasional masses of iron pyrites gave, as i thought, large promise of gold. but though sometimes asked in humble irony, by the farm-servants who came to load their carts with sea-weed along the cromarty beach, whether i was "getting siller in the stanes," i was so unlucky as never to be able to answer their question in the affirmative. footnote: [ ] there may have been truth in the allegation; at least the hangman of inverness enjoyed, from time immemorial, a similar perquisite,--a peat out of every creel brought to the burgh market. chapter iv. "strange marble stones, here larger and there less, and of full various forms, which still increase in height and bulk by a continual drop. which upon each distilling from the top, and falling still exactly on the crown. there break themselves to mists, which, trickling down. crust into stone, and (but with leisure) swell the sides, and still advance the miracle."--charles cotton. it is low water in the firth of cromarty during stream tides, between six and seven o'clock in the evening; and my uncle sandy, in returning from his work at the close of the day, used not unfrequently, when, according to the phrase of the place, "there was a tide in the water," to strike down the hillside, and spend a quiet hour in the ebb. i delighted to accompany him on these occasions. there are professors of natural history that know less of living nature than was known by uncle sandy; and i deemed it no small matter to have all the various productions of the sea with which he was acquainted pointed out to me in these walks, and to be in possession of his many curious anecdotes regarding them. he was a skilful crab and lobster fisher, and knew every hole and cranny, along several miles of rocky shore, in which the creatures were accustomed to shelter, with not a few of their own peculiarities of character. contrary to the view taken by some of our naturalists, such as agassiz, who hold that the crab--a genus comparatively recent in its appearance in creation--is less embryotic in its character, and higher in its standing, than the more ancient lobster, my uncle regarded the lobster as a more highly developed and more intelligent animal than the crab. the hole in which the lobster lodges has almost always two openings, he has said, through one of which it sometimes contrives to escape when the other is stormed by the fisher; whereas the crab is usually content, like the "rat devoid of soul," with a hole of only one opening; and, besides, gets so angry in most cases with his assailant, as to become more bent on assault than escape, and so loses himself through sheer loss of temper. and yet the crab has, he used to add, some points of intelligence about him too. when, as sometimes happened, he got hold, in his dark narrow recess in the rock, of some luckless digit, my uncle showed me how that, after the first tremendous squeeze, he began always to experiment upon what he had got, by alternately slackening and straitening his grasp, as if to ascertain whether it had life in it, or was merely a piece of dead matter; and that the only way to escape him, on these trying occasions, was to let the finger lie passively between his nippers, as if it were a bit of stick or tangle; when, apparently deeming it such, he would be sure to let it go; whereas, on the least attempt to withdraw it, he would at once straiten his gripe, and not again relax it for mayhap half an hour. in dealing with the lobster, on the other hand, the fisher had to beware that he did not depend too much on the hold he had got of the creature, if it was merely a hold of one of the great claws. for a moment it would remain passive in his grasp; he would then be sensible of a slight tremor in the captured limb, and mayhap hear a slight crackle; and, _presto_, the captive would straightway be off like a dart through the deep-water hole, and only the limb remain in the fisher's hand. my uncle has, however, told me that lobsters do not always lose their limbs with the necessary judgment. they throw them off when suddenly frightened, without first waiting to consider whether the sacrifice of a pair of legs is the best mode of obviating the danger. on firing a musket immediately over a lobster just captured, he has seen it throw off both its great claws in the sudden extremity of its terror, just as a panic-struck soldier sometimes throws away his weapons. such, in kind, were the anecdotes of uncle sandy. he instructed me, too, how to find, amid thickets of laminaria and fuci, the nest of the lump-fish, and taught me to look well in its immediate neighbourhood for the male and female fish, especially for the male; and showed me further, that the hard-shelled spawn of this creature may, when well washed, be eaten raw, and forms at least as palatable a viand in that state as the imported caviare of russia and the caspian. there were instances in which the common crow acted as a sort of jackal to us in our lump-fish explorations. we would see him busied at the side of some fuci-covered pool, screaming and cawing as if engaged in combating an enemy; and, on going up to the place, we used to find the lump-fish he had killed fresh and entire, but divested of the eyes, which we found, as a matter of course, that the assailant, in order to make sure of victory, had taken the precaution of picking out at an early stage of the contest. nor was it with merely the edible that we busied ourselves on these journeys. the brilliant metallic _plumage_ of the sea mouse (_aphrodita_), steeped as in the dyes of the rainbow, excited our admiration time after time; and still higher wonder used to be awakened by a much rarer annelid, brown, and slender as a piece of rope-yarn, and from thirty to forty feet in length, which no one save my uncle had ever found along the cromarty shores, and which, when broken in two, as sometimes happened in the measuring, divided its vitality so equally between the pieces, that each was fitted, we could not doubt, though unable to repeat in the case the experiment of spallanzani, to set up as an independent existence, and carry on business for itself. the annelids, too, that form for themselves tubular dwellings built up of large grains of sand (_amphitrites_), always excited our interest. two hand-shaped tufts of golden-hued setæ--furnished, however, with greatly more than the typical number of fingers--rise from the shoulders of these creatures, and must, i suspect, be used as hands in the process of building; at least the hands of the most practised builder could not set stones with nicer skill than is exhibited by these worms in the setting of the grains which compose their cylindrical dwellings--dwellings that, from their form and structure, seem suited to remind the antiquary of the round towers of ireland, and, from the style of their masonry, of old cyclopean walls. even the mason-wasps and bees are greatly inferior workmen to these mason _amphitrites_. i was introduced also, in our ebb excursions, to the cuttle-fish and the sea-hare, and shown how the one, when pursued by an enemy, discharges a cloud of ink to conceal its retreat, and that the other darkens the water around it with a lovely purple pigment, which my uncle was pretty sure would make a rich dye, like that extracted of old by the tyrians from a whelk which he had often seen on the beach near alexandria. i learned, too, to cultivate an acquaintance with some two or three species of doris, that carry their arboraceous, tree-like lungs on their backs, as macduff's soldiers carried the boughs of birnam wood to the hill of dunsinane; and i soon acquired a sort of affection for certain shells, which bore, as i supposed, a more exotic aspect than their neighbours. among these were, _trochus zizyphinus_, with its flame-like markings of crimson, on a ground of paley-brown; _patella pellucida_, with its lustrous rays of vivid blue on its dark epidermis, that resemble the sparks of a firework breaking against a cloud; and, above all, _cypræa europea_, a not rare shell further to the north, but so little abundant in the firth of cromarty, as to render the live animal, when once or twice in a season i used to find it creeping on the laminaria at the extreme outer edge of the tide-line, with its wide orange mantle flowing liberally around it, somewhat of a prize. in short, the tract of sea-bottom laid dry by the ebb formed an admirable school, and uncle sandy an excellent teacher, under whom i was not in the least disposed to trifle; and when, long after, i learned to detect old-marine bottoms far out of sight of the sea--now amid the ancient forest-covered silurians of central england, and anon opening to the light on some hillside among the mountain limestones of our own country--i have felt how very much i owed to his instructions. his facts wanted a vocabulary adequately fitted to represent them; but though they "lacked a commodity of good names," they were all founded on careful observation, and possessed that first element of respectability--perfect originality: they were all acquired by himself. i owed more, however, to the habit of observation which he assisted me in forming, than even to his facts; and yet some of these were of high value. he has shown me, for instance, that an immense granitic boulder in the neighbourhood of the town, known for ages as the clach malloch, or cursed stone, stands so exactly in the line of low water, that the larger stream-tides of march and september lay dry its inner side, but never its outer one;--round the outer side there are always from two to four inches of water; and such had been the case for at least a hundred years before, in his father's and grandfather's days--evidence enough of itself, i have heard him say, that the relative levels of sea and land were not altering; though during the lapsed century the waves had so largely encroached on the low flat shores, that elderly men of his acquaintance, long since passed away, had actually held the plough when young where they had held the rudder when old. he used, too, to point out to me the effect of certain winds upon the tides. a strong hasty gale from the east, if coincident with a spring-tide, sent up the waves high upon the beach, and cut away whole roods of the soil; but the gales that usually kept larger tides from falling during ebb were prolonged gales from the west. a series of these, even when not very high, left not unfrequently from one to two feet water round the clach malloch, during stream-tides, that would otherwise have laid its bottom bare--a proof, he used to say, that the german ocean, from its want of breadth, could not be heaped up against our coasts to the same extent, by the violence of a very powerful east wind, as the atlantic by the force of a comparatively moderate westerly one. it is not improbable that the philosophy of the drift current, and of the apparently reactionary gulf stream, may be embodied in this simple remark. the woods on the lower slopes of the hill, when there was no access to the zones covered save at low ebb by the sea, furnished me with employment of another kind. i learned to look with interest on the workings of certain insects, and to understand some of at least their simpler instincts. the large diadem spider, which spins so strong a web, that, in pressing my way through the furze thickets, i could hear its white silken cords crack as they yielded before me, and which i found skilled, like an ancient magician, in the strange art of rendering itself invisible in the clearest light, was an especial favourite; though its great size, and the wild stories i had read about the bite of its cogener the tarantula, made me cultivate its acquaintance somewhat at a distance. often, however, have i stood beside its large web, when the creature occupied its place in the centre, and, touching it with a withered grass stalk, i have seen it sullenly swing on the lines "with its hands," and then shake them with a motion so rapid, that--like carathis, the mother of the caliph vathek, who, when her hour of doom had come, "glanced off in a rapid whirl, which rendered her invisible"--the eye failed to see either web or insect for minutes together. nothing appeals more powerfully to the youthful fancy than those coats, rings, and amulets of eastern lore, that conferred on their possessors the gift of invisibility. i learned, too, to take an especial interest in what, though they belong to a different family, are known as the water _spiders_; and have watched them speeding by fits and starts, like skaters on the ice, across the surface of some woodland spring or streamlet--fearless walkers on the waters, that, with true faith in the integrity of the implanted instinct, never made shipwreck in the eddy or sank in the pool. it is to these little creatures that wordsworth refers in one of his sonnets on sleep:-- "o sleep, thou art to me a fly that up and down himself doth shove upon a fretful rivulet; now _above_, now _on_ the water, vexed with mockery." as shown, however, to the poet himself on one occasion, somewhat to his discomfort, by assuredly no mean authority--mr. james wilson--the "vexed" "fly," though one of the hemipterous insects, never uses its wings, and so never gets "_above_" the water. among my other favourites were the splendid dragon-flies, the crimson-speckled burnet moths, and the small azure butterflies, that, when fluttering among delicate harebells and crimson-tipped daisies, used to suggest to me, long ere i became acquainted with the pretty figure of moore,[ ] or even ere the figure had been produced, the idea of flowers that had taken to flying. the wild honey bees, too, in their several species, had peculiar charms for me. there were the buff-coloured carders, that erected over their honey-jars domes of moss; the lapidary red-tipped bees, that built amid the recesses of ancient cairns, and in old dry stone walls, and were so invincibly brave in defending their homesteads, that they never gave up the quarrel till they died; and, above all, the yellow-zoned humble-bees, that lodged deep in the ground along the dry sides of grassy banks, and were usually wealthier in honey than any of their cogeners, and existed in larger communities. but the herd-boys of the parish, and the foxes of its woods and brakes, shared in my interest in the wild honey bees, and, in the pursuit of something else than knowledge, were ruthless robbers of their nests. i often observed, that the fox, with all his reputed shrewdness, is not particularly knowing on the subject of bees. he makes as dead a set on a wasp's nest as on that of the carder or humble-bee, and gets, i doubt not, heartily stung for his pains; for though, as shown by the marks of his teeth, left on fragments of the paper combs scattered about, he attempts eating the young wasps in the chrysalis state, the undevoured remains seem to argue that he is but little pleased with them as food. there were occasions, however, in which even the herd-boys met with only disappointment in their bee-hunting excursions; and in one notable instance, the result of the adventure used to be spoken of in school and elsewhere, under our breath and in secret, as something very horrible. a party of boys had stormed a humble-bees' nest on the side of the old chapel-brae, and, digging inwards along the narrow winding earth passage, they at length came to a grinning human skull, and saw the bees issuing thick from out a round hole at its base--the _foramen magnum_. the wise little workers had actually formed their nest within the hollow of the head, once occupied by the busy brain; and their spoilers, more scrupulous than samson of old, who seems to have enjoyed the meat brought forth out of the eater, and the sweetness extracted from the strong, left in very great consternation their honey all to themselves. one of my discoveries of this early period would have been deemed a not unimportant one by the geologist. among the woods of the hill, a short half-mile from the town, there is a morass of comparatively small extent, but considerable depth, which had been laid open by the bursting of a waterspout on the uplands, and in which the dark peaty chasm remained unclosed, though the event had happened ere my birth, until i had become old and curious enough thoroughly to explore it. it was a black miry ravine, some ten or twelve feet in depth. the bogs around waved thick with silvery willows of small size; but sticking out from the black sides of the ravine itself, and in some instances stretched across it from side to side, lay the decayed remains of huge giants of the vegetable world, that had flourished and died long ages ere, in at least our northern part of the island, the course of history had begun. there were oaks of enormous girth, into whose coal-black substance one could dig as easily with a pickaxe as one digs into a bank of clay; and at least one noble elm, which ran across the little stream that trickled, rather than flowed, along the bottom of the hollow, and which was in such a state of keeping, that i have scooped out of its trunk, with the unassisted hand, a way for the water. i have found in the ravine--which i learned very much to like as a scene of exploration, though i never failed to quit it sadly bemired--handfuls of hazel-nuts, of the ordinary size, but black as jet, with the cups of acorns, and with twigs of birch that still retained almost unchanged their silvery outer crust of bark, but whose ligneous interior existed as a mere pulp. i have even laid open, in layers of a sort of unctuous clay, resembling fuller's earth, leaves of oak, birch, and hazel, that had fluttered in the wind thousands of years before; and there was one happy day in which i succeeded in digging from out the very bottom of the excavation a huge fragment of an extraordinary-looking deer's horn. it was a broad, massive, strange-looking piece of bone, evidently old-fashioned in its type; and so i brought it home in triumph to uncle james, as the antiquary of the family, assured that he could tell me all about it. uncle james paused in the middle of his work; and, taking the horn in his hand, surveyed it leisurely on every side. "that is the horn, boy," he at length said, "of no deer that now lives in this country. we have the red deer, and the fallow deer, and the roe; and none of them have horns at all like that. i never saw an elk; but i am pretty sure this broad, plank-like horn can be none other than the horn of an elk." my uncle set aside his work; and, taking the horn in his hand, went out to the shop of a cabinet-maker in the neighbourhood, where there used to work from five to six journeymen. they all gathered round him to examine it, and agreed in the decision that it was an entirely different sort of horn from any borne by the existing deer of scotland, and that this surmise regarding it was probably just. and, apparently to enhance the marvel, a neighbour, who was lounging in the shop at the time, remarked, in a tone of sober gravity, that it had lain in the moss of the willows "for perhaps half a century." there was positive anger in the tone of my uncle's reply. "half a century, sir!!" he exclaimed; "was the elk a native of scotland half a century ago? there is no notice of the elk, sir, in british history. that horn must have lain in the moss of the willows for thousands of years!" "ah, ha, james, ah, ha," ejaculated the neighbour, with a sceptical shake of the head; but as neither he nor any one else dared meet my uncle on historical ground, the controversy took end with the ejaculation. i soon added to the horn of the elk that of a roe, and part of that of a red deer, found in the same ravine; and the neighbours, impressed by uncle james's view, used to bring strangers to look at them. at length, unhappily, a relation settled in the south, who had shown me kindness, took a fancy to them; and, smit by the charms of a gorgeous paint-box which he had just sent me, i made them over to him entire. they found their way to london, and were ultimately lodged in the collection of some obscure virtuoso, whose locality or name i have been unable to trace. the cromarty sutors have their two lines of caves--an ancient line hollowed by the waves many centuries ago, when the sea stood, in relation to the land, from fifteen to thirty feet higher along our shores than it does now; and a modern line, which the surf is still engaged in scooping out. many of the older caves are lined with stalactites, deposited by springs that, filtering through the cracks and fissures of the gneiss, find lime enough in their passage to acquire what is known as a _petrifying_, though, in reality, only an incrusting quality. and these stalactites, under the name of "white stones made by the water," formed of old--as in that cave of slains specially mentioned by buchanan and the chroniclers, and in those caverns of the peak so quaintly described by cotton--one of the grand marvels of the place. almost all the old gazetteers sufficiently copious in their details to mention cromarty at all, refer to its "dropping cave" as a marvellous marble-producing cavern; and this "dropping cave" is but one of many that look out upon the sea from the precipices of the southern sutor, in whose dark recesses the drops ever tinkle, and the stony ceilings ever grow. the wonder could not have been deemed a great or very rare one by a man like the late sir george mackenzie of coul, well known from his travels in iceland, and his experiments on the inflammability of the diamond; but it so happened, that sir george, curious to see the sort of stones to which the old gazetteers referred, made application to the minister of the parish for a set of specimens; and the minister straightway deputed the commission, which he believed to be not a difficult one, to one of his poorer parishioners, an old nailer, as a means of putting a few shillings in his way. it so happened, however, that the nailer had lost his wife by a sad accident, only a few weeks before; and the story went abroad that the poor woman was, as the townspeople expressed it, "coming back." she had been very suddenly hurried out of the world. when going down the quay after nightfall one evening, with a parcel of clean linen for a sailor, her relative, she had missed footing on the pier edge, and, half-brained, half-drowned, had been found in the morning, stone dead, at the bottom of the harbour. and now, as if pressed by some unsettled business, she used to be seen, it was said, hovering after nightfall about her old dwelling, or sauntering along the neighbouring street; nay, there were occasions, according to the general report, in which she had even exchanged words with some of the neighbours, little to their satisfaction. the words, however, seemed in every instance to have wonderfully little to do with the affairs of another world. i remember seeing the wife of a neighbour rush into my mother's one evening about this time, speechless with terror, and declare, after an awful pause, during which she had lain half-fainting in a chair, that she had just seen christy. she had been engaged, as the night was falling, but ere darkness had quite set in, in piling up a load of brushwood for fuel outside the door, when up started the spectre on the other side of the heap, attired in the ordinary work-day garb of the deceased, and, in a light and hurried tone, asked, as christy might have done ere the fatal accident, for a share of the brushwood. "give me some of that _hag_," said the ghost; "you have plenty--i have none." it was not known whether or no the nailer had seen the apparition; but it was pretty certain he believed in it; and as the "dropping cave" is both dark and solitary, and had forty years ago a bad name to boot--for the mermaid had been observed disporting in front of it even at mid-day, and lights and screams heard from it at nights--it must have been a rather formidable place to a man living in the momentary expectation of a visit from a dead wife. so far as could be ascertained--for the nailer himself was rather close in the matter--he had not entered the cave at all. he seemed, judging from the marks of scraping left along the sides for about two or three feet from the narrow opening, to have taken his stand outside, where the light was good, and the way of retreat clear, and to have raked outwards to him, as far as he could reach, all that stuck to the walls, including ropy slime and mouldy damp, but not one particle of stalactite. it was, of course, seen that his specimens would not suit sir george; and the minister, in the extremity of the case, applied to my uncles, though with some little unwillingness, as it was known that no remuneration for their trouble could be offered to them. my uncles were, however, delighted with the commission--it was all for the benefit of science; and, providing themselves with torches and a hammer, they set out for the caves. and i, of course, accompanied them--a very happy boy--armed, like themselves, with hammer and torch, and prepared devotedly to labour in behalf of science and sir george. i had never before seen the caves by torch-light; and though what i now witnessed did not quite come up to what i had read regarding the grotto of antiparos, or even the wonders of the peak, it was unquestionably both strange and fine. the celebrated dropping cave proved inferior--as is not unfrequently the case with the celebrated--to a cave almost entirely unknown, which opened among the rocks a little further to the east; and yet even _it_ had its interest. it widened, as one entered, into a twilight chamber, green with velvety mosses, that love the damp and the shade; and terminated in a range of crystalline wells, fed by the perpetual dropping, and hollowed in what seemed an altar-piece of the deposited marble. and above, and along the sides, there depended many a draped fold, and hung many a translucent icicle. the other cave, however, we found to be of much greater extent, and of more varied character. it is one of three caves of the old coast line, known as the doocot or pigeon caves, which open upon a piece of rocky beach, overhung by a rudely semicircular range of gloomy precipices. the points of the semicircle project on either side into deep water--into at least water so much deeper than the fall of ordinary neaps, that it is only during the ebb of stream tides that the place is accessible by land; and in each of these bold promontories--the terminal horns of the crescent--there is a cave of the present coast-line, deeply hollowed, in which the sea stands from ten to twelve feet in depth when the tide is at full, and in which the surf thunders, when gales blow hard from the stormy north-east, with the roar of whole parks of artillery. the cave in the western promontory, which bears among the townsfolk the name of the "puir wife's meal kist," has its roof drilled by two small perforations--the largest of them not a great deal wider than the blow-hole of a porpoise--that open externally among the cliffs above; and when, during storms from the sea, the huge waves come rolling ashore like green moving walls, there are certain times of the tide in which they shut up the mouth of the cave, and so compress the air within, that it rushes upwards through the openings, roaring in its escape as if ten whales were blowing at once, and rises from amid the crags overhead in two white jets of vapour, distinctly visible, to the height of from sixty to eighty feet. if there be critics who have deemed it one of the extravagances of goethe that he should have given life and motion, as in his famous witch-scene in "faust," to the hartz crags, they would do well to visit this bold headland during some winter tempest from the east, and find his description perfectly sober and true: "see the giant crags, oh ho! how they snort and how they blow!" within, at the bottom of the crescent, and where the tide never reaches when at the fullest, we found the large pigeon cave which we had come to explore, hollowed for about a hundred and fifty feet in the line of a fault. there runs across the opening the broken remains of a wall erected by some monopolizing proprietor of the neighbouring lands, with the intention of appropriating to himself the pigeons of the cavern; but his day, even at this time, had been long gone by, and the wall had sunk into a ruin. as we advanced, the cave caught the echoes of our footsteps, and a flock of pigeons, startled from their nests, came whizzing out, almost brushing us with their wings. the damp floor sounded hollow to the tread; we saw the green mossy sides, which close in the uncertain light, more than twenty feet overhead, furrowed by ridges of stalactites, that became whiter and purer as they retired from the vegetative influences; and marked that the last plant which appeared as we wended our way inwards was a minute green moss, about half an inch in length, which slanted outwards on the prominence of the sides, and overlay myriads of similar sprigs of moss, long before converted into stone, but which, faithful in death to the ruling law of their lives, still pointed, like the others, to the free air and the light. and then, in the deeper recesses of the cave, where the floor becomes covered with uneven sheets of stalagmite, and where long spear-like icicles and drapery-like foldings, pure as the marble of the sculptor, descend from above, or hang pendent over the sides, we found in abundance magnificent specimens for sir george. the entire expedition was one of wondrous interest; and i returned next day to school, big with description and narrative, to excite, by truths more marvellous than fiction, the curiosity of my class-fellows. i had previously introduced them to the marvels of the hill; and during our saturday half-holidays, some of them had accompanied me in my excursions to it. but it had failed, somehow, to catch their fancy. it was too solitary, and too far from home, and, as a scene of amusement, not at all equal to the town-links, where they could play at "shinty" and "french and english," almost within _hail_ of their parents' homesteads. the very tract along its flat, moory summit, over which, according to tradition, wallace had once driven before him in headlong rout a strong body of english, and which was actually mottled with sepulchral tumuli, still visible amid the heath, failed in any marked degree to engage them; and though they liked well enough to hear about the caves, they seemed to have no very great desire to see them. there was, however, one little fellow, who sat in the latin form--the member of a class lower and brighter than the heavy one, though it was not particularly bright either--who differed in this respect from all the others. though he was my junior by about a twelvemonth, and shorter by about half a head, he was a diligent boy in even the grammar school, in which boys were so rarely diligent, and, for his years, a thoroughly sensible one, without a grain of the dreamer in his composition. i succeeded, however, notwithstanding his sobriety, in infecting him thoroughly with my peculiar tastes, and learned to love him very much, partly because he doubled my amusements by sharing in them, and partly, i daresay--on the principle on which mahomet preferred his old wife to his young one--because "he believed in me." devoted to him as caliban in the _tempest_ to his friend trinculo-- "i showed him the best springs, i plucked him berries. and i with my long nails did dig him pig-nuts." his curiosity on this occasion was largely excited by my description of the doocot cave; and, setting out one morning to explore its wonders, armed with john feddes's hammer, in the benefits of which my friend was permitted liberally to share, we failed, for that day at least, in finding our way back. it was on a pleasant spring morning that, with my little curious friend beside me, i stood on the beach opposite the eastern promontory, that, with its stern granitic wall, bars access for ten days out of every fourteen to the wonders of the doocot; and saw it stretching provokingly out into the green water. it was hard to be disappointed, and the caves so near. the tide was a low neap, and if we wanted a passage dry-shod, it behoved us to wait for at least a week; but neither of us understood the philosophy of neap-tides at the period. i was quite sure i had got round at low water with my uncles not a great many days before, and we both inferred, that if we but succeeded in getting round now, it would be quite a pleasure to wait among the caves inside until such time as the fall of the tide should lay bare a passage for our return. a narrow and broken shelf runs along the promontory, on which, by the assistance of the naked toe and the toe-nail, it is just possible to creep. we succeeded in scrambling up to it; and then, crawling outwards on all fours--the precipice, as we proceeded, beetling more and more formidable from above, and the water becoming greener and deeper below--we reached the outer point of the promontory; and then doubling the cape on a still narrowing margin--the water, by a reverse process, becoming shallower and less green as we advanced inwards--we found the ledge terminating just where, after clearing the sea, it overhung the gravelly beach at an elevation of nearly ten feet. adown we both dropped, proud of our success; up splashed the rattling gravel as we fell; and for at least the whole coming week--though we were unaware of the extent of our good luck at the time--the marvels of the doocot cave might be regarded as solely and exclusively our own. for one short seven days--to borrow emphasis from the phraseology of carlyle--"they were our own, and no other man's." the first few hours were hours of sheer enjoyment the larger cave proved a mine of marvels; and we found a great deal additional to wonder at on the slopes beneath the precipices, and along the piece of rocky sea-beach in front. we succeeded in discovering for ourselves, in creeping, dwarf bushes, that told of the blighting influences of the sea-spray; the pale yellow honeysuckle, that we had never seen before, save in gardens and shrubberies; and on a deeply-shaded slope that leaned against one of the steeper precipices, we detected the sweet-scented woodroof of the flower-plot and parterre, with its pretty verticillate leaves, that become the more odoriferous the more they are crushed, and its white delicate flowers. there, too, immediately in the opening of the deeper cave, where a small stream came pattering in detached drops from the over-beetling precipice above, like the first drops of a heavy thunder-shower, we found the hot, bitter scurvy grass, with its minute cruciform flowers, which the great captain cook had used in his voyages; above all, _there_ were the caves with their pigeons--white, variegated, and blue--and their mysterious and gloomy depths, in which plants hardened into stone, and water became marble. in a short time we had broken off with our hammers whole pocketfuls of stalactites and petrified moss. there were little pools at the side of the cave, where we could see the work of congelation going on, as at the commencement of an october frost, when the cold north wind ruffles, and but barely ruffles, the surface of some mountain lochan or sluggish moorland stream, and shows the newly-formed needles of ice projecting mole-like from the shores into the water. so rapid was the course of deposition, that there were cases in which the sides of the hollows seemed growing almost in proportion as the water rose in them; the springs, lipping over, deposited their minute crystals on the edges; and the reservoirs deepened and became more capacious as their mounds were built up by this curious masonry. the long telescopic prospect of the sparkling sea, as viewed from the inner extremity of the cavern, while all around was dark as midnight--the sudden gleam of the sea-gull, seen for a moment from the recess, as it flitted past in the sunshine--the black heaving bulk of the grampus, as it threw up its slender jets of spray, and then, turning downwards, displayed its glossy back and vast angular fin--even the pigeons, as they shot whizzing by, one moment scarce visible in the gloom, the next radiant in the light--all acquired a new interest, from the peculiarity of the _setting_ in which we saw them. they formed a series of sun-gilt vignettes, framed in jet; and it was long ere we tired of seeing and admiring in them much of the strange and the beautiful. it did seem rather ominous, however, and perhaps somewhat supernatural to boot, that about an hour after noon, the tide, while there was yet a full fathom of water beneath the brow of the promontory, ceased to fall, and then, after a quarter of an hour's space, began actually to creep upwards on the beach. but just hoping that there might be some mistake in the matter, which the evening tide would scarce fail to rectify, we continued to amuse ourselves, and to hope on. hour after hour passed, lengthening as the shadows lengthened, and yet the tide still rose. the sun had sunk behind the precipices, and all was gloom along their bases, and double gloom in their caves; but their rugged brows still caught the red glare of evening. the flush rose higher and higher, chased by the shadows; and then, after lingering for a moment on their crests of honeysuckle and juniper, passed away, and the whole became sombre and grey. the sea-gull sprang upwards from where he had floated on the ripple, and hied him slowly away to his lodge in his deep-sea stack; the dusky cormorant flitted past, with heavier and more frequent stroke, to his whitened shelf high on the precipice; the pigeons came whizzing downwards from the uplands and the opposite land, and disappeared amid the gloom of their caves; every creature that had wings made use of them in speeding homewards; but neither my companion nor myself had any; and there was no possibility of getting home without them. we made desperate efforts to scale the precipices, and on two several occasions succeeded in reaching mid-way shelves among the crags, where the sparrowhawk and the raven build; but though we had climbed well enough to render our return a matter of bare possibility, there was no possibility whatever of getting farther up: the cliffs had never been scaled before, and they were not destined to be scaled now. and so, as the twilight deepened, and the precarious footing became every moment more doubtful and precarious still, we had just to give up in despair. "wouldn't care for myself," said the poor little fellow, my companion, bursting into tears, "if it were not for my mother; but what will my mother say?" "wouldn't care neither," said i, with a heavy heart; "but it's just back water, and we'll get out at twall." we retreated together into one of the shallower and drier caves, and, clearing a little spot of its rough stones, and then groping along the rocks for the dry grass that in the spring season hangs from them in withered tufts, we formed for ourselves a most uncomfortable bed, and lay down in one another's arms. for the last few hours mountainous piles of clouds had been rising dark and stormy in the sea-mouth: they had flared portentously in the setting sun, and had worn, with the decline of evening, almost every meteoric tint of anger, from fiery red to a sombre thundrous brown, and from sombre brown to doleful black. and we could now at least hear what they portended, though we could no longer see. the rising wind began to howl mournfully amid the cliffs, and the sea, hitherto so silent, to beat heavily against the shore, and to boom, like distress-guns, from the recesses of the two deep-sea caves. we could hear, too, the beating rain, now heavier, now lighter, as the gusts swelled or sank; and the intermittent patter of the streamlet over the deeper cave, now driving against the precipices, now descending heavily on the stones. my companion had only the real evils of the case to deal with, and so, the hardness of our bed and the coldness of the night considered, he slept tolerably well; but i was unlucky enough to have evils greatly worse than the real ones to annoy me. the corpse of a drowned seaman had been found on the beach about a month previous, some forty yards firm where we lay. the hands and feet, miserably contracted, and corrugated into deep folds at every joint, yet swollen to twice their proper size, had been bleached as white as pieces of alumed sheep-skin; and where the head should have been, there existed only a sad mass of rubbish. i had examined the body, as young people are apt to do, a great deal too curiously for my peace; and, though i had never done the poor nameless seaman any harm, i could not have suffered more from him during that melancholy night, had i been his murderer. sleeping or waking, he was continually before me. every time i dropped into a doze, he would come stalking up the beach from the spot where he had lain, with his stiff white fingers, that stuck out like eagle's toes, and his pale, broken pulp of a head, and attempt striking me; and then i would awaken with a start, cling to my companion, and remember that the drowned sailor had lain festering among the identical bunches of sea-weed that still rotted on the beach not a stone-cast away. the near neighbourhood of a score of living bandits would have inspired less horror than the recollection of that one dead seaman. towards midnight the sky cleared and the wind fell, and the moon, in her last quarter, rose red as a mass of heated iron out of the sea. we crept down, in the uncertain light, over the rough slippery crags, to ascertain whether the tide had not fallen sufficiently far to yield us a passage; but we found the waves chafing among the rocks just where the tide-line had rested twelve hours before, and a full fathom of sea enclasping the base of the promontory. a glimmering idea of the real nature of our situation at length crossed my mind. it was not imprisonment for a tide to which we had consigned ourselves, it was imprisonment for a week. there was little comfort in the thought, arising, as it did, amid the chills and terrors of a dreary midnight; and i looked wistfully on the sea as our only path of escape. there was a vessel crossing the wake of the moon at the time, scarce half a mile from the shore; and, assisted by my companion, i began to shout at the top of my lungs, in the hope of being heard by the sailors. we saw her dim bulk falling slowly athwart the red glittering belt of light that had rendered her visible, and then disappearing in the murky blackness, and just as we lost sight of her for ever, we could hear an indistinct sound mingling with the dash of the waves--the shout, in reply, of the startled helmsman. the vessel, as we afterwards learned, was a large stone-lighter, deeply laden, and unfurnished with a boat; nor were her crew at all sure that it would have been safe to attend to the midnight voice from amid the rocks, even had they had the means of communication with the shore. we waited on and on, however, now shouting by turns, and now shouting together; but there was no second reply; and at length, losing hope, we groped our way back to our comfortless bed, just as the tide had again turned on the beach, and the waves began to roll upwards higher and higher at every dash. as the moon rose and brightened, the dead seaman became less troublesome; and i had succeeded in dropping as soundly asleep as my companion, when we were both aroused by a loud shout. we started up and again crept downwards among the crags to the shore; and as we reached the sea the shout was repeated. it was that of at least a dozen harsh voices united. there was a brief pause, followed by another shout; and then two boats, strongly manned, shot round the western promontory, and the men, resting on their oars, turned towards the rock, and shouted yet again. the whole town had been alarmed by the intelligence that two little boys had straggled away in the morning to the rocks of the southern sutor, and had not found their way back. the precipices had been a scene of frightful accidents from time immemorial, and it was at once inferred that one other sad accident had been added to the number. true, there were cases remembered of people having been tide-bound in the doocot caves, and not much the worse in consequence; but as the caves were inaccessible during neaps, we could not, it was said, possibly be in them; and the sole remaining ground of hope was, that, as had happened once before, only one of the two had been killed, and that the survivor was lingering among the rocks, afraid to come home. and in this belief, when the moon rose and the surf fell, the two boats had been fitted out. it was late in the morning ere we reached cromarty, but a crowd on the beach awaited our arrival; and there were anxious-looking lights glancing in the windows, thick and manifold; nay, such was the interest elicited, that some enormously bad verses, in which the writer described the incident a few days after, became popular enough to be handed about in manuscript, and read at tea-parties by the _élite_ of the town. poor old miss bond, who kept the town boarding-school, got the piece nicely dressed up, somewhat on the principle upon which macpherson translated ossian; and at our first school-examination--proud and happy day for the author!--it was recited with vast applause, by one of her prettiest young ladies, before the assembled taste and fashion of cromarty. footnote: [ ] "the beautiful blue damsel flies, that fluttered round the jasmine steins, like wingéd flowers or flying gems." paradise and the peel. chapter v. "the wise shook their white aged heads o'er me, and said. of such materials wretched men were made."--byron. the report went abroad about this time, not without some foundation, that miss bond purposed patronizing me. the copy of my verses which had fallen into her hands--a genuine holograph--bore a-top a magnificent view of the doocot, in which horrid crags of burnt umber were perforated by yawning caverns of indian ink, and crested by a dense pine-forest of sap-green; while vast waves blue on the one side and green on the other, and bearing blotches of white lead a-top, rolled frightfully beneath. and miss bond had concluded, it was said, that such a genius as that evinced by the sketch and the "poem" for those sister arts of painting and poesy in which she herself excelled, should not be left to waste itself uncared for in the desert wilderness. she had published, shortly before, a work, in two slim volumes, entitled, "letters of a village governess"--a curious kind of medley, little amenable to the ordinary rules, but a genial book notwithstanding, with more heart than head about it; and not a few of the incidents which it related had the merit of being true. it was an unlucky merit for poor miss bond. she dated her book from fortrose, where she taught what was designated in the almanac as the boarding-school of the place, but which, according to miss bond's own description, was the school of the "village governess." and as her tales were found to be a kind of mosaics composed of droll bits of fact picked up in the neighbourhood, fortrose soon became considerably too hot for her. she had drawn, under the over-transparent guise of the niggardly mrs. flint, the skinflint wife of a "paper minister," who had ruined at one fell blow her best silk dress, and a dozen of good eggs to boot, by putting the eggs in her pocket when going out to a party, and then stumbling over a stone. and, of course, mrs. skinflint and the rev. mr. skinflint, with all their blood-relations, could not be other than greatly gratified to find the story furbished up in the printed form, and set in fun. there were other stories as imprudent and as amusing--of young ladies caught eavesdropping at their neighbours' windows; and of gentlemen, ill at ease in their families, sitting soaking among vulgar companions in the public-house; and so the authoress, shortly after the appearance of her work, ceased to be the village governess of fortrose, and became the village governess of cromarty. it was on this occasion that i saw, for the first time, with mingled admiration and awe, a human creature--not dead and gone, and merely a printed name--that had actually published a book. poor miss bond was a kindly sort of person, fond of children, and mightily beloved by them in turn; and, though keenly alive to the ludicrous, without a grain of malice in her. i remember how, about this time, when, assisted by some three or four boys more, i had succeeded in building a huge house, full four feet long and three feet high, that contained us all, and a fire, and a great deal of smoke to boot, miss bond the authoress came, and looked in upon us, first through the little door, and then down through the chimney, and gave us kind words, and seemed to enjoy our enjoyment very much; and how we all deemed her visit one of the greatest events that could possibly have taken place. she had been intimate with the parents of sir walter scott; and, on the appearance of sir walter's first publication, the "minstrelsy of the scottish border," she had taken a fit of enthusiasm, and written to him; and, when in the cold paroxysm, and inclined to think she had done something foolish, had received from sir walter, then mr. scott, a characteristically warm-hearted reply. she experienced much kindness at his hands ever after; and when she herself became an author, she dedicated her book to him. he now and then procured boarders for her; and when, after leaving cromarty for edinburgh, she opened a school in the latter place, and got on with but indifferent success, sir walter--though straggling with his own difficulties at the time--sent her an enclosure of ten pounds, to scare, as he said in his note, "the wolf from the door." but miss bond, like the original of his own jeanie deans, was a "proud bodie;" and the ten pounds were returned, with the intimation that the wolf had not yet come to the door. poor lady! i suspect he came to the door at last. like many other writers of books, her voyage through life skirted, for the greater part of the way, the bleak lee-shore of necessity; and it cost her not a little skilful steering at times to give the strand a respectable offing. and in her solitary old age, she seemed to have got fairly aground. there was an attempt made by some of her former pupils to raise money enough to purchase for her a small annuity; but when the design was in progress, i heard of her death. she illustrated in her life the remark recorded by herself in her "letters," as made by a humble friend:--"it's no an easy thing, mem, for a woman to go through the world _without a head_," _i.e._, single and unprotected. from some unexplained cause, miss bond's patronage never reached me. i am sure the good lady intended giving me lessons in both drawing and composition; for she had said it, and her heart was a kind one; but then her time was too much occupied to admit of her devoting an occasional hour to myself alone; and as for introducing me to her young-lady classes, in my rough garments, ever greatly improved the wrong way by my explorations in the ebb and the peat-moss, and frayed, at times, beyond even my mother's ability of repair, by warping to the tops of great trees, and by feats as a cragsman--that would have been a piece of jack-cadeism, on which, then or now, no village governess could have ventured. and so i was left to get on in verse and picture-making quite in the wild way, without care or culture. my schoolfellows liked my stories well enough--better at least, on most occasions, than they did the lessons of the master; but, beyond the common ground of enjoyment which these extempore compositions furnished to both the "sennachie" and his auditors, our tracts of amusement lay widely apart. i disliked, as i have said, the yearly cock-fight--found no pleasure in cat-killing, or in teasing at nights, or on the street, the cross-tempered, half-witted _eccentrics_ of the village--usually kept aloof from the ordinary play-grounds, and very rarely mingled in the old hereditary games. on the other hand, with the exception of my little friend of the cave, who, even after that disastrous incident, evinced a tendency to trust and follow me as implicitly as before, my schoolmates cared as little for my amusements as i did for theirs; and, having the majority on their side, they of course voted mine to be the foolish ones. and certainly a run of ill-luck followed me in my sports about this time, that did give some show of reason to their decision. in the course of my book-hunting, i had fallen in with two old-fashioned military treatises, part of the small library of a retired officer lately deceased, of which the one entitled the "military medley," discussed the whole art of marshalling troops, and contained numerous plans, neatly coloured, of battalions drawn up in all possible forms, to meet all possible exigencies; while the other, which also abounded in prints, treated of the noble science of fortification according to the system of vauban. i poured over both works with much perseverance; and, regarding them as admirable toy-books, set myself to construct, on a very small scale, some of the toys with which they specially dealt. the sea-shore in the immediate neighbourhood of the town appeared to my inexperienced eye an excellent field for the carrying on of a campaign. the sea-sand i found quite coherent enough, when still moistened by the waters of the receding tide, to stand up in the form of towers and bastions, and long lines of rampart; and there was one of the commonest of the littorinidæ--_littorina litoralis_, that in one of its varieties is of a rich yellow colour, and in another of a bluish-green tint--which supplied me with soldiers enough to execute all the evolutions figured and described in the "medley." the warmly-hued yellow shells represented britons in their scarlet--the more dingy ones, the french in their uniforms of dirty blue; well-selected specimens of _purpura lapillus_, just tipped on their backs with a speck of paint, blue or red, from my box, made capital dragoons; while a few dozens of the slender pyramidal shells of _turritella communis_ formed complete parks of artillery. with such unlimited stores of the _matériel_ of war at my command, i was enabled, more fortunate than uncle toby of old, to fight battles and conduct retreats, assault and defend, build up fortifications, and then batter them down again, at no expense at all; and the only drawback on such a vast amount of advantage that i could at first perceive consisted in the circumstance, that the shore was exceedingly open to observation, and that my new amusements, when surveyed at a little distance, did greatly resemble those of the very young children of the place, who used to repair to the same arenaceous banks and shingle-beds, to bake dirt-pies in the sand, or range lines of shells on little shelves of stone, imitative of the crockery cupboard at home. not only my school-fellows, but also some of their parents, evidently arrived at the conclusion that the two sets of amusements--mine and those of the little children--were identical; for the elder folk said, that "in their time, poor francie had been such another boy, and every one saw what he had come to;" while the younger, more energetic in their manifestations, and more intolerant of folly, have even paused in their games of marbles, or ceased spinning their tops, to hoot at me from a safe distance. but the campaign went on; and i solaced myself by reflecting, that neither the big folk nor the little folk could bring a battalion of troops across a bridge of boats in the face of an enemy, or knew that a regular fortification could be constructed on only a regular polygon. i at length discovered however, that as a sea-shore is always a sloping plane, and the cromarty beach, in particular, a plane of a rather steep slope, it afforded no proper site for a fortress fitted to stand a protracted siege, seeing that, fortify the place as i might, it could be easily commanded by batteries raised on the higher side. and so fixing upon a grassy knoll among the woods, in the immediate neighbourhood of a scaur of boulder clay, capped by a thick stratum of sand, as a much better scene of operations, i took possession of the knoll somewhat irregularly; and carrying to it large quantities of sand from the scaur, converted it into the site of a magnificent stronghold. first i erected an ancient castle, consisting of four towers built on a rectangular base, and connected by straight curtains embrasured a-top. i then surrounded the castle by outworks in the modern style, consisting of greatly lower curtains than the ancient ones, flanked by numerous bastions, and bristling with cannon of huge calibre, made of the jointed stalks of the hemlock; while, in advance of these, i laid down ravelins, horn-works, and tenailles. i was vastly delighted with my work: it would, i was sure, be no easy matter to reduce such a fortress; but observing an eminence in the immediate neighbourhood which could, i thought, be occupied by a rather annoying battery, i was deliberating how i might best take possession of it by a redoubt, when out started, from behind a tree, the factor of the property on which i was trespassing, and rated me soundly for spoiling the grass in a manner so wantonly mischievous. horn-work and half-moon, tower and bastion, proved of no manner of effect in repelling an attack of a kind so little anticipated. i did think that the factor, who was not only an intelligent man, but had also seen much service in his day on the town links, as the holder of a commission in the cromarty volunteers, might have perceived that i was labouring on scientific principles, and so deem me worthy of some tolerance on that account; but i suppose he did not; though, to be sure, his scold died out good-naturedly enough in the end, and i saw him laugh as he turned away. but so it was, that in the extremity of my mortification i gave up generalship and bastion-building for the time; though, alas! my next amusement must have worn in the eyes of my youthful compeers as suspicious an aspect as either. my friend of the cave had lent me what i had never seen before--a fine quarto edition of anson's voyages, containing the original prints (my father's copy had only the maps); among the others, mr. brett's elaborate delineation of that strangest of vessels, a proa of the ladrone islands. i was much struck by the singularity of the construction of a barque that, while its head and stern were exactly alike, had sides that totally differed from each other, and that, with the wind upon the beam, outsailed, it was said, all other vessels in the world; and having the command of the little shop in which my uncle sandy made occasional carts and wheelbarrows when unemployed abroad, i set myself to construct a miniature proa, on the model given in the print, and succeeded in fabricating a very extraordinary proa indeed. while its lee side was perpendicular as a wall, its windward one, to which there was an outrigger attached, resembled that of a flat-bottomed boat; head and stern were exactly alike, so as to fit each for performing in turn the part of either; a moveable yard, which supported the sail, had to be shifted towards the end converted into the stern for the time, at each tack; while the sail itself--a most uncouth-looking thing--formed a scalene triangle. such was the vessel--some eighteen inches long or so--with which i startled from their propriety the mimic navigators of a horse-pond in the neighbourhood--all very masterly critics in all sorts of barques and barges known on the scottish coast. according to campbell, "'twas a thing beyond description wretched: such a wherry, perhaps, ne'er ventured on a pond, or crossed a ferry." and well did my fellows appreciate its extreme ludicrousness. it was certainly rash to "venture" it on this especial "pond;" for, greatly to the damage of the rigging, it was fairly pelted off, and i was sent to test elsewhere its sailing qualities, which were, as i ascertained, not very remarkable after all. and thus, after a manner so unworthy, were my essays in strategy and barque-building received by a censorious age, that judged ere it knew. were i sentimental, which lucidly i am not, i might well exclaim, in the very vein of rousseau, alas! it has been ever the misfortune of my life that, save by a few friends, i have never been understood! i was evidently out-francieing francie; and the parents of my young friend, who saw that i had acquired considerable influence over him, and were afraid lest i should make another francie of _him_, had become naturally enough desirous to break off our intimacy, when there occurred an unlucky accident, which served materially to assist them in the design. my friend's father was the master of a large trading smack, which, in war times, carried a few twelve-pounders, and was furnished with a small magazine of powder and shot; and my friend having secured for himself from the general stock, through the connivance of the ship-boy, an entire cannon cartridge, containing some two or three pounds of gunpowder, i was, of course, let into the secret, and invited to share in the sport and the spoil we had a glorious day together in his mother's garden: never before did such magnificent volcanoes break forth out of mole-hills, or were plots of daisies and violets so ruthlessly scorched and torn by the explosion of deep laid mines; and though a few mishaps did happen to over-forward fingers, and to eye-brows that were in the way, our amusements passed off innocuously on the whole, and evening saw nearly the half of our precious store unexhausted. it was garnered up by my friend in an unsuspected corner of the garret in which he slept, and would have been safe, had he not been seized, when going to bed, with a yearning desire to survey his treasure by candle-light; when an unlucky spark from the flame exploded the whole. he was so sadly burnt about the face and eyes as to be blind for several days after; but, amid smoke and confusion, he gallantly bolted his garret-door, and, while the inmates of the household, startled by the shock and the noise, came rushing up stairs, sturdily refused to let any of them in. volumes of gunpowder reek issued from every crack and cranny, and his mother and sisters were prodigiously alarmed. at length, however, he capitulated--terms unknown; and i, next morning, heard with horror and dismay of the accident. it had been matter of agreement between us on the previous day, mainly in order to screen the fine fellow of a ship-boy, that i should be regarded as the owner of the powder; but here was a consequence on which i had not calculated; and the strong desire to see my poor friend was dashed by the dread of being held responsible by his parents and sisters for the accident. and so, more than a week elapsed ere i could muster up courage enough to visit him. i was coldly received by his mother, and, what vexed me to the heart, coldly received by himself; and suspecting that he had been making an ungenerous use of our late treaty, i took leave in high dudgeon, and came away. my suspicions, however, wronged him: he had stoutly denied, as i afterwards learned, that i had any share in the powder; but his friends deeming the opportunity a good one for breaking with me, had compelled him, very unwillingly, and after much resistance, to give me up. and from this period more than two years elapsed, though our hearts beat quick and high every time we accidentally met, ere we exchanged a single word. on one occasion, however, shortly after the accident, we did exchange letters. i wrote to him from the school-form, when, of course, i ought to have been engaged with my tasks, a stately epistle, in the style of the billets in the "female quixote," which began, i remember, as follows:--"i once thought i had a friend whom i could rely upon; but experience tells me he was only nominal. for, had he been a real friend, no accident could have interfered with, or arbitrary command annihilated, his affection," &c., &c. as i was rather an indifferent scribe at the time, one of the lads, known as the "copperplate writers" of the class, made for me a fair copy of my lucubration, full of all manner of elegant dashes, and in which the spelling of every word was scrupulously tested by the dictionary. and, in due course, i received a carefully engrossed note in reply, of which the manual portion was performed by my old companion, but the composition, as he afterwards told me, elaborated by some one else. it assured me he was still my friend, but that there were "certain circumstances" which would prevent us from meeting for the future on our old terms. we were, however, destined to meet pretty often in the future, notwithstanding; and narrowly missed going to the bottom together many years after, in the floating manse, grown infirm in her nether parts at the time, when he was the outed minister of small isles, and i editor of the _witness_ newspaper. i had a maternal aunt long settled in the highlands of sutherland, who was so much older than her sister, my mother, that, when nursing her eldest boy, she had, when on a visit to the low country, assisted also in nursing her. the boy had shot up into a very clever lad, who, having gone to seek his fortune in the south, rose, through the several degrees of clerkship in a mercantile firm, to be the head of a commercial house of his own, which, though ultimately unsuccessful, seemed for some four or five years to be in a fair way of thriving. for about three of these the portion of the profits which fell to my cousin's share did not fall short of fifteen hundred pounds per annum; and on visiting his parents in their highland home in the heyday of his prosperity, after an absence of years, it was found that he had a great many friends in his native district on whom he had not calculated, and of a class that had not been greatly in the habit of visiting his mother's cottage, but who now came to lunch, and dine, and take their wine with him, and who seemed to value and admire him very much. my aunt, who was little accustomed to receive high company, and found herself, like martha of old, "cumbered about much serving," urgently besought my mother, who was young and active at the time, to visit and assist her; and, infinitely to my delight, i was included in the invitation. the place was not much above thirty miles from cromarty; but then it was in the _true_ highlands, which i had never before seen, save on the distant horizon; and, to a boy who had to walk all the way, even thirty miles, in an age when railways were not, and ere even mail gigs had penetrated so far, represented a journey of no inconsiderable distance. my mother, though rather a delicate-looking woman, walked remarkably well; and early on the evening of the second day, we reached together my aunt's cottage, in the ancient barony of gruids. it was a low, long, dingy edifice of turf, four or five rooms in length, but only one in height, that, lying along a gentle acclivity, somewhat resembled at a distance a huge black snail creeping up the hill. as the lower apartment was occupied by my uncle's half-dozen milk-cows, the declination of the floor, consequent on the nature of the site, proved of signal importance, from the free drainage which it secured; the second apartment, reckoning upwards, which was of considerable size, formed the sitting-room of the family, and had, in the old highland style, its fire full in the middle of the floor, without back or sides; so that, like a bonfire kindled in the open air, all the inmates could sit around it in a wide circle--the women invariably ranged on the one side, and the men on the other; the apartment beyond was partitioned into small and very dark bed-rooms; while, further on still, there was a closet with a little window in it, which was assigned to my mother and me; and beyond all lay what was emphatically "the room," as it was built of stone, and had both window and chimney, with chairs, and table, and chest of drawers, a large box-bed, and a small but well-filled bookcase. and "the room" was, of course, for the time, my cousin the merchant's apartment,--his dormitory at night, and the hospitable refectory in which he entertained his friends by day. my aunt's family was one of solid worth. her husband--a compactly-built, stout-limbed, elderly highlander, rather below the middle size, of grave and somewhat melancholy aspect, but in reality of a temperament rather cheerful than otherwise--had been somewhat wild in his young days. he had been a good shot and a skilful angler, and had danced at bridals, and, as was common in the highlands at the time, at lykewakes; nay, on one occasion he had succeeded in inducing a new-made widow to take the floor in a strathspey, beside her husband's corpse when every one else had failed to bring her up, by roguishly remarking, in her hearing, that whoever else might have refused to dance at poor donald's death wake, he little thought it would have been she. but a great change had passed over him; and he was now a staid, thoughtful, god-fearing man, much respected in the barony for honest worth and quiet unobtrusive consistency of character. his wife had been brought, at an early age, under the influence of donald roy's ring, and had, like her mother, been the means of introducing the vitalities of religion into her household. they had two other sons besides the merchant--both well-built, robust men, somewhat taller than their father, and of such character, that one of my cromarty cousins, in making out his way, by dint of frequent and sedulous inquiry, to their dwelling, found the general verdict of the district embodied in the very bad english of a poor old woman, who, after doing her best to direct him, certified her knowledge of the household by remarking, "it's a goot mistress;--it's a goot maister;--it's a goot, goot two lads." the elder of the two brothers superintended, and partly wrought, his father's little farm; for the father himself found employment enough in acting as a sort of humble factor for the proprietor of the barony, who lived at a distance, and had no dwelling upon the land. the younger was a mason and slater, and was usually employed, in the working seasons, at a distance; but in winter, and, on this occasion, for a few weeks during the visit of his brother the merchant, he resided with his father. both were men of marked individuality of character. the elder, hugh, was an ingenious, self-taught mechanic, who used in the long winter evenings to fashion a number of curious little articles by the fireside--among the rest, highland snuff-mulls, with which he supplied all his friends; and he was at this time engaged in building for his father a highland barn, and, to vary the work, fabricating for him a highland plough. the younger, george, who had wrought for a few years at his trade in the south of scotland, was a great reader, wrote very tolerable prose, and verse which, if not poetry, to which he made no pretensions, was at least quaintly-turned rhyme. he had, besides, a competent knowledge of geometry, and was skilled in architectural drawing; and--strange accomplishment for a celt--he was an adept in the noble science of self-defence. but george never sought out quarrels; and such was his amount of bone and muscle, and such the expression of manly resolution stamped on his countenance, that they never came in his way unsought. at the close of the day, when the members of the household had assembled in a wide circle round the fire, my uncle "took the book," and i witnessed, for the first time, family-worship conducted in gaelic. there was, i found, an interesting peculiarity in one portion of the services which he conducted. he was, as i have said, an elderly man, and had worshipped in his family ere dr. stewart's gaelic translation of the scriptures had been introduced into the county; and as he possessed in those days only the english bible, while his domestics understood only gaelic, he had to acquire the art, not uncommon in sutherland at the time, of translating the english chapter for them, as he read, into their native tongue; and this he had learned to do with such ready fluency, that no one could have guessed it to be other than a gaelic work from which he was reading. nor had the introduction of dr. stewart's translation rendered the practice obsolete in his household. his gaelic was _sutherlandshire_ gaelic, whereas that of dr. stewart was argyleshire gaelic. his family understood his rendering better, in consequence, than that of the doctor; and so he continued to translate from his english bible _ad aperturam libri_, many years after the gaelic edition had been spread over the country. the concluding evening prayer was one of great solemnity and unction. i was unacquainted with the language in which it was couched; but it was impossible to avoid being struck, notwithstanding, with its wrestling earnestness and fervour. the man who poured it forth evidently believed there was an unseen ear open to it, and an all-seeing presence in the place, before whom every secret thought lay exposed. the entire scene was a deeply impressive one; and when i saw, in witnessing the celebration of high mass in a popish cathedral many years after, the altar suddenly enveloped in a dim and picturesque obscurity, amid which the curling smoke of the incense ascended, and heard the musically-modulated prayer sounding in the distance from within the screen, my thoughts reverted to the rude highland cottage, where, amid solemnities not theatric, the red umbry light of the fire fell with uncertain glimmer upon dark walls, and bare black rafters, and kneeling forms, and a pale expanse of dense smoke, that, filling the upper portion of the roof, overhung the floor like a ceiling, and there arose amid the gloom the sounds of prayer truly god-directed, and poured out from the depths of the heart; and i felt that the stoled priest of the cathedral was merely an artist, though a skilful one, but that in the "priest and father" of the cottage there were the truth and reality from which the artist drew. no bolt was drawn across the outer door as we retired for the night. the philosophic biot, when employed with his experiments on the second pendulum, resided for several months in one of the smaller shetland islands; and, fresh from the troubles of france--his imagination bearing about with it, if i may so speak, the stains of the guillotine--the state of trustful security in which he found the simple inhabitants filled him with astonishment. "here, during the twenty-five years in which europe has been devouring herself," he exclaimed, "the door of the house i inhabit has remained open day and night." the interior of sutherland was at the time of my visit in a similar condition. the door of my uncle's cottage, unfurnished with lock or bar, opened, like that of the hermit in the ballad, with a latch; but, unlike that of the hermit, it was not because there were no stores within to demand the care of the master, but because at that comparatively recent period the crime of theft was unknown in the district. i rose early next morning, when the dew was yet heavy on grass and lichen, curious to explore a locality so new to me. the tract, though a primary one, forms one of the tamer gneiss districts of scotland; and i found the nearer hills comparatively low and confluent, and the broad valley in which lay my uncle's cottage, flat, open, and unpromising. still there were a few points to engage me; and the more i attached myself to them, the more did their interest grow. the western slopes of the valley are mottled by grassy tomhans--the moraines of some ancient glacier, around and over which there rose, at this period, a low widely-spreading wood of birch, hazel, and mountain ash--of hazel, with its nuts fast filling at the time, and of mountain ash, with its berries glowing bright in orange and scarlet. in looking adown the hollow, a group of the green tomhans might be seen relieved against the blue hills of ross; in looking upwards, a solitary birch-covered hillock of similar origin, but larger proportions, stood strongly out against the calm waters of loch shin and the purple peaks of the distant ben-hope. in the bottom of the valley, close beside my uncle's cottage, i marked several low swellings of the rock beneath, rising above the general level; and, ranged along these, there were groups of what seemed to be huge boulder stones, save that they were less rounded and water-worn than ordinary boulders, and were, what groups of boulders rarely are, all of one quality. and on examination, i ascertained that some of their number, which stood up like broken obelisks, tall, and comparatively narrow of base, and all hoary with moss and lichen, were actually still connected with the mass of rock below. they were the wasted upper portions of vast dikes and veins of a grey, large-grained syenite, that traverse the fundamental gneiss of the valley, and which i found veined, in turn, by threads and seams of a white quartz, abounding in drusy cavities, thickly lined along their sides with sprig crystals. never had i seen such lovely crystals on the shores of cromarty, or anywhere else. they were clear and transparent as the purest spring water, furnished each with six sides, and sharpened a-top into six facets. borrowing one of cousin george's hammers, i soon filled a little box with these gems, which even my mother and aunt were content to admire, as what of old used, they said, to be called bristol diamonds, and set in silver brooches and sleeve buttons. further, within less than a hundred yards of the cottage, i found a lively little stream, brown, but clear as a cairngorm of the purest water, and abounding, as i soon ascertained, in trout, lively and little like itself, and gaily speckled with scarlet. it wound through a flat, dank meadow, never disturbed by the plough; for it had been a burying-ground of old, and flat undressed stones lay thick amid the rank grass. and in the lower corner, where the old turf-wall had sunk into an inconspicuous mound, there stood a mighty tree, all solitary, for its fellows had long before disappeared, and so hollow-hearted in its corrupt old age, that though it still threw out every season a mighty expanse of foliage, i was able to creep into a little chamber in its trunk, from which i could look out through circular openings where boughs once had been, and listen, when a sudden shower came sweeping down the glen, to the pattering of the rain-drops amid the leaves. the valley of the gruids was perhaps not one of the finest or most beautiful of highland valleys, but it was a very admirable place after all; and amid its woods, and its rocks, and its tomhans, and at the side of its little trouting stream, the weeks passed delightfully away. my cousin william, the merchant, had, as i have said, many guests; but they were all too grand to take any notice of me. there was, however, one delightful man, who was said to know a great deal about rocks and stones, that, having heard of my fine large crystals, desired to see both them and the boy who had found them; and i was admitted to hear him talk about granites, and marbles, and metallic veins, and the gems that lie hid among the mountains in nooks and crannies. i am afraid i would not now deem him a very accomplished mineralogist: i remember enough of his conversation to conclude that he knew but little, and that little not very correctly: but not before werner or hutton could i have bowed down with a profounder reverence. he spoke of the marbles of assynt--of the petrifactions of helmsdale and brora--of shells and plants embedded in solid rocks, and of forest trees converted into stone; and my ears drank in knowledge eagerly, as those of the queen of sheba of old when she listened to solomon. but all too soon did the conversation change. my cousin was mighty in gaelic etymology, and so was the mineralogist; and while my cousin held that the name of the barony of gruids was derived from the great hollow tree, the mineralogist was quite as certain that it was derived from its syenite, or, as he termed it, its _granite_, which resembled, he remarked, from the whiteness of its feldspar, a piece of curd. _gruids_, said the one, means the place of the great tree; _gruids_, said the other, means the place of the curdled stone. i do not remember how they settled the controversy; but it terminated, by an easy transition, in a discussion respecting the authenticity of ossian--a subject on which they were both perfectly agreed. there could exist no manner of doubt regarding the fact that the poems given to the world by macpherson had been sung in the highlands by ossian, the son of fingal, more than fourteen hundred years before. my cousin was a devoted member of the highland society; and the highland society, in these days, was very much engaged in ascertaining the right cut of the philabeg, and in determining the chronology and true sequence of events in the ossianic age. happiness perfect and entire is, it is said, not to be enjoyed in this sublunary state; and even in the gruids, where there was so much to be seen, heard, and found out, and where i was separated by more than thirty miles from my latin--for i had brought none of it from home with me--this same ossianic controversy rose like a highland fog on my horizon, to chill and darken my hours of enjoyment. my cousin possessed everything that had been written on the subject, including a considerable amount of manuscript of his own composition; and as uncle james had inspired him with the belief that i could master anything to which in good earnest i set my mind, he had determined that it should be no fault of his if i did not become mighty in the controversy regarding the authenticity of ossian. this was awful. i liked blair's dissertation well enough, nor did i greatly quarrel with that of kames; and as for sir walter's critique in the _edinburgh_, on the opposite side, i thought it not only thoroughly sensible, but, as it furnished me with arguments against the others, deeply interesting to boot. but then there succeeded a vast ocean of dissertation, emitted by highland gentlemen and their friends, as the dragon in the apocalypse emitted the great flood which the earth swallowed up; and, when once fairly embarked upon it, i could see no shore and find no bottom. and so at length, though very unwillingly--for my cousin was very kind--i fairly mutinied and struck work, just as he had begun to propose that, after mastering the authenticity controversy, i should set myself to acquire gaelic, in order that i might be able to read ossian in the original. my cousin was not well pleased; but i did not choose to aggravate the case by giving expression to the suspicion which, instead of lessening, has rather grown upon me since, that as i possessed an english copy of the poems, i had read the true ossian in the original already. with cousin george, however, who, though strong on the authenticity side, liked a joke rather better than he did ossian, i was more free; and to him i ventured to designate his brother's fine gaelic copy of the poems, with a superb head of the ancient bard affixed, as "the poems of ossian in gaelic, translated from the original english by their author." george looked grim, and called me infidel, and then laughed, and said he would tell his brother. but he didn't; and as i really liked the poems, especially "_temora_" and some of the smaller pieces, and could read them with more real pleasure than the greater part of the highlanders who believed in them, i did not wholly lose credit with my cousin the merchant. he even promised to present me with a finely bound edition of the "elegant extracts," in three bulky octavo volumes, whenever i should have gained my first prize at college; but i unluckily failed to qualify myself for the gift; and my copy of the "extracts" i had to purchase for myself ten years after, at a book-stall, when working in the neighbourhood of edinburgh as a journeyman mason. it is not every day one meets with so genuine a highlander as my cousin the merchant; and though he failed to inspire me with all his own ossianic faith and zeal, there were some of the little old celtic practices which he resuscitated _pro tempore_ in his father's household, that i learned to like very much. he restored the genuine highland breakfasts; and, after hours spent in busy exploration outside, i found i could as thoroughly admire the groaning table, with its cheese, and its trout, and its cold meat, as even the immortal lexicographer himself. some of the dishes, too, which he revived, were at least curious. there was a supply of _gradden_-meal prepared--_i.e._, grain dried in a pot over the fire, and then coarsely ground in a handmill--which made cakes that, when they had hunger for their sauce, could be eaten; and on more than one occasion i shared in a not unpalatable sort of blood-pudding, enriched with butter, and well seasoned with pepper and salt, the main ingredient of which was derived, through a judicious use of the lancet, from the _yeld_ cattle of the farm. the practice was an ancient, and by no means unphilosophic one. in summer and early autumn there is plenty of grass in the highlands; but, of old at least, there used to be very little grain in it before the beginning of october; and as the cattle could, in consequence, provide themselves with a competent supply of blood from the grass, when their masters, who could not eat grass, and had little else that they could eat, were able to acquire very little, it was opportunely discovered that, by making a division in this way of the all-essential fluid, accumulated as a common stock, the circumstances of the cattle and their owners could be in some degree equalized. with these peculiarly highland dishes there mingled others not less genuine--now and then a salmon from the river, and a haunch of venison from the hill-side--which i relished better still; and if all highlanders live but as well in the present day as i did during my stay with my aunt and cousins, they would be rather unreasonable were they greatly to complain. there were some of the other highland restorations effected by my cousin that pleased me much. he occasionally gathered at night around the central ha' fire a circle of the elderly men of the neighbourhood, to repeat long-derived narratives of the old clan feuds of the district, and wild fingalian legends; and though, of course, ignorant of the language in which the stories were conveyed, by taking my seat beside cousin george, and getting him to translate for me in an under tone, as the narratives went on, i contrived to carry away with me at least as much of the clan stories and legends as i ever after found use for. the clan stories were waxing at the time rather dim and uncertain in sutherland. the county, through the influence of its good earls and its godly lords reay, had been early converted to protestantism; and its people had in consequence ceased to take liberties with the throats and cattle of their neighbours, about a hundred years earlier than in any other part of the scotch highlands. and as for the fingalian legends, they were, i found, very wild legends indeed. some of them immortalized wonderful hunters, who had excited the love of fingal's lady, and whom her angry and jealous husband had sent out to hunt monstrous wild boars with poisonous bristles on their backs,--secure in this way of getting rid of them. and some of them embalmed the misdeeds of spiritless diminutive fions, not very much above fifteen feet in height, who, unlike their more active companions, could not leap across the cromarty or dornoch firths on their spears, and who, as was natural, were very much despised by the women of the tribe. the pieces of fine sentiment and brilliant description discovered by macpherson seemed never to have found their way into this northern district. but, told in fluent gaelic, in the great "ha'," the wild legends served every necessary purpose equally well. the "ha'" in the autumn nights, as the days shortened and the frosts set in, was a genial place; and so attached was my cousin to its distinctive principle--the fire in the midst--as handed down from the "days of other years," that in the plan of a new two-storied house for his father, which he had procured from a london architect, one of the nether rooms was actually designed in the circular form; and a hearth like a millstone, placed in the centre, represented the place of the fire. but there was, as i remarked to cousin george, no corresponding central hole in the room above, through which to let up the smoke; and i questioned whether a nicely plastered apartment, round as a band-box, with the fire in the middle, like the sun in the centre of an orrery, would have been quite like anything ever seen in the highlands before. the plan, however, was not destined to encounter criticism, or give trouble in the execution of it. on sabbaths my cousin and his two brothers attended the parish church, attired in the full highland dress; and three handsome, well-formed men they were; but my aunt, though mayhap not quite without the mother's pride, did not greatly relish the exhibition; and oftener than once i heard her say so to her sister my mother; though she, smitten by the gallant appearance of her nephews, seemed inclined rather to take the opposite side. my uncle, on the other hand, said nothing either for or against the display. he had been a keen highlander in his younger days; and when the inhibition against wearing tartan and the philabeg had been virtually removed, in consideration of the achievements of the "hardy and dauntless men" who, according to chatham, conquered for england "in every quarter of the globe," he had celebrated the event in a merrymaking, at which the dance was kept up from night till morning; but though he retained, i suspect, his old partialities, he was now a sobered man; and when i ventured to ask him, on one occasion, why he too did not get a sunday kilt, which, by the way, he would "_have set_," notwithstanding his years, as well as any of his sons, he merely replied with a quiet "no, no; there's no fool like an old fool." chapter vi. "when they sawe the darksome night, they sat them downe and cryed."--babes in the wood. i spent the holidays of two other autumns in this delightful highland valley. on the second, as on the first occasion, i had accompanied my mother, specially invited; but the third journey was an unsanctioned undertaking of my own and a cromarty cousin, my contemporary, to whom, as he had never travelled the way, i had to act as protector and guide. i reached my aunt's cottage without mishap or adventure of any kind; but found, that during the twelvemonth which had just elapsed, great changes had taken place in the circumstances of the household. my cousin george, who had married in the interim, had gone to reside in a cottage of his own; and i soon ascertained that my cousin william, who had been for several months resident with his father, had not nearly so many visitors as before; nor did presents of salmon and haunches of venison come at all so often the way. immediately after the final discomfiture of napoleon, an extensive course of speculation in which he had ventured to engage had turned out so ill, that, instead of making him a fortune, as at first seemed probable, it had landed him in the _gazette_; and he was now tiding over the difficulties of a time of settlement, six hundred miles from the scene of disaster, in the hope of being soon enabled to begin the world anew. he bore his losses with quiet magnanimity; and i learned to know and like him better during his period of eclipse than in the previous time, when summer friends had fluttered around him by scores. he was a generous, warm-hearted man, who felt, with the force of an implanted instinct not vouchsafed to all, that it is more blessed to give than to receive; and it was doubtless a wise provision of nature, and worthy, in this point of view, the special attention of moralists and philosophers, that his old associates, the grand gentlemen, did not now often come his way; seeing that his inability any longer to give would cost him, in the circumstances, great pain. i was much with my cousin george in his new dwelling. it was one of the most delightful of highland cottages, and george was happy in it, far above the average lot of humanity, with his young wife. he had dared, in opposition to the general voice of the district, to build it half-way up the slope of a beautiful tomhan, that, waving with birch from base to summit, rose regular as a pyramid from the bottom of the valley, and commanded a wide view of loch shin on the one hand, with the moors and mountains that lie beyond; and overlooked, on the other, with all the richer portions of the barony of gruids, the church and picturesque hamlet of lairg. half-hidden by the graceful birchen trees that sprang up thick around, with their silvery boles and light foliage, it was rather a nest than a house; and george, emancipated, by his reading, and his residence for a time in the south, from at least the wilder beliefs of the locality, failed to suffer, as had been predicted, for his temerity; as the "good people," who, much to their credit, had made choice of the place for themselves long before, never, to his knowledge, paid him a visit. he had brought his share of the family library with him; and it was a large share. he had mathematical instruments too, and a colour-box, and the tools of his profession; in especial, large hammers fitted to break great stones; and i was generously made free of them all,--books, instruments, colour-box, and hammers. his cottage, too, commanded, from its situation, a delightful variety of most interesting objects. it had all the advantages of my uncle's domicile, and a great many more. the nearer shores of loch shin were scarce half a mile away; and there was a low long promontory which shot out into the lake, that was covered at that time by an ancient wood of doddered time-worn trees, and bore amid its outer solitudes, where the waters circled round its terminal apex, one of those towers of hoary eld--memorials, mayhap, of the primeval stone-period in our island, to which the circular erections of glenelg and dornadilla belong. it was formed of undressed stones of vast size, uncemented by mortar; and through the thick walls ran winding passages--the only covered portions of the building, for the inner area had never been furnished with a roof--in which, when a sudden shower descended, the loiterer amid the ruins could find shelter. it was a fascinating place to a curious boy. some of the old trees had become mere whitened skeletons, that stretched forth their blasted arms to the sky, and had so slight a hold of the soil, that i have overthrown them with a delightful crash, by merely running against them; the heath rose thick beneath, and it was a source of fearful joy to know that it harboured snakes full three feet long; and though the loch itself is by no means one of our finer highland lochs, it furnished, to at least my eye at this time, a delightful prospect in still october mornings, when the light gossamer went sailing about in white filmy threads, and birch and hazel, glorified by decay, served to embroider with gold the brown hillsides which, standing up on either hand in their long vista of more than twenty miles, form the barriers of the lake; and when the sun, still struggling with a blue diluted haze, fell delicately on the smooth surface, or twinkled for a moment on the silvery coats of the little trout, as they sprang a few inches into the air, and then broke the water into a series of concentric rings in their descent. when i last passed the way, both the old wood and the old tower were gone; and for the latter, which, though much a ruin, might have survived for ages, i found only a long extent of dry-stone dike, and the wide ring formed by the old foundation-stones, which had proved too massive to be removed. a greatly more entire erection of the same age and style, known of old as dunaliscag--which stood on the ross-shire side of the dornoch firth, and within whose walls, forming, as it did, a sort of half-way stage, i used, on these sutherlandshire journeys, to eat my piece of cake with a double relish--i found, on last passing the way, similarly represented. its grey venerable walls, and dark winding passages of many steps--even the huge pear-shaped lintel, which had stretched over its little door, and which, according to tradition, a great fingalian lady had once thrown across the dornoch firth from off the point of her spindle--had all disappeared, and i saw instead, only a dry-stone wall. the men of the present generation do certainly live in a most enlightened age--an age in which every trace of the barbarism of our early ancestors is fast disappearing; and were we but more zealous in immortalizing the public benefactors who efface such dark memorials of the past as the tower of dunaliscag and the promontory of loch shin, it would be, doubtless, an encouragement to others to speed us yet further on in the march of improvement. it seems scarce fair that the enlightened destroyers of arthur's oven or of the bas-relief known as robin of redesdale, or of the town-cross of edinburgh, should enjoy all the celebrity attendant on such acts, while the equally deserving iconoclasts of dunaliscag and the tower of loch shin should be suffered to die without their fame. i remember spending one singularly delightful morning with cousin george beside the ancient tower. he pointed out to me, amid the heath, several plants to which the old highlanders used to attach occult virtues,--plants that disenchanted bewitched cattle, not by their administration as medicines to the sick animals, but by bringing them in contact, as charms, with the injured milk; and plants which were used as philters, either for procuring love, or exciting hatred. it was, he showed me, the root of a species of orchis that was employed in making the philters. while most of the radical fibres of the plant retain the ordinary cylindrical form, two of their number are usually found developed into starchy tubercles; but, belonging apparently to different seasons, one of the two is of a dark colour, and of such gravity that it sinks in water; while the other is light-coloured, and floats. and a powder made of the light-coloured tubercle formed the main ingredient, said my cousin, in the love philter; while a powder made of the dark-coloured one excited, it was held, only antipathy and dislike. and then george would speculate on the origin of a belief which could, as he said, neither be suggested by reason, nor tested by experience. living, however, among a people with whom beliefs of the kind were still vital and influential, he did not wholly escape their influence; and i saw him, in one instance, administer to an ailing cow a little live trout, simply because the traditions of the district assured him, that a trout swallowed alive by the creature was the only specific in the case. some of his highland stories were very curious. he communicated to me, for example, beside the broken tower, a tradition illustrative of the celtic theory of dreaming, of which i have since often thought. two young men had been spending the early portion of a warm summer day in exactly such a scene as that in which he communicated the anecdote. there was an ancient ruin beside them, separated, however, from the mossy bank on which they sat, by a slender runnel, across which there lay, immediately over a miniature cascade, a few withered grass stalks. overcome by the heat of the day, one of the young men fell asleep; his companion watched drowsily beside him; when all at once the watcher was aroused to attention by seeing a little indistinct form, scarce larger than a humble-bee, issue from the mouth of the sleeping man, and, leaping upon the moss, move downwards to the runnel, which it crossed along the withered grass stalks, and then disappeared amid the interstices of the ruin. alarmed by what he saw, the watcher hastily shook his companion by the shoulder, and awoke him; though, with all his haste, the little cloud-like creature, still more rapid in its movements, issued from the interstice into which it had gone, and, flying across the runnel, instead of creeping along the grass stalks and over the sward, as before, it re-entered the mouth of the sleeper, just as he was in the act of awakening. "what is the matter with you?" said the watcher, greatly alarmed. "what ails you?" "nothing ails me," replied the other; "but you have robbed me of a most delightful dream. i dreamed i was walking through a fine rich country, and came at length to the shores of a noble river; and, just where the clear water went thundering down a precipice, there was a bridge all of silver, which i crossed; and then, entering a noble palace on the opposite side, i saw great heaps of gold and jewels, and i was just going to load myself with treasure, when you rudely awoke me, and i lost all." i know not what the asserters of the clairvoyant faculty may think of the story; but i rather believe i have occasionally seen them make use of anecdotes that did not rest on evidence a great deal more solid than the highland legend, and that illustrated not much more clearly the philosophy of the phenomena with which they profess to deal. of all my cousins, cousin george was the one whose pursuits most nearly resembled my own, and in whose society i most delighted to share. he did sometimes borrow a day from his work, even after his marriage; but then, according to the poet, it was "the love he bore to science was in fault." the borrowed day was always spent in transferring to paper some architectural design, or in working out some mathematical problem, or in rendering some piece of gaelic verse into english, or some piece of english prose into gaelic; and as he was a steady, careful man, the appropriated day was never seriously missed. the winter, too, was all his own, for, in those northern districts, masons are never employed from a little after hallowday, till the second, or even third month of spring, a circumstance which i carefully noted at this time in its bearing on the amusements of my cousin, and which afterwards weighed not a little with me when i came to make choice of a profession for myself. and george's winters were always ingeniously spent. he had a great command of gaelic, and a very tolerable command of english; and so a translation of bunyan's "visions of heaven and hell," which he published several years subsequent to this period, was not only well received by his country folk of sutherland and ross, but was said by competent judges to be really a not inadequate rendering of the meaning and spirit of the noble old tinker of elstow. i, of course, could be no authority respecting the merits of a translation, the language of which i did not understand; but living much amid the literature of a time when almost every volume, whether the virgil of a dryden, or the meditations of a hervey, was heralded by its sets of complimentary verses, and having a deep interest in whatever cousin george undertook and performed, i addressed to him, in the old style, a few introductory stanzas, which, to indulge me in the inexpressible luxury of seeing myself in print for the first time, he benevolently threw into type. they survive to remind me that my cousin's belief in ossian did exert some little influence over my phraseology when i addressed myself to him, and that, with the rashness natural to immature youth, i had at this time the temerity to term myself "poet." yes, oft i've said, as oft i've seen the men who dwell its hills among, that morven's land has ever been a land of valour, worth, and song. but ignorance, of darkness dire, has o'er that land a mantle spread; and all untuned and rude the lyre that sounds beneath its gloomy shade. with muse of calm untiring wing, oh, be it thine, my friend, to show the celtic swain how saxons sing of hell's dire gloom and heaven's glow so shall the meed of fame be thine, the glistening bay-wreath green and gay; thy poet, too, though weak his line, shall frame for thee th' approving lay. longing for some profession in which his proper work would give exercise to the faculties which he most delighted to cultivate, my cousin resolved on becoming candidate for a gaelic society school--a poor enough sort of office then, as now; but which, by investing a little money in cattle, by tilling a little croft, and by now and then emitting from the press a gaelic translation, might, he thought, be rendered sufficiently remunerative to supply the very moderate wants of himself and his little family. and so he set out for edinburgh, amply furnished with testimonials that meant more in his case than testimonials usually mean, to stand an examination before a committee of the gaelic school society. unluckily for his success, however, instead of bringing with him his ordinary sabbath-day suit of dark brown and blue (the kilt had been assumed for but a few weeks, to please his brother william), he had provided himself with a suit of tartan, as at once cheap and respectable, and appeared before the committee--if not in the garb, in at least the many-coloured hues, of his clan--a robust manly highlander, apparently as well suited to enact the part of colour-serjeant to the forty-second, as to teach children their letters. a grave member of the society, at that time in high repute for sanctity of character, but who afterwards, becoming righteous overmuch, was loosened from his charge, and straightway, spurning the ground, rose into an irvingite angel, came at once to the conclusion that no such type of man, encased in clan-tartan, could possibly have the root of the matter in him; and so he determined that cousin george should be cast in the examination. but then, as it could not be alleged with any decency that my cousin was inadmissible on the score of his having too much tartan, it was agreed that he should be declared inadmissible on the score of his having too little gaelic. and, of course, at this result the examinators arrived; and george, ultimately to his advantage, was cast accordingly. i still remember the astonishment evinced by a worthy catechist of the north--himself a gaelic teacher--on being told how my cousin had fared. "george munro not allowed to pass," he said, "for want of right gaelic! why, he has more right gaelic in his own self than all the society's teachers in this corner of scotland put together. they are the _curiousest_ people, some of these good gentlemen of the edinburgh committees, that i ever heard of: they're just like our country lawyers." it would, however, be far from fair to regard this transaction, which took place, i may mention, so late as the year , as a specimen of the actings of either civic societies or country lawyers. george's chief examinator on the occasion was the minister of the gaelic chapel of the place, at that time one of the society's committee for the year; and, not being a remarkably scrupulous man, he seems to have stretched a point or two, in compliance with the pious wishes and occult judgment of the society's secretary. but the anecdote is not without its lesson. when devout walter taits set themselves ingeniously to manoeuvre with the purest of intentions, and for what they deem the best of purposes--when, founding their real grounds of objection on one set of appearances, they found their ostensible grounds of objection on another and entirely different set--they are always exposed to the signal danger of--getting indevout duncan m'caigs to assist them. only two years from the period of my cousin's examination before the society, his reverend examinator received at the bar of the high court of justiciary, in the character of a thief convicted of eleven several acts of stealing, sentence of transportation for fourteen years. i had several interesting excursions with my cousin william. we found ourselves one evening--on our way home from a mineral spring which he had discovered among the hills--in a little lonely valley, which opened transversely into that of the gruids, and which, though its sides were mottled with green furrow-marked patches, had not at the time a single human habitation. at the upper end, however, there stood the ruins of a narrow two-storied house, with one of its gables still entire from foundation-stone to the shattered chimney-top, but with the other gable, and the larger part of the front wall, laid prostrate along the sward. my cousin, after bidding me remark the completeness of the solitude, and that the eye could not command from the site of the ruin a single spot where man had ever dwelt, told me that it had been the scene of the strict seclusion, amounting almost to imprisonment, about eighty years before, of a lady of high birth, over whom, in early youth, there had settled a sad cloud of infamy. she had borne a child to one of the menials of her father's house, which, with the assistance of her paramour, she had murdered; and being too high for the law to reach in these northern parts, at a time when the hereditary jurisdiction still existed entire, and her father was the sole magistrate, possessed of the power of life and death in the district, she was sent by her family to wear out life in this lonely retreat, in which she remained secluded from the world for more than half a century. and then, long after the abolition of the local jurisdictions, and when her father and brother, with the entire generation that knew of her crime, had passed away, she was permitted to take up her abode in one of the seaport towns of the north, where she was still remembered at this time as a crazy old lady, invariably silent and sullen, that used to be seen in the twilight flitting about the more retired lanes and closes, like an unhappy ghost. the story, as told me in that solitary valley, just as the sun was sinking over the hill beyond, powerfully impressed my fancy. crabbe would have delighted to tell it; and i now relate it, as it lies fast wedged in my memory, mainly for the peculiar light which it casts on the times of the hereditary jurisdictions. it forms an example of one of the judicial banishments of an age that used, in ordinary cases, to save itself all sorts of trouble of the kind, by hanging its victims. i may add, that i saw a good deal of the neighbourhood at this time in the company of my cousin, and gleaned, from my visits to shieling and cottage, most of my conceptions of the state of the northern highlands, ere the clearance system had depopulated the interior of the country, and precipitated its poverty-stricken population upon the coasts. there was, however, one of my excursions with cousin william, that turned out rather unfortunately. the river shin has its bold salmon-leap, which even yet, after several hundred pounds' worth of gunpowder have been expended in sloping its angle of ascent, to facilitate the passage of the fish, is a fine picturesque object, but which at this time, when it presented all its original abruptness, was a finer object still. though distant about three miles from my uncle's cottage, we could distinctly hear its roarings from beside his door, when october nights were frosty and still; and as we had been told many strange stories regarding it--stories about bold fishers who had threaded their dangerous way between the overhanging rock and the water, and who, striking outwards, had speared salmon through the foam of the cataract as they leaped--stories, too, of skilful sportsmen, who, taking their stand in the thick wood beyond, had shot the rising animals, as one shoots a bird flying,--both my cromarty cousin and myself were extremely desirous to visit the scene of such feats and marvels; and cousin william obligingly agreed to act as our guide and instructor by the way. he did look somewhat askance at our naked feet; and we heard him remark, in an under tone, to his mother, that when he and his brothers were boys, she never suffered _them_ to visit her cromarty relations unshod; but neither cousin walter nor myself had the magnanimity to say, that _our_ mothers had also taken care to see us shod; but that, deeming it lighter and cooler to walk barefoot, the good women had no sooner turned their backs than we both agreed to fling our shoes into a corner, and set out on our journey without them. the walk to the salmon-leap was a thoroughly delightful one. we passed through the woods of achanie, famous for their nuts; startled, as we went, a herd of roe deer; and found the leap itself far exceeded all anticipation. the shin becomes savagely wild in its lower reaches. rugged precipices of gneiss, with scattered bushes fast anchored in the crevices, overhang the stream, which boils in many a dark pool, and foams over many a steep rapid; and immediately beneath, where it threw itself headlong, at this time, over the leap--for it now merely rushes in snow adown a steep slope--there was a caldron, so awfully dark and profound, that, according to the accounts of the district, it had no bottom; and so vexed was it by a frightful whirlpool, that no one ever fairly caught in its eddies had succeeded, it was said, in regaining the shore. we saw, as we stood amid the scraggy trees of an overhanging wood, the salmon leaping up by scores, most of them, however, to fall back again into the pool--for only a very few stray fish that attempted the cataract at its edges seemed to succeed in forcing their upward way; we saw, too, on a shelf of the precipitous but wooded bank, the rude hut, formed of undressed logs, where a solitary watcher used to take his stand, to protect them from the spear and fowlingpiece of the poacher, and which in stormy nights, when the cry of the kelpie mingled with the roar of the flood, must have been a sublime lodge in the wilderness, in which a poet might have delighted to dwell. i was excited by the scene; and, when heedlessly leaping from a tall lichened stone into the long heath below, my right foot came so heavily in contact with a sharp-edged fragment of rock concealed in the moss, that i almost screamed aloud with pain. i, however, suppressed the shriek, and, sitting down and setting my teeth close, bore the pang, until it gradually moderated, and my foot, to the ankle, seemed as if almost divested of feeling. in our return, i halted as i walked, and lagged considerably behind my companions; and during the whole evening the injured foot seemed as if dead, save that it glowed with an intense heat. i was, however, at ease enough to write a sublime piece of blank verse on the cataract; and, proud of my production, i attempted reading it to cousin william. but william had taken lessons in recitation under the great mr. thelwall, politician and elocutionist; and deeming it proper to set me right in all the words which i mispronounced--three out of every four at least, and not unfrequently the fourth word also--the reading of the piece proved greatly stiffer and slower work than the writing of it; and, somewhat to my mortification, my cousin declined giving me any definite judgment on its merits, even when i had done. he insisted, however, on the signal advantages of reading well. he had an acquaintance, he said, a poet, who had taken lessons under mr. thelwall, and who, though his verses, when he published, met with no great success, was so indebted to his admirable elocution, as to be invariably successful when he read them to his friends. next morning my injured foot was stiff and sore; and, after a few days of suffering, it suppurated and discharged great quantities of blood and matter. it was, however, fast getting well again, when, tired of inaction, and stirred up by my cousin walter, who wearied sadly of the highlands, i set out with him, contrary to all advice, on my homeward journey, and, for the first six or eight miles, got on tolerably well. my cousin, a stout, active lad, carried the bag of highland luxuries--cheese, and butter, and a full peck of nuts--with which we had been laden by my aunt; and, by way of indemnity for taking both my share of the burden and his own, he demanded of me one of my long extempore stories, which, shortly after leaving my aunt's cottage, i accordingly began. my stories, when i had cousin walter for my companion, were usually co-extensive with the journey to be performed: they became ten, fifteen, or twenty miles long, agreeably to the measure of the road, and the determination of the mile-stones; and what was at present required was a story of about thirty miles in length, whose one end would touch the barony of gruids, and the other the cromarty ferry. at the end, however, of the first six or eight miles, my story broke suddenly down, and my foot, after becoming very painful, began to bleed. the day, too, had grown raw and unpleasant, and after twelve o'clock there came on a thick wetting drizzle. i limped on silently in the rear, leaving at every few paces a blotch of blood upon the road, until, in the parish of edderton, we both remembered that there was a short cut through the hills, which two of our older cousins had taken during the previous year, when on a similar journey; and as walter deemed himself equal to anything which his elder cousins could perform, and as i was exceedingly desirous to get home as soon as possible, and by the shortest way, we both struck up the hill-side, and soon found ourselves in a dreary waste, without trace of human habitation. walter, however, pushed on bravely and in the right direction; and, though my head was now becoming light, and my sight dim, i succeeded in struggling after him, until, just as the night was falling, we reached a heathy ridge, which commands the northern sea-board of the cromarty firth, and saw the cultivated country and the sands of nigg lying only a few miles below. the sands are dangerous at certain hours of the tide, and accidents frequently happen in the fords; but then there could, we thought, be no fear of us; for though walter could not swim, i could; and as i was to lead the way, he of course would be safe, by simply avoiding the places where i lost footing. the night fell rather thick than dark, for there was a moon overhead, though it could not be seen through the cloud; but, though walter steered well, the downward way was exceedingly rough and broken, and we had wandered from the path. i retain a faint but painful recollection of a scraggy moor, and of dark patches of planting, through which i had to grope onwards, stumbling as i went; and then, that i began to feel as if i were merely dreaming, and that the dream was a very horrible one, from which i could not awaken. and finally, on reaching a little cleared spot on the edge of the cultivated country, i dropped down as suddenly as if struck by a bullet, and, after an ineffectual attempt to rise, fell fast asleep. walter was much frightened; but he succeeded in carrying me to a little rick of dried grass which stood up in the middle of the clearing; and after covering me well up with the grass, he laid himself down beside me. anxiety, however, kept him awake; and he was frightened, as he lay, to hear the sounds of psalm-singing, in the old gaelic style, coming apparently from a neighbouring clump of wood. walter believed in the fairies; and, though psalmody was not one of the reputed accomplishments of the "good people" in the low country, he did not know but that in the highlands the case might be different. some considerable time after the singing had ceased, there was a slow, heavy step heard approaching the rick; an exclamation in gaelic followed; and then a rough hard hand grasped walter by the naked heel. he started up, and found himself confronted by an old, grey-headed man, the inmate of a cottage, which, hidden in the neighbouring clump, had escaped his notice. the old man, in the belief that we were gipsies, was at first disposed to be angry at the liberty we had taken with his hayrick; but walter's simple story mollified him at once, and he expressed deep regret that "poor boys, who had met with an accident," should have laid them down in such a night under the open sky, and a house so near. "it was putting disgrace," he said, "on a christian land." i was assisted into his cottage, whose only other inmate, an aged woman, the old highlander's wife, received us with great kindness and sympathy; and on walter's declaring our names and lineage, the hospitable regrets and regards of both host and hostess waxed stronger and louder still. they knew our maternal grandfather and grandmother, and remembered old donald roy; and when my cousin named my father, there was a strongly-expressed burst of sorrow and commiseration, that the son of a man whom they had seen so "well to do in the world" should be in circumstances so deplorably destitute. i was too ill to take much note of what passed. i only remember, that of the food which they placed before me, i could partake of only a few spoonfuls of milk; and that the old woman, as she washed my feet, fell a-crying over me. i was, however, so greatly recruited by a night's rest in their best bed, as to be fit in the morning to be removed, in the old man's _rung_-cart, to the house of a relation in the parish of nigg, from which, after a second day's rest, i was conveyed in another cart to the cromarty ferry. and thus terminated the last of my boyish visits to the highlands. both my grandfather and grandmother had come of long-lived races, and death did not often knock at the family door. but the time when the latter "should cross the river," though she was some six or eight years younger than her husband, came first; and so, according to bunyan, she "called for her children, and told them that her hour had come." she was a quiet, retiring woman, and, though intimately acquainted with her bible, not in the least fitted to make a female professor of theology: she could _live_ her religion better than _talk_ it; but she now earnestly recommended to her family the great interests once more; and, as its various members gathered round her bed, she besought one of her daughters to read to her, in their hearing, that eighth chapter of the romans which declares that "there is now no condemnation to them which are in christ jesus, who walk not after the flesh, but after the spirit." she repeated, in a sinking voice, the concluding verses,--"for i am persuaded, that neither death nor life, nor angels nor principalities nor powers, nor things present nor things to come, nor height nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of god, which is in christ jesus our lord." and, resting in confidence on the hope which the passage so powerfully expresses, she slept her last sleep, in simple trust that all would be well with her in the morning of the general awakening. i retain her wedding-ring, the gift of donald roy. it is a sorely-wasted fragment, worn through on one of the sides, for she had toiled long and hard in her household, and the breach in the circlet, with its general thinness, testify to the fact; but its gold is still bright and pure; and, though not much of a relic-monger, i would hesitate to exchange it for the holy coat of trèves, or for waggon-loads of the wood of the "true cross." my grandmother's term of life had exceeded by several twelvemonths the full threescore and ten; but when, only a few years after, death next visited the circle, it was on its youngest members that his hand was laid. a deadly fever swept over the place, and my two sisters--the one in her tenth, the other in her twelfth year--sank under it within a few days of each other. jean, the elder, who resided with my uncles, was a pretty little girl, of fine intellect, and a great reader; catherine, the younger, was lively and affectionate, and a general favourite; and their loss plunged the family in deep gloom. my uncles made little show of grief, but they felt strongly: my mother for weeks and months wept for her children, like rachel of old, and refused to be comforted, because they were not; but my grandfather, now in his eighty-fifth year, seemed to be rendered wholly bankrupt in heart by their loss. as is perhaps not uncommon in such cases, his warmer affections strode across the generation of grown-up men and women--his sons and daughters--and luxuriated among the children their descendants. the boys, his grandsons, were too wild for him; but the two little girls--gentle and affectionate--had seized on his whole heart; and now that they were gone, it seemed as if he had nothing in the world left to care for. he had been, up till this time, notwithstanding his great age, a hale and active man. in , when france threatened invasion, he was, though on the verge of seventy, one of the first men in the place to apply for arms as a volunteer; but now he drooped and gradually sunk, and longed for the rest of the grave. "it is god's will," i heard him say about this time, to a neighbour who congratulated him on his long term of life and unbroken health--"it is god's will, but not my desire." and in rather more than a twelvemonth after the death of my sisters, he was seized by almost his only illness--for, for nearly seventy years he had not been confined to bed for a single day--and was carried off in less than a week. during the last few days, the fever under which he sank mounted to his brain; and he talked in unbroken narrative of the events of his past life. he began with his earliest recollections; described the battle of culloden as he had witnessed it from the hill of cromarty, and the appearance of duke william and the royal army as seen during a subsequent visit to inverness; ran over the after events of his career--his marriage, his interviews with donald roy, his business transactions with neighbouring proprietors, long dead at the time; and finally, after reaching, in his oral history, his term of middle life, he struck off into another track, and began laying down, with singular coherency, the statements of doctrine in a theological work of the old school, which he had been recently perusing. and finally, his mind clearing as his end approached, he died in good hope. it is not uninteresting to look back on two such generations of scotchmen as those to which my uncles and grandfather belonged. they differed very considerably in some respects. my grandfather, with most of his contemporaries of the same class, had a good deal of the tory in his composition. he stood by george iii. in the early policy of his reign, and by his adviser lord bute; reprobated wilkes and junius; and gravely questioned whether washington and his coadjutors, the american republicans, were other than bold rebels. my uncles, on the contrary, were stanch whigs, who looked upon washington as perhaps the best and greatest man of modern times--stood firm by the policy of fox, as opposed to that of pitt--and held that the war with france, which immediately succeeded the first revolution, was, however thoroughly it changed its character afterwards, one of unjustifiable aggression. but however greatly my uncles and grandfather may have differed on these points, they were equally honest men. the rising generation can perhaps form no very adequate conception of the number and singular interest of the links which serve to connect the recollections of a man who has seen his fiftieth birth-day, with what to them must appear a remote past. i have seen at least two men who fought at culloden--one on the side of the king, the other on that of the prince--and, with these, not a few who witnessed the battle from a distance. i have conversed with an aged woman that had conversed, in turn, with an aged man who had attained to mature manhood when the persecutions of charles and james were at their height, and remembered the general regret excited by the death of renwick. my eldest maternal aunt--the mother of cousin george--remembered old john feddes--turned of ninety at the time; and john's buccaneering expedition could not have dated later than the year . i have known many who remembered the abolition of the hereditary jurisdictions; and have listened to stories of executions which took place on the gallows-hills of burghs and sheriffdoms, and of witch-burnings perpetrated on town links and baronial laws. and i have felt a strange interest in these glimpses of a past so unlike the present, when thus presented to the mind as personal reminiscences, or as well-attested traditions, removed from the original witnesses by but a single stage. all, for instance, which i have yet read of witch-burnings has failed to impress me so strongly as the recollections of an old lady who in was carried in her nurse's arms--for she was almost an infant at the time--to witness a witch-execution in the neighbourhood of dornoch--the last which took place in scotland. the lady well remembered the awe-struck yet excited crowd, the lighting of the fire, and the miserable appearance of the poor fatuous creature whom it was kindled to consume, and who seemed to be so little aware of her situation, that she held out her thin shrivelled hands to warm them at the blaze. but what most impressed the narrator--for it must have been a frightful incident in a sad spectacle--was the circumstance that, when the charred remains of the victim were sputtering and boiling amid the intense heat of the flames, a cross gust of wind suddenly blew the smoke athwart the spectators, and she felt in her attendant's arms as if in danger of being suffocated by the horrible stench. i have heard described, too, by a man whose father had witnessed the scene, an execution which took place, after a brief and inadequate trial, on the burgh-gallows of tain. the supposed culprit, a strathcarron highlander, had been found lurking about the place, noting, as was supposed, where the burghers kept their cattle, and was hung as a spy; but they all, after the execution, came to deem him innocent, from the circumstance that, when his dead body was dangling in the wind, a white pigeon had come flying the way, and, as it passed over, half-encircled the gibbet. one of the two culloden soldiers whom i remember was an old forester who lived in a picturesque cottage among the woods of the cromarty hill; and in his last illness, my uncles, whom i had always leave to accompany, used not unfrequently to visit him. he had lived at the time his full century, and a few months more: and i still vividly remember the large gaunt face that used to stare from the bed as they entered, and the huge, horny hand. he had been settled in life, previous to the year , as the head gardener of a northern proprietor, and little dreamed of being engaged in war; but the rebellion broke out; and as his master, a stanch whig, had volunteered to serve on behalf of his principles in the royal army, his gardener, a "mighty man of his hands," went with him. as his memory for the later events of his life was gone at this time, its preceding forty years seemed a blank, from which not a single recollection could be drawn; but well did he remember the battle, and more vividly still, the succeeding atrocities of the troops of cumberland. he had accompanied the army, after its victory at culloden, to the camp at fort-augustus, and there witnessed scenes of cruelty and spoliation of which the recollection, after the lapse of seventy years, and in his extreme old age, had still power enough to set his scotch blood aboil. while scores of cottages were flaming in the distance, and blood not unfrequently hissing on the embers, the men and women of the army used to be engaged in racing in sacks, or upon highland ponies; and when the ponies were in request, the women, who must have sat for their portraits in hogarth's "march to finchley," took their seats astride like the men. gold circulated and liquor flowed in abundance; and in a few weeks there were about twenty thousand head of cattle brought in by marauding parties of the soldiery from the crushed and impoverished highlanders; and groups of drovers from yorkshire and the south of scotland--coarse vulgar men--used to come every day to share in the spoil, by making purchases at greatly less than half-price. my grandfather's recollections of culloden were merely those of an observant boy of fourteen, who had witnessed the battle from a distance. the day, he has told me, was drizzly and thick; and on reaching the brow of the hill of cromarty, where he found many of his townsfolk already assembled, he could scarce see the opposite land. but the fog gradually cleared away; first one hill-top came into view, and then another; till at length the long range of coast, from the opening of the great caledonian valley to the promontory of burgh-head, was dimly visible through the haze. a little after noon there suddenly rose a round white cloud from the moor of culloden, and then a second round white cloud beside it. and then the two clouds mingled together, and went rolling slantways on the wind towards the west; and he could hear the rattle of the smaller fire-arms mingling with the roar of the artillery. and then, in what seemed an exceedingly brief space of time, the cloud dissipated and disappeared, the boom of the greater guns ceased, and a sharp intermittent patter of musketry passed on towards inverness. but the battle was presented to the imagination, in these old personal narratives, in many a diverse form. i have been told by an ancient woman, who, on the day of the fight, was engaged in tending some sheep on a solitary common near munlochy, separated from the moor of culloden by the firth, and screened by a lofty hill, that she sat listening in terror to the boom of the cannon; but that she was still more scared by the continuous howling of her dog, who sat upright on his haunches all the time the firing lasted, with his neck stretched out towards the battle, and "looking as if he saw a spirit." such are some of the recollections which link the memories of a man who has lived his half-century, to those of the preceding age, and which serve to remind him how one generation of men after another break and disappear on the shores of the eternal world, as wave after wave breaks in foam upon the beach, when storms are rising, and the ground-swell sets in heavily from the sea. chapter vii. "whose elfin prowess scaled the orchard wall."--rogers. some of the wealthier tradesmen of the town, dissatisfied with the small progress which their boys were making under the parish schoolmaster, clubbed together and got a schoolmaster of their own; but, though a rather clever young man, he proved an unsteady one, and, regular in his irregularities, got diurnally drunk, on receiving the instalments of his salary at term-days, as long as his money lasted. getting rid of him, they procured another--a licentiate of the church--who for some time promised well. he seemed steady and thoughtful, and withal a painstaking teacher; but coming in contact with some zealous baptists, they succeeded in conjuring up such a cloud of doubt around him regarding the propriety of infant baptism, that both his bodily and mental health became affected by his perplexities, and he had to resign his charge. and then, after a pause, during which the boys enjoyed a delightfully long vacation, they got yet a third schoolmaster, also a licentiate, and a person of a high, if not very consistent religious profession, who was always getting into pecuniary difficulties, and always courting, though with but little success, wealthy ladies, who, according to the poet, had "acres of charms." to the subscription school i was transferred, at the instance of uncle james, who remained quite sure, notwithstanding the experience of the past, that i was destined to be a scholar. and, invariably fortunate in my opportunities of amusement, the transference took place only a few weeks ere the better schoolmaster, losing health and heart in a labyrinth of perplexity resigned his charge. i had little more than time enough to look about me on the new forms, and to renew, on a firmer foundation than ever, my friendship with my old associate of the cave--who had been for the two previous years an inmate of the subscription school, and was now less under maternal control than before--when on came the long vacation; and for four happy months i had nothing to do. my amusements had undergone very little change: i was even fonder of the shores and woods than ever, and better acquainted with the rocks and caves. a very considerable change, however, had taken place in the amusements of the school-fellows my contemporaries, who were now from two to three years older than when i had been associated with them in the parish school. hy-spy had lost its charms; nor was there much of its old interest for them in french and english; whereas my rock excursions they came to regard as very interesting indeed. with the exception of my friend of the cave, they cared little about rocks or stones; but they all liked brambles, and sloes, and _craws-apples_, tolerably well, and took great delight in assisting me to kindle fires in the caverns of the old-coast line, at which we used to broil shell-fish and crabs, taken among the crags and boulders of the ebb below, and roast potatoes, transferred from the fields of the hill above. there was one cave, an especial favourite with us, in which our fires used to blaze day after day for weeks together. it is deeply hollowed in the base of a steep ivy-mantled precipice of granitic gneiss, a full hundred feet in height; and bears on its smoothed sides and roof, and along its uneven bottom,--fretted into pot-like cavities, with large rounded pebbles in them,--unequivocal evidence that the excavating agent to which it owed its existence had been the wild surf of this exposed shore. but for more than two thousand years wave had never reached it: the last general elevation of the land had raised it beyond the reach of the highest stream-tides; and when my gang and i took possession of its twilight recesses, its stony sides were crusted with mosses and liverworts; and a crop of pale, attenuated, sickly-looking weeds, on which the sun had never looked in his strength, sprang thickly up over its floor. in the remote past it had been used as a sort of garner and thrashing-place by a farmer of the parish, named marcus, who had succeeded in rearing crops of bere and oats on two sloping plots at the foot of the cliffs in its immediate neighbourhood; and it was known, from this circumstance, to my uncles and the older inhabitants of the town, as marcus's cave. my companions, however, had been chiefly drawn to it by a much more recent association. a poor highland pensioner--a sorely dilapidated relic of the french-american war, who had fought under general wolfe in his day--had taken a great fancy to the cave, and would fain have made it his home. he was ill at ease in his family;--his wife was a termagant, and his daughter disreputable; and, desirous to quit their society altogether, and live as a hermit among the rocks, he had made application to the gentleman who tenanted the farm above, to be permitted to fit up the cave for himself as a dwelling. so bad was his english, however, that the gentleman failed to understand him; and his request was, as he believed, rejected, while it was in reality only not understood. among the younger folk the cave came to be known, from the incident, as "rory shingles' cave;" and my companions were delighted to believe that they were living in it as rory would have lived, had his petition been granted. in the wild half-savage life which we led, we did contrive to provide for ourselves remarkably well. the rocky shores supplied us with limpets, periwinkles, and crabs, and now and then a lump-fish; the rugged slopes under the precipices, with hips, sloes, and brambles; the broken fragments of wreck along the beach, and the wood above, furnished abundance of fuel; and as there were fields not half a mile away, i fear the more solid part of our diet consisted often of potatoes which we had not planted, and of pease and beans which we had not sown. one of our number contrived to bring away a pot unobserved from his home; another succeeded in providing us with a pitcher; there was a good spring not two hundred yards from the cave mouth, which supplied us with water; and, thus possessed of not merely all that nature requires, but a good deal more, we contrived to fare sumptuously every day. it has been often remarked, that civilized man, when placed in circumstances at all favourable, soon learns to assume the savage. i shall not say that my companions or myself had been particularly civilized in our previous state; but nothing could be more certain, than that during our long vacation, we became very happy, and tolerably perfect savages. the class which we attended was of a kind not opened in any of our accredited schools, and it might be difficult to procure testimonials in its behalf, easily procurable as these usually are; and yet there were some of its lessons which might be conned with some little advantage, by one desirous of cultivating the noble sentiment of self-reliance, or the all-important habit of self-help. at the time, however, they appeared quite pointless enough; and the moral, as in the case of the continental apologue of reynard the fox, seemed always omitted. our parties in these excursions used at times to swell out to ten or twelve--at times to contract to two or three; but what they gained in quantity they always lost in quality, and became mischievous with the addition of every new member, in greatly more than the arithmetical ratio. when most innocent, they consisted of only a brace of members--a warm-hearted, intelligent boy from the south of scotland, who boarded with two elderly ladies of the place, and attended the subscription school; and the acknowledged leader of the band, who, belonging to the permanent irreducible staff of the establishment, was never off duty. we used to be very happy, and not altogether irrational, in these little skeleton parties. my new friend was a gentle, tasteful boy, fond of poetry, and a writer of soft, simple verses in the old-fashioned pastoral vein, which he never showed to any one save myself; and we learned to love one another all the more, from the circumstance that i was of a somewhat bold, self-relying temperament, and he of a clinging, timid one. two of the stanzas of a little pastoral, which he addressed to me about a twelvemonth after this time, when permanently quitting the north country for edinburgh, still remain fixed in my memory; and i must submit them to the reader, both as adequately representative of the many others, their fellows, which have been lost, and of that juvenile poetry in general which "is written," according to sir walter scott, "rather from the recollection of what has pleased the author in others, than what has been suggested by his own imagination." "to you my poor sheep i resign, my colly, my crook, and my horn: to leave you, indeed, i repine, but i must away with the morn. new scenes shall evolve on my sight, the world and its follies be new; but ah! can such scenes of delight ere arise, as i witnessed with you!" timid as he naturally was, he soon learned to abide in my company terrors which most of my bolder companions shrank from encountering. i was fond of lingering in the caves until long after nightfall, especially in those seasons when the moon at full, or but a few days in her wane, rose out of the sea as the evening wore on, to light up the wild precipices of that solitary shore, and to render practicable our ascending path to the hill above. and finlay was almost the only one of my band who dared to encounter with me the terrors of the darkness. our fire has often startled the benighted boatman as he came rowing round some rocky promontory, and saw the red glare streaming seawards from the cavern mouth, and partially lighting up the angry tumbling of the surf beyond; and excise-cutters have oftener than once altered their tack in middle firth, and come bearing towards the coast, to determine whether the wild rocks of marcus were not becoming a haunt of smugglers. immediately beyond the granitic gneiss of the hill there is a subaqueous deposit of the lias formation, never yet explored by geologist, because never yet laid bare by the ebb; though every heavier storm from the sea tells of its existence, by tossing ashore fragments of its dark bituminous shale. i soon ascertained that the shale is so largely charged with inflammable matter as to burn with a strong flame, as if steeped in tar or oil, and that i could repeat with it the common experiment of producing gas by means of a tobacco-pipe luted with clay. and, having read in shakspere of a fuel termed "sea-coal," and unaware at the time that the poet merely meant coal brought to london by sea, i inferred that the inflammable shale cast up from the depths of the firth by the waves could not be other than the veritable "sea-coal" which figured in the reminiscences of dame quickly; and so, assisted by finlay, who shared in the interest which i felt in the substance, as at once classical and an original discovery, i used to collect it in large quantities and convert it into smoky and troubled fires, that ever filled our cavern with a horrible stench, and scented all the shore. though unaware of the fact at the time, it owed its inflammability, not to vegetable, but to animal substance; the tar which used to boil in it to the heat, like resin in a fagot of moss-fir, was as strange a mixture as ever yet bubbled in witches' caldron--blood of pterodactyle and grease of ichthyosaur--eye of belemnite and hood of nautilus; and we learned to delight in its very smell, all oppressive as that was, as something wild, strange, and inexplicable. once or twice i seemed on the eve of a discovery: in splitting the masses, i occasionally saw what appeared to be fragments of shells embedded in its substance; and at least once i laid open a mysterious-looking scroll or volute, existing on the dark surface as a cream-coloured film; but though these organisms raised a temporary wonder, it was not until a later period that i learned to comprehend their true import, as the half-effaced but still decipherable characters of a marvellous record of the grey, dream-encircled past. with the docile finlay as my companion, and left to work out my own will unchallenged, i was rarely or never mischievous. on the occasions, however, in which my band swelled out to ten or a dozen, i often experienced the ordinary evils of leadership, as known in all gangs and parties, civil and ecclesiastical; and was sometimes led, in consequence, to engage in enterprises which my better judgment condemned. i fain wish that among the other "confessions" with which our literature is charged, we had the _bona fide_ "confessions of a leader," with examples of the cases in which, though he seems to overbear, he is in reality overborne, and actually follows, though he appears to lead. honest sir william wallace, though seven feet high, and a hero, was at once candid and humble enough to confess to the canons of hexham, that, his "soldiers being evil-disposed men," whom he could neither "justify nor punish," he was able to protect women and churchmen only so long as they "abided in his sight." and, of course, other leaders, less tall and less heroic, must not unfrequently find themselves, had they but wallace's magnanimity to confess the fact, in circumstances much akin to those of wallace. when bee-masters get hold of queen bees, they are able, by controlling the movements of these natural leaders of hives, to control the movements of the hives themselves; and not unfrequently in churches and states do there exist inconspicuous bee-masters, who, by influencing or controlling the leader-bees, in reality influence and control the movements of the entire body, politic or ecclesiastical, over which these natural monarchs seem to preside. but truce with apology. partly in the character of leader--partly being my self led--i succeeded about this time in getting one of my larger parties into a tolerably serious scrape. we passed every day, on our way to the cave, a fine large orchard, attached to the manor-house of the cromarty estate; and in ascending an adjacent hill over which our path lay, and which commands a bird's-eye view of the trim-kept walks and well-laden trees, there used not unfrequently to arise wild speculations among us regarding the possibility and propriety of getting a supply of the fruit, to serve as desserts to our meals of shell-fish and potatoes. weeks elapsed, however, and autumn was drawing on to its close, ere we could quite make up our minds regarding the adventure, when at length i agreed to lead; and, after arranging the plan of the expedition, we broke into the orchard under the cloud of night, and carried away with us whole pocketfuls of apples. they were all intolerably bad--sour, hard, baking apples; for we had delayed the enterprise until the better fruit had been pulled: but though they set our teeth on edge, and we flung most of them into the sea, we had "snatched" in the foray, what gray well terms "a fearful joy," and had some thought of repeating it, merely for the sake of the excitement induced and the risk encountered, when out came the astounding fact, that one of our number had "peached," and, in the character of king's evidence, betrayed his companions. the factor of the cromarty property had an orphan nephew, who formed at times a member of our gang, and who had taken a willing part in the orchard foray. he had also engaged, however, in a second enterprise of a similar kind wholly on his own account, of which we knew nothing. an out-house pertaining to the dwelling in which he lodged, though itself situated outside the orchard, was attached to another house inside the walls, which was employed by the gardener as a store-place for his apples; and finding an unsuspected crevice in the partition which divided the two buildings, somewhat resembling that through which pyramus and thisbe made love of old in the city of babylon, our comrade, straightway availing himself of so fair an opening, fell a-courting the gardener's apples. sharpening the end of a long stick, he began harpooning, through the hole, the apple-heap below; and though the hole was greatly too small for admitting the finer and larger specimens, and they, in consequence, fell back, disengaged from the harpoon, in the attempt to land them, he succeeded in getting a good many of the smaller ones. old john clark the gardener--far advanced in life at the time, and seeing too imperfectly to discover the crevice which opened high amid the obscurity of the loft--was in a perfect maze regarding the evil influence that was destroying his apples. the harpooned individuals lay scattered over the floor by scores; but the agent that had dispersed and perforated them remained for weeks together an inscrutable mystery to john. at length, however, there came a luckless morning, in which our quondam companion lost hold, when busy at work, of the pointed stick; and when john next entered his storehouse, the guilty harpoon lay stretched across the harpooned apples. the discovery was followed up; the culprit detected; and, on being closeted with his uncle the factor, he communicated not only the details of his own special adventure, but the particulars of ours also. and early next day there was a message sent us by a safe and secret messenger, to the effect that we would be all put in prison in the course of the week. we were terribly frightened; so much so, that the strong point of our position--the double-dyed guilt of the factor's nephew--failed to occur to any of us; and we looked for only instant incarceration. i still remember the intense feeling of shame i used to experience every time i crossed my mother's door for the street--the agonizing, all-engrossing belief that every one was looking at and pointing me out--and the terror, when in my uncles'--akin to that of the culprit who hears from his box the footsteps of the returning jury--that, having learned of my offence, they were preparing to denounce me as a disgrace to an honest family, on which, in the memory of man, no stain had before rested. the discipline was eminently wholesome, and i never forgot it. it did seem somewhat strange, however, that no one appeared to know anything about our misdemeanour: the factor kept our secret remarkably well; but we inferred he was doing so in order to pounce upon us all the more effectually; and, holding a hasty council in the cave, we resolved that, quitting our homes for a few weeks, we should live among the rocks till the storm that seemed rising should have blown by. marcus's cave was too accessible and too well known; but my knowledge of the locality enabled me to recommend to my lads two other caves in which i thought we might be safe. the one opened in a thicket of furze, some forty feet above the shore; and, though large enough within to contain from fifteen to twenty men, it presented outside much the appearance of a fox-earth, and was not known to half-a-dozen people in the country. it was, however, damp and dark; and we found that we could not venture on lighting a fire in it without danger of suffocation. it was pronounced excellent, however, as a temporary place of concealment, were the search for us to become very hot. the other cavern was wide and open; but it was a wild, ghostly-looking place, scarcely once visited from one twelvemonth's end to another: its floor was green with mould, and its ridgy walls and roof bristled over with slim pale stalactites, which looked like the pointed tags that roughen a dead-dress. it was certain, too, that it was haunted. marks of a cloven foot might be seen freshly impressed on its floor, which had been produced either by a stray goat, or by something worse; and the few boys to whom its existence and character were known used to speak of it under their breath as "the devil's cave." my lads did at first look round them as we entered, with an awe-struck and disconsolate expression; but falling busily to work among the cliffs, we collected large quantities of withered grass and fern for bedding, and, selecting the drier and less exposed portions of the floor, soon piled up for ourselves a row of little lairs, formed in a sort of half-way style between that of the wild beast and the gipsy, on which it would have been possible enough to sleep. we selected, too, a place for our fire, gathered a little heap of fuel, and secreted in a recess, for ready use, our marcus' cave pot and pitcher, and the lethal weapons of the gang, which consisted of an old bayonet so corroded with rust that it somewhat resembled a three-edged saw and an old horseman's pistol tied fast to the stock by cobbler's ends, and with lock and ramrod wanting. evening surprised us in the middle of our preparations; and as the shadows fell dark and thick, my lads began to look most uncomfortably around them. at length they fairly struck work: there was no use, they said, for being in the devil's cave so late--no use, indeed, for being in it at all, until we were made sure the factor did actually intend to imprison us; and, after delivering themselves to this effect, they fairly bolted, leaving finlay and myself to bring up the rear at our leisure. my well-laid plan was, in short, found unworkable, from the inferior quality of my materials. i returned home with a heavy heart, somewhat grieved that i had not confided my scheme to only finlay, who could, i ascertained, do braver things, with all his timidity, than the bolder boys, our occasional associates. and yet, when, in passing homewards through the dark lonely woods of the hill, i bethought me of the still deeper solitude and gloom of the haunted cave far below, and thought further, that at that very moment the mysterious being with the cloven foot might be traversing its silent floor, i felt my blood run cold, and at once leaped to the conclusion that, save for the disgrace, a cave with an evil spirit in it could be not a great deal better than a prison. of the prison, however, we heard no more; though i never forgot the grim but precious lesson read me by the factor's threat; and from that time till the present--save now and then, by inadvertently admitting into my newspaper a paragraph written in too terse a style by some good man in the provinces, against some very bad man his neighbour--i have not been fairly within wind of the law. i would, however, seriously advise such of my young friends as may cast a curious eye over these pages to avoid taking any such lesson as mine at first-hand. one half-hour of the mental anguish which i at this time experienced, when i thought of my mother and uncles, and the infamy of a prison, would have vastly more than counterbalanced all that could have been enjoyed from banqueting on apples, even had they been those of the hesperides or of eden, instead of being, what they were in this case, green masses of harsh acid, alike formidable to teeth and stomach. i must add, in justice to my friend of the doocot cave, that, though an occasional visitor at marcus, he had prudently avoided getting into this scrape. our long vacation came at length to an end, by the appointment of a teacher to the subscription school; but the arrangement was not the most profitable possible for the pupils. it was an ominous circumstance, that we learned in a few days to designate the new master by a nickname, and that the name stuck--a misfortune which almost never befalls the truly superior man. he had, however, a certain dash of cleverness about him; and observing that i was of potent influence among my school-fellows, he set himself to determine the grounds on which my authority rested. copy and arithmetic books, in schools in which there was liberty, used in those ancient times to be charged with curious revelations. in the parish school, for instance, which excelled, as i have said, every other school in the world in its knowledge of barques and carvels, it was not uncommon to find a book which, when opened at the right end, presented only copy-lines or arithmetical questions, that, when opened at the wrong one, presented only ships and boats. and there were cases on record in which, on the grand annual examination-day that heralded the vacation, the worthy parish minister, by beginning to turn over the leaves of some exhibited book at the reverse end, found himself engaged, when expecting only the questions of cocker, or the slip-lines of butterworth, amid whole fleets of smacks, frigates, and brigantines. my new master, professionally acquainted with this secret property of arithmetic and copy-books, laid hold of mine, and, bringing them to his desk, found them charged with very extraordinary revelations indeed. the blank spaces were occupied with deplorably scrabbled couplets and stanzas, blent with occasional remarks in rude prose, that dealt chiefly with natural phenomena. one note, for instance, which the master took the trouble of deciphering, referred to the supposed _fact_, familiar as a matter of sensation to boys located on the sea-coast, that during the bathing season the water is warmer in windy days, when the waves break high, than during dead calms; and accounted for it (i fear not very philosophically) on the hypothesis that the "waves, by slapping against each other, engender heat, as heat may be engendered by clapping the hands." the master read on, evidently with much difficulty, and apparently with considerable scepticism: he inferred that i had been borrowing, not inventing: though where such prose and such verse could have been borrowed, and, in especial, such grammar and such spelling, even cleverer men than he might well have despaired of ever finding out. and in order to test my powers, he proposed furnishing me with a theme on which to write. "let us see," he said, "let us see: the dancing-school ball comes on here next week--bring me a poem on the dancing-school ball." the subject did not promise a great deal; but, setting myself to work in the evening, i produced half-a-dozen stanzas on the ball, which were received as good, in evidence that i actually could rhyme; and for some weeks after i was rather a favourite with the new master. i had, however, ere now become a wild insubordinate boy, and the only school in which i could properly be taught was that world-wide school which awaited me, in which toil and hardship are the severe but noble teachers. i got into sad scrapes. quarrelling, on one occasion, with a boy of my own standing, we exchanged blows across the form; and when called up for trial and punishment, the fault was found to attach so equally to both sides, that the same number of _palmies_, well laid on, were awarded to each. i bore mine, however, like a north american indian, whereas my antagonist began to howl and cry; and i could not resist the temptation of saying to him in a whisper that unluckily reached the ear of the master, "ye big blubbering blockhead, take that for a drubbing from me." i had of course to receive a few palmies additional for the speech; but then, "who cared for that?" the master, however, "cared" considerably more for the offence than i did for the punishment. and in a subsequent quarrel with another boy--a stout and somewhat desperate mulatto--i got into a worse scrape still, of which he thought still worse. the mulatto, in his battles, which were many, had a trick, when in danger of being over-matched, of drawing his knife; and in our affair--the necessities of the fight seeming to require it--he drew his knife upon me. to his horror and astonishment, however, instead of running off, i immediately drew mine, and, quick as lightning, stabbed him in the thigh. he roared out in fright and pain, and, though more alarmed than hurt, never after drew knife upon a combatant. but the value of the lesson which i gave was, like most other very valuable things, inadequately appreciated; and it merely procured for me the character of being a dangerous boy. i had certainly reached a dangerous stage; but it was mainly myself that was in jeopardy. there is a transition-time in which the strength and independence of the latent man begin to mingle with the wilfulness and indiscretion of the mere boy, which is more perilous than any other, in which many more downward careers of recklessness and folly begin, that end in wreck and ruin, than in all the other years of life which intervene between childhood and old age. the growing lad should be wisely and tenderly dealt with at this critical stage. the severity that would fain compel the implicit submission yielded at an earlier period, would probably succeed, if his character was a strong one, in insuring but his ruin. it is at this transition-stage that boys run off to sea from parents and masters, or, when tall enough, enlist in the army for soldiers. the strictly orthodox parent, if more severe than wise, succeeds occasionally in driving, during this crisis, his son into popery or infidelity; and the sternly moral one, in landing _his_ in utter profligacy. but, leniently and judiciously dealt with, the dangerous period passes: in a few years at most--in some instances in even a few months--the sobriety incidental to a further development of character ensues, and the wild boy settles down into a rational young man. it so chanced, however, that in what proved the closing scene in my term of school attendance, i was rather unfortunate than guilty. the class to which i now belonged read an english lesson every afternoon, and had its rounds of spelling; and in these last i acquitted myself but ill; partly from the circumstance that i spelt only indifferently, but still more from the further circumstance, that, retaining strongly fixed in my memory the broad scotch pronunciation acquired at the dames' school, i had to carry on in my mind the double process of at once spelling the required word, and of translating the old sounds of the letters of which it was composed into the modern ones. nor had i been taught to break the words into syllables; and so, when required one evening to spell the word "_awful_," with much deliberation--for i had to translate, as i went on, the letters _a-w_ and _u_--i spelt it word for word, without break or pause, as a-w-f-u-l. "no," said the master, "a-w, _aw_, f-u-l, _awful_; spell again." this seemed preposterous spelling. it was sticking in an _a_, as i thought, into the middle of the word, where, i was sure, no _a_ had a right to be; and so i spelt it as at first. the master recompensed my supposed contumacy with a sharp cut athwart the ears with his tawse; and again demanding the spelling of the word, i yet again spelt it as at first. but on receiving a second cut, i refused to spell it any more; and, determined on overcoming my obstinacy, he laid hold of me and attempted throwing me down. as wrestling, however, had been one of our favourite marcus' cave exercises, and as few lads of my inches wrestled better than i, the master, though a tall and tolerably robust fellow, found the feat considerably more difficult than he could have supposed. we swayed from side to side of the school-room, now backwards, now forwards, and for a full minute it seemed to be rather a moot point on which side the victory was to incline. at length, however, i was tripped over a form; and as the master had to deal with me, not as master usually deals with pupil, but as one combatant deals with another, whom he has to beat into submission, i was mauled in a way that filled me with aches and bruises for a full month thereafter. i greatly fear that, had i met the fellow on a lonely road five years subsequent to our encounter, when i had become strong enough to raise breast-high the "great lifting stone of the dropping cave," he would have caught as sound a thrashing as he ever gave to little boy or girl in his life; but all i could do at this time was to take down my cap from off the pin, when the affair had ended, and march straight out of school. and thus terminated my school education. before night i had avenged myself, in a copy of satiric verses, entitled "the pedagogue," which--as they had some little cleverness in them, regarded as the work of a boy, and as the known eccentricities of their subject gave me large scope--occasioned a good deal of merriment in the place; and of the verses a fair copy, written out by finlay, was transmitted through the post-office to the pedagogue himself. but the only notice he ever took of them was incidentally, in a short speech made to the copyist a few days after. "i _see_, sir," he said,--"i _see_ you still associate with that fellow miller; perhaps he will make you a poet!" "i had thought, sir," said finlay very quietly, in reply, "that poets were born--not made." as a specimen of the rhyme of this period, and as in some degree a set-off against my drubbing, which remains till this day an unsettled score, i submit my pasquinade to the reader:-- the pedagogue. with solemn mien and pious air, s--k--r attends each call of grace; loud eloquence bedecks his prayer, and formal sanctity his face. all good; but turn the other side, and see the smirking beau displayed; the pompous strut, exalted air, and all that marks the fop, is there. in character we seldom see traits so diverse meet and agree: can the affected mincing trip, exalted brow, and pride-pressed lip, in strange incongruous union meet, with all that stamps the hypocrite? we see they do: but let us scan those secret springs which move the man. though now he wields the knotty birch, his better hope lies in the church: for this the sable robe he wears, for this in pious guise appears. but then, the weak will cannot hide th' inherent vanity and pride; and thus he acts the coxcomb's part, as dearer to his poor vain heart: nature's born fop! a saint by art!! but hold! he wears no fopling's dress each seam, each thread, the eye can trace his garb all o'er;--the dye, though true, time-blanch'd, displays a fainter hue: dress forms the fopling's better part; reconcile this, and prove your art. "chill penury represses pride;"-- a maxim by the wise denied; for 'tis alone tame plodding souls, whose spirits bend when it controls,-- whose lives run on in one dull same, plain honesty their highest aim. with him it merely can repress-- tailor o'er-cow'd--the pomp of dress; his spirit, unrepressed, can soar high as e'er folly rose before; can fly pale study, learn'd debate, and ape proud fashion's idle state: yet fails in that engaging grace that lights the practised courtier's face. his weak affected air we mark, and, smiling, view the would-be spark; complete in every act and feature,-- an ill-bred, silly, awkward creature. my school-days fairly over, a life of toil frowned full in front of me; but never yet was there a half-grown lad less willing to take up the man and lay down the boy. my set of companions was fast breaking up;--my friend of the doocot cave was on the eve of proceeding to an academy in a neighbouring town; finlay had received a call from the south, to finish his education in a seminary on the banks of the tweed; one marcus' cave lad was preparing to go to sea; another to learn a trade; a third to enter a shop; the time of dispersal was too evidently at hand; and, taking counsel one day together, we resolved on constructing something--we at first knew not what--that might serve as a monument to recall to us in after years the memory of our early pastimes and enjoyments. the common school-book story of the persian shepherd, who, when raised by his sovereign to high place in the empire, derived his chief pleasure from contemplating, in a secret apartment, the pipe, crook, and rude habiliments of his happier days, suggested to me that we also should have our secret apartment, in which to store up, for future contemplation, our bayonet and pistol, pot and pitcher; and i recommended that we should set ourselves to dig a subterranean chamber for that purpose among the woods of the hill, accessible, like the mysterious vaults of our story-books, by a trap-door. the proposal was favourably received; and, selecting a solitary spot among the trees as a proper site, and procuring spade and mattock, we began to dig. soon passing through the thin crust of vegetable mould, we found the red boulder clay beneath exceedingly stiff and hard; but day after day saw us perseveringly at work; and we succeeded in digging a huge square pit, about six feet in length and breadth, and fully seven feet deep. fixing four upright posts in the corners, we lined our apartment with slender spars nailed closely together; and we had prepared for giving it a massive roof of beams formed of fallen trees, and strong enough to bear a layer of earth and turf from a foot to a foot and a half in depth, with a little opening for the trap-door; when we found, one morning, on pressing onwards to the scene of our labours, that we were doggedly tracked by a horde of boys considerably more numerous than our own party. their curiosity had been excited, like that of the princess nekayah in rasselas, by the tools which we carried, and by "seeing that we had directed our walk every day to the same point;" and in vain, by running and doubling, by scolding and remonstrating, did we now attempt shaking them off. i saw that, were we to provoke a general _mélée_, we could scarce expect to come off victors; but deeming myself fully a match for their stoutest boy, i stepped out and challenged him to come forward and fight me. he hesitated, looked foolish, and refused; but said, he would readily fight with any of my party except myself. i immediately named my friend of the doocot cave, who leaped out with a bound to meet him; but the boy, as i had anticipated, refused to fight him also; and, observing the proper effect produced, i ordered my lads to march forward; and from an upper slope of the hill we had the satisfaction of seeing that our pursuers, after lingering for a little while on the spot on which we had left them, turned homewards, fairly cowed, and pursued us no more. but, alas! on reaching our secret chamber, we ascertained, by marks all too unequivocal, that it was to be secret no longer. some rude hand had torn down the wooden lining, and cut two of the posts half through with a hatchet; and on returning disconsolately to the town, we ascertained that johnstone the forester had just been there before us, declaring that some atrociously wicked persons--for whose apprehension a proclamation was to be instantly issued--had contrived a diabolical trap, which he had just discovered, for maiming the cattle of the gentleman, his employer, who farmed the hill. johnstone was an old forty-second man, who had followed wellington over the larger part of the peninsula; but though he had witnessed the storming and sack of san sebastian, and a great many other bad things, nothing had he ever seen on the peninsula, or anywhere else, he said, half so mischievous as the cattle-trap. we, of course, kept our own secret; and as we all returned under the cloud of night, and with heavy hearts filled up our excavation level with the soil, the threatened proclamation was never issued. johnstone, however--who had been watching my motions for a considerable time before, and whom, as he was a formidable fellow, very unlike any of the other foresters, i had been sedulously watching in turn--had no hesitation in declaring that i, and i only, could be the designer of the cattle-trap. i had acquainted myself in books, he said, with the mode of entrapping by pitfalls wild beasts in the forests abroad; and my trap for the colonel's cattle was, he was certain, a result of my book-acquired knowledge. i was one day lounging in front of my mother's dwelling, when up came johnstone to address me. as the evidence regarding the excavation had totally broken down, i was aware of no special offence at the time that could have secured for me such a piece of attention, and inferred that the old soldier was labouring under some mistake; but johnstone's address soon evinced that he was not in the least mistaken. "he wished to be acquainted with me," he said. "it was all nonsense for us to be bothering one another, when we had no cause to quarrel." he used occasionally to eke out his pension, and his scanty allowance as forester, by catching a basket of fish for himself from off the rocks of the hill; and he had just discovered a projecting rock at the foot of a tall precipice, which would prove, he was sure, one of the best fishing platforms in the firth. but then, in the existing state, it was wholly inaccessible. he was, however, of opinion, that it was possible to lay it open by carrying a path adown the shelving face of the precipice. he had seen wellington address himself to quite as desperate-looking matters in the peninsula; and were i but to assist him, he was sure, he said, we could construct between us the necessary path. the undertaking was one wholly according to my own heart; and next morning johnstone and i were hard at work on the giddy brow of the precipice. it was topped by a thick bed of boulder clay, itself--such was the steepness of the slope--almost a precipice; but a series of deeply-cut steps led us easily adown the bed of clay; and then a sloping shelf, which, with much labour, we deepened and flattened, conducted us not unsafely some five-and-twenty or thirty feet along the face of the precipice proper. a second series of steps, painfully scooped out of the living rock, and which passed within a few yards of a range of herons' nests perched on a hitherto inaccessible platform, brought us down some five-and-twenty or thirty feet more; but then we arrived at a sheer descent of about twenty feet, at which johnstone looked rather blank, though, on my suggesting a ladder, he took heart again, and, cutting two slim taper trees in the wood above, we flung them over the precipice into the sea; and then fishing them up with a world of toil and trouble, we squared and bored them upwards, and, cutting tenons for them in the hard gneiss, we placed them against the rock front, and nailed over them a line of steps. the precipice beneath sloped easily on to the fishing rock, and so a few steps more completed our path. i never saw a man more delighted than johnstone. as being lighter and more active than he--for though not greatly advanced in life, he was considerably debilitated by severe wounds--i had to take some of the more perilous parts of the work on myself. i had cut the tenons for the ladder with a rope round my waist, and had recovered the trees flung into the sea by some adroit swimming; and the old soldier became thoroughly impressed with the conviction that my proper sphere was the army. i was already five feet three, he said; in little more than a twelvemonth i would be five feet seven; and were i then but to enlist, and to keep from the "drop drink"--a thing which he never could do--i would, he was certain, rise to be a serjeant. in brief, such were the terms on which johnstone and i learned to live ever after, that, had i constructed a _score_ of traps for the colonel's cattle, i believe he would have winked at them all. poor fellow! he got into difficulties a good many years after, and, on the accession of the whigs to power, mortgaged his pension, and emigrated to canada. deeming the terms hard, however, as he well might, he first wrote a letter to his old commander, the duke of wellington--i holding the pen for him--in which, in the hope that their stringency might be relaxed in his behalf, he stated both his services and his case. and promptly did the duke reply, in an essentially kind holograph epistle, in which, after stating that he had no influence at the time with the ministers of the crown, and no means of getting a relaxation of their terms in behalf of any one, he "earnestly recommended william johnstone, _first_, not to seek a provision for himself in canada, unless he were able-bodied, and fit to provide for himself in circumstances of extreme hardship; and, _second_, on no account to sell or mortgage his pension." but the advice was not taken;--johnstone did emigrate to canada, and did mortgage his pension; and i fear--though i failed to trace his after history--that he suffered in consequence. chapter viii. "now, surely, thought i, there's enou to fill life's dusty way; and who will miss a poet's feet, or wonder where he stray! so to the woods and wastes i'll go, and i will build an ozier bower; and sweetly there to me shall flow the meditative hour."--henry kirke white. finlay was away; my friend of the doocot cave was away; my other companions were all scattered abroad; my mother, after a long widowhood of more than eleven years, had entered into a second marriage; and i found myself standing face to face with a life of labour and restraint. the prospect appeared dreary in the extreme. the necessity of ever toiling from morning to night, and from one week's end to another, and all for a little coarse food and homely raiment, seemed to be a dire one; and fain would i have avoided it. but there was no escape; and so i determined on being a mason. i remembered my cousin george's long winter holidays, and how delightfully he employed them; and, by making choice of cousin george's profession, i trusted to find, like him, large compensation, in the amusements of one-half the year, for the toils of the other half. labour shall not wield over me, i said, a rod entirely black, but a rod like one of jacob's peeled wands, chequered white and black alternately. i however, did look, even at this time, notwithstanding the antecedents of a sadly mis-spent boyhood, to something higher than mere amusement; and, daring to believe that literature, and, mayhap, natural science, were, after all, my proper vocations, i resolved that much of my leisure time should be given to careful observation, and the study of our best english authors. both my uncles, especially james, were sorely vexed by my determination to be a mason; they had expected to see me rising in some one of the learned professions; yet here was i going to be a mere operative mechanic, like one of themselves! i spent with them a serious hour, in which they urged that, instead of entering as a mason's apprentice, i should devote myself anew to my education. though the labour of their hands formed their only wealth, they would assist me, they said, in getting through college; nay, if i preferred it, i might meanwhile come and live with them: all they asked of me in return was that i should give myself as sedulously to my lessons as, in the event of my becoming a mason, i would have to give myself to my trade. i demurred. the lads of my acquaintance, who were preparing for college had an eye, i said, to some profession; they were qualifying themselves to be lawyers, or medical men, or, in much larger part, were studying for the church; whereas i had no wish, and no peculiar fitness to be either lawyer or doctor; and as for the church, that was too serious a direction to look in for one's bread, unless one could honestly regard one's-self as _called_ to the church's proper work; and i could not. there, said my uncles, you are perfectly right: better be a poor mason--better be anything honest, however humble--than an _uncalled_ minister. how very strong the hold taken of the mind in some cases by hereditary convictions of which the ordinary conduct shows little apparent trace! i had for the last few years been a wild boy--not without my share of respect for donald roy's religion, but possessed of none of donald's seriousness; and yet here was his belief in this special matter lying so strongly entrenched in the recesses of my mind, that no consideration whatever could have induced me to outrage it by obtruding my unworthiness on the church. though, mayhap, overstrained in many of its older forms, i fain wish the conviction, in at least some of its better modifications, were more general now. it might be well for all the protestant churches practically to hold, with uncles james and sandy, that true ministers cannot be manufactured out of ordinary men--men ordinary in talent and character--in a given number of years, and then passed by the imposition of hands into the sacred office; but that, on the contrary, ministers, when real, are all special creations of the grace of god. i may add, that in a belief of this kind, deeply implanted in the popular mind of scotland, the strength of our recent church controversy mainly lay. slowly and unwillingly my uncles at length consented that i should make trial of a life of manual labour. the husband of one of my maternal aunts was a mason, who, contracting for jobs on a small scale, usually kept an apprentice or two, and employed a few journeymen. with him i agreed to serve for the term of three years; and, getting a suit of strong moleskin clothes, and a pair of heavy hob-nailed shoes, i waited only for the breaking up of the winter frosts, to begin work in the cromarty quarries--jobbing masters in the north of scotland usually combining the profession of the quarrier with that of the mason. in the beautiful poetic fragment from which i have chosen my motto, poor kirke white fondly indulges in the dream of a hermit life--quiet, meditative, solitary, spent far away in deep woods, or amid wide-spread wastes, where the very sounds that arose would be but the faint echoes of a loneliness in which man was not--a "voice of the desert, never dumb." the dream is that of a certain brief period of life between boyhood and comparatively mature youth; and we find more traces of it in the poetry of kirke white than in that of almost any other poet; simply because he wrote at the age in which it is natural to indulge in it, and because, being less an imitator, and more original, than most juvenile poets, he gave it as portion of the internal experience from which he drew. but it is a dream not restricted to young poets: the ignorant, half-grown lad, who learns, for the first time, "about the great rich gentleman who advertises for a hermit," and wishes that he had but the necessary qualification of beard to offer himself as a candidate, indulges in it also; and i, too, in this transition stage, cherished it with all the strength of a passion. it seems to spring out of a latent timidity in the yet undeveloped mind, that shrinks from grappling with the stern realities of life, amid the crowd and press of the busy world, and o'ershaded by the formidable competition of men already practised in the struggle. i have still before me the picture of the "lodge in some vast wilderness" to which i could have fain retired, to lead all alone a life quieter, but quite as wild, as my marcus' cave one; and the snugness and comfort of the humble interior of my hermitage, during some boisterous night of winter, when the gusty wind would be howling around the roof, and the rain beating on the casement, but when, in the calm within, the cheerful flame would roar in the chimney, and glance bright on rafter and wall, still impress me as if the recollection were in reality that of a scene witnessed, not of a mere vision conjured up by the fancy. but it was all the idle dream of a truant lad, who would fain now, as on former occasions, have avoided going to school--that best and noblest of all schools, save the christian one, in which honest labour is the teacher--in which the ability of being useful is imparted, and the spirit of independence communicated, and the habit of persevering effort acquired; and which is more moral than the schools in which only philosophy is taught, and greatly more happy than the schools which profess to teach only the art of enjoyment. noble, upright, self-relying toil! who that knows thy solid worth and value would be ashamed of thy hard hands, and thy soiled vestments, and thy obscure tasks--thy humble cottage, and hard couch, and homely fare! save for thee and thy lessons, man in society would everywhere sink into a sad compound of the fiend and the wild beast; and this fallen world would be as certainly a moral as a natural wilderness. but i little thought of the excellence of thy character and of thy teachings, when, with a heavy heart, i set out about this time, on a morning of early spring, to take my first lesson from thee in a sandstone quarry. i have elsewhere recorded the history of my few first days of toil; but it is possible for two histories, of the same period and individual, to be at once true to fact, and unlike each other in the scenes which they describe, and the events which they record. the quarry in which i commenced my life of labour was, as i have said, a sandstone one, and exhibited in the section of the furze-covered bank which it presented, a bar of deep red stone beneath, and a bar of pale red clay above. both deposits belonged to formations equally unknown, at the time, to the geologist. the deep-red stone formed part of an upper member of the lower old red sandstone; the pale red clay, which was much roughened by rounded pebbles, and much cracked and fissured by the recent frosts, was a bed of the boulder clay. save for the wholesome restraint that confined me for day after day to this spot, i should perhaps have paid little attention to either. mineralogy, in its first rudiments, had early awakened my curiosity, just as it never fails to awaken, with its gems and its metals, and its hard glittering rocks, of which tools may be made, the curiosity of infant tribes and nations. but in unsightly masses of mechanical origin, whether sandstone or clay, i could take no interest; just as infant societies take no interest in such masses, and so fail to know anything of geology; and it was not until i had learned to detect among the ancient sandstone strata of this quarry exactly the same phenomena as those which i used to witness in my walks with uncle sandy in the ebb, that i was fairly excited to examine and inquire. it was the necessity which made me a quarrier that taught me to be a geologist. further, i soon found that there was much to be enjoyed in a life of labour. a taste for the beauties of natural scenery is of itself a never-failing spring of delight; and there was scarce a day in which i wrought in the open air, during this period, in which i did not experience its soothing and exhilarating influence. well has it been said by the poet keats, that "a thing of beauty is a joy for ever." i owed much to the upper reaches of the cromarty firth, as seen, when we sat down to our mid-day meal, from the gorge of the quarry, with their numerous rippling currents, that, in the calm, resembled streamlets winding through a meadow, and their distant grey promontories tipped with villages that brightened in the sunshine; while, pale in the background, the mighty hills, still streaked with snow, rose high over bay and promontory, and gave dignity and power to the scene. still, however, with all my enjoyments, i had to suffer some of the evils of excessive toil. though now seventeen, i was still seven inches short of my ultimate stature; and my frame, cast more at the time in the mould of my mother than in that of the robust sailor, whose "back," according to the description of one of his comrades, "no one had ever put to the ground," was slim and loosely knit; and i used to suffer much from wandering pains in the joints, and an oppressive feeling about the chest, as if crushed by some great weight. i became subject, too, to frequent fits of extreme depression of spirits, which took almost the form of a walking sleep--results, i believe, of excessive fatigue--and during which my absence of mind was so extreme, that i lacked the ability of protecting myself against accident, in cases the most simple and ordinary. besides other injuries, i lost at different times during the first few months of my apprenticeship, when in these fits of partial somnambulism, no fewer than seven of my finger-nails. but as i gathered strength, my spirits became more equable; and not until many years after, when my health failed for a time under over-exertion of another kind, had i any renewed experience of the fits of walking sleep. my master, an elderly man at the time--for, as he used not unfrequently to tell his apprentices, he had been born on the same day and year as george the fourth, and so we could celebrate, if we pleased, both birthdays together--was a person of plodding, persevering industry, who wrought rather longer hours than was quite agreeable to one who wished to have some time to himself; but he was, in the main, a good master. as a builder, he made conscience of every stone he laid. it was remarked in the place, that the walls built by uncle david never bulged or fell; and no apprentice or journeyman of his was permitted, on any plea, to make "slight wark." though by no means a bold or daring man, he was, from sheer abstraction, when engrossed in his employment, more thoroughly insensible to personal danger than almost any other individual i ever knew. on one occasion, when an overloaded boat, in which he was carrying stones from the quarry to the neighbouring town, was overtaken by a series of rippling seas, and suddenly sank, leaving him standing on one of the thwarts submerged to the throat, he merely said to his partner, on seeing his favourite snuff-mull go floating past, "od, andro man, just rax out your han' and tak' in my snuff-box." on another, when a huge mass of the boulder clay came toppling down upon us in the quarry with such momentum, that it bent a massive iron lever like a bow, and crushed into minute fragments a strong wheelbarrow, uncle david, who, older and less active than any of the others, had been entangled in the formidable debris, relieved all our minds by remarking, as we rushed back, expecting to find him crushed as flat as a botanical preparation, "od, i draid, andro man, we have lost our good barrow." he was at first of opinion that i would do him little credit as a workman: in my absent fits i was well-nigh as impervious to instruction as he himself was insensible to danger; and i laboured under the further disadvantage of knowing a little, as an amateur, of both hewing and building, from the circumstance, that when the undertakings of my schoolboy days involved, as they sometimes did, the erection of a house, i used always to be selected as the mason of the party. and all that i had learned on these occasions i had now to unlearn. in the course of a few months, however, i did unlearn it all; and then, acquiring in less than a fortnight a very considerable mastery over the mallet--for mine was one of the not unfrequent cases in which the mechanical knock seems, after many an abortive attempt, to be caught up at once--i astonished uncle david one morning by setting myself to compete with him, and by hewing nearly two feet of pavement for his one. and on this occasion my aunt, his wife, who had been no stranger to his previous complaints, was informed that her "stupid nephew" was to turn out "a grand workman after all." a life of toil has, however, its peculiar temptations. when overwrought, and in my depressed moods, i learned to regard the ardent spirits of the dram-shop as high luxuries: they gave lightness and energy to both body and mind, and substituted for a state of dulness and gloom, one of exhilaration and enjoyment. usquebaugh was simply happiness doled out by the glass, and sold by the gill. the drinking usages of the profession in which i laboured were at this time many: when a foundation was laid, the workmen were treated to drink; they were treated to drink when the walls were levelled for laying the joists; they were treated to drink when the building was finished; they were treated to drink when an apprentice joined the squad; treated to drink when his "apron was washed;" treated to drink when "his time was out;" and occasionally they learned to treat one another to drink. in laying down the foundation-stone of one of the larger houses built this year by uncle david and his partner, the workmen had a royal "founding-pint," and two whole glasses of the whisky came to my share. a full-grown man would not have deemed a gill of usquebaugh an overdose, but it was considerably too much for me; and when the party broke up, and i got home to my books, i found, as i opened the pages of a favourite author, the letters dancing before my eyes, and that i could no longer master the sense. i have the volume at present before me--a small edition of the essays of bacon, a good deal worn at the corners by the friction of the pocket; for of bacon i never tired. the condition into which i had brought myself was, i felt, one of degradation. i had sunk, by my own act, for the time, to a lower level of intelligence than that on which it was my privilege to be placed; and though the state could have been no very favourable one for forming a resolution, i in that hour determined that i should never again sacrifice my capacity of intellectual enjoyment to a drinking usage; and, with god's help, i was enabled to hold by the determination. though never a strict abstainer, i have wrought as an operative mason for whole twelvemonths together, in which i did not consume half-a-dozen glasses of ardent spirits, or partake of half-a-dozen draughts of fermented liquor. but i do see, in looking back on this my first year of labour, a dangerous point, at which, in the attempt to escape from the sense of depression and fatigue, the craving appetite of the confirmed tippler might have been formed. the ordinary, long-wrought quarries of my native town have been opened in the old coast-line along the southern shores of the cromarty firth, and they contain no organisms. the beds occasionally display their water-rippled surfaces, and occasionally their areas of ancient desiccation, in which the polygonal partings still remain as when they had cracked in the drying, untold ages before. but the rock contains neither fish nor shell; and the mere mechanical processes of which it gave evidence, though they served to raise strange questions in my mind, failed to interest me so deeply as the wonderful organisms of other creations would have done. we soon quitted these quarries, however, as they proved more than usually difficult in the working at this time, for a quarry situated on the northern shore of the moray firth, which had been recently opened in an inferior member of the lower old red sandstone, and which, as i subsequently ascertained, does in some of its beds contain fossils. it was, however, not to the quarry itself that my first-found organisms belonged. there lies in the firth beyond, an outlier of the lias, which, like the marcus' cave one referred to in a preceding chapter, strews the beach with its fragments after every storm from the sea; and in a nodular mass of bluish-grey limestone derived from this subaqueous bed i laid open my first-found ammonite. it was a beautiful specimen, graceful in its curves as those of the ionic volute, and greatly more delicate in its sculpturing; and its bright cream-coloured tint, dimly burnished by the prismatic hues of the original pearl, contrasted exquisitely with the dark grey of the matrix which enclosed it. i broke open many a similar nodule during our stay at this delightful quarry, and there were few of them in which i did not detect some organism of the ancient world--scales of fishes, groups of shells, bits of decayed wood, and fragments of fern. at the dinner hour i used to show my new-found specimens to the workmen; but though they always took the trouble of looking at them, and wondered at times how the shells and plants had "got into the stones," they seemed to regard them as a sort of natural toys, which a mere lad might amuse himself in looking after, but which were rather below the notice of grown-up people like themselves. one workman, however, informed me, that things of a kind i had not yet found--genuine thunderbolts--which in his father's times were much sought for the cure of bewitched cattle--were to be found in tolerable abundance on a reach of the beach about two miles further to the west; and as, on quitting the quarry for the piece of work on which we were to be next engaged, uncle david gave us all a half-holiday, i made use of it in visiting the tract of shore indicated by the workman. and there, leaning against the granitic gneiss and hornblend slate of the hill of eathie, i found a liassic deposit, amazingly rich in its organisms--not buried under the waves, as at marcus' shore, or as opposite our new quarry, but at one part underlying a little grass-covered plain, and at another exposed for several hundred yards together along the shore. never yet did embryo geologist break ground on a more promising field; and memorable in my existence was this first of the many happy evenings that i have spent in exploring it. the hill of eathie, like the cromarty sutors, belongs, as i have already had occasion to mention, to what de beaumont would term the ben nevis system of hills--that latest of our scottish mountain systems which, running from south-west to north-east, in the line of the great caledonian valley, and in that of the valleys of the nairn, findhorn, and spey, uptilted in its course, when it arose, the oolites of sutherland, and the lias of cromarty and ross. the deposit which the hill of eathie disturbed is exclusively a liassic one. the upturned base of the formation rests immediately against the hill; and we may trace the edges of the various overlying beds for several hundred feet outwards, until, apparently near the top of the deposit, we lose them in the sea. the various beds--all save the lowest, which consists of a blue adhesive clay--are composed of a dark shale, consisting of easily-separable laminæ, thin as sheets of pasteboard; and they are curiously divided from each other by bands of fossiliferous limestone of but from one to two feet thick. these liassic beds, with their separating bands, are a sort of boarded books; for as a series of volumes reclining against a granite pedestal in the geologic library of nature, i used to find pleasure in regarding them. the limestone bands, elaborately marbled with lignite, ichthyolite, and shell, form the stiff boarding; the pasteboard-like laminæ between--tens and hundreds of thousands in number in even the slimmer volumes--compose the closely-written leaves. i say closely written; for never yet did signs or characters lie closer on page or scroll than do the organisms of the lias on the surface of these leaf-like laminæ. i can scarce hope to communicate to the reader, after the lapse of so many years, an adequate idea of the feeling of wonder which the marvels of this deposit excited in my mind, wholly new as they were to me at the time. even the fairy lore of my first-formed library--that of the birchen box--had impressed me less. the general tone of the colouring of these written leaves, though dimmed by the action of untold centuries, is still very striking. the ground is invariably of a deep neutral grey, verging on black; while the flattened organisms, which present about the same degree of relief as one sees in the figures of an embossed card, contrast with it in tints that vary from opaque to silvery white, and from pale yellow to an umbry or chestnut brown. groups of ammonites appear as if drawn in white chalk; clusters of a minute undescribed bivalve are still plated with thin films of the silvery nacre; the mytilaceæ usually bear a warm tint of yellowish brown, and must have been brilliant shells in their day; gryphites and oysters are always of a dark grey, and plagiostomæ ordinarily of a bluish or neutral tint. on some of the leaves curious pieces of incident seem recorded. we see fleets of minute terebratulæ, that appear to have been covered up by some sudden deposit from above, when riding at their anchors; and whole argosies of ammonites, that seemed to have been wrecked at once by some untoward accident, and sent crushed and dead to the bottom. assemblages of bright black plates, that shine like pieces of japan work, with numerous parallelogrammical scales bristling with nail-like points, indicate where some armed fish of the old ganoid order lay down and died; and groups of belemnites, that lie like heaps of boarding-pikes thrown carelessly on a vessel's deck on the surrender of the crew, tell where _skulls_ of cuttle-fishes of the ancient type had ceased to trouble the waters. i need scarce add, that these spear-like belemnites formed the supposed thunderbolts of the deposit. lying athwart some of the pages thus strangely inscribed we occasionally find, like the dark hawthorn leaf in bewick's well-known vignette, slim-shaped leaves coloured in deep umber; and branches of extinct pines, and fragments of strangely-fashioned ferns, form their more ordinary garnishing. page after page, for tens and hundreds of feet together, repeat the same wonderful story. the great alexandrian library, with its tomes of ancient literature, the accumulation of long ages, was but a meagre collection--not less puny in bulk than recent in date--compared with this marvellous library of the scotch lias. who, after once spending even a few hours in such a school, could avoid being a geologist? i had formerly found much pleasure among rocks and in caves; but it was the wonders of the eathie lias that first gave direction and aim to my curiosity. from being a mere child, that had sought amusement in looking over the _pictures_ of the stony volume of nature, i henceforth became a sober student desirous of reading and knowing it as a book. the extreme beauty, however, of the liassic fossils made me pass over at this time, as of little interest, a discovery which, if duly followed up, would have probably landed me full in the midst of the old red sandstone ichthyolites fully ten years ere i learned to know them. in forming a temporary harbour, at which we boated the stones we had been quarrying, i struck my pick into a slaty sandstone bed, thickly mottled in the layers by carbonaceous markings. they consisted, i saw, of thin rectilinear stems or leaves, much broken and in a bad state of keeping, that at once suggested to me layers of comminuted _zostera marina_, such as i had often seen on the cromarty beach thrown up from the submarine meadows of the firth beyond. but then, with magnificent ammonites and belemnites, and large well-marked lignites, to be had in abundance at eathie just for the laying open and the picking up, how could i think of giving myself to disinter what seemed to be mere broken fragments of _zostera_? within, however, a few feet of these carbonaceous markings there occurred one of those platforms of violent death for which the old red sandstone is so remarkable--a platform strewed over with fossil remains of the firstborn ganoids of creation, many of which still bore in their contorted outlines evidence of sudden dissolution and the dying pang. during the winter of this year--for winter at length came, and, my labours over, three happy months were all my own--i had an opportunity of seeing, deep in a wild highland glen, the remains of one of our old scotch forests of the native pine. my cousin george, finding his pretty highland cottage on the birch-covered tomhan situated too far from his ordinary scenes of employment, had removed to cromarty; and when his work had this year come to a close for the season, he made use of his first leisure in visiting his father-in-law, an aged shepherd who resided in the upper recesses of strathcarron. he had invited me to accompany him; and of the invitation i gladly availed myself. we struck across the tract of wild hills which intervenes between the cromarty and dornoch firths, a few miles to the west of the village of invergordon; and after spending several hours in toiling across dreary moors, unopened at the time by any public road, we took our noon-day refreshment in an uninhabited valley, among broken cottage walls, with a few furrowed patches stretching out around us, green amid the waste. one of the best swordsmen in ross had once lived there; but both he and his race had been lost to scotland in consequence of the compelled emigration so common in the highlands during the last two ages; and cousin george came strongly out against the lairds. the chill winter night had fallen on the dark hills and alder-skirted river of strathcarron, as, turning from off the road that winds along the kyle of dornoch, we entered its bleak gorge; and as the shepherd's dwelling lay high up the valley, where the lofty sides approach so near, and rise so abruptly, that for the whole winter quarter the sun never falls on the stream below, we had still some ten or twelve miles of broken road before us. the moon, in her first quarter, hung on the edge of the hills, dimly revealing their rough outline; while in a recess of the stream, far beneath, we could see the torch of some adventurous fisher, now gleaming red on rock and water, now suddenly disappearing, eclipsed by the overhanging brushwood. it was late ere we reached the shepherd's cottage--a dark-raftered, dimly-lighted erection of turf and stone. the weather for several weeks before had been rainy and close, and the flocks of the inmate had been thinned by the common scourge of the sheep-farmer at such seasons on damp, boggy farms. the beams were laden with skins besmeared with blood, that dangled overhead to catch the conservative influences of the smoke; and on a rude plank-table below, there rose two tall pyramids of braxy-mutton, heaped up each on a corn-riddle. the shepherd--a highlander of large proportions, but hard, and thin, and worn by the cares and toils of at least sixty winters--sat moodily beside the fire. the state of his flocks was not cheering; and, besides, he had seen a vision of late, he said, that filled his mind with strange forebodings. he had gone out after nightfall on the previous evening to a dank hollow, in which many of his flock had died. the rain had ceased a few hours before, and a smart frost had set in, and filled the whole valley with a wreath of silvery vapour, dimly lighted by the thin fragment of a moon that appeared as if resting on the hill-top. the wreath stretched out its grey folds beneath him--for he had climbed half-way up the acclivity--when suddenly the figure of a man, formed as of heated metal--the figure of what seemed to be a brazen man brought to a red heat in a furnace--sprang up out of the darkness; and, after stalking over the surface of the fog for a few brief seconds, during which, however, it had traversed the greater part of the valley, it as suddenly disappeared, leaving an evanescent trail of flame behind it. there could be little doubt that the old shepherd had merely seen one of those shooting lights that in mountain districts so frequently startle the night traveller; but the apparition now filled his whole mind, as one vouchsafed from the spiritual world, and of strange and frightful portent:-- "a meteor of the night of distant years, that flashed unnoticed, save by wrinkled eld, musing at midnight upon prophecies." i spent the greater part of the following day with my cousin in the forest of corrybhalgan, and saw two large herds of red deer on the hills. the forest was but a shred of its former self; but the venerable trees still rose thick and tall in some of the more inaccessible hollows; and it was interesting to mark, where they encroached furthest on the open waste, how thoroughly they lost the ordinary character of the scotch fir, and how, sending out from their short gnarled boles immense branches, some two or three feet over the soil, they somewhat resembled in their squat, dense proportions, and rounded contours, gigantic bee-hives. it was of itself worth while undertaking a journey to the highlands, to witness these last remains of that arboreous condition of our country to which the youngest of our geological formations, the peat mosses, bear such significant witness; and which still, largely existing as the condition of the northern countries of continental europe, "remains to attest," as humboldt well remarks, "more than even the records of history, the youthfulness of our civilisation." i revisited at this time, before returning home, the barony of gruids; but winter had not improved it: its humble features, divested of their summer complexion, had assumed an expression of blank wretchedness; and hundreds of its people, appalled at the time by a summons of ejection, looked quite as depressed and miserable as its scenery. finlay and my friend of the doocot cave were no longer within reach; but during this winter i was much in the company of a young man about five years my senior, who was of the true stuff of which friends are made, and to whom i became much attached. i had formed some acquaintance with him about five years before, on his coming to the place from the neighbouring parish of nigg, to be apprenticed to a house-painter, who lived a few doors from my mother's. but there was at first too great a disparity between us for friendship; he was a tall lad, and i a wild boy; and, though occasionally admitted into his sanctum--a damp little room in an outhouse in which he slept, and in his leisure hours made water-colour drawings and verses--it was but as an occasional visitor, who, having a rude taste for literature and the fine arts, was just worthy of being encouraged in this way. my year of toil had, however, wrought wonders for me: it had converted me into a sober young man; and william ross now seemed to find scarce less pleasure in my company than i did in his. poor william! his name must be wholly unfamiliar to the reader; and yet he had that in him which ought to have made it a known one. he was a lad of genius--drew truthfully, had a nice sense of the beautiful, and possessed the true poetic faculty; but he lacked health and spirits, and was naturally of a melancholy temperament, and diffident of himself. he was at this time a thin, pale lad, fair-haired, with a clear waxen complexion, flat chest, and stooping figure; and though he lasted considerably longer than could have been anticipated from his appearance, in seven years after he was in his grave. he was unfortunate in his parents; his mother, though of a devout family of the old scottish type, was an aberrant specimen;--she had fallen in early youth, and had subsequently married an ignorant, half-imbecile labourer, with whom she passed a life of poverty and unhappiness; and of this unpromising marriage william was the eldest child. it was certainly not from either parent he derived his genius. his maternal grandmother and aunt were, however, excellent christian women of superior intelligence, who supported themselves by keeping a girls' school in the parish; and william, who had been brought at an early age to live with them, and was naturally a gentle-spirited, docile boy, had the advantage, in consequence, of having that most important lesson of any education--the lesson of a good example at home--set well before him. his boyhood had been that of the poet: he had loved to indulge in his day-dreams in the solitude of a deep wood beside his grandmother's cottage; and had learned to write verses and draw landscapes in a rural locality in which no one had ever written verses or drawn landscapes before. and finally, as, in the north of scotland, in those primitive times, the nearest approach to an artist was a house-painter, william was despatched to cromarty, when he had grown tall enough for the work, to cultivate his natural taste for the fine arts, in papering rooms and lobbies, and in painting railings and wheel-barrows. there are, i believe, a few instances on record of house-painters rising to be artists: the history of the late mr. william bonnar, of the royal academy of edinburgh, furnishes one of these; but the fact that the cases are not more numerous serves, i fear, to show how much oftener a turn for drawing is a merely imitative, than an original, self-derived faculty. almost all the apprentices of our neighbour the house-painter had their turn for drawing decided enough to influence their choice of a profession; and what was so repeatedly the case in cromarty must, i should think, have been the case in many similar places; but of how few of these embryo limners have the works appeared in even a provincial exhibition-room! at the time my intimacy with william became most close, both his grandmother and aunt were dead, and he was struggling with great difficulty through the last year of his apprenticeship. as his master supplied him with but food and lodging, his linen was becoming scant, and his sabbath suit shabby; and he was looking forward to the time when he should be at liberty to work for himself, with all the anxiety of the voyager who fears that his meagre stock of provisions and water may wholly fail him ere he reaches port. i of course could not assist him. i was an apprentice like himself, and had not the command of a sixpence; nor, had the case been otherwise, would he in all probability have consented to accept of my help; but he lacked spirits as much as money, and in that particular my society did him good. we used to beat over all manner of subjects together, especially poetry and the fine arts; and though we often differed, our differences served only to knit us the more. he, for instance, deemed the "minstrel" of beattie the most perfect of english poems; but though he liked dryden's "virgil" well enough, he could find no poetry whatever in the "absalom and ahithophel" of dry den; whereas i liked both the "minstrel" and the "ahithophel," and, indeed, could hardly say, unlike as they were in complexion and character, which of the two i read oftenest or admired most. again, among the prose writers, addison was his especial favourite, and swift he detested; whereas i liked addison and swift almost equally well, and passed without sense of incongruity, from the vision of mirza, or the paper on westminster abbey, to the true account of the death of partridge, or the tale of a tub. if, however, he could wonder at the latitudinarian laxity of my taste, there was at least one special department in which i could marvel quite as much at the incomprehensible breadth of his. nature had given me, in despite of the phrenologists, who find music indicated by two large protuberances on the corners of my forehead, a deplorably defective ear. my uncle sandy, who was profoundly skilled in psalmody, had done his best to make a singer of me; but he was at length content to stop short, after a world of effort, when he had, as he thought, brought me to distinguish st. george's from any other psalm-tune. on the introduction, however, of a second tune into the parish church that repeated the line at the end of the stanza, even this poor fragment of ability deserted me; and to this day--though i rather like the strains of the bagpipe in general, and have no objection to drums in particular--doubts do occasionally come across me whether there be in reality any such thing as tune. my friend william ross was, on the contrary, a born musician. when a little boy, he had constructed for himself a fife and clarionet of young shoots of elder, on which he succeeded in discoursing sweet music; and addressing himself at another and later period to both the principles and practice of the science, he became one of the best flute-players in the district. notwithstanding my dulness of ear, i do cherish a pleasing recollection of the sweet sounds that used to issue from his little room in the outhouse, every milder evening as i approached, and of the soothed and tranquil state in which i ever found him on these occasions as i entered. i could not understand his music, but i saw that, mentally at least, though, i fear, not physically--for the respiratory organs were weak--it did him great good. there was, however, one special province in which our tastes thoroughly harmonized. we were both of us, if not alike favoured, at least equally devoted, lovers of the wild and beautiful in nature; and many a moonlight walk did we take together this winter among the woods and rocks of the hill. it was once said of thomson, by one who was himself not at all morbidly poetic in his feelings, that "he could not have viewed two candles burning but with a poetical eye." it might at least be said of my friend, that he never saw a piece of fine or striking scenery without being deeply moved by it. as for the mere candles, if placed on a deal dresser or shop-counter, they might have failed to touch him; but if burning in some _lyke_-wake beside the dead, or in some vaulted crypt or lonely rock-cave, he also could not have looked other than poetically on them. i have seen him awed into deep solemnity, in our walks, by the rising moon, as it peered down upon us over the hill, red and broad, and cloud-encircled, through the interstices of some clump of dark firs; and have observed him become suddenly silent, as, emerging from the moonlight woods, we looked into a rugged dell, and saw far beneath, the slim rippling streamlet gleaming in the light, like a narrow strip of the aurora borealis shot athwart a dark sky, when the steep rough sides of the ravine, on either hand, were enveloped in gloom. my friend's opportunities of general reading had not been equal to my own, but he was acquainted with at least one class of books of which i knew scarce anything;--he had carefully studied hogarth's "analysis of beauty," fresnoy's "art of painting," gessner's "letters," the "lectures of sir joshua reynolds," and several other works of a similar kind; and in all the questions of criticism that related to external form, the effects of light and shade, and the influences of the meteoric media, i found him a high authority. he had a fine eye for detecting the peculiar features which gave individuality and character to a landscape--those features, as he used to say, which the artist or poet should seize and render prominent, while, at the same time, lest they should be lost as in a mob, he softened down the others; and, recognising him as a master in this department of characteristic selection, i delighted to learn in his school--by far the best of its kind i ever attended. i was able, however, in part to repay him, by introducing him to many an interesting spot among the rocks, or to retired dells and hollows in the woods, which, from his sedentary habits, he would scarce ever have discovered for himself. i taught him too, to light fires after nightfall in the caves, that we might watch the effects of the strong lights and deep shadows in scenes so wild; and i still vividly remember the delight he experienced, when, after kindling up in the day-time a strong blaze at the mouth of the doocot cave, which filled the recess within with smoke, we forced our way inwards through the cloud, to mark the appearance of the sea and the opposite land seen through a medium so dense, and saw, on turning round, the landscape strangely enwrapped "in the dun hues of earthquake and eclipse." we have visited, after nightfall, the glades of the surrounding woods together, to listen to the night breeze, as it swept sullenly along the pine-tops; and, after striking a light in the old burial vault of a solitary churchyard, we have watched the ray falling on the fissured walls and ropy damp and mould; or, on setting on fire a few withered leaves, have seen the smoke curling slowly upwards, through a square opening in the roof, into the dark sky. william's mind was not of the scientific cast. he had, however, acquired some knowledge of the mathematics, and some skill both in architecture and in the anatomy of the human skeleton and muscles; while of perspective he perhaps knew well-nigh as much as was known at the time. i remember he preferred the treatise on this art, of ferguson the astronomer and mechanician, to any other; and used to say that the twenty years spent by the philosopher as a painter were fully redeemed, though they had produced no good pictures, by his little work on perspective alone. my friend had ere this time given up the writing of verses very much, because he had learned to know what verses ought to be, and failed to satisfy himself with his own; and ere his death, i saw him resign in succession his flute and pencil, and yield up all the hopes he had once cherished of being known. but his weak health affected his spirits, and prostrated the energies of a mind originally rather delicate than strong. chapter ix. "others apart sat on a hill retired, in thoughts more elevate; and reasoned high of providence, foreknowledge, will, and fate-- fixed fate, freewill, foreknowledge absolute; and found no end, in wandering mazes lost."--milton. spring came on, and brought with it its round of labour--quarrying, building, and stone-cutting; but labour had now no terrors for me: i wrought hard during the hours allotted to toil, and was content; and read, wrote, or walked, during the hours that were properly my own, and was happy. early in may, however, we had finished all the work for which my master had previously contracted; and as trade was unusually dull at the time, he could procure no further contracts, and the squad was thrown out of employment. i rushed to the woods and rocks, and got on with my lessons in geology and natural science; but my master, who had no lessons to learn, wearied sadly of doing nothing; and at length, very unwillingly--for he had enacted the part of the employer, though on a small scale, for a full quarter of a century--he set himself to procure work as a journeyman. he had another apprentice at the time; and he, availing himself of the opportunity which the old man's inability of employing him furnished, quitted his service, and commenced work on his own behalf--a step to which, though the position of a journeyman's apprentice seemed rather an anomalous one, i could not see my way. and so, as work turned up for both master and apprentice at a place about twenty miles distant from cromarty, i set out with him, to make trial, for the first time, of the sort of life that is spent in bothies and barracks. our work was to consist, i was informed, of building and hewing at an extensive farm-steading on the banks of the river conon, which one of the wealthier proprietors of the district was getting built for himself, not on contract, but by the old mode of employing operatives on day's wages; and my master was to be permitted to rate as a full journeyman, though now considerably in his decline as a workman, on condition that the services of his apprentice should be rated so much lower than their actual value as to render master and man regarded as one lot--a fair bargain to the employer, and somewhat more. the arrangement was not quite a flattering one for me; but i acquiesced in it without remark, and set out with my master for conon-side. the evening sun was gleaming delightfully as we neared the scene of our labours, on the broad reaches of the conon, and lighting up the fine woods and noble hills beyond. it would, i knew, be happiness to toil for some ten hours or so per day in so sweet a district, and then to find the evening all my own; but on reaching the work, we were told that we would require to set out in the morning for a place about four miles further to the west, where there were a few workmen engaged in building a jointure-house for the lady of a ross-shire proprietor lately dead, and which lay off the river in a rather unpromising direction. and so, a little after sun-rise, we had to take the road with our tools slung across our backs, and before six o'clock we reached the rising jointure-house, and set to work. the country around was somewhat bare and dreary--a scene of bogs and moors, overlooked by a range of tame heathy hills; but in our immediate neighbourhood there was a picturesque little scene--rather a vignette than a picture--that in some degree redeemed the general deformity. two meal-mills--the one small and old, the other larger and more modern--were placed beside each other, on ground so unequal, that, seen in front, the smaller seemed perched on the top of the larger; a group of tall graceful larches rose immediately beside the lower building, and hung their slim branches over the huge wheel; while a few aged ash-trees that encircled the mill-pond, which, in sending its waters down the hill, supplied both wheels in succession, sprang up immediately beside the upper erection, and shot their branches over its roof. on closing our labours for the evening, we repaired to the old mansion-house, about half a mile away, in which the dowager lady for whom we wrought still continued to reside, and where we expected to be accommodated, like the other workmen, with beds for the night. we had not been expected, however, and there were no beds provided for us; but as the highland carpenter who had engaged to execute the woodwork of the new building had an entire bed to himself, we were told we might, if we pleased, lie three a-bed with him. but though the carpenter was, i daresay, a most respectable man, and a thorough celt, i had observed during the day that he was miserably affected by a certain skin disease, which, as it was more prevalent in the past of highland history than even at this time, must have rendered his ancestors of old very formidable, even without their broadswords; and so i determined on no account to sleep with him. i gave my master fair warning, by telling him what i had seen; but uncle david, always insensible to danger, conducted himself on the occasion as in the sinking boat or under the falling bank, and so went to bed with the carpenter; while i, stealing out, got into the upper story of an out-house; and, flinging myself down in my clothes on the floor, on a heap of straw, was soon fast asleep. i was, however, not much accustomed at the time to so rough a bed: every time i turned me in my lair, the strong, stiff straw rustled against my face; and about midnight i awoke. i rose to a little window which opened upon a dreary moor, and commanded a view in the distance, of a ruinous chapel and solitary burying-ground, famous in the traditions of the district as the chapel and burying-ground of gillie-christ. dr. johnson relates, in his "journey," that when eating, on one occasion, his dinner in skye to the music of the bagpipe, he was informed by a gentleman, "that in some remote time, the macdonalds of glengarry having been injured or offended by the inhabitants of culloden, and resolving to have justice, or vengeance, they came to culloden on a sunday, when, finding their enemies at worship, they shut them up in the church, which they set on fire; and this, said he, is the tune that the piper played while they were burning." culloden, however, was not the scene of the atrocity: it was the mackenzies of ord that their fellow-christians and brother-churchmen, the macdonalds of glengarry, succeeded in converting into animal charcoal, when the poor people were engaged, like good catholics, in attending mass; and in this old chapel of gillie-christ was the experiment performed. the macdonalds, after setting fire to the building, held fast the doors until the last of the mackenzies of ord had perished in the flames; and then, pursued by the mackenzies of brahan, they fled into their own country, to glory ever after in the greatness of the feat. the evening was calm and still, but dark for the season, for it was now near mid-summer; and every object had disappeared in the gloom, save the outlines of a ridge of low hills that rose beyond the moor; but i could determine where the chapel and churchyard lay; and great was my astonishment to see a light flickering amid the grave-stones and the ruins. at one time seen, at another hid, like the revolving lantern of a lighthouse, it seemed to be passing round and round the building; and, as i listened, i could hear distinctly what appeared to be a continuous screaming of most unearthly sound, proceeding from evidently the same spot as the twinkle of the light. what could be the meaning of such an apparition, with such accompaniments--the time of its appearance midnight--the place a solitary burying-ground? i was in the highlands: was there truth, after all, in the many floating highland stories of spectral dead-lights and wild supernatural sounds, seen and heard by nights in lonely places of sepulture, when some sudden death was near? i did feel my blood run somewhat cold, for i had not yet passed the credulous time of life--and had some thoughts of stealing down to my master's bedside, to be within reach of the human voice, when i saw the light quitting the churchyard, and coming downwards across the moor in a straight line, though tossed about in the dead calm, in many a wave and flourish; and further, i could ascertain, that what i had deemed a persistent screaming was in reality a continuous singing, carried on at the pitch of a powerful though somewhat cracked voice. in a moment after, one of the servant girls of the mansion-house came rushing out half-dressed to the door of an outer-building in which the workmen and the farm-servant lay, and summoned them immediately to rise. mad bell had again broke out, she said, and would set them on fire a second time. the men rose, and, as they appeared at the door, i joined them; but on striking out a few yards into the moor, we found the maniac already in the custody of two men, who had seized and were dragging her towards her cottage, a miserable hovel, about half a mile away. she never once spoke to us, but continued singing, though in a lower and more subdued tone of voice than before, a gaelic song. we reached her hut, and, making use of her own light, we entered. a chain of considerable length, attached by a stopple in one of the highland _couples_ of the erection, showed that her neighbours had been compelled on former occasions to abridge her liberty; and one of the men, in now making use of it, so wound it round her person as to bind her down, instead of giving her the scope of the apartment, to the damp uneven floor. a very damp and uneven floor it was. there were crevices in the roof above, which gave free access to the elements; and the turf walls, perilously bulged by the leakage in several places, were green with mould. one of the masons and i simultaneously interfered. it would never do, we said, to pin down a human creature in that way to the damp earth. why not give her what the length of the chain permitted--the full range of the room? if we did that, replied the man, she would be sure to set herself free before morning, and we would just have to rise and bind her again. but we resolved, we rejoined, whatever might happen, that she should _not_ be tied down in that way to the filthy floor; and ultimately we succeeded in carrying our point. the song ceased for a moment: the maniac turned round, presenting full to the light the strongly-marked, energetic features of a woman of about fifty-five; and, surveying us with a keen, scrutinizing glance, altogether unlike that of the idiot, she emphatically repeated the sacred text, "blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy." she then began singing, in a low, mournful tone, an old scotch ballad; and, as we left the cottage, we could hear her voice gradually heightening as we retired, until it had at length attained to its former pitch and wildness of tone. before daybreak the maniac succeeded in setting herself free; but the paroxysm of the fit had meanwhile passed over; and when she visited me next morning at the place where i was hewing--a little apart from the other workmen, who were all engaged in building on the walls--save for the strongly-marked features, i would scarce have recognised her. she was neatly dressed, though her gown was neither fine nor new; her clean white cap was nicely arranged; and her air seemed to be rather that of the respectable tradesman's wife or daughter, than of the ordinary country woman. for some little time she stood beside me without speaking, and then somewhat abruptly asked,--"what makes _you_ work as a mason?" i made some commonplace reply; but it failed to satisfy her. "all your fellows are real masons," she said; "but you are merely in the disguise of a mason; and i have come to consult you about the deep matters of the soul." the matters she had come to inquire regarding were really very deep indeed; she had, i found, carefully read flavel's "treatise on the soul of man"--a volume which, fortunately for my credit, i also had perused; and we were soon deep together in the rather bad metaphysics promulgated on the subject by the schoolmen, and republished by the divine. it seemed clear, she said, that every human soul was created--not transmitted--created, mayhap, at the time when it began to be; but if so, how, or on what principle did it come under the influence of the fall? i merely remarked, in reply, that she was of course acquainted with the views of the old theologians--_such as flavel_--men who really knew as much about such things as could be known, and perhaps a little more: was she not satisfied with them? not dissatisfied, she said; but she wanted more light. could a soul not derived from our first parents be rendered vile simply by being put into a body derived from them? one of the passages in flavel, on this special point, had luckily struck me, from its odd obscurity of expression, and i was able to quote it in nearly the original words. you know, i remarked, that a great authority on the question "declined confidently to affirm that the moral infection came by way of physical agency, as a rusty scabbard infects and defiles a bright sword when sheathed therein: it might be," he thought, "by way of natural concomitancy, as estius will have it; or, to speak as dr. reynolds doth, by way of ineffable resultancy and emanation." as this was perfectly unintelligible, it seemed to satisfy my new friend. i added, however, that, like herself, i was waiting for more light on the difficulty, and might set myself to it in right earnest, when i found it fully demonstrated that the creator could not, or did not, make man equally the descendant in soul as in body of the original progenitors of the race. i believed, with the great mr. locke, that he could do it; nor was i aware he had anywhere said that what he could do in the matter he had not done. such was the first of many strange conversations with the maniac, who, with all her sad brokenness of mind, was one of the most intellectual women i ever knew. humble as were the circumstances in which i found her, her brother, who was at this time about two years dead, had been one of the best-known ministers of the scottish church in the northern highlands. to quote from an affectionate notice by the editor of a little volume of his sermons, published a few years ago--the rev. mr. mackenzie of north leith--"he was a profound divine, an eloquent preacher, a deeply-experienced christian, and, withal, a classical scholar, a popular poet, a man of original genius, and eminently a man of prayer." and his poor sister isabel, though grievously vexed at times by a dire insanity, seemed to have received from nature powers mayhap not inferior to his. we were not always engaged with the old divines; isabel's tenacious memory was stored with the traditions of the district; and many an anecdote could she tell of old chieftains, forgotten on the lands which had once been their own, and of highland poets, whose songs had been sung for the last time. the story of the "raid of gillie-christ" has been repeatedly in print since i first heard it from her: it forms the basis of the late sir thomas dick lander's powerful tale of "allan with the red jacket;" and i have seen it in its more ordinary traditionary dress, in the columns of the _inverness courier_. but at this time it was new to me; and on no occasion could it have lost less by the narrator. she was herself a mackenzie; and her eyes flashed a wild fire when she spoke of the barbarous and brutal macdonalds, and of the measured march and unfaltering notes of their piper outside the burning chapel, when her perishing ancestors were shrieking in their agony within. she was acquainted also with the resembling story of that cave of eigg, in which a body of the macdonalds themselves, consisting of men, women, and children--the entire population of the island--had been suffocated wholesale by the macleods of skye; and i have heard from her more good sense on the subject of the highland character "ere the gospel changed it," as illustrated by these passages in their history, than from some highlanders sane enough on other matters, but carried away by a too indiscriminating respect for the wild courage and half-instinctive fidelity of the old race. the ancient highlanders were bold, faithful dogs, she has said, ready to die for their masters, and prepared to do, at their bidding, like other dogs, the most cruel and wicked actions; and as dogs often were they treated; nay, even still, after religion had made them men (as if condemned to suffer for the sins of their parents), they were frequently treated as dogs. the pious martyrs of the south had contended in god's behalf; whereas the poor highlanders of the north had but contended in behalf of their chiefs; and so, while god had been kind to the descendants of _his_ servants, the chiefs had been very unkind to the descendants of theirs. from excellent sense, however, in these conversations, my new companion used often to wander into deplorable insanity. her midnight visits to the old chapel of gillie-christ were made, she said, in order that she might consult her father in her difficulties; and the good man, though often silent for nights together, rarely failed to soothe and counsel her from the depths of his quiet grave, on every occasion when her unhappiness became extreme. it was acting on his advice, however, that she had set fire to a door that had for a time excluded her from the burying-ground, and burnt it down. she had been married in early life; and i have rarely heard anything wilder or more ingenious than the account she gave of a quarrel with her husband, that terminated in their separation. after living happily with him for several years, she all at once, she said, became most miserable, and everything in their household went on ill. but though her husband seemed to have no true conception of the cause of their new-born misery, she had. he used, from motives of economy, to keep a pig, which, when converted into bacon, was always useful in the family; and an occasional ham of the animal now and then found its way to her brother's manse, as a sort of friendly acknowledgment of the many good things received from him. one wretched pig, however--a little black thing, only a few weeks old--which her husband had purchased at a fair, was, she soon discovered, possessed by an evil spirit, that had a strange power of quitting the animal to do mischief in her dwelling, and an ability of not only rendering her fearfully unhappy, but even of getting at times into her husband. the husband himself, poor blinded man! could see nothing of all this; nor would he believe _her_, who could and did see it; nor yet could she convince him that it was decidedly his duty to get rid of the pig. she was not satisfied that she herself had a clear right to kill the creature: it was undoubtedly her husband's property, not hers; but could she only succeed in placing it in circumstances in which it might be free either to kill itself or not, and were it, in these circumstances, to destroy itself, she was sure all the better divines would acquit her of aught approaching to moral guilt in the transaction; and the relieved household would be free from both the evil spirit and the little pig. the mill-pond was situated immediately beside her dwelling: its steep sides, which were walled with stone, were unscaleable by at least little pigs; and among the aged ashes which sprang up immediately at its edge, there was one that shot out a huge bough, like a bent arm, directly over it, far beyond the stonework, so that the boys of the neighbourhood used to take their seat on it, and fish for little trout that sometimes found their way into the pond. on the projecting branch one day, when her husband's back was turned, and there was no one to see or interfere, she placed the pig. it stood for a while: there was no doubt, therefore, it _could_ stand; but, unwilling to stand any longer, it sprawled--slipped--fell--dropped into the water, in short--and ultimately, as it could not make its way up the bank, was drowned. and thus ended the pig. it would seem, however, as if the evil spirit had got into her husband instead--so extreme was his indignation at the transaction. he would accept of neither apology nor explanation; and, unable of course to live any longer under the same roof with a man so unreasonable, she took the opportunity, when he was quitting that part of the country for employment at a distance, to remain behind in her old cottage--the same in which she at that time resided. such was the maniac's account of her quarrel with her husband; and, when listening to men chopping little familiar logic on one of the profoundest mysteries of revelation--a mystery which, once received as an article of faith, serves to unlock many a difficulty, but which is itself wholly irreducible by the human intellect--i have been sometimes involuntarily led to think of her ingenious but not very sound argumentation on the fall of the pig. it is dangerous to attempt explaining, in the theological province, what in reality cannot be explained. some weak abortion of the human reason is always substituted, in the attempt, for some profound mystery in the moral government of god; and men ill-grounded in the faith are led to confound the palpable abortion with the inscrutable mystery, and are injured in consequence. i succeeded in getting a bed in the mansion-house, without, like marsyas of old, perilling my skin; and though there was but little of interest in the immediate neighbourhood, and not much to be enjoyed within doors--for i could procure neither books nor congenial companionship--with the assistance of my pencil and sketch-book i got over my leisure hours tolerably well. my new friend isabel would have given me as much of her conversation as i liked; for there was many a point on which she had to consult me, and many a mystery to state, and secret to communicate; but, though always interested in her company, i was also always pained, and invariably quitted her, after each lengthened _tête-à-tête_, in a state of low spirits, which i found it difficult to shake off. there seems to be something peculiarly unwholesome in the society of a strong-minded maniac; and so i contrived as much as possible--not a little, at times, to her mortification--to avoid her. for hours together, however, i have seen her perfectly sane; and, on these occasions, she used to speak much about her brother, for whom she entertained a high reverence, and gave me many anecdotes regarding him, not uninteresting in themselves, which she told remarkably well. some of these my memory still retains. "there were two classes of men," she has said, "for whom he had a special regard--christian men of consistent character; and men who, though they made no profession of religion, were honest in their dealings, and of kindly dispositions. and with people of this latter kind he used to have a great deal of kindly intercourse, cheerful enough at times--for he could both make a joke and take one--but which usually did his friends good in the end. so long as my father and my mother lived, he used to travel across the country once every year to pay them a visit; and he was accompanied, on one of these journeys, by one of this less religious class of his parishioners, who had, however, a great regard for him, and whom he liked, in turn, for his blunt honesty, and obliging disposition. they had baited for some time at a house in the outer skirts of my brother's parish, where there was a child to baptize, and where, i fear, donald must have got an extra dram; for he was very argumentative all the evening after; and finding he could not agree with my brother on any one subject, he suffered him to shoot a-head for a few hundred yards, and did not again come up with him, until, in passing through a thick clump of natural wood, he found him standing, lost in thought, before a singularly-shaped tree. donald had never seen such a strange-looking tree in all his days before. the lower part of it was twisted in and out, and backwards and forwards, like an ill-made cork-screw; while the higher shot straight upwards, direct as a line; and its taper top seemed like a finger pointing at the sky. 'come, tell me, donald,' said my brother, 'what you think this tree is like?' 'indeed, i kenna, mr. lachlan,' replied donald; 'but if you let me take that straight bit aff the tap o't, it will be gey an' like the _worm_ o' a whisky still.' 'but i cannot want the straight bit,' said my brother; 'the very pith and point of my comparison lies in the straight bit. one of the old fathers would perhaps have said, donald, that that tree resembled the course of the christian. his early progress has turns and twists in it, just like the lower part of that tree; one temptation draws him to the left--another to the right: his upward course is a crooked one; but it is an upward course for all that; for he has, like the tree, the principle of sky-directed growth within him: the disturbing influences weaken as grace strengthens, and appetite and passion decay; and so the early part of his career is not more like the warped and twisted trunk of that tree, than his latter years resemble its taper top. he shoots off heavenward in a straight line.'" such is a specimen of the anecdotes of this poor woman. i saw her once afterwards, though for only a short time; when she told me that, though people could not understand _us_, there was meaning in both her thoughts and in mine; and some years subsequently, when i was engaged as a journeyman mason in the south of scotland, she walked twenty miles to pay my mother a visit, and stayed with her for several days. her death was a melancholy one. when fording the river conon in one of her wilder moods, she was swept away by the stream and drowned, and her body cast upon the bank a day or two after. our work finished at this place, my master and i returned on a saturday evening to conon-side, where we found twenty-four workmen crowded in a rusty corn-kiln, open from gable to gable, and not above thirty feet in length. a row of rude beds, formed of undressed slabs, ran along the sides; and against one of the gables there blazed a line of fires, with what are known as masons' setting-irons, stuck into the stonework behind, for suspending over them the pots used in cooking the food of the squad. the scene, as we entered, was one of wild confusion. a few of the soberer workmen were engaged in "baking and firing" oaten cakes, and a few more occupied, with equal sobriety, in cooking their evening porridge; but in front of the building there was a wild party of apprentices, who were riotously endeavouring to prevent a highland shepherd from driving his flock past them, by shaking their aprons at the affrighted animals; and a party equally bent on amusement inside were joining with burlesque vehemence in a song which one of the men, justly proud of his musical talents, had just struck up. suddenly the song ceased, and with wild uproar a bevy of some eight or ten workmen burst out into the green in full pursuit of a squat little fellow, who had, they said, insulted the singer. the cry rose wild and high, "a ramming! a ramming!" the little fellow was seized and thrown down; and five men--one holding his head, and one stationed at each arm and leg--proceeded to execute on his body the stern behests of barrack-law. he was poised like an ancient battering-ram, and driven endlong against the wall of the kiln,--that important part of his person coming in violent contact with the masonry, "where," according to butler, "a kick hurts honour" very much. after the third blow, however, he was released, and the interrupted song went on as before. i was astonished, and somewhat dismayed, by this specimen of barrack-life; but, getting quietly inside the building, i succeeded in cooking for my uncle and myself some porridge over one of the unoccupied fires, and then stole off, as early as i could, to my lair in a solitary hay-loft--for there was no room for us in the barrack--where, by the judicious use of a little sulphur and mercury, i succeeded in freeing my master from the effects of the strange bed-fellowship which our recent misery had made, and preserving myself from infection. the following sabbath was a day of quiet rest; and i commenced the labours of the week, disposed to think that my lot, though rather a rough one, was not altogether unendurable; and that, even were it worse than it was, it would be at once wise and manly, seeing that winter would certainly come, cheerfully to acquiesce in and bear up under it. i had, in truth, entered a school altogether new--at times, as i have just shown, a singularly noisy and uproarious one, for it was a school without master or monitor; but its occasional lessons were, notwithstanding, eminently worthy of being scanned. all know that there exists such a thing as professional character. on some men, indeed, nature imprints so strongly the stamp of individuality, that the feebler stamp of circumstance and position fails to impress them. such cases, however, must always be regarded as exceptional. on the average masses of mankind, the special employments which they pursue, or the kinds of business which they transact, have the effect of moulding them into distinct classes, each of which bears an artificially induced character peculiarly its own. clergymen, as such, differ from merchants and soldiers, and all three from lawyers and physicians. each of these professions has long borne in our literature, and in common opinion, a character so clearly appreciable by the public generally, that, when truthfully reproduced in some new work of fiction, or exemplified by some transaction in real life, it is at once recognised as marked by the genuine class-traits and peculiarities. but the professional characteristics descend much lower in the scale than is usually supposed. there is scarce a trade or department of manual labour that does not induce its own set of peculiarities--peculiarities which, though less within the range of the observation of men in the habit of recording what they remark, are not less real than those of the man of physic or of law. the barber is as unlike the weaver, and the tailor as unlike both, as the farmer is unlike the soldier, or as either farmer or soldier is unlike the merchant, lawyer, or minister. and it is only on the same sort of principle that all men, when seen from the top of a lofty tower, whether they be tall or short, seem of the same stature, that these differences escape the notice of men in the higher walks. between the workmen that pass sedentary lives within doors, such as weavers and tailors, and those who labour in the open air, such as masons and ploughmen, there exists a grand generic difference. sedentary mechanics are usually less contented than laborious ones; and as they almost always work in parties, and as their comparatively light, though often long and wearily-plied employments, do not so much strain their respiratory organs but that they can keep up an interchange of idea when at their toils, they are generally much better able to state their grievances, and much more fluent in speculating on their causes. they develop more freely than the laborious out-of-door workers of the country, and present, as a class, a more intelligent aspect. on the other hand, when the open-air worker does so overcome his difficulties as to get fairly developed, he is usually of a fresher or more vigorous type than the sedentary one. burns, hogg, allan cunningham, are the literary representatives of the order; and it will be found that they stand considerably in advance of the thoms, bloomfields, and tannahills, that represent the sedentary workmen. the silent, solitary, hard-toiled men, if nature has put no better stuff in them than that of which stump-orators and chartist lecturers are made, remain silent, repressed by their circumstances; but if of a higher grade, and if they once do get their mouths fairly opened, they speak with power, and bear with them into our literature the freshness of the green earth and the freedom of the open sky. the specific peculiarities induced by particular professions are not less marked than the generic ones. how different, for instance, the character of a sedentary tailor, as such, from that of the equally sedentary barber! two imperfectly-taught young lads, of not more than the average intellect, are apprenticed, the one to the hair-dresser, the other to the fashionable clothes-maker of a large village. the barber has to entertain his familiar round of customers, when operating upon their heads and beards. he must have no controversies with them; that might be disagreeable, and might affect his command of the scissors or razor; but he is expected to communicate to them all he knows of the gossip of the place; and as each customer supplies him with a little, he of course comes to know more than anybody else. and as his light and easy work lays no stress on his respiration, in course of time he learns to be a fast and fluent talker, with a great appetite for news, but little given to dispute. he acquires, too, if his round of customers be good, a courteous manner; and if they be in large proportion conservatives, he becomes, in all probability, a conservative too. the young tailor goes through an entirely different process. he learns to regard dress as the most important of all earthly things--becomes knowing in cuts and fashions--is taught to appreciate, in a way no other individual can, the aspect of a button, or the pattern of a vest; and as his work is cleanly, and does not soil his clothes, and as he can get them more cheaply, and more perfectly in the fashion, than other mechanics, the chances are ten to one that he turns out a beau. he becomes great in that which he regards as of all things greatest--dress. a young tailor may be known by the cut of his coat and the merits of his pantaloons, among all other workmen; and as even fine clothes are not enough of themselves, it is necessary that he should also have fine manners; and not having such advantages of seeing polite society as his neighbour the barber, his gentlemanly manners are always less fine than grotesque. hence more ridicule of tailors among working men than of any other class of mechanics. and such--if nature has sent them from her hand ordinary men, for the extraordinary rise above all the modifying influences of profession--are the processes through which tailors and hair-dressers put on then distinctive characters as such. a village smith hears well-nigh as much gossip as a village barber; but he develops into an entirely different sort of man. he is not bound to please his customers by his talk; nor does his profession leave his breath free enough to talk fluently or much; and so he listens in grim and swarthy independence--strikes his iron while it is hot--and when, after thrusting it into the fire, he bends himself to the bellows, he drops, in rude phrase, a brief judicial remark, and again falls sturdily to work. again, the shoemaker may be deemed, in the merely mechanical character of his profession, near of kin to the tailor. but such is not the case. he has to work amid paste, wax, oil, and blacking, and contracts a smell of leather. he cannot keep himself particularly clean; and although a nicely-finished shoe be all well enough in its way, there is not much about it on which conceit can build. no man can set up as a beau on the strength of a prettily-shaped shoe; and so a beau the shoemaker is not, but, on the contrary, a careless, manly fellow, who, when not overmuch devoted to saint monday, gains usually, in his course through life, a considerable amount of sense. shoemakers are often in large proportions intelligent men; and bloomfield, the poet, gifford the critic and satirist, and carey the missionary, must certainly be regarded as thoroughly respectable contributions from the profession, to the worlds of poetry, criticism, and religion. the professional character of the mason varies a good deal in the several provinces of scotland, according to the various circumstances in which he is placed. he is in general a blunt, manly, taciturn fellow, who, without much of the radical or chartist about him, especially if wages be good and employment abundant, rarely touches his hat to a gentleman. his employment is less purely mechanical than many others: he is not like a man ceaselessly engaged in pointing needles or fashioning pin-heads. on the contrary, every stone he lays or hews demands the exercise of a certain amount of judgment for itself; and so he cannot wholly suffer his mind to fall asleep over his work. when engaged, too, in erecting some fine building, he always experiences a degree of interest in marking the effect of the design developing itself piecemeal, and growing up under his hands; and so he rarely wearies of what he is doing. further, his profession has this advantage, that it educates his sense of sight. accustomed to ascertain the straightness of lines at a glance, and to cast his eye along plane walls, or the mouldings of entablatures or architraves, in order to determine the rectitude of the masonry, he acquires a sort of mathematical precision in determining the true bearings and position of objects, and is usually found, when admitted into a rifle club, to equal, without previous practice, its second-rate shots. he only falls short of its first-rate ones, because, uninitiated by the experience of his profession in the mystery of the parabolic curve, he fails, in taking aim, to make the proper allowance for it. the mason is almost always a silent man: the strain on his respiration is too great, when he is actively employed, to leave the necessary freedom to the organs of speech; and so at least the provincial builder or stone-cutter rarely or never becomes a democratic orator. i have met with exceptional cases in the larger towns; but they were the result of individual idiosyncrasies, developed in clubs and taverns, and were not professional. it is, however, with the character of our north-country masons that i have at present chiefly to do. living in small villages, or in cottages in the country, they can very rarely procure employment in the neighbourhood of their dwellings, and so they are usually content to regard these as simply their homes for the winter and earlier spring months, when they have nothing to do, and to remove for work to other parts of the country, where bridges, or harbours, or farm-steadings are in the course of building--to be subjected there to the influences of what is known as the barrack, or rather bothy life. these barracks or bothies are almost always of the most miserable description. i have lived in hovels that were invariably flooded in wet weather by the overflowings of neighbouring swamps, and through whose roofs i could tell the hour at night, by marking from my bed the stars that were passing over the openings along the ridge: i have resided in other dwellings of rather higher pretensions, in which i have been awakened during every heavier night-shower by the rain-drops splashing upon my face where i lay a-bed. i remember that uncle james, in urging me not to become a mason, told me that a neighbouring laird, when asked why he left a crazy old building standing behind a group of neat modern offices, informed the querist that it was not altogether through bad taste the hovel was spared, but from the circumstance that he found it of great convenience every time his speculations brought a _drove of pigs_ or _a squad of masons_ the way. and my after experience showed me that the story might not be in the least apocryphal, and that masons had reason at times for not touching their hats to gentlemen. in these barracks the food is of the plainest and coarsest description: oatmeal forms its staple, with milk, when milk can be had, which is not always; and as the men have to cook by turns, with only half an hour or so given them in which to light a fire, and prepare the meal for a dozen or twenty associates, the cooking is invariably an exceedingly rough and simple affair. i have known mason-parties engaged in the central highlands in building bridges, not unfrequently reduced, by a tract of wet weather, that soaked their only fuel the turf, and rendered it incombustible, to the extremity of eating their oatmeal raw, and merely moistened by a little water, scooped by the hand from a neighbouring brook. i have oftener than once seen our own supply of salt fail us; and after relief had been afforded by a highland smuggler--for there was much smuggling in salt in those days, ere the repeal of the duties--i have heard a complaint from a young fellow regarding the hardness of our fare, at once checked by a comrade's asking him whether he was not an ungrateful dog to grumble in that way, seeing that, after living on fresh poultices for a week, we had actually that morning got porridge with salt in it. one marked effect of the annual change which the north-country mason has to undergo, from a life of domestic comfort to a life of hardship in the bothy, if he has not passed middle life, is a great apparent increase in his animal spirits. at home he is in all probability a quiet, rather dull-looking personage, not much given to laugh or joke; whereas in the bothy, if the squad be a large one, he becomes wild, and a humorist--laughs much, and grows ingenious in playing off pranks on his fellows. as in all other communities, there are certain laws recognised in the barrack as useful for controlling at least its younger members, the apprentices; but in the general tone of merriment, even these lose their character, and, ceasing to be a terror to evildoers, become in the execution mere occasions of mirth. i never, in all my experience, saw a serious punishment inflicted. shortly after our arrival at conon-side, my master, chancing to remark that he had not wrought as a journeyman for twenty-five years before, was voted a "ramming," for taking, as was said, such high ground with his brother workmen; but, though sentence was immediately executed, they dealt gently with the old man, who had good sense enough to acquiesce in the whole as a joke. and yet, amid all this wild merriment and license, there was not a workman who did not regret the comforts of his quiet home, and long for the happiness which was, he felt, to be enjoyed only there. it has been long known that gaiety is not solid enjoyment; but that the gaiety should indicate little else than the want of solid enjoyment, is a circumstance not always suspected. my experience of barrack-life has enabled me to receive without hesitation what has been said of the occasional merriment of slaves in america and elsewhere, and fully to credit the often-repeated statement, that the abject serfs of despotic governments laugh more than the subjects of a free country. poor fellows! if the british people were as unhappy as slaves or serfs, they would, i daresay, learn in time to be quite as merry. there are, however, two circumstances that serve to prevent the bothy life of the north-country mason from essentially injuring his character in the way it almost never fails to injure that of the farm-servant. as he has to calculate on being part of every winter, and almost every spring, unemployed, he is compelled to practise a self-denying economy, the effect of which, when not carried to the extreme of a miserly narrowness, is always good; and hallow-day returns him every season to the humanizing influences of his home. chapter x. "the muse, nae poet ever fand her, till by himsel' he learned to wander adown some trottin' burn's meander, an' no think lang: oh, sweet to muse, and pensive ponder a heartfelt sang!"--burns. there are delightful walks in the immediate neighbourhood of conon-side; and as the workmen--engaged, as i have said, on day's wages--immediately ceased working as the hour of six arrived, i had, during the summer months, from three to four hours to myself every evening, in which to enjoy them. the great hollow occupied by the waters of the cromarty firth divides into two valleys at its upper end, just where the sea ceases to flow. there is the valley of the peffer, and the valley of the conon; and a tract of broken hills lies between, formed of the great conglomerate base of the old red system. the conglomerate, always a picturesque deposit, terminates some four or five miles higher up the valley, in a range of rough precipices, as bold and abrupt, though they front the interior of the country, as if they formed the terminal barrier of some exposed sea-coast. a few straggling pines crest their summits; and the noble woods of brahan castle, the ancient seat of the earls of seaforth, sweep downwards from their base to the margin of the conon. on our own side of the river, the more immature but fresh and thickly-clustered woods of conon house rose along the banks; and i was delighted to find among them a ruinous chapel and ancient burying-ground, occupying, in a profoundly solitary corner, a little green hillock, once an island of the river, but now left dry by the gradual wear of the channel, and the consequent fall of the water to a lower level. a few broken walls rose on the highest peak of the eminence; the slope was occupied by the little mossy hillocks and sorely lichened tombstones that mark the ancient grave-yard; and among the tombs immediately beside the ruin there stood a rustic dial, with its iron gnomon worn to an oxydized film, and green with weather-stains and moss. and around this little lonely yard sprang the young wood, thick as a hedge, but just open enough towards the west to admit, in slant lines along the tombstones and the ruins, the red light of the setting sun. i greatly enjoyed those evening walks. from conon-side as a centre, a radius of six miles commands many objects of interest; strathpeffer, with its mineral springs--castle leod, with its ancient trees, among the rest, one of the largest spanish chestnuts in scotland--knockferrel, with its vitrified fort--the old tower of fairburn--the old though somewhat modernized tower of kinkell--the brahan policies, with the old castle of the seaforths--the old castle of kilcoy--and the druidic circles of the moor of redcastle. in succession i visited them all, with many a sweet scene besides; but i found that my four hours, when the visit involved, as it sometimes did, twelve miles' walking, left me little enough time to examine and enjoy. a half-holiday every week would be a mighty boon to the working man who has acquired a taste for the quiet pleasures of intellect, and either cultivates an affection for natural objects, or, according to the antiquary, "loves to look upon what is old." my recollections of this rich tract of country, with its woods, and towers, and noble river, seem as if bathed in the red light of gorgeous sunsets. its uneven plain of old red sandstone leans, at a few miles' distance, against dark highland hills of schistose gneiss, that, at the line where they join on to the green lowlands, are low and tame, but sweep upwards into an alpine region, where the old scandinavian flora of the country--that flora which alone flourished in the times of its boulder clay--still maintains its place against the germanic invaders which cover the lower grounds, as the celt of old used to maintain exactly the same ground against the saxon. and at the top of a swelling moor, just beneath where the hills rise rugged and black, stands the pale tall tower of fairburn, that, seen in the gloamin', as i have often seen it, seems a ghastly spectre of the past, looking from out its solitude at the changes of the present. the freebooter, its founder, had at first built it, for greater security, without a door, and used to climb into it through the window of an upper story by a ladder. but now unbroken peace brooded over its shattered ivy-bound walls, and ploughed fields crept up year by year along the moory slope on which it stood, until at length all became green, and the dark heath disappeared. there is a poetic age in the life of most individuals, as certainly as in the history of most nations; and a very happy age it is. i had now fully entered on it; and enjoyed in my lonely walks along the conon, a happiness ample enough to compensate for many a long hour of toil, and many a privation. i have quoted, as the motto of this chapter, an exquisite verse from burns. there is scarce another stanza in the wide round of british literature that so faithfully describes the mood which, regularly as the evening came, and after i had buried myself in the thick woods, or reached some bosky recess of the river bank, used to come stealing over me, and in which i have felt my heart and intellect as thoroughly in keeping with the scene and hour as the still woodland pool beside me, whose surface reflected in the calm every tree and rock that rose around it, and every hue of the heavens above. and yet the mood, though sweet, was also, as the poet expresses it, a pensive one: it was steeped in the happy melancholy sung so truthfully by an elder bard, who also must have entered deeply into the feeling. "when i goe musing all alone, thinking of divers things foreknowne-- when i builde castles in the air, voide of sorrow and voide of care, pleasing myself with phantasms sweet-- methinks the time runs very fleet; all my joyes to this are follie;-- none soe sweet as melanchollie. "when to myself i sit and smile, with pleasing thoughts the time beguile, by a brook side or wood soe green, unheard, unsought for, or unseen, a thousand pleasures doe me blesse, and crowne my soul with happiness all my joyes to this are follie;-- none soe sweet as melanchollie." when i remember how my happiness was enhanced by every little bird that burst out into sudden song among the trees, and then as suddenly became silent, or by every bright-scaled fish that went darting through the topaz-coloured depths of the water, or rose for a moment over its calm surface--how the blue sheets of hyacinths that carpeted the openings in the wood delighted me, and every golden-tinted cloud that gleamed over the setting sun, and threw its bright flush on the river, seemed to inform the heart of a heaven beyond--i marvel, in looking over the scraps of verse produced at the time, to find how little of the sentiment in which i so luxuriated, or of the nature which i so enjoyed, found their way into them. but what wordsworth well terms "the accomplishment of verse," given to but few, is as distinct from the poetic faculty vouchsafed to many, as the ability of relishing exquisite music is distinct from the power of producing it. nay, there are cases in which the "faculty" may be very high, and yet the "accomplishment" comparatively low, or altogether wanting. i have been told by the late dr. chalmers, whose astronomical discourses form one of the finest philosophical poems in any language, that he never succeeded in achieving a readable stanza; and dr. thomas brown, whose metaphysics glow with poetry, might, though he produced whole volumes of verse, have said nearly the same thing of himself. but, like the metaphysician, who would scarce have published his verses unless he had thought them good ones, my rhymes pleased me at this period, and for some time after, wonderfully well: they came to be so associated in my mind with the scenery amid which they were composed, and the mood which it rarely failed of inducing, that though they neither breathed the mood nor reflected the scenery, they always suggested both; on the principle, i suppose, that a pewter spoon, bearing the london stamp, suggested to a crew of poor weather-beaten sailors in one of the islands of the pacific, their far-distant home and its enjoyments. one of the pieces suggested at this time i shall, however, venture on submitting to the reader. the few simple thoughts which it embodies arose in the solitary churchyard among the woods, beside the aged, lichen-incrusted dial-stone. on seeing a sun-dial in a churchyard grey dial-stone, i fain would know what motive placed thee here, where darkly opes the frequent grave, and rests the frequent bier. ah! bootless creeps the dusky shade, slow o'er thy figured plain: when mortal life has passed away, time counts his hours in vain. as sweeps the clouds o'er ocean's breast, when shrieks the wintry wind. so doubtful thoughts, grey dial-stone, come sweeping o'er my mind. i think of what could place thee here, of those beneath thee laid, and ponder if thou wert not raised in mockery o'er the dead. nay, man, when on life's stage they fret. may mock his fellow-men! in sooth, their soberest freaks afford rare food for mockery then. but ah! when passed their brief sojourn-- when heaven's dread doom is said-- beats there the human heart could pour like mockeries o'er the dead? the fiend unblest, who still to harm directs his felon power, may ope the book of grace to him whose day of grace is o'er; but never sure could mortal man, whate'er his age or clime, thus raise in mockery o'er the dead, the stone that measures time. grey dial-stone, i fain would know what motive placed thee here, where sadness heaves the frequent sigh, and drops the frequent tear. like thy carved plain, grey dial-stone, grief's weary mourners be: dark sorrow metes out time to them-- dark shade marks time on thee. i know it now: wert thou not placed to catch the eye of him to whom, through glistening tears, earth's gauds worthless appear, and dim? we think of time when time has fled, the friend our tears deplore; the god whom pride-swollen hearts deny, grief-humbled hearts adore. grey stone, o'er thee the lazy night passes untold away; nor were it thine at noon to teach if failed the solar ray. in death's dark night, grey dial-stone, cease all the works of men; in life, if heaven withhold its aid, bootless these works and vain. grey dial-stone, while yet thy shade points out those hours are mine-- while yet at early morn i rise-- and rest at day's decline-- would that the sun that formèd thine, his bright rays beamed on me, that i, wise for the final day, might measure time, like thee! these were happy evenings--all the more happy from the circumstance that i was still in heart and appetite a boy, and could relish as much as ever, when their season came on, the wild raspberries of the conon woods--a very abundant fruit in that part of the country--and climb as lightly as ever, to strip the guean-trees of their wild cherries. when the river was low, i used to wade into its fords in quest of its pearl muscles (_unio margaritiferus_); and, though not very successful in my pearl-fishing, it was at least something to see how thickly the individuals of this greatest of british fresh-water molluscs lay scattered among the pebbles of the fords, or to mark them creeping slowly along the bottom--when, in consequence of prolonged droughts, the current had so moderated that they were in no danger of being swept away--each on its large white foot, with its valves elevated over its back, like the carpace of some tall tortoise. i found occasion at this time to conclude, that the _unio_ of our river-fords secretes pearls so much more frequently than the _unionidæ_ and _anadonta_ of our still pools and lakes, not from any specific peculiarity in the constitution of the creature, but from the effects of the habitat which it is its nature to choose. it receives in the fords and shallows of a rapid river many a rough blow from sticks and pebbles carried down in times of flood, and occasionally from the feet of the men and animals that cross the stream during droughts; and the blows induce the morbid secretions of which pearls are the result. there seems to exist no inherent cause why _anadon cygnea_, with its beautiful silvery nacre--as bright often, and always more delicate than that of _unio margaritiferus_--should not be equally productive of pearls; but, secure from violence in its still pools and lakes, and unexposed to the circumstances that provoke abnormal secretions, it does not produce a single pearl for every hundred that are ripened into value and beauty by the exposed current-tossed _unionidæ_ of our rapid mountain rivers. would that hardship and suffering bore always in a creature of a greatly higher family similar results, and that the hard buffets dealt him by fortune in the rough stream of life could be transmuted, by some blessed internal predisposition of his nature, into pearls of great price. it formed one of my standing enjoyments at this time to bathe, as the sun was sinking behind the woods, in the deeper pools of the conon--a pleasure which, like all the more exciting pleasures of youth, bordered on terror. like that of the poet, when he "wantoned with the breakers," and the "freshening sea made them a terror," "'twas a pleasing fear." but it was not current nor freshening eddy that rendered it such: i had acquired, long before, a complete mastery over all my motions in the water, and, setting out from the shores of the bay of cromarty, have swam round vessels in the roadstead, when, among the many boys of a seaport town, not more than one or two would venture to accompany me; but the poetic age is ever a credulous one, as certainly in individuals as in nations: the old fears of the supernatural may be modified and etherealized, but they continue to influence it; and at this period the conon still took its place among the haunted streams of scotland. there was not a river in the highlands that used, ere the erection of the stately bridge in our neighbourhood, to sport more wantonly with human life--an evidence, the ethnographer might perhaps say, of its purely celtic origin; and as superstition has her figures as certainly as poesy, the perils of a wild mountain-born stream, flowing between thinly-inhabited banks, were personified in the beliefs of the people by a frightful goblin, that took a malignant delight in luring into its pools, or overpowering in its fords, the benighted traveller. its goblin, the "water-wraith," used to appear as a tall woman dressed in green, but distinguished chiefly by her withered, meagre countenance, ever distorted by a malignant scowl. i knew all the various fords--always dangerous ones--where of old she used to start, it was said, out of the river, before the terrified traveller, to point at him, as in derision, with her skinny finger, or to beckon him invitingly on; and i was shown the very tree to which a poor highlander had clung, when, in crossing the river by night, he was seized by the goblin, and from which, despite of his utmost exertions, though assisted by a young lad, his companion, he was dragged into the middle of the current, where he perished. and when, in swimming at sunset over some dark pool, where the eye failed to mark or the foot to sound the distant bottom, the twig of some sunken bush or tree has struck against me as i passed, i have felt, with sudden start, as if touched by the cold, bloodless fingers of the goblin. the old chapel among the woods formed the scene, says tradition, of an incident similar to that which sir walter scott relates in his "heart of mid-lothian," when borrowing, as the motto of the chapter in which he describes the preparations for the execution of porteous, from an author rarely quoted--the kelpie. "the hour's come," so runs the extract, "but not the man;"--nearly the same words which the same author employs in his "guy mannering," in the cave scene between meg merrilies and dirk hatteraick. "there is a tradition," he adds in the accompanying note, "that while a little stream was swollen into a torrent by recent showers, the discontented voice of the water-spirit was heard to pronounce these words. at the same moment, a man urged on by his fate, or, in scottish language, _fey_, arrived at a gallop, and prepared to cross the water. no remonstrance from the bystanders was of power to stop him: he plunged into the stream, and perished." so far sir walter. the ross-shire story is fuller, and somewhat different in its details. on a field in the near neighbourhood of the chapel, now laid out into the gardens of conon house, there was a party of highlanders engaged in an autumnal day at noon, some two or three centuries ago, in cutting down their corn, when the boding voice of the wraith was heard rising from the conon beneath--"the hour's come, but not the man." immediately after, a courier on horseback was seen spurring down the hill in hot haste, making directly for what is known as a "fause ford," that lies across the stream just opposite the old building, in the form of a rippling bar, which, indicating apparently, though very falsely, little depth of water, is flanked by a deep black pool above and below. the highlanders sprang forward to warn him of his danger, and keep him back; but he was unbelieving and in haste, and rode express, he said, on business that would brook no delay; and as for the "fause ford," if it could not be ridden, it could be swam; and, whether by riding or swimming, he was resolved on getting across. determined, however, on saving him in his own despite, the highlanders forced him from his horse, and, thrusting him into the little chapel, locked him in; and then, throwing open the door when the fatal hour had passed, they called to him that he might now pursue his journey. but there was no reply, and no one came forth; and on going in they found him lying cold and stiff, with his face buried in the water of a small stone font. he had fallen, apparently, in a fit, athwart the wall; and his predestined hour having come, he was suffocated by the few pints of water in the projecting font. at this time the stone font of the tradition--a rude trough, little more than a foot in diameter either way--was still to be seen among the ruins; and, like the veritable cannon in the castle of udolpho, beside which, according to annette, the ghost used to take its stand, it imparted by its solid reality a degree of authenticity to the story in this part of the country, which, if unfurnished with a "local habitation," as in sir walter's note, it would have wanted. such was one of the many stories of the conon with which i became acquainted at a time when the beliefs they exemplified were by no means quite dead, and of which i could think as tolerably serious realities, when, lying a-bed all alone at midnight, the solitary inmate of a dreary barrack, listening to the roar of the conon. besides the long evenings, we had an hour to breakfast, and another to dinner. much of the breakfast hour was spent in cooking our food; but as a bit of oaten cake and a draught of milk usually served us for the mid-day meal, the greater part of the hour assigned to _it_ was available for purposes of rest or amusement. and when the day was fine, i used to spend it by the side of a mossy stream, within a few minutes' walk of the work-shed, or in a neighbouring planting, beside a little irregular lochan, fringed round with flags and rushes. the mossy stream, black in its deeper pools, as if it were a rivulet of tar, contained a good many trout, which had acquired a hue nearly as deep as its own, and formed the very negroes of their race. they were usually of small size--for the stream itself was small; and, though little countries sometimes produce great men, little streams rarely produce great fish. but on one occasion, towards the close of autumn, when a party of the younger workmen set themselves, in a frolic, to sweep it with torch and spear, they succeeded in capturing, in a dark alder-o'ershaded pool, a monstrous individual, nearly three feet in length, and proportionally bulky, with a snout bent over the lower jaw at its symphysis, like the beak of a hawk, and as deeply tinged (though with more of brown in its complexion) as the blackest coal-fish i ever saw. it must have been a bull-trout, a visitor from the neighbouring river; but we all concluded at the time, from the extreme dinginess of its coat, that it had lived for years in its dark pool, a hermit apart from its fellows. i am not now, however, altogether certain that the inference was a sound one. some fishes, like some men, have a wonderful ability of assuming the colours that best suit their interests for the time. i have been unable to determine whether the trout be one of these conformists; but it used to strike me at this period as at least curious, that the fishes in even the lower reaches of the dark little rivulet should differ so entirely in hue from those of the greatly clearer conon, into which its peaty waters fall, and whose scaly denizens are of silvery brightness. no fish seems to possess a more complete power over its dingy coat than a very abundant one in the estuary of the conon--the common flounder. standing on the bank, i have startled these creatures from off the patch of bottom on which they lay--visible to only a very sharp eye--by pitching a very small pebble right over them. was the patch a pale one--for a minute or so they carried its pale colour along with them into some darker tract, where they remained distinctly visible from the contrast, until, gradually acquiring the deeper hue, they again became inconspicuous. but if startled back to the same pale patch from which they had set out, i have then seen them visible for a minute or so, from their over-dark tint, until, gradually losing it in turn, they paled down, as at first, to the colour of the lighter ground. an old highlander, whose suit of tartan conformed to the general hue of the heather, was invisible at a little distance, when traversing a moor, but came full into view in crossing a green field or meadow: the suit given by nature to the flounder, tinted apparently on the same principle of concealment, exhibits a degree of adaptation to its varying circumstances, which the tartan wanted. and it is certainly curious enough to find, in one of our commonest fishes, a property which used to be regarded as one of the standing marvels of the zoology of those remote countries of which the chameleon is a native. the pond in the piece of planting, though as unsightly a little patch of water as might be, was, i found, a greatly richer study than the dark rivulet. mean and small as it was--not larger in area inside its fringe of rushes than a fashionable drawing-room--its natural history would have formed an interesting volume; and many a half-hour have i spent beside it in the heat of the day, watching its numerous inhabitants--insect, reptilian, and vermiferous. there were two--apparently _three_--different species of libellula that used to come and deposit their eggs in it--one of the two, that large kind of dragon-fly (_eshna grandis_), scarce smaller than one's middle-finger--which is so beautifully coloured black and yellow, as if adorned by the same taste one sees displayed in the chariots and liveries of the fashionable world. the other fly was a greatly more slender and smaller species or genus, rather _agrion_; and it seemed two, not one, from the circumstance, that about one-half the individuals were beautifully variegated black and sky-blue, the other half black and bright crimson. but the peculiarity was merely a sexual one: as if in illustration of those fine analogies with which all nature is charged, the sexes put on the _complementary_ colours, and are mutually fascinating, not by resembling, but by _corresponding_ to, each other. i learned in time to distinguish the disagreeable-looking larvæ of these flies, both larger and smaller, with their six hairy legs, and their grotesque formidable vizors, and found that they were the very pirates of the water, as the splendid insects into which they were ultimately developed were the very tyrants of the lower air. it was strange to see the beautiful winged creature that sprang out of the pupa into which the repulsive-looking pirate had been transformed, launch forth into its new element, changed in everything save its nature, but still unchanged in that, and rendering itself as formidable to the moth and the butterfly as it had been before to the newt and the tadpole. there is, i daresay, an analogy here also. it is in the first state of our own species, as certainly as in that of the dragon-fly, that the character is fixed. further, i used to experience much interest in watching the progress of the frog, in its earlier stages from the egg to the fish; then from the fish to the reptile fish, with its fringed tail, and ventral and pectoral _limbs_; and, last of all, from the reptile fish to the complete reptile. i had not yet learned--nor was it anywhere known at the time--that the history of the individual frog, through these successive transformations, is a history in small of the animal creation itself in its earlier stages--that in order of time the egg-like mollusc had taken precedence of the fish, and the fish of the reptile; and that an intermediate order of creatures had once abounded, in which, as in the half-developed frog, the natures of both fish and reptile were united. but, though unacquainted with this strange analogy, the transformations were of themselves wonderful enough to fill for a time my whole mind. i remember being struck one afternoon, after spending my customary spare half hour beside the pond, and marking the peculiar style of colouring in the yellow and black libellulidæ in the common wasp, and in a yellow and black species of ichneumon fly, to detect in some half-dozen gentlemen's carriages that were standing opposite our work-shed--for the good old knight of conon house had a dinner-party that evening--exactly the same style of ornamental colouring. the greater number of the vehicles were yellow and black--just as these were the prevailing colours among the wasps and libellulidæ; but there was a slight admixture of other colours among them too: there was at least one that was black and green, or black and blue, i forget which; and another black and brown. and so it was among the insects also: the same sort of taste, both in colour and the arrangements of colour, and even in the proportions of the various colours, seemed to have regulated the style of ornament manifested in the carriages of the dinner party, and of the insect visitors of the pond. further, i thought i could detect a considerable degree of resemblance in form between a chariot and an insect. there was a great _abdominal_ body separated by a narrow isthmus from a _thoracic_ coach-box, where the directing power was stationed; while the wheels, poles, springs, and general framework on which the vehicle rested, corresponded to the wings, limbs, and antennæ of the insect. there was at least sufficient resemblance of form to justify resemblance of colour; and here _was_ the actual resemblance of colour which the resemblance of form justified. i remember that, in musing over the coincidence, i learned to suspect, for the first time, that it might be no mere coincidence after all; and that the fact embodied in the remarkable text which informs us that the creator made man in his own image, might in reality lie at its foundation as the proper solution. man, spurred by his necessities, has discovered for himself mechanical contrivances, which he has afterwards found anticipated as contrivances of the divine mind, in some organism, animal or vegetable. in the same way his sense of beauty in form or colour originates some pleasing combination of lines or tints; and then he discovers that _it_ also has been anticipated. he gets his chariot tastefully painted black and yellow, and lo! the wasp that settles on its wheel, or the dragon-fly that darts over it, he finds painted in exactly the same style. his neighbour, indulging in a different taste, gets _his_ vehicle painted black and blue, and lo! some lesser libellula or ichneumon fly comes whizzing past, to justify his style of ornament also, but at the same time to show that it, too, had existed ages before. the evenings gradually closed in as the season waned--at first abridging, and at length wholly interdicting, my evening walks; and having no other place to which to retire, save the dark, gousty hay-loft into which a light was never admitted, i had to seek the shelter of the barrack, and succeeded usually in finding a seat within at least _sight_ of the fire. the place was greatly over-crowded; and, as in all over-large companies, it had commonly its four or five groups of talkers; each group furnished with a topic of its own. the elderly men spoke about the state of the markets, and speculated, in especial, on the price of oatmeal; the apprentices talked about lasses; while knots of intermediate age discussed occasionally both markets and lasses too, or spoke of old companions, their peculiarities and history, or expatiated on the adventures of former work seasons, and the characters of the neighbouring lairds. politics proper i never heard. during the whole season a newspaper never once entered the barrack door. at times a song or story secured the attention of the whole barrack; and there was in especial one story-teller whose powers of commanding attention were very great. he was a middle-aged highlander, not very skilful as a workman, and but indifferently provided with english; and as there usually attaches a nickname to persons in the humbler walks that are marked by any eccentricity of character, he was better known among his brother workmen as jock mo-ghoal, _i.e._ john my darling, than by his proper name. of all jock mo-ghoal's stories jock mo-ghoal was himself the hero; and certainly most wonderful was the invention of the man. as recorded in his narratives, his life was one long epic poem, filled with strange and startling adventure, and furnished with an extraordinary machinery of the wild and supernatural; and though all knew that jock made imagination supply, in his histories, the place of memory, not even ulysses or �neas--men who, unless very much indebted to their poets, must have been of a similar turn--could have attracted more notice at the courts of alcinuous or dido, than jock in the barrack. the workmen used, on the mornings after big greater narratives, to look one another full in the face, and ask, with a smile rather incipient than fully manifest, whether "jock wasna perfectly wonderfu' last nicht?" he had several times visited the south of scotland, as one of a band of highland reapers, for employment in his proper profession very often failed poor jock; and these journeys formed the grand occasions of his adventures. one of his narratives commenced, i remember, with a frightful midnight scene in a solitary churchyard. jock had lost his way in the darkness; and, after stumbling among burial-mounds and tombstones, he had toppled into an open grave, which was of a depth so profound, that for some time he failed to escape from it, and merely pulled down upon himself, in his attempts to climb its loose sides, musty skulls, and great thigh-bones, and pieces of decayed coffins. at length, however, he did succeed in getting out, just as a party of unscrupulous resurrectionists were in the act of entering the burying-ground; and they, naturally enough preferring an undecayed subject that had the life in it to preserve it fresh, to dead corpses the worse for the keeping, gave him chase; and it was with the extremest difficulty that, after scudding over wild moors and through dark woods, he at length escaped them by derning himself in a fox-earth. the season of autumnal labour over, he visited edinburgh on his way north; and was passing along the high street, when, seeing a highland girl on the opposite side with whom he was intimate, and whom he afterwards married, he strode across to address her, and a chariot coming whirling along the street at the time at full speed, he was struck by the pole and knocked down. the blow had taken him full on the chest; but though the bone seemed injured, and the integuments became frightfully swollen and livid, he was able to get up; and, on asking to be shown the way to a surgeon's shop, his acquaintance the girl brought him to an under-ground room in one of the narrow lanes off the street, which, save for the light of a great fire, would have been pitch dark at mid-day, and in which he found a little wrinkled old woman, as yellow as the smoke that filled the apartment. "choose," said the hag, as she looked at the injured part, "one of two things--a cure slow but sure, or sudden but imperfect. or shall i put back the hurt altogether till you get home?" "that, that," said jock; "if i were ance home i could bear it well enouch." the hag began to pass her hand over the injured part, and to mutter under her breath some potent charm; and as she muttered and manipulated, the swelling gradually subsided, and the livid tints blanched, till at length nought remained to tell of the recent accident save a pale spot in the middle of the breast, surrounded by a thread-like circle of blue. and now, she said, you are well for three weeks; but be prepared for the fourth. jock prosecuted his northward journey, and encountered the usual amount of adventure by the way. he was attacked by robbers, but, assistance coming up, he succeeded in beating them off. he lost his way in a thick mist, but found shelter, after many hours' wandering far among the hills, in a deserted shepherd's shielin'. he was nearly buried in a sudden snow-storm that broke out by night, but, getting into the middle of a cooped-up flock of sheep, they kept him warm and comfortable amid the vast drift-wreaths, till the light of morning enabled him to prosecute his journey. at length he reached home, and was prosecuting his ordinary avocations, when the third week came to a close; and he was on a lonely moor at the very hour he had met with the accident on the high street, when he suddenly heard the distant rattle of a chariot, though not a shadow of the vehicle was to be seen; the sounds came bearing down upon him, heightening as they approached, and, when at the loudest, a violent blow on the breast prostrated him on the moor. the stroke of the high street "had come back," just as the wise woman had said it would, though with accompaniments that jock had not anticipated. it was with difficulty he reached his cottage that evening; and there elapsed fully six weeks ere he was able to quit it again. such, in its outlines, was one of the marvellous narratives of jock mo-ghoal. he belonged to a curious class, known by specimen, in, i suppose, almost every locality, especially in the more primitive ones--for the smart ridicule common in the artificial states of society greatly stunt their growth; and in our literature--as represented by the bobadils, young wildings, caleb balderstons, and baron munchausens--they hold a prominent place. the class is to be found of very general development among the vagabond tribes. i have listened to wonderful personal narratives that had not a word of truth in them, "from gipsies brown in summer glades that bask," as i took my seat beside their fire, in a wild rock-cave in the neighbourhood of rosemarkie, or at a later period in the cave of marcus; and in getting into conversation with individuals of the more thoroughly lapsed classes of our large towns, i have found that a faculty of extemporary fabrication was almost the only one which i could calculate on finding among them in a state of vigorous activity. that in some cases the propensity should be found co-existing with superior calibre and acquirement, and with even a sense of honour by no means very obtuse, must be regarded as one of the strange anomalies which so often surprise and perplex the student of human character. as a misdirected toe-nail, injured by pressure, sometimes turns round, and, re-entering the flesh, vexes it into a sore, it would seem as if that noble inventive faculty to which we owe the parable and the epic poem, were liable, when constrained by self-love, to similar misdirections; and certainly, when turned inwards upon its possessor, the moral character festers or grows callous around it. there was no one in the barrack with whom i cared much to converse, or who, in turn, cared much to converse with me; and so i learned, on the occasions when the company got dull, and broke up into groups, to retire to the hay-loft where i slept, and pass there whole hours seated on my chest. the loft was a vast apartment, some fifty or sixty feet in length, with its naked rafters raised little more than a man's height over the floor; but in the starlit nights, when the openings in the wall assumed the character of square patches of darkness-visible stamped upon utter darkness, it looked quite as well as any other unlighted place that could not be seen; and in nights brightened by the moon, the pale beams, which found access at openings and crevices, rendered its wide area quite picturesque enough for ghosts to walk in. but i never saw any; and the only sounds i heard were those made by the horses in the stable below, champing and snorting over their food. they were, i doubt not, happy enough in their dark stalls, because they were horses, and had plenty to eat; and i was at times quite happy enough in the dark loft above, because i was a man, and could think and imagine. it is, i believe, addison who remarks, that if all the thoughts which pass through men's minds were to be made public, the great difference which seems to exist between the thinking of the wise and of the unwise would be a good deal reduced; seeing that it is a difference which does not consist in their not having the same weak thoughts in common, but merely in the prudence through which the wise suppress their foolish ones. i still possess notes of the cogitations of these solitary evenings, ample enough to show that they were extraordinary combinations of the false and the true; but i at the same time hold them sufficiently in memory to remember, that i scarce, if at all, distinguished between what was false and true in them at the time. the literature of almost every people has a corresponding early stage, in which fresh thinking is mingled with little conceits, and in which the taste is usually false, but the feeling true. let me present my young readers, from my notes, with the variously compounded cogitations of one of these quiet evenings. what formed so long ago one of my exercises may now form one of theirs, if they but set themselves to separate the solid from the unsolid thinking contained in my abstract. musings. "i stood last summer on the summit of tor-achilty [a pyramidal hill about six miles from conon side], and occupied, when there, the centre of a wide circle, about fifty miles in diameter. i can still call up its rough-edged sea of hills, with the clear blue firmament arching over, and the slant rays of the setting sun gleaming athwart. yes, over that circular field, fifty miles across, the firmament closed all around at the horizon, as a watch-glass closes round the dial-plate of the watch. sky and earth seemed co-extensive; and yet how incalculably vast their difference of area! thousands of systems seemed but commensurate, to the eye, with a small district of earth fifty miles each way. but capacious as the human imagination has been deemed, can it conceive of an area of wider field? mine cannot. my mind cannot take in more at a glance, if i may so speak, than is taken in by the eye. i cannot conceive of a wider area than that which the sight commands from the summit of a lofty eminence. i can pass in imagination through many such areas. i can add field to field _ad infinitum_; and thus conceive of infinite space, by conceiving of a space which can be infinitely added to; but all of space that i can take in at one process, is an area commensurate with that embraced at a glance by the eye. how, then, have i my conception of the earth as a whole--of the solar system as a whole--nay, of many systems as a whole? just as i have my conceptions of a school-globe or of an orrery--by diminution. it is through the diminution induced by distance that the sidereal heavens only co-extend, as seen from the top of tor-achilty, with a portion of the counties of ross and inverness. the apparent area is the same, but the colouring is different. our ideas of greatness, then, are much less dependent on actual area than on what painters term aerial perspective. the dimness of distance, and the diminution of parts, are essential to right conceptions of great magnitude. "of the various figures presented to me here, i seize strong hold of but one. i brood over the picture of the solar system conjured up. i conceive of the satellites as light shallops that continually sail round heavier vessels, and consider how much more of space they must traverse than the orbs to which they are attached. the entire system is presented to me as an orrery of the apparent size of the area of landscape seen from the hill-top; but dimness and darkness prevent the diminution from communicating that appearance of littleness to the whole which would attach to it, were it, like an actual orrery, sharply defined and clear. as the picture rises before me, the entire system seems to possess, what i suspect it wants, its atmosphere like that of the earth, which reflects the light of the sun in the different degrees of excessive brightness--noon-tide splendour, the fainter shades of evening, and grey twilight obscurity. this veil of light is thickest towards the centre of the system; for when the glance rests on its edges, the suns of other systems may be seen peeping through. i see mercury sparkling to the sun, with its oceans of molten glass, and its fountains of liquid gold. i see the ice-mountains of saturn, hoar through the twilight. i behold the earth rolling upon itself, from darkness to light, and from light to darkness. i see the clouds of winter settling over one part of it, with the nether mantle of snow shining through them; i see in another a brown, dusky waste of sand lighted up by the glow of summer. one ocean appears smooth as a mirror--another is black with tempest. i see the pyramid of shade which each of the planets casts from its darkened side into the space behind; and i perceive the stars twinkling through each opening, as through the angular doors of a pavilion. "such is the scene seen at right angles with the plane in which the planets move; but what would be its aspect if i saw it in the line of the plane? what would be its appearance if i saw it edgewise? there arises in my mind one of those uncertainties which so frequently convince me that i am ignorant. i cannot complete my picture, for i do not know whether all the planets move in one plane. how determine the point? a ray of light breaks in. huzza! i have found it. if the courses of the planets as seen in the heavens form parallel lines, then must they all move in one plane; and _vice versa_. but hold! that would be as seen from the sun--if the planets _could_ be seen from the sun. the earth is but one of their own number, and from it the point of view must be disadvantageous. the diurnal motion must perplex. but no. the apparent motion of the heavens need not disturb the observation. let the course of the planets through the fixed stars, be marked, and though, from the peculiarity of the point of observation, their motion may at one time seem more rapid, and at another more slow, yet, if their plane be, as a workman would say, _out of twist_, their lines will seem parallel. still in some doubt, however: i long for a glance at an orrery, to determine the point; and then i remember that ferguson, an untaught man like myself, had made more orreries than any one else, and that mechanical contrivances of the kind were the natural recourse of a man unskilled in the higher geometry. but it would be better to be a mathematician than skilful in contriving orreries. a man of the newtonian cast of mind, and accomplished in the newtonian learning, could solve the problem where i sat, without an orrery. "from the thing contemplated, i pass to the consideration of the mind that contemplates. oh! that wonderful newton, respecting whom the frenchman inquired whether he ate and slept like other men! i consider how one mind excels another; nay, how one man excels a thousand; and, by way of illustration, i bethink me of the mode of valuing diamonds. a single diamond that weighs fifty carats is deemed more valuable than two thousand diamonds, each of which only weighs one. my illustration refers exclusively to the native powers; but may it not, i ask, bear also on the acquisition of knowledge? every new idea added to the stock already collected is a carat added to the diamond; for it is not only valuable in itself, but it also increases the value of all the others, by giving to each of them a new link of association. "the thought links itself on to another, mayhap less sound:--do not the minds of men of exalted genius, such as homer, milton, shakspere, seem to partake of some of the qualities of infinitude? add a great many bricks together, and they form a pyramid as huge as the peak of teneriffe. add all the common minds together that the world ever produced, and the mind of a shakspere towers over the whole, in all the grandeur of unapproachable infinity. that which is infinite admits of neither increase nor diminution. is it not so with genius of a certain altitude? homer, milton, shakspere, were perhaps men of equal powers. homer was, it is said, a beggar; shakspere an illiterate wool-comber; milton skilled in all human learning. but they have all risen to an equal height. learning has added nothing to the _illimitable_ genius of the one; nor has the want of it detracted from the _infinite_ powers of the others. but it is time that i go and prepare supper." i visited the policies of conon house a full quarter of a century after this time--walked round the kiln, once our barrack--scaled the outside stone-stair of the hay-loft, to stand for half a minute on the spot where i used to spend whole hours seated on my chest, so long before; and then enjoyed a quiet stroll among the woods of the conon. the river was big in flood: it was exactly such a river conon as i had lost sight of in the winter of , and eddied past dark and heavy, sweeping over bulwark and bank. the low-stemmed alders that rose on islet and mound seemed shorn of half their trunks in the tide; here and there an elastic branch bent to the current, and rose and bent again; and now a tuft of withered heath came floating down, and now a soiled wreath of foam. how vividly the past rose up before me!--boyish day-dreams, forgotten for twenty years--the fossils of an early formation of mind, produced at a period when the atmosphere of feeling was warmer than now, and the immaturities of the mental kingdom grew rank and large, like the ancient _cryptogamia_, and bore no specific resemblance to the productions of a riper time. the season i had passed in the neighbourhood so long before--the first i had anywhere spent among strangers--belonged to an age when home is not a country, nor a province even, but simply a little spot of earth, inhabited by friends and relatives; and the verses, long forgotten, in which my joy had found vent when on the eve of returning to that home, came chiming as freshly into my memory as if scarce a month had passed since i had composed them beside the conon. here they are, with all the green juvenility of the home-sickness still about them--a true petrifaction of an extinct feeling:-- to the conon. conon, fair flowed thy mountain stream, through blossom'd heath and ripening field. when, shrunk by summer's fervid beam, thy peaceful waves i first beheld. calmly they swept thy winding shore. when harvest's mirthful feast was nigh-- when, breeze-borne, with thy hoarser roar came mingling sweet the reapers' cry. but now i mark thy angry wave rush headlong to the stormy sea; wildly the blasts of winter rave, sad rustling through the leafless tree loose on its spray the alder leaf hangs wavering, trembling, sear and brow and dark thy eddies whirl beneath, and white thy foam comes floating down. thy banks with withered shrubs are spread; thy fields confess stern winter's reign; and gleams yon thorn with berries red, like banner on a ravaged plain. hark! ceaseless groans the leafless wood; hark! ceaseless roars thy stream below ben-vaichard's peaks are dark with cloud ben-weavis' crest is white with snow. and yet, though red thy stream comes down though bleak th' encircling hills appear-- though field be bare, and forest brown, and winter rule the waning year-- unmoved i see each charm decay, unmourn'd the sweets of autumn die; and fading flower and leafless spray court all in vain the thoughtful sigh. not that dull grief delights to see vex'd nature wear a kindred gloom; not that she smiled in vain to me, when gaily prank'd in summer's bloom nay, much i loved, at even-tide, through brahan's lonely woods to stray. to mark thy peaceful billows glide, and watch the sun's declining ray. but yet, though roll'd thy billows fair as e'er roll'd those of classic stream-- though green thy woods, now dark and bare, bask'd beauteous in the western beam; to mark a scene that childhood loved, the anxious eye was turned in vain; nor could i find the friend approved, that shared my joy or soothed my pain. now winter reigns: these hills no more shall sternly bound my anxious view soon, bent my course to croma's shore, shall i yon winding path pursue. fairer than _here_ gay summer's glow to me _there_ wintry storms shall seem then blow, ye bitter breezes, blow, and lash the conon's mountain stream. chapter xi. "the bounding pulse, the languid limb the changing spirit's rise and fall-- we know that these were felt by him, for these are felt by all."--montgomery. the apprenticeship of my friend william ross had expired during the working season of this year, when i was engaged at conon-side; and he was now living in his mother's cottage in the parish of nigg, on the ross-shire side of the cromarty firth. and so, with the sea between us, we could no longer meet every evening as before, or take long night-walks among the woods. i crossed the firth, however, and spent one happy day in his society, in a little, low-roofed domicile, with a furze-roughened ravine on the one side, and a dark fir-wood on the other; and which, though picturesque and interesting as a cottage, must, i fear, have been a very uncomfortable home. his father, whom i had not before seen, was sitting beside the fire as i entered. in all except expression he was wonderfully like my friend; and yet he was one of the most vapid men i ever knew--a man literally without an idea, and almost without a recollection or a fact. and my friend's mother, though she showed a certain kindliness of disposition which her husband wanted, was loquacious and weak. had my quondam acquaintance, the vigorous-minded maniac of ord, seen william and his parents, she would have triumphantly referred to them in evidence that flavel and the schoolmen were wholly in the right in holding that souls are not "derived through parental traduction." my friend had much to show me: he had made an interesting series of water-colour sketches of the old castles of the neighbourhood, and a very elaborate set of drawings of what are known as the runic obelisks of ross: he had made some first attempts, too, in oil-painting; but though his drawing was, as usual, correct, there was a deadness and want of transparency about his colouring, which characterized all his after attempts in the same department, and which was, i suspect, the result of some such deficiency in his perceptions of the harmonies of colour as that which, in another department of sense, made me so insensible to the harmonies of sound. his drawings of the obelisks were of singular interest. not only have the thirty years which have since elapsed exerted their dilapidating effect on all the originals from which he drew, but one of the number--the most entire of the group at that time--has been since almost wholly destroyed; and so, what he was then able to do, there can be no such opportunity of doing again. further, his representations of the sculptured ornaments, instead of being (what those of artists too often are) mere picturesque approximations, were true in every curve and line. he told me he had spent a fortnight in tracing out the involved mathematical figures, curves, circles, and right lines--on which the intricate fretwork of one of the obelisks was formed, and in making separate drawings of each compartment, before commencing his draught of the entire stone. and, looking with the eye of the stone-cutter at his preliminary sketches, from the first meagre lilies that formed the ground-work of some involved and difficult knot, to the elaborate knot itself, i saw that, with such a series of drawings before me, i myself could learn to cut runic obelisks, in all the integrity of the complex ancient style, in less than a fortnight. my friend had formed some striking and original views regarding the theology represented by symbol on these ancient stones--at that time regarded as runic, but now held to be rather of celtic origin. in the centre of each obelisk, on the more important and strongly relieved side, there always occurs a large cross, rather of the greek than of the roman type, and usually elaborately wrought into a fretwork, composed of myriads of snakes, raised in some of the compartments over half-spheres resembling apples. in one of the ross-shire obelisks--that of shadwick, in the parish of nigg--the cross is entirely composed of these apple-like, snake-covered protuberances; and it was the belief of my friend, that the original idea of the whole, and, indeed, the fundamental idea of this school of sculpture, was exactly that so emphatically laid down by milton in the opening argument of his poem--man's fall symbolized by the serpents and the apples, and the great sign of his restoration, by the cross. but in order to indicate that to the divine man, the restorer, the cross itself was a consequence of the fall, even it was covered over with symbols of the event, and, in one curious specimen, built up of them. it was the snakes and apples that had reared, _i.e._, rendered imperative, the cross. my friend further remarked, that from this main idea a sort of fretwork had originated, which seemed more modern in some of its specimens than the elaborately-carved snakes, and strongly-relieved apples, but in which the twistings of the one, and the circular outlines of the others might be distinctly traced; and that it seemed ultimately to have passed from a symbol into a mere ornament; as, in earlier instances, hieroglyphic pictures had passed into mere arbitrary signs or characters. i know not what may be thought of the theory of william ross; but when, in visiting, several years ago, the ancient ruins of iona, i marked, on the more ancient crosses, the snakes and apparent apples, and then saw how the same combination of figures appeared as mere ornamental fretwork on some of the later tombs, i regarded it as more probably the right one than any of the others i have yet seen broached on the subject. i dined with my friend this day on potatoes and salt, flanked by a jug of water; nor were the potatoes by any means very good ones; but they formed the only article of food in the household at the time. he had now dined and breakfasted upon them, he said, for several weeks together; but though not very strengthening, they kept in the spark of life; and he had saved up money enough to carry him to the south of scotland in the spring, where he trusted to find employment. a poor friendless lad of genius, diluting his thin consumptive blood on bad potatoes and water, and, at the same time, anticipating the labours of our antiquarian societies by his elaborate and truthful drawings of an interesting class of national antiquities, must be regarded as a melancholy object of contemplation; but such hapless geniuses there are in every age in which art is cultivated, and literature has its admirers; and, shrinkingly modest and retiring in their natures, the world rarely finds them out in time. i found employment enough for my leisure during this winter in my books and walks, and in my uncle james's workshop, which, now that uncle james had no longer to lecture me about my latin, and my carelessness as a scholar in general, was a very pleasant place, where a great deal of sound remark and excellent information were always to be had. there was another dwelling in the neighbourhood in which i sometimes spent a not unpleasant hour. it was a damp underground room, inhabited by a poor old woman, who had come to the town from a country parish in the previous year, bringing with her a miserably deformed lad, her son, who, though now turned of twenty, more resembled, save in his head and face, a boy of ten, and who was so helpless a cripple, that he could not move from off his seat. "poor lame danie," as he was termed, was, notwithstanding the hard measure dealt him by nature, an even-tempered, kindly-dispositioned lad, and was, in consequence, a great favourite with the young people in the neighbourhood, especially with the humbly taught young women, who--regarding him simply as an intelligence, coupled with sympathies, that could write letters--used to find him employment, which he liked not a little, as a sort of amanuensis and adviser-general in their affairs of the heart. richardson tells that he learned to write his pamela by the practice he acquired in writing love-letters, when a very young lad, for half a score love-sick females, who trusted and employed him. "poor danie," though he bore on a skeleton body, wholly unfurnished with muscle, a brain of the average size and activity, was not born to be a novelist; but he had the necessary materials in abundance; and though secret enough to all his other acquaintance, i, who cared not a great deal about the matter, might, i found, have as many of his experiences as i pleased. i enjoyed among my companions the reputation of being what they termed "close-minded;" and danie, satisfied, in some sort, that i deserved the character, seemed to find it a relief to roll over upon my shoulders the great weight of confidence which, rather liberally, as would seem, for his comfort, had been laid upon his own. it is recorded of himself by burns, that he "felt as much pleasure in being in the secret of half the loves of the parish of tarbolton, as ever did statesman in knowing the intrigues of half the courts of europe." and, writing to dr. moore, he adds, that it was "with difficulty" his pen was "restrained from giving him a couple of paragraphs on the love-adventures of his compeers, the humble inmates of the farm-house and cottage." i, on the other hand, bore my confidences soberly enough, and kept them safe and very close--regarding myself as merely a sort of back-yard of mind, in which danie might store up at pleasure the precious commodities intrusted to his charge, which, from want of stowage, it cumbered him to keep, but which were his property, not mine. and though, i daresay, i could still fill more than "a couple of paragraphs" with the love-affairs of townswomen, some of whose daughters were courted and married ten years ago, i feel no inclination whatever, after having kept their secrets so long, to begin blabbing them now. danie kept a draft-board, and used to take a pride in beating all his neighbours; but in a short time he taught me--too palpably to his chagrin--to beat himself; and finding the game a rather engrossing one besides, and not caring to look on the woe-begone expression that used to cloud the meek pale face of my poor acquaintance, every time he found his men swept off the board, or cooped up into a corner, i gave up drafts, the only game of the kind of which i ever knew anything, and in the course of a few years succeeded in unlearning pretty completely all the moves. it appeared wonderful that the processes essential to life could have been carried on in so miserable a piece of framework as the person of poor danie: it was simply a human skeleton bent double, and covered with a sallow skin. but they were not carried on in it long. about eighteen months after the first commencement of our acquaintance, when i was many miles away, he was seized by a sudden illness, and died in a few hours. i have seen, in even our better works of fiction, less interesting characters portrayed than, poor gentle-spirited danie, the love-depository of the young dames of the village; and i learned a thing or two in his school. it was not until after several weeks of the working season had passed, that my master's great repugnance to doing nothing overcame his almost equally great repugnance again to seek work as a journeyman. at length, however, a life of inactivity became wholly intolerable to him; and, applying to his former employer, he was engaged on the previous terms--full wages for himself, and a very small allowance for his apprentice, who was now, however, recognised as the readier and more skilful stone-cutter of the two. in cutting mouldings of the more difficult kinds, i had sometimes to take the old man under charge, and give him lessons in the art, from which, however, he had become rather too rigid in both mind and body greatly to profit. we both returned to conon-side, where there was a tall dome of hewn work to be erected over the main archway of the steading at which we had been engaged during the previous year; and, as few of the workmen had yet assembled on the spot, we succeeded in establishing ourselves as inmates of the barrack, leaving the hay-loft, with its inferior accommodation, to the later comers. we constructed for ourselves a bed-frame of rough slabs, and filled it with hay; placed our chests in front of it; and, as the rats mustered by thousands in the place, suspended our sack of oatmeal by a rope, from one of the naked rafters, at rather more than a man's height over the floor. and, having both pot and pitcher, our household economy was complete. though resolved not to forego my evening walks, i had determined to conform also to every practice of the barrack; and as the workmen, drafted from various parts of the country, gradually increased around us, and the place became crowded, i soon found myself engaged in the rolicking barrack-life of the north-country mason. the rats were somewhat troublesome. a comrade who slept in the bed immediately beside ours had one of his ears bitten through one night as he lay asleep, and remarked, that he supposed it would be his weasand they would attack next time; and, on rising one morning, i found that the four brightly plated jack-buttons to which my braces had been fastened had been fairly cut from off my trousers, and carried away, to form, i doubt not, a portion of some miser-hoard in the wall. but even the rats themselves became a source of amusement to us, and imparted to our rude domicile, in some little degree, the dignity of danger. it was not likely that they would succeed in eating us all up, as they had done wicked bishop hatto of old; but it was at least something that they had begun to try. the dwellers in the hay-loft had not been admitted in the previous season to the full privileges of the barrack, nor had they been required to share in all its toils and duties. they had to provide their quota of wood for the fire, and of water for general household purposes: but they had not to take their turn of cooking and baking for the entire mess, but were permitted, as convenience served, to cook and bake for themselves. and so, till now, i had made cakes and porridge, with at times an occasional mess of brose or _brochan_, for only my master and myself--a happy arrangement, which, i daresay, saved me a few _rammings_; seeing that, in at least my earlier efforts, i had been rather unlucky as a cook, and not very fortunate as a baker. my experience in the cromarty caves had rendered me skilful in both boiling and roasting potatoes, and in preparing shell-fish for the table, whether molluscous or crustacean, according to the most approved methods; but the exigencies of our wild life had never brought me fairly in contact with the cerealia; and i had now to spoil a meal or two, in each instance, ere my porridge became palatable, or my cakes crisp, or my brose free and knotty, or my _brochan_ sufficiently smooth and void of knots. my master, poor man, did grumble a little at first; but there was a general disposition in the barrack to take part rather with his apprentice than with himself; and after finding that the cases were to be given against him, he ceased making complaints. my porridge was at times, i must confess, very like leaven; but then, it was a standing recipe in the barrack, that the cook should continue stirring the mess and adding meal, until, from its first wild ebullitions in full boil, it became silent over the fire; and so i could show that i had made my porridge like leaven, quite according to rule. and as for my _brochan_, i succeeded in proving that i had actually failed to satisfy, though i had made two kinds of it at once in the same pot. i preferred this viand when of a thicker consistency than usual, whereas my master liked it thin enough to be drunk out of the bowl; but as it was i who had the making of it, i used more instead of less meal than ordinary, and unluckily, in my first experiment, mixed up the meal in a very small bowl. it became a dense dough-like mass; and on emptying it into the pot, instead of incorporating with the boiling water, it sank in a solid cake to the bottom. in vain i stirred, and manipulated, and kept up the fire. the stubborn mass refused to separate or dilute, and at length burnt brown against the bottom of the pot--a hue which the gruel-like fluid which floated over also assumed; and at length, in utter despair of securing aught approaching to an average consistency for the whole, and hearing my master's foot at the door, i took the pot from off the fire, and dished up for supper a portion of the thinner mixture which it contained, and which, in at least colour and consistency, not a little resembled chocolate. the poor man ladled the stuff in utter dismay. "od, laddie," he said, "what ca' ye this? ca' ye this _brochan_?" "onything ye like, master," i replied; "but there are two kinds in the pot, and it will go hard if none of them please you." i then dished him a piece of the cake, somewhat resembling in size and consistency a small brown dumpling, which he of course found wholly inedible, and became angry. but this bad earth of ours "is filled," according to cowper, "with wrong and outrage;" and the barrack laughed and took part with the defaulter. experience, however, that does so much for all, did a little for me. i at length became a tolerably fair plain cook, and not a very bad baker; and now, when the exigencies required that i should take my full share in the duties of the barrack, i was found adequate to their proper fulfilment. i made cakes and porridge of fully the average excellence; and my brose and _brochan_ enjoyed at least the negative happiness of escaping animadversion and comment. some of the inmates, however, who were exceedingly nice in their eating, were great connoisseurs in porridge; and it was no easy matter to please them. there existed unsettled differences--the results of a diversity of tastes--regarding the time that should be given to the boiling of the mess, respecting the proportion of salt that should be allotted to each individual, and as to whether the process of "mealing," as it was termed, should be a slow or a hasty one, and, of course, as in all controversies of all kinds, the more the matters in dispute were discussed, the more did they grow in importance. occasionally the disputants had their porridge made at the same time in the same pot: there were, in especial, two of the workmen who differed upon the degree-of-salt question, whose bickers were supplied from the same general preparation; and as these had usually opposite complaints to urge against the cooking, their objections served so completely to neutralize each other, that they in no degree told against the cook. one morning the cook--a wag and a favourite--in making porridge for both the controversialists, made it so exceedingly fresh as to be but little removed from a poultice; and, filling with the preparation in this state the bicker of the salt-loving connoisseur, he then took a handful of salt, and mixing it with the portion which remained in the pot, poured into the bicker of the fresh man, porridge very much akin to a pickle. both entered the barrack sharply set for breakfast, and sat down each to his meal; and both at the first spoonful dropped their spoons. "a ramming to the cook!" cried the one--"he has given me porridge without salt!" "a ramming to the cook!" roared out the other--"he has given me porridge like brine!" "you see, lads," said the cook, stepping out into the middle of the floor, with the air of a much-injured orator--"you see, lads, what matters have come to at last: there is the very pot in which i made in one mess the porridge in both their bickers. i don't think we should bear this any longer; we have all had our turn of it, though mine happens to be the worst; and i now move that these two fellows be rammed." no sooner said than done. there was a terrible struggling, and a burning sense of injustice; but no single man in the barrack was match for half-a-dozen of the others. the disputants, too, instead of making common cause together, were prepared to assist in ramming each the other; and so rammed they both were. and at length, when the details of the stratagem came out, the cook--by escaping for half an hour into the neighbouring wood, and concealing himself there, like some political exile under ban of the government--succeeded in escaping the merited punishment. the cause of justice was never, i found, in greater danger in our little community, than when a culprit succeeded in getting the laughers on his side. i have said that i became a not very bad baker. still less and less sorely, as i improved in this useful art, did my cakes try the failing teeth of my master, until at length they became crisp and nice; and he began to find that my new accomplishment was working serious effects upon the contents of his meal-chest. with a keenly whetted appetite, and in vigorous health, i was eating a great deal of bread; and, after a good deal of grumbling, he at length laid it down as law that i should restrict myself for the future to two cakes per week. i at once agreed; but the general barrack, to whose ears some of my master's remonstrances had found their way, was dissatisfied; and it would probably have overturned in conclave our agreement, and punished the old man, my master, for the niggardly stringency of his terms, had i not craved, by way of special favour, to be permitted to give them a week's trial. one evening early in the week, when the old man had gone out, i mixed up the better part of a peck of meal in a pot, and placing two of the larger chests together in the same plane, kneaded it out into an enormous cake, at least equal in area to an ordinary-sized newcastle grindstone. i then cut it up into about twenty pieces, and, forming a vast semicircle of stones round the fire, raised the pieces to the heat in a continuous row, some five or six feet in length. i had ample and ready assistance vouchsafed me in the "firing"--half the barrack were engaged in the work--when my master entered, and after scanning our employment in utter astonishment--now glancing at the ring of meal which still remained on the united chests, to testify to the huge proportions of the disparted bannock, and now at the cones, squares, rhombs, and trapeziums of cake that hardened to the heat in front of the fire, he abruptly asked--"what's this, laddie?--are ye baking for a wadding?" "just baking one of the two cakes, master," i replied; "i don't think we'll need the other one before saturday night." a roar of laughter from every corner of the barrack precluded reply; and in the laughter, after an embarrassed pause, the poor man had the good sense to join. and during the rest of the season i baked as often and as much as i pleased. it is, i believe, goldsmith who remarks, that "wit generally succeeds more from being happily addressed, than from its native poignancy," and that "a jest calculated to spread at a gaming table, may be received with perfect indifference should it happen to drop in a mackerel-boat." on goldsmith's principle, the joke of what was termed, from the well-known fairy tale, "the big bannock wi' the malison," could have perhaps succeeded in only a masons' barrack; but never there at least could joke have been more successful. as i had not yet ascertained that the old red sandstone of the north of scotland is richly fossiliferous, conon-side and its neighbourhood furnished me with no very favourable field for geologic exploration. it enabled me, however, to extend my acquaintance with the great conglomerate base of the system, which forms here, as i have already said, a sort of miniature highlands, extending between the valleys of the conon and the peffer, and which--remarkable for its picturesque cliffs, abrupt eminences, and narrow steep-sided dells--bears in its centre a pretty wood-skirted loch, into which the old celtic prophet kenneth ore, when, like prospero, he relinquished his art, buried "deep beyond plummet sound" the magic stone in which he was wont to see both the distant and the future. immediately over the pleasure-grounds of brahan, the rock forms exactly such cliffs as the landscape gardener would make, if he could--cliffs with their rude prominent pebbles breaking the light over every square foot of surface, and furnishing footing, by their innumerable projections, to many a green tuft of moss, and many a sweet little flower; while far below, among the deep woods, there stand up enormous fragments of the same rock, that must have rolled down in some remote age from the precipices above, and which, mossy and hoar, and many of them ivy-bound, resemble artificial ruins--obnoxious, however, to none of the disparaging associations which the make-believe ruin is sure always to awaken. it was inexpressibly pleasant to spend a quiet evening hour among these wild cliffs, and imagine a time when the far distant sea beat against their bases; but though their enclosed pebbles evidently owed their rounded form to the attrition of water, the imagination seemed paralyzed when it attempted calling up a still earlier time, when these solid rocks existed as but loose sand and pebbles, tossed by waves or scattered by currents; and when, for hundreds and thousands of square miles, the wild tract around existed as an ancient ocean, skirted by unknown lands. i had not yet collected enough of geologic fact to enable me to grapple with the difficulties of a restoration of the more ancient time. there was a later period, also, represented in the immediate neighbourhood by a thick deposit of stratified sand, of which i knew as little as of the conglomerate. we dug into it, in founding a thrashing-mill, for about ten feet, but came to no bottom; and i could see that it formed the subsoil of the valley all around the policies of conon-side, and underlay most of its fields and woods. it was white and pure, as if it had been washed by the sea only a few weeks previous; but in vain did i search its beds and layers for a fragment of shell by which to determine its age. i can now, however, entertain little doubt that it belonged to the boulder clay period of submergence, and that the fauna with which it was associated bore the ordinary sub-arctic character. when this stratified sand was deposited, the waves must have broken against the conglomerate precipices of brahan, and the sea have occupied, as firths and sounds, the deep highland valleys of the interior. and on such of the hills of the country as had their heads above water at the time, that interesting but somewhat meagre alpine flora must have flourished, which we now find restricted to our higher mountain summits. once every six weeks i was permitted to visit cromarty, and pass a sabbath there; but as my master usually accompanied me, and as the way proved sufficiently long and weary to press upon his failing strength and stiffening limbs, we had to restrict ourselves to the beaten road, and saw but little. on, however, one occasion this season, i journeyed alone, and spent so happy a day in finding my homeward road along blind paths--that ran now along the rocky shores of the cromarty firth in its upper reaches, now through brown, lonely moors, mottled with danish encampments, and now beside quiet, tomb-besprinkled burying-grounds, and the broken walls of deserted churches--that its memory still lives freshly in my mind, as one of the happiest of my life. i passed whole hours among the ruins of craighouse--a grey fantastic rag of a castle, consisting of four heavily-arched stories of time-eaten stone, piled over each other, and still bearing a-top its stone roof and its ornate turrets and bartizans-- "a ghastly prison, that eternally hangs its blind visage out to the one sea." it was said in these days to be haunted by its goblin--a miserable-looking, grey-headed, grey-bearded, little old man, that might be occasionally seen late in the evening, or early in the morning, peering out through some arrow-slit or shot-hole at the chance passenger. i remember getting the whole history of the goblin this day from a sun-burnt herd-boy, whom i found tending his cattle under the shadow of the old castle-wall. i began by asking him whose _apparition_ he thought it was that could continue to haunt a building, the very name of whose last inhabitant had been long since forgotten. "_oh, they're saying_," was the reply, "it's the spirit of the man that was killed on the foundation-stone, just after it was laid, and then built intil the wa' by the masons, that he might _keep_ the castle by coming back again; and _they're saying_ that a' the verra auld houses in the kintra had murderit men builded intil them in that way, and that they have a' o' them their bogle." i recognised in the boy's account of the matter an old and widely-spread tradition, which, whatever may have been its original basis of truth, seems to have so far influenced the buccaneers of the th century, as to have become a reality in their hands. "if time," says sir walter scott, "did not permit the buccaneers to lavish away their plunder in their usual debaucheries, they were wont to hide it, with many superstitious solemnities, in the desert islands and _keys_ which they frequented, and where much treasure, whose lawless owners perished without reclaiming it, is still supposed to be concealed. the most cruel of mankind are often the most superstitious; and those pirates are said to have had recourse to a horrid ritual, in order to secure an unearthly guardian to their treasures. they killed a negro or spaniard, and buried him with the treasure, believing that his spirit would haunt the spot, and terrify away all intruders." there is a figurative peculiarity in the language in which joshua denounced the man who should dare rebuild jericho, that seems to point at some ancient pagan rite of this kind. nor does it seem improbable that a practice which existed in times so little remote as those of the buccaneers, may have first begun in the dark and cruel ages of human sacrifices. "cursed be the man before the lord," said joshua, "that riseth up and buildeth this city of jericho: _he shall lay the foundation thereof in his firstborn, and in his youngest son shall he set up the gates of it_." the large-farm system had been already introduced into the part of the country in which i at this time resided, on the richer and more level lands; but many a gaelic-speaking cottar and small tenant still lived on the neighbouring moors and hill-sides. though highland in their surnames and language, they bore a character considerably different from that of the simpler highlanders of the interior of sutherland, or of a class i had shortly afterwards an opportunity of studying--the highlanders of the western coast of ross-shire. doors were not left unbarred at night in the neighbourhood; and there were wretched hovels among the moors, very zealously watched and guarded indeed. there was much illicit distillation and smuggling at this time among the gaelic-speaking people of the district; and it told upon their character with the usual deteriorating effect. many of the highlanders, too, had wrought as labourers at the caledonian canal, where they had come in contact with south-country workmen, and had brought back with them a confident, loquacious smartness, that, based on a ground-work of ignorance, which it rendered active and obtrusive, had a bizarre and disagreeable effect, and formed but an indifferent substitute for the diffident and taciturn simplicity which it had supplanted. but i have ever found the people of those border districts of the highlands which join on to the low country, or that inhabit districts much traversed by tourists, of a comparatively inferior cast: the finer qualities of the highland character seem easily injured: the hospitality, the simplicity, the unsuspecting honesty, disappear; and we find, instead, a people rapacious, suspicious, and unscrupulous, considerably beneath the lowland average. in all the unopened districts of the remote highlands into which i have penetrated, i have found the people strongly engage my sympathies and affections--much more strongly than in any part of the lowlands; whereas, on the contrary, in the deteriorated districts i have been sensible of an involuntary revulsion of feeling, when in contact with the altered race, of which, among the low-country scotch or the english, i have had no experience. i remember being impressed, in reading, many years ago, one of miss ferrier's novels, with the truth of a stroke that brought out very practically the ready susceptibility of injury manifested by the celtic character. some visitors of condition from the highlands are represented as seeking out in one of our larger towns of the south, a simple highland lad, who had quitted a remote northern district only a few months before; and when they find him, it is as a prisoner in bridewell. towards the end of september, my master, who had wholly failed in overcoming his repugnance to labour as a mere journeyman, succeeded in procuring a piece of work by contract, in a locality about fourteen miles nearer our home than conon-side, and i accompanied him to assist in its completion. our employment in our new scene of labour was of the most disagreeable kind. burns, who must have had a tolerably extensive experience of the evils of hard work, specifies in his "twa dogs" three kinds of labour in especial that give poor "cot-folk" "fash enough." "trowth, caesar, whiles they're fash'd eneugh; a cottar howkin' in a sheugh, wi' dirty stanes biggin' a dyke. baring a quarry, and sic like." all very disagreeable employments, as i also can testify; and our work here unfortunately combined the whole three. we were engaged in rebuilding one of those old-fashioned walls of gentlemen's pleasure-grounds known as "_ha has_," that line the sides of deep ditches, and raise their tops to but the level of the sward; and as the ditch in this special instance was a wet one, and as we had to clear it of the old fallen materials, and to dig it out for our new line of foundation, while at the same time we had to furnish ourselves with additional materials from a neighbouring quarry, we had at once the "baring of the quarry," the "howkin' in the sheugh," and the "biggin' of the dyke wi' dirty stanes," to "fash" us. the last-named employment is by far the most painful and trying. in most kinds of severe labour the skin thickens, and the hand hardens, through a natural provision, to suit the requirements of the task imposed, and yield the necessary protection to the integuments below; but the "dirty stanes" of the dyke-builder, when wet as well as dirty, try the reproductive powers of the cuticle too severely, and wear it off, so that under the rough friction the quick is laid bare. on this occasion, and on at least one other, when engaged in building in a wet season in the western highlands, i had all my fingers oozing blood at once; and those who think that in such circumstances labour protracted throughout a long day can be other than torture, would do well to try. how these poor hands of mine burnt and beat at night at this time, as if an unhappy heart had been stationed in every finger! and what cold chills used to run, sudden as electric shocks, through the feverish frame! my general health, too, had become far from strong. as i had been almost entirely engaged in hewing for the two previous seasons, the dust of the stone, inhaled at every breath, had exerted the usual weakening effects on the lungs--those effects under which the life of the stone-cutter is restricted to about forty-five years; but it was only now, when working day after day with wet feet in a water-logged ditch, that i began to be sensibly informed, by a dull, depressing pain in the chest, and a blood-stained mucoidal substance, expectorated with difficulty, that i had already caught harm from my employment, and that my term of life might fall far short of the average one. i resolved, however, as the last year of my apprenticeship was fast drawing to its close, to complete, at all hazards, my engagement with my master. it had been merely a verbal engagement, and i might have broken it without blame, when, unable to furnish me with work in his character as a master-mason, he had to transfer my labour to another; but i had determined not to break it, all the more doggedly from the circumstance that my uncle james, in a moment of irritation, had said at its commencement that he feared i would no more persist in being a mason than i had done in being a scholar; and so i wrought perseveringly on; and slowly and painfully, rood after rood, the wall grew up under our hands. my poor master, who suffered even more from chopped hands and bleeding fingers than i did, was cross and fretful, and sometimes sought relief in finding fault with his apprentice; but, sobered by my forebodings of an early death, i used to make no reply; and the hasty, ill-tempered expressions in which he gave vent virtually to but his sense of pain and discomfort, were almost always followed by some conciliatory remark. superstition takes a strong hold of the mind in circumstances such as those in which i was at this time placed. one day when on the top of a tall building, part of which we were throwing down to supply us with materials for our work, i raised up a broad slab of red micaceous sandstone, thin as a roofing slate, and exceedingly fragile, and, holding it out at arm's length, dropped it over the wall. i had been worse than usual all that morning, and much depressed; and, ere the slab parted from my hand, i said--looking forward to but a few months of life--i shall break up like that sandstone slab, and perish as little known. but the sandstone slab did not break up: a sudden breeze blew it aslant as it fell; it cleared the rough heap of stones below, where i had anticipated it would have been shivered to fragments; and, lighting on its edge, stuck upright like a miniature obelisk, in the soft green sward beyond. none of the philosophies or the logics would have sanctioned the inference which i immediately drew; but that curious chapter in the history of human belief which treats of signs and omens abounds in such postulates and such conclusions. i at once inferred that recovery awaited me: i was "to live and not die;" and felt lighter, during the few weeks i afterwards toiled at this place, under the cheering influence of the conviction. the tenant of the farm on which our work was situated, and who had been both a great distiller and considerable fanner in his day, had become bankrupt shortly before, and was on the eve of quitting the place, a broken man. and his forlorn circumstances seemed stamped on almost every field and out-house of his farm. the stone fences were ruinous; the hedges gapped by the almost untended cattle; a considerable sprinkling of corn-ears lay rotting on the lea; and here and there an entire sheaf, that had fallen from the "leading-cart" at the close of harvest, might be seen still lying among the stubble, fastened to the earth by the germination of its grains. some of the out-houses were miserable beyond description. there was a square of modern offices, in which the cattle and horses of the farm--appropriated by the landlord, at the time under the law of hypothec--were tolerably well lodged; but the hovel in which three of the farm-servants lived, and in which, for want of a better, my master and i had to cook and sleep, was one of the most miserable tumble-down erections i ever saw inhabited. it had formed part of an ancient set of offices that had been condemned about fourteen years before; but the proprietor of the place becoming insolvent, it had been spared, in lack of a better, to accommodate the servants who wrought on the farm; and it had now become not only a comfortless, but also a very unsafe dwelling. it would have formed no bad subject, with its bulging walls and gapped roof, that showed the bare ribs through the breaches, for the pencil of my friend william koss; but the cow or horse that had no better shelter than that which it afforded could not be regarded as other than indifferently lodged. every heavier shower found its way through the roof in torrents: i could even tell the hour of the night by the stars which passed over the long opening that ran along the ridge from gable to gable; and in stormy evenings i have paused at every ruder blast, in the expectation of hearing the rafters crack and give way over my head. the distiller had introduced upon his farm, on a small scale, what has since been extensively known as the bothy system; and this hovel was the bothy. there were, as i have said, but three farm-servants who lived in it at the time--young, unmarried lads, extremely ignorant, and of gay, reckless dispositions, whose care for their master's interests might be read in the germinating sheaves that lay upon his fields, and who usually spoke of him, when out of his hearing, as "the old sinner." he too evidently cared nothing for them; and they detested him, and regarded the ruin which had overtaken him, and which their own recklessness and indifference to his welfare must have at least assisted to secure, with open satisfaction. "it was ae comfort, anyhow," they said, "that the blastit old sinner, after a' his near-goingness wi' them, was now but a dyvour bankrupt." bad enough certainly; and yet natural enough, and, in a sense, proper enough too. the christian divine would have urged these men to return their master good for evil. cobbett, on the contrary, would have advised them to go out at nights a rick-burning. the better advice will to a certainty not be taken by ninety-nine out of every hundred of our bothy-men; for it is one of the grand evils of the system, that it removes its victims beyond the ennobling influences of religion; and, on the other hand, at least this much may be said for the worse counsel, that the system costs the country every year the price of a great many corn-ricks. the three lads lived chiefly on brose, as the viand at all edible into which their oatmeal could be most readily converted; and never baked or made for themselves a dish of porridge or gruel, apparently to avoid trouble, and that they might be as little as possible in the hated bothy. i always lost sight of them in the evening; but towards midnight their talk frequently awoke me as they were going to bed; and i heard them tell of incidents that had befallen them at the neighbouring farm-houses, or refer to blackguard bits of scandal which they had picked up. sometimes a fourth voice mingled in the dialogue. it was that of a reckless poacher, who used to come in, always long after nightfall, and fling himself down on a lair of straw in a corner of the bothy; and usually ere day broke he was up and away. the grand enjoyment of the three farm-lads--the enjoyment which seemed to counterbalance, with its concentrated delights, the comfortless monotony of weeks--was a rustic ball which took place once every month, and sometimes oftener, at a public-house in the neighbouring village, and at which they used to meet some of the farm-lasses of the locality, and dance and drink whisky till morning. i know not how their money stood such frequent carousals; but they were, i saw, bare of every necessary article of clothing, especially of underclothing and linen; and i learned from their occasional talk about justice-of-peace summonses, that the previous term-day had left in the hands of their shoemakers and drapers unsettled bills. but such matters were taken very lightly: the three lads, if not happy, were at least merry; and the monthly ball, for which they sacrificed so much, furnished not only its hours of pleasure while it lasted, but also a week's talking in anticipation ere it came, and another week's talking over its various incidents after it had passed. and such was my experience of the bothy system in its first beginnings. it has since so greatly increased, that there are now single counties in scotland in which there are from five to eight hundred farm-servants exposed to its deteriorating influences; and the rustic population bids fair in those districts fully to rival that of our large towns in profligacy, and greatly to outrival them in coarseness. were i a statesman, i would, i think, be bold enough to try the efficacy of a tax on bothies. it is long since goldsmith wrote regarding a state of society in which "wealth accumulates and men decay," and since burns looked with his accustomed sagacity on that change for the worse in the character of our rural people which the large-farm system has introduced. "a fertile improved country is west lothian," we find the latter poet remarking, in one of his journals, "but the more elegance and luxury among the farmers, i always observe in equal proportion the rudeness and stupidity of the peasantry. this remark i have made all over the lothians, merse, roxburgh, &c.; and for this, among other reasons, i think that a man of romantic taste--'a man of feeling'--will be better pleased with the poverty but intelligent minds of the peasantry of ayrshire (peasantry they all are, below the justice of peace), than the opulence of a club of merse farmers, when he at the same time considers the vandalism of their plough-folks." the deteriorating effect of the large-farm system, remarked by the poet, is inevitable. it is impossible that the modern farm-servant, in his comparatively irresponsible situation, and with his fixed wages of meagre amount, can be rendered as thoughtful and provident a person as the small farmer of the last age, who, thrown on his own resources, had to cultivate his fields and drive his bargains with his martinmas and whitsunday settlement with the landlord full before him; and who often succeeded in saving money, and in giving a classical education to some promising son or nephew, which enabled the young man to rise to a higher sphere of life. farm-servants, as a class, _must_ be lower in the scale than the old tenant-farmers, who wrought their little farms with their own hands; but it is possible to elevate them far above the degraded level of the bothy; and unless means be taken to check the spread of the ruinous process of brute-making which the system involves, the scottish people will sink, to a certainty, in the agricultural districts, from being one of the most provident, intelligent, and moral in europe, to be one of the most licentious, reckless, and ignorant. candle-light is a luxury in which no one ever thinks of indulging in a barrack; and in a barrack such as ours at this time, riddled with gaps and breaches, and filled with all manner of cold draughts, it was not every night in which a candle would have burnt. and as our fuel, which consisted of sorely decayed wood--the roofing of a dilapidated out-house which we were pulling down--formed but a dull fire, it was with difficulty i could read by its light. by spreading out my book, however, within a foot or so of the embers, i was enabled, though sometimes at the expense of a headache, to prosecute a new tract of reading which had just opened to me, and in which, for a time, i found much amusement. there was a vagabond pedlar who travelled at this time the northern counties, widely known as jack from dover, but whose true name was alexander knox, and who used to affirm that he was of the same family as the great reformer. the pedlar himself was, however, no reformer. once every six weeks or two months he got madly drunk, and not only "perished the pack," as he used to say, but sometimes got into prison to boot. there were, however, some kind relations in the south, who always set him up again; and jack from dover, after a fortnight of misery, used to appear with the ordinary bulk of merchandise at his back, and continue thriving until he again got drunk. he had a turn for buying and reading curious books, which, after mastering their contents, he always sold again; and he learned to bring them, when of a kind which no one else would purchase, to my mother, and recommend them as suitable for me. poor jack was always conscientious in his recommendations. i know not how he contrived to take the exact measure of my tastes in the matter, but suitable for me they invariably were; and as his price rarely exceeded a shilling per volume, and sometimes fell below a sixpence, my mother always purchased, when she could, upon his judgment. i owed to his discrimination my first copy of bacon's "wisdom of the ancients," "done into english by sir arthur gorges," and a book to which i had long after occasion to refer in my geological writings--maillet's "telliamed"--one, of the earlier treatises on the development hypothesis; and he had now procured for me a selection, in one volume, of the poems of gawin douglas and will dunbar, and another collection in a larger volume, of "ancient scottish poems," from the mss. of george bannatyne. i had been previously almost wholly unacquainted with the elder scotch poets. my uncle james had introduced me, at a very early age, to burns and ramsay, and i had found out fergusson and tannahill for myself; but that school of scotch literature which nourished between the reigns of david the second and james the sixth had remained to me, until now, well-nigh a _terra incognita_, and i found no little pleasure in exploring the antique recesses which it opened up. shortly after, i read ramsay's "evergreen," the "king's quair," and the true "actes and deides of ye illuster and vailyeand campioun shyr wilham wallace," not modernized, as in my first copy, but in the tongue in which they had been recited of old by henry the minstrel: i had previously gloated over harbour's bruce; and thus my acquaintance with the old scots poets, if not very profound, became at least so respectable, that not until many years after did i meet with an individual who knew them equally well. the strange picturesque allegories of douglas, and the terse sense and racy humour of dunbar, delighted me much. as i had to con my way slowly amid the difficulties of a language which was no longer that spoken by my country-folk, i felt as if i were creating the sense which i found; it came gradually out like some fossil of the rock, from which i had laboriously to chip away the enveloping matrix; and in hanging admiringly over it, i thought i perceived how it was that some of my old schoolfellows, who were prosecuting their education at college, were always insisting on the great superiority of the old greek and roman writers over the writers of our own country. i could not give them credit for much critical discernment: they were indifferent enough, some of them, to both verse and prose, and hardly knew in what poetry consisted; and yet i believed them to be true to their perceptions when they insisted on what they termed the high excellence of the ancients. with my old schoolfellows, i now said, the process of perusal, when reading an english work of classical standing, is so sudden, compared with the slowness with which they imagine or understand, that they slide over the surface of their author's numbers, or of his periods, without acquiring a due sense of what lies beneath; whereas, in perusing the works of a greek or latin author, they have just to do what i am doing in deciphering the "palice of honour" or the "goldin terge,"--they have to proceed slowly, and to render the language of their author into the language of their own thinking. and so, losing scarce any of his meaning in consequence, and not reflecting on the process through which they have entered into it, they contrast the little which they gain from a hurried perusal of a good english book, with the much which they gain from the very leisurely perusal of a good latin or greek one; and term _the little_ the poverty of modern writers, and _the much_ the fertility of the ancients. such was my theory, and it was at least not an uncharitable one to my acquaintance. i was, however, arrested in the middle of my studies by a day of soaking rain, which so saturated with moisture the decayed spongy wood, our fuel, that, though i succeeded in making with some difficulty such fires of it as sufficed to cook our victuals, it defied my skill to make one by which i could read. at length, however, this dreary season of labour--by far the gloomiest i ever spent--came to a close, and i returned with my master to cromarty about martinmas, our heavy job of work completed, and my term of apprenticeship at a close. chapter xii. "far let me wander down thy craggy shore, with rocks and trees bestrewn, dark loch maree."--small. the restorative powers of a constitution which at this time it took much hard usage to injure, came vigorously into operation on my removal from the wet ditch and the ruinous hovel; and ere the close of winter i had got once more into my ordinary state of robust health. i read, wrote, drew, corresponded with my friend william ross (who had removed to edinburgh), re-examined the eathie lias, and re-explored the eathie burn--a noble old red sandstone ravine, remarkable for the wild picturesqueness of its cliffs and the beauty of its cataracts. i spent, too, many an evening in uncle james's workshop, on better terms with both my uncles than almost ever before--a consequence, in part, of the sober complexion which, as the seasons passed, my mind was gradually assuming, and in part, of the manner in which i had completed my engagement with my master. "act always," said uncle james, "as you have done in this matter. in all your dealings, give your neighbour the _cast of the bauk_--'good measure, heaped up and running over'--and you will not lose by it in the end." i certainly did not lose by faithfully serving out my term of apprenticeship. it is not uninstructive to observe how strangely the public are led at times to attach paramount importance to what is in reality only subordinately important, and to pass over the really paramount without thought or notice. the destiny in life of the skilled mechanic is much more influenced, for instance, by his second education--that of his apprenticeship--than by his first--that of the school; and yet it is to the education of the school that the importance is generally regarded as attaching, and we never hear of the other. the careless, incompetent scholar has many opportunities of recovering himself; the careless, incompetent apprentice, who either fails to serve out his regular time, or who, though he fulfils his term, is discharged an inferior workman, has very few; and further, nothing can be more certain than that inferiority as a workman bears much more disastrously on the condition of the mechanic than inferiority as a scholar. unable to maintain his place among brother journeymen, or to render himself worthy of the average wages of his craft, the ill-taught mechanic falls out of regular employment, subsists precariously for a time on occasional jobs, and either, forming idle habits, becomes a vagabond _tramper_, or, getting into the toils of some rapacious task-master, becomes an enslaved _sweater_. for one workman injured by neglect of his school-education, there are scores ruined by neglect of their apprenticeship-education. three-fourths of the distress of the country's mechanics (of course not reckoning that of the unhappy class who have to compete with machinery), and nine-tenths of their vagabondism, will be found restricted to inferior workmen, who, like hogarth's "careless apprentice," neglected the opportunities of their second term of education. the sagacious painter had a truer insight into this matter than most of our modern educationists. my friend of the doocot cave had been serving a short apprenticeship to a grocer in london during the latter years in which i had been working out mine as a stone-mason in the north country; and i now learned that he had just returned to his native place, with the intention of setting up in business for himself. to those who move in the upper walks, the superiority in status of the village shop-keeper over the journeyman mason may not be very perceptible; but, surveyed from the lower levels of society, it is quite considerable enough to be seen; even gulliver could determine that the emperor of lilliput was taller by almost the breadth of a nail than any of his court; and, though extremely desirous of renewing my acquaintanceship with my old friend, i was sensible enough of his advantage over me in point of position, to feel that the necessary advances should be made on his part, not on mine. i, however, threw myself in his way, though after a manner so fastidiously proud and jealous, that even yet, every time the recollection crosses me, it provokes me to a smile. on learning that he was engaged at the quay in superintending the landing of some goods, for, i suppose, his future shop, i assumed the leathern apron, which i had thrown aside for the winter at martinmas, and stalked past him in my working dress--a veritable operative mason--eyeing him steadfastly as i passed. he looked at me for a moment; and then, without sign of recognition, turned indifferently away. i failed taking into account that he had never seen me girt with a leathern apron before--that, since we had last parted, i had grown more than half a foot--and that a young man of nearly five feet eleven inches, with an incipient whisker palpably visible on his cheek, might be a different-looking sort of person from a smooth-chinned stripling of little more than five feet three. and certainly my friend, as i learned from him nearly three years after, failed on this occasion to recognise me. but believing that he did, and that he did not choose to reckon among his friends a humble working man, i returned to my home very sad, and, i am afraid, not a little angry; and, locking up the supposed slight in my breast, as of too delicate a nature to be communicated to any one, for more than two years from this time i did not again cross his path. i was now my own master, and commenced work as a journeyman in behalf of one of my maternal aunts--the aunt who had gone so many years before to live with her aged relative, the cousin of my father, and the mother of his first wife. aunt jenny had resided for many years after this time with an aged widow lady, who had lived apart in quiet gentility on very small means; and now that she was dead, my aunt saw her vocation gone, and wished that she too could live apart, a life of humble independency, supporting herself by her spinning-wheel, and by now and then knitting a stocking. she feared, however, to encounter the formidable drain on her means of a half-yearly room-rent; and, as there was a little bit of ground at the head of the strip of garden left me by my father, which bordered on a road that, communicating between town and country, bore, as is common in the north of scotland, the french name of the _pays_, it occurred to me that i might try my hand, as a skilled mechanic, in erecting upon it a cottage for aunt jenny. masons have, of course, more in their power in the way of house-building than any other class of mechanics. it was necessary, however, that there should be money provided for the purchase of wood for the roof, and for the carting of the necessary stones and mortar; and i had none. but aunt jenny had saved a few pounds, and a very few proved sufficient; and so i built a cottage in the _pays_, of a single room and a closet, as my first job, which, if not very elegant, or of large accommodation, came fully up to aunt jenny's ideas of comfort, and which, for at least a quarter of a century, has served her as a home. it was completed before whitsunday, and i then deliberated on setting myself to seek after employment of a more remunerative kind, with just a little of the feeling to which we owe one of the best-known elegiac poems in the language--the "man was made to mourn" of burns. "there is nothing that gives me a more mortifying picture of human life," said the poet, "than a man seeking work." the required work, however, came direct in my way without solicitation, and exactly at the proper time. i was engaged to assist in hewing a gothic gateway among the woods of my old haunt, conon-side; and was then despatched, when the work was on the eve of being finished, to provide materials for building a house on the western coast of ross-shire. my new master had found me engaged in the previous season, amid the wild turmoil of the barrack, in studying practical geometry, and had glanced approvingly over a series of architectural drawings which i had just completed; and he now sought me out in consequence, and placed me in charge of a small party which he despatched in advance of his other workmen, and which i was instructed to increase, by employing a labourer or two on arriving at the scene of our future employment. we were to be accompanied by a carter from a neighbouring town; and on the morning fixed for the commencement of our journey, his cart and horse were early at conon-side, to carry across the country the tools required at our new job; but of himself we saw no trace; and about ten o'clock we set off without him. ascertaining, however, when about two miles on our way, that we had left behind us a lever useful in the setting of large stones, i bade my companion wait for me at the village of contin, where we expected meeting the carter; and, returning for the tool, i quitted the high road on finding it, and, to save time, and avoid a detour of about three miles, struck across the country direct on the village. my way was, however, a very rough one; and in coming upon the conon, which it was necessary i should ford--for by avoiding the detour i had missed the bridge--i found it tolerably heavy in flood. save for the iron lever which i carried, i would have selected, as my point of crossing, one of the still deep pools, as much safer to a vigorous swimmer than any of the apparent fords, with their powerful currents, whirling eddies, and rough bottoms. but though the heroes of antiquity--men such as julius cæesar and horatius cocles--could swim across rivers and seas in heavy armour, the specific gravity of the human subject in these latter ages of the world forbids such feats; and, concluding that i had not levity enough in my framework to float across the lever, i selected, with some hesitation, one of the better-looking fords, and, with my trousers dangling from the iron beam on my shoulder, entered the river. such was the arrowy swiftness of the current, however, that the water had scarce reached my middle when it began to hollow out the stones and gravel from under my feet, and to bear me down per force in a slanting direction. there was a foaming rapid just at hand; and immediately beyond, a deep, dark pool, in which the chafed current whirled around, as if exhausting the wrath aroused by its recent treatment among rocks and stones, ere recovering its ordinary temper; and had i lost footing, or been carried a little further down, i know not how it might have fared with me in the wild foaming descent that lay between the ford and the pool. curiously enough, however, the one idea which, in the excitement of the moment, filled my mind, was an intensely ludicrous one. i would, of course, lose not only the lever in the torrent, but my trousers also; and how was i ever to get home without them? where, in the name of wonder, should i get a kilt to borrow? i have oftener than once experienced this strange sensation of the ludicrous in circumstances with which a different feeling would have harmonized better. byron represents it as rising in extreme grief: it is, however, i suspect, greatly more common in extreme danger; and all the instances which the poet himself gives in his note--sir thomas more on the scaffold, anne boleyn in the tower, and those victims of the french revolution "with whom it became a fashion to leave some _mot_ as a legacy"--were all jokers rather in circumstances of desperate and hopeless peril than of sorrow. it is, however, in danger, us certainly as in grief, a joyless sort of mirth. "that playfulness of sorrow ne'er beguiles; it smiles in bitterness: but still it smiles, and sometimes with the wisest and the best. till even the scaffold echoes with their jest." the feeling, however, though an inharmoniously toned, is not a weakening one. i laughed in the stream, but i did not yield to it; and, making a violent effort, when just on the edge of the rapid, i got into stiller water, and succeeded in making my way to the opposite bank, drenched to the arm-pits. it was in nearly the same reach of the conon that my poor friend the maniac of ord lost her life a few days after. i found my companion in charge of the cart with our tools, baiting at an inn a little beyond contin; but there was no sign of the carter; and we were informed by the innkeeper, to whom he was well known, that we might have to wait for him all day, and perhaps not see him at night. click-clack--a name expressive of the carter's fluency as a talker, by which he was oftener designated than by the one in the parish register--might no doubt have purposed in the morning joining us at an early hour, but that was when he was sober; and what his intention might be now, said the innkeeper, when in all probability he was drunk, no living man could say. this was rather startling intelligence to men who had a long journey through a rough country before them; and my comrade--a lad a year or two older than myself, but still an apprentice--added to my dismay by telling me he had been sure from the first there was something wrong with click-clack, and that his master had secured his services, not from choice, but simply because, having thoughtlessly become surety for him at a sale for the price of a horse, and being left to pay for the animal, he had now employed him, in the hope of getting himself reimbursed. i resolved, however, on waiting for the carter until the last moment after which it would be possible for us to reach our ultimate stage without perilously encroaching on the night; and, taking it for granted that he would not very soon join us, i set out for a neighbouring hill, which commands an extensive view, to take note of the main features of a district with which i had formed, during the two previous years, not a few interesting associations, and to dry my wetted clothes in the breeze and the sun. the old tower of fairburn formed one of the most striking objects in the prospect; and the eye expatiated beyond from where the gneiss region begins, on a tract of broken hill and brown moor, uncheered by a single green field or human dwelling. there are traditions that, in their very peculiarity, and remoteness from the tract of ordinary intention, give evidence of their truth; and i now called up a tradition, which i owed to my friend the maniac, respecting the manner in which the mackenzies of fairburn and the chisholms of strathglass had divided this barren tract between them. it had lain, from the first settlement of the country, an unappropriated waste, and neither proprietor could tell where his own lands terminated, or those of his neighbour began; but finding that the want of a proper line of demarcation led to quarrels between their herdsmen when baiting in their summer shielings with their cattle, they agreed to have the tract divided. the age of land-surveyors had not yet come; but, selecting two old women of seventy-five, they sent them out at the same hour, to meet among the hills, the one from fairburn tower, the other from erchless castle, after first binding themselves to accept their place of meeting as the point at which to set up the boundary-stone of the two properties. the women, attended by a bevy of competent witnesses, journeyed as if for life and death; but the fairburn woman, who was the laird's foster-mother, either more zealous or more active than the chisholm one, travelled nearly two miles for her one; and when they came in sight of each other in the waste, it was far from the fields of fairburn, and comparatively at no great distance from those of the chisholm. it is not easy knowing why they should have regarded one another in the light of enemies; but at a mile's distance their flagging pace quickened into a run, and, meeting at a narrow rivulet, they would fain have fought; but lacking, in their utter exhaustion, strength for fighting and breath for scolding, they could only seat themselves on the opposite banks, and _girn_ at one another across the stream. george cruikshank has had at times worse subjects for his pencil. it is, i believe, landor, in one of his "imaginary conversations," who makes a highland laird inform adam smith that, desirous to ascertain, in some sort of conceivable degree, the size of his property, he had placed a line of pipers around it, each at such a distance from his nearest neighbour that he could barely catch the sound of his bagpipe; and that from the number of pipers required he was able to form an approximate estimate of the extent of his estate. and here, in a highland tradition, genuine at least as such, are we introduced to an expedient of the kind scarce less ludicrous or inadequate than that which landor must, in one of his humorous moods, have merely imagined. i returned to the inn at the hour from which, as i have said, it would be possible for us, and not more than possible, to complete our day's journey; and finding, as i had anticipated, no trace of click-clack, we set off without him. our way led us through long moory straths, with here and there a blue lake and birch wood, and here and there a group of dingy cottages and of irregular fields; but the general scenery was that of the prevailing schistose gneiss of the scotch highlands, in which rounded confluent hills stand up over long-withdrawing valleys, and imposing rather from its bare and lonely expansiveness, than from aught bold or striking in its features. the district had been opened up only a few seasons previous by the parliamentary road over which we travelled, and was at that time little known to the tourist; and the thirty years which have since passed have in some respects considerably changed it, as they have done the highlands generally. most of the cottages, when i last journeyed the way, were represented by but broken ruins, and the fields by mossy patches that remained green amid the waste. i marked at one spot an extraordinary group of oak-trees, in the last stage of decay, which would have attracted notice from their great bulk and size in even the forests of england. the largest of the group lay rotting upon the ground--a black, doddered shell, fully six feet in diameter, but hollow as a tar-barrel; while the others, some four or five in number, stood up around it, totally divested of all their larger boughs, but green with leaves, that, from the minuteness of the twigs on which they grew, wrapped them around like close-fitting mantles. their period of "tree-ship"--to borrow a phrase from cowper--must have extended far into the obscure past of highland history--to a time, i doubt not, when not a few of the adjacent peat mosses still lived as forests, and when some of the neighbouring clans--frasers, bissets, and chisholms--had, at least under the existing names (french and saxon in their derivation), not yet begun to be. ere we reached the solitary inn of auchen-nasheen--a true highland clachan of the ancient type, the night had fallen dark and stormy for a night in june; and a grey mist which had been descending for hours along the hills--blotting off their brown summits bit by bit, as an artist might his pencilled hills with a piece of india rubber, but which, methodical in its encroachments, had preserved in its advances a perfect horizontality of line--had broken into a heavy, continuous rain. as, however, the fair weather had lasted us till we were within a mile of our journey's end, we were only partially wet on our arrival, and soon succeeded in drying ourselves in front of a noble turf fire. my comrade would fain have solaced himself, after our weary journey, with something nice. he held that a highland inn should be able to furnish at least a bit of mutton-ham or a cut of dried salmon, and ordered a few slices, first of ham, and then of salmon; but his orders served merely to perplex the landlord and his wife, whose stores seemed to consist of only oatmeal and whisky; and, coming down in his expectations and demands, and intimating that he was very hungry, and that anything edible would do, we heard the landlady inform, with evident satisfaction, a red-armed wench, dressed in blue plaiding, that "the lads would take porridge." the porridge was accordingly prepared; and, when engaged in discussing this familiar viand, a little before midnight--for we had arrived late--a tall highlander entered the inn, dropping like a mill-wheel. he was charged, he said, with messages to the landlord, and to two mason lads in the inn, from a forlorn carter with whom he had travelled about twenty miles, but who, knocked up by the "drap drink" and a pair of bad shoes, had been compelled to shelter for the night in a cottage about seven miles short of auchen-nasheen. the carter's message to the landlord was simply to the effect that the two mason lads having stolen his horse and cart, he instructed him to detain his property for him until he himself should come up in the morning. as for his message to the lads, said the highlander, "it was no meikle worth gaun o'er again; but if we liked to buckle on a' the gaelic curses to a' the english ones, it would be something like that." we were awakened next morning by a tremendous hubbub in the adjoining apartment. "it is click-clack the carter," said my comrade: "oh, what shall we do?" we leaped up; and getting into our clothes in doubly-quick time, set ourselves to reconnoitre through the crannies of a deal partition, and saw the carter standing in the middle of the next room, storming furiously, and the landlord, a smooth-spoken, little old man, striving hard to conciliate him. click-clack was a rough-looking fellow, turned of forty, of about five feet ten, with a black unshaven beard, like a shoe-brush stuck under his nose, which was red as a coal, and attired in a sadly-breached suit of aberdeen grey, topped by a brimless hat, that had been borrowed, apparently, from some obliging scare-crow. i measured him in person and expression; and, deeming myself his match, even unassisted by my comrade, on whose discretion i could calculate with more certainty than on his valour, i entered the apartment, and taxed him with gross dereliction of duty. he had left us to drive his horse and cart for a whole day, and had broken, for the sake of his wretched indulgence in the public-house, his engagement with our master; and i would report him to a certainty. the carter turned upon me with the fierceness of a wild beast; but, first catching his eye, as i would that of a maniac, i set my face very near his, and he calmed down in a moment. he could not help being late, he said: he had reached the inn at contin not an hour after we had left it; and it was really very hard to have to travel a long day's journey in such bad shoes. we accepted his apology; and, ordering the landlord to bring in half a mutchkin of whisky, the storm blew by. the morning, like the previous night, had been thick and rainy; but it gradually cleared up as the day rose; and after breakfast we set out together along a broken footpath, never before traversed by horse and cart. we passed a solitary lake, on whose shores the only human dwelling was a dark turf shieling, at which, however, click-clack ascertained there was whisky to be sold; and then entered upon a tract of scenery wholly different in its composition and character from that through which our journey had previously lain. there runs along the west coast of scotland, from the island of rum to the immediate neighbourhood of cape wrath, a formation, laid down by macculloch, in his geological map of the kingdom, as old red sandstone, but which underlies formations deemed primary--two of these of quartz rock, and a third of that unfossiliferous limestone in which the huge cave of smoo is hollowed, and to which the assynt marbles belong. the system, which, taken as a whole--quartz-rock, lime, and sandstone--corresponds bed for bed with the lower old red of the east coast, and is probably a highly metamorphic example of that great deposit, exhibits its fullest development in assynt, where all its four component beds are present. in the tract on which we now entered, it presents only two of these--the lower quartz-rock, and the underlying red sandstone; but wherever any of its members appear, they present unique features--marks of enormous denudation, and a bold style of landscape altogether its own; and, in now entering upon it for the first time, i was much impressed by its extraordinary character. loch maree, one of the wildest of our highland lakes, and at this time scarce at all known to the tourist, owes to it all that is peculiar in its appearance--its tall pyramidal quartz mountains, that rise at one stride, steep, and well-nigh as naked as the old pyramids, from nearly the level of the sea, to heights on which at midsummer the snows of winter gleam white in streaks and patches; and a picturesque sandstone tract of precipitous hills, which flanks its western shore, and bore at this period the remains of one of the old pine forests. a continuous wall of gneiss mountains, that runs along the eastern side of the lake, sinks sheer into its brown depths, save at one point, where a level tract, half-encircled by precipices, is occupied by fields and copsewood, and bears in the midst a white mansion-house; the blue expanse of the lake greatly broadens in its lower reaches; and a group of partially submerged hillocks, that resemble the forest-covered ones on its western shores, but are of lower altitude, rise over its waters, and form a miniature archipelago, grey with lichened stone, and bosky with birch and hazel. finding at the head of the loch that no horse and cart had ever forced their way along its sides, we had to hire a boat for the transport of at least cart and baggage; and when the boatmen were getting ready for the voyage, which was, with the characteristic dilatoriness of the district, a work of hours, we baited at the clachan of _kinlochewe_--a humble highland inn, like that in which we had passed the night. the name--that of an old farm which stretches out along the _head_ or upper end of loch maree--has a remarkable etymology: it means simply the head of _loch ewe_--the salt-water loch into which the waters of loch maree empty themselves by a river little more than a mile in length, and whose present _head_ is some sixteen or twenty miles distant from the farm which bears its name. ere that last elevation of the land, however, to which our country owes the level marginal strip that stretches between the present coast-line and the ancient one, the sea must have found its way to the old farm. loch maree (mary's loch), a name evidently of mediæval origin, would then have existed as a prolongation of the marine loch ewe, and _kinlochewe_ would have actually been what the compound words signify--the head of loch ewe. there seems to be reason for holding that, ere the latest elevation of the land took place in our island, it had received its first human inhabitants--rude savages, who employed tools and weapons of stone, and fashioned canoes out of single logs of wood. are we to accept etymologies such as the instanced one--and there are several such in the highlands--as good, in evidence that these aboriginal savages were of the celtic race, and that gaelic was spoken in scotland at a time when its strips of grassy links, and the sites of many of its seaport towns, such as leith, greenock, musselburgh, and cromarty, existed as oozy sea-beaches, covered twice every day by the waters of the ocean? it was a delightful evening--still, breathless, clear--as we swept slowly across the broad breast of loch maree; and the red light of the sinking sun fell on many a sweet wild recess, amid the labyrinth of islands purple with heath, and overhung by the birch and mountain-ash; or slanted along the broken glades of the ancient forest; or lighted up into a blush the pale stony faces of the tall pyramidal hills. a boat bearing a wedding party was crossing the lake to the white house on the opposite side, and a piper stationed in the bows, was discoursing sweet music, that, softened by distance, and caught up by the echoes of the rocks, resembled no strain i had ever heard from the bagpipe before. even the boatmen rested on their oars, and i had just enough of gaelic to know that they were remarking how very beautiful it was. "i wish," said my comrade, "you understood these men: they have a great many curious stories about the loch, that i am sure you would like. see you that large island? it is island-maree. there is, they tell me, an old burying-ground on it, in which the danes used to bury long ages ago, and whose ancient tomb-stones no man can read. and yon other island beside it is famous as the place in which the _good_ people meet every year to make submission to their queen. there is, they say, a little loch in the island, and another little island in the loch; and it is under a tree on that inner island that the queen sits and gathers kain for the evil one. they tell me that, for certain, the fairies have not left this part of the country yet." we landed, a little after sunset, at the point from which our road led across the hills to the sea-side, but found that the carter had not yet come up; and at length, despairing of his appearance, and unable to carry off his cart and the luggage with us, as we had succeeded in bringing off cart, horse, and luggage on the previous day, we were preparing to take up our night's lodging under the shelter of an overhanging crag, when we heard him coming soliloquizing through the wood, in a manner worthy of his name, as if he were not one, but twenty carters. "what a perfect shame of a country!" he exclaimed--"perfect shame! road for a horse, forsooth!--more like a turnpike stair. and not a feed of corn for the poor beast; and not a public-house atween this and kinlochewe; and not a drop of whisky: perfect, perfect shame of a country!" on his coming up in apparently very bad humour, we found him disposed to transfer the shame of the country to our shoulders. what sort of people were we, he asked, to travel in such a land without whisky! whisky, however, there was none to produce: there was no whisky nearer, we told him, than the public-house at the sea-side, where we proposed spending the night; and, of course, the sooner we got there the better. and after assisting him to harness his horse, we set off in the darkening twilight, amid the hills. rough grey rocks, and little blue lochans, edged with flags, and mottled in their season with water-lilies, glimmered dim and uncertain in the imperfect light as we passed; but ere we reached the inn of flowerdale in gairloch, every object stood out clear, though cold, in the increscent light of morning; and a few light streaks of cloud, poised in the east over the unrisen sun, were gradually exchanging their gleam of pale bronze for a deep flush of mingled blood and fire. after the refreshment of a few hours' sleep and a tolerable breakfast, we set out for the scene of our labours, which lay on the sea-shore, about two miles further to the north and west; and were shown an out-house--one of a square of dilapidated offices--which we might fit up, we were told, for our barrack. the building had been originally what is known on the north-western coast of scotland, with its ever-weeping climate, as a hay-barn; but it was now merely a roof-covered tank of green stagnant water, about three-quarters of a foot in depth, which had oozed through the walls from an over-gorged pond in the adjacent court, that in a tract of recent rains had overflowed its banks, and not yet subsided. our new house did look exceedingly like a beaver-dam, with this disadvantageous difference, that no expedient of diving could bring us to better chambers on the other side of the wall. my comrade, setting himself to sound the abyss with his stick, sung out in sailor style, "three feet water in the hold." click-clack broke into a rage: "that a dwelling for human creatures!" he said. "if i was to put my horse intil't, poor beast! the very hoofs would rot off him in less than a week. are we eels or puddocks, that we are sent to live in a loch?" marking, however, a narrow portion of the ridge which dammed up the waters of the neighbouring pool whence our domicile derived its supply, i set myself to cut it across, and had soon the satisfaction of seeing the general surface lowered fully a foot, and the floor of our future dwelling laid bare. click-clack, gathering courage as he saw the waters ebbing away, seized a shovel, and soon showed us the value of his many years' practice in the labours of the stable; and then, despatching him for a few cart-loads of a dry shell-sand from the shore, which i had marked by the way as suitable for mixing with our lime, we had soon for our tank of green water a fine white floor. "man wants but little here below," especially in a mason's barrack. there were two square openings in the apartment, neither of them furnished with frame or glass; but the one we filled up with stone, and an old unglazed frame, which, with the assistance of a base and border of turf, i succeeded in fitting into the other, gave at least an air of respectability to the place. boulder stones, capped with pieces of mossy turf, served us for seats; and we had soon a comfortable peat fire blazing against the gable; but we were still sadly in want of a bed: the fundamental damp of the floor was, we saw, fast gaining on the sand; and it would be neither comfortable nor safe to spread our dried grass and blankets over _it_. my comrade went out to see whether the place did not furnish materials enough of any kind to make a bedstead, and soon returned in triumph, dragging after him a pair of harrows which he placed side by side in a snug corner beside the fire, with of course the teeth downwards. a good catholic, prepared to win heaven for himself by a judicious use of sharp points, might have preferred having them turned the other way; but my comrade was an enlightened protestant; and besides, like goldsmith's sailor, he loved to lie soft. the second piece of luck was mine. i found lying unclaimed in the yard an old barn-door, which a recent gale had blown from off its hinges; and by placing it above the harrows, and driving a row of stakes around it into the floor, to keep the outer sleeper from rolling off--for the wall served to secure the position of the inner one--we succeeded in constructing, by our joint efforts, a luxurious bed. there was but one serious drawback on its comforts: the roof overhead was bad, and there was an obstinate drop, that used, during every shower which fell in the season of sleep, to make a dead set at my face, and try me at times with the water torture of the old story, mayhap half a dozen times in the course of a single night. our barrack fairly fitted up, i set out with my comrade, whose knowledge of gaelic enabled him to act as my interpreter, to a neighbouring group of cottages, to secure a labourer for the work of the morrow. the evening was now beginning to darken; but there was still light enough to show me that the little fields i passed through on my way resembled very much those of liliput, as described by gulliver. they were, however, though equally small, greatly more irregular, and had peculiarities, too, altogether their own. the land had originally been stony; and as it showed, according to the highland phrase, its "bare bones through its skin"--large bosses of the rock beneath coming here and there to the surface--the highlanders had gathered the stones in great pyramidal heaps on the bare bosses; and so very numerous were these in some of the fields, that they looked as if some malignant sorcerer had, in the time of harvest, converted all their shocks into stone. on approaching the cottage of our future labourer, i was attracted by a door of very peculiar construction that lay against the wall. it had been brought from the ancient pine forest on the western bank of loch maree, and was formed of the roots of trees so curiously interlaced by nature, that when cut out of the soil, which it had covered over like a piece of network, it remained firmly together, and now formed a door which the mere imitator of the rustic might in vain attempt to rival. we entered the cottage, and plunging downwards two feet or so, found ourselves upon the dunghill of the establishment, which in this part of the country usually occupied at the time an ante-chamber which corresponded to that occupied by the cattle a few years earlier, in the midland districts of sutherland. groping in this foul outer chamber through a stifling atmosphere of smoke, we came to an inner door raised to the level of the soil outside, through which a red umbry gleam escaped into the darkness; and, climbing into the inner apartment, we found ourselves in the presence of the inmates of the mansion. the fire, as in the cottage of my sutherlandshire relative, was placed in the middle of the floor: the master of the mansion, a red-haired, strongly-built highlander, of the middle size and age, with his son, a boy of twelve, sat on the one side; his wife, who, though not much turned of thirty, had the haggard, drooping cheeks, hollow eyes, and pale, sallow complexion of old age, sat on the other. we broke our business to the highlander through my companion--for, save a few words caught up at school by the boy, there was no english in the household--and found him disposed to entertain it favourably. a large pot of potatoes hung suspended over the fire, under a dense ceiling of smoke; and he hospitably invited us to wait supper, which, as our dinner had consisted of but a piece of dry oaten cake, we willingly did. as the conversation went on, i became conscious that it turned upon myself, and that i was an object of profound commiseration to the inmates of the cottage. "what," i inquired of my companion, "are these kind people pitying me so very much for?" "for your want of gaelic, to be sure. how can a man get on in the world that wants gaelic?" "but do not they themselves," i asked, "want english?" "o yes," he said, "but what does that signify? what is the use of english in gairloch?" the potatoes, with a little ground salt, and much unbroken hunger as sauce, ate remarkably well. our host regretted that he had no fish to offer us; but a tract of rough weather had kept him from sea, and he had just exhausted his previous supply; and as for bread, he had used up the last of his grain crop a little after christmas, and had been living, with his family, on potatoes, with fish when he could get them, ever since. thirty years have now passed since i shared in the highlander's evening meal, and during the first twenty of these, the use of the potatoe--unknown in the highlands a century before--greatly increased. i have been told by my maternal grandfather, that about the year , when he was a boy of about eight or nine years of age, the head-gardener at balnagown castle used, in his occasional visits to cromarty, to bring him in his pocket, as great rarities, some three or four potatoes; and that it was not until some fifteen or twenty years after this time that he saw potatoes reared in fields in any part of the northern highlands. but, once fairly employed as food, every season saw a greater breadth of them laid down. in the north-western highlands, in especial, the use of these roots increased from the year to the year nearly a hundredfold, and came at length to form, as in ireland, not merely the staple, but in some localities almost the only food of the people; and when destroyed by disease in the latter year, famine immediately ensued in both ireland and the highlands. a writer in the _witness_, whose letter had the effect of bringing that respectable paper under the eye of mr. punch, represented the irish famine as a direct judgment on the maynooth endowment; while another writer, a member of the peace association--whose letter did not find its way into the _witness_, though it reached the editor--challenged the decision on the ground that the scotch highlanders, who were greatly opposed to maynooth, suffered from the infliction nearly as much as the irish themselves, and that the offence punished must have been surely some one of which both highlanders and irish had been guilty in common. _he_, however, had found out, he said, what the crime visited actually was. both the irish and highland famines were judgments upon the people for their great homicidal efficiency as soldiers in the wars of the empire--an efficiency which, as he truly remarked, was almost equally characteristic of both nations. for my own part, i have been unable hitherto to see the steps which conduct to such profound conclusions; and am content simply to hold, that the superintending providence who communicated to man a calculating, foreseeing nature, does occasionally get angry with him, and inflict judgments upon him, when, instead of exercising his faculties, he sinks to a level lower than his own, and becomes content, like some of the inferior animals, to live on a single root. there are two periods favourable to observation--an early and a late one. a fresh eye detects external traits and peculiarities among a people, seen for the first time, which disappear as they become familiar; but it is not until after repeated opportunities of study, and a prolonged acquaintanceship, that internal characteristics and conditions begin to be rightly known. during the first fortnight of my residence in this remote district, i was more impressed than at a later stage by certain peculiarities of manner and appearance in the inhabitants. dr. johnson remarked that he found fewer very tall or very short men among the people of the hebrides than in england: i was now struck by a similar mediocrity of size among the highlanders of western ross; five-sixths of the grown men seemed to average between five feet seven and five feet nine inches in height, and either tall or short men i found comparatively rare. the highlanders of the eastern coast were, on the contrary, at that period, mayhap still, very various of stature--some of them exceedingly diminutive, others of great bulk and height; and, as might be seen in the congregations of the parish churches removed by but a few miles, there were marked differences in this respect between the people of contiguous districts--certain tracts of plain or valley producing larger races than others. i was inclined to believe at the time that the middle-sized highlanders of the west coast were a less mixed race than the unequally-sized highlanders of the east: i at least found corresponding inequalities among the higher-born highland families, that, as shown by their genealogies, blended the norman and saxon with the celtic blood; and as the unequally-sized highland race bordered on that scandinavian one which fringes the greater part of the eastern coast of scotland, i inferred that there had been a similar blending of blood among _them_. i have since seen, in gustav kombst's ethnographic map of the british islands, the difference which i at this time but inferred, indicated by a different shade of colour, and a different name. the highlanders of the east coast kombst terms "scandinavian-gaelic;" those of the west, "gaelic-scandinavian-gaelic,"--names indicative, of course, of the proportions in which he holds that they possess the celtic blood. disparity of bulk and size appears to be one of the consequences of a mixture of races; nor does the induced inequality seem restricted to the physical framework. minds of large calibre, and possessed of the kingly faculty, come first into view, in our history, among the fused tribes, just as of old it was the mixed marriages that first produced the giants. the difference in size which i remarked in particular districts of the scandinavian-gaelic region, separated, in some instances, by but a ridge of hills or an expanse of moor, must have been a result of the old clan divisions, and is said to have marked the clans themselves very strongly. some of them were of a greatly more robust, and some of a slimmer type, than others. i was struck by another peculiarity in the west coast highlanders. i found the men in general greatly better-looking than the women, and that in middle life they bore their years much more lightly. the females seemed old and haggard at a period when the males were still comparatively fresh and robust. i am not sure whether the remark may not in some degree apply to highlanders generally. the "rugged form" and "harsher features," which, according to sir walter, "mark the mountain band," accord worse with the female than with the male countenance and figure. but i at least found this discrepancy in the appearance of the sexes greatly more marked on the west than on the eastern coast; and saw only too much reason to conclude that it was owing in great part to the disproportionately large share of crushing labour laid, in the district, in accordance with the practice of a barbarous time, on the weaker frame of the female. there is, however, a style of female loveliness occasionally though rarely exemplified in the highlands, which far transcends the saxon or scandinavian type. it is manifested usually in extreme youth--at least between the fourteenth and eighteenth year; and its effect we find happily indicated by wordsworth--who seems to have met with a characteristic specimen--in his lines to a highland girl. he describes her as possessing as her "dower," "a very _shower_ of beauty." further, however, he describes her as very young. "twice seven consenting years had shed their utmost bounty on her head." i was, besides, struck at this time by finding, that while almost all the young lads under twenty with whom i came in contact had at least a smattering of english, i found only a single highlander turned of forty with whom i could exchange a word. the exceptional highlander was, however, a curiosity in his way. he seemed to have a natural turn for acquiring languages, and had derived his english, not from conversation, but, in the midst of a gaelic-speaking people, from the study of the scriptures in our common english version. his application of bible language to ordinary subjects told at times with rather ludicrous effect. upon inquiring of him, on one occasion, regarding a young man whom he wished to employ as an extra labourer, he described him in exactly the words in which david is described in the chapter that records the combat with goliath, as "but a youth, and ruddy, and of a fair countenance;" and on asking where he thought we could get a few loads of water-rolled pebbles for causewaying a floor, he directed us to the bed of a neighbouring rivulet, where we might "choose us," he said, "smooth stones out of the brook." he spoke with great deliberation, translating evidently his gaelic thinking, as he went on, into scriptural english. chapter xiii. "a man of glee with hair of glittering grey, as blythe a man as you could see on a spring holiday."--wordsworth. there existed at this time no geological map of scotland. macculloch's did not appear until about six or seven years after (in or ), and sedgwick and murchison's interesting sketch of the northern formations[ ] not until at least five years after ( ). and so, on setting out on the morning after that of my arrival, to provide stones for our future erection, i found myself in a _terra incognita_, new to the quarrier, and unknown to the geologist. most of the stratified primary rocks make but indifferent building materials; and in the immediate neighbourhood of our work i could find only one of the worst of the class--the schistose gneiss. on consulting, however, the scenery of the district, i marked that at a certain point both shores of the open sea-loch on whose margin we were situated suddenly changed their character. the abrupt rugged hills of gneiss that, viewed from an eminence, resembled a tumbling sea, suddenly sank into low brown promontories, unbroken by ravines, and whose eminences were mere flat swellings; and in the hope of finding some change of formation coincident with the change of scenery, i set out with my comrade for the nearest point at which the broken outline passed into the rectilinear or merely undulatory one. but though i did expect a change, it was not without some degree of surprise that, immediately after passing the point of junction, i found myself in a district of red sandstone. it was a hard, compact, dark-coloured stone, but dressed readily to pick and hammer, and made excellent corner-stones and ashlar; and it would have furnished us with even hewn work for our building, had not our employer, unacquainted, like every one else at the time, with the mineral capabilities of the locality, brought his hewing stone in a sloop, at no small expense, through the caledonian canal, from one of the quarries of moray--a circuitous voyage of more than two hundred miles. immediately beside where we opened our quarry, there was a little solitary shieling: it was well-nigh such an edifice as i used to erect when a boy--some eight or ten feet in length, and of so humble an altitude, that, when standing erect in the midst, i could lay my hand on the roof-tree. a heath-bed occupied one of the corners; a few grey embers were smouldering in the middle of the floor; a pot lay beside them, ready for use, half-filled with cockles and razor-fish, the spoils of the morning ebb; and a cog of milk occupied a small shelf that projected from the gable above. such were the contents of the shieling. its only inmate, a lively little old man, sat outside, at once tending a few cows grouped on the moor, and employed in stripping with a pocket-knife, long slender filaments from off a piece of moss fir; and as he wrought and watched, he crooned a gaelic song, not very musically mayhap, but, like the happy song of the humble-bee, there was perfect content in every tone. he had a great many curious questions to ask in his native gaelic, of my comrade, regarding our employment and our employer; and when satisfied, he began, i perceived, like the highlander of the previous evening, to express very profound commiseration for me. "is that man also pitying me?" i asked. "o yes, very much," was the reply: "he does not at all see how you are to live in gairloch without gaelic." i was reminded by the shieling and its happy inmate, of one of my father's experiences, as communicated to me by uncle james. in the course of a protracted kelp voyage among the hebrides, he had landed in his boat, before entering one of the sounds of the long island, to procure a pilot, but found in the fisherman's cottage on which he had directed his course, only the fisherman's wife--a young creature of not more than eighteen--engaged in nursing her child, and singing a gaelic song, in tones expressive of a light heart, till the rocks rang again. a heath bed, a pot of baked clay, of native manufacture, fashioned by the hand, and a heap of fish newly caught, seemed to constitute the only wealth of the cottage; but its mistress was, notwithstanding, one of the happiest of women; and deeply did she commiserate the poor sailors, and earnestly wish for the return of her husband, that he might assist them in their perplexity. the husband at length appeared. "oh," he asked, after the first greeting, "have you any salt?" "plenty," said the master; "and you, i see, from your supply of fresh fish, want it very much; but come, pilot us through the sound, and you shall have as much salt as you require." and so the vessel got a pilot, and the fisherman got salt; but never did my father forget the light-hearted song of the happy mistress of that poor highland cottage. it was one of the palpable characteristics of our scottish highlanders, for at least the first thirty years of the century, that they were contented enough, as a people, to find more to pity than to envy in the condition of their neighbours; and i remember that at this time, and for years after, i used to deem the trait a good one. i have now, however, my doubts on the subject, and am not quite sure whether a content so general as to be national may not, in certain circumstances, be rather a vice than a virtue. it is certainly no virtue when it has the effect of arresting either individuals or peoples in their course of development; and is perilously allied to great suffering, when the men who exemplify it are so thoroughly happy amid the mediocrities of the present, that they fail to make provision for the contingencies of the future. we were joined in about a fortnight by the other workmen from the low country, and i resigned my temporary charge (save that i still retained the time-book in my master's behalf) into the hands of an ancient mason, remarkable over the north of scotland for his skill as an operative, and who, though he was now turned of sixty, was still able to build and hew considerably more than the youngest and most active man in the squad. he was at this time the only survivor of three brothers, all masons, and all not merely first-class workmen, but of a class to which, at least to the north of the grampians, only they themselves belonged, and very considerably in advance of the first. and on the removal of the second of the three brothers to the south of scotland, it was found that, amid the stone-cutters of glasgow, david fraser held relatively the same place that he had done among those of the north. i have been told by mr. kenneth matheson--a gentleman well known as a master-builder in the west of scotland--that in erecting some hanging stairs of polished stone, ornamented in front and at the outer edge by the common fillet and torus, his ordinary workmen used to complete for him their one step a-piece per day, and david fraser his _three_ steps, finished equally well. it is easily conceivable how, in the higher walks of art, one man should excel a thousand--nay, how he should have neither competitor when living, nor successor when dead. the english gentleman who, after the death of canova, asked a surviving brother of the sculptor whether he purposed carrying on canova's _business_, found that he had achieved in the query an unintentional joke. but in the commoner avocations there appear no such differences between man and man; and it may seem strange how, in ordinary stone-cutting, one man could thus perform the work of three. my acquaintance with old john fraser showed me how very much the ability depended on a natural faculty. john's strength had never been above the average of that of scotchmen, and it was now considerably reduced; nor did his mallet deal more or heavier blows than that of the common workman. he had, however, an extraordinary power of conceiving of the finished piece of work, as lying within the rude stone from which it was his business to disinter it; and while ordinary stone-cutters had to repeat and re-repeat their lines and draughts, and had in this way virtually to give to their work several surfaces in detail ere they reached the true one, old john cut upon the true figure at once, and made one surface serve for all. in building, too, he exercised a similar power: he hammer-dressed his stones with fewer strokes than other workmen, and in fitting the interspaces between stones already laid, always picked from out of the heap at his feet the stone that exactly fitted the place; while other operatives busied themselves in picking up stones that were too small or too large; or, if they set themselves to reduce the too large ones, reduced them too little or too much, and had to fit and fit again. whether building or hewing, john never seemed in a hurry. he has been seen, when far advanced in life, working very leisurely, as became his years, on the one side of a wall, and two stout young fellows building against him on the other side--toiling, apparently, twice harder than he, but the old man always contriving to keep a little a-head of them both. david fraser i never saw; but as a hewer he was said considerably to excel even his brother john. on hearing that it had been remarked among a party of edinburgh masons, that, though regarded as the first of glasgow stone-cutters, he would find in the eastern capital at least his equals, he attired himself most uncouthly in a long-tailed coat of tartan, and, looking to the life the untamed, untaught, conceited little celt, he presented himself on monday morning, armed with a letter of introduction from a glasgow builder, before the foreman of an edinburgh squad of masons engaged upon one of the finer buildings at that time in the course of erection. the letter specified neither his qualifications nor his name: it had been written merely to secure for him the necessary employment, and the necessary employment it did secure. the better workmen of the party were engaged, on his arrival, in hewing columns, each of which was deemed sufficient work for a week; and david was asked, somewhat incredulously, by the foreman, "if he could hew?" "o yes, _he thought_ he could hew." "could he hew columns such as these!" "o yes, _he thought_ he could hew columns such as these." a mass of stone in which a possible column lay hid, was accordingly placed before david, not under cover of the shed, which was already occupied by workmen, but, agreeably to david's own request, directly in front of it, where he might be seen by all, and where he straightway commenced a most extraordinary course of antics. buttoning his long tartan coat fast around him, he would first look along the stone from the one end, anon from the other, and then examine it in front and rear; or, quitting it altogether for the time, he would take up his stand beside the other workmen, and, after looking at them with great attention, return and give it a few taps with the mallet, in a style evidently imitative of theirs, but monstrously a caricature. the shed all that day resounded with roars of laughter; and the only thoroughly grave man on the ground was he who occasioned the mirth of all the others. next morning david again buttoned his coat; but he got on much better this day than the former: he was less awkward and less idle, though not less observant than before: and he succeeded ere evening in tracing, in workman-like fashion, a few draughts along the future column. he was evidently greatly improving. on the morning of wednesday he threw off his coat; and it was seen that, though by no means in a hurry, he was seriously at work. there were no more jokes or laughter; and it was whispered in the evening that the strange highlander had made astonishing progress during the day. by the middle of thursday he had made up for his two days' trifling, and was abreast of the other workmen; before night he was far ahead of them; and ere the evening of friday, when they had still a full day's work on each of their columns, david's was completed in a style that defied criticism; and, his tartan coat again buttoned around him, he sat resting himself beside it. the foreman went out and greeted him. "well," he said, "you have beaten us all: you certainly _can_ hew!" "yes," said david; "i _thought_ i could hew columns. did the other men take much more than a week to learn?" "come, come, _david fraser_," replied the foreman; "we all guess who you are: you have had your joke out; and now, i suppose, we must give you your week's wages, and let you away." "yes," said david; "work waits for me in glasgow; but i just thought it might be well to know how you hewed on this east side of the country." john fraser was a shrewd, sarcastic old man, much liked, however, by his brother workmen; though his severe sayings--which, never accompanied by any ill-nature, were always tolerated in the barrack--did both himself and them occasional harm when repeated outside. to men who have to live for months together on oatmeal and salt, the difference between porridge with and porridge without milk is a very great difference indeed, both in point of salutariness and comfort; and i had succeeded in securing, on the ordinary terms, ere the arrival of john, what was termed a _set_ of skimmed milk from the wife of the gentleman at whose dwelling-house we were engaged in working. the skimmed milk was, however, by no means good: it was thin, blue, and sour; and we received it without complaint only because we knew that, according to the poet, it was "better just than want aye," and that there was no other dairy in that part of the country. but old john was less prudent; and, taking the dairy-maid to task in his quiet ironical style, he began by expressing wonder and regret that a grand lady like her mistress should be unable to distinguish the difference between milk and wine. the maid indignantly denied the fact _in toto_: her mistress, she said, did know the difference. "o no," replied john; "wine always gets better the longer it is kept, and milk always the worse; but your mistress, not knowing the difference, keeps her milk very long, in order to make it better, and makes it so very bad in consequence, that there are some days we can scarce eat it at all." the dairy-maid bridled up, and, communicating the remark to her mistress, we were told next morning that we might go for our milk to the next dairy, if we pleased, but that we would get none from her. and so, for four months thereafter, we had to do penance for the joke, on that not very luxurious viand "dry porridge." the pleasures of the table had occupied but small space amid the very scanty enjoyments of our barrack even before, and they were now so considerably reduced, that i could have almost wished at meal-times that--like the inhabitants of the moon, as described by baron munchausen--i could open up a port-hole in my side, and lay in at once provisions enough for a fortnight; but the infliction told considerably more on our constitutions than on our appetites; and we all became subject to small but very painful boils in the muscular parts of the body--a species of disease which seems to be scarce less certainly attendant on the exclusive use of oatmeal, than sea-scurvy on the exclusive use of salt meat. old john, however, though in a certain sense the author of our calamity, escaped all censure, while a double portion fell to the share of the gentleman's wife. i never met a man possessed of a more thoroughly mathematical head than this ancient mason. i know not that he ever saw a copy of euclid; but the principles of the work seemed to lie as self-evident truths in his mind. in the ability, too, of drawing shrewd inferences from natural phenomena, old john fraser excelled all the other untaught men i ever knew. until my acquaintance with him commenced, i had been accustomed to hear the removal of what was widely known in the north of scotland as "the travelled stone of petty," attributed to supernatural agency. an enormous boulder had been carried in the night-time by the fairies, it was said, from its resting place on the sea-beach, into the middle of a little bay--a journey of several hundred feet; but old john, though he had not been on the spot at the time, at once inferred that it had been carried, not by the fairies, but by a thick cake of ice, considerable enough, when firmly clasped round it, to float it away. he had seen, he told me, stones of considerable size floated off by ice on the shore opposite his cottage, in the upper reaches of the cromarty firth: ice was an agent that sometimes "walked off with great stones;" whereas he had no evidence whatever that the fairies had any powers that way; and so he accepted the agent which he knew, as the true one in the removal of the travelled stone, and not the hypothetical agents of which he knew nothing. such was the natural philosophy of old john; and in this special instance geologic science has since fully confirmed his decision. he was chiefly a favourite among us, however, from his even and cheerful temper, and his ability of telling humorous stories, that used to set the barrack in a roar, and in which he never spared himself, if the exhibition of a weakness or absurdity gave but point to the fun. his narrative of a visit to inverness, which he had made when an apprentice lad, to see a sheep-stealer hung, and his description of the terrors of a night-journey back, in which he fancied he saw men waving in the wind on almost every tree, till on reaching his solitary barrack he was utterly prostrated by the apparition of his own great-coat suspended from a pin, has oftener than once convulsed us with laughter. but john's humorous confessions, based as they always were on a strong good sense, that always saw the early folly in its most ludicrous aspect, never lowered him in our eyes. of his wonderful skill as a workman, much was incommunicable; but it was at least something to know the principles on which he directed the operations of what a phrenologist would perhaps term his extraordinary faculties of _form_ and _size_; and so i recognise old john as one of not the least useful nor able of my many teachers. some of his professional lessons were of a kind which the south and east country masons would be the better for knowing. in that rainy district of scotland of which we at this time occupied the central tract, rubble walls built in the ordinary style leak like the bad roofs of other parts of the country; and mansion-houses constructed within its precincts by qualified workmen from edinburgh and glasgow have been found to admit the water in such torrents as to be uninhabitable, until their more exposed walls had been slated over like their roofs. old john, however, always succeeded in building water-tight walls. departing from the ordinary rule of the builder elsewhere, and which on the east coast of scotland he himself always respected, he slightly elevated the under beds of his stones, instead of laying them, as usual, on the dead level; while along the edges of their upper beds he struck off a small rude champer; and by these simple contrivances, the rain, though driven with violence against his work, coursed in streams along its face, without entering into the interior and soaking through. for about six weeks we had magnificent weather--clear, sunny skies, and calm seas; and i greatly enjoyed my evening rambles amid the hills, or along the sea-shore. i was struck, in these walks, by the amazing abundance of the wild flowers which covered the natural meadows and lower hill-slopes--an abundance, as i have since remarked, equally characteristic of both the northern and western islands of scotland. the lower slopes of gairloch, of western sutherland, of orkney, and of the northern hebrides generally--though, for the purposes of the agriculturist, vegetation languishes, and wheat is never reared--are by many degrees richer in wild flowers than the fat loamy meadows of england. they resemble gaudy pieces of carpeting, as abundant in petals as in leaves. little of the rare is to be detected in these meadows, save, perhaps, that in those of western sutherland a few alpine plants may be found at a greatly lower level than elsewhere in britain; but the vast profusion of blossoms borne by species common to almost every other part of the kingdom, imparts to them an apparently novel character. we may detect, i am inclined to think, in this singular floral profusion, the operation of a law not less influential in the animal than the vegetable world, which, when hardship presses upon the life of the individual shrub or quadruped, so as to threaten its vitality, renders it fruitful on behalf of its species. i have seen the principle strikingly exemplified in the common tobacco plant, when reared in a northern country, in the open air. year after year it continued to degenerate, and to exhibit a smaller leaf and shorter stem, until the successors of what in the first year of trial had been rigorous plants, of some three to four feet in height, had in the sixth or eighth become mere weeds, of scarce as many inches. but while the as yet undegenerate plant had merely borne atop a few florets, which produced a small quantity of exceedingly minute seeds, the stunted weed, its descendant, was so thickly covered over in its season with its pale yellow bells, as to present the appearance of a nosegay; and the seeds produced were not only bulkier in the mass, but also individually of much greater size. the tobacco had grown productive in proportion as it had degenerated. in the common scurvy-grass, too--remarkable, with some other plants for taking its place among both the productions of our alpine heights and of our sea-shores--it will be found that, in proportion as its habitat proves ungenial, and its leaves and stems become dwarfish and thin, its little white cruciform flowers increase, till, in localities where it barely exists, as if on the edge of extinction, we find the entire plant forming a dense bundle of seed vessels, each charged to the full with seed. and in the gay meadows of gairloch and orkney, crowded with a vegetation that approaches its northern limit of production, we detect what seems to be the same principle chronically operative; and hence, it would seem, their extraordinary gaiety. their richly blossoming plants are the poor productive _irish_ of the vegetable world; for doubleday seems quite in the right in holding that the law extends to not only the inferior animals, but to our own species also. the lean, ill-fed sow and rabbit rear, it has been long known, a greatly more numerous progeny than the same animals when well cared for and fat; and every horse and cattle breeder knows that to over-feed his animals proves a sure mode of rendering them sterile. the sheep, if tolerably well pastured, brings forth only a single lamb at a birth; but if half-starved and lean, the chances are that it may bring forth two or three. and so it is also with the greatly higher human race. place them in circumstances of degradation and hardship so extreme as almost to threaten their existence as individuals, and they increase, as if in behalf of the species, with a rapidity without precedent in circumstances of greater comfort. the aristocratic families of a country are continually running out; and it requires frequent creations to keep up the house of lords; whereas our poorer people seem increasing in more than the arithmetical ratio. in skye, though fully two-thirds of the population emigrated early in the latter half of the last century, a single generation had scarce passed ere the gap was completely filled; and miserable ireland, as it existed ere the famine, would have been of itself sufficient, had the human family no other breeding-place, to people in a few ages the world. here too, in close neighbourhood with the flower-covered meadows, were there miserable cottages that were swarming with children--cottages in which, for nearly the half of every twelvemonth, the cereals were unknown as food, and whose over-toiled female inmates did all the domestic work, and more than half the work of the little fields outside. how exquisitely the sun sets in a clear, calm, summer evening over the blue hebrides! within less than a mile of our barrack, there rose a tall hill, whose bold summit commanded all the western isles, from sleat in skye, to the butt of the lewis. to the south lay the trap islands; to the north and west, the gneiss ones. they formed, however, seen from this hill, one great group, which, just as the sun had sunk, and sea and sky were so equally bathed in gold as to exhibit on the horizon no dividing line, seemed in their transparent purple--darker or lighter according to the distance--a group of lovely clouds, that, though moveless in the calm, the first light breeze might sweep away. even the flat promontories of sandstone, which, like outstretched arms, enclosed the outer reaches of the foreground--promontories edged with low red cliffs, and covered with brown heath--used to borrow at these times, from the soft yellow beam, a beauty not their own. amid the inequalities of the gneiss region within--a region more broken and precipitous, but of humbler altitude, than the great gneiss tract of the midland highlands--the chequered light and shade lay, as the sun declined, in strongly contrasted patches, that betrayed the abrupt inequalities of the ground, and bore, when all around was warm, tinted, and bright, a hue of cold neutral grey; while immediately over and beyond this rough sombre base there rose two noble pyramids of red sandstone, about two thousand feet in height, that used to flare to the setting sun in bright crimson, and whose nearly horizontal strata, deeply scored along the lines, like courses of ashlar in an ancient wall, added to the mural effect communicated by their bare fronts and steep rectilinear outlines. these tall pyramids form the terminal members, towards the south, of an extraordinary group of sandstone hills, of denudation unique in the british islands, to which i have already referred, and which extends from the northern boundary of assynt to near applecross. but though i formed at this time my first acquaintance with the group, it was not until many years after that i had an opportunity of determining the relations of their component beds to each other, and to the fundamental rocks of the country. at times my walks were directed along the sea-shore. naturalists well know how much the western coasts of scotland differ in their productions from its eastern ones; but it was a difference wholly new to me at this time; and though my limited knowledge enabled me to detect it in but comparatively few particulars, i found it no uninteresting task to trace it for myself in even these few. i was first attracted by one of the larger sea-weeds, _himanthalia lorea_--with its cup-shaped disc and long thong-like receptacles--which i found very abundant on the rocks here, but which i had never seen in the upper reaches of the moray firth, and which is by no means very common on any portion of the east coast. from the sea-weeds i passed to the shells, among which i detected not only a difference in the proportions in which the various species occurred, but also species that were new to me--such as a shell, not rare in gairloch, _nassa reticulata_, but rarely if ever seen in the moray or cromarty firths; and three other shells which i saw here for the first time, _trochus umbilicatus_, _trochus magus_, and _pecten niveus_.[ ] i found, too, that the common edible oyster, _ostrea edulis_, which on the east coast lies always in comparatively deep water, is sometimes found in the gairloch, as, for instance, in the little bay opposite flowerdale, in beds laid bare by the ebb of stream-tides. it is always interesting to come unexpectedly either upon a new species or a striking peculiarity in an old one; and i deemed it a curious and suggestive fact that there should be british shells still restricted to our western shores, and that have not yet made their way into the german ocean, along the coasts of either extremity of the island. are we to infer that they are shells of more recent origin than the widely-diffused ones? or are they merely feebler in their reproductive powers? and is the german ocean, as some of our geologists hold, a comparatively modern sea, into which only the hardier mollusca of rapid increase have yet made their way? further, i found that the true fishes differ considerably in the group on the opposite sides of the island. the haddock and whiting are greatly more common on the east coast: the hake and horse mackerel very much more abundant on the west. even where the species are the same on both sides, the varieties are different. the herring of the west coast is a short, thick, richly-flavoured fish, greatly superior to the large lean variety so abundant on the east; whereas the west-coast cod are large-headed, thin-bodied, pale-coloured fishes, inferior, even in their best season, to the darker-coloured, small-headed variety of the east. in no respect do the two coasts differ more, or at least to the north of the grampians, than in the transparency of the water. the bottom is rarely seen on the east coast at a depth of more than twenty feet, and not often at more than twelve; whereas on the west i have seen it very distinctly, during a tract of dry weather, at a depth of sixty or seventy feet. the handles of the spears used in gairloch in spearing flat fish and the common edible crab (_cancer pagurus_), are sometimes five-and-twenty feet in length--a length which might in vain be given to spear-handles upon the east coast, seeing that there, at such a depth of water, flat fish or crab was never yet seen from the surface. deceived by this transparency, i have plunged oftener than once over head and ears, when bathing among the rocks, in pools where i had confidently expected to find footing. from a rock that rose abrupt as a wall from the low-water level of stream tides to a little above the line of flood, i occasionally amused myself, when the evenings were calm, in practising the indian method of diving--that in which the diver carries a weight with him, to facilitate his sinking, and keep him steadily at the bottom. i used to select an oblong-shaped stone, of sixteen or eighteen pounds' weight, but thin enough to be easily held in one hand; and after grasping it fast, and quitting the rock edge, i would in a second or two find myself on the grey pebble-strewed ooze beneath, some twelve or fifteen feet from the surface, where i found i could steadily remain, picking up any small objects i chanced to select, until, breath failing, i quitted my hold of the stone. and then two or three seconds more were always sufficient to bring me to the surface again. there are many descriptions, in the works of the poets, of submarine scenery, but it is always scenery such as may be seen by an eye looking down into the water--not by an eye enveloped in it--and very different from that with which i now became acquainted. i found that in these hasty trips to the bottom i could distinguish masses and colours, but that i always failed to determine outlines. the minuter objects--pebbles, shells, and the smaller bunches of sea-weed--always assumed the circular form; the larger, such as detached rocks, and patches of sand, appeared as if described by irregular curves. the dingy gneiss rock rose behind and over me like a dark cloud, thickly dotted with minute circular spots of soiled white--the aspect assumed, as seen through the water, by the numerous specimens of univalve shells (_purpura lapillus_ and _patella vulgata_) with which it was speckled; beneath, the irregular floor seemed covered by a carpet that somewhat resembled in the pattern a piece of marbled paper, save that the circular or oval patches of which it was composed, and which had as their nuclei, stones, rocks, shell-fish, bunches of fuci, and fronds of laminaria, were greatly larger. there spread around a misty groundwork of green intensely deep along its horizon, but comparatively light overhead, in its middle sky, which had always its prodigy--wonderful circlets of light, that went widening outwards, and with whose delicate green there mingled occasional flashes of pale crimson. such was the striking though somewhat meagre scenery of a sea-bottom in gairloch, as seen by a human eye submerged in from two to three fathoms of water. there still continued to linger in this primitive district, at the time, several curious arts and implements, that had long become obsolete in most other parts of the highlands, and of which the remains, if found in england or the low country, would have been regarded by the antiquary as belonging to very remote periods. during the previous winter i had read a little work descriptive of an ancient ship, supposed to be danish, which had been dug out of the silt of an english river, and which, among other marks of antiquity, exhibited seams caulked with moss--a peculiarity which had set at fault, it was said, the modern ship-carpenter, in the chronology of his art, as he was unaware that there had ever been a time when moss was used for such a purpose. on visiting, however, a boat-yard at gairloch, i found the highland builder engaged in laying a layer of dried moss, steeped in tar, along one of his seams, and learned that such had been the practice of boat-carpenters in that locality from time immemorial. i have said that the little old highlander of the solitary shieling, whom we met on first commencing our quarrying labours beside his hut, was engaged in stripping with a pocket-knife long slender filaments from off a piece of moss-fir. he was employed in preparing these ligneous fibres for the manufacture of a primitive kind of cordage, in large use among the fishermen, and which possessed a strength and flexibility that could scarce have been expected from materials of such venerable age and rigidity as the roots and trunks of ancient trees, that had been locked up in the peat-mosses of the district for mayhap a thousand years. like the ordinary cordage of the rope-maker, it consisted of three strands, and was employed for haulsers, the cork-bauks of herring-nets, and the lacing of sails. most of the sails themselves were made, not of canvas, but of a woollen stuff, the thread of which, greatly harder and stouter than that of common plaid, had been spun on the distaff and spindle. as hemp and flax must have been as rare commodities of old in the western highlands, and the hebrides generally, as they both were thirty years ago in gairloch, whereas moss-fir must have been abundant, and sheep, however coarse their fleeces, common enough, it seems not improbable that the old highland fleets that fought in the "battle of the bloody bay," or that, in troublous times, when donald quarrelled with the king, ravaged the coasts of arran and ayrshire, may been equipped with similar sails and cordage. scott describes the fleet of the "lord of the isles," in the days of the bruce, as consisting of "proud galleys," "streamered with silk and tricked with gold." i suspect he would have approved himself a truer antiquary, though mayhap worse poet, had he described it as composed of very rude carvels, caulked with moss, furnished with sails of dun-coloured woollen stuff still redolent of the oil, and rigged out with brown cordage formed of the twisted fibres of moss-fir. the distaff and spindle was still, as i have said, in extensive use in the district. in a scattered village in the neighbourhood of our barrack, in which all the adult females were ceaselessly engaged in the manufacture of yarn, there was not a single spinning-wheel. nor, though all its cottages had their little pieces of tillage, did it boast its horse or plough. the cottars turned up the soil with the old highland implement, the _cass-chron_; and the necessary manure was carried to the fields in spring, and the produce brought home in autumn, on the backs of the women, in square wicker-work panniers, with slip-bottoms. how these poor highland women did toil! i have paused amid my labours under the hot sun, to watch them as they passed, bending under their load of peat or manure, and at the same time twirling the spindle as they crept along, and drawing out the never-ending thread from the distaff stuck in their girdles. their appearance in most cases betrayed their life of hardship. i scarce saw a gairloch woman of the humbler class turned of thirty, who was not thin, sallow, and prematurely old. the men, their husbands and brothers, were by no means worn out with hard work. i have seen them, time after time, sunning themselves on a mossy bank, when the females were thus engaged; and used, with my brother-workmen--who were themselves celts, but of the industrious, hardworking type--to feel sufficiently indignant at the lazy fellows. but the arrangement which gave them rest, and their wives and sisters hard labour, seemed to be as much the offspring of a remote age as the woollen sails and the moss-fir cordage. several other ancient practices and implements had at this time just disappeared from the district. a good meal-mill of the modern construction had superseded, not a generation before, several small mills with horizontal water-wheels, of that rude antique type which first supplanted the still more ancient handmill. these horizontal mills still exist, however--at least they did so only two years ago--in the gneiss region of assynt. the antiquary sometimes forgets that, tested by his special rules for determining periods, several ages may be found contemporary in contiguous districts of the same country. i am old enough to have seen the handmill at work in the north of scotland; and the traveller into the highlands of western sutherland might have witnessed the horizontal mill in action only two years ago. but to the remains of either, if dug out of the mosses or sand-hills of the southern counties, we would assign an antiquity of centuries. in the same way, the unglazed earthen pipkin, fashioned by the hand without the assistance of the potter's wheel, is held to belong to the "bronze and stone periods" of the antiquary; and yet my friend of the doocot cave, when minister of small isles, found the remains of one of these pipkins in the famous charnel cave of eigg, which belonged to an age not earlier than that of mary, and more probably pertained to that of her son james; and i have since learned, that in the southern portions of the long island, this same hand-moulded pottery of the bronze period has been fashioned for domestic use during the early part of the present century. a chapter devoted to these lingering, or only recently departed, arts of the primitive ages, would be a curious one; but i fear the time for writing it is now well-nigh past. my few facts on the subject may serve to show that, even as late as the year , some three days' journey into the highlands might be regarded as analogous in some respects to a journey into the past of some three or four centuries. but even since that comparatively recent period the highlands have greatly changed. after some six or eight weeks of warm sunny days and lovely evenings, there came on a dreary tract of rainy weather, with strong westerly gales; and for three months together, while there was scarce a day that had not its shower, some days had half-a-dozen. gairloch occupies, as i have said, exactly the focus of that great curve of annual rain which, impinging on our western shores from the atlantic, extends from the north of assynt to the south of mull, and exhibits on the rain-gauge an average of thirty-five yearly inches--an average very considerably above the medium quantity that falls in any other part of great britain, save a small tract at the land's end, included in a southern curve of equal fall. the rain-fall of this year, however, must have stood very considerably above even this high average; and the corn crops of the poor highlanders soon began to testify to the fact. there had been a larger than ordinary promise during the fine weather; but in the danker hollows the lodged oats and barley now lay rotting on the ground, or, on the more exposed heights, stood up, shorn of the ears, as mere naked spikes of straw. the potatoes, too, had become soft and watery, and must have formed but indifferent food to the poor highlanders, condemned, even in better seasons, to feed upon them during the greater part of the year, and now thrown upon them almost exclusively by the failure of the corn crop. the cottars of the neighbouring village were on other accounts in more than usually depressed circumstances at the time. each family paid to the laird for its patch of corn-land, and the pasturage of a wide upland moor, on which each kept three cows a-piece, a small yearly rent of three pounds. the males were all fishermen as well as crofters; and, small as the rent was, they derived their only means of paying it from the sea--chiefly, indeed, from the herring fishery--which, everywhere an uncertain and precarious source of supply, is more so here than in most other places on the north-western coasts of scotland. and as for three years together the herring fishing had failed in the loch, they had been unable, term after term, to meet with the laird, and were now three years in arrears. fortunately for them, he was a humane, sensible man, comfortable enough in his circumstances to have, what highland proprietors often have not, the complete command of his own affairs; but they all felt that their cattle were their own only by sufferance, and so long as he forbore urging his claims against them; and they entertained but little hope of ultimate extrication. i saw among these poor men much of that indolence of which the country has heard not a little; and could not doubt, from the peculiar aspects in which it presented itself, that it was, as i have said, a long-derived hereditary indolence, in which their fathers and grandfathers had indulged for centuries. but there was certainly little in their circumstances to lead to the formation of new habits of industry. even a previously industrious people, were they to be located within the great north-western curve of thirty-five inch rain, to raise corn and potatoes for the autumnal storms to blast, and to fish in the laird's behalf herrings that year after year refused to come to be caught, would, i suspect, in a short time get nearly as indolent as themselves. and certainly, judging from the contrast which my brother-workmen presented to these highlanders of the west coast, the indolence which we saw, and for which my comrades had no tolerance whatever, could scarce be described as inherently celtic. i myself was the only genuine lowlander of our party. john fraser, who, though turned of sixty, would have laid or hewn stone for stone with the most diligent saxon mason in britain or elsewhere, was a true celt of the scandinavian-gaelic variety; and all our other masons--macdonalds, m'leods, and mackays, hard-working men, who were content to toil from season to season, and all day long--were true celts also. but they had been bred on the eastern border of the highlands, in a sandstone district, where they had the opportunity of acquiring a trade, and of securing in the working season regular well-remunerated employment; and so they had developed into industrious, skilled mechanics, of at least the ordinary efficiency. there are other things much more deeply in fault as producing causes of the indolence of the west-coast highlander than his celtic blood. on finishing the dwelling-house upon which we had been engaged, nearly one-half the workmen quitted the squad for the low country, and the remainder removed to the neighbourhood of the inn at which we had spent our first night, or rather morning, in the place, to build a kitchen and store-room for the inn-keeper. among the others, we lost the society of click-clack, who had been a continual source of amusement and annoyance to us in the barrack all the season long. we soon found that he was regarded by the highlanders in our neighbourhood with feelings of the intensest horror and dread: they had learned somehow that he used to be seen in the low country flitting suspiciously at nights about churchyards, and was suspected of being a resurrectionist; and not one of the ghouls or vampires of eastern story could have been more feared or hated in the regions which they were believed to infest, than a resurrectionist in the western highlands. click-clack had certainly a trick of wandering about at nights; and not unfrequently did he bring, on his return from some nocturnal ramble, dead bodies with him into the barrack; but they were invariably the dead bodies of cod, gurnard, and hake. i know not where his fishing-bank lay, or what bait he employed; but i observed that almost all the fish which he caught were ready dried and salted. old john fraser was not without suspicion that there were occasional interferences on the part of the carter with the integrity of our meal-barrel; and i have seen the old man smoothing the surface of the meal just before quitting the barrack for his work, and inscribing upon it with his knife-point the important moral injunction, "thou shalt not steal," in such a way as to render it impossible to break the commandment within the precincts of the barrel, without, at the same time, effacing some of its characters. and these once effaced, click-clack, as he was no writer himself, and had no assistant or confidant, could not have re-inscribed. ere quitting us for the low country, i bargained with him that he should carry my blanket in his cart to conon-side, and gave him a shilling and a dram in advance, as pay for the service. he carried it, however, no further than the next inn, where, pledging it for a second shilling and second dram, he left me to relieve it as i passed. poor click-clack, though one of the cleverest of his class, was decidedly half-witted; and i may remark, as at least curious, that though i have known idiocy in its unmixed state united to great honesty, and capable of disinterested attachment, i never yet knew one of the half-witted caste who was not selfish and a rogue. we were unlucky in our barracks this season. ere completing our first piece of work, we had to quit the hay-barn, our earliest dwelling, to make way for the proprietor's hay, and to shelter in a cow-house, where, as the place had no chimney, we were nearly suffocated by smoke; and we now found the innkeeper, our new employer, speculating, like the magistrates in joe miller, on the practicability of lodging us in a building, the materials of which were to be used in erecting the one which we were engaged to build. we did our best to solve the problem, by hanging up at the end of the doomed hovel--which had been a salt-store in its day, and was in damp weather ever sweating salt-water--a hanging partition of mats, that somewhat resembled the curtain of a barn-theatre; and, making our beds within, we began pulling down piecemeal, as the materials were required, that part of the erection which lay outside. we had very nearly unhoused ourselves ere our work was finished; and the chill blasts of october, especially when they blew in at the open end of our dwelling, rendered it as uncomfortable as a shallow cave in an exposed rock-front. my boyish experiences, however, among the rocks of cromarty, constituted no bad preparation for such a life, and i roughed it out at least as well as any of my comrades. the day had so contracted, that night always fell upon our unfinished labours, and i had no evening walks; but there was a delightful gneiss island, of about thirty acres in extent, and nearly two miles away, to which i used to be occasionally despatched to quarry lintels and corner stones, and where work had all the charms of play; and the quiet sabbaths were all my own. so long as the laird and his family were at the mansion-house of flowerdale--at least four months of every year--there was an english service in the parish church; but i had come to the place this season before the laird, and now remained in it after he had gone away, and there was no english service for me. and so i usually spent my sabbaths all alone in the noble flowerdale woods, now bright under their dark hillsides, in the autumnal tints, and remarkable for the great height and bulk of their ash trees, and of a few detached firs, that spoke, in their venerable massiveness, of former centuries. the clear, calm mornings, when the gossamer went sailing in long grey films along the retired glades of the wood, and the straggling sunlight fell on the crimson and orange mushroom, as it sprang up amid the dank grass, and under thickly-leaved boughs of scarlet and gold, i deemed peculiarly delightful. for one who had neither home nor church, the autumnal woods formed by much a preferable sabbath haunt to a shallow cave, dropping brine, unprovided with chair or table, and whose only furniture consisted of two rude bedsteads of undressed slabs, that bore atop two blankets a-piece, and a heap of straw. sabbath-walking in parties, and especially in the neighbourhood of our large towns, is always a frivolous, and often a very bad thing; but lonely sabbath-walks in a rural district--walks such as the poet graham describes--are not necessarily bad; and the sabbatarians who urge that in all cases, men, when not in church on the sabbath, ought to be in their dwellings, must know very little indeed of the "huts where poor men lie." in the mason's barrack, or the farm-servant's bothy, it is often impossible to enjoy the quiet of the sabbath: the circumstances necessary to its enjoyment must be sought in the open air, amid the recesses of some thick wood, or along the banks of some unfrequented river, or on the brown wastes of some solitary moor. we had completed all our work ere hallowday, and, after a journey of nearly three days, i found myself once more at home, with the leisure of the long happy winter before me. i still look lack on the experiences of this year with a feeling of interest. i had seen in my boyhood, in the interior of sutherland, the highlanders living in that condition of comparative comfort which they enjoyed from shortly after the suppression of the rebellion of , and the abolition of the hereditary jurisdictions, till the beginning of the present century, and in some localities for ten or twelve years later. and here again i saw them in a condition--the effect mainly of the introduction of the extensive sheep-farm system into the interior of the country--which has since become general over almost the entire highlands, and of which the result may be seen in the annual famines. the population, formerly spread pretty equally over the country, now exists as a miserable selvedge, stretched along its shores, dependent in most cases on precarious fisheries, that prove remunerative for a year or two, and disastrous for mayhap half-a-dozen; and able barely to subsist when most successful, a failure in the potato crop, or in the expected return of the herring shoals, at once reduces them to starvation. the grand difference between the circumstances of the people of the highlands in the better time and the worse may be summed up in the one important vocable--_capital_. the highlander was never wealthy: the inhabitants of a wild mountainous district, formed of the primary rocks, never are. but he possessed, on the average, his six, or eight, or ten head of cattle, and his small flock of sheep; and when, as sometimes happened in the high-lying districts, the corn-crop turned out a failure, the sale of a few cattle or sheep more than served to clear scores with the landlord, and enabled him to purchase his winter and spring supply of meal in the lowlands. he was thus a capitalist, and possessed the capitalist's peculiar advantage of not "living from hand to mouth," but on an accumulated fund, which always stood between him and absolute want, though not between him and positive hardship, and which enabled him to rest, during a year of scarcity, on his own resources, instead of throwing himself on the charity of his lowland neighbours. nay, in what were emphatically termed "the dear years" of the beginning of the present and latter half of the past century, the humble people of the lowlands, especially our lowland mechanics and labourers, suffered more than the crofters and _small_ farmers of the highlands, and this mainly from the circumstance, that as the failure of the crops which induced the scarcity was a corn failure, not a failure of grass and pasture, the humbler highlanders had sheep and cattle, which continued to supply them with food and raiment; while the humbler lowlanders, depending on corn almost exclusively, and accustomed to deal with the draper for their articles of clothing, were reduced by the high price of provisions to great straits. there took place, however, about the beginning of the century, a mighty change, coincident with, and, to a certain extent, an effect of, the wars of the first french revolution. the price of provisions rose in england and the lowlands, and with the price of provisions, the rent of land. the highland proprietor naturally enough set himself to determine how his rental also was to be increased; and, as a consequence of the conclusion at which he arrived, the sheep-farm and clearance system began. many thousand highlanders, ejected from their snug holdings, employed their little capital in emigrating to canada and the states; and there, in most cases, the little capital increased, and a rude plenty continues to be enjoyed by their descendants. many thousands more, however, fell down upon the coasts of the country, and, on moss-covered moors or bare promontories, ill suited to repay the labours of the agriculturist, commenced a sort of amphibious life as crofters and fishermen. and, located on an ungenial soil, and prosecuting with but indifferent skill a precarious trade, their little capital dribbled out of their hands, and they became the poorest of men. meanwhile, in some parts of the highlands and islands a busy commerce sprang up, which employed--much to the profit of the landlords--many thousands of the inhabitants. the kelp manufacture rendered inhospitable islets and tracts of bleak rocky shore, rich in sea-weed, of as much value to the proprietors as the best land in scotland; and, under the impetus given by full employment, and, if not ample, at least remunerative pay, population increased. suddenly, however, free trade, in its first approaches, destroyed the trade in kelp; and then the discovery of a cheap mode of manufacturing soda out of common salt secured its ruin beyond the power of legislation to retrieve. both the people and landlords experienced in the kelp districts the evils which a ruined commerce always leaves behind it. old highland families disappeared from amid the aristocracy and landowners of scotland; and the population of extensive islands and sea-boards of the country, from being no more than adequate, suddenly became oppressively redundant. it required, however, another drop to make the full cup run over. the potatoes had become, as i have shown, the staple food of the highlander; and when, in , the potato-blight came on, the people, most of them previously stripped of their little capitals, and divested of their employment, were deprived of their food, and ruined at a blow. the same stroke which did little more than slightly impinge on the comforts of the people of the lowlands, utterly prostrated the highlanders; and ever since, the sufferings of famine have become chronic along the bleak shores and rugged islands of at least the north-western portion of our country. nor is it perhaps the worst part of the evil that takes the form of clamorous want: so heavily have the famines borne on a class which were not absolutely the poor when they came on, that they are absolutely the poor now;--they have dissipated the last remains of capital possessed by the _people_ of the highlands. footnotes: [ ] appended to their joint paper on the "deposits contained between the scottish primary rocks and oolitic series," and interesting, as the first published geological map of scotland to the north of the firths of forth and clyde. [ ] there are only two of these exclusively west-coast shells,--_trochus umbilicatus_ and _pecten niveus_. as neither of them has yet been detected in any tertiary formation, they are in all probability shells of comparatively recent origin, that came into existence in some western centre of creation; whereas specimens of _trochus magus_ and _nassa reticulata_, which occasionally occur on the eastern coasts of the kingdom, i have also found in a pleistocene deposit. thus the more widely-spread shells seem to be also the shells of more ancient standing. chapter xiv. "edina! scotia's darling seat! all hail thy palaces and towers!"--burns. there had occurred a sad accident among the cromarty rocks this season, when i was labouring in gairloch, which, from the circumstance that it had nearly taken place in my own person about five years before, a good deal impressed me on my return. a few hundred yards from the very bad road which i had assisted old johnstone of the forty-second in constructing, there is a tall inaccessible precipice of ferruginous gneiss, that from time immemorial down to this period had furnished a secure nestling-place to a pair of ravens--the only birds of their species that frequented the rocks of the hill. year after year, regularly as the breeding season came round, the ravens used to make their appearance, and enter on possession of their hereditary home: they had done so for a hundred years, to a certainty--some said, for a much longer time; and as there existed a tradition in the place that the nest had once been robbed of its young birds by a bold climber, i paid it a visit one morning, in order to determine whether i could not rob it too. there was no getting up to it from below: the precipice, more inaccessible for about a hundred feet from its base than a castle wall, overhung the shore; but it seemed not impracticable from above; and, coming gradually down upon it, availing myself, as i crept along, of every little protuberance and hollow, i at length stood within six or eight feet of the young birds. from that point, however, a smooth shelf, without projection or cavity, descended at an angle of about forty to the nest, and terminated abruptly, without ledge or margin, in the overhanging precipice. have i not, i asked, crept along a roof of even a steeper slope than that of the shelf? why not, in like manner, creep along it to the nest, where there is firm footing? i had actually stretched out my naked foot to take the first step, when i observed, as the sun suddenly broke out from behind a cloud, that the light glistened on the smooth surface. it was incrusted over by a thin layer of chlorite, slippery as the mixture of soap and grease that the ship-carpenter spreads over his slips on the morning of a launch. i at once saw there was an element of danger in the way, on which i had at first failed to calculate; and so, relinquishing the attempt as hopeless, i returned by the path i had come, and thought no more of robbing the raven's nest. it was, however, again attempted this season, but with tragic results, by a young lad from sutherland, named mackay, who had previously approved his skill as a cragsman in his native county, and several times secured the reward given by an agricultural society for the destruction of young birds of prey. as the incident was related to me, he had approached the nest by the path which i had selected; he had paused where i had paused, and even for a longer time; and then, venturing forward, he no sooner committed himself to the treacherous chlorite, than, losing footing as if on a steep sheet of ice, he shot right over the precipice. falling sheer for the first fifty feet or so without touching the rock, he was then turned full round by a protuberance against which he had glanced, and, descending for the lower half of the way head foremost, and dashing with tremendous force among the smooth sea-stones below, his brains were scattered over an area of from ten to twelve square yards in extent. his only companion--an ignorant irish lad--had to gather up the fragments of his head in a napkin. i now felt that, save for the gleam of the sun on the glistening chlorite--seen not a moment too soon--i should probably have been substituted as the victim for poor mackay, and that he, warned by my fate, would in all likelihood have escaped. and though i knew it might be asked, why the interposition of a providence to save _you_, when he was left to perish? i _did_ feel that i did not owe my escape merely to my acquaintance with chlorite and its properties. for the full development of the moral instincts of our nature, one may lead a life by much too quiet and too secure: a sprinkling in one's lot of sudden perils and hair-breadth escapes is, i am convinced, more wholesome, if positive superstition be avoided, than a total absence of danger. for my own part, though i have, i trust, ever believed in the doctrine of a particular providence, it has been always some narrow escape that has given me my best evidences of the vitality and strength of the belief within. it has ever been the touch of danger that has rendered it emotional. a few years after this time, when stooping forward to examine an opening fissure in a rock front, at which i was engaged in quarrying, a stone, detached from above by a sudden gust of wind, brushed so closely past my head as to beat down the projecting front of my bonnet, and then dented into a deep hollow the sward at my feet. there was nothing that was not perfectly natural in the occurrence; but the gush of acknowledgment that burst spontaneously from my heart would have set at nought the scepticism which should have held that there was no providence in it. on another occasion, i paused for some time, when examining a cave of the old-coast line, directly under its low-browed roof of old red conglomerate, as little aware of the presence of danger as if i had been standing under the dome of st. paul's; but when i next passed the way, the roof had fallen, and a mass, huge enough to have given me at once death and burial, cumbered the spot which i had occupied. on yet another occasion, i clambered a few yards down a precipice, to examine some crab-apple trees, which, springing from a turret-like projection of the rock, far from gardens and nurseries, had every mark of being indigenous; and then, climbing up among the branches, i shook them in a manner that must have exerted no small leverage power on the outjet beneath, to possess myself of some of the fruit, as the native apples of scotland. on my descent, i marked, without much thinking of the matter, an apparently recent crack running between the outjet and the body of the precipice. i found, however, cause enough to think of it on my return, scarce a month after; for then both outjet and trees lay broken and fractured on the beach more than a hundred feet below. with such momentum had even the slimmer twigs been dashed against the sea-pebbles, that they stuck out from under more than a hundred tons of fallen rock, divested of the bark on their under sides, as if peeled by the hand. and what i felt on all these occasions was, i believe, not more in accordance with the nature of man as an instinct of the moral faculty, than in agreement with that provision of the divine government under which a sparrow falleth not without permission. there perhaps never was a time in which the doctrine of a particular providence was more questioned and doubted than in the present; and yet the scepticism which obtains regarding it seems to be very much a scepticism of effort, conjured up by toiling intellects, in a quiet age, and among the easy classes; while the belief which, partially and for the time, it overshadows, lies safely entrenched all the while amid the fastnesses of the unalterable nature of man. when danger comes to touch it, it will spring up in its old proportions; nay, so indigenous is it to the human heart, that if it will not take its _cultivated_ form as a belief in providence, it will to a certainty take to it its _wild_ form as a belief in fate or destiny. of a doctrine so fundamentally important that there can be no religion without it, god himself seems to have taken care when he moulded the human heart. the raven no longer builds among the rocks of the hill of cromarty; and i saw many years ago its last pair of eagles. this last noble bird was a not unfrequent visitor of the sutors early in the present century. i still remember scaring it from its perch on the southern side of the hill, as day was drawing to a close, when the tall precipices amid which it had lodged lay deep in the shade; and vividly recollect how picturesquely it used to catch the red gleam of evening on its plumage of warm brown, as, sailing outwards over the calm sea many hundred feet below, it emerged from under the shadow of the cliffs into the sunshine. uncle james once shot a very large eagle beneath one of the loftiest precipices of the southern sutor; and, swimming out through the surf to recover its body--for it had dropped dead into the sea--he kept its skin for many years as a trophy.[ ] but eagles are now no longer to lie seen or shot on the sutors or their neighbourhood. the badger, too--one of perhaps the oldest inhabitants of the country, for it seems to have been contemporary with the extinct elephants and hyænas of the pleistocene periods--has become greatly less common on their steep sides than in the days of my boyhood; and both the fox and otter are less frequently seen. it is not uninteresting to mark with the eye of the geologist, how palpably in the course of a single lifetime--still nearly twenty years short of the term fixed by the psalmist--these wild animals have been posting on in scotland to that extinction which overtook, within its precincts, during the human period, the bear, the beaver, and the wolf, and of which the past history of the globe, as inscribed on its rocks, furnishes so strong a record. winter passed in the usual pursuits; and i commenced the working season of a new year by assisting my old master to inclose with a stone wall a little bit of ground, which he had bought on speculation, but had failed in getting feued out for buildings. my services, however, were gratuitous--given merely to eke out the rather indifferent bargain that the old man had been able to drive in his own behalf for my labours as an apprentice; and when our job was finished, it became necessary that i should look out for employment of a more profitable character. there was not much doing in the north; but work promised to be abundant in the great towns of the south: the disastrous building mania of - had just begun, and, after some little hesitation, i resolved on trying whether i could not make my way as a mechanic among the stone-cutters of edinburgh perhaps the most skilful in their profession in the world. i was, besides, desirous to get rid of a little property in leith, which had cost the family great annoyance, and not a little money, but from which, so long as the nominal proprietor was a minor, we could not shake ourselves loose. it was a house on the coal-hill, or rather the self-contained ground-floor of a house, which had fallen to my father through the death of a relative, so immediately before his own death that he had not entered upon possession. it was burdened with legacies to the amount of nearly two hundred pounds; but then the yearly rent amounted to twenty-four pounds; and my mother, acting on the advice of friends, and deeming the investment a good one, had no sooner recovered the insurance-money of my father's vessel from the underwriter, than she handed the greater part of it to the legatees, and took possession of the property in my behalf. alas! never was there a more unfortunate inheritance or worse investment. it had been let as a public-house and tap-room, and had been the scene of a somewhat rough, and, i daresay, not very respectable, but yet profitable trade; but no sooner had it become mine than, in consequence of some alterations in the harbour, the greater part of the shipping that used to lie at the coal-hill removed to a lower reach; the tap-room business suddenly fell off; and the rent sank, during the course of one twelvemonth, from twenty-four to twelve pounds. and then in its sear and wintry state, the unhappy house came to be inhabited by a series of miserable tenants, who, though they sanguinely engaged to pay the twelve pounds, never paid them. i still remember the brief, curt letters from our agent, the late mr. veitch, town-clerk of leith, that never failed to fill my mother with terror and dismay, and very much resembled, in at least the narrative parts, jottings by the poet crabbe, for some projected poem on the profligate poor. two of our tenants made moonlight flittings just on the eve of the term; and though the little furniture which they left behind them was duly rouped at the cross, such was the inevitable expense of the transaction, that none of the proceeds of the sale reached cromarty. the house was next inhabited by a stout female, who kept a certain description of lady-lodgers; and for the first half-year she paid the rent most conscientiously; but the authorities interfering, there was another house found for her and her ladies in the neighbourhood of the calton, and the rent of the second half-year remained unpaid. and as the house lost, in consequence of her occupation, the modicum of character which it had previously retained, it lay for five years wholly untenanted, save by a mischievous spirit--the ghost, it was said, of a murdered gentleman, whose throat had been cut in an inner apartment by the ladies, and his body flung by night into the deep mud of the harbour. the ghost was, however, at length detected by the police, couching in the form of one of the ladies themselves, on a lair of straw in the corner of one of the rooms, and exorcised into bridewell; and then the house came to be inhabited by a tenant who had both the will and the ability to pay. one year's rent, however, had to be expended in repairs; and ere the next year passed, the heritors of the parish were rated for the erection of the magnificent parish church of north leith, then in course of building, with its tall and graceful spire and classic portico; and as we had no one to state our case, our house was rated, not according to its reduced, but according to its original value. and so the entire rental of the second year, with several pounds additional which i had to subtract from my hard-earned savings as a mason, were appropriated in behalf of the ecclesiastical establishment of the country, by the builders of the church and spire. i had attained my majority when lodging in the fragment of a salt storehouse in gairloch; and, competent in the eye of the law to dispose of the house on the coal-hill, i now hoped to find, if not a purchaser, at least some one foolish enough to take it off my hands for nothing. i have since heard and read a good deal about the atrocious landlords of the poorer and less reputable sort of houses in our large towns, and have seen it asserted that, being a bad and selfish kind of people, they ought to be rigorously dealt with. and so, i daresay, they ought; but at the same time i cannot forget, that i myself was one of these atrocious landlords from my fifth till nearly my twenty-second year, and that i could not possibly help it, and was very sorry for it. on the fourth day after losing sight of the hill of cromarty, the leith smack in which i sailed was slowly threading her way, in a morning of light airs and huge broken fog-wreaths, through the lower tracts of the firth of forth. the islands and distant land looked dim and grey through the haze, like objects in an unfinished drawing; and at times some vast low-browed cloud from the sea applied the sponge as it rolled past, and blotted out half a county at a time; but the sun occasionally broke forth in partial glimpses of great beauty, and brought out into bold relief little bits of the landscape--now a town, and now an islet, and anon the blue summit of a hill. a sunlit wreath rose from around the abrupt and rugged bass as we passed; and my heart leaped within me as i saw, for the first time, that stern patmos of the devout and brave of another age looming dark and high through the diluted mist, and enveloped for a moment, as the cloud parted, in an amber-tinted glory. there had been a little presbyterian oasis of old in the neighbourhood of cromarty, which, in the midst of the highland and _moderate_ indifferency that characterized the greater part of the north of scotland during the seventeenth century, had furnished the bass with not a few of its most devoted victims. mackilligen of alness, hogg of kiltearn, and the rosses of tain and kincardine, had been incarcerated in its dungeons; and, when labouring in the cromarty quarries in early spring, i used to know that it was time to gather up my tools for the evening, when i saw the sun resting over the high-lying farm which formed the patrimony of another of its better-known victims--young fraser of brea. and so i looked with a double interest on the bold sea-girt rock, and the sun-gilt cloud that rose over its scared forehead, like that still brighter halo which glorifies it in the memories of the scottish people. many a long-cherished association drew my thoughts to edinburgh. i was acquainted with ramsay, and fergusson, and the "humphrey clinker" of smollett, and had read a description of the place in the "marmion" and the earlier novels of scott; and i was not yet too old to feel as if i were approaching a great magical city--like some of those in the "arabian nights"--that was even more intensely poetical than nature itself. i did somewhat chide the tantalizing mist, that, like a capricious showman, now raised one corner of its curtain, and anon another, and showed me the place at once very indistinctly, and only by bits at a time; and yet i know not that i could in reality have seen it to greater advantage, or after a mode more in harmony with my previous conceptions. the water in the harbour was too low, during the first hour or two after our arrival, to float our vessel, and we remained tacking in the roadstead, watching for the signal from the pier-head which was to intimate to us when the tide had risen high enough for our admission; and so i had sufficient time given me to con over the features of the scene, as presented in detail. at one time a flat reach of the new town came full into view, along which, in the general dimness, the multitudinous chimneys stood up like stacks of corn in a field newly reaped; at another, the castle loomed out dark in the cloud; then, as if suspended over the earth, the rugged summit of arthur's seat came strongly out, while its base still remained invisible in the wreath; and anon i caught a glimpse of the distant pentlands, enveloped by a clear blue sky, and lighted up by the sun. leith, with its thicket of masts, and its tall round tower, lay deep in shade in the foreground--a cold, dingy, ragged town, but so strongly relieved against the pale smoky grey of the background, that it seemed another little city of zoar, entire in front of the burning. and such was the strangely picturesque countenance with which i was favoured by the scottish capital, when forming my earliest acquaintance with it, twenty-nine years ago. it was evening ere i reached it. the fog of the early part of the day had rolled off, and every object stood out in clear light and shade under a bright sunshiny sky. the workmen of the place--their labours just closed for the day--were passing in groups along the streets to their respective homes; but i was too much engaged in looking at the buildings and shops to look very discriminately at them; and it was not without some surprise that i found myself suddenly laid hold of by one of their number, a slim lad, in pale moleskin a good deal bespattered with paint. my friend william ross stood before me; and his welcome on the occasion was a very hearty one. i had previously taken a hasty survey of my unlucky house in leith, accompanied by a sharp, keen-looking, one-handed man of middle age, who kept the key, and acted, under the town-clerk, as general manager; and who, as i afterwards ascertained, was the immortal peter m'craw. but i had seen nothing suited to put me greatly in conceit with my patrimony. it formed the lowermost floor of an old black building, four stories in height, flanked by a damp narrow court along one of its sides, and that turned to the street its sharp-peaked, many-windowed gable. the lower windows were covered up by dilapidated, weather-bleached shutters; in the upper, the comparatively fresh appearance of the rags that stuffed up holes where panes ought to have been, and a few very pale-coloured petticoats and very dark-coloured shirts fluttering in the wind, gave evident signs of habitation. it cost my conductor's one hand an arduous wrench to lay open the lock of the outer door, in front of which he had first to dislodge a very dingy female, attired in an earth-coloured gown, that seemed as if starched with ashes; and as the rusty hinges creaked, and the door fell against the wall, we became sensible of a damp, unwholesome smell, like the breath of a charnel-house, which issued from the interior. the place had been shut up for nearly two years; and so foul had the stagnant atmosphere become, that the candle which we brought with us to explore burned dim and yellow like a miner's lamp. the floors, broken up in fifty different places, were littered with rotten straw; and in one of the corners there lay a damp heap, gathered up like the lair of some wild beast, on which some one seemed to have slept, mayhap months before. the partitions were crazed and tottering; the walls blackened with smoke; broad patches of plaster had fallen from the ceilings, or still dangled from them, suspended by single hairs; and the bars of the grates, crusted with rust, had become red as foxtails. mr. m'craw nodded his head over the gathered heap of straw. "ah," he said--"got in again, i see! the shutters must be looked to." "i daresay," i remarked, looking disconsolately around me, "you don't find it very easy to get tenants for houses of this kind." "_very_ easy!" said mr. m'craw, with somewhat of a highland twang, and, as i thought, with also a good deal of highland _hauteur_--as was of course quite natural in so shrewd and extensive a house-agent, when dealing with the owner of a domicile that would not let, and who made foolish remarks--"no, nor easy at all, or it would not be locked up in this way: but if we took off the shutters you would soon get tenants enough." "oh, i suppose so; and i daresay it is as difficult to sell as to let such houses." "ay, and more," said mr. m'craw: "it's all sellers, and no buyers, when we get this low." "but do you not think," i perseveringly asked, "that some kind, charitable person might be found in the neighbourhood disposed to take it off my hands as a free gift! it's terrible to be married for life to a baggage of a house like this, and made liable, like other husbands, for all its debts. is there no way of getting a divorce?" "don't know," he emphatically replied, with somewhat of a nasal snort; and so we parted; and i saw or heard no more of peter m'craw until many years after, when i found him celebrated in the well-known song by poor gilfillan.[ ] and in the society of my friend i soon forgot my miserable house, and all the liabilities which it entailed. i was as entirely unacquainted with great towns at this time as the shepherd in virgil; and, excited by what i saw, i sadly tasked my friend's peripatetic abilities, and, i fear, his patience also, in taking an admiring survey of all the more characteristic streets, and then in setting out for the top of arthur's seat--from which, this evening, i watched the sun set behind the distant lomonds--that i might acquaint myself with the features of the surrounding country, and the effect of the city as a whole. and amid much confused and imperfect recollection of picturesque groups of ancient buildings, and magnificent assemblages of elegant modern ones, i carried away with me two vividly distinct ideas--first results, as a painter might perhaps say, of a "fresh eye," which no after survey has served to freshen or intensify. i felt that i had seen, not one, but two cities--a city of the past and a city of the present--set down side by side, as if for purposes of comparison, with a picturesque valley drawn like a deep score between them, to mark off the line of division. and such in reality seems to be the grand peculiarity of the scottish capital--its distinguishing trait among the cities of the empire; though, of course, during the twenty-nine years that have elapsed since i first saw it, the more ancient of its two cities--greatly modernized in many parts--has become less uniformly and consistently antique in its aspect. regarded simply as matters of taste, i have found little to admire in the improvements that have so materially changed its aspect. of its older portions i used never to tire: i found i could walk among them as purely for the pleasure which accrued, as among the wild and picturesque of nature itself; whereas one visit to the elegant streets and ample squares of the new city always proved sufficient to satisfy; and i certainly never felt the desire to return to any of them to saunter in quest of pleasure along the smooth, well-kept pavements. i of course except princes street. there the two cities stand ranged side by side, as if for comparison; and the eye falls on the features of a natural scenery that would of itself be singularly pleasing even were both the cities away. next day i waited on the town-clerk, mr. veitch, to see whether he could not suggest to me some way in which i might shake myself loose from my unfortunate property on the coal-hill. he received me civilly--told me that the property was not quite so desperate an investment as i seemed to think it, as at least the site, in which i had an interest with the other proprietors, was worth something, and as the little courtyard was exclusively my own; and that he thought he could get the whole disposed of for me, if i was prepared to accept of a small price. and i was of course, as i told him, prepared to accept of a very small one. further, on learning that i was a stone-cutter, and unemployed, he kindly introduced me to one of his friends, a master-builder, by whom i was engaged to work at a manor-house a few miles to the south of edinburgh. and procuring "lodgings" in a small cottage of but a single apartment, near the village of niddry mill, i commenced my labours as a hewer under the shade of the niddry woods. there was a party of sixteen masons employed at niddry, besides apprentices and labourers. they were accomplished stone-cutters--skilful, especially in the cutting of mouldings, far above the average of the masons of the north country; and it was with some little solicitude that i set myself to labour beside them on mullions, and transoms, and labels--for our work was in the old english style--a style in which i had no previous practice. i was diligent, however, and kept old john fraser's principle in view (though, as nature had been less liberal in imparting the necessary faculties, i could not cut so directly as he used to do on the required planes and curves inclosed in the stones); and i had the satisfaction of finding, when pay-night came round, that the foreman, who had frequently stood beside me during the week to observe my modes of working, and the progress which i made, estimated my services at the same rate as he did those of the others. i was by and by intrusted, too, like the best of them, with all the more difficult kinds of work required in the erection, and was at one time engaged for six weeks together in fashioning long, slim, deeply-moulded mullions, not one of which broke in my hands, though the stone on which i wrought was brittle and gritty, and but indifferently suited for the nicer purposes of the architect. i soon found, however, that most of my brother workmen regarded me with undisguised hostility and dislike, and would have been better pleased had i, as they seemed to expect, from the northern locality in which i had been reared, broken down in the trial. i was, they said, "a highlander newly come to scotland," and, if not chased northwards again, would carry home with me half the money of the country. some of the builders used to criticize very unfairly the workmanship of the stones which i hewed: they could not lay them, they said; and the hewers sometimes refused to assist me in carrying in or in turning the weightier blocks on which i wrought. the foreman, however, a worthy, pious man, a member of a secession congregation, stood my friend and encouraged me to persevere. "do not," he has said, "suffer yourself to be driven from the work, and they will soon tire out, and leave you to pursue your own course. i know exactly the nature of your offence: you do not drink with them or treat them; but they will soon cease to expect that you should; and when once they find that you are not to be coerced or driven off, they will let you alone." as, however, from the abundance of employment--a consequence of the building mania--the men were masters and more at the time, the foreman could not take my part openly in opposition to them; but i was grateful for his kindness, and felt too thoroughly indignant at the mean fellows who could take such odds against an inoffensive stranger, to be much in danger of yielding to the combination. it is only a weak man whom the wind deprives of his cloak: a man of the average strength is more in danger of losing it when assailed by the genial beams of a too kindly sun. i threw myself, as usual, for the compensatory pleasures, on my evening walks, but found the enclosed state of the district, and the fence of a rigorously-administered trespass-law, serious drawbacks; and ceased to wonder that a thoroughly cultivated country is, in most instances, so much less beloved by its people than a wild and open one. rights of proprietorship may exist equally in both; but there is an important sense in which the open country belongs to the proprietors and to the people too. all that the heart and the intellect can derive from it may be alike free to peasant and aristocrat; whereas the cultivated and strictly fenced country belongs usually, in every sense, to only the proprietor; and as it is a much simpler and more obvious matter to love one's country as a scene of hills, and streams, and green fields, amid which nature has often been enjoyed, than as a definite locality, in which certain laws and constitutional privileges exist, it is rather to be regretted than wondered at that there should be often less true patriotism in a country of just institutions and equal laws, whose soil has been so exclusively appropriated as to leave only the dusty high-roads to its people, than in wild open countries, in which the popular mind and affections are left free to embrace the soil, but whose institutions are partial and defective. were our beloved monarch to regard such of the gentlemen of her court as taboo their glen tilts, and shut up the passes of the grampians, as a sort of disloyal destructives of a peculiar type, who make it their vocation to divest her people of their patriotism, and who virtually teach them that a country no longer theirs is not worth the fighting for, it might be very safely concluded that she was but manifesting, in one other direction, the strong good sense which has ever distinguished her. though shut out, however, from the neighbouring fields and policies, the niddry woods were open to me; and i have enjoyed many an agreeable saunter along a broad planted belt, with a grassy path in the midst, that forms their southern boundary, and through whose long vista i could see the sun sink over the picturesque ruins of craigmillar castle. a few peculiarities in the natural history of the district showed me, that the two degrees of latitude which lay between me and the former scenes of my studies were not without their influence on both the animal and vegetable kingdoms. the group of land-shells was different, in at least its proportions; and one well-marked mollusc--the large tortoise-shell helix (_helix aspersa_), very abundant in this neighbourhood--i had never seen in the north at all. i formed, too, my first acquaintance in this woody, bush-skirted walk, with the hedgehog in its wild state--an animal which does not occur to the north of the moray firth. i saw, besides, though the summer was of but the average warmth, the oak ripening its acorns--a rare occurrence among the cromarty woods, where, in at least nine out of every ten seasons, the fruit merely forms and then drops off. but my researches this season lay rather among fossils than among recent plants and animals. i was now for the first time located on the carboniferous system: the stone at which i wrought was intercalated among the working coal-seams, and abounded in well-marked impressions of the more robust vegetables of the period--stigmaria, sigillaria, calamites, and lepidodendra; and as they greatly excited my curiosity i spent many an evening hour in the quarry in which they occurred, in tracing their forms in the rock; or, extending my walks to the neighbouring coal pits, i laid open with my hammer, in quest of organisms, the blocks of shale or stratified clay raised from beneath by the miner. there existed at the time none of those popular digests of geological science which are now so common; and so i had to grope my way without guide or assistant, and wholly unfurnished with a vocabulary. at length, however, by dint of patient labour, i came to form not very erroneous, though of course inadequate, conceptions of the ancient coal measure flora: it was impossible to doubt that its numerous ferns were really such; and though i at first failed to trace the supposed analogies of its lepidodendra and calamites, it was at least evident that they were the bole-like stems of great plants, that had stood erect like trees. a certain amount of fact, too, once acquired, enabled me to assimilate to the mass little snatches of information, derived from chance paragraphs and occasional articles in magazines and reviews, that, save for my previous acquaintance with the organisms to which they referred, would have told me nothing. and so the vegetation of the coal measures began gradually to form within my mind's eye, where all had been blank before, as i had seen the spires and columns of edinburgh forming amid the fog, on the morning of my arrival. i found, however, one of the earliest dreams of my youth curiously mingling with my restorations, or rather forming their groundwork. i had read gulliver at the proper age; and my imagination had become filled with the little men and women, and retained strong hold of at least one scene laid in the country of the very tall men--that in which the traveller, after wandering amid grass that rose twenty feet over his head, lost himself in a vast thicket of barley forty feet high. i became the owner, in fancy, of a colony of liliputians, that manned my eighteen-inch canoe, or tilled my apron-breadth of a garden; and, coupling with the men of liliput the scene in brobdignag, i had often set myself to imagine, when playing truant on the green slopes of the hill, or among the swamps of the "willows," how some of the vignette-like scenes by which i was surrounded would have appeared to creatures so minute. i have imagined them threading their way through dark forests of bracken forty feet high--or admiring on the hill-side some enormous club-moss that stretched out its green hairy arms for whole roods--or arrested at the edge of some dangerous morass, by hedges of gigantic horse-tail, that bore a-top, high over the bog, their many-windowed, club-like cones, and at every point shot forth their green verticillate leaves, huge as coach-wheels divested of the rim. and while i thus dreamed for my liliputian companions, i became for the time a liliputian myself, examined the minute in nature as if through a magnifying-glass, roamed in fancy under ferns that had shot up into trees, and saw the dark club-like heads of the equisetaceæ stand up over the spiky branches, some six yards or so above head. and now, strange to tell, i found i had just to fall back on my old juvenile imaginings, and to form my first approximate conceptions of the forests of the coal measures, by learning to look at our ferns, club-mosses, and equisetaceæ, with the eye of some wandering traveller of liliput lost amid their entanglements. when sauntering at sunset along the edge of a wood-embosomed stream that ran through the grounds, and beside which the horse-tail rose thick and rank in the danker hollows, and the bracken shot out its fronds from the drier banks, i had to sink in fancy as of old into a manikin of a few inches, and to see intertropical jungles in the tangled grasses and thickly-interlaced equisetaceæ, and tall trees in the brake and the lady-fern. but many a wanting feature had to be supplied, and many an existing one altered. amid forests of arboraceous ferns, and of horse-tails tall as the masts of pinnaces, there stood up gigantic club-mosses, thicker than the body of a man, and from sixty to eighty feet in height, that mingled their foliage with strange monsters of the vegetable world, of types no longer recognisable among the existing forms--sculptured ullodendra, bearing rectilinear stripes of sessile cones along their sides--and ornately tatooed sigillaria, fluted like columns, and with vertical rows of leaves bristling over their stems and larger branches. such were some of the dreams in which i began at this period for the first time to indulge; nor have they, like the other dreams of youth, passed away. the aged poet has not unfrequently to complain, that as he rises in years, his "visions float less palpably before him." those, on the contrary, which science conjures up, grow in distinctness, as, in the process of slow acquirement, form after form is evoked from out the obscurity of the past, and one restoration added to another. there were at this time several collier villages in the neighbourhood of edinburgh, which have since disappeared. they were situated on what were called the "edge-coals"--those steep seams of the mid-lothian coal basin which, lying low in the system, have got a more vertical tilt against the trap eminences of the south and west than the upper seams in the middle of the field, and which, as they could not be followed in their abrupt descent beyond a certain depth, are now regarded, for at least the practical purposes of the miner, and until the value of coal shall have risen considerably, as wrought out. one of these villages, whose foundations can no longer be traced, occurred in the immediate vicinity of niddry mill. it was a wretched assemblage of dingy, low-roofed, tile-covered hovels, each of which perfectly resembled all the others, and was inhabited by a rude and ignorant race of men, that still bore about them the soil and stain of recent slavery. curious as the fact may seem, all the older men of that village, though situated little more than four miles from edinburgh, had been born slaves. nay, eighteen years later (in ), when parliament issued a commission to inquire into the nature and results of female labour in the coal-pits of scotland, there was a collier still living that had never been twenty miles from the scottish capital, who could state to the commissioners that both his father and grandfather had been slaves--that he himself had been born a slave--and that he had wrought for years in a pit in the neighbourhood of musselburgh ere the colliers got their freedom. father and grandfather had been parishioners of the late dr. carlyle of inveresk. they were cotemporary with chatham and cowper, and burke and fox; and at a time when granville sharpe could have stepped forward and effectually protected the runaway negro who had taken refuge from the tyranny of his master in a british port, no man could have protected _them_ from the inveresk laird, their proprietor, had they dared to exercise the right, common to all britons besides, of removing to some other locality, or of making choice of some other employment. strange enough, surely, that so entire a fragment of the barbarous past should have been thus dovetailed into the age not yet wholly passed away! i regard it as one of the more singular circumstances of my life, that i should have conversed with scotchmen who had been born slaves. the collier women of this village--poor over-toiled creatures, who carried up all the coal from underground on their backs, by a long turnpike stair inserted in one of the shafts--continued to bear more of the marks of serfdom still about them than even the men. how these poor women did labour, and how thoroughly, even at this time, were they characterized by the slave nature! it has been estimated by a man who knew them well--mr. robert bald--that one of their ordinary day's work was equal to the carrying of a hundredweight from the level of the sea to the top of ben lomond. they were marked by a peculiar type of mouth, by which i learned to distinguish them from all the other females of the country. it was wide, open, thick-lipped, projecting equally above and below, and exactly resembled that which we find in the prints given of savages in their lowest and most degraded state, in such narratives of our modern voyagers as, for instance, the "narrative of captain fitzroy's second voyage of the beagle." during, however, the lapse of the last twenty years this type of mouth seems to have disappeared in scotland. it was accompanied by traits of almost infantile weakness. i have seen these collier women crying like children, when toiling under their load along the upper rounds of the wooden stair that traversed the shaft; and then returning, scarce a minute after, with the empty creel, singing with glee. the collier houses were chiefly remarkable for being all alike, outside and in; all were equally dingy, dirty, naked, and uncomfortable. i first learned to suspect, in this rude village, that the democratic watchword, "liberty and equality," is somewhat faulty in its philosophy. slavery and equality would be nearer the mark. wherever there is liberty, the original differences between man and man begin to manifest themselves in their external circumstances, and the equality straightway ceases. it is through slavery that equality, among at least the masses, is to be fully attained.[ ] i found but little intelligence in the neighbourhood, among even the villagers and country people, that stood on a higher platform than the colliers. the fact may be variously accounted for; but so it is, that though there is almost always more than the average amount of knowledge and acquirement amongst the mechanics of large towns, the little hamlets and villages by which they are surrounded are usually inhabited by a class considerably below the average. in m. quetelet's interesting "treatise on man," we find a series of maps given, which, based on extensive statistical tables, exhibit by darker and lighter shadings the moral and intellectual character of the people in the various districts of the countries which they represent. in one map, for instance, representative of the state of education in france, while certain well-taught provinces are represented by a bright tint, as if enjoying the light, there are others, in which great ignorance obtains, that exhibit a deep shade of blackness, as if a cloud rested over them; and the general aspect of the whole is that of a landscape seen from a hill-top in a day of dappled light and shadow. there are certain minuter shadings, however, by which certain curious facts might be strikingly represented to the eye in this manner, for which statistical tables furnish no adequate basis, but which men who have seen a good deal of the people of a country might be able to give in a manner at least approximately correct. in a shaded map representative of the intelligence of scotland, i would be disposed--sinking the lapsed classes, or representing them merely by a few such dark spots as mottle the sun--to represent the large towns as centres of focal brightness; but each of these focal centres i would encircle with a halo of darkness considerably deeper in shade than the medium spaces beyond. i found that in the tenebrious halo of the scottish capital there existed, independently of the ignorance of the poor colliers, three distinct elements. a considerable proportion of the villagers were farm-servants in the decline of life, who, unable any longer to procure, as in their days of unbroken strength, regular engagements from the farmers of the district, supported themselves as occasional labourers. and they, of course, were characterized by the ignorance of their class. another portion of the people were carters--employed mainly, in these times, ere the railways began, in supplying the edinburgh coal-market, and in driving building materials into the city from the various quarries. and carters as a class, like all who live much in the society of horses, are invariably ignorant and unintellectual. a third, but greatly smaller portion than either of the other two, consisted of mechanics; but it was only mechanics of an inferior order, that remained outside the city to work for carters and labourers: the better skilled, and, as to a certain extent the terms are convertible, the more intelligent mechanics found employment and a home in edinburgh. the cottage in which i lodged was inhabited by an old farm-servant--a tall, large-bodied, small-headed man, who, in his journey through life, seemed to have picked up scarce an idea; and his wife, a woman turned of sixty, though a fine enough _body_ in the main, and a careful manager, was not more intellectual. they had but a single apartment in their humble dwelling, fenced off by a little bit of partition from the outer door--and i could fain have wished that they had two--but there was no choice of lodgings in the village, and i had just to content myself, as the working man always must in such circumstances, with the shelter i could get. my bed was situated in the one end of the room, and my landlady's and her husband's in the other, with the passage by which we entered between; but decent old peggy russel had been accustomed to such arrangements all her life long, and seemed never once to think of the matter; and--as she had reached that period of life at which women of the humbler class assume the characteristics of the other sex, somewhat, i suppose, on the principle on which very ancient female birds put on male plumage--i in a short time ceased to think of it also. it is not the less true, however, that the purposes of decency demand that much should be done, especially in the southern and midland districts of scotland, for the dwellings of the poor. footnotes: [ ] uncle james would scarce have sanctioned, had he been consulted in the matter, the use to which the carcase of his dead eagle was applied. there lived in the place an eccentric, half-witted old woman, who, for the small sum of one halfpenny, used to fall a-dancing on the street to amuse children, and rejoiced in the euphonious though somewhat obscure appellation of "dribble drone." some young fellows, on seeing the eagle divested of its skin, and looking remarkably clean and well-conditioned, suggested that it should be sent to "dribble;" and, accordingly, in the character of a "great goose, the gift of a gentleman," it was landed at her door. the gift was thankfully accepted. dribble's cottage proved odoriferous at dinner-time for the several following days; and when asked, after a week had gone by, how she had relished the great goose which the gentleman had seat, she replied, that it was "unco sweet, but oh! teuch, teuch!" for years after, the reply continued to be proverbial in the place: and many a piece of over-hard stock-fish, and over-fresh steak, used to be characterized as, "like dribble drone's eagle, unco sweet, but oh! teuch, teuch!" [ ] well known as gilfillan's song is among ourselves, it is much less so to the south of the border, and i present it to my english readers, as a worthy representative, in these latter days, of those ludicrous songs of our country in the olden time which are so admirably suited to show, notwithstanding the gibe of goldsmith, "that a scot may have humour, i almost said wit." the tax-gatherer. oh! do you ken peter, the taxman an' writer? ye're well aff wha ken naething 'bout him ava; they ca' him inspector, or poor's rate collector-- my faith! he's weel kent in leith, peter m'craw! he ca's and he comes again--haws, and he hums again-- he's only ae hand, but it's as good as twa; he pu's't out and raxes, an' draws in the taxes, an' pouches the siller--shame! peter m'craw! he'll be at your door by daylight on a monday, on tyesday ye're favoured again wi' a ca'; e'en a slee look he gied me at kirk the last sunday, whilk meant--"_mind the preachin' an' peter m'craw._" he glowrs at my auld door as if he had made it; he keeks through the keyhole when i am awa'; he'll syne read the auld stane, that tells a' wha read it, to "_blisse god for a' giftes_,"[*]--but peter m'craw! his sma' papers neatly are 'ranged a' completely, that yours, for a wonder, 's the first on the raw! there's nae jinkin' peter, nae antelope's fleeter; nae _cuttin_' acquaintance wi' peter m'craw! 'twas just friday e'enin', auld reekie i'd been in, i'd gatten a shillin'--i maybe gat twa; i thought to be happy wi' friends ower a drappie, when wha suld come papin--but peter m'craw? there's houp o' a ship though she's sair pressed wi' dangere, an' roun' her frail timmers the angry winds blaw; i've aften gat kindness unlocked for frae strangers, but wha need houp kindness frae peter m'craw? i've kent a man pardoned when just at the gallows-- i've kent a chiel honest whase trade was the law! i've kent fortune's smile even fa' on gude fallows; but i ne'er kent exception wi' peter m'craw! our toun, yince sae cheerie, is dowie an' eerie; our shippies hae left us, our trade is awa'; there's nae fair maids strayin', nae wee bairnies playin; ye've muckle to answer for, peter m'craw! but what gude o' greevin' as lang's we are leevin'? my banes i'll soon lay within yon kirk-yard wa'; there nae care shall press me, nae taxes distress me, for there i'll be free frae thee--peter m'craw! [*]a devout legend, common in the seventeenth century above the entrance of houses. [ ] the act for manumitting our scotch colliers was passed in the year , forty-nine years prior to the date of my acquaintance with the class at niddry. but though it was only such colliers of the village as were in their fiftieth year when i knew them (with, of course, all the older ones), who had been born slaves, even its men of thirty had actually, though not nominally, come into the world in a state of bondage, in consequence of certain penalties attached to the emancipating act, of which the poor ignorant workers under ground were both too improvident and too little ingenious to keep clear. they were set free, however, by a second act passed in . the language of both these acts, regarded as british ones of the latter half of the last century, and as bearing reference to british subjects living within the limits of the island, strikes with startling effect. "whereas," says the preamble of the older act--that of --"by the statute law of scotland, as explained by the judges of the courts of law there, many colliers, and coal-bearers, and salters, are in a state of _slavery or bondage_, bound to the collieries or salt-works where they work _for life, transferable with the collieries and salt-works_; and whereas the emancipating," &c. &c. a passage in the preamble of the act of is scarce less striking: it declares that, notwithstanding the former act, "many colliers and coal-bearers _still continue in a state of bondage_" in scotland. the history of our scotch colliers will be found a curious and instructive one. their slavery seems not to have been derived from the ancient tunes of general serfship, but to have originated in comparatively modern acts of the scottish parliament, and in decisions of the court of session--in acts of a parliament in which the poor ignorant subterranean men of the country were, of course, wholly unrepresented, and in decisions of a court in which no agent of theirs ever made appearance in their behalf. chapter xv. "see inebriety, her wand she waves, and lo! her pale and lo! her purple slaves."--crabbe. i was joined in the course of a few weeks, in peggy russel's one-roomed cottage, by another lodger--lodgers of the humbler class usually consociating together in pairs. my new companion had lived for some time, ere my arrival at niddry, in a neighbouring domicile, which, as he was what was termed a "quiet-living man," and as the inmates were turbulent and unsteady, he had, after bearing a good deal, been compelled to quit. like our foreman, he was a strict seceder, in full communion with his church. though merely a common labourer, with not more than half the wages of our skilled workmen, i had observed, ere our acquaintance began, that no mason in the squad was more comfortably attired on week-days than he, or wore a better suit on sunday; and so i had set him down, from the circumstance, as a decent man. i now found that, like my uncle sandy, he was a great reader of good books--an admirer even of the same old authors--deeply read like him, in durham and rutherford--and entertaining, too, a high respect for baxter, boston, old john brown, and the erskines. in one respect, however, he differed from both my uncles: he had begun to question the excellence of religious establishments; nay, to hold that the country might be none the worse were its ecclesiastical endowments taken away--a view which our foreman also entertained; whereas both uncles sandy and james were as little averse as the old divines themselves to a state-paid ministry, and desiderated only that it should be a good one. there were two other seceders engaged as masons at the work--more of the polemical and less of the devout type than the foreman or my new comrade the labourer; and they also used occasionally to speak, not merely of the doubtful usefulness, but--as they were stronger in their language than their more self-denying and more consistent co-religionists--of the positive worthlessness of establishments. the voluntary controversy did not break out until about nine years after this time, when the reform bill gave vent to many a pent-up opinion and humour among that class to which it extended the franchise; but the materials of the war were evidently already accumulating among the intelligent dissenters of scotland; and from what i now saw, its first appearance in a somewhat formidable aspect failed to take me by surprise. i must in justice add, that all the religion of our party was to be found among its seceders. our other workmen were really wild fellows, most of whom never entered a church. a decided reaction had already commenced within the establishment, on the cold, elegant, unpopular moderatism of the previous period--that moderatism which had been so adequately represented in the scottish capital by the theology of blair and the ecclesiastical policy of robertson; but it was chiefly among the middle and upper classes that the reaction had begun; and scarce any portion of the humbler people, lost to the church during the course of the two preceding generations, had yet been recovered. and so the working men of edinburgh and its neighbourhood, at this time, were in large part either non-religious, or included within the independent or secession pale. john wilson--for such was the name of my new comrade--was a truly good man--devout, conscientious, friendly--not highly intellectual, but a person of plain good sense, and by no means devoid of general information. there was another labourer at the work, an unhappy little man, with whom i have often seen john engaged in mixing mortar, or carrying materials to the builders, but never without being struck by the contrast which they presented in character and appearance. john was a plain, somewhat rustic-looking personage; and an injury which he had received from gunpowder in a quarry, that had destroyed the sight of one of his eyes, and considerably dimmed that of the other, had, of course, not served to improve his looks; but he always wore a cheerful, contented air; and, with all his homeliness, was a person pleasant to the sight. his companion was a really handsome man--grey-haired, silvery-whiskered, with an aristocratic cast of countenance, that would have done no discredit to a royal drawing-room, and an erect though somewhat petit figure, cast in a mould that, if set off more to advantage, would have been recognised as elegant. but john lindsay--for so he was called--bore always the stamp of misery on his striking features. there lay between the poor little man and the crawford peerage only a narrow chasm, represented by a missing marriage certificate; but he was never able to bridge the gulf across; and he had to toil on in unhappiness, in consequence, as a mason's labourer. i have heard the call resounding from the walls twenty times a day--"john, yearl crafurd, bring us anither hod o' lime." i found religion occupying a much humbler place among these workmen of the south of scotland than that which i had used to see assigned to it in the north. in my native district and the neighbouring counties, it still spoke with authority; and a man who stood up in its behalf in any society, unless very foolish or very inconsistent, always succeeded in silencing opposition, and making good its claims. here, however, the irreligious asserted their power as the majority, and carried matters with a high hand; and religion itself, existing as but _dissent_, not as an _establishment_, had to content itself with bare toleration. remonstrance, or even advice, was not permitted. "johnnie, boy," i have heard one of the rougher mechanics say, half in jest, half in earnest, to my companion, "if you set yourself to convert me, i'll brak your face;" and i have known another of them remark, with a patronizing air, that "kirks werena very bad things, after a';" that he "aye liked to be in a kirk, for the sake of decency, once a twelvemonth;" and that, as he "hadna been kirked for the last ten months, he was just only waiting for a rainy sabbath, to lay in his stock o' divinity for the year." our new lodger, aware how little any interference with the religious concerns of others was tolerated in the place, seemed unable for some time to muster up resolution enough to broach in the family his favourite subject. he retired every night, before going to bed, to his closet--the blue vault, with all its stars--often the only closet of the devout lodger in a south-country cottage; but i saw that each evening, ere he went out, he used to look uneasily at the landlord and me, as if there lay some weight on his mind regarding us, of which he was afraid to rid himself, and which yet rendered him very uncomfortable. "well, john," i asked one evening, speaking direct, to his evident embarrassment; "what is it?" john looked at old william the landlord, and then at me. "did we not think it right," he said, "that there should be evening worship in the family?" old william had not idea enough for conversation: he either signified acquiescence in whatever was said that pleased him, by an ever-recurring ay, ay, ay; or he grumbled out his dissent in a few explosive sounds, that conveyed his meaning rather in their character as tones than as vocables. but there now mingled with the ordinary explosions the distinct enunciation, given with, for him, unwonted emphasis, that he "wasna for _that_." i struck in, however, on the other side, and appealed to peggy. "i was sure," i said, "that mrs. russel would see the propriety of john's proposal." and mrs. russel, as most women would have done in the circumstances, unless, indeed, very bad ones, did see the propriety of it; and from that evening forward the cottage had its family worship. john's prayers were always very earnest and excellent, but sometimes just a little too long; and old william, who, i fear, did not greatly profit by them, used not unfrequently to fall asleep on his knees. but though he sometimes stole to his bed when john chanced to be a little later in taking the book than usual, and got into a profound slumber ere the prayer began, he deferred to the majority, and gave us no active opposition. he was not a vicious man: his intellect had slept through life, and he had as little religion as an old horse or dog; but he was quiet and honest, and, to the measure of his failing ability, a faithful worker in his humble employments. his religious training, like that of his brother villagers, seemed to have been sadly neglected. had he gone to the parish church on sunday, he would have heard a respectable moral essay read from the pulpit, and would, of course, have slept under it; but william, like most of his neighbours, preferred sleeping out the day at home, and never did go to the church; and as certainly as he went not to the teacher of religion, the teacher of religion never came to him. during the ten months which i spent in the neighbourhood of niddry mill, i saw neither minister nor missionary. but if the village furnished no advantageous ground on which to fight the battle of religious establishments--seeing that the establishment was of no manner of use there--it furnished ground quite as unsuitable for the class of voluntaries who hold that the supply of religious instruction should, as in the case of all other commodities, be regulated by the demand. demand and supply were admirably well balanced in the village of niddry: there was no religious instruction, and no wish or desire for it. the masons at niddry house were paid fortnightly, on a saturday night. wages were high--we received two pounds eight shillings for our two weeks' work; but scarce half-a-dozen in the squad could claim at settlement the full tale, as the monday and tuesday after pay-night were usually blank days, devoted by two-thirds of the whole to drinking and debauchery. not often have wages been more sadly mis-spent than by my poor work-fellows at niddry, during this period of abundant and largely-remunerated employment. on receiving their money, they set straightway off to edinburgh, in parties of threes and fours; and until the evening of the following monday or tuesday i saw no more of them. they would then come dropping in, pale, dirty, disconsolate-looking--almost always in the reactionary state of unhappiness which succeeds intoxication--(they themselves used to term it "_the horrors_")--and with their nervous system so shaken, that rarely until a day or two after did they recover their ordinary working ability. narratives of their adventures, however, would then begin to circulate through the squad--adventures commonly of the "tom and jerry" type; and always, the more extravagant they were, the more was the admiration which they excited. on one occasion, i remember (for it was much spoken about as a manifestation of high spirit) that three of them, hiring a coach, drove out on the sunday to visit roslin and hawthornden, and in this way spent their six pounds so much in the style of gentlemen, that they were able to get back to the mallet without a farthing on the evening of monday. and, as they were at work on tuesday in consequence, they succeeded, as they said, in saving the wages of a day usually lost, just by doing the thing so genteelly. edinburgh had in those times a not very efficient police, and, in some of its less reputable localities, must have been dangerous. burke found its west port a fitting scene for his horrid trade a good many years after; and from the stories of some of our bolder spirits, which, though mayhap exaggerated, had evidently their nucleus of truth, there was not a little of the violent and the lawless perpetrated in its viler haunts during the years of the speculation mania. four of our masons found, one saturday evening, a country lad bound hand and foot on the floor of a dark inner room in one of the dens of the high street; and such was the state of exhaustion to which he was reduced, mainly through the compression of an old apron wrapped tightly round his face, that though they set him loose, it was some time ere he could muster strength enough to crawl away. he had been robbed by a bevy of women whom he had been foolish enough to treat; and on threatening to call in the watchman, they had fallen upon a way of keeping him quiet, which, save for the interference of my wild fellow-workmen, would soon have rendered him permanently so. and such was but one of many stories of the kind. there was of course a considerable diversity of talent and acquirement among my more reckless associates at the work; and it was curious enough to mark their very various views regarding what constituted spirit or the want of it. one weak lad used to tell us about a singularly spirited brother apprentice of his, who not only drank, kept loose company, and played all sorts of very mischievous practical jokes, but even occasionally stole, out of warehouses; which was of course a very dauntless thing, seeing that it brought him within wind of the gallows; whereas another of our wild workmen--a man of sense and intelligence--not unfrequently cut short the narratives of the weaker brother, by characterizing his spirited apprentice as a mean, graceless scamp, who, had he got his deservings, would have been hung like a dog. i found that the intelligence which results from a fair school education, sharpened by a subsequent taste for reading, very much heightened in certain items the standard by which my comrades regulated their conduct. mere intelligence formed no guard amongst them against intemperance or licentiousness; but it did form a not ineffectual protection against what are peculiarly the mean vices--such as theft, and the grosser and more creeping forms of untruthfulness and dishonesty. of course, exceptional cases occur in all grades of society: there have been accomplished ladies of wealth and rank who have indulged in a propensity for stealing out of drapers' shops; and gentlemen of birth and education who could not be trusted in a library or a bookseller's back-room; and what sometimes occurs in the higher walks must be occasionally exemplified in the lower also; but, judging from what i have seen, i must hold it as a general rule, that a good intellectual education is a not inefficient protection against the meaner felonies, though not in any degree against the "pleasant vices." the only adequate protection against both, equally, is the sort of education which my friend john wilson the labourer exemplified--a kind of education not often acquired in schools, and not much more frequently possessed by schoolmasters than by any other class of professional men. the most remarkable man in our party was a young fellow of three-and-twenty--at least as much a blackguard as any of his companions, but possessed of great strength of character and intellect, and, with all his wildness, marked by very noble traits. he was a strongly and not inelegantly formed man, of about six feet--dark-complexioned, and of a sullen cast of countenance, which, however, though he could, i doubt not, become quite as formidable as he looked, concealed in his ordinary moods much placidity of temper, and a rich vein of humour. charles ---- was the recognised hero of the squad; but he differed considerably from the men who admired him most. burns tells us that he "often courted the acquaintance of the part of mankind commonly known by the ordinary phrase of _blackguards_;" and that, "though disgraced by follies, nay, sometimes stained with guilt, he had yet found among them, in not a few instances, some of the noblest virtues--magnanimity, generosity, disinterested friendship, and even modesty." i cannot say with the poet that i ever courted the acquaintance of blackguards; but though the labouring man may select his friends, he cannot choose his work-fellows; and so i have not unfrequently _come in contact_ with blackguards, and have had opportunities of pretty thoroughly knowing them. and my experience of the class has been very much the reverse of that of burns. i have usually found their virtues of a merely theatric cast, and their vices real; much assumed generosity in some instances, but a callousness of feeling, and meanness of spirit, lying concealed beneath. in this poor fellow, however, i certainly did find a sample of the nobler variety of the genus. poor charles did too decidedly belong to it. he it was that projected the sunday party to roslin; and he it was that, pressing his way into the recesses of a disreputable house in the high street, found the fast-bound wight choking in an apron, and, unloosing the cords, let him go. no man of the party squandered his gains more recklessly than charles, or had looser notions regarding the legitimacy of the uses to which he too often applied them. and yet, notwithstanding, he was a generous-hearted fellow; and, under the influence of religious principle, would, like burns himself, have made a very noble man. in gradually forming my acquaintance with him, i was at first struck by the circumstance that he never joined in the clumsy ridicule with which i used to be assailed by the other workmen. when left, too, on one occasion, in consequence of a tacit combination against me, to roll up a large stone to the sort of block-bench, or _siege_, as it is technically termed, on which the mass had to be hewn, and as i was slowly succeeding in doing, through dint of very violent effort, what some two or three men usually united to do, charles stepped out to assist me; and the combination at once broke down. unlike the others, too, who, while they never scrupled to take odds against me, seemed sufficiently chary of coming in contact with me singly, he learned to seek me out in our intervals of labour, and to converse on subjects upon which we felt a common interest. he was not only an excellent operative mechanic, but possessed also of considerable architectural skill; and in this special province we found an interchange of idea not unprofitable. he had a turn, too, for reading, though he was by no means extensively read; and liked to converse about books. nor, though the faculty had been but little cultivated, was he devoid of an eye for the curious in nature. on directing his attention, one morning, to a well-marked impression of lepidodendron, which delicately fretted with its lozenge-shaped network one of the planes of the stone before me, he began to describe, with a minuteness of observation not common among working men, certain strange forms which had attracted his notice when employed among the grey flagstones of forfarshire. i long after recognised in his description that strange crustacean of the middle old red sandstone of scotland, the _pterygotus_--an organism which was wholly unknown at this time to geologists, and which is but partially known still; and i saw in , on the publication, in its first edition, of the "elements" of sir charles lyell, what he meant to indicate, by a rude sketch which he drew on the stone before us, and which, to the base of a semi-ellipsis, somewhat resembling a horse-shoe, united an angular prolongation not very unlike the iron stem of a pointing trowel drawn from the handle. he had evidently seen, long ere it had been detected by the scientific eye, that strange ichthyolite of the old red system, the _cephalaspis_. his story, though he used to tell it with great humour, and no little dramatic effect, was in reality a very sad one. he had quarrelled, when quite a lad, with one of his fellow-workmen, and was unfortunate enough, in the pugilistic encounter which followed, to break his jawbone, and otherwise so severely to injure him, that for some time his recovery seemed doubtful. flying, pursued by the officers of the law, he was, after a few days' hiding, apprehended, lodged in jail, tried at the high court of justiciary, and ultimately sentenced to three months' imprisonment. and these three months he had to spend--for such was the wretched arrangement of the time--in the worst society in the world. in sketching, as he sometimes did, for the general amusement, the characters of the various prisoners with whom he had associated--from the sneaking pick-pocket and the murderous ruffian, to the simple highland smuggler, who had converted his grain into whisky, with scarce intelligence enough to see that there was aught morally wrong in the transaction--he sought only to be as graphic and humorous as he could, and always with complete success. but there attached to his narratives an unintentional moral; and i cannot yet call them up without feeling indignant at that detestable practice of promiscuous imprisonment which so long obtained in our country, and which had the effect of converting its jails into such complete criminal-manufacturing institutions, that, had the honest men of the community risen and dealt by them as the lord-george-gordon mob dealt with newgate, i hardly think they would have been acting out of character. poor charles had a nobility in his nature which saved him from being contaminated by what was worst in his meaner associates; but he was none the better for his imprisonment, and he quitted jail, of course, a marked man; and his after career was, i fear, all the more reckless in consequence of the stain imparted at this time to his character. he was as decidedly a leader among his brother workmen as i myself had been, when sowing my wild oats, among my schoolfellows; but society in its settled state, and in a country such as ours, allows no such scope to the man as it does to the boy; and so his leadership, dangerous both to himself and his associates, had chiefly as the scene of its trophies the grosser and more lawless haunts of vice and dissipation. his course through life was a sad, and, i fear, a brief one. when that sudden crash in the commercial world took place, in which the speculation mania of - terminated, he was, with thousands more, thrown out of employment; and, having saved not a farthing of his earnings, he was compelled, under the pressure of actual want, to enlist as a soldier into one of the regiments of the line, bound for one of the intertropical colonies. and there, as his old comrades lost all trace of him, he too probably fell a victim, in an insalubrious climate, to old habits and new rum. finding me incorrigible, i was at length left by my brother operatives to be as peculiar as i pleased; and the working portion of the autumnal months passed off pleasantly enough in hewing great stones under the branching foliage of the elm and chestnut trees of niddry park. from the circumstance, however, that the stones were so great, the previous trial had been an embarrassing one; and, though too proud to confess that i cared aught about the matter, i was now glad enough that it was fairly over. our modern temperance societies--institutions which at this time had not begun to exist--have done much to shield sober working men from combinations of the trying character to which, in the generation well-nigh passed away, they were too often exposed. there are few working parties which have not now their groups of enthusiastic teetotallers, that always band together against the drinkers, and mutually assist and keep one another in countenance: and a breakwater is thus formed in the middle of the stream, to protect from that grinding oppression of the poor by the poor, which, let popular agitators declaim on the other side as they may, is at once more trying and more general than the oppression which they experience from the great and wealthy. according to the striking figure of the wise old king, "it is like a sweeping rain, which leaveth no food." fanaticism in itself is not a good thing; nor are there many quiet people who do not dislike enthusiasm; and the members of new sects, whether they be religious sects or no, are almost always enthusiasts, and in some degree fanatical. a man can scarce become a vegetarian even without also becoming in some measure intolerant of the still large and not very disreputable class that eat beef with their greens, and herrings with their potatoes; and the drinkers of water do say rather strong things of the men who, had they been guests at the marriage in cana of galilee, would have seen no great harm in partaking in moderation of the wine. there is a somewhat intolerant fanaticism among the teetotallers, just as there is fanaticism amongst most other new sects; and yet, recognising it simply as strength, and knowing what it has to contend with, i am much disposed to tolerate it, whether _it_ tolerate me or no. human nature, with all its defects, is a wiser thing than the mere common sense of the creatures whose nature it is; and we find in it special provisions, as in the instincts of the humbler animals, for overmastering the special difficulties with which it is its destiny to contend. and the sort of fanaticism to which i refer seems to be one of those provisions. a few teetotallers of the average calibre and strength, who take their stand against the majority in a party of wild dissipated mechanics, would require a considerable amount of vigorous fanaticism to make good their position; nor do i see in ordinary men, as society at present exists, aught at once sufficiently potent in its nature, and sufficiently general in its existence, to take its place and do its work. it seems to subsist in the present imperfect state as a wise provision, though, like other wise provisions, such as the horns of the bull or the sting of the bee, it is misdirected at times, and does harm. winter came on, and our weekly wages were lowered immediately after hallow-day, from twenty-four to fifteen shillings per week. this was deemed too large a reduction; and, reckoning by the weekly hours during which, on the average, we were still able to work--forty-two, as nearly as i could calculate, instead of sixty--it _was_ too great a reduction by about one shilling and ninepence. i would, however, in the circumstances, have taken particular care not to strike work for an advance. i knew that three-fourths of the masons about town--quite as improvident as the masons of our own party--could not live on their resources for a fortnight, and had no general fund to sustain them; and further, that many of the master-builders were not very urgently desirous to press on their work throughout the winter. and so, when, on coming to the work-shed on the monday morning after the close of our first fortnight on the reduced scale, i found my comrades gathered in front of it in a group, and learned that there was a grand strike all over the district, i received the intelligence with as little of the enthusiasm of the "independent associated mechanic" as possibly may be. "you are in the right in your claims," i said to charles; "but you have taken a bad time for urging them, and will be beaten to a certainty. the masters are much better prepared for a strike than you are. how, may i ask, are you yourself provided with the sinews of war?" "very ill indeed," said charles, scratching his head: "if the masters don't give in before saturday, it's all up with me; but never mind; let us have one day's fun: there's to be a grand meeting at bruntsfield links; let us go in as a deputation from the country masons, and make a speech about our rights and duties; and then, if we see matters going very far wrong, we can just step back again, and begin work to-morrow." "bravely resolved," i said: "i shall go with you by all means, and take notes of your speech." we marched into town, about sixteen in number; and, on joining the crowd already assembled on the links, were recognised, by the deep red hue of our clothes and aprons, which differed considerably from that borne by workers in the paler edinburgh stone, as a reinforcement from a distance, and were received with loud cheers. charles, however, did not make his speech: the meeting, which was about eight hundred strong, seemed fully in the possession of a few crack orators, who spoke with a fluency to which he could make no pretensions; and so he replied to the various calls from among his comrades, of "cha, cha," by assuring them that he could not catch the eye of the gentleman in the chair. the meeting had, of course, neither chair nor chairman; and after a good deal of idle speech-making, which seemed to satisfy the speakers themselves remarkably well, but which at least some of their auditory regarded as nonsense, we found that the only motion on which we could harmoniously agree was a motion for an adjournment. and so we adjourned till the evening, fixing as our place of meeting one of the humbler halls of the city. my comrades proposed that we should pass the time until the hour of meeting in a public-house; and, desirous of securing a glimpse of the sort of enjoyment for which they sacrificed so much, i accompanied them. passing not a few more inviting-looking places, we entered a low tavern in the upper part of the canongate, kept in an old half-ruinous building, which has since disappeared. we passed on through a narrow passage to a low-roofed room in the centre of the erection, into which the light of day never penetrated, and in which the gas was burning dimly in a close sluggish atmosphere, rendered still more stifling by tobacco-smoke, and a strong smell of ardent spirits. in the middle of the crazy floor there was a trap-door which lay open at the time; and a wild combination of sounds, in which the yelping of a dog, and a few gruff voices that seemed cheering him on, were most noticeable, rose from the apartment below. it was customary at this time for dram-shops to keep badgers housed in long narrow boxes, and for working men to keep dogs; and it was part of the ordinary sport of such places to set the dogs to unhouse the badgers. the wild sport which scott describes in his "guy mannering," as pursued by dandy dinmont and his associates among the cheviots, was extensively practised twenty-nine years ago amid the dingier haunts of the high street and the canongate. our party, like most others, had its dog--a repulsive-looking brute, with an earth-directed eye, as if he carried about with him an evil conscience; and my companions were desirous of getting his earthing ability tested upon the badger of the establishment; but on summoning the tavern-keeper, we were told that the party below had got the start of us: their dog was as we might hear, "just drawing the badger; and before our dog could be permitted to draw him, the poor brute would require to get an hour's rest." i need scarce say that the hour was spent in hard drinking in that stagnant atmosphere; and we then all descended through the trap-door, by means of a ladder, into a bare-walled dungeon, dark and damp, and where the pestiferous air smelt like that of a burial vault. the scene which followed was exceedingly repulsive and brutal--nearly as much so as some of the scenes furnished by those otter hunts in which the aristocracy of the country delight occasionally to indulge. amid shouts and yells, the badger, with the blood of his recent conflict still fresh upon him, was again drawn to the box mouth; and the party returning satisfied to the apartment above, again betook themselves to hard drinking. in a short time the liquor began to tell, not first, as might be supposed, on our younger men, who were mostly tall, vigorous fellows, in the first flush of their full strength, but on a few of the middle-aged workmen, whose constitutions seemed undermined by a previous course of dissipation and debauchery. the conversation became very loud, very involved, and, though highly seasoned with emphatic oaths, very insipid; and leaving with cha--who seemed somewhat uneasy that my eye should be upon their meeting in its hour of weakness--money enough to clear off my share of the reckoning, i stole out to the king's park, and passed an hour to better purpose among the trap rocks than i could possibly have spent it beside the trap-door. of that tavern party, i am not aware that a single individual save the writer is now living: its very dog did not live out half his days. his owner was alarmed one morning, shortly after this time, by the intelligence that a dozen of sheep had been worried during the night on a neighbouring farm, and that a dog very like his had been seen prowling about the fold; but in order to determine the point, he would be visited, it was added, in the course of the day, by the shepherd and a law-officer. the dog meanwhile, however, conscious of guilt--for dogs do seem to have consciences in such matters--was nowhere to be found, though, after the lapse of nearly a week, he again appeared at the work; and his master, slipping a rope round his neck, brought him to a deserted coal-pit half-filled with water, that opened in an adjacent field, and, flinging him in, left the authorities no clue by which to establish his identity with the robber and assassin of the fold. i had now quite enough of the strike; and, instead of attending the evening meeting, passed the night with my friend william ross. curious to know, however, whether my absence had been observed by my brother workmen, i asked cha, when we next met, "what he thought of _our_ meeting?" "gude-sake!" he replied, "let that flee stick to the wa'! we got upon the _skuff_ after you left us, and grew deaf to time, and so not one of us has seen the meeting yet." i learned, however, that, though somewhat reduced in numbers, it had been very spirited and energetic, and had resolved on nailing the colours to the mast; but in a few mornings subsequent, several of the squads returned to work on their master's terms, and all broke down in about a week after. contrary to what i should have expected from my previous knowledge of him, i found that my friend william ross took a warm interest in strikes and combinations, and was much surprised at the apathy which i manifested on this occasion; nay, that he himself, as he told me, actually officiated as clerk for a combined society of house-painters, and entertained sanguine hopes regarding the happy influence which the principle of union was yet to exercise on the status and comfort of the working man. there are no problems more difficult than those which speculative men sometimes attempt solving, when they set themselves to predict how certain given characters would act in certain given circumstances. in what spirit, it has been asked, would socrates have listened to the address of paul on mars hill, had he lived a few ages later? and what sort of a statesman would robert burns have made? i cannot answer either question; but this i know, that from my intimate acquaintance with the retiring, unobtrusive character of my friend in early life, i should have predicted that he would have taken no interest whatever in strikes or combinations; and i was now surprised to find the case otherwise. and he, on the other hand, equally intimate with my comparatively wild boyhood, and my influence among my schoolfellows, would have predicted that i should have taken a very warm interest in such combinations, mayhap as a ringleader; at all events, as an energetic, influential member; and he was now not a little astonished to see me keeping aloof from them, as things of no account or value. i believe, however, we were both acting in character. lacking my obstinacy, he had in some degree yielded, on first coming to the capital, to the tyranny of his brother workmen; and, becoming one of themselves, and identifying his interest with theirs, his talents and acquirements had recommended him to an office of trust among them; whereas i, stubbornly battling, like harry of the wynd, "for my own hand," would not stir a finger in assertion of the alleged rights of fellows who had no respect for the rights which were indisputably mine. i may here mention, that this first year of the building mania was also the first, in the present century, of those great _strikes_ among workmen, of which the public has since heard and seen so much. up till this time, combination among operatives for the purpose of raising the rate of wages had been a crime punishable by law; and though several combinations and trade unions did exist, open strikes, which would have been a too palpable manifestation of them to be tolerated, could scarce be said ever to take place. i saw enough at the period to convince me, that though the _right_ of combination, abstractly considered, is just and proper, the strikes which would result from it as consequences would be productive of much evil, and little good; and in an argument with my friend william on the subject, i ventured to assure him that his house-painter's union would never benefit the operative house-painters as a class, and urged him to give up his clerkship. "there is a want," i said, "of true leadership among our operatives in these combinations. it is the wilder spirits that dictate the conditions; and, pitching their demands high, they begin usually by enforcing acquiescence in them on the quieter and more moderate among their companions. they are tyrants to their fellows ere they come into collision with their masters, and have thus an enemy in the camp, not unwilling to take advantage of their seasons of weakness, and prepared to rejoice, though secretly mayhap, in their defeats and reverses. and further, their discomfiture will be always quite certain enough when seasons of depression come, from the circumstance that, fixing their terms in prosperous times, they will fix them with reference rather to their present power of enforcing them, than to that medium line of fair and equal adjustment on which a conscientious man could plant his foot and make a firm stand. men such as you, able and ready to work in behalf of these combinations, will of course get the work to do, but you will have little or no power given you in their direction: the direction will be apparently in the hands of a few fluent _gabbers_; and yet even they will not be the actual directors--they will be but the exponents and voices of the general mediocre sentiment and inferior sense of the mass as a whole, and acceptable only so long as they give utterance to that; and so, ultimately, exceedingly little will be won in this way for working men. it is well that they should be allowed to combine, seeing that combination is permitted to those who employ them; but until the majority of our working men of the south become very different from what they now are--greatly wiser and greatly better--there will be more lost than gained by their combinations. according to the circumstances of the time and season, the current will be at one period running in their favour against the masters, and at another in favour of the masters against them: there will be a continual ebb and flow, like that of the sea, but no general advance; and the sooner that the like of you and i get out of the rough conflict and jostle of the tideway, and set ourselves to labour apart on our own internal resources, it will be all the better for us." william, however, did not give up his clerkship; and i daresay the sort of treatment which i had received at the hands of my fellow-workmen made me express myself rather strongly on the subject; but the actual history of the numerous strikes and combinations which have taken place during the quarter of a century and more which has since intervened, is of a kind not in the least suited to modify my views. there _is_ a want of judicious leadership among our working men; and such of the autobiographies of the class as are able and interesting enough to obtain a hearing of their authors show, i am inclined to think, how this takes place. combination is first brought to bear among them against the men, their fellows, who have vigour enough of intellect to think and act for themselves; and such always is the character of the born leader: these true leaders are almost always forced into the opposition; and thus separating between themselves and the men fitted by nature to render them formidable, they fall under the direction of mere chatterers and stump orators, which is in reality no direction at all. the author of the "working man's way in the world"--evidently a very superior man--had, he tells us, to quit at one time his employment, overborne by the senseless ridicule of his brother workmen. somerville states in his autobiography, that, both as a labouring man and a soldier, it was from the hands of his comrades that--save in one memorable instance--he had experienced all the tyranny and oppression of which he had been the victim. nay, benjamin franklin himself was deemed a much more ordinary man in the printing-house in bartholomew close, where he was teased and laughed at as the _water-american_, than in the house of representatives, the royal society, or the court of france. the great printer, though recognised by accomplished politicians as a profound statesman, and by men of solid science as "the most rational of the philosophers," was regarded by his poor brother compositors as merely an odd fellow, who did not conform to their drinking usages, and whom it was therefore fair to tease and annoy as a contemner of the _sacrament_ of the _chapel_.[ ] the life of my friend was, however, pitched on a better and higher tone than that of most of his brother unionists. it was intellectual and moral, and its happier hours were its hours of quiet self-improvement, when, throwing himself on the resources within, he forgot for the time the unions and combinations that entailed upon him much troublesome occupation, but never did him any service. i regretted, however, to find that a distrust of his own powers was still growing upon him, and narrowing his circle of enjoyment. on asking him whether he still amused himself with his flute, he turned, after replying with a brief "o no!" to a comrade with whom he had lived for years, and quietly said to him, by way of explaining the question, "robert, i suppose you don't know i was once a grand flute-player!" and sure enough robert did not know. he had given up, too, his water-colour drawing, in which his taste was decidedly fine; and even in oils, with which he still occasionally engaged himself, instead of casting himself full on nature, as at an earlier period, he had become a copyist of the late rev. mr. thomson of duddingstone, at that time in the full blow of his artistic reputation; nor could i see that he copied him well. i urged and remonstrated, but to no effect. "ah, miller," he has said, "what matters it how i amuse myself? you have stamina in you, and will force your way; but i want strength: the world will never hear of me." that overweening conceit which seems but natural to the young man as a playful disposition to the kitten, or a soft and timid one to the puppy, often assumes a ridiculous, and oftener still an unamiable, aspect. and yet, though it originates many very foolish things, it seems to be in itself, like the fanaticism of the teetotaller, a wise provision, which, were it not made by nature, would leave most minds without spring enough to effect, with the required energy, the movements necessary to launch them fairly into busy or studious life. the sobered man of mature age who has learned pretty correctly to take the measure of himself, has usually acquired both habits and knowledge that assist him in urging his onward way, and the moving force of necessity always presses him onward from behind; but the exhilarating conviction of being born to superior parts, and to do something astonishingly clever, seems necessary to the young man; and when i see it manifesting itself, if not very foolishly or very offensively, i usually think of my poor friend william ross, who was unfortunate enough wholly to want it; and extend to it a pretty ample toleration. ultimately my friend gave up painting, and restricted himself to the ornamental parts of his profession, of which he became very much a master. in finishing a ceiling in oils, upon which he had represented in bold relief some of the ornately sculptured foliage of the architect, the gentleman for whom he wrought (the son-in-law of a distinguished artist, and himself an amateur), called on his wife to admire the truthful and delicate shading of their house-painter. it was astonishing, he said, and perhaps somewhat humiliating, to see the mere mechanic trenching so decidedly on the province of the artist. poor william ross, however, was no mere mechanic; and even artists might have regarded his encroachments on their proper domain with more of complacency than humiliation. one of the last pieces of work upon which he was engaged was a gorgeously painted ceiling in the palace of some irish bishop, which he had been sent all the way from glasgow to finish. every society, however homely, has its picturesque points, nor did even that of the rather commonplace hamlet in which i resided at this time wholly want them. there was a decaying cottage a few doors away, that had for its inmate a cross-tempered old crone, who strove hard to set up as a witch, but broke down from sheer want of the necessary capital. she had been one of the underground workers of niddry in her time; and, being as little intelligent as most of the other collier-women of the neighbourhood, she had not the necessary witch-lore to adapt her pretensions to the capacity of belief which obtained in the district. and so the general estimate formed regarding her was that to which our landlady occasionally gave expression. "donnart auld bodie," peggy used to say; "though she threaps hersel' a witch, she's nae mair witch than i am: she's only just trying, in her feckless auld age, to make folk stand in her reverence." old alie was, however, a curiosity in her way--quite malignant enough to be a real witch, and fitted, if with a few more advantages of acquirement, she had been antedated an age or two, to become as hopeful a candidate for a tar-barrel as most of her class. her next-door neighbour was also an old woman, and well-nigh as poor as the crone; but she was an easy-tempered genial sort of person, who wished harm to no one; and the expression of content that dwelt on her round fresh face, which, after the wear of more than seventy winters, still retained its modicum of colour, contrasted strongly with the fierce wretchedness that gleamed from the sharp and sallow features of the witch. it was evident that the two old women, though placed externally in almost the same circumstances, had essentially a very different lot assigned to them, and enjoyed existence in a very unequal degree. the placid old woman kept a solitary lodger--"davie the apprentice"--a wayward, eccentric lad, much about my own age, though in but the second "year of his time," who used to fret even her temper, and who, after making trial of i know not how many other professions, now began to find that his genius did not lie to the mallet. davie was stage-mad; but for the stage nature seemed to have fitted him rather indifferently: she had given him a squat ungainly figure, an inexpressive face, a voice that in its intonations somewhat resembled the grating of a carpenter's saw; and, withal, no very nice conception of either comic or serious character; but he could recite in the "big bow-wow style," and think and dream of only plays and play-actors. to davie the world and its concerns seemed unworthy of a moment's care, and the stage appeared the only great reality. he was engaged, when i first made his acquaintance, in writing a play, with which he had already filled a whole quire of foolscap, without, however, having quite entered upon the plot; and he read to me some of the scenes in tones of such energy that the whole village heard. though written in the kind of verse which dr. young believed to be the language of angels, his play was sad stuff; and when he paused for my approbation, i ventured to suggest an alteration in one of the speeches. "there, sir," said davie, in the vein of cambyses, "take the pen; let me see, sir, how _you_ would turn it." i accordingly took the pen, and re-wrote the speech. "hum," said davie, as he ran his eye along the lines, "that, sir, is mere poetry. what, think you, could the great kean make of feeble stuff like that? let me tell you, sir, you have no notion whatever of stage effect." i, of course, at once acquiesced; and davie, mollified by my submission, read to me yet another scene. cha, however, of whom he stood a good deal in awe, used to tease him not a little about his play. i have heard him inquire sedulously about the development of the story and the management of the characters, and whether he was writing the several parts with a due eye to the capabilities of the leading actors of the day; and davie, not quite sure, apparently, whether cha was in joke or earnest, was usually on these occasions very chary of reply. davie, had he but the means of securing access, would have walked in every night to the city to attend the playhouse; and it quite astonished him, he used to say, that i, who really knew something of the drama, and had four shillings a day, did not nightly at least devote one of the four to purchase perfect happiness and a seat in the shilling gallery. on some two, or at most three occasions, i did attend the playhouse, accompanied by cha and a few of the other workmen; but though i had been greatly delighted, when a boy, by the acting of a company of strollers that had visited cromarty, and converted the council house hall into a theatre, the greatly better acting of the edinburgh company failed to satisfy me now. the few plays, however, which i saw enacted chanced to be of a rather mediocre character, and gave no scope for the exhibition of nice histrionic talent; nor were any of the great actors of the south on the edinburgh boards at the time. the stage scenery, too, though quite fine enough of its kind, had, i found, altogether a different effect upon me from the one which it had been elaborated to produce. in perusing our fine old dramas, it was the truth of nature that the vividly-drawn scenes and figures, and the happily-portrayed characters, always suggested; whereas the painted canvas, and the respectable but yet too palpable acting, served but to unrealize what i saw, and to remind me that i was merely in a theatre. further, i deemed it too large a price to devote a whole evening to see some play acted which, mayhap, as a composition i would not have deemed worth the reading; and so the temptation of play-going failed to tempt me; and latterly, when my comrades set out for the playhouse, i stayed at home. whatever the nature of the process through which they have gone, a considerable proportion of the more intelligent mechanics of the present generation seem to have landed in conclusions similar to the one at which i at this time arrived. at least, for every dozen of the class that frequented the theatre thirty years ago, there is scarce one that frequents it now. i have said that the scenery of the stage made no very favourable impression upon me. some parts of it must, however, have made a considerably stronger one than i could have supposed at the time. fourteen years after, when the whole seemed to have passed out of memory, i was lying ill of small-pox, which, though a good deal modified apparently by the vaccination of a long anterior period, was accompanied by such a degree of fever, that for two days together one delirious image continued to succeed another in the troubled sensorium, as scene succeeds scene in the box of an itinerant showman. as is not uncommon, however, in such cases, though ill enough to be haunted by the images, i was yet well enough to know that they were idle unrealities, the mere effects of indisposition; and even sufficiently collected to take an interest in watching them as they arose, and in striving to determine whether they were linked together by the ordinary associative ties. i found, however, that they were wholly independent of each other. curious to know whether the will exerted any power over them, i set myself to try whether i could not conjure up a death's-head as one of the series; but what rose instead was a cheerful parlour fire, bearing a-top a tea-kettle, and as the picture faded and then vanished, it was succeeded by a gorgeous cataract, in which the white foam, at first strongly relieved against the dark rock over which it fell, soon exhibited a deep tinge of sulphurous blue, and then came dashing down in one frightful sheet of blood. the great singularity of the vision served to freshen recollection, and i detected in the strange cataract every line and tint of the water-fall in the incantation scene in "der freischütz" which i had witnessed in the theatre royal of edinburgh, with certainly no very particular interest, so long before. there are, i suspect, provinces in the philosophy of mind into which the metaphysicians have not yet entered. of that accessible storehouse in which the memories of past events lie arranged and taped up, they appear to know a good deal; but of a mysterious cabinet of daguerrotype pictures, of which, though fast locked up on ordinary occasions, disease sometimes flings the door ajar, they seem to know nothing. footnote: [ ] the kind of club into which the compositors of a printing-house always form themselves has from time immemorial been termed a _chapel_; and the petty tricks by which franklin was annoyed were said to be played him by the chapel ghost. "my employer desiring," he says, "after some weeks, to have me in the composing room, i left the pressmen. a new _bien-venu_ for drink, being five shillings, was demanded of me by the compositors. i thought it an imposition, as i had paid one to the pressmen. the master thought so too, and forbade my paying it. i stood out two or three weeks, was accordingly considered as an _excommunicate_, and had so many little pieces of private malice practised on me by mixing my sorts, transposing and breaking my matter, &c. &c., if ever i stepped out of the room, and all ascribed to the _chapel ghost_, which, they said, ever haunted those not regularly admitted, that, notwithstanding my master's protection, i found myself obliged to comply and pay the money." chapter xvi. "let not this weak, unknowing hand, presume thy bolts to throw."--pope. the great fires of the parliament close and the high street were events of this winter. a countryman, who had left town when the old spire of the tron church was blazing like a torch, and the large group of buildings nearly opposite the cross still enveloped in flame from ground-floor to roof-tree, passed our work-shed, a little after two o'clock, and, telling us what he had seen, remarked that, if the conflagration went on as it was doing, we would have, as our next season's employment, the old town of edinburgh to rebuild. and as the evening closed over our labours, we went in to town in a body, to see the fires that promised to do so much for us. the spire had burnt out, and we could but catch between us and the darkened sky, the square abrupt outline of the masonry a-top that had supported the wooden broach, whence, only a few hours before, fergusson's bell had descended in a molten shower. the flames, too, in the upper group of buildings, were restricted to the lower stories, and flared fitfully on the tall forms and bright swords of the dragoons, drawn from the neighbouring barracks, as they rode up and down the middle space, or gleamed athwart the street on groups of wretched-looking women and ruffian men, who seemed scanning with greedy eyes the still unremoved heaps of household goods rescued from the burning tenements. the first figure that caught my eye was a singularly ludicrous one. removed from the burning mass but by the thickness of a wall, there was a barber's shop brilliantly lighted with gas, the uncurtained window of which permitted the spectators outside to see whatever was going on in the interior. the barber was as busily at work as if he were a hundred miles from the scene of danger, though the engines at the time were playing against the outside of his gable wall; and the immediate subject under his hands, as my eye rested upon him, was an immensely fat old fellow, on whose round bald forehead and ruddy cheeks the perspiration, occasioned by the oven-like heat of the place, was standing out in huge drops, and whose vast mouth, widely opened to accommodate the man of the razor, gave to his countenance such an expression as i have sometimes seen in grotesque gothic heads of that age of art in which the ecclesiastical architect began to make sport of his religion. the next object that presented itself was, however, of a more sobering description. a poor working man, laden with his favourite piece of furniture, a glass-fronted press or cupboard, which he had succeeded in rescuing from his burning dwelling, was emerging from one of the lanes, followed by his wife, when, striking his foot against some obstacle in the way, or staggering from the too great weight of his load, he tottered against a projecting corner, and the glazed door was driven in with a crash. there was hopeless misery in the wailing cry of his wife--"oh, ruin, ruin!--_it's_ lost too!" nor was his own despairing response less sad:--"ay, ay, puir lassie, its a' at an end noo." curious as it may seem, the wild excitement of the scene had at first rather exhilarated than depressed my spirits; but the incident of the glass cupboard served to awaken the proper feeling; and as i came more into contact with the misery of the catastrophe, and marked the groups of shivering houseless creatures that watched beside the broken fragments of their stuff, i saw what a dire calamity a great fire really is. nearly two hundred families were already at this time cast homeless into the streets. shortly before quitting the scene of the conflagration for the country, i passed along a common stair, which led from the parliament close towards the cowgate, through a tall old domicile, eleven stories in height, and i afterwards remembered that the passage was occupied by a smouldering oppressive vapour, which, from the direction of the wind, could scarce have been derived from the adjacent conflagration, though at the time, without thinking much of the circumstance, i concluded it might have come creeping westwards on some low cross current along the narrow lanes. in less than an hour after that lofty tenement was wrapt in flames, from the ground story to more than a hundred feet over its tallest chimneys, and about sixty additional families, its tenants, were cast into the streets with the others. my friend william ross afterwards assured me, that never had he witnessed anything equal in grandeur to this last of the conflagrations. directly over the sea of fire below, the low-browed clouds above seemed as if charged with a sea of blood, that lightened and darkened by fits as the flames rose and fell; and far and wide, tower and spire, and tall house-top, glared out against a background of darkness, as if they had been brought to a red heat by some great subterranean, earth-born fire, that was fast rising to wrap the entire city in destruction. the old church of st. giles, he said, with the fantastic masonry of its pale grey tower, bathed in crimson, and that of its dark rude walls suffused in a bronzed umber, and with the red light gleaming inwards through its huge mullioned windows, and flickering on its stone roof, formed one of the most picturesque objects he had ever seen.[ ] i sometimes heard old dr. colquhoun of leith preach. there were fewer authors among the clergy in those days than now; and i felt a special interest in a living divine who had written so good a book, that my uncle sandy--no mean judge in such matters--had assigned to it a place in his little theological library, among the writings of the great divines of other ages. the old man's preaching days, ere the winter of , were well-nigh done: he could scarce make himself heard over half the area of his large, hulking chapel, which was, however, always less than half filled; but, though the feeble tones teasingly strained the ear, i liked to listen to his quaintly attired but usually very solid theology, and found, as i thought, more matter in his discourses than in those of men who spoke louder and in a flashier style. the worthy man, however, did me a mischief at this time. there had been a great musical festival held in edinburgh about three weeks previous to the conflagration, at which oratorios were performed in the ordinary pagan style, in which amateurs play at devotion, without even professing to feel it; and the doctor, in his first sermon after the great fires, gave serious expression to the conviction, that they were judgments sent upon edinburgh, to avenge the profanity of its musical festival. edinburgh had sinned, he said, and edinburgh was now punished; and it was according to the divine economy, he added, that judgments administered exactly after the manner of the infliction which we had just witnessed should fall upon cities and kingdoms. i liked the reasoning very ill. i knew only two ways in which god's judgments could be determined to be really such--either through direct revelation from god himself, or in those cases in which they take place so much in accordance with his fixed laws, and in such relation to the offence or crime visited in them by punishment, that man, simply by the exercise of his rational faculties, and reasoning from cause to effect, as is his nature, can determine them for himself. and the great edinburgh fires had come under neither category. god did not reveal that he had punished the tradesmen and mechanics of the high street for the musical sins of the lawyers and landowners of abercromby place and charlotte square; nor could any natural relation be established between the oratorios in the parliament house or the concerts in the theatre royal, and the conflagrations opposite the cross or at the top of the tron church steeple. all that could be proven in the case were the facts of the festival and of the fires; and the further fact, that, so far as could be ascertained, there was no visible connexion between them, and that it was not the people who had joined in the one that had suffered from the others. and the doctor's argument seemed to be the perilous loose one, that as god had sometimes of old visited cities and nations with judgments which had no apparent connexion with the sins punished, and which could not be recognised as judgments had not he himself told that such they were, the edinburgh fires, of which he had told nothing, might be properly regarded--seeing that they had in the same way no connexion with the oratorios, and had wrought no mischief to the people who had patronized the oratorios--as special judgments on the oratorios. the good old papist had said, "i believe because it is impossible." what the doctor in this instance seemed to say was, "i believe because it is not in the least likely." if, i argued, dr. colquhoun's own house and library had been burnt, he would no doubt very properly have deemed the infliction a great trial to himself; but on what principle could he have further held that it was not only a trial to himself, but also a judgment on his neighbour? if we must not believe that the falling of the tower of siloam was a special visitation on the sins of the poor men whom it crushed, how, or on what grounds, are we to believe that it was a special visitation on the sins of the men whom it did not in the least injure? i fear i remembered dr. colquhoun's remarks on the fire better than aught else i ever heard from him; nay, i must add, that nothing had i ever found in the writings of the sceptics that had a worse effect on my mind; and i now mention the circumstance to show how sober in applications of the kind, in an age like the present, a theologian should be. it was some time ere i forgot the ill savour of that dead fly; and it was to beliefs of a serious and very important class that it served for a time to impart its own doubtful character. but from the minister whose chapel i oftenest attended, i was little in danger of having my beliefs unsettled by reasonings of this stumbling cast. "be sure," said both my uncles, as i was quitting cromarty for the south, "be sure you go and hear dr. m'crie." and so dr. m'crie i did go and hear; and not once or twice, but often. the biographer of knox--to employ the language in which wordsworth describes the humble hero of the "excursion"-- "was a man whom no one could have passed without remark." and on first attending his church, i found that i had unwittingly seen him before, and that without remark i had _not_ passed him. i had extended one of my usual evening walks, shortly after commencing work at niddry, in the direction of the southern suburb of edinburgh, and was sauntering through one of the green lanes of liberton, when i met a gentleman whose appearance at once struck me. he was a singularly erect, spare, tall man, and bore about him an air which, neither wholly clerical nor wholly military, seemed to be a curious compound of both. the countenance was pale, and the expression, as i thought, somewhat melancholy; but an air of sedate power sat so palpably on every feature, that i stood arrested as he passed, and for half a minute or so remained looking after him. he wore, over a suit of black, a brown great-coat, with the neck a good deal whitened by powder, and the rim of the hat behind, which was slightly turned up, bore a similar stain. "there is mark about that old-fashioned man," i said to myself: "who or what can he be?" curiously enough, the apparent combination of the military and the clerical in his gait and air suggested to me sir richard steele's story, in the "tattler," of the old officer who, acting in the double capacity of major and chaplain to his regiment, challenged a young man for blasphemy, and after disarming, would not take him to mercy until he had first begged pardon of god upon his knees on the duelling ground, for the irreverence with which he had treated his name. my curiosity regarding the stranger gentleman was soon gratified. next sabbath i attended the doctor's chapel, and saw the tall, spare, clerico-military looking man in the pulpit. i have a good deal of faith in the military air, when, in the character of a natural trait, i find it strongly marking men who never served in the army. i have not yet seen it borne by a civilian who had not in him at least the elements of the soldier; nor can i doubt that, had dr. m'crie been a scotch covenanter of the times of charles ii, the insurgents at bothwell would have had what they sadly wanted--a general. the shrewd sense of his discourses had great charms for me; and, though not a flashy, nor, in the ordinary sense of the term, even an eloquent preacher, there were none of the other edinburgh clergy his contemporaries to whom i found i could listen with greater profit or satisfaction. a simple incident which occurred during my first morning attendance at his chapel, strongly impressed me with a sense of his sagacity. there was a great deal of coughing in the place, the effect of a recent change of weather; and the doctor, whose voice was not a strong one, and who seemed somewhat annoyed by the ruthless interruptions, stopping suddenly short in the middle of his argument, made a dead pause. when people are taken greatly by surprise, they cease to cough--a circumstance on which he had evidently calculated. every eye was now turned towards him, and for a full minute so dead was the silence, that one might have heard a pin drop. "i see, my friends," said the doctor, resuming speech, with a suppressed smile--"i see you can be all quiet enough when i am quiet." there was not a little genuine strategy in the rebuke; and as cough lies a good deal more under the influence of the will than most coughers suppose, such was its effect, that during the rest of the day there was not a tithe of the previous coughing. the one-roomed cottage which i shared with its three other inmates, did not present all the possible conveniences for study; but it had a little table in a corner, at which i contrived to write a good deal; and my book-shelf already exhibited from twenty to thirty volumes, picked up on saturday evenings at the book-stalls of the city, and which were all accessions to my little library. i, besides, got a few volumes to read from my friend william ross, and a few more through my work-fellow cha; and so my rate of acquirement in book-knowledge, if not equal to that of some former years, at least considerably exceeded what it had been in the previous season, which i had spent in the highlands, and during which i had perused only three volumes--one of the three a slim volume of slim poems, by a lady, and the other, that rather curious than edifying work, "presbyterian eloquence displayed." the cheap literature had not yet been called into existence; and, without in the least undervaluing its advantages, it was, i daresay, better on the whole as a mental exercise, and greatly better in the provision which it made for the future, that i should have to urge my way through the works of our best writers in prose and verse--works which always made an impression on the memory--than that i should have been engaged instead in picking up odds and ends of information from loose essays, the hasty productions of men too little vigorous, or too little at leisure, to impress upon their writings the stamp of their own individuality. in quiet moonlight nights i found it exceedingly pleasant to saunter all alone through the niddry woods. moonlight gives to even leafless groves the charms of full foliage, and conceals tameness of outline in a landscape. i found it singularly agreeable, too, to listen, from a solitude so profound as that which a short walk secured to me, to the distant bells of the city ringing out, as the clock struck eight, the old curfew peal; and to mark, from under the interlacing boughs of a long-arched vista, the intermittent gleam of the inchkeith light now brightening and now fading, as the lanthorn revolved. in short, the winter passed not unpleasantly away: i had now nothing to annoy me in the work-shed; and my only serious care arose from my unlucky house in leith, for which i found myself summoned one morning, by an officer-looking man, to pay nearly three pounds--the last instalment which i owed, i was told, as one of the heritors of the place, for its fine new church. i must confess i was wicked enough to wish on this occasion that the property on the coal-hill had been included in the judgment on the musical festival. but shortly after, not less to my astonishment than delight, i was informed by mr. veitch that he had at length found a purchaser for my house; and, after getting myself served heir to my father before the court of the canongate, and paying a large arrear of feu-duty to that venerable corporation, in which i had to recognise my feudal superior, i got myself as surely dissevered from the coal-hill as paper and parchment could do it, and pocketed, in virtue of the transaction, a balance of about fifty pounds. as nearly as i could calculate on what the property had cost us, from first to last, the _composition_ which it paid was one of about five shillings in the pound. and such was the concluding passage in the history of a legacy which threatened for a time to be the ruin of the family. when i last passed along the coal-hill, i saw my umquhile house existing as a bit of dingy wall, a single storey in height, and perforated by three narrow old-fashioned doors, jealously boarded up, and apparently, as in the days when it was mine, of no manner of use in the world. i trust, however, it is no longer the positive mischief to its proprietor that it was to me. the busy season had now fairly commenced: wages were fast mounting up to the level of the former year, which they ultimately overtopped; and employment had become very abundant. i found, however, that it might be well for me to return home for a few months. the dust of the stone which i had been hewing for the last two years had begun to affect my lungs, as they had been affected in the last autumn of my apprenticeship, but much more severely; and i was too palpably sinking in flesh and strength to render it safe for me to encounter the consequences of another season of hard work as a stone-cutter. from the stage of the malady at which i had already arrived, poor workmen, unable to do what i did, throw themselves loose from their employment, and sink in six or eight months into the grave--some at an earlier, some at a later period of life; but so general is the affection, that few of our edinburgh stone-cutters pass their fortieth year unscathed, and not one out of every fifty of their number ever reaches his forty-fifth year. i accordingly engaged my passage for the north in an inverness sloop, and took leave of my few friends--of the excellent foreman of the niddry squad, and of cha and john wilson, with both of whom, notwithstanding their opposite characters, i had become very intimate. among the rest, too, i took leave of a paternal cousin settled in leith, the wife of a genial-hearted sailor, master of a now wholly obsolete type of vessel, one of the old leith and london smacks, with a huge single mast, massive and tall as that of a frigate, and a mainsail of a quarter of an acre. i had received much kindness from my cousin, who, besides her relationship to my father, had been a contemporary and early friend of my mother's; and my welcome from the master her husband--one of the best-natured men i ever knew--used always to be one of the heartiest. and after parting from cousin marshall, i mustered up resolution enough to call on yet another cousin. cousin william, the eldest son of my sutherlandshire aunt, had been for some years settled in edinburgh, first as an upper clerk and manager--for, after his failure as a merchant he had to begin the world anew; and now, in the speculation year, he had succeeded in establishing a business for himself, which bore about it a hopeful and promising air so long as the over-genial season lasted, but fell, with many a more deeply-rooted establishment, in the tempest which followed. on quitting the north, i had been charged with a letter for him by his father, which i knew, however, to be wholly recommendatory of myself, and so i had failed to deliver it. cousin william, like uncle james, had fully expected that i was to make my way in life in some one of the learned professions; and as his position--though, as the result unfortunately showed, a not very secure one--was considerably in advance of mine, i kept aloof from him, in the character of a poor relation, who was quite as proud as he was poor, and in the belief that his new friends, of whom, i understood, he had now well-nigh as many as before, would hold that the cousinship of a mere working man did him little credit. he had learned from home, however, that i was in edinburgh, and had made not a few ineffectual attempts to find me out, of which i had heard; and now, on forming my resolution to return to the north, i waited upon him at his rooms in ambrose's lodgings--at that time possessed of a sort of classical interest, as the famous blackwood club, with christopher north at its head, used to meet in the hotel immediately below. cousin william had a warm heart, and received me with great kindness, though i had, of course, to submit to the scold which i deserved; and as some young friends were to look in upon him in the evening, he said, i had to do what i would fain have avoided, perform penance, by waiting, on his express invitation, to meet with them. they were, i ascertained, chiefly students of medicine and divinity, in attendance at the classes of the university, and not at all the formidable sort of persons i had feared to meet; and finding nothing very unattainable in their conversation, and as cousin william made a dead set on me "to bring me out," i at length ventured to mingle in it, and found my reading stand me in some stead. there was a meeting, we were told, that evening, in the apartment below, of the blackwood club. the night i spent with my cousin was, if our information was correct, and the _noctes_ not a mere myth, one of the famous _noctes ambrosiance_; and fain would i have seen, for but a moment, from some quiet corner, the men whose names fame had blown so widely; but i have ever been unlucky in the curiosity--though i have always strongly entertained it--which has the personal appearance of celebrated men for its object. i had ere now several times lingered in castle street of a saturday evening, opposite the house of sir walter scott, in the hope of catching a glimpse of that great writer and genial man, but had never been successful i could fain, too, have seen hogg (who at the time occasionally visited edinburgh); with jeffrey; old dugald stewart, who still lived; _delta_, and professor wilson: but i quitted the place without seeing any of them; and ere i again returned to the capital, ten years after, death had been busy in the high places, and the greatest of their number was no longer to be seen. in short, dr. m'crie was the only man whose name promises to live, of whose personal appearance i was able to carry away with me at this time a distinct image. addison makes his _spectator_ remark, rather in joke than earnest, that "a reader seldom peruses a book with pleasure till he knows whether the writer of it be a black or a fair man, of a mild or choleric disposition, married or a bachelor, with other particulars of the like nature, that conduce very much to the right understanding of an author." i am inclined to say nearly as much, without being the least in joke. i think i understand an author all the better for knowing exactly how he looked. i would have to regard the massive vehemence of the style of chalmers as considerably less characteristic of the man, had it been dissociated from the broad chest and mighty structure of bone; and the warlike spirit which breathes, in a subdued but still very palpable form, in the historical writings of the elder m'crie, strikes me as singularly in harmony with the military air of this presbyterian minister of the type of knox and melville. however theologians may settle the meaning of the text, it is one of the grand lessons of his writings, that such of the churches of the reformation as did _not_ "take the sword, perished by the sword." i was accompanied to the vessel by my friend william ross, from whom i, alas! parted for the last time; and, when stepping aboard, cousin william, whom i had scarce expected to see, but who had snatched an hour from business, and walked down all the way to leith to bid me farewell, came forward to grasp me by the hand. i am not much disposed to quarrel with the pride of the working man, when according to johnson and chalmers, it is a defensive, not an aggressive pride; but it does at times lead him to be somewhat less than just to the better feelings of the men who occupy places in the scale a little higher than his own. cousin william, from whom i had kept so jealously aloof, had a heart of the finest water. his after course was rough and unprosperous. after the general crash of - , he struggled on in london for some six or eight years, in circumstances of great difficulty; and then, receiving some surbodinate appointment in connexion with the stipendiary magistracy of the west indies, he sailed for jamaica--where, considerably turned of fifty at the time--he soon fell a victim to the climate. in my voyage north, i spent about half as many days on sea, between leith roads and the sutors of cromarty, as the cunard steamers now spend in crossing the atlantic. i had taken a cabin passage, not caring to subject my weakened lungs to the exposure of a steerage one; but during the seven days of thick, foggy mornings, clear moonlight nights, and almost unbroken calms, both night and morning, in which we tided our slow way north, i was much in the forecastle with the men, seeing how sailors lived, and ascertaining what they were thinking about, and how. we had rare narratives at nights-- "wonderful stories of battle and wreck, that were told by the men of the watch." some of the crew had been voyagers in their time to distant parts of the world; and though no existence can be more monotonous than the every-day life of the seaman, the profession has always its bits of striking incident, that, when strung together, impart to it an air of interest which its ordinary details sadly want, and which lures but to disappoint the young lads of a romantic cast, who are led to make choice of it in its presumed character as a continued series of stirring events and exciting adventures. what, however, struck me as curious in the narratives of my companions, was the large mixture of the supernatural which they almost always exhibited. the story of jack grant the mate, given in an early chapter, may be regarded as not inadequately representative of the sailor stories which were told on deck and forecastle, along at least the northern coasts of scotland, nearly thirty years later. that life of peril which casts the seaman much at the mercy of every rough gale and lee-shore, and in which his calculations regarding ultimate results must be always very doubtful, has a strong tendency to render him superstitious. he is more removed, too, than the landsman of his education and standing, from the influence of general opinion, and the mayhap over-sceptical teaching of the press; and, as a consequence of their position and circumstances, i found, at this period, seamen of the generation to which i myself belonged as firm believers in wraiths, ghosts, and death-warnings, as the landward contemporaries of my grandfather had been sixty years before. a series of well-written nautical tales had appeared shortly previous to this time in one of the metropolitan monthlies--the _london magazine_, if i rightly remember; and i was now interested to find in one of the sailors' stories, the original of decidedly the best of their number--"the doomed man." the author of the series--a mr. hamilton, it was said, who afterwards became an irvingite teacher, and grew too scrupulous to exercise in fiction a very pleasing pen, though he continued to employ, as a portrait-painter, a rather indifferent pencil--had evidently sought such opportunities of listening to sailor's stories as those on which i had at this time thrust myself. very curious materials for fiction may be found in this way by the _littérateur_. it must be held that sir walter scott was no incompetent judge of the capabilities, for the purposes of the novelist, of a piece of narrative; and yet we find him saying of the story told by a common sailor to his friend william clerk, which he records in the "letters on demonology and witchcraft," that "the tale, properly managed, might have made the fortune of a romancer." at times by day--for the sailors' stories were stories of the night--i found interesting companionship in the society of a young student of divinity, one of the passengers, who, though a lad of parts and acquirements, did not deem it beneath him to converse on literary subjects with a working man in pale moleskin, and with whom i did not again meet until many years after, when we were both actively engaged in prosecuting the same quarrel--he as one of the majority of the presbytery of auchterarder, and i as editor of the leading newspaper of the non-intrusion party. perhaps the respected free church minister of north leith may be still able to call to memory--not, of course, the subjects, but the _fact_, of our discussions on literature and the belles-lettres at this time; and that, on asking me one morning whether i had not been, according to burns, "crooning to mysel'," when on deck during the previous evening, what seemed from the cadence to be verse, i ventured to submit to him, as my night's work, a few descriptive stanzas. and, as forming in some sort a memorial of our voyage, and in order that my friendly critic may be enabled, after the lapse of considerably more than a quarter of a century, to review his judgment respecting them, i now submit them to the reader:-- stanzas written at sea. joy of the poet's soul, i court thy aid; * * * * * around our vessel heaves the midnight wave; the cheerless moon sinks in the western sky; reigns breezeless silence!--in her ocean cave the mermaid rests, while her fond lover nigh, marks the pale star-beams as they fall from high. gilding with tremulous light her couch of sleep. why smile incred'lous? the rapt muse's eye through earth's dark caves, o'er heaven's fair plains, can sweep, can range its hidden cell, where toils the unfathom'd deep. on ocean's craggy floor, beneath the shade of bushy rock-weed tangled, dusk, and brown, she sees the wreck of founder'd vessel laid, in slimy silence, many a fathom down from where the star-beam trembles; o'er it thrown are heap'd the treasures men have died to gain. and in sad mockery of the parting groan, that bubbled 'mid the wild unpitying main, quick gushing o'er the bones, the restless tides complain. gloomy and wide rolls the sepulchral sea, grave of my kindred, of my sire the grave! perchance, where now he sleeps, a space for me is mark'd by fate beneath the deep green wave. it well may he! poor bosom, why dost heave thus wild? oh, many a care, troublous and dark. on earth attends thee still; the mermaid's cave grief haunts not; sure 'twere pleasant there to mark, serene, at noontide hour, the sailor's passing barque. sure it were pleasant through the vasty deep, when on its bosom plays the golden beam. with headlong speed by bower and cave to sweep; when flame the waters round with emerald gleam-- when, borne from high by tides and gales, the scream of sea-mew softened falls--when bright and gay the crimson weeds, proud ocean's pendants, stream from trophied wrecks and rock-towers darkly grey-- through scenes so strangely fair 'twere pleasant, sure, to stray. why this strange thought? if, in that ocean laid. the ear would cease to hear, the eye to see, though sights and sounds like these circled my bed, wakeless and heavy would my slumbers be: though the mild soften'd sun-light beam'd on me (if a dull heap of bones retained my name, that bleach'd or blacken'd 'mid the wasteful sea), its radiance all unseen, its golden beam in vain through coral groves or emerald roofs might stream. yet dwells a spirit in this earthy frame which oceans cannot quench nor time destroy;-- a deathless, fadeless ray, a heavenly flame, that pure shall rise when fails each base alloy that earth instils, dark grief, or baseless joy: then shall the ocean's secrets meet its sight;-- for i do hold that happy souls enjoy a vast all-reaching range of angel-flight, from the fair source of day, even to the gates of night. now night's dark veil is rent; on yonder land, that blue and distant rises o'er the main, i see the purple sky of morn expand, scattering the gloom. then cease my feeble strain: when darkness reign'd, thy whisperings soothed my pain-- the pain by weariness and languor bred. but now my eyes shall greet a lovelier scene than fancy pictured: from his dark green bed soon shall the orb of day exalt his glorious head. i found my two uncles, cousin george, and several other friends and relations, waiting for me on the cromarty beach; and was soon as happy among them as a man suffering a good deal from debility, but not much from positive pain, could well be. when again, about ten years after this time, i visited the south of scotland, it was to receive the instructions necessary to qualify me for a bank accountant; and when i revisited it at a still later period, it was to undertake the management of a metropolitan newspaper. in both these instances i mingled with a different sort of persons from those with whom i had come in contact in the years - . and, in now taking leave of the lower class, i may be permitted to make a few general remarks regarding them. it is a curious change which has taken place in this country during the last hundred years. up till the times of the rebellion of , and a little later, it was its remoter provinces that formed its dangerous portions; and the effective strongholds from which its advance-guards of civilisation and good order gradually gained upon old anarchy and barbarism, were its great towns. we are told by ecclesiastical historians, that in rome, after the age of constantine, the term villager (_pagus_) came to be regarded as synonymous with heathen, from the circumstance that the worshippers of the gods were then chiefly to be found in remote country places; and we know that in scotland the reformation pursued a course exactly resembling that of christianity itself in the old roman world: it began in the larger and more influential towns; and it was in the remoter country districts that the displaced religion lingered longest, and found its most efficient champions and allies. edinburgh, glasgow, perth, st. andrews, dundee, were all protestant, and sent out their well-taught burghers to serve in the army of the lords of the congregation, when huntly and hamilton were arming their vassals to contend for the obsolete faith. in a later age the accessible lowlands were imbued with an evangelistic presbyterianism, when the more mountainous and inaccessible provinces of the country were still in a condition to furnish, in what was known as the highland host, a dire instrument of persecution. even as late as the middle of the last century, "sabbath," according to a popular writer, "never got aboon the pass of killicrankie;" and the stuarts, exiled for their adherence to popery, continued to found almost their sole hopes of restoration on the swords of their co-religionists the highlanders. during the last hundred years, however, this old condition of matters has been strangely reversed; and it is in the great towns that _paganism_ now chiefly prevails. in at least their lapsed classes--a rapidly increasing proportion of their population--it is those cities of our country which first caught the light of religion and learning, that have become preeminently its dark parts; just, if i may employ the comparison, as it is those portions of the moon which earliest receive the light when she is in her increscent state, and shine like a thread of silver in the deep blue of the heavens, that first become dark when she falls into the wane. it is mainly during the elapsed half of the present century that this change for the worse has taken place in the large towns of scotland. in the year it was greatly less than half accomplished; but it was fast going on; and i saw, partially at least, the processes in operation through which it has been effected. the cities of the country have increased their population during the past fifty years greatly beyond the proportion of its rural districts--a result in part of the revolutions which have taken place in the agricultural system of the lowlands, and of the clearances of the highlands; and in part also of that extraordinary development of the manufactures and trade of the kingdom which the last two generations have witnessed. of the wilder edinburgh mechanics with whom i formed at this time any acquaintance, less than one-fourth were natives of the place. the others were mere settlers in it, who had removed mostly from country districts and small towns, in which they had been known, each by his own circle of neighbourhood, and had lived, in consequence, under the wholesome influence of public opinion. in edinburgh--grown too large at the time to permit men to know aught of their neighbours--they were set free from this wholesome influence, and, unless when under the guidance of higher principle, found themselves at liberty to do very much as they pleased. and--with no _general_ opinion to control--cliques and parties of their wilder spirits soon formed in their sheds and workshops a standard of opinion of their own, and found only too effectual means of compelling their weaker comrades to conform to it. and hence a great deal of wild dissipation and profligacy, united, of course, to the inevitable improvidence. and though dissipation and improvidence are quite compatible with intelligence in the first generation, they are sure always to part company from it in the second. the family of the unsteady spendthrift workman is never a well-taught family. it is reared up in ignorance; and, with evil example set before and around it, it almost necessarily takes its place among the lapsed classes. in the third generation the descent is of course still greater and more hopeless than in the second. there is a type of even physical degradation already manifesting itself in some of our large towns, especially among degraded females, which is scarce less marked than that exhibited by the negro, and which both my edinburgh and glasgow readers must have often remarked on the respective high streets of these cities. the features are generally bloated and overcharged, the profile lines usually concave, the complexion coarse and high, and the expression that of a dissipation and sensuality become chronic and inherent. and how this class--constitutionally degraded, and with the moral sense, in most instances, utterly undeveloped and blind--are ever to be reclaimed, it is difficult to see. the immigrant irish form also a very appreciable element in the degradation of our large towns. they are, however, _pagans_, not of the new, but of the old type: and are chiefly formidable from the squalid wretchedness of a physical character which they have transferred from their mud cabins into our streets and lanes, and from the course of ruinous competition into which they have entered with the unskilled labourers of the country, and which has had the effect of reducing our lowlier countrymen to a humbler level than they perhaps ever occupied before. meanwhile, this course of degradation is going on, in all our larger towns, in an ever-increasing ratio; and all that philanthropy and the churches are doing to counteract it is but as the discharge of a few squirts on a conflagration. it is, i fear, preparing terrible convulsions for the future. when the dangerous classes of a country were located in its remote districts, as in scotland in the early half of the last century, it was comparatively easy to deal with them: but the _sans culottes_ of paris in its first revolution, placed side by side with its executive government, proved very formidable indeed; nor is it, alas! very improbable that the ever-growing masses of our large towns, broken loose from the sanction of religion and morals, may yet terribly avenge on the upper classes and the churches of the country the indifferency with which they have been suffered to sink. i was informed by cousin george, shortly after my arrival, that my old friend of the doocot cave, after keeping shop as a grocer for two years, had given up business, and gone to college to prepare himself for the church. he had just returned home, added george, after completing his first session, and had expressed a strong desire to meet with me. his mother, too, had joined in the invitation--would i not take tea with them that evening?--and cousin george had been asked to accompany me. i demurred; but at length set out with george, and, after an interruption in our intercourse of about five years, spent the evening with my old friend. and for years after we were inseparable companions, who, when living in the same neighbourhood, spent together almost every hour not given to private study or inevitable occupation, and who, when separated by distance, exchanged letters enough to fill volumes. we had parted boys, and had now grown men; and for the first few weeks we took stock of each other's acquirements and experiences, and the measure of each other's calibre, with some little curiosity. the mind of my friend had developed rather in a scientific than literary direction. he afterwards carried away the first mathematical prize of his year at college, and the second in natural philosophy; and he had, i now found, great acuteness as a metaphysician, and no inconsiderable acquaintance with the antagonistic positions of the schools of hume and reid. on the other hand, my opportunities of observation had been perhaps greater than his, and my acquaintance with men, and even with books, more extensive; and in the interchange of idea which we carried on, both were gainers: he occasionally picked up in our conversations a fact of which he had been previously ignorant; and i, mayhap, learned to look more closely than before at an argument. i introduced him to the eathie lias, and assisted him in forming a small collection, which, ere he ultimately dissipated it, contained some curious fossils--among the others, the second specimen of _pterichthys_ ever found; and he, in turn, was able to give me a few geological notions, which, though quite crude enough--for natural science was not taught at the university which he attended--i found of use in the arrangement of my facts--now become considerable enough to stand in need of those threads of theory without which large accumulations of fact refuse to hang together in the memory. there was one special hypothesis which he had heard broached, and the utter improbability of which i was not yet geologist enough to detect, which for a time filled my whole imagination. it had been said, he told me, that the ancient world, in which my fossils, animal and vegetable, had flourished and decayed--a world greatly older than that before the flood--had been tenanted by rational, responsible beings, for whom, as for the race to which we ourselves belong, a resurrection and a day of final judgment had awaited. but many thousands of years had elapsed since that day--emphatically the _last_ to the pre-adamite race--had come and gone. of all the accountable creatures that had been summoned to its bar, bone had been gathered to its bone, so that not a vestige of the framework of their bodies occurred in the rocks or soils in which they had been originally inhumed; and, in consequence, only the remains of their irresponsible contemporaries, the inferior animals, and of the vegetable productions of their fields and forests, were now to be found. the dream filled for a time my whole imagination; but though poetry might find ample footing on a hypothesis so suggestive and bold, i need scarce say that it has itself no foundation in science. man had _no_ responsible predecessor on earth. at the determined time, when his appointed habitation was completely fitted for him, he came and took possession of it; but the old geologic ages had been ages of immaturity--_days_ whose work as a work of promise was "good," but not yet "very good," nor yet ripened for the appearance of a moral agent, whose nature it is to be a fellow-worker with the creator in relation to even the physical and the material. the planet which we inhabit seems to have been prepared for man, and for man only. partly through my friend, but in part also from the circumstance that i retained a measure of intimacy with such of my schoolfellows as had subsequently prosecuted their education at college, i was acquainted, during the later years in which i wrought as a mason, with a good many university-taught lads; and i sometimes could not avoid comparing them in my mind with working men of, as nearly as i could guess, the same original calibre. i did not always find that general superiority on the side of the scholar which the scholar himself usually took for granted. what he had specially studied he knew, save in rare and exceptional cases, better than the working man; but while the student had been mastering his greek and latin, and expatiating in natural philosophy and the mathematics, the working man, if of an inquiring mind, had been doing something else; and it is at least a fact, that all the great readers of my acquaintance at this time--the men most extensively acquainted with english literature--were not the men who had received the classical education. on the other hand, in framing an argument, the advantage lay with the scholars. in that common sense, however, which reasons but does not argue, and which enables men to pick their stepping prudently through the journey of life, i found that the classical education gave no superiority whatever; nor did it appear to form so fitting an introduction to the realities of business as that course of dealing with things tangible and actual in which the working man has to exercise his faculties, and from which he derives his experience. one cause of the over-low estimate which the classical scholar so often forms of the intelligence of that class of the people to which our skilled mechanics belong, arises very much from the forwardness of a set of blockheads who are always sure to obtrude themselves upon his notice, and who come to be regarded by him as average specimens of their order. i never yet knew a truly intelligent mechanic obtrusive. men of the stamp of my two uncles, and of my friend william ross, never press themselves on the notice of the classes above them. a minister newly settled in a charge, for instance, often finds that it is the dolts of his flock that first force themselves upon his acquaintance. i have heard the late mr. stewart of cromarty remark, that the humbler dunderheads of the parish had all introduced themselves to his acquaintance long ere he found out its clever fellows. and hence often sad mistakes on the part of a clergyman in dealing with the people. it seems never to strike him that there may be among them men of his own calibre, and, in certain practical departments, even better taught than he; and that this superior class is always sure to lead the others. and in preaching down to the level of the men of humbler capacity, he fails often to preach to men of any capacity at all, and is of no use. some of the clerical contemporaries of mr. stewart used to allege that, in exercising his admirable faculties in the theological field, he sometimes forgot to lower himself to his people, and so preached over their heads. and at times, when they themselves came to occupy his pulpit, as occasionally happened, they addressed to the congregation sermons quite simple enough for even children to comprehend. i taught at the time a class of boys in the cromarty sabbath-school, and invariably found on these occasions, that while the memories of my pupils were charged to the full with the striking thoughts and graphic illustrations of the very elaborate discourses deemed too high for them, they remembered of the very simple ones, specially lowered to suit narrow capacities, not a single word or note. all the attempts at originating a cheap literature that have failed, have been attempts pitched too low: the higher-toned efforts have usually succeeded. if the writer of these chapters has been in any degree successful in addressing himself as a journalist to the presbyterian people of scotland, it has always been, not by writing _down_ to them, but by doing his best on all occasions to write _up_ to them. he has ever thought of them as represented by his friend william, his uncles, and his cousin george--by shrewd old john fraser, and his reckless though very intelligent acquaintance cha; and by addressing to them on every occasion as good sense and as solid information as he could possibly muster, he has at times succeeded in catching their ear, and perhaps, in some degree, in influencing their judgment. footnote: [ ] the extreme picturesqueness of these fires--in part a consequence of the great height and peculiar architecture of the buildings which they destroyed--caught the nice eye of sir walter scott. "i can conceive," we find him saying, in one of his letters of the period, "no sight more grand or terrible than to see these lofty buildings on fire from top to bottom, vomiting out flames, like a volcano, from every aperture, and finally crashing down one after another, into an abyss of fire, which resembled nothing but hell; for there were vaults of wine and spirits which set up huge jets of flames whenever they were called into activity by the fall of these massive fragments. between the corner of the parliament square and the tron church, all is destroyed excepting some new buildings at the lower extremity." chapter xvii. "beware, lorenzo, a slow, sudden death."--young. there was one special subject which my friend, in our quiet evening walks, used to urge seriously upon my attention. he had thrown up, under strong religious impressions, what promised to be so good a business, that in two years he had already saved money enough to meet the expenses of a college course of education. and assuredly, never did man determine on entering the ministry with views more thoroughly disinterested than his. patronage ruled supreme in the scottish establishment at the time; and my friend had no influence and no patron; but he could not see his way clear to join with the evangelical dissenters or the secession; and believing that the most important work on earth is the work of saving souls, he had entered on his new course in the full conviction that, if god had work for him of this high character to do, he would find him an opportunity of doing it. and now, thoroughly in earnest, and as part of the special employment to which he had devoted himself, he set himself to press upon my attention the importance, in their personal bearing, of religious concerns. i was not unacquainted with the standard theology of the scottish church. in the parish school i had, indeed, acquired no ideas on the subject; and though i now hear a good deal said, chiefly with a controversial bearing, about the excellent religious influence of our parochial seminaries, i never knew any one who owed other than the merest smattering of theological knowledge to these institutions, and not a single individual who had ever derived from them any tincture, even the slightest, of religious feeling. in truth, during almost the whole of the last century, and for at least the first forty years of the present, the people of scotland were, with all their faults, considerably more christian than the larger part of their schoolmasters. so far as i can remember, i carried in my memory from school only a single remark at all theological in its character, and it was of a kind suited rather to do harm than good. in reading in the class one saturday morning a portion of the hundred and nineteenth psalm, i was told by the master that that ethical poem was a sort of alphabetical acrostic--a circumstance, he added, that accounted for its broken and inconsecutive character as a composition. chiefly, however, from the sabbath-day catechizings to which i had been subjected during boyhood by my uncles, and latterly from the old divines, my uncle sandy's favourites, and from the teachings of the pulpit, i had acquired a considerable amount of religious knowledge. i had thought, too, a good deal about some of the peculiar doctrines of calvinism, in their character as abstruse positions--such as the doctrine of the divine decrees, and of man's inability to assume the initiative in the work of his own conversion. i had, besides, a great admiration of the bible, especially of its narrative and poetical parts; and could scarce give strong enough expression to the contempt which i entertained for the vulgar and tasteless sceptics who, with paine at their head, could speak of it as a weak or foolish book. further, reared in a family circle, some of whose members were habitually devout, and all of whom respected and stood up for religion, and were imbued with the stirring ecclesiastical traditions of their country, i felt that the religious side in any quarrel had a sort of hereditary claim upon me. i believe i may venture to say, that previous to this time i had never seen a religious man badgered for his religion, and much in a minority, without openly taking part with him; nor is it impossible that, in a time of trouble, i might have almost deserved the character given by old john howie to a rather notable "gentleman sometimes called burly," who, "although he was by some reckoned none of the most religious," joined himself to the suffering party, and was "always zealous and honest-hearted." and yet my religion was a strangely incongruous thing. it took the form, in my mind, of a mass of indigested theology, with here and there a prominent point developed out of due proportion, from the circumstance that i had thought upon it for myself; and while entangled, if i may so speak, amid the recesses and under cover of the general chaotic mass, there harboured no inconsiderable amount of superstition, there rested over it the clouds of a dreary scepticism. i have sometimes, in looking back on the doubts and questionings of this period, thought, and perhaps even spoken of myself as an infidel. but an infidel i assuredly was not: my belief was at least as real as my incredulity, and had, i am inclined to think, a much deeper seat in my mind. but wavering between the two extremes--now a believer, and anon a sceptic--the belief usually exhibiting itself as a strongly-based instinct,--the scepticism as the result of some intellectual process--i lived on for years in a sort of uneasy see-saw condition, without any middle ground between the two extremes, on which i could at once reason and believe. that middle ground i now succeeded in finding. it is at once delicate and dangerous to speak of one's own spiritual condition, or of the emotional sentiments on which one's conclusions regarding it are often so doubtfully founded. egotism in the religious form is perhaps more tolerated than in any other; but it is not on that account less perilous to the egotist himself. there need be, however, less delicacy in speaking of one's beliefs than of one's feelings; and i trust i need not hesitate to say, that i was led to see at this time, through the instrumentality of my friend, that my theologic system had previously wanted a central object, to which the heart, as certainly as the intellect, could attach itself; and that the true centre of an efficient _christianity_ is, as the name ought of itself to indicate, "the word made flesh." around this central sun of the christian system--appreciated, however, not as a _doctrine_ which is a mere abstraction, but as a divine person--so truly man, that the affections of the human heart can lay hold upon him, and so truly god, that the mind, through faith, can at all times and in all places be brought into direct contact with him--all that is really religious takes its place in a subsidiary and subordinate relation. i say subsidiary and subordinate. the divine man is the great attractive centre, the sole gravitating point of a system which owes to him all its coherency, and which would be but a chaos were he away. it seems to be the existence of the human nature in this central and paramount object that imparts to christianity, in its subjective character, its peculiar power of influencing and controlling the human mind. there may be men who, through a peculiar idiosyncrasy of constitution, are capable of loving, after a sort, a mere abstract god, unseen and inconceivable; though, as shown by the air of sickly sentimentality borne by almost all that has been said and written on the subject, the feeling in its true form must be a very rare and exceptional one. in all my experience of men, i never knew a genuine instance of it the love of an abstract god seems to be as little natural to the ordinary human constitution as the love of an abstract sun or planet. and so it will be found, that in all the religions that have taken strong hold of the mind of man, the element of a vigorous humanity has mingled, in the character of its gods, with the theistic element. the gods of classic mythology were simply powerful men set loose from the tyranny of the physical laws; and, in their purely human character, as warm friends and deadly enemies, they were both feared and loved. and so the belief which bowed at their shrines ruled the old civilized world for many centuries. in the great ancient mythologies of the east--buddhism and brahmanism--both very influential forms of belief--we have the same elements, genuine humanity added to god-like power. in the faith of the moslem, the human character of the man mahommed, elevated to an all-potential viceregency in things sacred, gives great strength to what without it would be but a weak theism. literally it is allah's supreme prophet that maintains for allah himself a place in the mahommedan mind. again, in popery we find an excess of humanity scarce leas great than in the classical mythology itself, and with nearly corresponding results. though the virgin mother takes, as queen of heaven, a first place in the scheme, and forms in that character a greatly more interesting goddess than any of the old ones who counselled ulysses, or responded to the love of anchises or of endymion, she has to share her empire with the minor saints, and to recognise in them a host of rivals. but undoubtedly to this popular element popery owes not a little of its indomitable strength. in, however, all these forms of religion, whether inherently false from the beginning, or so overlaid in some after stage by the fictitious and the untrue as to have their original substratum of truth covered up by error and fable, there is such a want of coherency between the theistic and human elements, that we always find them undergoing a process of separation. we see the human element ever laying hold on the popular mind, and there manifesting itself in the form of a vigorous superstition; and the theistic element, on the other hand, recognised by the cultivated intellect as the exclusive and only element, and elaborated into a sort of natural theology, usually rational enough in its propositions, but for any practical purpose always feeble and inefficient. such a separation of the two elements took place of old in the ages of the classical mythology; and hence the very opposite characters of the wild but genial and popular fables so exquisitely adorned by the poets, and the rational but uninfluential doctrines received by a select few from the philosophers. such a separation took place, too, in france in the latter half of the last century; and still on the european continent generally do we find this separation represented by the assertors of a weak theism on the one hand, and of a superstitious saint-worship on the other. in the false or corrupted religions, the two indispensable elements of divinity and humanity appear as if blended together by a mere mechanical process; and it is their natural tendency to separate, through a sort of subsidence on the part of the human element from the theistic one, as if from some lack of the necessary affinities. in christianity, on the other hand, when existing in its integrity as the religion of the new testament, the union of the two elements is complete: it partakes of the nature, not of a mechanical, but of a chemical mixture; and its great central doctrine--the true humanity and true divinity of the adorable saviour--is a truth equally receivable by at once the humblest and the loftiest intellects. poor dying children possessed of but a few simple ideas, and men of the most robust intellects, such as the chalmerses, fosters, and halls of the christian church, find themselves equally able to rest their salvation on the _man_ "christ, who is over all, _god_ blessed for ever." of this fundamental truth of the two natures, that condensed enunciation of the gospel which forms the watchword of our faith, "believe in the lord jesus christ, and thou shalt be saved," is a direct and palpable embodiment; and christianity is but a mere name without it. i was impressed at this time by another very remarkable feature in the religion of christ in its subjective character. kames, in his "art of thinking," illustrates, by a curious story, one of his observations on the "nature of man." "nothing is more common," he says, "than love converted into hatred; and we have seen instances of hatred converted into love." and in exemplifying the remark, he relates his anecdote of "unnion and valentine." two english soldiers, who fought in the wars of queen anne--the one a petty officer, the other a private sentinel--had been friends and comrades for years; but, quarrelling in some love affair, they became bitter enemies. the officer made an ungenerous use of his authority, and so annoyed and persecuted the sentinel as almost to fret him into madness; and he was frequently heard to say that he would die to be avenged of him. whole months were spent in the infliction of injuries on the one side, and in the venting of complaints on the other; when, in the midst of their mutual rage, they were both selected, as men of tried courage, to share in some desperate attack, which was, however, unsuccessful; and the officer, in the retreat, was disabled, and struck down by a shot in the thigh. "oh, valentine! and will you leave me here to perish?" he exclaimed, as his old comrade rushed past him. the poor injured man immediately returned; and, in the midst of a thick fire, bore off his wounded enemy to what seemed a place of safety, when he was struck by a chance ball, and fell dead under his burden. the officer, immediately forgetting his wound, rose up, tearing his hair; and, throwing himself on the bleeding body, he cried, "ah, valentine! and was it for me, who have so barbarously used thee, that thou hast died? i will not live after thee." he was not by any means to be forced from the corpse; but was removed with it bleeding in his arms, and attended with tears by all his comrades, who knew of his harshness to the deceased. when brought to a tent, his wounds were dressed by force; but the next day, still calling on valentine, and lamenting his cruelties to him, he died in the pangs of remorse and despair. this surely is a striking story; but the commonplace remark based upon it by the philosopher is greatly less so. men who have loved _do_ often learn to hate the object of their affections; and men who have hated sometimes learn to love: but the portion of the anecdote specially worthy of remark appears to be that which, dwelling on the o'ermastering remorse and sorrow of the rescued soldier, shows how effectually his poor dead comrade had, by dying for him "while he was yet his enemy," "heaped coals of fire upon his head." and such seems to be one of the leading principles on which, with a divine adaptation to the heart of man, the scheme of redemption has been framed. the saviour approved his love, "in that while we were yet sinners, he died for us." there is an inexpressibly great power in this principle; and many a deeply-stirred heart has felt it to its core. the theologians have perhaps too frequently dwelt on the saviour's vicarious satisfaction for human sin in its relation to the offended justice of the father. how, or on what principle, the father was satisfied, i know not, and may never know. the enunciation regarding vicarious satisfaction may be properly received in faith as a _fact_, but, i suspect, not properly reasoned upon until we shall be able to bring the moral sense of deity, with its requirements, within the limits of a small and trivial logic. but the thorough adaptation of the scheme to man's nature is greatly more appreciable, and lies fully within the reach of observation and experience. and how thorough that adaptation is, all who have really looked at the matter ought to be competent to say. does an earthly priesthood, vested with alleged powers to interpose between god and man, always originate an ecclesiastical tyranny, which has the effect, in the end, of shutting up the mass of men from their maker?--here is there a high priest passed into the heavens--the only priest whom the evangelistic protestant recognises as really such--to whom, in his character of mediator between god and man, all may apply, and before whom there need be felt none of that abject prostration of the spirit and understanding which man always experiences when he bends before the merely human priest. is self-righteousness the besetting infirmity of the religious man?--in the scheme of vicarious righteousness it finds no footing. the self-approving pharisee must be content to renounce his own merits, ere he can have part or lot in the fund of merit which alone avails; and yet without personal righteousness he can have no evidence whatever that he has an interest in the all-prevailing imputed righteousness. but it is in the closing scene of life, when man's boasted virtues become so intangible in his estimation that they elude his grasp, and sins and shortcomings, little noted before, start up around him like spectres, that the scheme of redemption appears worthy of the infinite wisdom and goodness of god, and when what the saviour did and suffered seems of efficacy enough to blot out the guilt of every offence. it is when the minor lights of comfort are extinguished that the sun of righteousness shines forth, and more than compensates for them all. the opinions which i formed at this time on this matter of prime importance i found no after occasion to alter or modify. on the contrary, in passing from the subjective to the objective view, i have seen the doctrine of the union of the two natures greatly confirmed. the truths of geology appear destined to exercise in the future no inconsiderable influence on natural theology; and with this especial doctrine they seem very much in accordance. of that long and stately march of creation with which the records of the stony science bring us acquainted, the distinguishing characteristic is progress. there appears to have been a time when there existed on our planet only dead matter unconnected with vitality; and then a time in which plants and animals of a low order began to be, but in which even fishes, the humblest of the vertebrata, were so rare and exceptionable, that they occupied a scarce appreciable place in nature. then came an age of fishes huge of size, and that to the peculiar ichthyic organization added certain well-marked characteristics of the reptilian class immediately above them. and then, after a time, during which the reptile had occupied a place as inconspicuous as that occupied by the fish in the earlier periods of animal life, an age of reptiles of vast bulk and high standing was ushered in. and when, in the lapse of untold ages, _it_ also had passed away, there succeeded an age of great mammals. molluscs, fishes, reptiles, mammals, had each in succession their periods of vast extent; and then there came a period that differed even more, in the character of its master-existence, from any of these creations, than they, with their many vitalities, had differed from the previous inorganic period in which life had not yet begun to be. the human period began--the period of a fellow-worker with god, created in god's own image. the animal existences of the previous ages formed, if i may so express myself, mere figures in the landscapes of the great garden which they inhabited. man, on the other hand, was placed in it to "keep and to dress it;" and such has been the effect of his labours, that they have altered and improved the face of whole continents. our globe, even as it might be seen from the moon, testifies, over its surface, to that unique nature of man, unshared in by any of the inferior animals, which renders him, in things physical and natural, a fellow-worker with the creator who first produced it. and of the identity of at least his intellect with that of his maker, and, of consequence, of the integrity of the revelation which declares that he was created in god's own image, we have direct evidence in his ability of not only conceiving of god's contrivances, but even of reproducing them; and this, not as a mere imitator, but as an original thinker. he may occasionally borrow the principles of his contrivances from the works of the original designer, but much more frequently, in studying the works of the original designer does he discover in them the principles of his own contrivances. he has not been an imitator: he has merely been exercising, with resembling results, the resembling mind, _i.e._, the mind made in the divine image. but the existing scene of things is not destined to be the last. high as it is, it is too low and too imperfect to be regarded as god's finished work: it is merely one of the _progressive_ dynasties; and revelation and the implanted instincts of our nature alike teach us to anticipate a glorious _terminal_ dynasty. in the first dawn of being, simple vitality was united to matter: the vitality thus united became, in each succeeding period, of a higher and yet higher order;--it was in succession the vitality of the mollusc, of the fish, of the reptile, of the sagacious mammal, and, finally, of responsible, immortal man, created in the image of god. what is to be the next advance? is there to be merely a repetition of the past--an introduction a second time of "man made in the image of god?" no! the geologist, in the tables of stone which form his records, finds no example of dynasties once passed away again returning. there has been no repetition of the dynasty of the fish--of the reptile--of the mammal. the dynasty of the future is to have glorified man for its inhabitant; but it is to be the dynasty--the "_kingdom_"--not of glorified man made in the image of god, but of god himself in the form of man. in the doctrine of the two natures, and in the further doctrine that the terminal dynasty is to be peculiarly the dynasty of him in whom the natures are united, we find that required progression beyond which progress cannot go. creation and the creator meet at one point, and in one person. the long ascending line from dead matter to man has been, a progress godwards--not an asymptotical progress, but destined from the beginning to furnish a point of union; and, occupying that point as true god and true man, as creator and created, we recognise the adorable monarch of all the future. it is, as urged by the apostle, the especial glory of our race, that it should have furnished that point of contact at which godhead has united himself, not to man only, but also, through man, to his own universe--to the universe of matter and of mind. i remained for several months in delicate and somewhat precarious health. my lungs had received more serious injury than i had at first supposed; and it seemed at one time rather doubtful whether the severe mechanical irritation which had so fretted them that the air-passages seemed overcharged with matter and stone-dust, might not pass into the complaint which it stimulated, and become confirmed consumption. curiously enough, my comrades had told me in sober earnest--among the rest, cha, a man of sense and observation--that i would pay the forfeit of my sobriety by being sooner affected than they by the stone-cutter's malady: "a good _bouse_" gave, they said, a wholesome fillip to the constitution, and "cleared the sulphur off the lungs;" and mine would suffer for want of the medicine which kept theirs clean. i know not whether there was virtue in their remedy: it seems just possible that the shock given to the constitution by an overdose of strong drink may in certain cases be medicinal in its effects; but they were certainly not in error in their prediction. among the hewers of the party i was the first affected by the malady. i still remember the rather pensive than sad feeling with which i used to contemplate, at this time, an early death, and the intense love of nature that drew me, day after day, to the beautiful scenery which surrounds my native town, and which i loved all the more from the consciousness that my eyes might so soon close upon it for ever. "it _is_ a pleasant thing to behold the sun." among my manuscripts--useless scraps of paper, to which, however, in their character as fossils of the past epochs of my life, i cannot help attaching an interest not at all in themselves--i find the mood represented by only a few almost infantile verses, addressed to a docile little girl of five years, my eldest sister by my mother's second marriage, and my frequent companion, during my illness, in my short walks. to jeanie. sister jeanie, haste, we'll go to whare the white-starred gowans grow, wi' the puddock flower o' gowden hue. the snaw-drap white and the bonny vi'let blue. sister jeanie, haste, we'll go to whare the blossomed lilacs grow-- to whare the pine-tree, dark an' high, is pointing its tap at the cloudless sky. jeanie, mony a merry lay is sung in the young-leaved woods to-day; flits on light wing the dragon-flee, an' bums on the flowrie the big red-bee. down the burnie wirks its way aneath the bending birken spray, an' wimples roun' the green moss-stane, an' mourns. i kenna why, wi' a ceaseless mane. jeanie, come; thy days o' play wi' autumn-tide shall pass away; sune shall these scenes, in darkness cast, be ravaged wild by the wild winter blast. though to thee a spring shall rise, an' scenes as fair salute thine eyes; an' though, through many a cludless day, my winsome jean shall be heartsome and gay; he wha grasps thy little hand nae langer at thy side shall stand, nor o'er the flower-besprinkled brae lead thee the low'nest and the bonniest way. dost thou see yon yard sae green, spreckled wi' mony a mossy stane? a few short weeks o' pain shall fly, an' asleep in that _bed_ shall thy puir brither lie. then thy mither's tears awhile may chide thy joy an' damp thy smile; but sune ilk grief shall wear awa', and i'll be forgotten by ane an' by a'. dinna think the thought is sad; life vexed me aft, but this mak's glad: when cauld my heart and closed my e'e, bonny shall the dreams o' my slumbers be. at length, however, my constitution threw off the malady; though--as i still occasionally feel--the organ affected never quite regained its former vigour; and i began to experience the quiet but exquisite enjoyment of the convalescent. after long and depressing illness, youth itself appears to return with returning health; and it seems to be one of the compensating provisions, that while men of robust constitution and rigid organization get gradually old in their spirits and obtuse in their feelings, the class that have to endure being many times sick have the solace of being also many times young. the reduced and weakened frame becomes as susceptible of the emotional as in tender and delicate youth. i know not that i ever spent three happier months than the autumnal months of this year, when gradually picking up flesh and strength amid my old haunts, the woods and caves. my friend had left me early in july for aberdeen, where he had gone to prosecute his studies under the eye of a tutor, one mr. duncan, whom he described to me in his letters as perhaps the most deeply learned man he had ever seen. "you may ask him a common question," said my friend, "without getting an answer--for he has considerably more than the average absentness of the great scholar about him; but if you inquire of him the state of any one controversy ever agitated in the church or the world, he will give it you at once, with, if you please, all the arguments on both sides." the trait struck me at the time as one of some mark; and i thought of it many years after, when fame had blown the name of my friend's tutor pretty widely as dr. duncan, hebrew professor in our free church college, and one of the most profoundly learned of orientalists. though separated, however, from my friend, i found a quiet pleasure in following up, in my solitary walks, the views which his conversations had suggested; and in a copy of verses, the production of this time, which, with all their poverty and stiffness, please me as true, and as representative of the convalescent feeling, i find direct reference to the beliefs which he had laboured to instil. my verses are written in a sort of metre which, in the hands of collins, became flexible and exquisitely poetic, and which in those of kirke white is at least pleasing, but of which we find poor enough specimens in the "anthologies" of southey, and which perhaps no one so limited in his metrical vocabulary, and so defective in his musical ear, as the writer of these chapters, should ever have attempted. solace. no star of golden influence hailed the birth of him who, all unknown and lonely, pours, as fails the light of eve, his pensive, artless song; yea, those who mark out honour, ease, wealth, fame, as man's sole joys, shall find no joy in him; yet of far nobler kind his silent pleasures prove. for not unmarked by him the ways of men; nor yet to him the ample page unknown, where, traced by nature's hand, is many a pleasing line. oh! when the world's dull children bend the knee, meanly obsequious, to some mortal god, it yields no vulgar joy alone to stand aloof; or when they jostle on wealth's crowded road, and swells the tumult on the breeze, 'tis sweet, thoughtful, at length reclined, to list the wrathful hum. what though the weakly gay affect to scorn the loitering dreamer of life's darkest shade, stingless the jeer, whose voice comes from the erroneous path. scorner, of all thy toils the end declare! if pleasure, pleasure comes uncalled, to cheer the haunts of him who spends his hours in quiet thought. and happier he who can repress desire, than they who seldom mourn a thwarted wish; the vassals they of fate-- the unbending conqueror he, and thou, blest muse, though rudely strung thy lyre, its tones can guile the dark and lonesome day-- can smooth the wrinkled brow, and dry the sorrowing tear. thine many a bliss--oh, many a solace thine! by thee up-held, the soul asserts her throne, the chastened passions sleep, and dove-eyed peace prevails. and thou, fair hope! when other comforts fail-- when night's thick mists descend--thy beacon flames, till glow the dark clouds round with beams of promised bliss. thou failest not, when, mute the soothing lyre, lives thy unfading solace: sweet to raise thy eye, o quiet hope, and greet a friend in heaven!-- a friend, a brother, one whose awful throne in holy fear heaven's mightiest sons approach: man's heart to feel for man-- to save him god's great power! conqueror of death, joy of the accepted soul, oh, wonders raise no doubt when told of thee! thy way past finding out, thy love, can tongue declare? cheered by thy smile, peace dwells amid the storm; held by thy hand, the floods assail in vain; with grief is blent a joy, and beams the vault of death. passing, in one of my walks this autumn, the cave in which i used to spend in boyhood so many happy hours with finlay, i found it smoking, as of old, with a huge fire, and occupied by a wilder and more careless party than even my truant schoolfellows. it had been discovered and appropriated by a band of gipsies, who, attracted by the soot-stains on its roof and sides, and concluding that it had been inhabited by the gipsies of other days, had without consulting factor or landlord, at once entered upon possession, as the proper successors of its former occupants. they were a savage party, with a good deal of the true gipsy blood in them, but not without mixture of a broken-down class of apparently british descent; and one of their women was purely irish. from what i had previously heard about gipsies, i was not prepared for a mixture of this kind; but i found it pretty general, and ascertained that at least one of the ways in which it had taken place was exemplified by the case of the one irish woman. her gipsy husband had served as a soldier, and had married her when in the army. i have been always exceedingly curious to see man in his rude elements--to study him as the savage, whether among the degraded classes of our own country, or, as exhibited in the writings of travellers and voyagers, in his aboriginal state; and i now did not hesitate to visit the gipsies, and to spend not unfrequently an hour or two in their company. they at first seemed jealous of me as a spy; but finding me inoffensive, and that i did not bewray counsel, they came at length to recognise me as the "quiet, sickly lad," and to chatter as freely in my presence as in that of the other pitchers with ears, which they used to fabricate out of tin by the dozen and the score, and the manufacture of which, with the making of horn spoons, formed the main branch of business carried on in the cave. i saw in these visits curious glimpses of gipsy life. i could trust only to what i actually witnessed: what was told me could on no occasion be believed; for never were there lies more gross and monstrous than those of the gipsies; but even the lying formed of itself a peculiar trait. i have never heard lying elsewhere that set all probability so utterly at defiance--a consequence, in part, of their recklessly venturing, like unskilful authors, to expatiate in walks of invention over which their experience did not extend. on one occasion an old gipsy woman, after pronouncing my malady consumption, prescribed for me as an infallible remedy, raw parsley minced small and made up into balls with fresh butter; but seeing, i suppose, from my manner, that i lacked the necessary belief in her specific, she went on to say, that she had derived her knowledge of such matters from her mother, one of the most "skeely women that ever lived." her mother, she said, had once healed a lord's son of a grievous hurt in half a minute, after all the english doctors had shown they could do nothing for him. his eye had been struck out of its socket by a blow, and hung half-way down his cheek; and though the doctors could of course return it to its place, it refused to stick, always falling out again. her mother, however, at once understood the case; and, making a little slit at the back of the young man's neck, she got hold of the end of a sinew, and pulling in the dislodged orb at a tug, she made all tight by running a knot on the controlling ligament, and so kept the eye in its place. and, save that the young lord continued to squint a little, he was well at once. the peculiar anatomy on which this invention was framed must have, of course, resembled that of a wax-doll with winking eyes; but it did well enough for the woman; and, having no character for truth to maintain, she did not hesitate to build on it. on asking her whether she ever attended church, she at once replied, "o yes, at one time very often. i am the daughter of a minister--a _natural_ daughter, you know: my father was the most powerful preacher in all the south, and i always went to hear him." in about an hour after, however, forgetting her extemporary sally, and the reverend character with which she had insisted her sire, she spoke of him, in another equally palpable invention, as the greatest "king of the gipsies" that the gipsies ever had. even the children had caught this habit of monstrous mendacity. there was one of the boys of the band, considerably under twelve, who could extemporize lying narratives by the hour, and seemed always delighted to get a listener; and a little girl, younger still, who "lisped in _fiction_, for the _fiction_ came." there were two things that used to strike me as peculiar among these gipsies--a hindu type of head, small of size, but with a considerable fulness of forehead, especially along the medial line, in the region, as the phrenologist would perhaps say, of _individuality_ and _comparison_; and a singular posture assumed by the elderly females of the tribe in squatting before their fires, in which the elbow rested on the knees brought close together, the chin on the palms, and the entire figure (somewhat resembling in attitude a mexican mummy) assumed an outlandish appearance, that reminded me of some of the more grotesque sculptures of egypt and hindustan. the peculiar type of head was derived, i doubt not, from an ancestry originally different from that of the settled races of the country; nor is it impossible that the peculiar position--unlike any i have ever seen scottish females assume--was also of foreign origin. i have witnessed scenes among these gipsies, of which the author of the "jolly beggars" might have made rare use, but which formed a sort of materials that i lacked the special ability rightly to employ. it was reported on one occasion that a marriage ceremony and wedding were to take place in the cave, and i sauntered the way, in the hope of ascertaining how its inmates contrived to do for themselves what of course no clergyman could venture to do for them--seeing that, of the parties to be united, the bridegroom might have already as many wives living as "peter bell," and the bride as many husbands. a gipsy marriage had taken place a few years previous in a cave near rosemarkie. an old male gipsy, possessed of the rare accomplishment of reading, had half-read, half-spelled the english marriage-service to the young couple, and the ceremony was deemed complete at its close. and i now expected to witness something similar. in an opening in the wood above, i encountered two very drunk gipsies, and saw the first-fruits of the coming merriment. one of the two was an uncouth-looking monster, sallow-skinned, flat-faced, round-shouldered, long and thinly limbed, at least six feet two inches in height, and, from his strange misproportions, he might have passed for seven feet any day, were it not that his trousers, made for a much shorter man, and rising to the middle of his calfless leg, gave him much the appearance of a big boy walking on stilts. the boys of the place called him "giant grimbo;" while his companion, a tight dapper little fellow, who always showed off a compact, well-rounded leg in corduroy inexpressibles, they had learned to distinguish as "billy breeches." the giant, who carried a bagpipe, had broken down ere i came up with them; and now, sitting on the grass, he was droning out in fitful blasts a diabolical music, to which billy breeches was dancing; but, just as i passed, billy also gave way, after wasting an infinity of exertion in keeping erect; and, falling over the prostrate musician, i could hear the bag groaning out its soul as he pressed against it, in a lengthened melancholious squeal. i found the cave bearing an aspect of more than ordinary picturesqueness. it had its two fires, and its double portion of smoke, that went rolling out in the calm like an inverted river; for it clung close to the roof, as if by a reversed gravitation, and turned its foaming surface downwards. at the one fire an old gipsy woman was engaged in baking oaten cakes; and a great pot, that dispensed through the cave the savoury odour of unlucky poultry out short in the middle of their days, and of hapless hares destroyed without the game licence, depended over the other. an ass, the common property of the tribe, stood meditating in the foreground; two urchins, of about from ten to twelve years a-piece--wretchedly supplied in the article of clothing--for the one, provided with only a pair of tattered trousers, was naked from the waist upwards, and the other, furnished with only a dilapidated jacket, was naked from the waist downwards--were engaged in picking up fuel for the fire, still further in front; a few of the ordinary inmates of the place lounged under cover of the smoke, apparently in a mood not in the least busy; and on a couch of dried fern sat evidently the central figure of the group, a young, sparkling-eyed brunette, more than ordinarily marked by the hindu peculiarities of head and feature, and attended by a savage-looking fellow of about twenty, dark as a mulatto, and with a profusion of long flexible hair, black as jet, hanging down to his eyes, and clustering about his cheeks and neck. these were, i ascertained, the bride and bridegroom. the bride was engaged in sewing a cap--the bridegroom in watching the progress of the work. i observed that the party, who were less communicative than usual, seemed to regard me in the light of an intruder. an elderly tinker, the father of the bride, grey as a leafless thorn in winter, but still stalwart and strong, sat admiring a bit of spelter of about a pound weight. it was gold, he said, or, as he pronounced the word, "guild," which had been found in an old cairn, and was of immense value, "for it was peer guild and that was the best o' guild;" but if i pleased, he would sell it to me, a very great bargain. i was engaged with some difficulty in declining the offer, when we were interrupted by the sounds of the bagpipe. giant grimbo and billy breeches had succeeded in regaining their feet, and were seen staggering towards the cave. "where's the whisky, billy!" inquired the proprietor of the gold, addressing himself to the man of the small clothes. "whisky!" said billy, "ask grimbo." "where's the whisky, grimbo?" reiterated the tinker. "whisky!" replied grimbo, "whisky!" and yet again, after a pause and a hiccup, "whisky!" "ye confounded blacks!" said the tinker, springing to his feet with an agility wonderful for an age so advanced as his, "have you drunk it all? but take that, grimbo," he added, planting a blow full on the side of the giant's head, which prostrated his vast length along the floor of the cave. "and take that, billy," he iterated, dealing such another blow to the shorter man, which sent him right athwart his prostrate comrade. and then, turning to me, he remarked with perfect coolness, "that, master, i call smart hitting." "honest lad," whispered one of the women immediately after, "it will be a _reugh_ time wi' us here the nicht: you had just better be stepping your ways." i had already begun to think so without prompting; and so, taking my leave of the gipsies, i failed being, as i had proposed, one of the witnesses of the wedding. there is a sort of grotesque humour in scenes of the kind described, that has charms for artists and authors of a particular class--some of them men of broad sympathies and great genius; and hence, through their representations, literary and pictorial, the ludicrous point of view has come to be the conventional and ordinary one. and yet it is a sad enough merriment, after all, that has for its subject a degradation so extreme. i never knew a gipsy that seemed to possess a moral sense--a degree of _pariahism_ which has been reached by only one other class in the country, and that a small one--the descendants of degraded females in our large towns. an education in scotland, however secular in its character, always casts a certain amount of enlightenment on the conscience; a home, however humble, whose inmates win their bread by honest industry, has a similar effect; but in the peculiar walks in which for generations there has been no education of any kind, or in which bread has been the wages of infamy, the moral sense seems so wholly obliterated, that there appears to survive nothing in the mind to which the missionary or the moralist can appeal. it seems scarce possible for a man to know even a very little of these classes, without learning, in consequence, to respect honest labour, and even secular knowledge, as at least the _second-best_ things, in their moral bearing and influence, that can exist among a people. chapter xviii. "for such is the flaw or the depth of the plan in the make of that wonderful creature called man, no two virtues, whatever relation they claim, nor even two different shades of the same. though like as was ever twin-brother to brother. possessing the one shall imply you've the other."--burns. during my period of convalescence, i amused myself in hewing for my uncles, from an original design, an ornate dial-stone; and the dial-stone still exists, to show that my skill as a stone-cutter rose somewhat above the average of the profession in those parts of the country in which it ranks highest. gradually as i recovered health and strength, little jobs came dropping in. i executed sculptured tablets in a style not common in the north of scotland; introduced into the churchyards of the locality a better type of tombstone than had obtained in them before, save, mayhap, at a very early period; distanced all my competitors in the art of inscription-cutting; and at length found that, without exposing my weakened lungs to the rough tear and wear to which the ordinary stone-cutter must subject himself, i could live. i deemed it an advantage, too, rather than the reverse, that my new branch of employment brought me not unfrequently for a few days into country districts sufficiently distant from home to present me with new fields of observation, and to open up new tracts of inquiry. sometimes i spent half a week in a farm-house in the neighbourhood of some country churchyard--sometimes i lodged in a village--oftener than once i sheltered beside some gentleman's seat, where the august shadow of lairdship lay heavy on society; and in this way i came to see and know a good deal of the scottish people, in their many-coloured aspects, of which otherwise i might have remained ignorant. at times, too, on some dusty cottage shelf i succeeded in picking up a rare book, or, what was not less welcome, got a curious tradition from the cottager; or there lay within the reach of an evening walk some interesting piece of antiquity, or some rock-section, which i found it profitable to visit. a solitary burying-ground, too, situated, as country burying-grounds usually are, in some pleasant spot, and surrounded by its groups of ancient trees, formed a much more delightful scene of labour than a dusty work-shed, or some open area in a busy town; and altogether i found my new mode of life a quiet and happy one. nor, with all its tranquillity, was it a sort of life in which the intellect was in any great danger of falling asleep. there was scarce a locality in which new game might not be started, that, in running down, kept the faculties in full play. let me exemplify by describing the courses of inquiry, physical and metaphysical, which opened up to me when spending a few days, first in the burying-ground of kirkmichael, and next in the churchyard of nigg. i have elsewhere somewhat fancifully described the ruinous chapel and solitary grave-yard of kirkmichael as lying on the sweep of a gentle declivity, within a few yards of a flat sea-beach, so little exposed to the winds, that it would seem as if "ocean muffled its waves in approaching this field of the dead." and so the two vegetations--that of the land and of the sea--undisturbed by the surf, which on opener coasts prevents the growth of either along the upper littoral line, where the waves beat heaviest, here meet and mingle, each encroaching for a little way on the province of the other. and at meal-times, and when returning homewards in the evening along the shore, it furnished me with amusement enough to mark the character of the several plants of both floras that thus meet and cross each other, and the appearances which they assume when inhabiting each the other's province. on the side of the land, beds of thrift, with its gay flowers the sea-pinks, occupied great prominent cushions, that stood up like little islets amid the flowing sea, and were covered over by salt water during stream-tides to the depth of from eighteen inches to two feet. with these there occasionally mingled spikes of the sea-lavender; and now and then, though more rarely, a _sea-aster_, that might be seen raising above the calm surface its composite flowers, with their bright yellow staminal pods, and their pale purple petals. far beyond, however, even the cushions of thrift, i could trace the fleshy, jointed stems of the glass-wort, rising out of the mud, but becoming diminutive and branchless as i followed them downwards, till at depths where they must have been frequently swum over by the young coal-fish and the flounder, they appeared as mere fleshy spikes, scarce an inch in height, and then ceased. on the side of the sea it was the various fucoids that rose highest along the beach: the serrated focus barely met the salt-wort; but the bladder-bearing fucus (_fucus nodosus_) mingled its brown fronds not unfrequently with the crimson flowers of the thrift, and the vesicular fucus (_fucus vesiculosus_) rose higher still, to enter into strange companionship with the sea-side plantains and the common scurvy-grass. green enteromorpha of two species--_e. compressa_ and _e. intestinalis_--i also found abundant along the edges of the thrift-beds; and it struck me as curious at the time, that while most of the land-plants which had thus descended beyond the sea-level were of the high dicotyledonous division, the sea-weeds with which they mingled their leaves and seed-vessels were low in their standing--fuci and enteromorpha--plants at least not higher than their kindred cryptogamia, the lichens and mosses of the land. far beyond, in the outer reaches of the bay, where land-plants never approached, there were meadows of a submarine vegetation, of (for the sea) a comparatively high character. their numerous plants (_zostera marina_) had true roots, and true leaves, and true flowers; and their spikes ripened amid the salt waters towards the close of autumn, round white seeds, that, like many of the seeds of the land, had their sugar and starch. but these plants kept far aloof, in their green depths, from their cogeners the monocotyledons of the terrestrial flora. it was merely the low _fucaceæ_ and _conferveæ_ of the sea that i found meeting and mixing with the descending dicotyledons of the land. i felt a good deal of interest in marking, about this time, how certain belts of marine vegetation occurred on a vast boulder situated in the neighbourhood of cromarty, on the extreme line of the ebb of spring-tides. i detected the various species ranged in zones, just as on lofty hills the botanist finds his agricultural, moorland, and alpine zones rising in succession the one over the other. at the base of the huge mass, at a level to which the tide rarely falls, the characteristic vegetable is the rough-stemmed tangle--_laminaria digitata_. in the zone immediately above the lowest, the prevailing vegetable is the smooth-stemmed tangle--_laminaria saccharina_. higher still there occurs a zone of the serrated fucus--_f. serratus_--blent with another familiar fucus--_f. nodosus_. then comes a yet higher zone of _fucus vesiculosus_; and higher still, a few scattered tufts of _fucus canaliculatus_; and then, as on lofty mountains that rise above the line of perpetual snow, vegetation ceases, and the boulder presents a round bald head, that rises over the surface after the first few hours of ebb have passed. but far beyond its base, where the sea never falls, green meadows of _zostera_ flourish in the depths of the water, where they unfold their colourless flowers, unfurnished with petals, and ripen their farinaceous seeds, that, wherever they rise to the surface, seem very susceptible of frost. i have seen the shores strewed with a line of green _zostera_, with its spikes charged with seed, after a smart october frost, that had been coincident with the ebb of a low spring-tide, had nipt its rectilinear fronds and flexible stems. but what, it may be asked, was the bearing of all this observation? i by no means saw its entire bearing at the time: i simply observed and recorded, because i found it pleasant to observe and record. and yet one of the wild dreams of maillet in his _telliamed_ had given a certain degree of unity, and a certain definite direction, to my gleanings of fact on the subject, which they would not have otherwise possessed. it was held by this fanciful writer, that the vegetation of the land had been derived originally from that of the ocean. "in a word," we find him saying, "do not herbs, plants, roots, grains, and all of this kind that the earth produces and nourishes, come from the sea? is it not at least natural to think so, since we are certain that all our habitable lands came originally from the sea? besides, in small islands far from the continent, which have appeared a few ages ago at most, and where it is manifest that never any men had been, we find shrubs, herbs, and roots. now, you must be forced to own that either those productions owed their origin to the sea, _or to a new creation, which is absurd_." and then maillet goes on to show, after a manner which--now that algaeology has become a science--must be regarded as at least curious, that the plants of the sea, though not so well developed as those of the land, are really very much of the same nature. "the fishermen of marseilles find daily," he says, "in their nets, and among their fish, plants of a hundred kinds, with their fruits still upon them; and though these fruits are not so large nor so well nourished as those of our earth, yet their species is in no other respects dubious. there they find clusters of white and black grapes, peach-trees, pear-trees, prune-trees, apple-trees, and all sorts of flowers." such was the sort of wild fable invented in a tract of natural science in which i found it of interest to acquaint myself with the truth. i have since seen the extraordinary vision of maillet revived, first by oken, and then by the author of the "vestiges of creation;" and when, in grappling with some of the views and statements of the latter writer, i set myself to write the chapter of my little work which deals with this special hypothesis, i found that i had in some sort studied in the school in which the education necessary to its production was most thoroughly to be acquired. had the ingenious author of the "vestiges" taken lessons for but a short time at the same form, he would scarce have thought of reviving in those latter ages the dream of oken and maillet. a knowledge of the facts would to a certainty have protected him against the reproduction of the hypothesis. the lesson at nigg was of a more curious kind, though, mayhap, less certainly conclusive in its bearings. the house of the proprietor of nigg bordered on the burying-ground. i was engaged in cutting an inscription on the tombstone of his wife, recently dead; and a poor idiot, who found his living in the kitchen, and to whom the deceased had shown kindness; used to come every day to the churchyard, to sit beside me, and jabber in broken expressions his grief. i was struck with the extremeness of his idiocy: he manifested even more than the ordinary inability of his class to deal with figures, for he could scarce tell whether nature had furnished him with one head or with two; and no power of education could have taught him to count his fingers. he was equally defective, too, in the mechanical. angus could not be got into trousers; and the contrivance of the button remained a mystery which he was never able to comprehend. and so he wore a large blue gown, like that of a beadsman, which slipped over his head, and was bound by a belt round his middle, with a stout woollen shirt underneath. but, though unacquainted with the mystery of the button, there were mysteries of another kind with which he seemed to have a most perfect acquaintance: angus--always a faithful attendant at church--was a great critic in sermons; nor was it every preacher that satisfied him; and such was his imitative turn, that he himself could preach by the hour, in the manner--so far at least as voice and gesture went--of all the popular ministers of the district. there was, however, rather a paucity of idea in his discourses: in his more energetic passages, when he struck the book and stamped with his foot, he usually iterated, in sonorous gaelic--"the wicked, the wicked, o wretches the wicked!" while a passage of a less depreciatory character served him for setting off his middle tones and his pathos. but that for which his character was chiefly remarkable was an instinctive, foxlike cunning, that seemed to lie at its very basis--a cunning which co-existed, however, with perfect honesty, and a devoted attachment to his patron the proprietor. the town of cromarty had its poor imbecile man of quite a different stamp. jock gordon had been, it was said, "like other people" till his fourteenth year, when a severe attack of illness left him bankrupt in both mind and body. he rose from his bed lame of a foot and hand, his one side shrunken and nerveless, the one lobe of his brain apparently inoperative, and with less than half his former energy and intellect; not at all an idiot, however, though somewhat more helpless--the poor mutilated fragment of a reasoning man. among his other failings, he stuttered lamentably. he became an inmate of the kitchen of cromarty house; and learned to run, or, i should rather say, to _limp_, errands--for he had risen from the fever that ruined him to run no more--with great fidelity and success. he was fond of church-going, of reading good little books, and, notwithstanding his sad stutter, of singing. during the day, he might be heard, as he hobbled along the streets on business, "_singing in into himself_," as the children used to say, in a low unvaried under-tone, somewhat resembling the humming of a bee; but when night fell, the whole town heard him. he was no patronizer of modern poets or composers. "there was a ship, and a ship of fame," and "death and the fair lady," were his especial favourites; and he could repeat the "gosport tragedy," and the "babes in the wood," from beginning to end. sometimes he stuttered in the notes, and then they lengthened on and on into a never-ending quaver that our first-rate singers might have envied. sometimes there was a sudden break--jock had been consulting the pocket in which he stored his bread; but no sooner was his mouth half-cleared than he began again. in middle-life, however, a great calamity overtook jock. his patron, the occupant of cromarty house, quitted the country for france: jock was left without occupation or aliment; and the streets heard no more of his songs. he grew lank and thin, and stuttered and limped more painfully than before, and was in the last stage of privation and distress; when the benevolent proprietor of nigg, who resided half the year in a town-house in cromarty, took pity upon him, and introduced him to his kitchen. and in a few days jock was singing and limping errands with as much energy as ever. but the time at length came when his new benefactor had to quit his house in town for his seat in the country; and it behoved jock to take temporary leave of cromarty, and follow him. and then the poor imbecile man of the town-kitchen had, of course, to measure himself against his formidable rival, the vigorous idiot of the country one. on jock's advent at nigg--which had taken place a few weeks previous to my engagement in the burying-ground of the parish--the character of angus seemed to dilate in energy and power. he repaired to the churchyard with spade and pickaxe, and began digging a grave. it was a grave, he said, for wicked jock gordon; and jock, whether he thought it or no, had come to nigg, he added, only to be buried. jock, however, was not to be dislodged so; and angus, professing sudden friendship for him, gave expression to the magnanimous resolution, that he would not only tolerate jock, but also be very kind to him, and show him the place where he kept all his money. he had lots of money, he said, which he had hidden in a dike; but he would show the place to jock gordon--to poor cripple jock gordon: he would show him the very hole, and jock would get it all. and so he brought jock to the hole--a cavity in a turf-wall in the neighbouring wood--and, taking care that his own way of retreat was clear, he bade him insinuate his hand. no sooner had he done so, however, than there issued forth from between his fingers a cloud of wasps, of the variety so abundant in the north country, that build their nests in earthy banks and old mole-hills; and poor jock, ill fitted for retreat in any sudden emergency, was stung within an inch of his life. angus returned in high glee, preaching about "wicked jock gordon, whom the very wasps wouldn't let alone;" but though he pretended no further friendship for a few days after, he again drew to him in apparent kindness; and on the following saturday, on jock being despatched to a neighbouring smithy with a sheep's head to singe, angus volunteered his services to show him the way. angus went trotting before; jock came limping behind: the fields were open and bare; the dwellings few and far between; and after having passed, in about an hour's walking, half-a-dozen little hamlets, jock began to marvel exceedingly that there should be no sign of the smith's shop. "poor foolish jock gordon!" ejaculated angus, quickening his trot into a canter; "what does he know about carrying sheep's heads to the smithy?" jock laboured hard to keep up with his guide; quavering and semi-quavering, as his breath served--for jock always began to sing, when in solitary places, after nightfall, as a protection against ghosts. at length the daylight died entirely away, and he could only learn from angus that the smithy was further off than ever; and, to add to his trouble and perplexity, the roughness of the ground showed him that they were wandering from the road. first they went toiling athwart what seemed an endless range of fields, separated from one another by deep ditches and fences of stone; then they crossed over a dreary moor, bristling with furze and sloe-thorn; then over a waste of bogs and quagmires; then across a track of newly-ploughed land; and then they entered a second wood. at length, after a miserable night's wandering, day broke upon the two forlorn satyrs; and jock found himself in a strange country, with a long narrow lake in front and a wood behind. he had wandered after his guide into the remote parish of tarbet. tarbet abounded at that time in little muddy lakes, edged with water-flags and reeds, and swarming with frogs and eels; and it was one of the largest and deepest of these that now lay before jock and his guide. angus tucked up his blue gown, as if to wade across. jock would have as soon thought of fording the german ocean. "oh, wicked jock gordon!" exclaimed the fool, when he saw him hesitate; "the colonel's waiting, poor man, for his head, and jock will no' take it to the smithy." he stepped into the water. jock followed in sheer desperation; and, after clearing the belt of reeds, both sank to the middle in the mingled water and mud. angus had at length accomplished the object of his journey. extricating himself in a moment--for he was lithe and active--he snatched the sheep's head and trotters from jock, and, leaping ashore, left the poor man sticking fast. it was church-time ere he reached, on his way back, the old abbey of fearn, still employed as a protestant place of worship; and as the sight of the gathering people awakened his church-going propensity, he went in. he was in high spirits--seemed, by the mouths he made, very much to admire the sermon, and paraded the sheep's head and trotters through the passages and gallery a score of times at least, like a monk of the order of st. francis exhibiting the relics of some favourite saint. in the evening he found his way home, but learned, to his grief and astonishment, that "wicked jock gordon" had got there shortly before him in a cart. the poor man had remained sticking in the mud for three long hours after angus had left him, until at length the very frogs began to cultivate his acquaintance, as they had done that of king log of old; and in the mud he would have been sticking still, had he not been extricated by a farmer of fearn, who, in coming to church, had taken the lake in his way. he left nigg, however, for cromarty on the following day, convinced that he was no match for his rival, and dubious how the next adventure might terminate. such was the story which i found current in nigg, when working in its churchyard, with the hero of the adventure often beside me. it led me to take special note of his class, and to collect facts respecting them, on which i erected a sort of semi-metaphysical theory of human character, which, though it would not now be regarded as by any means a novel one, i had thought out for myself, and which possessed for me, in consequence, the charm of originality. in these poor creatures, i thus argued, we find, amid much general dilapidation and brokenness of mind, certain instincts and peculiarities remaining entire. here, in angus, for instance, there is that instinctive cunning which some of the lower animals, such as the fox, possess, existing in a wonderful degree of perfection. pope himself, who "could not drink tea without a stratagem," could scarce have possessed a larger share of it. and yet how distinct must not this sort of ingenuity be from the mechanical ingenuity! angus cannot fix a button in its hole. i even see him baffled by a tall snuff-box, with a small quantity of snuff at its bottom, that lies beyond the reach of his finger. he has not ingenuity enough to lay it on its side, or to empty its snuff on his palm; but stretches and ever stretches towards it the unavailing digit, and then gets angry to find it elude his touch. there are other idiots, however, who have none of angus's cunning, in whom this mechanical ability is decidedly developed. many of the _crétins_ of the alps are said to be remarkable for their skill as artisans; and it is told of a scotch idiot, who lived in a cottage on the maolbuie common in the upper part of the black isle, and in whom a similar mechanical ability existed, abstracted from ability of almost every other kind, that, among other things, he fabricated, out of a piece of rude metal, a large sacking needle. angus is attached to his patron, and mourns for the deceased lady; but he seems to have little general regard for the species--simply courting for the time those from whom he expects snuff. the cromarty idiot, on the contrary, is obliging and kindly to all, and bears a peculiar love to children; and, though more an imbecile in some respects than even angus, he has a turn for dress, and can attire himself very neatly. in this last respect, however, the cromarty fool was excelled by an idiot of the last age, known to the children of many a village and hamlet as fool charloch, who used to go wandering about the country, adorned, somewhat in the style of an indian chief, with half a peacock's tail stuck in his cap. yet another idiot, a fierce and dangerous creature, seemed as invariably malignant in his dispositions as the cromarty one is benevolent, and died in a prison, to which he was committed for killing a poor half-witted associate. yet another idiot of the north of scotland had a strange turn for the supernatural. he was a mutterer of charms, and a watcher of omens, and possessed, it was said, the second sight. i collected not a few other facts of a similar kind, and thus reasoned regarding them:-- these idiots are imperfect men, from whose minds certain faculties have been effaced, and other faculties left to exhibit themselves, all the more prominently from the circumstances of their standing so much alone. they resemble men who have lost their hands, but retain their feet, or who have lost their sight or smell, but retain their taste and hearing. but as the limbs and the senses, if they did not exist as separate parts of the frame, could not be separately lost, so in the mind itself, or in at least the organization through which the mind manifests itself, there must also be separate parts, or they would not be thus found isolated by nature in her mutilated and abortive specimens. those metaphysicians who deal by the mind as if it were simply a general power existing in _states_, must be scarce less in error than if they were to regard the _senses_ as merely a general power existing in states, instead of recognising them as distinct, independent powers, so various often in their degree of development, that, from the full perfection of any one of them, the perfection, or even the existence, of any of the others cannot be predicated. if, for instance, it were--as some physicians hold--the same general warmth of emotive power that glows in benevolence and burns in resentment, the fierce, dangerous idiot that killed his companion, and the kindly-dispositioned cromarty one who takes home pailfuls of water to the poor old women of the place, and parts with his own toys to its children, would, instead of thus exhibiting the opposite poles of character, at least so far resemble one another, that the vindictive fool would at times be kindly and obliging, and the benevolent one at times violent and resentful. but such is not the case: the one is never madly savage--the other never genial and kind; and so it seems legitimate to infer, that it is not a general power or energy that acts through them in different states, but two particular powers or energies, as unlike in their natures, and as capable of acting apart, as seeing and hearing. even powers which seem to have so much in common, that the same words are sometimes made use of in reference to both, may be as distinct as smelling and tasting. we speak of the _cunning_ workman, and we speak of the _cunning_ man; and refer to a certain faculty of contrivance manifested in dealing with characters and affairs on the part of the one, and in dealing with certain modifications of matter on the part of the other; but so entirely different are the two faculties, and, further, so little dependent are they, in at least their first elements, on intellect, that we may find the cunning which manifests itself in affairs, existing, as in angus, totally dissociated from mechanical skill; and, on the other hand, the cunning of the artisan, existing, as in the idiot of the maolbuie, totally dissociated from that of the diplomatist. in short, regarding idiots as persons of fragmentary mind, in whom certain primary mental elements may be found standing out in a state of great entireness, and all the more striking in their relief from the isolation, i came to view them as _bits of analysis_, if i may so express myself, made to my hand by nature, and from the study of which i could conceive of the structure of minds of a more complete, and therefore more complex character. as children learn the alphabet from cards, each of which contains only a letter or two a-piece, printed large, i held at this time, and, with a few modifications, hold still, that those primary sentiments and propensities which form the basis of character, may be found separately stamped in the same way on the comparatively blank minds of the imbecile; and that the student of mental philosophy might learn from them what may be regarded as the alphabet of his science, much more truthfully than from those metaphysicians who represent mind as a power not manifested in contemporaneous and separable faculties, but as existing in consecutive states. cromarty had been fortunate in its parish ministers. from the death of its last curate, shortly after the revolution, and, the consequent return of its old "outed minister," who had resigned his living for conscience' sake, twenty-eight years before, and now came to spend his evening of life with his people, it had enjoyed the services of a series of devout and popular men; and so the cause of the establishment was particularly strong in both town and parish. at the beginning of the present century cromarty had not its single dissenter; and though a few of what were known as "haldane's people" might be found in it, some eight or ten years later they failed in effecting a lodgment, and ultimately quitted it for a neighbouring town. almost all the dissent that has arisen in scotland since the revolution has been an effect of moderatism and forced settlements; and as the place had known neither, its people continued to harbour within the church of their fathers, nor wished to change. a vacancy had occurred in the incumbency, during my sojourn in the south, through the death of the incumbent, the respected minister of my childhood and youth; and i found, on my return, a new face in the pulpit. it was that of a remarkable man--the late mr. stewart of cromarty--one of at once the most original thinkers and profound theologians i ever knew; though he has, alas! left as little mark of his exquisite talent behind him, as those sweet singers of former ages, the memory of whose enchanting notes has died, save as a doubtful echo, with the generation that heard them. i sat, with few interruptions, for sixteen years under his ministry; and for nearly twelve of these enjoyed his confidence and friendship. i never could press myself on the notice of superior men, however desirous of forming their acquaintance; and have, in consequence, missed opportunities innumerable of coming in friendly contact with persons whom it would be at once a pleasure and an honour to know. and so, for the first two years, or rather more, i was content to listen with profound attention to the pulpit addresses of my new minister, and to appear as a catechumen, when my turn came, at his diets of catechising. he had been struck, however, as he afterwards told me, by my sustained attention when at church; and, on making inquiry regarding me among his friends, he was informed that i was a great reader, and, it was believed, a writer of verse. and coming unwittingly out upon him one day as he was passing, when quitting my work-place for the street, he addressed me "well, lad," he said, "it is your dinner hour: i hear i have a poet among my people?" "i doubt it much," i replied. "well," he rejoined, "one may fall short of being a poet, and yet gain by exercising one's tastes and talents in the poetic walk. the accomplishment of verse is at least not a vulgar one." the conversation went on as we passed together along the street; and he stood for a time opposite the manse door. "i am forming," he said, "a small library for our sabbath-school scholars and teachers: most of the books are simple enough little things; but it contains a few works of the intellectual class. call upon me this evening that we may look over them, and you may perhaps find among them some volumes you would wish to read." i accordingly waited upon him in the evening; and we had a long conversation together. he was, i saw, curiously sounding me, and taking my measure in all directions; or, as he himself afterwards used to express it in his characteristic way, he was like a traveller who, having come unexpectedly on a dark pool in a ford, dips down his staff, to ascertain the depth of the water and the nature of the bottom. he inquired regarding my reading, and found that in the belles-lettres, especially in english literature, it was about as extensive as his own. he next inquired respecting my acquaintance with the metaphysicians. "had i read reid?" "yes." "brown?" "yes." "_hume?_" "yes." "ah! ha! hume!! by the way, has he not something very ingenious about miracles? do you remember his argument?" i stated the argument. "ah, very ingenious--most ingenious. and how would you answer that?" i said, "i thought i could give an abstract of the reply of campbell," and sketched in outline the reverend doctor's argument. "and do you deem that satisfactory?" said the minister. "no, not at all," i replied. "no! no! _that's_ not satisfactory." "but perfectly satisfactory," i rejoined, "that such is the general partiality for the better side, that the worse argument has been received as perfectly adequate for the last sixty years." the minister's face gleamed with the broad fun that entered so largely into his composition, and the conversation shifted into other channels. from that night forward i enjoyed perhaps more of his confidence and conversation than any other man in his parish. many an hour did he spend beside me in the churchyard, and many a quiet tea did i enjoy in the manse; and i learned to know how much solid worth and true wisdom lay under the somewhat eccentric exterior of a man who sacrificed scarce anything to the conventionalities. this, with the exception of chalmers, sublimest of scottish preachers--for, little as he was known, i will challenge for him that place--was a genial man, who, for the sake of a joke, would sacrifice anything save principle; but, though marvellously careless of maintaining intact the "gloss of the clerical enamel," never was there sincerity more genuine than his, or a more thorough honesty. content to be in the right, he never thought of simulating it, and sacrificed even less than he ought to appearances. i may mention, that on coming to edinburgh, i found the peculiar taste formed under the ministrations of mr. stewart most thoroughly gratified under those of dr. guthrie; and that in looking round the congregation, i saw, with pleasure rather than surprise, that all mr. stewart's people resident in edinburgh had come to the same conclusion; for there--sitting in the doctor's pews--they all were. certainly in fertility of illustration, in soul-stirring, evangelistic doctrine, and in a general basis of rich humour, the resemblance between the deceased and the living minister seems complete; but genius is always unique; and while in breadth of popular power dr. guthrie stands alone among living preachers, i have never either heard or read argument in the analogical field that in ingenuity or originality equalled that of mr. stewart. that in which he specially excelled all the men i ever knew was the power of detecting and establishing occult resemblances. he seemed able to read off, as if by intuition--not by snatches and fragments, but as a consecutive whole--that old revelation of type and symbol which god first gave to man; and when privileged to listen to him, i have been constrained to recognise, in the evident integrity of the reading, and the profound and consistent theological system which the pictorial record conveyed, a demonstration of the divinity of its origin, not less powerful and convincing than the demonstrations of the other and more familiar departments of the christian evidences. compared with other theologians in this province, i have felt under his ministry as if, when admitted to the company of some party of modern _savans_ employed in deciphering a hieroglyphic covered obelisk of the desert, and here successful in discovering the meaning of an insulated sign, and there of a detached symbol, we had been suddenly joined by some sage of the olden time, to whom the mysterious inscription was but a piece of common language written in a familiar alphabet, and who could read off fluently, and as a whole, what the others could but darkly guess at in detached and broken parts. to this singular power of tracing analogies there was added in mr. stewart an ability of originating the most vivid illustrations. in some instances a sudden stroke produced a figure that at once illuminated the subject-matter of his discourse, like the light of a lanthorn flashed hastily upon a painted wall; in others he dwelt upon an illustrative picture, finishing it with stroke after stroke, until it filled the whole imagination, and sank deep into the memory. i remember hearing him preach, on one occasion, on the return of the jews as a people to him whom they had rejected, and the effect which their sudden conversion could not fail to have on the unbelieving and gentile world. suddenly his language, from its high level of eloquent simplicity, became that of metaphor, "when joseph," he said, "shall reveal himself to his _brethren_, the _whole house of pharaoh shall hear the weeping_." on another occasion i heard him dwell on that vast profundity, characteristic of the scriptural revelation of god, which ever deepens and broadens the longer and more thoroughly it is explored, until at length the student--struck at first by its expansiveness, but conceiving of it as if it were a mere _measured_ expansiveness--finds that it partakes of the unlimited infinity of the divine nature itself. naturally and simply, as if growing out of the subject, like a berry-covered mistletoe out of the massy trunk of an oak, there sprung up one of his more lengthened illustrations. a child bred up in the interior of the country has been brought for the first time to the sea-shore, and carried out into the middle of one of the noble firths that indent so deeply our line of coast. and, on his return, he describes to his father, with all a child's eagerness, the wonderful expansiveness of the _ocean_ which he had seen. he went out, he tells him, far amid the great waves and the rushing tides, until at length the hills seemed diminished into mere hummocks, and the wide land itself appeared along the waters but as a slim strip of blue. and then, when in mid-sea, the sailors heaved the lead; and it went down, and down, and down, and the long line slipped swiftly away, coil after coil, till, ere the plummet rested on the ooze below, all was well-nigh expended. and was it not the great sea, asks the boy, that was so vastly broad, and so profoundly deep? ah! my child, exclaims the father, you have not seen aught of its greatness: you have sailed over merely one of its little arms. had it been out into the wide ocean that the seamen had carried you, "you would have _seen_ no shore, and you would have _found_ no bottom." in one rare quality of the orator mr. stewart stood alone among his contemporaries. pope refers to a strange power of creating love and admiration by "just touching the brink of all we hate." and burke, in some of his nobler passages, happily exemplifies the thing. he intensified the effect of his burning eloquence by the employment of figures so homely--nay, almost so repulsive--that the man of lower powers who ventured on their use would find them effective in but lowering his subject, and ruining his cause. i need but refer, in illustration, to the well-known figure of the disembowelled bird, which occurs in the indignant denial that the character of the revolutionary french in aught resembled that of the english. "we have not," says the orator, "been drawn and trussed, in order that we may be filled, like stuffed birds in a museum, with chaff, and rags, and paltry blurred shreds of paper about the rights of man." into this perilous but singularly effective department, closed against even superior men, mr. stewart could enter safely and at will. one of the last sermons i heard him preach--a discourse of singular power--was on the "sin-offering" of the jewish economy, as minutely described in leviticus. he drew a picture of the slaughtered animal, foul with dust and blood, and streaming, in its impurity, to the sun, as it awaited the consuming fire amid the uncleanness of ashes outside the camp--its throat gashed across--its entrails laid open; a vile and horrid thing, which no one could see without experiencing emotions of disgust, nor touch without contracting defilement. the description appeared too painfully vivid--its introduction too little in accordance with the rules of a just taste. but the master in this difficult walk knew what he was doing. and that, he said, pointing to the strongly-coloured picture he had just completed--"and that is sin." by one stroke the intended effect was produced, and the rising disgust and horror transferred from the revolting material image to the great moral evil. how could such a man pass from earth, and leave no trace behind him? mainly, i believe, from two several causes. as the minister of an attached provincial congregation, a sense of duty, and the promptings of a highly intellectual nature, to which exertion was enjoyment, led him to study much and deeply; and he poured forth _viva voce_ his full-volumed and ever-sparkling tide of eloquent idea, as freely and richly as the nightingale, unconscious of a listener, pours forth her melody in the shade. but, strangely diffident of his own powers, he could not be made to believe that what so much impressed and delighted the privileged few who surrounded him, was equally suited to impress and delight the intellectual many outside; or that he was fitted to speak through the press in tones which would compel the attention, not merely of the religious, but also of the literary world. further, practising but little the art of elaborate composition, and master of a spoken style more effective for the purposes of the pulpit than almost any written one, save that of chalmers, he failed, in all his attempts in writing, to satisfy a fastidious taste, which he had suffered greatly to outgrow his ability of production. and so he failed to leave any adequate mark behind him. i find that for my stock of theological idea, not directly derived from scripture, i stand more indebted to two scotch theologians than to all other men of their profession and class. the one of these was thomas chalmers--the other, alexander stewart: the one a name known wherever the english language is spoken; while of the other it is only remembered, and by comparatively a few, that the impression did exist at the time of his death, that "a mighty spirit was eclipsed--a power had passed from day to darkness, to whose hour of light no likeness was bequeathed--no name." chapter xix. "see yonder poor o'er-labour'd wight, so abject, mean, and vile, who begs a brother of the earth to give him leave to toil; and see his lordly _fellow-worm_ the poor petition spurn."--burns. work failed me about the end of june ; and, acting on the advice of a friend who believed that my style of cutting inscriptions could not fail to secure for me a good many little jobs in the churchyards of inverness, i visited that place, and inserted a brief advertisement in one of the newspapers, soliciting employment. i ventured to characterize my style of engraving as neat and _correct_; laying especial emphasis on the correctness, as a quality not very common among the stone-cutters of the north. it was not a scotch, but an english mason, who, when engaged, at the instance of a bereaved widower, in recording on his wife's tombstone that a "virtuous woman is a _crown_ to her husband," corrupted the text, in his simplicity, by substituting " s." for the "_crown_." but even scotch masons do make odd enough mistakes at times, especially in the provinces; and i felt it would be something gained could i but get an opportunity of showing the inverness public that i had at least english enough to avoid the commoner errors. my verses, thought i, are at least tolerably correct: could i not get some one or two copies introduced into the poet's corner of the _inverness courier_ or _journal_, and thus show that i have literature enough to be trusted with the cutting of an epitaph on a gravestone? i had a letter of introduction from a friend in cromarty to one of the ministers of the place, himself an author, and a person of influence with the proprietors of the _courier_; and, calculating on some amount of literary sympathy from a man accustomed to court the public through the medium of the press, i thought i might just venture on stating the case to him. i first, however, wrote a brief address, in octo-syllabic quatrains, to the river which flows through the town, and gives to it its name;--a composition which has, i find, more of the advertisement in it than is quite seemly, but which would have perhaps expressed less confidence had it been written less under the influence of a shrinking timidity, that tried to reassure itself by words of comfort and encouragement. i was informed that the minister's hour for receiving visitors of the humbler class was between eleven and twelve at noon; and, with the letter of introduction and my copy of verses in my pocket, i called at the manse, and was shown into a little narrow ante-room, furnished with two seats of deal that ran along the opposite walls. i found the place occupied by some six or seven individuals--more than half their number old withered women, in very shabby habiliments, who, as i soon learned from a conversation which they kept up in a grave under-tone, about weekly allowances, and the partialities of the session, were paupers. the others were young men, who had apparently serious requests to prefer anent marriage and baptism; for i saw that one of them was ever and anon drawing from his breast-pocket a tattered copy of the shorter catechism, and running over the questions; and i overheard another asking his neighbour "who drew up the contract lines for him," and "where he had got the whisky." the minister entered; and as he passed into the inner room, we all rose. he stood for a moment in the doorway, and, beckoning on one of the young men--him of the catechism--they went in together, and the door closed. they remained closeted together for about twenty minutes or half an hour, and then the young man went out; and another young man--he who had procured the contract lines and the whisky--took his place. the interview in this second case, however, was much shorter than the first; and a very few minutes served to despatch the business of the third young man; and then the minister, coming to the doorway, looked first at the old women and then at me, as if mentally determining our respective claims to priority; and, mine at length prevailing--i know not on what occult principle--i was beckoned in. i presented my letter of introduction, which was graciously read; and though the nature of the business did strike me as ludicrously out of keeping with the place, and it did cost me some little trouble to suppress at one time a burst of laughter, that would, of course, have been prodigiously improper in the circumstances, i detailed to him in a few words my little plan, and handed him my copy of verses. he read them aloud with slow deliberation. ode to the ness. child of the lake! whose silvery gleam cheers the rough desert, dark and lone,[ ]-- a brown, deep, sullen, restless stream, with ceaseless speed thou hurriest on. and yet thy banks with flowers are gay; the sun laughs on thy troubled breast; and o'er thy tides the zephyrs play, though nought be thine of quiet rest.[ ] stream of the lake! to him who strays, lonely, thy winding marge along, not fraught with lore of other days, and yet not all unblest in song-- to him thou tell'st of busy men, who madly waste their present day. pursuing hopes, baseless as vain, while life, untasted, glides away. stream of the lake! why hasten on? a boist'rous ocean spreads before, where dash dark tides, and wild winds moan, and foam-wreaths skirt a cheerless shore, nor bending flowers, nor waving fields, nor aught of rest is there for thee; but rest to thee no pleasure yields; then haste and join the stormy sea! stream of the lake! of bloody men, who thirst the guilty fight to try-- who seek for joy in mortal pain, music in misery's thrilling cry-- thou tell'st: peace yields no joy to them, nor harmless pleasure's golden smile; of evil deed the cheerless fame is all the meed that crowns their toil. not such would prove if pleasure shone-- stream of the deep and peaceful lake!-- his course, whom hardship urges on, through cheerless waste and thorny brake. for, ah! each pleasing scene he loves, and peace is all his heart's desire; and, ah! of scenes where pleasure roves, and peace, could gentle minstrel tire? stream of the lake! for thee await the tempests of an angry main; a brighter hope, a happier fate, he boasts, whose present course is pain. yes, even for him may death prepare a home of pleasure, peace, and love; thus blessed by hope, little his care. though rough his present course may prove. the minister paused as he concluded, and looked puzzled. "pretty well, i daresay," he said; "but i do not now read poetry. you, however, use a word that is not english--'thy winding _marge_ along.' marge!--what is marge?" "you will find it in johnson," i said. "ah, but we must not use all the words we find in johnson." "but the poets make frequent use of it." "what poets?" "spenser." "too old--too old; no authority now," said the minister. "but the wartons also use it." "i don't know the wartons." "it occurs also," i iterated, "in one of the most finished sonnets of henry kirke white." "what sonnet?" "that to the river trent. 'once more, o trent! along thy pebbly marge, a pensive invalid, reduced and pale, from the close sick-room newly set at large, woos to his woe-worn cheek the pleasant gale.' it is, in short, one of the common english words of the poetic vocabulary." could a man in quest of patronage, and actually at the time soliciting a favour, possibly contrive to say anything more imprudent? and this, too, to a gentleman so much accustomed to be deferred to when he took up his ground on the _standards_, as sometimes to forget, through the sheer force of habit, that he was not a standard himself! he coloured to the eyes; and his condescending humility, which seemed, i thought, rather too great for the occasion, and was of a kind which my friend mr. stewart never used to exhibit, appeared somewhat ruffled. "i have no acquaintance," he said, "with the editor of the _courier_; we take opposite sides on very important questions; and i cannot recommend your verses to him; but call on mr. ----; he is one of the proprietors; and, with _my compliments_, state your case to him; he will be perhaps able to assist you. meanwhile, i wish you all success." the minister hurried me out, and one of the withered old women was called in. "this," i said to myself, as i stepped into the street, "is the sort of patronage which letters of introduction procure for one. i don't think i'll seek any more of it." meeting on the street, however, with, two cromarty friends, one of whom was just going to call on the gentleman named by the minister, he induced me to accompany him. the other said, as he took his separate way, that having come to visit an old townsman settled in inverness, a man of some influence in the burgh, he would state my case to him; and he was sure he would exert himself to procure me employment. i have already referred to the remark of burns. it is recorded by his brother gilbert, that the poet used often to say, "that he could not well conceive a more mortifying picture of human life, than a man seeking work;" and that the exquisite dirge, "man was made to mourn," owes its existence to the sentiment. the feeling is certainly a very depressing one; and as on most other occasions work rather sought me than i the work, i experienced more of it at this time than at any other period of my life. i of course could hardly expect that people should die off and require epitaphs merely to accommodate me. that demand of employment as a right in all cases and circumstances, which the more extreme "claims-of-labour men" do not scruple to urge, is the result of a sort of indignant reaction on this feeling--a feeling which became poetry in burns and nonsense in the communists; but which i experienced neither as nonsense nor poetry, but simply as a depressing conviction that i was one man too many in the world. the gentleman on whom i now called with my friend was a person both of business habits and literary tastes; but i saw that my poetic scheme rather damaged me in his estimation. the english verse produced at this time in the far north was of a kind ill fitted for the literary market, and usually published, or rather printed--for published it never was--by that teasing subscription scheme which so often robs men of good money, and gives them bad books in exchange; and he seemed to set me down as one of the annoying semi-beggar class;--rather a mistake, i should hope. he, however, obligingly introduced me to a gentleman of literature and science, the secretary of a society of the place, antiquarian and scientific in its character, termed the "northern institution," and the honorary conservator of its museum--an interesting miscellaneous collection which i had previously seen, and in connexion with which i had formed my only other scheme of getting into employment. i wrote that old english hand which has been revived of late by the general rage for the mediæval, but which at that time was one of the lost arts, with much neatness; and could produce imitations of the illuminated manuscripts that preceded our printed books, which even an antiquary would have pronounced respectable. and, addressing the members of the northern institution on the character and tendency of their pursuits, in a somewhat lengthy piece of verse, written in what i least intended to be the manner of dryden, as exemplified in his middle-style poems, such as the _religio laici_, i engrossed it in the old hand, and now called on the secretary, to request that he would present it at the first meeting of the society, which was to be held, i understood, in a few days. the secretary was busy at his desk; but he received me politely, spoke approvingly of my work as an imitation of the old manuscript, and obligingly, charged himself with its delivery at the meeting: and so we parted for the time, not in the least aware that there was a science which dealt with characters greatly more ancient than those of the old manuscripts, and laden with profounder meanings, in which we both took a deep interest, and regarding which we could have exchanged facts and ideas with mutual pleasure and profit. the secretary of the northern institution at this time was mr. george anderson, the well-known geologist, and joint author with his brother of the admirable "guide-book to the highlands," which bears their name. i never heard how my address fared. it would, of course, have been tabled--looked at, i suppose, for a few seconds by a member or two--and then set aside; and it is probably still in the archives of the institution, awaiting the light of future ages, when its simulated antiquity shall have become real. it was not written in a character to be read, nor, i fear, very readable in any character; and so the members of the institution must have remained ignorant of all the wisdom i had found in their pursuits, antiquarian and ethnological. the following forms an average specimen of the production:-- "tis yours to trace each deep-fixed trait that marks the human race; and as the egyptian priests, with mystery fraught, by signs, not words, of sphynx, and horus taught, so, 'mid your stores, by _things_, not books, ye scan the powers, scope, history, of the mind of man. yon chequered wall displays the arms of war of times remote, and nations distant far; alas! the club and brand but serve to show how wide extends the reign of wrong and woe; and tores uncouth, and feathery circlets, tell in human hearts what gewgaw follies dwell. yes! all that man has framed his image bears; and much of hate, and much of pride, appears. "pleasant it is each diverse step to scan, by which the savage first assumes the man; to mark what feelings sway his softening breast, or what strong passion triumphs o'er the rest. narrow of heart, or free, or brave, or base, ev'n in the infant we the man may trace; and from the rude ungainly sires may know each striking trait the polished sons shall show. dependent on what moods assume the reign, science shall smile, or spread her stores in vain: as coward fears, or generous passions sway, shall freedom reign, or heartless slaves obey. "not unto chance must aught of power be given,-- a country's genius is the gift of heaven. what warms the poet's lays with generous fire, to which no toil can reach, no art aspire? who taught the sage, with deepest wisdom fraught, while scarce one pupil grasps the ponderous thought? nay, wherefore ask?--as heaven the mind bestows, a napier calculates and a thomson glows. now turn to where, beneath the city wall, the sun's fierce rays in unbroke splendour fall; vacant and weak, there sits the idiot boy, of pain scarce conscious, scarce alive to joy; a thousand busy sounds around him roar; trade wields the tool, and commerce plies the oar; but, all unheeding of the restless scene, of toil he nothing knows, and nought of gain: the thoughts of common minds were strange to him, ev'n as to such a napier's thoughts would seem. thus, as in men, in peopled states, we find unequal powers, and varied tones of mind: timid or dauntless, high of thought or low, o'erwhelmed with phlegm, or fraught with fire they glow and as the sculptor's art is better shown in parian marble than in porous stone, wreaths fresh or sear'd repay refinement's toil, as genius owns or dulness stamps the soil. where isles of coral stud the southern main, and painted kings and cinctured warriors reign, nations there are who native worth possess,-- whom every art shall court, each science bless: and tribes there are, heavy of heart and slow, on whom no coming age a change shall know." there was, i suspect, a waste of effort in all this planning; but some men seem destined to do things clumsily and ill, at many times the expense which serves to secure success to the more adroit. i despatched my ode to the newspaper, accompanied by a letter of explanation; but it fared as ill as my address to the institution; and a single line in italics in the next number intimated that it was not to appear. and thus both my schemes were, as they ought to be, knocked on the head. i have not schemed any since. strategy is, i fear, not my forte; and it is idle to attempt doing in spite of nature what one has not been born to do well. besides, i began to be seriously dissatisfied with myself: there seemed to be nothing absolutely wrong in a man who wanted honest employment taking this way of showing he was capable of it; but i felt the spirit within rise against it; and so i resolved to ask no more favours of any one, even should poets' corners remain shut against me for ever, or however little institutions, literary or scientific, might favour me with their notice. i strode along the streets, half an inch taller on the strength of the resolution; and straightway, as if to reward me for my magnanimity, an offer of employment came my way unsolicited. i was addressed by the recruiting serjeant of a highland regiment, who asked me if i did not belong to the aird? "no, not to the aird; to cromarty," i replied. "ah, to cromarty--very fine place! but would you not better bid adieu to cromarty, and come along with me? we have a capital grenadier company; and in our regiment a stout steady man is always sure to get on." i thanked him, but declined his invitation; and, with an apology on his part, which was not in the least needed or expected, we parted. though verse and old english failed me, the simple statement made by my cromarty friend to my townsman located in inverness, that i was a good workman, and wanted work, procured me at once the cutting of an inscription, and two little jobs in cromarty besides, which i was to execute on my return home. the inverness job was soon completed; but i had the near prospect of another; and as the little bit of the public that came my way approved of my cutting, i trusted employment would flow in apace. i lodged with a worthy old widow, conscientious and devout, and ever doing her humble work consciously in the eye of the great taskmaster--one of a class of persons not at all so numerous in the world as might be desirable, but sufficiently common to render it rather a marvel that some of our modern masters of fiction should never have chanced--judging from their writings--to come in contact with any of them. she had an only son, a working cabinetmaker, who used occasionally to annoy her by his silly jokes at serious things, and who was courting at this time a sweetheart who had five hundred pounds in the bank--an immensely large sum to a man in his circumstances. he had urged his suit with such apparent success, that the marriage-day was fixed and at hand, and the house which he had engaged as his future residence fully furnished. and it was his prospective brother-in-law who was to be my new employer, so soon as the wedding should leave him leisure enough to furnish epitaphs for two tombstones recently placed in the family burying-ground. the wedding-day arrived; and, to be out of the way of the bustle and the pageant, i retired to the house of a neighbour, a carpenter, whom i had obliged by a few lessons in practical geometry and architectural drawing. the carpenter was at the wedding; and, with the whole house to myself, i was engaged in writing, when up flew the door, and in rushed my pupil the carpenter. "what has happened?" i asked. "happened!" said the carpenter,--"happened!! the bride's away with another man!! the bridegroom has taken to his bed, and raves like a madman; and his poor old mother--good honest woman--is crying like a child. do come and see what can be done." i accompanied him to my landlady's, where i found the bridegroom in a paroxysm of mingled grief and rage, congratulating himself on his escape, and bemoaning his unhappy disappointment, by turns. he lay athwart the bed, which he told me in the morning he had quitted for the last time; but as i entered, he half rose, and, seizing on a pair of new shoes which had been prepared for the bride, and lay on a table beside him, he hurled them against the wall, first the one and then the other, until they came rebounding back across the room; and then, with an exclamation that need not be repeated, he dashed himself down again. i did my best to comfort his poor mother, who seemed to feel very keenly the slight done to her son, and to anticipate with dread the scandal and gossip of which it would render her humble household the subject. she seemed sensible, however, that he had made an escape, and at once acquiesced in my suggestion, that all that should now be done would be to get every expense her son had been at in his preparations for housekeeping and the wedding transferred to the shoulders of the other party. and such an arrangement could, i thought, be easily effected through the bride's brother, who seemed to be a reasonable man, and who would be aware also that a suit at law could be instituted in the case against his sister; though in any such suit i held it might be best for both parties not to engage. and at the old woman's request, i set out with the carpenter to wait on the bride's brother, in order to see whether he was not prepared for some such arrangement as i suggested, and, besides, able to furnish us with some explanation of the extraordinary step taken by the bride. we were overtaken, as we passed along the street, by a person who was, he said, in search of us, and who now requested us to accompany him; and, threading our way, under his guidance, through a few narrow lanes that traverse the assemblage of houses on the west bank of the ness, we stopped at the door of an obscure alehouse. this, said our conductor, we have found to be the retreat of the bride. he ushered us into a room occupied by some eight or ten persons, drawn up on the opposite sides, with a blank space between. on the one side sat the bride, a high-coloured, buxom young girl, serene and erect as britannia on the halfpennies, and guarded by two stout fellows, masons or slaters apparently, in their working dresses. they looked hard at the carpenter and me as we entered, of course regarding us as the assailants against whom they would have to maintain their prize. on the other side sat a group of the bride's relatives--among the rest her brother--silent, and all apparently very much grieved; while in the space between them there stumped up and down a lame, sallow-complexioned oddity, in shabby black, who seemed to be making a set oration, to which no one replied, about the sacred claims of love, and the cruelty of interfering with the affections of young people. neither the carpenter nor myself felt any inclination to debate with the orator, or fight with the guards, or yet to interfere with the affections of the young lady; and so, calling out the brother into another room, and expressing our regret at what had happened, we stated our case, and found him, as we had expected, very reasonable. we could not, however, treat for the absent bridegroom, nor could he engage for his sister; and so we had to part without coming to any agreement. there were points about the case which at first i could not understand. my jilted acquaintance the cabinetmaker had not only enjoyed the countenance of all his mistress's relatives, but he had been also as well received by herself as lovers usually are: she had written him kind letters, and accepted of his presents; and then, just as her friends were sitting down to the marriage breakfast, she had eloped with another man. the other man, however--a handsome fellow, but great scamp--had a prior claim to her regards: he had been the lover of her choice, though detested by her brother and all her friends, who were sufficiently well acquainted with his character to know that he would land her in ruin; and during his absence in the country, where he was working as a slater, they had lent their influence and countenance to my acquaintance the cabinetmaker, in order to get her married to a comparatively safe man, out of the slater's reach. and, not very strong of will, she had acquiesced in the arrangement. on the eve of the marriage, however, the slater had come into town; and, exchanging clothes with an acquaintance a highland soldier, he had walked unsuspected opposite her door, until, finding an opportunity of conversing with her on the morning of the wedding-day, he had represented her new lover as a silly, ill-shaped fellow, who had just head enough to be mercenary, and himself as one of the most devoted and disconsolate of lovers. and, his soft tongue and fine leg gaining the day, she had left the marriage guests to enjoy their tea and toast without her, and set off with him to the change-house. ultimately the affair ended ill for all parties. i lost my job, for i saw no more of the bride's brother; the wrong-headed cabinetmaker, contrary to the advice of his mother and her lodger, entered into a law-suit, in which he got small damages and much vexation; and the slater and his mistress broke out into such a course of dissipation after becoming man and wife, that they and the five hundred pounds came to an end almost together. shortly after, my landlady and her son quitted the country for the united states. so favourably had the poor woman impressed me as one of the truly excellent, that i took a journey from cromarty to inverness--a distance of nineteen miles--to bid her farewell; but i found, on my arrival, her house shut up, and learned that she had left the place for some sailing port on the west coast two days before. she was a humble washerwoman; but i am convinced that in the other world, which she must have entered long ere now, she ranks considerably higher! i waited on in inverness, in the hope that, according to burns, "my brothers of the earth would give me leave to toil;" but the hope was a vain one, as i succeeded in procuring no second job. there was no lack, however, of the sort of employment which i could cut out for myself; but the remuneration--only now in the process of being realized, and that very slowly--had to be deferred to a distant day. i had to give more than twelve years' _credit_ to the pursuits that engaged me: and as my capital was small, it was rather a trying matter to be "kept so long out of my wages." there is a wonderful group of what are now termed _osars_, in the immediate neighbourhood of inverness--a group to which that queen of scottish tomhans, the picturesque tomnahuirich, belongs, and to the examination of which i devoted several days. but i learned only to state the difficulty which they form--not to solve it; and now that agassiz has promulgated his glacial theory, and that traces of the great ice agencies have been detected all over scotland, the mystery of the _osars_ remains a mystery still. i succeeded, however, in determining at this time, that they belong to a later period than the boulder clay, which i found underlying the great gravel formation of which they form a part, in a section near loch ness that had been laid open shortly before, in excavating for the great caledonian canal. and as all, or almost all, the shells of the boulder clay are of species that still live, we may infer that the mysterious osars were formed not very long ere the introduction upon our planet of the inquisitive little creature that has been puzzling himself--hitherto at least with no satisfactory result--in attempting to account for their origin. i examined, too, with some care, the old coast-line, so well developed in this neighbourhood as to form one of the features of its striking scenery, and which must be regarded as the geological memorial and representative of those latter ages of the world in which the human epoch impinged on the old pre-adamite periods. the magistrates of the place were engaged at the time in doing their duty, like sensible men, as they were, in what i could not help thinking a somewhat barbarous instance. the neat, well proportioned, very uninteresting jail-spire of the burgh, about which, in its integrity, no one cares anything, had been shaken by an earthquake, which took place in the year , into one of the greatest curiosities in the kingdom. the earthquake, which, for a scotch one, had been unprecedentedly severe, especially in the line of the great caledonian valley, had, by a strange vorticose motion, twisted round the spire, so that, at the transverse line of displacement, the _panes_ and corners of the octagonal broach which its top formed overshot their proper positions fully seven inches. the corners were carried into nearly the middle of the _panes_, as if some gigantic hand, in attempting to twirl round the building by the spire, as one twirls round a spinning top by the stalk or bole, had, from some failure in the coherency of the masonry, succeeded in turning round only the part of which it had laid hold. sir charles lyell figures, in his "principles," similar shifts in stones of two obelisks in a calabrian convent, and subjoins the ingenious suggestion on the subject of messrs. darwin and mallet. and here was there a scotch example of the same sort of mysterious phenomena, not less curious than the calabrian one, and certainly unique in its character _as scotch_, which, though the injured building had already stood twelve years in its displaced condition, and might stand for as many more as the hanging tower of pisa, the magistrates were laboriously effacing at the expense of the burgh. they were completely successful too; and the jail spire was duly restored to its state of original insignificance, as a fifth-rate piece of ornamental masonry. but how very absurd, save, mayhap, here and there to a geologist, must not these remarks appear! but my criticisms on the magistracy, however foolish, were silent criticisms, and did harm to no one. about the time, however, in which i was indulging in them, i imprudently exposed myself, by one of those impulsive acts of which men repent at their leisure, to criticisms not silent, and of a kind that occasionally _do_ harm. i had been piqued by the rejection of my verses on the ness. true, i had no high opinion of their merit, deeming them little more than equal to the average verses of provincial prints; but then i had intimated my scheme of getting them printed to a few cromarty friends, and was now weak enough to be annoyed at the thought that my townsfolk would regard me as an incompetent blockhead, who could not write rhymes good enough for a newspaper. and so i rashly determined on appealing to the public in a small volume. had i known as much as in an after period about newspaper affairs, and the mode in which copies of verses are often dealt with by editors and their assistants--fatigued with nonsense, and at once hopeless of finding grain in the enormous heaps of chaff submitted to them, and too much occupied to seek for it, even should they believe in its occurrence in the form of single seeds sparsely scattered--i would have thought less of the matter. as the case was, however, i hastily collected from among my piles of manuscripts, some fifteen or twenty pieces in verse, written chiefly during the preceding six years, and put them into the hands of the printer of the _inverness courier_. it would have been a greatly wiser act, as i soon came to see, had i put them into the fire instead; but my choice of a printing-office secured to me at least one advantage--it brought me acquainted with one of the ablest and most accomplished of scotch editors--the gentleman who now owns and still conducts the _courier_; and, besides, having once crossed the rubicon, i felt all my native obstinacy stirred up to make good a position for myself, despite of failures and reverses on the further side. it is an advantage in some cases to be committed. the clear large type of the _courier_ office did, however, show me many a blemish in my verse that had escaped me before, and broke off associations which--curiously linked with the manuscripts--had given to the stanzas and passages which they contained charms of tone and colour not their own. i began to find, too, that my humble accomplishment of verse was too narrow to contain my thinking;--the thinking ability had been growing, but not the ability of poetic expression; nay, much of the thinking seemed to be of a kind not suited for poetic purposes at all;--and though it was of course far better that i should come to know this in time, than that, like some, even superior men, i should persist in wasting, in inefficient verse, the hours in which vigorous prose might be produced, it was at least quite mortifying enough to make the discovery with half a volume of metre committed to type, and in the hands of the printer. resolving, however, that my humble name should not appear in the title-page, i went on with my volume. my new friend the editor kindly inserted, from time to time, copies of its verses in the columns of his paper, and strove to excite some degree of interest and expectation regarding it; but my recent discovery had thoroughly sobered me, and i awaited the publication of my volume not much elated by the honour done me, and as little sanguine respecting its ultimate success as well might be. and ere i quitted inverness, a sad bereavement, which greatly narrowed the circle of my best-loved friends, threw very much into the background all my thoughts regarding it. on quitting cromarty, i had left my uncle james labouring under an attack of rheumatic fever; but though he had just entered his grand climacteric, he was still a vigorous and active man, and i could not doubt that he had strength of constitution enough to throw it off. he had failed to rally, however; and after returning one evening from a long exploratory walk, i found in my lodgings a note awaiting me, intimating his death. the blow fell with stunning effect. ever since the death of my father, my two uncles had faithfully occupied his place; and james, of a franker and less reserved temper than alexander, and more tolerant of my boyish follies, had, though i sincerely loved the other, laid stronger hold on my affections. he was of a genial disposition, too, that always remained sanguine in the cast of its hopes and anticipations; and he had unwittingly flattered my vanity by taking me pretty much at my own estimate--overweeningly high, of course, like that of almost all young men, but mayhap necessary, in the character of a force, to make headway in the face of obstruction and difficulty. uncle james, like _le balafré_ in the novel, would have "ventured his nephew against the wight wallace." i immediately set out for cromarty; and, curious as it may seem, found grief so companionable, that the four hours which i spent by the way seemed hardly equal to one. i retained, however, only a confused recollection of my journey, remembering little more than that, when passing at midnight along the dreary maolbuie, i saw the moon in her wane, rising red and lightless out of the distant sea; and that, lying, as it were, prostrate on the horizon, she reminded me of some o'ermatched wrestler thrown helplessly on the ground. on reaching home, i found my mother, late as the hour was, still up, and engaged in making a dead-dress for the body. "there is a letter from the south, with a black seal, awaiting you," she said; "i fear you have also lost your friend william ross." i opened the letter, and found her surmise too well founded. it was a farewell letter, written in feeble characters, but in no feeble spirit; and a brief postscript, added by a comrade, intimated the death of the writer. "this," wrote the dying man, with a hand fast forgetting its cunning, "is, to all human probability, my last letter; but the thought gives me little trouble; for my hope of salvation is in the blood of jesus. farewell, my sincerest friend!" there is a provision through which nature sets limits to both physical and mental suffering. a man partially stunned by a violent blow is sometimes conscious that it is followed by other blows, rather from seeing than from feeling them; his capacity of suffering has been exhausted by the first; and the others that fall upon him, though they may injure, fail to pain. and so also it is with strokes that fall on the affections. in other circumstances, i would have grieved for the death of my friend, but my mind was already occupied to the full by the death of my uncle; and, though i _saw_ the new stroke, several days elapsed ere _i could feel_ it. my friend, after half a lifetime of decline, had sunk suddenly. a comrade who lived with him--a stout, florid lad--had been seized by the same insidious malady as his own, about a twelvemonth before; and, previously unacquainted with sickness, in him the progress of the disease had been rapid, and his sufferings were so great, that he was incapacitated for work several months ere his death. but my poor friend, though sinking at the time, wrought for both: he was able to prosecute his employments--which, according to bacon, "required rather the finger than the arm"--in even the latter stages of his complaint; and after supporting and tending his dying comrade till he sank, he himself suddenly broke down and died. and thus perished unknown, and in the prime of his days, a man of sterling principle and fine genius. i found employment enough for the few weeks which still remained of the working season of this year, in hewing a tombstone for my uncle james, on which i inscribed an epitaph of a few lines, that had the merit of being true. it characterized the deceased--"james wright"--as "an honest, warm-hearted man, who had the happiness of living without reproach, and of dying without fear." footnotes: [ ] loch ness. [ ] this portrait of the ness is, i fear, scarce true to the ordinary character of the river. i had visited it during the previous winter, and walked a few miles along its sides, when the tract of country through which it flows lay bleached and verdureless, and steeped in the soaking rain of weeks, and the stream itself, big in flood, roared from bank to brae in its shallower reaches, or boiled sullen and turbid in many a circling eddy in its darker pools. and my description somewhat incongruously unites a sunlit summer landscape, rich in flower and foliage, with the brown wintry river. chapter xx. "this while my notion's ta'en a sklent, to try my fate in guid black prent; but still the mair i'm that way bent, something cries, hoolie! i red you, honest man, tak tent; ye'll shaw your folly."--burns. my volume of verse passed but slowly through the press; and as i had begun to look rather ruefully forward to its appearance, there was no anxiety evinced on my part to urge it on. at length, however, all the pieces were thrown into type; and i followed them up by a tail-piece in prose, formed somewhat on the model of the preface of pope--for i was a great admirer, at the time, of the english written by the "wits of queen anne"--in which i gave serious expression to the suspicion that, as a writer of verse, i had mistaken my vocation. "it is more than possible," i said, "that i have completely failed in poetry. it may appear that, while grasping at originality of description and sentiment, and striving to attain propriety of expression, i have only been depicting common images, and embodying obvious thoughts, and this, too, in inelegant language. yet even in this case, though disappointed, i shall not be without my sources of comfort. the pleasure which i enjoy in composing verses is quite independent of other men's opinions of them; and i expect to feel as happy as ever in this amusement, even though assured that others could find no pleasure in reading what i had found so much in writing. it is no small solace to reflect, that the fable of the dog and shadow cannot apply to me, since my predilection for poetry has not prevented me from acquiring the skill of at least the common mechanic. i am not more ignorant of masonry and architecture than many professors of these arts who never measured a stanza. there is also some satisfaction in reflecting that, unlike some would-be satirists i have not assailed private character; and that, though men may deride me as an unskilful poet, they cannot justly detest me as a bad or ill-natured man. nay, i shall possibly have the pleasure of repaying those who may be merry at my expense, in their own coin. an ill-conditioned critic is always a more pitiable sort of person than an unsuccessful versifier; and the desire of showing one's own discernment at the expense of one's neighbour, a greatly worse thing than the simple wish, however divorced from the ability, of affording him harmless pleasure. further, it would, i think, not be difficult to show that my mistake in supposing myself a poet is not a whit more ridiculous, and infinitely less mischievous, than many of those into which myriads of my fellow-men are falling every day. i have seen the vicious attempting to teach morals, and the weak to unfold mysteries. i have seen men set up for freethinkers who were born not to think at all. to conclude, there will surely be cause for self-gratulation in reflecting that, by becoming an author, i have only lost a few pounds, not gained the reputation of being a mean fellow, who had teased all his acquaintance until they had subscribed for a worthless book; and that the severest remark of the severest critic can only be, 'a certain anonymous rhymer is no poet.'" as, notwithstanding the blank in the title-page, the authorship of my volume would be known in cromarty and its neighbourhood, i set myself to see whether i could not, meanwhile, prepare for the press something better suited to make an impression in my favour. in tossing the bar or throwing the stone, the competitor who begins with a rather indifferent cast is never very unfavourably judged if he immediately mend it by giving a better; and i resolved on mending my cast, if i could, by writing for the _inverness courier_--which was now open to me, through the kindness of the editor--a series of carefully prepared letters on some popular subject. in the days of goldsmith, the herring-fishing employed, as he tells us in one of his essays, "all grub street." in the north of scotland this fishery was a popular theme little more than twenty years ago. the welfare of whole communities depended in no slight degree on its success: it formed the basis of many a calculation, and the subject of many an investment; and it was all the more suitable for my purpose from the circumstance that there was no grub street in that part of the world to employ itself about it. it was, in at least all its better aspects, a fresh subject; and i deemed myself more thoroughly acquainted with it than at least most of the men who were skilful enough, as _littérateurs_, to communicate their knowledge in writing. i knew the peculiarities of fishermen as a class, and the effects of this special branch of their profession on their character: i had seen them pursuing their employments amid the sublime of nature, and had occasionally taken a share in their work; and, further, i was acquainted with not a few antique traditions of the fishermen of other ages, in which, as in the narratives of most seafaring men, there mingled with a certain amount of real incident, curious snatches of the supernatural. in short, the subject was one on which, as i knew a good deal regarding it that was not generally known, i was in some degree qualified to write; and so i occupied my leisure in casting my facts respecting it into a series of letters, of which the first appeared in the _courier_ a fortnight after my volume of verse was laid on the tables of the north country booksellers. i had first gone out to sea to assist in catching herrings about ten years before; and i now described, in one of my letters, as truthfully as i could, those features of the scene to which i had been introduced on that occasion, which had struck me as novel and peculiar. and what had been strange to me proved equally so, i found, to the readers of the _courier_. my letters attracted attention, and were republished in my behalf by the proprietors of the paper, "in consequence," said my friend the editor, in a note which he kindly attached to the pamphlet which they formed, "of the interest they had excited in the northern counties."[ ] their modicum of success, lowly as was their subject, compared with that of some of my more ambitious verses, taught me my proper course. let it be my business, i said, to know what is not generally known;--let me qualify myself to stand as an interpreter between nature and the public: while i strive to narrate as pleasingly and describe as vividly as i can, let truth, not fiction, be my walk; and if i succeed in uniting the novel to the true, in provinces of more general interest than the very humble one in which i have now partially succeeded, i shall succeed also in establishing myself in a position which, if not lofty, will yield me at least more solid footing than that to which i might attain as a mere _littérateur_ who, mayhap, pleased for a little, but added nothing to the general fund. the resolution was, i think, a good one; would that it had been better kept! the following extracts may serve to show that, humble as my new subject may be deemed, it gave considerable scope for description of a kind not often associated with herrings, even when they employed all grub street:-- "as the night gradually darkened, the sky assumed a dead and leaden hue: the sea, roughened by the rising breeze, reflected its deeper hues with an intensity approaching to black, and seemed a dark uneven pavement, that absorbed every ray of the remaining light. a calm silvery patch, some fifteen or twenty yards in extent, came moving slowly through the black. it seemed merely a patch of water coated with oil; but, obedient to some other moving power than that of either tide or wind, it sailed aslant our line of buoys, a stone-cast from our bows--lengthened itself along the line to thrice its former extent--paused as if for a moment--and then three of the buoys, after erecting themselves on their narrower base, with a sudden jerk slowly sank. 'one--two--three buoys!' exclaimed one of the fishermen, reckoning them as they disappeared;--'_there_ are ten barrels for us secure.' a few moments were suffered to elapse: and then, unfixing the haulser from the stem, and bringing it aft to the stern, we commenced hauling. the nets approached the gunwale. the first three appeared, from the phosphoric light of the water, as if bursting into flames of a pale green colour. here and there a herring glittered bright in the meshes, or went darting away through the pitchy darkness, visible for a moment by its own light. the fourth net was brighter than any of the others, and glittered through the waves while it was yet several fathoms away: the pale green seemed as if mingled with broken sheets of snow, that--flickering amid the mass of light--appeared, with every tug given by the fishermen, to shift, dissipate, and again form; and there streamed from it into the surrounding gloom myriads of green rays, an instant seen and then lost--the retreating fish that had avoided the meshes, but had lingered, until disturbed, beside their entangled companions. it contained a considerable body of herrings. as we raised them over the gunwale, they felt warm to the hand, for in the middle of a large shoal even the temperature of the water is raised--a fact well known to every herring fisherman; and in shaking them out of the meshes, the ear became sensible of a shrill, chirping sound, like that of the mouse, but much fainter--a ceaseless cheep, cheep, cheep, occasioned apparently--for no true fish is furnished with organs of sound--by a sudden escape from the air-bladder. the shoal, a small one, had spread over only three of the nets--the three whose buoys had so suddenly disappeared; and most of the others had but their mere sprinkling of fish, some dozen or two in a net; but so thickly had they lain in the fortunate three, that the entire haul consisted of rather more than twelve barrels. * * * * * we started up about midnight, and saw an open sea, as before; but the scene had considerably changed since we had lain down. the breeze had died into a calm; the heavens, no longer dark and grey, were glowing with stars; and the sea, from the smoothness of the surface, appeared a second sky, as bright and starry as the other; with this difference, however, that all its stars seemed to be comets! the slightly tremulous motion of the surface elongated the reflected images, and gave to each its tail. there was no visible line of division at the horizon. where the hills rose high along the coast, and appeared as if doubled by their undulating strip of shadow, what might be deemed a dense hank of cloud lay sleeping in the heavens, just where the upper and nether firmaments met; but its presence rendered the illusion none the less complete: the outline of the boat lay dark around us, like the fragment of some broken planet suspended in middle space, far from the earth and every star; and all around we saw extended the complete sphere--unhidden above from orion to the pole, and visible beneath from the pole to orion. certainly sublime scenery possesses in itself no virtue potent enough to develop the faculties, or the mind of the fisherman would not have so long lain asleep. there is no profession whose recollections should rise into purer poetry than his; but if the mirror bear not its previous amalgam of taste and genius, what does it matter though the scene which sheds upon it its many-coloured light should be rich in grandeur and beauty? there is no corresponding image produced: the susceptibility of reflecting the landscape is never imparted by the landscape itself, whether to the mind or to the glass. there is no class of recollections more illusory than those which associate--as if they existed in the relation of cause and effect--some piece of striking scenery with some sudden development of the intellect or imagination. the eyes open, and there is an external beauty seen; but it is not the external beauty that has opened the eyes. * * * * * "it was still a dead calm--calm to blackness; when, in about an hour after sunrise, what seemed light fitful airs began to play on the surface, imparting to it, in irregular patches, a tint of grey. first one patch would form, then a second beside it, then a third, and then for miles around, the surface, else so silvery, would seem frosted over with grey: the apparent breeze appeared as if propagating itself from one central point. in a few seconds after, all would be calm as at first; and then from some other centre the patches of grey would again form and widen, till the whole firth seemed covered by them. a peculiar poppling noise, as if a thunder-shower was beating the surface with its multitudinous drops, rose around our boat; the water seemed sprinkled with an infinity of points of silver, that for an instant glittered to the sun, and then resigned their places to other quick glancing points, that in turn were succeeded by yet others. the herrings by millions, and thousands of millions, were at play around us, leaping a few inches into the air, and then falling and disappearing, to rise and leap again. shoal rose beyond shoal, till the whole bank of gulliam seemed beaten into foam, and the low poppling sounds were multiplied into a roar, like that of the wind through some tall wood, that might be heard in the calm for miles. and again, the shoals extending around us seemed to cover, for hundreds of square miles, the vast moray firth. but though they played beside our buoys by thousands, not a herring swam so low as the upper baulk of our drift. one of the fishermen took up a stone, and, flinging it right over our second buoy into the middle of the shoal, the fish disappeared from the surface for several fathoms around. 'ah, there they go,' he exclaimed, 'if they go but low enough. four years ago i startled thirty barrels of light fish into my drift just by throwing a stone among them.' i know not what effect the stone might have had on this occasion; but on hauling our nets for the third and last time, we found we had captured about eight barrels of fish; and then hoisting sail--for a light breeze from the east had sprung up--we made for the shore with a cargo of twenty barrels." meanwhile the newspaper critics of the south were giving expression to all sorts of judgments on my verses. it was intimated in the title of the volume that they had been "written in the leisure hours of a journeyman mason;" and the intimation seemed to furnish most of my reviewers with the proper cue for dealing with them. "the time has gone by," said one, "when a literary mechanic used to be regarded as a phenomenon: were a second burns to spring up now, he would not be entitled to so much praise as the first." "it is our duty to tell this writer," said another, "that he will make more in a week by his trowel than in half a century by his pen." "we are glad to understand," said a third--very judiciously, however--"that our author has the good sense to rely more on his chisel than on the muses." the lessons taught were of a sufficiently varied, but, on the whole, rather contradictory character. by one writer i was told that i was a dull, correct fellow, who had written a book in which there was nothing amusing and nothing absurd. another, however, cheered my forlorn spirits by assuring me that i was a "man of genius, whose poems, with much that was faulty, contained also much that was interesting." a third was sure i had "no chance whatever of being known beyond the limits of my native place," and that my "book exhibited none, or next to none, of those indications which sanction the expectation of better things to come;" while a fourth, of a more sanguine vein, found in my work the evidence of "gifts of nature, which the stimulus of encouragement, and the tempering lights of experience, might hereafter develop, and direct to the achievement of something truly wonderful." there were two names in particular that my little volume used to suggest to the newspaper reviewers. the tam o'shanter and souter johnnie of the ingenious thorn were in course of being exhibited at the time; and it was known that thorn had wrought as a journeyman mason: and there was a rather slim poet called sillery, the author of several forgotten volumes of verse, one of which had issued from the press contemporaneously with mine, who, as he had a little money, and was said to treat his literary friends very luxuriously, was praised beyond measure by the newspaper critics, especially by those of the scottish capital. and thom as a mason, and sillery as a poet, were placed repeatedly before me. one critic, who was sure i would never come to anything, magnanimously remarked, however, that as he bore me no ill will, he would be glad to find himself mistaken; nay, that it would give him "unfeigned pleasure to learn i had attained to the well-merited fame of even mr. thom himself." and another, after deprecating the undue severity so often shown by the bred writer to the working man, and asserting that the "journeyman mason" was in this instance, notwithstanding his treatment, a man of fair parts, ended by remarking, that it was of course not even every man of merit who could expect to attain to the "high poetic eminence and celebrity of a charles doyne sillery." all this, however, was criticism at a distance, and disturbed me but little when engaged in toiling in the churchyard, or in enjoying my quiet evening walks. but it became more formidable when, on one occasion, it came to beard me in my den. the place was visited by an itinerant lecturer on elocution--one walsh, who, as his art was not in great request among the quiet ladies and busy gentlemen of cromarty, failed to draw houses; till at length there appeared one morning, placarded on post and pillar, an intimation to the effect, that mr. walsh would that evening deliver an elaborate criticism on the lately-published volume of "poems written in the leisure hours of a journeyman mason," and select from it a portion of his evening readings. the intimation drew a good house; and, curious to know what was awaiting me, i paid my shilling, with the others, and got into a corner. first in the entertainment there came a wearisome dissertation on harmonic inflections, double emphasis, the echoing words, and the monotones. but, to borrow from meg dods, "oh, what a style of language!" the elocutionist, evidently an untaught and grossly ignorant man, had not an idea of composition. syntax, grammar, and good sense, were set at nought in every sentence; but then, on the other hand, the inflections were carefully maintained, and went rising and falling over the nonsense beneath, like the wave of some shallow bay over a bottom of mud and comminuted sea-weed. after the dissertation we were gratified by a few recitations. "lord ullin's daughter," the "razor seller," and "my name is norval," were given in great force. and then came the critique. "ladies and gentlemen," said the reviewer, "we cannot expect much from a journeyman mason in the poetry line. right poetry needs teaching. no man can be a proper poet unless he be an elocutionist; for, unless he be an elocutionist, how can he make his verses emphatic in the right places, or manage the harmonic inflexes, or deal with the rhetorical pauses? and now, ladies and gentlemen, i'll show you, from various passages in this book, that the untaught journeyman mason who made it never took lessons in elocution. i'll first read you a passage from a piece of verse called the 'death of gardiner'--the person meant being the late colonel gardiner, i suppose. the beginning of the piece is about the running away of johnnie cope's men:"-- * * * * * "yet in that craven, dread-struck host, one val'rous heart beat keen and high; in that dark hour of shameful flight, one stayed behind to die! deep gash'd by many a felon blow, he sleeps where fought the vanquish'd van-- of silver'd locks and furrow'd brow, a venerable man. e'en when his thousand warriors fled-- their low-born valour quail'd and gone-- he--the meek leader of that band-- remained, and fought alone. he stood; fierce foemen throng'd around; the hollow death-groans of despair. the clashing sword, the cleaving axe, the murd'rous dirk were there. valour more stark, or hands more strong, ne'er urged the brand or launch'd the spear but what were these to that old man! god was his only fear. he stood where adverse thousands throng'd. and long that warrior fought and well;-- bravely he fought, firmly he stood, till where he stood he fell. he fell--he breathed one patriot prayer. then to his god his soul resign'd: not leaving of earth's many sons a better man behind. his valour, his high scorn of death, to fame's proud meed no impulse owed; his was a pure, unsullied zeal, for britain and for god. he fell--he died;--the savage foe trod careless o'er the noble clay; yet not in vain that champion fought, in that disastrous fray. on bigot creeds and felon swords partial success may fondly smile, till bleeds the patriot's honest heart, and flames the martyr's pile. yet not in vain the patriot bleeds; yet not in vain the martyr dies; from ashes mute, and voiceless blood, what stirring memories rise! the scoffer owns the bigot's creed, though keen the secret gibe may be; the sceptic seeks the tyrant's dome. and bends the ready knee. but oh! in dark oppression's day. when flares the torch, when flames the sword. who are the brave in freedom's cause? the men who fear the lord."[ ] "now, ladies and gentlemen," continued the critic, "this is very bad poetry. i defy any elocutionist to read it satisfactorily with the inflexes. and, besides, only see how full it is of tautology. let us take but one of the verses:--'he fell--he died!' to fall in battle means, as we all know, to die in battle;--to die in battle is exactly the same thing as to fall in battle. to say 'he fell--he died,' is therefore just tantamount to saying that he fell, he fell, or that he died, he died, and is bad poetry, and tautology. and this is one of the effects of ignorance, and a want of right education." here, however, a low grumbling sound, gradually shaping itself into words, interrupted the lecturer. there was a worthy old captain among the audience, who had not given himself very much to the study of elocution or the _belles-lettres_; he had been too much occupied in his younger days in dealing at close quarters with the french under howe and nelson, to leave him much time for the niceties of recitation or criticism. but the brave old man bore a genial, generous heart; and the strictures of the elocutionist, emitted, as all saw, in the presence of the assailed author, jarred on his feelings. "it was not gentlemanly," he said, "to attack in that way an inoffensive man: it was wrong. the poems were, he was told, very good poems. he knew good judges that thought so; and unprovoked remarks on them, such as those of the lecturer, ought not to be permitted." the lecturer replied, and in glibness and fluency would have been greatly an overmatch for the worthy captain; but a storm of hisses backed the old veteran, and the critic gave way. as his remarks were, he said, not to the taste of the audience--though he was taking only the ordinary critical liberty--he would go on to the readings. and with a few extracts, read without note or comment, the entertainment of the evening concluded. there was nothing very formidable in the critique of walsh; but, having no great powers of face, i felt it rather unpleasant to be stared at in my quiet corner by every one in the room, and looked, i daresay, very much put out; and the sympathy and condolence of such of my townsfolk as comforted me in the state of supposed annihilation and nothingness to which his criticism had reduced me, were just a little annoying. poor walsh, however, had he but known what threatened him, would have been considerably less at ease than his victim. the cousin walter introduced to the reader in an early chapter as the companion of one of my highland journeys, had grown up into a handsome and very powerful young man. one might have guessed his stature at about five feet ten or so, but it in reality somewhat exceeded six feet: he had amazing length and strength of arm; and such was his structure of bone, that, as he tucked up his sleeve to send a bowl along the town links, or to fling the hammer or throw the stone, the knobbed protuberances of the wrist, with the sinews rising sharp over them, reminded one rather of the framework of a horse's leg, than of that of a human arm. and walter, though a fine, sweet-tempered fellow, had shown, oftener than once or twice, that he could make a very formidable use of his great strength. some of the later instances had been rather interesting in their kind. there had been a large dutch transport, laden with troops, forced by stress of weather into the bay shortly before, and a handsome young soldier of the party--a native of northern germany, named wolf--had, i know not how, scraped acquaintance with walter. wolf, who, like many of his country-folk, was a great reader, and intimately acquainted, through german translations, with the waverley novels, had taken all his ideas of scotland and its people from the descriptions of scott; and in walter, as handsome as he was robust, he found the _beau-idéal_ of a scottish hero. he was a man cast in exactly the model of the harry bertrams, halbert glendinnings, and quentin durwards of the novelist. for the short time the vessel lay in the harbour, wolf and walter were inseparable. walter knew a little, mainly at second hand, through his cousin, about the heroes of scott; and wolf delighted to converse with him in his broken english about balfour of burley, rob roy, and vich ian vohr: and ever and anon would he urge him to exhibit before him some feat of strength or agility--a call to which walter was never slow to respond. there was a serjeant among the troops--a dutchman, regarded as their strongest man, who used to pride himself much on his prowess; and who, on hearing wolf's description of walter, expressed a wish to be introduced to him. wolf soon found the means of gratifying the serjeant. the strong dutchman stretched out his hand, and, on getting hold of walter's, grasped it very hard. walter saw his design, and returned the grasp with such overmastering firmness, that the hand became powerless within his. "ah!" exclaimed the dutchman, in his broken english, shaking his fingers, and blowing upon them, "me no try squeeze hand with you again; you very _very_ strong man." wolf for a minute after stood laughing and clapping his hands, as if the victory were his, not walter's. when at length the day arrived on which the transport was to sail, the two friends seemed as unwilling to part as if they had been attached for years. walter presented wolf with a favourite snuff-box; wolf gave walter his fine german pipe. before i had risen on the morning of the day succeeding that in which i had been demolished by the elocutionist, cousin walter made his way to my bedside, with a storm on his brow dark as midnight. "is it true, hugh," he inquired, "that the lecturer walsh ridiculed you and your poems in the council house last night?" "oh, and what of that?" i said; "who cares anything for the ridicule of a blockhead?" "ay," said walter, "that's always your way; but _i_ care for it! had i been there last night, i would have sent the puppy through the window, to criticize among the nettles in the yard. but there's no time lost: i shall wait on him when it grows dark this evening, and give him a lesson in good manners." "not for your life, walter!" i exclaimed. "oh," said walter, "i shall give walsh all manner of fair play." "fair play!" i rejoined; "you cannot give walsh fair play; you are an overmatch for five walshes. if you meddle with him at all, you will kill the poor slim man at a blow, and then not only will you be apprehended for manslaughter--mayhap for murder--but it will also be said that i was mean enough to set you on to do what i had not courage enough to do myself. you _must_ give up all thoughts of meddling with walsh." in short, i at length partially succeeded in convincing walter that he might do me a great mischief by assaulting my critic; but so little confident was i of his seeing the matter in its proper light, that when the lecturer, unable to get audiences, quitted the place, and walter had no longer opportunity of avenging my cause, i felt a load of anxiety taken from off my mind. there reached cromarty shortly after, a criticism that differed considerably from that of walsh, and restored the shaken confidence of some of my acquaintance. the other criticisms which had appeared in newspapers, critical journals, and literary gazettes, had been evidently the work of small men; and, feeble and commonplace in their style and thinking, they carried with them no weight--for who cares anything for the judgment, on one's writings, of men who themselves cannot write? but here, at length, was there a critique eloquently and powerfully written. it was, however, at least as extravagant in its praise as the others in their censure. the friendly critic knew nothing of the author he commended; but he had, i suppose, first seen the deprecatory criticisms, and then glanced his eye over the volume which they condemned; and finding it considerably better than it was said to be, he had rushed into generous praise, and described it as really a great deal better than it was. after an extravagantly high estimate of the powers of its author, he went on to say--"nor, in making these observations, do we speak relatively, or desire to be understood as merely saying that the poems before us are remarkable productions to emanate from a 'journeyman mason.' that this is indeed the case, no one who reads them can doubt; but in characterizing the poetical talent they display, our observations are meant to be quite absolute; and we aver, without fear of contradiction, that the pieces contained in the humble volume before us bear the stamp and impress of no ordinary genius; that they are bespangled with gems of genuine poetry; and that their unpretending author well deserves--what he will doubtless obtain--the countenance and support of a discerning public. nature is not an aristocrat to the plough-boy following his team a-field--to the shepherd tending his flocks in the wilderness--or to the rude cutter of stone, cramped over his rough occupation in the wooden shed--she sometimes dispenses her richest and rarest gifts as liberally as to the proud patrician, or the titled representative of a long line of illustrious ancestry. she is no respecter of persons; and all other distinctions yield to the title which her favours confer. the names, be they ever so humble, which she illustrates, need no other decoration to recommend them; and hence, even that of our 'journeyman mason' may yet be destined to take its place with those of men who, like him, first poured their 'wood-notes wild' in the humblest and lowliest sphere of life, but, raised into deathless song, have become familiar as household words to all who love and admire the unsophisticated productions of native genius." the late dr. james browne of edinburgh, author of the "history of the highlands," and working editor of the "encyclopædia britannica," was, as i afterwards learned, the writer of this over-eulogistic, but certainly, in the circumstances, generous critique. ultimately i found my circle of friends very considerably enlarged by the publication of my verses and letters. mr. isaac forsyth of elgin, the brother and biographer of the well-known joseph forsyth, whose classical volume on italy still holds its place as perhaps the best work to which the traveller of taste in that country can commit himself, exerted himself, as the most influential of north-country booksellers, with disinterested kindness in my behalf. the late sir thomas dick lauder, too, resident at that time at his seat of relugas in moray, lent me, unsolicited, his influence; and, distinguished by his fine taste and literary ability, he ventured to pledge both in my favour. i also received much kindness from the late miss dunbar of boath--a literary lady of the high type of the last age, and acquainted in the best literary circles, who, now late in life, admitted amid her select friends one friend more, and cheered me with many a kind letter, and invited my frequent visits to her hospitable mansion. if, in my course as a working man, i never incurred pecuniary obligation, and never spent a shilling for which i had not previously laboured, it was certainly not from want of opportunity afforded me. miss dunbar meant what she said, and oftener than once did she press her purse on my acceptance. i received much kindness, too, from the late principal baird. the venerable principal, when on one of his highland journeys--benevolently undertaken in behalf of an educational scheme of the general assembly, in the service of which he travelled, after he was turned of seventy, more than eight thousand miles--had perused my verses and letters; and, expressing a strong desire to know their author, my friend the editor of the _courier_ despatched one of his apprentices to cromarty, to say that he thought the opportunity of meeting with such a man ought not to be neglected. i accordingly went up to inverness, and had an interview with dr. baird. i had known him previously by name as one of the correspondents of burns, and the editor of the best edition of the poems of michael bruce; and, though aware at the time that his estimate of what i had done was by much too high, i yet felt flattered by his notice. he urged me to quit the north for edinburgh. the capital furnished, he said, the proper field for a literary man in scotland. what between the employment furnished by the newspapers and the magazines, he was sure i would effect a lodgment, and work my way up; and until i gave the thing a fair trial, i would, of course, come and live with him. i felt sincerely grateful for his kindness, but declined the invitation. i did think it possible, that in some subordinate capacity--as a concocter of paragraphs, or an abridger of parliamentary debates, or even as a writer of occasional articles--i might find more remunerative employment than as a stone-mason. but though i might acquaint myself in a large town, when occupied in this way, with the world of books, i questioned whether i could enjoy equal opportunities of acquainting myself with the occult and the new in natural science, as when plying my labours in the provinces as a mechanic. and so i determined that, instead of casting myself on an exhausting literary occupation, in which i would have to draw incessantly on the stock of fact and reflection which i had already accumulated, i should continue for at least several years more to purchase independence by my labours as a mason, and employ my leisure hours in adding to my fund, gleaned from original observation, and in walks not previously trodden. the venerable principal set me upon a piece of literary taskwork, which, save for his advice, i would never have thought of producing, and of which these autobiographic chapters are the late but legitimate offspring. "literary men," he said, "are sometimes spoken of as consisting of two classes--the educated and the uneducated; but they must all alike have an education before they can become literary men; and the less ordinary the mode in which the education has been acquired, the more interesting always is the story of it. i wish you to write for me an account of yours." i accordingly wrote an autobiographic sketch for the principal, which brought up my story till my return, in , from the south country to my home in the north, and which, though greatly overladen with reflection and remark, has preserved for me both the thoughts and incidents of an early time more freshly than if they had been suffered to exist till now as mere recollections in the memory. i next set myself to record, in a somewhat elaborate form, the traditions of my native place and the surrounding district; and, taking the work very leisurely, not as labour, but as amusement--for my labours, as at an earlier period, continued to be those of the stone-cutter--a bulky volume grew up under my hands. i had laid down for myself two rules. there is no more fatal error into which a working man of a literary turn can fall, than the mistake of deeming himself too good for his humble employments; and yet it is a mistake as common as it is fatal. i had already seen several poor wretched mechanics, who, believing themselves to be poets, and regarding the manual occupation by which they could alone live in independence as beneath them, had become in consequence little better than mendicants--too good to work for their bread, but not too good virtually to beg it; and, looking upon them as beacons of warning, i determined that, with god's help, i should give their error a wide offing, and never associate the ideas of meanness with an honest calling, or deem myself too good to be independent. and, in the second place, as i saw that the notice, and more especially the hospitalities, of persons in the upper walks, seemed to exercise a deteriorating effect on even strong-minded men in circumstances such as mine, i resolved rather to avoid than court the attentions from this class which were now beginning to come my way. johnson describes his "ortogrul of basra" as a thoughtful and meditative man; and yet he tells us, that after he had seen the palace of the vizier, and "admired the walls hung with golden tapestry, and the floors covered with silken carpets, he despised the simple neatness of his own little habitation." and the lesson of the fiction is, i fear, too obviously exemplified in the real history of one of the strongest-minded men of the last age--robert burns. the poet seems to have left much of his early complacency in his humble home behind him, in the splendid mansions of the men who, while they failed worthily to patronize him, injured him by their hospitalities. i found it more difficult, however, to hold by this second resolution than by the first. as i was not large enough to be made a lion of, the invitations which came my way were usually those of real kindness; and the advances of kindness i found it impossible always to repel; and so it happened that i did at times find myself in company in which the working man might be deemed misplaced and in danger. on two several occasions, for instance, after declining previous invitations not a few, i had to spend a week at a time, as the guest of my respected friend miss dunbar of boath; and my native place was visited by few superior men that i had not to meet at some hospitable board. but i trust i may say, that the temptation failed to injure me; and that on such occasions i returned to my obscure employments and lowly home, grateful for the kindness i had received, but in no degree discontented with my lot. miss dunbar belonged, as i have said, to a type of literary lady now well-nigh passed away, but of which we find frequent trace in the epistolary literature of the last century. the class comes before us in elegant and tasteful letters, indicative of minds imbued with literature, though mayhap not ambitious of authorship, and that show what ornaments their writers must have proved of the society to which they belonged, and what delight they must have given to the circles in which they more immediately moved. the lady russel, the lady luxborough, the countess of pomfret, mrs. elizabeth montague, &c. &c.,--names well fixed in the epistolary literature of england, though unknown in the walks of ordinary authorship--may be regarded as specimens of the class. even in the cases in which its members did become authoresses, and produced songs and ballads instinct with genius, they seem to have had but little of the author's ambition in them; and their songs, cast carelessly upon the waters, have been found, after many days, preserved rather by accident than design. the lady wardlaw, who produced the noble ballad of "hardyknute"--the lady ann lindsay, who wrote "auld robin gray"--the miss blamire, whose "nabob" is so charming a composition, notwithstanding its unfortunately prosaic name--and the late lady nairne, authoress of the "land o' the leal," "john tod," and the "laird o' cockpen"--are specimens of the class that fixed their names among the poets with apparently as little effort or design as singing birds pour forth their melodies. the north had, in the last age, its interesting group of ladies of this type, of whom the central figure might be regarded as the late mrs. elizabeth rose of kilravock, the correspondent of burns, and the cousin and associate of henry mackenzie, the "man of feeling." mrs. rose seems to have been a lady of a singularly fine mind--though a little touched, mayhap, by the prevailing sentimentalism of the age. the mistress of harley, miss walton, might have kept exactly such journals as hers; but the talent which they exhibited was certainly of a high order; and the feeling, though cast in a somewhat artificial mould, was, i doubt not, sincere. portions of these journals i had an opportunity of perusing when on my visit to my friend miss dunbar; and there is a copy of one of them now in my possession. another member of this group was the late mrs. grant of laggan--at the time when it existed unbroken, the mistress of a remote highland manse, and known but to her personal friends by those earlier letters which form the first half of her "letters from the mountains," and which, in ease and freshness, greatly surpass aught which she produced after she began her career of authorship. not a few of her letters, and several of her poems, were addressed to my friend miss dunbar. some of the other members of the group were greatly younger than mrs. grant and the lady of kilravock. and of these, one of the most accomplished was the late lady gordon cumming of altyre, known to scientific men by her geologic labours among the ichthyolitic formations of moray, and mother of the famous lion-hunter, mr. gordon cumming. my friend miss dunbar was at this time considerably advanced in life, and her health far from good. she possessed, however, a singular buoyancy of spirits, which years and frequent illness had failed to depress; and her interest and enjoyment in nature and in books remained as high as when, long before, her friend mrs. grant had addressed her as "helen, by every sympathy allied, by love of virtue and by love of song, compassionate in youth and beauty's pride." her mind was imbued with literature, and stored with literary anecdote: she conversed with elegance, giving interest to whatever she touched; and, though she seemed never to have thought of authorship in her own behalf, she wrote pleasingly and with great facility, in both prose and verse. her verses, usually of a humorous cast, ran trippingly off the tongue, as if the words had dropped by some happy accident--for the arrangement bore no mark of effort--into exactly the places where they at once best brought out the writer's meaning, and addressed themselves most pleasingly to the ear. the opening stanzas of a light _jeu d'esprit_ on a young naval officer engaged in a lady-killing expedition in cromarty, dwell in my memory; and--first premising, by way of explanation, that miss dunbar's brother, the late baronet of boath, was a captain in the navy, and that the lady-killer was his first lieutenant--i shall take the liberty of giving all i remember of the piece, as a specimen of her easy style:-- "in cromarty bay, as the 'driver' snug lay, the lieutenant would venture ashore and, a figure to cut, from the head to the foot he was fashion and finery all o'er. a hat richly laced, to the left side was placed, which made him look martial and bold; his coat of true blue was spick and span new. and the buttons were burnished with gold. his neckcloth well puffed. which six handkerchiefs stuffed, and in colour with snow might have vied, was put on with great care, as a bait for the fair, and the ends in a love-knot were tied," &c. &c. i greatly enjoyed my visits to this genial-hearted and accomplished lady. no chilling condescensions on her part measured out to me my distance: miss dunbar took at once the common ground of literary tastes and pursuits; and if i did not feel my inferiority there, she took care that i should feel it nowhere else. there was but one point on which we differed. while hospitably extending to me every facility for visiting the objects of scientific interest in her neighbourhood--such as those sand-wastes of culbin in which an ancient barony finds burial, and the geologic sections presented by the banks of the findhorn--she was yet desirous to fix me down to literature as my proper walk; and i, on the other hand, was equally desirous of escaping into science. footnotes: [ ] i am reminded by the editor of the _courier_, in a very kind critique on the present volume, of a passage in the history of my little work which had escaped my memory. "it had come," he states, "to the knowledge of sir walter scott, who endeavoured to procure a copy after the limited impression was exhausted." [ ] the following are the opening stanzas of the piece--quite as obnoxious to criticism, i fear, as those selected by walsh:-- "have ye not seen, on winter's eve, when snow-rack dimm'd the welkin's face. borne wave-like, by the fitful breeze. the snow-wreath shifting place? silent and slow as drifting wreath. ere day, the clans from preston hill moved downward to the vale beneath:-- dark was the scene and still! in stormy autumn day, when sad the boding peasant frets forlorn, have ye not seen the mountain stream bear down the standing corn? at dawn, when preston bog was cross'd, like mountain stream that bursts its banks. charged wild those celtic hearts of fire. on cope's devoted ranks. have ye not seen, from lonesome waste, the smoke-tower rising tall and slow, o'erlooking, like a stately tree, the russet plain below? and have ye mark'd that pillar'd wreath, when sudden struck by northern blast, amid the low and stunted heath, in broken volumes cast? at sunrise, as by northern blast the pillar'd smoke is roll'd away. fled all that cloud of saxon war. in headlong disarray." * * * chapter xxi. "he who, with pocket hammer, smites the edge of luckless rock or prominent stone, disguised in weather stains, or crusted o'er by nature with her first growths--detaching by the stroke a chip or splinter, to resolve his doubts; and, with that ready answer satisfied, the substance classes by some barbarous name. and hurries on."--wordsworth. in the course of my two visits to miss dunbar, i had several opportunities of examining the sand-wastes of culbin, and of registering some of the peculiarities which distinguish the arenaceous sub-aërial formation from the arenaceous sub-aqueous one. of the present surface of the earth, considerably more than six millions of square miles are occupied in africa and asia alone by sandy deserts. with but the interruption of the narrow valley of the nile, an enormous zone of arid sand, full nine hundred miles across, stretches from the eastern coast of africa to within a few days' journey of the chinese frontier: it is a belt that girdles nearly half the globe;--a vast "ocean," according to the moors, "without water." the sandy deserts of the rainless districts of chili are also of great extent: and there are few countries in even the higher latitudes that have not their tracts of arenaceous waste. these sandy tracts, so common in the present scene of things, could not, i argued, be restricted to the recent geologic periods. they must have existed, like all the commoner phenomena of nature, under every succeeding system in which the sun shone, and the winds blew, and ocean-beds were upheaved to the air and the light, and the waves threw upon the shore, from arenaceous sea-bottoms, their accumulations of light sand. and i was now employed in acquainting myself with the marks by which i might be able to distinguish sub-aërial from sub-aqueous formations, among the ever-recurring sandstone beds of the geologic deposits. i have spent, when thus engaged, very delightful hours amid the waste. in pursuing one's education, it is always very pleasant to get into those _forms_ that are not yet introduced into any school. one of the peculiarities of the sub-aërial formation which i at this time detected struck me as curious. on approaching, among the sand-hills, an open level space, covered thickly over with water-rolled pebbles and gravel, i was surprised to see that, dry and hot as the day was elsewhere, the little open space seemed to have been subjected to a weighty dew or smart shower. the pebbles glistened bright in the sun, and bore the darkened hue of recent wet. on examination, however, i found that the rays were reflected, not from wetted, but from polished surfaces. the light grains of sand, dashed against the pebbles by the winds during a long series of years--grain after grain repeating its minute blow, where, mayhap, millions of grains had struck before--had at length given a resinous-looking, uneven polish to all their exposed portions, while the portions covered up retained the dull unglossy coat given them of old by the agencies of friction and water. i have not heard the peculiarity described as a characteristic of the arenaceous deserts; but though it seems to have escaped notice, it will, i doubt not, be found to obtain wherever there are sands for the winds to waft along, and hard pebbles against which the grains may be propelled. in examining, many years after, a few specimens of silicified wood brought from the egyptian desert, i at once recognised on their flinty surfaces the resinous-like gloss of the pebbles of culbin; nor can i doubt that, if geology has its sub-aërial formations of consolidated sand, they will be found characterized by their polished pebbles. i marked several other peculiarities of the formation. in some of the abrupter sections laid open by the winds, tufts of the bent-grass (_arundo arenaria_--common here, as in all sandy wastes) that had been buried up where they grew, might be distinctly traced, each upright in itself, but rising tuft above tuft in the steep angle of the hillock which they had originally covered. and though, from their dark colour, relieved against the lighter hue of the sand, they reminded me of the carbonaceous markings of sandstone of the coal measures, i recognised at least _their arrangement_ as unique. it seems to be such an arrangement--sloping in the general line, but upright in each of the tufts--as could take place in only a sub-aërial formation. i observed further, that in frequent instances there occurred on the surface of the sand, around decaying tufts of the bent-grass, deeply-marked circles, as if drawn by a pair of compasses or a trainer--effects apparently of eddy winds whirling round, as on a pivot, the decayed plants; and yet further, that footprints, especially those of rabbits and birds, were not unfrequent in the waste. and as lines of stratification were, i found, distinctly preserved in the formation, i deemed it not improbable that, in cases in which high winds had arisen immediately after tracts of wet weather, and covered with sand, rapidly dried on the heights, the damp beds in the hollows, both the circular markings and the footprints might remain fixed in the strata, to tell of their origin. i found in several places, in chasms scooped out by a recent gale, pieces of the ancient soil laid bare, which had been covered up by the sand-flood nearly two centuries before. in one of the openings the marks of the ancient furrows were still discernible; in another, the thin stratum of ferruginous soil had apparently never been brought under the plough; and i found it charged with roots of the common brake (_pteris aquilina_), in a perfect state of keeping, but black and brittle as coal. beneath this layer of soil lay a thin deposit of the stratified gravel of what is now known as the later glacial period--the age of _osars_ and moraines; and beneath all--for the underlying old red sandstone of the district is not exposed amid the level wastes of culbin--rested the boulder clay, the memorial of a time of submergence, when scotland sat low in the sea as a wintry archipelago of islands, brushed by frequent icebergs, and when sub-arctic molluscs lived in her sounds and bays. a section of a few feet in vertical extent presented me with four distinct periods. there was, first, the period of the sand-flood, represented by the bar of pale-sand; then, secondly, the period of cultivation and human occupancy, represented by the dark plough-furrowed belt of hardened soil; thirdly, there was the gravel; and, fourthly, the clay. and that shallow section exhausted the historic ages, and more; for the double band of gravel and clay belonged palpably to the geologic ages, ere man had appeared on our planet. there had been found in the locality, only a few years previous to this time, a considerable number of stone arrow-heads--some of them only partially finished, and some of them marred in the making, as if some fletcher of the stone age had carried on his work on the spot; and all these memorials of a time long anterior to the first beginnings of history in the island were restricted to the stratum of hardened mould. i carried on my researches in this--what i may term the chronological--direction, in connexion with the old-coast line, which, as i have already said, is finely developed in the neighbourhood of cromarty on both sides of the firth, and represented along the precipices of the sutors by its line of deep caves, into which the sea never now enters. and it, too, pressed upon me the fact of the amazing antiquity of the globe. i found that the caves hollowed by the surf--when the sea stood from fifteen to five-and-twenty feet above its present level, or, as i should perhaps rather say, when the land sat that much lower--were deeper, on the average, by about one-third, than those caves of the present coast-line that are still in the course of being hollowed by the waves. and yet the waves have been breaking against the present coast-line during the whole of the historic period. the ancient wall of antoninus, which stretched between the firths of forth and clyde, was built at its terminations with reference to the existing levels; and ere caesar landed in britain, st. michael's mount was connected with the mainland, as now, by a narrow neck of beach laid bare by the ebb, across which, according to diodorus siculus, the cornish miners used to drive, at low water, their carts laden with tin. if the sea has stood for two thousand six hundred years against the present coast-line--and no geologist would fix his estimate of the term lower--then must it have stood against the old line, ere it could have excavated caves one-third deeper than the modern ones, three thousand nine hundred years. and both sums united more than exhaust the hebrew chronology. yet what a mere beginning of geologic history does not the epoch of the old coast-line form! it is but a starting-point from the recent period. not a single shell seems to have become extinct during the last six thousand years. the organisms which i found deeply embedded in the soil beneath the old coast-line were exactly those which still live in our seas; and i have been since told by mr. smith of jordanhill, one of our highest authorities on the subject, that he detected only three shells of the period with which he was not familiar as existing forms, and that he subsequently met with all three, in his dredging expeditions, still alive. the six thousand years of human history form but a portion of the geologic day that is passing over us: they do not extend into the _yesterday_ of the globe, far less touch the myriads of ages spread out beyond. dr. chalmers had taught, more than a quarter of a century previous to this time, that the scriptures do not fix the antiquity of the earth. "if they fix anything," he said, "it is only the antiquity of the human species." the doctor, though not practically a geologist at the time, had shrewdly weighed both the evidence adduced and the scientific character of the men who adduced it, and arrived at a conclusion, in consequence, which may now be safely regarded as the final one. i, on the other hand, who knew comparatively little about the standing of the geologists, or the weight which ought to attach to their testimony, based my findings regarding the vast antiquity of the earth on exactly the data on which they had founded theirs; and the more my acquaintance with the geologic deposits has since extended, the firmer have my convictions on the subject become, and the more pressing and inevitable have i felt the ever-growing demand for longer and yet longer periods for their formation. as certainly as the sun is the centre of our system, must our earth have revolved around it for millions of years. an american theologian, the author of a little book entitled the "epoch of creation," in doing me the honour of referring to my convictions on this subject, states, that i "betray indubitable tokens of being spell-bound to the extent of infatuation, by the foregone conclusion of" my "theory concerning the high antiquity of the earth, and the succession of animal and vegetable creations." he adds further, in an eloquent sentence, a page and a half long, that had i first studied and credited my bible, i would have failed to believe in successive creations and the geologic chronology. i trust, however, i may say i did first study and believe my bible. but such is the structure of the human mind, that, save when blinded by passion or warped by prejudice, it must yield an involuntary consent to the force of evidence; and i can now no more refuse believing, in opposition to respectable theologians such as mr. granville penn, professor moses stuart, and mr. eleazar lord, that the earth is of an antiquity incalculably vast, than i can refuse believing, in opposition to still more respectable theologians, such as st. augustine, lactantius, and turretine, that it has antipodes, and moves round the sun. and further, of this, men such as the messrs. penn, stuart, and lord may rest assured, that what i believe in this matter now, all theologians, even the weakest, will be content to believe fifty years hence. sometimes a chance incident taught me an interesting geological lesson. at the close of the year , a tremendous hurricane from the south and west, unequalled in the north of scotland, from at least the time of the great hurricane of christmas , blew down in a single hour four thousand full-grown trees on the hill of cromarty. the vast gaps and avenues which it opened in the wood above could be seen from the town; and no sooner had it begun to take off than i set out for the scene of its ravages. i had previously witnessed, from a sheltered hollow of the old coast-line, the extraordinary appearance of the sea. it would seem as if the very violence of the wind had kept down the waves. it brushed off their tops as they were rising, and swept along the spray in one dense cloud, white as driving snow, that rose high into the air as it receded from the shore, and blotted out along the horizon the line between sky and water. as i approached the wood, i met two poor little girls of from eight to ten years, coming running and crying along the road in a paroxysm of consternation; but, gathering heart on seeing me, they stood to tell that when the storm was at its worst they were in the midst of the falling trees. setting out for the hill on the first rising of the wind, in the expectation of a rich harvest of withered boughs, they had reached one of its most exposed ridges just as the gale had attained to its extreme height, and the trees began to crash down around them. their little tear-bestained countenances still continued to show how extreme the agony of their terror had been. they would run, they said, for a few paces in one direction, until some huge pine would come roaring down, and block up their path; when, turning with a shriek, they would run for a few paces in another; and then, terrified by a similar interruption, again strike off in a third. at length, after passing nearly an hour in the extremest peril, and in at least all the fear which the circumstances justified, they succeeded in making their way unhurt to the outer skirts of the wood. bewick would have found in the incident the subject of a vignette that would have told its own story. in getting into the thick of the trees, i was struck by the extraordinary character of the scene presented. in some places, greatly more than half their number lay stretched upon the ground. on the more exposed prominences of the hill, scarce a tree was left standing for acres together: they covered the slopes; tree stretched over tree like tiles on a roof, with here and there some shattered trunk whose top had been blown off, and carried by the hurricane some fifteen or twenty yards away, leaning in sad ruin over its fallen comrades. what, however, formed the most striking, because less expected, parts of the scene, were the tall walls of turf that stood up everywhere among the fallen trees, like the ruins of dismantled cottages. the granitic gneiss of the hill is covered by a thick deposit of the red boulder clay of the district, and the clay, in turn, by a thin layer of vegetable mould, interlaced in every direction by the tree roots, which, arrested in their downward progress by the stiff clay, are restricted to the upper layer. and, save where here and there i found some tree snapped across in the midst, or divested of its top, all the others had yielded at the line between the boulder clay and the soil, and had torn up, as they fell, vast walls of the felted turf, from fifteen to twenty feet in length, by from ten to twelve feet in height. there were quite enough of these walls standing up among the prostrate trees, to have formed a score of the eastern sultan's ruined villages; and they imparted to the scene one of its strangest features. i have mentioned in an early chapter, that the hill had its dense thickets, which, from the gloom that brooded in their recesses even at mid-day, were known to the boys of the neighbouring town as the "dungeons." they had now fared, however, in this terrible overturn, like dungeons elsewhere in times of revolution, and were all swept away; and piles of prostrate trees--in some instances ten or twelve in a single heap marked where they had stood. in several localities, where they fell over swampy hollows, or where deep-seated springs came gushing to the light, i found the water partially dammed up, and saw that, were they to be left to cumber the ground as the debris of forests destroyed by hurricanes in the earlier ages of scottish history would certainly have been left, the deep shade and the moisture could not have failed to induce a total change in the vegetation. i marked, too, the fallen trees all lying one way, in the direction of the wind; and the thought at once struck me, that in this recent scene of devastation i had the origin of full one-half of our scottish mosses exemplified. some of the mosses of the south date from the times of roman invasion. their lower tiers of trunks bear the mark of the roman axe; and in some instances, the sorely wasted axe itself--a narrow, oblong tool, somewhat resembling that of the american backwoodsman--has been found sticking in the buried stump some of our other mosses are of still more modern origin: there exist scottish mosses that seem to have been formed when robert the bruce felled the woods and wasted the country of john of lorn. but of the others, not a few have palpably owed their origin to violent hurricanes, such as the one which on this occasion ravaged the hill of cromarty. the trees which form their lower stratum are broken across, or torn up by the roots, _and their trunks all lie one way_. much of the interest of a science such as geology must consist in the ability of making dead deposits represent living scenes; and from this hurricane i was enabled to conceive, pictorially, if i may so express myself, of the origin of those comparatively recent deposits of scotland which, formed almost exclusively of vegetable matter, contain, with rude works of art, and occasionally remains of the early human inhabitants of the country, skeletons of the wolf, the bear, and the beaver, with horns of the _bos primigenius_ and _bos longifrons_, and of a gigantic variety of red deer, unequalled in size by animals of the same species in these latter ages. occasionally i was enabled to vivify in this way even the ancient deposits of the lias, with their vast abundance of cephalopodous mollusca--belemnites, ammonites, and nautili. my friend of the cave had become parish schoolmaster of nigg; and his hospitable dwelling furnished me with an excellent centre for exploring the geology of the parish, especially its liassic deposits at shandwick, with their huge gryphites and their numerous belemnites, of at least two species, comparatively rare at eathie--the _belemnite abreviatus_ and _belemnite elongatus_. i had learned that these curious shells once formed part of the internal framework of a mollusc more nearly akin to the cuttle-fishes of the present day than aught else that now exists; and the cuttle-fishes--not rare in at least one of their species (_loligo vulgare_) in the firth of cromarty--i embraced every opportunity of examining. i have seen from eighteen to twenty individuals of this species enclosed at once in the inner chamber of one of our salmon-wears. the greater number of these shoals i have ordinarily found dead, and tinged with various shades of green, blue, and yellow--for it is one of the characteristics of the creature to assume, when passing into a state of decomposition, a succession of brilliant colours; but i have seen from six to eight individuals of their number still alive in a little pool beside the nets, and still retaining their original pink tint, freckled with red. and these i have observed, as my shadow fell across their little patch of water, darting from side to side in panic terror within the narrow confines, emitting ink at almost every dart, until the whole pool had become a deep solution of sepia. some of my most interesting recollections of the cuttle-fish are associated, however, with the capture and dissection of a single specimen. the creature, in swimming, darts through the water much in the manner that a boy slides down an ice-crusted declivity, feet foremost;--the lower or nether extremities go first, and the head behind: it follows its tail, instead of being followed by it; and this curious peculiarity in its mode of progression, though, of course, on the whole, the mode best adapted to its conformation and instincts, sometimes proves fatal to it in calm weather, when not a ripple breaks upon the pebbles, to warn that the shore is near. an enemy appears: the creature ejects its cloud of ink, like a sharp-shooter discharging his rifle ere he retreats; and then, darting away, tail foremost, under cover of the cloud, it grounds itself high upon the beach, and perishes there. i was walking, one very calm day, along the cromarty shore, a little to the west of the town, when i heard a peculiar sound--a _squelch_, if i may employ such a word--and saw that a large loligo, fully a foot and a half in length, had thrown itself high and dry upon the beach. i laid hold of it by its sheath or sack; and the loligo, in turn, laid hold of the pebbles, apparently to render its abduction as difficult as possible, just as i have seen a boy, when borne off against his will by a stronger than himself, grasping fast to door-posts and furniture. the pebbles were hard and smooth, but the creature raised them very readily with his suckers. i subjected one of my hands to its grasp, and it seized fast hold; but though the suckers were still employed, it made use of them on a different principle. around the circular rim of each there is a fringe of minute thorns, hooked somewhat like those of the wild rose. in clinging to the hard polished pebbles, these were overlapped by a fleshy membrane, much in the manner that the cushions of a cat's paw overlap its claws when the animal is in a state of tranquillity; and by means of the projecting membrane, the hollow interior was rendered air-tight, and the vacuum completed: but in dealing with the hand--a soft substance--the thorns were laid bare, like the claws of a cat when stretched out in anger, and at least a thousand minute prickles were fixed in the skin at once. they failed to penetrate it, for they were short, and individually not strong; but, acting together by hundreds, they took at least a very firm hold. what follows may be deemed barbarous; but the men who gulp down at a sitting half-a-hundred live oysters to gratify their taste, may surely forgive me the destruction of a single mollusc to gratify my curiosity! i cut open the sack of the creature with a sharp penknife, and laid bare the viscera. what a sight for harvey, when prosecuting, in the earlier stages, his grand discovery of the circulation! _there_, in the centre, was the yellow muscular heart, propelling into the transparent, tubular arteries, the _yellow_ blood. beat--beat--beat:--i could see the whole as in a glass model; and all i lacked were powers of vision nice enough to enable me to detect the fluid passing through the minuter arterial branches, and then returning by the veins to the _two_ other hearts of the creature; for, strange to say, it is furnished with three. there in the midst i saw the yellow heart, and, lying altogether detached from it, two other deep-coloured hearts at the sides. i cut a little deeper. _there_ was the gizzard-like stomach, filled with fragments of minute mussel and crab shells; and _there_, inserted in the spongy, conical, yellowish-coloured liver, and somewhat resembling in form a florence flask, was the ink-bag distended, with its deep dark sepia--the identical pigment sold under that name in our colour shops, and so extensively used in landscape drawing by the limner. i then dissected and laid open the circular or ring-like brain that surrounds the creature's parrot-like beak, as if its _thinking_ part had no other vocation than simply to take care of the mouth and its pertinents--almost the sole employment, however, of not a few brains of a considerably higher order. i next laid open the huge eyes. they were curious organs, more simple in their structure than those of the true fishes, but admirably adapted, i doubt not, for the purposes of seeing. a camera obscura may be described as consisting of two parts--a lens in front, and a darkened chamber behind; but in the eyes of fishes, as in the brute and human eye, we find a third part added: there is a lens in the middle, a darkened chamber behind, and a lighted chamber, or rather vestibule, in front. now, this lighted vestibule--the cornea--is wanting in the eye of the cuttle-fish. the lens is placed in front, and the darkened chamber behind. the construction of the organ is that of a common camera obscura. i found something worthy of remark, too, on the peculiar style in which the chamber is darkened. in the higher animals it may be described as a chamber hung with black velvet--the _pigmentum nigrum_ which covers it is of the deepest black; but in the cuttle-fish it is a chamber hung with velvet, not of a black, but of a dark purple hue--the _pigmentum nigrum_ is of a purplish red colour. there is something interesting in marking this first departure from an invariable condition of eyes of the more perfect structure, and in then tracing the peculiarity downwards through almost every shade of colour, to the emerald-like eye-specks of the pecten, and the still more rudimentary red eye-specks of the star-fish. after examining the eyes, i next laid open, in all its length, from the neck to the point of the sack, the dorsal bone of the creature--its internal shell, i should rather say, for bone it has none. the form of the shell in this species is that of a feather, equally developed in the web on both sides. it gives rigidity to the body, and furnishes the muscles with a fulcrum; and we find it composed, like all other _shells_, of a mixture of animal matter and carbonate of lime. such was the lesson taught me in a single walk; and i have recorded it at some length. the subject of it, the loligo, has been described by some of our more distinguished naturalists, such as kirby in his bridgewater treatise, as "one of the most wonderful works of the creator;" and the reader will perhaps remember how fraught with importance to natural science an incident similar to the one related proved in the life of the youthful cuvier. it was when passing his twenty-second year on the sea-coast, near fiquainville, that this greatest of modern naturalists was led, by finding a cuttle-fish stranded on the beach, which he afterwards dissected, to study the anatomy and character of the mollusca. to me, however, the lesson served merely to vivify the dead deposits of the oolitic system, as represented by the lias of cromarty and ross. the middle and later ages of the great secondary division were peculiarly ages of the cephalopodous molluscs: their belemnites, ammonites, nautili, baculites, hamites, turrilites, and scaphites, belonged to the great natural class--singularly rich in its extinct orders and genera, though comparatively poor in its existing ones--which we find represented by the cuttle-fish; and when engaged in disinterring the remains of the earlier-born members of the family--ammonites, belemnites, and nautili--from amid the shales of eathie or the mud-stones of shandwick, the incident of the loligo has enabled me to conceive of them, not as mere dead remains, but as the living inhabitants of primæval seas, stirred by the diurnal tides, and lighted up by the sun. when pursuing my researches amid the deposits of the lias, i was conducted to an interesting discovery. there are two great systems of hills in the north of scotland--an older and a newer--that bisect each other like the furrows of a field that had first been ploughed across and then diagonally. the diagonal furrows, as the last drawn, are still very entire. the great caledonian valley, open from sea to sea, is the most remarkable of these; but the parallel valleys of the nairn, of the findhorn, and of the spey, are all well-defined furrows; nor are the mountain ridges which separate them less definitely ranged in continuous lines. the ridges and furrows of the earlier ploughing are, on the contrary, as might be anticipated, broken and interrupted: the effacing plough has passed over them: and yet there are certain localities in which we find the fragments of this earlier system sufficiently entire to form one of the main features of the landscape. in passing through the upper reaches of the moray firth, and along the caledonian valley, the cross furrows may be seen branching off to the west, and existing as the valleys of loch fleet, of the dornoch firth, of the firth of cromarty, of the bay of munlochy, of the firth of beauty, and, as we enter the highlands proper, as glen urquhart, glen morrison, glen garry, loch arkaig, and loch eil. the diagonal system--represented by the great valley itself, and known as the system of ben nevis and the ord of caithness in our own country, and, according to de beaumont, as that of mount pilate and coté d'or on the continent--was upheaved after the close of the oolitic ages. it was not until at least the period of the weald that its "hills had been formed and its mountains brought forth;" and in the line of the moray firth the lias and oolite lie uptilted, at steep angles, against the sides of its long ranges of precipice. it is not so easy determining the age of the older system. no formation occurs in the north of scotland between the lias and the old red sandstone: the vast carboniferous, permian, and triassic deposits are represented by a wide gap; and all that can be said regarding the older hills is, that they disturbed and bore up with them the old red sandstone; but that as there lay at their bases, at the time of their upheaval, no more modern rock to be disturbed, it seems impossible definitely to fix their era. neither does there appear among their estuaries or valleys any trace of the oolitic deposits. existing, in all probability, during even the times of the lias, as the sub-aërial framework of oolitic scotland--as the framework on which the oolitic vegetables grew--no deposit of the system could of course have taken place over them. i had not yet, however, formed any very definite idea regarding the two systems, or ascertained that they belonged apparently to a different time; and finding the lias upheaved against the steeper sides of the moray firth--one of the huge furrows of the more modern system--i repeatedly sought to find it uptilted also against the shores of the cromarty firth--one of the furrows of the greatly more ancient one. i had, however, prosecuted the search in a somewhat desultory manner; and as in the autumn of a pause of a few days took place in my professional labours between the completing of one piece of work and the commencement of another, i resolved on devoting the time to a thorough survey of the cromarty firth, in the hope of detecting the lias. i began my search at the granitic gneiss of the hill, and, proceeding westwards, passed in succession, in the ascending order, over the uptilted beds of the lower old red sandstone, from the great conglomerate base of the system, till i reached the middle member of the deposit, which consists, in this locality, of alternate beds of limestone, sandstone, and stratified clay, and which we find represented in caithness by the extensively developed flag-stones. and then, the rock disappearing, i passed over a pebbly beach mottled with boulders; and in a little bay not half a mile distant from the town, i again found the rock laid bare. i had long before observed that the rock rose to the surface in this little bay; i had even employed, when a boy, pieces of its stratified clay as slate-pencil; but i had yet failed minutely to examine it. i was now, however, struck by its resemblance, in all save colour, to the lias. the strata lay at a low angle: they were composed of an argillaceous shale, and abounded in limestone nodules; and, save that both shale and nodules bore, instead of the deep liassic grey, an olivaceous tint, i might have almost supposed i had fallen on a continuation of some of the eathie beds. i laid open a nodule with a blow of the hammer, and my heart leaped up when i saw that it enclosed an organism. a dark, ill-defined, bituminous mass occupied the centre; but i could distinguish what seemed to be spines and small ichthyic bones projecting from its edges; and when i subjected them to the scrutiny of the glass, unlike those mere chance resemblances which sometimes deceive for a moment the eye, the more distinct and unequivocal did their forms become. i laid open a second nodule. it contained a group of glittering rhomboidal scales, with a few cerebral plates, and a jaw bristling with teeth. a third nodule also supplied its organism, in a well-defined ichthyolite, covered with minute, finely-striated scales, and furnished with a sharp spine in the anterior edge of every fin. i eagerly wrought on, and disinterred, in the course of a single tide, specimens enough to cover a museum table; and it was with intense delight that, as the ripple of the advancing tide was rising against the pebbles, and covering up the ichthyolitic beds, i carried them to the higher slopes of the beach, and, seated on a boulder, began carefully to examine them in detail with a common botanist's microscope. but not a plate, spine, or scale, could i detect among their organisms, identical with the ichthyic remains of the lias. i had got amid the remains of an entirely different and incalculably more ancient creation. my new-found organisms represented, not the first, but merely the second age of vertebrate existence on our planet; but as the remains of the earlier age exist as the mere detached teeth and spines of placoids, which, though they give full evidence of the _existence_ of the fishes to which they belong, throw scarce any light on their structure, it is from the ganoids of this second age that the palæontologist can with certainty know under what peculiarities of form, and associated with what varieties of mechanism, vertebral life existed in the earlier ages of the world. in my new-found deposit--to which i soon added, however, within the limits of the parish, some six or eight deposits more, all charged with the same ichthyic remains--i found i had work enough before me for the patient study of years. chapter xxii. "they lay aside their private cares, to mend the kirk and state affairs; they'll talk o' patronage and priests, wi' kindling fury in their breasts; or tell what new taxation 's comin', an' ferlie at the folk in _lon'on_."--burns. we had, as i have already stated, no dissenters in the parish of cromarty. what were known as the haldanes' people, had tried to effect a lodgment among us in the town, but without success: in the course of several years they failed to acquire more than six or eight members; and these were not of the more solid people, but marked as an eccentric class, fond of argument, and possessed by a rage for the novel and the extreme. the leading teachers of the party were a retired english merchant and an ex-blacksmith, who, quitting the forge in middle life, had pursued the ordinary studies to no very great effect, and become a preacher. and both were, i believe, good men, but by no means prudent missionaries. they said very strong things against the church of scotland, in a place where the church of scotland was much respected; and it was observed, that while they did not do a great deal to convert the irreligious to christianity, they were exceedingly zealous in their endeavours to make the religious baptists. much to my annoyance in my younger days, they used to waylay uncle sandy on his return from the hill, on evenings when i had gone to get some lessons from him regarding sand-worms, or razor-fish, or the sea-hare, and engage him in long controversies about infant baptism and church establishments. the matters which they discussed were greatly too high for me, nor was i by any means an attentive listener; but i picked up enough to know that uncle sandy, though a man of slow speech, held stiffly to the establishment scheme of knox, and the defence of presbyterianism; and it did not require any particularly nice perceptive powers to observe that both his antagonists and himself used at times to get pretty warm, and to talk tolerably loud--louder, at least, than was at all necessary in the quiet evening woods. i remember, too, that in urging him to quit the national church for theirs, they usually employed language borrowed from the revelations; and that, calling his church _babylon_, they bade him come out of her, that he might not be a partaker of her plagues. uncle sandy had seen too much of the world, and read and heard too much of controversy, to be out of measure shocked by the phrase; but with a decent farmer of the parish the hard words of the proselytizers did them a mischief. the retired merchant had urged him to quit the establishment; and the farmer had replied by asking, in his simplicity, whether he thought he ought to leave his church to sink in that way? "yes," exclaimed the merchant, with great emphasis; "leave her to sink to her place--the lowest hell!" this was terrible: the decent farmer opened his huge eyes at hearing what he deemed a bold blasphemy. the church of which the baptist spoke was, in cromarty at least, the church of the _outed_ mr. hugh anderson, who gave up his all in the time of the persecution, for conscience' sake; it was the church of mr. gordon, whose ministry had been so signally countenanced during the period of the great revival; it was the church of devout mr. monro, and of worthy mr. smith, and of many a godly elder and god-fearing member who had held by christ the head; and yet here was it denounced as a church whose true place was hell. the farmer turned away, sick of the controversy; and the imprudent speech of the retired merchant flew like wildfire over the parish. "surely," says bacon, "princes have need, in tender matters and ticklish times, to beware what they say, especially in those short speeches which fly about like darts, and are thought to be shot out of their secret intentions." princes are, however, not the only men who would do well to beware of short speeches. the short speech of the merchant ruined the baptist cause in cromarty; and the two missionaries might, on its delivery, have just done, if they but knew the position to which it reduced them, what they were content to do a few years after--pack up their moveables and quit the place. having for years no antagonists to contend with outside the pale of the establishment, it was of course natural that we should find opponents within. but during the incumbency of mr. smith--the minister of the parish for the first one-and-twenty years of my life--even these were wanting; and we passed a very quiet time, undisturbed by controversy of any kind, political or ecclesiastical. nor were the first few years of mr. stewart's incumbency less quiet. the catholic relief bill was a pebble cast into the pool, but a very minute one; and the ripple which it raised caused scarce any agitation. mr. stewart did not see his way clearly through all the difficulties of the measure; but, influenced in part by some of his brethren in the neighbourhood, he at length made up his mind to petition against it; and to his petition, praying that no concessions should be made to the papists, greatly more than nineteen-twentieths of the male parishioners affixed their names. the few individuals who kept aloof were chiefly lads of an extra-liberal turn, devoid, like most extreme politicians, of the ordinary ecclesiastical sympathies of their countryfolk; and as i cultivated no acquaintance with them, and was more ecclesiastical than political in my leanings, i had the satisfaction of finding myself standing, in opposition to all my friends, on the catholic relief measure, in a respectable minority of one. even uncle sandy, after some little demur, and an explosion against the irish establishment, set off and signed the petition. i failed, however, to see that i was in the wrong. with the two great facts of the irish union and the irish church before me, i could not petition against roman catholic emancipation. i felt, too, that were i myself a roman catholic, i would listen to no protestant argument until what i held to be justice had first been done me. i would have at once inferred that a religion associated with what i deemed injustice was a false, not a true, religion; and, on the strength of the inference, would have rejected it without further inquiry; and could i fail to believe that what i myself would have done in the circumstances, many roman catholics were actually doing? and believing i could defend my position, which was certainly not an obtrusive one, and was at times assailed in conversation by my friends, in a way that showed, as i thought, they did not understand it, i sat down and wrote an elaborate letter on the subject, addressed to the editor of the _inverness courier_; in which, as i afterwards found, i was happy enough to anticipate in some points the line taken up, in his famous emancipation speech, by a man whom i had early learned to recognise as the greatest and wisest of scottish ministers--the late dr. chalmers. on glancing over my letter, however, and then looking round me on the good men among my townsfolk--including my uncle and my minister--with whom it would have the effect of placing me in more decided antagonism than any mere refusal to sign their petition, i resolved, instead of dropping it into the post-office, to drop it into the fire, which i accordingly did; and so the matter took end; and what i had to say in my own defence, and in that of emancipation, was in consequence never said. this, however, was but the mere shadow of a controversy; it was merely a possible controversy, strangled in the birth. but some three years after, the parish was agitated by a dire ecclesiastical dispute, which set us all together by the ears. the place had not only its parish church, but also its gaelic chapel, which, though on the ordinary foundation of a chapel of ease, was endowed, and under the patronage of the crown. it had been built about sixty years previous, by a benevolent proprietor of the lands of cromarty--"george ross, the scotch agent"--whom junius ironically described as the "trusted friend and worthy confidant of lord mansfield;" and who, whatever the satirist may have thought of either, was in reality a man worthy the friendship of the accomplished and philosophic lawyer. cromarty, originally a lowland settlement, had had from the reformation down till the latter quarter of the last century no gaelic place of worship. on the breaking up of the feudal system, however, the highlanders began to drop into the place in quest of employment; and george ross, affected by their uncared-for religious condition, built for them, at his own expense, a chapel, and had influence enough to get an endowment for its minister from the government. government retained the patronage in its own hands; and as the highlanders consisted of but labourers and farm servants, and the workers in a hempen manufactory, and had no manner of influence, their wishes were not always consulted in the choice of a minister. about the time of mr. stewart's appointment, through the late sir robert peel, who had courteously yielded to the wishes of the english congregation, the gaelic people had got a minister presented to them whom they would scarcely have chosen for themselves, but who had, notwithstanding, popular points about him. though not of high talent, he was frank and genial, and visited often, and conversed much; and at length the highlanders came to regard him as the very _beau-idéal_ of a minister. he and mr. stewart belonged to the antagonist parties in the church. mr. stewart took his place in the old presbyterian section, under chalmers and thomson; while the gaelic minister held by drs. inglis and cook: and so thoroughly were their respective congregations influenced by their views, that at the disruption in , while considerably more than nine-tenths of the english-speaking parishioners closed their connexion with the state, and became free churchmen, at least an equal proportion of the chapel highlanders clung to the establishment. curiously enough, however, there arose a controversy between the congregations at this time, in which each seemed, in relation to the general question at issue, to take the part proper to the other. i do not think the english congregation were in any degree jealous of the gaelic one. the english contained the _élite_ of the place--all its men of property and influence, from its merchants and heritors, down to the humblest of the class that afterwards became its ten-pound franchise-holders; whereas the gaelic people were, as i have said, simply poor labourers and weavers: and if the sense of superiority did at times show itself on the more potent side, it was only among the lowlier people of the english congregation. when, on a certain occasion, a stranger fell asleep in the middle of one of mr. stewart's best sermons, and snored louder than was seemly, an individual beside him was heard muttering, in a low whisper, that the man ought to be sent up to "_the gaelic_," for he was not fit to be among them; and there might be a few other similar manifestations; but the parties were not on a sufficiently equal level to enact the part of those rival congregations that are for ever bemoaning the shortcomings each of the other, and that in their days of fasting and humiliation have the sins of their neighbours at least as strongly before them as their own. but if the english congregation were not jealous of the gaelic one, the gaelic one, as was perhaps natural in their circumstances, were, i am afraid, jealous of the english: they were poor people, they used sometimes to say, but their souls were as precious as those of richer folk, and they were surely as well entitled to have their just rights as the english people--axioms which, i believe, no one in the other congregation disputed, or even canvassed at all. we were, however, all roused one morning to consider the case, by learning that on the previous day the minister of the gaelic chapel had petitioned the presbytery of the district, either to be assigned a parish within the bounds of the parish of cromarty, or to have the charge erected into a collegiate one, and his half of it, of course, rendered coordinate with mr. stewart's. the english people were at once very angry, and very much alarmed. as the two congregations were scattered all over the same piece of territory, it would be impossible to cut it up into two parishes, without separating between a portion of mr. stewart's people and their minister, and making them the parishioners of a man whom they had not yet learned to like; and, on the other hand, by erecting the charge into a collegiate one, the minister whom they had not yet learned to like would acquire as real a jurisdiction over them as that possessed by the minister of their choice. or--as the case was somewhat quaintly stated by one of themselves--by the one alternative "the gaelic man would become whole minister to the half of them, and by the other, half minister to the whole of them." and so they determined on making a vigorous resistance. mr. stewart himself, too, liked the move of his neighbour the gaelic minister exceedingly ill. he was not desirous, he said, to have a colleague thrust upon him in his charge, to keep him right on moderate principles--a benefit for which he had not bargained when he accepted the presentation; nor yet, as the other alternative, did he wish to see his living child, the parish, divided into two, and the half of it given to the strange claimant that was not its parent. there was another account, too, on which he disliked the movement: the two great parties in the church were equally represented at this time in the presbytery;--they had their three members apiece; and he, of course, saw that the introduction of the gaelic minister into it would have the effect of casting the balance in favour of moderatism. and so, as both minister and people were equally in earnest, counter petitions were soon got up, praying the presbytery, as a first step in the process, that copies of the gaelic minister's document should be served upon them. the presbytery decided, in terms of their prayer, that copies should be served; and the gaelic minister, on the somewhat extreme ground that the people had no right to appear in the business at all, appealed to the general assembly. and so the people had next to petition that venerable court in behalf of what they deemed their imperilled rights; while the gaelic congregation, under the full impression that their overbearing english neighbours were treating them "as if they had no souls," got up a counter petition, virtually to the effect that the parish might be either cut in two, and the half of it given to their minister, or that he might be at least made second minister to every man in it. the minister, however, finding at the general assembly that the ecclesiastical party on whose support he had relied were opposed _in toto_ to the erection of chapels of ease into regular charges, and that the peculiarities of the case were such as to cut off all chance of his being supported by their opponents, fell from his appeal, and the case was never called in court. some of our cromarty fisher-folk, who were staunch on the english side, though they could not quite see the merits, had rather a different version of the business. "the gaelic man had no sooner entered the kirk o' the general assembly," they said, "than the maister of the assembly rose, and, speaking very rough, said, 'ye contrarious rascal, what tak's you here? what are ye aye troubling that decent lad mr. stewart for? i'm sure he's no meddling wi' you! get about your business, ye contrarious rascal!'" i took an active part in this controversy; wrote petitions and statements for my brother parishioners, with paragraphs for the local newspapers, and a long letter for the _caledonian mercury_, in reply to a tissue of misrepresentation which appeared in that print, from the pen of one of the gaelic minister's legal agents; and, finally, i replied to a pamphlet by the same hand, which, though miserable as a piece of writing--for it resembled no other composition ever produced, save, mayhap, a very badly-written law paper--contained statements which i deemed it necessary to meet. and such were my first attempts in the rough field of ecclesiastical controversy--a field into which inclination would never have led me, but which has certainly lain very much in my way, and in which i have spent many a laborious hour. my first pieces were rather stiffly written, somewhat on the perilous model of junius; but as it was hardly possible to write so ill as my opponent, i could appeal to even his friends whether it was quite right of him to call me illiterate and untaught, in prose so much worse than my own. chiefly by getting the laughers now and then on my side, i succeeded in making him angry; and he replied to my jokes by _calling names_--a phrase, by the way, which, forgetting his watts' hymns, and failing to consult his johnson, he characterized as not english. i was, he said, a "shallow, pretending ninny;" an "impudent illiterate lad;" "a fanatic" and a "frantic person;" the "low underling of a faction," and "peter the hermit;" and, finally, as the sum-total of the whole he assured me that i stood in _his_ "estimation the most ignoble and despised in the whole range of the human species." this was frightful! but i not only outlived it all, but learned, i fear, after in this way first tasting blood, to experience a rather too keen delight in the anger of an antagonist. i may add, that when, some two or three years after the period of this controversy, the general assembly admitted what were known as the parliamentary ministers, and the ministers of chapels of ease, to a seat in the church courts, neither my townsmen nor myself saw aught to challenge in the arrangement. it contained none of the elements which had provoked our hostility in the cromarty chapel case: it did not make over the people of one minister to the charge of another, whom they would never have chosen for themselves; but, without encroaching on popular rights, equalized, on the presbyterian scheme, the standing of ministers and the claims of congregations. the next matter which engaged my townsfolk was a considerably more serious one. when, in , cholera first threatened the shores of britain, the bay of cromarty was appointed by government one of the quarantine ports; and we became familiar with the sight, at first deemed sufficiently startling, of fleets of vessels lying in the upper roadstead, with the yellow flag waving from their mast-tops. the disease, however, failed to find its way ashore; and, when, in the summer of the following year, it was introduced into the north of scotland, it went stalking around the town and parish for several months, without visiting either. it greatly more than decimated the villages of portmahomak and inver, and bore heavily on the parishes of nigg and urquhart, with the towns of inverness, nairn, avoch, dingwall, and rosemarkie; in fine, the quarantine seaport town that seemed at first to be most in danger from the disease, appeared latterly to be almost the only place of any size in the locality exempted from its ravages. it approached, however, alarmingly near. the opening of the cromarty firth is little more than a mile across; a glass of the ordinary power enables one to count every pane in the windows of the dwellings that mottle its northern shore, and to distinguish their inhabitants; and yet among these dwellings cholera was raging; and we could see, in at least one instance, a dead body borne forth by two persons on a hand-barrow, and buried in a neighbouring sand-bank. stories, too, of the sad fate of individuals with whom the townsfolk were acquainted, and who had resided in well-known localities, told among them with powerful effect. such was the general panic in the infected places, that the bodies of the dead were no longer carried to the churchyard, but huddled up in solitary holes and corners; and the pictures suggested to the fancy, of familiar faces lying uncoffined in the ground beside some lonely wood, or in some dark morass or heathy moor, were fraught to many with a terror stronger than that of death. we knew that the corpse of a young robust fisherman, who used occasionally to act as one of the cromarty ferrymen, and with whose appearance, in consequence, every one was familiar, lay festering in a sand-bank; that the iron frame of a brawny blacksmith was decomposing in a mossy hole beside a thorn-bush; that half the inhabitants of the little fishing village of inver were strewn in shallow furrows along the arid waste which surrounded their dwellings; that houses divested of their tenants, and become foul dens of contagion, had been set on fire and burnt to the ground; and that around the infected fishing-hamlets of hilton and balintore the country-people had drawn a sort of _barrière sanitaire_, and cooped up within the limits of their respective villages the wretched inhabitants. and in the general consternation--a consternation much more extreme than that evinced when the disease actually visited the place--it was asked by the townsfolk whether _they_ ought not so long as the place remained uninfected, to draw a similar _cordon_ round themselves. a public meeting was accordingly held, to deliberate on the best means of shutting themselves in; and at the meeting almost all the adult male inhabitants attended, with the exception of the gentlemen in the commission of the peace, and the town officials, who, though quite prepared to wink hard at our irregularities, failed to see that, on any grounds tenable in the eye of the law, they themselves could take a share in them. our meeting at first threatened to be stormy. the extra liberals, who, in the previous ecclesiastical struggle, had taken part to a man with the gaelic people, as they did, in the subsequent church controversy, with the court of session, began by an attack on the town justices. we might all see now, said a liberal writer lad who addressed us, how little these people were our friends. now when the place was threatened by the pestilence, they would do nothing for us; they would not even so much as countenance our meeting; we saw there was not one of them present: in short, they cared nothing at all about us, or whether we died or lived. but he and his friends would stand by us to the last; nay, while the magistrates were evidently afraid, with all their wealth, to move in the matter, terrified, no doubt, by the prosecutions for damages which might be instituted against them were they to stop the highways, and turn back travellers, he himself, though far from rich, would be our security against all legal processes whatever. this, of course, was very noble; all the more noble from the circumstance that the speaker could not, as the _gazette_ informed us, meet his own actual liabilities at the time, and was yet fully prepared, notwithstanding, to meet all our possible ones. up started, however, almost ere he had done speaking, a friend of the justices, and made so angry a speech in their defence, that the meeting threatened to fall into two parties, and explode in a squabble. i rose in the extremity, and, though unhappily no orator, addressed my townsfolk in a few homely sentences. cholera, i reminded them, was too evidently of neither party; and the magistrates were, i was sure, nearly as much frightened as we were. but they really could do nothing for us. in matters of life and death, however, when laws and magistrates failed to protect quiet people, the people were justified in asserting the natural right to protect themselves; and, whatever laws and lawyers might urge to the contrary, that right was now ours. in a neighbouring county, the inhabitants of certain infected villages were already fairly shut up amid their dwellings by the countryfolk around, who could themselves show a clean bill of health; and we, if in the circumstances of these villagers, would very possibly be treated after the same manner. and what remained to us in our actual circumstances was just to anticipate the process of being ourselves bottled in, by bottling the country out. the town, situated on a promontory, and approachable at only a few points, could easily be guarded; and instead of squabbling about the merits of justices of the peace--very likely somewhat conservative in their leanings--or of spirited reformers who would like very well to be justices of the peace also, and would doubtless make very excellent ones, i thought it would be far better for us immediately to form ourselves into a defence association, and proceed to regulate our watches and set our guards. my short speech was remarkably well received. there was a poor man immediately beside me, who was in great dread of cholera, and who actually proved one of its first victims in the place--for in little more than a week after he was in his grave--who backed me by an especially vigorous hear, hear!--and the answering hear, hears, of the meeting bore down all reply. we accordingly at once formed our defence association; and ere midnight our rounds and stations were marked out, and our watches set. all power passed at once out of the hands of the magistrates; but the worthy men themselves said very little about it; and we had the satisfaction of knowing that their families--especially their wives and daughters--were very friendly indeed both to the association and the temporary suspension of the law, and that, on both their own account and ours, they wished us all manner of success. we kept guard for several days. all vagabonds and trampers were turned back without remorse; but there was a respectable class of travellers from whom there was less danger to be apprehended; and with these we found it somewhat difficult to deal. i would have admitted them at once; but the majority of the association demurred;--to do that would be, according to corporal trim, to "set one man greatly over the head of another;" and it was ultimately agreed that, instead of at once admitting them, they should be first brought into a wooden building fitted up for the purpose, and thoroughly fumigated with sulphur and chloride of lime. i know not with whom the expedient first originated: it was said to have been suggested by some medical man who knew a great deal about cholera. and though, for my own part, i could not see how the demon of the disease was to be expelled by the steam of a little sulphur and chloride, as the evil spirit in tobit was expelled by the smoke of the fish's liver, it seemed to satisfy the association wonderfully well; and a stranger well smoked came to be regarded as safe. there was a day at hand which promised an unusual amount of smoking. the agitation of the reform bill had commenced;--a great court of appeal was on that day to hold at cromarty; and it was known that both a whig and tory party from inverness, in which cholera was raging at the time, would to a certainty attend it. what, it was asked, were we to do with the politicians--the formidable bankers, factors, and lawyers--who would form, we knew, the inverness cavalcade? individually, the question seemed to be asked under a sort of foreboding terror, that calculated consequences; but when the association came to ask it collectively, and to answer it in a body, it was in a bold tone, that set fear at defiance. and so it was resolved, _nem. con._, that the inverness politicians should be smoked like the others. my turn to mount guard had come round on the previous night at twelve o'clock; but i had calculated on being off the station ere the inverness people came up. unluckily, however, instead of being appointed a simple sentry, i was made officer for the night. it was the duty assigned to me to walk round the several posts, and see that the various sentinels were keeping a smart outlook, which i did very faithfully; but when the term of my watch had expired, i found no relieving officer coming up to take my place. the prudent man appointed on the occasion was, i feared, tiding over the coming difficulty in some quiet corner; but i continued my rounds, maugre the suspicion, in the hope of his appearance. and as i approached one of the most important stations--that on the great highway which connects the town of cromarty with kessock ferry, _there_ was the whig portion of the inverness cavalcade just coming up. the newly-appointed sentinel stood aside, to let his officer deal with the whig gentlemen, as, of course, best became both their quality and _his_ official standing. i would rather have been elsewhere; but i at once brought the procession to a stand. a man of high spirit and influence--a banker, and very much a whig--at once addressed me with a stern--"by what authority, sir?" by the authority, i replied, of five hundred able-bodied men in the neighbouring town, associated for the protection of themselves and their families. "protection against what?" "protection against the pestilence;--you come from an infected place." "do you know what you are doing, sir?" said the banker fiercely. "yes; doing what the law cannot do for us, but what we have determined to do for ourselves." the banker grew pale with anger; and he was afterwards heard to say, that had he had a pistol at the time, he would have shot upon the spot the man who stopped him; but not having a pistol, he could not shoot me; and so i sent him and his party away under an escort, to be smoked. and as they were somewhat obstreperous by the way, and knocked the hat of one of the guards over his nose, they got, in the fumigating process, as i was sorry to learn, a double portion of the sulphur and the chloride; and came into court, to contend with the tories, gasping for breath. i was aware i acted on this occasion a very foolish part;--i ought to a certainty to have run away on the approach of the inverness cavalcade; but the running away would have involved, according to rochester, an amount of moral courage which i did not possess. i fear, too. i must admit, that the rough tones of the banker's address stirred up what had long lain quietly enough in my veins--some of the wild buccaneering blood of john feddes and the old seafaring millers; and so i weakly remained at my post, and did what the association deemed my duty. i trust the banker did not recognise me, and that now, after the lapse of more than twenty years, he will be inclined to extend to me his forgiveness. i take this late opportunity of humbly begging his pardon, and of assuring him, that at the very time i brought him to bay i was heartily at one with him in his politics. but then my townsfolk, being much frightened, were perfectly impartial in smoking whigs and tories all alike; and i could bethink me of no eligible mode of exempting my friends from a process of fumigation which was, i daresay, very unpleasant, and in whose virtues my faith was assuredly not strong. when engaged, however, in keeping up our _cordon_ with apparent success, cholera entered the place in a way on which it was impossible we could have calculated. a cromarty fisherman had died of the disease at wick rather more than a month previous, and the clothes known to have been in contact with the body were burnt by the wick authorities in the open air. he had, however, a brother on the spot, who had stealthily appropriated some of the better pieces of dress; and these he brought home with him in a chest; though such was the dread with which he regarded them that for more than four weeks he suffered the chest to lie beside him unopened. at length, in an evil hour, the pieces of dress were taken out, and, like the "goodly babylonish garment" which wrought the destruction of achan and the discomfiture of the camp, they led, in the first instance, to the death of the poor imprudent fisherman, and to that of not a few of his townsfolk immediately after. he himself was seized by cholera on the following day; in less than two days more he was dead and buried; and the disease went creeping about the streets and lanes for weeks after--here striking down a strong man in the full vigour of middle life--there shortening, apparently by but a few months, the span of some worn-out creature, already on the verge of the grave. the visitation had its wildly picturesque accompaniments. pitch and tar were kept burning during the night in the openings of the infected lanes; and the unsteady light flickered with ghastly effect on house and wall, and tall chimney-top, and on the flitting figures of the watchers. by day, the frequent coffins, borne to the grave by but a few bearers, and the frequent smoke that rose outside the place from fires kindled to consume the clothes of the infected, had their sad and startling effect; a migration, too, of a considerable portion of the fisher population to the caves of the hill, in which they continued to reside till the disease left the town, formed a striking accompaniment of the visitation; and yet, curiously enough, as the danger seemed to increase the consternation lessened, and there was much less fear among the people when the disease was actually ravaging the place, than when it was merely stalking within sight around it. we soon became familiar, too, with its direst horrors, and even learned to regard them as comparatively ordinary and commonplace. i had read, about two years before, the passage in southey's "_colloquies_," in which sir thomas more is made to remark that modern englishmen have no guarantee whatever, in these latter times, that their shores shall not be visited, as of old, by devastating plagues. "as touching the pestilence," says sir thomas (or rather the poet in his name), "you fancy yourselves secure because the plague has not appeared among you for the last hundred and fifty years--a portion of time which, long as it may seem, compared with the brief term of mortal existence, is as nothing in the physical history of the globe. the importation of that scourge is as possible now as it was in former times; and were it once imported, do you suppose it would rage with less violence among the crowded population of your metropolis than it did before the fire? what," he adds, "if the sweating sickness, emphatically called the english disease, were to show itself again? can any cause be assigned why it is not as likely to break out in the nineteenth century as in the fifteenth?" and, striking as the passage is, i remembered perusing it with that incredulous feeling, natural to men in a quiet time, which leads them to draw so broad a line between the experience of history, if of a comparatively remote age, or of a distant place, and their own personal experience. in the loose sense of the sophist, it was contrary to my experience that britain should become the seat of any such fatal and widely-devastating disease as used to ravage it of old. and yet, now that i saw as terrible and unwonted an infliction as either the plague or the sweating sickness decimating our towns and villages, and the terrible scenes described by de foe and patrick walker fully rivalled, the feeling with which i came to regard it was one, not of strangeness, but of familiarity. when thus unsuccessfully employed in keeping watch and ward against our insidious enemy, the reform bill for scotland passed the house of lords, and became the law of the land. i had watched with interest the growth of the popular element in the country--had seen it gradually strengthening, from the despotic times of liverpool and castlereagh, through the middle period of canning and goderich, down till even wellington and peel, men of iron as they were, had to yield to the pressure from without, and to repeal first the test and corporation acts, and next to carry, against their own convictions, the great roman catholic emancipation measure. the people, during a season of undisturbed peace, favourable to the growth of opinion, were becoming more decidedly a power in the country than they had ever been before; and of course, as one of the people, and in the belief, too, that the influence of the many would be less selfishly exerted than that of the few, i was pleased that it should be so, and looked forward to better days. for myself personally i expected nothing. i had early come to see that toil, physical or intellectual, was to be my portion throughout life, and that through no possible improvement in the government of the country could i be exempted from labouring for my bread. from state patronage i never expected anything, and i have received from it about as much as i ever expected. i was employed in labouring pretty hard for my bread one fine evening in the summer of --engaged in hewing with bare breast and arms, in the neighbourhood of the harbour of cromarty, a large tombstone, which, on the following day, was to be carried across the ferry to a churchyard on the opposite side of the firth. a group of french fishermen, who had gathered round me, were looking curiously at my mode of working, and, as i thought, somewhat curiously at myself, as if speculating on the physical powers of a man with whom there was at least a possibility of their having one day to deal. they formed part of the crew of one of those powerfully-manned french luggers which visit our northern coasts every year, ostensibly with the design of prosecuting the herring fishery, but which, supported mainly by large government bounties, and in but small part by their fishing speculations, are in reality kept up by the state as a means of rearing sailors for the french navy. their lugger--an uncouth-looking vessel, representative rather of the navigation of three centuries ago than of that of the present day--lay stranded in the harbour beside us; and, their work over for the day, they seemed as quiet and silent as the calm evening whose stillness they were enjoying; when the letter-carrier of the place came up to where i was working, and handed me, all damp from the press, a copy of the _inverness courier_, which i owed to the kindness of its editor. i was at once attracted by the heading, in capitals, of his leading article--"revolution in france--flight of charles x."--and pointed it out to the frenchmen. none of them understood english; but they could here and there catch the meaning of the more important words, and, exclaiming "_révolution en france!!--fuite de charles x.!!_"--they clustered round it in a state of the extremest excitement, gabbling faster and louder than thrice as many englishmen could have done in any circumstances. at length, however, their resolution seemed taken: curiously enough, their lugger bore the name of _"charles x.;"_ and one of them, laying hold of a large lump of chalk, repaired to the vessel's stern, and by covering over the white-lead letters with the chalk, effaced the royal name. charles was virtually declared by the little bit of france that sailed in the lugger, to be no longer king; and the incident struck me, trivial as it may seem, as significantly illustrative of the extreme slightness of that hold which the rulers of modern france possess on the affections of their people. i returned to my home as the evening darkened, more moved by this unexpected revolution than by any other political event of my time--brimful of hope for the cause of freedom all over the civilized world, and, in especial--misled by a sort of _analogical experience_--sanguine in my expectations for france. it had had, like our own country, its first stormy revolution, in which its monarch had lost his head; and then its cromwell, and then its restoration, and its easy, luxurious king, who, like charles ii., had died in possession of the throne, and who had been succeeded by a weak bigot brother, the very counterpart of james vii. and now, after a comparatively orderly revolution like that of , the bigot had been dethroned, and the head of another branch of the royal family called in to enact the part of william iii. the historical parallel seemed complete; and could i doubt that what would next follow would be a long period of progressive improvement, in which the french people would come to enjoy, as entirely as those of britain, a well-regulated freedom, under which revolutions would be unnecessary, mayhap impossible? was it not evident, too, that the success of the french in their noble struggle would immediately act with beneficial effect on the popular cause in our own country and everywhere else, and greatly quicken the progress of reform? and so i continued to watch with interest the course of the reform bill, and was delighted to see it, after a passage singularly stormy and precarious, at length safely moored in port. in some of the measures, too, to which it subsequently led, i greatly delighted, especially in the emancipation of our negro slaves in the colonies. nor could i join many of my personal friends in their denunciation of that appropriation measure, as it was termed--also an effect of the altered constituency--which suppressed the irish bishoprics. as i ventured to tell my minister, who took the other side--if a protestant church failed, after enjoying for three hundred years the benefits of a large endowment, and every advantage of position which the statute-book could confer, to erect herself into the church of the many, it was high time to commence dealing with her in her true character--as the church of the few. at home, however, within the narrow precincts of my native town, there were effects of the measure which, though comparatively trifling, i liked considerably worse than the suppression of the bishoprics. it broke up the townsfolk into two portions--the one consisting of elderly or middle-aged men, who had been in the commission of the peace ere the passing of the bill, and who now, as it erected the town into a parliamentary burgh, became our magistrates, in virtue of the support of a majority of the voters; and a younger and weaker, but clever and very active party, few of whom were yet in the commission of the peace, and who, after standing unsuccessfully for the magistracy, became the leaders of a patriotic opposition, which succeeded in rendering the seat of justice a rather uneasy one in cromarty. the younger men were staunch liberals, but great moderates--the elder, sound evangelicals, but decidedly conservative in their leanings; and as i held ecclesiastically by the one party, and secularly by the other, i found my position, on the whole, a rather anomalous one. both parties got involved in law-suits. when the whig members of parliament for the county and burgh came the way, they might be seen going about the streets arm-in-arm with the young whigs, which was, of course, a signal honour; and during the heat of a contested election, young whiggism, to show itself grateful, succeeded in running off with a conservative voter, whom it had caught in his cups, and got itself involved in a law-suit in consequence, which cost it several hundred pounds. the conservatives, on the other hand, also got entangled in an expensive law-suit. the town had its annual fair, at which from fifty to a hundred children used to buy gingerbread, and which had held for many years at the eastern end of the town links. through, however, some unexplained piece of strategy on the part of the young liberals, a market-day came round, on which the gingerbread-women took their stand on a green a little above the harbour; and, of course, where the gingerbread was, there the children were gathered together; and the magistrates, astonished, visited the spot in order to ascertain, if possible, the philosophy of the change. they found the ground occupied by a talkative pedlar, who stood up strongly for the young liberals and the new side. the magistrates straightway demanded the production of his license. the pedlar had none. and so he was apprehended, and summarily tried, on a charge of contravening the statute geo. iii. cap. ; and, being found guilty of hawking without a license, he was committed to prison. the pedlar, backed, it was understood, by the young liberals, raised an action for wrongous imprisonment; and, on the ground that the day on which he had sold his goods was a fair or market-day, on which anybody might sell anything, the magistrates were cast in damages. i liked the law-suits very ill, and held that the young liberals would have been more wisely employed in making money by their shops and professions--secure that the coveted honours would ultimately get into the wake of the good bank-accounts--than that they should be engaged either in scattering their own means in courts of law, or in impinging on the means of their neighbours. and ultimately i found my proper political position as a supporter in all ecclesiastical and municipal matters of my conservative townsmen, and a supporter in almost all the national ones of the whigs; whom, however, i always liked better, and deemed more virtuous, when they were out of office than when they were in. on one occasion i even became political enough to stand for a councillorship. my friends, chiefly through the death of elderly voters and the rise of younger men, few of whom were conservative, felt themselves getting weak in the place; and fearing that they could not otherwise secure a majority at the council board, they urged me to stand for one of the vacancies, which i accordingly did, and carried my election by a swimming majority. and in duly attending the first meeting of council, i heard an eloquent speech from a gentleman in the opposition, directed against the individuals who, as he finely expressed it, "were wielding the destinies of his native town;" and saw, as the only serious piece of business before the meeting, the councillors clubbing pennies a-piece, in order to defray, in the utter lack of town funds, the expense of a ninepenny postage. and then, with, i fear, a very inadequate sense of the responsibilities of my new office, i stayed away from the council board, and did nothing whatever in its behalf, with astonishing perseverance and success, for three years together. and thus began and terminated my municipal career--a career which, i must confess, failed to secure for me the thanks of my constituency; but then, on the other hand, i am not aware that the worthy people ever seriously complained. there was absolutely nothing to do in the councilship; and, unlike some of my brother office-bearers, the requisite nothing i did, quietly and considerately, and very much at my leisure, without any unnecessary display of stump-oratory, or of anything else. chapter xxiii. "days passed; an' now my patient steps that maiden's walks attend; my vows had reach'd that maiden's ear, ay, an' she ca'd me friend. an' i was bless'd as bless'd can be; the fond, daft dreamer hope ne'er dream'd o' happier days than mine, or joys o' ampler scope."--henrison's sang. i used, as i have said, to have occasional visitors when working in the churchyard. my minister has stood beside me for hours together, discussing every sort of subject, from the misdeeds of the moderate divines--whom he liked all the worse for being brethren of his own cloth--to the views of isaac taylor on the corruptions of christianity or the possibilities of the future state. strangers, too, occasionally came the way, desirous of being introduced to the natural curiosities of the district, more especially to its geology; and i remember first meeting in the churchyard, in this way, the late sir thomas dick lauder; and of having the opportunity afforded me of questioning, mallet in hand, the present distinguished professor of humanity in the edinburgh university,[ ] respecting the nature of the cohesive agent in the non-calcareous sandstone which i was engaged in hewing. i had sometimes a different, but not less interesting, class of visitors. the town had its small but very choice circle of accomplished intellectual ladies, who, earlier in the century, would have been perhaps described as members of the blue-stocking sisterhood; but the advancing intelligence of the age had rendered the phrase obsolete; and they simply took their place as well-informed, sensible women, whose acquaintance with the best authors was regarded as in no degree disqualifying them from their proper duties as wives or daughters. and my circle of acquaintance included the entire class. i used to meet them at delightful tea-parties, and sometimes borrowed a day from my work to conduct them through the picturesque burn of eathie, or the wild scenes of cromarty hill, or to introduce them to the fossiliferous deposits of the lias or the old red sandstone. and not unfrequently their evening walks used to terminate where i wrought, in the old chapel of st. regulus, or in the parish burying-ground, beside a sweet wooded dell known as the "ladies' walk;" and my labours for the day closed in what i always very much relished--a conversation on the last good book, or on some new organism, recently disinterred, of the secondary or palæozoic period. i had been hewing, about this time, in the upper part of my uncle's garden, and had just closed my work for the evening, when i was visited by one of my lady friends, accompanied by a stranger lady, who had come to see a curious old dial-stone which i had dug out of the earth long before, when a boy, and which had originally belonged to the ancient castle-garden of cromarty. i was standing with them beside the dial, which i had placed in my uncle's garden, and remarking, that as it exhibited in its structure no little mathematical skill, it had probably been cut under the eye of the eccentric but accomplished sir thomas urquhart; when a third lady, greatly younger than the others, and whom i had never seen before, came hurriedly tripping down the garden-walk, and, addressing the other two apparently quite in a flurry--"o, come, come away," she said, "i have been seeking you ever so long." "is this you, l----?" was the staid reply: "why, what now?--you have run yourself out of breath." the young lady was, i saw, very pretty; and though in her nineteenth year at the time, her light and somewhat _petite_ figure, and the waxen clearness of her complexion, which resembled rather that of a fair child than of a grown woman, made her look from three to four years younger. and as if in some degree still a child, her two lady friends seemed to regard her. she stayed with them scarce a minute ere she tripped off again; nor did i observe that she favoured me with a single glance. but what else could be expected by an ungainly, dust-besprinkled mechanic in his shirt sleeves, and with a leathern apron before him? nor _did_ the mechanic expect aught else; and when informed long after, by one whose testimony was conclusive on the point, that he had been pointed out to the young lady by some such distinguished name as "the cromarty poet," and that she had come up to her friends somewhat in a flurry, simply that she might have a nearer look of him, he received the intelligence somewhat with surprise. all the first interviews in all the novels i ever read are of a more romantic and less homely cast than the special interview just related; but i know not a more curious one. only a few evenings after, i met the same young lady, in circumstances of which the writer of a tale might have made a little more. i was sauntering, just as the sun was sinking, along one of my favourite walks on the hill--a tree-skirted glade--now looking out through the openings on the ever fresh beauties of the cromarty firth, with its promontories, and bays, and long lines of winding shore, and anon marking how redly the slant light fell through intersticial gaps on pale lichened trunks and huge boughs, in the deeper recesses of the wood--when i found myself unexpectedly in the presence of the young lady of the previous evening. she was sauntering through the wood as leisurely as myself--now and then dipping into a rather bulky volume which she carried, that had not in the least the look of a novel, and which, as i subsequently ascertained, was an elaborate essay on causation. we, of course, passed each other on our several ways without sign of recognition. quickening her pace, however, she was soon out of sight; and i just thought, on one or two occasions afterwards, of the apparition that had been presented as she passed, as much in keeping with the adjuncts--the picturesque forest and the gorgeous sunset. it would not be easy, i thought, were the large book but away, to furnish a very lovely scene with a more suitable figure. shortly after, i began to meet the young lady at the charming tea-parties of the place. her father, a worthy man, who, from unfortunate speculations in business, had met with severe losses, was at this time several years dead; and his widow had come to reside in cromarty, on a somewhat limited income, derived from property of her own. liberally assisted, however, by relations in england, she had been enabled to send her daughter to edinburgh, where the young lady received all the advantages which a first-rate education could confer. by some lucky chance, she was there boarded, with a few other ladies, in early womanhood, in the family of mr. george thomson, the well-known correspondent of burns; and passed under his roof some of her happiest years. mr. thomson--himself an enthusiast in art--strove to inoculate the youthful inmates of his house with the same fervour, and to develop whatever seeds of taste or genius might be found in them; and, characterized till the close of a life extended far beyond the ordinary term, by the fine chivalrous manners of the thorough gentleman of the old school, his influence over his young friends was very great, and his endeavours, in at least some of the instances, very successful. and in none, perhaps, was he more so than in the case of the young lady of my narrative. from edinburgh she went to reside with the friends in england to whose kindness she had been so largely indebted; and with them she might have permanently remained, to enjoy the advantages of superior position. she was at an age, however, which rarely occupies itself in adjusting the balance of temporal advantage; and her only brother having been admitted, through the interest of her friends, as a pupil into christ's hospital, she preferred returning to her widowed mother, left solitary in consequence, though with the prospect of being obliged to add to her resources by taking a few of the children of the town as day-pupils. her claim to take her place in the intellectual circle of the burgh was soon recognised. i found that, misled by the extreme youthfulness of her appearance, and a marked juvenility of manner, i had greatly mistaken the young lady. that she should be accomplished in the ordinary sense of the term--that she should draw, play, and sing well--would be what i should have expected; but i was not prepared to find that, mere girl as she seemed, she should have a decided turn, not for the lighter, but for the severer walks of literature, and should have already acquired the ability of giving expression to her thoughts in a style formed on the best english models, and not in the least like that of a young lady. the original shyness wore away, and we became great friends. i was nearly ten years her senior, and had read a great many more books than she; and, finding me a sort of dictionary of fact, ready of access, and with explanatory notes attached, that became long or short just as she pleased to draw them out by her queries, she had, in the course of her amateur studies, frequent occasion to consult me. there were, she saw, several ladies of her acquaintance, who used occasionally to converse with me in the churchyard; but in order to make assurance doubly sure respecting the perfect propriety of such a proceeding on her part, she took the laudable precaution of stating the case to her mother's landlord, a thoroughly sensible man, one of the magistrates of the burgh, and an elder of the kirk; and he at once certified that there was no lady of the place who might not converse, without remark, as often and as long as she pleased with me. and so, fully justified, both by the example of her friends--all very judicious women, some of them only a few years older than herself--and by the deliberate judgment of a very sensible man, the magistrate and elder--my young lady friend learned to visit me in the churchyard, just like the other ladies; and, latterly at least, considerably oftener than any of them. we used to converse on all manner of subjects connected with the _belles-lettres_ and the philosophy of mind, with, so far as i can at present remember, only one marked exception. on that mysterious affection which sometimes springs up between persons of the opposite sexes when thrown much together--though occasionally discussed by the metaphysicians, and much sung by the poets--we by no chance ever touched. love formed the one solitary subject which, from some curious contingency, invariably escaped us. and yet, latterly at least, i had begun to think about it a good deal. nature had not fashioned me one of the sort of people who fall in love at first sight. i had even made up my mind to live a bachelor life, without being very much impressed by the magnitude of the sacrifice; but i daresay it did mean something, that in my solitary walks for the preceding fourteen or fifteen years, a female companion often walked in fancy by my side, with whom i exchanged many a thought, and gave expression to many a feeling, and to whom i pointed out many a beauty in the landscape, and communicated many a curious fact, and whose understanding was as vigorous as her taste was faultless and her feelings exquisite. one of the english essayists--the elder moore--has drawn a very perfect personage of this airy character (not, however, of the softer, but of the masculine sex), under the name of the "maid's husband;" and described him as one of the most formidable rivals that the ordinary lover of flesh and blood can possibly encounter. my day-dream lady--a person that may be termed with equal propriety the "bachelor's wife,"--has not been so distinctly recognised; but she occupies a large place in our literature, as the mistress of all the poets who ever wrote on love without actually experiencing it, from the days of cowley down to those of henry kirke white; and her presence serves always to intimate a heart capable of occupation, but still unoccupied. i find the bachelor's wife delicately drawn in one the posthumous poems of poor alexander bethune, as a "fair being"--the frequent subject of his day-dreams-- "whose soft voice should be the sweetest music to his ear, awakening all the chords of harmony; whose eye should speak a language to his soul, more eloquent than aught which greece or rome could boast of in its best and happiest days; whose smile should be his rich reward for toil; whose pure transparent cheek, when press'd to his, should calm the fever of his troubled thoughts, and woo his spirit to those fields elysian-- the paradise which strong affection guards." it may be always predicated of these bachelors' wives, that they never closely resemble in their lineaments any living woman: poor bethune's would not have exhibited a single feature of any of his fair neighbours, the lasses of upper rankeillour or newburgh. were the case otherwise, the dream maiden would be greatly in danger of being displaced by the real one whom she resembled; and it was a most significant event, which, notwithstanding my inexperience, i learned by and bye to understand, that about this time my old companion, the "bachelor's wife," utterly forsook me, and that a vision of my young friend took her place. i can honestly aver, that i entertained not a single hope that the feeling should be mutual. on whatever other head my vanity may have flattered me, it certainly never did so on the score of personal appearance. my personal strength was, i knew, considerably above the average of that of my fellows, and at this time my activity also; but i was perfectly conscious that, on the other hand, my good looks rather fell below than rose above the medial line. and so, while i suspected, as i well might, that, as in the famous fairy story, "beauty" had made a conquest of the "beast," i had not the most distant expectation that the "beast" would, in turn, make a conquest of "beauty." my young friend had, i knew, several admirers--men who were younger and dressed better, and who, as they had all chosen the liberal professions, had fairer prospects than i; and as for the item of good looks, had she set her affections on even the least likely of them, i could have addressed him, with perfect sincerity, in the words of the old ballad:-- "nae wonder, nae wonder, gil morrice, my lady lo'es ye weel: the fairest part o' my body is blacker than thy heel." strange to say, however, much about the time that i made my discovery, my young friend succeeded in making a discovery also;--the maid's husband shared on her part the same fate as the bachelor's wife did on mine; and her visits to the churchyard suddenly ceased. a twelvemonth had passed ere we succeeded in finding all this out; but the young lady's mother had seen the danger somewhat earlier; and deeming, as was quite right and proper, an operative mason no very fitting mate for her daughter, my opportunities of meeting my friend at _conversazione_ or tea-party had become few. i, however, took my usual evening walk through the woods of the hill; and as my friend's avocations set her free at the same delightful hour, and as she also was a walker on the hill, we did sometimes meet, and witness together, from amid the deeper solitudes of its bosky slopes, the sun sinking behind the distant ben wevis. these were very happy evenings; the hour we passed together always seemed exceedingly short; but, to make amends for its briefness, there were at length few working days in the milder season of which it did not form the terminal one;--from the circumstance, of course, that the similarity of our tastes for natural scenery led us always into the same lonely walks about the same delicious sun-set hour. for months together, even during this second stage of our friendship, there was one interesting subject on which we never talked. at length, however, we came to a mutual understanding. it was settled that we should remain for three years more in scotland on the existing terms; and if during that time there should open to me no suitable field of exertion at home, we should then quit the country for america, and share together in a strange land whatever fate might be in store for us. my young friend was considerably more sanguine than i. i had laid faithfully before her those defects of character which rendered me a rather inefficient man-at-arms for contending in my own behalf in the battle of life. inured to labour, and to the hardships of the bothie and the barrack, i believed that in the backwoods, where i would have to lift my axe on great trees, i might get on with my clearing and my crops like most of my neighbours; but then the backwoods would, i feared, be no place for her; and as for effectually pushing my way in the long-peopled portions of the united states, among one of the most vigorous and energetic races in the world, i could not see that i was in the least fitted for that. she, however, thought otherwise. the tender passion is always a strangely exaggerative one. lodged in the male mind, it gives to the object on which it rests all that is excellent in woman, and in the female mind imparts to its object all that is noble in man; and my friend had come to regard me as fitted by nature either to head an army or lead a college, and to deem it one of the weaknesses of my character, that i myself could not take an equally favourable view. there was, however, one profession of which, measuring myself as carefully as i could, i deemed myself capable: i saw men whom i regarded as not my superiors in natural talent, and even possessed of no greater command of the pen, occupying respectable places in the periodical literature of the day, as the editors of scotch newspapers, provincial, and even metropolitan, and deriving from their labours incomes of from one to three hundred pounds per annum; and were my abilities, such as they were, to be fairly set by sample before the public, and so brought into the literary market, they might, i thought, possibly lead to my engagement as a newspaper editor. and so, as a first step in the process, i resolved on publishing my volume of traditional history--a work on which i had bestowed considerable care, and which, regarded as a specimen of what i could do as a _littérateur_, would, i believed, show not inadequately my ability of treating at least those lighter subjects with which newspaper editors are occasionally called on to deal. nearly two of the three twelvemonths passed by, however, and i was still an operative mason. with all my solicitude, i could not give myself heartily to seek work of the kind which i saw newspaper editors had at that time to do. it might be quite well enough, i thought, for the lawyer to be a special pleader. with special pleadings equally extreme on the opposite sides of a case, and a qualified judge to hold the balance between, the cause of truth and justice might be even more thoroughly served than if the antagonist agents were to set themselves to be as impartial and equal-handed as the magistrate himself. but i could not extend the same tolerance to the special pleading of the newspaper editor. i saw that, to many of the readers of his paper, the editor did not hold the place of a law-agent, but of a judge: it was his part to submit to them, therefore, not ingenious pleadings, but, to the best of his judgment, honest decisions. and not only did no place present itself for me in the editorial field, but i really could see no place in it that, with the views which i entertained on this head, i would not scruple to occupy. i saw no party cause for which i could honestly plead. my ecclesiastical friends had, with a few exceptions, cast themselves into the conservative ranks; and there i could not follow them. the liberals, on the other hand, being in office at the time, had become at least as like their old opponents as their former selves, and i could by no means defend all that _they_ were doing. in radicalism i had no faith; and chartism--with my recollection of the kind of treatment which i had received from the workmen of the south still strongly impressed on my mind--i thoroughly detested. and so i began seriously to think of the backwoods of america. but there was another destiny in store for me. my native town, up till this time, though a place of considerable trade, was unfurnished with a branch bank; but on the representation of some of its more extensive traders, and of the proprietors of the neighbouring lands, the commercial bank of scotland had agreed to make it the scene of one of its agencies, and arranged with a sagacious and successful merchant and shipowner of the place to act as its agent. it had fixed, too, on a young man as its accountant, at the suggestion of a neighbouring proprietor; and i heard of the projected bank simply as a piece of news of interest to the town and its neighbourhood, but, of course, without special bearing on any concern of mine. receiving, however, one winter morning, an invitation to breakfast with the future agent--mr. ross--i was not a little surprised, after we had taken a quiet cup of tea together, and beaten over half-a-dozen several subjects, to be offered by him the accountantship of the branch bank. after a pause of a full half-minute, i said that the walk was one in which i had no experience whatever--that even the little knowledge of figures which i had acquired at school had been suffered to fade and get dim in my mind from want of practice--and that i feared i would make but a very indifferent accountant. i shall undertake for you, said mr. ross, and do my best to assist you. all you have to do at present is just to signify your acceptance of the offer made. i referred to the young man who, i understood, had been already nominated accountant. mr. ross stated that, being wholly a stranger to him, and as the office was one of great trust, he had, as the responsible party, sought the security of a guarantee, which the gentleman who had recommended the young man declined to give; and so his recommendation had fallen to the ground. "but _i_ can give you no guarantee," i said. "from you," rejoined mr. ross, "none shall ever be asked." and such was one of the more special _providences_ of my life; for why should i give it a humbler name? in a few days after, i had taken leave of my young friend in good hope, and was tossing in an old and somewhat crazy coasting vessel, on my way to the parent bank at edinburgh, to receive there the instructions necessary to the branch accountant. i had wrought as an operative mason, including my term of apprenticeship, for fifteen years--no inconsiderable portion of the more active part of a man's life; but the time was not altogether lost. i enjoyed in these years fully the average amount of happiness, and learned to know more of the scottish people than is generally known. let me add--for it seems to be very much the fashion of the time to draw dolorous pictures of the condition of the labouring classes--that from the close of the first year in which i wrought as a journeyman up till i took final leave of the mallet and chisel, i never knew what it was to want a shilling; that my two uncles, my grandfather, and the mason with whom i served my apprenticeship--all working men--had had a similar experience; and that it was the experience of my father also. i cannot doubt that deserving mechanics may, in exceptional cases, be exposed to want; but i can as little doubt that the cases _are_ exceptional, and that much of the suffering of the class is a consequence either of improvidence on the part of the competently skilled, or of a course of trifling during the term of apprenticeship--quite as common as trifling at school--that always lands those who indulge in it in the hapless position of the inferior workman. i trust i may further add, that i was an honest mechanic. it was one of the maxims of uncle james, that as the jews, restricted by law to their forty stripes, always fell short of the legal number by one, lest they should by any accident exceed it, so a working man, in order to balance any disturbing element of selfishness in his disposition, should bring his charges for work done, slightly but sensibly within what he deemed the proper mark, and so give, as he used to express himself, his "customers the cast of the baulk." i do think i acted up to the maxim; and that, without injuring my brother workmen by lowering their prices, i never yet charged an employer for a piece of work that, fairly measured and valued, would not be rated at a slightly higher sum than that at which it stood in my account. i had quitted cromarty for the south late in november, and landed at leith on a bleak december morning, just in time to escape a tremendous storm of wind and rain from the west, which, had it caught the smack in which i sailed on the firth, would have driven us all back to fraserburgh, and, as the vessel was hardly sea-worthy at the time, perhaps a great deal further. the passage had been stormy; and a very noble, but rather unsocial fellow-passenger--a fine specimen of the golden eagle--had been sea-sick, and evidently very uncomfortable, for the greater part of the way. the eagle must have been accustomed to motion a great deal more rapid than that of the vessel, but it was motion of a different kind; and so he fared as persons do who never feel a qualm when hurried along a railway at the rate of forty miles an hour, but who yet get very squeamish in a tossing boat, that creeps through a rough sea at a speed not exceeding, in the same period of time, from four to five knots. the day preceding the storm was leaden-hued and sombre, and so calm, that though the little wind there was blew the right way, it carried us on, from the first light of morning, when we found ourselves abreast of the bass, to only near inchkeith; for when night fell, we saw the may light twinkling dimly far astern, and that of the inch rising bright and high right a-head. i spent the greater part of the day on deck, marking, as they came into view, the various objects--hill, and island, and seaport town, of which i had lost sight nearly ten years before; feeling the while, not without some craven shrinkings, that having got to the end, in the journey of life, of one very definite stage, with its peculiar scenery and sets of objects, i was just on the eve of entering upon another stage, in which the scenery and objects would be all unfamiliar and new. i was now two years turned of thirty; and though i could not hold that any very great amount of natural endowment was essentially necessary to the bank accountant, i knew that most men turned of thirty might in vain attempt acquiring the ability even of heading a pin with the necessary adroitness, and that i might fail, on the same principle, to pass muster as an accountant. i determined, however, obstinately to set myself to acquire, whatever might be the result; and entered edinburgh in something like spirits on the strength of the resolution. i had transmitted the manuscript of my legendary work, several months before, to sir thomas dick lauder; and as he was now on terms, in its behalf, with mr. adam black, the well-known publisher, i took the liberty of waiting on him, to see how the negotiation was speeding. he received me with great kindness; hospitably urged that i should live with him, so long as i resided in edinburgh, in his noble mansion, the grange house; and, as an inducement, introduced me to his library, full charged with the best editions of the best authors, and enriched with many a rare volume and curious manuscript. "here," he said, "robertson the historian penned his last work--the _disquisition_; and here," opening the door of an adjoining room, "he died." i, of course, declined the invitation. the grange house, with its books, and its pictures, and its hospitable master, so rich in anecdote, and so full of the literary sympathies, would have been no place for a poor pupil-accountant, too sure that he was to be stupid, but not the less determined on being busy. besides, on calling immediately after at the bank, i found that i would have to quit edinburgh on the morrow for some country agency, in which i might be initiated into the system of book-keeping proper to a branch bank and where the business transacted would be of a kind similar to what might be expected in cromarty. sir thomas, however, kindly got mr. black to meet me at dinner; and, in the course of the evening, that enterprising bookseller agreed to undertake the publication of my work, on terms which the nameless author of a volume somewhat local in its character, and very local in its name, might well regard as liberal. linlithgow was the place fixed on by the parent bank as the scene of my initiation into the mysteries of branch banking; and, taking my passage in one of the track-boats which at that time plied on the canal between edinburgh and glasgow, i reached the fine old burgh as the brief winter day was coming to a close, and was seated next morning at my desk, not a hundred yards from the spot on which hamilton of bothwellhaugh had taken his stand when he shot the good regent. i was, as i had anticipated, very stupid; and must have looked, i suppose, even more obtuse than i actually was: for my temporary superior the agent, having gone to edinburgh a few days after my arrival, gave expression, in the head bank, to the conviction that it would be in vain attempting making "yon man" an accountant. altogether deficient in the cleverness that can promptly master isolated details, when in ignorance of their bearing on the general scheme to which they belong, i could literally do nothing until i had got a hold of the system; which, locked up in the ponderous tomes of the agency, for some little time eluded my grasp. at length, however, it gradually unrolled itself before me in all its nice proportions, as one of perhaps the completest forms of "book-keeping" which the wit of man has yet devised; and i then found that the details which, when i had approached them as if from the outside, had repulsed and beaten me back, could, like the outworks of a fortress, be commanded from the centre with the utmost ease. just as i had reached this stage, the regular accountant of the branch was called away to an appointment in one of the joint stock banks of england; and the agent, again going into edinburgh on business, left me for the greater part of a day in direction of the agency. little more than a fortnight had elapsed since he had given his unfavourable verdict; and he was now asked how, in the absence of the accountant, he could have got away from his charge. he had left _me_ in the office, he said. "what! the _incompetent_?" "o, that," he replied, "is all a mistake; the incompetent has already mastered our system." the mechanical ability, however, came but slowly; and i never acquired the facility, in running up columns of summations, of the early-taught accountant; though, making up by diligence what i wanted in speed, i found, after my first few weeks of labour in linlithgow, that i could give as of old an occasional hour to literature and geology. the proof-sheets of my book began to drop in upon me, demanding revision; and to a quarry in the neighbourhood of the town, rich in the organisms of the mountain limestone, and overflown by a bed of basalt so regularly columnar, that one of the legends of the district attributed its formation to the "ancient pechts," i was able to devote, not without profit, the evenings of several saturdays. i formed, at this time, my first acquaintance with the palæozoic shells, as they occur in the rock--an acquaintance which has since been extended in some measure through the silurian deposits, upper and lower; and these shells, though marked, in the immensely extended ages of the division to which they belong, by specific, and even generic variety, i have found exhibiting throughout a unique family type or pattern, as entirely different from the family type of the secondary shells as both are different from the family types of the tertiary and the existing ones. each of the three great periods of creation had its own peculiar fashion; and after having acquainted myself with the fashions of the second and third periods, i was now peculiarly interested in the acquaintance which i was enabled to commence with that of the first and earliest also. i found, too, in a bed of trap beside the edinburgh road, scarce half a mile to the east of the town, numerous pieces of carbonized lignite, which still retained the woody structure--probably the broken remains of some forest of the carboniferous period, enveloped in some ancient lava bed, that had rolled over its shrubs and trees, annihilating all save the fragments of charcoal, which, locked up in its viscid recesses, had resisted the agency that dissipated the more exposed embers into gas. i had found, in like manner, when residing at conon-side and inverness, fragments of charcoal locked up in the glassy vesicular stone of the old vitrified forts of craig phadrig and knock farril, and existing as the sole representatives of the vast masses of fuel which must have been employed in fusing the ponderous walls of these unique fortalices. and i was now interested to find exactly the same phenomena among the _vitrified_ rocks of the coal measures. brief as the days were, i had always a twilight hour to myself in linlithgow; and as the evenings were fine for the season, the old royal park of the place, with its noble church, its massive palace, and its sweet lake, still mottled by the hereditary swans whose progenitors had sailed over its waters in the days when james iv. worshipped in the spectre aisle, formed a delightful place of retreat, little frequented by the inhabitants of the town, but only all the more my own in consequence; and in which i used to feel the fatigue of the day's figuring and calculation drop away into the cool breezy air, like cobwebs from an unfolded banner, as i climbed among the ruins, or sauntered along the grassy shores of the loch. my stay at linlithgow was somewhat prolonged, by the removal, first of the accountant of the branch, and then of its agent, who was called south to undertake the management of a newly-erected english bank; but i lost nothing by the delay. an admirable man of business, one of the officials of the parent bank in edinburgh (now its agent in kirkcaldy, and recently provost of the place), was sent temporarily to conduct the business of the agency; and i saw, under him, how a comparative stranger arrived at his conclusions respecting the standing and solvency of the various customers with whom, in behalf of the parent institute, he was called on to deal. and, finally, my brief term of apprenticeship expired--about two months in all--i returned to cromarty; and, as the opening of the agency there waited only my arrival, straightway commenced my new course as an accountant. my minister, when he first saw me seated at the desk, pronounced me "at length fairly caught;" and i must confess i did feel as if my latter days were destined to differ from my earlier ones, well nigh as much as those of peter of old, who, when he was "young, girded himself, and walked whither he would, but who, when old, was girded by others, and carried whither he would not." two long years had to pass from this time ere my young friend and i could be united--for such were the terms on which we had to secure the consent of her mother; but, with our union in the vista, we could meet more freely than before; and the time passed not unpleasantly away. for the first six months of my new employment, i found myself unable to make my old use of the leisure hours which, i found, i could still command. there was nothing very intellectual, in the higher sense of the term, in recording the bank's transactions, or in summing up columns of figures, or in doing business over the counter; and yet the fatigue induced was a fatigue, not of sinew and muscle, but of nerve and brain, which, if it did not quite disqualify me for my former intellectual amusements, at least greatly disinclined me towards them, and rendered me a considerably more indolent sort of person than either before or since. it is asserted by artists of discriminating eye, that the human hand bears an expression stamped upon it by the general character, as surely as the human face; and i certainly used to be struck, during this transition period, by the relaxed and idle expression that had on the sudden been assumed by mine. and the slackened hands represented, i too surely felt, a slackened mind. the unintellectual toils of the labouring man have been occasionally represented as less favourable to mental cultivation than the semi-intellectual employments of that class immediately above him, to which our clerks, shopmen, and humbler accountants belong; but it will be found that exactly the reverse is the case, and that, though a certain conventional gentility of manner and appearance on the side of the somewhat higher class may serve to conceal the fact, it is on the part of the labouring man that the real advantage lies. the mercantile accountant or law-clerk, bent over his desk, his faculties concentrated on his columns of figures, or on the pages which he has been carefully engrossing, and unable to proceed one step in his work without devoting to it all his attention, is in greatly less favourable circumstances than the ploughman or operative mechanic, whose mind is free though his body labours, and who thus finds, in the very rudeness of his employments, a compensation for their humble and laborious character. and it will be found that the humbler of the two classes is much more largely represented in our literature than the class by one degree less humble. ranged against the poor clerk of nottingham, henry kirke white, and the still more hapless edinburgh engrossing clerk, robert fergusson, with a very few others, we find in our literature a numerous and vigorous phalanx, composed of men such as the ayrshire ploughman, the ettrick shepherd, the fifeshire foresters, the sailors dampier and falconer--bunyan, bloomfield, ramsay, tannahill, alexander wilson, john clare, allan cunningham, and ebenezer elliot. and i was taught at this time to recognise the simple principle on which the greater advantages lie on the side of the humbler class. gradually, however, as i became more inured to sedentary life, my mind recovered its spring, and my old ability returned of employing my leisure hours, as before, in intellectual exertion. meanwhile my legendary volume issued from the press, and was, with a few exceptions, very favourably received by the critics. leigh hunt gave it a kind and genial notice in his _journal_; it was characterized by robert chambers not less favourably in _his_; and dr. hetherington, the future historian of the church of scotland and of the westminster assembly of divines--at that time a licentiate of the church--made it the subject of an elaborate and very friendly critique in the _presbyterian review_. nor was i less gratified by the terms in which it was spoken of by the late baron hume, the nephew and residuary legatee of the historian--himself very much a critic of the old school--in a note to a north-country friend. he described it as a work "written in an english style which" he "had begun to regard as one of the lost arts." but it attained to no great popularity. for being popular, its subjects were too local, and its treatment of them perhaps too quiet. my publishers tell me, however, that it not only continues to sell, but moves off considerably better in its later editions that it did on its first appearance. the branch bank furnished me with an entirely new and curious field of observation, and formed a very admirable school. for the cultivation of a shrewd common sense, a bank office is one of perhaps the best schools in the world. mere cleverness serves often only to befool its possessor. he gets entangled among his own ingenuities, and is caught as in a net. but ingenuities, plausibilities, special pleadings, all that make the stump-orator great, must be brushed aside by the banker. the question with him comes always to be a sternly naked one:--is, or is not, mr. ---- a person fit to be trusted with the bank's money? is his sense of monetary obligations nice, or obtuse? is his judgment good, or the contrary? are his speculations sound, or precarious? what are his resources?--what his liabilities? is he facile in lending the use of his name? does he float on wind bills, as boys swim on bladders? or is his paper representative of only real business transactions? such are the topics which, in the recesses of his own mind, the banker is called on to discuss; and he must discuss them, not merely plausibly or ingeniously, but solidly and truly; seeing that error, however illustrated or adorned, or however capable of being brilliantly defended in speech or pamphlet, is sure always with him to take the form of pecuniary loss. my superior in the agency--mr. ross, a good and honourable-minded man, of sense and experience--was admirably fitted for calculations of this kind; and i learned, both in his behalf, and from the pleasure which i derived from the exercise, to take no little interest in them also. it was agreeable to mark the moral effects of a well-conducted agency such as his. however humbly honesty and good sense may be rated in the great world generally, they always, when united, bear premium in a judiciously managed bank office. it was interesting enough, too, to see quiet silent men, like "honest farmer flamburgh," getting wealthy, mainly because, though void of display, they were not wanting in integrity and judgment; and clever unscrupulous fellows, like "ephraim jenkinson," who "spoke to good purpose," becoming poor, very much because, with all their smartness, they lacked sense and principle. it was worthy of being noted, too, that in looking around from my peculiar point of view on the agricultural classes, i found the farmers, on really good farms, usually thriving, if not themselves in fault, however high their rents; and that, on the other hand, farmers on sterile farms were _not_ thriving, however moderate the demands of the landlord. it was more melancholy, but not less instructive, to learn, from authorities whose evidence could not be questioned--bills paid by small instalments, or lying under protest--that the small-farm system, so excellent in a past age, was getting rather unsuited for the energetic competition of the present one; and that the _small_ farmers--a comparatively comfortable class some sixty or eighty years before, who used to give dowries to their daughters, and leave well-stocked farms to their sons--were falling into straitened circumstances, and becoming, however respectable elsewhere, not very good men in the bank. it was interesting, too, to mark the character and capabilities of the various branches of trade carried on in the place--how the business of its shopkeepers fell always into a very few hands, leaving to the greater number, possessed, apparently, of the same advantages as their thriving compeers, only a mere show of custom--how precarious in its nature the fishing trade always is, especially the herring fishery, not more from the uncertainty of the fishings themselves, than from the fluctuations of the markets--and how in the pork trade of the place a judicious use of the bank's money enabled the curers to trade virtually on a doubled capital, and to realize, with the deduction of the bank discounts, doubled profits. in a few months my acquaintance with the character and circumstances of the business men of the district became tolerably extensive, and essentially correct; and on two several occasions, when my superior left me for a time to conduct the entire business of the agency, i was fortunate enough not to discount for him a single bad bill. the implicit confidence reposed in me by so good and sagacious a man was certainly quite enough of itself to set me on my metal. there was, however, at least one item in my calculations in which i almost always found myself incorrect: i found i could predict every bankruptcy in the district; but i usually fell short from ten to eighteen months of the period in which the event actually took place. i could pretty nearly determine the time when the difficulties and entanglements which i saw _ought_ to have produced their proper effects, and landed in failure; but i missed taking into account the desperate efforts which men of energetic temperament make in such circumstances, and which, to the signal injury of their friends and the loss of their creditors, succeed usually in staving off the catastrophe for a season. in short, the school of the branch bank was a very admirable school; and i profited so much by its teachings, that when questions connected with banking are forced on the notice of the public, and my brother editors have to apply for articles on the subject to literary bankers, i find i can write my banking articles for myself. the seasons passed by; the two years of probation came to a close, like all that had gone before; and after a long, and, in its earlier stages, anxious courtship of in all five years, i received from the hand of mr. ross that of my young friend, in her mother's house, and was united to her by my minister, mr. stewart. and then, setting out, immediately after the ceremony, for the southern side of the moray firth, we spent two happy days together in elgin; and, under the guidance of one of the most respected citizens of the place, my kind friend mr. isaac forsyth, visited the more interesting objects connected with the town or its neighbourhood. he introduced us to the elgin cathedral;--to the veritable john shanks, the eccentric keeper of the building, who could never hear of the wolf of badenoch, who had burnt it four hundred years before, without flying into a rage, and becoming what the dead man would have deemed libellous;--to the font, too, under a dripping vault of ribbed stone, in which an insane mother used to sing to sleep the poor infant, who, afterwards becoming lieutenant-general anderson, built for poor paupers like his mother, and poor children such as he himself had once been, the princely institution which bears his name. and then, after passing from the stone font to the institution itself, with its happy children, and its very unhappy old men and women, mr. forsyth conveyed us to the pastoral, semi-highland valley of pluscardine, with its beautiful wood-embosomed priory--one of perhaps the finest and most symmetrical specimens of the unornamented gothic of the times of alexander ii. to be seen anywhere in scotland. finally, after passing a delightful evening at his hospitable board, and meeting, among other guests, my friend mr. patrick duff--the author of the "geology of moray"--i returned with my young wife to cromarty, and found her mother, mr. ross, mr. stewart, and a party of friends, waiting for us in the house which my father had built for himself forty years before, but which it had been his destiny never to inhabit. it formed our home for the three following years. the subjoined verses--prose, i suspect, rather than poetry, for the mood in which they were written was too earnest a one to be imaginative--i introduce, as representative of my feelings at this time: they were written previous to my marriage, on one of the blank pages of a pocket-bible, with which i presented my future wife:-- to lydia. lydia, since ill by sordid gift were love like mine express'd, take heaven's best boon, this sacred book, from him who loves thee best. love strong as that i bear to thee were sure unaptly told by dying flowers, or lifeless gems, or soul-ensnaring gold. i know 'twas he who formed this heart who seeks this heart to guide; for why?--he bids me love thee more than all on earth beside.[ ] yes, lydia, bids me cleave to thee, as long this heart has cleaved: would, dearest, that his other laws were half so well received! full many a change, my only love, on human life attends; and at the cold sepulchral stone th' uncertain vista ends. how best to bear each various change, should weal or woe befall, to love, live, die, this sacred book, lydia, it tells us all. oh, much-beloved, our coming day to us is all unknown, but sure we stand a broader mark than they who stand alone. _one_ knows it all: not his an eye, like ours, obscured and dim; and knowing us, he gives this book, that we may know of him. his words, my love, are gracious words, and gracious thoughts express: he cares e'en for each little bird that wings the blue abyss. of coming wants and woes he thought, ere want or woe began; and took to him a human heart. that he might feel for man. then oh! my first, my only love, the kindliest, dearest, best! on him may all our hopes repose,-- on him our wishes rest. his be the future's doubtful day, let joy or grief befall: in life or death, in weal or woe, our god, our guide, our all. footnotes: [ ] professor pillans. [ ] "for this cause shall a man leave father and mother, and shall cleave to his wife; and they twain shall be one flesh." chapter xxiv. "life is a drama of a few brief acts; the actors shift, the scene is often changed, pauses and revolutions intervene, the mind is set to many a varied tune. and jars and plays in harmony by turns." alexander bethune. though my wife continued, after our marriage, to teach a few pupils, the united earnings of the household did not much exceed a hundred pounds per annum--not quite so large a sum as i had used to think it a few years before; and so i set myself to try whether i could not turn my leisure hours to some account, by writing for the periodicals. my old inability of pressing for work continued to be as embarrassing as ever, and, save for a chance engagement of no very promising kind, which presented itself to me unsolicited about this time, i might have failed in procuring the employment which i sought. an ingenious self-taught mechanic--the late mr. john mackay wilson of berwick-on-tweed--after making good his upward way from his original place at the compositor's frame, to the editorship of a provincial paper, started, in the beginning of , a weekly periodical, consisting of "border tales," which, as he possessed the story-telling ability, met with considerable success. he did not live, however, to complete the first yearly volume; the forty-ninth weekly number intimated his death; but as the publication had been a not unprofitable one, the publisher resolved on carrying it on; and it was stated in a brief notice, which embodied a few particulars of mr. wilson's biography, that, his materials being unexhausted, "tales yet untold lay in reserve, to keep alive his memory." and in the name of wilson the publication was kept up for, i believe, five years. it reckoned among its contributors the two bethunes, john and alexander, and the late professor gillespie of st. andrews, with several other writers, none of whom seem to have been indebted to any original matter collected by its first editor; and i, who, at the publisher's request, wrote for it, during the first year of my marriage, tales enough to fill an ordinary volume, had certainly to provide all my materials for myself. the whole brought me about twenty-five pounds--a considerable addition to the previous hundred and odds of the household, but, for the work done, as inadequate a remuneration as ever poor writer got in the days of grub street. my tales, however, though an english critic did me the honour of selecting one of them as the best in the monthly part in which it appeared, were not of the highest order: it took a great deal of writing to earn the three guineas, which were the stipulated wages for filling a weekly number; and though poor wilson may have been a fine enough fellow in his way, one had no great encouragement to do one's very best, in order to "keep alive his memory." in all such matters, according to sir walter scott and the old proverb, "every herring should hang by its own head." i can show, however, that at least one of my contributions _did_ gain wilson some little credit. in the perilous attempt to bring out, in the dramatic form, the characters of two of our national poets--burns and fergusson--i wrote for the "tales" a series of "recollections," drawn ostensibly from the memory of one who had been personally acquainted with them both, but in reality based on my own conceptions of the men, as exhibited in their lives and writings. and in an elaborate life of fergusson, lately published, i find a borrowed extract from my contribution, and an approving reference to the whole, coupled with a piece of information entirely new to me. "these recollections," says the biographer, "are truly interesting and touching, _and were the result of various communications made to mr. wilson_, whose pains-taking researches i have had frequent occasion to verify in the course of my own." alas, no! poor wilson was more than a twelvemonth in his grave ere the idea of producing these "recollections" first struck the writer--a person to whom no communications on the subject were ever made by any one, and who, unassisted save by one of the biographies of the poet--that in chambers' "lives of illustrious scotsmen,"--wrote full two hundred miles from the scene of his sad and brief career. the same individual who, in mr. wilson's behalf, is so complimentary to my "pains-taking research," is, i find, very severe on one of fergusson's previous biographers--the scholarly dr. irving, author of the life of buchanan, and the lives of the older scottish poets--a gentleman who, whatever his estimate of the poor poet may have been, would have spared no labour in elucidating the various incidents which composed his history. the man of research is roughly treated, and a compliment awarded to the diligence of the man of none. but it is always thus with fame. "some she disgraced, and some with honours crown'd; unlike successes equal merits found: so her blind sister, fickle fortune, reigns. and, undiscerning, scatters crowns and chains." in the memoir of john bethune by his brother alexander, the reader is told that he was much depressed and disappointed, about a twelvemonth or so previous to his decease, by the rejection of several of his stories in succession, which were returned to him, "with an editor's sentence of death passed upon them." i know not whether it was by the editor of the "tales of the borders" that sentence in the case was passed; but i know he sentenced some of mine, which were, i daresay, not very good, though well-nigh equal, i thought, to most of his own instead, however, of yielding to depression, like poor bethune, i simply resolved to write for him no more; and straightway made an offer of my services to mr. robert chambers, by whom they were accepted; and during the two following years i occasionally contributed to his _journal_, on greatly more liberal terms than those on which i had laboured for the other periodical, and with my name attached to my several articles. i must be permitted to avail myself of the present opportunity of acknowledging the kindness of mr. chambers. there is perhaps no other writer of the present day who has done so much to encourage struggling talent as this gentleman. i have for many years observed that publications, however obscure, in which he finds aught really praiseworthy, are secure always of getting, in his widely-circulated periodical, a kind approving word--that his criticisms invariably bear the stamp of a benevolent nature, which experiences more of pleasure in the recognition of merit than in the detection of defect--that his kindness does not stop with these cheering notices, for he finds time, in the course of a very busy life, to write many a note of encouragement and advice to obscure men in whom he recognises a spirit superior to their condition--and that the compositions of writers of this meritorious class, when submitted to him editorially, rarely fail, if really suitable for his journal, to find a place in it, or to be remunerated on a scale that invariably bears reference to the value of the communications--not to the circumstances of their authors. i can scarce speak of my contributions to the periodicals at this time as forming any part of my education. i acquired, in their composition, a somewhat readier command of the pen than before; but they, of course, tended rather to the dissipation of previous stores than to the accumulation of new ones; nor did they give exercise to those higher faculties of mind which i deemed it most my interest to cultivate. my real education at the time was that in which i was gradually becoming initiated behind the bank-counter, as my experience of the business of the district extended; and that which i contrived to pick up in my leisure evenings along the shores. a rich ichthyolitic deposit of the old red sandstone lies, as i have already said, within less than half a mile of the town of cromarty; and when fatigued with my calculations in the bank, i used to find it delightful relaxation to lay open its fish by scores, and to study their peculiarities as exhibited in their various states of keeping, until i at length became able to determine their several genera and species from even the minutest fragments. the number of ichthyolites which that deposit of itself furnished--a patch little more than forty yards square--seemed altogether astonishing: it supplied me with specimens at almost every visit, for ten years together; nor, though, after i left cromarty for edinburgh, it was often explored by geologic tourists, and by a few cultivators of science in the place, was it wholly exhausted for ten years more. the ganoids of the second age of vertebrate existence must have congregated as thickly upon that spot in the times of the lower old red sandstone, as herrings ever do now, in their season, on the best fishing-banks of caithness or the moray firth. i was for some time greatly puzzled in my attempts to restore these ancient fishes, by the peculiarities of their organization. it was in vain i examined every species of fish caught by the fishermen of the place, from the dog-fish and the skate to the herring and the mackerel. i could find in our recent fishes no such scales of enamelled bone as those which had covered the _dipterians_ and the _celacanths_; and no such plate-encased animals as the various species of _coccosteus_ or _pterichthys_. on the other hand, with the exception of a double line of vertebral processes in the _coccosteus_, i could find in the ancient fishes no internal skeleton: they had apparently worn all their bones outside, where the crustaceans wear their shells, and were furnished inside with but frameworks of perishable cartilage. it seemed somewhat strange, too, that the geologists who occasionally came my way--some of them men of eminence--seemed to know even less about my old red fishes and their peculiarities of structure, than i did myself. i had represented the various species of the deposit simply by numerals, which not a few of the specimens of my collection still retain on their faded labels; and waited on until some one should come the way learned enough to substitute for my provisional figures words by which to designate them; but the necessary learning seemed wanting, and i at length came to find that i had got into a _terra incognita_ in the geological field, the greater portion of whose organisms were still unconnected with human language. they had no representatives among the vocables. i formed my first imperfect acquaintance with the recent ganoidal fishes in , from a perusal of the late dr. hibbert's paper on the deposit of burdiehouse, which i owed to the kindness of mr. george anderson. dr. hibbert, in illustrating the fishes of the coal measures, figured and briefly described the lepidosteus of the american rivers as a still surviving fish of the early type; but his description of the animal, though supplemented shortly after by that of dr. buckland in his bridgewater treatise, carried me but a little way. i saw that two of the old red genera--_osteolepis_ and _diplopterus_--resembled the american fish externally. it will be seen that the first-mentioned of these ancient ichthyolites bears a name compounded, though, in the reverse order, of exactly the same words. but while i found the skeleton of the lepidosteus described as remarkably hard and solid, i could detect in the _osteolepis_ and its kindred genus no trace of internal skeleton at all the cephalaspean genera, too--_coccosteus_ and _pterichthys_--greatly puzzled me: i could find no living analogues for them; and so, in my often-repeated attempts at restoration, i had to build them up plate by plate, as a child sets up its dissected map or picture bit by bit--every new specimen that turned up furnishing a key for some part previously unknown--until at length, after many an abortive effort, the creatures rose up before me in their strange, unwonted proportions, as they had lived, untold ages before, in the primæval seas. the extraordinary form of _pterichthys_ filled me with astonishment; and with its arched carpace and flat plastron restored before me, i leaped to the conclusion, that as the recent lepidosteus, with its ancient representatives of the old red sandstone, were sauroid fishes--strange connecting links between fishes and alligators--so the _pterichthys_ was a chelonian fish--a connecting link between the fish and the tortoise. a gurnard--insinuated so far through the shell of a small tortoise as to suffer its head to protrude from the anterior opening, furnished with oar-like paddles instead of pectoral fins, and with its caudal fin clipped to a point--would, i found, form no inadequate representative of this strangest of fishes. and when, some years after, i had the pleasure of introducing it to the notice of agassiz, i found that, with all his world-wide experience of its class, it was as much an object of wonder to him as it had been to myself. "it is impossible," we find him saying, in his great work, "to see aught more bizarre in all creation than the _pterichthyan_ genus: the same astonishment that cuvier felt in examining the plesiosaurus, i myself experienced, when mr. h. miller, the first discoverer of these fossils, showed me the specimens which he had detected in the old red sandstone of cromarty." and there were peculiarities about the _coccosteus_ that scarce less excited my wonder than the general form of the _pterichthys_, and which, when i first ventured to describe them, were regarded by the higher authorities in palæontology as mere blunders on the part of the observer. i have, however, since succeeded in demonstrating that, if blunders at all--which i greatly doubt, for nature makes very few--it was nature herself that was in error, not the observer. in this strange _coccostean_ genus, nature _did_ place a group of opposing teeth in each ramus of the lower jaw, just in the line of the symphysis--an arrangement unique, so far as is yet known, in the vertebrate division of creation, and which must have rendered the mouth of these creatures an extraordinary combination of the horizontal mouth proper to the vertebrata, and of the vertical mouth proper to the crustaceans. it was favourable to the integrity of my work of restoration, that the press was not waiting for me, and that when portions of the creatures on which i wrought were wanting, or plates turned up whose places i was unable to determine, i could lay aside my self-imposed task for the time, and only resume it when some new-found specimen supplied me with the materials requisite for carrying it on. and so the restorations which i completed in , and published in , were found, by our highest authorities in , after they had been set aside for nearly six years, to be essentially the true ones after all. i see, however, that one of the most fanciful and monstrous of all the interim restorations of _pterichthys_ given to the world--that made by mr. joseph dinkel in for the late dr. mantell, and published in the "medals of creation," has been reproduced in the recent illustrated edition of the "vestiges of creation." but the ingenious author of that work could scarce act prudently were he to stake the soundness of his hypothesis on the integrity of the restoration. for my own part, i consent, if it can be shown that the _pterichthys_ which once lived and moved on this ancient globe of ours ever either rose or sunk into the _pterichthys_ of mr. dinkel, freely and fully to confess, not only the possibility, but also the _actuality_, of the transmutation of both species and genera. i am first, however, prepared to demonstrate, before any competent jury of palæontologists in the world, that not a single plate or scale of mr. dinkel's restoration represents those of the fish which he professed to restore; that the same judgment applies equally to his restoration of _coccosteus_; and that, instead of reproducing in his figures the true forms of ancient cephalaspeans, he has merely given, instead, the likeness of things that never were "in the heaven above, or in the earth beneath, or in the waters under the earth." the place in the geologic scale, as certainly as the forms and characters, of these ancient fishes, had to be determined. mr. george anderson had informed me, as early as , that some of them were identical with the ichthyolites of the gamrie deposit; but then the place of the gamrie deposit was still to fix. it had been recently referred to the same geological horizon as the carboniferous limestone, and was regarded as lying unconformable to the old red sandstone of the district in which it occurs; but, wholly dissatisfied with the evidence adduced, i continued my search, and, though the process was a slow one, saw the position of the cromarty beds gradually approximating towards determination. it was not, however, until the autumn of that i got them fairly fixed down to the old red sandstone, and not until the winter of that i was able conclusively to demonstrate their place in the base of the system, little more than a hundred feet, and in one part not more than eighty feet, above the upper strata of the great conglomerate. i had often wished, during my explorations, to be able to extend my field of observation into the neighbouring counties, in order to determine whether i could not possess myself, at a distance, of the evidence which, for a time at least, i failed to find at home; but my daily engagements in the bank fixed me down to cromarty and its neighbourhood; and i found myself somewhat in the circumstances of a tolerably lively beetle stuck on a pin, that, though able, with a little exertion, to spin round its centre, is yet wholly unable to quit it. i acquired, however, at the close of , in the late dr. john malcolmson of madras, a noble auxiliary, who could expatiate freely over the regions virtually barred against me. he had been led to visit cromarty by a brief description of its geology, rather picturesque than scientific, which had appeared in my legendary volume; and after i had introduced him to its ichthyolitic beds on both sides of the hill and at eathie, and acquainted him with their character and organisms, he set himself to trace out the resembling deposits of the neighbouring shires of banff, moray, and nairn. and in little more than a fortnight he had detected the ichthyolites in numerous localities all over an old red sandstone tract, which extends from the primary districts of banff to near the field of culloden. the old red sandstone of the north, hitherto deemed so poor in fossils, he found--with the cromarty deposits as his key--teeming with organic remains. in the spring of , dr. malcolmson visited england and the continent, and introduced some of my cephalaspean fossils to the notice of agassiz, and some of the evidence which i had laid before him regarding their place in the scale, to mr. (now sir roderick) murchison. and i had the honour, in consequence, of corresponding with both these distinguished men; and the satisfaction of knowing, that by both, the fruit of my labours was deemed important. i observe that humboldt, in his "cosmos," specially refers to the judgment of agassiz on the extraordinary character of the new zoological link with which i had furnished him; and i find murchison, in his great work on the silurian system, published in , laying no little emphasis on the stratigraphical fact. after referring to the previously formed opinion that the gamrie deposit, with its ichthyolites, was not an old red one, he goes on to say--"on the other hand, i have recently been informed by dr. malcolmson, that mr. miller of cromarty (who has made some highly interesting discoveries near that place) pointed out to him nodules resembling those of gamrie, and containing similar fishes, in highly-inclined strata, which are interpolated in, and completely subordinate to, the great mass of old red sandstone of ross and cromarty. this important observation will, i trust, be soon communicated to the geological society, for it strengthens the inference of m. agassiz respecting the epoch during which the _cheiracanthus_ and _cheirolepis_ lived." all this will, i am afraid, appear tolerably weak to the reader, and somewhat more than tolerably tedious. let him remember, however, that the only merit to which i lay claim in the case is that of patient research--a merit in which whoever wills may rival or surpass me; and that this humble faculty of patience, when rightly directed, may lead to more extraordinary developments of idea than even genius itself. what i had been slowly deciphering were the _ideas_ of god as developed in the mechanism and framework of his creatures, during the second age of vertebrate existence; and one portion of my inquiries determined the date of these ideas, and another their character. many of the best sections of the sutors and the adjacent hills, with their associated deposits, cannot be examined without boat; and so i purchased for a few pounds a light little yawl, furnished with mast and sail, and that rowed four oars, to enable me to carry out my explorations. it made me free of the cromarty and moray firths for some six or eight miles from the town, and afforded me many a pleasant evening's excursion to the deep-sea caves and skerries, and the picturesque surf-wasted stacks of the granitic wall of rock which runs in the ben nevis line of elevation, from shadwick on the east to the scarfs crag on the west. i know not a richer tract for the geologist. independently of the interest that attaches to its sorely-contorted granitic gneiss--which seems, as murchison shrewdly remarks, to have been protruded through the sedimentary deposits in a solid state, as a fractured bone is sometimes protruded through the integuments--there occurs along the range three several deposits of the old red ichthyolites, and three several deposits of the lias, besides the sub-aqueous ones, with two insulated skerries, which i am inclined to regard as outliers of the oolite. these last occur in the form of half-tide rocks, very dangerous to the mariner, which lie a full half-mile from the shore, and can be visited with safety only at low water during dead calms, when no ground swell comes rolling in from the sea. i have set out as early as two o'clock in a fine summer morning for these skerries, and, after spending several hours upon them, have been seated at the bank desk before ten; but these were mornings of very hard work. it was the long saturday afternoons that were my favourite seasons of explorations; and when the weather was fine, my wife would often accompany me in these excursions; and we not unfrequently anchored our skiff in some rocky bay, or over some fishing bank, and, provided with rods and lines, caught, ere our return, a basket of rock-cod or coal-fish for supper, that always seemed of finer flavour than the fish supplied us in the market. these were happy holidays. shelley predicates of a day of exquisite beauty, that it would continue to "live like joy in memory." i do retain recollections of these evenings spent in my little skiff--recollections mingled with a well-remembered imagery of blue seas and purple hills, and a sun-lit town in the distance, and tall wood-crested precipices nearer at hand, which flung lengthened shadows across shore and sea--that not merely represent enjoyments which have been, but that, in certain moods of the mind, take the form of enjoyment still. they are favoured spots in the chequered retrospect of the past, on which the sunshine of memory falls more brightly than on most of the others. when thus employed, there broke out very unexpectedly, a second war with the liberal moderates of the town, in which, unwillingly rather than otherwise, i had ultimately to engage. the sacrament of the supper is celebrated in most of the parish churches of the north of scotland only once a year; and, as many of the congregations worship at that time in the open air, the summer and autumn seasons are usually selected for the "occasion," as best fitted for open-air meetings. as, however, the celebration is preceded and followed by week-day preachings, and as on one of these week-days--the thursday preceding the sacramental sabbath--no work is done, kirk-sessions usually avoid fixing their sacrament in a busy time, such as the time of harvest in the rural districts, or of the herring-fishing in the seaport towns; and as the parish of cromarty has both its rural population and its fishing one, the kirk-session of the place have to avoid both periods. and so the early part of july, ere the herring-fishing or the harvest comes on, is the time usually fixed upon for the cromarty sacrament. in this year, however ( ), it so chanced that the day appointed for the queen's coronation proved coincident with the sacramental thursday, and the liberal moderate party urged upon the session that the preparations for the sacrament should give way to the rejoicings for the coronation. we had not been much accustomed to rejoicings of the kind in the north since the good old times when respectable tory gentlemen used to show themselves drunk in public on the king's birthday, in order to demonstrate their loyalty: the coronation days of both george iv. and william iv. had passed off as quietly as sabbaths; and the session, holding that it might be quite as well for people to pray for their young queen at church, and then quietly drink her health when they got home, as to grow glorious in her behalf in taverns and tap-rooms, refused to alter their day. believing that, though essentially in the right, they were yet politically in the wrong, and that a plausible case might be made out against them by the newspaper press, i waited on my minister, and urged him to give way to the liberals, and have his preparation-day changed from thursday to friday. he seemed quite willing enough to act on the suggestion; nay, he had made a similar one, he told me, to his session; but the devout eldership, strong in the precedents of centuries, had declined to subordinate the religious services of the kirk to the wassail and merriment sanctioned by the state. and so they determined on keeping their day of sacramental preparation on the thursday, as their fathers had done. meanwhile, the liberals held what was very properly termed a public meeting, seeing that, though the public had failed to attend it, the public had been quite at liberty to do so, nay, had even been specially invited; and there appeared in the provincial newspapers a long report of its proceedings, including five speeches--all written by a legal gentleman--in which it was designated a meeting of the inhabitants of the town and parish of cromarty. the resolutions were, of course, of the most enthusiastically loyal character. there was not a member of the meeting who was not prepared to spend upon himself the last drop of his bottle of port in her majesty's behalf. thursday came--the thursday of the sacrament and of the coronation; and, with ninety-nine hundredths of the church-going portion of my townsfolk, i went to church as usual. the parochial resolutioners, amounting in all to ten, were, i can honestly avouch, scarce at all missed in a congregation of nearly as many hundreds. about mid-day, however, we could hear the muffled report of their carronades; and, shortly after the service was over, and we had returned to our homes, there passed through the streets a forlorn little group of individuals, that looked exceedingly like a press-gang, but was in reality intended for a procession. though joined by a proprietor from a neighbouring parish, a lawyer from a neighbouring burgh, a small coast-guard party, with its commanding officer, and two half-pay episcopalian officers besides, the number who walked, including boys, did not exceed twenty-five persons; and of these, as i have said, only ten were parishioners. the processionists had a noble dinner in the head inn of the place--merrier than even dinners of celebration usually are, as it was, of course, loyalty and public spirit to ignore the special claim upon the day asserted by the church; and the darkening evening saw a splendid bonfire blazing from the brae-head. and the liberal newspapers south and north taking part with the processionists, in many a paragraph and short leader, represented their frolic--for such it was, and a very foolish one--as a splendid triumph of the people of cromarty over presbyterial bigotry and clerical domination. nay, so bad did the case of my minister and his session appear, thus placed in opposition to at once the people and the queen, that the papers on the other side failed to take it up. a well-written letter on the subject by my wife, which fairly stated the facts, was refused admission into even the ecclesiastico-conservative journal, specially patronized, at the time, by the scottish church; and my minister's friends and brethren in the south could do little else than marvel at what they deemed his wondrous imprudence. i had anticipated, from the first, that his position was to be a bad one; but i ill liked to see him with his back to the wall. and though i had determined, on the rejection of my counsel, to take no part in the quarrel, i now resolved to try whether i could not render it evident that he was really not at issue with his people, but with merely a very inconsiderable clique among them, who had never liked him; and that it was much a joke to describe him as disaffected to his sovereign, simply because he had held his preparation services on the day of her coronation. in order to make good my first point, i took the unpardonable liberty of giving the names in full, in a letter which appeared in our northern newspapers, of every individual who walked in the procession, and represented themselves as the people; and challenged the addition of even a single name to a list ludicrously brief. and in making good the second, i fairly succeeded, as there were not a few comical circumstances in the transaction, in getting the laughers on my side. the clique was amazingly angry, and wrote not very bright letters, which appeared as advertisements in the newspapers, and paid duty to make evident the fact. there was a shallow and very ignorant young shoemaker in the place, named chaucer, a native of the south of scotland, who represented himself as the grandson of the old poet of the days of edward iii., and wrote particularly wretched doggrel to make good his claim. and, having a quarrel with the kirk-session, in a certain delicate department, he had joined the processionists, and celebrated their achievements in a ballad entirely worthy of them. and it was perhaps the severest cut of all, that the recognised leader of the band pronounced chaucer the younger a greatly better poet than me. there were representations, too, made to my superiors in the banking department at edinburgh, which procured me a reprimand, though a gentle one; but my superior in cromarty--mr. ross--as wise and good a man as any in the direction, and thoroughly acquainted with the merits of the case, was wholly on my side. i am afraid the reader may deem all this very foolish, and hold that i would have been better employed among the rocks, in determining the true relations of their various beds, and the character of their organisms, than in bickering in a petty village quarrel, and making myself enemies. and yet, man being what he is, i fear an ability of efficient squabbling is a greatly more marketable one than any ability whatever of extending the boundaries of natural science. at least so it was, that while my geological researches did nothing for me at this time, my letter in the procession controversy procured for me the offer of a newspaper editorship. but though, in a pecuniary point of view, i should have considerably bettered my circumstances by closing with it, i found i could not do so without assuming the character of the special pleader, and giving myself to the advocacy of views and principles which i really did not hold; and so i at once declined the office, as one for which i did not deem myself suited, and could not in conscience undertake. i found about this time more congenial employment, though, of course, it occupied only my leisure hours, in writing the memoir of a townsman--the late mr. william forsyth, of cromarty--at the request of his relation and son in-law, my friend mr. isaac forsyth, of elgin. william forsyth had been a grown man ere the abolition of the hereditary jurisdictions; and from the massiveness and excellence of his character, and his high standing as a merchant, in a part of the country in which merchants at the time were few, he had succeeded, within the precincts of the town, to not a little of the power of the hereditary sheriff of the district; and after acting for more than half a century as a laborious justice of the peace, and succeeding in making up more quarrels than most country lawyers have an opportunity of fomenting--for the age was a rude and combative one, and the merchant ever a peace-maker--he lived long enough to see liberty-and-equality clubs and processions, and died about the close of the first war of the french revolution. it was an important half-century in scotland--though it exhibits but a narrow, inconspicuous front in the history of the country--that intervened between the times of the hereditary jurisdictions and the liberty-and-equality clubs. it was specially the period during which popular opinion began to assume its potency, and in which the scotland of the past merged, in consequence, into the very dissimilar scotland of the present. and i derived much pleasure in tracing some of the more striking features of this transition age in the biography of mr. forsyth. my little work was printed, but not published, and distributed by mr. forsyth of elgin among the friends of the family, as perhaps a better and more adequate memorial of a worthy and able man than could be placed over his grave. it was on the occasion of the death of his last-surviving child--the late mrs. mackenzie of cromarty, a lady from whom i had received much kindness, and under whose hospitable roof i had the opportunity afforded me of meeting not a few superior men--that my memoir was undertaken; and i regarded it as a fitting tribute to a worthy family just passed away, at once deserving of being remembered for its own sake, and to which i owed a debt of gratitude. in the spring of , a sad bereavement darkened my household, and for a time left me little heart to pursue my wonted amusements, literary or scientific. we had been visited, ten months after our marriage, by a little girl, whose presence had added not a little to our happiness; home became more emphatically such from the presence of the child, that in a few months had learned so well to know its mother, and in a few more to take its stand in the nurse's arms, at an upper window that commanded the street, and to recognise and make signs to its father as he approached the house. its few little words, too, had a fascinating interest to our ears;--our own names, lisped in a language of its own, every time we approached; and the simple scotch vocable "awa, awa," which it knew how to employ in such plaintive tones as we retired, and that used to come back upon us in recollection, like an echo from the grave, when, its brief visit over, it had left us for ever, and its fair face and silken hair lay in darkness amid the clods of the churchyard. in how short a time had it laid hold of our affections! two brief years before, and we knew it not; and now it seemed as if the void which it left in our hearts the whole world could not fill. we buried it beside the old chapel of st. regulus, with the deep rich woods all around, save where an opening in front commands the distant land and the blue sea; and where the daisies which it had learned to love, mottled, starlike, the mossy mounds; and where birds, whose songs its ear had become skilful enough to distinguish, pour their notes over its little grave. the following simple but truthful stanzas, which i found among its mother's papers, seem to have been written in this place--sweetest of burying grounds--a few weeks after its burial, when a chill and backward spring, that had scowled upon its lingering illness, broke out at once into genial summer:-- thou'rt "awa, awa," from thy mother's side, and "awa, awa," from thy father's knee; thou'rt "awa" from our blessing, our care, our caressing, but "awa" from our hearts thou'lt never be. all things, dear child, that were wont to please thee are round thee here in beauty bright,-- there's music rare in the cloudless air, and the earth is teeming with living delight. thou'rt "awa, awa," from the bursting spring time, tho' o'er thy head its green boughs wave; the lambs are leaving their little footprints upon the turf of thy new-made grave. and art thou "awa," and "awa" for ever, that little face,--that tender frame,-- that voice which first, in sweetest accent call'd me the mother's thrilling name, that head of nature's finest moulding,-- those eyes, the deep night ether's blue where sensibility its shadows of ever-changing meaning throw? thy sweetness, patience under suffering, all promised us an opening day most fair, and told that to subdue thee would need but love's most gentle sway. ah me! 'twas here i thought to lead thee, and tell thee what are life and death, and raise thy serious thought's first waking to him who holds our every breath. and does my selfish heart then grudge thee, that angels are thy teachers now,-- that glory from thy saviour's presence kindles the crown upon thy brow? o no! to me earth must be lonelier, wanting thy voice, thy hand, thy love; yet dost thou dawn a star of promise, mild beacon to the world above. chapter xxv. "all for the church, and a little less for the state."--belhaven. i had taken no very deep interest in the voluntary controversy. there was, i thought, a good deal of over-statement and exaggeration on both sides. on the one hand, the voluntaries failed to convince me that a state endowment for ecclesiastical purposes is in itself in any degree a bad thing. i had direct experience to the contrary. i had evidence the most unequivocal that in various parts of the country it was a very excellent thing indeed. it had been a very excellent thing, for instance, in the parish of cromarty, ever since the revolution, down to the death of mr. smith--in reality a valuable patrimony of the people there; for it had supplied the parish, free of cost, with a series of popular and excellent ministers, whom otherwise the parishioners would have had to pay for themselves. and it had now given us my friend mr. stewart, one of the ablest and honestest ministers in scotland, or elsewhere, whether established or dissenting. and these facts, which were but specimens of a numerous class, had a tangibility and solidity about them which influenced me more than all the theoretic reasonings pressed on my attention about the mischief done to the church by the over-kindness of constantine, or the corrupting effects of state favour. but then i could as little agree with some of my friends on the endowment side, that the establishment, even in scotland, was everywhere of value, as with some of the voluntaries that it was nowhere of any. i had resided for months together in various parts of the country, where it would have mattered not a farthing to any one save the minister and his family, though the establishment had been struck down at a blow. religion and morals would have no more suffered by the annihilation of the minister's stipend, than by the suppression of the pension of some retired supervisor or superannuated officer of customs. nor could i forget, that the only religion, or appearance of religion, that existed in parties of workmen among which i had been employed (as in the south of scotland, for instance), was to be found among their dissenters--most of them, at the time, asserters of the voluntary principle. if the other workmen were reckoned, statistically at least, adherents of the establishment, it was not because they either benefited by it or cared for it, but only somewhat in the way that, according to the popular english belief, persons born at sea are held to belong to the parish of stepney. further, i did not in the least like the sort of company into which the voluntary controversy had introduced the good men on both sides; it gave a common cause to the voluntary and the infidel, and drew them cordially together; and, on the other hand, placed side by side, on terms portentously friendly, the pious asserter of endowments and the irreligious old tory. there was religion on both sides of the controversy, but a religious controversy it was not. the position of my grandmother's family, including of course uncles james and sandy, was a sort of midway one between the secession and the establishment. my grandmother had quitted the family of donald roy long ere he had been compelled, very unwillingly, to leave the church; and as no forced settlements had taken place in the parish into which she had removed, and as its ministers had been all men of the right stamp, she had done what donald himself had been so desirous to do--remained an attached member of the establishment. one of her sisters had, however, married in nigg; and she and her husband, following donald into the ranks of the secession, had reared one of their boys to the ministry, who became, in course of time, the respected minister of the congregation which his great-grandfather had founded. and, as the contemporary and first cousin of my uncles, the minister used to call upon them every time he came to town; and my uncle james, in turn (uncle sandy very rarely went to the country), never missed, when in nigg or its neighbourhood, to repay his visits. there was thus a good deal of intercourse kept up between the families, not without effect. most of the books of modern theology which my uncles read were secession books, recommended by their cousin; and the religious magazine for which they subscribed was a secession magazine. the latter bore, i remember, the name of the "christian magazine, or evangelical repository." it was not one of the brightest of periodicals, but a sound and solid one, with, as my uncles held, a good deal of the old unction about it; and there was, in especial, one of the contributors whose papers they used to pick out as of peculiar excellence, and not unfrequently read a second time. they bore the somewhat greek-looking signature of _leumas_, as if the writer had been a brother or cousin-german of some of the old christians to whom paul used to notify kind regards and good wishes at the end of his epistles; but it was soon discovered that _leumas_ was merely the proper name samuel reversed, though who the special samuel was who turned his signature to the right about, placing the wrong end foremost, and wrote with all the concise weight and gravity of the old divines, my uncles never knew. they had both passed away ere, in perusing the "second gallery of literary portraits," i found myself introduced to worthy old _leumas_, also a denizen of the unseen world at the time, as the father of the writer of that brilliant work--the rev. george gilfillan of dundee. this kind of writing had, of course, its proper effect on my uncles, and, through them, on the family: it kept up our respect for the secession. the established church, too, was in those days a tolerably faulty institution. my uncles took an interest in missions; and the church had none: nay, its deliberate decision against them--that of --remained still unreversed. it had had, besides, its forced settlements in our immediate neighbourhood; and moderatism, wise and politic in its generation, had perpetrated them by the hands of some of the better ministers of the district, who had learned to do what they themselves believed to be very wicked things, when their church bade them--a sort of professional license which my uncles could not in the least understand. in short, the secession better pleased them, in the main, than the establishment, though to the establishment they continued to adhere, and failed to see on what seceder principle their old friends were becoming voluntaries. on the breaking out of the controversy, i remembered all this; and, when told by good men of the established church that well-nigh all the vital religion of the country was on our side, and that it had left the voluntary seceders, though the good men themselves honestly believed what they said, i could not. further, the heads of a conversation which i had overheard in my cousin the seceder minister's house when i was a very young boy, and to which it could have been little suspected that i was listening--for i was playing at the time on the floor--had taken a strong hold of my memory, and often returned upon me at this period. my cousin and some of his elders were mourning--very sincerely, i cannot doubt--over the decay of religion among them: they were falling far short, they said, of the attainments of their fathers; there were no donald roys among them now; and yet they felt it to be a satisfaction, though a sad one, that the little religion which there was in the district seemed to be all among themselves. and now here was there exactly the same sort of conviction, equally strong, on the other side. but with all that liberally-expressed charity which forms one of the distinctive features of the present time, and is in reality one of its best things, there is still a vast amount of appreciation of this partial kind. friends are seen in the christian aspect; opponents in the polemic one; and it is too often forgotten that the friends have a polemic aspect to their opponents, and the opponents a christian aspect to their friends. and not only in the present, but at all former periods, the case seems to have been the same. i am sometimes half disposed to think, that either the prophet elijah, or the seven thousand honest men who had not bowed the knee to baal, must have been dissenters. had the prophet been entirely at one in his views with the seven thousand, it is not easy to conceive how he could have been wholly ignorant of their existence. with all these latitudinarian convictions, however, i was thoroughly an establishment man. the revenues of the scottish church i regarded, as i have said, as the patrimony of the scottish people; and i looked forward to a time when that unwarrantable appropriation of them, through which the aristocracy had sought to extend its influence, but which had served only greatly to reduce its power in the country, would come to an end. what i specially wanted, in short, was, not the confiscation of the people's patrimony, but simply its restoration from the moderates and the lairds. and in the enactment of the veto law i saw the process of restoration fairly begun. i would have much preferred seeing a good broad anti-patronage agitation raised on the part of the church. as shrewdly shown at the time by the late dr. m'crie, such a course would have been at once wiser and safer. but for such an agitation even the church's better ministers were not in the least prepared. from to --a period of seventy-two years--the general assembly had yearly raised its voice against the enactment of the patronage law of queen anne, as an unconstitutional encroachment on those privileges of the church and those rights of the scottish people which the treaty of union had been framed to secure. but the half century which had passed, since through the act of a moderate majority the protest had been dropped, had produced the natural effect. by much the greater part of even the better ministers of the church had been admitted into their offices through the law of patronage; and, naturally grateful to the patrons who had befriended them, they hesitated to make open war on the powers that had been exerted in their own behalf. according to solomon, the "gift" had to a certain extent "destroyed the heart;" and so they were prepared to take up merely a half-way position, which their predecessors, the old popular divines, would have liked exceedingly ill. i could not avoid seeing that, fixed in a sort of overtopped hollow, if i may so speak, between the claims of patronage on the one hand, and the rights of the people on the other, it was a most perilous position, singularly open to misconception and misrepresentation on both sides; and as it virtually stripped the patrons of half their power, and extended to the people only half their rights, i was not a little afraid that the patrons might be greatly more indignant than the people grateful, and that the church might, in consequence, find herself exposed to the wrath of very potent enemies, and backed by the support of only lukewarm friends. but however perilous and difficult as a post of occupation, it was, i could not avoid believing, a position conscientiously taken up; nor could i doubt that its grounds were strictly constitutional. the church, in a case of disputed settlement, might, i believed, have to forfeit the temporalities if her decision differed from that of the law courts, but only the temporalities connected with the case at issue; and these i deemed worth risking in the popular behalf, seeing that they might be regarded as already lost to the country in every case in which a parish was assigned to a minister whom the parishioners refused to hear. it rejoiced me, too, to see the revival of the old spirit in the church; and so i looked with an interest on the earlier stages of her struggle with the law courts, greatly more intense than that with which any mere political contest had ever inspired me. i saw with great anxiety decision after decision go against her; first that of the court of session in march , and next that of the house of lords in may ; and then, with the original auchterarder case of collision, i saw that of lethendy and marnoch mixed up; and, as one entanglement succeeded another, confusion becoming worse confounded. it was only when the church's hour of peril came that i learned to know how much i really valued her, and how strong and numerous the associations were that bound her to my affections. i had experienced at least the average amount of interest in political measures whose tendency and principles i deemed good in the main--such as the reform bill, the catholic emancipation act, and the emancipation of the negroes; but they had never cost me an hour's sleep. now, however, i felt more deeply; and for at least one night, after reading the speech of lord brougham, and the decision of the house of lords in the auchterarder case, i slept none. in truth, the position of the church at this time seemed critical in the extreme. offended by the usage which she had received at the hands of the whigs, in her claims for endowments to her new chapels, and startled by their general treatment of the irish establishment, and the suppression of the ten bishoprics, she had thrown her influence into the tory scale, and had done much to produce that reaction against the liberal party in scotland which took place during the ministry of lord melbourne. in the representation of at least one county in which he was all-potent--ross-shire--she had succeeded in substituting a tory for a whig; and there were few districts in the kingdom in which she had not very considerably increased the votes on the tory, or, as it was termed, conservative side. the people, however, though they might, and did, become quite indifferent enough to the whigs, could not follow her into the tory ranks. they stood aloof--very suspicious, not without reason, of her new political friends--no admirers of the newspapers which she patronized, and not in the least able to perceive the nature of the interest which she had begun to take in supernumerary bishops and the irish establishment. and now, when once more in a position worthy of her old character, and when her tory friends--converted at once into the bitterest and most ungenerous of enemies--were turning upon her to rend her, she had at once to encounter the hostility of the whigs, and the indifferency of the people. further, with but one, or at most two exceptions, all the newspapers which she had patronized declared against her, and were throughout the struggle the bitterest and most abusive of her opponents. the voluntaries, too, joined with redoubled vehemence in the cry raised to drown her voice, and misinterpret and misrepresent her claims. the general current of opinion ran strongly against her. my minister, warmly interested in the success of the non-intrusion principle, has told me, that for many months past i was the only man in his parish that seemed thoroughly to sympathize with him; and i have no doubt that the late dr. george cook was perfectly correct and truthful when he about this time remarked, in one of his public addresses, that he could scarce enter an inn or a stage-coach without finding respectable men inveighing against the utter folly of the non-intrusionists, and the worse than madness of the church courts. could i do nothing for my church in her hour of peril? there was, i believed, no other institution in the country half so valuable, or in which the people had so large a stake. the church was of right theirs--a patrimony won for them by the blood of their fathers, during the struggles and sufferings of more than a hundred years; and now that her better ministers were trying, at least partially, to rescue that patrimony for them from the hands of an aristocracy who, as a body at least, had no spiritual interest in the church--belonging, as most of its members did, to a different communion--they were in danger of being put down, unbacked by the popular support which in such a cause they deserved. could i not do something to bring up the people to their assistance? i tossed wakefully throughout a long night, in which i formed my plan of taking up the purely popular side of the question; and in the morning i sat down to state my views to the people, in the form of a letter addressed to lord brougham. i devoted to my new employment every moment not imperatively demanded by my duties in the bank office, and, in about a week after, was able to despatch the manuscript of my pamphlet to the respected manager of the commercial bank--mr. robert paul--a gentleman from whom i had received much kindness when in edinburgh, and who, in the great ecclesiastical struggle, took decided part with the church. mr. paul brought it to his minister, the rev. mr. candlish of st. george's (now dr. candlish), who, recognising its popular character, urged its immediate publication; and the manuscript was accordingly put into the hands of mr. johnstone, the well-known church bookseller. dr. candlish had been one of a party of ministers and elders of the evangelical majority who had met in edinburgh shortly before, to take measures for the establishment of a newspaper. all the edinburgh press, with the exception of one newspaper, had declared against the ecclesiastical party; and even that one rather received articles and paragraphs in their behalf through the friendship of the proprietor, than was itself on their side. there had been a larger infusion of whiggism among the edinburgh churchmen than in any other part of the kingdom. they had seen very much, in consequence, that the line taken by the conservative portion of their friends, in addressing the people through the press, had not been an efficient one;--their friends had set themselves to make the people both good conservatives and good churchmen, and of course had never got over the first point, and never would; and what they now proposed was, to establish a paper that, without supporting any of the old parties in the state, should be as liberal in its politics as in its churchmanship. but there was a preliminary point which they also could not get over. all the ready-made editors of the kingdom, if i may so speak, had declared against them; and for want of an editor, their meeting had succeeded in originating, not the intended newspaper, but merely a formal recognition, in a few resolutions, of its desirableness and importance. on reading my pamphlet in manuscript, however, dr. candlish at once concluded that the desiderated want was to be supplied by its writer. here, he said, is the editor we have been looking for. meanwhile, my little work issued from the press, and was successful. it ran rapidly through four editions of a thousand copies each--the number, as i subsequently ascertained, of a popular non-intrusion pamphlet that would fairly _sell_--and was read pretty extensively by men who were not non-intrusionists. among these there were several members of the ministry of the time, including the late lord melbourne, who at first regarded it, as i have been informed, as the composition, under a popular form and a _nom de guerre_, of some of the non-intrusion leaders in edinburgh; and by the late mr. o'connell, who had no such suspicions, and who, though he lacked sympathy, as he said, with the ecclesiastical views which it advocated, enjoyed what he termed its "racy english," and the position in which it placed the noble lord to whom it was addressed. it was favourably noticed, too, by mr. gladstone, in his elaborate work on church principles; and was, in short, both in the extent of its circulation, and the circles into which it found its way, a very successful pamphlet. so filled was my mind with our ecclesiastical controversy, that, while yet unacquainted with the fate of my first _brochure_, i was busily engaged with a second. a remarkable case of intrusion had occurred in the district rather more than twenty years before; and after closing my week's labours in the bank, i set out for the house of a friend in a neighbouring parish on a saturday evening, that i might attend the deserted church on the following sabbath, and glean from actual observation the materials of a truthful description, which would, i trusted, tell in the controversy. and as the case was one of those in which truth proves stronger than fiction, what i had to describe was really very curious; and my description received an extensive circulation. i insert the passage entire, as properly a part of my story. "there were associations of a peculiarly high character connected with this northern parish. for more than a thousand years it had formed part of the patrimony of a truly noble family, celebrated by philip doddridge for its great moral worth, and by sir walter scott for its high military genius; and through whose influence the light of the reformation had been introduced into this remote corner, at a period when the neighbouring districts were enveloped in the original darkness. in a later age it had been honoured by the fines and proscriptions of charles ii.; and its minister--one of those men of god whose names still live in the memory of the country, and whose biography occupies no small space in the recorded history of her 'worthies'--had rendered himself so obnoxious to the tyranny and irreligion of the time, that he was ejected from his charge more than a year before any of the other non-conforming clergymen of the church.[ ] i approached the parish from the east. the day was warm and pleasant; the scenery through which i passed, some of the finest in scotland. the mountains rose on the right, in huge titanic masses, that seemed to soften their purple and blue in the clear sunshine, to the delicate tone of the deep sky beyond; and i could see the yet unwasted snows of winter glittering, in little detached masses, along their summits. the hills of the middle region were feathered with wood; a forest of mingled oaks and larches, which still blended the tender softness of spring with the full foliage of summer, swept down to the path; the wide undulating plain below was laid out into fields, mottled with cottages, and waving with the yet unshot corn; and a noble arm of the sea winded along the lower edge for nearly twenty miles, losing itself to the west among blue hills and jutting headlands, and opening in the east to the main ocean, through a magnificent gateway of rock. but the little groups which i encountered at every turning of the path, as they journeyed, with all the sober, well-marked decency of a scottish sabbath morning, towards the church of a neighbouring parish, interested me more than even the scenery. the clan which inhabited this part of the country had borne a well-marked character in scottish story. buchanan had described it as one of the most fearless and warlike in the north. it served under the bruce at bannockburn. it was the first to rise in arms to protect queen mary, on her visit to inverness, from the intended violence of huntly. it fought the battles of protestantism in germany, under gustavus adolphus. it covered the retreat of the english at fontenoy; and presented an unbroken front to the enemy, after all the other troops had quitted the field. and it was the descendants of those very men who were now passing me on the road. the rugged, robust form, half bone, half muscle--the springy firmness of the tread--the grave, manly countenance--all gave indication that the original characteristics survived in their full strength; and it was a strength that inspired confidence, not fear. there were grey-haired, patriarchal-looking men among the groups, whose very air seemed impressed by a sense of the duties of the day; nor was there aught that did not agree with the object of the journey, in the appearance of even the youngest and least thoughtful. "as i proceeded, i came up with a few people who were travelling in a contrary direction. a secession meeting-house has lately sprung up in the parish, and these formed part of the congregation. a path, nearly obscured by grass and weeds, leads from the main road to the parish church. it was with difficulty i could trace it, and there were none to direct me, for i was now walking alone. the parish burying-ground, thickly sprinkled with graves and tombstones, surrounds the church. it is a quiet, solitary spot, of great beauty, lying beside the sea-shore; and as service had not yet commenced, i whiled away half an hour in sauntering among the stones, and deciphering the inscriptions. i could trace in the rude monuments of this retired little spot, a brief but interesting history of the district. the older tablets, grey and shaggy with the mosses and lichens of three centuries, bear, in their uncouth semblances of the unwieldy battle-axe and double-handed sword of ancient warfare, the meet and appropriate symbols of the earlier time. but the more modern testify to the introduction of a humanizing influence. they speak of a life after death, in the "holy texts" described by the poet; or certify, in a quiet humility of style which almost vouches for their truth, that the sleepers below were "honest men, of blameless character, and who feared god." there is one tombstone, however, more remarkable than all the others. it lies beside the church-door, and testifies, in an antique inscription, that it covers the remains of the "great.man.of.god.and.faithful.minister.of jesus.christ.," who had endured persecution for the truth in the dark days of charles and his brother. he had outlived the tyranny of the stuarts; and, though worn by years and sufferings, had returned to his parish on the revolution, to end his course as it had begun. he saw, ere his death, the law of patronage abolished, and the popular right virtually secured; and, fearing lest his people might be led to abuse the important privilege conferred upon them, and calculating aright on the abiding influence of his own character among them, he gave charge on his deathbed to dig his grave in the threshold of the church, that they might regard him as a sentinel placed at the door, and that his tombstone might speak to them as they passed out and in. the inscription, which, after the lapse of nearly a century and a half, is still perfectly legible, concludes with the following remarkable words:--"this.stone.shall.bear.witness. against.the.parishioners.of.kiltearn.if.they.bring.ane.ungodly. minister.in.here." could the imagination of a poet have originated a more striking conception in connexion with a church deserted by all its better people, and whose minister fattens on his hire, useless and contented? "i entered the church, for the clergyman had just gone in. there were from eight to ten persons scattered over the pews below, and seven in the galleries above; and these, as there were no more '_peter clarks_' or '_michael tods_'[ ] in the parish, composed the entire congregation. i wrapped myself up in my plaid, and sat down; and the service went on in the usual course; but it sounded in my ears like a miserable mockery. the precentor sung almost alone; and ere the clergyman had reached the middle of his discourse, which he read in an unimpassioned, monotonous tone, nearly one-half his skeleton congregation had fallen asleep; and the drowsy, listless expression of the others showed that, for every good purpose, they might have been asleep too. and sabbath after sabbath has this unfortunate man gone the same tiresome round, and with exactly the same effects, for the last twenty-three years;--at no time regarded by the better clergymen of the district as really their brother;--on no occasion recognised by the parish as virtually its minister;--with a dreary vacancy and a few indifferent hearts inside his church, and the stone of the covenanter at the door. against whom does the inscription testify? for the people have escaped. against the patron, the intruder, and the law of bolingbroke--the dr. robertsons of the last age, and the dr. cooks of the present. it is well to learn from this hapless parish the exact sense in which, in a different state of matters, the rev. mr. young would have been constituted minister of auchterarder. it is well, too, to learn, that there may be vacancies in the church where no blank appears in the almanac." on my return home from this journey, early on the following monday, i found a letter from edinburgh awaiting me, requesting me to meet there with the leading non-intrusionists. and so after describing, in the given extract, the scene which i had just witnessed, and completing my second pamphlet, i set out for edinburgh, and saw for the first time men with whose names i had been familiar during the course of the voluntary and non-intrusion controversies. and entering into their plans, though with no little shrinking of heart, lest i should be found unequal to the demands of a twice-a-week paper, that would have to stand, in ishmael's position, against almost the whole newspaper press of the kingdom, i agreed to undertake the editorship of their projected newspaper, the _witness_. save for the intense interest with which i regarded the struggle, and the stake possessed in it, as i believed, by the scottish people, no consideration whatever would have induced me to take a step so fraught, as i thought at the time, with peril and discomfort. for full twenty years i had never been engaged in a quarrel on my own account: all my quarrels, either directly or indirectly, were ecclesiastical ones;--i had fought for my minister, or for my brother parishioners: and fain now would i have lived at peace with all men; but the editorship of a non-intrusion newspaper involved, as a portion of its duties, war with all the world. i held, besides--not aware how very much the spur of necessity quickens production--that its twice-a-week demands would fully occupy all my time, and that i would have to resign, in consequence, my favourite pursuit--geology. i had once hoped, too--though of late years the hope had been becoming faint--to leave some little mark behind me in the literature of my country; but the last remains of the expectation had now to be resigned. the newspaper editor writes in sand when the flood is coming in. if he but succeed in influencing opinion for the present, he must be content to be forgotten in the future. but believing the cause to be a good one, i prepared for a life of strife, toil, and comparative obscurity. in counting the cost, i very considerably exaggerated it; but i trust i may say that, in all honesty, and with no sinister aim, or prospect of worldly advantage, i _did_ count it, and fairly undertook to make the full sacrifice which the cause demanded. it was arranged that our new paper should start with the new twelvemonth ( ); and i meanwhile returned to cromarty, to fulfil my engagements with the bank till the close of its financial year, which in the commercial bank offices takes place at the end of autumn. shortly after my return, dr. chalmers visited the place on the last of his church extension journeys; and i heard, for the first time, that most impressive of modern orators address a public meeting, and had a curious illustration of the power which his "_deep mouth_" could communicate to passages little suited, one might suppose, to call forth the vehemency of his eloquence. in illustrating one of his points, he quoted from my "memoir of william forsyth" a brief anecdote, set in description of a kind which most men would have read quietly enough, but which, coming from him, seemed instinct with the homeric vigour and force. the extraordinary impressiveness which he communicated to the passage served to show me, better than aught else, how imperfectly great orators may be represented by their written speeches. admirable as the published sermons and addresses of dr. chalmers are, they impart no adequate idea of that wonderful power and impressiveness in which he excelled all other british preachers.[ ] i had been introduced to the doctor in edinburgh a few weeks before; but on this occasion i saw rather more of him. he examined with curious interest my collection of geological specimens, which already contained not a few valuable fossils that could be seen nowhere else; and i had the pleasure of spending the greater part of a day in visiting in his company, by boat, some of the more striking scenes of the cromarty sutors. i had long looked up to chalmers as, on the whole, the man of largest mind which the church of scotland had ever produced;--not more intense or practical than knox, but broader of faculty; nor yet fitted by nature or accomplishment to make himself a more enduring name in literature than robertson, but greatly nobler in sentiment, and of a larger grasp of general intellect. with any of our other scottish ministers it might be invidious to compare him; seeing that some of the ablest of them are, like henderson, little more than mere historic portraits drawn by their contemporaries, but whose true intellectual measure cannot, from the lack of the necessary materials on which to form a judgment, be now taken anew; and that many of the others employed fine faculties in work, literary and ministerial, which, though important in its consequences, was scarce less ephemeral in its character than even the labours of the newspaper editor. the mind of chalmers was emphatically a many-sided one. few men ever came into friendly contact with him, who did not find in it, if they had really anything good in them, moral or intellectual, a side that suited themselves; and i had been long struck by that union which his intellect exhibited of a comprehensive philosophy with a true poetic faculty, very exquisite in quality, though dissociated from what wordsworth terms the "accomplishment of verse." i had not a little pleasure in contemplating him on this occasion as the _poet_ chalmers. the day was calm and clear; but there was a considerable swell rolling in from the german ocean, on which our little vessel rose and fell, and which sent the surf high against the rocks. the sunshine played amid the broken crags a-top, and amid the foliage of an overhanging wood; or caught, half-way down, some projecting tuft of ivy; but the faces of the steeper precipices were brown in the shade; and where the wave roared in deep caves beneath, all was dark and chill. there were several members of the party who attempted engaging the doctor in conversation; but he was in no conversational mood. it would seem as if the words addressed to his ear failed at first to catch his attention, and that, with a painful courtesy, he had to gather up their meaning from the remaining echoes, and to reply to them doubtfully and monosyllabically, at the least possible expense of mind. his face wore, meanwhile, an air of dreamy enjoyment. he was busy, evidently, among the crags and bosky hollows, and would have enjoyed himself more had he been alone. in the middle of one noble precipice, that reared its tall pine-crested brow more than a hundred yards overhead, there was a bush-covered shelf of considerable size, but wholly inaccessible; for the rock dropped sheer into it from above, and then sank perpendicularly from its outer edge to the beach below; and the insulated shelf, in its green unapproachable solitude, had evidently caught his eye. _it_ was the scene, i said--taking the direction of his eye as the antecedent for the _it_,--it was the scene, says tradition, of a sad tragedy during the times of the persecution of charles. a renegade chaplain, rather weak than wicked, threw himself, in a state of wild despair, over the precipice above; and his body, intercepted in its fall by that shelf, lay unburied among the bushes for years after, until it had bleached into a dry and whitened skeleton. even as late as the last age, the shelf continued to retain the name of the "chaplain's lair." i found that my communication, chiming in with his train of cogitation at the time, caught both his ear and mind; and his reply, though brief, was expressive of the gratification which its snatch of incident had conveyed. as our skiff sped on a few oar-lengths more, we disturbed a flock of sea-gulls, that had been sporting in the sunshine over a shoal of sillocks; and a few of them winged their way to a jutting crag that rose immediately beside the shelf. i saw chalmers' eye gleam as it followed them. "would you not like, sir," he said, addressing himself to my minister, who sat beside him--"would you not like to be a sea-gull? i think _i_ would. sea-gulls are free of the three elements--earth, air, and water. these birds were sailing but half a minute since without boat, at once angling and dining, and now they are already rusticating in the chaplain's lair. i think i could enjoy being a sea-gull." i saw the doctor once afterwards in a similar mood. when on a visit to him in burnt-island, in the following year, i marked, on approaching the shore by boat, a solitary figure stationed on the sward-crested trap-rock which juts into the sea immediately below the town; and after the time spent in landing and walking round to the spot, there was the solitary figure still, standing motionless as when first seen. it was chalmers--the same expression of dreamy enjoyment impressed on his features as i had witnessed in the little skiff, and with his eyes turned on the sea and the opposite land. it was a lovely morning. a faint breeze had just begun to wrinkle in detached belts and patches the mirror-like blackness of the previous calm, in which the broad firth had lain sleeping since day-break; and the sunlight danced on the new-raised wavelets; while a thin long wreath of blue mist, which seemed coiling its tail like a snake round the distant inchkeith, was slowly raising the folds of its dragon-like neck and head from off the scottish capital, dim in the distance, and unveiling fortalice, and tower, and spire, and the noble curtain of blue hills behind. and there was chalmers, evidently enjoying the exquisiteness of the scene, as only by the true poet scenery can be enjoyed. those striking metaphors which so abound in his writings, and which so often, without apparent effort, lay the material world before the reader, show how thoroughly he must have drunk in the beauties of nature; the images retained in his mind became, like words to the ordinary man, the signs by which he thought, and, as such, formed an important element in the power of his thinking. i have seen his astronomical discourses disparagingly dealt with by a slim and meagre critic, as if they had been but the chapters of a mere treatise on astronomy--a thing which, of course, any ordinary man could write--mayhap even the critic himself. the astronomical discourses, on the other hand, no one could have written save chalmers. nominally a series of sermons, they in reality represent, and in the present century form perhaps the only worthy representatives of, that school of philosophic poetry to which, in ancient literature, the work of lucretius belonged, and of which, in the literature of our own country, the "seasons" of thomson, and akenside's "pleasures of the imagination," furnish adequate examples. he would, i suspect, be no discriminating critic who would deal with the "seasons" as if they formed merely the journal of a naturalist, or by the poem of akenside as if it were simply a metaphysical treatise. the autumn of this year brought me an unexpected but very welcome visitor, in my old marcus' cave friend finlay; and when i visited all my former haunts, to take leave of them ere i quitted the place for the scene of my future labours, i had him to accompany me. though for many years a planter in jamaica, his affections were still warm, and his literary tastes unchanged. he was a writer, as of old, of sweet simple verses, and as sedulous a reader as ever; and, had time permitted, we found we could have kindled fires together in the caves, as we had done more than twenty years before, and have ranged the shores for shell-fish and crabs. he had had, however, in passing through life, his full share of its cares and sorrows. a young lady to whom he had been engaged in early youth had perished at sea, and he had remained single for her sake. he had to struggle, too, in his business relations, with the embarrassments incident to a sinking colony; and though a west indian climate was beginning to tell on his constitution, his circumstances though tolerably easy, were not such as to permit his permanent residence in scotland. he returned in the following year to jamaica; and i saw, some time after, in a kingston paper, an intimation of his election to the colonial house of representatives, and the outline of a well-toned sensible address to his constituents, in which he urged that the sole hope of the colony lay in the education and mental elevation of its negro population to the standard of the people at home. i have been informed that the latter part of his life was, like that of many of the jamaica planters in their altered circumstances, pretty much a struggle; and his health at length breaking down, in a climate little favourable to europeans, he died about three years ago--with the exception of my friend of the doocot cave, now free church minister of nigg, the last of my marcus' cave companions. their remains lie scattered over half the globe. i closed my connexion with the bank at the termination of its financial year; gave a few weeks very sedulously to geology, during which i was fortunate enough to find specimens on which agassiz has founded two of his fossil species; got, at parting, an elegant breakfast-service of plate from a kind and numerous circle of friends, of all shades of politics and both sides of the church; and was entertained at a public dinner, at which i attempted a speech, that got on but indifferently, though it looked quite well enough in my friend mr. carruthers' report, and which was, i suppose, in some sort apologized for by the fiddlers, who struck up at its close, "a man's a man for a' that." it was, i felt, not the least gratifying part of the entertainment, that old uncle sandy was present, and that his health was cordially drunk by the company in the recognised character of my best and earliest friend. and then, taking leave of my mother and uncle, of my respected minister, and my honoured superior in the bank, mr. ross, i set out for edinburgh, and in a few days after was seated at the editorial desk--a point at which, for the present, the story of my education must terminate. i wrote for my paper during the first twelvemonth a series of geological chapters, which were fortunate enough to attract the notice of the geologists of the british association, assembled that year at glasgow, and which, in the collected form, compose my little work on the old red sandstone. the paper itself rose rapidly in circulation, till it ultimately attained to its place among what are known as our first-class scottish newspapers; and of its subscribers, perhaps a more considerable proportion of the whole are men who have received a university education, than can be reckoned by any other scotch journal of the same number of readers. and during the course of the first three years, my employers doubled my salary. i am sensible, however, that these are but small achievements. in looking back upon my youth, i see, methinks, a wild fruit tree, rich in leaf and blossom; and it is mortifying enough to mark how very few of the blossoms have set, and how diminutive and imperfectly formed the fruit is into which even the productive few have been developed. a right use of the opportunities of instruction afforded me in early youth would have made me a scholar ere my twenty-fifth year, and have saved to me at least ten of the best years of life--years which were spent in obscure and humble occupations. but while my story must serve to show the evils which result from truant carelessness in boyhood, and that what was sport to the young lad may assume the form of serious misfortune to the man, it may also serve to show, that much may be done by after diligence to retrieve an early error of this kind--that life itself is a school, and nature always a fresh study--and that the man who keeps his eyes and his mind open will always find fitting, though, it may be, hard schoolmasters, to speed him on in his lifelong education. footnotes: [ ] thomas hog of kiltearn. see "scots worthies" or the cheap-publication volumes of the free church for . [ ] peter clark and michael tod were the only individuals who, in a population of three thousand souls, attached their signatures to the _call_ of the obnoxious presentee, mr. young, in the famous auchterarder case. [ ] the following is the passage which was honoured on this occasion by chalmers, and which told, in his hands, with all the effect of the most powerful acting:--"saunders macivor, the mate of the 'elizabeth,' was a grave and somewhat hard-favoured man, powerful in bone and muscle, even after he had considerably turned his sixtieth year, and much respected for his inflexible integrity and the depth of his religious feelings. both the mate and his devout wife were especial favourites with mr. porteous of kilmuir--a minister of the same class as the pedens, renwicks, and cargils of a former age; and on one occasion when the sacrament was dispensed in his parish, and saunders was absent on one of his continental voyages, mrs. macivor was an inmate of the manse. a tremendous storm burst out in the night-time, and the poor woman lay awake, listening in utter terror to the fearful roarings of the wind, as it howled in the chimneys, and shook the casements and the doors. at length, when she could lie still no longer, she arose, and crept along the passage to the door of the minister's chamber. 'o, mr. porteous,' she said, 'mr. porteous, do ye no hear that?--and poor saunders on his way back frae holland! o, rise, rise, and ask the strong help o' your master!' the minister accordingly rose, and entered his closet. the 'elizabeth' at this critical moment was driving onwards through spray and darkness, along the northern shores of the moray firth. the fearful skerries of shandwick, where so many gallant vessels have perished, were close at hand; and the increasing roll of the sea showed the gradual shallowing of the water macivor and his old townsman, robert hossack, stood together at the binnacle. an immense wave came rolling behind, and they had but barely time to clutch to the nearest hold, when it broke over them half-mast high, sweeping spars, bulwarks, cordage, all before it, in its course. it passed, but the vessel rose not. her deck remained buried in a sheet of foam, and she seemed settling down by the head. there was a frightful pause. first, however, the bowsprit and the butts of the windlass began to emerge--next the forecastle--the vessel seemed as if shaking herself from the load; and then the whole deck appeared, as she went tilting over the next wave. 'there are still more mercies in store for us,' said macivor, addressing his companion: 'she floats still' 'o, saunders, saunders!' exclaimed robert, 'there was surely some god's soul at work for us, or she would never have _cowed_ you.'" _edinburgh: printed by m'farlane & erskine._ elizabethan demonology an essay in illustration of the belief in the existence of devils, and the powers possessed by them, as it was generally held during the period of the reformation, and the times immediately succeeding; with special reference to shakspere and his works by thomas alfred spalding, ll.b. (lond.) barrister-at-law, honorary treasurer of the new shakspere society london to robert browning, president of the new shakspere society, this volume is dedicated. forewords. this essay is an expansion, in accordance with a preconceived scheme, of two papers, one on "the witches in macbeth," and the other on "the demonology of shakspere," which were read before the new shakspere society in the years and . the shakspere references in the text are made to the globe edition. the writer's best thanks are due to his friends mr. f.j. furnivall and mr. lauriston e. shaw, for their kindness in reading the proof sheets, and suggesting emendations. temple, october , . "we are too hasty when we set down our ancestors in the gross for fools for the monstrous inconsistencies (as they seem to us) involved in their creed of witchcraft."--c. lamb. "but i will say, of shakspere's works generally, that we have no full impress of him there, even as full as we have of many men. his works are so many windows, through which we see a glimpse of the world that was in him."--t. carlyle. analysis. i. . difficulty in understanding our elder writers without a knowledge of their language and ideas. . especially in the case of dramatic poets. . examples. hamlet's "assume a virtue." . changes in ideas and law relating to marriage. massinger's "maid of honour" as an example. . _sponsalia de futuro_ and _sponsalia de praesenti_. shakspere's marriage. . student's duty is to get to know the opinions and feelings of the folk amongst whom his author lived. . it will be hard work, but a gain in the end. first, in preventing conceit. . secondly, in preventing rambling reading. . author's present object to illustrate the dead belief in demonology, especially as far as it concerns shakspere. he thinks that this may perhaps bring us into closer contact with shakspere's soul. . some one objects that shakspere can speak better for himself. yes, but we must be sure that we understand the media through which he speaks. . division of subject. ii. . reasons why the empire of the supernatural is so extended amongst savages. . all important affairs of life transacted under superintendence of supreme powers. . what are these powers? three principles regarding them. . (i.) incapacity of mankind to accept monotheism. the jews. . roman catholicism really polytheistic, although believers won't admit it. virgin mary. saints. angels. protestantism in the same condition in a less degree. . francis of assisi. gradually made into a god. . (ii.) manichaeism. evil spirits as inevitable as good. . (iii.) tendency to treat the gods of hostile religions as devils. . in the greek theology. [greek: daimones]. platonism. . neo-platonism. makes the elder gods into daemons. . judaism. recognizes foreign gods at first. _elohim_, but they get degraded in time. beelzebub, belial, etc. . early christians treat gods of greece in the same way. st. paul's view. . the church, however, did not stick to its colours in this respect. honesty not the best policy. a policy of compromise. . the oracles. sosthenion and st. michael. delphi. st. gregory's saintliness and magnanimity. confusion of pagan gods and christian saints. . church in north europe. thonar, etc., are devils, but balda gets identified with christ. . conversion of britons. their gods get turned into fairies rather than devils. deuce. old nick. . subsequent evolution of belief. carlyle's abbot sampson. religious formulae of witchcraft. . the reformers and catholics revive the old accusations. the reformers only go half-way in scepticism. calfhill and martiall. . catholics. siege of alkmaar. unfortunate mistake of a spanish prisoner. . conditions that tended to vivify the belief during elizabethan era. . the new freedom. want of rules of evidence. arthur hacket and his madnesses. sneezing. cock-crowing. jackdaw in the house of commons. russell and drake both mistaken for devils. . credulousness of people. "to make one danse naked." a parson's proof of transubstantiation. . but the elizabethans had strong common sense nevertheless. people do wrong if they set them down as fools. if we had not learned to be wiser than they, we should have to be ashamed of ourselves. we shall learn nothing from them if we don't try to understand them. iii. . the three heads. . (i.) classification of devils. greater and lesser devils. good and bad angels. . another classification, not popular. . names of greater devils. horribly uncouth. the number of them. shakspere's devils. . (ii.) form of devils of the greater. . of the lesser. the horns, goggle eyes, and tail. scot's carnal-mindedness. he gets his book burnt, and written against by james i. . spenser's idol-devil. . dramatists' satire of popular opinion. . favourite form for appearing in when conjured. devils in macbeth. . powers of devils. . catholic belief in devil's power to create bodies. . reformers deny this, but admit that he deceives people into believing that he can do so, either by getting hold of a dead body, and restoring animation. . or by means of illusion. . the common people stuck to the catholic doctrine. devils appear in likeness of an ordinary human being. . even a living one, which was sometimes awkward. "the troublesome raigne of king john." they like to appear as priests or parsons. the devil quoting scripture. . other human shapes. . animals. ariel. . puck. . "the witch of edmonton." the devil on the stage. flies. urban grandier. sir m. hale. . devils as angels. as christ. . as dead friend. reformers denied the possibility of ghosts, and said the appearances so called were devils. james i. and his opinion. . the common people believed in the ghosts. bishop pilkington's troubles. . the two theories. illustrated in "julius caesar," "macbeth." . and "hamlet." . this explains an apparent inconsistency in "hamlet." . possession and obsession. again the catholics and protestants differ. . but the common people believe in possession. . ignorance on the subject of mental disease. the exorcists. . john cotta on possession. what the "learned physicion" knew. . what was manifest to the vulgar view. will sommers. "the devil is an ass." . harsnet's "declaration," and "king lear." . the babington conspiracy. . weston, alias edmonds. his exorcisms. mainy. the basis of harsnet's statements. . the devils in "lear." . edgar and mainy. mainy's loose morals. . the devils tempt with knives and halters. . mainy's seven devils: pride, covetousness, luxury, envy, wrath, gluttony, sloth. the nightingale business. . treatment of the possessed: confinement, flagellation. . dr pinch. nicknames. . other methods. that of "elias and pawle". the holy chair, sack and oil, brimstone. . firing out. . bodily diseases the work of the devil. bishop hooper on hygiene. . but devils couldn't kill people unless they renounced god. . witchcraft. . people now-a-days can't sympathize with the witch persecutors, because they don't believe in the devil. satan is a mere theory now. . but they believed in him once, and therefore killed people that were suspected of having to do with him. . and we don't sympathize with the persecuted witches, although we make a great fuss about the sufferings of the reformers. . the witches in macbeth. some take them to be norns. . gervinus. his opinion. . mr. f.g. fleay. his opinion. . evidence. simon forman's note. . holinshed's account. . criticism. . it is said that the appearance and powers of the sisters are not those of witches. . it is going to be shown that they are. . a third piece of criticism. . objections. . contemporary descriptions of witches. scot, harsnet. witches' beards. . have norns chappy fingers, skinny lips, and beards? . powers of witches "looking into the seeds of time." bessie roy, how she looked into them. . meaning of first scene of "macbeth." . witches power to vanish. ointments for the purpose. scot's instance of their efficacy. . "weird sisters." . other evidence. . why shakspere chose witches. command over elements. . peculiar to scotch trials of - . . earlier case of bessie dunlop--a poor, starved, half daft creature. "thom reid," and how he tempted her. her canny scotch prudence. poor bessie gets burnt for all that. . reason for peculiarity of trials of . james ii. comes from denmark to scotland. the witches raise a storm at the instigation of the devil. how the trials were conducted. . john fian. raising a mist. toad-omen. ship sinking. . sieve-sailing. excitement south of the border. the "daemonologie." statute of james against witchcraft. . the origin of the incubus and succubus. . mooncalves. . division of opinion amongst reformers regarding devils. giordano bruno. bullinger's opinion about sadducees and epicures. . emancipation a gradual process. exorcism in edward vi.'s prayer-book. . the author hopes he has been reverent in his treatment of the subject. any sincere belief entitled to respect. our pet beliefs may some day appear as dead and ridiculous as these. iv. . fairies and devils differ in degree, not in origin. . evidence. . cause of difference. folk, until disturbed by religious doubt, don't believe in devils, but fairies. . reformation shook people up, and made them think of hell and devils. . the change came in the towns before the country. fairies held on a long time in the country. . shakspere was early impressed with fairy lore. in middle life, came in contact with town thought and devils, and at the end of it returned to stratford and fairydom. . this is reflected in his works. . but there is progression of thought to be observed in these stages. . shakspere indirectly tells us his thoughts, if we will take the trouble to learn them. . three stages of thought that men go through on religious matters. hereditary belief. scepticism. reasoned belief. . shakspere went through all this. . illustrations. hereditary belief. "a midsummer night's dream." fairies chiefly an adaptation of current tradition. . the dawn of doubt. . scepticism. evil spirits dominant. no guiding good. . corresponding lapse of faith in other matters. woman's purity. . man's honour. . mr. ruskin's view of shakspere's message. . founded chiefly on plays of sceptical period. message of third period entirely different. . reasoned belief. "the tempest." . man can master evil of all forms if he go about it in the right way--is not the toy of fate. . prospero a type of shakspere in this final stage of thought. how pleasant to think this! elizabethan demonology. . it is impossible to understand and appreciate thoroughly the production of any great literary genius who lived and wrote in times far removed from our own, without a certain amount of familiarity, not only with the precise shades of meaning possessed by the vocabulary he made use of, as distinguished from the sense conveyed by the same words in the present day, but also with the customs and ideas, political, religious and moral, that predominated during the period in which his works were produced. without such information, it will be found impossible, in many matters of the first importance, to grasp the writer's true intent, and much will appear vague and lifeless that was full of point and vigour when it was first conceived; or, worse still, modern opinion upon the subject will be set up as the standard of interpretation, ideas will be forced into the writer's sentences that could not by any manner of possibility have had place in his mind, and utterly false conclusions as to his meaning will be the result. even the man who has had some experience in the study of an early literature, occasionally finds some difficulty in preventing the current opinions of his day from obtruding themselves upon his work and warping his judgment; to the general reader this must indeed be a frequent and serious stumbling-block. . this is a special source of danger in the study of the works of dramatic poets, whose very art lies in the representation of the current opinions, habits, and foibles of their times--in holding up the mirror to their age. it is true that, if their works are to live, they must deal with subjects of more than mere passing interest; but it is also true that many, and the greatest of them, speak upon questions of eternal interest in the particular light cast upon them in their times, and it is quite possible that the truth may be entirely lost from want of power to recognize it under the disguise in which it comes. a certain motive, for instance, that is an overpowering one in a given period, subsequently appears grotesque, weak, or even powerless; the consequent action becomes incomprehensible, and the actor is contemned; and a simile that appeared most appropriate in the ears of the author's contemporaries, seems meaningless, or ridiculous, to later generations. . an example or two of this possibility of error, derived from works produced during the period with which it is the object of these pages to deal, will not be out of place here. a very striking illustration of the manner in which a word may mislead is afforded by the oft-quoted line: "assume a virtue, if you have it not." by most readers the secondary, and, in the present day, almost universal, meaning of the word assume--"pretend that to be, which in reality has no existence;"--that is, in the particular case, "ape the chastity you do not in reality possess"--is understood in this sentence; and consequently hamlet, and through him, shakspere, stand committed to the appalling doctrine that hypocrisy in morals is to be commended and cultivated. now, such a proposition never for an instant entered shakspere's head. he used the word "assume" in this case in its primary and justest sense; _ad-sumo_, take to, acquire; and the context plainly shows that hamlet meant that his mother, by self-denial, would gradually acquire that virtue in which she was so conspicuously wanting. yet, for lack of a little knowledge of the history of the word employed, the other monstrous gloss has received almost universal and applauding acceptance. . this is a fair example of the style of error which a reader unacquainted with the history of the changes our language has undergone may fall into. ignorance of changes in customs and morals may cause equal or greater error. the difference between the older and more modern law, and popular opinion, relating to promises of marriage and their fulfilment, affords a striking illustration of the absurdities that attend upon the interpretation of the ideas of one generation by the practice of another. perhaps no greater nonsense has been talked upon any subject than this one, especially in relation to shakspere's own marriage, by critics who seem to have thought that a fervent expression of acute moral feeling would replace and render unnecessary patient investigation. in illustration of this difference, a play of massinger's, "the maid of honour," may be advantageously cited, as the catastrophe turns upon this question of marriage contracts. camiola, the heroine, having been precontracted by oath[ ] to bertoldo, the king's natural brother, and hearing of his subsequent engagement to the duchess of sienna, determines to quit the world and take the veil. but before doing so, and without informing any one, except her confessor, of her intention, she contrives a somewhat dramatic scene for the purpose of exposing her false lover. she comes into the presence of the king and all the court, produces her contract, claims bertoldo as her husband, and demands justice of the king, adjuring him that he shall not-- "swayed or by favour or affection, by a false gloss or wrested comment, alter the true intent and letter of the law." [footnote : act v. sc. i.] now, the only remedy that would occur to the mind of the reader of the present day under such circumstances, would be an action for breach of promise of marriage, and he would probably be aware of the very recent origin of that method of procedure. the only reply, therefore, that he would expect from roberto would be a mild and sympathetic assurance of inability to interfere; and he must be somewhat taken aback to find this claim of camiola admitted as indisputable. the riddle becomes somewhat further involved when, having established her contract, she immediately intimates that she has not the slightest intention of observing it herself, by declaring her desire to take the veil. . this can only be explained by the rules current at the time regarding spousals. the betrothal, or handfasting, was, in massinger's time, a ceremony that entailed very serious obligations upon the parties to it. there were two classes of spousals--_sponsalia de futuro_ and _sponsalia de praesenti_: a promise of marriage in the future, and an actual declaration of present marriage. this last form of betrothal was, in fact, marriage, as far as the contracting parties were concerned.[ ] it could not, even though not consummated, be dissolved by mutual consent; and a subsequent marriage, even though celebrated with religious rites, was utterly invalid, and could be set aside at the suit of the injured person. [footnote : swinburne, a treatise of spousals, , p. . in england the offspring were, nevertheless, illegitimate.] the results entailed by _sponsalia de futuro_ were less serious. although no spousals of the same nature could be entered into with a third person during the existence of the contract, yet it could be dissolved by mutual consent, and was dissolved by subsequent _sponsalia in praesenti_, or matrimony. but such spousals could be converted into valid matrimony by the cohabitation of the parties; and this, instead of being looked upon as reprehensible, seems to have been treated as a laudable action, and to be by all means encouraged.[ ] in addition to this, completion of a contract for marriage _de futuro_ confirmed by oath, if such a contract were not indeed indissoluble, as was thought by some, could at any rate be enforced against an unwilling party. but there were some reasons that justified the dissolution of _sponsalia_ of either description. affinity was one of these; and--what is to the purpose here, in england before the reformation, and in those parts of the continent unaffected by it--the entrance into a religious order was another. here, then, we have a full explanation of camiola's conduct. she is in possession of evidence of a contract of marriage between herself and bertoldo, which, whether _in praesenti_ or _in futuro_, being confirmed by oath, she can force upon him, and which will invalidate his proposed marriage with the duchess. having established her right, she takes the only step that can with certainty free both herself and bertoldo from the bond they had created, by retiring into a nunnery. [footnote : swinburne, p. .] this explanation renders the action of the play clear, and at the same time shows that shakspere in his conduct with regard to his marriage may have been behaving in the most honourable and praiseworthy manner; as the bond, with the date of which the date of the birth of his first child is compared, is for the purpose of exonerating the ecclesiastics from any liability for performing the ecclesiastical ceremony, which was not at all a necessary preliminary to a valid marriage, so far as the husband and wife were concerned, although it was essential to render issue of the marriage legitimate. . these are instances of the deceptions that are likely to arise from the two fertile sources that have been specified. there can be no doubt that the existence of errors arising from the former source--misapprehension of the meaning of words--is very generally admitted, and effectual remedies have been supplied by modern scholars for those who will make use of them. errors arising from the latter source are not so entirely recognized, or so securely guarded against. but what has just been said surely shows that it is of no use reading a writer of a past age with merely modern conceptions; and, therefore, that if such a man's works are worth study at all, they must be read with the help of the light thrown upon them by contemporary history, literature, laws, and morals. the student must endeavour to divest himself, as far as possible, of all ideas that are the result of a development subsequent to the time in which his author lived, and to place himself in harmony with the life and thoughts of the people of that age: sit down with them in their homes, and learn the sources of their loves, their hates, their fears, and see wherein domestic happiness, or lack of it, made them strong or weak; follow them to the market-place, and witness their dealings with their fellows--the honesty or baseness of them, and trace the cause; look into their very hearts, if it may be, as they kneel at the devotion they feel or simulate, and become acquainted with the springs of their dearest aspirations and most secret prayers. . a hard discipline, no doubt, but not more hard than salutary. salutary in two ways. first, as a test of the student's own earnestness of purpose. for in these days of revival of interest in our elder literature, it has become much the custom for flippant persons, who are covetous of being thought "well-read" by their less-enterprising companions, to skim over the surface of the pages of the wisest and noblest of our great teachers, either not understanding, or misunderstanding them. "i have read chaucer, shakspere, milton," is the sublimely satirical expression constantly heard from the mouths of those who, having read words set down by the men they name, have no more capacity for reading the hearts of the men themselves, through those words, than a blind man has for discerning the colour of flowers. as a consequence of this flippancy of reading, numberless writers, whose works have long been consigned to a well-merited oblivion, have of late years been disinterred and held up for public admiration, chiefly upon the ground that they are ancient and unknown. the man who reads for the sake of having done so, not for the sake of the knowledge gained by doing so, finds as much charm in these petty writers as in the greater, and hence their transient and undeserved popularity. it would be well, then, for every earnest student, before beginning the study of any one having pretensions to the position of a master, and who is not of our own generation, to ask himself, "am i prepared thoroughly to sift out and ascertain the true import of every allusion contained in this volume?" and if he cannot honestly answer "yes," let him shut the book, assured that he is not impelled to the study of it by a sincere thirst for knowledge, but by impertinent curiosity, or a shallow desire to obtain undeserved credit for learning. . the second way in which such a discipline will prove salutary is this: it will prevent the student from straying too far afield in his reading. the number of "classical" authors whose works will repay such severe study is extremely limited. however much enthusiasm he may throw into his studies, he will find that nine-tenths of our older literature yields too small a harvest of instruction to attract any but the pedant to expend so much labour upon them. the two great vices of modern reading will be avoided--flippancy on the one hand, and pedantry on the other. . the object, therefore, which i have had in view in the compilation of the following pages, is to attempt to throw some additional light upon a condition of thought, utterly different from any belief that has firm hold in the present generation, that was current and peculiarly prominent during the lifetime of the man who bears overwhelmingly the greatest name, either in our own or any other literature. it may be said, and perhaps with much force, that enough, and more than enough, has been written in the way of shakspere criticism. but is it not better that somewhat too much should be written upon such a subject than too little? we cannot expect that every one shall see all the greatness of shakspere's vast and complex mind--by one a truth will be grasped that has eluded the vigilance of others;--and it is better that those who can by no possibility grasp anything at all should have patient hearing, rather than that any additional light should be lost. the useless, lifeless criticism vanishes quietly away into chaos; the good remains quietly to be useful: and it is in reliance upon the justice and certainty of this law that i aim at bringing before the mind, as clearly as may be, a phase of belief that was continually and powerfully influencing shakspere during the whole of his life, but is now well-nigh forgotten or entirely misunderstood. if the endeavour is a useless and unprofitable one, let it be forgotten--i am content; but i hope to be able to show that an investigation of the subject does furnish us with a key which, in a manner, unlocks the secrets of shakspere's heart, and brings us closer to the real living man--to the very soul of him who, with hardly any history in the accepted sense of the word, has left us in his works a biography of far deeper and more precious meaning, if we will but understand it. . but it may be said that shakspere, of all men, is able to speak for himself without aid or comment. his works appeal to all, young and old, in every time, every nation. it is true; he can be understood. he is, to use again ben jonson's oft-quoted words, "not of an age, but for all time." yet he is so thoroughly imbued with the spirit and opinions of his era, that without a certain comprehension of the men of the elizabethan period he cannot be understood fully. indeed, his greatness is to a large extent due to his sympathy with the men around him, his power of clearly thinking out the answers to the all-time questions, and giving a voice to them that his contemporaries could understand;--answers that others could not for themselves formulate--could, perhaps, only vaguely and dimly feel after. to understand these answers fully, the language in which they were delivered must be first thoroughly mastered. . i intend, therefore, to attempt to sketch out the leading features of a phase of religious belief that acquired peculiar distinctness and prominence during shakspere's lifetime--more, perhaps, than it ever did before, or has done since--the belief in the existence of evil spirits, and their influence upon and dealings with mankind. the subject will be treated in three sections. the first will contain a short statement of the laws that seem to be of universal operation in the creation and maintenance of the belief in a multitudinous band of spirits, good and evil; and of a few of the conditions of the elizabethan epoch that may have had a formative and modifying influence upon that belief. the second will be devoted to an outline of the chief features of that belief, as it existed at the time in question--the organization, appearance, and various functions and powers of the evil spirits, with special reference to shakspere's plays. the third and concluding section, will embody an attempt to trace the growth of shakspere's thought upon religious matters through the medium of his allusions to this subject. * * * * * . the empire of the supernatural must obviously be most extended where civilization is the least advanced. an educated man has to make a conscious, and sometimes severe, effort to refrain from pronouncing a dogmatic opinion as to the cause of a given result when sufficient evidence to warrant a definite conclusion is wanting; to the savage, the notion of any necessity for, or advantage to be derived from, such self-restraint never once occurs. neither the lightning that strikes his hut, the blight that withers his crops, the disease that destroys the life of those he loves; nor, on the other hand, the beneficent sunshine or life-giving rain, is by him traceable to any known physical cause. they are the results of influences utterly beyond his understanding--supernatural,--matters upon which imagination is allowed free scope to run riot, and from which spring up a legion of myths, or attempts to represent in some manner these incomprehensible processes, grotesque or poetic, according to the character of the people with which they originate, which, if their growth be not disturbed by extraneous influences, eventually develop into the national creed. the most ordinary events of the savage's every-day life do not admit of a natural solution; his whole existence is bound in, from birth to death, by a network of miracles, and regulated, in its smallest details, by unseen powers of whom he knows little or nothing. . hence it is that, in primitive societies, the functions of legislator, judge, priest, and medicine man are all combined in one individual, the great medium of communication between man and the unknown, whose person is pre-eminently sacred. the laws that are to guide the community come in some mysterious manner through him from the higher powers. if two members of the clan are involved in a quarrel, he is appealed to to apply some test in order to ascertain which of the two is in the wrong--an ordeal that can have no judicial operation, except upon the assumption of the existence of omnipotent beings interested in the discovery of evil-doers, who will prevent the test from operating unjustly. maladies and famines are unmistakeable signs of the displeasure of the good, or spite of the bad spirits, and are to be averted by some propitiatory act on the part of the sufferers, or the mediation of the priest-doctor. the remedy that would put an end to a long-continued drought will be equally effective in arresting an epidemic. . but who, and of what nature, are these supernatural powers whose influences are thus brought to bear upon every-day life, and who appear to take such an interest in the affairs of mankind? it seems that there are three great principles at work in the evolution and modification of the ideas upon this subject, which must now be shortly stated. . (i.) the first of these is the apparent incapacity of the majority of mankind to accept a purely monotheistic creed. it is a demonstrable fact that the primitive religions now open to observation attribute specific events and results to distinct supernatural beings; and there can be little doubt that this is the initial step in every creed. it is a bold and somewhat perilous revolution to attempt to overturn this doctrine and to set up monotheism in its place, and, when successfully accomplished, is rarely permanent. the more educated portions of the community maintain allegiance to the new teaching, perhaps; but among the lower classes it soon becomes degraded to, or amalgamated with, some form of polytheism more or less pronounced, and either secret or declared. even the jews, the nation the most conspicuous for its supposed uncompromising adherence to a monotheistic creed, cannot claim absolute freedom from taint in this respect; for in the country places, far from the centre of worship, the people were constantly following after strange gods; and even some of their most notable worthies were liable to the same accusation. . it is not necessary, however, that the individuality and specialization of function of the supreme beings recognized by any religious system should be so conspicuous as they are in this case, or in the greek or roman pantheon, to mark it as in its essence polytheistic or of polytheistic tendency. it is quite enough that the immortals are deemed to be capable of hearing and answering the prayers of their adorers, and of interfering actively in passing events, either for good or for evil. this, at the root of it, constitutes the crucial difference between polytheism and monotheism; and in this sense the roman catholic form of christianity, representing the oldest undisturbed evolution of a strictly monotheistic doctrine, is undeniably polytheistic. apart from the virgin mary, there is a whole hierarchy of inferior deities, saints, and angels, subordinate to the one supreme being. this may possibly be denied by the authorized expounders of the doctrine of the church of rome; but it is nevertheless certain that it is the view taken by the uneducated classes, with whom the saints are much more present and definite deities than even the almighty himself. it is worth noting, that during the dancing mania of , not god, or christ, or the virgin mary, but st. vitus, was prayed to by the populace to stop the epidemic that was afterwards known by his name.[ ] there was a temple to st. michael on mount st. angelo, and augustine thought it necessary to declare that angel-worshippers were heretics.[ ] even protestantism, though a much younger growth than catholicism, shows a slight tendency towards polytheism. the saints are, of course, quite out of the question, and angels are as far as possible relegated from the citadel of asserted belief into the vaguer regions of poetical sentimentality; but--although again unadmitted by the orthodox of the sect--the popular conception of christ is, and, until the masses are more educated in theological niceties than they are at present, necessarily must be, as of a supreme being totally distinct from god the father. this applies in a less degree to the third person in the trinity; less, because his individuality is less clear. george eliot has, with her usual penetration, noted this fact in "silas marner," where, in mrs. winthrop's simple theological system, the trinity is always referred to as "them." [footnote : hecker, epidemics of the middle ages, p. .] [footnote : bullinger, p. . parker society.] . the posthumous history of francis of assisi affords a striking illustration of this strange tendency towards polytheism. this extraordinary man received no little reverence and adulation during his lifetime; but it was not until after his death that the process of deification commenced. it was then discovered that the stigmata were not the only points of resemblance between the departed saint and the divine master he professed to follow; that his birth had been foretold by the prophets; that, like christ, he underwent transfiguration; and that he had worked miracles during his life. the climax of the apotheosis was reached in , when a monk, preaching at paris, seriously maintained that st. francis was in very truth a second christ, the second son of god; and that after his death he descended into purgatory, and liberated all the spirits confined there who had the good fortune to be arrayed in the franciscan garb.[ ] [footnote : maury, histoire de la magie, p. .] . (ii.) the second principle is that of the manichaeists: the division of spirits into hostile camps, good and evil. this is a much more common belief than the orthodox are willing to allow. there is hardly any religious system that does not recognize a first source of evil, as well as a first source of good. but the spirit of evil occupies a position of varying importance: in some systems he maintains himself as co-equal of the spirit of good; in others he sinks to a lower stage, remaining very powerful to do harm, but nevertheless under the control, in matters of the highest importance, of the more beneficent being. in each of these cases, the first principle is found operating, ever augmenting the ranks; monodiabolism being as impossible as monotheism; and hence the importance of fully establishing that proposition. . (iii.) the last and most important of these principles is the tendency of all theological systems to absorb into themselves the deities extraneous to themselves, not as gods, but as inferior, or even evil, spirits. the actual existence of the foreign deity is not for a moment disputed, the presumption in favour of innumerable spiritual agencies being far too strong to allow the possibility of such a doubt; but just as the alien is looked upon as an inferior being, created chiefly for the use and benefit of the chosen people--and what nation is not, if its opinion of itself may be relied upon, a chosen people?--so the god the alien worships is a spirit of inferior power and capacity, and can be recognized solely as occupying a position subordinate to that of the gods of the land. this principle has such an important influence in the elaboration of the belief in demons, that it is worth while to illustrate the generality of its application. . in the greek system of theology we find in the first place a number of deities of varying importance and power, whose special functions are defined with some distinctness; and then, below these, an innumerable band of spirits, the souls of the departed--probably the relics of an earlier pure ancestor-worship--who still interest themselves in the inhabitants of this world. these [greek: daimones] were certainly accredited with supernatural power, and were not of necessity either good or evil in their influence or action. it was to this second class that foreign deities were assimilated. they found it impossible, however, to retain even this humble position. the ceremonies of their worship, and the language in which those ceremonies were performed, were strange to the inhabitants of the land in which the acclimatization was attempted; and the incomprehensible is first suspected, then loathed. it is not surprising, then, that the new-comers soon fell into the ranks of purely evil spirits, and that those who persisted in exercising their rites were stigmatized as devil-worshippers, or magicians. but in process of time this polytheistic system became pre-eminently unsatisfactory to the thoughtful men whom greece produced in such numbers. the tendency towards monotheism which is usually associated with the name of plato is hinted at in the writings of other philosophers who were his predecessors. the effect of this revolution was to recognize one supreme being, the first cause, and to subordinate to him all the other deities of the ancient and popular theology--to co-ordinate them, in fact, with the older class of daemons; the first step in the descent to the lowest category of all. . the history of the neo-platonic belief is one of elaboration upon these ideas. the conception of the supreme being was complicated in a manner closely resembling the idea of the christian trinity, and all the subordinate daemons were classified into good and evil geniuses. thus, a theoretically monotheistic system was established, with a tremendous hierarchy of inferior spirits, who frequently bore the names of the ancient gods and goddesses of egypt, greece, and rome, strikingly resembling that of roman catholicism. the subordinate daemons were not at first recognized as entitled to any religious rites; but in the course of time, by the inevitable operation of the first principle just enunciated, a form of theurgy sprang up with the object of attracting the kindly help and patronage of the good spirits, and was tolerated; and attempts were made to hold intercourse with the evil spirits, which were, as far as possible suppressed and discountenanced. . the history of the operation of this principle upon the jewish religion is very similar, and extremely interesting. although they do not seem to have ever had any system of ancestor-worship, as the greeks had, yet the jews appear originally to have recognized the deities of their neighbours as existing spirits, but inferior in power to the god of israel. "all the gods of the nations are idols" are words that entirely fail to convey the idea of the psalmist; for the word translated "idols" is _elohim_, the very term usually employed to designate jehovah; and the true sense of the passage therefore is: "all the gods of the nations are gods, but jehovah made the heavens."[ ] in another place we read that "the lord is a great god, and a great king above all gods."[ ] as, however, the jews gradually became acquainted with the barbarous rites with which their neighbours did honour to their gods, the foreigners seem to have fallen more and more in estimation, until they came to be classed as evil spirits. to this process such names as beelzebub, moloch, ashtaroth, and belial bear witness; beelzebub, "the prince of the devils" of later time, being one of the gods of the hostile philistines. [footnote : psalm xcvi. (xcv. sept.).] [footnote : psalm xcv. (xciv. sept.). maury, p. .] . the introduction of christianity made no difference in this respect. paul says to the believers at corinth, "that the things which the gentiles sacrifice, they sacrifice to devils ([greek: daimonia]), and not to god; and i would not that ye should have fellowship with devils;"[ ] and the septuagint renders the word _elohim_ in the ninety-fifth psalm by this [greek: daimonia], which as the christians had already a distinct term for good spirits, came to be applied to evil ones only. [footnote : i cor. x. .] under the influence therefore, of the new religion, the gods of greece and rome, who in the days of their supremacy had degraded so many foreign deities to the position of daemons, were in their turn deposed from their high estate, and became the nucleus around which the christian belief in demonology formed itself. the gods who under the old theologies reigned paramount in the lower regions became pre-eminently diabolic in character in the new system, and it was hecate who to the last retained her position of active patroness and encourager of witchcraft; a practice which became almost indissolubly connected with her name. numerous instances of the completeness with which this process of diabolization was effected, and the firmness with which it retained its hold upon the popular belief, even to late times, might be given; but the following must suffice. in one of the miracle plays, "the conversion of saul," a council of devils is held, at which mercury appears as the messenger of belial.[ ] [footnote : digby mysteries, new shakspere society, , p. .] . but this absolute rejection of every pagan belief and ceremony was characteristic of the christian church in its infancy only. so long as the band of believers was a small and persecuted one, no temptation to violate the rule could exist. but as the church grew, and acquired influence and position, it discovered that good policy demanded that the sternness and inflexibility of its youthful theories should undergo some modification. it found that it was not the most successful method of enticing stragglers into its fold to stigmatize the gods they ignorantly worshipped as devils, and to persecute them as magicians. the more impetuous and enthusiastic supporters did persecute, and persecute most relentlessly, the adherents of the dying faith; but persecution, whether of good or evil, always fails as a means of suppressing a hated doctrine, unless it can be carried to the extent of extermination of its supporters; and the more far-seeing leaders of the catholic church soon recognized that a slight surrender of principle was a far surer road to success than stubborn, uncompromising opposition. . it was in this spirit that the catholics dealt with the oracles of heathendom. mr. lecky is hardly correct when he says that nothing analogous to the ancient oracles was incorporated with christianity.[ ] there is the notable case of the god sosthenion, whom constantine identified with the archangel michael, and whose oracular functions were continued in a precisely similar manner by the latter.[ ] oracles that were not thus absorbed and supported were recognized as existent, but under diabolic control, and to be tolerated, if not patronized, by the representatives of the dominant religion. the oracle at delphi gave forth prophetic utterances for centuries after the commencement of the christian era; and was the less dangerous, as its operations could be stopped at any moment by holding a saintly relic to the god or devil apollo's nose. there is a fable that st. gregory, in the course of his travels, passed near the oracle, and his extraordinary sanctity was such as to prevent all subsequent utterances. this so disturbed the presiding genius of the place, that he appealed to the saint to undo the baneful effects his presence had produced; and gregory benevolently wrote a letter to the devil, which was in fact a license to continue the business of prophesying unmolested.[ ] this nonsensical fiction shows clearly enough that the oracles were not generally looked upon as extinguished by christianity. as the result of a similar policy we find the names and functions of the pagan gods and the earlier christian saints confused in the most extraordinary manner; the saints assuming the duties of the moribund deities where those duties were of a harmless or necessary character.[ ] [footnote : rise and influence of rationalism, i. p. .] [footnote : maury, p. , et seq.] [footnote : scot, book vii. ch. i.] [footnote : middleton's letter from rome.] . the church carried out exactly the same principles in her missionary efforts amongst the heathen hordes of northern europe. "do you renounce the devils, and all their words and works; thonar, wodin, and saxenote?" was part of the form of recantation administered to the scandinavian converts;[ ] and at the present day "odin take you" is the norse equivalent of "the devil take you." on the other hand, an attempt was made to identify balda "the beautiful" with christ--a confusion of character that may go far towards accounting for a custom joyously observed by our forefathers at christmastide but which the false modesty of modern society has nearly succeeded in banishing from amongst us, for balda was slain by loké with a branch of mistletoe, and christ was betrayed by judas with a kiss. [footnote : milman, history of latin christianity, iii. ; ix. .] . upon the conversion of the inhabitants of great britain to christianity, the native deities underwent the same inevitable fate, and sank into the rank of evil spirits. perhaps the juster opinion is that they became the progenitors of our fairy mythology rather than the subsequent devil-lore, although the similarity between these two classes of spirits is sufficient to warrant us in classing them as species of the same genus; their characters and functions being perfectly interchangeable, and even at times merging and becoming indistinguishable. a certain lurking affection in the new converts for the religion they had deserted, perhaps under compulsion, may have led them to look upon their ancient objects of veneration as less detestable in nature, and dangerous in act, than the devils imported as an integral portion of their adopted faith; and so originated this class of spirits less evil than the other. sir walter scott may be correct in his assertion that many of these fairy-myths owe their origin to the existence of a diminutive autochthonic race that was conquered by the invading celts, and the remnants of which lurked about the mountains and forests, and excited in their victors a superstitious reverence on account of their great skill in metallurgy; but this will not explain the retention of many of the old god-names; as that of the dusii, the celtic nocturnal spirits, in our word "deuce," and that of the nikr or water-spirits in "nixie" and old "nick."[ ] these words undoubtedly indicate the accomplishment of the "facilis descensus averno" by the native deities. elves, brownies, gnomes, and trolds were all at one time scotch or irish gods. the trolds obtained a character similar to that of the more modern succubus, and have left their impression upon elizabethan english in the word "trull." [footnote : maury, p. .] . the preceding very superficial outline of the growth of the belief in evil spirits is enough for the purpose of this essay, as it shows that the basis of english devil-lore was the annihilated mythologies of the ancient heathen religions--italic and teutonic, as well as those brought into direct conflict with the jewish system; and also that the more important of the teutonic deities are not to be traced in the subsequent hierarchy of fiends, on account probably of their temporary or permanent absorption into the proselytizing system, or the refusal of the new converts to believe them to be so black as their teachers painted them. the gradual growth of the superstructure it would be well-nigh impossible and quite unprofitable to trace. it is due chiefly to the credulous ignorance and distorted imagination, monkish and otherwise, of several centuries. carlyle's graphic picture of abbot sampson's vision of the devil in "past and present" will perhaps do more to explain how the belief grew and flourished than pages of explanatory statements. it is worthy of remark, however, that to the last, communication with evil spirits was kept up by means of formulae and rites that are undeniably the remnants of a form of religious worship. incomprehensible in their jargon as these formulae mostly are, and strongly tinctured as they have become with burlesqued christian symbolism and expression--for those who used them could only supply the fast-dying memory of the elder forms from the existing system--they still, in all their grotesqueness, remain the battered relics of a dead faith. . such being the natural history of the conflict of religions, it will not be a matter of surprise that the leaders of our english reformation should, in their turn, have attributed the miracles of the roman catholic saints to the same infernal source as the early christians supposed to have been the origin of the prodigies and oracles of paganism. the impulse given by the secession from the church of rome to the study of the bible by all classes added impetus to this tendency. in holy writ the reformers found full authority for believing in the existence of evil spirits, possession by devils, witchcraft, and divine and diabolic interference by way of miracle generally; and they consequently acknowledged the possibility of the repetition of such phenomena in the times in which they lived--a position more tenable, perhaps, than that of modern orthodoxy, that accepts without murmur all the supernatural events recorded in the bible, and utterly rejects all subsequent relations of a similar nature, however well authenticated. the reformers believed unswervingly in the truth of the biblical accounts of miracles, and that what god had once permitted to take place might and would be repeated in case of serious necessity. but they found it utterly impossible to accept the puerile and meaningless miracles perpetrated under the auspices of the roman catholic church as evidence of divine interference; and they had not travelled far enough upon the road towards rationalism to be able to reject them, one and all, as in their very nature impossible. the consequence of this was one of those compromises which we so often meet with in the history of the changes of opinion effected by the reformation. only those particular miracles that were indisputably demonstrated to be impostures--and there were plenty of them, such as the rood of boxley[ ]--were treated as such by them. the unexposed remainder were treated as genuine supernatural phenomena, but caused by diabolical, not divine, agency. the reforming divine calfhill, supporting this view of the catholic miracles in his answer to martiall's "treatise of the cross," points out that the majority of supernatural events that have taken place in this world have been, most undoubtedly, the work of the devil; and puts his opponents into a rather embarrassing dilemma by citing the miracles of paganism, which both catholic and protestant concurred in attributing to the evil one. he then clinches his argument by asserting that "it is the devil's cunning that persuades those that will walk in a popish blindness" that they are worshipping god when they are in reality serving him. "therefore," he continues, consciously following an argument of st. cyprianus against the pagan miracles, "these wicked spirits do lurk in shrines, in roods, in crosses, in images: and first of all pervert the priests, which are easiest to be caught with bait of a little gain. then work they miracles. they appear to men in divers shapes; disquiet them when they are awake; trouble them in their sleeps; distort their members; take away their health; afflict them with diseases; only to bring them to some idolatry. thus, when they have obtained their purpose that a lewd affiance is reposed where it should not, they enter (as it were) into a new league, and trouble them no more. what do the simple people then? verily suppose that the image, the cross, the thing that they have kneeled and offered unto (the very devil indeed) hath restored them health, whereas he did nothing but leave off to molest them. this is the help and cure that the devils give when they leave off their wrong and injury."[ ] [footnote : froude, history of england, cabinet edition, iii. .] [footnote : calfhill, pp. - . parker society.] . here we have a distinct charge of devil-worship--the old doctrine cropping up again after centuries of repose: "all the gods of our opponents are devils." nor were the catholics a whit behind the protestants in this matter. the priests zealously taught that the protestants were devil-worshippers and magicians;[ ] and the common people so implicitly believed in the truth of the statement, that we find one poor prisoner, taken by the dutch at the siege of alkmaar in , making a desperate attempt to save his life by promising to worship his captors' devil precisely as they did[ ]--a suggestion that failed to pacify those to whom it was addressed. [footnote : hutchinson's essay, p. . harsnet, declaration, p. .] [footnote : motley, dutch republic, ii. .] . having thus stated, so far as necessary, the chief laws that are constantly working the extension of the domain of the supernatural as far as demonology is concerned, without a remembrance of which the subject itself would remain somewhat difficult to comprehend fully, i shall now attempt to indicate one or two conditions of thought and circumstance that may have tended to increase and vivify the belief during the period in which the elizabethan literature flourished. . it was an era of change. the nation was emerging from the dim twilight of mediaevalism into the full day of political and religious freedom. but the morning mists, which the rising sun had not yet dispelled, rendered the more distant and complex objects distorted and portentous. the very fact that doubt, or rather, perhaps, independence of thought, was at last, within certain limits, treated as non-criminal in theology, gave an impetus to investigation and speculation in all branches of politics and science; and with this change came, in the main, improvement. but the great defect of the time was that this newly liberated spirit of free inquiry was not kept in check by any sufficient previous discipline in logical methods of reasoning. hence the possibility of the wild theories that then existed, followed out into action or not, according as circumstances favoured or discouraged: arthur hacket, with casting out of devils, and other madnesses, vehemently declaring himself the messiah and king of europe in the year of grace , and getting himself believed by some, so long as he remained unhanged; or, more pathetic still, many weary lives wasted day by day in fruitless silent search after the impossible philosopher's stone, or elixir of life. as in law, so in science, there were no sufficient rules of evidence clearly and unmistakably laid down for the guidance of the investigator; and consequently it was only necessary to broach a novel theory in order to have it accepted, without any previous serious testing. men do not seem to have been able to distinguish between an hypothesis and a proved conclusion; or, rather, the rule of presumptions was reversed, and men accepted the hypothesis as conclusive until it was disproved. it was a perfectly rational and sufficient explanation in those days to refer some extraordinary event to some given supernatural cause, even though there might be no ostensible link between the two: now, such a suggestion would be treated by the vast majority with derision or contempt. on the other hand, the most trivial occurrences, such as sneezing, the appearance of birds of ill omen, the crowing of a cock, and events of like unimportance happening at a particular moment, might, by some unseen concatenation of causes and effects, exercise an incomprehensible influence upon men, and consequently had important bearings upon their conduct. it is solemnly recorded in the commons' journals that during the discussion of the statute against witchcraft passed in the reign of james i., a young jackdaw flew into the house; which accident was generally regarded as _malum omen_ to the bill.[ ] extraordinary bravery on the part of an adversary was sometimes accounted for by asserting that he was the devil in the form of a man; as the volscian soldier does with regard to coriolanus. this is no mere dramatist's fancy, but a fixed belief of the times. sir william russell fought so desperately at zutphen, that he got mistaken for the evil one;[ ] and drake also gave the spaniards good reason for believing that he was a devil, and no man.[ ] [footnote : see also d'ewes, p. .] [footnote : froude, xii. .] [footnote : ibid. .] . this intense credulousness, childish almost in itself, but yet at the same time combined with the strong man's intellect, permeated all classes of society. perhaps a couple of instances, drawn from strangely diverse sources, will bring this more vividly before the mind than any amount of attempted theorizing. the first is one of the tricks of the jugglers of the period. "_to make one danse naked._ "make a poore boie confederate with you, so as after charms, etc., spoken by you, he unclothe himself and stand naked, seeming (whilest he undresseth himselfe) to shake, stamp, and crie, still hastening to be unclothed, till he be starke naked; or if you can procure none to go so far, let him onlie beginne to stampe and shake, etc., and unclothe him, and then you may (for reverence of the companie) seeme to release him."[ ] [footnote : scott, p. .] the second illustration must have demanded, if possible, more credulity on the part of the audience than this harmless entertainment. cranmer tells us that in the time of queen mary a monk preached a sermon at st. paul's, the object of which was to prove the truth of the doctrine of transubstantiation; and, after the manner of his kind, told the following little anecdote in support of it:--"a maid of northgate parish in canterbury, in pretence to wipe her mouth, kept the host in her handkerchief; and, when she came home, she put the same into a pot, close covered, and she spitted in another pot, and after a few days, she looking in the one pot, found a little young pretty babe, about a shaftmond long; and the other pot was full of gore blood."[ ] [footnote : cranmer, a confutation of unwritten verities, p. . parker society.] . that the audiences before which these absurdities were seriously brought, for amusement or instruction, could be excited in either case to any other feeling than good-natured contempt for a would-be impostor, seems to us now-a-days to be impossible. it was not so in the times when these things transpired: the actors of them were not knaves, nor were their audiences fools, to any unusual extent. if any one is inclined to form a low opinion of the elizabethans intellectually, on account of the divergence of their capacities of belief in this respect from his own, he does them a great injustice. let him take at once charles lamb's warning, and try to understand, rather than to judge them. we, who have had the benefit of three hundred more years of experience and liberty of thought than they, should have to hide our faces for very shame had we not arrived at juster and truer conclusions upon those difficult topics that so bewildered our ancestors. but can we, with all our boasted advantages of wealth, power, and knowledge, truly say that all our aims are as high, all our desires as pure, our words as true, and our deeds as noble, as those whose opinions we feel this tendency to contemn? if not, or if indeed they have anything whatsoever to teach us in these respects, let us remember that we shall never learn the lesson wholly, perhaps not learn it at all, unless, casting aside this first impulse to despise, we try to enter fully into and understand these strange dead beliefs of the past. * * * * * . it is in this spirit that i now enter upon the second division of the subject in hand, in which i shall try to indicate the chief features of the belief in demonology as it existed during the elizabethan period. these will be taken up in three main heads: the classification, physical appearance, and powers of the evil spirits. . (i.) it is difficult to discover any classification of devils as well authenticated and as universally received as that of the angels introduced by dionysius the areopagite, which was subsequently imported into the creed of the western church, and popularized in elizabethan times by dekker's "hierarchie." the subject was one which, from its nature, could not be settled _ex cathedrâ_, and consequently the subject had to grow up as best it might, each writer adopting the arrangement that appeared to him most suitable. there was one rough but popular classification into greater and lesser devils. the former branch was subdivided into classes of various grades of power, the members of which passed under the titles of kings, dukes, marquises, lords, captains, and other dignities. each of these was supposed to have a certain number of legions of the latter class under his command. these were the evil spirits who appeared most frequently on the earth as the emissaries of the greater fiends, to carry out their evil designs. the more important class kept for the most part in a mystical seclusion, and only appeared upon earth in cases of the greatest emergency, or when compelled to do so by conjuration. to the class of lesser devils belonged the bad angel which, together with a good one, was supposed to be assigned to every person at birth, to follow him through life--the one to tempt, the other to guard from temptation;[ ] so that a struggle similar to that recorded between michael and satan for the body of moses was raging for the soul of every existing human being. this was not a mere theory, but a vital active belief, as the beautiful well-known lines at the commencement of the eighth canto of the second book of "the faerie queene," and the use made of these opposing spirits in marlowe's "dr. faustus," and in "the virgin martyr," by massinger and dekker, conclusively show. [footnote : scot, p. .] . another classification, which seems to retain a reminiscence of the origin of devils from pagan deities, is effected by reference to the localities supposed to be inhabited by the different classes of evil spirits. according to this arrangement we get six classes:-- ( .) devils of the fire, who wander in the region near the moon. ( .) devils of the air, who hover round the earth. ( .) devils of the earth; to whom the fairies are allied. ( .) devils of the water. ( .) submundane devils.[ ] ( .) lucifugi. these devils' power and desire to injure mankind appear to have increased with the proximity of their location to the earth's centre; but this classification had nothing like the hold upon the popular mind that the former grouping had, and may consequently be dismissed with this mention. [footnote : cf. i hen. vi. v. iii. ; hen. vi. i. ii. ; coriolanus, iv. v. .] . the greater devils, or the most important of them, had distinguishing names--strange, uncouth names; some of them telling of a heathenish origin; others inexplicable and almost unpronounceable--as ashtaroth, bael, belial, zephar, cerberus, phoenix, balam (why he?), and haagenti, leraie, marchosias, gusoin, glasya labolas. scot enumerates seventy-nine, the above amongst them, and he does not by any means exhaust the number. as each arch-devil had twenty, thirty, or forty legions of inferior spirits under his command, and a legion was composed of six hundred and sixty-six devils, it is not surprising that the latter did not obtain distinguishing names until they made their appearance upon earth, when they frequently obtained one from the form they loved to assume; for example, the familiars of the witches in "macbeth"--paddock (toad), graymalkin (cat), and harpier (harpy, possibly). is it surprising that, with resources of this nature at his command, such an adept in the art of necromancy as owen glendower should hold harry percy, much to his disgust, at the least nine hours "in reckoning up the several devils' names that were his lackeys"? of the twenty devils mentioned by shakspere, four only belong to the class of greater devils. hecate, the principal patroness of witchcraft, is referred to frequently, and appears once upon the scene.[ ] the two others are amaimon and barbazon, both of whom are mentioned twice. amaimon was a very important personage, being no other than one of the four kings. ziminar was king of the north, and is referred to in "henry vi. part i.;"[ ] gorson of the south; goap of the west; and amaimon of the east. he is mentioned in "henry iv. part i.,"[ ] and "merry wives."[ ] barbazon also occurs in the same passage in the latter play, and again in "henry v."[ ]--a fact that does to a slight extent help to bear out the otherwise ascertained chronological sequence of these plays. the remainder of the devils belong to the second class. nine of these occur in "king lear," and will be referred to again when the subject of possession is touched upon.[ ] [footnote : it is perhaps worthy of remark that in every case except the allusion in the probably spurious henry vi., "i speak not to that railing hecate," (i hen. vi. iii. ii. ), the name is "hecat," a di-syllable.] [footnote : v. iii. .] [footnote : ii. iv. .] [footnote : ii. ii. .] [footnote : ii. i. . scot, p. .] [footnote : § .] . (ii.) it would appear that each of the greater devils, on the rare occasion upon which he made his appearance upon earth, assumed a form peculiar to himself; the lesser devils, on the other hand, had an ordinary type, common to the whole species, with a capacity for almost infinite variation and transmutation which they used, as will be seen, to the extreme perplexity and annoyance of mortals. as an illustration of the form in which a greater devil might appear, this is what scot says of the questionable balam, above mentioned: "balam cometh with three heads, the first of a bull, the second of a man, and the third of a ram. he hath a serpent's taile, and flaming eies; riding upon a furious beare, and carrieng a hawke on his fist."[ ] but it was the lesser devils, not the greater, that came into close contact with humanity, who therefore demand careful consideration. [footnote : p. .] . all the lesser devils seem to have possessed a normal form, which was as hideous and distorted as fancy could render it. to the conception of an angel imagination has given the only beautiful appendage the human body does not possess--wings; to that of a devil it has added all those organs of the brute creation that are most hideous or most harmful. advancing civilization has almost exterminated the belief in a being with horns, cloven hoofs, goggle eyes, and scaly tail, that was held up to many yet living as the avenger of childish disobedience in their earlier days, together perhaps with some strength of conviction of the moral hideousness of the evil he was intended, in a rough way, to typify; but this hazily retained impression of the author of evil was the universal and entirely credited conception of the ordinary appearance of those bad spirits who were so real to our ancestors of elizabethan days. "some are so carnallie minded," says scot, "that a spirit is no sooner spoken of, but they thinke of a blacke man with cloven feet, a paire of hornes, a taile, and eies as big as a bason."[ ] scot, however, was one of a very small minority in his opinion as to the carnal-mindedness of such a belief. he in his day, like those in every age and country who dare to hold convictions opposed to the creed of the majority, was a dangerous sceptic; his book was publicly burnt by the common hangman;[ ] and not long afterwards a royal author wrote a treatise "against the damnable doctrines of two principally in our age; whereof the one, called scot, an englishman, is not ashamed in public print to deny that there can be such a thing as witchcraft, and so mainteines the old error of the sadducees in denying of spirits."[ ] the abandoned impudence of the man!--and the logic of his royal opponent! [footnote : p. . see also hutchinson, essay on witchcraft, p. ; and harsnet, p. .] [footnote : bayle, ix. .] [footnote : james i., daemonologie. edinburgh, .] . spenser has clothed with horror this conception of the appearance of a fiend, just as he has enshrined in beauty the belief in the guardian angel. it is worthy of remark that he describes the devil as dwelling beneath the altar of an idol in a heathen temple. prince arthur strikes the image thrice with his sword-- "and the third time, out of an hidden shade, there forth issewed from under th' altar's smoake a dreadfull feend with fowle deformèd looke, that stretched itselfe as it had long lyen still; and her long taile and fethers strongly shooke, that all the temple did with terrour fill; yet him nought terrifide that fearèd nothing ill. "an huge great beast it was, when it in length was stretchèd forth, that nigh filled all the place, and seemed to be of infinite great strength; horrible, hideous, and of hellish race, borne of the brooding of echidna base, or other like infernall furies kinde, for of a maide she had the outward face to hide the horrour which did lurke behinde the better to beguile whom she so fond did finde. "thereto the body of a dog she had, full of fell ravin and fierce greedinesse; a lion's clawes, with power and rigour clad to rende and teare whatso she can oppresse; a dragon's taile, whose sting without redresse full deadly wounds whereso it is empight, and eagle's wings for scope and speedinesse that nothing may escape her reaching might, whereto she ever list to make her hardy flight." . the dramatists of the period make frequent references to this belief, but nearly always by way of ridicule. it is hardly to be expected that they would share in the grosser opinions held by the common people in those times--common, whether king or clown. in "the virgin martyr," harpax is made to say-- "i'll tell you what now of the devil; he's no such horrid creature, cloven-footed, black, saucer-eyed, his nostrils breathing fire, as these lying christians make him."[ ] but his opinion was, perhaps, a prejudiced one. in ben jonson's "the devil is an ass," when fitzdottrell, doubting pug's statement as to his infernal character, says, "i looked on your feet afore; you cannot cozen me; your shoes are not cloven, sir, you are whole hoofed;" pug, with great presence of mind, replies, "sir, that's a popular error deceives many." so too othello, when he is questioning whether iago is a devil or not, says-- "i look down to his feet, but that's a fable."[ ] and when edgar is trying to persuade the blind gloucester that he has in reality cast himself over the cliff, he describes the being from whom he is supposed to have just parted, thus:-- "as i stood here below, methought his eyes were two full moons: he had a thousand noses; horns whelked and wavèd like the enridgèd sea: it was some fiend."[ ] it can hardly be but that the "thousand noses" are intended as a satirical hit at the enormity of the popular belief. [footnote : act i. sc. .] [footnote : act v. sc. ii. l. .] [footnote : lear, iv. vi. .] . in addition to this normal type, common to all these devils, each one seems to have had, like the greater devils, a favourite form in which he made his appearance when conjured; generally that of some animal, real or imagined. it was telling of "the moldwarp and the ant, of the dreamer merlin, and his prophecies; and of a dragon and a finless fish, a clipwinged griffin, and a moulten raven, a couching lion, and a ramping cat,"[ ] that annoyed harry hotspur so terribly; and neither in this allusion, which was suggested by a passage in holinshed,[ ] nor in "macbeth," where he makes the three witches conjure up their familiars in the shapes of an armed head, a bloody child, and a child crowned, has shakspere gone beyond the fantastic conceptions of the time. [footnote : i hen. iv. iii. i. .] [footnote : p. , c. .] . (iii.) but the third proposed section, which deals with the powers and functions exercised by the evil spirits, is by far the most interesting and important; and the first branch of the series is one that suggests itself as a natural sequence upon what has just been said as to the ordinary shapes in which devils appeared, namely, the capacity to assume at will any form they chose. . in the early and middle ages it was universally believed that a devil could, of his own inherent power, call into existence any manner of body that it pleased his fancy to inhabit, or that would most conduce to the success of any contemplated evil. in consequence of this belief the devils became the rivals, indeed the successful rivals, of jupiter himself in the art of physical tergiversation. there was, indeed, a tradition that a devil could not create any animal form of less size than a barley-corn, and that it was in consequence of this incapacity that the magicians of egypt--those indubitable devil-worshippers--failed to produce lice, as moses did, although they had been so successful in the matter of the serpents and the frogs; "a verie gross absurditie," as scot judiciously remarks.[ ] this, however, would not be a serious limitation upon the practical usefulness of the power. [footnote : p. .] . the great reformation movement wrought a change in this respect. men began to accept argument and reason, though savouring of special pleading of the schools, in preference to tradition, though never so venerable and well authenticated; and the leaders of the revolution could not but recognize the absurdity of laying down as infallible dogma that god was the creator of all things, and then insisting with equal vehemence, by way of postulate, that the devil was the originator of some. the thing was gross and palpable in its absurdity, and had to be done away with as quickly as might be. but how? on the other hand, it was clear as daylight that the devil _did_ appear in various forms to tempt and annoy the people of god--was at that very time doing so in the most open and unabashed manner. how were reasonable men to account for this manifest conflict between rigorous logic and more rigorous fact? there was a prolonged and violent controversy upon the point--the reformers not seeing their way to agree amongst themselves--and tedious as violent. sermons were preached; books were written; and, when argument was exhausted, unpleasant epithets were bandied about, much as in the present day, in similar cases. the result was that two theories were evolved, both extremely interesting as illustrations of the hair-splitting, chop-logic tendency which, amidst all their straightforwardness, was so strongly characteristic of the elizabethans. the first suggestion was, that although the devil could not, of his own inherent power, create a body, he might get hold of a dead carcase and temporarily restore animation, and so serve his turn. this belief was held, amongst others, by the erudite king james,[ ] and is pleasantly satirized by sturdy old ben jonson in "the devil is an ass," where satan (the greater devil, who only appears in the first scene just to set the storm a-brewing) says to pug (puck, the lesser devil, who does all the mischief; or would have done it, had not man, in those latter times, got to be rather beyond the devils in evil than otherwise), not without a touch of regret at the waning of his power-- "you must get a body ready-made, pug, i can create you none;" and consequently pug is advised to assume the body of a handsome cutpurse that morning hung at tyburn. [footnote : daemonologie, p. .] but the theory, though ingenious, was insufficient. the devil would occasionally appear in the likeness of a living person; and how could that be accounted for? again, an evil spirit, with all his ingenuity, would find it hard to discover the dead body of a griffin, or a harpy, or of such eccentricity as was affected by the before-mentioned balam; and these and other similar forms were commonly favoured by the inhabitants of the nether world. . the second theory, therefore, became the more popular amongst the learned, because it left no one point unexplained. the divines held that although the power of the creator had in no wise been delegated to the devil, yet he was, in the course of providence, permitted to exercise a certain supernatural influence over the minds of men, whereby he could persuade them that they really saw a form that had no material objective existence.[ ] here was a position incontrovertible, not on account of the arguments by which it could be supported, but because it was impossible to reason against it; and it slowly, but surely, took hold upon the popular mind. indeed, the elimination of the diabolic factor leaves the modern sceptical belief that such apparitions are nothing more than the result of disease, physical or mental. [footnote : dialogicall discourses, by deacon and walker, th dialogue. bullinger, p. . parker society.] . but the semi-sceptical state of thought was in shakspere's time making its way only amongst the more educated portion of the nation. the masses still clung to the old and venerated, if not venerable, belief that devils could at any moment assume what form soever they might please--not troubling themselves further to inquire into the method of the operation. they could appear in the likeness of an ordinary human being, as harpax[ ] and mephistopheles[ ] do, creating thereby the most embarrassing complications in questions of identity; and if this belief is borne in mind, the charge of being a devil, so freely made, in the times of which we write, and before alluded to, against persons who performed extraordinary feats of valour, or behaved in a manner discreditable and deserving of general reprobation, loses much of its barbarous grotesqueness. there was no doubt as to coriolanus,[ ] as has been said; nor shylock.[ ] even "the outward sainted angelo is yet a devil;"[ ] and prince hal confesses that "there is a devil haunts him in the likeness of an old fat man ... an old white-bearded satan."[ ] [footnote : in the virgin martyr.] [footnote : in dr. faustus.] [footnote : coriolanus, i. x. .] [footnote : merchant of venice, iii. i. .] [footnote : measure for measure, iii. i. .] [footnote : i hen. iv., ii. iv. - .] . the devils had an inconvenient habit of appearing in the guise of an ecclesiastic[ ]--at least, so the churchmen were careful to insist, especially when busying themselves about acts of temptation that would least become the holy robe they had assumed. this was the ecclesiastical method of accounting for certain stories, not very creditable to the priesthood, that had too inconvenient a basis of evidence to be dismissed as fabricatious. but the honest lay public seem to have thought, with downright old chaucer, that there was more in the matter than the priests chose to admit. this feeling we, as usual, find reflected in the dramatic literature of our period. in "the troublesome raigne of king john," an old play upon the basis of which shakspere constructed his own "king john," we find this question dealt with in some detail. in the elder play, the bastard does "the shaking of bags of hoarding abbots," _coram populo_, and thereby discloses a phase of monastic life judiciously suppressed by shakspere. philip sets at liberty much more than "imprisoned angels"--according to one account, and that a monk's, imprisoned beings of quite another sort. "faire alice, the nonne," having been discovered in the chest where the abbot's wealth was supposed to be concealed, proposes to purchase pardon for the offence by disclosing the secret hoard of a sister nun. her offer being accepted, a friar is ordered to force the box in which the treasure is supposed to be secreted. on being questioned as to its contents, he answers-- "frier laurence, my lord, now holy water help us! some witch or some divell is sent to delude us: _haud credo laurentius_ that thou shouldst be pen'd thus in the presse of a nun; we are all undone, and brought to discredence, if thou be frier laurence."[ ] unfortunately it proves indubitably to be that good man; and he is ordered to execution, not, however, without some hope of redemption by money payment; for times are hard, and cash in hand not to be despised. [footnote : see the story about bishop sylvanus.--lecky, rationalism in europe, i. .] [footnote : hazlitt, shakspere library, part ii. vol. i. p. .] it is amusing to notice, too, that when assuming the clerical garb, the devil carefully considered the religious creed of the person to whom he intended to make himself known. the catholic accounts of him show him generally assuming the form of a protestant parson;[ ] whilst to those of the reformed creed he invariably appeared in the habit of a catholic priest. in the semblance of a friar the devil is reported (by a protestant) to have preached, upon a time, "a verie catholic sermon;"[ ] so good, indeed, that a priest who was a listener could find no fault with the doctrine--a stronger basis of fact than one would have imagined for shakspere's saying, "the devil can cite scripture for his purpose." [footnote : harsnet, p. .] [footnote : scot, p. .] . it is not surprising that of human forms, that of a negro or moor should be considered a favourite one with evil spirits.[ ] iago makes allusion to this when inciting brabantio to search for his daughter.[ ] the power of coming in the likeness of humanity generally is referred to somewhat cynically in "timon of athens,"[ ] thus-- "_varro's servant._ what is a whoremaster, fool? "_fool._ a fool in good clothes, and something like thee. 'tis a spirit: sometime 't appears like a lord; sometime like a lawyer; sometime like a philosopher with two stones more than 's artificial one: he is very often like a knight; and, generally, in all shapes that man goes up and down in, from fourscore to thirteen, this spirit walks in." [footnote : scot, p. .] [footnote : othello, i. i. .] [footnote : ii. ii. .] "all shapes that man goes up and down in" seem indeed to have been at the devils' control. so entirely was this the case, that to constance even the fair blanche was none other than the devil tempting louis "in likeness of a new uptrimmed bride;"[ ] and perhaps not without a certain prophetic feeling of the fitness of things, as it may possibly seem to some of our more warlike politicians, evil spirits have been known to appear as russians.[ ] [footnote : king john, iii. i. .] [footnote : harsnet, p. .] . but all the "shapes that man goes up and down in" did not suffice. the forms of the whole of the animal kingdom seem to have been at the devils' disposal; and, not content with these, they seem to have sought further for unlikely shapes to assume.[ ] poor caliban complains that prospero's spirits "lead me, like a firebrand, in the dark,"[ ] just as ariel[ ] and puck[ ] (will-o'-th'-wisp) mislead their victims; and that "for every trifle are they set upon me: sometimes like apes, that mow and chatter at me, and after bite me; then like hedgehogs, which lie tumbling in my barefoot way, and mount their pricks at my footfall. sometime am i all wound with adders, who, with cloven tongues, do hiss me into madness." and doubtless the scene which follows this soliloquy, in which caliban, trinculo, and stephano mistake one another in turn for evil spirits, fully flavoured with fun as it still remains, had far more point for the audiences at the globe--to whom a stray devil or two was quite in the natural order of things under such circumstances--than it can possibly possess for us. in this play, ariel, prospero's familiar, besides appearing in his natural shape, and dividing into flames, and behaving in such a manner as to cause young ferdinand to leap into the sea, crying, "hell is empty, and all the devils are here!" assumes the forms of a water-nymph,[ ] a harpy,[ ] and also the goddess ceres;[ ] while the strange shapes, masquers, and even the hounds that hunt and worry the would-be king and viceroys of the island, are ariel's "meaner fellows." [footnote : for instance, an eye without a head.--ibid.] [footnote : the tempest, ii. ii. .] [footnote : ibid. i. ii. .] [footnote : a midsummer night's dream, ii. i. ; iii. i. .] [footnote : i. ii. - .] [footnote : iii. iii. .] [footnote : iv. i. .] . puck's favourite forms seem to have been more outlandish than ariel's, as might have been expected of that malicious little spirit. he beguiles "the fat and bean-fed horse" by "neighing in likeness of a filly foal: and sometimes lurk i in a gossip's bowl, in very likeness of a roasted crab; and when she drinks, against her lips i bob, and on her withered dewlap pour the ale. the wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale, sometime for three-foot stool[ ] mistaketh me; then slip i from her, and down topples she." and again: "sometime a horse i'll be, sometime a hound, a hog, a headless bear, sometime a fire; and neigh, and bark, and grunt, and roar, and burn, like horse, hound, hog, bear, fire, at every turn."[ ] with regard to this last passage, it is worthy of note that in the year , strange news came out of somersetshire, entitled "a dreadful discourse of the dispossessing of one margaret cowper, at ditchet, from a devil in the likeness of a headless bear."[ ] [footnote : a scotch witch, when leaving her bed to go to a sabbath, used to put a three-foot stool in the vacant place; which, after charms duly mumbled, assumed the appearance of a woman until her return.--pitcairn, iii. .] [footnote : iii. i. .] [footnote : hutchinson, p. .] . in heywood and brome's "witch of edmonton," the devil appears in the likeness of a black dog, and takes his part in the dialogue, as if his presence were a matter of quite ordinary occurrence, not in any way calling for special remark. however gross and absurd this may appear, it must be remembered that this play is, in its minutest details, merely a dramatization of the events duly proved in a court of law, to the satisfaction of twelve englishmen, in the year .[ ] the shape of a fly, too, was a favourite one with the evil spirits; so much so that the term "fly" became a common synonym for a familiar.[ ] the word "beelzebub" was supposed to mean "the king of flies." at the execution of urban grandier, the famous magician of london, in , a large fly was seen buzzing about the stake, and a priest promptly seizing the opportunity of improving the occasion for the benefit of the onlookers, declared that beelzebub had come in his own proper person to carry off grandier's soul to hell. in occurred the celebrated witch-trials which took place before sir matthew hale. the accused were charged with bewitching two children; and part of the evidence against them was that flies and bees were seen to carry into the victims' mouths the nails and pins which they afterwards vomited.[ ] there is an allusion to this belief in the fly-killing scene in "titus andronicus."[ ] [footnote : potts, discoveries. edit. cheetham society.] [footnote : cf. b. jonson's alchemist.] [footnote : a collection of rare and curious tracts relating to witchcraft, .] [footnote : iii. ii. , et seq.] . but it was not invariably a repulsive or ridiculous form that was assumed by these enemies of mankind. their ingenuity would have been but little worthy of commendation had they been content to appear as ordinary human beings, or animals, or even in fancy costume. the swiss divine bullinger, after a lengthy and elaborately learned argument as to the particular day in the week of creation upon which it was most probable that god called the angels into being, says, by way of peroration, "let us lead a holy and angel-like life in the sight of god's holy angels. let us watch, lest he that transfigureth and turneth himself into an angel of light under a good show and likeness deceive us."[ ] they even went so far, according to cranmer,[ ] as to appear in the likeness of christ, in their desire to mislead mankind; for-- "when devils will the blackest sins put on, they do suggest at first with heavenly shows."[ ] [footnote : bullinger, fourth decade, th sermon. parker society.] [footnote : cranmer, confutation, p. . parker society.] [footnote : othello, ii. iii. . cf. love's labour's lost, iv. iii. ; comedy of errors, iv. iii. .] . but one of the most ordinary forms supposed at this period to be assumed by devils was that of a dead friend of the object of the visitation. before the reformation, the belief that the spirits of the departed had power at will to revisit the scenes and companions of their earthly life was almost universal. the reforming divines distinctly denied the possibility of such a revisitation, and accounted for the undoubted phenomena, as usual, by attributing them to the devil.[ ] james i. says that the devil, when appearing to men, frequently assumed the form of a person newly dead, "to make them believe that it was some good spirit that appeared to them, either to forewarn them of the death of their friend, or else to discover unto them the will of the defunct, or what was the way of his slauchter.... for he dare not so illude anie that knoweth that neither can the spirit of the defunct returne to his friend, nor yet an angell use such formes."[ ] he further explains that such devils follow mortals to obtain two ends: "the one is the tinsell (loss) of their life by inducing them to such perrilous places at such times as he either follows or possesses them. the other thing that he preases to obtain is the tinsell of their soule."[ ] [footnote : see hooper's declaration of the ten commandments. parker society. hooper, .] [footnote : daemonologie, p. .] [footnote : cf. hamlet, i. iv. - ; and post, § .] . but the belief in the appearance of ghosts was too deeply rooted in the popular mind to be extirpated, or even greatly affected, by a dogmatic declaration. the masses went on believing as they always had believed, and as their fathers had believed before them, in spite of the reformers, and to their no little discontent. pilkington, bishop of durham, in a letter to archbishop parker, dated , complains that, "among other things that be amiss here in your great cares, ye shall understand that in blackburn there is a fantastical (and as some say, lunatic) young man, which says that he has spoken with one of his neighbours that died four year since, or more. divers times he says he has seen him, and talked with him, and took with him the curate, the schoolmaster, and other neighbours, who all affirm that they see him. _these things be so common here_ that none in authority will gainsay it, but rather believe and confirm it, that everybody believes it. if i had known how to examine with authority, i would have done it."[ ] here is a little glimpse at the practical troubles of a well-intentioned bishop of the sixteenth century that is surely worth preserving. [footnote : parker correspondence, . parker society.] . there were thus two opposite schools of belief in this matter of the supposed spirits of the departed:--the conservative, which held to the old doctrine of ghosts; and the reforming, which denied the possibility of ghosts, and held to the theory of devils. in the midst of this disagreement of doctors it was difficult for a plain man to come to a definite conclusion upon the question; and, in consequence, all who were not content with quiet dogmatism were in a state of utter uncertainty upon a point not entirely without importance in practical life as well as in theory. this was probably the position in which the majority of thoughtful men found themselves; and it is accurately reflected in three of shakspere's plays, which, for other and weightier reasons, are grouped together in the same chronological division--"julius caesar," "macbeth," and "hamlet." in the first-mentioned play, brutus, who afterwards confesses his belief that the apparition he saw at sardis was the ghost of caesar,[ ] when in the actual presence of the spirit, says-- "art thou some god, some angel, or some devil?"[ ] the same doubt flashes across the mind of macbeth on the second entrance of banquo's ghost--which is probably intended to be a devil appearing at the instigation of the witches--when he says, with evident allusion to a diabolic power before referred to-- "what man dare, i dare: approach thou like the rugged russian bear, the armed rhinoceros, or the hyrcan tiger, take any shape but that."[ ] [footnote : julius caesar, v. v. .] [footnote : ibid. iv. iii. .] [footnote : macbeth, iii. iv. .] . but it is in "hamlet" that the undecided state of opinion upon this subject is most clearly reflected; and hardly enough influence has been allowed to the doubts arising from this conflict of belief, as urgent or deterrent motives in the play, because this temporary condition of thought has been lost sight of. it is exceedingly interesting to note how frequently the characters who have to do with the apparition of the late king hamlet alternate between the theories that it is a ghost and that it is a devil which they have seen. the whole subject has such an important bearing upon any attempt to estimate the character of hamlet, that no excuse need be offered for once again traversing such well-trodden ground. horatio, it is true, is introduced to us in a state of determined scepticism; but this lasts for a few seconds only, vanishing upon the first entrance of the spectre, and never again appearing. his first inclination seems to be to the belief that he is the victim of a diabolical illusion; for he says-- "what art thou, that _usurp'st_ this time of night, together with that fair and warlike form in which the majesty of buried denmark did sometimes march?"[ ] and marcellus seems to be of the same opinion, for immediately before, he exclaims-- "thou art a scholar, speak to it, horatio;" having apparently the same idea as had coachman toby, in "the night-walker," when he exclaims-- "let's call the butler up, for he speaks latin, and that will daunt the devil."[ ] on the second appearance of the illusion, however, horatio leans to the opinion that it is really the ghost of the late king that he sees, probably in consequence of the conversation that has taken place since the former visitation; and he now appeals to the ghost for information that may enable him to procure rest for his wandering soul. again, during his interview with hamlet, when he discloses the secret of the spectre's appearance, though very guarded in his language, horatio clearly intimates his conviction that he has seen the spirit of the late king. [footnote : i. i. .] [footnote : ii. i.] the same variation of opinion is visible in hamlet himself; but, as might be expected, with much more frequent alternations. when first he hears horatio's story, he seems to incline to the belief that it must be the work of some diabolic agency: "if it assume my noble father's person, i'll speak to it, though hell itself should gape, and bid me hold my peace;"[ ] although, characteristically, in almost the next line he exclaims-- "my father's spirit in arms! all is not well," etc. this, too, seems to be the dominant idea in his mind when he is first brought face to face with the apparition and exclaims-- "angels and ministers of grace defend us!-- be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damned, bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell, be thine intents wicked or charitable, thou com'st in such a questionable shape, that i will speak to thee."[ ] for it cannot be supposed that hamlet imagined that a "goblin damned" could actually be the spirit of his dead father; and, therefore, the alternative in his mind must have been that he saw a devil assuming his father's likeness--a form which the evil one knew would most incite hamlet to intercourse. but even as he speaks, the other theory gradually obtains ascendency in his mind, until it becomes strong enough to induce him to follow the spirit. [footnote : i. ii. .] [footnote : i. iv. .] but whilst the devil-theory is gradually relaxing its hold upon hamlet's mind, it is fastening itself with ever-increasing force upon the minds of his companions; and horatio expresses their fears in words that are worth comparing with those just quoted from james's "daemonologie." hamlet responds to their entreaties not to follow the spectre thus-- "why, what should be the fear? i do not set my life at a pin's fee; and, for my soul, what can it do to that, being a thing immortal as itself?" and horatio answers-- "what if it tempt you toward the flood, my lord, or to the dreadful summit of the cliff, that beetles o'er his base into the sea, and there assume some other horrible form, which might deprive your sovereignty of reason, and draw you into madness?" the idea that the devil assumed the form of a dead friend in order to procure the "tinsell" of both body and soul of his victim is here vividly before the minds of the speakers of these passages.[ ] [footnote : see ante, § .] the subsequent scene with the ghost convinces hamlet that he is not the victim of malign influences--as far as he is capable of conviction, for his very first words when alone restate the doubt: "o all you host of heaven! o earth! _what else?_ and shall i couple hell?"[ ] and the enthusiasm with which he is inspired in consequence of this interview is sufficient to support his certainty of conviction until the time for decisive action again arrives. it is not until the idea of the play-test occurs to him that his doubts are once more aroused; and then they return with redoubled force:-- "the spirit that i have seen may be the devil: and the devil hath power to assume a pleasing shape; yea, and, perhaps, out of my weakness and my melancholy, (as he is very potent with such spirits,) abuses me to damn me."[ ] and he again alludes to this in his speech to horatio, just before the entry of the king and his train to witness the performance of the players.[ ] [footnote : i. v. .] [footnote : ii. ii. .] [footnote : iii. ii. .] . this question was, in shakspere's time, quite a legitimate element of uncertainty in the complicated problem that presented itself for solution to hamlet's ever-analyzing mind; and this being so, an apparent inconsistency in detail which has usually been charged upon shakspere with regard to this play, can be satisfactorily explained. some critics are never weary of exclaiming that shakspere's genius was so vast and uncontrollable that it must not be tested, or expected to be found conformable to the rules of art that limit ordinary mortals; that there are many discrepancies and errors in his plays that are to be condoned upon that account; in fact, that he was a very careless and slovenly workman. a favourite instance of this is taken from "hamlet," where shakspere actually makes the chief character of the play talk of death as "the bourne from whence no traveller returns" not long after he has been engaged in a prolonged conversation with such a returned traveller. now, no artist, however distinguished or however transcendent his genius, is to be pardoned for insincere workmanship, and the greater the man, the less his excuse. errors arising from want of information (and shakspere commits these often) may be pardoned if the means for correcting them be unattainable; but errors arising from mere carelessness are not to be pardoned. further, in many of these cases of supposed contradiction there is an element of carelessness indeed; but it lies at the door of the critic, not of the author; and this appears to be true in the present instance. the dilemma, as it presented itself to the contemporary mind, must be carefully kept in view. either the spirits of the departed could revisit this world, or they could not. if they could not, then the apparitions mistaken for them must be devils assuming their forms. now, the tendency of hamlet's mind, immediately before the great soliloquy on suicide, is decidedly in favour of the latter alternative. the last words that he has uttered, which are also the last quoted here,[ ] are those in which he declares most forcibly that he believes the devil-theory possible, and consequently that the dead do not return to this world; and his utterances in his soliloquy are only an accentuate and outcome of this feeling of uncertainty. the very root of his desire for death is that he cannot discard with any feeling of certitude the protestant doctrine that no traveller does after death return from the invisible world, and that the so-called ghosts are a diabolic deception. [footnote : § , p. .] . another power possessed by the evil spirits, and one that excited much attention and created an immense amount of strife during elizabethan times, was that of entering into the bodies of human beings, or otherwise influencing them so as utterly to deprive them of all self-control, and render them mere automata under the command of the fiends. this was known as possession, or obsession. it was another of the mediaeval beliefs against which the reformers steadily set their faces; and all the resources of their casuistry were exhausted to expose its absurdity. but their position in this respect was an extremely delicate one. on one side of them zealous catholics were exorcising devils, who shrieked out their testimony to the eternal truth of the holy catholic church; whilst at the same time, on the other side, the zealous puritans of the extremer sort were casting out fiends, who bore equally fervent testimony to the superior efficacy and purity of the protestant faith. the tendency of the more moderate members of the party, therefore was towards a compromise similar to that arrived at upon the question how the devils came by the forms in which they appeared upon the earth. they could not admit that devils could actually enter into and possess the body of a man in those latter days, although during the earlier history of the church such things had been permitted by divine providence for some inscrutable but doubtless satisfactory reason:--that was catholicism. on the other hand, they could not for an instant tolerate or even sanction the doctrine that devils had no power whatever over humanity:--that was atheism. but it was quite possible that evil spirits, without actually entering into the body of a man, might so infest, worry, and torment him, as to produce all the symptoms indicative of possession. the doctrine of obsession replaced that of possession; and, once adopted, was supported by a string of those quaint, conceited arguments so peculiar to the time.[ ] [footnote : dialogicall discourses, by deacon and walker, rd dialogue.] . but, as in all other cases, the refinements of the theologians had little or no effect upon the world outside their controversies. to the ordinary mind, if a man's eyes goggled, body swelled, and mouth foamed, and it was admitted that these were the work of a devil, the question whether the evil-doer were actually housed within the sufferer, or only hovered in his immediate neighbourhood, seemed a question of such minor importance as to be hardly worth discussing--a conclusion that the lay mind is apt to come to upon other questions that appear portentous to the divines--and the theory of possession, having the advantage in time over that of obsession, was hard to dislodge. . one of the chief causes of the persistency with which the old belief was maintained was the utter ignorance of the medical men of the period on the subject of mental disease. the doctors of the time were mere children in knowledge of the science they professed; and to attribute a disease, the symptoms of which they could not comprehend, to a power outside their control by ordinary methods, was a safe method of screening a reputation which might otherwise have suffered. "canst thou not minister to a mind diseased?" cries macbeth to the doctor, in one of those moments of yearning after the better life he regrets, but cannot return to, which come over him now and again. no; the disease is beyond his practice; and, although this passage has in it a deeper meaning than the one attributed to it here, it well illustrates the position of the medical man in such cases. most doctors of the time were mere empirics; dabbled more or less in alchemy; and, in the treatment of mental disease, were little better than children. they had for co-practitioners all who, by their credit with the populace for superior wisdom, found themselves in a position to engage in a profitable employment. priests, preachers, schoolmasters--dr. pinches and sir topazes--became so commonly exorcists, that the church found it necessary to forbid the casting out of spirits without a special license for that purpose.[ ] but as the reformers only combated the doctrine of possession upon strictly theological grounds, and did not go on to suggest any substitute for the time-honoured practice of exorcism as a means for getting rid of the admittedly obnoxious result of diabolic interference, it is not altogether surprising that the method of treatment did not immediately change. [footnote : nd canon.] . upon this subject a book called "tryal of witchcraft," by john cotta, "doctor in physike," published in , is extremely instructive. the writer is evidently in advance of his time in his opinions upon the principal subject with which he professes to deal, and weighs the evidence for and against the reality of witchcraft with extreme precision and fairness. in the course of his argument he has to distinguish the symptoms that show a person to have been bewitched, from those that point to a demoniacal possession.[ ] "reason doth detect," says he, "the sicke to be afflicted by the immediate supernaturall power of the devil two wayes: the first way is by such things as are subject and manifest to the learned physicion only; the second is by such things as are subject and manifest to the vulgar view." the two signs by which the "learned physicion" recognized diabolic intervention were: first, the preternatural appearance of the disease from which the patient was suffering; and, secondly, the inefficacy of the remedies applied. in other words, if the leech encountered any disease the symptoms of which were unknown to him, or if, through some unforeseen circumstances, the drug he prescribed failed to operate in its accustomed manner, a case of demoniacal possession was considered to be conclusively proved, and the medical man was merged in the magician. [footnote : ch. .] . the second class of cases, in which the diabolic agency is palpable to the layman as well as the doctor, cotta illustrates thus: "in the time of their paroxysmes or fits, some diseased persons have been seene to vomit crooked iron, coales, brimstone, nailes, needles, pinnes, lumps of lead, waxe, hayre, strawe, and the like, in such quantities, figure, fashion, and proportion as could never possiblie pass down, or arise up thorow the natural narrownesse of the throate, or be contained in the unproportionable small capacitie, naturall susceptibilitie, and position of the stomake." possessed persons, he says, were also clairvoyant, telling what was being said and done at a far distance; and also spoke languages which at ordinary times they did not understand, as their successors, the modern spirit mediums, do. this gift of tongues was one of the prominent features of the possession of will sommers and the other persons exorcised by the protestant preacher john darrell, whose performances as an exorcist created quite a domestic sensation in england at the close of the sixteenth century.[ ] the whole affair was investigated by dr. harsnet, who had already acquired fame as an iconoclast in these matters, as will presently be seen; but it would have little more than an antiquarian interest now, were it not for the fact that ben jonson made it the subject of his satire in one of his most humorous plays, "the devil is an ass." in it he turns the last-mentioned peculiarity to good account; for when fitzdottrell, in the fifth act, feigns madness, and quotes aristophanes, and speaks in spanish and french, the judicious sir paul eithersides comes to the conclusion that "it is the devil by his several languages." [footnote : a true relation of the grievious handling of william sommers, etc. london: t. harper, (? ). the tryall of maister darrell, .] . but more interesting, and more important for the present purpose, are the cases of possession that were dealt with by father parsons and his colleagues in - , and of which dr. harsnet gave such a highly spiced and entertaining account in his "declaration of egregious popish impostures," first published in the year . it is from this work that shakspere took the names of the devils mentioned by edgar, and other references made by him in "king lear;" and an outline of the relation of the play to the book will furnish incidentally much matter illustrative of the subject of possession. but before entering upon this outline, a brief glance at the condition of affairs political and domestic, which partially caused and nourished these extraordinary eccentricities, is almost essential to a proper understanding of them. . the year was probably one of the most critical years that england has passed through since she was first a nation. standing alone amongst the european states, with even the netherlanders growing cold towards her on account of her ambiguous treatment of them, she had to fight out the battle of her independence against odds to all appearances irresistible. with sixtus plotting her overthrow at rome, philip at madrid, mendoza and the english traitors at paris, and mary of scotland at chartley, while a third of her people were malcontent, and james the sixth was friend or enemy as it best suited his convenience, the outlook was anything but reassuring for the brave men who held the helm in those stormy times. but although england owed her deliverance chiefly to the forethought and hardihood of her sons, it cannot be doubted that the sheer imbecility of her foes contributed not a little to that result. to both these conditions she owed the fact that the great armada, the embodiment of the foreign hatred and hostility, threatening to break upon her shores like a huge wave, vanished like its spray. medina sidonia, with his querulous complaints and general ineffectuality,[ ] was hardly a match for drake and his sturdy companions; nor were the leaders of the babington conspiracy, the representatives and would-be leaders of the corresponding internal convulsion, the infatuated worshippers of the fair devil of scotland, the men to cope for a moment with the intellects of walsingham and burleigh. [footnote : froude, xii. p. .] . the events which harsnet investigated and wrote upon with politico-theological animus formed an eddy in the main current of the babington conspiracy. for some years before that plot had taken definite shape, seminary priests had been swarming into england from the continent, and were sedulously engaged in preaching rebellion in the rural districts, sheltered and protected by the more powerful of the disaffected nobles and gentry--modern apostles, preparing the way before the future regenerator of england, cardinal allen, the would-be catholic archbishop of canterbury. among these was one weston, who, in his enthusiastic admiration for the martyr-traitor, edmund campion, had adopted the alias of edmonds. this jesuit was gifted with the power of casting out devils, and he exercised it in order to prove the divine origin of the holy catholic faith, and, by implication, the duty of all persons religiously inclined, to rebel against a sovereign who was ruthlessly treading it into the dust. the performances which harsnet examined into took place chiefly in the house of lord vaux at hackney, and of one peckham at denham, in the end of the year and the beginning of . the possessed persons were anthony tyrell, another jesuit who rounded upon his friends in the time of their tribulation;[ ] marwood, antony babington's private servant, who subsequently found it convenient to leave the country, and was never examined upon the subject; trayford and mainy, two young gentlemen, and sara and friswood williams, and anne smith, maid-servants. richard mainy, the most edifying subject of them all, was seventeen only when the possession seized him; he had only just returned to england from rheims, and, when passing through paris, had come under the influence of charles paget and morgan; so his antecedents appeared somewhat open to suspicion.[ ] [footnote : the fall of anthony tyrell, by persoun. see the troubles of our catholic forefathers, by john morris, p. .] [footnote : he was examined by the government as to his connection with the paris conspirators.--see state papers, vol. clxxx. , .] . with the truth or falsehood of the statements and deductions made by harsnet, we have little or no concern. western did not pretend to deny that he had the power of exorcism, or that he exercised it upon the persons in question, but he did not admit the truth of any of the more ridiculous stories which harsnet so triumphantly brings forward to convict him of intentional deceit; and his features, if the portrait in father morris's book is an accurate representation of him, convey an impression of feeble, unpractical piety that one is loth to associate with a malicious impostor. in addition to this, one of the witnesses against him, tyrell, was a manifest knave and coward; another, mainy, as conspicuous a fool; while the rest were servant-maids--all of them interested in exonerating themselves from the stigma of having been adherents of a lost cause, at the expense of a ringleader who seemed to have made himself too conspicuous to escape punishment. furthermore, the evidence of these witnesses was not taken until and , twelve and sixteen years after the events to which it related took place; and when taken, was taken by harsnet, a violent protestant and almost maniacal exorcist-hunter, as the miscellaneous collection of literature evoked by his exposure of parson darrell's dealings with will sommers and others will show. . among the many devils' names mentioned by harsnet in his "declaration," and in the examinations of witnesses annexed to it, the following have undoubtedly been repeated in "king lear":--fliberdigibet, spelt in the play flibbertigibbet; hoberdidance called hopdance and hobbididance; and frateretto, who are called morris-dancers; haberdicut, who appears in "lear" as obidicut; smolkin, one of trayford's devils; modu, who possessed mainy; and maho, who possessed sara williams. these two latter devils have in the play managed to exchange the final vowels of their names, and appear as modo and mahu.[ ] [footnote : in addition to these, killico has probably been corrupted into pillicock--a much more probable explanation of the word than either of those suggested by dyce in his glossary; and i have little doubt that the ordinary reading of the line, "pur! the cat is gray!" in act iii. vi. , is incorrect; that pur is not an interjection, but the repetition of the name of another devil, purre, who is mentioned by harsnet. the passage in question occurs only in the quartos, and therefore the fact that there is no stop at all after the word "pur" cannot be relied upon as helping to prove the correctness of this supposition. on the other hand, there is nothing in the texts to justify the insertion of the note of exclamation.] . a comparison of the passages in "king lear" spoken by edgar when feigning madness, with those in harsnet's book which seem to have suggested them, will furnish as vivid a picture as it is possible to give of the state of contemporary belief upon the subject of possession. it is impossible not to notice that nearly all the allusions in the play refer to the performance of the youth richard mainy. even edgar's hypothetical account of his moral failings in the past seems to have been an accurate reproduction of mainy's conduct in some particulars, as the quotation below will prove;[ ] and there appears to be so little necessity for these remarks of edgar's, that it seems almost possible that there may have been some point in these passages that has since been lost. a careful search, however, has failed to disclose any reason why mainy should be held up to obloquy; and the passages in question were evidently not the result of a direct reference to the "declaration." after his examination by harsnet in , mainy seems to have sunk into the insignificant position which he was so calculated to adorn, and nothing more is heard of him; so the references to him must be accidental merely. [footnote : "he would needs have persuaded this examinate's sister to have gone thence with him in the apparel of a youth, and to have been his boy and waited upon him.... he urged this examinate divers times to have yielded to his carnal desires, using very unfit tricks with her. there was also a very proper woman, one mistress plater, with whom this examinate perceived he had many allurements, showing great tokens of extraordinary affection towards her."--evidence of sara williams, harsnet, p. . compare king lear, act iii. sc. iv. ll. - ; note especially l. .] . one curious little repetition in the play of a somewhat unimportant incident recorded by harsnet is to be found in the fourth scene of the third act, where edgar says-- "who gives anything to poor tom? whom the foul fiend hath led through fire and through flame, and through ford and whirlpool, o'er bog and quagmire; _that hath laid knives under his pillow, and halters in his pew_; set ratsbane by his porridge," etc.[ ] [footnote : l. , et seq.] the events referred to took place at denham. a halter and some knife-blades were found in a corridor of the house. "a great search was made in the house to know how the said halter and knife-blades came thither, but it could not in any wise be found out, as it was pretended, till master mainy in his next fit said, as it was reported, that the devil layd them in the gallery, that some of those that were possessed might either hang themselves with the halter, or kill themselves with the blades."[ ] [footnote : harsnet, p. .] . but the bulk of the references relating to the possession of mainy occur further on in the same scene:-- "_fool._ this cold night will turn us all to fools and madmen. "_edgar._ take heed o' the foul fiend: obey thy parents; keep thy word justly; swear not; commit not with man's sworn spouse;[ ] set not thy sweet heart on proud array: tom's a-cold. "_lear._ what hast thou been? "_edgar._ a serving-man, proud in heart and mind, that curled my hair, wore my gloves in my cap, served the lust of my mistress' heart, and did the act of darkness with her;[ ] swore as many oaths as i spake words, and broke them in the sweet face of heaven; one that slept in the contriving of lust, and waked to do it; wine loved i deeply; dice dearly; and in women out-paramoured the turk: false of heart, light of ear, bloody of hand; hog in sloth, fox in stealth, wolf in greediness, dog in madness, lion in prey. let not the creaking of shoes, nor the rustling of silks, betray thy poor heart to woman; keep thy foot out of brothels, thy hand out of plackets,[ ] thy pen from lenders' books, and defy the foul fiend."[ ] [footnote : cf. § , and note.] [footnote : cf. § , and note.] [footnote : placket probably here means pockets; not, as usual, the slip in a petticoat. tom was possessed by mahu, the prince of stealing.] [footnote : l. , et seq.] this must be read in conjunction with what edgar says of himself subsequently:-- "five fiends have been in poor tom at once; of lust, as obidicut; hobbididance, prince of dumbness; mahu, of stealing; modo, of murder; flibbertigibbet, of mopping and mowing; who since possesses chamber-maids and waiting-women."[ ] [footnote : act iv. i. .] the following are the chief parts of the account given by harsnet of the exorcism of mainy by weston--a most extraordinary transaction,--said to be taken from weston's own account of the matter. he was supposed to be possessed by the devils who represented the seven deadly sins, and "by instigation of the first of the seven, began to set his hands into his side, curled his hair, and used such gestures as maister edmunds present affirmed that that spirit was pride.[ ] heerewith he began to curse and to banne, saying, 'what a poxe do i heare? i will stay no longer among a company of rascal priests, but goe to the court and brave it amongst my fellowes, the noblemen there assembled.'[ ] ... then maister edmunds did proceede againe with his exorcismes, and suddenly the sences of mainy were taken from him, his belly began to swell, and his eyes to stare, and suddainly he cried out, 'ten pounds in the hundred!' he called for a scrivener to make a bond, swearing that he would not lend his money without a pawne.... there could be no other talke had with this spirit but money and usury, so as all the company deemed this devil to be the author of covetousnesse....[ ] [footnote : "a serving-man, proud of heart and mind, that curled my hair," etc.--l. ; cf. also l. . curling the hair as a sign of mainy's possession is mentioned again, harsnet, p. .] [footnote : "that ... swore as many oaths as i spake words, and broke them in the sweet face of heaven."--l. .] [footnote : "keep ... thy pen out of lenders' books."--l. .] "ere long maister edmunds beginneth againe his exorcismes, wherein he had not proceeded farre, but up cometh another spirit singing most filthy and baudy songs: every word almost that he spake was nothing but ribaldry. they that were present with one voyce affirmed that devill to be the author of luxury.[ ] [footnote : "wine loved i deeply; dice dearly; and in women out-paramoured the turk."--l. .] "envy was described by disdainful looks and contemptuous speeches; wrath, by furious gestures, and talke as though he would have fought;[ ] gluttony, by vomiting;[ ] and sloth,[ ] by gasping and snorting, as though he had been asleepe."[ ] [footnote : "dog in madness, lion in prey."--l. .] [footnote : "wolf in greediness."--ibid.] [footnote : "hog in sloth."--l. .] [footnote : harsnet, p. .] a sort of prayer-meeting was then held for the relief of the distressed youth: "whereupon the spirit of pride departed in the forme of a peacocke; the spirit of sloth in the likenesse of an asse; the spirit of envy in the similitude of a dog; the spirit of gluttony in the forme of a wolfe."[ ] [footnote : the words, "hog in sloth, fox in stealth, wolf in greediness, dog in madness, lion in prey," are clearly an imperfect reminiscence of this part of the transaction.] there is in another part of "king lear" a further reference to the incidents attendant upon these exorcisms edgar says,[ ] "the foul fiend haunts poor tom in the voice of a nightingale." this seems to refer to the following incident related by friswood williams:-- "there was also another strange thing happened at denham about a bird. mistris peckham had a nightingale, which she kept in a cage, wherein maister dibdale took great delight, and would often be playing with it. this nightingale was one night conveyed out of the cage, and being next morning diligently sought for, could not be heard of, till maister mainie's devil, in one of his fits (as it was pretended), said that the wicked spirit which was in this examinate's sister[ ] had taken the bird out of the cage, and killed it in despite of maister dibdale."[ ] [footnote : act iii. sc. vi. l. .] [footnote : sara williams.] [footnote : harsnet, p. .] . the treatment to which, in consequence of his belief in possession, unfortunate persons like mainy and sommers, who were probably only suffering from some harmless form of mental disease, were subjected, was hardly calculated to effect a cure. the most ignorant quack was considered perfectly competent to deal with cases which, in reality, require the most delicate and judicious management, combined with the profoundest physiological, as well as psychological, knowledge. the ordinary method of dealing with these lunatics was as simple as it was irritating. bonds and confinement in a darkened room were the specifics; and the monotony of this treatment was relieved by occasional visits from the sage who had charge of the case, to mumble a prayer or mutter an exorcism. another popular but unpleasant cure was by flagellation; so that romeo's "not mad, but bound more than a madman is, shut up in prison, kept without my food, whipped and tormented,"[ ] if an exaggerated description of his own mental condition is in itself no inflated metaphor. [footnote : i. ii. .] . shakspere, in "the comedy of errors," and indirectly also in "twelfth night," has given us intentionally ridiculous illustrations of scenes which he had not improbably witnessed, in the country at any rate, and which bring vividly before us the absurdity of the methods of diagnosis and treatment usually adopted:-- _courtesan._ how say you now? is not your husband mad? _adriana._ his incivility confirms no less. good doctor pinch, you are a conjurer; establish him in his true sense again, and i will please you what you will demand. _luciana._ alas! how fiery and how sharp he looks! _courtesan._ mark how he trembles in his extasy! _pinch._ give me your hand, and let me feel your pulse.[ ] _ant. e._ there is my hand, and let it feel your ear. _pinch._ i charge thee, satan, housed within this man, to yield possession to my holy prayers, and to thy state of darkness his thee straight; i conjure thee by all the saints in heaven. _ant. e._ peace, doting wizard, peace; i am not mad. _pinch._ o that thou wert not, poor distressed soul![ ] after some further business, pinch pronounces his opinion: "mistress, both man and master are possessed; i know it by their pale and deadly looks: they must be bound, and laid in some dark room."[ ] but "good doctor pinch" seems to have been mild even to feebleness in his conjuration; many of his brethren in art had much more effective formulae. it seems that devils were peculiarly sensitive to any opprobrious epithets that chanced to be bestowed upon them. the skilful exorcist took advantage of this weakness, and, if he could only manage to keep up a flow of uncomplimentary remarks sufficiently long and offensive, the unfortunate spirit became embarrassed, restless, agitated, and finally took to flight. here is a specimen of the "nicknames" which had so potent an effect, if harsnet is to be credited:-- "heare therefore, thou senceless false lewd spirit, maister of devils, miserable creature, tempter of men, deceaver of bad angels, captaine of heretiques, father of lyes, fatuous bestial ninnie, drunkard, infernal theefe, wicked serpent, ravening woolfe, leane hunger-bitten impure sow, seely beast, truculent beast, cruel beast, bloody beast, beast of all blasts, the most bestiall acherontall spirit, smoakie spirit, tartareus spirit!"[ ] whether this objurgation terminates from loss of breath on the part of the conjurer, or the precipitate departure of the spirit addressed, it is impossible to say; it is difficult to imagine any logical reason for its conclusion. [footnote : the cessation of the pulse was one of the symptoms of possession. see the case of sommers, tryal of maister darrell, .] [footnote : iv. iv. , .] [footnote : ibid. .] [footnote : harsnet, p. .] . occasionally other, and sometimes more elaborate, methods of exorcism than those mentioned by romeo were adopted, especially when the operation was conducted for the purpose of bringing into prominence some great religious truth. the more evangelical of the operators adopted the plan of lying on the top of their patients, "after the manner of elias and pawle."[ ] but the catholic exorcists invented and carried to perfection the greatest refinement in the art. the patient, seated in a "holy chair," specially sanctified for the occasion, was compelled to drink about a pint of a compound of sack and salad oil; after which refreshment a pan of burning brimstone was held under his nose, until his face was blackened by the smoke.[ ] all this while the officiating priest kept up his invocation of the fiends in the manner illustrated above; and, under such circumstances, it is extremely doubtful whether the most determined character would not be prepared to see somewhat unusual phenomena for the sake of a short respite. [footnote : the tryall of maister darrell, , p. .] [footnote : harsnet, p. .] . another remarkable method of exorcism was a process termed "firing out" the fiend.[ ] the holy flame of piety resident in the priest was so terrible to the evil spirit, that the mere contact of the holy hand with that part of the body of the afflicted person in which he was resident was enough to make him shrink away into some more distant portion; so, by a judicious application of the hand, the exorcist could drive the devil into some limb, from which escape into the body was impossible, and the evil spirit, driven to the extremity, was obliged to depart, defeated and disgraced.[ ] this influence could be exerted, however, without actual corporal contact, as the following quaint extract from harsnet's book will show:-- "some punie rash devil doth stay till the holy priest be come somewhat neare, as into the chamber where the demoniacke doth abide, purposing, as it seemes, to try a pluck with the priest; and then his hart sodainly failing him (as demas, when he saw his friend chinias approach), cries out that he is tormented with the presence of the priest, and so is fierd out of his hold."[ ] [footnote : this expression occurs in sonnet cxliv., and evidently with the meaning here explained; only the bad angel is supposed to fire out the good one.] [footnote : harsnet, pp. , , .] [footnote : ibid. p. .] . the more violent or uncommon of the bodily diseases were, as the quotation from cotta's book shows[ ], attributed to the same diabolic source. in an era when the most profound ignorance prevailed with regard to the simplest laws of health; when the commoner diseases were considered as god's punishment for sin, and not attributable to natural causes; when so eminent a divine as bishop hooper could declare that "the air, the water, and the earth have no poison in themselves to hurt their lord and master man,"[ ] unless man first poisoned himself with sin; and when, in consequence of this ignorance and this false philosophy, and the inevitable neglect attendant upon them, those fearful plagues known as "the black death" could, almost without notice, sweep down upon a country, and decimate its inhabitants--it is not wonderful that these terrible scourges were attributed to the malevolence of the evil one. [footnote : see §§ , .] [footnote : i hooper, p. . parker society.] . but it is curious to notice that, although possessing such terrible powers over the bodies and minds of mortals, devils were not believed to be potent enough to destroy the lives of the persons they persecuted unless they could persuade their victims to renounce god. this theory probably sprang out of the limitation imposed by the almighty upon the power of satan during his temptation of job, and the advice given to the sufferer by his wife, "curse god, and die." hence, when evil spirits began their assaults upon a man, one of their first endeavours was to induce him to do some act that would be equivalent to such a renunciation. sometimes this was a bond assigning the victim's soul to the evil one in consideration of certain worldly advantages; sometimes a formal denial of his baptism; sometimes a deed that drives away the guardian angel from his side, and leaves the devil's influence uncounteracted. in "the witch of edmonton,"[ ] the first act that mother sawyer demands her familiar to perform after she has struck her bargain, is to kill her enemy banks; and the fiend has reluctantly to declare that he cannot do so unless by good fortune he could happen to catch him cursing. both harpax[ ] and mephistophiles[ ] suggest to their victims that they have power to destroy their enemies, but neither of them is able to exercise it. faust can torment, but not kill, his would-be murderers; and springius and hircius are powerless to take dorothea's life. in the latter case it is distinctly the protection of the guardian angel that limits the diabolic power; so it is not unnatural that gratiano should think the cursing of his better angel from his side the "most desperate turn" that poor old brabantio could have done himself, had he been living to hear of his daughter's cruel death.[ ] it is next to impossible for people in the present day to have any idea what a consolation this belief in a good attendant spirit, specially appointed to guard weak mortals through life, to ward off evils, and guide to eternal safety, must have been in a time when, according to the current belief, any person, however blameless, however holy, was liable at any moment to be possessed by a devil, or harried and tortured by a witch. [footnote : act ii. sc. i.] [footnote : the virgin martyr, act iii. sc. iii.] [footnote : dr. faustus, act i. sc. iii.] [footnote : othello, act v. sc. ii. .] . this leads by a natural sequence to the consideration of another and more insidious form of attack upon mankind adopted by the evil spirits. possession and obsession were methods of assault adopted against the will of the afflicted person, and hardly to be avoided by him without the supernatural intervention of the church. the practice of witchcraft and magic involved the absolute and voluntary barter of body and soul to the evil one, for the purpose of obtaining a few short years of superhuman power, to be employed for the gratification of the culprit's avarice, ambition, or desire for revenge. . in the strange history of that most inexplicable mental disease, the witchcraft epidemic, as it has been justly called by a high authority on such matters,[ ] we moderns are, by the nature of our education and prejudices, completely incapacitated for sympathizing with either the persecutors or their victims. we are at a loss to understand how clear-sighted and upright men, like sir matthew hale, could consent to become parties to a relentless persecution to the death of poor helpless beings whose chief crime, in most cases, was, that they had suffered starvation both in body and in mind. we cannot understand it, because none of us believe in the existence of evil spirits. none; for although there are still a few persons who nominally hold to the ancient faith, as they do to many other respectable but effete traditions, yet they would be at a loss for a reason for the faith that is in them, should they chance to be asked for one; and not one of them would be prepared to make the smallest material sacrifice for the sake of it. it is true that the existence of evil spirits recently received a tardy and somewhat hesitating recognition in our ecclesiastical courts,[ ] which at first authoritatively declared that a denial of the existence of the personality of the devil constituted a man a notorious evil liver, and depraver of the book of common prayer;[ ] but this was promptly reversed by the judicial committee of the privy council, under the auspices of two low church law lords and two archbishops, with the very vague proviso that "they do not mean to decide that those doctrines are otherwise than inconsistent with the formularities of the church of england;"[ ] yet the very contempt with which these portentous declarations of church law have been received shows how great has been the fall of the once almost omnipotent minister of evil. the ancient satan does indeed exist in some few formularies, but in such a washed-out and flimsy condition as to be the reverse of conspicuous. all that remains of him and of his subordinate legions is the ineffectual ghost of a departed creed, for the resuscitation of which no man will move a finger. [footnote : see dr. carpenter in _frazer_ for november, .] [footnote : see jenkins v. cooke, law reports, admiralty and ecclesiastical cases, vol. iv. p. , et seq.] [footnote : ibid. p. , sir r. phillimore.] [footnote : law reports, i probate division, p. .] . it is perfectly impossible for us, therefore, to comprehend, although by an effort we may perhaps bring ourselves to imagine, the horror and loathing with which good men, entirely believing in the existence and omnipresence of countless legions of evil spirits, able and anxious to perpetrate the mischiefs that it has been the object of these pages in some part to describe, would regard those who, for their own selfish gratification, deliberately surrendered their hopes of eternal happiness in exchange for an alliance with the devils, which would render these ten times more capable than before of working their wicked wills. to men believing this, no punishment could seem too sudden or too terrible for such offenders against religion and society, and no means of possible detection too slight or far-fetched to be neglected; indeed, it might reasonably appear to them better that many innocent persons should perish, with the assurance of future reward for their undeserved sufferings, than that a single guilty one should escape undetected, and become the medium by which the devil might destroy more souls. . but the persecuted, far more than the persecutors, deserve our sympathy, although they rarely obtain it. it is frequently asserted that the absolute truth of a doctrine is the only support that will enable its adherents successfully to weather the storms of persecution. those who assent to this proposition must be prepared to find a large amount of truth in the beliefs known to us under the name of witchcraft, if the position is to be successfully maintained; for never was any sect persecuted more systematically, or with more relentlessness, than these little-offending heretics. protestants and catholics, anglicans and calvinists, so ready at all times to commit one another to the flames and to the headsman, found in this matter common ground, upon which all could heartily unite for the grand purpose of extirpating error. when, out of the quiet of our own times, we look back upon the terrors of the tower, and the smoke and glare of smithfield, we think with mingled pity and admiration of those brave men and women who, in the sixteenth century, enriched with their blood and ashes the soil from whence was to spring our political and religious freedom. but no whit of admiration, hardly a glimmer of pity, is even casually evinced for those poor creatures who, neglected, despised, and abhorred, were, at the same time, dying the same agonizing death, and passing through the torment of the flames to that "something after death--the undiscovered country," without the sweet assurance which sustained their better-remembered fellow-sufferers, that beyond the martyr's cross was waiting the martyr's crown. no such hope supported those who were condemned to die for the crime of witchcraft: their anticipations of the future were as dreary as their memories of the past, and no friendly voice was raised, or hand stretched out, to encourage or console them during that last sad journey. their hope of mercy from man was small--strangulation before the application of the fire, instead of the more lingering and painful death at most;--their hope of mercy from heaven, nothing; yet, under these circumstances, the most auspicious perhaps that could be imagined for the extirpation of a heretical belief, persecution failed to effect its object. the more the government burnt the witches, the more the crime of witchcraft spread; and it was not until an attitude of contemptuous toleration was adopted towards the culprits that the belief died down, gradually but surely, not on account of the conclusiveness of the arguments directed against it, but from its own inherent lack of vitality.[ ] [footnote : see mr. lecky's elaborate and interesting description of the demise of the belief in the first chapter of his history of the rise of rationalism in europe.] . the history and phenomena of witchcraft have been so admirably treated by more than one modern investigator, as to render it unnecessary to deal exhaustively with a subject which presents such a vast amount of material for arrangement and comment. the scope of the following remarks will therefore be limited to a consideration of such features of the subject as appear to throw light upon the supernaturalism in "macbeth." this consideration will be carried out with some minuteness, as certain modern critics, importing mythological learning that is the outcome of comparatively recent investigation into the interpretation of the text, have declared that the three sisters who play such an important part in that drama are not witches at all, but are, or are intimately allied to, the norns or fates of scandinavian paganism. it will be the object of the following pages to illustrate the contemporary belief concerning witches and their powers, by showing that nearly every characteristic point attributed to the sisters has its counterpart in contemporary witch-lore; that some of the allusions, indeed, bear so strong a resemblance to certain events that had transpired not many years before "macbeth" was written, that it is not improbable that shakspere was alluding to them in much the same off-hand, cursory manner as he did to the mainy incident when writing "king lear." . the first critic whose comments upon this subject call for notice is the eminent gervinus. in evident ignorance of the history of witchcraft, he says, "in the witches shakspere has made use of the popular belief in evil geniuses and in adverse persecutors of mankind, and has produced a similar but darker race of beings, just as he made use of the belief in fairies in the 'midsummer night's dream.' this creation is less attractive and complete, but not less masterly. the poet, in the text of the play itself, calls these beings witches only derogatorily; they call themselves weird sisters; the fates bore this denomination, and the sisters remind us indeed of the northern fates or valkyries. they appear wild and weather-beaten in exterior and attire, common in speech, ignoble, half-human creatures, ugly as the evil one, and in like manner old, and of neither sex. they are guided by more powerful masters, their work entirely springs from delight in evil, and they are wholly devoid of human sympathies.... they are simply the embodiment of inward temptation; they come in storm and vanish in air, like corporeal impulses, which, originating in the blood, cast up bubbles of sin and ambition in the soul; they are weird sisters only in the sense in which men carry their own fates within their bosoms."[ ] this criticism is so entirely subjective and unsupported by evidence that it is difficult to deal satisfactorily with it. it will be shown hereafter that this description does not apply in the least to the scandinavian norns, while, so far as it is true to shakspere's text, it does not clash with contemporary records of the appearance and actions of witches. [footnote : shakspere commentaries, translated by f.e. bunnert, p. .] . the next writer to bring forward a view of this character was the rev. f.g. fleay, the well-known shakspere critic, whose ingenious efforts in iconoclasm cause a curious alternation of feeling between admiration and amazement. his argument is unfortunately mixed up with a question of textual criticism; for he rejects certain scenes in the play as the work of the inferior dramatist middleton.[ ] the question relating to the text will only be noticed so far as it is inextricably involved with the argument respecting the nature of the weird sisters. mr. fleay's position is, shortly, this. he thinks that shakspere's play commenced with the entrance of macbeth and banquo in the third scene of the first act, and that the weird sisters who subsequently take part in that scene are norns, not witches; and that in the first scene of the fourth act, shakspere discarded the norns, and introduced three entirely new characters, who were intended to be genuine witches. [footnote : of the witch scenes mr. fleay rejects act i. sc. i., and sc. iii. down to l. , and act iii. sc. v.] . the evidence which can be produced in support of this theory, apart from question of style and probability, is threefold. the first proof is derived from a manuscript entitled "the booke of plaies and notes thereof, for common pollicie," written by a somewhat famous magician-doctor, simon forman, who was implicated in the murder of sir thomas overbury. he says, "in 'macbeth,' at the globe, , the th april, saturday, there was to be observed first how macbeth and banquo, two noblemen of scotland, riding through a wood, there stood before them three women fairies, or nymphs, and saluted macbeth, saying three times unto him, 'hail, macbeth, king of codor, for thou shalt be a king, but thou shalt beget no kings,'" etc.[ ] this, if forman's account held together decently in other respects, would be strong, although not conclusive, evidence in favour of the theory; but the whole note is so full of inconsistencies and misstatements, that it is not unfair to conclude, either that the writer was not paying marvellous attention to the entertainment he professed to describe, or that the player's copy differed in many essential points from the present text. not the least conspicuous of these inconsistencies is the account of the sisters' greeting of macbeth just quoted. subsequently forman narrates that duncan created macbeth prince of cumberland; and that "when macbeth had murdered the king, the blood on his hands could not be washed off by any means, nor from his wife's hands, which handled the bloody daggers in hiding them, by which means they became both much amazed and affronted." such a loose narration cannot be relied upon if the text in question contains any evidence at all rebutting the conclusion that the sisters are intended to be "women fairies, or nymphs." [footnote : see furness, variorum, p. .] . the second piece of evidence is the story of macbeth as it is narrated by holinshed, from which shakspere derived his material. in that account we read that "it fortuned as makbeth and banquho journied toward fores, where the king then laie, they went sporting by the waie togither without other companie, saue onlie themselues, passing thorough the woods and fields, when suddenlie in the middest of a laund there met them three women in strange and wild apparell, resembling creatures of elder world, whome when they attentivelie beheld, woondering much at the sight, the first of them spake and said; 'all haile, makbeth, thane of glammis' (for he had latelie entered into that dignitie and office by the death of his father sinell). the second of them said; 'haile, makbeth, thane of cawder.' but the third said; 'all haile, makbeth, that heereafter shall be king of scotland.' ... afterwards the common opinion was that these women were either the weird sisters, that is (as ye would say) the goddesses of destinie, or else some nymphs or feiries, indued with knowledge of prophesie by their necromanticall science, because everiething came to passe as they had spoken."[ ] this is all that is heard of these "goddesses of destinie" in holinshed's narrative. macbeth is warned to "beware macduff"[ ] by "certeine wizzards, in whose words he put great confidence;" and the false promises were made to him by "a certeine witch, whome he had in great trust, (who) had told him that he should neuer be slaine with man borne of anie woman, nor vanquished till the wood of bernane came to the castell of dunsinane."[ ] [footnote : holinshed, scotland, p. , c. , l. .] [footnote : macbeth, iv. l. . holinshed, p. , c. , l. .] [footnote : ibid. l. .] . in this account we find that the supernatural communications adopted by shakspere were derived from three sources; and the contention is that he has retained two of them--the "goddesses of destinie" and the witches; and the evidence of this retention is the third proof relied on, namely, that the stage direction in the first folio, act iv. sc. i., is, "enter hecate and the _other_ three witches," when three characters supposed to be witches are already upon the scene. holinshed's narrative makes it clear that the idea of the "goddesses of destinie" was distinctly suggested to shakspere's mind, as well as that of the witches, as the mediums of supernatural influence. the question is, did he retain both, or did he reject one and retain the other? it can scarcely be doubted that one such influence running through the play would conduce to harmony and unity of idea; and as shakspere, not a servile follower of his source in any case, has interwoven in "macbeth" the totally distinct narrative of the murder of king duffe,[ ] it is hardly to be supposed that he would scruple to blend these two different sets of characters if any advantage were to be gained by so doing. as to the stage direction in the first folio, it is difficult to see what it would prove, even supposing that the folio were the most scrupulous piece of editorial work that had ever been effected. it presupposes that the "weird sisters" are on the stage as well as the witches. but it is perfectly clear that the witches continue the dialogue; so the other more powerful beings must be supposed to be standing silent in the background--a suggestion so monstrous that it is hardly necessary to refer to the slovenliness of the folio stage directions to show how unsatisfactory an argument based upon one of them must be. [footnote : ibid. p. . "a sort of witches dwelling in a towne of murreyland called fores" (c. , l. ) were prominent in this account.] . the evidence of forman and holinshed has been stated fully, in order that the reader may be in possession of all the materials that may be necessary for forming an accurate judgment upon the point in question; but it seems to be less relied upon than the supposition that the appearance and powers of the beings in the admittedly genuine part of the third scene of the first act are not those formerly attributed to witches, and that shakspere, having once decided to represent norns, would never have degraded them "to three old women, who are called by paddock and graymalkin, sail in sieves, kill swine, serve hecate, and deal in all the common charms, illusions, and incantations of vulgar witches. the three who 'look not like the inhabitants o' th' earth, and yet are on't;' they who can 'look into the seeds of time, and say which grain will grow;' they who seem corporal, but melt into the air, like bubbles of the earth; the weyward sisters, who make themselves air, and have in them more than mortal knowledge, are not beings of this stamp."[ ] [footnote : new shakspere society transactions, vol. i. p. ; fleay's shakspere manual, p. .] . now, there is a great mass of contemporary evidence to show that these supposed characteristics of the norns are, in fact, some of the chief attributes of the witches of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. if this be so--if it can be proved that the supposed "goddesses of destinie" of the play in reality possess no higher powers than could be acquired by ordinary communication with evil spirits, then no weight must be attached to the vague stage direction in the folio, occurring as it does in a volume notorious for the extreme carelessness with which it was produced; and it must be admitted that the "goddesses of destinie" of holinshed were sacrificed for the sake of the witches. if, in addition to this, it can be shown that there was a very satisfactory reason why the witches should have been chosen as the representatives of the evil influence instead of the norns, the argument will be as complete as it is possible to make it. . but before proceeding to examine the contemporary evidence, it is necessary, in order to obtain a complete conception of the mythological view of the weird sisters, to notice a piece of criticism that is at once an expansion of, and a variation upon, the theory just stated.[ ] it is suggested that the sisters of "macbeth" are but three in number, but that shakspere drew upon scandinavian mythology for a portion of the material he used in constructing these characters, and that he derived the rest from the traditions of contemporary witchcraft; in fact, that the "sisters" are hybrids between norns and witches. the supposed proof of this is that each sister exercises the special function of one of the norns. "the third is the special prophetess, whilst the first takes cognizance of the past, and the second of the present, in affairs connected with humanity. these are the tasks of urda, verdandi, and skulda. the first begins by asking, 'when shall we three meet again?' the second decides the time: 'when the battle's lost or won.' the third, the future prophesies: 'that will be ere set of sun.' the first again asks, 'where?' the second decides: 'upon the heath.' the third, the future prophesies: 'there to meet with macbeth.'" but their _rôle_ is most clearly brought out in the famous "hails":-- _ st. urda._ [past.] all hail, macbeth! hail to thee, thane of glamis! _ nd. verdandi._ [present.] all hail, macbeth! hail to thee, thane of cawdor! _ rd. skulda._ all hail, macbeth! thou shalt be king hereafter.[ ] this sequence is supposed to be retained in other of the sisters' speeches; but a perusal of these will soon show that it is only in the second of the above quotations that it is recognizable with any definiteness; and this, it must be remembered, is an almost verbal transcript from holinshed, and not an original conception of shakspere's, who might feel himself quite justified in changing the characters of the speakers, while retaining their utterances. in addition to this, the natural sequence is in many cases utterly and unnecessarily violated; as, for instance, in act i. sc. iii., where urda, who should be solely occupied with past matters, predicts, with extreme minuteness, the results that are to follow from her projected voyage to aleppo, and that without any expression of resentment, but rather with promise of assistance, from skulda, whose province she is thus invading. [footnote : in a letter to _the academy_, th february, , signed "charlotte carmichael."] [footnote : i have taken the liberty of printing this quotation as it stands in the text. the writer in _the academy_ has effected a rearrangement of the dialogue by importing what might be macbeth's replies to the three sisters from his speech beginning at l. , and alternating them with the different "hails," which, in addition, are not correctly quoted--for what purpose it is difficult to see. it may be added here that in a subsequent number of _the academy_, a long letter upon the same subject appeared from mr. karl blind, which seems to prove little except the author's erudition. he assumes the teutonic origin of the sisters throughout, and, consequently, adduces little evidence in favour of the theory. one of his points is the derivation of the word "weird" or "wayward," which, as will be shown subsequently, was applied to witches. another point is, that the witch scenes savour strongly of the staff-rime of old german poetry. it is interesting to find two upholders of the norn-theory relying mainly for proof of their position upon a scene (act i. sc. i.) which mr fleay says that the very statement of this theory (p. ) must brand as spurious. the question of the sisters' beards too, regarding which mr. blind brings somewhat far-fetched evidence, is, i think, more satisfactorily settled by the quotations in the text.] . but this latter piece of criticism seems open to one grave objection to which the former is not liable. mr. fleay separates the portions of the play which are undoubtedly to be assigned to witches from the parts he gives to his norns, and attributes them to different characters; the other mixes up the witch and norn elements in one confused mass. the earlier critic saw the absurdity of such a supposition when he wrote: "shakspere may have raised the wizard and witches of the latter parts of holinshed to the weird sisters of the former parts, but the converse process is impossible."[ ] is it conceivable that shakspere, who, as most people admit, was a man of some poetic feeling, being in possession of the beautiful norn-legend--the silent fate-goddesses sitting at the foot of igdrasil, the mysterious tree of human existence, and watering its roots with water from the sacred spring--could, ruthlessly and without cause, mar the charm of the legend by the gratuitous introduction of the gross and primarily unpoetical details incident to the practice of witchcraft? no man with a glimmer of poetry in his soul will imagine it for a moment. the separation of characters is more credible than this; but if that theory can be shown to be unfounded, there is no improbability in supposing that shakspere, finding that the question of witchcraft was, in consequence of events that had taken place not long before the time of the production of "macbeth," absorbing the attention of all men, from king to peasant, should set himself to deal with such a popular subject, and, by the magic of his art, so raise it out of its degradation into the region of poetry, that men should wonder and say, "can this be witchcraft indeed?" [footnote : shakspere manual, p. .] . in comparing the evidence to be deduced from the contemporary records of witchcraft with the sayings and doings of the sisters in "macbeth," those parts of the play will first be dealt with upon which no doubt as to their genuineness has ever been cast, and which are asserted to be solely applicable to norns. if it can be shown that these describe witches rather than norns, the position that shakspere intentionally substituted witches for the "goddesses of destinie" mentioned in his authority is practically unassailable. first, then, it is asserted that the description of the appearance of the sisters given by banquo applies to norns rather than witches-- "they look not like the inhabitants o' th' earth, and yet are on't." this question of applicability, however, must not be decided by the consideration of a single sentence, but of the whole passage from which it is extracted; and, whilst considering it, it should be carefully borne in mind that it occurs immediately before those lines which are chiefly relied upon as proving the identity of the sisters with urda, verdandi, and skulda. banquo, on seeing the sisters, says-- "what are these, so withered and so wild in their attire, that look not like the inhabitants o' th' earth, and yet are on't? live you, or are you aught that man may question? you seem to understand me, by each at once her chappy finger laying upon her skinny lips: you should be women, and yet your beards forbid me to interpret that you are so." it is in the first moment of surprise that the sisters, appearing so suddenly, seem to banquo unlike the inhabitants of this earth. when he recovers from the shock and is capable of deliberate criticism, he sees chappy fingers, skinny lips--in fact, nothing to distinguish them from poverty-stricken, ugly old women but their beards. a more accurate poetical counterpart to the prose descriptions given by contemporary writers of the appearance of the poor creatures who were charged with the crime of witchcraft could hardly have been penned. scot, for instance, says, "they are women which commonly be old, lame, bleare-eied, pale, fowle, and full of wrinkles.... they are leane and deformed, showing melancholie in their faces;"[ ] and harsnet describes a witch as "an old weather-beaten crone, having her chin and knees meeting for age, walking like a bow, leaning on a staff, hollow-eyed, untoothed, furrowed, having her lips trembling with palsy, going mumbling in the streets; one that hath forgotten her pater-noster, yet hath a shrewd tongue to call a drab a drab."[ ] it must be remembered that these accounts are by two sceptics, who saw nothing in the witches but poor, degraded old women. in a description which assumes their supernatural power such minute details would not be possible; yet there is quite enough in banquo's description to suggest neglect, squalor, and misery. but if this were not so, there is one feature in the description of the sisters that would settle the question once and for ever. the beard was in elizabethan times the recognized characteristic of the witch. in one old play it is said, "the women that come to us for disguises must wear beards, and that's to say a token of a witch;"[ ] and in another, "some women have beards; marry, they are half witches;"[ ] and sir hugh evans gives decisive testimony to the fact when he says of the disguised falstaff, "by yea and no, i think, the 'oman is a witch indeed: i like not when a 'oman has a great peard; i spy a great peard under her muffler."[ ] [footnote : discoverie, book i. ch. , p. .] [footnote : harsnet, declaration, p. .] [footnote : honest man's fortune, ii. i. furness, variorum, p. .] [footnote : dekker's honest whore, sc. x. l. .] [footnote : merry wives of windsor, act iv. sc. ii.] . every item of banquo's description indicates that he is speaking of witches; nothing in it is incompatible with that supposition. will it apply with equal force to norns? it can hardly be that these mysterious mythical beings, who exercise an incomprehensible yet powerful influence over human destiny, could be described with any propriety in terms so revolting. a veil of wild, weird grandeur might be thrown around them; but can it be supposed that shakspere would degrade them by representing them with chappy fingers, skinny lips, and beards? it is particularly to be noticed, too, that although in this passage he is making an almost verbal transcript from holinshed, these details are interpolated without the authority of the chronicle. let it be supposed, for an instant, that the text ran thus-- _banquo._ ... what are these so withered and so wild in their attire,[ ] that look not like the inhabitants o' th' earth, and yet are on't?[ ] live you, or are you ought that man may question?[ ] _macbeth._ speak if you can, what are you? _ st witch._ all hail, macbeth! hail to thee, thane of glamis![ ] _ nd witch._ all hail, macbeth! hail to thee, thane of cawdor![ ] _ rd witch._ all hail, macbeth! thou shall be king hereafter.[ ] this is so accurate a dramatization of the parallel passage in holinshed, and so entire in itself, that there is some temptation to ask whether it was not so written at first, and the interpolated lines subsequently inserted by the author. whether this be so or not, the question must be put--why, in such a passage, did shakspere insert three lines of most striking description of the appearance of witches? can any other reason be suggested than that he had made up his mind to replace the "goddesses of destinie" by the witches, and had determined that there should be no possibility of any doubt arising about it? [footnote : three women in strange and wild apparel,] [footnote : resembling creatures of elder world,] [footnote : whome when they attentivelie beheld, woondering much at the sight, the first of them spake and said;] [footnote : 'all haile, makbeth, thane of glammis' (for he had latelie entered into that dignitie and office by the death of his father sinell).] [footnote : the second of them said; 'haile, makbeth, thane of cawder.'] [footnote : but the third said; 'all haile, makbeth, that heereafter shalt be king of scotland.'] . the next objection is, that the sisters exercise powers that witches did not possess. they can "look into the seeds of time, and say which grain will grow, and which will not." in other words, they foretell future events, which witches could not do. but this is not the fact. the recorded witch trials teem with charges of having prophesied what things were about to happen; no charge is more common. the following, quoted by charles knight in his biography of shakspere, might almost have suggested the simile in the last-mentioned lines. johnnet wischert is "indicted for passing to the green growing corn in may, twenty-two years since or thereby, sitting thereupon tymous in the morning before the sun-rising, and being there found and demanded what she was doing, thou[ ] answered, i shall tell thee; i have been peeling the blades of the corn. i find it will be a dear year, the blade of the corn grows withersones [contrary to the course of the sun], and when it grows sonegatis about [with the course of the sun] it will be good cheap year."[ ] the following is another apt illustration of the power, which has been translated from the unwieldy lowland scotch account of the trial of bessie roy in . the dittay charged her thus: "you are indicted and accused that whereas, when you were dwelling with william king in barra, about twelve years ago, or thereabouts, and having gone into the field to pluck lint with other women, in their presence made a compass in the earth, and a hole in the midst thereof; and afterwards, by thy conjurations thou causedst a great worm to come up first out of the said hole, and creep over the compass; and next a little worm came forth, which crept over also; and last [thou] causedst a great worm to come forth, which could not pass over the compass, but fell down and died. which enchantment and witchcraft thou interpretedst in this form: that the first great worm that crept over the compass was the goodman william king, who should live; and the little worm was a child in the goodwife's womb, who was unknown to any one to be with child, and that the child should live; and, thirdly, the last great worm thou interpretedst to be the goodwife, who should die: _which came to pass after thy speaking_."[ ] surely there could hardly be plainer instances of looking "into the seeds of time, and saying which grain will grow, and which will not," than these. [footnote : sic.] [footnote : p. .] [footnote : pitcairn, i. ii. . cf. also ibid. pp. , , and , where the crime is described as "foreknowledge."] . perhaps this is the most convenient place for pointing out the full meaning of the first scene of "macbeth," and its necessary connection with the rest of the play. it is, in fact, the fag-end of a witches' sabbath, which, if fully represented, would bear a strong resemblance to the scene at the commencement of the fourth act. but a long scene on such a subject would be tedious and unmeaning at the commencement of the play. the audience is therefore left to assume that the witches have met, performed their conjurations, obtained from the evil spirits the information concerning macbeth's career that they desired to obtain, and perhaps have been commanded by the fiends to perform the mission they subsequently carry through. all that is needed for the dramatic effect is a slight hint of probable diabolical interference, and that macbeth is to be the special object of it; and this is done in as artistic a manner as is perhaps imaginable. in the first scene they obtain their information; in the second they utter their prediction. every minute detail of these scenes is based upon the broad, recognized facts of witchcraft. . it is also suggested that the power of vanishing from the sight possessed by the sisters--the power to make themselves air--was not characteristic of witches. but this is another assertion that would not have been made, had the authorities upon the subject been investigated with only slight attention. no feature of the crime of witchcraft is better attested than this; and the modern witch of story-books is still represented as riding on a broomstick--a relic of the enchanted rod with which the devil used to provide his worshippers, upon which to come to his sabbaths.[ ] one of the charges in the indictment against the notorious dr. fian ran thus: "fylit for suffering himself to be careit to north berwik kirk, as if he had bene souchand athoirt [whizzing above] the eird."[ ] most effectual ointments were prepared for effecting this method of locomotion, which have been recorded, and are given below[ ] as an illustration of the wild kind of recipes which shakspere rendered more grim in his caldron scene. the efficacy of these ointments is well illustrated by a story narrated by reginald scot, which unfortunately, on account of certain incidents, cannot be given in his own terse words. the hero of it happened to be staying temporarily with a friend, and on one occasion found her rubbing her limbs with a certain preparation, and mumbling the while. after a time she vanished out of his sight; and he, being curious to investigate the affair, rubbed himself with the remaining ointment, and almost immediately he found himself transported a long distance through the air, and deposited right in the very midst of a witches' sabbath. naturally alarmed, he cried out, "'in the name of god, what make i heere?' and upon those words the whole assemblie vanished awaie."[ ] [footnote : scot, book iii. ch. iii. p. .] [footnote : pitcairn, i. ii. . cf. also ibid. p. . scot, book iii. ch. vii. p. .] [footnote : "sundrie receipts and ointments made and used for the transportation of witches, and other miraculous effects. "rx. the fat of yoong children, & seeth it with water in a brazen vessell, reseruing the thickest of that which remaineth boiled in the bottome, which they laie up & keep untill occasion serveth to use it. they put hereinto eleoselinum, aconitum, frondes populeas, & soote." this is given almost verbatim in middleton's witch. "rx. sium, acarum vulgare, pentaphyllon, the bloud of a flittermouse, solanum somniferum, & oleum." it would seem that fern seed had the same virtue.--i hen. iv. ii. i.] [footnote : scot, book iii. ch. vi. p. .] . the only vestige of a difficulty, therefore, that remains is the use of the term "weird sisters" in describing the witches. it is perfectly clear that holinshed used these words as a sort of synonym for the "goddesses of destinie;" but with such a mass of evidence as has been produced to show that shakspere elected to introduce witches in the place of the norns, it surely would not be unwarrantable to suppose that he might retain this term as a poetical and not unsuitable description of the characters to whom it was applied. and this is the less improbable as it can be shown that both words were at times applied to witches. as the quotation given subsequently[ ] proves, the scotch witches were in the habit of speaking of the frequenters of a particular sabbath as "the sisters;" and in heywood's "witches of lancashire," one of the characters says about a certain act of supposed witchcraft, "i remember that some three months since i crossed a wayward woman; one that i now suspect."[ ] [footnote : § , p. .] [footnote : act v. sc. iii.] . here, then, in the very stronghold of the supposed proof of the norn-theory, it is possible to extract convincing evidence that the sisters are intended to be merely witches. it is not surprising that other portions of the play in which the sisters are mentioned should confirm this view. banquo, upon hearing the fulfilment of the prophecy of the second witch, clearly expresses his opinion of the origin of the "foreknowledge" he has received, in the exclamation, "what, can the devil speak true?" for the devil most emphatically spoke through the witches; but how could he in any sense be said to speak through norns? again, macbeth informs his wife that on his arrival at forres, he made inquiry into the amount of reliance that could be placed in the utterances of the witches, "and learned by the perfectest report that they had more in them than mortal knowledge."[ ] this would be possible enough if witches were the subjects of the investigation, for their chief title to authority would rest upon the general opinion current in the neighbourhood in which they dwelt; but how could such an inquiry be carried out successfully in the case of norns? it is noticeable, too, that macbeth knows exactly where to find the sisters when he wants them; and when he says-- "more shall they speak; for now i am bent to know, by the worst means, the worst,"[ ] he makes another clear allusion to the traffic of the witches with the devil. after the events recorded in act iv. sc. i., macbeth speaks of the prophecies upon which he relies as "the equivocation of the fiend,"[ ] and the prophets as "these juggling fiends;"[ ] and with reason--for he has seen and heard the very devils themselves, the masters of the witches and sources of all their evil power. every point in the play that bears upon the subject at all tends to show that shakspere intentionally replaced the "goddesses of destinie" by witches; and that the supposed norn origin of these characters is the result of a somewhat too great eagerness to unfold a novel and startling theory. [footnote : act i. sc. v. l. .] [footnote : mr. fleay avoids the difficulty created by this passage, which alludes to the witches as "the weird sisters," by supposing that these lines were interpolated by middleton--a method of criticism that hardly needs comment. act iii. sc. iv. l. .] [footnote : act v. sc. v. l. .] [footnote : ibid. sc. viii. l. .] . assuming, therefore, that the witch-nature of the sisters is conclusively proved, it now becomes necessary to support the assertion previously made, that good reason can be shown why shakspere should have elected to represent witches rather than norns. it is impossible to read "macbeth" without noticing the prominence given to the belief that witches had the power of creating storms and other atmospheric disturbances, and that they delighted in so doing. the sisters elect to meet in thunder, lightning, or rain. to them "fair is foul, and foul is fair," as they "hover through the fog and filthy air." the whole of the earlier part of the third scene of the first act is one blast of tempest with its attendant devastation. they can loose and bind the winds,[ ] cause vessels to be tempest-tossed at sea, and mutilate wrecked bodies.[ ] they describe themselves as "posters of the sea and land;"[ ] the heath they meet upon is blasted;[ ] and they vanish "as breath into the wind."[ ] macbeth conjures them to answer his questions thus:-- "though you untie the winds, and let them fight against the churches; though the yesty waves confound and swallow navigation up; though bladed corn be lodged, and trees blown down; though castles topple on their warders' heads; though palaces and pyramids do slope their heads to their foundations; though the treasure of nature's germens tumble all together, even till destruction sicken."[ ] [footnote : i. iii. , .] [footnote : act i. sc. iii. l. .] [footnote : ibid. l. .] [footnote : ibid. l. .] [footnote : ibid. ll. , .] [footnote : act iv. sc. i. ll. - .] . now, this command over the elements does not form at all a prominent feature in the english records of witchcraft. a few isolated charges of the kind may be found. in , for instance, a witch was burnt who confessed that she had caused all the tempests that had taken place in that year. scot, too, has a few short sentences upon this subject, but does not give it the slightest prominence.[ ] nor in the earlier scotch trials recorded by pitcairn does this charge appear amongst the accusations against the witches. it is exceedingly curious to notice the utter harmless nature of the charges brought against the earlier culprits; and how, as time went on and the panic increased, they gradually deepened in colour, until no act was too gross, too repulsive, or too ridiculously impossible to be excluded from the indictment. the following quotations from one of the earliest reported trials are given because they illustrate most forcibly the condition of the poor women who were supposed to be witches, and the real basis of fact upon which the belief in the crime subsequently built itself. [footnote : book iii. ch. , p. .] . bessie dunlop was tried for witchcraft in . one of the principal accusations against her was that she held intercourse with a devil who appeared to her in the shape of a neighbour of hers, one thom reed, who had recently died. being asked how and where she met thom reed, she said, "as she was gangand betwixt her own house and the yard of monkcastell, dryvand her ky to the pasture, and makand heavy sair dule with herself, gretand[ ] very fast for her cow that was dead, her husband and child that wer lyand sick in the land ill, and she new risen out of gissane,[ ] the aforesaid thom met her by the way, healsit[ ] her, and said, 'gude day, bessie,' and she said, 'god speed you, guidman.' 'sancta marie,' said he, 'bessie, why makes thow sa great dule and sair greting for ony wardlie thing?' she answered 'alas! have i not great cause to make great dule, for our gear is trakit,[ ] and my husband is on the point of deid, and one babie of my own will not live, and myself at ane weak point; have i not gude cause then to have ane sair hart?' but thom said, 'bessie, thou hast crabit[ ] god, and askit some thing you suld not have done; and tharefore i counsell thee to mend to him, for i tell thee thy barne sall die and the seik cow, or you come hame; and thy twa sheep shall die too; but thy husband shall mend, and shall be as hale and fair as ever he was.' and then i was something blyther, for he tauld me that my guidman would mend. then thom reed went away fra me in through the yard of monkcastell, and i thought that he gait in at ane narrower hole of the dyke nor anie erdlie man culd have gone throw, and swa i was something fleit."[ ] [footnote : weeping. i have only half translated this passage, for i feared to spoil the sad simplicity of it.] [footnote : child-bed.] [footnote : saluted.] [footnote : dwindled away.] [footnote : displeased.] [footnote : frightened.] this was the first time that thom appeared to her. on the third occasion he asked her "if she would not trow[ ] in him." she said "she would trow in ony bodye did her gude." then thom promised her much wealth if she would deny her christendom. she answered that "if she should be riven at horsis taillis, she suld never do that, but promised to be leal and trew to him in ony thing she could do," whereat he was angry. [footnote : trust.] on the fourth occasion, the poor woman fell further into sin, and accompanied thom to a fairy meeting. thom asked her to join the party; but she said "she saw na proffeit to gang thai kind of gaittis, unless she kend wherefor." thom offered the old inducement, wealth; but she replied that "she dwelt with her awin husband and bairnis," and could not leave them. and so thom began to be very crabit with her, and said, "if so she thought, she would get lytill gude of him." she was then demanded if she had ever asked any favour of thom for herself or any other person. she answered that "when sundrie persons came to her to seek help for their beast, their cow, or ewe, or for any barne that was tane away with ane evill blast of wind, or elf grippit, she gait and speirit[ ] at thom what myght help them; and thom would pull ane herb and gif her out of his awin hand, and bade her scheir[ ] the same with ony other kind of herbis, and oppin the beistes mouth, and put thame in, and the beist wald mend."[ ] [footnote : inquired.] [footnote : chop.] [footnote : pitcairn, i. ii. , et seq.] it seems hardly possible to believe that a story like this, which is half marred by the attempt to partially modernize its simple pathetic language, and which would probably bring a tear to the eye, if not a shilling from the pocket, of the most unsympathetic being of the present day, should be considered sufficient three hundred years ago, to convict the narrator of a crime worthy of death; yet so it was. this sad picture of the breakdown of a poor woman's intellect in the unequal struggle against poverty and sickness is only made visible to us by the light of the flames that, mercifully to her perhaps, took poor bessie dunlop away for ever from the sick husband, and weakly children, and the "ky," and the humble hovel where they all dwelt together, and from the daily, heart-rending, almost hopeless struggle to obtain enough food to keep life in the bodies of this miserable family. the historian--who makes it his chief anxiety to record, to the minutest and most irrelevant details, the deeds, noble or ignoble, of those who have managed to stamp their names upon the muster-roll of fame--turns carelessly or scornfully the page which contains such insignificant matter as this; but those who believe "that not a worm is cloven in vain; that not a moth with vain desire is shrivel'd in a fruitless fire, or but subserves another's gain," will hardly feel that poor bessie's life and death were entirely without their meaning. . as the trials for witchcraft increase, however, the details grow more and more revolting; and in the year we find a most extraordinary batch of cases--extraordinary for the monstrosity of the charges contained in them, and also for the fact that this feature, so insisted upon in macbeth, the raising of winds and storms, stands out in extremely bold relief. the explanation of this is as follows. in the year , king james vi. brought his bride, anne of denmark, home to scotland. during the voyage an unusually violent storm raged, which scattered the vessels composing the royal escort, and, it would appear, caused the destruction of one of them. by a marvellous chance, the king's ship was driven by a wind which blew directly contrary to that which filled the sails of the other vessels;[ ] and the king and queen were both placed in extreme jeopardy. james, who seems to have been as perfectly convinced of the reality of witchcraft as he was of his own infallibility, at once came to the conclusion that the storm had been raised by the aid of evil spirits, for the express purpose of getting rid of so powerful an enemy of the prince of darkness as the righteous king. the result was that a rigorous investigation was made into the whole affair; a great number of persons were tried for attempting the king's life by witchcraft; and that prince, undeterred by the apparent impropriety of being judge in what was, in reality, his own cause, presided at many of the trials, condescended to superintend the tortures applied to the accused in order to extort a confession, and even went so far in one case as to write a letter to the judges commanding a condemnation. [footnote : pitcairn, i. ii. .] . under these circumstances, considering who the prosecutor was, and who the judge, and the effectual methods at the service of the court for extorting confessions,[ ] it is not surprising that the king's surmises were fully justified by the statements of the accused. it is impossible to read these without having parts of the witch-scenes in "macbeth" ringing in the ears like an echo. john fian, a young schoolmaster, and leader of the gang, or "coven" as it was called, was charged with having caused the leak in the king's ship, and with having raised the wind and created a mist for the purpose of hindering his voyage.[ ] on another occasion he and several other witches entered into a ship, and caused it to perish.[ ] he was also able by witchcraft to open locks.[ ] he visited churchyards at night, and dismembered bodies for his charms; the bodies of unbaptized infants being preferred.[ ] [footnote : the account of the tortures inflicted upon fian are too horrible for quotation.] [footnote : pitcairn, i. ii. .] [footnote : ibid. . he confessed that satan commanded him to chase cats "purposlie to be cassin into the sea to raise windis for destructioune of schippis." macbeth, i. iii. - .] [footnote : "fylit for opening of ane loke be his sorcerie in david seytounis moderis, be blawing in ane woman's hand, himself sittand att the fyresyde."--see also the case of bessie roy, i. ii. . the english method of opening locks was more complicated than the scotch, as will appear from the following quotation from scot, book xii. ch. xiv. p. :-- "a charme to open locks. take a peece of wax crossed in baptisme, and doo but print certeine floures therein, and tie them in the hinder skirt of your shirt; and when you would undoo the locke, blow thrice therein, saieing, 'arato hoc partico hoc maratarykin; i open this doore in thy name that i am forced to breake, as thou brakest hell gates. in nomine patris etc. amen.'" macbeth, iv. i. .] [footnote : "finger of birth-strangled babe, ditch-delivered by a drab." macbeth, iv. i. .] agnes sampsoune confessed to the king that to compass his death she took a black toad and hung it by the hind legs for three days, and collected the venom that fell from it. she said that if she could have obtained a piece of linen that the king had worn, she could have destroyed his life with this venom; "causing him such extraordinarie paines as if he had beene lying upon sharpe thornes or endis of needles."[ ] she went out to sea to a vessel called _the grace of god_, and when she came away the devil raised a wind, and the vessel was wrecked.[ ] she delivered a letter from fian to another witch, which was to this effect: "ye sall warne the rest of the sisteris to raise the winde this day at ellewin houris to stay the queenis cuming in scotland."[ ] [footnote : pitcairn, i. ii. . "toad, that under cold stone days and nights has thirty-one sweltered venom sleeping got." macbeth, iv. i. .] [footnote : ibid. .] [footnote : ibid. .] this is her confession as to the methods adopted for raising the storm. "at the time when his majestie was in denmarke, shee being accompanied by the parties before speciallie named, took a cat and christened it, and afterwards bounde to each part of that cat the cheefest parts of a dead man, and the severall joyntes of his bodie; and that in the night following the said cat was conveyed into the middest of the sea by all these witches, sayling in their riddles or cives,[ ] as is afore said, and so left the said cat right before the town of leith in scotland. this done, there did arise such a tempest in the sea as a greater hath not been seene, which tempest was the cause of the perishing of a vessell coming over from the town of brunt ilande to the town of leith.... againe, it is confessed that the said christened cat was the cause that the kinges majesties shippe at his coming forth of denmarke had a contrarie wind to the rest of his shippes...."[ ] [footnote : macbeth, i. iii. .] [footnote : pitcairn, reprint of newes from scotland, i. ii. . see also trial of ewsame mccalgane, i. ii. .] . it is worth a note that this art of going to sea in sieves, which shakspere has referred to in his drama, seems to have been peculiar to this set of witches. english witches had the reputation of being able to go upon the water in egg-shells and cockle-shells, but seem never to have detected any peculiar advantages in the sieve. not so these scotch witches. agnes told the king that she, "with a great many other witches, to the number of two hundreth, all together went to sea, each one in a riddle or cive, and went into the same very substantially, with flaggons of wine, making merrie, and drinking by the way in the same riddles or cives, to the kirke of north barrick in lowthian, and that after they landed they tooke hands on the lande and daunced a reill or short daunce." they then opened the graves and took the fingers, toes, and knees of the bodies to make charms.[ ] [footnote : pitcairn, i. ii. .] it can be easily understood that these trials created an intense excitement in scotland. the result was that a tract was printed, containing a full account of all the principal incidents; and the fact that this pamphlet was reprinted once, if not twice,[ ] in london, shows that interest in the affair spread south of the border; and this is confirmed by the publisher's prefatorial apology, in which he states that the pamphlet was printed to prevent the public from being imposed upon by unauthorized and extravagant statements of what had taken place.[ ] under ordinary circumstances, events of this nature would form a nine days' wonder, and then die a natural death; but in this particular case the public interest continued for an abnormal time; for eight years subsequent to the date of the trials, james published his "daemonologie"--a work founded to a great extent upon his experiences at the trials of . this was a sign to both england and scotland that the subject of witchcraft was still of engrossing interest to him; and as he was then the fully recognized heir-apparent to the english crown, the publication of such a work would not fail to induce a great amount of attention to the subject dealt with. in he ascended the english throne. his first parliament met on the th of march, , and on the th of the same month a bill was brought into the house of lords dealing with the question of witchcraft. it was referred to a committee of which twelve bishops were members; and this committee, after much debating, came to the conclusion that the bill was imperfect. in consequence of this a fresh one was drawn, and by the th of june a statute had passed both houses of parliament, which enacted, among other things, that "if any person shall practise or exercise any invocation or conjuration of any evil or wicked spirit, or shall consult with, entertain, feed, or reward any evil and wicked spirit,[ ] or take up any dead man, woman, or child out of his, her, or their grave ... or the skin, bone, or any other part of any dead person to be employed or used in any manner of witchcraft,[ ] ... or shall ... practise ... any witchcraft ... whereby any person shall be killed, wasted, pined, or lamed in his or her body or any part thereof,[ ] such offender shall suffer the pains of death as felons, without benefit of clergy or sanctuary." hutchinson, in his "essay on witchcraft," published in , declares that this statute was framed expressly to meet the offences exposed by the trials of - ; but, although this cannot be conclusively proved, yet it is not at all improbable that the hurry with which the statute was passed into law immediately upon the accession of james, would recall to the public mind the interest he had taken in those trials in particular and the subject in general, and that shakspere producing, as nearly all the critics agree, his tragedy at about this date, should draw upon his memory for the half-forgotten details of those trials, and thus embody in "macbeth" the allusions to them that have been pointed out--much less accurately than he did in the case of the babington affair, because the facts had been far less carefully recorded, and the time at which his attention had been called to them far more remote.[ ] [footnote : one copy of this reprint bears the name of w. wright, another that of thomas nelson. the full title is-- "newes from scotland, "declaring the damnable life of doctor fian, a notable sorcerer, who was burned at edenborough in januarie last, ; which doctor was register to the deuill, that sundrie times preached at north barricke kirke to a number of notorious witches; with the true examinations of the said doctor and witches as they uttered them in the presence of the scottish king: discouering how they pretended to bewitch and drowne his majestie in the sea, comming from denmarke, with such other wonderfull matters, as the like hath not bin heard at anie time. "published according to the scottish copie. "printed for william wright."] [footnote : these events are referred to in an existing letter by the notorious thos. phelippes to thos. barnes, cal. state papers (may , ), - , p. .] [footnote : such as paddock, graymalkin, and harpier.] [footnote : "liver of blaspheming jew," etc.--macbeth, iv. i. .] [footnote : "i will drain him dry as hay; sleep shall neither night nor day hang upon his pent-house lid; he shall live a man forbid: weary se'nnights, nine times nine, shall he dwindle, peak, and pine." macbeth, i. iii. - .] [footnote : the excitement about the details of the witch trials would culminate in . harsnet's book would be read by shakspere in .] . there is one other mode of temptation which was adopted by the evil spirits, implicated to a great extent with the traditions of witchcraft, but nevertheless more suitably handled as a separate subject, which is of so gross and revolting a nature that it should willingly be passed over in silence, were it not for the fact that the belief in it was, as scot says, "so stronglie and universallie received" in the times of elizabeth and james. from the very earliest period of the christian era the affection of one sex for the other was considered to be under the special control of the devil. marriage was to be tolerated; but celibacy was the state most conducive to the near intercourse with heaven that was so dearly sought after. this opinion was doubtless generated by the tendency of the early christian leaders to hold up the events of the life rather than the teachings of the sacred founder of the sect as the one rule of conduct to be received by his followers. to have been the recipients of the stigmata was a far greater evidence of holiness and favour with heaven than the quiet and unnoted daily practice of those virtues upon which christ pronounced his blessing; and in less improbable matters they did not scruple, in their enthusiasm, to attempt to establish a rule of life in direct contradiction to the laws of that universe of which they professed to believe him to be the creator. the futile attempt to imitate his immaculate purity blinded their eyes to the fact that he never taught or encouraged celibacy among his followers, and this gradually led them to the strange conclusion that the passion which, sublimed and brought under control, is the source of man's noblest and holiest feelings, was a prompting proceeding from the author of all evil. imbued with this idea, religious enthusiasts of both sexes immured themselves in convents; took oaths of perpetual celibacy; and even, in certain isolated cases, sought to compromise with heaven, and baffle the tempter, by rendering a fall impossible--forgetting that the victory over sin does not consist in immunity from temptation, but, being tempted, not to fall. but no convent walls are so strong as to shut great nature out; and even within these sacred precincts the ascetics found that they were not free from the temptations of their arch-enemy. in consequence of this, a belief sprang up, and spread from its original source into the outer world, in a class of devils called incubi and succubi, who roamed the earth with no other object than to tempt people to abandon their purity of life. the cases of assault by incubi were much more frequent than those by succubi, just as women were much more affected by the dancing manias in the fifteenth century than men;[ ]--the reason, perhaps, being that they are much less capable of resisting physical privation;--but, according to the belief of the middle ages, there was no generic difference between the incubus and succubus. here was a belief that, when the witch fury sprang up, attached itself as a matter of course as the phase of the crime; and it was an almost universal charge against the accused that they offended in this manner with their familiars, and hundreds of poor creatures suffered death upon such an indictment. more details will be found in the authorities upon this unpleasant subject.[ ] [footnote : hecker, epidemics of the middle ages, p. .] [footnote : hutchinson, p. . the witch of edmonton, act v. scot, discoverie, book iv.] . this intercourse did not, as a rule, result in offspring; but this was not universally the case. all badly deformed or monstrous children were suspected of having had such an undesirable parentage, and there was a great tendency to believe that they ought to be destroyed. luther was a decided advocate of this course, deeming the destruction of a life far preferable to the chance of having a devil in the family. in drayton's poem, "the mooncalf," one of the gossips present at the birth of the calf suggests that it ought to be buried alive as a monster.[ ] caliban is a mooncalf,[ ] and his origin is distinctly traced to a source of this description. it is perfectly clear what was the one thing that the foul witch sycorax did which prevented her life from being taken; and it would appear from this that the inhabitants of argier were far more merciful in this respect than their european neighbours. such a charge would have sent any woman to the stake in scotland, without the slightest hope of mercy, and the usual plea for respite would only have been an additional reason for hastening the execution of the sentence.[ ] [footnote : ed. , p. .] [footnote : tempest, ii. ii. , .] [footnote : cf. othello, i. i. . titus andronicus, iv. ii.] . in the preceding pages an endeavour has been made to delineate the most prominent features of a belief which the great reformation was destined first to foster into unnatural proportions and vitality, and in the end to destroy. up to the period of the reformation, the creed of the nation had been practically uniform, and one set of dogmas was unhesitatingly accepted by the people as infallible, and therefore hardly demanding critical consideration. the great upheaval of the sixteenth century rent this quiescent uniformity into shreds; doctrines until then considered as indisputable were brought within the pale of discussion, and hence there was a great diversity of opinion, not only between the supporters of the old and of the new faith, but between the reformers themselves. this was conspicuously the case with regard to the belief in the devils and their works. the more timid of the reformers clung in a great measure to the catholic opinions; a small band, under the influence possibly of that knight-errant of freedom of thought, giordano bruno, who exercised some considerable influence during his visit to england by means of his oxford lectures and disputations, entirely denied the existence of evil spirits; but the great majority gave in their adherence to a creed that was the mean between the doctrines of the old faith and the new scepticism. their strong common sense compelled them to reject the puerilities advanced as serious evidence by the catholic church; but they cast aside with equal vehemence and more horror the doctrines of the bruno school. "that there are devils," says bullinger, reduced apparently from argument to invective, "the sadducees in times past denied, and at this day also some scarce religious, nay, rather epicures, deny the same; who, unless they repent, shall one day feel, to their exceeding great pain and smart, both that there are devils, and that they are the tormentors and executioners of all wicked men and epicures."[ ] [footnote : bullinger, fourth decade, th sermon, p. , parker society.] . it must be remembered, too, that the emancipation from medievalism was a very gradual process, not, as we are too prone to think it, a revolution suddenly and completely effected. it was an evolution, not an explosion. there is found, in consequence, a great divergence of opinion, not only between the earliest and the later reformers, but between the statements of the same man at different periods of his career. tyndale, for instance, seems to have believed in the actual possession of the human body by devils;[ ] and this appears to have been the opinion of the majority at the beginning of the reformation, for the first prayer-book of edward vi. contained the catholic form of exorcism for driving devils out of children, which was expunged upon revision, the doctrine of obsession having in the mean time triumphed over the older belief. it is necessary to bear these facts in mind whilst considering any attempt to depict the general bearings of a belief such as that in evil spirits; for many irreconcilable statements are to be found among the authorities; and it is the duty of the writer to sift out and describe those views which predominated, and these must not be supposed to be proved inaccurate because a chance quotation can be produced in contradiction. [footnote : i tyndale, p. . parker society.] . there is great danger, in the attempt to bring under analysis any phase of religious belief, that the method of treatment may appear unsympathetic if not irreverent. the greatest effort has been made in these pages to avoid this fault as far as possible; for, without doubt, any form of religious dogma, however barbarous, however seemingly ridiculous, if it has once been sincerely believed and trusted by any portion of mankind, is entitled to reverent treatment. no body of great and good men can at any time credit and take comfort from a lie pure and simple; and if an extinct creed appears to lack that foundation of truth which makes creeds tolerable, it is safer to assume that it had a meaning and a truthfulness, to those who held it, that lapse of time has tended to destroy, together with the creed itself, than to condemn men wholesale as knaves and hypocrites. but the particular subject which has here been dealt with will surely be considered to be specially entitled to respect, when it is remembered that it was once an integral portion of the belief of most of our best and bravest ancestors--of men and women who dared to witness to their own sincerity amidst the fires of persecution and in the solitude of exile. it has nearly all disappeared now. the terrific hierarchy of fiends, which was so real, so full of horror three hundred years ago[ ], has gradually vanished away before the advent of fuller knowledge and purer faith, and is now hardly thought of, unless as a dead mediaeval myth. but let us deal tenderly with it, remembering that the day may come when the beliefs that are nearest to our hearts may be treated as open to contempt or ridicule, and the dogmas to which we most passionately cling will, "like an insubstantial pageant faded, leave not a wrack behind." [footnote : perhaps the following prayer, contained in thomas becon's "pomander," shows more clearly than the comments of any critic the reality of the terror:-- "an infinite number of wicked angels there are, o lord christ, which without ceasing seek my destruction. against this exceeding great multitude of evil spirits send thou me thy blessed and heavenly angels, which may deliver me from then tyranny. thou, o lord, hast devoured hell, and overcome the prince of darkness and all his ministers; yea, and that not for thyself, but for those that believe in thee. suffer me not, therefore, to be overcome of satan and of his servants, but rather let me triumph over them, that i, through strong faith and help of the blessed angels, having the victory of the hellish army, may with a joyful heart say, death, where is thy sting? hell, where is thy victory?--and so for ever and ever magnify thy holy name. amen." parker society, p. .] * * * * * . little attempt has hitherto been made, in the way of direct proof, to show that fairies are really only a class of devils who exercise their powers in a manner less terrible and revolting than that depicted by theologians; and for this reason chiefly--that the proposition is already more than half established when it has been shown that the attributes and functions possessed by both fairy and devil are similar in kind, although differing in degree. this has already been done to a great extent in the preceding pages, where the various actions of puck and ariel have been shown to differ in no essential respect from those of the devils of the time; but before commencing to study this phase of supernaturalism in shakspere's works as a whole, and as indicative, to a certain extent, of the development of his thought upon the relation of man to the invisible world about and above him, it is necessary that this identity should be admitted without a shadow of a doubt. . it has been shown that fairies were probably the descendants of the lesser local deities, as devils were of the more important of the heathen gods that were overturned by the advancing wave of christianity, although in the course of time this distinction was entirely obliterated and forgotten. it has also been shown, as before mentioned, that many of the powers exercised by fairies were in their essence similar to those exercised by devils, especially that of appearing in divers shapes. these parallels could be carried out to an almost unlimited extent; but a few proofs only need be cited to show this identity. in the mediaeval romance of "king orfeo" fairyland has been substituted for the classical hades.[ ] king james, in his "daemonologie," adopts a fourfold classification of devils, one of which he names "phairie," and co-ordinates with the incubus.[ ] the name of the devil supposed to preside at the witches' sabbaths is sometimes given as hecat, diana, sybilla; sometimes queen of elfame,[ ] or fairie.[ ] indeed, shakspere's line in "the comedy of errors," had it not been unnecessarily tampered with by the critics-- "a fiend, a fairy, pitiless and rough,"[ ] would have conclusively proved this identity of character. [footnote : fairy mythology of shakspere, hazlitt, p. .] [footnote : daemonologie, p. . an instance of a fairy incubus is given in the "life of robin goodfellow," hazlitt's fairy mythology, p. .] [footnote : pitcairn, iii. p. .] [footnote : ibid. i. p. , and many other places.] [footnote : fairy has been altered to "fury," but compare peele, battle of alcazar: "fiends, fairies, hags that fight in beds of steel."] . the real distinction between these two classes of spirits depends on the condition of national thought upon the subject of supernaturalism in its largest sense. a belief which has little or no foundation upon indisputable phenomena must be continually passing through varying phases, and these phases will be regulated by the nature of the subjects upon which the attention of the mass of the people is most firmly concentrated. hence, when a nation has but one religious creed, and one that has for centuries been accepted by them, almost without question or doubt, faith becomes stereotyped, and the mind assumes an attitude of passive receptivity, undisturbed by doubts or questionings. under such conditions, a belief in evil spirits ever ready and watching to tempt a man into heresy of belief or sinful act, and thus to destroy both body and soul, although it may exist as a theoretic portion of the accepted creed, cannot possibly become a vital doctrine to be believed by the general public. it may exist as a subject for learned dispute to while away the leisure hours of divines, but cannot by any possibility obtain an influence over the thoughts and lives of their charges. mental disturbance on questions of doctrinal importance being, for these reasons, out of the question, the attention of the people is almost entirely riveted upon questions of material ease and advantage. the little lets and hindrances of every-day life in agricultural and domestic matters are the tribulations that appeal most incessantly to the ineradicable sense of an invisible power adverse to the interests of mankind, and consequently the class of evil spirits believed in at such a time will be fairies rather than devils--malicious little spirits, who blight the growing corn; stop the butter from forming in the churn; pinch the sluttish housemaid black and blue; and whose worst act is the exchange of the baby from its cot for a fairy changeling;--beings of a nature most exasperating to thrifty housewife and hard-handed farmer, but nevertheless not irrevocably prejudiced against humanity, and easily to be pacified and reduced into a state of fawning friendship by such little attentions as could be rendered without difficulty by the poorest cotter. the whole fairy mythology is perfumed with an honest, healthy, careless joy in life, and a freedom from mental doubt. "i love true lovers, honest men, good fellowes, good huswives, good meate, good drinke, and all things that good is, but nothing that is ill," declares robin goodfellow;[ ] and this jovial materialism only reflects the state of mind of the folk who were not unwilling to believe that this lively little spirit might be seen of nights busying himself in their houses by the dying embers of the deserted fire. [footnote : hazlitt, fairy mythology, p. .] . such seems to have been the condition of england immediately before the period of the great reformation. but with the progress of that revolution of thought the condition changes. the one true and eternal creed, as it had been deemed, is shattered for ever. men who have hitherto accepted their religious convictions in much the same way as they had succeeded to their patrimonies are compelled by this tide of opposition to think and study for themselves. each man finds himself left face to face with the great hereafter, and his relation to it. terrible doctrines are formulated, and press themselves with remorseless vigour upon his understanding--original sin, justification by faith, eternal damnation for even honest error of belief,--doctrines that throw an atmosphere of solemnity, if not gloom, about national thought, in which no fairy mythology can flourish. it is no longer questions of material ease and gain that are of the chief concern; and consequently the fairies and their doings, from their own triviality, fall far into the background, and their place is occupied by a countless horde of remorseless schemers, who are never ceasing in their efforts to drag both body and soul to perdition. . but it is in the towns, the centres of interchange of thought, of learning, and of controversy, that this revolution first gathers power; the sparsely populated country-sides are far more impervious to the new ideas, and the country people cling far longer and more tenaciously to the dying religion and its attendant beliefs. the rural districts were but little affected by the reformation for years after it had triumphed in the towns, and consequently the beliefs of the inhabitants were hardly touched by the struggle that was going on within so short a distance. we find a reginald scot, indeed, complaining, half in joke, half in sarcasm, that robin goodfellow has long disappeared from the land;[ ] but it is only from the towns that he has fled--towns in which the spirit of the cartwrights and the latimers, the barnhams and the delabers, is abroad. in the same cambridge where scot had been educated, a young student had hanged himself because the shadow of the doctrine of predestination was too terrible for him to live under;[ ] and such a place was surely no home for puck and his merry band. but in the country places, remote from the growl and trembling of this mental earthquake, he still loved to lurk; and even at the very moment when scot was penning the denial of his existence, he was nestling amongst the woods and flowers of avonside, and, invisible, whispering in the ear of a certain fair-haired youth there thoughts of no inconsiderable moment. and long time after that--after the youth had become a man, and had coined those thoughts into words that glitter still; after his monument had been erected in the quiet stratford churchyard--puck revelled, harmless and undisturbed, along many a country-side; nay, even to the present day, in some old-world nooks, a faint whispering rumour of him may still be heard. [footnote : scot, introduction.] [footnote : foxe, iv. p. .] . now, perhaps one of the most distinctive marks of literary genius is a certain receptivity of mind; a capability of receiving impressions from all surrounding circumstance--of extracting from all sources, whether from nature or man, consciously or unconsciously, the material upon which it shall work. for this process to be perfectly accomplished, an entire and enthusiastic sympathy with man and the current ideas of the time is absolutely essential, and in proportion as this sympathy is contracted and partial, so will the work produced be stunted and untrue; and, on the other hand, the more universal and entire it is, the more perfect and vital will be the art. bearing this in mind, and also the facts that shakspere's early training was effected in a little country village; that upon the verge of manhood, he came to london, where he spent his prime in contact with the bustle and friction of busy town life; and that the later years of his life were passed in the quiet retirement of the home of his boyhood--there would be good ground for an argument, _a priori_, even were there none of a more conclusive nature, that his earlier works would be found impregnated with the country fairy-myths with which his youth would come in contact; that the result of the labours of his middle life would show that these earlier reminiscenses had been gradually obliterated by the gloomier influence of ideas that were the result of the struggle of opposed theories that had not then ceased to rage in the towns, and that the diabolic element and questions relating thereto would predominate; and that, finally, his later works, written under the calmer influence of stratford life, would show a certain return to the fairy-lore of his earlier years. . but fortunately we are not left to rely upon any such hypothetical evidence in this matter, however probable it may appear. although the general reading public cannot be asked to accept as infallible any chronological order of shakspere's plays that dogmatically asserts a particular sequence, or to investigate the somewhat dry and specialist arguments upon which the conclusions are founded, yet there are certain groupings into periods which are agreed upon as accurate by nearly all critics, and which, without the slightest danger of error, may be asserted to be correct. for instance, it is indisputable that "love's labour's lost," "the comedy of errors," "romeo and juliet," and "a midsummer night's dream" are amongst shakspere's earliest works; that the tragedies of "julius caesar," "hamlet," "othello," "macbeth," and "lear" are the productions of his middle life, between and ; and that "a winter's tale" and "the tempest" are amongst the latest plays which he wrote.[ ] here we have everything that is required to prove the question in hand. at the commencement and at the end of his writings--when a youth fresh from the influence of his country nurture and education, and when a mature man, settling down into the old life again after a long and victorious struggle with the world, with his accumulated store of experience--we find plays which are perfectly saturated with fairy-lore: "the dream" and "the tempest." these are the poles of shakspere's thought in this respect; and in the centre, imbedded as it were between two layers of material that do not bear any distinctive stamp of their own, but appear rather as a medium for uniting the diverse strata, lie the great tragedies, produced while he was in the very rush and swirl of town life, and reflecting accurately, as we have seen, many of the doubts and speculations that were agitating the minds of men who were ardently searching out truth. it is worth noting too, in passing, that directly shakspere steps out of his beaten path to depict, in "the merry wives of windsor," the happy country life and manners of his day, he at the same time returns to fairyland again, and brings out the windsor children trooping to pinch and plague the town-bred, tainted falstaff. [footnote : for an elaborate and masterly investigation of the question of the chronological order of the plays, which must be assumed here, see mr. furnivall's introduction to the leopold shakspere.] . but this is not by any means all that this subject reveals to us about shakspere; if it were, the less said about it the better. to look upon "the tempest" as in its essence merely a return to "the dream"--the end as the beginning; to believe that his thoughts worked in a weary, unending circle--that the valley of the shadow of death only leads back to the foot of the hill difficulty--is intolerable, and not more intolerable than false. although based upon similar material, the ideas and tendencies of "the tempest" upon supernaturalism are no more identical with those of "a midsummer night's dream" than the thoughts of berowne upon things in general are those of hamlet, or hamlet's those of prospero. but before it is possible to point out the nature of this difference, and to show that the change is a natural growth of thought, not a mere retrogression, a few explanatory remarks are necessary. there is no more insufficient and misleading view of shakspere and his work than that which until recently obtained almost universal credence, and is even at the present time somewhat loudly asserted in some quarters; namely, that he was a man of considerable genius, who wrote and got acted some thirty plays more or less, simply for commercial purposes and nothing more; made money thereby, and died leaving a will; and that, beyond this, he and his works are, and must remain, an inexplicable mystery. the critic who holds this view, and finds it equally advantageous to commence a study of shakspere's work by taking "the tempest" or "love's labour's lost" as his text, is about as judicious as the botanist who would enlarge upon the structure of the seed-pod without first explaining the preliminary stages of plant growth, or the architect who would dilate upon the most convenient arrangement of chimney-pots before he had discussed the laws of foundation. the plays may be studied separately, and studied so are found beautiful; but taken in an approximate chronological order, like a string of brilliant jewels, each one gains lustre from those that precede and follow it. . for no man ever wrote sincerely and earnestly, or indeed ever did any one thing in such a spirit, without leaving some impress upon his work of his mental condition whilst he was doing it; and no such man ever continued his literary labours from the period of youth right through his manhood, without leaving behind him, in more or less legible character, a record of the ripening of his thought upon matters of eternal importance, although they may not be of necessity directly connected with the ostensible subject in hand. insincere men may ape sentiments they do not really believe in; but in the end they will either be exposed and held up to ridicule, or their work will sink into obscurity. sincerity in the expression of genuine thought and feeling alone can stand the test of time. and this is in reality no contradiction to what has just been said as to the necessity of a receptive condition of mind in the production of works of true genius. this capacity of receiving the most delicate objective impressions is, indeed, one essential; but without the cognate power to assimilate this food, and evolve the result that these influences have produced subjectively, it is, worse than useless. the two must co-exist and act and react upon one another. nor must we be induced to surrender these principles, in the present particular case, on account of the usual fine but vague talk about shakspere's absolute self-annihilation in favour of the characters that he depicts. it is said that shakspere so identifies himself with each person in his dramas, that it is impossible to detect the great master and his thoughts behind this cunningly devised screen. if this means that shakespere has always a perfect comprehension of his characters, is competent to measure out to each absolute and unerring justice, and is capable of sympathy with even the most repulsive, it will not be disputed for an instant. it is so true, that it is dangerous to take a sentence out of the mouth of any one of his characters and say for certain, "this shakspere thought," although there are many characters with whom every one must feel that shakspere identified himself for the time being rather than others. but if it is intended to assert that shakspere has so eliminated himself from his writings as to make it impossible to trace anywhere the tendencies of his own thought at the time when he was writing, it must be most emphatically denied for the reasons just stated. freedom from prejudice must be carefully dissociated from lack of interest in the motive that underlies the construction of each play. there is a tone or key-note in each drama that indicates the author's mental condition at the time when it was produced; and if several plays, following each other in brisk succession, all have the same predominant tone, it seems to be past question that shakspere is incidentally and indirectly uttering his own personal thought and experience. . if it be granted, then, that it is possible to follow thus the growth of shakspere's thought through the medium of his successive works, there is only one small point to be glanced at before attempting to trace this growth in the matter of supernaturalism. the natural history of the evolution of opinion upon matters which, for want of a more embracing and satisfactory word, we must be content to call "religious," follows a uniform course in the minds of all men, except those "duller than the fat weed that roots itself at ease on lethe's wharf," who never get beyond the primary stage. this course is separable into three periods. the first is that in which a man accepts unhesitatingly the doctrines which he has received from his spiritual teachers--customary not intellectual, belief. this sits lightly on him; entails no troublesome doubts and questionings; possesses, or appears to possess, formulae to meet all possible emergencies, and consequently brings with it a happiness that is genuine, though superficial. but this customary belief rarely satisfies for long. contact with the world brings to light other and opposed theories: introspection and independent investigation of the bases of the hereditary faith are commenced; many doctrines that have been hitherto accepted as eternally and indisputably true are found to rest upon but slight foundation, apart from their title to respect on account of age; doubts follow as to the claim to acceptance of the whole system that has been so easily and unhesitatingly swallowed; and the period of scepticism, or no-belief, with its attendant misery, commences--for although dagon has been but little honoured in the time of his strength, in his downfall he is much regretted. then comes that long, weary groping after some firm, reliable basis of belief: but heaven and earth appear for the time to conspire against the seeker; an intellectual flood has drowned out the old order of things; not even a mountain peak appears in the wide waste of desolation as assurance of ultimate rest; and in the dark, overhanging firmament no arc of promise is to be seen. but this is a state of mind which, from its very nature, cannot continue for ever: no man could endure it. while it lasts the struggle must be continuous, but somewhere through the cloud lies the sunshine and the land of peace--the final period of intellectual belief. out of the chaos comes order; ideas that but recently appeared confused, incoherent, and meaningless assume their true perspective. it is found that all the strands of the old conventional faith have not been snapped in the turmoil; and these, re-knit and strengthened with the new and full knowledge of experience and investigation, form the cable that secures that strange holy confidence of belief that can only be gained by a preliminary warfare with doubt--a peace that truly passes all understanding to those who have never battled for it,--as to its foundation, diverse to a miracle in diverse minds, but still, a peace. . if this be a true history of the course of development of every mind that is capable of independent thought upon and investigation of such high matters, it follows that shakspere's soul must have experienced a similar struggle--for he was a man of like passions with ourselves; indeed, to so acute and sensitive a mind the struggle would be, probably, more prolonged and more agonizing than to many; and it is these three mental conditions--first, of unthinking acceptance of generally received teaching; second, of profound and agitating scepticism; and, thirdly, of belief founded upon reason and experience--that may be naturally expected to be found impressed upon his early, middle, and later works. . it is impossible here to do more than indicate some of the evidence that this supposition is correct, for to attempt to investigate the question exhaustively would involve the minute consideration of a majority of the plays. the period of shakspere's customary or conventional belief is illustrated in "a midsummer night's dream," and to a certain extent also in the "comedy of errors." in the former play we find him loyally accepting certain phases of the hereditary stratford belief in supernaturalism, throwing them into poetical form, and making them beautiful. it has often before been observed, and it is well worthy of observation, that of the three groups of characters in the play, the country folk--a class whose manner and appearance had most vividly reflected themselves upon the camera of shakspere's mind--are by far the most lifelike and distinct; the fairies, who had been the companions of his childhood and youth in countless talks in the ingle and ballads in the lanes, come second in prominence and finish; whilst the ostensible heroes and heroines of the piece, the aristocrats of athens, are colourless and uninteresting as a dumb-show--the real shadows of the play. this is exactly the ratio of impressionability that the three classes would have for the mind of the youthful dramatist. the first is a creation from life, the second from traditionary belief, the third from hearsay. and when it has been said that the fairies are a creation from traditionary belief, a full and accurate description of them has been afforded. they are an embodiment of a popular superstition, and nothing more. they do not conceal any thought of the poet who has created them, nor are they used for any deeper purpose with regard to the other persons of the drama than temporary and objectless annoyance. throughout the whole play runs a healthy, thoughtless, honest, almost riotous happiness; no note of difficulty, no shadow of coming doubt being perceptible. the pert and nimble spirit of mirth is fully awakened; the worst tricks of the intermeddling spirits are mischievous merely, and of only transitory influence, and "the summer still doth tend upon their state," brightening this fairyland with its sunshine and flowers. man has absolutely no power to govern these supernatural powers, and they have but unimportant influence over him. they can affect his comfort, but they cannot control his fate. but all this is merely an adapting and elaborating of ideas which had been handed down from father to son for many generations. shakspere's puck is only the puck of a hundred ballads reproduced by the hand of a true poet; no original thought upon the connection of the visible with the invisible world is imported into the creation. all these facts tend to show that when shakspere wrote "a midsummer night's dream," that is, at the beginning of his career as a dramatic author, he had not broken away from the trammels of the beliefs in which he had been brought up, but accepted them unhesitatingly and joyously. . but there is a gradual toning down of this spirit of unbroken content as time wears on. putting aside the historical plays, in which shakspere was much more bound down by his subject-matter than in any other species of drama, we find the comedies, in which his room for expression of individual feeling was practically unlimited, gradually losing their unalloyed hilarity, and deepening down into a sadness of thought and expression that sometimes leaves a doubt whether the plays should be classed as comedies at all. shakspere has been more and more in contact with the disputes and doubts of the educated men of his time, and seeds have been silently sowing themselves in his heart, which are soon to bring forth a plenteous harvest in the great tragedies of which these semi-comedies, such as "all's well that ends well" and "measure for measure," are but the first-fruits. . thus, when next we find shakspere dealing with questions relating to supernaturalism, the tone is quite different from that taken in his earlier work. he has reached the second period of his thought upon the subject, and this has cast its attendant gloom upon his writings. that he was actually battling with questions current in his time is demonstrated by the way in which, in three consecutive plays, derived from utterly diverse sources, the same question of ghost or devil is agitated, as has before been pointed out. but it is not merely a point of theological dogma which stamps these plays as the product of shakspere's period of scepticism, but a theory of the influence of supernatural beings upon the whole course of human life. man is still incapable of influencing these unseen forces, or bending them to his will; but they are now no longer harmless, or incapable of anything but temporary or trivial evil. puck might lead night wanderers into mischance, and laugh mischievously at the bodily harm that he had caused them; but puck has now disappeared, and in his stead is found a malignant spirit, who seeks to laugh his fiendish laughter over the soul he has deceived into destruction. questions arise thick and fast that are easier put than answered. can it be that evil influences have the upper hand in this world? that, be a man never so honest, never so pure, he may nevertheless become the sport of blind chance or ruthless wickedness? may a hamlet, patiently struggling after truth and duty, be put upon and abused by the darker powers? may macbeth, who would fain do right, were not evil so ever present with him, be juggled with and led to destruction by fiends? may an undistinguishing fate sweep away at once the good with the evil--hamlet with laertes; desdemona with iago; cordelia with edmund? and above the turmoil of this reign of terror, is there no word uttered of a supreme good guiding and controlling the unloosed ill--no word of encouragement, none of hope? if this be so indeed, that man is but the puppet of malignant spirits, away with this life. it is not worth the living; for what power has man against the fiends? but at this point arises a further question to demand solution: what shall be hereafter? if evil is supreme here, shall it not be so in that undiscovered country,--that life to come? the dreams that may come give him pause, and he either shuffles on, doubting, hesitating, and incapable of decision, or he hurls himself wildly against his fate. in either case his life becomes like to a tale "told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying--nothing!" . it is strange to note, too, how the ebb of this wave of scepticism upon questions relating to the immaterial world is only recoil that adds force to a succeeding wave of cynicism with regard to the physical world around. "hamlet," "macbeth," and "othello" give place to "lear," "troilus and cressida," "antony and cleopatra," and "timon." so true is it that "unfaith in aught is want of faith in all," that in these later plays it would seem that honour, honesty, and justice were virtues not possessed by man or woman; or, if possessed, were only a curse to bring down disgrace and destruction upon the possessor. contrast the women of these plays with those of the comedies immediately preceding the hamlet period. in the latter plays we find the heroines, by their sweet womanly guidance and gentle but firm control, triumphantly bringing good out of evil in spite of adverse circumstance. beatrice, rosalind, viola, helena, and isabella are all, not without a tinge of knight-errantry that does not do the least violence to the conception of tender, delicate womanhood, the good geniuses of the little worlds in which their influence is made to be felt. events must inevitably have gone tragically but for their intervention. but with the advent of the second period all this changes. at first the women, like brutus' portia, ophelia, desdemona, however noble or sweet in character and well meaning in motive, are incapable of grasping the guiding threads of the events around them and controlling them for good. they have to give way to characters of another kind, who bear the form without the nature of women. commencing with lady macbeth, the conception falls lower and lower, through goneril and regan, cressida, cleopatra, until in the climax of this utter despair, "timon," there is no character that it would not be a profanity to call by the name of woman. . and just as womanly purity and innocence quail before unwomanly self-assertion and voluptuousness, so manly loyalty and unselfishness give way before unmanly treachery and self-seeking. it is true that the bad men do not finally triumph, but they triumph over the good with whom they happen to come in contact. in "king lear," what man shows any virtue who does not receive punishment for the same? not gloucester, whose loyal devotion to his king obtains for him a punishment that is only merciful in that it prevents him from further suffering the sight of his beloved master's misery; not kent, who, faithful in his self-denying service through all manner of obloquy, is left at last with a prayer that he may be allowed to follow lear to the grave; and beyond these two there is little good to be found. but "lear" is not by any means the climax. the utter despair of good in man or woman rises higher in "troilus and cressida," and reaches its culminating point in "timon," a fragment only of which is shakspere's. the pen fell from the tired hand; the worn and distracted brain refused to fulfil the task of depicting the depth to which the poet's estimate of mankind had fallen; and we hardly know whether to rejoice or to regret that the clumsy hand of an inferior writer has screened from our knowledge the full disclosure of the utter and contemptuous cynicism and want of faith with which, for the time being, shakspere was infected. . before passing on to consider the plays of the third period as evidence of shakspere's final thought, it will be well to pause and re-read with attention a summing-up of shakspere's teaching as it has been presented to us by one of the greatest and most earnest teachers of morality of the present day. every word that mr. ruskin writes is so evidently from the depth of his own good heart, and every doctrine that he enunciates so pure in theory and so true in practice, that a difference with him upon the final teaching of shakspere's work cannot be too cautiously expressed. but the estimate of this which he has given in the third lecture of "sesame and lilies"[ ] is so painful, if regarded as shakspere's latest and most mature opinion, that everybody, even mr. ruskin himself, would be glad to modify its gloom with a few rays of hope, if it were possible to do so. "what then," says mr. ruskin, "is the message to us of our own poet and searcher of hearts, after fifteen hundred years of christian faith have been numbered over the graves of men? are his words more cheerful than the heathen's (homer)? is his hope more near, his trust more sure, his reading of fate more happy? ah no! he differs from the heathen poet chiefly in this, that he recognizes for deliverance no gods nigh at hand, and that, by petty chance, by momentary folly, by broken message, by fool's tyranny, or traitor's snare, the strongest and most righteous are brought to their ruin, and perish without word of hope. he, indeed, as part of his rendering of character, ascribes the power and modesty of habitual devotion to the gentle and the just. the death-bed of katharine is bright with visions of angels; and the great soldier-king, standing by his few dead, acknowledges the presence of the hand that can save alike by many or by few. but observe that from those who with deepest spirit meditate, and with deepest passion mourn, there are no such words as these; nor in their hearts are any such consolations. instead of the perpetual sense of the helpful presence of the deity, which, through all heathen tradition, is the source of heroic strength, in battle, in exile, and in the valley of the shadow of death, we find only in the great christian poet the consciousness of a moral law, through which 'the gods are just, and of our pleasant vices make instruments to scourge us;' and of the resolved arbitration of the destinies, that conclude into precision of doom what we feebly and blindly began; and force us, when our indiscretion serves us, and our deepest plots do pall, to the confession that 'there's a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will.'"[ ] [footnote : rd edition, § .] [footnote : mr. ruskin has analyzed "the tempest," in "munera pulveris," § , et seqq., but from another point of view.] . now, it is perfectly clear that this criticism was written with two or three plays, all belonging to one period, very conspicuously before the mind. of the illustrative exceptions that are made to the general rule, one is derived from a play which shakspere wrote at a very early date, and the other from a scene which he almost certainly never wrote at all; the whole of the rest of the passage quoted is founded upon "hamlet," "macbeth," "othello," and "lear"--that is, upon the earlier productions of what we must call shakspere's sceptical period. but these plays represent an essentially transient state of thought. shakspere was to learn and to teach that those who most deeply meditate and most passionately mourn are not the men of noblest or most influential character--that such may command our sympathy, but hardly our respect or admiration. still less did shakspere finally assert, although for a time he believed, that a blind destiny concludes into precision what we feebly and blindly begin. far otherwise and nobler was his conception of man and his mission, and the unseen powers and their influences, in the third and final stage of his thought. . had shakspere lived longer, he would doubtless have left us a series of plays filled with the bright and reassuring tenderness and confidence of this third period, as long and as brilliant in execution as those of the second period. but as it is we are in possession of quite enough material to enable us to form accurate conclusions upon the state of his final thought. it is upon "the tempest" that we must in the main rely for an exposition of this; for though the other plays and fragments fully exhibit the restoration of his faith in man and woman, which was a necessary concurrence with his return from scepticism, yet it is in "the tempest" that he brings himself as nearly face to face as dramatic possibilities would allow him with circumstances that admit of the indirect expression of such thought. it is fortunate, too, for the purpose of comparing shakspere's earliest and latest opinions, that the characters of "the tempest" are divisible into the same groups as those of "the dream." the gross _canaille_ are represented, but now no longer the most accurate in colour and most absorbing in interest of the characters of the play, or unessential to the evolution of the plot. they have a distinct importance in the movement of the piece, and represent the unintelligent, material resistance to the work of regeneration that prospero seeks to carry out, and which must be controlled by him, just as sebastian and antonio form the intelligent, designing resistance. the spirit world is there too, but they, like the former class, have no independent plot of their own, and no independent operation against mankind; they only represent the invisible forces over which prospero must assert control if he would insure success for his schemes. ariel is, perhaps, one of the most extraordinary of all shakspere's creations. he is, indeed, formed upon a basis half fairy, half devil, because it was only through the current notions upon demonology that shakspere could speak his ideas. but he certainly is not a fairy in the sense that puck is a fairy; and he is very far indeed from bearing even a slight resemblance to the familiars whom the magicians of the time professed to call from the vasty deep. he is indeed but air, as prospero says--the embodiment of an idea, the representative of those invisible forces which operate as factors in the shaping of events which, ignored, may prove resistant or fatal, but, properly controlled and guided, work for good.[ ] lastly, there are the heroes and heroine of the play, now no longer shadows, but the centres of interest and admiration, and assuming their due position and prominence. [footnote : it is difficult to accept mr. ruskin's view of ariel as "the spirit of generous and free-hearted service" (mun. pul. § ); he is throughout the play the more-than-half-unwilling agent of prospero.] . it is probable, therefore, that it is not merely a student's fancy that in prospero's storm-girt, spirit-haunted island can be seen shakspere's final and matured image of the mighty world. if this be so, how far more bright and hopeful it is than the verdict which mr. ruskin finds shakspere to have returned. man is no longer "a pipe for fortune's fingers to sound what stop she please." the evil elements still exist in the world, and are numerous and formidable; but man, by nobleness of life and word, by patience and self-mastery, can master them, bring them into subjection, and make them tend to eventual good. caliban, the gross, sensual, earthly element--though somewhat raised--would run riot, and is therefore compelled to menial service. the brute force of stephano and trinculo is vanquished by mental superiority. even the supermundane spirits, now no longer thirsting for the destruction of body and soul, are bound down to the work of carrying out the decrees of truth and justice. man is no longer the plaything, but the master of his fate; and he, seeing now the possible triumph of good over evil, and his duty to do his best in aid of this triumph, has no more fear of the dreams--the something after death. our little life is still rounded by a sleep, but the thought which terrifies hamlet has no power to affright prospero. the hereafter is still a mystery, it is true; he has tried to see into it, and has found it impenetrable. but revelation has come like an angel, with peace upon its wings, in another and an unexpected way. duty lies here, in and around him in this world. here he can right wrong, succour the weak, abase the proud, do something to make the world better than he found it; and in the performance of this he finds a holier calm than the vain strivings after the unknowable could ever afford. let him work while it is day, for "the night cometh, when no man can work." . it is not a piece of pure sentimentality that sees in prospero a type of shakspere in his final stage of thought. it is a type altogether as it should be; and it is pleasing to think of him, in the full maturity of his manhood, wrapping his seer's cloak about him, and, while waiting calmly the unfolding of the mystery which he has sought in vain to solve, watching with noble benevolence the gradual working out of truth, order, and justice. it is pleasing to think of him as speaking to the world the great christian doctrine so universally overlooked by christians, that the only remedy for sin demanded by eternal justice "is nothing but heart's sorrow, and a clear life ensuing"--a speech which, though uttered by ariel, is spoken by prospero, who himself beautifully iterates part of the doctrine when he says-- "the rarer action is in virtue than in vengeance: they being penitent, the sole drift of my purpose doth extend not a frown further."[ ] it is pleasant to dwell upon his sympathy with ferdinand and miranda--for the love of man and woman is pure and holy in this regenerate world: no more of troilus and cressida--upon his patient waiting for the evolution of his schemes; upon his faith in their ultimate success; and, above all, upon the majestic and unaffected reverence that appears indirectly in every line--"reverence," to adapt the words of the great teacher whose opinion about shakspere has been perhaps too rashly questioned, "for what is pure and bright in youth; for what is true and tried in age; for all that is gracious among the living, great among the dead, and marvellous in the powers that cannot die." [footnote : v. l. .] shakespeare and music with illustrations from the music of the th and th centuries by edward w. naylor, m.a., mus. bac. london j.m. dent & co., aldine house, e.c. _all rights reserved._ [transcriber's notes: . the original text uses a "fraction" format for citations to shakespeare's plays, e.g.: _rom._ ----- , for clarity, in this e-text the "fractions" have been converted to a one-line citation, e.g., _rom._ iii, v, (signifying act iii, scene v, line ). where the original does not use the fraction format, the citation style has not been altered. . the original text sometimes misspells "passamezzo" as "passemezzo" and "viol da gamba" as "viol de gamba." these have been corrected in this e-text. . the original text inconsistently uses a breve over the e in "parthenia" and "passameso." for clarity, the breve has been removed in this e-text, as it is not part of the usual spelling of these words, and has in fact been omitted from the revised edition of the book.] preface this book contains little that is not tolerably well known both to shakespeare scholars and musicians who have any acquaintance with the history of music. it is hoped that it may be of some use to a large class of students of shakespeare who have no opportunity to gather up the general information which will be found here. the author also ventures to believe that some brother musicians will be gratified to see at one view what a liberal treatment the great poet has given to our noble art. it will be observed that settings of shakespearian songs of a later date than the generation immediately succeeding shakespeare's death are not noticed. the large number of settings of the th century, by such men as arne, though interesting musically, have nothing whatever to do with the student of shakespeare and the circumstances of his time. it can only be regretted that so much of the original music seems to have perished. the author is greatly indebted to mr aldis wright, who has kindly looked through the work in ms., and contributed one or two interesting notes, which are acknowledged in the proper place. london, _march _. contents page description of frontispiece ix introductory technical terms and instruments musical education songs and singing serenades and 'music' dances and dancing pythagoreanism, etc. use of musical stage directions appendix description of frontispiece [illustration] [i am indebted for the arrangement of this picture to the kindness of the authorities at south kensington museum, where all these instruments may be found, except the pipe and cornet, which belong to my friend, mr w.f.h. blandford.] _in the middle, on table._ queen elizabeth's 'virginal.' date, latter half of th century. outside of case (not visible in picture) covered with red velvet. inside finely decorated. has three locks. is more properly a spinet, the case not being square, but of the usual spinet shape--viz., one long side (front view), and four shorter ones forming a rough semi-circle at back. _top row, counting from the right._ . tabor-pipe. modern, but similar to the elizabethan instrument. french name, 'galoubet.' merely a whistle, cylindrical bore, and holes, two in front, one (for thumb) behind. the scale is produced on the basis of the st harmonic--thus holes are sufficient. it was played with left hand only, the tabor being hung to the left wrist, and beaten with a stick in the right hand. length _over all_ of pipe in picture, ft. - / in.; speaking length, ft. - / in.; lowest note in use, b flat above treble staff. mersennus ( ), however, says the tabor-pipe was in g, which makes it larger than the one in the picture. a contemporary woodcut (in calmour's 'fact and fiction about shakespeare') of william kemp, one of shakespeare's fellow-actors, dancing the morris, to tabor and pipe, makes the pipe as long as from mouth to waist--viz., about inches, which agrees with mersennus. a similar woodcut in 'orchésographie' makes the pipe even longer. both represent pipe as conical, like oboe. the length of the tabor, in these two woodcuts, seems to be about ft. in., and the breadth, across the head, or in. no snare in the english woodcut, but the french one has a snare. . cornet (treble), date th or th century. tube slightly curved, external shape octagonal, bore conical. cupped mouthpiece of horn, holes, and one behind for thumb. lowest note, a under treble staff. . recorder. large beak-flute of dark wood. three joints, not including beak. the beak has a hole at the back, covered with a thin skin, which vibrates and gives a slight reediness to the tone. the usual finger holes in front, a thumb hole behind, and a right-or-left little-finger hole in lowest joint. . small french treble viol, th century. _back view_, same shape as of all other viols of whatever size. strings, frets. . treble viol, as used in england and italy; label inside--andreas (?) amati, cremona, . _side view_, shews carved head and flat back. strings, frets, ivory nut. . tenor viol. english, late th century. _front view_, shewing sloping shoulders. strings, frets, plain head. . viol da gamba bow. ancient shape. no screw. this shape in use later than . . violoncello bow. modern shape, with screw. _bottom row, counting from left._ . bass viol, or viol da gamba, or division viol. italian, . carved head, inlaid fingerboard, carved and inlaid tailpiece. strings, frets. . lute. italian, . three plain holes in belly, obliquely. ornamental back. flat head. pegs turned with key from behind. strings--viz., single (treble), doubles, single, and singles off the fingerboard (basses). frets. . arch lute. italian, th century. strings, on lower neck, on higher, off the fingerboard. the latter are 'basses,' and probably half of them duplicates. frets on neck, more on belly. introductory a principal character of the works of a very great author is, that in them each man can find that for which he seeks, and in a form which includes his own view. with shakespeare, as one of the greatest of the great, this is pre-eminently the case. one reader looks for simply dramatic interest, another for natural philosophy, and a third for morals, and each is more than satisfied with the treatment of his own special subject. it is scarcely a matter of surprise, therefore, that the musical student should look in shakespeare for music, and find it treated of from several points of view, completely and accurately. this is the more satisfactory, as no subject in literature has been treated with greater scorn for accuracy, or general lack of real interest, than this of music. this statement will admit of comparatively few exceptions, one of which must here be mentioned. the author of "john inglesant," mr shorthouse, whether he "crammed" his music or not, has in that book given a lively and quite accurate picture of the art as practised about charles i.'s time. there is no need here to name the many well-known writers who have spoken of music with a lofty disregard for facts and parade of ignorance which, displayed in any other matter, would have brought on them the just contempt of any reviewer. the student of music in shakespeare is bound to view the subject in two different ways, the first purely historical, the second (so to speak) psychological. as for the first, the most superficial comparison of the plays alone, with the records of the practice and social position of the musical art in elizabethan times, shews that shakespeare is in every way a trustworthy guide in these matters; while, as for the second view, there are many most interesting passages which treat of music from the emotional standpoint, and which clearly shew his thorough personal appreciation of its higher and more spiritual qualities. hamlet tells us, and we believe, often without clearly understanding, that players are _the abstracts and brief chronicles of the time_, and that the end of playing, both at the first and now, was, and is, to hold the mirror up to nature, and _to shew the very age and body of the time, his form and pressure_. the study of this one feature of the "age and body" of shakespeare's time, with the view of clearly grasping the extreme accuracy of the "abstract and brief chronicle" to be found in his works, will surely go some way to give definiteness and force to our ideas of shakespeare's magnificent grip of all other phases of thought and of action. the argument recommends itself--"if he is trustworthy in this subject, he is trustworthy in all." to a professional reader at all events, it argues very much indeed in a writer's favour, that the "layman" has managed to write the simplest sentence about a specialty, without some more or less serious blunder. finally, no shakespeare student will deny that some general help is necessary, when schmidt's admirable lexicon commits itself to such a misleading statement as that a virginal is a kind of small pianoforte, and when a very distinguished shakespeare scholar has allowed a definition of a viol as a six-stringed guitar to appear in print under his name. out of thirty-seven plays of shakespeare, there are no less than thirty-two which contain interesting references to music and musical matters _in the text itself_. there are also over three hundred stage directions which are musical in their nature, and these occur in thirty-six out of thirty-seven plays. the musical references in the text are most commonly found in the comedies, and are generally the occasion or instrument of word-quibbling and witticisms; while the musical stage directions belong chiefly to the tragedies, and are mostly of a military nature. as it is indispensable that the student of shakespeare and music should have a clear idea of the social status and influence of music in shakespearian times, here follows a short sketch of the history of this subject, which the reader is requested to peruse with the deliberate object of finding every detail confirmed in shakespeare's works. music in social life. (_temp., th and th centuries._) morley, "plain and easy introduction to practical music," , pp. and . here we read of a dinner-party, or "banket," at which the conversation was entirely about music. also--after supper--_according to custom_--"parts" were handed round by the hostess. philomathes has to make many excuses as to his vocal inability, and finally is obliged to confess that he cannot sing at all. at this the rest of the company "wonder"--and some whisper to their neighbours, "how was he brought up?" phil. is ashamed--and goes to seek gnorimus the music-master. the master is surprised to see him--as phil. has heretofore distinguished himself by inveighing against music as a "corrupter of good manners, and an allurement to vices." phil.'s experience of the supper-party has so far changed his views that he wishes as soon as may be to change his character of stoic for that of pythagorean. thereupon the master begins to teach him from the very beginning, "as though he were a child." then follows a long lesson--which is brought to an end by philomathes giving farewell to the master as thus--"sir, i thanke you, and meane so diligently to practise till our next meeting, that then i thinke i shall be able to render you a full account of all which you have told me, till the which time i wish you such contentment of mind and ease of body as you desire to yourselfe (master's health had been very bad for long enough) or mothers use to wish to their children." the master replies--"i thanke you: and assure your selfe it will not be the smallest part of my contentment to see my schollers go towardly forward in their studies, which i doubt not but you will doe, if you take but reasonable pains in practise." later on in the third part (p. ) phil.'s brother polymathes comes with him to gnorimus for a lesson in descant--_i.e._, the art of extemporaneously adding a part to the written plainsong.[ ] this brother had had lessons formerly from a master who carried a plainsong book in his pocket, and caused him to do the like; "and so walking in the fields, hee would sing the plaine song, and cause me to sing the descant, etc." polymathes tells us also that his master had a friend, a descanter himself, who used often to drop in--but "never came in my maister's companie ... but they fell to contention.... what? (saith the one), you keepe not time in your proportions: you sing them false (saith the other), what proportion is this? (saith hee), sesqui-_paltery_ (saith the other): nay (would the other say), you sing you know not what, it shoulde seeme you came latelie from a barber's shop, where you had _gregory walker_ (derisive name for 'quadrant pavan,' 'which was most common 'mongst the barbars and fidlers') or a _curranta_ plaide in the new proportions by them lately found out, called sesqui-_blinda_, and sesqui-_harken-after_." [footnote : see appendix.] [these mocking terms, sesqui-_paltery_, sesqui-_blinda_, and sesqui-_harken-after_, are perversions of names of "proportions" used in the th century--as, sesqui-_altera_ ( equal notes against ).] we find, on p. , that both philomathes and polymathes are young university gentlemen--looking forward hereafter to be "admitted to the handling of the weightie affaires of the common wealth." the lessons end with their request to the master to give them "some songes which may serve both to direct us in our compositions, and by singing them recreate us after our more serious studies." thus we find that in elizabeth's reign it was the "custom" for a lady's guests to sing unaccompanied music from "parts," after supper; and that inability to take "a part" was liable to remark from the rest of the company, and indeed that such inability cast doubt on the person having any title to education at all. we find that one music master was accustomed to have his gentleman pupils so constantly "in his company" that they would practise their singing while "walking in the fields." finally--that part-singing from written notes, and also the extempore singing of a second part (descant) to a written plainsong, was a diversion of such young university gentlemen, and was looked on as a proper form of recreation after hard reading. in the th century music was considered an _essential_ part of a clergyman's education. a letter from sir john harrington to prince henry (brother of charles i.) about dr john still, bishop of bath and wells in , says that no one "could be admitted to _primam tonsuram_, except he could first _bene le bene con bene can_, as they called it, which is to read well, to conster [construe] well, and to _sing well_, in which last he hath good judgment." [the three _bene's_ are of course _le-gere, con-struere, can-tare_.] also, according to hawkins (history of music, p. ), the statutes of trinity college, cambridge, founded by henry viii., make part of the examination of candidates for fellowships to be in "quid in cantando possint"; indeed, _all members were supposed capable of singing a part in choir service_.[ ] [footnote : this statement of hawkins' seems a little exaggerated. mr aldis wright tells me that the statutes provided for an examination in singing for candidates for fellowships, and that ability gave a candidate an advantage, in case of equality. singing was not required of all candidates, but the subject was considered on the fourth day of the examination, along with the essay and verse composition.] (long before this, in , thomas saintwix, _doctor in music_, was elected master of king's college, cambridge.) accordingly, we find henry viii., who, as a younger brother, was intended for the church, and eventually for the see of canterbury, was a good practical musician. erasmus says he composed offices for the church. an anthem, "o lord, the maker of all things," is ascribed to him; and hawkins gives a motet in three parts by the king, "quam pulchra es." chappell's old english popular music gives a passage from a letter of pasqualigo the ambassador-extraordinary, dated about , which says that henry viii. "plays well on the lute and virginals, sings from book at sight," etc. also in vol. i. are given two part-songs by the king, 'pastyme with good companye' and 'wherto shuld i expresse.' a somewhat unclerical amusement of henry viii.'s is related by sir john harrington (temp. james i.). an old monkish rhyme, "the blacke saunctus, or monkes hymn to saunte satane," was set to music in a canon of three parts by harrington's father (who had married a natural daughter of henry viii.); and king henry was used "in pleasaunt moode to sing it." for the music and words, see hawkins, pp. and . anne boleyn was an enthusiastic musician, and, according to hawkins, "doted on the compositions of jusquin and mouton, and had collections of them made for the private practice of herself and her maiden companions." it appears from the diary of king edward vi. that he was a musician, as he mentions playing on the lute before the french ambassador as one of the several accomplishments which he displayed before that gentleman, july th, . there is also a letter from queen catherine (of arragon), the mother of queen mary, in which she exhorts her "to use her virginals and lute, if she has any." as for elizabeth, there is abundant evidence that she was a good virginal player. the best known ms. collection of virginal music (that in the fitzwilliam museum at cambridge) has at least always been known as queen elizabeth's virginal book, and the following quaint story is quoted by hawkins from melvil's memoirs (lond. ). "the same day, after dinner, my lord of hunsdean drew me up to a quiet gallery that i might hear some music (but he said he durst not avow it), where i might hear the queen play upon the virginals. after i had hearkened a while i took by [aside] the tapestry that hung before the door of the chamber, and stood a pretty space, hearing her play excellently well; but she left off immediately so soon as she turned her about and saw me. she appeared to be surprised to see me, and came forward, seeming to strike me with her hand, alledging she was not used to play before men, but when she was solitary to shun melancholy." [queen elizabeth's virginal is in south kensington museum.] to go on with the royal musicians (who are interesting as such, because their habit _must have set the fashion of the day_), in james i.'s reign we find that prince charles learnt the viol da gamba from coperario (_i.e._, john cooper). also playford (temp. charles ii.) says of charles i. that the king "often appointed the service and anthems himself" in the royal chapel; "and would play his part exactly well on the bass-violl,"--_i.e._, the viol da gamba. george herbert, who was by birth a courtier, found in music "his chiefest recreation," "and did himself compose many divine hymns and anthems, which he set and sung to his lute or viol.... his love to music was such, that he went usually twice every week ... to the cathedral church in salisbury; and at his return would say that his time spent in prayer and cathedral music elevated his soul, and was his heaven upon earth." but not only was the poet-priest a lover of church music, for (walton's life goes on) "before his return thence to bemerton, he would usually _sing and play his part at an appointed private music meeting_." this was fourteen years after shakespeare's death. anthony wood, who was at oxford university in , gives a most interesting account of the practice of chamber music for viols (and even violins, which, by charles ii.'s time, had superseded the feebler viols) in oxford. in his life, he mentions that "the gentlemen in privat meetings, which a.w. frequented, play'd three, four, and five parts with viols, as, treble-viol, tenor, counter-tenor, and bass, with an organ, virginal, or harpsicon joyn'd with them: and they esteemed a violin to be an instrument only belonging to a common fidler, and could not endure that it should come among them, for feare of making their meetings to be vaine and fidling." wood went to a _weekly meeting_ of musicians in oxford. amongst those whom he names as "performing their parts" are four fellows of new college, a fellow of all souls, who was "an admirable lutenist," "ralph sheldon, gent., a rom. catholick ... living in halywell neare oxon., admired for his smooth and admirable way in playing on the viol," and a master of arts of magdalen, who had a weekly meeting at his own college. besides the amateurs, there were eight or nine professional musicians who frequented these meetings. this was in , and in wood gives the names of over sixteen other persons, with whom he used to play and sing, all of whom were fellows of colleges, masters of arts, or at least members of the university. amongst them was "thom. ken of new coll., a junior" (afterwards bishop ken, one of the seven bishops who were deprived at the revolution), who could "sing his part." all the rest played either viol, violin, organ, virginals, or harpsichord, or were "songsters." "these did frequent the weekly meetings, and _by the help of public masters of musick_, who were mixed with them, they were much improved." there seems to have been little that was not pure enjoyment in these meetings. only two persons out of the thirty-two mentioned seem to have had any undesirable quality--viz., mr low, organist of christ church, who was "a _proud_ man," and "could not endure any common musitian to come to the meeting;" and "nathan. crew, m.a., fellow of linc. coll., a violinist and violist, _but alwaies played out of tune_." this last gentleman was afterwards bishop of durham. thus we find that in the th and th centuries a practical acquaintance with music was a regular part of the education of both sovereign, gentlemen of rank, and the higher middle class. we find henry viii. composing church music, and at the same time enjoying himself singing in the three-part canon composed by his friend, a gentleman of rank. we find that a fellow of trinity at the same time was expected to sing "his part" in chapel as a matter of course. we find edward vi., mary, and elizabeth to have all been capable players on lute or virginals. we find that it was the merest qualification that an elizabethan bishop should be able to sing well; and that young university gentlemen of birth thought it nothing out of the way to learn all the mysteries of both prick-song (a _written_ part) and descant (an _extempore_ counterpoint), and to solace their weary hours by singing "in parts." immediately after shakespeare's time, we find a courtier of james i., and the ill-fated prince charles himself, both enthusiasts in both church and chamber music; and lastly, two years after the regicide, we find the university of oxford to have been a perfect hotbed of musical cultivation. men who afterwards became bishops, archdeacons, prebendaries, besides sixteen fellows of colleges, and sundry gentlemen of family, were not ashamed to practise chamber music and singing to an extent which really has no parallel whatever nowadays. there is plenty of evidence, though more indirect in kind, that the lower classes were as enthusiastic about music as the higher. a large number of passages in contemporary authors shows clearly that singing in parts (especially of "catches") was a common amusement with blacksmiths, colliers, cloth-workers, cobblers, tinkers, watchmen, country parsons, and soldiers. in _damon and pithias_, , grimme, the _collier_, sings "a bussing [buzzing] base," and two of his friends, jack and will, "quiddel upon it," _i.e._, they sing the tune and words, while he buzzes the burden. peele's _old wives tale_, , says, "this _smith_ leads a life as merry as a king; sirrah frolic, i am sure you are not without some _round_ or other; no doubt but clunch [the smith] can _bear his part_." beaumont and fletcher's _coxcomb_ has "where were the _watch_ the while? good sober gentlemen, they were, like careful members of the city, drawing in diligent ale, and _singing catches_." also in b. and f.'s _faithful friends_-- "_bell._--shall's have a _catch_, my hearts? _calve._--aye, good lieutenant. _black._--methinks a _soldier_[ ] should sing nothing else; _catch, that catch may_ is all our life, you know." [footnote : drayton (james i.'s reign) in his "battle of agincourt," l. , has--"the common souldiers free-mens _catches_ sing"--of the french before the battle (_free_men is a corruption of _three_men).] [in _bonduca_, a play of b. and f's., altered for operatic setting by purcell in , there is a catch in three parts, sung by the roman soldiers.] in sir william davenant's (davenant flourished ) comedy _the wits_, snore, one of the characters, says-- "it must be late, for gossip nock, the _nailman_, had catechized his maids, and _sung three catches and a song_, ere we set forth." samuel harsnet, in his _declaration of egregious impostures_, , mentions a 'merry catch,' 'now god be with old simeon' (for which see rimbault's rounds, canons, and catches of england), which he says was sung by _tinkers_ 'as they sit by the fire, with a pot of good ale between their legs.' and in _the merry devill of edmonton_, , there is a comical story of how smug _the miller_ was _singing a catch_ with the _merry parson_ in an alehouse, and how they 'tost' the words "_i'll ty my mare in thy ground_," 'so long to and fro,' that smug forgot he was singing a catch, and began to quarrel with the parson, 'thinking verily, he had meant (as he said in his song) to _ty his mare in his ground_.' finally, in _pammelia_, a collection of rounds and catches of , , , , , , , and parts, edited by thomas ravenscroft, and published in , there is a curious preface, which states that 'catches are so _generally affected_ ... because they are so consonant to _all ordinary musical capacity_, being such, indeed, as all such _whose love of musick exceeds their skill_, cannot but commend.' the preface further asserts that the book is 'published only _to please good company_.' to go on to _instrumental_ music among the lower classes of elizabethan and shakespearian times; there is an allusion in the above quoted passage from morley ( ) to the habit of playing on an instrument in a barber's shop while waiting one's turn to be shaved. this is also referred to in ben jonson's _alchemist_ and _silent woman_. in the latter play, cutberd the barber has recommended a wife to morose. morose finds that instead of a mute helpmate he has got one who had 'a tongue with a tang,' and exclaims 'that cursed _barber_! i have married his _cittern_ that is common to all men': meaning that as the barber's cittern was always being played, so his wife was always talking. there is a poem of the th century which speaks of the old times, 'in former time 't hath been upbrayded thus, that _barber's musick_ was most _barbarous_.' however true that may have been--at all events it is certain that in the th and th centuries it was customary to hear instrumental music in a barber's shop, generally of a cittern, which had four strings and frets, like a guitar, and was thought a vulgar instrument.[ ] [footnote : the cittern of the barber's shop had four double strings of wire, tuned thus-- st, e in th space of treble staff; nd, d a tone lower; rd, g on nd line; th, b on rd line. the instrument had a carved head. see _l.l.l._ v. ii., lines - , of holofernes' head. also the frontispiece, where the treble viol and viol-da-gamba have carved heads, both human, but of different types. fantastic heads, as of dragons or gargoyles, were often put on these instruments.] another use of instrumental music was to entertain the guests in a tavern. a pamphlet called _the actor's remonstrance_, printed , speaks of the _decay_ of music in taverns, which followed the closing of theatres in , as follows:--"our music, that was held so delectable and precious [_i.e._, in shakespeare's times], that _they scorned to come to a tavern under twenty shillings_ salary _for two hours_, now wander [_i.e._, ] with their instruments under their cloaks--i mean, such as have any--into all houses of good fellowship, saluting every room where there is company with, 'will you have any music, gentlemen?'" finally, in gosson's "short apologie of the schoole of abuse," , we find that "london is so full of unprofitable pipers and fiddlers, that a man can no sooner enter a tavern, than two or three cast of them hang at his heels, to give him a dance before he depart." these men sang ballads and catches as well. also they played during dinner. lyly says--"thou need no more send for a fidler to a feast, than a beggar to a fair." all this leads to the just conclusion, that if ever a country deserved to be called 'musical,' that country was england, in the th and th centuries. king and courtier, peasant and ploughman, each could 'take his part,' with each music was a part of his daily life; while so far from being above knowing the difference between a minim and a crotchet, a gentleman would have been ashamed not to know it. in this respect, at any rate, the 'good old days' were indeed better than those that we now see. even a _public-house song_ in elizabeth's day was a canon in three parts, a thing which could only be managed 'first time through' nowadays by the very first rank of professional singers. shakespeare passages i technical terms and instruments we now proceed to consider some representative passages of shakespeare which deal with music. these may be taken roughly in six divisions--viz. ( ) technical terms and instruments, ( ) musical education, ( ) songs and singing, ( ) serenades and other domestic 'music,' ( ) dances and dancing, ( ) miscellaneous, including shakespeare's account of the more spiritual side of music. to begin on the first division. there are many most interesting passages which bristle with technical words; and these are liable to be understood by the reader in a merely general way, with the result that the point is wholly or partly missed. with a reasonable amount of explanation, and a general caution to the student not to pass over words or phrases that appear obscure, there is no reason why these passages should not be understood by all in a much fuller light. the following lines, though not in a play, are so full of musical similes that it may be useful to take them at once. _lucrece_, line . "my _restless discord_ loves no _stops_ nor _rests_; a woful hostess brooks not merry guests. relish your _nimble notes_ to pleasing ears; distress like _dumps_, when _time is kept_ with tears." (then to the nightingale)-- "come, philomel, that sing'st of ravishment, make thy sad grove in my dishevell'd hair: as the dank earth weeps at thy languishment, so i at each sad _strain_ will _strain_ a tear, and with deep groans the _diapason_ bear; for _burden_ wise i'll _hum_ on tarquin still, while thou on tereus _descant'st_ better skill. and while against a thorn thou _bear'st thy part_, to keep thy sharp woes waking.... these means, as _frets_ upon an _instrument_, shall _tune_ our heart-_strings_ to true languishment." here lucrece tells the birds to cease their joyous notes, and calls on the nightingale to sing the song of tereus, while she herself bears the 'burden' with her groans. the first line contains a quibble on 'rests' and 'restless' discord. 'nimble notes' was used in the shakespearian time as we should use the term 'brilliant music.' lucrece was in no humour for trills and runs, but rather for dumps, where she could keep slow time with her tears. the dumpe (from swedish dialect, _dumpa_, to dance awkwardly) was a slow, mournful dance. [see appendix.] there is another quibble in l. , on _strain_. a 'strain' is the proper elizabethan word for a formal phrase of a musical composition. for instance, in a pavan, morley (introduction to practical music, ) says a 'straine' should consist of , , or semibreves (we should say 'bars' instead of 'semibreves') 'as they list, yet fewer then eight i have not seene in any pauan.' 'diapason' meant the interval of an octave. here lucrece says she will 'bear the diapason' with deep groans, _i.e._, 'hum' a 'burden' or drone an octave lower than the nightingale's 'descant.' the earliest 'burden' known is that in the ancient round 'sumer is icumen in,' of the th century. here four voices sing the real music in canon to these words-- 'sumer is icumen in, lhudè sing cuccu, groweth seed and bloweth mead and springth the wdè nu, sing cuccu, awè bleteth after lomb, lhouth after calvè cu, bulluc sterteth, buckè verteth, murie sing cuccu, cuccu, cuccu, wel singès thu cuccu, ne swik thu naver nu.'-- while all the time two other voices of lower pitch sing a monotonous refrain, 'sing cuccu nu, sing cuccu,' which they repeat _ad infinitum_ till the four who sing the round are tired. this refrain is called pes (or 'foot'), and this is the kind of thing which lucrece means by 'burden.' the word 'hum' may be considered technical, see the introduction, where '_buzzing_ bass' is referred to. the tune, 'light o' love' [see appendix], as we know from _much ado_ iii, iv, , used to go _without_ a burden, and was considered a 'light' tune on that account, see _two gent._ i, ii, . 'descant,' in l. , wants explaining. to 'descant' meant to sing or play an _extempore_ second 'part' to a written melody. the point was that it should be extempore; if written down it ceased to be true descant, and was then called 'prick-song.' a rough example may be had in the extempore bass or alto which some people still sing in church instead of the melody. a more accurate example of descant would be this--let a sing a hymn tune, say the old th, and let b accompany him _extempore_ with a separate melody within the bounds of harmony. b is 'descanting' on the melody that a sings.[ ] [footnote : appendix, ex. .] the art of descant in elizabeth's time corresponded closely with what we call 'strict counterpoint' (_contra_, _punctus_, hence 'prick-song,' or 'written' descant). the modern equivalent for 'bear a part' (l. ) is 'sing a part.' [see also sonnet viii.] any person of decent education could 'bear a part' in those days, _i.e._, read at sight the treble, alto, tenor, or bass 'part' of the work presented by the host for the diversion of his guests. [see introduction.] l. . 'frets upon an instrument' can still be seen on the modern mandoline, guitar, and banjo. in shakespeare days, the viol, lute, and cittern all had frets on the fingerboard, but they were then simply bits of string tied round at the right places for the fingers, and made fast with glue. their use is referred to in the next line, to 'tune' the strings, _i.e._, to 'stop' the string accurately at each semitone. there is a quaint illustration of ll. - , about the nightingale singing 'against a thorn' to keep her awake, in the words of a favourite old part song of king henry viii., 'by a bank as i lay,' where the poem has these lines on the nightingale-- 'she syngeth in the thyke; and under her brest a pricke, to kepe hur fro sleepe.' in close connection with this is the conversation between julia and her maid lucetta, in _two gent._ i, ii, - , about the letter from proteus. _jul._ some love of yours hath writ to you in rhyme. _luc._ that i might _sing_ it, madam, to a _tune_: _give me a note_: your ladyship can _set_. _jul._ as little by such toys as may be possible: best sing it to the tune of "light o' love." _luc._ it is too heavy for so _light_ a tune. _jul._ _heavy?_ belike, it hath some _burden_ then. _luc._ ay, and melodious were it, would you sing it. _jul._ and why not you? _luc._ i cannot _reach so high_. _jul._ let's see your song.--how now, minion! _luc._ _keep tune_ there still, so you will _sing it out_; and yet, methinks, i do not like this tune. _jul._ you do not? _luc._ no, madam, it is _too sharp_. _jul._ you, minion, are too saucy. _luc._ nay, now you are _too flat_, and _mar the concord_ with _too harsh a descant_: there wanteth but a _mean_ to fill your song. _jul._ the _mean_ is _drown'd_ with your _unruly base_. _luc._ indeed, i bid the _base_ for proteus. perhaps it is sufficient to remark that many of the italicized words above are still in ordinary use by musicians--_e.g._, to 'give the note' in order to 'set' the pitch for singing; to 'keep in tune,' to 'sing out'; or one voice is 'drowned' by another, as the 'mean' (alto) by the 'bass.' once more we have quibbles on musical terms--lucetta says the 'tune,' _i.e._, julia's testiness about proteus' letter, is 'too sharp,' and that her chiding of herself is 'too flat,' meaning, that neither is in 'concord' with the spirit of the love-letter. lucetta recommends the middle course, or 'mean' (alto voice, midway between treble and bass), 'to _fill_ the song,' _i.e._, to perfect the harmony. finally, there is a punning reference (somewhat prophetic) by lucetta, to the 'base' conduct of proteus, in forsaking julia for silvia. another play upon words should not be missed, viz., in ll. and , where 'set' does double duty. _rom._ iii, v, . romeo and juliet's parting at daybreak. the lark's song suggests musical metaphors in juliet's speech. _romeo._ how is't, my soul? let's talk, it is not day. _jul._ it is, it is; hie hence, be gone, away! it is the _lark_ that sings so _out of tune_, straining _harsh discords_, and unpleasing _sharps_. some say, the lark makes _sweet division_; _this_ doth not so, for she _divideth us_. juliet evidently agrees with portia that 'nothing is good without respect.' the lark heralds the dawn, so romeo must leave her, _ergo_, the lark sings 'out of tune,' his strains are full of 'discords' and 'sharps.' the last two lines contain an interesting allusion in the word 'division,' besides the pun on 'she _divideth us_.' 'division' means roughly, a brilliant passage, of short notes, which is founded essentially on a much simpler passage of longer notes. a cant term for the old-fashioned variation (_e.g._, the variations of the 'harmonious blacksmith') was 'note-splitting,' which at once explains itself, and the older word 'division.' a very clear example of divisions may be found in 'rejoice greatly' in the messiah. the long 'runs' on the second syllable of '_rejoice_,' consisting of several groups of four semiquavers, are simply 'division' or 'note-splittings' of the first note of each group. the word, however, has a further use, namely, to play 'divisions' on a viol-da-gamba. this was a favourite accomplishment of gentlemen in the th and th centuries. sir andrew aguecheek numbered this amongst his attainments, (see _twelfth night_ i, iii, ); and readers of john inglesant will remember that 'mr inglesant, being pressed to oblige the company, played a descant upon a ground bass in the italian manner.' playing a descant on a ground bass meant playing extempore 'divisions' or variations, to the harmony of a 'ground bass' which (with its proper chords) was repeated again and again by the harpsichordist, until the viol player had exhausted his capacity to produce further 'breakings' of the harmony. in there was published an instruction book in this art, called chelys minuritionum, _i.e._, the 'tortoise-shell of diminutions,' hence (chelys meaning a lyre, made of a tortoise-shell) 'the division viol.' the book is by christopher sympson, a royalist soldier, who was a well-known viol-da-gamba player. the work is in three parts, the third of which is devoted to the method of ordering division on a ground. to give his own words-- 'diminution or division to a ground, is the breaking either of the bass or of any higher part that is applicable thereto. the manner of expressing it is thus:-- 'a ground, subject, or bass, call it what you please, is prick'd down in two several papers; one for him who is to play the ground upon an organ, harpsichord, or what other instrument may be apt for that purpose; the other for him that plays upon the viol, who having the said ground before his eyes as his theme or subject, plays such variety of descant or division in concordance thereto as his skill and present invention do then suggest unto him.' [see the appendix for an example by sympson.] further on, he distinguishes between 'breaking the notes of the _ground_' and 'descanting upon' the ground. this phrase, 'breaking' notes, may be taken as a partial explanation of several passages on shakespeare, where 'broken music' is referred to, although it is likely that a better account of this may be found in the natural imperfection of the lute, which, being a _pizzicato_ instrument (_i.e._, the strings were plucked, not played with a bow), could not do more than indicate the harmony in 'broken' pieces, first a bass note, then perhaps two notes at once, higher up in the scale, the player relying on the hearer to piece the harmony together. an entirely different explanation is that of mr chappell (in aldis wright's clarendon press edition of henry v.), viz., that when a 'consort' of viols was imperfect, _i.e._, if one of the players was absent, and an instrument of another kind, _e.g._, a flute, was substituted, the music was thus said to be 'broken.' _cf._ matt. locke's 'compositions for broken and whole consorts,' . [mr aldis wright has given me references to bacon's sylva sylvarum, iii., , and essay of masque and triumph, which show that 'broken music' was understood to mean _any combination of instruments of different kinds_. in sylva sylvarum bacon mentions several 'consorts of instruments' which agree well together, _e.g._, 'the irish harp and base-viol agree well: the recorder and stringed music agree well: organs and the voice agree well, etc. but the virginals and the lute ... agree not so well.' all these, and similar combinations, seem to have been described as 'broken music.'] in point, see _hen. v._ v, ii, , where henry proposes to katherine. _k. hen._ come, your answer in _broken music_; for thy _voice is music_, and thy _english broken_; therefore, queen of all, katherine, _break_ thy mind to me in _broken_ english: wilt thou have me? also see _troilus_ iii, i, and ff. (quoted further on). an entirely separate use of 'break' is in the phrase 'broken time,' which has the simple and obvious meaning that the notes do not receive their due length and proportion. in this connection we will take the passage of king richard's speech in prison at pontefract--when he hears music without, performed by some friendly hands. _rich. ii._ v, v, . king r. in prison. _k. rich._ _music_ do i hear? ha, ha! _keep time_.--how sour sweet music is, when _time is broke_, and no _proportion kept_! so is it in the music of men's lives. and here have i the _daintiness of ear_, to check _time broke_ in a _disorder'd string_; but, for the _concord_ of _my_ state and _time_, had not an _ear_ to hear my true _time broke_. * * * * * _this music mads me_: let it sound no more: for though _it hath holp madmen_ to their wits, in me, it seems, it will make wise men mad. the simile is perfect, and the play upon 'time broke' admirable. in l. richard reflects on the sad contrast between his quick 'ear' for 'broken time' in music, and his slowness to hear the 'breaking' of his _own_ 'state and time.' the 'disorder'd string' is himself, who has been playing his part 'out of time' ('disorder'd' simply means 'out of its place'--_i.e._, as we now say, 'a bar wrong'), and this has resulted in breaking the 'concord'--_i.e._, the harmony of the various parts which compose the state. a few words are necessary about 'proportion.' this term was used in elizabethan times exactly as we now use 'time.' the 'times' used in modern music can practically be reduced to two--viz., duple (two beats to the bar) and triple (three beats to the bar). but in elizabeth's day the table of various proportions was a terribly elaborate thing. of course many of these 'proportions' never really came into practical use--but there was plenty of mystery left even after all deductions. morley (introduction, ) gives five kinds of proportions 'in most common use'--viz., dupla, tripla, quadrupla, sesquialtera, and sesquitertia. the first three correspond to what we still call duple, triple, and quadruple time--_i.e._, in the bar, in the bar, and in the bar. ['bars' were not in general use till the end of the th century, but the principle was the same. the bars themselves are merely a convenience.] sesquialtera is more complicated, and means 'three notes are sung to two of the same kinde'; and 'sesquitertia is when four notes are sung to three of the same kinde.' 'but' (morley adds), 'if a man would ingulphe himselfe to learn to sing, and set down all them which franchinus gaufurius [ ] hath set down in his booke de proportionibus musicis, he should find it a matter not only hard but almost impossible.' ornithoparcus, in his micrologus ( ), gives us an idea of the way this subject of proportion was treated by more 'learned' writers. he says ( ) that music considers only the proportion of inequality, ( ) that this is two-fold--viz., the greater and the lesser inequality. ( ) the greater inequality contains five proportions, namely, multiplex, superparticular, superpartiens, multiplex superparticular, and multiplex superpartiens. this is more amusing than instructive, perhaps. the three last lines of this passage refer to the various stories of real or pretended cure of disease by the use of particular pieces of music. one of the best known of these diseases is 'tarantism,' or the frenzy produced by the bite of the tarantula, in italy. kircher, a learned jesuit ( - ), gives an account, in his "musurgia," of the cure of this madness by certain airs, by which the patient is stimulated to dance violently. the perspiration thus produced was said to effect a cure. in his "phonurgia nova" ( ) kircher actually gives the notes of the tune by which one case was cured. in this connection, kircher mentions king saul's madness, which was relieved by david's harp playing. this is certainly to the point, and may well have been in shakespeare's mind. [see george herbert's poem, 'doomsday,' verse .] our modern tarantellas derive their name and characteristic speed from the old tarantula. _lear_ i, ii, . edmund pretends not to see edgar's entrance. _edmund (aside)._ pat he comes, like the catastrophe of the old comedy: my cue is villainous melancholy, with a _sigh like tom o' bedlam_.--o! these eclipses do portend _these divisions_. _fa, sol, la, mi._ songs like 'tom o' bedlam,' mad-songs they were called, were very commonly sung in england in the th century. the tune and words of the original 'tom a bedlam' are to be found in chappell, vol. i. p. . its date is some time before ,[ ] and verse begins, 'from the hagg and hungrie goblin,' and the whole is as full of ejaculations of 'poor tom' as act iii. of _lear_. [footnote : rimbault's preface to the musical antiquarian society's reprint of purcell's opera, "bonduca," says that mad tom was written by coperario in , for the masque of the inner temple and gray's inn, by beaumont. this was, 'forth from my sad and darksome sell.'] the last sentence has yet another play on the double meaning of 'divisions.' a few lines further on edmund explains what kind of 'divisions' he expects to follow the eclipses--namely, 'between the child and the parent ... dissolutions of ancient amities; divisions in state,' etc. but the very use of the word in the quoted lines brings its musical meaning into his head, for he promptly carries off his assumed blindness to edgar's presence by humming over his 'fa, sol, la, mi.' [burney, hist., vol. iii. p. , has a sensible observation on this passage--that edgar alludes to the unnatural division of parent and child, etc., in this musical phrase, which contains the augmented fourth, or _mi contra fa_, of which the old theorists used to say 'diabolus est.'] guido d'arezzo (or aretinus), in his micrologus (about ), named the six notes of the hexachord (_e.g._, c, d, e, f, g, a), thus--ut, re, mi, fa, sol, la. these were the first syllables of certain words in the hymn for the feast of st john baptist, the words and tune of which are in hawkins, p. . "ut queant laxis re-sonare fibris mi-ra gestorum fa-muli tuorum sol-ve polluti la-bii reatum, sancte joannes." a rough translation of which is-- 'that thy servants may be able with free hearts to sound forth the wonders of thy deeds; release us, o holy john, from the guilt of a defiled lip.' in the ancient tune of this verse, the notes assigned to the syllables in capitals were successively those of the scale, c, d, e, f, g, a, and these same syllables were still used in singing in the th century. it was noticed, however, that the scale could be easily expressed by fewer names, and accordingly we find christopher sympson ( ) saying, in his 'compendium,' that ut and re are 'superfluous, and therefore laid aside by most modern teachers.' in his book, the whole scale of _eight_ notes is named thus--fa, sol, la, fa, sol, la, _mi_, fa. a modern tonic solfaist would understand this arrangement quite differently. c, d, e would be called do (instead of ut), re, mi; then would follow f, g, a, under the names fa, sol, la; and the 'leading note' [top note but one] would be called ti (instead of si); the octave c beginning once more with do. the reader will remember that the tonal relation of c, d, e is exactly the same as that of the next three notes, f, g, a--viz., c--d, a tone; d--e, a tone; and similarly with f--g, g--a. therefore the two blocks of three notes (which are separated by a _semi_-tone) might have the same names--viz., fa, sol, la. thus we have the first _six_ notes of the scale, fa, sol, la, fa, sol, la. there only remains one note, the 'leading note,' the b; and this, in sympson, is named _mi_. so the principal thing in the sol-fa-ing of a passage was to 'place the mi,' or, as we should now put it, to find 'what key' it is in. thus, in the key of c, mi is in b: in g, mi is in f sharp: in f, mi is in e, and so on, the remaining six notes being named fa, sol, la, fa, sol, la, as explained above. edmund's 'fa, sol, la, mi,' therefore, corresponds to f, g, a, b; or c, d, e, f sharp; or b flat, c, d, e, etc.; according to the pitch taken by the singer. in this connection see the following passage:-- _shrew_ i, ii, . _petr._ 'faith, sirrah, an you'll not knock, i'll _wring_ it: i'll try how you can _sol, fa_, and _sing it_.' [he wrings grumio by the ears. here is a pun on 'wring' and 'ring'; and 'sol-fa' is used as an equivalent for 'sing.' more important still is 'the gamut of hortensio,' _shrew_ iii, i, . [gam-ut was the name of the ut of lowest pitch, corresponding to the low g on the first line of our present bass staff, and was marked specially with a greek gamma, hence gam-ut. the word became a synonym for 'the scale.'] in this passage the names of the notes are simply those to be found in all instruction books of the th and th centuries. 'gam-ut i am, the ground of all accord, a-re, to plead hortensio's passion; b-mi, bianca, take him for thy lord, c-fa-ut, that loves with all affection: d sol, re, one cliff, two notes have i: e la, mi, show pity or i die.' here hortensio puts in his love-verses under the guise of a musicmaster's gamut. the lines may be taken separately as fantastic commentaries on the syllables themselves, as well as having their ulterior meaning for bianca. for instance, gam-ut the _lowest_ note then recognised in the scale, is called 'the _ground_ of all _accord_.' a-re, i suppose, represents the lover's sigh 'to plead his passion.' b-mi, may be twisted into 'be mine,' by the light of the remaining words in the line; while 'd sol re, one cliff, two notes have i' obviously refers to hortensio's disguise. the 'cliff' is what is now called a 'clef,' or 'key,' because its position on the staff gave the 'key' to the position of the semitones and tones on the various lines and spaces. the six notes here mentioned are the g, a, b, c, d, e, in the bass staff. they could only be written (as they are yet) in _one_ clef--namely, the f clef. the expression 'two notes have i,' as applied to the d, means that, in the key of g, d is called sol; while in the key of c it would have the name re; just as hortensio is hortensio, and at the same time masquerades as a singing-master. it has been mentioned that the art of adding an extempore counterpoint to a written melody was called 'descant.' the written melody itself was called the 'plain-song,' and hence the whole performance, plainsong and descant together, came to be known by the term 'plain-song,' as opposed to the performance of plainsong with a _written_ descant; which was known as 'prick-song.' morley gives us a clear idea that the extempore descant was often a very unsatisfactory performance, at any rate when it was attempted to add more than one extempore part at a time to the plainsong. as he says--'for though they should all be moste excellent men ... it is unpossible for them to be true one to another.' the following passage will be more clear on this light. _h. ._ iii, ii, . fight at harfleur. _nym._ pray thee, corporal, stay: ... the humour of it is too hot, that is the very _plain-song_ of it. _pistol._ _the plain-song is most just_, for humours do abound. * * * * * l. . _boy_ (speaks of the rogues).... they will steal anything, and call it purchase. bardolph _stole a lute-case_, bore it twelve leagues, and _sold it for three half-pence_. falstaff's worthy body-guard are getting tired of hard knocks in fight; nym compares their late activity to a somewhat florid 'plain-song' [meaning an extempore descant, as explained above]; pistol says it is a 'just' plainsong. a 'just' plainsong would mean that the singer had managed his extempore descant 'without singing eyther false chords or forbidden descant one to another.' similarly, there is little doubt that both ancient and corporal managed to take a part in the skirmishings with as little damage as possible to their sconces. the speech of the boy at l. hardly enrols bardolph amongst music lovers. at all events he stole a lute-case, and seems to have liked it so much that he carried it miles before his worser nature prevailed on him to sell it for - / d. the next quotation still concerns jack falstaff and his crew, all of whom (and strictly in accordance with history) seem to have been sound practical musicians. this time they are speaking, not of descant, but of prick-song. the chiefest virtue in the performance of prick-song, by which falstaff and nym probably understood both sacred and secular part-music, is that a man should 'keep time,' religiously counting his rests, 'one, two, three, and the third in your bosom,' and when he begins to sing, that he should 'keep time, distance, and proportion,' as mercutio says tybalt did in his fencing, see _romeo_ ii, iv, . all this is thoroughly appreciated by falstaff and his corporal in the following lines:-- _merry wiv._ i, iii, . _falstaff_ (of bardolph) ... his thefts were too open; his filching was _like an unskilful singer_, he _kept not time_. _nym._ the good humour is to _steal at a minim's rest_. ['minims' is a modern conjecture.] the metaphor is of an anthem or madrigal, say in four parts. we will suppose the hostess of the 'garter' is taking the _cantus_, a tapster the _altus_, mine host the _tenor_, and nym the _bassus_. the three former are all hard at work on their respective 'parts,' one in the kitchen, another in the taproom, the third in familiar converse outside the front door. but nym has 'a minim rest,' and during that short respite takes advantage of the absorbing occupations of the other three 'singers' to lay hands on whatever portable property is within his reach. 'a minim rest' is not much--but the point remains. any musician has had experience of what can be done during a short 'rest'--_e.g._, to resin his bow, or turn up the corners of the next few pages of his music, light the gas, or find his place in another book. by an easy transition we pass to the following:-- _pericles_ i, i, . pericles addresses the daughter of king antiochus. _per._ you're a _fair viol_, and _your sense the strings_, who, _finger'd_ to make man his _lawful music_, would draw heaven down and all the gods to hearken; but being _play'd upon before your time_, hell only danceth at so harsh a chime. pericles compares the lawful love of a wife with the performance of a good viol player, the proper characteristics of which would be, 'in tune,' and 'in time.' the comparison in l. is of this girl's lawless passion with the 'disorder'd' playing of a bad violist, who has got 'out,' as we say; who is playing 'before his time,' thus entirely spoiling the music, which becomes a dance for devils rather than angels. the viol was decidedly the most important stringed instrument played with a bow that was in use in elizabethan times. there were three different sizes. the reader will get a sufficiently accurate idea, both of the sizes and the use of viols, if he will consider the treble viol to have corresponded closely with our modern violin, the tenor viol to the modern viola [which is also called alto, tenor, or bratsche--_i.e._, braccio, 'arm' fiddle], and the bass-viol, or viol-da-gamba [so called because held between the knees], to the modern violoncello. the principal difference from our modern stringed instruments was that all the viols had _six_ strings, whereas now there is no 'fiddle' of any sort with more than four. a secondary difference was, that all the viol family had _frets_ on the fingerboard to mark out the notes, whereas the finger-boards of all our modern instruments are smooth, and the finger of the performer has to do without any help of that kind.[ ] [footnote : see frontispiece.] john playford, in , published his 'introduction to the skill of music,' which gives an account of the viols, and thomas mace, of cambridge, lay clerk of trinity, in his 'musick's monument,' pub. , gives full instructions how many viols and other instruments of this kind are necessary. from these we learn that viols were always kept in sets of six--two trebles, two tenors, and two basses--which set was technically known as a 'chest' of viols. mace also says that the treble viol had its strings just half the length of the bass viol, and the tenor was of a medium size between these. also he says that if you add to these a couple of violins (which were then thought somewhat vulgar, loud instruments) for jovial occasions, and a pair of 'lusty, full-sized theorboes,'[ ] 'you have a ready entertainment for the greatest prince in the world.' [footnote : theorbo, a lute with a double neck; so called from tiorba, a mortar for pounding perfumes, referring to the basin-shaped back of a lute.] the tuning of the six strings on the _bass_-viol was, on the bass staff, st string, or treble, d over the staff; nd or small mean, a on the top line; rd or great mean, e in the third space; th or counter-tenor, c in the second space; th or tenor, or gamut, g on the first line; and the th or bass, low d, under the staff. on the most complete viol there would be seven frets, arranged semitonally, so the compass of the bass viol or viol da gamba would be about two octaves and a half, from d under the bass staff to a on the second space of the treble staff. [in south kensington museum is a viol da gamba with no less than twelve frets still remaining. this would make the compass nearly _three_ octaves.] the tenor-viol had its top string tuned to g on the second line of the treble staff; and the remaining five were the same in pitch as the top five on the bass viol. the treble viol (as mentioned above) was tuned exactly an octave above the bass. the tone of the viols is very much like that of our modern bowed instruments, the principal difference being that they are a little feebler, and naturally more calm. the reason is that vigorous 'bowing' is a risky thing on the viol, for, as there are _six_ strings on the arc of the bridge, more care is required to avoid striking two or even three at once than on the violin, which has only four. the amateur of music would keep a 'chest' of six viols in his house, and when his musical friends visited him, they would generally play 'fancies' (or fantasias) see _h. . b._ iii, ii, , in several parts, from two to the full six, according to the number of those present. amongst a great number of composers of this kind of music, some very well known names are, john jenkins, chris. sympson, william lawes, coperario (john cooper), and the italian monteverde. it was common for the organ or other keyed instrument to join with the viols in these pieces, and thus fill out the chords of the 'consort,' as it was called. we still have one of the viol tribe left in our orchestra. the double-bass (or viol-one) is lineal descendant of the chest of viols. its shape, especially at the shoulders, is quite characteristic, and elsewhere--_e.g._, the blunt curves of the waist, the outline of the back, and even the shape of the bow. the practice of playing extempore variations on the viol da gamba has already been mentioned as one of the elegant accomplishments of a gentleman in those days. the following two quotations therefore will not require further remark. _tw._ i, iii, . _maria_ [of sir andrew aguecheek] ... he's a very fool, and a prodigal. _sir toby._ fie, that you'll say so! he _plays o' the viol-de-gamboys_ ... and hath all the good gifts of nature. _richard ii._ i, iii, . banishment of norfolk. _norfolk._ the language i have learn'd these forty years, my native english, now i must forego; and now my tongue's use is to me no more than an _unstringed viol_, or a _harp_; or like a _cunning instrument cas'd up_, _or_, being open, _put into his hands_ that knows _no touch to tune the harmony_. the _violin_ family had only a precarious footing amongst musicians up to . after that time, the viols declined in favour, and so rapidly, that at the very beginning of the th century, dr tudway of cambridge describes a chest of viols, in a letter to his son, with such particularity, that it is clear they had entirely fallen out of use by . as the viol fell out of fashion, the violin took its place, and has kept it ever since. the violin family had come into general and fashionable use under the patronage of the court of louis xiv., and thus the english nation, true to their ancient habit of buying their 'doublet in italy, round hose in france, bonnet in germany, and behaviour everywhere,' took up the 'french fiddles,' and let their national chest of viols go to the wall. this growing tendency to adopt french customs, even in music, is referred to in the following:-- _hen. viii._ i, iii, . french manners in england. _lovell._ a _french song_, and a _fiddle_, has no fellow. _sands._ _the devil fiddle 'em!_ i am glad they're going, for, sure, there's no converting of 'em: _now_, an honest country lord, as i am, beaten a long time out of _play_, may bring his _plain-song_, and have an hour of hearing: and, by'r lady, held _current music_ too. the only word here that has not already been fully explained is 'current music,' which i suppose to mean simply, that the old accomplishments of which lord sands speaks would be still thought 'up to date' and in the fashion. another instrument in common domestic use was the recorder. this was a kind of 'beak-flute,' like a flageolet. lord bacon says it had a conical bore, and six holes. so it had the general figure of a modern oboe, but was played with a 'whistle' mouthpiece instead of a reed. the six holes may still be seen on any penny whistle, or the brass flageolets in the music-shops. the recorder was known for its sweet tone. poets used the word 'record' to signify the song of birds, especially of the nightingale. hawkins identifies it with the fistula dulcis, seu anglica, and gives two pictures which help to explain the next quotation. in south kensington museum there is a recorder[ ] made of a dark wood, which is nothing else but a big flageolet. its length is ft. in., and its bore is that of the modern flageolet and old flute--viz., conical, but with the wide end nearest the player's mouth. [footnote : see frontispiece.] _hamlet_ iii, ii, . enter players with recorders. _ham._ o! the _recorders_: let me see one.... * * * * * l. . ... will you _play upon this pipe_? _guildenstern._ my lord, i cannot. * * * * * _ham._ it is as easy as lying: govern these _ventages_ with your _finger and thumb_, give it _breath_ with your mouth, and it will discourse _most eloquent music_. look you, these are _the stops_. _guil._ but these cannot i command to any utterance of _harmony_: i have not the skill. _ham._ why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of _me_. you would _play upon me_: you would seem to _know my stops_; ... you would _sound me_ from my _lowest note_ to the _top of my compass_; and there is _much music_, excellent voice, in _this little organ_ [the recorder], yet cannot you make it _speak_. 'sblood! do you think i am _easier to be played on than a pipe_? call me what _instrument_ you will, though you can _fret_ me, you cannot _play_ upon me. the holes in a flute have always been called 'ventages,' because the 'wind' comes through them when the fingers are removed. they were 'governed' 'with the finger and thumb.' one of the illustrations from mersennus [b. ] shows a conical flute with four holes in front and two at the back. these latter would, of course, be controlled by the _thumbs_, while the others would occupy two fingers on each hand. (modern flageolets still keep a thumb hole at the back.) there were other beaked flutes of the same period, of a better class, which had several keys as well as the holes. 'the stops' referred to by hamlet are merely the 'ventages.' the act of covering a hole with the finger or thumb was called 'stopping'; and further, one example of the fistula dulcis given by mersennus has two different holes for the lowest note, one on the right and the other on the left, so that the instrument might be used either by a right-handed or left-handed person. one of these two duplicate holes was temporarily _stopped_ with wax. [the passing play upon 'fret' in the last line should not be missed.] in the next passage the meaning of stop as applied to recorders is punned on by hippolyta, who carries on the play from lysander's horsebreaking metaphor. _mids._ v, i, . the prologue speaks with all the punctuation wrong. _theseus._ this fellow doth not _stand upon points_. _lysander._ he hath rid his prologue like a rough colt; he knows not the _stop_.... _hippolyta._ indeed, he hath played on this prologue like a _child on a recorder, a sound_, but _not in government_. that is--the prologue has misplaced all his _stops_--like a young horse that refuses to _stop_--also like a child who has not learned to _stop_ the holes on the flute _à bec_. it is singular that the virginal, which was the most popular of all the keyed instruments, is nowhere directly named in shakespeare. there is, however, a reference to the action of the fingers on its keys in the following. _winter's tale_ i, ii, . of _hermione_, queen of leontes, king of sicilia, and _polixenes_, king of bohemia. _leon._ ---- still _virginalling_ upon his palm? the virginal (generally known as 'a _pair_ of virginals') was most commonly used by ladies for their private recreation, and from this circumstance is supposed to derive its name. queen elizabeth was fond of playing on it, but as it was in vogue before her time, there is no need to connect the name with the virgin queen. (elizabeth's own virginal is in south kensington museum.[ ]) its keyboard has four octaves, and the case is square, like that of a very old pianoforte. the strings of the virginal were plucked, by quills,[ ] which were secured to the 'jacks' [see sonnet cxxviii.], which in turn were set in motion by the keys. the strings were wire. the oldest country dance known, the sellenger's (st leger's) round, of henry viii.'s time, was arranged by byrd as a virginal 'lesson' for 'lady nevell's booke.' another well-known virginal book, that at the fitzwilliam museum at cambridge, commonly known as 'queen elizabeth's virginal book,' is being published by breitkopf & härtel. [footnote : see frontispiece.] [footnote : plectra of leather were also in use, as well as those of quill.] the first music ever printed for the virginals was 'parthenia,' published in london, . this collection contains principally pavans and galliards by byrd, bull, and gibbons. the title 'parthenia, or the maydenhead of the firste musicke,' etc., with a picture of a young lady playing on the virginal, seems to confirm our explanation of the name of this instrument. next to the viol, the lute[ ] was the most popular stringed instrument. it was used both as a solo instrument on which to play sprightly 'ayres,' or as an accompaniment for the voice, or 'in consort' with other instruments. naturally, it figured frequently in 'serenading' especially when a love song had to be sung outside a lady's window. the general shape of a lute was that of a mandoline, but about four times as big. like the mandoline, it had a flat belly, and a great basin-shaped back. but in every other respect it was entirely different. it was used more in the fashion of a guitar, and its strings (which were of gut) were plucked with the fingers. [footnote : see frontispiece.] adrian le roy's book, published in paris about , says the six strings were tuned as follows-- st (minikin), c in third space, treble staff; nd (small mean), g on second line; rd (great mean), d under the staff; th (counter-tenor), b flat over the bass staff; th (tenor), f on fourth line; and th (base), c in second space. scipione cerreto, however (naples ), gives quite a different account of the italian lute of eight strings, the tuning of which seems to have extended the compass downwards to c under the bass staff. thomas mace (musicks monument, ) tells of several objections against the lute, the most noteworthy of which were-- st, that it was a costly instrument to keep in repair; nd, that it was out of fashion; and rd, that it _made young people grow awry_. mace refutes these calumnies, the last of which no doubt was set about on account of the very awkward shape of the lute back, and the considerable size of the instrument. hawkins (hist. of music, pp. and ) gives two pieces for the lute by mace, or, rather, the same piece twice, first for one lute, then arranged for two. [appendix.] the five lower strings of the lute were 'doubled'--_i.e._, there were two of each pitch, duplicates, which helped the tone of the chords by 'sympathetic' vibration. so there were really eleven strings, but only six different pitches. there were eight frets on the fingerboard. other varieties were the arch-lute[ ] and the theorbo-lute, both of which had very long double necks, and a large number of strings. one archlute in south kensington museum has as many as , eleven of which are duplications. [footnote : see frontispiece.] _h. . a._ i, iv, . _talbot_ (of salisbury dying). 'he beckons with his hand, and smiles on me, as who should say, "when i am dead and gone, remember to avenge me on the french."-- plantagenet, i will; and _like thee, nero, play on the lute_, beholding the towns burn.' _hen. . a._ iii, i, . mortimer to lady mortimer. _mort._ ... for thy tongue makes welsh as sweet as _ditties_ highly penn'd, _sung_ by a fair queen in a summer's bower, with _ravishing division_, to her _lute_. for 'ravishing division,' see the remarks on the third of the foregoing passages, the speech of juliet about the lark's song [p. ]. the lute leads us quite easily from musical instruments and technical terms to the second division. ii musical education the following passages give a lively picture of what a music-master might have to put up with from young ladies of quality. _shrew._ ii, i, . re-enter hortensio with his head broken. _bap._ how now, my friend? why dost thou look so pale? _hor._ for fear, i promise you, if i look pale. _bap._ what, will my daughter [kate] prove a good musician? _hor._ i think, she'll sooner prove a soldier: iron may hold her, but never _lutes_. _bap._ why, then thou canst not _break her_ to the lute? _hor._ why, no, for _she hath broke the lute to me_. i did but tell her she _mistook her frets_, and bow'd her hand to _teach her fingering_, when, with a most impatient, devilish spirit, "_frets_ call you these?" quoth she; "i'll _fume_ with them;" and with that word she struck me on the head, and _through the instrument my pate made way_; and there i stood amazed for a while, _as on a pillory, looking through the lute_, while she did call me _rascal fiddler_, and, _twangling jack_, with twenty such vile terms, as had she studied to misuse me so. _shrew_ ii, i, . _bap._ why, how now, daughter katherine? in your _dumps_? _shrew._ act iii. i. hortensio and lucentio, the sham musical and classical tutors, give a lesson to bianca. they quarrel which is to start first. _lucentio._ _fiddler, forbear_: you grow too forward, sir. * * * * * _hortensio._ but, wrangling pedant, _this is the patroness of heavenly harmony_; then give me leave to have prerogative, and _when in music we have spent an hour_, your lecture shall have leisure for as much. _luc._ preposterous ass, that never read so far to know the cause why music was ordained! was it not to refresh the mind of man, _after his studies_, or his usual pain? then give me leave to read philosophy, and _while i pause, serve in your harmony_. bianca settles the question, and orders hortensio (l. ): take you your instrument, _play you the whiles_; his lecture will be done, _ere you have tun'd_. _hor._ you'll leave his lecture, when i am in tune? _luc._ _that will be never_: tune your instrument. lucentio now goes on with his 'classics'; further on-- _hor._ [returning]. madam, _my instrument's in tune_. _bianca._ let's hear. [_hor._ plays.] o fie! the _treble jars_. _luc._ _spit in the hole_, man, and tune again. * * * * * _hor._ madam, _'tis now in tune_. _luc._ all but the _base_. _hor._ _the base is right_; 'tis the _base knave that jars_. hortensio now takes his place, and addresses the classical lucentio-- l. . _hor._ you may go walk, and give me leave awhile: my _lessons_ make no music in _three parts_. * * * * * l. . _hor._ madam, before you _touch_ the instrument, to learn the _order of my fingering_, i must begin with _rudiments_ of art; to teach you _gamut_ in a briefer sort. * * * * * _bianca._ why, i am _past my gamut_ long ago. _hor._ yet read the gamut of hortensio. the first of these three passages will be quite clear to the reader in the light of the remarks on the lute already made. the second should be read in connection with the name of the doleful dance above mentioned, the dump. [see appendix.] the third quotation contains interesting allusions to the peculiarities of the lute. lines - are very naturally accounted for. the lute, having at least eleven strings, took a long time to get into tune. even our modern violins, with only four strings, want constant attention in this respect; and the lute, therefore, especially in the hands of an amateur, might well get a name for being a troublesome instrument. the reference to the 'treble' and 'bass' strings (_i.e._, the st and th) has been explained before. 'spit in the hole, man,' lucentio's very rude advice to hortensio, will direct our attention to the variously shaped 'holes' which were made in the belly of all stringed instruments to let out the sound. on the lute, this hole was commonly a circular opening, not clearly cut out, but fretted in a circle of small holes with a star in the middle. but this was not the only way. a lute in south kensington museum has _three_ round holes, placed in an oblique line, nearly at the bottom of the instrument.[ ] the holes on the viol were generally in the form of crescents, and were put one on each side of the bridge. on the modern violins, as everybody has seen, they are in the shape of [illustration], and are known as '_f_' holes. [footnote : see frontispiece.] line , about 'lessons in three parts,' is of interest. primarily, it is another form of 'two's company, three is none'--but its musical meaning is very plainly present. in the th and th centuries it was very common to call the pieces of music in any volume for an instrument by the name 'lessons.' the first meaning, of course, was that they were examples for the pupil in music, but the word was used quite freely with the purely general signification of 'pieces' or 'movements.' one more word deserves remark--viz., 'to touch,' in line . this is used technically, and means strictly 'to play' on the instrument. the word comes both in meaning and form from ital., _toccare_. _toccata_ was a common word for a prelude (often extempore), intended as a kind of introduction to two or three more formal movements. the italian for a peal of bells is _tocco di campana_, and we have the word in english under the form _tocsin_, an alarm bell. the trumpet-call known as 'tucket,' which occurs seven times in the stage directions of six shakespeare plays, and is also found once in the text (_henry v._ iv, ii, ), also is derived from _toccare_. similarly with the german 'tusch,' a flourish of trumpets and other brass instruments, which may be heard under that name to the present day. the next passage confirms morley's account of the high estimation in which music was held as a part of a liberal education. baptista evidently considers 'good bringing up' to include 'music, instruments, and poetry.' moreover, the visiting master was to be well paid,--'to cunning men i will be very kind.' _shrew_ i, i, . _bianca._ sir to your pleasure humbly i subscribe: my books, and _instruments_, shall be my company, on them to look, and _practise by myself_. * * * * * _baptista_ (to hortensio and gremio). go in, bianca. [_exit_ bianca]. and for i know, she taketh most delight in _music_, _instruments_, and _poetry_, schoolmasters will i keep within my house, fit to instruct her youth.--if you, hortensio, or signior gremio, you, know any such, refer them hither; for _to cunning men i will be very kind_, and liberal to mine own children in _good bringing up_. we find further on, in the same play, that to bring one's lady-love a music master was thought a handsome compliment. _shrew_ i, ii, . _hortensio._ 'tis well: and i have met a gentleman, hath promis'd me to help me to another, _a fine musician to instruct our mistress_. moreover, in _pericles_ iv, vi, , we find that marina, daughter of prince pericles, can '_sing_, weave, sew, and _dance_.' also see v, i, , where marina actually does sing, to rouse her father from his melancholy. iii songs and singing it is impossible here to give even an outline of the history of songs and singing in england. the general statement must suffice that vocal music, accompanied by viols and harps, with songs and catches, were common in the year in france; and any reader of chaucer and gower may see for himself that vocal music was flourishing in the th century in england. the english round or catch, mentioned above, 'sumer is icumen in,' is most probably of the th century, and that alone would be sufficient to characterise the popular vocal music of that day. this composition is advanced in every way, being very melodious, and at the same time showing that vocal harmony (_i.e._, singing in parts) was greatly appreciated. to proceed to a time nearer the age with which we are concerned--in henry vii.'s reign, there were many songs written, some for voices only, and some with instrumental accompaniment. amongst the former are two songs in three parts, the music by william cornyshe, junior, which are given in hawkins. skelton wrote the words of the first, 'ah, beshrew you by my fay,' which is very coarse in tone, as was frequently the case with him; and the second one, 'hoyday, jolly ruttekin,' is a satire on the drunken habits of the flemings who came over with anne of cleves. mrs page (_wiv._ ii, i, ) refers to these dutchmen, where, after receiving falstaff's love-letter, she exclaims, 'what an unweighed behaviour hath this _flemish drunkard_ picked (with the devil's name!) out of my conversation, that he dares in this manner assay me?' the following is a curious picture by 'skelton, laureate,' of an ignorant singer, who appears to have been throwing mud at the poet. skelton gives us a sad account both of his morals and his music. the rd verse begins-- with hey troly loly, lo whip here jak, alumbek, sodyldym syllorym ben, curiously he can both _counter_ and knak, of martin swart, and all his merry men; lord, how perkyn is proud of his pohen, but ask wher he findeth among his _monachords_ an holy-water-clark a ruler of lordes. he cannot fynd it in _rule_ nor in _space_, he _solfyth_ too haute, hys _trybyll_ is too high, he braggyth of his byrth that borne was full base, hys musyk _withoute mesure, too sharp_, is _his 'my'_, he trymmeth in his _tenor_ to _counter_ pardy, his _descant_ is besy,[ ] it is without a _mene_, too fat is his fantsy, his wyt is too lene. he tumbryth on a _lewde lewte_, rotybulle joyse, rumbill downe, tumbill downe, hey go, now now, he _fumblyth in his fyngering_ an ugly rude noise, it seemyth the sobbyng of an old sow: he wolde be made moch of, and he wyst how; well sped in spindels and tuning of travellys a bungler, a brawler, a picker of quarrels. comely he clappyth a _payre of clavicordys_ he _whystelyth_ so swetely he maketh me to swet, his _discant_ is dashed full of _discordes_, a red angry man, but easy to intrete; etc. [footnote : 'besy,' that is, 'busy,' meaning 'fussy,' a bad fault in descant, as it is to this day in counterpoint.] further on we read-- for lordes and ladyes lerne at his scole, he techyth them so wysely to _solf_ and to _fayne_, that neither they sing wel _prike-song_ nor _plain_. skelton's main objection to this person is that he, being in reality of very humble origin, presumed on his very doubtful musical abilities to gain a footing amongst his betters. as he says, 'for jak wold be a jentilman that late was a grome.' evidently 'jak' had managed to make good his position as a fashionable teacher of singing, in spite of the defects plainly mentioned in the above verses. in the first verse, 'counter' is a musical term, here used with the meaning of 'to embroider' the tale. 'knack' is still used in yorkshire for 'affected talk.' 'monachord' is the ancient one-stringed fiddle called tromba marina, and is here used as a joke on 'monachi' or 'holy water clarks.' in verse , '_rule_ and space' is simply 'line and space,' _i.e._, on the musical staff. 'solfyth too haute' is 'solfa's too high.' the 'my' which was 'too sharp' is the mi, the seventh note of the scale, mentioned above as the critical point in solfa. in verse , 'lewde lewte' means merely 'vulgar lute'; and 'rotybulle joyse' is the title of an old song. the 'payre of clavicordys' is the clavichord, which in was a keyed instrument of much the same kind as the virginals,[ ] with about three and a half octaves. it was used by nuns, and therefore had its strings muffled with bits of cloth to deaden the sound. [footnote : it was the _german_ clavichord that had 'tangents' of brass at the ends of the key levers. these tangents cut off the proper length of the string, and made it sound at the same time. the italians called an instrument with a 'jack' action like the virginal by the name clavichord.] the last three lines quoted mention 'solfa' and 'fayne.' the latter is 'feigned' music, or musica ficta, which at this time was the art of dislocating the 'mi,' so as to change the key. it was seldom that more than one flat was found in those days, and this would move the mi from _b_ to _e_, thus constituting 'fayned' music. this account will give a general idea of the kind of songs and singing that were to be found in . popular songs, 'rotybulle joyse,' with a burden of 'rumbill downe, tumbill downe,' etc., accompanied by a 'lewde lewte'; clavichord playing; solfaing; singing of both 'prick-' and 'plain-' song, with musica ficta; besides the delectable art of 'whysteling'; seem to have been matters in ordinary practice at the beginning of the th century. add to these the songs in three parts, with rounds or catches for several voices, and we have no mean list of musicianly accomplishments, which the men of shakespeare's day might inherit. in shakespeare, besides the songs most commonly known (some of which are by earlier authors), there are allusions to many kinds of vocal music, and scraps of the actual words of old songs--some with accompaniment, some without; a duet; a trio; a chorus; not to mention several rounds, either quoted or alluded to. it will be useful here to refer to a few of these less known examples. _l.l.l._ i, ii, . the ballad of 'the king and the beggar.' moth says "the world was very guilty of such a ballad some three ages since; but i think now 'tis not to be found; or, if it were, it would neither serve for the writing, nor the tune." _id._ iii, i, . moth begins a song 'concolinel,' which armado calls a 'sweet air.' various snatches of ballads, ancient and modern--_e.g._, (_a_) by falstaff. _h. . b._ ii, iv, , 'when arthur first in court began,' 'and was a worthy king.' (_b_) by master silence. _h. . b._ v, iii, . 'do nothing but eat, and make good cheer,' etc.; 'be merry, be merry, my wife has all,' etc.; 'a cup of wine, that's brisk and fine,' etc. 'fill the cup, and let it come,' etc.; 'do me right, and dub me knight,' etc.; 'and robin hood, scarlet, and john.' (_c_) by benedick, _much ado_ v, ii, . 'the god of love.' (_d_) the old tune 'light o' love' [see appendix], the original words of which are unknown. _much ado_ iii, iv, , 'clap us into "light o' love;" that goes without a burden; do you sing it, and i'll dance it.' here is one verse of 'a very proper dittie,' to the tune of "lightie love" (date ). "by force i am fixed my fancie to write, ingratitude willeth me not to refrain: then blame me not, ladies, although i indite what lighty love now amongst you doth rayne, your traces in places, with outward allurements, dothe moove my endevour to be the more playne: your nicyngs and tycings, with sundrie procurements, to publish your lightie love doth me constraine." there were several songs of the th century that went to this tune. see also shakespeare, _gent._ i, ii, , and fletcher, _two noble kinsmen_ v, ii, . (_e_) song by parson evans, _wiv._ iii, i, ; 'to shallow rivers,' for words of which see marlowe's 'come live with me,' printed in the 'passionate pilgrim,' part xx. [see tunes in appendix]. sir hugh is in a state of nervous excitement, and the word 'rivers' brings 'babylon' into his head, so he goes on mixing up a portion of the version of ps. cxxxvii. with marlowe. (_f_) by sir toby. _tw. nt._ ii, iii, , , . peg-a-ramsey, 'three merry men be we,' 'there dwelt a man in babylon,' 'o! the twelfth day of december,' 'farewell, dear heart.' [for tunes, see appendix]. (_g_) _as you like it_ ii, v. song with chorus, 'under the greenwood tree,' nd verse '_all together here_.' (_h_) by pandarus, _troil._ iii, i, . song, 'love, love, nothing but love,' accompanied on an 'instrument' by the singer himself. (_i_) another, _id._ iv, iv, , 'o heart, heavy heart.' (_j_) _lear_ i, iv, , two verses sung by the fool, 'fools had ne'er less grace in a year.' (_k_) ballads by autolycus, _winter's tale_ iv, ii, , . 'when daffodils,' 'but shall i go mourn for that.' _id._ sc. ii. end, 'jog on' [see appendix]; _id._ sc. iii. , 'whoop, do me no harm, good man' [appendix]; _id._ l. , 'lawn, as white as driven snow'; _id._ l. , ballad of the 'usurer's wife,' to a 'very doleful tune'; _id._ l. , ballad of a fish, 'very pitiful'; _id._ l. , a song _in three parts_, to the tune of 'two maids wooing a man,' "get you hence, for i must go"; _id._ l. , song, 'will you buy any tape' (_cf._ the round by jenkins, b. , 'come, pretty maidens,' see rimbault's rounds, canons, and catches). (_l_) duet by king cymbeline's two sons; funeral song over imogen, _cymb._ iv, ii, , 'fear no more the heat of the sun.' (_m_) stephano's 'scurvy tunes,' _temp._ ii, ii, , 'i shall no more to sea,' 'the master, the swabber,' etc. [appendix]. _id._ l. , caliban's song, 'farewell, master,' etc. (_n_) song accompanied by lute. _h._ . iii, i. 'orpheus.' besides these there are allusions to the names of various popular tunes and catches, of which the music is still to be had. amongst these are-- 'the hunt is up' [appendix]. see _rom. and jul._ iii, v, . juliet says of the lark's song, 'that voice doth us affray, hunting thee hence with _hunts-up_ to the day.' any rousing morning song, even a love-song, was called a _hunts-up_. the tune of this song was also sung (in ) to 'o sweete olyver, leave me not behind the,' but altering the time to in a bar. see _as you like it_ iii, iii, . 'heart's ease' [appendix], the words of which are not known. tune before . see _romeo_ iv, v, . _id._, 'my heart is full of woe.' _id._ l. . 'when griping grief' [appendix], by richard edwards, gentleman of queen elizabeth's chapel, printed in the 'paradyse of daynty devises' (printed ). hawkins gives four verses, the first of which is here quoted by shakespeare, but with several variations-- '_where_ griping grief the hart _would_ wound, and doleful domps the mind oppresse, _there_ musick with her silver sound _is wont with spede to give_ redresse; of troubled minds, for every sore, swete musick hath a salve in store.' the last verse is charming-- 'oh heavenly gift, that turnes the minde, like as the sterne doth rule the ship, of musick whom the gods assignde, to comfort man whom cares would nip; sith thou both man and beast doest move, what wise man then will thee reprove.' 'green sleeves' [appendix]. _wiv._ ii, i, . _mrs ford._ ... i would have sworn his disposition [falstaff's] would have gone to the truth of his words; but they do _no more adhere_ and _keep place_ together, than the _hundredth psalm_ to the _tune of 'green sleeves_.' also see _wiv._ v, v, . the tune is given in its most complete form by chappell, and is probably of henry viii.'s time. the ballad was published in , with title, 'a new northerne dittye of the ladye greene sleeves.' verse is as follows:-- "alas my love, you do me wrong to cast me off discourteously, and i have lovèd you so long, delighting in your company. greensleeves was all my joy, greensleeves was my delight, greensleeves was my heart of gold, and who but my lady greensleeves." the 'hundredth psalm' (all people that on earth do dwell) will only adhere and keep place with the tune of green sleeves to a certain extent. if the reader will try to sing it to the tune in the appendix, he will find that in the first half he is led into several false accents; while the second half is quite unmanageable without altering the notes. there is, however, a form of the tune in hawkins which is much further off 'the truth of the words,' for it has exactly the right quantity of _notes_, but the _accents_ are all as wrong as possible, thus-- [transcriber's note: in the passage below, "u" represents a breve and "-" a macron.] - u - u - u - _all_ peo-_ple_ that _on_ earth _do_ u u u u u u - u - _dwell_ sing to _the_ lord with _cheer_ful _voice_. it may be that this form of 'green sleeves' was known better than the older one in shakespeare's day. 'carman's whistle' [appendix]. _h. . b._ iii, ii, . falstaff soliloquises on shallow's lies concerning his wild youth. _fal._ he (shallow) came ever in the rearward of the fashion, and _sung those tunes_ ... that he heard the _carmen whistle_, and sware--they were his _fancies_, or his _goodnights_.... the _case of a treble hautboy_ was a mansion for him, a court. the carman's whistle was a popular elizabethan tune, and was arranged as a virginal lesson by byrd. this arrangement can be had most readily in litolff's publication, 'les maîtres du clavecin.' the 'fancies' referred to above are the 'fantazies' already remarked on (chest of viols); and the 'goodnights' are songs _in memoriam_, or dirges. 'fortune my foe.' [appendix]. _merry wives_ iii, iii, . _falstaff_ (to mrs ford). 'i see what thou wert, if _fortune thy foe_ were not, nature thy friend.' this old tune is at latest of elizabeth's time, and was sung to the ancient ballad of "titus andronicus." the first verse of 'fortune my foe' is as follows:-- "fortune my foe, why dost thou frown on me? and will thy favour never better be? wilt thou, i say, for ever breed my pain, and wilt thou not restore my joyes again?" 'ophelia's songs.' _hamlet_ iv, v. [appendix]. 'how should i your true love know'; 'good morrow, 'tis st valentine's day'; 'they bore him barefaste'; 'bonny sweet robin'; 'and will he not come again.' the one line of 'bonny sweet robin' is all that remains of the song, except the title, which is also the first line--viz., 'my robin is to the greenwood gone.' the line shakespeare gives would be the last. one tune to it is at any rate older than . lastly, there are the old catches, 'hold thy peace,' sung by toby, sir andrew, and feste in _twelfth night_ ii, iii; 'jack boy, ho boy, news, the cat is in the well,' etc., referred to by grumio in _shrew_ iv, i, ; besides 'flout 'em and scout em,' sung by stephano, trinculo, and caliban in _tempest_ iii, ii; and 'what shall he have that killed the deer,' for the foresters in _as you like it_ iv, ii, . the original music of the first two, probably much earlier than shakespeare, is in the appendix. a round for four voices by john hilton (flourished ) to 'what shall he have,' is probably the first setting, and may be seen in rimbault, p. . purcell ( ) set 'flout 'em' as a catch for three voices, which is in caulfield's collection of shakespeare vocal music, . these last two are poor specimens of catches, so they are not printed here. [the proper reading of 'flout 'em,' in the tos and st fol. is 'flout 'em and _cout_ 'em! and _skowt_ 'em, and flout 'em! thought is free.'] the following passage contains a large quantity of the history of songs in the th century, and is one of the most important to be found in shakespeare. autolycus sells ballads 'of all sizes' among his wares; the country folk, mopsa, dorcas, and the clown, buy them, and afterwards sing them; and the rustic servant distinctly prefers the pedlar's vocalisation to their accustomed 'tabor and pipe,' or even to the 'bagpipe.' _winter's tale_ iv, iii, . _servant._ o master! if you did but hear the _pedlar_ at the door, you would _never dance again after a tabor and pipe_; no, the _bagpipe_ could not move you. he _sings several tunes_ faster than you'll tell money; he utters them as he had _eaten ballads_, and all men's ears grew to his tunes. _clown._ he could never come better: he shall come in. _i love a ballad_ but even too well; if it be doleful matter, merrily set down, or a very pleasant thing indeed, and sung lamentably. _serv._ he hath _songs_, for man or woman, _of all sizes_.... he has the prettiest _love-songs_ for maids; so without bawdry, which is strange; with such _delicate burdens_ of "dildos" and "fadings," "jump her and thump her"; ... "_whoop, do me no harm, good man._" l. . _clo._ pr'ythee, bring him in, and let him _approach singing_. _perdita._ forewarn him, that he use _no scurrilous words_ in 's tunes. l. . _clo._ [to autolycus]. what hast here? _ballads_? _mopsa._ 'pray now, buy some: i love a _ballad in print_, o' life, for _then we are sure they are true_. _autolycus._ here's one to a _very doleful tune_ ... [of a usurer's wife]. l. . _clo._ come on, lay it by: and let's first see _more ballads_.... _aut._ here's _another ballad, of a fish_, that ... sung this ballad against the hard hearts of maids: ... the ballad is _very pitiful_, and as true. l. . _clo._ lay it by too: another. _aut._ this is a _merry ballad_, but a _very pretty_ one. _mop._ let's have some merry ones. _aut._ why, this is a passing merry one, and _goes to the tune of_ "two maids wooing a man," there's scarce a maid westward but she sings it: _'tis in request_, i can tell you. _mop._ we can _both_ sing it: if _thou'lt bear a part_ [_i.e._, autolycus], thou shalt hear; 'tis in _three parts_. _dorcas._ we had the _tune_ on't a month ago. _aut._ _i can bear my part_; you must know, _'tis my occupation_: have at it with you. [they sing 'get you hence,' in three parts.] _clo._ we'll have the song out anon _by ourselves_. l. . _servant._ master, there is _three_ carters, _three_ shepherds, _three_ neat herds, _three_ swine herds, that have made themselves all _men of hair_: they call themselves _saltiers_; and they have a _dance_, which the wenches say is a _gallimaufry_ of gambols, because they are not in't.... * * * * * l. . _aut._ _my clown_ (who wants but something to be a reasonable man) grew so in love with the wenches' _song_, that he would not stir his pettitoes, _till he had both tune and words_. the tabor and pipe, in the servant's first speech, were common popular instruments. the tabor, of course, was a small drum, which was used as accompaniment to the pipe, a small whistle with three holes, but with a compass of notes. (see frontispiece.) in its curiously disproportionate compass, it may be compared to the modern 'picco' pipe of the music shops. mersennus (middle of th century) mentions an englishman, john price, who was an accomplished player. it is played on by ariel, see a subsequent quotation from _the tempest_ iii, ii, and . also _much ado_ ii, iii, ; and the tabor alone, in _twelfth night_ iii, i. the bagpipe[ ] was very similar to the instruments of that name which still exist. at the present moment there are four kinds in use--highland scotch, lowland scotch, northumbrian, and irish. the last has bellows instead of a 'bag,' but in other ways they are very much alike. they all have 'drones,' which sound a particular note or notes continually, while the tune is played on the 'chanter.' shakespeare himself tells us of another variety--viz., the lincolnshire bagpipe, in _hen. . a._ i, ii, , where falstaff compares his low spirits to the melancholy 'drone of a lincolnshire bagpipe.'[ ] [footnote : the bagpipe appears on a coin of nero. also there is a figure of an _angel_ playing it, in a crosier given by william of wykeham to new coll., oxon., in .] [footnote : what is a 'woollen bagpipe'? see _merchant_ iv, i, .] the servant's second speech refers to the character of the words of the popular ballads, which were too often coarse and even indecent. 'love-songs' are quite a large class, frequently referred to. for instance, _two gent._ ii, i, . _val._ why, how know you that i am in love? _speed._ marry by these special marks. first, you have learn'd ... _to relish a love song_, like a robin-redbreast; _rom._ ii, iv, . _mercutio._ 'alas, poor romeo! he is already dead; ... run thorough the ear _with a love-song_.' besides the passage from _twelfth nt._ ii, iii, quoted further on, where feste offers sir toby and sir andrew their choice between 'a love-song, or a song of good life.' the 'delicate burdens,' 'dildos and fadings,' 'jump her and thump her,' are to be found in examples of the period. a round of matt. white, 'the courtier scorns the country clowns' (date about ) has for its third and last line 'with a fading, fading, fading, fading,' etc. 'whoop, do me no harm' has already been spoken of. in l. of the _winter's tale_ passage, perdita again takes precaution against autolycus using 'scurrilous words.' from l. to l. , the passage refers to a very interesting department of th century singing--viz., the habit of performing songs in three vocal parts. the singers were called threeman-songmen, and the songs themselves 'threeman songs,' or 'freemen's songs.' [_freemen_ is simply a corruption of _threemen_. mr aldis wright tells me it is analogous to _thills_ or _fills_, for the shafts of a waggon. rimbault, in the preface to 'rounds, canons, and catches,' is highly indignant with ritson's 'inconceivably strange notion' that freemen is only a form of threemen. rimbault's reason was that 'deuteromelia' ( ) does contain freemen's songs in _four_ parts. mr aldis wright also gives me the expression '_six_-men's song,' from percy's reliques, also these definitions, which will all go to settle the matter: florio, italian dictionary, ; _strambotti_, country gigges, rounds, catches, virelaies or _threemen's songs_; _cantarini_, such as sing _threemen's songs_; _berlingozzo_.... also a drunken or _threemen's song_. cotgrave, french dict. ; virelay. m. a virelay, round, _free_mans song]. giraldus cambrensis says that singing in parts was indigenous to the parts beyond the humber, and on the borders of yorkshire. threeman singing may still be heard (not as an exotic), in wales and the west of england. this last is referred to in the above passage, 'there's scarce a maid westward but she sings it'--viz., the song in three parts. shakespeare is strictly historical in making a pedlar, and two country lasses, capable of 'bearing a part' in a composition of this sort. the company of 'men of hair,' calling themselves 'saltiers,' may derive their name from the dance, 'saltarello.' gallimaufry is 'galimathias,' a muddle, or hotch potch. (see _merry wives_ ii, i, ). the threemansong men are more particularly described in _winter's tale_ iv, ii, . _clown._ she hath made me four-and-twenty nosegays for the _shearers; three-man song-men all, and very good ones_, but they are _most of them means and bases_; but _one puritan_ amongst them, and he _sings psalms to hornpipes_. these musical harvesters square closely with the account given in the introduction, of music amongst the lower classes. here were good glee singers, with the single defect that their tenors were very weak, 'most of them means [altos] and basses.' the puritan was most accommodating, and his singing the words of psalms to the tune of the hornpipe would tend to shew that the old adam was not all put away as yet. his compromise with his conscience reminds one of the old stories (all too true) of church singers in the th and th centuries, who would sing the by no means respectable words of popular comic ditties to the solemn strains of the mass 'l'homme armé,' or whatever well-known melody the music happened to be constructed on. an example of a threemansong will be found in the appendix, 'we be soldiers three.' shakespeare also alludes to _sacred_ part-music. falstaff, by his own account, was a notable singer of anthems, in which holy service he had lost his voice; he was familiar with members of the celebrated choir of st george's chapel at windsor; and was not above practising the metrical psalmody in his sadder moments. _h. . b._ i, ii, . _chief justice._ is not your _voice broken_, your wind short, your chin double, your wit single, and every part about you blasted with antiquity, and will you yet call yourself young? fie, fie, fie, sir john! _falstaff._ my lord.... for my _voice_, i have _lost it with_ hollaing, and _singing of anthems_. _h. . b._ ii, i, . _hostess._ thou didst swear to me ... upon wednesday in wheeson week, when the prince broke thy head for liking his father to a _singing-man of windsor_. _hen. . a._ ii, iv, . falstaff laments the degeneracy of the times. _fal._ there live not three good men unhanged in england, and one of them is fat, and grows old; god help the while! a bad world, i say. _i would i were a weaver; i could sing psalms or anything._ this last sentence connects curiously with sir john oldcastle, the leader of the lollards, who were noted for their psalm singing, which indeed gave them the name. these flemish protestants, who had fled from the persecutions in their own country, were mostly _woollen_ manufacturers, and were distinguished for their love of psalmody, throughout the western counties, where they settled. hence the allusion to 'weavers' and 'psalms.' but according to the epilogue of _hen. . b._, 'oldcastle died a martyr, and _this is not the man_.' falstaff knew well what a ballad was too--as the following shews:-- _hen. . a._ ii, ii, . _fal._ (to hal.). go hang thyself in thine own heir-apparent garters! if i be ta'en, i'll peach for this. an i have not _ballads made on you all_, and _sung to filthy tunes_, let a cup of sack be my poison. two other worthy knights claim our attention in the next quotation, which contains many interesting allusions. _inter alia_; sir toby gives feste sixpence to sing a song; sir andrew follows it up with a 'testril.' the clown then sings them 'o mistress mine.' [for the original music see prof. bridge's 'shakespeare songs,' novello, a collection which every reader of shakespeare ought to have. price s. d.] then, at sir toby's suggestion, they all three sing a catch, or, in his own words, 'draw _three_ souls out of _one_ weaver,' an allusion to the _three_ vocal parts which are evolved from the _one_ melody of the catch, as well as a sly reference to 'weavers' singing catches. (see introduction.) they sing 'thou knave,' for which see the appendix. it is not a good catch, but sounds humorous if done smartly, and perhaps its very roughness suits the circumstances. next, after maria's entrance, toby either quotes the titles, or sings odd lines of four old songs [appendix]; and when malvolio comes in, furious with the noise they are making in the middle of the night, he applies precisely those epithets to their proceedings that our histories lead us to expect--_e.g._, 'gabbling like _tinkers_,' '_alehouse_,' squeaking out your '_cozier's_ catches' ['cozier' is 'cobbler']. sir toby's puns on 'keep time' in ll. and ought not to be missed. to 'keep time' is almost the only virtue a catch singer _must_ have. _tw._ ii, iii, . _sir to._ welcome, ass. now _let's have a catch_. _sir and._ by my troth, the fool has an _excellent breast_. i had rather than forty shillings i had such a leg, and so _sweet a breath to sing_, as the fool has. l. . _sir and._ now, _a song_. _sir to._ come on; there is _sixpence_ for you; let's have _a song_. _sir and._ there's a _testril_ of me too; if one knight give a---- _clown._ would you have a _love-song_, or a _song of good life_? _sir to._ a love-song, a love-song. _sir and._ ay, ay; i care not for good life. [_clown_ sings 'o mistress mine.'] _sir and._ a mellifluous voice, as i am true knight. _sir to._ a contagious breath. _sir and._ very sweet and contagious, i'faith. _sir to._ to _hear by the nose_, it is _dulcet in contagion_. but shall we make the welkin dance indeed? shall we rouse the night-owl in a _catch_, that will _draw three souls out of one weaver_? shall we do that? _sir and._ an you love me, let's do't: i am _dog at a catch_. _clo._ by'r lady, sir, and _some dogs_ will _catch well_. _sir and._ most certain. let our _catch_ be, "thou knave." _clo._ "hold thy peace, thou knave," knight? i shall be constrained to _call thee knave_, knight. _sir and._ 'tis not the first time i have constrained one to call me knave. _begin_, fool: it begins, "_hold thy peace_." _clo._ i shall never begin, if i hold my peace. _sir and._ good, i'faith. come, begin. [_they sing a catch._] _enter_ maria. _mar._ what a caterwauling do you keep here! * * * * * _sir to._ my lady's a cataian; we are politicians; malvolio's a peg-a-ramsey, and "_three merry men be we_."... _tilly-valley_, lady! [_sings._] "there dwelt a man in babylon, lady, lady!" * * * * * _sir to._ [_sings._] "o! the twelfth day of december."---- _mar._ for the love o'god, peace! _enter_ malvolio. _mal._ my masters, are you mad? or what are you? have you no wit, manners, nor honesty, but to _gabble like tinkers_ at this time of night? do ye make an _alehouse_ of my lady's house, that ye squeak out your _cozier's catches_ without any mitigation or remorse of voice? is there no respect of place, persons, or _time_ in you? _sir to._ _we did keep time, sir, in our catches._ sneck up! l. - , another song, "farewell, dear heart" [appendix]. it is perhaps necessary to explain the nature of a catch, or round, more clearly. the two names were interchangeable in the th and th centuries. it was not till quite modern times that 'catch' implied a necessary quibble in the words, deliberately arranged by the writer. first, a catch or round of the best type of elizabethan times consisted of _one melody_, generally perfectly continuous. secondly, the said melody was always divisible into a certain number of _equal sections_, varying from three to six, or even eight; and as many sections as there were, so many voices were necessary. thirdly, each of these equal sections was deliberately arranged so as to make _harmony_ with every other. here are the words of a round of the th century, which is divisible into three equal sections, and therefore is sung by three voices. . 'cuckoo! hark! how he sings to us. . good news the cuckoo brings to us; . spring is here, says the cuckoo.' now, the way for three persons, a, b, and c, to sing this catch or round, is as follows:-- a begins [see above, line , '_begin_, fool'] line , and immediately proceeds to line ; at this very instant, b in his turn begins line , and acts similarly. when a has reached the first syllable in line , and b is at 'good' in line , it is time for c also to begin at line . as soon as a has finished line , he begins again; and so on with the others--'round' and 'round' till they are tired of 'catching' each other up. thus when they are all three fairly set going, their _one_ melody produces _three part_ harmony, and the catchers have drawn 'three souls out of one weaver.' the principle in all other catches or rounds is exactly the same, however great the number of parts. in the following we have another case of catch-singing. the original music of 'flout 'em' has not come down to us. _tempest_ iii, ii, . _stephano._ come on, trinculo, _let us sing_. [they sing a _catch_, 'flout 'em and scout 'em.'] _caliban._ that's not the tune. [very likely, as they were tipsy.] [ariel _plays the tune on a tabor and pipe_.] _ste._ what is this same? _trin._ this is the _tune of our catch_, played by the picture of nobody. * * * * * l. . _cal._ be not afeard; the isle is _full of noises_, _sounds_, and _sweet airs_, that give delight, and hurt not. sometimes a thousand _twangling instruments_ will hum about mine ears; and sometime _voices_, &c. _ste._ this will prove a brave kingdom to me, where i _shall have my music for nothing_. l. . i would, i could _see_ this taborer: [ariel] he _lays it on_. also _id._ iii, ii, . stephano, like most of the scamps in shakespeare, is a good musician. he leads the catch, appreciates ariel's tabor playing (l. ), and is overjoyed to think that he will have all his music 'for nothing' (l. ) in the magical isle. finally, in the _taming of the shrew_, we have the title of another old catch, of which the music has survived--viz., 'jack, boy.' _shrew_ iv, i, . _curtis._ therefore, good grumio, the _news_. _grumio._ why, "_jack, boy! ho, boy!_" and as much _news_ as thou wilt. the words of this catch, which takes four voices, are-- 'jack, boy, ho! boy, news; the cat is in the well, let us ring now for her knell, ding, dong, ding, dong, bell.' the music [see appendix], like that of so many other catches, is anonymous, and is of some date long before shakespeare. _as you_ v, iii, . _touchstone._ by my troth, well met. come, sit, sit, and a _song_. _ page._ we are for you; sit i' the middle. _ page._ shall we _clap into 't roundly, without hawking, or spitting_, or _saying we are hoarse_, which are the _only prologues to a bad voice_? _ page._ i' faith, i' faith; and _both in a tune_, like two gipsies on a horse. [song follows, 'it was a lover.' could be sung as a _two_-part madrigal quite easily. see bridge's 'shakespeare songs,' for morley's original setting.] _touch._ truly, young gentlemen, though there was no great matter in the ditty, yet the _note_ was very _untuneable_. _ page._ you are deceived, sir; _we kept time_; we _lost not our time_. _touch._ by my troth, _yes_; i count it but _time lost_ to hear such a foolish song. god be wi' you; and _god mend your voices_. come, audrey. the first page's speech at l. . is most humorously appropriate. 'both in a tune, like two gipsies on a horse,' is a quaint description of a duet. there is yet another pun on 'lost time' in ll. - . jaques' cynicism comes out even in his limited dealings with music. _as you_ iv, ii, . _jaques._ have you no _song_, forester, for this purpose? _ lord._ yes, sir. _jaq._ sing it; _'tis no matter how it be in tune, so it make noise enough_. song follows, 'what shall he have, that kill'd the deer,' rimbault, p. . music by hilton, date about , probably the original setting, a round for four foresters. this section will conclude with two quotations about singing of a more serious turn. _tw._ ii, iv, . _duke._ _give me some music._--now, good morrow, friends. now, good cesario, but that _piece of song_, that _old and antique song_, we heard last night; methought, it did relieve my passion much, more than _light airs_, ... come; but _one verse_. _curio._ he is not here, so please your lordship, that should sing it. _duke._ who was it? _cur._ feste, the jester, my lord: ... _duke._ seek him out, and _play the tune the while_. l. . [to cesario]--how dost thou like _this tune_? _viola._ _it gives a very echo_ to the seat where love is thron'd. l. . _duke._ mark it, cesario; _it is old, and plain_; [_clown_ sings 'come away, death.'] l. . _duke._ there's for thy pains. _clo._ _no pains, sir; i take pleasure in singing, sir._ _duke._ i'll pay thy pleasure then. 'light airs' in line means 'vain fiddling jigs'--_i.e._, lively instrumental music. lines - and are worth remembering for many reasons. the next and last passage requires no remark, except that 'organ pipe of frailty' means simply the voice of the dying king. _king john_ v, vii, . death of k. john. _prince henry._ doth he still rage? _pembroke._ he is more patient than when you left him: _even now he sung_. _p. hen._ _o vanity of sickness!..._ ... 'tis _strange that death should sing_. i am the _cygnet_ to this pale faint _swan_, who _chants a doleful hymn_ to his own death, and, from the _organ-pipe of frailty_, sings his soul and body to their lasting rest. iv serenades and 'music' the history of serenades is as ancient as that of songs. in the middle of the th century, sebastian brant, a lawyer, wrote in dutch his 'stultifera navis,' or 'ship of fools,' a severe satire on things in general, and popular amusements in particular. the book was afterwards translated into latin, and thence into english. here are some of the verses that treat of serenades in the year . 'the furies fearful, sprong of the floudes of hell, bereft _these vagabonds_ in their minds, so that by no meane can they abide ne dwell within their houses, but out they nede must go; more wildly wandring then either bucke or doe. some with their _harpes_, another with their _lute_, another with his _bagpipe_, or a foolishe _flute_. 'then measure they their _songes_ of melody _before the doores of their lemman deare_; howling with their foolishe songe and cry, so that their lemman may their great folly heare: 'but yet moreover these fooles are so unwise, that _in cold winter_ they use the same madness. when all the houses are lade with snowe and yse, o madmen amased, unstable, and witless! what pleasure take you in this your foolishness? what joy have ye to wander thus by night, save that _ill doers alway hate the light_?' another verse explains that not only the foolish young men of _low_ birth were given to this practice, but also-- 'states themselves therein abuse,' 'with _some yonge fooles of the spiritualtie_: the foolish _pipe_ without all gravitie doth eche degree call to his frantic game: the darkness of night expelleth feare of shame.' brant had no great opinion of the music provided either. he describes their singing before their lady's window-- 'one barketh, another bleateth like a shepe; some rore, some _counter_, some their _ballads fayne_: another from singing geveth himself to wepe; when his soveraigne lady hath of him disdayne.' finally--a parthian shot-- 'standing in corners like as it were a spye, whether that the wether be whot, colde, wet, or dry.' thus, one hundred years before shakespeare was born, serenades of voices and instruments were common, and in general practice by all classes of young men, and not only laymen, but also yonge fooles of the spiritualtie. the instruments mentioned are such as were still in use in shakespeare's time--viz., harp, lute, 'foolish' pipe, bagpipe, and 'foolish' flute, besides the several varieties of song, which evidently included both solo and part singing--'feigned' ballads for a single voice [ballads, that is, in the more refined 'keys' of 'musica ficta'], and 'countering,' which implies that two voices at least took part. the following passage is an example of this nocturnal serenading by a company of gentlemen. _two gent._ iii, ii, . _proteus_ (advises thurio) 'visit by night your lady's chamber window with some _sweet concert_: to their _instruments_ tune a _deploring dump_:' _thu._ and thy advice this night i'll put in practice. therefore, sweet proteus, my direction-giver, let us into the city presently, _to sort some gentlemen well skilled in music_. proteus advises thurio to get a 'consort' (probably of viols) to play a 'dump' under silvia's window. he goes to arrange for some of his friends to attend for this purpose. the serenade takes place in the next act, where, in the nd scene, line , it is called 'evening music,' but does not include the 'dump,' for thurio has 'a sonnet that will serve the turn,' so they sing 'who is silvia.' here is the passage, which is full of quibbles on musical terms. _two gent._ iv, ii, . _proteus._ ... 'now must we to her window, and give _some evening music to her ear_.' l. . _thu._ ... now, gentlemen, _let's tune._ l. . _host_ (to julia, in boy's clothes). i'll bring you where you shall _hear music_, and see the gentleman that you ask'd for. _jul._ but shall i _hear him speak_? _host._ ay, that you shall. _jul._ _that will be music._ l. . _host._ how do you, man? (_i.e._, julia) the _music likes you not_. _jul._ you mistake: the _musician_ (_i.e._, proteus) _likes me not_. _host._ why, my pretty youth? _jul._ he _plays false_, father. _host._ how? _out of tune on the strings_? _jul._ not so; but yet _so false_, that he grieves my very _heart-strings_. _host._ you have a _quick ear_. _jul._ ay; i would i were deaf! it makes me have a _slow heart_. _host._ i perceive, _you delight not in music_. _jul._ not a whit, when it _jars_ so. _host._ hark! what fine _change_ is in the music. _jul._ ay, that _change_ (proteus' unfaithfulness) is the spite. _host_ (misunderstanding again). you would have them _always_ play but _one thing_? _jul._ i would always have _one_ (proteus) play but one thing. l. . _silvia_ (from window). 'i thank you for your music, gentlemen.' the next passage is of a serenade in the early morning. cloten arranges for the musicians (who seem in this case to be professional players) to give two pieces, one instrumental, followed by a song. _cymbeline_ ii, iii, . cloten serenades imogen. _cloten._ i would this _music would come_. i am advised to give her _music o' mornings_; they say, it will penetrate. _enter musicians._ come on: _tune_. if you can penetrate her with your _fingering_, so; we'll try with _tongue_ too: ... _first_, a very excellent good-conceited thing; _after_, a wonderful sweet air, with admirable rich words to it,--_and then_ let her consider. [the musicians perform 'hark! hark! the lark.'] so, get you gone. if this penetrate, i will consider your _music the better_; if it do not, it is a vice in _her ears_, which _horse-hairs_, and _calves'-guts_, ... can never amend. in l. , 'fingering' and 'tongue' correspond to 'playing' and 'singing.' the first is to be a 'fancy' for viols, 'a very excellent good-conceited thing'; the second is the 'wonderful sweet air,' hark! hark! the lark. 'good-conceited' means having many 'conceits.' these 'fancies' were always contrapuntal, and the various artificial contrivances, answering of points, imitations, and what not, are referred to under this title. the mention of 'horse-hairs and calves'-guts' makes it clear that the instruments in this 'morning music' were viols. another 'evening music' is provided by pericles, prince of tyre. _pericles_ ii, v, . pericles, a musician [his education had been 'in _arts_ and arms,' see ii, iii, ]. _per._ all fortune to the good simonides! _sim._ to you as much, sir! _i am beholding to you for your sweet music this last night_: i do protest, my ears were never better fed with such _delightful pleasing harmony_. _per._ it is your grace's pleasure to commend, not my desert. _sim._ sir, _you are music's master_. _per._ the worst of all her scholars, my good lord. the next quotation is also of 'morning music,' but with a different object--not a lady, but a soldier, and of a somewhat rough and ready kind, to judge by the clown's critical remarks. the passage seems to indicate the use of bagpipes; for 'they speak in the _nose_' (see _merchant_ iv, i, ), and are called _wind_-instruments, and are mentioned under the name 'pipes' in the last two lines. moreover, there is the remark of the clown, represented here by stars, which is terribly appropriate to that instrument. _othello_ iii, i. cassio brings musicians to salute othello. _cass._ masters, _play here_; i will content your pains: something that's brief; and bid "good morrow, general." [_music._] _enter clown._ _clo._ why, masters, _have your instruments been in naples_, that they _speak i' the nose_ thus? _ mus._ how, sir, how? _clo._ are these, i pray you, called _wind_-instruments? _ mus._ ay, marry, are they, sir. * * * * * _clo._ ... masters, here's money for you; and _the general so likes your music_, that _he desires you_, for love's sake, _to make no more noise with it_. _ mus._ well, sir, we will not. _clo._ if you have _any music that may not be heard_, to't again; but, as they say, to _hear_ music the general does not greatly care. _ mus._ _we have none such_, sir. _clo._ then _put up your pipes in your bag_, for i'll away. go; vanish into air, away! pandarus appears to be a capital musician. in the following we find him questioning a musical servant of priam's palace about some instrumental music which is going on within, 'at the request of paris.' the servant amuses himself by giving 'cross' answers to pandarus' crooked questions, and in the process gets out two or three musical jokes--_e.g._, '_partly_ know,' 'music _in parts_,' '_wholly_, sir.' further on, paris also plays on the term 'broken' music. _troilus and cressida_ iii, i, . _pandarus._ what music is this? _servant._ i do but _partly_ know, sir; it is _music in parts_. _pandarus._ know you the _musicians_? _serv._ _wholly_, sir. _pan._ who play they to? _serv._ to the hearers, sir. _pan._ at whose pleasure, friend? _serv._ at mine, sir, and _theirs that love music_. * * * * * l. . _pan._ fair prince, here is _good broken music_. _paris._ _you_ have _broke_ it, cousin; and, by my life, you shall make it whole again: you shall _piece_ it out with a _piece_ of your performance. [to _helen_] nell, he [_pandarus_] is _full of harmony_. * * * * * l. . _pan._ ... come, _give me an instrument_. [and at helen's request, pandarus sings, 'love, love, nothing but love.'] the custom of having instrumental music in taverns has already been referred to in the introduction, near the end, where we learn that the charge for playing before the guests was twenty shillings for two hours in shakespeare's time; also that a man could hardly go into a public house of entertainment without being followed by two or three itinerant musicians, who would either sing or play for his pleasure, while he was at dinner. accordingly, we find sir john falstaff enjoying such a performance at the boar's head, eastcheap. _h. . b._ ii, iv, . _ drawer._ why then, cover, and set them down: and see if thou canst find out _sneak's noise_; mistress tearsheet would fain have _some music_. (after supper, in a cooler room.) _id._ l. . _page._ the _music_ is come, sir. _falstaff._ let them _play_.---- _play_, sirs. _id._ l. . _fal._ _pay the musicians_, sirrah. the term 'sneak's noise' is most interesting. 'noise' means a company of musicians, and mr sneak was the gentleman who gave his name to the particular band of instrumentalists who favoured the boar's head. milton uses the word, in this sense, in the poem 'at a solemn music,' where the 'saintly shout' of the seraphic choir, with 'loud uplifted angel-trumpets,' 'immortal harps of golden wires,' and the singing of psalms and hymns, are collectively called 'that melodious _noise_.' also in his hymn on the nativity, verse ix., he has 'stringèd _noise_'--_i.e._, band of stringed instruments. the prayer-book version (great bible) of the psalms, which was made in , has the word in ps. lxxxi. , 'make a cheerful _noise_ unto the god of jacob,' and this in the next verses is said to consist of various musical instruments--_e.g._, the tabret, harp, lute, and trumpet. also in the authorised version of , ps. xxxiii. , 'play skilfully with a loud _noise_,' which was the instrumental accompaniment to a 'new song.' the same word is used in several other places, with the meaning of 'music'--_e.g._, pss. lxvi. ; xcv. , ; xcviii. , ; c. ; where 'to make a joyful noise' is represented in the original by the same verb, except in one of the two cases in ps. xcviii. . the word was still in use in , when dr plot was present at the annual bull-running held by the minstrels of tutbury, one of the features of which festivity was a banquet, with 'a noise of musicians playing to them.' the reputed cure of the tarantula's bite by music has already been mentioned. the next three examples are of somewhat similar cases. in the first, henry iv. in sickness asks for music; the second is an account of cerimon's attempt to rouse the half-drowned thaisa with at least partial assistance from music; while the third represents prospero using a solemn air to remove the magic spell which he had cast on alonso and his other enemies. _h. . b._ iv, iv, . k. hen. on his sick-bed. _k. hen._ let there be no noise made, my gentle friends; unless some _dull and favourable hand_ will _whisper music_ to my wearied spirit. _warwick._ call for the _music_ in the other room. _pericles_ iii, ii, . cerimon's house at ephesus. thaisa, cast up by the sea, is brought to life by his directions. _cerimon._ well said, well said; the fire and the cloths. the _rough and woful music_ that we have, _cause it to sound_, beseech you. the vial once more;--how thou stirr'st, thou block!-- _the music there!_ i pray you, give her air. _tempest_ v, i, . prospero employs music to disenchant alonso, antonio, etc. _pro._ ... and, _when i have required some heavenly music_ (which even now i do), _to work mine end upon their senses_.... l. . _a solemn air_; and the _best comforter to an unsettled fancy_, cure thy brains. next we have two examples of 'music at home.' in the case of the duke in twelfth night, it is 'concerted' music, and the players seem to be performing such a quaint old piece as 'the lord of salisbury his pavin,' by gibbons, in _parthenia_, the last 'strain' of which has just such a 'dying fall' as is mentioned in line . [see the remarks on the passage from _lucrece_ in section i. on the _technical_ meaning of 'strain.'] _twelfth night_ i, i. _duke._ if _music_ be the _food of love_, play on; give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, the appetite may sicken, and so die.-- _that strain again!_ it had a _dying fall_: o! it came o'er my ear like the _sweet sound_ that breathes upon a bank of violets, stealing and giving odour.--enough! no more: 'tis not so sweet now, as it was before. brutus' musical establishment is on a smaller scale than the duke's. he keeps a 'good boy,' who can sing to his own accompaniment on the lute, and is such a willing servant as to perform when almost overcome by sleep. _julius cæsar_ iv, iii, . brutus and his servant lucius. _bru._ bear with me, good boy, i am much forgetful. canst thou hold up thy heavy eyes awhile, and _touch_ thy _instrument_ a _strain_ or two? _luc._ ay, my lord, an't please you. _bru._ it does, my boy. i trouble thee too much, but thou art willing. * * * * * [boy sings to lute.] _bru._ this is a _sleepy tune_: [boy drops off]--o murderous slumber! lay'st thou thy leaden mace upon my boy, _that plays thee music_?--gentle knave, good night; i will not do thee so much wrong to wake thee. if thou dost nod, thou _break'st thy instrument: i'll take it from thee_; and, good boy, good night.-- [ghost of cæsar appears.] l. . _bru._ boy!--lucius!--varro! claudius! sirs, awake!--claudius! _luc._ [asleep]. _the strings_, my lord, _are false_. _bru._ he thinks he still is _at his instrument_. in _henry viii._ iii, i is a case of the same kind. _queen catherine._ take thy _lute_, wench: my soul grows sad with troubles: _sing, and disperse them_, if thou canst. leave working. [song. 'orpheus.'] the next passage brings us to another class of music--viz., dirges, funeral songs, or 'good-nights.' [see _h. . b._ iii, ii, ]. in _cymbeline_ iv, ii, , cadwal (arviragus) sounds an 'ingenious instrument' to signify imogen's death. polydore (guiderius) says they had not used it since their mother died. the song, or more properly, duet, which they sing directly after, in memory of imogen, may be taken in this connection. unfortunately there seems to be no musical setting of 'fear no more the heat o' the sun' any older than . in the following quotation 'dirges' are mentioned by name. _rom._ iv, iv, . _capulet._ ... "good faith! 'tis day: the county [count paris] will be here _with music_ straight." sc. v. . _cap._ all things, that we ordained festival, turn from their office to black funeral: our _instruments_ to _melancholy bells_; our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast; our _solemn hymns_ to _sullen dirges_ change. in close connection with these funeral songs is the passage in _hen. viii._ iv, ii, , where queen katherine, sick, requests her gentleman-usher to get the musicians to play a favourite piece of this class-- ... good griffith, cause the musicians play me _that sad note i named my knell_, whilst i sit meditating on that celestial harmony i go to. [she sleeps, then, waking from the vision--] ... bid the music leave, they are harsh and heavy to me. it would be of great interest if it were possible to identify queen katherine's 'knell.' there is an old song, given in chappell's popular music, 'o death, rock me to sleep,' which might be the very one, for both music and words are singularly appropriate. the refrain is as follows:-- 'tole on thou passing bell ringe out my dolefull _knell_ let thy sound my death tell, for i must die, there is no remedye.' the song is most plaintive, and has a very striking feature in the shape of a real independent accompaniment, which keeps up a continual figure of three descending notes, like the bells of a village church. hawkins gives the poem, with certain variations, and two extra verses at the beginning, the first commencing-- 'defiléd is my name full sore, through cruel spite and false report.' and he says the verses are thought to have been written by anne boleyn. hawkins also gives music (in four parts) to the first two verses, by robt. johnson, a contemporary of shakespeare's. the music of the song in chappell is much older than that; indeed, it is very possibly of hen. viii.'s time. v dances and dancing the history of dances is the history of the transition from pure vocal music to pure instrumental music. in the dances of the th century, we have the germs of the modern 'sonata' form; and in the association of certain of them we have the first attempt at a sequence of different 'movements,' which finally resulted in the sonata itself. the elizabethan dances, especially the pavan, shew us this development just at the point where instrumental music was dividing itself from vocal. _all the ancient dances were originally sung._ in grove's dictionary, vol. ii. p. , there is given the music of a _pavan_, in four vocal parts, with the words sung [copied from arbeau's orchésographie, ]. morley (practical music, ) mentions _ballete_, as being 'songs which being sung to a dittie may likewise be danced.' again, he speaks of 'a kind of songs ... called justinianas ... all written in the _bergamasca_ language.' see _mids. nt. dream_ v, ii, , where bottom is not so very inaccurate after all in asking duke theseus to '_hear_ a bergomask dance between two of our company.' the same author also gives '_passamesos_ with a dittie [_i.e._, sung],' and distinguishes between these aforesaid and 'those kinds which they make _without_ ditties.' [passamesos are passing-measures--or passamezzo--pavans, see _twelfth nt._ v, i, .] hence it appears that in elizabeth's reign some dances were sung, and others were simply played. morley goes on to instance two particular dances which were commonly associated together--viz., _pavans_ and _galliards_. [_tw._ v, i, , i, iii, , etc., _h. ._ i, ii, ], the first of which he says is for 'grave' dancing, having three 'strains,' each containing , , or semibreves (two beats in a bar), which are each repeated; and that this _pavan_ is usually followed by a _galliard_, 'a kind of music made out of the other' [see bull's pavan and galliard, 'st thomas wake,' in _parthenia_] in _triple_ time, 'a lighter and more stirring dance than the _pavan_, and consisting of the same number of straines.' the next passage from morley is very interesting when compared with the stage direction in _timon_ i, ii, , where a _masque_ of _ladies_ as _amazons_ enter the banquetting hall at timon's house, with _lutes_ in their hands, _dancing and playing_. this stage direction corresponds closely with morley's account, 'the italians make their _galliards_ (which they tearm _salta relly_) plain' [_i.e._, alone; not as an appendage to the pavan, as in england], 'and frame ditties to them, which in their _mascaradoes_ they sing and dance, and manie times without any instruments at all, but instead of instruments they have _curtisans disguised_ in men's apparell, who sing _and daunce_ to their own songes.' the 'french _bransle_,' he says, is like the alman (allemagne of bach, etc.)--_i.e._, it 'containeth the time of eight, and most commonly in short notes.' this is the brawl, see _l.l.l._ iii, i, , and was one of several tunes to which the country dance was danced, whether in a ring, or 'at length,' like our 'sir roger.' he says that the '_voltes_ and _courantes_' also are 'like unto this,' but are 'danced after sundrie fashions' [he means, with different steps, but occupying the same rhythmical time, so that the same tune would do], 'the _volte_ rising and leaping, the _courant_ travising and running, in which measure also our countrey dance is made, though it be danced after _another form_ than any of the former.' 'all these be made in _straines_, either two or three.' see _tw._ i, i, , 'that _strain_ again,' or _julius cæsar_ iv, iii, , 'touch thy instrument a _strain_ or two.' christopher sympson, the royalist soldier ( ), confirms morley's statements as to the constitution and use of these dances. see his 'compendium,' p. , where he expressly states that pure instrumental music, 'made only to delight the ear,' is merely a development from dances. he speaks of the association of pavan and galliard as being 'in course.' he spells the latter _giliard_, and says that it is 'according to its name' [see skeat, etym. dict., spanish, gallardo (ll = ly), pleasant, gay, lively] 'of a loftly and frolick movement.' immediately afterwards, however, sympson seems to forget his own remarks, for he says the name is derived from gallia, 'the country whence it came.' on page he speaks of _corants_, _sarabands_, _jiggs_, _country dances_, etc., as 'things so common in each one's ears' that he 'need not enlarge his discourse' to them. there is a capital bit of patriotism on page , which deserves quoting, first, because at the time it was entirely justifiable; secondly, because it shews us that in , instrumental music had at last decidedly parted company with vocal part-writing, and had an independent existence. 'you need not seek outlandish authors, especially for instrumental _music_; no nation (in my opinion) being equal to the _english_ in that way; as well for their excellent as their various and numerous consorts, of , , , and parts, made properly [on purpose] for instruments, of all which (as i said) _fancies_ are the chief.' for 'consort,' see _two gent._ iii, ii, ; and for 'fancies,' _hen. iv. b._ iii, ii, . hawkins ( ) does not add much of interest to the above account of the elizabethan dances, except (p. ) that there is no authority for a jigg having generally a pointed (_i.e._, dotted) note at the beginning of every bar. there is, however, a 'jegge' given in stainer and barrett's dict. of musical terms, dated , where the 'pointed' note is quite characteristic. this may be a more modern feature, for an undoubtedly ancient jig--viz., dr bull's 'king's hunting jigg,' not only has no dotted note, but is in common time, without even a tendency towards the rhythm of triplets. [also see appendix, 'cobbler's jig.' .] here is a most entertaining quotation from selden,[ ] dealing with fashionable court dances in elizabeth's reign, and shewing how things had gone from bad to worse in respect of dignity and state in dancing, under the stuarts. [footnote : selden's table talk, article 'king of england,' § .] 'the court of england is much alter'd. at a solemn dancing, _first_ you had the _grave measures_, _then_ the _corantoes_ and the _galliards_, and _this_ kept up _with ceremony_; and _at length_ to trenchmore, and the cushion dance: _then_ all the company dances, lord and groom, lady and kitchen-maid, _no distinction_. so in our court in queen _elizabeth's_ time, _gravity and state_ were kept up. in king _james's_ time things were _pretty well_. but _in king charles's time_, there has been nothing but trenchmore and the cushion-dance, _omnium gatherum, tolly polly, hoite cum toite_.' there are very many passages of interest, containing references to dances. the first one here given is an instance (in shakespeare's very text) of singing a dance and dancing to it at the same time. here the _brawl_, and _canary_, the first in alphabetical order, are coupled together. _l.l.l._ iii, i, . _moth._ master, will you win your love with a _french brawl_? _arm._ how meanest thou? _brawling in french_? _moth._ no, my complete master; but to _jig off a tune_ at the tongue's end, _canary to it_ with your feet, ... _sigh a note_, and _sing a note_.' two other examples of dancing to one's own singing are, _mids._ v, ii, and _wiv._ v, v, . the _brawl_ was written in quick four-in-a-bar time. there are several well-known tunes to it. [see note on arbeau's 'orchésographie.' .] the derivation of the name is from the french, _bransle_, a totter, swing, shake, etc., or perhaps from old french _brandeler_, to wag, shake, swing. skeat thinks the original dance may have been a _sword_ dance, and with this he connects the word brandish.[ ] it was danced, sometimes in a ring, holding hands, and sometimes 'at length.' [footnote : this hardly seems a necessary theory. see the note on 'orchésographie,' where the 'swinging' movement is fully accounted for.] the _canary_ (or canaries) was in / time, and was a lively dance. [stainer and barrett's dict. gives one by delaborde in / time.] there are many examples by lully and other frenchmen of the th century. one of lully's, in lajarte's 'airs à danser,' dates . there is no history of the name. skeat says it is so called from the canary islands. hawkins does not attempt to account for the title, but cunningly infers that it is of english origin because it has _not_ got a foreign name. also he mentions that purcell wrote a canaries for his opera of dioclesian, . [see note on 'orchésographie.'] the canary is also alluded to in two other places, where the lively character of the dance is clear. mr ford puns on 'wine,' 'pipe,' and 'canary.' of course _he_ means _whine_, _pipe_ (for dancing to), and the _canary_ that he meant falstaff to dance. _wiv._ iii, ii, . _host._ farewell, my hearts. i will to my honest knight falstaff, and drink _canary_ with him. _ford._ [_aside_] i think, i shall drink in _pipe-wine_ first with him; i'll make him _dance_. and next, lafeu connects the canary with 'spritely fire and motion.' _all's well_ ii, i, . _lafeu._ ... i have seen a medicine that's able to breathe life into a stone, quicken a rock, and make you _dance canary_ with spritely fire and motion. there are two specially important passages which mention several dances at one time, so as to give some prominence to their special characteristics--viz., _much ado_ ii, i, , and _twelfth nt._ i, iii, . the budget of dances here named includes-- . cinque-pace, or sinkapace. . coranto, or courante. . galliard. . jig (scotch). . measure. _much ado_ ii, i, . _beatrice._ the fault will be in the _music_, cousin, if you be not woo'd _in good time_: if the prince be too important [importunate], tell him, there is _measure_ in everything, and so _dance_ out the answer. for hear me, hero; wooing, wedding, and repenting, is as a _scotch jig_, a _measure_, and a _cinque-pace_: the first suit is _hot and hasty_, like a _scotch jig_, and full as fantastical; the wedding, _mannerly modest_, as a _measure_, full of _state and ancientry_; and then comes repentance, and with his bad legs falls into the _cinque-pace faster and faster_ till he sink into his grave. _tw._ i, iii, . _sir to._ what is thy excellence in a _galliard_, knight? _sir and._ 'faith, i can _cut a caper_. * * * * * l. . _sir to._ wherefore are these things hid?... why dost thou not _go to church in a galliard_, and _come home in a coranto_? my very _walk_ should be a _jig_: ... _sink-a-pace_. what dost thou mean? is it a world to hide virtues in? i did think, by the excellent constitution of thy leg, it was formed under the _star of a galliard_. to take these five dances in order-- . cinquepace is the name of the original galliard. praetorius (b. ) says a galliard has _five_ steps, and is therefore called _cinque_ pas. these five steps are described in the orchésographie, . see the note on that work for the explanation of the steps of this and other shakespeare dances. beatrice's description seems to connect the cinquepace with the tottering and uncertain steps of old age. 'repentance,' she says, 'with his _bad legs_ falls into the cinquepace faster and faster, till he _sink_ into his grave.' . coranto is the italian form of our country dance. the country dance is original in england, but under different foreign names has been called french or italian. it means simply 'country' or 'rustic' dance. skeat is entirely opposed to the derivation from _contra_ danza, with a supposed reference to two opposite lines of partners; and in this he is confirmed by shakespeare, _tempest_ iv, i, , 'country footing.' the old english name was 'current traverse,' and morley ( ) speaks of the courant step as 'travising and running,' which would appear to connect the italian word with _curro_. sir john davies ( - ), in his poem 'orchestra,' identifies rounds, corantos, measures, and some other dances with country dances. that is, whatever the rhythm or speed of the actual tune used, these variously named country dances could be performed to it. sir roger de coverly, our typical english country dance, is in _form_ almost the same as the brawl, coranto, galliard, or measure. a courant by frescobaldi ( - ) is in triple time. as for its 'step,' davies says it is 'on a triple dactile foot,' 'close by the ground with sliding passages.' according to sir toby, it would be a quicker and gayer dance than the galliard, for he compares the walk to church to the latter; but the more lighthearted journey back to dinner he likens to the coranto. the jig would be even faster, for sir andrew's 'very walk,' that is, his _week-day_ gait, was to be 'a jig.' . the galliard, in accordance with its derivation, is properly described in _h. ._ i, ii, , as a '_nimble_' galliard. this was extremely popular, both as a virginal piece and for dancing. there is quite a long list of galliards by various composers, in qu. elizabeth's virginal book. there are several in _parthenia_ ( ) by byrde, bull, and gibbons. they are always in triple time, and consist of either two or three strains of an even number of bars. sir toby seems to connect a galliard with somewhat violent 'capers.' he remarks on the 'excellent constitution' of sir andrew's leg, 'it was formed under the star of a galliard.' sir andrew complacently replies, 'ay, 'tis strong,' upon which sir toby proposes to the foolish knight to give an example of his powers; 'let me see thee _caper_. ha! _higher_.' this capering or 'sault majeur' was also a feature of the 'high lavolt' [la volta] mentioned in _troilus_ iv, iv, , concerning which sir john davies says-- 'an anapaest is all their music's song, whose first two feet are short, and third is long.' also he calls the lavolte 'a lofty jumping.' morley ( ) speaks of the volte, and says it is characterised by 'rising and leaping,' and is of the same 'measure' as a coranto. these statements do not all agree with the 'orchésographie.' . jigg [later gigue, and jig]. the name comes from giga (geige), a sort of fiddle in use during the th and th centuries. the oldest jigs are scottish, and were 'round dances' for a large number of people. as for the time of the jig tunes, those of the th century were certainly written in a triple rhythm, like / , / or / . the jegge of , mentioned above, is in quick / time. but 'the cobbler's jig' [appendix], , and a jigg by matthew locke, dated , in his 'compositions for broken and whole consorts of , , , , and parts,' are very decidedly in quick / time, and have no such characteristics as a 'dotted note' anywhere about them. moreover, bull's 'the king's hunting jigg,' is also in quick / time, with a similar absence of dotted notes. this last example is probably earlier than . at any rate it was a lively dance, as we can learn from hamlet. _hamlet_ ii, ii, . the _ st player_ recites a speech. _polonius._ this is _too long_. _hamlet._ it shall to the barber's, with your beard.--pr'ythee (to the _ st player_), say on: _he's for a jig, ... or he sleeps_. . measure. beatrice, in the quoted passage from _much ado about nothing_, gives a capital idea of the relative speed of the scotch jig and the measure. the jig, she says, is like the lover's wooing, hot, hasty, and fantastical; the measure, however, is like the wedding, mannerly modest, full of state and ancientry. the term measure certainly seems to have been used to signify a particularly staid and formal dance. selden (see above), at least, puts 'grave measures' at the sober beginning of his list, and so goes on, by easy descent, through the more spirited coranto, and tolerably lively galliard, to the lower depths of the cushion-dance, which were reached towards the close of the evening, when the grave and reverend elders may be supposed to have gone to bed. but, besides this, the word appears to have been used generically, meaning merely 'a dance.' it was certainly applied to the passamezzo, _and to other country dances_. in _h. ._ i, iv, , king henry says-- ... 'i have half a dozen healths to drink to these fair ladies, and a _measure_ to lead 'em once again.' the next passage uses the word for a pun. _as you_ v, iv, . _duke senior._ _play music!_ and you brides and bridegrooms all, with _measure_ heap'd in joy, to the _measures_ fall. l. . _jaques._ ... so, to your pleasures; i am for other than for _dancing measures_. a similar play upon the word is in _richard ii._ iii, iv, , where the queen asks her ladies to propose some sport to drive away care. _ lady._ madam, we'll dance. _queen._ my legs can keep no _measure_ in delight, when my poor heart no _measure_ keeps in grief: therefore, no dancing, girl. see especially the following, which holds a whole string of quibbles. _l.l.l._ v, ii, . masked ball. _king of navarre._ say to her, we have _measur'd_ many miles, to tread a _measure_ with her on this grass. _boyet_ (to the ladies). they say, that they have _measur'd_ many a mile, to tread a _measure_ with you on this grass. _rosaline._ it is not so. ask them how many inches is in one mile: if they have _measur'd_ many, the _measure_ then of one is easily told. _boyet._ if, to come hither, you have _measur'd_ miles, and many miles, the princess bids you tell, how many inches do fill up one mile. _biron._ tell her, we _measure_ them by weary _steps_. and l. , _measure_. another dance that is frequently referred to is the dump, the slow and mournful character of which has already been explained in the notes on _lucrece_ . as a serenade it is named in the _two gent._ iii, ii, . the nature of the steps of this dance is not certainly known. two features, however, may be guessed at--viz., a tapping of the foot at certain places, which may be inferred from the possible connection of the word with 'thump'; and secondly, an alternation of a slow sliding step, interspersed with dead pauses, and a quicker movement, succeeded again by the slow step. these last seem to be indicated by the music of 'my lady carey's dump,' part of which is given in the appendix. the character of the dump has given us the modern expression of 'in the dumps'--_i.e._, sulky; and this is also used commonly in shakespeare. in the next passage, peter, capulet's servant, speaks ironically of a 'merry' dump, and quotes verse of richard edwards' song, 'when griping grief.' for an account of that song see section iii., about songs and singing. in peter's quotation, the dumps are 'doleful.' the quibbles on 'silver sound,' 'sweet sound,' 'sound for silver,' 'no _gold_ for sounding,' are further examples of shakespeare's fondness for joking on musical matters. peter's reply to the third musician, 'you are the singer; i will _say_ for you,' may be a just reflection on mr james soundpost's lack of words, or perhaps indicates that the pronunciation of singers even in that musical age was no better than it is now. the improvised names of the musicians are pointed enough; simon 'catling,' referring to the material of his viol strings; hugh 'rebeck,' the rebeck being the ancient english fiddle with three strings. the 'smalé' ribible, which absolon, the parish clerk in chaucer, used to play 'songés' on, is supposed to be the same instrument; and finally, james 'soundpost,' which wants no explaining. the final remark of musician is delicious, 'tarry for the mourners, and stay dinner.' _rom._ iv, v, . after juliet's apparent death. _exeunt capulet, lady c., paris, etc._ _ musician._ 'faith, we may _put up our pipes_, and be gone. _nurse._ honest good fellows, ah! _put up, put up_; for well you know, this is a pitiful _case_. _ mus._ ay, by my troth, the _case_ may be amended. (see _h. ._ iii, ii, , about bardolph and the lute case.) _enter peter._ _peter._ musicians, o, musicians! "heart's ease, heart's ease": o! an you will have me live, play "heart's ease." _ mus._ why "heart's ease?" _peter._ o, musicians, because my _heart itself_ plays--"my heart is full of woe." o! play me some _merry dump_, to comfort me. _ mus._ not a _dump_ we: 'tis no time to play now. * * * * * _peter._ then will i lay the serving creature's dagger on your pate. i will carry no _crotchets_: i'll _re_ you, i'll _fa_ you. do you _note_ me? _ . mus._ an you _re_ us, and _fa_ us, you _note_ us. _ . mus._ pray you, put up your dagger, and put out your wit. _peter._ then have at you with my wit.... answer me like men: _when griping grief the heart doth wound, and_ doleful dumps _the mind oppress, then music with her silver sound--_ why "silver sound"? why "music with her _silver_ sound"? what say you, simon _catling_? _ mus._ marry, sir, because silver hath a _sweet sound_. _peter._ pretty!--what say _you_, hugh _rebeck_? _ mus._ i say--"silver sound" because musicians _sound for silver_. _peter._ pretty too!--what say _you_, james _soundpost_? _ mus._ 'faith, i know not what to _say_. _peter._ o! i cry you mercy; you are the _singer_: i will _say_ for you. it is--"music with her silver sound," because musicians have no _gold_ for sounding:-- then music with her _silver sound_ with speedy help doth lend redress. [_exit._ _ mus._ what a pestilent knave is this same! _ mus._ hang him, jack! [peter's names evidently all wrong.] come, we'll in here; tarry for the mourners, _and stay dinner_. [_exeunt._] the hay, hey, or raye, seems to be mentioned only once--viz., in _love's labour's lost_, in the account of the preparations for the pageant of the worthies. constable dull proposes to accompany the dancing of the hay with a tabor, which may be taken as the common practice. holofernes says dull's idea is 'most dull,' like himself. the hay was a round country-dance--_i.e._, the performers stood in a circle to begin with, and then (in the words of an old direction quoted in stainer and barrett's dict.) 'wind round _handing_ in passing until you come to your places.' see the note on arbeau's orchésographie for the steps and tune of the haye. hawkins says (hist. ) that in an old comedy called the rehearsal, the earth, the sun, and moon are made to dance the hey to the tune of trenchmore, which is referred to in the above-quoted passage from selden, as a lively and even boisterous dance. _l.l.l._ v, i, . schoolmaster holofernes & co. arranging the pageant of the nine worthies. _dull._ i'll make one in a _dance_, or so; or i will _play_ _on the tabor_ to the worthies, and let them _dance the hay_. _hol._ _most dull_, honest dull. the morrice dance, or morris, was very popular in england and other countries in the th century. relics of it may still be seen in country places at certain times of the year. the very meagre celebrations of may day, which can be seen in london even now, are a survival of the ancient customs with which the morrice-dance was always associated. hawkins gives this account of the morris; "there are few country places in this kingdom where it is not known; it is a dance of young men in their shirts, with bells at their feet, and ribbons of various colours tied round their arms, and slung across their shoulders. some writers, shakespeare in particular, mention a hobby-horse and a maid marian, as necessary in this recreation. sir william temple speaks of a pamphlet in the library of the earl of leicester, which gave an account of a set of morrice-dancers in king james's reign, composed of ten men or twelve men, for the ambiguity of his expression renders it impossible to say which of the two numbers is meant, who went about the country: that they danced a maid marian, with a tabor and pipe, and that their ages one with another made up twelve hundred years." [temple's own words are quite clear--viz., that there were _ten_ men who danced; a maid marian (makes eleven); and a man to play the tabor and pipe (makes twelve).] the name morrice means moorish dance, or morisco. perhaps it was called so from being accompanied by the tabor, for drums of all sorts are distinctly eastern instruments. two tunes, one a moresca by monteverde, , and the other an english morris, , are given in the appendix. also see note on 'orchésographie' for a morisque. the first of the two following passages connects the morris with may day; the second with whitsuntide, which is in may as often as not. _all's well_ ii, ii, . _countess._ will your answer serve fit to all questions? _clown._ as fit as ... a pancake for shrove tuesday, a _morris_ for _may-day_.... _h. ._ ii, iv, . _dauphin._ and let us do it with no show of fear; no, with no more, than if we heard that england were busied with a _whitsun morris-dance_; the pavan has been mentioned before, as the dance in duple time which preceded the galliard which was in a triple rhythm. it was a stately dance, with a stately name, for the derivation is most probably from _pavo_, a peacock, with a reference, no doubt, to the majestic strut and gay feathers of that bird. it was _de rigueur_ for gentlemen to dance the pavan in cap and sword; for lawyers to wear their gowns, princes their mantles; and ladies to take part in the fullest of full dress, the long trains of their gowns being supposed to correspond in appearance and movement to the peacock's tail. the only pavan mentioned by shakespeare is the _passy-measures pavin_, otherwise known as passing-measures-pavin, or passameso, or _pass e mezzo_, which last is the earliest form of the word. praetorius (_b._ ), however, says the passe mezzo is so called because it has only _half as many steps_ as a galliard. thus the name is inverted, mezzo passo. hawkins helps to confuse the matter by explaining that the galliard has _five bars or steps_ in the first strain, and that the passamezzo has just half that number, and thus gets its name. no galliard ever had an uneven number of bars in any of its strains, so this account is difficult to reconcile. however, pass e mezzo, 'step and a half,' is the most trustworthy form of the name, and the note on the orchésographie of arbeau ( ) makes all quite clear. the passamezzo (or passy-measures pavin) tune in the appendix has a similar construction to the ordinary pavan, the form of which has been explained earlier in this section--_i.e._, it consists of regular 'strains,' which in their turn contain a certain _even_ number of semibreves, or 'bars.' in the case given, the strains consist of _eight_ bars each. this must be borne in mind, in connection with sir toby's drunken fancy about the surgeon, in the following passage:-- _tw._ v, i, . _sir to._ [drunk, and with a bloody coxcomb]--sot, didst see dick surgeon, sot? _clo._ o! he's drunk, sir toby, an hour agone; his eyes were _set at eight_ i' the morning. _sir to._ then he's a rogue, and a _passy-measures pavin_. toby being only moderately sober, naturally feels indignant at the doctor's indiscretions in the same kind; and, quite as naturally, the clown's remark about the latter's eyes brings this fantastic comparison into his head. the doctor's eyes were set _at eight_, and so is a pavan set 'at eight.' it is easy to see sir toby's musical gifts asserting themselves, confused recollections reeling across his brain, of that old rule in morley about the right number of semibreves in a strain, 'fewer then _eight_ i have not seen in any _pavan_.' 'also in this you must cast your musicke by _foure_: ... no matter how manie _foures_ you put in your straine.' bull's pavan, 'st thomas wake,' has two strains of _sixteen_ bars each--_i.e._, two 'eights.' [appendix.] the last passage given here shows clearly that the lavolta and coranto were considered exotic in england in shakespeare's time. the french ladies here recommend their runaway husbands and brothers to cross the channel and try to earn a living by teaching french dances to the stately english. probably the "english dancing-schools" in those days would think the solemn walk of the pavan quite as lively an amusement as good society could allow. there are other passages too which show that shakespeare (or his characters) had a fine 'insular' feeling against these 'newfangled' fashions from france. _h. ._ iii, v, . _bourbon_ (speaks of the mocking french ladies). they bid us to the _english dancing-schools_, and teach _lavoltas high_, and _swift corantos_; saying, our grace is only in our heels, and that we are most lofty runaways. note on arbeau's 'orchÉsographie,' . this interesting book on the art of dancing was published at mâcon [transcriber's note: corrected from maçon] in . [the date on the title page is .] the author was jehan tabourot, but his real name does not appear in the work, being anagrammatised into thoinot arbeau; and under the guise of arbeau he is best known. the treatise is written (like morley's introduction to practical music) in the form of dialogue between master (arbeau) and pupil (capriol); and gives a most clear description of all the fashionable dances of the time, as far as words can do it; dance tunes in music type; and incidentally, many instructions as to the manners of good society. as much light is thrown upon the dances which are mentioned in shakespeare by this book, some of the principal descriptions will be given here, with the proper music. on p. , capriol (the pupil) asks his master (arbeau) to describe the steps of the 'basse' dance. this was the 'danse par bas, ou sans sauter,' which was of the th century, was in triple time, and contained three parts, a, basse dance; b, retour de la basse dance; c, tordion. this rd part, or tordion, 'n'est aultre chose qu'une gaillarde _par terre_'; _i.e._, the tordion of a basse dance was simply a galliard _par terre_, without the leaping or 'sault majeur.' before arbeau answers his pupil, he gives him some preliminary instruction as to the etiquette of the ball room. he says--'in the first place ... you should choose some virtuous damsel whose appearance pleases you (telle que bon vous semblera), take off your hat or cap in your left hand, and tender her your right hand to lead her out to dance. she, being modest and well brought up, will give you her left hand, and rise to follow you. then conduct her to the end of the room, face each the other, and tell the band to play a basse dance. for if you do not, they may inadvertently play some other kind of dance. and when they begin to play, you begin to dance.' _capriol._ if the lady should refuse, i should feel dreadfully ashamed. _arbeau._ a properly educated young lady never refuses one who does her the honour to lead her out to the dance. if she does, she is accounted foolish (sotte), for if she doesn't want to dance, what is she sitting there for amongst the rest? the master then gives his pupil an account of the basse dance, the st and nd parts of which are composed of various arrangements of the following movements-- . la révérence, marked with a big r. . le branle (_not_ the dance of that name), marked with b. . deux simples, marked ss. . le double, marked d. . la reprise, marked with a little r. the 'chanson'--_i.e._, the dance tune, was played on the flute, and accompanied by the 'tabourin' or drum, which beats all the time. every 'bar' of the music is called either a 'battement' of the drum, or a 'mesure' of the chanson. now arbeau explains the steps and time of each of the above five movements. . r. this takes four bars. begin with left foot forward, and in doing the révérence, half turn your body and face towards the damoiselle, and cast on her 'un gracieux regard.' . b.[ ] also takes four bars. keep the feet joined together, then for the st bar, swing the body gently to the left side; nd bar, swing to the right, while gazing modestly upon 'les assistants;' rd bar, swing again to the left; and for the th bar, swing to the right side, looking on the damoiselle with an 'oeillade defrobée, doulcement et discretement.' [footnote : the branle (not the dance, but as used here) is called _congedium_ by anthoine arena. arbeau thinks because the dancer appears about to take leave of his partner--_i.e._, _prendre congé_. see hen. viii., iv. ii. l. , stage direction, 'congee.'] . ss. st bar, left foot forward; nd bar, bring right foot up to the said left foot; rd bar, advance the right foot; th bar, join the left foot to the said right foot; et ainsi sera parfaict le mouvement des deux simples. n.b.--always suit the length of your steps to the size of the room, and the convenience of the damoiselle, who cannot with modesty take such big steps as you can. . d. st bar, advance left foot; and, advance right foot; rd, advance left foot; th, join right to left. for _two_ doubles (dd) do it over again, but contrariwise, beginning with the right foot. for _three_ doubles (ddd), the form of the third will be, st bar, advance left foot; nd, advance right foot; rd, advance left foot; th, 'puis tumberà pieds joincts comme a estè faict au premier double.' and thus (he carefully adds) the three doubles are achieved in 'battements et mesures du tabourin.' . the reprise (r) is commonly found before the branle (b), and sometimes before the double (d) [see the memoires]. in it you have to cultivate a certain movement of the knees, or feet, or 'les artoils seullement,' as if your feet were shaking under you. st bar, 'les artoils' of the right foot; nd bar, do.; rd bar, of the left foot; th, of the right foot again. the _memoire_ of the movements of the basse dance--_i.e._, its first part, is-- r b ss d r | d r b ss ddd r d r b | ss d r b c. the c means the 'congé,' or 'leave' which you must take of the damoiselle, salute her, and keep hold of her hand, and lead her back to where you began, in order to dance the second part--namely, the retour de la basse dance, the _memoire_ for which is-- b | d r b ss ddd r d r b | c. [the nine movements enclosed between the upright lines, are the same in both parts]. capriol now remarks that he has been counting up, and finds that the music of the _basse dance_ proper (part ) has 'fours' (vingt quaternions), and the _retour_ (part ) has 'fours.' arbeau then describes the tordion, which is part of the basse dance. he says it is still in triple time, but 'plus legiere et concitée,' and does not consist of 'simples, doubles, reprises,' etc., like the first and second parts, but is danced almost exactly as a galliard, except that it is _par terre_--_i.e._, without any capers, and low on the ground, with a quick and light step; whereas the galliard is danced _high_, with a slower and weightier 'mesure.' he gives the following tune, which will fit to _any_ of the innumerable diversities of galliard. if played fast, it is a tordion, if slower, a galliard. [there are, of course, no bars in the original.] tordion or galliard (cinquepace). [music] here are the steps of the galliard, consisting of five movements of the feet, and the caper, or 'sault majeur.' the five steps give the galliard the name of cinque pas. . greve gaulche. ['greve' is explained as a 'coup de pied.'] . greve droicte. . " gaulche. . " droicte. . sault majeur. . posture gaulche. , , , , are the 'cinq' pas, and is the characteristic leap or caper. the next six minims are danced to the revers, which is just the same, except that the words 'right' and 'left' (_droicte_ and _gaulche_) change places all the way down. then repeat till the tune is finished. arbeau gives several other varieties of galliard, and another very good tune for it, called 'anthoinette.' galliard. [music] the 'sault majeur' in this tune would come in the middle of the semibreves in the first strain; at the 'dot' of the dotted minims in the nd and rd strains; or, again, in the middle of the semibreves in the same strains. of the pavan [commonly danced before the basse-dance], arbeau says it is very easy, consisting only of 'two simples and a double' advancing, and again 'two simples and a double' retiring. it is (as we already know) in binary measure, and the careful capriol once more joins in with his calculations of time, saying that he makes the pavan measures [semibreves] 'en marchant,' and measures 'desmarchant.' the master now gives particular instructions about the form and manner of dancing the pavan. noblemen dance these pavans and basse-dances 'belles et graves,' with cap and sword; others in long robes, 'marchants honnestement, avec une gravité posée.' and the damoiselles with an humble countenance, 'les yeulx baissez, regardans quelquefois les assistans avec une pudeur virginale.' kings, princes, and 'seigneurs graves,' in dancing the pavan on great occasions, wear their 'grands manteaux, et robes de parade.' also, queens, princesses, and ladies accompanying them, have their robes 'abaissées et trainans,' 'quelquefois portées par demoiselles.' the pavan on these occasions is called le grand bal, and the music is provided, not by simple flute and drum, but by 'haulbois et saquebouttes,' and they continue the tune until the dancers have made the circuit of the 'salle' twice or thrice. besides this state dancing of pavans, this dance was used in mascarade, when triumphal chariots of gods and goddesses enter, or of emperors and kings 'plains de maiesté.' on p. ff, arbeau gives the vocal pavan for four voices, 'belle qui tiens ma vie,' which is quoted in grove. the proper drum accompaniment, continued throughout the bars ( / ) is--[music] etc. he also gives seven more verses of words to it, and says if you do not wish to dance, you can play or sing it. moreover, he adds, that the drum is not a necessity, but is good to keep the time equal; and that for dancing you may use violins, spinets, flutes, both traverse and 'à neuf trous' (nine-holed flute--_i.e._, a flageolet), hautboys, and, in fact, 'all sorts of instruments'; or you may sing instead. arbeau's account of the passemeze, or passy-measures-pavin of shakespeare, is very simple. he says that the instrumentalists increase the speed of the _pavan_ every time they play it through, and by the time it has reached the moderate speed of a _basse-dance_, it is no longer called pavan, but passemeze. besides the state pavan, and the passamezzo pavan, there is the 'pavane d'espagne,' which has some similarity to the canaries. arbeau says that some consider the name canaries to be that of a dance in use in those islands. but he thinks it more likely to have originated in a ballet in a mascarade, where the dancers were clad as kings and queens 'de mauritanie,' as savages, with various coloured feathers. he says it is danced by a gentleman and a lady, from opposite ends of the room, each advancing and then retiring in turn. the steps and tune are as follows-- canaries. [music] . tappement du pied gauche, causant pied en l'air droit. . marque talon droit (right heel). . marque pied droit. . tappement du pied droit, causant pied en l'air gauche. . marque talon gauche (left heel). . marque pied gauche. - are the same again. then for the nd half, instead of the 'tappements' at the minims, you should make 'une greve fort haulte, rabaissée en tappement de pied trainé en derrier, comme si on marchoit dessus un crachat, ou qu'on voulust tuer une araignée.' (make a very high step, but instead of tapping the foot, scrape it backwards, as if you were treading on spittle, or wanted to kill a spider.) arbeau gives different kinds of branle (brawl of shakespeare) before coming to the branle des sabots, which is danced, beats in a bar, four steps to the right, then four to the left, like the branle doubles; then two simples (see above), and three taps of the foot, and repeat. branle des sabots, p. . [music] { . pied gaulche largy (left foot forward). _double_ { . " droit approché (right foot up to the left). _gaulche._ { . pied gaulche largy. { . pieds joincts (join feet). { - are the same, 'right' and 'left' changing { places, forming a 'double _droit_.' _simple_ { { . p.g. largy. _gauche._ { { . pieds joincts. { _simple_ { { . p.d. largy. _droit._ { { . pieds joincts. _a._ tappement du pied droit. _b._ do. _c._ do. there is only one step to each semibreve, so the tune must have been played fast. on p. arbeau treats of the lavolta ('high lavolt' of shakespeare), which he says is a kind of galliard well known in provence. one feature was that you had to keep turning round. _capriol_ does not agree with these whirlings, for he immediately says--'ces vertigues et tornoiements de cerveau me fascheroient.' air d'une volte. [la volta.] [music] . petit pas, en saultant sur le gaulche, pour faire pied en l'air droit. . plus grand pas du droit. . sault majeur. . posture en pieds joincts; etc., all over again every two bars. the sault majeur of the 'high lavolt' comes at the _semibreves_ in this tune. on p. he gives the courante-- courante. [music] the movements are-- , , simple gauche; , , simple droit; and - , a 'double à gauche.' these terms have already been explained. one of the many bransles is the 'branle de la haye,' the hay of shakespeare. arbeau says--first the dancers dance alone, each separately; then together _so as to interlace_, 'et font _la haye_ les uns parmy les aultres.' that is, during each batch of steps, the dancers _change places_ one with another, so that if there are three dancers, a, b, c, in the first steps, b and a change places, and make b, a, c; in the next steps, c and a change places, and make b, c, a, etc. here is the tune and the formula of steps-- the haye. [music] beginning at the st complete bar, and reckoning one step to each semibreve-- . deux simples (ss). . double (d). . ss. . d. . ss. . d. . ss. . d. the morisque, which may at all events be compared with the little we know of the shakespearian morris dance, seems to have been very violent exercise for the heels (talon). arbeau mentions that it is bad for the gout. the reader will notice that there is a separate movement for each crotchet in the following tune. morisque. [music] . frappe talon droit (strike right heel). . " gaulche (left). . " " d. . " " g. . frappe talons (perhaps 'strike heels together'). . soupir (slight pause). repeat, then the second half-- - , - , - , are same as - , ending with , , as in the st half. no wonder it was bad for the gout! vi miscellaneous, including pythagoreanism and shakespeare's account of the more spiritual side of music a well-known passage in _twelfth night_ gives us the opinion of pythagoras 'concerning wild-fowl.' the opinion of pythagoras 'concerning music' is at least equally interesting, and is appropriated and assimilated by shakespeare. the particular branch of the pythagorean system with which we are concerned, is that which treats of the music of the spheres. besides the two passages here quoted, there are others dealing with this subject--_e.g._, _ant._ v, ii, , 'the tunèd spheres'; _twelf._ iii, i, , 'music from the spheres'; _per._ v, i, , 'the music of the spheres.' 'this, pythagoras, first of all the greeks [ b.c.] conceived in his mind; and understood that the spheres sounded something concordant, because of the necessity of proportion, which never forsakes celestial beings.'[ ] [footnote : hist. of philos., by thomas stanley, edit. .] 'pythagoras, by musical proportion, calleth that a tone, by how much the moon is distant from the earth: from the moon to mercury the half of that space, and from mercury to venus almost as much; from venus to the sun, sesquiple [_i.e._, half as much more as a tone]; from the sun to mars, a tone, that is as far as the moon is from the earth: from mars to jupiter, half, and from jupiter to saturn, half, and thence to the zodiac, sesquiple.' 'thus there are made _seven tones_, which they call a _diapason_ harmony, that is, an _universal concent_, in which saturn moves in the doric mood, jupiter in the phrygian, and in the rest the like.' 'those sounds which the seven planets, and the sphere of fixed stars, and that which is above us, termed by them antichton [opposite the earth], make, pythagoras affirmed to be the nine muses; but the composition and symphony ... he named mnemosyne [memory, the mother of the muses].' censorinus, a roman grammarian, b.c. , in his book de die natali, says-- 'to these things we may add what pythagoras taught, namely, that the whole world was constructed according to musical ratio, and that the seven planets ... have a rhythmical motion and distances adapted to musical intervals, and emit sounds, every one different in proportion to its height [saturn was said to be the highest, as it is the farthest away, and was supposed to give the gravest note of the heavenly diapason, which note was therefore called hypate, or 'highest'], which sounds are so concordant as to produce a most sweet melody, though _inaudible to us by reason of the greatness of the sounds_, which the narrow passages of our ears are not capable of admitting.' these extracts fairly represent the ancient opinion about the music of the spheres. there was a strong tendency last century to revive the notion, and even to our modern ideas, with our copernican astronomy, there remains at least the possibility of drawing fantastical analogies between the proportionate distances of the planets and the proportionate vibration numbers of the partial tones in a musically vibrating string or pipe. the idea of the musical chorus or dance of the heavenly bodies was perfectly familiar to all writers in the th and th centuries. an excellent example is in paradise lost, book v., in the twelve lines beginning 'so spake the omnipotent.' even finer is the th verse of the nativity hymn. 'ring out, ye crystal spheres, once bless our human ears, if ye have power to touch our senses so; and let your silver chime move in melodious time, and let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow; and, with your nine-fold harmony, make up full concert to the angelic symphony.' no one could help thinking of the text in job xxxviii. , 'when the morning stars sang together,' in this connection, and milton naturally refers to it in the previous verse. here follow the two shakespeare extracts. the second one is full of beauty of every kind, but the pythagoreanism is in the last six lines, with shakespeare's own view about _why_ we cannot hear the heavenly music. _as you like it_ ii, vii, . _duke senior_ [of jaques]. if he, _compact of jars_, grow musical, we shall have shortly _discord in the spheres_. _merchant_ v, i, . _lor._ my friend stephano, signify, i pray you, within the house, your mistress [portia] is at hand; and _bring your music forth into the air_. [_exit_ stephano. (lorenzo and jessica alone.) _lor._ how sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! here we will sit, and _let the sounds of music creep in our ears: soft stillness and the night, become the touches of sweet harmony_. * * * * * l. . there's not the _smallest orb_, which thou behold'st, _but in his motion like an angel sings_, still _quiring_ to the young-ey'd cherubims; such harmony is in immortal souls; but, _whilst this muddy vesture of decay doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it_. this is finer than pythagoras. the next three passages are concerned with the 'fantasie' of music. jaques gives an opinion in a general form--viz., that the musician's 'melancholy' is 'fantastical'; mariana and the duke speak of a certain _doubleness_ that may be noticed in the action of music on the mind. jessica is 'never merry' when she hears sweet music: lorenzo descants on the evident effects of music on even hardened natures; while portia and nerissa preach a neat little sermon on the text 'nothing is good without respect,' with musical illustrations of the powerful influence of time and place--_e.g._, the silence of night, makes the music sound sweeter than by day; the crow sings as well as the lark, if the circumstances favour the crow, or if the lark is not present to give immediate comparison; and even the nightingale's song is no better than the wren's, 'by day, when every goose is cackling.' _as you_ iv, i, . _jaques._ i have neither the scholar's melancholy, which is emulation; nor the _musician's_, which is _fantastical_, etc. _measure for measure_ iv, i, . enter duke, disguised as a friar (after song). _mariana._ i cry you mercy, sir; and well could wish you had not found me here _so musical_: let me excuse me, and believe me so, my _mirth it much displeased_, but _pleas'd my woe_. _duke._ 'tis good: though _music oft hath such a charm, to make bad good, and good provoke to harm_. _merchant_ v, i, . enter musicians. _lor._ come ho! and wake diana with a _hymn_: with sweetest _touches_ pierce your mistress' ear, and draw her home _with music_. [music. _jessica._ i am _never merry when i hear sweet music_. _lor._ the reason is, _your spirits are attentive_. for ... _colts_, * * * * * _if they but hear_ perchance _a trumpet_ sound, or any _air of music touch their ears_, you shall perceive them make a _mutual stand_, their savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze. _by the sweet power of music_: therefore, the poet did feign that orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods: since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage, but _music for the time doth change his nature. the man that hath no music in himself_, nor is not mov'd with concord of sweet sounds, is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils; the motions of his spirit are dull as night, and his affections dark as erebus. _let no such man be trusted._--mark the music. l. . portia and nerissa. _por._ ... _music! hark!_ _ner._ it is your music, madam, _of the house._ _por._ nothing is good, i see, without respect. methinks, _it sounds much sweeter than by day_. _ner._ _silence_ bestows that virtue on it, madam. _por._ the _crow_ doth sing as sweetly as the _lark, when neither is attended_; and i think, the _nightingale_, if she should sing _by day_, when every goose is cackling, _would be thought no better a musician than the wren_. how many things _by season_ season'd are to their right praise, and true perfection. here is an example of a superstitious meaning attaching to supposed mysterious music. there are very few cases of this kind in shakespeare--_i.e._, where the music of the stage is an integral part of the drama. _antony and cleop._ iv, iii, . music of hautboys under the stage. _ soldier._ ... peace, what noise? _ sold._ list, list! _ sold._ hark! _ sold._ music in the air. _ sold._ under the earth. _ sold._ it signs well, does it not? _ sold._ no. _ sold._ peace, i say! what should this mean? _ sold._ 'tis the god hercules, whom antony lov'd, now leaves him. a very usual popular amusement was the masque, which would consist of a public procession with decorated cars containing the characters, accompanied by hobby horses, tumblers, and open air music. this is referred to in the next passage, where theseus speaks of the masque as an 'abridgement' for the evening, that is, an entertainment to shorten the hours. the lamentable play of pyramus and thisbe follows, which, it will be noticed, has some of the main features of a masque. _mid's night's dream_ v, i, . _theseus._ say, what abridgment have you for this evening? _what masque, what music?_... * * * * * [reads from the paper] "a tedious brief scene of young pyramus, and his love thisbe; very tragical mirth." merry and tragical! tedious and brief! that is, hot ice, and wonderous strange snow. how shall we find the _concord of this discord_? in the _merchant of venice_, shylock mentions the procession of a masque through the streets, forbidding jessica to look out of the window at these 'christian fools with varnished faces.' the music accompanying the procession is named--viz., drum and fife. _merchant_ ii, v, . _lancelot._ 'you shall see a _masque_' ... _shylock._ what! are there _masques_? hear you me, jessica. lock up my doors; and _when you hear the drum_, and the _vile squeaking of the wryneck'd fife_, clamber not you up to the casements then, nor thrust your head into the public street to gaze on _christian fools with varnish'd faces_. the 'vile squeaking of the wryneck'd fife' is of some musical interest. the adjective 'wryneck'd' refers, not to the instrument itself, which was straight, but to the player, whose head has to be slightly twisted round to get at the mouthpiece. mersennus (b. ) says that the fife is the same as the tibia helvetica, which was simply a small edition of the flauto traverso, or german flute. that is, the fife of those days was much the same as the modern fife of the cheaper kind, with the usual six holes, and a big hole near the stopped end, where the breath was applied. the instrument was therefore held _across_ [traverso] the face of the player, whose head would be turned sideways, and hence comes shylock's description of it as the 'wryneck'd' fife. in _much ado_, benedick draws a distinction between the drum and fife and the tabor and pipe. the former (see _othello_ iii. iii. ) were of a decided military cast; whereas the latter were more associated with may day entertainments, bull-baitings, and out-of-door amusements generally. the tabor was a little drum, the pipe (as explained before, in section iii., about autolycus) a tiny whistle with only three holes. the two were played simultaneously by one person. _much ado_ ii, iii, . benedick, of claudio in love. _ben._ i have known, when there was no _music_ with him but the _drum and the fife_; and now had he rather hear the _tabor and the pipe_: ... but till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace. rich she shall be, that's certain; wise, or i'll none; ... of good discourse, an _excellent musician_, and her hair shall be of what colour it please god. besides these more civilised 'pipes,' the country-man's pipe of cornstalk is mentioned by titania, in _mids._ ii. ii. . this was really a 'reed,' not a whistle of any kind. the tabor leads one on to the tabourine, which was the full-sized military drum, corresponding to the modern side-drum. see _troil._ iv, v, . 'beat loud the tabourines,' and _antony_ iv, viii, , 'our rattling tabourines.' the drum supplied the great proportion of military music in those days, besides having its importance as a means of signalling orders to the troops. this is dealt with more fully in the chapter on stage directions. parolles' sham anxiety about a lost drum is mentioned fourteen or fifteen times in _all's well_ iii. v. and vi.; and iv. i. parolles earns his nickname of 'tom drum,' in act v. iii. . the following is an interesting passage of a more serious kind-- _k. john_ v, ii, . _lewis_ [dauphin.] strike up the _drums_! and let the tongue of war plead for our interest, and our being here. _bastard._ indeed, your _drums_, being _beaten_, will cry out; and so shall you, being _beaten_. do but start an _echo_ with the clamour of thy drum, and even at hand a _drum_ is ready brac'd, that shall reverberate all as loud as thine; _sound_ but _another_, and another shall, as loud as thine, _rattle the welkin's ear_, and mock the deep-mouth'd thunder. an entirely different use of the drum is alluded to by parolles, in his slanderous evidence against captain dumain. _all's well_ iv, iii, . _ soldier._ what say you to his expertness in war? _parolles._ 'faith, sir, he has _led the drum before the english tragedians_, ... and more of his soldiership i know not. there are several occasions in shakespeare when _trumpets_ are sounded to herald the approach of play-actors, but _drums_ are not mentioned in this connection except here. rimbault's preface to purcell's opera 'bonduca' (musical antiquarian society) says that a play was always introduced by the trumpet sounding three times, after which the prologue entered. dekker, referring to the list of _errata_ in his 'satiromastix,' , says--"instead of the trumpets sounding thrice before the play begin, it shall not be amiss for him that will read, first to behold this short comedy of errors." vii on the use of the musical stage directions _with references to the same words as they occur in the text_ _alarum, alarums_ (of drums), occurs as a stage direction about times in fourteen of the historical plays, always in connection with battle. it is found alone, as above, about times, sometimes qualified--_e.g._, loud alarum, low alarum, short alarum, alarum within. _alarums and excursions_ occurs about times, always in fight. ['excursions' merely means 'parties of men running about;' see the stage direction _h. . a._ iv, vi. 'excursions, _wherein_ talbot's son is hemmed about;' also _id._ i, v, where the direction has 'alarum. _skirmishings_,' instead of the usual 'excursions.'] a few special cases are--alarum _with thunder and lightning_, _h. . a._ i, iv, ; _flourish and alarums_, used by rich. iii. to drown the reproaches of q. eliz., etc.; alarum and _chambers_ [cannon] _go off_, _h. ._ act iii. line of the chorus, and again _id._ end of scene ; alarum _and cry within_, 'fly, fly, fly,' _jul. cæs._ v, v; alarum afar off, _as at a sea fight_, _ant._ iv, x. out of the cases in the stage directions, mean a call to battle by _drums_. there are only two exceptions, where the alarum is identified with trumpets, _h. . b._ ii, iii, , and _troil._ iv, v, , . skeat gives the original of the term as 'all'arme' (ital.) a war cry of the time of the crusades. for the _form_ of the word, he compares _arum_ (arm) and _koren_ (corn). _'alarum' in the text._ the word is used times in the text of shakespeare; and in of these it refers to _drums_, as in the stage directions _h. . a._ i, ii, , i, iv, , ii, i, ; _r. ._ i, i, ; _cor._ ii, ii, ; _h. ._ iv, vi, . but in two of the remaining examples, alarum is distinctly said to be _trumpets_, _h. . b._ ii, iii, and v, ii, ; while other more extended meanings are found--_e.g._, in _venus and adonis_, l. , where it refers to the noise of the dogs hunting the hare; in _macbeth_ ii, iii, and v, v, , where alarum is used of a bell; also in _lucrece_, , of tarquin's 'drumming heart' 'giving the hot charge,' and _othello_ ii, iii, , of desdemona's voice, which iago says is 'an alarum to love.' _flourish_, either simply in this form, or 'flourish of trumpets' (six times) or 'flourish of cornets' (twice), occurs about times in seventeen plays. out of these, it is used some times for the entrance or exit of a king or queen; times for the entrance or exit of a distinguished person not a king; times in the public welcome of a queen or great general; times it marks the end of a scene; times heralds a victorious force; twice announces the proclamation of a king; twice signalises the entrance or exit of senate or tribunes; and twice gives warning of the approach of play-actors [see section vi., at end], or the commencement of a play. [players in hamlet, and pyramus and thisbe in _mids. nt._]. some solitary uses are where rich. iii. orders a flourish to drown the reproaches of qu. eliz. and the duchess of york; the occasion of the betrothal of h. v. and katherine of france; and the public welcome of the three ladies in coriolanus. the last is _a flourish with drums and trumpets_, which occurs several times. in grove's dictionary (under 'fanfare') is given a seven bar flourish which is believed to be of charles ii.'s time, and is still used at the opening of parliament. [appendix.] 'flourish' in the text is only found twice. in _richard iii._ iv, iv, , 'a flourish, trumpets!--strike alarum, drums!' we have a clear definition of the two terms mentioned; and in _merchant_ iii, ii, , 'even as the flourish when true subjects bow to a new-crowned monarch;' a reference to the principal use of the flourish, which was to signify the presence of royal persons. _trumpets_, _a trumpet sounds_, _trumpet sounded within_, _drums and trumpets_, _flourish of trumpets_ ( times). one or other of the above occurs some times in twenty-two plays, either alone, or in connection with sennet, discharge of cannon, etc. on of these occasions it announces the entrance or presence of a king or royal personage; times it figures as part of the proceedings in duels; times signifies the entrance or exit of principal persons, not royal, great generals, etc.; times precedes a public procession, with royal persons in it; twice it is connected with the advent of royal heralds; and once with the arrival of players (_shrew_, prologue. see also flourish). thus 'trumpets' divides the honours with 'flourish' as the mark of royalty. examples of the use of the term in the text are numerous, and are found in most of the plays. they are not generally of very special interest. _music, music plays, music within._ this direction is found times in twenty-two plays, half of which are comedies. in cases we have _music_ during a speech or dream of one of the characters; times as the symphony or the accompaniment to a song; times in wedding processions or pageants; times for dancing; and times during a banquet. to give a just idea of the amount of stage music considered necessary in or near shakespeare's time, there must be added to the above, all the stage directions in other terms--_e.g._, _hautboys_, which is found about times. here are a few relics of stage music before shakespeare's day. the playing of the minstrels is frequently mentioned in the old miracle plays, and the instruments used were the horn, pipe, tabret, and flute. in the prologue to the miracle play, childermas day, , the minstrels are requested to 'do their diligence,' and at the end of the play to 'geve us a daunce.' in richard edwards's _damon and pithias_ [transcriber's note: 'pithias' is correct for the title of this play], acted in , there is a stage direction. "here pythias sings and the regalles play." also, when pythias is carried to prison, "the regalls play a mourning song." thus the regal, a tiny organ that could be easily carried about, was considered a proper instrument for the stage. in the old comedy, gammer gurton's needle, , mention is made by one of the characters of the music between the acts-- "into the town will i, my friendes to visit there, and hither straight again to see the end of this gere; _in the meantime, fellowes, pype up your fidles_: i say take them, and let your friends hear such mirth as ye can make them." in gascoyne's _jocasta_, , each act is preceded by a dumb show, accompanied by "viols, cythren, bandores, flutes, cornets, trumpets, drums, fifes, and still-pipes." in anthony munday's comedy _the two italian gentlemen_ (about ), the different kinds of music to be played after each act are mentioned--_e.g._, 'a pleasant galliard,' 'a solemn dump,' or 'a pleasant allemayne.' a little later, marston, in his _sophonisba_, , goes into considerable detail as to the music between the acts; after act i., 'the cornets and organs playing loud full music'; after act ii., 'organs mixed with recorders'; after act iii., 'organs, viols, and voices'; after act iv., 'a base lute and a treble viol'; and in the course of act v., 'infernall music plays softly.' fiddles, flutes, and hautboys are mentioned by other dramatists as instruments in use at the theatre at this time. rimbault's introduction to purcell's opera 'bonduca' gives the names of twenty-six masques and plays produced between and (when the theatres were closed), all of which contained important music. amongst them are jane shore, by henry lacy, , with music by william byrd; seven masques by ben jonson, dating - , four of which had music by ferrabosco; a masque by beaumont ( ) with music by coperario; a play valentinian, by beaumont and fletcher ( ) set by robt. johnson; the triumphs of peace by shirley ( ), with music by william lawes and simon ives; several other masques, set by henry lawes, who did the music to milton's _comus_ ( ), etc. the list also includes shakespeare's _tempest_, with robt. johnson's music, two numbers of which, viz., 'full fathom five,' and 'where the bee sucks,' are printed in bridge's shakespeare's songs, with date . _retreat_, or _a retreat sounded_, generally with alarum, or excursions, or with both. _retreat_ by itself occurs only three times, but in company with alarums and [or] excursions may be found in other places. the whole cases occur in eleven plays. the word explains itself. the actual notes of a retreat of shakespeare's time are not known. in the text it has the same meaning. _h. . a._ ii, ii, . 'here sound retreat, and cease our hot pursuit.' _h. . b._ iv, viii, . 'dare any be so bold to sound retreat or parley, when i command them kill'? _h. . a._ v, iv, . 'the trumpet sounds retreat; the day is ours.' _h. ._ iii, ii, . _macmorris_, 'the work ish give over, the trumpet sound the retreat.' _march, dead march._ there are marches provided for altogether; are dead marches; national--viz., english, french, and danish; and ordinary military marches. probably all are identified with _drums_, without any other instruments. for the three national marches, see _h. . a._ iii, iii, and [transcriber's note: added missing scene number], and _hamlet_ iii, ii, . hawkins gives (hist., p. ) the text of a royal warrant of charles i., ordering the revival of the ancient 'march of this our english nation, so famous in all the honourable achievements and glorious wars of this our kingdome in forraigne parts [being by the approbation of strangers themselves confest and acknowledged the best of all marches].' the warrant goes on to say that this ancient war march of england 'was, through the negligence and carelessness of drummers, and by long discontinuance, so altered and changed from the ancient gravitie and majestie thereof, as it was in danger utterly to have bene lost and forgotten.' it appears that 'our late deare brother prince henry' had taken steps to have the old march restored, at greenwich, in ; 'in confirmation whereof' the warrant orders all english or welsh drummers to 'observe the same,' whether at home or abroad, 'without any addition or alteration whatever.' 'given at our palace of westminster, the seventh day of february, in the seventh yeare of our raigne, of england, scotland, france, and ireland.' then follows the march, expressed both in musical notes and onomatopoetic words. it consists of a voluntary, and then seven lines of 'the march,' each of which ends with a 'pause.' the first line is given thus--pou tou pou tou [fermata symbol over next word] poung. the next three lines are very similar. line is more elaborate, and the last two lines run as follows:-- _r r r r_ [fermata symbol over next word] poung. _r r r_ pou _r r_ pou tou pou _r_ tou pou _r_ [fermata symbol over next word] poung potang. see the appendix for the translation into musical notes, which is given in the warrant itself, but the accuracy of which is questionable. it seems pretty clear that this ancient march of england is of a period long anterior to the warrant of charles i. several passages of that document point to this. at any rate, it was so old as to have almost dropped out of knowledge in . hawkins gives an interesting note, in which he mentions that the characteristic of the old english march of the foot was 'dignity and gravity,' in which it differed greatly from that of the french, which is given by mersennus (_b._ ) as 'brisk and alert.' there is a curious story of a conversation between marshal biron, a french general, and sir roger williams, a gallant low-country soldier of elizabeth's time. the marshal observed that the english march _being beaten by the drum_, was slow, heavy, and sluggish. 'that may be true,' answered sir roger, 'but slow as it is, it has traversed your master's country from one end to the other.' the references in shakespeare all go to confirm the opinion that the march was played by drums alone--_e.g._, _h. . c._ i, ii, , where the stage direction is _a march afar off_, which is immediately followed by 'i hear their _drums_.' again, in the same play, act iv., sc. vii. line , '_drummer_, strike up, and let us _march_ away. [_a march begun._] _hautboys._ this is an important musical term, and occurs about fourteen times in eight plays. it always implies a certain special importance in the music, and is generally connected with a royal banquet, masque, or procession. in six cases, at least, the direction has some special qualification--_e.g._, hautboys playing _loud_ music; _a lofty strain or two_ to the hautboys; trumpets and hautboys sounded, and drums beaten _all together_. in _ant._ iv, iii, , hautboys supply the supposed ominous 'music in the air.' the term is closely connected with 'music,' the remarks on which apply equally to the present case. (see above, on 'music,' and the music of th century plays). not long after shakespeare's time, orchestral music for the theatre consisted of stringed instruments only (_i.e._, the violin family, violins, violas, violoncellos, and the sole surviving 'viol,' the double-bass) with harpsichord, for general use; while in the more important pieces, hautboys, and sometimes flutes as well, were added, playing, as a rule, with the st and nd violin parts. this, at any rate, is the case in purcell's operas. (purcell died ). thus the word hautboys represented very nearly the climax of power to th century ears. anything beyond this was supplied by the addition of trumpets, though this was rare; while drums were very occasionally used. the stage direction in shakespeare may be taken to mean--'let the hautboys be added to the usual band of strings.' in the last of the above examples, _coriol._ v, iv, , we have the extreme limit of power of this time provided for--viz., trumpets _and_ hautboys _and_ drums, _all together_. it is interesting to notice the wording of menenius's description of this stage music. 'the trumpets, sackbuts, psalteries, and fifes, tabors and cymbals.' the 'sackbut' was merely our modern slide trombone, while the rest of these instruments were in common use in the th century, except the psaltery, which kircher (b. ) says is the same as the nebel of the bible. the picture he gives is remarkably like the dulcimers which may be seen and heard outside public-houses to this very day, _i.e._, a small hollow chest, with the strings stretched across it. an instrument of this kind could be played with the fingers, like a harp, or with a plectrum, like a zither, or with two little knob-sticks, like the dulcimer. mersennus (b. ) also identifies the psaltery with the dulcimer. in the text, the hautboy is only named once, in _h. . b_ iii, ii, , near the end of falstaff's soliloquy, on old men and lying, where he says that shallow was such a withered little wretch that _the case of a treble hautboy_ was a mansion for him, a court. the 'treble' hautboy corresponds with our modern instrument, and was the smallest in size of the hautboy tribe, of which only two now survive--viz., the oboe proper, and its cousin, which is a fifth lower in pitch, and correspondingly larger, and which has curiously picked up the name of corno inglese, cor anglais, or english horn. none the less it is the alto hautboy. the tenor and bass of the family have not survived. hautboys in four parts were the backbone of the french regimental bands in lully's time--_i.e._, about . [appendix.] the spelling of the word in the old editions of shakespeare is 'hoeboy,' which is very like the modern german hoboe. _sennet._ this is a rare direction, and is found only nine times in eight plays, as against sixty-eight 'flourishes' and fifty-one 'trumpets.' the notes of a sennet are unknown. three times it marks the entrance or exit of a parliament, three times is used in a royal or quasi-royal procession, and the remaining cases are royal, or near it. in the st folio of hen. v., the word is spelt _senet_, but in later ones, _sonet_, as if the former were a misprint. in marlowe's faustus (published ), act iii. sc. i., we find '_sound a sonnet_' [enter pope, cardinal, etc.]. also the french cavalry of used trumpet calls named _sonneries_. these seem to point to a derivation of the word from _sonare_, and thus the spelling ought to be _sonnet_, not _sennet_. but other forms are found--synnet, signet, signate, which may be proper derivatives of _signum_, and thus make this trumpet call 'a signal,' instead of 'a sounding'; or (which is as likely) may be corruptions, perhaps of the somewhat featureless form 'synnet,' caused by a misunderstanding of the original misspelling 'senet.' in the text of shakespeare the word does not occur. _cornets_, or _flourish cornets_ (only twice). this is also rare, occurring only eight times in four plays. one case only is in war, the others being all connected with royal or triumphal processions. the term is by no means synonymous with trumpets. the cornet was an entirely different instrument, and the use of it accordingly is very much more limited in these stage directions. there were two instruments called cornet, the one with a reed, a coarse sort of oboe which was nearly obsolete in the th century; the other, with which we are concerned, a sort of horn (hence its name), with a cup mouthpiece, and finger holes for the intermediate notes of the scale. hawkins gives pictures of a treble, a tenor, and a bass cornet, copied from mersennus, who remarks that the sounds of the cornet are vehement, _but_ that those who are skilful, such as quiclet, the royal cornetist (_i.e._, of france, ) are able so to soften and modulate them, that nothing can be more sweet. many people now living will remember the serpent, a large, black, curly instrument, of thin wood covered with leather, which helped to play the loud bass in oratorios, within the last fifty years. this serpent was a true cornet in every respect. it may now commonly be seen in exhibitions, museums, and curiosity shops, for it has been entirely superseded by the bass tuba and the euphonium. in the text the word cornet does not occur. _tucket._ rare, only _seven_ times in six different plays. this is one of the several trumpet calls we have noticed. it seems to have been a french term, _toquet_, or _doquet_, and this is defined by littré, as _quatrième partie de trompette d'une fanfare de cavalerie_--that is, the name 'toquet' was applied to the fourth trumpet in a cavalry fanfare. mr aldis wright, in his clarendon press edition of hen. v., gives markham, quoted by grose in 'military antiquities,' which explains 'tucket' as a trumpet signal, which, 'being heard simply of itself without addition, commands nothing but _marching after the leader_.' certainly in shakespeare it seems to be used as a _personal_ trumpet call--_e.g._, _merchant_ v, i, , lorenzo says to portia, 'your husband is at hand; i hear his trumpet--'_i.e._, the 'tucket sounded' which is indicated in the stage direction. other cases of the use of the tucket are quite similar--for instance, the return of bertram, count of rousillon, from war; the arrival of goneril (_cornwall._ what trumpet's that? _regan._ i know't, my sister's:) or the embassy of Æneas. once it is used to herald cupid and the masked amazons, in _timon_; and twice at the entrance of montjoy, the french herald, in _hen. v._ the derivation of the word from _toccare_, and its connection with _tocco di campana_, _tocsin_, and _tusch_, have already been explained in the notes on hortensio's music lesson to bianca. (see sec. ii.) in the appendix is given an italian tucket of , and a french one of . in the text the word is only found once--viz., _h. ._ iv, ii, , where the constable of france orders the trumpets to 'sound the tucket-sonance, and the note to mount,' which fits in with markham's definition, for the passage appears to recognise the tucket as in some sort a _preparatory_ signal. it is perhaps worth noting, that of the seven tuckets in the stage directions, only one, goneril's, is supposed to be an english one. in the single instance just given of its use in the text, it is a _french_ general who uses the word. perhaps this may be regarded as confirming the view of its foreign origin. _parley_, or _trumpets sound a parley_, either alone, or with _retreat_. this call is named in the stage directions times in five plays, viz.--_h. . a._ _three_ times; _h. . b._ once; _r. ii._ once; _h. . a._ once; and _h. ._ once. it means either a trumpet call announcing an _embassy_ from one party to the other, or for _cessation_ of hostilities during the fight itself. of course the name is derived from _parler_, with a reference to the proposed 'pow-wow' of the opposing forces. the notes of a parley do not appear to exist. [perhaps a little light may be got out of the symphony to purcell's duet in king arthur, 'sound a parley ye fair.'] in the text, the word is used several times. in three cases, _john_ ii, i, , [transcriber's note: added missing scene number] and _h. ._ iii, iii, , 'the parle' means the conference of the parties itself, not the trumpet call summoning them. in the rest, 'parle' or 'parley' simply means the sound of the trumpet, as explained above. _h. . b._ iv, viii, ; _r. ._ i, i, , iii, iii, ; _h. . c._ v, i, ; _othello_ ii, iii, . _horns_, or _horns wind a peal_, or _horns winded_. this is very rare. seven times in only four plays, one of which is the doubtful _titus andronicus_. three times it is used of hunting horns, _titus_ ii, ii, and _id._ l. , and in the induction of the _taming of the shrew_; twice as a part of lear's lessened state, _lear_ i, iii and i, iv; once announcing the post from england, _h. . c._ iii, iii; and once blown by talbot as a military signal at the forcing of auvergne castle gates, _h. . a._ ii, iii. the 'peal' of horns referred to in _titus_ ii, ii, is a technical term in forestry for a particular set of notes on the horn. méhul ( - ), in his overture 'le jeune henri,' introduces several old french hunting fanfares, which perhaps may give an idea of what was meant by 'horns wind a peal.' [see appendix.] also in purcell's 'dido and eneas,' no. (date ), in the scene between the sorceress and the two witches who are plotting the destruction of 'elissa,' at the words 'hark! the cry comes on apace,' the violins give an imitation of a hunting call. the only instance of the use of the word 'peal' in the text is in the same passage, _titus_ ii, ii, , where titus tells his hunters to 'ring a hunter's peal.' here we have a last example of punning on a technical term of music. appendix . example of descant [_lucrece_, ] from morley, (see introduction, p. and p. ). [music] if the lower part was added _extempore_, it was called descant, but if written down as here, it was called prick-song, because 'pricked' down. the plain-song is perhaps more often found in a lower part, the descant being higher. from the position of the added part, the above example is called 'bass' descant. . divisions on a ground bass for viol-da-gamba, by christopher sympson, , see p. . _rom._ iii, v, . [music] the 'ground' itself is in large notes, the necessary chords (which were _never_ written down) are indicated in small notes. this the organist or harpsichordist plays again and again, as often as necessary. here is a division for the viol, such as the player would produce _extempore_, with the above ground before him. division no. . [music] division no. (more elaborate). [music] . example of sol-fa, th and th centuries, see p. . _lear_ i, ii, . [music: fa sol la fa sol la mi fa fa sol la fa sol la mi fa etc.] the augmented fourths formed by the notes fa and mi, marked with x, are the _mi contra fa_, which _diabolus est_, or 'is the _divider_,' see p. . solmisation of the six notes of the hexachord, th century, see p. . _shrew_ iii, i, . [music: (natural hexachord) ut re mi fa sol la (hard hexachord) ut re mi fa sol la] the six notes from f, with b _flat_, were called the 'soft' hexachord. . lesson for the lute, by thomas mace, b. , from musick's monument, , see p. . _shrew_ iii, i, . [music: "my mistress."] _cf._ p. , on 'broken' music. . tune of light o' love, original words not known, but date before , p. . _much ado_ v, iv, , etc. [music] . parson hugh's song, 'to shallow rivers,' tune anonymous, date probably th century, p. . _merry wives_ iii, i, . [music: to shallow rivers to whose falls melodious birds sing madrigals; there will we make our beds of roses, and a thousand fragrant posies. when as i sat in babylon, and a thousand vagram posies.] . 'come live with me,' tune printed , but probably much older. see p. . marlowe's 'passionate pilgrim,' xx., or _merry wives_ iii, i, . [music: come live with me, and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove, that hills and valleys, dales and fields, and all the craggy mountain yields.] . peg-a-ramsey, p. . _tw. nt._ ii, iii, . [music: sir toby] . 'three merry men be we,' p. . _tw. nt._ ii, iii, . words from peele's 'old wives tale,' , where it is sung. music from j. playford, _circ._, but may be older. [music: sir toby three merry men, and three merry men, and three merry men be we, i in the wood and thou on the ground, and jack sleeps in the tree.] . 'there dwelt a man in babylon,' p. . _tw. nt._ ii, iii, . music anon., but most probably later than shakespeare's time. [music: sir toby _slow_ til-ly val-ley, lady! _lively_ there dwelt a man in bab-y-lon, in bab-y-lon, in bab-y-lon, there dwelt a man in bab-y-lon, lady! lady! lady!] here is one verse of the 'ballad of constant susanna,' to which toby refers. 'there dwelt a man in babylon of reputation great by fame; he took to wife a faire woman, susanna she was callde by name. a woman faire and vertuous, lady, lady! why should we not of her learn thus to live godly?' . 'farewell, dear heart,' p. . _tw. nt._ ii, iii, . [music: toby farewell dear heart, since i must needs be gone, clown his eyes do shew his days are almost done. toby but i will never, never, never die! clown oh there, sir toby, there, oh there you lie.] this can hardly be the original tune to "corydon's farewell to phillis," from parts of the first and second verses of which the above words are quoted. see percy's "reliques," vol. i. . here are two relics of music for the clown in _tw. nt._ iv, ii, probably of the same period as the above. [music: clown hey, robin, jolly robin, tell me how thy lady does, hey, robin, jolly robin, tell me how thy lady does. i'm gone, sir, and anon, sir, i'll be with you again, sir.] for the rest of the words of 'a robyn, jolly robyn,' see percy's reliques, vol. i. p. . . 'whoop, do me no harm, good man,' p. . _winter's tale_ iv, iii, . the rest of the words unknown, but several ballads printed in latter part of th century go to this tune-- [music: autolycus [whoop, do me no harm, good man.]] . stephano's 'scurvey tunes,' _tempest_ ii, ii, , see p. . "as sung by mr bannister" [ ]. [music: stephano i shall no more to sea, to sea, here shall i die a-shore. the master, the swabber, the bosun, and i, the gunner, and his mate, lov'd mall, meg, marian, and margery, but none of us car'd for kate; for she had a tongue with a tang, then to sea, boys, and let her go hang, then to sea, boys, and let her go hang.] . 'jog on,' p. , _winter's tale_ iv, ii, . two more stanzas were first printed , see chappell, vol. i. . the tune is from the fitzwilliam virginal book (queen elizabeth's virginal book), where it has the name _hanskin._ [music: autolycus jog on, jog on, the foot-path way, and merrily hent the stile-a: a merry heart goes all the day, your sad tires in a mile-a.] . 'the hunt is up,' see p. , and _rom. and jul._ iii, v, . the tune is at least as old as , when john hogon was proceeded against for singing it with certain political words. [music: the hunt is up, the hunt is up, and it is well-nigh day; and harry our king is gone hunt-ing to bring his deer to bay.] grove [see under ballad] gives quite another tune, to which 'chevy chase' also was sung. the tune here printed was also sung ( ) to 'o sweete olyver, leave me not behind the,' but altered to four in a bar. see _as you_ iii, iii, , where a verse is given which will easily fit to the music. . 'heart's ease,' p. . _rom._ iv, v, . words not known. tune before . [music] . 'where griping grief,' p. , _rom._ iv, v, , by rich. edwards, poet and composer, . [music: where griping grief the hart would wound, and dol-ful domps the mind op-presse, there musick with her sil-ver sound is wont with spede to give re-dresse; of troubled minds, for e-ve-ry sore, swete mus-ick hath a salve in store.] . 'green sleeves,' see p. , and _wiv._ ii, i, , etc. the tune is probably of henry viii.'s time. [music: alas, my love you do me wrong to cast me off dis-courteously, and i have lov-ed you so long, de-lighting in your company, greensleeves was all my joy, greensleeves was my delight, greensleeves was my heart of gold, and who but my lady greensleeves.] . 'carman's whistle,' p. , _h. . b._ iii, ii, . tune as given by byrd, who wrote variations on it before . [music] . 'fortune my foe,' p. , _merry wiv._ iii, iii, . this old tune is, at latest, of elizabeth's day, and most likely much older. the words here set are given in burney, and the harmony is by byrd, who wrote variations on it for queen elizabeth's virginal book. [music: ye noble minds, and famous martiall wights, that in de-fence of native country fights, give eare to me, that ten yeeres fought for rome, yet reapt disgrace at my returning home.] the above words are the first verse of 'titus andronicus's complaint,' which burney says was originally written to this tune. the ballad is given in full in percy's reliques, vol. i. p. . . ophelia's songs, p. , _hamlet_ iv, v. [music: i. (_a_) how should i your true love know from a-noth-er one? by his cockle hat and staff, and his san-dal shoon. (_b_) he is dead and gone lady, he is dead and gone; at his head a grass green turf, at his heels a stone. (_c_) white his shroud as the mountain snow, larded with sweet flowers; which bewept to the grave did go, with true love showers.] this is certainly old, early th century. the tune has a striking likeness to 'walsingham,' which is the first piece in the fitzwilliam virginal book. see percy's reliques, vol. ii. p. . but the date of the next is not so certain, though probably it is of shakespeare's time. [music: ii. (_a_) good morrow, 'tis st valentine's day all in the morn betime, and i a maid at your window to be your valen-tine. (_b_) for bonny sweet robin is all my joy.] the next two are of the same period as i. [music: iii. they bore him bare-faste on the bier; and in his grave rain'd many a tear.] [music: iv. (_a_) and will he not come a-gain? and will he not come a-gain? no, no, he is dead, go to thy death bed; he never will come a-gain. (_b_) his beard as white as snow, all flax-en was his poll; he's gone, he's gone, and we cast away moan; god ha' mer-cy on his soul!] l. , 'bonny sweet robin.' with the exception of this _one line_, and _the title_, 'my robin is to the greenwood gone,' nothing remains of this song, but the following tune, which is of some date before . [music: v. my robin is to the greenwood gone. for bonny sweet robin is all my joy.] . catches, of th century, prob. long anterior to shakespeare. i. 'hold thy peace,' see p. , _tw. nt._ ii, iii. for _three_ voices, sir toby, sir andrew, and feste the clown, who begins the catch. the second man follows when the first has arrived at [segno symbol]. for the explanation see p. . [music: hold thy peace, and i prithee hold thy peace, [segno symbol] thou knave, hold thy peace thou knave, thou knave.] 'thou knave' will be heard _nine_ times for every once the whole tune is sung by one of the voices. ii. 'jack boy, ho boy, news,' see p. , and _shrew_ iv, i, . this is very old, prob. quite early th century (see introduction). for _four_ voices. the second man comes in at [segno symbol], as before. [music: jack, boy, ho! boy, news; [segno symbol] the cat is in the well, let us ring now for her knell, ding, dong, ding, dong, bell.] . threeman songs (corrupted into 'freeman,' see p. ). these were entirely different from catches. a threeman song is merely (as a rule) a song with _three parts_,--_e.g._, two trebles and a tenor, etc. _winter's tale_ iv, ii, , and iv, iii, - . here is a threeman song, published in , but probably much older than that. [music: v. . wee be souldiers three, pardonez moy je vous en prie: late-ly come forth of the low coun-try, with nev-er a penny of mony. v. . here good fellow, i drinke to thee, pardonez moy je vous en prie: to all good fel-lowes wher-ever they be, with nev-er a penny of mony.] there are two more verses of the same sort. . 'canst thou not hit it,' _l.l.l._ iv, i, . no more words known, except this one verse. the tune is mentioned as a dance in an elizabethan play, and is alluded to in an old ballad 'arthur a bradley.' [music: thou can'st not hit it, hit it, hit it, thou can'st not hit it, my good man, an' i cannot, cannot, cannot, an' i cannot, an-o-ther can.] . dances. [also see note on arbeau's orchésographie.] (_a._) pavan and galliard, 'st thomas wake,' by dr bull, from parthenia, printed . (bull was born .) see p. . pavan [if played quick became passamezzo. _tw._ v, i, ]. [music] galliard st thomas wake, the _same music_ but in triple time. _tw._ i, viii, , _h. ._ i, ii, . [music: galliard, or cinquepace.] (_b._) . part of a 'passamezzo,' date . (see note on arbeau's orchésographie.) _tw._ v, i, . see p. . [music: passe mezzo, or measure (_as you_ v, iv, , etc.)] (_b._) . the first 'strain' of a german pavan for the lute, dating . [music] (_c._) an english 'haye,' or 'raye,' or 'round,' date . see p. , _l.l.l._ v, i, . for a french 'haye,' see note on arbeau's orchésographie. tune only given [see stainer and barrett's dict. of musical terms]. [music] it will be noticed that the steps of the haye, as given in 'orchésographie,' can be adapted to this tune. the dotted minim value of this corresponds with the semibreve value of the other. (_d._) . the king's hunting jigg, by dr bull ( - ). see p. . _hamlet_ ii, ii, , etc. [music] (_d._) . the cobbler's jig. . see p. . [music] (_e._) . an english morris, , see p. . _all's well_ ii, ii, , etc. [music] (_e._) . italian moresca, by claudio monteverde, from his opera 'orfeo,' . this at all events must have had a different step to the morisque of arbeau. (see note on the 'orchésographie.') this dance is certainly in triple rhythm, so the common-time sign probably indicates it should be played fast enough to give the effect of two beats to the bar. [music] (_f._) part of 'my ladye carey's dumpe,' _circa_ . see p. . _two gent._ iii, ii, , etc. [music] then return to [repeat symbol]. this is about _one third_ of it. the last strain of all is the first here printed, but in _four_ parts, and with extraordinary harmony, the e's being carefully marked [natural symbol]. _n.b._--for cinquepace, canaries, brawl, lavolt, courante, haye, morisque, _see the note on_ 'orchésographie.' . musical stage directions. see p. , and ff. (_a._) flourish, believed to be of charles ii.'s time. see p. . [music: eight trumpets.] (_b._) the ancient english drum march, revived in . see p. . _h. . a._ iii, iii, . [music: the voluntary.] [music: the march.] (_c._) military march of the french 'gardes de la marine,' written by lully, . for _hautboys_ in four parts. see p. . cf. _h. . a._ iii, iii, . [music: batterie de tambour.] [music: air des hautbois.] (_d._) a 'sonnerie' of french cavalry, (louis xiii.). see p. . i connect this with 'sennet.' [music: boute-selle (_i.e._, 'to horse').] (_e._) tucket, p. . _h. ._ iv, ii, . [music: . an italian tucket, date .] [music: . french tucket, .] (_f._) . old french hunting fanfare. perhaps may be connected with 'horns wind a peal.' _titus_ ii, ii, . see p. . [music: _four_ horns.] (_f._) . the imitation (by violins) of a hunting call in purcell's 'dido and Æneas,' . see p. . [music] index. accurate knowledge of shakespeare, , . actors preceded by drums, ; by trumpets, , , . _actor's remonstrance_, the, . aguecheek, sir andrew, a musician, . 'alas, my love,' . alarum, , . _all's well_, , , , . alman, a dance, , . amateurs, th cent., , , . 'and will he not come again,' , . anthems, practised by falstaff, . 'anthoinette,' galliard tune, . _antony and cleopatra_, , , , , . arbeau, see 'orchésographie.' arch-lute, , and frontispiece. arena, anthoine, . _as you like it_, , , , , , , , , , . autolycus's songs, , , . 'ayres' for lute, , . bacon, _masque and triumph_, . bacon, _sylva sylvarum_, . on the recorder, , . bagpipe, , , , , . ballads, , ff, , , , . ballad of constant susanna, . ballete, combined dance and song, . ball-room etiquette ( ), , , , . bannister, mr, . bandore, sort of lute, . 'banket,' th cent., . barber's shop, music in, , , . bars, invention of, . base (bass), quibbles on, , . bass descant, . basse dance, - . beaumont, gray's inn masque, , . beaumont and fletcher, _coxcomb_, . beaumont and fletcher, _valentinian_, . beak-flute, , . 'bear his part', , , , . play his part, . sing his part, . 'bene's,' the three, . bergamasca, . blacke saunctus, . boleyn, anne, . _bonduca_, catch in, . 'bonny sweet robin,' , , , . 'boute-selle', . bow, viol, , and frontispiece. branle, le, dance step, . bransle, dance (brawl), , - (tune and steps), . brant, 'ship of fools,' . brawl, dance, , , , (derivation), , . breast, _i.e._ voice, . bridge, dr j.f., shakespeare songs, , , . broken music, - , , , , . broken time, , . bull, dr john, , , , , , , , . burden, , , , , , , . burden, 'light o' love' without a, , , . burney, , , . bussing base, , . 'but shall i go mourn,' . byrd, william, , , , , . 'by a bank,' . canary, dance, , , , (tune and steps), . canaries, see canary. cannon, on stage, , . canon, , . 'canst thou not hit it,' . caper, to, in a galliard, , , , . carey's dump, my lady, , . 'carman's whistle,' , . catch, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . caulfield, collection of shakespeare music, . censorinus, on music of spheres, , . cerreto, scipione, see lute, . chamber music, - , , . chappell, , , , , , . charles i., , . music in time of, . chaucer, , . _chelys minuritionum_, , . 'chest' of viols, - . chorus, or dance, of heavenly bodies, - . christopher sympson, see sympson. cinquepace, , , (tune and steps), , . cittern, in barber's shop, , , . cittern, carved head of, . clavichord, , . clergy and music, , , , . 'cliff' (clef), . cobbler's jig, the, , , . comedies, music in the, , . 'come live with me,' . compendium, sympson's, , . compositions by henry viii., . _comus_, milton's, . 'conceits,' . concolinel, . concord, , . congee, or congedium, . consorts, 'broken' and 'whole,' , , , . consort, of viols, , , . coperario (j. cooper), , , , . coranto, dance, , , , , (derivation), , , , , - (tune and steps). _coriolanus_, , , . cornet, , , , and x. cornet playing, th cent., . cornyshe, w., . corydon's farewell to phillis, . cotgrave, on 'freeman's songs,' . 'counter,' to, , , , . country dance, , , , , . courante, . curranta (courante, coranto), . cushion dance, , . cymbals, . _cymbeline_, , , , . _damon and pithias_, . dances, th cent., - . dance music, , , , , ff. dances in shakespeare, ff. dances, sung, , , , , . dancing, time of elizabeth, james i. and charles i., . dances of th cent., origin of sonata form, . dancing schools, english, . dancing, to tabor and pipe, , , and frontispiece. davenant, _the wits_, . davies, sir john, on dances, , . _declaration of egregious impostures_, . dekker, _satiromastix_, . delaborde, . descant, , , , , , , , , , , , . descanters, contention of, . descant on a "ground," , . _deuteromelia_, ravencroft's, . 'diabolus est,' , . diapason, , , , . diminution, see division. dinner party, th cent., . dinner, music during, at taverns, , after supper, . dirge, , , . discord, 'restless,' , , 'harsh,' . division, - , , , , , . division, quibbles on, , , , . division viol, , . doquet, see tucket. drayton, _battle of agincourt_, . drone, . drum, in dancing, , . and fife, - . military, , , - . drums, in theatre band, . drum march, - , . dulcimer, , . dump, dance, , , , , , , (derivation), , , . quibble on, , . dupla, , . ear, musical, , . edward vi., . edwards, richard, , , , . elizabeth, queen, , , , . elizabethan public-house song, , . elizabethan times, music in, , - , , , (dances) ff. erasmus, . 'evening music,' , . 'excursions,' . falstaff and his crew, musicians, - , , . 'fancies,' for viols, , , , . 'farewell, dear heart,' , , . 'farewell, master,' caliban's song, . _faustus_, marlowe's, . 'fayned' music, , , , . 'fear no more the heat of the sun,' , . fellowships at cambridge, musical qualification for, , . ferrabosco, . fiddle, , . fidler, 'common,' 'rascal,' , . fidlers, . fidles, , . fife, - , . fingering, on lute, , , on viol, , . 'fish,' ballad of a, , . fitzwilliam virginal book (known as qu. elizabeth's) , , , , , . flageolet, see recorder. flats, , . 'flemish drunkards,' , . florio, on threemen's songs, . flourish, , - , , (of cornets), . 'flout 'em and scout 'em,' , , . flute, , , , , , , , . 'fools had ne'er less grace,' . 'fortune my foe,' , . freemen, see threemen. french dancing, - . 'french fiddles,' . french march, . frescobaldi, . fret, quibbles on, , . frets, , , , , , . galliard, (follows pavan), , (derivation), , , , , , , (par terre), (tune and steps), , , , . gallimaufry, , . _gammer gurton's needle_, comedy, . gam-ut, , , . gaufurius, . gentlemen and music, - , , , - , , , , , , , , . 'get you hence,' . gibbons, orlando, , , . giraldus cambrensis, . gnorimus, master, , . 'good morrow, 'tis st valentine's day,' , . goodnights (dirges), , , . gosson, _schoole of abuse_, . gout, morisque bad for the, . gower, . grand bal, le, . 'green sleeves,' , , . 'gregory walker,' . ground bass, , , . grove's dictionary of music, , , . guido d'arezzo, . _hamlet_, - , , , , , , - , . hanskin, . 'harmonious blacksmith,' . harp, , , . harp, irish, . harpsichord, , , , . harpsicon, . harsnet, on catches, . harrington, sir john, , . hautboys, stage direction, , , , . hautboys, , , , , , , . hautboy, case of a treble, , . hay, dance, , (tune and steps), , , . 'heart's ease,' , , . 'he is dead and gone,' . henry, prince, brother of charles i., , . _henry iv., part i_, , , . _henry iv., part ii_, , , , , , , , . _henry v._, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . _henry vi., part i_, , , , , , , , . _henry vi., part ii_, , , . _henry vi., part iii_, , , . henry vii., singing in time of, - . henry viii., a musician, , , , . _henry viii._, , , , , , . herbert, george, . hexachord, , . 'hey, robin, jolly robin,' . hilton, john, . history of music in shakespeare, , . 'hold thy peace,' , . holofernes' head, . horn, . horns, stage direction, , , . 'how should i your true love know,' , . hugh, parson, . hum, to, a burden, , , . 'hundredth psalm,' . hunsdean, lord, . 'hunt is up, the,' , . hunts-up, . 'i shall no more to sea,' , . 'i'm gone, sir, and anon, sir,' . _inglesant, john_, mr shorthouse's, , . instrumental music, amongst lower classes, - , amongst higher classes, - , in barber's shop, , , in taverns, , . instrumental music, descended from vocal dances, , , . instrumental music, england supreme in, . _introduction_, morley's, - , , , , . irish harp, . 'it was a lover and his lass,' . ives, simon, . 'jack boy, ho boy,' , , . jacks, , . james i., music in time of, . jaques, a hater of music, , . jenkins, john, , . jig, dance, - , , , , . jig, the cobbler's, . jigg, the king's hunting, . _jocasta_, by gascoyne, . 'jog on,' , . johnson, robt., , . _john, king_, , , . jonson, _alchemist_, _silent woman_, , masques by, . _julius cæsar_, , . jusquin (josquin des prés, died ), . ken, bishop, . 'king and the beggar,' ballad of the, . king's coll., camb., master of, in , . king's hunting jig, the, , , . kircher, . 'knell,' qu. katherine's, - . 'l'homme armé,' . lacy, henry, _jane shore_, . lark, out of tune, . lavolt, . lavolta, dance, , , , , (tune and steps). lawes, henry, . lawes, william, , . 'lawn, as white as,' . _lear_, , , , , , . le roy, adrian, see lute, . 'lesson,' _i.e._ a piece of music, , , , . 'lesson' for the lute, . lessons in music, , , - , - . 'light o' love,' , , , , . locke, matt., , . lollards, . love song, , , , , , . 'love, love, nothing but love,' . _love's labour's lost_, , , , , , , , . lower classes, music amongst, - . _lucrece_, - , , , . lully, , . lute, , , , , , - , , , , , , , , , . lute, objections to, in th cent., , . pavan for, . tuning of, , , . lute-case, , , . lutenist, . lyly, on music at feasts, . _macbeth_, . mace, thomas, , , , , mad songs, . madness and music, , , , . march, military and national, - , , . marlowe, . mary, queen, . mascaradoes, music in, , . masque, , , - , . _masque and triumph_, bacon's essay on, . may day customs, , , . mean, , , . measure, stately dance, , , - , . _measure for measure_, . méhul, 'le jeune henri,' , . melvil's _memoirs_, . melancholy of musicians, , . memoria technica for step dance, . _merchant of venice_, , , , , , , . _merry devill of edmonton_, the, . _merry wives of windsor_, , , , , , , , , . mersennus, , , , , , . metaphors, musical, in shakespeare, see quibbles. _mi contra fa_, . _mi_, to place the, , . _micrologus_, guido's, . _micrologus_, ornithoparcus's, . _midsummer night's dream_, , , , , , . military music, , , . milton, , , . minim rest, . miracle play, , music in, . monochord, , . monteverde, , , . moresca, morisque, see morris. morley, thomas, 'introduction,' - , , , , , , song, , dances, - , , , , descant, . 'morning music,' , , . morris, dance, , , (tune and steps), , , . mouton, middle th cent., . _much ado_, , , , , , , , , . music at home, - . and disease, , . and manners, - , , , . music and madness, , , , . music-masters, , , , , - , - , - . 'music of men's lives,' . 'music,' stage direction, - , , . music, in time of charles i, , . music, two views of in shakespeare, . music, lessons in the fields, . music at university, - , - . music in barber's shop, , . music in taverns, decay of, , . music, lesson, of an hour, . musica ficta, , . musical england, , , , , , . musical 'at home,' th cent., . musicians, royal, - . _musick's monument_, , , , . 'my heart is full of woe,' , . 'my mistress,' for lute, . 'my robin is to the greenwood gone,' . nativity hymn, milton's, . nebel, see psaltery. nevell's, lady, virginal book, . nightingale, descants, , . kept awake with thorn, , . nimble notes, , . noise, _i.e._ concerted music, , . 'note-splitting,' . note, to give a, , . 'o death, rock me to sleep,' , . 'o heart, heavy heart,' . 'o mistress mine,' . 'o sweete olyver,' , . 'o! the twelfth day of december,' , . _old wives' tale_, peele's, , . oldcastle, sir john, . ominous music, . ophelia's songs, , , - . 'orchésographie,' arbeau's, , , , , , - , , . _orchestra_, poem by sir john davies, . organ, in chamber music, , , , , (on stage), . ornithoparcus, . 'orpheus with his lute,' . _othello_, , , , . oxford, music at, - . pageant of the nine worthies, . _pammelia_, ravenscroft's, , . pandarus's songs, . pandarus, a musician and singer, , . _paradise lost_, . _paradyse of daynty devises_, , . parley, . _parthenia_, , , , , . part-songs by henry viii., . parts, vocal, , , , , , , , ; instrumental, . passamezzo, _see_ pavan. passamezzo pavan (passy-measures), , , , , , . pasqualigo, letter of, . _passionate pilgrim_, , . pavan, dance, , (for voices), , (with galliard), - , - , - . pavan, mode of dancing, , . pavan, 'quadrant,' . pavan, 'strains' of a, , , , , . pavane d'espagne, _see_ canaries, . peal of horns, to wind a; _see_ horns, . peele, _old wives' tale_, , . 'peg-a-ramsey,' , , . percy's reliques, , , . _pericles_, , , , , . pes, or burden, . philomel, . pipe, with tabor, _see_ frontispiece, , , , , , , , . pipes, ; of cornstalk, . pipers and fiddlers, unprofitable, . pizzicato, . _plain and easy introduction to practical music_, - , , - . plain song, , , , , , , , . plain song book, . 'play his part,' _see_ 'bear,' . playford, john, , , . plays of shakespeare with references to music, , _et passim_. plays, introduced by trumpets, . plays with music, to , . popular music, old english, chappell's, . praetorius, , . price, john, . prick-song, , , , , , . professional musicians, th cent., , , . proportion, , , , , ; , pythagoras on musical. psalmody, metrical, , . psaltery, . psychology of music in shakespeare, , - . public-house song, elizabethan, , . punctus, _see_ prick-song. puns, _see_ quibbles. pupil and master, , , , - , - . purcell, _bonduca_, , , . operas, , , , . purcell, catch, . canaries, . puritan, sings psalms to hornpipes, . _pyramus and thisbe_, a masque, , . pythagoras, on music of spheres, - . quadrant pavan, . quadrupla, , . quibbles, verbal, on musical terms, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . quiddle, to, . raye, _see_ hay. rebeck, . 'record,' use of the word, . recorder, , - , , and frontispiece. regals, a small organ, on stage, . _rehearsal, the_, (comedy), . rests, , . retreat, stage direction, , . ribible, . _richard ii._, , , , . _richard iii._, , , . rimbault; mus. antiq. soc., , . rimbault's '_rounds, canons, and catches_', , , , . _romeo and juliet_, , , , , , , . rotybulle joyse, , , . round, dance, , , _see_ hay. round (catch), , , , , , , , , . royal musicians, - . sackbut, , . salary of musicians in taverns, , . salary for a singer, , , . saltarello, dance, , . saltiers, company of dancers, , . saraband, dance, . _satiromastix_, by dekker, . sault majeur, in galliard, , , , _see_ caper. sault majeur, in lavolte, . scale, notation of, - . scamps in shakespeare, mostly musicians, , _see_ falstaff, stephano, pandarus, toby, autolycus. scotch jig, . 'scurvey tunes,' . selden, on dances, , . sellenger's round, . sennet, , (derivation), . serenades, , ff, . serpent, , . sesquialtera, , , . sesquitertia, , . 'set,' to, (of pitch), , . quibble on, . shakespeare, trustworthy in musical matters, , , . shakespeare, passages on music classified, . sharps, , , . _ship of fools_, brant's, . shirley, _triumphs of peace_, . shorthouse, mr j.h., . _shrew, taming of the_, , , - , , , , , , , . sight-singing, , , . silence's songs, . 'sing his part,' see 'bear,' , . singers' excuses, . singing, amongst lower classes, - , - , - , , . singing, amongst higher classes, - , , - . singing, th and th cent., . singing, th and th cent., - , , . singing-man of windsor, . sinkapace, see cinquepace. sir roger de coverly, dance, , . skelton, , . 'sneak's noise,' , . social life, music in, ff. sol-fa, - , , , , . solmisation, . songs, mentioned or quoted in shakespeare, ff. sonneries, french trumpet calls, , . _sonnet viii_, . _sonnet cxxviii_, . _sophonisba_, by marston, . spheres, music of the, - . spinet, , and frontispiece. st thomas wake, pavan and galliard, , - . stage directions, musical, , , ff, - , etc. stanley, thos., hist. of philos., . stephano's songs, , . steps, of dances, , , . stop, to, of strings, etc., , , , , . strain, technical meaning of, , , , , , , . strain, quibble on, , . 'sumer is icumen in,' , , . supper, music after, , . swan-song, . _sylva sylvarum_, bacon's, . sympson, christopher, , , , , , , , . tabor and pipe, , , , , , , , , , , , and frontispiece. tabourin and flutte, . tabourine, military drum, , . tabourot, jehan, see arbeau, . tangents, of clavichord, . tarantella, . tarantism, , . taverns, music in, , , , . technical terms, musical, ff. _tempest_, , , , , , , , , . temple, sir w., , . tereus, . text, music in shakespeare's, . 'the god of love,' . 'the hunt is up,' . 'the master, the swabber,' , . theatres, closed, . theatres, music at, - . theorbo, lute, , . 'there dwelt a man in babylon,' , , . 'they bore him barefaste,' , . 'thou knave,' , , , . threemen songs, , , , , , , , , . 'three merry men,' , , . thunder and lightning, on stage, . time, _see_ proportion. time, to keep, , , , , , , . _timon of athens_, , . titus andronicus, ballad of, , . _titus andronicus_, , . 'to shallow rivers,' , . toby belch's, sir, songs, , , , , . toccata, , . tocco di campana, . tocsin, . 'tom o' bedlam,' , . tordion, dance, , , . 'touch,' to, an instrument, , , . tragedies, music in the, , , . trenchmore, or frenchmore, a dance, , . trinity coll., camb., statutes of, , . tripla, , . _troilus and cressida_, , , , , , , . trumpets, in the theatre band, . trumpets, stage direction, , , , . tucket, , , - , , . tudway, dr, . tune, to keep in, , , , , . tusch, . _twelfth night_, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , - , , , , . _two gentlemen of verona_, , , , , , , , , , . _two italian gentlemen_, comedy by munday, . 'two maids wooing a man,' , . _two noble kinsmen_, . 'under the greenwood tree,' . university, music at, th and th cent, , , , - . 'usurer's wife, the,' ballad, , . ut, re, mi, - , . variations, , , , . ventages, . _venus and adonis_, . viol, treble, tenor, bass, , , , , , , , , and frontispiece. viols, - , , - , , , , , . viols, tuning of, , . viol da gamba, , , , , , , , , . viol da gamba, divisions on the, , , . violin, , , , , . violin, thought vulgar, , , . violone, double-bass, , . virginal, , , , , , , , , . virginal, qu. elizabeth's, , , and frontispiece. virginal book, _see_ fitzwilliam _and_ lady nevell. volta, volte, _see_ lavolta. 'walsingham,' . weavers, and singing, , , . 'wee be souldiers three,' . 'what shall he have,' , . 'when arthur first,' . 'when daffodils,' . 'when griping grief,' , , , . 'white his shroud,' . 'whoop, do me no harm,' , , . 'will you buy any tape,' . windsor, st george's chapel choir, . _winter's tale_, , , , , , , . wood, anthony, , . wright, mr w. aldis, , , . ye noble minds, . * * * * * printed by turnbull and spears edinburgh transcriber's note greek letters used to identify stars (bayer designation), are replaced with the full name of the greek letter, e.g. alpha centauri. the single greek word in the text is transliterated within braces, {komê}. minor punctuation and hyphenation inconsistencies have been corrected. the spelling "bernices" for "berenices" has been retained throughout. the following minor typographical errors have been corrected: p : "establish" changed to "established" p : "firmanent" changed to "firmament" p : "they thoughts" changed to "thy thoughts" p : "suen" changed to "seuen" p : "consequenc" changed to "consequence" p : "geographieal" changed to "geographical" p : "lyrae" changed to "lyræ" for consistency p : removed redundant word "degrees" following the degree symbol the astronomy of milton's 'paradise lost' [illustration: a typical sun-spot] the astronomy of milton's 'paradise lost' by thomas n. orchard, m.d. member of the british astronomical association _these are thy glorious works, parent of good, almighty! thine this universal frame, thus wondrous fair: thyself how wondrous then! unspeakable._ longmans, green, and co. london, new york, and bombay all rights reserved contents chapter page i. a short historical sketch of astronomy ii. astronomy in the seventeenth century iii. milton's astronomical knowledge iv. milton and galileo v. the seasons vi. the starry heavens vii. the starry heavens viii. description of celestial objects mentioned in 'paradise lost' ix. milton's imaginative and descriptive astronomy illustrations _plates_ a typical sun-spot _frontispiece_ venus on the sun's disc _to face page_ cluster in hercules " great nebula in orion " a portion of the moon's surface " _in text_ fig. page . the ptolemaic system of the universe . milton's division of universal space . a binary star system-- ophiuchi . the orbits of the components of gamma virginis . apparent orbit of the companion of sirius . a sun-spot magnified . the corona during the eclipse of may . a portion of the milky way preface many able and cultured writers have delighted to expatiate on the beauties of milton's 'paradise lost,' and to linger with admiration over the lofty utterances expressed in his poem. though conscious of his inability to do justice to the sublimest of poets and the noblest of sciences, the author has ventured to contribute to miltonic literature a work which he hopes will prove to be of an interesting and instructive character. perhaps the choicest passages in the poem are associated with astronomical allusion, and it is chiefly to the exposition and illustration of these that this volume is devoted. the writer is indebted to many authors for information and reference, and especially to miss agnes m. clerke, professors masson and young, mr. james nasmyth, mr. g. f. chambers, and sir robert ball. also to the works of the late mr. r. a. proctor, sirs w. and j. herschel, admiral smyth, professor grant, mr. j. r. hind, sir david brewster, rev. a. b. whatton, and prebendary webb. most of the illustrations have been supplied by the publishers: messrs. macmillan and w. hunt & co. have kindly permitted the reproduction of some of their drawings. manchester, _march _. chapter i a short historical sketch of astronomy astronomy is the oldest and most sublime of all the sciences. to a contemplative observer of the heavens, the number and brilliancy of the stars, the lustre of the planets, the silvery aspect of the moon, with her ever-changing phases, together with the order, the harmony, and unison pervading them all, create in his mind thoughts of wonder and admiration. occupying the abyss of space indistinguishable from infinity, the starry heavens in grandeur and magnificence surpass the loftiest conceptions of the human mind; for, at a distance beyond the range of ordinary vision, the telescope reveals clusters, systems, galaxies, universes of stars--suns--the innumerable host of heaven, each shining with a splendour comparable with that of our sun, and, in all likelihood, fulfilling in a similar manner the same beneficent purposes. the time when man began to study the stars is lost in the antiquity of prehistoric ages. the ancient inhabitants of the earth regarded the heavenly bodies with veneration and awe, erected temples in their honour, and worshipped them as deities. historical records of astronomy carry us back several thousand years. during the greater part of this time, and until a comparatively recent period, astronomy was associated with astrology--a science which originated from a desire on the part of mankind to penetrate the future, and which was based upon the supposed influence of the heavenly bodies upon human and terrestrial affairs. it was natural to imagine that the overruling power which governed and directed the course of sublunary events resided in the heavens, and that its decrees might be understood by watching the movements of the heavenly bodies under its control. it was, therefore, believed that by observing the configuration of the planets and the positions of the constellations at the instant of the birth of an individual, his horoscope, or destiny, could be foretold; and that by making observations of a somewhat similar nature the occurrence of events of public importance could be predicted. when, however, the laws which govern the motions of the heavenly bodies became better known, and especially after the discovery of the great law of gravitation, astrology ceased to be a belief, though for long after it retained its power over the imagination, and was often alluded to in the writings of poets and other authors. in the early dawn of astronomical science, the theories upheld with regard to the structure of the heavens were of a simple and primitive nature, and might even be described as grotesque. this need occasion no surprise when we consider the difficulties with which ancient astronomers had to contend in their endeavours to reduce to order and harmony the complicated motions of the orbs which they beheld circling around them. the grouping of the stars into constellations having fanciful names, derived from fable or ancient mythology, occurred at a very early period, and though devoid of any methodical arrangement, is yet sufficiently well-defined to serve the purposes of modern astronomers. several of the ancient nations of the earth, including the chaldeans, egyptians, hindus, and chinese, claim to have been the earliest astronomers. chinese records of astronomy reveal an antiquity of near , years b.c., but they contain no evidence that their authors possessed any scientific knowledge, and they merely record the occurrence of solar eclipses and the appearances of comets. it is not known when astronomy was first studied by the egyptians; but what astronomical information they have handed down is not of a very intelligible kind, nor have they left behind any data that can be relied upon. the great pyramid, judging from the exactness with which it faces the cardinal points, must have been designed by persons who possessed a good knowledge of astronomy, and it was probably made use of for observational purposes. it is now generally admitted that correct astronomical observations were first made on the plains of chaldea, records of eclipses having been discovered in chaldean cities which date back , years b.c. the chaldeans were true astronomers: they made correct observations of the risings and settings of the heavenly bodies; and the exact orientation of their temples and public buildings indicates the precision with which they observed the positions of celestial objects. they invented the zodiac and gnomon, made use of several kinds of dials, notified eclipses, and divided the day into twenty-four hours. to the greeks belongs the credit of having first studied astronomy in a regular and systematic manner. thales ( b.c.) was one of the earliest of greek astronomers, and may be regarded as the founder of the science among that people. he was born at miletus, and afterwards repaired to egypt for the purpose of study. on his return to greece he founded the ionian school, and taught the sphericity of the earth, the obliquity of the ecliptic, and the true causes of eclipses of the sun and moon. he also directed the attention of mariners to the superiority of the lesser bear, as a guide for the navigation of vessels, as compared with the great bear, by which constellation they usually steered. thales believed the earth to be the centre of the universe, and that the stars were composed of fire; he also predicted the occurrence of a great solar eclipse. thales had for his successors anaximander, anaximenes, and anaxagoras, who taught the doctrines of the ionian school. the next great astronomer that we read of is pythagoras, who was born at samos b.c. he studied under thales, and afterwards visited egypt and india, in order that he might make himself familiar with the scientific theories adopted by those nations. on his return to europe he founded his school in italy, and taught in a more extended form the doctrines of the ionian school. in his speculations with regard to the structure of the universe he propounded the theory (though the reasons by which he sustained it were fanciful) that the sun is the centre of the planetary system, and that the earth revolves round him. this theory--the accuracy of which has since been confirmed--received but little attention from his successors, and it sank into oblivion until the time of copernicus, by whom it was revived. pythagoras discovered that the morning and evening stars are one and the same planet. among the famous astronomers who lived about this period we find recorded the names of meton, who introduced the metonic cycle into greece and erected the first sundial at athens; eudoxus, who persuaded the greeks to adopt the year of - / days; and nicetas, who taught that the earth completed a daily revolution on her axis. the alexandrian school, which flourished for three centuries prior to the christian era, produced men of eminence whose discoveries and investigations, when arranged and classified, enabled astronomy to be regarded as a true theoretical science. the positions of the fixed stars and the paths of the planets were determined with greater accuracy, and irregularities of the motions of the sun and moon were investigated with greater precision. attempts were made to ascertain the distance of the sun from the earth, and also the dimensions of the terrestrial sphere. the obliquity of the ecliptic was accurately determined, and an arc of the meridian was measured between syene and alexandria. the names of aristarchus, eratosthenes, aristyllus, timocharis, and autolycus, are familiarly known in association with the advancement of the astronomy of this period. we now reach the name of hipparchus of bithynia ( b.c.), the most illustrious astronomer of antiquity, who did much to raise astronomy to the position of a true science, and who has also left behind him ample evidence of his genius 'as a mathematician, an observer, and a theorist.' we are indebted to him for the earliest star catalogue, in which he included , stars. he discovered the precession of the equinoxes, and determined the motions of the sun and moon, and also the length of the year, with greater precision than any of his predecessors. he invented the sciences of plane and spherical trigonometry, and was the first to use right ascensions and declinations. the next astronomer of eminence after hipparchus was ptolemy ( a.d.), who resided at alexandria. he was skilled as a mathematician and geographer, and also excelled as a musician. his chief discovery was an irregularity of the lunar motion, called the '_evection_.' he was also the first to observe the effect of the refraction of light in causing the apparent displacement of a heavenly body from its true position. ptolemy devoted much of his time to extending and improving the theories of hipparchus, and compiled a great treatise, called the 'almagest,' which contains nearly all the knowledge we possess of ancient astronomy. ptolemy's name is, however, most widely known in association with what is called the ptolemaic theory. this system, which originated long before his time, but of which he was one of the ablest expounders, was an attempt to establish on a scientific basis the conclusions and results arrived at by early astronomers who studied and observed the motions of the heavenly bodies. ptolemy regarded the earth as the immovable centre of the universe, round which the sun, moon, planets, and the entire heavens completed a daily revolution in twenty-four hours. after the death of ptolemy no worthy successor was found to occupy his place, the study of astronomy began to decline among the greeks, and after a time it ceased to be cultivated by that people. the arabs next took up the study of astronomy, which they prosecuted most assiduously for a period of four centuries. their labours were, however, confined chiefly to observational work, in which they excelled; unlike their predecessors, they paid but little attention to speculative theories--indeed, they regarded with such veneration the opinions held by the greeks, that they did not feel disposed to question the accuracy of their doctrines. the most eminent astronomer among the arabs was albategnius ( a.d.). he corrected the greek observations, and made several discoveries which testified to his abilities as an observer. ibn yunis and abul wefu were arab astronomers who earned a high reputation on account of the number and accuracy of their observations. in persia, a descendant of the famous genghis khan erected an observatory, where astronomical observations were systematically made. omar, a persian astronomer, suggested a reformation of the calendar which, if it had been adopted, would have insured greater accuracy than can be attained by the gregorian style now in use. in , ulugh beg, who resided at samarcand, made many observations, and constructed a star catalogue of greater exactness than was known to exist prior to his time. the arabs may be regarded as having been the custodians of astronomy until the time of its revival in another quarter of the globe. after the lapse of many centuries, astronomy was introduced into western europe in , and from that date to the present time its career has been one of triumphant progress. in , a translation of ptolemy's 'almagest' from arabic into latin was accomplished by order of the german emperor, frederick ii.; and in alphonso x., king of castile, himself a zealous patron of astronomy, caused a new set of astronomical tables to be constructed at his own expense, which, in honour of his majesty, were called the 'alphonsine tables.' purbach and regiomontanus, two german astronomers of distinguished reputation, and waltherus, a man of considerable renown, made many important observations in the fifteenth century. the most eminent astronomer who lived during the latter part of this century was copernicus. nicolas copernicus was born february , , at thorn, a small town situated on the vistula, which formed the boundary between the kingdoms of prussia and poland. his father was a polish subject, and his mother of german extraction. having lost his parents early in life, he was educated under the supervision of his uncle lucas, bishop of ermland. copernicus attended a school at thorn, and afterwards entered the university of cracow, in , where he devoted four years to the study of mathematics and science. on leaving cracow he attached himself to the university of bologna as a student of canon law, and attended a course of lectures on astronomy given by novarra. in the ensuing year he was appointed canon of frauenburg, the cathedral city of the diocese of ermland, situated on the shores of the frisches haff. in the year he was at rome, where he lectured on mathematics and astronomy. he next spent a few years at the university of padua, where, besides applying himself to mathematics and astronomy, he studied medicine and obtained a degree. in copernicus returned to his native country, and was appointed medical attendant to his uncle, the bishop of ermland, with whom he resided in the stately castle of heilsberg, situated at a distance of forty-six miles from frauenburg. copernicus lived with his uncle from till , and during that time prosecuted his astronomical studies, and undertook, besides, many arduous duties associated with the administration of the diocese; these he faithfully discharged until the death of the bishop, which occurred in . after the death of his uncle he took up his residence at frauenburg, where he occupied his time in meditating on his new astronomy and undertaking various duties of a public character, which he fulfilled with credit and distinction. in he was appointed administrator-general of the diocese. though a canon of frauenburg, copernicus never became a priest. after many years of profound meditation and thought, copernicus, in a treatise entitled 'de revolutionibus orbium celestium,' propounded a new theory, or, more correctly speaking, revived the ancient pythagorean system of the universe. this great work, which he dedicated to pope paul iii., was completed in ; but he could not be prevailed upon to have it published until , the year in which he died. in copernicus had an apoplectic seizure, followed by paralysis and a gradual decay of his mental and vital powers. his book was printed at nuremberg, and the first copy arrived at frauenburg on may , , in time to be touched by the hands of the dying man, who in a few hours after expired. the house in which copernicus lived at allenstein is still in existence, and in the walls of his chamber are visible the perforations which he made for the purpose of observing the stars cross the meridian. copernicus was the means of creating an entire revolution in the science of astronomy, by transferring the centre of our system from the earth to the sun. he accounted for the alternation of day and night by the rotation of the earth on her axis, and for the vicissitudes of the seasons by her revolution round the sun. he devoted the greater part of his life to meditating on this theory, and adduced several weighty reasons in its support. copernicus could not help perceiving the complications and entanglements by which the ptolemaic system of the universe was surrounded, and which compared unfavourably with the simple and orderly manner in which other natural phenomena presented themselves to his observation. by perceiving that mars when in opposition was not much inferior in lustre to jupiter, and when in conjunction resembled a star of the second magnitude, he arrived at the conclusion that the earth could not be the centre of the planet's motion. having discovered in some ancient manuscripts a theory, ascribed to the egyptians, that mercury and venus revolved round the sun, whilst they accompanied the orb in his revolution round the earth, copernicus was able to perceive that this afforded him a means of explaining the alternate appearance of those planets on each side of the sun. the varied aspects of the superior planets, when observed in different parts of their orbits, also led him to conclude that the earth was not the central body round which they accomplished their revolutions. as a combined result of his observation and reasoning copernicus propounded the theory that the sun is the centre of our system, and that all the planets, including the earth, revolve in orbits around him. this, which is called the copernican system, is now regarded as, and has been proved to be, the true theory of the solar system. tycho brahÉ was a celebrated danish astronomer, who earned a deservedly high reputation on account of the number and accuracy of his astronomical observations and calculations. the various astronomical tables that were in use in his time contained many inaccuracies, and it became necessary that they should be reconstructed upon a more correct basis. tycho possessed the practical skill required for this kind of work. he was born december , , at knudstorp, near helsingborg. his father, otto brahé, traced his descent from a swedish family of noble birth. at the age of thirteen tycho was sent to the university of copenhagen, where it was intended he should prepare himself for the study of the law. the prediction of a great solar eclipse, which was to happen on august , , caused much public excitement in denmark, for in those days such phenomena were regarded as portending the occurrence of events of national importance. tycho looked forward with great eagerness to the time of the eclipse. he watched its progress with intense interest, and when he perceived all the details of the phenomenon occur exactly as they were predicted, he resolved to pursue the study of a science by which, as was then believed, the occurrence of future events could be foretold. from copenhagen tycho brahé was sent to leipsic to study jurisprudence, but astronomy absorbed all his thoughts. he spent his pocket-money in purchasing astronomical books, and, when his tutor had retired to sleep, he occupied his time night after night in watching the stars and making himself familiar with their courses. he followed the planets in their direct and retrograde movements, and with the aid of a small globe and pair of compasses was able by means of his own calculations to detect serious discrepancies in the alphonsine and prutenic tables. in order to make himself more proficient in calculating astronomical tables he studied arithmetic and geometry, and learned mathematics without the aid of a master. having remained at leipsic for three years, during which time he paid far more attention to the study of astronomy than to that of law, he returned to his native country in consequence of the death of an uncle, who bequeathed him a considerable estate. in denmark he continued to prosecute his astronomical studies, and incurred the displeasure of his friends, who blamed him for neglecting his intended profession and wasting his time on astronomy, which they regarded as useless and unprofitable. not caring to remain among his relatives, tycho brahé returned to germany, and arrived at wittenberg in . whilst residing here he had an altercation with a danish gentleman over some question in mathematics. the quarrel led to a duel with swords, which terminated rather unfortunately for tycho, who had a portion of his nose cut off. this loss he repaired by ingeniously contriving one of gold, silver, and wax, which was said to bear a good resemblance to the original. from wittenberg tycho proceeded to augsburg, where he resided for two years. here he made the acquaintance of several men distinguished for their learning and their love of astronomy. during his stay at augsburg he constructed a quadrant of fourteen cubits radius, on which were indicated the single minutes of a degree; he made many valuable observations with this instrument, which he used in combination with a large sextant. in tycho returned to denmark, where his fame as an astronomer had preceded him, and was the means of procuring for him a hearty welcome from his relatives and friends. in , when returning one night from his laboratory--for tycho studied alchemy as well as astronomy--he beheld what appeared to be a new and brilliant star in the constellation cassiopeia, which was situated overhead. he directed the attention of his companions to this wonderful object, and all declared that they had never observed such a star before. on the following night he measured its distance from the nearest stars in the constellation, and arrived at the conclusion that it was a fixed star, and beyond our system. this remarkable object remained visible for sixteen months, and when at its brightest rivalled sirius. at first it was of a brilliant white colour, but as it diminished in size it became yellow; it next changed to a red colour, resembling aldebaran; afterwards it appeared like saturn, and as it grew smaller it decreased in brightness, until it finally became invisible. in tycho brahé married a peasant-girl from the village of knudstorp. this imprudent act roused the resentment of his relatives, who, being of noble birth, were indignant that he should have contracted such an alliance. the bitterness and mutual ill-feeling created by this affair became so intense that the king of denmark deemed it advisable to endeavour to bring about a reconciliation. after this tycho returned to germany, and visited several cities before deciding where he should take up his permanent residence. his fame as an astronomer was now so great that he was received with distinction wherever he went, and on the occasion of a visit to hesse-cassel he spent a few pleasant days with william, landgrave of hesse, who was himself skilled in astronomy. frederick ii., king of denmark, having recognised tycho brahé's great merits as an astronomer, and not wishing that his fame should add lustre to a foreign court, expressed a desire that he should return to his native country, and as an inducement offered him a life interest in the island of huen, in the sound, where he undertook to erect and equip an observatory at his own expense; the king also promised to bestow upon him a pension, and grant him other emoluments besides. tycho gladly accepted this generous offer, and during the construction of the observatory occupied his time in making a magnificent collection of instruments and appliances adapted for observational purposes. this handsome edifice, upon which the king of denmark expended a sum of , _l._, was called 'uranienburg' ('the citadel of the heavens'). here tycho resided for a period of twenty years, during which time he pursued his astronomical labours with untiring energy and zeal, and made a large number of observations and calculations of much superior accuracy to any that existed previously, which were afterwards of great service to his successors. during his long residence at huen, tycho was visited by many distinguished persons, who were attracted to his island home by his fame and the magnificence of his observatory. among them was james vi. of scotland, who, whilst journeying to the court of denmark on the occasion of his marriage to a danish princess, paid tycho a visit, and enjoyed his hospitality for a week. the king was delighted with all that he saw, and on his departure presented tycho with a handsome donation, and at his request composed some latin verses, in which he eulogised his host and praised his observatory. the island of huen is situated about six miles from the coast of zealand, and fourteen from copenhagen. it has a circumference of six miles, and consists chiefly of an elevated plateau, in the centre of which tycho erected his observatory, the site of which is now marked by two pits and a few mounds of earth--all that remains of uranienburg. all went well with tycho brahé during the lifetime of his noble patron; but in frederick ii. died, and was succeeded by his son, a youth eleven years of age. the danish nobles had long been jealous of tycho's fame and reputation, and on the death of the king an opportunity was afforded them of intriguing with the object of accomplishing his downfall. several false accusations were brought against him, and the court party made the impoverished state of the treasury an excuse for depriving him of his pension and emoluments granted by the late king. tycho was no longer able to bear the expense of maintaining his establishment at huen, and fearing that he might be deprived of the island itself, he took a house in copenhagen, to which he removed all his smaller instruments. during his residence in the capital he was subjected to annoyance and persecution. an order was issued in the king's name preventing him from carrying on his chemical experiments, and he besides suffered the indignity of a personal assault. tycho brahé resolved to quit his ungrateful country and seek a home in some foreign land, where he should be permitted to pursue his studies unmolested and live in quietness and peace. he accordingly removed from the island of huen all his instruments and appliances that were of a portable nature, and packed them on board a vessel which he hired for the purpose of transport, and, having embarked with his family, his servants, and some of his pupils and assistants, 'this interesting barque, freighted with the glory of denmark,' set sail from copenhagen about the end of , and having crossed the baltic in safety, arrived at rostock, where tycho found some old friends waiting to receive him. he was now in doubt as to where he should find a home, when the austrian emperor rudolph, himself a liberal patron of science and the fine arts, having heard of tycho brahé's misfortunes, sent him an invitation to take up his abode in his dominions, and promised that he should be treated in a manner worthy of his reputation and fame. tycho resolved to accept the emperor's kind invitation, and in the spring of arrived at prague, where he found a handsome residence prepared for his reception. he was received by the emperor in a most cordial manner and treated with the greatest kindness. an annual pension of three thousand crowns was settled upon him for life, and he was to have his choice of several residences belonging to his majesty, where he might reside and erect a new observatory. from among these he selected the castle of benach, in bohemia, which was situated on an elevated plateau and commanded a wide view of the horizon. during his residence at benach tycho received a visit from kepler, who stayed with him for several months in order that he might carry out some astronomical observations. in the following year kepler returned, and took up his permanent residence with tycho, having been appointed assistant in his observatory, a post which, at tycho's request, was conferred upon him by the emperor. tycho brahé soon discovered that his ignorance of the language and unfamiliarity with the customs of the people caused him much inconvenience. he therefore asked permission from the emperor to be allowed to remove to prague. this request was readily granted, and a suitable residence was provided for him in the city. in the meantime his family, his large instruments, and other property, having arrived at prague, tycho was soon comfortably settled in his new home. though tycho brahé continued his astronomical observations, yet he could not help feeling that he lived among a strange people; nor did the remembrance of his sufferings and the cruel treatment he received at the hands of his fellow-countrymen subdue the affection which he cherished towards his native land. pondering over the past, he became despondent and low-spirited; a morbid imagination caused him to brood over small troubles, and gloomy, melancholy thoughts possessed his mind--symptoms which seemed to presage the approach of some serious malady. one evening, when visiting at the house of a friend, he was seized with a painful illness, to which he succumbed in less than a fortnight. he died at prague on october , , when in his fifty-fifth year. the emperor rudolph, when informed of tycho brahé's death, expressed his deep regret, and commanded that he should be interred in the principal church in the city, and that his obsequies should be celebrated with every mark of honour and respect. tycho brahé stands out as the most romantic and prominent figure in the history of astronomy. his independence of character, his ardent attachments, his strong hatreds, and his love of splendour, are characteristics which distinguish him from all other men of his age. this remarkable man was an astronomer, astrologer, and alchemist; but in his latter years he renounced astrology, and believed that the stars exercised no influence over the destinies of mankind. as a practical astronomer, tycho brahé has not been excelled by any other observer of the heavens. the magnificence of his observatory at huen, upon the equipment and embellishment of which it is stated he expended a ton of gold; the splendour and variety of his instruments, and his ingenuity in inventing new ones, would alone have made him famous. but it was by the skill and assiduity with which he carried out his numerous and important observations that he has earned for himself a position of the most honourable distinction among astronomers. in his investigation of the lunar theory tycho brahé discovered the moon's _annual equation_, a yearly effect produced by the sun's disturbing force as the earth approaches or recedes from him in her orbit. he also discovered another inequality in the moon's motion, called the _variation_. he determined with greater exactness astronomical refractions from an altitude of ° downwards to the horizon, and constructed a catalogue of stars. he also made a vast number of observations on planets, which formed the basis of the 'rudolphine tables,' and were of invaluable assistance to kepler in his investigation of the laws relating to planetary motion. tycho brahé declined to accept the copernican theory, and devised a system of his own, which he called the 'tychonic.' by this arrangement the earth remained stationary, whilst all the planets revolved round the sun, who in his turn completed a daily revolution round the earth. all the phenomena associated with the motions of those bodies could be explained by means of this system; but it did not receive much support, and after the copernican theory became better understood it was given up, and heard of no more. we now arrive at the name of kepler, one of the very greatest of astronomers, and a man of remarkable genius, who was the first to discover the real nature of the paths pursued by the earth and planets in their revolution round the sun. after seventeen years of close observation, he announced that those bodies travelled round the sun in elliptical or oval orbits, and not in circular paths, as was believed by copernicus. in his investigation of the laws which govern the motions of the planets he formulated those famous theorems known as 'kepler's laws,' which will endure for all time as a proof of his sagacity and surpassing genius. prior to the discovery of those laws the sun, though acknowledged to be the centre of the system, did not appear to occupy a central position as regards the motions of the planets; but kepler, by demonstrating that the planes of the orbits of all the planets, and the lines connecting their apsides, passed through the sun, was enabled to assign the orb his true position with regard to those bodies. john kepler was born at weil, in the duchy of wurtemberg, december , . his parents, though of noble family, lived in reduced circumstances, owing to causes for which they were themselves chiefly responsible. in his youth kepler suffered so much from ill-health that his education had to be neglected. in he was sent to a monastic school at maulbronn, which had been established at the reformation, and was under the patronage of the duke of wurtemberg. afterwards he studied at the university of tubingen, where he distinguished himself and took a degree. kepler devoted his attention chiefly to science and mathematics, but paid no particular attention to the study of astronomy. maestlin, the professor of mathematics, whose lectures he attended, upheld the copernican theory, and kepler, who adopted the views of his teacher, wrote an essay in favour of the diurnal rotation of the earth, in which he supported the more recent astronomical doctrines. in , a vacancy having occurred in the professorship of astronomy at gratz consequent upon the death of george stadt, kepler was appointed his successor. he did not seek this office, as he felt no particular desire to take up the study of astronomy, but was recommended by his tutors as a man well fitted for the post. he was thus in a manner compelled to devote his time and talents to the science of astronomy. kepler directed his attention to three subjects--viz. 'the number, the size, and the motion of the orbits of the planets.' he endeavoured to ascertain if any regular proportion existed between the sizes of the planetary orbits, or in the difference of their sizes, but in this he was unsuccessful. he then thought that, by imagining the existence of a planet between mars and jupiter, and another between venus and mercury, he might be able to attain his object; but he found that this assumption afforded him no assistance. kepler then imagined that as there were five regular geometrical solids, and five planets, the distances of the latter were regulated by the size of the solids described round one another. the discovery afterwards of two additional planets testified to the absurdity of this speculation. a description of these extraordinary researches was published, in , in a work entitled 'prodromus of cosmographical dissertations; containing the cosmographical mystery respecting the admirable proportion of the celestial orbits, and the genuine and real causes of the number, magnitude, and periods of the planets, demonstrated by the five regular geometrical solids.' this volume, notwithstanding the fanciful speculations which it contained, was received with much favour by astronomers, and both tycho brahé and galileo encouraged kepler to continue his researches. galileo admired his ingenuity, and tycho advised him 'to lay a solid foundation for his views by actual observation, and then, by ascending from these, to strive to reach the causes of things.' kepler spent many years in these fruitless endeavours before he made those grand discoveries in search of which he laboured so long. the religious dissensions which at this time agitated germany were accompanied in many places by much tumult and excitement. at gratz the catholics threatened to expel the protestants from the city. kepler, who was of the reformed faith, having recognised the danger with which he was threatened, retired to hungary with his wife, whom he had recently married, and remained there for near twelve months, during which time he occupied himself with writing several short treatises on subjects connected with astronomy. in he returned to gratz and resumed his professorship. in the year kepler set out to pay tycho brahé a visit at prague, in order that he might be able to avail himself of information contained in observations made by tycho with regard to the eccentricities of the orbits of the planets. he was received by tycho with much cordiality, and stayed with him for four months at his residence at benach, tycho in the meantime having promised that he would use his influence with the emperor rudolph to have him appointed as assistant in his observatory. on the termination of his visit kepler returned to gratz, and as there was a renewal of the religious trouble in the city, he resigned his professorship, from which he only derived a small income, and, relying on tycho's promise, he again journeyed to prague, and arrived there in . kepler was presented to the emperor by tycho, and the post of imperial mathematician was conferred upon him, with a salary of florins a year, upon condition that he should assist tycho in his observatory. this appointment was of much value to kepler, because it afforded him an opportunity of obtaining access to the numerous astronomical observations made by tycho, which were of great assistance to him in the investigation of the subject which he had chosen--viz. the laws which govern the motions of the planets, and the form and size of the planetary orbits. as an acknowledgment of the emperor's great kindness, the two astronomers resolved to compute a new set of astronomical tables, and in honour of his majesty they were to be called the 'rudolphine tables.' this project pleased the emperor, who promised to defray the expense of their publication. logomontanus, tycho's chief assistant, had entrusted to him that portion of the work relating to observations on the stars, and kepler had charge of the part which embraced the calculations belonging to the planets and their orbits. this important work had scarcely been begun when the departure of logomontanus, who obtained an appointment in denmark, and the death of tycho brahé in october , necessitated its suspension for a time. kepler was appointed chief mathematician to the emperor in succession to tycho--a position of honour and distinction, and to which was attached a handsome salary, that was paid out of the imperial treasury. but owing to the continuance of expensive wars, which entailed a severe drain upon the resources of the country, the public funds became very low, and kepler's salary was always in arrear. this condition of things involved him in serious pecuniary difficulties, and the responsibility of having to maintain an increasing family added to his anxieties. it was with the greatest difficulty that he succeeded in obtaining payment of even a portion of his salary, and he was reduced to such straits as to be under the necessity of casting nativities in order to obtain money to meet his most pressing requirements. in kepler published his great work, entitled 'the new astronomy; or, commentaries on the motions of mars.' it was by his observation of mars, which has an orbit of greater eccentricity than that of any of the other planets, with the exception of mercury, that he was enabled, after years of patient study, to announce in this volume the discovery of two of the three famous theorems known as kepler's laws. the first is, that all the planets move round the sun in elliptic orbits, and that the orb occupies one of the foci. the second is, that the radius-vector, or imaginary line joining the centre of the planet and the centre of the sun, describes equal areas in equal times. the third law, which relates to the connection between the periodic times and the distances of the planets, was not discovered until ten years later, when kepler, in , issued another work, called the 'harmonies of the world,' dedicated to james i. of england, in which was contained this remarkable law. these laws have elevated astronomy to the position of a true physical science, and also formed the starting-point of newton's investigations which led to the discovery of the law of gravitation. kepler's delight on the discovery of his third law was unbounded. he writes: 'nothing holds me. i will indulge in my sacred fury. i will triumph over mankind by the honest confession that i have stolen the golden vases of the egyptians to build up a tabernacle for my god far away from the confines of egypt. if you forgive me, i rejoice; if you are angry, i can bear it. the die is cast; the book is written, to be read either now or by posterity i care not which. it may well wait a century for a reader, as god has waited six thousand years for an observer.' when kepler presented his celebrated book to the emperor, he remarked that it was his intention to make a similar attack upon the other planets, and promised that he would be successful if his majesty would undertake to find the means necessary for carrying on operations. but the emperor had more formidable enemies to contend with nearer home than jupiter and saturn, and no funds were forthcoming to assist kepler in his undertaking. the chair of mathematics in the university of linz having become vacant, kepler offered himself as a candidate for the appointment, which he was anxious to obtain; but the emperor rudolph was averse to his leaving prague, and encouraged him to hope that the arrears of his salary would be paid. but past experience led kepler to have no very sanguine expectations on this point; nor was it until after the death of rudolph, in , that he was relieved from his pecuniary embarrassments. on the accession of rudolph's brother, matthias, to the austrian throne, kepler was reappointed imperial mathematician; he was also permitted to hold the professorship at linz, to which he had been elected. kepler was not loth to remove from prague, where he had spent eleven years harassed by poverty and other domestic afflictions. having settled with his family at linz, kepler issued another work, in , entitled 'epitome of the copernican astronomy,' in which he gave a general account of his astronomical observations and discoveries, and a summary of his opinions with regard to the theories which in those days were the subject of controversial discussion. almost immediately after its publication it was included by the congregation of the index, at rome, in the list of prohibited books. this occasioned kepler considerable alarm, as he imagined it might interfere with the sale of his works, or give rise to difficulties in the issue of others. he, however, was assured by his friend remus that the action of the papal authorities need cause him no anxiety. the emperor matthias died in , and was succeeded by ferdinand iii., who not only retained kepler in his office, but gave orders that all the arrears of his salary should be paid, including those which accumulated during the reign of rudolph; he also expressed a desire that the 'rudolphine tables' should be published without delay and at his cost. but other obstacles intervened, for at this time germany was involved in a civil and religious war, which interfered with all peaceful vocations. kepler's library at linz was sealed up by order of the jesuits, and the city was for a time besieged by troops. this state of public affairs necessitated a considerable delay in the publication of the 'tables.' the 'rudolphine tables' were published at ulm in . they were commenced by tycho brahé, and completed by kepler, who made his calculations from tycho's observations, and based them upon his own great discovery of the ellipticity of the orbits of the planets. they are divided into four parts. the first and third parts contain logarithmic and other tables for the purpose of facilitating astronomical calculations; in the second are tables of the sun, moon, and planets; and in the fourth are indicated the positions of one thousand stars as determined by tycho. kepler made a special journey to prague in order to present the 'tables' to the emperor, and afterwards the grand duke of tuscany sent him a gold chain as an acknowledgment of his appreciation of the completion of this great work. albert wallenstein, duke of friedland, an accomplished scholar and a man fond of scientific pursuits, made kepler a most liberal offer if he would take up his residence in his dominions. after duly considering this proposal, kepler decided to accept the duke's offer, provided it received the sanction of the emperor. this was readily given, and kepler, in , removed with his family from linz to sagan, in silesia. the duke of friedland treated him with great kindness and liberality, and through his influence he was appointed to a professorship in the university of rostock. though kepler was permitted to retain the pension bestowed upon him by the late emperor rudolph, he was unable after his removal to silesia to obtain payment of it, and there was a large accumulation of arrears. in a final endeavour to recover the amount owing to him he travelled to ratisbon, and appealed to the imperial assembly, but without success. the fatigue which kepler endured on his journey, combined with vexation and disappointment, brought on a fever, which terminated fatally. he died on november , , when in the sixtieth year of his age, and was interred in st. peter's churchyard, ratisbon. kepler was a man of indomitable energy and perseverance, and spared neither time nor trouble in the accomplishment of any object which he took in hand. in thinking over the form of the orbits of the planets, he writes: 'i brooded with the whole energy of my mind on this subject--asking why they are not other than they are--the number, the size, and the motions of the orbits.' but many fanciful ideas passed through kepler's imaginative brain before he hit upon the true form of the planetary orbits. in his 'mysterium cosmographicum' he asserts that the five kinds of regular polyhedral solids, when described round one another, regulated the distances of the planets and size of the planetary orbits. in support of this theory he writes as follows: 'the orbit of the earth is the measure of the rest. about it circumscribe a dodecahedron. the sphere including this will be that of mars. about mars' orbit describe a tetrahedron; the sphere containing this will be jupiter's orbit. round jupiter's describe a cube; the sphere including this will be saturn's. within the earth's orbit inscribe an icosahedron; the sphere inscribed in it will be venus's orbit. in venus inscribe an octahedron; the sphere inscribed in it will be mercury's.' the above quotation is an instance of kepler's wild and imaginative genius, which ultimately led him to make those sublime discoveries associated with planetary motion which are known as 'kepler's laws.' he describes himself as 'troublesome and choleric in politics and domestic matters;' but in his relations with scientific men he was affable and pleasant. he showed no jealousy of a rival, and was always ready to recognise merit in others; nor did he hesitate to acknowledge any error of his own when more recent discoveries proved that he was wrong. some of his works contain passages, written in a jocular strain, indicative of a bright and cheerful temperament. the following characteristic paragraph refers to the opinions of the epicureans with regard to the appearance of a new star, which they ascribed to a fortuitous concourse of atoms: 'when i was a youth, with plenty of idle time on my hands, i was much taken with the vanity, of which some grown men are not ashamed, of making anagrams by transposing the letters of my name written in latin so as to make another sentence. out of ioannes keplerus came _serpens in akuleo_ (a serpent in his sting); but not being satisfied with the meaning of these words, and being unable to make another, i trusted the thing to chance, and, taking out of a pack of playing-cards as many as there were letters in the name, i wrote one upon each, and then began to shuffle them, and at each shuffle to read them in the order they came, to see if any meaning came of it. now, may all the epicurean gods and goddesses confound this same chance, which, although i have spent a good deal of time over it, never showed me anything like sense, even from a distance. so i gave up my cards to the epicurean eternity, to be carried away into infinity; and it is said they are still flying about there, in the utmost confusion, among the atoms, and have never yet come to any meaning. i will tell those disputants, my opponents, not my own opinion, but my wife's. yesterday, when weary with writing, and my mind quite dusty with considering these atoms, i was called to supper, and a salad i had asked for was set before me. "it seems, then," said i aloud, "that if pewter dishes, leaves of lettuce, grains of salt, drops of water, vinegar and oil, and slices of egg, had been flying about in the air from all eternity, it might at last happen by chance that there would come a salad." "yes," says my wife, "but not so nice and well dressed as this of mine is."' notwithstanding the frequent interruptions which, owing to various reasons, retarded his labours, kepler was able to bring to a successful completion the numerous and important works upon which he was engaged during his lifetime, the voluminous nature of which may be imagined when it is stated that he published thirty-three separate works, besides leaving behind twenty-two volumes of manuscript. during his researches on the motions of mars, kepler discovered that the planet sometimes travelled at an accelerated rate of speed, and at another time its pace was diminished. at one time he observed it to be in advance of the place where he calculated it should be found, and at another time it was behind it. this caused him considerable perplexity, and, feeling convinced in his mind that the form of the planet's orbit could not be circular, he was compelled to turn his attention to some other closed curve, by which those inequalities of motion could be explained. after years of careful observation and study, kepler arrived at the conclusion that the form of the planet's orbit is an ellipse, and that the sun occupies one of the foci. he afterwards determined that the orbits of all the planets are of an elliptical form. having discovered the true form of the planetary orbits, kepler next endeavoured to ascertain the cause which regulates the unequal motion that a planet pursues in its path. he observed that when a planet approached the sun its motion was accelerated, and as it receded from him its pace became slower. this he explained in his next great discovery by proving that an imaginary line, or radius-vector, extending from the centre of the sun to the centre of the planet 'describes equal areas in equal times.' when near the sun, or at perihelion, a planet traverses a larger portion of its arc in the same period of time than it does when at the opposite part of its orbit, or when at aphelion; but, as the areas of both are equal, it follows that the planet does not always maintain the same rate of speed, and that its velocity is greatest when nearest the sun, and least when most distant from him. by the application of his first and second laws kepler was able to formulate a third law. he found that there existed a remarkable relationship between the mean distances of the planets and the times in which they complete their revolutions round the sun, and discovered 'that the squares of the periodic times are to each in the same proportion as the cubes of the mean distances.' the periodic time of a planet having been ascertained, the square of the mean distance and the mean distance itself can be obtained. it is by the application of this law that the distances of the planets are usually calculated. these discoveries are known as kepler's laws, and are usually classified as follows:-- . 'the orbit described by every planet is an ellipse, of which the centre of the sun occupies one of the foci. . 'every planet moves round the sun in a plane orbit, and the radius-vector, or imaginary line joining the centre of the planet and the centre of the sun, describes equal areas in equal times. . 'the squares of the periodic times of any two planets are proportional to the cubes of their mean distances from the sun.'[ ] these remarkable discoveries do not embrace all the achievements by which kepler has immortalised his name, and earned for himself the proud title of 'legislator of the heavens;' he predicted transits of mercury and venus, made important discoveries in optics, and was the inventor of the astronomical telescope. galileo galilei, the famous italian astronomer and philosopher, and the contemporary of kepler and of milton, was born at pisa on february , . his father, who traced his descent from an ancient florentine family, was desirous that his son should adopt the profession of medicine, and with this intention he entered him as a student at the university of pisa. galileo, however, soon discovered that the study of mathematics and mechanical science possessed a greater attraction for his mind, and, following his inclinations, he resolved to devote his energies to acquiring proficiency in those subjects. in his attention was attracted by the oscillation of a brass lamp suspended from the ceiling of the cathedral at pisa. galileo was impressed with the regularity of its motion as it swung backwards and forwards, and was led to imagine that the pendulum movement might prove a valuable method for the correct measurement of time. the practical application of this idea he afterwards adopted in the construction of an astronomical clock. having become proficient in mathematics, galileo, whilst engaged in studying the writings of archimedes, wrote an essay on 'the hydrostatic balance,' and composed a treatise on 'the centre of gravity in solid bodies.' the reputation which he earned by these contributions to science procured for him the appointment of lecturer on mathematics at the university of pisa. galileo next directed his attention to the works of aristotle, and made no attempt to conceal the disfavour with which he regarded many of the doctrines taught by the greek philosopher; nor had he any difficulty in exposing their inaccuracies. one of these, which maintained that the heavier of two bodies descended to the earth with the greater rapidity, he proved to be incorrect, and demonstrated by experiment from the top of the tower at pisa that, except for the unequal resistance of the air, all bodies fell to the ground with the same velocity. as the chief expounder of the new philosophy, galileo had to encounter the prejudices of the followers of aristotle, and of all those who disliked any innovation or change in the established order of things. the antagonism which existed between galileo and his opponents, who were both numerous and influential, was intensified by the bitterness and sarcasm which he imparted into his controversies, and the attitude assumed by his enemies at last became so threatening that he deemed it prudent to resign the chair of mathematics in the university of pisa. in the following year he was appointed to a similar post at padua, where his fame attracted crowds of pupils from all parts of europe. in galileo visited rome. he was received with much distinction by the different learned societies, and was enrolled a member of the lyncæan academy. in two years after his visit to the capital he published a work in which he declared his adhesion to the copernican theory, and openly avowed his disbelief in the astronomical facts recorded in the scriptures. galileo maintained that the sacred writings were not intended for the purpose of imparting scientific information, and that it was impossible for men to ignore phenomena witnessed with their eyes, or disregard conclusions arrived at by the exercise of their reasoning powers. the champions of orthodoxy having become alarmed, an appeal was made to the ecclesiastical authorities to assist in suppressing this recent astronomical heresy, and other obnoxious doctrines, the authorship of which was ascribed to galileo. in , galileo was summoned before the inquisition to reply to the accusation of heresy. 'he was charged with maintaining the motion of the earth and the stability of the sun; with teaching this doctrine to his pupils; with corresponding on the subject with several german mathematicians; and with having published it, and attempted to reconcile it to scripture in his letters to mark velser in .' these charges having been formally investigated by the inquisition, cardinal bellarmine was authorised to communicate with galileo, and inform him that unless he renounced the obnoxious doctrines, and promised 'neither to teach, defend, or publish them in future,' it was decreed that he should be committed to prison. galileo appeared next day before the cardinal, and, without any hesitation, pledged himself that for the future he would adhere to the pronouncement of the inquisition. having, as they imagined, silenced galileo, the inquisition resolved to condemn the entire copernican system as heretical; and in order to effectually accomplish this, besides condemning the writings of galileo, they inhibited kepler's 'epitome of the copernican system,' and copernicus's own work, 'de revolutionibus orbium celestium.' whether it was that galileo regarded the inquisition as a body whose decrees were too absurd and unreasonable to be heeded, or that he dreaded the consequences which might have followed had he remained obstinate, we know that, notwithstanding the pledges which he gave, he was soon afterwards engaged in controversial discussion on those subjects which he promised not to mention again. on the accession of his friend cardinal barberini to the pontifical throne in , under the title of urban viii., galileo undertook a journey to rome to offer him his congratulations upon his elevation to the papal chair. he was received by his holiness with marked attention and kindness, was granted several prolonged audiences, and had conferred upon him several valuable gifts. notwithstanding the kindness of pope urban and the leniency with which he was treated by the inquisition, galileo, having ignored his pledge, published in a book, in dialogue form, in which three persons were supposed to express their scientific opinions. the first upheld the copernican theory and the more recent philosophical views; the second person adopted a neutral position, suggested doubts, and made remarks of an amusing nature; the third individual, called simplicio, was a believer in ptolemy and aristotle, and based his arguments upon the philosophy of the ancients. as soon as this work became publicly known, the enemies of galileo persuaded the pope that the third person held up to ridicule was intended as a representation of himself--an individual regardless of scientific truth, and firmly attached to the ideas and opinions associated with the writings of antiquity. almost immediately after the publication of the 'dialogues' galileo was summoned before the inquisition, and, notwithstanding his feeble health and the infirmities of advanced age, he was, after a long and tedious trial, condemned to abjure by oath on his knees his scientific beliefs. 'the ceremony of galileo's abjuration was one of exciting interest and of awful formality. clothed in the sackcloth of a repentant criminal, the venerable sage fell upon his knees before the assembled cardinals, and, laying his hand upon the holy evangelists, he invoked the divine aid in abjuring, and detesting, and vowing never again to teach the doctrines of the earth's motion and of the sun's stability. he pledged himself that he would nevermore, either in words or in writing, propagate such heresies; and he swore that he would fulfil and observe the penances which had been inflicted upon him.' 'at the conclusion of this ceremony, in which he recited his abjuration word for word and then signed it, he was conveyed, in conformity with his sentence, to the prison of the inquisition.'[ ] galileo's sarcasm, and the bitterness which he imparted into his controversies, were more the cause of his misfortunes than his scientific beliefs. when he became involved in difficulties he did not possess the moral courage to enable him to abide by the consequences of his acts; nor did he care to become a martyr for the sake of science, his submission to the inquisition having probably saved him from a fate similar to what befell bruno. though it would be impossible to justify galileo's want of faith in his dealings with the inquisition, yet one cannot help sympathising deeply with the aged philosopher, who, in this painful episode of his life, was compelled to go through the form of making a retractation of his beliefs under circumstances of a most humiliating nature. but the persecution of galileo did not delay the progress of scientific inquiry nor retard the advancement of the copernican theory, which, after the discovery by newton of the law of gravitation, was universally adopted as the true theory of the solar system. ferdinand, duke of tuscany, having exerted his influence with pope urban on behalf of galileo, he was, after a few days' incarceration, released from prison, and permission was given him to reside at siena, where he remained for six months. he was afterwards allowed to return to his villa at arcetri, and, though regarded as a prisoner of the inquisition, was permitted to pursue his studies unmolested for the remainder of his days. galileo died at arcetri on january , , when in the seventy-eighth year of his age. though not the inventor, he was the first to construct a refracting telescope and apply it to astronomical research. with this instrument he made a number of important discoveries which tended to confirm his belief in the truthfulness of the copernican theory. on directing his telescope to the sun, he discovered movable spots on his disc, and concluded from his observation of them that the orb rotated on his axis in about twenty-eight days. he also ascertained that the moon's illumination is due to reflected sunlight, and that her surface is diversified by mountains, valleys, and plains. on the night of january , , galileo discovered the four moons of jupiter. this discovery may be regarded as one of his most brilliant achievements with the telescope; and, notwithstanding the improvement in construction and size of modern instruments, no other satellite was discovered until near midnight on september , , when mr. e. e. barnard, with the splendid telescope of the lick observatory, added 'another gem to the diadem of jupiter.' the phases of venus and mars, the triple form of saturn, and the constitution of the milky way, which he found to consist of a countless multitude of stars, were additional discoveries for our knowledge of which we are indebted to galileo and his telescope. galileo made many other important discoveries in mechanical and physical science. he detected the law of falling bodies in their accelerated motion towards the earth, determined the parabolic law of projectiles, and demonstrated that matter, even if invisible, possessed the property of weight. in these pages a short historical description is given of the progress made in astronomical science from an early period to the time in which milton lived. the discoveries of copernicus, kepler, and galileo had raised it to a position of lofty eminence, though the law of gravitation, which accounts for the form and permanency of the planetary orbits, still remained undiscovered. theories formerly obscure or conjectural were either rejected or elucidated with accuracy and precision, and the solar system, having the sun as its centre, with his attendant family of planets and their satellites revolving in majestic orbits around him, presented an impressive spectacle of order, harmony, and design. chapter ii astronomy in the seventeenth century the seventeenth century embraces the most remarkable epoch in the whole history of astronomy. it was during this period that those wonderful discoveries were made which have been the means of raising astronomy to the lofty position which it now occupies among the sciences. the unrivalled genius and patient labours of the illustrious men whose names stand out in such prominence on the written pages of the history of this era have rendered it one of the most interesting and elevating of studies. though copernicus lived in the preceding century, yet the names of tycho brahé, kepler, galileo, and newton, testify to the greatness of the discoveries that were made during this period, which have surrounded the memories of those men with a lustre of undying fame. foremost among astronomers of less conspicuous eminence who made important discoveries in this century we find the name of huygens. christian huygens was born at the hague in . he was the second son of constantine huygens, an eminent diplomatist, and secretary to the prince of orange. huygens studied at leyden and breda, and became highly distinguished as a geometrician and scientist. he made important investigations relative to the figure of the earth, and wrote a learned treatise on the cause of gravity; he also determined with greater accuracy investigations made by galileo regarding the accelerated motion of bodies when subjected to the influence of that force. huygens admitted that the planets and their satellites attracted each other with a force varying according to the inverse ratio of the squares of their distances, but rejected the mutual attraction of the molecules of matter, believing that they possessed gravity towards a central point only, to which they were attracted. this supposition was at variance with the newtonian theory, which, however, was universally regarded as the correct one. huygens originated the theory by which it is believed that light is produced by the undulatory vibration of the ether; he also discovered polarization. up to this time the method adopted in the construction of clocks was not capable of producing a mechanism which measured time with sufficient accuracy to satisfy the requirements of astronomers. huygens endeavoured to supply this want, and applied his mechanical ingenuity in constructing a clock that could be relied upon to keep accurate time. though the pendulum motion was first adopted by galileo, he was unable to arrange its mechanism so that it should keep up a continuous movement. the oscillation of the pendulum ceased after a time, and a fresh impulse had to be applied to set it in motion. consequently, galileo's clock was of no service as a timekeeper. huygens overcame this difficulty by so arranging the mechanism of his clock that the balance, instead of being horizontal, was directed perpendicularly, and prolonged downwards to form a pendulum, the oscillations of which regulated the downward motion of the weight. this invention, which was highly applauded, proved to be of great service everywhere, and was especially valuable for astronomical purposes. huygens next directed his attention to the construction of telescopes, and displayed much skill in the grinding and polishing of lenses. he made several instruments superior in power and accuracy to any that existed previously, and with one of these made some remarkable discoveries when observing the planet saturn. the telescopic appearance of saturn is one of the most beautiful in the heavens. the planet, surrounded by two brilliant rings, and accompanied by eight attendant moons, surpasses all the other orbs of the firmament as an object of interest and admiration. to the naked eye, saturn is visible as a star of the first magnitude, and was known to the ancients as the most remote of the planets. travelling in space at a distance of nearly one thousand millions of miles from the sun, the planet accomplishes a revolution of its mighty orbit in twenty-nine and a half years. galileo was the first astronomer who directed a telescope to saturn. he observed that the planet presented a triform appearance, and that on each side of the central globe there were two objects, in close contact with it, which caused it to assume an ovoid shape. after further observation, galileo perceived that the lateral bodies gradually decreased in size, until they became invisible. at the expiration of a certain period of time they reappeared, and were observed to go through a certain cycle of changes. by the application of increased telescopic power it was discovered that the appendages were not of a rounded form, but appeared as two small crescents, having their concave surfaces directed towards the planet and their extremities in contact with it, resembling the manner in which the handles are attached to a cup. these objects were observed to go through a series of periodic changes. after having become invisible, they reappeared as two luminous straight bands, projecting from each side of the planet; during the next seven or eight years they gradually opened out, and assumed a crescentic form; they afterwards began to contract, and on the expiration of a similar period, during which time they gradually decreased in size, they again became invisible. it was perceived that the appendages completed a cycle of their changes in about fifteen years. in , huygens, with a telescope constructed by himself, was enabled to solve the enigma which for so many years baffled the efforts of the ablest astronomers. he announced his discovery in the form of a latin cryptograph which, when deciphered, read as follows:-- 'annulo cingitur, tenui plano, nusquam cohaerente, ad eclipticam inclinatio.' 'the planet is surrounded by a slender flat ring everywhere distinct from its surface, and inclined to the ecliptic.' huygens perceived the shadow of the ring thrown on the planet, and was able to account in a satisfactory manner for all the phenomena observed in connection with its variable appearance. the true form of the ring is circular, but by us it is seen foreshortened; consequently, when the earth is above or below its plane, it appears of an elliptical shape. when the position of the planet is such that the plane of the ring passes through the sun, the edge of the ring only is illumined, and then it becomes invisible for a short period. in the same manner, when the plane of the ring passes through the earth, the illumined edge of the ring is not of sufficient magnitude to appear visible, but as the enlightened side of the plane becomes more inclined towards the earth, the ring comes again into view. when the plane of the ring passes between the earth and the sun, the unillumined side of the ring is turned towards the earth, and during the time it remains in this position it is invisible. huygens discovered the sixth satellite of saturn (titan), and also the great nebula in orion. johann hevelius, a celebrated prussian astronomer, was born at dantzig in , and died in that city in . he was a man of wealth, and erected an observatory at his residence, where, for a period of forty years, he carried out a series of astronomical observations. he constructed a chart of the stars, and in order to complete his work, formed nine new constellations in those spaces in the celestial vault which were previously un-named. they are known by the names camelopardus, canes venatici, coma bernices, lacerta, leo minor, lynx, monoceros, sextans, and vulpecula. he also executed a chart of the moon's surface, wrote a description of the lunar spots, and discovered the libration of the moon in longitude. on may , , hevelius observed a transit of mercury, a description of which he published, and included with it horrox's treatise on the first-recorded transit of venus. this work, after having passed through several hands, became the property of hevelius, who was capable of appreciating its merits. the manuscript was sent to him by huygens, and in acknowledging it he writes: 'how greatly does my mercury exult in the joyous prospect that he may shortly fold within his arms horrox's long looked-for and beloved venus! he renders you unfeigned thanks that by your permission this much-desired union is about to be celebrated, and that the writer is able, with your concurrence, to introduce them both together to the public.' hevelius made numerous researches on comets, and suggested that the form of their paths might be a parabola. giovanni domenico cassini was born at perinaldo, near nice, in . he studied at genoa and bologna, and was afterwards appointed to the chair of astronomy at the latter university. he was a man of high scientific attainments, and made many important astronomical discoveries. in he became director of the royal observatory at paris, and devoted a long life to trying and difficult observations, which in his later years deprived him of his eyesight. in cassini proved beyond doubt that jupiter rotated on his axis, and also assigned his period of rotation with considerable accuracy. he published tables of the planet's satellites, and determined their motions from observations of their eclipses. he ascertained the periods of rotation of venus and mars; executed a chart of the lunar surface, and observed an occultation of jupiter by the moon. cassini discovered the dual nature of saturn's ring, having perceived that instead of one there are two concentric rings separated by a dark space. he also discovered four of the planet's satellites--viz. japetus, rhea, dione, and tethys. he made a near approximation to the solar parallax by means of researches on the parallax of mars, and investigated some irregularities of the moon's motion. cassini discovered the belts of jupiter, and also the zodiacal light, and established the coincidence of the nodes of the lunar equator and orbit. jaques cassini, son of giovanni, was born at paris in . he followed in his father's footsteps, and wrote several treatises on astronomical subjects. he investigated the period of the rotation of venus on her axis, and upheld the results arrived at by his father, which were afterwards confirmed by observations made by schroeter. cassini made some valuable researches with regard to the proper motion of the stars, and demonstrated that their change of position on the celestial vault was real, and not caused by a displacement of the ecliptic. he attempted to ascertain the apparent diameter of sirius, and made observations with regard to the visibility of the stars. the cassini family produced several generations of eminent astronomers, whose discoveries and investigations were of much value in advancing the science of astronomy. olaus roemer, an eminent danish astronomer, was born at copenhagen september , . when picard, a french astronomer, visited denmark in , for the purpose of ascertaining the exact position of 'uranienburg,' the site of tycho brahé's observatory, he made the acquaintance of roemer, who was engaged in studying mathematics and astronomy under erasmus bartolinus. having perceived that the young man was gifted with no ordinary degree of talent, he secured his services to assist him in his observations, and, on the conclusion of his labours, picard was so much impressed with the ability displayed by roemer, that he invited him to accompany him to france. this invitation he accepted, and took up his residence in the french capital, where he continued to prosecute his astronomical studies. in roemer communicated to the academy of sciences a paper, in which he announced his discovery of the progressive transmission of light. it was believed that light travelled instantaneously, but roemer was able to demonstrate the inaccuracy of this conclusion, and determined that light travels through space with a measurable velocity. by diligently observing the eclipses of jupiter's satellites, roemer perceived that sometimes they occurred before, and sometimes after their predicted times. this irregularity, he discovered, depended upon the position of the earth with regard to jupiter. when the earth, in traversing her orbit, moved round to the opposite side of the sun, thereby bringing jupiter into conjunction, an eclipse occurred sixteen minutes twenty-six seconds later than it did when jupiter was in opposition or nearest to the earth. as there existed an impression that light travelled instantaneously, it was believed that an eclipse occurred at the moment it was perceived in the telescope. this, however, was not so. roemer, after a long series of observations, concluded that the discrepancies were due to the fact that light travels with a measurable velocity, and that it requires a greater length of time, upwards of sixteen minutes, to traverse the additional distance--the diameter of the earth's orbit--which intervenes between the earth and jupiter, when the planet is in conjunction, as compared with the distance between the earth and jupiter, when the latter is in opposition. this discovery of roemer's was the means of enabling the velocity of light to be ascertained, which, according to recent calculations, is about , miles a second. as an acknowledgment of the importance of his communication, roemer was awarded a seat in the academy, and apartments were assigned to him at the royal observatory, where he carried on his astronomical studies. in roemer returned to denmark, and was appointed professor of mathematics in the university of copenhagen; he was also entrusted with the care of the city observatory--a duty which his reputation as an astronomer eminently qualified him to undertake. the transit instrument--a mechanism of much importance to astronomers--was invented by roemer in ; it consists of a telescope fixed to a horizontal axis, and adjusted so as to revolve in the plane of the meridian. it is employed in observing the passage of the heavenly bodies across the observer's meridian. to note accurately by means of the astronomical clock the exact instant of time at which a celestial body crosses the centre of the field of view is the essential part of a transit observation. small transit instruments are employed for taking the time and for regulating the observatory clock, but large instruments are used for delicate and exact observations of right ascensions and declinations of stars of different magnitudes. meridian, and altitude and azimuth circles, are important astronomical appliances, which owe their existence to the inventive skill of this distinguished astronomer. roemer resided for many years at the observatory in the city of copenhagen, where he pursued his astronomical studies until the time of his death, which occurred in . he meritoriously attempted to determine the parallax of the fixed stars; and it is said that the astronomical calculations and observations which he left behind him were so voluminous as to equal in number those made by tycho brahé, nearly all of which perished in a great conflagration that destroyed the observatory and a large portion of the city of copenhagen in . among other astronomers of this century whose names deserve recording were descartes and gassendi, whose mathematical researches in their application to astronomy were of much value; fabricius, torricelli, and maraldi, who by their observations and investigations added many facts to the general knowledge of the science; and bayer, to whom belongs the distinction of having constructed the first star-atlas. in our own country during this period astronomy was cultivated by a few enthusiastic men, who devoted their time and talents to promoting the advancement of the science. it, however, received no recognition as a subject of study at any of the universities, and no public observatory existed in great britain. though it was not until towards the close of the century that the attention of all europe was directed to england in admiration of the discoveries of the illustrious newton, yet astronomy had its humble votaries, and chief among those was a young clergyman of the name of horrox. jeremiah horrox was born at toxteth, near liverpool, in --close on three centuries ago. little is known of his family. his parents have been described as persons who occupied a humble position in life, but, as they were able to give their son a classical education which fitted him for one of the learned professions, it is probable they were not so obscure as they have been represented to be. having received his early education at toxteth, horrox afterwards proceeded to cambridge, and was entered as a student at emmanuel college on may , , when in his fourteenth year. at the university he devoted himself to the study of classics, especially latin, which in those days was the language adopted by men of learning, when engaged in writing works of a philosophical and scientific character. after having remained at cambridge for three years, horrox returned to his native county, and was appointed curate of hoole, a place about eight miles distant from preston. hoole is described as a narrow low-lying strip of land consisting largely of moss, and almost converted into an island by the waters of martin mere on the south, and the ribble on the north; and, though doubtless an open and favourable situation for astronomical observation, it could not have been attractive as a place of residence. yet it was here on november , , that horrox made his famous observation of the first recorded transit of venus, an occurrence with which his name will be for ever associated. it was while at cambridge that horrox first turned his attention to the study of astronomy. his love of the sublime, and the captivating influence exerted on his mind by the contemplation of the heavenly bodies, induced him to adopt astronomy as a pursuit congenial to his tastes, and capable of exercising his highest mental powers. having this object in view, he applied himself with much earnestness to the study of mathematics; he had, however, to rely mainly upon his own exertions, for at that time no branch of physical or mathematical science was taught at cambridge, and consequently he obtained no professional instruction. it was so also with astronomy, which, as a science, was scarcely known in this country; no regular record of astronomical observations was kept by any individual observer, and no public observatory existed in england or in france. the disadvantages and obstacles which horrox had to encounter may be best described by quoting his own words. he writes: 'there were many hindrances. the abstruse nature of the study, my inexperience and want of means dispirited me. i was much pained not to have any one to whom i could look for guidance, or indeed for the sympathy of companionship in my endeavours, and i was assailed by the languor and weariness which are inseparable from every great undertaking. what then was to be done? i could not make the pursuit an easy one, much less increase my fortune, and least of all imbue others with a love for astronomy; and yet to complain of philosophy on account of its difficulties would be foolish and unworthy. i determined, therefore, that the tediousness of study should be overcome by industry; my poverty--failing a better method--by patience; and that instead of a master i would use astronomical books. armed with these weapons i would contend successfully; and, having heard of others acquiring knowledge without greater help, i would blush that any one should be able to do more than i, always remembering that word of virgil's-- totidem nobis animaeque manusque. having heard much praise bestowed upon the works of lansberg, a flemish astronomer, horrox thought it would be to his advantage to procure a copy of his writings. this he succeeded in obtaining after some difficulty, and devoted a considerable time to calculating ephemerides, based upon the lansberg tables, but after making a number of computations he discovered that they were unreliable and inaccurate. in the year horrox made the acquaintance of william crabtree, a devoted astronomer, who lived at broughton, a suburb of manchester. a close friendship soon existed between the two men, and they carried on an active correspondence about matters relating to the science which they both loved so well. crabtree, who was an unbeliever in lansberg, urged horrox to discard the flemish astronomer's works, and devote his talents to the study of tycho brahé and kepler. this advice led horrox to make a more rigorous examination of the lansberg tables, and after comparing them with the observations made by crabtree, which coincided with his own, he resolved to renounce them. acting on the advice of his friend, horrox directed his attention to the writings of kepler. the youthful astronomer soon realised their value, and was charmed with the accuracy of observation and inductive reasoning displayed in the elucidation of those general laws which constituted a new era in the history of astronomy. the rudolphine tables, which were the astronomical calculations commenced by tycho brahé, and completed by kepler, were regarded by horrox as much superior to those of lansberg; but it occurred to him that they might be improved by changing some of the numbers, and yet retaining the hypotheses. to this task he applied himself with much earnestness and assiduity, and after close application and laborious study he accomplished the arduous undertaking of bringing those tables to a high state of perfection. in his investigation of the lunar theory, horrox outstripped all his predecessors, and sir isaac newton distinctly affirms he was the first to discover that the moon's motion round the earth is in the form of an ellipse with the centre in the lower focus. besides having made this discovery, horrox was able to explain the causes of the inequalities of the moon's motion, which render the exact computation of her elements so difficult. the annual equation, an irregularity discovered by tycho brahé, which is produced by the increase and decrease of the sun's disturbing force as the earth approaches or recedes from him in her orbit, had its value first assigned by horrox. this he calculated to be eleven minutes sixteen seconds, which is within four seconds of what it has since been proved to be by the most recent observations. the evection, an irregular motion of the moon discovered by ptolemy, whereby her mean longitude is increased or diminished, was explained by horrox as depending upon the libratory motion of the apsides, and the change which takes place in the eccentricity of the lunar orbit. these discoveries were made by horrox before he attained the age of twenty years, and if his reputation had alone rested upon them his name would have been honourably associated with those who have attained to the highest eminence in astronomy. another achievement which adds lustre to horrox's name consists in his detection of the inequality in the mean motions of jupiter and saturn. he also directed his attention to the study of cometary bodies, and arrived at certain conclusions with regard to the nature of their movements. at first, he believed like kepler that comets were projected in straight lines from the sun; this supposition having been upheld on account of the great elongation of their orbits. he next perceived that their velocity increased as they approached the sun, and decreased as they receded from him. afterwards he says, 'they move in an elliptic figure or near it,' and finally he arrived at the conclusion that 'comets move in elliptical orbits, being carried round the sun with a velocity which is probably variable.' this theory has been verified by numerous observations, and is now generally accepted by astronomers. horrox also made a series of observations on the tides. he notified the extent of their rise and fall at different periods, and investigated other phenomena associated with their ebb and flow. after having continued his observations for some time, he wrote to his friend crabtree, and informed him that he had perceived many interesting details which had not been previously described, and he hoped to be able to arrive at some important conclusions with regard to their nature and cause. unfortunately, horrox's writings on this subject, along with many other important papers, have been lost or destroyed. we are therefore ignorant of the result of his researches, which were the first undertaken by any person for the purpose of scientific inquiry. from his study of the lansberg and rudolphine tables, horrox arrived at the conclusion that a transit of venus would occur on november , . this transit was for some unaccountable reason overlooked by kepler, who predicted one in , and the next not until . the transit of was not visible in europe. we are indebted to horrox for a description of the transit of --the first that was ever observed of which there is any record; and were it not for the accuracy of his calculations, the occurrence of the phenomenon would have been unperceived, and no history of the conjunction would have been handed down to posterity. as soon as horrox had assured himself of the time when the transit would take place, he wrote to crabtree to inform him of the date, and asked him to make observations with his telescope, and especially to examine the diameter of the planet, which he thought had been over-estimated. he also requested him to write to dr. foster of cambridge, and inform him of the expected event, as it was desirable that the transit should be observed from several places in consequence of the possibility of failure, owing to an overcast sky. his letter is dated october , . he says: 'my reason for now writing is to advise you of a remarkable conjunction of the sun and venus on the th of november, when there will be a transit. as such a thing has not happened for many years past, and will not occur again in this century, i earnestly entreat you to watch attentively with your telescope in order to observe it as well as you can. 'notice particularly the diameter of venus, which is stated by kepler to be seven minutes, and by lansberg to be eleven, but which i believe to be scarcely greater than one minute.' in describing the method which he adopted for observing the transit, horrox writes as follows: 'having attentively examined venus with my instrument, i described on a sheet of paper a circle, whose diameter was nearly equal to six inches--the narrowness of the apartment not permitting me conveniently to use a larger size. i divided the circumference of this circle into degrees in the usual manner, and its diameter into thirty equal parts, which gives about as many minutes as are equivalent to the sun's apparent diameter. each of these thirty parts was again divided into four equal portions, making in all one hundred and twenty; and these, if necessary, may be more minutely subdivided. the rest i left to ocular computation, which, in such small sections, is quite as certain as any mechanical division. suppose, then, each of these thirty parts to be divided into sixty seconds, according to the practice of astronomers. when the time of the observation approached, i retired to my apartment, and, having closed the windows against the light, i directed my telescope--previously adjusted to a focus--through the aperture towards the sun, and received his rays at right angles upon the paper already mentioned. the sun's image exactly filled the circle, and i watched carefully and unceasingly for any dark body that might enter upon the disc of light. 'although the corrected computation of venus' motions which i had before prepared, and on the accuracy of which i implicitly relied, forbade me to expect anything before three o'clock in the afternoon of the th, yet since, according to the calculations of most astronomers, the conjunction should take place sooner--by some even on the rd--i was unwilling to depend entirely on my own opinion, which was not sufficiently confirmed, lest by too much self-confidence i might endanger the observation. anxiously intent, therefore, on the undertaking through the greater part of the rd, and on the whole of the th, i omitted no available opportunity of observing her ingress. i watched carefully on the th from sunrise to nine o'clock, and from a little before ten until noon, and at one in the afternoon, being called away in the intervals by business of the highest importance, which for these ornamental pursuits i could not with propriety neglect.[ ] but during all this time i saw nothing in the sun except a small and common spot, consisting as it were of three points at a distance from the centre towards the left, which i noticed on the preceding and following days. this evidently had nothing to do with venus. about fifteen minutes past three in the afternoon, when i was again at liberty to continue my labours, the clouds, as if by divine interposition, were entirely dispersed, and i was once more invited to the grateful task of repeating my observations. i then beheld a most agreeable spectacle--the object of my sanguine wishes; a spot of unusual magnitude and of a perfectly circular shape, which had already fully entered upon the sun's disc on the left, so that the limbs of the sun and venus precisely coincided, forming an angle of contact. not doubting that this was really the shadow of the planet, i immediately applied myself sedulously to observe it. 'in the first place, with respect to the inclination, the line of the diameter of the circle being perpendicular to the horizon, although its plane was somewhat inclined on account of the sun's altitude, i found that the shadow of venus at the aforesaid hour--namely, fifteen minutes past three--had entered the sun's disc about ° ´, certainly between ° and °, from the top towards the right. this was the appearance in the dark apartment; therefore, out of doors, beneath the open sky, according to the laws of optics, the contrary would be the case, and venus would be below the centre of the sun, distant ° ´ from the lower limbs or the nadir, as the arabians term it. the inclination remained to all appearances the same until sunset, when the observation was concluded. 'in the second place, the distance between the centres of venus and the sun i found by three observations to be as follows:-- the hour. | distance of the centres. | at · by the clock | ´ ´´ " · " | ´ ´´ " · " | ´ ´´ " · the apparent sunset. | the true setting being · , and the apparent about minutes later, the difference being caused by refraction. the clock therefore was sufficiently correct. 'in the third place i found after careful and repeated observation that the diameter of venus, as her shadow was depicted on the paper, was larger indeed than the thirtieth part of the solar diameter, though not more so than the sixth, or at the utmost the fifth of such a part. therefore let the diameter of the sun be to the diameter of venus as ´ to ´ ´´. certainly her diameter never equalled ´ ´´, scarcely perhaps ´ ´´, and this was evident as well when the planet was near the sun's limb as when far distant from it. [illustration: venus on the sun's disc.] 'this observation was made in an obscure village where i have long been in the habit of observing, about fifteen miles to the north of liverpool, the latitude of which i believe to be ° ´, although by common maps it is stated at ° ´, therefore the latitude of the village will be ° ´, and longitude of both ° ´ from the fortunate islands, now called the canaries. this is ° ´ to the west of uraniburg in denmark, the longitude of which is stated by brahé, a native of the place, to be ° ´ from these islands. 'this is all i could observe respecting this celebrated conjunction during the short time the sun remained in the horizon: for although venus continued on his disc for several hours, she was not visible to me longer than half an hour on account of his so quickly setting. nevertheless, all the observations which could possibly be made in so short a time i was enabled by divine providence to complete so effectually that i could scarcely have wished for a more extended period. the inclination was the only point upon which i failed to attain the utmost precision; for, owing to the rapid motion of the sun it was difficult to observe with certainty to a single degree, and i frankly confess that i neither did nor could ascertain it. but all the rest is sufficiently accurate, and as exact as i could desire.' besides having ascertained that the diameter of venus subtends an angle not much greater than one minute of arc, horrox reduced the horizontal solar parallax from fifty-seven seconds as stated by kepler to fourteen seconds, a calculation within one and a half second of the value assigned to it by halley sixty years after. he also reduced the sun's semi-diameter. crabtree, to whom horrox refers as 'his most esteemed friend and a person who has few superiors in mathematical learning,' made preparations to observe the transit similar to those already described. but the day was unfavourable, dark clouds obscured the sky and rendered the sun invisible. crabtree was in despair, and relinquished all hope of being able to witness the conjunction. however, just before sunset there was a break in the clouds, and the sun shone brilliantly for a short interval. crabtree at once seized his opportunity, and to his intense delight observed the planet fully entered upon the sun's disc. instead of proceeding to take observations, he was so overcome with emotion at the sight of the phenomenon, that he continued to gaze upon it with rapt attention, nor did he recover his self-possession until the clouds again hid from his view the setting sun.[ ] crabtree's observation of the transit was, however, not a fruitless one. he drew from memory a diagram showing the exact position of venus on the sun's disc, which corresponded in every respect with horrox's observation; he also estimated the diameter of the planet to be / that of the sun, which when calculated gives one minute three seconds; horrox having found it to be one minute twelve seconds. this transit of venus is remarkable as having been the first ever observed of which there is any record, and for this we are indebted to the genius of horrox, who by a series of calculations, displaying a wonderfully accurate knowledge of mathematics, was enabled to predict the occurrence of the phenomenon on the very day, and almost at the hour it appeared, and of which he and his friend crabtree were the only observers. having thought it desirable to write an account of the transit, horrox prepared an elegant latin treatise, entitled 'venus in sole visa'--'venus seen in the sun;' but not knowing what steps to take with regard to its publication, he requested crabtree to communicate with his bookseller and obtain his advice on the matter. in the meantime horrox returned to toxteth, and arranged to fulfil a long-promised visit to crabtree, which he looked forward to with much pleasure, as it would afford him an opportunity of discussing with his friend many matters of interest to both. this visit was frustrated in a manner altogether unexpected. for we read that horrox was seized with a sudden and severe illness, the nature of which is not known, and that his death occurred on the day previous to that of his intended visit to his friend at broughton. he expired on january , , when in the rd year of his age. his death was a great grief to crabtree, who, in one of his letters, describes it as 'an irreparable loss:' and it is believed that he only survived him a few years.[ ] of the papers left by horrox, only a few have been preserved, and these were discovered in crabtree's house after his death. among them was his treatise on the transit of venus which, with other papers, was purchased by dr. worthington, fellow of emmanuel college, cambridge, a man of learning, who was capable of appreciating their value. ultimately, the treatise fell into the possession of hevelius, a celebrated german astronomer, who published it along with a dissertation of his own, describing a transit of mercury. horrox did not live to see any of his writings published, nor was any monument erected to his memory until nearly two hundred years after his death. but his name, though long forgotten except by astronomers, is now engraved on marble in westminster abbey. had his life been spared, it would have been difficult to foretell to what eminence and fame he might have risen, or what further discoveries his genius might have enabled him to make. few among english astronomers will hesitate to rank him next with the illustrious newton, and all will agree with herschel, who called him 'the pride and the boast of british astronomy.' william gascoigne was born in , in the parish of rothwell, in the county of york, and afterwards resided at middleton, near leeds. he was a man of an inventive turn of mind, and possessed good abilities, which he devoted to improving the methods of telescopic observation. at an early age he was occupied in observing celestial objects, making researches in optics, and acquiring a proficient knowledge of astronomy. among his acquaintances were crabtree and horrox, with whom he carried on a correspondence on matters appertaining to their favourite study. the measurement of small angles was found at all times to be one of the greatest difficulties which astronomers had to contend with. tycho brahé was so misled by his measurements of the apparent diameters of the sun and moon, that he concluded a total eclipse of the sun was impossible. gascoigne overcame this difficulty by his invention of the micrometer. this instrument, when applied to a telescope, was found to be of great service in the correct measurement of minute angles and distances, and was the means of greatly advancing the progress of practical astronomy in the seventeenth century. a micrometer consists of a short tube, across the opening of which are stretched two parallel wires; these being intersected at right angles by a third. the wires are moved to or from each other by delicately constructed screws, to which they are attached. each revolution, or part of a revolution, of a screw indicates the distance by which the wires are moved. this apparatus, when placed in the focus of a lens, gives very accurate measurements of the diameters of celestial objects. it was successfully used by gascoigne in determining the apparent diameters of the sun, moon, and several of the planets, and the mutual distances of the stars which form the pleiades. crabtree, after having paid gascoigne a visit in , describes in a letter to horrox the impression created on his mind by the micrometer. he writes: 'the first thing mr. gascoigne showed me was a large telescope, amplified and adorned with new inventions of his own, whereby he can take the diameters of the sun or moon, or any small angle in the heavens or upon the earth, most exactly through the glass to a second.' the micrometer is now regarded as an indispensable appliance in the observatory; the use of a spider web reticule instead of wire having improved its efficiency. gascoigne was one of the earliest astronomers who recognised the value of the keplerian telescope for observational purposes, and sherburn affirms that he was the first to construct an instrument of this description having two convex lenses. whether this be true or not, it is certain that he applied the micrometer to the telescope, and was the first to use telescopic sights, by means of which he was able to fix the optical axis of his telescope, and ascertain by observation the apparent positions of the heavenly bodies. crabtree, in a letter to gascoigne, says: 'could i purchase it with travel, or procure it with gold, i would not be without a telescope for observing small angles in the heavens; or want the use of your device of a glass in a cane upon the movable ruler of your sextant, as i remember for helping to the exact point of the sun's rays.' it was not known until the beginning of the eighteenth century that gascoigne had invented and used telescopic sights for the purpose of making accurate astronomical observations. the accidental discovery of some documents which contained a description of his appliances was the means by which this became known. townley states that gascoigne had completed a treatise on optics, which was ready for publication, but that no trace of the manuscript could be discovered after his death. having embraced the royalist cause, william gascoigne joined the forces of charles i., and fell in the battle of marston moor on july , . the early death of this young and remarkably clever man was a severe blow to the science of astronomy in england. the invention of logarithms, by baron napier, of merchistoun, was found to be of inestimable value to astronomers in facilitating and abbreviating the methods of astronomical calculation. by the use of logarithms, arithmetical computations which necessitated laborious application for several months could with ease be completed in as many days. it was remarked by laplace that this invention was the means of doubling the life of an astronomer, besides enabling him to avoid errors and the tediousness associated with long and abstruse calculations. thomas harriot, an eminent mathematician, and an assiduous astronomer, made some valuable observations of the comet of . he was one of the earliest observers who made use of the telescope, and it was claimed on his behalf that he discovered jupiter's satellites, and the spots on the sun, independently of galileo. other astronomers have been desirous of sharing this honour, but it has been conclusively proved that galileo was the first who made those discoveries. the investigations of norwood and gilbert, the mechanical genius of hooke, and the patient researches of flamsteed--the first astronomer royal--were of much value in perfecting many details associated with the study of astronomy. the royal observatory at greenwich was founded in . the building was erected under a warrant from charles ii. it announces the desire of the sovereign to build a small observatory in the park at greenwich, 'in order to the finding out of the longitude for perfecting the art of navigation and astronomy.' this action on the part of the king may be regarded as the first public acknowledgment of the usefulness of astronomy for national purposes. since its erection, the observatory has been presided over by a succession of talented men, who have raised it to a position of eminence and usefulness unsurpassed by any similar institution in this or any other country. the well-known names of flamsteed, halley, bradley, and airy, testify to the valuable services rendered by those past directors of the greenwich observatory in the cause of astronomical science. if we take a general survey of the science of astronomy as it existed from to --a period that embraced the time in which milton lived--we shall find that it was still compassed by ignorance, superstition, and mystery. astrology was zealously cultivated; most persons of rank and position had their nativity or horoscope cast, and the belief in the ruling of the planets, and their influence on human and terrestrial affairs, was through long usage firmly established in the public mind. indeed, at this time, astronomy was regarded as a handmaid to astrology; for, with the aid of astronomical calculation, the professors of this occult science were enabled to predict the positions of the planets, and by this means practised their art with an apparent degree of truthfulness. although over one hundred years had elapsed since the death of copernicus, his theory of the solar system did not find many supporters, and the old forms of astronomical belief still retained their hold on the minds of the majority of philosophic thinkers. this can be partly accounted for, as many of the ptolemaic doctrines were at first associated with the copernican theory, nor was it until a later period that they were eliminated from the system. though copernicus deserved the credit of having transferred the centre of our system from the earth to the sun, yet his theory was imperfect in its details, and contained many inaccuracies. he believed that the planets could only move round the sun in circular paths, nor was he capable of conceiving of any other form of orbit in which they could perform their revolutions. he was therefore compelled to retain the use of cycles and epicycles, in order to account for irregularities in the uniformly circular motions of those bodies. we are indebted to the genius of kepler for having placed the copernican system upon a sure and irremovable basis, and for having raised astronomy to the position of a true physical science. by his discovery that the planets travel round the sun in elliptical orbits, he was enabled to abolish cycles and epicycles, which created such confusion and entanglement in the system, and to explain many apparent irregularities of motion by ascribing to the sun his true position with regard to the motions of the planets. after the death of kepler, which occurred in , the most eminent supporter of the copernican theory was the illustrious galileo, whose belief in its accuracy and truthfulness was confirmed by his own discoveries. five of the planets were known at this time--viz. mercury, venus, mars, jupiter, and saturn; the latter, which revolves in its orbit at a profound distance from the sun, formed what at that time was believed to be the boundary of the planetary system. the distance of the earth from the sun was approximately known, and the orb was observed to rotate on his axis. it was also ascertained that the moon shone by reflected light, and that her surface was varied by inequalities resembling those of our earth. the elliptical form of her orbit had been discovered by horrox, and her elements were computed with a certain degree of accuracy. the cloudy luminosity of the milky way had been resolved into a multitude of separate stars, disclosing the immensity of the stellar universe. the crescent form of the planet venus, the satellites of jupiter and of saturn, and the progressive motion and measurement of light, had also been discovered. observations were made of transits of mercury and venus, and refracting and reflecting telescopes were invented. the law of universal gravitation, a power which retains the earth and planets in their orbits, causing them year after year to describe with unerring regularity their oval paths round the sun, was not known at this time. though newton was born in , he did not disclose the results of his philosophic investigations until --thirteen years after the death of milton--when, in the 'principia,' he announced his discovery of the great law of universal gravitation. kepler, though he discovered the laws of planetary motion, was unable to determine the motive force which guided and retained those bodies in their orbits. it was reserved for the genius of newton to solve this wonderful problem. this great philosopher was able to prove 'that every particle of matter in the universe attracts every other particle with a force proportioned to the mass of the attracting body, and inversely as the square of the distance between them.' newton was capable of demonstrating that the force which guides and retains the earth and planets in their orbits resides in the sun, and by the application of this law of gravitation he was able to explain the motions of all celestial bodies entering into the structure of the solar system. this discovery may be regarded as the crowning point of the science of astronomy, for, upon the unfailing energy of this mysterious power depend the order and stability of the universe, extending as it does to all material bodies existing in space, guiding, controlling, and retaining them in their several paths and orbits, whether it be a tiny meteor, a circling planet, or a mighty sun. the nature of cometary bodies and the laws which govern their motions were at this time still enshrouded in mystery, and when one of those erratic wanderers made its appearance in the sky it was beheld by the majority of mankind with feelings of awe and superstitious dread, and regarded as a harbinger of evil and disaster, the precursor of war, of famine, or the overthrow of an empire. newton, however, was able to divest those bodies of the mystery with which they were surrounded by proving that any conic section may be described about the sun, consistent with the law of gravitation, and that comets, notwithstanding the eccentricity of their orbits, obey the laws of planetary motion. beyond the confines of our solar system, little was known of the magnitude and extent of the sidereal universe which occupies the infinitude of space by which we are surrounded. the stars were recognised as self-luminous bodies, inconceivably remote, and although they excited the curiosity of observers, and conjectures were made as to their origin, yet no conclusive opinions were arrived at with regard to their nature and constitution, and except that they were regarded as glittering points of light which illumine the firmament, all else appertaining to them remained an unravelled mystery. even copernicus had no notion of a universe of stars. galileo, by his discovery that the galaxy consists of a multitude of separate stars too remote to be defined by ordinary vision, demonstrated how vast are the dimensions of the starry heavens, and on what a stupendous scale the universe is constructed. but at this time it had not occurred to astronomers, nor was it known until many years after, that the stars are suns which shine with a splendour resembling that of our sun, and in many instances surpassing it. it was not until this truth became known that the glories of the sidereal heavens were fully comprehended, and their magnificence revealed. it was then ascertained that the minute points of light which crowd the fields of our largest telescopes, in their aggregations forming systems, clusters, galaxies, and universes of stars, are shining orbs of light, among the countless multitudes of which our sun may be numbered as one. chapter iii milton's astronomical knowledge it would be reasonable to imagine that milton's knowledge of astronomy was comprehensive and accurate, and superior to that possessed by most scientific men of his age. his scholarly attainments, his familiarity with ancient history and philosophy, his profound learning, and the universality of his general knowledge, would lead one to conclude that the science which treats of the mechanism of the heavens, and especially the observational part of it--which at all times has been a source of inspiration to poets of every degree of excellence--was to him a study of absorbing interest, and one calculated to make a deep impression upon his devoutly poetical mind. the serious character of milton's verse, and the reverent manner in which celestial incidents and objects are described in it, impress one with the belief that his contemplation of the heavens, and of the orbs that roll and shine in the firmament overhead, afforded him much enjoyment and meditative delight. for no poet, in ancient or in modern times, has introduced into his writings with such frequency, or with such pleasing effect, so many passages descriptive of the beauty and grandeur of the heavens. no other poet, by the creative effort of his imagination, has soared to such a height; nor has he ever been excelled in his descriptions of the celestial orbs, and of the beautiful phenomena associated with their different motions. in his minor poems, which were composed during his residence at horton, a charming rural retreat in buckinghamshire, where the freshness and varied beauty of the landscape and the attractive aspects of the midnight sky were ever before him, we find enchanting descriptions of celestial objects, and especially of those orbs which, by their brilliancy and lustre, have always commanded the admiration of mankind. for example, in 'l'allegro' there are the following lines:-- right against the eastern gate where the great sun begins his state, robed in flames and amber light, the clouds in thousand liveries dight; and in 'il penseroso'-- to behold the wandering moon, riding near her highest noon, like one that had been led astray through the heaven's wide pathless way, and oft as if her head she bowed, stooping through a fleecy cloud. in the happy choice of his theme, and by the comprehensive manner in which he has treated it, milton has been enabled by his poetic genius to give to the world in his 'paradise lost' a poem which, for sublimity of thought, loftiness of imagination, and beauty of expression in metrical verse, is unsurpassed in any language. it is, however, our intention to deal only with those passages in the poem in which allusion is made to the heavenly bodies, and to incidents and occurrences associated with astronomical phenomena. in the exposition and illustration of these it has been considered desirable to adopt the following general classification:-- . to ascertain the extent of milton's astronomical knowledge. . to describe the starry heavens and the celestial objects mentioned in 'paradise lost.' . to exemplify the use which milton has made of astronomy in the exercise of his imaginative and descriptive powers. in the earlier half of the seventeenth century the ptolemaic theory--by which it was believed that the earth was the immovable centre of the universe, and that round it all the heavenly bodies completed a diurnal revolution--still retained its ascendency over the minds of men of learning and science, and all the doctrines associated with this ancient astronomical creed were still religiously upheld by the educated classes among the peoples inhabiting the different civilised regions of the globe. the copernican theory--by which the sun is assigned the central position in our system, with the earth and planets revolving in orbits round him--obtained the support of a few persons of advanced views and high scientific attainments, but its doctrines had not yet seriously threatened the supremacy of the older system. though upwards of one hundred years had elapsed since the death of copernicus, yet the doctrines associated with the system of which he was the founder were but very tardily adopted up to this time. there were several reasons which accounted for this. the copernican system was at first imperfect in its details, and included several of the ptolemaic, doctrines which rendered it less intelligible, and retarded its acceptance by persons who would otherwise have been inclined to adopt it. copernicus believed that the planets travelled round the sun in circular paths. this necessitated the retention of cycles and epicycles, which gave rise to much confusion; nor was it until kepler made his great discovery of the ellipticity of the planetary orbits that they were eliminated from the system. as the ptolemaic system of the universe held complete sway over the minds of men for upwards of twenty centuries, it was difficult to persuade many persons to renounce the astronomical beliefs to which they were so firmly attached, in favour of those of any other system; so that the overthrow of this venerable theory required a lengthened period of time for its accomplishment. it was thus in his earlier years, when milton devoted his time to the study of literature and philosophy, which he read extensively when pursuing his academic career at christ's college, cambridge, and afterwards at horton, where he spent several years in acquiring a more proficient knowledge of the literary, scientific, and philosophical writings of the age, that he found the beliefs associated with the ptolemaic theory adopted without doubt or hesitation by the numerous authors whose works he perused. his knowledge of italian enabled him to become familiar with dante--one of his favourite authors, whose poetical writings were deeply read by him, and who, in the elaboration of his poem, the 'divina commedia,' included the entire ptolemaic cosmology. in england the copernican theory had few supporters, and the majority of those who represented the intellect and learning of the country still retained their adherence to the old form of astronomical belief. we therefore find that milton followed the traditional way of thinking by adopting the views associated with the ptolemaic theory. according to the ptolemaic system, the earth was regarded as the immovable centre of the universe, and surrounding it were ten crystalline spheres, or heavens, arranged in concentric circles, the larger spheres enclosing the smaller ones; and within those was situated the cosmos, or mundane universe, usually described as 'the heavens and the earth.' to each of the first seven spheres there was attached a heavenly body, which was carried round the earth by the revolution of the crystalline. st sphere: that of the moon. nd sphere: that of the planet mercury. rd sphere: that of the planet venus. th sphere: that of the sun; regarded as a planet. th sphere: that of the planet mars. th sphere: that of the planet jupiter. th sphere: that of the planet saturn. th sphere: that of the fixed stars. [illustration: fig. ] the eighth sphere included all the fixed stars, and was called the firmament, because it was believed to impart steadiness to the inner spheres, and, by its diurnal revolution, to carry them round the earth, causing the change of day and night. the separate motions of the spheres, revolving with different velocities, and at different angles to each other, accounted for the astronomical phenomena associated with the orbs attached to each. according to ptolemy's scheme, the eighth sphere formed the outermost boundary of the universe; but later astronomers added to this system two other spheres--a _ninth_, called the _crystalline_, which caused precession of the equinoxes; and a _tenth_, called the _primum mobile_, or first moved, which brought about the alternation of day and night, by carrying all the other spheres round the earth once in every twenty-four hours. the primum mobile enclosed, as if in a shell, all the other spheres, in which was included the created universe, and, although of vast dimensions, its conception did not overwhelm the mind in the same manner that the effort to comprehend infinitude does. beyond this last sphere there was believed to exist a boundless, uncircumscribed region, of immeasurable extent, called the empyrean, or heaven of heavens, the incorruptible abode of the deity, the place of eternal mysteries, which the comprehension of man was unable to fathom, and of which it was impossible for his mind to form any conception. such were the imaginative beliefs upon which this ancient astronomical theory was founded, that for a period of upwards of two thousand years held undisputed sway over the minds of men, and exercised during that time a predominating influence upon the imagination, thoughts, and conceptions of all those who devoted themselves to literature, science, and art. of the truthfulness of this assertion there is ample evidence in the poetical, philosophical, and historical writings of ancient authors, whose ideas and conceptions regarding the created universe were limited and circumscribed by this form of astronomical belief. in the works of more recent writers we find that it continued to assert its influence; and among our english poets, from chaucer down to shakespeare, there are numerous references to the natural phenomena associated with this system, and most frequently expressed by poetical allusions to 'the music of the spheres.' the ideas associated with the ptolemaic theory were gratifying to the pride and vanity of man, who could regard with complacency the paramount importance of the globe which he inhabited, and of which he was the absolute ruler, fixed in the centre of the universe, and surrounded by ten revolving spheres, that carried along with them in their circuit all other celestial bodies--sun, moon, and stars, which would appear to have been created for his delectation, and for the purpose of ministering to his requirements. but when the copernican theory became better understood, and especially after the discovery of the law of universal gravitation, this venerable system of the universe, based upon a pile of unreasonable and false hypotheses, after an existence of over twenty centuries, sank into oblivion, and was no more heard of. milton's ptolemaism is apparent in some of his shorter pieces, and also in his minor poems, 'arcades' and 'comus.' his 'ode on the nativity' is written in conformity with this belief, and the expression, ring out ye crystal spheres, indicates a poetical allusion to this theory. but as milton grew older his ptolemaism became greatly modified, and there are good reasons for believing that in his latter years he renounced it entirely in favour of copernicanism. when on his continental tour in , he made the acquaintance of eminent men who held views different from those with which he was familiar; and in his interview with galileo at arcetri, the aged astronomer may have impressed upon his mind the superiority of the copernican theory, in accounting for the occurrence of celestial phenomena, as compared with the ptolemaic. on his return to england from the continent, milton took up his residence in london, and lived in apartments in a house in st. bride's churchyard. having no regular vocation, and not wishing to be dependent upon his father, he undertook the education of his two nephews, john and edward phillips, aged nine and ten years respectively. from st. bride's churchyard he removed to a larger house in aldersgate, where he received as pupils the sons of some of his most intimate acquaintances. in the list of subjects which milton selected for the purpose of imparting instruction to those youths he included astronomy and mathematics, which formed part of the curriculum of this educational establishment. the text-book from which he taught his nephews and other pupils astronomy was called 'de sphæra mundi,' a work written by joannes sacrobasco (john holywood) in the thirteenth century. this book was an epitome of ptolemy's 'almagest,' and therefore entirely ptolemaic in its teaching. it enjoyed great popularity during the middle ages, and is reported to have gone through as many as forty editions. the selection of astronomy as one of the subjects in which milton instructed his pupils affords us evidence that he must have devoted considerable time and attention to acquiring a knowledge of the facts and details associated with the study of the science. in the attainment of this he had to depend upon his own exertions and the assistance derived from astronomical books; for at this time astronomy received no recognition as a branch of study at any of the universities; and in britain the science attracted less attention than on the continent, where the genius of kepler and galileo elevated it to a position of national importance. we shall find as we proceed that milton's knowledge of astronomy was comprehensive and accurate; that he was familiar with the astronomical reasons by which many natural phenomena which occur around us can be explained; and that he understood many of the details of the science which are unknown to ordinary observers of the heavens. it is remarkable how largely astronomy enters into the composition of 'paradise lost,' and we doubt if any author could have written such a poem without possessing a knowledge of the heavens and of the celestial orbs such as can only be attained by a proficient and intimate acquaintance with this science. the arguments in favour of or against the ptolemaic and copernican theories were well known to milton, even as regards their minute details; and in book viii. he introduces a scientific discussion based upon the respective merits of those theories. the configuration of the celestial and terrestrial spheres, and the great circles by which they are circumscribed, he also knew. the causes which bring about the change of the seasons; the obliquity of the ecliptic; the zodiacal constellations through which the sun travels, and the periods of the year in which he occupies them, are embraced in milton's knowledge of the science of astronomy. the motions of the earth, including the precession of the equinoxes; the number and distinctive appearances of the planets, their direct and retrograde courses, and their satellites, are also described by him. the constellations, and their relative positions on the celestial sphere; the principal stars, star-groups, and clusters, and the galaxy, testify to milton's knowledge of astronomy, and to the use which he has made of the science in the elaboration of his poem. the names of fourteen of the constellations are mentioned in 'paradise lost.' these, when arranged alphabetically, read as follows:-- andromeda, aries, astrea, centaurus, cancer, capricornus, gemini, leo, libra, ophiuchus, orion, scorpio, taurus, and virgo. milton's allusions to the zodiacal constellations are chiefly associated with his description of the sun's path in the heavens; but with the celestial sign libra (the _scales_) he has introduced a lofty and poetical conception of the means by which the creator made known his will when there arose a contention between gabriel and satan on his discovery in paradise. the eternal, to prevent such horrid fray, hung forth in heaven his golden scales, yet seen betwixt astrea[ ] and the scorpion sign, wherein all things created first he weighed, the pendulous round earth with balanced air in counterpoise, now ponders all events, battles and realms. in these he put two weights, the sequel each of parting and of fight: the latter quick up flew, and kicked the beam.--iv. - . orion, the finest constellation in the heavens, did not escape milton's observation, and there is one allusion to it in his poem. it arrives on the meridian in winter, where it is conspicuous as a brilliant assemblage of stars, and represents an armed giant, or hunter, holding a massive club in his right hand, and having a shield of lion's hide on his left arm. a triple-gemmed belt encircles his waist, from which is suspended a glittering sword, tipped with a bright star. the two brilliants betelgeux and bellatrix form the giant's shoulders, and the bright star rigel marks the position of his advanced foot. the rising of orion was believed to be accompanied by stormy and tempestuous weather. milton alludes to this in the following lines:-- when with fierce winds orion armed hath vexed the red sea coast, whose waves o'erthrew busiris and his memphian chivalry.--i. - . andromeda is described as being borne by aries, and in 'ophiuchus huge' milton locates a comet which extends the whole length of the constellation. it is evident that milton possessed a precise knowledge of the configuration and size of the constellations, and of the positions which they occupy relatively to each other on the celestial sphere. though milton was conversant with the copernican theory, and entertained a conviction of its accuracy and truthfulness, and doubtless recognised the superiority of this system, which, besides conveying to the mind a nobler conception of the universe and of the solar system--though it diminished the importance of the earth as a member of it--was capable of explaining the occurrence of celestial phenomena in a manner more satisfactory than could be arrived at by the ptolemaic theory. notwithstanding this, he selected the ptolemaic cosmology as the scientific basis upon which he constructed his 'paradise lost,' and in its elaboration adhered with marked fidelity to this system. there were many reasons why milton, in the composition of an imaginative poem, should have chosen the ptolemaic system of the universe rather than the copernican. this form of astronomical belief was adopted by all the authors whose works he perused and studied in his younger days, including his favourite poet, dante; and his own poetic imaginings, as indicated by his early poems, were in harmony with the doctrines of this astronomical creed, a long acquaintance with which had, without doubt, influenced his mind in its favour. this system of revolving spheres, with the steadfast earth at its centre, and the whole enclosed by the primum mobile, constituted a more attractive and picturesque object for poetic description than the simple and uncircumscribed arrangement of the universe expressed by the copernican theory. it also afforded him an opportunity of localising those regions of space in which the chief incidents in his poem are described--viz. heaven, or the empyrean, chaos, hell, and the mundane universe. milton's ptolemaism, with its adjuncts, may be understood by the following: all that portion of space above the newly created universe, and beyond the primum mobile, was known as heaven, or the empyrean--a region of light, of glory, and of happiness; the dwelling-place of the deity, who, though omnipresent, here visibly revealed himself to all the multitude of angels whom he created, and who surrounded his throne in adoration and worship. underneath the universe there existed a vast region of similar dimensions to the empyrean, called chaos, which was occupied by the embryo elements of matter, that with incessant turmoil and confusion warred with each other for supremacy--a wild abyss-- the womb of nature and perhaps her grave.--ii. . the lower portion of this region was divided off from the remainder, and embraced the locality known as hell--the place of torment, where the rebellious angels were driven and shut in after their expulsion from heaven. as far removed from god and light of heaven as from the centre thrice to the utmost pole.--i. - . the new universe, which included the earth and all the orbs of the firmament known as the starry heavens, was created out of chaos, and hung, as if suspended by a golden chain, from the empyrean above; and although its magnitude and dimensions were inconceivable, yet, according to the ptolemaic theory, it was enclosed by the tenth sphere or primum mobile. by this partitioning of space milton was able to contrive a system which fulfilled the requirements of his great poem. the annexed diagram explains the relative positions of the different regions into which space was divided. though there are traces of copernicanism found in 'paradise lost,' yet milton has very faithfully adhered to the ptolemaic mechanism and nomenclature throughout his poem. in his description of the creation, the earth is formed first, then the sun, followed by the moon, and afterwards the stars, all of which are described as being in motion round the earth. allusion is also made to this ancient system in several prominent passages, and in the following lines there is a distinct reference to the various revolving spheres. [illustration: fig. ] they pass the planets seven, and pass the fixed, and that crystalline sphere whose balance weighs the trepidation talked, and that first moved.--iii. - . the seven planetary spheres are first mentioned; then the eighth sphere, or that of the fixed stars; then the ninth, or crystalline, which was believed to cause a shaking, or trepidation, to account for certain irregularities in the motions of the stars; and, lastly, the tenth sphere, or primum mobile, called the 'first moved' because it set the other spheres in motion. to an uninstructed observer, the apparent motion of the heavenly bodies round the earth would naturally lead him to conclude that, of the two theories, the ptolemaic was the correct one. we therefore find that milton adopted the system most in accord with the knowledge and intelligence possessed by the persons portrayed by him in his poem; and in describing the natural phenomena witnessed in the heavens by our first parents, he adheres to the doctrines of the ptolemaic system, as being most in harmony with the simple and primitive conceptions of those created beings. to their upward gaze, the orbs of heaven appeared to be in ceaseless motion; the solid earth, upon which they stood, was alone immovable and at rest. day after day they observed the sun pursue his steadfast course with unerring regularity: his rising in the east, accompanied by the rosy hues of morn; his meridian splendour, and his sinking in the west, tinting in colours of purple and gold inimitable the fleecy clouds floating in the azure sky, as he bids farewell for a time to scenes of life and happiness, rejoicing in the light and warmth of his all-cheering beams. with the advent of night they beheld the moon, now increasing, now waning, pursue her irregular path, also to disappear in the west; whilst, like the bands of an army marshalled in loose array, the constellations of glittering stars, with stately motion, traversed their nocturnal arcs, circling the pole of the heavens. by referring to book viii., - , we find an account of an interesting scientific discussion, or conversation, between adam and raphael regarding the merits of the ptolemaic and copernican systems, and of the relative importance and size of the heavenly bodies. by it we are afforded an opportunity of learning how accurate and precise a knowledge milton possessed of both theories, and in what clear and perspicuous language he expresses his arguments in favour of or against the doctrines associated with each. we may, with good reason, regard the views expressed by adam as representing milton's own opinions, which were in conformity with the copernican theory; and in the angel's reply, though of an undecided character, we are able to perceive how aptly milton describes the erroneous conclusions upon which the ptolemaic theory was based. in this scientific discussion, it would seem rather strange that adam, the first of men, should have been capable of such philosophic reasoning, propounding, as if by intuition, a theory upon which was founded a system that had not been discovered until many centuries after the time that astronomy became a science. by attributing to adam such a degree of intelligence and wisdom, the poet has taken a liberty which enabled him to carry on this discussion in a manner befitting the importance of the subject. in the following lines adam expresses to his angel-guest, in forcible and convincing language, his reasons in support of the copernican theory:-- when i behold this goodly frame, this world, of heaven and earth consisting, and compute their magnitudes--this earth, a spot, a grain, an atom, with the firmament compared and all her numbered stars, that seem to roll spaces incomprehensible (for such their distance argues, and their swift return diurnal) merely to officiate light round this opacous earth, this punctual spot, one day and night, in all her vast survey useless besides--reasoning, i oft admire, how nature, wise and frugal could commit such disproportions, with superfluous hand so many nobler bodies to create, greater so manifold, to this one use, for aught appears, and on their orbs impose such restless revolution day by day repeated, while the sedentary earth, that better might with far less compass move, served by more noble than herself, attains her end without least motion, and receives, as tribute, such a sumless journey brought of incorporeal speed, her warmth and light; speed, to describe whose swiftness number fails.--viii. - . we are enabled to perceive that milton had formed a correct conception of the magnitude and proportions of the universe, and also of the relative size and importance of the earth, which he describes as 'a spot, a grain, an atom,' when compared with the surrounding heavens. he expresses his surprise that all the stars of the firmament, whose distances are so remote, and whose dimensions so greatly exceed those of this globe, should in their diurnal revolution have 'such a sumless journey of incorporeal speed imposed upon them' merely to officiate light to the earth, 'this punctual spot;' and reasoning, wonders how nature, wise and frugal in her ways, should commit such disproportions, by adopting means so great to accomplish a result so small, when motion imparted to the sedentary earth would with greater ease produce the same effect. the inconceivable velocity with which it would be necessary for those orbs to travel in order to accomplish a daily revolution round the earth might be described as almost spiritual, and beyond the power of calculation by numbers. the angel, after listening to adam's argument, expresses approval of his desire to obtain knowledge, but answers him dubiously, and at the same time criticises in a severe and adverse manner the ptolemaic theory. to ask or search i blame thee not; for heaven is as the book of god before thee set, wherein to read his wondrous works, and learn his seasons, hours, or days, or months, or years. this to attain, whether heaven move or earth, imports not, if thou reckon right; the rest from man or angel the great architect did wisely to conceal, and not divulge his secrets, to be scanned by them who ought rather admire. or, if they list to try conjecture, he his fabric of the heavens hath left to their disputes, perhaps to move his laughter at their quaint opinions wide hereafter, when they come to model heaven, and calculate the stars; how they will wield the mighty frame; how build, unbuild, contrive to save appearances; how gird the sphere with centric and eccentric scribbled o'er cycle and epicycle, orb in orb.--viii. - . when, with the advancement of science, astronomical observations were made with greater accuracy, it was discovered that uniformity of motion was not always maintained by those bodies which were believed to move in circles round the earth. it was observed that the sun, when on one side of his orbit, had an accelerated motion, as compared with the speed at which he travelled when on the other side. the planets, also, appeared to move with irregularity: sometimes a planet was observed to advance, then become stationary, and afterwards affect a retrograde movement. those inequalities of motion could not be explained by means of the revolution of crystalline spheres alone, but were accounted for by imagining the existence of a small circle, or epicycle, whose centre corresponded with a fixed point in the larger circle, or eccentric, as it was called. this small circle revolved on its axis when carried round with the larger one, and round it the planet also revolved, which when situated in its outer portion would have a forward, and when in its inner portion a retrograde, motion. the theory of eccentrics and epicycles was sufficient for a time to account for the inequalities of motion already described, and by this means the ptolemaic system was enabled to retain its ascendency for a longer period than it otherwise would have done. but more recent discoveries brought to light discrepancies and difficulties which were explained away by adding epicycle to epicycle. this created a most complicated entanglement, and hastened the downfall of a system which, after an existence of many centuries, sank into oblivion, and is now remembered as a belief of bygone ages. the devices which the upholders of this system were compelled to adopt, in order 'to save appearances,' with 'centric and eccentric,' cycle and epicycle, 'orb in orb,' are in this manner appropriately described by milton, as indicating the confusion arising from a theory based upon false hypotheses. continuing his reply, the angel says:-- already by thy reasoning this i guess, who art to lead thy offspring, and supposest that bodies bright and greater should not serve the less not bright, nor heaven such journies run, earth sitting still, when she alone receives the benefit. consider, first, that great or bright infers not excellence. the earth, though, in comparison of heaven, so small, nor glistering, may of solid good contain more plenty than the sun that barren shines, whose virtue on itself works no effect, but in the fruitful earth; there first received, his beams, inactive else, their vigour find, yet not to earth are those bright luminaries officious, but to thee, earth's habitant. and, for the heaven's wide circuit, let it speak the maker's high magnificence, who built so spacious, and his line stretched out so far, that man may know he dwells not in his own-- an edifice too large for him to fill, lodged in a small partition; and the rest ordained for uses to his lord best known, the swiftness of those circles attribute, though numberless, to his omnipotence, that to corporeal substances could add speed almost spiritual. me thou think'st not slow, who since the morning-hour set out from heaven where god resides, and ere midday arrived in eden--distance inexpressible by numbers that have name. but this i urge, admitting motion in the heavens, to show invalid that which thee to doubt it moved; not that i so affirm, though so it seem to thee who hast thy dwelling here on earth. god, to remove his ways from human sense, placed heaven from earth so far, that earthly sight, if it presume, might err in things too high, and no advantage gain.--viii. - . notwithstanding the angel's severe criticism of the ptolemaic system, he does not unreservedly support the conclusions arrived at by adam, but endeavours to show that his reasoning may not be altogether correct. he questions the validity of his argument that bodies of greater size and brightness should not serve the smaller, though not bright, and that heaven should move, while the earth remained at rest. he argues that great or bright infers not excellence, and that the earth, though small, may contain more virtue than the sun, that 'barren shines,' whose beams create no beneficial effect, except when directed on the fruitful earth. he reminds adam that those bright luminaries minister not to the earth, but to himself, 'earth's habitant,' and directs his attention to the magnificence and extent of the surrounding universe, of which he occupies but a small portion. the diurnal swiftness of the orbs that move round the earth he attributes to god's omnipotence, that to material bodies 'could add speed almost spiritual.' the angel, after alluding to his rapid flight through space, suggests that god placed heaven so far from earth that man might not presume to inquire into things which it would be of no advantage for him to know. he then suddenly changes to the copernican system, which he lucidly describes in the following lines:-- what if the sun be centre to the world, and other stars by his attractive virtue and their own incited, dance about him various rounds? their wandering course, now high, now low, then hid, progressive, retrograde, or standing still, in six thou seest; and what if, seventh to these the planet earth, so steadfast though she seem, insensibly three different motions move? which else to several spheres thou must ascribe, moved contrary with thwart obliquities, or save the sun his labour, and that swift nocturnal and diurnal rhomb supposed invisible else above all stars, the wheel of day and night; which needs not thy belief, if earth, industrious of herself, fetch day travelling east, and with her part averse from the sun's beam meet night, her other part still luminous by his ray. what if that light, sent from her through the wide transpicuous air, to the terrestrial moon be as a star, enlightening her by day, as she by night this earth--reciprocal, if land be there, fields and inhabitants? her spots thou seest as clouds, and clouds may rain, and rain produce fruits in her softened soil, for some to eat allotted there; and other suns, perhaps, with their attendant moons, thou wilt descry, communicating male and female light-- which two great sexes animate the world, stored in each orb perhaps with some that live. for such vast room in nature unpossessed by living soul, desert and desolate, only to shine, yet scarce to contribute each orb a glimpse of light, conveyed so far down to this habitable, which returns light back to them, is obvious to dispute.--viii. - . the copernican theory, which is less complicated and more easily understood than the ptolemaic, is described by milton with accuracy and methodical skill. the sun having been assigned that central position in the system which his magnitude and importance claim as his due, the planets circling in orbits around him have their motions described in a manner indicative of the precise knowledge which milton acquired of this theory. at this time the law of gravitation was unknown, and, although the ellipticity of the orbits of the planets had been discovered by kepler, the nature of the motive force which guided and retained them in their paths still remained a mystery. it was believed that the planets were whirled round the sun, as if by the action of magnetic fibres; a mutual attractive influence having been supposed to exist between them and the orb, similar to that of the opposite poles of magnets. milton alludes to this theory in the following lines:-- they, as they move their starry dance in numbers that compute days, months, and years, towards his all-cheering lamp turn swift their various motions, or are turned by his magnetic beam.--iii. - . an important advance upon this theory was made by horrox, who, in his study of celestial dynamics, attributed the curvilineal motion of the planets to the influence of two forces, one projective, the other attractive. he illustrated this by observing the path described by a stone when thrown obliquely into the air. he perceived that its motion was governed by the impulse imparted to it by the hand, and also by the attractive force of the earth. under these two influences, the stone describes a graceful curve, and in its descent falls at the same angle at which it rose. hence arises the general law: 'when two spheres are mutually attracted, and if not prevented by foreign influences, their straight paths are deflected into curves concave to each other, and corresponding with one of the sections of a cone, according to the velocity of the revolving body. if the velocity with which the revolving body is impelled be equal to what it would acquire by falling through half the radius of a circle described from the centre of deflection, its orbit will be circular; but if it be less than that quantity, its path becomes elliptical.' newton afterwards embraced this law in his great principle of gravitation, and demonstrated that the force which guides and retains the earth and planets in their orbits resides in the sun. by the orb's attractive influence a planet, after having received its first impulse, is deflected from its original straight path, and bent towards that luminary, and by the combined action of the projective and attractive forces is made to describe an orbit which, if elliptical, has one of its foci occupied by the sun. so evenly balanced are those two forces, that one is unable to gain any permanent ascendency over the other, and consequently the planet traverses its orbit with unerring regularity, and, if undisturbed by external influences, will continue in its path for all time. milton describes the position of the planets in the sky as-- now high, now low, then hid; and their motions-- progressive, retrograde, or standing still. it is evident that milton was familiar with the apparently irregular paths pursued by the planets when observed from the earth. he knew of their stationary points, and also the backward loopings traced out by them on the surface of the sphere. if observed from the sun, all the planets would be seen to follow their true paths round that body; their motion would invariably lie in the same direction, and any variation in their speed as they approached perihelion or aphelion would be real. but the planets, when observed from the earth, which is itself in motion, appear to move irregularly. sometimes they remain stationary for a brief period, and, instead of progressing onward, affect a retrograde movement. this irregularity of motion is only apparent, and can be explained as a result of the combined motions of the earth and planets, which are travelling together round the sun with different velocities, and in orbits of unequal magnitude. in his allusion to the copernican system the 'planet' 'earth' is described by milton as seventh. this is not strictly accurate, as only five planets were known--viz. mercury, venus, mars, jupiter, and saturn; but to make up the number milton has included the moon, which may be regarded as the earth's planet. the three motions ascribed to the earth are--( ) the diurnal rotation on her axis; ( ) her annual revolution round the sun; ( ) precession of the equinoxes. the rotation of the earth on her axis may be likened to the spinning motion of a top, and is the cause of the alternation of day and night. this rotatory motion is sustained with such exact precision that, during the past , years, it has been impossible to detect the minutest difference in the time in which the earth accomplishes a revolution on her axis, and therefore the length of the sidereal day, which is minutes seconds shorter than the mean solar day, is invariable. in this motion of the earth we have a time-measuring unit which may be regarded as absolutely correct. the earth completes a revolution of her orbit in - / days. in this period of time she accomplishes a journey of millions of miles, travelling at the average rate of , miles an hour. the change of the seasons, and the lengthening and shortening of the day, are natural phenomena, which occur as a consequence of the earth's annual revolution round the sun. precession is a retrograde or westerly motion of the equinoctial points, caused by the attraction of the sun, moon, and planets on the spheroidal figure of the earth. by this movement the poles of the earth are made to describe a circular path in that part of the heavens to which they point; so that, after the lapse of many years, the star which is known as the pole star will not occupy the position indicated by its name, but will be situated at a considerable distance from the pole. these motions, milton says, unless attributed to the earth, must be ascribed to several spheres crossing and thwarting each other obliquely; but the earth, by rotating from west to east, will of herself fetch day, her other half, averted from the sun's rays, being enveloped in night. thus saving the sun his labour, and the 'primum mobile,' 'that swift nocturnal and diurnal rhomb,' which carried all the lower spheres along with it, and brought about the change of day and night. milton's allusion to the occurrence of natural phenomena in the moon similar to those which happen on the earth is in keeping with the opinions entertained regarding our satellite, galileo having imagined that he discovered with his telescope continents and seas on the lunar surface, which led to the belief that the moon was the abode of intelligent life. ... and other suns, perhaps, with their attendant moons, thou wilt descry communicating male and female light.--viii. - . milton in these lines refers to jupiter and saturn, and their satellites, which had been recently discovered; those of the former by galileo, and four of those of the latter by cassini. the existence of male and female light was an idea entertained by the ancients, and which is mentioned by pliny. the sun was regarded as a masculine star, and the moon as feminine; the light emanating from each being similarly distinguished, and possessing different properties. milton supposes that, as the earth receives light from the stars, she returns light back to them. but in his time little was known about the stars, nor was it ascertained how distant they are. the angel, in bringing to a conclusion his conversation with adam, deems it unadvisable to vouchsafe him a decisive reply to his inquiry regarding the motions of celestial bodies, and in the following lines gives a beautifully poetical summary of this elevated and philosophic discussion:-- but whether thus these things, or whether not, whether the sun, predominant in heaven, rise on the earth, or earth rise on the sun; he from the east his flaming round begin, or she from west her silent course advance with inoffensive pace that spinning sleeps on her soft axle, whilst she paces even, and bears thee soft with the smooth air along-- solicit not thy thoughts with matters hid.--viii. - . in this scientific discourse between adam and raphael, in which they discuss the structural arrangement of the heavens and the motions of celestial bodies, we are afforded an opportunity of learning what exact and comprehensive knowledge milton possessed of both the ptolemaic and copernican theories. the concise and accurate manner in which he describes the doctrines belonging to each system indicates that he must have devoted considerable time and attention to making himself master of the details associated with both theories, which in his time were the cause of much controversy and discussion among philosophers and men of science. the ptolemaic system, with its crystalline spheres revolving round the earth, the addition to those of cycles and epicycles, and the heaping of them upon each other, in order to account for phenomena associated with the motions of celestial bodies, are concisely and accurately described. the unreasonableness of this theory, when compared with the copernican, is clearly delineated by milton where adam is made to express his views with regard to motion in the heavens. his argument, declared in logical and persuasive language, demonstrates how contrary to reason it would be to imagine that the entire heavens should revolve round the earth to bring about a result which could be more easily attained by imparting motion to the earth herself. the inconceivable velocity with which it would be necessary for the celestial orbs to travel in order to accomplish their daily revolution is described by him as opposed to all reason, and entailing upon them a journey which it would be impossible for material bodies to perform. none the less accurate is milton's description of the copernican system. he describes the sun as occupying that position in the system which his magnitude and supreme importance claim as his sole right, having the planets with their satellites, that from his lordly eye keep distance due.--iii. , circling in majestic orbits around him, acknowledging his controlling power, and bending to his firm but gentle sway. their positions, their paths, and their motions, real and apparent, are described in flowing and harmonious verse. chapter iv milton and galileo after the death of his mother, which occurred in , milton expressed a desire to visit the continent, where there were many places of interest which he often longed to see. having obtained the consent of his kind and indulgent father, he set out on his travels in april , accompanied by a single man-servant, and arrived in paris, where he only stayed a few days. during his residence in the french capital he was introduced by lord scudamore, the english ambassador at the court of versailles, to hugo grotius, one of the most distinguished scholars and philosophic thinkers of his age. from paris milton journeyed to nice, where he first beheld the beauty of italian scenery and the classic shores of the mediterranean sea. from nice he sailed to genoa and leghorn, and after a short stay at those places continued his journey to florence, one of the most interesting and picturesque of italian cities. situated in the valley of the arno, and encircled by sloping hills covered with luxuriant vegetation, the sides of which were studded with residences half-hidden among the foliage of gardens and vineyards, florence, besides being famed for its natural beauty, was at that time the centre of italian culture and learning, and the abode of men eminent in literature and science. here milton remained for a period of two months, and enjoyed the friendship and hospitality of its most noted citizens, many of whom delighted to honour their english visitor. he was warmly welcomed by the members of the various literary academies, who admired his compositions and conversation; the flattering encomiums bestowed upon him by those learned societies having been amply repaid by milton in choice and elegant latin verse. among those who resided in the vicinity of florence was the illustrious galileo, who in his sorrow-stricken old age was held a prisoner of the inquisition for having upheld and taught scientific doctrines which were declared to be heretical. after his abjuration he was committed to prison, but on the intervention of influential friends was released after a few days' incarceration, and permitted to return to his home at arcetri. he was, however, kept under strict surveillance, and forbidden to leave his house or receive any of his intimate friends without having first obtained the sanction of the ecclesiastical authorities. after several years of close confinement at arcetri, during which time he suffered much from rheumatism and continued ill-health, aggravated by grief and mental depression consequent upon the death of his favourite daughter, galileo applied for permission to go to florence in order to place himself under medical treatment. this request was granted by the pope subject to certain conditions, which would be communicated to him when he presented himself at the office of the inquisition at florence. these were more severe than he anticipated. he was forbidden to leave his house or receive any of his friends there, and those injunctions were so strictly adhered to that during passion week he had to obtain a special order so that he might be able to attend mass. at the expiration of a few months galileo was ordered to return to arcetri, which he never left again. an affliction, perhaps the most deplorable that can happen to any human being, was added to the burden of galileo's misfortunes and woes. a disorder which had some years previously injured the sight of his right eye returned in . in the following year the left eye became similarly affected, with the result that in a few months galileo became totally blind. his friends at first hoped that the disease was cataract, and that some relief might be afforded by means of an operation; but it was discovered to be an opacity of the cornea, which at his age was considered unamenable to treatment. this sudden and unexpected calamity was to galileo a most deplorable occurrence, for it necessitated the relinquishment of his favourite pursuit, which he followed with such intense interest and delight. his friend castelli writes: 'the noblest eye is darkened which nature ever made; an eye so privileged, and gifted with such rare qualities that it may with truth be said to have seen more than all of those eyes who are gone, and to have opened the eyes of all who are to come.' galileo endured his affliction with patient resignation and fortitude, and in the following extract from a letter by him he acknowledges the chastening hand of a divine providence: 'alas! your dear friend and servant galileo has become totally blind, so that this heaven, this earth, this universe, which with wonderful observations i had enlarged a hundred and a thousand times beyond the belief of bygone ages, henceforward for me is shrunk into the narrow space which i myself fill in it. so it pleases god; it shall then please me also.' the rigorous curtailment of his liberty which prompted galileo to head his letters, 'from my prison at arcetri,' was relaxed when total blindness had supervened upon the infirmities of age. permission was given him to receive his friends, and he was allowed to have free intercourse with his neighbours. milton, during his stay at florence, visited galileo at arcetri. we are ignorant of the details of this eventful and interesting interview between the aged and blind astronomer and the young english poet, who afterwards immortalised his name in heroic verse, and who in his declining years suffered from an affliction similar to that which befel galileo, and to which he alludes so pathetically in the following lines:-- thee i revisit safe, and feel thy sovran vital lamp; but thou revisitest not these eyes, that roll in vain to find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn; so thick a drop serene hath quenched their orbs, or dim suffusion veiled.--iii. - . we can imagine that galileo's astronomical views, which at that time were the subject of much discussion among scientific men and professors of religion, and on account of which he suffered persecution, were eagerly discussed. it is also probable that the information communicated by galileo, or by some of his followers, may have persuaded milton to entertain a more favourable opinion of the copernican theory. the interesting discoveries made by galileo with his telescope without doubt formed a pleasant subject of conversation, and milton enjoyed the privilege of listening to a detailed description of these from the lips of the aged astronomer. the telescope, its principle, its mechanism, and the method of observing, were most probably explained to him; and we can believe that an opportunity was afforded him of examining those in galileo's observatory, and of perhaps testing their magnifying power upon some celestial object favourably situated for observation. though milton has not favoured us with any details of his visit to galileo, yet it was one which made a lasting impression upon his mind, and was never afterwards forgotten by him. 'there it was,' he writes, 'i found and visited the famous galileo, grown old, a prisoner of the inquisition for thinking in astronomy otherwise than the franciscan and dominican licensers thought.' in years long after, when milton, himself feeble and blind, sat down to compose his 'paradise lost,' the remembrance of the tuscan artist and his telescope was still fresh in his memory. by the invention of the telescope and its application to astronomical research, a vast amount of information and additional detail have been learned regarding the bodies which enter into the formation of the solar system; and by its aid many new ones were also discovered. on sweeping the heavens with the instrument, the illimitable extent of the sidereal universe became apparent, and numberless objects of interest were brought within the range of vision the existence of which had not been previously imagined. the galilean telescope was invented in . but the magnifying power of certain lenses, and their combination in producing singular visual effects, are alluded to in the writings of several early authors. the value of single lenses as an aid to sight had been long known, and spectacles were in common use in the fourteenth century. several mathematicians have described the wonderful optical results obtained from glasses concave and convex, of parabolic and circular forms, and from 'perspective glasses,' in which were embodied the principle of the telescope. it is asserted that our countryman, roger bacon ( ), had some notion of the properties of the telescope; but among those familiar with the combination of lenses the two men who made the nearest approach to the invention of the instrument were baptista porta and gerolamo fracastro. the latter, who died in , writes as follows: 'for which reason those things which are seen at the bottom of water appear greater than those which are at the top; and if anyone look through two eye-glasses, one placed upon the other, he will see everything much larger and nearer.' it is doubtful if fracastro had any notion of constructing a mechanism which might answer the purpose of a telescopic tube. baptista porta ( ) is more explicit in what he describes. he writes: 'concave lenses show distant objects most clearly, convex those which are nearer; whence they may be used to assist the sight. with a concave glass distant objects will be seen, small, but distinct; with a convex one, those near at hand, larger, but confused; if you know _rightly_ how to combine one of each sort, you will see both far and near objects larger and clearer.' he then goes on to say: 'i shall now endeavour to show in what manner we may continue to recognise our friends at the distance of several miles, and how those of weak sight may read the most minute letters from a distance. it is an invention of great utility, and grounded on optical principles; nor is at all difficult of execution; but it must be so divulged as not to be understood by the vulgar, and yet be clear to the sharp-sighted.' after this, he proceeds to describe a mechanism the details of which are confusing and unintelligible, nor did it appear to bear any resemblance to a telescopic tube. in a work published by thomas digges in , he makes the following allusion to his father's experiments with the lenses: 'my father, by his continuall painfull practices, assisted with demonstrations mathematicall, was able, and sundry times hath by proportionall glasses, duely situate in convenient angles, not only discouered things farre off, read letters, numbered peeces of money with the verye coyne and superscription thereof cast by some of his freends of purpose, upon downes in open fields; but also seuen miles off, declared what hath beene doone at that instant in priuate places.' it must be admitted that if leonard digges had not constructed a telescope, he knew how to combine lenses by the aid of which a visual effect was created similar to that produced by the use of the instrument. the inventor of the telescope was a dutchman named hans lippershey, who carried on the business of a spectacle-maker in the town of middelburg. his discovery was purely accidental. it is said that the instrument--which was directed towards a weather-cock on a church spire, of which it gave a large and inverted image--was for some time exhibited in his shop as a curiosity before its importance was recognised. the marquis spinola, happening to see this philosophical toy, purchased it, and presented it to prince maurice of nassau, who imagined it might be of service for the purpose of military reconnoitring. the value of the invention was, however, soon realised, and in the following year telescopes were sold in paris. in , galileo, when on a visit to a friend at venice, received intelligence of the invention of an instrument by a dutch optician which possessed the power of causing distant objects to appear much nearer than when observed by ordinary vision. the accuracy of this information was confirmed by letters which he received from paris; and this general report, galileo asserted, was all he knew of the subject. fuccarius, in a disparaging letter, says that one of the dutch telescopes had been brought to venice, and that he himself had seen it. this statement is not incompatible with galileo's affirmation that he had not seen the original instrument, and knew no more about it than what had been communicated to him in the letters from the french capital. it was insinuated by fuccarius that galileo had seen the telescope at venice, but, as he denied this, we should not hesitate to believe in his veracity. immediately after his return to padua, galileo began to think how he might be able to contrive an instrument with properties similar to the one of which he had been informed; and in the following words describes the process of reasoning by which he arrived at a successful result: 'i argued in the following manner. the contrivance consists either of one glass or of more--one is not sufficient, since it must be either convex, concave, or plane. the last does not produce any sensible alteration in objects; the concave diminishes them. it is true that the convex magnifies, but it renders them confused and indistinct; consequently, one glass is insufficient to produce the desired effect. proceeding to consider two glasses, and bearing in mind that the plane causes no change, i determined that the instrument could not consist of the combination of a plane glass with either of the other two. i therefore applied myself to make experiments on combinations of the two other kinds, and thus obtained that of which i was in search.' galileo's telescope consisted of two lenses--one plano-convex, the other plano-concave, the latter being held next the eye. these he fixed in a piece of organ pipe, which served the purpose of a tube, the glasses being distant from each other by the difference of their focal lengths. an exactly similar principle is adopted in the construction of an opera-glass, which can be accurately described as a double galilean telescope. galileo must be regarded as the inventor of this kind of telescope, which in one respect differed very materially from the one constructed by the dutch optician. if what has been said with regard to the _inverted_ weather-cock be true, then lippershey's telescope was made with two convex lenses, distant from each other by the sum of their focal lengths, and all objects observed with it were seen inverted. refracting astronomical telescopes are now constructed on this principle, it having been discovered that for observational purposes they possess several advantages over the galilean instrument. when galileo had completed his first telescope he returned with it to venice, where he exhibited it to his friends. the sensation created by this small instrument, which magnified only three times, was most extraordinary, and almost amounted to a frenzy. crowds of the principal citizens of venice flocked to galileo's house in order that they might see the magical tube about which such wonderful reports were circulated; and for upwards of a month he was daily occupied in describing his invention to attentive audiences. at the expiration of this time the doge of venice, leonardo deodati, hinted that the senate would not be averse to receive the telescope as a gift. galileo readily acquiesced with this desire, and, as an acknowledgment of his merits, a decree was issued confirming his appointment as professor at padua for life, and increasing his salary from to , florins. the public excitement created by the telescope showed no signs of abatement. sirturi mentions that, having succeeded in constructing an instrument, he ascended the tower of st. mark's at venice, hoping to be able to use it there without interruption. he was, however, detected by a few individuals, and soon surrounded by a crowd, which took possession of his telescope, and detained him for several hours until their curiosity was satisfied. eager inquiries having been made as to where he lodged, sirturi, fearing a repetition of his experience in the church tower, decided to quit venice early next morning, and betake himself to a quieter and less frequented neighbourhood. the instrument was at first called galileo's tube; the double eye-glass; the perspective; the trunk; the cylinder. the appellation _telescope_ was given it by demisiano. galileo next directed his attention to the construction of telescopes, and applied his mechanical skill in making instruments of a larger size, one of which magnified _eight_ times. 'and at length,' he writes, 'sparing neither labour nor expense, he completed an instrument that was capable of magnifying more than _thirty_ times.' galileo now commenced an exploration of the celestial regions with his telescope, and on carefully examining some of the heavenly bodies, made many wonderful discoveries which added greatly to the fame and lustre of his name. the first celestial object to which galileo directed his telescope was the moon. he was deeply interested to find how much her surface resembled that of the earth, and was able to perceive lofty mountain ranges, the illumined peaks of which reflected the sunlight, whilst their bases and sides were still enveloped in dark shadow; great plains which he imagined were seas, valleys, elevated ridges, depressions, and inequalities similar to what are found on our globe. galileo believed the moon to be a habitable world, and concluded that the dark and luminous portions of her surface were land and water, which reflected with unequal intensity the light of the sun. the followers of aristotle received the announcement of these discoveries with much displeasure. they maintained that the moon was perfectly spherical and smooth--a vast mirror, the dark portions of which were the reflection of our terrestrial mountains and forests--and accused galileo 'of taking a delight in distorting and ruining the fairest works of nature.' he appealed to the unequal condition of the surface of our globe, but this was of no avail in altering their preconceived notions of the lunar surface. perhaps the most important discovery made by galileo with the telescope was that of the four moons of jupiter. on the night of january , , when engaged in observing the planet, his attention was attracted by three small stars which appeared brighter than those in their immediate neighbourhood. they were all in a straight line and parallel with the ecliptic; two of them were situated to the east, and one to the west of jupiter. on the following night he was surprised to find all three to the west of the planet, and nearer to each other. this caused him considerable perplexity, and he was at a loss to understand how jupiter could be east of the three stars, when on the preceding night he was observed to the west of two of them. galileo was unable to reconcile the altered positions of those bodies with the apparent motion of jupiter among the fixed stars as indicated by the astronomical tables. the next opportunity he had of observing them was on the th, when two stars only were visible, and they were to the east of the planet. as it was impossible for jupiter to move from west to east on january and from east to west on the th, he concluded that it was the motion of the stars and not that of jupiter which accounted for the observed phenomena. galileo watched the stars attentively on successive evenings and discovered a fourth, and on observing how they changed their positions relatively to each other he soon arrived at the conclusion that the stars were four moons which revolved round jupiter after the manner in which the moon revolves round the earth. having assured himself that the four new stars were four moons that with periodical regularity circled round the great planet, galileo named them the medicean stars in honour of his patron, cosmo de' medici, grand duke of tuscany. he also published an essay entitled 'nuncius sidereus,' or the 'sidereal messenger,' which contained an account of this important discovery. the announcement of galileo's discovery of the four satellites of jupiter created a profound sensation, and its significance became at once apparent. aristotelians and ptolemaists received the information with much disfavour and incredulity, and many persons positively refused to believe galileo, whom they accused of inventing fables. on the other hand, the upholders of the copernican theory hailed it with satisfaction, as it declared that jupiter with his four moons constituted a system of greater magnitude and importance than that of our globe with her single satellite, and that consequently the earth could not be regarded as the centre of the universe. when kepler heard of this remarkable discovery, he wrote to galileo and expressed himself in the following characteristic manner: 'i was sitting idle at home thinking of you, most excellent galileo, and your letters, when the news was brought me of the discovery of four planets by the help of the double eye-glass. wachenfels stopped his carriage at my door to tell me, when such a fit of wonder seized me at a report which seemed so very absurd, and i was thrown into such agitation at seeing an old dispute between us decided in this way, that between his joy, my colouring, and the laughter of both, confounded as we were by such a novelty, we were hardly capable, he of speaking, or i of listening.... i am so far from disbelieving in the existence of the four circumjovial planets, that i long for a telescope to anticipate you, if possible, in discovering two round mars (as the proportion seems to me to require), six or eight round saturn, and perhaps one each round mercury and venus.' the intelligence of galileo's discoveries was received by his opponents in a spirit entirely different from that manifested by kepler. the principal professor of philosophy at padua, when requested to look at the moon and planets through galileo's glass, persistently declined, and did his utmost to persuade the grand duke that the four satellites of jupiter could not possibly exist. francesco sizzi, a florentine astronomer, argued that, as there are seven apertures in the head, seven known metals, and seven days in the week, so there could only be seven planets. to these absurd remarks galileo replied by saying that, 'whatever their force might be as a reason for believing beforehand that no more than seven planets would be discovered, they hardly seemed of sufficient weight to destroy the new ones when actually seen.' another individual, named christmann, writes: 'we are not to think that jupiter has four satellites given him by nature in order, by revolving round him, to immortalize the name of the medici, who first had notice of the observation. these are the dreams of idle men, who love ludicrous ideas better than our laborious and industrious correction of the heavens. nature abhors so horrible a chaos, and to the truly wise such vanity is detestable.' martin horky, a _protégé_ of kepler's, issued a pamphlet in which he made a violent attack on galileo. he says: 'i will never concede his four new planets to that italian from padua though i die for it.' he then asks the following questions, and replies to them himself: ( ) whether they exist? ( ) what they are? ( ) what they are like? ( ) why they are? 'the first question is soon disposed of by horky's declaring positively that he has examined the heavens with galileo's own glass, and that no such thing as a satellite about jupiter exists. to the second, he declared solemnly that he does not more surely know that he has a soul in his body than that reflected rays are the sole cause of galileo's erroneous observations. in regard to the third question, he says that these planets are like the smallest fly compared to an elephant; and, finally, concludes on the fourth, that the only use of them is to gratify galileo's "thirst of gold," and to afford himself a subject of discussion.'[ ] galileo did not condescend to take any notice of this scurrilous production; but horky, who imagined that he had done something clever, sent a copy of his pamphlet to kepler. in a few days after he called to see him, and was received with such a storm of indignation that he begged for mercy and implored his forgiveness. kepler forgave him, but insisted on his making amends. he writes: 'i have taken him again into favour upon this preliminary condition, to which he has agreed--that i am to show him jupiter's satellites, _and he is to see them_, and own that they are there.' the evidence in support of the existence of jupiter's satellites became so conclusive that the opponents of galileo were compelled to renounce their disbelief in those bodies, whether real or pretended. the grand duke, preferring to trust to his eyes rather than believe in the arguments of the professor at padua, observed the satellites on several occasions, along with galileo, at pisa, and on his departure bestowed upon him a gift of one thousand florins. several of galileo's enemies, as a result of their observations, now arrived at the conclusion that his discovery was incomplete, and that jupiter had more than four satellites in attendance upon him. scheiner counted five, rheita nine, and other observers increased the number to twelve. but it was found to be quite as hazardous to exceed the number stated by galileo as it was to deny the existence of any; for, when jupiter had traversed a short distance of his path among the fixed stars, the only bodies that accompanied him were his four original attendants, which continued to revolve round him with unerring regularity in every part of his orbit. galileo did not afford his opponents much time to oppose or controvert with argument the discoveries made by him with the telescope before his announcement of a new one attracted public attention from those already known. he, however, exercised greater caution in disclosing the results of his observations, as other persons laid claim to having made similar discoveries prior to the time at which his were announced. he therefore adopted a method in common use among astronomers in those days, by which the letters in a sentence announcing a discovery were transposed so as to form an anagram. galileo announced his next discovery in this manner, and which read as follows:-- smaismrmilme poeta leumi bvne nugttaviras. this, when deciphered, formed the sentence:-- altissimum planetam tergeminum observavi. i have observed that the remotest planet is triple. galileo perceived that saturn presented a triform appearance, and that, instead of one body, there were three, all in a straight line, and apparently in contact with each other, the middle one being larger than the two lateral ones. in a letter to kepler he remarked: 'now i have discovered a court for jupiter, and two servants for this old man, who aid his steps and never quit his side.' kepler, who excelled as an imaginative writer, replied: 'i will not make an old man of saturn, nor slaves of his attendant globes; but rather let this tricorporate form be geryon--so shall galileo be hercules, and the telescope his club, armed with which he has conquered that distant planet, and dragged him from the remotest depths of nature, and exposed him to the view of all.' continuing his observations, galileo perceived that the two lateral objects gradually decreased in size, and at the expiration of two years entirely disappeared, leaving the central globe visible only. he was unable to assign any reason for this peculiar occurrence, which caused him much perplexity, and he expresses himself thus: 'what is to be said concerning so strange a metamorphosis? are the two lesser stars consumed after the manner of the solar spots? have they vanished and suddenly fled? has saturn, perhaps, devoured his own children? or were the appearances, indeed, illusion or fraud, with which the glasses have so long deceived me, as well as many others to whom i have shown them? now, perhaps, is the time to revive the well-nigh withered hopes of those who, guided by more profound contemplations, have discovered the fallacy of the new observations, and demonstrated the utter impossibility of their existence. i do not know what to say in a case so surprising, so unlooked-for, and so novel. the shortness of the time, the unexpected nature of the event, the weakness of my understanding, and the fear of being mistaken, have greatly confounded me.' after a certain interval those bodies reappeared; but galileo's glass was not sufficiently powerful to enable him to ascertain their nature nor solve the mystery, which for upwards of half a century perplexed the ablest astronomers. the elucidation of this inexplicable phenomenon was reserved for christian huygens, who, with an improved telescope of his own construction, was able to declare that saturn's appendages were portions of a ring which surrounds the planet, and is everywhere distinct from its surface. galileo next directed his attention to the planet venus, and as a result of his observations was led to communicate to the public another anagram:-- haec immatura a me jam frustra leguntur oy. this, when rendered correctly, reads:-- cynthiae figuras aemulatur mater amorum. venus rivals the appearances of the moon. the phases of venus were one of the most interesting of galileo's discoveries with the telescope. when observed near inferior conjunction the planet presents the appearance of a slender crescent, resembling the moon when a few days old. travelling from this point to superior conjunction, the illumined portion of her disc gradually increases, until it becomes circular, like the full moon. this changing appearance of venus afforded galileo irresistible proof that the planet is an opaque body, which derives its light from the sun, and that it circles round the orb--convincing evidence of the accuracy and truthfulness of the copernican theory. it was in this manner that galileo announced his discovery of the phases of venus, the peerless planet of our morning and evening skies, whose slender crescent forms such a beautiful object in the telescope, and who, as she traverses her orbit, exhibits all the varied changes of form presented by the moon in her monthly journey round the earth. these varying aspects of venus were not unknown to milton; and, indeed, he may have been informed of them by galileo in his conversation with him at arcetri; nor has he failed to introduce an allusion to this beautiful phenomenon in his poem. in his description of the creation, after the sun was formed, he adds:-- hither, as to their fountain, other stars repairing, in their golden urns draw light, and hence the morning planet gilds her horns.--vii. - . galileo also discovered that the planet mars does not always present the appearance of a circular disc. when near opposition the full disc of the planet is visible, but at all other times it is gibbous, and approaches nearest to that of a half-moon when at the quadratures. in the year , on directing his telescope to the sun, galileo detected dark spots on the solar disc. similar spots, sufficiently large to be distinguished by the naked eye, had been observed from time to time for centuries prior to the invention of the telescope, but nothing was known of their nature. in kepler observed a spot on the sun, which he thought was the planet mercury in conjunction with the orb; the short time during which it was visible, in consequence of clouds having obscured the face of the luminary, prevented him from being able to determine the accuracy of his surmise, but since then it has been ascertained that no transit of mercury took place at that time, and kepler afterwards acknowledged that he had arrived at an erroneous conclusion. galileo was much puzzled in trying to find out the true nature of the spots. at first he was led to imagine that planets like mercury and venus revolved round the sun at a short distance from the orb, and that their dark bodies, travelling across the solar disc, gave rise to the phenomenon of the spots. after further observation, he ascertained that the spots were in actual contact with the sun; that they were irregular in shape and size, and continued to appear and disappear. sometimes a large spot would break up into several smaller ones, and at other times three or four small spots would unite to form a large one. they all had a common motion, and appeared to rotate with the sun, from which galileo concluded that the orb rotated on his axis in about twenty-eight days. galileo believed that the spots were clouds floating in the solar atmosphere, and that they intercepted a portion of the light of the sun. the milky way, that wondrous zone of light which encircles the heavens, remained for many ages a source of perplexity to ancient astronomers and philosophers, who, in their endeavours to ascertain its nature, had arrived at various absurd and erroneous conclusions. on directing his telescope to this luminous tract, galileo discovered, to his inexpressible admiration, that it consists of a vast multitude of stars, too minute to be visible to the naked eye. he also discerned that its milky luminosity is created by the blended light of myriads of stars, so remote as to be incapable of definition by his telescope. in his 'nuncius sidereus' he gives an account of his observations of the galaxy and expresses his satisfaction that he has been enabled to terminate an ancient controversy by demonstrating to the senses the stellar structure of the milky way. when engaged in exploring the celestial regions with his telescope, galileo observed a marked difference in the appearance of the fixed stars, as compared with that of the planets. each of the latter showed a rounded disc resembling that of a small moon, but the stars exhibited no disc, and shone as vivid sparkling points of light; all of them, whether of large or small magnitude, presenting the same appearance in the telescope. this led him to conclude that the fixed stars were not illumined by the sun, because their brilliancy in all their changes of position remained unaltered. but, in the case of the planets, he found that their lustre varied according to their distance from the sun; consequently, he believed they were opaque bodies which reflected the solar rays. on directing his telescope to the pleiades, which, to the naked eye, appear as a group of seven stars, he succeeded in counting forty lucid points. the nebula praesepe in cancer, he was also able to resolve into a cluster of stars. galileo made many other observations of the heavenly bodies with his telescope, all of which he describes as having afforded him 'incredible delight.' shortly before the failure of his eyesight, galileo discovered the moon's diurnal libration, a variation in the visible edges of the moon caused by its oscillatory motion, and the diurnal rotation of the earth on her axis. though milton has not favoured us with any interesting details of his interview with galileo, nor expressed his opinions with regard to the controversies which at that time agitated both the religious and scientific worlds of thought, and which eventually culminated in a storm of rancour and hatred that burst over the devoted head of the aged astronomer, and brought him to his knees, yet he informs us that he 'found and visited' galileo, whom he describes as 'grown old,' and cynically remarks that he 'was held a prisoner of the inquisition for thinking in astronomy otherwise than the franciscan and dominican licensers thought.' milton does not allude to his blindness, and yet it would be natural to imagine that, had his host suffered from this affliction at the time of his visit, he would have referred to it. we learn that milton arrived in italy in the spring of . in , the affection which, in the preceding year, deprived galileo of the use of his right eye, attacked the left also, which began to grow dim, and in the course of a few months became sightless; so that, although milton has not alluded to this calamity, galileo had become totally blind at the time of his visit. how much milton was impressed with the fame of galileo and his telescope becomes apparent on referring to his 'paradise lost.' in it he alludes to the instrument upon three different occasions, twice when in the hands of galileo; and the remembrance of the same artist was doubtless in his mind when he mentions the 'glazed optic tube' in another part of his poem. the interval that elapsed from the date of milton's visit to galileo in , to the publication of 'paradise lost' in , included a period of about thirty years, yet this length of time did not erase from milton's memory his recollection of galileo and of his pleasant sojourn at florence. the first allusion in the poem to the italian astronomer is in the lines in which milton describes the shield carried by satan:-- the broad circumference hung on his shoulders like the moon, whose orb through optic glass the tuscan artist views at evening, from the top of fesolé, or in valdarno, to descry new lands, rivers, or mountains, in her spotty globe.--i. - . galileo is described as having observed the moon from the heights of fesolé, which formed part of the suburbs of florence, or from valdarno, the valley of the arno, in which the city is situated. the belief that galileo had discovered continents and seas on the moon justified milton in imagining the existence of rivers and mountains on the lunar surface. the expression 'spotty globe' is more descriptive of the appearance of our satellite when observed with the telescope, than when seen with the naked eye. galileo's attention was attracted by the freckled aspect of the moon--a visual effect created by the number of extinct volcanoes scattered over the surface of the orb. in his next allusion to the telescope milton associates galileo's name with the instrument:-- as when by night the glass of galileo, less assured, observes imagined lands and regions in the moon.--v. - . in these lines milton describes with accuracy the extent of galileo's knowledge of our satellite. the conclusions which the italian astronomer arrived at with regard to its habitability were not supported by telescopic evidence sufficient to justify such a belief. galileo writes: 'had its surface been absolutely smooth it would have been but a vast, unblessed desert, void of animals, of plants, of cities and men; the abode of silence and inaction--senseless, lifeless, soulless, and stripped of all those ornaments which now render it so variable and so beautiful:'-- there lands the fiend, a spot like which perhaps astronomer in the sun's lucent orb through his glazed optic tube yet never saw.--iii. - . milton may have remembered that galileo was the first astronomer who directed a telescope to the sun; and that he discovered the dark spots frequently seen on the solar disc. anyone who has read a history of the life of galileo, and contemplated the career of this remarkable man, his ardent struggles in the cause of freedom and philosophic truth, his victories and reverses, his brilliant astronomical discoveries, and his investigation of the laws of motion, and other natural phenomena, will arrive at the conclusion that he merited the distinction conferred upon him by our great english poet, when he included him among the renowned few whose names are found in the pages of 'paradise lost.' chapter v the seasons the great path of the sun among the constellations as seen from the earth is called the ecliptic. it is divided into °, and again into twelve equal parts of °, called signs. as one half of the ecliptic is north, and the other half south, of the equator, the line of intersection of their planes is at two points which are known as the equinoctial points, because, when the sun on his upward and downward journey arrives at either of them the days and nights are of equal length all over the world. the equinoctial points are not stationary, but have a westerly motion of ´´ annually along the ecliptic; at this rate they will require a period of , years to complete an entire circuit of the heavens. milton alludes to the ecliptic when he mentions the arrival of satan upon the earth:-- down from the ecliptic, sped with hoped success, throws his steep flight in many an airy wheel, nor staid till on niphates top he lights.--iii. - . extending for ° on each side of the ecliptic is a zone or belt called the zodiac, the mesial line of which is occupied by the sun, and within this space the principal planets perform their annual revolutions. it was for long believed that the paths of all the planets lay within the zodiac, but on the discovery of the minor planets, ceres, pallas, and juno, it was ascertained that they travelled beyond this zone. the stars situated within the zodiac are divided into twelve groups or constellations, which correspond with the twelve signs, and each is named after an animal or some figure which it is supposed to resemble. the zodiac is of great antiquity; the ancient egyptians and hindoos made use of it, and there are allusions to it in the earliest astronomical records. the twelve constellations of the zodiac bear the following names:-- aries the ram taurus the bull gemini the twins cancer the crab leo the lion virgo the virgin libra the balance scorpio the scorpion sagittarius the archer capricornus the goat aquarius the water-bearer pisces the fishes in close association with the sun's annual journey are the seasons, upon the regular sequence of which mankind depend for the various products of the soil essential for the maintenance and enjoyment of life. the revolution of the earth in her orbit, and the inclination of her axis to her annual path, causing the plane of the equator to be inclined - / ° to that of the ecliptic, are the reasons which account for the succession of the seasons--spring, summer, autumn, and winter. owing to the position of the earth's axis with regard to her orbit, the sun appears to travel - / ° north and - / ° south of the equator. when, on june , the orb attains his highest northern altitude, we have the summer solstice and the longest days; when, by retracing his steps, he declines - / ° below the equator, at which point he arrives on december , we have the winter solstice and the shortest days. intermediate between those two seasons are spring and autumn. when the sun, on his journey northward, reaches the equator, we have the vernal equinox, and at this period of the year the days and nights are of equal length all over the globe. in a similar manner, when, on his return journey, the sun is again on the equator, the autumnal equinox occurs. in summer the north pole is inclined towards the sun, consequently his rays fall more direct and impart much more heat to the northern hemisphere than in winter, when the pole is turned away from the sun. this difference in the incidence of the solar rays upon the surface of the globe, along with the increased length of the day, mainly accounts for the high temperature of summer as compared with that of winter. astronomically, the seasons commence at the periods of the equinoxes and solstices. spring begins on march , the time of the vernal equinox; summer on june , at the summer solstice; autumn on september , at the autumnal equinox; and winter on december , at the winter solstice. this conventional division of the year is not equally applicable to all parts of the globe. in the arctic and antarctic regions spring and autumn are very brief, the summer is short and the winter of long duration. in the tropics, owing to the comparatively slight difference in the obliquity of the sun's rays, one season is, as regards temperature, not much different from the other; but in the temperate regions of the earth the vicissitudes of the seasons are more perceptible and can be best distinguished by the growth of vegetation, and the changes observable in the foliage of shrubs and trees. in spring there is the budding, in summer the blossom, in autumn the fruit-bearing, and in winter the leafless condition of deciduous trees, and the repose of vegetable life. the legendary belief that before the fall there reigned on the earth a perpetual spring, is introduced by milton in his poem when he describes the pleasant surroundings associated with the happy conditions of life that existed in paradise:-- thus was this place, a happy rural seat of various view: groves whose rich trees wept odorous gums and balm; others whose fruit, burnished with golden rind, hung amiable--hesperian fables true, if true here only--and of delicious taste. betwixt them lawns, or level downs, and flocks grazing the tender herb, were interposed, or palmy hillock; or the flowery lap of some irriguous valley spread her store, flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose. another side, umbrageous grots and caves of cool recess, o'er which the mantling vine lays forth her purple grape, and gently creeps luxuriant; meanwhile murmuring waters fall down the slope hill dispersed, or in a lake that to the fringèd bank with myrtle crowned her crystal mirror holds, unite their streams. the birds their quire apply; airs, vernal airs, breathing the smell of field and grove, attune the trembling leaves, while universal pan, knit with the graces and the hours in dance, led on the eternal spring.--iv. - . in sad contrast with this charming sylvan scene, we turn to the unhappy consequences which ensued as a result of the first act of transgression. milton describes a change of climate characterised by extremes of heat and cold which succeeded the perpetual spring. the sun was made to shine so that the earth should be exposed to torrid heat and icy cold unpleasant to endure. the pale moon and the planets were given power to combine with noxious effect, and the fixed stars to shed their malignant influences:-- the sun had first his precept so to move, so shine, as might affect the earth with cold and heat scarce tolerable, and from the north to call decrepit winter, from the south to bring solstitial summer's heat. to the blanc moon her office they prescribed; to the other five their planetary motions and aspects, in sextile, square, and trine, and opposite, of noxious efficacy, and when to join in synod unbenign; and taught the fixed their influence malignant when to shower-- which of them rising with the sun or falling, should prove tempestuous. to the winds they set their corners, when with bluster to confound sea, air, and shore; the thunder when to roll with terror through the dark aerial hall.--x. - . we are here afforded an opportunity of learning that milton possessed some knowledge of astrology, to which he makes allusion in other parts of his poem besides. in his time, astrology was believed in by many persons, and there were few learned men but who knew something of that occult science. milton may be included among those who devoted some attention to astrology. of this there is ample evidence, by the manner in which he expresses himself in words and phrases in common use among astrologers. the professors of this art recognised five planetary aspects, viz., opposition, conjunction, sextile, square, and trine, each possessing its peculiar kind of influence on events. the moon, the planets, and the constellations in their conjunctions and configurations, were believed to reveal to those who could understand the significance of their aspects, the destiny of individuals and the occurrence of future events. the inauspicious influences of the heavenly bodies are described by milton as contributing to the general disarrangement of the happy condition of things that existed before the fall. after having described the adverse physical changes which occurred in nature as a consequence of the fall, milton makes use of his astronomical knowledge in explaining how they were brought about, and suggests two hypotheses: ( ) a change of position of the earth's axis; ( ) an alteration of the sun's path from the equinoctial road:-- some say he bid his angels turn askance the poles of earth twice ten degrees and more from the sun's axle; they with labour pushed oblique the centric globe: some say the sun was bid turn reins from the equinoctial road like distant breadth--to taurus with the seven atlantic sisters, and the spartan twins, up to the tropic crab; thence down amain by leo, and the virgin, and the scales, as deep as capricorn; to bring in change of seasons to each clime. else had the spring perpetual smiled on earth with vernant flowers.--x. - . in support of the theory of a perpetual spring, milton assumes that the earth's axis was directed at right angles to her orbit, and that the plane of the equator coincided with that of the ecliptic. consequently, the sun's path remained always on the equator, where his rays were vertical, and north and south of this line each locality on the earth enjoyed one constant season, the character of which depended upon its geographical position. in what are now the temperate regions of the globe there was one continuous season, similar in climate and length of day to what is experienced at the vernal equinox, when the sun is for a few days on the equator. there was then no winter, no summer, nor autumn; and, consequently, the growth of vegetation must have taken place under conditions of climate entirely different to what exist on the earth at the present time. the change of position of the earth's axis, 'twice ten degrees and more from the sun's axle,' is described by milton as having been accomplished by the might of angels, who 'with labour pushed oblique the centric globe.' ( ) according to the ptolemaic belief, the sun revolved round the earth, but his course was altered from the equinoctial road to the path that he now pursues, which is the ecliptic. instead of remaining on the equator, he travels an equal distance from this line upwards and downwards in each hemisphere. the path of the sun in the heavens is described by milton with marked precision, and he mentions in regular order the names of the zodiacal constellations through which the orb travels. passing through taurus with the seven atlantic sisters (the pleiades) and the spartan twins (gemini), he enters the tropic crab (cancer), in which constellation he attains his highest northern altitude; thence downwards he travels through leo, virgo, and the scales (libra), as deep as capricornus, reaching his lowest point of declination at the winter solstice; and were it not for this alteration of the sun's path, the poet informs us that perpetual spring would have reigned upon the earth. milton was evidently well acquainted with the astronomical reasons (the revolution of the earth in her orbit and the obliquity of the ecliptic) by which the occurrence and regular sequence of the seasons can be explained. the path of the sun in the heavens; his upward and downward course from the equator; the names of the constellations through which the orb travels, and the periods of the year at which he enters them, were also familiar to him. the grateful change of the seasons, and the varied aspects of nature peculiar to each, which give a charm and freshness to the rolling year, must have been to milton a source of pleasure and delight, and have stimulated his poetic fancy. his observation of natural phenomena, and his keen perception of the pleasing changes which accompany them, are described in the following lines:-- as, when from mountain-tops the dusky clouds ascending, while the north wind sleeps, o'erspread heaven's cheerful face, the louring element scowls o'er the darkened landskip snow or shower, if chance the radiant sun, with farewell sweet, extend his evening beam, the fields revive, the birds their notes renew, and bleating herds attest their joy, that hill and valley rings.--ii. - . the ancient poets virgil and ovid describe the earth as having been created in the spring; and associated with this season, which to the heart inspires vernal delight and joy--iv. - , were the graces and the hours, which danced hand in hand as they led on the eternal spring. milton alludes to the seasons on several occasions throughout his poem, and to the natural phenomena associated with them:-- as bees in springtime when the sun with taurus rides, pour forth their populous youth about the hive in clusters; they among fresh dews and flowers fly to and fro, or on the smoothèd plank the suburb of their straw-built citadel new rubbed with balm, expatiate and confer their state affairs.--i. - . the sun is in the constellation taurus in april, when the warmth of his rays begins to impart new life and activity to the insect world after their long winter's sleep. in his description of the repast partaken by the angel raphael with adam and eve in paradise, milton writes:-- raised of grassy turf their table was, and mossy seats had round, and on her ample square, from side to side, all autumn piled, though spring and autumn here danced hand in hand.--v. - . in describing beelzebub when about to address the stygian council, he says:-- his look drew audience and attention still as night or summer's noontide air, while thus he spake.--ii. - . the failing vision from which milton suffered in his declining years was succeeded by total blindness. this sad affliction he alludes to in the following lines:-- thus with the year seasons return; but not to me returns day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose.--iii. - . we are able to perceive how much milton was impressed with the beautiful seasons, and the varying aspects of the year which accompany them, and how his poetic imagination luxuriated in the changing variety of nature observable in earth and sky that from day to day afforded him exquisite delight; and, although his poem was written when blindness had overtaken him, yet those glad remembrances remained as fresh in his memory as when in his youth he roamed among the flowery meadows, the vocal woodlands, and the winding lanes of buckinghamshire. the idea expressed by milton that the primitive earth enjoyed a perpetual spring, though pleasing to the imagination, and well adapted for poetic description, is not sustained by any astronomical testimony. indeed, the position of the earth, with her axis at right angles to her orbit, is one which may be regarded as being ill adapted for the support and maintenance of life on her surface, just as her present position is the best that can be imagined for fulfilling this purpose. astronomy teaches us to rely with certainty upon the permanence and regular sequence of the seasons. the position of the earth's axis as she speeds along in her orbit through the unresisting ether remains unchanged, and her rapid rotation has the effect of increasing its stability. yet, the earth performs none of her motions with rigid precision, and there is a very slow alteration of the position of her axis occurring, which, if unchecked, would eventually produce a coincidence of the equator and the ecliptic. instead of a succession of the seasons, there would then be perpetual spring upon the earth, and, although it would require a great epoch of time to bring about such a change, there would result a condition of things entirely different to what now exists on the globe. but, before the ecliptic can have approached sufficiently near the equator to produce any appreciable effect upon the climate of the earth, its motion must cease, and after remaining stationary for a time, it will begin to recede to its former position. the seasons must therefore follow each other in regular sequence, and throughout all time, reminding us of the promise of the creator, 'that while the earth remaineth seed-time and harvest, and cold and heat, and summer and winter shall not cease.' chapter vi the starry heavens the celestial vault, that, like a circling canopy of sapphire hue, stretches overhead from horizon to horizon, resplendent by night with myriad stars of different magnitudes and varied brilliancy, forming clusterings and configurations of fantastic shape and beauty, arrests the attention of the most casual observer. but to one who has studied the heavens, and followed the efforts of human genius in unravelling the mysteries associated with those bright orbs, the impression created on his mind as he gazes upon them in the still hours of the night, when the turmoil of life is hushed in repose, is one of wonder and longing to know more of their being and the hidden causes which brought them forth. here, we have poetry written in letters of gold on the sable vestment of night; music in the gliding motion of the spheres; and harmony in the orbital sweep of sun, planet, and satellite. milton was not only familiar with 'the face of the sky,' as it is popularly called, but also knew the structure of the celestial sphere, and the great circles by which it is circumscribed. two of those--the colures--he alludes to in the following lines, when he describes the manner in which satan, to avoid detection, compassed the earth, after his discovery by gabriel in paradise, and his flight thence:-- the space of seven continued nights he rode with darkness--thrice the equinoctial line he circled, four times crossed the car of night from pole to pole, traversing each colure.--ix. - . aristarchus of samos believed the stars were golden studs, that illumined the crystal dome of heaven; but modern research has transformed this conception of the ancient astronomer's into a universe of blazing suns rushing through regions of illimitable space. in milton's time astronomers had arrived at no definite conclusion with regard to the nature of the stars. they were known to be self-luminous bodies, situated at a remote distance in space, but it had not been ascertained with any degree of certainty that they were suns, resembling in magnitude and brilliancy our sun. indeed, little was known of those orbs until within the past hundred years, when the exploration of the heavens by the aid of greatly increased telescopic power, was the means of creating a new branch of astronomical science, called sidereal astronomy. we are indebted to sir william herschel, more than to any other astronomer, for our knowledge of the stellar universe. it was he who ascertained the vastness of its dimensions, and attempted to delineate its structural configuration. he also explored the star depths, which occupy the infinitude of space by which we are surrounded, and made many wonderful discoveries, which testify to his ability as an observer, and to his greatness as an astronomer. william herschel was born at hanover, november , . his father was a musician in the band of the hanoverian guard, and trained his son in his own profession. after four years of military service, young herschel arrived in england when nineteen years of age, and maintained himself by giving lessons in music. we hear of him first at leeds, where he followed his profession, and instructed the band of the durham militia. from leeds he went to halifax, and was appointed organist there; on the expiration of twelve months he removed to bath, and was elected to a similar post at the octagon chapel in that city. here, fortune smiled upon him, and he became a busy and prosperous man. besides attending to his numerous private engagements, he organised concerts, oratorios, and other public musical entertainments, which gained him much popularity among the cultivated classes which frequented this fashionable resort. notwithstanding his numerous professional engagements, herschel was able to devote a portion of his time to acquiring knowledge on other subjects. he became proficient in italian and greek, studied mathematics, and read books on astronomy. in he borrowed a small telescope, which he used for observational purposes, and was so captivated with the appearances presented by the celestial bodies, that he resolved to dedicate his life to acquiring 'a knowledge of the construction of the heavens.' this resolution he nobly adhered to, and became one of the most distinguished of astronomers. like many other astronomers, herschel possessed the requisite skill which enabled him to construct his own telescopes. being desirous of possessing a more powerful instrument, and not having the means to purchase one, he commenced the manufacture of specula, the grinding and polishing of which had to be done by hand, entailing the necessity of tedious labour and the exercise of much patience. after repeated failures he at length completed a - / -foot gregorian reflector, and with this instrument made his first survey of the heavens. having perceived the desirability of possessing a more powerful telescope, he equipped himself with a reflector of twenty feet focal length, and it was with this instrument that he made those wonderful discoveries which established his reputation as a great astronomer. on march , , when examining the stars in the constellation gemini, herschel observed a star which presented an appearance slightly different to that of the other stars by which it was surrounded; it looked larger, had a perceptible disc, and its light became fainter when viewed with a higher magnifying power. after having carefully examined this object, herschel arrived at the conclusion that he had discovered a comet. he communicated intelligence of his discovery to the royal society, and, a notification of it having been sent to the continental observatories, this celestial visitor was subjected to a close scrutiny; its progressive motion among the stars was carefully observed, and an orbit was assigned to it. after it had been under observation for some time, doubts were expressed as to its being a comet, these were increased on further examination, and eventually it was discovered that this interesting object was a new planet. this important discovery at once raised herschel to a position of eminence and distinction, and from a star-gazing musician he became a famous astronomer. a new planet named uranus was added to our system, which completes a revolution round the sun in a little over eighty-four years, and at a distance of near , millions of miles beyond the orbit of saturn. herschel's name became a household word. george iii. invited him to court in order that he might obtain from his own lips an account of his discovery of the new planet; and so favourable was the impression made by herschel upon the king, that he proposed to create him royal astronomer at windsor, and bestow upon him a salary of _l._ a year. herschel decided to accept the proffered appointment, and, with his sister caroline, removed from bath to datchet, near windsor, in , and from there to slough in . in he married the wealthy widow of a london merchant, by whom he had one son, who worthily sustained his father's high reputation as an astronomer. herschel was created a knight in , and in was elected first president of the royal astronomical society. he died at slough on august , , when in the eighty-fourth year of his age, and was buried in upton churchyard. it is inscribed on his tomb, that 'he burst the barriers of heaven;' the lofty praise conveyed by this expression is not greater than what herschel merited when we consider with what unwearied assiduity and patience he laboured to accomplish the results described in the words which have been quoted. by a method called 'star-gauging' he accomplished an entire survey of the heavens and examined minutely all the stars in their groups and aggregations as they passed before his eye in the field of the telescope. he sounded the depths of the milky way, and explored the wondrous regions of that shining zone, peopled with myriads of suns so closely aggregated in some of its tracts as to suggest the appearance of a mosaic of stars. he resolved numerous nebulæ into clusters of stars, and penetrated with his great telescope depth after depth of space crowded with 'island universes of stars,' beyond which he was able to discern luminous haze and filmy streaks of light, the evidence of the existence of other universes plunged in depths still more profound, where space verges on infinity. in his exploration of the starry heavens herschel's labours were truly amazing. on four different occasions he completed a survey of the firmament, and counted the stars in several thousand gauge-fields; he discovered , nebulæ, double stars, and attempted to ascertain the approximate distances of the stars by a comparison of their relative brightness. it had long been surmised, though no actual proof was forthcoming, that the law of gravitation by which the order and stability of our system are maintained exercises its potent influence over other material bodies existing in space, and that other systems, though differing in many respects from that of ours, and presenting a more complex arrangement in their structure, perform their motions subject to the guidance of this universal law. the uncertainty with regard to the controlling influence of gravity was removed by herschel when he made his important discovery of binary star systems. the components of a binary star are usually in such close proximity that, to the naked eye, they appear as one star, and sometimes, even with telescopic aid, it is impossible to distinguish them individually; but when observed with sufficient magnifying power they can be easily perceived as two lucid points. double stars were for a long time believed to be a purely optical phenomenon--an effect created by two stars projected on the sphere so as to appear nearly in the same line of vision, and, although apparently almost in contact, situated at great distances apart. at one time herschel entertained a similar opinion with regard to those stars. in he undertook an extensive exploration of the heavens with the object of discovering double stars. as a result of his labours he presented to the royal society in a list of newly discovered double stars, and in three years after he supplemented this list with another which contained more new stars. he carefully measured the distances by which the component stars were separated, and determined their position angles, in order that he might be able to detect the existence of any sensible parallax. on repeating his observations twenty years after, he discovered that the relative positions of many of the stars had changed, and in he made the important announcement of his discovery that the components of many double stars form independent systems, held together in a mutual bond of union and revolving round one common centre of gravity. the importance of this discovery, which we owe to herschel's sagacity and accuracy of observation, cannot be over-estimated; what was previously conjecture and surmise, now became precise knowledge established upon a sure and accurate basis. it was ascertained that the law of gravity exerts its power in regulating and controlling the motions of all celestial bodies within the range of telescopic vision, and that the order and harmony which pervade our system are equally present among other systems of suns and worlds distributed throughout the regions of space. the spectacle of two or more suns revolving round each other, forming systems of greater magnitude and importance than that of ours, conveyed to the minds of astronomers a knowledge of the mechanism of the heavens which had hitherto been unknown to them. during the many years which herschel devoted to the exploration of the starry heavens, and when engaged night after night in examining and enumerating the various groups and clusters of stars which passed before his eye in the field of his powerful telescope, he did not fail to remember the sublime object of his life, and to which he made all his other investigations subordinate, viz., the delineation of the structural configuration of the heavens, and the inclusion of all aggregations, groups, clusters, and galaxies of stars which are apparently scattered promiscuously throughout the regions of space into one grand harmonious design of celestial architecture. having this object in view, he explored the wondrous zone of the milky way, gauged its depths, measured its dimensions, and, in attempting to unravel the intricacies of its structure, penetrated its recesses far beyond the limit attained by any other observer. acting on the assumption that the stars are uniformly distributed throughout space, herschel, by his method of star-gauging, concluded that the sidereal system consists of an irregular stratum of evenly distributed suns, resembling in form a cloven flat disc, and that the apparent richness of some regions as compared with that of others could be accounted for by the position from which it was viewed by an observer. the stars would appear least numerous where the visual line was shortest, and, as it became lengthened, they would increase in number until, by crowding behind each other as a greater depth of stratum was penetrated, they would, when very remote, present the appearance of a luminous cloud or zone of light. after further observation herschel was compelled to relinquish his theory of equal star distribution, and found, as he approached the galaxy, that the stars became much more numerous, and that in the milky way itself there was evidence of the gravitation of stars towards certain regions forming aggregations and clusters which would ultimately lead to its breaking up into numerous separate sidereal systems. as he extended his survey of the heavens and examined with greater minuteness the stellar regions in the galactic tract, he discovered that by his method of star-gauging he was unable to define the complexity of structure and variety of arrangement which came under his observation; he also perceived that the star-depths are unfathomable, and discerned that beyond the reach of his telescope there existed systems and galaxies of stars situated at an appalling distance in the abysmal depths of space. though the magnitude of that portion of the sidereal heavens which came under his observation was inconceivable as regards its dimensions, herschel was able to perceive that it formed but a part--and most probably a small part--of the stellar universe, and that without a more extended knowledge of this universe, which at present is unattainable, it would be impossible to determine its structural configuration or discover the relationships that exist among the sidereal systems and galactic concourses of stars distributed throughout space. herschel ultimately abandoned his star-gauging method of observation and confined his attention to exploring the star depths and investigating the laws and theories associated with the bodies occupying those distant regions. since all the planets if viewed from the sun would be seen to move harmoniously and in regular order round that body, so there may be somewhere in the universe a central point, or, as some persons imagine, a great central sun, round which all the systems of stars perform their majestic revolutions with the same beautiful regularity; having their motions controlled by the same law of gravitation, and possessing the same dynamical stability which characterises the mechanism of the solar system. the extent of the distance which intervenes between our system and the fixed stars constituted a problem which exercised the minds of astronomers from an early period until the middle of the present century. tycho brahé, who repudiated the copernican theory, asserted as one of his reasons against it that the distances by which the heavenly bodies are separated from each other were greater than even the upholders of this theory believed them to be. although the distance of the sun from the earth was unknown, tycho was aware that the diameter of the earth's orbit must be measured by millions of miles, and yet there was no perceptible motion or change of position of the stars when viewed from any point of the vast circumference which she traverses. consequently, the earth, if viewed from the neighbourhood of a star, would also appear motionless, and the dimensions of her orbit would be reduced to that of a point. this seemed incredible to tycho, and he therefore concluded that the copernican theory was incorrect. the conclusion that the stars are orbs resembling our sun in magnitude and brilliancy was one which, tycho urged, should not be hastily adopted; and yet, if it were conceded that the earth is a body which revolves round the sun, it would be necessary to admit that the stars are suns also. if the earth's orbit, as seen from a star, were reduced to a point, then the sun, which occupies its centre, would be reduced to a point of light also, and, when observed from a star of equal brilliancy and magnitude, would have the same resemblance that the star has when viewed from the earth, which may be regarded as being in proximity to the sun. tycho brahé would not admit the accuracy of these conclusions, which were too bewildering and overwhelming for his mental conception. but the investigations of later astronomers disclosed the fact that the heavenly bodies are situated at distances more remote from each other than had been previously imagined, and that the reasons which led tycho to reject the copernican theory were based upon erroneous conclusions, and could, with greater aptitude, be employed in its support. it was ascertained that the distance of the sun from the earth, which at different periods was surmised to be ten, twenty, and forty millions of miles, was much greater than had been previously estimated. later calculations determined it to be not less than eighty millions of miles, and, according to the most recent observations, the distance of the sun from the earth is believed to be about ninety-three millions of miles. having once ascertained the distance between the earth and the sun, astronomers were enabled to determine with greater facility the distances of other heavenly bodies. it was now known that the diameter of the earth's orbit exceeded millions of miles, and yet, with a base line of such enormous length, and with instruments of the most perfect construction, astronomers were only able to perceive the minutest appreciable alteration in the positions of a few stars when observed from opposite points of the terrestrial orbit. it had long been the ambitious desire of astronomers to accomplish, if possible, a measurement of the abyss which separates our system from the nearest of the fixed stars. no imaginary measuring line had ever been stretched across this region of space, nor had its unfathomed depths ever been sounded by any effort of the human mind. the stars were known to be inconceivably remote, but how far away no person could tell, nor did there exist any guide by which an approximation of their distances could be arrived at. in attempting to calculate the distances of the stars, astronomers have had recourse to a method called 'parallax,' by which is meant the apparent change of position of a heavenly body when viewed from two different points of observation. the annual parallax of a heavenly body is the angle subtended at that body by the radius of the earth's orbit. the stars have no diurnal parallax, because, owing to their great distance, the earth's radius does not subtend any measurable angle, but the radius of the earth's orbit, which is immensely larger, does, in the case of a few stars, subtend a very minute angle. 'this enormous base line of millions of miles is barely sufficient, in conjunction with the use of the most delicate and powerful astronomical instruments, to exhibit the minutest measureable displacement of two or three of the nearest stars.'--proctor. the efforts of early astronomers to detect any perceptible alteration in the positions of the stars when observed from any point of the circumference of the earth's orbit were unsuccessful. copernicus ascribed the absence of any parallax to the immense distances of the stars as compared with the dimensions of the terrestrial orbit. tycho brahé, though possessing better appliances, and instruments of more perfect construction, was unable to perceive any annual displacement of the stars, and brought this forward as evidence against the copernican theory. galileo suggested a method of obtaining the parallax of the fixed stars, by observing two stars of unequal magnitude apparently near to each other, though really far apart. those, when observed from different points of the earth's orbit, would appear to change their positions relatively to each other. the smaller and more distant star would remain unaltered, whilst the larger and nearer star would have changed its position with respect to the other. by continuing to observe the larger star during the time that the earth accomplished a revolution of her orbit, galileo believed that its parallax might be successfully determined. though he did not himself put this method into practice, it has been tried by others with successful results. in , hooke made the first attempt to ascertain the parallax of a fixed star, and selected for this purpose gamma draconis, a bright star in the head of the dragon. this constellation passed near the zenith of london at the time that he made his observations, and was favourably situated, so as to avoid the effects of refraction. hooke made four observations in the months of july, august, and october, and believed that he determined the parallax of the star; but it was afterwards discovered that he was in error, and that the apparent displacement of the star was mainly due to the aberration of light--a phenomenon which was not discovered at that time. a few years later, picard, a french astronomer, attempted to find the parallax of alpha lyræ, but was unsuccessful. in - , roemer, a danish astronomer, observed irregularities in the declinations of the stars which could neither be ascribed to parallax or refraction, and which he imagined resulted from a changing position of the earth's axis. one of the principal causes which baffled astronomers in their endeavours to determine the parallax of the fixed stars was a phenomenon called the 'aberration of light,' which was discovered and explained by bradley in . the peculiar effect of aberration was perceived by him when endeavouring to obtain the parallax of gamma draconis. owing to the progressive transmission of light, conjointly with the motion of the earth in her orbit, there results an apparent slight displacement of a star from its true position. the extent of the displacement depends upon the ratio of the velocity of light as compared with the speed of the earth in her orbit, which is as , to . as a consequence of this, each star describes a small ellipse in the course of a year, the central point of which would indicate the place occupied by the star if the earth were at rest. the shifting position of the star is very slight, and at the end of a year it returns to its former place. prior to the discovery of aberration, astronomers ascribed the apparent displacement of the stars arising from this cause as being due to parallax--a conclusion which led to erroneous results; but after bradley's discovery this source of error was avoided, and it was found that the parallax of the stars had to be considerably reduced. bessel was the first astronomer who merited the high distinction of having determined the first reliable stellar parallax, and by this achievement he was enabled to fathom the profound abyss which separates our solar system from the stars. frederick william bessel was born in at minden, in westphalia. it was his intention to pursue a mercantile career, and he commenced life by becoming apprenticed to a firm of merchants at bremen. soon afterwards he accompanied a trading expedition to china and the east indies, and while on this voyage picked up a good deal of information with regard to many matters which came under his observation. he acquired a knowledge of spanish and english, and made himself acquainted with the art of navigation. on his return home, bessel endeavoured to determine the longitude of bremen. the only appliances which he made use of were a sextant constructed by himself, and a common clock; and yet, with those rude instruments, he successfully accomplished his object. during the next two years he devoted all his spare time to the study of mathematics and astronomy, and, having obtained possession of harriot's observations of the celebrated comet of --known as halley's comet--bessel, after much diligent application and careful calculation, was enabled to deduce from them an orbit, which he assigned to that remarkable body. this meritorious achievement was the means of procuring for him a widely known reputation. a vacancy for an assistant having occurred at schröter's observatory at lilienthal, the post was offered to bessel and accepted by him. here he remained for four years, and was afterwards appointed director of the new prussian observatory at königsberg, where he pursued his astronomical labours for a period of upwards of thirty years. bessel directed his energies chiefly to the study of stellar astronomy, and made many observations in determining the number, the exact positions, and proper motions of the stars. he was remarkable for the precision with which he carried out his observations, and for the accuracy which characterised all his calculations. in bessel, by the exercise of his consummate skill, endeavoured to solve a problem which for many years baffled the efforts of the ablest astronomers, viz., the determination of the parallax of the fixed stars. this had been so frequently attempted, and without success, that the results of any new observations were received with incredulity before their value could be ascertained. bessel was ably assisted by joseph frauenhofer, an eminent optician of munich, who constructed a magnificent heliometer for the observatory at königsberg, and in its design introduced a principle which admirably adapted it for micrometrical measurement. the star selected by bessel is a binary known as cygni, the components being of magnitudes · and respectively. it has a large proper motion, which led him to conclude that its parallax must be considerable. this star will always be an object of interest to astronomers, as it was the first of the stellar multitude that revealed to bessel the secret of its distance. bessel commenced his observations in october , and continued them until march . during this time he made measurements, and, before arriving at a conclusive result, carefully considered every imaginable cause of error, and rigorously calculated any inaccuracies that might arise therefrom. finally, he determined the parallax of the star to be ´´· --a result equivalent to a distance about , times that of the earth from the sun. in - m. peters, of the pulkova observatory, arrived at an almost similar result, having obtained a parallax of ´´· ; but by more recent observations the parallax of the star has been increased to about half a second. about the same time that bessel was occupied with his observation of cygni, professor henderson, of edinburgh, when in charge of the observatory at the cape of good hope, directed his attention to alpha centauri, one of the brightest stars in the southern hemisphere. during - he made a series of observations of the star, with the object of ascertaining its mean declination; and, having been informed afterwards of its large proper motion, he resolved to make an endeavour to determine its parallax. this he accomplished after his return to scotland, having been appointed astronomer royal in that country. by an examination of the observations made by him at the cape, he determined the parallax of alpha centauri to be ´´· , but later astronomers have reduced it to ´´· . professor henderson's detection of the parallax of alpha centauri was communicated to the astronomical society two months after bessel announced his determination of the parallax of cygni. the parallax of cygni assigns to the star a distance of forty billions of miles from the earth, and that of alpha centauri--regarded as the nearest star to our system--a distance of twenty-five billions of miles. it is utterly beyond the capacity of the human mind to form any adequate conception of those vast distances, even when measured by the velocity with which the ether of space is thrilled into light. light, which travels twelve millions of miles in a minute, requires - / years to cross the abyss which intervenes between alpha centauri and the earth, and from cygni the period required for light to reach our globe is rather less than double that time. the parallax of more than a dozen other stars has been determined, and the light passage of a few of the best known is estimated as follows:--sirius, eight years; procyon, twelve; altair, sixteen; aldebaran, twenty-eight; capella, thirty; regulus, thirty-five; polaris, sixty-three; and vega, ninety-six years. it does not always follow that the brightest stars are those situated nearest to our system, though in a general way this may be regarded as correct. the diminishing magnitudes of the stars can be accounted for mainly by their increased distances, rather than by any difference in their intrinsic brilliancy. we should not err by inferring that the most minute stars are also the most remote; the telescope revealing thousands that are invisible to the naked eye. there are, however, exceptions to this general rule, and there are many stars of small magnitude less remote than those whose names have been enumerated, and whose light passage testifies to their profound distances and surpassing magnitude when compared with that of our sun. sirius, 'the leader of the heavenly host,' is distant fifty billions of miles. the orb shines with a brilliancy far surpassing that of the sun, and greatly exceeds him in mass and dimensions. arcturus, the bright star in boötes, whose golden yellow light renders it such a conspicuous object, is so far distant that its measurement gives no reliable parallax; and if we may infer from what little we know of the stars, arcturus is believed to be the most magnificent and massive orb entering into the structure of that portion of the sidereal system which comes within our cognisance. judging by its relative size and brightness, this star is ten thousand times more luminous, and may exceed the sun one million times in volume. deneb, in the constellation of the swan, though a first-magnitude star, possesses no perceptible proper motion or parallax--a circumstance indicative of amazing distance, and magnitude equalling, or surpassing, arcturus and sirius. canopus, in the constellation argo, in the southern hemisphere, the brightest star in the heavens with the exception of sirius, possesses no sensible parallax; consequently, its distance is unknown, though it has been estimated that its light passage cannot be less than sixty-five years. by establishing a mean value for the parallax of stars of different magnitudes, it was believed that an approximation of their distances could be obtained by calculating the time occupied in their light passage. the light period for stars of the first magnitude has been estimated at thirty-six and a half years; this applies to the brightest stars, which are also regarded as the nearest. at the distance indicated by this period, the sun would shrink to the dimensions of a seventh-magnitude star and become invisible to the naked eye; this of itself affords sufficient proof that the great luminary of our system cannot be regarded as one of the leading orbs of the firmament. stars of the second magnitude have a mean distance of fifty-eight light years, those of the third magnitude ninety-two years, and so on. m. peters estimated that light from stars of the sixth magnitude, which are just visible to the naked eye, requires a period of years to accomplish its journey hither; whilst light emitted from the smallest stars visible in large telescopes does not reach the earth until after the lapse of thousands of years from the time of leaving its source. the profound distances of the nearest stars by which we are surrounded lead us to consider the isolated position of the solar system in space. a pinnacle of rock, or forsaken raft floating in mid-ocean, is not more distant from the shore than is the sun from his nearest neighbours. the inconceivable dimensions of the abyss by which the orb and his attendants are surrounded in utter loneliness may be partially comprehended when it is known that light, which travels from the sun to the earth--a distance of ninety-three millions of miles--in eight minutes, requires a period of four and a third years to reach us from the nearest fixed star. a sphere having the sun at its centre and this nearest star at its circumference would have a diameter of upwards of fifty billions of miles; the volume of the orb when compared with the dimensions of this circular vacuity of space is as a small shot to a globe miles in diameter. it has been estimated by father secchi that, if a comet when at aphelion were to arrive at a point midway between the sun and the nearest fixed star, it would require one hundred million years in the accomplishment of its journey thither. and yet the sun is one of a group of stars which occupy a region of the heavens adjacent to the milky way and surrounded by that zone; nor is his isolation greater than that of those stars which are his companions, and who, notwithstanding their profound distance, influence his movements by their gravitational attraction, and in combination with the other stars of the firmament control his destiny. ancient astronomers, for the purpose of description, have mapped out the heavens into numerous irregular divisions called 'constellations.' they are of various forms and sizes, according to the configuration of the stars which occupy them, and have been named after different animals, mythological heroes, and other objects which they appear to resemble. in a few instances there does exist a similitude to the object after which a constellation is called; this is evident in the case of corona borealis (the northern crown), in which there can be seen a conspicuous arrangement of stars resembling a coronet, and in the constellations of the dolphin and scorpion, where the stars are so distributed that the forms of those creatures can be readily recognised. there is some slight resemblance to a bear in ursa major, and to a lion in leo, and no great effort of the mind is required to imagine a chair in cassiopeia, and a giant in orion; but in the majority of instances it is difficult to perceive any likeness of the object after which a constellation is named, and in many cases there is no resemblance whatever. the constellations are sixty-seven in number: excluding those of the zodiac, which have been already mentioned, the constellations of the northern hemisphere number twenty-nine. the most important of these are ursa major and minor, andromeda, cassiopeia, cepheus, cygnus, lyra, aquila, auriga, draco, boötes, hercules, pegasus, and corona borealis. to an observer of the nocturnal sky the stars appear to be very unequally distributed over the celestial sphere. in some regions they are few in number and of small magnitude, whilst in other parts of the heavens, and especially in the vicinity of the milky way, they are present in great numbers and form groups and aggregations of striking appearance and conspicuous brilliancy. on taking a casual glance at the midnight sky on a clear moonless night, one is struck with the apparent countless multitude of the stars; yet this impression of their vast number is deceptive, for not more than two thousand stars are usually visible at one time. much, however, depends upon the keenness of vision of the observer, and the transparency of the atmosphere. argelander counted at bonn more than , stars, and hozeau, near the equator, where all the stars of the sphere successively appear in view, enumerated , stars. this number may be regarded as including all the stars in the heavens that are visible to the naked eye. with the aid of an opera glass thousands of stars can be seen that are imperceptible to ordinary vision. argelander, with a small telescope of - / inches aperture, was able to count , stars in the northern hemisphere. large telescopes reveal multitudes of stars utterly beyond the power of enumeration, nor do they appear to diminish in number as depth after depth of space is penetrated by powerful instruments. the star-population of the heavens has been reckoned at , , , but this estimate is merely an assumption; recent discoveries made by means of stellar photography indicate that the stars exist in myriads. it is reasonable to believe that there is a limit to the sidereal universe, but it is impossible to assign its bounds or comprehend the apparently infinite extent of its dimensions. scintillation or twinkling of the stars is a property which distinguishes them from the planets. it is due to a disturbed condition of the atmosphere and is most apparent when a star is near the horizon; at the zenith it almost entirely vanishes. humboldt states that in the clear air of cumana, in south america, the stars do not twinkle after they reach an elevation of ° above the horizon. the presence of moisture in the atmosphere intensifies scintillation, and this is usually regarded as a prognostication of rain. white stars twinkle more than red ones. the occurrence of scintillation can be accounted for by the fact that the stars are visible as single points of light which twinkle as a whole, but in the case of the sun, moon, and planets, they form discs from which many points of light are emitted; they, therefore, do not scintillate as a whole, for the absence of rays of light from one portion of their surface is compensated by those from other parts of their discs, giving a mean average which creates a steadiness of vision. the stars are divided into separate classes called 'magnitudes,' by which their relative apparent size and degree of brightness are distinguished. the magnitude of a star does not indicate its mass or dimensions, but its light-giving power, which depends partly upon its size and distance, though mainly upon the intensity of its luminosity. the most conspicuous are termed stars of the first magnitude; there are ten of those in the northern hemisphere, and an equal number south of the equator, but they are not all of the same brilliancy. sirius outshines every other star of the firmament, and arcturus has no rival in the northern heavens. the names of the first-magnitude stars north of the equator are: arcturus, capella, vega, betelgeux, procyon, aldebaran, altair, pollux, regulus, and deneb. the next class in order of brightness are called second-magnitude stars; they are fifty or sixty in number, the most important of which is the pole star. the stars diminish in luminosity by successive gradations, and when they sink to the sixth magnitude reach the utmost limit at which they appear visible to the naked eye. in great telescopes this classification is carried so low as to include stars of the eighteenth and twentieth magnitudes. entering into the structure of the stellar universe we have single stars, double stars, triple, quadruple, and multiple stars, temporary, periodical, and variable stars, star-groups, star-clusters, galaxies, and nebulæ. single or insulated stars include all those orbs sufficiently isolated in space so as not to be perceptibly influenced by the attraction of other similar bodies. they are believed to constitute the centres of planetary systems, and fulfil the purpose for which they were created by dispensing light and heat to the worlds which circle around them. the sun is an example of this class of star, and constitutes the centre of the system to which the earth belongs. reasoning from analogy, it would be natural to conclude that there are other suns, numberless beyond conception, the centres of systems of revolving worlds, and although we are utterly unable to catch a glimpse of their planetary attendants, even with the aid of the most powerful telescopes, yet they have in a few instances been _felt_, and have afforded unmistakable indications of their existence. since the sun must be regarded as one of the stellar multitude that people the regions of space, and whose surpassing splendour when contrasted with that of other luminaries can be accounted for by his proximity to us, it would be of interest to ascertain his relative importance when compared with other celestial orbs which may be his peers or his superiors in magnitude and brilliancy. the sun is one of a widely scattered group of stars situated in the plane of the milky way and surrounded by that zone, and, as a star among the stars, would be included in the constellation of the centaur. although regarded as one of the leading orbs of the firmament, and of supreme importance to us, astronomers are undecided whether to classify the sun with stars of greater magnitude and brightness, or assign him a position among minor orbs of smaller size. much uncertainty exists with regard to star magnitudes. this arises from inability on the part of astronomers to ascertain the distances of the vast majority of stars visible to the naked eye, and also on account of inequality in their intrinsic brilliancy. among the stars there exists an indefinite range of stellar magnitudes. there are many stars known whose dimensions have been ascertained to greatly exceed those of the sun, and there are others of much smaller size. no approximation of the magnitude of telescopic stars can be arrived at; many of them may rival sirius, canopus, and arcturus, in size and splendour, their apparent minuteness being a consequence of their extreme remoteness. if the sun were removed a distance in space equal to that of many of the brightest stars, he would in appearance be reduced to a minute point of light or become altogether invisible; and there are other stars, situated at distances still more remote, of which sufficient is known to justify us in arriving at the conclusion that the sun must be ranked among the minor orbs of the firmament, and that many of the stars surpass him in brilliancy and magnitude. double stars.--to the unaided eye, these appear as single points of light; but, when observed with a telescope of sufficient magnifying power, their dual nature can be detected. the first double star discovered was mizar, the middle star of the three in ursa major which form the tail of the bear. the components are of the fourth and fifth magnitudes, of a brilliant white colour, and distant fourteen seconds of arc. in , cassini perceived stars which appeared as single points of light when viewed with the naked eye, but when observed with the telescope presented the appearance of being double. the astronomer bode, in , published a list of eighty double stars, and, in a few years after, sir william herschel discovered several hundreds more of those objects. they are now known to exist in thousands, mr. burnham, of the lick observatory, having, by his keen perception of vision, contributed more than any other observer to swell their number. all double stars are not binaries; many of them are known as 'optical doubles'--an impression created by two stars when almost in the same line of vision, and, though apparently near, are situated at a great distance apart and devoid of any physical relationship. binary stars consist of two suns which revolve round their common centre of gravity, and form real dual systems. the close proximity of the components of double stars impressed the minds of some astronomers with the belief that a physical bond of union existed between them. in the interval between and , bradley detected a change of ° in the position angle of the two stars forming castor, and was very nearly discovering their physical connection. in , the rev. john michell wrote: 'it is highly probable in particular, and next to a certainty in general, that such double stars as appear to consist of two or more stars placed very near together do really consist of stars placed near together and under the influence of some general law.' afterwards he says: 'it is not improbable that a few years may inform us that some of the great number of double and triple stars which have been observed by mr. herschel are systems of bodies revolving about each other.' christian mayer, a german astronomer, formed a list of stellar pairs, and announced, in , the supposed discovery of 'satellites' to many of the principal stars. his observations were, however, not exact enough to lead to any useful results, and the existence of his 'planet stars' was at that time derided, and believed to find a place only in his imagination. the conclusions arrived at by some astronomers with regard to double stars were afterwards confirmed by herschel, when, by his observation of a change in the relative positions of many of their components, he was able to announce that they form independent systems in mutual revolution, and are controlled by the law of gravitation. the number of binary stars in active revolution is known to exceed ; but, besides these, there are doubtless numerous other compound stars which, on account of their extreme remoteness and the close proximity of their components, are irresolvable into pairs by any optical appliances which we possess. the revolution of two suns in one sphere presents to our observation a scheme of creative design entirely different to the single-star system with which we are familiar--one of a higher and more complex order in the ascending scale of celestial architecture. for, if we assume that around each revolving sun there circles a retinue of planetary worlds, it is obvious that a much more complicated arrangement must exist among the orbs which enter into the formation of such a system than is found among those which gravitate round our sun. the common centre of gravity of a binary system is situated on a line between both stars, and distant from each in inverse proportion to their respective masses. when the stars are of equal mass their orbits are of equal dimensions, but when the mass of one star exceeds that of the other, the orbit of the larger star is proportionately diminished as compared with the circumference traversed by the smaller star. when their orbits are circular--a rare occurrence--both stars pursue each other in the same path, and invariably occupy it at diametrically opposite points; nor is it possible for one star to approach the other by the minutest interval of space in any duration of time, so long as the synchronous harmony of their revolution remains undisturbed. [illustration: fig. .--a binary star system-- ophiuchi (_drawn by mr. j. e. gore._)] when a pair of suns move in an ellipse, their orbits intersect and are of equal dimensions when the stars are of equal mass, their common centre of gravity being then at a point equidistant from each. consequently, neither star can approach or recede from this point without the other affecting a similar motion, they must be at periastron and apastron together, and any acceleration or retardation of speed must occur simultaneously with each. stars of unequal magnitude always maintain a proportionate distance from their common focus, and both simultaneously occupy corresponding parts of their orbits. the nature of the motions of those distant suns, and the form of the orbits which they traverse, have been investigated by several eminent astronomers, and although the subject is one of much difficulty, on account of their extreme remoteness and the minute angles which have to be dealt with, necessitating the carrying out of very refined observations, yet a considerable amount of information has been obtained with regard to the paths which they pursue in the accomplishment of their revolutions round each other. the orbits of about sixty stellar pairs have been computed, but only with partial success. some stars have shown themselves to be totally regardless of theory and computation, and have shot ahead far beyond the limits ascribed to them, whilst others, by the slowness of their motions, have upset the calculations of astronomers as much in the opposite direction. so that out of this number the orbits of not more than half a dozen are satisfactorily known. the dimensions of stellar orbits are of very varied extent. some pairs are apparently so close that the best optical means which we possess are incapable of dividing them, whilst others revolve in wide and spacious orbits. the most marked peculiarity of the orbits of binary stars is their high eccentricity; they are usually much more eccentric than are those of the planets, and in some instances approach in form that of a comet. the finest binary star in the northern heavens is castor, the brighter of the two leading stars in the constellation gemini. the components are of the second and third magnitudes, and over five seconds apart. they are of a brilliant white colour, and form a beautiful object in the telescope. in bradley determined the relative positions of those stars, and on comparing the results obtained by him with recent measurements it was found that they had altered to the extent of °. travelling at the same rate of speed, they will require a period of about years to complete an entire circuit of their orbits. this pace, however, has not been maintained, for, their periastron having occurred in , they travelled more rapidly in the last century than they are doing at present, and, as their orbits are so eccentric that when at apastron the stars are twice as remote from each other as at periastron, they will for the next three and a half centuries continue to slacken their pace, until they shall have reached the most remote points of their orbits, when they will again begin to approach with an increasing velocity; so that the time in which an entire revolution can be accomplished will not be much less than , years.[ ] as the distance of castor is unknown, it is impossible to compute the combined mass of its components. they are very remote, their light period being estimated at forty-four years. castor is doubtless a more massive orb than our sun, and possesses a higher degree of luminosity. alpha centauri, in the southern hemisphere, is the brightest binary, and also the nearest known star in the heavens; its estimated distance being twenty-five billions of miles. both components equal stars of the first magnitude, and are of a brilliant white colour. since they were first observed, in , they have completed two revolutions, and are now accomplishing a third. the eccentricity of their orbit approaches in form that of faye's comet, which travels round the sun; consequently the stars, when at apastron, are twice their periastron distance. their period of revolution is about eighty-eight years. the mean radius of their orbit corresponds to a span of , millions of miles, so that those orbs are sometimes as close to each other as jupiter is to the sun, and never so far distant as uranus.[ ] their combined mass is twice that of the sun, and the luminosity of each star is slightly greater. the double star cygni--one of the nearest to our system--is believed to be a binary the components of which move in an orbit of more spacious dimensions than that of any other known revolving pair. though they have been under continuous observation since , it is only within the last few years that any orbital motion has been perceived. some observers are disinclined to admit the accuracy of this statement; whilst others believe that the stars have executed a hyperbolic sweep round their common centre of gravity and are now separating. the radius of the orbit in which those bodies travel is sixty-five times the distance of the earth from the sun; which means that they travel in an orbit twice the width of that of the planet neptune. it has been estimated that they complete a revolution in about eight centuries. the united mass of the system is about one-half that of the sun, and in point of luminosity they are much inferior to that orb. the star ophiuchi (fig. ) may be regarded as typical of a binary system. the components are five seconds apart, and of the fourth and sixth magnitudes. their light period is stated to be twenty years, and the combined mass of the system is nearly three times that of the sun. the pair travel in an orbit from fourteen to forty-two times the radius of the earth's orbit; so that when at apastron they are three times as distant from each other as when at periastron. they complete a revolution in eighty-eight years. the accompanying diagram (fig. ) is a delineation of the beautiful orbits of the components of gamma virginis. these may be described as elongated ellipses. both stars being of equal mass, their orbits are of equal dimensions, and their common centre of gravity at a point equidistant from each. any approach to, or recession from this point, must occur simultaneously with each; they must always occupy corresponding parts of their orbits, and be in apastron and at periastron in the same period of time. the ellipse described by this pair is the most eccentric of known binary orbits, and approaches in form the path pursued by encke's comet round the sun. these orbs complete a revolution in years, and when in apastron are seventeen times more remote from each other than when at periastron. [illustration: fig. .--the orbits of the components of gamma virginis.] from his observation of the motion of sirius in , bessel was led to believe that the brilliant orb was accompanied by another body, whose gravitational attraction was responsible for the irregularities observed in the path of the great dog-star when pursuing his journey through space. the elements of this hypothetical body were afterwards computed by peters and auwers, and its exact position assigned by safford in . on january , , mr. alvan clarke, of cambridgeport, massachusetts, when engaged in testing a recently constructed telescope of great power, directed it on sirius, and was enabled by good fortune to discover the companion star at a distance of ten seconds from its primary. since its discovery, the star has pursued with such precision the theoretical path previously assigned to it that astronomers have had no hesitation in identifying it as the hypothetical body whose existence bessel had correctly surmised. [illustration: fig. .--apparent orbit of the companion of sirius. (_drawn by mr. burnham._)] the sirian satellite is a yellow star of the eighth magnitude, and shines with a feeble light when contrasted with the surpassing brilliancy of its neighbour. astronomers were for some time in doubt as to whether the uneven motion which characterised the path of sirius could be ascribed to the attraction of its obscure attendant, which presented such a marked contrast to its primary, and several observers were inclined to believe that the disturbing body still remained undiscovered. when, however, the density of the lesser star became known, it was discovered that, weight for weight, that of sirius exceeded it only in the proportion of two to one, though as a light-giver the great orb is believed to be , times more luminous. the sirian satellite revolves round its primary in about fifty years, and at a distance twenty-eight times that of the earth from the sun. the surpassing brilliancy of sirius as compared with that of the other stars of the firmament has rendered it at all times an object of interest to observers. the egyptians worshipped the star as sothis, and it was believed to be the abode of the soul of isis. the nations inhabiting the region of the nile commenced their year with the heliacal rising of sirius, and its appearance was regarded as a sure forerunner of the rising of the great river, the fertilising flood of which was attributed to the influence of this beautiful star. it is believed that the mazzaroth in job is an allusion to this brilliant orb. among the romans sirius was regarded as a star of evil omen; its appearance above the horizon after the summer solstice was believed to be associated with pestilence and fevers, consequent upon the oppressive heat of the season of the year. the _dies caniculares_, or dog-days, were reckoned to begin twenty days before, and to continue for twenty days after, the heliacal rising of sirius, the dog-star. during those days a peculiar influence was believed to exist which created diseases in men and madness among dogs. homer alludes to the star 'whose burning breath taints the red air with fevers, plagues and death.' sirius, which is in canis major (one of orion's hunting dogs), is a far more glorious orb than our sun. according to recent photometric measurements it emits seventy times the quantity of light, and is three times more massive than the great luminary of our system. at the distance of sirius (fifty billions of miles) the sun would shrink to the dimensions of a third-magnitude star, and the light of seventy such stars would be required to equal in appearance the brilliant radiance of the great dog-star. the orb, with his retinue of attendant worlds--some of which are reported as having been seen--is travelling through space with a velocity of not less than , miles a minute. an irregularity of motion resembling that of sirius has been detected with regard to procyon, the lesser dog-star. but in this case the companion star has not as yet been seen, though a careful search has been made for it with the most powerful of telescopes. should it be a planetary body, illumined by its primary, its reflected light would not appear visible to us, even if it were much less remote than it is. we are able only to perceive the effulgence of brilliant suns scattered throughout the regions of space; but besides those, there are doubtless many faintly luminous orbs and opaque bodies of vast dimensions occupying regions unknown to us, but by a knowledge of the existence of which an enlarged conception is conveyed to our minds of the greatness of the universe. the most rapid of known revolving pairs is delta equulei. the components are so close that only the finest instruments can separate them, and this they cannot do at all times. they accomplish a revolution in eleven and a half years. the slowest revolving pair is zeta aquarii. the motion of the components is so tardy that to complete a circuit of their orbits they require a period of about sixteen centuries. other binary stars have had different periods assigned to them; eleven pairs have been computed to revolve round each other in less than fifty years, and fifteen in less than but more than fifty. there are other compound stars whose motions appear to be much more leisurely than those just mentioned, and although no orbital movement has, so far, been detected among them, yet, so vast is the scale upon which the sidereal system is constructed, that thousands of years must elapse before they can have accomplished a revolution of their orbits. the pole star is an optical double, but the components are of very unequal magnitude. the pole star itself is of the second magnitude, but its companion is only of the ninth, and on account of its minuteness is regarded as a good test for telescopes of small aperture. mizar, in the constellation ursa major, is a beautiful double star. the components are wide apart, and can be easily observed with a small instrument. there is a remarkable star in the constellation of the lyre (epsilon lyræ), described as a double double. this object can just be distinguished by a person with keen eyesight as consisting of two stars; when observed with a telescope they appear widely separated, and each star is seen to have a companion, the entire system forming two binary pairs in active revolution. the pair which first cross the meridian complete a revolution in about , years; the second pair have a more rapid motion, and accomplish it in half that time. the two pairs are believed to be physically connected, and revolve round their common centre of gravity in a period of time not much under one million years. cor caroli, in canes venatici, is a pleasing double star, the components being of a pale white and lilac colour. albireo, in the constellation of the swan, is one of the loveliest of double stars. the larger component is of the third magnitude, and of a golden yellow colour; the smaller of the sixth magnitude, and of a sapphire blue. epsilon boötis, known also as mirac, and called by admiral smyth 'pulcherrima,' on account of its surpassing beauty, is a delicate object of charming appearance. the components of this lovely star are of the third and seventh magnitudes: the primary orange, the secondary sea-green. the late mr. r. a. proctor, in describing a binary star system, writes as follows: 'if we regard a pair of stars as forming a double sun, round which--or, rather, round the common centre of which--other orbs revolve as planets, we are struck by the difference between such a scheme and our own solar system; but we find the difference yet more surprising when we consider the possibility that in some such schemes each component sun may have its own distinct system of dependent worlds. in the former case the ordinary state of things would probably be such that both suns would be above the horizon at the same time, and then, probably, their distinctive peculiarities would only be recognisable when one chanced to pass over the disc of the other, as our moon passes over the sun's disc in eclipses. for short intervals of time, however, at rising or setting, one or other would be visible alone; and the phenomena of sunset and sunrise must therefore be very varied, and also exquisitely beautiful, in worlds circling round such double suns. but when each sun has a separate system, even more remarkable relations must be presented. for each system of dependent worlds, besides its own proper sun, must have another sun--less splendid, perhaps (because farther off), but still brighter beyond comparison than our moon at the full. and, according to the position of any planet of either system, there will result for the time being either an interchange of suns, instead of the change from night to day, or else double sunlight during the day, and a corresponding intensified contrast between night and day. where the two suns are very unequal or very differently coloured, or where the orbital path of each is very eccentric, so that they are sometimes close together and at others far apart, the varieties in the worlds circling round either, or around the common centre of both, must be yet more remarkable. "it must be confessed," we may well say with sir john herschel, "that we have here a strangely wide and novel field for speculative excursions, and one which it is not easy to avoid luxuriating in."' anyone who takes a cursory glance at the heavens on a clear night can readily perceive that there exists considerable diversity of colour among the stars. the contrast between some is pronounced and well marked, whilst others exhibit refined gradations of hue. the most numerous class of stars are those which are described as white or colourless. they comprise about one-half of the stars visible to the naked eye. among the most conspicuous examples of this type are sirius--whose diamond blaze is sometimes mingled with an occasional flash of blue and red--altair, spica, castor, regulus, rigel, all the stars of ursa major with the exception of one, and vega--a glittering gem of pale sapphire, almost colourless. the light emitted by stars of this class gives a continuous spectrum, the predominating element being hydrogen, having a very elevated temperature and under relatively high pressure. the vapours of iron, sodium, magnesium, and other metals, are indicated as existing in small quantities. the second class of stars is that to which our sun belongs. they are of a yellow colour, and embrace two-thirds of the remaining stars. the most prominent examples of this type are arcturus, capella, aldebaran, procyon, and pollux. hydrogen does not predominate so much in these as in the sirian stars, and their spectra resemble closely the solar spectrum, indicating that they are composed of elements similar to those which exist in the sun. the star which bears the nearest resemblance to our sun, both as regards the colour of its light and physical structure, is capella, the most conspicuous star in the constellation auriga, and one of the leading brilliants in the northern hemisphere. its spectrum presents all the characteristics observed in the solar spectrum, and there exists an almost identical similarity in their physical constitution, though capella is a much more magnificent orb than the sun. the third class of stars includes those which are of a ruddy hue, such as betelgeux in the right shoulder of orion, antares in scorpio, and alpha herculis. their spectra present a banded or columnar appearance, and there is greater absorption, especially of the blue rays of light. it is believed that the temperature of stars of this colour is not so elevated as that of those belonging to the other two orders, and that this is a sufficient reason to account for the different appearance of their spectra. the aid of a good telescope is, however, necessary to enable us to perceive the varied colours and tints of the sparkling gems with which nature has adorned her star-built edifice of the universe. most of the precious stones on earth have their counterparts in the heavens, presenting in a jewelled form contrasts of colour, pleasing harmonies, and endless variety of shade. the diamond, sapphire, emerald, amethyst, topaz, and ruby sparkle among crowds of stars of more sombre hue. agate, chalcedony, onyx, opal, beryl, lapis-lazuli, and aquamarine are represented by the radiant sheen emanating from distant suns, displaying an inexhaustible variety of colour, blended in tints of untold harmony. it is among double stars that the richest and most varied colours predominate. there are pairs of white, yellow, orange, and red stars; yellow and blue, yellow and pale emerald, yellow and rose red, yellow and fawn, green and gold, azure and crimson, golden and azure, orange and emerald, orange and lilac, orange and purple, orange and green, white and blue, white and lilac, lilac and dark purple, &c., &c. there are companion stars revolving round their primaries, coloured olive, lilac, russet, fawn, dun, buff, grey, and other shades indistinguishable by any name. our knowledge of binary star systems brings us to what may be regarded as the threshold of the fabric of the heavens. for it is known that other systems exist into the construction of which numerous stars enter. these form intricate and complex stellar arrangements, in which the component stars are physically united and retained in their orbits by their mutual attraction. chapter vii the starry heavens triple, quadruple, and multiple stars.--these, when observed with the naked eye, appear as single stars, but, when examined with a high magnifying power, each lucid point can be resolved into several component stars. they vary in number from three to half a dozen or more, and form systems of a more complex character than what are observed in the case of binary stars. in the usual construction of a triple system, the secondary star of a binary is resolvable into two, each star being in mutual revolution, whilst they both gravitate round their primary. by another arrangement, a close pair control the movements of a distant attendant. one of the most interesting of triple stars is the tricoloured gamma andromedæ. the brilliant components of this system have their counterparts in the topaz, the emerald, and the sapphire--the larger star is of the third magnitude and of a golden yellow colour; the secondary of the fifth magnitude and of an emerald green. these stars are ten seconds apart, and, though they have been under observation since , no orbital movement has as yet been detected, but their common proper motion indicates their close relationship and physical connection. in , otto struve discovered that the companion star is itself double, and round it there gravitates a sapphire sun, which is believed to accomplish a revolution of its orbit in about years. if round those suns there should be circling planetary systems of worlds inhabited by intelligent beings, the varied effects produced by the light emanating from those different coloured orbs would be of a very beautiful and pleasing nature. a system suggestive of the endless variety of stellar arrangement that exists throughout the sidereal regions is apparent in the case of the triple star zeta cancri. two of the stars, of magnitudes six and seven, form a binary in rapid revolution, the components of which complete a circuit of their orbits in fifty-eight years, whilst the more distant third star, of almost similar magnitude, accomplishes a wide orbital ellipse round the other two in or years. these stars have been closely observed by astronomers during the past forty years, with the result that their motions have appeared most perplexing, and complicated beyond precedent. 'if this be really a ternary system,' wrote sir john herschel, 'connected by the mutual attraction of its parts, its perturbations will present one of the most intricate problems in physical astronomy.' the second star revolves round its primary, whilst the third pursues a retrograde course, but its path, instead of being even, presents the appearance of a series of circular loopings, in traversing which the star alternately quickens and slackens its pace, or at times appears to be stationary. astronomers have arrived at the conclusion that these perturbations are produced by the presence of a fourth member, which, though invisible, is probably the most massive of the system--perhaps a magnificent world teeming with animated beings, and attended by three suns which gravitate round it, dispensing light and heat to meet the requirements of the various forms of life which exist on its surface. in this system we have an arrangement the reverse of what exists in the solar system, where all the planets revolve round a predominant sun; but here there is a strange verification of the old ptolemaic belief with regard to the path of a sun, though in this instance there are three suns circling round a dark globe which they illumine and vivify. triple stars occur with comparative frequency throughout the heavens. in monoceros there is a fine triple star, discovered by herschel, which he describes as 'one of the most beautiful sights in the heavens.' the stars xi and beta scorpii form triple systems in which the components are differently arranged. in xi the primary and secondary consist of two revolving stars which control the movements of a distant attendant; in beta the primary and secondary stars are in mutual revolution, whilst round the former there circles a very close minute companion. there are doubtless many binary stars which, if examined with adequate telescopic power, would resolve themselves into triple and multiple systems, but the profound distances of those objects render the detection of their components a most difficult task. quadruple stars are usually arranged in pairs, _i.e._ the primary and secondary of a binary system are each resolvable into two, forming two pairs, each pair being in mutual revolution, while they both gravitate round their common centre of gravity. epsilon lyræ, which has been described as a double double, is an example of a quadruple system, and nu scorpii is of a similar construction, but more beautiful because its components are in closer proximity to each other. close upon twenty of those double double systems have been discovered in different parts of the heavens. one of the most interesting of quadruple systems is theta orionis, which is situated in the great nebula, by which it is surrounded. this star, when observed with a telescope of low power, can be at once resolved into four separate lucent points, so arranged as to form a quadrilateral figure or trapezium. they are of the fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth magnitudes, and described as pale white, garnet, faint lilac, and red. though they have been under careful observation for upwards of two centuries, no perceptible motion has been perceived as occurring among them, nor has there been any change in their relative positions--they appear to be perfectly motionless; but we must not infer from this that no physical bond of union exists between them, for they are situated at an amazing distance from the earth. ascending higher in the scale of celestial architecture, we have multiple stars forming systems still more elaborate and complex, into the structure of which numerous stars enter, and they, as they increase in number, gradually merge into star-clusters. if we assume that around each of the components of a multiple star there circles a retinue of planetary worlds, we are confronted with a most perplexing problem as to how the dynamical stability of a system so different from, and so vastly more complicated than, that of our solar system is maintained--where, as it were, suns and planets intermingle--how numerous circling orbs can accomplish their revolutions without being swayed and deflected from their paths by the gravitational attraction of adjacent members of the same system. perplexing though the arrangement of such a scheme may be to our conception, yet, each orb has been weighed, poised, and adjusted by infinite wisdom, to perform its intricate motions in synchronous harmony with other members of the system--all moving in unison like the parts of a complicated piece of mechanism, and maintained in stable equilibrium by their mutual attraction-- mystical dance, which yonder starry sphere of planets and of fixed in all her wheels resembles nearest; mazes intricate, eccentric, intervolved, yet regular then most, when most irregular they seem; and in their motions harmony divine so smooths her charming tones that god's own ear listens delighted.--v. - . all the natural phenomena with which we are familiar would, in the case of planets revolving round the component suns of a multiple system, be of a different kind or altogether absent. instead of being illumined by one sun, those worlds would, at certain times, have several suns--some more distant than others--above their horizons, and upon very rare occasions, if ever, would there be an entire absence of all of those orbs from their skies. consequently there would be no year such as we are familiar with; no regular sequence of seasons similar to what is experienced on earth; no alternation of day and night, for there would be '_no night there_,' though, in the absence of the primary orb, the light emitted by distant suns, whilst sufficient to banish night, and beyond comparison brighter than the moon when at full, would, in the diminution of its intensity from that of noonday, be as grateful a change as that of from day to night which occurs on our globe. should those suns be differently coloured, each emitting its own peculiar shade of light as it appears above the horizon, the varied aspects of the perpetual day enjoyed by the inhabitants of those circling worlds present to the imagination harmonies of light and shade over which it is pleasant to linger. temporary, periodical, and variable stars.--it may seem remarkable that among so many thousands of stars which spangle the firmament, there should occur no very perceptible change or variation in their aspect and brilliancy. from age to age they present the same appearance, shine with the same undiminished splendour, and rise and set with the same regularity. so that from time immemorial the stars have been regarded by mankind as the embodiment of all that is eternal and unchangeable. yet, the serenity of the celestial regions does not always remain undisturbed--at occasional times a 'nova,' or new star, blazes forth unexpectedly in the heavens, and perplexes astronomers; and, after shining with a varying degree of brilliancy for a few weeks or months, gradually diminishes in size and brightness and eventually becomes lost to sight. a record has been kept of about twenty temporary stars that have been observed at various periods since the time that reliable data of those objects have been published. pliny mentions the appearance of a new star in the time of hipparchus ( b.c.); it was seen in the constellation of the scorpion, and it is said that it was the apparition of this star which induced the celebrated astronomer to construct what is known as the earliest star catalogue. a new star is said to have become visible when the emperor honorius ruled, and another during the reign of the emperor otho, about a.d. in may a new star appeared in aries, and in july another was observed in scorpio, which resembled saturn. the most remarkable star of this kind was one observed by tycho brahé, which appeared in the constellation cassiopeia. he first perceived it on november , . in lustre it equalled jupiter, and when at its brightest rivalled venus; it was visible at noonday, and at night its light could be perceived through strata of cloud which rendered all other stars invisible. the star maintained its brilliancy for three weeks, when it became of a yellowish colour and perceptibly decreased in size; it afterwards assumed a ruddy hue resembling aldebaran, and, diminishing gradually in magnitude and brightness, ceased to be visible in march . it twinkled more than the other stars, and during the time it could be perceived its position remained unchanged. in a conspicuous new star burst forth in ophiuchus. it surpassed in brilliancy stars of the first magnitude, and outshone the planet jupiter, which was in its proximity. kepler observed this star, and described it as 'sparkling like a diamond with prismatic tints.' it soon began to decline after its appearance; in march it had shrunk to the dimensions of a third-magnitude star, and in a year later it became entirely lost to view. other stars of the same class, though of a less conspicuous character, have been observed at occasional times. anthelme, a carthusian monk, discovered one near beta cygni in ; another appeared in ophiuchus in ; one in scorpio in ; one in corona borealis in ; in cygnus in ; in andromeda in ; and in auriga in . various theories have been advanced in order to account for the sudden outbursts of those stars, the light from which has probably occupied not much less than one hundred years in its passage hither. it has been suggested that the collision of two suns, or of two great masses of matter, would create such phenomena; but, apart from the improbability of such a catastrophe occurring among the celestial orbs, the rapid subsidence in the luminosity of the observed objects would indicate that the outburst was produced by causes of a more rapidly transitory nature than what would result from the collision of two condensed masses of matter. a collision occurring between two swarms of meteors has been suggested as one way of accounting for the sudden appearance of those stars; but another, and more plausible, explanation is that they are produced by a great eruption of glowing gas from the interior of a sun, causing an enormous increase in its luminosity, which subsides after a time, and is succeeded by a normal condition of things. it has been observed that all those temporary stars, with the exception of two, have appeared in the region of the milky way. in this luminous zone the condensation of small gaseous stars and nebulæ is more pronounced than in any other part of the heavens, and this would seem to indicate that there may be cosmical changes taking place among them which need not be associated with the occurrence of catastrophes resulting in the conflagration of worlds, and that nature, in accomplishing her purposes, does not overstep the uniform working of her laws, upon which depend the stability and existence of the universe. periodical and variable stars are distinguished from other similar objects by the fluctuations which occur in the quantity of light emitted by them. the difference in the luminosity of some stars is at times so marked that, in a few weeks or months, they decline from the first or second magnitudes to invisibility, and, after the expiration of a certain period, they again gradually regain their pristine condition. when these changes take place with regular recurrence, they are called 'periodical;' when they occur in a variable and uncertain manner, they are called 'irregular.' about stars are known as variable, but the majority of them are telescopic objects. their periodical changes of brilliancy present every degree of variety; in some stars they are scarcely perceptible and occur at long intervals; in others, changes of brightness occur in a few hours or days, by which the light emitted is intensified many hundreds of times. some stars accomplish their cycle of change in a few days, many in a few weeks or months, and there are others which do not complete their periods until the expiration of a number of years. one of the most remarkable of variable stars is called mira 'the wonderful,' in the constellation cetus. when at its maximum brilliancy it shines for two or three weeks as a star of the second magnitude. it then begins to gradually decline, and at the end of three months becomes invisible. it remains invisible for five months, and then reappears, and during the ensuing three months it regains by degrees its former brilliancy. mira completes a cycle of its changes in days, and, during that time, oscillates between a star of the second and tenth magnitude. the variability of mira ceti was first observed by david fabricius in the sixteenth century. another remarkable star is eta argus, which is surrounded by the great nebula in the constellation argo navis. it is invisible to the naked eye, but in the telescope it has a reddish appearance, and is slightly brighter than the stars in its vicinity. it was first observed by halley in , and it was then of the fourth magnitude. in it had risen to the second magnitude, and maintained its position as a star of this class until , when, on december of that year, its brilliancy suddenly increased, and it equalled in a short time alpha centauri. it reached its maximum in , and then it was surpassed only by sirius. it maintained its brilliancy for about ten years. in , it declined to the second magnitude, in to the third, and, gradually diminishing, it became invisible to the naked eye in . it is now of the seventh magnitude, and is again increasing, and may soon resume its position among the other stars. it is believed to have a period of seventy years, and in that time its light ebbs and flows between the seventh and first magnitudes. the most interesting variable star in the heavens is algol (the demon), in the constellation perseus. its light fluctuations can be observed without the aid of a telescope, and it completes a cycle of its changes in two or three days. for about two days and thirteen hours it is conspicuously visible as a star of the second magnitude; it then begins to decline, and in about four hours sinks to the dimensions of a fourth-magnitude star; it remains in this condition for twenty minutes, and then increases gradually until, at the expiration of four hours, it regains its former brilliancy, which it sustains for two days and thirteen hours, when it again goes through the same cycle of changes in a precisely similar manner to what has been described. astrologers have ascribed many evil influences to the demon star, which adorned the head of medusa; nor did it escape the observation of ancient astronomers that this malevolent orb is--as a modern writer amusingly remarks--slowly winking at us from out the depths of space. variable stars are found in greater numbers in some parts of the heavens than in others. those of a white colour, and with shorter and more regular periods, are most numerous in the region of the milky way; those that are small, with long periods and of a reddish hue, are more widely removed from that zone. stars of this class are all very remote, and no attempt has as yet been made to ascertain the parallax of algol. several theories have been suggested in order to account for the periodical brilliancy of those stars. it has been suggested that the stars have opaque non-luminous patches on their surfaces, and that during axial rotation their light ebbs and flows according as the dark or bright portions are turned towards us. this theory is highly improbable. another and more plausible reason, especially with regard to short period variables, is, that around those stars there revolve opaque bodies or satellites which at times intercept a portion of their light by producing a partial eclipse of their discs, similar to that caused by the dark body of the moon when passing between the sun and the earth. it is now known that in the case of variables of the algol type, the periodical fluctuations of their light arises from this cause, and that round algol there is a dark world or satellite travelling, which completes a revolution of its orbit in about sixty-nine hours, and that, during each circuit, it intercepts one half of the light of its primary by partially eclipsing the orb, and thereby creating a diminution in its apparent magnitude which becomes perceptible at recurring intervals. star groups.--these are plentifully scattered over the heavens and, by their conspicuous brilliancy, add to the grandeur and magnificence of the midnight sky. the hyades in taurus, of which aldebaran is the chief, forming the eye of the bull, attract attention. the stars in coma bernices form a rich group; the sickle in leo, the seven stars in ursa major, and those in cassiopeia and aquila are familiarly known to all observers. besides these, there are many other groups and aggregations of stars which adorn the celestial vault and enhance the beauty of the heavens. star clusters.--on observing the heavens on a clear, dark night, there can be seen in different parts of the sky closely aggregated groups of stars called clusters. in some instances the component stars are so near together that the naked eye is unable to discern the individual members of the cluster. they then assume an indistinct, hazy, cloudlike appearance. upwards of clusters are known to astronomers, the majority of which are very remote. many of them contain thousands of stars compressed into a very small space, and others are so distant that the largest telescopes are incapable of resolving their nebulous appearance into separate stars. star clusters have been arranged into two classes, 'irregular' and 'globular;' but no sharp line of demarcation exists between them, though each have their distinctive peculiarities. irregular clusters consist of aggregations of stars brought promiscuously together, and presenting an appearance devoid of any structural arrangement. they are of different shapes and sizes, possess no distinct outline, and are not condensed towards their centre, like those that are globular. on examination, they present an intricate reticulated appearance; streams and branches of stars extend outwards from the parent cluster, sometimes in rows and sinuous lines, and, in other instances, diverging from a common centre, forming sprays. sometimes the stars are seen to follow each other on the same curve which terminates in loops and arches of symmetrical proportions. there are three conspicuous clusters in the northern sky that are visible to the naked eye--viz. the pleiades in taurus, the great cluster in the sword-handle of perseus, and praesepe in cancer, commonly called the beehive. the cluster which from time immemorial has had bestowed upon it the chief attention of mankind are the beautiful pleiades or seven sisters, and intertwined among its stars are the legendary and mythological beliefs of ancient nations and untutored tribes inhabiting the different regions of the globe. when viewed with a telescope of moderate size the cluster appears as a scattered group, and numerous stars become visible that are imperceptible to ordinary vision. in the sword-handle of perseus there is a cluster which, to the naked eye, appears as a small patch of luminous cloud. this inconspicuous object when observed with an instrument of moderate power is resolved into a magnificent assemblage of stars, and presents a spectacle which creates in the mind of the beholder mingled feelings of admiration and amazement. no telescope has yet penetrated its utmost depths, or revealed all the glories of this shining region, crowded with glittering points of light comparable in number to the pebbles strewn on the shore of a troubled sea. the cluster praesepe in cancer is visible on a clear night to the unaided eye as a small nebula. this object attracted the attention of galileo, to which he applied his newly invented telescope, and was delighted to find that his glass was capable of resolving it into a group of stars thirty-six in number, and all of comparatively large magnitude. the disappearance of praesepe in consequence of the condensation of vapour in the atmosphere was regarded by the ancients as a sure indication of approaching rain. in the same constellation, near the crab's southern claw, there is another rich cluster, which consists of stars of the ninth and tenth magnitudes. in sobieski's shield there is a magnificent fan-shaped cluster of minute stars with a prominent one in its centre; and in the constellation of the southern cross there is a cluster which, on account of the varied colours of its component stars, has been compared by sir john herschel to 'a piece of rich fancy jewellery;' eight of the principal stars being coloured red, green, and blue. globular clusters.--these have been described by herschel as 'the most magnificent objects that can be seen in the heavens.' they are all very remote, of a rounded form, and when viewed with a telescope present the appearance of 'a ball of stars.' in some clusters the constituent stars are distinguishable as minute points of light; in others, more remote, they are of a coarse granular texture, and in those still more distant they resemble a 'heap of golden sand.' some clusters are situated at such a profound distance in space that it is impossible with the most powerful of telescopes to define their stellar structure; all that can be distinguished of these is a cloudy luminosity resembling in appearance an irresolvable nebula. globular clusters usually present a radiated appearance. rays, branches, and spiral-shaped streams of stars appear to flow from the circumference of some; and, in other instances, fantastic appendages of stars project outwards from the parent cluster. there doubtless exists much variety in the structural arrangement of these clusters, and an equal diversity in the magnitude and number of the stars which enter into their formation. the stars in some clusters may equal those of the first magnitude, and in others they may not exceed in dimensions the minor planets. in the telescope they vary in size from the eleventh to the fifteenth magnitude; the smaller stars occupy the centre of a cluster, whilst the larger ones are found near its circumference. globular clusters are more condensed towards their centre than those of irregular shape, and some have a nucleated appearance. this apparent condensation is not altogether owing to the depth of star strata as viewed from the circumference of the cluster, but there appears to exist an attractive force (probably gravitational) which draws the stars towards its centre, and if this 'clustering power' were not opposed by some other counteracting force, those bodies would coalesce into one mass. it may be 'that a centrifugal impulse predominates by which full-grown orbs are driven from the nursery of suns in which they were reared to seek their separate fortunes and enter on an independent career elsewhere.' it is not known how the dynamical equilibrium of a star cluster is maintained; and on account of its extreme distance no motion is perceptible among its component stars. the laws by which those stellar aggregations are produced and governed are wrapped in obscurity, and the nature of the motions of their stars, whether towards concentration or diffusion, cannot at present be ascertained. if those globular clusters could be observed sufficiently near, they would most probably expand into vast systems of suns occupying immense regions of space. the largest and most magnificent globular cluster in the heavens is omega centauri, in the southern hemisphere. to the naked eye it resembles a round, indistinct, cometary object, about equal to a star of the fourth magnitude; but when observed with a powerful telescope it appears as a globe of considerable dimensions composed of innumerable stars of the thirteenth and fifteenth magnitudes, all exceedingly minute and gathered into small knots and groups. a remarkable cluster in toucani is described by sir john herschel as 'most magnificent; very large; very bright, and very much compressed in the middle.' the interior mass consists of closely aggregated pale rose-coloured stars, surrounded by others of a pure white which embrace the remainder of the cluster. there is a fine globular cluster in sagittarius between the archer's head and the bow. it was observed by hevelius in . the central portion is very much compressed, and consists of excessively minute stars enclosed by others of larger size. in aquarius there is a magnificent ball of stars of a beautiful spherical form, which sir j. herschel compared to a heap of fine sand. numerous other clusters are profusely distributed over the heavens, occupying regions in the profound depths of space which can only be reached by the aid of most powerful instruments. the finest and most remarkable object of this class visible in the northern heavens is the great cluster which lies between eta and zeta herculis. it was discovered by halley in , who writes: 'this is but a little patch, but it shows itself to the naked eye when the sky is serene and the moon absent.' when observed with a powerful telescope its magnificence at once becomes apparent to the beholder. 'perhaps,' says dr. nichol, 'no one ever saw it for the first time through a telescope without uttering a shout of wonder.' at its circumference the stars are rather scattered, but towards the centre they appear so closely aggregated that their combined effulgence forms a perfect blaze of light. sir william herschel estimated that there are , stars in the cluster, each a magnificent world but unaccompanied by any planetary attendants. [illustration: cluster in hercules] as a result of more recent investigations this number has been considerably reduced, and it is now generally believed that about , stars enter into the formation of the cluster. as its distance from the earth is unknown, it follows that there must be some uncertainty attached to any conclusions that may be arrived at with regard to this superb object. miss agnes clerke estimates the number of the constituent stars at , , and in support of her conclusion this talented lady writes as follows: 'the apparent diameter of this object, including most of the "scattered stars in streaky masses and lines" which form a sort of "glory" round it, is ´; that of its truly spherical portion may be put at ´. now, a globe subtending an angle of ´ must have (because the sine of that angle is to radius nearly as to : ) a real diameter / of its distance from the eye, which, if we assume to be such as would correspond to a parallax of / of a second, we find that the cluster, outliers apart, measures , millions of miles across. light, in other words, occupies thirty-six days in traversing it, but sixty-five years in journeying thence hither. its components may be regarded, on an average, as of the twelfth magnitude; for, although the divergent stars rank much higher in the scale of brightness, the central ones, there is reason to believe, are notably fainter. the sum total of their light, if concentrated into one stellar point, would at any rate very little (if at all) exceed that of a third-magnitude star. and one star of the third is equivalent to just four thousand stars of the twelfth magnitude. hence we arrive at the conclusion that the stars in the hercules cluster number much more nearly four than fourteen thousand.' for what purpose do those thousands of clustering orbs shine? who can tell? night is unknown in the regions illumined by their brilliant radiance. this stupendous aggregation of suns testifies to the magnificence of the starry heavens, and to the omnipotence of the creator. galaxies.--these consist of vast aggregations of stars which form separate 'island universes' floating in the depths of space; they are believed to equal in magnitude and magnificence the milky way--the galaxy to which our system belongs. nebulÆ.--we now reach the last, and what are believed to be the most distant of the known contents of the heavens. they are all exceedingly remote, devoid of any perceptible motion, faintly luminous, and, with the exception of two of their number, invisible to the naked eye. halley was the first astronomer who paid any attention to those objects. in he enumerated six of them, but of this number only two can, in a strict sense, be regarded as nebulæ, the others since then have been resolved into magnificent star clusters. in , messier catalogued nebulæ, and the herschels--father and son--in their survey of the stellar regions, discovered , of those objects. there are now , known nebulæ in the heavens, but the majority of them are not of much interest to astronomers. prior to the invention of the spectroscope it was believed that all nebulæ were irresolvable star clusters, but the analysis of their light by this instrument indicated that their composition was not stellar but gaseous. their spectra consist of a few bright lines revealing the presence of hydrogen, nitrogen, and other gaseous elements. much that is mysterious and uncertain is associated with those objects which appear to lie far beyond the limits of our sidereal system. it is now generally believed that they exhibit the earliest stage in the formation of stars and planets--inchoate worlds in process of slow evolution, which will eventually condense into systems of suns, and planetary worlds. nebulæ present every variety of form. some are annular, elliptic, circular, and spiral; others are fan-shaped, cylindrical, and irregular, with tufted appendages, rays, and filaments. a fancied resemblance to different animated creatures has been observed in some. in taurus there is a nebula called the 'crab' on account of its likeness to the crustacean; another is called the 'owl nebula' from its resemblance to the face of that bird. the orion nebula suggests the opened jaws of a fish or sea monster, hence called the fish-mouth nebula. there is a horse-shoe nebula, a dumb-bell nebula, and many others of various shapes and forms. they are classified as follows: ( ) annular nebulæ, ( ) elliptic nebulæ, ( ) spiral nebulæ, ( ) planetary nebulæ, ( ) nebulous stars, ( ) large irregular nebulæ. annular nebulÆ.--these resemble in appearance an oval-shaped luminous ring; they are comparatively few in number, and not more than a dozen have been discovered in the whole heavens. the most remarkable object of this class is the ring nebula, which is situated between the stars beta and gamma lyræ. it is visible in a moderate-sized telescope as a well-defined, flat, oval ring; its central part is not quite dark but is occupied by a filmy haze of luminous matter which is prolonged inwards from the margin of the ring. when examined with a high power the edges of the ring have a fringed appearance, and numerous glittering stellar points become visible both within and without its circumference. this nebulous ring, though a small object in the telescope, is of enormous magnitude, and if it were not more distant than cygni, one of the nearest of the fixed stars, its diameter would not be less than , millions of miles, but it has been estimated by herschel that it is times more remote than sirius. how stupendous, then, must be its dimensions, and how bewildering to our conception is the profound immensity of space in which it is located! an annular nebula similar to that of lyra, but on a smaller scale, is found in cygnus, and within it there can be seen a conspicuous star. another exists in scorpio which contains two stars situated within the ring at diametrically opposite points to each other. elliptical nebulÆ.--the most interesting object of this class is the great nebula in andromeda, called 'the transcendentally beautiful queen of the nebulæ'--an appellation which it scarcely merits. this object, which is plainly visible to the naked eye, is of an oval shape, of a milky white colour, and is situated near the most northern star of the three which form the girdle of andromeda. it was known to the ancients, and ali sufi, a persian astronomer who flourished in the tenth century, alludes to it; but it did not attract much attention until the seventeenth century. simon marius was the first to observe this object with a telescope. this he did on december , ; he describes it as shining with a pale white light resembling in appearance the flame of a candle when seen through a semi-transparent piece of horn. when examined with a high magnifying power it is seen to occupy a largely extended area measuring ° in length and - / ° in breadth. its luminosity increases from the circumference to the centre, where there can be seen a small nucleus with an ill-defined boundary, which has the appearance of being granular, but its composition is not stellar. two dark channels running almost parallel to each other and to the axis of the nebula have been observed by bond; these, when prolonged, form into curves which terminate in two great rings. they are wide rifts which separate streams of nebulous matter, and are indicative that some formative processes may be going on within the nebula. astronomers have been baffled in their attempts to discover the nature of the andromeda nebula. though great telescopes have been able to render visible thousands of stars over and around it, yet the nebula itself is irresolvable and bears no trace of stellar formation; neither, according to dr. huggins, is its spectrum gaseous, a circumstance which deepens the mystery associated with this object. its distance is unknown, and its dimensions cannot be ascertained. other elliptical nebulæ are found in different regions of the heavens. in ursa major there is an oval nebula resembling that of andromeda, but on a much smaller scale. it possesses a nucleus, and on the photographic plate there can be detected the presence of spiral structure, indicating the existence of streams of nebulous matter. adjacent to this nebula is another of the same class with a double nucleus, and associated with it is a nebulous star. spiral nebulÆ.--the great reflector of earl rosse at parsonstown was the successful means by which nebulæ of this form were discovered. this powerful telescope was capable of defining with greater accuracy the structural formation of those objects than any other instrument in use. it was ascertained that spiral coils and convoluted whorls enter into the structure of most nebulæ, indicating a similarity in the process of change which may be going on in these vast accumulations of cosmical matter. the most interesting specimen of a spiral nebula is situated in canes venatici. it consists of spiral coils emanating from a centre with a nucleus and surrounded by a narrow luminous ring. in appearance it resembles the coiled mainspring of a watch. planetary nebulÆ.--these have been so named on account of the resemblance which they bear to the discs of planets. they are of uniform brightness, circular in shape, with sharply-defined edges, and are frequently of a bluish colour. they are more numerous than annular nebulæ; three-fourths of their number are in the southern hemisphere, and they are situated in or very near the milky way. those objects were first described by sir william herschel, who was rather perplexed as to what was their real nature and how he should classify them. he remarked that they could not be planets belonging to far-off suns, nor distant comets, nor distended stars. consequently, he concluded rightly that they were nebulæ. when observed with large telescopes, they lose their planetary aspect, and their sharpness of outline is less apparent; their discs become broken up into bright and dark portions, and in some, numerous minute stars have been observed, whilst others have well-defined nuclei. the most prominent nebula of this class is situated in the constellation ursa major, and is called the owl nebula, from its fancied resemblance to the face of that bird. sir john herschel describes it as 'a most extraordinary object, a large, uniform nebulous disc, quite round, very bright, not sharply defined, but yet very suddenly fading away to darkness.' when examined in with earl rosse's reflector, two bright stars were discovered in its interior; each was in the centre of a circular dark space surrounded by whorls of nebulous matter--hence the origin of its name. this nebula gives a bright line spectrum indicative of gaseous composition. it is believed to consist chiefly of hydrogen and other gases which form a globe of such stupendous magnitude that, if we surmise its distance from the earth to be sixty-five light years--an estimate much too low--'its diameter would exceed that of the orbit of neptune upwards of times.'[ ] within its compass the orbs of hundreds of solar systems as large as that of ours would be able to perform their revolutions, having spacious intervals existing between each system. another interesting planetary nebula is in the constellation of the dragon, near to the pole of the ecliptic; it is slightly oval, of a pale blue colour, and contains a star of the eleventh magnitude in its centre. it gives a gaseous spectrum. attempts have been made to determine its parallax, but without success, and during the eighty years it has been under observation it has remained apparently motionless. its light period, if estimated at years, would indicate the existence of a globe with a diameter equal to forty-four diameters of the orbit of the planet neptune.[ ] a nebula of this class was discovered by sir john herschel in the centaur. he described it as resembling uranus, but larger; its colour was of a beautiful rich blue, and its light equalled that of a star of the seventh magnitude. nebulous stars.--these stars are each surrounded by a luminous haze several minutes of arc in diameter and of a circular form. sir william herschel, by his observation of those objects, arrived at the conclusion 'that there exists in space a shining fluid of a nature totally unknown to us, and that the nebulosity about those stars was not of a starry nature.' thirteen stars of this type have been enumerated by him and many others have since been discovered. the 'glow' which surrounds them has been observed in a few instances to have vanished without leaving any trace of nebulosity behind, but the causes which have brought about such a result are entirely unknown. the nature of those stars is involved in considerable obscurity, and one class of nebula would seem to merge into the other; nebulous stars with faint aureolæ do not differ much from small nebulæ interspersed with stellar points. large irregular nebulÆ.--these are found in both hemispheres, and are remarkable on account of the varied appearances which they present, and the large extent of space which many of them occupy. in some, the nebulous matter of which they are composed can be seen like masses of tufted flocculi, sometimes piled up, and at other times promiscuously scattered, resembling in appearance the foam on the crested billows of a surging ocean rendered suddenly motionless, or cirro-cumuli floating in a tranquil sky. islands of light with intervening dark channels, promontories projecting into gulfs of deep shade, sprays of luminous matter, convoluted filaments, whorls, wreaths, and spiral streams all enter into the structural formation of a great nebula. the great nebula in argo, in the southern hemisphere, is one of the most remarkable objects of this class. it consists of bright irregular masses of luminous matter, streaks and branches, and occupies an area about equal to one square degree. at its eastern border is situated the variable star eta argus, which fluctuates between the first and seventh magnitudes in a period of about seventy years. a rich portion of the galaxy lies in front of the nebula, which creates an effect as if it were studded over with stars. sir john herschel, in describing this nebula, writes as follows:--'the whole is situated in a very rich and brilliant part of the milky way, so thickly strewed with stars that, in the area occupied by the nebula, not less than , have been actually counted. yet it is obvious that these have no connection whatever with the nebula, being, in fact, only a simple continuation over it of the general ground of the galaxy. the conclusion can hardly be avoided that, in looking at it, we see through and beyond the milky way, far out into space, through a starless region, disconnecting it altogether from our system. it is not easy for language to convey a full impression of the beauty and sublimity of the spectacle which this nebula offers as it enters the field of view of a telescope, fixed in right ascension, by the diurnal motion, ushered in as it is by so glorious and innumerable a procession of stars, to which it forms a sort of climax, and in a part of the heavens otherwise full of interest.' another large bright nebula (called doradus), also in the southern hemisphere, is composed of a series of loops with intricate windings forming a kind of open network against the background of the sky which it adorns. sir john herschel describes it as one of the most extraordinary objects in the heavens. the 'crab' nebula in taurus, the 'horse-shoe' nebula in sobieski's shield, and the 'dumb-bell' nebula in vulpecula are remarkable objects, but the assistance of a powerful telescope is required to bring out their distinctive features. the 'crab' nebula is partially resolvable into stars; the other two are believed to be gaseous. the largest and most remarkable of all the nebulæ is that known as the great nebula in orion, which was discovered and delineated by huygens in the middle of the seventeenth century. it is perceptible to the naked eye, and when viewed with a glass of low power can be seen as a circular luminous haze surrounding the multiple star theta orionis--one of the stars in the giant's sword, and which is of itself a remarkable object. the most conspicuous part of the nebula bears a slight resemblance to the wing of a bird; it consists of flocculent masses of nebulous matter possessing a faint greenish tinge. sir john herschel compared it to a surface studded over with flocks of wool, or to the breaking up of a mackerel sky when the clouds of which it consists begin to assume a cirrous appearance. its brightest portion is occupied by four conspicuous stars, which form a trapezium; around each there is a dark space free from nebulosity, a circumstance which would seem to indicate that the stars possess the power either of absorbing or of repelling the nebulous matter in their immediate vicinity. when observed with a powerful telescope, this nebula appears to be of vast dimensions, and, with its effluents, occupies an area of ° by - / °. irregular branching masses, streams, sprays, filaments, and curved spiral wreaths project outward from the parent mass, and become gradually lost in the surrounding space. this object remained for long a profound mystery; no telescope was capable of resolving it, nor was it known what this 'unformed fiery mist, the chaotic material of future suns,' was, until the spectroscope revealed that it consists of a stupendous mass of incandescent gases--nitrogen, hydrogen, and other elementary substances, occupying a region of space believed by some to equal in extent the whole stellar system to which our sun belongs. in the southern hemisphere, near to the pole of the equator, are two nebulous clouds of unequal size; the larger having an area about four times that of the smaller. they are known as the magellanic clouds, having been called after the navigator magellan. both are visible on a moonless night, but in bright moonlight the smaller disappears. sir john herschel, when at the cape of good hope, examined those objects with his powerful telescope. he described them 'as consisting of swarms of stars, globular clusters, and nebulæ of various kinds, some portions of them being quite irresolvable, and presenting the same milky appearance in the telescope that the nebulæ themselves do to the naked eye.' these are believed to be other universes of stars sunk in the profound depths of space, our knowledge of their existence being dependent upon the faint nebulous light which left them, perhaps, several thousand years ago. [illustration: great nebula in orion] the description of the various kinds of nebulæ leads us to consider what is called the nebular hypothesis. that the stars and solar system had at some time in the past a beginning, is as much a matter of certainty as that they will at some future time cease to be. stars, like organic beings, have their birth, grow and arrive at maturity, then decline into a state of decrepitude, and finally die out. the duration of the life of a star, which may be reckoned by millions of years, depends upon the length of time during which it can maintain a temperature that renders it capable of emitting light. by the constant radiation of its heat into space, a condition of its constituent particles consequent upon the gradual contraction of its mass will ultimately occur, which will result in the exhaustion of its stores of thermal energy, the extinction of its light, and the reduction of what was once a brilliant orb to the condition of a mass of cold, opaque, inert matter. inquiries as to the origin of the stars have led scientific men to conclude that they have been evolved from gaseous nebulæ, and these have therefore been regarded as indicating the earliest stage in the formation of suns and planets. it is believed that the condensation of those attenuated masses of luminous matter into stars is capable of accounting for the generation and formation of all the shining orbs which enter into the structure of the starry heavens. in the evolution of a 'cosmos out of a chaos' we should expect to find stars presenting every stage of development--some in an embryo state and others more advanced; stars in full vigour and activity, stars that have passed the meridian of life, and stars in a condition of decay and on the verge of extinction. the observations of astronomers have led them to conclude that this condition of 'youth and age' exists among the stellar multitude; but the characteristics by which it is distinguished are neither very obvious nor reliable. the nebular theory is incapable of proof or demonstration; but modern discoveries tend to support the accuracy of its conclusions, and its principles have now been adopted by the majority of philosophic thinkers. the physical changes which are going on in the nebulæ towards stellar evolution, or in fully formed stars towards dissolution, are so slow that the life of an individual, or even the historical records of the past, are incapable of furnishing any evidence of alteration in their condition. a period of time infinitely greater than what has elapsed since the birth of science must pass before anything can be known of the life history of the stars; indeed, the allotted span of man's existence on this planet may have terminated ere the evolution of a large nebula into a star cluster can have taken place. the nebular hypothesis was first propounded by kant, who suggested that the sun and planets originated from a vast and diffused mass of cosmical matter. this theory was afterwards supported by herschel and by the great french astronomer laplace. as a result of close and continued observation of the different classes of nebulæ, herschel arrived at the conclusion that there exists in space a widely diffused 'shining fluid,' of a nature totally unknown to us, and that the nebulosity which he perceived to surround some stars was not of a starry nature. he further adds that this self-luminous matter 'seemed more fit to produce a star by its condensation than to depend on the star for its existence.' his sagacious conclusion with regard to the non-stellar nature of this nebulous matter was afterwards confirmed by the spectroscope; for at that time it was believed that even the faintest nebulæ were irresolvable star clusters. in herschel read a paper before the royal society in which he propounded his famous nebular hypothesis, and stated his reasons for believing that nebulæ, by their gradual condensation, were transformed into stars. having assumed that there exists a highly attenuated self-luminous substance diffused over vast regions of space, he endeavoured to show that by the law of attraction its particles would have a tendency to coalesce and form aggregations of nebulous matter, and that each of these, by the continued action of the same force, would gradually condense and ultimately acquire the consistence of a star. in the case of large irregular nebulæ, numerous centres of attraction would originate in the mass, round which the nebulous particles of matter would arrange themselves; each nucleus, when condensation had been completed, would become a star, and the entire nebula would in this manner be transformed into a cluster of stars. herschel believed that he could trace the different stages of nebular condensation which result in the evolution of a star. in large, faintly luminous nebulæ the process of condensation had only commenced; in others that were smaller and brighter it was in a more advanced stage; in those that contained nuclei there was evidence of nascent stars; and, finally, there could be seen in some nebulæ minute stellar points--new-born suns--interspersed among the haze of the transforming mass. by this theory herschel was able to account for the phenomena associated with nebulous stars and the supposed changes which were observed in some nebulæ. the nebular hypothesis as described by herschel was not received with much favour, nor did it unsettle much the belief that all nebulæ were vast stellar aggregations, and that their cloudy luminosity was a consequence of the inadequacy of telescopic power to resolve them into their component stars. laplace, who was highly gifted as a geometrician, demonstrated how the solar system could have been evolved in accordance with dynamical principles from a slowly rotating and slowly contracting spheroidal nebula. the rotatory motion of a nebula, in obedience to a well-known mechanical law, increases as its density becomes greater, and this goes on until the tangential force at the equator overcomes the gravitational attraction at its centre. when this occurs, a revolving ring of nebulous matter is thrown off from the parent mass, and by this means equilibrium is restored between the two forces. as the rotatory velocity of the nebula continues to increase with its contraction, another ring is cast off, and in this manner a succession of revolving rings may be detached from the condensing spheroid; each newly-formed ring being nearer to the centre of the contracting mass and revolving in a shorter period than its predecessor. in the evolution of our system, the central mass of the nebula became the sun and each of the revolving rings, by their condensation into one mass, formed a planet. in a similar manner, though on a diminished scale, the elementary planets, whilst in a nebulous state, parted with annular portions of their substance, out of which were evolved their systems of satellites. this theory furnished a plausible reason, which was capable of explaining how the orbs which constitute the solar system came into existence, and, though hypothetical, yet the manner in which it accounted for the orderly and symmetrical genesis of the system rendered it attractive and fascinating to scientific minds. the evidence in support of the nebulous origin of the solar system, if not conclusive, is of much weight and importance. the remarkable harmony with which the orbs of the system perform their motions is strongly indicative of their common origin and that their evolution occurred in subordination to the law of universal gravitation. the following are the characteristic points in favour of this theory:-- . all the planets revolve round the sun in the same direction, and they all occupy nearly the same plane. . their satellites, with the exception of those of uranus and neptune, perform their revolutions in obedience to the same law. . the rotation on their axes of the sun, planets, and satellites is in the same direction as their orbital motion. between the orbits of mars and jupiter there revolves a remarkable group of small planets or planetoids. on account of the absence of a planet in this region, where, according to the laws of planetary distances, one ought to be found, the existence of those small bodies was suspected for some years prior to their discovery. the first was detected by piazzi at palermo in ; two others were discovered by olbers in and , and one by harding in . for some time it was believed that no more planetoids existed, but in a fifth was detected by hencke, and from that year until now upwards of of those small bodies have been discovered. their magnitudes are of varied extent; the diameter of the largest is believed not to exceed miles, and that of the smaller ones from twenty to thirty miles. it was surmised at one time, when only a few of those bodies were known, that they were the fragments of a planet which met with some terrible catastrophe; but since the discovery of so many other planetoids this theory cannot be maintained. according to the nebular hypothesis, these bodies are the consolidated portions of a nebulous ring which remained separate instead of having coalesced into one mass so as to form a planet. the uniform condensation of the ring would result in the formation of a multitude of small planets similar to what are found between the orbits of mars and jupiter. in saturn's ring we have a remarkable instance of annular consolidation in which the form of the ring has been preserved. the ring is believed to consist of myriads of minute bodies, each of which travels in an orbit of its own as it pursues its path round the planet; the close approximation and exceeding minuteness of those moving objects create the appearance of a solid continuous ring. though, by means of the nebular hypothesis, it is impossible to explain all the phenomena associated with the motions of the orbs which enter into the structure of the solar system, yet this does not detract much from the merits of the theory, the fundamental principles of which are based upon the evolution of the solar system from a rotating nebula. the retrograde motions of the satellites of uranus and neptune, the velocity of the inner martian moon, and other abnormalities in the system, have not as yet been explained, but doubtless there are reasons by which those peculiarities can be accounted for if they were only known, '_felix qui potuit cognoscere causas omnium rerum_.' no attempt has been made to supplant the nebular hypothesis by any other theory of cosmical evolution. modern investigations and discoveries have strengthened its position, and at present it is the only means by which we can account for the existence of the visible material universe by which we are surrounded. in the days when milton lived--three hundred years ago--the nocturnal heavens presented the same appearance to an observer as they do at the present time. the stars pursued their identical paths, and looked down upon the earth with the same aspect of serene tranquillity, regardless of the vicissitudes which affect the inhabitants of this terrestrial sphere. the constellations that adorn the celestial vault duly appeared in their seasons, and in the ascending scale of heaven the stars that usher evening rose.--iv. - . the winter glories of orion, the scintillating brilliancy of sirius, and the spangled firmament, bearing no impress of change or variation which would lead one to conclude that the heavens were other than eternal, attracted then, as now, the admiration of beholders. apart from the orbs which constitute the solar system, little was known of the sidereal heavens beyond the visual effect created by the nocturnal aspect of the star-lit sky. though ancient philosophers hazarded an opinion that the stars were suns, they received but scant attention from early astronomers, by whom they were merely regarded as convenient fixed points which enabled them to determine with greater accuracy the positions of the planets and the paths traced out by them in the heavens. the ptolemaists, who believed in the diurnal revolution of the spheres, assigned to the stars a very subordinate place in their cosmology, which was the one adopted by milton; and although copernicus relegated them to their proper location in space, yet he had no clear conception of a universe of stars. tycho brahé, who declined to accept the copernican theory, disbelieved that the stars were suns, and galileo, who discovered the stellar nature of the milky way, remarked that the stars were not illumined by the sun's rays in the same manner that the planets are, but expressed no opinion with regard to their physical constitution. it is only within the past fifty years that proof has been obtained of the real nature of the stars. by the spectroscopic analysis of their light it has been ascertained that the elements of matter which enter into their composition exist in a condition similar to what is found in the sun. the stars are therefore suns, many of them surpassing in magnitude and brilliancy the great luminary of our system. though milton makes frequent allusion to the magnificence of the starry heavens, we have no evidence that he regarded the stars as suns, nor does he refer to them as such in any part of his poem.[ ] what impressed him most was their number and brilliancy, to which reference is made in the following passages: about him all the sanctities of heaven stood thick as stars.--iii. - . and sowed with stars the heavens thick as a field.--vii. . amongst innumerable stars, that shone stars distant, but nigh hand seemed other worlds.--iii. - . her reign with thousand lesser lights dividual holds, with thousand thousand stars, that then appeared spangling the hemisphere.--vii. - . milton describes the number of the fallen angels as an host innumerable as the stars of night.--v. - , and the attention of satan is directed by the archangel uriel to the multitude of stars formed from the chaotic elements of matter: numberless as thou seest, and how they move; each had his place appointed, each his course; the rest in circuit walls this universe.--iii. - . though milton was doubtless familiar with the leading orbs of the firmament and knew their names, and the constellations in which they are situated, yet he makes no direct allusion to any of them in his poem. neither arcturus, which is mentioned in the book of job, nor sirius, which attracted the attention of homer, who compared the brightness of achilles' armour to the dazzling brilliancy of the dog-star, finds a place in 'paradise lost.' and yet the superior magnitude and brilliancy of some stars when compared with those of others did not escape milton's observation when, in describing the lofty eminence of satan in heaven, prior to his fall, he represents him as brighter once amidst the host of angels than that star the stars among.--vii. - . there is but one star to which milton makes individual allusion, and, though not of any conspicuous brilliancy, yet it is one of much importance to astronomers-- the fleecy star that bears andromeda far off atlantic seas beyond the horizon.--iii. - . this is alpha arietis, the first point in the constellation of that name, which signifies the ram, and from which the right ascensions of the stars are measured on the celestial sphere. in the time of hipparchus the ecliptic intersected the celestial equator in aries, which indicated the commencement of the astronomical year and the occurrence of the vernal equinox; but, owing to precession, this point is now ° westward of aries and in the constellation pisces. the star was called hamal by the arabs, signifying a sheep, and the animal is represented as looking backwards. manilius writes:-- first aries, glorious in his golden wool, looks back and wonders at the mighty bull. aries is associated with the legend of the golden fleece, in quest of which jason and his valiant crew sailed in the ship 'argo.' in the autumn, andromeda is situated above aries, and would seem to be borne by the latter, which accounts for milton's description of the relative positions of those two constellations. milton alludes to the starry sphere in several passages in his poem, and also mentions the starry pole above which he soared in imagination up to the empyrean or heaven of heavens. his contemplation of the galaxy must have impressed his mind with the magnitude and extent of the sidereal universe, for he was aware that this luminous zone which encircles the heavens consists of myriads of stars, so remote as to be incapable of definition by unaided vision. milton's description of this vast assemblage of stars is worthy of its magnificence, and the purpose with which he poetically associates this glorified highway testifies to the sublimity of his thoughts and to the originality of his genius. in those parts of his poem in which he describes the glories of the celestial regions, and instances the beautiful phenomena associated with the individual orbs of the firmament, we are able to perceive with what exquisite delight he beheld them all. the invention of the telescope, and the important discoveries made by kepler, galileo, and newton in the seventeenth century, were the means of effecting a rapid advance in the science of astronomy; but that branch of it known as sidereal astronomy was not then in existence. the star depths, owing to inadequate telescopic power, remained unexplored, and the secrets associated with those distant regions were inviolable, and lay beyond the reach of human knowledge. the physical constitution of the stars was unknown, nor was it ascertained with any degree of certainty that they were suns. the knowledge possessed by astronomers in those days was but meagre compared with what is now known of the sidereal heavens. milton's astronomical knowledge, we find, was commensurate with what was known of the stellar universe, and this he has conspicuously displayed in his poem. chapter viii description of celestial objects mentioned in 'paradise lost' the sun the surpassing splendour of the sun, as compared with that of any of the other orbs of the firmament, is not more impressive than his stupendous magnitude, and the important functions which it is his prerogative to fulfil. situated at the centre of our system--of which he may be regarded as 'both eye and soul'--the orb has a diameter approaching , , miles, and a mass times greater than that of all the planets combined. these, by his attractive power, he retains in their several paths and orbits, and even far distant neptune acknowledges his potent sway. with prodigal liberality he dispenses his vast stores of light and heat, which illumine and vivify the worlds circling around him, and upon the constant supply of which all animated beings depend for their existence. deprived of the light of the sun, this world would be enveloped in perpetual darkness, and we should all miserably perish. the sun is distant from the earth about , , miles. his diameter is , miles, or nearly four times the extent of the radius of the moon's orbit. the mass of the orb exceeds that of the earth , times, and in volume , , times. the sun is a sphere, and rotates on his axis from west to east in days hours. the velocity of a point at the solar equator is , miles an hour. the density of the sun is only one-fourth that of the earth, or, in other words, bulk for bulk, the earth is four times heavier than the sun. the force of gravity at the sun's surface is twenty-seven times greater than it is on the earth; it would therefore be impossible for beings constituted as we are to exist on the solar surface. the dazzling luminous envelope which indicates to the naked eye the boundary of the solar disc is called the photosphere. it is most brilliant at the centre of the sun, and diminishes in brightness towards the circumference, where its luminosity is but one-fourth that of the central portion of the disc. the photosphere consists of gaseous vapours or clouds, of irregular form and size, separated by less brilliant interstices, and glowing white with the heat derived from the interior of the sun. in the telescope the photosphere is not of uniform brilliancy, but presents a mottled or granular appearance, an effect created by the intermixture of spaces of unequal brightness. small nodules of intense brilliance, resembling 'rice-grains,' but which, according to nasmyth, are of a willow-leaf shape with pointed extremities, which form a network over portions of the photosphere, are sprinkled profusely over a more faintly luminous background. these 'grains' consist of irregular rounded masses, having an area of several hundred miles. by the application of a high magnifying power they can be resolved into 'granules'--minute luminous dots which constitute one-fifth of the sun's surface and emit three-fourths of the light. this granulation is not uniform over the surface of the photosphere; in some parts it is indistinct, and appears to be replaced by interlacing filamentous bands, which are most apparent in the penumbræ of the spots and around the spots themselves. the 'granules' are the tops of ascending masses of intensely luminous vapour; the comparatively dark 'pores' consist of similar descending masses, which, having radiated their energy, are returning to be again heated underneath the surface of the photosphere. in certain regions of the photosphere several dark patches are usually visible, which are called 'sun-spots.' at occasional times they are almost entirely absent from the solar disc. it has been observed that they occupy a zone extending from ° to ° north and south of the solar equator, but are not found in the equatorial and polar regions of the sun. a sun-spot is usually described as consisting of an irregular dark central portion, called the _umbra_; surrounding it is an edging or fringe less dark, consisting of filaments radiating inwards called the _penumbra_. within the umbra there is sometimes seen a still darker spot, called the _nucleus_. the umbra is generally uniformly dark, but at times filmy luminous clouds have been observed floating over it. the nucleus is believed to be the orifice of a tubular depression in the floor of the umbra, prolonged downwards to an unknown depth. the penumbra is brightest at its inner edge, where the filaments present a marked contrast when compared with the dark cavity of the umbra which they surround and overhang. sometimes lengthened processes unite with those of the opposite side and form bands and 'bridges' across the umbra. the darkest portion of the penumbra is its external edge, which stands out conspicuously against the adjoining bright surface of the sun. one penumbra will sometimes enclose several umbræ whilst the nuclei may be entirely wanting. [illustration: fig. .--a sun-spot magnified. (_janssen._)] sun-spots usually appear in groups; large isolated spots are of rare occurrence, and are generally accompanied by several smaller ones of less perfect formation. the exact moment of the origin of a sun-spot cannot be ascertained, because it arises from an imperceptible point; it grows very rapidly, and often attains its full size in a day. prior to its appearance there is an unusual disturbance of the solar surface over the site of the spot: luminous ridges, called _faculæ_, and dark 'pores' become conspicuous, between which greyish patches appear, that seem to lie underneath a thin layer of the photosphere; this is rapidly dispelled and a fully formed spot comes into view. when a sun-spot has completed its period of existence, the photospheric matter overwhelms the penumbra, and rushes into the umbra, which it obliterates, causing the spot to disappear. the duration of sun-spots is subject to considerable variation; some last for weeks or months, and others for a few days or hours. a spot when once fully formed maintains its shape, which is usually rounded, until the period of its breaking up. spots of long duration rotate with the sun. those which become visible at the edge of the sun's limb have been observed to travel across his disc in less than a fortnight, disappearing at the margin of the opposite limb; afterwards, if sufficiently long-lived, they have reappeared in twelve or thirteen days on the surface of the orb where first observed. it was by observation of the spots that the period of the axial rotation of the sun became known. sun-spots vary very much in size--some are only a few hundred miles in width, whilst others have a diameter of , or , miles or upwards. in some instances the umbra alone has a breadth of , or , miles--three times the extent of the diameter of the earth. spots of this size are visible to the naked eye when the sun is partially obscured by fog, or when his brilliancy is diminished by vapours near the horizon. a year seldom passes without the occurrence of several of such spots being recorded. the largest sun-spot ever observed had a diameter of about , miles. a group of spots, including their penumbræ, will occupy an area of many millions of square miles. by long observation it has been ascertained that sun-spots increase and diminish in number with periodical regularity, and that a maximum sun-spot period occurs at the end of each eleven years. when spots are numerous on the sun's disc there is great disturbance of the solar surface, accompanied by fierce rushes of intensely heated gases. this solar activity is known to influence terrestrial magnetism by causing a marked oscillation of the magnetic needle, and giving rise to so-called 'magnetic storms,' accompanied by magnificent displays of auroræ, with variations in electrical earth-currents. it would therefore appear that sun-spots have a pronounced effect upon magnetic terrestrial phenomena, but how this is produced remains unknown. besides sun-spots, there are seen on the solar disc bright flocculent streaks or ridges of luminous matter called _faculæ_; they are found over the whole surface of the sun, but are most numerous near the limb and in the immediate vicinity of the spots. they have been compared to immense waves--vast upheavals of photospheric matter, indicative of enormous pressure, and often extending in length for many thousands of miles. nearly all observers have arrived at the conclusion that sun-spots are depressions or cavities in the photosphere, but considerable difference of opinion exists as to how they are formed. the most commonly accepted theory is that they are caused by the pressure of descending masses of vapour having a reduced temperature, which absorb the light and prevent it reaching us. our knowledge of the sun is insufficient to admit of any accurate conclusion on this point; though we are able to perceive that the surface of the orb is in a state of violent agitation and perpetual change, yet his great distance and intense luminosity prevent our capability of perceiving the ultimate minuter details which go to form the _texture_ of the solar surface. 'bearing in mind that a second of arc on the sun represents miles, it follows that an object miles in diameter is about the _minimum visible_ even as a mere mathematical point, and that anything that is sufficiently large to give the slightest impression of shape and extension of surface must have an area of at least a quarter of a million square miles; ordinarily speaking, we shall not gather much information about any object that covers less than a million.'[ ] since the british islands have only an area of , square miles, it is evident that on the surface of the sun there are many phenomena and physical changes occurring which escape our observation. though the changes which occur in the spots and faculæ appear to be slow when observed through the telescope, yet in reality they are not so. tremendous storms and cyclones of intensely heated gases, which may be compared to the flames arising from a great furnace, sweep over different areas of the sun with a velocity of hundreds of miles an hour. vast ridges and crests of incandescent vapour are upheaved by the action of internal heat, which exceeds in intensity the temperature at which the most refractory of terrestrial substances can be volatilised; and downrushes of the same photospheric matter take place after it has parted with some of its stores of thermal energy. sun-spots of considerable magnitude have been observed to grow rapidly and then disappear in a very short period of time; occasionally a spot is seen to divide into two or more portions, the fragments flying asunder with a velocity of not less than , miles an hour. it is by these upheavals and convulsions of the solar atmosphere that the light and heat are maintained which illumine and vivify the worlds that gravitate round the sun. during total eclipses of the sun, several phenomena become visible which have enabled astronomers to gain some further knowledge of the nature of the solar appendages. the most important of these is the chromosphere, which consists of layers of incandescent gases that envelop the photosphere and completely surround the sun. its average depth is from , to , miles, and when seen during an eclipse is of a beautiful rose colour, resembling a sheet of flame. as seen in profile at the edge of the sun's disc, it presents an irregular serrated appearance, an effect created by the protuberance of luminous ridges and processes--masses of flame which arise from over its entire surface. the chromosphere consists chiefly of glowing hydrogen, and an element called _helium_, which has been recently discovered in a terrestrial substance called cleveite; there are also present the vapours of iron, calcium, cerium, titanium, barium, and magnesium. from the surface of this ocean of fire, jets and pointed spires of flaming hydrogen shoot up with amazing velocity, and attain an altitude of ten, twenty, fifty, and even one hundred thousand miles in a very short period of time. they are, however, of an evanescent nature, change rapidly in form and appearance, and often in the course of an hour or two die down so as not to be recognisable. these _prominences_, as they are called, have been divided into two classes. some are in masses that float like clouds in the atmosphere, which they resemble in form and appearance; they are usually attached to the chromosphere by a single stem, or by slender columns; occasionally they are entirely free. these are called _quiescent_ prominences; they consist of clouds of hydrogen, and are of more lasting duration than the other variety, called _eruptive_ or metallic prominences. the latter are usually found in the vicinity of sun-spots, and, besides hydrogen, contain the vapours of various metals. they are of different forms, and present the appearance of filaments, spikes, and jets of liquid fire; others are pyramidal, convoluted, and parabolic. these outbursts, bending over like the jets from a fountain, and descending in graceful curves of flame, ascend from the surface of the chromosphere with a velocity often exceeding miles in a second, and frequently reach an enormous height, but are of transient duration. they are closely connected with sun-spots, and are evidence of the tremendous forces that are in action on the surface of the sun. the corona is an aureole of light which is seen to surround the sun during a total eclipse. it is an impressive and beautiful phenomenon, and is only visible when the sun is concealed behind the dark body of the moon. professor young gives the following graphic description of the corona: 'from behind it [the moon] stream out on all sides radiant filaments, beams, and sheets of pearly light, which reach to a distance sometimes of several degrees from the solar surface, forming an irregular stellate halo, with the black globe of the moon in its apparent centre. the portion nearest the sun is of dazzling brightness, but still less brilliant than the prominences, which blaze through it like carbuncles. generally this inner corona has a pretty uniform height, forming a ring three or four minutes of arc in width, separated by a somewhat definite outline from the outer corona, which reaches to a much greater distance and is far more irregular in form. usually there are several "rifts," as they have been called, like narrow beams of darkness, extending from the very edge of the sun to the outer night, and much resembling the cloud shadows which radiate from the sun before a thundershower. but the edges of these rifts are frequently curved, showing them to be something else than real shadows. sometimes there are narrow bright streamers as long as the rifts, or longer. these are often inclined, or occasionally even nearly tangential to the solar surface, and frequently are curved. on the whole, the corona is usually less extensive and brilliant over the solar poles, and there is a recognisable tendency to accumulation above the middle latitudes, or spot zones; so that, speaking roughly, the corona shows a disposition to assume the form of a quadrilateral or four-rayed star, though in almost every individual case this form is greatly modified by abnormal streamers at some point or other.' the corona surrounds the sun and its other envelopes to a depth of many thousands of miles. it consists of various elements which exist in a condition of extreme tenuity; hydrogen, helium, and a substance called coronium appear to predominate, whilst finely divided shining particles of matter and electrical discharges resembling those of an aurora assist in its illumination. [illustration: fig. .--the corona during the eclipse of may .] we possess no knowledge of the physical structure of the interior of the sun, nor have we any terrestrial analogy to guide us as to how matter would behave when subjected to such conditions of extreme temperature and pressure as exist in the interior of the orb. yet we are justified in concluding that the sun is mainly a gaseous sphere which is slowly contracting, and that the energy expended in this process is being transformed into heat so extreme as to render the orb a great fountain of light. milton in his poem makes more frequent allusion to the sun than to any of the other orbs of the firmament, and, in all his references to the great luminary, describes him in a manner worthy of his unrivalled splendour, and of his supreme importance in the system which he upholds and governs. after having alighted on mount niphates, satan is described as looking sometimes towards heaven and the full-blazing sun, which now sat high in his meridian tower.--iv. - . he then addresses him thus:-- o thou that with surpassing glory crowned, look'st from thy sole dominion like the god of this new world--at whose sight all the stars hide their diminished heads--to thee i call, but with no friendly voice, and add thy name, o sun, to tell thee how i hate thy beams, that bring to my remembrance from what state i fell, how glorious once above thy sphere.--iv. - . on another occasion:-- the golden sun in splendour likest heaven allured his eye.--iii. - . in describing the different periods of the day, milton seldom fails to associate the sun with these times, and rightly so, since they are brought about by the apparent diurnal journey of the orb across the heavens. commencing with morning, he says:-- meanwhile, to re-salute the world with sacred light, leucothea waked, and with fresh dews embalmed the earth.--xi. - . soon as they forth were come to open sight of day-spring, and the sun--who, scarce up-risen, with wheels yet hovering o'er the ocean-brim, shot parallel to the earth his dewy ray, discovering in wide landskip all the east of paradise and eden's happy plains.--v. - or some renowned metropolis with glistering spires and pinnacles adorned, which now the rising sun gilds with his beams.--iii. - . while now the mounted sun shot down direct his fervid rays, to warm earth's inmost womb.--v. - . for scarce the sun hath finished half his journey, and scarce begins his other half in the great zone of heaven.--v. - . to sit and taste, till this meridian heat be over, and the sun more cool decline.--v. - . and the great light of day yet wants to run much of his race, though steep. suspense in heaven, held by thy voice, thy potent voice he hears, and longer will delay, to hear thee tell his generation, and the rising birth of nature from the unapparent deep.--vii. - . the declining day and approach of evening are described as follows:-- meanwhile in utmost longitude, where heaven with earth and ocean meets, the setting sun slowly descended, and with right aspect against the eastern gate of paradise levelled his evening rays.--iv. - . the sun now fallen beneath the azores; whether the prime orb, incredible how swift, had thither rolled diurnal, or this less volubil earth, by shorter flight to the east, had left him there arraying with reflected purple and gold the clouds that on his western throne attend.--iv. - . the parting sun beyond the earth's green cape and verdant isles hesperian sets, my signal to depart.--viii. - . now was the sun in western cadence low from noon, and gentle airs due at their hour to fan the earth now waked, and usher in the evening cool.--x. - . for the sun, declined, was hasting now with prone career to the ocean isles, and in the ascending scale of heaven the stars that usher evening rose.--iv. - . in the combat between michael and satan, which ended in the overthrow of the rebel angels, milton, in his description of their armour, says:-- two broad suns their shields blazed opposite.--vi. - , and in describing the faded splendour of the ruined archangel, the poet compares him to the sun when seen under conditions which temporarily deprive him of his dazzling brilliancy and glory:-- as when the sun new-risen looks through the horizontal misty air shorn of his beams, or, from behind the moon in dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds on half the nations, and with fear of change perplexes monarchs.--i. - . this passage affords us an example of the sublimity of milton's imagination and of his skill in adapting the grandest phenomena in nature to the illustration of his subject. the moon the moon is the earth's satellite, and next to the sun is the most important of the celestial orbs so far as its relations with our globe are concerned. besides affording us light by night, the moon is the principal cause of the ebb and flow of the tide--a phenomenon of much importance to navigators. the moon is almost a perfect sphere, and is , miles in diameter. the form of its orbit is that of an ellipse with the earth in the lower focus. it revolves round its primary in days hours, at a mean distance of , miles, and with a velocity of , miles an hour. its equatorial velocity of rotation is miles an hour. the density of the moon is · that of water, or · that of the earth; eighty globes, each of the weight of the moon, would be required to counterbalance the weight of the earth, and fifty globes of a similar size to equal it in dimensions. the orb rotates on its axis in the same period of time in which it accomplishes a revolution of its orbit; consequently the same illumined surface of the moon is always directed towards the earth. to the naked eye the moon appears as large as the sun, and it very rapidly changes its form and position in the sky. its motions, which are of a very complex character, have been for many ages the subject of investigation by mathematicians and astronomers, but their difficulties may now be regarded as having been finally overcome. the phases of the moon are always interesting and very beautiful. the orb is first seen in the west, after sunset, as a delicate slender crescent of pale light; each night it increases in size, whilst it travels eastward, until it attains the figure of a half moon; still growing larger as it pursues its course, it finally becomes a full resplendent globe, rising about the time that the sun sets and situated directly opposite to him. then, in a reverse manner, after full moon, it goes through the same phases, until, as a slender crescent, it becomes invisible in the solar rays; afterwards to re-appear in a few days, and, in its monthly round, to undergo the same cycle of changes. the phases of the moon depend upon the changing position of the orb with regard to the sun. the moon shines by reflected light derived from the sun, and as one half of its surface is always illumined and the other half totally dark, the crescent increases or diminishes when, by the moon's change of position, we see more or less of the bright side. visible at first as a slender crescent near the setting sun, the angular distance from the orb and the width of the crescent increase daily, until, at the expiration of seven days, the moon is distant one quarter of the circumference of the heavens from the sun. the moon is then a semi-circle, or in quadrature. at the end of other seven days, the distance of the moon from the sun is at its greatest--half the circumference of its orbit. it is then visible as a circular disc and we behold the orb as full moon. the waning moon, as it gradually decreases, presents the same aspects reversed, and, finally, its slender crescent disappears in the sun's rays. the convex edge of the crescent is always turned towards the sun. the rising of the moon in the east and its setting in the west is an effect due to the diurnal rotation of the earth on her axis, but the orb can be perceived to have two motions besides: one from west to east, which carries it round the heavens in · days, and another from north to south. the west to east motion is steady and continuous, but, owing to the sun's attractive force, the moon is made to swerve from its path, giving rise to irregularities of its motion called perturbations. the most important of these is the _annual equation_, discovered by tycho brahé--a yearly effect produced by the sun's disturbing influence as the earth approaches or recedes from him in her orbit; another irregularity, called the _evection_, is a change in the eccentricity of the lunar orbit, by which the mean longitude of the moon is increased or diminished. _elliptic inequality_, _parallactic inequality_, the _variation_, and _secular acceleration_, are other perturbations of the lunar motion, which depend directly or indirectly on the attractive influence of the sun and the motion of the earth in her orbit. as the plane of the moon's orbit is inclined at an angle of rather more than ° to the ecliptic, it follows that the orb, in its journey round the earth, intersects this great circle at two points called the 'nodes.' when crossing the ecliptic from south to north the moon is in its ascending node, and when crossing from north to south in its descending node. in december the moon reaches the most northern point of its course, and in june the southernmost. consequently we have during the winter nights the greatest amount of moonlight, and in summer the least. in the evenings the moonlight is least in march and greatest in september, when we have what is called the harvest moon. the telescopic appearance of the moon is very interesting and beautiful, especially if the orb is observed when waxing and waning. as no aqueous vapour or cloud obscures the lunar surface, all its details can be perceived with great clearness and distinctness. indeed, the topography of the moon is better known than that of the earth, for the whole of its surface has been mapped and delineated with great accuracy and precision. the moon is in no sense a duplicate of its primary, and no analogy exists between the earth and her satellite. evidence is wanting of the existence of an atmosphere surrounding the moon; no clouds or exhalations can be perceived, and no water is believed to exist on the lunar surface. consequently there are no oceans, seas, rivers, or lakes; no fertile plains or forest-clad mountains, such as are found upon the earth. indeed, all the conditions essential for the support and maintenance of organic life by which we are surrounded appear to be nonexistent on the moon. our satellite has no seasons; its axial rotation is so slow that one lunar day is equal in length to fourteen of our days; this period of sunshine is succeeded by a night of similar duration. the alternation of such lengthened days and nights subjects the lunar surface to great extremes of heat and cold. when viewed with a telescope, the surface of the moon is perceived to consist of lofty mountain chains with rugged peaks, numerous extinct volcanoes called crater mountains, hills, clefts, chasms, valleys, and level plains--a region of desolation, presenting to our gaze the shattered and upturned fragments of the moon's crust, convulsed by forces of a volcanic nature which have long since expended their energies and died out. the mountain ranges on the moon resemble those of the earth, but they have a more rugged outline, and their peaks are more precipitous, some of them rising to a height of , feet. they are called the lunar alps, apennines, and cordilleras, and embrace every variety of hill, cliff, mound, and ridge of comparatively low elevation. the plains are large level areas, which are situated on various parts of the lunar surface; they are of a darker hue than the mountainous regions by which they are surrounded, and were at one time believed to be seas. they are analogous to the prairies, steppes, and deserts of the earth. _valleys._--some of these are of spacious dimensions; others are narrow, and contract into gorges and chasms. clefts or rills are long cracks or fissures of considerable depth, which extend sometimes for hundreds of miles across the various strata of which the moon's crust is composed. the characteristic features of the moon's surface are the crater mountains: they are very numerous on certain portions of the lunar disc, and give the moon the freckled appearance which it presents in the telescope, and which galileo likened to the eyes in the feathers of a peacock's tail. they are believed to be of volcanic origin, and have been classified as follows: 'walled plains, mountain rings, ring plains, crater plains, craters, craterlets, and crater cones.' upwards of , of these mountains have been enumerated, and , are known to have a diameter exceeding nine miles. walled plains consist of circular areas which have a width varying from miles to a few hundred yards. they are enclosed by rocky ramparts, whilst the centre is occupied by an elevated peak. the depth of these formations, which are often far below the level of the moon's surface, ranges from , to , feet. mountain rings, ring plains, and crater plains resemble those already described, but are on a smaller scale; the floors of the larger ones are frequently occupied by craters and craterlets. the latter exist in large numbers, and some portions of the moon's surface appear honeycombed with them, the smaller craters resting on the sides of larger ones and occupying the bottoms of the more extensive areas. there is no kind of formation on the earth's surface that can be compared with these crater mountains, which indicate that the moon was at one time a fiery globe convulsed by internal forces which found an outlet in the numerous volcanoes scattered over her surface. the most remarkable of these volcanic mountains have been named after distinguished men. ( ) copernicus is one of the most imposing; its crater is miles in diameter, and situated at its centre is a mountain with six peaks , feet in height. the ring by which it is surrounded rises , feet above the floor of the crater, and consists of terraces believed to have been created by the partial congelation and periodic subsidence of a lake of molten lava which occupied the enclosed area. ( ) tycho is one of the most magnificent and perfect of lunar volcanoes, and is also remarkable as being a centre from which, when the moon is full, there radiates a number of bright streaks which extend across the lunar surface, over mountain and valley, through ring and crater, for many hundreds of miles. their nature is unknown, and nothing resembling them is found on the earth. tycho has a diameter of miles and a depth of , feet. the peak which rises from the floor of the crater attains a height of , feet, and the rampart consists of a series of terraces which give variety to the appearance of the inner wall. the surface of the moon round tycho is honeycombed with small volcanoes. ( ) clavius is one of the most extensive of the walled plains; it has a diameter of miles and an area of , square miles. the rocky annulus which surrounds it is very lofty and precipitous, and at one point reaches a height of , feet. upwards of craters have been counted within this space, one of the peaks attaining to an elevation of , feet above the level floor of the plain. it is believed that the lowest depths of this wild and precipitous region are never penetrated by sunlight, they are so overshadowed by towering crag and fell which intercept the solar rays; and, as there is no atmosphere to cause reflection, they are consequently enveloped in perpetual darkness. ( ) plato has a diameter of about miles and an area of , square miles; its central peak rises to a height of , feet. it has an irregular rampart which is broken up into terraces averaging about , feet high; three cones, each with an elevation of from , to , feet, rest on its western border. ( ) theophilus is the deepest of the visible craters on the moon. it has a diameter of miles, and the inner edge of the ring rises from the level floor to a height ranging from , to , feet. a group of mountains occupies the centre of the area, the highest peak of which reaches an elevation of , feet. cyrillus and catharina, two adjacent craters, are each about , feet deep and connected by a wide valley. ( ) aristarchus is the brightest spot on the moon, and appears almost dazzling in the telescope. the crater has a diameter of miles, the centre of which is occupied by a steep mountain. the rampart on the western side rises to a height of , feet, on the east it becomes a plateau which connects it with a smaller crater called herodotus. bright streaks radiate from aristarchus when there is full moon, and extend for a considerable distance over the surface of the orb. though the face of the moon has been carefully scanned for two centuries and a half, and selenographers have mapped and delineated her features with the utmost accuracy and precision, yet no perceptible change of a reliable character has been perceived to occur on any part of the orb. the surface of the hemisphere directed towards the earth appears to be an alternation of desert plains, craggy wildernesses, and extinct volcanoes--a region of desolation unoccupied by any living thing, and 'upon which the light of life has never dawned.' owing to the absence of an atmosphere, there is neither diffuse daylight nor twilight on the moon. every portion of the lunar surface not exposed to the sun's rays is shrouded in darkness, and black shadows can be observed fringing prominences of silvery whiteness. if the moon were enveloped in an atmosphere similar to that which surrounds the earth, the reflection and diffusion of light among the minute particles of watery vapour which permeate it would give rise to a gradual transition from light to darkness; the lunar surface would be visible when not illumined by the direct rays of the sun, and before sunrise and after sunset, dawn and twilight would occur as upon the earth. but upon the moon there is no dawn, and the darkness of night envelops the orb until the appearance of the edge of the sun's disc above the horizon, then his dazzling rays illumine the summits and loftiest peaks of the lunar mountains whilst yet their sides and bases are wrapped in deep gloom. since the pace of the sun across the lunar heavens is times slower than it is with us, there is continuous sunshine on the moon for hours, and this long day--equal to about a fortnight of our time--is succeeded by a night of similar duration. as there is no atmosphere overhead to diffuse or reflect the light, the sun shines in a pitch-black sky, and at lunar noonday the planets and constellations can be seen displaying a brilliancy of greater intensity than can be perceived on earth during the darkest night. every portion of the moon's surface is bleak, bare, and untouched by any softening influences. no gentle gale ever sweeps down her valleys or disturbs the dead calm that hangs over this world; no cloud ever tempers the fierce glare of the sun that pours down his unmitigated rays from a sky of inky blackness; no refreshing shower ever falls upon her arid mountains and plains; no sound ever breaks the profound stillness that reigns over this realm of solitude and desolation. [illustration: a portion of the moon's surface] as might be expected, milton makes frequent allusion to the moon in 'paradise lost,' and does not fail to set forth the distinctive charms associated with the unrivalled queen of the firmament. the majority of poets would most likely regard a description of evening as incomplete without an allusion to the moon. milton has adhered to this sentiment, as may be perceived in the following lines:-- till the moon, rising in clouded majesty, at length apparent queen, unveiled her peerless light, and o'er the dark her silver mantle threw.--iv. - . now reigns full-orbed the moon, and with more pleasing light, shadowy sets off the face of things.--v. - . the association of the moon with the nocturnal revels and dances of elves and fairies is felicitously expressed in the following passage:-- or faëry elves, whose midnight revels, by a forest side or fountain, some belated peasant sees, or dreams he sees, while overhead the moon sits arbitress, and nearer to the earth wheels her pale course.--i. - . in contrast with this, we have milton's description of the moon when affected by the demoniacal practices of the 'night-hag' who was believed to destroy infants for the sake of drinking their blood, and applying their mangled limbs to the purposes of incantation. the legend is of scandinavian origin and the locality lapland:-- nor uglier follow the night-hag, when called in secret, riding through the air she comes, lured with the smell of infant blood, to dance with lapland witches, while the labouring moon eclipses at their charms.--ii. - . in his description of the massive shield carried by satan, the poet compares it with the full moon:-- his ponderous shield ethereal temper, massy, large, and round, behind him cast. the broad circumference hung on his shoulders like the moon.--i. - . the phases displayed by the moon in her monthly journey round the earth, and which lend a variety of charm to the appearances presented by the orb, are poetically described by milton in the following lines:-- but there the neighbouring moon (so call that opposite fair star) her aid timely interposes, and her monthly round still ending, still renewing, through mid-heaven with borrowed light her countenance triform hence fills and empties, to enlighten the earth, and in her pale dominion checks the night.--iii. - . it is interesting to observe how aptly milton describes the subdued illumination of the moon's reflected light, as compared with the brilliant radiance of the blazing sun, and how the distinguishing glory peculiar to each orb is appropriately set forth in the various passages in which they are described; their contrasted splendour enhancing rather than detracting from the grandeur and beauty belonging to each. the planet earth[ ] no lovelier planet circles round the sun than the planet earth, with her oceans and continents, her mountains, valleys, rivers, lakes, and plains; surrounded by heaven's azure, radiant with the sunlight of her day and adorned by night with countless sparkling points of gold. this beautiful world, the abode of man, is of paramount importance to us, and is the only part of the universe of which we have any direct knowledge. the earth may be regarded as one of the sun's numerous family, and is situated third in order from the refulgent orb, round which it revolves in an elliptical orbit at a mean distance of , , miles. the earth is nearest to the sun at the end of december, and furthest away at the beginning of july; the difference between those distances is , , miles--the extent of the eccentricity of the planet's orbit. the figure of the earth is that of an oblate spheroid; it is slightly flattened at the poles and bulges at the equator. its polar or shortest diameter is , miles, its equatorial diameter is , miles--greater than the other by miles. the circumference of the earth at the equator is , miles, and the total area of its surface is , , square miles. its mean density is - / times greater than that of water. the two principal motions performed by the earth are: ( ) rotation on its axis; ( ) its annual revolution round the sun. the earth always rotates in the same manner, and in the same direction, from west to east. as the axis of rotation corresponds with the shortest diameter of the planet, it affords strong evidence that the earth assumed its present shape whilst rapidly rotating round its axis when in a fluid or plastic condition. this would accord with the nebular hypothesis. the ends of the earth's axis are called the poles of the earth; one is the north, the other the south pole. the north pole is directed towards a star in the lesser bear called the pole star. the south pole is directed to a corresponding opposite part of the heavens. the earth's axis is inclined ° ´ to the plane of the ecliptic, and is always directed to the same point in the heavens. the earth accomplishes a revolution on its axis in hours minutes seconds mean solar time, which is the length of the sidereal day. this rate of rotation is invariable. at the equator, where the circumference of the globe exceeds , miles, the velocity of a point on its surface is upwards of , miles an hour, but, as the poles are approached, the tangential velocity diminishes, and at those points it is entirely absent. the earth accomplishes a revolution of her orbit in days hours minutes; in her journey round the sun she travels a circuit of , , miles at an average pace of , miles an hour. the earth has other slight motions called _perturbations_, which are produced by the gravitational attraction of other members of the solar system. the most important of these is precession of the equinoxes, which is caused by the attraction of the sun, moon, and planets, on the protuberant equatorial region of the globe. this attraction has a tendency to turn the earth's axis at right angles to her orbit, but it only results in the slow rotation of the pole of the equator round that of the ecliptic, which is occurring at the rate of ° in years, and will require a period of , years to complete an entire revolution of the heavens. the spot on earth round which is centred the chief interest in milton's poem is paradise, which was situated in the east of eden, a district of central asia. it was here where god ordained that man should first dwell--a place created for his enjoyment and delight. satan, after his soliloquy on mount niphates, directs his way to paradise, and arrives first in eden, where he beholds from a distance the happy garden-- so on he fares, and to the border comes of eden, where delicious paradise, now nearer, crowns with her enclosure green, as with a rural mound, the champain head of a steep wilderness, whose hairy sides with thicket overgrown, grotesque and wild, access denied; and overhead upgrew insuperable highth of loftiest shade, cedar, and pine, and fir, and branching palm, a sylvan scene, and, as the ranks ascend, shade above shade, a woody theatre of stateliest view. yet higher than their tops the verdurous wall of paradise up-sprung; which to our general sire gave prospect large into his nether empire neighbouring round. and higher than that wall, a circling row of goodliest trees, loaden with fairest fruit, blossoms and fruits at once of golden hue, appeared, with gay enamelled colours mixed; on which the sun more glad impressed his beams than in fair evening cloud, or humid bow, when god hath showered the earth: so lovely seemed that landskip. and of pure now purer air meets his approach, and to the heart inspires vernal delight and joy, able to drive all sadness but despair. now gentle gales, fanning their odoriferous wings, dispense native perfumes, and whisper whence they stole those balmy spoils.--iv. - . satan, having gained admission to the garden by overleaping the tangled thicket of shrubs and bushes which formed an impenetrable barrier and prevented any access to the enclosure within, he flew up on to the tree of life-- beneath him, with new wonder, now he views, to all delight of human sense exposed, in narrow room nature's whole wealth; yea, more!-- a heaven on earth: for blissful paradise of god the garden was, by him in the east of eden planted, eden stretched her line from auran eastward to the royal towers of great seleucia, built by grecian kings, or where the sons of eden long before dwelt in telassar. in this pleasant soil his far more pleasant garden god ordained. out of the fertile ground he caused to grow all trees of noblest kind for sight, smell, taste; and all amid them stood the tree of life, high eminent, blooming ambrosial fruit of vegetable gold; and next to life, our death, the tree of knowledge, grew fast by-- knowledge of good, bought dear by knowing ill. southward through eden went a river large, nor changed his course, but through the shaggy hill passed underneath ingulfed; for god had thrown that mountain, as his garden mould, high raised upon the rapid current, which, through veins of porous earth with kindly thirst up-drawn, rose a fresh fountain, and with many a rill watered the garden; thence united fell down the steep glade, and met the nether flood, which from his darksome passage now appears, and now, divided into four main streams, runs diverse, wandering many a famous realm and country whereof here needs no account; but rather to tell how, if art could tell how, from that sapphire fount the crisped brooks, boiling on orient-pearl and sands of gold, with mazy error under pendent shades ran nectar, visiting each plant, and fed flowers worthy of paradise, which not nice art in beds and curious knots, but nature boon poured forth profuse on hill, and dale, and plain, both where the morning sun first warmly smote the open field, and where the unpierced shade imbrowned the noontide bowers.--iv. - . milton's description of paradise is not less remarkable in its way than the lurid scenes depicted by him in pandemonium. the versatility of his poetic genius is nowhere more apparent than in the charming pastoral verse contained in this part of his poem. the poet has lavished the whole wealth of his luxuriant imagination in his description of eden and blissful paradise with its 'vernal airs' and 'gentle gales,' its verdant meads, and murmuring streams, 'rolling on orient-pearl and sands of gold;' its stately trees laden with blossom and fruit; its spicy groves and shady bowers, over which there breathed the eternal spring. in book ix. satan expresses himself in an eloquent apostrophe to the primitive earth, over which he previously wandered for seven days-- o earth, how like to heaven, if not preferred more justly, seat worthier of gods, as built with second thoughts, reforming what was old! for what god, after better, worse would build? terrestrial heaven, danced round by other heavens, that shine, yet bear their bright officious lamps, light above light, for thee alone, as seems, in thee concentring all their precious beams of sacred influence! as god in heaven is centre, yet extends to all, so thou centring receiv'st from all those orbs; in thee, not in themselves, all their known virtue appears, productive in herb, plant, and nobler birth of creatures animate with gradual life of growth, sense, reason, all summed up in man, with what delight i could have walked thee round, if i could joy in aught--sweet interchange of hill and valley, rivers, woods, and plains, now land, now sea, and shores with forest crowned, rocks, dens, and caves.--ix. - . though it is impossible to regard the earth as possessing the importance ascribed to it by the ancient ptolemaists; nevertheless, our globe is a great and mighty world, and appears to be one of the most favourably situated of all the planets, being neither near the sun nor yet very far distant from the orb; and although, when compared with the universe, it is no more than a leaf on a tree in the midst of a vast forest; still, it is not the least important among other circling worlds, and unfailingly fulfils the part allotted to it in the great scheme of creation. the planet hesperus this is the beautiful morning and evening star, the peerless planet that ushers in the twilight and the dawn, the harbinger of day and unrivalled queen of the evening. venus, called after the roman goddess of love, and also identified with the greek aphrodite of ideal beauty, is the name by which the planet is popularly known; but milton does not so designate it, and the name 'venus' is not found in 'paradise lost.' the ancients called it lucifer and phosphor when it shone as a morning star before sunrise, and hesperus and vesper when it became visible after sunset. it is the most lustrous of all the planets, and at times its brilliancy is so marked as to throw a distinct shadow at night. venus is the second planet in order from the sun. its orbit lies between that of mercury and the earth, and in form approaches nearer to a circle than that of any of the other planets. it travels round the sun in · days, at a mean distance of , , miles, and with an average velocity of , miles an hour. its period of rotation is unknown. by the observation of dusky spots on its surface, it has been surmised that the planet completes a revolution on its axis in - / hours; but other observers doubt this and are inclined to believe that it always presents the same face to the sun. when at inferior conjunction venus approaches nearer to the earth than any other planet, its distance then being , , miles. its greatest elongation varies from ° to ° ´; it therefore can never be much more than three hours above the horizon before sunrise, or after sunset. venus is a morning star when passing from inferior to superior conjunction, and during the other half of its synodical period it is an evening star. the planet attains its greatest brilliancy at an elongation ° west or east of the sun--five weeks before and after inferior conjunction. it is at these periods, when at its greatest brilliancy, that it casts a shadow at night. though so pleasing an object to the unaided eye, venus, when observed with the telescope, is often a source of disappointment--this is on account of its dazzling brilliancy, which renders any accurate definition of its surface impossible. sir john herschel writes: 'the intense lustre of its illuminated part dazzles the sight, and exaggerates every imperfection of the telescope; yet we see clearly that its surface is not mottled over with permanent spots like the moon; we notice in it neither mountains nor shadows, but a uniform brightness, in which sometimes we may indeed fancy, or perhaps more than fancy, brighter or obscurer portions, but can seldom or never rest fully satisfied of the fact.' it is believed that the surface of the planet is invisible on account of the existence of a cloud-laden atmosphere by which it is enveloped, and which may serve as a protection against the intense glare of the sunshine and heat poured down by the not far-distant sun. schröter, a german astronomer, believed that he saw lofty mountains on the surface of the planet, but their existence has not been confirmed by any other observer. the sun if viewed from venus would have a diameter nearly half as large again as when seen from the earth; it is therefore probable that the planet is subjected to a much higher temperature than what is experienced on our globe. the phases of venus are similar to those exhibited by the moon, and are caused by a change in position of the illumined hemisphere of the planet with regard to the earth. at superior conjunction the whole enlightened disc of the planet is turned towards the earth, but is invisible by being lost in the sun's rays. shortly before or after it arrives at this point, its form is gibbous, the illumined portion being less than a circle but greater than a semi-circle. at its greatest elongation west or east of the sun the planet resembles the moon in quadrature--a half moon--and between those points and inferior conjunction it is visible as a beautiful crescent. it becomes narrower and sharper as it approaches inferior conjunction, until it resembles a curved luminous thread prior to its disappearance at the conjunction. after having passed this point it reappears on the other side of the sun as the morning star. it would be only natural to imagine that this peerless orb, the most beautiful and lustrous of the planets, upon which men have gazed with longing admiration, and designated the emblem of 'all beauty and all love,' should have impressed milton's poetical imagination with its charming appearance, and stimulated the flow of his captivating muse. he addresses the orb as fairest of stars, last in the train of night, if better thou belong not to the dawn, sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn with thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere while day arises, that sweet hour of prime.--v. - . in these lines the poet alludes to venus as the morning star. in the other passages in his poem milton associates the planet sometimes with the morning and at other times with the evening-- his countenance, as the morning star that guides the starry flock.--v. - . or if the star of evening and the moon haste to thy audience, night with her will bring silence, and sleep listening to thee will watch.--vii. - . and hence the morning planet gilds her horns.--vii. . the sun was sunk and after him the star of hesperus, whose office is to bring twilight upon the earth, short arbiter twixt day and night.--ix. - . and bid haste the evening star on his hill top to light the bridal lamp.--viii. - . milton knew of the phases of venus and was aware that at certain times the planet was visible in the telescope as a beautiful crescent. the line in which he mentions her as gilding her horns is an allusion to this appearance of venus. the pleiades the beautiful cluster of the pleiades or seven sisters has been regarded with hallowed veneration from time immemorial. the happy influences believed to be shed down upon the earth by those stars and their close association with human destinies have rendered them objects of almost sacred interest among the different races of mankind. in every region of the globe and in every clime, among civilised nations and savage fetish-worshipping tribes, the same benign influences were ascribed to the stars which form this interesting group. in greek mythology they were known as the seven daughters of atlas and pleione. different versions are given of their fate. by some writers it is said they died from grief in consequence of the death of their sisters, the hyades, or on account of the fate of their father, who, for treason, was condemned by zeus to bear on his head and hands the vault of heaven, on the mountains of north-west africa which bear his name. according to others they were the companions of diana, and, in order to escape from orion, by whom they were pursued, the gods translated them to the sky. all writers agree in saying that after their death or translation they were transformed into stars. their names are alcyone, electra, maia, merope, sterope, taygeta, and celaeno. the seventh atlantid is said to be the 'lost pleiad,' but it can be perceived without difficulty by a person possessing good eyesight. in the book of job there is a beautiful allusion to the pleiades (chap. xxxviii.) when god speaks out of the whirlwind and asks the patriarch to answer him-- canst thou bind the sweet influences of the pleiades, or loose the bands of orion? canst thou bring forth mazzaroth in his season? or canst thou guide arcturus with his sons? knowest thou the ordinances of heaven? canst thou set the dominion thereof in the earth? admiral smyth says that this noble passage is more correctly rendered as follows: canst thou bind the delightful teemings of cheemah? or the contractions of chesil canst thou open? canst thou draw forth mazzaroth in his season or ayeesh and his sons canst thou guide? he writes: 'in this very early description of the cardinal constellations, _cheemah_ denotes taurus with the pleiades; _chesil_ is scorpio; mazzaroth is sirius in "the chambers of the south;" and ayeesh the greater bear, the hebrew word signifying a _bier_, which was shaped by the four well-known bright stars, while the three forming the tail were considered as children attending a funeral.' the greeks at an early period were attracted by this cluster of stars, and hesiod alludes to them in his writings. one passage converted into rhyme reads as follows: there is a time when forty days they lie, and forty nights, conceal'd from human eye; but in the course of the revolving year, when the swain sharps the scythe, again appear. their heliacal rising was considered a favourable time for setting out on a voyage, and their midnight culmination, which occurred shortly after the middle of november, was celebrated by some nations with festivals and public ceremonies. considerable diversity of opinion existed among the ancients with regard to the number of stars which constitute this group. it was affirmed by some that only six were visible, whilst others maintained that seven could be seen. ovid writes: quae septem dici, sex tamen esse solent. homer and attalus mention six; hipparchus and aratus seven. the legend with regard to the lost pleiad would seem to indicate that, during a period in the past, the star possessed a superior brilliancy and was more distinctly visible than it is at the present time. this may have been so, for, should it belong to the class of variable stars, there would be a periodic ebb and flow of its light, by which its fluctuating brilliance could be explained. when looked at directly only six stars can be seen in the group, but should the eye be turned sideways more than this number become visible. several observers have counted as many as ten or twelve, and it is stated by kepler that his tutor, maestlin, was able to enumerate fourteen stars and mapped eleven in their relative positions. with telescopic aid the number is largely increased--galileo observed thirty-six with his instrument and hooke, in , counted seventy-eight. large modern telescopes bring into view several thousand stars in this region. the pleiades are situated at a profound distance in space. their light period is estimated at years, indicating a distance of , billions of miles. our sun if thus far removed would be reduced to a tenth-magnitude star. 'there can be little doubt,' says miss agnes clerke, 'that the solar brilliancy is surpassed by sixty to seventy of the pleiades. and it must be in some cases enormously surpassed; by alcyone , , by electra , by maia nearly times. sirius itself takes a subordinate rank when compared with the five most brilliant members of a group, the real magnificence of which we can thus in some degree apprehend.' this is the only star cluster which can be perceived to be moving in space, or which has an ascertained common proper motion. its constituents form a magnificent system in which the stars bear a mutual relationship to each other, and perform intricate internal revolutions, whilst they in systemic union drift along through the depths of space. there are two allusions to the pleiades in 'paradise lost.' in describing the path of the newly created sun, milton introduces them as indicative of the joyfulness associated with the birth of the universe-- first in his east the glorious lamp was seen, regent of day, and all the horizon round invested with bright rays, jocund to run his longitude through heaven's high road; the grey dawn, and the pleiades before him danced, shedding sweet influence.--vii. - . it was believed that the earth was created in the spring; and towards the end of april this group rises a little before the sun and precedes him in his course, 'shedding sweet influences.' the ancients believed that the good or evil influences of the stars were exercised not in the night but during the day, when their rays mingled with those of the sun. the pernicious influence of the dog-star is mentioned by latin writers as being most pronounced during the dog-days, at the end of summer and commencement of autumn, the time of the heliacal rising of this star. the other allusion to the pleiades is in book x., line , where milton, in describing the altered path of the sun consequent upon the fall, mentions how the orb travels through taurus with the seven atlantic sisters--the seven daughters of atlas, the pleiades, which are situated on the shoulder of the animal representing this zodiacal constellation. the galaxy the galaxy or milky way is the great luminous zone encircling the heavens, which can be seen extending across the sky from horizon to horizon. its diffused nebulous appearance caused the ancients much perplexity, and many quaint opinions were hazarded as to the nature of this celestial highway; but the mystery associated with it was not solved until galileo directed his newly invented telescope to this lucent object, when, to his intense delight, he discovered that it consists of myriads of stars--millions upon millions of suns so distant as to be individually indistinguishable to ordinary vision, and so closely aggregated, that their blended light gives rise to the milky luminosity signified by its name. this stelliferous zone almost completely encircles the sphere, which it divides into two nearly equal parts, and is inclined at an angle of ° to the celestial equator. in centaurus it divides into two portions, one indistinct and of interrupted continuity, the other bright and well defined; these, after remaining apart for °, reunite in cygnus. the milky way is of irregular outline and varies in breadth from ° to °; it intersects the equinoctial in the constellations monoceros and aquila, and approaches in cassiopeia to within ° of the north pole of the heavens; an equal distance intervenes between it and the south pole. its poles are in coma bernices and cetus. the stars in the galactic tract are very unevenly distributed; in some of its richest regions as many stars as are visible to the naked eye on a clear night have been counted within the space of a square degree. in other parts they are much less numerous, and there have been observed besides, adjacent to the most luminous portions of the zone, dark intervals and winding channels almost entirely devoid of stars. an instance of this kind occurs in the constellation of the southern cross, where there exists in a rich stellar region a large oval-shaped dark vacuity, ° by ° in extent, that appears to be almost entirely denuded of stars. in looking at it, an impression is created that one is gazing into an empty void of space far beyond the milky way. this gulf of cimmerian darkness was called by early navigators the coal sack. similar dark spaces, though not of such magnitude, are seen in ophiuchus, scorpio, and cygnus. the galaxy, when viewed with a powerful telescope, is found to consist of congeries of stars, vast stellar aggregations, great luminous tracts resolvable into clouds of stars of overpowering magnificence, superb clusters of various orders, and convoluted nebulous streams wandering 'with mazy error' among 'islands of light and lakes of darkness,' resolved by the telescope into banks of shining worlds. the concourses of stars which enter into the formation of this wonderful zone exhibit in a marvellous degree the amazing profusion in which these orbs exist in certain regions of space; yet those multitudes of stars perform their motions in harmonious unison and in orderly array, and by their mutual attraction sustain the dynamical equilibrium of this stupendous galactic ring, the diameter of which, according to one authority, is not traversed by light in less than , years. [illustration: fig. .--a portion of the milky way.] sir william herschel, to whom we are indebted for most of what we know of the milky way, commenced a series of observations in with the object of acquiring a knowledge of the structure of the sidereal heavens. in the accomplishment of this object, to which he devoted a considerable part of his life, he undertook a systematic survey of that portion of the galaxy which is visible in the northern hemisphere. by a method called star-gauging, which consisted in the enumeration of the stars in each successive telescopic field as the instrument moved slowly over the region under observation, he found that the depth of the star strata could be approximately ascertained by counting the stars along the line of vision; those were most numerous where the visual line appeared of the greatest length and fewest in number where it was shortest. herschel perceived the internal structure of the galaxy to be exceedingly intricate and complex, and that it embraced within its confines an endless variety of systems, clusters, and groups, branches, sprays, arches, loops, and streaming filaments of stars, all of which combined to form this luminous zone. 'it is indeed,' says a well-known astronomer, 'only to the most careless glance, or when viewed through an atmosphere of imperfect transparency, that the milky way seems a continuous zone. let the naked eye rest thoughtfully on any part of it, and, if circumstances be favourable, it will stand out rather as an accumulation of patches and streams of light of every conceivable variety of form and brightness, now side by side, now heaped on each other; again spanning across dark spaces, intertwining and forming a most curious and complex network; and at other times darting off into the neighbouring skies in branches of capricious length and shape which gradually thin away and disappear.' sir john herschel, who was occupied for four years at the cape of good hope in exploring the celestial regions of the southern hemisphere, describes the coming on of the milky way as seen in his -foot reflector. he first remarks 'that all the stars visible to us, whether by unassisted vision or through the best telescopes, belong to and form part of a vast stratum or considerably flattened and unsymmetrical congeries of stars in which our system is deeply and eccentrically plunged; and, moreover, situated near a point where the stratum bifurcates or spreads itself out into two sheets.' 'as the main body of the milky way comes on the frequency and variety of those masses (nebulous) increases; here the milky way is composed of separate or slight or strongly connected clouds of semi-nebulous light, and, as the telescope moves, the appearance is that of clouds passing in a scud, as sailors call it.' the milky way is like sand, not strewed evenly as with a sieve, but as if flung down by handfuls (and both hands at once), leaving dark intervals, and all consisting of stars of the fourteenth, sixteenth, twentieth magnitudes down to nebulosity, in a most astonishing manner. after an interval of comparative poverty, the same phenomenon, and even more remarkable, i cannot say it is nebulous, it is all resolved, but the stars are inconceivably numerous and minute; there must be millions and all almost equally massed together. yet they nowhere run to nuclei or clusters much brighter in the middle. towards the end of the seventeenth hour (right ascension) the globular clusters begin to come in; they consist of stars of excessive minuteness, but yet not more so than the ground of the milky way, on which not only they appear projected, but of which it is very probable they form a part. 'from the foregoing analysis of the telescopic aspect of the milky way in this interesting region, i think it can hardly be doubted that it consists of portions differing exceedingly in distance, but brought by the effect of projection into the same, or nearly the same, visual line; in particular, that at the anterior edge of what we have called the main stream, we see foreshortened a vast and illimitable area scattered over with discontinuous masses and aggregates of stars in the manner of the cumuli of a mackerel sky, rather than of a stratum of regular thickness and homogeneous formation.' the profound distance at which the stars of the galaxy are situated in space precludes the possibility of our obtaining any definite knowledge of their magnitude and of the extent of the intervals by which they are separated from each other, nor can we learn anything of the details associated with the systems and combinations into which they enter. it is believed that the majority of the stars in the milky way equal or surpass the sun in brilliancy and splendour. they are tenth to fifteenth magnitude stars; now, the sun at the distance indicated by these magnitudes would in the telescope appear a much fainter object; he would not reach the fifteenth magnitude. consequently, the galactic stars are regarded as his peers or superiors in magnitude and brilliancy. those myriads of suns are all in motion--in nature a stationary body is unknown--and they are sufficiently far apart so as not to be unduly influenced by their mutual gravitational attraction; a distance perhaps equal to that which separates our sun from the nearest fixed star may intervene between each of those orbs. in the deepest recesses of the milky way, sir william herschel was able to count stars receding in regular order behind each other; between each there existed an interval of space, probably not less extensive than the interstellar spaces among the stars by which we are surrounded. the richest galactic regions in the northern hemisphere are found in perseus, cygnus, and aquila. night after night could be spent in sweeping the telescope over fields where the stars can be seen in amazing profusion. in the interval of a quarter of an hour, sir william herschel observed , stars pass before him in the telescope, and on another occasion he perceived , stars in the space of forty-one minutes. in the constellation of the swan there is a region about ° in breadth which contains , stars. photography reveals in a remarkable manner the amazing richness of this stelliferous zone; the impress of the stars on the sensitive plate of the camera, in some instances, resembles a shower of descending snowflakes. though sir william herschel was able to fathom the galaxy in most of its tracts, yet there were regions which his great telescopes were unable to penetrate entirely through. in cepheus there is a spot where he observed the stars become 'gradually less till they escape the eye so that appearances here favour the idea of a succeeding more distant clustering part.' he perceived another in scorpio 'where, through the hollows and deep recesses of its complicated structure, we behold what has all the appearance of a wide and indefinitely prolonged area strewed over with discontinuous masses and clouds of stars which the telescope at length refuses to analyse.' the great cluster in perseus, which lies in the milky way, also baffled the penetrative capacity of herschel's instruments. we cannot help quoting professor nichol's description of herschel's observation of this remarkable object. he says: 'in the milky way, thronged all over with splendours, there is one portion not unnoticed by the general observer, the spot in the sword-hand of perseus. that spot shows no stars to the naked eye; the milky light which glorifies it comes from regions to which unaided we cannot pierce. but to a telescope of considerable power the space appears lighted up with unnumbered orbs; and these pass on through the depths of the infinite, until, even to that penetrating glass, they escape all scrutiny, withdrawing into regions unvisited by its power. shall we adventure into these deeper retirements? then, assume an instrument of higher efficacy, and lo! the change is only repeated; those scarce observed before appear as large orbs, and, behind, a new series begins, shading gradually away, leading towards farther mysteries! the illustrious herschel penetrated on one occasion into this spot, until he found himself among depths whose light could not have reached him in much less than , years; no marvel that he withdrew from the pursuit, conceiving that such abysses must be endless!' the milky way may be regarded as a universe by itself, and our sun as one of its myriad stars. milton was aware of the stellar constitution of the milky way, which was one of galileo's discoveries. the poet gives a singularly accurate description of this luminous path, which he glorifies as the way by which the deity returned up to the heaven of heavens after he finished his great work of creation-- so sung the glorious train ascending: he through heaven, that opened wide her blazing portals, led to god's eternal house direct the way-- a broad and ample road, whose dust is gold, and pavement stars, as stars to thee appear seen in the galaxy, that milky way which nightly as a circling zone thou seest powdered with stars.--vii. - . comets records of the appearance of these remarkable objects have been handed down from earliest times; and when one of those mysterious visitors, travelling from out the depths of space, became visible in our skies, it was regarded with apprehension and dread as betokening the occurrence of calamities and direful events among the nations of the earth. the word comet is derived from the greek {komê}, signifying 'hair,' to which the hazy, luminous appearance of those objects bears some resemblance. a comet consists of a bright central part called the _nucleus_; this is surrounded by layers of nebulous matter called the _coma_, and both combined form the _head_, from which a long appendage extends called the _tail_. the nucleus and tail are not essential parts of a comet, for many have been observed in which both have been wanting. the tail is frequently very conspicuous, and presents considerable diversity both as regards its appearance and length. in some comets it is entirely absent, and in others it has been observed to stretch over an arc of sixty or seventy degrees, indicating a length of to million miles. sometimes it is straight, and at other times it is curved at the extremity; it has been observed bifurcated into two branches; and, on rare occasions, comets have been seen with two or more tails. the tail of a comet is always directed away from the sun; it increases in size as the comet approaches the orb, and diminishes as it recedes from him. this depends upon the degree of heat to which the comet is exposed, which has the effect of driving off or evaporating some of the matter composing the head. during the time the comet is travelling round the sun there is a continuous emission of this highly attenuated matter, which is visible as the tail, but when the comet begins to recede from the orb and reaches cooler regions of space the tail diminishes in size as the temperature becomes reduced, and ultimately it disappears. the appearance of a comet in the sky is often sudden and unexpected, and one of those erratic wanderers may become visible at any time and in any part of the heavens. it was remarked by kepler that there are as many comets in the sky as there are fishes in the ocean. this may or may not be true, for they only become visible when they approach the sun, and the time during which they remain so does not usually exceed a few weeks or months. ancient astronomers were much perplexed with the motions of comets, which appeared to be much more irregular than those of other celestial bodies and unconformed to any known laws. tycho brahé believed that comets moved in circular orbits, and kepler imagined that they travelled in straight lines outwards from the sun. newton, however, was able to demonstrate that any conic section can be described about the sun consistent with the law of gravitation, and that the orbits of comets correspond with three of the four sections into which a cone can be divided. consequently, they obey the laws of planetary motion. comets which move in ellipses of known eccentricity and return with periodical regularity may be regarded as belonging to the solar system. twenty of these are known, and eleven of them have more than once passed their perihelion. those most familiarly known complete their periods in years as follows:--encke's · ; swift's, · ; winnecke's, · ; tempel's, ; brorsen's, · ; faye's, · ; tuttle's, · , and halley's, . comets with parabolic and hyperbolic orbits may be regarded as stray objects which visit our system once, and depart never to return again. besides those already mentioned there are many comets with orbits of such marked eccentricity that their ellipses when near perihelion cannot be distinguished from parabolæ. the great comets of , , , , , and traverse orbits approaching this form, and some of them require hundreds and thousands of years to accomplish a circuit of their paths. numerous instances of the appearance of remarkable comets have been recorded in the annals of ancient nations. the earliest records of comets are by the chinese, who were careful observers of celestial phenomena. a comet is said to have appeared at the time of the birth of mithridates ( b.c.), which had a disc as large as that of the sun; a great comet also became visible in the heavens about the time of the death of julius cæsar ( b.c.), and another was seen in the reign of justinian ( a.d.). a remarkable comet was observed in , and in , the year in which the turks obtained possession of constantinople and threatened to overrun europe, a great comet appeared, which was regarded by christendom with ominous forebodings. the celebrated astronomer halley was the first to predict the return of a comet. having become acquainted with newton's investigations, which showed that the forms of the orbits of comets were either parabolæ or extremely elongated ellipses, he subjected the next great comet, which appeared in , to a series of observations, calculated its orbit, and predicted that it would return to perihelion in seventy-five or seventy-six years. on referring to past records he discovered that a great comet appeared in , which pursued a path similar to the one traced out for his comet, another was seen in , and one in . halley perceived that the intervals between those dates corresponded to a period of about seventy-six years, the time which he calculated would be required for his comet to complete a revolution of its orbit. he therefore had no hesitation in predicting that the comet would appear again in . halley knew that he would not be alive to witness the event, and alludes to it in the following sentence: 'wherefore if it should return according to our prediction about the year , impartial posterity will not refuse to acknowledge that this was first discovered by an englishman.' as the time approached when the comet should be drawing near to our system, much interest was excited among astronomers, who would have an opportunity afforded them of testing the accuracy of halley's prediction. an eminent french mathematician named clairaut computed anew, by a method rather different to that adopted by halley, the retarding effect of the attraction of the planets upon the speed of the comet, and arrived at the conclusion that it would reach perihelion about the middle of april ; but, owing to unknown influences--uranus and neptune not having been discovered--it might be a month before or behind the calculated time. clairaut made this announcement on november , . astronomers were now intently on the look-out for the comet, and night after night the sky was swept by telescopes in search of the expected visitor, which for upwards of seventy years had been pursuing its solitary path invisible to mortal eyes. but the mental vision of the mathematician did not fail to follow this celestial object, which was now announced as being on the confines of our system. the comet was first observed on december , , it soon became conspicuous in the heavens, and reached perihelion on march , , a month before the time assigned to it by clairaut but within the limit of error allowed for unknown influences. halley's comet returned again in , and may be expected about the year . the periodic appearance of this comet has been traced back to the year . the celebrated comet of was noted as having been the one which afforded newton an opportunity of making observations which led to his discovery that comets describe orbits round the sun in conformity with the different sections of a cone. the comet of was observed for many weeks in the northern heavens as a brilliant object with a beautiful fan-shaped tail; it completes a revolution of its orbit in about , years. the comet of was also a splendid object. it possessed a tail million miles in length, and approached within , miles of the sun. the heat to which it was exposed was sufficient to volatilize the most infusible substances known to exist. donati's comet of will be long remembered as one of the most impressive of celestial spectacles: its tail extended over an area of forty degrees, and enveloped the star arcturus, which could be seen shining through it with undiminished brilliancy. its period is estimated to be , years. a great comet appeared in , through the tail of which the earth passed without any perceptible effect having resulted. no remarkable comets have appeared during recent years. in , , and , several were observed, and that of was the first successfully photographed. comets consist of cosmical matter which exists in a condition of extreme tenuity, and especially so in the coma and tail. sir john herschel described them as almost spiritual in texture, and small stars have been seen shining through their densest parts without any perceptible diminution of their light. the nucleus is believed to be composed of a congeries of meteoric fragments, and these, when exposed to the sun's heat, throw off luminous nebulous particles that are swept by some repulsive force into space and form the appendage known as the tail. comets may be regarded as celestial objects that are perfectly innocuous. neither fear nor dread need be apprehended from their visits; they come to please and instruct, not to injure or destroy. milton does not fail to introduce into his poem several allusions to comets, and in doing so expresses the ideas and sentiments which in his time were associated with those objects. in describing the hostile meeting between satan and death before the gates of hell, he writes: on the other side, incensed with indignation, satan stood unterrified, and like a comet burned, that fires the length of ophiuchus huge in the arctic sky, and from his horrid hair shakes pestilence and war.--ii. - . this passage is eminently descriptive of the appearance of a great comet, and the occasion on which it is introduced adds to the intensity of the lurid imaginings and feelings of terror and dismay with which these objects have always been regarded. the comparison of the enraged prince of hell with one of those mysterious and fiery looking visitors to our skies was a grand conception of the poet's, and one worthy of the mighty combatant. ophiuchus (the serpent-bearer) is a large constellation which occupies a rather barren region of the heavens to the south of hercules. it has a length of about forty degrees, and is represented by the figure of a man bearing a serpent in both hands. it is not easy to imagine why milton should have assigned the comet to this uninteresting constellation; he may possibly have seen one in this part of the sky, or his poetical ear may have perceived that the expression 'ophiuchus huge,' which has about it a ponderous rhythm, was well adapted for the poetic description of a comet. the only other allusion in the poem to a comet is near its conclusion, when the cherubim descend to take possession of the garden, prior to the removal of adam and eve-- high in front advanced, the brandished sword of god before them blazed, fierce as a comet; which with torrid heat, and vapour as the lybian air adust began to parch that temperate clime.--xii. - . falling stars on any clear night an observer can, by attentively watching the heavens, perceive a few of those objects which become visible for a moment as a streak of light and then vanish. they are the result of the combustion of small meteoric masses having a celestial origin, and travelling with cosmical velocity, and which, in their headlong flight, become so heated by contact with the earth's atmosphere that they are converted into glowing vapour. this vapour when it cools condenses into fine powder or dust, and gradually descends upon the earth's surface, where it can be detected. shooting stars become visible at a height varying between twenty and one hundred and thirty miles, and their average velocity has been estimated at about thirty miles a second. though casual falling stars can be seen at all times in every part of the heavens, yet there are certain periods at which they appear in large numbers, and have been observed to radiate from certain well-defined parts of the sky. when the radiant point is overhead, the falling stars spread out and resemble a parachute of fire; but when it is below the horizon, the stars ascend upwards like rockets into the sky. the radiant point is fixed among the stars, so that at the commencement of a shower it may be overhead, and before the termination of the display it may have travelled below the horizon. the radiant is usually named after the constellation in which it is observed. the november meteors are called leonids, because they radiate from a point in the constellation leo; those in taurus are called taurids; in perseus, perseids; in lyra, lyraïds; and in andromeda, andromedes, because their radiant points are situated in those constellations. the falling stars that have attracted most attention are those which appear on or about november . every year at this period they can be seen in greater or less numbers, and on referring to numerous past records it has been ascertained that a magnificent display of those objects occurs every thirty-three years. the earliest historical allusion to this meteoric shower is by theophanes, who wrote that in the year a.d. the sky at constantinople appeared to be on fire with falling stars. in the year a.d. another remarkable display took place, and from that time until twelve conspicuous displays are recorded as having occurred at recurring intervals of thirty-three years. the grandest display of this kind that was ever witnessed occurred in . it was visible over nearly the whole of the american continent, and, having commenced at midnight, lasted for four or five hours. the falling stars were so numerous that they appeared to rain upon the earth, and caused the utmost consternation and terror among those who witnessed the phenomenon, many persons having imagined that the end of the world was at hand. the regular recurrence of these meteoric displays has been satisfactorily explained by the assumption that round the sun there travels in an elliptical orbit with planetary velocity a vast shoal of meteoric bodies some millions of miles in length and several hundred thousand miles in breadth. the nearest point of their orbit to the sun coincides with the earth's orbit, and the most distant part extends beyond the orbit of uranus. these bodies accomplish a circuit of their orbit in - / years. the earth in her annual revolution intersects the path of the meteors, and when this occurs some falling stars can always be seen; but when the intersection happens at the time the shoal is passing, then there results a grand meteoric display. numerous other meteoric swarms travel in orbital paths round the sun. milton, in his poem, alludes to falling stars upon two occasions. in describing the fall of mulciber from heaven he says:-- from morn to noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve, a summer's day; and with the setting sun dropt from the zenith like a falling star, on lemnos the Ægaean isle.--i. - . the rapid flight of the archangel uriel from the sun to the earth is described in the following lines:-- thither came uriel, gliding through the even on a sunbeam, swift as a shooting star in autumn thwarts the night, when vapours fired impress the air, and shows the mariner from what point of his compass to beware impetuous winds.--iv. - . milton mentions the season of the year in which those stars are most frequently seen, and refers to an ancient belief by which they were regarded as the precursors of stormy weather. a translation from virgil contains a similar allusion to them-- oft shalt thou see ere brooding storms arise, star after star glide headlong down the skies. the standard borne by the cherub azazel is described as having-- shone like a meteor streaming to the wind.--i. . chapter ix milton's imaginative and descriptive astronomy the theme chosen by milton for his great epic, viz. the fall of man and his expulsion from paradise--perhaps the most momentous incident in the history of the human race--was one worthy of the genius of a great poet and in the treatment of which milton has been sublimely successful. the newly created earth; the untainted loveliness of the paradise in which our first parents dwelt during their innocence; their temptation; their fall and removal from the happy garden, furnished a theme which afforded him an opportunity for the display of his unrivalled poetic genius. though the chief interest in the poem is centred in the garden of eden and its occupants, yet milton was enabled, by the comprehensive manner in which he treated his subject, to introduce into his work a cosmology which embraced not only the system to which our globe belongs, but the entire starry heavens by which we are surrounded. but the universality of his genius did not rest here. in the utterance of his sacred song he soared beyond the starry sphere, describing himself as wrapt above the pole--the starry pole--up to the empyrean, or heaven of heavens, the ineffable abode of the deity and the blissful habitation of angelic beings who, in adoration and worship, surround the throne of the most high. descending to that nether world at the opposite pole of the universe, in the lowest depth of chaos, the place prepared by eternal justice for the rebellious, he unfolds to our horror-stricken gaze the terrors of this infernal region; its fiery deluge of ever-burning sulphur; its 'regions of sorrow;' its 'doleful shades'--the unhappy abode of fallen angels who 'in floods and whirlwinds of tempestuous fire,' alternated by exposure to unendurable cold and icy torment, experience the direful consequences of their apostacy. milton's 'paradise lost' may be regarded as the loftiest intellectual effort in the whole range of literature. in it we find all that was known of science, philosophy, and theology. the theme, founded upon a bible narrative, itself written under divine inspiration, embraces the entire system of christian doctrine as revealed in the scriptures, and many of the noblest passages in the sacred volume are introduced into the poem expressed in the lofty utterance of flowing and harmonious verse. the choicest classical writings of greek and latin authors; the mythological and traditional beliefs of ancient nations; historical incidents of valour and renown and all that was great and good in the annals of mankind were laid under contribution by milton in the illustration and embellishment of his poem. in order to obtain a basis or foundation upon which to construct his great epic, milton found it necessary to localise the regions of space in which the principal events mentioned in his poem are described as having occurred. the unfathomable abyss of space may be regarded as an uncircumscribed sphere boundless on all sides round, and so far as we can comprehend of infinite extent. this sphere milton divided into two hemispheres--an upper and a lower. the upper was called heaven, or the empyrean--a glorified region of boundless dimensions; the lower hemisphere embraced chaos--a dark, fathomless abyss in which the elements of matter existed in a state of perpetual tumult and wild uproar. the occurrence of a rebellion in heaven necessitated a further division of the sphere. the revolt, headed by lucifer, one of the highest archangels, afterwards known as satan, who drew after him a third of the angelic host, contested the supremacy of heaven with michael and the angels which kept their loyalty. after two days' battle-- him the almighty power hurled headlong flaming from the ethereal sky, with hideous ruin and combustion, down to bottomless perdition; there to dwell in adamantine chains and penal fire.--i. - . having been precipitated over the crystal wall of heaven into the deep abyss, milton says:-- nine days they fell; confounded chaos roared, and felt tenfold confusion in their fall through his wild anarchy; so huge a rout encumbered him with ruin. hell at last, yawning, received them whole, and on them closed.--vi. - . hell, milton locates in the lowest depth of chaos, a region cut off from the body of chaos, through which the expelled angels fell for nine days before reaching their destined habitation. there are now three divisions of space: heaven, chaos, and hell. but a fourth is required to enable milton to complete his scheme for the delineation of his poem. the earth and starry universe were not as yet called into existence, but after the overthrow of the rebellious angels, god, by circumscribing a portion of chaos situated immediately underneath the empyrean, created the mundane universe, or the 'heavens and the earth.'[ ] this new universe he reclaimed from chaos, and with the embryo elements of matter-- his dark materials to create new worlds.--ii. . he formed the earth and all the countless shining orbs visible overhead, and the myriads more which the telescope reveals, scattered in apparently endless profusion over the circular immensity of space. it is this new universe--the earth and starry heavens--that claims our chief attention, and in the delineation of milton's imaginative and descriptive powers it is to this latest manifestation of divine wisdom and might that our remarks shall principally apply. after the expulsion of the rebel angels from heaven, god sent his son, the messiah to create the new universe--a work of omnipotence described by milton in a manner worthy of so magnificent a display of almighty power-- meanwhile the son on his great expedition now appeared, girt with omnipotence, with radiance crowned of majesty divine: sapience and love immense; and all his father in him shone. about his chariot numberless were poured cherub and seraph, potentates and thrones, and virtues, winged spirits, and chariots winged from the armoury of god, where stand of old myriads, between two brazen mountains lodged against a solemn day, harnessed at hand, celestial equipage; and now came forth spontaneous, for within them spirit lived, attendant on their lord. heaven opened wide her ever-during gates, harmonious sound! on golden hinges moving, to let forth the king of glory, in his powerful word and spirit, coming to create new worlds. on heavenly ground they stood, and from the shore they viewed the vast immeasurable abyss outrageous as a sea, dark, wasteful, wild, up from the bottom turned by furious winds and surging waves, as mountains to assault heaven's highth, and with the centre mix the pole. 'silence, ye troubled waves, and thou deep, peace!' said then the omnific word: 'your discord end!' nor stayed; but on the wings of cherubim uplifted, in paternal glory rode far into chaos, and the world unborn; for chaos heard his voice. him all his train followed in bright procession, to behold creation, and the wonders of his might. then stayed the fervid wheels, and in his hand he took the golden compasses, prepared in god's eternal store, to circumscribe this universe, and all created things. one foot he centred, and the other turned round through the vast profundity obscure; and said, 'thus far extend, thus far thy bounds; this be thy just circumference, o world!' thus god the heaven created, thus the earth, matter unformed and void. darkness profound covered the abyss; but on the watery calm his brooding wings the spirit of god outspread, and vital virtue infused, and vital warmth, throughout the fluid mass; but downward purged the black, tartareous, cold, infernal dregs, adverse to life; then founded, then conglobed like things to like; the rest to several place disparted, and between spun out the air; and earth self balanced on her centre hung.--vii. - . milton begins his narrative of the creation by describing the progress of the deity on his great expedition, accompanied by hosts of angels and surrounded with all the solemn pomp and splendour of heaven. the brilliant throng having passed through heaven's gates, which opened wide their portals, they beheld in front of them the dark abyss of chaos--a tempest-tossed sea of warring elements upturned in wild confusion. at god's instant command silence and peace reigned over the deep, and tranquil calm succeeded noisy discord. then on the wings of cherubim he rode far into chaos, and with his golden compasses decreed the dimensions of the universe by circumscribing the vast vacuity of space. into the elements which hasted to their several places, his spirit infused vital warmth and caused the formless mass of matter to assume the figure of a sphere, and thus the earth poised on her axis unsupported, and in darkness shrouded hung suspended in space. the placing of the golden compasses in the hands of the creator, with which he measured out the heavens, is a noble conception on the part of milton, and one most appropriate, since the construction of the universe is based upon the principles of geometrical science. 'let there be light!' said god; and forthwith light ethereal, first of things, quintessence pure, sprung from the deep; and from her native east to journey through the aëry gloom began, sphered in a radiant cloud; for yet the sun was not; she in a cloudy tabernacle sojourned the while. god saw the light was good; and light from darkness by the hemisphere divided; light the day, and darkness night he named. thus was the first day even and morn: nor passed uncelebrated, nor unsung by the celestial quires, when orient light exhaling first from darkness they beheld; birthday of heaven and earth; with joy and shout the hollow universal orb they filled, and touched their golden harps, and hymning praised god and his works: creator him they sung, both when first evening was, and when first morn.--vii. - . the appearance of light, which sprung into existence at the fiat of the creator, was the next great event witnessed by beholding angels--birthday of heaven and earth, first morning and first evening, which the celestial choirs celebrated with praise and shouts of joy. the creation of the firmament was the great work of the second day. again god said, 'let there be firmament amid the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters!' and god made the firmament, expanse of liquid, pure, transparent, elemental air, diffused in circuit to the uttermost convex of this great round--partition firm and sure, the waters underneath from those above dividing; for as the earth, so he the world built on circumfluous waters calm, in wide crystalline ocean, and the loud misrule of chaos far removed, lest fierce extremes contiguous might distemper the whole frame: and heaven he named the firmament. so even and morning chorus sung the second day.--vii. - . after describing the gathering of the waters off the face of the globe into seas, causing the dry land to appear, which at the word of god became clothed with vegetation, rendering the earth a habitable abode, milton proceeds to describe the creation of the heavenly bodies-- again the almighty spake: 'let there be lights high in the expanse of heaven, to divide the day from night; and let them be for signs, for seasons, and for days, and circling years; and let them be for lights, as i ordain their office in the firmament of heaven, to give light on the earth!' and it was so. and god made two great lights, great for their use to man, the greater to have rule by day, the less by night, altern; and made the stars, and set them in the firmament of heaven to illuminate the earth, and rule the day in their vicissitude, and rule the night, and light from darkness to divide. god saw, surveying his great work, that it was good: for, of celestial bodies, first, the sun, a mighty sphere he framed, unlightsome first, though of ethereal mould; then formed the moon globose, and every magnitude of stars, and sowed with stars the heaven thick as a field. of light by far the greater part he took, transplanted from her cloudy shrine, and placed in the sun's orb, made porous to receive and drink the liquid light; firm to retain her gathered beams, great palace now of light. hither, as to their fountain, other stars repairing, in their golden urns draw light, and hence the morning planet gilds her horns; by tincture or reflection they augment their small peculiar, though, from human sight so far remote, with diminution seen. first in his east the glorious lamp was seen, regent of day, and all the horizon round invested with bright rays, jocund to run his longitude through heaven's high road; the grey dawn, and the pleiades before him danced, shedding sweet influence. less bright the moon, but opposite in levelled west was set his mirror, with full face borrowing her light from him; for other light she needed none in that aspect, and still that distance keeps till night; then in the east her turn she shines, revolved on heaven's great axle, and her reign with thousand lesser lights dividual holds, with thousand thousand stars that then appeared spangling the hemisphere. then first adorned with their bright luminaries, that set and rose, glad evening and glad morn crowned the fourth day.--vii. - . the first creation was light, and milton, according to scriptural testimony, ascribes its origin to the bidding of the creator. 'god said, let there be light; and there was light!' the sun he describes as a mighty sphere, but at first non-luminous. there was light, but no sun. the reason usually given in explanation of this phenomenon is, that the heavenly bodies were created at the same time as the earth, but were rendered invisible by a canopy of vapour and cloud which enveloped the newly-formed globe; and that afterwards, when it dispersed, they appeared in the firmament, shining in all their pristine splendour. milton does not, however, adhere to this view of things, but says that light for the first three days sojourned in a cloudy shrine or tabernacle, and was afterwards transplanted in the sun, which became a great palace of light. he expresses himself in a somewhat similar manner in book iii., which opens with an address to light--one of the most beautiful passages in the poem, in which he alludes to his blindness when expressing his thoughts and sentiments with regard to this ethereal medium, which conveys to us the pleasurable sensation of vision-- hail, holy light! offspring of heaven first-born! or of the eternal co-eternal beam, may i express thee unblamed? since god is light, and never but in unapproached light dwelt from eternity--dwelt then in thee, bright effluence of bright essence increate! or hear'st thou rather, pure ethereal stream, whose fountain who shall tell? before the sun, before the heavens thou wert, and at the voice of god, as with a mantle, didst invest the rising world of waters dark and deep, won from the void and formless infinite.--iii. - . the sun having become a lucent orb, milton poetically describes how the planets repair to him as to a fountain, and in their golden urns draw light; and how the morning planet venus gilds her horns illumined by his rays. the poet associates joyous ideas with the new-born universe. the sun, now the glorious regent of day, begins his journey in the east, lighting up the horizon with his beams; whilst before him danced the grey dawn, and the pleiades shedding sweet influences. there existed an ancient belief that the earth was created in the spring, and in april the sun is in the zodiacal constellation taurus, in which are also situated the pleiades; they rise a little before the orb, and precede him in his path through the heavens. the stars of this group have always been regarded with a peculiar sacredness, and their rays, mingling with those of the sun, were believed to shed sweet influences upon the earth. the moon, less bright, with borrowed light, in her turn shines in the east, and, with the thousand thousand luminaries that spangle the firmament, reigns over the night. we learn in book iii. that the archangel uriel, who was beguiled by satan, witnessed the creation, and described how the heavenly bodies were brought into existence, he having perceived what we should call the gaseous elements of matter rolled into whorls and vortices which became condensed into suns and systems of worlds. this mighty angel says:-- i saw when, at his word the formless mass, this world's material mould, came to a heap: confusion heard his voice, and wild uproar stood ruled, stood vast infinitude confined; till at his second bidding darkness fled, light shone, and order from disorder sprung. swift to their several quarters hasted then the cumbrous elements, earth, flood, air, fire; and this ethereal quintessence of heaven flew upward, spirited with various forms, that rolled orbicular, and turned to stars numberless, as thou seest, and how they move; each had his place appointed, each his course; the rest in circuit walls this universe.--iii. - . in his sublime description of the creation milton has adhered with marked fidelity to the mosaic version, as narrated in the first two chapters of genesis, when god, by specific acts in certain stated periods of time, created the visible universe and all that it contains. the successive acts of creation are described in words almost identical with those of scripture, embellished and adorned with all the wealth of expression which our language is capable of affording. the several scenes presented to the imagination, and witnessed by hosts of admiring angels as each portion of the magnificent work was accomplished, are full of a grandeur and majesty worthy of the loftiest conceivable effort of divine power and might. the return of the creator after the completion of his great work is described by milton in a manner worthy of the progress of deity through the celestial regions. the whole creation rang with jubilant delight, and the bright throng which witnessed the wonders of his might followed him with acclamation, ascending by the glorified path of the milky way up to his high abode--the heaven of heavens-- here finished he, and all that he had made viewed, and behold! all was entirely good. so even and morn accomplished the sixth day: yet not till the creator from his work desisting, though unwearied, up returned, up to the heaven of heavens, his high abode, thence to behold this new created world, the addition of his empire, how it showed in prospect from his throne, how good, how fair, answering his great idea. up he rode, followed with acclamation, and the sound symphonious of ten thousand harps, that tuned angelic harmonies: the earth, the air resounded (thou remember'st, for thou heard'st) the heavens and all the constellations rung, the planets in their stations listening stood, while the bright pomp ascended jubilant. 'open ye everlasting gates!' they sung; 'open ye heavens! your living doors; let in the great creator, from his work returned magnificent, his six days' work, a world; open, and henceforth oft; for god will deign to visit oft the dwellings of just men, delighted; and with frequent intercourse thither will send his winged messengers on errands of supernal grace.' so sung the glorious train ascending: he through heaven, that opened wide her blazing portals, led to god's eternal house direct the way-- a broad and ample road, whose dust is gold, and pavement stars, as stars to thee appear seen in the galaxy, that milky way which nightly as a circling zone thou seest powdered with stars.--vii. - . milton, throughout his description of the creation, sustains with lofty eloquence his sublime conception of this latest display of almighty power; and invests with becoming majesty all the acts of the creator, who, when he finished his great work, saw that all was entirely good. shortly after the creation of the new universe, satan, having escaped from hell, plunged into the abyss of chaos, and, after a long and arduous journey upwards, in which he had to fight his way through the surging elements that raged around him like a tempestuous sea, he reached the upper confines of this region where less confusion prevailed, and where a glimmering dawn of light penetrated its darkness and gloom, indicating that the limit of the empire of chaos and ancient night had been reached by the adventurous fiend. pursuing his way with greater ease, he leisurely beholds the sight which is opening to his eyes--a sight rendered more glorious by his long sojourn in darkness. he sees:-- far off the empyreal heaven, extended wide in circuit, undetermined square or round, with opal towers and battlements adorned of living sapphire, once his native seat, and, fast by, hanging in a golden chain, this pendent world, in bigness as a star of smallest magnitude close by the moon.--ii. - . he gazes upon his native heaven where once he dwelt, and observes the pendent world in quest of which he journeyed hither--hung by a golden chain from the empyrean and no larger than a star of the smallest magnitude when close by the moon. in this passage milton does not allude to the earth, which was invisible, but to the entire starry heavens--the newly created universe reclaimed from chaos, which, when contrasted with the empyrean, appeared in size no larger than the minutest star when compared with the full moon. pursuing his journey, the new universe as it is approached expands into a globe of vast dimensions; its convex surface--round which the chaotic elements in stormy aspect lowered--seemed a boundless continent, dark, desolate, and starless, except on the side next to the wall of heaven, which though far-distant afforded it some illumination by its reflected light. satan, having alighted on this convex shell which enclosed the universe, wandered long over its bleak and dismal surface, until his attention was attracted by a gleam of light which appeared through an opening at its zenith right underneath the empyrean. thither he directed his steps, and perceived a structure resembling a staircase, or ladder, which formed the only means of communication between heaven and the new creation, and upon which angels descended and ascended-- far distant he descries, ascending by degrees magnificent up to the wall of heaven, a structure high; at top whereof, but far more rich, appeared the work as of a kingly palace gate, with frontispiece of diamond and gold embellished; thick with sparkling orient gems the portal shone, inimitable on earth by model, or by shading pencil drawn. the stairs were such as whereon jacob saw angels ascending and descending, bands of guardians bright, when he from esau fled to padan aram, in the field of luz dreaming by night under the open sky, and waking cried, '_this is the gate of heaven._'--iii. - . sometimes this mysterious structure was drawn up to heaven and invisible. at the time that satan reached the opening, the stairs were lowered, and standing at their base he looked down with wonder upon the entire starry universe-- such wonder seized, though after heaven seen, the spirit malign, but much more envy seized, at sight of all this world beheld so fair, round he surveys (and well might, where he stood so high above the circling canopy of night's extended shade) from eastern point of libra to the fleecy star that bears andromeda far off atlantic seas beyond the horizon; then from pole to pole he views in breadth, and without longer pause, down right into the world's first region throws his flight precipitant, and winds with ease through the pure marble air his oblique way amongst innumerable stars, that shone stars distant, but nigh hand seemed other worlds, or other worlds they seemed, or happy isles, like those hesperian gardens famed of old, fortunate fields, and groves, and flowery vales; thrice happy isles! but who dwelt happy there he staid not to inquire: above them all the golden sun, in splendour likest heaven allured his eye: thither his course he bends through the calm firmament, (but up or down by centre or eccentric hard to tell or longitude) where the great luminary, aloof the vulgar constellations thick, that from his lordly eye keep distance due, dispenses light from far. they, as they move their starry dance in numbers that compute days, months, and years, towards his all-cheering lamp turn swift their various motions, or are turned by his magnetic beam, that gently warms the universe, and to each inward part with gentle penetration, though unseen, shoots invisible virtue even to the deep; so wondrously was set his station bright.--iii. - . the ptolemaic cosmology having been adopted by milton in the elaboration of his poem, he describes the universe in conformity with the doctrines associated with this form of astronomical belief. to each of the first seven spheres which revolved round the steadfast earth there was attached a heavenly body; the eighth sphere embraced all the fixed stars, a countless multitude; the ninth the crystalline; and enclosing all the other spheres as if in a shell was the tenth sphere, or primum mobile, which in its diurnal revolution carried round with it all the other spheres. the nine inner spheres were transparent, but the tenth was an opaque solid shell-like structure, which enclosed the new universe and constituted the boundary between it and chaos underneath and the empyrean above. it was on the surface of this sphere that satan wandered until he discovered the opening at its zenith, where, by means of a staircase or ladder, communication was maintained with the empyrean. standing on the lower steps of this structure he paused for a moment to look down into the glorious universe which lay beneath him-- another heaven from heaven-gate not far, founded in view on the clear hyaline the glassy sea.--vii. - . he beholds it in all its dimensions, from pole to pole, and longitudinally from libra to aries, then without hesitation precipitates himself down into the world's first region, and winds his way with ease among the fixed stars. around him he sees innumerable shining worlds, sparkling and glittering in endless profusion over the circumscribed immensity of space--mighty constellations that shone from afar; clustering aggregations of stars; floating islands of light; twinkling systems rising out of depths still more profound, and a zone luminous with the light of myriads of lucid orbs verging on the confines of the universe. all these worlds the fiend passed unheeded, nor stayed he to inquire who dwelt happy there. in splendour above them all the sun attracted his attention and, directing his course towards the great luminary of our system, he alights on the surface of the orb. milton now makes a digression in order to describe what satan observed in the sun after having landed there. the poet embraces an opportunity for exercising his imaginative and descriptive powers by giving an ideal description of what, judging from the appearance of the orb, might be the natural condition of things existing on his surface-- there lands the fiend, a spot like which perhaps astronomer in the sun's lucent orb through his glazed optic tube, yet never saw. the place he found beyond expression bright, compared with aught on earth, metal or stone; not all parts like, but all alike informed with radiant light, as glowing iron with fire; if metal, part seemed gold, part silver clear; if stone, carbuncle most or chrysolite, ruby or topaz, to the twelve that shone in aaron's breastplate, and a stone besides, imagined rather oft than elsewhere seen; that stone, or like to that, which here below philosophers in vain so long have sought, in vain, though by their powerful art they bind volatile hermes, and call up unbound in various shapes old proteus from the sea, drained through a limbec to his native form. what wonder then if fields and regions here breathe forth elixir pure, and rivers run potable gold, when, with one virtuous touch, the arch-chemic sun, so far from us remote, produces, with terrestrial humour mixed, here in the dark so many precious things of colour glorious, and effect so rare? here matter new to gaze the devil met undazzled; far and wide his eye commands; for sight no obstacle found here, nor shade, but all sunshine, as when his beams at noon culminate from the equator, as they now shot upward still direct, whence no way round shadow from body opaque can fall; and the air, nowhere so clear sharpened his visual ray to objects distant far, whereby he soon saw within here a glorious angel stand.--iii. - . the physical structure of the interior of the sun is unknown; all that we see of the orb is the photosphere--the dazzling luminous envelope which indicates to the eye the boundary of the solar disc, and which is the source of light and heat. milton, in his imaginative and beautifully poetical description of the sun, is not more fanciful in his conception of the nature of the refulgent orb than a renowned astronomer (sir william herschel) who writes in the following strain: 'a cool, dark, solid globe, its surface diversified with mountains and valleys, clothed in luxuriant vegetation and richly stored with inhabitants, protected by a heavy cloud-canopy from the intolerable glare of the upper luminous region, where the dazzling coruscations of a solar aurora some thousands of miles in depth evolved the stores of light and heat which vivify our world.' satan, disguised as a cherub, makes himself known to uriel, regent of the sun. the upright seraph in response to his request directs him to the earth, the abode of man-- look downward on that globe, whose hither side with light from hence, though but reflected, shines, that place is earth, the seat of man; that light his day, which else, as the other hemisphere, night would invade; but there neighbouring moon (so call that opposite fair star) her aid timely interposes, and her monthly round still ending, still renewing, through mid-heaven, with borrowed light her countenance triform hence fills and empties, to enlighten the earth, and in her pale dominion checks the night.--iii. - . it would be impossible not to feel impressed with the accuracy and comprehensiveness of milton's astronomical knowledge; and how he has united in charming poetic expression the dry details of science with the divine inspiration of the heavenly muse. the distinctive appearances of the sun, moon, planets, and stars; their functional importance as regards this terrestrial sphere; the splendour and lustre peculiar to each; and the glory displayed in the entire created heavens, are portrayed with a skill indicative of a masterly knowledge of the science of astronomy. descend from heaven, urania, by that name if rightly thou art called, whose voice divine following, above the olympian hill i soar, above the flight of pegasean wing! the meaning, not the name, i call; for thou nor of the muses nine, nor on the top of old olympus dwell'st; but heavenly-born, before the hills appeared or fountain flowed, thou with eternal wisdom didst converse, wisdom thy sister, and with her didst play in presence of the almighty father, pleased with thy celestial song. up led by thee, into the heaven of heavens i have presumed, an earthly guest, and drawn empyreal air, thy tempering. with like safety guided down, return me to my native element; lest, from this flying steed unreined, (as once belerophon, though from a lower clime) dismounted, on the aleian field i fall, erroneous there to wander, and forlorn. half yet remains unsung, but narrower bound within the visible diurnal sphere. standing on earth, not rapt above the pole, more safe i sing with mortal voice, unchanged to hoarse or mute, though fallen on evil days, on evil days though fallen, and evil tongues, in darkness, and with dangers compassed round, and solitude; yet not alone, while thou visit'st my slumbers nightly, or when morn purples the east. still govern thou my song, urania, and fit audience find though few.--vii. - . the muses were greek mythological divinities who possessed the power of inspiring song, and were the patrons of poets and musicians. according to hesiod they were nine in number and presided over the arts. urania was the goddess of astronomy, and calliope the goddess of epic poetry. they are described as the daughters of zeus, and homer alludes to them as the goddesses of song who dwelt on the summit of mount olympus. they were the companions of apollo, and accompanied with song his playing on the lyre at the banquets of the immortals. milton does not invoke the mythological goddess, but urania the heavenly muse, whose aid he also implores at the commencement of his poem prior to his flight above the aonian mount. under her divine guidance he ascended to the heaven of heavens and breathed empyreal air, her tempering; in like manner he requests her to lead him down to his native element lest he should meet with a fate similar to what befell bellerophon. half his task he has completed, the other half, confined to narrower bounds within the visible diurnal sphere, remains unsung, and in its fulfilment he still implores his celestial patroness to govern his song. the natural phenomena which occur as a consequence of the motions of the heavenly bodies and the diurnal rotation of the earth on her axis, are accompanied by agreeable alternations in the aspect of nature with which every one is familiar. the rosy footsteps of morn; the solar splendour of noonday; the fading hues of even; and night with her jewelled courts and streams of molten stars, have been sung with rapturous admiration by poets of every nation and in every age. they, as ardent lovers of nature, have described in choicest language the pleasing vicissitudes brought about by the real and apparent motions of the celestial orbs. in this respect milton is unsurpassed by any poet in ancient or in modern times. the occasions on which he describes the heavenly bodies, or alludes to them in association with other phenomena, testify to the felicity of his thoughts and to the greatness of his poetic genius. surely no poet has ever given us a lovelier description of evening, or has added more to its exquisite beauty by his allusion to the celestial orbs, than milton when he describes the first evening in paradise-- now came still evening on, and twilight gray had in her sober livery all things clad; silence accompanied; for beast and bird, they to their grassy couch, these to their nests were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale. she all night long her amorous descant sung; silence was pleased. now glowed the firmament with living sapphires: hesperus that led the starry host, rode brightest, till the moon, rising in clouded majesty, at length apparent queen, unveiled her peerless light, and o'er the dark her silver mantle threw.--iv. - . in the avowal of her conjugal love, eve, with charming expression, associates the orbs of the firmament with the delightful appearances of nature which presented themselves to her observation after she awoke to the consciousness of intelligent existence. sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, with charm of earliest birds: pleasant the sun, when first on this delightful land he spreads his orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower, glistering with dew; fragrant the fertile earth after soft showers; and sweet the coming on of grateful evening mild; then silent night, with this her solemn bird, and this fair moon, and these the gems of heaven, her starry train: but neither breath of morn, when she ascends with charm of earliest birds; nor rising sun on this delightful land; nor herb, fruit, flower, glistering with dew; nor fragrance after showers; nor grateful evening mild; nor silent night, with this her solemn bird; nor walk by moon, or glittering star-light, without thee is sweet. but wherefore all night long shine these? for whom this glorious sight, when sleep hath shut all eyes?--iv. - . one of the charms of milton's verse is the devoutly poetical sentiment which pervades it. his thoughts, though serious, are not austere or gloomy, and it is in his loftiest musings that his reverence becomes most apparent. this feeling is conspicuous in adam's reply to the inquiry addressed to him by eve-- daughter of god and man, accomplished eve, these have their course to finish round the earth by morrow evening, and from land to land in order, though to nations yet unborn, ministering light prepared, they set and rise; lest total darkness should by night regain her old possession, and extinguish life in nature and all things; which these soft fires not only enlighten, but with kindly heat of various influence foment and warm, temper or nourish, or in part shed down their stellar virtue on all kinds that grow on earth, made hereby apter to receive perfection from the sun's more potent ray. these, then, though unbeheld in deep of night, shine not in vain; nor think, though men were none, that heaven would want spectators, god want praise: millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth unseen, both when we wake, and when we sleep: all these with ceaseless praise his works behold both day and night. how often from the steep of echoing hill or thicket, have we heard celestial voices to the midnight air, sole, or responsive each to other's note singing their great creator! oft in bands while they keep watch, or nightly rounding walk, with heavenly touch of instrumental sounds in full harmonic number joined, their songs divide the night, and lift our thoughts to heaven.--iv. - . the morning hymn of praise which adam and eve offer up in concert to their maker contains their loftiest thoughts and most reverent sentiments, expressed in melodiously flowing verse. in their solemn invocations they call upon the orbs of the firmament to join in praising and extolling the creator, and in their devout enthusiasm and adoration address by name those that are most conspicuous. hesperus, 'fairest of stars,' is asked to praise him in her sphere. the sun, great image of his maker, is told to acknowledge him his greater, and to sound his praise in his eternal course. the moon, the fixed stars, and the planets are called upon to resound the praise of the creator, whose glory is declared in the heavens-- fairest of stars, last in the train of night, if better thou belong not to the dawn, sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn with thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere while day arises, that sweet hour of prime. thou sun, of this great world both eye and soul, acknowledge him thy greater; sound his praise in thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, and when high noon hast gained, and when thou fall'st. moon, that now meet'st the orient sun, now fliest with the fixed stars, fixed in their orb that flies; and ye five other wandering fires, that move in mystic dance, not without song, resound his praise, who out of darkness called up light.--v. - . milton's conception of celestial distances, and of the vast regions of interstellar space, is finely described in the following lines:-- down thither prone in flight he speeds, and through the vast ethereal sky sails between worlds and worlds, with steady wing now on the polar winds; then with quick fan winnows the buxom air, till, within soar of towering eagles.--v. - . as in their morning, so in their evening devotions, our first parents never fail to introduce a reference to the celestial orbs as indicating the power and goodness of the creator, made manifest in the beauty and greatness of his works-- thus, at their shady lodge arrived, both stood, both turned, and under open sky adored the god that made both sky, air, earth and heaven which they beheld; the moon's resplendent globe, and starry pole.--iv. - . the numerous extracts contained in this volume impress upon one's mind how largely astronomy enters into the composition of 'paradise lost,' and of how much assistance the knowledge of this science was to milton in the elaboration of his poem. indeed, it would be hard to imagine how such a work could have been written except by a poet who possessed a proficient and comprehensive knowledge of astronomy. the chief characteristic of milton's poetry is its sublimity, which is the natural outcome of the magnificence of his conceptions and of his own pure imaginative genius. among all the fields of literature, science, and philosophy explored by him, he found none more congenial to his tastes, or that afforded his imagination more freedom for its loftiest flights, than the sublimest of sciences--astronomy. whether we admire most the accuracy of his astronomical knowledge, or the wonderful creations of his poetic fancy, or his beautiful descriptions of the celestial orbs, it is apparent that in this domain of science, as a poet, he stands alone and without a rival. in his choice of the ptolemaic cosmology milton adopted a system with which he had been familiar from his youth--the same which his favourite poet dante introduced into his poem, 'the divina commedia,' and which was well adapted for poetic description. the picturesque conception of ten revolving spheres, carrying along with them the orbs assigned to each, which, by their revolution round the steadfast earth, brought about with unfailing regularity the successive alternation of day and night, and in every twenty-four hours exhibited the pleasing vicissitudes of dawn, of sunshine, of twilight, and of darkness, relieved by the soft effulgence of the nocturnal sky, afforded milton a favourable basis upon which to construct a cosmical epic. the copernican theory--with which he was equally conversant, and in the accuracy and truthfulness of which he believed--though less complicated than the ptolemaic in its details, did not possess the same attractiveness for poetic description that belonged to the older system. according to this theory there is, surrounding us on all sides, a boundless uncircumscribed ocean of space, to which it is impossible to assign any conceivable limit; in every effort to comprehend its dimensions or fathom its depths, the mind recoils upon itself, baffled and discomfited, with a conscious feeling that there can be no nearer approach to the end when end there is none that can be conceived of. interspersed throughout the regions of this azure vast of space is the stellar universe, which to our comprehension is as infinite as the abyss in which it exists. the solar system, though of magnificent dimensions, is but a unit in the astronomical whole, in which are embraced millions of other similar units--other solar systems, perhaps differing in construction from that of ours, with billions of miles of interstellar space intervening between each; yet so vast are the dimensions of the celestial sphere that those distances when measured upon it sink into utter insignificance. as the receding depths of space are penetrated by powerful telescopes, they are found to be pervaded with stars and starry archipelagoes, distributed in profusion over the circular immensity and extending away into abysmal depths, beyond the reach of visibility by any optical means which we possess. to the universe there is no known end--nowhere in imagination can its boundary be reached! this bewildering conception of the cosmos did not trouble the minds of pre-copernican thinkers. they regarded the steadfast earth as the most important body in the universe; nor were the celestial orbs which circled round it believed to be very far distant. tycho brahé imagined that the stars were not much more remote than the planets. epicurus thought the stars were small crystal mirrors in the sky which reflected the solar rays, and the venerable bede remarked that they needed assistance from the sun's light in order to render them more luminous. the adoption of the ptolemaic system by milton afforded greater scope for the exercise of his imaginative powers, and enabled him to bring within the mental grasp of his readers a conception of the universe which was not lost in the immensity associated with the copernican view of things. besides, it also furnished him with a distinctly defined basis upon which to erect the superstructure of his poem. above the circumscribed universe was heaven or the empyrean; underneath it was chaos, from which it had been reclaimed, and in the lowest depth of which milton located the infernal world called hell. these four regions embraced universal space; and in the elaboration of his great epic milton relied upon his imaginative genius, his brilliant scholarship, his vast erudition, and the divine inspiration of the heavenly muse. with these, aided by the power and vigour of his intellect, he was enabled to produce a cosmical epic that surpassed all previous efforts of a similar kind, and which still remains without a parallel. one of the distinguishing features of milton's mind was his wonderful imagination, and in its exercise he beheld those sublime celestial and terrestrial visions on which he reared fabrics of splendour and beauty, described in harmonious numbers with the fervid eloquence and charm of a true poet. an example of the loftiness and originality of his imagination is afforded us in his description of the creation, the main facts of which he derived from the first two chapters of genesis, and upon these he elaborated in full and striking detail his magnificent conception of the efforts of divine might, which in six successive creative acts called into existence the universe and all that it contains. the rising of the earth out of chaos; the creation of light and of the orbs of the firmament; the joyfulness associated with the onward career of the new-born sun; the subdued illumination of the full-orbed moon, and the thousand thousand stars that spangle the nocturnal sky--all these afforded milton a rich field in which his imagination luxuriated, and in the description of which he found subject-matter worthy of his gifted intellect. milton gives an ampler and more detailed description of the new universe in his narration of satan's journey through space in search of this world, and brings more vividly before the imagination of his readers the glories of the celestial regions. the fiend, having emerged from the dark abyss of chaos into a region of light, first beheld the new creation from such a distance that to his view it appeared as a star suspended by a golden chain from the empyrean. this stellar conception of the poet's harmonised with the views of the ptolemaists, who believed that the universe was of limited extent, and though its dimensions were vast beyond comprehension, it was, nevertheless, enclosed by the tenth sphere or primum mobile. it was on the surface of this sphere that satan alighted, and over which he wandered, until attracted by a beam of light that appeared through an opening at its zenith, where, by means of a stair or ladder, communication was maintained between the new universe and heaven above. hither the undaunted fiend hied, and, standing on the lower steps of this structure, momentarily paused to gaze upon the glorious sight which burst upon his view before directing his flight down into the newly created universe. milton then describes his progress through the stellar regions, his landing in the sun and what he saw there, and the termination of his journey when he descends from the ecliptic down to the earth. in doing so the poet gives a wonderfully beautiful description of the starry universe, of the sun, moon, and earth (book iii. - ), enhanced and adorned with his own poetic imaginings derived from fable, philosophy, and science. milton makes more frequent allusion to the sun than to any of the other orbs of the firmament. this we should expect: the poet always gives the orb the precedence which is his due, and never fails, when the occasion requires it, to surround him with the 'surpassing glory' which marks his pre-eminence above all other occupants of the sky. the moon, his consort--peerless in the subdued effulgence of her borrowed light; the beautiful star of evening, hesperus; the sidereal heavens with their untold glories; the galaxy, overpowering in the magnificence of its clouds and streams of stars--all these have their beauties and charms mirrored in the pages of this remarkable poem. that the observation of the celestial orbs, their phases, and the varied phenomena which occur as a consequence of their motions, were to milton an unfailing source of enjoyment and of meditative delight, is evident from the frequency with which he alludes to them. the following lines also testify to this:-- for wonderful indeed are all his works, pleasant to know, and worthiest to be all had in remembrance always with delight! but what created mind can comprehend their number, or the wisdom infinite that brought them forth, but hid their causes deep?--iii. - . it is very pleasant, as milton says, to sit and rightly spell of every star that heaven doth show. it is also pleasant to know the astronomy of his 'paradise lost,' and to linger over the delightful and harmonious utterances associated with the sublimest of sciences, expressed in the melodious language of england's greatest epic poet. printed by spottiswoode and co., new-street square london footnotes: [ ] chambers's _handbook of astronomy_. [ ] brewster's _martyrs of science_. [ ] the transit occurred on a sunday, and the 'business of the highest importance' to which horrox alludes was his clerical duties. [ ] a fresco by the late mr. ford maddox-brown, depicting crabtree observing the transit of venus, adorns the interior of the manchester town hall. [ ] william crabtree died on august , , aged years. [ ] the constellation virgo. [ ] _life of galileo_ (library of useful knowledge). [ ] miss clerke's _system of the stars_. [ ] miss clerke's _system of the stars_. [ ] miss clerke's _system of the stars_. [ ] _ibid._ [ ] an expression in book viii. - would seem to indicate that this was inaccurate, but the lines 'and other suns perhaps with their attendant moons, thou wilt descry,' are an allusion to the planets jupiter and saturn, whose satellites had been recently discovered. [ ] mr. e. w. maunder, in _knowledge_, march . [ ] though not a celestial body, it is considered desirable to describe the earth as a member of the solar system. [ ] see diagram, chap. iii. p. . internet archive (http://www.archive.org) note: images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see http://www.archive.org/details/dickensaseducato hughrich dickens as an educator by james l. hughes inspector of schools, toronto author of froebel's educational laws mistakes in teaching, etc. new york and london d. appleton and company copyright, , by d. appleton and company. electrotyped and printed at the appleton press, u.s.a. editor's preface. the following pages are sufficient to establish the claim of mr. hughes for dickens as an educational reformer--the greatest that england has produced. it will be admitted that he has done more than any one else to secure for the child a considerate treatment of his tender age. "it is a crime against a child to rob it of its childhood." this principle was announced by dickens, and it has come to be generally recognised and adopted. gradually it is changing the methods of primary instruction and bringing into vogue a milder form of discipline and a more stimulative teaching--arousing the child's self-activity instead of repressing it. the child is born with animal instincts and tendencies, it is true, but he has all the possibilities of human nature. the latter can be developed best by a treatment which takes for granted the child's preference to adopt what is good rather than what is bad in social customs and usages. the child, it is true, is uneven in his proclivities, having some bad ones and some good ones. the true pedagogy uses the good inclinations as a lever by which to correct bad ones. the teacher recognises what is good in the child's disposition and endeavours to build on it a self-respect which may at all times be invoked against temptations to bad conduct. child depravity sometimes exists, but it can generally be traced to injudicious methods of education in the family, the school, or the community. dickens has laid so much emphasis on defects of method in these three directions that he has made the generation in which he lived and the next succeeding one sensitively conscious of them. he has even caricatured them with such vehemence of style as to make our ideals so vivid that we see at once any wrong tendency in its very beginning. walter scott, in his schoolmasters, has caricatured pedantry; so has shakespeare. but dickens has discovered a variety of types of pedantry and made them all easily recognisable and odious to us. more than this, he has attacked the evil of cramming, the evil of isolation from the family in the boarding school for too young children, and the evil of uninteresting instruction. whatever is good and reasonable for the child to know should be made interesting to the child, and the teacher is to be considered incompetent who can not find in the life histories of his class threads of daily experience and present interest to which he can attach every point that the regular lesson contains. dickens has done a great work in directing the attention of society to its public institutions--especially to its orphan asylums and poorhouses. the chill which the infant gets when it comes in direct contact with the formality of a state institution, or even a religious institution, without the mediation of the family, is portrayed so well that every reader of dickens feels it by sympathy. so, too, in those families of public men or women or in those of the directors of industry or commerce who crush out the true family life by bringing home their unrelaxing business manners and trying to regulate the family as they regulate the details of a great business house--the reading world has imbibed a sympathy for the rights of the home. free childhood and the culture of individuality has become a watchword. above all, dickens has introduced a reform as to the habit of terrorizing children. corporal punishment has diminished to one fourth of its former amount, and charles dickens is the prophet to whom the reform owes its potency. in fact, the habit of finding in the good tendencies of the child the levers with which to move him to the repression of his bad impulses has placed in the hands of the professional teacher the means of governing the child without appeal to force except in the rarest cases. the tendency to caricature an evil has its dangers, of course, and dickens, like all the other educational reformers, has often condemned as entirely unworthy of toleration what has really in it some good reason for its existence. it was the abuse that needed correction. reform instead of revolution should have been recommended, but the reformer often gets so heated in his contest with superficial evil that he attacks what is fundamentally good. he cuts down the tree when it needed only the removal of a twig infested with caterpillars. this defect of the reformer renders necessary a new reformer, and thus arises a pendulum swing of educational method from one extreme to another. dickens shares with all reformers some of their weaknesses, but he does not share his most excellent qualities with many of them. he stands apart and alone as one of the most potent influences of social reform in the nineteenth century, and therefore deserves to be read and studied by all who have to do with schools and by all parents everywhere in our day and generation. w. t. harris. washington, d. c., _october , _. author's preface. this book has two purposes: to prove that dickens was the great apostle of the "new education" to the english-speaking world, and to bring into connected form, under appropriate headings, the educational principles of one of the world's greatest educators, and one of its two most sympathetic friends of childhood. dickens was the most profound exponent of the kindergarten and the most comprehensive student of childhood that england has yet produced. he was one of the first great advocates of a national system of schools, and his revelations of the ignorance and the intellectual and spiritual destitution of the children of the poor led to the deep interest which ultimately brought about the establishment of free schools in england. he was essentially a child trainer rather than a teacher. in the twenty-eight schools described in his writings, and in the training of his army of little children in institutions and homes, he reveals nearly every form of bad training resulting from ignorance, selfishness, indifference, unwise zeal, unphilosophic philosophy, and un-christian theology. no other writer has attacked so many phases of wrong training, unjust treatment, and ill usage of childhood. he is the most distinctive champion of the rights of childhood. he struck the bravest blows against corporal punishment, and against all forms of coercive tyranny toward the child in homes, institutions, and schools, even condemning the dogmatic will control of such a placid, christian woman as mrs. crisparkle. he demanded a free, real, joyous childhood, rich in all a child's best experiences and interests, so that "childhood may ripen in childhood." he pleaded for the development of the individuality of each child. he taught the wisdom of giving a child proper food, and he showed the vital importance of real sympathy with the child, not mere consideration for him. he was the english father of true reverence for the child. but dickens studied the methods of cultivating the minds of children, as well as their character development. he exposed the evils of cramming more vigorously than any other writer. he taught the essential character of the imagination in intellectual and spiritual development. he showed the need of correlation of studies, and of apperceptive centres of feeling and thought in order to comprehend, and assimilate, and transform into definite power the knowledge and thought that is brought to our minds. it is said by some, who see but the surface of the work of dickens, that his work is done. much of the good work for which he lived has been done, but much more remains to be done. men are but beginning the work of child study and of rational education. the twentieth century will understand dickens better than the nineteenth has understood him. his profound philosophy is only partially comprehended yet, even by the leaders in educational work. teachers and all students of childhood will find in his true feeling and rich thought revelation and inspiration. contents. chapter page i.--the place of dickens among educators ii.--infant gardens iii.--the overthrow of coercion iv.--the doctrine of child depravity v.--cramming vi.--free childhood vii.--individuality viii.--the culture of the imagination ix.--sympathy with childhood x.--child study and child nature xi.--bad training xii.--good training xiii.--community xiv.--nutrition as a factor in education xv.--minor schools xvi.--miscellaneous educational principles xvii.--the training of poor, neglected, and defective children dickens as an educator. chapter i. the place of dickens among educators. dickens was england's greatest educational reformer. his views were not given to the world in the form of ordinary didactic treatises, but in the form of object lessons in the most entertaining of all stories. millions have read his books, whereas but hundreds would have read them if he had written his ideals in the form of direct, systematic exposition. he is certainly not less an educator because his books have been widely read. the highest form of teaching is the informal, the indirect, the incidental. the fact that his educational principles are revealed chiefly by the evolution of the characters in his novels and stories, instead of by the direct philosophic statements of scientific pedagogy or psychology, gives dickens higher rank as an educator, not only because it gives him much wider influence, but because it makes his teaching more effective by arousing deep, strong feeling to give permanency and propulsive force to his great thoughts. was dickens consciously and intentionally an educator? the prefaces to his novels; the preface to his household words; the educational articles he wrote; the prominence given in his books to child training in homes, institutions, and schools; the statements of the highest educational philosophy found in his writings; and especially the clearness of his insight and the profoundness of his educational thought, as shown by his condemnation of the wrong and his appreciation of the right in teaching and training the child, prove beyond question that he was not only broad and true in his sympathy with childhood, but that he was a careful and progressive student of the fundamental principles of education. dickens deals with twenty-eight schools in his writings, evidently with definite purposes in each case: "minerva house," in sketches by boz; "dotheboys hall," in nicholas nickleby; mr. marton's two schools, miss monflather's school, and mrs. wackles's school, in old curiosity shop; dr. blimber's school and "the grinders'" school, in dombey and son; mr. creakle's school, dr. strong's school, agnes's school, and the school uriah heep attended, in david copperfield; the school at which esther was a day boarder and miss donney's school, in bleak house; mr. mcchoakumchild's school, in hard times; mr. wopsle's great aunt's school, in great expectations; the evening school attended by charley hexam, bradley headstone's school, and miss peecher's school, in our mutual friend; phoebe's school, in barbox brothers; mrs. lemon's school, in holiday romance; jemmy lirriper's school, in mrs. lirriper's lodgings; miss pupford's school, in tom tiddler's ground; the school described in the haunted house; miss twinkleton's seminary, in edwin drood; the schools of the stepney union; the schoolboy's story; and our school. in addition to these twenty-eight schools, he describes a real school in american notes, and makes brief references to the misses nettingall's establishment, mr. cripples's academy, drowvey and grimmer's school, the foundation school attended by george silverman, scrooge's school, pecksniff's school for architects, fagin's school for training thieves, and three dancing schools, conducted by mr. baps, signor billsmethi, and mr. turveydrop. he introduces mr. pocket, george silverman, and canon crisparkle as tutors, and mrs. general, miss lane, and ruth pinch as governesses. mrs. sapsea had been the proprietor of an academy in cloisterham. one of the first sketches by "boz" was our schoolmaster, and his books are full of illustrations of wrong training of children in homes, in institutions, and by professional child trainers such as mrs. pipchin. clearly dickens intended to reveal the best educational ideals, and to expose what he regarded as weak or wrong in school methods, and especially in child training. dickens was the first great english student of the kindergarten. his article on infant gardens, published in household words in , is one of the most comprehensive articles ever written on the kindergarten philosophy. it shows a perfect appreciation of the physical, intellectual, and spiritual aims of froebel, and a clear recognition of the value of right early training and of the influence of free self-activity in the development of individual power and character. dickens is beyond comparison the chief english apostle of childhood, and its leading champion in securing a just, intelligent, and considerate recognition of its rights by adulthood, which till his time had been deliberately coercive and almost universally tyrannical in dealing with children. he entered more fully than any other english author into sympathy with childhood from the standpoint of the child. other educators and philanthropists have shown consideration for children, but dickens had the perfect sympathy with childhood that sees and feels _with_ the child, not merely _for_ him. dickens attacked all forms of coercion in child training. he discussed fourteen types of coercion, from the brutal corporal punishment of squeers and creakle in schools, of bumble and the christian philanthropist with the white waistcoat in institutions, and of the murdstones and mrs. gargery in homes, to the gentle but dwarfing firmness of the dominant will of placid mrs. crisparkle. he condemned all coercion because it prevents the full development of selfhood, and makes men negative instead of positive. among the many improvements made in child training none is more complete than the change in discipline. for this change the world is indebted chiefly to froebel and dickens. froebel revealed the true philosophy, dickens gave it wings; froebel gave the thought, dickens made the thought clear and strong by arousing energetic feeling in harmony with it. thought makes slow progress without a basis of feeling. dickens opened the hearts of humanity in sympathy for suffering childhood, and thus gave froebel's philosophy definiteness and propulsive power. the darkest clouds have been cleared away from child life during the past fifty years. teachers, managers of institutions for the care of children, and parents are now severely punished by the laws of civilized countries for offences against children that were approved by the most enlightened christian philosophy at the time of froebel and dickens as necessary duties essential in the proper training of childhood. dickens helped to break the bonds of the doctrine of child depravity. this doctrine had a most depressing influence on educators. it was not possible to reverence a child so long as he was regarded as a totally depraved thing. froebel and dickens did not teach that a child is totally divine, but they did believe that every child possesses certain elements of divinity which constitute selfhood or individuality, and that if this selfhood is developed in conscious unity with the divine fatherhood the child will attain to complete manhood. this thought gives the educator a new and a higher attitude toward childhood. the child is no longer a thing to be repressed, but a being to be developed. men are not persistently dwarfed now by deliberate efforts to define a blighting consciousness of weakness; they are stimulated to broader effort and higher purpose by a true self-consciousness of individual power. the philosophy that trains men to recognise responsibility for the good in their nature is infinitely more productive educationally than that which teaches men responsibility for the evil in their nature. dickens taught that loving sympathy is the highest qualification of a true teacher. he showed this to be true by both positive and negative illustrations. mr. marton, the old schoolmaster in old curiosity shop, was a perfect type of a sympathetic teacher. dr. strong was "the ideal of the whole school, for he was the kindest of men." phoebe's school was such a good place for the little ones, because she loved them. like mr. marton, she had not studied the new systems of teaching, but loving sympathy gave her power and made her school a place in which the good in human hearts grew and blossomed naturally. "you are fond of children and learned in the new systems of teaching them," said mr. jackson. "very fond of them," replied phoebe, "but i know nothing of teaching beyond the pleasure i have in it, and the pleasure it gives me when they learn. perhaps your overhearing my little scholars sing some of their lessons has led you so far astray as to think me a good teacher? ah, i thought so! no, i have only read and been told about that system. it seems so pretty and pleasant, and to treat them so like the merry robins they are, that i took up with it in my little way." she had heard of the kindergarten and had caught some of its spirit of sympathy with the child, but she did not understand its methods. jemmy lirriper received perfectly sympathetic treatment from mrs. lirriper and the major; agnes loved her little scholars; esther, who sympathized with everybody, loved her pupils, and was beloved by them; and the bachelor, who introduced mr. marton to his second school, was a genuine boy in his comprehensive sympathy with real, boyish boyhood. so throughout all his books dickens pleads for kindly treatment for the child, and for complete sympathy with him in his childish feelings and interests. he gave the child the place of honour in literature for the first time, and he aroused the heart of the christian world to the fact that it was treating the child in a very un-christlike way. he pleaded for a better education for the child, for a free childhood, for greater liberty in the home and in the school, for fuller sympathy especially at the time when childhood merges into youth and when the mysteries of life have begun to make themselves conscious to the young mind and heart. the poorer the child the greater the need he revealed. canon crisparkle, esther summerson, mr. jarndyce, joe gargery, rose maylie, allan woodcourt, betty higden, mr. sangsby, the old schoolmaster, the bachelor, mrs. lirriper, major jackmann, doctor marigold, agnes wickfield, mr. george, and mr. brownlow are types of the people with whom dickens would fill the world--men and women whose hearts were overflowing with true sympathy. esther summerson is the best type of perfect sympathy to be met with in literature. she expressed the central principle of dickens's philosophy regarding sympathy when she said: "when i love a person very tenderly indeed my understanding seems to brighten; my comprehension is quickened when my affection is." the need of sympathy with childhood was revealed by dickens most strongly by the cruelty, the coercion, and the harshness of such characters as squeers, creakle, bumble, the murdstones, mrs. gargery, john willet, mrs. pipchin, mrs. clennam, and the teachers in the grinders' school. dickens's description of dr. blimber's school is the most profound criticism of the cramming system of teaching that was ever written. he treats the same subject also in hard times, christmas stories, and a holiday romance. the vital importance of a free, rich childhood, the value of the imagination as the basis of intellectual and spiritual development, the folly of the herbartian psychology relating to the soul, the error of regarding fact-storing as the chief aim of education, and the terrible evils resulting from the tyranny of adulthood in dealing with childhood are all treated very ably in hard times, the most advanced and most profound of dickens's works from the standpoint of the educator. the need of a real childhood, so well expressed in froebel's maxim, "let childhood ripen in childhood," is shown also in nicholas nickleby, old curiosity shop, martin chuzzlewit, barnaby rudge, dombey and son, great expectations, and edwin drood. the true reverence for individual selfhood is shown in dombey and son, david copperfield, bleak house, hard times, little dorrit, our mutual friend, and edwin drood. the wisdom of studying the subject of nutrition as one of the most important subjects connected with the development of children physically, intellectually, and morally, and the meanness or carelessness too frequently shown in feeding children, were taught in oliver twist, old curiosity shop, martin chuzzlewit, dombey and son, david copperfield, bleak house, great expectations, edwin drood, christmas stories, and american notes. play as an essential factor in education is treated in martin chuzzlewit, dombey and son, david copperfield, and american notes. the folly of the old practice of attempting to educate by polishing the surface of the character, of training from without instead of from within, is revealed in bleak house and little dorrit. bleak house discusses the contents of children's minds and the need of early experiences to form apperceptive centres of feeling and thought in a comprehensive and suggestive manner. the need of practising the fundamental law of co-operation and the sharing of responsibilities and duties, as the foundation for the true comprehension of the law of community, is shown in barnaby rudge, david copperfield, dombey and son, and little dorrit. the need of child study is suggested in david copperfield and bleak house. the value of joyousness in the development of true, strong character is discussed in nicholas nickleby, barnaby rudge, old curiosity shop, martin chuzzlewit, dombey and son, david copperfield, hard times, little dorrit, great expectations, and edwin drood. dickens was one of the first englishmen to see the need of normal schools to train teachers, and to advocate the abolition of uninspected private schools and the establishment of national schools. he taught these ideals in the preface to nicholas nickleby, issued in , so that he very early caught the spirit of mann and barnard in america, and saw the wisdom of their efforts to establish schools supported, controlled, and directed by the state. he says, in his preface to nicholas nickleby: of the monstrous neglect of education in england, and the disregard of it by the state as a means of forming good or bad citizens, and miserable or happy men, this class of schools long afforded a notable example. although any man who had proved his unfitness for any other occupation in life, was free, without examination or qualification, to open a school anywhere; although preparation for the functions he undertook was required in the surgeon who assisted to bring a boy into the world, or might one day assist, perhaps, to send him out of it; in the chemist, the attorney, the butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker; the whole round of crafts and trades, the schoolmaster excepted; and although schoolmasters, as a race, were the blockheads and impostors who might naturally be expected to spring from such a state of things, and to flourish in it, these yorkshire schoolmasters were the lowest and most rotten round in the whole ladder. traders in the avarice, indifference, or imbecility of parents, and the helplessness of children; ignorant, sordid, brutal men, to whom few considerate persons would have intrusted the board and lodging of a horse or a dog; they formed the worthy corner-stone of a structure which, for absurdity and magnificent high-handed _laissez-aller_ neglect, has rarely been exceeded in the world. we hear sometimes of an action for damages against the unqualified medical practitioner, who has deformed a broken limb in pretending to heal it. but what about the hundreds of thousands of minds that have been deformed forever by the incapable pettifoggers who have pretended to form them? i make mention of the race, as of the yorkshire schoolmasters, in the past tense. though it has not yet finally disappeared, it is dwindling daily. a long day's work remains to be done about us in the way of education, heaven knows; but great improvements and facilities toward the attainment of a good one have been furnished of late years. this leaves no doubt in regard to the conscious purpose of dickens in writing with definite educational plans. incidentally he discusses every phase of what is called the "new education." he was the first and the greatest english student of froebel, and his writings gave wings to the profound thought of the greatest philosopher of childhood. froebel revealed the truth that feeling is the basis of thought. in harmony with this great psychological principle, it may fairly be claimed that the works of dickens so fully aroused the heart of the civilized world to the wrongs inflicted on childhood, and the grievous errors committed in training children, as to prepare the minds of all who read his books for the conscious revelation of the imperfections of educational systems and methods, and the imperative need of radical educational reforms. the intense feeling caused by the writings of dickens prepared the way for the thought of froebel. dickens studied froebel with great care. he was not merely a student of theoretical principles, but he was a very frequent visitor to the first kindergarten opened in england. madame kraus-boelte, who assisted madame rongé in the first kindergarten opened in london, says in a recent letter: "i remember very distinctly the frequent visits made by mr. dickens to madame rongé's kindergarten. he always appeared to be deeply interested, and would sometimes stay during the whole session." the description of the schools of the stepney union in the uncommercial traveller shows how keenly appreciative dickens was of all true new ideals in educational work. these were charity schools conducted on an excellent system. the pupils worked at industrial occupations half of their school hours, and studied the other half. they were taught music, and the boys had military drill and naval training. they had no corporal punishment in these schools. dickens approved most heartily of everything he saw in his frequent visits to the schools of the stepney union except the work of one of the younger teachers, who would, in his opinion, have been better "if she had shown more geniality." he commended the industrial work, the military training, the naval training, the music, the discipline without corporal punishment, and the intellectual brightness of the children. he pointed out at some length the difference in interest shown by the pupils in these schools and by the pupils in the school he himself attended when a boy, and drew the conclusion very definitely that shorter hours of study, with a variety of interesting operations, were much better for the physical and intellectual development of children than long hours spent in monotonous work. the folly and wrong of trying to make children study beyond the fatigue point was never more clearly pointed out than by dickens in the description of the school he attended when a boy, given as a contrast to the life and brightness and interest shown in the schools of the stepney union: when i was at school, one of seventy boys, i wonder by what secret understanding our attention began to wander when we had pored over our books for some hours. i wonder by what ingenuity we brought on that confused state of mind when sense became nonsense, when figures wouldn't work, when dead languages wouldn't construe, when live languages wouldn't be spoken, when memory wouldn't come, when dulness and vacancy wouldn't go. i can not remember that we ever conspired to be sleepy after dinner, or that we ever particularly wanted to be stupid, and to have flushed faces and hot, beating heads, or to find blank hopelessness and obscurity this afternoon in what would become perfectly clear and bright in the freshness of to-morrow morning. we suffered for these things, and they made us miserable enough. neither do i remember that we ever bound ourselves, by any secret oath or other solemn obligation to find the seats getting too hard to be sat upon after a certain time; or to have intolerable twitches in our legs, rendering us aggressive and malicious with those members; or to be troubled with a similar uneasiness in our elbows, attended with fistic consequences to our neighbours; or to carry two pounds of lead in the chest, four pounds in the head, and several active bluebottles in each ear. yet, for certain, we suffered under those distresses, and were always charged at for labouring under them, as if we had brought them on of our own deliberate act and deed. it was therefore out of a full heart and an enriched mind that dickens wrought the wonderful plots into which he wove the most advanced educational ideals of his time and of our time relating to the blighting influence of coercion, the divinity in the child, the recognition of freedom as the truest process and highest aim of education, the value of real sympathy, the importance of self-activity, the true reverence for the child leading to faith in it, the need of child study, the effect of joyousness on the child's development, the benefits of play, the influence of nutrition, the ideal of community, the importance of the imagination as a basis for the best intellectual growth, the narrowness of utilitarianism, the absolute need of apperceptive centres to which shall be related the progressive enlargement and enrichment of feeling and thought throughout the life of the individual, the arrest of development and the sacrifice of power and life due to cramming, and the weakness of all educational systems and methods that regard fact-storing as the highest work of the teacher. it has been said by critics of dickens that he exaggerated the defects and errors in the characters of those whom he described. two things should be kept in mind, however. dickens usually described the worst, not the best types, and he was justified in revealing a wrong principle or practice in the strongest possible light, in order to make it more easily recognisable and more completely repugnant to the aroused feeling and startled thought of humanity. he was writing with the definite purpose of making the world so thoroughly hate the wrong in education and child training as to lead to definite practical reforms. dickens himself did not admit the justness of the charge of exaggeration. his coarsest, most ignorant, and most brutal teacher is squeers, yet he says "mr. squeers and his school are faint and feeble pictures of an existing reality, purposely subdued and kept down lest they should be deemed impossible. there are upon record trials at law in which damages have been sought as a poor recompense for lasting agonies and disfigurements inflicted upon children by the treatment of the master in these places, involving such offensive and foul details of neglect, cruelty, and disease as no writer of fiction would have the boldness to imagine. since the author has been engaged upon these adventures he has received, from private quarters far beyond the reach of suspicion or distrust, accounts of atrocities, in the perpetration of which upon neglected or repudiated children these schools have been the main instruments, very far exceeding any that appear in these pages." dickens discusses the charge of exaggeration in the preface to martin chuzzlewit. he says: what is exaggeration to one class of minds and perceptions, is plain truth to another. that which is commonly called a long-sight, perceives in a prospect innumerable features and bearings nonexistent to a shortsighted person. i sometimes ask myself whether there may occasionally be a difference of this kind between some writers and some readers; whether it is _always_ the writer who colours highly, or whether it is now and then the reader whose eye for colour is a little dull? on this head of exaggeration i have a positive experience more curious than the speculation i have just set down. it is this: i have never touched a character precisely from the life, but some counterpart of that character has incredulously asked me: "now really, did i ever really see one like it?" all the pecksniff family upon earth are quite agreed, i believe, that mr. pecksniff is an exaggeration, and that no such character ever existed. it is worth remembering, too, that it is impossible to exaggerate the description of the effects of the evils dickens attacked. coercion in any form blights and dwarfs the true selfhood of the child. the coercion of mrs. crisparkle's placid but unbending will, which she kept rigid from a deep conviction of christian duty, is as clearly at variance with the elemental laws of individual freedom and growth by self-activity as the more dreadful forms of coercion practised by squeers, creakle, bumble, or murdstone. doctor blimber's cramming is not exaggerated. it would be quite possible to find in england or the united states or canada not only private but public institutions in which similar processes of illogical cramming are still practised. words are still given before the thought, and as a substitute for thought. "mathematical gooseberries" are yet produced "from mere sprouts of bushes," the "words and grammar" of literature are still given instead of the life and glory of the author's revelations, children yet are "made to bear to pattern somehow or other." whether dickens exaggerated or not in regard to other spheres of work or of existence without work, he certainly did not exaggerate in regard to school conditions. he studied them faithfully, and described them truly. he saw wrongs more clearly than other men, and he made them stand out in their natural hideousness. it is frequently asserted that dickens portrayed wrong training more than right, that he was destructive rather than constructive. in a sense, this is correct. his mission was to startle men, so that they would be made conscious of the awful crimes that were being committed by teachers and parents in the name of duty, as conceived by the highest christian civilization of his time. he knew that a basis of strong feeling must be aroused against a wrong before it can be overthrown and right practices substituted for it. the only sure foundation for any reform is an energetic feeling of dislike for present conditions. the chief work of dickens was to lay bare the injustice, the meanness, and the blighting coercion practised on helpless children not only by "ignorant, sordid, brutal men called schoolmasters," but in a less degree by the best teachers and parents of his time. his was a noble work, and it was well done. the grandest movement of the nineteenth century was the development of a profound reverence for the child, so deep and wide that his rights are beginning to be clearly recognised by individuals and by national laws, and that intelligent adulthood is studying him as the central element of power in the representation of god in the accomplishment of the progressive evolution of the race. christ put "the child in the midst of his disciples"; men are learning to follow his example, and study the child as the surest way to secure industrial, social, and moral reforms. froebel and dickens were the men who revealed the child. they were the true apostles of childhood. it must not be supposed that dickens was not conscious of the positive good while describing the evils. the expressions "child queller," "gospel of monotony," "bear to pattern," "taught as parrots are," etc., and the name "mcchoakumchild," reveal the possession of the highest consciousness of child freedom, of individuality, and of child reverence yet given to humanity. so in all his wonderful pictures it would have been impossible for him to have so vividly described the wrong if he had not clearly understood the right. he had perfect sympathy with childhood, he was a great student of the child and of the existing methods of training and educating him, and his insights and judgment were so clear and true that, as ruskin says, "in the last analysis he was always right." if he had never written anything but his article on the kindergarten, published july, , he would have proved himself to be an educational philosopher. chapter ii. infant gardens. dickens wrote the following article for household words in . it reveals a surprising mastery of the vital principles of "the new education." he wrote the article to direct attention to the work of the baroness von bülow, who had come to england to introduce the kindergarten system. dickens's works show that he had long been a close student of froebel's philosophy. the article must always take a front rank as a strikingly clear, comprehensive, and sympathetic exposition of the principles and processes of the kindergarten. kindergartens were called "infant gardens" when first introduced into england. seventy or eighty years ago there was a son born to the pastor froebel, who exercised his calling in the village of oberweissbach, in the principality of schwartzburg-rudolstadt. the son, who was called frederick, proved to be a child of unusually quick sensibilities, keenly alive to all impressions, hurt by discords of all kinds; by quarrelling of men, women, and children, by ill-assorted colours, inharmonious sounds. he was, to a morbid extent, capable of receiving delight from the beauties of nature, and, as a very little boy, would spend much of his time in studying and enjoying, for their own sake, the lines and angles in the gothic architecture of his father's church. who does not know what must be the central point of all the happiness of such a child? the voice of its mother is the sweetest of sweet sounds, the face of its mother is the fairest of fair sights, the loving touch of her lip is the symbol to it of all pleasures of the sense and of the soul. against the thousand shocks and terrors that are ready to afflict a child too exquisitely sensitive, the mother is the sole protectress, and her help is all-sufficient. frederick froebel lost his mother in the first years of his childhood, and his youth was tortured with incessant craving for a sympathy that was not to be found. the pastor froebel was too busy to attend to all the little fancies of his son. it was his good practice to be the peaceful arbiter of the disputes occurring in the village, and, as he took his boy with him when he went out, he made the child familiar with all the quarrels of the parish. thus were suggested, week after week, comparisons between the harmony of nature and the spite and scandal current among men. a dreamy, fervent love of god, a fanciful boy's wish that he could make men quiet and affectionate, took strong possession of young frederick, and grew with his advancing years. he studied a good deal. following out his love of nature, he sought to become acquainted with the sciences by which her ways and aspects are explained; his contemplation of the architecture of the village church ripened into a thorough taste for mathematics, and he enjoyed agricultural life practically, as a worker on his father's land. at last he went to pestalozzi's school in switzerland. then followed troublous times, and patriotic war in germany, where even poets fought against the enemy with lyre and sword. the quick instincts, and high, generous impulses of frederick froebel were engaged at once, and he went out to battle on behalf of fatherland in the ranks of the boldest, for he was one of lützow's regiment--a troop of riders that earned by its daring an immortal name. their fame has even penetrated to our english concert rooms, where many a fair english maiden has been made familiar with the dare-devil patriots of which it was composed by the refrain of the german song in honour of their prowess--"das ist lützow's fliegende, wilde jagd." having performed his duty to his country in the ranks of its defenders, froebel fell back upon his love of nature and his study of triangles, squares, and cubes. he had made interest that placed him in a position which, in many respects, curiously satisfied his tastes--that of inspector to the mineralogical museum in berlin. the post was lucrative, its duties were agreeable to him, but the object of his life's desire was yet to be attained. for the unsatisfied cravings of his childhood had borne fruit within him. he remembered the quick feelings and perceptions, the incessant nimbleness of mind proper to his first years, and how he had been hemmed in and cramped for want of right encouragement and sympathy. he remembered, too, the ill-conditioned people whose disputes had been made part of his experience, the dogged children, cruel fathers, sullen husbands, angry wives, quarrelsome neighbours; and surely he did not err when he connected the two memories together. how many men and women go about pale-skinned and weak of limb, because their physical health during infancy and childhood was not established by judicious management. it is just so, thought froebel, with our minds. there would be fewer sullen, quarrelsome, dull-witted men or women if there were fewer children starved or fed improperly in heart and brain. to improve society--to make men and women better--it is requisite to begin quite at the beginning, and to secure for them a wholesome education during infancy and childhood. strongly possessed with this idea, and feeling that the usual methods of education, by restraint and penalty, aim at the accomplishment of far too little, and by checking natural development even do positive mischief, froebel determined upon the devotion of his entire energy, throughout his life, to a strong effort for the establishment of schools that should do justice and honour to the nature of a child. he resigned his appointment at berlin, and threw himself, with only the resources of a fixed will, a full mind, and a right purpose, on the chances of the future. at keilhau, a village of thuringia, he took a peasant's cottage, in which he proposed to establish his first school--a village boys' school. it was necessary to enlarge the cottage; and, while that was being done, froebel lived on potatoes, bread, and water. so scanty was his stock of capital on which his enterprise was started, that, in order honestly to pay his workmen, he was forced to carry his principle of self-denial to the utmost. he bought each week two large rye loaves, and marked on them with chalk each day's allowance. perhaps he is the only man in the world who ever, in so literal a way, chalked out for himself a scheme of diet. after labouring for many years among the boys at keilhau, froebel--married to a wife who shared his zeal, and made it her labour to help to the utmost in carrying out the idea of her husband's life--felt that there was more to be accomplished. his boys came to him with many a twist in mind or temper, caught by wriggling up through the bewilderments of a neglected infancy. the first sproutings of the human mind need thoughtful culture; there is no period of life, indeed, in which culture is so essential. and yet, in nine out of ten cases, it is precisely while the little blades of thought and buds of love are frail and tender that no heed is taken to maintain the soil about them wholesome, and the air about them free from blight. there must be infant gardens, froebel said; and straightway formed his plans, and set to work for their accomplishment. he had become familiar in cottages with the instincts of mothers, and the faculties with which young children are endowed by nature. he never lost his own childhood from memory, and being denied the blessing of an infant of his own, regarded all the little ones with equal love. the direction of his boys' school--now flourishing vigorously--he committed to the care of a relation, while he set out upon a tour through parts of germany and switzerland to lecture upon infant training and to found infant gardens where he could. he founded them at hamburg, leipzig, dresden, and elsewhere. while labouring in this way he was always exercising the same spirit of self-denial that had marked the outset of his educational career. whatever he could earn was for the children, to promote their cause. he would not spend upon himself the money that would help in the accomplishment of his desire, that childhood should be made as happy as god in his wisdom had designed it should be, and that full play should be given to its energies and powers. many a night's lodging he took, while on his travels, in the open fields, with an umbrella for his bedroom and a knapsack for his pillow. so beautiful a self-devotion to a noble cause won recognition. one of the best friends of his old age was the duchess ida of weimar, sister to queen adelaide of england, and his death took place on the st of june, three years ago, at a country seat of the duke of meiningen. he died at the age of seventy, peaceably, upon a summer day, delighting in the beautiful scenery that lay outside his window, and in the flowers brought by friends to his bedside. nature, he said, bore witness to the promises of revelation. so froebel passed away. and nature's pleasant robe of green, humanity's appointed shroud, enwraps his monument and his memory. wise and good people have been endeavouring of late to obtain in this country a hearing for the views of this good teacher, and a trial for his system. only fourteen years have elapsed since the first infant garden was established, and already infant gardens have been introduced into most of the larger towns of germany. let us now welcome them with all our hearts to england. the whole principle of froebel's teaching is based on a perfect love for children, and a full and genial recognition of their nature, a determination that their hearts shall not be starved for want of sympathy; that since they are by infinite wisdom so created as to find happiness in the active exercise and development of all their faculties, we, who have children round about us, shall no longer repress their energies, tie up their bodies, shut their mouths, and declare that they worry us by the incessant putting of the questions which the father of us all has placed in their mouths, so that the teachable one forever cries to those who undertake to be its guide, "what shall i do?" to be ready at all times with a wise answer to that question, ought to be the ambition of every one upon whom a child's nature depends for the means of healthy growth. the frolic of childhood is not pure exuberance and waste. "there is often a high meaning in childish play," said froebel. let us study it, and act upon hints--or more than hints--that nature gives. they fall into a fatal error who despise all that a child does as frivolous. nothing is trifling that forms part of a child's life. that which the mother awakens and fosters, when she joyously sings and plays; that which her love so tenderly shelters. bears a blessing to future days. we quote froebel again, in these lines, and we quote others in which he bids us break not suddenly the dream the blessed dream of infancy; in which the soul unites with all in earth, or heaven, or sea, or sky. but enough has already been said to show what he would have done. how would he do it? of course it must be borne in mind, throughout the following sketch of froebel's scheme of infant training, that certain qualities of mind are necessary to the teacher. let nobody suppose that any scheme of education can attain its end, as a mere scheme, apart from the qualifications of those persons by whom it is to be carried out. very young children can be trained successfully by no person who wants hearty liking for them, and who can take part only with a proud sense of restraint in their chatter and their play. it is in truth no condescension to become in spirit as a child with children, and nobody is fit to teach the young who holds a different opinion. unvarying cheerfulness and kindness, the refinement that belongs naturally to a pure, well-constituted woman's mind are absolutely necessary to the management of one of froebel's infant gardens. then, again, let it be understood that froebel never wished his system of training to be converted into mere routine to the exclusion of all that spontaneous action in which more than half of every child's education must consist. it was his purpose to show the direction in which it was most useful to proceed, how best to assist the growth of the mind by following the indications nature furnishes. nothing was farther from his design, in doing that, than the imposition of a check on any wholesome energies. blindman's buff, romps, puzzles, fairy tales, everything in fact that exercises soundly any set of the child's faculties, must be admitted as a part of froebel's system. the cardinal point of his doctrine is--take care that you do not exercise a part only of the child's mind or body; but take thorough pains to see that you encourage the development of its whole nature. if pains--and great pains--be not taken to see that this is done, probably it is not done. the infant gardens are designed to help in doing it. the mind of a young child must not be trained at the expense of its body. every muscle ought, if possible, to be brought daily into action; and, in the case of a child suffered to obey the laws of nature by free tumbling and romping, that is done in the best manner possible. every mother knows that by carrying an infant always on the same arm its growth is liable to be perverted. every father knows the child's delight at being vigorously danced up and down, and much of this delight arises from the play then given to its muscles. as the child grows, the most unaccustomed positions into which it can be safely twisted are those from which it will receive the greatest pleasure. that is because play is thus given to the muscles in a form they do not often get, and nature--always watchful on the child's behalf--cries, we will have some more of that. it does us good. as it is with the body, so it is with the mind, and froebel's scheme of infant education is, for both, a system of gymnastics. he begins with the newborn infant, and demands that, if possible, it shall not be taken from its mother. he sets his face strongly against the custom of committing the child during the tenderest and most impressible period of its whole life to the care and companionship of an ignorant nursemaid, or of servants who have not the mother's instinct, or the knowledge that can tell them how to behave in its presence. only the mother should, if possible, be the child's chief companion and teacher during at least the first three years of its life, and she should have thought it worth while to prepare herself for the right fulfilment of her duties. instead of tambour work, or arabic, or any other useless thing that may be taught at girls' schools, surely it would be a great blessing if young ladies were to spend some of their time in an infant garden, that might be attached to every academy. let them all learn from froebel what are the requirements of a child, and be prepared for the wise performance of what is after all to be the most momentous business of their lives. the carrying out of this hint is indeed necessary to the complete and general adoption of the infant-garden system. froebel desired his infants to be taught only by women, and required that they should be women as well educated and refined as possible, preferring amiable unmarried girls. thus he would have our maidens spending some part of their time in playing with little ones, learning to understand them, teaching them to understand; our wives he would have busy at home, making good use of their experience, developing carefully and thoughtfully the minds of their children, sole teachers for the first three years of their life; afterward, either helped by throwing them among other children in an infant garden for two or three hours every day, or, if there be at home no lack of little company, having infant gardens of their own. believing that it is natural to address infants in song, froebel encouraged nursery songs, and added to their number. those contributed by him to the common stock were of course contributed for the sake of some use that he had for each; in the same spirit--knowing play to be essential to a child--he invented games; and those added by him to the common stock are all meant to be used for direct teaching. it does not in the least follow, and it was not the case, that he would have us make all nursery rhymes and garden sports abstrusely didactic. he meant no more than to put his own teaching into songs and games, to show clearly that whatever is necessary to be said or done to a young child may be said or done merrily or playfully; and although he was essentially a schoolmaster, he had no faith in the terrors commonly associated with his calling. froebel's nursery songs are associated almost invariably with bodily activity on the part of the child. he is always, as soon as he becomes old enough, to do something while the song is going on, and the movements assigned to him are cunningly contrived so that not even a joint of a little finger shall be left unexercised. if he be none the better, he is none the worse for this. the child is indeed unlucky that depends only on care of this description for the full play of its body; but there are some children so unfortunate, and there are some parents who will be usefully reminded by those songs, of the necessity of procuring means for the free action of every joint and limb. what is done for the body is done in the same spirit for the mind, and ideas are formed, not by song only. the beginning of a most ingenious course of mental training by a series of playthings is made almost from the very first. a box containing six soft balls, differing in colour, is given to the child. it is froebel's "first gift." long before it can speak the infant can hold one of these little balls in its fingers, become familiar with its spherical shape and its colour. it stands still, it springs, it rolls. as the child grows, he can roll it and run after it, watch it with sharp eyes, and compare the colour of one ball with the colour of another, prick up his ears at the songs connected with his various games with it, use it as a bond of playfellowship with other children, practise with it first efforts at self-denial, and so forth. one ball is suspended by a string, it jumps--it rolls--here--there--over--up; turns left--turns right--ding-dong--tip-tap--falls--spins; fifty ideas may be connected with it. the six balls, three of the primary colours, three of the secondary, may be built up in a pyramid; they may be set rolling, and used in combination in a great many ways giving sufficient exercise to the young wits that have all knowledge and experience before them. froebel's "second gift" is a small box containing a ball, cube, and roller (the last two perforated), with a stick and string. with these forms of the cube, sphere, and cylinder, there is a great deal to be done and learned. they can be played with at first according to the child's own humour: will run, jump, represent carts, or anything. the ancient egyptians, in their young days as a nation, piled three cubes on one another and called them the three graces. a child will, in the same way, see fishes in stones, and be content to put a cylinder upon a cube, and say that is papa on horseback. of this element of ready fancy in all childish sport froebel took full advantage. the ball, cube, and cylinder may be spun, swung, rolled, and balanced in so many ways as to display practically all their properties. the cube, spun upon the stick piercing it through opposite edges, will look like a circle, and so forth. as the child grows older, each of the forms may be examined definitely, and he may learn from observation to describe it. the ball may be rolled down an inclined plane and the acceleration of its speed observed. most of the elementary laws of mechanics may be made practically obvious to the child's understanding. the "third gift" is the cube divided once in every direction. by the time a child gets this to play with he is three years old--of age ripe for admission to an infant garden. the infant garden is intended for the help of children between three years old and seven. instruction in it--always by means of play--is given for only two or three hours in the day; such instruction sets each child, if reasonably helped at home, in the right train of education for the remainder of its time. an infant garden must be held in a large room abounding in clear space for child's play, and connected with a garden into which the children may adjourn whenever weather will permit. the garden is meant chiefly to assure, more perfectly, the association of wholesome bodily exercise with mental activity. if climate but permitted, froebel would have all young children taught entirely in the pure, fresh air, while frolicking in sunshine among flowers. by his system he aimed at securing for them bodily as well as mental health, and he held it to be unnatural that they should be cooped up in close rooms, and glued to forms, when all their limbs twitch with desire for action, and there is a warm sunshine out of doors. the garden, too, should be their own; every child the master or mistress of a plot in it, sowing seeds and watching day by day the growth of plants, instructed playfully and simply in the meaning of what is observed. when weather forbids use of the garden, there is the great, airy room which should contain cupboards, with a place for every child's toys and implements; so that a habit of the strictest neatness may be properly maintained. up to the age of seven there is to be no book work and no ink work; but only at school a free and brisk, but systematic strengthening of the body, of the senses, of the intellect, and of the affections, managed in such a way as to leave the child prompt for subsequent instruction, already comprehending the elements of a good deal of knowledge. we must endeavour to show in part how that is done. the third gift--the cube divided once in every direction--enables the child to begin the work of construction in accordance with its own ideas, and insensibly brings the ideas into the control of a sense of harmony and fitness. the cube divided into eight parts will manufacture many things; and, while the child is at work helped by quiet suggestion now and then, the teacher talks of what he is about, asks many questions, answers more, mixes up little songs and stories with the play. pillars, ruined castles, triumphal arches, city gates, bridges, crosses, towers, all can be completed to the perfect satisfaction of a child, with the eight little cubes. they are all so many texts on which useful and pleasant talk can be established. then they are capable also of harmonious arrangement into patterns, and this is a great pleasure to the child. he learns the charm of symmetry, exercises taste in the preference of this or that among the hundred combinations of which his eight cubes are susceptible. then follows the "fourth gift," a cube divided into eight planes cut lengthways. more things can be done with this than with the other. without strain on the mind, in sheer play, mingled with songs, nothing is wanted but a liberal supply of little cubes, to make clear to the children the elements of arithmetic. the cubes are the things numbered. addition is done with them; they are subtracted from each other; they are multiplied; they are divided. besides these four elementary rules they cause children to be thoroughly at home in the principle of fractions, to multiply and divide fractions--as real things; all in good time it will become easy enough to let written figures represent them--to go through the rule of three, square root, and cube root. as a child has instilled into him the principles of arithmetic, so he acquires insensibly the groundwork of geometry, the sister science. froebel's "fifth gift" is an extension of the third, a cube divided into twenty-seven equal cubes, and three of these further divided into halves, three into quarters. this brings with it the teaching of a great deal of geometry, much help to the lessons in number, magnificent accessions to the power of the little architect, who is provided, now, with pointed roofs and other glories, and the means of producing an almost infinite variety of symmetrical patterns, both more complex and more beautiful than heretofore. the "sixth gift" is a cube so divided as to extend still farther the child's power of combining and discussing it. when its resources are exhausted and combined with those of the "seventh gift" (a box containing every form supplied in the preceding series), the little pupil--seven years old--has had his inventive and artistic powers exercised, and his mind stored with facts that have been absolutely comprehended. he has acquired also a sense of pleasure in the occupation of his mind. but he has not been trained in this way only. we leave out of account the bodily exercise connected with the entire round of occupation, and speak only of the mental discipline. there are some other "gifts" that are brought into service as the child becomes able to use them. one is a box containing pieces of wood, or pasteboard, cut into sundry forms. with these the letters of the alphabet can be constructed; and, after letters, words, in such a way as to create out of the game a series of pleasant spelling lessons. the letters are arranged upon a slate ruled into little squares, by which the eye is guided in preserving regularity. then follows the gift of a bundle of small sticks, which represent so many straight lines; and, by laying them upon his slate, the child can make letters, patterns, pictures; drawing, in fact, with lines that have not to be made with pen or pencil, but are provided ready made and laid down with the fingers. this kind of stick-work having been brought to perfection, there is a capital extension of the idea with what is called pea-work. by the help of peas softened in water, sticks may be joined together, letters, skeletons of cubes, crosses, prisms may be built; houses, towers, churches may be constructed, having due breadth as well as length and height, strong enough to be carried about or kept as specimens of ingenuity. then follows a gift of flat sticks, to be used in plaiting. after that there is a world of ingenuity to be expended on the plaiting, folding, cutting, and pricking of plain or coloured paper. children five years old, trained in the infant garden, will delight in plaiting slips of paper variously coloured into patterns of their own invention, and will work with a sense of symmetry so much refined by training as to produce patterns of exceeding beauty. by cutting paper, too, patterns are produced in the infant garden that would often, though the work of very little hands, be received in schools of design with acclamation. then there are games by which the first truths of astronomy, and other laws of nature, are made as familiar as they are interesting. for our own parts, we have been perfectly amazed at the work we have seen done by children of six or seven--bright, merry creatures, who have all the spirit of their childhood active in them, repressed by no parent's selfish love of ease and silence, cowed by no dull-witted teacher of the a b c and the pothooks. froebel discourages the cramping of an infant's hand upon a pen, but his slate ruled into little squares, or paper prepared in the same way, is used by him for easy training in the elements of drawing. modelling in wet clay is one of the most important occupations of the children who have reached about the sixth year, and is used as much as possible, not merely to encourage imitation, but to give some play to the creative power. finally, there is the best possible use made of the paint-box, and children engaged upon the colouring of pictures and the arrangement of nosegays are further taught to enjoy, not merely what is bright, but also what is harmonious and beautiful. we have not left ourselves as much space as is requisite to show how truly all such labour becomes play to the child. fourteen years' evidence suffices for a demonstration of the admirable working of a system of this kind; but as we think there are some parents who may be willing to inquire a little further into the subject here commended earnestly to their attention, we will end by a citation of the source from which we have ourselves derived what information we possess. at the educational exhibition in st. martin's hall last year, there was a large display of the material used and results produced in infant gardens which attracted much attention. the baroness von marenholtz, enthusiastic in her advocacy of the children's cause, came then to england, and did very much to procure the establishment in this country of some experimental infant gardens. by her, several months ago--and at about the same time by m. and madame rongé who had already established the first english infant garden--our attention was invited to the subject. we were also made acquainted with m. hoffman, one of froebel's pupils, who explained the system theoretically at the polytechnic institution. when in this country, the baroness von marenholtz published a book called woman's educational mission, being an explanation of frederick froebel's system of infant gardens. we have made use of the book in the preceding notice, but it appeared without the necessary illustrations, and is therefore a less perfect guide to the subject than a work published more recently by m. and madame rongé: a practical guide to the english kindergarten. this last book we exhort everybody to consult who is desirous of a closer insight into froebel's system than we have been able here to give. it not only explains what the system is, but, by help of an unstinted supply of little sketches, enables any one at once to study it at home and bring it into active operation. it suggests conversations, games; gives many of froebel's songs, and even furnishes the music (which usually consists of popular tunes--mary blane, rousseau's dream, etc.) to which they may be sung. furthermore, it is well to say that any one interested in this subject, whom time and space do not forbid, may see an infant garden in full work by calling, on a tuesday morning between the hours of ten and one, on m. and madame rongé, at number tavistock place, tavistock square. that day these earliest and heartiest of our established infant gardeners have set apart, for the help of a good cause, to interruptions and investigations from the world without, trusting, of course, we suppose, that no one will disturb them for the satisfaction of mere idle curiosity. chapter iii. the overthrow of coercion. dickens, in the preface to nicholas nickleby, states that, as pickwick papers had given him an audience, he determined to carry out a long-cherished plan and write for the purpose of driving out of existence a class of bad private schools, of which certain schools in yorkshire were the worst types. he drew a picture of low cunning, avarice, ignorance, imposture, and brutality in squeers that astounded his audience, and led to the closing of most of the yorkshire private schools and to the overthrow of tyranny in schools throughout the civilized world. tyranny and corporal punishment still exist, but not in the best schools. not one child weeps now on account of corporal punishment for every hundred who wailed bitterly for the same reason when froebel and dickens began their loving work. year by year the good work goes on. men are learning the better ways of guiding and governing childhood. we can not yet say when men and women in the homes and schools everywhere shall understand the child and their own powers so thoroughly that there shall be no more corporal punishment inflicted, but we do know that the abatement of the terrible brutality began with the revelations of froebel and dickens. froebel taught the new philosophy, dickens sent it quivering through the hearts and consciences of mankind. members of the highest classes in england have been imprisoned near the close of the nineteenth century for improper methods of punishing children that would have excited no comment when dickens described squeers a little more than half a century earlier. in the report to the british government, at the close of his remarkable half-century of honourable and very able educational work, sir joshua fitch said: "in watching the gradual development of the training colleges for women from year to year, nothing is more striking than the increased attention which is being paid in those institutions to the true principles of infant teaching and discipline. the circular which has recently been issued by your lordships, and which is designed to enforce and explain these principles, would, if put forth a few years ago, have fallen on unprepared soil, and would indeed have seemed to many teachers both in and out of training colleges to be scarcely intelligible. now its counsels will be welcomed with sympathy and full appreciation." dickens describes squeers as a man "whose appearance was not prepossessing." he had but one eye, and the popular prejudice runs in favour of two. the eye he had was unquestionably useful, but decidedly not ornamental: being of a greenish gray, and in shape resembling the fanlight of a street door. the blank side of his face was much wrinkled and puckered up, which gave him a very sinister appearance, especially when he smiled, at which times his expression bordered closely on the villainous. his hair was very flat and shiny, save at the ends, where it was brushed stiffly up from a low protruding forehead, which assorted well with his harsh voice and coarse manner. he then proceeds to reveal the character of squeers by a series of incidents: mr. squeers was standing in a box by one of the coffee-room fireplaces. in a corner of the seat was a very small deal trunk, tied round with a scanty piece of cord; and on the trunk was perched--his lace-up half-boots and corduroy trousers dangling in the air--a diminutive boy, with his shoulders drawn up to his ears, and his hands planted on his knees, who glanced timidly at the schoolmaster, from time to time, with evident dread and apprehension. "half-past three," muttered mr. squeers, turning from the window, and looking sulkily at the coffee-room clock. "there will be nobody here to-day." much vexed by this reflection, mr. squeers looked at the little boy to see whether he was doing anything he could beat him for. as he happened not to be doing anything at all, he merely boxed his ears, and told him not to do it again. "at midsummer," muttered mr. squeers, resuming his complaint, "i took down ten boys; ten twentys is two hundred pound. i go back at eight o'clock to-morrow morning, and have got only three--three oughts is an ought--three twos is six--sixty pound. what's come of all the boys? what's parents got in their heads? what does it all mean?" here the little boy on the top of the trunk gave a violent sneeze. "halloa, sir!" growled the schoolmaster, turning round. "what's that, sir?" "nothing, please, sir," said the little boy. "nothing, sir?" exclaimed mr. squeers. "please, sir, i sneezed," rejoined the boy, trembling till the little trunk shook under him. "oh! sneezed, did you?" retorted mr. squeers. "then what did you say 'nothing' for, sir?" in default of a better answer to this question, the little boy screwed a couple of knuckles into each of his eyes and began to cry, wherefore mr. squeers knocked him off the trunk with a blow on one side of his face, and knocked him on again with a blow on the other. "wait till i get you down into yorkshire, my young gentleman," said mr. squeers, "and then i'll give you the rest. will you hold that noise, sir?" "ye--ye--yes," sobbed the little boy, rubbing his face very hard with the beggar's petition in printed calico. "then do so at once, sir," said squeers. "do you hear?" the waiter at this juncture announced a gentleman who wished to interview mr. squeers, and the schoolmaster, in an undertone, said to the poor boy: "put your handkerchief in your pocket, you little scoundrel, or i'll murder you when the gentleman goes." affecting not to see the gentleman when he entered, mr. squeers feigned to be mending a pen and trying to comfort the boy he had so grossly abused. "my dear child," said squeers, "all people have their trials. this early trial of yours, that is fit to make your little heart burst and your very eyes come out of your head with crying, what is it? nothing--less than nothing. you are leaving your friends, but you will have a father in me, my dear, and a mother in mrs. squeers." our indignation is still further aroused when we hear the conversation between mr. squeers and his visitor, who is named snawley, and who was "a sleek, flat-nosed man, bearing in his countenance an expression of much mortification and sanctity." he had brought with him two little boys, whose stepfather he was. their mother had a little money in her own right and he was afraid she might squander it on her boys, so he wished to dispose of them. our blood runs cold as we hear the two scoundrels plotting against the unfortunate boys. they are to be kept by squeers till grown up. no questions are to be asked "so long as the payments are regular." "they are to be supplied with razors when grown up, and never allowed home for holidays, and not permitted to write home, except a circular at christmas to say they never were so happy and hope they may never be sent for, and no questions are to be asked in case anything happens to them." we learn the unutterable selfishness of squeers as he sits eating a sumptuous breakfast, while the five wretched and hungry little boys, who are to accompany him to yorkshire to dotheboys hall, look at him. he had ordered bread and butter for three, which he cut into five portions, and "two-penn'orth of milk" for the five boys. while waiting for the bread to come he said, as he took a large mouthful of beef and toast, "conquer your passions, boys, and don't be eager after vittles. subdue your appetites, my dears, and you've conquered human natur." nicholas nickleby had been engaged to teach under squeers in dotheboys hall. he was shocked at many things he heard and saw the night he arrived in yorkshire. but the school itself and the appearance of the wretched pupils completed his discomfiture. the pupils--the young noblemen! how the last faint traces of hope, the remotest glimmering of any good to be derived from his efforts in this den, faded from the mind of nicholas as he looked in dismay around! pale and haggard faces, lank and bony figures, children with the countenances of old men, deformities with irons upon their limbs, boys of stunted growth, and others whose long meagre legs would hardly bear their stooping bodies, all crowded on the view together; there were the bleared eye, the harelip, the crooked foot, and every ugliness or distortion that told of unnatural aversion conceived by parents for their offspring, or of young lives which, from the earliest dawn of infancy, had been one horrible endurance of cruelty and neglect. there were little faces which should have been handsome, darkened with the scowl of sullen, dogged suffering; there was childhood with the light of its eye quenched, its beauty gone, and its helplessness alone remaining; there were vicious-faced boys, with leaden eyes, like malefactors in a jail; and there were young creatures on whom the sins of their frail parents had descended, weeping even for the mercenary nurses they had known, and lonesome even in their loneliness. with every kindly sympathy and affection blasted in its birth, with every young and healthy feeling flogged and starved down, with every revengeful passion that can fester in swollen hearts, eating its evil way to their core in silence, what an incipient hell was breeding here! it was mr. squeers's custom on the first afternoon after his return from london to call the school together to make announcements, and read letters written by himself, which he pretended had been written by the relatives of the boys. accordingly, the first afternoon after the arrival of nicholas, squeers entered the schoolroom "with a small bundle of papers in his hand, and mrs. s. followed with a pair of canes." "let any boy speak a word without leave," said mr. squeers, "and i'll take the skin off his back." two letters will serve as samples of the rest: "graymarsh. stand up, graymarsh." graymarsh stood up, while squeers read his letter: "graymarsh's maternal aunt is very glad to hear he's so well and happy, and sends her respectful compliments to mrs. squeers, and thinks she must be an angel. she likewise thinks mr. squeers is too good for this world; but hopes he may long be spared to carry on the business. would have sent the two pair of stockings as desired, but is short of money, so forwards a tract instead, and hopes graymarsh will put his trust in providence. hopes, above all, that he will study in every thing to please mr. and mrs. squeers, and look upon them as his only friends; and that he will love master squeers; and not object to sleeping five in a bed, which no christian should. ah!" said squeers, folding it up, "a delightful letter. very affecting indeed." "mobbs" was next called, and his letter was read to him: "mobbs's stepmother," said squeers, "took to her bed on hearing that he wouldn't eat fat, and has been very ill ever since. she wishes to know, by an early post, where he expects to go to, if he quarrels with his vittles; and with what feelings he could turn up his nose at the cow's-liver broth, after his good master had asked a blessing on it. this was told her in the london newspapers--not by mr. squeers, for he is too kind and too good to set anybody against anybody--and it has vexed her so much, mobbs can't think. she is sorry to find he is discontented, which is sinful and horrid, and hopes mr. squeers will flog him into a happier state of mind; with this view, she has also stopped his halfpenny a week pocket-money, and given a double-bladed knife with a corkscrew in it to the missionaries, which she had bought on purpose for him." "a sulky state of feeling," said squeers, after a terrible pause, during which he had moistened the palm of his right hand again, "won't do. cheerfulness and contentment must be kept up. mobbs, come to me!" mobbs moved slowly toward the desk, rubbing his eyes in anticipation of good cause for doing so; and he soon afterward retired by the side door, with as good a cause as a boy need have. there are still school tyrants who talk with philosophic air of flogging children to make them happier, and others who say with hard tones and clenched hands that "the one thing they will not allow in their schools is a sulky boy or girl," and they mean, when they say so, that if a boy is sulky they take no steps to find out the cause of his disease or the natural remedy for it, but they apply the universal remedy of the old-fashioned quack trainer and whip the poor boy, who is already suffering from some physical or nervous derangement. squeers and such teachers are brother tyrants. they practise the squeers's doctrine--"a sulky state of feeling won't do. cheerfulness and contentment must be kept up. mobbs, come to me"--to make children cheerful and contented. one of the most heart-stirring cases in dotheboys hall was that of poor smike. he had been sent to squeers when an infant. he was a young man now, but he had been starved so that he wore still around his long neck the frill of the collar that loving hands had placed there when he was a little child. ill treatment and lack of proper food had made him almost an imbecile, and he was the drudge of the institution. nicholas was attracted by the anxious, longing looks of the boy, as his eyes followed squeers from place to place on their arrival from london. he was lame; and as he feigned to be busy in arranging the table, glanced at the letters with a look so keen, and yet so dispirited and hopeless, that nicholas could hardly bear to watch him. "what are you bothering about there, smike?" cried mrs. squeers; "let the things alone, can't you." "eh!" said squeers, looking up. "oh! it's you, is it?" "yes, sir," replied the youth, pressing his hands together, as though to control, by force, the nervous wandering of his fingers; "is there----" "well!" said squeers. "have you--did anybody--has nothing been heard--about me?" "devil a bit," replied squeers testily. the lad withdrew his eyes, and, putting his hand to his face, moved toward the door. "not a word," resumed squeers, "and never will be." this is one of the pathetic pictures that awoke the heart of humanity. nicholas was the first person who had ever sympathized with smike, so the poor fellow naturally gave to nicholas the pent-up love of his dwarfed nature, and kept near him whenever it was possible to do so. dickens made smike the centre of the terrible interest in dotheboys hall. poor smike was so badly treated that he ran away, but, after a long chase, he was brought home in triumph by mrs. squeers, bound like an animal. squeers, of course, determined to flog him before all the boys as an example, and this led to the first great step toward the overthrow of the power of squeers in dotheboys hall. the news that smike had been caught and brought back in triumph, ran like wildfire through the hungry community, and expectation was on tiptoe all the morning. on tiptoe it was destined to remain, however, until afternoon; when squeers, having refreshed himself with his dinner, and further strengthened himself by an extra libation or so, made his appearance (accompanied by his amiable partner) with a countenance of portentous import, and a fearful instrument of flagellation, strong, supple, wax-ended, and new--in short, purchased that morning, expressly for the occasion. "is every boy here?" asked squeers, in a tremendous voice. every boy was there, but every boy was afraid to speak; so squeers glared along the lines to assure himself; and every eye drooped, and every head cowered down, as he did so. "each boy keep his place," said squeers, administering his favourite blow to the desk, and regarding with gloomy satisfaction the universal start which it never failed to occasion. "nickleby! to your desk, sir." it was remarked by more than one small observer that there was a very curious and unusual expression in the usher's face; but he took his seat, without opening his lips in reply. squeers, casting a triumphant glance at his assistant, and a look of most comprehensive despotism on the boys, left the room, and shortly afterward returned, dragging smike by the collar--or rather by that fragment of his jacket which was nearest the place where his collar would have been had he boasted such a decoration. in any other place the appearance of the wretched, jaded, spiritless object would have occasioned a murmur of compassion and remonstrance. it had some effect, even there; for the lookers-on moved uneasily in their seats, and a few of the boldest ventured to steal looks at each other, expressive of indignation and pity. they were lost on squeers, however, whose gaze was fastened on the luckless smike, as he inquired, according to custom in such cases, whether he had anything to say for himself. "nothing, i suppose?" said squeers, with a diabolical grin. smike glanced round, and his eye rested for an instant on nicholas, as if he had expected him to intercede; but his look was riveted on his desk. "have you anything to say?" demanded squeers again; giving his right arm two or three flourishes to try its power and suppleness. "stand a little out of the way, mrs. squeers, my dear; i've hardly got room enough." "spare me, sir!" cried smike. "oh! that's all, is it?" said squeers. "yes, i'll flog you within an inch of your life, and spare you that." "ha, ha, ha," laughed mrs. squeers, "that's a good 'un!" "i was driven to do it," said smike faintly, and casting another imploring look on him. "driven to do it, were you?" said squeers. "oh! it wasn't your fault; it was mine, i suppose--eh?" "a nasty, ungrateful, pig-headed, brutish, obstinate, sneaking dog," exclaimed mrs. squeers, taking smike's head under her arm, and administering a cuff at every epithet; "what does he mean by that?" "stand aside, my dear," replied squeers. "we'll try and find out." mrs. squeers, being out of breath with her exertions, complied. squeers caught the boy firmly in his grip; one desperate cut had fallen on his body--he was wincing from the lash, and uttering a scream of pain--it was raised again, and again about to fall--when nicholas nickleby suddenly starting up, cried: "stop!" in a voice that made the rafters ring. "who cried stop?" said squeers, turning savagely round. "i," said nicholas, stepping forward. "this must not go on." "must not go on!" cried squeers, almost in a shriek. "no!" thundered nicholas. aghast and stupefied by the boldness of the interference, squeers released his hold of smike, and, falling back a pace or two, gazed upon nicholas with looks that were positively frightful. "i say must not," repeated nicholas, nothing daunted; "shall not. i will prevent it." squeers continued to gaze upon him, with his eyes starting out of his head; but astonishment had actually, for the moment, bereft him of speech. "you have disregarded all my quiet interference in the miserable lad's behalf," said nicholas; "you have returned no answer to the letter in which i begged forgiveness for him, and offered to be responsible that he would remain quietly here. don't blame me for this public interference. you have brought it upon yourself, not i." "sit down, beggar!" screamed squeers, almost beside himself with rage, and seizing smike as he spoke. "wretch!" rejoined nicholas fiercely, "touch him at your peril! i will not stand by and see it done. my blood is up, and i have the strength of ten such men as you. look to yourself, for, by heaven, i will not spare you, if you drive me on!" "stand back!" cried squeers, brandishing his weapon. "i have a long series of insults to avenge," said nicholas, flushed with passion; "and my indignation is aggravated by the dastardly cruelties practised on helpless infancy in this foul den. have a care; for, if you do raise the devil within me, the consequences shall fall heavily upon your own head!" he had scarcely spoken, when squeers, in a violent outbreak of wrath, and with a cry like the howl of a wild beast, spit upon him, and struck him a blow across the face with his instrument of torture, which raised up a bar of livid flesh as it was inflicted. smarting with the agony of the blow, and concentrating into that one moment all his feelings of rage, scorn, and indignation, nicholas sprang upon him, wrested the weapon from his hand, and pinning him by the throat, beat the ruffian till he roared for mercy. the boys--with the exception of master squeers, who, coming to his father's assistance, harassed the enemy in the rear--moved not hand or foot; but mrs. squeers, with many shrieks for aid, hung on to the tail of her partner's coat, and endeavoured to drag him from his infuriated adversary; while miss squeers, who had been peeping through the keyhole in expectation of a very different scene, darted in at the very beginning of the attack, and after launching a shower of inkstands at the usher's head, beat nicholas to her heart's content: animating herself at every blow with the recollection of his having refused her proffered love, and thus imparting additional strength to an arm which (as she took after her mother in this respect) was, at no time, one of the weakest. nicholas, in the full torrent of his violence, felt the blows no more than if they had been dealt with feathers; but, becoming tired of the noise and uproar, and feeling that his arm grew weak besides, he threw all his remaining strength into half a dozen finishing cuts and flung squeers from him, with all the force he could muster. the violence of his fall precipitated mrs. squeers completely over an adjacent form; and squeers, striking his head against it in his descent, lay at his full length on the ground, stunned and motionless. having brought affairs to this happy termination, and ascertained, to his thorough satisfaction, that squeers was only stunned, and not dead (upon which point he had had some unpleasant doubts at first), nicholas left his family to restore him and retired to consider what course he had better adopt. he looked anxiously round for smike, as he left the room, but he was nowhere to be seen. after a brief consideration, he packed up a few clothes in a small leathern valise, and, finding that nobody offered to oppose his progress, marched boldly out by the front door and started to walk to london. near the school he met john browdie, the honest corn factor. john saw that nicholas had received a severe blow, and asked the reason. "the fact is," said nicholas, not very well knowing how to make the avowal, "the fact is, that i have been ill-treated." "noa!" interposed john browdie, in a tone of compassion; for he was a giant in strength and stature, and nicholas, very likely, in his eyes, seemed a mere dwarf; "dean't say thot." "yes, i have," replied nicholas, "by that man squeers, and i have beaten him soundly, and am leaving this place in consequence." "what!" cried john browdie, with such an ecstatic shout, that the horse quite shied at it. "beatten the schoolmeasther! ho! ho! ho! beatten the schoolmeasther! who ever heard o' the loike o' that noo! giv' us thee hond agean, yongster. beatten the schoolmeasther! dang it, i loove thee for't." and the world agreed, and still agrees, with john browdie. squeers and smike began the real movement against cruelty and corporal punishment not only in schools, but in homes. dickens described both characters so admirably that the world hated squeers and pitied smike to the limit of its power to hate and pity, and unconsciously the world associated cruelty and corporal punishment with squeers. this was exactly what dickens desired. the hatred of squeers led to a strong disapproval of his practices. corporal punishment was associated with an unpopular man, and it lost its respectable character and never regained it. the dislike for squeers was accentuated by the long-continued sympathy and hopefulness felt for smike as he gradually succumbed to the terrible disease, consumption, induced by poor food, neglect, and cruelty. squeers and smike are doing their good work still, and doing it well. they could do it much better if men and women when they have become acquainted with squeers would candidly ask themselves the question, "in what respects am i like squeers?" instead of yielding to the feeling of self-satisfaction that they are so very unlike him. just before writing about the coercive tyranny of squeers in his school, dickens had written oliver twist, in which he had made a most vigorous attack upon two classes of characters for their tyrannical treatment of children, and especially on account of their frequent use of corporal punishment. bumble represented the officials in institutions for children, and "the gentleman in the white waistcoat" was given as a type of the advanced christian philanthropy of his time. he meant well, gave his time freely to attend the meetings of the board, and supposed he was doing right; but dickens wished to let philanthropists see that they were terribly cruel to the helpless children, and that their good intentions could not condone their harshness, even though it resulted from ignorance and lack of reverence for childhood, and not from deliberate evil intentions. poor, friendless little oliver! his beautiful face and gentle spirit might have touched the hardest heart, but the institutional heart becomes hard easily, even two generations after the time of bumble and "the gentleman in the immaculate white waistcoat." dickens says: it must not be supposed that oliver was denied the benefit of exercise, the pleasure of society, or the advantages of religious consolation in the workhouse. as for exercise, it was nice cold weather, and he was allowed to perform his ablutions every morning under the pump, in a stone yard, in the presence of mr. bumble, who prevented his catching cold, and caused a tingling sensation to pervade his frame, by repeated applications of the cane. as for society, he was carried every other day into the hall, where the boys dined, and there sociably flogged as a public warning and example. and so far from being denied the advantage of religious consolation, he was kicked into the same apartment every evening at prayer time, and there permitted to listen to, and console his mind with, a general supplication of the boys, containing a special clause, therein inserted by authority of the board, in which they entreated to be made good, virtuous, contented, and obedient, and to be guarded from the sins and vices of oliver twist. after oliver had been sent to work for mr. sowerberry he was goaded to desperation one evening by the disrespectful remarks of noah claypole about his mother, and bravely gave the mean bully the personal chastisement he so richly deserved. noah was sent to complain to the parish board, and the gentleman in the white waistcoat said: "bumble, just step up to sowerberry's with your cane, and see what's best to be done. don't spare him, bumble." "no, i will not, sir," replied the beadle, adjusting the wax end which was twisted round the bottom of his cane, for purposes of parochial flagellation. "tell sowerberry not to spare him either. they'll never do anything with him without stripes and bruises," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. the innocent, manly child was beaten unmercifully and abused cruelly by sowerberry and bumble, yet he bore all their taunts and floggings without a tear until he was alone. then, "when there was none to see or hear him, he fell upon his knees on the floor, and, hiding his face in his hands, wept such tears as, god send for the credit of our nature, few so young may ever have cause to pour out before him!" there are not many "gentlemen in white waistcoats" of the type described by dickens now on charitable boards, and the enlightened sentiment of civilized countries turns the legal processes of nations upon officials who dare to treat children unkindly. dickens made humane people everywhere sympathize with mr. meagles, who said: "whenever i see a beadle in full fig coming down a street on a sunday at the head of a charity school, i am obliged to turn and run away, or i should hit him." ten years after squeers began his good work dickens produced squeers's associate, mr. creakle, the master of salem house. david copperfield was sent to salem house by his stepfather, mr. murdstone, because he bit his hand when he was punishing him unjustly. for this offence he was compelled to wear a placard on his back on which was written: "take care of him. he bites." this dastardly practice of labelling youthful offenders persisted until very recent times. children in schools are even yet in some places degraded by inconsiderate teachers by being compelled to wear some indication of their misconduct. dickens vigorously condemned this outrage in . david was sent to school during the holidays, and was soon brought before mr. creakle by tungay, his servant with the wooden leg. "so," said mr. creakle, "this is the young gentleman whose teeth are to be filed! turn him round." mr. creakle's face was fiery, and his eyes were small and deep in his head; he had thick veins in his forehead, a little nose, and a large chin. he was bald on the top of his head; and had some thin, wet-looking hair that was just turning gray brushed across each temple, so that the two sides interlaced on his forehead. "now," said mr. creakle. "what's the report of this boy?" "there's nothing against him yet," returned the man with the wooden leg. "there has been no opportunity." i thought mr. creakle was disappointed. i thought mrs. and miss creakle (at whom i now glanced for the first time, and who were, both, thin and quiet) were not disappointed. "come here, sir!" said mr. creakle, beckoning to me. "come here!" said the man with the wooden leg, repeating the gesture. "i have the happiness of knowing your stepfather," whispered mr. creakle, taking me by the ear; "and a worthy man he is, and a man of strong character. he knows me, and i know him. do _you_ know me! hey?" said mr. creakle, pinching my ear with ferocious playfulness. "not yet, sir," i said, flinching with the pain. "not yet! hey?" repeated mr. creakle. "but you will soon. hey?" "you will soon. hey?" repeated the man with the wooden leg. i afterward found that he generally acted, with his strong voice, as mr. creakle's interpreter to the boys. i was very much frightened, and said, i hoped so, if he pleased. i felt all this while as if my ear were blazing; he pinched it so hard. "i'll tell you what i am," whispered mr. creakle, letting it go at last, with a screw at parting that brought the water to my eyes, "i'm a tartar." mr. creakle proved to be as good as his word. he was a tartar. on the first day of school he revealed himself. his opening address was very brief and to the point. "now, boys, this is a new half. take care what you're about in this new half. come fresh up to the lessons, i advise you, for i come fresh up to the punishment. i won't flinch. it will be of no use your rubbing yourselves; you won't rub the marks out that i shall give you. now get to work, every boy!" when this dreadful exordium was over, mr. creakle came to where i sat, and told me that if i were famous for biting, he was famous for biting, too. he then showed me the cane, and asked me what i thought of _that_, for a tooth? was it a sharp tooth, hey? was it a double tooth, hey? had it a deep prong, hey? did it bite, hey? did it bite? at every question he gave me a fleshy cut with it that made me writhe. not that i mean to say these were special marks of distinction, which only i received. on the contrary, a large majority of the boys (especially the smaller ones) were visited with similar instances of notice, as mr. creakle made the round of the schoolroom. half the establishment was writhing and crying before the day's work began; and how much of it had writhed and cried before the day's work was over i am really afraid to recollect, lest i should seem to exaggerate. i should think there never can have been a man who enjoyed his profession more than mr. creakle did. he had a delight in cutting at the boys, which was like the satisfaction of a craving appetite. i am confident that he couldn't resist a chubby boy especially; that there was a fascination in such a subject which made him restless in his mind until he had scored and marked him for the day. i was chubby myself, and ought to know. i am sure when i think of the fellow now, my blood rises against him with the disinterested indignation i should feel if i could have known all about him without having ever been in his power; but it rises hotly, because i know him to have been an incapable brute, who had no more right to be possessed of the great trust he held than to be lord high admiral or commander-in-chief: in either of which capacities it is probable that he would have done infinitely less mischief. miserable little propitiators of a remorseless idol, how abject we were to him! what a launch in life i think it now, on looking-back, to be so mean and servile to a man of such parts and pretensions! twenty years after dickens described creakle a new teacher stood before a class in a large american city, and, holding a long rattan cane above his head, said in a fierce, threatening tone: "do you see that cane? would you like to feel it? hey? well, break any one of my forty-eight rules and you will feel it all right." the tyrant in adulthood dies hard. no wonder. tyranny has been wrought into our natures by centuries of blind faith in corporal punishment as the supreme agency in saving the race from moral wreck and anarchy in childhood and youth. men sought no agency for the development of the good in young lives. as they conceived it, their duty was done if they prevented their children from doing wrong, and the quickest, easiest, most effective way they knew to secure coercion was by corporal punishment. the most successful tyrant, he who could most thoroughly terrorize children and keep them down most completely, was regarded as the best disciplinarian. squeers and creakle were fair exponents of the almost universally recognised theory of their day, and they had many successors in the real schools of the generation that followed them. no man could remain a week in a school now if he began on the opening day in the way creakle did. dickens was right in revealing the position of the teacher as one of "great trust," and he was right, too, in insisting that creakle was no more fitted to be a teacher "than to be lord high admiral or commander-in-chief, in either of which capacities it is probable he would have done infinitely less mischief." this was another plea for good normal schools and for state supervision. dickens makes a good point in his remark about the degradation of abject submission to a man of such parts and pretensions as creakle. subordination always dwarfs the human soul, but when the child is forced to a position of abject subordination to a coarse tyrant the degradation is more complete and more humiliating. it does not mend matters for the child when the tyrant is his father. the tyranny of parenthood is usually the hardest to escape from. in the same book in which creakle is described--david copperfield--dickens deals with the tyranny of the home. david's widowed mother married mr. murdstone, a hard, severe, austere, religious man, with an equally dreadful sister--jane murdstone. firmness was the grand quality on which both mr. and miss murdstone took their stand. however i might have expressed my comprehension of it at that time, if i had been called upon, i nevertheless did clearly comprehend in my own way that it was another name for tyranny, and for a certain gloomy, arrogant, devil's humour, that was in them both. the creed, as i should state it now, was this: mr. murdstone was firm; nobody in his world was to be so firm as mr. murdstone; nobody else in his world was to be firm at all, for everybody was to be bent to his firmness. there was no more depressing tyranny in the time of dickens than the tyranny exercised in the name of a rigid and repressive religion. the gloomy taint that was in the murdstone blood darkened the murdstone religion, which was austere and wrathful. i have thought, since, that its assuming that character was a necessary consequence of mr. murdstone's firmness, which wouldn't allow him to let anybody off from the utmost weight of the severest penalties he could find any excuse for. be this as it may, i well remember the tremendous visages with which we used to go to church, and the changed air of the place. again, the dreaded sunday comes round, and i file into the old pew first, like a guarded captive brought to a condemned service. again, miss murdstone, in a black-velvet gown, that looks as if it had been made out of a pall, follows close upon me; then my mother; then her husband. again, i listen to miss murdstone mumbling the responses, and emphasizing all the dread words with a cruel relish. again, i see her dark eyes roll round the church when she says "miserable sinners," as if she were calling all the congregation names. again, i catch rare glimpses of my mother, moving her lips timidly between the two, with one of them muttering at each ear like low thunder. again, i wonder with a sudden fear whether it is likely that our good old clergyman can be wrong, and mr. and miss murdstone right, and that all the angels in heaven can be destroying angels. again, if i move a finger or relax a muscle of my face, miss murdstone pokes me with her prayer book, and makes my side ache. mrs. chillip said: "mr. murdstone sets up an image of himself and calls it the divine nature," and "what such people as the murdstones call their religion is a vent for their bad humours and arrogance." mild and cautious mr. chillip observed, "i don't find authority for mr. and miss murdstone in the new testament," and his good wife added, "the darker tyrant mr. murdstone becomes, the more ferocious is his religious doctrine." when david first learned that mr. murdstone had married his mother he relieved the swelling in his little heart by crying in his bedroom. his mother naturally felt a sympathy for her boy. mr. murdstone reproved her for her lack of "firmness," ordered her out of the room, and gave david his first lesson in "obedience." "david," he said, making his lips thin, by pressing them together, "if i have an obstinate horse or dog to deal with, what do you think i do?" "i don't know." "i beat him." i had answered in a kind of breathless whisper, but i felt, in my silence, that my breath was shorter now. "i make him wince, and smart. i say to myself, 'i'll conquer that fellow;' and if it were to cost him all the blood he had, i should do it." there are still a few schoolmaster tyrants who boast of their ability "to subdue children." they are barbarians, who understand neither the new education nor the new theology, who have not learned to recognise and reverence the individual selfhood of each child, who themselves fear god's power more than they feel his love. when david was at home for the holidays he remained in his own room a considerable part of the time reading. this aroused the anger of mr. murdstone, and he charged david with being sullen. "i was sorry, david," said mr. murdstone, turning his head and his eyes stiffly toward me, "to observe that you are of a sullen disposition. this is not a character that i can suffer to develop itself beneath my eyes without an effort at improvement. you must endeavour, sir, to change it. we must endeavour to change it for you." "i beg your pardon, sir," i faltered. "i have never meant to be sullen since i came back." "don't take refuge in a lie, sir!" he returned so fiercely, that i saw my mother involuntarily put out her trembling hand as if to interpose between us. "you have withdrawn yourself in your sullenness to your own room. you have kept your room when you ought to have been here. you know now, once for all, that i require you to be here, and not there. further, that i require you to bring obedience here. you know me, david. i will have it done." miss murdstone gave a hoarse chuckle. "i will have a respectful, prompt, and ready bearing toward myself," he continued, "and toward jane murdstone, and toward your mother. i will not have this room shunned as if it were infected, at the pleasure of a child. sit down." he ordered me like a dog, and i obeyed like a dog. david's lessons, which had been "along a path of roses" when his mother was alone with him, became a path of thorns after the murdstones came. the lessons were a grievous daily drudgery and misery. they were very long, very numerous, very hard--perfectly unintelligible. let me remember how it used to be. i come into the parlour after breakfast with my books, an exercise book and a slate. my mother is ready for me, but not half so ready as mr. murdstone, or as miss murdstone, sitting near my mother stringing steel beads. the very sight of these two has such an influence over me, that i begin to feel the words i have been at infinite pains to get into my head all sliding away, and going i don't know where. i wonder where they _do_ go, by the bye? i hand the first book to my mother. i take a last drowning look at the page as i give it into her hand, and start off aloud at a racing pace while i have got it fresh. i trip over a word. mr. murdstone looks up. i trip over another word. miss murdstone looks up. i redden, tumble over half a dozen words, and stop. i think my mother would show me the book if she dared, but she does not dare, and she says softly: "oh, davy, davy!" "now, clara," says mr. murdstone, "be firm with the boy. don't say 'oh, davy, davy!' that's childish. he knows his lesson, or he does not know it." "he does _not_ know it," miss murdstone interposed awfully. "i am really afraid he does not," says my mother. "then you see, clara," returns miss murdstone, "you should just give him the book back, and make him know it." "yes, certainly," says my mother; "that's what i intended to do, my dear jane. now, davy, try once more, and don't be stupid." i obey the first clause of the injunction by trying once more, but am not so successful with the second, for i am very stupid. i tumble down before i get to the old place, at a point where i was all right before, and stop to think. but i can't think about the lesson. i think of the number of yards of net in miss murdstone's cap, or of the price of mr. murdstone's dressing-gown, or any such ridiculous problem that i have no business with, and don't want to have anything at all to do with. mr. murdstone makes a movement of impatience which i have been expecting for a long time. miss murdstone does the same. my mother glances submissively at them, shuts the book, and lays it by as an arrear to be worked out when my other tasks are done. there is a pile of these arrears very soon, and it swells like a rolling snowball. the bigger it gets the more stupid i get. the case is so hopeless, and i feel that i am wallowing in such a bog of nonsense, that i give up all idea of getting out, and abandon myself to my fate. the despairing way in which my mother and i look at each other, as i blunder on, is truly melancholy. but the greatest effect in these miserable lessons is when my mother (thinking nobody is observing her) tries to give me the cue by the motion of her lips. at that instant, miss murdstone, who has been lying in wait for nothing else all along, says in a deep warning voice: "clara!" my mother starts, colours, and smiles faintly. mr. murdstone comes out of his chair, takes the book, throws it at me or boxes my ears with it, and turns me out of the room by the shoulders. it seems to me, at this distance of time, as if my unfortunate studies generally took this course. i could have done very well if i had been without the murdstones; but the influence of the murdstones upon me was like the fascination of two snakes on a wretched young bird. even when i did get through the morning with tolerable credit, there was not much gained but dinner; for miss murdstone never could endure to see me untasked, and if i rashly made any show of being unemployed, called her brother's attention to me by saying, "clara, my dear, there's nothing like work--give your boy an exercise." one morning when i went into the parlour with my books, i found my mother looking anxious, miss murdstone looking firm, and mr. murdstone binding something round the bottom of a cane--a lithe and limber cane, which he left off binding when i came in, and poised and switched in the air. "i tell you, clara," said mr. murdstone, "i have been often flogged myself." "to be sure; of course," said miss murdstone. "certainly, my dear jane," faltered my mother meekly. "but--but do you think it did edward good?" "do you think it did edward harm, clara?" asked mr. murdstone, gravely. "that's the point!" said his sister. to this my mother returned "certainly, my dear jane," and said no more. i felt apprehensive that i was personally interested in this dialogue, and sought mr. murdstone's eye as it lighted on mine. "now, david," he said--and i saw that cast again, as he said it--"you must be far more careful to-day than usual." he gave the cane another poise, and another switch; and having finished his preparation of it, laid it down beside him, with an expressive look, and took up his book. this was a good freshener to my presence of mind, as a beginning. i felt the words of my lesson slipping off, not one by one, or line by line, but by the entire page. i tried to lay hold of them; but they seemed, if i may so express it, to have put skates on, and to skim away from me with a smoothness there was no checking. we began badly, and went on worse. i had come in, with an idea of distinguishing myself rather, conceiving that i was very well prepared; but it turned out to be quite a mistake. book after book was added to the heap of failures, miss murdstone being firmly watchful of us all the time. and when we came at last to the five thousand cheeses (canes he made it that day, i remember), my mother burst out crying. "clara!" said miss murdstone, in her warning voice. "i am not quite well, my dear jane, i think," said my mother. i saw him wink, solemnly, at his sister, as he rose and said, taking up the cane. "why, jane, we can hardly expect clara to bear, with perfect firmness, the worry and torment that david has occasioned her to-day. that would be stoical. clara is greatly strengthened and improved, but we can hardly expect so much from her. david, you and i will go upstairs, boy." they went upstairs. david was beaten unmercifully, notwithstanding his piteous cries, and in his desperation he bit the hand of murdstone. for this it seemed as if murdstone would have beaten him to death but for the interference of the women. "then he was gone, and the door locked outside; and i was lying, fevered and hot, and torn, and sore, and raging in my puny way, upon the floor." oh! blind, self-satisfied "child-quellers," who so ignorantly boast of your ability to conquer children! dickens described murdstone for you. think of that awful picture of the beautiful boy, created in the image of god, lying on the floor, "fevered and hot, and torn, and sore, and raging," with every element of sweetness and strength in his life turned to darkness and fury, and next time you propose to "conquer a child" who has been rendered partially insane, possibly by your treatment, and with whom you have unnecessarily forced a crisis, remember the murdstone tragedy--a real tragedy, notwithstanding the fact that the boy's life was spared. remember, too, that your very presence and manner may blight the young lives that you are supposed to develop. when mr. murdstone was sending david away to work he gave him his philosophy of coercion as his parting advice: "david," said mr. murdstone, "to the young, this is a world for action; not for moping and droning in." --"as you do," added his sister. "jane murdstone, leave it to me, if you please. i say, david, to the young, this is a world for action, and not for moping and droning in. it is especially so for a young boy of your disposition, which requires a great deal of correcting; and to which no greater service can be done than to force it to conform to the ways of the working world, and to bend it and break it." "for stubbornness won't do here," said his sister. "what it wants is to be crushed. and crushed it must be. shall be, too!" first he fills the boy as full as possible of self-depreciation, and then trains him to expect that his leading experiences in life will consist of being forced into submission, conforming to the plans of others, bending to authority, the breaking of his will, and the crushing of his interests and purposes. what a depressing outlook to give a child! john willet, in barnaby rudge, is used as a means of convincing parents that they should respect the feelings and opinions of children. no two maxims relating to child training are more utterly wrong in principle, more devoid of the simplest elements of child sympathy and child reverence, than the time-honoured nonsense that "children should be seen and not heard," and "children should speak only when they are spoken to." dickens exposes these maxims to deserved ridicule in john willet's treatment of his son joe. john kept the maypole inn. joe was a fine, sturdy young man, but his father still ruled him with an unbending stubbornness that he believed to be a necessary exercise of authority. john was encouraged in his tyranny over his son by some of his old cronies, who were in the habit of sitting in the maypole in the evenings and praising john for his firmness in training his son. one evening a stranger made a remark about a gentleman, to which joe replied. "silence, sir!" cried his father. "what a chap you are, joe!" said long parkes. "such a inconsiderate lad!" murmured tom cobb. "putting himself forward and wringing the very nose off his own father's face!" exclaimed the parish clerk metaphorically. "what _have_ i done?" reasoned poor joe. "silence, sir!" returned his father; "what do you mean by talking, when you see people that are more than two or three times your age sitting still and silent and not dreaming of saying a word?" "why that's the proper time for me to talk, isn't it?" said joe rebelliously. "the proper time, sir!" retorted his father, "the proper time's no time." "ah, to be sure!" muttered parkes, nodding gravely to the other two who nodded likewise, observing under their breaths that that was the point. "the proper time's no time, sir," repeated john willet; "when i was your age i never talked, i never wanted to talk. i listened and improved myself, that's what i did." "it's all very fine talking," muttered joe, who had been fidgeting in his chair with divers uneasy gestures. "but if you mean to tell me that i'm never to open my lips----" "silence, sir!" roared his father. "no, you never are. when your opinion's wanted, you give it. when you're spoke to you speak. when your opinion's not wanted and you're not spoke to, don't give an opinion and don't you speak. the world's undergone a nice alteration since my time, certainly. my belief is that there an't any boys left--that there isn't such a thing as a boy--that there's nothing now between a male baby and a man--and that all the boys went out with his blessed majesty king george the second." on another occasion joe had been hit with a whip by a stranger, and he expressed his opinion to mr. varden about the character of the man who hit him. "hold your tongue, sir," said his father. "i won't, father. it's all along of you that he ventured to do what he did. seeing me treated like a child, and put down like a fool, _he_ plucks up a heart and has a fling at a fellow that he thinks--and may well think, too--hasn't a grain of spirit. but he's mistaken, as i'll show him, and as i'll show all of you before long." "does the boy know what he's saying of!" cried the astonished john willet. "father," returned joe, "i know what i say and mean, well--better than you do when you hear me. i can bear with you, but i can not bear the contempt that your treating me in the way you do brings upon me from others every day. look at other young men of my age. have they no liberty, no will, no right to speak? are they obliged to sit mumchance, and to be ordered about till they are the laughingstock of young and old? i am a byword all over chigwell, and i say--and it's fairer my saying so now, than waiting till you are dead, and i have got your money--i say, that before long i shall be driven to break such bounds, and that when i do, it won't be me that you'll have to blame, but your own self, and no other." john never trusted his son, never entered into his plans, and treated even the most sacred things of joe's life with contempt. joe was about to start to london on business for his father, and he was to ride a mare that was so slow that a young man could not enjoy the prospect of riding her. "don't you ride hard," said his father. "i should be puzzled to do that, i think, father," joe replied, casting a disconsolate look at the animal. "none of your impudence, sir, if you please," retorted old john. "what would you ride, sir? a wild ass or zebra would be too tame for you, wouldn't he, eh, sir? you'd like to ride a roaring lion, wouldn't you, sir, eh, sir? hold your tongue, sir." when mr. willet, in his differences with his son, had exhausted all the questions that occurred to him, and joe had said nothing at all in answer, he generally wound up by bidding him hold his tongue. "and what does the boy mean," added mr. willet, after he had stared at him for a little time, in a species of stupefaction, "by cocking his hat, to such an extent! are you going to kill the wintner, sir?" "no," said joe tartly; "i'm not. now your mind's at ease, father." "with a military air, too!" said mr. willet, surveying him from top to toe; "with a swaggering, fire-eating, biling-water drinking sort of way with him! and what do you mean by pulling up the crocuses and snowdrops, eh, sir?" "it's only a little nosegay," said joe, reddening. "there's no harm in that, i hope?" "you're a boy of business, you are, sir!" said mr. willet disdainfully, "to go supposing that wintners care for nosegays." "i don't suppose anything of the kind," returned joe. "let them keep their red noses for bottles and tankards. these are going to mr. varden's house." "and do you suppose _he_ minds such things as crocuses?" demanded john. "i don't know, and to say the truth, i don't care," said joe. "come, father, give me the money, and in the name of patience let me go." "there it is, sir," replied john; "and take care of it; and mind you don't make too much haste back, but give the mare a long rest. do you mind?" "ay, i mind," returned joe. "she'll need it, heaven knows." "and don't you score up too much at the black lion," said john. "mind that too." "then why don't you let me have some money of my own?" retorted joe sorrowfully; "why don't you, father? what do you send me into london for, giving me only the right to call for my dinner at the black lion, which you're to pay for next time you go, as if i was not to be trusted with a few shillings? why do you use me like this? it's not right of you. you can't expect me to be quiet under it." dickens in this interview condemns several mistakes often made by parents in restraining instead of sympathizing with their children in the natural unfolding of their young manhood or womanhood. it was wrong for john willet to ridicule joe's desire to ride a smart horse. it was wrong to bid him "hold his tongue." it was wrong to criticise his method of dressing to look his very best. it was wrong to sneer at him because his consciousness of unfolding manhood and his hope of dolly varden's love made him carry himself with a "military air." what a difference it would make in the characters of young men if they all carried themselves with a military air, and walked with a consciousness of power and hope! it was especially wrong to make fun of the nosegay joe had pulled for dolly varden. what a pity it is that so few fathers or mothers can truly sympathize with their boys and girls during the period of courtship! why should the most sacred feelings that ever stir the soul be made the subject of jest and levity by those whose hearts should most truly beat in unison with the young hearts that are aflame? if there is a time in the life of young men or women when father or mother may enter the hearts of their children as benedictions and form a blessed unity that can never be broken or undone it is surely when young hearts are hallowed by love. yet there are few parents to whom their children can speak freely about the mysteries and the deep experiences of love that come into their lives. it was wrong to treat joe as if he was unworthy to be trusted with money. every wrong revealed by dickens in this interview had its root in john's feeling that it was his duty to keep joe down, to prevent the outflow of his inner life. old john having long encroached a good standard inch, full measure, on the liberty of joe, and having snipped off a flemish ell in the matter of the parole, grew so despotic and so great, that his thirst for conquest knew no bounds. the more young joe submitted, the more absolute old john became. the ell soon faded into nothing. yards, furlongs, miles arose; and on went old john in the pleasantest manner possible, trimming off an exuberance in this place, shearing away some liberty of speech or action in that, and conducting himself in this small way with as much high mightiness and majesty as the most glorious tyrant that ever had his statue reared in the public ways, of ancient or of modern times. as great men are urged on to the abuse of power (when they need urging, which is not often) by their flatterers and dependents, so old john was impelled to these exercises of authority by the applause and admiration of his maypole cronies, who, in the intervals of their nightly pipes and pots, would shake their heads and say that mr. willet was a father of the good old english sort; that there were no newfangled notions or modern ways in him; that he put them in mind of what their fathers were when they were boys; that there was no mistake about him; that it would be well for the country if there were more like him, and more was the pity that there were not; with many other original remarks of that nature. then they would condescendingly give joe to understand that it was all for his good, and he would be thankful for it one day; and in particular, mr. cobb would acquaint him, that when he was his age, his father thought no more of giving him a parental kick, or a box on the ears, or a cuff on the head, or some little admonition of that sort, than he did of any other ordinary duty of life; and he would further remark, with looks of great significance, that but for this judicious bringing up, he might have never been the man he was at that present speaking; which was probable enough, as he was, beyond all question, the dullest dog of the party. in short, between old john and old john's friends, there never was an unfortunate young fellow so bullied, badgered, worried, fretted, and browbeaten; so constantly beset, or made so tired of his life, as poor joe willet. the end came at last. one evening mr. cobb was more aggravating than usual, and joe's patience could hold out no longer. he knocked the offending cobb into a corner among the spittoons, and ran away from the unbearable tyranny of home. what a moral catastrophe occurs when a young man leaves home with a feeling of relief! dickens develops this thought in the case of tom gradgrind. with the best of intentions, with a single desire of training his son in the best possible way, mr. gradgrind had repressed his natural tendencies and robbed him of the joys of childhood and youth to such an extent that when he was about to go to live with mr. bounderby, and his sister, louisa, asked him "if he was pleased with his prospect?" he replied, "well, it will be getting away from home." the boy is never to blame for such a catastrophe. dickens attacked another phase of the flogging mania in barnaby rudge, in a brief but suggestive scene. barnaby and his mother were travelling, and were resting at the gate of a gentleman's grounds, when the proprietor himself came along and demanded to know who they were. "vagrants," said the gentleman, "vagrants and vagabonds. thee wish to be made acquainted with the cage, dost thee--the cage, the stocks, and the whipping post? where dost come from?" learning that barnaby was weak-minded, he asked how long he had been idiotic. "from his birth," said the widow. "i don't believe it," cried the gentleman, "not a bit of it. it's an excuse not to work. there's nothing like flogging to cure that disorder. i'd make a difference in him in ten minutes, i'll be bound." "heaven has made none in more than twice ten years, sir," said the widow mildly. "then why don't you shut him up? we pay enough for county institutions, damn 'em. but thou'd rather drag him about to excite charity--of course. ay, i know thee." now, this gentleman had various endearing appellations among his intimate friends. by some he was called "a country gentleman of the true school," by some "a fine old country gentleman," by some "a sporting gentleman," by some "a thoroughbred englishman," by some "a genuine john bull"; but they all agreed in one respect, and that was, that it was a pity that there were not more like him, and that because there were not, the country was going to rack and ruin every day. dickens always enjoyed ridiculing the people who long for the good old times and approve of the good old customs. there are some who even yet deplore the fact that children are not repressed and coerced as they used to be, and who prophesy untold evils unless the good old customs are re-established. they long for the recurrence of the days when "lickin' and larnin' went hand in hand," when "wallop the boy, develop the man" was the popular motto, expressive of the general faith. dickens pictured them in john willet and this "country gentleman of the true school." he also criticised them severely in the chimes. the depressing influence of another form of coercion is shown in our mutual friend by the effect of mr. podsnap's character on his daughter georgiana. mr. podsnap was one of the absolutely positive people who know everything about everything, who never allow other people to express opinions without contradicting them, and who take every possible opportunity of expressing their own opinions in a loud, emphatic, dogmatic manner. of course, no woman should hold opinions, according to mr. podsnap's way of thinking, although mrs. podsnap, in her own way, did credit to her more podsnappery master. it was therefore not to be dreamt of for a moment that a "young person" like their daughter georgiana could have any views of her own regarding life or any of its conditions, past, present, or future. she was a "young person" to be protected, and kept in the background, and guarded from evil, and sheltered, so that she should not even hear of anything improper, and shielded from temptation to do wrong, or to do anything, indeed, right or wrong. her father was rich; why should she wish to do anything but listen to him, and go away when he told her to do so, if he wished to speak of subjects that he deemed it unwise to let a "young person" hear discussed? there was a miss podsnap. and this young rocking-horse was being trained in her mother's art of prancing in a stately manner without ever getting on. but the high parental action was not yet imparted to her, and in truth she was but an undersized damsel, with high shoulders, low spirits, chilled elbows, and a rasped surface of nose, who seemed to take occasional frosty peeps out of childhood into womanhood, and to shrink back again, overcome by her mother's headdress and her father from head to foot--crushed by the mere dead weight of podsnappery. georgiana explained the reason of her shyness to mrs. lammle, for, strange as it may seem, considering her heredity, georgiana was shy. podsnappery as environment is always much stronger than podsnappery as heredity. "what i mean is," pursued georgiana, "that ma being so endowed with awfulness, and pa being so endowed with awfulness, and there being so much awfulness everywhere--i mean, at least, everywhere where i am--perhaps it makes me who am so deficient in awfulness, and frightened at it--i say it very badly--i don't know whether you can understand what i mean?" thoughtful people need no explanation regarding the influence of podsnappery on children. the time will come when in normal schools character analysis will be the supreme qualification of those who are to decide who may and who may not teach. when that time comes, as come it must, no podsnaps will be allowed to teach. it was no wonder that-- whenever georgiana could escape from the thraldom of podsnappery; could throw off the bedclothes of the custard-coloured phaeton, and get up; could shrink out of the range of her mother's rocking, and (so to speak) rescue her poor little frosty toes from being rocked over; she repaired to her friend, mrs. alfred lammle. dickens fired another thunderbolt, in our mutual friend, to set the world thinking about its method of teaching children, by his brief description of pleasant riderhood, the daughter of rogue riderhood. show her a christening, and she saw a little heathen personage having a quite superfluous name bestowed upon it, inasmuch as it would be commonly addressed by some abusive epithet; which little personage was not in the least wanted by anybody, and would be shoved and banged out of everybody's way, until it should grow big enough to shove and bang. show her a live father, and she saw but a duplicate of her own father, who from her infancy had been taken with fits and starts of discharging his duty to her, which duty was always incorporated in the form of a fist or a leather strap, and being discharged hurt her. in little dorrit dickens gives one of his most striking verbal descriptions of the effects of coercion in arthur clennam's account of his own early training. he said to mr. meagles, when the kind old gentleman spoke of working with a will: "i have no will. that is to say," he coloured a little, "next to none that i can put in action now. trained by main force; broken, not bent; heavily ironed with an object on which i was never consulted and which was never mine; shipped away to the other end of the world before i was of age, and exiled there until my father's death there, a year ago; always grinding in a mill i always hated; what is to be expected from me in middle life? will, purpose, hope? all those lights were extinguished before i could sound the words." "light 'em up again!" said mr. meagles. "ah! easily said. i am the son, mr. meagles, of a hard father and mother. i am the only child of parents who weighed, measured, and priced everything; for whom what could not be weighed, measured, and priced had no existence. strict people, as the phrase is, professors of a stern religion, their very religion was a gloomy sacrifice of tastes and sympathies that were never their own, offered up as a part of a bargain for the security of their possessions. austere faces, inexorable discipline, penance in this world and terror in the next--nothing graceful or gentle anywhere, and the void in my cowed heart everywhere--this was my childhood, if i may so misuse the word as to apply it to such a beginning of life." when he returned to the presence of his mother, after an absence of many years in china, "the old influence of her presence, and her stern, strong voice, so gathered about her son that he felt conscious of a renewal of the timid chill and reserve of his childhood." it was a terrible indictment of all coercive, child-quelling, will-breaking training that arthur made when he said to his stern mother: "i can not say that i have been able to conform myself, in heart and spirit, to your rules; i can not say that i believe my forty years have been profitable or pleasant to myself, or any one; but i have habitually submitted, and i only ask you to remember it." speaking of her own training, mrs. clennam said: "mine were days of wholesome repression, punishment, and fear," and she frankly avowed her deliberate purpose of "bringing arthur up in fear and trembling." those were the dreadful ideals that dickens aimed to destroy. repression, punishment, fear, and trembling are no longer the dominant ideals of the christian world regarding child training. they are rapidly giving way to the new and true gospel of stimulation, happiness, freedom, and creative self-activity. great expectations was a valuable contribution to the literature of child training. mrs. gargery was a type of repressive, coercive, unsympathetic women, who regard children as necessarily nuisances, and who are continually thankful for the fact that by the free use of "the tickler" they may be subdued and kept in a state of bearable subjection. mrs. gargery had no children of her own, but she had a little brother, pip, whom she "brought up by hand." her husband, joe gargery, was an honest, affectionate, sympathetic man, who pitied poor pip and tried to comfort him when his wife was not present. the dear old fellow said to pip one evening, as they sat by the fire and he beat time to his kindly thoughts with the poker: "your sister is given to government." "given to government, joe?" i was startled, for i had some shadowy idea (and i am afraid i must add hope) that joe had divorced her in favour of the lords of the admiralty, or treasury. "given to government," said joe. "which i meantersay the government of you and myself." "oh!" "and she ain't over partial to having scholars on the premises," joe continued, "and in particular would not be over partial to my being a scholar, for fear as i might rise. like a sort of rebel, don't you see?" i was going to retort with an inquiry, and had got as far as "why----" when joe stopped me. "stay a bit. i know what you're a-going to say, pip? stay a bit! i don't deny that your sister comes the mo-gul over us, now and again. i don't deny that she do throw us back-falls, and that she do drop down upon us heavy. at such times as when your sister is on the ram-page, pip," joe sunk his voice to a whisper and glanced at the door, "candour compels fur to admit that she is a buster.... "i wish it was only me that got put out, pip; i wish there warn't no tickler for you, old chap; i wish i could take it all on myself; but this is the up-and-down-and-straight on it, pip, and i hope you'll overlook shortcomings." poor joe! his father had been a blacksmith, but he took to drink, and, as joe said, "hammered at me with a wigour only to be equalled by the wigour with which he didn't hammer at his anwil." dickens gives an illustration of mrs. gargery's training which reveals not only her coercive and unsympathetic tendencies, but points to other errors in training children that are yet too common. pip was warming himself before going to bed one night, when a cannon sounded from the hulks, or prison ships, near the gargery home. "ah!" said joe; "there's another conwict off." "what does that mean?" said i. mrs. joe, who always took explanations upon herself, said snappishly: "escaped. escaped." administering the definition like medicine. "there was a conwict off last night," said joe, aloud, "after sunset gun. and they fired warning of him. and now it appears they're firing warning of another." "who's firing?" said i. "drat that boy," interposed my sister, frowning at me over her work; "what a questioner he is! ask no questions and you'll be told no lies." it was not very polite to herself, i thought, to imply that i should be told lies by her, even if i did ask questions. but she never was polite, unless there was company. "mrs. joe," said i, as a last resort, "i should like to know--if you wouldn't much mind--where the firing comes from?" "lord bless the boy!" exclaimed my sister, as if she didn't quite mean that, but rather the contrary. "from the hulks!" "and please, what's hulks?" said i. "that's the way with this boy!" exclaimed my sister, pointing me out with her needle and thread, and shaking her head at me. "answer him one question, and he'll ask you a dozen directly. hulks are prison ships, right 'cross th' country." "i wonder who's put into prison ships, and why they're put there?" said i, in a general way, and with quiet desperation. it was too much for mrs. joe, who immediately rose. "i tell you what, young fellow," said she, "i didn't bring you up by hand to badger people's lives out. it would be blame to me, and not praise, if i had. people are put in the hulks because they murder, and because they rob, and forge, and do all sorts of bad; and they always begin by asking questions. now, you get along to bed!" i was never allowed a candle to light me to bed, and, as i went upstairs in the dark, with my head tingling--from mrs. joe's thimble having played the tambourine upon it, to accompany her last words--i felt fearfully sensible of the great convenience that the hulks were handy for me. i was clearly on my way there. pip said later: "i suppose myself to be better acquainted than any living authority with the ridgy effect of a wedding ring passing unsympathetically over the human countenance." my sister's bringing up had made me sensitive. in the little world in which children have their existence, whosoever brings them up, there is nothing so finely perceived and so finely felt as injustice. it may be only small injustice that the child can be exposed to; but the child is small, and its world is small, and its rocking-horse stands as many hands high, according to scale, as a big-boned irish hunter. within myself, i had sustained, from my babyhood, a perpetual conflict with injustice. i had known, from the time when i could speak, that my sister, in her capricious and violent coercion, was unjust to me. i had cherished a profound conviction that her bringing me up by the hand gave her no right to bring me up by jerks. through all my punishments, disgraces, fasts and vigils, and other penitential performances, i had nursed this assurance; and to my communing so much with it, in a solitary and unprotected way, i in great part refer the fact that i was morally timid and very sensitive. mrs. gargery's training was bad because she refused to answer the boy's questions, or abused him for asking them; and when she did condescend to answer she answered in a snappy, unsympathetic way. the cruelty of first scolding a child, then trying to terrify him from asking questions by telling him that "robbers, murderers, and all kinds of criminals began their downward career by asking questions," then rapping him on the head, and finally sending him to bed without a light, is admirably described. all these practices are terribly unjust to children. parents and teachers, in the picture of mrs. gargery, are warned against scolding, against threatening, against falsehood and misrepresentation in order to reduce children to submission, against corporal punishment with "the tickler," against the more dastardly and more exasperating corporal punishment by snapping and rapping the head, and against sending children to bed in the dark. he was especially careful to make the retiring hour in his own home a period of joyousness and freedom from all fear. he made the crime of sending children to bed without light and without sympathy one of the practices of that model of bad training--mrs. pipchin; and one of the most dreaded of little oliver twist's experiences was to be sent to sleep among the coffins in the dark at sowerberry's. the hour of retiring is the special time when children most need the affectionate spirit of motherhood, and wise mothers try to use this sacred hour to form their closest unity with the hearts of the little ones, and to sow in their young lives the apperceptive seeds of sweetness, and joy, and faith. the wrong of making children sensitive, and then blaming them for being sensitive, is admirably shown in pip's training. the revelation of the child's consciousness of the sense of injustice in the treatment of those who train it is worthy of most careful study and thought by parents and teachers. there can be no doubt that infants have a clear sense of wrongs inflicted on them, even before they can speak. the comparison of the child's rocking-horse with the big-boned irish hunter reveals one of the most essential lessons for adulthood: that what may appear trifling to an adult may mean much to a child. kind but thoughtless adulthood is often most grievously unjust to childhood, because it fails to consider how things appear to the child. however kind and good such adults are, they are utterly unsympathetic with the child. many people are very considerate for childhood who are very unsympathetic with children. consideration can never take the place of sympathy. an ounce of true sympathy is worth a ton of consideration to a child. adulthood has measured a child's corn in the bushel of adulthood. mr. gradgrind, for instance, was a good man, and he meant to be kind and helpful to his children. he was most considerate for them, and spared no money to promote their welfare and happiness. but he did it in accordance with the tastes and opinions of adulthood, and totally ignored the fact that children have opinions and tastes, and he ruined the children whom he most loved. "the rocking-horse and the big-boned irish hunter" suggest rich mines of child psychology. the pernicious habit of so many adults who fill the imaginations of children with bogies and terrors of an abnormal kind in order to keep them in the path of rectitude by falsehood, is exposed in mrs. gargery's method of stopping pip's questions by telling him that asking questions was the first step in a career of crime. this habit leads parents insensibly into a most dishonest attitude toward their children. it leads, too, in due time, to a lack of reverence for adulthood. falseness is certain to lead to the disrespect it deserves. parents who make untruthfulness a basis for terror should not be surprised at the irreverence or the scepticism of their children. in the schoolboy's story, old cheeseman was brought to school by a woman who was always taking snuff and shaking him. there is a great deal of pedagogical thought in dombey and son. at the period of its issue ( - ) dickens appears to have devoted more attention to the study of wrong methods of teaching than at any other time, so in dr. blimber, cornelia blimber, and mr. feeder he gave his best illustrations of what in his opinion should be condemned in the popular methods of teaching. but while this was evidently his chief educational purpose in writing the book, he gave a good deal of attention to wrong methods of training, especially to the most awful doctrine of the ages--that children must be coerced, and repressed, and checked, and subdued. he evidently accepted as his supreme duty the responsibility for securing a free childhood for children. mrs. pipchin is an admirable delineation of the worst features of what was regarded as respectable child training. her training is treated at length in chapter xi. it is sufficient here to deal with her coerciveness, and recall the epithet "child-queller" which dickens applied to her. no more expressive term was ever used to describe the wickedness of the coercionists. it means more than most volumes. it has new meaning every day as our reverence for the divinity in the child grows stronger, and the absolute need of the development of his selfhood by his own self-activity becomes clearer. it reveals a perfect charnel house full of dwarfed souls and blighted selfhood, and weak characters that should have been strong, and false characters that should have been true, and wailings that should have been music, and tears that should have been laughter, and darkness that should have been light, and wickedness that should have been a blessing. the one awful word "child-queller" means all of evil that can result from daring to stand between the child and god in our self-satisfied ignorance to check the free, natural output of its selfhood which god meant to be wrought out with increasing power throughout its life. our work is to change the direction of the outflowing selfhood when it is wrong, to direct it to new and better interest centres, but never to stop it or turn it back upon itself. there are thousands of child-quellers teaching still. would that they could see truly the dwarfed souls they have blighted, and the ghosts of the selfhood they have sacrificed on the altar of what they call discipline! the term child-queller was the creation of genius. mrs. pipchin disdained the idea of reasoning with children. "hoity-toity!" exclaimed mrs. pipchin, shaking out her black bombazine skirts, and plucking up all the ogress within her. "if she don't like it, mr. dombey, she must be taught to lump it." she would "shake her head and frown down a legion of children," and "the wild ones went home tame enough after sojourning for a few months beneath her hospitable roof." she tamed them by robbing them of their power, as froebel's boy tamed flies by tearing off their wings and legs, and then saying, "see how tame they are." teachers used to boast about their ability to tame children, when their ability really meant the power to destroy the tendency to put forth effort, to substitute negativeness for positiveness. susan nipper, in her usual graphic style, expressed her views regarding the coercive practices of mrs. pipchin and the blimbers. "goodness knows," exclaimed miss nipper, "there's a-many we could spare instead, if numbers is a object; mrs. pipchin as a overseer would come cheap at her weight in gold, and if a knowledge of black slavery should be required, them blimbers is the very people for the sitiwation." one of mrs. pipchin's favourite methods of coercing, or taming, or child-quelling was to send children to bed. "the best thing you can do is to take off your things and go to bed this minute." this was the sagacious woman's remedy for all complaints, particularly lowness of spirits and inability to sleep; for which offence many young victims in the days of the brighton castle had been committed to bed at ten o'clock in the morning. another assault on coercion was made in dombey and son in the brief description of the grinders' school. biler's life had been rendered weary by the costume of the charitable grinders. the youth of the streets could not endure it. no young vagabond could be brought to bear its contemplation for a moment without throwing himself upon the unoffending wearer and doing him a mischief. his social existence had been more like that of an early christian than an innocent child of the nineteenth century. he had been stoned in the streets. he had been overthrown into gutters; bespattered with mud; violently flattened against posts. entire strangers to his person had lifted his yellow cap off his head and cast it to the winds. his legs had not only undergone verbal criticism and revilings, but had been handled and pinched. that very morning he had received a perfectly unsolicited black eye on his way to the grinders' establishment, and had been punished for it by the master: a superannuated old grinder of savage disposition, who had been appointed schoolmaster because he didn't know anything and wasn't fit for anything, and for whose cruel cane all chubby little boys had a perfect fascination. poor biler went wrong, and when he was taken to task for it by mr. carker he gave his theory to account for the fact that he had not done better at school. "you're a nice young gentleman!" said mr. carker, shaking his head at him. "there's hemp-seed sown for _you_, my fine fellow!" "i'm sure, sir," returned the wretched biler, blubbering again, and again having recourse to his coat cuff: "i shouldn't care, sometimes, if it was growed too. my misfortunes all began in wagging, sir, but what could i do, exceptin' wag?" "excepting what?" said mr. carker. "wag, sir. wagging from school." "do you mean pretending to go there, and not going?" said mr. carker. "yes, sir, that's wagging, sir," returned the quondam grinder, much affected. "i was chivied through the streets, sir, when i went there, and pounded when i got there. so i wagged and hid myself, and that began it." when mr. dombey, by whose act of superior grace biler had been sent to the charitable grinders' school, upbraided the boy's father for his failure to turn out well, the simple father said that he hoped his son, the quondam grinder, huffed and cuffed, and flogged and badged, and taught, as parrots are, by a brute jobbed into his place of schoolmaster with as much fitness for it as a hound, might not have been educated on quite a right plan. sagacious teachers and parents often blame and punish children for being what they made them. still another illustration of the cruel coercion practised on children is found in dombey and son, in the training of alice marwood. "there was a child called alice marwood," said the daughter, with a laugh, and looking down at herself in terrible derision of herself, "born among poverty and neglect, and nursed in it. nobody taught her, nobody stepped forward to help her, nobody cared for her." "nobody!" echoed the mother, pointing to herself, and striking her breast. "the only care she knew," returned the daughter, "was to be beaten, and stinted, and abused sometimes; and she might have done better without that." the picture of george silverman's early life is one of the most touching of all the appeals of dickens on behalf of childhood. he lived in a cellar, and when he was removed at length he knew only the sensations of "cold, hunger, thirst, and the pain of being beaten." the poor child used to speculate on his mother's feet having a good or ill temper as she descended the stairs to their cellar home, and he watched her knees, her waist, her face, as they came into view, to learn whether he was likely to be abused or not. many mothers realized their own cruelty by reading such descriptions of cruelty toward little children. the whole system of training of mr. gradgrind and his teacher, mr. m'choakumchild (the latter name contains volumes of coercion) was a scientific system of coerciveness and restraint, planned and carried out by a good man misguided by false ideas about child training and character building. coercion was only one of several bad elements in his system, but he was terribly coercive. his children were lavishly supplied with almost everything they did not care for, and robbed of everything they should naturally be interested in. the results were, as might be expected, disastrous. his son tom became a monster of selfishness, sensuality, and criminality. dickens uses the name "whelp" to describe him, and, in a satirical manner, accounts for his meanness and weaknesses in the following summary: it was very remarkable that a young gentleman who had been brought up under one continuous system of unnatural restraint should be a hypocrite; but it was certainly the case with tom. it was very strange that a young gentleman who had never been left to his own guidance for five consecutive minutes should be incapable at last of governing himself; but so it was with tom. it was altogether unaccountable that a young gentleman whose imagination had been strangled in his cradle should be still inconvenienced by its ghost in the form of grovelling sensualities; but such a monster, beyond all doubt, was tom. when mr. gradgrind became convinced that he had been altogether wrong in his educational ideals and was endeavouring to explain the matter to mr. bounderby, that gentleman gave expression to the views of many people of his time. fortunately there are few bounderbys now, but there are some even yet. "well, well!" returned mr. gradgrind, with a patient, even a submissive air. and he sat for a little while pondering. "bounderby, i see reason to doubt whether we have ever quite understood louisa." "what do you mean by we?" "let me say, i, then," he returned, in answer to the coarsely blurted question; "i doubt whether i have understood louisa. i doubt whether i have been quite right in the manner of her education." "there you hit it," returned bounderby. "there i agree with you. you have found it out at last, have you? education! i'll tell you what education is--to be tumbled out of doors, neck and crop, and put upon the shortest allowance of everything except blows. that's what _i_ call education." in his last book--edwin drood--dickens pictured mr. honeythunder as a type of coercive philanthropists, whom he regarded as intolerable as well as intolerant nuisances--people who would use force to compel everybody to think and act as they are told to think and act by the honeythunders. in speaking of mr. honeythunder and his class of philanthropists, rev. canon crisparkle said: it is a most extraordinary thing that these philanthropists are so given to seizing their fellow-creatures by the scruff of the neck, and (as one may say) bumping them into the paths of peace. neville landless described his training to canon crisparkle in telling words: "and to finish with, sir: i have been brought up among abject and servile dependents of an inferior race, and i may easily have contracted some affinity with them. sometimes i don't know but that it may be a drop of what is tigerish in their blood." there is a profound philosophy of one phase of the evils of coercion in this statement. coercion does not always destroy power by blighting it. often the power that was intended to bless turns to poison when it is repressed, and makes men hypocritical and tigerish. it is true, too, that a child who is brought up with the idea of dominating a servile class, or even servile individuals, can never have a true conception of his own freedom. dickens was not satisfied with his numerous and sustained attacks on the more violent forms of coercion and repression. he began in edwin drood to draw a picture of mrs. crisparkle, the mother of the canon, to show that the placid firmness of her strong will had a baleful influence on character. her character was not completed, but the outlines given are most suggestive. what could surpass the absolute indifference she showed to the slightest consideration for the individuality or opinions of other people when she spoke of her wards, who were grown up, it should be remembered, to young manhood and womanhood. "i have spoken with my two wards, neville and helena landless, on the subject of their defective education, and they give in to the plan proposed; as i should have taken good care they did, whether they liked it or not." how exquisitely he reveals the character of the eminently dogmatic, though quiet, christian lady by her remarking so definitely to her son, the canon: "i have no objection to discuss it, sept. i trust, my dear, i am always open to discussion." there was a vibration in the old lady's cap, as though she internally added, "and i should like to see the discussion that would change _my_ mind!" dickens meant to show that whether the coercion partook of the nature of that exercised by squeers or mrs. crisparkle, it resulted in forcing those compelled to submit to it to "give in," and that all children who are regularly made to "give in" acquire the habit of "giving in," and eventually become "give-iners" and hypocrites until circumstances make them rebels and anarchists. so he condemned every form of coercion, and taught the doctrine of true freedom for the child as a necessary element in his best development. when this doctrine is fully understood men will soon become truly free. all true education has been a movement toward freedom. all true national advancement has been toward more perfect freedom. the ideal of national, constitutional liberty has changed in harmony with the educational revelations of the broadening conception of freedom; and more progressive conceptions of national liberty have rendered it necessary for the educators to reveal truer, freer methods of training children in harmony with the higher national organization. when the ideal of national organization was the divine right of kings to rule their subjects by absolute authority, the system of national organization required passive obedience on the part of the subject. to secure this coercive discipline the prompt submission of the child to the immediate authority over him was the ideal process. passive submission was required as the full duty of the citizen, and passive obedience was the desired product of the school. but the new ideal of government is rule by the people through their representatives, and national citizenship means the intelligent co-operation of independent individuals; so the true educational ideal is a free selfhood, and a free selfhood in maturity demands a free selfhood in childhood. to secure this it is essential that schools shall become "free republics of childhood." "but a free selfhood in childhood must lead to anarchy," say those who cling to the coercive ideal. anarchy never springs from freedom. anarchy is the foul son of coercion. true freedom does not include liberty to do wrong. the "perfect law of liberty" is the only basis for perfect happiness, because it is not freedom beyond law, but freedom within law, freedom because of law. law should never be coercive to the child. when it becomes so the law is wrong and it makes the child wrong, and produces the apperceptive centres of anarchy in feeling and thought out of the very elements that should have produced joyous co-operation. law should give the child consciousness of power, and not of restraint. undirected selfhood, uncontrolled selfhood, is not true freedom. the exercise of power without limitations leads to confusion, indecision, and anarchy in everything except its spirit of rebellion. the guidance and control of adulthood and the limitations of law are necessary to the accomplishment of the best results in the immediate product of effort put forth by the child, in the effect on his character, and in the development of a true consciousness of freedom in his life. the terrible blunder of the past in child training has been to make law coercive instead of directive. law has been prohibitive, not stimulative. law has defined barriers to prevent effort, instead of outlining the direction effort should take. the limitations of law have been used to define the course the child should not take; they should have defined the course he ought to take, and within the range of which course he should use his selfhood in the freest possible way. law has said "thou shalt not" when it should have said "thou shalt"; it has said "don't" when it should have said "do"; it has said "quit" when it should have said "go on"; it has said "be still" when it should have said "work"; it has stood in the way to check when it should have moved on to lead to victory and progress along the most direct lines; it has given a consciousness of weakness instead of a consciousness of power; it has developed moroseness instead of joyousness, self-depreciation instead of self-reverence; and children for these reasons have been led to dislike law, and the apperceptive centres of anarchy have been laid by a coercive instead of a stimulative use of law. by false ideals of coercive law adulthood has been made repressive instead of suggestive, depressive instead of helpful, dogmatic instead of reasonable, tyrannical instead of free, "child-quellers" instead of sympathetic friends of childhood, executors of penalties instead of wise guides, agents to keep children under instead of helping them up; and so children have learned to dislike school, and work, and teachers, and often home and parents. and the children have not been to blame for their dislike of law and their distrust of adulthood. and the children themselves by coercion have been made don'ters instead of doers, quitters instead of workers, give-iners instead of persevering winners, yielders to opposition instead of achievers of victory, negative instead of positive, apathetic instead of energetic, passive instead of active, imitative instead of original, followers instead of leaders, dependent instead of independent, servile instead of free, conscious of weakness instead of power, defect shunners instead of triumphant creative representatives of the god in whose image man was created. every agency that robs a child of his originality and freedom and prevents the spontaneous output of his creative self-activity destroys the image of god in him. man is most like god when he is freely working out the plans of his own creative selfhood for good purposes. coercion has been the greatest destroyer of the image of god in the child, and anarchy is the product of the perversion of the very powers that should have made man hopefully constructive. the seeds of anarchy are sown in the child's life, when his selfhood is blighted and checked. the fountain that finds free outlet for its waters forms a pure stream that remains always a blessing, but the fountain that is obstructed forms a noisome marsh, wasting the good land it should have watered and destroying the plant life it should have nourished. the great salt seas and lakes and marshes of the world have been formed by the checking of beautiful fresh-water streams and rivers and the prevention of their outflow to the ocean they should have reached. so when the outflow of the soul of the child is checked the powers that should have ennobled his own life and enriched the lives of others turn to evil instead of good, and make a dangerous instead of a helpful character. so far as coercion can influence selfhood it destroys its power for good and makes it a menace to civilization, instead of a beneficent agency in the accomplishment of high purposes. the reason that coercion does not more effectively blight and dwarf the child is that childhood is not under the direct influence of adulthood all the time. the blessed hours of freedom in play and work have saved the race. the absurd idea that "anarchy will result from giving true freedom to the child" persists in the minds of so many people, partly through the strength of the race conception of the need of coercion, from which we have not yet been able fully to free ourselves; partly from a terrible misconception regarding the true function of law; partly through gross ignorance of the child and lack of reverence for him; and partly from failure to understand our own higher powers for guiding the child properly, or the vital relationships of adulthood to childhood. the child should recognise law as a beneficent guide in the accomplishment of his own plans. in froebel's wonderful kindergarten system the child is always guided by law, but he is always perfectly free to work out his own designs, and in doing so he is aided by law, not kept back or down by law. law is, to the truly trained child, a revealer of right outlets for power, and the supreme duties of adulthood in training childhood are to change the centre of its interest when from lack of wisdom its interest centre is wrong, and to reveal to it in logical sequence the laws of nature, of beauty, of harmony, and of life. with such training life and law will always be in harmony, and the seeds of anarchy will find no soil in human hearts or minds in which to take root. dickens uses the french revolution, in a tale of two cities, to show that anarchy results from coercion, from the unreasoning subordination of a lower to a higher or ruling class. against the reasoning of wisdom the marquis said: "repression is the only lasting philosophy. the dark deference of fear and slavery, my friend, will keep the dogs obedient to the whip as long as this roof shuts out the sky." the roof came off one wild night--burned off by an infuriated mob of the dogs who had been repressed and whipped into anarchy. yet the aristocracy of france claimed, as coercionist educators claim, that the anarchy was the result of insufficient coercion, instead of the natural harvest of the seed they had sown. it was too much the way of monseigneur under his reverses as a refugee, and it was much too much the way of native british orthodoxy, to talk of this terrible revolution as if it were the one only harvest ever known under the skies that had not been sown--as if nothing had ever been done that had led to it--as if the observers of the wretched millions in france, and of the misused and perverted resources that should have made them prosperous, had not seen it inevitably coming, years before, and had not in plain words recorded what they saw. when the revolution was at its fearful height, and the repressed dogs were having their wild carnival of revenge, dickens says: along the paris streets the death-carts rumble, hollow and harsh. six tumbrels carry the day's wine to la guillotine. all the devouring and insatiate monsters imagined since imagination could record itself, are fused in the one realization, guillotine. and yet there is not in france, with its rich variety of soil and climate, a blade, a leaf, a root, a sprig, a peppercorn, which will grow to maturity under conditions more certain than those that have produced this horror. crush humanity out of shape once more, under similar hammers, and it will twist itself into the same tortured forms. sow the same seed of rapacious license and oppression over again, and it will surely yield the same fruit according to its kind. six tumbrels roll along the streets. change these back again to what they were, thou powerful enchanter, time, and they shall be seen to be the carriages of absolute monarchs, the equipages of feudal nobles, the toilets of flaring jezebels, the churches that are not my father's house but dens of thieves, and huts of millions of starving peasants! this is the most profound and most ably written exposition of the philosophy of anarchy. "but by coercion i can make the child do right, and in this way i can form habits of doing right that will control the child when he grows up." the habit that is really formed by coercion is the habit of submission, of passive yielding to authority, of subordination, and, in the last analysis, this means the degradation and enslavement of the soul. two habits are thus wrought into the child's nature by coercion: the habit of doing things because ordered to do them, which is slavery; and the habit of doing things he does not like or wish to do, which is the basis of hypocrisy. the meanest products that can be made from beings created in god's image are slaves and hypocrites. one of the remarkable facts regarding coercionists is that they blame god for creating the monstrosities they have themselves produced by false methods of training. "we should break the child's will, if it is wrong, to set it right, just as we should break a crooked leg to make it straight." this is a statement that betrays a lack of modern surgical knowledge, and a carelessness of psychological thought. modern treatment for the cure of deformity of body avoids harsh treatment whenever it is possible to do so. it has been found that many deformities of body may be cured by proper exercise of the undeveloped part or parts, and with wider knowledge of nature's laws will come a wiser use of the law of self-transformation, and a smaller and smaller use of the severer methods of treatment. but no good child psychologist now doubts that a child's will possesses the power of self-development and self-adjustment under proper guidance, nor should any one be ignorant of the fact that all true will development comes from within outward. it is only necessary that man should study the child more thoroughly, and learn how to change his interest centres from wrong to right, and how to surround him with an environment suitable to his progressive stages of development, in order to keep his own will in operation along productive lines of self-reformation and self-regulation by creative self-activity. thus the will can be set to work truly with undiminished power. when a will is broken, however, it can never regain its full power; the breaking process blights it forever. more rational processes retain its tendency to act and its energy of action while changing the purpose and direction of its action. one of the interesting anomalies of our language is the marvellous fact that the term "self-willed" should ever have been considered a term of reproach or a description of a defect in character. the child with strongest self-will may become the greatest champion for righteousness if properly trained. he needs a wise and sympathetic trainer, who will be reverently grateful for his strong self-will, and whose reverence will prevent him from doing anything that would weaken the strength or selfhood of the will. the attempt to break his will may make him a destroying force instead of a leader for truth and progress. if a strangled will ever regains vitality it rarely acts truly. there is perhaps no other relic of the theories of barbaric ignorance concerning child training still left that is so baneful and so illogical as the theory that justifies will breaking. "but god punishes the child. the child who touches the fire gets burned, and therefore it is right that coercive punishment should be used by adulthood in dealing with the child." the punishments referred to are the revelation of natural laws. there is no personal element of the punishing agency manifest to the child. god does not appear to the child as a punisher, and it is an astounding error in training to reveal such a consciousness of god to the child. responsibility for the consequences of their acts is a law of which all children approve. this appeals to their sense of justice, and there is no other sense to which we can appeal with success so universally in children as the sense of justice. "squareness" is the highest quality named in the lexicon of childhood. a boy would rather be deemed "square" than receive praise for any other characteristic or accomplishment. so he recognises the justice of being held accountable for the directly resulting consequences of his acts quite as readily as he accepts the fact, without blaming any one else, that he will be burned if he touches fire. there is no element of coercion in the law of consequences. it is a just and universal law in harmony with his moral responsibility; therefore he will respect it. coercion is directly contrary to the fundamental laws of his happiness and his true growth, and therefore he naturally and properly dislikes and disapproves of it, and of the individual who outrages justice by using it. the wonderful stories of dickens set the world thinking by first arousing the strongest feelings of sympathy for the child and then developing sentiment and thought against every form of coercion, more especially coercion by corporal punishment. the awakening has been most satisfactory in its results. when dickens began his writing against corporal punishment the rod was the almost universal remedy for all defects in animals or human beings. whatever the defect, the superior in the eyes of the law used the one agency to overcome it. mothers used the rod to subdue their children. husbands used the rod to keep their children and wives in order. men whipped their horses with impunity, as they did their children or wives. they owned them, and their right to punish them as they chose was unquestioned. men trained animals to perform tricks in menageries by beating them, and they trained dancing, or performing, or learning girls and boys quite as inhumanly. ownership or subordination justified unspeakable cruelty. the weakness of the child, the helplessness of the animal, appealed to the hardness of human nature, and not to its chivalry or sympathy. even the poor feeble-minded and idiotic, who were confined in asylums, were terribly flogged by the most advanced philanthropists of the highest christian civilization. they were weak. it was the duty of the authorities to control them, and "stripes and bruises" were regarded as the only true agencies for securing obedience. the rod was the highest controlling and directing force in the world. what a change has been wrought! horses and children and wives are protected from brutal treatment now by law. the insane are not flogged to make them sane in any well-conducted institutions. more than half the children in the schools of the civilized world are free from the terror and degradation of corporal punishment by law, or by the higher consciousness of more intelligent teachers. parenthood everywhere is studying the child and trying to become conscious of its own higher powers of guiding character so that it may be able to train the children in truer and more productive and less dangerous ways than formerly. and charles dickens was the great apostle of these grand reforms. we shudder now as we read of the outrages practised on helpless children and on the insane half a century ago not by the heathen, but by earnest, conscientious christians. the men who live half a century hence will shudder when they read that in some schools at the close of the nineteenth century children who were partially or temporarily insane from hereditary taint, or imperfect nutrition, or cruel treatment, or anger, or from some other removable or remediable cause were whipped, and that men, some of whom occupied respectable positions, advocated the breaking of children's wills! if these "will-breaking" educators were in charge of asylums they would resurrect the straitjacket and the whipping post for the insane. the few who advocate corporal punishment openly claim that they have the authority of the bible for their faith in the rod. they should remember that good men have stood with bibles in their hands misrepresenting god and attempting to stop the progress of every great movement toward freedom and reform. galileo was imprisoned by the church because he taught that the earth turns round. men had no difficulty in showing that the bible approved of slavery, or that it prohibited woman from the exercise of the right or the performance of the duties of responsible individuality. so men still quote solomon to show that corporal punishment is approved by god, though such a conclusion would be rejected by the highest interpreters. "whipping makes strong characters." no, it makes hard characters, and hardness is but one element of strength, and not the best element of strength. the strength of the english character has not been developed, as is claimed by some, by the whipping done in english schools and homes. it comes partly by race heredity from the sturdiness of the saxon and norman founders of the race, partly from the general practice of working hard from youth up, and largely from the fact that the english playgrounds are so universally used, and are the scenes of the severest struggles for supremacy in skill and power that are witnessed in any part of the world. the winning half inch or half length, the valorous struggle for leadership on track or river--these are the things that have preserved and developed english force and bravery, in spite of the fact that england in her schools and homes has done fully her share of whipping. a boy or girl who spends as much time in free strong play as the english boy, works out the effects of a great many evils from his or her life. when men see the futility of dependence on flogging for developing energetic strength of character they will study the influence of play to the great advantage of racial vigour, and courage, and moral energy. corporal punishment, like all other forms of coercion, robs the child of joyousness, and joyousness is one of the most essential elements in the true growth of a child. corporal punishment affects the nervous systems of children injuriously, and when applied to certain parts of the body it stimulates prematurely the action of the sexual nature, and leads to one of the worst forms of depravity. corporal punishment is ineffective as a disciplinary agency. in one american city during the generation after dickens began his great crusade against corporal punishment it was the practice to whip with a rawhide all children who came late, but the lateness steadily increased in defiance of the rawhide. it was reduced to less than one one-hundredth part of its former proportion when whipping for lateness was entirely abolished and more rational means adopted. the order and co-operation of pupils is best in those schools in which no corporal punishment is used. if in any school only one teacher relies on the rod as a stimulator to work and a restrainer of evil, her class is sure to be the most disorderly, the least co-operative, and the most defective in original power in the school. as the children throughout the school come from the same homes, play with the same companions, attend the same churches, and are subject to the same general influences, it is perfectly clear that the whipping is the distinctive feature of character training that deforms the children. they will become normal, reasonable children when they reach the next room. this illustration assumes that all the teachers are possessed of good natural ability to direct the child properly. the one who uses corporal punishment fails because she has been dwarfed by her faith in corporal punishment. she has believed in it so fully that she has not sought to understand higher and better means. she has studied neither the child nor her own powers of child guidance. dickens taught the inefficiency of coercion to accomplish what men hoped to accomplish by it in his criticism of the revolting use of capital punishment in former times. in a tale of two cities he says: accordingly, the forger was put to death; the utterer of a bad note was put to death; the unlawful opener of a letter was put to death; the purloiner of forty shillings and sixpence was put to death; the holder of a horse at tellson's door, who made off with it, was put to death; the coiner of a bad shilling was put to death; the sounders of three fourths of the notes in the whole gamut of crime were put to death. not that it did the least good in the way of prevention--it might always have been worth remarking that the fact was _exactly the reverse_. the great prophets of modern education--pestalozzi, froebel, barnard, and mann--strongly condemned corporal punishment. these were men of clear insight and correct judgment. the opinion of one such man is worth more than the views of ten thousand ordinary men in regard to the subject of their special study. they were prophet souls who saw the higher truth toward which the race had been slowly growing, and revealed it. their revelations have been appreciated and adopted more and more fully as they have been understood more and more clearly. in the case of corporal punishment and all forms of coercion dickens has been the john the baptist and the paul of the revelation of the gospel of sympathy for the child. not one blow in a thousand is given to a child now as compared with the time of dickens's childhood. corporal punishment is prohibited in the schools of france, italy, switzerland, finland, brazil, new jersey, and in the following cities: new york, chicago, cleveland, albany, syracuse, toledo, and savannah. in washington and philadelphia teachers voluntarily gave up the practice of whipping. this is true of the majority of individual teachers in the cities of america, and the number of those who do without all forms of coercive discipline is rapidly increasing. the whipping of girls is prohibited in saxony, hessen, oldenburg, and in many cities. few girls are now whipped in schools anywhere. corporal punishment has been abolished for the higher grades in norway and in the lower grades in saxony, hessen, bremen, and hamburg. in the last-named city the cane is kept under lock and key. in some places the consent of parents must be obtained before children may be whipped, in some places the number of strokes is limited; in other places a record is kept of every case of corporal punishment and reports made monthly to the school boards. everywhere action has been taken to prohibit or restrict the use of the once universally respected and universally dominant rod. all wise trainers of children recognise the value of obedience, but truly wise trainers no longer aim to make children merely submissively obedient, nor even willingly responsive in their obedience. they try to make them independently, co-operatively, and reverently obedient; independent in free development of will, co-operative in unity of effort with their fellows and their adult guides, and reverent in their attitude to law. the substitution of independence for subserviency, of co-operation for formal, responsive obedience, and of reverence for law for fear of law are the most important development in child training. in dickens's ideal school, doctor strong's, there was "plenty of liberty." gladstone's criticism, when over seventy, of his own teachers was that they were afraid of freedom. he said: "i did not learn to set a due value on the imperishable and inestimable principles of human liberty. the temper which i think prevailed among them was that liberty was regarded with jealousy, and fear could not be wholly dispensed with." the true teacher is not afraid of freedom, but makes it the dominant element in his training and in his educational theory. may the profounder truth in regard to child training spread to the ends of the earth! may the time soon come when there shall be no disciples of susan nipper's doctrine, "that childhood, like money, must be shaken and rattled and jostled about a good deal to keep it bright"! may christian civilization soon be free from such memories as the remembrance of mr. obenreizer, in no thoroughfare, had of his parents: "i was a famished naked little wretch of two or three years when they were men and women with hard hands to beat me"! may christ's teaching soon be so fully understood that there will be no child anywhere like the shivering little boy in the haunted man, who was "used already to be worried and hunted like a beast, who crouched down as he was looked at, and looked back again, and interposed his arm to ward off the expected blow, and threatened to bite if he was hit"! may teachers and all trainers of children learn the underlying philosophy of the statement made by dickens, in connection with the schools of the stepney union, in the uncommercial traveller: "in the moral health of these schools--where corporal punishment is unknown--truthfulness stands high"! chapter iv. the doctrine of child depravity. dickens heartily accepted froebel's view of the doctrine of child depravity. they did not teach that the child is totally divine, but neither did they believe that a being created in god's image is entirely depraved. they recognised very clearly that the doctrine of child depravity was the logical (or illogical) basis of the theory of corporal punishment and all forms of coercion. what more natural or more logical than the practice of checking the outflow of a child's inner life if we believe his inner life to be depraved? the firm belief in the doctrine of child depravity compelled conscientious men to be repressive and coercive in their discipline. dickens understood this fully, and therefore he gave the doctrine no place in his philosophy. mrs. pipchin's training was based squarely on the doctrine of child depravity, for "the secret of her management of children was to give them everything that they didn't like, and nothing that they did." if the training of children under the "good old _régime_," for which some reactionary philosophers are still pleading, is carefully analyzed, it will be found that mrs. pipchin's plan was the commonly approved plan, and it was the perfectly logical outcome of the doctrine that the child, being wholly depraved, desired everything it should not have and objected to everything it should have. that was a touching question addressed by a little boy to his father: "say, papa, did mamma stop you from doing everything you wished to do when _you_ were a little boy?" how dickens despised the awful theology of the murdstones, who would not let david play with other children, because they believed "all children to be a swarm of little vipers [though there _was_ a child once set in the midst of the disciples], and held that they contaminated one another"! how he laughed at mrs. varden and miggs, her maid! "if you hadn't the sweetness of an angel in you, mim, i don't think you could abear it, i raly don't." "miggs," said mrs. varden, "you're profane." "begging your pardon, mim," returned miggs with shrill rapidity, "such was not my intentions, and such i hope is not my character, though i am but a servant." "answering me, miggs, and providing yourself," retorted her mistress, looking round with dignity, "is one and the same thing. how dare you speak of angels in connection with your sinful fellow-beings--mere"--said mrs. varden, glancing at herself in a neighbouring mirror, and arranging the ribbon of her cap in a more becoming fashion--"mere worms and grovellers as we are!" "i do not intend, mim, if you please, to give offence," said miggs, confident in the strength of her compliment, and developing strongly in the throat as usual, "and i did not expect it would be took as such. i hope i know my own unworthiness, and that i hate and despise myself and all my fellow-creatures as every practicable christian should." oliver twist was described by the philanthropists who cared for him as "under the exclusive patronage and protection of the powers of wickedness, and an article direct from the manufactory of the very devil himself." mr. grimwig had no faith in boys, and he tried hard to shake mr. brownlow's faith in oliver. "he is a nice-looking boy, is he not?" inquired mr. brownlow. "i don't know," replied mr. grimwig pettishly. "don't know?" "no. i don't know. i never see any difference in boys. i only know two sorts of boys: mealy boys and beef-faced boys." "and which is oliver?" "mealy. i know a friend who has a beef-faced boy--a fine boy, they call him; with a round head, and red cheeks, and glaring eyes; a horrid boy; with a body and limbs that appear to be swelling out of the seams of his blue clothes; with the voice of a pilot, and the appetite of a wolf. i know him! the wretch!" "come," said mr. brownlow, "these are not the characteristics of young oliver twist; so he needn't excite your wrath." "they are not," replied mr. grimwig. "he may have worse. he is deceiving you, my good friend." "i'll swear he is not," replied mr. brownlow warmly. "if he is not," said mr. grimwig, "i'll----" and down went the stick. "i'll answer for that boy's truth with my life!" said mr. brownlow, knocking the table. "and i for his falsehood with my head!" rejoined mr. grimwig, knocking the table also. "we shall see," said mr. brownlow, checking his rising anger. "we will," replied mr. grimwig, with a provoking smile; "we will." dickens always pleaded for more faith in children. in great expectations poor pip was continually reminded of the fact that he was "naterally wicious," and at the great christmas dinner party mr. pumblechook took him as the illustration of his theological discourse on "swine" and mrs. hubble commiserated mrs. gargery about the trouble he had caused her by all his waywardness. "trouble?" echoed my sister, "trouble?" and then entered on a fearful catalogue of all the illnesses i had been guilty of, and all the acts of sleeplessness i had committed, and all the high places i had tumbled from, and all the low places i had tumbled into, and all the injuries i had done myself, and all the times she had wished me in my grave, and i had contumaciously refused to go there. again, when pip was just beginning his life away from home his guardian, mr. jaggers, said to him at their first interview: "i shall by this means be able to check your bills, and to pull you up if i find you outrunning the constable. of course you'll go wrong somehow, but that's no fault of mine." "of course you'll go wrong somehow," was an inspiring start in life for a young gentleman. abel magwitch, pip's friend, told him near the close of his career how he came to lead such a dissipated and criminal life. he evidently had ability and possessed a deep sense of gratitude, and might have developed the other virtues if he had been treated properly. dickens used him as an illustration of the fact that society fails often to do the best for a boy and make the most out of him through sheer lack of faith in childhood, and that this lack of faith results from the belief that a boy is so depraved that he would rather do wrong than right, and that when he starts to do wrong there is no hope of his reform. "dear boy and pip's comrade. i am not a-going fur to tell you my life, like a song or a story-book. but to give it you short and handy, i'll put it at once into a mouthful of english. in jail and out of jail, in jail and out of jail, in jail and out of jail. there, you've got it. that's _my_ life pretty much, down to such times as i got shipped off, arter pip stood my friend. "i've been done everything to, pretty well--except hanged. i've been locked up, as much as a silver teakittle. i've been carted here and carted there, and put out of this town and put out of that town, and stuck in the stocks, and whipped and worried and drove. i've no more notion where i was born, than you have--if so much. i first become aware of myself, down in essex, a-thieving turnips for my living. summun had run away from me--a man--a tinker--and he'd took the fire with him, and left me wery cold. "i know'd my name to be magwitch, chrisen'd abel. how did i know it? much as i know'd the birds' names in the hedges to be chaffinch, sparrer, thrush. i might have thought it was all lies altogether, only as the birds' names come out true, i supposed mine did. "so fur as i could find, there warn't a soul that see young abel magwitch, with as little on him as in him, but wot caught fright at him, and either drove him off or took him up. i was took up, took up, took up, to that extent that i reg'larly grow'd up took up. "this is the way it was, that when i was a ragged little creetur as much to be pitied as ever i see (not that i looked in the glass, for there warn't many insides of furnished houses known to me), i got the name being hardened. 'this is a terrible hardened one,' they says to prison wisitors, picking out me. 'may be said to live in jails, this boy.' then they looked at me, and i looked at them, and they measured my head, some on 'em--they had better a-measured my stomach--and others on 'em giv' me tracts what i couldn't read, and made me speeches what i couldn't understand. they always went on agen me about the devil." poor old toby veck, in the chimes, reflected the theories that dickens wished to overthrow. "it seems as if we can't go right, or do right, or be righted," said toby. "i hadn't much schooling, myself, when i was young; and i can't make out whether we have any business on the face of the earth, or not. sometimes i think we must have--a little; and sometimes i think we must be intruding. i get so puzzled sometimes that i am not even able to make up my mind whether there is any good at all in us, or whether we are born bad. we seem to be dreadful things; we seem to give a deal of trouble; we are always being complained of and guarded against." the most realistic picture of the influence of the child-depravity ideal on the training of childhood is given in mrs. clennam, in little dorrit. she was a hard, malignant, dishonest, unsympathetic woman, who had deliberately driven arthur's mother to madness and blighted his father's life in the name of her false religion, and blasphemously claimed that she was doing it in god's stead, as his devoted servant. yet she was sure she was truly religious, and had a pious vanity in the fact that she was "filled with an abhorrence of evil doers." she was filled with gladness, too, at the prospect of marrying a man of like training with herself. speaking of the training of herself and her husband she said: "you do not know what it is to be brought up strictly and straitly. i was so brought up. mine was no light youth of sinful gaiety and pleasure. mine were days of wholesome repression, punishment, and fear. the corruption of our hearts, the evil of our ways, the curse that is upon us, the terrors that surround us--these were the themes of my childhood. they formed my character, and filled me with an abhorrence of evil doers. when old mr. gilbert clennam proposed his orphan nephew to my father for my husband, my father impressed upon me that his bringing-up had been, like mine, one of severe restraint. he told me, that besides the discipline his spirit had undergone, he had lived in a starved house, where rioting and gaiety were unknown, and where every day was a day of toil and trial like the last. he told me that he had been a man in years long before his uncle had acknowledged him as one; and that from his school days to that hour, his uncle's roof had been a sanctuary to him from the contagion of the irreligious and dissolute." speaking of her training of arthur, she said: "i devoted myself to reclaim the otherwise predestined and lost boy; to bring him up in fear and trembling, and in a life of practical contrition for the sins that were heavy on his head before his entrance into this condemned world." dickens describes her religious character as such as might naturally be expected to develop in a woman whose childhood revealed to her only the self-abnegation and terrors of religion and the utter contempt for humanity shrouded in the doctrine of child depravity. she had seen god as an awful character of sleepless watchfulness to see her evil doing and record it, of wrathfulness, and of vengeance, but never of loving sympathy and forgiveness. so she fitted her religion to the character that such training had formed in her. great need had the rigid woman of her mystical religion, veiled in gloom and darkness, with lightnings of cursing, vengeance, and destruction, flashing through the sable clouds. forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors, was a prayer too poor in spirit for her. smite thou my debtors, lord, wither them, crush them; do thou as i would do, and thou shalt have my worship: this was the impious tower of stone she built up to scale heaven. the old discipline and the old training were based on the belief that children like to do wrong better than to do right. there could be no greater error, or one more certain to lead to false principles of training, and prevent the recognition of the true methods of developing character in childhood. children do not like to do wrong better than to do right. they like to do. they like to do the things they themselves plan to do. they like to do the things that are interesting to themselves. their lack of wisdom leaves them at the mercy of their interests, and without guidance their constructiveness may turn to destructiveness. when it does so, it is because of the neglect of their adult guides to surround them with plenty of suitable material for construction or transformation adapted to their stage of development. with a sufficient variety of material for constructive plays the child will rarely exhibit destructive tendencies, and when he does so, the wisdom of his adult guide should find little trouble in changing his interest centre from the wrong to the right. the skilful trainer changes the interest centre without making the child conscious of adult interference. it costs little to supply the child with sand and blocks, and soft clay, and colors, and colored paper, and blunt scissors and gum, and other similar materials--much less than is usually spent for toys; yet such materials would save parents from much worry, and help them to get rid of the wrong ideals, and they would preserve the natural tendency of children to constructiveness, and afford them an opportunity for the comfort and the development of real self-activity. the child's most dominant tendency is activity in using the material things of his environment to transform them into new forms or relationships in harmony with his own plans. this tendency is intended to accomplish four great purposes in the child's development. it reveals the child's own powers to himself, it develops his originality, it trains him to use his constructive powers, and it gives him the habit of transforming his environment to suit his own plans. if he is not supplied with suitable material to play with he will appropriate the material he finds most available. in this way, through the absolute neglect of his adult guides, he has acquired a bad reputation. the instinct that leads the child to transform his material environment should lead to the conscious desire and determination to improve the physical, intellectual, and spiritual conditions around him at maturity. it is therefore a very essential element in his training, and to check or neglect it may weaken and warp his character as much as it was intended to strengthen and direct it. thus the children have been coerced because men believed them to be depraved, and the coercion has developed the apparent depravity. the darkest clouds have been lifted from the vision of adults and from the lives of the little ones by the breaking of the power of the doctrine of child depravity. the teacher especially has a more hopeful field opened to him. his great work of training is no longer restricted to putting blinders on the eyes of children to prevent their seeing evil, and bits in their mouths to keep them from going wrong. he believes that every child has an element of divinity, however small and enfeebled by heredity or encrusted by evil environment, and that his chief duty is to arouse this divinity (his selfhood or individuality) to consciousness and start it on its conscious growth toward the divine. the revelation of this new and grander ideal has led to all intelligent child study for the purpose of discovering what adulthood can do, and especially what childhood itself can do, in accomplishing its most perfect training for its highest destiny. dickens expressed his general faith in childhood in mrs. lirriper's remark to the major about jemmy: "ah, major," i says, drying my eyes, "we needn't have been afraid. we might have known it. treachery don't come natural to beaming youth; but trust and pity, love and constancy--they do, thank god!" he taught his philosophy of the origin of many of the evils that are attributed to child depravity in nobody's story. "nobody" means the workingman. he says to the master: "the evil consequences of imperfect instruction, the evil consequences of pernicious neglect, the evil consequences of unnatural restraint and the denial of humanizing enjoyments, will all come from us, and none of them will stop with us. they will spread far and wide. they always do; they always have done--just like the pestilence. i understand so much, i think, at last." there is profoundness in these doctrines. chapter v. cramming. although dickens paid much more attention in his writings to the methods of training than to the methods of teaching, he studied the methods of teaching sufficiently to recognise some of their gravest defects. dombey and son is unquestionably the greatest book ever written to expose the evils of cramming. doctor blimber, cornelia, and mr. feeder, when closely studied, represent in the varied phases of their work all the worst forms of cramming. whenever a young gentleman was taken in hand by doctor blimber, he might consider himself sure of a pretty tight squeeze. the doctor only undertook the charge of ten young gentlemen, but he had always ready a supply of learning for a hundred, on the lowest estimate; it was at once the business and delight of his life to gorge the unhappy ten with it. in fact, doctor blimber's establishment was a great hothouse, in which there was a forcing apparatus incessantly at work. all the boys blew before their time. mental green peas were produced at christmas, and intellectual asparagus all the year round. mathematical gooseberries (very sour ones too) were common at untimely seasons, and from mere sprouts of bushes, under doctor blimber's cultivation. every description of greek and latin vegetable was got off the dryest twigs of boys, under the frostiest circumstances. nature was of no consequence at all. no matter what a young gentleman was intended to bear, doctor blimber made him bear to pattern, somehow or other. this was all very pleasant and ingenious, but the system of forcing was attended with its usual disadvantages. there was not the right taste about the premature productions, and they didn't keep well. moreover, one young gentleman, with a swollen nose and an excessively large head (the oldest of the ten who had "gone through" everything) suddenly left off blowing one day, and remained in the establishment a mere stalk. and people did say that the doctor had rather overdone it with young toots, and that when he began to have whiskers he left off having brains. the doctor was a portly gentleman in a suit of black, with strings at his knees, and stockings below them. he had a bald head, highly polished; a deep voice, and a chin so very double that it was a wonder how he ever managed to shave into the creases. he had likewise a pair of little eyes that were always half shut up and a mouth that was always half expanded into a grin, as if he had, that moment, posed a boy, and were waiting to convict him from his own lips. insomuch that when the doctor put his right hand into the breast of his coat, and, with his other hand behind him and a scarcely perceptible wag of his head, made the commonest observation to a nervous stranger, it was like a sentiment from the sphinx, and settled his business. miss blimber, too, although a slim and graceful maid, did no soft violence to the gravity of the house. there was no light nonsense about miss blimber. she kept her hair short and crisp, and wore spectacles. she was dry and sandy with working in the graves of deceased languages. none of your live languages for miss blimber. they must be dead--stone dead--and then miss blimber dug them up like a ghoul. as to mr. feeder, b. a., dr. blimber's assistant, he was a kind of human barrel organ, with a little list of tunes at which he was continually working, over and over again, without any variation. he might have been fitted up with a change of barrels, perhaps, in early life, if his destiny had been favourable; but it had not been; and he had only one, with which, in a monotonous round, it was his occupation to bewilder the young ideas of dr. blimber's young gentlemen. the young gentlemen were prematurely full of carking anxieties. they knew no rest from the pursuit of stony-hearted verbs, savage noun-substantives, inflexible syntactic passages, and ghosts of exercises that appeared to them in their dreams. under the forcing system, a young gentleman usually took leave of his spirits in three weeks. he had all the care of the world on his head in three months. he conceived bitter sentiments against his parents or guardians in four; he was an old misanthrope in five; envied curtius that blessed refuge in the earth in six; and at the end of the first twelvemonth had arrived at the conclusion, from which he never afterward departed, that all the fancies of the poets, and lessons of the sages, were a mere collection of words and grammar, and had no other meaning in the world. but he went on blow, blow, blowing, in the doctor's hothouse all the time; and the doctor's glory and reputation were great when he took his wintry growth home to his relations and friends. upon the doctor's doorsteps one day, paul stood with a fluttering heart, and with his small right hand in his father's. his other hand was locked in that of florence. how tight the tiny pressure of that one; and how loose and cool the other! the doctor was sitting in his portentous study, with a globe at each knee, books all round him, homer over the door, and minerva on the mantelshelf. "and how do you do, sir?" he said to mr. dombey; "and how is my little friend?" "very well i thank you, sir," returned paul, answering the clock quite as much as the doctor. "ha!" said dr. blimber. "shall we make a man of him?" "do you hear, paul?" added mr. dombey; paul being silent. "shall we make a man of him?" repeated the doctor. "i had rather be a child," replied paul. paul's reply is one of the most touchingly beautiful of even dickens's wonderful expressions--wonderful in their exquisite simplicity and their profound philosophy. when this book was written dickens was beginning to get the conception of the great truth, which he illustrated at length in hard times and other works, that it is a crime against a child to rob it of its childhood. when doctor blimber in his cold, formal manner asked paul "why he preferred to be a child," the little fellow was unable to answer, and as they stared at him, he at length put his hand on the neck of florence and burst into tears. "mrs. pipchin," said his father in a querulous manner, "i am really very sorry to see this." "never mind," said the doctor blandly, nodding his head to keep mrs. pipchin back. "nev-er mind; we shall substitute new cares and new impressions, mr. dombey, very shortly. you would still wish my little friend to acquire----" "everything, if you please, doctor," returned mr. dombey firmly. "yes," said the doctor, who, with his half-shut eyes and his usual smile, seemed to survey paul with the sort of interest that might attach to some choice little animal he was going to stuff. "yes, exactly. ha! we shall impart a great variety of information to our little friend, and bring him quickly forward, i dare say. i dare say. quite a virgin soil, i believe you said, mr. dombey?" on leaving, mr. dombey said to paul: "you'll try and learn a great deal here, and be a clever man, won't you?" "i'll try," returned the child wearily. "and you'll soon be grown up now?" said mr. dombey. "oh! very soon!" replied the child. once more the old, old look passed rapidly across his features like a strange light. after his father and florence had left him the doctor said to cornelia: "cornelia, dombey will be your charge at first. bring him on, cornelia, bring him on. take him round the house, cornelia, and familiarize him with his new sphere. go with that young lady, dombey." cornelia took him first to the schoolroom. here there were eight young gentlemen in various stages of mental prostration, all very hard at work, and very grave indeed. mr. feeder, b. a., had his virgil stop on, and was slowly grinding that tune to four young gentlemen. of the remaining four, two, who grasped their foreheads convulsively, were engaged in solving mathematical problems; one, with his face like a dirty window from much crying, was endeavouring to flounder through a hopeless number of lines before dinner; and one sat looking at his task in stony stupefaction and despair--which, it seemed, had been his condition ever since breakfast time. after being shown through the dormitories, cornelia told him dinner would be ready in fifteen minutes, and that in the meantime he had better go into the schoolroom among his "friends." his friends were all dispersed about the room except the stony friend, who remained immovable. mr. feeder was stretching himself in his gray gown, as if, regardless of expense, he were resolved to pull the sleeves off. "heigh-ho-hum!" cried mr. feeder, shaking himself like a cart horse "oh dear me, dear me! ya-a-a-ah!" "you sleep in my room, don't you?" asked a solemn young gentleman, whose shirt collar curled up the lobes of his ears. "master briggs?" inquired paul. "tozer," said the young gentleman. paul answered yes; and tozer, pointing out the stony pupil, said that it was briggs. paul had already felt certain that it must be either briggs or tozer, though he didn't know why. "is yours a strong constitution?" inquired tozer. paul said he thought not. tozer replied that _he_ thought not also, judging from paul's looks, and that it was a pity, for it need be. he then asked paul if he were going to begin with cornelia; and on paul saying "yes," all the young gentlemen (briggs excepted) gave a low groan. at dinner no boy was allowed to speak; every one was compelled to listen to the tedious discourse of doctor blimber on the customs of the romans. the cramming of youth was continued with great dignity even during meals. one boy, johnson, was unfortunate enough to choke himself by too suddenly swallowing his water in order to catch doctor blimber's eye when he began an account of the dinners of vitellius; and to punish him for his breach of manners, doctor blimber said before the boys were dismissed from the table: "johnson will repeat to-morrow morning before breakfast, without book, and from the greek testament, the first chapter of the epistle of saint paul to the ephesians. we will resume our studies, mr. feeder, in half an hour." it used to be a common practice to cultivate a loving reverence for god by using the bible as a means of punishment. this was in harmony with the old educational and the old theological ideal of punishment, as the supreme means available for guiding children properly. it was considered a perfectly appropriate use of the best book to use it for this best of purposes. the young gentlemen bowed and withdrew; mr. feeder did likewise. during the half hour the young gentlemen, broken into pairs, loitered arm in arm up and down a small piece of ground behind the house. but nothing happened so vulgar as play. punctually at the appointed time the gong was sounded, and the studies, under the joint auspices of doctor blimber and mr. feeder, were resumed. tea was served in a style no less polite than dinner; and after tea the young gentlemen, rising and bowing as before, withdrew to fetch up the unfinished tasks of that day or to get up the already looming tasks of to-morrow. after prayers and light refreshments at eight o'clock or so, the "young gentlemen" were sent to bed by the doctor rising and solemnly saying, "we will resume our studies at seven to-morrow"; the pupils bowed again, and went to bed. in the confidence of their own room upstairs, briggs said his head ached ready to split, and that he should wish himself dead if it wasn't for his mother and a blackbird he had at home. tozer didn't say much, but he sighed a good deal, and told paul to look out, for his turn would come to-morrow. after uttering those prophetic words, he undressed himself moodily and got into bed. briggs was in his bed too, and paul in his bed too, before the weak-eyed young man appeared to take away the candle, when he wished them good-night and pleasant dreams. but his benevolent wishes were in vain as far as briggs and tozer were concerned; for paul, who lay awake for a long while, and often woke afterward, found that briggs was ridden by his lesson as a nightmare; and that tozer, whose mind was affected in his sleep by similar causes, in a minor degree, talked unknown tongues, or scraps of greek and latin--it was all one to paul--which, in the silence of night, had an inexpressibly wicked and guilty effect. as paul was going downstairs in the morning miss blimber called him into her room, and, pointing to a pile of new books on her table, said: "these are yours, dombey." "all of 'em, ma'am?" said paul. "yes," returned miss blimber; "and mr. feeder will look you out some more very soon, if you are as studious as i expect you will be, dombey." "thank you, ma'am," said paul. "i am going out for a constitutional," resumed miss blimber; "and while i am gone--that is to say, in the interval between this and breakfast, dombey--i wish you to read over what i have marked in these books, and to tell me if you quite understand what you have got to learn. don't lose time, dombey, for you have none to spare, but take them downstairs, and begin directly." "yes, ma'am," answered paul. there were so many of them, that although paul put one hand under the bottom book and his other hand and his chin on the top book, and hugged them all closely, the middle book slipped out before he reached the door, and then they all tumbled down on the floor. having at last amassed the whole library and climbed into his place, he fell to work, encouraged by a remark from tozer to the effect that he "was in for it now"; which was the only interruption he received till breakfast time. at that meal, for which he had no appetite, everything was quite as solemn and genteel as at the others; and when it was finished, he followed miss blimber upstairs. "now, dombey," said miss blimber, "how have you got on with those books?" they comprised a little english, and a deal of latin--names of things, declensions of articles and substantives, exercises thereon, and preliminary rules--a trifle of orthography, a glance at ancient history, a wink or two at modern ditto, a few tables, two or three weights and measures, and a little general information. when poor paul had spelled out number two, he found he had no idea of number one; fragments whereof afterward obtruded themselves into number three, which slided into number four, which, grafted itself on to number two. so that whether twenty romuluses made a remus, or hic hæc hoc was troy weight, or a verb always agreed with an ancient briton, or three times four was taurus a bull, were open questions with him. "oh, dombey, dombey!" said miss blimber, "this is very shocking." so paul's cramming went on day by day. the delicate little boy, who should not have been sent to school at all, was forced to memorize confused masses of words that had no meaning to him, but he learned to repeat the words, and so got the credit of doing well, and because he learned easily was driven harder and harder. the more easily he carried his burden the higher it was piled on his back. it was not that miss blimber meant to be too hard upon him, or that doctor blimber meant to bear too heavily on the young gentlemen in general. cornelia merely held the faith in which she had been bred; and the doctor, in some partial confusion of his ideas, regarded the young gentlemen as if they were all doctors, and were born grown up. comforted by the applause of the young gentlemen's nearest relations, and urged on by their blind vanity and ill-considered haste, it would have been strange if doctor blimber had discovered his mistake, or trimmed his swelling sails to any other tack. thus in the case of paul. when doctor blimber said he made great progress, and was naturally clever, mr. dombey was more bent than ever on his being forced and crammed. in the case of briggs, when doctor blimber reported that he did not make great progress yet, and was not naturally clever, briggs senior was inexorable in the same purpose. in short, however high and false the temperature at which the doctor kept his hothouse, the owners of the plants were always ready to lend a helping hand at the bellows and to stir the fire. when the midsummer vacation approached, no indecent manifestations of joy were exhibited by the leaden-eyed young gentlemen assembled at doctor blimber's. any such violent expression as "breaking up" would have been quite inapplicable to that polite establishment. the young gentlemen oozed away, semi-annually, to their own homes; but they never broke up. they would have scorned the action. tozer, who was constantly galled and tormented by a starched white cambric neckerchief, which he wore at the express desire of mrs. tozer, his parent, who, designing him for the church, was of opinion that he couldn't be in that forward state of preparation too soon--tozer said, indeed, that choosing between two evils, he thought he would rather stay where he was, than go home. however inconsistent this declaration might appear with that passage in tozer's essay on the subject, wherein he had observed "that the thoughts of home and all its recollections awakened in his mind the most pleasing emotions of anticipation and delight," and had also likened himself to a roman general, flushed with a recent victory over the iceni, or laden with carthaginian spoil, advancing within a few hours' march of the capitol, presupposed, for the purposes of the simile, to be the dwelling place of mrs. tozer, still it was very sincerely made. for it seemed that tozer had a dreadful uncle, who not only volunteered examinations of him, in the holidays, on abstruse points, but twisted innocent events and things, and wrenched them to the same fell purpose. so that if this uncle took him to the play, or, on a similar pretence of kindness, carried him to see a giant, or a dwarf, or a conjurer, or anything, tozer knew he had read up some classical allusion to the subject beforehand, and was thrown into a state of mortal apprehension; not foreseeing where he might break out, or what authority he might not quote against him. as to briggs, _his_ father made no show of artifice about it. he never would leave him alone. so numerous and severe were the mental trials of that unfortunate youth in vacation time, that the friends of the family (then resident near bayswater, london) seldom approached the ornamental piece of water in kensington gardens without a vague expectation of seeing master briggs's hat floating on the surface and an unfinished exercise lying on the bank. briggs, therefore, was not at all sanguine on the subject of holidays; and these two sharers of little paul's bedroom were so fair a sample of the young gentlemen in general, that the most elastic among them contemplated the arrival of those festive periods with genteel resignation. dickens did not wish to lay all the blame for the stupid process of cramming on the teachers. he properly revealed to parents that they were even more to blame than the teachers, because they got what they demanded. doctor blimber summed up the whole philosophy of the adulthood of his time in regard to a child's education when he said to his daughter, "bring him on, cornelia! bring him on!" the standard of knowledge cramming fixed by parents and school boards is changing very slowly. even yet a teacher's success is measured and his chances of re-engagement decided in most places by the answer to the question, "how does he bring the children on?" when asked by doctor blimber what he wished his little sickly son to learn, mr. dombey answered, "oh, everything." when paul learned easily, his father pressed for more studies; and because briggs was dull, his father demanded that he be driven harder at school, and made the poor boy's life miserable at home by tedious lessons during the holidays. the uncle who made tozer wretched by asking him unexpected questions on all occasions is a type of an ogre who sometimes blights the lives of children still. dickens had a beautiful sympathy with childhood in its sufferings not merely on account of deliberate cruelty and neglect, but because of the burdens placed upon it by adults who, with the best intentions, robbed it of its natural rights of joyousness and freedom. whenever doctor blimber was informed that paul was "old-fashioned" or "peculiar," he said, as he had said when paul first came, that study would do much; and he also said, as he said on that occasion, "bring him on, cornelia! bring him on!" just before the close of the term paul fainted and had to be carried to his room, and after an examination the physician advised doctor blimber to "release the young gentleman from his books just now, the vacation being so near at hand." it was so very considerate to release him from study, when he was utterly unable to study any longer. at the close of the school party when he was leaving-- cornelia, taking both paul's hands in hers, said, "dombey, dombey, you have always been my favourite pupil. god bless you!" and it showed, paul thought, how easily one might do injustice to a person; for miss blimber meant it--though she _was_ a forcer. paul never returned to school. his life was sacrificed to his father's desire to have him "learn everything." in a brief look at the results of doctor blimber's teaching, dickens tersely outlines three common results of cramming: mr. tozer, now a young man of lofty stature, in wellington boots, was so extremely full of antiquity as to be nearly on a par with a genuine ancient roman in his knowledge of english; a triumph that affected his good parents with the tenderest emotions, and caused the father and mother of mr. briggs (whose learning, like an ill-arranged luggage, was so tightly packed that he couldn't get at anything he wanted) to hide their diminished heads. the fruit laboriously gathered from the tree of knowledge by this latter young gentleman, in fact, had been subjected to so much pressure, that it had become a kind of intellectual norfolk biffin, and had nothing of its original form or flavour remaining. master bitherstone now, on whom the forcing system had the happier and not uncommon effect of leaving no impression whatever, when the forcing apparatus ceased to work was in a much more comfortable plight; and being then on shipboard, bound for bengal, found himself forgetting with such admirable rapidity, that it was doubtful whether his declensions of noun-substantives would hold out to the end of the voyage. dickens, in his very able description of doctor blimber's school, directs attention to nearly every phase of the evils of cramming. toots is an illustration of the destruction of mental power by the "hard mathematics" and other subjects, when they are taught improperly. it is a serious result of an educational system, when the brightest young men "cease to have brains when they begin to have whiskers." paul's experience is used to show the terrible physical evils of cramming in any life, especially in the life of a delicate child. paul was killed by his father and doctor blimber. he should have lived. cornelia's aversion to live languages and her delight in "digging up the dead languages like a ghoul," and the address presented to doctor blimber "which contained very little of the mother tongue, but fifteen quotations from the latin and seven from the greek," were intended as a protest against paying too much attention to the classics to the neglect of other studies. he returned to this subject again in bleak house. richard carstone "could make latin verses," but although his powers were naturally excellent he was a complete failure in life. he was not educated properly, notwithstanding his ability to make latin verses. mr. feeder is the perfect type of a mechanical crammer, "a sort of barrel organ with a little list of tunes at which he was continually working, over and over again, without any variation." what suggestiveness there is in the sentence "mr. feeder had his virgil stop on, and was grinding that tune to four young gentlemen"! "bewilder the young ideas of doctor blimber's young gentlemen," used to be considered too strong a criticism, but modern psychology fully sustains dickens in his view. "arrested development" is well understood now to result from too much grinding at any one subject or department of a subject, from the monotonous drill of the crammer, or from directing the child's attention too much to any one study. the influence of uninteresting study on the spirits was clear to dickens. there is inspiration and physical advantage of a decided character in the successful study of an interesting subject--interesting to the child, of course--if the process of study includes the true self-activity of the child. there is blight, and nervous irritation, and "carking anxiety," if the child works under compulsion at the dead matter of study. no wonder the young gentlemen at doctor blimber's took leave of their spirits in three weeks, and passed through the subsequent stages of deeper gloom described by dickens. they had none of the joy of living interest in their study, none of the vital enthusiasm connected with independent thought, none of the health that comes from pleasant occupation, none of the happiness that is found in self-activity alone. one of the best criticisms of wrong methods of teaching done by mr. feeder is the criticism of the method of teaching literature. "at the end of the first twelvemonth the boys had arrived at the conclusion, from which they never afterward departed, that all the fancies of the poets, and the lessons of the sages, were a mere collection of words and grammar, and had no other meaning in the world." there are high schools yet in which more attention is paid to the "words and grammar" than to the sacred and inspiring thought of the author. a professor in one of the leading educational institutions of america travelled in scotland with his daughters. they were graduates of a high school. he observed with deep regret that they visited the mountains, and valleys, and rivers, and islands, and battlefields, and cathedrals of the land, that to him had been filled with sacred interests by the writings of scott, and saw them all without emotion. one day he said to them: "why are you not interested here? to me every foot of ground here is full of living memories. scott describes it in the lady of the lake." one of them explained the reason. "oh!" she said, "we're sick of scott; we had enough of him in the high school." there are feeders yet who profane the temple of literature; who never connect the souls of their pupils with the soul life of the authors they study. very few of the graduates of high schools have learned the high art of loving literature for its beauty and ennobling thought, fewer still have learned how to dig successfully in the rich mines of wealth that literature contains, and even a smaller number have learned to transmute the revelations of literature into character and new revelations in life or richer literature for the happiness and culture of coming generations. we may yet learn from dickens. tozer became an antique pedant, learned but not educated. briggs grew to be dull and heavy-witted, and had his "knowledge so tightly packed that he couldn't get at anything he wanted." bitherstone was one of the few fortunate fellows who are gifted with natural power to pass through the cramming system without being affected seriously in any way. they get little, if any, good, and they speedily forget the wrongs inflicted upon them and the learning with which their teachers attempted to cram them. briggs showed the evil effects of cramming in the destruction of individuality. "his fruit had nothing of its original flavour remaining." this is one of the general charges made against doctor blimber's forcing establishment, or hothouse. "nature was of no consequence at all. no matter what a young gentleman was intended to bear, doctor blimber made him bear to pattern somehow or other." the destruction of selfhood was the great evil of the old system of teaching. another important criticism made by dickens of the hothouse system is worthy of special attention by educators. he recognised the evil effects of giving any study or work to children, that is naturally adapted to a later stage of their development. the development of children is always arrested when the work of a higher stage is forced into a lower stage of their growth. the true evolution of the child consists in a growth through a series of progressive and interdependent stages. this was not recognised in the educational system dickens desired to improve. it is not yet recognised to a very large extent in practice. "all the boys blew before their time," in doctor blimber's school. "the doctor, in some partial confusion of ideas, regarded the young gentlemen as if they were all doctors, and were born grown up." dickens was so careful to make his names and terms express volumes of meaning that he probably meant the phrase "mathematical gooseberries" to be especially significant. the fact that they were grown on "mere sprouts of bushes," and as a consequence were "very sour ones, too," reveals the philosophy since made so clear by doctor harris, that early "drilling" in arithmetic has been one of the prolific causes of arrested development in children. the appeal against the common practice of growing "every description of greek and latin vegetable" _from_ "_dry twigs of boys_" was comprehensive and timely. they were not merely twigs, but dry twigs in whom the sap had not begun to circulate freely. no expressions, no volumes, could state the evil of untimely cramming more clearly than this group of phrases used by dickens in describing doctor blimber's school. "the frostiest circumstances" is another of the thought-laden phrases, which was evidently intended to warn teachers against the mistake of trying to produce any intellectual fruit at untimely periods of the child's development. "wintry growth" means unseasonable or untimely development. the condemnation of the feeling shown by paul in parting from florence, and the doctor's cold-blooded observation, "never mind; we shall substitute new cares and new impressions, mr. dombey, very shortly," were intended to show how utterly the knowledge cramming ideal had prevented the recognition of the fundamental fact that feeling is the basis and the battery power of intellectual force and energy. the same principle is taught by cornelia's shock at paul's affection for old glubb, and her father's summary settlement of the case, when he realized that the little child was intensely affectionate and sympathetic. "ha!" said the doctor, shaking his head, "this--is--bad, but study will do much." dickens deals in a most thorough manner with the absolute wickedness of neglecting, or attempting to smother feeling in the training and education of children in hard times. he undoubtedly received his clear conceptions relating to the intellectual value of feeling from froebel's writings. the bad effects of cramming on the physical constitution of children are pointed out in "the convulsive grasping of their foreheads" by the two boys engaged in solving mathematical problems. nervous exhaustion is here plainly indicated. they were "very feverish," too, and poor briggs was in even a worse condition, for "he was in a state of stupefaction and was flabby and quite cold." both briggs and tozer frightened paul the first night he tried to sleep in their room by talking latin and greek in their dreams. paul thought they were swearing. education should never interfere with a child's sleep, either with its soundness or its duration. even the boys told paul on the first day of his school life that he would need a good constitution to withstand the strain at doctor blimber's. the exhaustive and exasperating practice of piling up arrears of work, so naturally connected with cramming--in fact, so essential a part of the unnatural process--comes in for its share of condemnation, too. one of the boys, "whose face was like a dirty window, from much crying, was endeavouring to flounder through a hopeless number of lines." the friends of briggs were constantly in terror "lest they should find his hat floating on a pond and an unfinished exercise on the bank." the same practice of charging up arrears of work is condemned in david copperfield by associating it with the hateful murdstones. the crammer's absolute indifference and contempt for any semblance of correlation in studies is revealed by cornelia's action in giving him a collection of books on his first morning before school with instructions to study them at the places she had marked for him. no wonder that "when poor paul had spelled out number two he found he had no idea of number one; fragments whereof afterward obtruded themselves into number three, which sidled into number four, which grafted itself on to number two--so that whether twenty romuluses made a remus, or hic hæc hoc was troy weight, or a verb always agreed with an ancient briton, or three times four was taurus, a bull, were open questions with him." whenever words are given before thought, or as a substitute for thought, and without definite relationship to the thought already in the mind, they lie in the mind as unrelated, and therefore unavailable knowledge. a boy in london had received considerable historical teaching, and his mind had made a certain kind of unity out of the confused mass. when asked at his final examination "what he knew about cromwell," he answered: "cromwell interfered with the irish, and he was put in prison. when he was in prison he wrote the pilgrim's progress, and he afterward married mrs. o'shea." this was equalled by the other boy who wrote at an examination: "wolsey was a famous general who fought in the crimean war, and who, after being decapitated several times, said to cromwell: 'if i had served you as you have served me i would not have been deserted in my old age.'" paul's studies were always dark and crooked to him till florence bought copies of his books and studied them, and by patient sympathy made all that had been dark light, and all that had been crooked straight. the habit of giving definitions of abstractions to children, and expecting the definitions alone to be comprehended by children, is held up to deserved ridicule in the explanation of the word "analysis" to paul, when cornelia proposed to read the analysis of his character. "if my recollection serves me, the word analysis, as opposed to synthesis, is thus defined by walker: 'the resolution of an object, whether of the senses or of the intellect, into its first elements.' as opposed to synthesis, you observe. _now_ you know what analysis is, dombey." how perfectly simple and clear and expanding this would be to a child's mind! dickens says: "dombey didn't seem absolutely blinded by the light let in upon his intellect, but he made miss blimber a little bow." what loose habits of thought, and how much hypocrisy and mental vagueness are caused by using words instead of realities in the early teaching of children, and then asking them if they understand what we have been telling them! the "little bow" has usually a demoralizing effect. it is a mere farce to call the committing to memory of definitions "education." whatever the subjects, it is a dwarfing process, whether the definitions are memorized at home or at school, silently, by oral repetition, or by singing them. all definition learning as the origin of thought is certain to destroy interest and arrest development and lead to inaccuracy of thought. miss le row's collection of blunders made by children could never have been made if the children had been taught properly. such mistakes as "the body is mostly composed of water, and about one half of avaricious tissue" or "parasite, a kind of umbrella," or "emphasis, putting more distress on one word than on another," should suggest to teachers the absurdity of committing definitions to memory. it is one of the weakest forms of cramming, and is most ridiculous and least useful when the memorizing is done by simultaneous oral repetition. hard times exposes the evils of cramming in the teaching practised in the normal school in which mr. m'choakumchild was trained, and in the definition repetition as given by bitzer, and so highly praised by mr. gradgrind: "bitzer, your definition of a horse:" "quadruped, graminivorous. forty teeth, namely, twenty-four grinders, four eyeteeth, and twelve incisors. sheds coat in the spring; in marshy countries sheds hoofs, too. hoofs hard, but requiring to be shod with iron. age known by marks in mouth." how clear this would make the conception of a horse to a man who had never seen one! sissy jupe, too, is used to show the failure of cramming to educate a girl of quick intellect and strong emotions. she could not be crammed. m'choakumchild reported that she had a very dense head for figures; that, once possessed with a general idea of the globe, she took the smallest conceivable interest in its exact measurements; that she was extremely slow in the acquisition of dates, unless some pitiful incident happened to be connected therewith; that she would burst into tears on being required (by the mental process) immediately to name the cost of two hundred and forty-seven muslin caps at fourteenpence half-penny; that she was as low down in the school as low as could be; that after eight weeks of induction into the elements of political economy, she had only yesterday been set right by a prattler three feet high, for returning to the question, "what is the first principle of this science?" the absurd answer, "to do unto others as i would that they should do unto me." mr. gradgrind observed, shaking his head, that all this was very bad; that it showed the necessity of infinite grinding at the mill of knowledge as per system, schedule, blue book, report, and tabular statements a to z; and that jupe "must be kept to it." so jupe was kept to it, and became low-spirited, but no wiser. dickens makes the artist in somebody's luggage say: "who are you passing every day at your competitive excruciations? the fortunate candidates whose heads and livers you have turned upside down for life? not you, you are really passing the crammers and coaches." and jemmy lirriper, in describing his teacher, said: "oh, he was a tartar! keeping the boys up to the mark, holding examinations once a month, lecturing upon all sorts of subjects at all sorts of times, and knowing everything in the world out of a book." dickens saw the evils of competitive examinations more clearly than many educators do two generations after him. when educators in schools, colleges, and universities learn a better way to promote pupils, to classify men and women and to rank them at graduation, than by holding promotion and graduation examinations cramming will be of no use, and there shall be no more cramming. dickens was right as usual. the crammers and coaches are those who are tested by "competitive excruciations"; and how those who force through most students boast and strut and lord it over the less successful crammers and coaches on commencement days and other public occasions! what a misleading mockery examinations are as tests of power and character! few even of dickens's phrases contain such a condensation of fact and philosophy as the phrase "whose heads and livers you have turned upside down for life." few phrases deserve more careful consideration from educators. dickens makes the effect on the head still more startling by the description of miss wozenham's brother in mrs. lirriper's legacy. "miss wozenham out of her small income had to support a brother that had had the misfortune to soften his brain against the hard mathematics." in the same story he laughs at the practical results of language cramming usually done in the schools: and the way in which jemmy spoke his french was a real charm. it was often wanted of him, for whenever anybody spoke a syllable to me i says "noncomprenny, you're very kind but it's no use--now jemmy!" and then jemmy he fires away at 'em lovely, the only thing wanting in jemmy's french being as it appeared to me that he hardly ever understood a word of what they said to him, which made it scarcely of the use it might have been. dickens attempted to picture the feelings of a boy toward his teachers in the days when cramming was almost universally practised in the story of lieutenant-colonel robin redforth, aged nine. when the latin master was captured, he was saved by captain boldheart from the punishment of death to which he was condemned by the crew of the beauty. captain boldheart had been one of his pupils, and he said: "without taking your life, i must yet forever deprive you of the power of spiting other boys. i shall turn you adrift in this boat. you will find in her two oars, a compass, a bottle of rum, a small cask of water, a piece of pork, a bag of biscuit, and my latin grammar. go! and spite the natives if you can find any." when he afterward released him from the savages who were about to eat him, he granted him his life for the second time on condition: " . that he should never under any circumstances presume to teach any boy anything any more. " . that, if taken back to england, he should pass his life in travelling to find out boys who wanted their exercises done, and should do their exercises for nothing, and never say a word about it." when it finally became necessary to hang the latin master, boldheart "impressively pointed out to him that this is what spiters come to." there are many kinds of cram that yet pass as fairly respectable in schools and universities. when the teachers or the professors give notes to be copied by the pupils and memorized, they are cramming. when teachers are storing the memories of children with facts, tables, dates, etc., to be used at some future time, they are cramming. all memorizing by repetition of words, even if they are understood, is cram, if the pupil can work the thought into his life by repetition of process or of operation. words can never take the place of self-activity, nor even of activity. so long as knowledge storing is placed above character development, examinations by "examiners" will retain their power for evil, and so long as such examinations are held cramming will continue. all processes that attempt to educate from without inward, instead of from within outward, are in the last analysis cram. the selfhood must be active in going out for the new knowledge. the child must himself be originative, directive, and executive in the learning process if cram is to be avoided completely. this is the only sure way to secure perfect apperception, and without apperception the new knowledge lies dormant, if not dead, and unrelated in the memory until it disappears, as did bitherstone's. his declensions, according to dickens, were not likely to last out his journey from england to india. chapter vi. free childhood. adulthood can never be truly free till childhood is free. perfect freedom can not be developed in a soul filled with the apperceptive experiences of tyranny. no man is fully free in the freest country in the world who wishes to dominate even his child. the practice of tyranny develops the tyrant. guiding control is entirely different from domination. dickens taught the doctrine of a rich, full, free childhood from the time he wrote nicholas nickleby in . even the sunburned faces of gipsy children, half naked though they be, suggest a drop of comfort. it is a pleasant thing to see that the sun has been there; to know that the air and light are on them every day; to feel that they _are_ children, and lead children's lives; that if their pillows be damp, it is with the dews of heaven, and not with tears; that the limbs of their girls are free, and that they are not crippled by distortions, imposing an unnatural and horrible penance upon their sex; that their lives are spent, from day to day, at least among the waving trees, and not in the midst of dreadful engines which make young children old before they know what childhood is, and give them the exhaustion and infirmity of age, without, like age, the privilege to die. god send that old nursery tales were true, and that gipsies stole such children by the score! if he had written nothing but this exquisite quotation from nicholas nickleby he would have deserved recognition as an educator. it shows a clear insight into the great principles of physical freedom, intellectual freedom, and spiritual freedom. in the old curiosity shop he made the world sympathize with a child who lived with an old man. he gives the keynote to this fundamental thought of the book in the opening chapter: it always grieves me to contemplate the initiation of children into the ways of life when they are scarcely more than infants. it checks their confidence and simplicity--two of the best qualities that heaven gives them--and demands that they share our sorrows before they are capable of entering into our enjoyments. little nell had the sadness of a lonely childhood, though her grandfather lived with but the one aim of making her happy. in martin chuzzlewit-- tom pinch's sister was governess in a family, a lofty family; perhaps the wealthiest brass and copper founder's family known to mankind. they lived at camberwell; in a house so big and fierce that its mere outside, like the outside of a giant's castle, struck terror into vulgar minds and made bold persons quail. when mr. pecksniff and his daughters went to visit miss pinch she was at that moment instructing her eldest pupil; to wit, a premature little woman of thirteen years old, who had already arrived at such a pitch of whalebone and education that she had nothing girlish about her, which was a source of great rejoicing to all her relations and friends. one of the unsolved mysteries is the fact that such a large proportion of parents are so anxious to have their children grow up. the desire may be understood when poverty longs for the time when the little hands may help to win bread, but that wealthy parents should hasten the premature state of adulthood in their children is incomprehensible. a great deal of attention is paid to the blunder of robbing children of real childhood in dombey and son, which is so rich in several departments of educational philosophy. doctor blimber regarded the young gentlemen "as if they were born grown up." paul's life and death were intended as warnings to ambitious parents. florence was robbed of a true childhood by her mother's death and her father's lack of sympathy. briggs and tozer had no childhood; they were persecuted by the ingenious and ignorantly learned adults at home during vacations, as well as by doctor blimber during school time; so that "tozer said, indeed, that choosing between two evils, he would rather stay at school than go home." poor bitherstone had no childhood. he was shipped away from his parents in india to the respectable hell conducted by that widely known and highly reputed child trainer mrs. pipchin. poor little miss pankey spent a great deal of her time in mrs. pipchin's "correctional dungeon." what a mercy it would be if all such unfortunate children could be stolen by the gipsies! mrs. pipchin's theory taught "that it was wrong to encourage a child's mind to develop and expand itself like a young flower, but to open it by force like an oyster." when doctor blimber asked paul, six-year-old paul, "if he would like them to make a man of him," the child replied: "i had rather be a child." one of dickens's most successful hits at the common philosophy, that the desired adult characteristics must be developed in childhood in their adult forms, was made in describing mrs. tozer's effort to qualify tozer for the position of a clergyman by making him wear a stiff, starched necktie while he was a boy. when edith upbraided her mother for practically compelling her to marry mr. dombey, her mother asked angrily: "what do you mean? haven't you from a child----" "a child!" said edith, looking at her; "when was i a child? what childhood did you ever leave to me? i was a woman--artful, designing, mercenary, laying snares for men--before i knew myself or you, or even understood the base and wretched aim of every new display i learned. you gave birth to a woman. look upon her. she is in her pride to-night." "you talk strangely to-night, edith, to your own mother." "it seems so to me; stranger to me than to you," said edith. "but my education was completed long ago. i am too old now and have fallen too low, by degrees, to take a new course, and to stop yours, and to help myself. the germ of all that purifies a woman's breast, and makes it true and good, has never stirred in mine, and i have nothing else to sustain me when i despise myself." later, on the night before she was to marry mr. dombey, she said: "oh, mother, mother, if you had but left me to my natural heart when i too was a girl--a younger girl than florence--how different i might have been!" bleak house gives dickens's most striking picture of the deterioration resulting from giving no real childhood to children for a series of generations. during the whole time consumed in the slow growth of this family tree, the house of smallweed, always early to go to business and late to marry, has strengthened itself in its practical character, has discarded all amusements, discountenanced all storybooks, fairy tales, fictions, and fables, and banished all levities whatsoever. hence the gratifying fact that it has had no child born to it, and that the complete little men and women whom it has produced have been observed to bear a likeness to old monkeys with something depressing on their minds. there has been only one child in the smallweed family for several generations. little old men and women there have been, but no child, until mr. smallweed's grandmother, now living, became weak in her intellect, and fell (for the first time) into a childish state. with such infantine graces as a total want of observation, memory, understanding, and interest, and an eternal disposition to fall asleep over the fire and into it, mr. smallweed's grandmother has undoubtedly brightened the family. there could be no more awful picture than that of a family in which for a series of generations the children had been, through heredity and training, made "little old men and women," who were never permitted to indulge in any childish plays, or to enjoy any stories, or in any way have a genuine childhood, so that they not only came to look like monkeys, but "like monkeys with something depressing on their minds"; and in which the only child for several generations had been mr. smallweed's grandmother, when she became weak in intellect and "fell (for the first time) into a childish state." in the haunted house the wretched child who came to mr. redlaw's room is described as "a baby savage, a young monster, a child who had never been a child." dickens made his greatest plea for a free childhood in hard times. the whole of the educational part of the book condemns the training of mr. gradgrind, although he was an earnest, high-minded gentleman, whose supreme purpose was to train his family in the best possible way. indeed mr. gradgrind was so sure he was right in his views regarding child training that he founded a school to teach the children of coketown in accordance with what he believed to be correct principles. mr. gradgrind is described as a kind cannon loaded to the muzzle with facts, and prepared to blow children clean out of the regions of childhood at one discharge. he seemed a galvanizing apparatus, too, charged with a grim mechanical substitute for the tender young imaginations that were to be stormed away. there were five young gradgrinds, and they were models every one. they had been lectured at from their tenderest years; coursed, like little hares. almost as soon as they could run alone they had been made to run to the lecture room. the first object with which they had an association or of which they had a remembrance was a large blackboard with a dry ogre chalking ghastly white figures on it. not that they knew, by name or nature, anything about an ogre. fact forbid! i only use the word to express a monster in a lecturing castle, with heaven knows how many heads manipulated into one, taking childhood captive, and dragging it into gloomy statistical dens by the hair. no little gradgrind had ever seen a face in the moon; it was up in the moon before it could speak distinctly. no little gradgrind had ever learned the silly jingle, "twinkle, twinkle, little star; how i wonder what you are"; it had never known wonder on the subject, having at five years old dissected the great bear like a professor owen and driven charles's wain like a locomotive engine driver. no little gradgrind had ever associated a cow in a field with that famous cow with the crumpled horn who tossed the dog who worried the cat who killed the rat who ate the malt, or with that yet more famous cow who swallowed tom thumb; it had never heard of those celebrities, and had only been introduced to a cow as a graminivorous ruminating quadruped with several stomachs. the effect of preventing all kinds of enjoyment for his children in their own home was that they naturally sought for enjoyment surreptitiously in a way of which their father disapproved. but when a man disapproves of legitimate amusements in his family his condemnation of what is improper will have little weight with his children. when mr. gradgrind was going home from the school examination he had to pass near the circus, and he was amazed to find his daughter louisa and his son thomas stealing a view of the performance. phenomenon almost incredible though distinctly seen, what did he then behold but his own metallurgical louisa peeping with all her might through a hole in a deal board, and his own mathematical thomas abasing himself on the ground to catch but a hoof of the graceful equestrian tyrolean flower act! dumb with amazement, mr. gradgrind crossed to the spot where his family was thus disgraced, laid his hand upon each erring child, and said: "louisa! thomas!" both rose, red and disconcerted. but louisa looked at her father with more boldness than thomas did. indeed, thomas did not look at him, but gave himself up to be taken home like a machine. "in the name of wonder, idleness, and folly!" said mr. gradgrind, leading each away by a hand; "what do you do here?" "wanted to see what it was like," returned louisa shortly. "what it was like?" "yes, father." there was an air of jaded sullenness in them both, and particularly in the girl; yet, struggling through the dissatisfaction of her face, there was a light with nothing to rest upon, a fire with nothing to burn, a starved imagination keeping life in itself somehow, which brightened its expression. not with the brightness natural to cheerful youth, but with uncertain, eager, doubtful flashes, which had something painful in them, analogous to the changes on a blind face groping its way. "you! thomas and you, to whom the circle of the sciences is open, thomas and you, who may be said to be replete with facts, thomas and you, who have been trained to mathematical exactness, thomas and you, here!" cried mr. gradgrind. "in this degraded position! i am amazed." "i was tired, father. i have been tired a long time," said louisa. "tired? of what?" asked the astonished father. "i don't know of what--of everything, i think." when they reached home, mr. gradgrind in an injured tone said to mrs. gradgrind, after telling her where he had found the children: "i should as soon have expected to find my children reading poetry." "dear me," whimpered mrs. gradgrind. "how can you, louisa and thomas! i wonder at you. as if, with my head in its present throbbing state, you couldn't go and look at the shells and minerals and things provided for you, instead of circuses!" said mrs. gradgrind. "you know as well as i do, no young people have circus masters, or keep circuses in cabinets, or attend lectures about circuses. what can you possibly want to know of circuses then? i am sure you have enough to do, if that's what you want. with my head in its present state, i couldn't remember the mere names of half the facts you have got to attend to." "that's the reason!" pouted louisa. "don't tell me that's the reason, because it can be nothing of the sort," said mrs. gradgrind. "go and be something-ological directly." after louisa had married mr. bounderby, tom and mr. harthouse were discussing her one evening, and tom said she thought a great deal when she was alone: "ay, ay? has resources of her own," said harthouse. "not so much of that as you may suppose," returned tom; "for our governor had her crammed with all sorts of dry bones and sawdust. it's his system." "formed his daughter on his own model?" suggested harthouse. "his daughter? ah! and everybody else. why, he formed me that way," said tom. "impossible!" "he did though," said tom, shaking his head. "i mean to say, mr. harthouse, that when i first left home and went to old bounderby's, i was as flat as a warming-pan, and knew no more about life than any oyster does." dickens describes a visit louisa made to her father's house, and shows how little of the true home feeling was stirred in her heart, as she approached the place, where she should have had a happy childhood. neither, as she approached her old home now, did any of the best influences of old home descend upon her. her remembrances of home and childhood were remembrances of the drying up of every spring and fountain in her young heart as it gushed out. the golden waters were not there. they were flowing for the fertilization of the land where grapes are gathered from thorns, and figs from thistles. when her father proposed to louisa that she should marry mr. bounderby, she said: "the baby preference that even i have heard of as common among children has never had its innocent resting place in my breast. you have been so careful of me, that i never had a child's heart. you have trained me so well, that i never dreamed a child's dream. you have dealt so wisely with me, father, from my cradle to this hour, that i never had a child's belief or a child's fear." mr. gradgrind was delighted at his apparent success. he could not see, he was so practical and so self-opinionated, that her heart was breaking while she was yielding with external calmness. but the reaping time came soon. mr. harthouse, young, attractive, and unscrupulous, made love to louisa, and finally persuaded her to run away with him. unable to resist the temptation in her own strength, she fled to her father's house through an awful storm. the thunder was rolling into distance, and the rain was pouring down like a deluge, when the door of his room opened. he looked round the lamp upon his table, and saw with amazement his eldest daughter. "louisa!" "father, i want to speak to you." "what is the matter? what is it? i conjure you, louisa, tell me what is the matter." she dropped into a chair before him, and put her cold hand on his arm. "father, you have trained me from my cradle." "yes, louisa." "i curse the hour in which i was born to such a destiny." he looked at her in doubt and dread, vacantly repeating, "curse the hour! curse the hour!" "how could you give me life, and take from me all the inappreciable things that raise it from the state of conscious death? where are the graces of my soul? where are the sentiments of my heart? what have you done, o father, what have you done, with the garden that should have bloomed once, in this great wilderness here?" she struck herself with both her hands upon her bosom. "if it had ever been here, its ashes alone would save me from the void in which my whole life sinks." he tightened his hold in time to prevent her sinking on the floor, but she cried out in a terrible voice, "i shall die if you hold me! let me fall upon the ground!" and he laid her down there, and saw the pride of his heart and the triumph of his system lying, an insensible heap, at his feet. in the schoolboy's story, the boy who was to have no holiday at home was invited to spend his holidays with "old cheeseman" and mrs. cheeseman. so i went to their delightful house, and was as happy as i could possibly be. they understand how to conduct themselves toward boys, _they_ do. when they take a boy to the play, for instance, they _do_ take him. they don't go in after it's begun, or come out before it's over. they know how to bring a boy up, too. look at their own! though he is very little as yet, what a capital boy he is! why, my next favourite to mrs. cheeseman and old cheeseman is young cheeseman. when dickens came to his last book his heart was still full of sympathy with the child. edwin drood said to mr. jasper: "life for you is a plum with the natural bloom on. it hasn't been over-carefully wiped off for _you_." in the same book mr. grewgious is described: he was an arid, sandy man, who, if he had been put into a grinding mill, looked as if he would have ground immediately into high-dried snuff. he had a scanty flat crop of hair, in colour and consistency like some very mangy yellow fur tippet; it was so unlike hair, that it must have been a wig, but for the stupendous improbability of anybody's voluntarily sporting such a head. the little play of feature that his face presented was cut deep into it, in a few hard curves that made it more like work; and he had certain notches in his forehead, which looked as though nature had been about to touch them into sensibility or refinement, when she had impatiently thrown away the chisel, and said, "i really can not be worried to finish off this man; let him go as he is." he tried to explain the reason for his peculiarities to rosa: "i mean," he explained, "that young ways were never my ways. i was the only offspring of parents far advanced in life, and i half believe i was born advanced in life myself. no personality is intended toward the name you will so soon change, when i remark that while the general growth of people seem to have come into existence buds, i seem to have come into existence a chip. i was a chip--and a very dry one--when i first became aware of myself." dickens takes a front rank among the educators who have tried to save the child from "child-quellers," and preserve for them the right to a free, rich, real childhood. the saddest sight in the world to him was a child such as he pictured in a tale of two cities: "the children of st. antoine had ancient faces and grave voices." in barbox brothers mr. jackson said of himself: "i am, to myself, an unintelligible book, with the earlier chapters all torn out and thrown away. my childhood had no grace of childhood, my youth had no charm of youth, and what can be expected from such a lost beginning?" dickens tried to save all children from such a beginning. chapter vii. individuality. dickens began to write definitely about individuality in martin chuzzlewit in . martin described a company he met in america "who were so strangely devoid of individual traits of character that any one of them might have changed minds with the other and nobody would have found it out." in david copperfield he makes traddles, who was trained by mr. creakle, say: "i have no invention at all, not a particle. i suppose there never was a young man with less originality than i have." david himself said sagely: "i have encountered some fine ladies and gentlemen who might as well have been born caterpillars." david emphasizes the phase of individuality that teaches the power of each individual to do some special good, when he said to martha when she spoke of the river as the end of her useless life: "in the name of the great judge, before whom you and all of us must stand at his dread time, dismiss that terrible idea! we can all do some good, if we will." in bleak house sir leicester dedlock is represented as of opinion that he should at least think for every one in connection with his estate. the present representative of the dedlocks is an excellent master. he supposes all his dependents to be utterly bereft of individual characters, intentions, or opinions, and is persuaded that he was born to supersede the necessity of their having any. if he were to make a discovery to the contrary, he would be simply stunned--would never recover himself, most likely, except to gasp and die. the same absolute contempt for the individuality of the poor is ridiculed in the chimes. sir joseph bowley is a type of the english squire who used to act on the assumption that he had to care for the workmen on his estate, and the poor of his neighbourhood, as he did for his horses and other animals. "i do my duty as the poor man's friend and father; and i endeavour to educate his mind by inculcating on all occasions the one great moral lesson which that class requires--that is, entire dependence on myself. they have no business whatever with--with themselves. if wicked and designing persons tell them otherwise, and they become impatient and discontented, and are guilty of insubordinate conduct and black-hearted ingratitude--which is undoubtedly the case--i am their friend and father still. it is so ordained. it is in the nature of things. they needn't trouble themselves to think about anything. i will think for them; i know what is good for them; i am their perpetual parent. such is the dispensation of an all-wise providence." it is strange that men so commonly ascribe to providence the dreadful conditions which have resulted from man's ignorance and selfishness, and which providence intended man to reform. esther, in bleak house, speaking of the influence of the chancery suit on richard carstone, said: "the character of much older and steadier people may be even changed by the circumstances surrounding them. it would be too much to expect that a boy's, in its formation, should be the subject of such influences, and escape them." i felt this to be true; though, if i may venture to mention what i thought besides, i thought it much to be regretted that richard's education had not counteracted those influences or directed his character. he had been eight years at a public school, and had learned, i understood, to make latin verses of several sorts, in the most admirable manner. but i never heard that it had been anybody's business to find out what his natural bent was, or where his failings lay, or to adapt any kind of knowledge to _him_. _he_ had been adapted to the verses, and had learned the art of making them to such perfection, that if he had remained at school until he was of age i suppose he could only have gone on making them over and over again, unless he had enlarged his education by forgetting how to do it. still, although i had no doubt that they were very beautiful, and very improving, and very sufficient for a great many purposes of life, and always remembered all through life, i did doubt whether richard would not have profited by some one studying him a little, instead of his studying them quite so much. richard was one of those unstable men who have good abilities, but who do not use them persistently in the accomplishment of any one purpose, and who never seem to find the sphere for which they are best fitted. they are man-products, not god-products. when richard, after several attempts to work at other things with high enthusiasm for a few weeks, decided to be a physician, esther said: mistrusting that he only came to this conclusion because, having never had much chance of finding out for himself what he was fitted for, and having never been guided to the discovery, he was taken with the newest idea, and was glad to get rid of the trouble of consideration, i wondered whether the latin verses often ended in this, or whether richard's was a solitary case. richard very often came to see us while we remained in london (though he soon failed in his letter writing), and with his quick abilities, his good spirits, his good temper, his gaiety and freshness, was always delightful. but though i liked him more and more the better i knew him, i still felt more and more how much it was to be regretted that he had been educated in no habits of application and concentration. the system which had addressed him in exactly the same manner as it had addressed hundreds of other boys, all varying in character and capacity, had enabled him to dash through his tasks, always with fair credit, and often with distinction; but in a fitful, dazzling way that had confirmed his reliance on those very qualities in himself which it had been most desirable to direct and train. they were great qualities, without which no high place can be meritoriously won; but, like fire and water, though excellent servants, they were very bad masters. if they had been under richard's direction, they would have been his friends; but richard being under their direction, they became his enemies. any educational system that "addresses hundreds of boys exactly in the same manner" must destroy their individuality. in hard times tom gradgrind became a low, degraded, sensual, dissipated criminal, and dickens accounts for his failure by the unnatural restraint, constant oversight, and the strangling of his imagination in his cradle and afterward. in other words, the boy's selfhood never had a chance to develop, and every power he had naturally to make him strong, true, and independent had helped to work his ruin. in little dorrit mrs. general is herself a model to be avoided, and her system of training is ridiculed because she paid no attention whatever to the selfhood of her pupils except to conceal it artfully and prevent the recognition of any of the evils by which it was surrounded and which it should help to overcome. mrs. general had no opinions. her way of forming a mind was to prevent it from forming opinions. she had a little circular set of mental grooves or rails, on which she started little trains of other people's opinions, which never overtook one another and never got anywhere. even her propriety could not dispute that there was impropriety in the world; but mrs. general's way of getting rid of it was to put it out of sight, and make believe that there was no such thing. this was another of her ways of forming a mind--to cram all articles of difficulty into cupboards, lock them up, and say they had no existence. it was the easiest way and, beyond all comparison, the properest. mrs. general was not to be told of anything shocking. accidents, miseries, and offences were never to be mentioned before her. passion was to go to sleep in the presence of mrs. general, and blood was to change to milk and water. the little that was left in the world, when all these deductions were made, it was mrs. general's province to varnish. in that formation process of hers, she dipped the smallest of brushes into the largest of pots, and varnished the surface of every object that came under consideration. the more cracked it was, the more mrs. general varnished it. there was varnish in mrs. general's voice, varnish in mrs. general's touch, an atmosphere of varnish round mrs. general's figure. dickens wished the training of the real inner selfhood, not the varnishing of the surface merely. not what george macdonald describes as "sandpapering a boy into a saint," but genuine character development by the working out of the selfhood in the improvement of its environment, physically, intellectually, and spiritually. briggs's education, in dombey and son, had been of such a character that "his intellectual fruit had nothing of its original flavour remaining." the character of his real selfhood had been destroyed, not developed, by his "education." in our mutual friend mr. podsnap is used as a type of the men who not only see no need for any person else forming opinions, but who take pains to prevent others forming opinions, so far as possible. as mr. podsnap stood with his back to the drawing-room fire, pulling up his shirt collar, like a veritable cock of the walk literally pluming himself in the midst of his possessions, nothing would have astonished him more than an intimation that miss podsnap, or any young person properly born and bred, could not be exactly put away like the plate, brought out like the plate, polished like the plate, counted, weighed, and valued like the plate. that such a young person could possibly have a morbid vacancy in the heart for anything younger than the plate, or less monotonous than the plate, or that such a young person's thoughts could try to scale the region bounded on the north, south, east, and west by the plate, was a monstrous imagination which he would on the spot have flourished into space. eugene wrayburn's criticism of his father's habit of choosing professions for his sons almost as soon as they were born, or even before, without the slightest possible consideration for their natural aptitudes for the work to which they were assigned, is a severe attack on a condition which exists even yet through the failure of the schools or the homes to discover and reveal to boys and girls their highest powers, so that they may reach their best growth in school or college and choose the profession in which they can do most good and attain their most complete evolution. there is no better field for co-ordinate work by the home and the school than the joint study of the children to find their sphere of greatest power. every child should be helped to find the sphere in which he can most successfully achieve the highest destiny for himself and for humanity. eugene wrayburn's father extended his paternal care and forethought for his children not only by choosing their professions without regard for their selfhood, but by considerately selecting partners for his sons without regard for their individual tastes. eugene, speaking to mortimer lightwood, said: "my respected father has found, down in the parental neighbourhood, a wife for his not-generally-respected son." "with some money, of course?" "with some money, of course, or he would not have found her. my respected father--let me shorten the dutiful tautology by substituting in future m. r. f., which sounds military, and rather like the duke of wellington." "what an absurd fellow you are, eugene!" "not at all. i assure you. m. r. f. having always in the clearest manner provided (as he calls it) for his children by prearranging from the hour of the birth of each, and sometimes from an earlier period, what the devoted little victim's calling and course in life should be, m. r. f. prearranged for myself that i was to be the barrister i am (with the slight addition of an enormous practice, which has not accrued), and also the married man i am not." "the first you have often told me." "the first i have often told you. considering myself sufficiently incongruous on my legal eminence, i have until now suppressed my domestic destiny. you know m. r. f., but not as well as i do. if you knew him as well as i do, he would amuse you." "filially spoken, eugene!" "perfectly so, believe me; and with every sentiment of affectionate deference toward m. r. f. but if he amuses me, i can't help it. when my eldest brother was born, of course the rest of us knew (i mean the rest of us would have known, if we had been in existence) that he was heir to the family embarrassments--we call it before company the family estate. but when my second brother was going to be born by and by, 'this,' says m. r. f., 'is a little pillar of the church.' _was_ born, and became a pillar of the church--a very shaky one. my third brother appeared considerably in advance of his engagement to my mother; but m. r. f., not at all put out by surprise, instantly declared him a circumnavigator. was pitchforked into the navy, but has not circumnavigated. i announced myself, and was disposed of with the highly satisfactory results embodied before you. when my younger brother was half an hour old, it was settled by m. r. f. that he should have a mechanical genius, and so on. therefore i say m. r. f. amuses me." in the same book bradley headstone's school is described as one of a system of schools in which "school buildings, school-teachers, and school pupils are all according to pattern, and all engendered in the light of the latest gospel according to monotony." bradley headstone himself was a mechanical product of a mechanical system of uniformity that destroyed independence and individuality of character. bradley headstone, in his decent black coat and waistcoat, and decent white shirt, and decent formal black tie, and decent pantaloons of pepper and salt, with his decent silver watch in his pocket and its decent hair guard round his neck, looked a thoroughly decent young man of six-and-twenty. he was never seen in any other dress, and yet there was a certain stiffness in his manner of wearing this, as if there were a want of adaptation between him and it, recalling some mechanics in their holiday clothes. he had acquired mechanically a great store of teacher's knowledge. he could do mental arithmetic mechanically, sing at sight mechanically, blow various wind instruments mechanically, even play the great church organ mechanically. from his early childhood up, his mind had been a place of mechanical stowage. the arrangement of his wholesale warehouse, so that it might be always ready to meet the demands of retail dealers--history here, geography there, astronomy to the right, political economy to the left--natural history, the physical sciences, figures, music, the lower mathematics, and what not, all in their several places--this care had imparted to his countenance a look of care. suppression of so much to make room for so much had given him a constrained manner over and above. the most remarkable description of a system of training that totally ignored individuality and chipped and battered and moulded and squeezed all students into the same pattern or mould is the description of the normal school in which mr. gradgrind's teacher, mr. m'choakumchild, was trained. "mr. m'choakumchild and one hundred and forty other schoolmasters had been lately _turned_ at the same time, in the same factory, on the same principles, like so many piano legs." volumes could not make the sacrifice of individuality clearer than this sentence does. at "the grinders' school boys were taught as parrots are." doctor blimber was condemned because in his system "nature was of no consequence at all; no matter what a boy was intended to bear, doctor blimber made him bear to pattern somehow or other." in doctor strong's school "we had plenty of liberty." the boys had also "noble games out of doors" in this model school of dickens. liberty and noble outdoor sports are the best agencies yet revealed to man for the development of full selfhood in harmony with the fundamental law of education, self-activity. chapter viii. the culture of the imagination. in the preface to the first number of household words dickens said that one of the objects he had in view in publishing the magazine was to aid in the development of the imagination of children. from the time of barnaby rudge his unconscious recognition of the right of the child to have his imagination made freer and stronger can be felt in his writings. his conscious recognition of the absolute necessity of child freedom included the ideal of the culture of the imagination. he reached his educational meridian in hard times, and the pedagogy of this book was devoted almost entirely to child freedom and the imagination; to revealing the fatal error of mr. gradgrind's philosophy, which taught that fact storing was the true way to form a child's mind and character, entirely ignoring the fact that feeling and imagination are the strongest elements of intellectual power and clearness. in bleak house, which immediately preceded hard times, he gave a very able description of the effects of the neglect of the development of the imagination for several generations in the characteristics of the smallweed family. the smallweeds had strengthened themselves in their practical character, discarded all amusements, discountenanced all storybooks, fairy tales, fictions, and fables, and banished all levities whatsoever. hence the gratifying fact that it has had no child born to it, and that the complete little men and women it has produced have been observed to bear a likeness to old monkeys with something depressing on their minds. mr. smallweed's grandfather is in a helpless condition as to his lower, and nearly so as to his upper limbs; but his mind is unimpaired. it holds, as well as it ever held, the first four rules of arithmetic, and a certain small collection of the hardest facts. in respect of ideality, reverence, wonder, and other such phrenological attributes, it is no worse off than it used to be. everything that mr. smallweed's grandfather ever put away in his mind was a grub at first, and is a grub at last. in all his life he has never bred a single butterfly. this alone is a treatise of great suggestiveness on the need of the development of the imagination and the means by which it should be developed. hard times was evidently intended to show the weakness of the herbartian psychology. dickens believed in the distinctive soul as the real selfhood of each child, and as the only true reality in his nature, the dominating influence in his life and character. he did not believe that knowledge formed the soul, but that the soul transformed knowledge. he did not believe that knowledge gave form, colour, and tone to the soul, but that the soul gave new form, colour, and tone to knowledge. he ridiculed the idea that the educator by using great care in the selection of his knowledge could produce a man of such a character as he desired; that ten pounds of yellow knowledge and ten pounds of blue knowledge judiciously mixed in a boy would certainly produce twenty pounds of green manhood. he believed that in every child there is an element "defying all the calculations ever made by man, and no more known to his arithmetic than his creator is." he did not agree with the psychology of which mr. gradgrind was the impersonation. mr. gradgrind believed that he could reduce human nature in all its complexities to statistics, and that "with his rule, and a pair of scales, and the multiplication table, he could weigh and measure any parcel of human nature, and tell you exactly what it comes to." mr. gradgrind had established a school for the training of the children of coketown, and had engaged mr. m'choakumchild to teach it. dickens criticised the normal school training of his time in his description of mr. m'choakumchild's preparation for the work of stimulating young life to larger, richer growth. he and some one hundred and forty other schoolmasters had been lately turned at the same time, in the same factory, on the same principles, like so many pianoforte legs. he had been put through an immense variety of paces, and had answered volumes of head-breaking questions. orthography, etymology, syntax, and prosody, biography, astronomy, geography as general cosmography, the sciences of compound proportion, algebra, land surveying and levelling, vocal music, and drawing from models, were all at the ends of his ten chilled fingers. he had worked his stony way through her majesty's most honourable privy council's schedule b, and had taken the bloom off the higher branches of mathematics and physical science, french, german, latin, and greek. he knew all about all the watersheds of all the world (whatever they are), and all the histories of all the peoples, and all the names of all the rivers and mountains, and all the productions, manners, and customs of all the countries, and all their boundaries and bearings on the two-and-thirty points of the compass. ah! mr. m'choakumchild, rather overdone. if he had only learned a little less, how infinitely better he might have taught much more! dickens criticised the lack of professional training, and the fact-storing process which subordinated feeling and imagination. mr. gradgrind's school was to be opened. the government officer was present to examine it. mr. gradgrind made a short opening address: "now, what i want is facts. teach these boys and girls nothing but facts. facts alone are wanted in life. plant nothing else, and root out everything else. you can only form the minds of reasoning animals upon facts; nothing else will ever be of any service to them. this is the principle on which i bring up my own children, and this is the principle on which i bring up these children. stick to facts, sir!" the scene was a plain, bare, monotonous vault of a schoolroom, and the speaker's square forefinger emphasized his observations by underscoring every sentence with a line on the schoolmaster's sleeve. the emphasis was helped by the speaker's square wall of a forehead, which had his eyebrows for its base, while his eyes found commodious cellarage in two dark caves, overshadowed by the wall. the emphasis was helped by the speaker's mouth, which was wide, thin, and hard set. the emphasis was helped by the speaker's voice, which was inflexible, dry, and dictatorial. "in this life we want nothing but facts, sir; nothing but facts." the speaker, and the schoolmaster, and the third grown person present, all backed a little, and swept with their eyes the inclined plane of little vessels then and there arranged in order, ready to have imperial gallons of facts poured into them until they were full to the brim. most of the schoolrooms of the world are yet "plain, bare, monotonous vaults," although nearly fifty years after dickens pointed out the need of artistic form and artistic decoration in schools we are beginning to awake to the idea that the architecture, the colouring, and the art on the walls and in the cabinets of schools may influence the characters of children more even than the teaching. mr. gradgrind proceeded to ask a few questions of the pupils, who in this new school were to be known by numbers--so much more statistical and mathematical--and not by their names. as he stood before the pupils, who were seated in rows on a gallery, "he seemed a kind of cannon loaded to the muzzle with facts, and prepared to blow them clean out of the regions of childhood at one discharge. he seemed a galvanizing apparatus, too, charged with a grim mechanical substitute for the tender young imaginations that were to be stormed away." in the last sentence dickens reveals the true philosophy of sustaining and developing natural and therefore productive interest, and explains how, after destroying it, teachers try to galvanize it into spasmodic activity. "girl number twenty," said mr. gradgrind, squarely pointing with his square forefinger. "i don't know that girl. who is that girl?" "sissy jupe, sir," explained number twenty, blushing, standing up, and courtesying. "sissy is not a name," said mr. gradgrind. "don't call yourself sissy. call yourself cecilia." "it's father as calls me sissy, sir," returned the young girl in a trembling voice, and with another courtesy. "then he has no business to do it," said mr. gradgrind. "tell him he mustn't. cecilia jupe. let me see. what is your father?" "he belongs to the horse riding, if you please, sir." mr. gradgrind frowned and waved off the objectionable calling with his hand. "we don't want to know anything about that here. you mustn't tell us about that here. your father breaks horses, don't he?" "if you please, sir, when they can get any to break, they do break horses in the ring, sir." "you mustn't tell us about the ring, here. very well, then, describe your father as a horsebreaker. he doctors sick horses, i dare say?" "oh, yes, sir." "very well, then. he is a veterinary surgeon, a farrier, and horsebreaker. give me your definition of a horse." (sissy jupe thrown into the greatest alarm by this demand.) "girl number twenty unable to define a horse!" said mr. gradgrind for the general behoof of all the little pitchers. "girl number twenty possessed of no facts in reference to one of the commonest of animals! some boy's definition of a horse. bitzer, yours." bitzer: "quadruped. graminivorous. forty teeth, namely, twenty-four grinders, four eyeteeth, and twelve incisors. sheds coat in the spring; in marshy countries sheds hoofs too. hoofs hard, but requiring to be shod with iron. age known by marks in mouth----" thus (and much more) bitzer. "now, girl number twenty," said mr. gradgrind, "you know what a horse is." the keen edge of dickens's sarcasm will be felt when it is remembered that sissy jupe was born among horses, had lived with them, played with them, and ridden them all her life, but was "ignorant of the commonest facts regarding a horse." she could not define a horse. the government examiner then stepped forward: "very well," said this gentleman, briskly smiling, and folding his arms. "that's a horse. now let me ask you girls and boys, would you paper a room with representations of horses?" after a pause, one half the children cried in chorus, "yes, sir!" upon which the other half, seeing in the gentleman's face that "yes" was wrong, cried out in chorus, "no, sir!"--as the custom is in these examinations. "of course, no. why wouldn't you?" a pause. one corpulent slow boy, with a wheezy manner of breathing, ventured the answer, because he wouldn't paper a room at all, but would paint it. "you _must_ paper it," said the gentleman rather warmly. "you must paper it," said thomas gradgrind, "whether you like it or not. don't tell _us_ you wouldn't paper it. what do you mean, boy?" "i'll explain to you, then," said the gentleman, after another and a dismal pause, "why you wouldn't paper a room with representations of horses. do you ever see horses walking up and down the sides of rooms in reality--in fact? do you?" "yes, sir!" from one half, "no, sir!" from the other. "of course, no," said the gentleman, with an indignant look at the wrong half. "why, then, you are not to see anywhere what you don't see in fact; you are not to have anywhere what you don't have in fact. what is called taste is only another name for fact." thomas gradgrind nodded his approbation. "this is a new principle, a discovery, a great discovery," said the gentleman. "now, i'll try you again. suppose you were going to carpet a room. would you use a carpet having a representation of flowers upon it?" there being a general conviction by this time that "no, sir!" was always the right answer to this gentleman, the chorus of "no" was very strong. only a few feeble stragglers said "yes," among them sissy jupe. "girl number twenty," said the gentleman, smiling in the calm strength of knowledge. sissy blushed, and stood up. "so you would carpet your room--or your husband's room, if you were a grown woman and had a husband--with representations of flowers, would you? why would you?" "if you please, sir, i am very fond of flowers," said the girl. "and is that why you would put tables and chairs upon them, and have people walking over them with heavy boots?" "it wouldn't hurt them, sir. they wouldn't crush and wither, if you please, sir. they would be the pictures of what was very pretty, and pleasant, and i would fancy----" "ay, ay, ay! but you mustn't fancy," cried the gentleman, quite elated by coming so happily to this point. "that's it! you are never to fancy." "fact, fact, fact," said the gentleman. "fact, fact, fact," repeated mr. gradgrind. "you are to be in all things regulated and governed," said the gentleman, "by fact. we hope to have, before long, a board of fact, composed of commissioners of fact, who will force the people to be a people of fact, and of nothing but fact. you must discard the word fancy altogether. you have nothing to do with it. you are not to have, in any object of use or ornament, what would be a contradiction in fact. you don't walk upon flowers in fact; you can not be allowed to walk upon flowers in carpets. you don't find that foreign birds and butterflies come and perch upon your crockery; you can not be permitted to paint foreign birds and butterflies upon your crockery. you must use for all these purposes combinations and modifications (in primary colours) of mathematical figures, which are susceptible of proof and demonstration. this is the new discovery. this is fact. this is taste." then mr. m'choakumchild was asked to teach his first lesson. he went to work in this preparatory lesson not unlike morgiana in the forty thieves: looking into all the vessels ranged before him, one after another, to see what they contained. say, good m'choakumchild, when from thy boiling store thou shalt fill each jar brim full by and by, dost thou think that thou wilt always kill outright the robber fancy lurking within--or sometimes only maim him and distort him? the "maiming and distorting" of the imagination filled dickens with alarm. he recognised with great clearness the law that all evil springs from misused good, and he knew that if the imagination is not cultivated properly the child not only loses the many intellectual and spiritual advantages that would result from its true culture, but that it is exposed to the terrible danger of a distorted imagination. tom gradgrind is used as a type of the degradation that results from "the strangling of the imagination." its ghost lived on to drag him down "in the form of grovelling sensualities." that which, truly used, has most power to ennoble, has also, when warped or dwarfed, most power to degrade. as mr. varden told his wife, "all good things perverted to evil purposes are worse than those which are naturally bad." the five young gradgrinds had little opportunity to develop their imaginations. they were watched too closely to have any imaginative plays; they were not allowed to read poetry or fiction; they heard no stories; they had no fairies or genii in their lives; they heard nothing of giants or such false things; no little boy blue ever blew his horn for them; no jack horner took a plum out of any pie in their experience; no such ridiculous person as santa claus ever put anything in their stockings; no cow ever performed the impossible feat of jumping over the moon, so far as they knew; they had never even heard of the cow with the crumpled horn that tossed the dog that worried the cat that killed the rat that ate the malt that lay in the house that jack built. they knew, or they could say, that a cow was "a graminivorous ruminating quadruped," and that was enough, in the philosophy of mr. gradgrind. sissy jupe's father got into difficulties in coketown, and he became discouraged and ran away. mr. gradgrind was a good man, and meant to do right, so he adopted sissy. he told her his intentions rather bluntly: "jupe, i have made up my mind to take you into my house, and, when you are not in attendance at the school, to employ you about mrs. gradgrind, who is rather an invalid. i have explained to miss louisa--this is miss louisa--the miserable but natural end of your late career; and you are to expressly understand that the whole of that subject is past, and is not to be referred to any more. from this time you begin your history. you are, at present, ignorant, i know." "yes, sir, very," she answered, courtesying. "i shall have the satisfaction of causing you to be strictly educated; and you will be a living proof to all who come into communication with you, of the advantages of the training you will receive. you will be reclaimed and formed. you have been in the habit of reading to your father and those people i found you among, i dare say?" said mr. gradgrind, beckoning her nearer to him before he said so, and dropping his voice. "only to father and merrylegs, sir. at least, i mean to father, when merrylegs was always there." "never mind merrylegs, jupe," said mr. gradgrind with a passing frown. "i don't ask about him. i understand you to have been in the habit of reading to your father?" "oh, yes, sir, thousands of times. they were the happiest--oh, of all the happy times we had together, sir!" it was only now, when her grief broke out, that louisa looked at her. "and what," asked mr. gradgrind in a still lower voice, "did you read to your father, jupe?" "about the fairies, sir, and the dwarf, and the hunchback, and the genies," she sobbed out. "there," said mr. gradgrind, "that is enough. never breathe a word of such destructive nonsense any more." one night, in their study den, louisa had been overheard to begin a conversation with her brother by saying, "tom, i wonder--" upon which mr. gradgrind, who was the person overhearing, stepped forth into the light, and said, "louisa, never wonder!" herein lay the spring of the mechanical art and mystery of educating the reason without stooping to the cultivation of the sentiments and affections. never wonder. by means of addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division settle everything somehow, and never wonder. "bring to me," says mr. m'choakumchild, "yonder baby just able to walk, and i will engage that it will never wonder." mr. gradgrind and mr. m'choakumchild deliberately planned, as a result of a false psychology, to destroy all foolish dreamings and imaginings and wonderings by the children. this same wonder power is the mightiest stimulus to mental and spiritual effort, the source of all true interest, man's leader in his work of productive investigation. wonder power should increase throughout the life of the child. unfortunately, the gradgrind philosophy is practised by many educators. the child's natural wonder power is dwarfed, and an unnatural interest is substituted for it. teachers kill the natural interest, and then try to galvanize its dead body into temporary activity. the child who was made a wonderer and a problem finder by god is made a problem solver by teachers. his dreamings and fancies have been stopped, and he has been stored with facts and made "practical." mr. gradgrind was much exercised by the fact that the people of coketown did not read the scientific and mathematical books in the library so much as poetry and fiction. it was a melancholy fact that after working for fifteen hours a day "they sat down to read mere fables about men and women more or less like themselves, and about children more or less like their own. they took de foe to their bosoms instead of euclid, and seemed to be, on the whole, more comforted by goldsmith than by cocker." this was very discouraging to mr. gradgrind. one night louisa and tom were sitting alone conversing about themselves and the way they were being trained by their father. in the course of their conversation tom said: "i am sick of my life, loo; i hate it altogether, and i hate everybody except you. as to me, i am a donkey, that's what i am. i am as obstinate as one, i am more stupid than one, i get as much pleasure as one, and i should like to kick like one." "not me, i hope, tom." "no, loo, i wouldn't hurt _you_. i made an exception of you at first. i don't know what this--jolly old--jaundiced jail"--tom had paused to find a sufficiently complimentary and expressive name for the parental roof, and seemed to relieve his mind for a moment by the strong alliteration of this one--"would be without you." "tom," said his sister, after silently watching the sparks a while, "as i get older, and nearly growing up, i often sit wondering here, and think how unfortunate it is for me that i can't reconcile you to home better than i am able to do. i don't know what other girls know. i can't play to you, or sing to you. i can't talk to you so as to lighten your mind, for i never see any amusing sights or read any amusing books that it would be a pleasure or a relief to you to talk about, when you are tired." "well, no more do i. i am as bad as you in that respect; and i am a mule too, which you're not. if father was determined to make me either a prig or a mule, and i am not a prig, why, it stands to reason, i must be a mule. and so i am." "i wish i could collect all the facts we hear so much about," said tom, spitefully setting his teeth, "and all the figures, and all the people who found them out; and i wish i could put a thousand barrels of gunpowder under them and blow them all up together." louisa sat looking at the fire so long that tom asked, "have you gone to sleep, loo?" "no, tom, i am looking at the fire." "what do you see in it?" "i don't see anything in it, tom, particularly, but since i have been looking at it i have been wondering about you and me, grown up." "wondering again?" said tom. "i have such unmanageable thoughts," returned his sister, "that they _will_ wonder." "then i beg of you, louisa," said mrs. gradgrind, who had opened the door without being heard, "to do nothing of that description, for goodness' sake, you inconsiderate girl, or i shall never hear the last of it from your father. and, thomas, it is really shameful, with my poor head continually wearing me out, that a boy brought up as you have been, and whose education has cost what yours has, should be found encouraging his sister to wonder, when he knows his father has expressly said that she was not to do it." louisa denied tom's participation in the offence; but her mother stopped her with the conclusive answer, "louisa, don't tell me, in my state of health; for unless you had been encouraged, it is morally and physically impossible that you could have done it." "i was encouraged by nothing, mother, but by looking at the red sparks dropping out of the fire, and whitening and dying. it made me think, after all, how short my life would be, and how little i could hope to do in it." "nonsense!" said mrs. gradgrind, rendered almost energetic. "nonsense! don't stand there and tell me such stuff, louisa, to my face, when you know very well that if it was ever to reach your father's ears i should never hear the last of it. after all the trouble that has been taken with you! after the lectures you have attended, and the experiments you have seen! after i have heard you myself, when the whole of my right side has been benumbed, going on with your master about combustion, and calcination, and calorification, and i may say every kind of ation that could drive a poor invalid distracted, to hear you talking in this absurd way about sparks and ashes!" when a boy hates home, and a girl in her teens is rejoicing at the prospect of a short life, there has been some serious blunder in their training. when her father was proposing to her that she should marry old bounderby, louisa said: "what do _i_ know, father, of tastes and fancies; of aspirations and affections; of all that part of my nature in which such light things might have been nourished? what escape have i had from problems that could be demonstrated, and realities that could be grasped?" as she said it, she unconsciously closed her hand, as if upon a solid object, and slowly opened it as though she were releasing dust or ash. after her marriage to bounderby louisa rarely came home, and dickens gives in detail a sequence of thought that passed through her mind on her approach to the old home after a long absence. none of the true feelings were stirred in her heart. the dreams of childhood--its airy fables, its graceful, beautiful, humane, impossible adornments of the world beyond, so good to be believed in once, so good to be remembered when outgrown, for then the least among them rises to the stature of a great charity in the heart, suffering little children to come into the midst of it, and to keep with their pure hands a garden in the stony ways of this world, wherein it were better for all the children of adam that they should oftener sun themselves, simple and trustful, and not worldly-wise--what had she to do with these? remembrances of how she had journeyed to the little that she knew by the enchanted roads of what she and millions of innocent creatures had hoped and imagined; of how, first coming upon reason through the tender light of fancy, she had seen it a beneficent god, deferring to gods as great as itself; not a grim idol, cruel and cold, with its victims bound hand to foot, and its big dumb shape set up with a sightless stare, never to be moved by anything but so many calculated tons of leverage--what had she to do with these? this quotation shows how clearly dickens saw the relationship between the imagination and the reason. her imagination had been dwarfed and perverted; and her power to feel, and to think, and to appreciate beauty, and to love, and to see god and understand him, was dwarfed and perverted as a consequence. her poor mother, who had always felt that there was something wrong with her husband's training, but dared not oppose him, and fully supported him for the sake of peace which never really came, was worn out, and had almost become a mental wreck. her mind was struggling with the one great question. she tried and tried vainly to find what the great defect of her husband's system was, but she was very sure it had a great weakness somewhere. she tried to explain the matter to louisa when she came to see her. "you learned a great deal, louisa, and so did your brother. ologies of all kinds, from morning to night. if there is any ology left, of any description, that has not been worn to rags in this house, all i can say is, i hope i shall never hear its name." "i can hear you, mother, when you have strength to go on." this, to keep her from floating away. "but there's something--not an ology at all--that your father has missed, or forgotten, louisa. i don't know what it is. i have often sat with sissy near me, and thought about it. i shall never get its name now. but your father may. it makes me restless. i want to write to him, to find out, for god's sake, what it is. give me a pen, give me a pen." when louisa, unable to resist alone the temptation to go with mr. harthouse, fled to her father and told him in such earnest words that she cursed the hour she had been born to submit to his training, she said: "i don't reproach you, father. what you have never nurtured in me, you have never nurtured in yourself; but oh! if you had only done so long ago, or if you had only neglected me, what a much better and much happier creature i should have been this day!" on hearing this, after all his care, he bowed his head upon his hand and groaned aloud. "father, if you had known, when we were last together here, what even i feared while i strove against it--as it has been my task from infancy to strive against every natural prompting that has arisen in my heart; if you had known that there lingered in my breast sensibilities, affections, weakness capable of being cherished into strength, defying all the calculations ever made by man, and no more known to his arithmetic than his creator is--would you have given me to the husband whom i am now sure that i hate?" he said, "no, no, my poor child." "would you have doomed me, at any time, to the frost and blight that have hardened and spoiled me? would you have robbed me--for no one's enrichment--only for the greater desolation of this world--of the immaterial part of my life, the spring and summer of my belief, my refuge from what is sordid and bad in the real things around me, my school in which i should have learned to be more humble, and more trusting with them, and to hope in my little sphere to make them better?" "oh, no, no! no, louisa." "yet, father, if i had been stone blind; if i had groped my way by my sense of touch, and had been free, while i knew the shapes and surfaces of things, to exercise my fancy somewhat in regard to them, i should have been a million times wiser, happier, more loving, more contented, more innocent and human in all good respects, than i am with the eyes i have. now, hear what i have come to say. with a hunger and thirst upon me, father, which have never been for a moment appeased; with an ardent impulse toward some region where rules, and figures, and definitions were not quite absolute, i have grown up, battling every inch of my way. "in this strife i have almost repulsed and crushed my better angel into a demon. what i have learned has left me doubting, misbelieving, despising, regretting what i have not learned; and my dismal resource has been to think that life would soon go by, and that nothing in it could be worth the pain and trouble of a contest." when she had finished the story of her acquaintance with mr. harthouse and his influence over her, she said: "all that i know is, your philosophy and your teaching will not save me. now, father, you have brought me to this. save me by some other means." dickens pictured mr. gradgrind as a good, earnest man, who desired to do only good for his family. in gauging fathomless deeps with his little mean excise rod, and in staggering over the universe with his rusty stiff-legged compasses, he had meant to do great things. within the limits of his short tether he had tumbled about, annihilating the flowers of existence with greater singleness of purpose than many of the blatant personages whose company he kept. a careful study of what louisa said to her father will show that dickens had made a profound study of froebel's philosophy of the feelings and the imagination which is now the dominating theory of psychology, and that he clearly understood what wordsworth meant when he wrote: "whose heart the holy forms of young imagination had kept pure." sissy jupe failed utterly to satisfy mr. m'choakumchild at school. she could not remember facts and dates. she could not be crammed successfully, and she had a very dense head for figures. "she actually burst into tears when required (by the mental process) to name immediately the cost of two hundred and forty-seven muslin caps at fourteen pence halfpenny," so mr. gradgrind told her she would have to leave school. "i can not disguise from you, jupe," said mr. gradgrind, knitting his brow, "that the result of your probation there has disappointed me--has greatly disappointed me. you have not acquired, under mr. and mrs. m'choakumchild, anything like that amount of exact knowledge which i look for. you are extremely deficient in your facts. your acquaintance with figures is very limited. you are altogether backward, and below the mark." "i am sorry, sir," she returned; "but i know it is quite true. yet i have tried hard, sir." "yes," said mr. gradgrind, "yes, i believe you have tried hard; i have observed you, and i can find no fault in that respect." "thank you, sir. i have thought sometimes"--sissy very timid here--"that perhaps i tried to learn too much, and that if i had asked to be allowed to try a little less, i might have----" "no, jupe, no," said mr. gradgrind, shaking his head in his profoundest and most eminently practical way. "no. the course you pursued, you pursued according to the system--the system--and there is no more to be said about it. i can only suppose that the circumstances of your early life were too unfavourable to the development of your reasoning powers, and that we began too late. still, as i have said already, i am disappointed." "i wish i could have made a better acknowledgment, sir, of your kindness to a poor forlorn girl who had no claim upon you, and of your protection of her." "don't shed tears," said mr. gradgrind. "don't shed tears. i don't complain of you. you are an affectionate, earnest, good young woman, and--and we must make that do." how blind a man must become when his faith in a system or a philosophy can make him estimate fact storing so much and character forming so little! sissy could not learn facts, therefore mr. gradgrind mourned. the fact that she was "affectionate, earnest, good," was only a trifling matter--a very poor substitute for brilliant acquirements in dates and facts and mental arithmetic. sissy became, however, the good angel of the gradgrind household. she helped louisa back to a partial hope and sweetness; she gave the younger children, with mr. gradgrind's permission, the real childhood of freedom and imagination, which the older children had lost forever; she brightened the lives even of mrs. and mr. gradgrind, and she helped to save tom from the disgrace of his crime. the closing picture of the book, one of the most beautiful dickens ever painted, tells the story of sissy's future: but happy sissy's happy children loving her; all children loving her; she, grown learned in childish lore; thinking no innocent and pretty fancy ever to be despised; trying hard to know her humbler fellow-creatures, and to beautify their lives of machinery and reality with those imaginative graces and delights, without which the heart of infancy will wither up, the sturdiest physical manhood will be morally stark death, and the plainest national prosperity figures can show will be the writing on the wall--she holding this course as part of no fantastic vow, or bond, or brotherhood, or sisterhood, or pledge, or covenant, or fancy dress, or fancy fair; but simply as a duty to be done. did louisa see these things of herself? these things were to be! dear reader! it rests with you and me whether, in our two fields of action, similar things shall be or not. let them be! we shall sit with lighter bosoms on the hearth, to see the ashes of our fires turn gray and cold. and the educational gradgrinds of the present time sneer at dickens because he puts the early training of a circus above the early training of a christian home like mr. gradgrind's. "the logical consequence of such reasoning," they say, "would be that all children should be trained in circuses." oh, no! dickens did not recommend a circus as a good place to train children. but he did believe that even a circus is a thousand times better than a so-called christian home for the true and complete development of a child, if in the circus the child is free and happy, and is allowed full play for her imagination, and is not arrested in her development by rote storing of facts and too early drill in arithmetic, and has the rich productive love of even one parent, and has blessed opportunities for loving service for her pets and her friends; and if in the so-called christian home she is robbed of these privileges even in the name of religion. sissy had a blessed, free childhood. she lived in her own imaginary world most of the time; she had the deep love of her kind-hearted father and of merrylegs, the dog; she read poetry and fairy tales; she attended to her father's needs; she had many opportunities to show her love in loving service for merrylegs and her father; and she was not dwarfed by fact cramming and formal drill. her chances of reaching a true womanhood were excellent, and when she got the opportunity for the revelation of character, she had character to reveal, and her character developed in its revelation for the benefit and happiness of others. hers was the true christian training after all. homes and schools with such training are centres of great power. one of the strongest pleas ever made for the cultivation of the imagination, "the fancies and affections," and for the teaching of literature, art, and music in the schools was given in hard times, which is an industrial as well as an educational story. indeed, dickens saw that the true solution of industrial questions was the proper training of the race. no attack on the meanness of utilitarianism and no exposition of its terrible dangers could be more incisive and philosophical than the following wonderful sentences: utilitarian economists, skeletons of schoolmasters, commissioners of fact, genteel and used-up infidels, gabblers of many little dog's-eared creeds, the poor you will have always with you. cultivate in them, while there is yet time, the utmost graces of the fancies and affections, to adorn their lives so much in need of ornament; or, in the moment of your triumph, when romance is utterly driven out of their souls, and they and a bare existence stand face to face, reality will take a wolfish turn, and make an end of you! altogether hard times is one of the most remarkable educational books ever written. dickens made a plea for mental refreshment and recreation for the working classes in nobody's story, similar to that made in hard times: the workingman appealed to the bigwig family, and said: "we are a labouring people, and i have a glimmering suspicion in me that labouring people of whatever condition were made--by a higher intelligence than yours, as i poorly understand it--to be in need of mental refreshment and recreation. see what we fall into, when we rest without it. come! amuse me harmlessly, show me something, give me an escape!" beautiful lizzie hexam, one of the latest and highest creations of dickens, longed to read, but she did not learn to do so because her father objected so bitterly, and she wished to avoid everything that would weaken the bond of love between them, lest she might lose her influence for good over him. her brother charley said to her: "you said you couldn't read a book, lizzie. your library of books is the hollow down by the flare, i think." "i should be very glad to be able to read real books. i feel my want of learning very much, charley. but i should feel it much more, if i didn't know it to be a tie between me and father." dickens was revealing the strange fact that at first many poor and ignorant parents strenuously objected to their children being educated; and he was at the same time showing that great character growth could take place even without the power to read. lizzie's self-sacrifice for her father and charley was a true revelation of the divinity in her nature. though she had not read books, she had read a great deal by her imagination from "the hollow down by the flare." as dickens grew older he saw more clearly the value of the dreaming of childhood while awake, of the deep reveries into which young people often fall, and ought to fall, so that they become oblivious to their environment, and sweep through the universe in strange imaginings, that after all are very real. he was fond of drawing pictures of young people giving free rein to their imaginations, unchecked by intermeddling adulthood, while they watched the glowing fire, or the ashes falling away from the dying coals. lizzie's library from which she got her culture was in "the hollow down by the flare." crippled little jenny wren, the doll's dressmaker, said to lizzie hexam one day, when eugene wrayburn was visiting them: "i wonder how it happens that when i am work, work, working here, all alone in the summer time, i smell flowers." "as a commonplace individual, i should say," eugene suggested languidly--for he was growing weary of the person of the house--"that you smell flowers because you _do_ smell flowers." "no, i don't," said the little creature, resting one arm upon the elbow of her chair, resting her chin upon that hand, and looking vacantly before her; "this is not a flowery neighbourhood. it's anything but that. and yet, as i sit at work, i smell miles of flowers. i smell roses till i think i see the rose leaves lying in heaps, bushels, on the floor. i smell fallen leaves till i put down my hand--so--and expect to make them rustle. i smell the white and the pink may in the hedges, and all sorts of flowers that i never was among. for i have seen very few flowers indeed in my life." "pleasant fancies to have, jennie dear!" said her friend, with a glance toward eugene as if she would have asked him whether they were given the child in compensation for her losses. "so i think, lizzie, when they come to me. and the birds i hear! oh!" cried the little creature, holding out her hand and looking upward, "how they sing!" how life in any stage might be filled with richness and joy, if imaginations were stored with apperceptive elements and allowed to reconstruct the universe in our fancies! how truly real our fancies might become! in a child's dream of a star dickens gives an exquisite picture of the influence of imagination in spiritual evolution. there was once a child, and he strolled about a good deal, and thought of a number of things. he had a sister, who was a child too, and his constant companion. these two used to wonder all day long. they wondered at the beauty of the flowers; they wondered at the height and blueness of the sky; they wondered at the depth of the bright water; they wondered at the goodness and the power of god who made the lovely world. they used to say to one another, sometimes, supposing all the children upon earth were to die, would the flowers, and the water, and the sky be sorry? they believed they would be sorry. for, said they, the buds are the children of the flowers, and the little playful streams that gambol down the hillsides are the children of the water; and the smallest bright specks playing at hide and seek in the sky all night, must surely be the children of the stars; and they would all be grieved to see their playmates, the children of men, no more. there was one clear shining star that used to come out in the sky before the rest, near the church spire, above the graves. it was larger and more beautiful, they thought, than all the others, and every night they watched for it, standing hand in hand at a window. whoever saw it first cried out, "i see the star!" and often they cried out both together, knowing so well when it would rise, and where. so they grew to be such friends with it, that, before lying down in their beds, they always looked out once again to bid it good night; and when they were turning round to sleep they used to say, "god bless the star!" but while she was still very young, oh very, very young, the sister drooped, and came to be so very weak that she could no longer stand in the window at night; and then the child looked sadly out by himself, and when he saw the star, turned round and said to the patient pale face on the bed, "i see the star!" and then a smile would come upon the face, and a little weak voice used to say, "god bless my brother and the star!" dickens had shown his recognition of the inestimable value of the imagination, and the importance of giving it free play and of doing everything possible to stimulate its activity by freedom, and story, and play, and literature, music, and art, but his description of jemmy jackman lirriper's training shows a keener appreciation than any of his other writings of the value of the child's games in which personation is the leading characteristic; in which spools, or spoons, or blocks, or sticks are people or animals, with regular names and distinct characteristics and responsible duties, and in which chairs and tables and boxes are coaches, or steamboats, or railway trains. no friends are ever more real than those of the child's creative imagination, with things to represent them; no rides ever give greater delight than those rides in trains that move only in the imaginations of the children, who construct them by placing the chairs in a row, and who act as engineers, conductors, and brakemen. such games form the best elements out of which the child's life power can be made, especially if the adulthood of his home sympathizes with him in his enterprises. they afford an outlet for his imaginative plans. in them he forms new worlds of his own, which are adapted to his stage of development, and in which he can be the creator and the centre of executive influence. jemmy jackman lirriper's training was ideal in most of his home life, though he had no father or mother to love and guide him. the miles and miles that me and the major have travelled with jemmy in the dusk between the lights are not to be calculated, jemmy driving on the coach box, which is the major's brass-bound writing desk on the table, me inside in the easy-chair, and the major guard up behind with a brown-paper horn doing it really wonderful. i do assure you, my dear, that sometimes when i have taken a few winks in my place inside the coach and have come half awake by the flashing light of the fire and have heard that precious pet driving and the major blowing up behind to have the change of horses ready when we got to the inn, i have believed we were on the old north road that my poor lirriper knew so well. then to see that child and the major both wrapped up getting down to warm their feet and going stamping about and having glasses of ale out of the paper match boxes on the chimney piece, is to see the major enjoying it fully as much as the child i am very sure, and it's equal to any play when coachee opens the coach door to look in at me inside and say "wery 'past that 'tage.--'prightened old lady?" such plays as dickens here describes make one of the greatest differences between a real childhood and a barren childhood. the lack of opportunities for such perfect plays and such complete sympathy in their plays gives to the faces of orphan children brought up in institutions the distinctive look which marks them everywhere, so that they can be easily recognised by experienced students of happy childhood. but jemmy's make believe was not ruthlessly cut short with his early childhood. he continued his imaginative operations, or it might make it clearer to say his operative imaginations, after he went to school; and those beautiful old people, mrs. lirriper and major jackman, continued their interest, their real, perfectly sympathetic interest in his plans. neither should i tell you any news, my dear, in telling you that the major is still a fixture in the parlours quite as much so as the roof of the house, and that jemmy is of boys the best and brightest, and has ever had kept from him the cruel story of his poor pretty young mother, mrs. edson, being deserted in the second floor and dying in my arms, fully believing that i am his born gran and him an orphan; though what with engineering since he took a taste for it, and him and the major making locomotives out of parasols, broken iron pots, and cotton reels, and them absolutely a-getting off the line and falling over the table and injuring the passengers almost equal to the originals, it really is quite wonderful. and when i says to the major, "major, can't you by _any_ means give us a communication with the guard?" the major says, quite huffy, "no, madam, it's not to be done"; and when i says, "why not?" the major says, "that is between us who are in the railway interest, madam, and our friend, the right honourable vice-president of the board of trade"; and if you'll believe me, my dear, the major wrote to jemmy at school to consult him on the answer i should have before i could get even that amount of unsatisfactoriness out of the man, the reason being that when we first began with the little model and the working signals beautiful and perfect (being in general as wrong as the real), and when i says, laughing, "what appointment am i to hold in this undertaking, gentlemen?" jemmy hugs me round the neck and tells me, dancing, "you shall be the public, gran," and consequently they put upon me just as much as ever they like, and i sit a-growling in my easy-chair. my dear, whether it is that a grown man as clever as the major can not give half his heart and mind to anything--even a plaything--but must get into right down earnest with it, whether it is so or whether it is not so, i do not undertake to say; but jemmy is far outdone by the serious and believing ways of the major in the management of the united grand junction lirriper and jackman great norfolk parlour line, "for," says my jemmy with the sparkling eyes when it was christened, "we must have a whole mouthful of name, gran, or our dear old public"--and there the young rogue kissed me--"won't stump up." so the public took the shares--ten at ninepence, and immediately when that was spent twelve preference at one and sixpence--and they were all signed by jemmy and countersigned by the major, and between ourselves much better worth the money than some shares i have paid for in my time. in the same holidays the line was made and worked and opened and ran excursions and collisions and had burst its boilers and all sorts of accidents and offences all most regular, correct, and pretty. the sense of responsibility entertained by the major as a military style of station master, my dear, starting the down train behind time and ringing one of those little bells that you buy with the little coal scuttles off the tray round the man's neck in the street, did him honour; but noticing the major of a night when he is writing out his monthly report to jemmy at school of the state of the rolling stock and the permanent way, and all the rest of it (the whole kept upon the major's sideboard and dusted with his own hands every morning before varnishing his boots), i notice him as full of thought and care, as full can be, and frowning in a fearful manner; but, indeed, the major does nothing by halves, as witness his great delight in going out surveying with jemmy when he has jemmy to go with, carrying a chain and a measuring tape, and driving i don't know what improvements right through westminster abbey, and fully believed in the streets to be knocking everything upside down by act of parliament. as please heaven will come to pass when jemmy takes to that as a profession! the major's participation in the plans of jemmy is a good illustration of the sympathy that froebel and dickens felt for childhood, a sympathy _with_, not _for_, the child. it meant more than approval--it meant co-operation, partnership. some educators would criticise dickens for allowing the major to make the locomotives with parasols, broken pots, and cotton reels. they teach that jemmy should have made these himself. dickens was away beyond such a narrow view as this. the child at first has much more power to plan than to execute. to leave him to himself means the failure of his plans and the irritation of his temper. it is a terrible experience for a child to get the habit of failure. the wise adult will enter into partnership with the child to aid in carrying out the child's plans. he will not even make suggestions of changes in plans when he sees how they might be improved. the plans and the leadership should be absolutely the child's own. the adult should be an assistant, and that only, when skill is required beyond that possessed by the child--either when the mechanical work is too difficult for the child or when more than one person is needed to execute his plan. the adult may sometimes lead the child indirectly to a change of plan, but he should not do it by direct suggestion. the joy is lost for the child when he becomes conscious of the adult as interfering even sympathetically with his own personality. there is a great deal of well-intentioned dwarfing of childhood. the consciousness of partnership, of unity, of sympathetic co-operation, is the best result of such blessed work as the major did with jemmy in carrying out jemmy's plans. he is the child's best friend who most wisely and most thoroughly develops his imagination as a basis for all intellectual strength and clearness, and for the highest spiritual growth. he is the wealthiest man who sees diamonds in the dewdrops and unsullied gold in the sunset tints. david copperfield tells the names of the wonderful books he found in his father's blessed little room, and describes their influence upon his life. they kept alive my fancy and my hope of something beyond that place and time--they and the arabian nights and the tales of the genii. it is curious to me how i could ever have consoled myself under my small troubles (which were great troubles to me) by impersonating my favourite characters in them, as i did, and by putting mr. and miss murdstone into all the bad ones, which i did, too. i have been tom jones--a child's tom jones, a harmless creature--for a week together. i have sustained my own idea of roderick random for a month at a stretch, i verily believe. "let us end with the boy's story," said mrs. lirriper, "for the boy's story is the best that is ever told." there are no other stories so enchanting, or so stimulating, as the stories that fill the imaginations of childhood. chapter ix. sympathy with childhood. the dominant element in dickens's character was sympathy _with_ childhood, not merely for it. he had the productive sympathy that feels and thinks from the child's standpoint. the illustration just given of major jackman's co-operative sympathy with jemmy lirriper in the perfect carrying out of what to most people would have been only "the foolish ideas" of a child, as sincerely as if he had been executing commissions from the prime minister, is an excellent exemplification of the true ideal of sympathy in practice. the major was not working for jemmy's amusement merely; he was a very active and genuinely interested partner with jemmy. "jemmy was far outdone by the serious and believing ways of the major" in the imaginative plays which were the most real life of jemmy. such was the sympathy of dickens with his own children; such sympathy he believed to be the most productive power in the teacher or child trainer for beneficent influence on the character of the child. there is no other characteristic of his writings so marked as his broad sympathy with childhood. sympathy was the origin of all he wrote against coercion in all its dread forms, of all he wrote about robbing children of a real childhood, about the dwarfing of individuality, about the strangling of the imagination, about improper nutrition, about all forms of neglect, and cruelty, and bad training. the more fully his nature is known the more deeply he is loved, because of his great love for the child. from the beginning of his educational work his overflowing, practical sympathy is revealed. he tells us in the preface to nickleby that his study of the yorkshire schools and his delineation of the character of squeers resulted from a resolution formed in childhood, which he was led to form by seeing a boy "with a suppurated abscess caused by its being ripped open by his yorkshire guide, philosopher, and friend with an inky penknife." the sympathy of nicholas, and john browdie, and the cheeryble brothers with smike and all suffering childhood are strong features of the book. dickens's own sympathy has cleared his mind of many fogs that still linger in some minds regarding a parent's rights in regard to his child, even though the parent has never recognised any of the child's rights. the movement in favour of the recognition of the rights of children even against their parents began with dickens. when nicholas discovered that smike was the son of his uncle, ralph nickleby, he went to consult brother charles cheeryble in regard to his duty under the circumstances. he modestly, but firmly, expressed his hope that the good old gentleman would, under such circumstances as he described, hold him justified in adopting the extreme course of interfering between parent and child, and upholding the latter in his disobedience; even though his horror and dread of his father might seem, and would doubtless be represented, as a thing so repulsive and unnatural as to render those who countenanced him in it fit objects of general detestation and abhorrence. "so deeply rooted does this horror of the man appear to be," said nicholas, "that i can hardly believe he really is his son. nature does not seem to have implanted in his breast one lingering feeling of affection for him, and surely she can never err." "my dear sir," replied brother charles, "you fall into the very common mistake of charging upon nature matters with which she has not had the smallest connection, and for which she is in no way responsible. men talk of nature as an abstract thing, and lose sight of what is natural while they do so. here is a poor lad who has never felt a parent's care, who has scarcely known anything all his life but suffering and sorrow, presented to a man who he is told is his father, and whose first act is to signify his intention of putting an end to his short term of happiness by consigning him to his old fate, and taking him from the only friend he has ever had--which is yourself. if nature, in such a case, put into that lad's breast but one secret prompting which urged him toward his father and away from you, she would be a liar and an idiot." nicholas was delighted to find that the old gentleman spoke so warmly, and in the hope that he might say something more to the same purpose, made no reply. "the same mistake presents itself to me, in one shape or other, at every turn," said brother charles. "parents who never showed their love complain of want of natural affection in their children; children who never showed their duty complain of want of natural feeling in their parents; lawmakers who find both so miserable that their affections have never had enough of life's sun to develop them are loud in their moralizings over parents and children too, and cry that the very ties of nature are disregarded. natural affections and instincts, my dear sir, are the most beautiful of the almighty's works, but, like other beautiful works of his, they must be reared and fostered, or it is as natural that they should be wholly obscured, and that new feelings should usurp their place, as it is that the sweetest productions of the earth, left untended, should be choked with weeds and briers. i wish we could be brought to consider this, and, remembering natural obligations a little more at the right time, talk about them a little less at the wrong one." it was chiefly to break the power of ignorant and cruel parenthood over suffering childhood that ralph nickleby was painted with such dark and repellent characteristics, and that poor smike's sufferings were detailed with such minuteness. the sympathy of the world was aroused against the one and in favour of the other, as a basis for the climax of thought which brother charles expressed so truly and so forcefully. the same thought was driven home by the complaint of squeers about one of the boys in dotheboys hall. "the juniorest palmer said he wished he was in heaven. i really don't know, i do _not_ know what's to be done with that young fellow; he's always a-wishing something horrid. he said once he wished he was a donkey, because then he wouldn't have a father as didn't love him! pretty wicious that for a child of six!" it required the genius of dickens to make such a clear picture of an unloving father. even before nicholas nickleby was written dickens had revealed his sympathetic nature. oliver twist's story was written to stir the hearts of his readers in favour of unfortunate children. what a contrast is made between the hardening effects of his treatment by bumble and the "gentleman in the white waistcoat," and the humanizing influence of rose maylie's tear dropped on his cheek. surely no sensitive little boy ever submitted to more unsympathetic treatment than poor oliver. when little oliver was taken before "the gentlemen" that evening, and informed that he was to go that night as general house lad to a coffin maker's, and that if he complained of his situation, or ever came back to the parish again, he would be sent to sea, there to be drowned or knocked on the head, as the case might be, he evinced so little emotion that they by common consent pronounced him a hardened young rascal, and ordered mr. bumble to remove him forthwith. for some time mr. bumble drew oliver along, without notice or remark; for the beadle carried his head very erect, as a beadle always should; and, it being a windy day, little oliver was completely enshrouded by the skirts of mr. bumble's coat as they blew open and disclosed to great advantage his flapped waistcoat and drab plush knee breeches. as they drew near to their destination, however, mr. bumble thought it expedient to look down and see that the boy was in good order for inspection by his new master: which he accordingly did, with a fit and becoming air of gracious patronage. "oliver!" said mr. bumble. "yes, sir," replied oliver in a low, tremulous voice. "pull that cap off your eyes, and hold up your head, sir." although oliver did as he was desired at once, and passed the back of his unoccupied hand briskly across his eyes, he left a tear in them when he looked up at his conductor. as mr. bumble gazed sternly upon him, it rolled down his cheek. it was followed by another, and another. the child made a strong effort, but it was an unsuccessful one. withdrawing his other hand from mr. bumble's, he covered his face with both, and wept until the tears sprung out from between his chin and bony fingers. "well!" exclaimed mr. bumble, stopping short, and darting at his little charge a look of intense malignity. "well! of _all_ the ungratefullest and worst-disposed boys as ever i see, oliver, you are the----" "no, no, sir," sobbed oliver, clinging to the hand which held the well-known cane; "no, no, sir; i will be good indeed; indeed, indeed i will, sir! i am a very little boy, sir; and it is so--so----" "so what?" inquired mr. bumble in amazement. "so lonely, sir! so very lonely!" cried the child. "everybody hates me. oh, sir, don't, don't, pray, be cross to me!" the child beat his hand upon his heart, and looked in his companion's face with tears of real agony. the poor boy was put to bed by sowerberry the first night. his master said, as they climbed the stairs: "your bed's under the counter. you don't mind sleeping among the coffins, i suppose? but it doesn't much matter whether you do or don't, for you can't sleep anywhere else. come, don't keep me here all night!" dickens pitied children for the terrors with which they were threatened, as oliver was threatened by the board, and he pitied them also for the terrors that their imaginations brought to them at night. sowerberry's lack of sympathy was as great as bumble's. when one of his own children showed evidence of dread of retiring alone, dickens sat upstairs with his family in the evenings afterward. he did not tell the child the reason, but she was saved from terror. oliver ran away from sowerberry's, and when passing the workhouse he peeped between the bars of the gate into the garden. a very little boy was there who came to the gate to say "good-bye" to him. he had been one of oliver's little friends. "kiss me," said the child, climbing up the low gate and flinging his little arms round oliver's neck: "good-bye, dear! god bless you!" the blessing was from a young child's lips, but it was the first that oliver had ever heard invoked upon his head; and through the struggles and sufferings and troubles and changes of his after-life he never once forgot it. when oliver was taken to commit burglary by bill sykes, and was wounded and brought into the home he was assisting to rob, the good lady of the house sent for a doctor. the doctor dressed the arm, and when the boy fell asleep he brought mrs. maylie and rose to see the criminal. rose sat down by oliver's bedside and gathered his hair from his face. as she stooped over him her tears fell upon his forehead. the boy stirred and smiled in his sleep, as though these marks of pity and compassion had awakened some pleasant dream of a love and affection he had never known. thus a strain of gentle music, or the rippling of water in a silent place, or the odour of a flower, or the mention of a familiar word, will sometimes call up sudden dim remembrances of scenes that never were in this life; which vanish like a breath; which some brief memory of a happier existence, long gone by, would seem to have awakened; which no voluntary exertion of the mind can ever recall. "what can this mean?" exclaimed the elder lady. "this poor child can never have been the pupil of robbers!" "vice," sighed the surgeon, replacing the curtain, "takes up her abode in many temples; and who can say that a fair outside shall not enshrine her?" "but at so early an age!" urged rose. "my dear young lady," rejoined the surgeon, mournfully shaking his head, "crime, like death, is not confined to the old and withered alone. the youngest and fairest are too often its chosen victims." "but can you, oh, can you really believe that this delicate boy has been the voluntary associate of the worst outcasts of society?" said rose. the surgeon shook his head in a manner which intimated that he feared it was very possible, and, observing that they might disturb the patient, led the way into an adjoining apartment. "but even if he has been wicked," pursued rose, "think how young he is; think that he may never have known a mother's love, or the comfort of a home; that ill usage and blows, or the want of bread, may have driven him to herd with men who have forced him to guilt. aunt, dear aunt, for mercy's sake think of this, before you let them drag this sick child to a prison, which in any case must be the grave of all his chance of amendment. oh! as you love me, and know that i have never felt the want of parents in your goodness and affection, but that i might have done so, and might have been equally helpless and unprotected with this poor child, have pity upon him before it is too late!" "my dear love," said the elder lady, as she folded the weeping girl to her bosom, "do you think i would harm a hair of his head?" "oh, no," replied rose eagerly. "no, surely," said the old lady; "my days are drawing to their close, and may mercy be shown to me as i show it to others. what can i do to save him, sir?" dickens used the doctor to rebuke the large class of people who are ever ready to believe the worst about a boy, and who are always looking for his depravity instead of searching for the divinity in him. rose's plea for kind treatment for the boy, "even if he has been wicked," was a new doctrine propounded by dickens. the worst boys at home or in school need most sympathy. mrs. maylie's attitude was in harmony with christ's teaching, but quite out of harmony with much that was called christian practice at the time dickens wrote oliver twist. he taught the doctrine that children were turned into evil ways and confirmed in them through lack of sympathy. poor nancy said to rose maylie: "lady," cried the girl, sinking on her knees, "dear, sweet, angel lady, you _are_ the first that ever blessed me with such words as these; and if i had heard them years ago, they might have turned me from a life of sin and sorrow; but it is too late, it is too late!" in the old curiosity shop dickens gave a beautiful picture of a sympathetic teacher in mr. marton. his school was not well lighted or properly ventilated, the furniture was poor, there was no apparatus except a dunce's cap, a cane, and a ruler, his methods were old-fashioned, but he possessed the greatest qualification of a good teacher, deep sympathy with childhood. this was shown by the erasure of the blot from the sick boy's writing; by his asking nell to pray for the boy; by his appreciation of the boy's love; by his hoping for his recovery against the unfavourable reports; by his favourable interpretation of the worst signs; by his absent-mindedness in school; by his giving the boys a half holiday because he could not teach; by his asking them to go away quietly so as not to disturb the sick scholar; by his saying "i'm glad they didn't mind me" when the jolly boys went shouting away; by his telling the sick boy that the flowers missed him and were less gay on account of his absence; by his hanging the boy's handkerchief out of the window at his request, as a token of his remembrance of the boys playing on the green; by the loving way in which he embraced the dying boy, and held his cold hand in his after he was dead, chafing it, as if he could bring back the life into it. dombey and son is full of appeals for the tender sympathy of adulthood for childhood. the story of florence dombey longing for the one look of tenderness, the one word of kindly interest, the one sympathetic caress from her father, which never came to her during her childhood, is one of the most touching stories ever written. it was written to show that children in the most wealthy homes need sympathy as much as any other children, and that they are often most cruelly neglected by their parents. floy pleaded to be allowed to lay her face beside her baby brother's because "she thought he loved her." the love that is given back in exchange for loving interest is shown by paul's loving gratitude to floy for her interest in him, which led her to spend her pocket money in books, so that she might help him with his studies that confused him so. and high was her reward, when one saturday evening, as little paul was sitting down as usual to "resume his studies," she sat down by his side and showed him all that was rough made smooth, and all that was so dark made clear and plain, before him. it was nothing but a startled look in paul's wan face--a flush--a smile--and then a close embrace; but god knows how her heart leaped up at this rich payment for her trouble. "oh, floy," cried her brother, "how i love you! how i love you, floy!" "and i you, dear!" "oh, i am sure, sure of that, floy!" he said no more about it, but all that evening sat close by her, very quiet; and in the night he called out from his little room within hers, three or four times, that he loved her. there is no higher reward than that of the sympathetic teacher who for the first time lets light into a dark mind or heart. the lady whom florence overheard talking to her little orphaned niece about her father's cruel coldness toward her truly said: "not an orphan in the wide world can be so deserted as the child who is an outcast from a living parent's care." as dickens was one of the first to urge that children had rights, so he was one of the first to show that there had been altogether too much thought about the duty of children to parents, and too little about the duty of parents to children. alice marwood, one of the characters in dombey and son, said to harriet carker: "you brought me here by force of gentleness and kindness, and made me human by woman's looks and words and angel's deeds; i have felt, lying here, that i should like you to know this. it might explain, i have thought, something that used to help to harden me. i had heard so much, in my wrongdoing, of my neglected duty, that i took up with the belief that duty had not been done to me, and that as the seed was sown the harvest grew." one other point in regard to sympathy was made in dombey and son, that a rough exterior may cover a sympathetic heart. long may it remain in this mixed world a point not easy of decision, which is the more beautiful evidence of the almighty's goodness: the delicate fingers that are formed for sensitiveness and sympathy of touch, and made to minister to pain and grief, or the rough, hard captain cuttle hand, that the heart teaches, guides, and softens in a moment! in the model school of dickens doctor strong is said to have been "the idol of the whole school"; and david adds, "it must have been a badly composed school if he had been anything else, for he was the kindest of men." doctor strong's wife, who had been his pupil in early life, said: "when i was very young, quite a little child, my first associations with knowledge of any kind were inseparable from a patient friend and teacher--the friend of my dead father--who was always dear to me. i can remember nothing that i know without remembering him. he stored my mind with its first treasures, and stamped his character upon them all. they never could have been, i think, as good as they have been to me, if i had taken them from any other hands." david said, when telling the story of his first introduction to mr. murdstone: "god help me, i might have been improved for my whole life, i might have been made another creature, perhaps, for life, by a kind word at that season. a word of encouragement and explanation, of pity for my childish ignorance, of welcome home, of reassurance to me that it was home, might have made me dutiful to him in my heart henceforth, instead of in my hypocritical outside, and might have made me respect instead of hate him." in bleak house dickens gave in esther the most perfect type of human sympathy, and by his pathetic pictures of poor jo, phil, the jellyby children, the pardiggle children, and others, stirred a great wave of feeling, which led to a recognition of the duty of adulthood to childhood, and taught the value of sympathy in the training of children. esther laid down a new law, revealed by froebel, but given to the english world by dickens in the weighty sentence, "my comprehension is quickened when my affection is." the lack of sympathy in adulthood is revealed for the condemnation of his readers in mrs. rachael's parting from esther. mrs. rachael was too good to feel any emotion at parting, but i was not so good, and wept bitterly. i thought that i ought to have known her better after so many years, and ought to have made myself enough of a favourite with her to make her sorry then. when she gave me one cold parting kiss upon my forehead, like a thaw drop from the stone porch--it was a very frosty day--i felt so miserable and self-reproachful that i clung to her and told her it was my fault, i knew, that she could say good-bye so easily. "no, esther!" she returned. "it is your misfortune!" poor child, she cried afterward because mrs. rachael was not sorry to part with her. what a different parting she had when leaving the miss donnys' school, where for six years she had been a pupil, and for part of the time a teacher! she received a letter informing her that she was to leave greenleaf. oh, never, never, never shall i forget the emotion this letter caused in the house! it was so tender in them to care so much for me; it was so gracious in that father who had not forgotten me, to have made my orphan way so smooth and easy, and to have inclined so many youthful natures toward me, that i could hardly bear it. not that i would have had them less sorry--i am afraid not; but the pleasure of it, and the pain of it, and the pride and joy of it, and the humble regret of it, were so blended, that my heart seemed almost breaking while it was full of rapture. the letter gave me only five days' notice of my removal. when every minute added to the proofs of love and kindness that were given me in those five days; and when at last the morning came, and when they took me through all the rooms that i might see them for the last time; and when some one cried, "esther, dear, say good-bye to me here, at my bedside, where you first spoke so kindly to me!" and when others asked me only to write their names, "with esther's love"; and when they all surrounded me with their parting presents, and clung to me weeping, and cried, "what shall we do when dear, dear esther's gone!" and when i tried to tell them how forbearing and how good they had all been to me, and how i blessed and thanked them every one--what a heart i had! and when the two miss donnys grieved as much to part with me as the least among them; and when the maids said, "bless you, miss, wherever you go!" and when the ugly lame old gardener, who i thought had hardly noticed me in all those years, came panting after the coach to give me a little nosegay of geraniums, and told me i had been the light of his eyes--indeed the old man said so!--what a heart i had then! this was intended to show the results of her sympathy toward the pupils and everybody connected with the school. mrs. jellyby is an immortal picture of the woman who neglects her family on account of her interest in borrioboola gha, or some other place for which her sympathy is aroused. dickens held that a woman's first duty is to her children. the wretched mr. jellyby, almost distracted by the poor meals, the disorder of his home, and the wild condition of his unfortunate family, said to his daughter, "never have a mission, my dear." caddy emphasized the thought dickens had given in dombey and son through alice marwood when she said to esther: "oh, don't talk of duty as a child, miss summerson; where's ma's duty as a parent? all made over to the public and africa, i suppose! then let the public and africa show duty as a child; it's much more their affair than mine. you are shocked, i dare say! very well, so am i shocked, too; so we are both shocked, and there's an end of it!" on another occasion, overcome by emotion at the thought of her mother's neglect, she said to esther: "i wish i was dead. i wish we were all dead. it would be a great deal better for us." in a moment afterward she kneeled on the ground at my side, hid her face in my dress, passionately begged my pardon, and wept. i comforted her, and would have raised her, but she cried, no, no; she wanted to stay there! "you used to teach girls," she said. "if you could only have taught me, i could have learned from you! i am so very miserable, and like you so much!" how the jellyby children loved and trusted esther! how all children loved and trusted her for her true sympathy! poor jo swept the steps at the graveyard where the friend who spoke kindly to him lay buried, and he always said of him, "he wos wery good to me, he wos." and jo's other friends, mr. snagsby, whose sympathy drew half crowns from his pocket, and mr. george, and doctor woodcourt, and mr. jarndyce, and esther, showed their kindly sympathy for the wretched boy so fully that the reading world loved them as real friends, and this loving admiration led the christian world to think more clearly in regard to christ's teachings about the little ones. no heart can resist the plea for sympathy for such as jo in the description of his last illness and death. when the end was very near, as allan woodcourt was watching the heavy breathing of the sufferer, after a short relapse into sleep or stupor he makes of a sudden a strong effort to get out of bed. "stay, jo! what now?" "it's time for me to go to that there berryin'-ground, sir," he returns with a wild look. "lie down, and tell me. what burying-ground, jo?" "where they laid him as wos wery good to me, wery good to me indeed, he wos. it's time fur me to go down to that there berryin'-ground, sir, and ask to be put along with him. i wants to go there and be berried. he used fur to say to me, 'i am as poor as you to-day, jo,' he ses. i wants to tell him that i am as poor as him now, and have come there to be laid along with him." "by and bye, jo. by and bye." "ah! p'raps they wouldn't do it if i was to go myself. but will you promise to have me took there, sir, and laid along with him?" "i will, indeed." "thank'ee, sir. thank'ee, sir. they'll have to get the key of the gate afore they can take me in, for it's allus locked. and there's a step there, as i used for to clean with my broom.--it's turned wery dark, sir. is there any light a-comin'?" "it is coming fast, jo." fast. the cart is shaken all to pieces, and the rugged road is very near its end. "jo, my poor fellow!" "i hear you, sir, in the dark, but i'm a-gropin'--a-gropin'--let me catch hold of your hand." "jo, can you say what i say?" "i'll say anythink as you say, sir, for i knows it's good." "our father." "our father!--yes, that's wery good, sir." "which art in heaven." "art in heaven--is the light a-comin', sir?" "it is close at hand. hallowed be thy name!" "hallowed be--thy----" the light is come upon the dark benighted way. dead! dead, your majesty. dead, my lords and gentlemen. dead, right reverends and wrong reverends of every order. dead, men and women, born with heavenly compassion in your hearts. and dying thus around us every day. one of the best of dickens's illustrations of gratitude for sympathy is the case of phil squod, mr. george's assistant in the shooting gallery. he was a mere child in everything but years of hard experiences, but he was devoted heart and soul to mr. george for a kindly word of hearty sympathy. so devoted was he that he attached himself to mr. george and became his faithful servant, and found his truest happiness in his service of love. phil recalled the story to mr. george. "it was after the case-filling blow-up when i first see you, commander. you remember?" "i remember, phil. you were walking along in the sun." "crawling, guv'ner, again a wall----" "true, phil--shouldering your way on----" "in a nightcap!" exclaims phil, excited. "in a nightcap----" "and hobbling with a couple of sticks!" cries phil, still more excited. "with a couple of sticks. when----" "when you stops, you know," cries phil, putting down his cup and saucer, and hastily removing his plate from his knees, "and says to me, 'what, comrade! you have been in the wars!' i didn't say much to you, commander, then, for i was took by surprise that a person so strong and healthy and bold as you was should stop to speak to such a limping bag of bones as i was. but you says to me, says you, delivering it out of your chest as hearty as possible, so that it was like a glass of something hot: 'what accident have you met with? you have been badly hurt. what's amiss, old boy? cheer up, and tell us about it!' cheer up! i was cheered already! i says as much to you, you says more to me, i says more to you, you says more to me, and here i am, commander! here i am, commander!" cries phil, who has started from his chair and unaccountably begun to sidle away. "if a mark's wanted, or if it will improve the business, let the customers take aim at me. they can't spoil _my_ beauty. _i'm_ all right. come on! if they want a man to box at, let 'em box at me. let 'em knock me well about the head. _i_ don't mind! if they want a light weight, to be throwed for practice, cornwall, devonshire, or lancashire, let 'em throw me. they won't hurt _me_. i have been throwed all sorts of styles all my life!" pip said in great expectations: it is not possible to know how far the influence of any amiable, honest-hearted, duty-doing man flies out into the world; but it is very possible to know how it has touched one's self in going by, and i know right well that any good that intermixed itself with my apprenticeship came of plain contented joe, and not of restless aspiring discontented me. dear, simple-hearted joe gargery! when every one else was abusing pip at the great dinner party, he showed his sympathy for him by putting some more gravy on his plate. in our mutual friend lizzie hexam, sympathizing with her father so much that she would not learn to read because he was bitterly prejudiced against education, but sympathizing so much with her brother charley that she had him educated secretly so that he might become a teacher, is an illustration of nearly perfect sympathy. the happiness of the little "minders" at old betty higden's is in sharp contrast to the misery of the boarders of the respectable (?) establishment of mrs. pipchin. in the one case was abject poverty and loving sympathy, in the other plenty and cruel selfishness. when mr. and mrs. boffin were adopting johnnie from betty higden's care, the brave old woman said: "if i could have kept the dear child without the dread that's always upon me of his coming to that fate i have spoken of, i could never have parted with him, even to you. for i love him, i love him, i love him! i love my husband long dead and gone, in him; i love my children dead and gone, in him; i love my young and hopeful days dead and gone, in him. i couldn't sell that love, and look you in your bright kind face. it's a free gift." betty was not a logically reasoning woman, but god is good, and hearts may count in heaven as high as heads. dickens spoke with great enthusiasm in his american notes of the practical sympathy of doctor howe with all afflicted children, especially with blind children, closing his sketch of the wonderful work he had done with the sentence: "there are not many persons, i hope and believe, who after reading these passages can ever hear that name with indifference." he noted that laura bridgman had a special desire for sympathy. she is fond of having other children noticed and caressed by the teachers, and those whom she respects; but this must not be carried too far, or she becomes jealous. she wants to have her share, which, if not the lion's, is the greater part; and if she does not get it, she says, "_my mother will love me_." dickens's types of sympathy with children grew more perfect as he grew older. in his later years his head began to catch up with his heart. major jackman, mrs. lirriper, and doctor marigold are among his most wonderfully sympathetic characters. what an ideal sending away to school jemmy lirriper had! so the major being gone out and jemmy being at home, i got the child into my little room here and i stood him by my chair and i took his mother's own curls in my hand and i spoke to him loving and serious. and when i had reminded the darling how that he was now in his tenth year, and when i had said to him about his getting on in life pretty much what i had said to the major, i broke to him how that we must have this same parting, and there i was forced to stop, for there i saw of a sudden the well-remembered lip with its tremble, and it so brought back that time! but with the spirit that was in him he controlled it soon, and he says gravely, nodding through his tears: "i understand, gran--i knew it _must_ be, gran--go on, gran, don't be afraid of _me_." and when i had said all that ever i could think of, he turned his bright steady face to mine, and he says just a little broken here and there: "you shall see, gran, that i can be a man, and that i can do anything that is grateful and loving to you; and if i don't grow up to be what you would like to have me--i hope it will be--because i shall die." and with that he sat down by me, and i went on to tell him of the school, of which i had excellent recommendations, and where it was and how many scholars, and what games they played as i had heard, and what length of holidays, to all of which he listened bright and clear. and so it came that at last he says: "and now, dear gran, let me kneel down here where i have been used to say my prayers, and let me fold my face for just a minute in your gown and let me cry, for you have been more than father--more than mother--more than brothers, sisters, friends--to me!" and so he did cry, and i too, and we were both much the better for it. dear old doctor marigold, the travelling auctioneer, in his tender sympathy for his little girl when her mother was so cruel to her, whispering comforting words in her ear as he was calling for bids on his wares while she was dying, and afterward loving the deaf-mute child whom he adopted in memory of his own child whom he had lost, has made thousands more kindly sympathetic with children. in the novel that he was writing when he died dickens makes canon crisparkle say to helena landless: "you have the wisdom of love, and it was the highest wisdom ever known upon this earth, remember." david copperfield said, "i hope that real love and truth are stronger in the end than any evil or misfortune in the world." the effect of lack of true sympathy on the heart that should have felt and shown it is revealed in what sydney carton said to mr. lorry: "if you could say with truth to your own solitary heart to-night, 'i have secured to myself the love and attachment, the gratitude and respect, of no human creature; i have won myself a tender place in no regard; i have done nothing good or serviceable to be remembered by,' your seventy-eight years would be seventy-eight curses; would they not?" the contrast between the coldness and heartlessness of his parents or guardians and the encouraging sympathy of his teacher is one of the strongest features in the story of barbox brothers (mugby junction). "you remember me, young jackson?" "what do i remember if not you? you are my first remembrance. it was you who told me that was my name. it was you who told me that on every th of december my life had a penitential anniversary in it called a birthday. i suppose the last communication was truer than the first!" "what am i like, young jackson?" "you are like a blight all through the year to me. you hard-lined, thin-lipped, repressive, changeless woman with a wax mask on! you are like the devil to me--most of all when you teach me religious things, for you make me abhor them." "you remember me, mr. young jackson?" in another voice from another quarter: "most gratefully, sir. you are the ray of hope and prospering ambition in my life. when i attended your course i believed that i should come to be a great healer, and i felt almost happy--even though i was still the one boarder in the house with that horrible mask, and ate and drank in silence and constraint with the mask before me every day. as i had done every, every, every day through my school time and from my earliest recollection." "what am i like, mr. young jackson?" "you are like a superior being to me. you are like nature beginning to reveal herself to me. i hear you again as one of the hushed crowd of young men kindling under the power of your presence and knowledge, and you bring into my eyes the only exultant tears that ever stood in them." "you remember me, mr. young jackson?" in a grating voice from quite another quarter: "too well. you made your ghostly appearance in my life one day, and announced that its course was to be suddenly and wholly changed. you showed me which was my wearisome seat in the galley of barbox brothers. you told me what i was to do, and what to be paid; you told me afterward, at intervals of years, when i was to sign for the firm, when i became a partner, when i became the firm. i know no more of it, or of myself." "what am i like, mr. young jackson?" "you are like my father, i sometimes think. you are hard enough and cold enough so to have brought up an acknowledged son. i see your scanty figure, your close brown suit, and your tight brown wig; but you, too, wear a wax mask to your death. you never by a chance remove it; it never by a chance falls off; and i know no more of you." chapter x. child study and child nature. dickens was a profound student of children, and he revealed his consciousness of the need of a general study of childhood in all he wrote about the importance of a free childhood, individuality, the imagination, coercion, cramming, and wrong methods of training children. he criticised the blindness of those who saw boys as a class or in a limited number of classes, distinguished by external and comparatively unimportant characteristics, in mr. grimwig, "who never saw any difference in boys, and only knew two sorts of boys, mealy boys and beef-faced boys." he exposed the ignorance--the wilful ignorance--of vast numbers of parents and teachers who indignantly resent the suggestion that they need to study children, in jane murdstone. when jane was interfering in the management of david, and with her brother totally misunderstanding him and misrepresenting him, his timid mother ventured to say: "i beg your pardon, my dear jane, but are you quite sure--i am certain you'll excuse me, my dear jane--that you quite understand davy?" "i should be somewhat ashamed of myself, clara," returned miss murdstone, "if i could not understand the boy, or any boy. i don't profess to be profound, but i do lay claim to common sense." many jane murdstones still claim that it is not necessary to study so common a thing as a boy. yet a child is the most wonderful thing in the world, and, whether the jane murdstones in the schools and homes like it or not, the wise people _are_ studying the child with a view to finding out what he should be guided to do in the accomplishment of his own training. richard carstone had been eight years at school, and he was a miserable failure in life, although a man of good ability. "it had never been anybody's business to find out what his natural bent was, or where his failings lay, or to adapt any kind of knowledge to him." esther wisely said: "i did doubt whether richard would not have profited by some one studying him a little, instead of his studying latin verses so much." dickens studied every subject about which he wrote with great care and discrimination. as an instance of this careful study it may be stated that medical authorities say that the description of smike's sickness and death is the best description of consumption ever written. dickens had a wonderful imagination, but he never relied on his imagination for his facts or his philosophy. it is therefore reasonable to believe that as he wrote more about children than any other man or woman, he was the greatest and most reverent student of childhood that england has produced. in addition to the revelations of his conclusions given in the evolution of his child characters, and in the many illustrations of good and of bad training, he continually makes direct statements in regard to child nature and how to deal with it in its varied manifestations. his central motive was expressed by the old gentleman who found little nell astray in london: "i love these little people; and it is not a slight thing when they, who are so fresh from god, love us." his ideal of unperverted child nature was entirely different from that which had been taught by theology and psychology. he believed the child to be pure and good, and that even when heredity was bad, its baneful influences need not blight the divinity in his life, if he was wisely trained and had a free life of self-activity, a suitable environment, and truly sympathetic friends. "it would be a curious speculation," said i, after some restless turns across and across the room, "to imagine her in her future life, holding her solitary way among a crowd of wild, grotesque companions, the only pure, fresh, youthful object in the throng." to keep children pure and fresh was the chief aim of his life work. he had no respect for those who treated children as if they were grown-up, reasonable beings; who judged children as they would judge adults, and therefore misjudged them. he always remembered that a child was a little stranger in a new world, and that his complex nature had to adjust itself to its environment. he had a perfect, reverent, considerate sympathy for the timid young soul venturing to look out upon its new conditions. one of the most pathetic things in the world to him was the fact that children are nearly universally misunderstood and misinterpreted. how he longed to tear down the barriers of formalism, and conventionality, and indifference, and misconception from the lives of parents and teachers, so that timid children might be true to their better natures in their presence. when little florence timidly presented herself, mr. dombey stopped in his pacing up and down and looked toward her. had he looked with greater interest and with a father's eye, he might have read in her keen glance the impulses and fears that made her waver; the passionate desire to run clinging to him, crying, as she hid her face in his embrace, "oh, father, try to love me! there's no one else!" the dread of a repulse; the fear of being too bold, and of offending him; the pitiable need in which she stood of some assurance and encouragement; and how her overcharged young heart was wandering to find some natural resting place for its sorrow and affection. but he saw nothing of this. he saw her pause irresolutely at the door and look toward him; and he saw no more. "come in," he said, "come in; what is the child afraid of?" she came in, and after glancing round her for a moment with an uncertain air, stood pressing her small hands hard together, close within the door. "come here, florence," said her father coldly. "do you know who i am?" "yes, papa." "have you nothing to say to me?" the tears that stood in her eyes as she raised them quickly to his face were frozen by the expression it wore. she looked down again and put out her trembling hand. mr. dombey took it loosely in his own, and stood looking down upon her for a moment, as if he knew as little as the child what to say or do. "there! be a good girl," he said, patting her on the head, and regarding her, as it were, by stealth with a disturbed and doubtful look. "go to richards. go!" his little daughter hesitated for another instant as though she would have clung about him still, or had some lingering hope that he might raise her in his arms and kiss her. she looked up in his face once more. he thought how like her expression was then to what it had been when she looked round at the doctor--that night--and instinctively dropped her hand and turned away. it was not difficult to perceive that florence was at a great disadvantage in her father's presence. it was not only a constraint upon the child's mind, but even upon the natural grace and freedom of her actions. the child, in her grief and neglect, was so gentle, so quiet and uncomplaining, was possessed of so much affection that no one seemed to care to have, and so much sorrowful intelligence that no one seemed to mind or think about the wounding of, that polly's heart was sore when she was left alone again. the same lesson was given to parents and teachers in murdstone's treatment of davy. the sensitive, shy boy was regarded as sullen, and treated "like a dog" in consequence. oh, what bitterness it puts into a child's life to be misunderstood by its dearest friends! if there were no other reason for the co-operative study of children by parents and teachers, it would be a sufficient reason that they might be understood and appreciated. many lives are made barren and wicked by the failure of parents and teachers to understand them. it is so easy for children to get the impression that they are not liked by adults. when walter started life in mr. dombey's great warehouse, his uncle, old solomon gills, with whom he lived, asked him on his return from work the first day: "has mr. dombey been there to-day?" "oh, yes! in and out all day." "he didn't take any notice of you, i suppose?" "yes, he did. he walked up to my seat--i wish he wasn't so solemn and stiff, uncle--and said, 'oh! you are the son of mr. gills, the ships' instrument maker.' 'nephew, sir,' i said. 'i said nephew, boy,' said he. but i could take my oath he said son, uncle." "you're mistaken, i dare say. it's no matter." "no, it's no matter, but he needn't have been so sharp, i thought. there was no harm in it, though he did say son. then he told me that you had spoken to him about me, and that he had found me employment in the house accordingly, and that i was expected to be attentive and punctual, and then he went away. i thought he didn't seem to like me much." "you mean, i suppose," observed the instrument maker, "that you didn't seem to like him much." "well, uncle," returned the boy, laughing, "perhaps so; i never thought of that." this short selection reveals the disrespect for childhood which leads adulthood to flatly contradict what a child says, whether he is making a statement of fact or of opinion. this is most inconsiderate, and naturally leads to a corresponding disrespect for adulthood on the part of the child. the selection clearly intimates that childhood would be more happy, and like adulthood better, if adulthood was not so "solemn and stiff." parents and teachers should learn from solomon's philosophy that a child's feelings toward an adult partly determine his impressions regarding the attitude of adulthood toward him. the first thing necessary in training a child to be his real, best self is to win his affectionate regard and confidence. one has to be very true, very unconventional, and very joyous, to do this fully. dickens pitied the child because, even when he is understood, his wishes, plans, and decisions are not treated with respect. this is a gross injustice to the child's nature. as pip so truly said: "it may be only small injustice that the child can be exposed to; but the child is small, and its world is small, and its rocking horse stands as many hands high, according to scale, as a big-boned irish hunter." adulthood needs to learn no lesson more than that childhood lives a life of its own, that that life should not be tested by the scales and tape lines of adulthood, and that within its range of action its choice should be respected, and its opinions treated with reverent consideration. mrs. lirriper said that when she used to read the bible to mrs. edson, when that lady was dying, "though she took to all i read to her, i used to fancy that next to what was taught upon the mount she took most of all to his gentle compassion for us poor women, and to his young life, and to how his mother was proud of him, and treasured his sayings in her heart." the divinity in any child will grow more rapidly if his mother "treasures his sayings in her heart." we need more reverence for the child. dickens tried to make parents regard the child as a sacred thing, which should always be the richest joy of his parents. speaking of mrs. darnay, in the tale of two cities, he says: the time passed, and her little lucie lay on her bosom. then, among the advancing echoes, there was the tread of her tiny feet and the sound of her prattling words. let greater echoes resound as they would, the young mother at the cradle side could always hear those coming. they came, and the shady house was sunny with a child's laugh, and the divine friend of children, to whom in her trouble she had confided hers, seemed to take her child in his arms, as he took the child of old, and made it a sacred joy to her. dickens had profound faith in children whose true development had not been arrested. doctor strong had a simple faith in him that might have touched the stone hearts of the very urns upon the wall.... he appealed in everything to the honour and good faith of the boys, and relied on their possession of those qualities unless they proved themselves unworthy. reliance begets reliance. faith increases the qualities that merit faith. david said the doctor's reliance on the boys "worked wonders." no wonder it worked wonders. we can help a boy to grow no higher than our faith in him can reach. chapter xi. bad training. in addition to the bad training found in so many of his best-known schools, to show the evils of coercion in all forms, of the child depravity ideal, of the loss of a free, real, rich childhood, of the dwarfing of individuality, of the deadening of the imagination, and other similar evils, dickens's books, from oliver twist to edwin drood, contain many illustrations of utterly wrong methods of training children. the mean and cruel way in which children used to be treated by the managers of institutions is described in oliver twist. dickens said that when oliver was born he cried lustily. if he could have known that he was an orphan, left to the tender mercies of church wardens and overseers, perhaps he would have cried the louder. "bow to the board," said bumble, when he was brought before that august body. oliver brushed away two or three tears that were lingering in his eyes, and seeing no board but the table, fortunately bowed to that. "what's your name, boy?" said the gentleman in the high chair. oliver was frightened at the sight of so many gentlemen, which made him tremble; and the beadle gave him another tap behind, which made him cry. these two causes made him answer in a very low and hesitating voice; whereupon a gentleman in a white waistcoat said he was a fool. which was a capital way of raising his spirits and putting him quite at his ease. "boy," said the gentleman in the high chair, "listen to me. you know you're an orphan, i suppose?" "what's that, sir?" inquired poor oliver. "the boy is a fool--i thought he was," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "hush!" said the gentleman who had spoken first. "you know you've got no father or mother, and that you were brought up by the parish, don't you?" "yes, sir," replied oliver, weeping bitterly. "what are you crying for?" inquired the gentleman in the white waistcoat. and, to be sure, it was very extraordinary. what _could_ the boy be crying for? "i hope you say your prayers every night," said another gentleman in a gruff voice, "and pray for the people who feed and take care of you--like a christian." "yes, sir," stammered the boy. the gentleman who spoke last was unconsciously right. it would have been _very_ like a christian, and a marvellously good christian, too, if oliver had prayed for the people who fed and took care of _him_. the dreadful practices of first making children self-conscious and apparently dull by abuse and formalism, and then calling them "fools," or "stupid," or "dunces," are happily not so common now. in barnaby rudge he makes edward chester complain to his father about the way he had been educated. from my childhood i have been accustomed to luxury and idleness, and have been bred as though my fortune were large and my expectations almost without a limit. the idea of wealth has been familiarized to me from my cradle. i have been taught to look upon those means by which men raise themselves to riches and distinction as being beyond my breeding and beneath my care. i have been, as the phrase is, liberally educated, and am fit for nothing. dickens was in terrible earnest to kill all the giants that preyed on the lifeblood of the joy, the hope, the freedom, the selfhood, and the imagination of childhood. he waged unceasing warfare against the system which he described as the excellent and thoughtful old system, hallowed by long prescription, which has usually picked out from the rest of mankind the most dreary and uncomfortable people that could possibly be laid hold of, to act as instructors of youth. the selfish and mercenary ideal and its consequences are dealt with in the training of jonas chuzzlewit: the education of mr. jonas had been conducted from his cradle on the strictest principles of the main chance. the very first word he learned to spell was "gain," and the second one (when he got into two syllables) "money." but for two results, which were not clearly foreseen perhaps by his watchful parent in the beginning, his training may be said to have been unexceptionable. one of these flaws was, that having been long taught by his father to overreach everybody, he had imperceptibly acquired a love of overreaching that venerable monitor himself. the other, that from his early habits of considering everything as a question of property, he had gradually come to look with impatience on his parent as a certain amount of personal estate which had no right whatever to be going at large, but ought to be secured in that particular description of iron safe which is commonly called a coffin, and banked in the grave. when charity pecksniff reproved jonas for speaking irreverently of her father, he said: "ecod, you may say what you like of _my_ father, then, and so i give you leave," said jonas. "i think it's liquid aggravation that circulates through his veins, and not regular blood. how old should you think my father was, cousin?" "old, no doubt," replied miss charity; "but a fine old gentleman." "a fine old gentleman!" repeated jonas, giving the crown of his hat an angry knock. "ah! it's time he was thinking of being drawn out a little finer, too. why, he's eighty!" "is he, indeed?" said the young lady. "and ecod," cried jonas, "now he's gone so far without giving in, i don't see much to prevent his being ninety; no, nor even a hundred. why, a man with any feeling ought to be ashamed of being eighty, let alone more. where's his religion, i should like to know, when he goes flying in the face of the bible like that? threescore and ten's the mark; and no man with a conscience, and a proper sense of what's expected of him, has any business to live longer." when jonas was particularly brutal in the treatment of chuffey, the old clerk, his father seemed to enjoy his son's sharpness. it was strange enough that anthony chuzzlewit, himself so old a man, should take a pleasure in these gibings of his estimable son at the expense of the poor shadow at their table; but he did, unquestionably, though not so much--to do him justice--with reference to their ancient clerk, as in exultation at the sharpness of jonas. for the same reason, that young man's coarse allusions, even to himself, filled him with a stealthy glee, causing him to rub his hands and chuckle covertly, as if he said in his sleeve, "_i_ taught him. _i_ trained him. this is the heir of my bringing up. sly, cunning, and covetous, he'll not squander my money. i worked for this; i hoped for this; it has been the great end and aim of my life." what a noble end and aim it was to contemplate in the attainment, truly! but there be some who manufacture idols after the fashion of themselves, and fail to worship them when they are made; charging their deformity on outraged nature. anthony was better than these at any rate. exaggerated! slightly exaggerated, but terribly true to nature. centring the life of a child on one base materialistic aim is certain to make a degraded if not a dangerous character. every noble energy that should have given spiritual strength and beauty is devoured by the material monster as he grows in the heart. respect for age, even for parents, is lost with all other virtues, and humanity becomes not a brotherhood to be co-operated with for noble purposes, but a horde to be entrapped and cheated. jonas delighted his father with his rule in business: "here's the rule for bargains--'do other men, for they would do you.' that's the true business precept. all others are counterfeits." speaking of the conversation heard by martin chuzzlewit at the boarding house in new york, he said: it was rather barren of interest, to say the truth; and the greater part of it may be summed up in one word: dollars. all their cares, hopes, joys, affections, virtues, and associations seemed to be melted down into dollars. whatever the chance contributions that fell into the slow cauldron of their talk, they made the gruel thick and slab with dollars. men were weighed by their dollars, measures gauged by their dollars; life was auctioneered, appraised, put up, and knocked down for its dollars. the next respectable thing to dollars was any venture having their attainment for its end. the more of that worthless ballast, honour and fair dealing, which any man cast overboard from the ship of his good name and good intent, the more ample stowage room he had for dollars. make commerce one huge lie and mighty theft. deface the banner of the nation for an idle rag; pollute it star by star; and cut out stripe by stripe as from the arm of a degraded soldier. do anything for dollars! what is a flag to _them_! this was a solemn warning against the training of a race with such low ideals. in the preface to martin chuzzlewit dickens shows that he deliberately planned jonas chuzzlewit as a psychological study. he says: i conceive that the sordid coarseness and brutality of jonas would be unnatural, if there had been nothing in his early education, and in the precept and example always before him, to engender and develop the vices that make him odious. but, so born and so bred--admired for that which made him hateful, and justified from his cradle in cunning, treachery, and avarice--i claim him as the legitimate issue of the father upon whom those vices are seen to recoil. and i submit that their recoil upon that old man, in his unhonoured age, is not a mere piece of poetical justice, but is the extreme exposition of a direct truth. mrs. pipchin was described as a child trainer of great respectability. she adopted the business of child training because her husband lost his money. dickens did great service to the world by ridiculing the outrageous practice of sending children to be trained by women or taught by men whose only qualification for the most sacred of all duties was the fact that they had lost their money, and were therefore likely to be bad tempered and severe. he had already introduced squeers to the world, but he knew that many people who shuddered at squeers would send their own children to such as mrs. pipchin, because she was respectable and poor. he wished to alarm such people; hence mrs. pipchin. mrs. chick, mr. dombey's sister, and miss tox called mr. dombey's attention to mrs. pipchin's establishment. "mrs. pipchin, my dear paul," returned his sister, "is an elderly lady--miss tox knows her whole history--who has for some time devoted all the energies of her mind, with the greatest success, to the study and treatment of infancy, and who has been extremely well connected." this celebrated mrs. pipchin was a marvellous, ill-favoured, ill-conditioned old lady, of a stooping figure, with a mottled face like bad marble, a hook nose, and a hard gray eye that looked as if it might have been hammered at on an anvil without sustaining any injury. forty years at least had elapsed since the peruvian mines had been the death of mr. pipchin; but his relict still wore black bombazine, of such a lustreless, deep, dead, sombre shade that gas itself couldn't light her up after dark, and her presence was a quencher to any number of candles. she was generally spoken of as "a great manager" of children; and the secret of her management was, to give them everything that they didn't like and nothing that they did--which was found to sweeten their dispositions very much. when paul and florence were taken to mrs. pipchin's establishment, mrs. pipchin gave them an opportunity to study her disciplinary system as soon as mrs. chick and miss tox went away. "master bitherstone was divested of his collar at once, which he had worn on parade," and miss pankey, the only other little boarder at present, was walked off to the castle dungeon (an empty apartment at the back, devoted to correctional purposes), for having sniffed thrice in the presence of visitors. at one o'clock there was a dinner, chiefly of the farinaceous and vegetable kind, when miss pankey (a mild little blue-eyed morsel of a child, who was shampooed every morning, and seemed in danger of being rubbed away altogether) was led in from captivity by the ogress herself, and instructed that nobody who sniffed before visitors ever went to heaven. when this great truth had been thoroughly impressed upon her, she was regaled with rice; and subsequently repeated the form of grace established in the castle, in which there was a special clause thanking mrs. pipchin for a good dinner. mrs. pipchin's niece, berinthia, took cold pork. mrs. pipchin, whose constitution required warm nourishment, made a special repast of mutton chops, which were brought in hot and hot, between two plates, and smelled very nice. as it rained after dinner and they couldn't go out walking on the beach, and mrs. pipchin's constitution required rest after chops, they went away with berry (otherwise berinthia) to the dungeon--an empty room looking out upon a chalk wall and a water butt, and made ghastly by a ragged fireplace without any stove in it. enlivened by company, however, this was the best place after all; for berry played with them there, and seemed to enjoy a game at romps as much as they did; until mrs. pipchin knocking angrily at the wall, like the cock lane ghost revived, they left off, and berry told them stories in a whisper until twilight. for tea there was plenty of milk and water, and bread and butter, with a little black teapot for mrs. pipchin and berry, and buttered toast unlimited for mrs. pipchin, which was brought in, hot and hot, like the chops. though mrs. pipchin got very greasy outside over this dish, it didn't seem to lubricate her internally at all; for she was as fierce as ever, and the hard gray eye knew no softening. after tea, berry brought out a little workbox, with the royal pavilion on the lid, and fell to working busily; while mrs. pipchin, having put on her spectacles and opened a great volume bound in green baize, began to nod. and whenever mrs. pipchin caught herself falling forward into the fire, and woke up, she filliped master bitherstone on the nose for nodding too. at last it was the children's bedtime, and after prayers they went to bed. as little miss pankey was afraid of sleeping alone in the dark, mrs. pipchin always made a point of driving her upstairs herself, like a sheep; and it was cheerful to hear miss pankey moaning long afterward, in the least eligible chamber, and mrs. pipchin now and then going in to shake her. at about half-past nine o'clock the odour of a warm sweetbread (mrs. pipchin's constitution wouldn't go to sleep without sweetbread) diversified the prevailing fragrance of the house, which mrs. wickam said was "a smell of building," and slumber fell upon the castle shortly after. the breakfast next morning was like the tea overnight, except that mrs. pipchin took her roll instead of toast, and seemed a little more irate when it was over. master bitherstone read aloud to the rest a pedigree from genesis (judiciously selected by mrs. pipchin), getting over the names with the ease and clearness of a person tumbling up the treadmill. that done, miss pankey was borne away to be shampooed, and master bitherstone to have something else done to him with salt water, from which he always returned very blue and dejected. paul and florence went out in the meantime on the beach with wickam--who was constantly in tears--and at about noon mrs. pipchin presided over some early readings. it being a part of mrs. pipchin's system not to encourage a child's mind to develop and expand itself like a young flower, but to open it by force like an oyster, the moral of these lessons was usually of a violent and stunning character; the hero--a naughty boy--seldom, in the mildest catastrophe, being finished off by anything less than a lion or a bear. sunday evening was the most melancholy evening in the week; for mrs. pipchin always made a point of being particularly cross on sunday nights. miss pankey was generally brought back from an aunt's at rottingdean, in deep distress; and master bitherstone, whose relatives were all in india, and who was required to sit, between the services, in an erect position with his head against the parlour wall, neither moving hand nor foot, suffered so acutely in his young spirits that he once asked florence, on a sunday night, if she could give him any idea of the way back to bengal. but it was generally said that mrs. pipchin was a woman of system with children; and no doubt she was. certainly the wild ones went home tame enough, after sojourning for a few months beneath her hospitable roof. at this exemplary old lady paul would sit staring in his little armchair by the fire for any length of time. he never seemed to know what weariness was when he was looking fixedly at mrs. pipchin. he was not fond of her; he was not afraid of her; but in those old, old moods of his, she seemed to have a grotesque attraction for him. there he would sit, looking at her, and warming his hands, and looking at her, until he sometimes quite confounded mrs. pipchin, ogress as she was. once she asked him, when they were alone, what he was thinking about. "you," said paul, without the least reserve. "and what are you thinking about me?" asked mrs. pipchin. "i'm thinking how old you must be," said paul. "you mustn't say such things as that, young gentleman," returned the dame. "that'll never do." "why not?" asked paul. "because it's not polite," said mrs. pipchin snappishly. "not polite?" said paul. "no." "it's not polite," said paul innocently, "to eat all the mutton chops and toast, wickam says." "wickam," retorted mrs. pipchin, colouring, "is a wicked, impudent, bold-faced hussy." "what's that?" inquired paul. "never you mind, sir," retorted mrs. pipchin. "remember the story of the little boy that was gored to death by a mad bull for asking questions." "if the bull was mad," said paul, "how did he know that the boy had asked questions? nobody can go and whisper secrets to a mad bull. i don't believe that story." "you don't believe it, sir?" repeated mrs. pipchin, amazed. "no," said paul. "not if it should happen to have been a tame bull, you little infidel?" said mrs. pipchin. * * * * * "berry's very fond of you, ain't she?" paul once asked mrs. pipchin when they were sitting by the fire with the cat. "yes," said mrs. pipchin. "why?" asked paul. "why?" returned the disconcerted old lady. "how can you ask such things, sir? why are you fond of your sister florence?" "because she's very good," said paul. "there's nobody like florence." "well!" retorted mrs. pipchin shortly, "and there's nobody like me, i suppose." "ain't there really, though?" asked paul, leaning forward in his chair, and looking at her very hard. "no," said the old lady. "i am glad of that," observed paul, rubbing his hands thoughtfully. "that's a very good thing." to which every one would say "amen," if they could believe mrs. pipchin's statement to be actually true. mrs. pipchin combined in her "system" many of the evils of child training. she was not good-looking, and those who train children should be decidedly good-looking. they need not be handsome; they ought to be winsome. her "mottled face like bad marble, and hard grey eye" meant danger to childhood. she was gloomy in appearance, in manner, and in dress, all disqualifications for any position connected with child development. she was "a bitter old lady," and children should be surrounded with an atmosphere of sweetness and joyousness. her one diabolical rule was "to give children everything they didn't like and nothing they did like." this rule is the logical limit of the doctrine of child depravity. she was generally spoken of as a "great manager," simply because she compelled children to do her bidding by fear of punishment in the "dungeon," or of being sent to bed, or robbed of their meals, or by some other mean form of contemptible coercion. these processes were praised as excellent till dickens destroyed their respectability. his title "child-queller" is admirable, and full of philosophy. many a man has been able to form a truer conception regarding child freedom through the influence of the word "child-queller." every teacher should ask himself every day, "am i a child-queller?" it will be a blessed thing for the children when there shall be no more pipchinny teachers. the environment of the ogress was not attractive. the gardens grew only marigolds, snails were on the doors, and bad odours in the house. "in the winter time the air couldn't be got out of the castle, and in the summer time it couldn't be got in." dickens knew that the environment of children has a direct influence on their characters, and that ventilation is essential to good health. these lessons were needed fifty years ago. mrs. pipchin made children dishonest by putting on collars for parade. "the farinaceous and vegetable" diet, the "regaled with rice" criticisms show that dickens anticipated by half a century the present interest in the study of nutrition as one of the most important educational subjects. the combination of coercion and religion is ridiculed in the theological constraint of mrs. pipchin, when she told little miss pankey "that nobody who sniffed before visitors ever went to heaven." the outrageous selfishness of adulthood was exposed by the description of mrs. pipchin's anger at the play of the children in the back room when it was raining and they could not go out. the injustice of the "child-queller" was shown because she filliped master bitherstone on the nose for nodding in the evening, whenever she woke up from her own nodding. the sacrilege of having prayers between two processes of cruelty is worthy of note. religion should never be associated in the mind of a child with injustice, cruelty, or any meanness. the dreadful practice of driving timid children to sleep in the dark was another of mrs. pipchin's accomplishments. the retiring hour of childhood should be made the happiest and most nerve soothing of the day. wise and sympathetic adulthood, especially motherhood, can then reach the central nature of the child most successfully. the formal reading of a meaningless selection from the bible by bitherstone tended to prevent the development of a true interest in that most interesting of all books. the early readings, with the bad boy in the story "being finished off generally by a lion or a bear," were a fit accompaniment to a system in which no child's mind was encouraged to expand like a flower naturally, but to be opened by force like an oyster. dickens began with mrs. pipchin his revelation of the great blunder of checking the questions of children. "remember the story of the little boy that was gored to death by a mad bull for asking questions," she said to paul. the same evil is pointed out in the training of pip in great expectations. another common error is revealed by mrs. pipchin, when she called paul "a little infidel," because he did not accept her statement about the mad bull, although she knew it to be false herself. even when children doubt the truth they should not be called "infidels," unless, indeed, it is desired to make them definitely and consciously sceptical. the puritan sabbath was a part of mrs. pipchin's quelling system too. it was little wonder, therefore, that the wild children went home tame enough after a few months in her awful institution. few men who have ever lived have studied the child and his training so thoroughly as to be able to condense into such brief space so many of the evils of bad training. mrs. pipchin and mr. squeers have been made to do good work for childhood. biler was so badly treated at the grinders' school that he played hookey, but that was not the worst feature of his education. they did not feel any responsibility for character development in the school of the charitable grinders. but they never taught honour at the grinders' school, where the system that prevailed was particularly strong in the engendering of hypocrisy; insomuch that many of the friends and masters of past grinders said, if this were what came of education for the common people, let us have none. some more rational said, let us have a better one; but the governing powers of the grinders' company were always ready for _them_, by picking out a few boys who had turned out well in spite of the system, and roundly asserting that they could have only turned out well because of it. which settled the business of those objectors out of hand, and established the glory of the grinders' institution. in david copperfield, uriah heep, utterly detestable in character, is the natural product of the system of training under which both he and his father were brought up. uriah said: "father and me was both brought up at a foundation school for boys; and mother, she was likewise brought up at a public, sort of charitable, establishment. they taught us all a deal of umbleness--not much else that i know of--from morning to night. we was to be umble to this person, and umble to that; and to pull off our caps here, and to make bows there; and always to know our place, and abase ourselves before our betters. and we had such a lot of betters! father got the monitor medal by being umble. so did i. father got made a sexton by being umble. he had the character, among the gentlefolks, of being such a well-behaved man that they were determined to bring him on. 'be umble, uriah,' says father, 'and you'll get on. it was what was always being dinned into you and me at school; it's what goes down best. be umble,' says father, 'and you'll do!' and really it ain't done bad!" it was the first time it had ever occurred to me that this detestable cant of false humility might have originated out of the heep family. i had seen the harvest, but had never thought of the seed. i had never doubted his meanness, his craft and malice; but i fully comprehended now, for the first time, what a base, unrelenting, and revengeful spirit must have been engendered by this early, and this long, suppression. david himself tells how he suffered after the death of his mother from the cold neglect of mr. murdstone and jane murdstone. no child can be so destitute as the child who is neglected through dislike. and now i fell into a state of neglect, which i can not look back upon without compassion. i fell at once into a solitary condition--apart from all friendly notice, apart from the society of all other boys of my own age, apart from all companionship but my own spiritless thoughts--which seems to cast its gloom upon this paper as i write. what would i have given to have been sent to the hardest school that ever was kept! to have been taught something, anyhow, anywhere! no such hope dawned upon me. they disliked me, and they sullenly, sternly, steadily overlooked me. i think mr. murdstone's means were straitened at about this time; but it is little to the purpose. he could not bear me; and in putting me from him he tried, as i believe, to put away the notion that i had any claim upon him--and succeeded. i was not actively ill used. i was not beaten or starved; but the wrong that was done to me had no intervals of relenting, and was done in a systematic, passionless manner. day after day, week after week, month after month, i was coldly neglected. i wonder sometimes, when i think of it, what they would have done if i had been taken with an illness--whether i should have lain down in my lonely room and languished through it in my usual solitary way, or whether anybody would have helped me out. but the greatest lesson in wrong training given in david copperfield is the character development of steerforth. he was ruined by the misdirected love of his mother, and his life is a fine psychological study. he was a boy of unusually good ability and great attractiveness. he possessed by nature every element of power and grace required to make him a strong, true, and very successful man; but the love of his mother degenerated to pride and admiration, indulgence was substituted for guidance, and the strong woman became weak at the vital point of training her boy. she allowed him to become selfish and vain by yielding to his caprices. she thought she was making his character strong by allowing no restraint to be put upon it. she failed to distinguish between license and liberty. she had conceived the ideal of the need of freedom, but she knew naught of the true harmony between control and spontaneity. she allowed the spontaneity, and gloried in his resistance to control. she was blind to the balancing element in "the perfect law of liberty." she made her boy a powerful engine without a governor valve. so his selfhood became selfishness, and his character was wrecked. among other immoral opinions that he gained from his mother's training was the idea that he belonged to a select class superior to common humanity. how dickens hated this thought! rosa dartle asked steerforth about "that sort of people--are they really animals and clods, and beings of another order? i want to know so much." "why, there's a pretty wide separation between them and us," said steerforth, with indifference. "they are not to be expected to be as sensitive as we are. their delicacy is not to be shocked or hurt very easily. they are wonderfully virtuous, i dare say--some people contend for that, at least, and i am sure i don't want to contradict them; but they have not very fine natures, and they may be thankful that, like their coarse, rough skins, they are not easily wounded." he was trained to despise work, which is a good start toward the utter loss of character. a boy who despises his fellow-beings whom he assumes to rank below him, and who also despises work, instead of recognising the duty of every man to be a producer or a distributor of power, may easily fall into moral degeneracy. "help yourself, copperfield!" said steerforth. "we'll drink the daisies of the field, in compliment to you; and the lilies of the valley that toil not, neither do they spin, in compliment to me--the more shame for me!" his character lacked seriousness. he had the fatal levity that led him to discuss the most sacred subjects in a flippant manner. his mother knew that creakle's school was not a proper place for him, but she wished to make him conscious of his superiority even over his teacher, and she knew that creakle, tyrannical bully though he was, would yield to steerforth, because his mother was wealthy. "it was not a fit school generally for my son," said she; "far from it; but there were particular circumstances to be considered at the time, of more importance even than that selection. my son's high spirit made it desirable that he should be placed with some man who felt its superiority, and would be content to bow himself before it; and we found such a man there." what a perversion of the ideal of freedom in the development of character, to suppose that it could only reach perfection by a consciousness of superiority; by having some one who should control him bow down before him! no man in the world is truly free who has a desire to dominate some one else--another man, a woman, or a child. yet mrs. steerforth sacrificed her son's education in order that his manly spirit might be cultivated by the subordination of the man who should have governed him. she showed better judgment in deciding that a coercive tyrant like creakle would make a subservient sycophant. "my son's great capacity was tempted on there by a feeling of voluntary emulation and conscious pride," the fond lady went on to say. "he would have risen against all constraint; but he found himself the monarch of the place, and he haughtily determined to be worthy of his station. it was like himself." as steerforth began consciously to feel his better nature surrendering to his sensuality, he experienced the pangs that all strong natures feel at the loss of moral power, and one time when he and david were visiting mr. peggotty at yarmouth he seemed to be moody and disposed to sadness. he said suddenly to david when they were alone one day: "david, i wish to god i had had a judicious father these last twenty years!" "my dear steerforth, what is the matter?" "i wish with all my soul i had been better guided!" he exclaimed. "i wish with all my soul i could guide myself better!" there was a passionate dejection in his manner that quite amazed me. he was more unlike himself than i could have supposed possible. "it would be better to be this poor peggotty, or his lout of a nephew," he said, getting up and leaning moodily against the chimney piece, with his face toward the fire, "than to be myself, twenty times richer and twenty times wiser and be the torment to myself that i have been, in this devil's bark of a boat, within the last half hour!" he had already begun to poison the fountains of little emily's purity. when steerforth, after running away with emily and deserting her, was drowned and brought home, rosa dartle, who had loved him, charged his mother with his ruin. she had a scar on her lip, made by a hammer thrown by steerforth when he was a boy. "do you remember when he did this?" she proceeded. "do you remember when in his inheritance of your nature, and in your pampering of his pride and passion, he did this, and disfigured me for life? look at me, marked until i die with his high displeasure, and moan and groan for what you made him!" "miss dartle," i entreated her, "for heaven's sake----" "i _will_ speak," she said, turning on me with her lightning eyes. "be silent you! look at me, i say, proud mother of a proud false son! moan for your nurture of him, moan for your corruption of him, moan for your loss of him, moan for mine!" she clinched her hand, and trembled through her spare, worn figure, as if her passion were killing her by inches. "you resent his self-will!" she exclaimed. "you injured by his haughty temper! you, who opposed to both, when your hair was gray, the qualities which made both when you gave him birth! you, who from his cradle reared him to be what he was, and stunted what he should have been! are you rewarded, _now_, for your years of trouble?" "miss dartle," said i, "if you can be so obdurate as not to feel for this afflicted mother----" "who feels for me?" she sharply retorted. "she has sown this. let her moan for the harvest that she reaps to-day!" to show that the seed for the harvest had been sown by his mother was dickens's aim in the delineation of his character. yet she loved him as a part of her own life. she said to mr. peggotty, when he came to plead with her for emily: "my son, who has been the object of my life, to whom its every thought has been devoted, whom i have gratified from a child in every wish, from whom i have had no separate existence since his birth." there was a double sadness in david's soliloquy about steerforth, who had been his friend: in the keen distress of the discovery of his unworthiness, i thought more of all that was brilliant in him, i softened more toward all that was good in him, i did more justice to the qualities that might have made him a man of a noble nature and a great name, than ever i had done in the height of my devotion to him. in bleak house a great deal of attention is paid to child training. esther's sadness because of her neglected birthday touches a tender chord. it was my birthday. there were holidays at school on other birthdays; none on mine. there were rejoicings at home on other birthdays, as i knew from what i heard the girls relate to one another; there were none on mine. my birthday was the most melancholy day at home in the whole year. there is more than mere sentiment in birthday celebrations both at home and in school. it develops a pleasant consciousness of individuality and community--two of the greatest educational ideals. the cruelty of telling children of any supposed blight of heredity or of any other shadow that arrogant conventionality dares to throw over them, is criticised in the hard, gloomy way in which esther's godmother referred to her mother. even worse than this in the refinement of its cruelty was her parting injunction. it is a shameful thing to make a child believe that she is different from other children in any sense of either badness or goodness. "submission, self-denial, diligent work, are the preparations for a life begun with such a shadow on it. you are different from other children, esther, because you were not born, like them, in common sinfulness and wrath. you are set apart." i went up to my room and crept to bed, and laid my doll's cheek against mine wet with tears, and holding that solitary friend upon my bosom cried myself to sleep. imperfect as my understanding of my sorrow was, i knew that i had brought no joy, at any time, to anybody's heart, and that i was to no one upon earth what dolly was to me. dickens evidently meant to reveal more than her godmother's cruelty in her closing moralizings. she made the mistake of using self-denial and diligent work as curses instead of blessings. they were for the time none the less curses to the child, however. the gross negligence of parents in regard to the sacredness of the children's retiring hour is exposed in the management of the jellyby children. indeed, mrs. jellyby may be regarded as several volumes of treatises on how not to train children. caddy expressed her views of the training they received by saying: "i wish i was dead. i wish we were all dead. it would be a great deal better for us." she wisely added: "oh, don't talk of duty as a child! where's ma's duty as a parent?" esther said wisely: it struck me that if mrs. jellyby had discharged her own natural duties and obligations before she swept the horizon with a telescope in search of others, she would have taken the best precautions against becoming absurd; but i need scarcely observe that i kept this to myself. esther describes the process of putting the children to bed one evening she was visiting at the jellyby home: mrs. jellyby stopped for a moment her conversation with mr. quale, on the brotherhood of humanity, long enough to order the children to bed. as peepy cried for me to take him to bed, i carried him upstairs, where the young woman with the flannel bandage charged into the midst of the little family like a dragon, and overturned them into cribs. peepy was the unfortunate child who had fallen downstairs, who now interrupted the correspondence by presenting himself with a slip of plaster on his forehead, to exhibit his wounded knees, in which ada and i did not know which to pity most, the bruises or the dirt. mrs. jellyby merely added, with the serene composure with which she said everything, "go along, you naughty peepy!" and fixed her fine eyes on africa again. here mrs. jellyby was guilty of two wrongs, one of commission, the other of omission. she did a positive wrong in unjustly calling the child "naughty" when he was merely unfortunate. even if children are so badly guided that they do wrong, it is a serious mistake to make them feel consciously "bad" by calling them unpleasant names. it is always wrong to define in the child's consciousness a passing wave of evil. mrs. jellyby's sin of omission was her neglect of the opportunity of sympathizing with the suffering boy, and of training him to bear suffering bravely by the suggestion that he was "a brave little soldier home from the war." mr. jarndyce, in speaking of harold skimpole's children, said, when richard carstone asked if he had any children: "yes, rick! half a dozen. more! nearer a dozen, i should think. but he has never looked after them. how could he? he wanted somebody to look after _him_. he is a child, you know!" said mr. jarndyce. "and have the children looked after themselves at all, sir?" inquired richard. "why, just as you may suppose," said mr. jarndyce, his countenance suddenly falling. "it is said that the children of the very poor are not brought up, but dragged up. harold skimpole's children have tumbled up somehow or other----" again dickens was impressing the responsibility of parents for the care and proper training of their children. mr. jarndyce accounted for the utterly unpractical nature of mr. skimpole by saying: "why, he is all sentiment, and--and susceptibility, and--and sensibility--and--and imagination. and these qualities are not regulated in him, somehow. i suppose the people who admired him for them in his youth attached too much importance to them, and too little to any training that would have balanced and adjusted them; and so he became what he is." mrs. pardiggle was given as a type of the philanthropic woman who does _not_ neglect her children, but whose training is worse--much worse than mrs. jellyby's neglect. the jellyby children had as much motherly sympathy as the pardiggles, and they had freedom. there is always this advantage in neglect. louisa gradgrind gave utterance to a philosophical principle when she said to her father: "oh! if you had only neglected me, what a much better and much happier creature i should have been." dickens did not teach that neglect is good training, but he did teach that it is a lighter curse than the gradgrind or pardiggle training. the jellyby children had a slight chance to turn out moderately well, but the pardiggle children were certain to be morose, hypocritical, and vicious. they were certain to hate all forms of christian philanthropy. mrs. pardiggle's intentions were undoubtedly good, but she destroyed the character of her children, nevertheless. "these, young ladies," said mrs. pardiggle with great volubility, after the first salutations, "are my five boys. you may have seen their names in a printed subscription list (perhaps more than one) in the possession of our esteemed friend mr. jarndyce. egbert, my eldest (twelve), is the boy who sent out his pocket money, to the amount of five and threepence to the tockahoopo indians. oswald, my second (ten and a half), is the child who contributed two and ninepence to the great national smithers testimonial. francis, my third (nine), one and sixpence halfpenny; felix, my fourth (seven), eightpence to the superannuated widows; alfred, my youngest (five), has voluntarily enrolled himself in the infant bonds of joy, and is pledged never through life to use tobacco in any form." we had never seen such dissatisfied children. it was not merely that they were weazened and shrivelled--though they were certainly that too--but they looked absolutely ferocious with discontent. at the mention of the tockahoopo indians i could really have supposed egbert to be one of the most baleful members of that tribe, he gave me such a savage frown. the face of each child as the amount of his contribution was mentioned darkened in a peculiarly vindictive manner, but his was by far the worst. i must except, however, the little recruit into the infant bonds of joy, who was stolidly and evenly miserable. "you have been visiting, i understand," said mrs. pardiggle, "at mrs. jellyby's?" we said yes, we had passed one night there. "mrs. jellyby is a benefactor to society, and deserves a helping hand. my boys have contributed to the african project--egbert, one and six, being the entire allowance of nine weeks; oswald, one and a penny halfpenny, being the same; the rest, according to their little means. nevertheless, i do not go with mrs. jellyby in all things. i do not go with mrs. jellyby in her treatment of her young family. it has been noticed. it has been observed that her young family are excluded from participation in the objects to which she is devoted. she may be right, she may be wrong; but, right or wrong, this is not my course with _my_ young family. i take them everywhere." i was afterward convinced (and so was ada) that from the ill-conditioned eldest child these words extorted a sharp yell. he turned it off into a yawn, but it began as a yell. "they attend matins with me (very prettily done) at half past six o'clock in the morning all the year round, including, of course, the depth of winter," said mrs. pardiggle rapidly, "and they are with me during the revolving duties of the day. i am a school lady, i am a visiting lady, i am a reading lady, i am a distributing lady; i am on the local linen box committee, and many general committees; and my canvassing alone is very extensive--perhaps no one's more so. but they are my companions everywhere; and by these means they acquire that knowledge of the poor, and that capacity of doing charitable business in general--in short, that taste for the sort of thing--which will render them in after life a service to their neighbours, and a satisfaction to themselves. my young family are not frivolous; they expend the entire amount of their allowance in subscriptions, under my direction; and they have attended as many public meetings, and listened to as many lectures, orations, and discussions as generally fall to the lot of few grown people. alfred (five), who, as i mentioned, has of his own election joined the infant bonds of joy, was one of the very few children who manifested consciousness on one occasion, after a fervid address of two hours from the chairman of the evening." alfred glowered at us as if he never could, or would, forgive the injury of that night. "you may have observed, miss summerson," said mrs. pardiggle, "in some of the lists to which i have referred, in the possession of our esteemed friend mr. jarndyce, that the names of my young family are concluded with the name of o. a. pardiggle, f. r. s., one pound. that is their father. we usually observe the same routine. i put down my mite first; then my young family enrol their contributions, according to their ages and their little means; and then mr. pardiggle brings up the rear. mr. pardiggle is happy to throw in his limited donation, under my direction; and thus things are made, not only pleasant to ourselves, but, we trust, improving to others." mrs. pardiggle invited esther and ada to go out with her to visit a "wicked brickmaker" in the neighbourhood. ada walked ahead with mrs. pardiggle and esther followed with the five children. she had an interesting experience. i am very fond of being confided in by children, and am happy in being usually favoured in that respect, but on this occasion it gave me great uneasiness. as soon as we were out of doors, egbert, with the manner of a little footpad, demanded a shilling of me, on the ground that his pocket money was "boned" from him. on my pointing out the great impropriety of the word, especially in connection with his parent (for he added sulkily "by her!"), he pinched me and said, "oh, then! now! who are you? _you_ wouldn't like it, i think! what does she make a sham for, and pretend to give me money, and take it away again? why do you call it _my_ allowance, and never let me spend it?" these exasperating questions so inflamed his mind, and the minds of oswald and francis, that they all pinched me at once, and in a dreadfully expert way; screwing up such little pieces of my arms that i could hardly forbear crying out. felix at the same time stamped upon my toes. and the bond of joy, who, on account of always having the whole of his little income anticipated, stood, in fact, pledged to abstain from cakes as well as tobacco, so swelled with grief and rage when we passed a pastry-cook shop, that he terrified me by becoming purple. i never underwent so much, both in body and mind, in the course of a walk with young people, as from these unnaturally constrained children, when they paid me the compliment of being natural. in the brickmaker's hovel they heard something of how the very poor brought up children, or failed to bring them up, in dickens's time. the brickmaker was lying at full length on the floor, smoking his pipe. he gave them no welcome. i wants a end of these liberties took with my place. i wants a end of being drawed like a badger. now you are a-going to poll-pry and question according to custom--i know what you're a-going to be up to. well! you haven't got no occasion to be up to it. i'll save you the trouble. is my daughter a-washin'? yes, she is a-washin'. look at the water. smell it! that's wot we drinks. how do you like it, and what do you think of gin, instead? an't my place dirty? yes, it is dirty--it's nat'rally dirty, and it's nat'rally onwholesome; and we've had five dirty and onwholesome children, as is all dead infants, and so much the better for them, and for us besides. the utter carelessness of some "society gentlemen" in regard to the education of their children is referred to in the description caddy jellyby gave of her lover, the son of the great turveydrop. caddy told me that her lover's education had been so neglected that it was not always easy to read his notes. she said if he were not so anxious about his spelling, and took less pains to make it clear, he would do better; but he put so many unnecessary letters into short words that they sometimes quite lost their english appearance. "he does it with the best intention," observed caddy, "but it hasn't the effect he means, poor fellow!" caddy then went on to reason how could he be expected to be a scholar when he had passed his whole life in the dancing school, and had done nothing but teach and fag, fag and teach, morning, noon, and night! and what did it matter? she could write letters enough for both, as she knew to her cost, and it was far better for him to be amiable than learned. "besides, it's not as if i was an accomplished girl, who had any right to give herself airs," said caddy. "i know little enough, i am sure, thanks to ma!" the products of the fashionable education of dickens's time (there is not so much of it now, thanks largely to dickens) were shown in the cousins of sir leicester dedlock. the rest of the cousins are ladies and gentlemen of various ages and capacities; the major part, amiable and sensible, and likely to have done well enough in life if they could have overcome their cousinship; as it is, they are almost all a little worsted by it, and lounge in purposeless and listless paths, and seem to be quite as much at a loss how to dispose of themselves as anybody else can be how to dispose of them. in little dorrit mrs. general is used as a type of two varieties of false training. her pupils were never to be allowed to know that there was anything vulgar or wrong in the world. she believed the good old theory, that adulthood had two duties in developing purity of character, one to prevent children knowing that there was any evil, the other to chain them back or beat them back from evil, if they accidentally found it and wished to investigate it. she never thought of training a child to do its part in reducing the evil around him. seclusion and exclusion took the place of community in her perverted philosophy. she believed, too, in educating the surface. she did not work from within intellectually or spiritually. she varnished the surface that it might receive the proper society polish, therefore neither heart nor head required much attention. according to her theory, young ladies should never be so unladylike as to have great purposes or great ideas. unfortunately some of her descendants are still living. "fanny," observed mrs. general, "at present forms too many opinions. perfect breeding forms none, and is never demonstrative. "i have conversed with amy several times since we have been residing here on the general subject of the formation of a demeanour. she has expressed herself to me as wondering exceedingly at venice. i have mentioned to her that it is better not to wonder." her father sent for amy to reprove her for her lack of what mrs. general regarded as true culture, and amy said: "i think, father, i require a little time." "papa is a preferable mode of address," observed mrs. general. "father is rather vulgar, my dear. the word papa, besides, gives a pretty form to the lips. papa, potatoes, poultry, prunes, and prism are all very good words for the lips; especially prunes and prism. you will find it serviceable, in the formation of a demeanour, if you sometimes say to yourself in company--on entering a room, for instance--papa, potatoes, poultry, prunes and prism, prunes and prism. "if miss amy dorrit will direct her own attention to, and will accept of my poor assistance in, the formation of a surface, mr. dorrit will have no further cause of anxiety. may i take this opportunity of remarking, as an instance in point, that it is scarcely delicate to look at vagrants with the attention which i have seen bestowed upon them by a very dear young friend of mine? they should not be looked at. nothing disagreeable should ever be looked at. apart from such a habit standing in the way of that graceful equanimity of surface which is so expressive of good breeding, it hardly seems compatible with refinement of mind. a truly refined mind will seem to be ignorant of the existence of anything that is not perfectly proper, placid, and pleasant." great expectations has numerous illustrations of bad training. mrs. gargery had many of the worst characteristics of disrespectful and coercive adulthood. she abused pip for asking questions, scolded him, thimbled him, and sent him to bed in the dark. she told him he was on the way to commit murder and a great variety of crimes, because criminals always "begin by asking questions." she kept him in a state of constant terror. she tried in every possible way to lower his opinion of himself, which is a crime against childhood. one of the worst features of the old education was its teaching of a spurious humility, a depreciation of selfhood. one of the greatest weaknesses of humanity is the general lack of true faith of men and women in their own powers. he was told that he was "naterally wicious," and made the butt of all the observations relating to boys who possessed any vices whatever. dickens revealed all these characteristics to condemn them. pip discussed a very grave question for students of children when he was accounting for the fact that he deliberately misstated facts so systematically in answering the questions of his sister and mr. pumblechook, in regard to miss havisham and the peculiarities of her mysterious home. when i reached home my sister was very curious to know all about miss havisham's, and asked a number of questions. and i soon found myself getting heavily bumped from behind in the nape of the neck and the small of the back, and having my face ignominiously shoved against the kitchen wall, because i did not answer those questions at sufficient length. if a dread of not being understood be hidden in the breasts of other young people to anything like the extent to which it used to be hidden in mine--which i consider probable, as i have no particular reason to suspect myself of having been a monstrosity--it is the key to many reservations. i felt convinced that if i described miss havisham's as my eyes had seen it i should not be understood. whitewash on the forehead hardens the brain into a state of obstinacy perhaps. anyhow, with whitewash from the wall on my forehead, my obstinacy was adamantine. two thoughts are worthy of note in this part of pip's training: abuse, especially of the thumping, bumping, shaking variety, makes a child obstinate; and many of childhood's difficulties arise from not being understood, or the fear of being misunderstood. pip resented, as all children do, more than they can show, the unpleasant habit of taking patronizing liberties with them. and here i may remark that when mr. wopsle referred to me, he considered it a necessary part of such reference to rumple my hair and poke it into my eyes. i can not conceive why everybody of his standing who visited at our house should always have put me through the same inflammatory process under similar circumstances. yet i do not call to mind that i was ever in my earlier youth the subject of remark in our social family circle, but some large-handed person took some such ophthalmic steps to patronize me. and mr. pumblechook! what could a boy do but hate him? meanwhile, councils went on in the kitchen at home, fraught with almost insupportable aggravation to my exasperated spirit. that ass, pumblechook, used often to come over of a night for the purpose of discussing my prospects with my sister; and i really do believe (to this hour with less penitence than i ought to feel) that if these hands could have taken a linchpin out of his chaise cart, they would have done it. the miserable man was a man of that confined stolidity of mind that he could not discuss my prospects without having me before him--as it were, to operate upon--and he would drag me up from my stool (usually by the collar) where i was quiet in a corner, and, putting me before the fire as if i were going to be cooked, would begin by saying, "now, mum, here is this boy! here is this boy which you brought up by hand. hold up your head, boy, and be forever grateful unto them which so did so. now, mum, with respections to this boy!" and then he would rumple my hair the wrong way--which from my earliest remembrance, as already hinted, i have in my soul denied the right of any fellow-creature to do--and would hold me before him by the sleeve: a spectacle of imbecility only to be equalled by himself. mrs. pocket's training was given as an illustration of the folly of giving girls no practical education. her father had directed mrs. pocket to be brought up from her cradle as one who, in the nature of things, must marry a title, and who was to be guarded from the acquisition of plebeian domestic knowledge. so successful a watch and ward had been established over the young lady by this judicious parent, that she had grown up highly ornamental, but perfectly helpless and useless. her home proved that she had grown up a credit to her training. there never was a family more utterly without order, management, or system than mrs. pocket's. servants and children indulged in unending turmoil and conflict. dickens added a grim humour to the picture by saying: mr. pocket was out lecturing; for he was a most delightful lecturer on domestic economy, and his treatises on the management of children and servants were considered the very best text-books on those themes. but mrs. pocket was at home and was in a little difficulty, on account of the baby's having been accommodated with a needle-case to keep him quiet during the unaccountable absence (with a relative in the foot guards) of millers. and more needles were missing than it could be regarded as quite wholesome for a patient of such tender years either to apply externally or to take as a tonic. mrs. pocket continued to read her one book about the dignities of the titled aristocracy, and prescribed "bed" as a sovereign remedy for baby. dickens believed a mother should find her highest joy and most sacred duty in training her own children. mrs. pocket was a type to be avoided. the description of the dinner at mr. pocket's, after which the six children were brought in, and mrs. pocket attempted to mind the baby, is one of the raciest bits of dickens's humour. one observation in connection with the dinner is worth studying. after dinner the children were introduced, and mrs. coiler made admiring comments on their eyes, noses, and legs--a sagacious way of improving their minds. how few yet clearly understand this profound criticism of bad training! how many children are still made vain and frivolous by having their attention directed especially to their physical attributes and their dress, rather than to the things that would yield them much greater immediate happiness and a much truer basis for future development! in his last book, edwin drood, dickens showed that he still hated the tyranny that dwarfs and distorts the souls of children. neville landless described his own training to his tutor, who had won his confidence as it had never been won before. "we lived with a stepfather there. our mother died there, when we were little children. we have had a wretched existence. she made him our guardian, and he was a miserly wretch who grudged us food to eat and clothes to wear. "this stepfather of ours was a cruel brute as well as a grinding one. it was well he died when he did, or i might have killed him." mr. crisparkle stopped short in the moonlight and looked at his hopeful pupil in consternation. "i surprise you, sir?" he said, with a quick change to a submissive manner. "you shock me; unspeakably shock me." the pupil hung his head for a little while, as they walked on, and then said: "you never saw him beat your sister. i have seen him beat mine, more than once or twice, and i never forgot it. "i have had, sir, from my earliest remembrance, to suppress a deadly and bitter hatred. this has made me secret and revengeful. i have been always tyrannically held down by the strong hand. this has driven me, in my weakness, to the resource of being false and mean. i have been stinted of education, liberty, money, dress, the very necessaries of life, the commonest pleasures of childhood, the commonest possessions of youth. this has caused me to be utterly wanting in i do not know what emotions, or remembrances, or good instincts--i have not even a name for the thing, you see--that you have had to work upon in other young men to whom you have been accustomed." hatred instead of love; product, a secret and revengeful character. "tyrannically held down by a strong hand"; product, falseness and meanness. "stinted of education, liberty, money, dress, the very necessaries of life, the commonest pleasures of childhood, the commonest possessions of youth"; product, a manhood utterly barren in true emotions, or pleasant memories, or good instincts. no other writer has described so many phases of bad training as dickens. chapter xii. good training. dickens wrote much less about good training than about bad training. it was the part of a true philosopher and a profound student of human nature to do so. pictures of wrong treatment of children accomplished a double purpose. they made men hate the wrong, and made them more clearly conscious of the right than pictures of the right alone could have done. descriptions of ideal conditions can not make as deep impressions as descriptions of utterly bad conditions in the present stage of human evolution. his revelation of cruel tyranny, of will breaking, of cramming, of dwarfing of individuality, of distorting of imagination, of harshness, of lack of sympathy, of evil in a hundred hideous forms, made men more conscious of their corresponding opposites than attempts to reveal these opposites by direct effort could have done; and in addition it stirred in human hearts everywhere the determination to remove or remedy the wrong. little nell's grandfather gave her a good training. omitting poverty and loneliness, and some strange companionships, she had a training calculated to make her the supremely pure and attractive child she was. her grandfather loved her passionately; he had never been unkind to her, he had taught her carefully in the virtues that are learned by the unselfish performance of duty; she had the opportunity for simple, loving service, and she was trained to have profound reverence for and true faith in god. her grandfather left her alone every night, yet she was never afraid. dickens describes their usual parting in the evening. then she ran to the old man, who folded her in his arms and bade god bless her. "sleep soundly, nell," he said in a low voice, "and angels guard thy bed! do not forget thy prayers, my sweet." "no, indeed," answered the child fervently, "they make me feel so happy!" "that's well; i know they do; they should," said the old man. "bless thee a hundred times! early in the morning i shall be home." "you'll not ring twice," returned the child. "the bell wakes me, even in the middle of a dream." the toodle family is painted in direct contrast to the dombey family in the relationship of parents to children. mrs. toodle came to nurse paul dombey when his mother died. mr. toodle himself came too, and mr. dombey called him in to speak to him. he was a strong, loose, round-shouldered, shuffling, shaggy fellow, on whom his clothes sat negligently; with a good deal of hair and whisker, deepened in its natural tint, perhaps, by smoke and coal-dust; hard knotty hands; and a square forehead, as coarse in grain as the bark of an oak. a thorough contrast in all respects to mr. dombey, who was one of those close-shaved, close-cut moneyed gentlemen who are glossy and crisp like new bank notes, and who seem to be artificially braced and tightened as by the stimulating action of golden shower baths. "you have a son, i believe?" said mr. dombey. "four on 'em, sir. four hims and a her. all alive!" "why, it's as much as you can afford to keep them!" said mr. dombey. "i couldn't hardly afford but one thing in the world less, sir." "what is that?" "to lose 'em, sir." "can you read?" asked mr. dombey. "why, not partick'ler, sir." "write?" "with chalk, sir?" "with anything?" "i could make shift to chalk a little bit, i think, if i was put to it," said toodle, after some reflection. "and yet," said mr. dombey, "you are two or three and thirty, i suppose?" "thereabout, i suppose, sir," answered toodle, after more reflection. "then why don't you learn?" asked mr. dombey. "so i'm agoing to, sir. one of my little boys is agoing to learn me, when he's old enough, and been to school himself." what a beautiful picture of the true relationship that should exist between a mother and her children is given in the reception to mrs. toodle when she went home to visit her family! "why, polly!" cried her sister. "you! what a turn you _have_ given me! who'd have thought it! come along in, polly! how well you do look, to be sure! the children will go half wild to see you, polly, that they will." that they did, if one might judge from the noise they made, and the way in which they dashed at polly and dragged her to a low chair in the chimney corner, where her own honest apple face became immediately the centre of a bunch of smaller pippins, all laying their rosy cheeks close to it, and all evidently the growth of the same tree. as to polly, she was full as noisy and vehement as the children; and it was not until she was quite out of breath, and her hair was hanging all about her flushed face, and her new christening attire was very much dishevelled, that any pause took place in the confusion. even then, the smallest toodle but one remained in her lap, holding on tight with both arms round her neck; while the smallest toodle but two mounted on the back of the chair, and made desperate efforts, with one leg in the air, to kiss her round the corner. unfortunately the eldest toodle, nicknamed biler, was sent to the grinders' school by mr. dombey, and he was so badly treated that he played truant and got into bad company; but his mother clung to him and treated him kindly, and hoped for him still. mr. carker went home with biler to satisfy himself in regard to his family. "this fellow," said mr. carker to polly, giving him a gentle shake, "is your son, eh, ma'am?" "yes, sir," sobbed polly, with a courtesy; "yes, sir." "a bad son, i am afraid?" said mr. carker. "never a bad son to me, sir," returned polly. "to whom, then?" demanded mr. carker. "he has been a little wild, sir," replied polly, checking the baby, who was making convulsive efforts with his arms and legs to launch himself on biler, through the ambient air, "and has gone with wrong companions; but i hope he has seen the misery of that, sir, and will do well again." when mr. carker had concluded his visit, as he made his way among the crowding children to the door, rob retreated on his mother, and took her and the baby in the same repentant hug. "i'll try hard, dear mother, now. upon my soul i will!" said rob. "oh, do, my dear boy! i am sure you will, for our sakes and your own!" cried polly, kissing him. "but you're coming back to speak to me, when you have seen the gentleman away?" "i don't know, mother." rob hesitated, and looked down. "father--when's he coming home?" "not till two o'clock to-morrow morning." "i'll come back, mother, dear!" cried rob. and passing through the shrill cry of his brothers and sisters in reception of this promise, he followed mr. carker out. "what!" said mr. carker, who had heard this. "you have a bad father, have you?" "no, sir!" returned rob, amazed. "there ain't a better nor a kinder father going than mine is." "why don't you want to see him, then?" asked his patron. "there's such a difference between a father and a mother, sir," said rob, after faltering for a moment. "he couldn't hardly believe yet that i was going to do better--though i know he'd try to; but a mother--_she_ always believes what's good, sir; at least i know my mother does, god bless her!" it was not the fault of his home that biler went astray. nor did dickens fail to give a picture for the fathers too. mr. toodle was a workman on a train, and great was the joy in the family when father came home. "polly, my gal," said mr. toodle, with a young toodle on each knee and two more making tea for him, and plenty more scattered about--mr. toodle was never out of children, but always kept a good supply on hand--"you ain't seen our biler lately, have you?" "no," replied polly, "but he's almost certain to look in to-night. it's his right evening, and he's very regular." "i suppose," said mr. toodle, relishing his meal infinitely, "as our biler is a-doin' now about as well as a boy _can_ do, eh, polly?" "oh! he's a-doing beautiful!" responded polly. "he ain't got to be at all secretlike--has he, polly?" inquired mr. toodle. "no!" said mrs. toodle plumply. "i'm glad he ain't got to be at all secretlike, polly," observed mr. toodle in his slow and measured way, and shovelling in his bread and butter with a clasp knife, as if he were stoking himself, "because that don't look well; do it, polly?" "why, of course, it don't, father. how can you ask?" "you see, my boys and gals," said mr. toodle, looking round upon his family, "wotever you're up to in a honest way, it's my opinion as you can't do better than be open. if you find yourselves in cuttings or in tunnels, don't you play no secret games. keep your whistles going, and let's know where you are." the rising toodles set up a shrill murmur, expressive of their resolution to profit by the paternal advice. "but what makes you say this along of rob, father?" asked his wife anxiously. "polly, old 'ooman," said mr. toodle, "i don't know as i said it partickler along o' rob, i'm sure. i starts light with rob only; i comes to a branch; i takes on what i finds there; and a whole train of ideas gets coupled on to him afore i knows where i am, or where they comes from. what a junction a man's thoughts is," said mr. toodle, "to be sure!" this profound reflection mr. toodle washed down with a pint mug of tea, and proceeded to solidify with a great weight of bread and butter; charging his young daughters meanwhile to keep plenty of hot water in the pot, as he was uncommon dry, and should take the indefinite quantity of "a sight of mugs" before his thirst was appeased. and as the jolly old fellow ate his supper he was surrounded by all his smaller children, some on his knees, and others under his arms, and all getting bites of bread and butter and sups of tea in turn, although they had had their own supper before he came home. dickens did not wish to teach that such relationships should exist between parents and children in the homes of the labouring classes only. he used toodle and his family as representing one extreme of society, as at present constituted, in sharp contrast with mr. dombey's family at the other extreme. how happy the one home with barely enough to secure the necessaries of life! how miserable the other with unlimited wealth! and the best things in the toodle home were the children, and the love and unconventional freedom between them and their parents. with such a feeling of community and love in all homes, and with schools of a proper character, the children will be trained for higher, and progressively advancing manhood and womanhood. david copperfield's training was not all coercive and degrading. before the murdstones came to blight his young life he had joy and sympathy to stimulate all that was good in him. his mother and peggotty were kind and true. the three had perfect faith in each other. they formed a blessed unity. "the memory of his lessons in those happy days recalled no feeling of disgust or reluctance. on the contrary, he seemed to have walked along a path of flowers, and to have been cheered by the gentleness of his mother's voice and manner all the way." again, after the murdstone interval of terror and cruelty, david was kindly treated and well trained by his aunt. her relationship toward him throughout his whole youth is well presented in her parting words, as she left him at mr. wickfield's house, where he was to live while at doctor strong's school. she told me that everything would be arranged for me by mr. wickfield, and that i should want for nothing, and gave me the kindest words and the best advice. "trot," said my aunt in conclusion, "be a credit to yourself, to me, and mr. dick, and heaven be with you!" i was greatly overcome, and could only thank her again and again, and send my love to mr. dick. "never," said my aunt, "be mean in anything; never be false; never be cruel. avoid these three vices, trot, and i can always be hopeful of you." in mr. wickfield's home and in doctor strong's school he had ideal conditions of development. he received respectful consideration, fatherly interest, wise counsel, and generous hospitality from mr. wickfield. with agnes he had the most delightful relationship of sympathetic and stimulating friendship. there is no better influence in the life of a boy opening into young manhood than the true friendship of a girl of the character of agnes. in doctor strong's school david met with the best conditions of good training yet revealed by the "new education." the boys were taught politeness, courtesy, and consideration for the feelings of others in doctor strong's school. about five-and-twenty boys were studiously engaged at their books when we went in, but they rose to give the doctor good morning, and remained standing when they saw mr. wickfield and me. "a new boy, young gentlemen," said the doctor; "trotwood copperfield." one adams, who was the head boy, then stepped out of his place and welcomed me. he looked like a young clergyman, in his white cravat, but he was very affable and good-humoured; and he showed me my place, and presented me to the masters in a gentlemanly way that would have put me at my ease if anything could. physical education received due attention at doctor strong's school. "we had noble games out of doors." these outdoor sports have done more than anything else to develop the strength and energy of the british character. thoughtful educators everywhere recognise the value of play in the development of the physical, the intellectual, and the spiritual nature as taught by froebel. the love of play has been one of the distinctive elements of the british people. doctor strong's personal influence was good. "he was the idol of the whole school." he was not coercive nor restrictive; he was an inspiration to effort and to manliness of conduct. "he was the kindest of men," full of sympathy with boyhood and with individual boys. "he had a simple faith in him that might have touched the stone hearts of the very urns upon the wall." mr. wickfield told david that he feared some of the boys might take advantage of his kindness and faith, but boys do not abuse the confidence of such teachers. "he appealed in everything to the honour and good faith of the boys, and avowed his intention to rely on the possession of these qualities unless they proved themselves unworthy." david says this "worked wonders." he had no spies in schoolroom or grounds. he trusted his boys in a frank, unconventional way, and they proved themselves worthy of trust. in such an atmosphere a boy grows to be reliable. he does not need to be hypocritical or false. "the boys all became warmly attached to the school--i am sure i did for one, and i never knew, in all my time, of any other boy being otherwise--and learned with a good will, desiring to do it credit." they had independent self-activity. "we had plenty of liberty." without this no child can reach his best growth. the boys did not abuse their privilege. they respected themselves more because they had liberty. "as i remember, we were well spoken of in the town, and rarely did any disgrace, by our appearance or manner, to the reputation of doctor strong and doctor strong's boys." the community ideal was wrought into the lives of the boys by their experience in this model school. "we all felt that we had a part in the management of the place, and in sustaining its character and dignity." the highest work of schools, colleges, and universities is to fill the lives of men and women with the apperceptive centres of the community ideal. christian community can not be made clear by books or teaching or sermons unless its foundations are laid by experience, by "sharing in the management" of the conditions of the life of the boy, or girl, or student. froebel pleaded for a college and university education in which students should "share in the management." dickens applied this high ideal. there is another most important element in doctor strong's influence. he was not "a human barrel organ," like mr. feeder, "playing a little list of greek and latin tunes over and over again without any variation." he was an original investigator. he was preparing a dictionary of greek roots. he was not merely an accumulator of knowledge as it had been prepared by some one else. he was not a mere canal through which knowledge slowly flowed through artificial channels, nor a marsh in which knowledge had become confused and stagnant, nor a dead sea into which knowledge flowed, but from which there was no outlet. he was a fresh fountain from which knowledge came clear and pure. so the boys gained knowledge readily from him, but, far beyond knowledge, they learned incidentally the habit of work, and were filled with the desire to add to the store of knowledge as a basis for the progressive evolution of humanity. what a farce it is to say that dickens was not conscious of the pedagogic value of his work. he had great facility in learning, but he was also a hard student. no one could have written so much and so wisely about education unless he had studied carefully the thought of the most advanced educators. david's aunt had the wisdom to try to develop in him the characteristics of excellence that were lacking in his parents. this is a thought that is slowly making its way in the minds of educators. "but what i want you to be, trot," resumed my aunt--"i don't mean physically, but morally; you are very well physically--is a firm fellow. a fine firm fellow, with a will of your own. with resolution," said my aunt, shaking her cap at me, and clinching her hand. "with determination. with character, trot--with strength of character that is not to be influenced, except on good reason, by anybody, or by anything. that's what i want you to be. that's what your father and mother might both have been, heaven knows, and been the better for it." i intimated that i hoped i should be what she described. "that you may begin, in a small way, to have a reliance upon yourself, and to act for yourself," said my aunt, "i shall send you upon your trip alone." in pursuance of my aunt's kind scheme, i was shortly afterward fitted out with a handsome purse of money and a portmanteau, and tenderly dismissed upon my expedition. at parting, my aunt gave me some good advice and a good many kisses; and said that as her object was that i should look about me, and should think a little, she would recommend me to stay a few days in london, if i liked it, either on my way down into suffolk, or in coming back. in a word, i was at liberty to do as i would for three weeks or a month; and no other conditions were imposed upon my freedom than the before-mentioned thinking and looking about me, and a pledge to write three times a week and faithfully report myself. betsy trotwood may safely be taken as a model in dealing with boys during the adolescent period, and with young men just about to start in the real work of life. dickens puts into the words of david copperfield a statement of the elements of character which he regarded as most essential to success in life, and which he would take pains to develop by the training in homes and schools. i will only add to what i have already written of my perseverance at this time of my life, and of a patient and continuous energy which then began to be matured within me, and which i know to be the strong part of my character, if it have any strength at all, that there, on looking back, i find the source of my success. i have been very fortunate in worldly matters; many men have worked much harder, and not succeeded half so well; but i never could have done what i have done without the habits of punctuality, order, and diligence, without the determination to concentrate myself on one object at a time, no matter how quickly its successor should come upon its heels, which i then formed. my meaning simply is, that whatever i have tried to do in life, i have tried with all my heart to do well; that whatever i have devoted myself to, i have devoted myself to completely; that, in great aims and in small, i have always been thoroughly in earnest. i have never believed it possible that any natural or improved ability can claim immunity from the companionship of the steady, plain, hard-working qualities, and hope to gain its end. there is no such thing as such fulfilment on this earth. some happy talent, and some fortunate opportunity, may form the two sides of the ladder on which some men mount, but the rounds of that ladder must be made of stuff to stand wear and tear; and there is no substitute for thoroughgoing, ardent, and sincere earnestness. never to put one hand to anything on which i could throw my whole self and never to affect depreciation of my work, whatever it was, i find, now, to have been my golden rules. bleak house, which is so rich in illustrations of bad training, contains little direct teaching regarding the proper training of children. the value of a doll in the training of a girl is shown in esther's early experience. the doll had a real personal relationship to her. she made it her confidant, and in various ways gave it a distinct personal standing. she could pour out to it the joys and sorrows of her heart more fully than to any real person. the doll was an outlet for the pent-up emotions that were checked in their flow by the adults with whom she was associated. a doll is more than a mere plaything to a child; or perhaps it would be more exact to say play with a doll means much more than most people believe. dickens was able to sympathize with even a little girl. esther says: i can remember, when i was a very little girl indeed, i used to say to my doll, when we were alone together, "now, dolly, i am not clever, you know very well, and you must be patient with me, like a dear!" and so she used to sit propped up in a great armchair, with her beautiful complexion and rosy lips, staring at me--or not so much at me, i think, as at nothing--while i busily stitched away, and told her every one of my secrets. my dear old doll! i was such a shy little thing that i seldom dared to open my lips, and never dared to open my heart, to anybody else. it almost makes me cry to think what a relief it used to be to me, when i came home from school of a day, to run upstairs to my room, and say "oh you dear faithful dolly, i knew you would be expecting me!" and then to sit down on the floor, leaning on the elbow of her great chair, and tell her all i had noticed since we parted. i had always rather a noticing way--not a quick way, oh, no!--a silent way of noticing what passed before me, and thinking i should like to understand it better. i have not by any means a quick understanding. when i love a person very tenderly indeed, it seems to brighten. when on her lonely birthday she had been told by her godmother that a shadow hung over her life she says: i went up to my room, and crept to bed, and laid my doll's cheek against mine wet with tears; and holding that solitary friend upon my bosom cried myself to sleep. dear, dear, to think how much time we passed alone together afterward, and how often i repeated to the doll the story of my birthday, and confided to her that i would try, as hard as ever i could, to repair the fault i had been born with (of which i confessedly felt guilty and yet innocent), and would strive as i grew up to be industrious, contented, and kind-hearted, and to do some good to some one, and win some love to myself if i could. mr. jarndyce emphasized the opinion of david copperfield when he gave advice to richard carstone: "trust in nothing but in providence and your own efforts. never separate the two, like the heathen wagoner. constancy in love is a good thing; but it means nothing, and is nothing, without constancy in every kind of effort. if you had the abilities of all the great men, past and present, you could do nothing well without sincerely meaning it and setting about it. if you entertain the supposition that any real success, in great things or in small, ever was or could be, ever will or can be, wrested from fortune by fits and starts, leave that wrong idea here." mr. george gave woolwich bagnet kindly counsel regarding his duty to his mother: "the time will come, my boy," pursues the trooper, "when this hair of your mother's will be gray, and this forehead all crossed and recrossed with wrinkles--and a fine old lady she'll be then. take care, while you are young, that you can think in those days, '_i_ never whitened a hair of her dear head--_i_ never marked a sorrowful line in her face!' for of all the many things that you can think of when you are a man, you had better have _that_ by you, woolwich!" mr. meagles in little dorrit, good, kind mr. meagles, explained why little dorrit, amid all her trials and all her difficulties, had grown to be so true a woman, loved by so many people. if she had constantly thought of herself, and settled with herself that everybody visited this place upon her, turned it against her, and cast it at her, she would have led an irritable and probably a useless existence. yet i have heard tell, tattycoram, that her young life has been one of active resignation, goodness, and noble service. shall i tell you what i consider those eyes of hers that were here just now, to have always looked at, to get that expression? "yes, if you please, sir." "duty, tattycoram. begin it early, and do it well; and there is no antecedent to it, in any origin or station, that will tell against us with the almighty, or with ourselves." although mr. pocket was not able to manage his own household and family, chiefly owing to the hopeless incompetence of mrs. pocket, he was an excellent teacher, and knew how to treat his pupils. pip found him a most satisfactory guide. he advised my attending certain places in london for the acquisition of such mere rudiments as i wanted, and my investing him with the functions of explainer and director of all my studies. he hoped that with intelligent assistance i should meet with little to discourage me, and should soon be able to dispense with any aid but his. through his way of saying this, and much more to similar purpose, he placed himself on confidential terms with me in an admirable manner: and i may state at once that he was always so zealous and honourable in fulfilling his compact with me that he made me zealous and honourable in fulfilling mine with him. if he had shown indifference as a master, i had no doubt i should have returned the compliment as a pupil; he gave me no such excuse, and each of us did the other justice. in our mutual friend betty higden and mrs. boffin are given as true types of the proper spirit of adulthood toward childhood. betty, poor as she was, wept at the thought of parting from johnny, and mrs. boffin said to her: "if you trust the dear child to me he shall have the best of homes, the best of care, the best of education, the best of friends. please god, i will be a true good mother to him!" jemmy lirriper had an ideal training in many ways. he had freedom and love, and his imagination and individuality were developed as fully as mrs. lirriper and the major could secure these desirable results. his boyish personality received respectful consideration. the major's method of revealing mathematical conceptions and processes, while it did not fully reveal froebel's processes in reaching the same results (even the great mathematicians have been slow in doing that), was much in advance of the pedagogy of his time, and it shows the spirit in which dickens would have the child treated, and this is much more important than mathematics. mrs. lirriper tells the story: my dear, the system upon which the major commenced, and, as i may say, perfected jemmy's learning when he was so small that if the dear was on the other side of the table you had to look under it instead of over it to see him with his mother's own bright hair in beautiful curls, is a thing that ought to be known to the throne and lords and commons, and then might obtain some promotion for the major, which he well deserves, and would be none the worse for (speaking between friends, l. s. d-ically). when the major first undertook his learning he says to me: "i'm going, madam," he says, "to make our child a calculating boy." "major," i says, "you terrify me, and may do the pet a permanent injury you would never forgive yourself." "madam," says the major, "i would regret if this fine mind was not early cultivated. but mark me, madam," says the major, holding up his forefinger, "cultivated on a principle that will make it a delight." "major," i says, "i will be candid with you and tell you openly that if ever i find the dear child fall off in his appetite i shall know it is his calculations, and shall put a stop to them at two minutes' notice. or if i find them mounting to his head," i says, "or striking anyways cold to his stomach or leading to anything approaching flabbiness in his legs, the result will be the same, but, major, you are a clever man and have seen much, and you love the child and are his own godfather, and if you feel a confidence in trying, try." "spoken, madam," says the major, "like emma lirriper. all i have to ask, madam, is that you will leave my godson and myself to make a week or two's preparations for surprising you, and that you will give leave to have up and down any small articles not actually in use that i may require from the kitchen." "from the kitchen, major!" i says, half feeling as if he had a mind to cook the child. "from the kitchen," says the major, and smiles and swells, and at the same time looks taller. so i passed my word, and the major and the dear boy were shut up together for half an hour at a time through a certain while, and never could i hear anything going on betwixt them but talking and laughing and jemmy clapping his hands and screaming out numbers, so i says to myself "it has not harmed him yet," nor could i, on examining the dear find any signs of it anywhere about him, which was likewise a great relief. at last one day jemmy brings me a card in joke in the major's neat writing "the messrs. jemmy jackman," for we had given him the major's other name too, "request the honour of mrs. lirriper's company at the jackman institution in the front parlour this evening at five, military time, to witness a few slight feats of elementary arithmetic." and, if you'll believe me, there in the front parlour at five punctually to the moment was the major behind the pembroke table with both leaves up and a lot of things from the kitchen tidily set out on old newspapers spread atop of it, and there was the mite stood up on a chair, with his rosy cheeks flushing and his eyes sparkling clusters of diamonds. "now, gran," says he, "oo tit down and don't oo touch ler poople"--for he saw with every one of those diamonds of his that i was going to give him a squeeze. "very well, sir," i says, "i am obedient in this good company, i am sure." and i sits down in the easy-chair that was put for me, shaking my sides. but picture my admiration when the major, going on almost as quick as if he was conjuring, sets out all the articles he names, and says, "three saucepans, an italian iron, a hand bell, a toasting fork, a nutmeg grater, four potlids, a spice box, two egg cups, and a chopping board--how many?" and when that mite instantly cries "tifteen, tut down tive and carry ler 'topping board," and then claps his hands, draws up his legs, and dances on his chair! my dear, with the same astonishing ease and correctness, him and the major added up the tables, chairs, and sofy, the picters, fender and fire irons, their own selves, me and the cat, and the eyes in miss wozenham's head, and whenever the sum was done young roses and diamonds claps his hands and draws up his legs and dances on his chair. the pride of the major! ("_here's_ a mind, ma'am!" he says to me behind his hand.) then he says aloud, "we now come to the next elementary rule--which is called----" "umtraction!" cries jemmy. "right," says the major. "we have here a toasting fork, a potato in its natural state, two potlids, one egg-cup, a wooden spoon, and two skewers, from which it is necessary, for commercial purposes, to subtract a sprat gridiron, a small pickle jar, two lemons, one pepper castor, a black-beetle trap, and a knob of the dresser drawer--what remains?" "toatin fork!" cries jemmy. "in numbers, how many?" says the major. "one!" cries jemmy. ("_here's_ a boy, ma'am!" says the major to me, behind his hand.) "we now approach the next elementary rule--which is entitled----" "tickleication," cries jemmy. "correct," says the major. but, my dear, to relate to you in detail the way in which they multiplied fourteen sticks of firewood by two bits of ginger and a larding needle, or divided pretty well everything else there was on the table by the heater of the italian iron and a chamber candlestick, and got a lemon over, would make my head spin round and round and round, as it did at the time. so i says, "if you'll excuse my addressing the chair, professor jackman, i think the period of the lecture has now arrived when it becomes necessary that i should take a good hug of this young scholar." upon which jemmy calls out from his station on the chair, "gran, oo open oor arms and me'll make a 'pring into 'em." so i opened my arms to him, as i had opened my sorrowful heart when his poor young mother lay a-dying, and he had his jump and we had a good long hug together, and the major, prouder than any peacock, says to me behind his hand, "you need not let him know it, madam" (which i certainly need not, for the major was quite audible), "but he is a boy!" doctor marigold's training of the little deaf-mute girl and "old cheeseman's" treatment of children are revelations of the mature ideals of dickens regarding the proper attitude of adulthood toward childhood. chapter xiii. community. while the opinions of dickens on the subject of community may not seem very advanced to some of the most progressive men and women of the present, they were much ahead of his own time, and they are beyond the practice of our time. i have had my share of sorrows--more than the common lot, perhaps, but i have borne them ill. i have broken where i should have bent; and have mused and brooded, when my spirit should have mixed with all god's great creation. the men who learn endurance are they who call the whole world brother. i have turned _from_ the world, and i pay the penalty. thus spoke mr. haredale to edward chester, in barnaby rudge. no one who has lived since the time of dickens could write a more striking statement of the responsibility of every man for his brother, and of the terrific consequences of neglect of the duties of brotherhood both to him who is neglected and to him who neglects, than dickens wrote in dombey and son. there is no phase of sociology that has stepped beyond the position taken by dickens in the following selection: was mr. dombey's master vice, that ruled him so inexorably, an unnatural characteristic? it might be worth while, sometimes to inquire what nature is, and how men work to change her, and whether, in the enforced distortions so produced, it is not natural to be unnatural. coop any son or daughter of our mighty mother within narrow range, and bind the prisoner to one idea, and foster it by servile worship of it on the part of the few timid or designing people standing round, and what is nature to the willing captive who has never risen up upon the wings of a free mind--drooping and useless soon--to see her in her comprehensive truth! alas! are there so few things in the world about us most unnatural, and yet most natural in being so! hear the magistrate or judge admonish the unnatural outcast of society; unnatural in brutal habits, unnatural in want of decency, unnatural in losing and confounding all distinctions between good and evil; unnatural in ignorance, in vice, in recklessness, in contumacy, in mind, in looks, in everything. but follow the good clergyman or doctor, who, with his life imperilled at every breath he draws, goes down into their dens, lying within the echoes of our carriage wheels and daily tread upon the pavement stones. look round upon the world of odious sights--millions of immortal creatures have no other world on earth--at the lightest mention of which humanity revolts, and dainty delicacy living in the next street, stops her ears, and lisps, "i don't believe it!" breathe the polluted air, foul with every impurity that is poisonous to health and life; and have every sense conferred upon our race for its delight and happiness, offended, sickened, and disgusted, and made a channel by which misery and death alone can enter. vainly attempt to think of any simple plant, or flower, or wholesome weed that, set in this fetid bed, could have its natural growth or put its little leaves off to the sun as god designed it. and then, calling up some ghastly child, with stunted form and wicked face, hold forth on its unnatural sinfulness, and lament its being so early far away from heaven--but think a little of its having been conceived, and born and bred, in hell! those who study the physical sciences, and bring them to bear upon the health of man, tell us that if the noxious particles that rise from vitiated air were palpable to the sight, we should see them lowering in a dense black cloud above such haunts, and rolling slowly on to corrupt the better portions of a town. but if the moral pestilence that rises with them, and in the eternal laws of outraged nature, is inseparable from them, could be made discernible too, how terrible the revelation! then should we see depravity, impiety, drunkenness, theft, murder, and a long train of nameless sins against the natural affections and repulsions of mankind, overhanging the devoted spots, and creeping on, to blight the innocent and spread contagion among the pure. then should we see how the same poisoned fountains that flow into our hospitals and lazar houses, inundate the jails, and make the convict ships swim deep, and roll across the seas, and overrun vast continents with crime. then should we stand appalled to know that where we generate disease to strike our children down and entail itself on unborn generations, there also we breed, by the same certain process, infancy that knows no innocence, youth without modesty or shame, maturity that is mature in nothing but in suffering and guilt, blasted old age that is a scandal on the form we bear. unnatural humanity! when we shall gather grapes from thorns, and figs from thistles; when fields of grain shall spring up from the offal in the byways of our wicked cities, and roses bloom in the fat churchyards that they cherish; then we may look for natural humanity and find it growing from such seed. oh, for a good spirit who would take the housetops off, with a more potent and benignant hand than the lame demon in the tale, and show a christian people what dark shapes issue from amidst their homes, to swell the retinue of the destroying angel as he moves forth among them! for only one night's view of the pale phantoms rising from the scenes of our too long neglect; and from the thick and sullen air where vice and fever propagate together, raining the tremendous and social retributions which are ever pouring down, and ever coming thicker! bright and blessed the morning that should rise on such a night; for men, delayed no more by stumbling-blocks of their own making, which are but specks of dust upon the path between them and eternity, would then apply themselves, like creatures of one common origin, owing one duty to the father of one family, and tending to one common end to make the world a better place! not the less bright and blessed would that day be for rousing some who never have looked out upon the world of human life around them to a knowledge of their own relation to it, and for making them acquainted with a perversion of nature in their own contracted sympathies and estimates; as great and yet as natural in its development when once begun as the lowest degradation known. this selection is worth rereading. the most advanced thinkers will understand it best. dickens showed that he understood clearly that a man becomes marred and degraded by shutting the world out of his heart, even though the reason for the exclusion may in itself be good. love is the highest of all sentiments, and dickens used it in the case of mr. wickfield to show that even the tender love he had for his dead wife became a source of evil to him, when it made him cease to think of the sorrows of his fellows, and only of his own affliction. either in joy or sorrow the benefit to the individual results from a deepening of his consciousness of unity with the whole of humanity. mr. wickfield said to david: "weak indulgence has ruined me. indulgence in remembrance and indulgence in forgetfulness. my natural grief for my child's mother turned to disease; my natural love for my child turned to disease. i have infected everything i touched. i have brought misery on what i dearly love, i know--_you_ know! i thought it possible that i could truly love one creature in the world, and not love the rest; i thought it possible that i could truly mourn for one creature gone out of the world, and not have some part in the grief of all who mourned. thus the lessons of my life have been perverted! i have preyed on my own morbid coward heart, and it has preyed on me. sordid in my grief, sordid in my love, sordid in my miserable escape from the darker side of both, oh, see the ruin i am, and hate me, shun me!" in tom tiddler's ground dickens attacks the ideal that there may be merit in seclusion. mr. traveller visits the hermit who had become famous, and who was so vain on account of his dirt and simplicity of living, and he tells him some plain truths regarding himself and the duty of man to his fellow-men. "now," said he, "that a man--even behind bars, in a blanket and a skewer--should tell me that he can see from day to day any orders or conditions of men, women, or children, who can by any possibility teach him that it is anything but the miserablist drivelling for a human creature to quarrel with his social nature--not to go so far as to say, to renounce his common human decency, for that is an extreme case, or who can teach him that he can in any wise separate himself from his kind and the habits of his kind, without becoming a deteriorated spectacle calculated to give the devil (and perhaps the monkeys) pleasure--is something wonderful!" "you think yourself profoundly wise," said the hermit. "bah," returned mr. traveller, "there is little wisdom in knowing that every man must be up and doing, and that all mankind are made dependent on one another. "it is a moral impossibility," continued mr. traveller, "that any son or daughter of adam can stand on this ground that i put my foot on, or on any ground that mortal treads, and gainsay the healthy tenure on which we hold our existence." "which is," sneered the hermit, "according to you----" "which is," returned the traveller, "according to eternal providence, that we must arise and wash our faces and do our gregarious work and act and react on each other, leaving only the idiot and the palsied to sit blinking in the corner." dickens saves little emily from her great sorrow, and lifts the load of "shame" from her heart by giving her the opportunity of helping to care for others. but theer was some poor folks aboard as had illness among 'em, and she took care of _them_; and theer was the children in our company, and she took care of _them_; and so she got to be busy, and to be doing good, and that helped her. and in the same great book he ridicules the misuse of the sacred word "society" by applying it to the sham and mockery of all that should be truly helpful and ennobling in the social intercourse of mankind. or perhaps this _is_ the desert of sahara! for, though julia has a stately house, and mighty company, and sumptuous dinners every day, i see no green growth near her; nothing that can ever come to fruit or flower. what julia calls "society," i see among it mr. jack maldon, from his patent place, sneering at the hand that gave it to him, and speaking to me of the doctor, as "so charmingly antique." but when society is the name of such hollow gentlemen and ladies, julia, and when its breeding is professed indifference to everything that can advance or can retard mankind, i think we must have lost ourselves in the same desert of sahara, and had better find the way out. when he spoke of little dorrit as "inspired" he proceeded to say: she was inspired to be something which was not what the rest were, and to be that something, different and laborious, for the sake of the rest. inspired? yes. shall we speak of the inspiration of a poet or a priest, and not of the heart impelled by love and self-devotion to the lowliest work in the lowliest way of life! dickens had reached the great conception that the duty of every individual is to add something by his life to the general good. that we should not leave the world as we found it; that our work is not done well if we spend our lives in digging among the richest treasures of the past and revealing them unselfishly to our fellow-men, but that each should make some existing thing or condition better, or reveal some new thought or principle, or plan, or process, so that humanity may climb more easily and more certainly from the mists and shadows to the higher glory of the clearer light. mr. doyce had made an invention, but had met with almost insuperable difficulties in getting it before the people. "it is much to be regretted," said clennam, "that you ever turned your thoughts that way, mr. doyce." "true, sir, true, to a certain extent. but what is a man to do? if he has the misfortune to strike out something serviceable to the nation, he must follow where it leads him." "hadn't he better let it go?" asked clennam. "he can't do it," said doyce, shaking his head, with a thoughtful smile. "it's not put into his head to be buried. it's put into his head to be made useful. you hold your life on the condition that to the last you shall struggle hard for it. every man holds a discovery on the same terms." "that is to say," said arthur, with a growing admiration of his quiet companion, "you are not fully discouraged even now?" "i have no right to be, if i am," returned the other. "the thing is as true as it ever was." throughout his writings dickens vigorously condemns the class distinctions that separate mankind into sections, and thus destroy the bond of unity and brotherhood that should exist between them. miss monflathers, in old curiosity shop, drew the line very definitely between genteel children and the children of the poor. mr. dombey pompously consented to have the children of the poor educated, because "it is necessary that the inferior classes should continue to be taught to know their position." fancy using education to prevent the unity of men, when its highest function should be the revelation of community and the qualification of individuals for the functions of brotherhood. in david copperfield the pathetic side of the evil of class distinctions is shown by the appeals of mr. peggotty to mrs. steerforth that she would consent to her son's marriage with little emily, and her indignant refusal to allow her son to do so. in bleak house sir leicester dedlock was amazed at the audacity of mr. rouncewell's democratic ideas, and his mind was filled with gloomy forebodings of the evil that such principles as those held by mr. rouncewell would work in the social organization as planned and fixed by the dedlock class. these were his thoughts: from the village school of chesney wold, intact as it is this minute, to the whole framework of society; from the whole framework of society, to the aforesaid framework receiving tremendous cracks in consequence of people (ironmasters, lead mistresses, and what not) not minding their catechism, and getting out of the station unto which they are called--necessarily and forever, according to sir leicester's rapid logic, the first station in which they happen to find themselves; and from that, to their educating other people out of _their_ stations, and so obliterating the landmarks, and opening the flood gates, and all the rest of it; this is the swift progress of the dedlock mind. in american notes, after describing at length the admirable co-operative arrangements, and the varied means of culture, amusement, and refinement enjoyed by the young women in the factories at lowell, mass., he says: the large class of readers, startled by these facts, will exclaim with one voice, "how very preposterous!" on my deferentially inquiring why, they will answer, "these things are above their station." in reply to that objection, i would beg to ask what their station is. it is their station to work. and they _do_ work. they labour in these mills, upon an average, twelve hours a day, which is unquestionably work. and pretty tight work too. perhaps it is above their station to indulge in such amusements on any terms. are we quite sure that we in england have not formed our ideas of the "station" of working people from accustoming ourselves to the contemplation of that class as they are, and not as they might be? i think that if we examine our own feelings, we shall find that the pianos, and the circulating libraries, and even the lowell offering, startle us with their novelty, and not by their bearing upon any abstract question of right or wrong. for myself, i know no station in which, the occupation of to-day cheerfully done and the occupation of to-morrow cheerfully looked to, any one of these pursuits is not most humanizing and laudable. i know no station which is rendered more endurable to the person in it, or more safe to the person out of it, by having ignorance for its associate. i know no station which has a right to monopolize the means of mutual instruction, improvement, and rational entertainment; or which has ever continued to be a station very long, after seeking to do so. walter wilding planned an ideal relationship between employer and employed in no thoroughfare. he advertised for a housekeeper so that he "might sit daily at the head of the table at which the people in my employment eat together, and may eat of the same roast and boiled, and drink of the same beer, and one and all form a kind of family." he planned, too, to train his employees to sing "handel, mozart, haydn, kent, purcell, doctor arne, greene, mendelssohn, to make music a part of the bond between us. we will form a choir in some quiet church near the corner." he touched the true chord of community when joey ladle used the word "they." joey asked, when mr. wilding unfolded his plan: "is all to live in the house, young master wilding? the two other cellarmen, the three porters, the two 'prentices, and the odd men?" "yes. i hope we shall all be a united family, joey." "ah!" said joey. "i hope they may be." "they? rather say _we_, joey." not many employers have reached the ideals of dickens yet. chapter xiv. nutrition as a factor in education. the influence of diet in the development not only of physical power, but of intellectual and spiritual power also, has now begun to attract general attention. there is no longer any doubt that the character of the bones, of the muscles, of the nerves, and of the brain itself, is decided to a considerable extent by the food that is eaten. there is no longer any doubt that many children have been urged to do work which becomes destructive beyond the fatigue point of their little brains, when their brains have not been properly nourished, either from lack of proper food or of properly cooked food, or from eating too much or too little. the deterioration of the physical system, and especially the deterioration of the neurological system, is one of the most startling subjects within the range of view of educators and psychologists. one of the most attractive departments of child study is that which investigates the means of deciding from external manifestations of form, proportion, action, voice, and attitude the nature and condition of the brain and neurological system of the child. when this discovery has been made, however, it but prepares the way for further investigation to discover in what way abnormal or weak systems may be helped to become normal and strong. one of the fundamental things to be done by scientists and educators is to discover the kinds of food adapted to different stages of the child's growth, and to the varied functions of study and work required of him. by proper nutrition and by proper exercise much may be done to increase the power and efficiency of the body and the brain and the rest of the neurological system. dickens saw the need of attention to the problems of nutrition very clearly. he began to write about it in oliver twist. he first exposed the horrors of baby farming, with its terrible percentage of deaths, resulting almost entirely from the villainous indifference to the diet of the children. children yet die in homes from similar causes, or, if they do not die, they go through life weakened and dwarfed. for the next eight or ten months oliver was the victim of a systematic course of treachery and deception. he was brought up by hand. the hungry and destitute situation of the infant orphan was duly reported by the workhouse authorities to the parish authorities. the parish authorities inquired with dignity of the workhouse authorities whether there was no female then domiciled "in the house" who was in a situation to impart to oliver twist the consolation and nourishment of which he stood in need. the workhouse authorities replied with humility that there was not. upon this the parish authorities magnanimously and humanely resolved that oliver should be "farmed," or, in other words, that he should be despatched to a branch workhouse some three miles off, where twenty or thirty other juvenile offenders against the poor laws rolled about the floor all day, without the inconvenience of too much food or too much clothing, under the parental superintendence of an elderly female, who received the culprits at and for the consideration of sevenpence halfpenny per small head per week. sevenpence halfpenny's worth per week is a good round diet for a child; a great deal may be got for sevenpence halfpenny, quite enough to overload its stomach, and make it uncomfortable. the elderly female was a woman of wisdom and experience; she knew what was good for children; and she had a very accurate perception of what was good for herself. so she appropriated the greater part of the weekly stipend to her own use, and consigned the rising parochial generation to even a shorter allowance than was originally provided for them. thereby finding in the lowest depth a deeper still; and proving herself a very great experimental philosopher. the system did not work well for the children. for at the very moment when a child had contrived to exist upon the smallest possible portion of the weakest possible food, it did perversely happen in eight and a half cases out of ten, either that it sickened from want or cold, or fell into the fire from neglect, or got half-smothered by accident; in any one of which cases, the miserable little being was usually summoned into another world, and there gathered to the fathers it had never known in this. it can not be expected that this system of farming would produce any very extraordinary or luxuriant crop. oliver twist's ninth birthday found him a pale, thin child, somewhat diminutive in stature, and decidedly small in circumference. it _was_ his ninth birthday; and he was keeping it in the coal cellar with a select party of two other young gentlemen, who, after participating with him in a sound thrashing, had been locked up for atrociously presuming to be hungry. the famous meal in the workhouse when oliver asked for more was intended to direct attention to the way children were fed and treated in institutions. the boys were fed on gruel. of this festive composition each boy had one porringer, and no more--except on occasions of great public rejoicing, when he had two ounces and a quarter of bread besides. the bowls never wanted washing. the boys polished them with their spoons till they shone again; and when they had performed this operation (which never took very long, the spoons being nearly as large as the bowls), they would sit staring at the copper, with such eager eyes, as if they could have devoured the very bricks of which it was composed; employing themselves, meanwhile, in sucking their fingers most assiduously, with the view of catching up any stray splashes of gruel that might have been cast thereon. boys have generally excellent appetites. oliver twist and his companions suffered the tortures of slow starvation for three months; at last they got so voracious and wild with hunger that one boy who was tall for his age, and hadn't been used to that sort of thing (for his father had kept a small cookshop), hinted darkly to his companions that unless he had another basin of gruel _per diem_, he was afraid he might some night happen to eat the boy who slept next to him, who happened to be a weakly youth of tender age. he had a wild, hungry eye; and they implicitly believed him. a council was held; lots were cast who should walk up to the master after supper that evening, and ask for more; and it fell to oliver twist. the evening arrived; the boys took their places. the master, in his cook's uniform, stationed himself at the copper; his pauper assistants ranged themselves behind him; the gruel was served out; and a long grace was said over a short commons. the gruel disappeared; the boys whispered each other and winked at oliver; while his next neighbours nudged him. child as he was, he was desperate with hunger and reckless with misery. he rose from the table; and advancing to the master, basin and spoon in hand, said, somewhat alarmed at his own temerity: "please, sir, i want some more." the master was a fat, healthy man; but he turned very pale. he gazed in stupefied astonishment on the small rebel for some seconds, and then clung for support to the copper. the assistants were paralyzed with wonder; the boys with fear. "what!" said the master at length, in a faint voice. "please, sir," replied oliver, "i want some more." the master aimed a blow at oliver's head with the ladle; pinioned his arms; and shrieked aloud for the beadle. the board were sitting in solemn conclave, when mr. bumble rushed into the room in great excitement, and addressing the gentleman in the high chair, said: "mr. limbkins, i beg your pardon, sir! oliver twist has asked for more." there was a general start. horror was depicted in every countenance. "for _more_!" said mr. limbkins. "compose yourself, bumble, and answer me distinctly. do i understand that he asked for more, after he had eaten the supper allotted by the dietary?" "he did, sir," replied bumble. "that boy will be hung," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "i know that boy will be hung." having shown how infants were starved in "farming," and how boys were starved in the workhouses, he next directed attention to the way apprentices were treated. mr. sowerberry was an undertaker, who decided to take oliver from the workhouse. he took oliver "upon liking," which meant that "if he could get enough work out of him without putting too much food into him, he should keep him for a term of years to do what he liked with him." when oliver had been driven to desperation by noah claypole, and had punished him as he deserved, mrs. sowerberry sent for mr. bumble. when mr. bumble asked oliver if he was not afraid of him, oliver bravely answered "no!" the beadle was petrified with amazement, and he accounted for oliver's wickedness by saying: "it's meat." "what?" exclaimed mrs. sowerberry. "meat, ma'am, meat," replied bumble, with stern emphasis. "you've overfed him, ma'am. you've raised a artificial soul and spirit in him, ma'am, unbecoming a person of his condition; as the board, mrs. sowerberry, who are practical philosophers, will tell you. what have paupers to do with soul or spirit? it's quite enough that we let 'em have live bodies. if you had kept the boy on gruel, ma'am, this would never have happened." "dear, dear!" ejaculated mrs. sowerberry, piously raising her eyes to the kitchen ceiling; "this comes of being liberal!" the liberality of mrs. sowerberry to oliver had consisted in a profuse bestowal upon him of all the dirty odds and ends which nobody else would eat. by this conversation dickens meant to teach that a well-fed child is a different type from one who is not properly nourished; that food has an influence on the spirit, as well as on the body. he did not disapprove of oliver's spirit, but he heartily commended him for resenting the way he was treated. this lesson was needed too, as children were expected to submit uncomplainingly to those who were their legal guardians, whether strangers or parents. now, largely through dickens, children are not only encouraged to defend themselves against cruel and tyrannical guardians or parents, and to run away from them, but the state itself will take them away, if cruelty is proved against those who should be their protectors. dickens also revealed by this incident the meanness of adults not only in institutions but in homes, in giving to the children the "odds and ends," the scraps, the parts of the fowl or the meat that older people do not care for. he brought the matter up again in great expectations. at the christmas dinner pip "was regaled with the scaly tips of the drumsticks of the fowls, and with those obscure corners of pork of which the pig, when living, had least reason to be vain." one of the reasons given by snawley to squeers to induce him to take his stepsons at a lower rate was that "they were not great eaters." the selfishness of adulthood toward childhood, and the stupidity of the general idea, that children do not require good food because they are young and do not have to work hard, were held up to deserved ridicule, in squeers's manner of breakfasting in london, and the food he provided for the five hungry little boys to strengthen them for their long ride to yorkshire in cold weather. he found that learned gentleman sitting at breakfast, with the three little boys before noticed, and two others who had turned up by some lucky chance since the interview of the previous day, ranged in a row on the opposite seat. mr. squeers had before him a small measure of coffee, a plate of hot toast, and a cold round of beef; but he was at that moment intent on preparing breakfast for the little boys. "this is two penn'orth of milk, is it, waiter?" said mr. squeers, looking down into a large blue mug, and slanting it gently, so as to get an accurate view of the quantity of liquid contained in it. "that's two penn'orth, sir," replied the waiter. "what a rare article milk is, to be sure, in london!" said mr. squeers with a sigh. "just fill that mug up with lukewarm water, william, will you?" "to the wery top, sir?" inquired the waiter. "why, the milk will be drownded." "never you mind that," replied mr. squeers. "serve it right for being so dear. you ordered that thick bread and butter for three, did you?" "coming directly, sir." "you needn't hurry yourself," said squeers; "there's plenty of time. conquer your passions, boys, and don't be eager after vittles." as he uttered this moral precept, mr. squeers took a large bite out of the cold beef, and recognised nicholas. "sit down, mr. nickleby," said squeers. "here we are, a-breakfasting you see!" nicholas did _not_ see that anybody was breakfasting, except mr. squeers; but he bowed with all becoming reverence, and looked as cheerful as he could. "oh! that's the milk and water, is it, william?" said squeers. "very good; don't forget the bread and butter presently." at this fresh mention of the bread and butter the five little boys looked very eager, and followed the waiter out, with their eyes; meanwhile mr. squeers tasted the milk and water. "ah!" said that gentleman, smacking his lips, "here's richness! think of the many beggars and orphans in the streets that would be glad of this, little boys. a shocking thing hunger is, isn't it, mr. nickleby?" "very shocking, sir," said nicholas. "when i say number one," pursued mr. squeers, putting the mug before the children, "the boy on the left hand nearest the window may take a drink; and when i say number two, the boy next him will go in, and so till we come to number five, which is the last boy. are you ready?" "yes, sir," cried the little boys with great eagerness. "that's right," said squeers, calmly getting on with his breakfast; "keep ready till i tell you to begin. subdue your appetites, my dears, and you've conquered human natur. this is the way we inculcate strength of mind, mr. nickleby," said the schoolmaster, turning to nicholas, and speaking with his mouth very full of beef and toast. nicholas murmured something--he knew not what--in reply; and the little boys, dividing their gaze between the mug, the bread and butter (which had by this time arrived), and every morsel which mr. squeers took into his mouth, remained with strained eyes in torments of expectation. "thank god for a good breakfast," said squeers, when he had finished. "number one may take a drink." number one received the mug ravenously, and had just drunk enough to make him wish for more, when mr. squeers gave the signal for number two, who gave up at the same interesting moment to number three; and the process was repeated until the milk and water terminated with number five. "and now," said the schoolmaster, dividing the bread and butter for three into as many portions as there were children, "you had better look sharp with your breakfast, the horn will blow in a minute or two, and then every boy leaves off." permission being thus given to fall to, the boys began to eat voraciously, and in desperate haste, while the schoolmaster (who was in high good humour after his meal) picked his teeth with a fork, and looked smilingly on. in a very short time the horn was heard. "i thought it wouldn't be long," said squeers, jumping up and producing a little basket from under the seat; "put what you haven't had time to eat in here, boys! you'll want it on the road!" young wackford squeers was fed on the fattest meats, so that he might be kept plump and energetic, in order that he might be taken to london to show intending patrons how well the boys were fed in dotheboys hall. again, in the old curiosity shop, the starving of child servants is condemned by the way sally brass fed the marchioness. dick swiveller's curiosity led him to peep through a crack in the kitchen door one day while sally was giving the little servant her dinner. everything was locked up; the coal cellar, the candle box, the salt box, the meat safe were all padlocked. there was nothing that a beetle could have lunched upon. the pinched and meagre aspect of the place would have killed a chameleon; he would have known, at the first mouthful, that the air was not eatable, and must have given up the ghost in despair. the small servant stood with humility in presence of miss sally, and hung her head. "are you there?" said miss sally. "yes, ma'am," was the answer, in a weak voice. "go farther away from the leg of mutton, or you'll be picking it, i know," said miss sally. the girl withdrew into a corner, while miss brass took a key from her pocket, and opening the safe, brought from it a dreary waste of cold potatoes, looking as eatable as stonehenge. this she placed before the small servant, ordering her to sit down before it, and then, taking up a great carving knife, made a mighty show of sharpening it upon the carving fork. "do you see this?" said miss brass, slicing off about two square inches of cold mutton, after all this preparation, and holding it out on the point of the fork. the small servant looked hard enough at it with her hungry eyes to see every shred in it, small as it was, and answered, "yes." "then don't you ever go and say," retorted miss sally, "that you hadn't meat here. there, eat it up." this was soon done. "now, do you want any more?" said miss sally. the hungry creature answered with a faint "no." they were evidently going through an established form. "you've been helped once to meat," said miss brass, summing up the facts; "you have had as much as you can eat, you're asked if you want any more, and you answer 'no!' then don't you ever go and say you were allowanced, mind that." dickens showed the evil effects of eating too rapidly in his description of the dinner in mrs. pawkins's boarding house in new york, where martin chuzzlewit boarded for a short time after reaching america. it was a numerous company, eighteen or twenty perhaps. of these, some five or six were ladies, who sat wedged together in a little phalanx by themselves. all the knives and forks were working away at a rate that was quite alarming; very few words were spoken; and everybody seemed to eat his utmost in self-defence, as if a famine were expected to set in before breakfast time to-morrow morning, and it had become high time to assert the first law of nature. the poultry, which may perhaps be considered to have formed the staple of the entertainment--for there was a turkey at the top, a pair of ducks at the bottom, and two fowls in the middle--disappeared as rapidly as if every bird had had the use of its wings, and had flown in desperation down a human throat. the oysters, stewed and pickled, leaped from their capacious reservoirs, and slid by scores into the mouths of the assembly. the sharpest pickles vanished, whole cucumbers at once, like sugarplums, and no man winked his eye. great heaps of indigestible matter melted away as ice before the sun. it was a solemn and an awful thing to see. dyspeptic individuals bolted their food in wedges; feeding not themselves, but broods of nightmares, who were continually standing at livery within them. spare men, with lank and rigid cheeks, came out unsatisfied from the destruction of heavy dishes, and glared with watchful eyes upon the pastry. what mrs. pawkins felt each day at dinner time is hidden from all human knowledge. but she had one comfort. it was very soon over. dickens repeats this criticism of rapid eating in his american notes, when specifying the causes of disease among american people. he says: "the custom of hastily swallowing large quantities of animal food three times a day and rushing back to sedentary pursuits after each meal must be changed." poor paul dombey was sacrificed to his father's pride. mrs. toodle was dismissed by mr. dombey because she dared to take his infant son with her when she went to see her own children. paul was thus robbed of the natural food, which his sensitive nature needed so much. this was largely responsible for the fact that paul was delicate. by first depriving him of proper food, and then sending him to doctor blimber's school "to learn everything," mr. dombey led directly to paul's death. his pride and vanity overreached themselves. in mrs. pipchin's meals dickens tried to show two things: first, the selfishness of adulthood in regard to children's diet as compared with its own; second, the absolute insufficiency of the kind of food commonly supplied to children for building up strong, energetic, and well-developed men and women. she regaled the children with a repast of "farinaceous and vegetable foods--chiefly rice," but she herself had a good hot dinner with mutton chops. the children were required to repeat a form of grace thanking mrs. pipchin for a good dinner. oliver was told he must be thankful to the kind gentlemen who provided food for him in the workhouse. the same mockery of religion by mixing it up with the starvation of childhood is made ridiculous in the letter which squeers read to the unfortunate children in dotheboys hall, pretending that it had been written by the stepmother of mobbs. "mobbs's stepmother," said squeers, "took to her bed on hearing that he wouldn't eat fat, and has been very ill ever since. she wishes to know, by an early post, where he expects to go to if he quarrels with his vittles; and with what feelings he could turn up his nose at the cow's liver's broth, after his good master had asked a blessing on it." "cow's liver's broth" would not be a very strengthening diet for children even with the blessing of so good a man as squeers upon it. dickens makes a characteristic hit at the fashionable idea which was popular at one time, that it was rather indelicate, especially in a lady, to have a good robust constitution and a vigorous digestion in describing mr. vholes in bleak house. "his digestion was impaired, which is always highly respectable." mrs. cruncher, in a tale of two cities, objected to the questionable ways in which mr. cruncher earned his money sometimes. her husband charged her with flying in the face of providence by refusing the "wittles and drink" he provided for her, and especially for neglecting to give it to their son. "with you flying into the face of your own wittles and drink! i don't know how scarce you mayn't make the wittles and drink here by your flopping tricks and your unfeeling conduct. look at your boy: he is yourn, ain't he? he's as thin as a lath. do you call yourself a mother, and not know a mother's first duty is to blow her son out." abel magwitch, when describing the terrible training he received at the hands of a christian community in the most advanced christian civilization of the world, said that when he was in jail some philanthropists "measured his head to find out the cause of his wickedness," and added with great wisdom, "they had better a-measured my stomach." the folly of hoping that healthy infants can be nourished by mothers who are compelled to labour continuously through long hours without rest is shown in the description of the child whose mother was a waitress, in somebody's luggage. incidentally, too, dickens reveals in this case the facts that the power of assimilation of little children is usually impaired, and that, as a consequence, they become more peevish, and therefore get shaken and otherwise abused for the ignorance of the adults responsible for their care. speaking of the treatment of the baby, he says: you were conveyed--ere yet your dawning powers were otherwise developed than to harbour vacancy in your inside--you were conveyed by surreptitious means into a pantry adjoining the admiral nelson, civic and general dining-rooms, there to receive by stealth that healthful sustenance which is the pride and boast of the british female constitution. under the combined influence of the smells of roast and boiled, and soup, and gas, and malt liquors, you partook of your earliest nourishment; your unwilling grandmother sitting prepared to catch you when your mother was called and dropped you; your grandmother's shawl ever ready to stifle your natural complainings; your innocent mind surrounded by uncongenial cruets, dirty plates, dish covers, and cold gravy; your mother calling down the pipe for veals and porks, instead of soothing you with nursery rhymes. under these untoward circumstances you were early weaned. your unwilling grandmother, ever growing more unwilling as your food assimilated less, then contracted habits of shaking you till your system curdled, and your food would not assimilate at all. the schoolmaster in jemmy lirriper's original story was captured and put into confinement for his treatment of the boys, and he was to have nothing to eat but the boys' dinners, and was to drink half a cask of their beer every day. the schoolboy in the schoolboy's story describes the food given to the boys as one of the grievances they had against the institution. as to the beef, it's shameful. it's _not_ beef. regular beef isn't veins. you can chew regular beef. besides which, there's gravy to regular beef, and you never see a drop to ours. another of our fellows went home ill, and heard the family doctor tell his father that he couldn't account for his complaint unless it was the beer. of course it was the beer, and well it might be! however, beef and old cheeseman are two different things. so is beer. it was old cheeseman i meant to tell about; not the manner in which our fellows get their constitutions destroyed for the sake of profit. why, look at the pie crust alone. there's no flakiness in it. it's solid--like damp lead. then our fellows get nightmares, and are bolstered for calling out and waking other fellows. who can wonder! old cheeseman one night walked in his sleep, put his hat on over his nightcap, got hold of a fishing rod and a cricket bat, and went down into the parlour, where they naturally thought from his appearance he was a ghost. why, he never would have done that if his meals had been wholesome. when we all begin to walk in our sleeps, i suppose they'll be sorry for it. at doctor blimber's school they used "to crib the boys' dinners." there is no more outrageous practice than that of depriving a child of food as a means of punishment. dickens ended his sketch entitled a walk in a workhouse with a plea on behalf of the inmates for "a little more liberty--and a little more bread," and even in his last book, edwin drood, he was still directing attention to the poor food supplied in boarding schools. mrs. billickin was very plain in her hints about the poor board supplied to rosa at miss twinkleton's when she received the schoolmistress in her own home. referring to rosa, who was now residing with mrs. billickin, she said: "i did think it well to mention to my cook, which i 'ope you will agree with, miss twinkleton, was a right precaution, that the young lady being used to what we should consider here but poor diet, had better be brought forward by degrees. for a rush from scanty feeding to generous feeding, and from what you may call messing to what you may call method, do require a power of constitution, which is not often found in youth, particularly when undermined by boarding school! i was put in youth to a very genteel boarding school, the mistress being no less a lady than yourself, of about your own age, or, it may be some years younger, and a poorness of blood flowed from the table which has run through my life." chapter xv. minor schools. the schools of squeers, doctor blimber, mr. creakle, doctor strong, and mr. gradgrind and mr. m'choakumchild are the most celebrated schools of dickens, and they contain the greater part of his pedagogical teaching. his other schools are, however, worthy of very careful study. one of the first of the sketches by boz described a man who had passed through many vicissitudes, and at length was reduced to such poverty that he applied to the parish board for charity. this led to his appointment as a schoolmaster. dickens clearly intended to teach the lesson, afterward emphasized in nicholas nickleby and other books, that poverty should not establish a claim to the position of a school-teacher. minerva hall, also in sketches by boz, reveals "one of those public nuisances, a spoiled child," spoiled because his papa was too busy with public duties and his mamma with society duties to train him properly. it also shows the reason mrs. cornelius brook dingwall had for sending her daughter to school. she said: "one of my principal reasons for parting with my daughter is that she has lately acquired some sentimental ideas, which it is most desirable to eradicate from her young mind." here the public nuisance fell out of a chair, and mamma and papa showed their usual mode of training him. mamma called him "a naughty boy," and threatened "to send for james to take him away"--both name and threat being wrong. papa merely excused the cherub on the ground of "his great flow of spirits." the school also shows the silly training of so-called "finishing schools," as chiefly intended to teach young ladies the small conventionalities of "society." in the old curiosity shop there are four schools: mr. marton's two schools, mrs. wackles's school, and miss monflathers's school. mr. marton's first school was introduced to reveal all the good qualities that mr. squeers lacked, especially sympathy. mr. marton was the immediate successor of mr. squeers, and they possessed directly opposite traits of character in their relationship to childhood. mr. squeers was coarse, unsympathetic, and coercive. mr. marton was kind, considerate, and a perfect type of true sympathy with the child. it is reasonable to believe that mr. marton and mr. squeers were drawn as companion pictures to illustrate and enforce the same truth--that sympathy with the child is the fundamental element in the character of a true teacher. the old bachelor emphasized this when he said to mr. marton, "you are none the worse teacher for having learned humanity." there is a great deal of food for psychological and pedagogical study in the introduction of the boys he was to teach in his second school, given by the bachelor to mr. marton. the bachelor was as full of genuine boyish spirit as it is possible for any adult to be, and was in some respects a more perfect type for an ideal teacher than mr. marton. mr. marton had the tender, spiritual sympathy of a true woman, the motherhood spirit that constitutes the atmosphere in which all right elements of childhood find their richest development; the bachelor had the perfect manly sympathy that enabled him to enter heartily into boy life. he had especially the power of recognising in the things for which boys are often rebuked the best evidences of their strength, and he could remember his own boyhood so well as to fully sympathize _with_ the boys. mr. marton and the bachelor reveal the whole range of sympathetic possibilities. when nothing more was left to be done he charged the boy to run off and bring his schoolmates to be marshalled before their new master and solemnly reviewed. "as good a set of fellows, marton, as you'd wish to see," he said, turning to the schoolmaster when the boy was gone; "but i don't let 'em know i think so. that wouldn't do at all." the messenger soon returned at the head of a long row of urchins, great and small, who, being confronted by the bachelor at the house door, fell into various convulsions of politeness; clutching their hats and caps, squeezing them into the smallest possible dimensions, and making all manner of bows and scrapes, which the little old gentleman contemplated with excessive satisfaction, and expressed his approval of by a great many nods and smiles. indeed, his approbation of the boys was by no means so scrupulously disguised as he had led the schoolmaster to suppose, inasmuch as it broke out in sundry loud whispers and confidential remarks which were perfectly audible to them every one. "this first boy, schoolmaster," said the bachelor, "is john owen; a lad of good parts, sir, and frank, honest temper; but too thoughtless, too playful, too light-headed by far. that boy, my good sir, would break his neck with pleasure, and deprive his parents of their chief comfort--and between ourselves, when you come to see him at hare and hounds, taking the fence and ditch by the finger post, and sliding down the face of the little quarry, you'll never forget it. it's beautiful!" john owen having been thus rebuked, and being in perfect possession of the speech aside, the bachelor singled out another boy. "now look at that lad, sir," said the bachelor. "you see that fellow? richard evans his name is, sir. an amazing boy to learn, blessed with a good memory and a ready understanding, and moreover with a good voice and ear for psalm singing, in which he is the best among us. yet, sir, that boy will come to a bad end; he'll never die in his bed; he's always falling asleep in sermon time--and to tell you the truth, mr. marton, i always did the same at his age, and feel quite certain that it was natural to my constitution, and i couldn't help it." this hopeful pupil edified by the above terrible reproval, the bachelor turned to another. "but if we talk of examples to be shunned," said he, "if we come to boys that should be a warning and a beacon to all their fellows, here's the one, and i hope you won't spare him. this is the lad, sir; this one with the blue eyes and light hair. this is a swimmer, sir, this fellow--a diver, lord save us! this is a boy, sir, who had a fancy for plunging into eighteen feet of water, with his clothes on, and bringing up a blind man's dog, who was being drowned by the weight of his chain and collar, while his master stood wringing his hands upon the bank, bewailing the loss of his guide and friend. i sent the boy two guineas anonymously, sir," added the bachelor, in his peculiar whisper, "directly i heard of it; but never mention it on any account, for he hasn't the least idea that it came from me." having disposed of this culprit, the bachelor turned to another, and from him to another, and so on through the whole array, laying, for their wholesome restriction within due bounds, the same cutting emphasis on such of their propensities as were dearest to his heart, and were unquestionably referable to his own precept and example. thoroughly persuaded, in the end, that he had made them miserable by his severity, he dismissed them with a small present, and an admonition to walk quietly home, without any leapings, scufflings, or turnings out of the way; which injunction, he informed the schoolmaster in the same audible confidence, he did not think he could have obeyed when he was a boy had his life depended on it. what a model he was for teachers, this glorious bachelor, in his sympathy _with_ the boys, and in his unconventionality! when teachers begin to feel the grip of formalism on their better natures and begin to lose faith in so-called bad boys, they should read this introduction of the pupils by the bachelor. bless his memory! he will always rank among the greatest child trainers. his pretence of not letting the boys know that he thought they were good fellows was a pleasant rebuke of the miserable old doctrine that a boy should always be told his faults, but never be spoken to about his virtues. this false doctrine having been so carefully applied in homes and schools for centuries as a religious duty, based on the unscriptural doctrine of child depravity, has made a large portion of humanity in christian countries mere defect dodgers, instead of making them conscious of power to do independent work for god and their fellow-men. dickens had no faith in this doctrine, and he taught that one of the highest things a teacher can do for a child is to recognise and show honest appreciation of his best powers and qualities. when superintendents search as carefully for the good qualities and powers of their teachers as some yet do for their weaknesses, and when they are so unconventional as to be able to show genuine appreciation frankly to the teachers themselves, the schools will reach their proper rate of progressive development. through the whole series of criticisms of the boys, dickens is showing the full rich sympathy of his own great heart for the whole race of boys in the unreasonable and unjust criticism to which they are subjected by forgetful and ignorant adulthood. those who should be wisest in these matters--and especially many who think themselves wise--are still very forgetful of their own early life, and very ignorant of boyhood. mrs. wackles's school was called a "ladies' seminary," but it was in reality "a very small day school for young ladies of proportionate dimensions." the several duties of instruction in this establishment were thus discharged: english grammar, composition, geography, and the use of the dumb-bells, by miss melissa wackles; writing, arithmetic, dancing, music, and general fascination, by miss sophy wackles; the art of needlework, marking, and samplery, by miss jane wackles; corporal punishment, fasting, and other tortures and terrors, by mrs. wackles. miss melissa wackles was the eldest daughter, miss sophy the next, and miss jane the youngest. miss melissa might have seen five-and-thirty summers or thereabout, and verged on the autumnal, miss sophy was a fresh, good-humoured, buxom girl of twenty; and miss jane numbered scarcely sixteen years. mrs. wackles was an excellent, but rather venomous old lady of threescore. mrs. wackles's school is described to show the frivolous nature of such so-called private educational institutions, and to strike again the abominable practice of abusing children by "corporal punishment, fasting, and other tortures and terrors" by "a venomous old lady of threescore." miss monflathers's school was a boarding establishment for young ladies, in which they were duly impressed with the dignity of their social position; with the terrible danger of yielding in any way to their natural impulses, all of which were assumed to be very wicked; with the sinfulness of sympathizing with or in any way recognising the lower classes; with the impropriety of knowing the fact that there was any wrong in the world to be righted or any suffering to be relieved; with the inestimable value of aristocratic birth; and with the most important truth that men are very dangerous animals, to be carefully shunned. little nell was sent to the establishment of miss monflathers with notices of mrs. jarley's waxworks, being temporarily in the employ of that lady. nell had no difficulty in finding out miss monflathers's boarding and day establishment, which was a large house, with a high wall, and a large garden gate with a large brass plate, and a small grating through which miss monflathers's parlour maid inspected all visitors before admitting them; for nothing in the shape of a man--no, not even a milkman--was suffered, without special license, to pass that gate. even the taxgatherer, who was stout, and wore spectacles and a broadbrimmed hat, had the taxes handed through the grating. more obdurate than gate of adamant or brass, this gate of miss monflathers's frowned on all mankind. the very butcher respected it as a gate of mystery, and left off whistling when he rang the bell. as nell approached the awful door, it turned slowly upon its hinges with a creaking noise, and forth from the solemn grove beyond came a long file of young ladies, two and two, all with open books in their hands, and some with parasols likewise. and last of the goodly procession came miss monflathers, bearing herself a parasol of lilac silk, and supported by two smiling teachers, each mortally envious of the other, and devoted unto miss monflathers. confused by the looks and whispers of the girls, nell stood with downcast eyes and suffered the procession to pass on, until miss monflathers, bringing up the rear, approached her, when she courtesied and presented her little packet; on receipt whereof miss monflathers commanded that the line should halt. "you're the waxwork child, are you not?" said miss monflathers. "yes, ma'am," replied nell, colouring deeply, for the young ladies had collected about her, and she was the centre on which all eyes were fixed. "and don't you think you must be a very wicked little child," said miss monflathers, who was of rather uncertain temper, and lost no opportunity of impressing moral truths upon the tender minds of young ladies, "to be a waxwork child at all?" poor nell had never viewed her position in this light, and not knowing what to say, remained silent, blushing more deeply than before. "don't you know," said miss monflathers, "that it's very naughty and unfeminine, and a perversion of the properties wisely and benignantly transmitted to us, with expansive powers to be roused from their dormant state through the medium of cultivation?" "don't you feel how naughty it is of you," resumed miss monflathers, "to be a waxwork child, when you might have the proud consciousness of assisting, to the extent of your infant powers, the manufactures of your country; of improving your mind by the constant contemplation of the steam engine; and of earning a comfortable and independent subsistence of from two and ninepence to three shillings per week? don't you know that the harder you are at work, the happier you are?" "'how doth the little----'" murmured one of the teachers in quotation from dr. watts. "eh?" said miss monflathers, turning smartly round. "who said that?" "the little busy bee," said miss monflathers, drawing herself up, "is applicable only to genteel children. 'in books, or work, or healthful play' is quite right as far as they are concerned; and the work means painting on velvet, fancy needlework, or embroidery. in such cases as these," pointing to nell with her parasol, "and in the case of all poor people's children, we should read it thus: 'in work, work, work. in work alway let my first years be passed, that i may give for ev'ry day some good account at last.'" just then somebody happened to discover that nell was crying, and all eyes were again turned toward her. there were indeed tears in her eyes, and drawing out her handkerchief to brush them away, she happened to let it fall. before she could stoop to pick it up, one young lady of about fifteen or sixteen, who had been standing a little apart from the others, as though she had no recognised place among them, sprang forward and put it in her hand. she was gliding timidly away again, when she was arrested by the governess. "it was miss edwards who did that, i _know_," said miss monflathers predictively. "now i am sure that was miss edwards." it was miss edwards, and everybody said it was miss edwards, and miss edwards herself admitted that it was. "is it not," said miss monflathers, putting down her parasol to take a severer view of the offender, "a most remarkable thing, miss edwards, that you have an attachment to the lower classes which always draws you to their sides; or, rather, is it not a most extraordinary thing that all i say and do will not wean you from propensities which your original station in life has unhappily rendered habitual to you, you extremely vulgar-minded girl?" "i really intended no harm, ma'am," said a sweet voice. "it was a momentary impulse, indeed." "an impulse!" repeated miss monflathers scornfully. "i wonder that you presume to speak of impulses to me"--both the teachers assented--"i am astonished"--both the teachers were astonished--"i suppose it is an impulse which induces you to take the part of every grovelling and debased person that comes in your way"--both the teachers supposed so too. "but i would have you know, miss edwards," resumed the governess, in a tone of increased severity, "that you can not be permitted--if it be only for the sake of preserving a proper example and decorum in this establishment--that you can not be permitted, and that you shall not be permitted, to fly in the face of your superiors in this extremely gross manner. if _you_ have no reason to feel a becoming pride before waxwork children, there are young ladies here who have, and you must either defer to those young ladies or leave the establishment, miss edwards." this young lady, being motherless and poor, was apprenticed at the school--taught for nothing--teaching others what she learned for nothing--boarded for nothing--lodged for nothing--and set down and rated as something immeasurably less than nothing, by all the dwellers in the house. the servant maids felt her inferiority, for they were better treated; free to come and go, and regarded in their stations with much more respect. the teachers were infinitely superior, for they had paid to go to school in their time, and were paid now. the pupils cared little for a companion who had no grand stories to tell about home; no friends to come with post horses, and be received in all humility, with cake and wine, by the governess; no deferential servant to attend and bear her home for the holidays; nothing genteel to talk about, and nothing to display. but why was miss monflathers always vexed and irritated with the poor apprentice--how did that come to pass? why, the gayest feather in miss monflathers's cap, and the brightest glory of miss monflathers's school, was a baronet's daughter--the real live daughter of a real live baronet--who, by some extraordinary reversal of the laws of nature, was not only plain in features but dull in intellect, while the poor apprentice had both a ready wit and a handsome face and figure. it seems incredible. here was miss edwards, who only paid a small premium which had been spent long ago, every day outshining and excelling the baronet's daughter, who learned all the extras (or was taught them all), and whose half yearly bill came to double that of any other young lady's in the school, making no account of the honour and reputation of her pupilage. therefore, and because she was a dependent, miss monflathers had a great dislike to miss edwards, and was spiteful to her, and aggravated by her, and, when she had compassion on little nell, verbally fell upon and maltreated her, as we have already seen. "you will not take the air to-day, miss edwards," said miss monflathers. "have the goodness to retire to your own room, and not to leave it without permission." the poor girl was moving hastily away, when she was suddenly, in a nautical phrase, "brought to" by a subdued shriek from miss monflathers. "she has passed me without any salute!" cried the governess, raising her eyes to the sky. "she has actually passed me without the slightest acknowledgment of my presence!" the young lady turned and courtesied. nell could see that she raised her dark eyes to the face of her superior, and that their expression, and that of her whole attitude for the instant, was one of mute but most touching appeal against this ungenerous usage. miss monflathers only tossed her head in reply, and the great gate closed upon a bursting heart. in addition to the gross evils of such institutions already suggested, dickens exposed the cruelty of miss monflathers, as a type of christian rectitude, toward nell, whom she assumed to be very wicked, and the tendency of society to treat teachers with contempt, if they are not rich. the standard based on mere wealth is happily changing. the tone of miss monflathers's lofty criticism in language and thought, quite incomprehensible to the person admonished, is very true to the life in cases of conventional people, who take no pains to understand child nature or human nature in any phase, except its depravity. the heartlessness of the distinction between the "genteel" children and poor children is clearly pointed out. there could scarcely be a more unchristlike thought than the one that would prohibit the children of the poor from the enjoyment of their natural tendency to play. no civilization in which either by deliberate purpose or by criminal negligence the children of the poorest are left without the privilege and the means for full free play should dare to call itself christian. yet miss monflathers's parody aptly represented the practical outworking of civilization at the time of dickens, and long since, too, in regard to poor children. miss monflathers told miss edwards majestically that she "must not take the air to-day," and contemptuously ordered her to remain in her room all day. this was written to condemn the common punishment of keeping children in at recess or confining them as a means of punishment. dickens always thought it a crime against childhood to punish a child by robbing it of any of its natural rights to food, or fresh air, or free exercise. the ecstasy of passion reached by miss monflathers because miss edwards passed her without saluting her showed dickens's attitude toward those who insisted and still insist on obeisance from those whom they are pleased to regard as "inferiors." public school education has been criticised because "it does not train poor children to courtesy to their superiors." any system deserves the support of all right-thinking people if it trains the children of the poorest to hold their heads up respectfully, and look the world squarely in the face without a debasing consciousness of inferiority. the greatest aim of education, so far as the individual is concerned, is freedom--spiritual freedom. respect for properly constituted authority should become a part of every child's consciousness, but this properly involves contempt for the arrogant assumption of certain people that certain other people should bow down in servile humility to them. education must always be the enemy of tyranny, slavery, and all kinds of abasement. the grinders' school was introduced to ridicule the practice of forcing all children in charitable institutions to wear a uniform dress, and to attack corporal punishment, neglect of moral training, and the practice of placing ignorant men in the high position of a teacher. the teacher in the grinders' school was "a superannuated old grinder of savage disposition, who had been appointed schoolmaster because he didn't know anything, and wasn't fit for anything, and for whose cruel cane all chubby little boys had a perfect fascination." the practice of dressing all children alike, and of dressing them all without taste, is continued in most homes for orphan children still. surely the poor orphans have suffered enough without subjecting them to the indignity of tasteless dressing. there might at least be a difference of taste in colour, for instance, for the blondes and the brunettes. the school taught by agnes in david copperfield is mentioned to show that if a teacher works with a true spirit (agnes was a splendid character for women to study with great care), teaching is a pleasant instead of an unhappy profession. david said: "it is laborious, is it not?" "the labour is so pleasant," she returned, "that it is scarcely grateful in me to call it by that name." the school attended by uriah heep and his father before him was described as an attack on the practice of instilling into the minds of poor children the consciousness of subserviency. david says: "i fully comprehended now for the first time (after hearing uriah describe his training at school) what a base, unrelenting, and revengeful spirit must have been engendered by this early, and this long, suppression." the first school attended by esther in bleak house is apparently introduced to point out four evils in the social training of little children. the other children were all older than esther; her godmother refused to allow her to accept invitations to go to the homes of the other girls; she was never allowed out to play; and while holidays were given on the birthdays of other girls, none were ever given on hers. the cruelty of two of these evils was made still more bitter by the revelation of the fact that she was not treated like other girls because of some wrong her mother was supposed to have done. miss donny's school at greenleaf was a charming place, conducted in a "precise, exact, and orderly way." esther was taught well, and trained well. she was to be a governess, and so she taught as she learned. her barren childhood made her sympathize with the girls whom she taught, especially the new girls, and she naturally won their love, and was therefore happy. esther possessed every essential characteristic of a good teacher and a true woman. miss donny's school is one of the schools in which dickens was approving, not condemning. mr. cripple's academy is merely mentioned in little dorrit to complain about the habit of scribbling over buildings and on desks and walls in which boys used to indulge, and of which many evidences may yet be found on the fences and walls of the present day. "the pupils of mr. cripple's appeared to have been making a copy book of the street door, it was so extensively scribbled over in pencil." pip's early education, in great expectations, was received in mr. wopsle's great-aunt's school. mr. wopsle's great-aunt kept an evening school in the village; that is to say, she was a ridiculous old woman of limited means and unlimited infirmity, who used to go to sleep from six to seven every evening, in the society of youth, who paid twopence per week each, for the improving opportunity of seeing her do it. she rented a small cottage, and mr. wopsle had the room upstairs, where we students used to overhear him reading aloud in a most dignified and terrific manner, and occasionally bumping on the ceiling. there was a fiction that mr. wopsle "examined" the scholars once a quarter. what he did on those occasions was to turn up his cuffs, stick up his hair, and give us mark antony's oration over the body of cæsar. much of my unassisted self, and more by the help of biddy than of mr. wopsle's great-aunt, i struggled through the alphabet as if it had been a bramble bush; getting considerably worried and scratched by every letter. after that i fell among those thieves, the nine figures, who seemed every evening to do something new to disguise themselves and baffle recognition. but at last i began, in a purblind groping way, to read, write, and cipher on the very smallest scale. biddy was mr. wopsle's great-aunt's granddaughter; i confessed myself quite unequal to the working out of the problem, what relation she was to mr. wopsle. the educational scheme or course established by mr. wopsle's great-aunt may be resolved into the following synopsis: the pupils ate apples and put straws down one another's backs, until mr. wopsle's great-aunt collected her energies, and made an indiscriminate totter at them with a birch rod. after receiving the charge with every mark of derision, the pupils formed in line and buzzingly passed a ragged book from hand to hand. the book had an alphabet in it, some figures and tables, and a little spelling--that is to say, it had had once. as soon as this volume began to circulate, mr. wopsle's great-aunt fell into a state of coma, arising either from sleep or a rheumatic paroxysm. the pupils then entered among themselves upon a competitive examination on the subject of boots, with the view of ascertaining who could tread the hardest upon whose toes. this mental exercise lasted until biddy made a rush at them and distributed three defaced bibles (shaped as if they had been unskilfully cut off the chumped end of something), more illegibly printed at the best than any curiosities of literature i have since met with, speckled all over with iron mould, and having various specimens of the insect world smashed between their leaves. this part of the course was usually lightened by several single combats between biddy and refractory students. when the fights were over, biddy gave out the number of a page, and then we all read aloud what we could--or what we couldn't--in a frightful chorus; biddy leading with a high shrill monotonous voice, and none of us having the least notion of, or reverence for, what we were reading about. when this horrible din had lasted a certain time, it mechanically awoke mr. wopsle's great-aunt, who staggered at a boy fortuitously, and pulled his ears. this was understood to terminate the course for the evening, and we emerged into the air with shrieks of intellectual victory. the reasons for describing this school were to renew the attack on bad private schools, conducted without any state control and no supervision or inspection by competent officers, to show the need of better appliances and text-books, and to teach the utter folly of allowing pupils to try to read any book, especially the bible, without understanding what they were reading. incidentally dickens taught that to use the bible as it was used in mr. wopsle's great-aunt's school develops a lack of reverence for it. the evil of corporal punishment of the indiscriminate and irregular kind comes in for a share of condemnation in this wretched school. dickens returned to the attack on bad private schools in our mutual friend. he had made a thorough study of the evening schools conducted in london--conducted many of them by organizations with good intentions. there are a good many sunday schools yet which in some respects are open to the criticisms made of charley hexam's first school. the school at which young charley hexam had first learned from a book--the streets being, for pupils of his degree, the great preparatory establishment, in which very much that is never unlearned is learned without and before book--was a miserable loft in an unsavoury yard. its atmosphere was oppressive and disagreeable; it was crowded, noisy, and confusing; half the pupils dropped asleep, or fell into a state of stupefaction; the other half kept them in either condition by maintaining a monotonous droning noise, as if they were performing, out of time and tune, on a ruder sort of bagpipe. the teachers, animated solely by good intentions, had no idea of execution, and a lamentable jumble was the upshot of their kind endeavours. it was a school for all ages and for both sexes. the latter were kept apart, and the former were partitioned off into square assortments. but all the place was pervaded by a grimly ludicrous pretence that every pupil was childish and innocent. this pretence, much favoured by the lady visitors, led to the ghastliest absurdities. young women, old in the vices of the commonest and worst life, were expected to profess themselves enthralled by the good child's book, the adventures of little margery, who resided in the village cottage by the mill; severely reproved and morally squashed the miller, when she was five and he was fifty; divided her porridge with singing birds; denied herself a new nankeen bonnet, on the ground that the turnips did not wear nankeen bonnets, neither did the sheep, who ate them; who plaited straw and delivered the dreariest orations to all comers, at all sorts of unseasonable times. so unwieldy young dredgers and hulking mudlarks were referred to the experiences of thomas twopence, who, having resolved not to rob (under circumstances of uncommon atrocity) his particular friend and benefactor, of eighteenpence, presently came into supernatural possession of three and sixpence, and lived a shining light ever afterward. (note, that the benefactor came to no good.) several swaggering sinners had written their own biographies in the same strain; it always appearing from the lessons of those very boastful persons that you were to do good, not because it _was_ good, but because you were to make a good thing of it. contrariwise, the adult pupils were taught to read (if they could learn) out of the new testament; and by dint of stumbling over the syllables and keeping their bewildered eyes on the particular syllables coming round to their turn, were as absolutely ignorant of the sublime history as if they had never seen or heard of it. an exceedingly and confoundingly perplexing jumble of a school, in fact, where black spirits and gray, red spirits and white, jumbled, jumbled, jumbled, jumbled, jumbled every night. and particularly every sunday night. for then an inclined plane of unfortunate infants would be handed over to the prosiest and worst of all the teachers with good intentions, whom nobody older would endure. who, taking his stand on the floor before them, as chief executioner, would be attended by a conventional volunteer boy as executioner's assistant. when and where it first became the conventional system that a weary or inattentive infant in a class must have its face smoothed downward with a hot hand, or when or where the conventional volunteer boy first beheld such system in operation, and became inflamed with a sacred zeal to administer it, matters not. it was the function of the chief executioner to hold forth, and it was the function of the acolyte to dart at sleeping infants, yawning infants, restless infants, whimpering infants, and smooth their wretched faces, sometimes with one hand, as if he were anointing them for a whisker; sometimes with both hands, applied after the fashion of blinkers. and so the jumble would be in action in this department for a mortal hour; the exponent drawling on to my dearerr childerrenerr, let us say for example, about the beautiful coming to the sepulchre; and repeating the word sepulchre (commonly used among infants) five hundred times and never once hinting what it meant; the conventional boy smoothing away right and left, as an infallible commentary; the whole hotbed of flushed and exhausted infants exchanging measles, rashes, whooping-cough, fever, and stomach disorders, as if they were assembled in high market for the purpose. even in this temple of good intentions, an exceptionally sharp boy exceptionally determined to learn, could learn something, and, having learned it, could impart it so much better than the teachers; as being more knowing than they, and not at the disadvantage in which they stood toward the shrewder pupils. in this way it had come about that charley hexam had risen in the jumble, taught in the jumble, and been received from the jumble into a better school. dickens slaughtered evils by wholesale in this brief description. the influence of the great preparatory establishment, the street, was brought to the notice of thinking people. the need of ventilation was pointed out, and the evil of crowding a large number of pupils into poorly ventilated rooms was made very clear. "half the pupils dropped asleep, or fell into a state of waking stupefaction." the teachers were untrained. "they were animated solely by good intentions, and had no idea of execution." the consequence was a lamentable jumble. the separation of the sexes was not approved. the stupid blunder of treating all pupils alike, without regard to heredity, environment, or past experience, is aptly caricatured in giving the adventures of little margery and the experiences of thomas twopence to young women old in vice and to young male criminals in order to reform them. incidentally he disapproves of such literature for any children, and also of the autobiographies of "swaggering sinners." the error pointed out in pip's education of using the new testament as a book from which pupils should be taught how to read is emphasized. "by dint of stumbling over the syllables and keeping their bewildered eyes on the particular syllables coming round to their turn, they were as absolutely ignorant of the sublime history as if they had never seen or heard of it." he criticised severely the old custom of giving least attention to the choice of a teacher for the little ones. the old theory was: they can not learn much any way; anybody will do to teach them. "the inclined plane of unfortunate infants would be handed over to the prosiest and worst of all the teachers of good intentions, whom nobody older would endure." the dreadful practice, still kept up in some heathen-producing sunday schools, of having an "executioner's assistant to keep order," is severely condemned. "it was the function of the acolyte to dart at sleeping infants, restless infants, whimpering infants, and smooth, their wretched faces." the irritating influence of this operation on the suffering infants and the degrading effect on the executioner's assistant himself are clearly indicated. but the greatest cruelty was in having the infants talked at in a droning voice for an hour by the chief executioner in a voice that would sometimes deaden, sometimes irritate their nervous systems, and in language they could not comprehend, about subjects entirely foreign to their experiences. the danger of spreading contagious diseases in such badly ventilated schools was shown. dickens was a leader in the department of sanitation both in homes and in schools. the schools taught by bradley headstone and miss peecher were newly built, and there were so many like them all over the country, that one might have thought the whole were but one restless edifice with the locomotive gift of aladdin's palace. all things in these schools--buildings, teachers, and pupils--were according to pattern, and engendered in the light of the latest gospel according to monotony. these brief descriptions contained volumes of protest against the dead uniformity of school architecture, and against the sacrifice of individuality in schools. there are no other buildings in which there should be more care taken to have truly artistic architecture than in schools, because the children are influenced so much by their environment. correct taste may be formed more easily and more definitely by making the places in which children spend so much of their lives truly artistic than by studying the best authorities. the child's spirits should be toned by the colouring of the walls of the schoolroom, and by the pictures, statues, and other artistic articles around them. the phrase "gospel according to monotony" is one of the most effective phrases ever used to describe the destruction of individuality. the peecher-headstone schools were described as one of several protests against separating little girls from little boys in schools. phoebe, the happy young woman, who had never been able to sit up since she had been dropped by her mother when she was in a fit, is one of the sweetest of the characters of dickens. she lay on a couch as high as the window and enjoyed the view as she made lace. she taught a little school part of the day, and when barbox brothers was at mugby junction he heard the children singing in the school, and watched them trooping home happily till he became so interested in what was going on in the little cottage that he went in to investigate. he found a small but very clean room, with no one there but phoebe lying on her couch. he asked her if she was learned in the new system of teaching, meaning the kindergarten system, because he had heard her children singing as he passed. "no," she said, "i am very fond of children, but i know nothing of teaching, beyond the interest i have in it, and the pleasure it gives me, when they learn. i have only read and been told about the new system. it seemed so pretty and pleasant, and to treat them so like the merry robins they are, that i took up with it in my little way. my school is a pleasure to me. i began it, when i was but a child, because it brought me and other children into company, don't you see? i carry it on still, because it keeps children about me. i do it as love, not as work." what a beautiful school! what an ideal spirit for every true teacher! what a wise man dickens was to reveal so much sweetness and trueness in the life of such a woman as phoebe! when phoebe had overcome her restrictions so triumphantly, surely every one who dares to teach should try to rise above personal infirmities, and treat children like the "merry robins that they are." the holiday romance, in which three young children write romances for the edification of their adult friends and relatives, to show how adult treatment impresses young children, is usually regarded as merely an exquisite piece of humour. in writing to mr. fields about the story dickens said: "it made me laugh to that extent, that my people here thought i was out of my wits, until i gave it to them to read, when they did likewise." there is more philosophy than fun in these stories, however, and when carefully studied they should aid in the "education of the grown-up people"--not merely the "grown-ups" for whom they were intended, but all "grown-ups." this is especially true of the last story, written by miss nettie ashford, aged "half-past-six." the story is about mrs. lemon's school and mrs. orange's family. "the grown-up people" were the children in nettie's story, and the children were the managers of all things at home and at school. mrs. orange went to mrs. lemon's and told her that "her children were getting positively too much for her." she had two parents, two intimate friends of theirs, one godfather, two godmothers, and an aunt. she wished to send them to school, because they were "getting too much for her." many real mothers give the same reason. "have you as many as eight vacancies?" "i have just eight, ma'am," said mrs. lemon. "corporal punishment dispensed with?" "why, we do occasionally shake," said mrs. lemon, "and we have slapped. but only in extreme cases." mrs. orange was shown through the school, and had the bad "grown-ups" pointed out to her and their evil propensities explained to her in their hearing, as naturally as in a real school. she decided to send her family, and went home with her baby--which was a doll--saying, "these troublesome troubles are got rid of, please the pigs." a small party for the grown-up children was given by mrs. alicumpaine, and the arrangements made for the adults, and the ways in which they were treated by their child masters, and the criticisms on the way the seniors behaved are all instructive to thoughtful parents. the real things that adult people say and do appear delightfully stupid or exquisitely silly when made to appear as said and done by children. when mr. and mrs. orange were going home they passed the establishment of mrs. lemon, and necessarily thought of their eight adult pupils who were there. "i wonder, james, dear," said mrs. orange, looking up at the window, "whether the precious children are asleep!" "i don't care much whether they are or not, myself," said mr. orange. "james, dear!" "you dote upon them, you know," said mr. orange. "that's another thing." "i do," said mrs. orange rapturously. "oh, i do!" "i don't," said mr. orange. "but, i was thinking, james, love," said mrs. orange, pressing his arm, "whether our dear, good, kind mrs. lemon would like them to stay the holidays with her." "if she was paid for it, i dare say she would," said mr. orange. "i adore them, james," said mrs. orange, "but _suppose_ we pay her, then." this was what brought the country to such perfection, and made it such a delightful place to live in. the grown-up people (that would be in other countries) soon left off being allowed any holidays after mr. and mrs. orange tried the experiment; and the children (that would be in other countries) kept them at school as long as ever they lived, and made them do whatever they were told. this story was written about two years before the death of dickens, so it represents his maturest thought. its great fundamental motive was froebel's motto, "come, let us live with our children." it was a trenchant, though humorous criticism of the methods of treating children practised by adults, at home and at school. mrs. orange's adoration for children, while at the same time she was proposing to keep them at school during the holidays, is very suggestive to those mothers who in society talk so much about their "precious darlings," but who keep them in the nursery so that they have no share in the family life. the practice of calling children bad and describing their supposed evil propensities in the presence of others is also condemned in this story. one of the very best of the stories of dickens to show his perfect sympathy with boyhood is the story told by jemmy jackman lirriper about "the boy who went to school in rutlandshire." it reveals the feelings of boys to the "tartars" who teach school, as the boys, when they got control, put the tartar into confinement and "forced him to eat the boys' dinners and drink half a cask of their beer every day." it reveals, too, the psychological condition of a healthy boy just entering the adolescent period, if he has been fortunate enough to have had a life of love and freedom at home; with his heart filled with love for the schoolmaster's daughter seraphina, and his mind filled with hopeful dreams of success, and triumph, and fortune, and happiness ever afterward, not excluding those who had nurtured him, but sharing all with them, and finding his greatest joy in their affectionate pride at his success. blessed is the boy who has such glorious experiences and such hopeful dreams in his later boyhood and onward, and thrice blessed is he who finds in parenthood hearts so reverently sympathetic that it is natural for the young heart to overflow into them. "but such dreams can never come true." they are true. nothing is ever more true for the stage of evolution in which they naturally fill the life of the child. to stop them is a crime; to shut them up in the heart of the boy or girl makes them a source of great danger instead of an essential element in the ennoblement of character. let the boy dream on, and help him to dream by sympathetically sharing his visions with him. his own visions and the most wonderful visions of heroism and adventure dreamed by the best authors should fill his life during the most important stage of his growth, adolescence, when the elements of his manhood are rushing into his life and require an outlet in the ideal life as a preparation for the real life of later days. dickens recognises, too, in this story the great truth so little used by educators, that the child's imagination is not restricted by any conditions of impossibility or by any laws of nature or of man. the ideal transcends the real, the desired is accomplished. development is rapid under such conditions. "and was there no quarrelling," asked mrs. lirriper, "after the boy and his boy friend had gained high renown, and unlimited stores of gold, and had married seraphina and her sister, and had come to live with gran and godfather forever, and the story was ended?" "no! nobody ever quarrelled." "and did the money never melt away?" "no! nobody could ever spend it all." "and did none of them ever grow older?" "no! nobody ever grew older after that." "and did none of them ever die?" "o, no, no, no, gran!" exclaimed our dear boy, laying his cheek upon her breast, and drawing her closer to him. "nobody ever died." "ah, major, major!" says mrs. lirriper, smiling benignly upon me, "this beats our stories. let us end with the boy's story, major, for the boy's story is the best that is ever told." miss pupford's school in tom tiddler's ground reveals the foolish conventional formalism of some teachers before their pupils; exposes the pretences of some teachers in private schools--"miss pupford's assistant with the parisian accent, who never conversed with a parisian and never was out of england"; and condemns the practice of sending mere children long distances from home to be trained and educated: "kitty kimmeens had to remain behind in miss pupford's school during the holidays, because her friends and relations were all in india, far away." in edwin drood dickens had begun a description of the school: "on the trim gate inclosing the courtyard of which is a resplendent brass plate flashing forth the legend: 'seminary for young ladies. miss twinkleton.'" the chief thing revealed by the brief description given of it is the formal conventionality of most teachers in such institutions, the unreality of manner and tone and character shown by most teachers in the schoolroom. how much greater miss twinkleton's power would have been to help in developing human hearts and heads, if she could have been more truly human during the day! she did not deceive the young ladies either by her formalism. they merely said, "what a pretending old thing miss twinkleton is!" when the rumour of the quarrel between neville landless and edwin drood reached the seminary, and began to cause dangerous excitement among the young ladies, miss twinkleton deemed it her duty to quiet their minds. it was reserved for miss twinkleton to tone down the public mind of the nuns' house. that lady, therefore, entering in a stately manner what plebeians might have called the schoolroom, but what, in the patrician language of the head of the nuns' house, was euphuistically, not to say roundaboutedly, denominated "the apartment allotted to study," and saying with a forensic air, "ladies!" all rose. mrs. tisher at the same time grouped herself behind her chief, as representing queen elizabeth's first historical female friend at tilbury fort. miss twinkleton then proceeded to remark that rumour, ladies, had been represented by the bard of avon--needless were it to mention the immortal shakespeare, also called the swan of his native river, not improbably with some reference to the ancient superstition that that bird of graceful plumage (miss jennings will please stand upright) sung sweetly on the approach of death, for which we have no ornithological authority--rumour, ladies, had been represented by that bard--hem!-- "who drew the celebrated jew," as painted full of tongues. rumour in cloisterham (miss ferdinand will honour me with her attention) was no exception to the great limner's portrait of rumour elsewhere. a slight _fracas_ between two young gentlemen occurring last night within a hundred miles of these peaceful walls (miss ferdinand, being apparently incorrigible, will have the kindness to write out this evening, in the original language, the first four fables of our vivacious neighbour, monsieur la fontaine) had been very grossly exaggerated by rumour's voice. in the first alarm and anxiety arising from our sympathy with a sweet young friend, not wholly to be dissociated from one of the gladiators in the bloodless arena in question (the impropriety of miss reynolds's appearing to stab herself in the hand with a pin is far too obvious, and too glaringly unladylike to be pointed out), we descended from our maiden elevation to discuss this uncongenial and this unfit theme. responsible inquiries having assured us that it was but one of those "airy nothings" pointed at by the poet (whose name and date of birth miss giggles will supply within half an hour), we would now discard the subject, and concentrate our minds upon the grateful labours of the day. the unnatural formalism of her manner and her language are properly held up to ridicule by dickens. he incidentally shows the great blunder of interrupting a lesson to censure a pupil, the weakness of having to demand attention, and the error of punishing by impositions to be memorized or written. what a terrible misuse it is of the literature that should always be attractive and inspiring to have it associated with punishment! he exposes the greater crime of making children commit to memory selections from the bible as a punishment in dombey and son, and the association of the bible with tasks in our mutual friend. the schoolboy's story deals with the problems of nutrition, coercion, robbing a boy of his holidays, the declaration of perpetual warfare between pupils and teachers in the olden days, and the surprise of the boys when they found that one of their teachers had a true and tender heart (what a commentary on teachers that boys should be surprised at their being true and good!), and how to treat children as old cheeseman did, when he inherited his fortune and married jane, and took the disconsolate boys home to his own house, when they were condemned to spend their holidays at school. in our school the chief pedagogical lessons are: the man's remembrance of the pug dog in the entry at the first school he attended, and his utter forgetfulness of the mistress of the establishment; the folly of external polishing or memory polishing on which "the rust has long since accumulated"; the gross wrong of allowing an ignorant and brutal man to be a teacher--"the only branches of education with which the master showed the least acquaintance were ruling and corporally punishing"; the deadening injustice of showing partiality, whether on account of a boy's parentage or for any other reason; sympathy for "holiday stoppers"; the interest all children should take in keeping and training pet animals; the advantages to boys of having to construct "houses and instruments of performance" for these pets--"some of those who made houses and invented appliances for their performing mice in school have since made railroads, engines, and telegraphs, the chairman has erected mills and bridges in australia"; the fact that "we all liked maxby the tutor, for he had a good knowledge of boys"; and that teachers should be very particular about their personal neatness, because children note so accurately every detail of dress and manner. this is shown by the reminiscences about maxby, the latin master, and the dancing master. the ungenerous rivalry often existing between schools, and schools of thought, too, was pointed out: "there was another school not far off, and of course our school could have nothing to say to that school. it is mostly the way with schools, whether of boys or men." "the world had little reason to be proud of our school, and has done much better since in that way, and will do far better yet." this closing sentence of the sketch is very suggestive. dickens described one school that he visited in america in his american notes, evidently in order to show the need of more care than was then taken in the choice of matter for the pupils to read. i was only present in one of these establishments during the hours of instruction. in the boys' department, which was full of little urchins (varying in their ages, i should say, from six years old to ten or twelve), the master offered to institute an extemporary examination of the pupils in algebra, a proposal which, as i was by no means confident of my ability to detect mistakes in that science, i declined with some alarm. in the girls' school reading was proposed, and as i felt tolerably equal to that art i expressed my willingness to hear a class. books were distributed accordingly, and some half dozen girls relieved each other in reading paragraphs from english history. but it seemed to be a dry compilation, infinitely above their powers; and when they had blundered through three or four dreary passages concerning the treaty of amiens, and other thrilling topics of the same nature (obviously without comprehending ten words), i expressed myself quite satisfied. it is very possible that they only mounted to this exalted stave in the ladder of learning for the astonishment of a visitor, and that at other times they keep upon its lower rounds; but i should have been much better pleased and satisfied if i had heard them exercised in simpler lessons, which they understood. "the world has done better since, and will do far better yet" in the choice of reading matter for children. the school recalled by memory in connection with the other ghosts of his childhood in the haunted house was described briefly, but the description is full of suggestiveness. then i was sent to a great cold, bare school of big boys; where everything to eat and wear was thick and clumpy, without being enough; where everybody, large and small, was cruel; where the boys knew all about the sale before i got there [his father's furniture had been sold for debt], and asked me what i had fetched, and who had bought me, and hooted at me, "going, going, gone." the inartistic bareness of the school, the tasteless clothing, the unattractive, unsatisfying food, the pervading atmosphere of cruelty, and the heartlessness of the boys in tearing open the wounds of the sensitive new boy--are all condemned. chapter xvi. miscellaneous educational principles. the need of apperception and correlation are shown in the result of paul dombey's first lessons under miss cornelia blimber, and in the same book in the description of the learning briggs carried away with him. it was like an ill-arranged luggage, so tightly packed that he couldn't get at anything he wanted. the absolute necessity for fixing apperceptive centres of emotion and thought in the lives of children by experience is shown in the case of neville landless in edwin drood. his early life had been so barren that, as he told his tutor, "it has caused me to be utterly wanting in i don't know what emotions, or remembrances, or good instincts--i have not even a name for the thing, you see--that you have had to work upon in other young men to whom you have been accustomed." dickens emphasized the fact that the lack of apperceptive centres of an improper kind is a great advantage. that heart where self has found no place and raised no throne is slow to recognise its ugly presence when it looks upon it. as one possessed of an evil spirit was held in old time to be alone conscious of the lurking demon in the breasts of other men, so kindred vices know each other in their hiding places every day, when virtue is incredulous and blind. there is no more suggestive work on the contents of children's minds than bleak house. when poor jo was summoned to give evidence at the inquest he was questioned in regard to himself and his theology. the results were startling. name, jo. nothing else that he knows on. don't know that everybody has two names. never heerd of sich a think. don't know that jo is short for a longer name. thinks it long enough for _him_. _he_ don't find no fault with it. spell it? no. _he_ can't spell it. no father, no mother, no friends. never been to school. what's home? knows a broom's a broom, and knows it's wicked to tell a lie. don't recollect who told him about the broom, or about the lie, but knows both. can't exactly say what'll be done to him after he's dead if he tells a lie to the gentlemen here, but believes it'll be something wery bad to punish him, and serve him right--and so he'll tell the truth. jo sweeps his crossing all day long, unconscious of the link, if any link there be. he sums up his mental condition, when asked a question, by replying that he "don't know nothink." he knows that it's hard to keep the mud off the crossing in dirty weather, and harder still to live by doing it. nobody taught him, even that much; he found it out. jo comes out of tom-all-alone's, meeting the tardy morning, which is always late in getting down there, and munches his dirty bit of bread as he comes along. his way lying through many streets, and the houses not yet being open, he sits down to breakfast on the doorstep of the society for the propagation of the gospel in foreign parts, and gives it a brush when he has finished, as an acknowledgment of the accommodation. he admires the size of the edifice, and wonders what it's all about. he has no idea, poor wretch, of the spiritual destitution of a coral reef in the pacific, or what it costs to look up the precious souls among the cocoanuts and breadfruits. he goes to his crossing, and begins to lay it out for the day. the town awakes; the great teetotum is set up for its daily spin and whirl; all that unaccountable reading and writing, which has been suspended for a few hours, recommences. jo and the other lower animals get on in the unintelligible mess as they can. it is market day. the blinded oxen, overgoaded, overdriven, never guided, run into wrong places and are beaten out; and plunge, red-eyed and foaming, at stone walls; and often sorely hurt the innocent, and often sorely hurt themselves. very like jo and his order; very, very like! a band of music comes and plays. jo listens to it. so does a dog--a drover's dog, waiting for his master outside a butcher's shop, and evidently thinking about those sheep he has had upon his mind for some hours, and is happily rid of. he seems perplexed respecting three or four; can't remember where he left them; looks up and down the street, as half expecting to see them astray; suddenly pricks up his ears and remembers all about it. a thoroughly vagabond dog, accustomed to low company and public houses; a terrific dog to sheep; ready at a whistle to scamper over their backs, and tear out mouthfuls of their wool; but an educated, improved, developed dog, who has been taught his duties and knows how to discharge them. he and jo listen to the music, probably with much the same amount of animal satisfaction; likewise, as to awakened association, aspiration, or regret, melancholy or joyful reference to things beyond the senses, they are probably upon a par. but, otherwise, how far above the human listener is the brute! turn that dog's descendants wild, like jo, and in a very few years they will so degenerate that they will lose even their bark--but not their bite. when lady dedlock met jo, she asked him: "are you the boy i've read of in the papers?" "i don't know," says jo, staring moodily at the veil, "nothink about no papers. i don't know nothink about nothink at all." when guster, mr. snagsby's servant, got him some food, she said: "are you hungry?" "jist!" says jo. "what's gone of your father and your mother, eh?" jo stops in the middle of a bite, and looks petrified. for this orphan charge of the christian saint whose shrine was at tooting, has patted him on the shoulder; and it is the first time in his life that any decent hand had been so laid upon him. "i never know'd nothink about 'em," says jo. "no more didn't i of mine," cries guster. when allan woodcourt took him to mr. george's and had his wants attended to, he told jo to be sure and tell him the truth always. "wishermaydie, if i don't," said jo. "i never was in no other trouble at all, sir--'cept knowin' nothink and starvation." when allan saw that jo was nearing the end, he said: "jo! did you ever know a prayer?" "never know'd nothink, sir." "not so much as one short prayer?" "no, sir. nothink at all. mr. chadband he was a-prayin' wunst at mr. snagsby's and i heerd him, but he sounded as if he wos a-speakin' to hisself, and not to me. he prayed a lot, but _i_ couldn't make out nothink on it. different times, there was other genlmen come down tom-all-alone's a-prayin', but they all mostly sed as the t'other wuns prayed wrong, and all mostly sounded to be a-talkin' to theirselves, or a-passin' blame on the t'others, and not a-talkin' to us. _we_ never know'd nothink. _i_ never know'd what it wos all about." no? mr. chadband, your long sermon about "the terewth" found no place in jo in which to rest; nothing to which it could attach itself. no wonder he went asleep. he had no apperceptive centres in his experience or his training to which your kind of religious teaching was related. poor jo! he was the first great illustration, and he is still the best, of the great pedagogical truth, that we see, and hear, and understand in all that is around us only what corresponds to what we are within; that our power to see, and hear, and understand increases as our inner life is cultured and developed; and that a life as barren as that of the great class of whom jo was made the type makes it impossible to comprehend any teaching of an abstract kind. this revelation is of course most valuable to primary teachers in cities. dickens showed his wonderful insight into the most profound problems of psychology in his great character sketch of poor jo. he agreed with herbart regarding the philosophy of apperception so far as it related to intellectual culture, but he painted jo entirely out of harmony with herbart's psychology in relation to soul development. after describing mr. chadband's sermon on "terewth" dickens says: all this time jo has been standing on the spot where he woke up, ever picking his cap, and putting bits of fur in his mouth. he spits them out with a remorseful air, for he feels that it is in his nature to be an unimprovable reprobate, and it's no good _his_ trying to keep awake, for _he_ won't never know nothink. though it may be, jo, that there is a history so interesting and affecting even to minds as near the brutes as thine, recording deeds done on this earth for common men, that if the chadbands, removing their own persons from the light, would but show it thee in simple reverence, would but leave it unimproved, would but regard it as being eloquent enough without their modest aid--it might hold thee awake, and thou might learn from it yet! jo never heard of any such book. its compilers, and the reverend chadband, are all one to him--except that he knows the reverend chadband, and would rather run away from him for an hour than hear him talk for five minutes. when jo was eating at mr. snagsby's he stopped in the middle of his bite and looked petrified, because guster patted him on the shoulder. "it was the first time in his life that any decent hand had been so laid upon him." in the haunted man the six-year-old child was described as "a baby savage, a young monster, a child who had never been a child, a creature who might live to take the outward form of man, but who, within, would live and perish a mere beast." hugh, the splendid young animal who was john willet's stable boy in barnaby rudge, was as deficient of most intellectual and spiritual apperceptive centres as poor jo. when mr. chester asked him his name he replied: "i'd tell it if i could. i can't. i have always been called hugh; nothing more. i never knew nor saw, nor thought about a father; and i was a boy of six--that's not very old--when they hung my mother up at tyburn for a couple of thousand of men to stare at. they might have let her live. she was poor enough." little george silverman's mind was almost a blank when his mother and father died. he had been brought up in a cellar at preston. he hardly knew what sunlight was. his mother's laugh in her fever scared him, because it was the first laugh he had ever heard. when discovered alone with the bodies of his father and mother in the cellar, one of the horrified bystanders said to him: "do you know your father and mother are both dead of fever?" and he replied: "i don't know what it is to be dead. i am hungry and thirsty." after he had been supplied with food and drink he told mr. hawkyard that "he didn't feel cold, or hungry, or thirsty," and in relating the story in manhood he said: that was the whole round of human feelings, as far as i knew, except the pain of being beaten. to that time i had never had the faintest impression of duty. i had no knowledge whatever that there was anything lovely in this life. when i had occasionally slunk up the cellar steps into the street, and glared in at shop windows, i had done so with no higher feelings than we may suppose to animate a mangy young dog or wolf cub. it is equally the fact that i had never been alone, in the sense of holding unselfish converse with myself. i had been solitary often enough, but nothing better. redlaw, in the haunted man, said to the poor boy who came to his room: "what is your name?" "got none." "where do you live?" "live! what's that?" such pictures were not drawn to entertain, or to add artistic effect to his stories. they were written to teach the world of wealth and culture that all around it were thousands of human souls with as little opportunity for development as young animals have; with defined apperceptive centres of cold, hunger, thirst, and pain only. dickens makes a strong contrast between the condition of the mental and spiritual apperceptive centres in the city boy as compared with the country boy, in a conversation between phil squod and mr. george. "and so, phil," says george of the shooting gallery, after several turns in silence, "you were dreaming of the country last night?" phil, by the bye, said as much, in a tone of surprise, as he scrambled out of bed. "yes, guv'ner." "what was it like?" "i hardly know what it was like, guv'ner," said phil, considering. "how did you know it was the country?" "on account of the grass, i think. and the swans upon it," says phil, after further consideration. "what were the swans doing on the grass?" "they was a-eating of it, i expect," says phil. "the country," says mr. george, plying his knife and fork; "why, i suppose you never clapped your eyes on the country, phil?" "i see the marshes once," said phil, contentedly eating his breakfast. "what marshes?" "_the_ marshes, commander," returns phil. "where are they?" "i don't know where they are," says phil; "but i see 'em, guv'ner. they was flat. and miste." governor and commander are interchangeable terms with phil, expressive of the same respect and deference, and applicable to nobody but mr. george. "i was born in the country, phil." "was you, indeed, commander?" "yes. and bred there." phil elevates his one eyebrow, and after respectfully staring at his master to express interest, swallows a great gulp of coffee, still staring at him. "there's not a bird's note that i don't know," says mr. george. "not many an english leaf or berry that i couldn't name. not many a tree that i couldn't climb yet, if i was put to it. i was a real country boy once. my good mother lived in the country. do you want to see the country, phil?" "n-no, i don't know as i do, particular." "the town's enough for you, eh?" "why, you see, commander," says phil, "i ain't acquainted with anythink else, and i doubt if i ain't a-getting too old to take to novelties." "how old are you, phil?" phil's answer is intended to indicate the lack of even mathematical power in those who, like phil, never had any training of the imagination, nor any other training to define their apperceptive centres of number beyond ten. "i'm something with a eight in it. it can't be eighty. nor yet eighteen. it's betwixt 'em somewheres. i was just eight, agreeable to the parish calculation, when i went with the tinker. that was april fool day. i was able to count up to ten; and when april fool day came round again i says to myself, 'now, old chap, you're one and a eight in it.' april fool day after that i says, 'now, old chap, you're two and a eight in it.' in course of time i come to ten and a eight in it; two tens and a eight in it. when it got so high it got the upper hand of me; but this is how i always know there's a eight in it." the folly of trying to make a man moral by precept alone; the fact that character is developed by what we do, by true living, by what goes out in action, not by what comes in in maxims or theories, is shown in martin chuzzlewit. it has been remarked that mr. pecksniff was a moral man. so he was. perhaps there never was a more moral man than mr. pecksniff, especially in his conversation and correspondence. it was once said of him by a homely admirer that he had a fortunatus's purse of gold sentiments in his inside. in this particular he was like the girl in the fairy tale, except that if they were not actual diamonds which fell from his lips, they were the very brightest paste and shone prodigiously. he was a most exemplary man; fuller of virtuous precept than a copy book. some people likened him to a direction post, which is always telling the way to a place, and never goes there. the best of architects and land surveyors kept a horse, in whom the enemies already mentioned more than once in these pages pretended to detect a fanciful resemblance to his master. not in his outward person, for he was a raw-boned, haggard horse, always on a much shorter allowance of corn than mr. pecksniff; but in his moral character, wherein, said they, he was full of promise, but of no performance. he was always, in a manner, going to go, and never going. one of the worst results that can follow a system of training is to make a man a hypocrite. it is nearly as bad to store a mind with good thoughts or fill a heart with good feelings without giving the character the tendency by practical experience to carry into effect so far as possible its good feelings and high purposes. mr. pecksniff was a moral monstrosity. we should create no more pecksniffs. a different ideal is taught in the remark made by martin chuzzlewit to mary, "endeavouring to be anything that's good, and being it, is, with you, all one." executive training is emphasized in nicholas nickleby. old ralph nickleby said of nicholas: "the old story--always thinking, and never doing." the same thought is expressed very clearly in the pregnant sentence written about sydney carton in a tale of two cities: "sadly, sadly, the sun rose; it rose upon no sadder sight than the man of good abilities and good emotions, incapable of their directed exercise." the saddest sight in the world is a man or woman using power for evil. it is nearly as sad to see a man or woman with power, but without power to use it wisely. in a tale of two cities he caricatures admirably the class who cling to old customs and conventions, and decline even to discuss changes or improvements, in his description of tellson's bank. tellson's bank by temple bar was an old-fashioned place, even in the year one thousand seven hundred and eighty. it was very small, very dark, very ugly, very incommodious. it was an old-fashioned place, moreover, in the moral attribute that the partners in the house were proud of its smallness, proud of its darkness, proud of its ugliness, proud of its incommodiousness. they were even boastful of its eminence in those particulars, and were fired by an express conviction that, if it were less objectionable, it would be less respectable. this was no passive belief, but an active weapon which they flashed at more convenient places of business. tellson's (they said) wanted no elbowroom, tellson's wanted no light, tellson's wanted no embellishment. noakes and co.'s might, or snooks brothers' might: but tellson's, thank heaven! any one of these partners would have disinherited his son on the question of rebuilding tellson's. in this respect the house was much on a par with the country; which did very often disinherit its sons for suggesting improvements in laws and customs that had long been highly objectionable, but were only the more respectable. every child should get into his consciousness by experience, not by theory, the idea that he is expected to do his share in the improvement of his environment. the worst conception he can get is that "whatever is is right"; that things can not be improved. every child should be encouraged to make suggestions for the improvement of his own environment and conditions in the schoolroom, in the yard, in the details of class management, or in anything else that he thinks he can improve. the closing sentence of our school should ring always in the minds of teachers, especially the last clause: "and will do far better yet." dickens had implicit faith in even weak humanity, and taught the hopeful truth, that every man and every child may be improved, if the men and women most directly associated with them are wise and loving. harriet carker said to mr. morfin: "oh, sir, after what i have seen, let me conjure you, if you are in any place of power, and are ever wronged, never for any wrong inflict punishment that can not be recalled; while there is a god above us to work changes in the hearts he made." the goblin of the bell said to toby veck in the chimes: "who turns his back upon the fallen and disfigured of his kind; abandons them as vile; and does not trace and track with pitying eyes the unfenced precipice by which they fell from good, grasping in their fall some tufts and shreds of that lost soil, and clinging to them still when bruised and dying in the gulf below, does wrong to heaven and man, to time and to eternity." the influence of nature on the awakening mind of the child was outlined in a child's dream of a star. these children used to wonder all day long. they wondered at the beauty of the flowers; they wondered at the height and blueness of the sky; they wondered at the depth of the bright water; they wondered at the goodness and the power of god who made the lovely world. nature is the great centre of interest to the child, and it may be the child's first true revealer of god, if adulthood does not impiously come between the child and god by trying to give him a word god for his intellect too soon to take the place of the true god of his imagination. dickens's best characters loved nature. esther, when recovering from her illness, said: i found every breath of air, and every scent, and every flower and leaf and blade of grass, and every passing cloud, and everything in nature, more beautiful and wonderful to me than i had ever found it yet. this was my first gain from my illness. how little i had lost, when the wide world was so full of delight to me! the deep, spiritual influences of nature are revealed in the effects of life in the growing country on oliver twist. who can describe the pleasure and delight, the peace of mind and soft tranquility, the sickly boy felt in the balmy air, and among the green hills and rich woods of an inland village! who can tell how scenes of peace and quietude sink into the minds of pain-worn dwellers in close and noisy places, and carry their own freshness deep into their jaded hearts! men who have lived in crowded, pent-up streets, through lives of toil, and who have never wished for change; men, to whom custom has indeed been second nature, and who have come almost to love each brick and stone that formed the narrow boundaries of their daily walks; even they, with the hand of death upon them, have been known to yearn at last for one short glimpse of nature's face; and, carried from the scenes of their old pains and pleasures, have seemed to pass at once into a new state of being. crawling forth from day to day, to some green sunny spot, they have had such memories wakened up within them by the sight of sky, and hill, and plain, and glistening water, that a foretaste of heaven itself has soothed their quick decline, and they have sunk into their tombs as peacefully as the sun, whose setting they watched from their lonely chamber window but a few hours before, faded from their dim and feeble sight! the memories which peaceful country scenes call up are not of this world, nor of its thoughts and hopes. their gentle influence may teach us how to weave fresh garlands for the graves of those we love--may purify our thoughts, and bear down before it old enmity and hatred; but beneath all this there lingers, in the least reflective mind, a vague and half-formed consciousness of having held such feelings long before, in some remote and distant time, which calls up solemn thoughts of distant times to come, and bends down pride and worldliness beneath it. it was a lovely spot to which they repaired. oliver, whose days had been spent among squalid crowds, and in the midst of noise and brawling, seemed to enter on a new existence there. in the story of the five sisters of york alice said to her sisters: "nature's own blessings are the proper goods of life, and we may share them sinlessly together. to die is our heavy portion, but, oh, let us die with life about us; when our cold hearts cease to beat, let warm hearts be beating near; let our last look be upon the bounds which god has set to his own bright skies, and not on stone walls and bars of iron! dear sisters, let us live and die, if you list, in this green garden's compass." dickens had very advanced opinions in regard to the importance of physical training, especially of play, as an agent not only in physical culture, but in the development of the mind and character. doctor blimber's school is condemned because the boys were not allowed to play, and doctor strong's school is highly commended because the boys "had noble games out of doors" there. what splendid runners and jumpers and divers and swimmers those grand boys were whom mr. marton had the good fortune to teach in his second school in the old curiosity shop! mrs. crupp recommended david copperfield to take up some game as an antidote for his despondency during his early love experience. "if you was to take to something, sir," said mrs. crupp, "if you was to take to skittles, now, which is healthy, you might find it divert your mind and do you good." mrs. chick told mr. dombey that paul was delicate. "our darling is not altogether as stout as we could wish. the fact is that his mind is too much for him. his soul is a great deal too large for his frame." yet his father paid no attention to the boy's food, and sent him, when but a little sickly child, to doctor blimber's to learn everything--not to play. "they had nothing so vulgar as play at doctor blimber's." one of the most vicious conventions is that which makes vigorous play vulgar and unladylike for girls. he called attention in american notes to the advantages possessed by the students of upper canada college, toronto, inasmuch as "the town is well adapted for wholesome exercise at all seasons." in the same book he gives his opinion that american girls "must go more wisely clad, and take more healthful exercise." he praised the free life of the gipsy children in nicholas nickleby. in martin chuzzlewit, when tom pinch and martin had to walk to salisbury instead of riding in mr. pecksniff's gig, dickens says it was better for them that they were compelled to walk. what a breezy enthusiasm he throws into his advocacy of walking as an exercise: better! a rare strong, hearty, healthy walk--four statute miles an hour--preferable to that rumbling, tumbling, jolting, shaking, scraping, creaking, villainous old gig? why, the two things will not admit of comparison. it is an insult to the walk to set them side by side. where is an instance of a gig having ever circulated a man's blood, unless when, putting him in danger of his neck, it awakened in his veins and in his ears, and all along his spine, a tingling heat much more peculiar than agreeable? when did a gig ever sharpen anybody's wits and energies, unless it was when the horse bolted, and, crashing madly down a steep hill with a stone wall at the bottom, his desperate circumstances suggested to the only gentleman left inside some novel and unheard-of mode of dropping out behind? better than the gig! better than the gig! when were travellers by wheels and hoofs seen with such red-hot cheeks as those? when were they so good-humouredly and merrily bloused? when did their laughter ring upon the air, as they turned them round, what time the stronger gusts came sweeping up; and, facing round again as they passed by, dashed on, in such a glow of ruddy health as nothing could keep pace with, but the high spirits it engendered? better than the gig! why here _is_ a man in a gig coming the same way now. look at him as he passes his whip into his left hand, chafes his numbed right fingers on his granite leg, and beats those marble toes of his upon the footboard. ha, ha, ha! who would exchange this rapid hurry of the blood for yonder stagnant misery, though its pace were twenty miles for one? better than the gig! no man in a gig could have such interest in the milestones. no man in a gig could see, or feel, or think, like merry users of their legs. dickens taught comparatively little about the subjects of instruction or the methods of teaching them. he dealt cramming its most stunning blow in doctor blimber's school, and he criticised sharply the methods of teaching classics and literature in the same school. he advocated the objective method of teaching number in jemmy lirriper's training at home by major jackman. he took more interest in reading and literature than in any other department of school study, so far as can be judged from his writings. he deplored the practice of allowing children to try to read before they could recognise the words readily, and understand their meaning in the training of pip and charley hexam. at the great party at mr. merdle's, the bishop consulted the great physician on the relaxation of the throat with which young curates were too frequently afflicted, and on the means of lessening the great prevalence of that disorder in the church. physician, as a general rule, was of opinion that the best way to avoid it was to know how to read before you made a profession of reading. bishop said, dubiously, did he really think so? and physician said, decidedly, yes, he did. he criticised, too, the reading in the school visited in an american city, because "the girls blundered through three or four dreary passages, obviously without comprehending ten words," and said "he would have been much better pleased if they had been asked to read some simpler selections which they could understand." mr. wegg, when reading for mr. boffin in our mutual friend, "read on by rote, and attached as few ideas as possible to the text." he discusses the advantages of reading suitable books in david copperfield, giving to david his own real experience in early boyhood. after describing the cruel treatment of the murdstones, he says: the natural result of this treatment, continued, i suppose, for some six months, was to make me sullen, dull, and dogged. i was not made the less so by my sense of being daily more and more shut out and alienated from my mother. i believe i should have been almost stupefied but for one circumstance. it was this. my father had left a small collection of books in a little room upstairs, to which i had access (for it joined my own) and which nobody else in our house ever troubled. from that blessed little room, roderick random, peregrine pickle, humphrey clinker, tom jones, the vicar of wakefield, don quixote, gil blas, and robinson crusoe, came out, a glorious host to keep me company. they kept alive my fancy, and my hope of something beyond that place and time--they, and the arabian nights, and the tales of the genii. his faith in the influence of reading increased as he grew older. in our mutual friend he says: "no one who can read ever looks at a book, even unopened on a shelf, like one who can not read." dickens taught a useful lesson in martin chuzzlewit regarding the way teachers used to be treated by society. even yet there is need of a higher recognition of the teaching profession in its true dignity by a civilization that reverences wealth more than intellectual and spiritual character. tom pinch's sister was engaged in the family of a wealthy brass founder. she was treated contemptuously by him and his wife, yet they complained to tom that his sister was unable to command the respect of her pupil. tom was naturally indignant, and he spoke his mind very clearly to the brass founder. "sir!" cried tom, after regarding him in silence for some time. "if you do not understand what i mean i will tell you. my meaning is that no man can expect his children to respect what he degrades." "when you tell me," resumed tom, who was not the less indignant for keeping himself quiet, "that my sister has no innate power of commanding the respect of your children, i must tell you it is not so; and that she has. she is as well bred, as well taught, as well qualified by nature to command respect as any hirer of a governess you know. but when you place her at a disadvantage in reference to every servant in your house, how can you suppose, if you have the gift of common sense, that she is not in a tenfold worse position in reference to your daughters?" "pretty well! upon my word," exclaimed the gentleman, "that is pretty well!" "it is very ill, sir," said tom. "it is very bad and mean and wrong and cruel. respect! i believe young people are quick enough to observe and imitate; and why or how should they respect whom no one else respects, and everybody slights? and very partial they must grow--oh, very partial!--to their studies, when they see to what a pass proficiency in those same tasks has brought their governess! respect! put anything the most deserving of respect before your daughters in the light in which you place her, and you will bring it down as low, no matter what it is!" "you speak with extreme impertinence, young man," observed the gentleman. "i speak without passion, but with extreme indignation and contempt for such a course of treatment, and for all who practise it," said tom. "why, how can you, as an honest gentleman, profess displeasure or surprise at your daughter telling my sister she is something beggarly and humble when you are forever telling her the same thing yourself in fifty plain, outspeaking ways, though not in words; and when your very porter and footman make the same delicate announcement to all comers?" dickens described a great variety of weak, and mean, and selfish, and degraded people in order to expose weakness, and meanness, and selfishness, and baseness, so that humanity might learn to overcome them, but he reserved his supreme contempt for those who oppose the general education of "the masses," because it fills their mind with ideas above their station, or disqualifies them for the work they were intended to do. this being interpreted, means in plain language that certain human beings who, because they possess wealth, or belong to what they arrogantly call the "upper classes," claim the right to dominate those who have not a sufficient amount of money to be independent of them; to fix what they selfishly call "the sphere of the lower classes"; and to prescribe the limits beyond which the children of the poor must not be educated, lest they be lifted beyond tame subserviency to their natural lords and masters, and fail to abase themselves dutifully or to be sufficiently grateful to those above them for the pittance they grudgingly give them for labouring in the menial occupations assigned them. dickens despised all barnacles, and dedlocks, and podsnaps, and dombeys, and merdles; he ridiculed all who violate the sacred bond of human brotherhood; but the vials of his bitterest wrath were poured upon those who because a child was born in the home of poor parents would therefore restrict its education and dwarf its soul. mr. dombey, after the christening of paul, called mrs. toodle before his guests, and in a very condescending but rigidly majestic manner told her he had graciously decided to send her son to the school of the charitable grinders. he prefaced his announcement by a brief statement of his views regarding education: "i am far from being friendly," pursued mr. dombey, "to what is called by persons of levelling sentiments, general education. but it is necessary that the inferior classes should continue to be taught to know their position, and to conduct themselves properly. so far i approve of schools." in mr. dombey's eyes, as in some others that occasionally see the light, they only achieved that mighty piece of knowledge, the understanding of their own position, who showed a fitting reverence for his. it was not so much their merit that they knew themselves, as that they knew him, and bowed low before him. there are thousands of dombeys still. two canadian judges recently said in speaking of education precisely what mr. dombey and his class said in the time of dickens. one objected to educating the common people because it unfitted them for positions as house servants, and made them so outrageously independent that they would not bow (bend their bodies properly, bow their heads, and look reverently at the floor) when in the presence of their mistresses. the other said that the very derivation of the word "education" meant to lead out, and it was therefore clear that "education should be used to develop a few, 'lead them out,' beyond the masses in order that they might be qualified for leadership." the necessary development to be imposed upon all but the favoured few in his system of government is willingness to follow leaders, and ignorance is the only condition that can make this possible. the glory of education is the awakening of the consciousness of freedom in the soul of the race and the revelation of the perfect law of liberty--individual right, social duty. the shackles, physical, intellectual, and spiritual, have fallen from humanity, as education has done its true work of emancipating the individual soul and revealing its own value and its responsibility for its brother souls. the most brutal of all the characters described by dickens is bill sikes. the most degraded and despicable of his characters is dennis the hangman in barnaby rudge. dickens makes bill sikes and dennis use the very same arguments, from their standpoint, that the so-called upper classes have used and still do use against the education of the masses. bill sikes, referring to the need of small boys in the trade of burglary, said: "i want a boy, and he mustn't be a big 'un. lord!" said mr. sikes, reflectively, "if i'd only got that young boy of ned, the chimbley sweeper's! he kept him small on purpose, and let him out by the job. but the father gets lagged; and then the juvenile delinquent society comes and takes the boy away from a trade where he was arning money, teaches him to read and write, and in time makes a 'prentice of him. and so they go on," said mr. sikes, his wrath rising with the recollection of his wrongs, "so they go on; and, if they'd got money enough (which it's a providence they haven't), we shouldn't have half a dozen boys left in the whole trade in a year or two." and fagin agreed with bill sikes. when hugh was formally admitted as a member of lord gordon's mob dennis the hangman was much delighted at the addition of such a strong young man to the ranks, and dickens adds: if anything could have exceeded mr. dennis's joy on the happy conclusion of this ceremony it would have been the rapture with which he received the announcement that the new member could neither read nor write: those two arts being (as mr. dennis swore) the greatest possible curse a civilized community could know, and militating more against the professional emoluments and usefulness of the great constitutional office he had the honour to hold than any adverse circumstances that could present themselves to his imagination. bill sikes objected to education because it spoiled the boys for the trade for which he required them; dennis the hangman objected to education because "it reduced the professional emoluments of his great constitutional office," or, in other words, reduced the number who had to be hanged; and their reasons are just as respectable as the reason given by any man in any position who objects to free education because it unfits boys for certain trades, or girls for "service," or because "it fills their minds with ideas above their station," or because they have to pay their just share of its cost, or for any other narrow and selfish reason. selfishness is selfishness, and it is as utterly loathsome in a bishop as in bill sikes, in a judge as in dennis the hangman. dickens never did any more artistic work than when he painted the aristocratic objectors to popular education in their natural hideousness with bill sikes and dennis the hangman for a harmonious background. chapter xvii. the training of poor, neglected, and defective children. it is a singular fact that humanity in its highest development so long neglected the poor, and the weak, and the defective. they were practically left out of consideration by educators and philanthropists. the fact that they more than any others needed education and care was not seen clearly enough to lead to definite plans for the amelioration of their misfortunes until the nineteenth century. dickens must always have the honour of being the great english apostle of the poor--especially of neglected childhood. he wrote in the uncommercial traveller: i can find--_must_ find, whether i will or no--in the open streets, shameful instances of neglect of children, intolerable toleration of the engenderment of paupers, idlers, thieves, races of wretched and destructive cripples both in body and mind; a misery to themselves, a misery to the community, a disgrace to civilization, and an outrage on christianity. i know it to be a fact as easy of demonstration as any sum in any of the elementary rules of arithmetic, that if the state would begin its work and duty at the beginning, and would with the strong hand take those children out of the streets while they are yet children, and wisely train them, it would make them a part of england's glory, not its shame--of england's strength, not its weakness--would raise good soldiers and sailors, and good citizens, and many great men out of the seeds of its criminal population; it would clear london streets of the most terrible objects they smite the sight with--myriads of little children who awfully reverse our saviour's words, and are not of the kingdom of heaven, but of the kingdom of hell. he sympathized with childhood on account of every form of coercion and abuse practised upon it by tyrannical, selfish, or ignorant adulthood, under the most favourable conditions; but his great heart was especially tender toward the little ones who, in addition to coercion and abuse, and bad training by the selfish, the ignorant, and the careless, were compelled to endure the terrible sufferings and deprivations of poverty. he was conscious not only of the material and physical evils to which the children of the very poor were exposed, but of the mental and spiritual barrenness of their lives, and one of his most manifest educational purposes was to improve social conditions, to arouse the spirit of truly sympathetic brotherhood (not merely considerate altruism, but genuine brotherhood) to place the poorest children in conditions that would develop by experience the apperceptive centres of intellectual and spiritual growth, and to direct special attention to the urgent need of education for the blind, the deaf, and the mentally defective. no other american touched his heart and won his reverence quite so thoroughly as dr. howe, of boston, who will undoubtedly be recognised as one of the greatest men yet produced by american civilization when men are tested by their purposes, and by their unselfish work for humanity in hitherto untrodden paths. after describing dr. howe's work for the blind, he reverently says: "there are not many persons, i hope and believe, who, after reading these passages, can ever hear that name with indifference." dickens charged on humanity, on society, the crime of making criminals. he said with great force and truth in the preface to martin chuzzlewit: nothing is more common in real life than a want of profitable reflection on the causes of many vices and crimes that awaken general horror. what is substantially true of families in this respect, is true of a whole commonwealth. as we sow, we reap. let the reader go into the children's side of any prison in england, or, i grieve to add, of many workhouses, and judge whether those are monsters who disgrace our streets, people our hulks and penitentiaries, and overcrowd our penal colonies, or are creatures whom we have deliberately suffered to be bred for misery and ruin. this thought was the motive that led him throughout his whole life to try to arouse sympathetic interest of the most active kind in the conditions and circumstances of the poor. one of his most striking appeals to thoughtful people is made in martin chuzzlewit. these profound words will always be worthy of careful study by teachers and reformers: oh, moralists, who treat of happiness and self-respect, innate in every sphere of life, and shedding light on every grain of dust in god's highway, so smooth below your carriage wheels, so rough beneath the tread of naked feet, bethink yourselves in looking on the swift descent of men who _have_ lived in their own esteem, that there are scores of thousands breathing now, and breathing thick with painful toil, who in that high respect have never lived at all, nor had a chance of life! go ye, who rest so placidly upon the sacred bard who had been young, and when he strung his harp was old, and had never seen the righteous forsaken, or his seed begging their bread; go, teachers of content and honest pride, into the mine, the mill, the forge, the squalid depths of deepest ignorance, and uttermost abyss of man's neglect, and say can any hopeful plant spring up in air so foul that it extinguishes the soul's bright torch as fast as it is kindled! and, oh! ye pharisees of the nineteen hundredth year of christian knowledge, who soundingly appeal to human nature, see that it be human first. take heed it has not been transformed, during your slumber and the sleep of generations, into the nature of the beasts. dickens saw clearly the depravity of human nature, but he looked beyond the depravity to its cause, and he found a natural cause for the degradation, but not the cause that had been commonly assigned. he taught that the highest and holiest elements in human nature were the causes of its swiftest deterioration when misused, perverted, or neglected. alice marwood, in dombey and son, was introduced to teach parents and society in general the duties they owe to childhood, and to show how lives are wrecked by neglect and by a false use of power. when she returned, an outcast, to her mother, and her mother upbraided her, the young woman said: "i tell you, mother, for the second time, there have been years for me as well as you. come back harder? of course i have come back harder. what else did you expect?" "harder to me! to her own dear mother!" cried the old woman. "i don't know who began to harden me, if my own dear mother didn't," she returned, sitting with her folded arms, and knitted brows, and compressed lips, as if she were bent on excluding, by force, every softer feeling from her breast. "listen, mother, to a word or two. if we understand each other now, we shall not fall out any more, perhaps. i went away a girl, and have come back a woman. i went away undutiful enough, and have come back no better, you may swear. but have you been very dutiful to me?" "i!" cried the old woman. "to my own gal! a mother dutiful to her own child!" "it sounds unnatural, don't it?" returned the daughter, looking coldly on her with her stern, regardless, hardy, beautiful face; "but i have thought of it sometimes, in the course of _my_ lone years, till i have got used to it. i have heard some talk about duty first and last; but it has always been of my duty to other people. i have wondered now and then--to pass away the time--whether no one ever owed any duty to me." her mother sat mowing, and mumbling, and shaking her head, but whether angrily, or remorsefully, or in denial, or only in her physical infirmity, did not appear. "there was a child called alice marwood," said the daughter with a laugh, and looking down at herself in terrible derision of herself, "born among poverty and neglect, and nurtured in it. nobody taught her, nobody stepped forward to help her, nobody cared for her." "nobody!" echoed the mother, pointing to herself and striking her breast. "the only care she knew," returned the daughter, "was to be beaten, and stinted, and abused sometimes; and she might have done better without that. she lived in homes like this, and in the streets, with a crowd of little wretches like herself; and yet she brought good looks out of this childhood. so much the worse for her. she had better have been hunted and worried to death for ugliness." "go on! go on!" exclaimed the mother. "she'll soon have ended," said the daughter. "there was a criminal called alice marwood--a girl still, but deserted and an outcast. and she was tried, and she was sentenced. and lord, how the gentlemen in the court talked about it! and how grave the judge was on her duty, and on her having perverted the gifts of nature--as if he didn't know better than anybody there that they had been made curses to her!--and how he preached about the strong arm of the law--so very strong to save her, when she was an innocent and helpless little wretch! and how solemn and religious it all was! i have thought of that many times since, to be sure!" she folded her arms tightly on her breast, and laughed in a tone that made the howl of the old woman musical. "so alice marwood was transported, mother," she pursued, "and was sent to learn her duty where there was twenty times less duty, and more wickedness, and wrong, and infamy, than here. and alice marwood is come back a woman. such a woman as she ought to be, after all this. in good time, there will be more solemnity, and more fine talk, and more strong arm, most likely, and there will be an end of her; but the gentlemen needn't be afraid of being thrown out of work. there's crowds of little wretches, boy and girl, growing up in any of the streets they live in, that'll keep them to it till they've made their fortunes." bleak house is one of the greatest of the educational works of dickens. one of its chief aims was to arouse a sympathetic interest in the lives of poor children. the neckett children, charlotte, and tom, and emma, revealed a new world to many thousands of good people. "charley, charley!" said my guardian. "how old are you?" "over thirteen, sir," replied the child. "oh! what a great age," said my guardian. "what a great age, charley!" "and do you live alone here with these babies, charley?" said my guardian. "yes, sir," returned the child, looking up into his face with perfect confidence, "since father died." "and how do you live, charley? oh! charley," said my guardian, turning his face away for a moment, "how do you live?" "since my father died, sir, i've gone out to work. i'm out washing to-day." "god help you, charley!" said my guardian. "you're not tall enough to reach the tub!" "in pattens i am, sir," she said, quickly. "i've got a high pair as belonged to mother." "and when did mother die? poor mother!" "mother died just after emma was born," said the child, glancing at the face upon her bosom. "then father said i was to be as good a mother to her as i could. and so i tried. and so i worked at home, and did cleaning and nursing and washing, for a long time before i began to go out. and that's how i know how; don't you see, sir?" "and do you often go out?" "as often as i can," said charley, opening her eyes, and smiling, "because of earning sixpences and shillings!" "and do you always lock the babies up when you go out?" "to keep 'em safe, sir, don't you see?" said charley. "mrs. blinder comes up now and then, and mr. gridley comes up sometimes, and perhaps i can run in sometimes, and they can play, you know, and tom ain't afraid of being locked up, are you, tom?" "no-o!" said tom stoutly. "when it comes on dark the lamps are lighted down in the court, and they show up here quite bright--almost quite bright. don't they, tom?" "yes, charley," said tom; "almost quite bright." the hearts must be hard that are not moved to a deeper and more practical interest in the children of the poor by this pathetic story, and others of a kindred character which dickens told over and over again for the christian world to study. and the study led to feeling and thought and co-operative action. the fruits of these wonderful stories are the splendid homes, and organizations for children, and the laws to protect them from cruelty by parents or teachers, or employers, and the free public schools to educate them, and the joy, and happiness, and freedom, that are taking the place of the sorrow, and tears, and coercion of the time when dickens began his noble work. the tragic story of poor jo illustrated the poverty, the ignorance, the destitution, the hopelessness, the barrenness, and the dreadful environment of a london street boy. the world has done much better since, as dickens prophesied it would do, and the good work is going on. hundreds of thousands of the poor joes of london are now in the public schools of london alone of whom the christian philanthropy of the world thought little till dickens told his stories. in nobody's story dickens returns to his special purpose of changing the attitude of civilization toward the education of the poor. the bigwigs represent society, and "the man" means the poor man. but the bigwig family broke out into violent family quarrels concerning what it was lawful to teach to this man's children. some of the family insisted on such a thing being primary and indispensable above all other things; and others of the family insisted on such another thing being primary and indispensable above all other things; and the bigwig family, rent into factions, wrote pamphlets, held convocations, delivered charges, orations, and all varieties of discourses; impounded one another in courts lay and courts ecclesiastical; threw dirt, exchanged pummellings, and fell together by the ears in unintelligible animosity. meanwhile, this man, in his short evening snatches at his fireside, saw the demon ignorance arise there, and take his children to itself. he saw his daughter perverted into a heavy slatternly drudge; he saw his son go moping down the ways of low sensuality, to brutality and crime; he saw the dawning light of intelligence in the eyes of his babies so changing into cunning and suspicion, that he could have rather wished them idiots. dickens objected to a certain kind of sentimentality exhibited in his day toward criminals, and draws a very suggestive picture full of elements for psychological study in david copperfield, in which he makes the brutal schoolmaster creakle a very considerate middlesex magistrate, with an unfailing system for a quick and effective method of converting the wickedest scoundrels into the most submissive, scripture-quoting saints by solitary confinement. dickens did not approve of the system, and he did not approve either of the plan of the spending of so much money by the state in erecting splendid buildings for criminals, while the honest poor were in hovels, and especially while the state allowed the boys and girls, through neglect, to be transformed into criminals by thousands every year. dickens would have made criminals earn their own living, and he urged the establishment of industrial schools for the boys and girls of the streets, so that they might become respectable, intelligent, self-reliant, law-abiding citizens instead of criminals. david said: traddles and i repaired to the prison where mr. creakle was powerful. it was an immense and solid building, erected at a vast expense. i could not help thinking, as we approached the gate, what an uproar would have been made in the country if any deluded man had proposed to spend one half the money it had cost, on the erection of an industrial school for the young, or a house of refuge for the deserving old. as usual with great reformers, the philanthropists of his own day refused to accept the theories of dickens, but succeeding generations adopted them. the reforms for which he pleaded began to be practised so soon because he winged his thought with living appeals to the deepest, truest feelings of the human heart. dickens said truly of barnaby rudge: "the absence of the soul is far more terrible in a living man than in a dead one; and in this unfortunate being its noblest powers were wanting." he pleaded again for those who are weak-minded in mr. dick's case in david copperfield. mr. dick was evidently introduced into the story to show the effect of kind treatment on those who are defective in intellect. the insane were flogged and put in strait-jackets in the time of dickens. his teaching is now the practice of the civilized world. the insane are kindly treated, and weak-minded children are taught in good schools by the best teachers that can be obtained for them. betsy trotwood, david's aunt, was an embodiment of a good heart united with an eminently practical head. she did not talk about religion, as did the murdstones, but she showed her religious life in good, reasonable, self-sacrificing, helpful living. david asked her for an explanation of mr. dick's case. "he has been _called_ mad," said my aunt. "i have a selfish pleasure in saying he has been called mad, or i should not have had the benefit of his society and advice for these last ten years and upward--in fact, ever since your sister, betsy trotwood, disappointed me." "so long as that?" i said. "and nice people they were, who had the audacity to call him mad," pursued my aunt. "mr. dick is a sort of distant connection of mine--it doesn't matter how; i needn't enter into that. if it hadn't been for me, his own brother would have shut him up for life. that's all." i am afraid it was hypocritical in me, but seeing that my aunt felt strongly on the subject, i tried to look as if i felt strongly too. "a proud fool!" said my aunt. "because his brother was a little eccentric--though he is not half so eccentric as a good many people--he didn't like to have him visible about the house, and sent him away to some private asylum place; though he had been left to his particular care by their deceased father, who thought him almost a natural. and a wise man _he_ must have been to think so! mad himself, no doubt." again, as my aunt looked quite convinced, i endeavoured to look quite convinced also. "so i stepped in," said my aunt, "and made him an offer. i said, 'your brother's sane--a great deal more sane than you are, or ever will be, it is to be hoped. let him have his little income, and come and live with me. _i_ am not afraid of him; _i_ am not proud; _i_ am ready to take care of him, and shall not ill treat him as some people (besides the asylum folks) have done.' after a good deal of squabbling," said my aunt, "i got him; and he has been here ever since. he is the most friendly and amenable creature in existence; and as for advice!--but nobody knows what that man's mind is, except myself." dickens was greatly delighted with the asylums of the united states, and he strongly advocated the adoption in england of american methods of treating the insane. he says, in american notes: at south boston, as it is called, in a situation excellently adapted for the purpose, several charitable institutions are clustered together. one of these is the state hospital for the insane; admirably conducted on those enlightened principles of conciliation and kindness, which twenty years ago would have been worse than heretical, and which have been acted upon with so much success in our own pauper asylum at hanwell. "evince a desire to show some confidence, and repose some trust, even in mad people," said the resident physician, as we walked along the galleries, his patients flocking round us unrestrained. of those who deny or doubt the wisdom of this maxim after witnessing its effects, if there be such people still alive, i can only say that i hope i may never be summoned as a juryman on a commission of lunacy whereof they are the subjects; for i should certainly find them out of their senses, on such evidence alone. each ward in this institution is shaped like a long gallery or hall, with the dormitories of the patients opening from it on either hand. here they work, read, play at skittles, and other games; and, when the weather does not admit of their taking exercise out of doors, pass the day together. in one of these rooms, seated, calmly, and quite as a matter of course, among a throng of mad women, black and white, were the physician's wife and another lady, with a couple of children. these ladies were graceful and handsome; and it was not difficult to perceive at a glance that even their presence there had a highly beneficial influence on the patients who were grouped about them. every patient in this asylum sits down to dinner every day with a knife and fork; and in the midst of them sits the gentleman whose manner of dealing with his charges i have just described. at every meal, moral influence alone restrains the more violent among them from cutting the throats of the rest; but the effect of that influence is reduced to an absolute certainty, and is found, even as a means of restraint, to say nothing of it as a means of cure, a hundred times more efficacious than all the strait-waistcoats, fetters, and handcuffs, that ignorance, prejudice, and cruelty have manufactured since the creation of the world. how much those benighted teachers who so tragically ask "what _can_ you do with bad boys, if you do _not_ use corporal punishment?" might learn from the last sentence! blinded by old ideals, these teachers whip away, admitting that they fail to reform many of the best boys, and quieting their consciences with the horrible thought that the evil course was the natural one for the boys, and that they are not responsible for their blighted lives. they comfort themselves with the thought that it is god's business, and if he made a boy so bad that flogging would not reform him, they at any rate are free from blame, because they "have beaten, and beaten, and beaten him, and it did him no good." having beaten him, and beaten him, and beaten him, they rest contented with the sure conviction that they have faithfully done their duty; and when, perchance, the poor boy becomes a criminal, they solemnly say without a blush or a pang: "i knew he would come to a bad end, but i am so thankful that i did my duty to him." ignominious failure to save the brave boys who are not cowardly enough to be deterred from doing wrong by beating has taught nothing to some teachers. even yet they placidly beat on, and get angry if they are requested to try freedom as a substitute for coercion in the training of beings created in god's image. they even question the sanity and the theology of those who dare to doubt the efficiency of the sacred rod. they do not deem it possible that by studying the child and their own higher powers they could find easier, pleasanter, and infinitely more successful methods of guiding a boy to a true, strong life than by beating, and beating, and beating him. the keepers of asylums in the time of dickens were equally severe on the wise friends of the insane. they honestly believed that terrible evils would necessarily result from giving greater freedom to the afflicted patients in asylums. dickens took the side of freedom and common sense, and the strait-jackets, and handcuffs, and fetters have been taken off, and, _even as a means of restraint_, kindness and freedom have done better work than all the coercive fetters that "ignorance, prejudice, and cruelty have manufactured since the creation of the world." so all teachers who have grown wise enough have found that kindness and freedom are much better even as restraining agents, and infinitely better in the development of true, independent, positive, progressive characters than all the coercive terrors of rod, rule, strap, rawhide, or any form of cruelty ever practised on helpless childhood by ignorance, prejudice, and perverted theology since the creation of the world. in american notes dickens gave a long description of laura bridgman written by dr. howe, and showed his intense interest in what was then a new movement in favour of the education of the blind. speaking of laura bridgman, dickens himself wrote: the thought occurred to me as i sat down in another room before a girl, blind, deaf, and dumb; destitute of smell, and nearly so of taste; before a fair young creature with every human faculty, and hope, and power of goodness and affection inclosed within her delicate frame, and but one outward sense--the sense of touch. there she was before me; built up, as it were, in a marble cell, impervious to any ray of light, or particle of sound; with her poor white hand peeping through a chink in the wall, beckoning to some good man for help, that an immortal soul might be awakened. long before i looked upon her the help had come. her face was radiant with intelligence and pleasure. her hair, braided by her own hands, was bound about her head, whose intellectual capacity and development were beautifully expressed in its graceful outline, and its broad open brow; her dress, arranged by herself, was a pattern of neatness and simplicity; the work she had knitted lay beside her; her writing book was on the desk she leaned upon. from the mournful ruin of such bereavement there had slowly risen up this gentle, tender, guileless, grateful-hearted being. the touching story of caleb plummer and his blind daughter was intended to arouse interest in blind children. doctor marigold should be one of the best beloved of all the beautiful characters of dickens. if any kind of language could awaken an intense interest in the education of deaf-mutes, the story of the dear old cheap jack must surely do it. the sad picture of the cruel treatment of his own little sophy by her mother; of her dying on his shoulder while he was selling his wares to the crowd, whispering fondly to her between his jokes; and the suicide of the mother, when she afterward saw another woman beating her child, and heard the child cry piteously, "don't beat me! oh, mother, mother, mother!"--these prepare the heart for full appreciation of the tender, considerate, and intelligent treatment of the deaf-mute child adopted by doctor marigold in sophy's place. i went to that fair as a mere civilian, leaving the cart outside the town, and i looked about the back of the vans while the performing was going on, and at last, sitting dozing against a muddy cart wheel, i come upon the poor girl who was deaf and dumb. at the first look i might almost have judged that she had escaped from the wild beast show; but at the second i thought better of her, and thought that if she was more cared for and more kindly used she would be like my child. she was just the same age that my own daughter would have been, if her pretty head had not fell down upon my shoulder that unfortunate night. it was happy days for both of us when sophy and me began to travel in the cart. i at once gave her the name of sophy, to put her ever toward me in the attitude of my own daughter. we soon made out to begin to understand one another, through the goodness of the heavens, when she knowed that i meant true and kind by her. in a very little time she was wonderful fond of me. you have no idea what it is to have anybody wonderful fond of you, unless you have been got down and rolled upon by the lonely feelings that i have mentioned as having once got the better of me. you'd have laughed--or the rewerse--it's according to your disposition--if you could have seen me trying to teach sophy. at first i was helped--you'd never guess by what--milestones. i got some large alphabets in a box, all the letters separate on bits of bone, and say we was going to windsor; i gave her those letters in that order, and then at every milestone i showed her those same letters in that same order again, and pointed toward the abode of royalty. another time i give her cart, and then chalked the same upon the cart. another time i give her doctor marigold, and hung a corresponding inscription outside my waistcoat. people that met us might stare a bit and laugh, but what did _i_ care if she caught the idea? she caught it after long patience and trouble, and then we did begin to get on swimmingly, i believe you! at first she was a little given to consider me the cart, and the cart the abode of royalty, but that soon wore off. the way she learned to understand any look of mine was truly surprising. when i sold of a night, she would sit in the cart, unseen by them outside, and would give a eager look into my eyes when i looked in, and would hand me straight the precise article or articles i wanted. and then she would clap her hands, and laugh for joy. and as for me, seeing her so bright, and remembering what she was when i first lighted on her, starved and beaten and ragged, leaning asleep against the muddy cart wheel, it give me such heart that i gained a greater height of reputation than ever. this happiness went on in the cart till she was sixteen years old. by which time i began to feel not satisfied that i had done my whole duty by her, and to consider that she ought to have better teaching than i could give her. it drew a many tears on both sides when i commenced explaining my views to her; but what's right is right, and you can't neither by tears nor laughter do away with its character. so i took her hand in mine, and i went with her one day to the deaf and dumb establishment in london, and when the gentleman come to speak to us, i says to him: "now, i'll tell you what i'll do with you, sir. i am nothing but a cheap jack, but of late years i have laid by for a rainy day notwithstanding. this is my only daughter (adopted), and you can't produce a deafer nor a dumber. teach her the most that can be taught her in the shortest separation that can be named--state the figure for it--and i am game to put the money down. i won't bate you single farthing, sir, but i'll put down the money here and now, and i'll thankfully throw you in a pound to take it. there!" the gentleman smiled, and then, "well, well," says he, "i must first know what she has learned already. how do you communicate with her?" then i showed him, and she wrote in printed writing many names of things and so forth; and we held some sprightly conversation, sophy and me, about a little story in a book which the gentleman showed her, and which she was able to read. "this is most extraordinary," says the gentleman; "is it possible that you have been her only teacher?" "i have been her only teacher, sir," i says, "besides herself." "then," says the gentleman, and more acceptable words was never spoke to me, "you're a clever fellow, and a good fellow." this he makes known to sophy, who kisses his hands, claps her own, and laughs and cries upon it. "now, marigold, tell me what more do you want your adopted daughter to know?" "i want her, sir, to be cut off from the world as little as can be, considering her deprivations, and therefore to be able to read whatever is wrote with perfect ease and pleasure." no one ever read this story and its delightful closing without being more deeply interested in deaf-mutes and their education. all the children, especially poor and defective children, should be taught how much they owe to dickens, that they might reverently love his memory. one of the most awful pictures shown to scrooge by the phantom was the picture of the two "wretched, abject, frightful, hideous, miserable children." they were a boy and a girl. yellow, meagre, ragged, scowling, wolfish; but prostrate, too, in their humility. where graceful youth should have filled their features out, and touched them with its freshest tints, a stale and shrivelled hand, like that of age, had pinched, and twisted them, and pulled them into shreds. where angels might have sat enthroned, devils lurked, and glared out menacing. no change, no degradation, no perversion of humanity, in any grade, through all the mysteries of wonderful creation, has monsters half so horrible and dread. "they are man's," said the spirit, looking down upon them. "and they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. this boy is ignorance. this girl is want. beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow i see that written which is doom, unless the writing be erased. deny it!" cried the spirit, stretching out its hand toward the city. "slander those who tell it ye! admit it for your factious purposes, and make it worse. and abide the end!" dickens bravely fought the battle against the enemies of the children, and helped to win the grandest victories of christian civilization. the end. international education series. _ mo, cloth, uniform binding._ the international education series was projected for the purpose of bringing together in orderly arrangement the best writings, new and old, upon educational subjects, and presenting a complete course of reading and training for teachers generally. it is edited by william t. harris, ll. d., united states commissioner of education, who has contributed for the different volumes in the way of introduction, analysis, and commentary. . the philosophy of education. by johann k. f. rosenkranz, doctor of theology and professor of philosophy. university of königsberg. translated by anna c. brackett. second edition, revised, with commentary and complete analysis. $ . . . a history of education. by f. v. n. painter, a. m. professor of modern languages and literature, roanoke college, va. revised edition, . $ . net. . the rise and early constitution of universities. with a survey of mediÃ�val education. by s. s. laurie, ll. d., professor of the institutes and history of education, university of edinburgh. $ . . . the ventilation and warming of school buildings. by gilbert b. morrison, teacher of physics and chemistry, kansas city high school. $ . . . the education of man. by friedrich froebel. translated and annotated by w. n. hailmann, a. m., superintendent of public schools, la porte, ind. $ . . . elementary psychology and education. by joseph baldwin, a. m., ll. d., author of "the art of school management." $ . . . the senses and the will. 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sound and progressive pedagogy. in its scope and organization it aims to give ( ) a comprehensive and systematic analysis of the principles of education, ( ) the modern trend and interpretation of educational thought, ( ) a transition from pure psychology to methods of teaching and discipline, and ( ) practical applications of educational theory to the problems that confront the teacher in the course of daily routine. every practical pedagogical solution that is offered has actually stood the test of classroom demonstration. the book opens with a study of the function of education and a contrast of the modern social conception with those aims which have been guiding ideals in previous educational systems. part ii deals with the physiological aspects of education. part iii is taken up with the problem of socializing the child through the curriculum and the school discipline. the last part of the book, part iv, the mental aspect of education, is developed under the following sections: _section a._ the instinctive aspect of mind. mind and its development through self-expression. self-activity. instincts. _section b._ intellectual aspect of mind. the functions of intellect, perception, apperception, memory, imagination, thought activities. the doctrine of formal discipline and its influence upon educational endeavor. _section c._ emotional aspect of mind. _section d._ volitional aspect of mind. study of will, kinds of volitional action, habit vs. deliberative consciousness. the education of the will. education and social responsibility, the problems of ethical instruction, and the social functions of the school. in order to increase the usefulness of the book to teachers of education there is added a classified bibliography for systematic, intensive reference reading and a list of suggested problems suitable for advanced work. d. appleton and company new york chicago the dialogues of plato charmides by plato translated into english with analyses and introductions by b. jowett, m.a. master of balliol college regius professor of greek in the university of oxford doctor in theology of the university of leyden to my former pupils in balliol college and in the university of oxford who during fifty years have been the best of friends to me these volumes are inscribed in grateful recognition of their never failing attachment. the additions and alterations which have been made, both in the introductions and in the text of this edition, affect at least a third of the work. having regard to the extent of these alterations, and to the annoyance which is naturally felt by the owner of a book at the possession of it in an inferior form, and still more keenly by the writer himself, who must always desire to be read as he is at his best, i have thought that the possessor of either of the former editions ( and ) might wish to exchange it for the present one. i have therefore arranged that those who would like to make this exchange, on depositing a perfect and undamaged copy of the first or second edition with any agent of the clarendon press, shall be entitled to receive a copy of a new edition at half-price. preface to the first edition. the text which has been mostly followed in this translation of plato is the latest vo. edition of stallbaum; the principal deviations are noted at the bottom of the page. i have to acknowledge many obligations to old friends and pupils. these are:--mr. john purves, fellow of balliol college, with whom i have revised about half of the entire translation; the rev. professor campbell, of st. andrews, who has helped me in the revision of several parts of the work, especially of the theaetetus, sophist, and politicus; mr. robinson ellis, fellow of trinity college, and mr. alfred robinson, fellow of new college, who read with me the cratylus and the gorgias; mr. paravicini, student of christ church, who assisted me in the symposium; mr. raper, fellow of queen's college, mr. monro, fellow of oriel college, and mr. shadwell, student of christ church, who gave me similar assistance in the laws. dr. greenhill, of hastings, has also kindly sent me remarks on the physiological part of the timaeus, which i have inserted as corrections under the head of errata at the end of the introduction. the degree of accuracy which i have been enabled to attain is in great measure due to these gentlemen, and i heartily thank them for the pains and time which they have bestowed on my work. i have further to explain how far i have received help from other labourers in the same field. the books which i have found of most use are steinhart and muller's german translation of plato with introductions; zeller's 'philosophie der griechen,' and 'platonische studien;' susemihl's 'genetische entwickelung der paltonischen philosophie;' hermann's 'geschichte der platonischen philosophie;' bonitz, 'platonische studien;' stallbaum's notes and introductions; professor campbell's editions of the 'theaetetus,' the 'sophist,' and the 'politicus;' professor thompson's 'phaedrus;' th. martin's 'etudes sur le timee;' mr. poste's edition and translation of the 'philebus;' the translation of the 'republic,' by messrs. davies and vaughan, and the translation of the 'gorgias,' by mr. cope. i have also derived much assistance from the great work of mr. grote, which contains excellent analyses of the dialogues, and is rich in original thoughts and observations. i agree with him in rejecting as futile the attempt of schleiermacher and others to arrange the dialogues of plato into a harmonious whole. any such arrangement appears to me not only to be unsupported by evidence, but to involve an anachronism in the history of philosophy. there is a common spirit in the writings of plato, but not a unity of design in the whole, nor perhaps a perfect unity in any single dialogue. the hypothesis of a general plan which is worked out in the successive dialogues is an after-thought of the critics who have attributed a system to writings belonging to an age when system had not as yet taken possession of philosophy. if mr. grote should do me the honour to read any portion of this work he will probably remark that i have endeavoured to approach plato from a point of view which is opposed to his own. the aim of the introductions in these volumes has been to represent plato as the father of idealism, who is not to be measured by the standard of utilitarianism or any other modern philosophical system. he is the poet or maker of ideas, satisfying the wants of his own age, providing the instruments of thought for future generations. he is no dreamer, but a great philosophical genius struggling with the unequal conditions of light and knowledge under which he is living. he may be illustrated by the writings of moderns, but he must be interpreted by his own, and by his place in the history of philosophy. we are not concerned to determine what is the residuum of truth which remains for ourselves. his truth may not be our truth, and nevertheless may have an extraordinary value and interest for us. i cannot agree with mr. grote in admitting as genuine all the writings commonly attributed to plato in antiquity, any more than with schaarschmidt and some other german critics who reject nearly half of them. the german critics, to whom i refer, proceed chiefly on grounds of internal evidence; they appear to me to lay too much stress on the variety of doctrine and style, which must be equally acknowledged as a fact, even in the dialogues regarded by schaarschmidt as genuine, e.g. in the phaedrus, or symposium, when compared with the laws. he who admits works so different in style and matter to have been the composition of the same author, need have no difficulty in admitting the sophist or the politicus. (the negative argument adduced by the same school of critics, which is based on the silence of aristotle, is not worthy of much consideration. for why should aristotle, because he has quoted several dialogues of plato, have quoted them all? something must be allowed to chance, and to the nature of the subjects treated of in them.) on the other hand, mr. grote trusts mainly to the alexandrian canon. but i hardly think that we are justified in attributing much weight to the authority of the alexandrian librarians in an age when there was no regular publication of books, and every temptation to forge them; and in which the writings of a school were naturally attributed to the founder of the school. and even without intentional fraud, there was an inclination to believe rather than to enquire. would mr. grote accept as genuine all the writings which he finds in the lists of learned ancients attributed to hippocrates, to xenophon, to aristotle? the alexandrian canon of the platonic writings is deprived of credit by the admission of the epistles, which are not only unworthy of plato, and in several passages plagiarized from him, but flagrantly at variance with historical fact. it will be seen also that i do not agree with mr. grote's views about the sophists; nor with the low estimate which he has formed of plato's laws; nor with his opinion respecting plato's doctrine of the rotation of the earth. but i 'am not going to lay hands on my father parmenides' (soph.), who will, i hope, forgive me for differing from him on these points. i cannot close this preface without expressing my deep respect for his noble and gentle character, and the great services which he has rendered to greek literature. balliol college, january, . preface to the second and third editions. in publishing a second edition ( ) of the dialogues of plato in english, i had to acknowledge the assistance of several friends: of the rev. g.g. bradley, master of university college, now dean of westminster, who sent me some valuable remarks on the phaedo; of dr. greenhill, who had again revised a portion of the timaeus; of mr. r.l. nettleship, fellow and tutor of balliol college, to whom i was indebted for an excellent criticism of the parmenides; and, above all, of the rev. professor campbell of st. andrews, and mr. paravicini, late student of christ church and tutor of balliol college, with whom i had read over the greater part of the translation. i was also indebted to mr. evelyn abbott, fellow and tutor of balliol college, for a complete and accurate index. in this, the third edition, i am under very great obligations to mr. matthew knight, who has not only favoured me with valuable suggestions throughout the work, but has largely extended the index (from to pages) and translated the eryxias and second alcibiades; and to mr frank fletcher, of balliol college, my secretary. i am also considerably indebted to mr. j.w. mackail, late fellow of balliol college, who read over the republic in the second edition and noted several inaccuracies. in both editions the introductions to the dialogues have been enlarged, and essays on subjects having an affinity to the platonic dialogues have been introduced into several of them. the analyses have been corrected, and innumerable alterations have been made in the text. there have been added also, in the third edition, headings to the pages and a marginal analysis to the text of each dialogue. at the end of a long task, the translator may without impropriety point out the difficulties which he has had to encounter. these have been far greater than he would have anticipated; nor is he at all sanguine that he has succeeded in overcoming them. experience has made him feel that a translation, like a picture, is dependent for its effect on very minute touches; and that it is a work of infinite pains, to be returned to in many moods and viewed in different lights. i. an english translation ought to be idiomatic and interesting, not only to the scholar, but to the unlearned reader. its object should not simply be to render the words of one language into the words of another or to preserve the construction and order of the original;--this is the ambition of a schoolboy, who wishes to show that he has made a good use of his dictionary and grammar; but is quite unworthy of the translator, who seeks to produce on his reader an impression similar or nearly similar to that produced by the original. to him the feeling should be more important than the exact word. he should remember dryden's quaint admonition not to 'lacquey by the side of his author, but to mount up behind him.' (dedication to the aeneis.) he must carry in his mind a comprehensive view of the whole work, of what has preceded and of what is to follow,--as well as of the meaning of particular passages. his version should be based, in the first instance, on an intimate knowledge of the text; but the precise order and arrangement of the words may be left to fade out of sight, when the translation begins to take shape. he must form a general idea of the two languages, and reduce the one to the terms of the other. his work should be rhythmical and varied, the right admixture of words and syllables, and even of letters, should be carefully attended to; above all, it should be equable in style. there must also be quantity, which is necessary in prose as well as in verse: clauses, sentences, paragraphs, must be in due proportion. metre and even rhyme may be rarely admitted; though neither is a legitimate element of prose writing, they may help to lighten a cumbrous expression (symp.). the translation should retain as far as possible the characteristic qualities of the ancient writer--his freedom, grace, simplicity, stateliness, weight, precision; or the best part of him will be lost to the english reader. it should read as an original work, and should also be the most faithful transcript which can be made of the language from which the translation is taken, consistently with the first requirement of all, that it be english. further, the translation being english, it should also be perfectly intelligible in itself without reference to the greek, the english being really the more lucid and exact of the two languages. in some respects it may be maintained that ordinary english writing, such as the newspaper article, is superior to plato: at any rate it is couched in language which is very rarely obscure. on the other hand, the greatest writers of greece, thucydides, plato, aeschylus, sophocles, pindar, demosthenes, are generally those which are found to be most difficult and to diverge most widely from the english idiom. the translator will often have to convert the more abstract greek into the more concrete english, or vice versa, and he ought not to force upon one language the character of another. in some cases, where the order is confused, the expression feeble, the emphasis misplaced, or the sense somewhat faulty, he will not strive in his rendering to reproduce these characteristics, but will re-write the passage as his author would have written it at first, had he not been 'nodding'; and he will not hesitate to supply anything which, owing to the genius of the language or some accident of composition, is omitted in the greek, but is necessary to make the english clear and consecutive. it is difficult to harmonize all these conflicting elements. in a translation of plato what may be termed the interests of the greek and english are often at war with one another. in framing the english sentence we are insensibly diverted from the exact meaning of the greek; when we return to the greek we are apt to cramp and overlay the english. we substitute, we compromise, we give and take, we add a little here and leave out a little there. the translator may sometimes be allowed to sacrifice minute accuracy for the sake of clearness and sense. but he is not therefore at liberty to omit words and turns of expression which the english language is quite capable of supplying. he must be patient and self-controlled; he must not be easily run away with. let him never allow the attraction of a favourite expression, or a sonorous cadence, to overpower his better judgment, or think much of an ornament which is out of keeping with the general character of his work. he must ever be casting his eyes upwards from the copy to the original, and down again from the original to the copy (rep.). his calling is not held in much honour by the world of scholars; yet he himself may be excused for thinking it a kind of glory to have lived so many years in the companionship of one of the greatest of human intelligences, and in some degree, more perhaps than others, to have had the privilege of understanding him (sir joshua reynolds' lectures: disc. xv.). there are fundamental differences in greek and english, of which some may be managed while others remain intractable. ( ). the structure of the greek language is partly adversative and alternative, and partly inferential; that is to say, the members of a sentence are either opposed to one another, or one of them expresses the cause or effect or condition or reason of another. the two tendencies may be called the horizontal and perpendicular lines of the language; and the opposition or inference is often much more one of words than of ideas. but modern languages have rubbed off this adversative and inferential form: they have fewer links of connection, there is less mortar in the interstices, and they are content to place sentences side by side, leaving their relation to one another to be gathered from their position or from the context. the difficulty of preserving the effect of the greek is increased by the want of adversative and inferential particles in english, and by the nice sense of tautology which characterizes all modern languages. we cannot have two 'buts' or two 'fors' in the same sentence where the greek repeats (greek). there is a similar want of particles expressing the various gradations of objective and subjective thought--(greek) and the like, which are so thickly scattered over the greek page. further, we can only realize to a very imperfect degree the common distinction between (greek), and the combination of the two suggests a subtle shade of negation which cannot be expressed in english. and while english is more dependent than greek upon the apposition of clauses and sentences, yet there is a difficulty in using this form of construction owing to the want of case endings. for the same reason there cannot be an equal variety in the order of words or an equal nicety of emphasis in english as in greek. ( ) the formation of the sentence and of the paragraph greatly differs in greek and english. the lines by which they are divided are generally much more marked in modern languages than in ancient. both sentences and paragraphs are more precise and definite--they do not run into one another. they are also more regularly developed from within. the sentence marks another step in an argument or a narrative or a statement; in reading a paragraph we silently turn over the page and arrive at some new view or aspect of the subject. whereas in plato we are not always certain where a sentence begins and ends; and paragraphs are few and far between. the language is distributed in a different way, and less articulated than in english. for it was long before the true use of the period was attained by the classical writers both in poetry or prose; it was (greek). the balance of sentences and the introduction of paragraphs at suitable intervals must not be neglected if the harmony of the english language is to be preserved. and still a caution has to be added on the other side, that we must avoid giving it a numerical or mechanical character. ( ) this, however, is not one of the greatest difficulties of the translator; much greater is that which arises from the restriction of the use of the genders. men and women in english are masculine and feminine, and there is a similar distinction of sex in the words denoting animals; but all things else, whether outward objects or abstract ideas, are relegated to the class of neuters. hardly in some flight of poetry do we ever endue any of them with the characteristics of a sentient being, and then only by speaking of them in the feminine gender. the virtues may be pictured in female forms, but they are not so described in language; a ship is humorously supposed to be the sailor's bride; more doubtful are the personifications of church and country as females. now the genius of the greek language is the opposite of this. the same tendency to personification which is seen in the greek mythology is common also in the language; and genders are attributed to things as well as persons according to their various degrees of strength and weakness; or from fanciful resemblances to the male or female form, or some analogy too subtle to be discovered. when the gender of any object was once fixed, a similar gender was naturally assigned to similar objects, or to words of similar formation. this use of genders in the denotation of objects or ideas not only affects the words to which genders are attributed, but the words with which they are construed or connected, and passes into the general character of the style. hence arises a difficulty in translating greek into english which cannot altogether be overcome. shall we speak of the soul and its qualities, of virtue, power, wisdom, and the like, as feminine or neuter? the usage of the english language does not admit of the former, and yet the life and beauty of the style are impaired by the latter. often the translator will have recourse to the repetition of the word, or to the ambiguous 'they,' 'their,' etc.; for fear of spoiling the effect of the sentence by introducing 'it.' collective nouns in greek and english create a similar but lesser awkwardness. ( ) to use of relation is far more extended in greek than in english. partly the greater variety of genders and cases makes the connexion of relative and antecedent less ambiguous: partly also the greater number of demonstrative and relative pronouns, and the use of the article, make the correlation of ideas simpler and more natural. the greek appears to have had an ear or intelligence for a long and complicated sentence which is rarely to be found in modern nations; and in order to bring the greek down to the level of the modern, we must break up the long sentence into two or more short ones. neither is the same precision required in greek as in latin or english, nor in earlier greek as in later; there was nothing shocking to the contemporary of thucydides and plato in anacolutha and repetitions. in such cases the genius of the english language requires that the translation should be more intelligible than the greek. the want of more distinctions between the demonstrative pronouns is also greatly felt. two genitives dependent on one another, unless familiarised by idiom, have an awkward effect in english. frequently the noun has to take the place of the pronoun. 'this' and 'that' are found repeating themselves to weariness in the rough draft of a translation. as in the previous case, while the feeling of the modern language is more opposed to tautology, there is also a greater difficulty in avoiding it. ( ) though no precise rule can be laid down about the repetition of words, there seems to be a kind of impertinence in presenting to the reader the same thought in the same words, repeated twice over in the same passage without any new aspect or modification of it. and the evasion of tautology--that is, the substitution of one word of precisely the same meaning for another--is resented by us equally with the repetition of words. yet on the other hand the least difference of meaning or the least change of form from a substantive to an adjective, or from a participle to a verb, will often remedy the unpleasant effect. rarely and only for the sake of emphasis or clearness can we allow an important word to be used twice over in two successive sentences or even in the same paragraph. the particles and pronouns, as they are of most frequent occurrence, are also the most troublesome. strictly speaking, except a few of the commonest of them, 'and,' 'the,' etc., they ought not to occur twice in the same sentence. but the greek has no such precise rules; and hence any literal translation of a greek author is full of tautology. the tendency of modern languages is to become more correct as well as more perspicuous than ancient. and, therefore, while the english translator is limited in the power of expressing relation or connexion, by the law of his own language increased precision and also increased clearness are required of him. the familiar use of logic, and the progress of science, have in these two respects raised the standard. but modern languages, while they have become more exacting in their demands, are in many ways not so well furnished with powers of expression as the ancient classical ones. such are a few of the difficulties which have to be overcome in the work of translation; and we are far from having exhausted the list. ( ) the excellence of a translation will consist, not merely in the faithful rendering of words, or in the composition of a sentence only, or yet of a single paragraph, but in the colour and style of the whole work. equability of tone is best attained by the exclusive use of familiar and idiomatic words. but great care must be taken; for an idiomatic phrase, if an exception to the general style, is of itself a disturbing element. no word, however expressive and exact, should be employed, which makes the reader stop to think, or unduly attracts attention by difficulty and peculiarity, or disturbs the effect of the surrounding language. in general the style of one author is not appropriate to another; as in society, so in letters, we expect every man to have 'a good coat of his own,' and not to dress himself out in the rags of another. (a) archaic expressions are therefore to be avoided. equivalents may be occasionally drawn from shakspere, who is the common property of us all; but they must be used sparingly. for, like some other men of genius of the elizabethan and jacobean age, he outdid the capabilities of the language, and many of the expressions which he introduced have been laid aside and have dropped out of use. (b) a similar principle should be observed in the employment of scripture. having a greater force and beauty than other language, and a religious association, it disturbs the even flow of the style. it may be used to reproduce in the translation the quaint effect of some antique phrase in the original, but rarely; and when adopted, it should have a certain freshness and a suitable 'entourage.' it is strange to observe that the most effective use of scripture phraseology arises out of the application of it in a sense not intended by the author. (c) another caution: metaphors differ in different languages, and the translator will often be compelled to substitute one for another, or to paraphrase them, not giving word for word, but diffusing over several words the more concentrated thought of the original. the greek of plato often goes beyond the english in its imagery: compare laws, (greek); rep.; etc. or again the modern word, which in substance is the nearest equivalent to the greek, may be found to include associations alien to greek life: e.g. (greek), 'jurymen,' (greek), 'the bourgeoisie.' (d) the translator has also to provide expressions for philosophical terms of very indefinite meaning in the more definite language of modern philosophy. and he must not allow discordant elements to enter into the work. for example, in translating plato, it would equally be an anachronism to intrude on him the feeling and spirit of the jewish or christian scriptures or the technical terms of the hegelian or darwinian philosophy. ( ) as no two words are precise equivalents (just as no two leaves of the forest are exactly similar), it is a mistaken attempt at precision always to translate the same greek word by the same english word. there is no reason why in the new testament (greek) should always be rendered 'righteousness,' or (greek) 'covenant.' in such cases the translator may be allowed to employ two words--sometimes when the two meanings occur in the same passage, varying them by an 'or'--e.g. (greek), 'science' or 'knowledge,' (greek), 'idea' or 'class,' (greek), 'temperance' or 'prudence,'--at the point where the change of meaning occurs. if translations are intended not for the greek scholar but for the general reader, their worst fault will be that they sacrifice the general effect and meaning to the over-precise rendering of words and forms of speech. ( ) there is no kind of literature in english which corresponds to the greek dialogue; nor is the english language easily adapted to it. the rapidity and abruptness of question and answer, the constant repetition of (greek), etc., which cicero avoided in latin (de amicit), the frequent occurrence of expletives, would, if reproduced in a translation, give offence to the reader. greek has a freer and more frequent use of the interrogative, and is of a more passionate and emotional character, and therefore lends itself with greater readiness to the dialogue form. most of the so-called english dialogues are but poor imitations of plato, which fall very far short of the original. the breath of conversation, the subtle adjustment of question and answer, the lively play of fancy, the power of drawing characters, are wanting in them. but the platonic dialogue is a drama as well as a dialogue, of which socrates is the central figure, and there are lesser performers as well:--the insolence of thrasymachus, the anger of callicles and anytus, the patronizing style of protagoras, the self-consciousness of prodicus and hippias, are all part of the entertainment. to reproduce this living image the same sort of effort is required as in translating poetry. the language, too, is of a finer quality; the mere prose english is slow in lending itself to the form of question and answer, and so the ease of conversation is lost, and at the same time the dialectical precision with which the steps of the argument are drawn out is apt to be impaired. ii. in the introductions to the dialogues there have been added some essays on modern philosophy, and on political and social life. the chief subjects discussed in these are utility, communism, the kantian and hegelian philosophies, psychology, and the origin of language. (there have been added also in the third edition remarks on other subjects. a list of the most important of these additions is given at the end of this preface.) ancient and modern philosophy throw a light upon one another: but they should be compared, not confounded. although the connexion between them is sometimes accidental, it is often real. the same questions are discussed by them under different conditions of language and civilization; but in some cases a mere word has survived, while nothing or hardly anything of the pre-socratic, platonic, or aristotelian meaning is retained. there are other questions familiar to the moderns, which have no place in ancient philosophy. the world has grown older in two thousand years, and has enlarged its stock of ideas and methods of reasoning. yet the germ of modern thought is found in ancient, and we may claim to have inherited, notwithstanding many accidents of time and place, the spirit of greek philosophy. there is, however, no continuous growth of the one into the other, but a new beginning, partly artificial, partly arising out of the questionings of the mind itself, and also receiving a stimulus from the study of ancient writings. considering the great and fundamental differences which exist in ancient and modern philosophy, it seems best that we should at first study them separately, and seek for the interpretation of either, especially of the ancient, from itself only, comparing the same author with himself and with his contemporaries, and with the general state of thought and feeling prevalent in his age. afterwards comes the remoter light which they cast on one another. we begin to feel that the ancients had the same thoughts as ourselves, the same difficulties which characterize all periods of transition, almost the same opposition between science and religion. although we cannot maintain that ancient and modern philosophy are one and continuous (as has been affirmed with more truth respecting ancient and modern history), for they are separated by an interval of a thousand years, yet they seem to recur in a sort of cycle, and we are surprised to find that the new is ever old, and that the teaching of the past has still a meaning for us. iii. in the preface to the first edition i expressed a strong opinion at variance with mr. grote's, that the so-called epistles of plato were spurious. his friend and editor, professor bain, thinks that i ought to give the reasons why i differ from so eminent an authority. reserving the fuller discussion of the question for another place, i will shortly defend my opinion by the following arguments:-- (a) because almost all epistles purporting to be of the classical age of greek literature are forgeries. (compare bentley's works (dyce's edition).) of all documents this class are the least likely to be preserved and the most likely to be invented. the ancient world swarmed with them; the great libraries stimulated the demand for them; and at a time when there was no regular publication of books, they easily crept into the world. (b) when one epistle out of a number is spurious, the remainder of the series cannot be admitted to be genuine, unless there be some independent ground for thinking them so: when all but one are spurious, overwhelming evidence is required of the genuineness of the one: when they are all similar in style or motive, like witnesses who agree in the same tale, they stand or fall together. but no one, not even mr. grote, would maintain that all the epistles of plato are genuine, and very few critics think that more than one of them is so. and they are clearly all written from the same motive, whether serious or only literary. nor is there an example in greek antiquity of a series of epistles, continuous and yet coinciding with a succession of events extending over a great number of years. the external probability therefore against them is enormous, and the internal probability is not less: for they are trivial and unmeaning, devoid of delicacy and subtlety, wanting in a single fine expression. and even if this be matter of dispute, there can be no dispute that there are found in them many plagiarisms, inappropriately borrowed, which is a common note of forgery. they imitate plato, who never imitates either himself or any one else; reminiscences of the republic and the laws are continually recurring in them; they are too like him and also too unlike him, to be genuine (see especially karsten, commentio critica de platonis quae feruntur epistolis). they are full of egotism, self-assertion, affectation, faults which of all writers plato was most careful to avoid, and into which he was least likely to fall. they abound in obscurities, irrelevancies, solecisms, pleonasms, inconsistencies, awkwardnesses of construction, wrong uses of words. they also contain historical blunders, such as the statement respecting hipparinus and nysaeus, the nephews of dion, who are said to 'have been well inclined to philosophy, and well able to dispose the mind of their brother dionysius in the same course,' at a time when they could not have been more than six or seven years of age--also foolish allusions, such as the comparison of the athenian empire to the empire of darius, which show a spirit very different from that of plato; and mistakes of fact, as e.g. about the thirty tyrants, whom the writer of the letters seems to have confused with certain inferior magistrates, making them in all fifty-one. these palpable errors and absurdities are absolutely irreconcilable with their genuineness. and as they appear to have a common parentage, the more they are studied, the more they will be found to furnish evidence against themselves. the seventh, which is thought to be the most important of these epistles, has affinities with the third and the eighth, and is quite as impossible and inconsistent as the rest. it is therefore involved in the same condemnation.--the final conclusion is that neither the seventh nor any other of them, when carefully analyzed, can be imagined to have proceeded from the hand or mind of plato. the other testimonies to the voyages of plato to sicily and the court of dionysius are all of them later by several centuries than the events to which they refer. no extant writer mentions them older than cicero and cornelius nepos. it does not seem impossible that so attractive a theme as the meeting of a philosopher and a tyrant, once imagined by the genius of a sophist, may have passed into a romance which became famous in hellas and the world. it may have created one of the mists of history, like the trojan war or the legend of arthur, which we are unable to penetrate. in the age of cicero, and still more in that of diogenes laertius and appuleius, many other legends had gathered around the personality of plato,--more voyages, more journeys to visit tyrants and pythagorean philosophers. but if, as we agree with karsten in supposing, they are the forgery of some rhetorician or sophist, we cannot agree with him in also supposing that they are of any historical value, the rather as there is no early independent testimony by which they are supported or with which they can be compared. iv. there is another subject to which i must briefly call attention, lest i should seem to have overlooked it. dr. henry jackson, of trinity college, cambridge, in a series of articles which he has contributed to the journal of philology, has put forward an entirely new explanation of the platonic 'ideas.' he supposes that in the mind of plato they took, at different times in his life, two essentially different forms:--an earlier one which is found chiefly in the republic and the phaedo, and a later, which appears in the theaetetus, philebus, sophist, politicus, parmenides, timaeus. in the first stage of his philosophy plato attributed ideas to all things, at any rate to all things which have classes or common notions: these he supposed to exist only by participation in them. in the later dialogues he no longer included in them manufactured articles and ideas of relation, but restricted them to 'types of nature,' and having become convinced that the many cannot be parts of the one, for the idea of participation in them he substituted imitation of them. to quote dr. jackson's own expressions,--'whereas in the period of the republic and the phaedo, it was proposed to pass through ontology to the sciences, in the period of the parmenides and the philebus, it is proposed to pass through the sciences to ontology': or, as he repeats in nearly the same words,--'whereas in the republic and in the phaedo he had dreamt of passing through ontology to the sciences, he is now content to pass through the sciences to ontology.' this theory is supposed to be based on aristotle's metaphysics, a passage containing an account of the ideas, which hitherto scholars have found impossible to reconcile with the statements of plato himself. the preparations for the new departure are discovered in the parmenides and in the theaetetus; and it is said to be expressed under a different form by the (greek) and the (greek) of the philebus. the (greek) of the philebus is the principle which gives form and measure to the (greek); and in the 'later theory' is held to be the (greek) or (greek) which converts the infinite or indefinite into ideas. they are neither (greek) nor (greek), but belong to the (greek) which partakes of both. with great respect for the learning and ability of dr. jackson, i find myself unable to agree in this newly fashioned doctrine of the ideas, which he ascribes to plato. i have not the space to go into the question fully; but i will briefly state some objections which are, i think, fatal to it. ( ) first, the foundation of his argument is laid in the metaphysics of aristotle. but we cannot argue, either from the metaphysics, or from any other of the philosophical treatises of aristotle, to the dialogues of plato until we have ascertained the relation in which his so-called works stand to the philosopher himself. there is of course no doubt of the great influence exercised upon greece and upon the world by aristotle and his philosophy. but on the other hand almost every one who is capable of understanding the subject acknowledges that his writings have not come down to us in an authentic form like most of the dialogues of plato. how much of them is to be ascribed to aristotle's own hand, how much is due to his successors in the peripatetic school, is a question which has never been determined, and probably never can be, because the solution of it depends upon internal evidence only. to 'the height of this great argument' i do not propose to ascend. but one little fact, not irrelevant to the present discussion, will show how hopeless is the attempt to explain plato out of the writings of aristotle. in the chapter of the metaphysics quoted by dr. jackson, about two octavo pages in length, there occur no less than seven or eight references to plato, although nothing really corresponding to them can be found in his extant writings:--a small matter truly; but what a light does it throw on the character of the entire book in which they occur! we can hardly escape from the conclusion that they are not statements of aristotle respecting plato, but of a later generation of aristotelians respecting a later generation of platonists. (compare the striking remark of the great scaliger respecting the magna moralia:--haec non sunt aristotelis, tamen utitur auctor aristotelis nomine tanquam suo.) ( ) there is no hint in plato's own writings that he was conscious of having made any change in the doctrine of ideas such as dr. jackson attributes to him, although in the republic the platonic socrates speaks of 'a longer and a shorter way', and of a way in which his disciple glaucon 'will be unable to follow him'; also of a way of ideas, to which he still holds fast, although it has often deserted him (philebus, phaedo), and although in the later dialogues and in the laws the reference to ideas disappears, and mind claims her own (phil.; laws). no hint is given of what plato meant by the 'longer way' (rep.), or 'the way in which glaucon was unable to follow'; or of the relation of mind to the ideas. it might be said with truth that the conception of the idea predominates in the first half of the dialogues, which, according to the order adopted in this work, ends with the republic, the 'conception of mind' and a way of speaking more in agreement with modern terminology, in the latter half. but there is no reason to suppose that plato's theory, or, rather, his various theories, of the ideas underwent any definite change during his period of authorship. they are substantially the same in the twelfth book of the laws as in the meno and phaedo; and since the laws were written in the last decade of his life, there is no time to which this change of opinions can be ascribed. it is true that the theory of ideas takes several different forms, not merely an earlier and a later one, in the various dialogues. they are personal and impersonal, ideals and ideas, existing by participation or by imitation, one and many, in different parts of his writings or even in the same passage. they are the universal definitions of socrates, and at the same time 'of more than mortal knowledge' (rep.). but they are always the negations of sense, of matter, of generation, of the particular: they are always the subjects of knowledge and not of opinion; and they tend, not to diversity, but to unity. other entities or intelligences are akin to them, but not the same with them, such as mind, measure, limit, eternity, essence (philebus; timaeus): these and similar terms appear to express the same truths from a different point of view, and to belong to the same sphere with them. but we are not justified, therefore, in attempting to identify them, any more than in wholly opposing them. the great oppositions of the sensible and intellectual, the unchangeable and the transient, in whatever form of words expressed, are always maintained in plato. but the lesser logical distinctions, as we should call them, whether of ontology or predication, which troubled the pre-socratic philosophy and came to the front in aristotle, are variously discussed and explained. thus far we admit inconsistency in plato, but no further. he lived in an age before logic and system had wholly permeated language, and therefore we must not always expect to find in him systematic arrangement or logical precision:--'poema magis putandum.' but he is always true to his own context, the careful study of which is of more value to the interpreter than all the commentators and scholiasts put together. ( ) the conclusions at which dr. jackson has arrived are such as might be expected to follow from his method of procedure. for he takes words without regard to their connection, and pieces together different parts of dialogues in a purely arbitrary manner, although there is no indication that the author intended the two passages to be so combined, or that when he appears to be experimenting on the different points of view from which a subject of philosophy may be regarded, he is secretly elaborating a system. by such a use of language any premises may be made to lead to any conclusion. i am not one of those who believe plato to have been a mystic or to have had hidden meanings; nor do i agree with dr. jackson in thinking that 'when he is precise and dogmatic, he generally contrives to introduce an element of obscurity into the expostion' (j. of philol.). the great master of language wrote as clearly as he could in an age when the minds of men were clouded by controversy, and philosophical terms had not yet acquired a fixed meaning. i have just said that plato is to be interpreted by his context; and i do not deny that in some passages, especially in the republic and laws, the context is at a greater distance than would be allowable in a modern writer. but we are not therefore justified in connecting passages from different parts of his writings, or even from the same work, which he has not himself joined. we cannot argue from the parmenides to the philebus, or from either to the sophist, or assume that the parmenides, the philebus, and the timaeus were 'written simultaneously,' or 'were intended to be studied in the order in which they are here named (j. of philol.) we have no right to connect statements which are only accidentally similar. nor is it safe for the author of a theory about ancient philosophy to argue from what will happen if his statements are rejected. for those consequences may never have entered into the mind of the ancient writer himself; and they are very likely to be modern consequences which would not have been understood by him. 'i cannot think,' says dr. jackson, 'that plato would have changed his opinions, but have nowhere explained the nature of the change.' but is it not much more improbable that he should have changed his opinions, and not stated in an unmistakable manner that the most essential principle of his philosophy had been reversed? it is true that a few of the dialogues, such as the republic and the timaeus, or the theaetetus and the sophist, or the meno and the apology, contain allusions to one another. but these allusions are superficial and, except in the case of the republic and the laws, have no philosophical importance. they do not affect the substance of the work. it may be remarked further that several of the dialogues, such as the phaedrus, the sophist, and the parmenides, have more than one subject. but it does not therefore follow that plato intended one dialogue to succeed another, or that he begins anew in one dialogue a subject which he has left unfinished in another, or that even in the same dialogue he always intended the two parts to be connected with each other. we cannot argue from a casual statement found in the parmenides to other statements which occur in the philebus. much more truly is his own manner described by himself when he says that 'words are more plastic than wax' (rep.), and 'whither the wind blows, the argument follows'. the dialogues of plato are like poems, isolated and separate works, except where they are indicated by the author himself to have an intentional sequence. it is this method of taking passages out of their context and placing them in a new connexion when they seem to confirm a preconceived theory, which is the defect of dr. jackson's procedure. it may be compared, though not wholly the same with it, to that method which the fathers practised, sometimes called 'the mystical interpretation of scripture,' in which isolated words are separated from their context, and receive any sense which the fancy of the interpreter may suggest. it is akin to the method employed by schleiermacher of arranging the dialogues of plato in chronological order according to what he deems the true arrangement of the ideas contained in them. (dr. jackson is also inclined, having constructed a theory, to make the chronology of plato's writings dependent upon it (see j. of philol. and elsewhere.) it may likewise be illustrated by the ingenuity of those who employ symbols to find in shakespeare a hidden meaning. in the three cases the error is nearly the same:--words are taken out of their natural context, and thus become destitute of any real meaning. ( ) according to dr. jackson's 'later theory,' plato's ideas, which were once regarded as the summa genera of all things, are now to be explained as forms or types of some things only,--that is to say, of natural objects: these we conceive imperfectly, but are always seeking in vain to have a more perfect notion of them. he says (j. of philol.) that 'plato hoped by the study of a series of hypothetical or provisional classifications to arrive at one in which nature's distribution of kinds is approximately represented, and so to attain approximately to the knowledge of the ideas. but whereas in the republic, and even in the phaedo, though less hopefully, he had sought to convert his provisional definitions into final ones by tracing their connexion with the summum genus, the (greek), in the parmenides his aspirations are less ambitious,' and so on. but where does dr. jackson find any such notion as this in plato or anywhere in ancient philosophy? is it not an anachronism, gracious to the modern physical philosopher, and the more acceptable because it seems to form a link between ancient and modern philosophy, and between physical and metaphysical science; but really unmeaning? ( ) to this 'later theory' of plato's ideas i oppose the authority of professor zeller, who affirms that none of the passages to which dr. jackson appeals (theaet.; phil.; tim.; parm.) 'in the smallest degree prove his point'; and that in the second class of dialogues, in which the 'later theory of ideas' is supposed to be found, quite as clearly as in the first, are admitted ideas, not only of natural objects, but of properties, relations, works of art, negative notions (theaet.; parm.; soph.); and that what dr. jackson distinguishes as the first class of dialogues from the second equally assert or imply that the relation of things to the ideas, is one of participation in them as well as of imitation of them (prof. zeller's summary of his own review of dr. jackson, archiv fur geschichte der philosophie.) in conclusion i may remark that in plato's writings there is both unity, and also growth and development; but that we must not intrude upon him either a system or a technical language. balliol college, october, . note the chief additions to the introductions in the third edition consist of essays on the following subjects:-- . language. . the decline of greek literature. . the 'ideas' of plato and modern philosophy. . the myths of plato. . the relation of the republic, statesman and laws. . the legend of atlantis. . psychology. . comparison of the laws of plato with spartan and athenian laws and institutions. charmides. introduction. the subject of the charmides is temperance or (greek), a peculiarly greek notion, which may also be rendered moderation (compare cic. tusc. '(greek), quam soleo equidem tum temperantiam, tum moderationem appellare, nonnunquam etiam modestiam.'), modesty, discretion, wisdom, without completely exhausting by all these terms the various associations of the word. it may be described as 'mens sana in corpore sano,' the harmony or due proportion of the higher and lower elements of human nature which 'makes a man his own master,' according to the definition of the republic. in the accompanying translation the word has been rendered in different places either temperance or wisdom, as the connection seemed to require: for in the philosophy of plato (greek) still retains an intellectual element (as socrates is also said to have identified (greek) with (greek): xen. mem.) and is not yet relegated to the sphere of moral virtue, as in the nicomachean ethics of aristotle. the beautiful youth, charmides, who is also the most temperate of human beings, is asked by socrates, 'what is temperance?' he answers characteristically, ( ) 'quietness.' 'but temperance is a fine and noble thing; and quietness in many or most cases is not so fine a thing as quickness.' he tries again and says ( ) that temperance is modesty. but this again is set aside by a sophistical application of homer: for temperance is good as well as noble, and homer has declared that 'modesty is not good for a needy man.' ( ) once more charmides makes the attempt. this time he gives a definition which he has heard, and of which socrates conjectures that critias must be the author: 'temperance is doing one's own business.' but the artisan who makes another man's shoes may be temperate, and yet he is not doing his own business; and temperance defined thus would be opposed to the division of labour which exists in every temperate or well-ordered state. how is this riddle to be explained? critias, who takes the place of charmides, distinguishes in his answer between 'making' and 'doing,' and with the help of a misapplied quotation from hesiod assigns to the words 'doing' and 'work' an exclusively good sense: temperance is doing one's own business;--( ) is doing good. still an element of knowledge is wanting which critias is readily induced to admit at the suggestion of socrates; and, in the spirit of socrates and of greek life generally, proposes as a fifth definition, ( ) temperance is self-knowledge. but all sciences have a subject: number is the subject of arithmetic, health of medicine--what is the subject of temperance or wisdom? the answer is that ( ) temperance is the knowledge of what a man knows and of what he does not know. but this is contrary to analogy; there is no vision of vision, but only of visible things; no love of loves, but only of beautiful things; how then can there be a knowledge of knowledge? that which is older, heavier, lighter, is older, heavier, and lighter than something else, not than itself, and this seems to be true of all relative notions--the object of relation is outside of them; at any rate they can only have relation to themselves in the form of that object. whether there are any such cases of reflex relation or not, and whether that sort of knowledge which we term temperance is of this reflex nature, has yet to be determined by the great metaphysician. but even if knowledge can know itself, how does the knowledge of what we know imply the knowledge of what we do not know? besides, knowledge is an abstraction only, and will not inform us of any particular subject, such as medicine, building, and the like. it may tell us that we or other men know something, but can never tell us what we know. admitting that there is a knowledge of what we know and of what we do not know, which would supply a rule and measure of all things, still there would be no good in this; and the knowledge which temperance gives must be of a kind which will do us good; for temperance is a good. but this universal knowledge does not tend to our happiness and good: the only kind of knowledge which brings happiness is the knowledge of good and evil. to this critias replies that the science or knowledge of good and evil, and all the other sciences, are regulated by the higher science or knowledge of knowledge. socrates replies by again dividing the abstract from the concrete, and asks how this knowledge conduces to happiness in the same definite way in which medicine conduces to health. and now, after making all these concessions, which are really inadmissible, we are still as far as ever from ascertaining the nature of temperance, which charmides has already discovered, and had therefore better rest in the knowledge that the more temperate he is the happier he will be, and not trouble himself with the speculations of socrates. in this dialogue may be noted ( ) the greek ideal of beauty and goodness, the vision of the fair soul in the fair body, realised in the beautiful charmides; ( ) the true conception of medicine as a science of the whole as well as the parts, and of the mind as well as the body, which is playfully intimated in the story of the thracian; ( ) the tendency of the age to verbal distinctions, which here, as in the protagoras and cratylus, are ascribed to the ingenuity of prodicus; and to interpretations or rather parodies of homer or hesiod, which are eminently characteristic of plato and his contemporaries; ( ) the germ of an ethical principle contained in the notion that temperance is 'doing one's own business,' which in the republic (such is the shifting character of the platonic philosophy) is given as the definition, not of temperance, but of justice; ( ) the impatience which is exhibited by socrates of any definition of temperance in which an element of science or knowledge is not included; ( ) the beginning of metaphysics and logic implied in the two questions: whether there can be a science of science, and whether the knowledge of what you know is the same as the knowledge of what you do not know; and also in the distinction between 'what you know' and 'that you know,' (greek;) here too is the first conception of an absolute self-determined science (the claims of which, however, are disputed by socrates, who asks cui bono?) as well as the first suggestion of the difficulty of the abstract and concrete, and one of the earliest anticipations of the relation of subject and object, and of the subjective element in knowledge--a 'rich banquet' of metaphysical questions in which we 'taste of many things.' ( ) and still the mind of plato, having snatched for a moment at these shadows of the future, quickly rejects them: thus early has he reached the conclusion that there can be no science which is a 'science of nothing' (parmen.). ( ) the conception of a science of good and evil also first occurs here, an anticipation of the philebus and republic as well as of moral philosophy in later ages. the dramatic interest of the dialogue chiefly centres in the youth charmides, with whom socrates talks in the kindly spirit of an elder. his childlike simplicity and ingenuousness are contrasted with the dialectical and rhetorical arts of critias, who is the grown-up man of the world, having a tincture of philosophy. no hint is given, either here or in the timaeus, of the infamy which attaches to the name of the latter in athenian history. he is simply a cultivated person who, like his kinsman plato, is ennobled by the connection of his family with solon (tim.), and had been the follower, if not the disciple, both of socrates and of the sophists. in the argument he is not unfair, if allowance is made for a slight rhetorical tendency, and for a natural desire to save his reputation with the company; he is sometimes nearer the truth than socrates. nothing in his language or behaviour is unbecoming the guardian of the beautiful charmides. his love of reputation is characteristically greek, and contrasts with the humility of socrates. nor in charmides himself do we find any resemblance to the charmides of history, except, perhaps, the modest and retiring nature which, according to xenophon, at one time of his life prevented him from speaking in the assembly (mem.); and we are surprised to hear that, like critias, he afterwards became one of the thirty tyrants. in the dialogue he is a pattern of virtue, and is therefore in no need of the charm which socrates is unable to apply. with youthful naivete, keeping his secret and entering into the spirit of socrates, he enjoys the detection of his elder and guardian critias, who is easily seen to be the author of the definition which he has so great an interest in maintaining. the preceding definition, 'temperance is doing one's own business,' is assumed to have been borrowed by charmides from another; and when the enquiry becomes more abstract he is superseded by critias (theaet.; euthyd.). socrates preserves his accustomed irony to the end; he is in the neighbourhood of several great truths, which he views in various lights, but always either by bringing them to the test of common sense, or by demanding too great exactness in the use of words, turns aside from them and comes at last to no conclusion. the definitions of temperance proceed in regular order from the popular to the philosophical. the first two are simple enough and partially true, like the first thoughts of an intelligent youth; the third, which is a real contribution to ethical philosophy, is perverted by the ingenuity of socrates, and hardly rescued by an equal perversion on the part of critias. the remaining definitions have a higher aim, which is to introduce the element of knowledge, and at last to unite good and truth in a single science. but the time has not yet arrived for the realization of this vision of metaphysical philosophy; and such a science when brought nearer to us in the philebus and the republic will not be called by the name of (greek). hence we see with surprise that plato, who in his other writings identifies good and knowledge, here opposes them, and asks, almost in the spirit of aristotle, how can there be a knowledge of knowledge, and even if attainable, how can such a knowledge be of any use? the difficulty of the charmides arises chiefly from the two senses of the word (greek), or temperance. from the ethical notion of temperance, which is variously defined to be quietness, modesty, doing our own business, the doing of good actions, the dialogue passes onto the intellectual conception of (greek), which is declared also to be the science of self-knowledge, or of the knowledge of what we know and do not know, or of the knowledge of good and evil. the dialogue represents a stage in the history of philosophy in which knowledge and action were not yet distinguished. hence the confusion between them, and the easy transition from one to the other. the definitions which are offered are all rejected, but it is to be observed that they all tend to throw a light on the nature of temperance, and that, unlike the distinction of critias between (greek), none of them are merely verbal quibbles, it is implied that this question, although it has not yet received a solution in theory, has been already answered by charmides himself, who has learned to practise the virtue of self-knowledge which philosophers are vainly trying to define in words. in a similar spirit we might say to a young man who is disturbed by theological difficulties, 'do not trouble yourself about such matters, but only lead a good life;' and yet in either case it is not to be denied that right ideas of truth may contribute greatly to the improvement of character. the reasons why the charmides, lysis, laches have been placed together and first in the series of platonic dialogues, are: (i) their shortness and simplicity. the charmides and the lysis, if not the laches, are of the same 'quality' as the phaedrus and symposium: and it is probable, though far from certain, that the slighter effort preceded the greater one. (ii) their eristic, or rather socratic character; they belong to the class called dialogues of search (greek), which have no conclusion. (iii) the absence in them of certain favourite notions of plato, such as the doctrine of recollection and of the platonic ideas; the questions, whether virtue can be taught; whether the virtues are one or many. (iv) they have a want of depth, when compared with the dialogues of the middle and later period; and a youthful beauty and grace which is wanting in the later ones. (v) their resemblance to one another; in all the three boyhood has a great part. these reasons have various degrees of weight in determining their place in the catalogue of the platonic writings, though they are not conclusive. no arrangement of the platonic dialogues can be strictly chronological. the order which has been adopted is intended mainly for the convenience of the reader; at the same time, indications of the date supplied either by plato himself or allusions found in the dialogues have not been lost sight of. much may be said about this subject, but the results can only be probable; there are no materials which would enable us to attain to anything like certainty. the relations of knowledge and virtue are again brought forward in the companion dialogues of the lysis and laches; and also in the protagoras and euthydemus. the opposition of abstract and particular knowledge in this dialogue may be compared with a similar opposition of ideas and phenomena which occurs in the prologues to the parmenides, but seems rather to belong to a later stage of the philosophy of plato. charmides, or temperance persons of the dialogue: socrates, who is the narrator, charmides, chaerephon, critias. scene: the palaestra of taureas, which is near the porch of the king archon. yesterday evening i returned from the army at potidaea, and having been a good while away, i thought that i should like to go and look at my old haunts. so i went into the palaestra of taureas, which is over against the temple adjoining the porch of the king archon, and there i found a number of persons, most of whom i knew, but not all. my visit was unexpected, and no sooner did they see me entering than they saluted me from afar on all sides; and chaerephon, who is a kind of madman, started up and ran to me, seizing my hand, and saying, how did you escape, socrates?--(i should explain that an engagement had taken place at potidaea not long before we came away, of which the news had only just reached athens.) you see, i replied, that here i am. there was a report, he said, that the engagement was very severe, and that many of our acquaintance had fallen. that, i replied, was not far from the truth. i suppose, he said, that you were present. i was. then sit down, and tell us the whole story, which as yet we have only heard imperfectly. i took the place which he assigned to me, by the side of critias the son of callaeschrus, and when i had saluted him and the rest of the company, i told them the news from the army, and answered their several enquiries. then, when there had been enough of this, i, in my turn, began to make enquiries about matters at home--about the present state of philosophy, and about the youth. i asked whether any of them were remarkable for wisdom or beauty, or both. critias, glancing at the door, invited my attention to some youths who were coming in, and talking noisily to one another, followed by a crowd. of the beauties, socrates, he said, i fancy that you will soon be able to form a judgment. for those who are just entering are the advanced guard of the great beauty, as he is thought to be, of the day, and he is likely to be not far off himself. who is he, i said; and who is his father? charmides, he replied, is his name; he is my cousin, and the son of my uncle glaucon: i rather think that you know him too, although he was not grown up at the time of your departure. certainly, i know him, i said, for he was remarkable even then when he was still a child, and i should imagine that by this time he must be almost a young man. you will see, he said, in a moment what progress he has made and what he is like. he had scarcely said the word, when charmides entered. now you know, my friend, that i cannot measure anything, and of the beautiful, i am simply such a measure as a white line is of chalk; for almost all young persons appear to be beautiful in my eyes. but at that moment, when i saw him coming in, i confess that i was quite astonished at his beauty and stature; all the world seemed to be enamoured of him; amazement and confusion reigned when he entered; and a troop of lovers followed him. that grown-up men like ourselves should have been affected in this way was not surprising, but i observed that there was the same feeling among the boys; all of them, down to the very least child, turned and looked at him, as if he had been a statue. chaerephon called me and said: what do you think of him, socrates? has he not a beautiful face? most beautiful, i said. but you would think nothing of his face, he replied, if you could see his naked form: he is absolutely perfect. and to this they all agreed. by heracles, i said, there never was such a paragon, if he has only one other slight addition. what is that? said critias. if he has a noble soul; and being of your house, critias, he may be expected to have this. he is as fair and good within, as he is without, replied critias. then, before we see his body, should we not ask him to show us his soul, naked and undisguised? he is just of an age at which he will like to talk. that he will, said critias, and i can tell you that he is a philosopher already, and also a considerable poet, not in his own opinion only, but in that of others. that, my dear critias, i replied, is a distinction which has long been in your family, and is inherited by you from solon. but why do you not call him, and show him to us? for even if he were younger than he is, there could be no impropriety in his talking to us in the presence of you, who are his guardian and cousin. very well, he said; then i will call him; and turning to the attendant, he said, call charmides, and tell him that i want him to come and see a physician about the illness of which he spoke to me the day before yesterday. then again addressing me, he added: he has been complaining lately of having a headache when he rises in the morning: now why should you not make him believe that you know a cure for the headache? why not, i said; but will he come? he will be sure to come, he replied. he came as he was bidden, and sat down between critias and me. great amusement was occasioned by every one pushing with might and main at his neighbour in order to make a place for him next to themselves, until at the two ends of the row one had to get up and the other was rolled over sideways. now i, my friend, was beginning to feel awkward; my former bold belief in my powers of conversing with him had vanished. and when critias told him that i was the person who had the cure, he looked at me in such an indescribable manner, and was just going to ask a question. and at that moment all the people in the palaestra crowded about us, and, o rare! i caught a sight of the inwards of his garment, and took the flame. then i could no longer contain myself. i thought how well cydias understood the nature of love, when, in speaking of a fair youth, he warns some one 'not to bring the fawn in the sight of the lion to be devoured by him,' for i felt that i had been overcome by a sort of wild-beast appetite. but i controlled myself, and when he asked me if i knew the cure of the headache, i answered, but with an effort, that i did know. and what is it? he said. i replied that it was a kind of leaf, which required to be accompanied by a charm, and if a person would repeat the charm at the same time that he used the cure, he would be made whole; but that without the charm the leaf would be of no avail. then i will write out the charm from your dictation, he said. with my consent? i said, or without my consent? with your consent, socrates, he said, laughing. very good, i said; and are you quite sure that you know my name? i ought to know you, he replied, for there is a great deal said about you among my companions; and i remember when i was a child seeing you in company with my cousin critias. i am glad to find that you remember me, i said; for i shall now be more at home with you and shall be better able to explain the nature of the charm, about which i felt a difficulty before. for the charm will do more, charmides, than only cure the headache. i dare say that you have heard eminent physicians say to a patient who comes to them with bad eyes, that they cannot cure his eyes by themselves, but that if his eyes are to be cured, his head must be treated; and then again they say that to think of curing the head alone, and not the rest of the body also, is the height of folly. and arguing in this way they apply their methods to the whole body, and try to treat and heal the whole and the part together. did you ever observe that this is what they say? yes, he said. and they are right, and you would agree with them? yes, he said, certainly i should. his approving answers reassured me, and i began by degrees to regain confidence, and the vital heat returned. such, charmides, i said, is the nature of the charm, which i learned when serving with the army from one of the physicians of the thracian king zamolxis, who are said to be so skilful that they can even give immortality. this thracian told me that in these notions of theirs, which i was just now mentioning, the greek physicians are quite right as far as they go; but zamolxis, he added, our king, who is also a god, says further, 'that as you ought not to attempt to cure the eyes without the head, or the head without the body, so neither ought you to attempt to cure the body without the soul; and this,' he said, 'is the reason why the cure of many diseases is unknown to the physicians of hellas, because they are ignorant of the whole, which ought to be studied also; for the part can never be well unless the whole is well.' for all good and evil, whether in the body or in human nature, originates, as he declared, in the soul, and overflows from thence, as if from the head into the eyes. and therefore if the head and body are to be well, you must begin by curing the soul; that is the first thing. and the cure, my dear youth, has to be effected by the use of certain charms, and these charms are fair words; and by them temperance is implanted in the soul, and where temperance is, there health is speedily imparted, not only to the head, but to the whole body. and he who taught me the cure and the charm at the same time added a special direction: 'let no one,' he said, 'persuade you to cure the head, until he has first given you his soul to be cured by the charm. for this,' he said, 'is the great error of our day in the treatment of the human body, that physicians separate the soul from the body.' and he added with emphasis, at the same time making me swear to his words, 'let no one, however rich, or noble, or fair, persuade you to give him the cure, without the charm.' now i have sworn, and i must keep my oath, and therefore if you will allow me to apply the thracian charm first to your soul, as the stranger directed, i will afterwards proceed to apply the cure to your head. but if not, i do not know what i am to do with you, my dear charmides. critias, when he heard this, said: the headache will be an unexpected gain to my young relation, if the pain in his head compels him to improve his mind: and i can tell you, socrates, that charmides is not only pre-eminent in beauty among his equals, but also in that quality which is given by the charm; and this, as you say, is temperance? yes, i said. then let me tell you that he is the most temperate of human beings, and for his age inferior to none in any quality. yes, i said, charmides; and indeed i think that you ought to excel others in all good qualities; for if i am not mistaken there is no one present who could easily point out two athenian houses, whose union would be likely to produce a better or nobler scion than the two from which you are sprung. there is your father's house, which is descended from critias the son of dropidas, whose family has been commemorated in the panegyrical verses of anacreon, solon, and many other poets, as famous for beauty and virtue and all other high fortune: and your mother's house is equally distinguished; for your maternal uncle, pyrilampes, is reputed never to have found his equal, in persia at the court of the great king, or on the continent of asia, in all the places to which he went as ambassador, for stature and beauty; that whole family is not a whit inferior to the other. having such ancestors you ought to be first in all things, and, sweet son of glaucon, your outward form is no dishonour to any of them. if to beauty you add temperance, and if in other respects you are what critias declares you to be, then, dear charmides, blessed art thou, in being the son of thy mother. and here lies the point; for if, as he declares, you have this gift of temperance already, and are temperate enough, in that case you have no need of any charms, whether of zamolxis or of abaris the hyperborean, and i may as well let you have the cure of the head at once; but if you have not yet acquired this quality, i must use the charm before i give you the medicine. please, therefore, to inform me whether you admit the truth of what critias has been saying;--have you or have you not this quality of temperance? charmides blushed, and the blush heightened his beauty, for modesty is becoming in youth; he then said very ingenuously, that he really could not at once answer, either yes, or no, to the question which i had asked: for, said he, if i affirm that i am not temperate, that would be a strange thing for me to say of myself, and also i should give the lie to critias, and many others who think as he tells you, that i am temperate: but, on the other hand, if i say that i am, i shall have to praise myself, which would be ill manners; and therefore i do not know how to answer you. i said to him: that is a natural reply, charmides, and i think that you and i ought together to enquire whether you have this quality about which i am asking or not; and then you will not be compelled to say what you do not like; neither shall i be a rash practitioner of medicine: therefore, if you please, i will share the enquiry with you, but i will not press you if you would rather not. there is nothing which i should like better, he said; and as far as i am concerned you may proceed in the way which you think best. i think, i said, that i had better begin by asking you a question; for if temperance abides in you, you must have an opinion about her; she must give some intimation of her nature and qualities, which may enable you to form a notion of her. is not that true? yes, he said, that i think is true. you know your native language, i said, and therefore you must be able to tell what you feel about this. certainly, he said. in order, then, that i may form a conjecture whether you have temperance abiding in you or not, tell me, i said, what, in your opinion, is temperance? at first he hesitated, and was very unwilling to answer: then he said that he thought temperance was doing things orderly and quietly, such things for example as walking in the streets, and talking, or anything else of that nature. in a word, he said, i should answer that, in my opinion, temperance is quietness. are you right, charmides? i said. no doubt some would affirm that the quiet are the temperate; but let us see whether these words have any meaning; and first tell me whether you would not acknowledge temperance to be of the class of the noble and good? yes. but which is best when you are at the writing-master's, to write the same letters quickly or quietly? quickly. and to read quickly or slowly? quickly again. and in playing the lyre, or wrestling, quickness or sharpness are far better than quietness and slowness? yes. and the same holds in boxing and in the pancratium? certainly. and in leaping and running and in bodily exercises generally, quickness and agility are good; slowness, and inactivity, and quietness, are bad? that is evident. then, i said, in all bodily actions, not quietness, but the greatest agility and quickness, is noblest and best? yes, certainly. and is temperance a good? yes. then, in reference to the body, not quietness, but quickness will be the higher degree of temperance, if temperance is a good? true, he said. and which, i said, is better--facility in learning, or difficulty in learning? facility. yes, i said; and facility in learning is learning quickly, and difficulty in learning is learning quietly and slowly? true. and is it not better to teach another quickly and energetically, rather than quietly and slowly? yes. and which is better, to call to mind, and to remember, quickly and readily, or quietly and slowly? the former. and is not shrewdness a quickness or cleverness of the soul, and not a quietness? true. and is it not best to understand what is said, whether at the writing-master's or the music-master's, or anywhere else, not as quietly as possible, but as quickly as possible? yes. and in the searchings or deliberations of the soul, not the quietest, as i imagine, and he who with difficulty deliberates and discovers, is thought worthy of praise, but he who does so most easily and quickly? quite true, he said. and in all that concerns either body or soul, swiftness and activity are clearly better than slowness and quietness? clearly they are. then temperance is not quietness, nor is the temperate life quiet,--certainly not upon this view; for the life which is temperate is supposed to be the good. and of two things, one is true,--either never, or very seldom, do the quiet actions in life appear to be better than the quick and energetic ones; or supposing that of the nobler actions, there are as many quiet, as quick and vehement: still, even if we grant this, temperance will not be acting quietly any more than acting quickly and energetically, either in walking or talking or in anything else; nor will the quiet life be more temperate than the unquiet, seeing that temperance is admitted by us to be a good and noble thing, and the quick have been shown to be as good as the quiet. i think, he said, socrates, that you are right. then once more, charmides, i said, fix your attention, and look within; consider the effect which temperance has upon yourself, and the nature of that which has the effect. think over all this, and, like a brave youth, tell me--what is temperance? after a moment's pause, in which he made a real manly effort to think, he said: my opinion is, socrates, that temperance makes a man ashamed or modest, and that temperance is the same as modesty. very good, i said; and did you not admit, just now, that temperance is noble? yes, certainly, he said. and the temperate are also good? yes. and can that be good which does not make men good? certainly not. and you would infer that temperance is not only noble, but also good? that is my opinion. well, i said; but surely you would agree with homer when he says, 'modesty is not good for a needy man'? yes, he said; i agree. then i suppose that modesty is and is not good? clearly. but temperance, whose presence makes men only good, and not bad, is always good? that appears to me to be as you say. and the inference is that temperance cannot be modesty--if temperance is a good, and if modesty is as much an evil as a good? all that, socrates, appears to me to be true; but i should like to know what you think about another definition of temperance, which i just now remember to have heard from some one, who said, 'that temperance is doing our own business.' was he right who affirmed that? you monster! i said; this is what critias, or some philosopher has told you. some one else, then, said critias; for certainly i have not. but what matter, said charmides, from whom i heard this? no matter at all, i replied; for the point is not who said the words, but whether they are true or not. there you are in the right, socrates, he replied. to be sure, i said; yet i doubt whether we shall ever be able to discover their truth or falsehood; for they are a kind of riddle. what makes you think so? he said. because, i said, he who uttered them seems to me to have meant one thing, and said another. is the scribe, for example, to be regarded as doing nothing when he reads or writes? i should rather think that he was doing something. and does the scribe write or read, or teach you boys to write or read, your own names only, or did you write your enemies' names as well as your own and your friends'? as much one as the other. and was there anything meddling or intemperate in this? certainly not. and yet if reading and writing are the same as doing, you were doing what was not your own business? but they are the same as doing. and the healing art, my friend, and building, and weaving, and doing anything whatever which is done by art,--these all clearly come under the head of doing? certainly. and do you think that a state would be well ordered by a law which compelled every man to weave and wash his own coat, and make his own shoes, and his own flask and strigil, and other implements, on this principle of every one doing and performing his own, and abstaining from what is not his own? i think not, he said. but, i said, a temperate state will be a well-ordered state. of course, he replied. then temperance, i said, will not be doing one's own business; not at least in this way, or doing things of this sort? clearly not. then, as i was just now saying, he who declared that temperance is a man doing his own business had another and a hidden meaning; for i do not think that he could have been such a fool as to mean this. was he a fool who told you, charmides? nay, he replied, i certainly thought him a very wise man. then i am quite certain that he put forth his definition as a riddle, thinking that no one would know the meaning of the words 'doing his own business.' i dare say, he replied. and what is the meaning of a man doing his own business? can you tell me? indeed, i cannot; and i should not wonder if the man himself who used this phrase did not understand what he was saying. whereupon he laughed slyly, and looked at critias. critias had long been showing uneasiness, for he felt that he had a reputation to maintain with charmides and the rest of the company. he had, however, hitherto managed to restrain himself; but now he could no longer forbear, and i am convinced of the truth of the suspicion which i entertained at the time, that charmides had heard this answer about temperance from critias. and charmides, who did not want to answer himself, but to make critias answer, tried to stir him up. he went on pointing out that he had been refuted, at which critias grew angry, and appeared, as i thought, inclined to quarrel with him; just as a poet might quarrel with an actor who spoiled his poems in repeating them; so he looked hard at him and said-- do you imagine, charmides, that the author of this definition of temperance did not understand the meaning of his own words, because you do not understand them? why, at his age, i said, most excellent critias, he can hardly be expected to understand; but you, who are older, and have studied, may well be assumed to know the meaning of them; and therefore, if you agree with him, and accept his definition of temperance, i would much rather argue with you than with him about the truth or falsehood of the definition. i entirely agree, said critias, and accept the definition. very good, i said; and now let me repeat my question--do you admit, as i was just now saying, that all craftsmen make or do something? i do. and do they make or do their own business only, or that of others also? they make or do that of others also. and are they temperate, seeing that they make not for themselves or their own business only? why not? he said. no objection on my part, i said, but there may be a difficulty on his who proposes as a definition of temperance, 'doing one's own business,' and then says that there is no reason why those who do the business of others should not be temperate. nay (the english reader has to observe that the word 'make' (greek), in greek, has also the sense of 'do' (greek).), said he; did i ever acknowledge that those who do the business of others are temperate? i said, those who make, not those who do. what! i asked; do you mean to say that doing and making are not the same? no more, he replied, than making or working are the same; thus much i have learned from hesiod, who says that 'work is no disgrace.' now do you imagine that if he had meant by working and doing such things as you were describing, he would have said that there was no disgrace in them--for example, in the manufacture of shoes, or in selling pickles, or sitting for hire in a house of ill-fame? that, socrates, is not to be supposed: but i conceive him to have distinguished making from doing and work; and, while admitting that the making anything might sometimes become a disgrace, when the employment was not honourable, to have thought that work was never any disgrace at all. for things nobly and usefully made he called works; and such makings he called workings, and doings; and he must be supposed to have called such things only man's proper business, and what is hurtful, not his business: and in that sense hesiod, and any other wise man, may be reasonably supposed to call him wise who does his own work. o critias, i said, no sooner had you opened your mouth, than i pretty well knew that you would call that which is proper to a man, and that which is his own, good; and that the makings (greek) of the good you would call doings (greek), for i am no stranger to the endless distinctions which prodicus draws about names. now i have no objection to your giving names any signification which you please, if you will only tell me what you mean by them. please then to begin again, and be a little plainer. do you mean that this doing or making, or whatever is the word which you would use, of good actions, is temperance? i do, he said. then not he who does evil, but he who does good, is temperate? yes, he said; and you, friend, would agree. no matter whether i should or not; just now, not what i think, but what you are saying, is the point at issue. well, he answered; i mean to say, that he who does evil, and not good, is not temperate; and that he is temperate who does good, and not evil: for temperance i define in plain words to be the doing of good actions. and you may be very likely right in what you are saying; but i am curious to know whether you imagine that temperate men are ignorant of their own temperance? i do not think so, he said. and yet were you not saying, just now, that craftsmen might be temperate in doing another's work, as well as in doing their own? i was, he replied; but what is your drift? i have no particular drift, but i wish that you would tell me whether a physician who cures a patient may do good to himself and good to another also? i think that he may. and he who does so does his duty? yes. and does not he who does his duty act temperately or wisely? yes, he acts wisely. but must the physician necessarily know when his treatment is likely to prove beneficial, and when not? or must the craftsman necessarily know when he is likely to be benefited, and when not to be benefited, by the work which he is doing? i suppose not. then, i said, he may sometimes do good or harm, and not know what he is himself doing, and yet, in doing good, as you say, he has done temperately or wisely. was not that your statement? yes. then, as would seem, in doing good, he may act wisely or temperately, and be wise or temperate, but not know his own wisdom or temperance? but that, socrates, he said, is impossible; and therefore if this is, as you imply, the necessary consequence of any of my previous admissions, i will withdraw them, rather than admit that a man can be temperate or wise who does not know himself; and i am not ashamed to confess that i was in error. for self-knowledge would certainly be maintained by me to be the very essence of knowledge, and in this i agree with him who dedicated the inscription, 'know thyself!' at delphi. that word, if i am not mistaken, is put there as a sort of salutation which the god addresses to those who enter the temple; as much as to say that the ordinary salutation of 'hail!' is not right, and that the exhortation 'be temperate!' would be a far better way of saluting one another. the notion of him who dedicated the inscription was, as i believe, that the god speaks to those who enter his temple, not as men speak; but, when a worshipper enters, the first word which he hears is 'be temperate!' this, however, like a prophet he expresses in a sort of riddle, for 'know thyself!' and 'be temperate!' are the same, as i maintain, and as the letters imply (greek), and yet they may be easily misunderstood; and succeeding sages who added 'never too much,' or, 'give a pledge, and evil is nigh at hand,' would appear to have so misunderstood them; for they imagined that 'know thyself!' was a piece of advice which the god gave, and not his salutation of the worshippers at their first coming in; and they dedicated their own inscription under the idea that they too would give equally useful pieces of advice. shall i tell you, socrates, why i say all this? my object is to leave the previous discussion (in which i know not whether you or i are more right, but, at any rate, no clear result was attained), and to raise a new one in which i will attempt to prove, if you deny, that temperance is self-knowledge. yes, i said, critias; but you come to me as though i professed to know about the questions which i ask, and as though i could, if i only would, agree with you. whereas the fact is that i enquire with you into the truth of that which is advanced from time to time, just because i do not know; and when i have enquired, i will say whether i agree with you or not. please then to allow me time to reflect. reflect, he said. i am reflecting, i replied, and discover that temperance, or wisdom, if implying a knowledge of anything, must be a science, and a science of something. yes, he said; the science of itself. is not medicine, i said, the science of health? true. and suppose, i said, that i were asked by you what is the use or effect of medicine, which is this science of health, i should answer that medicine is of very great use in producing health, which, as you will admit, is an excellent effect. granted. and if you were to ask me, what is the result or effect of architecture, which is the science of building, i should say houses, and so of other arts, which all have their different results. now i want you, critias, to answer a similar question about temperance, or wisdom, which, according to you, is the science of itself. admitting this view, i ask of you, what good work, worthy of the name wise, does temperance or wisdom, which is the science of itself, effect? answer me. that is not the true way of pursuing the enquiry, socrates, he said; for wisdom is not like the other sciences, any more than they are like one another: but you proceed as if they were alike. for tell me, he said, what result is there of computation or geometry, in the same sense as a house is the result of building, or a garment of weaving, or any other work of any other art? can you show me any such result of them? you cannot. that is true, i said; but still each of these sciences has a subject which is different from the science. i can show you that the art of computation has to do with odd and even numbers in their numerical relations to themselves and to each other. is not that true? yes, he said. and the odd and even numbers are not the same with the art of computation? they are not. the art of weighing, again, has to do with lighter and heavier; but the art of weighing is one thing, and the heavy and the light another. do you admit that? yes. now, i want to know, what is that which is not wisdom, and of which wisdom is the science? you are just falling into the old error, socrates, he said. you come asking in what wisdom or temperance differs from the other sciences, and then you try to discover some respect in which they are alike; but they are not, for all the other sciences are of something else, and not of themselves; wisdom alone is a science of other sciences, and of itself. and of this, as i believe, you are very well aware: and that you are only doing what you denied that you were doing just now, trying to refute me, instead of pursuing the argument. and what if i am? how can you think that i have any other motive in refuting you but what i should have in examining into myself? which motive would be just a fear of my unconsciously fancying that i knew something of which i was ignorant. and at this moment i pursue the argument chiefly for my own sake, and perhaps in some degree also for the sake of my other friends. for is not the discovery of things as they truly are, a good common to all mankind? yes, certainly, socrates, he said. then, i said, be cheerful, sweet sir, and give your opinion in answer to the question which i asked, never minding whether critias or socrates is the person refuted; attend only to the argument, and see what will come of the refutation. i think that you are right, he replied; and i will do as you say. tell me, then, i said, what you mean to affirm about wisdom. i mean to say that wisdom is the only science which is the science of itself as well as of the other sciences. but the science of science, i said, will also be the science of the absence of science. very true, he said. then the wise or temperate man, and he only, will know himself, and be able to examine what he knows or does not know, and to see what others know and think that they know and do really know; and what they do not know, and fancy that they know, when they do not. no other person will be able to do this. and this is wisdom and temperance and self-knowledge--for a man to know what he knows, and what he does not know. that is your meaning? yes, he said. now then, i said, making an offering of the third or last argument to zeus the saviour, let us begin again, and ask, in the first place, whether it is or is not possible for a person to know that he knows and does not know what he knows and does not know; and in the second place, whether, if perfectly possible, such knowledge is of any use. that is what we have to consider, he said. and here, critias, i said, i hope that you will find a way out of a difficulty into which i have got myself. shall i tell you the nature of the difficulty? by all means, he replied. does not what you have been saying, if true, amount to this: that there must be a single science which is wholly a science of itself and of other sciences, and that the same is also the science of the absence of science? yes. but consider how monstrous this proposition is, my friend: in any parallel case, the impossibility will be transparent to you. how is that? and in what cases do you mean? in such cases as this: suppose that there is a kind of vision which is not like ordinary vision, but a vision of itself and of other sorts of vision, and of the defect of them, which in seeing sees no colour, but only itself and other sorts of vision: do you think that there is such a kind of vision? certainly not. or is there a kind of hearing which hears no sound at all, but only itself and other sorts of hearing, or the defects of them? there is not. or take all the senses: can you imagine that there is any sense of itself and of other senses, but which is incapable of perceiving the objects of the senses? i think not. could there be any desire which is not the desire of any pleasure, but of itself, and of all other desires? certainly not. or can you imagine a wish which wishes for no good, but only for itself and all other wishes? i should answer, no. or would you say that there is a love which is not the love of beauty, but of itself and of other loves? i should not. or did you ever know of a fear which fears itself or other fears, but has no object of fear? i never did, he said. or of an opinion which is an opinion of itself and of other opinions, and which has no opinion on the subjects of opinion in general? certainly not. but surely we are assuming a science of this kind, which, having no subject-matter, is a science of itself and of the other sciences? yes, that is what is affirmed. but how strange is this, if it be indeed true: we must not however as yet absolutely deny the possibility of such a science; let us rather consider the matter. you are quite right. well then, this science of which we are speaking is a science of something, and is of a nature to be a science of something? yes. just as that which is greater is of a nature to be greater than something else? (socrates is intending to show that science differs from the object of science, as any other relative differs from the object of relation. but where there is comparison--greater, less, heavier, lighter, and the like--a relation to self as well as to other things involves an absolute contradiction; and in other cases, as in the case of the senses, is hardly conceivable. the use of the genitive after the comparative in greek, (greek), creates an unavoidable obscurity in the translation.) yes. which is less, if the other is conceived to be greater? to be sure. and if we could find something which is at once greater than itself, and greater than other great things, but not greater than those things in comparison of which the others are greater, then that thing would have the property of being greater and also less than itself? that, socrates, he said, is the inevitable inference. or if there be a double which is double of itself and of other doubles, these will be halves; for the double is relative to the half? that is true. and that which is greater than itself will also be less, and that which is heavier will also be lighter, and that which is older will also be younger: and the same of other things; that which has a nature relative to self will retain also the nature of its object: i mean to say, for example, that hearing is, as we say, of sound or voice. is that true? yes. then if hearing hears itself, it must hear a voice; for there is no other way of hearing. certainly. and sight also, my excellent friend, if it sees itself must see a colour, for sight cannot see that which has no colour. no. do you remark, critias, that in several of the examples which have been recited the notion of a relation to self is altogether inadmissible, and in other cases hardly credible--inadmissible, for example, in the case of magnitudes, numbers, and the like? very true. but in the case of hearing and sight, or in the power of self-motion, and the power of heat to burn, this relation to self will be regarded as incredible by some, but perhaps not by others. and some great man, my friend, is wanted, who will satisfactorily determine for us, whether there is nothing which has an inherent property of relation to self, or some things only and not others; and whether in this class of self-related things, if there be such a class, that science which is called wisdom or temperance is included. i altogether distrust my own power of determining these matters: i am not certain whether there is such a science of science at all; and even if there be, i should not acknowledge this to be wisdom or temperance, until i can also see whether such a science would or would not do us any good; for i have an impression that temperance is a benefit and a good. and therefore, o son of callaeschrus, as you maintain that temperance or wisdom is a science of science, and also of the absence of science, i will request you to show in the first place, as i was saying before, the possibility, and in the second place, the advantage, of such a science; and then perhaps you may satisfy me that you are right in your view of temperance. critias heard me say this, and saw that i was in a difficulty; and as one person when another yawns in his presence catches the infection of yawning from him, so did he seem to be driven into a difficulty by my difficulty. but as he had a reputation to maintain, he was ashamed to admit before the company that he could not answer my challenge or determine the question at issue; and he made an unintelligible attempt to hide his perplexity. in order that the argument might proceed, i said to him, well then critias, if you like, let us assume that there is this science of science; whether the assumption is right or wrong may hereafter be investigated. admitting the existence of it, will you tell me how such a science enables us to distinguish what we know or do not know, which, as we were saying, is self-knowledge or wisdom: so we were saying? yes, socrates, he said; and that i think is certainly true: for he who has this science or knowledge which knows itself will become like the knowledge which he has, in the same way that he who has swiftness will be swift, and he who has beauty will be beautiful, and he who has knowledge will know. in the same way he who has that knowledge which is self-knowing, will know himself. i do not doubt, i said, that a man will know himself, when he possesses that which has self-knowledge: but what necessity is there that, having this, he should know what he knows and what he does not know? because, socrates, they are the same. very likely, i said; but i remain as stupid as ever; for still i fail to comprehend how this knowing what you know and do not know is the same as the knowledge of self. what do you mean? he said. this is what i mean, i replied: i will admit that there is a science of science;--can this do more than determine that of two things one is and the other is not science or knowledge? no, just that. but is knowledge or want of knowledge of health the same as knowledge or want of knowledge of justice? certainly not. the one is medicine, and the other is politics; whereas that of which we are speaking is knowledge pure and simple. very true. and if a man knows only, and has only knowledge of knowledge, and has no further knowledge of health and justice, the probability is that he will only know that he knows something, and has a certain knowledge, whether concerning himself or other men. true. then how will this knowledge or science teach him to know what he knows? say that he knows health;--not wisdom or temperance, but the art of medicine has taught it to him;--and he has learned harmony from the art of music, and building from the art of building,--neither, from wisdom or temperance: and the same of other things. that is evident. how will wisdom, regarded only as a knowledge of knowledge or science of science, ever teach him that he knows health, or that he knows building? it is impossible. then he who is ignorant of these things will only know that he knows, but not what he knows? true. then wisdom or being wise appears to be not the knowledge of the things which we do or do not know, but only the knowledge that we know or do not know? that is the inference. then he who has this knowledge will not be able to examine whether a pretender knows or does not know that which he says that he knows: he will only know that he has a knowledge of some kind; but wisdom will not show him of what the knowledge is? plainly not. neither will he be able to distinguish the pretender in medicine from the true physician, nor between any other true and false professor of knowledge. let us consider the matter in this way: if the wise man or any other man wants to distinguish the true physician from the false, how will he proceed? he will not talk to him about medicine; and that, as we were saying, is the only thing which the physician understands. true. and, on the other hand, the physician knows nothing of science, for this has been assumed to be the province of wisdom. true. and further, since medicine is science, we must infer that he does not know anything of medicine. exactly. then the wise man may indeed know that the physician has some kind of science or knowledge; but when he wants to discover the nature of this he will ask, what is the subject-matter? for the several sciences are distinguished not by the mere fact that they are sciences, but by the nature of their subjects. is not that true? quite true. and medicine is distinguished from other sciences as having the subject-matter of health and disease? yes. and he who would enquire into the nature of medicine must pursue the enquiry into health and disease, and not into what is extraneous? true. and he who judges rightly will judge of the physician as a physician in what relates to these? he will. he will consider whether what he says is true, and whether what he does is right, in relation to health and disease? he will. but can any one attain the knowledge of either unless he have a knowledge of medicine? he cannot. no one at all, it would seem, except the physician can have this knowledge; and therefore not the wise man; he would have to be a physician as well as a wise man. very true. then, assuredly, wisdom or temperance, if only a science of science, and of the absence of science or knowledge, will not be able to distinguish the physician who knows from one who does not know but pretends or thinks that he knows, or any other professor of anything at all; like any other artist, he will only know his fellow in art or wisdom, and no one else. that is evident, he said. but then what profit, critias, i said, is there any longer in wisdom or temperance which yet remains, if this is wisdom? if, indeed, as we were supposing at first, the wise man had been able to distinguish what he knew and did not know, and that he knew the one and did not know the other, and to recognize a similar faculty of discernment in others, there would certainly have been a great advantage in being wise; for then we should never have made a mistake, but have passed through life the unerring guides of ourselves and of those who are under us; and we should not have attempted to do what we did not know, but we should have found out those who knew, and have handed the business over to them and trusted in them; nor should we have allowed those who were under us to do anything which they were not likely to do well; and they would be likely to do well just that of which they had knowledge; and the house or state which was ordered or administered under the guidance of wisdom, and everything else of which wisdom was the lord, would have been well ordered; for truth guiding, and error having been eliminated, in all their doings, men would have done well, and would have been happy. was not this, critias, what we spoke of as the great advantage of wisdom--to know what is known and what is unknown to us? very true, he said. and now you perceive, i said, that no such science is to be found anywhere. i perceive, he said. may we assume then, i said, that wisdom, viewed in this new light merely as a knowledge of knowledge and ignorance, has this advantage:--that he who possesses such knowledge will more easily learn anything which he learns; and that everything will be clearer to him, because, in addition to the knowledge of individuals, he sees the science, and this also will better enable him to test the knowledge which others have of what he knows himself; whereas the enquirer who is without this knowledge may be supposed to have a feebler and weaker insight? are not these, my friend, the real advantages which are to be gained from wisdom? and are not we looking and seeking after something more than is to be found in her? that is very likely, he said. that is very likely, i said; and very likely, too, we have been enquiring to no purpose; as i am led to infer, because i observe that if this is wisdom, some strange consequences would follow. let us, if you please, assume the possibility of this science of sciences, and further admit and allow, as was originally suggested, that wisdom is the knowledge of what we know and do not know. assuming all this, still, upon further consideration, i am doubtful, critias, whether wisdom, such as this, would do us much good. for we were wrong, i think, in supposing, as we were saying just now, that such wisdom ordering the government of house or state would be a great benefit. how so? he said. why, i said, we were far too ready to admit the great benefits which mankind would obtain from their severally doing the things which they knew, and committing the things of which they are ignorant to those who were better acquainted with them. were we not right in making that admission? i think not. how very strange, socrates! by the dog of egypt, i said, there i agree with you; and i was thinking as much just now when i said that strange consequences would follow, and that i was afraid we were on the wrong track; for however ready we may be to admit that this is wisdom, i certainly cannot make out what good this sort of thing does to us. what do you mean? he said; i wish that you could make me understand what you mean. i dare say that what i am saying is nonsense, i replied; and yet if a man has any feeling of what is due to himself, he cannot let the thought which comes into his mind pass away unheeded and unexamined. i like that, he said. hear, then, i said, my own dream; whether coming through the horn or the ivory gate, i cannot tell. the dream is this: let us suppose that wisdom is such as we are now defining, and that she has absolute sway over us; then each action will be done according to the arts or sciences, and no one professing to be a pilot when he is not, or any physician or general, or any one else pretending to know matters of which he is ignorant, will deceive or elude us; our health will be improved; our safety at sea, and also in battle, will be assured; our coats and shoes, and all other instruments and implements will be skilfully made, because the workmen will be good and true. aye, and if you please, you may suppose that prophecy, which is the knowledge of the future, will be under the control of wisdom, and that she will deter deceivers and set up the true prophets in their place as the revealers of the future. now i quite agree that mankind, thus provided, would live and act according to knowledge, for wisdom would watch and prevent ignorance from intruding on us. but whether by acting according to knowledge we shall act well and be happy, my dear critias,--this is a point which we have not yet been able to determine. yet i think, he replied, that if you discard knowledge, you will hardly find the crown of happiness in anything else. but of what is this knowledge? i said. just answer me that small question. do you mean a knowledge of shoemaking? god forbid. or of working in brass? certainly not. or in wool, or wood, or anything of that sort? no, i do not. then, i said, we are giving up the doctrine that he who lives according to knowledge is happy, for these live according to knowledge, and yet they are not allowed by you to be happy; but i think that you mean to confine happiness to particular individuals who live according to knowledge, such for example as the prophet, who, as i was saying, knows the future. is it of him you are speaking or of some one else? yes, i mean him, but there are others as well. yes, i said, some one who knows the past and present as well as the future, and is ignorant of nothing. let us suppose that there is such a person, and if there is, you will allow that he is the most knowing of all living men. certainly he is. yet i should like to know one thing more: which of the different kinds of knowledge makes him happy? or do all equally make him happy? not all equally, he replied. but which most tends to make him happy? the knowledge of what past, present, or future thing? may i infer this to be the knowledge of the game of draughts? nonsense about the game of draughts. or of computation? no. or of health? that is nearer the truth, he said. and that knowledge which is nearest of all, i said, is the knowledge of what? the knowledge with which he discerns good and evil. monster! i said; you have been carrying me round in a circle, and all this time hiding from me the fact that the life according to knowledge is not that which makes men act rightly and be happy, not even if knowledge include all the sciences, but one science only, that of good and evil. for, let me ask you, critias, whether, if you take away this, medicine will not equally give health, and shoemaking equally produce shoes, and the art of the weaver clothes?--whether the art of the pilot will not equally save our lives at sea, and the art of the general in war? quite so. and yet, my dear critias, none of these things will be well or beneficially done, if the science of the good be wanting. true. but that science is not wisdom or temperance, but a science of human advantage; not a science of other sciences, or of ignorance, but of good and evil: and if this be of use, then wisdom or temperance will not be of use. and why, he replied, will not wisdom be of use? for, however much we assume that wisdom is a science of sciences, and has a sway over other sciences, surely she will have this particular science of the good under her control, and in this way will benefit us. and will wisdom give health? i said; is not this rather the effect of medicine? or does wisdom do the work of any of the other arts,--do they not each of them do their own work? have we not long ago asseverated that wisdom is only the knowledge of knowledge and of ignorance, and of nothing else? that is obvious. then wisdom will not be the producer of health. certainly not. the art of health is different. yes, different. nor does wisdom give advantage, my good friend; for that again we have just now been attributing to another art. very true. how then can wisdom be advantageous, when giving no advantage? that, socrates, is certainly inconceivable. you see then, critias, that i was not far wrong in fearing that i could have no sound notion about wisdom; i was quite right in depreciating myself; for that which is admitted to be the best of all things would never have seemed to us useless, if i had been good for anything at an enquiry. but now i have been utterly defeated, and have failed to discover what that is to which the imposer of names gave this name of temperance or wisdom. and yet many more admissions were made by us than could be fairly granted; for we admitted that there was a science of science, although the argument said no, and protested against us; and we admitted further, that this science knew the works of the other sciences (although this too was denied by the argument), because we wanted to show that the wise man had knowledge of what he knew and did not know; also we nobly disregarded, and never even considered, the impossibility of a man knowing in a sort of way that which he does not know at all; for our assumption was, that he knows that which he does not know; than which nothing, as i think, can be more irrational. and yet, after finding us so easy and good-natured, the enquiry is still unable to discover the truth; but mocks us to a degree, and has gone out of its way to prove the inutility of that which we admitted only by a sort of supposition and fiction to be the true definition of temperance or wisdom: which result, as far as i am concerned, is not so much to be lamented, i said. but for your sake, charmides, i am very sorry--that you, having such beauty and such wisdom and temperance of soul, should have no profit or good in life from your wisdom and temperance. and still more am i grieved about the charm which i learned with so much pain, and to so little profit, from the thracian, for the sake of a thing which is nothing worth. i think indeed that there is a mistake, and that i must be a bad enquirer, for wisdom or temperance i believe to be really a great good; and happy are you, charmides, if you certainly possess it. wherefore examine yourself, and see whether you have this gift and can do without the charm; for if you can, i would rather advise you to regard me simply as a fool who is never able to reason out anything; and to rest assured that the more wise and temperate you are, the happier you will be. charmides said: i am sure that i do not know, socrates, whether i have or have not this gift of wisdom and temperance; for how can i know whether i have a thing, of which even you and critias are, as you say, unable to discover the nature?--(not that i believe you.) and further, i am sure, socrates, that i do need the charm, and as far as i am concerned, i shall be willing to be charmed by you daily, until you say that i have had enough. very good, charmides, said critias; if you do this i shall have a proof of your temperance, that is, if you allow yourself to be charmed by socrates, and never desert him at all. you may depend on my following and not deserting him, said charmides: if you who are my guardian command me, i should be very wrong not to obey you. and i do command you, he said. then i will do as you say, and begin this very day. you sirs, i said, what are you conspiring about? we are not conspiring, said charmides, we have conspired already. and are you about to use violence, without even going through the forms of justice? yes, i shall use violence, he replied, since he orders me; and therefore you had better consider well. but the time for consideration has passed, i said, when violence is employed; and you, when you are determined on anything, and in the mood of violence, are irresistible. do not you resist me then, he said. i will not resist you, i replied. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) drake, nelson and napoleon studies by sir walter runciman, bart illustrated london t. fisher unwin ltd. adelphi terrace dedicatory letter to sir james knott my dear sir james, we have travelled far since those early days when you and i, who are of totally different tastes and temperament, first met and became friends. i was attracted by your wide knowledge, versatile vigour of mind, and engaging personality, which subsequent years have not diminished. you were strenuously engaged at that time in breaking down the weevilly traditions of a bygone age, and helping to create a new era in the art of steamship management, and, at the same time, studying for the bar; and were i writing a biography of you, i would have to include your interesting travels in distant lands in quest of business and organizing it. that must be left for another occasion, when the vast results to the commercial life of the country to which you contributed may be fittingly told. at the present time my vision recalls our joyous yachting cruises on the clyde, when poor leadbitter added to the charm that stays. perhaps best of all were the golden days when we habitually took our week-end strolls together by the edge of the inspiriting splendour of the blue north sea, strolls which are hallowed by many memories, and gave me an opportunity of listening to your vehement flashes of human sympathies, which are so widely known now. it is my high appreciation of those tender gifts and of your personal worth, together with the many acts of kindness and consideration shown to me when i have been your guest, that gives me the desire to inscribe this book to you and lady knott, and to the memory of your gallant sons, major leadbitter knott, d.s.o., who was killed while leading his battalion in a terrific engagement in flanders, and captain basil knott, who fell so tragically a few months previously at his brother's side. with every sentiment of esteem, i am, dear sir james, ever yours sincerely, walter runciman. march . preface this book has evolved from another which i had for years been urged to write by personal friends. i had chatted occasionally about my own voyages, related incidents concerning them and the countries and places i had visited, the ships i had sailed in, the men i had sailed with, and the sailors of that period. it is one thing to tell sea-tales in a cosy room and to enjoy living again for a brief time in the days that are gone; but it is another matter when one is asked to put the stories into book form. needless to say for a long time i shrank from undertaking the task, but was ultimately prevailed upon to do so. the book was commenced and was well advanced, and, as i could not depict the sailors of my own period without dealing--as i thought at the time--briefly with the race of men called buccaneers who were really the creators of the british mercantile marine and navy, who lived centuries before my generation, i was obliged to deal with some of them, such as hawkins, drake, frobisher, daimper, alexander selkirk of robinson crusoe fame, and others who combined piracy with commerce and sailorism. after i had written all i thought necessary about the three former, i instinctively slipped on to nelson as the greatest sea personality of the beginning of the last century. i found the subject so engrossing that i could not centre my thoughts on any other, so determined to continue my narrative, which is not, and never was intended to be a life of nelson. perhaps it may be properly termed fragmentary thoughts and jottings concerning the life of an extraordinary human force, written at intervals when i had leisure from an otherwise busy life. even if i had thought it desirable, it was hardly possible to write about nelson without also dealing with britain's great adversary and nelson's distracted opinion of him. it would be futile to attempt to draw a comparison between the two men. the one was a colossal human genius, and the other, extraordinary in the art of his profession, was entirely without the faculty of understanding or appreciating the distinguished man he flippantly raged at from his quarterdeck. but be that as it may, nelson's terrific aversion to and explosions against the french and napoleon, in whose history i had been absorbed for many years, seem to me to be the deliberate outpouring of a mind governed by feeling rather than by knowledge as to the real cause of the wars and of how we came to be involved and continue in them. nor does he ever show that he had any clear conception of the history of napoleon's advent as the ruler of the people with whom we were at war. i have given this book the title of "drake, nelson and napoleon" because it seemed to me necessary to bring in drake, the prototype, and napoleon, the antagonist of nelson. drake's influence bore fruit in what is known as the fleet tradition, which culminated in the "nelson touch." no excuse is needed, therefore, for writing a chapter which shows how little the seaman's character has changed in essentials since that time. to-day, our sailors have the same simple direct force which characterized the elizabethan seamen and those of nelsonian times. of napoleon i have written fully in my book "the tragedy of st. helena," and have contented myself here with pointing out how the crass stupidity and blind prejudice of his opponents have helped largely to bring about the world-war of our own times. i have also endeavoured to contrast the statesmanlike attitude of napoleon with the short-sighted policy of england's politicians and their allies at that time. having planned the book on such lines, it inevitably follows that nelson must occupy a larger space in it than either drake or napoleon, but for that i offer no apology. walter runciman. march . contents dedicatory letter preface . drake and the fleet tradition . nelson and his circle trafalgar, oct. st, (_a_) british order of battle (_b_) a list of the combined fleet of france and spain . napoleon and his connection with the world-war . sea songs appendix: some incidents of nelson's life (chronologically arranged) index illustrations line of battle ship (early eighteenth century) drake nelson lady hamilton as "a sibyl" captain hardy (of the "victory") "princess charlotte."--frigate (early nineteenth century) h.m.s. "victory" going into battle at trafalgar admiral collingwood the emperor napoleon after his accession drake and the fleet tradition i the great sailors of the elizabethan era--hawkins, drake, frobisher, howard, davis, and sir humphrey gilbert--were the prototypes of the sailors of the nineteenth century. they discovered new lands, opened up new avenues of commerce, and combined these legitimate forms of enterprise with others which at this date would be regarded as rank piracy. since, however, they believed themselves to be the ambassadors of god, they did everything in his name, whether it were the seizing of spanish treasure or the annexing of new worlds by fair means or foul, believing quite sincerely in the sanctity of what they did with a seriousness and faith which now appear almost comic. for many years the authorities of the inquisition had plundered goods and put to death english seamen and merchants, and spanish philip, when remonstrated with, shrugged his shoulders and repudiated the responsibility by saying that he had no power over the "holy house." drake retaliated by taking possession of and bringing to england a million and a half of spanish treasure while the two countries were not at war. it is said that when drake laid hands on the bullion at panama he sent a message to the viceroy that he must now learn not to interfere with the properties of english subjects, and that if four english sailors who were prisoners in mexico were ill-treated he would execute two thousand spaniards and send him their heads. drake never wasted thought about reprisals or made frothy apologetic speeches as to what would happen to those with whom he was at religious war if they molested his fellow-countrymen. he met atrocity with atrocity. he believed it to be his mission to avenge the burning of british seamen and the spanish and popish attempts on the life of his virgin sovereign. that he knew her to be an audacious flirt, an insufferable miser, and an incurable political intriguer whose tortuous moves had to be watched as vigilantly as philip's assassins and english traitors, is apparent from reliable records. his mind was saturated with the belief in his own high destiny, as the chosen instrument to break the spanish power in europe. he was insensible to fear, and knew how to make other people fear and obey him. he was not only an invincible crusader, but one of those rare personalities who have the power of infusing into his comrades his own courage and enthusiasm. the spanish said he was "a magician who had sold his soul to the devil." the spanish sailors, and philip himself, together with his nobles, were terror-stricken at the mention of his name. he was to them an invincible dragon. santa cruz warned his compatriots that the heretics "had teeth, and could use them." here is another instance, selected from many, of the fanatical superstitions concerning drake's irresistible power. medina sidonia had deserted the andalusian squadron. drake came across the flagship. her commander said he was don pedro de valdes, and could only surrender on honourable terms. the english commander replied, "i am drake, and have no time to parley. don pedro must surrender or fight." so don pedro surrendered to the gallant captain of the _revenge_, and lavished him with praise, evidently glad to have fallen into the hands of so famous and generous a foe. drake is said to have treated his captive with elaborate generosity, while his crew commandeered all the vast treasure. he then sent the galleon into dartmouth harbour, and set off with his prisoners to chase medina sidonia. in the whole range of drake's adventurous career there does not appear to be any evidence of his having been possessed with the idea of supernatural assistance, though if perchance he missed any of philip's treasure-ships he complacently reported "the reason" to those in authority as "being best known to god," and there the incident ended. on the other hand, the deity was no mystery to him. his belief in a supreme power was real, and that he worked in harmony with it he never doubted. when he came across anything on land or sea which he thought should be appropriated for the benefit of his queen and country, or for himself and those who were associated with him in his piratical enterprises, nothing was allowed to stand in his way, and, generally speaking, he paralysed all resistance to his arms into submission by an inexorable will and genius. the parsimonious elizabeth was always slyly willing to receive the proceeds of his dashing deeds, but never unduly generous in fixing his share of them. she allowed her ships to lie rotting when they should have been kept in sound and efficient condition, and her sailors to starve in the streets and seaports. never a care was bestowed on these poor fellows to whom she owed so much. drake and hawkins, on the other hand, saw the national danger, and founded a war fund called the "chatham chest"; and, after great pressure, the queen granted £ , and the loan of six battleships to the syndicate. happily the commercial people gave freely, as they always do. what trouble these matchless patriots had to overcome! intrigue, treason, religious fanaticism, begrudging of supplies, the constant shortage of stores and provisions at every critical stage of a crisis, the contradictory instructions from the exasperating tudor queen: the fleet kept in port until the chances of an easy victory over england's bitterest foes had passed away! but for the vacillation of the icy virgin, drake's portugal expedition would have put the triumph of the spanish armada to the blush, and the great admiral might have been saved the anguish of misfortune that seemed to follow his future daring adventures for spanish treasure on land and sea until the shadows of failure compassed him round. his spirit broken and his body smitten with incurable disease, the fleet under his command anchored at puerto bello after a heavy passage from escudo de veragua, a pestilential desert island. he was then in delirium, and on the th january, , the big soul of our greatest seaman passed away beyond the veil. his body was put into a lead and oak coffin and taken a few miles out to sea, and amidst manifestations of great sorrow he was lowered down the side and the waters covered him over. two useless prize ships were sunk beside him, and there they may still lie together. the fleet, having lost their guiding spirit, weighed anchor and shaped their course homewards. drake was not merely a seaman and the creator of generations of sailors, but he was also a sea warrior of superb naval genius. it was he who invented the magnificent plan of searching for his country's enemies in every creek into which he could get a craft. he also imbued her gracious majesty and her gracious majesty's seamen with the idea that in warfare on sea or land it is a first principle to strike first if you wish to gain the field and hold it. having smashed his antagonist, he regarded it as a plain duty in the name of god to live on his beaten foes and seize their treasures of gold, silver, diamonds, works of art, etc., wherever these could be laid hold of. the first lady of the land was abashed at the gallant sailor's bold piratical efforts. she would not touch the dirty, ill-gotten stuff until the noble fellow had told her the fascinating story of his matchless adventures and slashing successes. doubtless the astute admiral had learned that his blameless queen was only averse to sharing with him the plunder of a risky voyage until he had assured her again and again that her cousin, philip of spain, had his voracious eye on her life, her throne, and all her british possessions, wherever they might be. the valiant seaman appears to have played daintily and to good effect with the diabolical acts of the spaniards, such as the burning of english seamen, until they roused in elizabeth the spirit of covetousness and retaliation. it was easy then for her incorruptible integrity (!) to surrender to temptation. a division of what had been taken from philip's subjects was forthwith piously made. elizabeth, being the chief of the contracting parties, took with her accustomed grace the queenly share. on one occasion she walked in the parks with drake, held a royal banquet on board the notorious _pelican_, and knighted him; while he, in return for these little attentions, lavished on his queen presents of diamonds, emeralds, etc. the accounts which have been handed down to us seem, in these days, amazing in their cold-blooded defiance of honourable dealing. but we must face the hard facts of the necessity of retaliation against the revolting deeds of the inquisition and the determined, intriguing policy of worming popery into the hearts of a protestant nation, and then we realize that drake's methods were the "invention" of an inevitable alternative either to fight this hideous despotism with more desperate weapons and greater vigour than the languid, luxury-loving spaniards had taken the trouble to create or succumb to their tremendous power of wealth and wickedness. drake was the chosen instrument of an inscrutable destiny, and we owe it to him that the divided england of that day was saved from annihilation. he broke the power of spain at sea, and established england as the first naval and mercantile power in the world. he was the real founder of generations of seamen, and his undying fame will inspire generations yet unborn to maintain the supremacy of the seas. the callous, brutal attitude of elizabeth towards a race of men who had given their lives and souls so freely in every form of danger and patriotic adventure because they believed it to be a holy duty is one of the blackest pages of human history. the cruelties of the spanish inquisition and the treatment of sailors in the galleys were only different in degree, and while there are sound reasons for condemning the queen and the ruling classes of that time for conduct that would not be tolerated in these days, it is unquestionably true that it was a difficult task to keep under control the spirit of rebellion of that period, as it is to-day. doubtless those in authority were, in their judgment, compelled to rule with a heavy hand in order to keep in check wilful breaches of discipline. attempts to mutiny and acts of treason were incidents in the wonderful career of francis drake which frequently caused him to act with severity. doughty, the spanish spy, who was at one time a personal friend of drake's, resolved to betray his commander. doughty was caught in the act, tried by a court composed of men serving under drake, found guilty, and after dining with the admiral, chatting cheerfully as in their friendly days, they drank each other's health and had some private conversation not recorded; then doughty was led to the place of execution and had his head chopped off, drake exclaiming as it fell, "lo, this is the end of traitors!" then drake relieved fletcher of his duties as chaplain by telling him softly that he would "preach this day." the ship's company was called together and he exhorted them to harmony, warning them of the danger of discord. then in his breezy phraseology he exclaims, "by the life of god, it doth even take my wits from me to think of it." the crew, it appears, was composed of gentlemen, who were obviously putting on airs, and sailors, who resented their swank as much as did the great captain. so drake proceeds to lay the law down vehemently. "let us show ourselves," said he, "all to be of one company, and let us not give occasion to the enemy to rejoice at our decay and overthrow. show me the man that would refuse to set his hand to a rope, but i know that there is not any such here." then he proceeds to drive home his plan of discipline with vigour. "and as gentlemen are necessary for government's sake in the voyage, so i have shipped them to that and to some further intent." he does not say quite what it is, but they doubtless understand that it is meant to be a warning lest he should be compelled to put them through some harsh form of punishment. he concludes his memorable address with a few candid words, in which he declares that he knows sailors to be the most envious people in the world and, in his own words, "unruly without government," yet, says he, "may i not be without them!" it is quite clear that drake would have no class distinction. his little sermon sank deep into the souls of his crew, so that when he offered the _marigold_ to those who had lost heart, to take them back to england, he had not only made them ashamed of their refractory conduct, but imbued them with a new spirit, which caused them to vie with each other in professions of loyalty and eagerness to go on with him and comply with all the conditions of the enterprise. the great commander had no room for antics of martyrdom. he gave human nature first place in his plan of dealing with human affairs. he did not allow his mind to be disturbed by trifles. he had big jobs to tackle, and he never doubted that he was the one and only man who could carry them to a successful issue. he took his instructions from elizabeth and her blustering ministers, whom he regarded as just as likely to serve philip as the tudor queen if it came to a matter of deciding between popery and protestantism. he received their instructions in a courtly way, but there are striking evidences that he was ever on the watch for their vacillating pranks, and he always dashed out of port as soon as he had received the usual hesitating permission. once out of reach, he brushed aside imperial instructions if they stood in the way of his own definite plan of serving the best interests of his country, and if the course he took did not completely succeed--which was seldom the case--he believed "the reason was best known to god." john hawkins and francis drake had a simple faith in the divine object they were serving. hawkins thought it an act of high godliness to pretend that he had turned papist, in order that he might revenge and rescue the remnant of his poor comrades of the san juan de ulloa catastrophe, who were now shut up in seville yards and made to work in chains. sir john hoodwinked philip by making use of mr. george fitzwilliam, who in turn made use of rudolfe and mary stuart. mary believed in the genuineness of the conspiracy to assassinate elizabeth and set up the queen of scots in her place, to hand over elizabeth's ships to spain, confiscate property, and to kill a number of anti-catholic people. the hawkins counterplot of revenge on philip and his guilty confederates was completely successful. the comic audacity of it is almost beyond belief. the pope had bestowed his blessing on the conspiracy, and the spanish council of state was enthusiastically certain of its success. so credulous were they of the great piratical seaman's conversion, that an agreement was signed pardoning hawkins for his acts of piracy in the west indies and other places; a spanish peerage was given him together with £ , , which was to be used for equipping the privateer fleet. the money was duly paid in london, and possibly some of it was used for repairing the british squadron which hawkins had pronounced as being composed of the finest ships in the world for him to hand over to philip, even though they had been neglected owing to the queen's meanness. the plausible way in which the great seaman put this proposition caught the imagination of the negotiators. they were captivated by him. he had caused them to believe that he was a genuine seceder from heresy and from allegiance to the queen of england, and was anxious to avow his penitence for the great sins he had committed against god and the only true faith, and to make atonement for them in befitting humility. all he asked for was forgiveness, and in the fullness of magnanimity they were possibly moved to ask if, in addition to forgiveness, a spanish peerage, and £ , , he would like to commemorate the occasion of his conversion by a further token of his spanish majesty's favour. it is easy to picture the apparent indifference with which he suggested that he did not ask for favours, but if he were to ask for anything, it would be the release from the inquisition galleys of a few poor sailor prisoners. the apparently modest request was granted. hawkins had risked his life to accomplish this, and now he writes a letter to cecil beginning "my very good lord." i do not give the whole of the letter. suffice it to say that he confirms the success of the plot so far as he is concerned, and in a last paragraph he says, "i have sent your lordship the copy of my pardon from the king of spain, in the order and manner i have it, with my great titles and honours from the king, from which god deliver me." the process by which hawkins succeeded in obtaining the object he had in view was the conception of no ordinary man. we talk and write of his wonderful accomplishments on sea and land, as a skilful, brave sailor, but he was more than that. he was, in many respects, a genius, and his courage and resolution were unfailingly magnificent. i dare say the prank he played on philip and his advisers would be regarded as unworthy cunning, and an outrage on the rules of high honour. good protestant christians disapproved then, as now, the wickedness of thus gambling with religion to attain any object whatsoever, and especially of swearing by the mother of god the renunciation of the protestant faith and the adoption of roman catholicism. the spaniards, who had a hand in this nefarious proceeding, were quite convinced that, though hawkins had been a pirate and a sea robber and murderer, now that he had come over to their faith the predisposition to his former evil habits would leave him. these were the high moral grounds on which was based the resolve to execute elizabeth and a large number of her subjects, and take possession of the throne and private property at their will. it was, of course, the spirit of retaliation for the iniquities of the british rovers which was condoned by their monarch. in justification of our part of the game during this period of warfare for religious and material ascendancy, we stand by the eternal platitude that in that age we were compelled to act differently from what we should be justified in doing now. civilization, for instance, so the argument goes, was at a low ebb then. i am not so sure that it did not stand higher than it does now. it is so easy for nations to become uncivilized, and we, in common with other nations, have a singular aptitude for it when we think we have a grievance. be that as it may, hawkins, drake, and the other fine sea rovers had no petty scruples about relieving spaniards of their treasure when they came across it on land or on their ships at sea. call them by what epithet you like, they believed in the sanctity of their methods of carrying on war, and the results for the most part confirmed the accuracy of their judgment. at any rate, by their bold and resolute deeds they established british freedom and her supremacy of the seas, and handed down to us an abiding spirit that has reared the finest seamen and established our incomparable merchant fleet, the largest and finest in the world. there is no shame in wishing the nation to become imbued with the spirit of these old-time heroes, for the heritage they have bequeathed to us is divine and lives on. we speak of the great deeds they were guided to perform, but we rarely stop to think from whence the inspiration came, until we are touched by a throbbing impulse that brings us into the presence of the great mystery, at which who would dare to mock? it is strange that hawkins' and drake's brilliant and tragic careers should have been brought to an end by the same disease within a short time of each other and not many miles apart, and that their mother, the sea, should have claimed them at last in the vicinity of the scene of their first victorious encounter with their lifelong enemies, the spaniards. the death of the two invincibles, who had long struck terror into the hearts of their foes, was the signal for prolonged rejoicings in the spanish main and the indies, while the british squadron, battered and disease-smitten, made its melancholy way homeward with the news of the tragedy. for a time the loss of these commanding figures dealt a blow at the national spirit. there are usually long intervals between cæsars and napoleons. nations have, in obedience to some law of nature, to pass through periods of mediocre rule, and when men of great genius and dominating qualities come to clear up the mess, they are only tolerated possibly by fear, and never for long by appreciation. a capricious public soon tires of these living heroes. it is after they are dead that they become abiding examples of human greatness, not so much to their contemporaries as to those generations that follow them. the historian has a great deal to do with the manner in which the fame of a great man is handed down to posterity, and it should never be forgotten that historians have to depend on evidence which may be faulty, while their own judgment may not always be sound. it is a most difficult task to discipline the mind into a perfectly unbiased condition. the great point is to state honestly what you believe, and not what you may know those you are speaking to wish you to say. the contemporaries of hawkins and drake unquestionably regarded them with high admiration, but i question whether they were deified then as they are now. the same thing applies to nelson and collingwood, of whom i shall speak later on, as the historian has put the stamp upon their great deeds also. drake and hawkins attracted attention because of their daring voyages and piratical enterprises on spanish property on sea and land. every obstacle was brushed aside. danger ever appealed to them. they dashed into fortified ports filled with warships fully equipped, silenced the forts, sank and set fire to philip's vessels, and made everything and everybody fly before them in the belief that hell had been let loose. to the superstitious spanish mind it seemed as though the english must be under satanic protection when they slashed their way undaunted into the midst of dangers which would inevitably spell death for the mere mortal. these corsairs of ours obviously knew and took advantage of this superstition, for cannon were never resorted to without good reason, and never without effect. the deliberate defiance of any written or unwritten law that forbade their laying hands on the treasure they sought so diligently, and went far and near to find, merely increased public admiration. elizabeth pretended that they were very trying to her christian virtues. but leave out of count the foregoing deeds--which no one can dispute were prodigious, and quite equal to the part these men played in the destruction of the armada--what could be more dashingly brilliant in naval warfare than drake's raids on san domingo, carthagena, cadiz, and other ports and cities of old and new spain, to which i have already briefly alluded? it was their great successes in their great undertakings, no matter whether it was "shocking piracy" or not, that immortalized these terrible creators of england's greatness all the world over! thomas cobham, a member of a lordly and protestant family, became a sailor, and soon became fascinated with the gay life of privateering. once when in command of a vessel, eagerly scouring the seas for spanish prizes, one was sighted, bound from antwerp to cadiz. cobham gave chase, easily captured her in the bay of biscay, and discovered there were forty inquisition prisoners aboard. after rescuing the prisoners, the captain and crew of the spanish vessel were then sewn up in their own mainsail and tossed into the sea, no doubt with such sententious expressions of godliness as was thought befitting to sacred occasions of that period. this ceremony having been performed, the vessel was scuttled, so that she might nevermore be used in trading with british sailors or any one else for inquisition purposes. when the story became known, the case was discreetly inquired into, and very properly the gallant cobham was never punished, and was soon running here and there at his old game. it may be taken for granted that there was no mincing matters when an opportunity for reprisals occurred. the spaniards had carried barbarism to such a pitch in seizing our ships and condemning their crews to the galleys, that queen elizabeth was never averse to meeting murder and plunder by more than the equivalent in retaliation, except when she imagined that philip was showing signs of overpowering strength; she then became timid and vacillating. she was never mentally disturbed by the moral side of the great deeds that brought her vast stores of plunder. moreover, she could always find an accommodating bishop to put her qualms (if she ever had any, except those of consequence to herself) at rest on points of conscience. one noted personage, who held high ecclesiastical office, told her that it was a virtue to seize treasure when she knew it would otherwise be used for the purpose of murdering her protestant subjects. sir arthur champernowne, a noted vice-admiral of elizabeth's reign, in writing to cecil of the vessel that had put into plymouth through stress of weather with the needy philip's half-million of ducats on board, borrowed, it is said, from a genoa firm of financiers, said it should be claimed as fair booty. sir arthur's view was that anything taken from so perfidious a nation was both necessary and profitable to the commonwealth. no doubt a great deal of pious discussion would centre round the vice-admiral's easy moral but very logical opinions. the main thing in his mind, and in that of everybody else who was free from poisoned cant, was that the most shocking crimes were being openly advocated by philip, king of spain, against all european protestants, rich or poor, who came within the clutches of the savages that administered the cruelties of the inquisition. the canting crowd shrieked against the monstrous impiety of such notions, but their efforts to prove purity of motive were unavailing. after considered thought by a committee of men of high rectitude, it was decided to act without fear or favour in a strictly impartial manner, so philip's half-million of bullion was divided between the prince of orange and the rigid moralist, elizabeth, who is credited with having spent her share on the navy, a very admirable way of disposing of it. this act was the cause of a deluge of reprisals on the part of spain. but, from all accounts, elizabeth's corsairs had always the best of it in matters of material importance. the spanish are naturally a proud, brave race. in the middle of the sixteenth century their power dominated two-thirds of the universe, and had they stuck to business, and not so feverishly to the spreading of their religious faith by violent means, they might have continued a predominant nation. their civil, naval, and military position was unequalled. the commerce and wealth of the whole world was pre-eminently in their hands, and in common with other nations who arrive at heights of power, prosperity, and grandeur (which last sits so easily on the spaniard), they gave way to pleasures and to the luxury of laziness which invariably carries with it sensuality. wherever they found themselves in the ascendancy, they intrigued to impose the roman faith on the population, and if that method did not succeed with felicity, whenever the agents of their governing classes, including their king, met with opposition from prominent men or women, their opponents were put to the rack, burnt, or their heads sent flying. in this country no leading protestant's life or property was safe. even elizabeth, during the reign of her half-sister, mary, was obliged to make believe that her religious faith was roman in harmony with that of the queen. it was either adoption, deception, or execution, and the future queen outwitted all their traps and inventions until mary passed on, and elizabeth took her place on the throne. meanwhile, spain, as i have indicated, was tampering with abiding laws. catastrophe always follows perilous habits of life, which were correctly attributed to the spanish. as with individuals, so it is with nations; pride can never successfully run in conjunction with the decadence of wealth. it is manifestly true that it is easier for a nation to go up than to realize that it has come down, and during long years spain has had to learn this bitter lesson. it was not only imperious pride of race and extravagant grandeur that brought the destruction of her supremacy of the seas, and the wealth and supremacy of many lands, but their intolerable religious despotism towards those who were not already, and refused to become, as i have said, adherents of the roman catholic creed. poor wretches who were not strong enough to defend themselves had the mark of heretics put on them; and for nearly thirty years spaniards carried on a system of burning british seamen whenever they could lay hands on them. they kept up a constant system of spying and plotting against the british protestant queen and her subjects of every position in life. the policy of the spanish king and government was to make the british and other races vassals of the pope. philip, like all powerful monarchs and individuals who are put into power without any of the qualities of fitness to fill a high post, always believed that his presence on earth was an act of supreme providence. philip, in proclaiming his glorious advent for the good of mankind, explained it with a decorum that had a fascinating flavour. unlike some imitators of great personalities, he was never vulgarly boastful in giving expression to the belief that his power came from above and would be sustained by the mystery that gave him it in such abundance, but, in fact, he never doubted what was known as the doctrine of the divine right of kings. the human support which kept him in authority did not enter into his calculations. the popular notions of the democracies then was that no physical force could sever the alliance which existed between god and monarchs; and there is no evidence that philip was ever disillusioned. he regarded his adversaries, especially hawkins and drake, in the light of magicians possessed of devilish spirits that were in conflict with the wishes of the deity. his highly placed and best naval officer, santa cruz, took a more realistic view than his master, though he might have had doubts as to whether the people who were at war with spain were not a species of devil. but he expressed the view which even at this distance of time shows him to have been a man of sane, practical thought. philip imagined he could agree with the acts of assassins (and also support the holy office) in their policy of burning english sailors as heretics. santa cruz reflected more deeply, and advised the king that such acts were positively courting disaster, because "the british corsairs had teeth, and could use them." spain looked upon her naval position as impregnable, but elizabeth's pirates contemptuously termed it "a colossus stuffed with clouts." priests, crucifixes, and reliance on supernatural assistance had no meaning for them. if any suggestion to impose on them by such means had been made, they would have cast the culprits over the side into the sea. they were peculiarly religious, but would tolerate no saintly humbugs who lived on superstition. when they had serious work in hand, they relied on their own mental and physical powers, and if they failed in their objective, they reverently remarked, "the reason is best known to god"--a simple, unadorned final phrase. some of the sayings and doings, reliable or unreliable, that have been handed down to us, are extremely comical, looking at them from our religious standpoint in these days; for instance, drake's method of dealing with insubordination, his idea of how treason was to be stamped out, and the trial of doughty, the traitor. people who sit in cosy houses, which these early sailors made it possible for them in other days and now to acquire, may regard many of the disciplinary methods of drake and his sea contemporaries as sheer savage murder, but these critics are not quite qualified to judge as to the justice or injustice of the actions of one man who is responsible for the safe and proper navigation of a vessel, no matter whether on an enterprising voyage of piracy, fair trade, or invasion. if a nautical project is to be carried out with complete success, the first element in the venture is discipline, and the early seafarers believed this, as their successors have always done, especially during the different periods of the sailing-ship era. a commander, if he wishes to be successful in keeping the spirit of rebellion under, must imbue those under him with a kind of awe. this only succeeds if the commander has a magnetic and powerful will, combined with quick action and sound, unhesitating judgment. all the greatest naval and military chiefs have had and must have now these essential gifts of nature if they are to be successful in their art. the man of dashing expediency without judgment or knowledge is a great peril in any responsible position. when either a ship or nation or anything else is in trouble, it is the cool, calculating, orderly administrator, who never makes chaos or destructive fuss, that succeeds. that is essential, and it is only this type of person that so often saves both ships, armies, and nations from inevitable destruction. the duke of wellington used to say that "in every case, the winning of a battle was always a damned near thing." one of the most important characteristics of drake's and hawkins' genius was their fearless accurate methods of putting the fear of god into the spaniards, both at sea and ashore. the mention of their names made philip's flesh creep. even admiral santa cruz, in common with his compatriots, thought drake was "the serpent"--"the devil." and the spanish opinion of him helped drake to win many a tough battle. amongst the thrilling examples are his dashes into corunna and cadiz. drake never took the risk before calculating the cost and making certain of where the vulnerable weak spot of the enemy lay, and when and where to strike it. the complete vanquishing of the armada is another instance of drake's great qualities of slashing yet sound judgment put accurately into effect. of course, the honours of the defeat of the armada must always be shared with other naval experts who had acquired their knowledge of sea warfare in what is called the piratical line. but the spirit that inflamed the whole british fleet was that of drake, hawkins, frobisher, seymour, and howard, and the inspiration came mainly from the two former. on the spanish side, as a naval battle, it was a fiasco, a mere colossal clerical burlesque. neither naval strategy nor ordinary seamanship was in evidence on the part of the chief commander or his admirals. the men fought with rough-and-tumble heroism. the sailors were only second in quality to our own, but there was no plan of battle, and the poor duke of medina sidonia had neither knowledge of naval affairs nor courage. philip's theory seems to have been that any lack of efficiency in the art of war by his commanders would be made up by the spiritual encouragement of the priests dangling their crucifixes about the decks amongst the sailors and soldiers, who had been put through a course of instruction on spiritual efficacy before sailing on their doomed expedition. they were made to believe that the spanish cause was so just that assistance would be given from god to defeat the "infernal devils" and to invade their country. this great battle transferred the sea supremacy from the spanish to the british, who have held it, with one interval, ever since, and will continue to hold it, provided that philip's theories of relying merely on the help that comes from above be supplemented by, first, the appointment of a proper head at the admiralty with some nautical instinct and knowledge of affairs; and secondly, the keeping up of an efficient fleet, manned with efficient officers and men. heaven helps those who help themselves. no department of government can be properly managed by novices. the reckless, experimental appointment of untried men to positions of grave responsibility on which the happiness, comfort, and life of the whole public may depend, and the very existence of the country be put in jeopardy, is a gamble, and may be a crime. it is always risky to assume that any person holding authority in the bigger affairs of life is in consequence an instrument of providence. had the conception of the armada and the organization of every detail been put into the hands of experienced and trained experts with sound judgment in naval matters, such as admiral santa cruz, and had it not been for philip and his landsman ideas of the efficacy of priests and crucifixes, and greenhorns such as the duke of medina sidonia and his landlubber colleagues, spain might never have been involved in the armada fight, and if she had, it is scarcely likely that so appalling a disaster could have come to her. apart from any fighting, the fact of having no better sea knowledge or judgment than to anchor the spanish ships in an open roadstead like calais was courting the loss of the whole spanish fleet. one of the fundamental precautions of seamanship is never to anchor on a lee shore or in an open roadstead, without a means of escape. the dunderheaded spanish commanders made their extermination much more easy for the highly trained british seamen of all grades, none of whom had any reason to hide their heads in shame for any part they individually took in the complete ruin of the spanish navy. one cannot read the sordid story without feeling a pang of pity for the proud men, such as recaldo, who died on landing at bilbao; or oquendo, whose home was at santander. he refused to see his wife and children, turned his face to the wall, and died of a broken heart begotten of shame. the soldiers and sailors were so weak they could not help themselves, and died in hundreds on the ships that crawled back to spain. the tragic fate of these vessels and their crews that were dashed to pieces on the rocks of the hebrides and ireland added greatly to the tale of horror. philip was crushed, but was a man of tender sympathies, and free from vindictive resentment against those who were placed in charge of his terrific and ill-fated navy. he worked and exhorted others to relieve the sufferers in every possible way. he obviously regarded the disaster as a divine rebuke, and submissively acquiesced with true spanish indolence, saying that he believed it to be the "great purpose of heaven." on the authority of the duke of parma, "the english regarded their victory with modesty, and were languidly indifferent to their valour." they looked upon the defeat of the spanish navy as a token of the ruler of all things being decidedly partial to the protestant faith. the spaniards, as a whole, would not allow that heaven was against them or that the verdict was that of providence. they declared that it was entirely the result of the superior management of the english ships and the fighting quality of their crews. with this chivalrous testimonial no one could then or will now disagree. it was very sporting of them to admit the superiority of the british ships and seamanship. drake and his compeers had reason to be proud of their efforts in the great naval contest. their reputations were enhanced by it all over the world, though never a sign or word came from themselves about their gallantry. they looked upon these matters as mere incidents of their enterprising lives. ii but it is really in the lesser sea encounters, though they probably had just as great results, that we become enthralled by drake's adventurous voyages. the armada affair was more like the battle of trafalgar, one of the differences being that in the latter engagement the spanish ships did not risk going far into the open sea, but wisely kept cadiz open for retreat, which they availed themselves of after receiving a dreadful pounding. drake's voyage in the _pelican_ excelled anything that had ever been accomplished by previous sea rovers, and his expedition to the west indies was a great feat. he always had trouble with queen elizabeth about money when organizing his voyages. her spanish brother-in-law's power was always in her thoughts. he never allowed her to forget that if he were provoked he would invade england, and notwithstanding her retort that england had a long arm which he would do well to fear, her courage alternated with some nervousness at times. elizabeth was not so much concerned about his threat of excommunication of her as the sly tricks in conjunction with the pope in spreading the spirit of rebellion in ireland, and in other ways conspiring against her. her mood was at one time to defy him, and at another conciliatory and fearful lest her pirate chiefs should do anything to provoke spanish susceptibilities. drake was much hampered by her moods when he wanted to get quickly to business, and never lost an opportunity of slipping out of her reach when his eloquence on the acquisition of untold wealth and the capture of some of philip's distant colonies had appealed to her boundless avarice and made her conscience easy. his expedition to the west indies might never have been undertaken had he not been a dare-devil fellow, to whom burleigh's wink was as good as a nod to be off. he slipped out of port unknown to her, and his first prize was a large spanish ship loaded with salt fish. he pounced upon her after passing ushant, and the excellent cargo was suitably distributed amongst the fleet. there were privateers, and a company of , men on this expedition. all were volunteers, and represented every grade of society, high and low. there was never any difficulty in getting a supply of men. on this occasion the applications largely outnumbered the posts available. drake could always depend upon volunteers, and, like all men of superb action, he had no liking for conscription. he knew that in the performance and carrying out of great deeds (and nearly all of his were terrific) it is men aflame with courage and enthusiasm that carry the day, and take them as a whole, conscripts are never wholehearted. the two great characteristics of the british race--initiative and endurance--are due to this burning flame of voluntarism. the west india expedition was organized and all expenses guaranteed by private individuals. the capital was £ , , and its allocation was £ , for expenses and £ , to be distributed amongst those who had volunteered to serve. both men and officers had signed on without any stipulation for wages. they knew they were out for a piratical cruise, and welcomed any danger, great or small, that would give them a chance of making it not only a monetary success, but one that would give spanish autocracy another shattering blow. these ancient mariners never trifled with life, and no sombre views or fatal shadows disturbed their spirited ambition or caused them to shrink from their strenuous and stupendous work. they went forth in their cockleshell fleet as full of hope and confidence as those who are accustomed to sail and man a transatlantic liner of the present day. some of their vessels were but little larger than a present-day battleship's tender. neither roaring forties nor cape horn hurricanes intimidated them. it is only when we stop to think, that we realize how great these adventurers were, and how much we owe to their sacred memories. in addition to being ridiculously small and shabby in point of efficiency in rigging, sails, and general outfit, it will always be a mystery how it was that so few were lost by stress of weather or even ordinary navigable risks. they were veritable boxes in design, and their rig alone made it impossible for them to make rapid passages, even if they had wished to do so. as i write these lines, and think of my own western ocean experiences in well-designed, perfectly equipped, large and small sailing vessels during the winter hurricane months, when the passages were made literally under water and every liquid mountain seemed to forebode immediate destruction, it taxes my nautical knowledge to understand how these inferior and smaller craft which drake commanded did not succumb to the same elements that have carried superior vessels in later years to their doom. one reason that occurs to me is that they were never deeply laden, and they were accustomed to ride hurricanes out when they had plenty of sea room at their sea anchors. but nothing can detract from what our generation may describe as their eccentric genius in combining navigation with piracy and naval and military art. talk about "human vision"! what is the good of it if it turns out nothing but unrestrained confusion? the men of the period i am writing about had real "vision," and applied it with accuracy without disorganizing the machinery of life and making the world a miserable place to live in. they were all for country and none for self. after the capture of the spanish ship and the appropriation of her cargo of fish, drake's fleet went lounging along towards vigo. in due course he brought his ships to anchor in the harbour, and lost no time in coming in contact with don pedro bendero, the spanish governor, who was annoyed at the british admiral's unceremonious appearance. don pedro said that he was not aware that his country was at war with britain. drake quickly disillusioned him, and demanded, "if we are not at war, why have english merchants been arrested?" don pedro said an order had come for their release. drake landed forthwith a portion of his force, and seeing that he meant business that foreboded trouble, the governor sent him wine, fruit, and other luxurious articles of food in abundance. the ships were anchored in a somewhat open roadstead, so drake resolved to take them farther up the waterway where they would lie comfortably, no matter from what direction the threatening storm might break. but he had another shrewd object in view, which was to make a beginning in acquiring any of the valuable and treasured possessions adorning the churches. a trusted officer who was in his confidence, and a great admirer of his wisdom and other personal qualities, was sent to survey the passage and to find a suitable anchorage. he was a man of enterprise, with a strong dislike to the roman catholic faith, and never doubted that he was perfectly justified in relieving the churches of plate and other valuables. these were, in his eyes, articles of idolatry that no man of puritanic and protestant principles could refrain from removing and placing under the safe keeping of his revered chief, who was no more averse to robbing a church than he was to robbing a ship carrying gold or fish. as the vessel in charge of this intrepid officer, whose name was carlile, approached the town where it was proposed to anchor the fleet the inhabitants fled, taking with them much of the church plate and other things which the british had covetously thought an appropriate prize of theirs. carlile, being a man of resource, soon laid hold of other church treasure, which amply compensated for the loss of that which was carried off by the fleeing inhabitants at the mouth of the harbour. the day following christopher carlile's satisfactory survey the fleet was anchored off the town. the sight of it threw the whole district into panic. a pompous governor of galicia hastened to vigo, and on his arrival there he took fright at the number of ships and the dreaded name of the pirate chief who was in command. it would be futile to show fight, so he determined to accommodate himself to the admiral's terms, which were that he should have a free hand to replenish the fleet with water and provisions, or any other odds and ends, without interference. this being accomplished, he agreed to sail, and no doubt the governor thought he had made a judicious bargain in getting rid of him so easily. but drake all the time had the spanish gold fleet in his mind. sacrifices must be made in order that it may be captured, so off he went for the cape de verde islands, and found when he got there that the treasure-ships had arrived and sailed only a few hours before. the disappointment was, according to custom, taken with christian composure. he had the aptitude of switching his mind from one form of warfare to another. as i have said, he would just as soon attack and plunder a city as a church or a ship. drake had missed the gold fleet, so he turned his attention to the treasures of santiago. when the governor and population were made aware that the distinguished visitor to their island was the terrible "el draque," they and their spiritual advisers as usual flew to the mountains, without neglecting to take their money and priceless possessions with them. drake looted as much as was left in the city of wine and other valuables, but he got neither gold nor silver, and would probably have left santiago unharmed but for the horrible murder of one of his sailor-boys, whose body was found hacked to pieces. this settled the doom of the finest built city in the old world. "el draque" at once set fire to it and burnt it to ashes, with that thoroughness which characterized all such dealings in an age when barbaric acts justified more than equivalent reprisals. it would have been a wiser course for the governor to have treated for the ransom of the town than to have murdered a poor sailor lad who was innocently having a stroll. it is balderdash to talk of the spaniards as being too proud to treat with a person whom they believed to be nothing better than a pirate. the spaniards, like other nationalities, were never too proud to do anything that would strengthen or maintain their supremacy. their apparent pride in not treating with drake at santiago and on other rare occasions was really the acme of terror at hearing his name; there was neither high honour nor grandee dignity connected with it. as to philip's kingly pride, it consisted in offering a special reward of £ , to have elizabeth's great sailor assassinated or kidnapped. there were many to whom the thought of the bribe was fascinating. numerous attempts were made, but whenever the assassins came within sound of his name or sight of him or his ships they became possessed of involuntary twitchy sensations, and fled in a delirium of fear, which was attributed to his being a magician. as soon as drake had avenged the sailor-boy's murder he sailed for the west indies. when he got into the hot latitudes the plague of yellow fever appeared, and nearly three hundred of his men died in a few days. arriving at dominica, they found the caribs had a deadly hatred of the spanish, and when they learned that the british were at war with spain they offered to prescribe a certain cure for yellow jack which was eminently effectual. after disinfecting the ships, and getting supplied with their requirements, the fleet left for san domingo, via st. kitts, which was uninhabited at that time. domingo was one of the most beautiful and most wealthy islands in the world. columbus and his brother, diego, are buried in the cathedral there. the population believed themselves to be immune from harm or invasion on this distant island home, but drake soon disillusioned them. his devoted lieutenant, christopher carlile, was selected as usual to find a suitable channel and landing, a hazardous and almost unattainable quest, but in his and drake's skilful hands their object was accomplished. the ships were brought into port, and in his usual direct way drake demanded that the garrison of the castle should surrender without parley, and it was done. drake was not finished with them yet; he wished to know from the governor what terms he was prepared to offer in order that the city should be saved from pillage. a negro boy was sent with this dispatch, and raging with the disgrace of surrendering to the british admiral, an officer ran a lance through the boy's body. the poor boy was just able to get back, and died immediately, close to where drake was. the spaniards had allowed their vicious pride to incite them to commit murder and to insult the british admiral, who promptly avenged both deeds by having two friars taken to the place where the boy had been stabbed, and there hanged. "el draque" sent a further note to the governor informing him that unless the officer who murdered his messenger was executed at once by the spanish authorities he would hang two friars for every day that it was put off. needless to say, no more friars were hung, as the officer paid the penalty of his crime without further delay. the lacerated dignity of the spaniards was still further tried by the demand for the ransom of the city, and their procrastination cost them dear. drake's theology was at variance with that of the founder of our faith. his method was rigid self-assertion, and the power of the strong. the affront he conceived to have been laid upon him and upon the country he represented could only be wiped out by martial law. theoretic babbling about equality had no place in his ethics of the universe. he proceeded to raid and burn both private dwellings, palaces, and magazines; and the government house, which was reputed to be the finest building in the world, was operated upon for a month, until it was reduced to dust. these are some of the penalties that would have gladdened the heart of the gallant beresford and his albert hall comrades of our time had they been carried out against the germans, who have excelled the spaniards of philip's reign in cultured murder and other brutalities in a war that has cost william ii his throne and brought the period of civilization perilously near its end. it may be that the instability of petty statesmanship is to disappear, and that providence may have in unseen reserve a group of men with mental and physical powers capable of subduing human virulence and re-creating out of the chaos the germans have made a new and enduring civilization; and when they shall appear their advent will be applauded by the stricken world. incidentally, it may be added that the german nation, which has endangered the existence of civilization, would never have been despised or thought ill of on account of its defeat by the allies. it is their unjustifiable method of beginning the war, and the dirty brutal tricks by which they sought to win it, which have created enduring mistrust and animosity against them. the law of human fairness is no more exacting to small communities or individuals than it is to nations. drake continued his relentless reprisals against san domingo. the burning of british sailors as heretics possessed his mind. the distracted governor would have given his soul to get rid of him, but drake demanded money, and this the governor pleaded was not available, but he was ultimately forced to provide , ducats, equalling £ , . this was accepted after the town had been shattered to pieces and the shipping destroyed. the cathedral was the only important building left intact, the probable reason being that the remains of the great navigator, columbus, were entombed there. already the mortality amongst drake's crew had been alarmingly heavy, and he was too wise a man to gamble with their lives until the bad season came on, so he settled up and hurried away into the fresh sea breezes, determined to give many more spanish possessions a thorough shaking up. the news that the freebooters were near at hand, and that they were committing shocking deeds of theft and destruction on the way, had filtered to the carribean sea, and struck the somnolent population with terror. carthagena, a magnificent city and the capital of the spanish main, was drake's next objective. he had large hopes of doing well there. the health of most of his crew had improved and was now robust, and their fighting spirits had been kindled to a high pitch by their gallant chief, whose eye of genius was centred on a big haul of material things. on arrival off the port, carlile, whose resource and courage were always in demand, was put in charge of a strong force. he led the attack, mounted the parapets, drove the spanish garrison away in confusion, killed the commander, and subsequently destroyed a large number of ships which were lazily lying in the port. many english prisoners were released, which was a godsend in filling the places of those who had died. the combative pretensions of the governor had received a severe shock. he was beaten, and drake, like a true sportsman, asked him and his suite to dine with him, and with an air of spanish dignity he accepted. the occasion was memorable for the royal way the distinguished guests were treated. the governor was studiously cordial, and obviously wished to win the favour of his remorseless visitors, so asked drake and his officers to do him the honour of accepting his hospitality in return, which they did. what form the interchange of civilities took is not quite clear, but the governor's apparent amiableness did not in any way move drake to exercise generosity. his object was ransom, and if this was agreed to good-naturedly, all the better for the spaniards, but he was neither to be bought nor sold by wily tactics, nor won over by golden-tongued rhetoric. the price of the rugged devonshire sailor's alternative of wild wrath and ruin was the modest sum of , ducats in hard cash. mutual convivialities and flowing courtesies were at an end; these were one thing and reparation for the incarceration and burning of unoffending british sailors as heretics was another. "deeds of blood and torture can never be atoned for in money or destruction of property. i am drake, 'el draque' if you like, and if you don't comply with my terms, you shall be destroyed." it was his habit openly to express himself in this way to philip's subjects, whether hostile or not, and we can imagine that similar views were uttered in the carthagena negotiations. the spaniards regarded his terms as monstrous impiety; they were aghast, pleaded poverty, and protested and swore by the holy office that the total amount they could find in the whole city was only , ducats. drake, with commendable prudence, seeing that he wished to get away from the fever zone without delay, appears to have accepted this amount, though authorities are at variance on this point. some say that he held out for his first claim and got it. i have not been able to verify which is the correct amount, but in all probability he got the , ducats. in any case, he piously charged them with deception in their plea of poverty, but came to terms, declaring, no doubt, that his own magnanimity astonished him. but for the sudden outbreak of sickness amongst his crew, the carthagenians would not have fared nearly so well. the city might have been, not only pillaged, but laid in ruins. as it was, he had emptied a monastery and blown the harbour forts to pieces. drake's intention was to visit panama, but the fever had laid heavy hands on his men. only a third of those who commenced the voyage with him were well enough to do work at all, notwithstanding the replenishment by released prisoners, so he was forced to abandon further enterprises and shape his course homewards as quickly as skilful navigation and the vagaries of wind and weather would allow. great deeds, even on this trip, stood to the credit of himself and crew. the accomplishments were far below what was expected at the outset in point of money value, but the priceless feature of the voyage was the enhanced respect for drake's name which had taken possession of the spanish race in every part of the world and subsequently made the defeat of the armada an easier task. this eager soul, who was really the pioneer of a new civilization, had still to face hard fate after the reluctant abandonment of his intention to visit panama. the sufferings of the adventurers from bad weather and shortness of water was severely felt on the passage to florida. but the rough leader never lost heart or spared himself in any way. he was obliged to heave-to at cape antonio (cuba), and here with indomitable courage went to work, putting heart into his men by digging with pick and shovel in a way that would have put a navvy to the blush, and when their efforts were rewarded he took his ships through the bahama channel, and as he passed a fort which the spaniards had constructed and used as a base for a force which had murdered many french protestant colonists in the vicinity, drake landed, found out the murderous purpose of the fort, and blew it to pieces. but that was not all. he also had the satisfaction of saving the remainder of an unsuccessful english settlement founded by sir walter raleigh, and of taking possession of everything that he could lay hands on from the spanish settlement of st. augustine. this was the last episode of plunder connected with an expedition that was ripe with thrilling incidents, and added to the fame of the most enterprising figure of the elizabethan reign. in point of profit to those who had financed the voyage it was not a success; but its political and ultimate commercial advantages were enormous. these early seamen of the seventeenth century, many of them amateurs, laid the foundation of the greatest navy and mercantile marine of the world. it is to these fascinating adventurers, too, that the generations which followed are indebted for the initiative in human comforts and progress. the superficial self-righteous critic may find it an agreeable pursuit to search out their blemishes; but these men cannot be airily dismissed in that manner. they towered above their fellows, the supreme product of the spirit of their day in adventure and daring; they fulfilled their great destiny, and left their indelible mark upon the life of their nation and of the world. their great emancipating heroism and reckless self-abnegation more than counterbalanced the faults with which the modern mind, judging their day by ours, is too prone to credit them, and whatever their deeds of perfidy may have been, they were imbued more with the idea of patriotism than with that of avarice. they were remarkable men, nor did they come into the life of the nation by chance, but for a purpose, and their memories are enshrined in human history. drake sailed for home as soon as he had embarked what was left of raleigh's colonists at roanoke river, virginia, and after a protracted and monotonous passage, arrived at plymouth on the th july, . the population received the news with acclamation. drake wrote to lord burleigh, bemoaning his fate in having missed the gold fleet by a few hours, and again placing his services at the disposal of his queen and country. the most momentous of all his commissions, especially to his own country, was in , when he destroyed a hundred ships in cadiz harbour. it was a fine piece of work, this "singeing of the king of spain's beard" as he called it, and by far excelled anything he had previously done. he captured the _san philip_, the king of spain's ship, which was the largest afloat. her cargo was valued at over one million sterling, in addition to which papers were found on board revealing the wealth of the east india trade. the knowledge of this soon found a company of capitalists, who formed the east india company, out of which our great indian empire was established. when the _san philip_ was towed into dartmouth harbour, and when it became known generally, the whole country was ablaze with excitement, and people travelled from far and near to see the leviathan. drake bore himself on this occasion with that sober modesty that characterized him always under any circumstances. his reputation stood higher now than ever, and it was no detriment to him that philip should shudder, and when he became virtuously agitated speak of him as "that fearful man drake." everywhere he was a formidable reality, strong, forbidding and terrible; his penetrating spirit saw through the plans of the enemies of his country and his vigorous counter-measures were invariably successful. the exalted part he took in the defeat of the armada has been briefly referred to in another part of this book. he was then at the height of his imposing magnificence and fame, but owing to the caprice of his royal mistress, who had an insatiable habit of venting her tudor temper indiscriminately, he fell under her displeasure, and for a time was in disgrace; but she soon discovered that his services, whatever his lack of success on apparently rash enterprises may have been, were indispensable at so critical a moment. he was recalled, and soon after sent on his melancholy last voyage. he had worn himself out in the service of his country. born at tavistock in , his eager spirit passed into the shadows off puerto bello on the th january, , and, as previously stated, he was buried three miles out at sea, and two of his prizes were sunk and laid beside him. the following beautiful lines of sir henry newbolt not only describe his patriotic and heroic end, but breathe the very spirit of the man who was one of the most striking figures of the elizabethan age:-- drake's drum. _ rd verse_: drake, he's in his hammock till the great armadas come, (capten, art tha sleepin' there below?) slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum, an' dreamin' arl the time o' plymouth hoe. call him on the deep sea, call him up the sound, call him when ye sail to meet the foe; where the old trade's plyin', and the old flag flyin', they shall find him ware an' wakin', as they found him long ago! nelson and his circle i the tradition created by drake and hawkins was carried on by nelson and collingwood in a different age and under different conditions, and the same heroic spirit animated them all. nelson must certainly have been familiar with the enthralling tales of these men and of their gallant colleagues, but without all the essential qualities born in him he could not have been the victor of trafalgar. men have to do something distinctive, that sets the human brain on fire, before they are really recognized as being great; then all others are put in the shade, no matter how necessary their great gifts may be to fill up the gaps in the man of initiative and of action. drake could not have done what he did had he not had the aid of frobisher, and jervis would not have become earl st. vincent had he not been supported by nelson at the battle of that name; and we should never have seen the imposing monument erected in trafalgar square had nelson been without his collingwood. victorious and valiant performances do not come by chance, and so it comes to pass in the natural course of human law that if our jervises, nelsons, and collingwoods, who are the prototypes of our present-day heroes, had not lived, we should not have had our fishers, jellicoes, and beattys. nelson was always an attractive personality and by no means the type of man to allow himself to be forgotten. he believed he was a personage with a mission on earth, and never an opportunity was given him that did not confirm this belief in himself. horatio nelson was the son of the rev. edmund nelson, and was born at burnham thorpe on the th september, . his mother died in , and left eight children. her brother, captain maurice suckling, was appointed to the _raisonable_ three years after her death, and agreed, at the request of horatio himself and the instigation of his father, after some doubtful comments as to the boy's physical suitableness for the rough life of a sailor, to take him; so on the st january, , he became a midshipman on the _raisonable._ on the nd may he either shipped of his own accord or was put as cabin-boy on a merchant vessel which went to the west indies, and ended his career in the merchant service at the end of an eventful voyage. in july he became midshipman on board the _triumph_. this was the real starting-point of his naval career and of the development of those great gifts that made him the renowned admiral of the world. twenty-two years after joining his uncle's ship he was made captain of the _agamemnon_. at the siege of calvi in he was wounded in the right eye and lost the sight of it. three years afterwards he lost his right arm while commanding an attack on santa cruz, and although he had put so many sensational events into his life up to that time, it was not until the battle of st. vincent that he began to attract attention. he had been promoted rear-admiral before the news of the battle was known, and when the news reached england the public enthusiasm was irrepressible. jervis was made an earl, with £ , a year pension, and the king requested that he should take his title from the name of the battle. nelson refused a baronetcy, and was made, at his own request, a knight of the bath, receiving the thanks of the city of london and a sword. all those who were in prominent positions or came to the front in this conflict received something. it was not by a freak of chance that the authorities began to see in nelson the elements of an extraordinary man. nor was it mere chance that they so far neglected him that he was obliged to force himself upon the admiralty in order to get them to employ him. the nation was in need of a great spirit, and providence had been preparing one for many years before the ruling authorities discovered that nelson was their man of the future. for several months he was tearing about the seas in search of the french fleet. he popped into naples on the th june, , ostensibly to know if anything had been heard of it, and no doubt he took the opportunity of having a word with sir william and lady hamilton, who were to come so romantically into his life. he found the french fleet at anchor in aboukir bay and sailed upon it with such amazing audacity that the heart was knocked out of them at the very outset. neither the french admiral nor anybody else would have expected the british fleet to run their ships between them and the shore at the risk of grounding. the _culloden_ _did_ ground. the french had out of ships put out of action, but the british fleet suffered severely also, and the loss of men was serious.[ ] out of a total of , men, were killed and wounded. nelson himself was badly wounded on the forehead, and as the skin fell down on his good eye and the blood streamed into it, he was both dazed and blinded. he shouted to captain berry as he was staggering to a fall, "i am killed; remember me to my wife." but there was a lot more work for him to do before the fatal day. he was carried below, believing the injury would prove fatal, in spite of the assurances to the contrary of the surgeon who was in attendance. although nelson's courage can never be doubted, there is something very curious in his constant, eccentric foreboding of death and the way in which he scattered his messages about to one and another. this habit increased amazingly after his conflict with the french at the nile. he seems to have had intermittent attacks of hypochondria. the wound incident at aboukir must have given great amusement as well as anxiety to those about him. unquestionably the wound had the appearance at first of being mortal, but the surgeon soon gave a reassuring opinion, and after binding up the ugly cut he requested his patient to remain below. but nelson, as soon as he knew he was not going to die, became bored with the inactivity and insisted on writing a dispatch to the admiralty. his secretary was too excited to carry out his wishes, so he tackled it himself. but his suffering being great and his mind in a condition of whirling confusion, he did not get far beyond the beginning, which intimated that "almighty god had blessed his majesty's arms." the battle raged on. the _orient_ was set on fire and her destruction assured. when nelson was informed of the terrible catastrophe to the great french line-of-battle ship, he demanded to be assisted to the deck, whereupon he gave instructions that his only boat not destroyed was to be sent with the _vanguard's_ first lieutenant to render assistance to the crew. he remained on deck until the _orient_ blew up, and was then urged to go to bed. but sleep under the circumstances and in view of his own condition would not come. all night long he was sending messages directing the plan of battle the news of which was to enthral the civilized world. nelson himself was not satisfied. "not one of the french vessels would have escaped," he said, "if it had pleased god that he had not been wounded." this was rather a slur on those who had given their best blood and really won the battle. notwithstanding the apparent egotism of this outburst, there are sound reasons for believing that the admiral's inspiring influence was much discounted by his not being able to remain on deck. the sight of his guiding, magnetic figure had an amazing effect on his men, but i think it must be admitted that nelson's head was not in a condition at that time to be entirely relied upon, and those in charge of the different ships put the finishing touches to the victory that was won by the force of his courage and commanding genius in the initial stages of the struggle. ii nelson was a true descendant of a race of men who had never faltered in the traditional belief that the world should be governed and dominated by the british. his king, his country, and particularly the profession to which he belonged, were to him the supreme authorities whose destiny it was to direct the affairs of the universe. with unfailing comic seriousness, intermixed with occasional explosions of bitter violence, he placed the french low down in the scale of the human family. there was scarcely a sailor adjective that was not applied to them. carlyle, in later years, designated the voice of france as "a confused babblement from the gutters" and "scarcely human"; "a country indeed with its head cut off"; but this quotation does not reach some of the picturesque heights of nautical language that was invented by nelson to describe his view of them. both he and many of his fellow-countrymen regarded the chosen chief on whom the french nation had democratically placed an imperial crown as the embodiment of a wild beast. the great admiral was always wholehearted in his declamation against the french people and their leaders who are our present allies fighting against that country which now is, and which napoleon predicted to his dying day would become, one of the most imperious, inhuman foes to civilization. nelson and his government at that time thought it a merciful high policy of brotherhood to protect and re-create prussia out of the wreck to which napoleon had reduced it; the result being that the military spirit of prussia has been a growing, determined menace to the peace of the world and to the cause of human liberty in every form since the downfall of the man who warned us at the time from his exiled home on the rock of st. helena that our policy would ultimately reflect with a vengeance upon ourselves, and involve the whole world in a great effort to save itself from destruction. he foresaw that prussia would inveigle and bully the smaller german states into unification with herself, and, having cunningly accomplished this, that her perfidy would proceed to consolidate the united fabric into a formidable power which would crush all others by its military superiority; this dream of universal control of human life and affairs was at one time nearly realized. the german empire has bankrupted herself in men, necessaries of life, and money. but that in no degree minimizes the disaster she has wrought on those who have had to bleed at every pore to avoid annihilation. the allies, as well as the central powers, are no longer going concerns. it will take generations to get back to the point at which we started in . but the tragic thought of all is the enormous sacrifice of life, and the mental and physical wrecks that have survived the savage, brutal struggle brought on a world that was, and wished to remain, at peace, when in the central powers arrogantly forced the pace which caused an alliance to be formed quickly by their enemies to save them from the doom which napoleon, with his clear vision, had predicted would come. it was fitting that nelson should by every conceivable means adopt methods of declamation against the french, if by doing so he thought it would inspire the men whom he commanded with the same conquering spirit he himself possessed. his country was at war with the french, and he was merely one of the instruments appointed to defeat them, and this may account for his ebullitions of hatred from time to time. i have found, however, no record that would in any way show that it was intended as surface policy, so it may be concluded that his dislike was as deep-seated as it appeared. nelson never seems to have shown evidences of being a humbug by saying things which he did not believe. he had a wholesome dislike of the french people and of bonaparte, who was their idol at that time. but neither he nor his government can be credited with the faculty of being students of human life. he and they believed that paris was the centre of all that was corrupt and brutal. napoleon, on the other hand, had no real hatred of the british people, but during his wars with their government his avowed opinion was that "all the ills, and all the scourges that afflict mankind, came from london." both were wrong in their conclusions. they simply did not understand each other's point of view in the great upheaval that was disturbing the world. the british were not only jealous and afraid of napoleon's genius and amazing rise to eminence--which they attributed to his inordinate ambition to establish himself as the dominating factor in the affairs of the universe--but they determined that his power should not only not be acknowledged, but destroyed, and their policy after twenty years of bitter war was completely accomplished. the merits or demerits of british policy must always remain a matter of controversy. it is too big a question to deal with here. napoleon said himself that "everything in the life of man is subject to calculation; the good and evil must be equally balanced." other true sayings of his indicate that he, at any rate, _was_ a student of human life, and knew how fickle fortune is under certain conditions. "reprisals," he declared, "are but a sad resource"; and again, no doubt dwelling on his own misfortunes, but with vivid truth all the same, he declares that "the allies gained by victory will turn against you upon the bare whisper of our defeat." iii after his victory on the nile, nelson fully expected to be created a viscount, and his claim was well supported by hood, his old admiral. he was made baron nelson of the nile, and given a pension of £ , per annum--a poor recompense for the great service he had rendered to his country. but that was by no means the measure of the public gratitude. he was acclaimed from every corner of great britain as the national hero. the city of london presented him with a two hundred guinea sword, and a vote of thanks to himself, officers and men. there was much prayer and thanksgiving, and several women went as daft as brushes over him. one said her heart was absolutely bursting with all sorts of sensations. "i am half mad," says she, and any one who reads the letter will conclude that she understated her mental condition. but of all the many letters received by nelson none surpasses in extravagance of adulation that written by amy lyon, the daughter of a village blacksmith, born at great neston in cheshire, in , who had come to london in the early part of , fallen into evil ways and given birth to a little girl. she was then left destitute and sank as low as it is possible for a woman to do. she rose out of the depths into which she had fallen by appearing as the goddess of health in the exhibition of a james graham. sir henry featherstonehaugh took her under his protection for close on twelve months, but owing to her extravagance and faithlessness he turned her out when within a few months of a second child, which was stillborn. the first was handed over to her grandmother to take care of. charles greville, the second son of the earl of warwick, then took her to live with him. she had intimate relations with him while she was still featherstonehaugh's mistress, and he believed the child about to be born was his. at this time amy lyon changed her name to emily hart. greville went to work on business lines. he struck a bargain that all her previous lovers were to be dropped, and under this compact she lived with him in a respectable manner for nearly four years. he gave her some education, but she seems to have had natural genius, and her beauty was undisputed. emily hart sat to romney,[ ] the artist, and it is said that twenty-three portraits were painted, though some writers have placed the number at over forty. "marinda," "sibyl," and the "spinstress" were amongst them. the pictures bring high prices; one, i think called "sensibility," brought, in , over £ , . notwithstanding her lowly birth (which has no right to stop any one's path to greatness) and lack of chastity, she had something uncommon about her that was irresistibly attractive. sir william hamilton, greville's uncle, returned to england some time in from naples, where he was the british minister. it was said that he was in quest of a second wife, the first having died some two years before. greville did not take kindly to the idea of sir william marrying again, because he was his heir. he thought instead that, being in financial trouble himself, he would try to plant emma on his uncle, not with the object of marriage, but of her becoming his mistress. sir william was captivated with the girl, which made it easy for the shameless nephew to persuade his uncle to take her off his hands. emma, however, was in love with greville, and there were indications of revolt when the astute lady discovered that serious negotiations were proceeding for her transference from nephew to uncle. it took twelve months to arrive at a settlement. there does not appear to have been a signed agreement, but there certainly was a tacit understanding that sir william was to assist greville out of his difficulties, in return for which emma was to join him at naples, ostensibly as a visitor. she writes imploringly to greville to answer her letters, but never an answer came, and in utter despair she tells him at last that she will not become his uncle's concubine, and threatens to make hamilton marry her. this poor wretched woman was human, after all, and indeed she gave convincing proofs of many high qualities in after-years, but in the passion of her love for the dissolute scamp who bartered her away she pleaded for that touch of human compassion that never came. she knew that her reprobate lover was fearful lest she should induce his uncle to marry her, and she may have had an instinctive feeling that it was part of the contract that she was to be warded off if any attempt of the kind were made likely to endanger his prospects of becoming hamilton's heir. his indifference made her venomously malignant, and she sent him a last stab that would at least give him a troubled mind, even though it should not cause him to recall her; she would then pursue her revenge by ignoring him. it is a sordid story which smears the pages of british history. emma lived with the british ambassador at naples as his mistress. he was popular in this city of questionable morals at that time. she was beautiful and developed remarkable talents as a singer, and was a bright, witty, fascinating conversationalist. she worked hard at her studies, and became a fluent speaker of the italian language. hamilton had great consideration for her, and never risked having her affronted because of the liaison. her singing was a triumph. it is said she was offered £ , to go to madrid for three years and £ , for a season in london. she invented classic attitudes. goethe said that "sir william hamilton, after long love and study of art, has at last discovered the most perfect of the wonders of nature and art in a beautiful young woman. she lives with him, and is about twenty years old. she is very handsome, and of a beautiful figure. what the greatest artists have aimed at is shown in perfection, in movement, in ravishing variety. standing, kneeling, sitting, lying down, grave or sad, playful, exulting, repentant, wanton, menacing, anxious, all mental states follow rapidly one after another. with wonderful taste she suits the folding of her veil to each expression, and with the same handkerchief makes every kind of head-dress. the old knight holds the light for her, and enters into the exhibition with his whole soul." sir william had twelve of the "representations" done by a german artist named frederick rehberg, entitled "drawings faithfully copied from nature at naples." hamilton married emma in in england, and when they returned to naples she was presented to the queen, and ultimately became on intimate terms with her majesty of naples, whose questionable morals were freely spoken of. emma quickly attained a high social standing, but it is doubtful whether she exercised that influence over the queen of which she liked to boast. in september, , nelson was at naples by orders, and was the guest of the hamiltons for a few days. he had not been there for five years, yet the precious emma, without decorum or ceremony, sent him a written whirlwind of congratulations on the occasion of his victory at the nile. every line of the letter sends forth crackling sparks of fiery passion. she begins, "my dear, dear sir," tells him she is delirious, that she fainted and fell on her side, "and am hurt," when she heard the joyful news. she "would feel it a glory to die in such a cause," but she cannot die until she has embraced "the victor of the nile." then she proceeds to describe the transports of maria carolina. "she fainted too, cried, kissed her husband, her children, walked, frantic with pleasure, about the room, cried, kissed and embraced everybody near her." then she continues, "oh! brave nelson! oh! god bless and protect our brave deliverer! oh! nelson, nelson! oh! victor! oh! that my swollen heart could now tell him personally what we owe to him. my dress from head to foot is allah nelson. my earrings are nelson's anchors." she sends him some sonnets, and avers that she must have taken a ship to "send all what is written on you." and so she goes on, throwing herself into his arms, metaphorically speaking, at every sentence. when the _vanguard_ arrived at naples, nelson invited lady hamilton on board and she was no sooner on the deck than she made one dramatic plunge at him, and proceeded to faint on the poor shattered man's breast. nelson, whose besetting weakness was love of approbation, became intoxicated with the lady's method of making love. poor gallant fellow! he was, like many another, the victim of human weakness. he immediately believed that he and emma had "found each other," and allowed himself to be flattered with refined delicacy into a liaison which became a fierce passion, and tested the loyalty of his closest friends to breaking-point. how infinitely pathetic is this piteous story from beginning to end! like most sailors, nelson had a fervent, religious belief in the eternal, and never went to battle without casting himself on the mercy of the infinite pity which alone can give solace. he was fearless and strong in the affairs of his profession, and it may be safely assumed that, even if it went no deeper, he had a mystic fear of god, and was lost to all other fear. i think it was carlyle who said, "god save us from the madness of popularity. it invariably injures those who get it." there never was a truer thing said, and it is sadly true of our great national hero. not many months had passed before the dispenser of his praises had become his proprietor. it is doubtful whether emma ever loved him, but that does not concern any one. what does concern us is the imperious domination she exercised over him. no flighty absurdities of fiction can equal the extravagance of his devotion to her, and his unchecked desire to let every one know it. he even informs lady nelson that lady hamilton is the very best woman in the world and an honour to her sex, and that he had a pride in having her as a friend. he writes to lord st. vincent that she is "an angel," and has honoured him in being his ambassadress to the queen and is worthy of his confidence. again he writes, "our dear lady hamilton, whom to see is to admire, but to know are to be added honour and respect; her head and heart surpass her beauty, which cannot be equalled by anything i have seen." it is impossible to suppose that a man could fall so violently in love with this extraordinary creature and permit her to come so intimately into his life without injury to his judgment and to those keen mental qualities which were needed at that time in the service of his country. such loss of control must surely have been followed by mental and intellectual deterioration. this lady of varied antecedents was the intermediary between the court of naples and himself, and it is now an authentic fact that it was on the advice of the queen and emma that naples entered into a war, the result of which was the complete defeat of the neapolitans; the court and the hamiltons had to fly to palermo and nelson again lived with the minister and his wife. he again pours out the virtues and charms of lady hamilton, to whom he gives the credit of engineering the embarkation of the royal family and two and a half million sterling aboard the _vanguard_. after giving st. vincent another dose of emma, he goes on to say, "it is my duty to tell your lordship the obligations which the whole royal family, as well as myself, are under on this trying occasion to her ladyship." her ladyship, still hankering after her old friend greville, writes him, "my dear adorable queen and i weep together, and now that is our only comfort." it is no concern of ours, but it looks uncommonly as though greville still held the field, and the opinion of many that nelson would not have had much chance against her former lover is borne out by many facts. amongst the saddest stories that raged about the hamiltons, their friends, and nelson was the scandal of gambling for large stakes. some are persistent in the assertion that the report was well founded, and others that it was not so bad as it was made out to be. lady hamilton asserted that the stories were all falsehoods invented by the jacobinical party, but her ladyship's veracity was never to be relied upon. perhaps a foundation of truth and a large amount of exaggeration sums up the reports, so we must let it go at that. troubridge seems to have been convinced that his admiral was in the midst of a fast set, for he sends a most imploring remonstrance to him to get out of it and have no more incense puffed in his face. this was fine advice, but the victor of the nile made no response. iv nelson was little known to his countrymen before the st. vincent battle. but after the victory of the nile his name became immortal, and he could take any liberty he liked with our national conventionalisms. even his love affairs were regarded as heroics. he refused occasionally to carry out instructions when he thought his own plans were better, and it was winked at; but had any of them miscarried, the memory of st. vincent and the nile would not have lived long. when he arrived with the hamiltons in london after his long absence and victorious record, the mob, as usual, took the horses from the carriage and dragged him along cheapside amid tumultuous cheers. whenever he appeared in public the same thing happened. at court, things were different. his reception was offensively cold, and george iii ran some risk when he affronted his most popular subject by turning his back on him. whatever private indiscretions nelson may have been guilty of, nothing could justify so ungrateful an act of ill-mannered snobbery. the king should have known how to distinguish between private weakness, however unconventional, and matchless public service. but for the fine genius and patriotism of this noble fellow, he might have lost his crown. the temper of a capricious public in an era of revolution should not be tested by freaks of royal self-righteousness, while its imagination is being stirred by the deeds of a national hero. his action might have brought the dignity of george's kingliness into the gutter of ridicule, which would have been a public misfortune. the king's treatment of nelson was worse than tactless; it was an impertinence. king edward vii, whose wisdom and tact could always be trusted, might have disapproved, as strongly as did george iii, nelson's disregard of social conventions, but he would have received him on grounds of high public service, and have let his private faults, if he knew of them, pass unnoticed, instead of giving him an inarticulate snub. still, a genius of naval distinction, or any other, has no right to claim exemption from a law that governs a large section of society, or to suppose that he may not be criticized or even ostracized if he defiantly offends the susceptibilities of our moral national life. and it is rather a big tax on one's patience for a man, because of his exalted position and distinguished deeds of valour and high services rendered to the state, to expect that he may be granted licence to parade his gallantries with women in boastful indifference to the moral law that governs the lives of a large section of the community. there are undoubtedly cases of ill-assorted unions, but it does not lie within our province to judge such cases. they may be victims of a hard fate far beyond the knowledge of the serene critics, whose habit of life is to sneak into the sacred affairs of others, while their own may be in need of vigilant enquiry and adjustment. it would hardly be possible, with the facts before us, to say a word in mitigation of nelson's ostentatious infatuation for lady hamilton, were it not that he can never be judged from the same standpoint as ordinary mortals. that is not to say that a man, mentally constituted as he was, should not be amenable to established social laws. nelson was a compound of peculiarities, like most men who are put into the world to do something great. he was amusingly vain, while his dainty vanity so obscured his judgment that he could not see through the most fulsome flattery, especially that of women. at the same time he was professionally keen, with a clear-seeing intellect, dashing, flawless courage, and a mind that quickly grasped the weak points of the enemy's position or formation. he fought the old form of sea warfare by methods that were exclusively his, and sent his opponents staggering into confusion. once a plan of battle had been arranged, he never faltered in his judgment, and only manoeuvred as circumstances arose, but always with that unexpected rush and resource which carried with it certain victory. nelson's great talents and his victories caused society outwardly to overlook his connection with the notorious lady hamilton. but the gossips were always at work. on this point he does not seem to have realized that he was playing pranks with society, though there were abundant evidences of it. he was offended because at dresden, on their way to england, the electress refused to receive his mistress on account of her antecedents, and no court was held during their stay. of course emma was given the cold shoulder in england by the court and by society. nelson told his friend collingwood of his own treatment, and added that, either as a public or private man, he wished nothing undone which he had done. he told collingwood of his cold reception by the king, but it seems quite obvious that he maintained his belief that his connection with emma had no right to be questioned by his majesty or any of his subjects, and he held this view to the last. he would have none of the moralists' cant lavished on him, and by his consistent attitude seemed to say, "hands off my private life! if i _did_ introduce lady hamilton to my wife at her apartments on my arrival in england after two and a half years' absence, when she was on the point of becoming the mother of horatia, what business is that of yours? i will have none of your abstract morality. get away, and clean up your own morals before you talk to me of mine." the above is what i think a man of nelson's temperament might say to the people who wished to warn him against the dangerous course he was pursuing. lady nelson does not seem to have been a woman who could appeal to a man like nelson. the fact is she may have been one of those unamiable, sexless females who was either coldly ignoring her husband or storing up in her heart any excuse for hurling at him the most bitter invective with which she might humiliate him. she does not appear to have been a vulgar shrieker, but she may have been a silent stabber, which is worse. in any case, nelson seems to have made a bad choice, as by his actions he openly avowed that he preferred to live with the former mistress of featherstonehaugh, greville, and hamilton, rather than with his lawful wife; and he, without a doubt, was the best judge as to which of them suited him best. the truth remains that emma was attractive and talented, and although lowly born, she became the bosom companion of kings, queens, princesses, princes, and of many men and women of distinction. nelson must have been extraordinarily simple to imagine that his wife, knowing, as all the world knew, that lady hamilton was his mistress and a bold, unscrupulous rival, would receive her with rapturous friendliness. the amazing puzzle to most people, then and now, is why she received her at all, unless she wished to worm out of her the precise nature of the intimacy. that may have been her definite purpose in allowing the visits for two or three months; then one day she flew into a rage, which conjures up a vision of hooks and eyes bursting like crackers from her person, and after a theatrical display of temper she disappears like a whirling tempest from the presence of her faithless husband, never again to meet him. this manner of showing resentment to the gallant sailor's fondness for the wife of sir william hamilton was the last straw. there was nothing dignified in lady nelson's tornado farewell to her husband; rather, if the records may be relied on, it was accompanied by a flow of abuse which could only emanate from an enraged termagant. nelson now had a free hand. his wife was to have a generous allowance on condition that she left him alone freely to bestow his affections on the seductive emma, whose story, retold by mr. harrison, shows lady nelson to have been an impossible woman to live with. she made home hell to him, so he said. and making liberal allowance for emma's fibbing propensities, there are positive evidences that her story of nelson's home life was crammed with pathetic truths of domestic misery. nelson corroborates this by a letter to emma almost immediately after his wife's ludicrous exit. the letter is the outpouring of an embittered soul that had been freed from purgatory and was entering into a new joy. it is a sickening effusion of unrestrained love-making that would put any personage of penny-novel fame to the blush. i may as well give the full dose. here it is:-- now, my own dear wife: for such you are in the sight of heaven, i can give full scope to my feelings, for i dare say oliver will faithfully deliver this letter. you know, my dearest emma, that there is nothing in this world that i would not do for us to live together, and to have our dear little child with us. i firmly believe that this campaign will give us peace, and then we will set off for bronte. in twelve hours we shall be across the water, and freed from all the nonsense of his friends, or rather pretended ones. nothing but an event happening to him could prevent my going; and i am sure you will think so, for, unless all matters accord, it would bring a hundred of tongues and slanderous reports if i separated from her, which i would do with pleasure the moment we can be united. i want to see her no more; therefore we must manage till we can quit this country, or your uncle dies. i love you: i never did love any one else. i never had a dear pledge of love till you gave me one; and you, thank my god, never gave one to anybody else. i think before march is out, you will either see us back, or so victorious that we shall ensure a glorious issue to our toils. think what my emma will feel at seeing return safe, perhaps with a little more fame, her own dear nelson. never, if i can help it, will i dine out of my ship or go on shore, except duty calls me. let sir hyde have any glory he can catch, i envy him not. you, my beloved emma, and my country, are the two dearest objects of my fond heart. _a heart susceptible and true._ only place confidence in me, and you shall never be disappointed. i burn all your dear letters, because it is right for your sake; and i wish you would burn all mine--they can do no good, and will do us both harm if any seizure of them; or the dropping even one of them would fill the mouths of the world sooner than we intend. my longing for you, both person and conversation, you may readily imagine (especially the person). no, my heart, person, and mind are in perfect union of love towards my own dear, beloved emma, the real bosom friend of her, all hers, all emma's. nelson and bronte. the prince of wales had dined with and paid suspicious attentions to emma, and her fond lover, knowing this, advised her to warn him off. he probably had an instinct that his "beloved emma," who is "the dearest object of his fond heart," was not quite strong enough to resist temptation. especially would she be likely to fall under the fascinating influence of this little princely scamp. nelson's mind turned to his wife, and he emphasized the desire that he might never see his aversion again. nor did he. some of his contemporaries doubted the paternity of horatia; nelson never did, and it would be hard to find a more beautiful outpouring of love than that which he unfailingly gave to his little daughter. every thought of his soul was divided between her and the audacious flirt of a mother whom nelson, always lavish, calls "his love"; "his darling angel"; "his heaven-given wife"; "the dearest, only true wife of his own till death." the "till death" finish is quite sailorly! no one will doubt his amazing faculty for love-making and love-writing, and it must always be a puzzle how he managed to mix it so successfully with war. his guilty love-making was an occasional embarrassment to him, and though he was the greatest naval tactician of his time, his domestic methods were hopelessly clumsy and transparent. for instance, in pouring out his grievances to his mistress he refers to himself by the name of thompson, and to lady nelson as aunt. here are a few examples:--"thompson desires me to say he has never wrote his aunt since he sailed." "in twelve hours we shall be across the water, and freed from all the nonsense of his friends, or rather, pretended ones." "his" means hamilton, and "friends" means the prince of wales, whom he looked upon as a rival for emma's accommodating affections. again, he says, "if i separated from her, which i would do with pleasure the moment we can be united." "her" is lady nelson, but in discussing delicate matters of domestic policy he thinks it desirable to conceal that he would not weep were he to hear of sir william's death, or be broken with grief to separate entirely from lady nelson, so that he might become "united to his heaven-given wife," "our darling angel, emma." v the admiralty did a great injustice to the victor of the nile by appointing sir hyde parker commander-in-chief, instead of one who was known to be the most brilliant officer in the navy. it must have cut deeply into nelson's proud soul to have to serve under a man who had not a particle of initiative; and, but for the splendid bravery and matchless talents of his second, the wooden walls of old england would have been sent to davy jones by the forts of copenhagen and the danish fleet. sir hyde did not relish having nelson with him at all. he sulked, and treated him in a way that was observed and resented by those who served under him. the commander-in-chief acted like a jealous maiden, his intention being to freeze and humiliate the man who was destined to win the victory and save the british fleet from entire destruction. there always has been tremendous jealousy in the navy. but sir hyde parker should have known that he was dealing with an officer (who was the genius of the navy) who would stand no nonsense from any lord high admiral or other fussy dignitary whom he could put in his pocket whenever he liked to exercise his personality. nelson never shirked responsibility when his country's interests were being endangered by a dignified snob. discipline, so far as he was concerned until his object was gained, was pushed aside, and the great spirit swept into the vortex of the danger and extinguished all opposition. he said on one occasion, "i hate your pen-and-ink men. a fleet of british warships are the best negotiators in europe." i have said that parker was in the "sulks," so nelson adopted a humorous plan of thawing the ice by catching a turbot on the dogger bank on the passage out to the baltic. a sly seaman had told him that this kind of fish was easily caught, so when they arrived on the bank the fishing commenced, and the turbot was caught. nelson knew his commander-in-chief was never averse to eating, so he gave orders to have it sent to sir hyde, and although the sea was dangerous for a small boat, the fish was in due course presented to parker, who sent back a cordial note of thanks. this ingenious stratagem eased the strained relations between the two men, but there still remained a feeling on the part of the commander-in-chief that the electric and resourceful spirit of nelson would, in any engagement, be the dominating factor, with or without official sanction. he knew how irresistibly nelson's influence permeated the fleet, for no man knew better than this much-envied vice-admiral how to enthuse his comrades (high and low) in battle, and also what confidence the nation as a whole had in what he called the "nelson touch." sir hyde parker, knowing nelson's superb qualities, should have paused and considered the consequences before he slyly sought to put such a man in the shade. there was not a man in the whole squadron who would not have gone to his doom under nelson's lead rather than live under any other's. nelson inspired men with the same love of glory which he craved for himself. no real sailor ever did like to sail under a hesitating, nervous commander. parker, at the battle of copenhagen, gives one (from all accounts) the impression of unsureness, afraid to take any risk lest it be the wrong one. nelson was always sure, and never hesitated to put into practice his considered views. parker, at a critical moment in the battle of copenhagen, hoisted no. , which meant "leave off action." nelson shrugged his shoulders, and said, "no, i'm damned if i do," and kept his own "engage the enemy more closely" flying. he then added to captain foley, "i have only one eye, and have a right to be blind sometimes." he then put the telescope to his blind eye, and said, "i really do not see the signal." unfortunately, some of the ships retired, and one able fellow, captain riou, who knew it was a wrong move, was so distressed that he called out in despair to one of his officers beside him, "what will nelson think of us?" the poor captain was subsequently killed. there can be no doubt now that the signal was not permissive or optional, nor that nelson, having the enemy by the throat, refused to let go until he had strangled him, nor that he did dramatically act the blind-eye trick. he deliberately disobeyed orders, and saved england's honour and fleet by doing so. it was one of his splendid performances, and the story of it will live on into distant ages. who can calculate the loss of national prestige or the lives that have been thrown away by putting severely decorous senior officers over the heads of men who knew their business better and had the courage and capacity to carry through big naval or military tasks? and how tempting it must be to many a gallant fellow to take the business into his own hands! nelson knew well enough that he had laid himself open to the full penalty of naval law, but he knew also that if any of the moth-eaten crew at whitehall even hinted it there would be "wigs on the green." no man knew the pulse of the nation better, and no commander played up to it less. one can imagine hearing him say to some of his officers (perhaps captain hardy of trafalgar fame), after he had wrecked the danish fleet and battered the forts into a dilapidated condition, "well, i have fought contrary to orders, and they will perhaps hang me; never mind, let them." a significant "let them" this, which means more than he cares to express. the danes frankly admitted that they had been beaten, and that even their defence was destroyed, as the crown batteries could not be held. instead of any talk of "hanging" him because of his "disobedience," he was made a viscount and his rear-admiral (graves) a knight of the bath. these were the only two significant honours conferred. when he landed at copenhagen, it is said that the people viewed him with a mixture of admiration and hostility. he thought they were extremely amiable. they cheered and shouted "god bless lord nelson!" there can be no reason for their doing this, except gratitude to him for not blowing the city down about their ears. whatever the cause, it is quite certain that the crown prince and some of the danish statesmen treated him with studied cordiality. sir hyde parker was a drag, and indeed, an intolerable nuisance to him. when the armistice was sealed and settled for fourteen weeks, he wished to get of to reval and hammer the russian squadron there, but the commander-in-chief shirked all responsibility, and his victim was made to say in a letter to lord st. vincent "that he would have been in reval fourteen days before, and that no one could tell what he had suffered," and asks my dear lord "if he has deserved well, to let him retire, and if ill, for heaven's sake to supersede him, for he cannot exist in this state." lord nelson conducted the british case with the danes with consummate statesmanship, but notwithstanding this, the fine sensitive nature of the noble fellow could not fail to be hurt when his majesty (the same who lost us america) stated that, "under _all_ the circumstances, he had thought well to approve." nelson replied that he was sorry the armistice was only approved under _all_ the circumstances, and then gives his majesty a slap in the eye by informing him that every part of the _all_ was to the advantage of the king and country. st. vincent, the first lord of the admiralty, subsequently made amends for his majesty's error by writing to say that his "whole conduct was approved and admired, and that he does not care to draw comparisons, but that everybody agrees there is only one nelson." this strong and valiant sailor was never at any time unconscious of his power. what troubled him was other people's lack of appreciation of it, though he accepted with a whimsical humour the grudging spirit in which credit was given to his unerring judgment and unequalled bravery. nor can we examine the great deeds of his career without feeling a thrill of pride in the knowledge that he belonged to us. the spirit which animated nelson was the same as that which lived in those heroes of old who were used by providence as instruments in their country's destiny, and we may believe that this same spirit will live in those god-sent men of the future who will be necessary for the carrying out of some special task or for the destruction of evil. apparently, long intervals elapse between the appearance of men such as napoleon or nelson. napoleon's name still stirs the blood, and now, more than a century after his death, any one of the powers who had a share in his tragic end would give worlds to get back some of his force and genius. nelson in a much less degree and in a different way was another of those sent by providence to take part in his country's struggles and, like many another great man, was subjected to cruel indignities at the hands of his inferiors. he often complained about his treatment, but this never prevented him from doing his work. but as his instructions were not always in accordance with his view of success, he occasionally disobeyed them for the country's good. it might be a gain to borrow _his_ spirit for a while at the present time to electrify the british admiralty. nelson was more successful in his conflicts with the enemy than with the chiefs of his calling afloat and ashore. he was not really strong and audacious enough in his dealings with them. "jacky fisher" (as he is fondly called) who lives in our disturbed time, would have had similar sandbags jettisoned in quick time. the modern nelson has had his troubles with inferior superiors too, but he flattened out some of them. the modern man is all business, and does not show vanity if he has any. the "only nelson" was strong, weak, and vain. if no one else gratuitously sounded his praises, he would do so himself in the most comical way, not altogether in public, but to "santa emma," whose function it was to spread them abroad. after the battle of copenhagen, sir hyde parker sailed for carlscrona, and left nelson to hoist his flag as commander-in-chief on the _st. george_, which was not ready, and was possibly being refitted after rough handling. he tells emma of parker's departure, and adds, "if there is any work to do," i.e. any fighting, "he is pretty certain they will wait for him" before commencing it. and then he adds, "_nelson will be first_. who can stop him?" on the eve of the battle of copenhagen he wrote to her, "before you receive this, all will be over with denmark. either your nelson will be safe, and sir hyde parker victor, or your own nelson will be laid low." what deep and genuine love-lunacy to be found in a terrific warrior, whose very name terrified those who had the honour to fight against him! the incongruity of it baffles one's belief, and seems to reverse the very order of human construction. in matters concerning his profession and highly technical state affairs there was no more astute man, but as soon as his thoughts centre on this female nightmare, he loses control of his wonderful gifts, and his mind becomes deranged with the idea of her being an object on which he should bestow reverence and infinite adulation. if ever there was a creature of lamentable contradictions, surely it was this genius, who immortalized our national glory at the nile, copenhagen, and trafalgar! that a man of his calibre, surrounded with eternal fame, should be inflamed with a passion for a woman of negative morals who was refused admittance to the same circle that, but for this attachment would receive him as their triumphant hero, is an example of human eccentricity that never has and never can be accounted for. it may be taken for granted that at the very time he was writing to her about "her own nelson" she would be carrying on a love intrigue with some old or new acquaintance, possibly the prince of wales, whom as i have said, her gallant lover wished her to avoid. he was known to be a cheat, a liar, and a faithless friend to men and to women, while in accordance with the splendid ethic of this type of person, he believed himself to be possessed of every saintly virtue. but any one who is curious to have a fascinating description of the "little dapper" should consult thackeray. well, there was no fighting to be done when the fleet under nelson arrived at reval, and the emperor paul's death and the dilatoriness of parker saved the russian fleet from extermination. they had sailed into safer anchorage and the british admiral had to content himself by paying an official visit to the authorities at reval, and receiving another ovation from the populace, which appealed to his whimsical love of approbation. as is his custom, he sends emma an account of his reval experiences. he says he would not mention so personal an incident to any one else, as it would appear so uncommonly like vanity, but between her and himself, hundreds had come to have a look at nelson, and he heard them say, "_that is him!_ that is _him_!" it touches his vanity so keenly that he follows on by intimating that he "feels a good name is better than riches, and that it has a fine feeling to an honest heart." "all the russians," says he, "are of opinion that i am like suwaroff, le jeune suwaroff." as may be imagined, nelson was bitterly disappointed at so sudden a collapse of his hopes, but, always master of the situation, he wrote a most courteous letter to count pahlen, the russian minister, who had complained that his presence was calculated to make a breach of the good feeling between the two countries. the admiral's reply was tactful and unconsciously humorous. the tone was that of a person who had never been so unjustly hurt in his life. "he had come to pay his respects to his imperial majesty, and as his motives had been so entirely misunderstood, he would put to sea at once." vi his health was beginning to feel the enormous strain that had been imposed upon him for many months. this, together with his longing to be in the congenial society of lady hamilton, caused him to ask to be relieved of his command, and he was delighted to receive a letter from his old chief, lord st. vincent, stating that it was almost an impossible task to find a suitable successor, as in all his experience he never knew any one, except troubridge, who had the art of enthusing others with his own unequalled spirit as he had. the command was handed over to sir charles pole, and nelson, almost wild with joy, sailed from the baltic in the brig _kite_ on the th june, and arrived at yarmouth on the st july, . nelson always claimed that if the command had been given to him in february many lives would have been saved, and our prestige would not have suffered. we cannot describe all the fascinating pleasure we get when we read and think of the wonders this strange mortal performed in the ordinary course of his profession; when, however, he departs from that and begins to make stagey love to lady hamilton, it tries one's christian patience. what business had he, as the first sailor in the world, to enter into such a compact with another man's wife? however, he must not be judged by this liaison alone, but by the circumstances that led to it. we know that his domestic life had been made irritating and unbearable to his sensitive and highly strung nature, but he found in emma hamilton one who played upon his vanity, and made him feel that he was regarded as an idol as well as an idolatrous lover. he thirsted for reverence and the love of soul for soul, and she, in her own way, gave both with lavish profusion, whereas his wife's austere indifference to his amazing accomplishments fell upon his large heart like ice, and who can estimate his sufferings before he decided to defy society? he believed and hoped that he would be exonerated, and became in the sight of heaven (as he avowed) the husband of a woman who, there can be little doubt, did not keep her honour unstained, but who, to him, was the guiding spirit of his remaining days: and whatever impressions we may have forced upon us of the liaisons of this noxious creature, there is nothing on record that suggests that he was ever unfaithful to her after the bond of union was made. nor does he appear to have been openly charged with illicit intimacy with other women after his marriage to mrs. nisbet, other than with lady hamilton. we may talk of his wonderful career being morally blunted, but his own belief in the sanctity of the verbal arrangement was sound to the core, and he hazarded the opprobrium of our stern conventional system. to him, lady hamilton had an enduring charm which influenced his wild, weak, generous soul, and was in fact an inspiration to him. it is a truism that the life-story of all men has its tragedy and romance, and in this, nelson's was only similar to others; and who can help loving his memory? the hamiltons lived with him at merton when he was on leave. they shared the cost of the home, which lady hamilton had, with elaborate, artistic taste, prepared for him. a document written by sir william makes it clear that the relations of man and wife were strained at times to breaking-point, for, as he states, "i am old and she in the beauty and vigour of youth"; and then he proceeds: "i have no complaint to make, but i feel that the whole attention of my wife is given to lord nelson and his interest at merton." obviously, this is the old gentleman's dull way of expressing his idea that there was a gamble going on with the marriage vow, and then, with delightful simplicity, he nullifies his suspicious thoughts by stating that he well knows the purity of lord nelson's friendship for emma and himself and that he knows how uncomfortable it would make his lordship, our best friend, if a separation should take place; therefore he was determined to do all in his power to prevent such an extremity, which would be essentially detrimental to all parties, but would be more sensibly felt by "_our dear friend than by us_."[ ] he is willing to go on provided the expenses do not go on increasing, but as he cannot expect to live many years, every moment is precious to him, and hopes that he may be allowed to be his own master _and pass his time in his own way_.[ ] he continues: "i am fully determined not to have any more silly altercations that too often arise between us, and embitter his present moments exceedingly. if we cannot live comfortably together," he continues, "a wise and well-concerted separation would be preferable." he says he knows and admires her talents and many excellent qualities, but _he is not blind to her defects_,[ ] and confesses to having many himself, and pleads "for god's sake to bear and forbear." throughout this pathetic document we find evidences that his heart was torn with the consciousness of the mean advantage being taken of his friendship. there is a droll, vacillating belief in the virtue of his wife and the purity of nelson's motives, but every sentence indicates that his instinct led him to believe that another had taken his place. it may have been that he saw it dimly, and that he shrank from making any direct accusation, not wishing to break with the man with whom he had long been on close terms of friendship. it is highly improbable that either his own or emma's past histories escaped his memory when he was penning his grievances. indeed, there are evidences gleaming through his memorandum that his reflections were harassed by the remembrance of his own conduct, which had plunged to epic depths of wrongdoing in other days. these and other considerations would doubtless have a restraining effect on the action that might have been taken under different circumstances. sir william hamilton must have pondered over the parentage of horatia, who was born on the th january, . is it possible that he knew that nelson was her father, and believed in the purity of his friendship for emma and himself? i think everything goes to prove that he knew of his friend's relations with his wife and condoned it. nelson, in his clumsy, transparent way, tried to conceal the origin of the child, so he proceeds to write a letter to lady hamilton, which i shall quote later on. to say that sir william hamilton, a man of the world with vast experience of human deceptions and intrigues, could have been put off the scent, in view of all the circumstances, is too great a tax on credulity, but it is wholly characteristic of nelson's ideas of mystification. but even if there were any further proof needed, lady hamilton has settled the matter by preserving the correspondence nelson urged her to destroy. this will be referred to later on. meanwhile, it is hardly thinkable that nelson, who had such a high sense of honour in other affairs of life, and who had accepted the hospitality and been the honoured guest of sir william hamilton at naples, should have made the occasion an opportunity of establishing illicit relations with his wife. the whole matter must ever remain a blot on the great admiral's fame, even though his host appeared to, or really did, connive at it. the price was too high to pay for both of them. the following extract from a letter from lord minto to his wife indicates the mode of life of the family party. he says: i went to lord nelson's (merton) on saturday. the whole establishment and way of life makes me angry as well as melancholy. i do not think myself obliged to quarrel with him for his weakness, though nothing shall ever induce me to give the smallest countenance to lady hamilton. she looks ultimately to the chance of marriage, as sir william will not be long in her way, and she probably indulges a hope that she may survive lady nelson. she is in high looks, but more immense than ever. she goes on cramming nelson with trowels of flattery, which he takes as quietly as a child does pap. the love she makes to him is ridiculous and disgusting. the whole house, staircase and all, are covered with pictures of her and him of all sorts and sizes. he is represented in naval actions, coats of arms, pieces of plate in his honour, the flagstaff of _l'orient_. if it were lady hamilton's house, there might be pretence for it; but to make his own a mere looking-glass to view himself all day is bad taste. this letter was written on the nd march, , and nelson writes that sir william hamilton died in his arms and in lady hamilton's on the th april, , passing on "without a struggle, and that the world had never lost a more upright and accomplished gentleman";[ ] which, be it said, is rather a stagey performance of his wife's lover. but the mistress excels her lover in the record of the death-bed drama. "unhappy day," says she in profusion of tears, "for the forlorn emma. ten minutes past ten dear beloved sir william left me." emma was poorly provided for; only £ a year jointure and £ a year for her mother for life. she and nelson appealed to lord minto to urge on mr. addington her claim for a pension, and she vowed to minto that her connection with nelson was pure, and he says he can believe it, which is hardly consistent with the description he gives his wife as to "their open and disgusting proceedings," or with his comments on a visit paid to the duke of marlborough at blenheim, where the duke had treated the gallant naval chief and his party as though they were mere ordinary trippers who had come to see the wonders of his possessions. he condescendingly ordered refreshments to be given to them, which sent nelson into a fury of indignation, and minto excuses the duke by stating that nelson persuaded himself that all the world should be blind because he chose to extol emma's "virtues." obviously, minto was not firmly convinced of her chastity. nelson, with his heart full of blind adoration, had quite a simple, sailorly conviction that no one ought to question the innocence of his attachment to emma, since he called hamilton her "uncle"; and, because he wished the public to believe in his innocence, he took it for granted that they would believe it. the duke of marlborough evidently had heard and believed in the impure tale, but that did not justify him in treating his noble guest and his friends in the snobbish and ill-mannered way he did. it is hardly likely that nelson would have paid the visit without being asked, and in ordinary decency he should have been received or not asked at all. he was a greater figure and public servant than the duke, and his grace would not have suffered in dignity had he met nelson on terms of equality. he could not have done less, at all events. on the other hand, the great admiral showed a peevishness at the treatment which was unworthy of his fame and position; he could well afford to ignore the affront, more especially as he prided himself that the lady the duke took exception to was "in the sight of heaven his wife," and no one had any right to question his choice. the views held by hamilton and recorded in various conflicting versions give the impression that he was puzzled, and could not determine whether to believe in the fidelity of nelson or not. some writers think that he winked at the liaison because of the difference between his own age and that of his wife; others, that he thought the relations were innocent, and a token of high-spirited friendship for himself; but all delicately indicate their conviction that he knew what was going on. meanwhile, nelson steadfastly avows his unyielding fidelity to his friends, and, with this exception, i think we may conclude that his devotion to them could always be relied upon; indeed, his attachment to hamilton was of an affectionate character, even when many people believed he was betraying him. whether sir william knew and believed that the association between his wife and nelson was pure or not,[ ] he evidently desired that no one else should believe it, for in a codicil to his will he bequeaths "the copy of madam le brun's picture of his wife in enamel, and gives to his dearest friend, nelson, a very small token of the great regard he has for his lordship, the most virtuous, loyal, and truly brave character i ever met with." then he finishes up with god's blessing to him and shame to those who do not say "amen." this is a wonderful testimony of friendship from a man who had been wronged, and might well have shaken the belief of those who founded their opinions on the startling improprieties they had beheld between the man whom he designated "the most virtuous, loyal, and truly brave character he had ever met with" and his wife. that sir william connived at what looked uncommonly like infidelity may or may not be doubtful, but that he saw more than would have impressed an ordinary man or woman with suspicion is unquestionable, and the best that can be said for his attitude is that he was so mentally constituted that he could only see or preferred to see in nelson's extravagant attentions to his wife a guileless symbol of high friendship for her, which he took as a compliment to himself. on the other hand, if he not only suspected but knew that he was being betrayed, and bitterly resented the passion which no remonstrances from him could have controlled, he at any rate determined to let the world see "how a christian could die," and refrained from uttering the unutterable. napoleon on the rock at st. helena acted in the same magnanimous way towards the adulterous marie louise, of whose faithlessness he also unguardedly let slip his opinion. it is an odious habit, but we are apt to believe, without any reserve, disparaging stories, that may or may not be true, concerning men of distinction, and the more prominent the man or woman, the more viciously the scandal-mongers pursue their contemptible occupation. these vermin invariably belong to a class of industrious mediocrities who have been born with a mental kink, and their treachery, falsehood, and cowardice are incurable. they are merely hurtful creatures who spoil the earth, and are to be found dolefully chattering about what they conceive to be other men's and women's lapses from the paths of stern virtue. their plan of life is to defame other people, and by this means proclaim their own superiority over other weak mortals. give the unsexed woman a chance, and she will let fly with unrestrained industry. how many innocent people have had their names dragged into the public gaze by this vice! the report may arise from professional or political jealousy, and may grow into incredible accusations of immorality. who can estimate the suffering caused to lord melbourne, the then prime minister, and to his relatives and friends, and even to some of his political opponents, and to the hon. mrs. norton, one of sheridan's beautiful daughters (who was the wife of as unscrupulous a scamp as was ever permitted to live), by the engineering of an accusation of infidelity that forced the prime minister and mrs. norton into the courts to defend themselves against what was proved to be a malicious and unfounded story? the plaintiff's case, resting as it did upon a tissue of fabricated evidence, takes a fine place in history because of the judge's impartiality and sagacious charge, and the verdict of the jury for the defendants which was received with tumultuous cheers, characterized by the judge as "disgraceful in a court of justice." his lordship's remonstrance was futile, and again and again the cheers were given, both in the court and outside, where the wildest enthusiasm prevailed. no one who took part in this disgraceful action came out of it with a higher reputation than sir john campbell, who acted for melbourne. his entrance to the house of commons that night was the occasion of an outburst of delirious cheering, the like of which had never been witnessed in the house. "the tories" are said to have "affected to cheer." i give this as a notable case whereby two innocent people were threatened with ruin and disgrace by the poisonous slander circulated for both private and political ends and fostered by the worthless husband of a virtuous and amiable woman. it is common knowledge that nelson and sir william hamilton were assailed by the same stinging wasps as melbourne and mrs. norton (if it be proper to make a comparison), but they were different types of men living in a different atmosphere and under different circumstances. it is true that nelson had scruples about the unwisdom of his unconventional connection with lady hamilton, and, big-hearted fellow that he was, he would have struggled hard to avoid giving pain to his relations and friends; and who knows that he did not? for though his actions may belie that impression, his whole attitude was reckless, silly, and whimsical. to whatever extent he may have had scruples, he certainly did not possess the faculty of holding his inclinations in check. indeed, he made no secret of the idea that "every man became a bachelor after passing the rock of gibraltar," and in this notion he carried out the orthodoxy of the old-time sailor. he disliked marriage and loved glory, and being a popular hero, he was forgiven all his amorous sins, which were by many looked upon as being part of his heroism. his laughable efforts to obscure the facts might have satisfied those who wished to rely on hamilton's benedictory absolution, had not nelson and emma, as i have already said, left behind them incriminating letters and documents which leave no doubt as to what they were to each other. the great admiral industriously destroyed much of the massive correspondence, but had overlooked some of the hidden treasures. lady hamilton promised to destroy all hers, but failed to do so. hence the documentary proof written by his own hand and that of emma's cancels nelson's childish device to throw a too critical public off the scent. nelson was alternately weak, nervous, careless, and defiant in his attitude in regard to public opinion concerning his private life. he at one time asserted the right of living in any way he might choose, and resented the criticism of a few cackling busybodies, even though it was not in accordance with the views of the late mr. edward cocker. it was his affair, and if his ideas differed from those of his critics, it was no business of theirs. his independence in this, as well as in the practical concerns of his profession, coincided with the opinions held by sandy mackay in "alton locke," who declared that he would "never bow down to a bit of brains." but these independent views alternated with weaker ones. he was as indiscreetly lavish with his love as he was with his money; at one time he would contemptuously defy the poisoned arrows that were darted at him, and when beset by the sullen storm-cloud of scandal, he let fly with red-hot courage and audaciously upheld his honour: at another time he was timid, vacillating, and ridiculous in his attempts to avert the public eye from his love affair and its consequence. people who knew him intimately were aware that horatia was his daughter, and in order to throw them off their guard he proceeded to invent a cock-and-bull story of how he came by the child. here is his letter to lady hamilton written in the middle of : "i am now going to state a thing to you and to request your kind assistance which, from my dear emma's goodness of heart, i am sure of her acquiescence in. before we left italy, i told you of the extraordinary circumstances of a child being left to my care and protection. on your first coming to england, i presented you the child, dear horatia. you became, to my comfort, attached to it, so did sir william, thinking her the finest child he had ever seen. she is become of that age when it is necessary to remove her from a mere nurse, and to think of educating her. i am now anxious for the child's being placed under your protecting wing"; a clumsy, transparent piece of foolery, which at once confirms its intention to mislead! but we are saved the trouble of interpretation, for the father goes on to write on another piece of note-paper, "my beloved, how i feel for your situation and that of our dear horatia, our dear child." it is almost incredible that nelson could have written such a silly fabrication. in the early part of , emma gave birth to another child, of which he believed himself to be the father. he asked the mother to call _him_ what she pleased (evidently he hoped and expected a boy), but if a girl, it was to be named emma. it was a girl, so it was called after the mother, but it did not live long, and the father never saw it. as though he thought the letter written about little miss thompson (horatia, be it understood) were not sufficiently delusive, he sends an equally absurd production to his niece, charlotte nelson, who lived a good deal at merton, in which he says that he is "truly sensible of her attachment to that dear little orphan, horatia," and although her parents are lost, yet she is not "without a fortune; and that he will cherish her to the last moment of his life, and _curse_ them who _curse_ her, and heaven bless them who bless her." this solemn enthusiasm for the poor orphan puts nelson out of court as a cute letter-writer. the quality of ingenious diplomacy had been left entirely out of him, and like any one else who dallies with an art for which they have no gift, he excites suspicions, and more often than not discloses the very secret he is so anxious to keep. every line of these letters indicates a tussle between a natural tendency to frank honesty and an unnatural and unworthy method of deception. obviously, the recipient of this precious document would have her curiosity excited over the disingenuous tale of romance. she would ask herself first of all, "why should my kinsman be so desirous to tell me that the orphan in whom he has so fond an interest is not without a fortune? and why should the responsibility of rearing and educating the child have been entrusted to him, the most active and important admiral in the british navy? and if it be true that she is an orphan, surely there could be no object in supposing that any one would '_curse_ her,' especially as he declared that she was 'not without fortune,' and that she was to be known as his adopted child." the niece, being a quick-witted girl, would naturally think the problem out for herself, and decide that there was something fishy involved in the mystery of these unnecessary phrases. in dealing with his domestic complications, nelson's mind seems to have been in a constant whirlwind, dodging from one difficulty into another, never direct, and for ever in conflict with his true self. he was brave and resourceful in everything that appertained to the service he adorned, and yet a shivering fear came over him now and again lest the truth concerning his attachment to his friend's wife should be revealed. when he was seized with these remorseful thoughts, he could not be silent; he was not possessed of the constitutional gift of reticence, and could only find relief by constant reference to the matter he wished kept secret in such a way as to cause people to put two and two together and arrive at the very truth he wished to hide. vii but whatever his ruling passion may have been, his belief in the power that rules us all never forsook him. he believed in religious forms as of a spiritual force. he often committed himself to it, and claimed the privilege of asking for heaven's guidance. call it eccentricity or superstition, or what you like, but to him it was a reality. one of the many amusing instances of his devotion to religious rites was the occasion when he and lady hamilton stood as godfather and godmother at the christening of their daughter, horatia nelson thompson,[ ] by which name she was baptized. to the puritanic, orthodox mind (keeping in view all the circumstances of parentage) this will be looked upon as an act of abominable hypocrisy and sacrilege, but to him it was a pious duty. like all highly strung and overwrought mortals, he was often moody, depressed, and, worst of all, a victim to premonitions of his early demise. his superstitious temperament was constantly worrying him, as did his faith in the predictions of a gipsy fortune-teller who had correctly described his career up to the year , and then stopping had said, "i can see no further." this creepy ending of the gipsy's tale was afflicting him with a dumb pain and depression when he unexpectedly came across his sister catherine in london. she referred to his worn, haggard look with a tenderness that was peculiarly her own. he replied, "ah! katty! katty! that gipsy!" and then relapsed into morbid silence. the foreboding bore heavily on his mind, and the story may well make one's heart throb with pity for the noble fellow who was so soon to fulfil his tragic destiny. well may we exclaim that fame seems to be the most wretched of mockeries! the duke of wellington, of whom it is said no dose of flattery was too strong for him to swallow, has left on record an interesting account of his meeting nelson at the colonial office. he gives the account of it, thirty years after nelson's death, to john wilson croker at walmer, and here is what he says of collingwood's great comrade:-- walmer, _ st october, _. we were [that is, croker and he] talking of lord nelson, and some instances were mentioned of the egotism and vanity that derogated from his character. "why," said the duke, "i am not surprised at such instances, for lord nelson was, in different circumstances, two quite different men, as i myself can vouch, though i only saw him once in my life, and for, perhaps, an hour. it was soon after i returned from india. i went to the colonial office in downing street, and there i was shown into the little waiting-room on the right hand, where i found, also waiting to see the secretary of state, a gentleman, whom, from his likeness to his pictures and the loss of an arm, i immediately recognized as lord nelson. he could not know who i was, but he entered at once into conversation with me, if i can call it conversation, for it was almost all on his side and all about himself, and in, really, a style so vain and so silly as to surprise and almost disgust me. i suppose something that i happened to say made him guess that i was _somebody_, and he went out of the room for a moment, i have no doubt to ask the office keeper who i was, for when he came back he was altogether a different man, both in manner and matter. all that i had thought a charlatan style had vanished, and he talked of the state of this country and the probabilities of affairs on the continent with a good sense, and a knowledge of subjects both at home and abroad, that surprised me equally and more agreeably than the first part of our interview had done; in fact, he talked like an officer and a statesman. the secretary of state kept us long waiting, and certainly, for the last half or three-quarters of an hour, i don't know that i ever had a conversation that interested me more. now, if the secretary of state had been punctual, and admitted lord nelson in the first quarter of an hour, i should have had the same impression of a light and trivial character that other people have had; but luckily i saw enough to be satisfied that he was really a very superior man; but certainly a more sudden and complete metamorphosis i never saw."[ ] we must not be too critical of the duke's opinions of the vanity of the admiral, but it calls for some notice, inasmuch as the duke himself is reputed to have had an uncommonly good amount of it himself, though it took a different form and created a different impression. wellington showed it in a cold, haughty, unimaginative, repelling self-importance; fearful of unbending to his inferiors lest his dignity should be offended. nelson's peculiarities were the very antithesis; it was his delightful egotism and vanity that added to his charm and made him such a fascinating personality. his direct slap-dash, unconventional phrases and flashes of naval brilliancy, whether in search of, or engaged in battle with the enemy, together with a natural kindness to his officers and men of all ranks, filled them with confidence and pride in having him as their chief. the "nelson touch," the "drubbing" he swore in his own engaging way that mr. villeneuve--as he called him to blackwood--was to have when he caught him, the putting of the telescope to his blind eye at copenhagen when the signal was flying to leave off action, and then "no, damn me if i do," had an inspiring effect on his men and strengthened the belief in his dauntlessness and sagacity. "what will nelson think of us?" remarked one of the men aboard one of the frigates that obeyed the signal. but nelson went on fighting with complete success. "luckily," says wellington, "i saw enough to be satisfied that he was really a very superior man." why "luckily"? what difference would his lack of knowledge have made? the duke was hardly the type of man to understand the powerful personality whose style, "so vain and silly, surprised and almost disgusted" him. that view does not stand to _his_ credit, and no one else held it. but let us see what a greater man than either wellington or nelson says of both. napoleon, at st. helena, spoke in very high terms of lord nelson,[ ] and indeed attempted to palliate that one stigma on his memory, the execution of carraciolli, which he attributed entirely to his having been deceived by that wicked woman queen caroline, through lady hamilton, and to the influence which the latter had over him. he says of the duke: "judging from wellington's actions, from his dispatches, and, above all, from his conduct towards ney, i should pronounce him to be a poor-spirited man, without generosity, and without greatness of soul ('un homme de peu d'esprit, sans générosité, et sans grandeur d'âme'). such i know to be the opinion of benjamin constant and of madame de staël, who said that, except as a general, he had not two ideas. as a general, however, to find his equal amongst your own nation, you must go back to the time of marlborough, but as anything else, i think that history will pronounce him to be a man of limited capacity ('un homme borné')."[ ] "nelson is a brave man. if villeneuve at aboukir and dumanoir at trafalgar had had a little of his blood, the french would have been conquerors. i ought to have had dumanoir's head cut off. do you not think more highly of nelson than of the best engineers who construct fortifications? nelson had what a mere engineer officer can never acquire. it is a gift of nature." the emperor, in his eulogy of nelson, is not unmindful of the terrible crime he was led to commit at the instigation of that human viper, queen caroline, and the licentious emma hamilton. he, to some extent, whittles down nelson's share of the responsibility by putting the whole blame on them. but who can read the gruesome story of the trial and hanging of the aged prince carraciolli without feeling ashamed that a fellow-countryman in nelson's position should have stamped his career with so dark a crime? at the capitulation of st. elmo, carraciolli made his escape. he commanded a neapolitan warship called the _tancredi_, and had fought in admiral hotham's action on the th march, , and gained distinction, accompanying the royal family to palermo. he was given permission by the king to return for the purpose of protecting his large property. the french had entered neapolitan territory and seized his estates, on the ground that he was a royalist, and the only way he could recover them was by agreeing to take command of the neapolitan fleet. the french were obliged to evacuate the country, and left their friends to settle matters for themselves as best they could. carraciolli concealed himself, but was discovered in disguise and put on board the _foudroyant_ with his hands tied behind his back. captain hardy, who was a man with a heart, was indignant when he saw the old man subjected to such gross indignity, and immediately ordered his hands to be liberated. nelson committed him for trial, which commenced at ten o'clock, and at twelve he was declared guilty. at five o'clock he was hanged at the yardarm of the neapolitan frigate _minerva_. this poor old man was tried solely by his enemies without being allowed to have counsel or call witnesses. a miscreant called count thurn, a worse enemy than all, presided over the court. carraciolli asked lieutenant parkinson to obtain for him a new trial. nelson, who had ordered the first, could not or would not grant a second. carraciolli asked to be shot, and this also was refused. on the grounds of former association, he sought the aid of lady hamilton, but she, being an approving party to the execution, only came from her concealment to enjoy the sight of the old prince's dead body dangling at the yardarm. "come, bronte, come," said she, "let us take the barge and have another look at carraciolli"; and there they feasted their eyes on the lifeless remains of their former associate, who had assuredly cursed them both with his last dying breath. it is the custom when sailors are buried at sea to weight their feet so that the body may sink in an upright position. the same course was adopted with carraciolli; shot was put at his feet, but not sufficient, and he was cast into the sea. in a few days the putrified body rose to the surface head upwards, as though the murdered man had come again to haunt his executioners and give them a further opportunity of gazing at the ghastly features of their victim.[ ] the sight of his old friend emerging again terrified ferdinand, and he became afflicted with a feeling of abiding horror which he sought to appease by having the body interred in a christian burial-ground. but the spirit of his executed friend worried him all his remaining days, and the act of burial did not save naples from becoming a shambles of conflict, robbery, and revolution. neither did emma hamilton escape her just deserts for the vile part she played in one of the most abominable crimes ever committed. her latter hours were made terrible by the thought of the mockery of a trial, and the constant vision of the prince's ghost glowering at her from the _minerva's_ yardarm and from the surface of his watery tomb from which he had risen again to reproach her with the inhuman pleasure she had taken in watching the dreadful act. nor did her shrieking avowal of repentance give the wretched jezebel of a woman the assurance of forgiveness. she sought for distractions, and found most of them in wickedness, and passed into the presence of the great mystery with all her deeds of faithlessness, deceit, and uncontrollable revenge before her eyes. it is sad to read of and hear the insensate rubbish that is talked of new earths that are to evolve from war, as though it could be divorced from wounds and death, unspeakable crime, suffering in all its varied forms, and the destruction of property which must always be a direct result. the spectacle of it can never be other, except to the martially-minded, than a shuddering horror. i would ask any one who is imbued with the idea that out of wars spring new worlds to name a single instance where a nation that has engaged in it has not been left bleeding at its extremities, no matter whether it emerges as victor or vanquished. i would further ask the writer or orator who talks in this strain if he imagines that the sending of myriads of men to death can contribute to the making of new earths. the consequences are much too tragically serious to the nation, and indeed to the world, to be played with by smug diplomatists who seek to excite the populace into support of their calamitous efforts at statesmanship by shallow bursts of eloquence about the new conditions of life which are to accrue from their imitation of germanism. no doubt nelson thought, when he had poor old prince carraciolli hung, that he would create a new earth by striking terror into the hearts of the neapolitan race, but natural laws are not worked out by methods of this kind, and nelson had the mortification of seeing his plan of regulating human affairs create a new and more ferocious little hell on earth. his judgment at this time was very much warped through the evil influence of the court of naples and more especially by his infatuation for lady hamilton. greville, and subsequently sir william hamilton, had taken great pains to educate emma hart. hamilton writes to his nephew: "i can assure you her behaviour is such as has acquired her many sensible admirers, and we have good man society, and all the female nobility, with the queen at their head, show her every mark of civility." hamilton writes further: "hitherto, her behaviour is irreproachable, but her temper, as you must know, unequal." lady malmesbury (with a decidedly sly scratch) says of her: "she really behaves as well as possible, and quite wonderfully, considering her origin and education." sir george elliot says: "her manners are perfectly, unpolished, very easy, but not with the ease of good breeding, but of a barmaid; excessively good-humoured, wishing to please and be admired by everybody that came in her way. she has acquired since her marriage some knowledge of history and of the arts, and one wonders at the application and pains she has taken to make herself what she is. with men her language and conversation are exaggerations of anything i ever heard anywhere; and i was wonderfully struck with these inveterate remains of her origin, though the impression was very much weakened by seeing the other ladies of naples." a naval lieutenant at naples stated he "thought her a very handsome, vulgar woman." there is no stabbing with a sneer about this opinion. it expresses in a few words the candid opinion of the sailor. mrs. st. george thinks her "bold, daring, vain even to folly, and stamped with the manners of her first situation much more strongly than one would suppose, after having represented majesty and lived in good company fifteen years. her dress is frightful. her waist is absolutely between her shoulders. her figure is colossal, but, excepting her feet, which are hideous, well shaped. the shape of all her features is fine, as is the form of her head, and particularly her ears; her teeth are a little irregular, but tolerably white; her eyes light blue, with a brown spot in one, which, though a defect, takes nothing away from her beauty or expression. her eyebrows and hair, which, by the bye, is never clean, are dark and her complexion coarse. her expression is strongly marked, variable, and interesting; her movements in common life ungraceful, her voice loud, yet not disagreeable." this female critic seems to have been overburdened with the weight of emma's defects, mental and physical! elliot says: "her person is nothing short of monstrous for its enormity, and is growing every day. her face is beautiful." the latter view tones down the apparent desire not to say too much in her favour. we are persuaded, in fact, that the foregoing views of lady hamilton's personal appearance are not correct. they give the impression that the opinions of her critics are based on the woman's lowly origin, and that they assume that because she was the offspring of poor parents she ought to be described as a fat hoyden with the manners of the kitchen. the people who knew her intimately do not make her out to be a stout, unwholesome, east-end palestiner. the sister of marie antoinette, be it remembered, was her close companion, and many english ladies living in naples and visiting there were scarcely likely to associate with a person who could not display better looks and manners than those set forth. nelson, the prince of wales, and her many other men admirers, were hardly likely to tumble over each other in competition for her smiles and favours if "her dress was frightful," "her waist between her shoulders," "her hair dirty," "her feet hideous," "her bones large," "her complexion coarse," and "her person monstrous for its enormity, growing every day." we are inclined to place little dependence on the accuracy of people who seem to have described her according to their moods or perhaps according to the manner of her admirers towards themselves. that she was clever and attractive there can be no doubt, and it is equally certain that she won for herself the mortal enmity of many ladies who saw her powerful influence over prominent men and women whom they themselves bored. some importance must be given to her husband's position as british representative; his influence must have been great, especially in neapolitan circles. this would help her natural gifts of fascination, even though her breeding and education did not reach the standard of her blue-blooded critics. she had something that stood her in greater stead than breeding and education: she had the power of enslaving gallant hearts and holding them in thrall with many artful devices. they liked her bohemianism, her wit, her geniality, her audacious slang, and her collection of droll epithets that fittingly described her venomous critics of a self-appointed nobility. when she could not reach the heights of such superior persons she proceeded to ridicule them with a tongue that rattled out vivid invective which outmatched anything they could say of _her_. it probably made her more enemies, but it satisfied her temper and pleased her admirers. she never appears to have been conscious of any inferiority in herself. we are inclined to agree with the opinion expressed by the naval lieutenant at naples, who said "she was a very handsome, vulgar woman." all her portraits confirm what the sailor says about her beauty, and the most reliable records are confirmatory so far as his view of her vulgarity is concerned. but in any case, whatever may have been her physical dimensions, they were not understated by the crowd who gave vent to their aversion in this and in many other deplorable ways. there are only a few evidences of nelson being aware of and resenting some of the disparaging remarks made about his "wife in the sight of heaven," and these do not seem to have diminished his infatuation for her. he was accustomed to say in connection with his professional duties that whenever he followed his own head he was in general much more correct in his judgment than by following other people's opinions. he carried this plan into his private life so far as emma was concerned, but men and women who were his intimate friends would not support the view that by following his head in _this_ particular case his judgment was sound. we may term the infatuation a deteriorated state of mind, but _he_ was sustained by the belief that she was a spirit unto him while he lived, and with his last gasp, as he was passing into the shadows, he bestowed her as a legacy to his country. we shall have something to say hereafter as to how the british government dealt with their great admiral's dying injunction. the neapolitan atmosphere was vile enough, and might well have made even men and women who knew the loose side of life shrink from it, but it can never be claimed that it had a demoralizing influence on emma, who at an early age became familiar with unspeakable vices which left her little to learn at the time greville sold her to his uncle, who took her to a centre of sordid uncleanness, there to become his wife after a brief association as his mistress. we may have no misgiving as to her aptitude in acquiring anything she chose that was left for her to learn from a community of debauchees and parasites. the wonder is that her brain did not succumb to the poisonous influences by which she was surrounded, and that the poor girl did not sink into the depths of that luxurious sensuality which characterized neapolitan society at that time. it was a more distinguished and fascinating type of debauchery than that which she had known in other days in england, and from which greville had rescued her. the temptation to plunge into the boisterous merriment of a higher order of depravity than that to which she had been accustomed must have been very great to such a temperament as hers. but she worthily kept her wild, wayward spirit under restraint, and, according to sir william hamilton, she conducted herself in a way that caused him to be satisfied with his reforming guidance. she adapted herself to the ways of the more select social community of her new existence, and at the time nelson made her acquaintance she had really become a creditable member of the society in which she moved. in every respect she was congenial to him. he never lost a chance of applauding her gifts and brazenly exempting himself from all moral restrictions, except, as i have said before, when he was seized with a spontaneous fit of goodness. he would then clumsily try to conceal the passion that obsessed him. he did not brood long over trifles of this kind, merely because he had lost, if ever he possessed, the power of consecutive reasoning in matters of moral convention. his neapolitan associates were a cunning, lying, luxury-loving, depraved lot, and however strongly his principles were fixed, there can be but one opinion--that such an atmosphere was harmful to him. he speaks of naples himself as being a country of poets, whores, and scoundrels; and southey does not attempt to mince words, for in vigorous terms he describes england's "alliances to superannuated and abominable governments of the continent." these are the states that we shed british blood and squandered british money over, and in truth southey describes them as they were! the king of naples was a great hero to stand up against the bravest, best-trained troops the world! he shivered at the thought of nelson going out of his sight, and whimpered him into staying to guard him and his rotten kingdom. it was at this period of his gallant activity that nelson became the victim of fulsome flattery and the associate of the most cunning, knavish charlatans in the world. these creatures never ceased to inveigh against the wrongs they were suffering for the uplifting of human rights, and because their great british ally was in need of their disinterested and distinguished co-ordination. nelson was well aware of all this, but could not shake himself free. he loathed the slavering way in which flattery was extended to him, because it had a sickly resemblance to weeping. he declares of the neapolitan officers, "they are boasters of the highest order, and when they are confronted with the duty of defending hearth and home, their courage ends in vapour." he avers that they "cannot lose honour, as they have none to lose," and yet he makes no serious effort to unshackle himself from a detestable position. emma, the queen, and king of naples, and others, have a deep-rooted hold on him, and he cannot give up the cheap popularity of the neapolitans. he persuades himself that the whole thought of his soul is "down, down, with the french," and that it shall be his "constant prayer." throughout the whole course of his brilliant career it was never doubted that the french were his great aversion, because they were his country's enemies. but the hysterical tears of lady hamilton and those of the neapolitan queen proved too strong for him. the king's beseeching fears were also added to an already difficult situation, which, he persuaded himself, could not be ignored without damaging the interests he was sent to protect; so his stay in the reeking cesspool of neapolitanism was prolonged, but there is no reason for supposing that his "constant prayer" for the extinction of the french was any the less ardent. the fatal day of their catastrophe was only postponed. the praying went on all the same, with more or less belief in the almighty's preference for englishmen. viii this is a form of cant to which those whom we regard as great men are a prey. but this pride of race is not confined to the mighty men of valour. the humble soldier and sailor, and poorest and richest of civilians, have the same inherent belief in british superiority. they talk to the great giver of all power in the most patronizing way, and while they profess to believe in his ordinances they treat them as though he were their vassal and not their lawgiver. they call upon him to break his own laws and help them to smite those whom they regard as enemies, never doubting the righteousness of their cause. the enemy, on the other hand, believe that _they_ have a monopoly of god, and avow that _their_ cause is his, and _being_ his, they grimly ask him to settle the dispute by coming down on their side; but should they win the fight, the glory of it is seldom given to the power whose assistance is implored, but ascribed to their own genius. cromwell is a singular and distinguished exception. he always gave all the glory to god. take as an example the battle of dunbar (though there are many instances of a similar character that could be quoted during the civil war). the battle-cry of the parliament forces was "the lord of hosts," and at the opportune moment the commander of the parliament army shouted, "now let god arise, and his enemies shall be scattered." the ironsides made a fearless and irresistible rush at their foes, and almost immediately cromwell saw the covenanters in confusion; again he shouted, "they run! i profess they run!" the quotation from the th psalm was always an inspiration to these religious warriors. old leslie, the scotch covenanting general, with the patience of stupidity, had been mumbling petitions for hours to the god of the anointed to form an alliance with him to crush the unholy rebellion against king and covenant. "thou knowest, o god, how just our cause is, and how unjust is that of those who are not thy people." this moth-eaten crowd of canting hypocrites were no match for the forces who believed that they were backed by the lord of hosts, and they were completely routed. sir jacob astley, another royalist, on one occasion during the civil war breathed a simple prayer with uplifted eyes. "o lord," said he, "thou knowest how busy i must be this day. if i forget thee, do not thou forget me." then he gave the word of command to "march." he was nevertheless defeated at stow, and seems to have been offended at the deity for his forgetfulness, as he bitterly reproached his conquerors by telling them that they might go to play unless they fell out amongst themselves. napoleon carried on warfare under a sterner and more self-reliant code. he had confidence in and depended on his own genius and on nature's laws. there are shoals of instances in his short and terrific career that indicate this belief in himself. he said to a regiment of horse chasseurs at lobenstein two days before the battle of jena, "my lads! you must not fear death; when soldiers brave death, they drive him into the enemy's ranks." on another occasion he said: "you must not fight too often with one enemy, or you teach him all your art of war." this is a thrilling truth which always tells in war, and yet behind all the apparent indifference to the great mysterious force that holds sway over human affairs there was a hidden belief in the power of the deity to guide aright and give aid in the hour of need, even to men of unequalled talents like napoleon himself. his spontaneous exclamations indicate that he did not doubt who created and ruled the universe, but how much he relied on this power he never really disclosed, and it can only be a supposition gathered from utterances recorded by some of his contemporaries that he had a devout belief in the great power of christianity. "ah!" said he one day, "there is but one means of getting good manners, and that is by establishing religion." at that time the spiritual life of france was at a low ebb, and the subject of religion was one of the most unpopular and risky topics to raise, but napoleon knew that it would have to be tackled in the open sooner or later, and it is a matter of authentic history that he struggled to bring and ultimately succeeded in bringing back religious ordinances to france. he declared that no good government could exist for long without it. his traducers proclaimed him an atheist, and we hear the same claptrap from people now who have not made themselves acquainted with the real history of the man and his times. we do not say he was a saint, but he was a better christian, both in profession and action, than most of the kings that ruled prior to and during his period. in every way he excels the louis of france, the georges of great britain and hanover, the fredericks of prussia, and the alexanders of russia. the latter two he puts far in the shade, both as a statesman, a warrior, and a wise, humane ruler who saw far into futurity, and fought against the reactionary forces of europe, which combined to put an end to what was called his ambition to dominate the whole of creation. he foretold with amazing accuracy that from his ashes there would spring up sectional wars for a time, and ultimately the selfsame elements of vicious mediocrity that destroyed him would bring about a world-conflict which would destroy itself. the laws of life are simple, but at the same time very terrible in their consequences if ignored or disobeyed. what folly to imagine that any great figure or great tragedy comes into existence by chance! napoleon was just as necessary to the world as was cromwell. both had the righting of wrongs and the clearing away of the accumulation of centuries of chaos and misgovernment, and it was not to be expected that they could carry out the necessary reforms without making the authors of such an intolerable state of things angry and resentful at their iron methods of discipline. napoleon and cromwell possessed the combined arts of war and statesmanship to a higher degree than any of their contemporaries. cromwell excelled napoleon in professional christianity. the latter never paraded his ideas of religion, though he acted on them silently and gave occasional expression to the thoughts of his soul. indeed, he was too much given to publicly disavowing the very principles he believed in privately. this plan or habit was said to be for the purpose of creating controversy. be that as it may, when the natural spirit moved him he would declare his views in the most robust way. on one of many occasions he startled the council of state by reminding them that a man did not risk being killed for a few pence a day or for a paltry distinction. "you must speak to the soul," he declared, "to electrify the man." another very notable expression is here worth referring to, as it instances how practical and human were his views. "the heart," said he, "warms the genius, but in pitt the genius withers the heart, which is a very different thing"; and so it is that cromwell and he were not dissimilar in many of their attributes. indeed, it is said that napoleon never tired of quoting or having quoted to him some striking characteristic of cromwell. we could hardly, with any degree of good judgment, put leslie the covenanter or sir jacob astley the royalist, or nelson the matchless naval strategist and national hero, on a par with either cromwell or napoleon. they are only here referred to in connection with the two unequalled constructive statesmen and military generals as representing a type of peculiarly religious men who have occupied high military and naval positions in the service of the state. hawkins, drake, frobisher, blake in cromwell's time, nelson in napoleon's, were all fire-eating religious men, always asking favours and guidance in their perilous undertakings from the great mystic power in whom they believed. collingwood was a great admiral and a christian gentleman, who never mixed religion with hysterical or dramatic flashes of quarterdeck language. he was ostentatious in nothing, and seemed to observe a strictly decorous attitude. nelson, on the other hand, resembled a restless squirrel, always swift in his instincts, with an enthusiasm which was contagious. in many ways he did not adhere to what is called cricket in sporting phrase. he was accustomed to say, "never mind the justice or the impudence of this or that, only let me succeed." then he would proceed to ask the almighty in feverish zeal to aid him in the object he had in view. he would scatter a profusion of curses about in relation to the treatment of the admiralty towards himself, or at his disappointment in not getting to grips with the french fleet, and then proceed to ask lady hamilton if they had a nice church at merton, so that they may set an example of goodness to the under-parishioners, and "admire the pigs and poultry," etc. he finds on several occasions that a picture of emma is much admired by the french consul at barcelona, and feels sure it would be admired by bonaparte, and then he continues, "i love you most dearly, and hate the french most damnably." sometimes he said he hated the french as the devil hated holy water, which at that time was considered to be the orthodoxy of a true briton. it was quite a pro-british attitude to patronize the maker of kings who had kept the world in awe for nearly a quarter of a century, by expecting him to admire a portrait of a loose woman to whom he referred in the most scathing manner while at st. helena. her reputation and nelson's connection with her seems to have been known to him, as was also her connection with the neapolitan court. his indictment was terrible. nelson had a weary, anxious time on the toulon station. he called it his home, and said they were in fine fighting trim and wished to god the ships were the same, but they were in a very dilapidated condition, not fit to stand the bad weather they were sure to encounter. the british minister at naples wished to send a frenchman who could be relied on with information as to the whereabouts of the french fleet. nelson replied that he would not on any account have a frenchman in the british fleet except as a prisoner. he would be grateful to him for any information he could give, but not a frenchman would be allowed to come to him, and adds that "his mother hated the french." he was enraged at the report spread by a fussy french admiral named m. la touche-treville, who was in command at toulon. it was said that he was sent to beat nelson as he had done at boulogne. but he was shy about coming out and trying a tussle. nelson said he was a miscreant, a poltroon, and a liar. the frenchman had boasted in a publication that he had put the british fleet to flight. the british admiral took the charge so seriously to heart that he sent a copy of the _victory's_ log to the admiralty to disprove the statement of the lying admiral la touche, and in a letter to his brother nelson says, "you will have seen la touche's letter of how he chased me, and how i ran. i keep it; and by god if i take him, he shall eat it." la touche cheated nelson of a sweet revenge by dying like a good christian before the outraged british admiral could get hold of him. the newspapers of france said he died of fatigue caused by walking so often to the signal post at sepet, to watch the british fleet; and nelson stated "that he was always sure that would be the death of him, and that if he had come out to fight him it would have added ten years on to his life." poor nelson was very sensitive when his professional qualities were assailed. he thought, and thought rightly, that the blockade at toulon was an unparalleled feat of human patience and physical endurance. he had only been out of his ship three times from may to august . we may write and speak about this wonderful devotion to duty, but it is only if we take time to think of the terrific things which the central figure who commanded, and the crews of the fleet of rickety, worn-out, leaky baskets--proudly spoken of as the "wooden walls of old england"--had to contend with and actually did, that we comprehend the vast strain and task of it all. it was because nelson was ever being reminded by some clumsy act of the admiralty or thoughtless, ignorant criticism on the part of the politicians and civilian public generally that the work he and the men under him were doing was not appreciated as it should be, that he gave way to outbursts of violent resentment. but so far as the present writer has been able to discover, his love of approbation was so strong that an encouraging word of praise soon put him in love for the time being with those whom he had lately cursed. he never shrank from disobeying the instructions of whatever authority was over him if his judgment led him to the conclusion that he would serve his country better by disobedience and by following his own judgment; whenever he was driven to do this he was right and those above him were wrong, and in each case he was so conclusively right that no authoritative power dare court-martial him, or even censure his conduct, since the public believed more in him than in them. when the spirit of well-balanced defiance was upon him, he seemed to say to the public, to himself, and to those who were responsible for his instructions, "do you imagine yourselves more capable of judging the circumstances, and the immeasurable difficulties surrounding them, than i am, whose business it has been to watch minutely every changing phase? or do you think my love of country or glory so incomparably inferior to yours that i would risk any harm coming to it, or to myself and the men under me, if i was not sure of my ground? for what other reason do you think i disobeyed orders? do you suppose i did it in order that some disaster should be the result? or do you still think that your plan, right or wrong, should have been carried out, even though it would be accompanied with appalling consequences to life and property? if these are your views, i wish to remind you that i am the indomitable nelson, who will stand no damned nonsense from you or from the enemy when i see that my country, or the interests that i represent, are going to be jeopardized by your self-assertive instructions, and i wish to intimate to you that there is only one way of dealing with a frenchman, and that is to knock him down when he is an enemy. you have obviously got to learn that to be civil to a frenchman is to be laughed at, and this i shall never submit to." the admiralty censured nelson for disobeying lord keith's orders and, as they claimed, endangering minorca, and also for landing seamen for the siege of capua, and told him "not to employ the seamen in any such way in future." the admiralty were too hasty in chastising him. he claimed that his success in freeing the whole kingdom of naples from the french was almost wholly due to the employment of british sailors, whose valour carried the day. nelson sent the first lord a slap between the eyes in his best sarcastic form. he said briefly, "i cannot enter into all the detail in explanation of my motives which led me to take the action i did, as i have only a left hand, but i may inform you that my object is to drive the french to the devil, and restore peace and happiness to mankind"; and he continues, "i feel i am fitter to do the action than to describe it." and then he curtly and in so many words says to his chief, "don't you be troubled about minorca. i have secured the main thing against your wish and that of lord keith, and you may be assured that i shall see that no harm comes to the islands, which seems to be a cause of unnecessary anxiety to you." incidentally, the expulsion of the french from naples and seating ferdinand on the throne was, as i have previously stated, not an unqualified success, nor was he accurate in his statement that he had restored happiness to millions. the success was a mere shadow. he had emancipated a set of villains. troubridge says they were all thieves and vagabonds, robbing their unfortunate countrymen, selling confiscated property for nothing, cheating the king and treasury by pocketing everything that their sticky fingers touched, and that their villainies were so deeply rooted that if some steps were not taken to dig them out, the government could not hold together. out of twenty millions of ducats collected as revenue, only thirteen millions reached the treasury, and the king had to pay four ducats instead of one. troubridge again intimates to his superior that ferdinand is surrounded with a nest of the most unscrupulous thieves that could be found in all europe. "such damned cowards and villains," he declared, "he had never seen or heard of before." ix the french did not mince matters when their opportunity came. they, too, regarded them as vermin, and treated them according to the unrestrained edicts of the reign of terror, organized and administered by their late compatriots sardanapalus, danton, maximilian robespierre, and their literary colleague, the execrable marat, who, by the way, was expeditiously dispatched by the gallant charlotte corday.[ ] this method of bestowing the blessings of liberty, equality, and fraternity was received by the neapolitans with a frenzy from which there sprang a demoniac retaliation. societies were formed to carry out the most atrocious crimes against the neapolitan revolutionists, whom the royalists hated more than they did the french. the fishermen and other miscreants came to a solemn conclusion that it was clearly their duty as a christian people to combine, and each choose one whom they should privately guillotine when the opportunity offered. with the idea of paying a high compliment to troubridge, who had so splendidly protected the royalists, fought the french, and subdued the revolutionists, they made him the recipient of a decapitated head which had proudly sat on the shoulders of a revolutionist. this trophy was actually sent to him with his basket of breakfast grapes. in making the present the gallant fisherman conveyed his compliments to the admiral, and reminded him that it was a token of his high appreciation of the admiral's brilliant services to the royalist cause. the court was infested with traitors who would first carry out their vengeance against their rebellious compatriots and then cunningly lay the blame on those under whose protection they were. one of their judges informed troubridge that he must have a bishop to excommunicate some of the traitor priests before he could have them executed, and the fine sailor, who was sick of the crafty devils and the task he had been allocated to carry out, replied, "for the love of god hang the damned rascals first, and then let the bishop deal with them if he did not think hanging was a sufficient degradation." nothing in the annals of history can surpass the effrontery of these intriguers, which throws a lurid light on the class of administrators who associated with the british nation and spilt the blood of the flower of our land in bolstering up a government that was a disgrace and put all human perfidy in the shade. these allies of ours, who were joyously butchering and robbing each other, demanded a british warship to take the priests to palermo, so that they might be degraded in a proper, christian fashion and then brought to naples for execution. troubridge was audaciously requested to appoint a hangman (it may be he was asked to combine this with his other naval duties), and knowing the fine sense of noble dignity in the average sailor, we can easily imagine the flow of adjectives that accompanied the refusal, and how he would relate the outrage to which he had been subjected in quarterdeck language, that need not be here repeated, to his superior officer, admiral nelson, who must have felt the degradation of being selected to carry out as dirty a piece of work as ever devolved upon a public servant. to fight for his king and country was the joy of his soul, but to be selected as wet-nurse to the kingdom of naples and the dignitaries that were at the head of it would have been an unbearable insult to his sense of proportion had it not been for the fulsome flattery, to which he was so susceptible, which was adroitly administered by the ladies of the court, headed by the queen and supplemented by the wife of sir william hamilton. there is always some fatal weakness about a great man that lures him into littleness, and this was an overwhelming tragedy in nelson's career. the approbation of men was gratefully received and even asked for, but the adoration of women reduced him to helplessness. he was drugged by it, and the stronger the doses, the more efficacious they were. they nullified the vision of the unwholesome task he was set to carry out until his whole being revolted against the indignity of it, when he would pour out his wrath to lady hamilton as he did at the time when troubridge would report to him his own trials. no doubt this caused him to realize the chaotic condition of public affairs, for he writes to the lady that "politics are hateful to him, and that ministers of kings are the greatest scoundrels that ever lived." the king of naples is, he suspects, to be superseded by a prince who has married a russian archduchess. this, presumably, had been arranged by the "great political scoundrels." he stands loyally by ferdinand, but soon all the work of that part of his life that gave him socially so much pleasure and professionally so much misery is to be left for evermore, and his great talents used in other and higher spheres. he had retaken naples from the french, who had set up the parthenopean republic in , and placed the tyrant king on his throne again; after a few more chequered years a treaty of neutrality was signed between france and naples, which was treacherously broken by naples. ferdinand had to fly to sicily, the french troops entered the capital, and bonaparte, who had been marching from one victory to another, cleared out deep-rooted abuses and introduced reforms wherever he could. he had become the terror and the enemy of the misgoverning monarchs of that period, and the french nation had proclaimed him emperor in . he placed his brother joseph on the throne of naples in february ; joseph ruled with marked moderation and distinction, sweeping away much of the foul canker of corruption and introducing many beneficent reforms during his two years of kingship. he then, much against his own wishes, became king of spain, and was succeeded by his brother-in-law, prince joachim murat, the dashing cavalry officer, whose decorative exterior awed friend and foe, and helped to win many a battle. his reign lasted from until , and was no less distinguished than that of joseph's. the fall of the napoleonic régime was followed by the fall of murat, and the despicable and treacherous ferdinand became again the king, and brought back with him the same tyrannical habits that had made his previous rule so disastrous to the kingdom and to himself. no whitewasher, however brilliant and ingenious, can ever wipe out the fatal action of the british government in embarking on so ill-conceived a policy as that of supporting the existence of a bloodsucking government, composed of a miscreant ruling class headed by an ignoble king, all living on the misery and blood of a semi-civilized population. it is a nauseous piece of history, with which, under sagacious administration, we should never have been connected. the main idea was to humble the pride of france, that thenceforth there might be peace in europe. the neapolitan revolutionists believed that the french intention was to set up a free government and deliver them from an unbearable despotism. quite naturally, the court took an opposite view in believing that it foreshadowed deportation, so they lost no time in proclaiming it to be conquest and merciless plunder. nelson urged the vacillating king to advance against the french, to trust in god's blessing being bestowed upon him, his army, and his cause, and to die like a hero, sword in hand, or lose his throne. the king, always dauntless in the absence of danger, replied that he would do this, trusting in god and nelson. his majesty, in tickling the admiral's susceptible spot by associating his name with that of the deity, doubtless made a good shot, and had nelson's sense of humour been equal to his vanity, he might not have received the oily compliment with such delightful complacency. we can imagine the scorn with which troubridge would have received the potentate's reply had he given the same advice as nelson. it is highly probable that had it been given on the quarterdeck of his ship, the king would have been treated to a vocabulary that would have impressed him with the necessity of scrambling quickly over the side. nelson, it is stated, turned the french out of naples, and they were subsequently overpowered by a plan put in force by nelson and troubridge, and carried into effect by men from the fleet. captain hallowell was ordered to proceed to civita vecchia and castle st. angelo to offer terms of capitulation. he reported the position to troubridge, who ordered a squadron in command of captain louis to proceed and enforce the terms. the french, on the other hand, offered terms, but troubridge, like drake on another occasion, said that he had no time to parley, that they must agree to his terms or fight. the french ambassador at rome argued that the roman territory belonged to the french by conquest, and the british commander adroitly replied "that it was his by reconquest." the inevitable alternative was impressive--capitulation. this was arranged, and the roman states came under the control of the victors. captain louis proceeded in his cutter up the tiber and planted the british colours at rome, becoming its governor for a brief time. the naval men had carried out, by clever strategy and pluck, an enterprise which sir james erskine declined to undertake because of the insurmountable difficulties he persisted in seeing. general mack was at the head of about , neapolitan troops, said to be the finest in europe. this, however, did not prevent them from being annihilated by , french, when general championnet evacuated rome. the king entered with all the swagger of an oriental potentate. the neapolitans followed the french to castellana, and when the latter faced up to them they stampeded in disordered panic. some were wounded, but few were killed, and the king, forgetting in his fright his pledged undertaking to go forth trusting in "god and nelson," fled in advance of his valiant soldiers to the capital, where they all arrived in breathless confusion. general mack had been introduced to nelson by the king and queen, the latter exhorting him to be on land what the admiral had been on sea. nelson seems to have formed an adverse opinion of mack, who was extolled by the court as the military genius who was to deliver europe from the thraldom of the french. he had expressed the view that the king and queen's incomparable general "could not move without five carriages," and that _he_ "had formed his opinion" of him, which was tantamount to saying that mack was both a coward and a traitor. perhaps it was undue consideration for the feelings of caroline, sister to the late marie antoinette, that caused him to restrain his boiling rage against this crew of reptiles, who had sold every cause that was entrusted to their protection. nelson was infatuated with the charms of caroline, and as this astute lady knew how to handle him in the interests of the neapolitan court, he reciprocated her patronage by overlooking misdeeds that would, under different circumstances, have justified him in blowing swarms of her noble subjects out of existence. "i declare to god," he writes, "my whole study is how to best meet the approbation of the queen." an open door and hearty reception was always awaiting their majesties of sicily on board nelson's flagship when they found it necessary to fly from the wrath of their downtrodden subjects or the aggressive invasions of the french troops. the anxiety of nelson in conveying them to their sicilian retreat was doubly increased by the vast treasure they never neglected to take with them, and neither the sources from which it came nor the means of spending it gave trouble to their consciences. the british government, always generous with other person's money, fed these insufferable royal personages by bleeding the life's blood out of the british public, though it is fair to say that the government did not carry out to the full the benevolent suggestions nelson consistently urged in their behalf. "his heart was always breaking" at some act of parsimony on the part of the government in so tardily giving that which he pleaded was an urgent necessity for them to have. he frankly avowed that he would prefer to resign if any distinction were to be drawn between loyalty to his rightful sovereign and that of his sicilian majesty, who was the faithful ally of his king. the solemn audacity of this statement reveals a mind so far fallen to pieces by infatuation that it has lost the power of discrimination. it will be remembered that this gracious ally promised nelson that he would go forth at the head of his troops and conquer or die, and then scampered off in front of his army through rome to naples, and, after a few days' concealment from the mob, secretly bundled into boats with his retinue on a stormy night of great peril, embarked on the admiral's ship, and sailed for palermo. lady hamilton is credited with planning (with heroic skill) means by which the royal family could be taken to the shore, where nelson was to receive and convoy them in barges to the _vanguard_. lady hamilton had explored a subterranean passage which led from the palace to the beach, and pronounced it a fairly safe and possible means of exit. the plan apparently succeeded, and the royal party, after a few days' precautionary stay in the bay of naples, were conveyed in safety to palermo, notwithstanding the hurricane that was encountered and only weathered by a perfection of seamanship that was unequalled in our naval and merchant services at that period of our trying history. the voyage was not made without tragedy, for the youngest of the princes became ill, and as it is always inevitable to attach a heroine to circumstances that are sensational (when there is one at hand), their majesties in their grief fixed on her who had braved the perils of investigating the possibilities of the subterranean tunnel which had proved a safe though hazardous passage for the conveyance of themselves and their vast treasure. nor do they appear to have been unmindful of her devotion to themselves during the storm, which was the severest that nelson said he had ever experienced--though this is a platitude, as sailors are always prone to regard the last storm as the most terrific of all! but that it was severe there can be no doubt. we may be assured that the royal parents were not in a condition to give succour to their stricken son, so he was vouchsafed to pass beyond the veil in the arms of lady hamilton, who had bravely defied the tempest and behaved with a compassion that must always stand to her credit. they arrived at palermo the day after the young prince's death, and soon settled down to their gambling and other pleasures in which nelson, as already stated, was involved. troubridge, with touching fidelity, pleads with him to shun the temptations by which he is beset. "i dread, my lord," he says, "all the feasting, etc., at palermo. i am sure your health will be hurt. if so, all their saints will be damned by the navy"; and then he goes on to say, "the king would be better employed digesting a good government; everything gives way to their pleasures. the money spent at palermo gives discontent here; fifty thousand people are unemployed, trade discouraged, manufactures at a stand. it is the interest of many here to keep the king away; they all dread reform."[ ] troubridge was wellnigh driven to distraction by the terrible straits he was put to at naples. the people were faced with the ravages of famine. already there were scenes of unspeakable misery. his appeals to the sicilian court to send immediate relief was ignored. nelson, to whom he had appealed, was absorbed in his attentions to lady hamilton, and refused to see the vicious indifference of the court, who were hemmed round with a set of knaves and vagabonds, if that be not too moderate a term to use of them. troubridge beseeches him to come to the rescue in the following terms:-- my lord, we are dying off fast for want. i learn that sir william hamilton says prince luzzi refused corn, some time ago, and sir william does not think it worth while making another application. if that be the case, i wish he commanded this distressing scene, instead of me. puglia had an immense harvest: near thirty sail left messina, before i did, to load corn. will they let us have any? if not, a short time will decide the business. the german interest prevails. i wish i was at your lordship's elbow for an hour. all, all, will be thrown on you: i will parry the blow as much as in my power; i foresee much mischief brewing. god bless your lordship! i am miserable, i cannot assist your operations more. many happy returns of the day to you (it was the first of the new year). i never spent so miserable a one. i am not very tender-hearted, but really the distress here would even move a neapolitan. shortly after he writes, again pouring out fresh woes:-- i have this day saved thirty thousand people from starvation; but with this day my ability ceases. as the government are bent on starving us, i see no alternative but to leave these poor people to perish, without our being witness of their distress. i curse the day i ever served the neapolitan government. we have characters, my lord, to lose; these people have none. do not suffer their infamous conduct to fall on us. our country is just, but severe. such is the fever of my brain this minute, that i assure you, on my honour, if the palermo traitors were here, i would shoot them first, and then myself. girgenti is full of corn; the money is ready to pay for it; we do not ask it as a gift. oh! could you see the horrid distress i daily experience, something would be done. some engine is at work against us at naples, and i believe i hit on the proper person. if you complain, he will be immediately promoted, agreeably to the neapolitan custom. all i write to is known at the queen's. for my own part, i look upon the neapolitans as the worst of intriguing enemies; every hour shows me their infamy and duplicity. i pray your lordship be cautious; your honest open manner of acting will be made a handle of. when i see you and tell you of their infamous tricks, you will be as much surprised as i am. the whole will fall on you. nelson must have known the position set forth in this feverish communication from a man whose judgment and affection he had no reason to suspect. it is a deplorable example of infatuation that every one who knew the court and the rascals that surrounded it was aware of its shameless tricks except nelson himself. they protested that they had withdrawn the restrictions on the exportation of corn so far as they could, and he swallowed their lies with the simplicity of a child. he must have been the victim of mesmeric influence not to see through their vile knavery in pleading poverty when they were asked to carry out an act of common humanity. all very well for him to groan over what he had to endure, and to complain that the burden of it had broken his spirit! troubridge diagnosed the malady when he implored nelson to relinquish the infatuation which was leading him into trouble. why, instead of spending his time with lady hamilton and fawning over the king and queen, did he leave the right thing to be done by captain ball (who took the bull by the horns)? all very well for him to pour out his wrath to the duke of clarence, that his "constant thought was down, down with the damned french villains"! and that his "blood boiled at the name of a frenchman"! but except that we were at war with the french, were they in any degree such "damned villains" as the neapolitans and the whole crew of court knaves, with whom he was so blindly enamoured, who were, in reality, ready to sell their own country and his to the french whenever they saw it was to their material advantage to do so? captain ball did not waste time in the use of adjectives about the french and the daily "anxieties" that bore so heavily on himself and others, "breaking his heart." he gave peremptory orders to his first lieutenant to proceed off messina and seize the ships that were lying there loaded with corn, and bring them to malta. he defied the abominable court of sicily and their edicts prohibiting exportation, and his instructions were carried out. he awaited the consequences to himself with a manly consciousness that humanity must take precedence of orders dictated by a sentimental fear lest the feelings of a set of cowardly despots should be hurt. this single act of real courage and decision saved the lives of thousands of starving people, and prevented the siege from being removed. the court of naples dared not utter a word of condemnation against captain ball, but the governor of malta became the object of their nervous enmity, which they dare not put into practice. lord minto, many years after the events of which i am writing, said of nelson, for whom he had an affectionate regard, that "he was in many points a really great man, but in others he was a baby." no one who has studied his career will ever doubt his greatness, but his peevish childishness, even when he was responsible for the carrying out of great deeds that did not come so quickly as his eager spirit craved, ofttimes tried the patience of those who set high value on his matchless talents and his otherwise lovable disposition. he was never known to take credit to himself that was due to others, but, like most great men, he took for granted that all those above or below him in rank and station should be subordinate to his whims and actions. he could only accommodate himself to being subordinate to his king, the king and queen of naples, and to the exhilarating influence of lady hamilton. almost immediately after the seizure of the grain-laden ships, nelson sailed for malta, and had the good fortune to sight a french squadron, the _généreux_, three frigates, and a corvette; after an exciting and hard chase, he came up to them, knocked their masts over the side, and captured the _généreux_ and a frigate. x nelson hit on a simple though ingenious plan that was frequently adopted in subsequent years by captains in the merchant service when racing, which always created excitement amongst the crew; the order was given to knock the wedges out of the deck coamings, ease the strain off the fore and aft stays, and when it was judicious to do it the pinch on the main rigging was also eased to give the masts more play. the windjammer seamen knew when this order was given that they were in for a time of "cracking on," and really enjoyed both the sport and the risk that it involved, even in the hands of skilful commanders. by this means the speed was always increased, and it was quite a common practice on tea-clippers, australian passenger vessels, and american packets. the commander rarely left the quarterdeck on those occasions, unless his officers were really first-class men. the writer has often attained successful results when racing by putting invigorating life into his ship by these old-time methods which were handed down to each generation of sailors. no class of seamen knew more dainty tricks in manipulating sails and rigging than those who manned the slave-runner, the smuggler, and the pirate schooner. their vessels were designed for speed, but ofttimes when they were in a tight place they were saved from being destroyed by the superb nautical dodges which they alone knew so well how and when to put in use so that their pursuers might be outwitted and outdistanced. it is more than probable that the _généreux_ would have got away had nelson not been a past-master in all kinds of dodges to make his ship sail faster. he knew that some of the french ships were notoriously equal to the british in sailing qualities, but he left nothing to chance. every drop of water was ordered to be pumped out of the hold; the wedges were removed from the masts' coaming; the stays slackened; butts of water were hung on them; hammocks were piped down; every available sail was crowded on to her; the most reliable quartermasters were stationed at the wheel. the _foudroyant_ is gaining--she draws ahead. the stump of the "heaven-born" admiral's right arm is working with agitation as his ship takes the lead. it is now all up with the _généreux_. she surrenders after a terrific, devastating duel, and nelson avows that had he acted according to lord keith's instead of his own strategy, she would never have been taken. the _guillaume tell_ had been locked up in malta harbour for some time, and the commander decided to run the gauntlet, his reason being, it is stated, to relieve the starving garrison from having to feed his ship's company, which consisted of from , to , men. she was intercepted, engaged, and ultimately taken by the _foudroyant_, _lion_, and _penelope_ after all her masts had been shot away. the thrilling story of this sea battle takes high rank in naval warfare. the french ship was fought with the fury of courage and genius that nelson himself could not have failed to admire. the _penelope_ and _lion_ had been mauled off when the _foudroyant_ came on the scene and shot away her main and mizzen masts, when a french sailor, like jack crawford of sunderland at the battle of camperdown, nailed the ensign to the stump of the mizzen mast. the foremast was the only mast now remaining, and it was soon sent flying over the side by the terrific firing from the british ship. she then took her colours down, ceased firing, and became the prize of the heroes who had fought and conquered. nelson might and ought to have had the glory of taking the last of the nile fleet, had he not allowed a perverse spirit to rule his will. he nursed and inflamed his imagination against lord keith being put over him, until that fine zeal that was so natural to him slackened. he writes to hamilton that his "situation is irksome." "lord keith is commander-in-chief, and he (nelson) has not been kindly treated." he tells spencer that he has written to lord keith, asking for permission to come to england, when he (the first lord) will "see a broken-hearted man," and that his "spirit cannot submit to it." the admiralty may have been inspired to place lord keith in supreme command owing to nelson's association with the court party at palermo and the growing scandal attached to it. but in that case they should have frankly told him that they feared the effect his dallying at palermo might have on the service in many different ways. troubridge and captain ball urged him with all the sincerity of devotion not to return to sicily, but to remain at malta, and sign the capitulation which was near at hand; but they could not alter his resolve to leave the station, which troubridge said was due to the passion of infatuation and not to illness, which he had ascribed as the reason. nelson tried the patience of the first lord (who was his friend) so sorely that he wrote him a private letter which was couched in gentle though, in parts, cutting reproaches. he obviously believed that the plea of ill-health was groundless, or at all events not sufficiently serious to justify him giving up. he very fairly states that he is quite convinced that he will be more likely to recover his health in england than by an inactive stay at the court of sicily, however pleasing the gratitude shown him for the services he has rendered may be, and that no gratitude from that court can be too great in view of the service he had bestowed upon it. lord minto, who was ambassador at vienna, says he has letters from nelson and lady hamilton which do not make it clear whether he will go home or not. he hopes he will not for his own sake, for he wants him to take malta first; and continues, "he does not seem conscious of the sort of discredit he has fallen into, or the cause of it, for he still writes, not wisely, about lady hamilton and all that," and then generously states, "but it is hard to condemn and use ill a hero, as he is in his own element, for being foolish about a woman who has art enough to make fools of many wiser than an admiral." it is hardly possible to doubt that nelson felt keenly mortified at losing the opportunity of personally taking the _guillaume tell_; but whether he did or not, he managed to subdue all appearance of envy and paid a high, sportsmanlike tribute to those who had earned the honour he could not help flavouring it, however, with some words of nelsonian self-approbation. he said, "he gloried in them, for they were his children, they served in his school, and all of them, including himself, caught their professional zeal and fire from the great and good earl st. vincent." then he goes on to say that it is a great happiness to have the nile fleet all taken under his orders and regulations. he slyly claimed the glory of training and inspiring, though he had deprived himself of added fame by nourishing a morose feeling of jealousy against lord keith, who had been sent out after a few months' leave to take up his position as commander-in-chief. owing to his absence, nelson had acted in that capacity, and he could not bear the thought of being superseded by his old chief. in fact, nelson could not tolerate being placed in a secondary position by any one. as i have already stated, he put keith's authority at defiance and took responsibilities upon himself, boasting that had they failed he would have been "shot or broke." after the capture of the _généreux_ he struck, and wrote to keith that his health would not permit of his remaining at his post, that without "rest he was done for," and that he could "no more stay fourteen days longer on the station than fourteen years." at the same time, captain ball wrote to lady hamilton that "he had dined with him, and that he was in good health," that he did not think a short stay would do his health harm, and that "he would not urge it, were it not that he and troubridge wished him to have the honour of the french ships and the french garrison surrender to him." nelson's vision and good judgment at this time must have been totally at fault, and his general attitude emphasizes the splendid forbearance of his amiable commander-in-chief and distinguished subordinates who were the very cream of the navy. i wonder what would have happened to any of the other brilliant commanders in the royal navy if any of them had, like nelson, refused to obey the orders of the commander-in-chief and left his post off malta, which was being closely besieged and the garrison daily expected to capitulate! supposing nelson had been the commander-in-chief and his second in command had acted as he did towards lord keith, there _would_ have been wigs on the green! the insubordinate officer would have been promptly court-martialled and hung at the yardarm like the neapolitan admiral, francesco caracciolo, or treated like the hon. admiral john byng, who was tried for neglect of duty in an engagement off minorca in , and condemned for committing an error of judgment and shot aboard the _monarch_ at spithead in . nelson was a stern disciplinarian, who could never brook being under discipline himself. nor was he ever a day without a grievance of one kind or another. it must have been a happy deliverance to keith when he heard the last of him in the mediterranean, for his mental capacity at this particular stage of his history was quite defective. no doubt lady hamilton and the queen jabbered into his ears the injustice of the wrongs imposed upon him. after the battle of marengo the whole of northern italy was given up to the french by convention signed by general milas. the british commander-in-chief proceeded to leghorn with the fugitives, to be bored, as he fretfully declared, "by nelson craving permission to take the queen to palermo, and the prince and princesses to all parts of the world." the queen was panic-stricken at the french successes, and besought him to allow her to sail in the _foudroyant_; but keith could not be prevailed upon to release any of his ships for such a purpose, notwithstanding nelson's supplications and her flow of tears. he told nelson that the royal lady should get off to vienna as quickly as she could and abandon the idea of palermo, supplementing his refusal to employ the _foudroyant_ in any such way. he would only allow a frigate to escort her own frigates to trieste. lady minto wrote to her sister from florence that keith told the queen that "lady hamilton had had command of the fleet long enough," and then she adds, "the queen is very ill with a sort of convulsive fit, and nelson is staying to nurse her, and does not intend going home until he has escorted her back to palermo. his zeal for the public service," she continues, "seems entirely lost in his love and vanity, and they all sit and flatter each other all day long." nelson, steady in his attachment to the queen declared that he would see her through and then continue his journey home with the hamiltons. they all left leghorn together, arrived at florence safely, were taken from ancona to trieste on two russian frigates, and landed at trieste. the queen of sicily accompanied them to vienna, and nelson and the hamiltons continued their triumphant journey through germany to hamburg. his association with the court of naples was now at an end, and his real friends, believing that it had corrupted and sapped his better nature, were glad of it. his mind at this time was filled with delusions about his future. he repeatedly declared that he would never serve again, and from a mixture of motives he acquired happiness in the belief that he would avenge his keenly-felt wrongs by achieving oblivion. the idea that fate held in store for him a higher and a sterner destiny never occurred to him, and he little realized that he would soon be removed from a sphere where his presence would be no longer needed. he was, in fact, combating the very destiny he had so often sought in which he would achieve immortal glory. xi the benighted policy of keeping in power a mawkish sicilian court, saturated with the incurable vices of cowardice, falsehood, dishonesty, and treachery, failed; and the government of the day was saddled with the crime of squandering human life, wealth, and energy without receiving any commensurate return. if it was in the national interest to involve the country in war with france, it could have been carried on with greater credit and effect by not undertaking the hopeless task of bolstering up a court and a people that were openly described by our own people who were sent to fight for them as "odious damned cowards and villains." we had no _real_ grounds of quarrel with france nor with her rulers. the revolution was their affair, and was no concern of ours, except in so far as it might harmfully reflect on us, and of this there was no likelihood if we left them alone. the plea of taking the balance of power under our benevolent care was a sickly exhibition of statesmanship, and the assumption of electing ourselves guardians of the rights of small nations mere cant. it was, in fact, the canker of jealousy and hatred on the part of the reactionary forces against a man, a principle, and a people. had those who governed this country then held aloof from the imbroglio created by the french revolution, observed a watchful, conciliatory spirit of neutrality towards the french government, and allowed the continental powers to adjust their own differences, the conditions of human existence and the hurtful administration of autocratic governments would have been reconstituted, and the world would have been the better for it; instead of which we helped to impose on europe twenty years of slaughter and devastation. our dismal, plutocratic rulers, with solemn enthusiasm, plunged england with all her power and influence on the side of prussia and her continental allies, and, in conjunction with the holy alliance, pledged themselves never to lay down arms until france was mutilated and the master-mind which ruled her beaten and dethroned. their task was long, costly, and gruesome. what a ghastly legacy those aggressively righteous champions of international rights have bequeathed to the world! but for their folly and frenzy we should not be engaged in a european war to-day. poor napoleon! he foreshadowed and used his gigantic genius to prevent it; now the recoil has come. there are always more flies caught by treacle than by vinegar, a policy quite as efficacious in preventing international quarrels as it is in the smaller affairs of our existence, provided the law which governs the fitness of things is well defined. had we approached napoleon in a friendly spirit and on equal terms, without haughty condescension, he would have reciprocated our cordiality and put proper value on our friendship. by wisdom and tact the duration of napoleon's wars would have been vastly shortened, and both nations would have been saved from the errors that were committed. we did not do this, and we are now reaping the consequence. it is hardly to be expected that if hostility be shown towards an individual or a nation either will mildly submit to it. who can estimate the passionate resentment of an emotional people at nelson's constant declamatory outbursts against the french national character, and the effect it had throughout france? an affront to a nation, even though it is made by a person in a subordinate position, may bring about far-reaching trouble. reverse the position of the traducer of a prominent man or his nation, and it will be easy to arrive at a correct conclusion as to the temper that would be aroused, say, in this country. we know that during a war passions are let loose and charges made by the combatants against each other which are usually exaggerated, but one thing is certain, that our soldiers and sailors have always had the well-deserved reputation of being the cleanest fighters in the world. there have never been finer examples of this than during the present war. but in justice to ourselves and to the french during the napoleonic wars, i think it was grossly impolitic to engender vindictiveness by unjustifiable acrimony. up to the time that nelson left the mediterranean for england, except for the brilliant successes of the nile and the equally brilliant capture of the balance of the french mediterranean fleet, and subsequently the capitulation of malta on the th september, , our share in the war was an exhausting and fruitless failure. the responsibility for this clearly lies at the door of the government who planned it, and in no way attaches to nelson and his coadjutors, whose naval and also shore exploits could not be excelled. first, it was a blink-eyed policy that plunged us into the war at all; and secondly, it was the height of human folly to waste our resources in the erroneous belief that the highly trained military men of france could be permanently subjugated in the mediterranean by the cowardly, treacherous villains of which the roman states armies and governments were composed. history is not altogether faithful to the truth in its honeyed records of the ministerial pashas who tranquilly increased the national debt, inflicted unspeakable horrors on the population, and smirched our dignity by entering into a costly bond of brotherhood with an inveterate swarm of hired bloodsucking weasels. such, forsooth! was the mental condition of the wooden souls who managed the nation's affairs, that they allowed nelson to add another blot to our national history escutcheon by taking ferdinand bourbon's throne under his protection. it is true that ferdinand "did not wish that his benefactor's name should alone descend with honour to posterity," or that he should "appear ungrateful." so the admiral was handsomely rewarded by being presented with the dukedom of bronte and a diamond-hilted sword which had been given to the king by his father when he became sicilian king. it would be nonsense even to suspect nelson of accepting either gifts or titles as a bribe to sacrifice any interest that was british. nelson's devotion to the court did not express itself by seeking material recompense for the services bestowed on their sicilian majesties. there were various reasons for his elaborate and silly attentions. first, his range of instructions were wide in a naval sense; second, his personal attachment to the king and his consort (especially his consort), for reasons unnecessary to refer to again, became a growing fascination and a ridiculous craze. his fanatical expressions of dislike to the french are merely a nelsonian way of conveying to the world that the existence of so dangerous a race should be permissive under strictly regulated conditions. he had a solemn belief in his own superiority and that of his fellow-countrymen. all the rest were to him mere human scrap, and his collection of epithets for them was large and varied. his mogul air in the presence of aliens was traditionally seamanlike. if they failed to shudder under his stern look and gleaming eyes, it affected him with displeasure and contempt. the neapolitans were fulsomely accommodating, though nelson, except from the court party and a few nobles, does not appear to have attached much value to their servile tokens of appreciation. it cannot be said that either nelson, his government, or his country were in any way rewarded by the sacrifices made ostensibly in the interests of human rights. under ferdinand bourbon, the neapolitan states and sicily had no settled government. he was a contemptible poltroon, whose throne was supported for years by british money, men, and ships, and even with our strong support; he was alternately fleeing to sicily and returning again under the formidable protection of british frigates, and, like all perfidious cowards, his short intervals of government were distinguished by a despotism that soon made it necessary for him to fly from the feelings of vengeance he had called out. not even the power of great britain could prevent the kingdom of naples from passing from one vicissitude into another. the french took possession of it in january , and established what they called the parthenopean republic. nelson helped to retake it in june of the same year, and put the itinerant king on the throne. the neapolitans occupied rome on the th september, . in october a treaty of neutrality between france and naples was carried into effect. ferdinand fled to sicily again on the rd january of the next year, when the master-mind came to close quarters and put an end, as i have previously stated, to ferdinand's kingship and tyrannical rule by placing his brother joseph on the throne; two years later joseph became king of spain, and his brother-in-law, joachim murat, succeeded him as ruler of naples. the neapolitans were never better governed than during the reign of these two kings. many wise laws were made and enforced by a just and rigid discipline. incompetent, weak despotism had disappeared, and any attempt at licence was promptly subdued. the people were put through a course of transforming education, and gradually became law-abiding citizens. even then, methods of carrying on commerce took a marked change for the better, and predatory habits were relaxed into comparative honesty, not, it may be supposed, from virtue, but from fear of the inevitable, harsh consequences. the public, in a general way, quickly distinguish between a strong, capable ruler and a weak, incompetent one; and no matter how indulgent the latter may be, they prefer the strong wholesome-minded man to the mediocrity. ferdinand had none of the qualities that are essential to a man occupying a position of authority. when the french came to take over the government of naples, he flew, as usual, to sicily, and under the continuous protection of british men-of-war was with great difficulty kept reigning there until the end of war, when he was again put on the throne of naples in , and forthwith commenced again his rule of incompetency and despotism, reversing the beneficent rule of his two able predecessors. the old reprobate died on the th january, , having reigned off and on for sixty-five years, largely owing to the indulgent and costly support of the british government. caroline died on the th september, , and to her abiding credit she condemned the action of the court of vienna for severing the bond of union between the emperor napoleon and her granddaughter, marie louise. she declared vehemently that it was the duty of the latter to break the prohibition by assuming disguise and tie her bed-sheets together and lower herself out of the window, and make her way quickly, in face of all obstacles, to where her husband was. marie louise was not a lady of unyielding morals, and at that particular time her hapsburg, licentious mind was not centred on the misfortunes of her husband, but on neipperg, who was employed to seduce her. caroline told baron claude françois de meneval, napoleon's private secretary, that she had reason at one time to dislike the emperor, but now that adversity had come to him, she forgot the past. had this same spirit of rightness and wisdom been adopted by marie louise's father and his allies, as was so nobly advocated by the sister of marie antoinette, there would have been a clean sheet in history about them, though it is obvious in many quarters that the historians have extended all the arts of ambiguity and delusion to make them appear flawless benefactors. therefore one has to take all the circumstances handed down from many varied sources, reliable and unreliable, and after mature thought form conclusions as one's judgment may direct as to the merits and demerits of every phase that is recorded. hence exhaustive research and long-reasoned views lead me definitely to the conclusion that there is not much that we can put to the credit of either their wisdom or humanity. my plain opinion is that they acted ferociously, and although always in the name of the son of god, that can never absolve them from the dark deeds that stand to their names. nor is it altogether improbable that all the nations that were concerned in the dreadful assassination are now paying the natural penalty of their guilt. natural laws have a curious roundabout way of paying back old scores, though the tragic retribution has to be borne more often than not by the innocent descendants of those who have, in the name of the deity, violated them. the duke of thunder was proud of the sicilian meaning of his title, and so were his sailors, who loved the thrilling effect of anything that conveyed the idea of being associated with a formidable power that devastated every other force that stood in its way. for the most part, nelson's sailors had great faith in his naval genius. he had led them many times to victory, and they did not forget the glory that attached to themselves. he planned the strategy, but it was they that fought and won the battles. the duke of thunder was a fine title to fight under. a name has frequently done more damage to a foe than glittering bayonets. but nelson in no degree had the thunder element in him, so far as we are able to judge by the descriptions given to us of him. he was a dashing, courageous, scientific genius, gifted with natural instincts, disciplinary wisdom, deplorable sentimentality, and an artificial, revengeful spirit of hatred that probably became real under the arbitrary circumstances of war, but, i should say, was rarely prominent. his roaming attacks on the french were probably used more for effect, and had, we hope, only a superficial meaning. but be that as it may, it detracts from the dignity of an officer occupying, as he did, a distinguished position to use language and phrases such as are common in the forecastle or on the quarterdeck of a sailing merchantman in the early days before the introduction of steamers. here are a few quite amusing outbursts which do not produce the impression of coming from a person known to fame as the duke of thunder:--on the st october, , the preliminaries of peace with france were signed. when nelson heard of it he thanked god, and went on to say, "we lay down our arms, and are ready to take them up again if the french are insolent." he declares there is no one in the world more desirous of peace than he is, but that he would "burst sooner than let any damned frenchman know it." but it was too much for his anti-french sentiments when he heard that their ambassador's carriage had been dragged by the london mob. he wrote to his medical man, and asked if he could cure madness, for he had gone mad to learn "that our damned scoundrels dragged a frenchman's carriage." and he hoped nevermore to be dragged by such a degenerate crowd; which was exhibiting in a characteristic way his high opinion of himself. "would our ancestors have done it?" he asks, and then continues: "the villains would have drawn buonaparte if he had been able to get to london to cut the king's head off." the writer has a definite opinion that bonaparte would have had a boisterous reception, and that it might have cemented a friendship that would have been a blessing to the tired world, and especially to the two warring nations. the ruler of the french nation, in spite of nelson's views, would have made a better ally than enemy. but it often happens that nations, as well as individuals, lose their psychological opportunity. and we will risk a belief that if nelson and bonaparte met they would have found an affinity between them that would have made the two men friends. southey says that the title "duke of thunder" is essentially applicable to nelson, but the writer has failed to find anything to warrant such an opinion. nelson's professional pride was for ever being needlessly hurt by admiralty tactlessness. he had good reason on many occasions to take offence at their clumsiness. one of numerous grievances was sir sydney smith being, to all appearances, put over him. he wrote to lord st. vincent, and reminded him that he was a man, and that it was impossible for him to serve in the mediterranean under a junior officer. st. vincent prevailed on him not to resign, but sir sydney smith wished to carry out a policy towards the french in egypt which nelson hotly disapproved, and he commands him on no account to permit a single frenchman to leave the country. he considered it would be madness to permit a band of thieves to return to europe. "to egypt," he says, "they went of their own accord, and they shall remain there while he commanded the squadron. never will he consent to the return of one ship or frenchman. i wish them to perish in egypt, and give an awful lesson to the world of the justice of the almighty." it will be observed how characteristically sailorly he is in his leanings on divine monopoly in punishing the "bloody corsican" for his wickedness in waging war against britain. his profound belief was that the almighty presided over our destinies then, just as the german kaiser claims that he is presiding over his national affairs now; and, as i have pointed out before, each of the belligerents calls upon him in beseeching reverence as a divine compatriot, to give this almighty power to aid in demolishing their common foe, who has broken every law of god and man. this form of blasphemy is as rampant now as it ever was. it is not a hungry belief in god that gives the initial impulse for human slaughter. it is a craving lust for the invention of all that is devilish in expeditiously disposing of human life. the international democracies who are devoting so much attention to political ascendancy should distribute their power in a way that would make it impossible for weak governments, composed of mediocrities and bellicose rulers of nations, to make war whenever their impertinent ambitions are impressed with the sanguinary rage of conflict. all wars mutilate civilization, and put back by many generations any advance that may have been made in the interval between one butchery and another. the working people of all nations could and should combine to stop the manufacture of every implement of warfare, and make it a treasonable offence for any ruler or government again to advocate war as a means of settling disputes. this law must of necessity be binding upon all the powers, big and little. what a mockery this gospel of brotherhood has been in all ages! is it an ideal ambition to bring it about? of course it is, but we cannot catch the spirit of christ and preach the gospel of pity, and commit hideous murder at one and the same time! hence the impudence of expecting a divine benediction on warfare. all sorts of public and private honours and testimonials were conferred upon nelson during his stay at hamburg on his way home after the mortifications caused by the elusive french fleet, calabrian brigands, and the alluring attractions of the court of naples and sicily. one hundred grenadiers, each six feet high, waited at table when he was being banqueted. the owner of a magdeburg hotel where he stayed made money by setting up a ladder outside nelson's sitting-room and charging a fee for mounting it and peeping at the hero inside the room. an aged wine merchant at hamburg offered him through lady hamilton six dozen bottles of rhenish wine of the vintage of . it had been in his own possession for fifty years, and he hoped that some of it would be allowed to flow with the blood of the immortal hero, as it would then make the giver happy. nelson shook hands with the old man, and consented to receive six bottles, provided he would dine with him next day. a dozen were sent, and nelson put aside six, saying that it was his hope to win half a dozen more victories, and that one bottle would be drunk after each. another aged man, whose ideals were of a different and higher order, came along. he was a german pastor who, at eighty years of age or thereabouts, had travelled forty miles with the object of getting nelson to write his immortal, name in his bible. the venerable lutheran prelate, with a grateful heart, asked to be allowed to record his blessing and admiration for the gallant british admiral by stating to him, amongst other modestly selected phrases, that "he was the saviour of the christian world." the pastor's fervent testimony of his work and his mission touched nelson on a tender spot. in his rough-and-ready way, he believed in the efficacy of prayer, and he knew when the old man, bowed down by age, parted from him that he would be steadfast in his petitions to the giver of all mercies that he should be held in his holy keeping, body and soul. the story is an example of fine healthy devotion, free from sickly cant, though the logic of successfully squandering rich lives or even bravely sacrificing your own (as every commander risks doing) is a mysterious reason for the person who is successful in casting away human lives--even though they be those of an enemy--having the title of "the saviour of the world" conferred upon him! the writer's idea of how to establish and advance the christian faith is to keep out of war, and the best method of doing this is for the electorate to choose men to govern who are highly gifted with diplomatic genius. nearly all wars are brought about through incompetent negotiators, and the wastage of life and property in carrying on a war is certainly to be attributed to men who are at the head of affairs being mere politicians, without any faculty whatever for carrying out great undertakings. they are simply mischievous shadows, and merely excel as intriguers in putting good men out of office and themselves in. it is the selection of men for the posts they are eminently suited to fill that counts in any department of life, but it is more manifestly important in affairs of government. for instance, nothing but disaster can follow if a man is made chancellor of the exchequer who has no instinct for national finance, and the same thing applies to a foreign secretary who has no knowledge of or natural instinct for international diplomacy. at the same time, an adroit commercial expert may be utterly useless in dealing with matters of state that are affected by trade. the two positions are wide apart, and are a business in themselves. the writer's view is that to fill any department of state satisfactorily the head should have both political and commercial training, combined with wholesome instinct. i don't say that trade is altogether affected by the kind of government that is in power, but bad trade and bad government combined make a terrific burden for any nation to carry. service men, in the main, measure and think always from a military or naval point of view. some of them have quite a genius for organizing in matters concerning their different professions. take the late lord kitchener. in army matters he was unequalled as an organizer but abominably traduced. then there is lord fisher, who easily heads everybody connected with the navy, as a great admiral who can never be deprived of the merit of being the creator of our modern fleet. he combines with a matchless genius for control a fine organizing brain. the politician, with his amateurish antics, deprived the british empire of the services of an outstanding figure that would have saved us many lives and many ships, without taking into account the vast quantity of merchandise and foodstuffs that have perished. it is not by creating confusion that the best interest of the nation is served, either in peace-time or during war. those robust rhetoricians who massacre level-headed government and substitute a system of make-shift experiments during a great national crisis do a wicked public disservice. i have no time to deal with these superior persons in detail, but i cannot keep my thoughts from the terrible bitterness and anguish their haphazard experiments may have caused. the destroying force will eat into the very entrails of our national life if some powerful resolute personality does not arise to put an end to the hopeless extemporizing and contempt for sober, solid, orderly administration. the truth is that, if a government or anything else is wrongly conceived, natural laws will never help it to right itself, and it ends in catastrophe. such governments are inflicted on us from time to time as a chastisement, it is said, for our national sins, and the process of disintegration is deadly in its effects. the only consoling feature of it is that history is repeating itself with strange accuracy, as may be verified by a glance into the manuscripts of mr. fortescue at dropmore. herein you will find many striking resemblances between the constitution of the government then and the tribulation we are passing through at the present time. one important event of that period has been avoided up to the present; none has demanded a settlement of his differences by means of a duelling contest, as did castlereagh and canning.[ ] they had a coalition of all the talents then as they presume to have now, though there has been no real evidence of it, either in or out of parliament. xii poor nelson had a terrible time with one and another of them, as they had with him, if history may be relied on. his periodical defiances and his contempt for his superiors is quite edifying. he laid down the law like a bishop when his moods were in full play. the great naval, commercial, and military figure to which nelson comes nearest is drake, and the nearest to nelson in versatility is lord fisher, who must have had an engaging time with those who wished to assume control of the navy over his level head. i question whether any man holding a high position in the british navy, at any time, could combine naval, military, and administrative genius, together with sound common sense, as nelson did. we have devoted so much attention to the study of his naval accomplishments that many of his other practical gifts have been overlooked. it is common belief, in civilian circles at any rate, and there is good ground for it, that both the naval and military men do not realize how much their existence depends on a well-handled and judiciously treated mercantile marine. i have too much regard for every phase of seafaring life to criticize it unfairly, but, except on very rare occasions, i have found naval and military men so profoundly absorbed in their own professions that they do not trouble to regard anything else as being essential. the present war will have revealed many things that were not thought of in other days. one of nelson's outstanding anxieties was lest any harm should befall our commerce, and he protected it and our shipping with fine vigilance and with scant support from the then government, which would not supply him with ships; this at times drove him to expressions of despair. privateering was more rampant then than it is now, and the belligerents had great difficulty in enforcing neutrals to observe neutrality. indeed, the circumstances were such that it became impossible to prevent leakage. the british admiral was continually protesting to the neutrals against the system of smuggling and privateering, but it was hardly consistent, seeing that we were obliged to make breaches of neutrality in order to get our supplies. small privateers, consisting sometimes of mere longboats, infested every swatch and corner they could get into on the spanish shores, the ionian islands, the barbary coast, the balearic islands, and sicily. we indicted france for enforcing subsidies from spain, compelling the neapolitans to provide for her soldiers occupying neapolitan territory. we, on the other hand, were obliged to make use of neutral ports for supplies required for the gulf of lyons fleet. it was a curious position, and both france and england were parties to the anomaly, and each accused the other of the impiety of it. the british admiral and his officers never lost an opportunity of destroying the marauders when caught within neutral limits, and nelson never flinched from supporting his officers in the matter. "the protection," he writes, "given to the enemies' privateers and rowboats is extremely destructive of our commerce," and then he goes on to give reasons why these vermin should be shot or captured. he was driven frantic by the demands made for convoys by captains and merchants, and his appeals to the admiralty for more cruisers were unheeded. he expresses himself strongly averse from allowing even fast sailing vessels to make a passage unprotected. perhaps no human mind that has been given grave responsibilities to safeguard was ever lacerated as was nelson's in seeing that our commercial interest did not suffer, and that on the seas he guarded a free and safe passage should be assured to our shipping carrying food and other merchandise to the mother-country. the responsibility of carrying out even this special work in a satisfactory way was an amazing task, and no evidence is on record that he left anything to chance. results are an eloquent answer to any doubts on that subject. in addition to policing the seas, he had the anxiety of watching the tricky manoeuvres of the french fleet, and planning for their interception and defeat should they weaken in their elusive methods. of course, they were playing their own game, and had a right to, and it was for their opponents, whom nelson so well represented, to outwit and trap them into fighting; but as for having any grounds for complaint, it was not only silly, but inopportune, to give expression to having a grievance against the french admirals because they cutely slipped out of his deadly grasp from time to time and made him weary of life! his grievances were easier to establish against the board of admiralty, who were alternately paying him compliments or insulting him. instructions were given that could not be obeyed without involving the country in certain loss and complication. officers, his junior in rank, were given appointments that had the appearance of placing them independent of his authority. seniors of inferior capacity were given control over him which, but for his whimsical magnanimity, might have cost us the loss of the fleet, their crews, and our high honour and superb fighting reputation. take for example sir hyde parker's command of the baltic fleet, or sir john orde's clumsy appointment to a squadron in the mediterranean. nothing could be so harassing to the nerves of a man sure of his own superiority as to be burdened, not only with orde's arrogance, but his mediocrity. he was obliged to resort to subterfuge in order to get his dispatches sent home, and here again the action of the admiralty compelled him to break naval discipline by ordering a nephew of lord st. vincent, a clever young captain of a frigate, to whom he was devoted, to take the dispatches to lisbon. he told the young captain that sir john orde took his frigates from him, and sent them away in a direction contrary to his wishes. "i cannot get my dispatches even sent home," he said; adding, "you must try to avoid his ships." nelson had not signed his orders, because sir john orde was his superior officer, but should it come to a court-martial, hardy could swear to his handwriting, and he gave him the assurance that he would not be broken. "take your orders, and goodbye," said he, "and remember, parker, if you cannot weather that fellow, i shall think you have not a drop of your uncle's blood in your veins." other nelsonian instructions were given, and the gallant captain carried them out with a skill worthy of his ingenious, defiant chief and of his distinguished uncle. it was not only a slap in the face to sir john orde, but to those whose patronage had placed in a senior position a man who was not qualified to stand on the same quarterdeck with nelson. he smarted under the treatment, but unhappily could not keep his chagrin under cover. he was always pouring his soul out to some one or other. his health is always falling to pieces after each affront, and for this reason he asks to be relieved. here is an example of his moods. "i am much obliged to your lordships' compliance with my requests," he says, "which is absolutely necessary from the present state of my health," and almost immediately after he tells a friend he "will never quit his post when the french fleet are at sea as a commander-in-chief once did." "i would sooner die at my post than have such a stigma upon my memory." this is a nasty dig at lord st. vincent, presumably for having a hand in the appointment of sir john orde. then he writes to elliot that nothing has kept him at his post but the fear of the french fleet escaping and getting to naples or sicily. "nothing but gratitude for the good sovereigns would have induced him to stay a moment after sir john orde's extraordinary command, for his general conduct towards them is not such as he had a right to expect." i have heard that snobbishness prevails in the service now only in a less triumphant degree to what it did in nelson's time. if that be the case, it ought to be wrestled with until every vestige of the ugly thing is strangled. the letters of nelson to personal friends, to the admiralty, and in his reported conversations, are all full of resentment at the viciousness of it, though he obviously struggles to curb the vehemence of his feelings. no one felt the dagger of the reticent stabber more quickly and sensitively than he. invisible though the libeller might be, nelson knew he was there. he could not hear the voice, but he felt the sinister action. making full allowance for what might be put down to imagination, there is still an abundance of material to justify the belief that the first naval authority of his time was the target of snobs, and that, but for his strong personality and the fact that he was always ready to fight them in the open, he would have been superseded, and a gallant duffer might have taken his place, to the detriment of our imperial interests. it is a dangerous experiment to put a man into high office if he has not the instinct of judging the calibre of other men. this applies to every department of life nowadays. take the army, the navy, departments of state, commercial or banking offices, manufacturing firms, and the making of political appointments. the latter is more carelessly dealt with than any other department of life. the public are not sufficiently vigilant in distinguishing between a mere entertaining rhetorician and a wholesome-minded, natural-born statesman. what terrible calamities have come to the state through putting men into responsible positions they have neither training, wit, nor wisdom to fill efficiently! providence has been most indulgent and forbearing when we have got ourselves into a mess by wrong-headedness. she generally comes to our aid with an undiscovered man or a few men with the necessary gifts required for getting us out of the difficulty in which the yellow press gang and their accomplices may have involved the country. we know something of how the knowledge of these anomalies in public life chafed the eager spirit of nelson, but we can never know the extent of the suffering it caused except during the neapolitan and sicilian days. this lonely soul lived the life of a recluse for months at a time. the monotony of the weird song of the sea winds, the nerve-tearing, lazy creak of the wooden timbers, the sinuous crawling, rolling, or plunging over the most wondrous of god's works, invariably produces a sepulchral impression even on the most phlegmatic mind, but to the mystically constituted brain of nelson, under all the varied thoughts that came into his brain during the days and nights of watching and searching for those people he termed "the pests of the human race," it must have been one long heartache. no wonder that he lets fly at the admiralty in some of his most passionate love-messages to the seductive emma. his dreary life, without any exciting incident except the carrying away of sails or spars, and the irritation of not being able to get what he regarded as life or death requests carried into effect owing to the slothfulness or incompetent indifference of the admiralty was continual agony to him. he writes in one of his dispatches to the admiralty: "were i to die this moment, _want of frigates_ would be found stamped on my heart. no words of mine," he continues, "can express what i have suffered and am suffering for want of them." no person could write such an unconsciously comic lament to a department supposed to be administered with proficiency unless he were borne down by a deep sense of its appalling incompetency. it is quite likely that the recipients of the burning phrases regarded them in the light of a joke, but they were very real to the wearied soul of the man who wrote them. i do not find any instances of conscious humour in any of nelson's letters or utterances. it is really their lack of humour that is humorous. he always appears to be in sombre earnest about affairs that matter, and whimsically affected by those that don't. the following lines, which are not my own, may be regarded as something akin to nelson's conception of himself. if he had come across them, i think he would have said to himself, "ah! yes, these verses describe my mission and me." "like a warrior angel sped on a mighty mission, light and life about him shed-- a transcendent vision. "mailed in gold and fire he stands, and, with splendours shaken, bids the slumbering seas and lands quicken and awaken." nelson never attempted to carry out a mere reckless and palpably useless feat for the purpose of show. his well-balanced genius of caution and accurate judgment was the guiding instinct in his terrific thrusts which mauled the enemy out of action at the nile, st. vincent, copenhagen, and trafalgar, and enthralled the world with new conceptions of naval warfare. he met with bitter disappointments in his search for the illusive french fleet, which wore him, as he says, to a skeleton, but never once was he shaken in his vigorous belief that he would catch and annihilate them in the end. they cleverly crept out of toulon, with the intention, it is said, of going to egypt. villeneuve was no fool at evasive tactics. his plan was practically unerring, and threw nelson completely off the scent and kept him scouring the seas in search of the bird that had flown weeks before. once the scent is lost, it takes a long time to pick it up. villeneuve no doubt argued that it was not his purpose to give the british admiral an opportunity of fighting just then. he had other fish to fry, and if he wished to get away clear from toulon and evade nelson's ships, he must first of all delude him by sending a few ships out to mislead the enemy's watchdogs or drive them off; if that succeeded (which it did not), he would then wait for a strong fair wind that would assure him of a speed that would outdistance and take him out of sight of the british squadron, and make sure that no clue to his destination was left. the wind was strong nnw.; the french fleet were carrying a heavy press of canvas and steering ssw. the british ships that were following concluded that they were out for important mischief, and returned to convey the news to nelson, who quickly got under weigh and followed them. meanwhile, villeneuve's squadron, after getting from under the shelter of the land into the open sea, lost some of their spars and sails, and one vessel, it is recorded, was dismasted, which means, in seafaring interpretation, that all her masts were carried away; as she succeeded, however, in getting into ajaccio, she can only have lost her royal topgallant, and possibly a topmast or two. if her lower masts had been carried away, she could not have got into refuge without assistance, and the rest of the fleet apparently had enough to do in looking after themselves, as they lost spars and sails too, and became somewhat scattered, but all appear to have got safely into toulon again to refit and repair the damage done by the heavy gale they encountered. meanwhile, nelson, in dismay at losing touch with them, searched every nook and cranny in the tyrrhenian sea, and making sure that none of them were in hiding and that the sea was clear, he proceeded to act on his fixed opinion that their objective must be egypt. so to egypt he went, and the bitter disappointment at not finding them stunned his imagination, so sure had he been that his well-considered judgment was a thing to which he might pin his faith, and that his lust for conflict with the "pests of the human race" could not escape being realized in the vicinity of his great victory at the battle of the nile. his grievance against villeneuve for cheating him out of what he believed would result in the annihilation of the french power for mischief on the seas brought forth expressions of deadly contempt for such astute, sneaking habits! but the emperor was as much dissatisfied with the performances of his admirals as nelson was, though in a different way. napoleon, on the authority of the french historian, m. thiers, was imperially displeased. he asks "what is to be done with admirals who allow their spirits to sink _into their boots_ (italics are the author's) and fly for refuge as soon as they receive damage. all the captains ought to have had sealed orders to meet at the canary islands. the damages should have been repaired _en route_. a few topmasts carried away and other casualties in a gale of wind are everyday occurrences. the great evil of our navy is that the men who command it are unused to all the risks of command." this indictment is to a large extent deserved, and had his fleet been out in the atlantic or outside the limits of the vigilance of nelson's ships, the putting back to toulon or anywhere to refit the topmasts, sails, or rigging would have been highly reprehensible. but in any case, i question whether the british would have shown the white feather or lack of resource under any circumstances. on a man-of-war they were supposed to have refits of everything, and men, properly qualified, in large numbers to carry out any prodigious feat. on the other hand, the british have always excelled in their nautical ability to guard against deficiency in outfit, which was not overtested unless there were sufficient cause to demand such a risk. this applies especially to the sailing war vessels in nelson's time. i think there can be no question that the french vessels were both badly officered and manned with incapable sailors and that the damage which led them back to toulon was caused by bad judgment in seamanship. what they called a severe gale would have been regarded by an australian clipper or western ocean packet-ship in the writer's early days as a hard whole-sail breeze, perhaps with the kites taken in. it was rare that these dashing commanders ever carried away a spar, and it was not because they did not carry on, but because they knew every trick of the vessel, the wind, and the sea. it was a common saying in those days when vessels were being overpowered with canvas, "the old lady was talking to us now," i.e. the vessel was asking to have some of the burden of sail taken off her. i have known topmasts to be carried away, but it generally occurred through some flaw in a bolt or unseen defect in the rigging. so much depends on the security of little things. but when a catastrophe of this kind occurred on board a british merchantman or war vessel the men had both the courage, skill, training, and, above all, the matchless instinct to clear away the wreck and carry out the refitting in amazingly short time. that was because we were then, and are now under new conditions, an essentially seafaring race. and it was this superiority that gave nelson such great advantages over the french commanders and their officers and seamen, though it must be admitted they were fast drilled by the force of circumstances into foes that were not to be looked upon too lightly. the elusive tactics of the french admirals then were in a lesser degree similar to those practised by the germans now, if it be proper to speak or think of the two services at the same time without libelling them. the french were always clean fighters, however much they may have been despised by nelson. they were never guilty of cowardly revenge. they would not then, or now, send hospital ships to the bottom with their crews and their human cargoes of wounded soldiers and nurses. nor would they indiscriminately sink merchant vessels loaded with civilian passengers composed of men, women, and children, and leave them to drown, as is the inhuman practice of the german submarine crews of to-day. the french in other days were our bitterest enemies, and we were theirs. we charged each other with abominations only different from what we and our allies the french are saying about germany to-day, who was then our ally. we regarded germany in the light of a downtrodden nation who was being crushed and mutilated under the relentless heel of the "corsican usurper." "such is the rancorous hatred of the french towards us," says collingwood in january , "that i do not think they would make peace on any terms, until they have tried this experiment (i.e. the invasion of england) on our country; and never was a country assailed by so formidable a force"; and he goes on to say, "men of property must come forward both with purse and sword, for the contest must decide whether they shall have anything, even a country which they can call their own." this is precisely what we are saying about germany with greater reason every day at the present time ( ). it has been the common practice for german submarine commanders to sink at sight british, neutral cargo, and passenger vessels, and hospital ships loaded with wounded troops and nurses. they have put themselves outside the pale of civilization since they forced the whole world into conflict against them. nothing has been too hideous for them to do. they have blown poor defenceless fishermen to pieces, and bombarded defenceless villages and towns, killing and maiming the inhabitants. nelson's ardent soul must have been wearied with the perversity of the "dead foul winds" (as he described his bitter fate to ball) that prevented him from piercing the straits of gibraltar against the continuous easterly current that runs from the atlantic and spreads far into the mediterranean with malicious fluctuations of velocity. many a gallant sailing-ship commander has been driven to despair in other days by the friendly levanter failing them just as they were wellnigh through the gut or had reached the foot of the majestic rock, when the west wind would assert its power over its feebler adversary, and unless he was in a position to fetch an anchorage behind the rock or in the bay, their fate was sealed for days, and sometimes weeks, in hard beating to prevent as little ground being lost as possible. but ofttimes they were drifted as far back as cape de gata in spite of daring feats of seamanship in pressing their vessels with canvas until every spar, sail, and rope was overstrained. a traditional story of sailors of that period was that only a fast clipper schooner engaged in the fruit trade and a line-of-battle ship which fired her lee guns on every tack was ever known to beat through this channel, which mystified the sailors' ideas of god. they could not understand how he could have committed such an error in planning the universe which so tried the spirits of his loyal believers! we know how catholic nelson was in his religious views; and his feats of expressive vocabulary, which was the envy of his class at the time, became their heritage after he had accomplished his splendid results and passed into the shadows. such things as the strength of the adverse sea winds, his experience of the capriciousness of the official mind--a capriciousness which might be reflected in the public imagination were he not to be wholly successful in getting hold of the french fleet, and the indignity of having a man like sir john orde put over him, all filled his sensitive nature with resentment against the ordinances of god and man. his complaints were always accompanied with a devotional air and an avowal of supreme indifference to what he regarded as the indecent treatment he received at the hands of the amateurish bureaucrats at the admiralty. at times they were out of humour with the great chieftain, and perhaps at no time did they make him feel their dissatisfaction more than when adverse winds, a crazy fleet, and deadly current were eating deep into his eager soul at a time when the genius of seamanship was unavailing in the effort to get through into the atlantic in pursuit of the french fleet, which his instinct told him was speeding towards the west indies. sir john orde, who was an aversion to him (as well he might be), had seen the french fleet off cadiz, and failed to procure him the information as to their course. nelson believed, and properly believed, that an alert mind would have found a way of spying out the enemy's intentions, but sir john's resource did not extend to anything beyond the fear of being attacked and overpowered. he obviously was devoid of any of the arts of the wily pirate or smuggler. a month after the french had passed through the gut, nelson got his chance. a change of wind came within five hours after a southerly slant brought his ships to anchor in gibraltar bay for water and provisions. he immediately gave the signal to heave the anchors up, and proceeded with a fair wind which lasted only forty-eight hours. he anchored his fleet to the east of cape st. vincent, and took on board supplies from the transports. he received from different sources conflicting accounts as to the objective of the french, but the predominating opinion was that they had gone to the west indies. nelson was in a state of bewilderment, but decided to follow his own head, and pinned his faith on the instinct that told him to follow westward "to be burnt in effigy if he failed, or westminster abbey if he succeeded." the adventure was daring, both in point of destination and the unequal strength of the relative fleets. nelson had ten ships of the line and three frigates, against villeneuve's eighteen and two new line-of-battle ships. but the british admiral's genius and the superiority of his commanders, officers, and men, should they come to battle, would more than match villeneuve's superiority in ships. nelson, always sure of his own powers, could also depend upon the loyalty of men of every rank under him. he knew that the terrible spirit which shattered and scattered spanish philip's armada was an inheritance that had grown deep into every fibre of the generations of seamen that followed hawkins and drake's invincibles. when nelson delivered himself of death-or-glory heroics, he did so with the consciousness that _he_ was the spirit that enthused masses of other spirits to carry out his dominating will. on the th may, , anchors were picked up and the fleet left lagos bay under full sail for the west indies. the trade-winds were soon picked up, and every stitch of canvas that would catch a breath of wind was spread. the speed ranged from six to nine knots, according to the strength of the wind, the admiral taking any available opportunity of conveying to the commanders the plan of attack and action should they fall in with the frenchmen. the task of keeping his own ships together was not easy, as some were faster than others, and many had foul bottoms. there was much manipulation of yards and sails in order to keep the line in order, and nelson even went out of his way to have a note of encouragement and kindness sent aboard the _superb_ (seventy-four guns) for commander keats, whose ship had been continuously in commission since , and was in bad condition. her sailing qualities were vexatious. keats implored that he should not be disconnected from the main fleet now that the hoped-for battle was so near at hand, and being a great favourite of nelson's, he was given permission constantly to carry a press of canvas; so the gallant captain carried his studding sails while running before the trade-winds, but notwithstanding this effort, the lazy, dilapidated _superb_ could not keep pace with the others, even though he was granted the privilege of not stopping when the others did. his urgency not to be dropped out on this occasion caused him the hard luck of not being at the battle of trafalgar. the british fleet arrived at barbadoes after a twenty-four days' passage from lagos bay. the french took thirty-four from cadiz to martinique, so that nelson had a gain of ten days on them, and although his zeal yearned for better results, he had performed a feat that was not to be despised, and of which he and his comrades in quest of battle were deservedly proud. the french had been three weeks in the west indies, but had done no further mischief than to take the diamond rock, a small british possession situated off the south end of martinique. the whereabouts of the elusive enemy was uncertain. general brereton, who commanded the troops at santa lucia gave information that they had passed on the th may, steering south. the admirals decided that they had proceeded to tobago and trinidad. nelson was doubtful, but was obliged to pay some regard to intelligence coming from such a quarter. accurate information received on the th june, , confirmed the admiral's doubts as to their objective, for they had passed dominica on the th. brereton had unintentionally misled him. nelson was almost inarticulate with rage, and avowed that by this slovenly act the general had prevented him from giving battle north of dominica on the th. "what a race i have run after these fellows!" he exclaimed, and then, as was his custom, leaning on the power that governs all things, he declares, "but god is just, and i may be repaid for all my moments of anxiety." his belief in the advent of divine vengeance on those who doubted or threatened the awful supremacy of british dominion on land or sea was stimulating to him. like the domremy maiden, who saved her king and country, he had "visions and heard voices." whatever the mission of the french fleet may have been, there was certainly no apparent lust for aggrandizement. we may be certain that napoleon's orders were to carry out vigorous bombardments on british possessions, and instead of doing so, villeneuve seems to have been distractedly and aimlessly sailing about, not knowing what to do or whither to go. apparently without any definite object, he arrived off antigua on the th june, and had the good fortune, whether he sought for it or not, of capturing fourteen british merchant vessels; but he would appear to have been quite phlegmatic about making the haul. he was more concerned about the news the crews were able to give him of nelson's arrival at barbadoes; not that he was constrained to give him the opportunity of measuring strength with his now twenty-six of the line, but as a guide to the best means of making his escape; this may have been a strategical move of wearing down; or he may have been carrying out a concerted plan for leaving nelson in bewilderment and proceeding with all speed to some british european point where resistance would be less and success assured, since there was no outstanding naval figure, bar collingwood, who could stand up against so powerful a combination of ships of the line. it is questionable whether villeneuve ever took this man of great hidden power and foresight into account. it was nelson, his chief, who put terror into the fleet. in any case, whatever his plans may have been, the intelligence he gleaned from the seized merchant seamen caused him to make arrangements to sail from antigua the next day for europe. the present writer's opinion is that he may have had secret orders from napoleon to make an attack on ireland, as the emperor never faltered in his view that this was the most pregnable spot in which to hazard an invasion and strike a crushing blow at the main artery. he little knew the real loyalty of the great mass of irishmen to their own and to the motherland, and only realized later that his way to england was not through ireland. the exit of the french was hard fate for nelson, who had fired his enthusiasm with the hope of a great conflict and a sure victory. it was a creeping nightmare to him which was only relieved by his resolute opinion that his fame and the terror of his name had caused villeneuve to fly from inevitable destruction. the idea of strategy did not enter into his calculations. a further consolation to him was that his arrival had saved the islands and two hundred ships loaded with sugar from being captured, so that the gain was all on his side. so far as the west indies were concerned, the french expedition ended not only in a dead loss, but was a humiliating fiasco, unless, as i have stated before, it was a preconceived decoy for some other purpose. but whether it were strategy or decoy, it taxes one's intelligence to conceive why the french fleet did not proceed to bombard the british possessions on arrival, then steal into safe obscurity and make their way back to european waters. the evasion of nelson's scouts in any case was a matter of adroit cunning. had a man of nelson's nimble wits and audacious courage commanded the enemy's fleet, the islands would have been attacked and left in a dilapidated condition. nelson's opinion was that the spanish portion of the expedition had gone to havana, and that the french would make for cadiz or toulon, the latter he thought most likely, with the ultimate object of egypt. and with this vision floating in his mind, he determined to make for the straits. on the th june, , he sailed from antigua, and was almost merry at the thought of getting close at their heels, and toppling them into ruin before they had got into the mediterranean. he regarded them in the light of miserable naval amateurs that could be whacked, even with the odds against him. five days after sailing, one of his scout ships brought the news given by a vessel they spoke that she had sighted them steering north on the th, and as the colours of each dying day faded away and brought no french fleet in view or intelligence of them, he grew restive and filled with apprehension. he had no delusions about the accuracy of his perceptions, or the soundness of his judgment, nor the virtue of his prudence. without a disturbing thought he pursued his course towards the mediterranean, and unless intelligence came to him that would justify a diversion, no wild fancies would be permitted to take possession of him. on the th july he sighted cape spartel, and any sailor will say that no grass had been allowed to grow under the bottoms of the ships that made so quick a passage. but nelson was "sorrowful" that no results had accrued. like a strong man who has opinions and carries them through to the bitter end, he did not "blame himself." he blew off some of the pent-up bitterness of an aching heart by writing to a friend, "but for general brereton's damned information, i would have been living or dead, and the greatest man england ever saw, and now i am nothing and perhaps would incur censure for misfortunes which may happen and have. oh! general brereton! general brereton!" this explosion was indicative of bitter disappointment. it is these outbursts of devotion to a great burning ideal that give an impulse to the world. his anxiety when he made his landfall and was informed by scouts sent to meet him that the allied squadrons had not been heard of was intense. it was not until then that his vigorous mind was smitten with the possibility of the french having cheated him by going to jamaica. orde had been superseded by collingwood, and was stationed off cadiz, the purpose of which was to watch the entrance to the mediterranean. nelson wrote and sent him the following letter:-- my dear collingwood,--i am, as you may suppose, miserable at not falling in with the enemy's fleet; and i am almost increased in sorrow in not finding them here. the name of general brereton will not soon be forgot. i must now hope that the enemy have not tricked me, and gone to jamaica; but if the account, of which i send you a copy, is correct, it is more than probable that they are either gone to the northward, or, if bound to the mediterranean, not yet arrived. the vivid symptoms of disquietude in this communication to his old friend are distinctly pathetic. in parts he is comically peevish and decidedly restrained. he mixes his fierce wrath against the hapless general brereton with the generalizing of essentials, and transparently holds back the crushing thoughts of misadventure for which he may be held responsible by the misanthropic, scurrilous, self-assertive experts. his impassive periods were always associated with whimsical sensitiveness of being censured if his adventures should miscarry. no one knew better than he that a man in his position could only be popular if he continued to succeed. he had many critics, but always regarded them as inferior to himself, and his record justified him. what he secretly quaked at and openly defied was a general outburst of human capriciousness. there are veiled indications of this in his letter to collingwood, who replied in well-reasoned terms, interwoven with that charm of tender sympathy that was so natural to him. he says: "i have always had the idea that ireland was the object the french had in view," and that he still believes that to be their destination; and then he proceeds to develop his reasons, which are a combination of practical, human, and technical inferences. his strongest point is one that nelson did not or could not know, though it may be argued that he ought to have foreseen; even then it is one expert's judgment against another's. collingwood affirms that the rochefort squadron, which sailed when villeneuve did in january, returned to europe on the th may. collingwood maintains that the west indian trip was to weaken the british force on the european side, and states that the return of rochefort's squadron confirmed him in this. he is too generous to his mortified comrade to detract in any degree from the view that, having escaped from the west indies, they would naturally make for cadiz or the mediterranean. here is one of the many wise sayings of napoleon: "in business the worst thing of all is an undecided mind"; and this may be applied to any phase of human affairs. nelson can never be accused of indecision. his chase to the west indies was a masterpiece of prescience which saved the british possessions, and, but for the clumsy intelligence he received, the french would have been a hammered wreck and the projected ruse to combine it with the rochefort squadron off ireland blown sky-high. the present generation of critics can only judge by the records handed down to them, and after exhaustive study we are forced to the opinion that nelson was right in following villeneuve to the west indies, nor was he wrong in calculating that they were impulsively making their way back to the mediterranean. consistent with his habit of never claiming the privilege of changing his mind, he followed his settled opinion and defended his convictions with vehement confidence. he had not overlooked ireland, but his decision came down on the side of cadiz or toulon, and there it had to rest, and in rather ridiculous support of his contention he imputes faulty navigation as the cause of taking them out of their course, and finding themselves united to the rochefort squadron off cape finisterre. the bad-reckoning idea cannot be sustained. the french were no match for the british under nelson's piercing genius as a naval strategist, or in the flashes of dazzling enthusiasm with which he led those under his command to fight, but it must also be admitted, and has been over and over again, that villeneuve was a skilled seaman who was not likely to allow any amateur navigators in his service, and we shall see that in the plan of defence this great french admiral showed that he was fertile in naval skill when the time came for him to fight for existence against the greatest naval prodigy in the world. whatever the reason was that caused villeneuve not to make for the mediterranean, it certainly cannot be ascribed to lubberly navigation, and nelson should never have tried to sustain his perfectly sound belief by seeking refuge in that untenable direction. god bless him all the same. on his arrival at gibraltar on the th july, , he set foot on shore for the first time for two years less ten days. this in itself was a great feat of hard endurance for a man who had to carry so heavy a burden of continuous physical suffering and terrible anxiety. maddened and depressed often, stumbling often, falling often, but despairing never, sorrow and sadness briefly encompassed him when fate ordained disappointments. but his heart was big with hope that he would accomplish complete victory before the sentence of death came, which he never ceased to forebode. he was a human force, not a phenomenon. on the nd july, sir robert calder and villeneuve fought a drawn or indecisive battle. only two spanish ships of the line were taken. the french admiral put into vigo on the th, and managed to slip out, and arrived at ferrol without being intercepted. nelson provisioned his ships for four months, and sailed from tetuan on the rd. on the th he passed through the straits with the intention of going to ferrol, ireland, or ushant, whichever his information and judgment told him was the best course to pursue. he experienced strong northerly winds along the portuguese coast, which prevented him from joining the channel fleet off ushant until august th, and as no news had been received of the french being in the bay of biscay or off the irish coast, he was ordered by cornwallis to portsmouth, and anchored at spithead on the th august. his reception from every quarter was most cordial, as well it might be! but the thought of how much greater it would have been if he had not been misguided and thereby deprived of coming to grips with the foe that was still at large and outwitting every device of bringing them to close quarters, had eaten like a canker into his troubled mind. in his letters to friends (davison and others) his postscripts were for ever being embellished with reference to it and the darting of an incidental "damn" to general brereton, who, it is contended, was himself deceived. but nelson, generous as, he always was to people who were encompassed by misfortune, never would allow that brereton had any right to allow himself to be misled. one wonders how the immortal general brereton worked it out. in any case, the great admiral has given him a place in history by his side. nelson first heard of sir robert calder's scrap from the ushant squadron, and was strong in sympathy and defence against the unworthy public attacks made on the admiral for not succeeding as he would. in writing to fremantle about calder, he says, amongst other things: "i should have fought the enemy, so did my friend calder; i only wish to stand upon my own merits, and not by comparison, one way or the other upon the conduct of a brother officer," etc. this rebuke to a public who were treating his brother officer ungenerously may be summarized thus: "i want none of your praises at the expense of this gallant officer, who is serving his country surrounded with complex dangers that you are ignorant of, and therefore it is indecent of you to judge by comparing him with me or any one else. i want none of your praises at his expense." this is only one of the noble traits in nelson's character, and is the secret why he unconsciously endeared himself to everybody. his comical vanity and apparent egotism is overshadowed by human touches such as this worthy intervention on behalf of sir robert calder, who he had reason to know was not professionally well disposed to him. but his defence of calder did not close with fremantle, for in a letter to his brother soon after he got home he says, "we must now talk of sir robert calder. i might not have done so much with my small force. if i had fallen in with them, you might probably have been a lord before i wished; for i know they meant to make a dead set at the _victory_." these lines alone show how reverently the writer adhered to the brotherly tie of the profession. he seems to say, "let us have no more talk of puerilities. i am the stronger. i have recently been frustrated myself. i know this business better than calder's traducers do, and therefore conceive it my duty to defend him. he also has rendered great services to his country." when it was known that he had arrived in england, he was overwhelmed with generous tokens of affection and gratitude from all classes. thousands crowded into portsmouth to see him land, and the cheering was long and lusty. in london the mob, drunk with excitement, struggled to get sight of him, many crushing their way so that they might shake him by the hand or even touch him. lord minto said he met him in piccadilly, took him by the arm, and was mobbed also. he goes on to say: "it is really quite affecting to see the wonder, admiration, and love for him from gentle and simple the moment he is seen," and concludes by stating that it is beyond anything represented in a play or in a poem of fame. commercial men everywhere passed resolutions of gratitude for the protection he had secured in their different interests. the west india merchants sent a deputation to express their never-to-be-forgotten thanks, and would have loaded him with material tokens of their goodwill had it been proper to do so. he lost no time in getting to merton, which was the thought and happiness of his soul. he was invited here, there, and everywhere, and always replied that he could not accept, as all his family were with him. lord minto, who was a devoted friend, visited him on the th august, and says that he "found him in the act of sitting down to dinner with his brother the dean, his wife, and their children, and the children of a sister. lady hamilton was at the head of the table, and her mother, mrs. cadogan, at the bottom. his welcome was hearty. nelson looked well and was full of spirits. lady hamilton," he continues, "had improved, and had added to the house and place extremely well, without his knowing she was doing it. she is a clever being, after all the passion is as hot as ever." these glad moments of keen rapture, which filled nelson with a sort of mystic joy, were soon to be cut short. swiftly the sweet days were passing away, and the sombre parting from "dear merton and loving hearts for evermore" was drawing near. in his day-dreams he saw more fame, more professional gladness, more triumph. he saw, too, as he pensively walked in his garden, the grave nearly ready to receive him and the day of his glory and brightness coming. these were his abiding premonitions, which were jerked out to his close friends, and even during his last sojourn at merton, to those he loved so well. even at this distance of time we cannot think with composure of this many-sided man declaring sadly that death had no terrors for him, and that he was ready to face the last great problem in the conflict which was to break the power at sea of the great conqueror on land. he had not been long in the plenitude of domestic bliss before captain blackwood called one morning at five o'clock with dispatches sent by collingwood for the admiralty. nelson was already dressed, and in his quick penetrating way told him that "he was certain he brought news of the combined enemy's fleet," and, without waiting for an answer, exclaimed, "i think i shall have to beat them," and subsequently added, "depend upon it, blackwood, i shall yet give m. villeneuve a drubbing." the latter had slipped out of ferrol and elusively made his way to cadiz without having been seen by the british. nelson's services were again requested by the government, and eagerly given, though he declared that he was in need of more rest and that he had done enough. but these were mere transient observations, probably to impress those with whom he talked or to whom he wrote with the importance of his position with the cabinet, who now regarded him as indispensable, which was in reality quite true, though he was none the less proud of the high confidence they had in him and the popular approval their selection had with the public. the phrase "let the man trudge who has lost his budget" was mere bluff. he wanted to go all the time, and would have felt himself grievously insulted had the government regarded even his health unequal to so gigantic a task or suggested that a better man could be found. nelson, always hungering for approbation, slyly hinted that it would be a risky thing for the government's existence had they not placed full control of the fleet in his hands, so popular a hold had he on all classes of naval men and the entire public imagination. nelson was often exasperated by the dull ignorance of the government as to how naval policy should be conducted, and by their combined irresolution and impatience at critical periods, when success depended upon his having a free hand to act as circumstances arose. of course, he took a free hand and never failed to succeed. but he frequently complained that he laid himself open to be shot or degraded by doing so, and it is only one man in a century that is possessed of sufficient audacity to ignore the authority over him and with supreme skill to carry out his own plans. in support of the views that were bound to be held by a man of nelson's calibre as to the qualities of some of his superiors in the government who wished to impose upon him a definite line of action, we quote a letter written to captain keats, which has appeared in almost every life of nelson that has been published. it is pregnant with subtle contemptuous remarks which may be applied to the naval administration of the present time (march ). it is not only a danger, but a crime, in the process of any war, but especially during the present, to gamble with the safety of the nation by neglecting to have at the head of a great department a man who has not only a genius for administrative initiative in this particular sphere but an unerring instinct to guide and grapple with its everyday perplexities. it is colossal aptitude, not mechanicalness, that is needed. but here is the matchless sailor's opinion of the situation in this respect in his day: "the secretary of state (lord castlereagh), which is a man who has only sat one day in his office, and, of course, knows but little of what is passed, and indeed the prime minister, pitt, were all full of the enemy's fleet, and as i am now set up for a conjurer, and god knows they will very soon find out i am far from being one, i was asked my opinion, against my inclination, for if i make one wrong guess the charm will be broken; but this i ventured without any fear, that if calder got close alongside their twenty-seven or twenty-eight sail, that by the time the enemy had beaten our fleet soundly, they would do us no harm this year." though nelson did not and could not say all that was in his mind, we can read between the lines that he had no use for the theories of ministers, and would obviously have liked to have said in brutal english, "here i am, gentlemen, do not encumber me with your departmental jargon of palpable nothings. you continue to trust in providence; give me your untrammelled instructions as to what you wish me to do, and leave the rest to me." here is another letter from lord radstock: "no official news have been received from lord nelson since july th. he then hinted that he might go to ireland; nevertheless, we have no tidings of him on that coast. i confess i begin to be fearful that he has worried his mind up to that pitch, that he cannot bear the idea of showing himself again to the world until he shall have struck some blow, and that it is this hope that is now making him run about, half frantic, in quest of adventure. that such unparalleled perseverance and true valour should thus evaporate in air is truly melancholy." what balderdash to write about a man ablaze with reasoning energy and genius of the highest order! the noble lord is disillusioned on his arrival in portsmouth, and writes again in another a strain: "he (nelson) was received in town almost as a conqueror, and was followed round by the people with huzzas. so much for a great and good name most nobly and deservedly acquired"! the previous letter indicates the mind of a fireside colossus, and shows how dangerously a big man's reputation may be at the mercy of a little one or a coterie of them. one can only describe them as portentous human snipes, whose aggressive mediocrity spreads like an attack of infectious fever, until the awful will of heaven, for the safety of humanity, lays hands on their power for mischief. the popularity of a public servant is always in danger of a tragical end if he lives long enough. one slip of inevitable misfortune seals his doom when the pendulum swings against him. and it is generally brought by a rhetorical smiling judas who can sway a capricious public. the more distinguished a popular man may be, the greater is the danger that the fame and reputation for which he strove may be swiftly laid low. "who has lived as long as he chose? who so confident as to defy time, the fellest of mortals' foes joints in his armour who can spy? where's the foot will not flinch or fly? where's the heart that aspires the fray? his battle wager 'tis vain to try-- everything passes, passes away." the gallant and strenuous patriot whose fame will pass on to distant ages is now summoned to fulfil his destiny. he owns that he needs one more rest, but his "duty was to go forth." he "expected to lay his weary bones quiet for the winter," but he is "proud of the call," and all gallant hearts were proud to own him as their chieftain. he bargains for one of the _victory's_ anchors to be at the bows before he arrives at portsmouth. all his belongings are sent off on the th october. lord barham, an aged man of eighty-two years, asks him with pride to select his own officers. "choose yourself, my lord. the same spirit actuates the whole profession; you cannot choose wrong." he told the cabinet what was wanted in the "annihilation of the enemy," and that "only numbers could annihilate"--presumably ships and men. the conversations he had with the authorities and the spoken words and letters sent to his friends are ablaze with inspiring, sharp-cut sentences. but those who had intimate knowledge of his tender side felt he was ill at ease, and not free from heartache at the prospect of parting. i think, in connection with _this_, lady hamilton's version of what passed between them when he was walking the "quarterdeck" in his garden may be true in substance, as he was still madly in love with her, and she knew how to wheedle him into a conversation and to use words that might serve a useful purpose if need be. nor were her scruples so delicate as to prevent suitable additions being made to suit any emergency that might occur. her account is that she saw he was looking downcast, and she told him so. he smiled, and then said, "no, i am as happy as possible"; he was surrounded by his family, his health was better since he had "been on shore, and he would not give sixpence to call the king his uncle." she replied that she did not believe him, that she knew he was longing to get at the combined fleets, that he considered them as his property, that he would be miserable if any man but himself did the business, and that he ought to have them as the price and reward of his two years' long watching and his hard chase. "nelson," said she, "however we may lament your absence, offer your services; they will be accepted, and you will gain a quiet heart by it; you will have a glorious victory, and then you may return here and be happy." he looked at her with tears in his eyes, and said, "brave emma! good emma! if there were more emmas, there would be more nelsons." it puts a heavy strain upon our credulity to believe that such words were ever used by nelson, even though we know that he was so hopelessly enamoured of this untamed creature. that he needed to be coaxed into offering his services or that he ever demurred at accepting the distinguished honours the government had conferred upon him may be regarded as one of emma's efforts at triumphant self-glorification and easy dramatic fibbing. she was ever striving to thrust her patriotic ardour forward in some vulgar form or other, and this occasion gave her a chance that could not be resisted. the day before nelson's departure for portsmouth the scalding tears flowed from her eyes continuously, she could neither eat nor drink, and her lapses into swooning at the table were terrible. these performances do not bear out the tale of nelson's spontaneous and gushing outburst in the garden at merton of her bravery and goodness in urging him to "go forth." it is possible that her resolution and fortitude could not stand the responsibility of pressing him to undertake a task that might be fatal to himself and foredoomed to failure. in that case she does not bear herself like a heroine, and strengthens the suspicion, as we have said, that the story of pleading with nelson to offer his services is an impudent fabrication. minto says that the tears and swooning is a strange picture, and assures him as before that nothing can be more pure and ardent than this flame; and _she_ might have added that they had in reality exchanged souls. napoleon, in conversing on one occasion with his brother lucien about one of his love affairs, said "that madame walewska's soul was as beautiful as her face." in nearly all his letters to lady hamilton, nelson plunged into expressions of love abandonment only different from those sent by napoleon to josephine when he was commander-in-chief of the army of italy. neither of these extraordinary men could do anything by halves, and we are not left in doubt as to the seventh heaven of happiness it would have been to the less flowery-worded sailor had he been given the least encouragement to pour out his adoration of emma's goodness and beauty. he would have excelled napoleon's picture of madame walewska. amidst the many cares that surrounded these last active days, when the dockyards were humming with the work of getting his ships refitted so that they might be put quickly into commission, he grudged every moment of forced separation from her while he was in consultation with the government and attending to his own private preparations, which were sedulously attended to. nothing of moment seems to have been left to chance. not even the coffin that captain hallowell had given him was overlooked, for he called to give instructions to the people who had it in safe keeping, and gave them instructions to have the history of it engraved on the lid, as he might want it on his return, which is further evidence that he was permanently impressed with the fate that awaited him. the story of this strange incident of the coffin is this: after the battle of the nile a portion of the _orient's_ mainmast was drifting about, and was picked up by order of captain hallowell of the _swiftsure_, who had it made into a coffin. it was handsomely finished, and sent to admiral nelson with the following letter:-- sir,--i have taken the liberty of presenting you a coffin made from the mainmast of _orient_, that when you have finished your military career in this world, you may be buried in one of your trophies. but that that period may be far distant is the earnest wish of your sincere friend, benjamin hallowell. nelson received the weird gift in good spirits, and had it placed in his cabin. it was hardly a pleasant piece of furniture for his visitors to be confronted with, so he was prevailed upon to have it put below until it was required. a few more raging battles, and a few more years of momentous anxieties, and the prodigious hero was to become its occupant. it seems to have been landed and put in charge of a firm of upholsterers. before leaving his home he went to the bedside where his child horatia lay sleeping, and offered up a heart-stirring prayer that those who loved him should be a guardian spirit to her, and that the god he believed in should have her in his holy keeping. on the th september, , he writes in his private diary:-- at half-past ten, drove from dear, dear merton, where i left all which i hold dear in this world, to go to serve my king and country. may the great god whom i adore enable me to fulfil the expectations of my country; and if it is his good pleasure that i should return, my thanks will never cease being offered up to the throne of his mercy. if it is good providence to cut short my days upon earth, i bow with the greatest submission, relying that he will protect those so dear to me that i may leave behind. his will be done. amen, amen. no more simple, fervent, and touching appeal and resignation to the will of him who governs all things has been seen in the english language. it is quite unorthodox in its construction, and impresses us with the idea that he is already realizing the bitterness of death, and that he is in the presence of a great mystery, speaking to his own parting soul. the desire to live is there, but he does not ignore the almost unutterable submission of "thy will be done." xiii nelson joined the _victory_ at portsmouth on the morning of the th september, and met with a great public ovation. he tells captain hardy, as he was being rowed to the _victory_, that he had "their huzzas when he landed" (after his prolonged period in commission), "but now," he proudly remarked, "i have their hearts." his send-off was magnificent. the contagious flow of tears, the shouting of blessings, and the fervent petitions that the god of battles should give him the victory over the enemies of human suffering and liberty were symptoms of admiration and gratitude which went hot into his blood as he sat in his barge, the object of reverence. and with a calm air of conscious power he acknowledged the honour that was showered upon him by baring his head and bowing gracefully his thanks. it was manifestly his day of paradise, and with the plaudits still ringing in his ears the _victory's_ anchor was weighed on the following day, and he sailed from st. helen's roads to the great conflict and victory for which he panted, and to the doom that awaited him. he experienced foul winds until he passed cape finisterre, and on the th september he joined the fleet of twenty-nine of the line. the th september was the anniversary of his forty-seventh year. he says: "the reception i met with on joining the fleet caused the sweetest sensation of my life. the officers who came on board to welcome my return forgot my rank as commander-in-chief in the enthusiasm with which they greeted me. as soon as these emotions were past, i laid before them the plan i had previously arranged for attacking the enemy; and it was not only my pleasure to find it generally approved, but clearly perceived and understood." in a further communication he explains to them the "nelson touch," and all agree that it must succeed, and that he is surrounded with friends. then he adds: "some may be judas's, but the majority are certainly pleased at the prospect of my commanding them." these are joyous days for him, which are marked by the absence of any recorded misgivings. his mind is full of making preparations in every detail to cope with the advent of villeneuve from cadiz and for the plan of attack, of which a long memorandum was circulated to the fleet. he had planned the form of attack at trafalgar during his stay at home, and some time before leaving merton he confided it to lord sidmouth. he told him "that rodney broke the enemy's line in one place, and that _he_ would break it in two." one of the nelson "touches" was to "close with a frenchman, and to out-manoeuvre a russian," and this method of terrific onslaught was to be one of the devices that he had in store for the french at trafalgar, and which ended fatally for himself. but it gave the enemy a staggering blow, from which they never recovered so long as the action lasted. in the general orders he says: "captains are to look to their particular line as a rallying point, but in case signals cannot be seen or clearly understood, _no captain can do wrong if he places his ship alongside that of an enemy_." the feeling against sir robert calder for not having beaten or forced another battle on the allied fleets in july did not abate. the public were out for impeachment, and the government did nothing to discourage it; and when nelson was on the point of leaving england the first lord instructed him to convey to calder the government's condemnation of his evident negligence or incapacity. they gave him permission to ask for the inquiry, but should he not do so, it would be ordered. nelson wrote to barham that he had delivered the message to sir robert, and that it would doubtless give his lordship pleasure to learn that an inquiry was just what the vice-admiral was anxious to have, and that he had already sent a letter by the _nautilus_ to say so, but that he (nelson) had detained it. nelson, in his goodness of heart, urged sir robert to remain until after the action, the result of which would inevitably change the feeling of the government and the public in his favour, and he could then, without any fear, demand an inquiry. sir robert was so crushed with the charge hanging over him, that he insisted on being allowed to proceed to england at once, and nelson, to ease the humiliation and suffering he was passing through, sent him off in his ninety-gun ship, instead of a frigate. the inquiry was held in due course, and judgment given against him. the finding is, in our opinion, based more on prejudice than on any fault he committed, and as to "committing an error of judgment," it is always difficult to know what is an error of judgment in circumstances such as he was confronted with. in any case, it is evident that the government were terrified of the effect that public opinion would have on themselves if they failed to take steps to appease it. we think the government would have been serving their country better by keeping this unfortunate officer in active service when its fleet was on the verge of a life-or-death struggle for naval supremacy than by dispensing with his services, which they had thought fit to retain from july to october. nelson's attitude was the more patriotic and noble, and under such circumstances the verdict, however mild, was bound to be given against the man whose heart they had broken because they were afraid of public opinion. nelson was a better judge than they. discreet reprimand, combined with a few kindly words of encouragement, was the proper course at such a time, when every man and ship was so essential. on a previous occasion, when a "seventy-four" had stranded, the officer whose skill and efforts had refloated her was told by nelson that he had spoken favourably of him to the admiralty. the officer showed in suitable terms his gratitude, but added that he did not regard what he had done as meriting any notice or praise. the admiral pointed out that a battle might easily be lost by the absence of a line-of-battle ship. when nelson conveyed the ill-considered and stupid instructions of the government to sir robert calder to return home to be court-martialled, and the latter replied that his letter "to do so cut him to the soul and that his heart was broken," nelson was so overcome with sympathy for calder that he sacrificed his own opinions already expressed, and also took the risk of bringing upon himself the displeasure of the comptroller of the navy by giving the unfortunate man permission to proceed home in a vessel that would have been so valuable an asset to his fleet. this worthy act, had he lived and the battle of trafalgar been drawn or lost, might have laid him open to impeachment. nelson's fine courage and sense of proportion when he thought an injustice or undue severity was being imposed was never allowed to be trifled with by any official, no matter how high or subordinate his position might be, and his contempt for men whom he knew were miserable cocksparrow amateurs was openly avowed. whatever the consequences, he would have sooner lost a victory than have gained one by lending himself to an act that was to injure or break his brother in arms. calder left the fleet a few days before the action, and when it began nelson remarked to hardy, "what would poor sir robert calder give to be with us now!" even on the eve of a great encounter the stress of preparation did not dim his sympathy for the afflicted man, who, on more than one occasion, had allowed envy to rule his conduct towards him. after the battle of st. vincent, for instance, calder, in conversation with jervis, criticized nelson's action in departing from the plan of attack laid down by the admiral. jervis admitted it to be a breach, and added "if ever calder did the same thing under similar circumstances, he would forgive him." nelson knew calder was envious of his growing fame, but this did not prevent him from acting as though he had always been a loyal friend. on the morning of the th october, , the signal was passed from ship to ship acting as lookouts to the main fleet that the combined fleet were putting to sea, and it was soon discovered that their force consisted of eighteen french line-of-battle ships, seven large frigates, and two brigs. the spanish numbered fifteen sail of the line. the british had twenty-seven sail of the line and four frigates, so that nelson was outnumbered by five of the line, three frigates, and two brigs. the whole of the allied fleet did not get clear of the port until the th. the commander-in-chief was villeneuve, and his obvious intention was to get the straits open and, by a cunning evasion of the british fleet, make a dash through. his elusive tactics had hitherto been skilfully performed, but the british admiral, always on the alert, anticipated that an effort would again be made to cheat him of the yearning hope of his heart, and had mentally arranged how every contingency should be coped with to prevent escape and to get to grips with the enemy. "i will give them such a shaking as they never before experienced," and at least he was prepared to lay down his life in the attempt. it is pretty certain that, after all his ships had got into the open sea, villeneuve's intention was to see how the land lay as to the british strength, and his manoeuvring indicated that instructions had been given to hoodwink the british and slip through the straits of gibraltar; but seeing that the entrance was cut off for the moment, he headed westward, possibly to mislead, but always with the intention of getting into the mediterranean. when this information was signalled by blackwood, instructions were sent back to him that the admiral relied on the enemy being kept in sight. here is a letter to lady hamilton, dated the th october, :-- cadiz, bearing e.se. miles. my dearest beloved emma: the dear friend of my bosom,--the signal has been made that the enemy's combined fleet are coming out of port. we have very little wind, so that i have no hopes of seeing them before to-morrow. may the god of battles crown my endeavours with success; at all events, i will take care that my name shall ever be most dear to you and horatia, both of whom i love as much as my own life. and as my last writing before the battle will be to you, so i hope in god that i shall live to finish my letter after the battle. may heaven bless you, prays your this was found unsigned on his desk. these are the last lines he wrote to the woman he called his "wife in the sight of god." there is none of the robust assurance of blazing deeds that he has in store for the enemy which characterize some of his earlier letters to emma, nor is there any craving for continued existence or for extinction. but who can read this melancholy farewell without being impressed with the feeling that there is a subdued restraint to avoid uttering his thoughts on inevitable fate and eternal sleep, lest it gives anxiety and disheartens the woman he loved so well? on the same day he wrote an affectionate letter to his daughter, which is clearly intended as a supplementary outpouring of a full heart to the mother whom he knew would have to read it. the tone and wording is what a father might have written to a girl of fifteen instead of five. there is a complete absence of those dainty, playful touches that would delight a child of her age. in reality, it rather points to the idea that it was intended not only as a further farewell to mother and child, but as an historical epistle and a legacy to horatia which she would read in other days in connection with the great battle in which he was to be engaged only a few hours after he had written it. my dearest angel,--i was made happy by the pleasure of receiving your letter of september the th, and i rejoice to hear you are so very good a girl, and love my dear lady hamilton, who most dearly loves you. give her a kiss for me. the combined fleets of the enemy are now reported to be coming out of cadiz; and therefore i answer your letter, my dearest horatia, to mark to you that you are ever uppermost in my thoughts. i shall be sure of your prayers for my safety, conquest, and speedy return to dear merton and our dearest good lady hamilton. receive, my dearest horatia, the affectionate blessing of your father, nelson and bronte. the importunities of horatia's mother were continuously being forced upon nelson in one way or another, but he seems to have stood firm, in an apologetic way, to the instructions laid down by himself, that no women were to go to sea aboard his ship; for, having been a party to the embargo, it would have been impossible for him to make her an exception. he anticipates, as her other lovers had done, that she can be very angry, like horatia, when she cannot have her own way, but he soothingly says that he knows his own dear emma, if she applies her reason, will see that he is right. he playfully adds an addendum that "horatia is like her mother, she will have her own way, or kick up the devil of a dust." he reminds emma that she is a "sharer of his glory," which settles the question of her being allowed to sail with him, and from encountering the heavy gales and liquid hills that are experienced off toulon week after week. he warns the lady that it would kill her and himself to witness it. emma was too devoted to all the pleasures ashore to risk losing her life in any such uncomfortable fashion at sea, so the project was abandoned, if it was ever seriously contemplated. this astute actress knew where to touch nelson's weak spot, and that it would send him into a frenzy of love to think of her yearning to be beside him. she would know that the rules of the service prohibited, except under special circumstances, even the highest in rank from having their wives sail with them, and that the rule would apply more rigidly to herself, who was not nelson's wife. she knew, in fact, that her request would flatter him, and that she would be compensated by receiving a whirlwind of devotion in reply. after the gulf of lyons days, no further request appears to have been made of that kind. the combined fleets had been dodging each other on the th, light westerly winds and calms prevailing. at daylight on the st the belligerent fleets were within twelve miles of each other. nelson was on deck early, and at . a.m. made the signal "to form the order of sailing," and "to prepare for battle." then the signal was made to "bear up," the _victory_ and _royal sovereign_ leading the way in two lines; nelson took the weather line with his ships, and the other division followed, but the wind being light, many had barely steerage way. fourteen vessels followed collingwood, who was to attack the enemy's rear, while nelson slashed into the van and centre. villeneuve, seeing by the british formation that his number was up and that he would have to give battle, manoeuvred to keep cadiz open, which was about twenty miles ne. of him, but the wind, being light, made it as difficult for the french commander-in-chief to carry out the disposition as it was for the quick-witted british commander to prevent it. hence the development was a lazy process, and prevented, as varying circumstances always do, any rigid plan being adhered to. had there been a fresh breeze before the battle commenced, the chances are that the french would have secured a position that would have enabled more of the crippled ships to get into cadiz, but even this is doubtful, as only a fluke of wind could have saved them from the strategy of the british commander-in-chief before the fighting began. between eleven and twelve o'clock on the st october every humanly possible, detailed arrangement had been completed. each captain knew that, so far as it was possible, he was to follow where his admiral and vice-admiral led. the spirits of all those who manned the fleet were high of hope, and the inspiring spirit said he could do no more. nelson then went to his cabin and on his knees wrote a prayer that throbbed and will continue to throb through the universe. it exhales the spirit of bravery, and triumphant assurance of the eternal justice of the cause for which he is about to sacrifice himself, for a sombre document it is; but the soul that is in it is imperishable, and who can peruse it without vividly picturing the writer kneeling before the omnipotent, pleading for his country's cause, and offering himself piously as a willing sacrifice! may the great god, whom i worship, grant to my country, and for the benefit of europe in general, a great and glorious victory, and may no misconduct in any one tarnish it; and may humanity, after victory, be the predominant feature in the british fleet. for myself individually, i commit my life to him that made me; and may his blessing alight on my endeavours for serving my country faithfully. to him i resign myself and the just cause which is entrusted to me to defend. amen, amen, amen. then, as though apprehension of the inevitable passing was growing, the thought of the woman who is the mother of his child, and for whom he had an unquenchable love, blinds him to all sense of propriety. it puts a severe strain on our imagination to realize how a man could composedly write such a request on the verge of the greatest naval conflict in history. it is dated " st of october, , in sight of the combined fleets of france and spain, distant ten miles":-- whereas the eminent services of emma hamilton, widow of the right honourable sir william hamilton, have been of the very greatest service to my king and country to my knowledge, without ever receiving any reward from either our king and country; first, that she obtained the king of spain's letter, in , to his brother, the king of naples, acquainting him of his intention to declare war against england, from which letter the ministry sent our orders to the then sir john jervis, to strike a stroke, if opportunity offered, against either the arsenals of spain or her fleets. that neither of these was done is not the fault of lady hamilton; the opportunity might have been offered. secondly: the british fleet under my command could never have returned the second time to egypt, had not lady hamilton's influence with the queen of naples caused letters to be wrote to the governor of syracuse, that he was to encourage the fleets being supplied with everything, should they put into any port in sicily. we put into syracuse, received every supply; went to egypt, and destroyed the french fleet. could i have rewarded these services, i would not now call upon my country; but as that has not been in my power, i leave emma, lady hamilton, therefore a legacy to my king and country, that they will give her an ample provision to maintain her rank in life. i also leave to the beneficence of my country my adopted daughter, horatia nelson thompson; and i desire she will use in future the name of nelson only. these are the only favours i ask of my king and country at this moment when i am going to fight their battle. may god bless my king and country, and all those i hold dear! my relations, it is needless to mention, they will, of course, be amply provided for. nelson and bronte. _witness_, henry blackwood. t.m. hardy. it is of little importance whether this codicil was written at the same time as the prayer or a couple of hours before; that neither adds to nor detracts from the object of it. no definite opinion of the time is given. blackwood and hardy, as witnesses, would know. in any case it is an extraordinary document, and indicates unusual mental control of which few human beings are possessed. his mind must have been saturated with thoughts of the woman when the great battle was within a few minutes of commencing. early in the morning, when he was walking the poop and cabin fixings and odds and ends were being removed, he gave stern instructions to "take care of his guardian angel," meaning her portrait, which he regarded in the light of a mascot to him. he also wore a miniature of her next his heart. unless captain hardy and captain blackwood and others to whom he confided his love potions were different from the hearty, unconventional seamen of the writer's early sea-life, a banquet of interesting epithets could have been left to us which might have shocked the severely decorous portion of a public who assume a monopoly of inherent grace but do not understand the delightful simple dialect of the old-time sailor-men. there can be small doubt that nelson's comrades had many a joke in private about his weird and to them unnecessarily troublesome love wailings, which would be all the more irksome when they and he had serious business in hand. poor sir thomas troubridge appears to have been the only one to have dealt frankly with him about carrying his infatuation to such lengths--especially at a time when the public service was in need of his undivided attention--and nelson never had a kindly feeling towards him afterwards. this gallant officer and loyal friend was in command of the _blenheim_ (seventy-four guns) when she and the _java_ (twenty-three guns) foundered with all hands near the island of rodriguez, in the east indies, on the st february, . nelson harboured a childish bitterness against admiral troubridge because of his plain speaking, and especially after the latter was appointed a lord of the admiralty. he always believed the "hidden hand" to be that of his former friend, to whom he delighted at one time to give the term "nonpareil." in a letter to a friend he says: "i have a sharp eye, and almost think i can see it. no, poor fellow," he continues, "i hope i do him injustice; he surely cannot forget my kindness to him," he boasts of how he spoke to st. vincent, the former "nonpareil." in another eloquent passage he complains that troubridge refuses to endorse his recommendations of officers for promotion, that he has been so rebuffed that his spirits are broken and the great troubridge has cowed him (this, of course, in derision), and if he asked for anything more he would not get it. he would never forget it. no wonder he was not well. the admiralty are "beasts" for not allowing him to come to london, which would only deprive him of a few days' comfort and happiness, and they have his hearty prayers. he continues in the same ludicrous strain, "i have a letter from troubridge urging me to wear flannel shirts, as though he cared for me. he hopes that i shall go and have walks ashore, as the weather is now fine." "i suppose he is laughing at me, but never mind." he suffers from sea-sickness and toothache, and "none of them care a damn about my sufferings," and so on. these misdirected outbursts of feverish antipathy to poor troubridge were frequent, and always inconceivably comical as well as distressingly peevish. but behind it all there was a consciousness of unequalled power which every one who knew him recognized, and they therefore patiently bore with his weaknesses, trying as they sometimes were. lord st. vincent believed, and stated to nelson, that the only other man who possessed the same power of infusing into others the same spirit as his own was troubridge, and no doubt this innocent praise of a noble and gallant sailor rankled in nelson's mind, and was the beginning of the jealousy that grew into hate. he could not brook any one being put on an equality with himself, and he clung tenaciously, though generously, to this idea of authority and superiority when he requested in his last dying gasp that he should not be superseded. after signing what is called the codicil to his will, captains hardy and blackwood joined him on the poop to receive his instructions. he was calmly absorbed with the enemy's plan of defence and his own of attack. he asked blackwood what he would consider a victory, and the latter replied, "considering the disposition of both fleets, he thought fourteen captures would be a fine result." nelson said he would not be satisfied with less than twenty, and that nothing short of annihilation was his object. soon afterwards he gave orders to mr. pasco to make the memorable signal that england expects every man to do his duty, which sent a thrill of fiery enthusiasm throughout the whole fleet. then the signal for "close action" went up, and the cheering was renewed, which created a remarkable effect. collingwood, whose attention was wholly on a spanish three-decker that he had selected to engage, is reported to have been irritated, and spontaneously expressed the wish that "nelson would cease signalling, as they all knew what to do." at noon the french ship, the _fougeux_, fired the first shot of the battle. the belligerent admirals saluted in the good old pious style, like professional boxers shaking hands before the attempt to knock each other out, and in a few more minutes were engaged in deadly conflict, hurling death at each other. nelson, in his courageous melancholy way, confident of his own powers and trusting reverently in the continuance of the lavish bounty of god, resigned his fate to him who had given him the opportunity of doing his duty. the conspicuous splendour of the decorations which he wore on the breast of his admiral's frocker was apprehensively looked upon by his comrades, who loved him with touching loyalty. they muttered their disappointment to each other, but shrank from hurting his feelings by warning him of the danger of the sharpshooters, to whom he would be a target, remembering how he had sharply replied to some anxious soul who on a previous occasion had cautioned him with regard to his prominent appearance, "that in honour he had gained his orders, and in honour he would die with them." the battle quickly developed into a carnage. the _bucentaure_ had found her range soon after twelve o'clock, when some of the shots went over the _victory_. blackwood was at this time ordered to rejoin his ship. he shook hands with his chief, and in some brief parting words expressed the "hope that he would soon return to the _victory_ to find him well and in possession of twenty prizes"; and nelson is reported to have calmly answered, "god bless you, blackwood, i shall never speak to you again." his habit was to refer to death with eager frankness, and as though he were in love with it, without in the least showing any lack of alertness or detraction from the hazardous objects he had set himself to fulfil. his faith in the powerful aid of the omnipotent was as unvarying in his sphere of warfare as was cromwell's when he had the stern realities of human unruliness to steady and chastise. nelson, like the latter, had in his peculiar way a deep-rooted awe and fear of god, which must have made him oblivious to all other fear. the magnificent fellow never showed greater mastery of the science of strategy, nor did he ever scan with greater vigilance the manner of carrying out the creation of his genius. collingwood, who was first in the thick of the fight, set his heart throbbing with pride and admiration when he observed the _royal sovereign_ dash through the lines of the enemy, spreading devastation and death with unerring judgment. "see," said nelson to captain blackwood, "how that noble fellow, collingwood, takes his ship into action!" then he paused for a moment, and continued, "how i envy him!" and as though the spirits of the two men were in communion with each other, collingwood, knowing that the commander-in-chief's eager eye was fixed upon him in fond admiration, called out to the flag-captain near him, "rotherham, what would nelson give to be here?" one of those fine human touches of brotherhood which nelson knew so well how to handle with his faultless tact had occurred the day before. collingwood and some officers paid a visit to the _victory_ for the purpose of receiving any instructions he might have to give. nelson asked collingwood where his captain was, and when he replied that they were not on friendly terms, nelson sharply answered, "not on good terms," and forthwith gave orders for a boat to be sent for rotherham; and when he came aboard he took him to collingwood and said, "look! there is the enemy, shake hands," and they renewed their friendship by gratefully carrying out his wishes. but for this, perhaps we should have been cheated of knowing the charming anecdote, which denotes the veneration the two old friends had for each other. there is no need to make any apology for this digression, for it is to record one more of the many acts of wisdom and tenderness that were so natural to this man of massive understanding. the incalculable results that he was destined to accomplish may well be allowed to obscure any human weakness that sadly beset him. nelson, with blithe courage, sailed right into the centre of the french fleet, which in disorder surrounded their commander-in-chief's ship, his intention being to capture her and take villeneuve prisoner. never a gun was fired from the _victory,_ although many of her spars, sails, and her rigging had suffered severely, until she had rounded as close as it was possible under the stern of the _bucentaure_ and got into position. then a terrific broadside was let fly from her double-shotted guns, which raked the _bucentaure_ fore and aft, and the booming of cannon continued until her masts and hull were a complete wreck. many guns were dismounted and four hundred men killed. the _victory_ then swung off and left the doomed _bucentaure_ to be captured by the _conqueror_, and villeneuve was taken prisoner. after clearing the _bucentaure_, the _victory_ fouled the _redoubtable_, and proceeded to demolish her hull with the starboard guns, and with her port guns she battered the _santissima trinidad_, until she was a mass of wreckage, and the _africa_ and _neptune_ forced her to surrender. meanwhile, the _victory_ kept hammering with her starboard guns at the _redoubtable_ until her lower deck cannon were put out of action. then she used her upper deck small guns and muskets from aloft. nelson was too humane a man to use this method of warfare from the lower tops, and too practical, lest the ropes and sails should be damaged. the writer is of opinion that he was wrong in this view, as was clearly shown by the deadly execution the french musketeers did from aloft before their masts were shot away by the british big artillery. it can never be wrong to outmatch an enemy in the methods they employ, no matter what form they take. although the victory was all on the british side at trafalgar, it would have been greater and with less loss of life on our side had musketeers been employed in the same way as the french and spanish employed them. the men on the upper deck of the _victory_ were shot down by these snipers without having an equal chance of retaliating. the _redoubtable's_ mizzen-top was full of sharpshooters when the two ships fell alongside of each other, but only two were left there when nelson was shot and dropped on his left side on the deck a foot or two from captain hardy. the frenchman who shot him was killed himself by a shot fired from the _victory's_ deck, which knocked his head to pieces. his comrade was also shot dead while trying to escape down the rigging, and fell on the _redoubtable's_ poop. the other sharpshooters had been previously killed by the musketry from the _victory's_ deck. nelson told hardy, when he expressed the hope that he was not seriously hurt, that "they had done for him at last, and that he felt his backbone was broken." he was hit on the left shoulder; the ball had pierced his left lung. the snipers from the tops of the other enemy ships killed a large number of the _victory's_ officers and men who were on deck. the french made an attempt to board, but were thrown back in confusion and with tremendous loss. the instinct of domination and the unconquerable combativeness of our race is always more fiercely courageous when pressed to a point which causes others to take to their heels or surrender. it was not an exaggeration on the part of the french and spanish to declare that the british sailors and soldiers were not ordinary men but devils, when the real tussle for mastery began, and when they were even believed to be beaten. the french and spanish conclusions were right then, and the ruthless germans, stained with unspeakable crimes, should know they are right now, for they have had many chances in recent days of realizing the power of the recuperating spirit they are up against, just at a time when they have become imbued with the idea that they have beaten our forces on land and destroyed our ships and murdered their crews at sea. the kaiser and his advisers, military and naval, have made the german people pay dearly for the experiment of stopping our supplies by sea, for the loss of life by the sinking of their own submarines must have been enormous. but only those to whom they belong will ever know that they have not returned, and that they must have been sent to the bottom of the sea. we can only judge by written records and authoritative paintings or prints of the period what the naval battles of the beginning of the last century were like. but it is only those who have studied minutely the naval battles of st. vincent, the nile, copenhagen, and trafalgar who can depict the awful character and thrilling nature of these ocean conflicts. while the author was serving as an apprentice aboard a sailing vessel during the prussian-danish war in a dense fog came on, and continued the whole of one night. when it cleared up the next forenoon we found that the vessel had been sailed right into the centre of the danish fleet, which had defeated the prussians and austrians off heligoland. there were other merchantmen there, and the cheering as we passed each of the danish warships was hearty and long, while they gracefully acknowledged by saluting with their flags. i am quite sure there were few british seamen who would not have gladly volunteered to serve in the danish navy against the prussians, so universal was their bitter dislike to the hun bullies who had set themselves to steal by force the possessions to which they had not an atom of right. the sight of these fine frigates and line-of-battle ships manoeuvring to come to grips with their cowardly antagonists who were assailing their national rights has been revivified during a long course of study of nelson's naval warfare, and makes the awful vision of trafalgar appear as it really was, and makes me wish that i were gifted with the art of words so that i might describe it in all its gruesome wreckage and magnitude, as the recollection of the majestic sight of the danish ships before they even went into action makes it appear to me. my mind's eye pictures one after another of the french and spanish ships surrendering, the hurricane of cheers that followed their defeat, and the pathetic anxiety of the dying chieftain for the safety of captain hardy, who was now in charge of the flagship acting as commander-in-chief. hardy is long in coming; he fears that he may be killed, and calls out, "will no one bring hardy to me?" at last the gallant captain sees an opportunity of leaving the deck, for the _victory_ is shielded by two ships from the enemy's gunfire. "well, hardy," says nelson to him, "how goes the battle?" "very well, my lord," says hardy; "fourteen or fifteen of the enemy's ships are in our possession." "that is well," said nelson, "but i bargained for twenty"; and then followed the memorable order, "anchor, hardy, anchor." "if i live," he says, "we will anchor"; and in answer to hardy's supposition that collingwood should take charge, he impulsively resents the suggestion and expresses the hope that this will not happen while he lives, and urges again on hardy that the fleet may be anchored, and asks him to make the signal. he hopes that none of our ships have struck, and his devoted friend reassures him that none have and never will. he commissions hardy to give "dear lady hamilton his hair and other belongings," and asks that his "body shall not be thrown overboard." hardy is then asked in childlike simplicity to kiss him, and the rough, fearless captain with deep emotion kneels and reverently kisses nelson on the cheek. he then thanks god that he has done his duty, and makes the solemn thoughts that are troubling his last moments manifest in words by informing doctor scott, with a vital sailorly turn of speech, that "he had _not_ been a _great_ sinner," and then bids him remember that he leaves lady hamilton and his daughter horatia as a legacy to his country, and that horatia is never to be forgotten. even at this distance of time one cannot help regretting that nature's power did not sustain him to see the total debacle of the enemy fleets. he knew that he had triumphed, and that his task had ended fatally to himself, but his sufferings did not prevent his spirit sallying to and fro, making him feel the joy of living and wish that he might linger but a little longer. he was struck down at a critical stage of the battle, though there was never any doubt as to how it would end, thanks to the adroit skill and bravery of collingwood and those who served under him. it is a happy thought to know that our hero, even when the shadows were closing round him, had the pleasure of hearing from the lips of the faithful hardy that fifteen of the enemy ships had struck and not one of ours had lowered a flag. but how much more gladsome would the passing have been had he lived to know that the battle had ended with the capture of nine french vessels and ten spanish, nineteen in all. he died at . p.m. on the st october, , just when the battle was flickering to an end. villeneuve had given himself up, and was a prisoner on board the _mars_. dumanoir had bolted with four of the line, after committing a decidedly cowardly act by firing into the captured spanish ships, the object being to put them out of the possession of the british. they could not succeed in this without killing large numbers of their allies, and this was all they were successful in doing. it was a cruel, clumsy crime, which the spanish rightly resented but never succeeded in avenging. meanwhile the spanish admiral gravina, who had lost an arm, took command of the dilapidated combined fleets, and fled into cadiz with five french and five spanish ships, and by p.m. the thundering of the guns had ceased, and the sea all round was a scene of death, dismasted ships, and awful wreckage. the rear-admiral dumanoir was sailing gaily towards the refuge of rochefort or ferrol when he came into view of, and ultimately had to fight on the th november, a squadron under sir richard strachan. dumanoir and his men are said to have fought with great fierceness, but his ships were beaten, captured, and taken in a battered condition, and subsequently sent to england, so that now twenty-three out of the thirty-three that came out of cadiz with all the swagger of confidence and superiority to match themselves against nelson and his fiery coadjutors were tragically accounted for. collingwood was now the commander-in-chief of the british fleet, and to him fell the task of notifying the victory. i insert the documents in full. london gazette extraordinary. admiralty office, _ th november, ._ despatches, of which the following are copies, were received at the admiralty this day, at one o'clock a.m. from vice-admiral collingwood, commander-in-chief of his majesty's ships and vessels off cadiz. "euryalus", off cape trafalgar, _october , ._ sir,--the ever-to-be-lamented death of vice-admiral lord viscount nelson, who, in the late conflict with the enemy, fell in the hour of victory, leaves me the duty of informing my lords commissioners of the admiralty, that on the th instant, it was communicated to the commander-in-chief, from the ships watching the motions of the enemy in cadiz, that the combined fleet had put to sea. as they sailed with light winds westerly, his lordship concluded their destination was the mediterranean, and immediately made all sail for the straits' entrance, with the british squadron, consisting of twenty-seven ships, three of them sixty-fours, where his lordship was informed, by captain blackwood (whose vigilance in watching and giving notice of the enemy's movements has been highly meritorious), that they had not yet passed the straits. on monday, the st instant, at daylight, when cape trafalgar bore e. by s. about seven leagues, the enemy was discovered six or seven miles to the eastward, the wind about west, and very light; the commander-in-chief immediately made the signal for the fleet to bear up in two columns, as they are formed in the order of sailing; a mode of attack his lordship had previously directed, to avoid the delay and inconvenience in forming a line of battle in the usual manner. the enemy's line consisted of thirty-three ships (of which eighteen were french and fifteen spanish, commanded in chief by admiral villeneuve, the spaniards under the direction of gravina), bore with their heads to the northwards and formed their line of battle with great closeness and correctness. but as the mode of attack was unusual, so the structure of their line was new; it formed a crescent convexing to leeward; so that in leading down to their centre i had both their van and rear abaft the beam before the fire opened; every alternate ship was about a cable's length to windward of her second ahead and astern, forming a kind of double line, and appeared, when on their beam, to leave a very little interval between them, and this without crowding their ships. admiral villeneuve was in the _bucentaure_ in the centre, and the _prince of asturias_ bore gravina's flag in the rear, but the french and spanish ships were mixed without any apparent regard to order of national squadron. as the mode of our attack had been previously determined upon, and communicated to the flag officers and captains, few signals were necessary, and none were made except to direct close order as the lines bore down. the commander-in-chief in the _victory_ led the weather column, and the _royal sovereign_, which bore my flag, the lee. the action began at twelve o'clock by the leading ships of the column breaking through the enemy's line; the commander-in-chief about the tenth ship from the van; the second-in-command about the twelfth from the rear, leaving the van of the enemy unoccupied; the succeeding ships breaking through in all parts, astern of their leaders, and engaging the enemy at the muzzles of their guns. the conflict was severe; the enemy's ships were fought with a gallantry highly honourable to their officers; but the attack on them was irresistible, and it pleased the almighty disposer of all events to grant his majesty's arms a complete and glorious victory. about three p.m., many of the enemy's ships having struck their colours, their line gave way; admiral gravina, with ten ships joining their frigates to leewards, stood towards cadiz. the five headmost ships of their van tacked, and standing to the southward, to windward of the british line, were engaged, and the sternmost of them taken; the others went off, leaving to his majesty's squadron nineteen ships of the line (of which two are first-rates, the _santissima trinidad_, and the _santa anna_), with three flag officers, viz. admiral villeneuve, the commander-in-chief; don ignacio maria d'alava, vice-admiral; and the spanish rear-admiral don baltazar hidalgo cisneros. after such a victory it may appear unnecessary to enter into encomiums on the particular parts taken by the several commanders; the conclusion says more than i have language to express; the spirit which animated all was the same; when all exert themselves zealously in their country's service, all deserve that their high merits should stand recorded; and never was high merit more conspicuous than in the battle i have described. the _achille_, a french seventy-four, after having surrendered, by some mismanagement of the frenchmen, took fire and blew up; two hundred of her men were saved by the tenders. a circumstance occurred during the action, which so strongly marks the invincible spirit of british seamen, when engaging the enemies of their country, that i cannot resist the pleasure i have in making known to their lordships: the _téméraire_ was boarded, by accident or design, by a french ship on one side, and a spaniard on the other; the contest was vigorous; but in the end the combined ensigns were torn from the poop, and the british hoisted in their places.[ ] such a battle could not be fought without sustaining a great loss of men. i have not only to lament in common with the british navy and the british nation in the fall of the commander-in-chief, the loss of a hero whose name will be immortal, and his memory ever dear to his country; but my heart is rent with the most poignant grief for the death of a friend, to whom, by many years of intimacy, and a perfect knowledge of the virtues of his mind, which inspired ideas superior to the common race of men, i was bound by the strongest ties of affection; a grief to which even the glorious occasion in which he fell does not bring the consolation which perhaps it ought. his lordship received a musket ball in his left breast, about the middle of the action, and sent an officer to me immediately, with his last farewell, and soon after expired. i have also to lament the loss of those excellent officers, captain duff of the _mars_, and cooke of the _bellerophon_; i have yet heard of none others. i fear the numbers that have fallen will be found very great when the returns come to me; but it having blown a gale of wind ever since the action, i have not yet had it in my power to collect any reports from the ships. the _royal sovereign_ having lost her masts, except the tottering foremast, i called the _euryalus_ to me, while the action continued, which ship, lying within hail, made my signals, a service which captain blackwood performed with very great attention. after the action i shifted my flag to her, so that i might the more easily communicate my orders to, and collect the ships, and towed the _royal sovereign_ out to seaward. the whole fleet were now in a very perilous situation; many dismasted; all shattered; in thirteen fathom water off the shoals of trafalgar; and when i made the signal to anchor, few of the ships had an anchor to let go, their cables being shot. but the same good providence which aided us through such a day preserved us in the night, by the wind shifting a few points, and drifting the ships off the land, except four of the captured dismasted ships, which are now at anchor off trafalgar, and i hope will ride safe until these gales are over. having thus detailed the proceedings of the fleet on this occasion, i beg to congratulate their lordships on a victory, which i hope will add a ray to the glory of his majesty's crown, and be attended with public benefit to our country. i am, etc., (_signed_) c. collingwood. william marsden, esq. general order. "euryalus", _october , ._ the ever-to-be-lamented death of lord viscount nelson, duke of bronte, the commander-in-chief, who fell in the action of the st, in the arms of victory, covered with glory, whose memory will ever be dear to the british navy and the british nation, whose zeal for the honour of his king, and for the interest of his country will be ever held up as a shining example for a british seaman, leave to me a duty to return my thanks to the right honourable rear-admiral, the captains, officers, seamen, and detachments of royal marines, serving on his majesty's squadron now under my command, for their conduct on that day. but where can i find language to express my sentiments of the valour and skill which were displayed by the officers, the seamen, and marines, in the battle with the enemy, where every individual appeared a hero, on whom the glory of his country depended! the attack was irresistible, and the issue of it adds to the page of naval annals a brilliant instance of what britons can do, when their king and country need their service. to the right honourable rear-admiral the earl of northesk, to the captains, officers, and seamen, and to the officers, non-commissioned officers, and privates of the royal marines, i beg to give my sincere and hearty thanks for their highly meritorious conduct, both in the action and in their zeal and activity in bringing the captured ships out from the perilous situation in which they were, after their surrender, among the shoals of trafalgar in boisterous weather. and i desire that the respective captains will be pleased to communicate to the officers, seamen, and royal marines, this public testimony of my high approbation of their conduct, and my thanks for it. (_signed_) c. collingwood. to the right honourable rear-admiral the earl of northesk, and the respective captains and commanders. general order. the almighty god, whose arm is strength, having of his great mercy been pleased to crown the exertions of his majesty's fleet with success, in giving them a complete victory over their enemies, on the st of this month; and that all praise and thanksgiving may be offered up to the throne of grace, for the great benefit to our country and to mankind, i have thought it proper that a day should be appointed of general humiliation before god, and thanksgiving for his merciful goodness, imploring forgiveness of sins, a continuation of his divine mercy, and his constant aid to us, in defence of our country's liberties and laws, and without which the utmost efforts of man are nought; and therefore that [blank] be appointed for this holy purpose. given on board the "euryalus," off cape trafalgar, october , . (_signed_) c. collingwood to the respective captains and commanders. n.b.--the fleet having been dispersed by a gale of wind, no day has yet been able to be appointed for the above purpose. against the desire of his dead comrade, collingwood carried into practice his own sound and masterful judgment not to anchor either his conquests or any of his own vessels on a lee ironbound shore. even had his ground tackle been sound and intact, which it was not, and the holding ground good instead of bad, he acted in a seamanlike manner by holding steadfastly to the sound sailor tradition always to keep the gate open for drift, to avoid being caught, and never to anchor on a lee shore; and if perchance you get trapped, as hundreds have been, get out of it quickly, if you can, before a gale comes on. but in no case is it good seamanship to anchor. there is always a better chance of saving both the ship and lives by driving ashore in the square effort to beat off rather than by anchoring. the cables, more often than not, part, and if they do, the ship is doomed, and so may lives be. hundreds of sailing vessels were saved in other days by the skill of their commanders in carrying out a plan, long since forgotten, called clubhauling off a lee shore. few sailors living to-day will know the phrase, or how to apply it to advantage. it was a simple method, requiring ability, of helping the vessel to tack when the wind and sea made it impossible in the ordinary way. a large kedge with a warp bent on was let go on either the port or starboard quarter at an opportune moment to make sure the vessel would cant the right way, and then the warp was cut with an axe. in the writer's opinion, it would have been just as unwise to anchor at trafalgar after the battle, in view of the weather and all circumstances, as it would be to anchor on the yorkshire or any part of the north-east coast when an easterly gale is blowing. but apart from the folly of it, there were none of the ships that had ground tackle left that was fit to hold a cat. without a doubt, nelson's mind was distracted and suffering when he gave hardy the order to anchor. the shadows were hovering too thickly round him at the time for him to concentrate any sound judgment. some writers have condemned collingwood for not carrying out the dying request of his commander-in-chief. it was a good thing that the command of the fleet fell into the hands of a man who had knowledge and a mind unimpaired to carry out his fixed opinions. when hardy conveyed nelson's message, he replied, "that is the very last thing that i would have thought of doing," and he was right. had nelson come out of the battle unscathed, he would assuredly have acted as collingwood did, and as any well-trained and soundly-balanced sailor would have done. besides, he always made a point of consulting "coll," as he called him, on great essential matters. if it had been summer-time and calm, or the wind off the land, and the glass indicating a continuance of fine weather, and provided the vessels' cables had been sound, it might have paid to risk a change of wind and weather in order to refit with greater expedition and save the prizes, but certainly not in the month of october in that locality, where the changes are sudden and severe. collingwood acted like a sound hardheaded man of affairs in salving all he could and destroying those he could not without risk of greater disaster. collingwood's account of his difficulties after the battle was won is contained in the following letter to his father-in-law:-- "queen," _ nd november, ._ my dear sir,--i wrote to my dear sarah a few lines when i sent my first dispatches to the admiralty, which account i hope will satisfy the good people of england, for there never was, since england had a fleet, such a combat. in three hours the combined fleet were annihilated, upon their own shores, at the entrance of their port, amongst their own rocks. it has been a very difficult thing to collect an account of our success, but by the best i have twenty-three sail of the line surrendered to us, out of which three, in the furious gale we had afterward, being driven to the entrance of the harbour of cadiz, received assistance and got in; these were the _santa anna_, the _algeziras_, and _neptune_ (the last since sunk and lost); the _santa anna's_ side was battered in. the three we have sent to gibraltar are the _san ildefonso_, _san juan nepomuceno_, and _swiftsure_; seventeen others we have burnt, sunk, and run on shore, but the _bahama_ i have yet hope of saving; she is gone to gibraltar. those ships which effected their escape into cadiz are quite wrecks; some have lost their masts since they got in, and they have not a spar or a store to refit them. we took four admirals--villeneuve the commander-in-chief, vice-admiral d'alava, rear-admiral cisneros, spanish, and magon, the french admiral, who was killed--besides a great number of brigadiers (commanders). d'alava, wounded, was driven into cadiz in the _santa anna_; gravina, who was not taken, has lost his arm (amputated i have heard, but not from him); of men, their loss is many thousands, for i reckon in the captured ships we took twenty thousand prisoners (including the troops). this was a victory to be proud of; but in the loss of my excellent friend, lord nelson, and a number of brave men, we paid dear for it; when my dear friend received his wound, he immediately sent an officer to me to tell me of it, and give his love to me. though the officer was directed to say the wound was not dangerous, i read in his countenance what i had to fear; and before the action was over captain hardy came to inform me of his death. i cannot tell you how deeply i was affected, for my friendship for him was unlike anything that i have left in the navy, a brotherhood of more than thirty years; in this affair he did nothing without my counsel; we made our line of battle together, and concerted the mode of attack, which was put into execution in the most admirable style. i shall grow very tired of the sea soon; my health has suffered so much from the anxious state i have been in, and the fatigue i have undergone, that i shall be unfit for service. the severe gales which immediately followed the day of victory ruined our prospect of prizes; our own infirm ships could scarce keep off the shore; the prizes were left to their fate, and as they were driven very near the port, i ordered them to be destroyed by burning and sinking, that there might be no risk of their falling again into the hands of the enemy. there has been a great destruction of them, indeed i hardly know what, but not less than seventeen or eighteen, the total ruin of the combined fleet. to alleviate the miseries of the wounded, as much as in my power, i sent a flag to the marquis solano, to offer him his wounded. nothing can exceed the gratitude expressed by him, for this act of humanity; all this part of spain is in an uproar of praise and thankfulness to the english. solano sent me a present of a cask of wine, and we have a free intercourse with the shore. judge of the footing we are on, when i tell you he offered me his hospitals, and pledged the spanish honour for the care and cure of our wounded men. our officers and men, who were wrecked in some of the prize ships, were received like divinities; all the country was on the beach to receive them; the priests and women distributing wine, and bread and fruit among them; the soldiers turned out of their barracks to make lodging for them, whilst their allies, the french, were left to shift for themselves, with a guard over them to prevent their doing mischief. after the battle i shifted my flag to the _euryalus_ frigate, that i might the better distribute my orders; and when the ships were destroyed and the squadron in safety, i came here, my own ship being totally disabled; she lost her last mast in the gale. all the northern boys, and graydon, are alive; kennicott has a dangerous wound in his shoulder; thompson is wounded in the arm, and just at the conclusion of the action his leg was broken by a splinter; little charles is unhurt, but we have lost a good many youngsters. for myself, i am in so forlorn a state, my servants killed, my luggage, what is left, is on board the _sovereign_, and clavell[ ] wounded. i have appointed sir peter parker's[ ] grandson, and captain thomas, my old lieutenant, post captains; clavell, and the first lieutenant of the _victory_, made commanders; but i hope the admiralty will do more for them, for in the history of our navy there is no instance of a victory so complete and so great. the ships that escaped into cadiz are wrecks; and they have neither stores nor inclination to refit them. i shall now go, as soon as i get a sufficient squadron equipped, and see what i can do with the carthagenians; if i can get at them, the naval war will be finished in this country. prize-money i shall get little or none for this business, for though the loss of the enemy may be estimated at near four millions, it is most of it gone to the bottom. don argemoso, who was formerly captain of the _isedro_, commanded the _monarca_, one of our captures; he sent to inform me he was in the _leviathan_, and i immediately ordered, for our old acquaintance sake, his liberty on parole. all the spaniards speak of us in terms of adoration; and villeneuve, whom i had in the frigate, acknowledges that they cannot contend with us at sea. i do not know what will be thought of it in england, but the effect here is highly advantageous to the british name. kind remembrances to all my friends; i dare say your neighbour, mr.---- will be delighted with the history of the battle; if he had been in it, it would have animated him more than all his daughter's chemistry; it would have new strung his nerves, and made him young again. god bless you, my dear sir, may you be ever happy; it is very long since i heard from home. i am, ever, your most truly affectionate, cuthbert collingwood. i have ordered all the boys to be discharged into this ship; another such fight will season them pretty well. brown is in perfect health. we had forty-seven killed, ninety-four wounded. great efforts were made to get all the people out of the disabled vessels before they drifted ashore. it is really splendid to read the official account of the deeds of bravery of our fine fellows risking their own lives to save the lives of those they had defeated. seven days after the battle, the _victory_ arrived at gibraltar, and although her masts had been shot away and her hull badly damaged, she was refitted and sailed for england on the th november, the same day that the straggling dumanoir and his ships fell into the hands of sir richard strachan in the bay of biscay. xiv on the _victory's_ arrival at spithead with nelson's remains aboard, preserved in spirits, the body was taken out and put in a leaden coffin filled with brandy and other strong preservatives. on the arrival of the _victory_ at the entrance of the thames, the body was removed, dressed in the admiral's uniform, and put into the coffin made out of the mainmast of _l'orient_ and presented to nelson some years before by captain hallowell. it was then put into a third case, and on the th january, , after lying in state for three days, the remains were buried in st. paul's. the imposing demonstrations of sorrow could not be excelled. parliament voted a monument in st. paul's cathedral, and others were erected in all the principal towns in england and scotland. there were neither material honours nor eulogies great enough to express the gratitude that was felt throughout the united kingdom for the late admiral's achievements. his widow, whom he had not seen for years, and from whom he was definitely parted, was granted £ , per annum for life. his brother was made an earl, with a perpetual income of £ , a year, and £ , of national money was voted to each of the sisters, while £ , was given for an estate to be attached to the title. the human legacy left by nelson of emma hamilton and their daughter horatia were not mentioned, though he seems to have implored heaven and earth in their behalf. obviously, the government felt that they dare not be generous to everybody, even though it were nelson's dying injunction. collingwood, who had as much to do with the triumph of trafalgar as nelson himself, without making any ado about it, was treated pretty much like a provincial mayor. the mayor, of course, may and often does adopt a luxurious roman style of living in order that his local deeds may not escape observation, but such self-advertisement was entirely foreign to collingwood's character. it was fitting that every reasonable honour should have been paid to the memory of a great englishman, whose deeds, in co-operation with others, have never been surpassed. but to make grants and give honours of so generous a character to nelson's relatives, and especially to his wife, who had been a torment to him, and to measure out collingwood's equally great accomplishments with so mean a hand, is an astonishing example of parsimony which, for the sake of our national honour, it is to be hoped rarely occurs. even the haughty, plethoric nobles of a fourth-rate town council (if it be not a libel to mention them in connection with so discreditable an affair) would have judged the manifest fitness of things better than to make any distinction between admiral collingwood and his lifelong friend nelson. surely this famous and eminently worthy public servant was as deserving of an earldom as was nelson's brother, and his wife and daughters of a more generous allowance than that of his dead chief's widow and sisters!--this distinguished man, who helped to plan the order of battle at trafalgar and was the first to take his ship into action in a way that inflamed the pride and admiration of the commander-in-chief, and made him spontaneously exclaim, "see, blackwood, how that noble fellow collingwood takes his ship into battle! how i envy him!" no one knew as well as nelson that his comrade, next to himself, was to play the leading part in not only assuring a victory, but in completely annihilating the french and spanish fleets. yet the british government of that day only counted the services he had rendered to the nation worthy of a peerage, plus the same pension as nelson's widow; i.e. he was to have a pension of £ , a year, and after his death lady collingwood was to have the munificent sum of £ , per annum and each of his two daughters £ a year. he never drew his pension, as they kept him in the service he had made so great until he was a physical wreck. he died on his way home aboard the _ville de paris_ on the th march, , and was laid to rest in st. paul's cathedral alongside of his distinguished friend lord nelson. i have already drawn attention to nelson's blind prejudice to and hatred of the french. collingwood was tainted with the same one-sided views, but tempered them with more conventional language. in his letters to lady collingwood he expresses delight at receiving a letter written to him in french by his daughter, and exhorts the mother to see that she converses when she can in that language, and to remember that she is never to admire anything french but the language. on another occasion he enjoins his daughter sarah to write every day a translation of english into french, so that the language may soon become familiar to her; and then, as though he regarded these instructions as unpatriotic, he qualifies them by reminding her "that it is the only thing french that she needs to acquire, because there is little else in connection with that country which he would wish her to love or imitate." a kinsman of his, after the battle of trafalgar, wrote to inform him that his family were descended from, and allied to, many great families, talebois amongst the rest. he brushed the intended compliment aside, and in his quaint manner remarked that "he had never troubled to search out his genealogy but all he could say was, that if he got hold of the french fleet, he would either be a viscount or nothing." this is one of the very rare symptoms of vaunting that he ever gave way to; and though his dislike of the french was as inherent as nelson's, he never allowed his chivalrous nature to be overruled by passion. in a letter to lord radstock in he closes it by paying a high tribute to the unfortunate french admiral villeneuve by stating "that he was a well-bred man, and a good officer, who had nothing of the offensive vapourings and boastings in his manner which were, perhaps, too commonly attributed to the frenchmen." collingwood was a man of high ideals with a deeply religious fervour, never sinning and then repenting as nelson was habitually doing. physical punishment of his men was abhorrent to him, and although he enforced stern discipline on his crew, they worshipped him. "i cannot understand," he said, "the religion of an officer who can pray all one day and flog his men all the next." his method was to create a feeling of honour amongst his men, and he did this with unfailing success, without adopting the harsh law of the land made by english aristocrats. in a letter to his wife, dated september, , collingwood informs her that the queen of naples expected to be put on the throne of naples again and had intimated the desire of showing her gratitude to himself by creating him a sicilian duke and giving him an estate. "if a dukedom is offered to me," he tells her, "i shall return my thanks for the honour they wish to confer upon me, and show my estimate of it by telling them that i am the servant of my sovereign alone, and can receive no rewards from a foreign prince." napoleon denounced marie caroline, queen of naples, as "a wicked shameless woman, who had violated all that men held most sacred." she had ceased to reign, and by her crimes she had fulfilled her destiny. collingwood, who knew her public and private character to be notoriously untrustworthy and loose, looked upon the proposed honour from such a person as an affront, and refused to accept it if offered. nelson, on the other hand, who had a passion for window-dressing and flattery, accepted with a flowing heart both a dukedom and an estate from their sicilian majesties. his close intimacy with the royal family, and especially with the queen, was a perpetual anxiety to his loyal and devoted friends. there were no two men in the service who had such an affectionate regard for each other as nelson and the amiable northumbrian admiral, and certainly none equalled them in their profession or in their devotion to their king and country. each was different from the other in temperament and character, but both were alike in superb heroism--the one, egotistically untamed, revelling at intervals in lightning flashes of eternal vengeance on the french fleet when the good fortune of meeting them should come; and the other, with calm reticence elaborating his plans and waiting patiently for his chance to take part in the challenge that was to decide the dominion of the sea. each, in fact, rivalled in being a spirit to the other. nelson believed, and frequently said, that he "wished to appear as a godsend"; while collingwood, in more humble and piercing phrase, remarked that "while it is england, let me keep my place in the forefront of the battle." the sound of the names of these two remarkable men is like an echo from other far-off days. both believed that god was on their side. neither of them knew the character or purpose of the exalted man on whom their government was making war. like simple-minded, brave sailors as they were, knowing nothing of the mysteries of political jealousies and intrigue, and believing that the men constituting the government must be of high mental and administrative ability, they assumed that they were carrying out a flawless patriotic duty, never doubting the wisdom of it; and it was well for england that they did not. men always fight better when they know and believe their cause is just. collingwood, like most of his class, gave little thought to money matters. he had "no ambition," he says, "to possess riches," but he had to being recognized in a proper way. he wished the succession of his title to be conferred on his daughters, as he had no son. this was a modest and very natural desire, considering what the nation owed to him, but it was not granted, and the shame of it can never be redeemed. in one of his letters to mr. blackett he says to him, "i was exceedingly displeased at some of the language held in the house of commons on the settlement of the pension upon my daughters; it was not of my asking, and if i had a favour to ask, money would be the last thing i would beg from an impoverished country. i am not a jew, whose god is gold; nor a swiss, whose services are to be counted against so much money. i have motives for my conduct which i would not give in exchange for a hundred pensions." these lines speak eloquently of the high order of this illustrious man. he despises money, but claims it as his right to have proper recognition of his services, which the government should have given him generously and with both hands. in so many words he says, "keep your money, i am not to be bought, but confer on me if you will some suitable token that will convince me that you do really, in the name of the nation, appreciate what i have done for it." services such as he had rendered could never have been adequately rewarded by either money or honours, no matter how high in degree. in the affairs of money these two great admirals were pretty similar, except that collingwood knew better how to spend it than nelson. both were generous, though the former had method and money sense, while the latter does not appear to have had either. he was accustomed to say "that the want of fortune was a crime which he could never get over." both in temperament and education collingwood was superior to nelson. the former knew that he had done and was capable of doing great deeds, but he would never condescend to seek for an honour reward; while nelson, who also knew when he had distinguished himself in the national interest, expected to be rewarded, and on occasions when it was too tardily withheld, he became peevish, whimpered a good deal about his illtreatment, and on more than one occasion showed unbecoming rage at being neglected. after copenhagen, the wigs were fairly on the green because he was created a viscount instead of an earl. he talked a good deal about the tower, a dukedom, or westminster abbey, and had ways of demanding attention for which collingwood had neither the aptitude nor the inclination, though his naval qualities were quite equal to nelson's. but with all their faults and virtues, there was never any petty jealousy between the two heroes, who lie at rest side by side in the tombs at st. paul's. faithful to their naval orthodoxy that it was incumbent for every christian sailor-man to wash clean his conscience when he was passing from time into eternity, nelson on the st october, , and collingwood five years later, avowed to those who had the honour of closing their eyes for evermore that they "had not been great sinners," and then slipped into eternal sleep; each of them leaving behind a name that will live and descend into distant ages. we left villeneuve, the unfortunate but distinctly brave french commander-in-chief of the allied fleet at trafalgar, aboard the _mars_. he was subsequently sent a prisoner to england, and after a short stay, he was allowed to go to france, and broke his journey at rennes on his way to paris. the poor broken-hearted fellow was found dead in his room, having committed suicide. there is not the remotest foundation for the unworthy report that was spread that he was put to death by napoleon's orders. the emperor was much too big a man, occupied with human projects too vast, to waste a moment's thought or to stain his name over an unfortunate admiral who had brought his fleet to grief by acting against his instructions. it is only little men who write, not that which is founded on fact but that which they imagine will appeal to the popular taste of the moment; and so it was with the french emperor; a lot of scandal-mongers were always at work hawking hither and thither their poisonous fabrications. a great many people get their living by appealing to the lowest passions. napoleon, when in captivity, referred incidentally to the misfortunes of villeneuve, and made the following statement to dr. o'meara:-- "villeneuve," said he, "when taken prisoner and brought to england, was so much grieved at his defeat, that he studied anatomy on purpose to destroy himself. for this purpose he bought some anatomical plates of the heart, and compared them with his own body, in order to ascertain the exact situation of that organ. on his arrival in france i ordered that he should remain at rennes, and not proceed to paris. villeneuve, afraid of being tried by a court-martial for disobedience of orders, and consequently losing the fleet, for i had ordered him _not to sail or to engage the english_, determined to destroy himself, and accordingly took his plates of the heart, and compared them with his breast. exactly in the centre of the plate he made a mark with a large pin, then fixed the pin as near as he could judge in the same spot in his own breast, shoved it in to the head, penetrated his heart and expired. when the room was opened he was found dead; the pin in his breast, and a mark in the plate corresponding with the wound in his breast. he need not have done it," continued he, "as he was a brave man, though possessed of no talent."[ ] i have given this communication in full as it appears in o'meara's book, because the scribes would have it that villeneuve was destroyed by the emperor's orders. there was not at the time, nor has there ever appeared since, anything to justify such a calumny on a man who challenged the world to make the charge and prove that he had ever committed a crime during the whole of his public career. no one has taken up the challenge except in sweeping generalities of slander, which are easily made but less easy to substantiate. if the emperor had really wished to take villeneuve's life, it would have been more satisfactory to have him condemned to death by a court-martial composed of his countrymen than to have the already ruined man secretly destroyed for mere private revenge. the common sense of the affair compels one to repudiate the idea of the emperor's complicity in so stupid a crime. it is more likely that napoleon wished to save him from the consequences of a court-martial, so ordered him to remain at rennes. he rarely punished offenders according to their offences. after the first flush of anger was over, they were generally let down easily, and for the most part became traitors afterwards. we need not waste time or space in dilating on what would have happened to nelson had he put at defiance the authority that controlled him and the irreparable disaster that would have followed. villeneuve has been belauded for his gallantry in the fight at trafalgar; indeed, we learn, from sources that may be relied upon, that his bravery, dispositions in battle, and art of enthusing his followers could not be surpassed. his signals to the fleet were almost identical with nelson's. here is one: "celui qui ne serait pas dans le feu ne serait pas à son poste"; the literal translation of which is: "he who would not be in the fire would not be at his post"; or, "the man who would hold his post must stand fire," which is quite an inspiring signal. but i wonder what the eulogists of villeneuve would have written of him had he been the victor instead of the defeated. it is generous to give praise to the unfortunate admiral for whom nelson had such an aversion and who was constantly threatened by him with vigorous chastisement when he caught him; but generosity was not the motive--it was only part of the loose-lipped, unclean policy of decrying napoleon. it is horrible, ungrateful, and foul brutishness of the corsican tyrant to court-martial so amiable and brave a man as villeneuve because he proceeded out of cadiz against orders and suffered a crushing defeat! it is quite permissible for a french admiral to put authority at defiance if doing so complies with the sentiments of anti-napoleon writers, who were either ill-informed, purblind critics or eaten up with insincerity or moral malaria! but it is the maintenance of discipline to have men like sir john byng court-martialled and shot after being tried, it is said, by a not entirely impartial court, on the supposition that he had neglected his duty in an engagement with the french off minorca on the th may, , and committed an error of judgment. a rather remarkable method of enforcing discipline, to shoot an admiral for an error of judgment! take another case of high-ordered, solemn devotion to discipline: sir robert calder, who had gained an important victory over the french at finisterre, was court-martialled, condemned and ruined, ostensibly because he did not achieve a greater victory. the decisions of both cases were crimes, not desire for the maintenance of discipline. it was, and ever will be, a stain on the name of justice. i need not carry this further, except to say that according to the solemn logic of some writers, it was murder for napoleon or some of his ministers to have the duc d'enghien shot for having conspired with others for the overthrow of the established french government, but it is the saintly enforcement of discipline to have a british admiral shot and another ruined for no other reason than an error of judgment on the one hand and an insufficient victory on the other. sir robert calder's heart was broken by cruelty. villeneuve lost his fleet and killed himself, not that he had anything to fear from the decision of the court-martial--so it is said on the authority of an english writer of note. certainly he had nothing to fear from the emperor, who has indicated that he had no intention of dealing severely with him. it was fitting that he should be reprimanded, and no doubt he would have been, after which, as was his custom, the emperor would have conferred some kindly favour upon him. serene authors have entangled themselves a good deal over this matter in their efforts to take up the impossible position of making the emperor and not villeneuve responsible for the disaster at trafalgar to the spanish and french fleet. of course, napoleon was badly chagrined, and so would the king of england have been, if it were thinkable that such a calamity could possibly have befallen any british fleet. the head of the french nation would have been less than human had he not felt the full force of the terrific blow to his country, and especially to himself. disposition of fleets at trafalgar trafalgar, st october, . detailed list of ships engaged. (_a_) british order of battle, with the names of the flag officers and captains. van, or weather column. ships. guns. commanders. killed. wounded. _victory_ vice-ad. visc. nelson captain t.m. hardy _téméraire_ eliab harvey _neptune_ t.f. freemantle _conqueror_ israel pellew _leviathan_ h.w. bayntun _ajax_ lieut. j. pilfold -- _orion_ edward codrington _agamemnon_ sir edward berry _minotaur_ c.j.m. mansfield _spartiate_ sir f. laforey, bart. _britannia_ rear-ad. earl northesk captain charles bullen _africa_ henry digby --- --- --- --- frigates. ships. guns. commanders. _euryalus_ hon. h. blackwood _sirius_ william prowse _phoebe_ hon. t.b. capel _naiad_ t. dundas _pickle_ lieut. j.r. lapenotiere _intreprenante_ lieut. r.b. young (cutter) rear, or lee column. ships. guns. commanders. killed. wounded _royal sovereign_ vice-ad. collingwood captain e. rotherham _mars_ george duff _belleisle_ william hargood _tonnant_ charles tyler _bellerophon_ john cooke _colossus_ j.n. morris _achille_ richard king _polyphemus_ robert redmill _revenge_ r. moorsom _swiftsure_ w.g. rutherford _defence_ george hope _thunderer_ lieut. j. stockham _prince_ richard grindall -- -- _defiance_ p.c. durham _dreadnought_ john conn --- --- --- --- note.--lieutenants pilfold and stockham were acting for captains w. brown and lechmere, absent on sir r. calder's trial; the lieutenants, w.p. camby, of the _bellerophon_, and w. hannah, of the _mars_, having their captains killed, the whole of these officers, with lieutenant quillam, first of the _victory_, were made post immediately. (_b_) a list of the combined fleet of france and spain, showing how they were disposed of. . spanish ship, _san ildefonso_, guns, brigadier don joseph de varga, sent to gibraltar. . spanish ship, _san juan nepomuceno_, guns, brigadier don cosme cherruca, sent to gibraltar. . spanish ship, _bahama_, guns. brigadier don a.d. galiano, sent to gibraltar. . french ship, _swiftsure_, guns, monsieur villemadrin, sent to gibraltar. . spanish ship, _monarca_, guns, don teodoro argumosa, wrecked off san lucar. . french ship, _fougeux_, guns, monsieur beaudouin, wrecked off trafalgar, all perished, and of the _téméraire's_ men. . french ship, _indomitable_, guns, monsieur hubart, wrecked off rota, all perished, said to have had , men on board. . french ship, _bucentaure_, guns, admiral villeneuve, commander-in-chief, captains prigny and magendie, wrecked on the porques, some of the crew saved. . spanish ship, _san francisco de asis_, guns, don luis de flores, wrecked near rota. . spanish ship, _el rayo_, guns, brigadier don henrique macdonel, taken by _donegal_, and wrecked near san lucar. . spanish ship, _neptuno_, guns, brigadier don cayetano valdes, wrecked between rota and catalina. . french ship, _argonaute_, guns, monsieur epron, on shore in the port of cadiz. (by subsequent account not lost.) . french ship, _berwick_, guns, monsieur camas, wrecked to the northward of san lucar. . french ship, _aigle_, guns, monsieur courage, wrecked near rota. . french ship, _achille_, guns, monsieur de nieuport, burnt during the action. . french ship, _intrepide_, guns, monsieur infernet, burnt by the _britannia_. . spanish ship, _san augustin_, guns, brigadier don felipe x. cagigal, burnt by the _leviathan_. . spanish ship, _santissima trinidad_, guns, rear-admiral don baltazar h. cisneros, brigadier don f. uriate, sunk by the _prince_ and _neptune_. . french ship, _redoubtable_, guns, monsieur lucas, sunk astern of the _swiftsure_; _téméraire_ lost , and _swiftsure_ men, in her. . spanish ship, _argonauta_, guns, don antonio parejo, sunk by the _ajax_. . spanish ship, _santa anna_, guns, vice-admiral don ignacio d'alava, captain don joseph de guardequi, taken, but got into cadiz in the gale, dismasted. . french ship, _algeziras_, guns, rear-admiral magon (killed), captain monsieur bruaro, taken, but got into cadiz in the gale, dismasted. . french ship, _pluton_, guns. monsieur cosmao, returned to cadiz in a sinking state. . spanish ship, _san juste_, guns, don miguel caston, returned to cadiz, has a foremast only. . spanish ship, _san leandro_, guns, don joseph de quevedo, returned to cadiz, dismasted. . french ship, _le neptune_, guns, monsieur maistral, returned to cadiz, perfect. . french ship, _le heros_, guns, monsieur poulain, returned to cadiz, lower masts standing, hoisted admiral rossily's flag. . spanish ship, _principe de asturias_, guns, admiral gravina, captain don antonio escano, returned to cadiz, dismasted. . spanish ship, _montanez_, don francisco alcedo, returned to cadiz. . french ship. _formidable_, guns, rear-admiral dumanoir, escaped to the southward, with the three following. . french ship, _montblanc_, guns, monsieur villegries. . french ship, _scipion_, guns. monsieur berouger. . french ship, _du guay trouin_, guns. monsieur toufflet. abstract at gibraltar destroyed in cadiz escaped -- -- footnotes: [ ] battle of aboukir. at the battle of aboukir bay the british losses were reported to be killed and wounded. only one captain fell. , of the french perished, and , , including wounded, were sent on shore. when the battle was over, nelson gave instructions that thanksgiving aboard every ship should be offered to almighty god for giving his majesty's forces the victory. it is the author's opinion that but for a good deal of slashing genius and not a little of the devil on the part of nelson and his men the french would not have fared so badly. [ ] portraits painted by poor romney for £ , or less, sell for many thousands at christie's in these days. [ ] italics are the author's. [ ] italics are the author's. [ ] some authorities speak of sir william hamilton as being an amiable, accomplished man, who left on record a letter which reads as follows:--"my study of antiquities has kept me in constant thought of the perpetual fluctuation of everything. the whole art is really to live all the _days_ of our life. admire the creator and all his works, to us incomprehensible, and do all the good you can on earth; and take the chance of eternity without dismay." [ ] sir harris nicolas is inclined to believe in the purity of nelson's attachment and southey says there is no reason to believe that it was more than platonic. but these views are certainly not borne out by those who knew nelson and his connection with the hamiltons intimately. [ ] the name by which nelson speaks of her occasionally in his correspondence with lady hamilton. his daughter bore this name before his death, but he desired that afterwards she should drop the name of thompson. [ ] "correspondence and diaries of john wilson croker," vol. ii. p. . [ ] o'meara, vol. i. p. . [ ] o'meara, "voice from st. helena," vol. ii. p. . "talks of napoleon at st. helena," gourgand, p. . [ ] the body was first seen floating by a neapolitan fisherman, who reported the matter, but his story was ridiculed. finally, in order to verify the statement, the principal actors in the shameful tragedy went for a sail in naples bay and soon met the body borne along by the swift current as though to meet them. the incident created a profound impression at the time. [ ] this girl of twenty-two, who is known to fame and immortality, purchased a dagger, and called on marat, who was the most infamous arch-butcher of the reign of terror. he was in his bath at the time, but this did not prevent her from making her way to him. he wrote down the names of the conspirators she told him of having seen in normandy, and he told her he would swiftly have them guillotined. the assurance had scarcely left his lips when in an instant she thrust the instrument of death through his heart. she repudiated the stigma of being thought a murderess, and believed that her act would be the means of saving thousands of lives. she was dragged through the streets, taken to the executioner, and asked for the loan of his shears and cut off a lock of her hair. when asked if she found the journey long, she replied with perfect composure, "oh no, i am not afraid of being too late." subsequently one of the girondin deputies said of her, "she has killed us, but she has taught all how to die." [ ] troubridge's bluff letter to lord nelson. "pardon me, my lord, it is my sincere esteem for you that makes me mention it. i know you have no pleasure in sitting up all night at cards; why then sacrifice your health, comfort, purse, ease, everything, to the customs of a country where your stay cannot be long? i would not, my lord, reside in this country for all sicily. i trust the war will soon be over, and deliver us from a nest of everything that is infamous, and that we may enjoy the smiles of our countrywomen. "your lordship is a stranger to half that happens, or the talk it occasions; if you knew what your friends feel for you, i am sure you would cut all the nocturnal parties. gambling of the people at palermo is publicly talked of everywhere. i beseech your lordship leave off. i wish my pen could tell you my feelings, i am sure you would oblige me. "i trust your lordship will pardon me; it is the sincere esteem i have for you that makes me risk your displeasure." no reply, so far as is known, was ever sent to this outspoken letter. [ ] castlereagh and canning fought a duel. canning was wounded by a bullet in the leg, and it prevented castlereagh from being an unpopular figure. indeed, he became for a time, in limited circles, popular. percival was assassinated. lord liverpool was prime minister for fifteen years, and departed this life insane. canning was brilliant, witty, and eloquent, and his outlook was large. it was said that he was spoiled by pitt, and was consumed by vanity, and was broken by tory calumniation. political, commercial, or social intrigue success is always followed by the most deadly reaction on those who practise or encourage it, and i trust that a merciful providence will shield from the tragedies and maladies that came to some members of this former coalition those of the present, which apparently excels every other in its colossal efforts at doing harm. the best brains are needed now, not romancers. [ ] subsequent information has proved this statement wanted confirmation. [ ] captain john clavell, then first lieutenant of the _royal sovereign._ [ ] the lamented sir peter parker, bart., who fell in the _chesapeake_ in , when captain of the _menelaus_, leading his men against the americans. [ ] "napoleon in exile," vol. i. p. . napoleon and his connection with the world-war ( - ) napoleon's farewell from the french farewell to the land, where the gloom of my glory arose and o'ershadowed the earth with her name-- she abandons me now--but the page of her story, the brightest or blackest, is fill'd with my fame. i have warred with a world which vanquished me only when the meteor of conquest allured me too far; i have coped with the nations which dread me thus lonely, the last single captive to millions in war. farewell to thee, france! when thy diadem crown'd me, i made thee the gem and the wonder of earth, but thy weakness decrees i should leave as i found thee, decay'd in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth. oh! for the veteran hearts that were wasted in strife with the storm, when their battles were won-- then the eagle, whose gaze in that moment was blasted, had still soar'd with eyes fixed on victory's sun! farewell to thee, france!--but when liberty rallies once more in thy regions, remember me then,-- the violet still grows in the depths of thy valleys; though wither'd, thy tears will unfold it again-- yet, yet, i may baffle the hosts that surround us, and yet may thy heart leap awake to my voice-- there are links which must break in the chain that has bound us, then turn thee and call on the chief of thy choice! i napoleon, when at the height of his fame, was looked upon by the european powers as a man whose lust of conquest was a terrible menace to all constituted authority. the oligarchies thought themselves bound to combine against him in order to reseat the bourbons on the throne of france and restore law and order to that distracted country. what a travesty of the actual facts! the people of france had risen against the tyranny and oppression of the french kings and nobles, and out of the welter of the revolution napoleon rose to power and, by his magnetic personality, welded the chaotic elements into unity, framed laws which are still in operation, and led his country to wonderful heights of glory. well may the crowned heads of europe have feared this man, whose genius put all their mediocre and unenlightened achievements in the shade. had they been blessed with the same vision as he, they would not have opposed but co-operated with him, by introducing into their own constitutions saner laws such as some of those in the code napoleon. but instead of this, they began a campaign of press vilification, and napoleon's every act was held up as the deed of a monster of iniquity. plots, open and secret, to dethrone him were continually in progress, only to be frustrated by the genius of the man of the people. as an instance of this, and of the one-sided view taken by all ranks and classes of napoleon's opponents, let us contrast two cases which are in some respects parallel. the many plots to assassinate the first consul--especially the one that very nearly succeeded when he was on his way to the opera--and the knowledge that an organized band of conspirators were in red-hot activity and, headed by the duc d'enghien, cadoudal, moreau, and pichegru, were determined to kill the head of the state, overthrow the government, and re-establish the bourbon dynasty, caused the duc to be arrested, tried by his fellow-countrymen, and found guilty of the charges brought against him, and, by the blundering of savary, afterwards duke of rovigo, and the persistence of murat, the death penalty was carried out and he was shot. had he been permitted to live another twenty-four hours, napoleon would unquestionably have pardoned him, though he never doubted the justice of the sentence. much political capital has been made in this country against napoleon for even sanctioning his arrest and in not preventing the capital sentence of the court from being carried out.[ ] unquestionably napoleon regretted the execution, and would have granted a free pardon had some one not blundered or been too zealous in what they conceived to be his and the country's best interests. almost every writer on this subject is strong in his condemnation of the execution and of napoleon for not taking surer steps to prevent it. but in judging him in regard to this matter, it is only fair to take into account that he was the ruler of a great empire. whether he became so by force or not, does not matter; he saved the revolution, and had already brought some form of order out of bloody chaos. he had already become the popular head of the french nation, and it devolved upon him to take the most minute precautions against the disturbing effects of the secret and avowed conspirators who directed their operations against his life and the overthrow of his government from london. the precautions taken were drastic, skilfully organized, and far-reaching, and his agents kept him advised of the danger that continually beset him. even though he had no thought of reprieving the duc, and deliberately allowed him to be shot, the act of self-preservation, extreme though it may appear, can hardly be termed, under the circumstances, unwarranted. it was a period of wild, uncontrollable passion, and the survivors of the old aristocracy hated the man of genius who had risen to power from the ranks of the people to take the place of the bourbons. this was the canker that stimulated their enmity. had the duc d'enghien kept himself aloof from conspirators, and been willing to recognize the facts he would never have been molested. he took the risk of co-operating with desperate men, and paid the penalty by being shot on the th march, , at . a.m., at vincennes. had the ruler of any state in europe carried out a death-sentence for the same reason and under the same circumstances, it would have been regarded as well-merited punishment, and the press would have preached the gospel of warning to evil doers. but with napoleon it was different. he was an interloper who had nothing in common with the galaxy of monarchs who ruled europe at that time. subsequently they licked his boots, not for love, but through fear. the shooting of the duc was a fine opportunity for his enemies. they sedulously nursed the press, published books and pamphlets in every language, and employed the most poisoned pen that could be bought to portray the future ruler of kings in terms of obloquy. the performance of the scribes who direct the pen, which is said to be mightier than the sword, is enough to kill any one with a real sense of humour. some of the literary productions which were to send the greatest of living men off the face of the earth are quite grotesque in their feminine, shrill advocacy of force towards the "eater of pigs"; the "anti-christ"; and the murderer of a kindly-disposed gentleman who was on an innocent visit to the frontier of france for the purpose of negotiating a few private matters that had no political significance; what if he were one of the leaders of a band of fine, desperate fellows who had combined, and sworn to rid france of the usurper, even at the risk of death! this being their aim and heroic determination, they had no ground of complaint if the iron hand which ruled the country took measures to prevent them from carrying out their beneficent intentions. of course, i give the sense and not the actual words of the gallant writers of that time who, with a glare in their lion eye (judging from the style of their vapourings), thought that napoleon could never survive so vigorous a stream of invective! what loose fabrications have been scattered over the earth about this regrettable incident, and what abominable cant has been sent forth extolling the virtues of men like the unfortunate duc, who put the law at defiance by secretly carrying out a purpose that he knew was pregnant with danger to himself! let us contrast, if we can, the duc d'enghien's reckless gamble, the consequences of which have been used so consistently to blacken the fame of the emperor napoleon, with nelson's connection with the hanging of the rebel prince carraciolli; of the latter little has been said, though the shooting of the duc seems to have been more justifiable than the hanging of the prince, who was an old man. both were tried and condemned to death by men who, it is said, were prejudiced against them. nelson could have saved the aged admiral had his heart been free from revenge and his mind free from the influence of emma hamilton. the guilt of the admiral's death must eternally lie at his door. the outrage can never be effaced, and must for all time be associated with the mean executioners who, to begin with, had naught but vengeance in their minds. nelson was an englishman entrusted with england's high sense of honour and love of compassion, and in its name he stained its reputation for fair dealing. on entering the bay of naples, a flag of truce was flying at the mast-head of the _seahorse_ and at the castles of nuovo and uovo. the treaty had been ratified by captain foote, a high-minded officer.[ ] nelson did not approve of the truce, nor did lady hamilton, who was aboard the _foudroyant_. one can almost see this brazen figure standing on the quarterdeck of this british ship of war calling out to nelson, "haul down the flag of truce, bronte. there must be no truce with rebels." it almost takes one's breath away to think that a man in nelson's position should have allowed private feelings to enter into and influence his professional duty. every now and again we get glimpses of this blatant paramour of his being allowed to assert herself in matters which involved the honour of great britain. we are anxious to believe that nelson put some limit to this lady's interference in matters of high naval policy, but he seems to have been such a fool with women that almost anything ridiculous can be believed of him where they were concerned. both of them figure badly in the uovo and nuovo and carraciolli affair. the garrison there was so vigorously bombarded that it was driven to capitulate, but only on condition that the safety of the garrison would be guaranteed. captain foote at once agreed to this, and to see that it was duly carried out. one of the reasons that led captain foote so readily to agree to the conditions submitted to him was the extreme strength of the forts, which could have pounded the city to pieces. the other was the desire to spare human life. what need was there for nelson to take umbrage at and violate the treaty made by foote in the british name? foote had made a good bargain by getting possession of the forts, and a better and nobler one in making it part of his policy to save human life. we wonder whether nelson's anger did not arise from his being deprived of some of the glory himself. he was desperately fond of it! in any case, he let down england's name badly over the whole transaction. fox made a speech on it in the house of commons which was, and will ever continue to be, an awful indictment. there is nothing in the french revolution, or in the whole of napoleon's career, that can be compared with it for ferocity. great efforts were made to fix the responsibility for breach of faith on captain foote, but they failed, since there was not a vestige of foundation on which a case could be made against him, as the documents conclusively proved. he demanded a court-martial, but his friends prevailed upon him to let his case rest on the conclusive facts which were produced and made public and which have never been questioned. there cannot be found a more astonishing revelation of perfidy or inhuman violence in the archives of europe than that related by mr. fox. here is an extract from his amazing speech:-- when the right honourable gentleman speaks of the last campaign, he does not mention the horrors by which some of these successes were accompanied; naples, for instance, has been, among others (what is called) delivered; and yet, if i am rightly informed, it has been stained and polluted by murders so ferocious, and cruelties so abhorrent, that the heart shudders at the recital. it has been said, that not only were the miserable victims of the rage and brutality of the fanatics savagely murdered, but that in many instances their _flesh_ was _devoured_ by the cannibals, who are the advocates, if the rumours which are circulated be true. i will mention a fact to give ministers the opportunity, if it be false, to wipe away the stain that must otherwise affix on the british name. it is said that a party of the republican inhabitants at naples took shelter in the fortress of castle del uovo. they were besieged by a detachment from the royal army, to whom they refused to surrender, but demanded that a british officer should be brought forward, and to him they capitulated. they made terms with him under the sanction of the british name. _it was agreed that their persons and property should be safe, and that they should be conveyed to toulon._ they were accordingly put on board a vessel, but before they sailed, their property was confiscated, numbers of them taken out, _thrown into dungeons_, and some of them, i understand, notwithstanding the british guarantee, _absolutely executed_.[ ] this appalling narrative, which was never refuted, is really too horrible to ponder over. it puts in the shade any responsibility napoleon had for the death of the duc d'enghien. it is needless to enlarge on the silly and altogether baseless attacks that were not only allowed to be made, but, we have good grounds for stating, were manufactured by members of the government and their agents, and circulated for the purpose of distracting the public mind from their own iniquities, and inflaming bitter passions and prejudices by accusing napoleon of deeds of blood for which he was in no greater degree responsible than were they. the nations were all out for blood at that period (just as they are now), and each claimed a monopoly of all the virtues. "down, down, with the french is my constant prayer," shouts our greatest hero, and by way of addendum, he announces in christ-like accents that he hates a frenchman as he hates the devil. "down, down, with the british is our constant prayer" shout back the french, who are at present our allies against another nation who were our allies against them at that time, showing that fraternity is decidedly a possible consummation, though it fluctuates from one to another with amazing eccentricity. in the name of this fraternal spirit, we see the great napoleon surrounded by a hotbed of assassins demanding his life in the name of the founder of our faith. he was the ruler, as i have said, of a vast empire, sworn to protect its laws, its dignity, and its citizen rights by defending himself and his country against either treachery, plotters against his life, or open enemies, no matter from what quarter they came. the duc d'enghien violated the law, and was therefore as liable to suffer the consequences as any peasant or middle-class person would have been. but this did not meet with the approval of the international oligarchy, so they set up a screaming factory and blared this murderous deed into the minds of all the western world. these fervent professors of the christian faith were in no way particular as to the form or authenticity of their declamatory ebullitions. but what of nelson? he was a subject of his king, employed by the king's government under certain plenary powers to fight the country's battles, defend its right, uphold its dignity, guard its honour, and commit no violence. that is, in plain english, he was to play the game. but he assumed an authority that no government of england would have dared to have given him by revoking the word of honour of a distinguished officer who had pledged england's word that the lives of the beleaguered men would be spared. i think the writer of the gospel of "let brotherly love continue," and the rhetoricians who claim that britons have no competitors in the science of moral rectitude, will have a hard task to square the unworthy declamations against napoleon's responsibility in the duc d'enghien affair with their silence on nelson's in breaking the truce already referred to, and the awful consequences set forth in mr. fox's speech, which is reminiscent of the powerful disciplinary methods of that manly martinet ivan the terrible, who was responsible for the massacre of men by the thousand, flaying of prisoners alive, collecting pyramids of skulls, slaughtering of innocent men, and the free use of other ingenious forms of refined scientific torture which tires the spirit to relate. it is hard to forgive nelson for having smirched his own and england's name with atrocities so terrible. but more humiliating still to british honour is the fact that his part in the breaking of the treaty was dictated to him from the quarter deck of the _foudroyant_ by a woman whom my vocabulary is unable to describe in fitting terms. i shall emphasize this masculine female's orders to nelson by quoting them again. were it not for the comic impertinence of the order, i think it would almost make me feel the bitterness of death. nelson seems to have been the victim of her dominating spirit, though the evidence in support of him swallowing the whole dose of medicine is quite feeble. that he swallowed too much of it will always detract from his fame. "haul down the flag of truce, bronte. no truce with rebels." nelson lost a great opportunity of adding romance to his naval glory by neglecting his imperative duty in not putting sir william hamilton's wife in irons or having her thrown into the sea. a story of this kind would have sounded better, and its effect would have electrified the world in subsequent days, and have given scope to the talents of actors and authors who are eager for dramatic copy. i think cardinal ruffo would have been a supporter of imposing some form of disciplinary restraint on emma hamilton. he did strongly insist on the treaty being honourably adhered to, but his view was overruled, and he retired in consequence in bitter indignation. so much for the vaunted fairness and impartiality of our treatment of napoleon! it is only when we come to study the life of this man that we realize how he towered above all his contemporaries in thought, word, and deed. napoleon's authentic doings and sayings are wonderful in their vast comprehensiveness and sparkling vision, combined with flawless wisdom. when we speak or think of him, it is generally of his military genius and achievements and of what we term his "gigantic ambition"; and in this latter conclusion the platitudinarians, with an air of originality, languidly affirm that this was the cause of his ruin, the grandeur of which we do not understand. but never a word is said or thought of our own terrible tragedies, nor of the victories we were compelled to buy in order to secure his downfall. his great gifts as a lawgiver and statesman are little known or spoken of. nelson's views of him were of a rigid, stereotyped character. he only varied in his wild manner of describing him as a loathsome despot, whose sole aim was to make war everywhere and to invade england and annihilate her people. ii in the light of what is happening now in the world-war - , and the world-wide views expressed about the german kaiser, it may be interesting to write pitt's opinion of napoleon, though they are scarcely to be mentioned in the same breath. the former, who is the creator of the world-tragedy, is a mere shadow in comparison to the great genius of whom müller, the swiss historian, says: "quite impartially and truly, as before god, i must say that the variety of his knowledge, the acuteness of his observations, the solidity of his understanding (not dazzling wit), his grand and comprehensive views, filled me with astonishment, and his manner of speaking to me with love for him. by his genius and his disinterested goodness, he has also conquered me." but i give another authority, wieland, the german author, who was disillusioned when he had the honour of a conversation with napoleon on the field of jena. amongst the many topics they spoke of was the restoration of public worship in france by napoleon. in his reply to the german writer as to why religion was not more philosophical and in harmony with the spirit of the times, napoleon replied, "my dear wieland, religion is not meant for philosophers! they have no faith either in me or my priests. as to those who do believe, it would be difficult to give them, or leave them too much of the marvellous. if i had to frame a religion for philosophers, it would be just the reverse of that of the credulous part of mankind." wieland's testimony of napoleon is quite as appreciative as that of müller, and coming from him to the great conqueror of his native land makes it an invaluable piece of impartial history which reverses the loose and vindictive libels that were insidiously circulated by a gang of paid scoundrels in order to prejudice public opinion against him. wieland, among other eulogies of him, says: "i have never beheld any one more calm, more simple, more mild or less ostentatious in appearance; nothing about him indicated the feeling of power in a great monarch." he conversed with him for an hour and a half, "to the great surprise of the whole assembly." here we have a brief but very high testimony from two men of literary distinction, who had formed their impressions by personal contact. the present writer's belief is that had members of the british government been guided by reason and sound judgment instead of blind, wicked prejudice; had they accepted overtures made to them from time to time by the head of the french nation during his rule, we should not have been engaged during the last five years in a world-war watering the earth with the blood of our race with reckless extravagance. the great soldier-statesman foretold what would happen. what irony that we should be in deadly conflict with the power which, as an ally, helped to destroy him and is now engaged in frantic efforts to destroy us! had pitt and those who acted with him been endowed with human wisdom, he would not have written the following lines, but would have held out the olive-branch of peace and goodwill to men on earth:-- i see (says pitt in a scrap of ms. found amongst his papers) various and opposite qualities--all the great and all the little passions unfavourable to public tranquillity united in the breast of one man, and of that man, unhappily, whose personal caprice can scarce fluctuate for an hour without affecting the destiny of europe. i see the inward workings of fear struggling with pride in an ardent, enterprising, and tumultuous mind. i see all the captious jealousy of conscious usurpation, dreaded, detested, and obeyed, the giddiness and intoxication of splendid but unmerited success, the arrogance, the presumption, the selfwill of unlimited and idolized power, and more dreadful than all in the plenitude of authority, the restless and incessant activity of guilt, but unsated ambition. this scrap of mere phrases indicates a mind that was far beneath the calibre of that of a real statesman. it was a terrible fate for great britain to have at the head of the government a man whose public life was a perpetual danger to the state. had pitt been the genius his eloquence led his contemporaries to believe he was, he would have availed himself of the opportunities the great figure, who was making the world rock with his genius, afforded the british government from time to time of making peace on equitable terms. but pitt's vision of the large things that constituted human existence was feeble and narrowed down to the nightmare of the "tumultuous mind" whose sole aim was the conquest of the continent of europe and the invasion of these islands. the "usurper" must be subdued by the force of arms, the squandering of british wealth, and the sanguinary sacrifice of human lives. that was the only diplomacy his mental organism could evolve. he used his power of expression, which was great, to such good purpose that his theories reflected on his supporters. had pitt been talented in matters of international diplomacy, as he was in the other affairs of government, he would have seized the opportunity of making the peace of amiens universal and durable. it is futile to contend that napoleon was irreconcilable. his great ambition was to form a concrete friendship with our government, which he foresaw could be fashioned into a continental arrangement, intricate and entangled as all the elements were at the time. napoleon never ceased to deplore the impossibility of coming to any reciprocal terms with england so long as pitt's influence was in the ascendant, and he and a large public in france and in this country profoundly believed that fox had not only the desire but the following, and all the diplomatic qualities to bring it about. any close, impartial student of history, free from the popular prejudices which assailed napoleon's origin and advent to power, cannot but concede the great possibilities of this view. it was only statesmen like fox who had unconfused perception, and inveighed against the stupidity of ministers acclaimed by an ignorant public as demigods. napoleon's starting-points were to "surmount great obstacles and attain great ends. there must be prudence, wisdom, and dexterity." "we should," he said, "do everything by reason and calculation, estimating the trouble, the sacrifice, and the pleasure entailed in gaining a certain end, in the same way as we work out any sum in arithmetic by addition and subtraction. but reason and logic should be the guiding principle in all we do. that which is bad in politics, even though in strict accordance with law, is inexcusable unless absolutely necessary, and whatever goes beyond that is criminal." these were briefly the general principles on which he shaped his ends, and they are pretty safe guides. his mentality, as i have said, was so complete that it covered every subtle and charming form of thought and knowledge, even to the smallest affairs of life. no theologians knew more than he or could converse so clearly on the many different religions; and he was as well versed in the intricacies of finance and civil law as he was in the knowledge of art, literature, and statecraft. his memory was prodigious, and a common saying of his was that "a head without a memory was like a fort without a garrison." he never used a word that was not full of meaning. the unparalleled amount of literature that surrounds his name teems with concise, vivid sentences on every conceivable subject, and the more they are read and studied, the more wonderful appears their wisdom. on the eve of a great battle, his exhortations to his soldiers were like magic, burning hot into their souls, making them irresistible. the popular idea in the country in his time, when passion ran rampant, and indeed, in a hazy way, affects some people's minds now, was that he and his family were mere perfidious corsicans without mental endowments or character, and unworthy of the stations in life in which his genius had placed them. his sisters have been caricatured as having the manners of the kitchen, and loose morals, and his brothers as mediocrities. a great deal of the same stuff is now written about other people who have occupied and do occupy high stations in life. here is napoleon's own version of each of his brothers and sisters and of his mother. it was given in course of conversation to las cases at st. helena. "the emperor," he says, "speaks of his people; of the slight assistance he has received at their hands, and of the trouble they had been to him; he goes on to say that for the rest, we should always, as a last resort, endeavour to form a judgment by analogy. what family, in similar circumstances, would have done better? and, after all, does not mine furnish, on the whole, a record which does me honour? joseph would be an ornament to society wherever he might happen to reside; lucien, an ornament to any political assembly; jerome, had he come to years of discretion, would have made an excellent ruler; i had great hopes of him. louis would have been popular, and a remarkable man anywhere. my sister elisa had a man's intellect, a brave heart, and she would have met adversity philosophically. caroline is a very clever and capable woman. pauline, perhaps the most beautiful woman of her day, has been, and will be until the end, the most charming creature living. as for my mother, she is worthy of every respect. what family as numerous could make a finer impression?" if unprejudiced history counts for anything, this testimony is true, and it is doubtful whether any of the ruling families of france who preceded them, or even those of other countries, who took part in bringing about their downfall (taking them as a whole), could tabulate a better record of worthiness. certainly no previous ruler of france ever made the efforts that the head of the bonaparte family did to fashion his brothers and sisters into filling the positions he had made for them in a way that became princes and princesses. the fact is, the political mind was whirling and permeated with the idea of his ambition only, and the human aversion to the introduction of new and improved conditions of life. the ruling classes were seized with alarm lest the spirit of the french revolution would become popular in this country, and that not only their possessions might be confiscated, but that their lives would be in peril if the doctrines he stood for were to take hold of the public imagination. they were afraid, as they are now, of the despotism of democracy, and so they kept the conflict raging for over twenty years. then came the fall of the greatest genius and most generous warrior-statesman who has ever figured in the world's history; he had staggered creation with his formidable power, and the instruments of his downfall flattered themselves that the day of divine vengeance had arrived. iii only a few short months had elapsed when the indomitable hero, well informed of the allies' squabbling deliberations, at the seat of conference over the division of their conquest, and their vindictive intentions towards himself, startled them by the news of his landing and uninterrupted march on paris, and was everywhere acclaimed by the cheers of the army and the civilian population. louis xviii, whom the conquerors had set on the throne, flew in panic when he heard that the man of destiny was swiftly nearing his palace to take his place again as the idol and chief of a great people. meanwhile, the allies had somewhat recovered from their apoplectic dismay, and one and all solemnly resolved to "make war against napoleon bonaparte," the disturber of the peace, though he was the welcomed emperor of the french. it was they who were the disturbers of the peace, and especially great britain, who headed the coalition which was to drench again the continent with human blood. napoleon offered to negotiate, and never was there a more humane opportunity given to the nations to settle their affairs in a way that would have assured a lasting peace, but here again the ruling classes, with their usual impudent assumption of power to use the populations for the purpose of killing each other and creating unspeakable suffering in all the hideous phases of warfare, refused to negotiate, and at their bidding soldiers were plunged into the last napoleonic conflict though many other conflicts have followed in consequence. nothing so deadly has ever happened. the french were defeated and their emperor sent to st. helena with the beneficent sir hudson lowe as his jailer. what a cynical mockery of a man this creature of wellington, castlereagh, and lord bathurst was! he carried out their behests, and after the ugly deed of vindictiveness, rage and frenzy had wrought the tragic end, they shielded their wicked act by throwing the guilt on him, and he was hustled off to a distant colony to govern again lest his uneasy spirit should put them in the dock of public opinion. he pleaded with them to employ the law officers of the crown to bring an action against doctor barry o'meara, whose "voice from st. helena" teemed with as dark a story as was ever put in print, in which he and his coadjutors figured as the base contracting parties. and the more he urged that the book was a libel against himself, the more o'meara demanded that the action against him should be brought, and for very substantial reasons it never was. the duke of wellington said of sir hudson, "he was a stupid man. a bad choice and totally unfit to take charge of bonaparte." and the great french chieftain has left on record his contemptuous opinion of the duke, as i have already said. "un homme de peu d'esprit sans générosité, et sans grandeur d'âme." (he was a poor-spirited man without generosity, and without greatness of soul.) "un homme borné." (a man of limited capacity.) his opinion of nelson was different, although our admiral had hammered the french sea power out of existence and helped largely to shatter any hope napoleon may have had of bringing the struggle on land to a successful conclusion. but these tragic happenings did not bring repose to the nations. pitt died in , so he missed seeing the fulfilment of his great though mistaken ambition. who can doubt, as i have said, that the lack of diplomatic genius in preventing the spreading of the napoleonic wars has been the means of creating other wars, and especially the greatest of all, in which the whole world is now engaged! that napoleon himself was averse to a conflict which would involve all europe and bring desolation in its train is shown by the following letter, written by his own hand, to george iii. how different might the world have been to-day had the letter been received in the same spirit in which it was conceived. sir and brother,--called to the throne of france by providence, and the suffrages of the senate, the people, and the army, my first sentiment is a wish for peace. france and england abuse their prosperity. they may contend for ages, but do their governments well fulfil the most sacred of their duties, and will not so much bloodshed uselessly, and without a view to any end, condemn them in their own consciences? i consider it no disgrace to adopt the first step. i have, i hope, sufficiently proved to the world that i fear none of the chances of war, which presents nothing i have need to fear; peace is the wish of my heart, but war has never been inconsistent with my glory. i conjure your majesty not to deny yourself the happiness of giving peace to the world, or leave that sweet satisfaction to your children; for certainly there never was a more fortunate opportunity nor a moment more favourable than the present, to silence all the passions and listen only to the sentiments of humanity and reason. this moment once lost, what bounds can be ascribed to a war which all my efforts will not be able to terminate. your majesty has gained more in ten years, both in territory and riches, than the whole extent of europe. your nation is at the highest point of prosperity, what can it hope from war? to form a coalition with some powers on the continent? the continent will remain tranquil; a coalition can only increase the preponderance and continental greatness of france. to renew intestine troubles? the times are no longer the same. to destroy our finances? finances founded on a flourishing agriculture can never be destroyed. to wrest from france her colonies? the colonies are to france only a secondary object; and does not your majesty already possess more than you know how to preserve? if your majesty would but reflect, you must perceive that the war is without an object; or any presumable result to yourself. alas! what a melancholy prospect; to fight merely for the sake of fighting. the world is sufficiently wide for our two nations to live in, and reason sufficiently powerful to discover the means of reconciling everything, when a wish for reconciliation exists on both sides. i have, however, fulfilled a sacred duty, and one which is precious to my heart. i trust your majesty will believe the sincerity of my sentiments, and my wish to give you every proof of the same, etc. (_signed_) napoleon. this letter indicates the mind and heart of a great statesman. the thinking people, and therefore the most reliable patriots, would receive a similar appeal to-day from the kaiser in a different spirit than did the king and the government of george iii. we believe that the war with germany was forced upon us, and that mr. asquith's government, and especially sir edward grey (his foreign secretary) used every honourable means to avoid it, but the cause and origin of it sprang out of the defects of managing and settling the wars that raged at the beginning of the last century, and pitt, aided by those colleagues of his who were swayed by his magnetic influence, are responsible to a large degree in laying the foundation of the present menace to european concord. napoleon's plan of unification would have kept prussian militarism in check. he looked, and saw into the future, while pitt and his supporters had no vision at all. they played the prussian game by combining to bring about the fall of the monarch who should have been regarded as this country's natural ally, and by undoing the many admirable safeguards which were designed to prevent prussia from forcing other german states under her dominion. napoleon predicted that which would happen, and has happened. he always kept in mind the cunning and unscrupulous tricks of frederick and knew that if _his_ power were destroyed, that would be prussia's opportunity to renew the methods of the hohenzollern scoundrel, the hero of thomas carlyle, and the intermittent friend of voltaire, who made unprovoked war on marie theresa with that splendid prussian disregard for treaty obligations, and who then, with amazing insolence, after the seven years' butchery was over, sat down at sans souci in the companionship of his numerous dogs to write his memoirs in which he states that "ambition, interest, the desire of making people talk about him carried the day, and he decided for war;" he might have added to the majestic hohenzollern creed, incurable treachery, falsehood, hypocrisy, and cowardice! but the law of retribution comes to nations as well as to individuals, and after the disappearance of frederick, prussian ascendancy came to an end and sank to the lowest depths of hopelessness before the terrible power of napoleon; after his fall, the old majestic arrogance natural to their race began to revive. it took many years for the military caste to carry their objectives to maturity, and had we stood sensibly and loyally by our french neighbours, the tragedy that gapes at us now could never have come to pass. possibly the franco-german war would never have occurred had our foreign policy been skilfully handled and our attitude wisely apprehensive of germany's ultimate unification and her aggressive aims. the generations that are to come will assuredly be made to see the calamities wrought by the administrators of that period, whose faculties consisted in hoarding up prejudices, creating enmities, and making wars that drained the blood and treasure of our land. we do not find a single instance of pitt or castlereagh expressing an idea worthy of statesmanship. what did either of these men ever do to uplift the higher phases of humanity by grappling with the problem that had been brought into being by the french revolution? when we think of responsible ministers having no other vision or plan of coming to an understanding with the french nation except by their screams, groans, and odour of blood, it makes one shudder, and we wish to forget that the people allowed them to carry out their hideous methods of settling disputes. a galaxy of brilliant writers has sung their praises in profusion, but while the present writer admires the literary charm of the penmen's efforts, he does not find their conclusions so agreeable or so easy to understand. there was never a time, in our opinion, even during the most embarrassing and darkest phases of the napoleonic struggle, in which our differences with france were insoluble. napoleon, as i have said, never ceased to avow his willingness to make vital sacrifices in order that peace between the two peoples should be consummated. the stereotyped cant of maintaining the "balance of power" is no excuse for plunging a nation into gruesome, cruel, and horrible wars. it is when our liberties are threatened that circumstances may arise when it would be a crime not to defend them. but where and when were any of our interests threatened by napoleon until we became the aggressors by interfering with the policy of what he called his "continental system"? even before napoleon became consul, first consul, and subsequently emperor of the french, it was deemed high policy on the part of our statesmen to take sides against the french directorate in disputes that were caused and had arisen on the continent out of the revolution, and once involved in the entanglement which it is hard to believe concerned us in any degree, the nation was committed to a long and devastating debauch of crime which men who understood the real art of statesmanship would have avoided. many of the famous statesmen who have lived since their time would have acted differently. fox, with a free hand, would have saved us, and but for the senseless attitude of the pitt-castlereagh party, the grey, romilly, horner, burdett and tierny combination would have prevented the last of napoleon's campaigns between his return from elba and his defeat at waterloo, which proved to be the bloodiest of all the emperor's wars. amongst a certain section of the community the belief is that they who can steer the state along peaceful lines are mediocrities, and they who involve us in war are geniuses and earn the distinction of fame and westminster abbey, though it may be that they are totally void of all the essentials that are required to keep on good terms, not only with other powers, but with our own masses. take, first of all, the unostentatious old scotsman, sir henry campbell-bannerman, who was regarded in the light of a mediocrity by the bellicose-minded people. had he lived and been in power at the time of pitt and castlereagh, his finely constituted, shrewd brain and quiet determined personality would have guided the state in a way that would have brought it credit and kept it out of the shambles. another personality who is possessed of attributes that have been scantily recognized is that of lord rosebery who, during his foreign secretaryship under mr. gladstone, and when he became premier himself, saved this country more than once from war with germany, leaving out of account the many other services rendered to his country. it is a tragedy to allow such merits to be wasted because of some slight difference of opinion in matters that do not count compared with the advantage of having at the head of affairs a man with an unerring tactful brain who can deal with international complexities with complete ease and assurance. although mr. gladstone must always be associated with those who were responsible for the guilt of dragging this country, and perhaps france, into the crimean war in defence of a state and a people whom he declared in other days should be turned out of europe "bag and baggage" because of her unwholesome government and hideous crimes to her subject races, _he_ had the courage and the honesty to declare in later life that the part he took in allowing himself to acquiesce in a policy he did not approve, would always be a bitter thought to him. had he been at the head of the government then, and had he lived at the time of the continental upheaval that followed the french revolution, all the evidences of his humane spirit and prodigious capacity lead us to the belief that there were no circumstances affecting our vital national interests that would have led him to take up arms against france. nor do we think that a statesman of lord salisbury's stamp would have failed to find a way out. disraeli was a different type. he lived in a picturesque world, and thirsted for sensation. the enormity of war was meaningless to him. he was not a constitutional statesman, but merely a politician who liked to arouse emotions. mr. asquith, whose head is free from the wafting of feathers, would, with strong and loyal backers, have applied his inimitable powers of persuasion and tact in accomplishing his ends without a rupture; and lord morley would as soon have thought of dancing a hornpipe on his mother's tomb as have yielded to the clamour for war by any number of the people or any number of his colleagues, no matter how numerous or how powerful they might be; even though his opinion of the french emperor were strongly adverse, he would have angled for peace or resigned. i would rather place the guidance of the country through intricate courses in this man's hands than in that of a man mentally constituted as was pitt. the present viscount grey would have taken the line his namesake took in by strongly advocating a peaceful solution. take another man of our own time, the right hon. arthur balfour. he would have parleyed and schemed until the time had passed for any useful object to be gained by our joining in the war, always provided that the jingo spirit were not too irrepressible for him to overpower and bewilder with his engaging philosophy. if george iii had been blessed with these types of statesmen to advise him instead of the castlereaghs, he might not have lost his reason. napoleon would never have gone to egypt, and our shores would never have been threatened with invasion. nor would british and neutral trade have been paralysed in such a way as to bring in its wake ruin, riots, bankruptcies, and every form of devastation in . and as a natural corollary, we were plunged into a war with america which lasted from to , and which left, as it well might, long years of bitter and vindictive memories in the minds of a people who were of our race and kindred. our people as a whole (but especially the poorer classes) were treated in a manner akin to barbarism, while their rulers invoked them to bear like patriots the suffering they had bestowed upon them. but the canker had eaten so deeply into their souls that it culminated in fierce riots breaking out in lancashire and london which spread to other parts and were only suppressed by measures that are familiar to the arrogant despots who, by their clumsy acts, are the immediate cause of revolt. pitt and castlereagh were the high commissioners of the military spirit which the whigs detested, and when the former died in the latter became the natural leader. pitt was buried peaceably enough in the abbey, but when his successor's tragic end came in , the populace avenged themselves of the wrongs for which they believed he was responsible by throwing stones at the coffin as it was being solemnly borne to its last resting place beside william pitt. both men made war on napoleon because they believed him to be the implacable disturber of peace and a danger to their country. pitt, as we have seen, left among his ms. his opinion of the great soldier, and here is the latter's opinion of pitt, expressed to his ministers on the eve of his leaving paris for his last campaign against his relentless foes. "i do not know," he said (to his ministers in speaking to them of the new constitution he had granted), "how in my absence you will manage to lead the chambers. monsieur fouché thinks that popular assemblies are to be controlled by gaining over some old jobbers, or flattering some young enthusiasts. that is only intrigue, and intrigue does not carry one far. in england, such means are not altogether neglected; but there are greater and nobler ones. remember mr. pitt, and look at lord castlereagh! with a sign from his eyebrows, mr. pitt could control the house of commons, and so can lord castlereagh now! ah! if i had such instruments, i should not be afraid of the chambers. but have i anything to resemble these?"[ ] this piece of pathetic history is given to us by the french historian, m. thiers, the lifelong enemy of his imperial master, napoleon iii. we are faced now with the power that we helped to build up against ourselves at the expense of the wreck of the first french empire. the political situation then and now bears no comparison. we made war on the french without any real justification, and stained our high sense of justice by driving them to frenzy. we bought soldiers and sailors to fight them from impecunious german and hanoverian princes. we subsidized russia, prussia, austria, portugal, spain, and that foul cesspool, naples, at the expense of the starvation of the poorest classes in our own country. the bellicose portion of the population, composed mainly of the upper and middle classes, shrieked their deluded terrors of extinction into the minds of the people and believed that if we did not make common cause with the downtrodden sanctified allies who were fighting a man-eating ogre who was overrunning their respective countries, putting every one to the sword, we should become the objects of his fierce attention, be invaded and ground down to slavery for ever and ever. our statesmen, hypocritically full of the gospel of pity, could not speak of our ally of other days without weeping, while at the same time pouring further subsidies into their greedy traitorous laps, in order that they might secure their co-ordination. it is futile for historian apologists to attempt to vindicate men who obviously were afflicted with moral cupidity, begotten of intellectual paralysis. it is merely an unwholesome subterfuge to state that they were free from enmity against the french nation, and that their quarrel was with the head of it. there would be just as much common sense in contending that the french government had no hostile feeling against the british people, and that their quarrel was only against george iii. devices such as these, under any circumstances, are not only unworthy, but childish, and their sole object is to throw dust in the eyes of those they flippantly call the common people. as a matter of fact, it was not only the emperor napoleon whom they made it their policy to charge with being a public danger to the world, but the principles of the revolution which he sprang from obscurity to save, which was slyly kept at the back of their heads. but the republic, which was the outcome of the revolution, was an approved ordinance of the people, and in addition to napoleon being their duly elected representative, he was regarded by them as the incarnation of the republic. the difference between him and the other monarchs of europe was, that while they inherited their position, his election was democratically ratified by millions of votes. these votes were given by the people with whom a foreign government declared it was at peace while at the same time it was at war with their chief, whom they had from time to time duly elected. this is a method of warfare which represents no high form of thought or action, and to the everlasting credit of the french people be it said, they not only resented it, but stood loyally by their emperor and their country until they were overpowered by the insidious poison of treason and intrigue from within and without. what a howl there would have been if the german kaiser had sent out a proclamation that he was not at war with the british nation, but with their king and government! suppose he had committed the same act of arrogance towards the president of the united states, the revulsion of feeling would be irrepressible in every part of the world. we recognize at the same time that napoleon's position was made insecure by an important element of his own countrymen, composed of the bourbons and their supporters, who never ceased to intrigue for their return. besides, there was a strong republican element who never forgave him for allowing himself to become emperor. but the most serious defection was that of some of his most important generals, amongst whom were marmont and bertheur. the former subsequently became the military tutor of his son, the king of rome, who died at schonbrunn on the nd july, , eleven years after his father's death at st. helena. a notable fact is that there were very few of his common soldiers and common people who did not stand by him to the last, and who would not have continued the struggle under his trusted and revered generalship, had he elected to fight on. he implored the provisional government to give their sanction to this, and had they done so, he has stated that he could have kept the allies at bay and would have ultimately made them sue for peace. most authorities declare that this would have been impossible, but his genius as a tactician was so prodigious and unrivalled, his art of enthusing his soldiers so vastly superior to that of any general that could be brought against him, his knowledge of the country on which he might select to give battle so matchless that one has substantial grounds for believing that his assertion was more than a mere flash of imagination, and that even with the shattered, loyal portion of his army, he might have succeeded in changing defeat into a victory which would have changed the whole political position of europe. he frequently reverted to his last campaign and his last battle at waterloo, when he was in captivity at st. helena, and declared he should never have lost it, as his plan of battle at every point was never better devised, and that by all the arts of war he ought to have defeated the allies; then he would lapse into sadness and soliloquize, "it must have been fate." in the effort to crush a cause and a nation which had been brought out of the depths of anarchy and raised to the zenith of power by the advent of a great spirit, the british government of that period made their country parties to the slaughter of thousands of our fellow-creatures, which, in the light of subsequent events, has left a stain upon our diplomacy that can never be effaced, no matter what form of excuse may be set forth to justify it. never, in the whole history of blurred diplomatic vision, has there evolved so great a calamity to the higher development of civilization. by taking so prominent a part in preventing napoleon from fulfilling the eternal purpose for which all nature foreshadowed he was intended, we made it possible for germany to develop systematically a diabolical policy of treason which has involved the world in war, drenching it with human blood. the allies pursued napoleon to his downfall. their attitude during the whole course of his rule was senselessly vindictive. they gloated over his misfortune when he became their victim, and they consummated their vengeance by making him a martyr. the exile of st. helena acted differently. when he conquered, instead of viciously overrunning the enemy's country and spreading misery and devastation, he made what he wished to be lasting peace, and allowed the sovereigns to retain their thrones. how often did he carry out this act of generosity towards prussia and austria, and who can deny that he did not act benevolently towards alexander of russia, when at austerlitz and tilsit, he formed what he regarded as lasting personal friendship with the czar! it is all moonshine to say that he broke the friendship. the power of russia, prussia, and austria were hopelessly wrecked more than once, and on each occasion they intrigued him into war again, and then threw themselves at his feet, grovelling supplicants for mercy, which he never withheld. well might he exclaim to caulaincourt, his ambassador in , when the congress was sitting at chatillon: "these people will not treat; the position is reversed; they have forgotten my conduct to them at tilsit. then i could have crushed them; my clemency was simple folly." the nations who treated him with such unreasonable severity would do well to reflect over the unfathomable folly of the past, and try to realize, at the present stage of their critical existence, that it may be possible that human life is reaping the agonies of a terrible retribution for a crime an important public in every civilized country believed, and still continues to believe, to have been committed. it is a natural law of life that no mysterious physical force ever dies, but only changes its form and direction. individuals and vast communities may dare to mock at the great mystery that we do not understand. but it is a perilous experiment to defy its visitations. what incalculable results may arise through taking the wrong attitude towards the great laws that govern our being! the autocratic rulers at the beginning of the last century were never right in their views as to how the vastly greater image than their own should be treated. they measured napoleon and his loftier qualities by their own tumultuous limitations, which prevented them from seeing how wide the gulf was between him and the ordinary man. he was a magical personality, and they failed to comprehend it. heinrich heine, the great german writer, who was pro-napoleon, has told a vivid story of how he visited the east india docks, while he was in london, and there saw a large sailing vessel with a great number of coloured people on board, mohammedans for the most part. he wished to speak to them but did not know their language. he was particularly anxious to show them some courtesy if even, as he says, in a single word, so he reverently called out the name "mohammed." in an instant the countenance of these strange people beamed with pleasure, and with characteristic eastern devotion bowed themselves and shouted back to him "bonaparte." i have no thought, in writing of napoleon, to draw a comparison between him and the ex-kaiser and his guilty coadjutors in crime, who forced a peaceful world into unspeakable war. they have been guilty of the foulest of murders, which will outmatch in ferocity every phase of human barbarity. there can be no pardon or pity for them. they must pay the penalty of their crimes, as other criminals have to do. the following letter, addressed by william ii to his late colleague in guilt, the emperor joseph of austria, is enough in itself to set the whole world into a blaze of vengeance:-- "my soul is torn," says this canting outcast, "but everything must be put to fire and sword, men, women, children, and old men must be slaughtered, and not a tree or house be left standing. with these methods of terrorism, which are alone capable of affecting a people so degenerate as the french, the war will be over in two months, whereas if i admit humanitarian considerations, it will last years. in spite of my repugnance, i have, therefore, been obliged to choose the former system." it is hard to believe that a document of this kind could be written by any one that was not far gone in lunacy, but in any case, i repeat it is to be hoped that st. helena will not be desecrated by sending him to that hallowed abode. it is never a difficult performance to become involved in war, and it is always a tax on human genius to find a decent way out of it; whether it be honourable or dishonourable does not matter to those who believe in conflict as a solution of international disputes. history can safely be challenged to prove that anything but wild wrath and ruin is the unfailing outcome of war to all the belligerents, whether few or many. more often than not, it is brought about by the exulting chatter of a few irrepressible and also irresponsible individuals who have military or political ambitions to look after, and no other faculty of reason or vocabulary than the gibberish "that war will clear the air." they ostentatiously claim a monopoly of patriotism; and convey their views on war matters with a blustering levity which is a marvel to the astonished soul. their attitude towards human existence is that you cannot be a patriot or create a great nation unless you are bellicose and warlike. this was the deplorable condition of mind that involved us in the wars subsequent to the french revolution. but the diplomatists (if it be proper to call them such) and the oligarchy were responsible for the ruptures at that period, and certainly not the general public. in fact, it is doubtful whether the _general public_ are ever in favour of breaking the peace. a minority may be, but they are the noisy and unreflecting section. there is a wide difference between the napoleonic wars and that which was waged against the civilized world by the german kaiser and his military myrmidons, who have acted throughout like wild beasts. there never has been perpetrated so atrocious a crime as the deliberately planned military outrage on the peace of the world. the brief comparison between kaiser william and napoleon bonaparte is that the one, like frederick, the hero of thomas carlyle, is a shameless traitor to every act of human decency, and the other, in spite of what biassed writers have thought it their duty to say of him, was an unparalleled warrior-statesman, and his motives and actions were all on the side of god's humanity and good government. from the time he was found and made the head of the french nation, he was always obliged to be on the defensive, and, as he stated, never once declared war. the continental great powers always made war on _him_, but not without his thrashing them soundly until they pleaded in their humility to be allowed to lick his boots. you may search english state papers in any musty hole you like, and you will find no authoritative record that comes within miles of justifying the opinions or the charges that have been stated or written against him. let us not commit the sacrilege, if he is ever made prisoner and is not shot for the murders and cruelties he and his subjects have committed on british men and women at sea and on land, of deporting the kaiser to st. helena to desecrate the ground made sacred for all time because of the great emperor who was an exile there. force of circumstances made louis philippe declare the truth to the world's new generations (doubtless to save his own precious skin) that "he was not only an emperor, but a king from the very day that the french nation called upon him to be their ruler." the kingly louis would have given worlds not to have been compelled to say this truth of him, but his crown was at stake. the senate voted with enthusiasm that he should be first consul for ten years, and he replied to the vote of confidence that "fortune had smiled upon the republic; but fortune was inconstant; how many men," said he, "upon whom she has heaped her favours have lived too long by some years, and that the interest of his glory and happiness seemed to have marked the period of his public life, at the moment when the peace of the world is proclaimed." then with one of those spasmodic impulses that compel attention, he darts an arrow right on the spot; "if," he says, "you think i owe the nation a new sacrifice, i will make it; that is, if the _wishes of the people_ correspond with the command authorized by their suffrages." always the suffrages, you observe, and never the miserable, slandering, backbiting dodges of the treasonists. the mind of this remarkable man was a palatial storehouse of wise, impressive inspirations. here is one of countless instances where a prejudiced adversary bears testimony to his power and wisdom. a few republican officers sought and were granted an audience, and the following is a frank admission of their own impotence and napoleon's greatness: "i do not know," their spokesman says, "from whence or from whom he derives it, but there is a charm about that man indescribable and irresistible. i am no admirer of his." such persons always preface any statement they are about to make by asserting their own superiority in this way, and the officers, who, with others, had many imaginary grievances against napoleon, determined to empty their overburdened souls to him. this gallant person emphasizes the fact that he dislikes "the power to which he (napoleon) had risen," yet he cannot help confessing (evidently with reluctance) that there is something in him which seems to speak that he is born to command. "we went into his apartment to expostulate warmly with him, and not to depart until our complaints were removed. but by his manner of receiving us we were disarmed in a moment, and could not utter one word of what we were going to say. he talked to us with an eloquence peculiarly his own, and explained with clearness and precision the importance of pursuing the line of conduct he had adopted, never contradicting us in direct terms, but controverted our opinions so astutely that we had not a single word to offer in reply, and retired convinced that he was in the right and that we were manifestly in the wrong." it is a common delusion with little men to believe that they are big with wisdom and knowledge, even after they have been ravelled to shreds by a man of real ability. the french republican officers were condescendingly candid in giving the first consul a high character, and he, in turn, made these self-assertive gentlemen feel abashed in his presence, and sent them about their business without having made any unnatural effort to prove that they had had an interview with a majestic personality, who had made articulation impossible to them. i might give thousands of testimonies, showing the great power this superman had over other minds, from the highest monarchical potentate to the humblest of his subjects. the former were big with a combination of fear and envy. they would deign to grovel at his feet, slaver compliments, and deluge him with adulation (if he would have allowed them), and then proceed to stab him from behind in the most cowardly fashion. there are always swarms of human insects whose habits of life range between the humble supplicant and the stinging, poisonous wasps. it would have been better for the whole civilized world had there been more wisely clever men, such as charles james fox, in public life in this and other countries during napoleon's time. he was the one great englishman who towered above any of the ministers who were contemporary with him in this country, and certainly no public man had a finer instinct than he as to the policy great britain should observe towards a nation that was being dragged out of the cesspool of corruption and violence into a democratic grandeur of government that was the envy of continental as well as british antiquarians. fox saw clearly the manifest benefit to both countries if they could be made to understand and not to envy each other. in , fox was received in paris like a highly popular monarch. the whole city went wild with the joy of having him as the guest of france. he was the great attraction at the theatres next to the first consul, whom fox declared "was a most decided character, that would hold to his purpose with more constancy and through a longer interval than is imagined; his views are not directed to this, i.e. the united kingdom, but to the continent only." "i never saw," he says, "so little indirectness in any statesman as in the first consul." had fox been supported by sufficient strong men to counteract the baneful influence of the weeds who were a constant peril to the country over whose destinies george iii and they ruled, we should have been saved the ghastly errors that were committed in the name of the british people. the king's dislike to fox was openly avowed. he used to talk incessantly of going back to hanover whenever he was thwarted in his disastrous policy of giving the country a stab, or when the inevitable brought fox into office. everything that emanated from the great statesman was viewed with aversion and as being unjust and indecent by the royal lilliputian, while fox's estimate of the king could not be uttered on a lower plane. he says, in speaking of his majesty, "it is intolerable to think that it should be in the power of _one_ blockhead to do so much mischief"--meaning, i presume, amongst many other blunders, the mess he was persisting in making over american affairs. had there been capable statesmen during that crisis, the continent of europe and the vast dominions of great britain would not have been at war this day with the pernicious power that we, more than any other nation, as has been previously stated, helped to create and foster. v fox was the only genius in our political life at that time, while pitt was a mere shadow in comparison, though it is fair to state that the former always believed that he and pitt would have made a workable combination. as to the rest, they were pretty much on the level of the lilliputians with whom the late traveller, mr. lemuel gulliver, had such intimate and troublesome relations. the book by the dean of st. patrick's, "gulliver's travels," is a perfect caricature of the political dwarfs of his time, and vividly represents the men who misruled this country in george iii's reign. but the dean's laughable history of the pompous antics of the lilliputians is a picture which describes the constitution of our present administration who are managing the critical affairs of the nation so ill that disaster is inevitable in many forms, seen and unseen. the administrative machine is clogged with experimental human odds and ends who have neither wit, knowledge, nor wisdom to fill the post allotted to them, and the appalling thought is that the nation as a whole is being blustered by the intriguers who are forcing every national interest into certain destruction. truly the lilliputians are a plague on all human interests, _real_ patriotism, and capacity: always mischievous, always incapable, just the same now as when, in the eighteenth century, their type forced a peaceful and neutral power into war because they refused to yield their fleet to them; always seeing things that do not exist, and foreboding perils that would never have come but for their dwarfish interference. they discovered in their flights of frenzy and fancy that napoleon intended to take possession by force of the danish fleet, when, as a matter of fact, he had never shown any indication, by word or thought, of committing an act so unjust and hostile to his own interests. a strong point in his policy was to keep denmark on terms of friendly neutrality. moreover, he was not, as many writers have said (in loyalty to fashion), an unscrupulous breaker of treaties. it was an unworthy act of the british government to send mr. jackson as their representative to bully the danes into giving up their fleet to the british, on the plea that they had learned by reports through various channels what napoleon's intentions were. count bernsdorf, to whom jackson insolently conveyed the nightmare of his government, very properly raged back at him that "the danish government had no such information, and that he was adducing false reports and mere surmises quite unworthy of credit to fill the measure of british injustice in forcing denmark into a ruinous war. it was folly to suppose that napoleon could gain anything by throwing norway and denmark into an alliance with england and sweden." then he adds, with a dignified sense of wrong, "that the regent knew how to defend his neutrality." "it might be possible," retorts mr. jackson, "though appearances are against that supposition, that the danish government _did not wish_ to lend itself to hostile views; still, it could not resist france." then bernsdorf, who has right on his side, said in accents of crushing anger, "so! because you think napoleon has the intention of wounding us in the tenderest part, you would struggle with him for priority and be the first to do the deed?" "yes," responds the distinguished representative of the upholders of the rights of nations, "great britain would insist upon a pledge of amity." "what pledge," demands the count. "the pledge of uniting the danish forces to those of great britain," is the reply. it will be seen that nothing short of vassalism will satisfy the policy laid down by the stupid emancipationists of downtrodden nations, as represented by the impressive effrontery of the noble jackson. what a terrible piece of wooden-headed history was the effort to force denmark to break her neutrality or make war on her! they seized zealand, and because the prince regent refused to agree to their perfidy, they kept possession of it. the prince sent written instructions to burn all the ships and stores, but the messenger was captured and the faithful person to whom the delivery of the document was entrusted swallowed it (i.e. swallowed the instructions). copenhagen had been bombarded and practically reduced to destruction by nelson, who had settled with the danes on favourable british terms, one of the conditions being that they were to leave with their booty in six weeks. the regent subsequently declared war and outwitted the british designs (so it is said) on zealand. castlereagh sought the aid of lord cathcart to find a dodge by which his government could inveigle the danes to commit a breach of the convention, but the latter stood firm by the conditions, and the commanders, being disgusted with the whole affair, declined to aid their chiefs in the government in any act of double dealing. but they had the emperor alexander of russia to deal with. he offered to act as intermediary between great britain and france in order to bring about an honourable peace. the british government refused, and it is stated on incontrovertible authority that alexander was furious, and upbraided the british with having used troops, which should have been sent to russia's aid, to crush denmark. the outrage of attacking a small state which was at peace and with which she had no quarrel was powerfully denounced by alexander. he accused the british government "of a monstrous violation of straight dealing, by ruining denmark in the baltic, which it knew was closed to foreign hostilities under a russian guarantee." this caused alexander to break off relations with great britain and annul all treaties he had with her. canning feebly replied to the russian emperor's taunts, and, amongst other things, accused him of throwing over the king of the huns. no wonder that russia and some of the other powers resented the perfidious conduct of british statesmen, employing british military and naval forces to overthrow and destroy not only a friendly power, but one of the smallest and most strictly neutral states in europe! alexander jibed at them for using their resources for this unjust purpose, instead of sending them to help him when he was being so desperately driven to defeat by napoleon. what a loutish trick it was to imagine that any real political or practical benefit could be derived from it! the seizure of the danish fleet was a low-down act, for which those who were responsible should have been pilloried. the reasons given could not be sustained at the time, and still remain entirely unsupported by fact. there is no more disgraceful proceeding to be found in the pages of history than our raid on this small and highly honourable, inoffensive, and brave people. this bad statesmanship was deplorable. it set the spirit of butchery raging. it made a new enemy for ourselves, and in an economic sense added hundreds of thousands to our national debt, without deriving a vestige of benefit from either a military or political point of view. it undoubtedly prolonged the war, as all those squint-eyed enterprises are certain to do. it made us unpopular and mistrusted, and had no effect in damaging napoleon's activities, nor of taking a single ally from him. there are occasions when nations have forced upon them cruel stratagems and alternatives, revolting in their abominable unworthiness, but in the case i am discussing i have found no substantial justification, nor has the deed been backed up to now or supported by a single _real_ authority. nothing but condemnation still hangs round the memory of those hapless ministers who made the world so full of misery. i repeat, the greatest of all perils is to have a government composed of men whose brains are full of kinks, and who do not reach beyond the bounds of basing their policy on the idea that some foreigner or other has designs on our national wealth, our trade, or our vast protectorates. in recent years that view has been dissipated, and the plan of broadening the national goodwill to men has been adopted and encouraged by a body of sound, unpretentious thinkers who have taken pains to train important gifts in the art of good government in all its varied aspects and international complexities. the whole public have had to pay appalling penalties in the past because an impulsive handful of the population is of opinion that self-advertising, harum-scarum politicians, in and out of office, are the geniuses who make and keep prosperity. this uncontrolled, emotional trend of thought comes in cycles and is unerringly followed by bitter disillusionment. it was so during the wars at the beginning of the last century, and it is so now. we always reflect after the tragedy has been consummated. safe and astute administrators are always termed the "old gang" by the political amateurs, and the calamity is that a large public is so often carried away by the flighty delusions of the real cranks who style themselves the saviours of their country. at the present time we have as sure an example as ever the known world has witnessed of the awful disaster the resignation of the "old gang" has been to the whole of the powers interested in this world-war, especially to our own country. we shall realize this more fully by and by when the naked truth presents itself. the very people who are conspicuously responsible for the destruction of unity always bellow the loudest to maintain it after they have been the high conspirators in breaking it, aided by their guilty followers. what bitter lessons this land of ours has been subjected to in other days! for twenty years the country was kept in the vortex of a raging war, with no more justification than giving mr. jackson instructions that the one imperative idea to keep in his mind was to take possession of the danish fleet. nothing was to stand in the way of this great adventure, shameless though it might be. lord malmesbury writes in his diary: "capture of danish fleet by surprise on account of most undoubted information received from the prince regent of portugal of bonaparte's intention to use the portuguese and danish fleets for invasion of england. first hint of the plan given by the prince of wales to the duke of portland. the portuguese refused the demand, and told the british government of it; the danes accepted, kept silence, and afterwards denied it." the entry in malmesbury's diary has been proved to be a string of pure inventions, for which he or some other informants are responsible. i have said no record has been left to show that napoleon ever had any intention of occupying the ports of holstein or of using the danish fleet for the invasion of great britain and ireland. members of parliament in the house of commons and members of the house of lords proved beyond question that ministers' statements, taking the dates into account, were entirely erroneous. canning defended the sending of the expedition, which was natural, as he was one of the principal advocates of it. but the house would stand none of his tricks of evasion or repudiation. he, like some more modern ministers, ventured on the hazardous plan of deceiving parliament, and, as was said at the time, setting fair dealing at defiance. canning, like all tricksters, read extracts from documents, authentic and otherwise, to prove that denmark was hostile to britain, but when a demand was made for their inspection, he impudently refused to allow the very documents he had based his case of justification on to be scrutinized, and in consequence no other conclusion could be arrived at than that he was unscrupulously misleading the country. in fact, the government's case was so bad it would not bear the light of god's day! i venture to say that mr. fox knew more of the character, political intricacies, and ambitions of the french race than any public man or writer of history of his own or in subsequent years. he always based his conclusions on a sound logical point. he was an accurate thinker, who refused to form his judgments on light, faulty and inaccurate newspaper paragraphs about what was going on around him. he was opposed to pitt and his supporters' policy of carrying on war with france. he wanted peace, but they wanted the bourbons, because the bourbon section in france and the old autocracy in his own and other kingly countries were opposed to the new ruler the masses in france had chosen. he ridiculed the folly of our mental nonentities for "making such a fuss about acknowledging the new emperor. may not the people give their own magistrate the name they choose?" he asks. "on what logical grounds did we claim the right to revoke by the force of arms the selection by the french people of a ruler on whom they wished to bestow the title of emperor?" fox poured lavishly his withering contempt on those miscreants who arrogantly claimed the right to be consulted (for that is practically what their war policy amounted to) as to who the french should put on the throne and what his title should be. they had acknowledged napoleon in the capacity of first consul, but they shuddered at the consequences to the human race of having an emperor sprung upon them whose glory was putting kingship into obscurity. besides, an emperor who combined humble origin with democratic genius and ambition created by the revolution was a challenge to the legitimacy of the divine right of kings and a reversal of the order of ages. george iii raged at pitt for including fox in his ministry when he was asked to form a government. "does mr. pitt," said he, "not know that mr. fox was of all persons most offensive to him?" "had not fox always cheered the popular government of france, and had he not always advocated peace with bloodstained rebels? and be it remembered the indecorous language he had frequently used against his sovereign, and consider his influence over the prince of wales. bring whom you like, mr. pitt, but fox never." george iii, king by the grace of god, relented somewhat in his dislike of fox before the latter died, and his wayward son, the prince of wales, said "that his father was well pleased with mr. fox in all their dealings after he came into office." it is an amazing form of intelligence that commits a nation to join in a war against another for having brought about a revolution and for creating their first soldier-statesman an "emperor," and ranks him and his compatriots as "bloodstained rebels." to class napoleon as a bloodstained rebel and to put him on a level with the robespierres and the dantons is an historic outrage of the truth. he had nothing whatever to do with bringing about the revolution, though his services saved it, and out of the terrible tumult and wreck superhumanly re-created france and made her the envy of the modern world. the great defender of the rights of kings and of the colossal european fabric was appealed to by the man whom george iii associated with the "bloodstained rebels" to come to some common understanding so that the shedding of blood might cease, but that robust advocate of peace (!) contemptuously ignored his appeals to negotiate. in he was raised to the imperial dignity, and one of his first acts was to write with his own hand that famous letter which i have previously quoted, pleading, with majestic dignity, for the king of england, in the name of humanity, to co-operate with him in a way that will bring about friendly relations between the two governments and the spilling of blood to an end. the king "by the grace of god" and his horde of bloodsucking, incompetent ministers insulted the french nation and the great captain who ruled over its destinies by sending through lord mulgrave an insolent, hypocritical reply to the french ministers. the rage of war continued for another decade. if george iii yearned for peace as he and his ministers pretended, why did the king not write a courteous autograph letter back to napoleon, even though he regarded him as an inferior and a mere military adventurer? the nation had to pay a heavy toll in blood and money in order that the assumptions and dignity of this insensate monarch might be maintained, whose abhorrence of "bloodstained rebels" did not prevent him and his equally insensate advisers from plunging the american colonists into a bloody rebellion, which ended so gloriously for them and so disastrously for the motherland. they had asked for reforms that were palpably reasonable and necessary, and received insulting replies to their courteous demands, which compelled them to take up arms against the king of england, with a vow that they would not sheathe the sword until they had won complete independence from the arrogant autocracy that had driven them to war. they were led by the noble genius of george washington and dr. franklin, who were in turn strongly supported by and united to colleagues of high constructive and administrative talents. their task was long and fierce, but the gallant, elusive washington led them through the tremendous struggle to victory, which culminated in founding the greatest and best constituted of all republics, whose sons are fighting side by side with the descendants of those who were forced into fighting their own race, through the maladministration of the king and his guilty government, at the head of which was the genial but ultra-reactionary lord north, who was a special favourite of george because he was accommodating; and indeed, all the king's friends were reactionary and dangerous to the real interests of the state when in power. the king's terrific responsibility for the great calamities that befell the country during his reign can only be absolved by the knowledge that he was subject to fits of prolonged lunacy; in fact, it may be said that even in his saner periods his acts were frequently those of an idiot. though he cannot be accused of lacking in integrity, he disliked men who were possessed of that virtue, coupled with enlightened views, having anything to do with the government of the state. in short, he was totally unsuited to govern at any time, but especially when the atmosphere was charged with violent human convulsions. he loved lick-spittles, because they did his will for value received in various sordid forms, and, as i have said, he loathed the incorruptible and brilliant charles james fox, because he refused to support his fatal policies and that of the cocksparrow members of his government, who from time to time threatened the very foundations of our national existence. the more george persisted, the louder became fox's protests. posterity can never accurately estimate how much it owes to statesmen who acted with fox, but the influences the king had behind him were too formidable for fox to grapple with. he would have saved us from the fratricidal war with america, and from the unpardonable wickedness of involving the country in the wars with france, who was fighting out her own prodigious destiny on the continent, which was no concern of ours, except that the sane policy of the king and his government should have been to encourage the democratizing of the continental states. it was no love of liberty, or for the people, or for reforms of any kind, that led george iii and his satellites to wage war against the man of the french revolution. it was the fear of placing more power in the hands of the people and allowing less to remain in his own. but the main fear of the king and his autocratic subjects was lest napoleon would become so powerful that he would destroy the whole monarchy of europe! it was the view of small-minded men. even napoleon had his limitations, even if this had been his object. but there was no symptom, except that of panic, to justify the assertion that he ever intended to include war on the united kingdom in his policy. there never was a truer statement made by the emperor than "c'est avec des hochets qu'on mène les hommes"; which is, "men are led by trifles." hence we went to war with him, and the result of it is that the race that he mistrusted most and saw the necessity of keeping severely within limits has risen up against civilization and created a world-war into which we and our allies have been obliged to enter in self-defence. that is the inevitable penalty we are having to pay for the action we took in helping the germans to destroy france. i know it is asserted it was not france but napoleon whose power they aimed at breaking, but the one could not be broken without the other. footnotes: [ ] there are many conflicting accounts of napoleon's part in the arrest, trial, and his intention of pardoning the duc d'enghien. it has been stated that he gave murat his word that the duc would be pardoned, and when murat heard that the prince had been shot, he exclaimed, "there has been treachery!" on the other hand, bertrand was steadfast in his belief that murat urged his immediate execution on the grounds that if it was not done at once, napoleon would grant clemency. [ ] the terms of capitulation were agreed to and signed by ruffo, the russian and turkish commanders, and by captain foote, representing the british government. thirty-six hours afterwards nelson arrived in the bay of naples, and cancelled the treaty. captain foote was sent away, and the shocking indefensible campaign of nelson's carried out. nothing during the whole of napoleon's career can match this terrible act of nelson's. [ ] italics are the author's. [ ] "history du consulat et de l'empire," vol. xix. p. , published august, . sea songs explanatory note these quaint old doggerel songs are taken from an admirable selection of sailor songs published by john ashton. the names of the writers are not given, but their strong nautical flavour and queer composition indicate their origin. no landsman can ever imitate the sailor when the power of song or composition is on him. he puts his own funny sentiment and descriptive faculty into his work, which is exclusively his own. many of the songs in mr. ashton's book i have heard sung with great fervour in my early days, by a generation of men ahead of my own, who must have long since passed away. sometimes the audiences in the forecastle or on deck were appreciative of the efforts of the singer, but if they were not, they always had a boot or some other handy implement ready to throw at him. the reception given to some of my own singing efforts in boyhood on these merry occasions was mixed. sometimes i forgot both words and tune, and had, therefore, to pass good-humouredly through the orthodox process of disapproval that was regarded as part of the entertainment. any song or recital concerning nelson, collingwood, or the later sea hero, charley napier, was eminently popular, and to break down in the rendering of any one of these was an offence to their exalted memories. "the sailor's grave," which i regret is not included in mr. ashton's collection, was in great demand when the sailors were in a solemn mood. both the words and the tune were ridiculously weird, and when it came to the details of the hero's illness, his looks after death, the sewing up in his hammock, and the tying of two round shots at his feet for sinking purposes, the artist always sang with his hands linked in front of him and his eyes cast heavenward gazing fixedly at a spot on the ceiling. then came the burial verse:-- a splash and a plunge, and his task was o'er, and the billows rolled as they rolled before, and many a wild prayer followed the brave, as he sunk beneath a sailor's grave. this verse always drew tears from the sentimentalists in the audience, and if the singer had pleased by his efforts the song ended in a roar of tumultuous applause. i have thought it appropriate to add to these doggerel rhymes "the battle of copenhagen," "the death of nelson," and "the _arethusa_." these are sea songs, not sailor's songs, and are of distinctly greater merit, but as two of them deal with nelson, and as all three have always been most popular, they may not be out of place here. i the battle of the nile 'twas on the forenoon, the first day of august, one thousand seven hundred and ninety-eight, we had a long pursuit after the toulon fleet; and soon we let them know that we came for to fight. we tried their skill, it was sore against their will, they knew not what to think of our fleet for a while, but, before the fray began, we resolved to a man, for to conquer or to die at the mouth of the nile. when our guns began to play, with many a loud huzza, resolving to conquer, or die, to a man, and when our sails were bending, old england was depending, waiting our return from the mediterranean. our bull dogs they did roar, and into them did pour, with rattling broadsides made brave nelson to smile, gallant nelson gave command, altho' he'd but one hand, british sailors jumped for joy at the mouth of the nile. night drawing on, we formed a plan to set fire to one hundred and twenty guns, we selected them with skill, and into them did drill, we secured all our shipping, and laughed at the fun. about ten o'clock at night, it was a broiling fight, which caused us to muzzle our bull dogs for a while, the _l'orient_ blew up, and round went the cup, to the glorious memorandum at the mouth of the nile. kind providence protected each minute of the night, it's more than tongue can tell, or yet a pen can write, for 'mongst the jolly tars, brave nelson got a scar, but providence protected him thro' that cruel fight. the french may repine, we took nine sail of the line, burnt and sunk all but two, which escaped for a while, brave nelson gave command, altho' he'd but one hand, british sailors fought like lions at the mouth of the nile. but now the battle's o'er, and toulon's fleet's no more, great news we shall send unto george our king, all the kingdoms in europe shall join us in chorus, the bells they shall ring, and bonfires they shall blaze, rule britannia shall be sung, through country and town, while sailors, hand in hand, round the can do sing, bonaparte got the pledge of europe for his wage, and he'll ne'er forget bold nelson at the mouth of the nile. ii a new song on lord nelson's victory at copenhagen draw near, ye gallant seamen, while i the truth unfold, of as gallant a naval victory as ever yet was told, the second day of april last, upon the baltic main, parker, nelson, and their brave tars, fresh laurels there did gain. with their thundering and roaring, rattling and roaring, thundering and roaring bombs. gallant nelson volunteered himself, with twelve sail form'd a line, and in the road of copenhagen he began his grand design; his tars with usual courage, their valour did display, and destroyed the danish navy upon that glorious day. with their, etc. with strong floating batteries in van and rear we find, the enemy in centre had six ships of the line; at ten that glorious morning, the fight begun, 'tis true, we copenhagen set on fire, my boys, before the clock struck two. with their, etc. when this armament we had destroyed, we anchor'd near the town, and with our bombs were fully bent to burn their city down; revenge for poor matilda's wrongs, our seamen swore they'd have, but they sent a flag of truce aboard, their city for to save. with their, etc. for the loss of his eye and arm, bold nelson does declare, the foes of his country, not an inch of them he'll spare; the danes he's made to rue the day that they ever paul did join, eight ships he burnt, four he sunk, and took six of the line. with their, etc. now drink a health to gallant nelson, the wonder of the world, who, in defence of his country his thunder loud has hurled; and to his bold and valiant tars, who plough the raging sea, and who never were afraid to face the daring enemy. with their thundering and roaring, rattling and roaring, thundering and roaring bombs. iii the battle of boulogne on the second day of august, eighteen hundred and one, we sailed with lord nelson to the port of boulogne, for to cut out their shipping, which was all in vain, for to our misfortune, they were all moored and chained. our boats being well mann'd, at eleven at night, for to cut out their shipping, except they would fight, but the grape from their batteries so smartly did play, nine hundred brave seamen killed and wounded there lay. we hoisted our colours, and so boldly them did spread, with a british flag flying at our royal mast head, for the honour of england, we will always maintain, while bold british seamen plough the watery main. exposed to the fire of the enemy she lay, while ninety bright pieces of cannon did play, where many a brave seaman then lay in his gore, and the shot from their batteries so smartly did pour. our noble commander, with heart full of grief, used every endeavour to afford us relief, no ship could assist us, as well you may know, in this wounded condition, we were tossed to and fro. and you who relieve us, the lord will you bless, for relieving poor sailors in time of distress, may the lord put an end to all cruel wars, and send peace and contentment to all british tars. iv the battle of trafalgar arise, ye sons of britain, in chorus join and sing, great and joyful news is come unto our royal king, an engagement we have had by sea, with france and spain, our enemy, and we've gain'd a glorious victory, again, my brave boys. on the st of october, at the rising of the sun, we form'd the line for action, every man to his gun, brave nelson to his men did say, the lord will prosper us this day, give them a broadside, fire away, my true british boys. broadside after broadside our cannon balls did fly, the small shot, like hailstones, upon the deck did lie, their masts and rigging we shot away, besides some thousands on that day, were killed and wounded in the fray, on both sides, brave boys. the lord reward brave nelson, and protect his soul, nineteen sail the combin'd fleets lost in the whole; which made the french for mercy call; nelson was slain by a musket ball. mourn, britons, mourn. each brave commander, in tears did shake his head, their grief was no relief, when nelson he was dead; it was by a fatal musket ball, which caus'd our hero for to fall. he cried, fight on, god bless you all, my brave british tars. huzza my valiant seamen, huzza, we've gain'd the day, but lost a brave commander, bleeding on that day, with joy we've gain'd the victory, before his death he did plainly see i die in peace, bless god, said he, the victory is won. i hope this glorious victory will bring a speedy peace, that all trade in england may flourish and increase, and our ships from port to port go free, as before, let us with them agree, may this turn the heart of our enemy. huzza, my brave boys. v nelson and collingwood come all you gallant heroes, and listen unto me, while i relate a battle was lately fought at sea. so fierce and hot on every side, as plainly it appears, there has not been such a battle fought, no not for many years. brave nelson and brave collingwood, off cadiz harbour lay, watching the french and spaniards, to show them english play, the nineteenth of october from the bay they set sail, brave nelson got intelligence, and soon was at their tail. it was on the twenty-first my boys, we had them clear in sight, and on that very day, at noon, began the bloody fight. our fleet forming two columns, then he broke the enemy's line, to spare the use of signals, was nelson's pure design. for now the voice of thunder is heard on every side, the briny waves like crimson, with human gore were dy'd; the french and spanish heroes their courage well did show, but our brave british sailors soon brought their colours low. four hours and ten minutes, this battle it did hold, and on the briny ocean, men never fought more bold, but, on the point of victory brave nelson, he was slain, and, on the minds of britons, his death will long remain. nineteen sail of the enemy are taken and destroyed, you see the rage of britons, our foes cannot avoid: and ages yet unborn will have this story for to tell, the twenty-first of october, our gallant nelson fell. i hope the wives and children will quickly find relief, for the loss of those brave heroes, their hearts are filled with grief, and may our warlike officers aspire to such a fame, and revenge the death of nelson, with his undying name. vi give it to him, charley arouse, you british sons, arouse! and all who stand to freedom's cause, while sing of the impending wars, and england's bluff old charley. i'll tell how british seamen brave, of russian foes will clear the wave, old england's credit for to save, led on by gallant charley. our gallant tars led by napier, may bid defiance to the bear, while hearty shouts will rend the air, with, mind, and give it to him, charley. our jolly tars will have to tell, how they the russian bears did quell, and each honest heart with pride will dwell, for our jackets blue, and charley. for they'll never leave a blot or stain, while our british flag flies at the main, but their foes they'll thrash again and again, while led on by gallant charley. our gallant tars, etc. tyrant nicky, you may fume and boast, and with threats disturb each peaceful coast, but you reckoned have without your host, for you're no good to our tars and charley. from our wooden walls warm pills will fly, your boasted power for to try, while our seamen with loud shouts will cry, let us give it to him, charley. our gallant tars, etc. for your cowardly tricks at sinope bay, most dearly we will make you pay, for our tars will show you bonny play, while commanded by brave charley. for tho' brave nelson, he is dead, our tars will be to victory led. by one brave heart we have instead, and that brave heart is charley's. our gallant tars, etc. england and france they will pull down the eagle and imperial crown, and his bear-like growls we soon will drown, with, let us give it him, charley. for while england and france go hand in hand they conquer must by sea and land, for no russian foe can e'er withstand, so brave a man as charley. our gallant tars, etc. despotic nick, you've been too fast, to get turkey within your grasp, but a tartar you have caught at last, in the shape of our tars and charley. then here's success with three times three, to all true hearts by land or sea, and this the watchword it shall be, mind, and give it to them, charley. our gallant tars led by napier, may bid defiance to the bear. while hearty shouts will rend the air, with, mind, and give it to him, charley. vii the _arethusa_ come all ye jolly sailors bold, whose hearts are cast in honour's mould, while england's glory i unfold, huzza to the _arethusa_. she is a frigate tight and brave, as ever stemmed the dashing wave; her men are staunch to their fav'rite launch, and when the foe shall meet our fire, sooner than strike we'll all expire, on board of the _arethusa_. 'twas with the spring-fleet she went out, the english channel to cruise about, when four french sail, in show so stout, bore down on the _arethusa_. the fam'd _belle poule_ straight ahead did lie, the _arethusa_ seem'd to fly, not a sheet, or a tack, or a brace did she slack, tho' the frenchman laugh'd, and thought it stuff, but they knew not the handful of men, so tough, on board of the _arethusa_. on deck five hundred men did dance, the stoutest they could find in france, we, with two hundred, did advance on board of the _arethusa_. our captain hail'd the frenchman, ho! the frenchman then cried out, hallo! "bear down, d'ye see to our admiral's lee." "no, no," said the frenchman, "that can't be"; "then i must lug you along with me," says the saucy _arethusa_. the fight was off the frenchman's land, we forc'd them back upon their strand; for we fought till not a stick would stand of the gallant _arethusa_. and now we've driven the foe ashore, never to fight with britons more, let each fill a glass to his favourite lass! a health to our captain, and officers true, and all that belong to the jovial crew, on board of the _arethusa_. viii copenhagen of nelson and the north, sing the day, when, their haughty powers to vex, he engaged the danish decks; and with twenty floating wrecks crowned the fray. all bright, in april's sun, shone the day, when a british fleet came down through the island of the crown, and by copenhagen town took their stay. in arms the danish shore proudly shone; by each gun the lighted brand in a bold determined hand, and the prince of all the land led them on. for denmark here had drawn all her might; from her battleships so vast she had hewn away the mast, and at anchor, to the last bade them fight. another noble fleet of their line rode out; but these were nought to the batteries which they brought, like leviathans afloat in the brine. it was ten of thursday morn by the chime; as they drifted on their path there was silence deep as death, and the noblest held his breath for a time-- ere a first and fatal round shook the flood. every dane looked out that day. like the red wolf on his prey, and he swore his flag to sway o'er our blood. not such a mind possessed england's tar; 'twas the love of noble game set his oaken heart on flame, for to him 'twas all the same, sport and war. all hands and eyes on watch as they keep; by their motion light as wings, by each step that haughty springs, you might know them for the kings of the deep. 'twas the _edgar_ first that smote denmark's line as her flag the foremost soared, murray stamped his foot on board, and an hundred cannons roared at the sign. three cheers of all the fleet sung huzza! then from centre, rear, and van, every captain, every man, with a lion's heart began to the fray. oh, dark grew soon the heavens-- for each gun, from its adamantine lips, spread a death-shade round the ships, like a hurricane eclipse of the sun. three hours the raging fire did not slack; but the fourth, their signals drear of distress and wreck appear, and the dane a feeble cheer sent us back. the voice decayed; their shots slowly boom. they ceased--and all is wail, as they strike the shattered sail, or in conflagration pale light the gloom. oh, death--it was a sight filled our eyes! but we rescued many a crew from the waves of scarlet hue, ere the cross of england flew o'er her prize. why ceased not here the strife, oh, ye brave? why bleeds old england's band by the fire of danish land, that smites the very hand stretched to save? but the britons sent to warn denmark's town: proud foes, let vengeance sleep! if another chain-shot sweep-- all your navy in the deep shall go down. then, peace instead of death let us bring! if you'll yield your conquered fleet, with the crews, at england's feet, and make submission meet to our king. the dane returned, a truce glad to bring: he would yield his conquered fleet, with the crews, at england's feet, and make submission meet to our king. then death withdrew his pall from the day; and the sun looked smiling bright on a wide and woeful sight where the fires of funeral light died away. yet, all amidst her wrecks and her gore, proud denmark blest our chief that he gave her wounds relief, and the sounds of joy and grief filled her shore. all round, outlandish cries loudly broke; but a nobler note was rung when the british, old and young, to their bands of music sung "hearts of oak." cheer! cheer! from park and tower, london town! when the king shall ride in state from st. james's royal gate, and to all his peers relate our renown. the bells shall ring! the day shall not close, but a glaze of cities bright shall illuminate the night, and the wine-cup shine in light as it flows. yes--yet amid the joy and uproar, let us think of them that sleep full many a fathom deep all beside thy rocky steep, elsinore! brave hearts, to britain's weal once so true! though death has quenched your flame, yet immortal be your name! for ye died the death of fame with riou. soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er your grave! while the billow mournful rolls and the mermaid's song condoles, singing--glory to the souls of the brave. ix the death of nelson o'er nelson's tomb, with silent grief oppressed, britannia mourns her hero now at rest; but those bright laurels will not fade with years, whose leaves are watered by a nation's tears. 'twas in trafalgar's bay we saw the frenchmen lay, each heart was bounding then, we scorn'd the foreign yoke, for our ships were british oak, and hearts of oak our men! our nelson mark'd them on the wave, three cheers our gallant seamen gave, nor thought of home and beauty. along the line this signal ran, england expects that ev'ry man this day will do his duty. and now the cannons roar along th' affrighted shore, our nelson led the way, his ship the _victory_ nam'd! long be that _victory_ fam'd, for vict'ry crown'd the day! but dearly was that conquest bought, too well the gallant hero fought, for england, home, and beauty. he cried as 'midst the fire he ran, "england shall find that ev'ry man, this day will do his duty!" at last the fatal wound, which spread dismay around, the hero's breast received; "heaven fights upon our side! the day's our own!" he cried; "now long enough i've lived! in honour's cause my life was passed, in honour's cause i fall at last, for england, home, and beauty." thus ending life as he began, england confessed that every man that day had done his duty. appendix some incidents of nelson's life (_chronologically arranged_) . on th september he was born. . on th december his mother died. . on st january a midshipman aboard the _raisonable_. . on nd may sent a voyage in merchant ship to west indies, possibly as cabin-boy. . on th july was midshipman on _triumph_. . on th may was midshipman on _carcass_. . on th october was midshipman on _triumph_. . on th october was midshipman on _seahorse_. . on th april becomes able seaman on _seahorse_. . on st october is again midshipman on _seahorse_. . on th march becomes midshipman on _dolphin_. . on th september is paid off from _dolphin_. . on th september becomes acting-lieutenant on _worcester_. . on th april passed examination. . on th april is lieutenant of _lowestoft_. . on nd july changes to lieutenant of _bristol_. . on th december is appointed commander of _badger_. . on th june is made captain of _hinchinbroke_. . in january joins expedition to san juan and grenada, nicaragua. . on nd may he is made captain of the _janus_. . on st september is invalided from _janus_. . on th september sailed in the _lion_ for home . on th november arrived at spithead and went to bath. . on rd august he became captain of _albemarle_. . on th april sailed in _albemarle_ to north america. . on rd july paid off from _albemarle_. . on rd october visited france. . on th january back in england. . on th march captain of _boreas_. . on th may at leeward islands in _boreas_. . on th march married widow nesbit. . on th july arrived spithead in _boreas_. . on th november paid off, put on half pay, and resided mainly at burnham thorpe while on shore. . on th january joined _agamemnon_ as captain. . on th june sailed for the mediterranean. . on th july blockaded toulon. . on th august toulon is occupied and _agamemnon_ is ordered to naples. a very full year's work. . on th april, siege of bastia begun. . on nd may, bastia surrendered: . on th june, siege of calvi. . on th july wounded in the right eye. . on th august, calvi surrendered. . on th march hotham's first action. . on th july hotham's second action. . on th july sent with a squadron to co-operate with the austrians on the coast of genoa. . on th november sir john jervis took command of fleet. . on th april he is ordered to hoist a distinguishing pennant. . on th june shifted his broad pennant to the _captain_. . on th august appointed commodore of the first class. . on th december joined the _minerva_. . on th december captured the spanish frigate _la sabina_. . on th february rejoined the _captain_. . on th december joined the _irresistible_ at the battle of st. vincent. . on th december is rear-admiral of the blue. . on th march was created knight of the bath. . on th march joined the _captain_ again. . on st april news of his promotion. . on th may hoisted his flag on _theseus_. . on th july his right arm badly wounded while leading attack on santa cruz, which was repulsed. arm amputated. . on th august joins _seahorse_, bound for england. . on st september arrived at spithead, lowers his flag, and proceeds to bath to recoup his health. . on th september has the order of the bath conferred on him. . on th march joined the _vanguard_. . on th april arrived off cadiz. . on th june troubridge reinforces nelson's squadron of observation by adding ten sail of the line. . on th june is off naples in search of the french fleet. . on th june, arrives off alexandria. . august st and nd, battle of the nile. . on nd september arrives at naples and is received with great rejoicing. on the th sir william and lady hamilton give a grand fête in honour of him. the great battle establishes his fame as the greatest admiral in the world. . on th november he is created baron nelson of the nile and burnham thorpe. . on rd december he sailed for palermo with the king of naples and his family aboard. . on th december arrives at palermo and is much gratified by his reception as a popular hero. . on th april he changed his flag from blue to red. . on th june joins the _foudroyant_. . on th june arrives off naples and cancels the agreement of capitulation of the forts. . on th june has the aged admiral prince carraciolo hung at the _minerva's_ fore yardarm at the instigation of lady hamilton and the royal profligates of naples. this act remains a blot on his name. . july th to th disobeyed admiral keith's orders to proceed to minorca. . on th july becomes commander-in-chief in the mediterranean. . on th august returns again to palermo. . on th august he is created duke of bronte. . on th october sails for port mahon, minorca. . on nd october again returns to palermo. . on th january is officially notified that lord keith is reappointed to command in mediterranean, which gives him offence. . on th february he captures _le généreux_. . on th march also captures _le guillaume tell_. . on th july hauls his flag down at leghorn and proceeds home, visiting trieste, vienna, dresden, and hamburg. is received everywhere as a monarch. . on th november he arrives at yarmouth. . on st january becomes vice-admiral of the blue. . on th january he is separated from his wife. . on th january hoists his flag on the _san josef_. . on th january lady hamilton gives birth to his daughter horatia. . on th february joins the _st. george_. . on th march sails from yarmouth roads for the sound. . on th march joins the _elephant_. . on nd april the battle of copenhagen. he again rejoins the _st. george_. . on th may appointed commander-in-chief in the baltic. . on nd may is created viscount nelson of the nile and burnham thorpe. . on th june resigns command and sails in the brig _kite_ for yarmouth, where he arrives on july st. . on nd july is appointed commander-in-chief of the squadron defending the south-east coast. . on th august attacked boulogne flotilla unsuccessfully. . on th april hauled his flag down and took up his residence at merton. . on th april his father died. . on th april his friend, sir william hamilton, died in emma's arms. . th may, commander-in-chief again in the mediterranean. . on th may sailed from spithead in _victory_. . on st may his flag shifted to the _amphion_. . on th july arrives off toulon. . on th july rejoins the _victory_ and keeps up a steady blockade of toulon until april , and is troubled in body and soul. . on rd april vice-admiral of white squadron. . on th august death of his aversion, the immortal admiral la touche-treville. . on th january the french fleet sailed from toulon, and falling in with stormy weather, their ships were disabled and put back for repairs. . on th february nelson arrives off alexandria in search of french. . on th march is off toulon again, and . on st april is in pula roads. . on th april gets news that the frenchmen have sailed again from toulon, on the th april. . on th may came to anchor at tetuan. . on th may came to anchor in lagos bay. . on th may sailed for the west indies. . on th june arrived at barbadoes. . on th june arrived at trinidad. . on th june arrived off antigua. . on th june sails for europe in search of the elusive french fleet. . on th july joins collingwood off cadiz. . on th august joins cornwallis off brest. . on th august arrived at spithead; joins lady hamilton and his little girl horatia at merton. . on th september having heard from captain blackwood, who visited him at merton, that the french fleet were at cadiz, he prepares to leave merton. . on th september joins the _victory_ and sails from spithead. . on th september joins british fleet off cadiz. . on st october, battle of trafalgar and death of nelson. . on th january buried in st. paul's cathedral. index aboukir bay, battle of (_see_ nile, battle of the) addington, charles, alexander of russia, , , _arethusa_, the (poem), armada, spanish, _et seq._, , asquith, h.h., , astley, sir jacob, , balfour, a.j., ball, captain, , , , barham, lord, bathurst, lord, beatty, admiral, bendero, don pedro, beresford, lord charles, bernsdorf, count, berry, captain. bertheur, general, blackett, mr., blackwood, captain, , , , , blake, admiral, bonaparte, caroline, bonaparte, elisa, bonaparte, jerome, bonaparte, joseph, , , bonaparte, louis, bonaparte, napoleon (_see_ napoleon) bonaparte, pauline, boulogne, battle of (sea song), brereton, general, , , , burleigh, cecil, lord (_see_ cecil) byng, admiral sir john, , cadiz, drake's attacks on, , , cadogan, mrs., calais, armada at, calder, sir robert, , , _et seq._, , calvi, siege of, campbell, sir john, campbell-bannerman, sir henry, canning, capua, siege of, carlile, christopher, , , carlscrona, hyde parker's departure to, carlyle, thomas, , caroline (_see_ naples, queen of) carraciolli, prince, _et seq._, , carribean sea, drake visits, carthagena, drake's attacks on, , castlereagh, lord, , , , , , caulaincourt, cecil, lord, of burleigh, , , , champernowne, sir arthur, championnet, general, cobham, thomas, collingwood, admiral lord, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , _et seq._, _et seq._ columbus, christopher, , columbus, diego, copenhagen, battle of, , copenhagen, battle of (sea-song), copenhagen (poem), corday, charlotte, corunna, drake's attack on, croker, j.w., cromwell, oliver, , , , danton, davis, sir john, death of nelson (poem), denmark, prince regent of, , disraeli, domingo, san (_see_ san domingo) dominica, drake's arrival at, doughty, thomas, , drake, sir francis-- as prototype, and panama, , and elizabeth, , , , , and war fund, portuguese expedition, death at puerto bello, , on _pelican_, , and doughty, , and discipline, , at cadiz, , , at carthagena, , at corunna, west indian expedition, at vigo, , and spanish gold fleet, at santiago, , at dominica, at san domingo, , at bahamas, rescues roanoke settlers, , connection with east india company, newbolt's poem on, and fleet tradition, a religious man, nelson compared with, "drake's drum" (poem), quotation from, dresden, electress of, dropmore manuscript, dumanoir, , , east india company, edward vii of england, electress of dresden, elizabeth of england, , , , , , , , , elliot, sir george, , emma, lady hamilton, , _et seq._, , , _et seq._, , , _et seq._, , , , , , , , , d'enghien, duc, , _et seq._ erskine, sir james, featherstonehaugh, sir henry, fisher, admiral lord, , , , fitzwilliam, george, foote, captain, , , fortescue's dropmore ms., fox, charles james, , , , , , , , francis joseph of austria, franklin, benjamin, fremantle, admiral, frobisher, martin, , , , george iii of england, , , , , , , , , george, prince regent (afterwards george iv), , , gilbert, sir humphrey, "give it to him, charley!" (sea-song), gladstone, w.e., , goethe (on beauty of lady hamilton), graham, james, graves, rear-admiral, gravina, admiral, greville, charles, , , , grey, earl, grey, sir edward, "gulliver's travels," hallowell, captain, , hamilton, sir william, , , , , _et seq._, hamilton, lady (_see_ emma, lady hamilton) hardy, captain (of the _victory_), , , , , , , , , hart, emily (afterwards lady hamilton), hawkins, sir john, , , , , , , , , , heine, heinrich, anecdote of, hood, admiral, horatia (nelson's daughter), , , _et seq._, , , hotham, admiral, howard, admiral lord, , inquisition, spanish, , , , , jackson, mr. (british representative to denmark), , jellicoe, admiral, jervis, admiral (_see_ st. vincent, admiral lord) joseph of austria (_see_ francis joseph of austria) joseph bonaparte (_see_ bonaparte, joseph) keats, captain, keith, lord, , , , kitchener, lord, leslie, general, , louis xviii of france, louis philippe of france, louis, captain, , lowe, sir hudson, lyon, amy (afterwards emma, lady hamilton), mack, general, malmesbury, lady, malmesbury, lord, marat, marengo, battle of, maria carolina (_see_ naples, queen of) marie louise of austria, , marlborough, duke of, , marmont, general, mary stuart, queen of scots, mary tudor, queen of england, medina-sidonia, duke of, , , melbourne, lord, meneval, baron de, milas, general, minto, lord, , , , , , , moreau, mulgrave, lord, müller (swiss historian), murat, , naples, ferdinand, king of, , , , , , , , , _et seq._ naples, maria carolina, queen of, , , , , , , _et seq._, napoleon bonaparte-- and prussianism, , aphorisms, , , , , , comparison with nelson, and marie louise, , his opinion of nelson, his opinion of wellington, cromwell compared with, and the french fleet, and villeneuve, , , , , , and madame walewska, comparison of his love letters with nelson's, his "farewell to france" (poem), as a statesman, , , and plots against his life, and pitt, _et seq._, müller's opinion of, wieland's opinion of, and his family, his return from elba, his letter to george iii, his son's death, and alexander of russia, and treaty of tilsit, compared with william ii of germany, contemporaneous testimony, _et seq._ neipperg, count, nelson, rev. edmund, nelson, horatia (_see_ horatia) nelson, horatio, admiral lord-- and contemporary admiration, and fleet tradition, joins _raisonable_, joins _triumph_, joins _agamemnon_, loses right eye at siege of calvi, loses right arm at santa cruz, created k.c.b., at the court of naples, , _et seq._, _et seq._, _et seq._ at the nile, created baron, and gambling scandal, , returns home after nile, and lady hamilton, , , _et seq._, , , _et seq._, , _et seq._, , , , at battle of copenhagen, , compared with napoleon, , joins _st. george_, returns home in _kite_, at merton, , _et seq._ letter to his niece, incident of gipsy's prediction, and carraciolli, _ et seq._, hatred of the french, , at toulon, at palermo, and starvation of neapolitans, and "cracking on," as "duke of thunder," , homecoming _via_ magdeburg and hamburg, and ministers of state, , , _et seq._, _et seq._ and privateering, sails to west indies, returns to england, gift of coffin to, joins _victory_, and calder, _et seq._ at trafalgar, _el seq._ last letters, , , last prayer before battle, death in action, , _et seq._ the nation's sorrow, _et seq._ collingwood, compared with, chronological data, nelson and collingwood (sea-song), nelson, lady, , , , , newbolt, sir h., nile, battle of the, _et seq._ nile, battle of the (sea-song), north, lord, norton, hon. mrs., o'meara, dr., , oquendo, orange, _william the silent_, prince of, orde, sir john, , , , , pahlen, count, parker, sir hyde, , , , , parma, duke of, pasco, _yeoman of signals_, paul of russia, philip of spain, , , , , , , , , , , pichegru, pitt, william, , , , , , , , , , , , , , poems, , , pole, sir charles, radstock, lord, , , raleigh, sir walter, recaldo, riou, captain, roanoke, settlers of, rescue by drake, , robespierre, rome, king of, romney, george, rosebery, lord, rotherham, captain, , ruffo, cardinal, salisbury, lord, san domingo, drake's attack on, , , san philip, santa cruz, action at, santa cruz, admiral, , , , santiago, drake's attack on, , sardanapalus, scott, dr., sea songs, seymour, admiral lord, sidmouth, lord, smith, sir sydney, southey, robert, , strachan, sir richard, , st. george, mrs., st. vincent, battle of cape, st. vincent, earl, , , , , , , , , , suckling, captain maurice, thiers, m., , thurn, count, tierny, touche-treville, admiral la, , trafalgar, battle of, , _et seq._ trafalgar, battle of (sea-song), troubridge, admiral, , , , , , , , , , , , ulloa, san juan d', catastrophe of, valdes, don pedro de, verde, cape de, pursuit of spanish to, vigo, drake's attack on, , villeneuve, admiral, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , walewska, madame, washington, george, wellington, duke of, , , wieland (german historian), , william ii of germany, , , works by the same author windjammers and sea tramps sea yarns (formerly entitled "the shellback's progress in the nineteenth century") looking seaward again the tragedy of st. helena character sketches